The pursuits of literature A satirical poem in four dialogues, with notes. The seventh edition, revised [by T. J. Mathias] |
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| 3. | DIALOGUE THE THIRD. |
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 | The pursuits of literature |  |
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DIALOGUE THE THIRD.
Εκλαγξαν δ' αρ' οιστοι απ' ωμων χωομενοιο,
Αυτου κινηθεντος: ο δ' ηιε Νυκτι εοικως.
Εετ' επειτ' απανευθε νεων, μετα δ' ιον εηκε,
Δεινη δε κλαγγη γενετ' αργυρεοιο βιοιο.
Ουρηας μεν πρωτον επωχετο, κσι ΚΨΝΑΣ αργους,
Αυταρ επειτ' ΑΨΤΟΙΣΙ βελος εχεπευκες αφιεις
Βαλλ'[] αιει δε πυραι νεκυων καιοντο θαμειαι.
Hom. Il. 1.
Αυτου κινηθεντος: ο δ' ηιε Νυκτι εοικως.
Εετ' επειτ' απανευθε νεων, μετα δ' ιον εηκε,
Δεινη δε κλαγγη γενετ' αργυρεοιο βιοιο.
Ουρηας μεν πρωτον επωχετο, κσι ΚΨΝΑΣ αργους,
Αυταρ επειτ' ΑΨΤΟΙΣΙ βελος εχεπευκες αφιεις
Βαλλ'[] αιει δε πυραι νεκυων καιοντο θαμειαι.
Hom. Il. 1.
Ματαιολογων φημα προσεπτατο Ελλαδα μουσοπολων, σοφας
επιφθονον τεχνας ονειδος.
OCTAVIUS.
What then, shall none remain, to whom belongs
The care of Attick bards and Dorian songs?
Shall England boast no more, in order'd clans,
Her owls from Athens and her Delian swans?
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No dirge funereal, nor one Grecian game?
AUTHOR.
There is: lo, learned Clerks in sable stole,
Graceful in years, pant eager for the goal.
Old Norb'ry starts, and with the seventh-form boys
In weeds of Greek the church-yard's peace annoys,
With classick Weston, Charley Coote, and Tew,
In dismal dance about the mournful yew.
But first in notes Sicilian plac'd on high,
Bates sounds the soft preluding symphony;
And in sad cadence, as the bands condense,
The curfew tolls the knell of harting Sense.
Graceful in years, pant eager for the goal.
Old Norb'ry starts, and with the seventh-form boys
In weeds of Greek the church-yard's peace annoys,
With classick Weston, Charley Coote, and Tew,
In dismal dance about the mournful yew.
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Bates sounds the soft preluding symphony;
176
The curfew tolls the knell of harting Sense.
177
Nares holds the prize, and stops the Dorick din,
Elmsley without and Rivington within;
The volumes are arrang'd in order meet,
And all their ears erect these accents greet:
Elmsley without and Rivington within;
The volumes are arrang'd in order meet,
And all their ears erect these accents greet:
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“Hail, my fond masters of the Grecian lyre!
“Hear a Reviewer's verse yourselves inspire:
“These books are yours, (oh, heed my tuneful voice)
“Take 'em, or damn'em, as best suits your choice;
“For some are new, some foolish, and some old,
“Some pert in calf, and some in sheets are bold.
“Hear a Reviewer's verse yourselves inspire:
“These books are yours, (oh, heed my tuneful voice)
“Take 'em, or damn'em, as best suits your choice;
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“Some pert in calf, and some in sheets are bold.
“Twelve British Criticks, new or little read;
“Horsley's chaste sermon, and his copper head;
“Letters from Alciphron to cool love's flame,
“And prove Greek whores and English just the same;
“The Hymns, that Taylor, England's gentile priest,
“Sung spousal at fair Psychè's marriage feast;
“The alphabet in Greek by R P. Knight;
“Some rules for men to think and study right;
“An Eton Foolscap, with the game of goose
“Printed by Pote, types large and cover loose;
“An Education Sermon, rather long,
“By Doctor Parr, all in the vulgar tongue;
“Last, Horsley's master-piece, and merry plans,
“To accent right the goods of courtezans.
“Horsley's chaste sermon, and his copper head;
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“And prove Greek whores and English just the same;
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“Sung spousal at fair Psychè's marriage feast;
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“Some rules for men to think and study right;
“An Eton Foolscap, with the game of goose
“Printed by Pote, types large and cover loose;
“An Education Sermon, rather long,
“By Doctor Parr, all in the vulgar tongue;
“Last, Horsley's master-piece, and merry plans,
“To accent right the goods of courtezans.
