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

‘Your spleen is vain, take counsel of a friend!
‘Forbear to rail, 'tis safer to commend;
‘The fashionable world will be your foe,
‘If you presume to ridicule a beau,

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‘And with such rigour treat those harmless things,
‘As if they-libell'd ministers or kings.
‘Tho' fools and coxcombs every where abound,
‘And friends, or honest men, are seldom found;
‘Tho' to an eunuch's voice such charms belong,
‘That families are ruin'd for a song,
‘And, without benefit of propagation,
‘Gay Farinelli cuckolds half the nation:
‘Yet, let the muse correct her pointed page,
‘Each biting line will make some reader rage;
‘To lash a fav'rite vice, or hint a fault,
‘Will be, by half the world, ill-nature thought,
‘Tho' tender virgins of the British isle
‘Mourn Farinelli's absence from our soil:
‘Perhaps our trade some benefit may boast,
‘To recompense the loss of such a toast;

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‘For now the syren is the taste of Spain,
‘No more will Spaniards plunder o'er the main;
‘But ravish'd with his song enchanted lie,
‘While our rich merchants sail unheeded by:
‘No more shall lust of gold their sons entice,
‘But Farinelli be the reigning vice;
‘Such the great pow'r of kings his notes delight,
‘He kneels an eunuch, rises up a knight.
‘Then throw aside your pen, nor risk your fame,
‘For the fond hopes of an immortal name!
‘Why should you write, what favour can you hope,
‘Unknown to patrons, booksellers, or Pope?
‘But, if you are resolv'd the world shall know it,
‘That cruel nature destin'd you a poet;

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‘Condemn'd for sins unknown in verse to drudge,
‘And make mankind your arbitrary judge;
To great Augustus' praises tune your lyre,
‘The subject will heroic thoughts inspire;
‘And, as his image dignifies the coin,
‘His name will consecrate each worthless line;
‘And without genius make a poem shine.
Else would the court approve of Cibber's verse,
‘Did not his odes great Cæsar's praise rehearse:
‘Why then's your blotted page with satire stain'd?
‘As if a Nero, or Domitian, reign'd?’

How seldom poets meet at court reward,
Except the laureat, and the threshing bard?
Yet Stephen Duck is tolerably poor,
And Colly Cibber scarce can keep a whore:

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The magic circle men of merit shun,
Where servile fools are fond to be undone.

Tibullus lives (his country's loss) retir'd,
By all regretted, as by all admir'd;
A genius who deserves a better fate,
But droops beneath ill fortune's gauling weight:
While bards, that tread upon enchanted ground,
Have all their works in Turky leather bound;
And, further to improve the mimic scene,
Adorn the study of our learned Queen.

Thus Hesletine, whose music charms mankind,
To the dull scene of Durham is confin'd;
Where Dongworth, master of the Grecian page,
Is doom'd to waste the vigour of his age,
To cultivate the genius of the north,
And make the sons exceed their fathers worth.
Besides,—my talent suits not with their art,
Who speak a language foreign to the heart;
Plain honest dealing never will offend
One man, whom I could wish to be my friend;
And as for sharpers, parasites, and beaux,
Pimps, courtiers, knaves, I'd rather have them foes.
Nor can like Clarke o'er all her virtues run,
Who sunk in splendor like the setting sun,
To rise more glorious from the womb of night,
Array'd like angels in immortal light;

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Like Cam and Isis flow in easy verse,
And weep in numbers o'er the royal herse;
Invoke the muse to sing how Caroline
(Religion's great defender) grew divine;
That merit, which her modesty conceal'd,
By Stephen's vision, was in death reveal'd.

When the strong blast of prejudice prevails,
Or pining envy mourns that malice fails;
Who dare against a herd of fools defend,
In spite of calumny, an injur'd friend?
Who scorn to truckle to be meanly great,
And honour merit in a low estate;

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Nor prostitute their parts, or wives at court,
To gain a pension's infamous support;
These are the men, whose friendship I desire;
Approve their converse, and their worth admire.

When fools are lash'd, by sympathetic force
All conscious of their folly rail of course:
As, when assassins on the wheel are broke,
Each dark accomplice shudders at the stroke;
As Shepheard's death bath'd Newgate sons in tears,
And Ward made thousands tremble for their ears;
So satire makes the secret villain smart,
Tho' read with pleasure by an honest heart.

