To me, whom in their lays the shepherds callActæa, daughter of the neighbouring stream,This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,Which o'er the rocky entrance downward shoot,Were placed by Glycou. He with cowslips pale,Primrose, and purple lychnis, deck'd the greenBefore my threshold, and my shelving wallsWith honeysuckle cover'd. Here at noon,Lull'd by the murmur of my rising fount,I slumber; here my clustering fruits I tend;Or from the humid flowers, at break of day,Fresh garlands weave, and chase from all my boundsEach thing impure or noxious. Enter in,O stranger, undismay'd. Nor bat, nor toadHere lurks; and if thy breast of blameless thoughtsApprove thee, not unwelcome shalt thou treadMy quiet mansion; chiefly, if thy nameWise Pallas and the immortal Muses own.
Such was old Chaucer; such the placid mienOf him who first with harmony inform'dThe language of our fathers. Here he dweltFor many a cheerful day. These ancient wallsHave often heard him, while his legends blitheHe sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wilesOf homely life; through each estate and age,The fashions and the follies of the worldWith cunning hand portraying. Though perchanceFrom Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art comeGlowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vainDost thou applaud them if thy breast be coldTo him, this other hero; who, in timesDark and untaught, began with charming verseTo tame the rudeness of his native land.
Whoe'er thou art whose path in summer liesThrough yonder village, turn thee where the groveOf branching oaks a rural palace oldEmbosoms. There dwells Albert, generous lordOf all the harvest round. And onward thenceA low plain chapel fronts the morning lightFast by a silent rivulet. Humbly walk,O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;And on that verdant hillock, which thou seestBeset with osiers, let thy pious handSprinkle fresh water from the brook, and strewSweet-smelling flowers. For there doth Edmund rest,The learned shepherd; for each rural artFamed, and for songs harmonious, and the woesOf ill-requited love. The faithless prideOf fair Matilda sank him to the graveIn manhood's prime. But soon did righteous Heaven,With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care,Avenge her falsehood. Nor could all the goldAnd nuptial pomp, which lured her plighted faithFrom Edmund to a loftier husband's home,Relieve her breaking heart, or turn asideThe strokes of death. Go, traveller; relateThe mournful story. Haply some fair maidMay hold it in remembrance, and be taughtThat riches cannot pay for truth or love.
O youths and virgins: O declining eld:O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwellUnknown with humble quiet; ye who waitIn courts, or fill the golden seat of kings:O sons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretchThat weep'st for jealous love, or the sore woundsOf conscious guilt, or death's rapacious handWhich left thee void of hope: O ye who roamIn exile; ye who through the embattled fieldSeek bright renown; or who for nobler palmsContend, the leaders of a public cause;Approach: behold this marble. Know ye notThe features'? Hath not oft his faithful tongueTold you the fashion of your own estate,The secrets of your bosom? Here then, roundHis monument with reverence while ye stand,Say to each other:-'This was Shakspeare's form;Who walk'd in every path of human life,Felt every passion; and to all mankindDoth now, will ever, that experience yieldWhich his own genius only could acquire.'
Thou, who the verdant plain dost traverse here,While Thames among his willows from thy viewRetires; O stranger, stay thee, and the sceneAround contemplate well. This is the placeWhere England's ancient barons, clad in armsAnd stern with conquest, from their tyrant king(Then render'd tame) did challenge and secureThe charter of thy freedom. Pass not onTill thou hast bless'd their memory, and paidThose thanks which God appointed the rewardOf public virtue. And if chance thy homeSalute thee with a father's honour'd name,Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debtThey owe their ancestors; and make them swearTo pay it, by transmitting down entireThose sacred rights to which themselves were born.
Approach in silence. 'Tis no vulgar taleWhich I, the Dryad of this hoary oak,Pronounce to mortal ears. The second ageNow hasteneth to its period, since I roseOn this fair lawn. The groves of yonder valeAre all my offspring: and each Nymph who guardsThe copses and the furrow'd fields beyond,Obeys me. Many changes have I seenIn human things, and many awful deedsOf justice, when the ruling hand of JoveAgainst the tyrants of the land, againstThe unhallow'd sons of luxury and guile,Was arm'd for retribution. Thus at lengthExpert in laws divine, I know the pathsOf wisdom, and erroneous folly's endHave oft presaged; and now well-pleased I waitEach evening till a noble youth, who lovesMy shade, a while released from public cares,Yon peaceful gate shall enter, and sit downBeneath my branches. Then his musing mindI prompt, unseen; and place before his viewSincerest forms of good; and move his heartWith the dread bounties of the Sire SupremeOf gods and men, with freedom's generous deeds,The lofty voice of glory and the faithOf sacred friendship. Stranger, I have toldMy function. If within thy bosom dwellAught which may challenge praise, thou wilt not leaveUnhonour'd my abode, nor shall I hearA sparing benediction from thy tongue.
