 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
187
THE TIMES;
OR, THE PROPHECY.
------ “Nunquam libertas gratior exstat
Quam sub Rege pio.”------
Quam sub Rege pio.”------
189
THE TIMES.
Bold is the man who, with satiric rage,
Aims to reform a weak and vicious age;
Who, flush'd with honest anger, dare complain,
And shew he holds its vices in disdain:
For when corruption bears unbridled sway,
When tyrants rule, and willing slaves obey,
Some hireling, black apostate, lost to shame,
Will swear reproof and libel are the same;
And gravely preach, with other wondrous things,
That sin is no disgrace in Lords and Kings.
Aims to reform a weak and vicious age;
Who, flush'd with honest anger, dare complain,
And shew he holds its vices in disdain:
For when corruption bears unbridled sway,
When tyrants rule, and willing slaves obey,
Some hireling, black apostate, lost to shame,
Will swear reproof and libel are the same;
And gravely preach, with other wondrous things,
That sin is no disgrace in Lords and Kings.
Hail useful Satire! whose inspiring strain
Shall lash the world, when parsons preach in vain!
When justice sleeps, and sets the villain free,
Expiring Virtue calls for aid to thee!
Yet say what crimes, in this regen'rate age,
Demand thy censure and provoke thy rage,
What need of Satire to reform the times,
So great our virtues, and so small our crimes?
Shall lash the world, when parsons preach in vain!
When justice sleeps, and sets the villain free,
Expiring Virtue calls for aid to thee!
Yet say what crimes, in this regen'rate age,
Demand thy censure and provoke thy rage,
What need of Satire to reform the times,
So great our virtues, and so small our crimes?
What contemplative mind but now deplores
Once favor'd Israel's desolated shores?
Sees Rome's proud empire to destruction hurl'd,
The seat of arts, the mistress of the world,
Where god-like wisdom flow'd from Cato's tongue,
Where Cæsar triumph'd, and where Virgil sung?
What mind so uninform'd that need be told
How great, how blest was Babylon of old?
What now remains to meet the curious eye?
Her massy domes in scatter'd fragments lie;
In vain the traveller would seek to trace
The artist's breathing form, the sculptor's grace,
The spoiler's hand hath marr'd the beauties there,
Which only faintly tell what once they were.
Did guilt bring wrath on Israel's chosen race,
What claim have we on Heav'n's redeeming grace?
Did Jewish priests blaspheme the Saviour's name?
Hear our blasphemers too! and blush for shame.
Did justice cry aloud, unknown, unheard—
See worth untimely crush'd, and vice preferr'd—
Did sin bring Israel's glory to the tomb—
Hear Britain, hear, and tremble for thy doom!
Long hath th' Eternal blest thy favor'd land,
And pour'd down mercies with a lib'ral hand;
Still art thou spar'd, so fallen and deprav'd,
To seek his grace, and if thou wilt, be sav'd!
Once favor'd Israel's desolated shores?
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The seat of arts, the mistress of the world,
Where god-like wisdom flow'd from Cato's tongue,
Where Cæsar triumph'd, and where Virgil sung?
What mind so uninform'd that need be told
How great, how blest was Babylon of old?
What now remains to meet the curious eye?
Her massy domes in scatter'd fragments lie;
In vain the traveller would seek to trace
The artist's breathing form, the sculptor's grace,
The spoiler's hand hath marr'd the beauties there,
Which only faintly tell what once they were.
Did guilt bring wrath on Israel's chosen race,
What claim have we on Heav'n's redeeming grace?
Did Jewish priests blaspheme the Saviour's name?
Hear our blasphemers too! and blush for shame.
Did justice cry aloud, unknown, unheard—
See worth untimely crush'd, and vice preferr'd—
Did sin bring Israel's glory to the tomb—
Hear Britain, hear, and tremble for thy doom!
Long hath th' Eternal blest thy favor'd land,
And pour'd down mercies with a lib'ral hand;
Still art thou spar'd, so fallen and deprav'd,
To seek his grace, and if thou wilt, be sav'd!
Grac'd as thou art with Learning's ample store,
And justly proud of Greek and Roman lore,
Tho' crown'd with science bright, that lifts her eye
To view the various wonders of the sky,
Thy glories are eclips'd, or vainly shine,
If truth forsake thee with her light divine.
Reflect, if still in wilful error blind,
And let the thought sink deep within thy mind,
Thy stubborn pride contemn the warning voice,
And bid thee vaunt and glory in thy choice;
How doubly lost thy nation shall remain,
Blest with the gospel's sound, but blest in vain—
Perhaps e'en now, to consummate thy woe,
Heav'n meditates the long-suspended blow,
To bury all thy triumphs in the dust,
For God, tho' merciful, will still be just.
And justly proud of Greek and Roman lore,
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To view the various wonders of the sky,
Thy glories are eclips'd, or vainly shine,
If truth forsake thee with her light divine.
Reflect, if still in wilful error blind,
And let the thought sink deep within thy mind,
Thy stubborn pride contemn the warning voice,
And bid thee vaunt and glory in thy choice;
How doubly lost thy nation shall remain,
Blest with the gospel's sound, but blest in vain—
Perhaps e'en now, to consummate thy woe,
Heav'n meditates the long-suspended blow,
To bury all thy triumphs in the dust,
For God, tho' merciful, will still be just.
Spain! thou hast felt the truth of this decree—
Now hath the sword of terror wasted thee;
That desolating sword thy sons of yore,
To Indian plains in savage triumph bore!
Long hath th' eternal arm withheld the blow,
Yet Heav'n, tho' late, hath lain thine honours low;
While Vengeance, prompt at retribution's call,
Laughs at thy shame, and glories in thy fall.
Now hath the sword of terror wasted thee;
That desolating sword thy sons of yore,
To Indian plains in savage triumph bore!
Long hath th' eternal arm withheld the blow,
Yet Heav'n, tho' late, hath lain thine honours low;
While Vengeance, prompt at retribution's call,
Laughs at thy shame, and glories in thy fall.
Well pleas'd we view what providence ordains,
And grateful own the God of justice reigns!
He saw thee act the robber's, murd'rer's part,
He mark'd the bitter tear, the broken heart,
And but delay'd the terrors of his pow'r,
To crush thee in his own appointed hour.
See, from thy plains what mingled horrors rise!
Hark! 'twas a dying groan that pierc'd the skies!
In towns laid waste, in villages that burn,
We see thee ravag'd and destroy'd in turn!
And grateful own the God of justice reigns!
He saw thee act the robber's, murd'rer's part,
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And but delay'd the terrors of his pow'r,
To crush thee in his own appointed hour.
See, from thy plains what mingled horrors rise!
