Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 18

'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 b.u.t.terflies 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 p.a.w.ns 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 l.u.s.t 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 sh.o.r.e 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 G.o.d for half-a-crown; 460 Who, if some blockhead should be willing To lend him on his soul a s.h.i.+lling, 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 c.o.xcombs 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 h.e.l.l for ease.

Those who on earth through life have pa.s.s'd With equal pace from first to last, Nor vex'd with pa.s.sions 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 b.u.t.terflies 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 c.o.xcomb'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, Behold a group of authors laid, Newspaper wits, and sonneteers, Gentleman bards, and rhyming peers, Biographers, whose wondrous worth Is scarce remember'd now on earth, Whom Fielding's humour led astray, And plaintive fops, debauch'd by Gray, All sit together in a ring, And laugh and prattle, write and sing. 520 On his own works, with Laurel crown'd, Neatly and elegantly bound, (For this is one of many rules, With writing lords, and laureate fools, And which for ever must succeed With other lords who cannot read, However dest.i.tute of wit, To make their works for bookcase fit) Acknowledged master of those seats, Gibber his Birth-day Odes repeats. 530 With triumph now possess that seat, With triumph now thy Odes repeat; Unrivall'd vigils proudly keep, Whilst every hearer's lull'd to sleep; But know, ill.u.s.trious bard! when Fate, Which still pursues thy name with hate, The regal laurel blasts, which now Blooms on the placid Whitehead's brow, Low must descend thy pride and fame, And Cibber's be the second name.'-- 540 Here Trifle cough'd, (for coughing still Bears witness of the speaker's skill, A necessary piece of art, Of rhetoric an essential part, And adepts in the speaking trade Keep a cough by them ready made, Which they successfully dispense When at a loss for words or sense) Here Trifle cough'd, here paused--but while He strove to recollect his smile, 550 That happy engine of his art, Which triumph'd o'er the female heart, Credulity, the child of Folly, Begot on cloister'd Melancholy, Who heard, with grief, the florid fool Turn sacred things to ridicule, And saw him, led by Whim away, Still further from the subject stray, Just in the happy nick, aloud, In shape of Moore[213], address'd the crowd: 560 'Were we with patience here to sit, Dupes to the impertinence of Wit, Till Trifle his harangue should end, A Greenland night we might attend, Whilst he, with fluency of speech, Would various mighty nothings teach'-- (Here Trifle, sternly looking down, Gravely endeavour'd at a frown, But Nature unawares stept in, And, mocking, turn'd it to a grin)-- 570 'And when, in Fancy's chariot hurl'd, We had been carried round the world, Involved in error still and doubt, He'd leave us where we first set out.

Thus soldiers (in whose exercise Material use with grandeur vies) Lift up their legs with mighty pain, Only to set them down again.

Believe ye not (yes, all, I see, In sound belief concur with me) 580 That Providence, for worthy ends, To us unknown, this spirit sends?

Though speechless lay the trembling tongue, Your faith was on your features hung; Your faith I in your eyes could see, When all were pale and stared like me.

But scruples to prevent, and root Out every shadow of dispute, Pomposo, Plausible, and I, With f.a.n.n.y, have agreed to try 590 A deep concerted scheme--this night To fix or to destroy her quite.

If it be true, before we've done, We'll make it glaring as the sun; If it be false, admit no doubt Ere morning's dawn we'll find it out.

Into the vaulted womb of Death, Where f.a.n.n.y now, deprived of breath, Lies festering, whilst her troubled sprite Adds horror to the gloom of night, 600 Will we descend, and bring from thence Proofs of such force to Common-Sense, Vain triflers shall no more deceive, And atheists tremble and believe.'

He said, and ceased; the chamber rung With due applause from every tongue: The mingled sound (now let me see-- Something by way of simile) Was it more like Strymonian cranes, Or winds, low murmuring, when it rains. 610 Or drowsy hum of cl.u.s.tering bees, Or the hoa.r.s.e roar of angry seas?

Or (still to heighten and explain, For else our simile is vain) Shall we declare it like all four, A scream, a murmur, hum, and roar?

Let Fancy now, in awful state, Present this great triumvirate, (A method which received we find, In other cases, by mankind) 620 Elected with a joint consent, All fools in town to represent.

