* * * * *
Footnotes:
[297] 'Juries there:' alluding to the then recent acquittal from the charge of perjury, by the petty jury, of Mr Philip Carteret Webb, solicitor to the Treasury, who had sworn against Wilkes.
[298] 'Company:' East Indian Co.
[299] 'Clive:' See Macaulay's Essay.
The time hath been, a boyish, blushing time,When modesty was scarcely held a crime;When the most wicked had some touch of grace,And trembled to meet Virtue face to face;When those, who, in the cause of Sin grown gray,Had served her without grudging day by day,Were yet so weak an awkward shame to feelAnd strove that glorious service to conceal:We, better bred, and than our sires more wise,Such paltry narrowness of soul despise: 10To virtue every mean pretence disclaim,Lay bare our crimes, and glory in our shame.Time was, ere Temperance had fled the realm,Ere Luxury sat guttling at the helmFrom meal to meal, without one moment's spaceReserved for business or allow'd for grace;Ere Vanity had so far conquer'd SenseTo make us all wild rivals in expense,To make one fool strive to outvie another,And every coxcomb dress against his brother; 20Ere banish'd Industry had left our shores,And Labour was by Pride kick'd out of doors;Ere Idleness prevail'd sole queen in courts,Or only yielded to a rage for sports;Ere each weak mind was with externals caught,And dissipation held the place of thought;Ere gambling lords in vice so far were goneTo cog the die, and bid the sun look on;Ere a great nation, not less just than free,Was made a beggar by economy; 30Ere rugged Honesty was out of vogue;Ere Fashion stamp'd her sanction on the rogue;Time was, that men had conscience, that they madeScruples to owe what never could be paid.Was one then found, however high his name,So far above his fellows damn'd to shame,Who dared abuse, and falsify his trust,Who, being great, yet dared to be unjust,Shunn'd like a plague, or but at distance view'd,He walk'd the crowded streets in solitude, 40Nor could his rank and station in the landBribe one mean knave to take him by the hand.Such rigid maxims (Oh! might such reviveTo keep expiring Honesty alive)Made rogues, all other hopes of fame denied,Not just through principle, be just through pride.Our times, more polish'd, wear a different face;Debts are an honour, payment a disgrace.Men of weak minds, high-placed on Folly's list,May gravely tell us trade cannot subsist, 50Nor all those thousands who're in trade employ'd,If faith 'twixt man and man is once destroy'd.Why—be it so—we in that point accord;But what are trade, and tradesmen, to a lord?Faber, from day to day, from year to year,Hath had the cries of tradesmen in his ear,Of tradesmen by his villany betray'd,And, vainly seeking justice, bankrupts made.What is't to Faber? Lordly as before,He sits at ease, and lives to ruin more: 60Fix'd at his door, as motionless as stone,Begging, but only begging for their own,Unheard they stand, or only heard by those,Those slaves in livery, who mock their woes.What is't to Faber? He continues great,Lives on in grandeur, and runs out in state.The helpless widow, wrung with deep despair,In bitterness of soul pours forth her prayer,Hugging her starving babes with streaming eyes,And calls down vengeance, vengeance from the skies. 70What is't to Faber? He stands safe and clear,Heaven can commence no legal action here;And on his breast a mighty plate he wears,A plate more firm than triple brass, which bearsThe name of Privilege, 'gainst vulgar awe;He feels no conscience, and he fears no law.Nor think, acquainted with small knaves alone,Who have not shame outlived, and grace outgrown,The great world hidden from thy reptile view,That on such men, to whom contempt is due, 80Contempt shall fall, and their vile author's nameRecorded stand through all the land of shame.No—to his porch, like Persians to the sun,Behold contending crowds of courtiers run;See, to his aid what noble troops advance,All sworn to keep his crimes in countenance;Nor wonder at it—they partake the charge,As small their conscience, and their debts as large.Propp'd by such clients, and without controlFrom all that's honest in the human soul; 90In grandeur mean, with insolence unjust,Whilst none but knaves can praise, and fools will trust,Caress'd and courted, Faber seems to standA mighty pillar in a guilty land.And (a sad truth, to which succeeding timesWill scarce give credit, when 'tis told in rhymes)Did not strict Honour with a jealous eyeWatch round the throne, did not true Piety(Who, link'd with Honour for the noblest ends,Ranks none but honest men amongst her friends) 100Forbid us to be crush'd with such a weight,He might in time be minister of state.But why enlarge I on such petty crimes?They might have shock'd the faith of former times,But now are held as nothing—we beginWhere our sires ended, and improve in sin,Rack our invention, and leave nothing newIn vice and folly for our sons to do.Nor deem this censure hard; there's not a placeMost consecrate to purposes of Grace, 110Which Vice hath not polluted; none so high,But with bold pinion she hath dared to fly,And build there for her pleasure; none so lowBut she hath crept into it, made it knowAnd feel her power; in courts, in camps, she reigns,O'er sober citizens, and simple swains;E'en in our temples she hath fix'd her throne,And 'bove God's holy altars placed her own.More to increase the horror of our state,To make her empire lasting as 'tis great; 120To make us, in full-grown perfection, feelCurses which neither Art nor Time can heal;All shame discarded, all remains of pride,Meanness sits crown'd, and triumphs by her side:Meanness, who gleans out of the human mindThose few good seeds which Vice had left behind,Those seeds which might in time to virtue tend,And leaves the soul without a power to mend;Meanness, at sight of whom, with brave disdain,The breast of Manhood swells, but swells in vain; 130Before whom Honour makes a forced retreat,And Freedom is compell'd to quit her seat;Meanness, which, like that mark by bloody CainBorne in his forehead for a brother slain,God, in his great and all-subduing rage,Ordains the standing mark of this vile age.The venal hero trucks his fame for gold,The patriot's virtue for a place is sold;The statesman bargains