Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

To you, who love to range the sylvan scene,
And taste the pleasure of a mind serene,
These lines are sent in a familiar strain
To show what fashionable vices reign.

Fortune has thee to happier scenes convey'd:
By nature fit for contemplation made,
There live content; explore her secret laws,
And neither meet with censure or applause.

When no rough storms the ruffled ocean sweep,
But Halcyon calms sit brooding o'er the deep,
The shipwreck'd merchant's wealth securely lies,
Except the vent'rous diver seize the prize:

But, when loud whirlwinds rage and billows roar,
The seas discharge their spoils upon the shoar:
Thus adverse fortune will your merit prove,
And show the virtues of the man I love.
As when fell Thomson was to justice brought
To suffer vengeance for each flagrant fault,
The silent court suspended stood, nor knew
Which of his crimes was of the blackest hue;
So here such various follies rush to light,
That seek in vain the covert of the night,
Astonish'd at the bold degenerate age
I doubt which vices first deserve my rage.

Where kings with pomp their dignity maintain,
There satire never points her sting in vain;

For men of merit once the gay resort,
When virtue was in fashion e'en at court:
But now the magic of its circle draws
Such worthless slaves, as tremble at the laws,
And fear on earth their persecuting rod
More than the wrath of an offended God.
Pimps, b---ps, pathics, parasites attend:
Each vice still finds some patron for a friend,
While injur'd merit like a suppliant waits,
And begs in vain admittance at the gates.
Since prelates claim preheminence of place,
First let me brand those zealots with disgrace.
Priests that are arm'd with virtue need not fear,
Whose actions can the test of conscience bear;
Secure in native innocence they sit,
Unwounded by the satires that are writ.

Tho' laws severe to punish guilt are made,
What honest man is of those laws afraid?
All felons against judges will exclaim,
As harlots startle at a Gonson's name.

In former times, e're virtue was a fault,
When blushing merit for preferment sought,
Men who profess'd religion were esteem'd
As messengers of God, and sacred deem'd:
At length, dissolv'd in luxury and ease,
Proud to command, and negligent to please,
They gave weak consciences such rigid rules,
Which, if observ'd, had made them passive fools;
Chalk'd out the path that leads to perfect bliss,
Which none, whose gifts were large, could ever miss.

Thus did their wily arts the world deceive,
And none could go to heaven without their leave.
But modern spintexts daily grow refin'd,
And with each modish vice adorn the mind.
Religion they profess, I grant it true,
But worldly lucre is the prize in view.
Divinity is now become a trade;
They only serve their God in masquerade.
Hypocrisy, that bastard of their zeal,
Serves as a veil base actions to conceal.
Assisted by this pious artifice
They sin, nor are their characters the price.
Now pamper'd prelates leave the toil of pray'r
To those, who think salvation worth their care;
Far other views their sordid thoughts engage,
Afraid to lash the vices of the age.

Preferment is the aim of abject tools,
Who forfeit honesty to flatter fools.
How can such men, by holy orders bound
To tread on none but consecrated ground,
In sable troops to splendid courts advance,
To quaff rich wines, or throng the midnight dance?
Or else attend the levees of the great,
Scorn'd e'en by courtiers and the pimps of state,
And, if their patron is a Deist thought,
Abjure the miracles our Saviour wrought?
When such are preachers of the gospel made,
How can religion fail to droop her head?
Tho' priests in pulpits thunder out aloud
Damnation to the unbelieving croud;
Describe the pleasures which from virtue flow,
And teach that vice will terminate in woe:

Shall the gay libertine reform his life,
Or cease to languish for another's wife;
If the whole week beside these zealous fools
Confute by practice all their sabbath rules?
Tho' such the base corrupted lives of those,
Whose bad examples are religion's foes;
And give advantage to the weaker sort,
To make the sacred writ their midnight sport:
Tho' jests are broke, and pointed libels writ
With all the rage and virulence of wit;
Men of unblemish'd characters will thrive,
Fierce envy and detraction both survive;
Unsully'd truth shine forth with purer ray;
And learned infidels the church obey.

Satire, like a true mirrour to the fair,
Shows not what we affect, but what we are;
Plucks from the splendid courtier all disguise,
And sets the real man before our eyes:
If base designs are lurking in his heart,
To point them out is sure an honest part.

As paint adorns the fair, whom nature gave
Charms scarce sufficient to make one their slave;
So flatt'ry casts a dazzling light on those
Whose deeds are dark, and a false fame bestows.

