Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 9

THE YOUNG AUTHOR.

When first the peasant, long inclined to roam, Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home, Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields, He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields: Then dances jocund o'er the watery way, While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play: Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll, And future millions lift his rising soul; In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine, And raptured sees the new-found ruby s.h.i.+ne. 10 Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies, Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise; Sickening with fear, he longs to view the sh.o.r.e, And vows to trust the faithless deep no more.

So the young author, panting after fame, And the long honours of a lasting name, Intrusts his happiness to human kind, More false, more cruel than the seas or wind!

Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries, For wealth or t.i.tle, perishable prize; 20 While I those transitory blessings scorn, Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.

This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late, He flies to press, and hurries on his fate; Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread, And feels the unfading wreath surround his head.

Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise, Those dreams were Settle's[1] once, and Ogilby's![2]

The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise, To some retreat the baffled writer flies, 30 Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest, Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest; There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot-- Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

[Footnote 1: 'Settle;' see Life of Dryden.]

[Footnote 2: 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.]

FRIENDs.h.i.+P: AN ODE.

PRINTED IN THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, 1743.

1 Friends.h.i.+p, peculiar boon of Heaven, The n.o.ble mind's delight and pride-- To men and angels only given, To all the lower world denied!

2 While love, unknown among the blest, Parent of thousand wild desires, The savage and the human breast Torments alike with raging fires;

3 With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Alike o'er all his lightnings fly; Thy lambent glories only beam Around the favourites of the sky.

4 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys, On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatterer for a friend.

5 Directress of the brave and just, Oh, guide us through life's darksome way!

And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey.

6 Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, When souls to peaceful climes remove: What raised our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above.

IMITATION OF THE STYLE OF[1] * * *

1 Hermit h.o.a.r, in solemn cell Wearing out life's evening gray, Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell What is bliss, and which the way.

2 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd, Scarce repress'd the starting tear, When the h.o.a.ry sage replied, 'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'

ONE AND TWENTY.

1 Long-expected one-and-twenty, Lingering year, at length is flown: Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty, Great * * *, are now your own.

2 Loosen'd from the minor's tether, Free to mortgage or to sell, Wild as wind, and light as feather, Bid the sons of thrift farewell.

3 Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies, All the names that banish care; Lavish of your grandsire's guineas, Show the spirit of an heir.

4 All that prey on vice and folly Joy to see their quarry fly: There the gamester, light and jolly; There the lender, grave and sly.

5 Wealth, my lad, was made to wander, Let it wander as it will; Call the jockey, call the pander, Bid them come and take their fill.

6 When the bonny blade carouses, Pockets full, and spirits high-- What are acres? what are houses?

Only dirt, or wet, or dry.

7 Should the guardian friend or mother Tell the woes of wilful waste: Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother, You can hang or drown at last.

[Footnote 1: Supposed to be Percy.]

END OF JOHNSON'S POEMS.

THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

THOMAS PARNELL.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.

Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung, Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.

Oh, just beheld, and lost! admired, and mourn'd!

With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd, Blest in each science, blest in every strain, Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear--in vain!

For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, (A sigh the absent claims--the dead, a tear) Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays: Who careless, now, of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure if ought below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine: A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried, Above all pain, all anger, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The l.u.s.t of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made; The Muse attends thee to the silent shade: 'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace, Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace.

When Interest calls off all her sneaking train, When all the obliged desert, and all the vain, She waits; or, to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.