The clock strikes twelve--Moore starts and swears.

In oaths, we know, as well as prayers, Religion lies, and a church-brother May use at will, or one, or t'other; Plausible from his ca.s.sock drew A holy manual, seeming new; A book it was of private prayer, But not a pin the worse for wear: 630 For, as we by-the-bye may say, None but small saints in private pray.

Religion, fairest maid on earth!

As meek as good, who drew her birth From that bless'd union, when in heaven Pleasure was bride to Virtue given; Religion, ever pleased to pray, Possess'd the precious gift one day; Hypocrisy, of Cunning born, Crept in and stole it ere the morn; 640 Whitefield, that greatest of all saints, Who always prays and never faints, (Whom she to her own brothers bore, Rapine and l.u.s.t, on Severn's sh.o.r.e) Received it from the squinting dame; From him to Plausible it came, Who, with unusual care oppress'd, Now, trembling, pull'd it from his breast; Doubts in his boding heart arise, And fancied spectres blast his eyes, 650 Devotion springs from abject fear, And stamps his prayers for once sincere.

Pomposo, (insolent and loud, Vain idol of a scribbling crowd, Whose very name inspires an awe, Whose every word is sense and law, For what his greatness hath decreed, Like laws of Persia and of Mede, Sacred through all the realm of Wit, Must never of repeal admit; 660 Who, cursing flattery, is the tool Of every fawning, flattering fool; Who wit with jealous eye surveys, And sickens at another's praise; Who, proudly seized of Learning's throne, Now d.a.m.ns all learning but his own; Who scorns those common wares to trade in, Reasoning, convincing, and persuading, But makes each sentence current pa.s.s With puppy, c.o.xcomb, scoundrel, a.s.s; 670 For 'tis with him a certain rule, The folly's proved when he calls fool; Who, to increase his native strength, Draws words six syllables in length, With which, a.s.sisted with a frown By way of club, he knocks us down; Who 'bove the vulgar dares to rise, And sense of decency defies; For this same decency is made Only for bunglers in the trade, 680 And, like the cobweb laws, is still Broke through by great ones when they will)-- Pomposo, with strong sense supplied, Supported, and confirm'd by Pride, His comrades' terrors to beguile 'Grinn'd horribly a ghastly smile:'

Features so horrid, were it light, Would put the Devil himself to flight.

Such were the three in name and worth Whom Zeal and Judgment singled forth 690 To try the sprite on Reason's plan, Whether it was of G.o.d or man.

Dark was the night; it was that hour When Terror reigns in fullest power, When, as the learn'd of old have said, The yawning Grave gives up her dead; When Murder, Rapine by her side, Stalks o'er the earth with giant stride; Our Quixotes (for that knight of old Was not in truth by half so bold, 700 Though Reason at the same time cries, 'Our Quixotes are not half so wise,'

Since they, with other follies, boast An expedition 'gainst a ghost) Through the dull deep surrounding gloom, In close array, towards f.a.n.n.y's tomb[214]

Adventured forth; Caution before, With heedful step, the lantern bore, Pointing at graves; and in the rear, Trembling, and talking loud, went Fear. 710 The churchyard teem'd--the unsettled ground, As in an ague, shook around; While, in some dreary vault confined, Or riding on the hollow wind, Horror, which turns the heart to stone, In dreadful sounds was heard to groan.

All staring, wild, and out of breath, At length they reach the place of Death.

A vault it was, long time applied To hold the last remains of Pride: 720 No beggar there, of humble race, And humble fortunes, finds a place; To rest in pomp as well as ease, The only way's to pay the fees.

Fools, rogues, and wh.o.r.es, if rich and great, Proud even in death, here rot in state.

No thieves disrobe the well-dress'd dead; No plumbers steal the sacred lead; Quiet and safe the bodies lie; No s.e.xtons sell, no surgeons buy. 730 Thrice, each the ponderous key applied, And thrice to turn it vainly tried, Till taught by Prudence to unite, And straining with collected might, The stubborn wards resist no more, But open flies the growling door.

