Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine. Mindful of that high rank in which I stand, Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land, Let me,—and Reason shall her aid afford,— Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord. 190 With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown, Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown 'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while Meets his own vices with a partial smile. How can a king (yet on record we find Such kings have been, such curses of mankind) Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf Which conscience tells him he hath broke himself? Can he some petty rogue to justice call For robbing one, when he himself robs all? 200 Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye, To scourge the oppressor, when the State, distress'd And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd? Against himself doth he not sentence give; If one must die, t' other's not fit to live. Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground. All envy power in others, and complain Of that which they would perish to obtain. 210 Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold, Not to be awed by threats, nor bought with gold, Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway Makes it their real interest to obey; When kings, and none but fools can then rebel, Not less in virtue, than in power, excel. Be that my object, that my constant care, And may my soul's best wishes centre there; Be it my task to seek, nor seek in vain, Not only how to live, but how to reign; 220 And to those virtues which from Reason spring, And grace the man, join those which grace the king. First, (for strict duty bids my care extend And reach to all who on that care depend, Bids me with servants keep a steady hand, And watch o'er all my proxies in the land) First, (and that method Reason shall support) Before I look into, and purge my court, Before I cleanse the stable of the State, Let me fix things which to myself relate. 230 That done, and all accounts well settled here, In resolution firm, in honour clear, Tremble, ye slaves! who dare abuse your trust, Who dare be villains, when your king is just. Are there, amongst those officers of state, To whom our sacred power we delegate, Who hold our place and office in the realm, Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm; Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease, Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees, 240 And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent, To speak a language which they never meant; Are there such men, and can the fools depend On holding out in safety to their end? Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free, Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me, To think that I will prove a statesman's tool, And live a stranger where I ought to rule? What! to myself and to my state unjust, Shall I from ministers take things on trust, 250 And, sinking low the credit of my throne, Depend upon dependants of my own? Shall I,—most certain source of future cares,— Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs? Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state, Have nothing but the name of being great; Attend at councils which I must not weigh; Do what they bid, and what they dictate, say; Enrobed, and hoisted up into my chair, Only to be a royal cipher there? 260 Perish the thought—'tis treason to my throne— And who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known Insults me more than he, who, leagued with Hell, Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel. The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues A train of guilt; who acts with double views, And wears a double face; whose base designs Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support; Who seizes all departments; packs a court; 270 Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat, To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete; New-models armies, and around the throne Will suffer none but creatures of his own, Conscious of such his baseness, well may try, Against the light to shut his master's eye, To keep him coop'd, and far removed from those Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose, Nor ever let him in one place appear, Where truth, unwelcome truth, may wound his ear. 280 Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves proclaim, And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim. Kings must be blind into such snares to run, Or, worse, with open eyes must be undone. The minister of honesty and worth Demands the day to bring his actions forth; Calls on the sun to shine with fiercer rays, And braves that trial which must end in praise. None fly the day, and seek the shades of night, But those whose actions cannot bear the light; 290 None wish their king in ignorance to hold But those who feel that knowledge must unfold Their hidden guilt; and, that dark mist dispell'd By which their places and their lives are held, Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led, In vengeance fall on every traitor's head. Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit, And rust in chains like these? shall I give way, And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey 300 To power abused, in ignorance sit down, Nor dare assert the honour of my crown? When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name Justly belongs to those whose only aim, Is to preserve their country; who oppose, In honour leagued, none but their country's foes; Who only seek their own, and found their cause In due regard for violated laws) When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels, 310 A nation up in arms, though strong not proud, Knocks at the palace gate, and, calling loud For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen, A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men: How must that king be humbled, how disgrace All that is royal in his name and place, Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance No other plea but that of ignorance! A vile defence, which, was his all at stake, The meanest subject well might blush to make; 320 A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs; A stain to all, but most a stain to kings. The soul with great and manly feelings warm'd, Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform'd; And shall not I, fired with the glorious zeal, Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel? Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow To me, whose first great duty is—to know? Hence, Ignorance!—thy settled, dull, blank eye Would hurt me, though I knew no reason why. 330 Hence, Ignorance!—thy slavish shackles bind The free-born soul, and lethargise the mind. Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn On every meaner match, of thee was born That grave inflexibility of soul, Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control; Which neither arguments nor prayers can reach, And nothing less than utter ruin teach. Hence, Ignorance!—hence to that depth of night Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light 340 May wound thine eye—hence to some dreary cell Where monks with superstition love to dwell; Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride, And with the heads of colleges reside; Fit mate for Royalty thou canst not be, And if no mate for kings, no mate for me. Come, Study! like a torrent swell'd with rains, Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind, Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind; 350 Come, Study!—painful though thy course, and slow, Thy real worth by thy effects we know— Parent of Knowledge, come!—Not thee I call, Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh Things which, when found, thy labours can't repay— Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade, A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd, A hornbook gilt and letter'd, call I thee, Who dost in form preside o'er A, B, C: 360 Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms, As 'twere by magic, lure men to thine arms) Do I call thee, who, through a winding maze, A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways, Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains, Where, in full glory, real Science reigns; Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye, Though full rewards in thy possession lie To crown man's wish, and do thy favourites grace; Though (was I station'd in an humbler place) 370 I could be ever happy in thy sight, Toil with thee all the day, and through the night, Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy; Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow) Must I thy sweet society forego, And to some happy rival's arms resign Those charms which can, alas! no more be mine! No more from hour to hour, from day to day, Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way 380 Where eager love of science calls; no more Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before; No more, the mountain scaled, the desert cross'd, Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost, Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn to night, From night to morn, yet travel with delight, And having found thee, lay me down content, Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent. Farewell, ye Muses too!—for such mean things Must not presume to dwell with mighty kings— 390 Farewell, ye Muses! though it cuts my heart E'en to the quick, we must for ever part. When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake; When the birds, sweetly twittering through the brake, Tune their soft pipes; when, from the neighbouring bloom Sipping the dew, each zephyr stole perfume; When all things with new vigour were inspired, And seem'd to say they never could be tired; How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme Deceived the way and clipp'd the wings of Time, 400 O'er hill, o'er dale; how often laugh'd to see, Yourselves made visible to none but me, The clown, his works suspended, gape and stare, And seem to think that I conversed with air! When the sun, beating on the parched soil, Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil; When a faint langour crept through every breast, And things most used to labour wish'd for rest, How often, underneath a reverend oak, Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke, 410 Some sacred Dryad lived; or in some grove, Where, with capricious fingers, Fancy wove Her fairy bower, whilst Nature all the while Look'd on, and view'd her mockeries with a smile, Have we held converse sweet! How often laid, Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade, Amongst those poets which make up your train, And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain, Have I, at your command, in verse grown gray, But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay 420 Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere, And kept him from his office listening here! When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train, Led on by Silence to resume her reign, With darkness covering, as with a robe, The scene of levity, blank'd half the globe; How oft, enchanted with your heavenly strains, Which stole me from myself; which in soft chains Of music bound my soul; how oft have I, Sounds more than human floating through the sky, 430 Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will, Transported with the harmony, stood still! How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear, Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there; Still heard their music, and, as mute as death, Sat all attention, drew in every breath, Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound, And mar that magic excellence of sound; Then, Sense returning with return of day, Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away! 440 Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore, Such were my mates, but now my mates no more. Placed out of Envy's walk, (for Envy, sure, Would never haunt the cottage of the poor, Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays) With some few friends, and some small share of praise, Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife, In peace I trod the humble vale of life. Farewell, these scenes of ease, this tranquil state; Welcome the troubles which on empire wait! 450 Light toys from this day forth I disavow; They pleased me once, but cannot suit me now: To common men all common things are free, What honours them, might fix disgrace on me. Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand, Are all engross'd; each private view withstood, And task'd to labour for the public good: Be this my study; to this one great end May every thought, may every action tend! 460 Let me the page of History turn o'er, The instructive page, and needfully explore What faithful pens of former times have wrote Of former kings; what they did worthy note, What worthy blame; and from the sacred tomb Where righteous monarchs sleep, where laurels bloom, Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine, Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine. Nor let me with a vain and idle eye Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly, 470 Quick as the post, which travels day and night; Nor let me dwell there, lured by false delight; And, into barren theory betray'd, Forget that monarchs are for action made. When amorous Spring, repairing all his charms, Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms, Where, like a virgin to some lecher sold, Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold; When the weak flower, which, shrinking from the breath Of the rude North, and timorous of death, 480 To its kind mother earth for shelter fled, And on her bosom hid its tender head, Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder sties, Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise; The hive is up in arms—expert to teach, Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch; Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch, The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies, From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs 490 With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers, which, left, Find not themselves made poorer by the theft, Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair, As if the pillager had not been there. Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing; Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of Spring Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest; Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse 500 Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils, To her own private use convert the spoils. Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam, And to the stock she brings her booty home. Be this my pattern—as becomes a king, Let me fly all abroad on Reason's wing; Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the earth Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth, In any place and time, nor let one man, Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan, 510 Escape my note; be all, from the first day Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey. From those whom Time, at the desire of Fame, Hath spared, let Virtue catch an equal flame; From those who, not in mercy, but in rage, Time hath reprieved, to damn from age to age, Let me take warning, lesson'd to distil, And, imitating Heaven, draw good from ill. Nor let these great researches, in my breast A monument of useless labour rest; 520 No—let them spread—the effects let Gotham share, And reap the harvest of their monarch's care: Be other times, and other countries known, Only to give fresh blessings to my own. Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly, On whom for needful succour I rely In this great hour, that glorious God of truth, Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth, Assist my weakness, and direct me right; From every speck which hangs upon the sight 530 Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain To spread the shades of Error o'er my brain!) Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought, Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought, Examine well on what my power depends; What are the general principles and ends Of government; how empire first began; And wherefore man was raised to reign o'er man. Let me consider, as from one great source We see a thousand rivers take their course, 540 Dispersed, and into different channels led, Yet by their parent still supplied and fed, That Government, (though branch'd out far and wide, In various modes to various lands applied) Howe'er it differs in its outward frame, In the main groundwork's every where the same; The same her view, though different her plan, Her grand and general view—the good of man. Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams, What system in itself most perfect seems, 550 Most worthy man, most likely to conduce To all the purposes of general use; Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason tried, It fails, when to particulars applied; Why in that mode all nations do not join, And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine. Let me the gradual rise of empires trace, Till they seem founded on Perfection's base; Then (for when human things have made their way To excellence, they hasten to decay) 560 Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue Step after step to their decline pursue, Enabled by a chain of facts to tell Not only how they rose, but why they fell. Let me not only the distempers know Which in all states from common causes grow, But likewise those, which, by the will of Fate, On each peculiar mode of empire wait; Which in its very constitution lurk, Too sure at last to do its destined work: 570 Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each symptom learn, That I my people's danger may discern, Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure, And, if it can be found, find out a cure. Let me, (though great, grave brethren of the gown Preach all Faith up, and preach all Reason down, Making those jar whom Reason meant to join, And vesting in themselves a right divine), Let me, through Reason's glass, with searching eye, Into the depth of that religion pry 580 Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air, We well may change; and what, without a crime, Cannot be changed to the last hour of time. Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal Which, without knowledge, furious bigots feel, Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound, These separate points at random to confound. The times have been when priests have dared to tread, Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head; 590 When, whilst they made religion a pretence, Out of the world they banish'd common-sense; When some soft king, too open to deceit, Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat, Duped by mock piety, and gave his name To serve the vilest purposes of shame. Pear not, my people! where no cause of fear Can justly rise—your king secures you here; Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod, Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God. 600 Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid Their monarch to behold what they wish hid, And for the purposes of knavish gain, Would have their trade a mystery remain) Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe, Dive to the very bottom of the law; Let me (the weak, dead letter left behind) Search out the principles, the spirit find, Till, from the parts, made master of the whole, I see the Constitution's very soul. 610 Let me, (though statesmen will no doubt resist, And to my eyes present a fearful list Of men, whose wills are opposite to mine, Of men, great men, determined to resign) Let me, (with firmness, which becomes a king. Conscious from what a source my actions spring, Determined not by worlds to be withstood, When my grand object is my country's good) Unravel all low ministerial scenes, Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means, 620 And track them step by step; let me well know How places, pensions, and preferments go; Why Guilt's provided for when Worth is not, And why one man of merit is forgot; Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside, And dare to know my way without a guide. Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud, Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,— As if the sun shone with less powerful ray, Less grace, less glory, shining every day,— 630 Though when she comes forth into public sight, Unbending as a ghost, she stalks upright, With such an air as we have often seen, And often laugh'd at, in a tragic queen, Nor, at her presence, though base myriads crook The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look) Let me, (all vain parade, all empty pride, All terrors of dominion laid aside, All ornament, and needless helps of art, All those big looks, which speak a little heart) 640 Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known) How Affability becomes a throne, Destroys all fear, bids Love with Reverence live, And gives those graces Pride can never give. Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state, And, hating all men, fear return of hate, Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne, Secure from all upbraidings but his own: Let all my subjects have access to me, Be my ears open, as my heart is free; 650 In full fair tide let information flow; That evil is half cured, whose cause we know. And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing, Who art afraid to look up to a king, Lay by thy fears; make but thy grievance plain, And, if I not redress thee, may my reign Close up that very moment. To prevent The course of Justice from her vain intent, In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead, In vain my mother kneel; my soul may bleed, 660 But must not change. When Justice draws the dart, Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart, 'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim— I know it duty, and I feel it fame.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[148] 'Gotham:' is designed as a satire on England and its kings, and as a picture of what a king of England should be. The first book is a wild and fanciful bravura.

