Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul On the four aces doom'd to roll, Was never yet with Honour caught, Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; 70 Who dost thy wife, thy children set, Thy all, upon a single bet, Risking, the desperate stake to try, Here and hereafter on a die; Who, thy own private fortune lost, Dost game on at thy country's cost, And, grown expert in sharping rules, First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools: Thou noble gamester! whose high place Gives too much credit to disgrace; 80 Who, with the motion of a die, Dost make a mighty island fly— The sums, I mean, of good French gold For which a mighty island sold; Who dost betray intelligence, Abuse the dearest confidence, And, private fortune to create, Most falsely play the game of state; Who dost within the Alley sport Sums which might beggar a whole court, 90 And make us bankrupts all, if Care, With good Earl Talbot,[134] was not there: Thou daring infidel! whom pride And sin have drawn from Reason's side; Who, fearing his avengeful rod, Dost wish not to believe a God; Whose hope is founded on a plan Which should distract the soul of man, And make him curse his abject birth; Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, 100 There to lie down, for worms a feast, To rot and perish like a beast; Who dost, of punishment afraid, And by thy crimes a coward made, To every generous soul a curse Than Hell and all her torments worse, When crawling to thy latter end, Call on Destruction as a friend, Choosing to crumble into dust Rather than rise, though rise you must: 110 Thou hypocrite! who dost profane, And take the patriot's name in vain; Then most thy country's foe, when most Of love and loyalty you boast; Who, for the love of filthy gold, Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold, And, mocking the just claim of Hell, Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell: Ye villains! of whatever name, Whatever rank, to whom the claim 120 Of Hell is certain, on whose lids That worm, which never dies, forbids Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold, Whilst envy makes your blood run cold, Behold, by pitiless Conscience led, So Justice wills, that holy bed Where Peace her full dominion keeps, And Innocence with Holland sleeps. Bid Terror, posting on the wind, Affray the spirits of mankind; 130 Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent, Rive their concealing continent, And, forcing an untimely birth Through the vast bowels of the earth, Endeavour, in her monstrous womb, At once all Nature to entomb; Bid all that's horrible and dire, All that man hates and fears, conspire To make night hideous as they can, Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! 140 Pure as the thoughts which in thy breast Inhabit, and insure thy rest; Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late, Thy friendly justice in his fate, Turn'd to a guardian angel, spread Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head. Dark was the night, by Fate decreed For the contrivance of a deed More black than common, which might make This land from her foundations shake, 150 Might tear up Freedom by the root, Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute. Deep Horror held her wide domain; The sky in sullen drops of rain Forewept the morn, and through the air, Which, opening, laid its bosom bare, Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd; The owl at Freedom's window scream'd, The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath Brings sickness, and whose note is death; 160 The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb, All sad and silent, through the gloom The ghosts of men, in former times, Whose public virtues were their crimes, Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rage Blank'd their pale cheeks; in his own age The prop of Freedom, Hampden there Felt after death the generous care; Sidney by grief from heaven was kept, And for his brother patriot wept: 170 All friends of Liberty, when Fate Prepared to shorten Wilkes's date, Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan, And knew that wound to be their own. Hail, Liberty! a glorious word, In other countries scarcely heard, Or heard but as a thing of course, Without, or energy, or force: Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs, Far, far beyond the reach of kings, 180 Fresh blooming from our mother Earth: With pride and joy she owns her birth Derived from us, and in return Bids in our breasts her genius burn; Bids us with all those blessings live Which Liberty alone can give, Or nobly with that spirit die Which makes death more than victory. Hail, those old patriots! on whose tongue Persuasion in the senate hung, 190 Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd. Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd, Who spread, when other methods fail'd, War's bloody banner, and prevail'd. Shall men like these unmention'd sleep Promiscuous with the common heap, And (Gratitude forbid the crime!) Be carried down the stream of time In shoals, unnoticed and forgot, On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot? 200 No—they shall live, and each fair name, Recorded in the book of Fame, Founded on Honour's basis, fast As the round earth to ages last. Some virtues vanish with our breath; Virtue like this lives after death. Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by, Himself lost in eternity, An everlasting crown shall twine To make a Wilkes and Sidney join. 210 But should some slave-got villain dare Chains for his country to prepare, And, by his birth to slavery broke, Make her, too, feel the galling yoke, May he be evermore accursed, Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst; May he be still himself, and still Go on in vice, and perfect ill; May his broad crimes each day increase, Till he can't live, nor die in peace; 220 May he be plunged so deep in shame, That Satan mayn't endure his name, And hear, scarce crawling on the earth, His children curse him for their birth; May Liberty, beyond the grave, Ordain him to be still a slave, Grant him what here he most requires, And damn him with his own desires! But should some villain, in support And zeal for a despairing court, 230 Placing in craft his confidence, And making honour a pretence To do a deed of deepest shame, Whilst filthy lucre is his aim; Should such a wretch, with sword or knife, Contrive to practise 'gainst the life Of one who, honour'd through the land, For Freedom made a glorious stand; Whose chief, perhaps his only crime, Is (if plain Truth at such a time 240 May dare her sentiments to tell) That he his country loves too well: May he—but words are all too weak The feelings of my heart to speak— May he—oh for a noble curse, Which might his very marrow pierce!— The general contempt engage, And be the Martin of his age!

BOOK II.