Ye powers unseen, to whom, the bards of GreeceErected altars; ye who to the mindMore lofty views unfold, and prompt the heartWith more divine emotions; if erewhileNot quite uupleasing have my votive ritesOf you been deem'd, when oft this lonely seatTo you I consecrated; then vouchsafeHere with your instant energy to crownMy happy solitude. It is the hourWhen most I love to invoke you, and have feltMost frequent your glad ministry divine.The air is calm: the sun's unveiled orbShines in the middle heaven. The harvest roundStands quiet, and among the golden sheavesThe reapers lie reclined. The neighbouring grovesAre mute, nor even a linnet's random strainEchoeth amid the silence. Let me feelYour influence, ye kind powers. Aloft in heaven,Abide ye? or on those transparent cloudsPass ye from hill to hill? or on the shadesWhich yonder elms cast o'er the lake belowDo you converse retired? From what loved hauntShall I expect you? Let me once more feelYour influence, O ye kind inspiring powers:And I will guard it well; nor shall a thoughtRise in my mind, nor shall a passion moveAcross my bosom unobserved, unstoredBy faithful memory. And then at someMore active moment, will I call them forthAnew; and join them in majestic forms,And give them utterance in harmonious strains;That all mankind shall wonder at your sway.
Me though in life's sequester'd valeThe Almighty Sire ordain'd to dwell,Remote from glory's toilsome ways,And the great scenes of public praise;Yet let me still with grateful prideRemember how my infant frameHe temper'd with prophetic flame,And early music to my tongue supplied.'Twas then my future fate he weigh'd,And, this be thy concern, he said,At once with Passion's keen alarms,And Beauty's pleasurable charms,And sacred Truth's eternal light,To move the various mind of Man;Till, under one unblemish'd plan,His Reason, Fancy, and his Heart unite.
Thrice has the spring beheld thy faded fame,And the fourth winter rises on thy shame,Since I exulting grasp'd the votive shell,In sounds of triumph all thy praise to tell;Bless'd could my skill through ages make thee shine,And proud to mix my memory with thine.But now the cause that waked my song before,With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil no more.If to the glorious man whose faithful cares,Nor quell'd by malice, nor relax'd by years, 10Had awed Ambition's wild audacious hate,And dragg'd at length Corruption to her fate;If every tongue its large applauses owed,And well-earn'd laurels every Muse bestow'd;If public Justice urged the high reward,And Freedom smiled on the devoted bard;Say then, to him whose levity or lustLaid all a people's generous hopes in dust;Who taught Ambition firmer heights of power,And saved Corruption at her hopeless hour; 20Does not each tongue its execrations owe?Shall not each Muse a wreath of shame bestow,And public Justice sanctify th' award,And Freedom's hand protect the impartial bard?
Yet long reluctant I forbore thy name,Long watch'd thy virtue like a dying flame,Hung o'er each glimmering spark with anxious eyes,And wish'd and hoped the light again would rise.But since thy guilt still more entire appears,Since no art hides, no supposition clears; 30Since vengeful Slander now too sinks her blast,And the first rage of party-hate is past;Calm as the judge of truth, at length I comeTo weigh thy merits, and pronounce thy doom:So may my trust from all reproach be free;And Earth and Time confirm the fair decree.