Three paces back they fell amazed, Like statues stood, like madmen gazed; The frighted blood forsakes the face, And seeks the heart with quicker pace; 740 The throbbing heart its fear declares, And upright stand the bristled hairs; The head in wild distraction swims, Cold sweats bedew the trembling limbs; Nature, whilst fears her bosom chill, Suspends her powers, and life stands still.

Thus had they stood till now; but Shame (An useful, though neglected dame, By Heaven design'd the friend of man, Though we degrade her all we can, 750 And strive, as our first proof of wit, Her name and nature to forget) Came to their aid in happy hour, And with a wand of mighty power Struck on their hearts; vain fears subside, And, baffled, leave the field to Pride.

Shall they, (forbid it, Fame!) shall they The dictates of vile Pear obey?

Shall they, the idols of the Town, To bugbears, fancy-form'd, bow down? 760 Shall they, who greatest zeal express'd, And undertook for all the rest, Whose matchless courage all admire, Inglorious from the task retire?

How would the wicked ones rejoice, And infidels exalt their voice, If Moore and Plausible were found, By shadows awed, to quit their ground?

How would fools laugh, should it appear Pomposo was the slave of fear? 770 'Perish the thought! Though to our eyes, In all its terrors, h.e.l.l should rise; Though thousand ghosts, in dread array, With glaring eyeb.a.l.l.s, cross our way; Though Caution, trembling, stands aloof, Still we will on, and dare the proof.'

They said; and, without further halt, Dauntless march'd onward to the vault.

What mortal men, who e'er drew breath, Shall break into the house of Death, 780 With foot unhallow'd, and from thence The mysteries of that state dispense, Unless they, with due rites, prepare Their weaker sense such sights to bear, And gain permission from the state, On earth their journal to relate?

Poets themselves, without a crime, Cannot attempt it e'en in rhyme, But always, on such grand occasion, Prepare a solemn invocation, 790 A posy for grim Pluto weave, And in smooth numbers ask his leave.

But why this caution? why prepare Rites, needless now? for thrice in air The Spirit of the Night hath sneezed, And thrice hath clapp'd his wings, well-pleased.

Descend then, Truth, and guard thy side, My Muse, my patroness, and guide!

Let others at invention aim, And seek by falsities for fame; 800 Our story wants not, at this time, Flounces and furbelows in rhyme; Relate plain facts; be brief and bold; And let the poets, famed of old, Seek, whilst our artless tale we tell, In vain to find a parallel: Silent all three went in; about All three turn'd, silent, and came out.

BOOK III.

It was the hour, when housewife Morn With pearl and linen hangs each thorn; When happy bards, who can regale Their Muse with country air and ale, Ramble afield to brooks and bowers, To pick up sentiments and flowers; When dogs and squires from kennel fly, And hogs and farmers quit their sty; When my lord rises to the chase, And brawny chaplain takes his place. 10 These images, or bad, or good, If they are rightly understood, Sagacious readers must allow Proclaim us in the country now; For observations mostly rise From objects just before our eyes, And every lord, in critic wit, Can tell you where the piece was writ; Can point out, as he goes along, (And who shall dare to say he's wrong?) 20 Whether the warmth (for bards, we know, At present never more than glow) Was in the town or country caught, By the peculiar turn of thought.

It was the hour,--though critics frown, We now declare ourselves in Town, Nor will a moment's pause allow For finding when we came, or how.

The man who deals in humble prose, Tied down by rule and method goes; 30 But they who court the vigorous Muse Their carriage have a right to choose.

Free as the air, and unconfined, Swift as the motions of the mind, The poet darts from place to place, And instant bounds o'er time and s.p.a.ce: Nature (whilst blended fire and skill Inflame our pa.s.sions to his will) Smiles at her violated laws, And crowns his daring with applause. 40 Should there be still some rigid few, Who keep propriety in view, Whose heads turn round, and cannot bear This whirling pa.s.sage through the air, Free leave have such at home to sit, And write a regimen for wit; To clip our pinions let them try, Not having heart themselves to fly.

It was the hour when devotees Breathe pious curses on their knees; 50 When they with prayers the day begin To sanctify a night of sin; When rogues of modesty, who roam Under the veil of night, sneak home, That, free from all restraint and awe, Just to the windward of the law, Less modest rogues their tricks may play, And plunder in the face of day.

