* * * * *
Footnotes:
[132] 'The Duellist:' theNorth Britonhad fiercely assailed Mr Martin, M.P. for Camelford, who, on the first day of the next session of Parliament, complained of it; Mr Wilkes owned himself the author, and the result was a duel in Hyde Park, in which Wilkes was severely wounded. He always owned that Martin acted honourably in the rencontre, but not so thought Churchill.
[133] 'Hanging friends:' See note on v. 140 of the Epistle to WilliamHogarth.
[134] 'Earl Talbot:' Lord Steward of the King's Household from 1761 to1782, an economical Reformer.
[135] 'Temple:' the British Constitution.
[136] 'Flitcrofts:' Henry Flitcroft, an architect of some eminence.
[137] 'Brief:' alluding to the practice of obtaining contributions for the repair of churches, &c., by reading briefs in church.
[138] 'Resign'd:' the Dukes of Newcastle and Devonshire, Lord Temple, &c. who resigned their offices in 1762. Their successors pretended to economy, but it was a mere pretence.
[139] 'Leach:' Dryden Leach, an expert and tasteful printer in Crane Court, Fleet street, was unjustly imprisoned on account of Wilkes.
[140]'Pratt:' Lord Camden.
[141] 'Seals:' The general warrant for the apprehension of Wilkes was signed by the Earls of Egremont and Halifax, joint secretaries of state for the home department.
[142] 'Forbes and Dun:' two Scotchmen, one of whom challenged Wilkes, and the other tried to assassinate him. Dun was insane.
[143] 'The Bastile:' Wilkes was six days in the Tower.
[140] 'First:' the great William Warburton, who rose partly through hismarriage with the niece of the rich Ralph Allen.
[141] 'Potter:' mentioned above. He was suspected by Warburton of beingthe author of the infamous notes to Wilkes's infamous 'Essay on Woman.'
[142] 'Comments:' referring to the notes to 'The Dunciad,' and onShakspeare.
[143] 'Man of law:' Mr Thomas Edwards, a barrister, wrote a clever book against Warburton's criticism. Warburton alluded to him contemptuously afterwards, in a note to a new edition of 'The Dunciad.'
[144] 'Tom:' this son was Warburton's only child, and died before hisfather.
[145] 'A lawyer:' Sir Fletcher Norton, who as well as Warburton iscaricatured.
[146] 'A lord:' Sandwich.
[147] 'Wharton:' Philip Duke of Wharton, whose character is found in Pope's 'Moral Essays,' was noted for the greatness of his talents, and for his dissolute life.
In Three Books.
Far off (no matter whether east or west,A real country, or one made in jest,Nor yet by modern Mandevilles[149] disgraced,Nor by map-jobbers wretchedly misplaced)There lies an island, neither great nor small,Which, for distinction sake, I Gotham call.The man who finds an unknown country out,By giving it a name, acquires, no doubt,A Gospel title, though the people thereThe pious Christian thinks not worth his care 10Bar this pretence, and into air is hurl'dThe claim of Europe to the Western world.Cast by a tempest on the savage coast,Some roving buccaneer set up a post;A beam, in proper form transversely laid,Of his Redeemer's cross the figure made—Of that Redeemer, with whose laws his life,From first to last, had been one scene of strife;His royal master's name thereon engraved,Without more process the whole race enslaved, 20Cut off that charter they from Nature drew,And made them slaves to men they never knew.Search ancient histories, consult records,Under this title the most Christian lordsHold (thanks to conscience) more than half the ball;O'erthrow this title, they have none at all;For never yet might any monarch dare,Who lived to Truth, and breathed a Christian air,Pretend that Christ, (who came, we all agree,To bless his people, and to set them free) 30To make a convert, ever one law gaveBy which converters made him first a slave.Spite of the glosses of a canting priest,Who talks of charity, but means a feast;Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feelThe holy glowings of a real zeal)To all his hearers as a deed of worth,To give them heaven whom they have robb'd of earth;Never shall one, one truly honest man,Who, bless'd with Liberty, reveres her plan, 40Allow one moment that a savage sireCould from his wretched race, for childish hire,By a wild grant, their all, their freedom pass,And sell his country for a bit of glass.Or grant this barbarous right, let Spain and France,In slavery bred, as purchasers advance;Let them, whilst Conscience is at distance hurl'd,With some gay bauble buy a golden world:An Englishman, in charter'd freedom born,Shall spurn the slavish merchandise, shall scorn 50To take from others, through base private views,What he himself would rather die, than lose.Happy the savage of those early times,Ere Europe's sons were known, and Europe's crimes!Gold, cursed gold! slept in the womb of earth,Unfelt its mischiefs, as unknown its worth;In full content he found the truest wealth,In toil he found diversion, food, and health;Stranger to ease and luxury of courts,His sports were labours, and his labours sports; 60His youth was hardy, and his old age green;Life's morn was vigorous, and her eve serene;No rules he held, but what were made for use,No arts he learn'd, nor ills which arts produce;False lights he follow'd, but believed them true;He knew not much, but lived to what he knew.Happy, thrice happy now the savage race,Since Europe took their gold, and gave them grace!Pastors she sends to help them in their need,Some who can't write; with others who can't read; 70And on sure grounds the gospel pile to rear,Sends missionary felons every year;Our vices, with more zeal than holy prayers,She teaches them, and in return takes theirs.Her rank oppressions give them cause to rise,Her want of prudence, means and arms supplies,Whilst her brave rage, not satisfied with life,Rising in blood, adopts the scalping-knife.Knowledge she gives, enough to make them knowHow abject is their state, how deep their woe; 80The worth of freedom strongly she explains,Whilst she bows down, and loads their necks with chains.Faith, too, she plants, for her own ends impress'd,To make them bear the worst, and hope the best;And whilst she teaches, on vile Interest's plan,As laws of God, the wild decrees of man,Like Pharisees, of whom the Scriptures tell,She makes them ten times more the sons of Hell.But whither do these grave reflections tend?Are they design'd for any, or no end? 90Briefly but this—to prove, that by no actWhich Nature made, that by no equal pact'Twixt man and man, which might, if Justice heard,Stand good; that by no benefits conferr'd,Or purchase made, Europe in chains can holdThe sons of India, and her mines of gold.Chance led her there in an accursed hour;She saw, and made the country hers by power;Nor, drawn by virtue's love from love of fame,Shall my rash folly