Let the dull pension'd race of hireling bards.
Describe court virtues, as the court rewards;

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My pen shall never varnish o'er disgrace,
To gain a great man's promise, or a place;
Nor on immortal Cæsar's worth refine,
Here draw a Brunswic, there a Caroline,
And swear they sprung from a celestial line:
With panegyric swell my fulsome lays,
And bribe the muses to record their praise;
Alike to me, the favour or the frown
Of Hudd'sford, or whom fortune gave a crown:
Nor ransack ancient history to find
A statesman fit to be with Walpole join'd;
Make him the bulwark of our liberty,
With Cecil, or at least Godolphin vy,
Who has his country's interest at heart,
And spite of faction acts a patriot's part;

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Preserves our commerce safe from shore to shore,
While Europe trembles at our cannons roar;
Who forms, regardless of the nation's cries,
Bank contracts, or a general excise;
And breaks his brain with thought to find a way,
Without a sinking fund, our debts to pay;
So frugal of the public treasure grown,
Would make one almost think it were his own;
Born for the nation's good he hoards no pelf,
But loves his country better than himself.
Yet, to what height his tow'ring fabrics rise,
With gilded turrets glitt'ring to the skies;
Splendid with gaudy furniture within,
The wreck of merchants, and the spoil of sin?
When to his country's seat the knight repairs,
Worn out with the fatigue of state affairs,

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His gates expanded yield a passage free,
E'en for assertors of our liberty;
Each element is ransack'd of its store,
To feed with French repasts the splendid poor:
His sparkling cups the richest wines afford,
And loyal healths flow round the chearful board;
His way of life refin'd to that degree,
That prelates envy him his luxury.
Say to what end such jovial feasts abound,
To bribe with their own wealth the country round?

Now needy malecontents may cease to rail,
Their vote in parliament,—or else a jail;
His honour's friends, if right they play their cards,
Are sure to meet with suitable rewards;

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His open heart such ample sums bestows,
As cannot fail to influence his foes.
Then whence these idle clamours of the croud
Against this man so petulant and loud?
As if he basely had betray'd his trust,
To gratify the sordid miser's lust;
Or by extortion swell'd his little store,
And kept to make them slaves the nation poor.
Thus calumny will rising merit blame,
And cast a cloud upon the brightest fame.
But still the busy prying world enquire,
What vast estate was left him by his sire?
If fame say true, his own revenues, clear,
Amounted to four-hundred pounds a year:
Then whence could such a mass of wealth arise?
The nation's spoil becomes the statesman's prize:

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All able politicians must be paid
For councils held, and foreign treaties made;
Money for secret services of state,
To screen him from an injur'd nation's hate:
And sure that guilty wretch, who dares to stand
The scourge of history's eternal brand,
Should in this world some recompence receive,
And taste the fruit before he's damn'd like Eve.
Nor are there wanting a mean race of men
To prostitute in his behalf their pen,
To cast o'er all his actions a disguise,
To sooth his pride, and flatter every vice;
To throw a veil before the people's sight,
And blend in artful colours wrong with right;
To make their patron Atlas of the crown,
His will our good, his conduct our renown.

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To vindicate his fame, their only plea
For all his guilt, he ne'er receiv'd a fee;
No pensions from the courts of France and Spain
His morals blacken, or his virtues stain;
Why should they bribe him to promote their end,
Who shew'd himself a voluntary friend?
To sink the glory of the British name,
Her credit lessen, and her worth defame.
Were these his failings?—If it prove no worse,
His fond ambition was the nation's curse;
Whose dastard counsels had not equal weight,
Nor skill, to guide the chariot of the state;
Like Phaeton unwilling to remove,
To save the world,— till thunderstruck by Jove
This fatal avarice of pow'r or gold,
By which e'en patriots consciences are sold,

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The noble sense of liberty controuls,
That great prerogative of English souls,
Which our illustrious predecessors thought,
Tho' with their lives and fortunes, cheaply bought;
And shall we their degenerate sons betray
Our glorious birth-right for a hireling's pay?
First let our swords defend our country's laws,
Or bravely perish in the generous cause;
If we must fall, from heaven let vengeance come,
And the loud thunder speak our glorious doom.