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“Nor books alone attend the Conqueror
Bard,
“Him shall await a more sublime reward:
“Not the coarse joy a Grecian once could feel,
“Apples for sauce, or parsley for his veal,
“Or beverage drawn from spruce or mountain pines,
“With oil from Pisa's olive, when he dines;
“No ode to praise the binding of his books:
“No print from Sheffield of historick cooks,
“Of beauteous Gibbon's fair proportion'd shape,
“An old baboon, or fœtus of an ape;
“No robe, that waves in many a Tuscan fold;
“No lawn, that wraps a bishop from the cold;
“But fine broad cloth, in choicest fashion wrought,
“By modern hands to full perfection brought;
“'Tis His,—“to wear four sundays in the Park
“The best black suit of Doctor Courtney's Clerk!!!”
“Him shall await a more sublime reward:
“Not the coarse joy a Grecian once could feel,
“Apples for sauce, or parsley for his veal,
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“With oil from Pisa's olive, when he dines;
“No ode to praise the binding of his books:
“No print from Sheffield of historick cooks,
“Of beauteous Gibbon's fair proportion'd shape,
“An old baboon, or fœtus of an ape;
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“No lawn, that wraps a bishop from the cold;
“But fine broad cloth, in choicest fashion wrought,
“By modern hands to full perfection brought;
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“The best black suit of Doctor Courtney's Clerk!!!”
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Nares rising paus'd; then gave (the contest done,)
To Weston, Taylor's Hymns and Alciphron;
To Tew, Par's sermon, and the game of goose,
And Rochester's address to lemans loose;
To Coote, the foolscap, as the best relief
A Dean could hope; last to the hoary Chief
He fill'd a cup; then plac'd on Norb'ry's back
The Sunday suit of customary black.
To Weston, Taylor's Hymns and Alciphron;
To Tew, Par's sermon, and the game of goose,
And Rochester's address to lemans loose;
To Coote, the foolscap, as the best relief
A Dean could hope; last to the hoary Chief
He fill'd a cup; then plac'd on Norb'ry's back
The Sunday suit of customary black.
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The gabbling ceas'd: with fix'd and serious look
Gray glanc'd from high, and own'd his rival, Cook.
Gray glanc'd from high, and own'd his rival, Cook.
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Contract your smile, and quit this playful search;
These are the lay amusements of the church,
Mere cobweb labours of their learned thought;
Though sometimes teachers must themselves be taught
To weigh their office, raise their pow'rful breath,
Nor leave the world to darkness and to death.
Short be their folly: let example tell
Their life, their morals pure, and all is well.
These are the lay amusements of the church,
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Though sometimes teachers must themselves be taught
To weigh their office, raise their pow'rful breath,
Nor leave the world to darkness and to death.
Short be their folly: let example tell
Their life, their morals pure, and all is well.
But should proud churchmen vie in sumptuous halls,
In wines and soups, Carthusian Bacchanals,
Nor think th'unwieldly superflux to shake,
Where curates starve, and helpless orphans quake,
Wav'ring I ask, in this dark scene beneath,
Why lightnings scathe yon desolated heath?
In wines and soups, Carthusian Bacchanals,
Nor think th'unwieldly superflux to shake,
Where curates starve, and helpless orphans quake,
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Why lightnings scathe yon desolated heath?
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And hark the voice has thunder'd: and the word,
Borne on the blast, a trembling world has heard
In consummation dread! the bonds of Rome
Are burst, and Babylon's prophetick doom,
With more than mortal ruin headlong cast,
Proclaims the measure full: she groans her last.
From climes where Piety no more was found,
Where Superstition wither'd all around,
The rights of nature barr'd, by heav'n resign'd
To vile affections, in corruption blind,
While, in the terrors of the world beneath,
Permitted fiends of darkness round them breathe;
Britain securely fix'd, invites from high
With charity's sedate, unalter'd eye.
The sacred, exil'd, melancholy band,
Passing from death and France, revere the land,
Where streams of inexhausted bounty pour,
And Christ still reigns, and bigots are no more.
Borne on the blast, a trembling world has heard
In consummation dread! the bonds of Rome
Are burst, and Babylon's prophetick doom,
With more than mortal ruin headlong cast,
Proclaims the measure full: she groans her last.