Hark! 'twas a dying groan that pierc'd the skies!
In towns laid waste, in villages that burn,
We see thee ravag'd and destroy'd in turn!
How shall we stand acquitted? Bow thy knee,
Imperial Britain, bow, and urge thy plea—
Plead for thy favor'd Isle; where full-blown pride
Thrusts unpretending honesty aside;
Where venal poets prostitute the muse,
And slumb'ring prelates preach to empty pews;
Where Truth shall dread if once she ope her lips,
Fines, law-suits, jeers, imprisonment, and whips;
Where Justice tries to lift her voice on high,
While Law, alarm'd, preserves a jealous eye;
Where ribald sceptics, fav'rites of the town,
Who boast their philosophical renown,
Make that blest name which dying martyrs sung,
The scoff of ev'ry idle babbler's tongue—
If thou wouldst stand acquitted, this thy plea—
Bid Justice quit her throne, and bow to thee!
Imperial Britain, bow, and urge thy plea—
Plead for thy favor'd Isle; where full-blown pride
Thrusts unpretending honesty aside;
Where venal poets prostitute the muse,
And slumb'ring prelates preach to empty pews;
Where Truth shall dread if once she ope her lips,
Fines, law-suits, jeers, imprisonment, and whips;
Where Justice tries to lift her voice on high,
While Law, alarm'd, preserves a jealous eye;
Where ribald sceptics, fav'rites of the town,
Who boast their philosophical renown,
Make that blest name which dying martyrs sung,
The scoff of ev'ry idle babbler's tongue—
If thou wouldst stand acquitted, this thy plea—
Bid Justice quit her throne, and bow to thee!
Is there a villain that pollutes thy shore,
And turns a parson to blaspheme the more;
In folly, guilt, and ignorance supine,
Defying laws both human and divine,
Who boldly stands th' expositor of truth,
The downright juggler of a Smithfield booth,
And preaches temp'rance, while his greedy soul
Dwells on the social pleasures of the bowl—
Him (tho' the law no punishment ordain
For those who take their Maker's name in vain,
Assume the prophet's mission, hold the rod,
And call their blasphemy, the word of God,)
Shall useful Satire reach, and strike with awe,
And those shall feel its force, who laugh at law.
And turns a parson to blaspheme the more;
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Defying laws both human and divine,
Who boldly stands th' expositor of truth,
The downright juggler of a Smithfield booth,
And preaches temp'rance, while his greedy soul
Dwells on the social pleasures of the bowl—
Him (tho' the law no punishment ordain
For those who take their Maker's name in vain,
Assume the prophet's mission, hold the rod,
And call their blasphemy, the word of God,)
Shall useful Satire reach, and strike with awe,
And those shall feel its force, who laugh at law.
What's Virtue?—but a mask to cheat the blind!
An empty name, a phantom of the mind,
A tale the sophist tells, the fool believes,
An artful plea that damns, while it deceives—
But faith, that precious opiate of the soul!
Lulls all our fears to rest, and makes us whole,
Gives colour to the vices of the times,
Sets conscience free, and sanctifies our crimes!
An empty name, a phantom of the mind,
A tale the sophist tells, the fool believes,
An artful plea that damns, while it deceives—
But faith, that precious opiate of the soul!
Lulls all our fears to rest, and makes us whole,
Gives colour to the vices of the times,
Sets conscience free, and sanctifies our crimes!
Blest argument that proves, Avarò cries,
My undisputed title to the skies!
I, who have set my heart against despair,
Whose care of self, drowns ev'ry other care;
Who ne'er till earth shall take these old remains,
Will give the world one farthing of my gains;
I, who would triumph in my country's fall,
Did not her sinking funds possess my all;
I, who remain in these degen'rate days,
A bitter foe to poetry and plays,
Kneel at God's sacred altar, with my crone;
And hate all sects and customs but our own,
Shall, when this sinful world is wrapp'd in flame,
Exult in faith's reward, and virtue's shame!
My undisputed title to the skies!
I, who have set my heart against despair,
Whose care of self, drowns ev'ry other care;
Who ne'er till earth shall take these old remains,
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I, who would triumph in my country's fall,
Did not her sinking funds possess my all;
I, who remain in these degen'rate days,
A bitter foe to poetry and plays,
Kneel at God's sacred altar, with my crone;
And hate all sects and customs but our own,
Shall, when this sinful world is wrapp'd in flame,
Exult in faith's reward, and virtue's shame!
Strange doctrine! let the promis'd bliss be thine—
May virtue's hopes, and virtue's fate be mine!
When the last day exulting seraphs hail,
And Heav'n's bright throne appears without a veil,
Then shall our sev'ral claims be justly try'd
By Him, who, to confirm them, groan'd, and died.
For virtue who shall plead? What Heav'n holds dear,
Names of high worth, tho' little valued here.
Patience, on whom life's ills innocuous fall,
And gentle charity that feels for all;
Nor least, the widow's and the orphan's pray'r,
Shall reach the throne, and find acceptance there.
May virtue's hopes, and virtue's fate be mine!
When the last day exulting seraphs hail,
And Heav'n's bright throne appears without a veil,
Then shall our sev'ral claims be justly try'd
By Him, who, to confirm them, groan'd, and died.
For virtue who shall plead? What Heav'n holds dear,
Names of high worth, tho' little valued here.
Patience, on whom life's ills innocuous fall,
And gentle charity that feels for all;
Nor least, the widow's and the orphan's pray'r,
Shall reach the throne, and find acceptance there.
These are thy bright rewards, O truth divine!
These shall, ere long, O Wilberforce, be thine!
Such bliss awaits the man who pitying gave
Light to the blind, and freedom to the slave!
And taught his ruthless ministers of woe,
Mercy's blest name, and friendship's sacred glow!
These shall, ere long, O Wilberforce, be thine!
Such bliss awaits the man who pitying gave
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And taught his ruthless ministers of woe,
Mercy's blest name, and friendship's sacred glow!
Afric, rejoice! from Britain's distant shore,
Your grateful sons the welcome tidings bore;
Britain, who scorns, in amity sincere,
To rob you of the gem she holds so dear,
Hath sent fair Liberty beyond the main,
To consecrate your land, and burst your chain!
O could she her immortal truths disclose,
And plant in desarts wild, sweet Sharon's rose;
Then should her labours prosper in their aim,
And blend with Freedom's, Faith's serener flame,
Teach your believing sons on Him to call,
Who shed his precious blood to ransom all.
Your grateful sons the welcome tidings bore;
Britain, who scorns, in amity sincere,
To rob you of the gem she holds so dear,
Hath sent fair Liberty beyond the main,
To consecrate your land, and burst your chain!
