* * * * *
Footnotes:
[1] 'The Rosciad:' for occasion, &c., see Life.
[2] 'Roscius:' Quintus Roscius, a native of Gaul, and the mostcelebrated comedian of antiquity. [3] 'Clive:' Robert Lord Clive. SeeMacaulay's paper on him.
[4] 'Shuter:' Edward Shuter, a comic actor, who, after varioustheatrical vicissitudes, died a zealous methodist and disciple ofGeorge Whitefield, in 1776.
[5] 'Yates:' Richard Yates, another low actor of the period.
[6] 'Foote:' Samuel Foote, the once well-known farcical writer, (now chiefly remembered from Boswell's Life of Johnson), opened the Old House in the Haymarket, and, in order to overrule the opposition of the magistrates, announced his entertainments as 'Mr Foote's giving tea to his friends.'
[7] 'Wilkinson:' Wilkinson, the shadow of Foote, was the proprietor of Sadler's Wells Theatre.
[8] 'Palmer:' John Palmer, a favourite actor in genteel comedy, whomarried Miss Pritchard, daughter of the celebrated actress of thatname.
[9] 'Barry:' Spranger Barry, an actor of first-rate eminence and tallof size. Barry was a competitor of Garrick. Every one remembers thelines in a poem comparing the two—
'To Barry we give loud applause;To Garrick only tears.'
[10] 'Coan:' John Coan, a dwarf, showed himself, like another TomThumb, for sixpence a-head.
[11] 'Ackman:' Ackman ranked as one of the lowest comic actors of histime.
[12] 'Sterne:' the celebrated Laurence Sterne.
[13] 'Franklin:' Dr Thomas Franklin, the translator of Sophocles, Phalaris, and Lucian, and the author of a volume of sermons; all forgotten.
[14] 'Colman:' Colman, the elder, translator of Terence, and author of many clever comedies.
[15] 'Murphy:' Arthur Murphy, Esq., a native of Ireland. See Boswell's Life of Johnson. Churchill hated Murphy on account of his politics. He was in the pay of the Court.
[16] 'Northern race:' Wedderburn, afterwards Lord Loughborough, and Earl Rosslyn, a patron of Murphy, and a bitter enemy of Wilkes.
[17] 'Proteus Hill:' Sir John Hill, a celebrated character of that day, of incredible industry and versatility, a botanist, apothecary, translator, actor, dramatic author, natural historian, multitudinous compiler, libeller, and,intus et in cute, a quack and coxcomb. See Boswell's account of the interview between the King and Dr Johnson, for a somewhat modified estimate of Hill.
[18] 'Woodward:' Woodward the comedian had a paper war with Hill.
[19] 'Fools:' the person here meant was a Mr Fitzpatrick, a bitterenemy of Garrick's, and who originated riots in the theatre on thesubject of half-price.
[20] 'A youth:' Robert Lloyd, the friend and imitator of Churchill—aningenious but improvident person, who died of grief at his friend'sdeath, in 1764.
[21] 'Foster:' Sir Michael Foster, one of the puisne judges of theCourt of King's Bench.
[22] 'Ode:' alluding to Mason's Ode to Memory.
[23] 'Havard:' William Havard, an amiable man, but mediocre actor, ofthe period.
[24] 'Davies:' Thomas Davies, a bookseller, actor, and author. SeeBoswell.
[25] 'Holland:' Holland, a pupil and imitator of Mr Garrick.
[26] 'King:' Thomas King, a voluble and pert but clever actor.
[27] 'Yates:' Yates had a habit of repeating his words twice or thriceover, such as 'Hark you, hark you.'
[28] 'Tom Errand:' Tom Errand and Clincher, two well-known dramaticcharacters—a Clown and a coxcomb.
[29] 'Woodward:' Henry Woodward, comic actor of much power of face.
[30] 'Kitely:' Kitely, in Johnson's 'Every Man in his Humour,' was a favourite character of Garrick's.
[31] 'Obrien:' a small actor; originally a fencing-master.
[32] 'Jackson:' afterwards manager of the Royal Theatre, Edinburgh.
[33] 'Love:' James Love, an actor and dramatic writer, who could playnothing well but Falstaff.
[34] 'Dominic:' Dryden's 'Spanish Friar.' [35] 'Boniface:' The joviallandlord in Farquhar's 'Beaux Stratagem.'
[36] 'Austin,' &c.: all small and forgotten actors.
[37] 'Moody:' Moody excelled in Irish characters.
[38] 'Bayes:' alluding to the summer theatre in the Haymarket, where Murphy's plays were got up and acted under the joint management of himself and Mr Foote.
[39] 'Elliot:' a female actress of great merit.
[40] 'Ledgers:' the Public Ledger, a newspaper.
[41] 'Vaughan:' Thomas Vaughan, a friend of Murphy.
[42] 'Little factions:' Murphy had called Churchill and his friends'The Little Faction.'
[43] 'Militia:' the Westminster militia and the city of London trainedbands and lumber troopers, afforded much amusement.
[44] 'Sparks:' Luke Sparks, an actor of the time, rather hard in hismanner.
[45] 'Smith:' Called Gentleman Smith,' an actor in genteel comedy,corpulent in person.
[46] 'Ross:' a Scotchman, dissipated in his habits.
[47] 'Statira:' Ross's Statira was Mrs Palmer, the daughter of Mrs Pritchard.
[48] 'Macklin:' Charles Macklin,aliasM'Laughlin, good in such characters as Shylock, &c.; no tragedian; a lecturer on elocution; coarse in features.
[49] 'Sheridan:' father of Richard Brinsley. See Boswell and Moore.
[50] 'Islington:' the new river.
[51] 'Rolt:' a drudge to the booksellers, who plagiarised Akenside's'Pleasures of Imagination,' and was a coadjutor with ChristopherSmart in the 'Universal Visitor.' See Boswell.
[52] 'Lun:' Mr John Rich, the manager of Covent Garden and Lincoln'sInn Fields Theatre, called Lun for his performance of Harlequin; famousfor pantomimes.
[53] 'Clive:' Catherine Clive, a celebrated comic actress, of very diversified powers; 'a better romp' than Jonson 'ever saw in nature.'
