 | Poems on several occasions |  |
WHIGS AND TORIES:
IN FOUR POETICAL EPISTLES.
525
I.—WHIGGORUM PIETAS ET CONGRATULATIO.
Though sordid slaves their base obedience teach,
And passive fools their non-resistance preach;
Yet in each age some generous souls we see,
Bold to' assert the cause of liberty.
And passive fools their non-resistance preach;
Yet in each age some generous souls we see,
Bold to' assert the cause of liberty.
In Charles's reign Prynne, Burton, Bastwick, rose,
Who dared “malignant counsellors” oppose.
Then Milton, Marvel, Ayloff, Phœbus sent,—
The scourges dire of guilty government.
Next Molesworth, Pulteney, Saint John, Wesley came:
Alike their labour, and their drift the same,—
To lash corruption, to expose to hate
Courtiers and pimps and ministers of state.
Nor fear we now the' encroachments of the crown,
Since Wesley's pointed satire is our own.
Who dared “malignant counsellors” oppose.
Then Milton, Marvel, Ayloff, Phœbus sent,—
The scourges dire of guilty government.
Next Molesworth, Pulteney, Saint John, Wesley came:
Alike their labour, and their drift the same,—
To lash corruption, to expose to hate
Courtiers and pimps and ministers of state.
Nor fear we now the' encroachments of the crown,
Since Wesley's pointed satire is our own.
Should our foes boast the numerous spawn of hell,—
Manwaring, Hobbes, L' Estrange, Sacheverell;
Should some their sacred characters display,
Wesley and Prynne are priests, as well as they.
Should some their wit and poetry oppose,
Wesley and Marvel are as arch as those.
Should cringing Tories court a rising lord,
From the green ribbon to the red preferr'd;
These merry wags would wish the knave a third.
Should awful blockheads, void of flouts and fleers,
Reverence the image which the metal bears;
These wits would show what did the gold debase,—
Cæsar's inscription, Cæsar's cuckold-face.
Slaves homage much the' insignia of the great,
The tools of power, the mere machines of state:
But Wesley 'stalments, 'crownments, turns to farce, [OMITTED]
Manwaring, Hobbes, L' Estrange, Sacheverell;
Should some their sacred characters display,
Wesley and Prynne are priests, as well as they.
526
Wesley and Marvel are as arch as those.
Should cringing Tories court a rising lord,
From the green ribbon to the red preferr'd;
These merry wags would wish the knave a third.
Should awful blockheads, void of flouts and fleers,
Reverence the image which the metal bears;
These wits would show what did the gold debase,—
Cæsar's inscription, Cæsar's cuckold-face.
Slaves homage much the' insignia of the great,
The tools of power, the mere machines of state:
But Wesley 'stalments, 'crownments, turns to farce, [OMITTED]
Thus, nor cajoled, nor by nicknames misled,
Thou dost the paths of thy forefathers tread.
Go on, brave Whig! bad ministers defy:
Still dart thy keen invectives boldly high,
To the old tune, “Which no one can deny.”
Thou dost the paths of thy forefathers tread.
Go on, brave Whig! bad ministers defy:
Still dart thy keen invectives boldly high,
To the old tune, “Which no one can deny.”
January 30th, 1727. From the Calves'-Head Club.
II.—PIIS ET GRATULANTIBUS WHIGGIS RESPONSIO.
Yours I received; and stood surprised to see
Your Calves'-Head “gratitude and piety;”
To me, I own, beyond my merit kind,—
As friends make beauties which they cannot find.
But this and greater errors I pass by:
All faults are venial in a lover's eye.
Your Calves'-Head “gratitude and piety;”
To me, I own, beyond my merit kind,—
As friends make beauties which they cannot find.
527
All faults are venial in a lover's eye.
Long ere I wrote, your politics had shown
You fear'd no more the' encroachments of the throne.
Let wicked Stuarts dare to' affect the power
Your suffrage often gave their successor,
Hampden in arms his sovereign shall defy,
And Sandys the blood-hound open with full cry,
Bradshaw expect his death for public good,
And Onslow sign petitions for his blood.
You fear'd no more the' encroachments of the throne.
Let wicked Stuarts dare to' affect the power
Your suffrage often gave their successor,
Hampden in arms his sovereign shall defy,
And Sandys the blood-hound open with full cry,
Bradshaw expect his death for public good,
And Onslow sign petitions for his blood.
