Some of my friends (for friends I must supposeAll, who, not daring to appear my foes,Feign great good will, and, not more full of spiteThan full of craft, under false colours fight),Some of my friends (so lavishly I print),As more in sorrow than in anger, hint(Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)That I shall run my stock of genius out,My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,Must needs become a bankrupt at the last. 10'The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil,Which, rich in disposition, pays his toilMore than a hundredfold, which swells his storeE'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er,By long Experience taught, who teaches best,Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest:The land, allow'd its losses to repair,Refresh'd, and full in strength, delights to wearA second youth, and to the farmer's eyesBids richer crops, and double harvests rise. 20'Nor think this practice to the earth confined,It reaches to the culture of the mind.The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear,Though next in power to God's, continual care.Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown)Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down,And fallow'd well: had Churchill known but this,Which the most slight observer scarce could miss,He might have flourish'd twenty years or more,Though now, alas! poor man! worn out in four.'[328] 30Recover'd from the vanity of youth,I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,And am, if not too late, resolved to mend,Resolved to give some respite to my pen,Apply myself once more to books and men;View what is present, what is past review,And, my old stock exhausted, lay in new.For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bearThis oath to Heaven), for twice six moons, I swear, 40No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way.Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,Who, in my hearing, shall a rhyme commend.It cannot be—whether I will, or no,Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.Convinced, determined, I in prose begin,But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,And taints me through and through; by this good light,In verse I talk by day, I dream by night! 50If now and then I curse, my curses chime,Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme.E'en now I err, in spite of Common Sense,And my confession doubles my offence.Rest then, my friends;—spare, spare your precious breath,And be your slumbers not less sound than death;Perturbed spirits rest, nor thus appear,To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear;On your grave lessons I cannot subsist,Nor even in verse become economist. 60Rest then, my friends; nor, hateful to my eyes,Let Envy, in the shape of Pity, riseTo blast me ere my time; with patience wait,('Tis no long interval) propitious FateShall glut your pride, and every son of phlegmFind ample room to censure and condemn.Read some three hundred lines (no easy task,But probably the last that I shall ask),And give me up for ever; wait one hour,Nay not so much, revenge is in your power, 70And ye may cry, ere Time hath turn'd his glass,Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass.Let those, who poetry in poems claim,Or not read this, or only read to blame;Let those who are by Fiction's charms enslaved,Return me thanks for half-a-crown well saved;Let those who love a little gall in rhymePostpone their purchase now, and call next time;Let those who, void of Nature, look for Art,Take up their money, and in peace depart; 80Let those who energy of diction prize,For Billingsgate quit Flexney,[329] and be wise:Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force,Mean are the words, and such as come of course;The subject not less simple than the lay;A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a Day.Far from me now be every tuneful maid,I neither ask, nor can receive their aid.Pegasus turn'd into a common hack,Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track, 90Nor would I have the Sisters of the hillBehold their bard in such a dishabille.Absent, but only absent for a time,Let them caress some dearer son of Rhyme;Let them, as far as decency permits,Without suspicion, play the fool with wits,'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule,Wits are safe things; there's danger in a fool.Let them, though modest, Gray more modest woo;Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo; 100Let them with Franklin,[330] proud of some small Greek,Make Sophocles, disguised, in English speak;Let them, with Glover,[331] o'er Medea doze;Let them, with Dodsley, wail Cleone's[332] woes,Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;Let them, with simple Whitehead[333] taught to creepSilent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;Let them with Browne,[334] contrive, no vulgar trick,To cure the dead, and make the living sick; 110Let them, in charity, to Murphy giveSome old French piece, that he may steal and live;Let them with antic Foote, subscriptions get,And advertise a summer-house of wit.Thus, or in any better way they please,With these great men, or with great men like these,Let them their appetite for laughter feed;I on my Journey all alone proceed.If fashionable grown, and fond of power,With humorous Scots let them disport their hour, 120Let them dance, fairy like, round Ossian's tomb;Let them forge lies and histories for Hume;Let them with Home, the very prince of verse,Make something like a tragedy in Erse;Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil,Let them, with Ogilvie,[335] spin out a taleOf rueful length; let them plain things obscure,Debase what's truly rich, and what is poorMake poorer still by jargon most uncouth;With every pert, prim prettiness of youth, 130Born of false taste, with Fancy (like a childNot knowing what it cries for) running wild,With bloated style, by Affectation taught,With much false colouring, and little thought,With phrases strange, and dialect decreedBy Reason never to have pass'd the Tweed,With words, which Nature meant each other's foe,Forced to compound whether they will or no;With such materials, let them, if they will,To prove at once their pleasantry and skill, 140Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common Sense,By way of compliment to Providence;Let them, with Armstrong[336], taking leave of Sense,Read musty lectures on Benevolence,Or con the pages of his gaping Day,Where all his former fame was thrown away,Where all, but barren labour, was forgot,And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;Let them, with Armstrong, pass the term of light,But not one hour of darkness: when the night 150Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,When for our past misdoings, Conscience takesA deep revenge, when, by Reflection led,She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead,Let every Muse be gone; in vain he turns,And tries to pray for sleep; an Aetna burns,A more than Aetna, in his coward breast,And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest:Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing,His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring; 160Ingratitude hath planted daggers thereNo good man can deserve, no brave man bear.Thus, or in any better way they please,With these great men, or with great men like these,Let them their appetite for laughter feed;I on my Journey all alone proceed.