[149] 'Mandeville:' the famous lying traveller.

[150] 'Monmouth:' in Wales, once visited, and ever afterwards hated by the poet.

[151] 'Bonnell Thornton:' author of a humorous burlesque, 'Ode on St Cecilia's Day.' See Boswell.

[152] 'William Boyce:' a celebrated musician.

[153] 'Hayman:' Francis Hayman, the painter, was monotonous in his style.

[154] 'Saint James:' The 25th of July, St James's day, or the first day of oysters.

[155] 'August:' alluding to a rowing match, held on 1st August, in honour of George the First's accession; instituted by one Doggett, an actor, &c.

[156] 'George:' George the Second was born on the 30th of October 1683.

[157] 'Augusta:' wife of Frederic, Prince of Wales, a great friend of Lord Bute's.

[159] 'Colonel Norborne Berkeley:' second to Lord Talbot in his duel with Wilkes.

[160] 'First:' James the First.

[161] 'Blood was shed:' Secretary Cecil, who had been a bitter foe of Queen Mary, and became a favourite of James.

[162] 'False father:' alluding to the death of the very promising Prince Henry, popularly supposed to have been hated and removed by his father.

[163] 'Right Divine:' see, as a per contra to this fierce invective against poor 'King Jamie,' Scott's 'Fortunes of Nigel.'

[164] 'Buckingham:' George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham.

[165] 'Woman's prate:' Henrietta, the intriguing Queen of Charles the First.

[166] 'Inglorious years:' no parliament was summoned from 1628 to 1640.

[167] 'Dunkirk:' Dunkirk was, in 1662, sold by Charles the Second to the French for L400,000.

[168] 'Tangier:' Tangier, in Africa, was also shamefully sacrificed by Charles the Second.

[169] 'Amboyna:' where the Dutch inflicted dreadful and unavenged cruelties on the English. This happened, however, in 1622, under James the First, not Charles the Second.

[170] Isa. xlix. 15.



THE AUTHOR.[171]

