Whether with pipe or song to charm the ear,Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? 380Cursed be that year[114] by every honest Scot,And in the shepherd's calendar forgot,That fatal year when Jamie, hapless swain!In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain:Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled,Was seized, and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead.
Full sorely may we all lament that day,For all were losers in the deadly fray.Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains,Well dost thou know were none more hopeful swains; 390Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride;Two in the field, and three on gibbets died.Ah, silly swains! to follow war's alarms;Ah! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms?
Mention it not—there saw I strangers cladIn all the honours of our ravish'd plaid;Saw the Ferrara, too, our nation's pride,Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.There fell our choicest youth, and from that dayMotenever Sawney tune the merry lay; 400Bless'd those which fell! cursed those which still survive,To mourn Fifteen renew'd in Forty-five!
Thus plain'd the boys, when, from her throne of turf,With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf,Vile humours which, in life's corrupted wellMix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell,Pale Famine rear'd the head; her eager eyes,Where hunger e'en to madness seem'd to rise,Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start: 410Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell,Where wretchedness and horror loved to dwell;With double rows of useless teeth supplied,Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,Which, when for want of food her entrails pined,She oped, and, cursing, swallow'd nought but wind:All shrivell'd was her skin; and here and there,Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:Such filthy sight to hide from human view,O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw. 420Cease, cried the goddess, cease, despairing swains!And from a parent hear what Jove ordains.Pent in this barren corner of the isle,Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;Like nature's bastards, reaping for our shareWhat was rejected by the lawful heir;Unknown amongst the nations of the earth,Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;Long free, because the race of Roman bravesThought it not worth their while to make us slaves; 430Then into bondage by that nation brought,Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought;Whom still with unslaked hate we view, and still,The power of mischief lost, retain the will;Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,A mass till the last moment left behind,Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,Whether to stamp with life or throw away;Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,But never enter'd in Creation's book; 440Branded as traitors who, for love of gold,Would sell their God, as once their king they sold,—Long have we borne this mighty weight of ill,These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still.But times of happier note are now at hand,And the full promise of a better land:There, like the sons of Israel, having trod,For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains,Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns: 450With some few natives join'd, some pliant few,Who worship Interest and our track pursue;There shall we, though the wretched people grieve,Ravage at large, nor ask the owners' leave.For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase;For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece;Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own,And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown:For our advantage shall their harvests grow,And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow: 460For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill;For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil.When to our wishes Nature cannot rise,Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies;His brawny arm shall drudging Labour strain,And for our pleasure suffer daily pain:Trade shall for us exert her utmost powers,Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours:For us, the oak shall from his native steepDescend, and fearless travel through the deep: 470The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd,Shall waft the treasures of each distant world:For us, sublimer heights shall science reach;For us, their statesman plot, their churchmen preach:Their noblest limbs of council we'll disjoint,And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint.Devouring War, imprison'd in the North,Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,And when, his chariot-wheels with thunder hung,Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue, 480Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,And Desolation stalking in the rear,Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train,He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey,And to meek, gentle, generous Peace give way.Think not, my sons, that this so bless'd estateStands at a distance on the roll of fate;Already big with hopes of future sway,E'en from this cave I scent my destined prey. 490Think not that this dominion o'er a race,Whose former deeds shall time's last annals grace,In the rough face of peril must be sought,And with the lives of thousands dearly bought:No—fool'd by cunning, by that happy artWhich laughs to scorn the blundering hero's heart,Into the snare shall our kind neighbours fallWith open eyes, and fondly give us all.When Rome, to prop her sinking empire, boreTheir choicest levies to a foreign shore, 500What if we seized, like a destroying flood,Their widow'd plains, and fill'd the realm with blood;Gave an unbounded loose to manly rage,And, scorning mercy, spared nor sex, nor age?When, for our interest too mighty grown,Monarchs of warlike bent possessed the throne,What if we strove divisions to foment,And spread the flames of civil discontent,Assisted those who 'gainst their king made head,And gave the traitors refuge when they fled? 510When restless Glory bade her sons advance,And pitch'd her standard in the fields of France,What if, disdaining oaths,—an empty sound,By which our nation never shall be bound,—Bravely we taught unmuzzled War to roam,Through the weak land, and brought cheap laurels home?When the bold traitors, leagued for the defenceOf law, religion, liberty, and sense,When they against their lawful monarch rose,And dared the Lord's anointed to oppose, 520What if we still revered the banish'd race,And strove the royal vagrants to replace;With fierce rebellions shook the unsettled state,And greatly dared, though cross'd by partial fate?These facts, which might, where wisdom held the sway,Awake the very stones to bar our way,There shall be nothing, nor one trace remainIn the dull region of an English brain;Bless'd with that faith which mountains can remove,First they shall dupes, next saints, last martyrs, prove. 530Already is this game of Fate begunUnder the sanction of my darling son;[115]That son, of nature royal as his name,Is destined to redeem our race from shame:His boundless power, beyond example great,Shall make the rough way smooth, the crooked straight;Shall for our ease the raging floods restrain,And sink the mountain level to the plain.Discord, whom in a cavern under groundWith massy fetters their late patriot bound; 540Where her own flesh the furious hag might tear,And vent her curses to the vacant air;Where, that she never might be heard of more,He planted Loyalty to guard the door,For better purpose shall our chief release,Disguise her for a time, and call her Peace.[116]Lured by that name—fine engine of deceit!—Shall the weak English help themselves to cheat;To gain our love, with honours shall they graceThe old adherents of the Stuart race, 550Who, pointed out no matter by what name,Tories or Jacobites, are still the same;To soothe our rage the temporising broodShall break the ties of truth and gratitude,Against their saviour venom'd falsehoods frame,And brand with calumny their William's name:To win our grace, (rare argument of wit!)To our untainted faith shall they commit(Our faith, which, in extremest perils tried,Disdain'd, and still disdains, to change her side) 560That sacred Majesty they all approve,Who most enjoys, and best deserves their love.
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[97] 'Mason:' William Mason, author of 'Elfrida,' 'Caractacus,' and an 'Elegy on the Death of the Countess of Coventry,' the intimate friend, executor, and biographer of Gray.
[98] 'Gisbal:' a stupid and scurrilous attack on Scotland.
[99] 'Weeping streams:' referring to Lord Lyttelton's Monody on his wife's death, and his Essay on the conversion of Paul.
[100] 'Stuarts:' the family name of Lord Bute.
[101] 'Holy martyr:' Charles I.
[102] 'Ramsays:' Allan Ramsay, author of the 'Gentle Shepherd,' and hisson (Allan), a fine painter, intimate with Reynolds and Johnson.
[103] 'Home:' John Home, the well known author of 'Douglas.' SeeMackenzie's Life.
[104] 'Dull Dean:' Dr Zachary Pearce, Bishop of Rochester and Dean of Westminster, who rebuked Churchill for writing on players and dressing like a layman.
[105] 'Great Macpherson:' James Macpherson, translator or author of 'Ossian.'
[106] 'Malloch:' David Mallett, son of an innkeeper in Crieff, friend of Thomson's, author of a poor life of Bacon, and of one good ballad, 'William and Margaret,' editor of Bolingbroke's posthumous infidel works, under-secretary to the Prince of Wales, and a pensioner.
[107] 'North Briton:' the famous paper conducted by Wilkes.
[108] 'Lyttelton and West:' George Lord Lyttelton, author of the history of Henry II. and Gilbert West, the translator of Pindar, both originally sceptical, but both converted,—the one, the author of a Dissertation on Paul's conversion; the other, of a book on the resurrection of Christ.
[109] 'Hill,' a protégé of Lord Bute's. See a note upon 'The Rescind.'
[110] 'Home:' John Home, another of Lord Bute's protégés.
[111] 'Laureate:' William Whitehead, Laureate after C. Cibber, who had somehow provoked Churchill.
[112] 'White rose:' The emblem of the Jacobites, a white rose, was worn by them, in honour of the young Pretender's birthday, on the 10th of June.
[113] 'Choice plant:' Tobacco.
[114] 'That year:' the year 1745.
[115] 'Darling son:' Bute.
[116] 'Peace:' that of 1763, abused by all the Opposition.