for his country's shame,And, for preferment, priests their God disclaim; 140Worn out with lust, her day of lechery o'er,The mother trains the daughter whom she boreIn her own paths; the father aids the plan,And, when the innocent is ripe for man,Sells her to some old lecher for a wife,And makes her an adulteress for life;Or in the papers bids his name appear,And advertises for a L——:Husband and wife (whom Avarice must applaud)Agree to save the charge of pimp and bawd; 150Those parts they play themselves, a frugal pair,And share the infamy, the gain to share;Well pleased to find, when they the profits tell,That they have play'd the whore and rogue so well.Nor are these things (which might imply a sparkOf shame still left) transacted in the dark:No—to the public they are open laid,And carried on like any other trade:Scorning to mince damnation, and too proudTo work the works of darkness in a cloud, 160In fullest vigour Vice maintains her sway;Free are her marts, and open at noonday.Meanness, now wed to Impudence, no moreIn darkness skulks, and trembles, as of yore,When the light breaks upon her coward eye;Boldly she stalks on earth, and to the skyLifts her proud head, nor fears lest time abate,And turn her husband's love to canker'd hate,Since Fate, to make them more sincerely one,Hath crown'd their loves with Montague their son; 170A son so like his dam, so like his sire,With all the mother's craft, the father's fire,An image so express in every part,So like in all bad qualities of heart,That, had they fifty children, he aloneWould stand as heir apparent to the throne.With our own island vices not content,We rob our neighbours on the Continent;Dance Europe round, and visit every court,To ape their follies, and their crimes import: 180To different lands for different sins we roam,And, richly freighted, bring our cargo home,Nobly industrious to make Vice appearIn her full state, and perfect only here.To Holland, where politeness ever reigns,Where primitive sincerity remains,And makes a stand; where Freedom in her courseHath left her name, though she hath lost her forceIn that as other lands; where simple TradeWas never in the garb of Fraud array'd; 190Where Avarice never dared to show his head;Where, like a smiling cherub, Mercy, ledBy Reason, blesses the sweet-blooded race,And Cruelty could never find a place;To Holland for that charity we roam,Which happily begins and ends at home.France, in return for peace and power restored,For all those countries which the hero's swordUnprofitably purchased, idly thrownInto her lap, and made once more her own; 200France hath afforded large and rich suppliesOf vanities full trimm'd; of polish'd lies;Of soothing flatteries, which through the earsSteal to, and melt the heart; of slavish fearsWhich break the spirit, and of abject fraud—For which, alas! we need not send abroad.Spain gives us Pride—which Spain to all the earthMay largely give, nor fear herself a dearth—Gives us that Jealousy, which, born of FearAnd mean Distrust, grows not by Nature here— 210Gives us that Superstition, which pretendsBy the worst means to serve the best of ends—That Cruelty, which, stranger to the brave,Dwells only with the coward and the slave;That Cruelty, which led her Christian bandsWith more than savage rage o'er savage lands,Bade her, without remorse, whole countries thin,And hold of nought, but Mercy, as a sin.Italia, nurse of every softer art,Who, feigning to refine, unmans the heart; 220Who lays the realms of Sense and Virtue waste;Who mars while she pretends to mend our taste;Italia, to complete and crown our shame,Sends us a fiend, and Legion is his name.The farce of greatness without being great,Pride without power, titles without estate,Souls without vigour, bodies without force,Hate without cause, revenge without remorse,Dark, mean revenge, murder without defence,Jealousy without love, sound without sense, 230Mirth without humour, without wit grimace,Faith without reason, Gospel without Grace,Zeal without knowledge, without nature art,Men without manhood, women without heart;Half-men, who, dry and pithless, are debarr'dFrom man's best joys—no sooner made than marr'd—Half-men, whom many a rich and noble dame,To serve her lust, and yet secure her fame,Keeps on high diet, as we capons feed,To glut our appetites at last decreed; 240Women, who dance in postures so obscene,They might awaken shame in Aretine;Who when, retired from the day's piercing light,They celebrate the mysteries of Night,Might make the Muses, in a corner placedTo view their monstrous lusts, them Sappho chaste;These, and a thousand follies rank as these,A thousand faults, ten thousand fools, who pleaseOur pall'd and sickly taste, ten thousand knaves,Who serve our foes as spies, and us as slaves, 250Who, by degrees, and unperceived, prepareOur necks for chains which they already wear,Madly we entertain, at the expenseOf fame, of virtue, taste, and common sense.Nor stop we here—the soft luxurious East,Where man, his soul degraded, from the beastIn nothing different but in shape we view,They walk on four legs, and he walks on two,Attracts our eye; and flowing from that source,Sins of the blackest character, sins worse 260Than all her plagues, which truly to unfold,Would make the best blood in my veins run cold,And strike all manhood dead, which but to name,Would call up in my cheeks the marks of shame:Sins, if such sins can be, which shut out grace,Which for the guilty leave no hope, no place,E'en in God's mercy; sins 'gainst Nature's planPossess the land at large, and man for manBurns, in those fires, which Hell alone could raiseTo make him more than damn'd; which, in the days 270Of punishment, when guilt becomes her prey,With all her tortures she can scarce repay.Be grace shut out, be mercy deaf, let GodWith tenfold terrors arm that dreadful nodWhich speaks them lost, and sentenced to despair;Distending wide her jaws, let Hell prepare,For those who thus offend amongst mankind,A fire more fierce, and tortures more refined.On earth, which groans beneath their monstrous weight,On earth, alas! they meet a different fate; 280And whilst the laws, false grace, false mercy shown,Are taught to wear a softness not their own,Men, whom the beasts would spurn, should they