No. XXXVI.[305]
Monday, July 9, 1798.
We shall miss thee;But yet thou shalt have freedom——So! to the ElementsBe free, and fare thou well.—The Tempest.
We shall miss thee;But yet thou shalt have freedom——So! to the ElementsBe free, and fare thou well.—The Tempest.
We shall miss thee;But yet thou shalt have freedom——So! to the ElementsBe free, and fare thou well.—The Tempest.
We shall miss thee;
But yet thou shalt have freedom—
—So! to the Elements
Be free, and fare thou well.
—The Tempest.
We have now completed our Engagement with the Public. TheAnti-Jacobinhas been conducted to the close of the Session in strict conformity with the Principles upon which it was first undertaken.
Its reception with the Public has been highly favourable:—it certainly has been out of proportion to any merit which has appeared in the execution of the Work. This is not said in the mere cant of Authorship. We are sensible that much of our success has been owing to the improved state of the Public mind;—an improvement existing from other causes, and to which, if We have in any degree contributed, it has in return operated to our advantage, by a reaction more than equal to any impression which our exertions could have produced. There is, however, one species of merit to which We lay claim without hesitation:—We mean that of the Spirit and Principles upon which We have acted. That Spirit, We trust We shall leave behind us. TheSPELLofJacobin invulnerabilityis now broken.[306]
We know from better authority than that ofCamille Jordan, that one of our Daily Papers was,earlyin the French Revolution, purchased by France, and devoted to the dissemination of tenets, which, at the period to which We allude, seemed necessary to the success of the Ruling Party.
For some time matters went on swimmingly. The Editors of the favoured Prints divided their time and their attention betweenLondonandParis; and the superiority of the governing Party in France, over its Opponents, was as duly, and as strenuously maintained in the English Papers, as in the “Journal du Père de Chène,”[307]“Journal par L’Ami du Peuple,”[308]or any other Journal that issued from the Presses of the Jacobin Society.
As the principles of the Revolution, however, acquired consistency in France, the struggle between the Governing Party and its Opponents became an object of less moment, and the Jacobins had leisure, as they long had had inclination, to turn their views to this Country.
A State, enjoying under a Government which they had proscribed as utterly incapable of producing either, as much freedom and happiness as comport with the nature of Man, was too bitter a satire on the decision of these newSolons, to be regarded with patience; and the pens which had been so industriously employed in celebrating the plunderers and perturbators of France, were nowengaged in the benevolent design of recommending their principles, and their plans of ameliorating the condition of the human race by Atheism and Plunder, to the serious notice of the People ofGreat Britain.
Affairs seemed rapidly hastening to a crisis:Francesaw with delight the numbers seduced by the sophistry of her Writers, and by the alluring prospects of proscription and plunder; and her Agents, who snuffed the scent of blood like Vultures, already anticipated the Revolution which they now believed inevitable; when the Ministry, who had viewed the progress of the evil with an anxious but unterrified eye, roused themselves into unexampled energy, and called on the Nation to rally round the Constitution which they had received from their Forefathers.
The call was gloriously answered;—Thousands and tens of thousands sprung forth in its defence; and the barbarous hordes which so lately threatened its destruction, overawed by their numbers, shrunk from the contest without a struggle, and vanished from the field.
But the nature of a Jacobin is restless. His hatred of all subordination is unbounded, and his thirst of plunder and blood urgent and insatiable. In arms he found himself infinitely too weak to obtain his purpose; he must, therefore, have recourse again to artifice; and by fallacies and lies, endeavoured to subvert and betray the judgment of those he could not openly hope to subdue.
For this purpose, the Press was engaged, and almost monopolized in all its branches: Reviews, Registers, Monthly Magazines, and Morning and Evening Prints, sprung forth in abundance.
Of these last (the only Publications with which We have any immediate concern), it is not too much to say,that they have laboured in the cause of infamy, with a perseverance which no sense of shame could repress, and no dread of punishment overcome. The objects committed to their charge were multifarious. They were to revile all Religions, but particularly the Christian, whoseDIVINE FOUNDERwas to be blasphemously compared toBacchus, and represented as equally ideal, or, if real, more bestial and besotted! They were to magnify the power ofFrance, on all occasions; to deny her murders; to palliate her robberies; to suppress all mention of her miseries, and to hold her forth to the unenlightened Englishman as the mirror of justice, and truth, and generosity, and meekness, and humanity, and moderation, and tender forbearance:—and, on the other hand, they were to depreciate the spirit, and the courage, and the resources ofEngland: they were to impede, if possible, and if not, to ridicule and revile, every measure which the honour, the prosperity, or the safety of the Country might imperiously require; they were to represent the Government as insidiously aiming to enslave the Nation, by every attempt to maintain its Independence; and the majority of both Houses, the great body of Proprietors, as anxious to scatter and confound that wealth, whichtheirPatrons alone, the respectable sweepings ofCraven-House, and theCrownandAnchorTavern, were solicitous to augment and preserve.
These, our readers will allow, were no common objects, and if they have looked into theMorning Chronicle,Morning Post, andCourierJournals to which our attention has been chiefly directed, they must have seen that their attainment was sought by no common means; by aninvariablecourse of Falsehood and Misrepresentation—such,at least, was our idea on the first perusal of these Papers, an idea which every succeeding one served to strengthen and confirm.
To detect and expose this Falsehood, and to correct this Misrepresentation, became at length an object of indispensable necessity: a variety of applications of the most malignant nature had obtained currency and credit, from the unblushing impudence with which they were first obtruded on the Public by the Agents of Sedition, and the apathy with which they were suffered to pass uncontradicted by those who despised them for their atrocity, or ridiculed them for their folly:—these were unfortunately operating on the less enlightened part of the Nation; and it was from a full conviction of the pernicious effects they were calculated to produce, that we finally determined to step forth (after patiently waiting to see whether the business would not be taken up by abler hands), and to oppose such antidotes to the evil, as a regard for truth, and a sincere love and veneration for the Constitution under which we have flourished for ages, could supply.
How we have succeeded must be left to the judgment of the Public. If we might venture, indeed, to conjecture from the support which we have experienced, the result would be flattering in an unusual degree. Three complete Editions of our Paper (a circumstance, we believe, as yet without a precedent) have been disposed of, and the demand for them still increases.
But the motives of Profit, as will readily, we believe, be granted to us, have little influence on our minds: we contemplate the extensive circulation of our Paper with pleasure, solely from the consideration of theVASTNUMBERSof our Countrymen whom we have fortified by our animadversions against the profligate attacks of the Agents of Sedition, whether furnished by theWhig Club, theCorresponding Society, or theDirectory of France.
Calculation was not originally our delight. Nor was it till after we saw the wonderful effects which it produced in the pages of the Jacobinical Arithmeticians that we were tempted to adopt it. Our first Essay, however, was crowned with the most complete success. In our Seventh Number, we gave (still following the laudable example of the Jacobins, who, when a Ship is to be fitted out, or a Regiment raised, for the purpose of defending our Country from an insolent and barbarous foe, nicely calculate how many idle mouths might be fed by the sums required)—We gave, we say, as accurate a statement as we could form, of the number of People that might be supplied with wholesome food for one day, by theSURCHARGElevied on theDuke of Bedford—a statement which, we are happy to add, placed the matter in so clear a light that we have since had no occasion to repeat it.
Our Readers will notnowbe surprised if we again have recourse toCalculationto prove the advantages which (we love to flatter ourselves) have been derived from our Paper. Our Sale (to say nothing of the new Editions which have been disposed of) has regularly amounted toTwo Thousand Five Hundreda week; on an average of several Papers, we find the Lies which have been detected to amount tosix, and the Misrepresentations and Mistakes toan equal number. This furnishes a total oftwelve, which, multiplied bythirty-five, the number of the lastAnti-Jacobin, gives a total offour hundred and twenty.
If we now take the number of Subscribers (2500) and multiply them by seven, a number of which every one’s family may be reasonably supposed to consist, we shall have a product of 17,500; but as many of these have made a practice, which we highly approve, and cannot too earnestly recommend, of lending our Papers to their poorer Neighbours, We must make our addition to the sum which We evidently take too low at 32,500. We have thus an aggregate of 50,000 People, a most respectable minority of the Readers of the whole Kingdom, who have been put effectually on their guard, by our humble though earnest endeavours, against the artifices of the seditious, and the more open attacks of the profligate and abandoned Foes of their Constitution, their Country, and their God.
Further, if we multiply 50,000, the number of Readers, by 420, the exact number of Falsehoods detected—say 500—for We ought to take in bye-blows, and odd refutations in notes, &c.—the total of Twenty-five Millions will represent the aggregate of Falsehood which We have sent out of the World.
We have more than once repeated that we entered upon this part of our task, not from any vain hope of convincing the Writers themselves. We knew this to be impossible; the forehead of aJacobin, like the shield ofAjax, is formed of seven bull-hides, and utterly incapable of any impression of shame or remorse—but we are convinced that we have rescued, as we stated above, Fifty Thousand persons from their machinations, and taught them not only a salutary distrust, but a contempt and disbelief, of every laboured article which appears in the Papers of this description.
Nor can We be accused of presumption in this declaration, when it is considered that the conviction on which We so confidently rely is not the effect of asolitaryimpression on our Readers’ minds, but of one four hundred and twenty times repeated (this being the fair amount of the number of Lies, &c., We have detected)—an agglomeration of impulse which no prejudice could resist and no preconceived partialities weaken or remove.
Here then We rest. We trust We have “done the State some service”;—We have driven the Jacobins from many strongholds to which they most tenaciously held.[309]We have exposed their Principles, detected their Motives, weakened their Authority, and overthrown their Credit. We have shewn them in every instance, ignorant, and designing, and false, and wicked, and turbulent, and anarchical—various in their language, but united in their plans, and steadily pursuing through hatred and contempt, the destruction of their Country.
With this impression on the Minds of our ReadersWe take our leaveof them. Their welfare is in their own hands; if they suffer the Jacobins to regain any of the influence of which We have deprived them, they will compromise their own Safety; butWeshall be blameless—Liberavimus animas nostras.—We have done our DUTY.
POETRY.New Morality.
