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POEMS; LUDICROUS, SATIRICAL AND MORAL.

SUSPENSA MANU.

LONDON, PRINTED FOR J. FLETCHER IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD.

MDCCLXVIII.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[]

THE author of the following rhimes, hath too much neglected the muſes, either to deſerve or expect any great reputation as a poet. He hath ever ſet ſo little ſtore, indeed, by his poetical per⯑formances, as to be now able to procure copies of but few of thoſe, which have occaſionally dropt from his pen. It would be impertinent in him however, to affect to undervalue what he is obtruding on the publick; eſpecially as moſt of the pieces contained in this collection have been frequently printed, and therefore may be preſumed to have met with ſome approbation.

W. KENRICK.

CONTENTS.

[]

TO a gentleman; who cenſured the author for ſcribbling verſes p. 1
Fine fights; or the counteſs of C—y in Elyſium 4
An epiſtle to Mr. Garrick, on the report of his having left the ſtage 7
On the inveſtigation of truth, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 10
The force of prejudice, a fable 31
A familiar epiſtle to a friend, occaſioned by the author's ſeeing his name in the liſt of deaths in a magazine 35
The political magnet, a ſimile 39
An alliterative deſcription of an alliterative bard 41
P—and Proteus 44
The ſnarling pug and dancing bear, a fable 47
On happineſs, and the incapacity of mankind for its attainment, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 55
Simkin, a fairy tale 81
On the weakneſs of the human underſtanding, and the incomprehenſibility of the Deity, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 88
Prologue to the Widow'd Wife 103
[vii] An occaſional prologue, intended to have been ſpoken at the theatre royal on Richmond-green, 1767 p. 105
On phyſical and moral good and evil, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 109
Luſus naturae typographus 140
Art and nature, a ſhort ſtory 142
The Shropſhire gooſe, a fable 144
On the immortality of the ſoul, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 146
Candour, pens, ink, and paper, a fable 167
Ralph Moulſey's deſcription of Richmond play⯑houſe 171
On human certitude, and the univerſality of ſcience, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 174
Verſes on reading lord Lyttleton's new dialogues, of of the dead, and ſeeing his lordſhip's picture at W—'s 198
A drinking ſong, tranſlated from the German 200
To a new married lady, who inſiſted on the author's writing a ſong on her 203
On a certain muſician's turning poet 206
On moral ſentiment, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 207
The beavers, a fable 232
Phoebus detected, written at a ſummer theatre 238
On reading Theſpis 240
On the diverſity of religious ſects and opinions, an epiſtle to Lorenzo 241
[viii] The loaded aſs, or public credit, a political fable p. 262
On the ſtate of the theatres in 1749 267
Invocation to ſilence, occaſioned by a lady's ſinging 268
The poetical triumvirate 269
Ode to count Bruhl, tranſlated from the French of the king of Pruſſia 270
An epiſtle to A—r M—y, Eſq. on the ſucceſs of his laſt new comedies 277
Mary the cook-maid's addreſs to her fellow artiſts of London and Weſtminſter, an imitation of Swift 283
The bullfinch and ſparrow, a fable, from the French of the king of Pruſſia 288
On the man of parts, and head of the preſs 292
Prologue to Fhlſtaff's Wedding, a comedy, acted at Drury-lane 293
Epilogue to ditto 297
An epiſtle dedicatory, to the miniſter of ſtate for the time being 300

POEMS; LUDICROUS, SATIRICAL, AND MORAL.

[]

TO A GENTLEMAN, WHO CENSURED THE AUTHOR FOR SCRIBBLING VERSES.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

YOU aſk me, why I ſpend my time
In fruitleſs ribaldry and rhime,
On Criticks, Poets, Players?
The Miniſters of State, you ſay,
Would gladly take me into pay;
And none ſo good as theirs.

[2]I thank ye, —but I've had to do
With Miniſters, as well as you,
And know they're wond'rous civil;
They'll promiſe places for your pains,
But care not, when they've ſuck'd your brains,
If you were at the devil.

Did war, or rude rebellion, ſhake
The court, and make the city quake,
I then my pen might draw:
Not in theſe piping times of peace,
When wealth with taxes muſt increaſe,
And freedom's fix'd by law.

I once, indeed, did ſuch a thing,
To ſerve my country and my king,
And of my own accord,
A king, who had the grace and ſpirit
To know his friends, and loyal merit
Could liberally reward.

But ſince (for truth may dare be juſt)
Falſe policy hath given diſguſt;
While Nature's powerful charms
Woo'd me, thoſe hidden paths t'explore,
Which Locke and Newton trod before
And won me to her arms.

[3]Not but, relaxing now and then,
Philoſophy lays down the pen;
When pictures, poems, plays,
E'en muſick's proſtituted art,
Engage the eye, the ear, the heart;
Amuſing various ways.

Meanwhile, an hour, I'd rather ſit,
To look at Pritchard, from the pit,
Than kiſs the papal toe;
Nay, rather than a monarch's hand,
For Garrick there would even ſtand
'Till I could hardly go.

While thus amus'd, and thus employ'd,
Life wears away not unenjoy'd,
Tho' free from ill intention:
Good providence, but give me health,
I envy no man's wit or wealth,
Nor pine for place or penſion.

Let others write to pleaſe the rabble,
In hopes ſome miniſterial ſquabble
May pluck the fools a feather:
Believe me, I am no ſuch fool,
Like —, to be made the tool,
Of knaves and fools together.

FINE SIGHTS; OR THE COUNTESS OF C—Y, IN ELYSIUM.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLX.

[4]

ON the banks of the Styx, as a beautiful ghoſt,
In reſemblance the ſhade of the Goddeſs of Love,
Was revolving the days, when a counteſs and toaſt
She flaunted about in the regions above.

News arriv'd, which ſoon made all Elyſium to ring,
That the Fates a great monarch had ſummon'd to reſt,
In calling Old England's late father and king
To a crown of reward in the realms of the bleſt.

My lady was vex'd to be robb'd of th' occaſion,
By dying before him ſo mal-a-propos,
Of ſeeing his royal young heir's coronation;
And making a party herſelf in the ſhow.

She therefore in haſte ſkipt away to the ferry,—
"Here, Charon, you're empty, come take over me;
"I'm reſolv'd to go back to the world in your wherry,
"The only fine ſight I e'er miſs'd of, to ſee."

[5]

Old Charon moſt civilly bow'd to my lady;

Stept out of his wherry and handed her in;

But, finding ſhe wanted a paſs, was as ready,

Her ladyſhip roughly to turn out again.

Then ſkudding away to the court in a hurry,
Direct, for a paſſport, to Pluto ſhe ran;
And put madam Proſerpine into a flurry,
Who thought ſhe was come to ſeduce her good man.

Gloomy Dis grimly ſmil'd at the lady's requeſt,
But more at her whimſical motive and reaſon;
And, having malignly a mind for a jeſt,
Repreſented her ſuit as a thing out of ſeaſon.

I cannot, ſaid he, lady fair, with a frown,
Indulge ev'ry ghoſt in it's wanton deſire,
But if for their ſakes, wife or huſband come down,
I then might reſtore the fond ſouls they require.

Since Orpheus, however, in riſk of his life,
Long ago made us ſtare with his muſick and paſſion,
Not a ſoul hath come down, or for huſband or wife;
So that journies of this kind are quite out of faſhion.

[6]

Yet, as you're a beauty, the favour I grant ye;

But wherefore again ſhould you covet on earth,

To mix with a crowd, that perhaps only want ye

To make you the theme of impertinent mirth?

Beſides, pretty lady, you're greatly miſtaken,
If pleaſure you promiſe yourſelf in the ſight;
For, unſeen by your friends, by admirers forſaken,
There's none will regard an impalpable ſpright.

Nay, nay, quoth the counteſs, if that be the caſe,
Take your paſſport again; I'll have no more chagrin;
A fig for fine ſights, if unſeen one's fine face;
What ſignifies ſeeing if one is not ſeen?

AN EPISTLE TO MR. GARRICK, ON THE REPORT OF HIS HAVING LEFT THE STAGE.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

[7]

SO! Mr. Garrick! is it true,
As folks report, the ſtage and you
Took a French leave, at parting?
We hop'd th' Italian air and diet
Had quite reſtor'd your health and quiet,
And made you keen for ſtarting.

In vain we liſten'd to the tales
Brought over by the foreign mails,
That you were home returning;
To ſee your name in capitals,
Stuck up on tavern-poſts, and walls.
With fond impatience burning!

Your wiſh'd arrival vain to boaſt,
If, never enter'd at the poſt,
You ſhun the race of glory!
As well you might have travell'd on,
From Pope to Turk, to Preſter John:
The world was all before ye.

[8]For to be plain Sir, entre nous,
'Twas not about your wife or you
We all were ſo ſolicitous:
You might as well be there as here,
If, as king Richard, Bayes, or Lear,
You mean no more to viſit us.

Your friends, if friends they are, indeed,
Your ſpirit or your ſpleen may plead,
From acting to excuſe ye;
But, ſpite of what your friends declare
We, your admirers, cannot bear
To get you thus to loſe ye.

'Tis true, they make a mighty ſtir
About you, as a manager,
Intent on reformation;
Buſy inſtructing, in their parts,
In clap-trap attitudes and ſtarts,
The riſing generation.

But ah! in vain removed from ſight
The candles, to improve the light,
Tho' pleas'd the pit immenſely!
If all your pupils need the rod
As much as fiddle-faddle—,
Or bluſtering, bouncing—.

[9]To thoſe, who ne'er have Garrick ſeen,
Such acting may not give the ſpleen:
To me, it is the devil,
To ſit three hours, my noddle bare,
To ſee your—rant and tear,
And hear that—ſnivel!

I, often as I come to town,
In order to ſpare you a crown,
Dine gratis, with my printer;
But, damn it, if I'm doom'd to ſee
Such mummers play, inſtead of thee,
I'll come no more this winter.

ON THE INVESTIGATION OF TRUTH.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[10]

TOO long have childiſh bards, too long,
Their hours employ'd in idle ſong;
Buſied the lineaments to trace
Of wither'd Fiction's painted face;
Where not a native beauty blows,
But cankers eat the budding roſe!
Yet, captive to her ſmiles and wit,
Pleas'd with their chains, her ſlaves have writ,
And all the labour'd pomp of verſe
Employ'd, her fables to rehearſe;
While thou, O ſacred Truth! remain
The theme of ev'ry humbler ſtrain.
And yet, believe what each pretends,
And num'rous are her rhyming friends!
While ſuch her fond admirers prove,
And tune their rival ſongs to love.
But, fools in fondneſs as in awe,
The truth, 'tis plain, they never ſaw;
And but themſelves her lovers boaſt,
Becauſe her name the public toaſt;
Still playing a fictitious part;
No real paſſion at the heart.
[11] For ſay, what lover's paſſion's true
For beauty that he never knew?
So eaſtern monarch's love their wives,
Tho' barren ſtrangers all their lives.
So lov'd la Mancha's famous knight
The Fair, for whom he ſwore to fight;
Fir'd by th' enthuſiaſtic rage,
With men and monſters to engage.
Yet aſk'd, for whom this martial ſtrife?
He never ſaw her in her life:
Nor was he poſitive, God wot,
Whether, indeed, ſhe liv'd or not.

Thus bards too oft, in truth's defence,
Break through the rules of common ſenſe;
And, o'er his rival, each, t' aſpire,
Strives which ſhall prove the greateſt liar:
Strange to the liberty of thought,
Vile ſlaves! but ſeeking to be bought,
To lying faction early train'd,
A purchaſe by the truth diſdain'd.
Mean-time, as inſolent as vain,
They freedom's ſacred name profane,
And, boaſting, hug the chains that bind
That worſt of ſlaves, the ſervile mind,
Such, Dryden, thou immortal bard,
Whoſe genius claims ſupreme regard;
[12] How honour'd, might not truth accuſe
Thy venal, proſtituted muſe.

Say'ſt thou 'tis ſtrange the world ſhould reſt
Content, by falſehood thus depreſs'd?
Alas, thou little know'ſt mankind,
Who, ſeeing, imitate the blind;
In ſpite of truth and open day,
In darkneſs chooſe to grope their way;
Suſpecting plainneſs of diſguiſe,
The obvious ſenſe of terms deſpiſe;
From ſound or derivation gleaning
Some far-fetch'd, dark and doubtful meaning:
While each impoſtor's word prevails
In myſtic parables and tales;
Neglected e'en the word divine,
If with it ſenſe and reaſon join.

Look back through each ſucceſſive age:
How honour'd the myſterious page!
What millions have been the tools
Of knaves, whoſe nat'ral prey is fools!
How ſtrangely trick'd deluded crowds
Who, truth expecting from the clouds,
And therefore gaping into th' air,
On error ſtumbled unaware!
Thus an aſtrologer of old,
In learned hiſtory we're told,
[13] Contemplating the milky way,
Neglected that before him lay;
And, led by wand'ring planets, fell,
Unluckily into a well.
Yet e'er with ſlander branding thoſe
Who ſeek the naked truth t' expoſe,
Short-ſighted mortals, in their pride,
Thus ſtrive their ignorance to hide;
By holding all beyond their view
Beyond inveſtigation too.

Lorenzo, our misfortune here
Th' effect of idleneſs and fear.
The ſluggard ſhuns inquiry's taſk,
Becauſe too great the pains to aſk;
Stifling th' emotions of his breaſt,
T' indulge his lazy brains in reſt.
A paradox, yet ſuch the fact,
More fear to think than fear to act;
In thought, tho' danger we ſurmize,
In act while real danger lies.
In truth, my friend, 'tis ſad to find
Hence riſe the zeal of half mankind;
Religion but the compound vice
Of indolence and cowardice.
Ev'n pious chriſtians, much I fear,
Are practically atheiſts here.
[14] How deaf and blind to calls of grace
When nature wears a ſmiling face,
But when ſhe frowns, in wild amaze
Look how th' affrighted cowards gaze!
When clouds drop fatneſs on the plains,
In mildly-ſoft deſcending rains;
In their due ſeaſon harveſts ſmile,
And plenty crowns the peaſant's toil:
As nothing rare, as nothing new,
We take the bleſſing as our due.
For O! proſperity's a lot
At eaſe enjoy'd, with eaſe forgot.
In june's warm ſun and april's ſhower
We trace not an almighty power:
Ingrates! ſo light of heav'n we make,
Nor think the hand that gives may take.
But ah! when threat'ning ſtorms ariſe;
When thunders rattle through the ſkies;
When the tall mountain bows its head,
And earthquakes vomit up the dead;
Behold whole nations proſtrate fall
Before the mighty God of all.
T' appeaſe his anger now their care,
Lo, all is faſting, ſighs and pray'r;
Till, the dread ſtorm blown haply o'er,
They riſe and revel as before,
Forget, or ridicule, the rod;
And laugh to ſcorn the fear of God.
[15] Nor only mov'd when danger's nigh,
Our fears awake the gen'ral cry;
Imaginary ſcenes, alike,
The daſtard ſoul with terror ſtrike;
While to the coward's opticks ſeem
Light ſtraws as each a giant's beam.
In honour thus of God above,
So weakly draw the cords of love;
While nature's groans, or fancy's fears,
Drive headlong down the vale of tears.

Lorenzo, wouldſt thou freely trace
Whence grows a cowardice ſo baſe?
At th' early dawn of moral ſenſe
Th' infatuation did commence;
And, propagated ſince by art,
We all have, more or leſs, a part.

Ere hermit bald or pilgrim grey
Had worn the ſolitary way;
Ere yet the monk had told his beads;
Ere yet credulity or creeds;
To ſchool, with ſober Reaſon ſent,
Young Genius to Experience went.
The latter, tho' as yet, 'tis true,
No wiſer than the former two,
In charge the tender pupils took,
And with them read in Nature's book.
[16] So pedagogues, unletter'd, uſe
No claſs of blockheads to refuſe;
But gravely undertake t' explain
The arts themſelves muſt firſt attain;
Sufficient if the maſter goes
Before his blundering pupil's noſe.
Careful his vacant hours t' employ,
Now Reaſon prov'd a hopeful boy:
But Genius, inſolent and wild,
By nature an aſſuming child,
A treach'rous memory his lot,
The little that he learn'd forgot;
Nor gave himſelf a moments pain
To con his leſſons o'er again;
But, truſting to his forward parts,
Debauch'd with wit the ſiſter-arts;
Who, yet unſettled, young and frail,
Enamour'd, liſten'd to his tale;
And, ſince the cauſe of dire diſputes,
Turn'd out abandon'd proſtitutes:
By prieſt and prophet, once enjoy'd,
To baſeſt purpoſes employ'd;
For ages paſt, their only uſe
To vitiate reaſon or traduce.
For this, Tradition foremoſt came,
Inſtruction was her maiden name,
Now grown a ſmooth-tongu'd ſlipp'ry jade,
An arrant miſtreſs of her trade.
[17] She told the ſtories, o'er and o'er,
That Genius told the Arts before,
Repeating lies, as liars do,
Till in the end they think them true;
And when detected in her lie,
" Myſt'ry"—the biter's arch reply,

By this fine dame our mothers taught,
Their ſcheme of education wrought;
So train'd us early to deceit,
To look on Reaſon as a cheat;
To lies firſt tun'd the op'ning ear;
Awoke our earlieſt ſenſe to fear;
With monſters and chimeras vain,
Fill'd the ſoft head and turn'd the brain;
Till the fond fools, to top their part,
Fix'd the rank coward at the heart.
Nor with our growing years releas'd;
The nurſe but moulds us for the prieſt;
Who, leſt his ward, grown ſly or ſtout,
Should find the knaviſh ſecret out,
The bugbear from his reach removes,
And all th' old woman's tale improves,
Paſſions more riotous to quell,
Chang'd the dark hole for darker hell,
The truant damn'd for naughty play,
Black-monday now's the judgment-day;
[18] In promiſe, hopes, for toys, are given,
And endleſs holidays in heav'n.

The groundleſs fear and vain deſire,
Which hence mankind in youth acquire,
How deeply rooted do we find;
How fix'd th' impreſſions on the mind!
The weakneſs of thoſe childiſh fears,
Too oft increaſing with our years;
While ev'ry infant joy and ſtrife,
Improv'd, is carried into life!
For ſee the idiot and the wiſe,
Each from his own fond ſhadow flies;
Like curs, that run till nature fails!
A bladder faſten'd to their tails.

With idle fears the world t' abuſe,
Aſſiſtant here th' inventive muſe;
The tale of wonder early taught,
When playful, young, and void of thought,
By ſtroling Fancy led aſtray,
The vagrant troul'd the jovial lay.
Alas! of mirth and pleaſure cur'd,
To horror's browneſt ſhade inur'd;
By love of wonder ſince betray'd,
To lend fantaſtic Spleen her aid:
For whom her numbers, ſad and ſlow,
In diſmal melancholly flow;
[19] Condemn'd to murmur all the day;
To ſigh and groan the midnight lay;
The ſkull, the ſpade, the ſhroud, the herſe,
The doleful implements of verſe;
Or doom'd prepoſt'rous tales to tell,
By brain-ſick Fiction brought from hell.
For know th' unwary muſe was caught
While Fiction yet her friend was thought;
A hag, by Ignorance badly nurs'd,
With craving appetite accurs'd,
To Spleen's embrace, while yet a maid,
The dire chloroſis had betray'd.
Since when, the wretch has roam'd abroad,
Her ſullen tyrant's willing bawd;
A vile procureſs, to ſupply
The love of wonder with a lie.
Hence bards, that reaſon leſs than rail,
Affect to tell the woeful tale;
Or vent their moralizing rage;
As bugbears of a fearful age;
To truth pretending to be led
By megrims in the ſick man's head;
As if with zeal prophetic burn'd
The wretch whoſe bliſter'd head was turn'd;
The fitteſt thoſe the truth to teach,
By fevers half-depriv'd of ſpeech;
Whoſe fault'ring tongues moſt loud complain,
When death or doctors ſhake the brain.
[20] Nor ſeldom, by tranſition led
From dying moraliſts to dead,
Triſtful, in hypocondres vex'd,
The muſing parſon chews his text;
Some ſolemn ſcene of dulneſs ſought,
To aid his rectitude of thought;
The murky vaults, the haunted cells,
Where moping Melancholy dwells,
And Fear, that kneels in piteous plight,
Her ſtraggling hair all bolt upright.
Fit comrades theſe as e'er could chuſe
The ſplenetic or maudlin muſe;
Her doleful ditties proud to ſing
Where ſadneſs ſpreads her duſky wing;
Where croaks the ſyren of the lake
The light-of-heart from eaſe to wake;
And ſolemn owls, in concert grave,
Join hoot the worldly-wiſe to ſave.