Deep in the bosom of a wood, Out of the road, a Temple[135] stood: Ancient, and much the worse for wear, It call'd aloud for quick repair, And, tottering from side to side, Menaced destruction far and wide; Nor able seem'd, unless made stronger, To hold out four or five years longer. Four hundred pillars, from the ground Rising in order, most unsound, 10 Some rotten to the heart, aloof Seem'd to support the tottering roof, But, to inspection nearer laid, Instead of giving, wanted aid. The structure, rare and curious, made By men most famous in their trade, A work of years, admired by all, Was suffer'd into dust to fall; Or, just to make it hang together, And keep off the effects of weather, 20 Was patch'd and patch'd from time to time By wretches, whom it were a crime, A crime, which Art would treason hold To mention with those names of old. Builders, who had the pile survey'd, And those not Flitcrofts[136] in their trade, Doubted (the wise hand in a doubt Merely, sometimes, to hand her out) Whether (like churches in a brief[137], Taught wisely to obtain relief 30 Through Chancery, who gives her fees To this and other charities) It must not, in all parts unsound, Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground; Whether (though after ages ne'er Shall raise a building to compare) Art, if they should their art employ, Meant to preserve, might not destroy; As human bodies, worn away, Batter'd and hasting to decay, 40 Bidding the power of Art despair, Cannot those very medicines bear, Which, and which only, can restore, And make them healthy as before. To Liberty, whose gracious smile Shed peace and plenty o'er the isle, Our grateful ancestors, her plain But faithful children, raised this fane. Full in the front, stretch'd out in length, Where Nature put forth all her strength 50 In spring eternal, lay a plain Where our brave fathers used to train Their sons to arms, to teach the art Of war, and steel the infant heart. Labour, their hardy nurse, when young, Their joints had knit, their nerves had strung; Abstinence, foe declared to Death, Had, from the time they first drew breath, The best of doctors, with plain food, Kept pure the channel of their blood; 60 Health in their cheeks bade colour rise, And Glory sparkled in their eyes. The instruments of husbandry, As in contempt, were all thrown by, And, flattering a manly pride, War's keener tools their place supplied. Their arrows to the head they drew; Swift to the points their javelins flew; They grasp'd the sword, they shook the spear; Their fathers felt a pleasing fear; 70 And even Courage, standing by, Scarcely beheld with steady eye. Each stripling, lesson'd by his sire, Knew when to close, when to retire, When near at hand, when from afar To fight, and was himself a war. Their wives, their mothers, all around, Careless of order, on the ground Breathed forth to Heaven the pious vow, And for a son's or husband's brow, 80 With eager fingers, laurel wove; Laurel, which in the sacred grove, Planted by Liberty, they find, The brows of conquerors to bind, To give them pride and spirit, fit To make a world in arms submit. What raptures did the bosom fire Of the young, rugged, peasant sire, When, from the toil of mimic fight, Returning with return of night, 90 He saw his babe resign the breast, And, smiling, stroke those arms in jest, With which hereafter he shall make The proudest heart in Gallia quake! Gods! with what joy, what honest pride, Did each fond, wishing rustic bride Behold her manly swain return! How did her love-sick bosom burn, Though on parades he was not bred, Nor wore the livery of red, 100 When, Pleasure heightening all her charms, She strain'd her warrior in her arms, And begg'd, whilst love and glory fire, A son, a son just like his sire! Such were the men in former times, Ere luxury had made our crimes Our bitter punishment, who bore Their terrors to a foreign shore: Such were the men, who, free from dread, By Edwards and by Henries led, 110 Spread, like a torrent swell'd with rains, O'er haughty Gallia's trembling plains: Such were the men, when lust of power, To work him woe, in evil hour Debauch'd the tyrant from those ways On which a king should found his praise; When stern Oppression, hand in hand With Pride, stalk'd proudly through the land; When weeping Justice was misled From her fair course, and Mercy dead: 120 Such were the men, in virtue strong, Who dared not see their country's wrong, Who left the mattock and the spade, And, in the robes of War array'd, In their rough arms, departing, took Their helpless babes, and with a look Stern and determined, swore to see Those babes no more, or see them free: Such were the men whom tyrant Pride Could never fasten to his side 130 By threats or bribes; who, freemen born, Chains, though of gold, beheld with scorn; Who, free from every servile awe, Could never be divorced from Law, From that broad general law, which Sense Made for the general defence; Could never yield to partial ties Which from dependant stations rise; Could never be to slavery led, For Property was at their head: 140 Such were the men, in days of yore, Who, call'd by Liberty, before Her temple on the sacred green, In martial pastimes oft were seen— Now seen no longer—in their stead, To laziness and vermin bred, A race who, strangers to the cause Of Freedom, live by other laws, On other motives fight, a prey To interest, and slaves for pay. 150 Valour—how glorious, on a plan Of honour founded!—leads their van; Discretion, free from taint of fear, Cool, but resolved, brings up their rear— Discretion, Valour's better half; Dependence holds the general's staff. In plain and home-spun garb array'd, Not for vain show, but service made, In a green flourishing old age, Not damn'd yet with an equipage, 160 In rules of Porterage untaught, Simplicity, not worth a groat, For years had kept the Temple-door; Full on his breast a glass he wore, Through which his bosom open lay To every one who pass'd that way: Now turn'd adrift, with humbler face, But prouder heart, his vacant place Corruption fills, and bears the key; No entrance now without a fee. 170 With belly round, and full fat face, Which on the house reflected grace, Full of good fare, and honest glee, The steward Hospitality, Old Welcome smiling by his side, A good old servant, often tried, And faithful found, who kept in view His lady's fame and interest too, Who made each heart with joy rebound, Yet never ran her state aground, 180 Was turn'd off, or (which word I find Is more in modern use) resign'd.[138] Half-starved, half-starving others, bred In beggary, with carrion fed, Detested, and detesting all, Made up of avarice and gall, Boasting great thrift, yet wasting more Than ever steward did before, Succeeded one, who, to engage The praise of an exhausted age, 190 Assumed a name of high degree, And call'd himself Economy. Within the Temple, full in sight, Where, without ceasing, day and night The workmen toiled; where Labour bared His brawny arm; where Art prepared, In regular and even rows, Her types, a printing-press arose; Each workman knew his task, and each Was honest and expert as Leach.[139] 200 Hence Learning struck a deeper root, And Science brought forth riper fruit; Hence Loyalty received support, Even when banish'd from the court; Hence Government gain'd strength, and hence Religion sought and found defence; Hence England's fairest fame arose, And Liberty subdued her foes. On a low, simple, turf-made throne, Raised by Allegiance, scarcely known 210 From her attendants, glad to be Pattern of that equality She wish'd to all, so far as could Safely consist with social good, The goddess sat; around her head A cheerful radiance Glory spread: Courage, a youth of royal race, Lovelily stern, possess'd a place On her left hand, and on her right Sat Honour, clothed with robes of light; 220 Before her Magna Charta lay, Which some great lawyer, of his day The Pratt,[140] was officed to explain, And make the basis of her reign: Peace, crown'd with olive, to her breast Two smiling twin-born infants press'd; At her feet, couching, War was laid, And with a brindled lion play'd: Justice and Mercy, hand in hand, 230 Joint guardians of the happy land, Together held their mighty charge, And Truth walk'd all about at large; Health for the royal troop the feast Prepared, and Virtue was high-priest. Such was the fame our Goddess bore Her Temple such, in days of yore. What changes ruthless Time presents! Behold her ruin'd battlements, Her walls decay'd, her nodding spires, Her altars broke, her dying fires, 240 Her name despised, her priests destroy'd, Her friends disgraced, her foes employ'd, Herself (by ministerial arts Deprived e'en of the people's hearts, Whilst they, to work her surer woe, Feign her to Monarchy a foe) Exiled by grief, self-doom'd to dwell With some poor hermit in a cell; Or, that retirement tedious grown, If she walks forth, she walks unknown, 250 Hooted, and pointed at with scorn, As one in some strange country born. Behold a rude and ruffian race, A band of spoilers, seize her place; With looks which might the heart disseat, And make life sound a quick retreat! To rapine from the cradle bred, A staunch old blood-hound at their head, Who, free from virtue and from awe, Knew none but the bad part of law, 260 They roved at large; each on his breast Mark'd with a greyhound stood confess'd: Controlment waited on their nod, High-wielding Persecution's rod; Confusion follow'd at their heels, And a cast statesman held the seals;[141] Those seals, for which he dear shall pay, When awful Justice takes her day. The printers saw—they saw and fled— Science, declining, hung her head. 270 Property in despair appear'd, And for herself destruction fear'd; Whilst underfoot the rude slaves trod The works of men, and word of God; Whilst, close behind, on many a book, In which he never deigns to look, Which he did not, nay, could not read, A bold, bad man (by power decreed For that bad end, who in the dark Scorn'd to do mischief) set his mark 280 In the full day, the mark of Hell, And on the Gospel stamp'd an L. Liberty fled, her friends withdrew— Her friends, a faithful, chosen few; Honour in grief threw up; and Shame, Clothing herself with Honour's name, Usurp'd his station; on the throne Which Liberty once call'd her own, (Gods! that such mighty ills should spring Under so great, so good a king, 290 So loved, so loving, through the arts Of statesmen, cursed with wicked hearts!) For every darker purpose fit, Behold in triumph State-craft sit!

BOOK III.