From mental mists to purge a nation’s eyes;To animate the weak, unite the wise;To trace the deep infection that pervadesThe crowded town, and taints the rural shades;To mark how wide extends the mighty wasteO’er the fair realms of Science, Learning, Taste;To drive and scatter all the brood of lies,And chase the varying falsehood as it flies;The long arrears of ridicule to pay,To drag reluctant dulness back to day;10Much yet remains.—To you these themes belong,Ye favoured sons of virtue and of song!Say, is the field too narrow? are the timesBarren of folly, and devoid of crimes?Yet, venial vices, in a milder age,Could rouse the warmth ofPope’ssatiric rage:The doating miser, and the lavish heir,The follies and the foibles of the fair,Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio’s thrift,And Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty shift,20Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins,—meaner subjects firedThe keen-eyed Poet; while the Muse inspiredHer ardent child—entwining, as he sate,His laurel’d chaplet with the thorns of hate.But say,—indignant does the Muse retire,Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,No raptured soul a poet’s charge to claim?Bethink thee,Gifford; when some future ageShall trace the promise of thy playful page;—30“[310]The hand which brushed a swarm of fools awayShould rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey!”—Think then, will pleaded indolence excuseThe tame secession of thy languid Muse?Ah! where is now that promise? why so longSleep the keen shafts of satire and of song?Oh! come, with taste and virtue at thy side,With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride;With keen poetic glance direct the blow,And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—40No pause—no rest—till weltering on the groundThe poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.Thou too!—the nameless Bard,[311]—whose honest zealFor law, for morals, for the public weal,Pours down impetuous on thy country’s foesThe stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;Thou too! though oft thy ill-advised dislikeThe guiltless head with random censure strike,—Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined,Play faintly round the ear, but mock the mind;—50Through the mix’d mass yet truth and learning shine,And manly vigour stamps the nervous line;And patriot warmth the generous rage inspires,And wakes and points the desultory fires!Yet more remain unknown:—for who can tellWhat bashful genius, in some rural cell,As year to year, and day succeeds to day,In joyless leisure wastes his life away?In him the flame of early fancy shone;His genuine worth his old companions own;60In childhood and in youth their chief confess’d,His master’s pride, his pattern to the rest.Now, far aloof retiring from the strifeOf busy talents, and of active life,As from the loop-holes of retreat he viewsOur stage, verse, pamphlets, politics, and news,He loathes the world,—or, with reflections sad,Concludes it irrecoverably mad;Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft,No hope, no prospect to redeem it left.70Awake! for shame! or e’er thy nobler senseSink in th’ oblivious pool of indolence!Must wit be found alone on falsehood’s side,Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied?Arise! nor scorn thy country’s just alarms;Wield in her cause thy long-neglected arms:Of lofty satire pour th’ indignant strain,Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain’Gainst Learning’s, Virtue’s, Truth’s, Religion’s foes,A kingdom’s safety, and the world’s repose.80If Vice appal thee,—if thou view with aweInsults that brave, and crimes that ’scape the law;Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claimA spurious homage under Virtue’s name,Sprung from that parent of ten thousand crimes,TheNew Philosophyof modern times,—Yet, these may rouse thee!—With unsparing hand,Oh, lash the vile impostures from the land!First, sternPhilanthropy:—not she, who driesThe orphan’s tears, and wipes the widow’s eyes;90Not she, who sainted Charity her guide,Of British bounty pours the annual tide:—ButFrenchPhilanthropy;—whose boundless mindGlows with the general love of all mankind;—Philanthropy,—beneath whose baneful swayEach patriot passion sinks, and dies away.Taught in her school to imbibe thy mawkish strain,Condorcet, filtered through the dregs ofPaine,Each pert adept disowns a Briton’s part,And plucks the name ofEnglandfrom his heart.100What! shall a name, a word, a sound, controlTh’ aspiring thought, and cramp th’ expansive soul?Shall one half-peopled Island’s rocky roundA love, that glows for all creation, bound?And social charities contract the planFramed for thy freedom,universal Man!No—through th’ extended globe his feelings runAs broad and general as th’ unbounded sun!No narrow bigothe;—hisreason’d viewThy interests,England, ranks with thine,Peru!110Franceat our doors,hesees no danger nigh,But heaves forTurkey’swoes th’ impartial sigh;A steady patriot of the world alone,The friend of every country—but his own.Next comes a gentler Virtue.—Ah! bewareLest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare.Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sighBreathes on her lips;—the tear-drop gems her eye.SweetSensibility, who dwells enshrinedIn the fine foldings of the feeling mind;120With delicateMimosa’ssense endued,Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;Or, like theAnagallis, prescient flower,Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.Sweet child of sicklyFancy!—her of yoreFrom her lovedFranceRousseauto exile bore;And, while ’midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,Full of himself, and shunn’d the haunts of man,Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine steepTo lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;130Taught her to cherish still in either eye,Of tender tears a plentiful supply,And pour them in the brooks that babbled by;Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong,False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;For the crush’d beetle,first,—the widow’d dove,And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;Nextfor poor suff’ringGuilt; andlastof all,For parents, friends, a king and country’s fall.Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,140With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,Droop in soft sorrow o’er a faded flower;O’er a dead Jack-Ass pour the pearly shower;But hear, unmoved, ofLoire’sensanguined flood,Choked up with slain; ofLyonsdrenched in blood;Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame,Foul crimes, but sicklied o’er with Freedom’s name;Altars and thrones subverted; social lifeTrampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn,—150Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,In friendless exile,—of the wise and goodStaining the daily scaffold with their blood,—Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,The rage of madness with hell’s lusts combined,—Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,—They hear,—and hope thatALL IS FOR THE BEST.Fond hope! butJusticesanctifies the prayer—Justice! here, Satire, strike! ’twere sin to spare!Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,160The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,With scrupulous quirks, and disquisition nice:But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,Th’ avenging angel of regenerateFrance,Who visits ancient sins on modern times,And punishes thePopeforCæsar’scrimes.[312]Such is the liberalJusticewhich presidesIn these our days, and modern patriots guides;—Justice, whose blood-stain’d book one sole decree,170One statute, fills—“the People shall be Free!”Free! By what means?—by folly, madness, guilt,By boundless rapines, blood in oceans spilt;By confiscation, in whose sweeping toilsThe poor man’s pittance with the rich man’s spoils,Mix’d in one common mass, are swept away,To glut the short-lived tyrant of the day;—By laws, religion, morals, all o’erthrown:—Rouse, then, ye sovereign people, claim your own:The license that enthrals, the truth that blinds,180The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds!SoJusticebids.—’Twas her enlighten’d doom,Louis, thy holy head devoted to the tomb!’TwasJusticeclaim’d, in that accurséd hour,The fatal forfeit of too lenient power.Mourn for the Man we may;—but for the King,—Freedom, oh! Freedom’s such a charming thing!“Much may be said on both sides.”—Hark! I hearA well-known voice that murmurs in my ear,—The voice ofCandour.—Hail! most solemn sage,190Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,Candour, which softens party’s headlong rage.Candour,—which spares its foes;—nor e’er descendsWith bigot zeal to combat for its friends.Candour,—which loves in see-saw strain to tellOfacting foolishly, butmeaning well;Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,Convinced thatallmen’smotivesare the same;And finds, with keen discriminating sight,Black’snotsoblack;—norWhiteso verywhite.200“Fox, to be sure, was vehement and wrong:But then,Pitt’swords, you’ll own, wereratherstrong.Both must be blamed, both pardon’d; ’twas just soWithFoxandPittfull forty years ago!SoWalpole,Pulteney;—factions in all timesHave had their follies, ministers their crimes.”Give me th’ avow’d, th’ erect, the manly foe,Bold I can meet—perhaps may turn his blow;But of all plagues, good Heav’n, thy wrath can send,Save, save, oh! save me from theCandid Friend!210“Barrasloves plunder,Merlintakes a bribe,—What then!—shallCandourthese good men proscribe?No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng,Prove,—not the facts,—but, thatthey thought them wrong.“Why hangO’Quigley?—he, misguided man,In sober thought his country’s wealmightplan:And, while his deep-wrought Treason sapp’d the throne,Mightact fromtaste in morals, all his own.”Peace to such Reasoners! let them have their way;Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day;220Priestley’sa Saint, andStonea Patriot still;AndLa Fayettea Hero, if they will.I love the bold uncompromising mind,Whose principles are fix’d, whose views defined;Who scouts and scorns, in cantingCandour’sspite,Alltaste in morals, innate sense of right,And Nature’s impulse, all uncheck’d by art,And feelings fine, that float about the heart:Content, for good men’s guidance, bad men’s awe,On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law.230Who owns, when Traitors feel th’ avenging rod,Just retribution, and the hand ofGod;Who hears the groans throughOlmütz’ roofs that ring,Of him who mock’d, misled, betray’d his King—Hears unappall’d, though Faction’s zealots preach,Unmov’d, unsoften’d byFitzpatrick’sSpeech.[313]That Speech on which the melting Commons hung,“While truths divine came mended fromhistongue”;How loving husband clings to duteous wife,—How pure Religion soothes the ills of life,—240How Popish ladies trust their pious fearsAnd naughty actions in their chaplains’ ears.—Half novel and half sermon, on it flow’d;With pious zealthe Oppositionglow’d;And as o’er each the soft infection crept,Sigh’d as he whin’d, and as he whimper’d, wept;—E’enCurwen[314]dropt a sentimental tear,And stoutSt. Andrewyelp’d a softer “Hear!”· · · · ·Oh! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vainOur colder servile spirits would attain,250How do we ape thee,France!but, blundering still,Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.The borrow’d step our awkward gait reveals:(As clumsyCourtenay[315]mars the verse he steals.)How do we ape thee,France!—nor claim aloneThy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own,260But to thyWorthiesrender homage due,Their[316]“hair-breadth scapes” with anxious interest view;Statesmen and Heroines whom this age adores,Though plainer times would call them Rogues and Whores.260SeeLouvet, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage,Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage.Form’d for all tasks, his various talents see,The luscious Novel, the severe Decree.Then mark him welt’ring in his nasty sty,Bare his lewd transports to the public eye.Nothisthe love in silent groves that strays,Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze.InLodoiska’sfull possession blest,One craving void still aches within his breast;270Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms,Not to himself alone he stints her charms;Clasp’d in each other’s foul embrace they lie,But know no joy, unless the World stands by.The fool of vanity, for her aloneHe lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.His widow’d mourner flies to poison’s aid,Eager to join herLouvet’sparted shadeIn those bright realms where sainted lovers stray,But harsh emetics tear that hope away.