As the best things are, when corrupted, worst,
Mankind are often with their wishes curst.
Old Gripus ne'er was known to be devout,
Till Satan found his ruling passion out:

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But now at daily pray'rs the dotard kneels,
And the false rapture of devotion feels;
To build an hospital or college vows,
And feed the starving beggar at his house:
But, since he has obtain'd the splendid evil,
His wife and children wish him at the devil.

So Menedemus curs'd with stores of wealth,
A torment to his neighbours and himself;
Tho' twelve revolving moons his farms amount
To sums, arithmetic can scarcely count;
The sordid miser starves, throughout the year,
On mouldy scraps of victuals and small beer;
Performs all servile offices of life,
And thanks the doctor that he has no wife;

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Nor o'er the brute can nature's ties prevail,
He sees his children perish in a jail.

From such examples theorists advance,
That jarring atoms made the world by chance;
Else could impartial providence impart
So large a treasure to so mean a heart?
Mistaken tenets.— Such a conduct shows,
That riches misapply'd are real woes.

Ask you why Simo to his son behaves,
Like Christian tyrants to their Negro slaves?
And scarcely will allow a competence
Sufficient to indulge one single sense?
It is not cruelty, but avarice,
Which comprehends the dregs of every vice.

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Else would Clorinda, nature's darling pride,
Whose gayest flights have virtue for their guide,
Whom all mankind with glowing ardour crave,
And deem it ment to be thought her slave.
Not taste the rapture of a marriage state,
To please a father's avarice, or hate?
How hard her station to a generous mind,
To soft humanity and love inclin'd?
Condemn'd by nature's bounty pain to give,
Too sure to wound, unable to relieve.
Tho' such old Simo's penury of soul,
Where no ideas but of lucre roll;
Frugal at home, at other folks expence,
His taste rich wines, and gay magnificence.
If any friend invite him to a feast,
The master thinks he's happy in his guest:
Good-natur'd, affable, and high in spirits,
He rails at all those vices he inherits;

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He smiles with joy to see the sparkling bowl,
And with large draughts revives his thirsty soul;
While the wine flows, his heart with rapture burns,
But, when the banquet's o'er, his spleen returns;
Then plagues at home his family and wife,
And makes them curse the time he gave them life.

As from one virtue many blessings flow,
From one mad vice variety of woe:
Thus upstart gamesters by their betters thrive,
And ride in coaches they were glad to drive;
While noble heirs, to large revenues born,
Serve splendid wretches who were once their scorn,
And forfeit, by the folly of a night,
Their starving sons hereditary right.

144

But spare, cries one, your censure on the times,
Nor like a Stoic call our pleasures crimes:
You quite mistake,— for, rightly understood,
I grant that pleasure is our greatest good;
That not our real wants, but vanities,
Are the true source from whence our sorrows rise:
None would be wretched, were they but content
To strive to be no more than nature meant:
Each has his proper sphere of life assign'd,
Peculiar to the texture of his mind.

Thus honest Dromo born to live with care,
And heap up riches for a spendthrift heir,
Pursues the rugged path his stars ordain,
His table frugal, and his garment plain:

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Him every worthy citizen esteems,
Because he is the very man he seems:
But mad with riches, if he leave his trade,
And think to shine at court, or masquerade;
That instant he becomes the ridicule
Of every well-dress'd fashionable fool.

So Bardus, were he not bewitch'd with pow'r,
Might drink rich wines at home, and keep his whore;
In life's low vale from state affairs exempt,
Perhaps in solitude might shun contempt;
But, by his brother into business hurl'd
To blunder round the habitable world,
The public scorn of Europe is become,
Abroad deluded, and despis'd at home.

146

What but the thirst of universal fame,
Aspiring Titus, can e'en critics blame?
Bless'd with a genius, and with arts adorn'd,
For which his proud ambition makes him scorn'd:
And yet his merit might deserve applause,
Were he content to act by nature's laws:
But start a subject:— Mark how he harangues,
Why one's transported, when another hangs;
Alike on trifles, and important things,
On plays, religion, opera's, or kings;
Nor will he condescend to hold his tongue
On subjects, which he never thought upon;
His judgment teaches senates what is fit,
To Pult'ney politics, to Stanhope wit;
Eager he grasps at fame, but meets with none,
Like gamesters by too bold a cast undone.