Ah me! what mighty perils wait The man who meddles with a state, Whether to strengthen, or oppose! False are his friends, and firm his foes: How must his soul, once ventured in, Plunge blindly on from sin to sin! What toils he suffers, what disgrace, To get, and then to keep, a place! How often, whether wrong or right, Must he in jest or earnest fight, 10 Risking for those both life and limb Who would not risk one groat for him! Under the Temple lay a Cave, Made by some guilty, coward slave, Whose actions fear'd rebuke: a maze Of intricate and winding ways, Not to be found without a clue; One passage only, known to few, In paths direct led to a cell, Where Fraud in secret loved to dwell, 20 With all her tools and slaves about her, Nor fear'd lest Honesty should rout her. In a dark corner, shunning sight Of man, and shrinking from the light, One dull, dim taper through the cell Glimmering, to make more horrible The face of darkness, she prepares, Working unseen, all kinds of snares, With curious, but destructive art: Here, through the eye to catch the heart, 30 Gay stars their tinsel beams afford, Neat artifice to trap a lord; There, fit for all whom Folly bred, Wave plumes of feathers for the head; Garters the hag contrives to make, Which, as it seems, a babe might break, But which ambitious madmen feel More firm and sure than chains of steel; Which, slipp'd just underneath the knee, 40 Forbid a freeman to be free. Purses she knew, (did ever curse Travel more sure than in a purse?) Which, by some strange and magic bands, Enslave the soul, and tie the hands. Here Flattery, eldest-born of Guile, Weaves with rare skill the silken smile, The courtly cringe, the supple bow, The private squeeze, the levee vow, With which—no strange or recent case— Fools in, deceive fools out of place. 50 Corruption, (who, in former times, Through fear or shame conceal'd her crimes, And what she did, contrived to do it So that the public might not view it) Presumptuous grown, unfit was held For their dark councils, and expell'd, Since in the day her business might Be done as safe as in the night. Her eye down-bending to the ground, Planning some dark and deadly wound, 60 Holding a dagger, on which stood, All fresh and reeking, drops of blood, Bearing a lantern, which of yore, By Treason borrow'd, Guy Fawkes bore, By which, since they improved in trade, Excisemen have their lanterns made, Assassination, her whole mind Blood-thirsting, on her arm reclined; Death, grinning, at her elbow stood, And held forth instruments of blood,— 70 Vile instruments, which cowards choose, But men of honour dare not use; Around, his Lordship and his Grace, Both qualified for such a place, With many a Forbes, and many a Dun,[142] Each a resolved, and pious son, Wait her high bidding; each prepared, As she around her orders shared, Proof 'gainst remorse, to run, to fly, And bid the destined victim die, 80 Posting on Villany's black wing, Whether he patriot is, or king. Oppression,—willing to appear An object of our love, not fear, Or, at the most, a reverend awe To breed, usurp'd the garb of Law. A book she held, on which her eyes Were deeply fix'd, whence seem'd to rise Joy in her breast; a book, of might Most wonderful, which black to white 90 Could turn, and without help of laws, Could make the worse the better cause. She read, by flattering hopes deceived; She wish'd, and what she wish'd, believed, To make that book for ever stand The rule of wrong through all the land; On the back, fair and worthy note, At large was Magna Charta wrote; But turn your eye within, and read, A bitter lesson, Norton's Creed. 100 Ready, e'en with a look, to run, Fast as the coursers of the sun, To worry Virtue, at her hand Two half-starved greyhounds took their stand. A curious model, cut in wood, Of a most ancient castle stood Full in her view; the gates were barr'd, And soldiers on the watch kept guard; In the front, openly, in black Was wrote, The Tower: but on the back, 110 Mark'd with a secretary's seal, In bloody letters, The Bastile.[143] Around a table, fully bent On mischief of most black intent, Deeply determined that their reign Might longer last, to work the bane Of one firm patriot, whose heart, tied To Honour, all their power defied, And brought those actions into light They wish'd to have conceal'd in night, 120 Begot, born, bred to infamy, A privy-council sat of three: Great were their names, of high repute And favour through the land of Bute. The first[144] (entitled to the place Of Honour both by gown and grace, Who never let occasion slip To take right-hand of fellowship, And was so proud, that should he meet The twelve apostles in the street, 130 He'd turn his nose up at them all, And shove his Saviour from the wall! Who was so mean (Meanness and Pride Still go together side by side) That he would cringe, and creep, be civil, And hold a stirrup for the Devil; If in a journey to his mind, He'd let him mount and ride behind; Who basely fawn'd through all his life, For patrons first, then for a wife: 140 Wrote Dedications which must make The heart of every Christian quake; Made one man equal to, or more Than God, then left him, as before His God he left, and, drawn by pride, Shifted about to t' other side) Was by his sire a parson made, Merely to give the boy a trade; But he himself was thereto drawn By some faint omens of the lawn, 150 And on the truly Christian plan To make himself a gentleman,— A title in which Form array'd him, Though Fate ne'er thought on 't when she made him. The oaths he took, 'tis very true, But took them as all wise men do, With an intent, if things should turn, Rather to temporise, than burn; Gospel and loyalty were made To serve the purposes of trade; 160 Religions are but paper ties, Which bind the fool, but which the wise, Such idle notions far above, Draw on and off, just like a glove; All gods, all kings (let his great aim Be answer'd) were to him the same. A curate first, he read and read, And laid in, whilst he should have fed The souls of his neglected flock, Of reading such a mighty stock, 170 That he o'ercharged the weary brain With more than she could well contain; More than she was with spirits fraught To turn and methodise to thought, And which, like ill-digested food, To humours turn'd, and not to blood. Brought up to London, from the plough And pulpit, how to make a bow He tried to learn; he grew polite, And was the poet's parasite. 180 With wits conversing, (and wits then Were to be found 'mongst noblemen) He caught, or would have caught, the flame, And would be nothing, or the same. He drank with drunkards, lived with sinners, Herded with infidels for dinners; With such an emphasis and grace Blasphemed, that Potter[141] kept not pace: He, in the highest reign of noon, Bawled bawdy songs to a psalm tune; 190 Lived with men infamous and vile, Truck'd his salvation for a smile; To catch their humour caught their plan, And laugh'd at God to laugh with man; Praised them, when living, in each breath, And damn'd their memories after death. To prove his faith, which all admit Is at least equal to his wit, And make himself a man of note, He in defence of Scripture wrote: 200 So long he wrote, and long about it, That e'en believers 'gan to doubt it: He wrote, too, of the inward light, Though no one knew how he came by 't, And of that influencing grace Which in his life ne'er found a place: He wrote, too, of the Holy Ghost, Of whom no more than doth a post He knew; nor, should an angel show him, Would he, or know, or choose to know him. 210 Next (for he knew 'twixt every science There was a natural alliance) He wrote, to advance his Maker's praise, Comments[142] on rhymes, and notes on plays, And with an all-sufficient air Placed himself in the critic's chair; Usurp'd o'er Reason full dominion, And govern'd merely by Opinion. At length dethroned, and kept in awe By one plain simple man of law,[143] 220 He arm'd dead friends, to vengeance true, To abuse the man they never knew. Examine strictly all mankind, Most characters are mix'd, we find; And Vice and Virtue take their turn In the same breast to beat and burn. Our priest was an exception here, Nor did one spark of grace appear, Not one dull, dim spark in his soul; Vice, glorious Vice, possess'd the whole, 230 And, in her service truly warm, He was in sin most uniform. Injurious Satire! own at least One snivelling virtue in the priest, One snivelling virtue, which is placed, They say, in or about the waist, Call'd Chastity; the prudish dame Knows it at large by Virtue's name. To this his wife (and in these days Wives seldom without reason praise) 240 Bears evidence—then calls her child, And swears that Tom[144] was vastly wild. Ripen'd by a long course of years, He great and perfect now appears. In shape scarce of the human kind, A man, without a manly mind; No husband, though he's truly wed; Though on his knees a child is bred, No father; injured, without end A foe; and though obliged, no friend; 250 A heart, which virtue ne'er disgraced; A head, where learning runs to waste; A gentleman well-bred, if breeding Rests in the article of reading; A man of this world, for the next Was ne'er included in his text; A judge of genius, though confess'd With not one spark of genius bless'd; Amongst the first of critics placed, Though free from every taint of taste; 260 A Christian without faith or works, As he would be a Turk 'mongst Turks; A great divine, as lords agree, Without the least divinity; To crown all, in declining age, Inflamed with church and party rage, Behold him, full and perfect quite, A false saint, and true hypocrite. Next sat a lawyer,[145] often tried In perilous extremes; when Pride 270 And Power, all wild and trembling, stood, Nor dared to tempt the raging flood; This bold, bad man arose to view, And gave his hand to help them through: Steel'd 'gainst compassion, as they pass'd He saw poor Freedom breathe her last; He saw her struggle, heard her groan; He saw her helpless and alone, Whelm'd in that storm, which, fear'd and praised By slaves less bold, himself had raised. 280 Bred to the law, he from the first Of all bad lawyers was the worst. Perfection (for bad men maintain In ill we may perfection gain) In others is a work of time, And they creep on from crime to crime; He, for a prodigy design'd, To spread amazement o'er mankind, Started full ripen'd all at once A perfect knave, and perfect dunce. 290 Who will, for him, may boast of sense, His better guard is impudence; His front, with tenfold plates of brass Secured, Shame never yet could pass, Nor on the surface of his skin Blush for that guilt which dwelt within. How often, in contempt of laws, To sound the bottom of a cause, To search out every rotten part, And worm into its very heart, 300 Hath he ta'en briefs on false pretence, And undertaken the defence Of trusting fools, whom in the end He meant to ruin, not defend! How often, e'en in open court, Hath the wretch made his shame his sport, And laugh'd off, with a villain's ease, Throwing up briefs, and keeping fees! Such things as, though to roguery bred, Had struck a little villain dead! 310 Causes, whatever their import, He undertakes, to serve a court; For he by art this rule had got, Power can effect what Law cannot. Fools he forgives, but rogues he fears; If Genius, yoked with Worth, appears, His weak soul sickens at the sight, And strives to plunge them down in night. So loud he talks, so very loud, He is an angel with the crowd; 320 Whilst he makes Justice hang her head, And judges turn from pale to red. Bid all that Nature, on a plan Most intimate, makes dear to man, All that with grand and general ties Binds good and bad, the fool and wise, Knock at his heart; they knock in vain; No entrance there such suitors gain; Bid kneeling kings forsake the throne, Bid at his feet his country groan; 330 Bid Liberty stretch out her hands, Religion plead her stronger bands; Bid parents, children, wife, and friends, If they come 'thwart his private ends— Unmoved he hears the general call, And bravely tramples on them all. Who will, for him, may cant and whine, And let weak Conscience with her line Chalk out their ways; such starving rules Are only fit for coward fools; 340 Fellows who credit what priests tell, And tremble at the thoughts of Hell; His spirit dares contend with Grace, And meets Damnation face to face. Such was our lawyer; by his side, In all bad qualities allied, In all bad counsels, sat a third, By birth a lord.[146] Oh, sacred word! Oh, word most sacred! whence men get A privilege to run in debt; 350 Whence they at large exemption claim From Satire, and her servant Shame; Whence they, deprived of all her force, Forbid bold Truth to hold her course. Consult his person, dress, and air, He seems, which strangers well might swear, The master, or, by courtesy, The captain of a colliery. Look at his visage, and agree Half-hang'd he seems, just from the tree 360 Escaped; a rope may sometimes break, Or men be cut down by mistake. He hath not virtue (in the school Of Vice bred up) to live by rule, Nor hath he sense (which none can doubt Who know the man) to live without. His life is a continued scene Of all that's infamous and mean; He knows not change, unless, grown nice And delicate, from vice to vice; 370 Nature design'd him, in a rage, To be the Wharton[147] of his age; But, having given all the sin, Forgot to put the virtues in. To run a horse, to make a match, To revel deep, to roar a catch, To knock a tottering watchman down, To sweat a woman of the town; By fits to keep the peace, or break it, In turn to give a pox, or take it; 380 He is, in faith, most excellent, And, in the word's most full intent, A true choice spirit, we admit; With wits a fool, with fools a wit: Hear him but talk, and you would swear Obscenity herself was there, And that Profaneness had made choice, By way of trump, to use his voice; That, in all mean and low things great, He had been bred at Billingsgate; 390 And that, ascending to the earth Before the season of his birth, Blasphemy, making way and room, Had mark'd him in his mother's womb. Too honest (for the worst of men In forms are honest, now and then) Not to have, in the usual way, His bills sent in; too great to pay: Too proud to speak to, if he meets The honest tradesman whom he cheats: 400 Too infamous to have a friend; Too bad for bad men to commend, Or good to name; beneath whose weight Earth groans; who hath been spared by Fate Only to show, on Mercy's plan, How far and long God bears with man. Such were the three, who, mocking sleep, At midnight sat, in counsel deep, Plotting destruction 'gainst a head Whose wisdom could not be misled; 410 Plotting destruction 'gainst a heart Which ne'er from honour would depart. 'Is he not rank'd amongst our foes? Hath not his spirit dared oppose Our dearest measures, made our name Stand forward on the roll of Shame Hath he not won the vulgar tribes, By scorning menaces and bribes, And proving that his darling cause Is, of their liberties and laws 420 To stand the champion? In a word, Nor need one argument be heard Beyond this to awake our zeal, To quicken our resolves, and steel Our steady souls to bloody bent, (Sure ruin to each dear intent, Each flattering hope) he, without fear, Hath dared to make the truth appear.' They said, and, by resentment taught, Each on revenge employ'd his thought; 430 Each, bent on mischief, rack'd his brain To her full stretch, but rack'd in vain; Scheme after scheme they brought to view; All were examined; none would do: When Fraud, with pleasure in her face, Forth issued from her hiding-place, And at the table where they meet, First having bless'd them, took her seat. 'No trifling cause, my darling boys, Your present thoughts and cares employs; 440 No common snare, no random blow, Can work the bane of such a foe: By nature cautious as he's brave, To Honour only he's a slave; In that weak part without defence, We must to honour make pretence; That lure shall to his ruin draw The wretch, who stands secure in law. Nor think that I have idly plann'd This full-ripe scheme; behold at hand, 450 With three months' training on his head, An instrument, whom I have bred, Born of these bowels, far from sight Of Virtue's false but glaring light, My youngest-born, my dearest joy, Most like myself, my darling boy! He, never touch'd with vile remorse, Resolved and crafty in his course, Shall work our ends, complete our schemes, Most mine, when most he Honour's seems; 460 Nor can be found, at home, abroad, So firm and full a slave of Fraud.' She said, and from each envious son A discontented murmur run Around the table; all in place Thought his full praise their own disgrace, Wondering what stranger she had got, Who had one vice that they had not; When straight the portals open flew, And, clad in armour, to their view 470 Martin, the Duellist, came forth. All knew, and all confess'd his worth; All justified, with smiles array'd, The happy choice their dam had made.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[132] 'The Duellist:' the North Briton had fiercely assailed Mr Martin, M.P. for Camelford, who, on the first day of the next session of Parliament, complained of it; Mr Wilkes owned himself the author, and the result was a duel in Hyde Park, in which Wilkes was severely wounded. He always owned that Martin acted honourably in the rencontre, but not so thought Churchill.

