* * * * *
Footnotes:
[189] 'The Ghost:' the famous Cock-lane Ghost, a conspiracy of certain parties in London against one Kent, whose paramour had died, and whose ghost was said to have returned to accuse him of having murdered her. A little girl named Frazer, who appears to have had ventriloquial powers, was the principal cause of the noises, scratchings, &c., thought to be supernatural.
[190] 'Bampfield Carew:' Bampfylde Moore Carew, the famous king of thegypsies. His life used to be a favourite with schoolboys.
[191] 'Moll Squires:' Mary Squires, a gypsy, and one of Carew'ssubjects.
[192] 'College:' that of the fifteen Augurs in Rome.
[193] 'Campbell:' a deaf and dumb fortune-teller.
[194] 'Butcher-row:' an old street in London, now removed.
[195] 'Drugger:' Abel Drugger, in Jonson's 'Alchymist.
[196] 'Stuarts:' James the Second's dastardly conduct at the battle of the Boyne.
[197] 'Sackvilles:' Lord George Sackville, accused of cowardice at the battle of Minden, afterwards degraded by a court martial, but ultimately raised to promotion as a Peer and Secretary of State.
[198] 'Faden and Say:' two anti-Wilkite editors.
[199] 'Baker:' Sir Richard Baker, the famous chronicler.
[200] 'Tofts:' Mary Tofts of Godalming, who first dreamed of, and wasat last brought to bed of, rabbits! She confessed afterwards that itwas a fraud.
[201] 'Betty Canning:' a woman who pretended, in 1753, that she hadbeen confined in a garret by a gypsy woman, for twenty-seven days,with scarcely any food, but turned out to be an impostor.
[202] 'Fisher's:' Catherine Fisher, better known by the name of KittyFisher, a courtezan of great beauty.
[203] 'Lennox:' Mrs Arabella Lennox, the author of some pleasingnovels, and a friend of Dr Johnson's. See Boswell and Hawkins.
[204] 'Lauder's;' William Lauder, the notorious forger and interpolatorof Milton, detected by Dr Douglas, Bishop of Salisbury.
[205] 'Polypheme:' Johnson, who at first took Lauder's side. SeeBoswell.
[206] 'Fanny:' the supposed ghost.
[207] 'Pride's command:' The Countess-Duchess of Northumberland was celebrated for the splendour of her parties.
[208] 'Nine knocks:' a curious anticipation of modern spirit-rappings!
[209] 'Immane Pomposo:' Dr Johnson; 'humane,' referring to Virgil's'Monstrum horrendum immane;' and ridiculing Dr J.'s Latinisms.
[210] 'C——'s:' not known.
[211] 'Garden:' Covent, where a set of low and mercenary wretches, calledtrading justices, superintended the administration of police.
[212] 'Avaro:' Pearce, Bishop of Rochester, a favourite object ofChurchill's ire, as some of the previous poems prove.
[213] 'Moore:' the Rev. Mr Moore, then curate of St Sepulchre's, whohad a share in the Cock-lane conspiracy.
[214] 'Fanny's tomb:' it had been stated that her tomb had been disturbed, and an expedition actually took place to ascertain the truth.
[215] 'Not he:' Paul Whitehead, the profligate satirist.
[216] 'Laureate:' William Whitehead, the poet laureate.
[217] 'Play': alluding to Whitehead's comedy of the 'School forLovers.'
[219] 'Hunter:' Miss Hunter, one of Queen Charlotte's maids of honour,eloped on the day of the coronation with the Earl of Pembroke.
[220] 'Funeral Pomps:' alluding to certain improprieties at the interment of George the Second, which took place the 11th of November 1760.
[221] 'Coronations:' the coronation of George the Third on the 22d of September 1761.
[222] 'Hart:' a dancing-master of the day.
[223] 'A set:' an invidious reflection on the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce, founded in the year 1753.
[224] 'Bourbon's:' the family compact between France and Spain.
[225] 'Gazette:' theBrussels Gazette, a notorious paper of that time.
[226] 'Patriot's heart:' Mr Pitt, afterwards Lord Chatham.
[227] 'Granby:' the Marquis of Granby, distinguished in a conspicuous manner during the seven years' war, under Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick. See Junius.
[228] 'Rhyme:' Mallet addressed a contemptible poem, entitled 'Truth in Rhyme,' to the celebrated Lord Chesterfield.
[229] 'Place:' the Royal Exchange.
[230] 'N——:' not known.
[231] 'Pewterers' Hall:' Macklin's recitations and his lectures on elocution were delivered at Pewterers' Hall, in Lime Street.
[232] 'Dulman:' Sir Samuel Fludyer, Bart. M.P. for Chippenham, Deputy-Governor of the Bank of England, and Lord Mayor of London for 1761-2.
[233] 'Newfoundland:' in May 1762 a French squadron escaped out of Brest in a fog, and took the town of St John's in Newfoundland.
[234] 'Aim:' Beckford was the Lord Mayor elect for 1762-3.
[235] 'Electorate:' the electorate of Hanover.
[236] 'Plausible:' the Rev. W. Sellon in 1763 published a stolen sermonas his own.
[237] 'His hook:' Dr Johnson was in possession of subscriptions for hisedition of Shakspeare for upwards of twenty years ere it appeared.
[238] 'Aldrich:' the Reverend Stephen Aldrich, Rector of St John's, Clerkenwell, actively contributed to the exposure of the Cock-lane ghost.
[239] 'Melcombe:' George Bubb Doddington, the son of an apothecary at Weymouth, by skilful electioneering, raised himself to the peerage under the title of Lord Melcombe. Thomson addressed to him his 'Summer,' and Young his 'Universal Passion.'
[240] 'Dicky Glover:' Richard Glover, author of 'Leonidas.'
[241] 'Will:' William Beckford, Esq., elected an alderman, June 1752, and twice Lord Mayor of London, in 1762 and 1769. He was a West India merchant, possessed a princely fortune, and became highly popular by his strenuous opposition to the court: his son was the author of 'Caliph Vathek.'
[242] 'Stentor': unknown.
[243] 'Newcastle:' the Duke of Newcastle, who died in 1768, had for more than fifty years filled the greatest offices in the state. See Macaulay's papers on Chatham, and Humphrey Clinker.
[244] 'Processionade:' for the purpose of preparing an address to his Majesty on the conclusion of the peace with France.
[245] 'Ward:' Joshua Ward, a quack of the period.
[246] 'Warwick Lane,' Newgate Street, was the seat of the College of Physicians.
[247] 'Wyndham:' Lord Egremont.
[248] 'Reeves:' Dr Reeves was a physician of some practice in thecity.
[249] 'Chauncy:' Dr Chauncy, descended of a good family, andpossessed of a competent estate, did not practise.
[250] 'Garth:' Sir Samuel Garth, a celebrated poet and physician,author of 'The Dispensary.'