Though compliments you strain, this pen of mine
Like root-and-branch work authors cannot shine.
Peers, prelates, kings they strike: My lower flight
Can only reach the gewgaws of a knight.
Did knighthood catch the peerage in a string?
Or did St. George's Garter make him king?
If so, then Charles's sentence let him bear,
And lose his head for signing with an R;
While “Like for like” may sneaking Tories please,
Who wish no more than Pains and Penalties!
Did half your ardour but my breast inspire;
My soul did Sidney, Locke, or Hoadly fire;
I'd act the Roman tyrant-killer's part,
And stab him, though unsceptred, to the heart,
For senates, armies, taxes, without end,
A plot decipher'd and a South Sea screen'd;
Serene and pleased to' avenge my native isle,
And prove my poniard sharper than my style!
Through you secure of endless fame, should I,
Like Felton, Sindercomb, or Brutus, die.
Like root-and-branch work authors cannot shine.
Peers, prelates, kings they strike: My lower flight
Can only reach the gewgaws of a knight.
Did knighthood catch the peerage in a string?
Or did St. George's Garter make him king?
If so, then Charles's sentence let him bear,
And lose his head for signing with an R;
While “Like for like” may sneaking Tories please,
Who wish no more than Pains and Penalties!
Did half your ardour but my breast inspire;
My soul did Sidney, Locke, or Hoadly fire;
I'd act the Roman tyrant-killer's part,
And stab him, though unsceptred, to the heart,
For senates, armies, taxes, without end,
A plot decipher'd and a South Sea screen'd;
Serene and pleased to' avenge my native isle,
And prove my poniard sharper than my style!
Through you secure of endless fame, should I,
Like Felton, Sindercomb, or Brutus, die.
528
Yet think not I applauded verse disclaim;
For who denies the works that bring him fame?
Whate'er you please is mine: your word's enough;
Or add your oath too,—never want for proof.
What, though your saviour Oates has closed his eyes?
Decipherers breathe, and circumstances rise.
Thus friends and foes my merit shall descry,
While you shall swear it, and I not deny.
For who denies the works that bring him fame?
Whate'er you please is mine: your word's enough;
Or add your oath too,—never want for proof.
What, though your saviour Oates has closed his eyes?
Decipherers breathe, and circumstances rise.
Thus friends and foes my merit shall descry,
While you shall swear it, and I not deny.
III.—ANSWER TO A COPY OF VERSES,
ENTITLED, “PIIS ET GRATULANTIBUS WHIGGIS RESPONSIO.”
Dear Sam, erewhile you did a copy show,
To which, I find, you've sent an answer now.
The Whiggish knaves, 'gainst whom you write, disown
Their due allegiance to the British throne,
Except when pleased. We honest Tories dare
Be true and just to the worst kings that are.
If a weak prince, by wicked men misled,
Makes subjects bow to gods of wood and bread;
If such, as maggot bites and he sees cause,
Dispenses with the cobwebs of the laws;
Still are we faithful. How much more, when Heaven
A monarch of a different stamp has given!
Who courts his people, who their altars tends;
Mild to his foes, and constant to his friends;
To base revenge and mean resentment blind;
Parent of Britain, friend of human-kind;
Who still his just prerogative avers
Of placing or displacing ministers!
To which, I find, you've sent an answer now.
The Whiggish knaves, 'gainst whom you write, disown
Their due allegiance to the British throne,
Except when pleased. We honest Tories dare
Be true and just to the worst kings that are.
If a weak prince, by wicked men misled,
Makes subjects bow to gods of wood and bread;
If such, as maggot bites and he sees cause,
Dispenses with the cobwebs of the laws;
Still are we faithful. How much more, when Heaven
A monarch of a different stamp has given!
Who courts his people, who their altars tends;
Mild to his foes, and constant to his friends;
529
Parent of Britain, friend of human-kind;
Who still his just prerogative avers
Of placing or displacing ministers!
Even ministers of state (to whom, 'tis true,
There's no submission of allegiance due)
We treat with reverence; nor, like Strafford's foes,
To vulgar rage the envied great expose;
Nor hunt to ruin by the people's breath,
Who yell for justice, and who scream for death.