[54] 'Pope:' a pleasing protégé of Mrs Clive.
[55] 'Vincent:' Mrs Vincent, a tolerable actress and a fine singer.
[56] 'Arne:' a fine musician, but no writer.
[57] 'Brent:' a female scholar of Arne's, very popular as Polly in the 'Beggars Opera.'
[58] 'Beard and Vincent:' famous singers.
[59] 'Yates:' Anna Maria Yates, the wife of Richard Yates, mentioned ina preceding note.
[60] 'Hart:' Mrs Hart, a demirep, married to one Reddish, who, afterher death, wedded Mrs Canning, mother of the great statesman.
[61] 'Bride:' another beautiful, but disreputable actress.
[62] 'Stale flower,' &c.: an unmanly allusion to Mrs Palmer, the daughter of Mrs Pritchard, who was greatly inferior to her mother.
[63] 'Cibber:' sister to Arne, and wife to the once notorious Theophilus Cibber, the son of the hero of the 'Dunciad.' She was no better in character than many actresses of that day; but sang so plaintively, that a bishop who heard her once cried out, 'Woman, thy sins be forgiven thee!'
[64] 'Pritchard:' according to Johnson, 'in private a vulgar idiot, but who, on the stage, seemed to become inspired with gentility and understanding.'
[65] 'Pantomime:' the 'Mourning Bride.'
[66] 'Thane:' Macbeth.
[67] 'Juletta:' a witty maid-servant in the play of 'The Pilgrim.'
[68] The 'Jealous Wife:' the 'Jealous Wife,' by Colman, was taken fromthe story of Lady Bellaston, in 'Tom Jones.'
[69] 'Mossop:' Henry Mossop, a powerful, fiery, but irregular actor,very unfortunate in life.
[70] 'Right-hand:' Mossop practised the 'tea-pot attitude.'
[71] 'Barry:' Spranger Barry, mentioned above as Garrick's great rival. He acted in Covent Garden.
[72] 'Quin:' the friend of Thomson, (see 'Castle of Indolence'),instructor in reading of George III., famous for indolence, wit, goodnature, and corpulence.
[73] 'Betterton:' the great actor of the seventeenth century, whosefuneral and character are described in the 'Tatler.' Booth was hissuccessor and copy.
[74] 'Lined:' supported.
[75] 'Rowe.' Andromache, in the tragedy of the 'Distressed Mother,' by Ambrose Philips, and Lothario, in the 'Fair Penitent,' by Rowe.
[76] 'Brute:' Sir John Brute, in Vanbrugh's 'Provoked Wife.'
[77] 'Dorax:' a soldier in Dryden's 'Don Sebastian.'
[78] 'Sheridan:' see a previous note.
[79] 'Nailor:' pugilist.
[80] 'Hubert:' in King John.
[81] 'Garrick:' see Boswell and Murphy's life of that great actor.
[82] 'Serjeant Kite:' the recruiting serjeant in Farquhar's 'Recruiting Officer.'
Tristitiam et Metus.—HORACE.
Laughs not the heart when giants, big with pride,Assume the pompous port, the martial stride;O'er arm Herculean heave the enormous shield,Vast as a weaver's beam the javelin wield;With the loud voice of thundering Jove defy,And dare to single combat—what?—A fly!And laugh we less when giant names, which shineEstablish'd, as it were, by right divine;Critics, whom every captive art adores,To whom glad Science pours forth all her stores; 10Who high in letter'd reputation sit,And hold, Astraea-like, the scales of wit,With partial rage rush forth—oh! shame to tell!—To crush a bard just bursting from the shell?Great are his perils in this stormy timeWho rashly ventures on a sea of rhyme:Around vast surges roll, winds envious blow,And jealous rocks and quicksands lurk below:Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends;He hurts me most who lavishly commends. 20Look through the world—in every other tradeThe same employment's cause of kindness made,At least appearance of good will creates,And every fool puffs off the fool he hates:Cobblers with cobblers smoke away the night,And in the common cause e'en players unite;Authors alone, with more than savage rage,Unnatural war with brother authors wage.The pride of Nature would as soon admitCompetitors in empire as in wit; 30Onward they rush, at Fame's imperious call,And, less than greatest, would not be at all.Smit with the love of honour,—or the pence,—O'errun with wit, and destitute of sense,Should any novice in the rhyming tradeWith lawless pen the realms of verse invade,Forth from the court, where sceptred sages sit,Abused with praise, and flatter'd into wit,Where in lethargic majesty they reign,And what they won by dulness, still maintain, 40Legions of factious authors throng at once,Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.To 'Hamilton's[84] the ready lies repair—Ne'er was lie made which was not welcome there—Thence, on maturer judgment's anvil wrought,The polish'd falsehood's into public brought.Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford;And reputation bleeds in every word.A critic was of old a glorious name,Whose sanction handed merit up to fame; 50Beauties as well as faults he brought to view;His judgment great, and great his candour too;No servile rules drew sickly taste aside;Secure he walk'd, for Nature was his guide.But now—oh! strange reverse!—our critics bawlIn praise of candour with a heart of gall;Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light,They lurk enshrouded in the vale of night;Safe from detection, seize the unwary prey,And stab, like bravoes, all who come that way. 60When first my Muse, perhaps more bold than wise,Bade the rude trifle into light arise,Little she thought such tempests would ensue;Less, that those tempests would be raised by you.The thunder's fury rends the towering oak,Rosciads, like shrubs, might 'scape the fatal stroke.Vain thought! a critic's fury knows no bound;Drawcansir-like, he deals destruction round;Nor can we hope he will a stranger spare,Who gives no quarter to his friend Voltaire.[85] 70Unhappy Genius! placed by partial FateWith a free spirit in a slavish state;Where the reluctant Muse, oppress'd by kings,Or droops in silence, or in fetters sings!In vain thy dauntless fortitude hath borneThe bigot's furious zeal, and tyrant's scorn.Why didst thou safe from home-bred dangers steer,Reserved to perish more ignobly here?Thus, when, the Julian tyrant's pride to swell,Rome with her Pompey at Pharsalia fell, 80The vanquish'd chief escaped from Caesar's hand,To die by ruffians in a foreign land.How could these self-elected monarchs raiseSo large an empire on so small a base?In what retreat, inglorious and unknown,Did Genius sleep when Dulness seized the throne?Whence, absolute now grown, and free from awe,She to the subject world dispenses law.Without her licence not a letter stirs,And all the captive criss-cross-row is hers. 90The Stagyrite, who rules from Nature drew,Opinions gave, but gave his reasons too.Our great Dictators take a shorter way—Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say?Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason,In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.True judgment now with them alone can dwell;Like Church of Rome, they're grown infallible.Dull superstitious readers they deceive,Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve, 100And knowing nothing, everything believe!But why repine we that these puny elvesShoot into giants?