There are who say they view'd without amazeThe sad reverse of all thy former praise:That through the pageants of a patriot's name,They pierced the foulness of thy secret aim; 40Or deem'd thy arm exalted but to throwThe public thunder on a private foe.But I, whose soul consented to thy cause,Who felt thy genius stamp its own applause,Who saw the spirits of each glorious ageMove in thy bosom, and direct thy rage;I scorn'd the ungenerous gloss of slavish minds,The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre blinds.Spite of the learned in the ways of vice,And all who prove that each man has his price, 50I still believed thy end was just and free;And yet, even yet, believe it—spite of thee.Even though thy mouth impure has dared disclaim,Urged by the wretched impotence of shame,Whatever filial cares thy zeal had paidTo laws infirm, and liberty decay'd;Has begg'd Ambition to forgive the show;Has told Corruption thou wert ne'er her foe;Has boasted in thy country's awful ear,Her gross delusion when she held thee dear; 60How tame she follow'd thy tempestuous call,And heard thy pompous tales, and trusted all—Rise from your sad abodes, ye cursed of oldFor laws subverted, and for cities sold!Paint all the noblest trophies of your guilt,The oaths you perjured, and the blood you spilt;Yet must you one untempted vileness own,One dreadful palm reserved for him alone;With studied arts his country's praise to spurn,To beg the infamy he did not earn, 70To challenge hate when honour was his due,And plead his crimes where all his virtue knew.Do robes of state the guarded heart encloseFrom each fair feeling human nature knows?Can pompous titles stun the enchanted earTo all that reason, all that sense would hear?Else couldst thou e'er desert thy sacred post,In such unthankful baseness to be lost?Else couldst thou wed the emptiness of vice,And yield thy glories at an idiot's price? 80
When they who, loud for liberty and laws,In doubtful times had fought their country's cause,When now of conquest and dominion sure,They sought alone to hold their fruits secure;When taught by these, Oppression hid the face,To leave Corruption stronger in her place,By silent spells to work the public fate,And taint the vitals of the passive state,Till healing Wisdom should avail no more,And Freedom loathe to tread the poison'd shore: 90Then, like some guardian god that flies to saveThe weary pilgrim from an instant grave,Whom, sleeping and secure, the guileful snakeSteals near and nearer through the peaceful brake;Then Curio rose to ward the public woe,To wake the heedless, and incite the slow,Against Corruption Liberty to arm,And quell the enchantress by a mightier charm.
Swift o'er the land the fair contagion flew,And with thy country's hopes thy honours grew. 100Thee, patriot, the patrician roof confess'd;Thy powerful voice the rescued merchant bless'd;Of thee with awe the rural hearth resounds;The bowl to thee the grateful sailor crowns;Touch'd in the sighing shade with manlier fires,To trace thy steps the love-sick youth aspires;The learn'd recluse, who oft amazed had readOf Grecian heroes, Roman patriots dead,With new amazement hears a living namePretend to share in such forgotten fame; 110And he who, scorning courts and courtly ways,Left the tame track of these dejected days,The life of nobler ages to renewIn virtues sacred from a monarch's view,Roused by thy labours from the bless'd retreat,Where social ease and public passions meet,Again ascending treads the civil scene,To act and be a man, as thou hadst been.
Thus by degrees thy cause superior grew,And the great end appear'd at last in view: 120We heard the people in thy hopes rejoice,We saw the senate bending to thy voice;The friends of freedom hail'd the approaching reignOf laws for which our fathers bled in vain;While venal Faction, struck with new dismay,Shrunk at their frown, and self-abandon'd lay.Waked in the shock the public Genius rose,Abash'd and keener from his long repose;Sublime in ancient pride, he raised the spearWhich slaves and tyrants long were wont to fear; 130The city felt his call: from man to man,From street to street, the glorious horror ran;Each crowded haunt was stirr'd beneath his power,And, murmuring, challenged the deciding hour.
Lo! the deciding hour at last appears;The hour of every freeman's hopes and fears!Thou, Genius! guardian of the Roman name,O ever prompt tyrannic rage to tame!Instruct the mighty moments as they roll,And guide each movement steady to the goal. 140Ye spirits by whose providential artSucceeding motives turn the changeful heart,Keep, keep the best in view to Curio's mind,And watch his fancy, and his passions bind!Ye shades immortal, who by Freedom led,Or in the field or on the scaffold bled,Bend from your radiant seats a joyful eye,And view the crown of all your labours nigh.See Freedom mounting her eternal throne!The sword submitted, and the laws her own: 150See! public Power chastised beneath her stands,With eyes intent, and uncorrupted hands!See private Life by wisest arts reclaim'd!See ardent youth to noblest manners framed!See us acquire whate'er was sought by you,If Curio, only Curio will be true.