'Twas thus enthuſiaſtic Young;
'Twas thus affected Hervey ſung;
Whoſe motley muſe, in florid ſtrain,
With owls did to the moon complain;
Clear'd at the morn her raven throat,
To ſound the glibber magpy's note.
Mean-while Religion gravely ſmil'd
To ſee grown Piety a child;
[21] In leading-ſtrings to find her led,
By thoſe her foſt'ring hand had bred.
For why confin'd the moral muſe,
To blaſted oaks or baleful yews;
O'er graves to make fantaſtick moan,
And deepen Horror's diſmal groan?
Say, hath alone the mould'ring tomb
For pious Meditation room?
Ah! wont with meek-eyed Peace to rove,
Through church-way path or ſilent grove;
Her grateful influence round her ſhed,
Where groan the ſick, or ſleep the dead;
With truth and ſoberneſs ſerene,
Enliv'ning ev'ry ſolemn ſcene;
Diſarming Terror of it's pow'r,
To wander at the midnight hour;
Sweet Philomel, harmonious ſpright,
The only ſpectre of the night.
Can love of truth impoſe the taſk,
To lurk beneath a gorgon maſk;
To ſtalk, in garb terrific clad,
And ſcoul the weak and wicked mad;
Or drive the wretch, o'erwhelm'd with care,
In godly frenzy, to deſpair?
Is folly vice, fear makes it worſe;
Reflection is the coward's curſe:
Unleſs remorſe in mercy given,
To damn ſelf-murderers to heaven.
[22] Why, then, is ſought the midnight ſhade
From vice or falſehood to diſſuade?
Is night leſs vicious than the day?
Doth error guide the ſolar ray?
Or is exhal'd, like morning dew,
The moral object or the true?
O, moſt ridiculous the ſcene,
Where ſuperſtition feeds the ſpleen;
Where the grey ſpectre ſtalks to view,
As burns th' expiring taper blue;
Or dances o'er the dizzy ſight
The form of many a dreadful ſpright:
Mean-while a victim to his fears
The moon-ſtruck moraliſt appears.
For when the brain wild fancy fires;
Reaſon moſt prudently retires.
As ſober men from drunkards part,
For ſuch companions griev'd at heart.

Awes, then, with tremulous reſtraint
The painted urn or plaſter ſaint?
Humbles the mutilated buſt
The rotten ſinner to the duſt?
Lorenzo, here, no error make,
Nor cowardice for conſcience take.
Alas, repentance, void of root,
May bloſſom fair yet fail of fruit:
[23] Attrition vain and inſincere
Mere weakneſs all, unmanly fear.

In the dark grove what horrour reigns
To chill the blood in Chiron's * veins,
When th' ignis-fatuus glares, by night,
Terrific witchcraft to his ſight;
Or, animated by his fears,
Alive the freſh-lopp'd elm appears;
A giant ghoſt the dreadful buſh,
Shook by ſome formidable thruſh,
That nightly perching on its breaſt,
Securely builds or tends her neſt;
While on the next tremendous ſpray,
The nightingale repeats her lay:
Th' heroic titmouſe or the wren
Leſs timid than the ſons of men;
Who yet to conſcience give the lie,
And dare the pow'r of truth defy.

For know, no tremour can impart
Conviction to the ſkeptick's heart:
Nor takes, like agues, in a fright,
Trembling Impiety its flight.
[24] Behold the tyrant's iron hand,
That holds in chains a captive land;
In whoſe firm graſp impriſon'd lies
Bold freedom, ſtruggling as it dies;
Cruſh'd by whoſe weight the monarch bleeds,
And ſceptres break like blighted reeds:
See this ſtrong hand let fall the rod,
And tremble if the bulruſh nod;
Belſhazzar's like, enervate fall,
If laid a finger on the wall:
The wretch of God nor man afraid,
Yet trembling at an empty ſhade!

Nor only fear th' immoral crew;
The coward Pious tremble too;
Philoſophy herſelf a fool,
Attended by her nurſe to ſchool.
Such dupes to fear, at times, we find
The beſt, the wiſeſt of mankind!
For Oh! what antidote ſo ſtrong
As poiſon that has work'd ſo long!
What drug eradicates the peſt,
Suck'd from the mother's tainted breaſt?
In vain the doctor we may try;
No doctor's fee our cure can buy:
Tho, tamp'ring with the dire diſeaſe,
Licentiates mock with preſent eaſe;
[25] And emp'ricks, ſalving ev'ry ſore,
With noſtrums make it rage the more.

Sayſt thou, in policy, afraid
To ſpoil the prieſt's and lawyer's trade,
The ſtateſman, topping the divine,
Supports with pow'r the ſame deſign;
To keep th' inquiſitive in awe,
Smacking his long-tail'd whip, the law;
Still thund'ring in the vulgar ear
Implicit faith and groundleſs fear:
The noſtrums theſe of church and ſtate;
To make a nation good and great.
Thus forfeit patriots that pretence
They make, as men, to common-ſenſe?
Can ignorance be underſtood
As needful to the public good;
That free inquiry ſuch decry;
And boaſt their ſalutary lie?
Or, are they here by habit led,
And innovation's tumult dread?
So ſacred held the ſtated rules
Of Cuſtom, law-giver to fools!
Yet Cuſtom's rules caprice has broke,
And turn'd her ſtatutes into joke;
Nor boaſt her laws, however old,
Reſiſtance to the pow'r of gold.
[26] Shall Science, then, ſtill drag her chain,
And ſigh for liberty in vain?
Forbid it heav'n! that thus the mind,
By tyrant policy confin'd,
Should bow while Falſehood bears the ſway,
And give the cauſe of Truth away.
Is this, Lorenzo, to be free?
Are theſe the ſweets of liberty?
That glorious priv'lege yours and mine,
In our own ſties, like ſenſual ſwine,
At will to grumble, eat and drink;
But ah, prohibited to think!
Our nobler appetites denied
Their proper food, and damn'd for pride;
Forbad our reaſon to employ;
Depriv'd of each ſublimer joy;
Robb'd of the privilege to know;
Man's chief prerogative below!

May Britons boaſt, of all mankind,
The nobler fortitude of mind;
To ſet blind prejudice apart;
To rend th' old woman from the heart;
To laugh at blind tradition's rules,
The mother and the nurſe of fools?
Have they with blood ſo dearly bought.
Their boaſted privilege of thought;
[27] To throw like ſchool-boys, tir'd with play,
The long diſputed prize away?
Ah! had not cuſtom often fail'd,
What barbariſm had ſtill prevail'd?
Deaf to the call of truth and grace,
Denying reformation place,
What lengths ſtill ſtubborn faith had run,
To end what madd'ning zeal begun?
In honour ſtill of Moloch's name,
Our children might have paſs'd the flame;
By perſecution's faggot rais'd,
Religious fires in Smithfield blaz'd;
Or now, as in a Stuart's reign,
Been dy'd with blood Iërne's plain.

Nay ſtill how prepoſſeſs'd we find
With pious falſehoods half mankind.
Think from the ſtake how late repriev'd
Wretches, no charity reliev'd:
Oh horror! to the ſlaughter led,
For wearing rags and wanting bread;
Doom'd by inhuman, legal rage
Martyrs to poverty and age *.
[28] See ſtill th' enthuſiaſtic band
Cant, whine, and madden o'er the land;
By ſcripture-craz'd fanaticks led,
Whitfield or Weſtley, at their head.
See ev'n the learning of our ſchools
Perverted to bewilder fools;
The words of plainneſs to diſguiſe,
And baffle reaſon with ſurprize;
While truth and nature plead in vain
Againſt the comment of Romaine *.
Ah! think how fatal, ſoon or late,
Such crazy members to the ſtate:
How dang'rous to the public weal
Blind ignorance and fooliſh zeal.
Reflect in what a dreadful hour
Nonſenſe uſurp'd the hand of power;
When puritans the land o'er-run,
And ſacrilege was pious fun:
While wretches for their country's good,
Dipt their vile hands in royal blood!

Is ignorance the curſe of God?
Avert good Heav'n th' impending rod!
O leave, ye patriots, leave the mind
In ſearch of knowledge unconfin'd:
[29] Leſt Truth your cunning ſhould deſpiſe,
Returning to its native ſkies *.
Good policy to truth's ally'd;
By ſcience guided, not its guide.

Ceaſe too, ye bards, ſo wond'rous wiſe,
T' inſtruct by means you ſhould deſpiſe.
In ſober ſadneſs, much too long
Mankind have liſten'd to your ſong;
Have ſtrain'd the mental eye, to ſee
Your falſe, fantaſtic imag'ry;
With gaudy colours glaring bright,
To captivate the vulgar ſight;
The gaping idiot's grin of praiſe,
Or ſtare of ignorance to raiſe:
Nay, tho' approv'd your moral ends,
Ye ſtill are truth's miſtaken friends,
Ah! full as dang'rous to her cauſe
As even thoſe who ſpurn her laws.

No viſionary fears intrude
Where triumphs moral rectitude.
Truth all the artifice diſdains
Of dungeons deep, and clanking chains;
[30] Skulks not in life's ſequeſter'd way;
But walks abroad in open day.
'Tis Falſehood, her grim face to hide,
Shuffles on nature's darkeſt ſide;
Baffling, in Terror's murky den,
The ſcrutiny of honeſt men.

THE FORCE OF PREJUDICE.
A FABLE.
THE HINT FROM HELVETIUS.

[31]

ONCE on a time, or ſtory lies,
A deity forſook the ſkies;
And rambling, curious, up and down,
Enter'd, at length, an Afric town!
Where liv'd a tribe of mortals black,
With each a hump upon his back;
A burthen common to the nation
Thro' each ſuch ſucceſſive generation.

The comely god, well-ſhap'd and fair,
March'd forward with a graceful air;
While, gathering round, the gaping throng
Wonder'd, and hooted him along.
This gave a kick, and that a thump;
All crying, Where's the fellow's hump?
The females too, among the reſt,
Their deteſtation loud expreſs'd;
While luſcious jokes were cut and crack'd,
To ſee a man ſo ſlender back'd;
Eager each flirt to have a fling,
At ſuch a pale fac'd ugly thing.
[32] Nay, heav'n knows where their taunts had ended,
If fate the god had not befriended.
But ſo, it chanc'd, a ſober ſage
Advanc'd, rever'd for ſenſe and age;
Made wiſe by time and obſervation,
His knowledge glean'd from ev'ry nation:
He whites had ſeen, as well as blacks,
No mountains bearing on their backs;
And knew, from reaſons conſequential,
Colour and form were not eſſential.
Yet ſtill too wiſe to call in doubt
The wiſdom of the rabble rout:
He thus, the ſtranger to protect,
Addreſs'd the mob with due reſpect.
"O give, my friends, your inſults o'
"Nor vex this hapleſs creature more:
"What tho' before our eyes we ſee
"A lump of fair deformity;
"Not e'en a mole-hill on his ſhoulder,
"To captivate one black beholder;
"But like an unſhap'd log he ſtands,
"Unfiniſh'd left by nature's hands;
"Yet mock him not, in cruel pride,
"For wanting what the gods deny'd:
"'Tis affectation makes the fool;
"No object this of ridicule.
"It might have been your fate or mine,
"To want the human hump divine;
[33] And each of us, an ugly ſight,
Might have flat-ſhoulder'd been, and white:
If therefore heav'n, to us ſo kind,
Gives the protuberance behind,
Thanks to the gods with fervour pay,
But ſend this wretch unhurt away."

The mob, on ev'ry word intent,
With ſome few murmurings gave conſent;
When now the ſage the god addreſs'd,
And thus diſmiſs'd the injur'd gueſt.

"On earth a welcome wouldſt thou find,
"Go hence, and learn to know mankind.
"In other lands thy form and face
"May challenge comelineſs and grace;
"But here to beauty are we blind,
"If wanting of a hump behind.
"Thus ev'ry nation, ev'ry tribe,
"Peculiar ſentiments imbibe;
"And beauty, virtue, ſenſe, lay claim
"To little more than empty name;
"Varied in every clime and nation,
"As ſuits the general ſituation.
"Hence, judging each by diff'rent rules,
"They think each other knaves or fools;
"While no defect or vice is known,
"Unleſs it differ from their own.
[34] "To turn the ſhafts of ſcorn aſide,
"Then take this maxim for your guide:
"Go where you will, be ſure to wear
"The gen'ral hump the people bear:
"He's ne'er accounted fool or rogue,
"Whoſe vice or folly is in vogue."

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND: OCCASIONED BY THE AUTHOR'S SEEING HIS NAME IN THE LIST OF DEATHS IN A MAGAZINE.

[35]

NO doubt, ere this, the magazine,
Your monthly noſtrum for the ſpleen,
Hath reach'd your hands at K.
The liſt of deaths, of courſe, you've read,
Turn'd up your eyes, and ſhook your head,
And cry'd, good-lack-a-day!

But, having not deſerv'd ſo ill,
That in your teſtamental will,
I ſhould be quite forgotten,
I'm thinking how the folks will ſtare,
If kindly you ſhould make an heir
Of one, thought dead and rotten.

Thus, to prevent miſtakes, I ſend
T' aſſure my beſt, my worthieſt friend,
His magazine tells lies:
So the maim'd ſoldier, 'mong the ſlain,
Juſt ready to be ſtripp'd, in pain,
Aloud for mercy cries.

[36]For men may loſe a limb, or wife,
Yet lead a not-unpleaſant life,
Nor pine away with ſorrow:
Hearty as any buck alive,
And little more than thirty-five,
Why may'nt I live to-morrow?

I hear you, clearing up your brow,
Reply, "You live! wild Coz—but how?
"How live you?—Tell me that.
"For tho' perhaps I am not willing
"To cut you off with juſt a ſhilling,
"If ſaid, 'tis done; that's flat.

"Pray, tell me; are you rich or poor?
"Can'ſt keep the wolf-dogs from the door?
"How ſtand you with his grace?
"How comes it ſuch quick parts as yours
"Get not ſome pretty ſine-cures,
"A penſion, or ſome place?"

Why faith, good Sir, to tell you true,
I wiſh I were as rich as you:
But, prodigal in grain,
At ſchool my little weekly caſh
Went all in whips, and tops, and traſh,
Improvident of gain.

[37]Nor, growing up, did e'er I chuſe
For lords to fetch and carry news,
Like ſpaniels for a cruſt.
With bread by labour earn'd, I'd rather
Keep ſoul and body juſt together,
Till duſt return to duſt.

Contented I can ſit me down,
Snug in the midſt of this vile town,
As in a village cot;
Treat e'en our patriots with a ſneer,
See W—s a wanderer, P—t a peer;
Preferring neither's lot.

Can ſee at eaſe (while oft a friend
Calls in a leiſure hour to ſpend,
And nurſe my winter's fire)
Rich knaves in gilded coaches roll,
And truly pity, from my ſoul,
What half the world admire.

Not that I've learn'd in ſtoic ſchool
To live and move by line and rule:
No.—If I had it, friend,
My laviſh ſoul could give away,
With rapture, more in half a day,
Than dukes in years could ſpend.

[38]For others have I drawn a bill?
I've paid it—or—I owe it ſtill;
And want no credit yet.
You know what Milton's devil ſays,
"True gratitude, tho nought it pays,
"Is ever out of debt."

My youthful errors, then, forgive;
And know I live, and how I live;—
Imprudently, 'tis true:
But there, my friend, the difference lies,
Between the witty and the wiſe,
Between your coz and you.

THE POLITICAL MAGNET.
A SIMILE.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVI.

[39]

LODG'D in the northern pole, the wiſe
Affirm a potent loadſtone lies,
Of univerſal ſway:
So, in the world of politicks,
B—, the great magnet, there they fix,
Whoſe influence all obey.

Why then, ye grumblers, do you ſnarl
To ſee your patriot made an earl;
And rais'd o'er ſin and ſhame?
C—'s unalterable ſoul,
True as the needle to the pole,
Is evermore the ſame.

What, tho' he veer'd from ſide to ſide,
'Twixt popularity and pride,
Unſettled in his notions;
Ev'n ſo the needle quiv'ring plays,
And eaſtward oft, and weſtward ſtrays,
Tho' conſtant in its motions.

[40]See and confeſs its genuine worth,
When, plainly pointing to the North,
Its wav'ring all is o'er:
Thus to the pole of politicks
At length, lo, P—, in C—ſticks,
And veers about no more.

AN ALLITERATIVE DESCRIPTION OF AN ALLITERATIVE BARD.[41]AS in the gutter ſtruts the carrion crow,
So ſtalks, in ſable ſtate, ſtiff, ſolemn, ſlow,
Writhing his wriggling rump from ſide to ſide,
In all the pimping pomp of prieſtly pride,
Pert parſon—, poet, pedant, prig;
No bard ſo bright, no bachelor ſo big!
Far-fam'd for frippery, frothy, futile fun;
Peerleſs at puerile repartee and pun;
By nature, niggling, niggardly, and nice;
By art, pragmatic, primitive, preciſe;
A ſimpering ſinner, ſimple-ſeeming ſaint;
Queer, quackiſh, quibbling, querulous and quaint;
So fine, ſo finicking, ſo deft, ſo feat
His numbers ſoft, his ſtyle ſo ſilver-ſweet!
Hence fluſh'd with fancied gifts from all the graces,
He boaſts their favours, tho unſeen their faces;
While, ſelf-ſufficient, in fantaſtic ſtrains,
He vents th' Effuſions of his barren brains;
Scribbles the ſenſeleſs, ſentimental tale
Of mincing minx in Mes'potamia's vale;
Publicly proſtitutes prepoſterous praiſe,
In languid, labour'd, lulling, lying lays;
Pens penny-pilfering puffs for paultry pay,
And gives egregious egotiſms away;
[42] With bare-fac'd eulogies himſelf addreſſes;
Vaunting, each muſe the virtuous bard careſſes.
Vamping vile verſes, vapid, vague, jejune,
He rings his jingling chimes, to time and tune,
Or decks in plunder'd plumes, and ſets to ſale,
His green-gooſe waddling with a peacock's tail;
Poor plagiary! tho' pitiful, yet proud,
Scorning to ſtop till ſtop-thief's cried aloud;
Friend to the faithful, formal, ſtarch and ſhy,
He ſneers with ſcepticks, ſhrewd, ſevere and ſly,
Or, coaxing doubting deiſts to believe,
Laughs at each credulous chriſtian in his ſleeve;
Forges, forſooth, fanatic fribbling letters,
And plays the critick on the bards, his betters;
In fulminations by bell, book, and taper,
Anath'matizes harmleſs ink and paper,
And contumeliouſly, with captious curſes,
Damns blund'ring blockheads bawling bell-men's verſes;
While thus, to crude caprice a carping tool,
He, ſpite of ſcripture, calls his brother, fool:
Power, name and fame, mean time, he knows to prize,
Nor thinks he e'er can ſtoop too low, to riſe!
Subſervient hence, to give offence in fear,
He cenſures nought by prelate wrote, or peer;
But ſervile, ſneaking, trimming, meek and mean,
Veers with each wind, and ſhifts with every ſcene:
[43] By venal views thus ſet his virtues blazing,
He ſays and does what's really moſt amazing,
Kiſſes foul J—nſ—n's breech, and, on like plan,
Calls, Gl—ſt—r's biſhop a fine gentleman;
Says lean lord L—t—lt—n (ſuch lies he'll tell ye)
Keeps all the Nine in that lank ſheath, his belly;
Treats Alma mater like a common whore;
Vow's B—te's a whig, and Scotland is not poor!
Slights Churchill's muſe whilſt Ogilvie and Home,
With him, excell the bards of Greece and Rome.
But is not he, who thus can act and write,
A coxcomb, ſycophant, and hypocrite?