[133] 'Hanging friends:' See note on v. 140 of the Epistle to William Hogarth.

[134] 'Earl Talbot:' Lord Steward of the King's Household from 1761 to 1782, an economical Reformer.

[135] 'Temple:' the British Constitution.

[136] 'Flitcrofts:' Henry Flitcroft, an architect of some eminence.

[137] 'Brief:' alluding to the practice of obtaining contributions for the repair of churches, &c., by reading briefs in church.

[138] 'Resign'd:' the Dukes of Newcastle and Devonshire, Lord Temple, &c. who resigned their offices in 1762. Their successors pretended to economy, but it was a mere pretence.

[139] 'Leach:' Dryden Leach, an expert and tasteful printer in Crane Court, Fleet street, was unjustly imprisoned on account of Wilkes.

[140]'Pratt:' Lord Camden.

[141] 'Seals:' The general warrant for the apprehension of Wilkes was signed by the Earls of Egremont and Halifax, joint secretaries of state for the home department.

[142] 'Forbes and Dun:' two Scotchmen, one of whom challenged Wilkes, and the other tried to assassinate him. Dun was insane.

[143] 'The Bastile:' Wilkes was six days in the Tower.

[140] 'First:' the great William Warburton, who rose partly through his marriage with the niece of the rich Ralph Allen.

[141] 'Potter:' mentioned above. He was suspected by Warburton of being the author of the infamous notes to Wilkes's infamous 'Essay on Woman.'

[142] 'Comments:' referring to the notes to 'The Dunciad,' and on Shakspeare.

[143] 'Man of law:' Mr Thomas Edwards, a barrister, wrote a clever book against Warburton's criticism. Warburton alluded to him contemptuously afterwards, in a note to a new edition of 'The Dunciad.'

[144] 'Tom:' this son was Warburton's only child, and died before his father.

[145] 'A lawyer:' Sir Fletcher Norton, who as well as Warburton is caricatured.

[146] 'A lord:' Sandwich.

[147] 'Wharton:' Philip Duke of Wharton, whose character is found in Pope's 'Moral Essays,' was noted for the greatness of his talents, and for his dissolute life.



GOTHAM.[148]

In Three Books.

BOOK I.