Amongst the sons of men how few are knownWho dare be just to merit not their own!Superior virtue and superior sense,To knaves and fools, will always give offence;Nay, men of real worth can scarcely bear,So nice is jealousy, a rival there.Be wicked as thou wilt; do all that's base;Proclaim thyself the monster of thy race:Let vice and folly thy black soul divide;Be proud with meanness, and be mean with pride. 10Deaf to the voice of Faith and Honour, fallFrom side to side, yet be of none at all:Spurn all those charities, those sacred ties,Which Nature, in her bounty, good as wise,To work our safety, and ensure her plan,Contrived to bind and rivet man to man:Lift against Virtue, Power's oppressive rod;Betray thy country, and deny thy God;And, in one general comprehensive line,To group, which volumes scarcely could define, 20Whate'er of sin and dulness can be said,Join to a Fox's[118] heart a Dashwood's[119] head;Yet may'st thou pass unnoticed in the throng,And, free from envy, safely sneak along:The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shownTo saints whose lives are better than his own,Shall spare thy crimes; and Wit, who never onceForgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.But should thy soul, form'd in some luckless hour,Vile interest scorn, nor madly grasp at power; 30Should love of fame, in every noble mindA brave disease, with love of virtue join'd,Spur thee to deeds of pith, where courage, triedIn Reason's court, is amply justified:Or, fond of knowledge, and averse to strife,Shouldst thou prefer the calmer walk of life;Shouldst thou, by pale and sickly study led,Pursue coy Science to the fountain-head;Virtue thy guide, and public good thy end,Should every thought to our improvement tend, 40To curb the passions, to enlarge the mind,Purge the sick Weal, and humanise mankind;Rage in her eye, and malice in her breast,Redoubled Horror grining on her crest,Fiercer each snake, and sharper every dart,Quick from her cell shall maddening Envy start.Then shalt thou find, but find, alas! too late,How vain is worth! how short is glory's date!Then shalt thou find, whilst friends with foes conspire,To give more proof than virtue would desire, 50Thy danger chiefly lies in acting well;No crime's so great as daring to excel.Whilst Satire thus, disdaining mean control,Urged the free dictates of an honest soul,Candour, who, with the charity of Paul,Still thinks the best, whene'er she thinks at all,With the sweet milk of human kindness bless'd,The furious ardour of my zeal repress'd.Canst thou, with more than usual warmth she cried,Thy malice to indulge, and feed thy pride; 60Canst thou, severe by nature as thou art,With all that wondrous rancour in thy heart,Delight to torture truth ten thousand ways,To spin detraction forth from themes of praise,To make Vice sit, for purposes of strife,And draw the hag much larger than the life,To make the good seem bad, the bad seem worse,And represent our nature as our curse?Doth not humanity condemn that zealWhich tends to aggravate and not to heal? 70Doth not discretion warn thee of disgrace,And danger, grinning, stare thee in the face,Loud as the drum, which, spreading terror round,From emptiness acquires the power of sound?Doth not the voice of Norton[120] strike thy ear,And the pale Mansfield[121] chill thy soul with fear?Dost thou, fond man, believe thyself secureBecause thou'rt honest, and because thou'rt poor?Dost thou on law and liberty depend?Turn, turn thy eyes, and view thy injured friend. 80Art thou beyond the ruffian gripe of Power,When Wilkes, prejudged, is sentenced to the Tower?Dost thou by privilege exemption claim,When privilege is little more than name?Or to prerogative (that glorious groundOn which state scoundrels oft have safety found)Dost thou pretend, and there a sanction find,Unpunish'd, thus to libel human-kindWhen poverty, the poet's constant crime,Compell'd thee, all unfit, to trade in rhyme, 90Had not romantic notions turn'd thy head,Hadst thou not valued honour more than bread;Had Interest, pliant Interest, been thy guide,And had not Prudence been debauch'd by Pride,In Flattery's stream thou wouldst have dipp'd thy pen,Applied to great and not to honest men;Nor should conviction have seduced thy heartTo take the weaker, though the better part.What but rank folly, for thy curse decreed,Could into Satire's barren path mislead, 100When, open to thy view, before thee laySoul-soothing Panegyric's flowery way?There might the Muse have saunter'd at her ease,And, pleasing others, learn'd herself to please;Lords should have listen'd to the sugar'd treat,And ladies, simpering, own'd it vastly sweet;Rogues, in thy prudent verse with virtue graced,Fools mark'd by thee as prodigies of taste,Must have forbid, pouring preferments down,Such wit, such truth as thine to quit the gown. 110Thy sacred brethren, too, (for they, no lessThan laymen, bring their offerings to success)Had hail'd thee good if great, and paid the vowSincere as that they pay to God, whilst thouIn lawn hadst whisper'd to a sleeping crowd,As dull as Rochester[122], and half as proud.Peace, Candour—wisely hadst thou said, and well,Could Interest in this breast one moment dwell;Could she, with prospect of success, opposeThe firm resolves which from conviction rose. 120I cannot truckle to a fool of state,Nor take a favour from the man I hate:Free leave have others by such means to shine;I scorn their practice; they may laugh at mine.But in this charge, forgetful of thyself,Thou hast assumed the maxims of that elf,Whom God in wrath, for man's dishonour framed,Cunning in heaven, amongst us Prudence named,That servile prudence, which I leave to thoseWho dare not be my friends, can't be my foes. 130Had I, with cruel and oppressive rhymes,Pursued and turn'd misfortunes into crimes;Had I, when Virtue gasping lay and low,Join'd tyrant Vice, and added woe to woe;Had I made Modesty in blushes speak,And drawn the tear down Beauty's sacred cheek;Had I (damn'd then) in thought debased my lays,To wound that sex which honour bids me praise;Had I, from vengeance, by base views betray'd.In endless night sunk injured Ayliffe's[123] shade; 140Had I (which satirists of mighty name[124],Renown'd in rhyme, revered for moral fame,Have done before, whom Justice shall pursueIn future verse) brought forth to public viewA noble friend, and made his foibles known,Because his worth was greater than my own;Had I spared those (so Prudence had decreed)Whom, God so help me at my greatest need!I ne'er will spare, those vipers to their kingWho smooth their looks, and flatter whilst they sting; 150Or had I not taught patriot zeal to boastOf those who flatter least, but love him most;Had I thus sinn'd, my stubborn soul should bendAt Candour's voice, and take, as from a friend,The deep rebuke; myself should be the firstTo hate myself, and stamp my Muse accursed.But shall my arm—forbid it, manly pride!Forbid it, reason! warring on my side—For vengeance lifted high, the stroke forbear,And hang suspended in the desert air, 160Or to my trembling side unnerved sink down,Palsied, forsooth, by Candour's half-made frown?When Justice bids me on, shall I delayBecause insipid Candour bars my way?When she, of all alike the puling friend,Would disappoint my satire's noblest end;When she to villains would a sanction give,And shelter those who are not fit to live;When she would screen the guilty from a blush,And bids me spare whom Reason bids me crush, 170All leagues with Candour proudly I resign;She cannot be for Honour's turn, nor mine.Yet come, cold Monitor! half foe, half friend,Whom Vice can't fear, whom Virtue can't commend;Come, Candour, by thy dull indifference known,Thou equal-blooded judge, thou lukewarm drone,Who, fashion'd without feelings, dost expectWe call that virtue—which we know defect;Come, and observe the nature of our crimes,The gross and rank complexion of the times; 180Observe it well, and then review my plan,Praise if you will, or censure if you can.Whilst Vice presumptuous lords it as in sport,And Piety is only known at court;Whilst wretched Liberty expiring lies,Beneath the fatal burthen of Excise;Whilst nobles act, without one touch of shame,What men of humble rank would blush to name;Whilst Honour's placed in highest point of view,Worshipp'd by those who Justice never knew; 190Whilst bubbles of distinction waste in playThe hours of rest, and blunder through the day;With dice and cards opprobrious vigils keep,Then turn to ruin empires in their sleep;Whilst fathers[125], by relentless passion led,Doom worthy injured sons to beg their bread,Merely with ill-got, ill-saved, wealth to grace,An alien, abject, poor, proud, upstart race!Whilst Martin[126] flatters only to betray,And Webb[127] gives up his dirty soul for pay, 200Whilst titles serve to hush a villain's fears;Whilst peers are agents made, and agents peers;Whilst base betrayers are themselves betray'd,And makers ruin'd by the thing they made;Whilst C——,[128] false to God and man, for gold,Like the old traitor who a Saviour sold,To shame his master, friend, and father gives;Whilst Bute remains in power, whilst Holland lives;—Can Satire want a subject, where Disdain,By Virtue fired, may point her sharpest strain, 210Where, clothed with thunder, Truth may roll along,And Candour justify the rage of song?Such things! such men before thee! such an age!Where Rancour, great as thine, may glut her rage,And sicken e'en to surfeit; where the prideOf Satire, pouring down in fullest tide,May spread wide vengeance round, yet all the whileJustice behold the ruin with a smile;Whilst I, thy foe misdeem'd, cannot condemn,Nor disapprove that rage I wish to stem, 220Wilt thou, degenerate and corrupted, chooseTo soil the credit of thy haughty Muse?With fallacy, most infamous, to stainHer truth, and render all her anger vain?When I beheld thee, incorrect, but bold,A various comment on the stage unfold;When players on players before thy satire fell,And poor Reviews conspired thy wrath to swell;When states and statesmen next became thy care,And only kings were safe if thou wast there, 230Thy every word I weigh'd in judgment's scale,And in thy every word found truth prevail;Why dost thou now to falsehood meanly fly?Not even Candour can forgive a lie.Bad as men are, why should thy frantic rhymesTraffic in slander, and invent new crimes?