There's no submission of allegiance due)
We treat with reverence; nor, like Strafford's foes,
To vulgar rage the envied great expose;
Nor hunt to ruin by the people's breath,
Who yell for justice, and who scream for death.
The ills of civil rage so much we dread,
We dare not even in patriots' footsteps tread.
Falkland opposed the court with honest view:
That opposition soon rebellion grew.
Whilst upright hearts redress of grievance meant,
The wily few were on black mischief bent.
Though those “bad ministers” alone decried,
These struck the master through the servants' side.
And if fresh opposition we allow,
There may be Hampdens, Onslows, Bradshaws now.
We dare not even in patriots' footsteps tread.
Falkland opposed the court with honest view:
That opposition soon rebellion grew.
Whilst upright hearts redress of grievance meant,
The wily few were on black mischief bent.
Though those “bad ministers” alone decried,
These struck the master through the servants' side.
And if fresh opposition we allow,
There may be Hampdens, Onslows, Bradshaws now.
Hence we unlimited obedience teach,
And strictly practise what we, ardent, preach.
The Calves'-Head politicians may combine
To father what they will on thee for thine;
Yet I'll be sworn, no verses came from thee
That strike direct at sacred majesty.
Yet even such (or all the world are wrong)
In careless hours slip thy unguarded tongue,
And have in gaiety or heart been sung.
This asks a friend's reproof. It dangerous is,
Since plaguy Whigs have Pains and Penalties;
And it would grieve me much to have it said,
My friend for an old song had lost his bread.
And strictly practise what we, ardent, preach.
The Calves'-Head politicians may combine
To father what they will on thee for thine;
Yet I'll be sworn, no verses came from thee
That strike direct at sacred majesty.
Yet even such (or all the world are wrong)
In careless hours slip thy unguarded tongue,
And have in gaiety or heart been sung.
530
Since plaguy Whigs have Pains and Penalties;
And it would grieve me much to have it said,
My friend for an old song had lost his bread.
I take the liberty to thus reprove
This and one other word in him I love:
The name of “saviour” I must frankly own
Too big for jest, sacred to Him alone
Who “Like for like” forbids, revenge denies
To basest men and blackest enemies;
“Makes prayers and tears his church's sole defence,
Nor suffers factious pens to strengthen Providence.”
This and one other word in him I love:
The name of “saviour” I must frankly own
Too big for jest, sacred to Him alone
Who “Like for like” forbids, revenge denies
To basest men and blackest enemies;
“Makes prayers and tears his church's sole defence,
Nor suffers factious pens to strengthen Providence.”
IV.—AN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING VERSES.
Dear Jem, to better converse are we come,
Our mask thrown off, our friendship to resume?
The prince whom you extol I can revere:
No good I hope for, and no bad I fear.
I weigh not George's reign with James's days,
Nor wound my sovereign with ill-grounded praise.
Our mask thrown off, our friendship to resume?
The prince whom you extol I can revere:
No good I hope for, and no bad I fear.
I weigh not George's reign with James's days,
Nor wound my sovereign with ill-grounded praise.
To God for mercy let me humbly cry:
For man,—his utmost justice I defy.
Are songs objected? Let it first be told
What Acts of Grace have pass'd and years have roll'd.
Or are such Acts for rogues alone design'd,
That those who least deserve them, most may find?
Though Whigs would scarce rejoice, were I to say
Who made, who call'd for, and who taught the lay.
Let terror Chesterfield or Edgecombe seize;
Or let sir Robert tremble, if he please:
So, if great things we may compare with small,
Did Marlborough stoop to Oxford in his fall.
For man,—his utmost justice I defy.
Are songs objected? Let it first be told
What Acts of Grace have pass'd and years have roll'd.
Or are such Acts for rogues alone design'd,
That those who least deserve them, most may find?
531
Who made, who call'd for, and who taught the lay.
Let terror Chesterfield or Edgecombe seize;
Or let sir Robert tremble, if he please:
So, if great things we may compare with small,
Did Marlborough stoop to Oxford in his fall.
Think not, I hope from danger to be free,
Or dream, like madmen chain'd, of liberty.
'Tis gone: no care, no innocence avails
To fence against decipherers and flails.