P—AND PROTEUS.
Mutatas dicere formas.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVII.

[44]

CHouſing, cheating, chopping, changing,
Proteus round the world was ranging;
When a blaſt from Rumour came,
Reverberating C—'s name;
Fam'd afar for transformations,
Turns, trimming, tricks, tergiverſations.

Proteus, piqu'd at the report,
Poſted preſently to court;
When, clapping on a Highland ſuit
To gain the countenance of B—,
He cring'd and ſidled to the ring,
And made his bow unto—,
Then turning round and ſpeaking loud,
He challeng'd C—from the crowd.
"My lord, if you're a man, turn out;
"With T—oft I've had a bout;
"And Charles could match me to a hair,
"In changing into bull and bear:
"The deuce is in't, if you can be
"A match for Proteus more than he!"
[45] In Pharoah's preſence thus, we're told,
Ev'n Iſrael's chiefs were brav'd of old,
When Aaron's rod, to crown the jeſt,
Gap'd, gulp'd, and ſwallow'd up the reſt.

The ring was clear'd, and P—began,
In form and preſence of a man;
Appearing in his priſtine glory
A cornet, and a rory-tory;
Declar'd himſelf Britannia's bully,
And tweak'd the noſe of German cully:
Then ceas'd at once from talking big,
And turn'd a worming, wheedling whig;
Clos'd with the r—l predilections
For German generals and connections;
Unſaid whate'er he ſaid before,
And bore the form of man no more.

Through th' objects of the brute creation,
He next began his transformation:
By turns was hog, dog, cur and beagle,
A Ruſſian bear, a Pruſſian eagle,
An Engliſh war-horſe on full ſpeed,
A prancing Hanoverian ſteed?
The Britiſh lion now he roar'd;
Now as a Smithfield bullock gor'd;
Now a Camelion changing colour;
A ravenous cormorant ne'er the fuller;
[46] From beaſt to bird, to fiſh from fowl,
A buſtard now, and now an owl;
A trout, expecting to be tickled;
A ſalmon, — pity 'twas not pickled!
And if he ſaw the—but ſmile,
Was ſtrait a ſnivelling crocodile.

While thus he play'd at faſt and looſe,
A Fox had mark'd him for a gooſe;
When, lifted up, he took his flight,
A mere machine, a paper-kite!
Faſt to whoſe tail was tied a taper,
In lantern, alſo made of paper.
Lord! how this change amus'd the—!
For who do ye think had got the ſtring?
Ev'n B—, who guided, here and there,
This paſte-board patriot in the air;
Blazing, a meteor in the ſkies,
Amazement to the vulgar eyes,
Of gaping gulls and credulous crowds,
Who ſee their favourite in the clouds,
And think by him to ſteer ſecure;
Their miniſterial Cynoſure!

But ſhould he on our noddles fall,
God bleſs us! 'twere the devil and all!
For Proteus, ſtruck with ſhame and wonder,
Owns his defeat and truckles under.

THE SNARLING PUG AND DANCING BEAR.
A FABLE.
ADDRESSED TO MESS. HOGARTH AND CHURCHILL.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

[47]

LEST, Hogarth, thou ſhould'ſt draw again
Thy failing pencil 'gainſt the pen;
Or Churchill, ſcorning to give out,
Should prove leſs merciful than ſtout;
To an apt tale, an equal friend
To both, requeſts you to attend.

Three ſiſters, daughters of the Town,
(A family of ſome renown)
Together liv'd, tho' ſingle lives,
Jangling as huſbands and their wives.
The firſt, like Triſtram nam'd in haſte,
Was chriſten'd, by miſnomer, Taſte;
A ſplenetic and formal prude,
Averſe to all that's low or rude;
Fainting at ev'ry odious jeſt,
And ſtarch as any quaker dreſt;
So nice, ſo ſinical, ſo quaint!
No ſinner ſure ſo much a ſaint!
[48] For this was all a fair outſide,
Her vice and vanity to hide.
The ſecond a fantaſtic dame,
As modiſh in her dreſs as name;
A batter'd ſtrumpet, Faſhion hight,
The bane of many a living wight:
A grey coquet, whoſe magic pow'r
Tho' waſting with the preſent hour,
Her charms deciduous but decay,
To ſprout again ſome future day;
While thus alternate youth and age,
By turns her votaries engage,
And ſtill with conſtancy maintain
Her moſt inconſtant tyrant reign.
The third, a female full of zeal,
Still flaming for the common-weal;
Tho as her ſiſter, Faſhion, guides,
Alternate taking different ſides;
Now a rank Tory, talking big,
And now a grumbling ſtedfaſt Whig.
Or, when no buſineſs of the nation
Sets her warm blood in fermentation,
As keen ſhe flies at lower game,
A poet's or a painter's fame:
Alike ſhe raves, alike ſhe bounces,
About pink furbelows and flounces;
In every cauſe ſincere and hearty,
Her name, as well as nature, Party.
[49] Now ancient maids and barren wives,
Who lead unprofitable lives,
Full often keep (the devil rout 'em)
A pack of animals about 'em;
Dogs, cats, or monkies, ſubſtitutes
For children, oft leſs natural brutes.
Thus did our jarring ſiſters three,
Keep a well-ſtock'd menagerie;
Whither each quadruped and biped
By gentle treatment was invited;
Or bird or beaſt, or fair or frightful,
For the more ſtrange, the more delightful.
Accordingly in numbers came,
Domeſtic, foreign, wild, and tame;
From Stade and Norway, noble rats;
From Italy, fine warbling cats;
Taught by Marcel himſelf to dance,
A troop of apes ſkipp'd o'er from France;
From Turkey, tutor'd in the eaſt,
An Iriſh renegado beaſt,
That like a Bornean ape could ſwing,
And trot upon an iron ſtring.
Next from St. Omer's learned college,
There came a prodigy of knowledge;
A Chien Sçavant, or dog of parts,
At leaſt a bachelor of arts;
That knew the Greek and Latin better
Than all th' academy Belles-Lettres.
[50] But more than all a dancing Bear
And fav'rite Pug engag'd their care,
The latter, as a dog of merit,
Was cheriſh'd for his former ſpirit;
For he, tho' now much paſt his prime,
Had been an odd dog in his time;
Would fetch and carry, leap o'er ſticks,
And play a thouſand comic tricks.
Him had our ladies long preferr'd
To be their doughty body-guard.
Hence in the parlour was he plac'd,
And with a ſilver collar grac'd;
On a ſoft velvet cuſhion ſeated,
And by all three moſt kindly treated:
Whence, growing inſolent and proud,
He growl'd ſo fierce, and bark'd ſo loud,
That not another dog or cat
About the houſe, dar'd ſmell a rat,
Or ſet a foot into the parlour,
For fear of this eternal ſnarler;
Who, like a greedy, envious elf,
Lov'd no one creature but himſelf.

Rough Bruin, but as yet a cub,
Unlick'd, and yet unwean'd from bub,
Was boarded with a neighb'ring vicar,
And nurtur'd with his fav'rite liquor.
[51] Hence, growing ſturdy and miſchievous,
He oft committed outrage grievous;
Made a cat's paw of Tom's the mouſer,
And plagu'd to death poor harmleſs Touzer;
Drown'd old Grimalkin, and in ire,
Threw playful kittens in the fire.
For, out of wantonneſs or ſpite,
In miſchief lay his ſole delight;
Tho' ſome excuſe him, and will ſay,
That what he did was but in play,
The maggots of a dancing bear,
To make the people hoot and ſtare;
As if dame Nature form'd one half
The world, to make the other laugh.
At length, however, moſt unruly,
He fell upon his keeper, truly!
And, when corrected, threw him down,
And trampled on the parſon's gown;
Made e'en a kennel of the church,
And left his feeders in the lurch.
Meanwhile, as ſtrolling up and down,
The ſport and terror of the town,
His brother brutes he chanc'd to ſee,
That lodg'd in the menagerie.
Here the firſt ſcene that caught his eye,
Was a broad ſtage erected high;
On which a ſet of mimic apes
Play'd monkey-tricks in various ſhapes;
[52] Grinn'd, chatter'd, laugh'd, and made ſuch faces,
That Bruin, piqu'd at their grimaces,
Scrambled aloft, reſolv'd to rout 'em,
And with his bear's paws laid about him;
Hugging each monkey-dog and bitch,
As loving Satan hugg'd the witch;
While the poor devils ſcream'd aloud,
The jeſt and pity of the crowd.
Next, in a neighb'ring charnel vault,
He ſmok'd a pack of hounds at fault,
By ſome ſpay'd bitch's noſe miſled,
To ſnuffie there among the dead,
In ſearch of Fanny's knocking ghoſt,
Of whom the ſcent in earth was loſt.
But Bruin never wanted ſcent
After whatever game he went;
But ſmelt her out, and, to be doing,
Fell foul upon a brother Bruin,
Pompoſo fam'd, as rude a bear,
As e'er was ſhewn in Southwark fair;
Ill-favour'd, clumſy, and uncouth,
The verieſt monſter of the booth.
His waters Bruin cloſely watch'd:
When hurt Pompoſo, over-match'd,
And fairly worſted in the fray,
Growl'd, and turn'd tail, and ſlunk away.
[53] Fluſh'd with ſucceſs, and fond of fame,
Now Bruin ran at higher game;
Nay ſome (tho' theſe we don't rely on)
Pretend he dar'd t' attack the lion.
But brutes, as well as men, 'tis known,
Pay a due deference to the throne.
Certain it is, he made fine ſport
Of th' o'ergrown jackals of the court,
And caus'd the reſt to quake for fear
Around the country far and near.
Theſe triumphs envious Pug had ſeen,
And, half-devour'd with ſpight and ſpleen,
Another quadruped to ſee,
More fear'd and miſchievous than he;
Reſolv'd t'aſſail this mighty beaſt,
Or give himſelf ſuch airs, at leaſt,
That folks might think he did not fear him,
So growl'd whenever he came near him.
His miſtreſs Party, hence miſtaken,
Till much too late to ſave his bacon,
Unequal match! her fav'rite's ruin!
Slipt poor preſumptuous Pug at Bruin;
Unknowing that, tho' bark he might,
His toothleſs gums no more could bite.
But roughly-gentle Bruin ſeiz'd,
And ſoftly firſt old Puggy ſqueez'd;
Who, thinking all the miſchief done
His foe could do, kept barking on.
[54] When now, enrag'd at hapleſs Pug,
He gave him ſuch a curſed hug,
That well nigh all his bones he broke,
So dev'liſh ſerious was the joke;
Then threw the limping ſnarler down,
To howl and piſs about the town.

Such ever is the fate of thoſe,
Who wantonly make folks their foes,
Or, quarrelſome, provoke the fight
With bravoes of ſuperior might.
And thus e'en Bruin's ſelf may catch
A tartar, who may prove his match;
And to ſome future tyger bow,
As low as Pug to him doth now.

ON HAPPINESS, AND THE INCAPACITY OF MANKIND FOR ITS ATTAINMENT.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[55]

DO wits this maxim ſtill profeſs?
"That man was born for happineſs:
"Tho tow'rs of hope he fondly raiſe,
"Their ſtructure laſting all his days:
"In expectation ev'n poſſeſſing
"The better half of ev'ry bleſſing;
"His bliſs for ever in his view,
"Whene'er he pleaſes to purſue."
My friend, with care, ſuch maxims weigh:
Nor run with giddy wits aſtray.
Genius, in ſearch of truth may roam;
But bliſs, if found, is found at home:
To region, clime nor ſoil confin'd
This boaſted ſeed of heav'nly kind.
Ah! vainly boaſted, if below
The plant celeſtial cannot grow!

Say ſophiſts neither more nor leſs
Than happineſs is happineſs;
[56]Yet will they boaſt this ſtate unknown,
This bliſs indefinite, their own?—
The diff'rence plain 'twixt bliſs and woe,
Whate'er we feel we ſurely know:
What ſtate can, then, be ever thine
Which ſenſe nor ſcience can define?

That man, by others is't confeſs'd,
Ne'er is, but ſtill is to be bleſt?
Yet would they teach, in moral ſtrain,
How all may happineſs attain?
As well who ne'er was bleſs'd with light
May boaſt the happineſs of ſight,
The ſplendour of the ſolar ray;
Or teach his comrades blind their way;
As ſuch to thee make ever known
A ſtate of being ne'er their own.

Doſt thou to prove my judgment wrong
In anſwer quote thy fav'rite ſong?
True bliſs, thy Pope, if we believe,
All hands can reach, all heads conceive: *
The happineſs of each confin'd,
In truth, to that of all our kind.
But terms ſo gen'ral nought define:
The bliſs of all not yours nor mine:
[57]For, yet diſtinctly's underſtood
The public from the private good.
Nor doth it prove this maxim right
To ſay that both in one unite;
Unleſs their union be ſo plain
That, ſeeking one, we both obtain;
Since th' individual, for himſelf,
Applies to riot, fame or pelf:
In ſpite of all the wiſe can ſay,
We ſeek our bliſs a ſep'rate way;
Juſt as the preſent maggots bite,
Take our own meaſures for the right;
Or, having no peculiar whim,
Along the tide of cuſtom ſwim.
Mean-while, tho all of bliſs diſpute,
None leave their darling ſubſtitute.
"How ſhort of happineſs is gold!"
The miſer cries; yet keeps his hold.
"In women," ſighs the batter'd rake,
"What ſolid comfort can we take!"
"Ah! what in wine?" Silenus aſks.
Yet, cart the whore; go, ſtave the caſks.—
"How ſhall the ſons of Comus live,
"If wine nor women life will give!"
Thus public happineſs our care
But for our own peculiar ſhare;
While ſons their father's hopes traduce;
And here even patriotiſm's abuſe.
[58]However then the ſpecious face
Of wit may countenance the caſe,
Bliſs inconſiſtently we call
The happineſs of one and all.
Nor is it yet preciſely meant
By good, eaſe, pleaſure or content.
Good might we variouſly explain.
Eaſe is deliv'rance but from pain.
Pleaſure is actual joy confeſs'd;
And mere content but patient reſt;
A neutral ſtate, at beſt and worſt,
But negatively bleſt or curſt:
That which our happineſs we call,
Tho that nor this, the ſum of all.
The word's plain meaning's plainly this,
Some conſtant ſtate of actual bliſs;
No matter whether in degree
Alike beſtow'd on you or me:
Enough, if, void of fear or pain,
No motive lead us to complain:
Enough, whate'er the mode of joy,
If ſuch that it can never cloy.

Look round the world, and tell me true.
Where is ſuch happineſs in view?
From monarchs fled, as ſings the bard,
His patron's virtue to reward,
[59]Tell me, in truth, was St. John bleſt?
Or did the bitter bard but jeſt;
Dipping his pen in worſe than gall,
An outed ſtateſman bleſs'd to call?
With equal truth the Muſe might paint
My lord of Bolingbroke a ſaint;
Run riot o'er his dubious fame,
And dub him with a patriot's name:
So worthy of his country's praiſe!
So meek! ſo holy all his ways!

Nor, tho to him, to him alone
A ſtate of perfect bliſs unknown:
Of each complexion, age, degree,
Mankind as far remov'd as he.
Go, aſk, my friend, from door to door,
The high, the low, the rich, the poor;
In court, or cot, if here, or there,
Reſides the mortal free from care.
You aſk in vain, for joy and ſtrife
Diverſify all ſtates of life.

To wield the ſcythe with ſweaty brow,
With wearied arm to guide the plough,
To ſow in hope, to reap in joy,
Thine, Labour! is the ſweet employ.
A life of reſt with pain t'endure,
To ſeek in health diſeaſe's cure,
[60]To eat the grape, unprun'd the vine,
Laborious Idleneſs! is thine.
Yet idleneſs of care complains
And labour, quarrels with its pains.

Nor only found, or made, diſtreſs;
Becauſe externals fail to bleſs;
Lodg'd in ourſelves the taſte, and will,
That make externals good or ill;
No earthly bleſſing, hence, we find
An equal good to all mankind.

Belmore, the ſober'ſt thing on earth,
Dreads the broad laugh, and roar of mirth;
While Clerrio, with a length of chin,
Protracted by perpetual grin,
Tho' Socrates himſelf paſs by,
Muſt laugh in ridicule or die.

How elegant, how high refin'd
The palate of Cardella's mind!
How low, how vulgar Cotta's ſoul,
That feels no rapture in a vole!

See thouſands, as in love with ſtrife,
Purſue it, fretting, all their life;
And darken with the clouds of ſpleen,
The ſky of providence ſerene:
[61]Wretched to find another eas'd,
And moſt unhappy when, they're pleas'd
How ſtrange! while ſome, with patient toil,
Raiſe comfort on a barren ſoil,
Or pleaſure ſtrike, by native dint,
From cruel Fortune's hardeſt flint;
The patriarch like, whoſe rod, we're told,
Earth's ſtubborn fetters burſt, of old;
When guſh'd the ſtream from Horeb's rock,
To water Iſrael's thirſty flock.

Hence, not on earth a bleſſing ſent
Gives univerſally content:
For, while ſo varied is our taſte,
Manna itſelf were ſhow'r'd to waſte.
With reaſon, therefore, we profeſs
God meant not here our happineſs:
Elſe in the various bleſſings given
Sure various minds might find their heaven.
But know, as different we find
Each individual's turn of mind,
As little with ourſelves we ſee
Ourſelves, at various times, agree.
So oft our views, our tempers, change,
As through life's varied ſcenes we range.
At times, ſo diff'rent from himſelf,
The prodigal will hoard his pelf;
[62]Spend greedily the night at play,
To throw next morn his gains away.
At times ev'n miſers rob their ſtore,
And give their ſixpence to the poor.
At times ev'n trembling cowards fight,
And, deſp'rate, put the bold to flight:
While, ſick of fighting and of fame,
The brave as belgic lions tame.
How oft, my friend, in private life,
We love the maid we hate a wife!
How oft the ſcene that gives delight
At morn, offends the eye at night!
'Tis not the want of that or this;
Poſſeſſion is the bane of bliſs:
And hence of happineſs we ſee
On earth th' impoſſibility.