controvert the claim, 100Or wish in thought that title overthrownWhich coincides with and involves my own.Europe discover'd India first; I foundMy right to Gotham on the self-same ground;I first discover'd it, nor shall that pleaTo her be granted, and denied to me;I plead possession, and, till one more boldShall drive me out, will that possession hold.With Europe's rights my kindred rights I twine;Hers be the Western world, be Gotham mine. 110Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?As on a day, a high and holy day,Let every instrument of music play,Ancient and modern; those which drew their birth(Punctilios laid aside) from Pagan earth, 120As well as those by Christian made and Jew;Those known to many, and those known to few;Those which in whim and frolic lightly float,And those which swell the slow and solemn note;Those which (whilst Reason stands in wonder by)Make some complexions laugh, and others cry;Those which, by some strange faculty of sound,Can build walls up, and raze them to the ground;Those which can tear up forests by the roots,And make brutes dance like men, and men like brutes; 130Those which, whilst Ridicule leads up the dance,Make clowns of Monmouth[150] ape the fops of France;Those which, where Lady Dulness with Lord MayorsPresides, disdaining light and trifling airs,Hallow the feast with psalmody; and thoseWhich, planted in our churches to disposeAnd lift the mind to Heaven, are disgracedWith what a foppish organist calls Taste:All, from the fiddle (on which every fool,The pert son of dull sire, discharged from school, 140Serves an apprenticeship in college ease,And rises through the gamut to degrees)To those which (though less common, not less sweet)From famed Saint Giles's, and more famed Vine Street,(Where Heaven, the utmost wish of man to grant,Gave me an old house, and an older aunt)Thornton,[151] whilst Humour pointed out the roadTo her arch cub, hath hitch'd into an ode;—All instruments (attend, ye listening spheres!Attend, ye sons of men! and hear with ears), 150All instruments (nor shall they seek one handImpress'd from modern Music's coxcomb band),All instruments, self-acted, at my nameShall pour forth harmony, and loud proclaim,Loud but yet sweet, to the according globe,My praises; whilst gay Nature, in a robe,A coxcomb doctor's robe, to the full soundKeeps time, like Boyce,[152] and the world dances round.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, 160The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?Infancy, straining backward from the breast,Tetchy and wayward, what he loveth bestRefusing in his fits, whilst all the whileThe mother eyes the wrangler with a smile,And the fond father sits on t' other side,Laughs at his moods, and views his spleen with pride, 170Shall murmur forth my name, whilst at his handNurse stands interpreter, through Gotham's land.Childhood, who like an April morn appears,Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears,Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm,In reason weak; who, wrought into a storm,Like to the fretful billows of the deep,Soon spends his rage, and cries himself asleep;Who, with a feverish appetite oppress'd,For trifles sighs, but hates them when possess'd; 180His trembling lash suspended in the air,Half-bent, and stroking back his long lank hair,Shall to his mates look up with eager glee,And let his top go down to prate of me.Youth, who, fierce, fickle, insolent, and vain,Impatient urges on to Manhood's reign,Impatient urges on, yet with a castOf dear regard looks back on Childhood past,In the mid-chase, when the hot blood runs high,And the quick spirits mount into his eye; 190When pleasure, which he deems his greatest wealth,Beats in his heart, and paints his cheeks with health;When the chafed steed tugs proudly at the rein,And, ere he starts, hath run o'er half the plain;When, wing'd with fear, the stag flies full in view,And in full cry the eager hounds pursue,Shall shout my praise to hills which shout again,And e'en the huntsman stop to cry, Amen.Manhood, of form erect, who would not bowThough worlds should crack around him; on his brow 200Wisdom serene, to passion giving law,Bespeaking love, and yet commanding awe;Dignity into grace by mildness wrought;Courage attemper'd and refined by thought;Virtue supreme enthroned; within his breastThe image of his Maker deep impress'd;Lord of this earth, which trembles at his nod,With reason bless'd, and only less than God;Manhood, though weeping Beauty kneels for aid,Though Honour calls, in Danger's form array'd, 210Though clothed with sackloth, Justice in the gates,By wicked elders chain'd, Redemption waits,Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour,(Is't not a little one?) to hail my power.Old Age, a second child, by Nature cursedWith more and greater evils than the first;Weak, sickly, full of pains, in every breathRailing at life, and yet afraid of death;Putting things off, with sage and solemn air,From day to day, without one day to spare; 220Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf,Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself;His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd,His memory of recent things devour'dE'en with the acting, on his shatter'd brainThough the false registers of youth remain;From morn to evening babbling forth vain praiseOf those rare men, who lived in those rare days,When he, the hero of his tale, was young;Dull repetitions faltering on his tongue; 230Praising gray hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway,E'en whilst he curses Time, which made him gray;Scoffing at youth, e'en whilst he would affordAll but his gold to have his youth restored,Shall for a moment, from himself set free,Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 240The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?Things without life shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.The snowdrop, who, in habit white and plain,Comes on, the herald of fair Flora's train;The coxcomb crocus, flower of simple note,Who by her side struts in a herald's coat;The tulip, idly glaring to the view,Who, though no clown, his birth from Holland drew; 250Who, once full dress'd, fears from his place to stir,The fop of flowers, the More of a parterre;The woodbine, who her elm in marriage meets,And brings her dowry in surrounding sweets;The lily, silver mistress of the vale;The rose of Sharon, which perfumes the gale;The jessamine, with which the queen of flowers,To charm her god, adorns his favourite bowers,Which brides, by the plain hand of Neatness dress'd,Unenvied rival, wear upon their breast, 260Sweet as the incense of the morn, and chasteAs the pure zone which circles Dian's waist;All flowers, of various