O could she her immortal truths disclose,
And plant in desarts wild, sweet Sharon's rose;
Then should her labours prosper in their aim,
And blend with Freedom's, Faith's serener flame,
Teach your believing sons on Him to call,
Who shed his precious blood to ransom all.
Is there a deed that Heav'n itself approves,
That god-like virtue prompts, compassion moves,
That gives the human soul new light to shine,
And proves indeed its origin divine,
'Tis that, which sends to earth's remotest bound,
Salvation's work, the Gospel's cheering sound!
Go ye, who shall the proud distinction claim,
And teach the nations your Redeemer's name!
Go, plant his glorious cross in wilds unknown,
And bring new subjects to Jehovah's throne!
Say, when astonish'd nature saw him die,
Red light'ning flash'd, and thunder shook the sky,
And while the rocking earth beheld his pain,
The Temple's awful veil was rent in twain!
Go to the wretched couch where mis'ry lies,
Exalt the soul, and point her to the skies!
If doubt or fear invade the dying bed,
Tell how your Saviour suffer'd, how he bled,
Burst hell's strong fetters, triumph'd o'er the grave,
And lives to bless the saints he died to save.
That god-like virtue prompts, compassion moves,
That gives the human soul new light to shine,
And proves indeed its origin divine,
'Tis that, which sends to earth's remotest bound,
Salvation's work, the Gospel's cheering sound!
Go ye, who shall the proud distinction claim,
And teach the nations your Redeemer's name!
Go, plant his glorious cross in wilds unknown,
And bring new subjects to Jehovah's throne!
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Red light'ning flash'd, and thunder shook the sky,
And while the rocking earth beheld his pain,
The Temple's awful veil was rent in twain!
Go to the wretched couch where mis'ry lies,
Exalt the soul, and point her to the skies!
If doubt or fear invade the dying bed,
Tell how your Saviour suffer'd, how he bled,
Burst hell's strong fetters, triumph'd o'er the grave,
And lives to bless the saints he died to save.
Here pause the sorrowing Muse with sacred dread,
To pay her honours to th' illustrious dead,
Recall those names Britannia's sons adore,
And tell of worth and greatness now no more—
How Pitt, and O! that name for ever dear,
Lives in my heart, and vibrates in my ear,—
With gen'rous ardor rais'd his country's fame,
And gave new lustre to the patriot's name!
Who, when the civil storm began to low'r,
And factious knaves call'd loud for place and pow'r,
Stood forth fair Freedom's champion, nobly great,
To save from tyrant hands a sinking state!
Who died unpension'd, crown'd with just applause,
A faithful servant in the public cause!—
Be envy silent o'er his hallow'd dust,
And, if it dare not imitate, be just.
To pay her honours to th' illustrious dead,
Recall those names Britannia's sons adore,
And tell of worth and greatness now no more—
How Pitt, and O! that name for ever dear,
Lives in my heart, and vibrates in my ear,—
With gen'rous ardor rais'd his country's fame,
And gave new lustre to the patriot's name!
Who, when the civil storm began to low'r,
And factious knaves call'd loud for place and pow'r,
Stood forth fair Freedom's champion, nobly great,
To save from tyrant hands a sinking state!
Who died unpension'd, crown'd with just applause,
A faithful servant in the public cause!—
Be envy silent o'er his hallow'd dust,
And, if it dare not imitate, be just.
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Again, are Britain's hopes involv'd in gloom,
Again she mourns a Patriot's early tomb—
Firm in his country's cause the statesman rose,
In spite of foreign and domestic foes;
Admiring senates heard with awe profound,
Pale treason stood aghast, and faction frown'd!
While those to whom his mem'ry still is dear,
With whom the Muse shall drop the sacred tear,
Whom party ne'er could move, nor envy blind,
Rever'd the brighter beauties of his mind.
Did mis'ry e'er to Perceval complain,
Did mercy sue? they never sued in vain:
His ear was open to affliction's call,
His hand to virtuous want, his heart to all.
Again she mourns a Patriot's early tomb—
Firm in his country's cause the statesman rose,
In spite of foreign and domestic foes;
Admiring senates heard with awe profound,
Pale treason stood aghast, and faction frown'd!
While those to whom his mem'ry still is dear,
With whom the Muse shall drop the sacred tear,
Whom party ne'er could move, nor envy blind,
Rever'd the brighter beauties of his mind.
Did mis'ry e'er to Perceval complain,
Did mercy sue? they never sued in vain:
His ear was open to affliction's call,
His hand to virtuous want, his heart to all.
Stars, garters, ribands, all are glitt'ring toys!
And long-drawn titles make a mighty noise!
Titles, to low-born minds distinctions rare,
May make the flatt'rer cringe, the vulgar stare;
But to the man who strikes at honest fame,
They brand with new disgrace a worthless name.
And long-drawn titles make a mighty noise!
Titles, to low-born minds distinctions rare,
May make the flatt'rer cringe, the vulgar stare;
But to the man who strikes at honest fame,
They brand with new disgrace a worthless name.
Lothario is a proud Patrician—mark!
A Liberal, too! a traitor in the dark,
A vile, intriguing slave, whose treach'rous mind,
Nor honour's sense could move, nor friendship bind.
Peace to Lothario's breast! if peace can reign,
Where passion rules, and virtue pleads in vain:
Joy to Lothario's heart! if joy can e'er
From guilt repel the terrors of despair.
Yet hadst thou not aspir'd to pow'r and fame,
Thy worthless deeds had perish'd with thy name;
But when thou wouldst assume the patriot's part,
A mountebank in morals as thou art!
'Tis fit the muse, as dreading virtue's frown,
Should tell the world thy name, and pluck thee down.
A Liberal, too! a traitor in the dark,
A vile, intriguing slave, whose treach'rous mind,
Nor honour's sense could move, nor friendship bind.
Peace to Lothario's breast! if peace can reign,
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Joy to Lothario's heart! if joy can e'er
From guilt repel the terrors of despair.
Yet hadst thou not aspir'd to pow'r and fame,
Thy worthless deeds had perish'd with thy name;
But when thou wouldst assume the patriot's part,
A mountebank in morals as thou art!
'Tis fit the muse, as dreading virtue's frown,
Should tell the world thy name, and pluck thee down.
Sir Sycophant, for splendour and support,
Bows, cringes, scrapes, and flourishes at Court,
Flies to the levee of some titled knave,
Proud to become his lordship's humble slave.
Admitted once with courtly peers to sit,
He pimps, buffoons, drinks hard, and turns a wit,
Laughs at his patron's jests—a ready tool,
To draw a cork, say grace, and play the fool!