Yet, with an intereſted view,
Doth ſtill Lorenzo truth purſue?
Doſt thou ſuppoſe th' enlighten'd mind
In truth's reſearches bliſs may find?
That ſcience fancy may reſtrain,
And fix that weather-cock the brain?
Alas, deceive thy ſelf no more;
But give thy vain pretenſions o'er.
For, as a world of fruitleſs coſt
In vain inquiries hath been loſt;
[63]A world of labour ſpent t' attain
That knowledge man may never gain:
So millions all their lives have ſpent,
Searching for bliſs in diſcontent:
For bliſs, which but a little thought
Had told them never could be taught.
Yet ſtill they aſk; yet ſtill they run
A race that never can be won.
Thus ſought, of yore, projecting fools
The ſummum bonum of the ſchools;
And wiſer heads than thoſe of old
The ſtone converting all to gold;
Or vain adepts, much wiſer ſtill,
To wreſt from nature's band, at will,
Promethean theft, celeſtial fire;
To animate their wood and wire:
Madmen, that not Monro could cure
Of circles and their quadrature,
Of thinking drunken nature reels,
Like a ſlung coach, on ſprings and wheels!

Doſt thou, inſtructed in thy youth
To place conſummate bliſs in truth,
Conceive it ſomewhere hidden lies,
Among the learned and the wiſe;
That hence our bliſs or miſery flow,
The truth to know or not to know?
[64]In vain the learn'd, in ſcience deep,
In ſearch of bliſs, their vigils keep;
In vain the univerſe explore;
Swift as their ſearch, it flies before,
Through ev'ry clime, on ev'ry wind,
And leaves the panting wiſh behind.
O, tell me, what connection ties
So cloſe the happy and the wiſe.
Did e'er the ſage in wiſdom find
The artleſs infant's peace of mind?
Proud knowledge e'er, or boaſtful art,
Reſtore to joy the broken heart?
Ah! what avails the truth to know,
When truth's the frequent ſource of woe;
While gilded fiction's dazzling rays
With ſun-ſhine beautify our days,
Or, mildly ſhed, its ſilver beams,
Reflected, light our nightly dreams;
While pleaſure and its laughing train
Dance, by the moon-ſhine of the brain.
For what is knowledge, but to know
How ignorant our ſtate below?
The more we learn, the more to find,
Beyond our learning, ſtill behind;
Our fruitleſs wiſhes to increaſe,
Whene'er our mental proſpects ceaſe?
So far from happineſs, my friend,
Is ſcience, in its means, and end.
[65]Sayſt thou that bliſs the world affect
The ſmile of God on his elect;
Confin'd to Abr'am's faithful ſeed,
And made dependent on our creed?
Go, aſk the ſaints, to whom are given
The beſt aſſurances of heaven,
The few diſtinguiſh'd here on earth
As children of a ſpiritual birth,
How gloomy oft a ſtate of grace;
How often hid their Maker's face;
How oft, by ſatan and by ſin,
Sore buffeted the man within.
Theſe all confeſs beyond the ſky
Their bliſsful heritage doth lie.

Say, is repos'd this heav'nly truſt
Within the boſom of the juſt,
While virtue in itſelf you call
The happineſs of one and all?
Pretending ſtill, "tho' yours and mine
"No partial mode of bliſs define;
"Yet that our different taſtes unite
"In meaning well and thinking right;
"An univerſal moral this,
"Conducting all mankind to bliſs!"
Alas, what ſophiſtry to tell
Of "thinking right, and meaning well,"*
[66]Unleſs this rectitude of thought
With perſpicuity be taught;
This honeſt meaning plainly ſhown;
So oft admir'd! ſo little known!
At virtue if we're left to gueſs,
What is't to ſay 'tis happineſs?
The way to virtue as to bliſs;
If dubious that as doubtful this.
How fruitleſs therefore but to know
"Virtue is happineſs below!"

Sayſt thou, mankind are all agreed
That happineſs is virtue's meed?
The ſervice of the work inquire,
And by the labour rate the hire.
Now virtue ſome to fact confine,
While others place it in deſign.
Some bleſt but for the good they do,
Others for all they have in view.
But, if by virtue's underſtood
The mere intent of doing good,
Thoſe fully virtuous may be held,
Who ne'er one lawleſs paſſion quell'd;
Whom ne'er temptation led aſtray,
Beyond the tenour of their way;
A ſober path by ſtoicks trod;
Nor friends to man, nor foes to God.
[67]Conſiſtent with a ſtate of reſt,
If virtue's centred in the breaſt,
As happy thoſe may ſurely live
Who nothing give nor have to give,
As thoſe who taſte, in ev'ry ſenſe,
Th' exertions of benevolence.
Some ſeeming difference yet we find,
What pangs affect the tender mind?
What exquiſite ſenſations riſe,
To hear the orphan's piteous cries;
To feel the widow's piercing woe;
When no relief we can beſtow?
Doth virtue here rejoice the heart
As when the gen'rous eaſe impart,
When pureſt tranſports warm the breaſt,
That glows to ſuccour' the diſtreſs'd?
And yet, my friend, 'twere wond'rous hard,
If bliſs the virtuous rich reward,
In poverty that virtue's zeal
Should double all the pangs we feel;
Each gen'rous ſigh, each ſocial tear,
But render want the more ſevere.

To virtue, therefore, if the deed
Our beſt deſigns muſt yet ſucceed,
Granting that happy ev'ry mind
In ſuch proportion as its kind,
[68]Here in externals do we place
The happineſs of human race;
Enabled to relieve diſtreſs
As wealth, or pow'r, ourſelves poſſeſs;
For bliſs capacitated more
As bleſt with fortune's worldly ſtore.
Fix'd, by this ſcheme, the bliſsful ſtate,
Excluſive, to the rich and great;
The virtuous poor, but innocent,
Claiming at th' utmoſt, bare content.
Beſides, if individuals bleſt
As ſharers only with the reſt,
True happineſs with thee to call
Not merely that of one but all,
What is inactive virtue's uſe?
Can it to ſocial good conduce?
Can it, thus fruitleſs and confin'd,
Be call'd a bleſſing to mankind?
If then we judge ſo much amiſs
Of virtue, and of virtuous bliſs,
If faith, tho crown'd with alms and pray'rs,
Hath all its pangs, hath all its cares,
While ev'n from knowledge proſpects riſe,
That makes us miſerably wiſe
His perfect happineſs to reach,
No morals mortal man can teach;
Still Heav'n's b [...]ſt vot'ries muſt confeſs
No bleſſings here compleatly bleſs:
[69]A compound ſtrange of bliſs and woe
Man's variable ſtate below:
Some abſent ſomething ours to crave,
Ev'n from the cradle to the grave!

How idly, then, employ'd the mind
In ſearch of that we cannot find.
For human bliſs ſtands never ſtill;
Our good inſep'rable from ill;
Whilſt all of pain and pleaſure ſhare,
Their hour of joy, their hour of care,
Adapted to each ſev'ral ſtate;
Fix'd and determinate as fate.
The world my friend, an ample field,
Of ſuch examples ſtore doth yield.
How throbs the infant's little breaſt,
Beneath a load of care oppreſs'd;
The care that iſſues with a ſigh;
The tear yet ſtanding in the eye;
Or, caught in laughter's dimple ſleek,
Dry'd up in ſtealing down the cheek!
See next, among the ſachel'd crowd,
Bold as a hero and as proud,
The little tyrant of his claſs;
How happy till condemn'd to parſe,
Or ſob beneath the weightier curſe
Of ſcanning Lilly's crabbed verſe!
[70]In youth how glows the vital fire
'Tween expectation and deſire;
Our ſanguine hopes our aukward fears,
All ſuiting unexperienc'd years.
Still riper joys do manhood bleſs,
When full-blown fortune we poſſeſs,
We riot on the joyous ſtore,
Till health and ſtrength can charm no more;
When diſappointment and chagrin
Retaliate all our joys with ſpleen.
Proportion'd next to waſted age
Inſipid joys and peeviſh rage,
Tho dim th' exhauſted paſſions burn,
Take, to our lateſt gaſp, their turn.
Thus relative, my friend, we find
The pains and pleaſures of mankind;
Adapted all, in due degree,
To human ſenſibility.
For ſee, no more alive to ſmart
Than dead to joy the hard-of-heart:
As far from rapture as deſpair
The fretful family of care.
Not ſickneſs, pain, nor death itſelf
Avarus dreads like loſs of pelf:
While Laviſh offers an eſtate
To ſtaunch a cut, ere yet too late,
Diſpel the head-ach, or remove
Th' effects of his intemp'rate love.
[71]Was ever yet the child of mirth.
Intenſely bleſt, or curſt, on earth?
Ah no! how lightly feel a pain
The light-of-heart, or light-of-brain!
The man, ſo happy as to think,
Life's bitter potions born to drink!

Behold the fooliſh, weak and blind
The ſprightlieſt, merrieſt of mankind;
While ſuffers oft ſuperiour ſenſe,
Ev'n from its own pre-eminence;
Thoſe follies that the wiſe annoy
The deſtitute-of-wiſdom's joy.
The blockhead naturally free
From cares thy knowledge brings on thee,
While Heav'n you daily toil to ſeek,
Poor Ralpho works but once a week:
When, left his plough and worldly cares,
He plies his Sunday's taſk at pray'rs.
Nor puzzled he in truth's reſearch,
Laid all his burthen on the church;
The friendly church, by Heav'n deſign'd
To help the weak, to lead the blind,
To check the raſh, to warm the cold,
T'engage the young, t'amuſe the old,
Th' unthinking from themſelves to ſave,
And bring them calmly to the grave.
Bleſt; ignorance! from care ſo free,
Hath it, Lorenzo, charms for thee?
[72]Wouldſt thou to ſcience, empty name
If void of bliſs reſign thy claim?
Be like the aſs, that plodding goes,
Nor looks beyond his bridled noſe?
For me—O, rather ſhould I aſk
Life's moſt laborious; abject taſk;
Would ev'n the meaneſt lot ſuſtain;
Bear ev'ry tolerable pain;
To emp'ricks would intruſt my cure;
Ev'n to be pitied might endure:
Nay, plague me, Heav'n, in ev'ry ſenſe,
Ere take my ſhare of reaſon hence;
Of ſcience ere my ſoul deprive,
My little portion, whilſt alive.

Yet doſt thou ignorance deſpiſe?
The joys of knowledge hence ariſe.
So ſtrange ſo little underſtood
The varied ſource of mortals' good!
To Heav'n my grateful vows be paid
That man in human frailty's made;
That grief and ignorance my lot;
In joy and ſcience ſince forgot;
Or beſt remember'd in the taſte
They give improvement's rich repaſt.
O ſay, induſtrious queriſt, ſay,
What raptures court you on the way;
[73]What views delight, from time to time,
As the ſteep hills of art you climb.
Such tranſports ne'er had fir'd my breaſt,
If born of ſciences poſſeſs'd,
As when, by want of knowledge fir'd,
To nature's lore I late aſpir'd;
By ſlow degrees enlighten'd grew,
Her volume op'ning to my view;
To the weak mind as knowledge given;
Knowledge, that wings the ſoul for Heaven.

Lorenzo, is this doctrine ſtrange?
Seeſt thou not, while the ſeaſons change,
How much, as each in contraſt felt,
We freeze with cold, by heat we melt.
Thus exquiſite our ſenſe of woe
As more refin'd our pleaſures grow:
Pleaſure and pain, as light and ſhade,
By one the other ſtill diſplay'd.
Didſt never want? to thee denied
The bliſs of being ſatisfied;
In conſtant fulneſs but enjoy'd
Th' inſipid good of which we're cloy'd.
Say, plenty gives thee bread more white;
It blunts the edge of appetite;
Or, giving wine, malignly firſt
Robs thee, diſtaſteful, of thy thirſt.
[74]How ſunk, and terrible, to thee
The hollow eye of poverty!
While Villius meets her with a ſmile,
And ſings, or whiſtles all the while.
Tho worn his hands, perplex'd his head,
He reliſhes the ſweets of bread;
Nay patient ſees, in want itſelf,
His curſtleſs cupboard's vacant ſhelf:
Full many a time, in pleaſant rue,
Dancing for joy without a ſhoe.

Is Fortunatus rich and gay?
Curſt with the modiſh itch of play,
Bubbl'd at White's, thro luſt of gain,
Or jockey'd round New-Market plain,
See with his barb his manors fly;
His leaſeholds totter with the die;
Braving the ſtorm of many a caſt,
His oaks a bet malignant blaſt;
His card-built villas, one and all,
Like infant architecture, fall.

From ſharpers, creditors and duns,
Not half the perils Villius runs;
Whom all the world to truſt refuſe;
Who nothing owns he dreads to loſe.
[75]Ah me! what threat'ning danger's nigh?
Why ſwells the tear in Delia's eye?
Eclips'd the faireſt of the fair
By ſad misfortune's drooping air;
Delia on whom kind nature ſmil'd,
Ev'n at the birth her fav'rite child,
When, all the graces to combine,
She cloath'd them in one form divine;
Beſtowing grandeur, wit and wealth,
And fortune's beſt of bounties, health:
Nay, adding, in her gen'rous fit,
Good-nature even to her wit.
With all theſe bleſſings yet unbleſt,
Ah, tell me, fair one, why diſtreſs'd.
Alas! alas! the belle's reply
"Of Brilliante's birty-day ſuit I die.'

You ſmile at miſery like this:
Match it with Delia's ſenſe of bliſs.
In rapture ever, with the gay,
To ſhine at concert, ball or play;
Her greateſt happineſs to boaſt
Her name the fopling's reigning toaſt;
The all in life her wiſh regards
Summ'd up in faſhions, routs and cards.
Ah, then, how pow'rful to diſtreſs
Th' important article of dreſs!
[76]So deeply ſome may cares affect,
Thoſe trifling cares that you neglect;
Half the ſolicitude we ſee
Ridiculous to you and me?
Others there are as lightly hold
Dangers, at which our blood runs cold;
Lo where, beneath th' impending cliff,
The Norway fowler moors his ſkiff;
Or, deſp'iate, fifty fathoms high
Suſpended, ſeems himſelf to fly;
While thus, from rock to rock, he ſwings;
And, blythe, his ſummer's ditty ſings:
As blythe the ſea-boy furls the ſail,
Regardleſs of the bluſt'ring gale;
Nor winds, nor waves, diſturb his ſleep,
Amid the horrours of the deep.

The cordial draught, the downy bed
Had ne'er reviv'd the drooping head,
Had ſickneſs pale, and fainting grief
Ne'er wiſh'd for wearied nerves relief.

See Belmont on the ſofa laid;
What racking pains his limbs invade!
Take half his gout, the reſpite given
He calls a bliſsful taſte of heaven.
Give but a youth, diſperſing wealth,
Who riots on the bloom of health,
[77]That bliſsful part, which yet remains;
And his a mortal's bitter'ſt pains.
Pains which no aggravation know!
Yet, ſo comparative our woe,
Inflict them when Cleora's kiſs,
Kind earneſt of approaching bliſs,
Hath rais'd the glowing lover's fire
To flaming raptures of deſire;
Lo, diſappointment joins the curſe,
And turns this worſt affliction worſe.

Correct ideas let us gain.
Our ſenſe of joy we owe to pain;
So ſtrange a paradox is this!
And mis'ry to our ſenſe of bliſs;
While, ſuch our varying ſtate below,
Ev'n joy degen'rates into woe;
And pains, in ſufferance, by degrees,
On their own pangs engender eaſe;
Their antidote, like poiſon, bring,
T'expel the poiſon of their ſting.

The tenſion of th'extended nerve,
With phyſiologiſts may ſerve,
The means of pleaſure and of pain,
The ſeeming paradox t'explain,
As ſtrung the harp with trembling wire,
So brac'd with nerves the human lyre,
[78]While ſuch in tune, theſe ſages ſay,
The ſmiling hours in concert play:
But if, in change, too lax or tenſe,
Health ſtrikes no more the keys of ſenſe:
But, tremblingly alive all o'er,
The tortur'd ſtrings in diſcord roar:
While ſickneſs, with her harpy claws,
Stranger to each harmonious pauſe,
Labours, benumb'd, the jarring ſtrain,
That ſtuns our ear with deaf'ning pain.
Nor yet can health too oft repeat
Its muſick, howſoever ſweet;
While, by degrees, lo, ev'ry ſtring,
Depriv'd of its elaſtic ſpring,
In gen'ral laſſitude, full ſoon
The whole machine grows out of tune.
Should, alſo, paſſion, ſenſe or art
Wind up too high the nervous part,
With noiſe the notes tumultuous tire;
Or breaking ſtrings unman the lyre.
Of pain or pleaſure on our frame
Th' effects, hence, frequently the ſame.
Thus, full of gladneſs or of grief,
In tears we find the ſame relief;
Alike the feeble nerve deſtroy
Exquiſite pain, extatic joy.
The bandit, ſtretch'd upon the wheel,
Th' extreme of torture ne'er can feel;
[79]But, cruelty diſarming, lies
Or dead to ſenſe, or really dies.
So, rapture never meant to bleſs,
E'vn joy grows pain when in exceſs.
Indulg'd to print the burning kiſs
On Chloe's lips, how fierce the bliſs!
How keen the torture of her charms,
Careſs'd, to pant within her arms,
Melting in fulneſs of deſire,
Stretch'd on the rack of bliſs, t'expire!

Thus conſtitutional, below,
Is all our bliſs, is all our woe;
Each holding, intimately join'd,
Alternate empire o'er the mind.
Like Perſian monarchs, hardly known
Ere tumbled headlong from the throne.
Precarious and as ſhort its ſway
Depos'd and ſceptred in a day,
Pleaſure begins its fickle reign,
And tyrannizes into pain;
When, as to cruel pain we bow,
Its rod grows light we know not how.

Ah, cruel blow to human pride!
Is pain and pleaſure thus allied,
That all the ſweets of life grow ſour
Within the tranſitory hour!
[80]Complains Lorenzo? darts behind
No ray of comfort on his mind?
If thus with varied joy and ſtrife
Diverſified all-ſtates of life;
If human being cannot know
A conſtant ſtate of bliſs and woe;
Worn by ſharp mis'ry to the bones,
While grief with intermiſſion groans,
And meagre want, half fed, the while,
Grins forth her grateful, ghaſtly ſmile;
Tho vain our hopes of bliſs, as vain
Our fears of unremitting pain;
Abſurd the miſchief-making care
That leads us blindly to deſpair.

SIMKIN, A FAIRY TALE.
WRITTEN AT SCHOOL.

[81]

‘—crinem Irroravit aquis—Et neque jam color eſt miſto candore rubori.’Ovid.

IN days of yore, when elves were ſeen,
By moon-light dancing on the green,
Leading in myſtic ſteps their train,
O'er marſhy mead or flow'ry plain;
A maiden with her milking pail,
Trip'd morn and eve acroſs the vale;
Patty, the ſweeteſt temper'd laſs
That e'er beat dew-drop from the graſs:
But nature, half unkind, had ſhed
Ill-natur'd influence on her head;
For oh! the cauſe of many a care!
Deep-tinted red the virgin's hair.
For ſiſter nymphs ſhe liv'd a jeſt,
And ne'er was kiſs'd among the reſt.
[82]Now ſo it chanc'd that by the mead
Where Patty's cows were us'd to feed,
There ſtood a mount, on verdant ground,
With daiſies ſtrew'd, and violets crown'd;
Round which had many a tim'rous ſwain,
Seen fairies ſporting on the plain:
For under, as the ſtory's told,
They dwelt in palaces of gold;
Safe in the boſom of the hill,
Where they convey'd themſelves at will;
Or, when they pleas'd from thence could riſe,
Inviſible to mortal eyes.
By theſe the nymph was often ſeen,
With clear-ſtarch'd coif ſo neat and clean,
Devoid of all that negligence,
That give the fairies juſt offence;
Who trace the houſe with critic eye,
Nor paſs an unwaſh'd trencher by;
But pinch ſevere the careleſs maid,
For room unſwept, or ſpoon miſlaid.
They view in pity Patty's hair,
And take the virgin to their care.