Accursed the man, whom Fate ordains, in spite, And cruel parents teach, to read and write! What need of letters? wherefore should we spell? Why write our names? A mark will do as well. Much are the precious hours of youth misspent, In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent; When to the top the bold adventurer's got, He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot; Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below, Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow; 10 Honours and wealth pour in on every side, And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide. O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste, To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste, To bear the slavish drudgery of schools, And tamely stoop to every pedant's rules; For seven long years debarr'd of liberal ease, To plod in college trammels to degrees; Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan, Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown; 20 To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare tale, And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail; Manhood with vile submission to disgrace, And cap the fool, whose merit is his place, Vice-Chancellors, whose knowledge is but small, And Chancellors, who nothing know at all: Ill-brook'd the generous spirit in those days When learning was the certain road to praise, When nobles, with a love of science bless'd, Approved in others what themselves possess'd. 30 But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne, When lordly vassals her wide empire own; When Wit, seduced by Envy, starts aside, And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride; What, now, should tempt us, by false hopes misled, Learning's unfashionable paths to tread; To bear those labours which our fathers bore, That crown withheld, which they in triumph wore? When with much pains this boasted learning's got, 'Tis an affront to those who have it not: 40 In some it causes hate, in others fear, Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer. With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool Forgets the little which he learn'd at school: The elder brother, to vast fortunes born, Looks on all science with an eye of scorn; Dependent brethren the same features wear, And younger sons are stupid as the heir. In senates, at the bar, in church and state, Genius is vile, and learning out of date. 50 Is this—oh, death to think!—is this the land Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand? Where heroes, parent-like, the poet view'd, By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd? Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays, And by their patrons sanctified their praise? Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue, Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung? Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled, Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled? 60 Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd, And wonder'd at the work herself had made? Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large? Where, finding in our laws a sure defence, She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense? Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side, She spread her sacred empire far and wide; Pointed the way, Affliction to beguile, And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile; 70 Bade those, who dare obey the generous call, Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all? Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign, When a weak, wicked, ministerial train, The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'd Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd Those wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause, Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws; When Power was taught by Meanness where to go, Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe; 80 When, like a leprous plague, from the foul head To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread; Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd; And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain, Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain? Is this the land, where, in those worst of times, The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek; 90 Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe, And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law? How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls, Whom Folly guides, and Prejudice controls; Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod, Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God; Who, breathing by one musty set of rules, Dote from their birth, and are by system fools; Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth, Lies of the day prefer to gospel truth; 100 Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews, And lay out all their stock of faith in news; How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like these, Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please, Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime, And hold not truth, as truth, if told in rhyme! How do I laugh, when Publius,[172] hoary grown In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own, By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn In mood and figure at the helm to yawn, 110 Too mean (the worst of curses Heaven can send) To have a foe, too proud to have a friend; Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old, Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness choose; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; Bids her, indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, 120 Along the church-way path complain with Gray, Or dance with Mason on the first of May! 'All sacred is the name and power of kings; All states and statesmen are those mighty things Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll, Were never made for poets to control.' Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme. I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round, In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found: 130 (Our God alone except) above whose height The poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, though there all praise is weak; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach; Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoarse throat, And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note, Should an afflicted country, awed by men Of slavish principles, demand his pen. 140 This is a great, a glorious point of view, Fit for an English poet to pursue; Undaunted to pursue, though, in return, His writings by the common hangman burn How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed Above their betters, and by rank disgraced, Who found their pride on titles which they stain, And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain; Who would a bill of privilege prefer, And treat a poet like a creditor; 150 The generous ardour of the Muse condemn, And curse the storm they know must break on them! 'What! shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown, Without one badge of merit but his own, Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men, Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?' What's in this name of lord, that I should fear To bring their vices to the public ear? Flows not the honest blood of humble swains Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins? 160 Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow, Cannot make virtues in succession flow. Wouldst thou, proud man! be safely placed above The censure of the Muse? Deserve her love: Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought; Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught, Who earn'd those honours thou wert born to wear, Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir. But if, regardless of the road to fame, You start aside, and tread the paths of shame; 170 If such thy life, that should thy sire arise, The sight of such a son would blast his eyes, Would make him curse the hour which gave thee birth, Would drive him shuddering from the face of earth, Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead In endless night to hide his reverend head; If such thy life, though kings had made thee more Than ever king a scoundrel made before; Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring, Though God in vengeance had made thee a king, 180 Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee, trembling, to the light, Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air. Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave, Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart! How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, 190 Whilst on his trembling lip pale Anger speaks, And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks) He talks of Conscience, which good men secures From all those evil moments Guilt endures, And seems to laugh at those who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard. 'Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway The mind of man, must always make her way; Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. 200 The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course; within the hour, Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life. All things her prey, and every man her aim, I can no patent for exemption claim, Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart; Though pointed at myself, be Satire free; To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me.' 210 Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There, unrebuked, these wild, vain doctrines preach. Lives there a man whom Satire cannot reach? Lives there a man who calmly can stand by, And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye? When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. 220 When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy memory be forgot, Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times. Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride, And own those passions which thou shalt not hide. Sandwich, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth, Who never dared, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, 230 Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit, Those actions which he blush'd not to commit. Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame. But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, graced the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood, The bad to punish, and reward the good; 240 When, to a flame by public virtue wrought, The foes of freedom they to justice brought, And dared expose those slaves who dared support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court? Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose. Is there an Author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; 250 Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns, for slavery roar aloud; Others, half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollett write, makes Johnson dumb. Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by? Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake? No, no, like other worldlings, you will find He shifts his sails and catches every wind. 260 His soul the shock of Interest can't endure: Give him a pension then, and sin secure. With laurell'd wreaths the flatterer's brows adorn: Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn; Bid cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight, Murphy shall prove, or try to prove it right. Try, thou state-juggler, every paltry art; Ransack the inmost closet of my heart; Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way Into my breast, and flatter to betray. 270 Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome doubt Detects the fraud, and points the villain out; Bribe those who daily at my board are fed, And make them take my life who eat my bread. On Authors for defence, for praise depend; Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend: He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes, To varnish guilt, and consecrate thy crimes; To make Corruption in false colours shine, And damn his own good name, to rescue thine. 280 But, if thy niggard hands their gifts withhold, And Vice no longer rains down showers of gold, Expect no mercy; facts, well-grounded, teach, Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach. What though each man of nice and juster thought, Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honour taught, He ne'er can be a friend, who stoops so low To be the base betrayer of a foe? What though, with thine together link'd, his name Must be with thine transmitted down to shame? 290 To every manly feeling callous grown, Rather than not blast thine, he 'll blast his own. To ope the fountain whence sedition springs, To slander government, and libel kings; With Freedom's name to serve a present hour, Though born and bred to arbitrary power; To talk of William with insidious art, Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart; And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome head, Flattering the living, to abuse the dead, 300 Where is Shebbeare?[173] Oh, let not foul reproach, Travelling thither in a city-coach, The pillory dare to name: the whole intent Of that parade was fame, not punishment; And that old staunch Whig, Beardmore,[174] standing by, Can in full court give that report the lie. With rude unnatural jargon to support, Half-Scotch, half-English, a declining court; To make most glaring contraries unite, And prove beyond dispute that black is white; 310 To make firm Honour tamely league with Shame, Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name; To prove that chains and freedom are but one, That to be saved must mean to be undone, Is there not Guthrie?[175] Who, like him, can call All opposites to proof, and conquer all? He calls forth living waters from the rock; He calls forth children from the barren stock; He, far beyond the springs of Nature led, Makes women bring forth after they are dead; 320 He, on a curious, new, and happy plan, In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man; And to complete the whole, most strange, but true, By some rare magic, makes them fruitful too; Whilst from their loins, in the due course of years, Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's 'English Peers.' Dost thou contrive some blacker deed of shame, Something which Nature shudders but to name, Something which makes the soul of man retreat, And the life-blood run backward to her seat? 330 Dost thou contrive, for some base private end, Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend; To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, And promise life, to work him surer death? Grown old in villany, and dead to grace, Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face, Behold, a parson at thy elbow stands, Lowering damnation, and with open hands, Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward, The Atheist chaplain of an Atheist lord![176] 340 Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed, Ere it was known that I should learn to read; Though that was nothing, for my friends, who knew What mighty Dulness of itself could do, Never design'd me for a working priest, But hoped I should have been a Dean at least: Condemn'd, (like many more, and worthier men, To whom I pledge the service of my pen)[177] Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd sons of lawn, Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn) 350 In pomp of reverend beggary to appear, To pray, and starve on forty pounds a-year: My friends, who never felt the galling load, Lament that I forsook the packhorse road, Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears, In throwing off that gown which Francis[178] wears. What creature's that, so very pert and prim, So very full of foppery, and whim, So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet, So fit to prattle at a lady's feet; 360 Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod, And by his garb appears a man of God? Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show; The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd beau; That's an informer; what avails the name? Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came. His tongue is deadly—from his presence run, Unless thy rage would wish to be undone. No ties can hold him, no affection bind, And fear alone restrains his coward mind; 370 Free him from that, no monster is so fell, Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in Hell. His silken smiles, his hypocritic air, His meek demeanour, plausible and fair, Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way, And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey. Attend his church—his plan of doctrine view— The preacher is a Christian, dull, but true; But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er, That plan of doctrine's never thought of more; 380 Christ is laid by neglected on the shelf, And the vile priest is gospel to himself. By Cleland[179] tutor'd, and with Blacow[180] bred, (Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led, Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame, Ere this, had damn'd to everlasting shame) Their steps he follows, and their crimes partakes; To virtue lost, to vice alone he wakes, Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes, And whilst he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes. 390 Are these the arts which policy supplies? Are these the steps by which grave churchmen rise? Forbid it, Heaven; or, should it turn out so, Let me and mine continue mean and low. Such be their arts whom interest controls; Kidgell[181] and I have free and modest souls: We scorn preferment which is gain'd by sin, And will, though poor without, have peace within.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[171] 'The Author:' published in 1763. For this poem and 'The Duellist,' Churchill received L450.

[172] 'Publius:' Smollett.

[173] 'Shebbeare:' Dr John Shebbeare, a physician and notorious jacobitical writer, who, after having been pilloried for a seditious production, was pensioned by George the Third.

[174] 'Beardmore:' under sheriff.

[175] 'Guthrie:' William Guthrie, a literary hack. See Boswell. He wrote an absurd History of the Peerage.

[176] 'Atheist lord:' See note on 'Epistle to William Hogarth.'

[177] 'Service of my pen:' he designed, and partly executed, a poem entitled 'The Curate.'

[178] 'Francis:' the Rev. Philip Francis, the translator of Horace, and father of Sir Philip Francis.

[179] 'Cleland:' John Cleland, an infamous witling of the time.

[180] 'Blacow:' an Oxfordian, who informed against some riotous students, who were shouting out drunken Jacobitism.

[181] 'Kidgell:' Rector of Horne, the subject of the above sketch, and here ironically praised, had obtained surreptitiously a copy of Wilkes's 'Essay on Woman,' and betrayed it to the secretaries of state.



THE CONFERENCE.[182]