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Footnotes:
[327] 'Journey:' a posthumous publication.
[328] 'In four:' he did not complete the fourth.
[329] 'Flexney.' the publisher of his poems.
[330] 'Franklin:' Dr Franklin, author of a translation of Sophocles.
[331] 'Glover:' Dr Glover in his tragedy of Medea.
[332] 'Cleone:' a tragedy by Robert Dodsley.
[333] 'Whitehead:' Whitehead dedicated his 'School for Lovers' to thememory of Fontenelle.
[334] 'Browne:' 'The Cure of Saul,' a sacred ode by Dr Browne, was setto music.
[335] 'Ogilvie:' John Ogilvie, A.M., was the author of 'Providence,' anallegorical poem.
[336] 'Armstrong:' Dr John Armstrong, author of that beautiful poem, 'The Art of Preserving Health,' also of one entitled 'Day,' in which he reflected on Churchill, who had been his friend.
To Churchill's Sermons.
The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papersChurchill left behind him.
Health to great Glo'ster!—from a man unknown,Who holds thy health as dearly as his own,Accept this greeting—nor let modest fearCall up one maiden blush—I mean not hereTo wound with flattery; 'tis a villain's art,And suits not with the frankness of my heart.Truth best becomes an orthodox divine,And, spite of Hell, that character is mine:To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;But truth, my lord, is panegyric here. 10Health to great Glo'ster!—nor, through love of ease,Which all priests love, let this address displease.I ask no favour, not onenoteI crave,And when this busy brain rests in the grave,(For till that time it never can have rest)I will not trouble you with one bequest.Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,More near in blood, a nephew or a son,In that dread hour executor I'll leave,For I, alas! have many to receive; 20To give, but little.—To great Glo'ster health!Nor let thy true and proper love of wealthHere take a false alarm—in purse though poor,In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endureThe mention of a bribe—thy pocket's free:I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee.Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.Think not,—a thought unworthy thy great soul,Which pomps of this world never could control, 30Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine,—Think not that pomp and power can work on mine.'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great,'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state,'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art,'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart.State is a farce; names are but empty things,Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shineSo bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, 40Unless set off by virtue; who deceivesUnder the sacred sanction of lawn sleevesEnhances guilt, commits a double sin;So fair without, and yet so foul within.'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien,Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,Which can from sixty to sixteen impartThe force of Love, and point his blunted dart; 50'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's madeAn index to thy soul; though there display'dWe see thy mind at large, and through thy skinPeeps out that courtesy which dwells within;'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,Around our heads no lineal glories shine—But what is birth,—when, to delight mankind,Heralds can make those arms they cannot find,When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown,A whole Welsh genealogy alone? 60No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,Thy right just estimation here on earth,Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd,And flowing from that wholesome source, thy mind;Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod,Thy charity for man, thy love of God,Thy faith in Christ, so well approved 'mongst men,Which now give life and utterance to my pen.Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays;'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint, I praise: 70Raised by that theme, I soar on wings more strong,And burst forth into praise withheld too long.Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheepWhich, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep,—Ordain'd, alas! to keep, through need, not choice,Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice,Which did not know, yet would not learn their way,Which stray'd themselves, yet grieved that I should stray;Those sheep which my good father (on his bierLet filial duty drop the pious tear) 80Kept well, yet starved himself, e'en at that timeWhilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme,Whilst, sacred Dulness ever in my view,Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,—Much did I wish, though little could I hope,A friend in him who was the friend of Pope.His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide,And lead me safe where thousands fall beside;His temper, his experience, shall control,And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; 90His judgment teach me, from the critic school,How not to err, and how to err by rule;Instruct me, mingle profit with