names, and various forms,Which the sun into strength and beauty warms,From the dwarf daisy, which, like infants, clings,And fears to leave the earth from whence it springs,To the proud giant of the garden race,Who, madly rushing to the sun's embrace,O'ertops her fellows with aspiring aim,Demands his wedded love, and bears his name; 270All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?Forming a gloom, through which, to spleen-struck minds,Religion, horror-stamp'd, a passage finds, 280The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cellWhere some old hermit's wont his beads to tellBy day, by night; the myrtle ever green,Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen;The willow, weeping o'er the fatal waveWhere many a lover finds a watery grave;The cypress, sacred held, when lovers mournTheir true love snatch'd away; the laurel wornBy poets in old time, but destined now,In grief, to wither on a Whitehead's brow; 290The fig, which, large as what in India grows,Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes;The vine, which, like a blushing new-made bride,Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side;The yew, which, in the place of sculptured stone,Marks out the resting-place of men unknown;The hedge-row elm; the pine, of mountain race;The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place;The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud,Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud 300Of such a child, and his vast body laidOut many a mile, enjoys the filial shade;The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood;All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 310The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?The showers, which make the young hills, like young lambs,Bound and rebound; the old hills, like old rams,Unwieldy, jump for joy; the streams which glide,Whilst Plenty marches smiling by their side,And from their bosom rising Commerce springs;The winds, which rise with healing on their wings,Before whose cleansing breath Contagion flies;The sun, who, travelling in eastern skies, 320Fresh, full of strength, just risen from his bed,Though in Jove's pastures they were born and bred,With voice and whip can scarce make his steeds stir,Step by step, up the perpendicular;Who, at the hour of eve, panting for rest,Rolls on amain, and gallops down the westAs fast as Jehu, oil'd for Ahab's sin,Drove for a crown, or postboys for an inn;The moon, who holds o'er night her silver reign,Regent of tides, and mistress of the brain, 330Who to her sons, those sons who own her power,And do her homage at the midnight hour,Gives madness as a blessing, but dispensesWisdom to fools, and damns them with their senses;The stars, who, by I know not what strange right,Preside o'er mortals in their own despite,Who, without reason, govern those who most(How truly, judge from thence!) of reason boast,And, by some mighty magic yet unknown,Our actions guide, yet cannot guide their own; 340All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?The moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year,Morning and eve, as they in turn appear; 350Moments and minutes, which, without a crime,Can't be omitted in accounts of time,Or, if omitted, (proof we might afford)Worthy by parliaments to be restored;The hours, which, dress'd by turns in black and white,Ordain'd as handmaids, wait on Day and Night;The day, those hours, I mean, when light presides,And Business in a cart with Prudence rides;The night, those hours, I mean, with darkness hung,When Sense speaks free, and Folly holds her tongue; 360The morn, when Nature, rousing from her strifeWith death-like sleep, awakes to second life;The eve, when, as unequal to the task,She mercy from her foe descends to ask;The week, in which six days are kindly givenTo think of earth, and one to think of heaven;The months, twelve sisters, all of different hue,Though there appears in all a likeness too;Not such a likeness as, through Hayman's[153] works,Dull mannerist! in Christians, Jews, and Turks, 370Cloys with a sameness in each female face,But a strange something, born of Art and Grace,Which speaks them all, to vary and adorn,At different times of the same parents born;All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, 380The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?Frore January, leader of the year,Minced-pies in van, and calves' heads in the rear;Dull February, in whose leaden reignMy mother bore a bard without a brain;March, various, fierce, and wild, with wind-crack'd cheeks,By wilder Welshmen led, and crown'd with leeks;April, with fools, and May, with bastards bless'd;June, with White Roses on her rebel breast; 390July, to whom, the Dog-star in her train,Saint James[154] gives oysters, and Saint Swithin rain;August[155], who, banish'd from her Smithfield stand,To Chelsea flies, with Doggett in her hand;September, when by custom (right divine)Geese are ordain'd to bleed at Michael's shrine,Whilst the priest, not so full of grace as wit,Falls to, unbless'd, nor gives the saint a bit;October, who the cause of Freedom join'd,And gave a second George[156] to bless mankind; 400November, who, at once to grace our earth,Saint Andrew boasts, and our Augusta's[157] birth;December, last of months, but best, who gaveA Christ to man, a Saviour to the slave,Whilst, falsely grateful, man, at the full feast,To do God honour makes himself a beast;All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, 410The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?The seasons as they roll; Spring, by her sideLechery and Lent, lay-folly and church-pride,By a rank monk to copulation led,A tub of sainted salt-fish on her head;Summer, in light transparent gauze array'd,Like maids of honour at a masquerade, 420In bawdry gauze, for which our daughters leaveThe fig, more modest, first brought up by Eve,Panting for breath, inflamed with lustful fires,Yet wanting strength to perfect her desires,Leaning on Sloth, who, fainting with the heat,Stops at each step, and slumbers on his feet;Autumn, when Nature, who with sorrow feelsHer dread foe Winter treading on her heels,Makes up in value what she wants in length,Exerts her powers, and puts forth all her strength, 430Bids corn and fruits in full perfection rise,Corn fairly tax'd, and fruits without excise;Winter, benumb'd with cold, no longer knownBy robes of fur, since furs became our own;A hag, who, loathing all, by all is loathed,With weekly, daily, hourly, libels clothed,Vile Faction at her heels, who, mighty grown,Would rule the ruler, and foreclose the throne,Would turn all state affairs into a trade,Make laws one day, the next to be unmade, 440Beggar at home, a people fear'd abroad,And, force defeated, make them slaves by fraud;All, one and all, shall in this chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? 