An Essay on Man Part 13

While you, great patron of mankind! sustain The balanced world, and open all the main; Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend, At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend; How shall the muse from such a monarch, steal An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame, And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name, After a life of generous toils endured, The Gaul subdued, or property secured, Ambition humbled, mighty cities stormed, Our laws established, and the world reformed; Closed their long glories with a sigh, to find Th' unwilling grat.i.tude of base mankind!

All human virtue, to its latest breath, Finds envy never conquered but by death.

The great Alcides, every labour past, Had still this monster to subdue at last.

Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray Each star of meaner merit fades away!

Oppressed we feel the beam directly beat, Those suns of glory please not till they set.

To thee, the world its present homage pays, The harvest early, but mature the praise: Great friend of liberty! in kings a name Above all Greek, above all Roman fame: Whose word is truth, as sacred and revered, As heaven's own oracles from altars heard.

Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise.

Just in one instance be it yet confest Your people, sir, are partial in the rest: Foes to all living worth except your own, And advocates for folly dead and gone.

Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; It is the rust we value, not the gold.

Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learned by rote, And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote: One likes no language but the Faery Queen; A Scot will fight for Christ's Kirk o' the Green: And each true Briton is to Ben so civil, He swears the Muses met him at the devil.

Though justly Greece her eldest sons admires, Why should not we be wiser than our sires?

In every public virtue we excel; We build, we paint, we sing, we dance as well, And learned Athens to our art must stoop, Could she behold us tumbling through a hoop.

If time improve our wit as well as wine, Say at what age a poet grows divine?

Shall we or shall we not account him so, Who died, perhaps, a hundred years ago?

End all dispute; and fix the year precise When British bards begin t' immortalise?

"Who lasts a century can have no flaw, I hold that wit a cla.s.sic, good in law."

Suppose he wants a year, will you compound; And shall we deem him ancient, right and sound, Or d.a.m.n to all eternity at once, At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce?

"We shall not quarrel for a year or two; By courtesy of England, he may do."

Then by the rule that made the horse-tail bear, I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair, And melt down ancients like a heap of snow: While you to measure merits, look in Stowe, And estimating authors by the year Bestow a garland only on a bier.

Shakespeare (whom you and every play-house bill Style the divine, the matchless, what you will) For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despite.

Ben, old and poor, as little seemed to heed The life to come, in every poet's creed.

Who now reads Cowley? if he pleases yet, His moral pleases, not his pointed wit; Forget his epic, nay Pindaric art; But still I love the language of his heart.

"Yet surely, surely, these were famous men!

What boy but hears the sayings of old Ben?

In all debates where Critics bears a part, Not one but nods, and talks of Jonson's art, Of Shakespeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit; How Beaumont's judgment checked what Fletcher writ; How Shadwell hasty, Wycherley was slow; But for the pa.s.sions, Southern sure and Rowe.

These, only these, support the crowded stage, From eldest Heywood down to Cibber's age."

All this may be; the people's voice is odd, It is, and it is not, the voice of G.o.d.

To Gammer Gurton if it give the bays, And yet deny the careless husband praise.

Or say our fathers never broke a rule; Why then, I say, the public is a fool.

But let them own, that greater faults than we They had, and greater virtues, I'll agree.

Spenser himself affects the obsolete, And Sidney's verse halts ill on Roman feet: Milton's strong pinion now not Heaven can bound, Now serpent-like, in prose he sweeps the ground, In quibbles angel and archangel join, And G.o.d the Father turns a school divine.

Not that I'd lop the beauties from his book, Like slas.h.i.+ng Bentley with his desperate hook, Or d.a.m.n all Shakespeare, like the affected fool At court, who hates whate'er he read at school.

But for the wits of either Charles's days, The mob of gentlemen who wrote with ease; Sprat, Carew, Sedley, and a hundred more, (Like twinkling stars the miscellanies o'er) One simile, that solitary s.h.i.+nes In the dry desert of a thousand lines, Or lengthened thought that gleams through many a page, Has sanctified whole poems for an age.

