 | Poems on several occasions |  |
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?
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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.
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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:
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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 | |