450The year, grand circle! in whose ample roundThe seasons regular and fix'd are bound,(Who, in his course repeated o'er and o'er,Sees the same things which he had seen before;The same stars keep their watch, and the same sunRuns in the track where he from first hath run;The same moon rules the night; tides ebb and flow;Man is a puppet, and this world a show;Their old dull follies, old dull fools pursue,And vice in nothing, but in mode, is new; 460He —— a lord (now fair befall that pride,He lived a villain, but a lord he died)Dashwood is pious, Berkeley[158] fix'd as Fate,Sandwich (thank Heaven!) first minister of state;And, though by fools despised, by saints unbless'd,By friends neglected, and by foes oppress'd,Scorning the servile arts of each court elf,Founded on honour, Wilkes is still himself)The year, encircled with the various trainWhich waits, and fills the glories of his reign, 470Shall, taking up this theme, in chorus join,And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine.Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,The voice of gladness; and on every tongue,In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,The praises of so great and good a king:Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?Thus far in sport—nor let our critics hence,Who sell out monthly trash, and call it sense, 480Too lightly of our present labours deem,Or judge at random of so high a theme:High is our theme, and worthy are the menTo feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen;But when kind Time a proper season brings,In serious mood to treat of serious things,Then shall they find, disdaining idle play,That I can be as grave and dull as they.Thus far in sport—nor let half patriots, thoseWho shrink from every blast of Power which blows, 490Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown,Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own;Who (lest bold truths, to do sage Prudence spite,Should burst the portals of their lips by night,Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep)Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap;When brave Occasion bids, for some great end,When Honour calls the poet as a friend,Then shall they find that, e'en on Danger's brink,He dares to speak what they scarce dare to think. 500
How much mistaken are the men who thinkThat all who will, without restraint may drink,May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst,Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,At the pure waters of the living well,Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boyMay play untaught, whilst, without art or force,Make it but jingle, music comes of course. 10Little do such men know the toil, the pains,The daily, nightly racking of the brains,To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;To know the times when Humour on the cheekOf Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak,And when be silent; when to use the powersOf ornament, and how to place the flowers,So that they neither give a tawdry glare,'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;' 20To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one,One critic in an age, can find when done)To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,To fill it up, and make the picture shineA full and perfect piece; to make coy RhymeRenounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;To make proud Sense against her nature bend,And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend.Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe,Who make it all their business to describe, 30No matter whether in or out of place;Studious of finery, and fond of lace,Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings.Let dull Propriety in state presideO'er her dull children, Nature is their guide;Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fenceOf those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense,Nor would forgive herself the mighty crimeOf keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time. 40Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon,With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon;Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,Let streams meander, and let torrents roar;Let them breed up the melancholy breeze,To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees;Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tingedWith various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed,They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys; 50Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe,Who will may take the power, and rule the globe.Others there are, who, in one solemn pace,With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace,Railing at needful ornament, dependOn Sense to bring them to their journey's end:They would not (Heaven forbid!) their course delay,Nor for a moment step out of the way,To make the barren road those graces wearWhich Nature would, if pleased, have planted there. 60Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan,Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man;Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land,Scorn every thing they do not understand;Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste,Let all their little knowledge run to waste,And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wearThe robes of Learning with a sloven's air.Though solid reasoning arms each sterling line,Though Truth declares aloud, 'This work is mine,'Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep, 70Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep.Sense, mere dull, formal Sense, in this gay town,Must have some vehicle to pass her down;Nor can she for an hour insure her reign,Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train.Let her from day to day, from year to year,In all her grave solemnities appear,And with the voice of trumpets, through the streets,Deal lectures out to every one she meets; 80Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other halfCan hear indeed, but only hear to laugh.Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride!Taking for once Experience as a guide,Quit this grand error, this dull college mode;Be your pursuits the same, but change the road;Write, or at least appear to write, with ease,'And if you mean to profit, learn to please.'In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim,Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name: 90Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the manWho thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan!This, in himself, himself of course must bless,But cannot with the world promote success.He may be strong, but, with effect to speak,Should recollect his readers may be weak;Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear,Will make the sinner tremble and despair.True Virtue acts from love, and the great endAt which she nobly aims is to amend. 