Let all, whose groveling souls can condescend
To smile upon a foe, or curse a friend,
Frequent the court! there they may chance to find
Fops, whom they never saw, extremely kind,

To raise them to high places proffer aid,
Till the fond ideots think their fortune made;
Then show what soothing speech the great beguiles,
And thus instruct them in the courtier's wiles:
‘Religion, virtue, conscience, and such things
‘Are not fit converse for the ears of kings.
‘Would you succeed, such topics will not find
‘The least attention from your patron's mind;
‘The court divines have banish'd them our isle,
‘Then learn to talk in a more pleasing style.
‘Consider first the temper of his Grace,
‘What darling vices celebrate his race.
‘If a young nobleman of sprightly fire
‘Determin'd to indulge each loose desire,
‘On fornication panegyrics make,
‘And swear his lordship's the most finish'd rake

‘That ever revell'd in the arms of Cox,
‘Pride of the Mall, and splendor of the box.
‘Let the foul rape of Lucrece be your theme:
‘In rapture,—when you talk of Tarquin, seem:
‘Let him the founder of hot lust be stil'd,
‘By whom the chastest matron was defil'd:
‘Or else the wisdom of the Romans praise,
‘And let the Sabine rape adorn your lays.
‘Such wanton tales as these with fire record,
‘Fit subjects to delight a courtly lord.

‘But those, whose mercenary souls adore
‘The bright refulgence of the shining ore,

‘Who think all happiness consists in wealth,
‘And seek it before honour, virtue, health;
‘Such vulgar souls require another tale,
‘And you must seem as sordid to prevail:
‘For 'tis a frailty common to us all
‘To prize in others, what our minds enthrall.
As many vassals as these arts have won,
So many helpless wretches are undone.

Observe the characters of men: how few
The path, which nature points them out, pursue!
Macrinus cast in a soft tender mould
With Bacchanalians longs to be enroll'd,
With midnight revellers affects to join,
And emulates the jovial God of wine.

Robusto takes a contrary extreme:
A heavy lumpish mass made up of phlegm,
Duller than mortals of Promethean clay
E'er yet enlighten'd with celestial ray;
Genteel as birth-day beaux affects to move,
And thinks himself the quintessence of love.
The fondest wish his tender heart can frame,
To be familiar with a city dame,
Or else with some coquet beyond her prime,
Or Betty Careless, languish out his time;
From pilfer'd novels Messalina court;
The fair's aversion, and the wife man's sport.
But, if unluckily his stars ordain
The wanton nymph indulgent to his pain,
The fop starts back, nor would his strength employ,
Tho' fairer than the shining curse of Troy:

Such coxcombs love a theory intrigue,
But think the practice is too much fatigue.

As spangled glow-worms glitter in the night,
But vanish at the rosy dawn of light:
So gaudy fops are at a distance priz'd,
But, soon as known, their emptiness despis'd;
Like insects basking in a summer's ray
Flutter a while, then unobserv'd decay.

Ask gay Petronius, why that crazy mien,
That down-cast look as if devour'd with spleen?
A wife defil'd? a son or brother drown'd?
No,—worse than that he cries—Sir Robert frown'd.
Such mean ambition, such a servile part,
Betrays as weak a head, as foul a heart.

From such a line descend that tinsel race,
Who never know their friends except in lace;
Brocaded suits their very souls can gain,
But, if unluckily your cloaths are plain,
They turn their empty heads another way,
And would not meet you for the world that day.
Such is their vanity, and such their rules,
Where lords and dukes preserve you from the fools!

As I was lately saunt'ring in the Park,
I chanc'd to meet with such a modish spark,
Who thus accosted me: my life! my soul!
By heaven I'm yours unto the farthest pole—
Command me, sir;—I have his lordship's ear,
And can promote your interest,—never fear!

When luckily a gaudy fop pass'd by,
Sudden the glaring insect takes his eye,
He begs my pardon, trips away in haste,
In hopes of being in the Mall embrac'd.

Blanditius,endow'd with common sense,
To the whole world his favours will dispense;
The wise, the fool, the witling, and the knave
From his impartial tongue like praises have:
So the refulgent source of light displays
On all mankind his universal rays.
If Pult'ney's speeches for his country's good
Of foul corruption stem the rapid flood;
Instruct the senate with persuasive tongue,
How to redress an injur'd nation's wrong;

Nor let deluded millions fall a prey
To factious rage, or arbitrary sway:
Or some Sejanus blast his good designs,
And dig the nation's ore from Sylla's mines:
Ask good Blanditius, which deserves your blame,
Who bears a patriot's, or a Walpole's name?
He'll answer you, that both are worthy men,
And neither of their characters condemn:
So Stoics think all vices are the same,
And that they only differ in the name.

Plague me, ye Gods, with all your ills in store;
Or leave me worse than an abandon'd whore!
Let every fool, and knave, and parasite
Detect me, loath me, curse me, while I write!