appearAmongst the honest herd, find refuge here.No longer by vain fear or shame controll'd,From long, too long, security grown bold,Mocking rebuke, they brave it in our streets,And Lumley e'en at noon his mistress meets:So public in their crimes, so daring grown,They almost take a pride to have them known, 290And each unnatural villain scarce enduresTo make a secret of his vile amours.Go where we will, at every time and place,Sodom confronts, and stares us in the face;They ply in public at our very doors,And take the bread from much more honest whores.Those who are mean high paramours secure,And the rich guilty screen the guilty poor;The sin too proud to feel from reason awe,And those who practise it, too great for law. 300Woman, the pride and happiness of man,Without whose soft endearments Nature's planHad been a blank, and life not worth a thought;Woman, by all the Loves and Graces taught,With softest arts, and sure, though hidden skill,To humanise, and mould us to her will;Woman, with more than common grace form'd here,With the persuasive language of a tearTo melt the rugged temper of our isle,Or win us to her purpose with a smile; 310Woman, by Fate the quickest spur decreed,The fairest, best reward of every deedWhich bears the stamp of honour; at whose nameOur ancient heroes caught a quicker flame,And dared beyond belief, whilst o'er the plain,Spurning the carcases of princes slain,Confusion proudly strode, whilst Horror blewThe fatal trump, and Death stalk'd full in view;Woman is out of date, a thing thrown by,As having lost its use: no more the eye, 320With female beauty caught, in wild amaze,Gazes entranced, and could for ever gaze;No more the heart, that seat where Love resides,Each breath drawn quick and short, in fuller tidesLife posting through the veins, each pulse on fire,And the whole body tingling with desire,Pants for those charms, which Virtue might engage,To break his vow, and thaw the frost of Age,Bidding each trembling nerve, each muscle strain,And giving pleasure which is almost pain. 330Women are kept for nothing but the breed;For pleasure we must have a Ganymede,A fine, fresh Hylas, a delicious boy,To serve our purposes of beastly joy.Fairest of nymphs, where every nymph is fair,Whom Nature form'd with more than common care,With more than common care whom Art improved,And both declared most worthy to be loved,—— neglected wanders, whilst a crowdPursue and consecrate the steps of ——; 340She, hapless maid, born in a wretched hour,Wastes life's gay prime in vain, like some fair flower,Sweet in its scent, and lively in its hue,Which withers on the stalk from whence it grew,And dies uncropp'd; whilst he, admired, caress'd,Beloved, and everywhere a welcome guest,With brutes of rank and fortune plays the whore,For their unnatural lust a common sewer.Dine with Apicius—at his sumptuous boardFind all, the world of dainties can afford— 350And yet (so much distemper'd spirits pallThe sickly appetite) amidst them allApicius finds no joy, but, whilst he carvesFor every guest, the landlord sits and starves.The forest haunch, fine, fat, in flavour high,Kept to a moment, smokes before his eye,But smokes in vain; his heedless eye runs o'erAnd loathes what he had deified before:The turtle, of a great and glorious size,Worth its own weight in gold, a mighty prize 360For which a man of taste all risks would run,Itself a feast, and every dish in one;The turtle in luxurious pomp comes in,Kept, kill'd, cut up, prepared, and dress'd by Quin;[300]In vain it comes, in vain lies full in view;As Quin hath dress'd it, he may eat it too;Apicius cannot. When the glass goes round,Quick-circling, and the roofs with mirth resound,Sober he sits, and silent—all aloneThough in a crowd, and to himself scarce known: 370On grief he feeds: nor friends can cure, nor wineSuspend his cares, and make him cease to pine.Why mourns Apicius thus? Why runs his eye,Heedless, o'er delicates, which from the skyMight call down Jove? Where now his generous wish,That, to invent a new and better dish,The world might burn, and all mankind expire,So he might roast a phoenix at the fire?Why swims that eye in tears, which, through a raceOf sixty years, ne'er show'd one sign of grace? 380Why feels that heart, which never felt before?Why doth that pamper'd glutton eat no more,Who only lived to eat, his stomach pall'd,And drown'd in floods of sorrow? Hath Fate call'dHis father from the grave to second life?Hath Clodius on his hands return'd his wife?Or hath the law, by strictest justice taught,Compell'd him to restore the dow'r she brought?Hath some bold creditor, against his will,Brought in, and forced him to discharge, a bill, 390Where eating had no share? Hath some vain wenchRun out his wealth, and forced him to retrench?Hath any rival glutton got the start,And beat him in his own luxurious art—Bought cates for which Apicius could not pay,Or dress'd old dainties in a newer way?Hath his cook, worthy to be flain with rods,Spoil'd a dish fit to entertain the gods?Or hath some varlet, cross'd by cruel Fate,Thrown down the price of empires in a plate? 400None, none of these—his servants all are tried:So sure, they walk on ice, and never slide;His cook, an acquisition made in France,Might put a Chloe[301] out of countenance;Nor, though old Holles still maintains his stand,Hath he one rival glutton in the land.Women are all the objects of his hate;His debts are all unpaid, and yet his stateIn full security and triumph held,Unless for once a knave should be expell'd: 410His wife is still a whore, and in his power,The woman gone, he still retains the dower;Sound in the grave (thanks to his filial careWhich mix'd the draught, and kindly sent him there)His father sleeps, and, till the last trump shakeThe corners of the earth, shall not awake.Whence flows this sorrow, then? Behind his chair,Didst thou not see, deck'd with a solitaire,Which on his bare breast glittering play'd, and gracedWith nicest ornaments, a stripling placed, 420A smooth, smug stripling, in life's fairest prime?Didst thou not mind, too, how from time to time,The monstrous lecher, tempted to despiseAll other dainties, thither turn'd his eyes?How he seem'd inly to reproach us all,Who strove his fix'd attention to recall,And how he