[251] 'Schomberg:' Dr Isaac Schomberg, a friend of Garrick, and aneminent and learned physician.
[252] 'Madan:' Martin Madan, a celebrated English preacher, many yearschaplain to the Lock Hospital. See Cowper's Letters.
[253] 'Chevalier:' the Chevalier John Taylor, a quack oculist.
[254] 'Annet:' Peter Annet, for blasphemy, was sentenced by the court to suffer a year's imprisonment in Bridewell with hard labour, and to stand twice in the pillory.
[255] 'A guard:' Churchill was often in danger of being arrested for debt.
[256] 'Saint Bride:' an address of congratulation on the peace, from the city of London, was accompanied on its way by a muffled peal from St Bride's.
[257] 'Of law:' referring to the punishment of negligent lamplighters.
[258] 'Hall:' the Westminster Session-house was then held at a house in King Street, which had probably been a low public house.
[259] 'Brown:' the Rev. John Brown, D.D., born in 1715, was author, among other works, of the 'Essay on the Characteristics,' and of an 'Estimate of the Manners and Principles of the Times.' See Cowper's 'Table-talk.' The 'Estimate' was extremely popular for a time. He was inordinately vain, and died at last insane and a suicide.
[260] 'For making law:' alluding to Lord Mansfield's construction ofthe libel-law.
[261] 'On that day:' alluding to Lord Talbot's horsemanship ashigh-steward at the coronation.
[262] 'Good Bishop:' Warburton was married on Allen's niece.
[263] 'Cottrell:' Sir Clement Cottrell, master of the ceremonies.
[264] 'Building:' the Savoy and Old Somerset House were formerly the residences of the Queens of England.
[265] 'Bridge.' referring to a clamour excited by interested persons of all descriptions against the erection of a bridge over the Thames at Blackfriars. It was carried by the exertions of Paterson, an Anti-Wilkite, and built by Mylne, a Scotchman.
[266] 'Patavinity:' the provincial dialect of Padua, in which Livy wrote.
[267] 'Isle:' alluding to the insignificant size of the Isle of Bute.
[268] 'A queen:' Penelope, in the Odyssey.
[269] 'John Lockman:' secretary to the British Herring Fishery Board.
[270] 'Drawcansir:' Lord Talbot.
[271] 'Amyand:' George and Claudius Amyand were eminent merchants.
[272] 'Perry Cust:' a London merchant.
[273] 'Gideon:' Sampson Gideon, a wealthy Jew broker.
[274] 'Ponton:' Daniel Ponton, a gentleman of fortune, and a friend ofthe administration, was a magistrate for the county of Surrey.
[275] 'Faithful to James:' alluding to the Earl of Mansfield's originalpredilection for the Pretender.
This poem was written in 1764, on occasion of the contest between the Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The election was fixed for the 30th of March, when, after much altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded; whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senatesine die. On appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly.
Enough of Actors—let them play the player,And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare;Garrick[276] abroad, what motives can engageTo waste one couplet on a barren stage?Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days,In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise;When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years,Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears;When in return for labour, time, and health,The town had given some little share of wealth, 10Couldst thou repine at being still a slave?Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave?Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by thoseWhom nothing but thy merit made thy foes?Whom, too refined for honesty and trade,By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made;Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules,Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools;With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime,In such a manner, and at such a time, 20To quit the stage; but men of real sense,Who neither lightly give, nor take offence,Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace,Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place.Enough of Authors—why, when scribblers fail,Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale?Why must they pity, why contempt express,And why insult a brother in distress?Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brainsThe laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; 30Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom,And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb.Let those who without genius write, and write,Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite,The pen laid down, their course of folly runIn peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate,That Francis once endeavour'd to translate?Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head,Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? 40Why may not Langhorne,[277] simple in his lay,Effusion on effusion pour away;With friendship and with fancy trifle here,Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere?Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne,Secure from any malice but their own.Enough of Critics—let them, if they please,Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees;Wide and extensive be their infant state,Their subjects many, and those subjects great, 50Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed,With fools who write, and greater fools who read.What though they lay the realms of Genius waste,Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste;Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill,Consult not how to cure, but how to kill;Though by whim, envy, or resentment led,They damn those authors whom they never read;Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold,To deal out so much praise for so much gold: 60Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues,Against the commonwealth of letters leagues;Uncensured let them pilot at the helm,And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm:Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse,(Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse,To do our sense and honour deep despite)To credit what they say, read what they write.Enough of Scotland—let her rest in peace;The cause removed, effects of course should cease; 70Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown,And proudly swell'd with waters not his own,Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led,O'er our fair England desolation spread,Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumedIn tenfold pride, the port of Bute assumed,Now that the river god, convinced, though late,And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate,Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides,In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? 80Enough of States, and such like trifling things;Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings;Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie,Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly;Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'dBy fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold,Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groanMeets with compassion only from the throne.Enough of Patriots—all I ask of manIs only to be honest as he can: 90Some have deceived, and some may still deceive;'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe.Would those, who, by opinion placed on high,Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye,Maintain that honour, let me in their earHint this essential doctrine—Persevere.Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the graceOf some proud courtier, or to gain a place,Their king and country sell, with endless shameThe avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; 100But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend,And, proudly honest, hold out to the end,Their grateful country shall their fame record,And I myself descend to praise a lord.Enough of Wilkes—with good and honest menHis actions speak much stronger than my pen,And future ages shall his name adore,When he can act and I can write no more.England may prove ungrateful and unjust,But fostering France[278] shall ne'er betray her trust: 110'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose,To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes.When the great warrior of Amilcar's raceMade Rome's wide empire tremble to her base,To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride,Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied.Enough of Self—that darling luscious theme,O'er which philosophers in raptures dream;Of which with seeming disregard they write,Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; 120Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride!What man can from himself, himself divide?For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim(Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame;Some little fame derived from some brave few,Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too.Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek)Who know me well, what they know, freely speak,So those (the greatest curse I meet below)Who know me not, may not pretend to know. 130Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts aboveMy feeble genius, still I dare to love,Doing more mischief than a thousand foes,Posthumous nonsense to the world expose,And call it mine; for mine though never known,Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own.Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find,Die when I will, one couplet left behind.Let none of those, whom I despise, though great,Pretending friendship to give malice weight, 140Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer,[279](Some such there are) to win the public ear,Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote.Nor soul-gall'd bishop[280] damn me with a note.Let one poor sprig of bay around my headBloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead;Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!)Be planted on my grave, nor wither there;And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guestRoams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, 150Let it hold up this comment to his eyes—'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;'Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!)Reading my works, he cries—'Here Churchill lives.'Enough of Satire—in less harden'd timesGreat was her force, and mighty were her rhymes.I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave,Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave;Whose souls have felt more terrible alarmsFrom her one line, than from a world in arms. 160When in her faithful and immortal pageThey saw transmitted down from age to ageRecorded villains, and each spotted nameBranded with marks of everlasting shame,Succeeding villains sought her as a friend,And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend;But in an age, when actions are allow'dWhich strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'dToo terrible to suffer the report,Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, 170Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born,High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn;When she is lost to every thought of fame,And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame;When Prudence a much easier task must holdTo make a new world, than reform the old,Satire throws by her arrows on the ground,And if she cannot cure, she will not wound.Come, Panegyric—though the Muse disdains,Founded on truth, to prostitute her strains 180At the base instance of those men, who holdNo argument but power, no god but gold,Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth,She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth;Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view,And loves to praise, where praise is justly due.Come, Panegyric—in a former hour,My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power,Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd—but wanton air,Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; 190E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand,The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand,Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine,Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design,Whilst, Hayter[281] brought too quickly to his end,I lost a subject and mankind a friend.Come, Panegyric—bending at thy throne,Thee and thy power my soul is proud to ownBe thou my kind protector, thou my guide,And lead me safe through passes yet untried. 200Broad is the road, nor difficult to find,Which to the house of Satire leads mankind;Narrow and unfrequented are the ways,Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise.What though no theme I choose of vulgar note,Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote,So mild, so meek in praising, that they seemAfraid to wake their patrons from a dream;What though a theme I choose, which might demandThe nicest touches of a master's hand; 210Yet, if the inward workings of my soulDeceive me not, I shall attain the goal,And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised,The poet praising, and the patron praised.What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice,Or private knowledge, influence my choice?Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe,Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's[282] go?'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard,Close standing at my elbow, every word) 220'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sureOne moment there to have thy head secure?Are they not all, (let observation tell)All mark'd in characters as black as Hell,In Doomsday book, by ministers set down,Who style their pride the honour of the crown?Make no reply—let Reason stand aloof—Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof.That settled faith, that love which ever springsIn the best subjects, for the best of kings, 230Must not be measured now by what men think,Or say, or do;—by what they eat and drink,Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried,And statesmen are the judges to decide;No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe;They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law.Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks;Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.'[283]Peace, good Discretion! peace—thy fears are vain;Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; 240Never the vengeance of the great incur,Nor, without might, against the mighty stir.If, from long proof, my temper you distrust,Weigh my profession, to my gown be just;Dost thou one parson know so void of graceTo pay his court to patrons out of place?If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains)Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins;There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport,A convert made by Sandwich to the court. 250Let madmen follow error to the end,I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend,Strive to act better, being better taught,Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought:For such a change as this, must Justice speak;My heart was honest, but my head was weak.Bigot to no one man, or set of men,Without one selfish view, I drew my pen;My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid,Obedient to that call, I left off trade; 260A side I chose, and on that side was strong,Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong:Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?)And have not greater patriots changed before?Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?)Without a single blush, that change confess;Confess it with a manly kind of pride,And quit the losing for the winning side,Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein,What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. 270Hail, Sandwich!—nor shall Wilkes resentment show,Hearing the praises of so brave a foe—Hail, Sandwich!—nor, through pride, shalt thou refuseThe grateful tribute of so mean a Muse—Sandwich, all hail!—when Bute with foreign hand,Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land;When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm;When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm,Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd;But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; 280When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled,Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head;When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat)We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat,Into the seat of power, at one bold leap,A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship;When, like another Machiavel, we sawThy fingers twisting, and untwisting law,Straining, where godlike Reason bade, and whereShe warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; 290Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might)To do thy God, thy king, thy country right;All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more,Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before:All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use,What virtues such as thine must needs produce.Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes)Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose,In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few,Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) 300Plaud thy brave bearing, and the CommonwealExpects her safety from thy stubborn zeal.A place amongst the rest the Muses claim,And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame;To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known,And, holding up thy fame, secure their own.From his youth upwards to the present day,When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray;When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand,Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand, 310Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth,Untainted with one deed of real worth,Lothario, holding honour at no price,Folly to folly added, vice to vice,Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shameWith greater zeal than good men seek for fame.Where (Reason left without the least defence)Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense:Where Impudence made Decency submit;Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; 320Where rude, untemper'd license had the meritOf liberty, and lunacy was spirit;Where the best things were ever held the worst,Lothario was, with justice, always first.To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw,To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw,To play at push-pin with dull brother peers,To belch out catches in a porter's ears,To reign the monarch of a midnight cell,To be the gaping chairman's oracle; 330Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and whoreClap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;'Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers thereIn robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair;With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon,To walk with torches through the streets at noon;To force plain Nature from her usual way,Each night a vigil, and a blank each day;To match for speed one feather 'gainst another,To make one leg run races with his brother; 340'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind,Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind;To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em,Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em;Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives,Without a rival stands, though March yet lives.When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound,Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground,Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand,Are held as rebels through the loyal land) 350Queen every where, but most a queen in courts,Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports;Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage,And prove her right to reign from age to age,Lothario, great above the common size,With all engaged, and won from all the prize;Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore,And every day deserves it more and more.Nor in such limits rests his soul confined;Folly may share but can't engross his mind; 360Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim,And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame.Observe his follies well, and you would swearFolly had been his first, his only care;Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown,And swear that he was born for vice alone.Is the soft nature of some hapless maid,Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd?Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame,And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? 370Is some brave friend, who, men but little known,Deems every heart as honest as his own,And, free himself, in others fears no guile,To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile?Is Law to be perverted from her course?Is abject fraud to league with brutal force?Is Freedom to be crush'd, and every sonWho dares maintain her cause, to be undone?Is base Corruption, creeping through the land,To plan, and work her ruin, underhand, 380With regular approaches, sure, though slow?Or must she perish by a single blow?Are kings, who trust to servants, and dependIn servants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend,To be abused, and made to draw their breathIn darkness thicker than the shades of death?Is God's most holy name to be profaned,His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd,His servants scorn'd, as men who idly dream'd,His service laugh'd at, and his Son blasphemed? 390Are debauchees in morals to preside?Is Faith to take an Atheist for her guide?Is Science by a blockhead to be led?Are States to totter on a drunkard's head?To answer all these purposes, and more,More black than ever villain plann'd before,Search earth, search hell, the Devil cannot findAn agent like Lothario to his mind.Is this nobility, which, sprung from kings,Was meant to swell the power from whence it springs; 400Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit,Which Nature hoped for from so rich a root?Were there but two, (search all the world around)Were there but two such nobles to be found,The very name would sink into a termOf scorn, and man would rather be a wormThan be a lord: but Nature, full of grace,Nor meaning birth and titles to be base,Made only one, and having made him, swore,In mercy to mankind, to make no more: 410Nor stopp'd she there, but, like a generous friend,The ills which Error caused, she strove to mend,And having brought Lothario forth to view,To save her credit, brought forth Sandwich too.Gods! with what joy, what honest joy of heart,Blunt as I am, and void of every art,Of every art which great ones in the statePractise on knaves they fear, and fools they hate,To titles with reluctance taught to bend,Nor prone to think that virtues can descend, 420Do I behold (a sight, alas! more rareThan Honesty could wish) the noble wearHis father's honours, when his life makes knownThey're his by virtue, not by birth alone;When he recalls his father from the grave,And pays with interest back that fame he gave:Cured of her splenetic and sullen fits,To such a peer my willing soul submits,And to such virtue is more proud to yieldThan 'gainst ten titled rogues to keep the field. 430Such, (for that truth e'en Envy shall allow)Such Wyndham was, and such is Sandwich now.O gentle Montague! in blessed hourDidst thou start up, and climb the stairs of power;England of all her fears at once was eased,Nor, 'mongst her many foes, was one displeased:France heard the news, and told it cousin Spain;Spain heard, and told it cousin France again;The Hollander relinquished his designOf adding spice to spice, and mine to mine; 440Of Indian villanies he thought no more,Content to rob us on our native shore:Awed by thy fame, (which winds with open mouthShall blow from east to west, from north to south)The western world shall yield us her increase,And her wild sons be soften'd into peace;Rich eastern monarchs shall exhaust their stores,And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's shores;Unbounded wealth, which from those golden scenes,And all acquired by honourable means, 450Some honourable chief shall hither steer,To pay our debts, and set the nation clear.Nabobs themselves, allured by thy renown,Shall pay due homage to the English crown;Shall freely as their king our king receive—Provided the Directors give them leave.Union at home shall mark each rising year,Nor taxes be complain'd of, though severe;Envy her own destroyer shall become,And Faction with her thousand mouths be dumb: 460With the meek man thy meekness shall prevail,Nor with the spirited thy spirit fail:Some to thy force of reason shall submit,And some be converts to thy princely wit:Reverence for thee shall still a nation's cries,A grand concurrence crown a grand excise;And unbelievers of the first degree,Who have no faith in God, have faith in thee.When a strange jumble, whimsical and vain,Possess'd the region of each heated brain; 470When some were fools to censure, some to praise,And all were mad, but mad in different ways;When commonwealthsmen, starting at the shadeWhich in their own wild fancy had been made,Of tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown,And with state bloodhounds hunted Freedom down;When others, struck with fancies not less vain,Saw mighty kings by their own subjects slain,And, in each friend of Liberty and Law,With horror big, a future Cromwell saw, 480Thy manly zeal stept forth, bade discord cease,And sung each jarring atom into peace;Liberty, cheer'd by thy all-cheering eye,Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die;And, patronised by thee, PrerogativeShall, striding forth at large, not die, but live;Whilst Privilege, hung betwixt earth and sky,Shall not well know whether to live or die.When on a rock which overhung the flood,And seem'd to totter, Commerce shivering stood; 490When Credit, building on a sandy shore,Saw the sea swell, and heard the tempest roar,Heard death in every blast, and in each waveOr saw, or fancied that she saw her grave;When Property, transferr'd from hand to band,Weaken'd by change, crawl'd sickly through the land;When mutual confidence was at an end,And man no longer could on man depend;Oppress'd with debts of more than common weight,When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of state; 500When, certain death to honour, and to trade,A sponge was talk'd of as our only aid;That to be saved we must be more undone,And pay off all our debts, by paying none;Like England's better genius, born to bless,And snatch his sinking country from distress,Didst thou step forth, and, without sail or oar,Pilot the shatter'd vessel safe to shore:Nor shalt thou quit, till, anchor'd firm and fast,She rides secure, and mocks the threatening blast! 510Born in thy house, and in thy service bred,Nursed in thy arms, and at thy table fed,By thy sage counsels to reflection brought,Yet more by pattern than by precept taught,Economy her needful aid shall joinTo forward and complete thy grand design,And, warm to save, but yet with spirit warm,Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form.Let friends of prodigals say what they will,Spendthrifts at home, abroad are spendthrifts still. 520In vain have sly and subtle sophists triedPrivate from public justice to divide;For credit on each other they rely,They live together, and together die,'Gainst all experience 'tis a rank offence,High treason in the eye of Common-sense,To think a statesman ever can be knownTo pay our debts, who will not pay his own:But now, though late, now may we hope to seeOur debts discharged, our credit fair and free, 530Since rigid Honesty (fair fall that hour!)Sits at the helm, and Sandwich is in power.With what delight I view thee, wondrous man,With what delight survey thy sterling plan,That plan which all with wonder must behold,And stamp thy age the only age of Gold.Nor rest thy triumphs here—that Discord fled,And sought with grief the hell where she was bred;That Faction, 'gainst her nature forced to yield,Saw her rude rabble scatter'd o'er the field, 540Saw her best friends a standing jest become,Her fools turn'd speakers, and her wits struck dumb;That our most bitter foes (so much dependsOn men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends;That our offended friends (such terror flowsFrom men of name) dare not appear our foes;That Credit, gasping in the jaws of Death,And ready to expire with every breath,Grows stronger from disease; that thou hast savedThy drooping country; that thy name, engraved 550On plates of brass, defies the rage of Time;Than plates of brass more firm, that sacred rhymeEmbalms thy memory, bids thy glories live,And gives thee what the Muse alone can give:—These heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame,With thee in common other patriots claim.But, that poor sickly Science, who had laidAnd droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade,By those who knew her purposely forgot,And made the jest of those who knew her not: 560Whilst Ignorance in power, and pamper'd pride,'Clad like a priest, pass'd by on t'other side,'Recover'd from her wretched state, at lengthPuts on new health, and clothes herself with strength,To thee we owe, and to thy friendly handWhich raised, and gave her to possess the land:This praise, though in a court, and near a throne,This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone.With what fond rapture did the goddess smile,What blessings did she promise to this isle, 570What honour to herself, and length of reign,Soon as she heard that thou didst not disdainTo be her steward; but what grief, what shame,What rage, what disappointment, shook her frame,When her proud children dared her will dispute,When Youth was insolent,[284] and Age was mute!That young men should be fools, and some wild few,To Wisdom deaf, be deaf to Interest too,Moved not her wonder; but that men, grown grayIn search of wisdom; men who own'd the sway 580Of Reason; men who stubbornly kept downEach rising passion; men who wore the gown;That they should cross her will, that they should dareAgainst the cause of Interest to declare;That they should be so abject and unwise,Having no fear of loss before their eyes,Nor hopes of gain; scorning the ready meansOf being vicars, rectors, canons, deans,With all those honours which on mitres wait,And mark the virtuous favourites of state; 590That they should dare a Hardwicke to support,And talk, within the hearing of a court,Of that vile beggar, Conscience, who, undone,And starved herself, starves every wretched son;This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swearNo more to throw away her time and careOn wayward sons who scorn'd her love, no moreTo hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful shore.Rather than bear such insults, which disgraceHer royalty of nature, birth, and place, 600Though Dulness there unrivall'd state doth keep,Would she at Winchester with Burton[285] sleep;Or, to exchange the mortifying sceneFor something still more dull, and still more mean,Rather than bear such insults, she would flyFar, far beyond the search of English eye,And reign amongst the Scots: to be a queenIs worth ambition, though in Aberdeen.Oh, stay thy flight, fair Science! what though some,Some base-born children, rebels are become? 