'Twas then—o shame! O trust how ill repaid!O Latium, oft by faithless sons betray'd!—'Twas then—What frenzy on thy reason stole?What spells unsinewed thy determined soul?— 160Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved,The man so great, so honour'd, so beloved,This patient slave by tinsel chains allured,This wretched suitor for a boon abjured,This Curio, hated and despised by all,Who fell himself to work his country's fall?O lost, alike to action and repose!Unknown, unpitied in the worst of woes!With all that conscious, undissembled pride,Sold to the insults of a foe defied! 170With all that habit of familiar fame,Doom'd to exhaust the dregs of life in shame!The sole sad refuge of thy baffled artTo act a statesman's dull, exploded part,Renounce the praise no longer in thy power,Display thy virtue, though without a dower,Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind,And shut thy eyes that others may be blind.—Forgive me, Romans, that I bear to smile,When shameless mouths your majesty defile, 180Paint you a thoughtless, frantic, headlong crew,And cast their own impieties on you.For witness, Freedom, to whose sacred powerMy soul was vow'd from reason's earliest hour,How have I stood exulting, to surveyMy country's virtues, opening in thy ray!How with the sons of every foreign shoreThe more I match'd them, honour'd hers the more!O race erect! whose native strength of soul,Which kings, nor priests, nor sordid laws control, 190Bursts the tame round of animal affairs,And seeks a nobler centre for its cares;Intent the laws of life to comprehend,And fix dominion's limits by its end.Who, bold and equal in their love or hate,By conscious reason judging every state,The man forget not, though in rags he lies,And know the mortal through a crown's disguise:Thence prompt alike with witty scorn to viewFastidious Grandeur lift his solemn brow, 200Or, all awake at pity's soft command,Bend the mild ear, and stretch the gracious hand:Thence large of heart, from envy far removed,When public toils to virtue stand approved,Not the young lover fonder to admire,Not more indulgent the delighted sire;Yet high and jealous of their free-born name,Fierce as the flight of Jove's destroying flame,Where'er Oppression works her wanton sway,Proud to confront, and dreadful to repay. 210But if to purchase Curio's sage applause,My country must with him renounce her cause,Quit with a slave the path a patriot trod,Bow the meek knee, and kiss the regal rod;Then still, ye powers, instruct his tongue to rail,Nor let his zeal, nor let his subject fail:Else, ere he change the style, bear me awayTo where the Gracchi [2], where the Bruti stay!
O long revered, and late resign'd to shame!If this uncourtly page thy notice claim 220When the loud cares of business are withdrawn,Nor well-dress'd beggars round thy footsteps fawn;In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour,When Truth exerts her unresisted power,Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's glare,Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare;Then turn thy eyes on that important scene,And ask thyself—if all be well within.Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of soul,Which labour could not stop, nor fear control? 230Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe,Which, half-abash'd, the proud and venal saw?Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause?Where the delightful taste of just applause?Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue,On which the senate fired or trembling hung?All vanish'd, all are sold—and in their room,Couch'd in thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom,See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell,Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell! 210To her in chains thy dignity was led;At her polluted shrine thy honour bled;With blasted weeds thy awful brow she crown'd,Thy powerful tongue with poison'd philters bound,That baffled Reason straight indignant flew,And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew:For now no longer Truth supports thy cause;No longer Glory prompts thee to applause;No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast,With all her conscious majesty confess'd, 250Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty flame,To rouse the feeble, and the wilful tame,And where she sees the catching glimpses roll,Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul;But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill,And formal passions mock thy struggling will;Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain,And reach impatient at a nobler strain,Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirthShoot through thy breast, and stab the generous birth, 260Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy toss'd,And all the tenor of thy reason lost,Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear;While some with pity, some with laughter hear.—Can art, alas! or genius, guide the head,Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled?Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke,When the prime function of the soul is broke?
But come, unhappy man! thy fates impend;Come, quit thy friends, if yet thou hast a friend; 270Turn from the poor rewards of guilt like thine,Renounce thy titles, and thy robes resign;For see the hand of Destiny display'dTo shut thee from the joys thou hast betray'd!See the dire fane of Infamy arise!Dark as the grave, and spacious as the skies;Where, from the first of time, thy kindred train,The chiefs and princes of the unjust remain.Eternal barriers guard the pathless roadTo warn the wanderer of the cursed abode; 280But prone as whirlwinds scour the passive sky,The heights surmounted, down the steep they fly.There, black with frowns, relentless Time awaits,And goads their footsteps to the guilty gates;And still he asks them of their unknown aims,Evolves their secrets, and their guilt proclaims;And still his hands despoil them on the roadOf each vain wreath, by lying bards bestow'd,Break their proud marbles, crush their festal cars,And rend the lawless trophies of their wars. 290
At last the gates his potent voice obey;Fierce to their dark abode he drives his prey;Where, ever arm'd with adamantine chains,The watchful demon o'er her vassals reigns,O'er mighty names and giant-powers of lust,The great, the sage, the happy, and august [3].No gleam of hope their baleful mansion cheers,No sound of honour hails their unbless'd ears;But dire reproaches from the friend betray'd,The childless sire and violated maid; 300But vengeful vows for guardian laws effaced,From towns enslaved, and continents laid waste;But long posterity's united groan,And the sad charge of horrors not their own,For ever through the trembling space resound,And sink each impious forehead to the ground.
Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest,Give way, do homage to a mightier guest!Ye daring spirits of the Roman race,See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface!— 310Awed at the name, fierce Appius [4] rising bends,And hardy Cinna from his throne attends:'He comes,' they cry, 'to whom the fates assign'dWith surer arts to work what we design'd,From year to year the stubborn herd to sway,Mouth all their wrongs, and all their rage obey;Till own'd their guide, and trusted with their power,He mock'd their hopes in one decisive hour;Then, tired and yielding, led them to the chain,And quench'd the spirit we provoked in vain.' 320
But thou, Supreme, by whose eternal handsFair Liberty's heroic empire stands;Whose thunders the rebellious deep control,And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul,Oh! turn this dreadful omen far away:On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay:Relume her sacred fire so near suppress'd,And fix her shrine in every Roman breast:Though bold Corruption boast around the land,'Let virtue, if she can, my baits withstand!' 330Though bolder now she urge the accursed claim,Gay with her trophies raised on Curio's shame;Yet some there are who scorn her impious mirth,Who know what conscience and a heart are worth.—O friend and father of the human mind,Whose art for noblest ends our frame design'd!If I, though fated to the studious shadeWhich party-strife, nor anxious power invade,If I aspire in public virtue's cause,To guide the Muses by sublimer laws, 340Do thou her own authority impart,And give my numbers entrance to the heart.Perhaps the verse might rouse her smother'd flame,And snatch the fainting patriot back to fame;Perhaps by worthy thoughts of human kind,To worthy deeds exalt the conscious mind;Or dash Corruption in her proud career,And teach her slaves that Vice was born to fear.
[Footnote 1: Curio was a young Roman senator, of distinguished birth and parts, who, upon his first entrance into the forum, had been committed to the care of Cicero. Being profuse and extravagant, he soon dissipated a large and splendid fortune; to supply the want of which, he was driven to the necessity of abetting the designs of Csesar against the liberties of his country, although he had before been a professed enemy to him. Cicero exerted himself with great energy to prevent his ruin, but without effect, and he became one of the first victims in the civil war. This epistle was first published in the year 1744, when a celebrated patriot, after a long and at last successful opposition to an unpopular minister, had deserted the cause of his country, and became the foremost in support and defence of the same measures he had so steadily and for such a length of time contended against.]
[Fotnote 2: The two brothers, Tiberius and Caius Gracchus, lost their lives in attempting to introduce the only regulation that could give stability and good order to the Roman republic. L. Junius Brutus founded the commonwealth, and died in its defence.]
[Footnote 3: Titles which have been generally ascribed to the most pernicious of men.]
[Footnote 4: Appius Claudius the Decemvir, and L. Cornelius Cinna both attempted to establish a tyrannical dominion in Rome, and both perished by the treason.]
'VidemusNugari solitos.'—PERSIUS.
1 Whilom by silver Thames's gentle stream,In London town there dwelt a subtile wight;A wight of mickle wealth, and mickle fame,Book-learn'd and quaint; a Virtuoso hight.Uncommon things, and rare, were his delight;From musings deep his brain ne'er gotten ease,Nor ceasen he from study, day or night;Until (advancing onward by degrees)He knew whatever breeds on earth, or air, or seas.
2 He many a creature did anatomise,Almost unpeopling water, air, and land;Beasts, fishes, birds, snails, caterpillars, flies,Were laid full low by his relentless hand,That oft with gory crimson was distain'd:He many a dog destroy'd, and many a cat;Of fleas his bed, of frogs the marshes drain'd,Could tellen if a mite were lean or fat,And read a lecture o'er the entrails of a gnat.
3 He knew the various modes of ancient times,Their arts and fashions of each different guise,Their weddings, funerals, punishments for crimes,Their strength, their learning eke, and rarities;Of old habiliments, each sort and size,Male, female, high and low, to him were known;Each gladiator-dress, and stage disguise;With learned, clerkly phrase he could have shownHow the Greek tunic differ'd from the Roman gown.
4 A curious medalist, I wot, he was,And boasted many a course of ancient coin;Well as his wife's he knewen every face,From Julius Caesar down to Constantine:For some rare sculptor he would oft ypine(As green-sick damosels for husbands do);And when obtained, with enraptured eyne,He'd run it o'er and o'er with greedy view,And look, and look again, as he would look it through.
5 His rich museum, of dimensions fair,With goods that spoke the owner's mind was fraught:Things ancient, curious, value-worth, and rare,From sea and land, from Greece and Rome were brought,Which he with mighty sums of gold had bought:On these all tides with joyous eyes he pored;And, sooth to say, himself he greater thought,When he beheld his cabinets thus stored,Than if he'd been of Albion's wealthy cities lord.
6 Here in a corner stood a rich scrutoire,With many a curiosity replete;In seemly order furnish'd every drawer,Products of art or nature as was meet;Air-pumps and prisms were placed beneath his feet,A Memphian mummy-king hung o'er his head;Here phials with live insects small and great,There stood a tripod of the Pythian maid;Above, a crocodile diffused a grateful shade.