[317]280Yet haplessLouvet! where thy bones are laid,The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.[318]There in the laughing morn of genial spring,Unwedded pairs shall tender couplets sing;Eringoes o’er the hallow’d spot shall bloom,And flies of Spain buzz softly round the tomb.[319]But hold, severer virtue claims the Muse—Rolandthe just, with ribands in his shoes—[320]AndRoland’sspouse, who paints with chaste delightThe doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;—290Her virgin charms what fierce attacks assail’d,And how the rigid Minister[321]prevail’d.And ah! what verse can grace thy stately mien,Guide of the world, preferment’s golden queen,Neckar’sfair daughter,—Staelthe Epicene!Bright o’er whose flaming cheek and pumple[322]noseThe bloom of young desire unceasing glows!Fain would the Muse—but ah! she dares no more,A mournful voice from loneGuyana’sshore,[323]SadQuatremer-the bold presumption checks,300Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex.To thee, proudBarrasbows;—thy charms controlRewbell’sbrute rage, andMerlin’ssubtle soul;Rais’d by thy hands, and fashion’d to thy will,Thy power, thy guiding influence, governs still,Where at the blood-stain’d board expert he plies,The lame artificer of fraud and lies;He with the mitred head and cloven heel;—Doom’d the coarse edge ofRewbell’sjests to feel;[324]To stand the playful buffet, and to hear310The frequent ink-stand whizzing past his ear;While all the five Directors laugh to see“The limping priest so deft at his new ministry”.[325]Last of th’anointed Fivebehold, and least,The DirectorialLama, Sovereign Priest,—Lepaux;—whom atheists worship;—at whose nodBow their meek headsthe Men without a God.[326]Ere long, perhaps, to this astonish’d isle,Fresh from the shores of subjugatedNile,ShallBuonaparte’svictor fleet protect320The genuine Theo-Philanthropic sect,—The sect ofMarat,Mirabeau,Voltaire,—Led by their Pontiff, goodLa Réveillère.Rejoiced ourClubsshall greet him, and installThe holy Hunchback in thy dome,St. Paul!While countless votaries, thronging in his train,Wave their red caps, and hymn this jocund strain:—“Couriers and Stars, Sedition’s evening host,ThouMorning ChronicleandMorning Post,Whether ye make the Rights of Man your theme,330Your country libel, and your God blaspheme,Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw,Still, blasphemous or blackguard, praiseLepaux!“And ye five other wandering bards, that moveIn sweet accord of harmony and love,ColeridgeandSouthey,Lloyd, andLamb & Co.Tune all your mystic harps to praiseLepaux!“PriestleyandWakefield, humble, holy men,Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!“Thelwall, and ye that lecture as ye go,340And for your pains get pelted, praiseLepaux!“Praise him each Jacobin, or Fool, or Knave,And your cropp’d heads in sign of worship wave!“All creeping creatures, venomous and low,Paine,Williams,Godwin,Holcroft, praiseLepaux!“—— and —— with —— join’d,[327]And every other beast after his kind.“And thou,Leviathan! on ocean’s brimHugest of living things that sleep and swim;Thou, in whose nose, byBurke’sgigantic hand350The hook was fixed to drag thee to the land,With ——, ——, and ——, in thy train,And —— wallowing in the yeasty main,—[328]Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,In puffing, and in spouting, praiseLepaux!”· · · · ·Britain, beware; nor let th’ insidious foe,Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow;Thy Peace, thy Strength, with devilish wiles assail,And when her Arms are vain, by Arts prevail.True, thou art rich, art powerful!—thro’ thine Isle360Industrious skill, contented labour, smile;Far Seas are studded with thy countless sails;What wind but wafts them, and what shore but hails!True, thou art brave!—o’er all the busy landIn patriot ranks embattled myriads stand;Thy foes behold with impotent amazeAnd drop the lifted weapon as they gazeBut what avails to guard each outward part,If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,Spite of thy courage, of thy pow’r, and wealth,370Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?So thine own Oak, by some fair streamlet’s side,Waves its broad arms, and spreads its leafy pride,Tow’rs from the earth, and rearing to the skiesIts conscious strength, the tempest’s wrath defies.Its ample branches shield the fowls of air,To its cool shade the panting herds repair.The treacherous current works its noiseless way,The fibres loosen, and the roots decay;Prostrate the beauteous ruin lies; and all380That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.O thou! lamentedSage! whose prescient scanPierc’d through foul Anarchy’s gigantic plan,Prompt to incredulous hearers to discloseThe guilt ofFrance, and Europe’s world of woes;—Thou, on whose name each distant age shall gaze,The mighty sea-mark of these troubled days!O large of soul, of genius unconfin’d,Born to delight, instruct, and mend mankind!Burke! in whose breast a Roman ardour glow’d;390Whose copious tongue with Grecian richness flow’d;Well hast thou found (if such thy country’s doom),A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!As, in far realms, where eastern kings are laid,In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade,The perfum’d lamp with unextinguish’d lightFlames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night:So, mightyBurke! in thy sepulchral urn,To Fancy’s view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,400Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise.Thereare, to whom (theirtaste such pleasures cloy)No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy.Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts,Peace—such as sloth, as ignorance imparts!Pleas’d may they live to plan their country’s good,And crop with calm content their flow’ry food!What though thy venturous spirit loved to urgeThe labouring theme to Reason’s utmost verge,Kindling and mounting from th’ enraptur’d sight;410Still anxious wonder watch’d thy daring flight!While vulgar minds, with mean malignant stare,Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share!Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise,Which still to daring Genius Envy pays.Oh! for thy playful smile, thy potent frown,To abash bold Vice, and laugh pert Folly down!So should the Muse, in Humour’s happiest vein,With verse that flowed in metaphoric strain,And apt allusions to the rural trade,420Tell ofwhat wood youngJacobinsare made;How the skill’d gardener grafts with nicest ruleTheslipof coxcomb on thestockof fool;Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig,A thing to wonder at—[329]perhaps aWhig:Should tell, how wise each half-fledged pedant pratesOf weightiest matters, grave distinctions states,That rules of policy, and public good,In Saxon times were rightly understood;That kings are proper,may beuseful things,430But then, some gentlemen object to kings;That in all times the minister’s to blame;That British liberty’s an empty name,Till each fair burgh, numerically free,Shall choose its members bythe Rule of Three.So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed,Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed.Which—when fell poison revels in the veins—(That poison fell, which franticGalliadrainsFrom the crude fruit of Freedom’s blasted tree)440Blot the fair records of Humanity.To feebler nations let proudFranceaffordHer damning choice,—the chalice or the sword,To drink or die;—O fraud! O specious lie!Delusive choice! forifthey drink, they die.The Sword we dread not:—of ourselves secure,Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure.Let all the world confederate all its powers,“Be they not backed by those that should be ours,”High on his rock shallBritain’s Geniusstand,450Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.Guard we but our own Hearts: with constant viewTo ancient morals, ancient manners true;True to the manlier virtues, such as nerv’dOur fathers’ breasts, and this proud Isle preserv’dFor many a rugged age: and scorn the whileEach philosophic atheist’s specious guile;The soft seductions, the refinements nice,Of gay Morality, and easy Vice;So shall we brave the storm; our ’stablish’d pow’rThy refuge,Europe, in some happier hour.461But,Frenchin heart, though Victory crown our brow,Low at our feet though prostrate Nations bow,Wealth gild our Cities, Commerce crowd our shore,London may shine, butEnglandisNO MORE!
From mental mists to purge a nation’s eyes;To animate the weak, unite the wise;To trace the deep infection that pervadesThe crowded town, and taints the rural shades;To mark how wide extends the mighty wasteO’er the fair realms of Science, Learning, Taste;To drive and scatter all the brood of lies,And chase the varying falsehood as it flies;The long arrears of ridicule to pay,To drag reluctant dulness back to day;10Much yet remains.—To you these themes belong,Ye favoured sons of virtue and of song!Say, is the field too narrow? are the timesBarren of folly, and devoid of crimes?Yet, venial vices, in a milder age,Could rouse the warmth ofPope’ssatiric rage:The doating miser, and the lavish heir,The follies and the foibles of the fair,Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio’s thrift,And Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty shift,20Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins,—meaner subjects firedThe keen-eyed Poet; while the Muse inspiredHer ardent child—entwining, as he sate,His laurel’d chaplet with the thorns of hate.But say,—indignant does the Muse retire,Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,No raptured soul a poet’s charge to claim?Bethink thee,Gifford; when some future ageShall trace the promise of thy playful page;—30“[310]The hand which brushed a swarm of fools awayShould rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey!”—Think then, will pleaded indolence excuseThe tame secession of thy languid Muse?Ah! where is now that promise? why so longSleep the keen shafts of satire and of song?Oh! come, with taste and virtue at thy side,With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride;With keen poetic glance direct the blow,And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—40No pause—no rest—till weltering on the groundThe poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.Thou too!—the nameless Bard,[311]—whose honest zealFor law, for morals, for the public weal,Pours down impetuous on thy country’s foesThe stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;Thou too! though oft thy ill-advised dislikeThe guiltless head with random censure strike,—Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined,Play faintly round the ear, but mock the mind;—50Through the mix’d mass yet truth and learning shine,And manly vigour stamps the nervous line;And patriot warmth the generous rage inspires,And wakes and points the desultory fires!Yet more remain unknown:—for who can tellWhat bashful genius, in some rural cell,As year to year, and day succeeds to day,In joyless leisure wastes his life away?In him the flame of early fancy shone;His genuine worth his old companions own;60In childhood and in youth their chief confess’d,His master’s pride, his pattern to the rest.Now, far aloof retiring from the strifeOf busy talents, and of active life,As from the loop-holes of retreat he viewsOur stage, verse, pamphlets, politics, and news,He loathes the world,—or, with reflections sad,Concludes it irrecoverably mad;Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft,No hope, no prospect to redeem it left.70Awake! for shame! or e’er thy nobler senseSink in th’ oblivious pool of indolence!Must wit be found alone on falsehood’s side,Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied?Arise! nor scorn thy country’s just alarms;Wield in her cause thy long-neglected arms:Of lofty satire pour th’ indignant strain,Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain’Gainst Learning’s, Virtue’s, Truth’s, Religion’s foes,A kingdom’s safety, and the world’s repose.80If Vice appal thee,—if thou view with aweInsults that brave, and crimes that ’scape the law;Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claimA spurious homage under Virtue’s name,Sprung from that parent of ten thousand crimes,TheNew Philosophyof modern times,—Yet, these may rouse thee!