Far off (no matter whether east or west, A real country, or one made in jest, Nor yet by modern Mandevilles[149] disgraced, Nor by map-jobbers wretchedly misplaced) There lies an island, neither great nor small, Which, for distinction sake, I Gotham call. The man who finds an unknown country out, By giving it a name, acquires, no doubt, A Gospel title, though the people there The pious Christian thinks not worth his care 10 Bar this pretence, and into air is hurl'd The claim of Europe to the Western world. Cast by a tempest on the savage coast, Some roving buccaneer set up a post; A beam, in proper form transversely laid, Of his Redeemer's cross the figure made— Of that Redeemer, with whose laws his life, From first to last, had been one scene of strife; His royal master's name thereon engraved, Without more process the whole race enslaved, 20 Cut off that charter they from Nature drew, And made them slaves to men they never knew. Search ancient histories, consult records, Under this title the most Christian lords Hold (thanks to conscience) more than half the ball; O'erthrow this title, they have none at all; For never yet might any monarch dare, Who lived to Truth, and breathed a Christian air, Pretend that Christ, (who came, we all agree, To bless his people, and to set them free) 30 To make a convert, ever one law gave By which converters made him first a slave. Spite of the glosses of a canting priest, Who talks of charity, but means a feast; Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feel The holy glowings of a real zeal) To all his hearers as a deed of worth, To give them heaven whom they have robb'd of earth; Never shall one, one truly honest man, Who, bless'd with Liberty, reveres her plan, 40 Allow one moment that a savage sire Could from his wretched race, for childish hire, By a wild grant, their all, their freedom pass, And sell his country for a bit of glass. Or grant this barbarous right, let Spain and France, In slavery bred, as purchasers advance; Let them, whilst Conscience is at distance hurl'd, With some gay bauble buy a golden world: An Englishman, in charter'd freedom born, Shall spurn the slavish merchandise, shall scorn 50 To take from others, through base private views, What he himself would rather die, than lose. Happy the savage of those early times, Ere Europe's sons were known, and Europe's crimes! Gold, cursed gold! slept in the womb of earth, Unfelt its mischiefs, as unknown its worth; In full content he found the truest wealth, In toil he found diversion, food, and health; Stranger to ease and luxury of courts, His sports were labours, and his labours sports; 60 His youth was hardy, and his old age green; Life's morn was vigorous, and her eve serene; No rules he held, but what were made for use, No arts he learn'd, nor ills which arts produce; False lights he follow'd, but believed them true; He knew not much, but lived to what he knew. Happy, thrice happy now the savage race, Since Europe took their gold, and gave them grace! Pastors she sends to help them in their need, Some who can't write; with others who can't read; 70 And on sure grounds the gospel pile to rear, Sends missionary felons every year; Our vices, with more zeal than holy prayers, She teaches them, and in return takes theirs. Her rank oppressions give them cause to rise, Her want of prudence, means and arms supplies, Whilst her brave rage, not satisfied with life, Rising in blood, adopts the scalping-knife. Knowledge she gives, enough to make them know How abject is their state, how deep their woe; 80 The worth of freedom strongly she explains, Whilst she bows down, and loads their necks with chains. Faith, too, she plants, for her own ends impress'd, To make them bear the worst, and hope the best; And whilst she teaches, on vile Interest's plan, As laws of God, the wild decrees of man, Like Pharisees, of whom the Scriptures tell, She makes them ten times more the sons of Hell. But whither do these grave reflections tend? Are they design'd for any, or no end? 90 Briefly but this—to prove, that by no act Which Nature made, that by no equal pact 'Twixt man and man, which might, if Justice heard, Stand good; that by no benefits conferr'd, Or purchase made, Europe in chains can hold The sons of India, and her mines of gold. Chance led her there in an accursed hour; She saw, and made the country hers by power; Nor, drawn by virtue's love from love of fame, Shall my rash folly controvert the claim, 100 Or wish in thought that title overthrown Which coincides with and involves my own. Europe discover'd India first; I found My right to Gotham on the self-same ground; I first discover'd it, nor shall that plea To her be granted, and denied to me; I plead possession, and, till one more bold Shall drive me out, will that possession hold. With Europe's rights my kindred rights I twine; Hers be the Western world, be Gotham mine. 110 Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? As on a day, a high and holy day, Let every instrument of music play, Ancient and modern; those which drew their birth (Punctilios laid aside) from Pagan earth, 120 As well as those by Christian made and Jew; Those known to many, and those known to few; Those which in whim and frolic lightly float, And those which swell the slow and solemn note; Those which (whilst Reason stands in wonder by) Make some complexions laugh, and others cry; Those which, by some strange faculty of sound, Can build walls up, and raze them to the ground; Those which can tear up forests by the roots, And make brutes dance like men, and men like brutes; 130 Those which, whilst Ridicule leads up the dance, Make clowns of Monmouth[150] ape the fops of France; Those which, where Lady Dulness with Lord Mayors Presides, disdaining light and trifling airs, Hallow the feast with psalmody; and those Which, planted in our churches to dispose And lift the mind to Heaven, are disgraced With what a foppish organist calls Taste: All, from the fiddle (on which every fool, The pert son of dull sire, discharged from school, 140 Serves an apprenticeship in college ease, And rises through the gamut to degrees) To those which (though less common, not less sweet) From famed Saint Giles's, and more famed Vine Street, (Where Heaven, the utmost wish of man to grant, Gave me an old house, and an older aunt) Thornton,[151] whilst Humour pointed out the road To her arch cub, hath hitch'd into an ode;— All instruments (attend, ye listening spheres! Attend, ye sons of men! and hear with ears), 150 All instruments (nor shall they seek one hand Impress'd from modern Music's coxcomb band), All instruments, self-acted, at my name Shall pour forth harmony, and loud proclaim, Loud but yet sweet, to the according globe, My praises; whilst gay Nature, in a robe, A coxcomb doctor's robe, to the full sound Keeps time, like Boyce,[152] and the world dances round. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, 160 The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Infancy, straining backward from the breast, Tetchy and wayward, what he loveth best Refusing in his fits, whilst all the while The mother eyes the wrangler with a smile, And the fond father sits on t' other side, Laughs at his moods, and views his spleen with pride, 170 Shall murmur forth my name, whilst at his hand Nurse stands interpreter, through Gotham's land. Childhood, who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears, Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm, In reason weak; who, wrought into a storm, Like to the fretful billows of the deep, Soon spends his rage, and cries himself asleep; Who, with a feverish appetite oppress'd, For trifles sighs, but hates them when possess'd; 180 His trembling lash suspended in the air, Half-bent, and stroking back his long lank hair, Shall to his mates look up with eager glee, And let his top go down to prate of me. Youth, who, fierce, fickle, insolent, and vain, Impatient urges on to Manhood's reign, Impatient urges on, yet with a cast Of dear regard looks back on Childhood past, In the mid-chase, when the hot blood runs high, And the quick spirits mount into his eye; 190 When pleasure, which he deems his greatest wealth, Beats in his heart, and paints his cheeks with health; When the chafed steed tugs proudly at the rein, And, ere he starts, hath run o'er half the plain; When, wing'd with fear, the stag flies full in view, And in full cry the eager hounds pursue, Shall shout my praise to hills which shout again, And e'en the huntsman stop to cry, Amen. Manhood, of form erect, who would not bow Though worlds should crack around him; on his brow 200 Wisdom serene, to passion giving law, Bespeaking love, and yet commanding awe; Dignity into grace by mildness wrought; Courage attemper'd and refined by thought; Virtue supreme enthroned; within his breast The image of his Maker deep impress'd; Lord of this earth, which trembles at his nod, With reason bless'd, and only less than God; Manhood, though weeping Beauty kneels for aid, Though Honour calls, in Danger's form array'd, 210 Though clothed with sackloth, Justice in the gates, By wicked elders chain'd, Redemption waits, Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour, (Is't not a little one?) to hail my power. Old Age, a second child, by Nature cursed With more and greater evils than the first; Weak, sickly, full of pains, in every breath Railing at life, and yet afraid of death; Putting things off, with sage and solemn air, From day to day, without one day to spare; 220 Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf, Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself; His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd, His memory of recent things devour'd E'en with the acting, on his shatter'd brain Though the false registers of youth remain; From morn to evening babbling forth vain praise Of those rare men, who lived in those rare days, When he, the hero of his tale, was young; Dull repetitions faltering on his tongue; 230 Praising gray hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway, E'en whilst he curses Time, which made him gray; Scoffing at youth, e'en whilst he would afford All but his gold to have his youth restored, Shall for a moment, from himself set free, Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 240 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Things without life shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. The snowdrop, who, in habit white and plain, Comes on, the herald of fair Flora's train; The coxcomb crocus, flower of simple note, Who by her side struts in a herald's coat; The tulip, idly glaring to the view, Who, though no clown, his birth from Holland drew; 250 Who, once full dress'd, fears from his place to stir, The fop of flowers, the More of a parterre; The woodbine, who her elm in marriage meets, And brings her dowry in surrounding sweets; The lily, silver mistress of the vale; The rose of Sharon, which perfumes the gale; The jessamine, with which the queen of flowers, To charm her god, adorns his favourite bowers, Which brides, by the plain hand of Neatness dress'd, Unenvied rival, wear upon their breast, 260 Sweet as the incense of the morn, and chaste As the pure zone which circles Dian's waist; All flowers, of various names, and various forms, Which the sun into strength and beauty warms, From the dwarf daisy, which, like infants, clings, And fears to leave the earth from whence it springs, To the proud giant of the garden race, Who, madly rushing to the sun's embrace, O'ertops her fellows with aspiring aim, Demands his wedded love, and bears his name; 270 All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Forming a gloom, through which, to spleen-struck minds, Religion, horror-stamp'd, a passage finds, 280 The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell By day, by night; the myrtle ever green, Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen; The willow, weeping o'er the fatal wave Where many a lover finds a watery grave; The cypress, sacred held, when lovers mourn Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn By poets in old time, but destined now, In grief, to wither on a Whitehead's brow; 290 The fig, which, large as what in India grows, Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes; The vine, which, like a blushing new-made bride, Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side; The yew, which, in the place of sculptured stone, Marks out the resting-place of men unknown; The hedge-row elm; the pine, of mountain race; The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place; The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud, Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud 300 Of such a child, and his vast body laid Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade; The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 310 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The showers, which make the young hills, like young lambs, Bound and rebound; the old hills, like old rams, Unwieldy, jump for joy; the streams which glide, Whilst Plenty marches smiling by their side, And from their bosom rising Commerce springs; The winds, which rise with healing on their wings, Before whose cleansing breath Contagion flies; The sun, who, travelling in eastern skies, 320 Fresh, full of strength, just risen from his bed, Though in Jove's pastures they were born and bred, With voice and whip can scarce make his steeds stir, Step by step, up the perpendicular; Who, at the hour of eve, panting for rest, Rolls on amain, and gallops down the west As fast as Jehu, oil'd for Ahab's sin, Drove for a crown, or postboys for an inn; The moon, who holds o'er night her silver reign, Regent of tides, and mistress of the brain, 330 Who to her sons, those sons who own her power, And do her homage at the midnight hour, Gives madness as a blessing, but dispenses Wisdom to fools, and damns them with their senses; The stars, who, by I know not what strange right, Preside o'er mortals in their own despite, Who, without reason, govern those who most (How truly, judge from thence!) of reason boast, And, by some mighty magic yet unknown, Our actions guide, yet cannot guide their own; 340 All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, Morning and eve, as they in turn appear; 350 Moments and minutes, which, without a crime, Can't be omitted in accounts of time, Or, if omitted, (proof we might afford) Worthy by parliaments to be restored; The hours, which, dress'd by turns in black and white, Ordain'd as handmaids, wait on Day and Night; The day, those hours, I mean, when light presides, And Business in a cart with Prudence rides; The night, those hours, I mean, with darkness hung, When Sense speaks free, and Folly holds her tongue; 360 The morn, when Nature, rousing from her strife With death-like sleep, awakes to second life; The eve, when, as unequal to the task, She mercy from her foe descends to ask; The week, in which six days are kindly given To think of earth, and one to think of heaven; The months, twelve sisters, all of different hue, Though there appears in all a likeness too; Not such a likeness as, through Hayman's[153] works, Dull mannerist! in Christians, Jews, and Turks, 370 Cloys with a sameness in each female face, But a strange something, born of Art and Grace, Which speaks them all, to vary and adorn, At different times of the same parents born; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 380 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Frore January, leader of the year, Minced-pies in van, and calves' heads in the rear; Dull February, in whose leaden reign My mother bore a bard without a brain; March, various, fierce, and wild, with wind-crack'd cheeks, By wilder Welshmen led, and crown'd with leeks; April, with fools, and May, with bastards bless'd; June, with White Roses on her rebel breast; 390 July, to whom, the Dog-star in her train, Saint James[154] gives oysters, and Saint Swithin rain; August[155], who, banish'd from her Smithfield stand, To Chelsea flies, with Doggett in her hand; September, when by custom (right divine) Geese are ordain'd to bleed at Michael's shrine, Whilst the priest, not so full of grace as wit, Falls to, unbless'd, nor gives the saint a bit; October, who the cause of Freedom join'd, And gave a second George[156] to bless mankind; 400 November, who, at once to grace our earth, Saint Andrew boasts, and our Augusta's[157] birth; December, last of months, but best, who gave A Christ to man, a Saviour to the slave, Whilst, falsely grateful, man, at the full feast, To do God honour makes himself a beast; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, 410 The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The seasons as they roll; Spring, by her side Lechery and Lent, lay-folly and church-pride, By a rank monk to copulation led, A tub of sainted salt-fish on her head; Summer, in light transparent gauze array'd, Like maids of honour at a masquerade, 420 In bawdry gauze, for which our daughters leave The fig, more modest, first brought up by Eve, Panting for breath, inflamed with lustful fires, Yet wanting strength to perfect her desires, Leaning on Sloth, who, fainting with the heat, Stops at each step, and slumbers on his feet; Autumn, when Nature, who with sorrow feels Her dread foe Winter treading on her heels, Makes up in value what she wants in length, Exerts her powers, and puts forth all her strength, 430 Bids corn and fruits in full perfection rise, Corn fairly tax'd, and fruits without excise; Winter, benumb'd with cold, no longer known By robes of fur, since furs became our own; A hag, who, loathing all, by all is loathed, With weekly, daily, hourly, libels clothed, Vile Faction at her heels, who, mighty grown, Would rule the ruler, and foreclose the throne, Would turn all state affairs into a trade, Make laws one day, the next to be unmade, 440 Beggar at home, a people fear'd abroad, And, force defeated, make them slaves by fraud; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? 450 The year, grand circle! in whose ample round The seasons regular and fix'd are bound, (Who, in his course repeated o'er and o'er, Sees the same things which he had seen before; The same stars keep their watch, and the same sun Runs in the track where he from first hath run; The same moon rules the night; tides ebb and flow; Man is a puppet, and this world a show; Their old dull follies, old dull fools pursue, And vice in nothing, but in mode, is new; 460 He —— a lord (now fair befall that pride, He lived a villain, but a lord he died) Dashwood is pious, Berkeley[158] fix'd as Fate, Sandwich (thank Heaven!) first minister of state; And, though by fools despised, by saints unbless'd, By friends neglected, and by foes oppress'd, Scorning the servile arts of each court elf, Founded on honour, Wilkes is still himself) The year, encircled with the various train Which waits, and fills the glories of his reign, 470 Shall, taking up this theme, in chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Thus far in sport—nor let our critics hence, Who sell out monthly trash, and call it sense, 480 Too lightly of our present labours deem, Or judge at random of so high a theme: High is our theme, and worthy are the men To feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen; But when kind Time a proper season brings, In serious mood to treat of serious things, Then shall they find, disdaining idle play, That I can be as grave and dull as they. Thus far in sport—nor let half patriots, those Who shrink from every blast of Power which blows, 490 Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own; Who (lest bold truths, to do sage Prudence spite, Should burst the portals of their lips by night, Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep) Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap; When brave Occasion bids, for some great end, When Honour calls the poet as a friend, Then shall they find that, e'en on Danger's brink, He dares to speak what they scarce dare to think. 500

BOOK II.