—we may thank ourselves:Fools that we are, like Israel's fools of yore,The calf ourselves have fashion'd we adore.But let true Reason once resume her reign,This god shall dwindle to a calf again.Founded on arts which shun the face of day,By the same arts they still maintain their sway.Wrapp'd in mysterious secrecy they rise, 110And, as they are unknown, are safe and wise.At whomsoever aim'd, howe'er severe,The envenom'd slander flies, no names appear:Prudence forbids that step;—then all might know,And on more equal terms engage the foe.But now, what Quixote of the age would careTo wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?By interest join'd, the expert confederates stand,And play the game into each other's hand:The vile abuse, in turn by all denied, 120Is bandied up and down, from side to side:It flies—hey!—presto!—like a juggler's ball,Till it belongs to nobody at all.All men and things they know, themselves unknown,And publish every name—except their own.Nor think this strange,—secure from vulgar eyes,The nameless author passes in disguise;But veteran critics are not so deceived,If veteran critics are to be believed.Once seen, they know an author evermore, 130Nay, swear to hands they never saw before.Thus in 'The Rosciad,' beyond chance or doubt,They by the writing found the writers out:That's Lloyd's—his manner there you plainly trace,And all the Actor stares you in the face.By Colman that was written—on my life,The strongest symptoms of the 'Jealous Wife.'That little disingenuous piece of spite,Churchill—a wretch unknown!—perhaps might write.How doth it make judicious readers smile, 140When authors are detected by their style;Though every one who knows this author, knowsHe shifts his style much oftener than his clothes!Whence could arise this mighty critic spleen,The Muse a trifler, and her theme so mean?What had I done, that angry Heaven should sendThe bitterest foe where most I wish'd a friend?Oft hath my tongue been wanton at thy name,[86]And hail'd the honours of thy matchless fame.For me let hoary Fielding bite the ground, 150So nobler Pickle stands superbly bound;From Livy's temples tear the historic crown,Which with more justice blooms upon thine own.Compared with thee, be all life-writers dumb,But he who wrote the Life of Tommy Thumb.Who ever read 'The Regicide,' but sworeThe author wrote as man ne'er wrote before?Others for plots and under-plots may call,Here's the right method—have no plot at all.Who can so often in his cause engage 160The tiny pathos of the Grecian stage,Whilst horrors rise, and tears spontaneous flowAt tragic Ha! and no less tragic Oh!To praise his nervous weakness all agree;And then for sweetness, who so sweet as he!Too big for utterance when sorrows swell,The too big sorrows flowing tears must tell;But when those flowing tears shall cease to flow,Why—then the voice must speak again, you know.Rude and unskilful in the poet's trade, 170I kept no Naïads by me ready made;Ne'er did I colours high in air advance,Torn from the bleeding fopperies of France;[87]No flimsy linsey-woolsey scenes I wrote,With patches here and there, like Joseph's coat.Me humbler themes befit: secure, for me,Let play-wrights smuggle nonsense duty free;Secure, for me, ye lambs, ye lambkins! bound,And frisk and frolic o'er the fairy ground.Secure, for me, thou pretty little fawn! 180Lick Sylvia's hand, and crop the flowery lawn;Uncensured let the gentle breezes roveThrough the green umbrage of the enchanted grove:Secure, for me, let foppish Nature smile,And play the coxcomb in the 'Desert Isle.'The stage I chose—a subject fair and free—'Tis yours—'tis mine—'tis public property.All common exhibitions open lie,For praise or censure, to the common eye.Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; 190Hence Monthly Critics earn their daily bread.This is a general tax which all must pay,From those who scribble, down to those who play.Actors, a venal crew, receive supportFrom public bounty for the public sport.To clap or hiss all have an equal claim,The cobbler's and his lordship's right's the same.All join for their subsistence; all expectFree leave to praise their worth, their faults correct.When active Pickle Smithfield stage ascends, 200The three days' wonder of his laughing friends,Each, or as judgment or as fancy guides,The lively witling praises or derides.And where's the mighty difference, tell me where,Betwixt a Merry Andrew and a player?The strolling tribe—a despicable race!—Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place.Vagrants by law, to justice open laid,They tremble, of the beadle's lash afraid,And, fawning, cringe for wretched means of life 210To Madam Mayoress, or his Worship's wife.The mighty monarch, in theatric sack,Carries his whole regalia at his back;His royal consort heads the female band,And leads the heir apparent in her hand;The pannier'd ass creeps on with conscious pride,Bearing a future prince on either side.No choice musicians in this troop are found,To varnish nonsense with the charms of sound;No swords, no daggers, not one poison'd bowl; 220No lightning flashes here, no thunders roll;No guards to swell the monarch's train are shown;The monarch here must be a host alone:No solemn pomp, no slow processions here;No Ammon's entry, and no Juliet's bier.By need compell'd to prostitute his art,The varied actor flies from part to part;And—strange disgrace to all theatric pride!—His character is shifted with his side.Question and answer he by turns must be, 230Like that small wit in modern tragedy,[88]Who, to patch up his fame—or fill his purse—Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse;Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known,Defacing first, then claiming for his own.In shabby state they strut, and tatter'd robe,The scene a blanket, and a barn the globe:No high conceits their moderate wishes raise,Content with humble profit, humble praise.Let dowdies simper, and let bumpkins stare, 240The strolling pageant hero treads in air:Pleased, for his hour he to mankind gives law,And snores the next out on a truss of straw.But if kind Fortune, who sometimes, we know,Can take a hero from a puppet-show,In mood propitious should her favourite call,On royal stage in royal pomp to bawl,Forgetful of himself, he rears the head,And scorns the dunghill where he first was bred;Conversing now with well dress'd kings and queens, 250With gods and goddesses behind the scenes,He sweats beneath the terror-nodding plume,Taught by mock honours real pride to assume.On this great stage, the world, no monarch e'erWas half so haughty as a monarch player.Doth it more move our anger or our mirthTo see these things, the lowest sons of earth,Presume, with self-sufficient knowledge graced,To rule in letters, and preside in taste?The town's decisions they no more admit, 260Themselves alone the arbiters of wit;And scorn the jurisdiction of that courtTo which they owe their being and support.Actors, like monks of old, now sacred grown,Must be attack'd by no fools but their own.Let the vain tyrant[89] sit amidst his guards,His puny green-room wits and venal bards,Who meanly tremble at the puppet's