—With unsparing hand,Oh, lash the vile impostures from the land!First, sternPhilanthropy:—not she, who driesThe orphan’s tears, and wipes the widow’s eyes;90Not she, who sainted Charity her guide,Of British bounty pours the annual tide:—ButFrenchPhilanthropy;—whose boundless mindGlows with the general love of all mankind;—Philanthropy,—beneath whose baneful swayEach patriot passion sinks, and dies away.Taught in her school to imbibe thy mawkish strain,Condorcet, filtered through the dregs ofPaine,Each pert adept disowns a Briton’s part,And plucks the name ofEnglandfrom his heart.100What! shall a name, a word, a sound, controlTh’ aspiring thought, and cramp th’ expansive soul?Shall one half-peopled Island’s rocky roundA love, that glows for all creation, bound?And social charities contract the planFramed for thy freedom,universal Man!No—through th’ extended globe his feelings runAs broad and general as th’ unbounded sun!No narrow bigothe;—hisreason’d viewThy interests,England, ranks with thine,Peru!110Franceat our doors,hesees no danger nigh,But heaves forTurkey’swoes th’ impartial sigh;A steady patriot of the world alone,The friend of every country—but his own.Next comes a gentler Virtue.—Ah! bewareLest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare.Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sighBreathes on her lips;—the tear-drop gems her eye.SweetSensibility, who dwells enshrinedIn the fine foldings of the feeling mind;120With delicateMimosa’ssense endued,Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;Or, like theAnagallis, prescient flower,Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.Sweet child of sicklyFancy!—her of yoreFrom her lovedFranceRousseauto exile bore;And, while ’midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,Full of himself, and shunn’d the haunts of man,Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine steepTo lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;130Taught her to cherish still in either eye,Of tender tears a plentiful supply,And pour them in the brooks that babbled by;Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong,False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;For the crush’d beetle,first,—the widow’d dove,And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;Nextfor poor suff’ringGuilt; andlastof all,For parents, friends, a king and country’s fall.Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,140With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,Droop in soft sorrow o’er a faded flower;O’er a dead Jack-Ass pour the pearly shower;But hear, unmoved, ofLoire’sensanguined flood,Choked up with slain; ofLyonsdrenched in blood;Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame,Foul crimes, but sicklied o’er with Freedom’s name;Altars and thrones subverted; social lifeTrampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn,—150Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,In friendless exile,—of the wise and goodStaining the daily scaffold with their blood,—Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,The rage of madness with hell’s lusts combined,—Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,—They hear,—and hope thatALL IS FOR THE BEST.Fond hope! butJusticesanctifies the prayer—Justice! here, Satire, strike! ’twere sin to spare!Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,160The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,With scrupulous quirks, and disquisition nice:But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,Th’ avenging angel of regenerateFrance,Who visits ancient sins on modern times,And punishes thePopeforCæsar’scrimes.[312]Such is the liberalJusticewhich presidesIn these our days, and modern patriots guides;—Justice, whose blood-stain’d book one sole decree,170One statute, fills—“the People shall be Free!”Free! By what means?—by folly, madness, guilt,By boundless rapines, blood in oceans spilt;By confiscation, in whose sweeping toilsThe poor man’s pittance with the rich man’s spoils,Mix’d in one common mass, are swept away,To glut the short-lived tyrant of the day;—By laws, religion, morals, all o’erthrown:—Rouse, then, ye sovereign people, claim your own:The license that enthrals, the truth that blinds,180The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds!SoJusticebids.—’Twas her enlighten’d doom,Louis, thy holy head devoted to the tomb!’TwasJusticeclaim’d, in that accurséd hour,The fatal forfeit of too lenient power.Mourn for the Man we may;—but for the King,—Freedom, oh! Freedom’s such a charming thing!“Much may be said on both sides.”—Hark! I hearA well-known voice that murmurs in my ear,—The voice ofCandour.—Hail! most solemn sage,190Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,Candour, which softens party’s headlong rage.Candour,—which spares its foes;—nor e’er descendsWith bigot zeal to combat for its friends.Candour,—which loves in see-saw strain to tellOfacting foolishly, butmeaning well;Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,Convinced thatallmen’smotivesare the same;And finds, with keen discriminating sight,Black’snotsoblack;—norWhiteso verywhite.200“Fox, to be sure, was vehement and wrong:But then,Pitt’swords, you’ll own, wereratherstrong.Both must be blamed, both pardon’d; ’twas just soWithFoxandPittfull forty years ago!SoWalpole,Pulteney;—factions in all timesHave had their follies, ministers their crimes.”Give me th’ avow’d, th’ erect, the manly foe,Bold I can meet—perhaps may turn his blow;But of all plagues, good Heav’n, thy wrath can send,Save, save, oh! save me from theCandid Friend!210“Barrasloves plunder,Merlintakes a bribe,—What then!—shallCandourthese good men proscribe?No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng,Prove,—not the facts,—but, thatthey thought them wrong.“Why hangO’Quigley?—he, misguided man,In sober thought his country’s wealmightplan:And, while his deep-wrought Treason sapp’d the throne,Mightact fromtaste in morals, all his own.”Peace to such Reasoners! let them have their way;Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day;220Priestley’sa Saint, andStonea Patriot still;AndLa Fayettea Hero, if they will.I love the bold uncompromising mind,Whose principles are fix’d, whose views defined;Who scouts and scorns, in cantingCandour’sspite,Alltaste in morals, innate sense of right,And Nature’s impulse, all uncheck’d by art,And feelings fine, that float about the heart:Content, for good men’s guidance, bad men’s awe,On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law.230Who owns, when Traitors feel th’ avenging rod,Just retribution, and the hand ofGod;Who hears the groans throughOlmütz’ roofs that ring,Of him who mock’d, misled, betray’d his King—Hears unappall’d, though Faction’s zealots preach,Unmov’d, unsoften’d byFitzpatrick’sSpeech.[313]That Speech on which the melting Commons hung,“While truths divine came mended fromhistongue”;How loving husband clings to duteous wife,—How pure Religion soothes the ills of life,—240How Popish ladies trust their pious fearsAnd naughty actions in their chaplains’ ears.—Half novel and half sermon, on it flow’d;With pious zealthe Oppositionglow’d;And as o’er each the soft infection crept,Sigh’d as he whin’d, and as he whimper’d, wept;—E’enCurwen[314]dropt a sentimental tear,And stoutSt. Andrewyelp’d a softer “Hear!”· · · · ·Oh! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vainOur colder servile spirits would attain,250How do we ape thee,France!but, blundering still,Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.The borrow’d step our awkward gait reveals:(As clumsyCourtenay[315]mars the verse he steals.)How do we ape thee,France!—nor claim aloneThy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own,260But to thyWorthiesrender homage due,Their[316]“hair-breadth scapes” with anxious interest view;Statesmen and Heroines whom this age adores,Though plainer times would call them Rogues and Whores.260SeeLouvet, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage,Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage.Form’d for all tasks, his various talents see,The luscious Novel, the severe Decree.Then mark him welt’ring in his nasty sty,Bare his lewd transports to the public eye.Nothisthe love in silent groves that strays,Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze.InLodoiska’sfull possession blest,One craving void still aches within his breast;270Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms,Not to himself alone he stints her charms;Clasp’d in each other’s foul embrace they lie,But know no joy, unless the World stands by.The fool of vanity, for her aloneHe lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.His widow’d mourner flies to poison’s aid,Eager to join herLouvet’sparted shadeIn those bright realms where sainted lovers stray,But harsh emetics tear that hope away.[317]280Yet haplessLouvet! where thy bones are laid,The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.[318]There in the laughing morn of genial spring,Unwedded pairs shall tender couplets sing;Eringoes o’er the hallow’d spot shall bloom,And flies of Spain buzz softly round the tomb.[319]But hold, severer virtue claims the Muse—Rolandthe just, with ribands in his shoes—[320]AndRoland’sspouse, who paints with chaste delightThe doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;—290Her virgin charms what fierce attacks assail’d,And how the rigid Minister[321]prevail’d.And ah! what verse can grace thy stately mien,Guide of the world, preferment’s golden queen,Neckar’sfair daughter,—Staelthe Epicene!Bright o’er whose flaming cheek and pumple[322]noseThe bloom of young desire unceasing glows!Fain would the Muse—but ah! she dares no more,A mournful voice from loneGuyana’sshore,[323]SadQuatremer-the bold presumption checks,300Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex.To thee, proudBarrasbows;—thy charms controlRewbell’sbrute rage, andMerlin’ssubtle soul;Rais’d by thy hands, and fashion’d to thy will,Thy power, thy guiding influence, governs still,Where at the blood-stain’d board expert he plies,The lame artificer of fraud and lies;He with the mitred head and cloven heel;—Doom’d the coarse edge ofRewbell’sjests to feel;[324]To stand the playful buffet, and to hear310The frequent ink-stand whizzing past his ear;While all the five Directors laugh to see“The limping priest so deft at his new ministry”.[325]Last of th’anointed Fivebehold, and least,The DirectorialLama, Sovereign Priest,—Lepaux;—whom atheists worship;—at whose nodBow their meek headsthe Men without a God.[326]Ere long, perhaps, to this astonish’d isle,Fresh from the shores of subjugatedNile,ShallBuonaparte’svictor fleet protect320The genuine Theo-Philanthropic sect,—The sect ofMarat,Mirabeau,Voltaire,—Led by their Pontiff, goodLa Réveillère.Rejoiced ourClubsshall greet him, and installThe holy Hunchback in thy dome,St. Paul!While countless votaries, thronging in his train,Wave their red caps, and hymn this jocund strain:—“Couriers and Stars, Sedition’s evening host,ThouMorning ChronicleandMorning Post,Whether ye make the Rights of Man your theme,330Your country libel, and your God blaspheme,Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw,Still, blasphemous or blackguard, praiseLepaux!“And ye five other wandering bards, that moveIn sweet accord of harmony and love,ColeridgeandSouthey,Lloyd, andLamb & Co.Tune all your mystic harps to praiseLepaux!“PriestleyandWakefield, humble, holy men,Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!“Thelwall, and ye that lecture as ye go,340And for your pains get pelted, praiseLepaux!“Praise him each Jacobin, or Fool, or Knave,And your cropp’d heads in sign of worship wave!“All creeping creatures, venomous and low,Paine,Williams,Godwin,Holcroft, praiseLepaux!“—— and —— with —— join’d,[327]And every other beast after his kind.“And thou,Leviathan! on ocean’s brimHugest of living things that sleep and swim;Thou, in whose nose, byBurke’sgigantic hand350The hook was fixed to drag thee to the land,With ——, ——, and ——, in thy train,And —— wallowing in the yeasty main,—[328]Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,In puffing, and in spouting, praiseLepaux!”