How much mistaken are the men who think That all who will, without restraint may drink, May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst, Pleading no right but merely that of thirst, At the pure waters of the living well, Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell! Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy, A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy May play untaught, whilst, without art or force, Make it but jingle, music comes of course. 10 Little do such men know the toil, the pains, The daily, nightly racking of the brains, To range the thoughts, the matter to digest, To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest; To know the times when Humour on the cheek Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak, And when be silent; when to use the powers Of ornament, and how to place the flowers, So that they neither give a tawdry glare, 'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;' 20 To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one, One critic in an age, can find when done) To form a plan, to strike a grand outline, To fill it up, and make the picture shine A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time; To make proud Sense against her nature bend, And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend. Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe, Who make it all their business to describe, 30 No matter whether in or out of place; Studious of finery, and fond of lace, Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings, The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings. Let dull Propriety in state preside O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide; Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense, Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time. 40 Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon, With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon; Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore, Let streams meander, and let torrents roar; Let them breed up the melancholy breeze, To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees; Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed, They have their wish; like idle monarch boys, Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys; 50 Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe, Who will may take the power, and rule the globe. Others there are, who, in one solemn pace, With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace, Railing at needful ornament, depend On Sense to bring them to their journey's end: They would not (Heaven forbid!) their course delay, Nor for a moment step out of the way, To make the barren road those graces wear Which Nature would, if pleased, have planted there. 60 Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan, Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man; Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land, Scorn every thing they do not understand; Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste, Let all their little knowledge run to waste, And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear The robes of Learning with a sloven's air. Though solid reasoning arms each sterling line, Though Truth declares aloud, 'This work is mine,' Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep, 70 Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep. Sense, mere dull, formal Sense, in this gay town, Must have some vehicle to pass her down; Nor can she for an hour insure her reign, Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train. Let her from day to day, from year to year, In all her grave solemnities appear, And with the voice of trumpets, through the streets, Deal lectures out to every one she meets; 80 Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other half Can hear indeed, but only hear to laugh. Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride! Taking for once Experience as a guide, Quit this grand error, this dull college mode; Be your pursuits the same, but change the road; Write, or at least appear to write, with ease, 'And if you mean to profit, learn to please.' In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim, Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name: 90 Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the man Who thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan! This, in himself, himself of course must bless, But cannot with the world promote success. He may be strong, but, with effect to speak, Should recollect his readers may be weak; Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear, Will make the sinner tremble and despair. True Virtue acts from love, and the great end At which she nobly aims is to amend. 100 How then do those mistake who arm her laws With rigour not their own, and hurt the cause They mean to help, whilst with a zealot rage They make that goddess, whom they'd have engage Our dearest love, in hideous terror rise! Such may be honest, but they can't be wise. In her own full and perfect blaze of light, Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight; The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense, Shuts herself up in darkness for defence: 110 But to make strong conviction deeper sink, To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think, Like God, made man, she lays her glory by, And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye: In earnest most, when most she seems in jest, She worms into, and winds around, the breast, To conquer Vice, of Vice appears the friend, And seems unlike herself to gain her end. The sons of Sin, to while away the time Which lingers on their hands, of each black crime 120 To hush the painful memory, and keep The tyrant Conscience in delusive sleep, Read on at random, nor suspect the dart Until they find it rooted in their heart. 'Gainst vice they give their vote, nor know at first That, cursing that, themselves too they have cursed; They see not, till they fall into the snares, Deluded into virtue unawares. Thus the shrewd doctor, in the spleen-struck mind, When pregnant horror sits, and broods o'er wind, 130 Discarding drugs, and striving how to please, Lures on insensibly, by slow degrees, The patient to those manly sports which bind The slacken'd sinews, and relieve the mind; The patient feels a change as wrought by stealth, And wonders on demand to find it health. Some few, whom Fate ordain'd to deal in rhymes In other lands, and here, in other times, Whom, waiting at their birth, the midwife Muse Sprinkled all over with Castalian dews, 140 To whom true Genius gave his magic pen, Whom Art by just degrees led up to men; Some few, extremes well shunn'd, have steer'd between These dangerous rocks, and held the golden mean; Sense in their works maintains her proper state, But never sleeps, or labours with her weight; Grace makes the whole look elegant and gay, But never dares from Sense to run astray: So nice the master's touch, so great his care, The colours boldly glow, not idly glare; 150 Mutually giving and receiving aid, They set each other off, like light and shade, And, as by stealth, with so much softness blend, 'Tis hard to say where they begin or end: Both give us charms, and neither gives offence; Sense perfects Grace, and Grace enlivens Sense. Peace to the men who these high honours claim, Health to their souls, and to their memories fame! Be it my task, and no mean task, to teach A reverence for that worth I cannot reach: 160 Let me at distance, with a steady eye, Observe and mark their passage to the sky; From envy free, applaud such rising worth, And praise their heaven, though pinion'd down to earth! Had I the power, I could not have the time, Whilst spirits flow, and life is in her prime, Without a sin 'gainst Pleasure, to design A plan, to methodise each thought, each line Highly to finish, and make every grace, In itself charming, take new charms from place. 170 Nothing of books, and little known of men, When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen, Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down. Rough as they run, discharge them on the town. Hence rude, unfinish'd brats, before their time, Are born into this idle world of Rhyme, And the poor slattern Muse is brought to bed 'With all her imperfections on her head.' Some, as no life appears, no pulses play Through the dull dubious mass, no breath makes way, 180 Doubt, greatly doubt, till for a glass they call, Whether the child can be baptized at all; Others, on other grounds, objections frame, And, granting that the child may have a name, Doubt, as the sex might well a midwife pose, Whether they should baptize it Verse or Prose. E'en what my masters please; bards, mild, meek men, In love to critics, stumble now and then. Something I do myself, and something too, If they can do it, leave for them to do. 190 In the small compass of my careless page Critics may find employment for an age: Without my blunders, they were all undone; I twenty feed, where Mason can feed one. When Satire stoops, unmindful of her state, To praise the man I love, curse him I hate; When Sense, in tides of passion borne along, Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song, The censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds, With as high relish on the carrion feeds 200 As the proud earl fed at a turtle feast, Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast, Ate till his bowels gush'd upon the floor, Yet still ate on, and dying call'd for more. When loose Digression, like a colt unbroke, Spurning Connexion and her formal yoke, Bounds through the forest, wanders far astray From the known path, and loves to lose her way, 'Tis a full feast to all the mongrel pack To run the rambler down, and bring her back. 210 When gay Description, Fancy's fairy child, Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild, Waking with Nature at the morning hour To the lark's call, walks o'er the opening flower Which largely drank all night of heaven's fresh dew, And, like a mountain nymph of Dian's crew, So lightly walks, she not one mark imprints, Nor brushes off the dews, nor soils the tints; When thus Description sports, even at the time That drums should beat, and cannons roar in rhyme, 220 Critics can live on such a fault as that From one month to the other, and grow fat. Ye mighty Monthly Judges! in a dearth Of letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worth Of my materials, which against your will Oft you've confess'd, and shall confess it still; Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought, Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought Take, use them as your own, a work begin Which suits your genius well, and weave them in, 230 Framed for the critic loom, with critic art, Till, thread on thread depending, part on part, Colour with colour mingling, light with shade, To your dull taste a formal work is made, And, having wrought them into one grand piece, Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece. Nor think this much, for at one single word, Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard, Science attends their call; their power is own'd; Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned: 240 Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'd At means, as atoms danced into a world. Me higher business calls, a greater plan, Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man, The good of man committed to my charge: If idle Fancy rambles forth at large, Careless of such a trust, these harmless lays May Friendship envy, and may Folly praise. The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume, And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! 250 O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth! To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth, My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn, How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?— For monarchs, would they all but think like me, Are only fathers in the best degree) How must thy glories fade, in every land Thy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty hand Be shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd, Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd, 260 Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile, The boast of ages, which adorns the isle And makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad, Happy at home, secure from force and fraud; How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raised On a firm rock, by friends admired and praised, Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all, In one short moment into ruins fall, Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race, Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace 270 Thy royal seat of empire! But what care, What sorrow must be mine, what deep despair And self-reproaches, should that hated line Admittance gain through any fault of mine! Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring, Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king. Let War, with all his needy ruffian band, In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's land Knee-deep in blood; let all her stately towers Sink in the dust; that court which now is ours 280 Become a den, where beasts may, if they can, A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man; Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found; Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground; Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills; Barren the cattle on her thousand hills; Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey; Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray; Let cormorants in churches make their nest, And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest; 290 Be all, though princes in the earth before, Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more; Much rather would I, might the will of Fate Give me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd state By ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down, Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown. Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host, Those servants who their Maker know, who boast Obedience as their glory, and fulfil, Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will; 300 Let raging winds root up the boiling deep, And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep; Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye, Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky; Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise; Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes; Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think, In the deep gulf let all my subjects sink Before my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel; Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel, 310 Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod, And, having own'd the justice of my God, Myself with firmness to the ruin give, And die with those for whom I wish to live. This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decrees Ne'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!) This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear; But that the Stuart race my crown should wear, That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shone Bright as the glories of the midday sun; 320 Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule, Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school, To the whip crouch and tremble—Oh, that thought! The labouring brain is e'en to madness brought By the dread vision; at the mere surmise The thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise; My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats, And, turn me where I will, distraction meets. O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms, The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms 330 To high achievements; can your spirits bend, Through base control (ye never can descend So low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain, Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign? If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide, Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride, The tyranny and falsehood of those lords, Contents you not, search England's fair records; England, where first the breath of life I drew, Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due; 340 There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand, They rule no more, to curse that happy land. The first,[160] who, from his native soil removed, Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved: Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which spring In souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king; Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws. To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause; On practices most mean he raised his pride, And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. 