frown,And for a playhouse-freedom lose their own;In spite of new-made laws, and new-made kings, 270The free-born Muse with liberal spirit sings.Bow down, ye slaves! before these idols fall;Let Genius stoop to them who've none at all:Ne'er will I flatter, cringe, or bend the kneeTo those who, slaves to all, are slaves to me.Actors, as actors, are a lawful game,The poet's right, and who shall bar his claim?And if, o'erweening of their little skill,When they have left the stage, they're actors still;If to the subject world they still give laws, 280With paper crowns, and sceptres made of straws;If they in cellar or in garret roar,And, kings one night, are kings for evermore;Shall not bold Truth, e'en there, pursue her theme,And wake the coxcomb from his golden dream?Or if, well worthy of a better fate,They rise superior to their present state;If, with each social virtue graced, they blendThe gay companion and the faithful friend;If they, like Pritchard, join in private life 290The tender parent and the virtuous wife;Shall not our verse their praise with pleasure speak,Though Mimics bark, and Envy split her cheek?No honest worth's beneath the Muse's praise;No greatness can above her censure raise;Station and wealth to her are trifling things;She stoops to actors, and she soars to kings.Is there a man,[90] in vice and folly bred,To sense of honour as to virtue dead,Whom ties, nor human, nor divine can bind, 300Alien from God, and foe to all mankind;Who spares no character; whose every word,Bitter as gall, and sharper than the sword,Cuts to the quick; whose thoughts with rancour swell;Whose tongue, on earth, performs the work of hell?If there be such a monster, the ReviewsShall find him holding forth against abuse:Attack profession!—'tis a deadly breach!The Christian laws another lesson teach:—Unto the end shall Charity endure, 310And Candour hide those faults it cannot cure.Thus Candour's maxims flow from Rancour's throat,As devils, to serve their purpose, Scripture quote.The Muse's office was by Heaven design'dTo please, improve, instruct, reform mankind;To make dejected Virtue nobly riseAbove the towering pitch of splendid Vice;To make pale Vice, abash'd, her head hang down,And, trembling, crouch at Virtue's awful frown.Now arm'd with wrath, she bids eternal shame, 320With strictest justice, brand the villain's name;Now in the milder garb of ridiculeShe sports, and pleases while she wounds the fool.Her shape is often varied; but her aim,To prop the cause of Virtue, still the same.In praise of Mercy let the guilty bawl;When Vice and Folly for correction call,Silence the mark of weakness justly bears,And is partaker of the crimes it spares.But if the Muse, too cruel in her mirth, 330With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth;If wantonly she deviates from her plan,And quits the actor to expose the man;[91]Ashamed, she marks that passage with a blot,And hates the line where candour was forgot.But what is candour, what is humour's vein,Though judgment join to consecrate the strain,If curious numbers will not aid afford,Nor choicest music play in every word?Verses must run, to charm a modern ear, 340From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear.Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze,Smooth let their current flow, as summer seas;Perfect then only deem'd when they dispenseA happy tuneful vacancy of sense.Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage,Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage;Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound,And mangle vigour for the sake of sound.Henceforth farewell, then, feverish thirst of fame; 350Farewell the longings for a poet's name;Perish my Muse—a wish 'bove all severeTo him who ever held the Muses dear—If e'er her labours weaken to refineThe generous roughness of a nervous line.Others affect the stiff and swelling phrase;Their Muse must walk in stilts, and strut in stays;The sense they murder, and the words transpose,Lest poetry approach too near to prose.See tortured Reason how they pare and trim, 360And, like Procrustes, stretch, or lop the limb.Waller! whose praise succeeding bards rehearse,Parent of harmony in English verse,Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows,In couplets first taught straggling sense to close.In polish'd numbers and majestic sound,Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found?But whilst each line with equal beauty flows.E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows.Nature, through all her works, in great degree, 370Borrows a blessing from variety.Music itself her needful aid requiresTo rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires.Still in one key, the nightingale would tease;Still in one key, not Brent would always please.Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine,Thou dearest name to all the Tuneful Nine!What if some dull lines in cold order creep,And with his theme the poet seems to sleep?Still, when his subject rises proud to view, 380With equal strength the poet rises too:With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught,Thought still springs up and rises out of thought;Numbers ennobling numbers in their course,In varied sweetness flow, in varied force;The powers of genius and of judgment join,And the whole Art of Poetry is thine.But what are numbers, what are bards to me,Forbid to tread the paths of poesy?A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen— 390Priests must not hear nor see like other men—Far higher themes should her ambition claim:Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame!Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn,Let Reason for a moment take her turn.When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings,And blindly walk in paper leading-strings,What if a man delight to pass his timeIn spinning reason into harmless rhyme,Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? 400Say, where's the crime, great man of prudence, say?No two on earth in all things can agree;All have some darling singularity:Women and men, as well as girls and boys,In gew-gaws take delight, and sigh for toys.Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things,Are but a better kind of toys for kings.In things indifferent Reason bids us choose,Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse.What the grave triflers on this busy scene, 410When they make use of this word Reason, mean,I know not; but according to my plan,'Tis Lord Chief-Justice in the court of man;Equally form'd to rule in age or youth,The friend of virtue and the guide to truth;To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel;To her decision make my last appeal;Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vainShould tempt me to take up the pen again;By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue: 420If Reason's for me, God is for me too.
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[83] For occasion, &c. of this, see Life.
[84] 'Hamilton:' Archibald Hamilton, printer of the 'Critical Review.'