Vers'd in' the paltry art of low grimace,
In Britain's senate, see, he takes his place,
Applauds the minister in Stentor's note,
And sells at once his country and his vote.
The point obtain'd, the dirty bus'ness done,
Corruption hails him as her darling son;
Whispers his merit in his Sov'reign's ear,
And dubs him placeman, pensioner, and peer.
He robs the nation with rapacious hands—
His grandeur asks for equipage and lands!
Gold he must have, no matter from what source,
While mountebanks and fiddlers come of course!
And what this minion does, because he's great,
Would hang a hundred rogues of mean estate.
Bows, cringes, scrapes, and flourishes at Court,
Flies to the levee of some titled knave,
Proud to become his lordship's humble slave.
Admitted once with courtly peers to sit,
He pimps, buffoons, drinks hard, and turns a wit,
Laughs at his patron's jests—a ready tool,
To draw a cork, say grace, and play the fool!
Vers'd in' the paltry art of low grimace,
In Britain's senate, see, he takes his place,
Applauds the minister in Stentor's note,
And sells at once his country and his vote.
The point obtain'd, the dirty bus'ness done,
Corruption hails him as her darling son;
Whispers his merit in his Sov'reign's ear,
And dubs him placeman, pensioner, and peer.
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His grandeur asks for equipage and lands!
Gold he must have, no matter from what source,
While mountebanks and fiddlers come of course!
And what this minion does, because he's great,
Would hang a hundred rogues of mean estate.
You'll surely grant one statesman may be found
With truth and honesty, on English ground,
To whom fair fame her blooming chaplet gives—
I grant there may be one, while Eldon lives.—
Or Erskine—and I triumph in the name,
The first and fairest on the rolls of fame;
Whose mind embraces all the wise can teach,
And all that soft humanity can reach—
These are the men (not ev'ry booby lord
Who drives his prancing bloods, and smacks his cord!)
To guard the senate with a watchful eye,
Unmask her foes, and bid sedition die.
O! when I see how men of little fame,
Men who are only popular in shame,
Cajole a hungry faction—smirk and bow,
And pluck the honours from a nobler brow;
I snatch the lyre, and sweep the chords along,
Pour a rough strain, nor heed the grace of song!
With truth and honesty, on English ground,
To whom fair fame her blooming chaplet gives—
I grant there may be one, while Eldon lives.—
Or Erskine—and I triumph in the name,
The first and fairest on the rolls of fame;
Whose mind embraces all the wise can teach,
And all that soft humanity can reach—
These are the men (not ev'ry booby lord
Who drives his prancing bloods, and smacks his cord!)
To guard the senate with a watchful eye,
Unmask her foes, and bid sedition die.
O! when I see how men of little fame,
Men who are only popular in shame,
Cajole a hungry faction—smirk and bow,
And pluck the honours from a nobler brow;
I snatch the lyre, and sweep the chords along,
Pour a rough strain, nor heed the grace of song!
200
Who would not laugh, to see a solemn fool,
Like Midas, perch'd upon the judgment stool?
Behold this modern Jeff'ries of the bench,
Abuse a vagrant, chuckle with a wench;
Brow-beat a jury, urge the culprit's fate,
And rather hang too soon, than dine too late!
Mark him in private—unconcern'd and free—
No village clown a verier sot than he!
He smokes his pipe, tells tales, and stirs the fire,
Laughs with the priest, and tipples with the squire;
Bawls out an oath, or cracks a smutty jest,
Pays for the worst, but always drinks the best;
And reeling homeward, if occasion need,
Gravely expounds the law he cannot read.
Like Midas, perch'd upon the judgment stool?
Behold this modern Jeff'ries of the bench,
Abuse a vagrant, chuckle with a wench;
Brow-beat a jury, urge the culprit's fate,
And rather hang too soon, than dine too late!
Mark him in private—unconcern'd and free—
No village clown a verier sot than he!
He smokes his pipe, tells tales, and stirs the fire,
Laughs with the priest, and tipples with the squire;
Bawls out an oath, or cracks a smutty jest,
Pays for the worst, but always drinks the best;
And reeling homeward, if occasion need,
Gravely expounds the law he cannot read.
But hush—my Lord may frown, and take offence—
What is my crime?—Plain truth and common sense!
Is truth a crime?—you jest!—If you pursue
This strain of censure, you may find it true!
Produce an instance.—If my counsel fail,
Will you lay down five hundred for my bail?—
Keep within proper bounds, or be undone—
Vice hath no bounds, and satire should have none!
What is my crime?—Plain truth and common sense!
Is truth a crime?—you jest!—If you pursue
This strain of censure, you may find it true!
Produce an instance.—If my counsel fail,
Will you lay down five hundred for my bail?—
Keep within proper bounds, or be undone—
Vice hath no bounds, and satire should have none!
What are these men, these little limbs of law,
Who keep poor trembling vulgar souls in awe?
These quibbling parchment brokers! who of late
Have crept like worms to undermine the state?
These buzzing wasps who sting us if we touch,
Who do so little and who talk so much,
That free-born poets should be struck with awe,
And make the muses' court, a court of law?
No, while I live, I'll fear no haughty judge
Who hates the truth, and owes the muse a grudge,
Because the muse, in some unlucky hour,
Said upstart fools were often mad with pow'r—
If in the cause of justice, 'tis my fate
To wake the fears, or raise the villain's hate,
Truth shall approve and vindicate her lays,
And crown my labours with immortal praise.
Who keep poor trembling vulgar souls in awe?
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Have crept like worms to undermine the state?
These buzzing wasps who sting us if we touch,
Who do so little and who talk so much,
That free-born poets should be struck with awe,
And make the muses' court, a court of law?
No, while I live, I'll fear no haughty judge
Who hates the truth, and owes the muse a grudge,
Because the muse, in some unlucky hour,
Said upstart fools were often mad with pow'r—
If in the cause of justice, 'tis my fate
To wake the fears, or raise the villain's hate,
Truth shall approve and vindicate her lays,
And crown my labours with immortal praise.
The purse-proud fool, of aught beneath the skies
Is what I pity most, and most despise;—
Wealth is indeed a blessing, when applied
To nobler purposes, than thrift, or pride;
A blessing, tho' to thousands the reverse,
A precious gift which man has made a curse!
Go search the sacred scriptures, read with care
The deeds of charity recorded there,—
The widow's boon a bright example see,
And learn the use of good bestow'd on thee!
What, tho' with bleeding heart, with anguish wild,
The starving mother mourn'd her dying child,
Elijah of the scanty pittance fed,
And shar'd the last sad morsel of her bread.