350 Ne'er could he feel how truly man is blest In blessing those around him; in his breast, Crowded with follies, Honour found no room; Mark'd for a coward in his mother's womb, He was too proud without affronts to live, Too timorous to punish or forgive. To gain a crown which had, in course of time, By fair descent, been his without a crime, He bore a mother's exile; to secure A greater crown, he basely could endure 360 The spilling of her blood by foreign knife, Nor dared revenge her death who gave him life: Nay, by fond Pear, and fond Ambition led, Struck hands with those by whom her blood was shed.[161] Call'd up to power, scarce warm on England's throne, He fill'd her court with beggars from his own: Turn where you would, the eye with Scots was caught, Or English knaves, who would be Scotsmen thought. To vain expense unbounded loose he gave, The dupe of minions, and of slaves the slave; 370 On false pretences mighty sums he raised, And damn'd those senates rich, whom poor he praised; From empire thrown, and doom'd to beg her bread, On foreign bounty whilst a daughter fed, He lavish'd sums, for her received, on men Whose names would fix dishonour on my pen. Lies were his playthings, parliaments his sport; Book-worms and catamites engross'd the court: Vain of the scholar, like all Scotsmen since, The pedant scholar, he forgot the prince; 380 And having with some trifles stored his brain, Ne'er learn'd, nor wish'd to learn, the art to reign. Enough he knew, to make him vain and proud, Mock'd by the wise, the wonder of the crowd; False friend, false son, false father,[162] and false king, False wit, false statesman, and false everything, When he should act, he idly chose to prate, And pamphlets wrote, when he should save the state. Religious, if religion holds in whim; To talk with all, he let all talk with him; 390 Not on God's honour, but his own intent, Not for religion's sake, but argument; More vain if some sly, artful High-Dutch slave, Or, from the Jesuit school, some precious knave Conviction feign'd, than if, to peace restored By his full soldiership, worlds hail'd him lord. Power was his wish, unbounded as his will, The power, without control, of doing ill; But what he wish'd, what he made bishops preach, And statesmen warrant, hung within his reach 400 He dared not seize; Fear gave, to gall his pride, That freedom to the realm his will denied. Of treaties fond, o'erweening of his parts, In every treaty of his own mean arts He fell the dupe; peace was his coward care, E'en at a time when Justice call'd for war: His pen he'd draw to prove his lack of wit, But rather than unsheath the sword, submit. Truth fairly must record; and, pleased to live In league with Mercy, Justice may forgive 410 Kingdoms betray'd, and worlds resign'd to Spain, But never can forgive a Raleigh slain. At length, (with white let Freedom mark that year) Not fear'd by those whom most he wish'd to fear, Not loved by those whom most he wish'd to love, He went to answer for his faults above; To answer to that God, from whom alone He claim'd to hold, and to abuse the throne; Leaving behind, a curse to all his line, The bloody legacy of Right Divine.[163] 420 With many virtues which a radiance fling Round private men; with few which grace a king, And speak the monarch; at that time of life When Passion holds with Reason doubtful strife, Succeeded Charles, by a mean sire undone, Who envied virtue even in a son. His youth was froward, turbulent, and wild; He took the Man up ere he left the Child; His soul was eager for imperial sway, Ere he had learn'd the lesson to obey. 430 Surrounded by a fawning, flattering throng, Judgment each day grew weak, and humour strong; Wisdom was treated as a noisome weed, And all his follies left to run to seed. What ills from such beginnings needs must spring! What ills to such a land from such a king! What could she hope! what had she not to fear! Base Buckingham[164] possess'd his youthful ear; Strafford and Laud, when mounted on the throne, Engross'd his love, and made him all their own; 440 Strafford and Laud, who boldly dared avow The traitorous doctrine taught by Tories now; Each strove to undo him in his turn and hour, The first with pleasure, and the last with power. Thinking (vain thought, disgraceful to the throne!) That all mankind were made for kings alone; That subjects were but slaves; and what was whim, Or worse, in common men, was law in him; Drunk with Prerogative, which Fate decreed To guard good kings, and tyrants to mislead; 450 Which in a fair proportion to deny Allegiance dares not; which to hold too high, No good can wish, no coward king can dare, And, held too high, no English subject bear; Besieged by men of deep and subtle arts, Men void of principle, and damn'd with parts, Who saw his weakness, made their king their tool, Then most a slave, when most he seem'd to rule; Taking all public steps for private ends, Deceived by favourites, whom he called friends, 460 He had not strength enough of soul to find That monarchs, meant as blessings to mankind, Sink their great state, and stamp their fame undone, When what was meant for all, they give to one. Listening uxorious whilst a woman's prate[165] Modell'd the church, and parcell'd out the state, Whilst (in the state not more than women read) High-churchmen preach'd, and turn'd his pious head; Tutor'd to see with ministerial eyes; Forbid to hear a loyal nation's cries; 470 Made to believe (what can't a favourite do?) He heard a nation, hearing one or two; Taught by state-quacks himself secure to think, And out of danger e'en on danger's brink; Whilst power was daily crumbling from his hand, Whilst murmurs ran through an insulted land, As if to sanction tyrants Heaven was bound, He proudly sought the ruin which he found. Twelve years, twelve tedious and inglorious years,[166] Did England, crush'd by power, and awed by fears, 480 Whilst proud Oppression struck at Freedom's root, Lament her senates lost, her Hampden mute. Illegal taxes and oppressive loans, In spite of all her pride, call'd forth her groans; Patience was heard her griefs aloud to tell, And Loyalty was tempted to rebel. Each day new acts of outrage shook the state, New courts were raised to give new doctrines weight; State inquisitions kept the realm in awe, And cursed Star-Chambers made or ruled the law; 490 Juries were pack'd, and judges were unsound; Through the whole kingdom not one Pratt was found. From the first moments of his giddy youth He hated senates, for they told him truth. At length, against his will compell'd to treat, Those whom he could not fright, he strove to cheat; With base dissembling every grievance heard, And, often giving, often broke his word. Oh, where shall hapless Truth for refuge fly, If kings, who should protect her, dare to lie? 500 Those who, the general good their real aim, Sought in their country's good their monarch's fame; Those who were anxious for his safety; those Who were induced by duty to oppose, Their truth suspected, and their worth unknown, He held as foes and traitors to his throne; Nor found his fatal error till the hour Of saving him was gone and past; till power Had shifted hands, to blast his hapless reign, Making their faith and his repentance vain. 510 Hence (be that curse confined to Gotham's foes!) War, dread to mention, Civil War arose; All acts of outrage, and all acts of shame, Stalk'd forth at large, disguised with Honour's name; Rebellion, raising high her bloody hand, Spread universal havoc through the land; With zeal for party, and with passion drunk, In public rage all private love was sunk; Friend against friend, brother 'gainst brother stood, And the son's weapon drank the father's blood; 520 Nature, aghast, and fearful lest her reign Should last no longer, bled in every vein. Unhappy Stuart! harshly though that name Grates on my ear, I should have died with shame To see my king before his subjects stand, And at their bar hold up his royal hand; At their commands to hear the monarch plead, By their decrees to see that monarch bleed. What though thy faults were many and were great? What though they shook the basis of the state? 530 In royalty secure thy person stood, And sacred was the fountain of thy blood. Vile ministers, who dared abuse their trust, Who dared seduce a king to be unjust, Vengeance, with Justice leagued, with Power made strong, Had nobly crush'd—'The king could do no wrong.' Yet grieve not, Charles! nor thy hard fortunes blame; They took thy life, but they secured thy fame. Their greatest crimes made thine like specks appear, From which the sun in glory is not clear. 540 Hadst thou in peace and years resign'd thy breath At Nature's call; hadst thou laid down in death As in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borne On the four winds, had been in pieces torn. Pity, the virtue of a generous soul, Sometimes the vice, hath made thy memory whole. Misfortunes gave what Virtue could not give, And bade, the tyrant slain, the martyr live. Ye Princes of the earth! ye mighty few! Who, worlds subduing, can't yourselves subdue; 550 Who, goodness scorn'd, wish only to be great; Whose breath is blasting, and whose voice is fate; Who own no law, no reason, but your will, And scorn restraint, though 'tis from doing ill; Who of all passions groan beneath the worst, Then only bless'd when they make others cursed; Think not, for wrongs like these, unscourged to live; Long may ye sin, and long may Heaven forgive; But when ye least expect, in sorrow's day, Vengeance shall fall more heavy for delay; 560 Nor think that vengeance heap'd on you alone Shall (poor amends!) for injured worlds atone; No, like some base distemper, which remains, Transmitted from the tainted father's veins, In the son's blood, such broad and general crimes Shall call down vengeance e'en to latest times, Call vengeance down on all who bear your name, And make their portion bitterness and shame. From land to land for years compell'd to roam, Whilst Usurpation lorded it at home, 570 Of majesty unmindful, forced to fly, Not daring, like a king, to reign or die, Recall'd to repossess his lawful throne, More at his people's seeking than his own, Another Charles succeeded. In the school Of Travel he had learn'd to play the fool; And, like pert pupils with dull tutors sent To shame their country on the Continent, From love of England by long absence wean'd, From every court he every folly glean'd, 580 And was—so close do evil habits cling— Till crown'd, a beggar; and when crown'd, no king. Those grand and general powers, which Heaven design'd, An instance of his mercy to mankind, Were lost, in storms of dissipation hurl'd, Nor would he give one hour to bless a world; Lighter than levity which strides the blast, And, of the present fond, forgets the past, He changed and changed, but, every hope to curse, Changed only from one folly to a worse: 590 State he resign'd to those whom state could please; Careless of majesty, his wish was ease; Pleasure, and pleasure only, was his aim; Kings of less wit might hunt the bubble Fame; Dignity through his reign was made a sport, Nor dared Decorum show her face at court; Morality was held a standing jest, And Faith a necessary fraud at best. Courtiers, their monarch ever in their view, Possess'd great talents, and abused them too; 600 Whate'er was light, impertinent, and vain, Whate'er was loose, indecent, and profane, (So ripe was Folly, Folly to acquit) Stood all absolved in that poor bauble, Wit. In gratitude, alas! but little read, He let his father's servants beg their bread— His father's faithful servants, and his own, To place the foes of both around his throne. Bad counsels he embraced through indolence, Through love of ease, and not through want of sense; 610 He saw them wrong, but rather let them go As right, than take the pains to make them so. Women ruled all, and ministers of state Were for commands at toilets forced to wait: Women, who have, as monarchs, graced the land, But never govern'd well at second-hand. To make all other errors slight appear, In memory fix'd, stand Dunkirk[167] and Tangier;[168] In memory fix'd so deep, that Time in vain Shall strive to wipe those records from the brain, 620 Amboyna[169] stands—Gods! that a king could hold In such high estimate vile paltry gold, And of his duty be so careless found, That when the blood of subjects from the ground For vengeance call'd, he should reject their cry, And, bribed from honour, lay his thunders by, Give Holland peace, whilst English victims groan'd, And butcher'd subjects wander'd unatoned! Oh, dear, deep injury to England's fame, To them, to us, to all! to him deep shame! 630 Of all the passions which from frailty spring, Avarice is that which least becomes a king. To crown the whole, scorning the public good, Which through his reign he little understood, Or little heeded, with too narrow aim He reassumed a bigot brother's claim, And having made time-serving senates bow, Suddenly died—that brother best knew how. No matter how—he slept amongst the dead, And James his brother reigned in his stead: 640 But such a reign—so glaring an offence In every step 'gainst freedom, law, and sense, 'Gainst all the rights of Nature's general plan, 'Gainst all which constitutes an Englishman, That the relation would mere fiction seem, The mock creation of a poet's dream; And the poor bards would, in this sceptic age, Appear as false as their historian's page. Ambitious Folly seized the seat of Wit, Christians were forced by bigots to submit; 650 Pride without sense, without religion Zeal, Made daring inroads on the Commonweal; Stern Persecution raised her iron rod, And call'd the pride of kings, the power of God; Conscience and Fame were sacrificed to Rome, And England wept at Freedom's sacred tomb. Her laws despised, her constitution wrench'd From its due natural frame, her rights retrench'd Beyond a coward's sufferance, conscience forced, And healing Justice from the Crown divorced, 660 Each moment pregnant with vile acts of power, Her patriot Bishops sentenced to the Tower, Her Oxford (who yet loves the Stuart name) Branded with arbitrary marks of shame, She wept—but wept not long: to arms she flew, At Honour's call the avenging sword she drew, Turn'd all her terrors on the tyrant's head, And sent him in despair to beg his bread; Whilst she, (may every State in such distress Dare with such zeal, and meet with such success!) 670 Whilst she, (may Gotham, should my abject mind Choose to enslave rather than free mankind, Pursue her steps, tear the proud tyrant down, Nor let me wear if I abuse the crown!) Whilst she, (through every age, in every land, Written in gold, let Revolution stand!) Whilst she, secured in liberty and law, Found what she sought, a saviour in Nassau.