147

None but the supple cringing parasite,
Who takes in fools encomiums a delight;
Whose life is govern'd by one slavish rule,
To flatter every coxcomb, knave, and fool;
Can entertain a hope, or wish, to be
From the world's censure, or reproaches free:
The wretch, who vainly thinks to make a friend
Of all mankind, deserves no better end,
Than that deluded mean dependant race,
Who starve in expectation of a place.
But if this vanity of heart betrays
Your mind to catch at universal praise:
Think there are men, whose virtues far exceed
Thy merit, as immortal Thames the Tweed!
That Pope in poetry has suffer'd scandal,
In physic Nichols, and in music Handel;

148

While Maurus in his gilded chariot rides,
And by a lucky hit at court presides:
That Murray, rising genius of the bar,
Who shines the foremost in the verbal war,
Is undermin'd, in character and fame,
By reptiles of the law without a name.
Thus envy dwells within ignoble minds,
And at another's excellence repines.

E'en brave Argyle true to his country's cause,
Bold in defence of liberty and laws,
Bore the loud thunder of each party's rage,
To save from bondage a corrupted age:
From such examples we may learn to bear
Their praise, or censure, with an equal ear.

149

'Tis an old maxim, which experience taught,
Nothing suits worse with vice than want of thought:
This thousand coxcombs prove to their undoing,
What's one man's foible, is another's ruin.
That Gallus keeps a girl is past dispute,
And by the world is held in good repute:
Yet wretched Cornus knows it to his cost,
For that, his character and fortune lost,
With lust and avarice the harlot drains
His sinking income, and his ebbing veins:
But, to do penance for his former life,
He damns the town, and takes her for his wife.

Capellus, in the winter of threescore,
Sneaks out at midnight to his private whore;

150

Where all things are provided, in a trice,
To pamper nature, and sollicit vice:
Behind her cully Messalina stands,
And shakes the Fasces in her servile hands;
Love's long extinguish'd fires revive again,
And titillation thrills thro' every vein.
When the warm tide of youthful blood prevails,
When strong temptation courts, and virtue fails,
When wanton beauties set the soul on fire,
And kindle in the coldest breast desire;
If youth indulge their appetites at large,
When vanquish'd reason has resign'd her charge,
The world confess it is a venial evil,
But an old fumbling dotard is the devil.
In vain we boast of reason for our guide,
Which cannot stem the passion's stronger tide:

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But, when the various tempests cease to roll,
Reflects keen anguish on the tortur'd soul,
Soon as one fop is branded with disgrace,
Another fool starts up, and claims a place.

See gay Papillus trip along the Park,
A pretty, trifling, flutt'ring, woman's spark;
In wit a bankrupt, yet in talking loud,
Eager to catch the praises of the croud;
In fortune indigent, but dawb'd with lace,
In hopes to be mistaken for his grace;
Scarce sense enough to know himself a fool,
And yet pretends mankind to ridicule;
Proud of his person, vainer of his parts,
He thinks to captivate all ladies hearts:

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To bosom friends a stranger, if undrest,
But, if you shine in an embroider'd vest,
An humble servant to the meanest foe,
Provided that his enemy's a beau.

What, but desire to be a poet thought,
Has the world's bleak contempt on Codrus brought?
Codrus has many labour'd drama's writ,
Tho' neither curs'd with poverty, or wit:
Tir'd with his stuff in vain spectators hiss,
It is their judgment, not his play's amiss;
Nor will he with that poor pretence be shamm'd,
But once a year makes interest to be damn'd.

Let the wretch scribble on! more flagrant crimes
Demand the censure of satiric rhimes;

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Who whisper calumny, the secret foe,
That aggravates each circumstance of woe;
Who blacken characters, in truth's disguised
With specious tales insinuating lyes;
The venom'd malice rankling in the heart
Conceal'd in soothing words, the courtier's art;
Who spread ill-natur'd scandal o'er the town,
Of injur'd characters to them unknown;
Who seems your friend on purpose to betray;
Or villains that decypher lives away:
These are the men deserve keen satire's rage;
And Sutton stands the foremost in the page.
Prompt me, great Oldham, with thy pointed wit,
With curses for the lowest scoundrel fit!