7 Fast by the window did a table stand,Where modern and antique rarities,From Egypt, Greece, and Rome, from sea and land,Were thick-besprent, of every sort and size:Here a Bahaman-spider's carcass lies,There a dire serpent's golden skin doth shine;Here Indian feathers, fruits, and glittering flies;There gums and amber found beneath the line,The beak of Ibis here, and there an Antonine.
8 Close at his back, or whispering in his ear,There stood a sprite ycleped Phantasy;Which, wheresoe'er he went, was always near:Her look was wild, and roving was her eye;Her hair was clad with flowers of every dye;Her glistering robes were of more various hueThan the fair bow that paints the cloudy sky,Or all the spangled drops of morning dew;Their colour changing still at every different view.
9 Yet in this shape all tides she did not stay,Various as the chameleon that she bore;Now a grand monarch with a crown of hay,Now mendicant in silks and golden ore:A statesman, now equipp'd to chase the boar,Or cowled monk, lean, feeble, and unfed;A clown-like lord, or swain of courtly lore;Now scribbling dunce, in sacred laurel clad,Or papal father now, in homely weeds array'd.
10 The wight whose brain this phantom's power doth fill,On whom she doth with constant care attend,Will for a dreadful giant take a mill,Or a grand palace in a hog-sty find:(From her dire influence me may heaven defend!)All things with vitiated sight he spies;Neglects his family, forgets his friend,Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys,And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.
'Optat quietem.'-HOR.
While yet the world was young, and men were few,Nor lurking fraud, nor tyrant rapine knew,In virtue rude, the gaudy arts they scorn'd,Which, virtue lost, degenerate times adorn'd:No sumptuous fabrics yet were seen to rise,Nor gushing fountains taught to invade the skies;With nature, art had not begun the strife,Nor swelling marble rose to mimic life;No pencil yet had learn'd to express the fair;The bounteous earth was all their homely care. 10
Then did Content exert her genial sway,And taught the peaceful world her power to obey—Content, a female of celestial race,Bright and complete in each celestial grace.Serenely fair she was, as rising day,And brighter than the sun's meridian ray;Joy of all hearts, delight of every eye,Nor grief nor pain appear'd when she was by;Her presence from the wretched banish'd care,Dispersed the swelling sigh, and stopp'd the falling tear. 20
Long did the nymph her regal state maintain,As long mankind were bless'd beneath her reign;Till dire Ambition, hellish fiend, aroseTo plague the world, and banish man's repose,A monster sprung from that rebellious crewWhich mighty Jove's Phlegraean thunder slew.Resolved to dispossess the royal fair,On all her friends he threaten'd open war;Fond of the novelty, vain, fickle manIn crowds to his infernal standard ran; 30And the weak maid, defenceless left alone,To avoid his rage, was forced to quit the throne.
It chanced, as wandering through the fields she stray'd,Forsook of all, and destitute of aid,Upon a rising mountain's flowery side,A pleasant cottage, roof'd with turf, she spied:Fast by a gloomy, venerable woodOf shady planes and ancient oaks it stood.Around, a various prospect charm'd the sight;Here waving harvests clad the field with white, 40Here a rough shaggy rock the clouds did pierce,From which a torrent rush'd with rapid force;Here mountain-woods diffused a dusky shade;Here flocks and herds in flowery valleys play'd,While o'er the matted grass the liquid crystal stray'd.In this sweet place there dwelt a cheerful pair,Though bent beneath the weight of many a year;Who, wisely flying public noise and strife,In this obscure retreat had pass'd their life;The husband Industry was call'd, Frugality the wife. 50With tenderest friendship mutually bless'd,No household jars had e'er disturbed their rest.A numerous offspring graced their homely board,That still with nature's simple gifts was stored.
The father rural business only knew;The sons the same delightful art pursue.An only daughter, as a goddess fair,Above the rest was the fond mother's care,Plenty; the brightest nymph of all the plain,Each heart's delight, adored by every swain. 60Soon as Content this charming scene espied,Joyful within herself the goddess cried:—'This happy sight my drooping heart doth raise;The gods, I hope, will grant me gentler days.When with prosperity my life was bless'd,In yonder house I've been a welcome guest:There now, perhaps, I may protection find;For royalty is banish'd from my mind;I'll thither haste: how happy should I be,If such a refuge were reserved for me!' 70
Thus spoke the fair; and straight she bent her wayTo the tall mountain, where the cottage lay:Arrived, she makes her changed condition known;Tells how the rebels drove her from the throne;What painful, dreary wilds she'd wander'd o'er;And shelter from the tyrant doth implore.