wish'd, e'en at the time of grace,Like Janus, to have had a double face?His cause of grief behold in that fair boy;Apicius dotes, and Corydon is coy. 430Vain and unthinking stripling! when the glassMeets thy too curious eye, and, as you pass,Flattering, presents in smiles thy image there,Why dost thou bless the gods, who made thee fair?Blame their large bounties, and with reason blame;Curse, curse thy beauty, for it leads to shame;When thy hot lord, to work thee to his end,Bids showers of gold into thy breast descend,Suspect his gifts, nor the vile giver trust;They're baits for virtue, and smell strong of lust. 440On those gay, gaudy trappings, which adornThe temple of thy body, look with scorn;View them with horror; they pollution mean,And deepest ruin: thou hast often seenFrom 'mongst the herd, the fairest and the bestCarefully singled out, and richly dress'd,With grandeur mock'd, for sacrifice decreed,Only in greater pomp at last to bleed.Be warn'd in time, the threaten'd danger shun,To stay a moment is to be undone. 450What though, temptation proof, thy virtue shine,Nor bribes can move, nor arts can undermine?All other methods failing, one resourceIs still behind, and thou must yield to force.Paint to thyself the horrors of a rape,Most strongly paint, and, while thou canst, escape.Mind not his promises—they're made in sport—Made to be broke—was he not bred at court?Trust not his honour, he's a man of birth:Attend not to his oaths—they're made on earth, 460Not register'd in heaven—he mocks at Grace,And in his creed God never found a place;Look not for Conscience—for he knows her not,So long a stranger, she is quite forgot;Nor think thyself in law secure and firm,Thy master is a lord, and thou a worm,A poor mean reptile, never meant to think,Who, being well supplied with meat and drink,And suffer'd just to crawl from place to place,Must serve his lusts, and think he does thee grace. 470Fly then, whilst yet 'tis in thy power to fly;But whither canst thou go? on whom relyFor wish'd protection? Virtue's sure to meetAn armed host of foes in every street.What boots it, of Apicius fearful grown,Headlong to fly into the arms of Stone?Or why take refuge in the house of prayerIf sure to meet with an Apicius there?Trust not old age, which will thy faith betray;Saint Socrates is still a goat, though gray: 480Trust not green youth; Florio will scarce go down,And, at eighteen, hath surfeited the town:Trust not to rakes—alas! 'tis all pretence—They take up raking only as a fence'Gainst common fame—place H—— in thy view,He keeps one whore, as Barrowby kept two:Trust not to marriage—T—— took a wife,Who chaste as Dian might have pass'd her life,Had she not, far more prudent in her aim,(To propagate the honours of his name, 490And save expiring titles) taken care,Without his knowledge, to provide an heir:Trust not to marriage, in mankind unread;S——'s a married man, and S—— new wed.Wouldst thou be safe? Society forswear,Fly to the desert, and seek shelter there;Herd with the brutes—they follow Nature's plan—There's not one brute so dangerous as manIn Afric's wilds—'mongst them that refuge findWhich Lust denies thee here among mankind: 500Renounce thy name, thy nature, and no morePique thy vain pride on Manhood: on all fourWalk, as you see those honest creatures do,And quite forget that once you walk'd on two.But, if the thoughts of solitude alarm,And social life hath one remaining charm;If still thou art to jeopardy decreedAmongst the monsters of Augusta's[302] breed,Lay by thy sex, thy safety to procure;Put off the man, from men to live secure; 510Go forth a woman to the public view,And with their garb assume their manners too.Had the light-footed Greek[303] of Chiron's schoolBeen wise enough to keep this single rule,The maudlin hero, like a puling boyRobb'd of his plaything, on the plains of TroyHad never blubber'd at Patroclus' tomb,And placed his minion in his mistress' room.Be not in this than catamites more nice,Do that for virtue, which they do for vice. 520Thus shalt thou pass untainted life's gay bloom,Thus stand uncourted in the drawing-room;At midnight thus, untempted, walk the street,And run no danger but of being beat.Where is the mother, whose officious zeal,Discreetly judging what her daughters feelBy what she felt herself in days of yore,Against that lecher man makes fast the door?Who not permits, e'en for the sake of prayer,A priest, uncastrated, to enter there, 530Nor (could her wishes, and her care prevail)Would suffer in the house a fly that's male?Let her discharge her cares, throw wide her doors,Her daughters cannot, if they would, be whores;Nor can a man be found, as times now go,Who thinks it worth his while to make them so.Though they more fresh, more lively than the morn,And brighter than the noonday sun, adornThe works of Nature; though the mother's graceRevives, improved, in every daughter's face, 540Undisciplined in dull Discretion's rules,Untaught and undebauch'd by boarding-schools,Free and unguarded let them range the town,Go forth at random, and run Pleasure down,Start where she will; discard all taint of fear,Nor think of danger, when no danger's near.Watch not their steps—they're safe without thy care,Unless, like jennets, they conceive by air,And every one of them may die a nun, 550Unless they breed, like carrion, in the sun.Men, dead to pleasure, as they're dead to grace,Against the law of Nature set their face,The grand primeval law, and seem combinedTo stop the propagation of mankind;Vile pathics read the Marriage Act with pride,And fancy that the law is on their side.Broke down, and strength a stranger to his bed,Old L——[304], though yet alive, is dead;T—— lives no more, or lives not to our isle;No longer bless'd with a Cz——'s[305] smile; 560T—— is at P——[306] disgraced,And M—— grown gray, perforce grows chaste;Nor to the credit of our modest race,Rises one stallion to supply their place.A maidenhead, which, twenty years ago,In mid December the rank fly would blow,Though closely kept, now, when the Dog-star's heatInflames the marrow, in the very streetMay lie untouch'd, left for the worms, by thoseWho daintily pass by, and hold their nose; 570Poor, plain Concupiscence is in disgrace,And simple Lechery dares not show her face,Lest