delight,Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspeare was not right;Where they are justly praised, and where, through whim,How little's due to them, how much to him.Raised 'bove the slavery of common rules,Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools,Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all,Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, 100He by his great example might impartA better something, and baptize it Art;He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,Might show me what is taste by what is not;By him supported, with a proper pride,I might hold all mankind as fools beside;He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown,Explode his maxims and assert their own)Might teach me, like himself, to be content,And let their folly be their punishment; 110Might, like himself, teach his adopted son,'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton.Fool that I was! could I so much deceiveMy soul with lying hopes? could I believeThat he, the servant of his Maker sworn,The servant of his Saviour, would be tornFrom their embrace, and leave that dear employ,The cure of souls, his duty and his joy,For toys like mine, and waste his precious time,On which so much depended, for a rhyme? 120Should he forsake the task he undertook,Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook?Should he (forbid it, Heaven!) so high in place,So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace,And, idly wandering o'er the Muses' hill,Let the salvation of mankind stand still?Far, far be that from thee—yes, far from theeBe such revolt from grace, and far from meThe will to think it—guilt is in the thought—Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught, 130Not so learn'd Christ. Recall that day, well known,When (to maintain God's honour, and his own)He call'd blasphemers forth; methinks I nowSee stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow,And arm'd with tenfold terrors—from his tongue,Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung,Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll,And chill with horror every sinner's soul,In vain they strive to fly—flight cannot save.And Potter trembles even in his grave— 140With all the conscious pride of innocence,Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew,By gospel rules his witness to be true.O glorious man! thy zeal I must commend,Though it deprived me of my dearest friend;The real motives of thy anger known,Wilkes must the justice of that anger own;And, could thy bosom have been bared to view,Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you. 150Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown,Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down;Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew,Me she got rid of, and made prize of you.I, like an idle truant fond of play,Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip;But you, my lord, renounced attorneyshipWith better purpose, and more noble aim,And wisely played a more substantial game: 160Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger son,For Mansfield does what Glo'ster would have done.Doctor! Dean! Bishop! Glo'ster! and My Lord!If haply these high titles may accordWith thy meek spirit; if the barren soundOf pride delights thee, to the topmost roundOf Fortune's ladder got, despise not oneFor want of smooth hypocrisy undone,Who, far below, turns up his wondering eye,And, without envy, sees thee placed so high: 170Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might)Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height,Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skillAnd wonted powers of knowing good from ill,Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes;Let Glo'ster well remember how he rose,Nor turn his back on men who made him great;Let him not, gorged with power, and drunk with state,Forget what once he was, though now so high,How low, how mean, and full as poor as I. 180
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Caetera desunt.
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These verses appeared with Churchill's name to them in the LondonMagazine for 1763, and there is no reason to doubt their beinggenuine.
When Pope to Satire gave its lawful way,And made the Nimrods of Mankind his prey;When haughty Windsor heard through every woodTheir shame, who durst be great, yet not be good;Who, drunk with power, and with ambition blind,Slaves to themselves, and monsters to mankind,Sinking the man, to magnify the prince,Were heretofore, what Stuarts have been since:Could he have look'd into the womb of Time,How might his spirit in prophetic rhyme, 10Inspired by virtue, and for freedom bold,Matters of different import have foretold!How might his Muse, if any Muse's tongueCould equal such an argument, have sungOne William,[337] who makes all mankind his care,And shines the saviour of his country there!One William, who to every heart gives law;The son of George, the image of Nassau!
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Footnotes:
[337] 'William:' Duke of Cumberland—the Whig hero.
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