[85] 'Voltaire:' Smollett had changed his opinion of Voltaire, and from praising, had begun to abuse him.
[86] 'Thy name:' Dr Tobias Smollett, the well-known author of 'RoderickRandom, 'The Regicide,' an unfortunate tragedy, and one of the editorsof the 'Critical Review,'is here satirised.
[87] 'Fopperies of France,' &c.: in these lines the poet refers toMurphy's practice of vamping up French plays, and to his 'DesertIsland,' a ridiculous pastoral drama.
[88] 'Modern tragedy:' Mr Murphy again.
[89] 'Vain tyrant,' &c.: Garrick is here meant; he had displeased Churchill by pretending that he had written 'The Rosciad' to gain the freedom of the playhouse. He apologised very humbly to Churchill, and a reconciliation took place.
[90] 'A man:' Dr Smollett again.
[91] 'Expose the man:' referring to some personal lines on one Mr John Palmer, which occurred in the first edition, but which he expunged.
Contrarius evehor orbi.—OVID, Met. lib. ii.
When foes insult, and prudent friends dispense,In pity's strains, the worst of insolence,Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief,And in thy social converse find relief.The mind, of solitude impatient grown,Loves any sorrows rather than her own.Let slaves to business, bodies without soul,Important blanks in Nature's mighty roll,Solemnise nonsense in the day's broad glare,We Night prefer, which heals or hides our care. 10Rogues justified, and by success made bold,Dull fools and coxcombs sanctified by gold,Freely may bask in fortune's partial ray,And spread their feathers opening to the day;But threadbare Merit dares not show the headTill vain Prosperity retires to bed.Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light;The sons of Care are always sons of Night.The wretch, bred up in Method's drowsy school,Whose only merit is to err by rule, 20Who ne'er through heat of blood was tripping caught,Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought;Whose soul directed to no use is seen,Unless to move the body's dull machine,Which, clock-work like, with the same equal paceStill travels on through life's insipid space,Turns up his eyes to think that there should be,Among God's creatures, two such things as we;Then for his nightcap calls, and thanks the powersWhich kindly gave him grace to keep good hours. 30Good hours!—fine words—but was it ever seenThat all men could agree in what they mean?Florio, who many years a course hath runIn downright opposition to the sun,Expatiates on good hours, their cause defendsWith as much vigour as our prudent friends.The uncertain term no settled notion brings,But still in different mouths means different things;Each takes the phrase in his own private view;With Prudence it is ten, with Florio two. 40Go on, ye fools! who talk for talking sake,Without distinguishing, distinctions make;Shine forth in native folly, native pride,Make yourselves rules to all the world beside;Reason, collected in herself, disdainsThe slavish yoke of arbitrary chains;Steady and true, each circumstance she weighs,Nor to bare words inglorious tribute pays.Men of sense live exempt from vulgar awe,And Reason to herself alone is law: 50That freedom she enjoys with liberal mind,Which she as freely grants to all mankind.No idol-titled name her reverence stirs,No hour she blindly to the rest prefers;All are alike, if they're alike employ'd,And all are good if virtuously enjoy'd.Let the sage Doctor (think him one we know)With scraps of ancient learning overflow,In all the dignity of wig declareThe fatal consequence of midnight air, 60How damps and vapours, as it were by stealth,Undermine life, and sap the walls of health:For me let Galen moulder on the shelf,I'll live, and be physician to myself.Whilst soul is join'd to body, whether fateAllot a longer or a shorter date,I'll make them live, as brother should with brother,And keep them in good humour with each other.The surest road to health, say what they will,Is never to suppose we shall be ill. 70Most of those evils we poor mortals know,From doctors and imagination flow.Hence to old women with your boasted rules,Stale traps, and only sacred now to fools;As well may sons of physic hope to findOne medicine, as one hour, for all mankind!If Rupert after ten is out of bed,The fool next morning can't hold up his head;What reason this which me to bed must call,Whose head, thank Heaven, never aches at all? 80In different courses different tempers run;He hates the moon, I sicken at the sun.Wound up at twelve at noon, his clock goes right;Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.Then in oblivion's grateful cup I drownThe galling sneer, the supercilious frown,The strange reserve, the proud, affected stateOf upstart knaves grown rich, and fools grown great.No more that abject wretch[93] disturbs my rest,Who meanly overlooks a friend distress'd. 90Purblind to poverty, the worldling goes,And scarce sees rags an inch beyond his nose;But from a crowd can single out his Grace,And cringe and creep to fools who strut in lace.Whether those classic regions are survey'dWhere we in earliest youth together stray'd,Where hand in hand we trod the flowery shore,Though now thy happier genius runs before;When we conspired a thankless wretch[94] to raise,And taught a stump to shoot with pilfer'd praise, 100Who once, for reverend merit famous grown,Gratefully strove to kick his maker down;Or if more general arguments engage,—The court or camp, the pulpit, bar, or stage;If half-bred surgeons, whom men doctors call,And lawyers, who were never bred at all,Those mighty letter'd monsters of the earth,Our pity move, or exercise our mirth;Or if in tittle-tattle, toothpick way,Our rambling thoughts with easy freedom stray,— 110A gainer still thy friend himself must find,His grief suspended, and improved his mind.Whilst peaceful slumbers bless the homely bedWhere virtue, self-approved, reclines her head;Whilst vice beneath imagined horrors mourns,And conscience plants the villain's couch with thorns;Impatient of restraint, the active mind,No more by servile prejudice confined,Leaps from her seat, as waken'd from a tranceAnd darts through Nature at a single glance 120Then we our friends, our foes, ourselves, survey,And see by Night what fools we are by day.Stripp'd of her gaudy plumes, and vain disguise,See where ambition, mean and loathsome, lies;Reflection with relentless hand pulls downThe tyrant's bloody wreath and ravish'd crown.In vain he tells of battles bravely won,Of nations conquer'd, and of worlds undone;Triumphs like these but ill with manhood suit,And sink the conqueror beneath the brute. 130But if, in searching round the world, we findSome generous youth, the friend of all mankind,Whose anger, like the bolt of Jove, is spedIn terrors only at the guilty head,Whose mercies, like heaven's dew, refreshing fallIn general love and charity to all,Pleased we behold such worth on any throne,And doubly pleased we find it on our own.Through a false medium things are shown by day;Pomp, wealth, and titles, judgment lead astray. 