I lose my patience, and I own it too, When works are censured, not as bad but new; While if our elders break all reason's laws, These fools demand not pardon, but applause.

On Avon's bank, where flowers eternal blow, If I but ask, if any weed can grow; One tragic sentence if I dare deride Which Betterton's grave action dignified, Or well-mouthed Booth with emphasis proclaims, (Though but, perhaps, a muster-roll of names) How will our fathers rise up in a rage, And swear, all shame is lost in George's age!

You'd think no fools disgraced the former reign, Did not some grave examples yet remain, Who scorn a lad should teach his father skill, And, having once been wrong, will be so still.

He, who to seem more deep than you or I, Extols old bards, or Merlin's Prophecy, Mistake him not; he envies, not admires, And to debase the sons, exalts the sires.

Had ancient times conspired to disallow What then was new, what had been ancient now?

Or what remained, so worthy to be read By learned critics, of the mighty dead?

In days of ease, when now the weary sword Was sheathed, and luxury with Charles restored; In every taste of foreign courts improved, "All, by the king's example, lived and loved."

Then peers grew proud in horsemans.h.i.+p t' excel, Newmarket's glory rose, as Britain's fell; The soldier breathed the gallantries of France, And every flowery courtier wrote romance.

Then marble, softened into life, grew warm: And yielding metal flowed to human form: Lely on animated canvas stole The sleepy eye, that spoke the melting soul.

No wonder then, when all was love and sport, The willing Muses were debauched at court: On each enervate string they taught the note To pant, or tremble through an eunuch's throat.

But Britain, changeful as a child at play, Now calls in princes, and now turns away.

Now Whig, now Tory, what we loved we hate; Now all for pleasure, now for Church and State; Now for prerogative, and now for laws; Effects unhappy from a n.o.ble cause.

Time was, a sober Englishman would knock His servants up, and rise by five o'clock, Instruct his family in every rule, And send his wife to church, his son to school.

To wors.h.i.+p like his fathers, was his care; To teach their frugal virtues to his heir; To prove, that luxury could never hold; And place, on good security, his gold.

Now times are changed, and one poetic itch Has seized the court and city, poor and rich: Sons, sires, and grandsires, all will wear the bays, Our wives read Milton, and our daughters plays, To theatres, and to rehearsals throng, And all our grace at table is a song.

I, who so oft renounce the Muses, lie, Not ----'s self e'er tells more fibs than I; When sick of Muse, our follies we deplore, And promise our best friends to rhyme no more; We wake next morning in a raging fit, And call for pen and ink to show our wit.

He served a 'prentices.h.i.+p, who sets up shop; Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; Even Radcliff's doctors travel first to France, Nor dare to practise till they've learned to dance.

Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile?

(Should Ripley venture, all the world would smile) But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

Yet, sir, reflect, the mischief is not great; These madmen never hurt the Church or State; Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; And rarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind.

Allow him but his plaything of a pen, He ne'er rebels, or plots, like other men: Flight of cas.h.i.+ers, or mobs, he'll never mind; And knows no losses while the Muse is kind.

To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter; The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre, Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; And then-a perfect hermit in his diet.

Of little use the man you may suppose, Who says in verse what others say in prose; Yet let me show, a poet's of some weight, And (though no soldier) useful to the State.

What will a child learn sooner than a song?

What better teach a foreigner the tongue?

What's long or short, each accent where to place, And speak in public with some sort of grace?

I scarce can think him such a worthless thing, Unless he praise some monster of a king; Or virtue, or religion turn to sport, To please a lewd or unbelieving court.

Unhappy Dryden!-In all Charles's days, Roscommon only boasts unspotted bays; And in our own (excuse some courtly stains) No whiter page than Addison remains.