Is what I pity most, and most despise;—
Wealth is indeed a blessing, when applied
To nobler purposes, than thrift, or pride;
A blessing, tho' to thousands the reverse,
A precious gift which man has made a curse!
Go search the sacred scriptures, read with care
The deeds of charity recorded there,—
The widow's boon a bright example see,
And learn the use of good bestow'd on thee!
What, tho' with bleeding heart, with anguish wild,
The starving mother mourn'd her dying child,
202
And shar'd the last sad morsel of her bread.
In joy's light moments, in affliction's hour,
We feel one mighty all-sustaining Pow'r—
Does conscious guilt distract the mind with grief?
'Tis God, that ruling Pow'r, who brings relief—
Does pleasure charm? to his unbounded love
Belong all peace below, all bliss above!
Does plenty ope, for us, her golden stores,
And freedom bless, and conquest crown our shores?
Alive, the song of gratitude to raise,
Be ours the blessing, and be his the praise!
We feel one mighty all-sustaining Pow'r—
Does conscious guilt distract the mind with grief?
'Tis God, that ruling Pow'r, who brings relief—
Does pleasure charm? to his unbounded love
Belong all peace below, all bliss above!
Does plenty ope, for us, her golden stores,
And freedom bless, and conquest crown our shores?
Alive, the song of gratitude to raise,
Be ours the blessing, and be his the praise!
See Grotius, blest beyond a common fate—
Born to a richer, not a happier state;
Enjoying all that fortune can impart,
He wants no more—except an easy heart.
In vain he reads what soundest casuists teach,
And thinks the object still within his reach;
Yet finds that wealth can ne'er our ills oppose—
Once turn the scale, or lighten human woes.
Born to a richer, not a happier state;
Enjoying all that fortune can impart,
He wants no more—except an easy heart.
In vain he reads what soundest casuists teach,
And thinks the object still within his reach;
Yet finds that wealth can ne'er our ills oppose—
Once turn the scale, or lighten human woes.
Old Gripus prays—and so does Gripus' wife—
They go to church, and lead a sober life;
Starch in their manners, zealous in their creed,
The world accounts them pious folks indeed!
Poor Gripus swears that riches are a curse;
Yet all his bliss lies centred in his purse!
His wife, good soul! too provident to spend,
Would sooner die than waste a candle's end!
If you would live his friend, and prove his heir,
Be slow at works, but diligent in pray'r;
Prove what the world esteems an honest man,
Pray when you please, but profit when you can!
They go to church, and lead a sober life;
Starch in their manners, zealous in their creed,
The world accounts them pious folks indeed!
203
Yet all his bliss lies centred in his purse!
His wife, good soul! too provident to spend,
Would sooner die than waste a candle's end!
If you would live his friend, and prove his heir,
Be slow at works, but diligent in pray'r;
Prove what the world esteems an honest man,
Pray when you please, but profit when you can!
Would you be blest?—the proper means pursue;
Make others happy, and be happy too.
How trivial are the wants that life requires;
The fault is less with fate, than our desires.
Yet do we oft complain, our blindness such,
That fortune gives too little, or too much;
Say, why too much, if worthily employ'd?
Too little, if that little be enjoy'd?
For mark what ills on cumbrous grandeur wait,—
What fearful visions haunt the bed of state!
The wretch, before whom pamper'd menials bend,
May fifty flatt'rers boast, but not one friend.
Unwieldy wealth, a source of endless strife,
Shuts up the soul, and binds it fast to life;
Gives ten-fold terrors to the tyrant death,
Haunts our last hour, and leaves but with our breath.
Be grateful for the good that Heav'n bestows,
By day employment, and by night repose;
Content that if enough your means are found,
To make the goblet with the year go round;
To share with suff'ring worth your friendly store,
And banish want, pale spectre, from the door.
Make others happy, and be happy too.
How trivial are the wants that life requires;
The fault is less with fate, than our desires.
Yet do we oft complain, our blindness such,
That fortune gives too little, or too much;
Say, why too much, if worthily employ'd?
Too little, if that little be enjoy'd?
For mark what ills on cumbrous grandeur wait,—
What fearful visions haunt the bed of state!
The wretch, before whom pamper'd menials bend,
May fifty flatt'rers boast, but not one friend.
Unwieldy wealth, a source of endless strife,
Shuts up the soul, and binds it fast to life;
Gives ten-fold terrors to the tyrant death,
Haunts our last hour, and leaves but with our breath.
Be grateful for the good that Heav'n bestows,
204
Content that if enough your means are found,
To make the goblet with the year go round;
To share with suff'ring worth your friendly store,
And banish want, pale spectre, from the door.
Wanders my muse from method's slavish rules.
And all the solemn pedantry of schools,
In sportive mood forsakes the beaten track?
Method, a pedant dull, shall bring her back:—
She, like the bird that airy sports engage,
Flies from her narrow bounds, and leaves the cage;
Fond of her freedom, prunes her ruffled wings,
And wild and artless are the lays she sings.
Soft is the linnet's song, the thrush's throat
Warbles so sweetly clear—the blackbird's note
May charm, and Philomela's mournful strain
Dissolve the pensive soul in pleasing pain—
But the gay tuneful lark, that soars, and sings,
Feels freedom urge her note and spread her wings;
She, first to welcome morning's genial ray,
Sings to the setting sun a parting lay!
And all the solemn pedantry of schools,
In sportive mood forsakes the beaten track?
Method, a pedant dull, shall bring her back:—
She, like the bird that airy sports engage,
Flies from her narrow bounds, and leaves the cage;
Fond of her freedom, prunes her ruffled wings,
And wild and artless are the lays she sings.
Soft is the linnet's song, the thrush's throat
Warbles so sweetly clear—the blackbird's note
May charm, and Philomela's mournful strain
Dissolve the pensive soul in pleasing pain—
But the gay tuneful lark, that soars, and sings,
Feels freedom urge her note and spread her wings;
She, first to welcome morning's genial ray,
Sings to the setting sun a parting lay!
Horace and Pope with free familiar grace,
Reprov'd our follies with a laughing face,
But, throwing off the censor's aspect stern,
We grew familiar too, and laugh'd in turn.
In harsher strain, with more indignant fire,
The stately Juvenal has swept the lyre:
Yet oft he marr'd the cause he aim'd to mend,
Obscene his language, tho' divine his end:
Young aim'd a dart at vice, but venal praise
And fulsome flatt'ry marr'd the poet's lays:
Johnson, whose mighty name the wise revere,
With rigid morals, amiably severe,
Stood forth the champion of an injur'd cause,
Gave language grace, dispens'd the critic's laws;
Deep silence reign'd—the idle, babbling crowd,
Impertinent and vain, submissive bow'd;
He prov'd to Vice alone, a stubborn foe,
And Virtue own'd him as her friend below.