140How many from appearance borrow state,Whom Night disdains to number with the great!Must not we laugh to see yon lordling proudSnuff up vile incense from a fawning crowd?Whilst in his beam surrounding clients play,Like insects in the sun's enlivening ray,Whilst, Jehu-like, he drives at furious rate,And seems the only charioteer of state,Talking himself into a little god,And ruling empires with a single nod; 150Who would not think, to hear him law dispense,That he had interest, and that they had sense?Injurious thought! beneath Night's honest shade,When pomp is buried, and false colours fade,Plainly we see at that impartial hour,Them dupes to pride, and him the tool of power.God help the man, condemn'd by cruel fateTo court the seeming, or the real great!Much sorrow shall he feel, and suffer moreThan any slave who labours at the oar! 160By slavish methods must he learn to please,By smooth-tongued flattery, that cursed court-disease;Supple, to every wayward mood strike sail,And shift with shifting humour's peevish gale.To nature dead, he must adopt vile art,And wear a smile, with anguish in his heart.A sense of honour would destroy his schemes,And conscience ne'er must speak unless in dreams.When he hath tamely borne, for many years,Cold looks, forbidding frowns, contemptuous sneers, 170When he at last expects, good easy man!To reap the profits of his labour'd plan,Some cringing lackey, or rapacious whore,To favours of the great the surest door,Some catamite, or pimp, in credit grown,Who tempts another's wife, or sells his own,Steps 'cross his hopes, the promised boon denies,And for some minion's minion claims the prize.Foe to restraint, unpractised in deceit,Too resolute, from nature's active heat, 180To brook affronts, and tamely pass them by,Too proud to flatter, too sincere to lie,Too plain to please, too honest to be great,Give me, kind Heaven, an humbler, happier state:Far from the place where men with pride deceive,Where rascals promise, and where fools believe;Far from the walk of folly, vice, and strife,Calm, independent, let me steal through life;Nor one vain wish my steady thoughts beguileTo fear his Lordship's frown, or court his smile. 190Unfit for greatness, I her snares defy,And look on riches with untainted eye:To others let the glittering baubles fall,Content shall place us far above them all.Spectators only on this bustling stage,We see what vain designs mankind engage:Vice after vice with ardour they pursue,And one old folly brings forth twenty new.Perplex'd with trifles through the vale of life,Man strives 'gainst man, without a cause for strife: 200Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleedFor some vile spot, where fifty cannot feed.Squirrels for nuts contend, and, wrong or right,For the world's empire kings, ambitious, fight.What odds?—to us 'tis all the self-same thing,A nut, a world, a squirrel, and a king.Britons, like Roman spirits famed of old,Are cast by nature in a patriot mould;No private joy, no private grief, they know,Their souls engross'd by public weal or woe; 210Inglorious ease, like ours, they greatly scorn;Let care with nobler wreaths their brows adorn:Gladly they toil beneath the statesman's pains,Give them but credit for a statesman's brains.All would be deem'd, e'en from the cradle, fitTo rule in politics as well as wit.The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce,Start up (God bless us!) statesman all at once.His mighty charge of souls the priest forgets,The court-bred lord his promises and debts; 220Soldiers their fame, misers forget their pelf,The rake his mistress, and the fop himself;Whilst thoughts of higher moment claim their care,And their wise heads the weight of kingdoms bear.Females themselves the glorious ardour feel,And boast an equal or a greater zeal;From nymph to nymph the state-infection flies,Swells in her breast, and sparkles in her eyes.O'erwhelm'd by politics lie malice, pride,Envy, and twenty other faults beside. 230No more their little fluttering hearts confessA passion for applause, or rage for dress;No more they pant for public raree-shows,Or lose one thought on monkeys or on beaux:Coquettes no more pursue the jilting plan,And lustful prudes forget to rail at man:The darling theme Cecilia's self will choose,Nor thinks of scandal whilst she talks of news.The cit, a common-councilman by place,Ten thousand mighty nothings in his face, 240By situation as by nature great,With nice precision parcels out the state;Proves and disproves, affirms and then denies,Objects himself, and to himself replies;Wielding aloft the politician rod,Makes Pitt by turns a devil and a god;Maintains, e'en to the very teeth of Power,The same thing right and wrong in half an hour:Now all is well, now he suspects a plot,And plainly proves, whatever is, is not: 250Fearfully wise, he shakes his empty head,And deals out empires as he deals out thread;His useless scales are in a corner flung,And Europe's balance hangs upon his tongue.Peace to such triflers! be our happier planTo pass through life as easy as we can.Who's in or out, who moves this grand machine,Nor stirs my curiosity, nor spleen.Secrets of state no more I wish to knowThan secret movements of a puppet-show: 260Let but the puppets move, I've my desire,Unseen the hand which guides the master-wire.What is't to us if taxes rise or fall?Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all.Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal,Lament those hardships which we cannot feel.His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he please,But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?By custom safe, the poet's numbers flowFree as the light and air some years ago. 270No statesman e'er will find it worth his painsTo tax our labours, and excise our brains.Burthens like these, vile earthly buildings bear;No tribute's laid on castles in the air.Let, then, the flames of war destructive reign,And England's terrors awe imperious Spain;Let every venal clan[95] and neutral tribeLearn to receive conditions, not prescribe;Let each new year call loud for new supplies,And tax on tax with double burthen rise; 280Exempt we sit, by no rude cares oppress'd,And, having little, are with little bless'd.All real ills in dark oblivion lie,And joys, by fancy form'd, their place supply;Night's laughing hours unheeded slip away,Nor one dull thought foretells approach of day.Thus have we lived, and whilst the Fates affordPlain plenty to supply the frugal board;Whilst Mirth with Decency, his lovely bride,And wine's gay god, with Temperance by his side, 290Their welcome visit pay; whilst Health attendsThe narrow circle of our chosen friends;Whilst frank Good-humour consecrates the treat,And woman makes society complete,Thus will we live, though in our teeth are hurl'dThose hackney strumpets, Prudence and the World.Prudence, of old a sacred term, impliedVirtue, with godlike wisdom for her guide;But now in general use is known to meanThe stalking-horse of vice, and folly's screen. 300The sense perverted, we retain the name;Hypocrisy and Prudence are the same.A tutor once, more read in men than books,A kind of crafty knowledge in his looks,Demurely sly, with high preferment bless'd,His favourite pupil in these words address'd:—Wouldst thou, my son, be wise and virtuous deem'd;By all mankind a prodigy esteem'd?Be this thy rule; be what men prudent call;Prudence, almighty Prudence, gives thee all. 310Keep up appearances; there lies the test;The world will give thee credit for the rest.Outward be fair, however foul within;Sin if thou wilt, but then in secret sin.This maxim's into common favour grown,Vice is no longer vice, unless 'tis known.Virtue, indeed, may barefaced take the field;But vice is virtue when 'tis well conceal'd.Should raging passion drive thee to a whore,Let Prudence lead thee to a postern door; 320Stay out all night, but take especial careThat Prudence bring thee back to early prayer.As one with watching and with study faint,Reel in a drunkard, and reel out a saint.With joy the youth this useful lesson heard,And in his memory stored each precious word;Successfully pursued the plan, and now,Room for my Lord—Virtue, stand by and bow.And is this all—is this the worldling's art,To mask, but not amend a vicious heart 330Shall lukewarm caution, and demeanour grave,For wise and good stamp every supple knaveShall wretches, whom no real virtue warms,Gild fair their names and states with empty forms;While Virtue seeks in vain the wish'd-for prize,Because, disdaining ill, she hates disguise;Because she frankly pours fourth all her store,Seems what she is, and scorns to pass for moreWell—be it so—let vile dissemblers holdUnenvied power, and boast their dear-bought gold; 340Me neither power shall tempt, nor thirst of pelf,To flatter others, or deny myself;Might the whole world be placed within my span,I would not be that thing, that prudent man.What! cries Sir Pliant, would you then opposeYourself, alone, against a host of foes?Let not conceit, and peevish lust to rail,Above all sense of interest prevail.Throw off, for shame! this petulance of wit;Be wise, be modest, and for once submit: 350Too hard the task 'gainst multitudes to fight;You must be wrong; the World is in the right.What is this World?