Sooner than like a sycophant to praise
Such fops, as merit birch instead of bays.
My soul abhors to sooth exalted pride,
To give those parts, whom nature has deny'd;
To cringe before a minister of state;
Pawn honour, conscience, virtue, to be great;
In servile phrase to flatter, to adore
The meanest of mankind, because in pow'r:
Such terms as these each honest heart disdains,
Tho' Sylla's plunder should reward his pains.

These are ill-natur'd critics on my life,
Who love like friends to raise domestic strife;
To make the follies of unguarded youth
Feel the dire anguish of the serpent's tooth,

Had not a tender parent's kind regard
Baffled their malice, and beat down their guard—!
But let such groveling reptiles crawl on earth,
Or sink to hell which gave their actions birth:
If Bingham, Bysse, or Barthurst should applaud,
The bounteous Withers, or the friendly Rod,
Tho' some may hate, I triumph in the quarrels
With George's, Heaton's, Hudd'sford, and Ducarell's.

That source of evil, from whose poison'd streams
Flows the dire mischief which your friend o'erwhelms,
Shall feel the wrath of an offended muse,
Who can, if injur'd, let her satire loose.

Sinon, that proverb for a villain's name!
A sordid speaking wretch unknown to fame,

Whose character would poetry debase,
And bring the heaven-born muse to vile disgrace;
Else would I set him in a stronger light,
Did not his actions best become the night:
Scorn'd by the meanest of mankind himself,
Who would renounce, his God for sordid pelf:
Who is,—yet dares not to appear your foe,
But soothing strikes, and would excuse the blow;
Like ratgut foaming beer not worth a groat,
Smiles specious in your face, and cuts your throat.
So wily Satan seem'd the friend of Eve,
(And by such means e'en woman could deceive)
Till, having compass'd what his arts design'd,
He triumph'd in the ruin of mankind.

For such a wretch, 'tis charity to pray:
In dark oblivion let his actions lay,
Nor feel the vengeance of a judgment-day!
Like a mere brute be doom'd to perish whole,
And by annihilation save his soul.

I love the man, who boldly speaks his thought,
Nor gilds with flattery each glaring fault;
Who dares chastise the vices of a court,
Tho' arbitrary laws their pow'r support.
Like Talbot generous, whose actions grace
The high descent of his illustrious race,
Fond to oblige, unwilling to offend,
To honour, virtue, and mankind a friend.

Tho' satire flows from my envenom'd pen
To brand with infamy the worst of men,
Where worth like Clarke's appears, I love to praise;
Such merit consecrates the poet's lays.
Tho' bounteous, prudent, splendid, yet not proud;
By worth, not wealth, distinguish'd from the croud;
No friends distress'd in vain reveal their wants,
Before the modest blush to ask—he grants;
By whom desire of wealth is understood,
But as a larger pow'r of doing good.
Such noble qualities exalt the mind
Above the sordid race of human kind.

Perhaps a despicable race of men
Expect the female sex should feel my pen;

The charms of beauty all their faults excuse,
And claim protection from a youthful muse.

But there is one by nature form'd to please,
Born to excel, and captivate with ease;
Some bright auspicious planet rul'd her birth,
Gay without guilt, and innocent with mirth;
Too lavish nature, bounteous of her store,
Bestow'd such charms as make the world adore.
But yet this fair one, whom mankind admire,
Sighs for a coxcomb with unfeign'd desire,
Commends his person, doats upon his name,
And parlies on the very brink of fame;
Angels may fall,—but, should her virtue fail,
I shall believe that all the sex are frail.

O Pope! thou scourge to a licentious age,
Inspire these lines with thy severest rage!
Arm me with satire keen as Oldham wrote,
Against the curs'd Divan with poignant thought,
To lash a crime, which filthy lechers use
(Sworn foes to mother Haywood and the stews)
Inverting nature to a foul design,
They stop the propagation of their kind.

Forlorn Saphira, with reclining head,
Sighs for her absent lord in bridal bed:
He to St. James's Park with rapture flies,
And roams in search of some fair ingle prize;
Courts the foul pathic in the fair one's place,
And with unnat'ral lust defiles his race.

From whence could such polluted wretches spring?
How learn to propagate so foul a thing?
The sons of Sodom were destroy'd by fire;
Gommorrah felt the Lord's destructive ire;
The great metropolis of England's isle
Burnt like a guilty nation's fun'ral pile;
Bold race of men!—whom nothing can affright,
Not e'en their consciences in dead of night.
Let Jesuits some subtler pains invent,
For hanging is too mild a punishment!
Let them lie groaning on the racking wheel,
Or feel the tortures of the burning steel!
Whips, poisons, daggers, inquisitions, flames;
This crime the most exalted vengeance claims:

Or else be banish'd to some desart place,
And perish in each other's foul embrace.