—Crimes which, existing only in thy mind,Weak spleen brings forth to blacken all mankind.By pleasing hopes we lure the human heartTo practise virtue and improve in art; 240To thwart these ends (which, proud of honest fame,A noble Muse would cherish and inflame)Thy drudge contrives, and in our full careerSicklies our hopes with the pale hue of fear;Tells us that all our labours are in vain;That what we seek, we never can obtain;That, dead to virtue, lost to Nature's plan,Envy possesses the whole race of man;That worth is criminal, and danger lies,Danger extreme, in being good and wise. 250'Tis a rank falsehood; search the world around,There cannot be so vile a monster found,Not one so vile, on whom suspicions fallOf that gross guilt which you impute to all.Approved by those who disobey her laws,Virtue from Vice itself extorts applause:Her very foes bear witness to her state;They will not love her, but they cannot hate.Hate Virtue for herself! with spite pursueMerit for Merit's sake! might this be true, 260I would renounce my nature with disdain,And with the beasts that perish graze the plain;Might this be true,—had we so far fill'd upThe measure of our crimes, and from the cupOf guilt so deeply drank, as not to find,Thirsting for sin, one drop, one dreg behind;Quick ruin must involve this flaming ball,And Providence in justice crush us all.None but the damn'd, and amongst them the worst,Those who for double guilt are doubly cursed, 270Can be so lost; nor can the worst of allAt once into such deep damnation fall;By painful slow degrees they reach this crime,Which e'en in hell must be a work of time.Cease, then, thy guilty rage, thou wayward son,With the foul gall of Discontent o'errun;List to my voice,—be honest, if you can,Nor slander Nature in her favourite, man.But if thy spirit, resolute in ill,Once having err'd, persists in error still, 280Go on at large, no longer worth my care,And freely vent those blasphemies in air,Which I would stamp as false, though on the tongueOf angels the injurious slander hung.Duped by thy vanity (that cunning elfWho snares the coxcomb to deceive himself),Or blinded by thy rage, didst thou believeThat we too, coolly, would ourselves deceive?That we, as sterling, falsehood would admit,Because 'twas season'd with some little wit? 290When fiction rises pleasing to the eye,Men will believe, because they love the lie;But Truth herself, if clouded with a frown,Must have some solemn proof to pass her down.Hast thou, maintaining that which must disgraceAnd bring into contempt the human race,Hast thou, or canst thou, in Truth's sacred court,To save thy credit, and thy cause support,Produce one proof, make out one real ground,On which so great, so gross a charge to found? 300Nay, dost thou know one man (let that appear,From wilful falsehood I'll proclaim thee clear),One man so lost, to nature so untrue,From whom this general charge thy rashness drew?On this foundation shalt thou stand or fall—Prove that in one which you have charged on all.Reason determines, and it must be done;'Mongst men, or past, or present, name me one.Hogarth,—I take thee, Candour, at thy word,Accept thy proffer'd terms, and will be heard; 310Thee have I heard with virulence declaim,Nothing retain'd of Candour but the name;By thee have I been charged in angry strainsWith that mean falsehood which my soul disdains—Hogarth, stand forth;—Nay, hang not thus aloof—Now, Candour, now thou shalt receive such proof,Such damning proof, that henceforth thou shalt fearTo tax my wrath, and own my conduct clear;—Hogarth, stand forth—I dare thee to be triedIn that great court where Conscience must preside; 320At that most solemn bar hold up thy hand;Think before whom, on what account, you stand;Speak, but consider well;—from first to lastReview thy life, weigh every action past;Nay, you shall have no reason to complain—Take longer time, and view them o'er again.Canst thou remember from thy earliest youth,And as thy God must judge thee, speak the truth,A single instance where, self laid aside,And Justice taking place of Fear and Pride, 330Thou with an equal eye didst Genius view,And give to Merit what was Merit's due?Genius and Merit are a sure offence,And thy soul sickens at the name of sense.Is any one so foolish to succeed?On Envy's altar he is doom'd to bleed.Hogarth, a guilty pleasure in his eyes,The place of executioner supplies:See how he gloats, enjoys the sacred feast,And proves himself by cruelty a priest! 340Whilst the weak artist, to thy whims a slave,Would bury all those powers which Nature gave;Would suffer blank concealment to obscureThose rays thy jealousy could not endure;To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,And to secure thy credit, blast his own,In Hogarth he was sure to find a friend;He could not fear, and therefore might commend.But when his spirit, roused by honest shame,Shook off that lethargy, and soar'd to fame; 350When, with the pride of man, resolved and strong,He scorn'd those fears which did his honour wrong,And, on himself determined to rely,Brought forth his labours to the public eye,No friend in thee could such a rebel know;He had desert, and Hogarth was his foe.Souls of a timorous cast, of petty nameIn Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame,May some remorse, some qualms of conscience feel,And suffer honour to abate their zeal; 360But the man truly and completely great,Allows no rule of action but his hate;Through every bar he bravely breaks his way,Passion his principle, and parts his prey.Mediums in vice and virtue speak a mindWithin the pale of temperance confined;The daring spirit scorns her narrow schemes,And, good or bad, is always in extremes.Man's practice duly weigh'd, through every ageOn the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage, 370'Gainst those whom fortune hath our rivals made,In way of science, and in way of trade:Stung with mean jealousy she arms her spite,First works, then views their ruin with delight.Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines,And nobly on the general plan refines;He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound;Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found.Should painters only his vast wrath suffice?Genius in every walk is lawful prize: 380'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state;His love to merit is to feel his hate.When Wilkes, our countryman, our common friend,Arose, his king, his country to defend;When tools of power he bared to public view,And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew;When Rancour found it far beyond her reachTo soil his honour, and his truth impeach;What could induce thee, at a time and placeWhere manly foes had blush'd to show their face, 390To make that effort which must damn thy name,And sink thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame?Did virtue move thee? No; 'twas pride, rank pride,And if thou hadst not done it, thou hadst died.Malice (who, disappointed of her end,Whether to work the bane of foe or friend,Preys on herself, and, driven to the stake,Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take)Had kill'd thee, tottering on life's utmost verge,Had Wilkes and Liberty escaped thy scourge. 400When that Great Charter, which our fathers boughtWith their best blood, was into question brought;When, big with ruin, o'er each English headVile Slavery hung suspended by a thread;When Liberty, all trembling and aghast,Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past;When every breast was chill'd with deep despair,Till Reason pointed out that Pratt[129] was there;—Lurking, most ruffian-like, behind the screen,So placed all things to see, himself unseen, 410Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand,The murderous pencil in his palsied hand.What was the cause of Liberty to him,Or what was Honour? let them sink or swim,So he may gratify, without control,The mean resentments of his selfish soul;Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,In the same ruin Wilkes may perish too.With all the symptoms of assured decay,With age and sickness pinch'd and worn away, 420Pale quivering lips, lank cheeks, and faltering tongue,The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,Thy body shrivell'd up, thy dim eyes sunkWithin their sockets deep, thy weak hams shrunk,The body's weight unable to sustain,The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,More than half kill'd by honest truths which fell,Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee well—Canst thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance give,And, dead to all things else, to malice live? 430Hence, dotard, to thy closet; shut thee in;By deep repentance wash away thy sin;From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,And, on the verge of death, learn how to die!Vain exhortation! wash the Ethiop white,Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,Control the course of Nature, bid the deepHush at thy pigmy voice her waves to sleep—Perform things passing strange, yet own thy artToo weak to work a change in such a heart; 440That Envy, which was woven in the frameAt first, will to the last remain the same.Reason may droop, may die; but Envy's rageImproves by time, and gathers strength from age.Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,Unread, unpractised in the ways of men,Tell us that Envy, who, with giant stride,Stalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,And calmly hears her praises after death. 450To such observers Hogarth gives the lie;Worth may be hearsed, but Envy cannot die;Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,A mansion suited well to such a guest,Immortal, unimpair'd, she rears her head,And damns alike the living and the dead.Oft have I known thee, Hogarth, weak and vain,Thyself the idol of thy awkward strain,Through the dull measure of a summer's day,In phrase most vile, prate long, long hours away, 460Whilst friends with friends, all gaping sit, and gaze,To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praise.But if athwart thee Interruption came,And mention'd with respect some ancient's name,Some ancient's name who, in the days of yore,The crown of Art with greatest honour wore,How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale,And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale!How hath thy jealousy to madness grown,And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own! 470Then without mercy did thy wrath make way,And arts and artists all became thy prey;Then didst thou trample on establish'd rules,And proudly levell'd all the ancient schools;Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages graced,Which you had never seen, or could not taste;But would mankind have true perfection shown,It must be found in labours of my own:I dare to challenge, in one single piece,The united force of Italy and Greece. 480Thy eager hand the curtain then undrew,And brought the boasted masterpiece to view.Spare thy remarks—say not a single word—The picture seen, why is the painter heard?Call not up shame and anger in our cheeks;Without a comment Sigismunda[130] speaks.Poor Sigismunda! what a fate is thine!Dryden, the great high-priest of all the Nine,Revived thy name, gave what a Muse could give,And in his numbers bade thy memory live; 490Gave thee those soft sensations which might moveAnd warm the coldest anchorite to love;Gave thee that virtue, which could curb desire,Refine and consecrate love's headstrong fire;Gave thee those griefs, which made the Stoic feel,And call'd compassion forth from hearts of steel;Gave thee that firmness, which our sex may shame,And make man bow to woman's juster claim;So that our tears, which from compassion flow,Seem to debase thy dignity of woe. 500But, oh, how much unlike! how fallen! how changed!How much from Nature and herself estranged!How totally deprived of all the powersTo show her feelings, and awaken ours,Doth Sigismunda now devoted stand,The helpless victim of a dauber's hand!But why, my Hogarth, such a progress made,So rare a pattern for the sign-post trade,In the full force and whirlwind of thy pride,Why was heroic painting laid aside? 510Why is it not resumed? thy friends at court,Men all in place and power, crave thy support;Be grateful then for once, and through the fieldOf politics thy epic pencil wield;Maintain the cause, which they, good lack! avow,And would maintain too, but they know not how.Through every pannel let thy virtue tellHow Bute prevail'd, how Pitt and Temple fell;How England's sons (whom they conspired to bless.Against our will, with insolent success) 520Approve their fall, and with addresses run—How got, God knows—to hail the Scottish sun;[131]Point out our fame in war, when vengeance, hurl'dFrom the strong arm of Justice, shook the world;Thine, and thy country's honour to increase,Point out the honours of succeeding peace;Our moderation, Christian-like, display,Show what we got, and what we gave away;In colours, dull and heavy as the tale,Let a state-chaos through the whole prevail. 530But, of events regardless, whilst the Muse,Perhaps with too much heat, her theme pursues;Whilst her quick spirits rouse at Freedom's call,And every drop of blood is turn'd to gall;Whilst a dear country, and an injured friend,Urge my strong anger to the bitterest end;Whilst honest trophies to Revenge are raised,Let not one real virtue pass unpraised;Justice with equal course bids Satire flow,And loves the virtue of her greatest foe. 540Oh! that I here could that rare virtue mean,Which scorns the rule of envy, pride, and spleen,Which springs not from the labour'd works of art,But hath its rise from Nature in the heart;Which in itself with happiness is crown'd,And spreads with joy the blessing all around!But truth forbids, and in these simple lays,Contented with a different kind of praise,Must Hogarth stand; that praise which Genius gives,In which to latest time the artist lives, 550But not the man; which, rightly understood,May make us great, but cannot make us good:That praise be Hogarth's; freely let him wearThe wreath which Genius wove, and planted there:Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down,Myself would labour to replace the crown.In walks of humour, in that cast of style,Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile;In comedy, his natural road to fame,—Nor let me call it by a meaner name, 560Where a beginning, middle, and an end,Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend,Each made for each, as bodies for their soul,So as to form one true and perfect whole;Where a plain story to the eye is told,Which we conceive the moment we behold,—Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and shall engageUnrivall'd praise to the most distant age.How couldst thou, then, to shame perversely run,And tread that path which Nature bade thee shun? 570Why did ambition overleap her rules,And thy vast parts become the sport of fools?By different methods different men excel;But where is he who can do all things well?Humour thy province, for some monstrous crimePride struck thee with the frenzy of sublime;But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mindSo partial be, and to herself so blind,What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe,Nor see those faults which every blockhead saw? 580Blush, thou vain man! and if desire of fame,Founded on real art, thy thoughts inflame,To quick destruction Sigismunda give,And let her memory die, that thine may live.But should fond Candour, for her mercy sake,With pity view, and pardon this mistake;Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind;Of arts despised, of artists, by thy frownAwed from just hopes, of rising worth kept down, 590Of all thy meanness through this mortal race,Canst thou the living memory erase?Or shall not vengeance follow to the grave,And give back just that measure which you gave?With so much merit, and so much success,With so much power to curse, so much to bless,Would he have been man's friend, instead of foe,Hogarth had been a little god below.Why, then, like savage giants, famed of old,Of whom in Scripture story we are told, 600Dost thou in cruelty that strength employ,Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?Why dost thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou hast made?Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art,But even Candour must condemn thy heart.For me, who, warm and zealous for my friend,In spite of railing thousands, will commend;And no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,Spite of commending thousands, will oppose, 610I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage,But with an eye of pity view thy age;Thy feeble age, in which, as in a glass,We see how men to dissolution pass.Thou wretched being, whom, on Reason's plan,So changed, so lost, I cannot call a man,What could persuade thee, at this time of life,To launch afresh into the sea of strife?Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth,Almost as much a child as at thy birth, 620To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,And sunk unnoticed in the arms of Death.Why would thy gray, gray hairs resentment brave,Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?Now, by my soul! it makes me blush to know,My spirit could descend to such a foe:Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke,It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke.Sure 'tis a curse which angry fates impose,To mortify man's arrogance, that those 630Who're fashion'd of some better sort of clay,Much sooner than the common herd decay.What bitter pangs must humbled Genius feel,In their last hours to view a Swift and Steele!How must ill-boding horrors fill her breast,When she beholds men mark'd above the restFor qualities most dear, plunged from that height,And sunk, deep sunk, in second childhood's night!Are men, indeed, such things? and are the bestMore subject to this evil than the rest, 640To drivel out whole years of idiot breath,And sit the monuments of living death?Oh, galling circumstance to human pride!Abasing thought, but not to be denied!With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.Constant attention wears the active mind,Blots out her powers, and leaves a blank behind.But let not youth, to insolence allied,In heat of blood, in full career of pride, 650Possess'd of genius, with unhallow'd rageMock the infirmities of reverend age:The greatest genius to this fate may bow;Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now.
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[117] For occasion of this poem, see Life.
[118] 'Fox:' Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland, supposed not to beover-honest.
[119] 'Dashwood:' Sir Francis Dashwood, generally thought a bigoted andstupid Tory.
[120] 'Norton:' Sir Fletcher Norton, Attorney-General from 1763 to1765, created a peer in 1782 by the title of Lord Grantley.
[121] 'Mansfield:' the celebrated Murray, Lord Mansfield. See Junius.
[122] 'Rochester:' Pearce, Bishop of Rochester, mentioned above as a foe to Churchill.