But hold,--whilst thus we play the fool, In bold contempt of every rule, 60 Things of no consequence expressing, Describing now, and now digressing, To the discredit of our skill, The main concern is standing still.

In plays, indeed, when storms of rage Tempestuous in the soul engage, Or when the spirits, weak and low, Are sunk in deep distress and woe, With strict propriety we hear Description stealing on the ear, 70 And put off feeling half an hour To thatch a cot, or paint a flower; But in these serious works, design'd To mend the morals of mankind, We must for ever be disgraced With all the nicer sons of Taste, If once, the shadow to pursue, We let the substance out of view.

Our means must uniformly tend In due proportion to their end, 80 And every pa.s.sage aptly join To bring about the one design.

Our friends themselves cannot admit This rambling, wild, digressive wit; No--not those very friends, who found Their credit on the self-same ground.

Peace, my good grumbling sir--for once, Sunk in the solemn, formal dunce, This c.o.xcomb shall your fears beguile-- We will be dull--that you may smile. 90 Come, Method, come in all thy pride, Dulness and Whitehead by thy side; Dulness and Method still are one, And Whitehead is their darling son: Not he[215], whose pen, above control, Struck terror to the guilty soul, Made Folly tremble through her state, And villains blush at being great; Whilst he himself, with steady face, Disdaining modesty and grace, 100 Could blunder on through thick and thin, Through every mean and servile sin, Yet swear by Philip and by Paul, He n.o.bly scorn'd to blush at all; But he who in the Laureate[216] chair, By grace, not merit, planted there, In awkward pomp is seen to sit, And by his patent proves his wit; For favours of the great, we know, Can wit as well as rank bestow; 110 And they who, without one pretension, Can get for fools a place or pension, Must able be supposed, of course, (If reason is allow'd due force) To give such qualities and grace As may equip them for the place.

But he--who measures as he goes A mongrel kind of tinkling prose, And is too frugal to dispense, At once, both poetry and sense; 120 Who, from amidst his slumbering guards, Deals out a charge to subject bards, Where couplets after couplets creep Propitious to the reign of sleep; Yet every word imprints an awe, And all his dictates pa.s.s for law With beaux, who simper all around, And belles, who die ill every sound: For in all things of this relation, Men mostly judge from situation, 130 Nor in a thousand find we one Who really weighs what's said or done; They deal out censure, or give credit, Merely from him who did or said it.

But he--who, happily serene, Means nothing, yet would seem to mean; Who rules and cautions can dispense With all that humble insolence Which Impudence in vain would teach, And none but modest men can reach; 140 Who adds to sentiments the grace Of always being out of place, And drawls out morals with an air A gentleman would blush to wear; Who, on the chastest, simplest plan, As chaste, as simple, as the man Without or character, or plot, Nature unknown, and Art forgot, Can, with much raking of the brains, And years consumed in letter'd pains, 150 A heap of words together lay, And, smirking, call the thing a play;[217]

Who, champion sworn in Virtue's cause, 'Gainst Vice his tiny bodkin draws, But to no part of prudence stranger, First blunts the point for fear of danger.

So nurses sage, as caution works, When children first use knives and forks, For fear of mischief, it is known, To others' fingers or their own, 160 To take the edge off wisely choose, Though the same stroke takes off the use.

Thee, Whitehead, thee I now invoke, Sworn foe to Satire's generous stroke, Which makes unwilling Conscience feel, And wounds, but only wounds to heal.

Good-natured, easy creature, mild And gentle as a new-born child, Thy heart would never once admit E'en wholesome rigour to thy wit; 170 Thy head, if Conscience should comply, Its kind a.s.sistance would deny, And lend thee neither force nor art To drive it onward to the heart.

Oh, may thy sacred power control Bach fiercer working of my soul, Damp every spark of genuine fire, And languors, like thine own, inspire!

Trite be each thought, and every line As moral and as dull as thine! 180 Poised in mid-air--(it matters not To ascertain the very spot, Nor yet to give you a relation How it eluded gravitation)-- Hung a watch-tower, by Vulcan plann'd With such rare skill, by Jove's command, That every word which, whisper'd here, Scarce vibrates to the neighbour ear, On the still bosom of the air Is borne and heard distinctly there-- 190 The palace of an ancient dame Whom men as well as G.o.ds call Fame.