Now as at duſky eve the maid
Sat milking Mully in the ſhade,
Simkin, a ſprite of neither ſex,
That us'd old peeviſh maids to vex
[83]In flowing azure looſely dreſt,
A thin tranſparent gauze its veſt;
Like that which now to us convey'd,
The modern females term a ſhade;
Aſtride a vapour dancing came;
A Will o'th' Wiſp its mortal name.
The ſame which boys ſo often ken,
From diſtant lake or foggy fen;
A cloud of light that leads aſtray
Trav'llers, benighted on their way.

Thus over hill and dale, the maid
The well-deſigning Simkin led;
'Till twelve a clock, a ſolemn ſound,
Rung, from a neighbouring village, round;
What time the nimble fairies tread
The maiden daiſies of the mead,
Which ſcarcely bend beneath their weight,
So lightly trip their nimble feet.

How bleſt the plain! thrice fertile ſoil,
On which the fairies deign to ſmile!
No barren ſpot can here be found,
No weed nor thiſtle curſe the ground;
Nor here is heard the ſcreech-owl's note,
Nor omen from the raven's throat;
But thruſh and black-bird ſweetly ſing,
And the glad cuckoo hails the ſpring.
[84]Here too, the ſcented ſweet-briar grows,
The woodbine wild, and wild the roſe;
The king-cup ſmiles with brighter bloom,
Aud violets breathe more ſweet perfume.
To ſuch a ſpot, enchanted mead!
The ſprightly elve doth Patty lead,
Now from his bounding ſteed alights,
And mixes 'mong his fellow ſprights;
His bounding ſteed no more his care,
Directly vaniſh'd into air.

Now, gentle Patty, in ſurprize,
Around her turns her wand'ring eyes.
Here ſome ſhe ſaw, with mighty care,
New moulding fancies for the fair;
Here roſe a head, and there was ſeen.
Improvements on a capuchin;
(For all the milliner imparts
Is the reſult of fairy arts.)
Here ſtood a crowd in warm diſpute,
About to form a birth-day ſuit;
And there in conſultation ſat
As many, modelling a hat;
Faſt by, inſpir'd by female love,
The ſpreading petticoat t' improve;
They met, and in debate were high,
Or is? —or is it not—a fly?
[85]Others, to greater deeds inclin'd,
Were drawing morals for, the mind;
And lo! to this important end,
The fairy hiſtories are penn'd,
The ſprites, to all invention new,
Their ſlender fingers, dip in dew,
And fill with deeds unknown before,
Their tomes, the leaves of ſycamore.
Hence are the lov'd of fairies taught,
And bleſt with ev'ry brilliant thought;
Who here peruſe at early dawn,
Th' impreſſions on the dewy lawn,
Ere yet an inauſpicious wind,
Leaves not a ſingle tome behind,
Or the refulgent ſun exhales,
On one bright beam a thouſand tales!
From hence each intellectual vapour,
They ſcrawl on mortal ink and paper.
So wretches, vulgar things their care,
For muſhrooms at the morn repair,
Ere yet th' expanding warmth of day,
Dries their contracted ſweets away.

A number more, at different toil,
Patty with terror view'd a-while;
When now a train approach'd the maid,
With ſprightly Simkin at their head;
[86]Who, ſmiling, tript before the reſt,
And thus the trembling fair addreſt:

Fear not, ſweeteſt maid, but ſee
What the gift we bring to thee.
This the queen of fairies ſent,
In a phial nicely pent,
Drops, by moon-ey'd elves diſtill'd
From the wild buds of the field;
Mix'd with liquids nicely caught;
Which in acorn cups are brought;
Fill'd before the peep of morn,
From the prickly point of thorn,
Or the furz-buſh in the dell,
Or the yellow cowſlip bell,
(Suck'd from thence with ſlender pipe)
Or the hip, at chriſtmas ripe;
Join'd with theſe, a chemic rare,
Earth extract from pureſt air.
Nymph, with this bedew thine head,
No more ſhall glow thy locks with red,
Of lovely brown ſhall be thy hair,
And thou the brighteſt of the ſair.

This ſaid, the ken of riſing day,
Summon'd each ſpright in haſte away.
[87]Now Patty to the phial flies,
And ſtrait the remedy applies.
She ſighs, neglected, now no more,
The ſwains admire that jeer'd before;
The nymphs from former pity turn,
And now with hate and envy burn.

ON THE WEAKNESS OF THE HUMAN UNDERSTANDING, AND THE INCOMPRE⯑HENSIBILITY OF THE DEITY.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[88]

ARE there, Lorenzo, who ſuppoſe
That man can nature's God diſcloſe;
Their moral and religious ſchemes
Building on theologic dreams?
Expect not thou a point to hit,
Beyond the ſight of human wit;
Nor ever think to judge of ought
Above the reach of ſober thought.
Rul'd by no giant hopes or fears,
Whoſe ſtature grows with length of years,
In ſearch of truth be ſure to find
The labour ſuited to the mind;
With genius nature bearing part,
The ſtrict, yet gentle, nurſe of art.
For, ſay the voice of reaſon true;
Be ours a juſt abſtracted view;
Be it the privilege of man,
To trace exactly nature's plan;
The ſcale of beings in his hands,
To know the point at which he ſtands,
[89]Compar'd with all he boaſts to know,
As well above him as below;
Yet, if, of human logick vain,
He link to heaven a kindred chain,
Concluſions idle ſoon he draws;
And heav'n preſcribes by human laws.

Imagine thou in what degree
A ſeraph ſtands 'tween God and thee;
The neck how lowly doſt thou bend
Before thy bright ſeraphic friend?
But place thyſelf a mite unſeen
And Being infinite between;
In this compariſon, ſays pride,
A ſeraph thou, to God allied.

Thy pride, Lorenzo, diſbelieve;
Let Locke nor Addiſon deceive;
For tho creation's varied plan
Aſſigns degrees reſpecting man;
Yet, bigot, know, and learn to fear,
God is beyond thy proper ſphere.
Created beings, all his care,
Doth he with them creation ſhare?
Ah no! the ſyſtem all his own,
God, the creator, ſtands alone;
At equal diſtance all his plan,
The mite, the ſeraph, and the man.
[90]If 'tis not ſo, the paſſive clay
Of yon corinthian column gay,
That gilt entablature and baſe,
Or marble of yon ſhining vaſe,
Reſemble more the artiſt's mind
Than if to meaner uſe conſign'd.
Abſurd! is Jones's genius known
By the great model or the ſtone?
The pile, erect to Trajan's name,
Affected not by empty fame,
The croſs rever'd, the honour'd buſt,
And trodden floor, are kindred duſt:
For all in one degree reſpect
Their ſov'reign lord the architect.
How juſtly then ſoe'er we plead
That reaſon Nature's book doth read,
As by her known eſtabliſh'd laws
Of each effect we trace the cauſe,
Thoſe laws themſelves can ne'er conſine
The legiſlative power divine;
Whoſe will thoſe very laws decreed
And bad th' effect the cauſe ſucceed;
Agent, in ſome ſuperior ſcheme,
Of which in this we can but dream.

Beyond the ſcience of mankind,
In nature's fane our God enſhrin'd;
[91]Content, Lorenzo, let us trace
The lines and ſhadow of his face
In humble boldneſs ſeek to know
No more than heaven permits below.

To face the ſun, to beat the ſky,
Demand an eagle's wing and eye.
Ah! let not, then, mere birds of night,
Whoſe wings, whoſe opticks, check their flight,
Encourag'd by the morning ray
To riſk the ſun-ſhine of the day,
Their feeble powers too highly rate,
And ruſh abſurdly on their fate;
As in the noon-tide beams they gaze
Struck blind by heav'ns meridian blaze;
For ever after, to their coſt,
To grope in endleſs error loſt.

Bear Atticus the critick's rod;
In vain we then define a God;
In vain we attributes beſtow,
Or reaſon, here, from what we know.
Tho ſcience teach, religion warm,
What wild ideas ſtill we form?
Imperfect embrios of the brain,
That ſtrive to ſcale the heav ns in vain:
Too ſhort to reach beyond the ſky
The focus of the mental eye;
[92]Too cold our moſt tranſporting zeal
To paint what heav'ns and light conceal.

Yet will the ſkeptick aſk me why?
Go, riſe and to the dog-ſtar fly—
Thou canſt not; nor the cauſe unknown,
Central attraction holds thee down;
A pow'r occult, which, ere thy birth,
Faſt bound thee to thy native earth:
From which thou ne'er canſt hope to riſe
To lunar plains or ſolar ſkies.
Nor leſs within its ſphere confin'd
The ſubtile eſſence of the mind.
What tho' it boaſts the pow'r to rove
In freedom through the plains above;
Tho' wing'd its active feet to run,
With Merc'ry round the central ſun;
Giv'n it far diſtant worlds t' explore,
And ſeas of ſpace without a ſhore:
Yet, ſtill, within creation's round,
Within our narrow ſyſtem bound;
Of what's above or what without
We harbour univerſal doubt.
Say light prevails, no contraſt ſhade
Outlines the void we would prevade:
Say darkneſs reigns, no chearing ray
Delineates blind inquiry's way.
[93]Deſtin'd thy erring way to trace
Thro' nature's wide and gloomy ſpace,
Hence, mortal man, muſt ever be
Thy author, God, unknown to thee.

Let Ignorance, then, her idol dreſs
In juſtice, love, and happineſs;
Adorn with mercy's golden chain,
With all the virtues grace its train;
And then adore in humble plight,
Calling thoſe fopperies infinite.
The pagan thus, deſpis'd as blind,
Creates his idol to his mind;
Thinking his deity expreſs'd
By bird or beaſt he likes the beſt;
Then bows before the painted ſhrine;
And calls his wooden god divine.
Caſt the preſumptuous thought aſide:
'Tis not humility, but pride;
Unleſs that truly humble we,
T' adore the god Humanity.
And ſuch it is; for whence ariſe
Our virtues but from moral ties;
Whoſe known relations thus define
That eſſence mortals call divine?

Lorenzo, ready for reply,
Lay not thy prompt objection by.
[94]Thou ſayſt "thy friend himſelf deceives,
"Nor God adores nor God believes:
"For tho the mind the pow'r deſcry,
"If left its eſſence in the ſky,
"If none imagin'd or diſplay'd,
"To nothing adoration's paid:
"In me no certain faith is found;
"My deity an empty ſound."
Not ſo: for, granting, I confeſs,
Thy attributes a God expreſs;
Thou ſayſt thyſelf "ſtill undefin'd
"The perfect, by th' imperfect, mind;"
And to thy attributes muſt join
Thy Infinite or thy Divine.
As jugglers, who, t' enhance deceit,
To ſacred ſcience give their cheat,
While, with the curtain ſtill they hide
The ſlight of hand too cloſely ey'd;
So ſly theologiſts impart
The hocus pocus of their art;
Holding religion's ſacred veil,
Where ſlights of underſtanding fail.
For know, alas, their wiſeſt plan
Diſplays but a ſuperiour man,
Whom Infinite the conjurer's rod,
Preſto, converts into a god.
Till, then, they ſolve our problem right,
And tell us what is infinite,
[95]They ſtill muſt be reduc'd to own
Their compound deity unknown:
To all, or reaſoning or inſpir'd,
This infinite a term requir'd.
Differs Lorenzo, then, with me?
In terms alone we diſagree:
Perfection infinite is thine,
Indefinite perfection mine.

Condemn not, then, half underſtood.
I not deny that perfect, good,
All-gracious, merciful, and wiſe,
God reigns, ſupreme, beyond the ſkies.
Neither, 'tis true, my terms imply;
But, granting none, I none deny:
Requiring but to acquieſce
That thou thy Infinite expreſs.
Idly doth Bolingbroke refine;
Granting that wiſdom is divine,
While, as abſurdly, he denies
Juſtice and goodneſs to the ſkies.
Ideas, equally our own,
Our goodneſs as our wiſdom's known;
To both as hard to reconcile
Or nature's frown or nature's ſmile,
Alas! no attributes of thine
Can e'er the Deity define;
[96]Impoſſible to judge, or know,
Of God above from man below:
Reſerv'd the proſpect of the ſkies
To gratify immortal eyes.

Lorenzo, let us reaſon right.
No finite ſpans an infinite;
Unleſs, with Matho, vers'd in arts,
We hold th' infinity of parts.
But none th' abſurdity will plan,
That God can be contain'd in man;
Tho, as abſurdly, they ſuppoſe
Our partial gifts the God diſcloſe.

Join'ſt thou with Florio the diſpute,
T' enhance each moral attribute?
Pretending "theſe, however crude,
"Divine perfection doth include;
"As ſpecies in a genus they,
"Or parts, which, join'd, the whole diſplay."
So, with the grandeur all t' inſpire
Of the gay manſion of his ſire,
An idiot heir, his mother's fool,
Taught his ſynecdochè at ſchool,
Conceiv'd by part the whole was ſhown;
And took a ſample of the ſtone.
[97]Convinc'd, doth Polydore, with me,
That God's indefinite agree,
Yet argue "that our partial view
"May ſtill be relatively true:
"For, if no abſtract light we gain,
"'Tis juſt our beſt to entertain;
"Our God to call that wond'rous cauſe,
"In nature trac'd, by nature's laws?"
Miſtake not here, nor God dethrone:
The firſt mechanic cauſe be known;
'Tis of ſome prior cauſe th' effect;
Which no known ſimilars reſpect.
The God which, then, we ſo define
Nor ſelf-exiſtent nor divine.
Be known creation's various ties,
Whence phyſical relations riſe;
Of each effect the various cauſe;
Attraction and repulſion's laws;
That primum mobilè be found
That drove Des Cartes' whirlpools round;
Let matter, motion, aether, join,
To form thy attributes divine;
Striving if poſſible to riſe
To the firſt agent in the ſkies:
Be next explain'd to moral ſenſe,
The wond'rous ſcheme of providence;
Down from thoſe great important ſprings,
On which rebounds the fate of kings,
[98]To thoſe, ſo exquiſitely ſmall,
Deſtin'd to let the ſparrow fall:
Say'ſt thou the knowledge hence deriv'd
Of him thoſe ſyſtems hath contriv'd?
Alas! from hence we only trace
The features of creation's face;
The front it bears to human kind;
But not its ſelf-exiſting mind.
Should we, preſuming to diſplay
The ſpirit of the golden day,
Thus call its eſſence its reſult,
Attraction, fire, alike occult;
Or ſay 'tis vegetation green;
Who'd think it is the ſun we mean?
So here t' abſurdity we fall,
Nor thus define a God at all.

Yet while, to thee I freely own,
I reverence a God unknown;
Think not, thro ignorance or pride,
A God was ever yet denied.
No atheiſt e'er was known on earth
Till fiery zealots gave him birth,
For controverſy's ſake, their trade,
And damn'd the heretick they made.
Doth Clody, impudent and vain,
Deny a God in ſkeptic ſtrain,
[99]And yet in ignorance advance
That nature is the work of chance?
Theologiſts, abſurdly wiſe,
With their anathemas deſpiſe;
For well may Clody theſe inflame,
Whoſe God exiſts but in a name;
A technic term, devis'd at ſchool,
I pity Clody as a fool.
To Epicurus' ſtrains belong
The cenſures of an idle ſong.
For ſay "united words might join
"By accident, and not deſign;
"Atoms might luckily contrive,
"And ſtrangely find themſelves alive;
"Or, by ſome other ſcheme as wild,
"The world be fortune's fav'rite child."
Explain the terms, —ſay what is meant
By atoms, fortune, accident.
What meanſt thou but th' efficient cauſe
Of nature's works and nature's laws?
O, think not, then, th' eternal mind
To term or epithet confin'd;
But take away or change the name;
And Clody's God and mine's the ſame.

Say'ſt thou "in chance a pow'r defin'd,
"Fortuitous, abſurd, and blind,
[100]"Unworthy that ſtupendous plan,
"Which nature's ſcenes diſplay to man;
"When grace with harmony allied,
"And wiſdom ſtrike, on ev'ry ſide."
Alas! to Clody theſe unknown:
For wond'rous wiſdom's all his own.
In nature nothing he ſurveys
That actuates his ſoul to praiſe:
In vain the planets run their courſe,
Obedient to impulſive force;
Th' excentric comets, far and wide,
Purſue the ſame unerring guide;
In vain deſcribes their varied race
In equal times an equal ſpace:
In vain thro microſcopic eyes,
Innumerable wonders riſe;
On the green leaf whole nations crawl,
And myriads periſh in its fall.
Ah me! what bears the barren mind!
What beauty can affect the blind!
Should Clody then his chance diſclaim,
And own a Deity, by name,
The blund'ring deiſt would advance
A God, no wiſer than his chance.

Boaſts nature, therefore, no deſign?
Say whence, Lorenzo, yours and mine.
[101]Did wiſdom's ſons themſelves create?
Their birth 'tis own'd they owe to fate;
To fate capricious blind and dull;
Deſign lock'd up in th' atheiſt's ſkull.
But ſay, my friend, how came it there?
Lit chance upon occaſion fair,
From odds and ends of matter join'd,
To form an intellecual mind?
Egregious blunder! groſs ſurmize!
"Nature's a fool, yet man is wiſe!"
Is there a mortal, found of brain,
Who ſuch a tenet can maintain?
O, no.—For words let fools conteſt,
Atheiſm's a mere, tho impious, jeſt.

How obvious is the truth! and yet,
What learned volumes have been writ;
How ſcholiaſts labour to refute,
What none do actually diſpute!
Of the firſt-cauſe, or fools or wiſe,
The pure exiſtence none denies;
But in its eſſence * diſagree:
For who defines infinity?

Bluſh not, Lorenzo, then, to own,
Th' eternal God a God unknown;
[102]Whoſe face, to mortal eye denied,
Can never gratify thy pride.
To him your votive altars raiſe,
As Athens did in ancient days;
Nor dare pollute his ſacred ſhrine
With human ſacrifice divine;
But humble adoration bring,
And ſilent praiſe; fit offering!
So the Peruvian, pure in heart,
Strange to the guile, or guilt, of art;
Unaw'd by tenet, text, or tale.
Erects his temple in the vale,
Sacred to th' univerſal mind,
The God and guide of human kind.
No firſtlings here affront the ſkies,
No clouds of ſmoking incenſe riſe:
No hypocrite with crabbed face;
No convert tortur'd into grace;
No ſolid ſkull, in wiſdom's cowl;
No hooded hawk, nor ſolemn owl,
Nor blind, nor ominous invade
This ſpotleſs conſecrated ſhade:
But, as the native of the ſpray,
Man hails his maker, with the day;
By nature taught, heaven aſks no more,
In ſpirit and in truth t' adore.

PROLOGUE TO THE WIDOW'D WIFE.
A COMEDY.
ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY-LANE.

[103]

TO gain the public ear, the man of rhimes
Should always ſpeak the language of the times;
And little elſe hath been of late in hearing
Than terms and phraſes of Electioneering.

Our author therefore ſends me to aſſure ye,
Worthy and free electors of Old Drury,
How happy he ſhould prove, if it content you,
That he be one of thoſe who repreſent you;
The ſtate Poetic, laws and legiſlature,
Like the Political in form and nature;
Phoebus, the Nine, and bards of reputation,
King, peerage, commons, of the ſcribbling nation.

Now from Parnaſſus' throne the prince of wit,
It ſeems, hath iſſued out his royal writ
For a new member.—No offence to give
To a late worthy repreſentative *;
[104]Who, ris'n to favour, hath from us retreated,
And 'mongſt the lords of t'other houſe is ſeated,—
His ſervice loſt, preſuming you may need him,
The preſent candidate would fain ſucceed him.