Reprov'd our follies with a laughing face,
But, throwing off the censor's aspect stern,
We grew familiar too, and laugh'd in turn.
In harsher strain, with more indignant fire,
205
Yet oft he marr'd the cause he aim'd to mend,
Obscene his language, tho' divine his end:
Young aim'd a dart at vice, but venal praise
And fulsome flatt'ry marr'd the poet's lays:
Johnson, whose mighty name the wise revere,
With rigid morals, amiably severe,
Stood forth the champion of an injur'd cause,
Gave language grace, dispens'd the critic's laws;
Deep silence reign'd—the idle, babbling crowd,
Impertinent and vain, submissive bow'd;
He prov'd to Vice alone, a stubborn foe,
And Virtue own'd him as her friend below.
Churchill, the rudest of the tuneful choir,
Snatch'd from the willing Muse the ready Lyre,
And struck a chord so deep, that Vice amaz'd,
Recoil'd, and startled Guilt with wonder gaz'd!
Cowper with noble ardour touch'd the strings,
Approving Virtue listens while he sings;
That mild philanthropy, those thoughts refin'd
Which grac'd his deathless verse, adorn'd his mind.
Religion, source of ev'ry pure desire,
Glow'd in his heart, and Virtue's holy fire
There found its altar; Faith's immortal flame,
And gentle soothing Charity, whose name
Archangels in melodious concert sung—
And Hope, in native beauty ever young,
Inspir'd his Muse; and Nature's breathing sweets,
Her woodbine arbours, and her green retreats,
Were themes he lov'd: and Pity's gentle charm
He sweetly sung; a wanton act of harm
His soul abhorr'd; the wild and tim'rous hare
Fled to his roof, and found a refuge there!
Yet oft to harsher themes his Lyre he strung,
And deep Remonstrance dwelt upon his tongue;
O'er thoughtless Guilt he dropp'd the Prophet's tears,
And rous'd a slumb'ring nation into fears.
Snatch'd from the willing Muse the ready Lyre,
And struck a chord so deep, that Vice amaz'd,
Recoil'd, and startled Guilt with wonder gaz'd!
Cowper with noble ardour touch'd the strings,
Approving Virtue listens while he sings;
That mild philanthropy, those thoughts refin'd
Which grac'd his deathless verse, adorn'd his mind.
Religion, source of ev'ry pure desire,
Glow'd in his heart, and Virtue's holy fire
There found its altar; Faith's immortal flame,
And gentle soothing Charity, whose name
Archangels in melodious concert sung—
And Hope, in native beauty ever young,
206
Her woodbine arbours, and her green retreats,
Were themes he lov'd: and Pity's gentle charm
He sweetly sung; a wanton act of harm
His soul abhorr'd; the wild and tim'rous hare
Fled to his roof, and found a refuge there!
Yet oft to harsher themes his Lyre he strung,
And deep Remonstrance dwelt upon his tongue;
O'er thoughtless Guilt he dropp'd the Prophet's tears,
And rous'd a slumb'ring nation into fears.
Say, what inducement yet was ever found
For wits to venture on poetic ground?
Alas! 'tis poor encouragement they meet,
Their only choice—a garret, or the Fleet!
The mighty Homer was oblig'd to fast,
Though luckier Pope was amply paid at last—
The Chanc'ry thus, with true parental care,
Starves the right owner to enrich the heir!
Butler, with wit and humour on his side,
Wrote well, nor found a patron till he died.
Dryden, to whom the magic pow'r was given
With harmony to raise the soul to Heav'n,
Long time the servant of a worthless court,
Outliv'd at last its favour and support.
Steele was distress'd, while Laureat Cibber fed;
Lee roam'd, a wanderer, Otway begg'd his bread;
Savage, whose fame shall live to future times,
Died the sad victim of a parent's crimes.
For wits to venture on poetic ground?
Alas! 'tis poor encouragement they meet,
Their only choice—a garret, or the Fleet!
The mighty Homer was oblig'd to fast,
Though luckier Pope was amply paid at last—
The Chanc'ry thus, with true parental care,
Starves the right owner to enrich the heir!
Butler, with wit and humour on his side,
Wrote well, nor found a patron till he died.
Dryden, to whom the magic pow'r was given
With harmony to raise the soul to Heav'n,
Long time the servant of a worthless court,
Outliv'd at last its favour and support.
Steele was distress'd, while Laureat Cibber fed;
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Savage, whose fame shall live to future times,
Died the sad victim of a parent's crimes.
Ah, what avails if all the Nine inspire,
With Shakespeare's nature, and with Milton's fire,
If Poverty, with all her loathed train,
Usurp the spot where Taste and Genius reign?
What boots it, if the soul be taught to soar
From earth to heav'n—with eager eye t' explore
Things only visible where Wisdom's light
Hath shone sublime—else veil'd from human sight—
If doom'd to feel Affliction's galling weight,
The scorn of villains and the frowns of fate?
Has Providence so mark'd the Poet's name
With bitterness, obscurity, and shame;
Op'd to his ardent view a fairy scene,
To render want more irksome, grief more keen?
Has Heav'n ordain'd the mind supremely blest,
By godlike genius rais'd above the rest,
Should perish, ere its tenement of clay
Hath gone to dust—should blaze and pass away?
O 'tis a bitter truth, by none denied,
A truth that well may humble learned pride,
That reason, God's best gift, may feel a void,
Her sacred temple shook, though not destroy'd.
Such, Collins, was thy fate, nor thine alone—
Well may those walls that echo'd to thy groan
Bear witness to the tale! till taught to rise,
Thy soul expanding, sought her native skies,
Found in religion that assur'd relief,
Strength for her faith, and solace for her grief.
With Shakespeare's nature, and with Milton's fire,
If Poverty, with all her loathed train,
Usurp the spot where Taste and Genius reign?
What boots it, if the soul be taught to soar
From earth to heav'n—with eager eye t' explore
Things only visible where Wisdom's light
Hath shone sublime—else veil'd from human sight—
If doom'd to feel Affliction's galling weight,
The scorn of villains and the frowns of fate?
Has Providence so mark'd the Poet's name
With bitterness, obscurity, and shame;
Op'd to his ardent view a fairy scene,
To render want more irksome, grief more keen?
Has Heav'n ordain'd the mind supremely blest,
By godlike genius rais'd above the rest,
Should perish, ere its tenement of clay
Hath gone to dust—should blaze and pass away?
O 'tis a bitter truth, by none denied,
A truth that well may humble learned pride,
That reason, God's best gift, may feel a void,
Her sacred temple shook, though not destroy'd.