610All are not rebels; some are duteous still,Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will;Thy interest is opposed by those aloneWho either know not, or oppose their own.Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid,Behold in black, the livery of their trade,Marshall'd by Form, and by Discretion led,A grave, grave troop, and Smith[286] is at their head,Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian groundFor faith in mysteries none more renown'd. 620Next, (for the best of causes now and thenMust beg assistance from the worst of men)Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece,Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece:Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust,To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated lustThe arch, old, hoary hypocrite had sold,And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold.But (to wipe off such traces from the mind,And make us in good humour with mankind) 630Leading on men, who, in a college bred,No woman knew, but those which made their bed;Who, planted virgins on Cam's virtuous shore,Continued still male virgins at threescore,Comes Sumner,[287] wise, and chaste as chaste can be,With Long,[288] as wise, and not less chaste than he.Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy causeWho, for thy sake, defying penal laws,Were, to support thy honourable plan,Smuggled from Jersey, and the Isle of Man? 640Are there not Philomaths of high degreeWho, always dumb before, shall speak for thee?Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will,One of full growth, others in embryo still,Who may, perhaps, in some ten years, or more,Be ascertain'd that two and two make four,Or may a still more happy method find,And, taking one from two, leave none behind?With such a mighty power on foot, to yieldWere death to manhood; better in the field 650To leave our carcases, and die with fame,Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame.Sackvilles[289] alone anticipate defeat,And ere they dare the battle, sound retreat.But if persuasions ineffectual prove,If arguments are vain, nor prayers can move,Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woeWhy talk of Burton? why to Scotland go?Is there not Oxford? she, with open arms,Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms: 660Shall for thy love her former loves resign,And jilt the banish'd Stuarts to be thine.Bow'd to the yoke, and, soon as she could read,Tutor'd to get by heart the despot's creed,She, of subjection proud, shall knee thy throne,And have no principles but thine alone;She shall thy will implicitly receive,Nor act, nor speak, nor think, without thy leave.Where is the glory of imperial swayIf subjects none but just commands obey? 670Then, and then only, is obedience seen,When by command they dare do all that's mean:Hither, then, wing thy flight, here fix thy stand,Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand.Gods! with what joy, (for Fancy now supplies,And lays the future open to my eyes)Gods! with what joy I see the worthies meet,And Brother Litchfield[290] Brother Sandwich greet!Blest be your greetings, blest each dear embrace;Blest to yourselves, and to the human race. 680Sickening at virtues, which she cannot reach,Which seem her baser nature to impeach,Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bosom hurl'd,Outrageous, search the corners of the world,Ransack the present times, look back to past,Rip up the future, and confess at last,No times, past, present, or to come, could e'erProduce, and bless the world with such a pair.Phillips,[291] the good old Phillips, out of breath,Escaped from Monmouth, and escaped from death, 690Shall hail his Sandwich with that virtuous zeal,That glorious ardour for the commonweal,Which warm'd his loyal heart and bless'd his tongue,When on his lips the cause of rebels hung;Whilst Womanhood, in habit of a nun,At Medenham[292] lies, by backward monks undone;A nation's reckoning, like an alehouse score,Whilst Paul, the aged, chalks behind a door,Compell'd to hire a foe to cast it up,Dashwood shall pour, from a communion cup, 700Libations to the goddess without eyes,And hob or nob in cider and excise.From those deep shades, where Vanity, unknown,Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone,Cursed in herself, by her own thoughts undone,Where she sees all, but can be seen by none;Where she, no longer mistress of the schools,Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools,Or hears it at a distance, in despairTo join the crowd, and put in for a share, 710Twisting each thought a thousand different ways,For his new friends new-modelling old praise;Where frugal sense so very fine is spun,It serves twelve hours, though not enough for one,King[293] shall arise, and, bursting from the dead,Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head.Burton (whilst awkward affectation hungIn quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue,Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads speak,Ignorant of both, new Latin and new Greek, 720Not such as was in Greece and Latium known,But of a modern cut, and all his own;Who threads, like beads, loose thoughts on such a string,They're praise and censure; nothing, every thing;Pantomime thoughts, and style so full of trick,They even make a Merry Andrew sick;Thoughts all so dull, so pliant in their growth,They're verse, they're prose, they're neither, and they're both)Shall (though by nature ever both to praise)Thy curious worth set forth in curious phrase; 730Obscurely stiff, shall press poor Sense to death,Or in long periods run her out of breath;Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame,Adam could not have found a proper name,Whilst, beating out his features to a smile,He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Style.Hush'd be all Nature as the land of Death;Let each stream sleep, and each wind hold his breath;Be the bells muffled, nor one sound of Care,Pressing for audience, wake the slumbering air; 740Browne[294] comes—behold how cautiously he creeps—How slow he walks, and yet how fast he sleeps—But to thy praise in sleep he shall agree;He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee.Physic, her head with opiate poppies crown'd,Her loins by the chaste matron Camphire bound;Physic, obtaining succour from the penOf her soft son, her gentle Heberden,[295]If there are men who can thy virtue know,Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe, 750Shall, like a scholar, stop their rebel breath,And in each recipe send classic death.So deep in knowledge, that few lines can soundAnd plumb the bottom of that vast profound,Few grave ones with such gravity can think,Or follow half so fast as he can sink;With nice distinctions glossing o'er the text,Obscure with meaning, and in words perplex'd,With subtleties on subtleties refined,Meant to divide and subdivide the mind, 760Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe,The scowling Blackstone[296] bears the train of law.Divinity, enrobed in college fur,In her right hand a new Court Calendar,Bound like a book of prayer, thy coming waitsWith all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates.Loyalty, fix'd on Isis' alter'd shore,A stranger long, but stranger now no more,Shall pitch her tabernacle, and, with eyesBrimful of rapture, view her new allies; 770Shall, with much pleasure and more wonder, viewMen great at court, and great at Oxford too.O sacred Loyalty! accursed be thoseWho, seeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes,Who prostitute to kings thy honour'd name,And soothe their passions to betray their fame;Nor praised be those, to whose proud nature clingsContempt of government, and hate of kings,Who, willing to be free, not knowing how,A strange intemperance of zeal avow, 780And start at Loyalty, as at a wordWhich without danger Freedom never heard.Vain errors of vain men—wild both extremes,And to the state not wholesome, like the dreams,Children of night, of Indigestion bred,Which, Reason clouded, seize and turn the head;Loyalty without Freedom is a chainWhich men of liberal notice can't sustain;And Freedom without Loyalty, a nameWhich nothing means, or means licentious shame. 790Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil,In Oxford's stubborn and untoward soilTo rear this plant of union, till at length,Rooted by time, and foster'd into strength,Shooting aloft, all danger it defies,And proudly lifts its branches to the skies;Whilst, Wisdom's happy son but not her slave,Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave,Free from the dull impertinence of thought,Beneath that shade, which thy own labours wrought 800And fashion'd into strength, shalt thou repose,Secure of liberal praise, since Isis flows,True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed,Nor longer, like a harlot, lust for Tweed,And those old wreaths, which Oxford once dared twineTo grace a Stuart brow, she plants on thine.