100How then do those mistake who arm her lawsWith rigour not their own, and hurt the causeThey mean to help, whilst with a zealot rageThey make that goddess, whom they'd have engageOur dearest love, in hideous terror rise!Such may be honest, but they can't be wise.In her own full and perfect blaze of light,Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight;The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense,Shuts herself up in darkness for defence: 110But to make strong conviction deeper sink,To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think,Like God, made man, she lays her glory by,And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye:In earnest most, when most she seems in jest,She worms into, and winds around, the breast,To conquer Vice, of Vice appears the friend,And seems unlike herself to gain her end.The sons of Sin, to while away the timeWhich lingers on their hands, of each black crime 120To hush the painful memory, and keepThe tyrant Conscience in delusive sleep,Read on at random, nor suspect the dartUntil they find it rooted in their heart.'Gainst vice they give their vote, nor know at firstThat, cursing that, themselves too they have cursed;They see not, till they fall into the snares,Deluded into virtue unawares.Thus the shrewd doctor, in the spleen-struck mind,When pregnant horror sits, and broods o'er wind, 130Discarding drugs, and striving how to please,Lures on insensibly, by slow degrees,The patient to those manly sports which bindThe slacken'd sinews, and relieve the mind;The patient feels a change as wrought by stealth,And wonders on demand to find it health.Some few, whom Fate ordain'd to deal in rhymesIn other lands, and here, in other times,Whom, waiting at their birth, the midwife MuseSprinkled all over with Castalian dews, 140To whom true Genius gave his magic pen,Whom Art by just degrees led up to men;Some few, extremes well shunn'd, have steer'd betweenThese dangerous rocks, and held the golden mean;Sense in their works maintains her proper state,But never sleeps, or labours with her weight;Grace makes the whole look elegant and gay,But never dares from Sense to run astray:So nice the master's touch, so great his care,The colours boldly glow, not idly glare; 150Mutually giving and receiving aid,They set each other off, like light and shade,And, as by stealth, with so much softness blend,'Tis hard to say where they begin or end:Both give us charms, and neither gives offence;Sense perfects Grace, and Grace enlivens Sense.Peace to the men who these high honours claim,Health to their souls, and to their memories fame!Be it my task, and no mean task, to teachA reverence for that worth I cannot reach: 160Let me at distance, with a steady eye,Observe and mark their passage to the sky;From envy free, applaud such rising worth,And praise their heaven, though pinion'd down to earth!Had I the power, I could not have the time,Whilst spirits flow, and life is in her prime,Without a sin 'gainst Pleasure, to designA plan, to methodise each thought, each lineHighly to finish, and make every grace,In itself charming, take new charms from place. 170Nothing of books, and little known of men,When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen,Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down.Rough as they run, discharge them on the town.Hence rude, unfinish'd brats, before their time,Are born into this idle world of Rhyme,And the poor slattern Muse is brought to bed'With all her imperfections on her head.'Some, as no life appears, no pulses playThrough the dull dubious mass, no breath makes way, 180Doubt, greatly doubt, till for a glass they call,Whether the child can be baptized at all;Others, on other grounds, objections frame,And, granting that the child may have a name,Doubt, as the sex might well a midwife pose,Whether they should baptize it Verse or Prose.E'en what my masters please; bards, mild, meek men,In love to critics, stumble now and then.Something I do myself, and something too,If they can do it, leave for them to do. 190In the small compass of my careless pageCritics may find employment for an age:Without my blunders, they were all undone;I twenty feed, where Mason can feed one.When Satire stoops, unmindful of her state,To praise the man I love, curse him I hate;When Sense, in tides of passion borne along,Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song,The censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds,With as high relish on the carrion feeds 200As the proud earl fed at a turtle feast,Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast,Ate till his bowels gush'd upon the floor,Yet still ate on, and dying call'd for more.When loose Digression, like a colt unbroke,Spurning Connexion and her formal yoke,Bounds through the forest, wanders far astrayFrom the known path, and loves to lose her way,'Tis a full feast to all the mongrel packTo run the rambler down, and bring her back. 210When gay Description, Fancy's fairy child,Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild,Waking with Nature at the morning hourTo the lark's call, walks o'er the opening flowerWhich largely drank all night of heaven's fresh dew,And, like a mountain nymph of Dian's crew,So lightly walks, she not one mark imprints,Nor brushes off the dews, nor soils the tints;When thus Description sports, even at the timeThat drums should beat, and cannons roar in rhyme, 220Critics can live on such a fault as thatFrom one month to the other, and grow fat.Ye mighty Monthly Judges! in a dearthOf letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worthOf my materials, which against your willOft you've confess'd, and shall confess it still;Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought,Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wroughtTake, use them as your own, a work beginWhich suits your genius well, and weave them in, 230Framed for the critic loom, with critic art,Till, thread on thread depending, part on part,Colour with colour mingling, light with shade,To your dull taste a formal work is made,And, having wrought them into one grand piece,Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece.Nor think this much, for at one single word,Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard,Science attends their call; their power is own'd;Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned: 240Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'dAt means, as atoms danced into a world.Me higher business calls, a greater plan,Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man,The good of man committed to my charge:If idle Fancy rambles forth at large,Careless of such a trust, these harmless laysMay Friendship envy, and may Folly praise.The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume,And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! 