From climes where Piety no more was found,
Where Superstition wither'd all around,
193
To vile affections, in corruption blind,
While, in the terrors of the world beneath,
Permitted fiends of darkness round them breathe;
Britain securely fix'd, invites from high
With charity's sedate, unalter'd eye.
The sacred, exil'd, melancholy band,
Passing from death and France, revere the land,
Where streams of inexhausted bounty pour,
And Christ still reigns, and bigots are no more.
AUTHOR.
Blest be the voice of mercy, and the hand
Stretch'd o'er affliction's wounds with healing bland,
In holiest sympathy! our best of man
Gave us to tears, ere misery began.
Stretch'd o'er affliction's wounds with healing bland,
In holiest sympathy! our best of man
Gave us to tears, ere misery began.
Yet pause: “for mere Good-nature is a fool,”
Now slave to party, and now faction's tool:
Attend, nor heedless slight a poet's name:
Poet and prophet once were deem'd the same.
Say, are these fertile streams thus largely spread
A filial tribute o'er a mother bed?
Say, are these streams (think, while avails the thought)
To Rome through Gallick channels subtly brought?
Rome touches, tastes, and takes; and nothing loth:
But have we virtues? yes, of pagan growth.
Ask where Rome's church is founded? on a steep,
Which heresy's wild winds in vain may sweep,
Alone where sinners may have rest secure,
One only undefil'd, one only pure.
Blame you her cumbrous pomp, her iron rod,
Or trumpery relicks of her saints half-shod?
Lo Cònfessors, in every hamlet found,
With sacred sisters walk their cloister'd round:
There read the list: and calm the fate expect,
When crafty, meddling, thankless priests direct.
Think you, their hate unquench'd can ere expire?
The torch not tipt with sleeping sulphurous fire?
Their doctrines round a careless land are blown;
They blast the cottage, and would sap the throne.
What? are my words too warm?—I love my King,
My Country, and my God! the sounds shall ring
Ceaseless, till Pitt (with all his host awake)
In our great cause a nation's inquest take.
Look from that vale what tribes the fortress fill!
Then frown indignant o'er the opprobrious Hill.
Now slave to party, and now faction's tool:
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Poet and prophet once were deem'd the same.
Say, are these fertile streams thus largely spread
A filial tribute o'er a mother bed?
Say, are these streams (think, while avails the thought)
To Rome through Gallick channels subtly brought?
195
But have we virtues? yes, of pagan growth.
Ask where Rome's church is founded? on a steep,
Which heresy's wild winds in vain may sweep,
196
One only undefil'd, one only pure.
Blame you her cumbrous pomp, her iron rod,
Or trumpery relicks of her saints half-shod?
Lo Cònfessors, in every hamlet found,
With sacred sisters walk their cloister'd round:
There read the list: and calm the fate expect,
When crafty, meddling, thankless priests direct.
197
The torch not tipt with sleeping sulphurous fire?
Their doctrines round a careless land are blown;
They blast the cottage, and would sap the throne.
What? are my words too warm?—I love my King,
My Country, and my God! the sounds shall ring
198
In our great cause a nation's inquest take.
199
Then frown indignant o'er the opprobrious Hill.
OCTAVIUS.
These thoughts are for the state: enough of Rome,
Her Gallick altars, and approaching doom.
But if from themes so grave you never roam,
200
201
202
You'd rise at last.
203
How strangely you mistake;
The dream deceives not, when the man's awake.
204
“He ne'er shall rise by benefice, or trade;
205
“A local something, and a shadowy name;
“Shall brave neglect; in England's cause contend;
“Hopeless himself of virtue, but her friend;
“Through crowds shall mark his solitary way,
“Ardent, though secret, and though serious, gay;
206
“Unknown, unheard, unhonour'd, shall descend;
“Bow to no minister for golden views,
“His portion, Memory, and best gift, the Muse.”
OCTAVIUS.
This of yourself?
AUTHOR.
'Tis so.
OCTAVIUS.
You're turn'd plain fool:
A vain pert prater, bred in Erskine's school;
Talk of yourself?
207
Why yes; I would be heard:
Mere talkers now, not writers, are preferr'd.
Look at that paper: if you print the speeches,
Pitt seems George Rose, or like Sir Richard, preaches,
Nor tone, nor majesty, nor patriot fires;
Methinks the wit of Sheridan expires;
Lost in Dundas the Caledonian twang,
Though Pitt, and port, and property he sang;
Print negro speeches, and in reason's spite,
Lo, Wilberforce is black, and Francis white;
Who wonders at buffoons, or Courtney's joke?