Grace said in form, which sceptics must agree, When they are told that grace was said by me; The servants gone to break the scurvy jest On the proud landlord, and his threadbare guest; 'The King' gone round, my lady too withdrawn; My lord, in usual taste, began to yawn, And, lolling backward in his elbow-chair, With an insipid kind of stupid stare, Picking his teeth, twirling his seals about— Churchill, you have a poem coming out: 10 You've my best wishes; but I really fear Your Muse, in general, is too severe; Her spirit seems her interest to oppose, And where she makes one friend, makes twenty foes. C. Your lordship's fears are just; I feel their force, But only feel it as a thing of course. The man whose hardy spirit shall engage To lash, the vices of a guilty age, At his first setting forward ought to know That every rogue he meets must be his foe; 20 That the rude breath of satire will provoke Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke. But shall the partial rage of selfish men From stubborn Justice wrench the righteous pen? Or shall I not my settled course pursue, Because my foes are foes to Virtue too? L. What is this boasted Virtue, taught in schools, And idly drawn from antiquated rules? What is her use? Point out one wholesome end. Will she hurt foes, or can she make a friend? 30 When from long fasts fierce appetites arise, Can this same Virtue stifle Nature's cries? Can she the pittance of a meal afford, Or bid thee welcome to one great man's board? When northern winds the rough December arm With frost and snow, can Virtue keep thee warm? Canst thou dismiss the hard unfeeling dun Barely by saying, thou art Virtue's son? Or by base blundering statesmen sent to jail, Will Mansfield take this Virtue for thy bail? 40 Believe it not, the name is in disgrace; Virtue and Temple now are out of place. Quit then this meteor, whose delusive ray Prom wealth and honour leads thee far astray. True virtue means—let Reason use her eyes— Nothing with fools, and interest with the wise. Wouldst thou be great, her patronage disclaim, Nor madly triumph in so mean a name: Let nobler wreaths thy happy brows adorn, And leave to Virtue poverty and scorn. 50 Let Prudence be thy guide; who doth not know How seldom Prudence can with Virtue go? To be successful try thy utmost force, And Virtue follows as a thing of course. Hirco—who knows not Hirco?—stains the bed Of that kind master who first gave him bread; Scatters the seeds of discord through the land, Breaks every public, every private band; Beholds with joy a trusting friend undone; Betrays a brother, and would cheat a son: 60 What mortal in his senses can endure The name of Hirco? for the wretch is poor! Let him hang, drown, starve, on a dunghill rot, By all detested live, and die forgot; Let him—a poor return—in every breath Feel all Death's pains, yet be whole years in death, Is now the general cry we all pursue. Let Fortune change, and Prudence changes too; Supple and pliant, a new system feels, Throws up her cap, and spaniels at his heels: 70 Long live great Hirco, cries, by interest taught, And let his foes, though I prove one, be nought. C. Peace to such men, if such men can have peace; Let their possessions, let their state increase; Let their base services in courts strike root, And in the season bring forth golden fruit. I envy not; let those who have the will, And, with so little spirit, so much skill, With such vile instruments their fortunes carve; Rogues may grow fat, an honest man dares starve.[183] 80 L. These stale conceits thrown off, let us advance For once to real life, and quit romance. Starve! pretty talking! but I fain would view That man, that honest man, would do it too. Hence to yon mountain which outbraves the sky, And dart from pole to pole thy strengthen'd eye, Through all that space you shall not view one man, Not one, who dares to act on such a plan. Cowards in calms will say, what in a storm The brave will tremble at, and not perform. 90 Thine be the proof, and, spite of all you've said, You'd give your honour for a crust of bread. C. What proof might do, what hunger might effect, What famish'd Nature, looking with neglect On all she once held dear; what fear, at strife With fainting virtue for the means of life, Might make this coward flesh, in love with breath, Shuddering at pain, and shrinking back from death, In treason to my soul, descend to boar, Trusting to fate, I neither know nor care. 100 Once,—at this hour those wounds afresh I feel, Which, nor prosperity, nor time, can heal; Those wounds which Fate severely hath decreed, Mention'd or thought of, must for ever bleed; Those wounds which humbled all that pride of man, Which brings such mighty aid to Virtue's plan— Once, awed by Fortune's most oppressive frown, By legal rapine to the earth bow'd clown, My credit at last gasp, my state undone, Trembling to meet the shock I could not shun, 110 Virtue gave ground, and blank despair prevail'd; Sinking beneath the storm, my spirits fail'd Like Peter's faith, till one, a friend indeed— May all distress find such in time of need!— One kind good man, in act, in word, in thought, By Virtue guided, and by Wisdom taught, Image of Him whom Christians should adore, Stretch'd forth his hand, and brought me safe to shore.[184] Since, by good fortune into notice raised, And for some little merit largely praised, 120 Indulged in swerving from prudential rules, Hated by rogues, and not beloved by fools; Placed above want, shall abject thirst of wealth, So fiercely war 'gainst my soul's dearest health, That, as a boon, I should base shackles crave, And, born to freedom, make myself a slave? That I should in the train of those appear, Whom Honour cannot love, nor Manhood fear? That I no longer skulk from street to street, Afraid lest duns assail, and bailiffs meet; 130 That I from place to place this carcase bear; Walk forth at large, and wander free as air; That I no longer dread the awkward friend. Whose very obligations must offend; Nor, all too froward, with impatience burn At suffering favours which I can't return; That, from dependence and from pride secure, I am not placed so high to scorn the poor, Nor yet so low that I my lord should fear, Or hesitate to give him sneer for sneer; 140 That, whilst sage Prudence my pursuits confirms, I can enjoy the world on equal terms; That, kind to others, to myself most true, Feeling no want, I comfort those who do, And, with the will, have power to aid distress: These, and what other blessings I possess, From the indulgence of the public rise, All private patronage my soul defies. By candour more inclined to save, than damn, A generous Public made me what I am. 150 All that I have, they gave; just Memory bears The grateful stamp, and what I am is theirs. L. To feign a red-hot zeal for Freedom's cause, To mouth aloud for liberties and laws, For public good to bellow all abroad, Serves well the purposes of private fraud. Prudence, by public good intends her own; If you mean otherwise, you stand alone. What do we mean by country and by court? What is it to oppose? what to support? 160 Mere words of course; and what is more absurd Than to pay homage to an empty word? Majors and minors differ but in name; Patriots and ministers are much the same; The only difference, after all their rout, Is, that the one is in, the other out. Explore the dark recesses of the mind, In the soul's honest volume read mankind, And own, in wise and simple, great and small, The same grand leading principle in all. 170 Whate'er we talk of wisdom to the wise, Of goodness to the good, of public ties Which to our country link, of private bands Which claim most dear attention at our hands; For parent and for child, for wife and friend, Our first great mover, and our last great end Is one, and, by whatever name we call The ruling tyrant, Self is all in all. This, which unwilling Faction shall admit, Guided in different ways a Bute and Pitt; 180 Made tyrants break, made kings observe the law; And gave the world a Stuart and Nassau. Hath Nature (strange and wild conceit of pride!) Distinguished thee from all her sons beside? Doth virtue in thy bosom brighter glow, Or from a spring more pure doth action flow? Is not thy soul bound with those very chains Which shackle us? or is that Self, which reigns O'er kings and beggars, which in all we see Most strong and sovereign, only weak in thee? 190 Fond man, believe it not; experience tells 'Tis not thy virtue, but thy pride rebels. Think, (and for once lay by thy lawless pen) Think, and confess thyself like other men; Think but one hour, and, to thy conscience led By Reason's hand, bow down and hang thy head: Think on thy private life, recall thy youth, View thyself now, and own, with strictest truth, That Self hath drawn thee from fair Virtue's way Farther than Folly would have dared to stray; 200 And that the talents liberal Nature gave, To make thee free, have made thee more a slave. Quit then, in prudence quit, that idle train Of toys, which have so long abused thy brain. And captive led thy powers; with boundless will Let Self maintain her state and empire still; But let her, with more worthy objects caught, Strain all the faculties and force of thought To things of higher daring; let her range Through better pastures, and learn how to change; 210 Let her, no longer to weak Faction tied, Wisely revolt, and join our stronger side. C. Ah! what, my lord, hath private life to do With things of public nature? Why to view Would you thus cruelly those scenes unfold Which, without pain and horror to behold, Must speak me something more or less than man, Which friends may pardon, but I never can? Look back! a thought which borders on despair, Which human nature must, yet cannot bear. 220 'Tis not the babbling of a busy world, Where praise and censure are at random hurl'd, Which can the meanest of my thoughts control, Or shake one settled purpose of my soul; Free and at large might their wild curses roam, If all, if all, alas! were well at home. No—'tis the tale which angry Conscience tells, When she with more than tragic horror swells Each circumstance of guilt; when, stern but true, She brings bad actions forth into review; 230 And like the dread handwriting on the wall, Bids late Remorse awake at Reason's call; Arm'd at all points, bids scorpion Vengeance pass, And to the mind holds up Reflection's glass,— The mind which, starting, heaves the heartfelt groan, And hates that form she knows to be her own. Enough of this,—let private sorrows rest,— As to the public, I dare stand the test; Dare proudly boast, I feel no wish above The good of England, and my country's love. 240 Stranger to party-rage, by Reason's voice, Unerring guide! directed in my choice, Not all the tyrant powers of earth combined, No, nor of hell, shall make me change my mind. What! herd with men my honest soul disdains, Men who, with servile zeal, are forging chains For Freedom's neck, and lend a helping hand To spread destruction o'er my native land? What! shall I not, e'en to my latest breath, In the full face of danger and of death, 250 Exert that little strength which Nature gave, And boldly stem, or perish in the wave? L. When I look backward for some fifty years, And see protesting patriots turn'd to peers; Hear men, most loose, for decency declaim, And talk of character, without a name; See infidels assert the cause of God, And meek divines wield Persecution's rod; See men transferred to brutes, and brutes to men; See Whitehead take a place, Ralph[185] change his pen; 260 I mock the zeal, and deem the men in sport, Who rail at ministers, and curse a court. Thee, haughty as thou art, and proud in rhyme, Shall some preferment, offer'd at a time When Virtue sleeps, some sacrifice to Pride, Or some fair victim, move to change thy side. Thee shall these eyes behold, to health restored, Using, as Prudence bids, bold Satire's sword, Galling thy present friends, and praising those Whom now thy frenzy holds thy greatest foes. 270 C. May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) Be born a Whitehead,[186] and baptized a Paul; May I (though to his service deeply tied By sacred oaths, and now by will allied), With false, feign'd zeal an injured God defend, And use his name for some base private end; May I (that thought bids double horrors roll O'er my sick spirits, and unmans my soul) Ruin the virtue which I held most dear, And still must hold; may I, through abject fear, 280 Betray my friend; may to succeeding times, Engraved on plates of adamant, my crimes Stand blazing forth, whilst, mark'd with envious blot, Each little act of virtue is forgot; Of all those evils which, to stamp men cursed, Hell keeps in store for vengeance, may the worst Light on my head; and in my day of woe, To make the cup of bitterness o'erflow, May I be scorn'd by every man of worth, Wander, like Cain, a vagabond on earth; 200 Bearing about a hell in my own mind, Or be to Scotland for my life confined; If I am one among the many known Whom Shelburne[187] fled, and Calcraft[188] blush'd to own. L. Do you reflect what men you make your foes? C. I do, and that's the reason I oppose. Friends I have made, whom Envy must commend, But not one foe whom I would wish a friend. What if ten thousand Butes and Hollands bawl? One Wilkes had made a large amends for all. 300 'Tis not the title, whether handed down From age to age, or flowing from the crown In copious streams, on recent men, who came From stems unknown, and sires without a name: Tis not the star which our great Edward gave To mark the virtuous, and reward the brave, Blazing without, whilst a base heart within Is rotten to the core with filth and sin; 'Tis not the tinsel grandeur, taught to wait, At Custom's call, to mark a fool of state 310 From fools of lesser note, that soul can awe, Whose pride is reason, whose defence is law.