[123] 'Ayliffe:' a forger of the period, said to have been ill-used by Lord Holland. Churchill intended to write a poem, entitled, 'Ayliffe's Ghost,' but did not live to accomplish his intention.
[124] 'Mighty name:' Pope, referring to his famous attack on Addison.
[125] 'Fathers:' Thomas Potter, Esq., a man of splendid abilities, was disinherited by his father, the Archbishop of Canterbury, on account of his dissolute life.
[126] 'Martin:' Samuel Martin, Esq., F.R.S., M.P. for Camelford; the hero of 'The Duellist.'
[127] 'Webb:' Philip Carteret Webb. Esq., Solicitor to the Treasury.
[128] 'C——:' name not known.
[129] 'Pratt:' Charles Pratt, Earl Camden, Chief-Justice of the CommonPleas, friendly to Wilkes. See Junius.
[130] 'Sigismunda;' a detestable miscreation of Hogarth's pencil,admired by none but himself.
[131] 'The Scottish sun:' The addresses to the King which followed the parliamentary approbation of the preliminary articles of peace in 1763, were obtained by means equally dishonourable and corrupt.
In Three Books.
The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globeDarkness had spread her pitchy robe:Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod,Treading as if in fear he trod,Gentle as dews at even-tide,Distill'd his poppies far and wide.Ambition, who, when waking, dreamsOf mighty, but fantastic schemes,Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that restWith which the humbler soul is blest, 10Was building castles in the air,Goodly to look upon, and fair,But on a bad foundation laid,Doom'd at return of morn to fade.Pale Study, by the taper's light,Wearing away the watch of night,Sat reading; but, with o'ercharged head,Remember'd nothing that he read.Starving 'midst plenty, with a faceWhich might the court of Famine grace, 20Ragged, and filthy to behold,Gray Avarice nodded o'er his gold.Jealousy, his quick eye half-closed,With watchings worn, reluctant dozed;And, mean Distrust not quite forgot,Slumber'd as if he slumber'd not.Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground,His hardy offspring sleeping round,Snored restless Labour; by his sideLay Health, a coarse but comely bride. 30Virtue, without the doctor's aid,In the soft arms of Sleep was laid;Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast,Could not be physic'd into rest.Thou bloody man! whose ruffian knifeIs drawn against thy neighbour's life,And never scruples to descendInto the bosom of a friend;A firm, fast friend, by vice allied,And to thy secret service tied, 40In whom ten murders breed no awe,If properly secured from law:Thou man of lust! whom passion firesTo foulest deeds, whose hot desiresO'er honest bars with ease make way,Whilst idiot beauty falls a prey,And to indulge thy brutal flameA Lucrece must be brought to shame;Who dost, a brave, bold sinner, bearRank incest to the open air, 50And rapes, full blown upon thy crown,Enough to weigh a nation down:Thou simular of lust! vain man,Whose restless thoughts still form the planOf guilt, which, wither'd to the root,Thy lifeless nerves can't execute,Whilst in thy marrowless, dry bonesDesire without enjoyment groans:Thou perjured wretch! whom falsehood clothesE'en like a garment; who with oaths 60Dost trifle, as with brokers, meantTo serve thy every vile intent,In the day's broad and searching eyeMaking God witness to a lie,Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf,And hanging friends[133] to save thyself:Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soulOn the four aces doom'd to roll,Was never yet with Honour caught,Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; 70Who dost thy wife, thy children set,Thy all, upon a single bet,Risking, the desperate stake to try,Here and hereafter on a die;Who, thy own private fortune lost,Dost game on at thy country's cost,And, grown expert in sharping rules,First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools:Thou noble gamester! whose high placeGives too much credit to disgrace; 80Who, with the motion of a die,Dost make a mighty island fly—The sums, I mean, of good French goldFor which a mighty island sold;Who dost betray intelligence,Abuse the dearest confidence,And, private fortune to create,Most falsely play the game of state;Who dost within the Alley sportSums which might beggar a whole court, 90And make us bankrupts all, if Care,With good Earl Talbot,[134] was not there:Thou daring infidel! whom prideAnd sin have drawn from Reason's side;Who, fearing his avengeful rod,Dost wish not to believe a God;Whose hope is founded on a planWhich should distract the soul of man,And make him curse his abject birth;Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, 100There to lie down, for worms a feast,To rot and perish like a beast;Who dost, of punishment afraid,And by thy crimes a coward made,To every generous soul a curseThan Hell and all her torments worse,When crawling to thy latter end,Call on Destruction as a friend,Choosing to crumble into dustRather than rise, though rise you must: 110Thou hypocrite! who dost profane,And take the patriot's name in vain;Then most thy country's foe, when mostOf love and loyalty you boast;Who, for the love of filthy gold,Thy friend, thy king, thy God hast sold,And, mocking the just claim of Hell,Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell:Ye villains! of whatever name,Whatever rank, to whom the claim 120Of Hell is certain, on whose lidsThat worm, which never dies, forbidsSweet sleep to fall, come, and behold,Whilst envy makes your blood run cold,Behold, by pitiless Conscience led,So Justice wills, that holy bedWhere Peace her full dominion keeps,And Innocence with Holland sleeps.Bid Terror, posting on the wind,Affray the spirits of mankind; 130Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent,Rive their concealing continent,And, forcing an untimely birthThrough the vast bowels of the earth,Endeavour, in her monstrous womb,At once all Nature to entomb;Bid all that's horrible and dire,All that man hates and fears, conspireTo make night hideous as they can,Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! 140Pure as the thoughts which in thy breastInhabit, and insure thy rest;Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late,Thy friendly justice in his fate,Turn'd to a guardian angel, spreadSweet dreams of comfort round thy head.Dark was the night, by Fate decreedFor the contrivance of a deedMore black than common, which might makeThis land from her foundations shake, 150Might tear up Freedom by the root,Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute.Deep Horror held her wide domain;The sky in sullen drops of rainForewept the morn, and through the air,Which, opening, laid its bosom bare,Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd;The owl at Freedom's window scream'd,The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breathBrings sickness, and whose note is death; 160The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb,All sad and silent, through the gloomThe ghosts of men, in former times,Whose public virtues were their crimes,Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rageBlank'd their pale cheeks; in his own ageThe prop of Freedom, Hampden thereFelt after death the generous care;Sidney by grief from heaven was kept,And for his brother patriot wept: 170All friends of Liberty, when FatePrepared to shorten Wilkes's date,Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan,And knew that wound to be their own.Hail, Liberty! a glorious word,In other countries scarcely heard,Or heard but as a thing of course,Without, or energy, or force:Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs,Far, far beyond the reach of kings, 180Fresh blooming from our mother Earth:With pride and joy she owns her birthDerived from us, and in returnBids in our breasts her genius burn;Bids us with all those blessings liveWhich Liberty alone can give,Or nobly with that spirit dieWhich makes death more than victory.Hail, those old patriots! on whose tonguePersuasion in the senate hung, 190Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd.Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd,Who spread, when other methods fail'd,War's bloody banner, and prevail'd.Shall men like these unmention'd sleepPromiscuous with the common heap,And (Gratitude forbid the crime!)Be carried down the stream of timeIn shoals, unnoticed and forgot,On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot? 200No—they shall live, and each fair name,Recorded in the book of Fame,Founded on Honour's basis, fastAs the round earth to ages last.Some virtues vanish with our breath;Virtue like this lives after death.Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by,Himself lost in eternity,An everlasting crown shall twineTo make a Wilkes and Sidney join. 210But should some slave-got villain dareChains for his country to prepare,And, by his birth to slavery broke,Make her, too, feel the galling yoke,May he be evermore accursed,Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst;May he be still himself, and stillGo on in vice, and perfect ill;May his broad crimes each day increase,Till he can't live, nor die in peace; 220May he be plunged so deep in shame,That Satan mayn't endure his name,And hear, scarce crawling on the earth,His children curse him for their birth;May Liberty, beyond the grave,Ordain him to be still a slave,Grant him what here he most requires,And damn him with his own desires!But should some villain, in supportAnd zeal for a despairing court, 230Placing in craft his confidence,And making honour a pretenceTo do a deed of deepest shame,Whilst filthy lucre is his aim;Should such a wretch, with sword or knife,Contrive to practise 'gainst the lifeOf one who, honour'd through the land,For Freedom made a glorious stand;Whose chief, perhaps his only crime,Is (if plain Truth at such a time 240May dare her sentiments to tell)That he his country loves too well:May he—but words are all too weakThe feelings of my heart to speak—May he—oh for a noble curse,Which might his very marrow pierce!—The general contempt engage,And be the Martin of his age!