250O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth!To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth,My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn,How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?—For monarchs, would they all but think like me,Are only fathers in the best degree)How must thy glories fade, in every landThy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty handBe shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd,Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd, 260Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile,The boast of ages, which adorns the isleAnd makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad,Happy at home, secure from force and fraud;How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raisedOn a firm rock, by friends admired and praised,Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all,In one short moment into ruins fall,Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race,Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace 270Thy royal seat of empire! But what care,What sorrow must be mine, what deep despairAnd self-reproaches, should that hated lineAdmittance gain through any fault of mine!Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring,Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king.Let War, with all his needy ruffian band,In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's landKnee-deep in blood; let all her stately towersSink in the dust; that court which now is ours 280Become a den, where beasts may, if they can,A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man;Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found;Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground;Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills;Barren the cattle on her thousand hills;Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey;Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray;Let cormorants in churches make their nest,And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest; 290Be all, though princes in the earth before,Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more;Much rather would I, might the will of FateGive me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd stateBy ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down,Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown.Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host,Those servants who their Maker know, who boastObedience as their glory, and fulfil,Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will; 300Let raging winds root up the boiling deep,And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep;Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye,Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky;Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise;Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes;Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think,In the deep gulf let all my subjects sinkBefore my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel;Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel, 310Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod,And, having own'd the justice of my God,Myself with firmness to the ruin give,And die with those for whom I wish to live.This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decreesNe'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!)This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear;But that the Stuart race my crown should wear,That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shoneBright as the glories of the midday sun; 320Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule,Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school,To the whip crouch and tremble—Oh, that thought!The labouring brain is e'en to madness broughtBy the dread vision; at the mere surmiseThe thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise;My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats,And, turn me where I will, distraction meets.O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms,The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms 330To high achievements; can your spirits bend,Through base control (ye never can descendSo low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain,Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign?If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide,Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride,The tyranny and falsehood of those lords,Contents you not, search England's fair records;England, where first the breath of life I drew,Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due; 340There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand,They rule no more, to curse that happy land.The first,[160] who, from his native soil removed,Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved:Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which springIn souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king;Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws.To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause;On practices most mean he raised his pride,And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. 350Ne'er could he feel how truly man is blestIn blessing those around him; in his breast,Crowded with follies, Honour found no room;Mark'd for a coward in his mother's womb,He was too proud without affronts to live,Too timorous to punish or forgive.To gain a crown which had, in course of time,By fair descent, been his without a crime,He bore a mother's exile; to secureA greater crown, he basely could endure 360The spilling of her blood by foreign knife,Nor dared revenge her death who gave him life:Nay, by fond Pear, and fond Ambition led,Struck hands with those by whom her blood was shed.