L. Suppose, (a thing scarce possible in art, Were it thy cue to play a common part) Suppose thy writings so well fenced in law, That Norton cannot find nor make a flaw— Hast thou not heard, that 'mongst our ancient tribes, By party warp'd, or lull'd asleep by bribes, Or trembling at the ruffian hand of Force, Law hath suspended stood, or changed its course? 320 Art thou assured, that, for destruction ripe, Thou may'st not smart beneath the self-same gripe? What sanction hast thou, frantic in thy rhymes, Thy life, thy freedom to secure?

G. The Times. 'Tis not on law, a system great and good, By wisdom penn'd, and bought by noblest blood, My faith relies; by wicked men and vain, Law, once abused, may be abused again. No; on our great Lawgiver I depend, Who knows and guides her to her proper end; 330 Whose royalty of nature blazes out So fierce, 'twere sin to entertain a doubt. Did tyrant Stuarts now the law dispense, (Bless'd be the hour and hand which sent them hence!) For something, or for nothing, for a word Or thought, I might be doom'd to death, unheard. Life we might all resign to lawless power, Nor think it worth the purchase of an hour; But Envy ne'er shall fix so foul a stain On the fair annals of a Brunswick's reign. 340 If, slave to party, to revenge, or pride; If, by frail human error drawn aside, I break the law, strict rigour let her wear; 'Tis hers to punish, and 'tis mine to bear; Nor, by the voice of Justice doom'd to death Would I ask mercy with my latest breath: But, anxious only for my country's good, In which my king's, of course, is understood; Form'd on a plan with some few patriot friends, Whilst by just means I aim at noblest ends, 350 My spirits cannot sink; though from the tomb Stern Jeffries should be placed in Mansfield's room; Though he should bring, his base designs to aid, Some black attorney, for his purpose made, And shove, whilst Decency and Law retreat, The modest Norton from his maiden seat; Though both, in ill confederates, should agree, In damned league, to torture law and me, Whilst George is king, I cannot fear endure; Not to be guilty, is to be secure. 360 But when, in after-times, (be far removed That day!) our monarch, glorious and beloved, Sleeps with his fathers, should imperious Fate, In vengeance, with fresh Stuarts curse our state; Should they, o'erleaping every fence of law, Butcher the brave to keep tame fools in awe; Should they, by brutal and oppressive force, Divert sweet Justice from her even course; Should they, of every other means bereft, Make my right hand a witness 'gainst my left; 370 Should they, abroad by inquisitions taught, Search out my soul, and damn me for a thought; Still would I keep my course, still speak, still write, Till Death had plunged me in the shades of night. Thou God of truth, thou great, all-searching eye, To whom our thoughts, our spirits, open lie! Grant me thy strength, and in that needful hour, (Should it e'er come) when Law submits to Power, With firm resolve my steady bosom steel, Bravely to suffer, though I deeply feel. 380 Let me, as hitherto, still draw my breath, In love with life, but not in fear of death; And if Oppression brings me to the grave, And marks me dead, she ne'er shall mark a slave. Let no unworthy marks of grief be heard, No wild laments, not one unseemly word; Let sober triumphs wait upon my bier; I won't forgive that friend who drops one tear. Whether he's ravish'd in life's early morn, Or in old age drops like an ear of corn, 390 Full ripe he falls, on Nature's noblest plan, Who lives to Reason, and who dies a Man.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[182] 'The Conference:' this poem was published by our author in November 1763, soon after his elopement with Miss Carr.

[183] 'Dares starve:' this will suggest Burns's noble line, 'We daur be poor, for a' that.'

[184] 'Shore:' Churchill, sunk in deep debt, was delivered from the impending horrors of a jail, by Dr Peirson Lloyd, second master of Westminster school.

[185] 'Ralph:' Mr James Ralph a hack author. See 'The Dunciad,' and Franklin's 'Autobiography.' He was hired by Pelham to abuse Sir R. Walpole, whom he had supported before.

[186] 'Whitehead:' author of 'Manners, a Satire.'

[187] 'Shelburne:' William Petty, Earl of Shelburne, afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne.

[188] 'Calcraft:' John Calcraft, Esq., M.P., army agent and contractor.



THE GHOST.[189]

In Four Books.

BOOK I.