Deep in the bosom of a wood,Out of the road, a Temple[135] stood:Ancient, and much the worse for wear,It call'd aloud for quick repair,And, tottering from side to side,Menaced destruction far and wide;Nor able seem'd, unless made stronger,To hold out four or five years longer.Four hundred pillars, from the groundRising in order, most unsound, 10Some rotten to the heart, aloofSeem'd to support the tottering roof,But, to inspection nearer laid,Instead of giving, wanted aid.The structure, rare and curious, madeBy men most famous in their trade,A work of years, admired by all,Was suffer'd into dust to fall;Or, just to make it hang together,And keep off the effects of weather, 20Was patch'd and patch'd from time to timeBy wretches, whom it were a crime,A crime, which Art would treason holdTo mention with those names of old.Builders, who had the pile survey'd,And those not Flitcrofts[136] in their trade,Doubted (the wise hand in a doubtMerely, sometimes, to hand her out)Whether (like churches in a brief[137],Taught wisely to obtain relief 30Through Chancery, who gives her feesTo this and other charities)It must not, in all parts unsound,Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground;Whether (though after ages ne'erShall raise a building to compare)Art, if they should their art employ,Meant to preserve, might not destroy;As human bodies, worn away,Batter'd and hasting to decay, 40Bidding the power of Art despair,Cannot those very medicines bear,Which, and which only, can restore,And make them healthy as before.To Liberty, whose gracious smileShed peace and plenty o'er the isle,Our grateful ancestors, her plainBut faithful children, raised this fane.Full in the front, stretch'd out in length,Where Nature put forth all her strength 50In spring eternal, lay a plainWhere our brave fathers used to trainTheir sons to arms, to teach the artOf war, and steel the infant heart.Labour, their hardy nurse, when young,Their joints had knit, their nerves had strung;Abstinence, foe declared to Death,Had, from the time they first drew breath,The best of doctors, with plain food,Kept pure the channel of their blood; 60Health in their cheeks bade colour rise,And Glory sparkled in their eyes.The instruments of husbandry,As in contempt, were all thrown by,And, flattering a manly pride,War's keener tools their place supplied.Their arrows to the head they drew;Swift to the points their javelins flew;They grasp'd the sword, they shook the spear;Their fathers felt a pleasing fear; 70And even Courage, standing by,Scarcely beheld with steady eye.Each stripling, lesson'd by his sire,Knew when to close, when to retire,When near at hand, when from afarTo fight, and was himself a war.Their wives, their mothers, all around,Careless of order, on the groundBreathed forth to Heaven the pious vow,And for a son's or husband's brow, 80With eager fingers, laurel wove;Laurel, which in the sacred grove,Planted by Liberty, they find,The brows of conquerors to bind,To give them pride and spirit, fitTo make a world in arms submit.What raptures did the bosom fireOf the young, rugged, peasant sire,When, from the toil of mimic fight,Returning with return of night, 90He saw his babe resign the breast,And, smiling, stroke those arms in jest,With which hereafter he shall makeThe proudest heart in Gallia quake!Gods! with what joy, what honest pride,Did each fond, wishing rustic brideBehold her manly swain return!How did her love-sick bosom burn,Though on parades he was not bred,Nor wore the livery of red, 100When, Pleasure heightening all her charms,She strain'd her warrior in her arms,And begg'd, whilst love and glory fire,A son, a son just like his sire!Such were the men in former times,Ere luxury had made our crimesOur bitter punishment, who boreTheir terrors to a foreign shore:Such were the men, who, free from dread,By Edwards and by Henries led, 110Spread, like a torrent swell'd with rains,O'er haughty Gallia's trembling plains:Such were the men, when lust of power,To work him woe, in evil hourDebauch'd the tyrant from those waysOn which a king should found his praise;When stern Oppression, hand in handWith Pride, stalk'd proudly through the land;When weeping Justice was misledFrom her fair course, and Mercy dead: 120Such were the men, in virtue strong,Who dared not see their country's wrong,Who left the mattock and the spade,And, in the robes of War array'd,In their rough arms, departing, tookTheir helpless babes, and with a lookStern and determined, swore to seeThose babes no more, or see them free:Such were the men whom tyrant PrideCould never fasten to his side 130By threats or bribes; who, freemen born,Chains, though of gold, beheld with scorn;Who, free from every servile awe,Could never be divorced from Law,From that broad general law, which SenseMade for the general defence;Could never yield to partial tiesWhich from dependant stations rise;Could never be to slavery led,For Property was at their head: 140Such were the men, in days of yore,Who, call'd by Liberty, beforeHer temple on the sacred green,In martial pastimes oft were seen—Now seen no longer—in their stead,To laziness and vermin bred,A race who, strangers to the causeOf Freedom, live by other laws,On other motives fight, a preyTo interest, and slaves for pay. 150Valour—how glorious, on a planOf honour founded!—leads their van;Discretion, free from taint of fear,Cool, but resolved, brings up their rear—Discretion, Valour's better half;Dependence holds the general's staff.In plain and home-spun garb array'd,Not for vain show, but service made,In a green flourishing old age,Not damn'd yet with an equipage, 160In rules of Porterage untaught,Simplicity, not worth a groat,For years had kept the Temple-door;Full on his breast a glass he wore,Through which his bosom open layTo every one who pass'd that way:Now turn'd adrift, with humbler face,But prouder heart, his vacant placeCorruption fills, and bears the key;No entrance now without a fee. 170With belly round, and full fat face,Which on the house reflected grace,Full of good fare, and honest glee,The steward Hospitality,Old Welcome smiling by his side,A good old servant, often tried,And faithful found, who kept in viewHis lady's fame and interest too,Who made each heart with joy rebound,Yet never ran her state aground, 180Was turn'd off, or (which word I findIs more in modern use) resign'd.[138]Half-starved, half-starving others, bredIn beggary, with carrion fed,Detested, and detesting all,Made up of avarice and gall,Boasting great thrift, yet wasting moreThan ever steward did before,Succeeded one, who, to engageThe praise of an exhausted age, 190Assumed a name of high degree,And call'd himself Economy.Within the Temple, full in sight,Where, without ceasing, day and nightThe workmen toiled; where Labour baredHis brawny arm; where Art prepared,In regular and even rows,Her types, a printing-press arose;Each workman knew his task, and eachWas honest and expert as Leach.[139] 200Hence Learning struck a deeper root,And Science brought forth riper fruit;Hence Loyalty received support,Even when banish'd from the court;Hence Government gain'd strength, and henceReligion sought and found defence;Hence England's fairest fame arose,And Liberty subdued her foes.On a low, simple, turf-made throne,Raised by Allegiance, scarcely known 210From her attendants, glad to bePattern of that equalityShe wish'd to all, so far as couldSafely consist with social good,The goddess sat; around her headA cheerful radiance Glory spread:Courage, a youth of royal race,Lovelily stern, possess'd a placeOn her left hand, and on her rightSat Honour, clothed with robes of light; 220Before her Magna Charta lay,Which some great lawyer, of his dayThe Pratt,[140] was officed to explain,And make the basis of her reign:Peace, crown'd with olive, to her breastTwo smiling twin-born infants press'd;At her feet, couching, War was laid,And with a brindled lion play'd:Justice and Mercy, hand in hand, 230Joint guardians of the happy land,Together held their mighty charge,And Truth walk'd all about at large;Health for the royal troop the feastPrepared, and Virtue was high-priest.Such was the fame our Goddess boreHer Temple such, in days of yore.What changes ruthless Time presents!Behold her ruin'd battlements,Her walls decay'd, her nodding spires,Her altars broke, her dying fires, 240Her name despised, her priests destroy'd,Her friends disgraced, her foes employ'd,Herself (by ministerial artsDeprived e'en of the people's hearts,Whilst they, to work her surer woe,Feign her to Monarchy a foe)Exiled by grief, self-doom'd to dwellWith some poor hermit in a cell;Or, that retirement tedious grown,If she walks forth, she walks unknown, 250Hooted, and pointed at with scorn,As one in some strange country born.Behold a rude and ruffian race,A band of spoilers, seize her place;With looks which might the heart disseat,And make life sound a quick retreat!To rapine from the cradle bred,A staunch old blood-hound at their head,Who, free from virtue and from awe,Knew none but the bad part of law, 260They roved at large; each on his breastMark'd with a greyhound stood confess'd:Controlment waited on their nod,High-wielding Persecution's rod;Confusion follow'd at their heels,And a cast statesman held the seals;[141]Those seals, for which he dear shall pay,When awful Justice takes her day.The printers saw—they saw and fled—Science, declining, hung her head. 270Property in despair appear'd,And for herself destruction fear'd;Whilst underfoot the rude slaves trodThe works of men, and word of God;Whilst, close behind, on many a book,In which he never deigns to look,Which he did not, nay, could not read,A bold, bad man (by power decreedFor that bad end, who in the darkScorn'd to do mischief) set his mark 280In the full day, the mark of Hell,And on the Gospel stamp'd an L.Liberty fled, her friends withdrew—Her friends, a faithful, chosen few;Honour in grief threw up; and Shame,Clothing herself with Honour's name,Usurp'd his station; on the throneWhich Liberty once call'd her own,(Gods! that such mighty ills should springUnder so great, so good a king, 290So loved, so loving, through the artsOf statesmen, cursed with wicked hearts!)For every darker purpose fit,Behold in triumph State-craft sit!