Was not Layer hang'd, by justice of the nation,
For reading good king William's Declaration?
And may not I next week as justly swing
Because a courtier's song I will not sing?
The case, no doubt on, when they please, is clear:
Sam surer signs with S, than Frank with R.
Yet wrath of Whigs my dread shall never move:
I cannot fear them; for I cannot love.
Or dream, like madmen chain'd, of liberty.
'Tis gone: no care, no innocence avails
To fence against decipherers and flails.
Was not Layer hang'd, by justice of the nation,
For reading good king William's Declaration?
And may not I next week as justly swing
Because a courtier's song I will not sing?
The case, no doubt on, when they please, is clear:
Sam surer signs with S, than Frank with R.
Yet wrath of Whigs my dread shall never move:
I cannot fear them; for I cannot love.
My characters too low or high have been:
No more like Falkland I, than like to Prynne.
Our Commonwealth's-men are, I hope, deceased,
Save the few heroes of the Calves'-Head feast.
Hardly is left them here and there a man;
And Gordon seems but half republican.
Our times abound with other sort of knaves,—
With rebels metamorphosed into slaves.
I think not in my pen there virtue lies
To flash due vengeance in the' oppressor's eyes.
No; if there did, the knight should feel its power
Sharp-piercing every day and every hour.
In glaring light should all his deeds be seen:
I'd pull the mask off, and remove the screen;
Pursue him till he dropp'd his guilty state;
Accuse, condemn, but not “accumulate.”
No more like Falkland I, than like to Prynne.
Our Commonwealth's-men are, I hope, deceased,
Save the few heroes of the Calves'-Head feast.
532
And Gordon seems but half republican.
Our times abound with other sort of knaves,—
With rebels metamorphosed into slaves.
I think not in my pen there virtue lies
To flash due vengeance in the' oppressor's eyes.
No; if there did, the knight should feel its power
Sharp-piercing every day and every hour.
In glaring light should all his deeds be seen:
I'd pull the mask off, and remove the screen;
Pursue him till he dropp'd his guilty state;
Accuse, condemn, but not “accumulate.”
For one reproof I thank you as a friend,
Since there indeed I seemingly offend.
That Oates a “saviour” should entitled be,
I grant, is vile,—I think, is blasphemy.
Yet saints profane that monster so adored,
Whose tender conscience call'd no bishop “lord:”
That fact I with abhorrence should have shown,
To keep you from suspecting 'twas my own.
Since there indeed I seemingly offend.
That Oates a “saviour” should entitled be,
I grant, is vile,—I think, is blasphemy.
Yet saints profane that monster so adored,
Whose tender conscience call'd no bishop “lord:”
That fact I with abhorrence should have shown,
To keep you from suspecting 'twas my own.
I judge the tree corrupted, by the fruit:
Did e'er the gospel stop a just pursuit?
What texts a Bambridge or a Huggins fence,
Who against Francis pick'd up evidence?
And may not “Like for like” a villain seize?
Then nearest just are Pains and Penalties.
I throw no wire-drawn guess on knighthood's name:
He owns as glory what I write as shame.
I own I think, as Christian, I am free
Within the bounds of laws and charity:
Do these forbid to hear the merchants' moans,
While starving thousands echo to their groans?
If so, let courts of law no longer stand,
And pull down Tyburn: 'tis a Christian land!
Did e'er the gospel stop a just pursuit?
What texts a Bambridge or a Huggins fence,
Who against Francis pick'd up evidence?
And may not “Like for like” a villain seize?
Then nearest just are Pains and Penalties.
I throw no wire-drawn guess on knighthood's name:
He owns as glory what I write as shame.
I own I think, as Christian, I am free
Within the bounds of laws and charity:
533
While starving thousands echo to their groans?
If so, let courts of law no longer stand,
And pull down Tyburn: 'tis a Christian land!
One only aim I seek in lighter strains,
Whatever monarch lives or party reigns;
Nor has my aim quite disappointed been,—
To make the losers laugh at them that win,
Suspend by starts their anguish and their fear,
And sometimes in a smile forget a tear.
Whatever monarch lives or party reigns;
Nor has my aim quite disappointed been,—
To make the losers laugh at them that win,
Suspend by starts their anguish and their fear,
And sometimes in a smile forget a tear.
| Poems on several occasions | |