· · · · ·Britain, beware; nor let th’ insidious foe,Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow;Thy Peace, thy Strength, with devilish wiles assail,And when her Arms are vain, by Arts prevail.True, thou art rich, art powerful!—thro’ thine Isle360Industrious skill, contented labour, smile;Far Seas are studded with thy countless sails;What wind but wafts them, and what shore but hails!True, thou art brave!—o’er all the busy landIn patriot ranks embattled myriads stand;Thy foes behold with impotent amazeAnd drop the lifted weapon as they gazeBut what avails to guard each outward part,If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,Spite of thy courage, of thy pow’r, and wealth,370Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?So thine own Oak, by some fair streamlet’s side,Waves its broad arms, and spreads its leafy pride,Tow’rs from the earth, and rearing to the skiesIts conscious strength, the tempest’s wrath defies.Its ample branches shield the fowls of air,To its cool shade the panting herds repair.The treacherous current works its noiseless way,The fibres loosen, and the roots decay;Prostrate the beauteous ruin lies; and all380That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.O thou! lamentedSage! whose prescient scanPierc’d through foul Anarchy’s gigantic plan,Prompt to incredulous hearers to discloseThe guilt ofFrance, and Europe’s world of woes;—Thou, on whose name each distant age shall gaze,The mighty sea-mark of these troubled days!O large of soul, of genius unconfin’d,Born to delight, instruct, and mend mankind!Burke! in whose breast a Roman ardour glow’d;390Whose copious tongue with Grecian richness flow’d;Well hast thou found (if such thy country’s doom),A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!As, in far realms, where eastern kings are laid,In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade,The perfum’d lamp with unextinguish’d lightFlames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night:So, mightyBurke! in thy sepulchral urn,To Fancy’s view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,400Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise.Thereare, to whom (theirtaste such pleasures cloy)No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy.Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts,Peace—such as sloth, as ignorance imparts!Pleas’d may they live to plan their country’s good,And crop with calm content their flow’ry food!What though thy venturous spirit loved to urgeThe labouring theme to Reason’s utmost verge,Kindling and mounting from th’ enraptur’d sight;410Still anxious wonder watch’d thy daring flight!While vulgar minds, with mean malignant stare,Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share!Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise,Which still to daring Genius Envy pays.Oh! for thy playful smile, thy potent frown,To abash bold Vice, and laugh pert Folly down!So should the Muse, in Humour’s happiest vein,With verse that flowed in metaphoric strain,And apt allusions to the rural trade,420Tell ofwhat wood youngJacobinsare made;How the skill’d gardener grafts with nicest ruleTheslipof coxcomb on thestockof fool;Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig,A thing to wonder at—[329]perhaps aWhig:Should tell, how wise each half-fledged pedant pratesOf weightiest matters, grave distinctions states,That rules of policy, and public good,In Saxon times were rightly understood;That kings are proper,may beuseful things,430But then, some gentlemen object to kings;That in all times the minister’s to blame;That British liberty’s an empty name,Till each fair burgh, numerically free,Shall choose its members bythe Rule of Three.So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed,Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed.Which—when fell poison revels in the veins—(That poison fell, which franticGalliadrainsFrom the crude fruit of Freedom’s blasted tree)440Blot the fair records of Humanity.To feebler nations let proudFranceaffordHer damning choice,—the chalice or the sword,To drink or die;—O fraud! O specious lie!Delusive choice! forifthey drink, they die.The Sword we dread not:—of ourselves secure,Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure.Let all the world confederate all its powers,“Be they not backed by those that should be ours,”High on his rock shallBritain’s Geniusstand,450Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.Guard we but our own Hearts: with constant viewTo ancient morals, ancient manners true;True to the manlier virtues, such as nerv’dOur fathers’ breasts, and this proud Isle preserv’dFor many a rugged age: and scorn the whileEach philosophic atheist’s specious guile;The soft seductions, the refinements nice,Of gay Morality, and easy Vice;So shall we brave the storm; our ’stablish’d pow’rThy refuge,Europe, in some happier hour.461But,Frenchin heart, though Victory crown our brow,Low at our feet though prostrate Nations bow,Wealth gild our Cities, Commerce crowd our shore,London may shine, butEnglandisNO MORE!
From mental mists to purge a nation’s eyes;To animate the weak, unite the wise;To trace the deep infection that pervadesThe crowded town, and taints the rural shades;To mark how wide extends the mighty wasteO’er the fair realms of Science, Learning, Taste;To drive and scatter all the brood of lies,And chase the varying falsehood as it flies;The long arrears of ridicule to pay,To drag reluctant dulness back to day;10Much yet remains.—To you these themes belong,Ye favoured sons of virtue and of song!
From mental mists to purge a nation’s eyes;
To animate the weak, unite the wise;
To trace the deep infection that pervades
The crowded town, and taints the rural shades;
To mark how wide extends the mighty waste
O’er the fair realms of Science, Learning, Taste;
To drive and scatter all the brood of lies,
And chase the varying falsehood as it flies;
The long arrears of ridicule to pay,
To drag reluctant dulness back to day;
10
Much yet remains.—To you these themes belong,
Ye favoured sons of virtue and of song!
Say, is the field too narrow? are the timesBarren of folly, and devoid of crimes?
Say, is the field too narrow? are the times
Barren of folly, and devoid of crimes?
Yet, venial vices, in a milder age,Could rouse the warmth ofPope’ssatiric rage:The doating miser, and the lavish heir,The follies and the foibles of the fair,Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio’s thrift,And Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty shift,20Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins,—meaner subjects firedThe keen-eyed Poet; while the Muse inspiredHer ardent child—entwining, as he sate,His laurel’d chaplet with the thorns of hate.
Yet, venial vices, in a milder age,
Could rouse the warmth ofPope’ssatiric rage:
The doating miser, and the lavish heir,
The follies and the foibles of the fair,
Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio’s thrift,
And Sappho’s diamonds with her dirty shift,
20
Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins,—meaner subjects fired
The keen-eyed Poet; while the Muse inspired
Her ardent child—entwining, as he sate,
His laurel’d chaplet with the thorns of hate.
But say,—indignant does the Muse retire,Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,No raptured soul a poet’s charge to claim?
But say,—indignant does the Muse retire,
Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?
No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,
No raptured soul a poet’s charge to claim?
Bethink thee,Gifford; when some future ageShall trace the promise of thy playful page;—30“[310]The hand which brushed a swarm of fools awayShould rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey!”—Think then, will pleaded indolence excuseThe tame secession of thy languid Muse?
Bethink thee,Gifford; when some future age
Shall trace the promise of thy playful page;—
30
“[310]The hand which brushed a swarm of fools away
Should rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey!”—
Think then, will pleaded indolence excuse
The tame secession of thy languid Muse?
Ah! where is now that promise? why so longSleep the keen shafts of satire and of song?Oh! come, with taste and virtue at thy side,With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride;With keen poetic glance direct the blow,And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—40No pause—no rest—till weltering on the groundThe poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.
Ah! where is now that promise? why so long
Sleep the keen shafts of satire and of song?
Oh! come, with taste and virtue at thy side,
With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride;
With keen poetic glance direct the blow,
And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—
40
No pause—no rest—till weltering on the ground
The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.
Thou too!—the nameless Bard,[311]—whose honest zealFor law, for morals, for the public weal,Pours down impetuous on thy country’s foesThe stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;Thou too! though oft thy ill-advised dislikeThe guiltless head with random censure strike,—Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined,Play faintly round the ear, but mock the mind;—50Through the mix’d mass yet truth and learning shine,And manly vigour stamps the nervous line;And patriot warmth the generous rage inspires,And wakes and points the desultory fires!
Thou too!—the nameless Bard,[311]—whose honest zeal
For law, for morals, for the public weal,
Pours down impetuous on thy country’s foes
The stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;
Thou too! though oft thy ill-advised dislike
The guiltless head with random censure strike,—
Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined,
Play faintly round the ear, but mock the mind;—
50
Through the mix’d mass yet truth and learning shine,
And manly vigour stamps the nervous line;
And patriot warmth the generous rage inspires,
And wakes and points the desultory fires!
Yet more remain unknown:—for who can tellWhat bashful genius, in some rural cell,As year to year, and day succeeds to day,In joyless leisure wastes his life away?In him the flame of early fancy shone;His genuine worth his old companions own;60In childhood and in youth their chief confess’d,His master’s pride, his pattern to the rest.Now, far aloof retiring from the strifeOf busy talents, and of active life,As from the loop-holes of retreat he viewsOur stage, verse, pamphlets, politics, and news,He loathes the world,—or, with reflections sad,Concludes it irrecoverably mad;Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft,No hope, no prospect to redeem it left.70
Yet more remain unknown:—for who can tell
What bashful genius, in some rural cell,
As year to year, and day succeeds to day,
In joyless leisure wastes his life away?
In him the flame of early fancy shone;
His genuine worth his old companions own;
60
In childhood and in youth their chief confess’d,
His master’s pride, his pattern to the rest.
Now, far aloof retiring from the strife
Of busy talents, and of active life,
As from the loop-holes of retreat he views
Our stage, verse, pamphlets, politics, and news,
He loathes the world,—or, with reflections sad,
Concludes it irrecoverably mad;
Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft,
No hope, no prospect to redeem it left.
70
Awake! for shame! or e’er thy nobler senseSink in th’ oblivious pool of indolence!Must wit be found alone on falsehood’s side,Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied?Arise! nor scorn thy country’s just alarms;Wield in her cause thy long-neglected arms:Of lofty satire pour th’ indignant strain,Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain’Gainst Learning’s, Virtue’s, Truth’s, Religion’s foes,A kingdom’s safety, and the world’s repose.80
Awake! for shame! or e’er thy nobler sense
Sink in th’ oblivious pool of indolence!
Must wit be found alone on falsehood’s side,
Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied?
Arise! nor scorn thy country’s just alarms;
Wield in her cause thy long-neglected arms:
Of lofty satire pour th’ indignant strain,
Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain
’Gainst Learning’s, Virtue’s, Truth’s, Religion’s foes,
A kingdom’s safety, and the world’s repose.