The faithful, aged pair at once were seizedWith joy and grief, at once were pain'd and pleased;Grief for their banish'd queen their hearts' possess'd,And joy succeeded for their future guest: 80'And if you'll deign, bright goddess, here to dwell,And with your presence grace our humble cell,Whate'er the gods have given with bounteous hand,Our harvest, fields, and flocks, our all command.'
Meantime, Ambition, on his rival's flight,Sole lord of man, attain'd his wish's height;Of all dependence on his subjects eased,He raged without a curb, and did whate'er he pleased;As some wild flame, driven on by furious winds,Wide spreads destruction, nor resistance finds; 90So rush'd the fiend destructive o'er the plain,Defaced the labours of th' industrious swain;Polluted every stream with human gore,And scatter'd plagues and death from shore to shore.
Great Jove beheld it from the Olympian towers,Where sate assembled all the heavenly powers;Then with a nod that shook the empyrean throne,Thus the Saturnian thunderer begun:—'You see, immortal inmates of the skies,How this vile wretch almighty power defies; 100His daring crimes, the blood which he has spilt,Demand a torment equal to his guilt.Then, Cyprian goddess, let thy mighty boySwift to the tyrant's guilty palace fly;There let him choose his sharpest, hottest dart,And with his former rival wound his heart.And thou, my son (the god to Hermes said),Snatch up thy wand, and plume thy heels and head;Dart through the yielding air with all thy force,And down to Pluto's realms direct thy course; 110There rouse Oblivion from her sable cave,Where dull she sits by Lethe's sluggish wave;Command her to secure the sacred bound.Where lives Content retired, and all aroundDiffuse the deepest glooms of Stygian night,And screen the virgin from the tyrant's sight;That the vain purpose of his life may tryStill to explore, what still eludes his eye.'He spoke; loud praises shake the bright abode,And all applaud the justice of the god. 120
Of all the various lots around the ball,Which fate to man distributes, absolute,Avert, ye gods! that of the Muse's son,Cursed with dire poverty! poor hungry wretch!What shall he do for life? He cannot workWith manual labour; shall those sacred hands,That brought the counsels of the gods to light;Shall that inspirèd tongue, which every MuseHas touch'd divine, to charm the sons of men;These hallow'd organs! these! be prostitute 10To the vile service of some fool in power,All his behests submissive to perform,Howe'er to him ungrateful? Oh! he scornsThe ignoble thought; with generous disdain,More eligible deeming it to starve,Like his famed ancestors renown'd in verse,Than poorly bend to be another's slave,—Than feed and fatten in obscurity.—These are his firm resolves, which fate, nor time,Nor poverty can shake. Exalted high 20In garret vile he lives; with remnants hungOf tapestry. But oh! precarious stateOf this vain transient world! all-powerful Time,What dost thou not subdue? See what a chasmGapes wide, tremendous! see where Saul, enraged,High on his throne, encompass'd by his guards,With levell'd spear, and arm extended, sits,Ready to pierce old Jesse's valiant son,Spoil'd of his nose!—around in tottering ranks,On shelves pulverulent, majestic stands 30His library; in ragged plight, and old;Replete with many a load of criticism,Elaborate products of the midnight toilOf Belgian brains; snatch'd from the deadly handsOf murderous grocer, or the careful wight,Who vends the plant, that clads the happy shoreOf Indian Patomac; which citizensIn balmy fumes exhale, when, o'er a potOf sage-inspiring coffee, they disposeOf kings and crowns, and settle Europe's fate. 40
Elsewhere the dome is fill'd with various heapsOf old domestic lumber; that huge chairHas seen six monarchs fill the British throne:Here a broad massy table stands, o'erspreadWith ink and pens, and scrolls replete with rhyme:Chests, stools, old razors, fractured jars, half-fullOf muddy Zythum, sour and spiritless:Fragments of verse, hose, sandals, utensilsOf various fashion, and of various use,With friendly influence hide the sable floor. 50
This is the bard's museum, this the faneTo Phoebus sacred, and the Aonian maids:But, oh! it stabs his heart, that niggard fateTo him in such small measure should dispenseHer better gifts: to him! whose generous soulCould relish, with as fine an elegance,The golden joys of grandeur, and of wealth;He who could tyrannise o'er menial slaves,Or swell beneath a coronet of state,Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien, 60Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all.