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Well may those walls that echo'd to thy groan
Bear witness to the tale! till taught to rise,
Thy soul expanding, sought her native skies,
Found in religion that assur'd relief,
Strength for her faith, and solace for her grief.
Thanks to the gen'rous Muse! to her I owe
Much of Life's consolation here below—
Mark'd by misfortune even from the womb,
Thrice snatch'd, an early sufferer, from the tomb,
Once more unwilling to the world allied,
For had my fate been happier, I had died;
Much have I suffer'd, much endur'd from those
Whom envy, fraud, and dulness made my foes.
O how can I address thee! shall I blend
In thee, the kind protector, father, friend,
The faithful guardian of my earliest youth,
Whose deeds were virtue, and whose precepts truth?
No—candour would blot out the treach'rous line,
Thou scourge, thou bitter scourge of me and mine!
Hast thou not read in God's most holy word,
And tremble at the sin thou hast incurr'd,
How lost is he, the basest, most accurs'd,
Of all the tribe of sinners stampt the worst,
Who robs the widow, or the widow's son,
And eats the orphan's bread—as thou hast done?
O could I burst the grave's oblivious gloom,
And call thy once lov'd Brother from the tomb,
If, rising from the earth, the dead should speak,
How would conviction blanch thy coward cheek,
Wring ev'ry nerve, and tell thy guilty heart,
How foully thou hast play'd a Brother's part!
For me, whate'er my fate, if good or ill,
May Heav'n decree a spotless conscience still,
Contentment and serenity of mind,
Though prone to sadness, still to all resign'd—
Resign'd—e'en now I wipe the filial tear,
For one long lost, yet still to mem'ry dear,
In the blest hope I hasten to that shore
Where we shall meet again, to part no more.
Much of Life's consolation here below—
Mark'd by misfortune even from the womb,
Thrice snatch'd, an early sufferer, from the tomb,
Once more unwilling to the world allied,
For had my fate been happier, I had died;
Much have I suffer'd, much endur'd from those
Whom envy, fraud, and dulness made my foes.
O how can I address thee! shall I blend
In thee, the kind protector, father, friend,
The faithful guardian of my earliest youth,
Whose deeds were virtue, and whose precepts truth?
209
Thou scourge, thou bitter scourge of me and mine!
Hast thou not read in God's most holy word,
And tremble at the sin thou hast incurr'd,
How lost is he, the basest, most accurs'd,
Of all the tribe of sinners stampt the worst,
Who robs the widow, or the widow's son,
And eats the orphan's bread—as thou hast done?
O could I burst the grave's oblivious gloom,
And call thy once lov'd Brother from the tomb,
If, rising from the earth, the dead should speak,
How would conviction blanch thy coward cheek,
Wring ev'ry nerve, and tell thy guilty heart,
How foully thou hast play'd a Brother's part!
For me, whate'er my fate, if good or ill,
May Heav'n decree a spotless conscience still,
Contentment and serenity of mind,
Though prone to sadness, still to all resign'd—
Resign'd—e'en now I wipe the filial tear,
For one long lost, yet still to mem'ry dear,
In the blest hope I hasten to that shore
Where we shall meet again, to part no more.
Yes, there's a charm amid severest woe,
A secret charm that only poets know,
That whispers to the Bard, his suff'rings pass'd,
A glorious immortality at last!
A secret charm that only poets know,
That whispers to the Bard, his suff'rings pass'd,
A glorious immortality at last!
210
Ah! who shall now resume the Censor's lyre,
With honest zeal, and well-attemper'd fire;
Pierce through dark error's gloom, bring Truth again,
And show mankind the beauties of her reign?
To curb the statesman's petulance and pride,
And send him truth and wisdom for his guide;
To tell some greedy pluralists, who teach,
'Twere well if priests would practise what they preach;
To stop the villain in his bold career,
And whisper Conscience, in the lawyer's ear;
To lead the wand'rer back, who went astray,
To show mankind the error of their way;
And work reform among this motley crew,
A modern Satirist has much to do.
With honest zeal, and well-attemper'd fire;
Pierce through dark error's gloom, bring Truth again,
And show mankind the beauties of her reign?
To curb the statesman's petulance and pride,
And send him truth and wisdom for his guide;
To tell some greedy pluralists, who teach,
'Twere well if priests would practise what they preach;
To stop the villain in his bold career,
And whisper Conscience, in the lawyer's ear;
To lead the wand'rer back, who went astray,
To show mankind the error of their way;
And work reform among this motley crew,
A modern Satirist has much to do.
'Tis well when Princes, who in earlier days
Were dupes of ev'ry mean dependant's praise,
And slaves to Folly, rais'd a nation's fears,
Grow grave and wiser in succeeding years,
And blushing for their sad misconduct past,
Resume their native dignity at last!
This England deeply felt in days of yore,
And Heav'n perchance those days may soon restore,
When the fifth Harry, peerless in renown,
Did ever Prince so well deserve a crown?
Gave to the world a lesson of his own,
Which prov'd his noblest title to the throne.
Were dupes of ev'ry mean dependant's praise,
And slaves to Folly, rais'd a nation's fears,
Grow grave and wiser in succeeding years,
And blushing for their sad misconduct past,
Resume their native dignity at last!
This England deeply felt in days of yore,
And Heav'n perchance those days may soon restore,
When the fifth Harry, peerless in renown,
Did ever Prince so well deserve a crown?
Gave to the world a lesson of his own,
Which prov'd his noblest title to the throne.
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His youth was vicious, libertine, and low,
His sports were vulgar, his companions so—
Revel and riot fill'd each noisy hour,
And Law retain'd its name, but lost its pow'r—
His sire (his tott'ring crown by murder won!)
Thought Heav'n had pour'd its vengeance in his son;
While Britain saw her future evils spring,
And trembled at the thought of such a King.
His sports were vulgar, his companions so—
Revel and riot fill'd each noisy hour,
And Law retain'd its name, but lost its pow'r—
His sire (his tott'ring crown by murder won!)
Thought Heav'n had pour'd its vengeance in his son;
While Britain saw her future evils spring,
And trembled at the thought of such a King.
Vain fears, though just—no sooner was the crown
Plac'd on his head, than, with an awful frown,
He call'd the vagrant crew, and wiser grown,
Reprov'd their follies much, but more his own;
He bade them ev'ry former vice give o'er,
Reform their lives, or see his face no more.
To the wise servants of his Father's train
He prov'd a friend, religion held her reign,
Law kept its pace with mercy, though severe;
And only coward guilt had cause for fear.
O'er foreign lands he spread his matchless fame,
And haughty Gallia trembled at his name;
Her captive King in English fetters bound,
Her pride destroy'd and humbled to the ground.