she be sent to bridewell; bankrupts made,To save their fortunes, bawds leave off their trade,Which first had left off them; to Wellclose SquareFine, fresh, young strumpets (for Dodd[307] preaches there)Throng for subsistence; pimps no longer thrive,And pensions only keep L—— alive.Where is the mother, who thinks all her pain,And all her jeopardy of travail, gain 580When a man-child is born; thinks every prayerPaid to the full, and answer'd in an heir?Short-sighted woman! little doth she knowWhat streams of sorrow from that source may flow:Little suspect, while she surveys her boy,Her young Narcissus, with an eye of joyToo full for continence, that Fate could giveHer darling as a curse; that she may live,Ere sixteen winters their short course have run,In agonies of soul, to curse that son. 590Pray then for daughters, ye wise mothers, pray;They shall reward your love, nor make ye grayBefore your time with sorrow; they shall giveAges of peace, and comfort; whilst ye liveMake life most truly worth your care, and save,In spite of death, your memories from the grave.That sense with more than manly vigour fraught,That fortitude of soul, that stretch of thought,That genius, great beyond the narrow boundOf earth's low walk, that judgment perfect found 600When wanted most, that purity of taste,Which critics mention by the name of chaste;Adorn'd with elegance, that easy flowOf ready wit, which never made a foe;That face, that form, that dignity, that ease,Those powers of pleasing, with that will to please,By which Lepel,[308] when in her youthful days,E'en from the currish Pope extorted praise,We see, transmitted, in her daughter shine,And view a new Lepel in Caroline.[309] 610Is a son born into this world of woe?In never-ceasing streams let sorrow flow;Be from that hour the house with sables hung,Let lamentations dwell upon thy tongue;E'en from the moment that he first beganTo wail and whine, let him not see a man;Lock, lock him up, far from the public eye;Give him no opportunity to buy,Or to be bought; B——, though rich, was sold,And gave his body up to shame for gold. 620Let it be bruited all about the town,That he is coarse, indelicate, and brown,An antidote to lust; his face deep scarr'dWith the small-pox, his body maim'd and marr'd;Ate up with the king's evil, and his bloodTainted throughout, a thick and putrid flood,Where dwells Corruption, making him all o'er,From head to foot, a rank and running sore.Shouldst thou report him, as by Nature made,He is undone, and by thy praise betray'd; 630Give him out fair, lechers, in number more,More brutal and more fierce, than throng'd the doorOf Lot in Sodom, shall to thine repair,And force a passage, though a God is there.Let him not have one servant that is male;Where lords are baffled, servants oft prevail.Some vices they propose to all agree;H—— was guilty, but was M—— free?Give him no tutor—throw him to a punk,Rather than trust his morals to a monk— 640Monks we all know—we, who have lived at home,From fair report, and travellers, who roam,More feelingly;—nor trust him to the gown,'Tis oft a covering in this vile townFor base designs: ourselves have lived to seeMore than one parson in the pillory.Should he have brothers, (image to thy viewA scene, which, though not public made, is true)Let not one brother be to t' other known,Nor let his father sit with him alone. 650Be all his servants female, young and fair;And if the pride of Nature spur thy heirTo deeds of venery, if, hot and wild,He chance to get some score of maids with child,Chide, but forgive him; whoredom is a crimeWhich, more at this than any other time,Calls for indulgence, and,'mongst such a race,To have a bastard is some sign of grace.Born in such times, should I sit tamely down,Suppress my rage, and saunter through the town 660As one who knew not, or who shared these crimes?Should I at lesser evils point my rhymes,And let this giant sin, in the full eyeOf observation, pass unwounded by?Though our meek wives, passive obedience taught,Patiently bear those wrongs, for which they ought,With the brave spirit of their dams possess'd,To plant a dagger in each husband's breast,To cut off male increase from this fair isle,And turn our Thames into another Nile; 670Though, on his Sunday, the smug pulpiteer,Loud 'gainst all other crimes, is silent here,And thinks himself absolved, in the pretenceOf decency, which, meant for the defenceOf real virtue, and to raise her price,Becomes an agent for the cause of vice;Though the law sleeps, and through the care they takeTo drug her well, may never more awake;Born in such times, nor with that patience cursedWhich saints may boast of, I must speak or burst. 680But if, too eager in my bold career,Haply I wound the nice, and chaster ear;If, all unguarded, all too rude, I speak,And call up blushes in the maiden's cheek,Forgive, ye fair—my real motives view,And to forgiveness add your praises too.For you I write—nor wish a better plan,The cause of woman is most worthy man—For you I still will write, nor hold my handWhilst there's one slave of Sodom in the land, 690Let them fly far, and skulk from place to place,Not daring to meet manhood face to face,Their steps I'll track, nor yield them one retreatWhere they may hide their heads, or rest their feet,Till God, in wrath, shall let his vengeance fall,And make a great example of them all,Bidding in one grand pile this town expire,Her towers in dust, her Thames a lake of fire;Or they (most worth our wish) convinced, though late,Of their past crimes, and dangerous estate, 700Pardon of women with repentance buy,And learn to honour them, as much as I.
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[300] 'Quin:' was a great voluptuary.
[301] 'Chloe:' M. St Clouet, or Chloe, cook to Holles, Duke of Newcastle.
[302] 'Augusta:' London.
[303] 'Light-footed Greek:' Achilles, who was left at Scyros, dressed in female attire.
[304] 'L——:' Ligonier.
[305] 'Cz——'s:' Czarina's.
[306] 'P——:' Petersburg.
[307] 'Dodd:' the Rev. Dr William Dodd, the unfortunate divine,afterwards hanged for forgery. See Boswell.
[308] 'Lepel:' Mary, daughter of Brigadier-General Le Pell, married in1720 to John Lord Hervey.
[309] 'Caroline:' Lady Caroline Hervey was the youngest daughter ofJohn Lord Hervey.