But 'tis in vain to rave at destiny:Here he must rest and brook the best he can,To live remote from grandeur, learning, wit;Immured amongst th' ignoble, vulgar herd,Of lowest intellect; whose stupid soulsBut half inform their bodies; brains of leadAnd tongues of thunder; whose insensate breastsNe'er felt the rapturous, soul-entrancing fireOf the celestial Muse; whose savage ears 70Ne'er heard the sacred rules, nor even the namesOf the Venusian bard, or critic sageFull-famed of Stagyra: whose clamorous tonguesStun the tormented ear with colloquy,Vociferate, trivial, or impertinent;Replete with boorish scandal; yet, alas!This, this! he must endure, or muse alone,Pensive and moping o'er the stubborn rhyme,Or line imperfect—No! the door is free,And calls him to evade their deafening clang, 80By private ambulation;—'tis resolved:Off from his waist he throws the tatter'd gown,Beheld with indignation; and unloadsHis pericranium of the weighty cap,With sweat and grease discolour'd: then exploresThe spacious chest, and from its hollow wombDraws his best robe, yet not from tincture freeOf age's reverend russet, scant and bare;Then down his meagre visage waving flowsThe shadowy peruke; crown'd with gummy hat 90Clean brush'd; a cane supports him. Thus equipp'dHe sallies forth; swift traverses the streets,And seeks the lonely walk.—'Hail, sylvan scenes,Ye groves, ye valleys, ye meandering brooks,Admit me to your joys!' in rapturous phrase,Loud he exclaims; while with the inspiring MuseHis bosom labours; and all other thoughts,Pleasure and wealth, and poverty itself,Before her influence vanish. Rapt in thought,Fancy presents before his ravish'd eyes 100Distant posterity, upon his pageWith transport dwelling; while bright learning's sonsThat ages hence must tread this earthly ball,Indignant, seem to curse the thankless age,That starved such merit. Meantime swallow'd up,In meditation deep, he wanders on,Unweeting of his way.—But, ah! he startsWith sudden fright! his glaring eyeballs roll,Pale turn his cheeks, and shake his loosen'd joints;His cogitations vanish into air, 110Like painted bubbles, or a morning dream.Behold the cause! see! through the opening glade,With rosy visage, and abdomen grand,A cit, a dun!—As in Apulia's wilds,Or where the Thracian Hebrus rolls his wave,A heedless kid, disportive, roves around,Unheeding, till upon the hideous caveOn the dire wolf she treads; half-dead she viewsHis bloodshot eyeballs, and his dreadful fangs,And swift as Eurus from the monster flies. 120So fares the trembling bard; amazed he turns,Scarce by his legs upborne; yet fear suppliesThe place of strength; straight home he bends his course,Nor looks behind him till he safe regainHis faithful citadel; there, spent, fatigued,He lays him down to ease his heaving lungs,Quaking, and of his safety scarce convinced.Soon as the panic leaves his panting breast,Down to the Muse's sacred rites he sits,Volumes piled round him; see! upon his brow 130Perplex'd anxiety, and struggling thought,Painful as female throes: whether the bardDisplay the deeds of heroes; or the fallOf vice, in lay dramatic; or expandThe lyric wing; or in elegiac strainsLament the fair; or lash the stubborn age,With laughing satire; or in rural scenesWith shepherds sport; or rack his hard-bound brainsFor the unexpected turn. Arachne so,In dusty kitchen corner, from her bowels 140Spins the fine web, but spins with better fate,Than the poor bard: she! caitiff! spreads her snares,And with their aid enjoys luxurious life,Bloated with fat of insects, flesh'd in blood:He! hard, hard lot! for all his toil and care,And painful watchings, scarce protracts a whileHis meagre, hungry days! ungrateful world!If with his drama he adorn the stage,No worth-discerning concourse pays the charge.Or of the orchestra, or the enlightening torch. 150He who supports the luxury and prideOf craving Lais; he! whose carnage fillsDogs, eagles, lions; has not yet enough,Wherewith to satisfy the greedier mawOf that most ravenous, that devouring beast,Ycleped a poet. What new Halifax,What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find,Thou hungry mortal? Break, wretch, break thy quill,Blot out the studied image; to the flames
Commit the Stagyrite; leave this thankless trade; 160Erect some pedling stall, with trinkets stock'd,There earn thy daily halfpence, nor againTrust the false Muse; so shall the cleanly mealRepel intruding hunger.—Oh! 'tis vain,The friendly admonition's all in vain;The scribbling itch has seized him, he is lostTo all advice, and starves for starving's sake.
Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood,Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth;But, oh! ye gods, avert th' impending stroke 170This luckless omen threatens! Hark! methinksI hear my better angel cry, 'Retreat,Rash youth! in time retreat; let those poor bards,Who slighted all, all! for the flattering Muse,Yet cursed with pining want, as landmarks stand,To warn thee from the service of the ingrate.'