Plac'd on his head, than, with an awful frown,
He call'd the vagrant crew, and wiser grown,
Reprov'd their follies much, but more his own;
He bade them ev'ry former vice give o'er,
Reform their lives, or see his face no more.
To the wise servants of his Father's train
He prov'd a friend, religion held her reign,
Law kept its pace with mercy, though severe;
And only coward guilt had cause for fear.
O'er foreign lands he spread his matchless fame,
And haughty Gallia trembled at his name;
Her captive King in English fetters bound,
Her pride destroy'd and humbled to the ground.
Apply the tale—there yet may come a time,
(And now I only prophecy in rhyme,)
When such a prince, a prince of noble fire,
Shall bless our Isle, and bid the world admire:
When we shall see, and call the times our own,
A second Harry Monmouth mount the throne!
(And now I only prophecy in rhyme,)
When such a prince, a prince of noble fire,
Shall bless our Isle, and bid the world admire:
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A second Harry Monmouth mount the throne!
Is there a man in England's wide domain,
Whose heart would not exult at such a reign?
When Liberty, which our brave Fathers steel'd,
To shed their blood in many a well-fought field,
When tyrant Kings, may Britain ne'er again
Behold such rulers! forg'd the heavy chain
To bind her fast, and had not just alarms,
To Runnemede's bold barons cried, “to arms!”
Her glorious name, so much rever'd of yore,
Had sunk in endless night, to rise no more,
When Liberty shall reign throughout the Land,
And Justice re-assume her old command.
Whose heart would not exult at such a reign?
When Liberty, which our brave Fathers steel'd,
To shed their blood in many a well-fought field,
When tyrant Kings, may Britain ne'er again
Behold such rulers! forg'd the heavy chain
To bind her fast, and had not just alarms,
To Runnemede's bold barons cried, “to arms!”
Her glorious name, so much rever'd of yore,
Had sunk in endless night, to rise no more,
When Liberty shall reign throughout the Land,
And Justice re-assume her old command.
Yes, if a Prince aspire to Harry's fame,
(And where shall monarch find a nobler aim?)
Let interest, will, and passion be subdu'd,
And private friendship bow to public good.
Let no Dependants crowd around his gate,
Drones in the church, or Hirelings in the state;
No German Counts, who fiddlers were at home,
No fops from Paris, and no priests from Rome;
These must no more employ his precious hours,
But the lost mind, resuming all its pow'rs,
With new-born vigour into life shall spring,
And the gay Trifler perish in the King!
Let no mean Tyrant, such as I could find,
Whose features are an index to his mind,
Savagely pluck sweet mercy from her throne,
To gratify some vengeance of his own—
Let no false Patriot, frantic for reform,
And ripe for faction, raise the civil storm;
Bid Loyalty before its altar bleed,
And call it zeal, to sanctify the deed—
Let no gall'd Bishop rival Bonner's name,
In England's church light up the Popish flame,
And bring before her trembling sight again
Those bloody scenes which curs'd a Tudor's reign,
When Ridley, Latimer, immortal names!
Died for their faith, triumphant 'midst the flames!
Far from thy councils, Britain, may they roam,
And in some foreign country find a home,
Where Slaves, obedient to a Tyrant's reign,
Bow their submissive necks and hug their chain.
(And where shall monarch find a nobler aim?)
Let interest, will, and passion be subdu'd,
And private friendship bow to public good.
Let no Dependants crowd around his gate,
Drones in the church, or Hirelings in the state;
No German Counts, who fiddlers were at home,
No fops from Paris, and no priests from Rome;
These must no more employ his precious hours,
But the lost mind, resuming all its pow'rs,
With new-born vigour into life shall spring,
213
Let no mean Tyrant, such as I could find,
Whose features are an index to his mind,
Savagely pluck sweet mercy from her throne,
To gratify some vengeance of his own—
Let no false Patriot, frantic for reform,
And ripe for faction, raise the civil storm;
Bid Loyalty before its altar bleed,
And call it zeal, to sanctify the deed—
Let no gall'd Bishop rival Bonner's name,
In England's church light up the Popish flame,
And bring before her trembling sight again
Those bloody scenes which curs'd a Tudor's reign,
When Ridley, Latimer, immortal names!
Died for their faith, triumphant 'midst the flames!
Far from thy councils, Britain, may they roam,
And in some foreign country find a home,
Where Slaves, obedient to a Tyrant's reign,
Bow their submissive necks and hug their chain.
Great, truly great, shall be that Monarch's name,
Who builds his glory on his people's fame;
His praise shall travel to the furthest Pole,
Where winds can bellow, and where waves can roll.
Like Him of old, who gave Britannia laws,
His glorious name crown'd with deserv'd applause,
Shall brightly shine in Hist'ry's ample page,
A leading star through each succeeding age!
In vain shall Tyrants spread their wild alarms,
The God of Battles shall defend his arms—
In vain shall Traitors, with infuriate zeal,
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous steel;
Heav'n shall o'ertake the wretch with wrath divine,
Arrest his hand, and blast the foul design.
When full of worth, and years, and fair renown,
He leaves an earthly for a heav'nly crown;
The Patriot's sigh shall murmur o'er his bier,
And Freedom greet his mem'ry with a tear.
Long shall his race, to future heroes grown,
With still increasing glory fill the throne,
Their honour'd names in fair succession run,
The Father's virtues bright'ning in the Son.
Surrounding nations shall with envy see,
That to be conq'rer, Britain must be free;
For when the Flag of Liberty's unfurl'd,
She arms her heart with steel—and dares the world.
Who builds his glory on his people's fame;
His praise shall travel to the furthest Pole,
Where winds can bellow, and where waves can roll.
Like Him of old, who gave Britannia laws,
214
Shall brightly shine in Hist'ry's ample page,
A leading star through each succeeding age!
In vain shall Tyrants spread their wild alarms,
The God of Battles shall defend his arms—
In vain shall Traitors, with infuriate zeal,
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous steel;
Heav'n shall o'ertake the wretch with wrath divine,
Arrest his hand, and blast the foul design.
When full of worth, and years, and fair renown,
He leaves an earthly for a heav'nly crown;
The Patriot's sigh shall murmur o'er his bier,
And Freedom greet his mem'ry with a tear.
Long shall his race, to future heroes grown,
With still increasing glory fill the throne,
Their honour'd names in fair succession run,
The Father's virtues bright'ning in the Son.
Surrounding nations shall with envy see,
That to be conq'rer, Britain must be free;
For when the Flag of Liberty's unfurl'd,
She arms her heart with steel—and dares the world.
| The Modern Dunciad | |