'Tis strange this sin should flourish in our isle,
Where sea-born Venus and the Graces smile;
Where tender virgins in the bloom of youth
Are fam'd for virtue, innocence, and truth,
With all the charms that nature can provide
For the gay mistress, or the lovely bride.
Can yet this savage race obdurate prove,
And beauty have no pow'r their hearts to move
To the warm transports of a female love?
By such foul slaves our species is disgrac'd,
And may they all be damn'd for want of taste!

Such are the reigning vices:—Still the muse
Thro' the world's labyrinth some path should chuse,
To make me happy till my latest breath,
And lead me thro' the silent vale of death;
There soon the transitory scene must end,
Where vice repines that virtue finds a friend.
In splendid servitude let others shine,
Fair liberty and calm content be mine!
To live below the grandeur of the great,
And yet above contempt, in humble state:
To learn in youth to value men of worth,
For merit,—not the greatness of their birth;
Nor give a blind applause to fools of blood,
Who draw their pedigree from Noah's flood.

To read what books, converse with whom I please,
Not lead a life of indolence,—but ease;
Boldly to speak my sentiment, nor fear
Lest rigid truth offend a courtier's ear;
To laugh at coxcombs, turn to ridicule
The birth-day beau, or self-enamour'd fool:
To make a Holmes or Hudd'sford rot in rhime,
(If such a verse remain to future time)
Who now may curse that inauspicious hour,
They made bad use of arbitrary pow'r;
Ambition's wreck, the pride of upstart fools,
Which plunges in destruction those it rules.

But if the mad disease of rhime invite,
Or wrongs provoke an injur'd muse to write,
To public taste submit each honest page,
Nor court the reigning judges of the age;
Whose whim and caprice settle sterling wit,
In vain without their praise a poem's writ:
But if they smile upon a worthless line,
Stamp'd with their seal, it passes for divine.

Thus may I live, with conscience ever gay,
And innocently trifle life away!
Till my last sand of fleeting time is run,
And then thank Heaven that my journey's done.

One of the chief managers of the charitable corporation.

This pretty lady being very much chagrin'd, that her name should rhime to pox, in the former edition; the author has condescended to alter it for the line here inserted, which he presumes will give her no offence.

The honourable George Talbot.

Godfrey Clarke, Esq; of Derbyshire.

One of the King's chaplains, who perhaps is willing to forget his ill usage of the author, who will take care to remind him of it in some of the following pages.

This other fellow must be conscious of his iniquity, and the kind treatment he has reason to expect from me, which he shall receive in due proportion.

An Epistle to a Gentleman at Oxford.

Where Cam in silver streams thro' meadows glides,
Far from Clorinda's sight your friend resides;
Far from the happy scenes, which once I knew
Till the mean wretch his poison'd arrows threw,
And banish'd me from Langton, Loveling, You;
Fiends have like him a licence to do ill,
But good is neither in their pow'r or will.

Emblem of human life your letter came
With news, which tears of grief and rapture claim;
What!—tho' my conscious heart her charms commend,
My sorrow's greater for so dear friend:

Beauty gives pleasure like a wanton dream,
But friendship guides us thro' life's troubled stream;
Fair nymphs like syrens fleeting joys impart,
But a friend's welfare reaches to the heart.

When stormy passions in our bosoms roll,
And dark despair quite desolates the soul,
The balm of friendship heals the wounded breast,
And lulls our sorrows to a state of rest.

Here free from tyranny (in pedants phrase,
Good discipline to point out wisdom's ways)
Careful of ease, and negligent of fame,
I sacrifice no pleasure for a name;
Enjoy the liberty which nature gave,
Nor condescend to be to fools a slave:

Sometimes peruse great Edward's shining page,
Which casts reproach on this inglorious age:
Or read with rapture Pope's immortal line,
In whose strong page so many beauties shine;
Who, arm'd for virtue, holds it for a rule,
To spare no noble knave or wealthy fool;
Or else in midnight revels care beguile,
And taste tumultuous pleasure for a while;
Then consecrate a bumper to my toast,
The fairest nymph the British isle can boast;
None blush to fall a victim to her eyes,
For Dashwood's name all excellence implies.
Now nymphs descended of a noble race
Will court the judgment of the Highborlace

Who by so nice a choice their taste approve,
As shows their hearts susceptible of love.

Thus all her leisure hours he muse employs,
While fancy paints imaginary joys,
Lives o'er the gayer scene of pleasure past,
And owns such happiness too great to last.
But long epistles writ in rhime displease,
And the last sentence gives the reader ease;
So with a wish sincere, my friend adieu,
That all life's blessings may descend on you.

Peter-House, Cambridge, August 24, 1735.

The death of Mr. John Bingham, student of Christ-Church in Oxford.

Miss Dashwood was chose this year lady patroness of the Highborlace Club in Oxford.