And we scarce slumber, though Sir William spoke;
'Tis Grey and grumbling; Curwen all and clatter;
And Dent and Dogs; and Pewter pot and platter.
208
Though Lauderdale should sketch his Scottish creed;
209
With names uncouth, but not unpolish'd speech.
Few mark the Journals of the dubious Moore,
We scent the tainted gale from Gallia's shore;
Through England as his Various Views advance,
We smile, but trace the Mannerist of France.
210
Though fiction aids, what sophistry conceiv'd;
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212
213
214
215
216
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Buzz through his wig, and give the bush more grace.
But on the mitred oath that Tucker swore
Parr-wisely ponder'd, and his oath forbore.
He prints a Sermon: Hurd with judging eye
Reads, and rejects with critick dignity:
Words upon words! and most against their will,
And honied globules dribble through his quill,
218
Heav'n lends her moon and crouded galaxies;
219
And dotard impotence, deform the page.
220
Not insignificance itself can 'scape:
Horace and Coombe go forth a gentle pair,
Splendid and silly, to unequal war;
221
The Gorgon glares, and blasts the critick's bays.
Parr prints a Paper: well; in all things equal,
Sense, taste, wit, judgment; but pray read The Sequel:
222
Morsels of politicks, most chosen prose,
Of Nobles, Priestley, Plato, Democrats,
Pitt, Plutarch, Curtis, Burke, and Rous, and Rats;
The scene? 'tis Birmingham, renown'd afar
At once for half-pence, and for Doctor Parr.
OCTAVIUS.
Well if none read such works, yet all admire—
AUTHOR.
The paper?
OCTAVIUS.
Yes; ten shillings every quire:
The type is Bulmer's, just like Boydell's plays:
So Mister Hayley shines in Milton's rays.
223
And hot-press'd nonsense claims a dignity.
AUTHOR.
Nonsense or sense, I'll bear in any shape,
In gown, in lawn, in ermine, or in crape:
What's a fine type, where truth exerts her rule?
Science is science, and a fool's a fool.
In gown, in lawn, in ermine, or in crape:
What's a fine type, where truth exerts her rule?
Science is science, and a fool's a fool.
Yet all shall read, and all that page approve,
When publick spirit meets with publick love.
Thus late, where Poverty with rapine dwelt,
Rumford's kind genius the Bavarian felt,
Not by romantick charities beguil'd
But calm in project, and in mercy mild,
Where'er his wisdom guided, none withstood,
Content with peace and practicable good;
Round him the labourers throng, the nobles wait,
Friend of the poor, and guardian of the state.
When publick spirit meets with publick love.
Thus late, where Poverty with rapine dwelt,
Rumford's kind genius the Bavarian felt,
224
But calm in project, and in mercy mild,
Where'er his wisdom guided, none withstood,
Content with peace and practicable good;
Round him the labourers throng, the nobles wait,
Friend of the poor, and guardian of the state.
Yet all shall read, when bold in strength divine,
Prelatick virtue guards the Christian shrine,
Pleas'd from the pomp of science to descend,
And teach the people, as their hallow'd friend;
In gentle warnings to the unsettled breast,
In all it's wand'rings from the realms of rest,
From impious scoffs and ribaldry to turn,
And Reason's Age by reason's light discern;
Refix insulted truth with temper'd zeal
And feel that joy which Watson best can feel.
Prelatick virtue guards the Christian shrine,
225
And teach the people, as their hallow'd friend;
In gentle warnings to the unsettled breast,
In all it's wand'rings from the realms of rest,
From impious scoffs and ribaldry to turn,
And Reason's Age by reason's light discern;
Refix insulted truth with temper'd zeal
And feel that joy which Watson best can feel.
True Genius marks alone the path to life,
And Fame invites, and prompts the noble strife,
Her temple's everlasting doors unbarr'd;
Desert is various, various the reward:
No little jealousy, no ill-tim'd sneer,
No envy there is found, or rival fear.
And Fame invites, and prompts the noble strife,
Her temple's everlasting doors unbarr'd;
Desert is various, various the reward:
No little jealousy, no ill-tim'd sneer,
No envy there is found, or rival fear.
226
Methinks on Babylon fond fancy dreams,
Her vale of villows by the mournful streams,
Where Hebrews lyres hung mute! O'er Sion's hill
Blows the chill blast, and baneful dews distill.