Not that he vainly boaſts, on this occaſion,
He met encouragement from your perſuaſion;
Or that both friends, who love, and foes, who hate him,
Have been unanimous to nominate him.
'Tis for this loyal borough his affection,
And patriot zeal, that make him riſk th' election;
To his conſtituents ſubject to controul;
With whoſe good leave, he means to ſtand the poll;
Truſting ſecure to their impartial choice:
The town uncanvaſs'd for a ſingle voice;
Nay, brib'd no brother burgeſs bard of note,
Nor by corruption gain'd one critick's vote.

Too proud to beg, too modeſt to demand,
By merit only he would fall or ſtand:
Nor enmity nor friendſhip interfering,
He only aſks a fair and candid hearing.
If, after that, you ſhould with ſcorn reject him,
Or make one honeſt ſcruple to elect him,
He'll lay his unadviſed ſcheme aſide,
And frankly own himſelf not qualified.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL ON RICHMOND-GREEN, MDCCLXVII.

[105]

BY oppoſition lately ſore affrighted,
We own, with gratitude, we ſee, delighted,
Our rivals diſappointed of their ends,
To alienate the favour of our friends.

What could their muſing prologue-monger dream on,
By his ſtrange tale of Baucis and Philemon *;
Of heathen Jove, and ſuch-like idle ſtuff?
True, to be ſure! and probable enough!
But were it real, 'tis a fine example,
And of his taſte, no doubt, a curious ſample!
Becauſe Dan Ovid's Jove, a filthy rake,
Once pleas'd his lodgings in a barn to take,
You in the dirt as decently ſhould grovel,
And take your places, truly, in a hovel!
[106]Well muſt they know, who much frequented plays,
Enacted up the hill, in former days,
How oft the ſcene dragg'd on, nay, ſtood ſtock ſtill,
For want of ſomething,—worſe than want of ſkill.
How ludicrous to ſee, altho in ſport,
The fields of Creſſy and of Agincourt
Scarce big enough t' admit a warriour's ſtride,—
Your heroes always ſtraddle four feet wide,—
Where trumpets ſound, ſwords claſh, and pike-ſtaves rattle,
The ſhim-ſham hurly-burly of a battle;
Where bloodleſs victory ſets whole armies ſhouting,
A man ſhould ſure have room to ſtir about in!

How, elſe, can nimble Harlequin diſplay
His merry magic in the mimic fray;
Flouriſh his wooden ſword, or, driven hard,
Eſcape purſuit by jumping—half a yard!
Yet have we ſeen that motley child of fun
Coop'd in a hutch, where he could ſkip nor run;
But fidgetted, his wrigglings to confine
From tripping up the tripping Columbine:
The ſtage ſo ſpacious, that three ſteps, at moſt,
Ran Agamemnon's noſe againſt the poſt;
While his fair conſort, madam Clytemneſtra,
Hid, with her petticoat, the whole orcheſtra!
[107]Nor was the playhouſe faultier than the play'rs;
As that had its defects, ſo they had theirs.
Oft, 'tis well known, the careleſs comic muſe
Forgot to laugh, — becauſe forgot their cues.
Nay, we have ſeen a whole performance undone,
For want of chieftians not arriv'd from London;
Baſe knights that fail'd diſtreſſed queens to meet;
But tippling ſat in Bow, or Ruſſel-ſtreet.
Mean while poor Tragedy was forc'd to cry
And whimper ſadly with a ſingle eye;
The other turn'd inceſſantly to look,
Tearleſs and dry, intent upon the book:
The actor's part by ſome pert 'prentice play'd,
Too fond of buſkins not to ſcorn his trade.

No wonder ſtage ſo ſmall, play'rs ſo obedient,
Should render a new theatre expedient;
Where heroes might have room to ſtrut and ſtare,
And bullies to lug out, look big, and ſwear;
Where Sir John Falſtaff at his eaſe might ſwagger,
Jaffier have elbow room to lift his dagger,
Piſtol to ſtalk, and Toby Belch to ſtagger.

On theſe accounts, and due conſideration,
We fix'd our thoughts on this our preſent ſtation;
Here rais'd our houſe; and having tightly built it,
Juſt as you ſee, thus painted, carv'd, and gilt it.
[108]This for our theatre.—As for the reſt,
As actors we, at worſt, will do our beſt;
Preſuming thoſe whom Royal Grace ſecures,
May, from their King's indulgence, hope for yours.

ON PHYSICAL AND MORAL GOOD AND EVIL.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[109]

ADopted free inquiry's plan,
To truths as relative to man,
Wouldſt thou, Lorenzo, comprehend
Man's phyſical and moral end,
To future, to immortal views
Conducted by the faithful muſe?
Secure, while yet in reaſon's ſight,
For thee ſhe takes her daring flight;
Borne up on ſcientific wing,
Attempts her boldeſt note to ſing;
For thee thoſe winding tracts t' explore,
Where ſeldom muſe hath dar'd to ſoar.

Is there who teach that human woe
Muſt from a ſource abſtracted flow;
Exiſting in creation's plan,
Some active ill the curſe of man;
Some imperfection, or offence,
In phyſicks, or in providence?
The queſtion old unanſwer'd lies;
"Whence did the curſe of evil riſe?"
[110]By Wolfius left, and twenty more,
As puzzling as it ſtood before,
To God or devil ſtill aſſign'd
The cauſe of ill by human-kind.

In diſobedience to his God,
Did man himſelf call down the rod?
Or did th' arch-fiend, from heaven that fell,
Inſpire the miſchief to rebel?
Yet, ſure, if pow'r preventive given,
No angel e'er had fell from heaven;
Man had no tempter known to vice;
Serpent, nor Eve, in Paradiſe.

Lorenzo, in the pride of ſenſe,
Inſtruction's deem'd impertinence.
She, therefore, daughter of the wiſe,
Hath long been ſhelter'd in diſguiſe;
Ent'ring, beneath the maſk of ſport,
The preſence, tho forbid the court:
So fond with young delight to ſtray,
And moralize the wanton's play,
That ev'n her precepts ſtill prevail
In every favorite goſſip's tale.
Yet ſo that thoſe who ſeek to learn,
With eaſe the naked truth diſcern;
To genius but a pleaſing taſk
To ſport with allegory's maſk.
[111]The moral, then, from tales deduct;
And let philoſophy inſtruct.

Angelic truths let angels ſcan:
Ours is the ſcrutiny of man.
Ours but in reaſon's bounded courſe
Allow'd to try our native force;
Confin'd within life's little ſpace
The fleeteſt genius at the race,
In vain we urge beyond the goal
Th' ideal courſers of the ſoul.

Art thou, my friend, ſo ill at eaſe
That all thy proſpects here diſpleaſe?
Doſt thou, in peeviſhneſs or pain,
Of nature's ſyſtem all complain?
Of blunders there, confuſion here,
Of heav'n too diſtant, hell too near?
In mood ſo ſplenetic, my friend,
Say what thoſe evils that offend:
Thy doubts propoſe, thy queſtions aſk,
And take omniſciency to taſk.

Takes thy ſagacity offence
At all thou ſeeſt of providence?
Doſt thou the conſtitution blame
Of nature's univerſal frame,
[112]Doſt thou heaven's boaſted care, deny
When tempeſts ſweep along the ſky;
Thy feather'd geeſe when whirlwinds bear
Aloft, and ſcatter, wide in air;
Or from the hills impetuous rains
Deſcend and ſtrip th' autumnal plains?
Concluding the machinery vile
When earthquakes ſhake our ſtable iſle,
When Etna and Veſuvius flame;
To nature each a burning ſhame!
Finds thy philoſophy as ſoon
Faulty th' attraction of the moon,
When death reſiſtleſs, roaring rides
In triumph o'er the ſwelling tides,
Or bathing in deſtruction, drowns
Flocks, herds and men and helpleſs towns;
Or bears them off ſome mountain ſteep
All headlong down, to glut the deep?

Or is thy wiſer cenſure bent
Againſt ſome comet's dire event?
In time to come, time out of mind,
To fall into the ſun deſign'd;
Suſpicious that, if planets turn:
To comets, ours at length may burn;
And we be doom'd, ſome ſultry day,
To fierce devouring f [...]ames a prey!
[113]Lorenzo, is this ſtrain admir'd,
Here mayſt thou rail till ſenſe be tir'd.
But judge not thou, like ſophiſts vain,
Of gen'ral good by partial gain:
Thinking when croſs'd our ſtubborn will
Such is a providential ill.
For know, no abſtract cauſe exiſts
And battles in creation's liſts,
A formal enemy to man,
Since nature's tournaments began,
Inflam'd with enmity and power
God's human likeneſs to devour.
No,—'tis impoſſible a cauſe
Should counteract creation's laws,
The hand of providence arreſt,
Or heaven's determin'd pow'r conteſt:
As one or other muſt prevail,
And one, or both together, fail.
But nature knows no real ſtrife,
However jarring human life,
From evil and from error free;
Theſe only relative to thee,
In icy chains let winter bind
The glebe untrod by human-kind,
Fierce light'nings flaſh, and thunders roll
Their horrours only round the pole;
Let Malſtrooms roar, and Heclas blaze
Where fools nor cowards ſtand to gaze:
[114]Let iſlands drown; let mountains melt;
Theſe were no evils if unfelt.
'Mid ſouthern ſeas and lands unknown
Should agonizing nature groan,
There only, eaſe her future throes,
And harmleſs terrours round diſcloſe;
Earthquakes would loſe their evil name,
And heaven no longer bear the blame:
Tho evils row we loudly call
Lima's, and Ulyſippo's *, fall.

Lorenzo, of creation's plan
But parts are viſible to man;
Whence, ign'rant of their various uſe,
We think them ſubject to abuſe;
Tho all with art conſummate join,
Conducive to heaven's main deſign.
As parts to complex engines prove,
Inſpir'd by mechaniſm to move,
This retrogade, and that direct,
In diff'rent modes to one effect;
So, howſoe'er they claſh to ſenſe,
The ſev'ral ſprings of providence,
In concert, at their maker's will,
Their ends harmoniouſly fulfil:
Upheld the weight, let fall the rod,
As urges the firſt mover, God.

[115]How blind are, then, the ſmatt'rihg fools,
Juſt taught their geometric rules,
The ſimple uſe of rule and line,
To theſe who nature would confine?
Its laws who elſe capricious call,
Or ſay "it acts by none at all;'
"The macrocoſm's vaſt engine made
"By one that knew not half his trade;
"Its bungling engineer at hand,
"To help it forward, at a ſtand."
Impious! like Marli's, doth it take
The pains to mend it did to make,
Requiring endleſs coſt and care
To hold in tenable repair?
Ah! no, howe'er to us it ſeem,
Creation is a perfect ſcheme.

Lorenzo, let not words deceive.
All imperfection's relative;
Since from conceiv'd amendments came
The patch-work we perfection name;
A term for ſomething underſtood
Productive ſtill of mortals' good.
But, of perfection abſolute
All nature is, beyond diſpute;
For all from God is here deriv'd,
And all is perfect God contriv'd.
[116]"Man's ſurely perfect then" you cry.
As man, moſt perfect, I reply:
The creature of his Maker's will,
Form'd his good pleaſure to fulfil;
Deſtin'd in th' univerſal plan
To fill his place, and act, as man.
What tho on earth the human mind
Involv'd in ignorance we find,
Impaſſion'd, fickle, giv'n to pride,
Nor reſting e'er ſelf-ſatisfied;
Doth pow'r comparative t' improve
Perfection poſitive remove!
As well imperfect might we ſay
The riſing ſun at early day.
Since with ſuperiour heat and light
It blazes in meridian height.
Form'd with progreſſive pow'rs to riſe
From out the duſt to tread the ſkies,
Perfect as ſuch humanity
However lowly in degree.
How ignorant and weak are thoſe
Who nature's author, then, ſuppoſe
In providence remains a ſpy,
To guard his work with watchful eye;
From fallen angels' baſe intent
The direful outrage to prevent;
To reſcue, or preſerve, his plan
From that prodigious creature, man.
[117]Like the young ſteed, that ſcours the plain,
Is nature wild, and needs a rein?
Or halts ſhe like a founder'd jade;
Lame by her frequent ſtumbling made?

Perhaps, Lorenzo, ſome miſtake,
Concerning provideace, we make;
The pow'rs of nature to divide
From its imaginary guide;
For, if creation has, in fact,
Been long ago a finiſh'd act,
What end doth lab'ring time purſue?
Or what hath providence in view?
For ſure thou wilt not take the ſide
Of thoſe, whoſe ignorance and pride
Maintain the univerſe deſign'd
Merely to gratify mankind:
A ſtage, as on a ſtroller's cart,
Where drolls itin'rant play their part,
In grinning mirth, or brawling ſtrife:
The tragi-comedy of life!

Was, then, heav'n's wond'rous pow'r diſplay'd;
This ſyſtem in perfection made,
Only to wear itſelf away?
Stupendous frame! for mere decay!
Its worlds to wander thro the void,
Deſtroying, till themſelves deſtroy'd;
[118]Or, in ſome future, fabled, days,
To take imaginary blaze
At flames, that all to ruin turn,
Annihilating as they burn?
Riſk'd, then, the cenſure of my wit,
I hold the world unfiniſh'd yet:
Time building what heaven's wiſdom plann'd,
Creation's work ev'n yet in hand.
Thro nature's ſcenes in order range;
See all things in continual change;
All to ſome point progreſſive run,
To do, or elſe to be undone:
Exiſting for ſo ſhort a ſpace,
Thouſands we know but by their place,
Which chang'd, by changing form, we ſay
The things themſelves are paſs'd away.
No proofs of Being objects bring,
Whoſe eſſence ever on the wing,
Flown from their forms, ere yet defin'd,
Leaves no identity behind.

But waving this, yet find we here
No abſtract: cauſe of ill, to fear:
Since on the feelings of mankind
Depends the ev'ry ill we find:
Whence, tho our ſuff'rings ill we call,
They've no abſtracted cauſe at all:
[119]For, ſtript creation of mankind,
No evil would be left behind.

To this will cavillers reply?
"We aſk not where thoſe cauſes lie;
"If in externals be th' oiffence,
"Or in the pravity of ſenſe:
"That real ill exiſts is plain,
"While man is ſenſible of pain."
In anſwer, my Lorenzo, here,
No vaunting ſtoiciſm fear:
Nor think thy friend ſo madly wiſe
T' affeft his mis'ries to deſpiſe.
I ne'er preſume that point to reach,
Nor 'gainſt the voice of nature preach:
None feel more tenderly than I:
Mine the ſoft heart and wat'ry eye,
The ſanguine hopes, the groundleſs fears;
Still unſubdu'd by ſenſe or years;
Ah, too ſuſceptible of pain
When vice, or folly, bat complain!
Yet, ev'n while tears of anguiſh flow,
I hold no abſtract ill we know.
'Tis true, my friend, no man alive
Could, in his ſenſes, gravely ſtrive
The wretch in torture to perſuade
Of evil not to be afraid;
[120]The murd'rer, mangled on the wheel,
To ſmile at harmleſs rope and ſteel;
Or that the blows, that loitering kill.
Cannot be phyſically ill.
Aſurd, the argument, and vain!
Since all we know of ill is pain.

And yet, as; neither griev'd nor pain'd,
Of evil man had ne'er complain'd;
If, relative, our bliſs and woe
Reciprocally ebb and flow,
'Tis palpable that joy and ſtrife
Are but the modes of human life;
Which varied with conſummate ſkill
May, on the whole, be good nor ill.

Sayſt thou the learned are agreed
The ills of life the good exceed?
Lorenzo, peeviſh, ſick, or vain,
How nat'ral is it to complain!
But fure experience here denies
This thread-bare maxim of the wiſe.
Behold the weak, the blind, the lame,
The ſons of poverty and ſhame,
The wretch, expiring by degrees
By amputations or diſeaſe;
Such whoſe vile lot, the world their foe,
Contempt and beggary below:
[121]Shouldſt thou to this, or that, propoſe
In death a cure for all their woes;
Tell 'em, oppreſs'd with human ſtrife,
"Wide ſtand the num'rous doors'of life,
"With open arms, the wretch to ſave,
"Reſt welcomes mis'ry to the grave."
How few your recipe will try;
Tho dying piece-meal, loth to die.
Nor merely from the fear of worſe,
Tenacious of a preſent curſe.
For ſay annihilation here
The all poor mortals have to fear,
How few would yet their ills incline
Their ſenſe of being to reſign;
To part, on terms like theſe, from pain.
With pleaſure ne'er to meet again;
Ev'n nature ſhudders at the thought,
To ſink inconſcious into naught;
In mere exiſtence ſure mankind
Muſt then intrinſic pleaſure find;
Some good equivalent muſt feel
To ſuch ſuppos'd exceſs of ill;
Since thus, in death, ſo loth to part
The aching head and bleeding heart.

May not, indeed, all human woe
Be ballanc'd by our joys below?
[122]Doſt them, Lorenzo, doubt of this?
How doſt thou meaſure earthly bliſs?
'Tis not by extaſy alone
Thy actual ſhare of joy is known:
Duration adds to the degree
As much as its intenſity.
Joy for a moment's ſpace how ſmall!
Pain inſtantaneous, none at all;
Thro life continued little leſs
Ev'n bare content than happineſs:
The joyous extaſy of bliſs
Dilating rarified to this.
Be it on individuals tried;
Each needs but to be ſatisfied:
The longing wiſh, the ſigh is o'er
When once content; we aſk no more.
Thus equal joy we often taſte
In ſhort-liv'd pleaſures, ſnatch'd in haſte,
As others, or, when raptur'd leſs,
For years, ev'n we, ourſelves, poſſeſs.
Hence oft aſſerted in diſpute
That time ideas conſtitute;
Senſe of duration ſo confin'd
To that which paſſes in the mind.
Th' expectant lover, thinks, in rage,
His Stella's abſent hour an age;
While ſhort and ſweet the moments fly,
When love and ſhe ſit ſmiling by:
[123]Nor giv'n their epithets in vain
To fleeting joy, and lingering pain,
In minutes flown each joyful day,
Each ſad one whil'd in hours away.
Nay, tho of life tenacious all,
Longevity no bliſs we call.
In diff'rent animals, at leaſt,
The leſs the greater's conſtant feaſt,
'Tis probable their joys and ſtrife
Are ſuited to their term of life.
Whence equal pleaſure, equal pain,
May long-liv'd elephants ſuſtain
With young ephemerons, whoſe flight,
At noon beginning, ends at night;
During which momentary ſpace,
They riſe, love, battle, and embrace,
Flutt'ring around, till, out of breath,
They drop into the arms of death.

From felf-experience doſt thou rate
The real hardſhip of thy fate?
Art thou with ev'ry friend at ſtrife?
Seeſt thou no gentle joy in life?
Doſt thou no fav'rite ſcheme poſſeſs,
That yields contemplative ſucceſs?
Haſt thou no hope; no good doſt chooſe,
A good, thou wouldſt not die to loſe?
[124]Thy day, thus clouded at the dawn,
Will brighter ſhine, its clouds withdrawn:
Or, is thy morn of ſun-ſhine paſt?
With clouds thy ev'ning's overcaſt:
Wouldſt of its brightneſs know th' amount?
Bring morn and ev'ning to account.