Ah me! what mighty perils waitThe man who meddles with a state,Whether to strengthen, or oppose!False are his friends, and firm his foes:How must his soul, once ventured in,Plunge blindly on from sin to sin!What toils he suffers, what disgrace,To get, and then to keep, a place!How often, whether wrong or right,Must he in jest or earnest fight, 10Risking for those both life and limbWho would not risk one groat for him!Under the Temple lay a Cave,Made by some guilty, coward slave,Whose actions fear'd rebuke: a mazeOf intricate and winding ways,Not to be found without a clue;One passage only, known to few,In paths direct led to a cell,Where Fraud in secret loved to dwell, 20With all her tools and slaves about her,Nor fear'd lest Honesty should rout her.In a dark corner, shunning sightOf man, and shrinking from the light,One dull, dim taper through the cellGlimmering, to make more horribleThe face of darkness, she prepares,Working unseen, all kinds of snares,With curious, but destructive art:Here, through the eye to catch the heart, 30Gay stars their tinsel beams afford,Neat artifice to trap a lord;There, fit for all whom Folly bred,Wave plumes of feathers for the head;Garters the hag contrives to make,Which, as it seems, a babe might break,But which ambitious madmen feelMore firm and sure than chains of steel;Which, slipp'd just underneath the knee, 40Forbid a freeman to be free.Purses she knew, (did ever curseTravel more sure than in a purse?)Which, by some strange and magic bands,Enslave the soul, and tie the hands.Here Flattery, eldest-born of Guile,Weaves with rare skill the silken smile,The courtly cringe, the supple bow,The private squeeze, the levee vow,With which—no strange or recent case—Fools in, deceive fools out of place. 50Corruption, (who, in former times,Through fear or shame conceal'd her crimes,And what she did, contrived to do itSo that the public might not view it)Presumptuous grown, unfit was heldFor their dark councils, and expell'd,Since in the day her business mightBe done as safe as in the night.Her eye down-bending to the ground,Planning some dark and deadly wound, 60Holding a dagger, on which stood,All fresh and reeking, drops of blood,Bearing a lantern, which of yore,By Treason borrow'd, Guy Fawkes bore,By which, since they improved in trade,Excisemen have their lanterns made,Assassination, her whole mindBlood-thirsting, on her arm reclined;Death, grinning, at her elbow stood,And held forth instruments of blood,— 70Vile instruments, which cowards choose,But men of honour dare not use;Around, his Lordship and his Grace,Both qualified for such a place,With many a Forbes, and many a Dun,[142]Each a resolved, and pious son,Wait her high bidding; each prepared,As she around her orders shared,Proof 'gainst remorse, to run, to fly,And bid the destined victim die, 80Posting on Villany's black wing,Whether he patriot is, or king.Oppression,—willing to appearAn object of our love, not fear,Or, at the most, a reverend aweTo breed, usurp'd the garb of Law.A book she held, on which her eyesWere deeply fix'd, whence seem'd to riseJoy in her breast; a book, of mightMost wonderful, which black to white 90Could turn, and without help of laws,Could make the worse the better cause.She read, by flattering hopes deceived;She wish'd, and what she wish'd, believed,To make that book for ever standThe rule of wrong through all the land;On the back, fair and worthy note,At large was Magna Charta wrote;But turn your eye within, and read,A bitter lesson, Norton's Creed. 100Ready, e'en with a look, to run,Fast as the coursers of the sun,To worry Virtue, at her handTwo half-starved greyhounds took their stand.A curious model, cut in wood,Of a most ancient castle stoodFull in her view; the gates were barr'd,And soldiers on the watch kept guard;In the front, openly, in blackWas wrote, The Tower: but on the back, 110Mark'd with a secretary's seal,In bloody letters, The Bastile.[143]Around a table, fully bentOn mischief of most black intent,Deeply determined that their reignMight longer last, to work the baneOf one firm patriot, whose heart, tiedTo Honour, all their power defied,And brought those actions into lightThey wish'd to have conceal'd in night, 120Begot, born, bred to infamy,A privy-council sat of three:Great were their names, of high reputeAnd favour through the land of Bute.The first[144] (entitled to the placeOf Honour both by gown and grace,Who never let occasion slipTo take right-hand of fellowship,And was so proud, that should he meetThe twelve apostles in the street, 130He'd turn his nose up at them all,And shove his Saviour from the wall!Who was so mean (Meanness and PrideStill go together side by side)That he would cringe, and creep, be civil,And hold a stirrup for the Devil;If in a journey to his mind,He'd let him mount and ride behind;Who basely fawn'd through all his life,For patrons first, then for a wife: 140Wrote Dedications which must makeThe heart of every Christian quake;Made one man equal to, or moreThan God, then left him, as beforeHis God he left, and, drawn by pride,Shifted about to t' other side)Was by his sire a parson made,Merely to give the boy a trade;But he himself was thereto drawnBy some faint omens of the lawn, 150And on the truly Christian planTo make himself a gentleman,—A title in which Form array'd him,Though Fate ne'er thought on 't when she made him.The oaths he took, 'tis very true,But took them as all wise men do,With an intent, if things should turn,Rather to temporise, than burn;Gospel and loyalty were madeTo serve the purposes of trade; 160Religions are but paper ties,Which bind the fool, but which the wise,Such idle notions far above,Draw on and off, just like a glove;All gods, all kings (let his great aimBe answer'd) were to him the same.A curate first, he read and read,And laid in, whilst he should have fedThe souls of his neglected flock,Of reading such a mighty stock, 170That he o'ercharged the weary brainWith more than she could well contain;More than she was with spirits fraughtTo turn and methodise to thought,And which, like ill-digested food,To humours turn'd, and not to blood.Brought up to London, from the ploughAnd pulpit, how to make a bowHe tried to learn; he grew polite,And was the poet's parasite. 180With wits conversing, (and wits thenWere to be found 'mongst noblemen)He caught, or would have caught, the flame,And would be nothing, or the same.He drank with drunkards, lived with sinners,Herded with infidels for dinners;With such an emphasis and graceBlasphemed, that Potter[141] kept not pace:He, in the highest reign of noon,Bawled bawdy songs to a psalm tune; 190Lived with men infamous and vile,Truck'd his salvation for a smile;To catch their humour caught their plan,And laugh'd at God to laugh with man;Praised them, when living, in each breath,And damn'd their memories after death.To prove his faith, which all admitIs at least equal to his wit,And make himself a man of note,He in defence of Scripture wrote: 200So long he wrote, and long about it,That e'en believers 'gan to doubt it:He wrote, too, of the inward light,Though no one knew how he came by 't,And of that influencing graceWhich in his life ne'er found a place:He wrote, too, of the Holy Ghost,Of whom no more than doth a postHe knew; nor, should an angel show him,Would he, or know, or choose to know him. 210Next (for he knew 'twixt every scienceThere was a natural alliance)He wrote, to advance his Maker's praise,Comments[142] on rhymes, and notes on plays,And with an all-sufficient airPlaced himself in the critic's chair;Usurp'd o'er Reason full dominion,And govern'd merely by Opinion.At length dethroned, and kept in aweBy one plain simple man of law,[143] 220He arm'd dead friends, to vengeance true,To abuse the man they never knew.Examine strictly all mankind,Most characters are mix'd, we find;And Vice and Virtue take their turnIn the same breast to beat and burn.Our priest was an exception here,Nor did one spark of grace appear,Not one dull, dim spark in his soul;Vice, glorious Vice, possess'd the whole, 230And, in her service truly warm,He was in sin most uniform.Injurious Satire! own at leastOne snivelling virtue in the priest,One snivelling virtue, which is placed,They say, in or about the waist,Call'd Chastity; the