The Works of Richard Savage ... With an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author, by Samuel Johnson. A New Edition |
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THE POET'S DEPENDANCE ON A STATESMAN. |
 | The Works of Richard Savage |  |
173
THE POET'S DEPENDANCE ON A STATESMAN.
Some seem to hint, and others proof will bring,
That, from neglect, my num'rous hardships spring.
Seek the great man! they cry—'tis then decreed,
In him if I court fortune, I succeed.
That, from neglect, my num'rous hardships spring.
Seek the great man! they cry—'tis then decreed,
In him if I court fortune, I succeed.
What friends to second? who for me should sue,
Have int'rests, partial to themselves, in view.
They own my matchless fate compassion draws;
They all wish well, lament, but drop my cause.
Have int'rests, partial to themselves, in view.
They own my matchless fate compassion draws;
They all wish well, lament, but drop my cause.
There are who ask no pension, want no place,
No title wish, and would accept no grace.
Can I entreat, they should for me obtain
The least, who greatest for themselves disdain?
A statesman, knowing this, unkind, will cry,
Those love him: let those serve him!—why shou'd I?
No title wish, and would accept no grace.
Can I entreat, they should for me obtain
The least, who greatest for themselves disdain?
A statesman, knowing this, unkind, will cry,
Those love him: let those serve him!—why shou'd I?
Say, shall I turn where lucre points my views;
At first desert my friends, at length abuse?
But, on less terms, in promise he complies:
Years bury years, and hopes on hopes arise;
I trust, am trusted on my fairy gain;
And woes on woes attend, an endless train.
At first desert my friends, at length abuse?
But, on less terms, in promise he complies:
Years bury years, and hopes on hopes arise;
I trust, am trusted on my fairy gain;
And woes on woes attend, an endless train.
174
Be posts dispos'd at will!—I have, for these,
No gold to plead, no impudence to tease.
All secret service from my soul I hate;
All dark intrigues of pleasure, or of state;
I have no pow'r, election-votes to gain;
No will to hackney out polemic strain;
To shape, as time shall serve, my verse, or prose,
To flatter thence, nor slur a courtier's foes;
Nor him to daub with praise, if I prevail;
Nor shock'd by him, with libels to assail.
Where these are not, what claim to me belongs?
Tho' mine the muse and virtue, birth and wrongs.
No gold to plead, no impudence to tease.
All secret service from my soul I hate;
All dark intrigues of pleasure, or of state;
I have no pow'r, election-votes to gain;
No will to hackney out polemic strain;
To shape, as time shall serve, my verse, or prose,
To flatter thence, nor slur a courtier's foes;
Nor him to daub with praise, if I prevail;
Nor shock'd by him, with libels to assail.
Where these are not, what claim to me belongs?
Tho' mine the muse and virtue, birth and wrongs.
Where lives the statesman, so in honour clear,
To give where he has nought to hope, nor fear?
No!—there to seek, is but to find fresh pain:
The promise broke, renew'd, and broke again;
To be, as humour deigns, receiv'd, refus'd;
By turns affronted, any by turns amus'd;
To lose that time, which worthier thoughts require;
To lose the health, which shou'd those thoughts inspire;
To starve on hope; or, like camelions, fare
On ministerial faith, which means but air.
To give where he has nought to hope, nor fear?
No!—there to seek, is but to find fresh pain:
The promise broke, renew'd, and broke again;
To be, as humour deigns, receiv'd, refus'd;
By turns affronted, any by turns amus'd;
To lose that time, which worthier thoughts require;
To lose the health, which shou'd those thoughts inspire;
To starve on hope; or, like camelions, fare
On ministerial faith, which means but air.
But still, undrooping, I the crew disdain,
Who, or by jobs, or libels, wealth obtain.
Ne'er let me be, thro' those, from want exempt;
In one man's favour, in the world's contempt;
Worse in my own!—thro' those, to posts who rise,
Themselves, in secret, must themselves despise;
Vile, and more vile, till they, at length, disclaim
Not sense alone of glory, but of shame.
Who, or by jobs, or libels, wealth obtain.
Ne'er let me be, thro' those, from want exempt;
In one man's favour, in the world's contempt;
Worse in my own!—thro' those, to posts who rise,
Themselves, in secret, must themselves despise;
175
Not sense alone of glory, but of shame.
What tho' I hourly see the servile herd,
For meanness honour'd, and for guilt prefer'd;
See selfish passion, public virtue seem;
And public virtue an enthusiast dream;
See favour'd falshood, innocence belied,
Meekness depress'd, and pow'r-elated pride;
A scene will shew, all-righteous vision haste!
The meek exalted, and the proud debas'd!—
Oh, to be there!—to tread that friendly shore,
Where falshood, pride, and statesmen are no more!
For meanness honour'd, and for guilt prefer'd;
See selfish passion, public virtue seem;
And public virtue an enthusiast dream;
See favour'd falshood, innocence belied,
Meekness depress'd, and pow'r-elated pride;
A scene will shew, all-righteous vision haste!
The meek exalted, and the proud debas'd!—
Oh, to be there!—to tread that friendly shore,
Where falshood, pride, and statesmen are no more!
But ere indulg'd—ere fate my breath shall claim,
A poet still is anxious after fame.
What future fame would my ambition crave?
This were my wish, cou'd ought my mem'ry save,
Say, when in death my sorrows lie repos'd,
That my past life, no venal view disclos'd;
Say, I well knew, while in a state obscure,
Without the being base, the being poor;
Say I had parts, too mod'rate to transcend;
Yet sense to mean, and virtue not t' offend;
My heart supplying what my head denied,
Say that, by Pope, esteem'd I liv'd and died;
Whose writings the best rules to write could give;
Whose life the nobler science how to live.
A poet still is anxious after fame.
What future fame would my ambition crave?
This were my wish, cou'd ought my mem'ry save,
Say, when in death my sorrows lie repos'd,
That my past life, no venal view disclos'd;
Say, I well knew, while in a state obscure,
Without the being base, the being poor;
Say I had parts, too mod'rate to transcend;
Yet sense to mean, and virtue not t' offend;
My heart supplying what my head denied,
Say that, by Pope, esteem'd I liv'd and died;
Whose writings the best rules to write could give;
Whose life the nobler science how to live.
| The Works of Richard Savage | |