Stands nature then, ſo long abus'd,
Of abſtract evil thus excus'd?
As little truth is underſtood
By thoſe, who hold all nature good.
"Whatever is, is right."—It may;
But therefore good we cannot ſay;
Unleſs ſome general bliſs we ſee
Ariſe from partial miſery.
In ſpite of truth, in reaſon's ſpite
When vex'd, or pain'd, we all deny't;
Ne'er, till the pain be o'er, confeſſing
That was, which never is, a bleſſing.
The term's, then, here miſunderſtood.
Right's not equivocal to good;
Goodneſs adapted and confin'd
To th' appetites of human-kind;
The right, unknown to you or me:
Tho ſure what is is fit to be!
Let Plato, then, or Leibnitz prate
Of goodnſeſs influencing fate;
[125]Or idle ſophiſts ſtill conteſt
Their boaſted principle the beſt:
By diſputants, or either ſide,
The partial term is miſapplied.
That God is good they know full well;
But what his goodneſs none can tell:
Unleſs to man, his kindneſs ſhown
His good's dependent on our own.

Lorenzo, merely to mankind
Thus evil phyſical confin'd;
Of moral next, a puzzling taſk,
An explanation doſt thou aſk?
Sayſt thou "Heaven's care no more extends
"To phyſical than moral ends;
"The ſame the providential power,
"That rains the ſoft, refreſhing ſhower.
"That, in the womb of teeming earth,
"Its atoms quickens into birth,
"Doth in the moral ſcene connect
"The cauſe and conſequent effect;
"On virtue peace of heart beſtows;
"Softens the good man's caſual woes;
"Abandons vice to fell deſpair;
"Or plagues with heart-corroding care:"
Concluding hence "that moral ill,
"Oppoſing nature's righteous will,
[126]"Aloud for heaven's dread vengeance calls,
"The curſe that on the guilty falls."
So far, Lorenzo, I with thee,
In part moſt readily agree;
That vice will leave a ſting behind,
And virtue its reward ſhall find;
Yet all, with good St. Paul, confeſs
"Without a law we can't tranſgreſs."
Now nature's law is heaven's command;
Whoſe will no mortal can withſtand.
How! lives earth's animated clod
To contravene the will of God?
As well, advent'rous of his neck,
The laws of gravity to break,
Preſumptuous man might ſeek to fly,
A creeping earth-worm, to the ſky;
Or don the biſhop's winged ſhoon,
To trip it yarely to the moon.
What curſe ſoe'er then vice provoke,
Creation's laws can ne'er be broke.

But know, by phyſical alone
Is moral good or evil known;
For, had not vice the pow'r to vex,
Its evil never would perplex.
Each moral thus a partial ill,
Permitted by th' eternal will;
[127]To mortals relative th' offence
And puniſhments of providence.

Lorenzo, ſtate the matter clear.
Be pain and pleaſure ſtrangers here.
Strangers to pleaſures and to pain,
What motives had we to complain?
Suppoſe we, then, in nature's plan,
T' exiſt th' antomaton of man,
Riſing from ſenſeleſs matter's arms,
Which perfect reſt nor grieves, nor charms;
Should heaven a conſciouſneſs beſtow,
Subject to good or ill below;
Not real pain or pleaſure give,
But only make the form to live:
As yet from all reflection clear,
Unnerv'd by hope, unaw'd by fear,
Suppoſe to action thus conſign'd
This naked, unaffected mind.
Lorenzo, with preciſion hence
Let us infer the conſequence.
Ere yet exiſted moral ill,
The firſt ſole agent was the will;
Reaſon without the pow'r to act,
To cenſure or adviſe a fact;
As from experience nought it knew,
Of good or bad, or falſe or true:
[128]For reaſon its concluſion draws
From ſimilar effect and cauſe;
No inſtinct, faculty or ſenſe,
Securing actual innocence,
That bids us virtue's ſteps purſue,
Or points to bliſs it never knew:
Elſe giving reaſon bounteous heaven
Had alſo actual pleaſure given:
This not ſuppos'd, —hence reaſon's uſe
Some known effect muſt introduce.
Now, as innate, if we maintain
A love of bliſs and hate of pain,
Directed as the paſſions fir'd,
The will to pleaſure firſt aſpir'd;
The moral agent bound to chuſe
From nature's moſt immediate views.
But, prone to cenſure and complain,
Suppoſe our firſt ſenſation pain;
Let pain or pleaſure be attain'd,
Of both an equal ſenſe was gain'd;
As the firſt tree of knowledge bore
Of good and evil equal ſtore;
For when the mind one pleaſure knew,
Its neutral ſtate of reſt withdrew;
Pleaſure and pain, by contraſt known,
Criteria of each other grown.
Hence felt th' initiated mind
The ſting which pleaſure left behind,
[129]And reaſon did to act commence
On th' information of the ſenſe;
Still as the paſſions ebb and flow,
Now ſwoln with bliſs, now ſunk in woe,
Tracing the bounds, th' extremes between,
Of innocence, that golden mean.
But ah, the fluctuating tide
Of paſſion doth this mean deride:
Conſiſtent only, 'tis confeſs'd,
With nature in a ſtate of reſt.

Here then from moral actions came
The neceſſary ill, we blame:
Running ſelf-love, in full career,
Reaſon her guide not always near,
Her ſatisfaction oft purſuing,
Tho at her own and others' ruin.
Th' indulgence of the human will,
We hence preſume is moral ill,
Whene'er from ſuch indulgence flows
More pain than pleaſure it beſtows.

In guilt original involv'd,
Here ſee the wond'rous myſt'ry ſolv'd.
To the firſt man no more confin'd
Than paſſions found in ev'ry mind,
Is, the plain cauſe of moral woe,
Sin, human frailty here below.
[130]Lorenzo, evil underſtood,
The die's reverſe is moral good:
Whate'er more pleaſure yields than pain *
The name of goodneſs doth obtain.

Unſatisfied, Lorenzo, yet,
Doſt thou loſt happineſs regret?
Doth, from our plan of morals, ſeem
Still providence no perfect ſcheme,
Becauſe, perplex'd with fear or pain,
Ev'n virtue covets bliſs in vain?
Doſt thou againſt the cauſe object?
"'Tis diſproportion'd to th' effect,
"Thus in th' intemp'rance of the will
"To place the ſource of moral ill:
"Our paſſions but a nat'ral cauſe,
"Obedient to creation's laws,
"Here palpably too innocent
"The cauſe of mis'ry to be meant."
Muſt I repeat it o'er again?
From pleaſure flows our ſenſe of pain.
Dependent theſe as light and ſhade,
Thro life, each other's contraſt made.
Whence, tho to moderation join'd
Content's ſerenity of mind,

[131]While vice but ſports with higher glee
To ſink as low in miſery,
Proportion'd to the guilty joy
The pangs intemperance annoy;
Yet, on the whole, no abſtract ill
Doth here confront th' eternal will;
Of evil all th' effected ſtrife
But relative to human life.

Sayſt thou indeed "if man confin'd
"To fill the place by heaven aſſign'd,
"But partially to riſe, or fall,
"Why feels he miſery at all?"
Another queſtion anſwers this.
What title have mankind to bliſs?
During thy life if, man and boy,
Thy ſhare of both thou mayſt enjoy;
If perfect reſt the certain mean
Our pleaſures and our pains between;
Null the momentum of our pain;
Who ſhall of providence complain?

Seeſt thou incumbering the ground,
The barren fig-trees branching round;
While virtue ſtands the brunt of vice,
And knaves poſſeſs fools' paradiſe?
'Tis here indeed our errour lies;
Our virtues we too highly prize;
[132]And adequate rewards to find,
Create them fondly to our mind:
Not ſatisfied on heaven to truſt,
Or think its diſpenſations juſt,
Unleſs his conduct God ſubmit
To our inveſtigating wit;
Here toiling, as an humble drudge,
For man, his critick, lord and judge.
What merit in thy maker's eye
That thou vain man art ſix feet high;
To heaven muſt all, with ſhame, agree
Unprofitable ſervants we;
Unworthy of celeſtial dreſs
The rags of human righteouſneſs;
The all that virtue has to boaſt,
Claiming the world's regard, at moſt.

As virtue here ſo vice depends.
Ourſelves our guilt the moſt offends.
For know, proud man, no act of thine
Renders defective God's deſign:
No pow'r to human frailty given
To injure unpreventing heaven.
Preſume not at ſo high a price
To rate th' iniquity of vice.
Nor let the vainly-virtuous fool,
Projecting heaven by line and rule,
[133]Sore laſh'd and waſting to the bone,
The crimes of health and eaſe t' atone,
Conceive by want of reſt or meat
Th' eternal purpoſe to defeat.
Preſume not at ſo cheap a rate
To hold th' omnipotence of fate.

Yet who ſhall ſay that guilt is free,
Or promiſe vice impunity?
Since 'tis ſo plain the ſting of woe
To joy inordinate doth grow;
While none from virtue's paths would ſtray
If pleaſure did not lead the way.
Can virtue alſo hence deſpair?
Since virtue's providence's care;
Compenſing pleaſure due to pain,
Nor this nor that beſtow'd in vain.

Let fools, when hard their preſent lot,
Think diſtant heaven has earth forgot;
In diſcontent aloud complain,
"That all our truſt in heaven is vain,"
Pretending God the world protects,
And yet its ſev'ral parts neglects.
Do thou, Lorenzo, better taught,
Never indulge ſo wild a thought;
Conceiving th' individual man
No charge on nature's gen'ral plan.
[134]What tho impoſſible that we
At once the whole and parts ſhould ſee;
To ſingle objects here confin'd
Th' attention of the human mind;
Yet, ſhall we blaſphemouſly join
Heaven's intellects with yours and mine?
Know thou the world's great architect
Its ſmalleſt part ſhall not neglect;
As needful in the ſtately pile,
As golden roofs th' abutments vile;
Nor, in their kind, more perfect they,
The parian ſtones, than potter's clay.
How ſadly, blundering in the dark,
Here St. John miſs'd his boaſted mark;
"When, heaven's omnipotence t'enhance,
He almoſt gave the world to chance:
Suppoſing God too great to mind
The peccadillos of mankind;
Too inſignificant our claim
To Deity's immediate aim.
Or rather, from his reaſons given,
He thought the taſk too great for heaven;
Too puzzling for th' eternal wit
To hold its ſtate and thus ſubmit;
Wherefore, like th' idiot at a loſs
To count, heaven takes us in the groſs.
[135]Lorenzo, probable the ſcheme,
However ſtrange the doctrine ſeem,
Whate'er the next world give, in this
That virtue hath its ſhare of bliſs;
While all accounts 'tween, vice and woe
Are ſettled and diſcharg'd below:
No ballance to receive or pay,
Left, ſhuffling, for a future day.
Go, make an eſtimate of life;
Compare the ſums of joy and ſtrife;
Each in its ſeparate degree,
Duration and intenſity.
Perhaps, upon the whole, you'll find
That nothing's due to human kind;
Nor loſs nor profit in the trade
Of tranſient pains and pleaſures made.
Mean-time how difficult to gueſs
At real objects of diſtreſs!
How difficult, in fact, to trace
Where real pleaſure hath a place!
See, ſhuddering at September's froſt,
In clothes of fur, duke Chilly loſt;
Lamenting, with his belly full,
The tinker's half-cloath'd, ſtarving trull;
A jade, that, warmer than his grace,
Laughs at his pity to his face.
Accuſtom'd to the melting mood,
So, wiſhing ev'ry mortal good,
[136]Behold Tendrilla drown her eyes
At what the ſufferers deſpiſe.
How oft, the ſcene revers'd, again,
Apparent bliſs is actual pain!
How oft we hear much-envied ſtate
Groan beneath bulky grandeur's weight;
Of thouſands broke their nightly reſt
By that for which we call them bleſt!
Nay, as a God on earth ador'd,
See the dread inquiſition's lord,
Rais'd, in the pomp of prieſtly pride,
How envied, by his monarch's ſide!
And yet how mis'rable a part
He acts, if not extinct his heart:
How little leſs, at nature's coſt
If ev'ry ſocial feeling loſt.
Mean-while the wretch, for whom we ſigh,
In cruel tortures doom'd to die,
To pain ſuperiour, fear or ſhame,
Exulting, ſmiles amidſt the flame,
Makes his proud judge with malice ſwell;
And triumphs over death and hell.

Proportion'd to the weight of care,
Gives nature thus the pow'r to bear?
But partial judges we, 'tis plain,
Of others' joy or others' pain.
[137]So vice and virtue could we trace,
Neither is ſtamp'd upon the face;
And who to read preſumes the art
The ſecret of another's heart?
Nay, ev'n that art how little known
To open, and peruſe our own!
Who then, ſo much ſlave to ſenſe,
Shall here arraign heaven's providence;
Thinking "the good the world may leave
"Ere virtue's portion they receive;
"Triumphant that the wicked go,
"Bleſt, or unpuniſh'd, here below:
"As if our end a ſlight event,
"Depending on mere accident."
Is this not atheiſm in the eye
Of thoſe who atheiſm moſt decry?

Who made the world, with equal ſkill
Can ſurely guide it, if he will.
Who, then, appearances ſhall truſt,
To think that heaven's on earth unjuſt;
When vice and virtue may relate
Solely to man's ſublunar ſtate;
And here, for ought we truly know,
Be paid their dues of joy and woe.

Yet think not thou I here deny
That virtuous ſouls aſcend the ſky;
[138]Or that the grov'ling ſons of vice
Shall be excluded paradiſe.
Prepar'd, my friend, the man, in life,
By varied means of joy and ſtrife,
Or, by redemption's wond'rous grace,
To view his maker face to face,
In death compleated for the ſtate
Deſign'd him by the will of fate,
A place of conſtant reſt may find
The portion of the virtuous mind;
A place, comparatively ill,
For thoſe whoſe god their brutal will:
By heaven th' immortal Being plac'd.
Conſiſtent with its pow'rs and taſte.
Such future ſcenes may ſure be given;
This call'd a hell and that a heaven;
And juſtly vice and virtue, here,
Have that to hope and this to fear.

Still do I hear the growl of care?
"To be we know not what or where!"
Is it, becauſe we know not why,
So ſad a thing for once to die?
Is it ſo hazardous, my friend,
On God our maker to depend?
That God to whom we being owe,
Our friend and guardian here below?
[139]Who, all along the vale of life,
In ev'ry ſcene of care and ſtrife,
Affords his providential arm,
To raiſe beneath, or ſhield from, harm?
Is it for him ſo hard to ſave
Our conſcious Being from the grave?
Secure, Lorenzo, in the pow'r,
That wak'd me at my natal hour,
To me, and mine, in life ſo juſt,
On this in life I mean to truſt:
Safe in the hollow of his hand,
Content to fall by whom I ſtand,
Of whom I kiſs the chaſt'ning rod,
And bleſs the father in the God.

LUSUS NATURAE, TYPOGRAPHUS.

[140]

‘Monſtrum horrendum informe ingens— VIRG.’‘I thought ſome of nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well; they imitated humanity ſo abominably. SHAKESPEARE.’

IN nature's workſhop, on a day,
Her journeymen, inclin'd to play,
Half- [...]runk 'twixt cup and can,
Took up a clod which ſhe with care
Was mo [...]lling a huge ſea-bear,
And ſwore they'd make a man.

They tried; but, handling ill their tools,
Form'd, like a pack of bungling fools,
A thing ſo groſs and odd,
That, when it roll'd about the diſh,
They knew not if 'twere fleſh or fiſh,
A man or hodmandod.

[141]Yet, to compleat the piece of fun,
They chriſten'd it Arch Himilton:
"But what can this thing do?"
Kick it down ſtairs; the devil's in't
If it won't do to write and print
The Critical Review.

ART AND NATURE.
A SHORT STORY.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXIV.

[142]

IN the youth of old Time, madam Nature ſtill gay.
And Art, in the bloom of her beauty,
Together for ever, at work or at play,
Were united by love or by duty.

But Time, by lewd Faſhion, ſeducing the maid,
The mother the daughter diſcarded;
'Till Cuſtom concealing the breach that was made,
The faux-pas grew at length leſs regarded.

I was told, at Spring-gardens, and this place and t'other
Art and Nature were ſeen in alliance.
The daughter I met with, but, as for the mother,
Our artiſts had bid her defiance.

On freſh information I poſted to Kew,
And look'd round the princeſſes gardens,
That both had been there I ſaw proofs not a few,
Tho ſome of them not worth three farthings.

[143]

Returning to town, on this ſide Turnham-Green,

Jogging on without thinking of either,

I ſaw them, tho both ſeem'd aſham'd to be ſeen

So cloſely connected together.

In a little thatch'd houſe, by the ſide of the road,
They ſkudded, nor once look'd behind them,
For—had made it his ſummer abode—
With—you'll certainly find 'em.

THE SHROPSHIRE GOOSE.
A FABLE.
OCCASIONED BY THE MANUFACTURE OF THE OPERA OF ALMENA.

[144]

A Shropſhire gooſe, urg'd t'other day
To waddle in parade,
Meeting a peacock on the way,
Beſought his friendly aid.

For, grown beſide a filthy lake
Moſt wond'rous foul and fuſty,
Droll was the figure ſhe did make
With plumage bare and ruſty.

The peacock, hearing her bewail,
And mov'd, tho proud, to pity,
Shook the looſe feathers from his tail,
And dreſs'd her ſomewhat pretty.

This done, ſhe turn'd her rump about
And ſaw it made ſo fine,
"D—n it," ſays ſhe, "the world will doubt
"Theſe feathers being mine.

[145]

"Tho ſtolen plumes I ſafely wear,

"It mayn't be ſafe to borrow.—

"But hold—diſguis'd with proper care,

"They won't be known to-morrow."

Diſplaying, then, a gooſe's taſte
And rumpilng ev'ry feather,
She ſought the muddy pool in haſte
And plaiſter'd them together.

Dy'd ſlut in grain, the dirty elf
Thus ſpoilt the decent madam;
Her plumes no credit to herſelf,
Nor him from whom ſhe had 'em.

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[146]

O Blind to truth, to ſcience blind,
The ſkeptic tribe of human-kind!
Who doubt, Lorenzo, if our lot
Be here to die and be forgot,
Or if it prove our future fate
To know an intellectual ſtate,
In death to periſh, or to riſe,
Immortal to our native ſkies.

Allur'd by wit to neither ſide,
Be reaſon our impartial guide;
Let us, Lorenzo, fairly weigh
What argument hath here to ſay.

Haſt thou poor Dromio's ſophiſms got,
Who bids us vegetate and rot;
Man but a rank and uſeleſs weed?
Prove them alike, and 'tis agreed.
But the analogy of parts
Is all that's prov'd by ſkeptic arts.
Say that, "of vegetable race,
"We ſpread the root from place to place;
[147]"The lovely flow'r of beauty blows,
"Twin ſiſter to the province roſe,
"Allures at morn the gazing, eye,
"That ere the ev'ning ſees it die."
Say, "years diſrobe the mantled brow,
"As winter ſtrips th' autumnal bough;
"The rough, rude blaſt to both unkind,
"Both periſh by an eaſtern wind;
"Or, by the ax, untimely blow!
"Are laid their ſpreading honours low."
Admit, Lorenzo, this be true:
Go on,—the parallel purſue.
Say, "the tall elms, you ſtately row,
"Sweet tranſports of ſenſation know;
"When zephyrs kiſs the lily's breaſt
"The lily's rapture be confeſs'd."
Say "the broad oak, when thunders roar,
"Fears till the thunder-ſtorm be o'er;
"Conſcious of doubt and dread by turns,
"Stands trembling as the foreſt burns;
"Alive, awake, to nature's laws,
"From nature's ſcenes experience draws;
"Throbbing its trunk with hopes and fears.
"Grown old in wiſdom as in years!"
Is this abſurd? abſurd indeed!
Lorenzo how unlike a weed!