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Let thy keen genius thro' each sentence shine,
Improve my rage, and stab in every line!
But not to blast an honest man's good name,
Or injur'd merit in distress defame!
But make the villain feel, who breaks his word,
A poet's pen is sharper than his sword.
Let Hudd'sford fear! whose talent is to throw
The secret dart on his unguarded foe;
Who has for mischief such an appetite,
He takes in others ruin a delight;
For whose dear sake resentment makes me write.
Nor shall the wretch's dark obscurity
Preserve him from the brand of infamy;
The muse shall stigmatise his tainted name,
And drag him forth the mark of public shame;

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Till like a wounded wretch upon the wheel,
By torture forc'd each secret to reveal,
Worn out with dilatory misery,
He asks the Coup-de-grace, and begs to die:
So satire shall this hypocrite pursue,
Till he has paid the debt to vengeance due;
Then may his ashes mingle with the dead,
With all Ashwedn'sday's curses on his head;
And let experience teach this abject man,
To dare to injure none, because he can.

Next shifting Tartuff's glaring vices call
For sharp-edg'd satire on this priest of Baal;
Tho' censure is in vain, and much I fear
To mention but his life is too severe:

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In former times so warm with party-rage,
He was the champion of a patriot age;
So very zealous in old England's cause,
He thought all kings oppressors of the laws;
But now so conscience and the C---agree,
He votes against his country's liberty;
A m---e is the prostituted price,
Which all his future conduct cheaply buys;
Secure in pow'r he sits elate with pride,
Nor can hypocrisy his vices hide:
A smiling Judas, who betrays his trust,
Retain'd for life by Lycon's sordid dust.

Here would the weary muse her pen resign,
But rigid justice claims another line:

157

Is there a meagre-looking brazen fool,
Profanely impudent, and pertly dull?
A wit profess'd, without one grain of sense,
Applause his aim, and physic his pretence;
Religion's falshood is his sober theme,
When drunk the caitif ventures to blaspheme:
Some shallow fops his phrases quaint admire,
Who calls our Saviour the country squire:
Religion, honour, virtue, are to him
Meer notions, or a politician's whim:
In coffee-houses vents his paltry wit,
And swears who e'er believes in God,—is bit.
A sodomite, at least in theory,
But unsuccessful in his villainy:
The virtuous objects of his passion dead,
The wretch presumes once more to show his head;

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But first enquires, before he would appear,
Whether a pillory's erected here?
If such a man exists, sure none can blame
The muse that brands him with a villain's name;
If not,—these harmless lines no pain can give,
Nor injur'd innocence a wound receive:
Tho' he has 'scap'd the pillory,—'tis worse
To fall beneath an angry poet's curse;
His character e'en satire cannot wrong,
Tho' Oldham lent me his invective tongue.

It was reported at that time he was knighted by the king of Spain, as a proper reward for his fine voice.

The writers on the Hermitage.

The reputed author of an essay on the character of the Queen.

A poem of Stephen Duck's on her Majesty's death.

Of Counden, in the north of England.

At Cambridge.

159

To the Author of some Latin Poems published a few Years ago.

To speak of merit in impartial lays,
And without flattery a friend to praise;
For this the muse shall strike the vocal lyre,
And sing in numbers which thy works inspire;
Who feels your sorrow with a sigh sincere,
And spite of resolution drops a tear.

Tho' clouded, like the sun, thy genius shines
Thro' fortune's mist in bright immortal lines;
Like martyrs from affliction stronger grows,
Nor drooping sinks beneath a weight of woes.

Not so could Ovid in his exile write;
The heart-felt anguish check'd his tow'ring flight;

160

His theme no longer was the blooming fair,
But sung in dying notes his own despair.
When modern sing-song panegyric bards,
Whom Cibber praises, and the court rewards,
In dark oblivion shall forgotten lie,
Except preserv'd by chance beneath a pye;
With rapture shall posterity rehearse
To their admiring sons thy lasting verse.

Since Horace flourish'd in Augustus' court
(For men of wit and taste the gay resort)
None but the British bards with ease could sing,
Or touch with equal skill the Roman string;
From their rude hands the lyre dropp'd idly down,
Because they were not lineal to the throne.