[161]Call'd up to power, scarce warm on England's throne,He fill'd her court with beggars from his own:Turn where you would, the eye with Scots was caught,Or English knaves, who would be Scotsmen thought.To vain expense unbounded loose he gave,The dupe of minions, and of slaves the slave; 370On false pretences mighty sums he raised,And damn'd those senates rich, whom poor he praised;From empire thrown, and doom'd to beg her bread,On foreign bounty whilst a daughter fed,He lavish'd sums, for her received, on menWhose names would fix dishonour on my pen.Lies were his playthings, parliaments his sport;Book-worms and catamites engross'd the court:Vain of the scholar, like all Scotsmen since,The pedant scholar, he forgot the prince; 380And having with some trifles stored his brain,Ne'er learn'd, nor wish'd to learn, the art to reign.Enough he knew, to make him vain and proud,Mock'd by the wise, the wonder of the crowd;False friend, false son, false father,[162] and false king,False wit, false statesman, and false everything,When he should act, he idly chose to prate,And pamphlets wrote, when he should save the state.Religious, if religion holds in whim;To talk with all, he let all talk with him; 390Not on God's honour, but his own intent,Not for religion's sake, but argument;More vain if some sly, artful High-Dutch slave,Or, from the Jesuit school, some precious knaveConviction feign'd, than if, to peace restoredBy his full soldiership, worlds hail'd him lord.Power was his wish, unbounded as his will,The power, without control, of doing ill;But what he wish'd, what he made bishops preach,And statesmen warrant, hung within his reach 400He dared not seize; Fear gave, to gall his pride,That freedom to the realm his will denied.Of treaties fond, o'erweening of his parts,In every treaty of his own mean artsHe fell the dupe; peace was his coward care,E'en at a time when Justice call'd for war:His pen he'd draw to prove his lack of wit,But rather than unsheath the sword, submit.Truth fairly must record; and, pleased to liveIn league with Mercy, Justice may forgive 410Kingdoms betray'd, and worlds resign'd to Spain,But never can forgive a Raleigh slain.At length, (with white let Freedom mark that year)Not fear'd by those whom most he wish'd to fear,Not loved by those whom most he wish'd to love,He went to answer for his faults above;To answer to that God, from whom aloneHe claim'd to hold, and to abuse the throne;Leaving behind, a curse to all his line,The bloody legacy of Right Divine.[163] 420With many virtues which a radiance flingRound private men; with few which grace a king,And speak the monarch; at that time of lifeWhen Passion holds with Reason doubtful strife,Succeeded Charles, by a mean sire undone,Who envied virtue even in a son.His youth was froward, turbulent, and wild;He took the Man up ere he left the Child;His soul was eager for imperial sway,Ere he had learn'd the lesson to obey. 430Surrounded by a fawning, flattering throng,Judgment each day grew weak, and humour strong;Wisdom was treated as a noisome weed,And all his follies left to run to seed.What ills from such beginnings needs must spring!What ills to such a land from such a king!What could she hope! what had she not to fear!Base Buckingham[164] possess'd his youthful ear;Strafford and Laud, when mounted on the throne,Engross'd his love, and made him all their own; 440Strafford and Laud, who boldly dared avowThe traitorous doctrine taught by Tories now;Each strove to undo him in his turn and hour,The first with pleasure, and the last with power.Thinking (vain thought, disgraceful to the throne!)That all mankind were made for kings alone;That subjects were but slaves; and what was whim,Or worse, in common men, was law in him;Drunk with Prerogative, which Fate decreedTo guard good kings, and tyrants to mislead; 450Which in a fair proportion to denyAllegiance dares not; which to hold too high,No good can wish, no coward king can dare,And, held too high, no English subject bear;Besieged by men of deep and subtle arts,Men void of principle, and damn'd with parts,Who saw his weakness, made their king their tool,Then most a slave, when most he seem'd to rule;Taking all public steps for private ends,Deceived by favourites, whom he called friends, 460He had not strength enough of soul to findThat monarchs, meant as blessings to mankind,Sink their great state, and stamp their fame undone,When what was meant for all, they give to one.Listening uxorious whilst a woman's prate[165]Modell'd the church, and parcell'd out the state,Whilst (in the state not more than women read)High-churchmen preach'd, and turn'd his pious head;Tutor'd to see with ministerial eyes;Forbid to hear a loyal nation's cries; 470Made to believe (what can't a favourite do?)He heard a nation, hearing one or two;Taught by state-quacks himself secure to think,And out of danger e'en on danger's brink;Whilst power was daily crumbling from his hand,Whilst murmurs ran through an insulted land,As if to sanction tyrants Heaven was bound,He proudly sought the ruin which he found.Twelve years, twelve tedious and inglorious years,[166]Did England, crush'd by power, and awed by fears, 480Whilst proud Oppression struck at Freedom's root,Lament her senates lost, her Hampden mute.Illegal taxes and oppressive loans,In spite of all her pride, call'd forth her groans;Patience was heard her griefs aloud to tell,And Loyalty was tempted to rebel.Each day new acts of outrage shook the state,New courts were raised to give new doctrines weight;State inquisitions kept the realm in awe,And cursed Star-Chambers made or ruled the law; 490Juries were pack'd, and judges were unsound;Through the whole kingdom not one Pratt was found.From the first moments of his giddy youthHe hated senates, for they told him truth.At length, against his will compell'd to treat,Those whom he could not fright, he strove to cheat;With base dissembling every grievance heard,And, often giving, often broke his word.Oh, where shall hapless Truth for refuge fly,If kings, who should protect her, dare to lie? 500Those who, the general good their real aim,Sought in their country's good their monarch's fame;Those who were anxious for his safety; thoseWho were induced by duty to oppose,Their truth suspected, and their worth unknown,He held as foes and traitors to his throne;Nor found his fatal error till the hourOf saving him was gone and past; till powerHad shifted hands, to blast his hapless reign,Making their faith and his repentance vain. 510Hence (be that curse confined to Gotham's foes!)War, dread to mention, Civil War arose;All acts of outrage, and all acts of shame,Stalk'd forth at large, disguised with Honour's name;Rebellion, raising high her bloody hand,Spread universal havoc through the land;With zeal for party, and with passion drunk,In public rage all private love was sunk;Friend against friend, brother 'gainst brother stood,And the son's weapon drank the father's blood; 520Nature, aghast, and fearful lest her reignShould last no longer, bled in every vein.Unhappy Stuart! harshly though that nameGrates on my ear, I should have died with shameTo see my king before his subjects stand,And at their bar hold up his royal hand;At their commands to hear the monarch plead,By their decrees to see that monarch bleed.What though thy faults were many and were great?What though they shook the basis of the state? 