A prattling gossip, on whose tongue Proof of perpetual motion hung, Whose lungs in strength all lungs surpa.s.s, Like her own trumpet made of bra.s.s; Who with an hundred pair of eyes The vain attacks of sleep defies; Who with an hundred pair of wings News from the furthest quarters brings, 200 Sees, hears, and tells, untold before, All that she knows and ten times more.

Not all the virtues which we find Concenter'd in a Hunter's[218] mind, Can make her spare the rancorous tale, If in one point she chance to fail; Or if, once in a thousand years, A perfect character appears, Such as of late with joy and pride My soul possess'd, ere Arrow died; 210 Or such as, Envy must allow, The world enjoys in Hunter now; This hag, who aims at all alike, At virtues e'en like theirs will strike, And make faults in the way of trade, When she can't find them ready made.

All things she takes in, small and great, Talks of a toy-shop and a state; Of wits and fools, of saints and kings, Of garters, stars, and leading strings; 220 Of old lords fumbling for a clap, And young ones full of prayer and pap; Of courts, of morals, and tye-wigs, Of bears and Serjeants dancing jigs; Of grave professors at the bar Learning to thrum on the guitar, Whilst laws are slubber'd o'er in haste, And Judgment sacrificed to Taste; Of whited sepulchres, lawn sleeves, And G.o.d's house made a den of thieves: 230 Of funeral pomps,[220] where clamours hung, And fix'd disgrace on every tongue, Whilst Sense and Order blush'd to see n.o.bles without humanity; Of coronations,[221] where each heart, With honest raptures, bore a part; Of city feasts, where Elegance Was proud her colours to advance, And Gluttony, uncommon case, Could only get the second place; 240 Of new-raised pillars in the state, Who must be good, as being great; Of shoulders, on which honours sit Almost as clumsily as wit; Of doughty knights, whom t.i.tles please, But not the payment of the fees; Of lectures, whither every fool, In second childhood, goes to school; Of graybeards, deaf to Reason's call, From Inn of Court, or City Hall, 250 Whom youthful appet.i.tes enslave, With one foot fairly in the grave, By help of crutch, a needful brother, Learning of Hart[222] to dance with t'other; Of doctors regularly bred To fill the mansions of the dead; Of quacks, (for quacks they must be still, Who save when forms require to kill) Who life, and health, and vigour give To him, not one would wish to live; 260 Of artists who, with n.o.blest view, Disinterested plans pursue, For trembling worth the ladder raise, And mark out the ascent to praise; Of arts and sciences, where meet, Sublime, profound, and all complete, A set[223] (whom at some fitter time The Muse shall consecrate in rhyme) Who, humble artists to out-do, A far more liberal plan pursue, 270 And let their well-judged premiums fall On those who have no worth at all; Of sign-post exhibitions, raised For laughter more than to be praised, (Though, by the way, we cannot see Why Praise and Laughter mayn't agree) Where genuine humour runs to waste, And justly chides our want of taste, Censured, like other things, though good, Because they are not understood. 280 To higher subjects now she soars, And talks of politics and wh.o.r.es; (If to your nice and chaster ears That term indelicate appears, Scripture politely shall refine, And melt it into concubine) In the same breath spreads Bourbon's league;[224]

And publishes the grand intrigue; In Brussels or our own Gazette[225]

Makes armies fight which never met, 290 And circulates the pox or plague To London, by the way of Hague; For all the lies which there appear Stamp'd with authority come here; Borrows as freely from the gabble Of some rude leader of a rabble, Or from the quaint harangues of those Who lead a nation by the nose, As from those storms which, void of art, Burst from our honest patriot's heart,[226] 300 When Eloquence and Virtue, (late Remark'd to live in mutual hate) Fond of each other's friends.h.i.+p grown, Claim every sentence for their own; And with an equal joy recites Parade amours and half-pay fights, Perform'd by heroes of fair weather, Merely by dint of lace and feather, As those rare acts which Honour taught Our daring sons where Granby[227] fought, 310 Or those which, with superior skill, Sackville achieved by standing still.