—A term which men have gotTo signify, not one in ten knows what;A term, which with no more precision passesTo point out herds of men than herds of asses;In common use no more it means, we find,Than many fools in same opinions join'd.Can numbers, then, change Nature's stated laws?Can numbers make the worse the better cause? 360Vice must be vice, virtue be virtue still,Though thousands rail at good, and practise ill.Wouldst thou defend the Gaul's destructive rage,Because vast nations on his part engage?Though, to support the rebel Caesar's cause,Tumultuous legions arm against the laws;Though scandal would our patriot's name impeach,And rails at virtues which she cannot reach,What honest man but would with joy submitTo bleed with Cato, and retire with Pitt?[96] 370Steadfast and true to virtue's sacred laws,Unmoved by vulgar censure, or applause,Let the World talk, my friend; that World, we know,Which calls us guilty, cannot make us so.Unawed by numbers, follow Nature's plan;Assert the rights, or quit the name of man.Consider well, weigh strictly right and wrong;Resolve not quick, but once resolved, be strong.In spite of Dulness, and in spite of Wit,If to thyself thou canst thyself acquit, 380Rather stand up, assured with conscious pride,Alone, than err with millions on thy side.
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[92] 'Night:' this poem was written to defend the irregularities imputed to the poet.
[93] 'Abject wretch:' Thornton, who abandoned Lloyd in his distress.
[94] 'Thankless wretch:' one Sellon, a popular clergyman, aided at first by Churchill and his set, but who betrayed and blackened them afterwards. We meet with him again in 'The Ghost' as Plausible.
[95] 'Venal Clan:' alluding to Mr Pitt's employing the Highland clansin the American war.
[96] 'Pitt:' who retired in 1761, because the cabinet would not go towar with Spain.
Nos patriam fugimus.—VIRGIL.
When Cupid first instructs his darts to flyFrom the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desireWithin him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views,And fain would speak, but can't—without a Muse.So to the sacred mount he takes his way,Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, 10His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims,In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,In rustic weeds—a cook-maid now no more—Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies—Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.From aromatic shrubs the roguish galeSteals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. 20The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,And the full chorus dies a-down the stream:The streams, with music freighted, as they passPresent the fair Lardella with a glass;And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; 30Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe,Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law;Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,And founds his merit on our servile fears;Then we discard the workings of the heart,And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown:Then Ostentation marches to our aid,And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; 40Beneath their care behold the work refine,Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line;Trifles are dignified, and taught to wearThe robes of ancients with a modern air;Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced,And passes current with the stamp of taste.Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er,And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam,Easy and free as if they were at home; 50Nymphs, naïads, nereïds, dryads, satyrs, fauns,Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome,More fair revive in England's meads to bloom;Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn,And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise,And new creations strike our wondering eyes.For bards like these, who neither sing nor say,Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, 60Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe;Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays,And mars one couplet in their happy lays,As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,And ask the meaning of her coming there:For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[97] bring,Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing;In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze,And Gisbal[98] kindly rock them to repose; 70My Lord ——, to letters as to faith most true—At once their patron and example too—Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[99]Curious in grief (for real grief, we know,Is curious to dress up the tale of woe),From the green umbrage of some Druid's seatShall his own works, in his own way, repeat.Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; 80Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads;Who often, but without success, have pray'dFor apt Alliteration's artful aid;Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfitFor pacing poesy, and ambling wit, 90Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to placeAmongst the lowest of her favour'd race.Thou, Nature, art my goddess—to thy lawMyself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe!Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rulesImposed at first, and since observed by fools;Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,And bring the sober matron forth to view,With all that artificial tawdry glareWhich virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! 100Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that wasteOf toil, which critics now mistake for taste;Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease,Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please;By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued,However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,To northern climes my happier course I steer,Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year;Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. 110To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow,What mighty blessings doth not England owe!What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense,Doth each revolving day import from thence?To us she gives, disinterested friend!Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[100] without end.When we prosperity's rich trappings wear,Come not her generous sons and take a share?And if, by some disastrous turn of fate,Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, 120Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground,Such refuge as the holy martyr[101] found?