Happy the bard (though few such bards we find)Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind;Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear,And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear:Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject NeedCannot compel, him Pride cannot misleadTo be the slave of Greatness, to strike sailWhen, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail,Quality in full plumage passes by;He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye, 10And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state,And is above conversing with the great.Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill,Who have conspired to seize that sacred hillWhere the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain,And sunk the mountain level with the plain;Who, with mean, private views, and servile art,No spark of virtue living in their heart,Have basely turn'd apostates; have debasedTheir dignity of office; have disgraced, 20Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand,And caused their name to stink through all the land;Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal penFor the support of great, but guilty men;Have made the bard, of their own vile accord,Inferior to that thing we call a lord.What is a lord? Doth that plain simple wordContain some magic spell? As soon as heard,Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear,Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear 30Than other words? Whether we will or no,Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd goE'en on the mention, and of course transmitNotions of something excellent; of witPleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste;Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced;Of virtue far above temptation's reach,And honour, which not malice can impeach?Believe it not—'twas Nature's first intent,Before their rank became their punishment, 40They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prizeThe blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes,And they could see; she gave them ears—they heard;The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd;Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink,To talk, and (every now and then) to think;Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sakeOf singularity, disclaim'd that make;Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode,Flew off, and struck into another road, 50More fitting Quality, and to our viewCame forth a species altogether new,Something we had not known, and could not know,Like nothing of God's making here below;Nature exclaim'd with wonder—'Lords are things,Which, never made by me, were made by kings.'A lord (nor let the honest and the brave,The true old noble, with the fool and knaveHere mix his fame; cursed be that thought of mine,Which with a B——[310] and E——[311] should Grafton[312] join),A lord (nor here let Censure rashly call 61My just contempt of some, abuse of all,And, as of late, when Sodom was my theme,Slander my purpose, and my Muse blaspheme,Because she stops not, rapid in her song,To make exceptions as she goes along,Though well she hopes to find, another year,A whole minority exceptions here),A mere, mere lord, with nothing but the name,Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, 70Lives on another man, himself a blank,Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thankFor smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf;A bard owes all to Nature, and himself.Gods! how my soul is burnt up with disdain,When I see men, whom Phoebus in his trainMight view with pride, lackey the heels of thoseWhom Genius ranks among her greatest foes!And what's the cause? Why, these same sons of Scorn,No thanks to them, were to a title born, 80And could not help it; by chance hither sent,And only deities by accident.Had Fortune on our getting chanced to shine,Their birthright honours had been yours or mine,'Twas a mere random stroke; and should the ThroneEye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown,Thou, though a bard, might'st be their fellow yet:But Felix never can be made a wit.No, in good faith—that's one of those few thingsWhich Fate hath placed beyond the reach of kings: 90Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards,Play how we will, to turn lords into bards.A bard!—a lord!—why, let them, hand in hand,Go forth as friends, and travel through the land;Observe which word the people can digestMost readily, which goes to market best,Which gets most credit, whether men will trustA bard, because they think he may be just,Or on a lord will chose to risk their gains,Though privilege in that point still remains. 100A bard!—a lord!—let Reason take her scales,And fairly weigh those words, see which prevails,Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam,And which, by sinking, we the victor deem.'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove,Summons a synod in the sacred grove,Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high,And sit in state, the senate of the sky,Whilst, in a kind of parliament below,Men stare at those above, and want to know 110What they're transacting: Reason takes her standJust in the midst, a balance in her hand,Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true:From either side, conducted full in view,A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer;We now and then see something like them here.The first[313] was meagre, flimsy, void of strength,But Nature kindly had made up in lengthWhat she in breadth denied; erect and proud,A head and shoulders taller than the crowd, 120He deem'd them pigmies all; loose hung his skinO'er his bare bones; his face so very thin,So very narrow, and so much beat out,That physiognomists have made a doubt,Proportion lost, expression quite forgot,Whether it could be call'd a face or not;At end of it, howe'er, unbless'd with beard,Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd;With legs, which we might well conceive that FateMeant only to support a spider's weight, 130Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride,Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride,Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry,'Observe, good people, how I shake the sky.'In his right hand a paper did he hold,On which, at large, in characters of gold,Distinct, and plain for those who run to see,Saint Archibald[314] had wrote L, O, R, D.This, with an air of scorn, he from afarTwirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, 140Which from his soul he hated, yet admired,Quick turn'd his back, and, as he came, retired.The judge to all around his name declared;Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove stared,And the whole people cried, with one accord,'Good Heaven bless us all, is that a Lord!'Such was the first—the second[315] was a manWhom Nature built on quite a different plan;A bear, whom, from the moment he was born,His dam despised, and left unlick'd in scorn; 150A Babel, which, the power of Art outdone,She could not finish when she had begun;An utter Chaos, out of which no might,But that of God, could strike one spark of light.Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to bladeA H—— might at full length have laid;Vast were his bones, his muscles twisted strong;His face was short, but broader than 'twas long;His features, though by Nature they were large,Contentment had contrived to overcharge, 160And bury meaning, save that we might spySense lowering on the penthouse of his eye;His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stoutThat they might bear a Mansion-house about;Nor were they, look but at his body there,Design'd by Fate a much less weight to bear.O'er a brown cassock, which had once been black,Which hung in tatters on his brawny back,A sight most strange, and awkward to behold,He threw a covering of blue and gold. 170Just at that time of life, when man, by rule,The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool,He started up a fop, and, fond of show,Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau,A subject met with only now and then,Much fitter for the pencil than the pen;Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow)E'en to the life, was Hogarth[316] living now.With such accoutrements, with such a form,Much like a porpoise just before a storm, 180Onward he roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around;E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound(Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youthHimself he studied by the glass of Truth)He joined their mirth; nor shall the gods condemn,If, whilst they laugh at him, he laugh'd at them.Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace,Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face,And, from his hand received, with fair regardPlaced in her other scale the name of Bard. 190Then, (for she did as judges ought to do,She nothing of the case beforehand knew,Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws,Nor, basely to anticipate a cause,Compell'd solicitors, no longer free,To show those briefs she had no right to see)Then she with equal hand her scales held out,Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt;She held her scales out fair to public view,The Lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew, 200More light than air, deceitful in the weight;The Bard, preponderating, kept his state;Reason approved, and with a voice, whose soundShook earth, shook heaven, on the clearest groundPronouncing for the Bards a full decree,Cried—'Those must honour them, who honour me;They from this present day, where'er I reign,In their own right, precedence shall obtain;Merit rules here: be it enough that BirthIntoxicates, and sways the fools of earth.' 210Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord,I've forged a tale, or alter'd a record;Search when you will, (I am not now in sport)You'll find it register'd in Reason's court.Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre,That I depreciate what I most admire,And look on titles with an eye of scorn,Because I was not to a title born.By Him that made me, I am much more proud,More inly satisfied to have a crowd 220Point at me as I pass, and cry—'That's he—A poor but honest bard, who dares be freeAmidst corruption,' than to have a trainOf flickering levee slaves, to make me vainOf things I ought to blush for; to run, fly,And live but in the motion of my eye;When I am less than man, my faults to adore,And make me think that I am something more.Recall past times, bring back the days of old,When the great noble bore his honours bold, 230And in the face of peril, when he daredThings which his legal bastard, if declared,Might well discredit; faithful to his trust,In the extremest points of justice, just,Well knowing all, and loved by all he knew,True to his king, and to his country true;Honest at court, above the baits of gain,Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain;Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse,Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; 240Possessing much, and yet deserving more,Deserving those high honours which he woreWith ease to all, and in return gain'd fameWhich all men paid, because he did not claim.When the grim war was placed in dread array,Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey,Or lioness of royal whelps foredone;In peace, as mild as the departing sun,A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd,Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; 250Ever awake at Pity's tender call,A father of the poor, a friend to all;Recall such times, and from the grave bring backA worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack,My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim,And every Muse conspire to swell his fame,Till Envy shall to him that praise allowWhich she cannot deny to Temple now.This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget,Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, 260To pay it like a man, and in his lays,Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise.But let not pride and prejudice misdeem,And think that empty titles are my theme;Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth;I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth.Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave,I am his friend, but cannot be his slave;Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretendTo make a slave, where they may make a friend; 270I love his virtues, and will make them known,Confess his rank, but can't forget my own.Give me a lord, who, to a title born,Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn.What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here)Tamely make way if such a wretch appear?Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my kneeTo such a shadow of nobility,A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknownFor any real merit of his own, 280And never had come forth to public noteHad he not worn, by chance, his father's coat.To think a M——[317] worth my least regards,Is treason to the majesty of bards.By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake,She something more than common strove to make,When, overlooking each minute defect,And all too eager to be quite correct,In her full heat and vigour she impress'dHer stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) 290The bard, (nor think too lightly that I meanThose little, piddling witlings, who o'erweenOf their small parts, the Murphys of the stage,The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age,Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse)The real bard, whom native genius fires,Whom every maid of Castaly inspires,Let him consider wherefore he was meant,Let him but answer Nature's great intent, 300And fairly weigh himself with other men,Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen,Would in full state, like a true monarch, live,Nor bate one inch of his prerogative.Methinks I see old Wingate[318] frowning here,(Wingate may in the season be a peer,Though now, against his will, of figures sick,He's forced to diet on arithmetic,E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets,Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) 310Methinks (his mind with future honours big,His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig)I hear him cry—'What doth this jargon mean?Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen?Majesty!—Bard!—Prerogative!—DisdainHath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain:To Bethlem with him—give him whips and straw—I'm very sensible he's mad in law.A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thusTo set himself upon a par with us; 320If thishere'ssuffered, and if thattherefool,May, when he pleases, send us all to school,Why, then our only business is outrightTo take our caps, and bid the world good night.I've kept a bard myself this twenty years,But nothing of this kind in him appears;He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licksThe hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks;He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes,Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; 330A creature of the right chameleon hue,He wears my colours, yellow or true blue,Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to himWhether I change through conscience, or through whim.Now this is something like; on such a planA bard may find a friend in a great man;But this proud coxcomb—zounds, I thought that allOf this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.'[319]Injurious thought! accursed be the tongueOn which the vile insinuation hung, 340The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those,Those bards, who not themselves alone expose,But me, but all, and make the very nameBy which they're call'd a standing mark of shame.Talk not of custom—'tis the coward's plea,Current with fools, but passes not with me;An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often triedBy numbers to o'erpower the better side.Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme,No matter when, down to the present time, 350As by the original decree of Fate,Bards have protection sought amongst the great;Conscious of weakness, have applied to themAs vines to elms, and, twining round their stem,Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd supportE'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court?As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,From which it rose; had bards but truly knownThat strength, which is most properly their own, 360Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood,And overtopp'd those giants of the wood.But why, when present times my care engage,Must I go back to the Augustan age?Why, anxious for the living, am I ledInto the mansions of the ancient dead?Can they find patrons nowhere but at Rome,And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb?Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of noteStart up, and from report Maecenas quote; 370Under his colours lords are proud to fight,Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight:They mention him, as if to use his nameWas, in some measure, to partake his fame,Though Virgil, was he living, in the streetMight rot for them, or perish in the Fleet.See how they redden, and the charge disclaim—Virgil, and in the Fleet!—forbid it, Shame!Hence, ye vain boasters! to the Fleet repair,And ask, with blushes ask, if Lloyd is there! 380Patrons in days of yore were men of sense,Were men of taste, and had a fair pretenceTo rule in letters—some of them were heardTo read off-hand, and never spell a word;Some of them, too, to such a monstrous heightWas learning risen, for themselves could write,And kept their secretaries, as the greatDo many other foolish things, for state.Our patrons are of quite a different strain,With neither sense nor taste; against the grain 390They patronise for Fashion's sake—no more—And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore.Melcombe (on such occasions I am lothTo name the dead) was a rare proof of both.Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed;Others can write, but such a Pagan hand,A Willes[320] should always at our elbow stand:Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor,[321] of right,Would order into keeping at first sight. 400Those who stand fairest to the public viewTake to themselves the praise to others due,They rob the very spital, and make freeWith those, alas! who've least to spare. We see—— hath not had a word to say,Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech[322] away.Patrons, in days of yore, like patrons now,Expected that the bard should make his bowAt coming in, and every now and thenHint to the world that they were more than men; 410But, like the patrons of the present day,They never bilk'd the poet of his pay.Virgil loved rural ease, and, far from harm,Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm,Where he might, free from trouble, pass his daysIn his own way, and pay his rent in praise.Horace loved wine, and, through his friend at court,Could buy it off the quay in every port:Horace loved mirth, Maecenas loved it too;They met, they laugh'd, as Goy[323] and I may do, 420Nor in those moments paid the least regardTo which was minister, and which was bard.Not so our patrons—grave as grave can be,They know themselves, they keep up dignity;Bards are a forward race, nor is it fitThat men of fortune rank with men of wit:Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength—'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length.'