Book III

Can the fond mother from herself depart?[170] Can she forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed; To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live? Yes, from herself the mother may depart, She may forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed, 10 To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live; But I cannot forget, whilst life remains, And pours her current through these swelling veins, Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine; But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine. Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast tear her young child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone? 20 Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast may tear her child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone; But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er The love of Gotham from this bosom tear; Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert From its fair course, to do my people hurt. With how much ease, with how much confidence— As if, superior to each grosser sense, 30 Reason had only, in full power array'd, To manifest her will, and be obey'd— Men make resolves, and pass into decrees The motions of the mind! with how much ease, In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw, And bring to nothing what was raised to law! In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne, The dangers and the sweets of power unknown, Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child, Whose little senses each new toy turns wild, 40 How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown, And wanton with dominion, how lay down, Without the sanction of a precedent, Rules of most large and absolute extent; Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring, And all at once commence a Patriot King! But, for the day of trial is at hand, And the whole fortunes of a mighty land Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe Must from my good or evil conduct flow, 50 Will I, or can I, on a fair review, As I assume that name, deserve it too? Have I well weigh'd the great, the noble part I'm now to play? have I explored my heart, That labyrinth of fraud, that deep dark cell, Where, unsuspected e'en by me, may dwell Ten thousand follies? have I found out there What I am fit to do, and what to bear? Have I traced every passion to its rise, Nor spared one lurking seed of treacherous vice? 60 Have I familiar with my nature grown? And am I fairly to myself made known? A Patriot King!—why, 'tis a name which bears The more immediate stamp of Heaven; which wears The nearest, best resemblance we can show Of God above, through all his works below. To still the voice of Discord in the land; To make weak Faction's discontented band, Detected, weak, and crumbling to decay, With hunger pinch'd, on their own vitals prey; 70 Like brethren, in the self-same interests warm'd, Like different bodies, with one soul inform'd; To make a nation, nobly raised above All meaner thought, grow up in common love; To give the laws due vigour, and to hold That secret balance, temperate, yet bold, With such an equal hand, that those who fear May yet approve, and own my justice clear; To be a common father, to secure The weak from violence, from pride the poor; 80 Vice and her sons to banish in disgrace, To make Corruption dread to show her face; To bid afflicted Virtue take new state, And be at last acquainted with the great; Of all religions to elect the best, Nor let her priests be made a standing jest; Rewards for worth with liberal hand to carve, To love the arts, nor let the artists starve; To make fair Plenty through the realm increase, Give fame in war, and happiness in peace; 90 To see my people virtuous, great, and free, And know that all those blessings flow from me; Oh! 'tis a joy too exquisite, a thought Which flatters Nature more than flattery ought; 'Tis a great, glorious task, for man too hard; But no less great, less glorious the reward, The best reward which here to man is given, 'Tis more than earth, and little short of heaven; A task (if such comparison may be) The same in Nature, differing in degree, 100 Like that which God, on whom for aid I call, Performs with ease, and yet performs to all. How much do they mistake, how little know Of kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow From royalty, who fancy that a crown, Because it glistens, must be lined with down! With outside show, and vain appearance caught, They look no further, and, by Folly taught, Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find One of the many cares which lurk behind. 110 The gem they worship which a crown adorns, Nor once suspect that crown is lined with thorns. Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply, Would we one moment use her piercing eye, Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs, And learn to pity, not to envy kings! The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, 120 His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labour his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power. Call'd up by health, he rises with the day, And goes to work, as if he went to play, Whistling off toils, one half of which might make The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake; 'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint, Harden'd by constant use, without complaint 130 He bears what we should think it death to bear; Short are his meals, and homely is his fare; His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook, Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook. When the dews fall, and when the sun retires Behind the mountains, when the village fires, Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh, At distance catch, and fix his longing eye, Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food, 140 Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride 'Gainst his return is happy to provide; Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps. Not so the king—with anxious cares oppress'd His bosom labours, and admits not rest: A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight Of majesty, and gives up ease for state. E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride, Are treasured and preserved from side to side, 150 Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form, He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm. Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone, With all her nest of vipers, round his throne By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep, Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep; When Misery herself no more complains, And slaves, if possible, forget their chains; Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim, That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. 160 E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids; From night to night she watches at his bed; Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head; Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings, Croaks forth aloud—'Sleep was not made for kings!' Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball, Who rules most absolute o'er me and all; To whom, by full conviction taught to bow, At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow; 170 Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since, (bless'd be that season, for before I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more, One of the herd, a lump of common clay, Inform'd with life, to die and pass away) Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne, With full and ample power, became my own; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, 180 Since sleep, kind sleep! who like a friend supplies New vigour for new toil, hath closed these eyes. Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success, And I am made an instrument to bless The people whom I love, shall I repine;