80
If Vice appal thee,—if thou view with aweInsults that brave, and crimes that ’scape the law;Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claimA spurious homage under Virtue’s name,Sprung from that parent of ten thousand crimes,TheNew Philosophyof modern times,—Yet, these may rouse thee!—With unsparing hand,Oh, lash the vile impostures from the land!
If Vice appal thee,—if thou view with awe
Insults that brave, and crimes that ’scape the law;
Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claim
A spurious homage under Virtue’s name,
Sprung from that parent of ten thousand crimes,
TheNew Philosophyof modern times,—
Yet, these may rouse thee!—With unsparing hand,
Oh, lash the vile impostures from the land!
First, sternPhilanthropy:—not she, who driesThe orphan’s tears, and wipes the widow’s eyes;90Not she, who sainted Charity her guide,Of British bounty pours the annual tide:—ButFrenchPhilanthropy;—whose boundless mindGlows with the general love of all mankind;—Philanthropy,—beneath whose baneful swayEach patriot passion sinks, and dies away.
First, sternPhilanthropy:—not she, who dries
The orphan’s tears, and wipes the widow’s eyes;
90
Not she, who sainted Charity her guide,
Of British bounty pours the annual tide:—
ButFrenchPhilanthropy;—whose boundless mind
Glows with the general love of all mankind;—
Philanthropy,—beneath whose baneful sway
Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away.
Taught in her school to imbibe thy mawkish strain,Condorcet, filtered through the dregs ofPaine,Each pert adept disowns a Briton’s part,And plucks the name ofEnglandfrom his heart.100
Taught in her school to imbibe thy mawkish strain,
Condorcet, filtered through the dregs ofPaine,
Each pert adept disowns a Briton’s part,
And plucks the name ofEnglandfrom his heart.
100
What! shall a name, a word, a sound, controlTh’ aspiring thought, and cramp th’ expansive soul?Shall one half-peopled Island’s rocky roundA love, that glows for all creation, bound?And social charities contract the planFramed for thy freedom,universal Man!No—through th’ extended globe his feelings runAs broad and general as th’ unbounded sun!No narrow bigothe;—hisreason’d viewThy interests,England, ranks with thine,Peru!110Franceat our doors,hesees no danger nigh,But heaves forTurkey’swoes th’ impartial sigh;A steady patriot of the world alone,The friend of every country—but his own.
What! shall a name, a word, a sound, control
Th’ aspiring thought, and cramp th’ expansive soul?
Shall one half-peopled Island’s rocky round
A love, that glows for all creation, bound?
And social charities contract the plan
Framed for thy freedom,universal Man!
No—through th’ extended globe his feelings run
As broad and general as th’ unbounded sun!
No narrow bigothe;—hisreason’d view
Thy interests,England, ranks with thine,Peru!
110
Franceat our doors,hesees no danger nigh,
But heaves forTurkey’swoes th’ impartial sigh;
A steady patriot of the world alone,
The friend of every country—but his own.
Next comes a gentler Virtue.—Ah! bewareLest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare.Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sighBreathes on her lips;—the tear-drop gems her eye.SweetSensibility, who dwells enshrinedIn the fine foldings of the feeling mind;120With delicateMimosa’ssense endued,Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;Or, like theAnagallis, prescient flower,Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.
Next comes a gentler Virtue.—Ah! beware
Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare.
Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sigh
Breathes on her lips;—the tear-drop gems her eye.
SweetSensibility, who dwells enshrined
In the fine foldings of the feeling mind;
120
With delicateMimosa’ssense endued,
Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;
Or, like theAnagallis, prescient flower,
Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.
Sweet child of sicklyFancy!—her of yoreFrom her lovedFranceRousseauto exile bore;And, while ’midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,Full of himself, and shunn’d the haunts of man,Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine steepTo lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;130Taught her to cherish still in either eye,Of tender tears a plentiful supply,And pour them in the brooks that babbled by;Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong,False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;For the crush’d beetle,first,—the widow’d dove,And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;Nextfor poor suff’ringGuilt; andlastof all,For parents, friends, a king and country’s fall.
Sweet child of sicklyFancy!—her of yore
From her lovedFranceRousseauto exile bore;
And, while ’midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shunn’d the haunts of man,
Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine steep
To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;
130
Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in the brooks that babbled by;
Taught by nice scale to mete her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;
For the crush’d beetle,first,—the widow’d dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;
Nextfor poor suff’ringGuilt; andlastof all,
For parents, friends, a king and country’s fall.
Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,140With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,Droop in soft sorrow o’er a faded flower;O’er a dead Jack-Ass pour the pearly shower;But hear, unmoved, ofLoire’sensanguined flood,Choked up with slain; ofLyonsdrenched in blood;Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame,Foul crimes, but sicklied o’er with Freedom’s name;Altars and thrones subverted; social lifeTrampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn,—150Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,In friendless exile,—of the wise and goodStaining the daily scaffold with their blood,—Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,The rage of madness with hell’s lusts combined,—Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,—They hear,—and hope thatALL IS FOR THE BEST.
Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,
140
With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,
Droop in soft sorrow o’er a faded flower;
O’er a dead Jack-Ass pour the pearly shower;
But hear, unmoved, ofLoire’sensanguined flood,
Choked up with slain; ofLyonsdrenched in blood;
Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame,
Foul crimes, but sicklied o’er with Freedom’s name;
Altars and thrones subverted; social life
Trampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,
Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn,—
150
Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,
In friendless exile,—of the wise and good
Staining the daily scaffold with their blood,—
Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,
The rage of madness with hell’s lusts combined,—
Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,—
They hear,—and hope thatALL IS FOR THE BEST.
Fond hope! butJusticesanctifies the prayer—Justice! here, Satire, strike! ’twere sin to spare!Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,160The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,With scrupulous quirks, and disquisition nice:But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,Th’ avenging angel of regenerateFrance,Who visits ancient sins on modern times,And punishes thePopeforCæsar’scrimes.[312]
Fond hope! butJusticesanctifies the prayer—
Justice! here, Satire, strike! ’twere sin to spare!
Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,
160
The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,
Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,
With scrupulous quirks, and disquisition nice:
But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,
Th’ avenging angel of regenerateFrance,
Who visits ancient sins on modern times,
And punishes thePopeforCæsar’scrimes.[312]
Such is the liberalJusticewhich presidesIn these our days, and modern patriots guides;—Justice, whose blood-stain’d book one sole decree,170One statute, fills—“the People shall be Free!”Free! By what means?—by folly, madness, guilt,By boundless rapines, blood in oceans spilt;By confiscation, in whose sweeping toilsThe poor man’s pittance with the rich man’s spoils,Mix’d in one common mass, are swept away,To glut the short-lived tyrant of the day;—By laws, religion, morals, all o’erthrown:—Rouse, then, ye sovereign people, claim your own:The license that enthrals, the truth that blinds,180The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds!SoJusticebids.—’Twas her enlighten’d doom,Louis, thy holy head devoted to the tomb!’TwasJusticeclaim’d, in that accurséd hour,The fatal forfeit of too lenient power.Mourn for the Man we may;—but for the King,—Freedom, oh! Freedom’s such a charming thing!
Such is the liberalJusticewhich presides
In these our days, and modern patriots guides;—
Justice, whose blood-stain’d book one sole decree,
170
One statute, fills—“the People shall be Free!”
Free! By what means?—by folly, madness, guilt,
By boundless rapines, blood in oceans spilt;
By confiscation, in whose sweeping toils
The poor man’s pittance with the rich man’s spoils,
Mix’d in one common mass, are swept away,
To glut the short-lived tyrant of the day;—
By laws, religion, morals, all o’erthrown:—
Rouse, then, ye sovereign people, claim your own:
The license that enthrals, the truth that blinds,
180
The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds!
SoJusticebids.—’Twas her enlighten’d doom,
Louis, thy holy head devoted to the tomb!
’TwasJusticeclaim’d, in that accurséd hour,
The fatal forfeit of too lenient power.
Mourn for the Man we may;—but for the King,—
Freedom, oh! Freedom’s such a charming thing!
“Much may be said on both sides.”—Hark! I hearA well-known voice that murmurs in my ear,—The voice ofCandour.—Hail! most solemn sage,190Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,Candour, which softens party’s headlong rage.Candour,—which spares its foes;—nor e’er descendsWith bigot zeal to combat for its friends.Candour,—which loves in see-saw strain to tellOfacting foolishly, butmeaning well;Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,Convinced thatallmen’smotivesare the same;And finds, with keen discriminating sight,Black’snotsoblack;—norWhiteso verywhite.200
“Much may be said on both sides.”—Hark! I hear
A well-known voice that murmurs in my ear,—
The voice ofCandour.—Hail! most solemn sage,
190
Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,
Candour, which softens party’s headlong rage.
Candour,—which spares its foes;—nor e’er descends
With bigot zeal to combat for its friends.
Candour,—which loves in see-saw strain to tell
Ofacting foolishly, butmeaning well;
Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,
Convinced thatallmen’smotivesare the same;
And finds, with keen discriminating sight,
Black’snotsoblack;—norWhiteso verywhite.
200
“Fox, to be sure, was vehement and wrong:But then,Pitt’swords, you’ll own, wereratherstrong.Both must be blamed, both pardon’d; ’twas just soWithFoxandPittfull forty years ago!SoWalpole,Pulteney;—factions in all timesHave had their follies, ministers their crimes.”
“Fox, to be sure, was vehement and wrong:
But then,Pitt’swords, you’ll own, wereratherstrong.
Both must be blamed, both pardon’d; ’twas just so
WithFoxandPittfull forty years ago!
SoWalpole,Pulteney;—factions in all times
Have had their follies, ministers their crimes.”
Give me th’ avow’d, th’ erect, the manly foe,Bold I can meet—perhaps may turn his blow;But of all plagues, good Heav’n, thy wrath can send,Save, save, oh! save me from theCandid Friend!210
Give me th’ avow’d, th’ erect, the manly foe,
Bold I can meet—perhaps may turn his blow;
But of all plagues, good Heav’n, thy wrath can send,
Save, save, oh! save me from theCandid Friend!
210
“Barrasloves plunder,Merlintakes a bribe,—What then!—shallCandourthese good men proscribe?No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng,Prove,—not the facts,—but, thatthey thought them wrong.
“Barrasloves plunder,Merlintakes a bribe,—
What then!—shallCandourthese good men proscribe?
No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng,
Prove,—not the facts,—but, thatthey thought them wrong.