With eager search to dart the soul, Curiously vain, from pole to pole, And from the planets' wandering spheres To extort the number of our years, And whether all those years shall flow Serenely smooth, and free from woe, Or rude misfortune shall deform Our life with one continual storm; Or if the scene shall motley be. Alternate joy and misery, 10 Is a desire which, more or less. All men must feel, though few confess. Hence, every place and every age Affords subsistence to the sage, Who, free from this world and its cares, Holds an acquaintance with the stars, From whom he gains intelligence Of things to come some ages hence, Which unto friends, at easy rates. He readily communicates. 20 At its first rise, which all agree on, This noble science was Chaldean; That ancient people, as they fed Their flocks upon the mountain's head, Gazed on the stars, observed their motions, And suck'd in astrologic notions, Which they so eagerly pursue, As folks are apt whate'er is new, That things below at random rove, Whilst they're consulting things above; 30 And when they now so poor were grown, That they'd no houses of their own, They made bold with their friends the stars, And prudently made use of theirs. To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd, And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd: The exotic science soon struck root, And flourish'd into high repute. Each learned priest, oh strange to tell! Could circles make, and cast a spell; 40 Could read and write, and taught the nation The holy art of divination. Nobles themselves, for at that time Knowledge in nobles was no crime, Could talk as learned as the priest, And prophesy as much, at least. Hence all the fortune-telling crew, Whose crafty skill mars Nature's hue, Who, in vile tatters, with smirch'd face, Run up and down from place to place, 50 To gratify their friends' desires, From Bampfield Carew,[190] to Moll Squires,[191] Are rightly term'd Egyptians all; Whom we, mistaking, Gypsies call. The Grecian sages borrow'd this, As they did other sciences, From fertile Egypt, though the loan They had not honesty to own. Dodona's oaks, inspired by Jove, A learned and prophetic grove, 60 Turn'd vegetable necromancers, And to all comers gave their answers. At Delphos, to Apollo dear, All men the voice of Fate might hear; Each subtle priest on three-legg'd stool, To take in wise men, play'd the fool. A mystery, so made for gain, E'en now in fashion must remain; Enthusiasts never will let drop What brings such business to their shop; 70 And that great saint we Whitefield call, Keeps up the humbug spiritual. Among the Romans, not a bird Without a prophecy was heard; Fortunes of empires often hung On the magician magpie's tongue, And every crow was to the state A sure interpreter of Fate. Prophets, embodied in a college[192] (Time out of mind your seat of knowledge; 80 For genius never fruit can bear Unless it first is planted there, And solid learning never falls Without the verge of college walls) Infallible accounts would keep When it was best to watch or sleep, To eat or drink, to go or stay, And when to fight or run away; When matters were for action ripe, By looking at a double tripe; 90 When emperors would live or die, They in an ass's skull could spy; When generals would their station keep, Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep. In matters, whether small or great, In private families or state As amongst us, the holy seer Officiously would interfere; With pious arts and reverend skill Would bend lay bigots to his will; 100 Would help or injure foes or friends, Just as it served his private ends. Whether in honest way of trade Traps for virginity were laid; Or if, to make their party great, Designs were form'd against the state, Regardless of the common weal, By interest led, which they call zeal, Into the scale was always thrown The will of Heaven to back their own. 110 England—a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow, Where without culture they arise And tower above the common size; England, a fortune-telling host, As numerous as the stars, could boast,— Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea, Who, versed in every modest lore, Can a lost maidenhead restore, 120 Or, if their pupils rather choose it, Can show the readiest way to lose it; Gypsies, who every ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor, Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepared by arts, to them best known, To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it As easily as pick a pocket; 130 Scotchmen, who, in their country's right, Possess the gift of second-sight, Who (when their barren heaths they quit, Sure argument of prudent wit, Which reputation to maintain, They never venture back again) By lies prophetic heap up riches, And boast the luxury of breeches. Amongst the rest, in former years, Campbell[193] (illustrious name!) appears, 140 Great hero of futurity, Who, blind, could every thing foresee, Who, dumb, could every thing foretell, Who, Fate with equity to sell, Always dealt out the will of Heaven According to what price was given. Of Scottish race, in Highlands born, Possess'd with native pride and scorn, He hither came, by custom led, To curse the hands which gave him bread. 150 With want of truth, and want of sense, Amply made up by impudence (A succedaneum, which we find In common use with all mankind); Caress'd and favour'd too by those Whose heart with patriot feelings glows, Who foolishly, where'er dispersed, Still place their native country first; (For Englishmen alone have sense To give a stranger preference, 160 Whilst modest merit of their own Is left in poverty to groan) Campbell foretold just what he would, And left the stars to make it good, On whom he had impress'd such awe, His dictates current pass'd for law; Submissive, all his empire own'd; No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd. This sage deceased,—for all must die, And Campbell's no more safe than I, 170 No more than I can guard the heart, When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,— Succeeded, ripe in art and years, Another favourite of the spheres; Another and another came, Of equal skill, and equal fame; As white each wand, as black each gown, As long each beard, as wise each frown, In every thing so like, you'd swear Campbell himself was sitting there: 180 To all the happy art was known, To tell our fortunes, make their own. Seated in garret,—for, you know, The nearer to the stars we go The greater we esteem his art,— Fools, curious, flock'd from every part; The rich, the poor, the maid, the married, And those who could not walk, were carried. The butler, hanging down his head, By chambermaid, or cookmaid led, 190 Inquires, if from his friend the Moon He has advice of pilfer'd spoon. The court-bred woman of condition, (Who, to approve her disposition As much superior as her birth To those composed of common earth, With double spirit must engage In every folly of the age) The honourable arts would buy, To pack the cards, and cog a die. 200 The hero—who, for brawn and face, May claim right honourable place Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-row:[194] Who might, some thirty years ago, If we may be allow'd to guess At his employment by his dress, Put medicines off from cart or stage, The grand Toscano of the age; Or might about the country go High-steward of a puppet-show,— 210 Steward and stewardship most meet, For all know puppets never eat: Who would be thought (though, save the mark! That point is something in the dark) The man of honour, one like those Renown'd in story, who loved blows Better than victuals, and would fight, Merely for sport, from morn to night: Who treads like Mavors firm, whose tongue Is with the triple thunder hung, 220 Who cries to Fear, 'Stand off—aloof,' And talks as he were cannon-proof; Would be deem'd ready, when you list, With sword and pistol, stick and fist, Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks, At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box, But at the same time bears about, Within himself, some touch of doubt, Of prudent doubt, which hints—that fame Is nothing but an empty name; 230 That life is rightly understood By all to be a real good; That, even in a hero's heart, Discretion is the better part; That this same honour may be won, And yet no kind of danger run— Like Drugger[195] comes, that magic powers May ascertain his lucky hours; For at some hours the fickle dame, Whom Fortune properly we name, 240 Who ne'er considers wrong or right, When wanted most, plays least in sight, And, like a modern court-bred jilt, Leaves her chief favourites in a tilt. Some hours there are, when from the heart Courage into some other part, No matter wherefore, makes retreat, And Fear usurps the vacant seat; Whence, planet-struck, we often find Stuarts[196] and Sackvilles[197] of mankind. 250 Farther, he'd know (and by his art A conjurer can that impart) Whether politer it is reckon'd To have, or not to have, a second; To drag the friends in, or alone To make the danger all their own; Whether repletion is not bad, And fighters with full stomachs mad; Whether, before he seeks the plain, It were not well to breathe a vein; 260 Whether a gentle salivation, Consistently with reputation, Might not of precious use be found, Not to prevent, indeed, a wound, But to prevent the consequence Which oftentimes arises thence, Those fevers, which the patient urge on To gates of death, by help of surgeon; Whether a wind at east or west Is for green wounds accounted best; 270 Whether (was he to choose) his mouth Should point towards the north or south; Whether more safely he might use, On these occasions, pumps or shoes; Whether it better is to fight By sunshine or by candlelight; Or, lest a candle should appear Too mean to shine in such a sphere, For who could of a candle tell To light a hero into hell; 280 And, lest the sun should partial rise To dazzle one or t'other's eyes, Or one or t'other's brains to scorch, Might not Dame Luna hold a torch? These points with dignity discuss'd, And gravely fix'd,—a task which must Require no little time and pains, To make our hearts friends with our brains,— The man of war would next engage The kind assistance of the sage, 290 Some previous method to direct, Which should make these of none effect. Could he not, from the mystic school Of Art, produce some sacred rule, By which a knowledge might be got Whether men valiant were, or not; So he that challenges might write Only to those who would not fight? Or could he not some way dispense By help of which (without offence 300 To Honour, whose nice nature's such She scarce endures the slightest touch) When he, for want of t'other rule, Mistakes his man, and, like a fool, With some vain fighting blade gets in, He fairly may get out again? Or should some demon lay a scheme To drive him to the last extreme, So that he must confess his fears, In mercy to his nose and ears, 310 And like a prudent recreant knight, Rather do anything than fight, Could he not some expedient buy To keep his shame from public eye? For well he held,—and, men review, Nine in ten hold the maxim too,— That honour's like a maidenhead, Which, if in private brought to bed, Is none the worse, but walks the town, Ne'er lost, until the loss be known. 320 The parson, too, (for now and then Parsons are just like other men, And here and there a grave divine Has passions such as yours and mine) Burning with holy lust to know When Fate preferment will bestow, 'Fraid of detection, not of sin, With circumspection sneaking in To conjurer, as he does to whore, Through some bye-alley or back-door, 330 With the same caution orthodox Consults the stars, and gets a pox. The citizen, in fraud grown old, Who knows no deity but gold, Worn out, and gasping now for breath, A medicine wants to keep off death; Would know, if that he cannot have, What coins are current in the grave; If, when the stocks (which, by his power, Would rise or fall in half an hour; 340 For, though unthought of and unseen, He work'd the springs behind the screen) By his directions came about, And rose to par, he should sell out; Whether he safely might, or no, Replace it in the funds below? By all address'd, believed, and paid, Many pursued the thriving trade, And, great in reputation grown, Successive held the magic throne. 350 Favour'd by every darling passion, The love of novelty and fashion, Ambition, avarice, lust, and pride, Riches pour'd in on every side. But when the prudent laws thought fit To curb this insolence of wit; When senates wisely had provided, Decreed, enacted, and decided, That no such vile and upstart elves Should have more knowledge than themselves; 360 When fines and penalties were laid To stop the progress of the trade, And stars no longer could dispense, With honour, further influence; And wizards (which must be confess'd Was of more force than all the rest) No certain way to tell had got Which were informers, and which not; Affrighted sages were, perforce, Obliged to steer some other course. 370 By various ways, these sons of Chance Their fortunes labour'd to advance, Well knowing, by unerring rules, Knaves starve not in the land of fools. Some, with high titles and degrees, Which wise men borrow when they please, Without or trouble, or expense, Physicians instantly commence, And proudly boast an Equal skill With those who claim the right to kill. 380 Others about the country roam, (For not one thought of going home) With pistol and adopted leg, Prepared at once to rob or beg. Some, the more subtle of their race, (Who felt some touch of coward grace, Who Tyburn to avoid had wit, But never fear'd deserving it) Came to their brother Smollett's aid, And carried on the critic trade. 390 Attach'd to letters and the Muse, Some verses wrote, and some wrote news; Those each revolving month are seen, The heroes of a magazine; These, every morning, great appear In Ledger, or in Gazetteer, Spreading the falsehoods of the day, By turns for Faden and for Say.[198] Like Swiss, their force is always laid On that side where they best are paid: 400 Hence mighty prodigies arise, And daily monsters strike our eyes; Wonders, to propagate the trade, More strange than ever Baker[199] made, Are hawk'd about from street to street, And fools believe, whilst liars eat. Now armies in the air engage, To fright a superstitious age; Now comets through the ether range, In governments portending change; 410 Now rivers to the ocean fly So quick, they leave their channels dry; Now monstrous whales on Lambeth shore Drink the Thames dry, and thirst for more; And every now and then appears An Irish savage, numbering years More than those happy sages could Who drew their breath before the flood; Now, to the wonder of all people, A church is left without a steeple; 420 A steeple now is left in lurch, And mourns departure of the church, Which, borne on wings of mighty wind, Removed a furlong off we find; Now, wrath on cattle to discharge, Hailstones as deadly fall, and large, As those which were on Egypt sent, At once their crime and punishment; Or those which, as the prophet writes, Fell on the necks of Amorites, 430 When, struck with wonder and amaze, The sun, suspended, stay'd to gaze, And, from her duty longer kept, In Ajalon his sister slept. But if such things no more engage The taste of a politer age, To help them out in time of need Another Tofts[200] must rabbits breed: Each pregnant female trembling hears, And, overcome with spleen and fears, 440 Consults her faithful glass no more, But, madly bounding o'er the floor, Feels hairs all o'er her body grow, By Fancy turn'd into a doe. Now, to promote their private ends, Nature her usual course suspends, And varies from the stated plan Observed e'er since the world began. Bodies—which foolishly we thought, By Custom's servile maxims taught, 450 Needed a regular supply, And without nourishment must die— With craving appetites, and sense Of hunger easily dispense, And, pliant to their wondrous skill, Are taught, like watches, to stand still, Uninjured, for a month or more, Then go on as they did before. The novel takes, the tale succeeds, Amply supplies its author's needs, 460 And Betty Canning[201] is at least, With Gascoyne's help, a six months' feast. Whilst, in contempt of all our pains, The tyrant Superstition reigns Imperious in the heart of man, And warps his thoughts from Nature's plan; Whilst fond Credulity, who ne'er The weight of wholesome doubts could bear, To Reason and herself unjust, Takes all things blindly upon trust; 470 Whilst Curiosity, whose rage No mercy shows to sex or age, Must be indulged at the expense Of judgment, truth, and common sense, Impostures cannot but prevail; And when old miracles grow stale, Jugglers will still the art pursue, And entertain the world with new. For them, obedient to their will, And trembling at their mighty skill, 480 Sad spirits, summon'd from the tomb, Glide, glaring ghastly, through the gloom; In all the usual pomp of storms, In horrid customary forms, A wolf, a bear, a horse, an ape, As Fear and Fancy give them shape, Tormented with despair and pain, They roar, they yell, and clank the chain. Folly and Guilt (for Guilt, howe'er The face of Courage it may wear, 490 Is still a coward at the heart) At fear-created phantoms start. The priest—that very word implies That he's both innocent and wise— Yet fears to travel in the dark, Unless escorted by his clerk. But let not every bungler deem Too lightly of so deep a scheme; For reputation of the art, Each ghost must act a proper part, 500 Observe Decorum's needful grace, And keep the laws of Time and Place; Must change, with happy variation, His manners with his situation; What in the country might pass down, Would be impertinent in town. No spirit of discretion here Can think of breeding awe and fear; 'Twill serve the purpose more by half To make the congregation laugh. 510 We want no ensigns of surprise, Locks stiff with gore, and saucer eyes; Give us an entertaining sprite, Gentle, familiar, and polite, One who appears in such a form As might an holy hermit warm, Or who on former schemes refines, And only talks by sounds and signs, Who will not to the eye appear, But pays her visits to the ear, 520 And knocks so gently, 't would not fright A lady in the darkest night. Such is our Fanny, whose good-will, Which cannot in the grave lie still, Brings her on earth to entertain Her friends and lovers in Cock-lane.