Nor less our debt in science, though deniedBy the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.Thence came the Ramsays,[102] names of worthy note,Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;Thence, Home,[103] disbanded from the sons of prayerFor loving plays, though no dull Dean[104] was there;Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's[105] call,That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal; 130Thence Malloch,[106] friend alike to Church and State,Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful FateRaised to rewards, which, in a pious reign,All daring infidels should seek in vain;Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,To this wise town by simple patrons brought,In simple manner utter simple lays,And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream,Where all the little Loves and Graces dream; 140Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep,And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims;There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood—Wash off my native stains, correct that bloodWhich mutinies at call of English pride,And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.From solemn thought which overhangs the browOf patriot care, when things are—God knows how; 150From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule,In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power,And easy Humour wings the laughing hour;From those soft better moments, when desireBeats high, and all the world of man's on fire;When mutual ardours of the melting fairMore than repay us for whole years of care,At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat,And see, once seen before, that ancient seat, 160That ancient seat, where majesty display'dHer ensigns, long before the world was made!Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind,Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind:Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave,Those faculties which bounteous nature gave,Thy honest spirit into practice brings,Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.Let rude licentious Englishmen complyWith tumult's voice, and curse—they know not why; 170Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdainsTo wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear,Things as they are, and not as they appear.With thee good humour tempers lively wit;Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit;And nature gave thee, open to distress,A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lotOf the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot, 180Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,By rancour forged where prejudice prevails,Or starves at home, or practises, through fearOf starving, arts which damn all conscience here.When scribblers, to the charge by interest led,The fierce North Briton[107] foaming at their head,Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call,And, injured by one alien, rail at all;On northern Pisgah when they take their stand,To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, 190With needless truths their libels to adorn,And hang a nation up to public scorn,Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage,And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page.The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear,Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?If, by low supple arts successful grown,They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; 200If, mean in want, and insolent in power,They only fawn'd more surely to devour,Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm,And e'en the Muse for public safety arm?But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway,And follow where true honour points the way,If they revere the hand by which they're fed,And bless the donors for their daily bread,Or, by vast debts of higher import bound,Are always humble, always grateful found: 210If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,Become discreetly all things to all men,That all men may become all things to them,Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn.Into our places, states, and beds they creep;They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep.Once—be the hour accursed, accursed the place!—I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid,By specious arts unwarily betray'd, 220Madly I leagued against that sacred earth,Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:But shall I meanly error's path pursue,When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue?Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin.Backward I tread the paths I trod before,And calm reflection hates what passion swore.Converted, (blessed are the souls which knowThose pleasures which from true conversion flow, 230Whether to reason, who now rules my breast,Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[108]Past crimes to expiate, be my present aimTo raise new trophies to the Scottish name;To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?)E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore;To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes,In fullest tide roll down to latest times.Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine,An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine, 240Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strainExpect indulgence from the mighty Thane?Should he from toils of government retire,And for a moment fan the poet's fire;Should he, of sciences the moral friend,Each curious, each important search suspend,Leave unassisted Hill[109] of herbs to tell,And all the wonders of a cockleshell;Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,Would not the Home[110] step forth and gain the prize? 250Or if this wreath of honour might adornThe humble brows of one in England born,Presumptuous still thy daring must appear;Vain all thy towering hopes whilst I am here.Thus spake a form, by silken smile and tone,Dull and unvaried, for the Laureate[111] known,Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest son,In every party found, and yet of none.This airy substance, this substantial shade,Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd. 260From themes too lofty for a bard so mean,Discretion beckons to an humbler scene;The restless fever of ambition laid,Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade.Now be the Muse disrobed of all her pride,Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied.And if plain nature pours a simple strain,Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain,—Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all,Whom English infidels Macpherson call,— 270Then round my head shall Honour's ensigns wave,And pensions mark me for a willing slave.Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springsFrom great and glorious, though forgotten, kings—Shepherds, of Scottish lineage, born and bredOn the same bleak and barren mountain's head;By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocksTo spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist,The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, 280Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes;Where, from their youth inured to winter-skies,Dress and her vain refinements they despise.Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown,With freckles spotted, flamed the golden down,With meikle art could on the bagpipes play,E'en from the rising to the setting day;Sawney as long without remorse could bawlHome's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal: 290Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,The Highland lass forgot her want of food;And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast.Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen;Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green:The plague of locusts they secure defy,For in three hours a grasshopper must die:No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,But the cameleon, who can feast on air. 300No birds, except as birds of passage, flew;No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo:No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here:Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran,Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan:No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose,[112]Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows;By instinct blows at morn, and when the shadesOf drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 310One, and but one poor solitary cave,Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)Shelter at once for man and beast supplied.There snares without, entangling briars spread,And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head,Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose;Thistles now held more precious than the rose.All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan,Were formed to loathe and to be loathed by man, 320Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite,Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight;Creatures which, when admitted in the ark,Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,Found place within: marking her noisome roadWith poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;There webs were spread of more than common size,And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies;In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall: 330The cave around with hissing serpents rung;On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;And Famine, by her children always known,As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast—A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep,Of which those shepherds every daytake keep, 340Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude,On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.
Sithto this cave by tempest we're confined,And withinkenour flocks, under the wind,Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm,Are laidemongyon thistles, dry and warm,What, Sawney, if by shepherds' art we tryTo mock the rigour of this cruel sky?What if we tune some merry roundelay?Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play. 350
Ah! Jockey, ill advisest thou,I wis,To think of songs at such a time as this:Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,And we forget to live from hand to mouth,Than Sawney, out of season, shall impartThe songs of gladness with an aching heart.
Still have I known thee for a silly swain;Of things past help, what boots it to complain? 360Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:Patience is sorrow's salve: what can't be cured,So Donald right areads, must be endured.
Full silly swain,I wot, is Jockey now.How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? How,When with a foreign loon she stole away,Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay?Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when IApplied those proverbs which you now apply? 370
Oh, she wasbonny! All the Highlands roundWas there a rival to my Maggy found?More precious (though that precious is to all)Than the rare medicine which we Brimstone call,Or that choice plant,[113] so grateful to the nose,Which, in I know not what far country, grows,Was Maggy unto me: dear do I rueA lass so fair should ever prove untrue.