“Why hangO’Quigley?—he, misguided man,In sober thought his country’s wealmightplan:And, while his deep-wrought Treason sapp’d the throne,Mightact fromtaste in morals, all his own.”
“Why hangO’Quigley?—he, misguided man,
In sober thought his country’s wealmightplan:
And, while his deep-wrought Treason sapp’d the throne,
Mightact fromtaste in morals, all his own.”
Peace to such Reasoners! let them have their way;Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day;220Priestley’sa Saint, andStonea Patriot still;AndLa Fayettea Hero, if they will.
Peace to such Reasoners! let them have their way;
Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day;
220
Priestley’sa Saint, andStonea Patriot still;
AndLa Fayettea Hero, if they will.
I love the bold uncompromising mind,Whose principles are fix’d, whose views defined;Who scouts and scorns, in cantingCandour’sspite,Alltaste in morals, innate sense of right,And Nature’s impulse, all uncheck’d by art,And feelings fine, that float about the heart:Content, for good men’s guidance, bad men’s awe,On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law.230Who owns, when Traitors feel th’ avenging rod,Just retribution, and the hand ofGod;Who hears the groans throughOlmütz’ roofs that ring,Of him who mock’d, misled, betray’d his King—Hears unappall’d, though Faction’s zealots preach,Unmov’d, unsoften’d byFitzpatrick’sSpeech.[313]
I love the bold uncompromising mind,
Whose principles are fix’d, whose views defined;
Who scouts and scorns, in cantingCandour’sspite,
Alltaste in morals, innate sense of right,
And Nature’s impulse, all uncheck’d by art,
And feelings fine, that float about the heart:
Content, for good men’s guidance, bad men’s awe,
On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law.
230
Who owns, when Traitors feel th’ avenging rod,
Just retribution, and the hand ofGod;
Who hears the groans throughOlmütz’ roofs that ring,
Of him who mock’d, misled, betray’d his King—
Hears unappall’d, though Faction’s zealots preach,
Unmov’d, unsoften’d byFitzpatrick’sSpeech.[313]
That Speech on which the melting Commons hung,“While truths divine came mended fromhistongue”;How loving husband clings to duteous wife,—How pure Religion soothes the ills of life,—240How Popish ladies trust their pious fearsAnd naughty actions in their chaplains’ ears.—Half novel and half sermon, on it flow’d;With pious zealthe Oppositionglow’d;And as o’er each the soft infection crept,Sigh’d as he whin’d, and as he whimper’d, wept;—E’enCurwen[314]dropt a sentimental tear,And stoutSt. Andrewyelp’d a softer “Hear!”
That Speech on which the melting Commons hung,
“While truths divine came mended fromhistongue”;
How loving husband clings to duteous wife,—
How pure Religion soothes the ills of life,—
240
How Popish ladies trust their pious fears
And naughty actions in their chaplains’ ears.—
Half novel and half sermon, on it flow’d;
With pious zealthe Oppositionglow’d;
And as o’er each the soft infection crept,
Sigh’d as he whin’d, and as he whimper’d, wept;—
E’enCurwen[314]dropt a sentimental tear,
And stoutSt. Andrewyelp’d a softer “Hear!”
· · · · ·
· · · · ·
Oh! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vainOur colder servile spirits would attain,250How do we ape thee,France!but, blundering still,Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.The borrow’d step our awkward gait reveals:(As clumsyCourtenay[315]mars the verse he steals.)How do we ape thee,France!—nor claim aloneThy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own,260But to thyWorthiesrender homage due,Their[316]“hair-breadth scapes” with anxious interest view;Statesmen and Heroines whom this age adores,Though plainer times would call them Rogues and Whores.260
Oh! nurse of crimes and fashions! which in vain
Our colder servile spirits would attain,
250
How do we ape thee,France!but, blundering still,
Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.
The borrow’d step our awkward gait reveals:
(As clumsyCourtenay[315]mars the verse he steals.)
How do we ape thee,France!—nor claim alone
Thy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own,
260
But to thyWorthiesrender homage due,
Their[316]“hair-breadth scapes” with anxious interest view;
Statesmen and Heroines whom this age adores,
Though plainer times would call them Rogues and Whores.
260
SeeLouvet, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage,Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage.Form’d for all tasks, his various talents see,The luscious Novel, the severe Decree.Then mark him welt’ring in his nasty sty,Bare his lewd transports to the public eye.Nothisthe love in silent groves that strays,Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze.InLodoiska’sfull possession blest,One craving void still aches within his breast;270Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms,Not to himself alone he stints her charms;Clasp’d in each other’s foul embrace they lie,But know no joy, unless the World stands by.The fool of vanity, for her aloneHe lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.
SeeLouvet, patriot, pamphleteer, and sage,
Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage.
Form’d for all tasks, his various talents see,
The luscious Novel, the severe Decree.
Then mark him welt’ring in his nasty sty,
Bare his lewd transports to the public eye.
Nothisthe love in silent groves that strays,
Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze.
InLodoiska’sfull possession blest,
One craving void still aches within his breast;
270
Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms,
Not to himself alone he stints her charms;
Clasp’d in each other’s foul embrace they lie,
But know no joy, unless the World stands by.
The fool of vanity, for her alone
He lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.
His widow’d mourner flies to poison’s aid,Eager to join herLouvet’sparted shadeIn those bright realms where sainted lovers stray,But harsh emetics tear that hope away.[317]280Yet haplessLouvet! where thy bones are laid,The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.[318]There in the laughing morn of genial spring,Unwedded pairs shall tender couplets sing;Eringoes o’er the hallow’d spot shall bloom,And flies of Spain buzz softly round the tomb.[319]
His widow’d mourner flies to poison’s aid,
Eager to join herLouvet’sparted shade
In those bright realms where sainted lovers stray,
But harsh emetics tear that hope away.[317]
280
Yet haplessLouvet! where thy bones are laid,
The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.[318]
There in the laughing morn of genial spring,
Unwedded pairs shall tender couplets sing;
Eringoes o’er the hallow’d spot shall bloom,
And flies of Spain buzz softly round the tomb.[319]
But hold, severer virtue claims the Muse—Rolandthe just, with ribands in his shoes—[320]AndRoland’sspouse, who paints with chaste delightThe doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;—290Her virgin charms what fierce attacks assail’d,And how the rigid Minister[321]prevail’d.
But hold, severer virtue claims the Muse—
Rolandthe just, with ribands in his shoes—[320]
AndRoland’sspouse, who paints with chaste delight
The doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;—
290
Her virgin charms what fierce attacks assail’d,
And how the rigid Minister[321]prevail’d.
And ah! what verse can grace thy stately mien,Guide of the world, preferment’s golden queen,Neckar’sfair daughter,—Staelthe Epicene!Bright o’er whose flaming cheek and pumple[322]noseThe bloom of young desire unceasing glows!Fain would the Muse—but ah! she dares no more,A mournful voice from loneGuyana’sshore,[323]SadQuatremer-the bold presumption checks,300Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex.
And ah! what verse can grace thy stately mien,
Guide of the world, preferment’s golden queen,
Neckar’sfair daughter,—Staelthe Epicene!
Bright o’er whose flaming cheek and pumple[322]nose
The bloom of young desire unceasing glows!
Fain would the Muse—but ah! she dares no more,
A mournful voice from loneGuyana’sshore,[323]
SadQuatremer-the bold presumption checks,
300
Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex.
To thee, proudBarrasbows;—thy charms controlRewbell’sbrute rage, andMerlin’ssubtle soul;Rais’d by thy hands, and fashion’d to thy will,Thy power, thy guiding influence, governs still,Where at the blood-stain’d board expert he plies,The lame artificer of fraud and lies;He with the mitred head and cloven heel;—Doom’d the coarse edge ofRewbell’sjests to feel;[324]To stand the playful buffet, and to hear310The frequent ink-stand whizzing past his ear;While all the five Directors laugh to see“The limping priest so deft at his new ministry”.[325]
To thee, proudBarrasbows;—thy charms control
Rewbell’sbrute rage, andMerlin’ssubtle soul;
Rais’d by thy hands, and fashion’d to thy will,
Thy power, thy guiding influence, governs still,
Where at the blood-stain’d board expert he plies,
The lame artificer of fraud and lies;
He with the mitred head and cloven heel;—
Doom’d the coarse edge ofRewbell’sjests to feel;[324]
To stand the playful buffet, and to hear
310
The frequent ink-stand whizzing past his ear;
While all the five Directors laugh to see
“The limping priest so deft at his new ministry”.[325]
Last of th’anointed Fivebehold, and least,The DirectorialLama, Sovereign Priest,—Lepaux;—whom atheists worship;—at whose nodBow their meek headsthe Men without a God.[326]
Last of th’anointed Fivebehold, and least,
The DirectorialLama, Sovereign Priest,—
Lepaux;—whom atheists worship;—at whose nod
Bow their meek headsthe Men without a God.[326]
Ere long, perhaps, to this astonish’d isle,Fresh from the shores of subjugatedNile,ShallBuonaparte’svictor fleet protect320The genuine Theo-Philanthropic sect,—The sect ofMarat,Mirabeau,Voltaire,—Led by their Pontiff, goodLa Réveillère.Rejoiced ourClubsshall greet him, and installThe holy Hunchback in thy dome,St. Paul!While countless votaries, thronging in his train,Wave their red caps, and hymn this jocund strain:—
Ere long, perhaps, to this astonish’d isle,
Fresh from the shores of subjugatedNile,
ShallBuonaparte’svictor fleet protect
320
The genuine Theo-Philanthropic sect,—
The sect ofMarat,Mirabeau,Voltaire,—
Led by their Pontiff, goodLa Réveillère.
Rejoiced ourClubsshall greet him, and install
The holy Hunchback in thy dome,St. Paul!
While countless votaries, thronging in his train,
Wave their red caps, and hymn this jocund strain:—
“Couriers and Stars, Sedition’s evening host,ThouMorning ChronicleandMorning Post,Whether ye make the Rights of Man your theme,330Your country libel, and your God blaspheme,Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw,Still, blasphemous or blackguard, praiseLepaux!
“Couriers and Stars, Sedition’s evening host,
ThouMorning ChronicleandMorning Post,
Whether ye make the Rights of Man your theme,
330
Your country libel, and your God blaspheme,
Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw,
Still, blasphemous or blackguard, praiseLepaux!
“And ye five other wandering bards, that moveIn sweet accord of harmony and love,ColeridgeandSouthey,Lloyd, andLamb & Co.Tune all your mystic harps to praiseLepaux!