BOOK II.

A sacred standard rule we find, By poets held time out of mind, To offer at Apollo's shrine, And call on one, or all the Nine. This custom, through a bigot zeal, Which moderns of fine taste must feel For those who wrote in days of yore, Adopted stands, like many more; Though every cause which then conspired To make it practised and admired, 10 Yielding to Time's destructive course, For ages past hath lost its force. With ancient bards, an invocation Was a true act of adoration, Of worship an essential part, And not a formal piece of art, Of paltry reading a parade, A dull solemnity in trade, A pious fever, taught to burn An hour or two, to serve a turn. 20 They talk'd not of Castalian springs, By way of saying pretty things, As we dress out our flimsy rhymes; 'T was the religion of the times; And they believed that holy stream With greater force made Fancy teem, Reckon'd by all a true specific To make the barren brain prolific: Thus Romish Church, (a scheme which bears Not half so much excuse as theirs) 30 Since Faith implicitly hath taught her, Reveres the force of holy water. The Pagan system, whether true Or false, its strength, like buildings, drew From many parts disposed to bear, In one great whole, their proper share. Each god of eminent degree To some vast beam compared might be; Each godling was a peg, or rather A cramp, to keep the beams together: 40 And man as safely might pretend From Jove the thunderbolt to rend, As with an impious pride aspire To rob Apollo of his lyre. With settled faith and pious awe, Establish'd by the voice of Law, Then poets to the Muses came, And from their altars caught the flame. Genius, with Phoebus for his guide, The Muse ascending by his side, 50 With towering pinions dared to soar, Where eye could scarcely strain before. But why should we, who cannot feel These glowings of a Pagan zeal, That wild enthusiastic force, By which, above her common course, Nature, in ecstasy upborne, Look'd down on earthly things with scorn; Who have no more regard, 'tis known, For their religion than our own, 60 And feel not half so fierce a flame At Clio's as at Fisher's[202] name; Who know these boasted sacred streams Were mere romantic, idle dreams, That Thames has waters clear as those Which on the top of Pindus rose, And that, the fancy to refine, Water's not half so good as wine; Who know, if profit strikes our eye, Should we drink Helicon quite dry, 70 The whole fountain would not thither lead So soon as one poor jug from Tweed: Who, if to raise poetic fire, The power of beauty we require, In any public place can view More than the Grecians ever knew; If wit into the scale is thrown, Can boast a Lennox[203] of our own; Why should we servile customs choose, And court an antiquated Muse? 80 No matter why—to ask a reason, In pedant bigotry is treason. In the broad, beaten turnpike-road Of hacknied panegyric ode, No modern poet dares to ride Without Apollo by his side, Nor in a sonnet take the air, Unless his lady Muse be there; She, from some amaranthine grove, Where little Loves and Graces rove, 90 The laurel to my lord must bear, Or garlands make for whores to wear; She, with soft elegiac verse, Must grace some mighty villain's hearse, Or for some infant, doom'd by Fate To wallow in a large estate, With rhymes the cradle must adorn, To tell the world a fool is born. Since then our critic lords expect No hardy poet should reject 100 Establish'd maxims, or presume To place much better in their room, By nature fearful, I submit, And in this dearth of sense and wit— With nothing done, and little said, (By wild excursive Fancy led Into a second Book thus far, Like some unwary traveller, Whom varied scenes of wood and lawn, With treacherous delight, have drawn, 110 Deluded from his purposed way, Whom every step leads more astray: Who, gazing round, can no where spy, Or house, or friendly cottage nigh, And resolution seems to lack To venture forward, or go back) Invoke some goddess to descend, And help me to my journey's end; Though conscious Arrow all the while Hears the petition with a smile, 120 Before the glass her charms unfolds, And in herself my Muse beholds. Truth, Goddess of celestial birth, But little loved or known on earth, Whose power but seldom rules the heart, Whose name, with hypocritic art, An arrant stalking-horse is made, A snug pretence to drive a trade, An instrument, convenient grown, To plant more firmly Falsehood's throne, 130 As rebels varnish o'er their cause With specious colouring of laws, And pious traitors draw the knife In the king's name against his life; Whether (from cities far away, Where Fraud and Falsehood scorn thy sway) The faithful nymph's and shepherd's pride, With Love and Virtue by thy side, Your hours in harmless joys are spent Amongst the children of Content; 140 Or, fond of gaiety and sport, You tread the round of England's court, Howe'er my lord may frowning go, And treat the stranger as a foe, Sure to be found a welcome guest In George's and in Charlotte's breast; If, in the giddy hours of youth, My constant soul adhered to truth; If, from the time I first wrote Man, I still pursued thy sacred plan, 150 Tempted by Interest in vain To wear mean Falsehood's golden chain; If, for a season drawn away, Starting from Virtue's path astray, All low disguise I scorn'd to try, And dared to sin, but not to lie; Hither, oh! hither condescend, Eternal Truth! thy steps to bend, And favour him, who, every hour, Confesses and obeys thy power. 160 But come not with that easy mien By which you won the lively Dean; Nor yet assume that strumpet air Which Rabelais taught thee first to wear; Nor yet that arch ambiguous face Which with Cervantes gave thee grace; But come in sacred vesture clad, Solemnly dull, and truly sad! Far from thy seemly matron train Be idiot Mirth, and Laughter vain! 170 For Wit and Humour, which pretend At once to please us and amend, They are not for my present turn; Let them remain in France with Sterne. Of noblest City parents born, Whom wealth and dignities adorn, Who still one constant tenor keep, Not quite awake, nor quite asleep; With thee let formal Dulness come, And deep Attention, ever dumb, 180 Who on her lips her finger lays, Whilst every circumstance she weighs, Whose downcast eye is often found Bent without motion to the ground, Or, to some outward thing confined, Remits no image to the mind, No pregnant mark of meaning bears, But, stupid, without vision stares; Thy steps let Gravity attend, Wisdom's and Truth's unerring friend; 190 For one may see with half an eye, That Gravity can never lie, And his arch'd brow, pull'd o'er his eyes, With solemn proof proclaims him wise. Free from all waggeries and sports, The produce of luxurious courts, Where sloth and lust enervate youth, Come thou, a downright City-Truth: The City, which we ever find A sober pattern for mankind; 200 Where man, in equilibrio hung, Is seldom old, and never young, And, from the cradle to the grave, Not Virtue's friend nor Vice's slave; As dancers on the wire we spy, Hanging between the earth and sky. She comes—I see her from afar Bending her course to Temple-Bar; All sage and silent is her train, Deportment grave, and garments plain, 210 Such as may suit a parson's wear, And fit the headpiece of a mayor. By Truth inspired, our Bacon's force Open'd the way to Learning's source; Boyle through the works of Nature ran; And Newton, something more than man, Dived into Nature's hidden springs, Laid bare the principles of things, Above the earth our spirits bore, And gave us worlds unknown before. 220 By Truth inspired, when Lauder's[204] spite O'er Milton east the veil of night, Douglas arose, and through the maze Of intricate and winding ways, Came where the subtle traitor lay, And dragg'd him, trembling, to the day; Whilst he, (oh, shame to noblest parts, Dishonour to the liberal arts, To traffic in so vile a scheme!) Whilst he, our letter'd Polypheme,[205] 230 Who had confederate forces join'd, Like a base coward skulk'd behind. By Truth inspired, our critics go To track Fingal in Highland snow, To form their own and others' creed From manuscripts they cannot read. By Truth inspired, we numbers see Of each profession and degree, Gentle and simple, lord and cit, Wit without wealth, wealth without wit, 240 When Punch and Sheridan have done, To Fanny's[206] ghostly lectures run. By Truth and Fanny now inspired, I feel my glowing bosom fired; Desire beats high in every vein To sing the spirit of Cock-lane; To tell (just as the measure flows In halting rhyme, half verse, half prose) With more than mortal arts endued, How she united force withstood, 250 And proudly gave a brave defiance To Wit and Dulness in alliance. This apparition (with relation To ancient modes of derivation, This we may properly so call, Although it ne'er appears at all, As by the way of inuendo, Lucus is made a non lucendo) Superior to the vulgar mode, Nobly disdains that servile road 260 Which coward ghosts, as it appears, Have walk'd in full five thousand years, And, for restraint too mighty grown, Strikes out a method of her own. Others may meanly start away, Awed by the herald of the day; With faculties too weak to bear The freshness of the morning air, May vanish with the melting gloom, And glide in silence to the tomb; 270 She dares the sun's most piercing light, And knocks by day as well as night. Others, with mean and partial view, Their visits pay to one or two; She, in great reputation grown, Keeps the best company in town. Our active enterprising ghost As large and splendid routs can boast As those which, raised by Pride's command[207], Block up the passage through the Strand. 