530In royalty secure thy person stood,And sacred was the fountain of thy blood.Vile ministers, who dared abuse their trust,Who dared seduce a king to be unjust,Vengeance, with Justice leagued, with Power made strong,Had nobly crush'd—'The king could do no wrong.'Yet grieve not, Charles! nor thy hard fortunes blame;They took thy life, but they secured thy fame.Their greatest crimes made thine like specks appear,From which the sun in glory is not clear. 540Hadst thou in peace and years resign'd thy breathAt Nature's call; hadst thou laid down in deathAs in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borneOn the four winds, had been in pieces torn.Pity, the virtue of a generous soul,Sometimes the vice, hath made thy memory whole.Misfortunes gave what Virtue could not give,And bade, the tyrant slain, the martyr live.Ye Princes of the earth! ye mighty few!Who, worlds subduing, can't yourselves subdue; 550Who, goodness scorn'd, wish only to be great;Whose breath is blasting, and whose voice is fate;Who own no law, no reason, but your will,And scorn restraint, though 'tis from doing ill;Who of all passions groan beneath the worst,Then only bless'd when they make others cursed;Think not, for wrongs like these, unscourged to live;Long may ye sin, and long may Heaven forgive;But when ye least expect, in sorrow's day,Vengeance shall fall more heavy for delay; 560Nor think that vengeance heap'd on you aloneShall (poor amends!) for injured worlds atone;No, like some base distemper, which remains,Transmitted from the tainted father's veins,In the son's blood, such broad and general crimesShall call down vengeance e'en to latest times,Call vengeance down on all who bear your name,And make their portion bitterness and shame.From land to land for years compell'd to roam,Whilst Usurpation lorded it at home, 570Of majesty unmindful, forced to fly,Not daring, like a king, to reign or die,Recall'd to repossess his lawful throne,More at his people's seeking than his own,Another Charles succeeded. In the schoolOf Travel he had learn'd to play the fool;And, like pert pupils with dull tutors sentTo shame their country on the Continent,From love of England by long absence wean'd,From every court he every folly glean'd, 580And was—so close do evil habits cling—Till crown'd, a beggar; and when crown'd, no king.Those grand and general powers, which Heaven design'd,An instance of his mercy to mankind,Were lost, in storms of dissipation hurl'd,Nor would he give one hour to bless a world;Lighter than levity which strides the blast,And, of the present fond, forgets the past,He changed and changed, but, every hope to curse,Changed only from one folly to a worse: 590State he resign'd to those whom state could please;Careless of majesty, his wish was ease;Pleasure, and pleasure only, was his aim;Kings of less wit might hunt the bubble Fame;Dignity through his reign was made a sport,Nor dared Decorum show her face at court;Morality was held a standing jest,And Faith a necessary fraud at best.Courtiers, their monarch ever in their view,Possess'd great talents, and abused them too; 600Whate'er was light, impertinent, and vain,Whate'er was loose, indecent, and profane,(So ripe was Folly, Folly to acquit)Stood all absolved in that poor bauble, Wit.In gratitude, alas! but little read,He let his father's servants beg their bread—His father's faithful servants, and his own,To place the foes of both around his throne.Bad counsels he embraced through indolence,Through love of ease, and not through want of sense; 610He saw them wrong, but rather let them goAs right, than take the pains to make them so.Women ruled all, and ministers of stateWere for commands at toilets forced to wait:Women, who have, as monarchs, graced the land,But never govern'd well at second-hand.To make all other errors slight appear,In memory fix'd, stand Dunkirk[167] and Tangier;[168]In memory fix'd so deep, that Time in vainShall strive to wipe those records from the brain, 620Amboyna[169] stands—Gods! that a king could holdIn such high estimate vile paltry gold,And of his duty be so careless found,That when the blood of subjects from the groundFor vengeance call'd, he should reject their cry,And, bribed from honour, lay his thunders by,Give Holland peace, whilst English victims groan'd,And butcher'd subjects wander'd unatoned!Oh, dear, deep injury to England's fame,To them, to us, to all! to him deep shame! 630Of all the passions which from frailty spring,Avarice is that which least becomes a king.To crown the whole, scorning the public good,Which through his reign he little understood,Or little heeded, with too narrow aimHe reassumed a bigot brother's claim,And having made time-serving senates bow,Suddenly died—that brother best knew how.No matter how—he slept amongst the dead,And James his brother reigned in his stead: 640But such a reign—so glaring an offenceIn every step 'gainst freedom, law, and sense,'Gainst all the rights of Nature's general plan,'Gainst all which constitutes an Englishman,That the relation would mere fiction seem,The mock creation of a poet's dream;And the poor bards would, in this sceptic age,Appear as false astheirhistorian's page.Ambitious Folly seized the seat of Wit,Christians were forced by bigots to submit; 650Pride without sense, without religion Zeal,Made daring inroads on the Commonweal;Stern Persecution raised her iron rod,And call'd the pride of kings, the power of God;Conscience and Fame were sacrificed to Rome,And England wept at Freedom's sacred tomb.Her laws despised, her constitution wrench'dFrom its due natural frame, her rights retrench'dBeyond a coward's sufferance, conscience forced,And healing Justice from the Crown divorced, 660Each moment pregnant with vile acts of power,Her patriot Bishops sentenced to the Tower,Her Oxford (who yet loves the Stuart name)Branded with arbitrary marks of shame,She wept—but wept not long: to arms she flew,At Honour's call the avenging sword she drew,Turn'd all her terrors on the tyrant's head,And sent him in despair to beg his bread;Whilst she, (may every State in such distressDare with such zeal, and meet with such success!) 670Whilst she, (may Gotham, should my abject mindChoose to enslave rather than free mankind,Pursue her steps, tear the proud tyrant down,Nor let me wear if I abuse the crown!)Whilst she, (through every age, in every land,Written in gold, let Revolution stand!)Whilst she, secured in liberty and law,Found what she sought, a saviour in Nassau.