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[276] 'Garrick abroad:' Garrick, in September 1763, in order to make his value more appreciated after his return, resolved to visit the continent.
[277] 'Langhorne:' John Langhorne, D.D., the translator of Plutarch.
[278] 'France:' Wilkes had fled to France to escape the prosecutionsentered against him.
[279] 'Sneaking peer:' John Boyle, Earl of Cork and Orrery, was theauthor of severe 'Observations on the Life of Swift.'
[280] 'Bishop:' Bishop Warburton.
[281] 'Hayter:' Dr Thomas Hayter, Bishop of Norwich, and next of London, died prematurely.
[282] 'Wildman's:' a tavern in Albemarle Street.
[283] 'Almacks:' Old Almacks, a noted Tory club-house in Pall Mall.
[284] 'Youth was insolent:' the younger members of the University were unanimous in favour of Lord Hardwicke, and incurred the censure of their superiors.
[285] 'Burton:' Dr John Burton, head master of Winchester school.
[286] 'Smith:' Dr Smith, master of Trinity College, Cambridge, amechanical and musical genius.
[287] 'Sumner:' the Rev. Dr Humphrey Sumner, Vice Chancellor of theUniversity of Cambridge.
[288] 'Long:' Roger Long, D.D., professor of Astronomy, Cambridge.
[289] 'Sackville:' Sir George, who behaved scandalously at the battle of Minden.
[290] 'Brother Litchfield:' the last Earl of Litchfield succeeded the Earl of Westmoreland as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, in 1762, through Lord Bute's influence.
[291] 'Phillips:' Sir John Phillips, a barrister and active member of the House of Commons, a defender of the rebellion in 1745.
[292] 'Medenham:' or as it was commonly called, Mednam Abbey, was a very large house on the banks of the Thames, near Marlow, in Bucks, where infamous doings went on under the auspices of Sir F. Dashwood, Lord Sandwich, and others.
[293] 'King:' Dr William King, LL.D., Principal of St Mary's Hall.
[294] 'Browne:' Dr William Browne, Lord Litchfield's Vice-Chancellorof the University of Oxford from 1759 to 1769.
[295] 'Heberden:' Dr William Heberden, the celebrated physician, thefirst who used the wet-sheet.
[296] 'Blackstone:' Dr Blackstone, afterwards Sir William Blackstone,Solicitor-General, and a Judge of the Court of Common Pleas.
P. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewellTo all the follies which in Europe dwell;To Eastern India now, a richer clime,Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme,The Muses steer their course; and, fond of change,At large, in other worlds, desire to range;Resolved, at least, since they the fool must play,To do it in a different place, and way.F. What whim is this, what error of the brain,What madness worse than in the dog-star's reign? 10Why into foreign countries would you roam,Are there not knaves and fools enough at home?If satire be thy object—and thy laysAs yet have shown no talents fit for praise—If satire be thy object, search all round,Nor to thy purpose can one spot be foundLike England, where, to rampant vigour grown,Vice chokes up every virtue; where, self-sown,The seeds of folly shoot forth rank and bold,And every seed brings forth a hundredfold. 20P. No more of this—though Truth, (the more our shame,The more our guilt) though Truth perhaps may claim,And justify her part in this, yet here,For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear;Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn,Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born,I hear, and hate—be England what she will,With all her faults, she is my country still.F. Thy country! and what then? Is that mere wordAgainst the voice of Reason to be heard? 30Are prejudices, deep imbibed in youth,To counteract, and make thee hate the truth?'Tis sure the symptom of a narrow soulTo draw its grand attachment from the whole,And take up with a part; men, not confinedWithin such paltry limits, men design'dTheir nature to exalt, where'er they go,Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow,Where'er the blessed sun, placed in the skyTo watch this subject world, can dart his eye, 40Are still the same, and, prejudice outgrown,Consider every country as their own;At one grand view they take in Nature's plan,Not more at home in England than Japan.P. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit,Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet,'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wineOn vain refinements vainly to refine,To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,To boast of apathy when out of pain, 50And in each sentence, worthy of the schools,Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rulesMost fit for practice, but for one poor faultThat into practice they can ne'er be brought.At home, and sitting in your elbow-chair,You praise Japan, though you was never there:But was the ship this moment under sail,Would not your mind be changed, your spirits fail?Would you not cast one longing eye to shore,And vow to deal in such wild schemes no more? 60Howe'er our pride may tempt us to concealThose passions which we cannot choose but feel,There's a strange something, which, without a brain,Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain,Planted in man to bind him to that earth,In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.If Honour calls, where'er she points the wayThe sons of Honour follow, and obey;If need compels, wherever we are sent'Tis want of courage not to be content; 70But, if we have the liberty of choice,And all depends on our own single voice,To deem of every country as the sameIs rank rebellion 'gainst the lawful claimOf Nature, and such dull indifferenceMay be philosophy, but can't be sense.F. Weak and unjust distinction, strange design,Most peevish, most perverse, to underminePhilosophy, and throw her empire downBy means of Sense, from whom she holds her crown, 80Divine Philosophy! to thee we oweAll that is worth possessing here below;Virtue and wisdom consecrate thy reign,Doubled each joy, and pain no longer pain.When, like a garden, where, for want of toilAnd wholesome discipline, the rich, rank soilTeems with incumbrances; where all around,Herbs, noxious in their nature, make the ground,Like the good mother of a thankless son,Curse her own womb, by fruitfulness undone; 90Like such a garden, when the human soul,Uncultured, wild, impatient of control,Brings forth those passions of luxuriant race,Which spread, and stifle every herb of grace;Whilst Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of Scorn,Seems withering on the bed where she was born,Philosophy steps in; with steady hand,She brings her aid, she clears the encumber'd land;Too virtuous to spare Vice one stroke, too wiseOne moment to attend to Pity's cries— 100See with what godlike, what relentless powerShe roots up every weed!P. And every flower.Philosophy, a name of meek degree,Embraced, in token of humility,By the proud sage, who, whilst he strove to hide,In that vain artifice reveal'd his pride;Philosophy, whom Nature had design'dTo purge all errors from the human mind,Herself misled by the philosopher,At once her priest and master, made us err: 110Pride, pride, like leaven in a mass of flour,Tainted her laws, and made e'en Virtue sour.Had she, content within her proper sphere,Taught lessons suited to the human ear,Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce,Made not for ornament, but real use,The heart of man, unrivall'd, she had sway'd,Praised by the good, and by the bad obey'd;But when she, overturning Reason's throne,Strove proudly in its place to plant her own; 120When she with apathy the breast would steel,And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel;When she would wildly all her force employ,Not to correct our passions, but destroy;When, not content our nature to restore,As made by God, she made it all new o'er;When, with a strange and criminal excess,To make us more than men, she made us less;The good her dwindled power with pity saw,The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe. 130Truth, with a simple and unvarnish'd tale,E'en from the mouth of Norton might prevail,Could she get there; but Falsehood's sugar'd strainShould pour her fatal blandishments in vain,Nor make one convert, though the Siren hung,Where she too often hangs, on Mansfield's tongue.Should all the Sophs, whom in his course the sunHath seen, or past, or present, rise in one;Should he, whilst pleasure in each sentence flows,Like Plato, give us poetry in prose; 140Should he, full orator, at once impartThe Athenian's genius with the Roman's art;Genius and Art should in this instance fail,Nor Rome, though join'd with Athens, here prevail.'Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man,To make me find one fault in Nature's plan.Placed low ourselves, we censure those above,And, wanting judgment, think that she wants love;Blame, where we ought in reason to commend,And think her most a foe when most a friend. 150Such be philosophers—their specious art,Though Friendship pleads, shall never warp my heart,Ne'er make me from this breast one passion tear,Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there.F. Forgiving as a friend, what, whilst I live,As a philosopher I can't forgive,In this one point at last I join with you,To Nature pay all that is Nature's due;But let not clouded Reason sink so low,To fancy debts she does not, cannot owe: 160Bear, to full manhood grown, those shackles bear,Which Nature meant us for a time to wear,As we wear leading-strings, which, useless grown,Are laid aside, when we can walk alone;But on thyself, by peevish humour sway'd,Wilt thou lay burdens Nature never laid?Wilt thou make faults, whilst Judgment weakly errs,And then defend, mistaking them for hers?Darest thou to say, in our enlighten'd age,That this grand master passion, this brave rage, 170Which flames out for thy country, was impress'dAnd fix'd by Nature in the human breast?If you prefer the place where you were born,And hold all others in contempt and scorn,On fair comparison; if on that landWith liberal, and a more than equal hand,Her gifts, as in profusion, Plenty sends;If Virtue meets with more and better friends;If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great;If Honesty is minister of state; 180If Power, the guardian of our rights design'd,Is to that great, that only end, confined;If riches are employ'd to bless the poor;If Law is sacred, Liberty secure;Let but these facts depend on proofs of weight,Reason declares thy love can't be too great,And, in this light could he our country view,A very Hottentot must love it too.But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birthTo some most barren and penurious earth, 190Where, every comfort of this life denied,Her real wants are scantily supplied;Where Power is Reason, Liberty a joke,Laws never made, or made but to be broke;To fix thy love on such a wretched spot,Because in Lust's wild fever there begot;Because, thy weight no longer fit to bear,By chance, not choice, thy mother dropp'd thee there,Is folly, which admits not of defence;It can't be Nature, for it is not sense. 200By the same argument which here you hold,(When Falsehood's insolent, let Truth be told)If Propagation can in torments dwell,A devil must, if born there, love his Hell.P. Had Fate, to whose decrees I lowly bend,And e'en in punishment confess a friend,Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untried,On purpose made to mortify my pride,Where the sun never gave one glimpse of day,Where Science never yet could dart one ray, 210Had I been born on some bleak, blasted plainOf barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign,Or in some kingdom, where men, weak, or worse,Turn'd Nature's every blessing to a curse;Where crowns of freedom, by the fathers won,Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degenerate son;In spite of all the wisdom you display,All you have said, and yet may have to say,My weakness here, if weakness I confess,I, as my country, had not loved her less. 220Whether strict Reason bears me out in this,Let those who, always seeking, always missThe ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal;Theirs be the praise to argue, mine to feel.Wish we to trace this passion to the root,We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit;From its rich stem ten thousand virtues spring,Ten thousand blessings on its branches cling;Yet in the circle of revolving yearsNot one misfortune, not one vice, appears. 230Hence, then, and what you Reason call, adore;This, if not Reason, must be something more.But (for I wish not others to confine;Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine)Whether this love's of good or evil growth,A vice, a virtue, or a spice of both,Let men of nicer argument decide;If it is virtuous, soothe an honest prideWith liberal praise; if vicious, be content,It is a vice I never can repent; 240A vice which, weigh'd in Heaven, shall more availThan ten cold virtues in the other scale.F. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which, after all,We, candour unimpeach'd, might madness call)Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend;Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend,Which draws us off from and dissolves the forceOf private ties, nay, stops us in our courseTo that grand object of the human soul,That nobler love which comprehends the whole? 250Coop'd in the limits of this petty isle,This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile,Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone,Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one.The generous soul, by Nature taught to soar,Her strength confirm'd in philosophic lore,At one grand view takes in a world with ease,And, seeing all mankind, loves all she sees.P. Was it most sure, which yet a doubt endures,Not found in Reason's creed, though found in yours, 260That these two services, like what we're told,And know, of God's and Mammon's, cannot holdAnd draw together; that, however both,We neither serve, attempting to serve both,I could not doubt a moment which to choose,And which in common reason to refuse.Invented oft for purposes of art,Born of the head, though father'd on the heart,This grand love of the world must be confess'dA barren speculation at the best. 270Not one man in a thousand, should he liveBeyond the usual term of life, could give,So rare occasion comes, and to so few,Proof whether his regards are feign'd, or true.The love we bear our country is a rootWhich never fails to bring forth golden fruit;'Tis in the mind an everlasting springOf glorious actions, which become a king,Nor less become a subject; 'tis a debtWhich bad men, though they pay not, can't forget; 280A duty, which the good delight to pay,And every man can practise every day.Nor, for my life (so very dim my eye,Or dull your argument) can I descryWhat you with faith assert, how that dear love,Which binds me to my country, can remove,And make me of necessity forego,That general love which to the world I owe.Those ties of private nature, small extent,In which the mind of narrow cast is pent, 290Are only steps on which the generous soulMounts by degrees till she includes the whole.That spring of love, which, in the human mind,Founded on self, flows narrow and confined,Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehendsThe social charities of blood and friends,Till, smaller streams included, not o'erpast,It rises to our country's love at last;And he, with liberal and enlarged mind,Who loves his country, cannot hate mankind. 300F. Friend, as you would appear, to Common Sense,Tell me, or think no more of a defence,Is it a proof of love by choice to runA vagrant from your country?P. Can the son(Shame, shame on all such sons!) with ruthless eye,And heart more patient than the flint, stand by,And by some ruffian, from all shame divorced,All virtue, see his honour'd mother forced?Then—no, by Him that made me! not e'en then,Could I with patience, by the worst of men, 310Behold my country plunder'd, beggar'd, lostBeyond redemption, all her glories cross'd,E'en when occasion made them ripe, her fameFled like a dream, while she awakes to shame.F. Is it not more the office of a friend,The office of a patron, to defendHer sinking state, than basely to declineSo great a cause, and in despair resign?P. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies,And, whilst more able patriots doubt, she dies. 320From a foul source, more deep than we suppose,Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows.'Tis not that peace our glorious hopes defeats:'Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets;'Tis not a gross attack on Freedom made;Tis not the arm of Privilege display'd,Against the subject, whilst she wears no stingTo disappoint the purpose of a king;These are no ills, or trifles, if comparedWith those which are contrived, though not declared. 330Tell me, Philosopher, is it a crimeTo pry into the secret womb of Time;Or, born in ignorance, must we despairTo reach events, and read the future there?Why, be it so—still 'tis the right of man,Imparted by his Maker, where he can,To former times and men his eye to cast,And judge of what's to come, by what is past.Should there be found, in some not distant year,(Oh, how I wish to be no prophet here!) 340Amongst our British Lords should there be foundSome great in power, in principles unsound,Who look on Freedom with an evil eye,In whom the springs of Loyalty are dry;Who wish to soar on wild Ambition's wings,Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings;Who would divide the people and the throne,To set up separate interests of their own;Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth,And only join with, to destroy them both; 350Should there be found such men in after-times,May Heaven, in mercy to our grievous crimes,Allot some milder vengeance, nor to them,And to their rage, this wretched land condemn,Thou God above, on whom all states depend,Who knowest from the first their rise, and end,If there's a day mark'd in the book of Fate,When ruin must involve our equal state;When law, alas! must be no more, and we,To freedom born, must be no longer free; 360Let not a mob of tyrants seize the helm,Nor titled upstarts league to rob the realm;Let not, whatever other ills assail,A damned aristocracy prevail.If, all too short, our course of freedom run,'Tis thy good pleasure we should be undone,Let us, some comfort in our griefs to bring,Be slaves to one, and be that one a king.F. Poets, accustom'd by their trade to feign,Oft substitute creations of the brain 370For real substance, and, themselves deceived,Would have the fiction by mankind believed.Such is your case—but grant, to soothe your pride,That you know more than all the world beside,Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt?Resolved, and like a man, at once speak out;Show us our danger, tell us where it lies,And, to ensure our safety, make us wise.P. Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools stray;The proud will rather lose than ask their way: 380To men of sense what needs it to unfold,And tell a tale which they must know untold?In the bad, interest warps the canker'd heart,The good are hoodwink'd by the tricks of art;And, whilst arch, subtle hypocrites contriveTo keep the flames of discontent alive;Whilst they, with arts to honest men unknown,Breed doubts between the people and the throne,Making us fear, where Reason never yetAllow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit, 390Themselves pass unsuspected in disguise,And 'gainst our real danger seal our eyes.F. Mark them, and let their names recorded standOn Shame's black roll, and stink through all the land.P. That might some courage, but no prudence be;No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me.F. Leave out their names.P. For that kind caution, thanks;But may not judges sometimes fill up blanks?F. Your country's laws in doubt then you reject? 400P. The laws I love, the lawyers I suspect.Amongst twelve judges may not one be found(On bare, bare possibility I groundThis wholesome doubt) who may enlarge, retrench,Create, and uncreate, and from the bench,With winks, smiles, nods, and such like paltry arts,May work and worm into a jury's hearts?Or, baffled there, may, turbulent of soul,Cramp their high office, and their rights control;Who may, though judge, turn advocate at large, 410And deal replies out by the way of charge,Making Interpretation all the way,In spite of facts, his wicked will obey,And, leaving Law without the least defence,May damn his conscience to approve his sense?F. Whilst, the true guardians of this charter'd land,In full and perfect vigour, juries stand,A judge in vain shall awe, cajole, perplex.P. Suppose I should be tried in Middlesex?F. To pack a jury they will never dare. 420P. There's no occasion to pack juries there.[297]F. 'Gainst prejudice all arguments are weak;Reason herself without effect must speak.Fly then thy country, like a coward fly,Renounce her interest, and her laws defy.But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thine eyes?Cannot our Europe thy vast wrath suffice?Cannot thy misbegotten Muse lay bareHer brawny arm, and play the butcher there?P. Thy counsel taken, what should Satire do? 430Where could she find an object that is new?Those travell'd youths, whom tender mothers wean,And send abroad to see, and to be seen;With whom, lest they should fornicate, or worse,A tutor's sent by way of a dry nurse;Each of whom just enough of spirit bearsTo show our follies, and to bring home theirs,Have made all Europe's vices so well known,They seem almost as natural as our own.F. Will India for thy purpose better do? 440P. In one respect, at least—there's something new.F. A harmless people, in whom Nature speaksFree and untainted,'mongst whom Satire seeks,But vainly seeks, so simply plain their hearts,One bosom where to lodge her poison'd darts.P. From knowledge speak you this? or, doubt on doubtWeigh'd and resolved, hath Reason found it out?Neither from knowledge, nor by Reason taught,You have faith every where, but where you ought.India or Europe—what's there in a name? 450Propensity to vice in both the same,Nature alike in both works for man's good,Alike in both by man himself withstood.Nabobs, as well as those who hunt them down,Deserve a cord much better than a crown,And a Mogul can thrones as much debaseAs any polish'd prince of Christian race.F. Could you,—a task more hard than you suppose,—Could you, in ridicule whilst Satire glows,Make all their follies to the life appear, 460'Tis ten to one you gain no credit here;Howe'er well drawn, the picture, after all,Because we know not the original,Would not find favour in the public eye.P. That, having your good leave, I mean to try:And if your observations sterling hold,If the piece should be heavy, tame, and cold,To make it to the side of Nature lean,And meaning nothing, something seem to mean:To make the whole in lively colours glow, 470To bring before us something that we know,And from all honest men applause to win,I'll group the Company,[298] and put them in.F. Be that ungenerous thought by shame suppress'd,Add not distress to those too much distress'd;Have they not, by blind zeal misled, laid bareThose sores which never might endure the air?Have they not brought their mysteries so low,That what the wise suspected not, fools know?From their first rise e'en to the present hour, 480Have they not proved their own abuse of power,Made it impossible, if fairly view'd,Ever to have that dangerous power renew'd,Whilst, unseduced by ministers, the throneRegards our interests, and knows its own?P. Should every other subject chance to fail,Those who have sail'd, and those who wish'd to sailIn the last fleet, afford an ample field,Which must beyond my hopes a harvest yield.F. On such vile food Satire can never thrive. 490P. She cannot starve, if there was only Clive.[299]