280 Great adepts in the fighting trade, Who served their time on the parade; She-saints, who, true to Pleasure's plan, Talk about God, and lust for man; Wits, who believe nor God, nor ghost, And fools who worship every post; Cowards, whose lips with war are hung; Men truly brave, who hold their tongue; Courtiers, who laugh they know not why, And cits, who for the same cause cry; 290 The canting tabernacle-brother, (For one rogue still suspects another); Ladies, who to a spirit fly, Rather than with their husbands lie; Lords, who as chastely pass their lives With other women as their wives; Proud of their intellects and clothes, Physicians, lawyers, parsons, beaux, And, truant from their desks and shops, Spruce Temple clerks and 'prentice fops, 300 To Fanny come, with the same view, To find her false, or find her true. Hark! something creeps about the house! Is it a spirit, or a mouse? Hark! something scratches round the room! A cat, a rat, a stubb'd birch-broom. Hark! on the wainscot now it knocks! 'If thou 'rt a ghost,' cried Orthodox, With that affected solemn air Which hypocrites delight to wear, 310 And all those forms of consequence Which fools adopt instead of sense; 'If thou 'rt a ghost, who from the tomb Stalk'st sadly silent through this gloom, In breach of Nature's stated laws, For good, or bad, or for no cause, Give now nine knocks;[208] like priests of old, Nine we a sacred number hold.' 'Psha,' cried Profound, (a man of parts, Deep read in all the curious arts, 320 Who to their hidden springs had traced The force of numbers, rightly placed) 'As to the number, you are right; As to the form, mistaken quite. What's nine? Your adepts all agree The virtue lies in three times three.' He said; no need to say it twice, For thrice she knock'd, and thrice, and thrice. The crowd, confounded and amazed, In silence at each other gazed. 330 From Caelia's hand the snuff-box fell; Tinsel, who ogled with the belle, To pick it up attempts in vain, He stoops, but cannot rise again. Immane Pomposo[209] was not heard T' import one crabbed foreign word. Fear seizes heroes, fools, and wits, And Plausible his prayers forgets. At length, as people just awake, Into wild dissonance they break; 340 All talk'd at once, but not a word Was understood or plainly heard. Such is the noise of chattering geese, Slow sailing on the summer breeze; Such is the language Discord speaks In Welsh women o'er beds of leeks; Such the confused and horrid sounds Of Irish in potatoe-grounds. But tired, for even C——'s[210] tongue Is not on iron hinges hung, 350 Fear and Confusion sound retreat, Reason and Order take their seat. The fact, confirm'd beyond all doubt, They now would find the causes out. For this a sacred rule we find Among the nicest of mankind, Which never might exception brook From Hobbes even down to Bolingbroke, To doubt of facts, however true, Unless they know the causes too. 360 Trifle, of whom 'twas hard to tell When he intended ill or well; Who, to prevent all further pother, Probably meant nor one, nor t'other; Who to be silent always loth, Would speak on either side, or both; Who, led away by love of fame, If any new idea came, Whate'er it made for, always said it, Not with an eye to truth, but credit; 370 For orators profess'd, 'tis known, Talk not for our sake, but their own; Who always show'd his talents best When serious things were turn'd to jest, And, under much impertinence, Possess'd no common share of sense; Who could deceive the flying hours With chat on butterflies and flowers; Could talk of powder, patches, paint, With the same zeal as of a saint; 380 Could prove a Sibyl brighter far Than Venus or the Morning Star; Whilst something still so gay, so new, The smile of approbation drew, And females eyed the charming man, Whilst their hearts flutter'd with their fan; Trifle, who would by no means miss An opportunity like this, Proceeding on his usual plan, Smiled, stroked his chin, and thus began: 390 'With shears or scissors, sword or knife, When the Fates cut the thread of life, (For if we to the grave are sent, No matter with what instrument) The body in some lonely spot, On dunghill vile, is laid to rot, Or sleep among more holy dead With prayers irreverently read; The soul is sent where Fate ordains, To reap rewards, to suffer pains. 400 The virtuous to those mansions go Where pleasures unembitter'd flow, Where, leading up a jocund band, Vigour and Youth dance hand in hand, Whilst Zephyr, with harmonious gales, Pipes softest music through the vales, And Spring and Flora, gaily crown'd, With velvet carpet spread the ground; With livelier blush where roses bloom, And every shrub expires perfume; 410 Where crystal streams meandering glide, Where warbling flows the amber tide; Where other suns dart brighter beams, And light through purer ether streams. Far other seats, far different state, The sons of Wickedness await. Justice (not that old hag I mean Who's nightly in the Garden seen[211], Who lets no spark of mercy rise, For crimes, by which men lose their eyes; 420 Nor her who, with an equal hand, Weighs tea and sugar in the Strand; Nor her who, by the world deem'd wise, Deaf to the widow's piercing cries, Steel'd 'gainst the starving orphan's tears, On pawns her base tribunal rears; But her who after death presides, Whom sacred Truth unerring guides; Who, free from partial influence, Nor sinks nor raises evidence, 430 Before whom nothing's in the dark, Who takes no bribe, and keeps no clerk) Justice, with equal scale below, In due proportion weighs out woe, And always with such lucky aim Knows punishments so fit to frame, That she augments their grief and pain, Leaving no reason to complain. Old maids and rakes are join'd together, Coquettes and prudes, like April weather. 440 Wit's forced to chum with Common-Sense, And Lust is yoked to Impotence. Professors (Justice so decreed) Unpaid, must constant lectures read; On earth it often doth befall, They're paid, and never read at all. Parsons must practise what they teach, And bishops are compell'd to preach. She who on earth was nice and prim, Of delicacy full, and whim; 450 Whose tender nature could not bear The rudeness of the churlish air, Is doom'd, to mortify her pride, The change of weather to abide, And sells, whilst tears with liquor mix, Burnt brandy on the shore of Styx. Avaro[212], by long use grown bold In every ill which brings him gold, Who his Reedemer would pull down, And sell his God for half-a-crown; 460 Who, if some blockhead should be willing To lend him on his soul a shilling, A well-made bargain would esteem it, And have more sense than to redeem it, Justice shall in those shades confine, To drudge for Plutus in the mine, All the day long to toil and roar, And, cursing, work the stubborn ore, For coxcombs here, who have no brains, Without a sixpence for his pains: 470 Thence, with each due return of night, Compell'd, the tall, thin, half-starved sprite Shall earth revisit, and survey The place where once his treasure lay, Shall view the stall where holy Pride, With letter'd Ignorance allied, Once hail'd him mighty and adored, Descended to another lord: Then shall he, screaming, pierce the air, Hang his lank jaws, and scowl despair; 480 Then shall he ban at Heaven's decrees, And, howling, sink to Hell for ease. Those who on earth through life have pass'd With equal pace from first to last, Nor vex'd with passions nor with spleen, Insipid, easy, and serene; Whose heads were made too weak to bear The weight of business, or of care; Who, without merit, without crime, Contrive to while away their time; 490 Nor good nor bad, nor fools nor wits, Mild Justice, with a smile, permits Still to pursue their darling plan, And find amusement how they can. The beau, in gaudiest plumage dress'd, With lucky fancy o'er the rest Of air a curious mantle throws, And chats among his brother beaux; Or, if the weather's fine and clear, No sign of rain or tempest near, 500 Encouraged by the cloudless day, Like gilded butterflies at play, So lively all, so gay, so brisk, In air they flutter, float, and frisk. The belle (what mortal doth not know Belles after death admire a beau?) With happy grace renews her art To trap the coxcomb's wandering heart; And, after death as whilst they live, A heart is all which beaux can give. 510 In some still, solemn, sacred shade,