He, from the taste obscene reclaims our youth, And sets the pa.s.sions on the side of truth, Forms the soft bosom with the gentlest art, And pours each human virtue in the heart.

Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her cause, Her trade supported, and supplied her laws; And leave on Swift this grateful verse engraved: 'The rights a court attacked, a poet saved.'

Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, Stretched to relieve the idiot and the poor, Proud vice to brand, or injured worth adorn, And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn.

Not but there are, who merit other palms; Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with psalms: The boys and girls whom charity maintains, Implore your help in these pathetic strains: How could devotion touch the country pews, Unless the G.o.ds bestowed a proper Muse?

Verse cheers their leisure, verse a.s.sists their work, Verse prays for peace, or sings down Pope and Turk.

The silenced preacher yields to potent strain, And feels that grace his prayer besought in vain; The blessing thrills through all the lab'ring throng, And Heaven is won by violence of song.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labour when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain: The joy their wives, their sons, and servants share, Ease of their toil, and partners of their care: The laugh, the jest, attendants on the bowl, Smoothed every brow, and opened every soul: With growing years the pleasing licence grew, And taunts alternate innocently flew.

But times corrupt, and Nature, ill-inclined, Produced the point that left a sting behind; Till friend with friend, and families at strife, Triumphant malice raged through private life.

Who felt the wrong, or feared it, took th' alarm, Appealed to law, and justice lent her arm.

At length, by wholesome dread of statutes bound, The poets learned to please, and not to wound: Most warped to flatt'ry's side; but some more nice, Preserved the freedom, and forebore the vice.

Hence satire rose, that just the medium hit, And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.

We conquered France, but felt our captive's charms; Her arts victorious triumphed o'er our arms; Britain to soft refinements less a foe, Wit grew polite, and numbers learned to flow.

Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join } The varying verse, the full-resounding line, } The long majestic march, and energy divine. } Though still some traces of our rustic vein And splay-foot verse, remained, and will remain.

Late, very late, correctness grew our care, When the tired nation breathed from civil war.

Exact Racine, and Corneille's n.o.ble fire, Showed us that France had something to admire.

Not but the tragic spirit was our own, And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone: But Otway failed to polish or refine, And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line.

E'en copious Dryden wanted, or forgot The last and greatest art, the art to blot.

Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire The humbler Muse of comedy require.

But in known images of life, I guess The labour greater, as th' indulgence less.

Observe how seldom even the best succeed: Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed?

What pert, low dialogue has Farquhar writ!

How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit!

The stage how loosely does Astraea tread, Who fairly puts all characters to bed!

And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws, To make poor Pinky eat with vast applause!

But fill their purse, our poet's work is done, Alike to them, by pathos or by pun.

O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise, With what a s.h.i.+fting gale your course you ply, For ever sunk too low, or borne too high!

Who pants for glory finds but short repose, A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.

Farewell the stage! if just as thrives the play, The silly bard grows fat, or falls away.

There still remains, to mortify a wit, The many-headed monster of the pit; A senseless, worthless, and unhonoured crowd; Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud, Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are spoke, Call for the farce, the bear, or the black-joke.

What dear delight to Britons farce affords!

Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords; (Taste, that eternal wanderer, which flies From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes).

The play stands still; d.a.m.n action and discourse, Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, Heralds, Bishops, ermine, gold, and lawn; The champion too! and, to complete the jest, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast, With laughter sure Democritus had died, Had he beheld an audience gape so wide.

Let bear or elephant be e'er so white, The people, sure, the people are the sight!

Ah luckless poet! stretch thy lungs and roar, That bear or elephant shall heed thee more; While all its throats the gallery extends, And all the thunder of the pit ascends!

Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' stormy steep, Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep, Such is the shout, the long-applauding note, At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat; Or when from court a birthday suit bestowed, Sinks the lost actor in the tawdry load.

Booth enters-hark! the universal peal!

"But has he spoken?" Not a syllable.

What shook the stage, and made the people stare?