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give,From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. 430Such is their language, and their practice such;They promise little, and they give not much.Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain,Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain;What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,He may obtain a patent for the runOf his lord's kitchen, and have ample time,With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme;Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace)May at the second table get a place; 440With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine,And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine.And are there bards, who, on creation's file,Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isleThe air of freedom, with so little gall,So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fallBefore these idols, and without a groanBear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone?Better, and much more noble, to abjureThe sight of men, and in some cave, secure 450From all the outrages of Pride, to feastOn Nature's salads, and be free at least.Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worseThan almost any other modern curse)Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse,Critics commence, and write in the Reviews;Write without tremor, Griffiths[324] cannot read;No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed.But (not to make a brave and honest prideTry those means first, she must disdain when tried) 460There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,By which, and fairly, men of real partsMay gain a living, gain what Nature craves;Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves.Our real wants in a small compass lie,But lawless appetite, with eager eye,Kept in a constant fever, more requires,And we are burnt up with our own desires.Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs;Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. 470Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill;We may be independent, if we will.The man who suits his spirit to his stateStands on an equal footing with the great;Moguls themselves are not more rich, and heWho rules the English nation, not more free.Chains were not forged more durable and strongFor bards than others, but they've worn them long,And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgotWhat Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. 480Could they, though in their sleep, could they but knowThe blessings which from Independence flow;Could they but have a short and transient gleamOf Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream,They would no more in bondage bend their knee,But, once made freemen, would be always free.The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains,Can nevermore submit to sing in chains.Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng,The bird repays his keeper with his song; 490But if some playful child sets wide the door,Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,With love of liberty begins to burn,And rather starves than to his cage return.Hail, Independence!—by true reason taught,How few have known, and prized thee as they ought!Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys,Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys;Ambition some, some avarice, misleads,And in both cases Independence bleeds. 500Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam,Nor know they had thee in their reach at home;Some, though about their paths, their beds about,Have never had the sense to find thee out:Others, who know of what they are possess'd,Like fearful misers, lock thee in a chest,Nor have the resolution to produce,In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use.Hail, Independence!—though thy name's scarce known,Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown, 510Though all despise thee, I will not despise,Nor live one moment longer than I prizeThy presence, and enjoy: by angry FateBow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st, though late,Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth,And made me know what life was truly worth.Hail, Independence!—never may my cot,Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot:Thither, oh! thither, oftentimes repair;Cotes,[325] whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there. 520All thoughts but what arise from joy give o'er,Peace dwells within, and law shall guard the door.O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door! What law?The law of England. To control and aweThose saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb,Behold, in state, Administration come!Why, let her come, in all her terrors too;I dare to suffer all she dares to do.I know her malice well, and know her pride,I know her strength, but will not change my side. 530This melting mass of flesh she may controlWith iron ribs—she cannot chain my soul.No—to the last resolved her worst to bear,I'm still at large, and independent there.Where is this minister? where is the bandOf ready slaves, who at his elbow standTo hear, and to perform his wicked will?Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill?When some grand act 'gainst law is to be done,Doth —— sleep; doth blood-hound —— run 540To L——, and worry those small deer,When he might do more precious mischief here?Doth Webb turn tail? doth he refuse to drawIllegal warrants, and to call them law?Doth ——, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford run,With that cold lump of unbaked dough, his son,And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat,Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet?Believe it not; —— is —— still,And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill: 550—— doth lesser mischiefs by the by,The great ones till the term inpettolie:—— lives, and, to the strictest justice true,Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due.O my poor Country!—weak, and overpower'dBy thine own sons—ate to the bone—devour'dBy vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see,And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee. 560I grieve, but can't despair—for, lo! at handFreedom presents a choice, but faithful bandOf loyal patriots; men who greatly dareIn such a noble cause; men fit to bearThe weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense,Virtue and Knowledge, leagued with Eloquence,March in their ranks; Freedom from file to fileDarts her delighted eye, and with a smileApproves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek,As 'twere by stealth, (her heart too full to speak) 570One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear,And seems to say, Why is not Granby[326] here?'O ye brave few, in whom we still may findA love of virtue, freedom, and mankind!Go forth—in majesty of woe array'd,See at your feet your Country kneels for aid,And, (many of her children traitors grown)Kneels to those sons she still can call her own;Seeming to breathe her last in every breath,She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death— 580Fly, then, each duteous son, each English chief,And to your drooping parent bring relief.Go forth—nor let the siren voice of EaseTempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas;Go forth—nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongueWith many a fair, false, fatal art is hung,Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way,When your great errand brooks not of delay;Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets,Trembling and pale, 'A lion in the streets,' 590Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright,Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight:Be as one man—concord success ensures—There's not an English heart but what is yours.Go forth—and Virtue, ever in your sight,Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night—Go forth—the champions of your native land,And may the battle prosper in your hand—It may, it must—ye cannot be withstood—Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good! 600
* * * * *
Footnotes:
[310] 'B——:' Bute.
[311] 'F——:' Fox.
[312] 'Grafton:' see Junius,passim.
[313] 'First:' Lyttelton.
[314] 'Archibald:' Archibald Bower, the infamous author of 'Lives of the Popes,' patronised at first by Lyttelton, but detected and exposed by Dr Douglas.
[315] 'Second:' Churchill himself.
[316] 'Hogarth:' here satirically represented as dead, lived four weeks after this poem was published, and died nine days before Churchill.
[317] 'M——:' Melcombe.
[318] 'Wingate:' the purse-proud upstarts of the day are here designated by the generic name of Wingate, an eminent arithmetician, who lived early in the seventeenth century.
[319] 'Old Paul:' Paul Whitehead, a contemptible sycophant as well as profligate.
[320] 'Willes:' Dr Edward Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells.
[321] 'Chancellor:' the Lord High Chancellor is intrusted with the custody of all idiots and lunatics.
[322] 'Singlespeech:' the Right Honourable William Gerrard Hamilton. See Boswell, who describes him as a man of great talent; others have ascribed his single speech to the aid of Burke.
[323] 'Goy:' M. Pierre Goy, a Frenchman of brilliant accomplishments.
[324] 'Griffiths:' Ralph Griffiths, a bookseller, who, in 1749, published the first number of the 'Monthly Review.'
[325] 'Cotes:' Humphrey Cotes, a staunch supporter of Wilkes.
[326] 'Granby:' the Marquis of Granby, in 1766, was appointed Commander-in-Chief of all his Majesty's land forces in Great Britain. See Junius.