161

Tho' Stephen's muse in humble metre flows,
And warbles numbers near ally'd to prose,
Thy genius gives a lustre to his rhimes,
And such a bard may live to future times.

Had Fortune shone with an auspicious ray,
And gilded with her beams thy natal day,
The world had lost the labours of thy brain,
And Phœbus had inspir'd thy breast in vain:
But now what glory will reward your toil,
If, when the Goddess frown, the Muses smile?
And sure that proves the most distinguish'd fame,
Which rises from your own, not father's name.

162

To the same, on the Ladies Subscription for the English Poems.

How shall the muse a grateful tribute bring,
Or numbers worthy of their favour sing,
Who, touch'd with pity at a friend's distress,
Have by their bounty made his sorrow less?
Since blooming beauties of the British isle
Will condescend to cast on wit a smile,
Let petit maitres languish in despair,
Nor longer boast the favours of the fair.

Now Shakespear's scenes by modern Belle's revive,
And teach the charming sex with taste to live;
Impartial reason will their actions guide,
And make each blushing maid a happy bride.

163

Gay toasts shall learn to slight embroider'd beaux,
And chuse a husband for his sense,—not cloaths.
In vain mad poets boast the sacred nine,
Implore their aid each sentence to refine;
Except the fair their flowing verse approve,
And learn from moving strains the art of love.
E'en Phœbus' self might wish his lyre unstrung,
Since Daphne would not listen when he sung:
Your muse has met a more auspicious fate,
To please, tho' sinking under fortune's weight;
For sure that book must be secure of fame,
Which bears a Portland's and a Dashwood's name.

164

The Nineteenth Ode of the Third Book of Horace,

addressed to a Friend.

The great exploits of princes you can sing,
From Julius Cæsar down to Britain's king;
Of gasping heroes welt'ring in their blood,
Who nobly perish'd for their country's good;
How Churchill tam'd the bold aspiring Gaul,
Whose very name made trembling armies fall;
Of gallant deeds by sea, by land, perform'd,
Of Spanish navies sunk, Gibraltar storm'd.

165

To gain this point, you midnight vigils keep,
And search the learned dead, while others sleep;
Neglect the sprightly joys of blooming youth
To find some dark unprofitable truth.

Your noble taste's above such trifling cares,
To know what price, this vintage, claret bears;
At whose expence to-morrow we shall dine,
And bathe, before we drink the sparkling wine;

166

To raise the spirits, and revive the heart,
And drive the chilling cold from every part.
Leave musty books! exhaust the flowing bowl
To some fair virgin, idol of your soul:
Fill up!—another glass to recommend
Fair Cowper's health, or some deserving friend:
Three bumpers to the graces sacrifice,
But for a poet three will scarce suffice!

167

If panting after fame your bosom glows
With thoughts aspiring above vulgar prose,
In equal numbers drink the sacred nine,
Till your rich face shall like your genius shine!
The jovial madness pleases,—boys begin
To strike with skilful touch the sounding string!

168

Then strow fresh roses at your lord's command:
I hate the niggard miser's sparing hand.

Let Lycus burst with envy at the noise,
And lovely Lyco fit for other joys,
Than to lie bury'd in a husband's arms,
Whose frozen age doats on her blooming charms;
Whatever nymph indulgent nature gave
Beauty sufficient to make you her slave,

169

May she this evening bless your ravish'd sight,
And make you with like Jove a longer night:
In vain the sex superior merit boast,
Fair Dashwood triumphs still a reigning toast.

Verses writ on a Glass,

under the Name of Miss Trotter of Durham.

If all the charms of her celestial mind
With outward splendor in her features shin'd,
Our sex would universal rivals prove,
And the world fall a victim to her love.

170

The first Book of Martial, Epigram. 58.

Imitated in English.

You ask, dear Car, what mistress I would chuse?
Not one too strictly coy, nor yet too loose;
Whose unaffected character would prove
Like Delia modest, yet a friend to love;
No prudish air to damp the genial joy,
And charms enough to satisfy,—not cloy.

171

On a Quack's Motto,

Exemplo monstrante viam.

How often learning, wit, and merit fail,
When impudence and ignorance prevail?
This Maurus knows, nor feels the world's reproach,
But bears the pointed satire on his coach.