This hag, (the curious, if they please, May search, from earliest times to these, And poets they will always see With G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses make free, Treating them all, except the Muse, As scarcely fit to wipe their shoes) Who had beheld, from first to last, How our triumvirate had pa.s.s'd 320 Night's dreadful interval, and heard, With strict attention, every word, Soon as she saw return of light, On sounding pinions took her flight.

Swift through the regions of the sky, Above the reach of human eye, Onward she drove the furious blast, And rapid as a whirlwind pa.s.s'd, O'er countries, once the seats of Taste, By Time and Ignorance laid waste; 330 O'er lands, where former ages saw Reason and Truth the only law; Where Arts and Arms, and Public Love, In generous emulation strove; Where kings were proud of legal sway, And subjects happy to obey, Though now in slavery sunk, and broke To Superst.i.tion's galling yoke; Of Arts, of Arms, no more they tell, Or Freedom, which with Science fell, 340 By tyrants awed, who never find The pa.s.sage to their people's mind; To whom the joy was never known Of planting in the heart their throne; Far from all prospect of relief, Their hours in fruitless prayers and grief, For loss of blessings, they employ, Which we unthankfully enjoy.

Now is the time (had we the will) To amaze the reader with our skill, 350 To pour out such a flood of knowledge As might suffice for a whole college, Whilst with a true poetic force, We traced the G.o.ddess in her course, Sweetly describing, in our flight, Each common and uncommon sight, Making our journal gay and pleasant, With things long past, and things now present.

Rivers--once nymphs--(a transformation Is mighty pretty in relation) 360 From great authorities we know Will matter for a tale bestow: To make the observation clear, We give our friends an instance here.

The day (that never is forgot) Was very fine, but very hot; The nymph (another general rule) Inflamed with heat, laid down to cool; Her hair (we no exceptions find) Waved careless, floating in the wind; 370 Her heaving b.r.e.a.s.t.s, like summer seas, Seem'd amorous of the playful breeze: Should fond Description tune our lays In choicest accents to her praise, Description we at last should find, Baffled and weak, would halt behind.

Nature had form'd her to inspire In every bosom soft desire; Pa.s.sions to raise, she could not feel, Wounds to inflict, she would not heal. 380 A G.o.d, (his name is no great matter, Perhaps a Jove, perhaps a Satyr) Raging with l.u.s.t, a G.o.dlike flame, By chance, as usual, thither came; With gloating eye the fair one view'd, Desired her first, and then pursued: She (for what other can she do?) Must fly--or how can he pursue?

The Muse (so custom hath decreed) Now proves her spirit by her speed, 390 Nor must one limping line disgrace The life and vigour of the race; She runs, and he runs, till at length, Quite dest.i.tute of breath and strength, To Heaven (for there we all apply For help, when there's no other nigh) She offers up her virgin prayer, (Can virgins pray unpitied there?) And when the G.o.d thinks he has caught her, Slips through his hands and runs to water, 400 Becomes a stream, in which the poet, If he has any wit, may show it.

A city once for power renown'd Now levell'd even to the ground, Beyond all doubt is a direction To introduce some fine reflection.

Ah, woeful me! ah, woeful man!

Ah, woeful all, do all we can!

Who can on earthly things depend From one to t'other moment's end? 410 Honour, wit, genius, wealth, and glory, Good lack! good lack! are transitory; Nothing is sure and stable found, The very earth itself turns round: Monarchs, nay ministers, must die, Must rot, must stink--ah, me! ah, why!

Cities themselves in time decay; If cities thus--ah, well-a-day!

If brick and mortar have an end, On what can flesh and blood depend! 420 Ah, woeful me! ah, woeful man!

Ah, woeful all, do all we can!

England, (for that's at last the scene, Though worlds on worlds should rise between, Whither we must our course pursue) England should call into review Times long since past indeed, but not By Englishmen to be forgot, Though England, once so dear to Fame, Sinks in Great Britain's dearer name. 430 Here could we mention chiefs of old, In plain and rugged honour bold, To Virtue kind, to Vice severe, Strangers to bribery and fear, Who kept no wretched clans in awe, Who never broke or warp'd the law; Patriots, whom, in her better days, Old Rome might have been proud to raise; Who, steady to their country's claim, Boldly stood up in Freedom's name, 440 E'en to the teeth of tyrant Pride, And when they could no more, they died.