prudish dameKnows it at large by Virtue's name.To this his wife (and in these daysWives seldom without reason praise) 240Bears evidence—then calls her child,And swears that Tom[144] was vastly wild.Ripen'd by a long course of years,He great and perfect now appears.In shape scarce of the human kind,A man, without a manly mind;No husband, though he's truly wed;Though on his knees a child is bred,No father; injured, without endA foe; and though obliged, no friend; 250A heart, which virtue ne'er disgraced;A head, where learning runs to waste;A gentleman well-bred, if breedingRests in the article of reading;A man of this world, for the nextWas ne'er included in his text;A judge of genius, though confess'dWith not one spark of genius bless'd;Amongst the first of critics placed,Though free from every taint of taste; 260A Christian without faith or works,As he would be a Turk 'mongst Turks;A great divine, as lords agree,Without the least divinity;To crown all, in declining age,Inflamed with church and party rage,Behold him, full and perfect quite,A false saint, and true hypocrite.Next sat a lawyer,[145] often triedIn perilous extremes; when Pride 270And Power, all wild and trembling, stood,Nor dared to tempt the raging flood;This bold, bad man arose to view,And gave his hand to help them through:Steel'd 'gainst compassion, as they pass'dHe saw poor Freedom breathe her last;He saw her struggle, heard her groan;He saw her helpless and alone,Whelm'd in that storm, which, fear'd and praisedBy slaves less bold, himself had raised. 280Bred to the law, he from the firstOf all bad lawyers was the worst.Perfection (for bad men maintainIn ill we may perfection gain)In others is a work of time,And they creep on from crime to crime;He, for a prodigy design'd,To spread amazement o'er mankind,Started full ripen'd all at onceA perfect knave, and perfect dunce. 290Who will, for him, may boast of sense,His better guard is impudence;His front, with tenfold plates of brassSecured, Shame never yet could pass,Nor on the surface of his skinBlush for that guilt which dwelt within.How often, in contempt of laws,To sound the bottom of a cause,To search out every rotten part,And worm into its very heart, 300Hath he ta'en briefs on false pretence,And undertaken the defenceOf trusting fools, whom in the endHe meant to ruin, not defend!How often, e'en in open court,Hath the wretch made his shame his sport,And laugh'd off, with a villain's ease,Throwing up briefs, and keeping fees!Such things as, though to roguery bred,Had struck a little villain dead! 310Causes, whatever their import,He undertakes, to serve a court;For he by art this rule had got,Power can effect what Law cannot.Fools he forgives, but rogues he fears;If Genius, yoked with Worth, appears,His weak soul sickens at the sight,And strives to plunge them down in night.So loud he talks, so very loud,He is an angel with the crowd; 320Whilst he makes Justice hang her head,And judges turn from pale to red.Bid all that Nature, on a planMost intimate, makes dear to man,All that with grand and general tiesBinds good and bad, the fool and wise,Knock at his heart; they knock in vain;No entrance there such suitors gain;Bid kneeling kings forsake the throne,Bid at his feet his country groan; 330Bid Liberty stretch out her hands,Religion plead her stronger bands;Bid parents, children, wife, and friends,If they come 'thwart his private ends—Unmoved he hears the general call,And bravely tramples on them all.Who will, for him, may cant and whine,And let weak Conscience with her lineChalk out their ways; such starving rulesAre only fit for coward fools; 340Fellows who credit what priests tell,And tremble at the thoughts of Hell;His spirit dares contend with Grace,And meets Damnation face to face.Such was our lawyer; by his side,In all bad qualities allied,In all bad counsels, sat a third,By birth a lord.[146] Oh, sacred word!Oh, word most sacred! whence men getA privilege to run in debt; 350Whence they at large exemption claimFrom Satire, and her servant Shame;Whence they, deprived of all her force,Forbid bold Truth to hold her course.Consult his person, dress, and air,He seems, which strangers well might swear,The master, or, by courtesy,The captain of a colliery.Look at his visage, and agreeHalf-hang'd he seems, just from the tree 360Escaped; a rope may sometimes break,Or men be cut down by mistake.He hath not virtue (in the schoolOf Vice bred up) to live by rule,Nor hath he sense (which none can doubtWho know the man) to live without.His life is a continued sceneOf all that's infamous and mean;He knows not change, unless, grown niceAnd delicate, from vice to vice; 370Nature design'd him, in a rage,To be the Wharton[147] of his age;But, having given all the sin,Forgot to put the virtues in.To run a horse, to make a match,To revel deep, to roar a catch,To knock a tottering watchman down,To sweat a woman of the town;By fits to keep the peace, or break it,In turn to give a pox, or take it; 380He is, in faith, most excellent,And, in the word's most full intent,A true choice spirit, we admit;With wits a fool, with fools a wit:Hear him but talk, and you would swearObscenity herself was there,And that Profaneness had made choice,By way of trump, to use his voice;That, in all mean and low things great,He had been bred at Billingsgate; 390And that, ascending to the earthBefore the season of his birth,Blasphemy, making way and room,Had mark'd him in his mother's womb.Too honest (for the worst of menIn forms are honest, now and then)Not to have, in the usual way,His bills sent in; too great to pay:Too proud to speak to, if he meetsThe honest tradesman whom he cheats: 400Too infamous to have a friend;Too bad for bad men to commend,Or good to name; beneath whose weightEarth groans; who hath been spared by FateOnly to show, on Mercy's plan,How far and long God bears with man.Such were the three, who, mocking sleep,At midnight sat, in counsel deep,Plotting destruction 'gainst a headWhose wisdom could not be misled; 410Plotting destruction 'gainst a heartWhich ne'er from honour would depart.'Is he not rank'd amongst our foes?Hath not his spirit dared opposeOur dearest measures, made our nameStand forward on the roll of ShameHath he not won the vulgar tribes,By scorning menaces and bribes,And proving that his darling causeIs, of their liberties and laws 420To stand the champion? In a word,Nor need one argument be heardBeyond this to awake our zeal,To quicken our resolves, and steelOur steady souls to bloody bent,(Sure ruin to each dear intent,Each flattering hope) he, without fear,Hath dared to make the truth appear.'They said, and, by resentment taught,Each on revenge employ'd his thought; 430Each, bent on mischief, rack'd his brainTo her full stretch, but rack'd in vain;Scheme after scheme they brought to view;All were examined; none would do:When Fraud, with pleasure in her face,Forth issued from her hiding-place,And at the table where they meet,First having bless'd them, took her seat.'No trifling cause, my darling boys,Your present thoughts and cares employs; 440No common snare, no random blow,Can work the bane of such a foe:By nature cautious as he's brave,To Honour only he's a slave;In that weak part without defence,We must to honour make pretence;That lure shall to his ruin drawThe wretch, who stands secure in law.Nor think that I have idly plann'dThis full-ripe scheme; behold at hand, 450With three months' training on his head,An instrument, whom I have bred,Born of these bowels, far from sightOf Virtue's false but glaring light,My youngest-born, my dearest joy,Most like myself, my darling boy!He, never touch'd with vile remorse,Resolved and crafty in his course,Shall work our ends, complete our schemes,Most mine, when most he Honour's seems; 460Nor can be found, at home, abroad,So firm and full a slave of Fraud.'She said, and from each envious sonA discontented murmur runAround the table; all in placeThought his full praise their own disgrace,Wondering what stranger she had got,Who had one vice that they had not;When straight the portals open flew,And, clad in armour, to their view 470Martin, the Duellist, came forth.All knew, and all confess'd his worth;All justified, with smiles array'd,The happy choice their dam had made.