Where is the charm, that sense to virtue binds,
The social sympathy of learned minds,
The common int'rest, universal cause,
And all that piety to genius draws?
How sweet to hear, on that Parnassian mount,
Mild waters welling from the favour'd fount:
Oh, never may Castalia's streams divide
From Siloa's brook, and Jordan's hallow'd tide.
Her vale of villows by the mournful streams,
Where Hebrews lyres hung mute! O'er Sion's hill
Blows the chill blast, and baneful dews distill.
227
The social sympathy of learned minds,
The common int'rest, universal cause,
And all that piety to genius draws?
How sweet to hear, on that Parnassian mount,
Mild waters welling from the favour'd fount:
Oh, never may Castalia's streams divide
From Siloa's brook, and Jordan's hallow'd tide.
But hark what solemn strains from Arno's vales
Breathe raptures wafted on the Tuscan gales!
Lorenzo rears again his awful head,
And feels his ancient glories round him spread;
The Muses starting from their trance revive,
And at their Roscoe's bidding, wake and live.
The Latian genius vindicates his state,
And proudly hails the great Triumvirate,
Lords of the lyre, and fathers of the song,
In Fancy's order as they pass along.
There musing deep in philosophick groves,
His Tuscan Academe, Lorenzo roves;
While prophets of his great reviving name,
From isles of fragance and Athenian fame,
Sages and Bards in classick pomp appear:
Bessarion and Philelpho's form severe;
Marsilius rob'd in olive, Plato's priest;
Janus with treasures from the learned East;
And He, who from Eleusis flaming bore
The torch of science to his native shore,
Fam'd Chrysolòras; and Landino bold,
In studious shades high converse form'd to hold;
Politian, chief of all th'enlighten'd race
In Lydian softness, and Horatian grace;
And Michael, whose bold hand the gods direct,
The sculptor, painter, poet, architect,
Michael to Britain dear, so Genius spoke,
When his last praise from parting Reynolds broke:
And all whose brows, with ivy grac'd or bays,
Brighten'd their Leo's visionary days.
Names which I long have blest, nor blest in vain!
Oh, were I number'd in their sacred train,
To realms of purest light, where heroes dwell,
Her bolder notes the willing Muse should swell
In lyrick intonation grave and deep,
Nor dream with folly, nor with dullness sleep;
To Cowper and to Gifford leave the rod,
For songs celestial, and the Delian God:
Then calmly to the secret mount retire,
Bid Satire glance on folly, and expire.
Breathe raptures wafted on the Tuscan gales!
228
And feels his ancient glories round him spread;
The Muses starting from their trance revive,
And at their Roscoe's bidding, wake and live.
229
And proudly hails the great Triumvirate,
Lords of the lyre, and fathers of the song,
In Fancy's order as they pass along.
There musing deep in philosophick groves,
His Tuscan Academe, Lorenzo roves;
While prophets of his great reviving name,
From isles of fragance and Athenian fame,
230
Bessarion and Philelpho's form severe;
Marsilius rob'd in olive, Plato's priest;
Janus with treasures from the learned East;
And He, who from Eleusis flaming bore
The torch of science to his native shore,
231
In studious shades high converse form'd to hold;
Politian, chief of all th'enlighten'd race
In Lydian softness, and Horatian grace;
And Michael, whose bold hand the gods direct,
The sculptor, painter, poet, architect,
232
When his last praise from parting Reynolds broke:
And all whose brows, with ivy grac'd or bays,
Brighten'd their Leo's visionary days.
Names which I long have blest, nor blest in vain!
Oh, were I number'd in their sacred train,
To realms of purest light, where heroes dwell,
Her bolder notes the willing Muse should swell
233
Nor dream with folly, nor with dullness sleep;
To Cowper and to Gifford leave the rod,
For songs celestial, and the Delian God:
Then calmly to the secret mount retire,
Bid Satire glance on folly, and expire.
OCTAVIUS.
Give me my Sabine grove, tir'd Horace cried;
For Cumæ thus the great Aquinian sigh'd:
But when wild waves, and wars, and tempests rage,
Ah, who can find the soft Saturnian age?
'Tis your's awhile to frown on classick toys,
Black letter Dogs, or hoary seventh-form Boys;
Awhile to war with dunces, fools, and knaves,
Hirelings of state, or opposition slaves,
And all who dare profane the Muse's dome;
With idle random fierceness they may foam,
234
The snake winds harmless round the marble base.
END OF THE THIRD DIALOGUE.
| The pursuits of literature | |