“And ye five other wandering bards, that move
In sweet accord of harmony and love,
ColeridgeandSouthey,Lloyd, andLamb & Co.
Tune all your mystic harps to praiseLepaux!
“PriestleyandWakefield, humble, holy men,Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!
“PriestleyandWakefield, humble, holy men,
Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!
“Thelwall, and ye that lecture as ye go,340And for your pains get pelted, praiseLepaux!
“Thelwall, and ye that lecture as ye go,
340
And for your pains get pelted, praiseLepaux!
“Praise him each Jacobin, or Fool, or Knave,And your cropp’d heads in sign of worship wave!
“Praise him each Jacobin, or Fool, or Knave,
And your cropp’d heads in sign of worship wave!
“All creeping creatures, venomous and low,Paine,Williams,Godwin,Holcroft, praiseLepaux!
“All creeping creatures, venomous and low,
Paine,Williams,Godwin,Holcroft, praiseLepaux!
“—— and —— with —— join’d,[327]And every other beast after his kind.
“—— and —— with —— join’d,[327]
And every other beast after his kind.
“And thou,Leviathan! on ocean’s brimHugest of living things that sleep and swim;Thou, in whose nose, byBurke’sgigantic hand350The hook was fixed to drag thee to the land,With ——, ——, and ——, in thy train,And —— wallowing in the yeasty main,—[328]Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,In puffing, and in spouting, praiseLepaux!”
“And thou,Leviathan! on ocean’s brim
Hugest of living things that sleep and swim;
Thou, in whose nose, byBurke’sgigantic hand
350
The hook was fixed to drag thee to the land,
With ——, ——, and ——, in thy train,
And —— wallowing in the yeasty main,—[328]
Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,
In puffing, and in spouting, praiseLepaux!”
· · · · ·
· · · · ·
Britain, beware; nor let th’ insidious foe,Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow;Thy Peace, thy Strength, with devilish wiles assail,And when her Arms are vain, by Arts prevail.True, thou art rich, art powerful!—thro’ thine Isle360Industrious skill, contented labour, smile;Far Seas are studded with thy countless sails;What wind but wafts them, and what shore but hails!True, thou art brave!—o’er all the busy landIn patriot ranks embattled myriads stand;Thy foes behold with impotent amazeAnd drop the lifted weapon as they gaze
Britain, beware; nor let th’ insidious foe,
Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow;
Thy Peace, thy Strength, with devilish wiles assail,
And when her Arms are vain, by Arts prevail.
True, thou art rich, art powerful!—thro’ thine Isle
360
Industrious skill, contented labour, smile;
Far Seas are studded with thy countless sails;
What wind but wafts them, and what shore but hails!
True, thou art brave!—o’er all the busy land
In patriot ranks embattled myriads stand;
Thy foes behold with impotent amaze
And drop the lifted weapon as they gaze
But what avails to guard each outward part,If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,Spite of thy courage, of thy pow’r, and wealth,370Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?
But what avails to guard each outward part,
If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,
Spite of thy courage, of thy pow’r, and wealth,
370
Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?
So thine own Oak, by some fair streamlet’s side,Waves its broad arms, and spreads its leafy pride,Tow’rs from the earth, and rearing to the skiesIts conscious strength, the tempest’s wrath defies.Its ample branches shield the fowls of air,To its cool shade the panting herds repair.The treacherous current works its noiseless way,The fibres loosen, and the roots decay;Prostrate the beauteous ruin lies; and all380That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.
So thine own Oak, by some fair streamlet’s side,
Waves its broad arms, and spreads its leafy pride,
Tow’rs from the earth, and rearing to the skies
Its conscious strength, the tempest’s wrath defies.
Its ample branches shield the fowls of air,
To its cool shade the panting herds repair.
The treacherous current works its noiseless way,
The fibres loosen, and the roots decay;
Prostrate the beauteous ruin lies; and all
380
That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.
O thou! lamentedSage! whose prescient scanPierc’d through foul Anarchy’s gigantic plan,Prompt to incredulous hearers to discloseThe guilt ofFrance, and Europe’s world of woes;—Thou, on whose name each distant age shall gaze,The mighty sea-mark of these troubled days!O large of soul, of genius unconfin’d,Born to delight, instruct, and mend mankind!Burke! in whose breast a Roman ardour glow’d;390Whose copious tongue with Grecian richness flow’d;Well hast thou found (if such thy country’s doom),A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!
O thou! lamentedSage! whose prescient scan
Pierc’d through foul Anarchy’s gigantic plan,
Prompt to incredulous hearers to disclose
The guilt ofFrance, and Europe’s world of woes;—
Thou, on whose name each distant age shall gaze,
The mighty sea-mark of these troubled days!
O large of soul, of genius unconfin’d,
Born to delight, instruct, and mend mankind!
Burke! in whose breast a Roman ardour glow’d;
390
Whose copious tongue with Grecian richness flow’d;
Well hast thou found (if such thy country’s doom),
A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!
As, in far realms, where eastern kings are laid,In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade,The perfum’d lamp with unextinguish’d lightFlames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night:So, mightyBurke! in thy sepulchral urn,To Fancy’s view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,400Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise.
As, in far realms, where eastern kings are laid,
In pomp of death, beneath the cypress shade,
The perfum’d lamp with unextinguish’d light
Flames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night:
So, mightyBurke! in thy sepulchral urn,
To Fancy’s view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.
Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,
400
Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise.
Thereare, to whom (theirtaste such pleasures cloy)No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy.Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts,Peace—such as sloth, as ignorance imparts!Pleas’d may they live to plan their country’s good,And crop with calm content their flow’ry food!
Thereare, to whom (theirtaste such pleasures cloy)
No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy.
Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts,
Peace—such as sloth, as ignorance imparts!
Pleas’d may they live to plan their country’s good,
And crop with calm content their flow’ry food!
What though thy venturous spirit loved to urgeThe labouring theme to Reason’s utmost verge,Kindling and mounting from th’ enraptur’d sight;410Still anxious wonder watch’d thy daring flight!While vulgar minds, with mean malignant stare,Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share!Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise,Which still to daring Genius Envy pays.
What though thy venturous spirit loved to urge
The labouring theme to Reason’s utmost verge,
Kindling and mounting from th’ enraptur’d sight;
410
Still anxious wonder watch’d thy daring flight!
While vulgar minds, with mean malignant stare,
Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share!
Poor triumph! price of that extorted praise,
Which still to daring Genius Envy pays.
Oh! for thy playful smile, thy potent frown,To abash bold Vice, and laugh pert Folly down!So should the Muse, in Humour’s happiest vein,With verse that flowed in metaphoric strain,And apt allusions to the rural trade,420Tell ofwhat wood youngJacobinsare made;How the skill’d gardener grafts with nicest ruleTheslipof coxcomb on thestockof fool;Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig,A thing to wonder at—[329]perhaps aWhig:Should tell, how wise each half-fledged pedant pratesOf weightiest matters, grave distinctions states,That rules of policy, and public good,In Saxon times were rightly understood;That kings are proper,may beuseful things,430But then, some gentlemen object to kings;That in all times the minister’s to blame;That British liberty’s an empty name,Till each fair burgh, numerically free,Shall choose its members bythe Rule of Three.
Oh! for thy playful smile, thy potent frown,
To abash bold Vice, and laugh pert Folly down!
So should the Muse, in Humour’s happiest vein,
With verse that flowed in metaphoric strain,
And apt allusions to the rural trade,
420
Tell ofwhat wood youngJacobinsare made;
How the skill’d gardener grafts with nicest rule
Theslipof coxcomb on thestockof fool;
Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig,
A thing to wonder at—[329]perhaps aWhig:
Should tell, how wise each half-fledged pedant prates
Of weightiest matters, grave distinctions states,
That rules of policy, and public good,
In Saxon times were rightly understood;
That kings are proper,may beuseful things,
430
But then, some gentlemen object to kings;
That in all times the minister’s to blame;
That British liberty’s an empty name,
Till each fair burgh, numerically free,
Shall choose its members bythe Rule of Three.
So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed,Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed.Which—when fell poison revels in the veins—(That poison fell, which franticGalliadrainsFrom the crude fruit of Freedom’s blasted tree)440Blot the fair records of Humanity.
So should the Muse, with verse in thunder clothed,
Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed.
Which—when fell poison revels in the veins—
(That poison fell, which franticGalliadrains
From the crude fruit of Freedom’s blasted tree)
440
Blot the fair records of Humanity.
To feebler nations let proudFranceaffordHer damning choice,—the chalice or the sword,To drink or die;—O fraud! O specious lie!Delusive choice! forifthey drink, they die.
To feebler nations let proudFranceafford
Her damning choice,—the chalice or the sword,
To drink or die;—O fraud! O specious lie!
Delusive choice! forifthey drink, they die.
The Sword we dread not:—of ourselves secure,Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure.Let all the world confederate all its powers,“Be they not backed by those that should be ours,”High on his rock shallBritain’s Geniusstand,450Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.
The Sword we dread not:—of ourselves secure,
Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure.
Let all the world confederate all its powers,
“Be they not backed by those that should be ours,”
High on his rock shallBritain’s Geniusstand,
450
Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.
Guard we but our own Hearts: with constant viewTo ancient morals, ancient manners true;True to the manlier virtues, such as nerv’dOur fathers’ breasts, and this proud Isle preserv’dFor many a rugged age: and scorn the whileEach philosophic atheist’s specious guile;The soft seductions, the refinements nice,Of gay Morality, and easy Vice;So shall we brave the storm; our ’stablish’d pow’rThy refuge,Europe, in some happier hour.461But,Frenchin heart, though Victory crown our brow,Low at our feet though prostrate Nations bow,Wealth gild our Cities, Commerce crowd our shore,London may shine, butEnglandisNO MORE!
Guard we but our own Hearts: with constant view
To ancient morals, ancient manners true;
True to the manlier virtues, such as nerv’d
Our fathers’ breasts, and this proud Isle preserv’d
For many a rugged age: and scorn the while
Each philosophic atheist’s specious guile;
The soft seductions, the refinements nice,
Of gay Morality, and easy Vice;
So shall we brave the storm; our ’stablish’d pow’r
Thy refuge,Europe, in some happier hour.
461
But,Frenchin heart, though Victory crown our brow,
Low at our feet though prostrate Nations bow,
Wealth gild our Cities, Commerce crowd our shore,
London may shine, butEnglandisNO MORE!