[148]To moral arguments doſt run?
Here ſhall we end as we begun.
Sayſt thou "the virtuous, when they die,
"In their own right aſcend the ſky;
"The wicked, here unpuniſh'd, go
"To torment in the world below;
"Heaven's juſtice elſe we ſhould arraign,
"And prove the virtuous good in vain."
You take, my friend, for granted here,
What none by reaſon make appear;
That vice at God Almighty's hands
Eternal puniſhment demands;
While endleſs bliſs beyond the ſkies
Juſtice beſtows, as virtue's prize.
Juſtice! Lorenzo, what, my friend,
By juſtice doſt thou here intend?
Her ſword ſhe holds; but ſay, what ails
The equilibrium of her ſcales?
How low the one, tho empty, lies,
To kick the beam while t' other flies!

Alas, I ſee by what compell'd;
In diff'rent mediums are they held;
One in material fluids buoy'd,
The other in a perfect void;
Weigh'd in eternity and time,
The puniſhment againſt the crime!
[149]Dare the ſelf-righteous tribe to ſay,
That heaven's no more than virtue's pay,
While vice demerits endleſs woe?
Needs God a friend? fears God a foe?
Holding vindictive rage in ſtore,
For his own ſake, on man to pour?
O, No—unhurt th' Almighty cauſe,
Or kept, or broken, human laws.

Ceaſe, then, preſumption, to contend
That mortals heaven can ſo offend,
As at an infinite expence,
To anſwer a finite offence:
To pay the fine immortal made;
Which elſe they never could have paid.
The dying wretch tho tyrants cure,
But tortures longer to endure;
With nature cruelly at ſtrife
When criminals are quit with life;
Can God, whoſe tender mercies flow
O'er all his varied works below,
Whoſe loving kindneſs all confeſs,
Whoſe name the diſtant nations bleſs;
Say, can this God, of boundleſs love,
Vengeful as earthly tyrants prove?
O ſhame, Lorenzo, ſhame to all
Who cruelty can juſtice call!
[150]Such argument, beſide, is vain,
Unleſs the premiſes were plain;
Unleſs we firſt could make it clear,
That vice can ne'er be puniſh'd here;
That virtue muſt be ever bleſt,
For following but its intereſt;
Or that we truly could define
That juſtice mortals call divine.

By metaphyſicks doſt thou ſtrive
To keep the man in death alive?
Wouldſt thou, ſet moral pleas aſide,
The body from the ſoul divide?
Material that and born to die,
While this a native of the ſky;
Objects that none can hear and ſee
Hence claiming immortality!
But, ſay, is thy corporeal claim
Laid to the matter, or the frame?
Is it the ſubſtance of the heart
Or make, that is the mortal part?
Doth change of form bring death alone?
Form we muſt immaterial own.
If to the eſſence of the clay,
Again, mortality we lay,
Doom'd the loath'd carcaſs to the worm,
The ſubſtance changes but its form:
[151]Through modes of being given to range,
Immortal in perpetual change,
Matter by all the ſkeptic crowd
Eſſentially the ſame allow'd;
In death, in life, our ſhame, our pride,
In various forms but modified.
Say, then, the matter or the frame,
Or both, in body have a claim;
Nor mortal, nor immortal, we
From our materiality.

Lorenzo, doth thy boſom beat,
To claim in heaven th' immortal ſeat?
So fond of thy exiſtence here,
Doſt thou annihilation fear?
To fall as undiſtinguiſh'd clay
To dumb forgetfulneſs a prey?
The joys of paradiſe in view,
Sayſt thou "thy claim muſt needs be true,
"Elſe, wherefore doth thy fond deſire
"To immortality aſpire?"
Whate'er in hope be heaven's intent,
This is, my friend, no argument.
I, too, perhaps, ſo pleas'd to live,
My very means of life might give,
All I am worth, from death to ſave,
If hope were buried in the grave.
[152]But let Lorenzo never truſt
To wiſh or hope, however juſt:
Nor let a paſſionate deſire
To reaſon's ſober taſk aſpire.
Wouldſt thou falſe principles defend,
Becauſe they ſerve a pleaſing end?
Who loves the truth will ſure deſpiſe
Her cauſe to reſt on ſpecious lies.
What merit doth it add to worth
That knaves its virtues babble forth?
What added weight or conſequence,
In ſuffrage, gives the fool to ſenſe?

Again, is't ſaid "ſo cloſely join'd
"In life the body and the mind,
"Reciprocally form'd to bear
"Each other's weight of pain and care,
"Sharing alike the mutual joy,
"Which either wholly may deſtroy;
"Since thus together both concur,
"We know not either to prefer,
"If both be purpoſely combin'd,
"In uſe of body or of mind."
Are there who weakly, hence, ſuppoſe
"The ſoul no ſep'rate being knows;
"But, as the body doth decay,
"So wears the mortal mind away."
[153]Yet wherefore might not at our birth.
Lodg'd in this tenement of earth,
Lock'd up for life th' immortal mind,
Its temporary priſon find,
Till paid our vital debt ſhould be,
And death ſhould ſet the captive free?
Mean-while, in hope, in fear, in doubt,
Concerning friends and foes without,
Prone thro its priſon grates to pry,
It ſees Time's ſcatter'd ruins lie,
In darkneſs and confuſion hurl'd,
The embryo of another world.
Why may not thus, on earth, be join'd
The body and the tenant mind?
Th'inhabitant, with coſt and care,
Keeping his manſion in repair,
Us'd to the dungeon where he lies,
And prone his preſent home to prize,
Unknowing whither doom'd to roam,
If once bereft of houſe and home.
What wonder, then, for help he calls
When danger threats his tott'ring walls?
Nor ſtrange, if, heedleſs.of their fate,
They tumble on his wareleſs pate;
Each other's mutual ſtrength and ward,
The manſion and the manſion's lord.
[154]What tho we hold the ſoul to be
Attach'd to ſenſibility,
Concludes Lorenzo raſhly hence
The ſoul's as mortal as the ſenſe?
Alleging that "in life we find
"Perception to the organs join'd,
"Poor mortals of ſenſation void
"As theſe are damag'd or deſtroy'd;
"Therefore the ſoul on ſenſe depends,
"And with the failing organ ends."
Lorenzo, thro a darken'd glaſs
Seeſt thou but faintly objects paſs?
More darken'd yet, doſt thou confeſs
Thy certainty of viſion leſs?
With its tranſparency thy ſight
Decreaſing, till obſtructed quite?
Suppoſe it broke or let it fall,
Doſt think thou couldſt not ſee at all?
Ridiculous! when objects lie
All open to the naked eye.

Thus, may the ſoul, to body join'd,
Be deaf, irrational or blind:
But take th' obſtructing organs hence,
At liberty its native ſenſe,
By fits no more it hears and ſees,
As now by piece-meal and degrees,
[155]In partial modes, adapted here
To organs of the eye and ear;
But, intellect, all ear, all eye,
It reads the wonders of the ſky,
At once what nature can diſcloſe
Of ſcientific ſecrets knows;
Now ſenſe and ſcience both combin'd
In each perception of the mind.

But here, Lorenzo, for a while
Lay by the metaphyſic foil.
With this, behind our darken'd glaſs,
Too apt to make a blund'ring paſs:
By much more anxious, on the whole,
To guard the body than the ſoul.
Too nice th' anatomizing art,
To take them dextrouſly apart,
Let us on both inquiry plan,
And ſcrutinize their compound, man;
Contented from his preſent ſtate
To reaſon of his future fate.

Doth Dromio ſay, to hold diſpute,
"Man, if no plant, is yet a brute;
"A helpleſs animal in birth,
"His body form'd of kindred earth,
"An animal in his decay,
"His ſtrength and vigour paſs away;
[156]"Equal the beaſt's ſagacious pow'rs,
"Or even ſuperior oft to ours."
The politic, induſtrious bee
Doſt own in wiſdom rivals thee?
Oeconomy ſecures from want
The careful and laborious ant,
While man, with all his boaſted ſenſe,
Riots at health's and life's expence,
Luxurious, caſts his cares aſide,
Or ſtarves thro indolence or pride;
Here no pre-eminence his claim,
Inſects! in life and death the ſame!

Is there no medium in diſpute?
Muſt man be either God or brute?
Muſt we with burning ſeraphs join,
Or litter with the grov'ling ſwine?
Content to bear the ſlight diſgrace▪
Of mingling with the brutal race,
Agreed,—for once, no longer proud,
Be men mere animals allow'd:
Say that, more helpleſs at his birth
Than ev'n the vileſt brute on earth,
Man, if denied the nurſe's care,
Might have run wild, a human bear;
Have beat the plains in ſearch of food,
Or ſought his ſhelter in the wood:
[157]Devoid of language and of art,
Apparent brute in head and heart.
Yet ſtill, Lorenzo, as we find
Some little difference, in kind;
Man, as an animal, is known,
By marks peculiarly his own.

Tho both, ſharp-ſighted, grave and fat,
Melinda, and her tabby cat,
Tho but a trifling diff'rence ſeen,
'Twixt Pug and Faddle, in the ſpleen,
The wild, the tame, the great, the ſmall,
Included in one genus all;
We muſt not hence, my friend, infe [...] ▪
Melinda's only born to purr;
Nor that, becauſe alike in ſhape,
Paddle by nature's but an ape.
What, if a monkey, taught in France,
A modiſh minuet could dance;
Or, miſchievous, ſhould play his tricks,
Vers'd in Pariſian politicks,
Breaking thy China's brittle clay,
Tho ſure to ſuffer for his play;
Wouldſt thou acknowledge, hence, to me,
The pert baboon, un homme d'eſprit?
Or own, on this ſagacious plan,
A monkey's nat'rally a man?
[158]Let raſh polemicks idly prate
Of nature and a nat'ral ſtate,
The arts of ſocial life deſpiſe,
And think that brutes are only wiſe;
Pretending better had it been
If kings and prieſts we ne'er had ſeen;
If lawleſs, ignorant and wild,
Man had been left, while yet a child,
With brutes to ſhare a common fate;
More bleſt than in his preſent ſtate:
Go thou, and act a ſocial part,
Man's nat'ral ſtate's a ſtate of art.
'Twas nature, when the world was young,
Made looſe our firſt great grandſire's tongue;
Taught his wild ſons the force of ſpeech,
And gave the human pow'r to teach;
To ſocial converſe tun'd the ear,
Gave mutual love and mutual fear,
Inſpir'd the hero, warm'd the friend,
And bade the ſtrong the weak defend.
'Twas nature gave religion's rule,
And bade the wiſe conduct the fool;
In juſtice gave the law, to ſave
The weak and honeſt from the knave.
'Twas nature rais'd our thoughts on high,
In contemplation, to the ſky;
Taught us to beat the wilds of ſpace,
And worlds on worlds in ether trace;
[159]Planets and ſuns unknown explore,
And hence their maker, God, adore.
All this you artificial call,
I heed not empty terms at all:
Call it by whatſoever name,
'Tis human nature's ſpecial claim:
Say, from mere phraſes to depart,
How differs nature here from art?

Within the ſolitary wood
Rears the old brock her helpleſs brood;
For ſafety, ſcouring to her den,
At ſight, or ſound of dogs and men?
'Tis nature warns her not t' expoſe
Herſelf, or offspring, to her foes;
But ſends her to the ſafe retreat,
Where both enjoy their reſt and meat.
Why rears not man in foreſt wild,
Or acorn grove, his fav'rite child?
But, lodg'd in towns, and nurs'd with care;
Protects and feeds his fondled heir?
Experter, ſure, were human race
If train'd in foreſts, for the chaſe;
The chaſe that might our food provide;
And what need animals beſide?

Lorenzo, here we plainly find
The characters that mark our kind.
[160]'Twas nature knowledge did impart,
Which time has ripen'd into art:
But call it art, or what you will,
'Tis nature, human nature ſtill:
As natural for us, my friend,
To bid the cloud-capt tow'rs aſcend;
To bid the floating caſtles ride
On moving mountains of the tide;
As for the bird and beaſt their food
To ſeek in thicket, plain or wood,
To build the neſt, or dig the den,
Far diſtant from the haunts of men.
Science, diſprove it thoſe who can,
Is, therefore, natural to man;
To other animals denied
This beſt and worſt excuſe for pride.

There are, 'tis true, who gravely hold
"Grimalkin's no eſſential ſcold,
"That men and monkies differ wide,
"The former to the heavens allied:"
Striving to prove, by various means,
"That brutes are nothing but machines."
But, can we e'er with theſe ſuppoſe
Springs lodg'd within the terrier's noſe,
Direct his nimble feet to go
Where the old fox lies earth'd below?
[161]Or that by mere mechanicks Tray
Purſues his maſter's doubtful way?
For me, I frankly muſt impute
True ſyllogiſms to e'en the brute:
A pow'r of reaſon, ſpite of pride,
No more to him than man denied.

So much admitting, doſt thou ſay?
"I fairly throw my cauſe away,
"Unleſs to brutes, heaven alſo give
"In immortality to live."
Lorenzo, no.—Tho' leſs refin'd,
My pleas are of another kind:
Low as the duſt tho' here we lie,
Yet death may raiſe us to the ſky.
Is man a worm? 'Tis here his fate
To winter his aurelia ſtate;
In time to burſt his cell deſign'd,
And leave his clay-cold caſe behind;
Flutt'ring on angel wings, to riſe
A bright papilio to the ſkies!

Diſtinguiſh'd from the beaſts, my friend,
Experience ev'ry doubt may end;
Granting "by nature all enjoy
"The pow'rs heaven meant them to employ;
"Paſſion nor inſtinct e'er beſtow'd
"On man, or beaſt, a uſeleſs load;
[162]"But ſerving animals, in kind,
"To th' end for which they were deſign'd."
This once ſuppos'd, here end diſputes;
Look round among our fellow brutes,
See to what point their labours tend,
And how in death their talents end.
Perfect the bird and beaſt, we find,
Advance not here their ſev'ral kind;
From race to race no wiſer grow,
No gradual perfection know;
T'increaſing knowledge void their claim,
Still their ſpecific pow'rs the ſame;
In th'individual centred all,
Tho generations riſe and fall.
Mean-while by obſervation wiſe,
The human genius never dies;
But, in tradition kept alive,
The wreck of kingdoms doth ſurvive;
Or, glowing in th'inſtructive page,
Improving, lives from age to age;
Ev'n giving thoſe, who greatly know,
An immortality below.
What idle mourner droops his head?
Is Plato, Locke, or Newton dead?
With Plato ſtill his pupils rove
Along his academic grove;
With Locke we wing the naked ſoul,
And mount with Newton to the pole.
[163]To animals of ev'ry kind
Are, then, their proper pow'rs aſſign'd;
To actuate, ſtrengthen or reſtrain,
Nor ſenſe nor inſtinct giv'n in vain?
Man, as an animal confeſs'd,
Diſtinguiſh'd plainly from the reſt,
Behold his powers, his labours here
Preſumptive of a brighter ſphere!
Not merely to this life confin'd
The aim, and end of human-kind!
Say, if our purpoſe but to live,
What mighty help doth ſcience give?
What needed more the human brute
Than cooling ſprings and ſtrenght'ning fruit?
Or, ſummer paſt, the diet ſpare
Of wholeſome roots, his winter fare?
How need our better reſt and health
Golconda's or Potoſi's wealth,
That ſacrific'd that health and reſt,
To fetch it home from eaſt and weſt?
Lorenzo, ſure, if human-kind
For this life only were deſign'd,
As well we ignorant had been
Of luxury, the bawd to ſin;
As well thoſe arts had been without
That give, while none can cure, the gout.
Ah! why was ſpeculation given
If not to teach the way to heaven?
[164]What need have animals below
The planets' paths above to know?
Or, in what curves, meand'ring, rove
Satellites round the orb of Jove?
Lends Art its microſcopic eye,
In nature's miniature to pry?
To ſee beneath the civil knife
The butcher'd atoms robb'd of life;
To know that 'ſcaping from the ſteel,
Thouſands may periſh at a meal;
While conſcious ev'ry ſtep we tread,
We trample hoſts of beings dead.
Ah, why this knowledge, given, to raiſe
Our wonder to our maker's praiſe?
Why hence inſpir'd our God t'adore,
If ſeen, in death, his face no more?
It cannot be.—Of heavenly birth,
Science, no offspring of the earth,
To man hath Jacob's ladder given;
Reaching, its foot on earth, to heaven.
O, ſeize, with ardour ſeize the prize;
And claim thy kindred to the ſkies;
Genius, Lorenzo, yours or mine,
Faint image of the pow'r divine;
Endow'd with ev'n creative power,
To form the beings of an hour,
To people worlds, to light the ſkies,
To bid a new creation riſe;
[165]O'er all to wield the thunderer's rod,
And act the momentary God!

Ev'n here my friend doth nature's plan,
Prove the divinity of man.
A truth that genius feels and knows,
As oft as with the God it glows.
And ſhall t'oblivion be conſign'd
This portion of th' aetherial mind?
O, no.—Come death in any form,
I doubt not to ride out the ſtorm;
The ſhipwreck'd body to ſurvive;
My thinking part ſtill left alive.
Mean-while, through all the modes of ſenſe,
Bear me, bold Contemplation, hence:
On thy firm wing, O, let me ſoar;
And idle hope and fear no more.
Bear me to th' ever-blooming groves,
Where Genius with fair Science roves;
Where, in the cool ſequeſter'd ſhade,
Sits Reſignation, pious maid;
To heaven directed by whoſe eye,
When drooping nature calls to die,
Let this my lateſt wiſhes crown;
On her ſoft lap to lay me down,
Whilſt mild Content, and gentle Peace,
Her handmaids, waiting my releaſe,
[166]Strow, ſtealing round with ſofteſt tread,
Their grateful roſes o'er my bed,
No thorn among, to break my reſt;
By euthanaſian ſlumbers bleſt;
Without a ſigh at cloſe of day,
To breathe, becalm'd, my ſoul away.

CANDOUR, PENS, INK, AND PAPER,
A FABLE.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

[167]

WHEN ghoſts appear, at dead of night,
Lo! Candour, cloathed all in white,
Stalk'd up to my 'ſcrutore:
The Papers ſhrunk beneath her hand,
The Ink turn'd pale within the ſtand,
Tho black as jet before.

The trembling gooſe-quills, in a fright,
Their feathers ſtanding bolt upright,
Like Hamlet in the play
Cried, "Art thou?—Speak—a ſpright of health,
"Or goblin damn'd, that com'ſt by ſtealth?
"And—what haſt thou to ſay?"

"I come," ſaid ſhe, " from St. John's gate,
"And with me bring the book of fate,
"The Ge'mman's Magazine.
"Here Samuel J — n — n's name behold,
"The firſt by his own hand enroll'd,
"In Fame's bright liſt is ſeen.

[168]"Repeatedly engroſs'd you ſee
"The ſame by H — kſ — th, L. L. D.
"At Lambeth dubb'd a doctor!
"He who, ſo learned in the laws,
"Had practis'd, had he found a cauſe,
"A client or a proctor.

"How dare ye then, ye miſcreants baſe,
"This regiſter of theirs deface,
"In manner ſo uncivil?
"And thou, vile implement of wit, *
"Whoſe ears are cropp'd and noſe is ſplit,
"As mark'd out for the devil.

"He'll have you all, ye carping crew,
"And your uncandid maſter too,
"With envy puff'd and pride."
Provok'd at this outrageous fib,
The Pen turn'd ſhort upon its nib,
And briſtling up replied.

[169]"Sure, madam, you yourſelf forget,
"Or elſe have ta'en your evening's whet;
"Can Candour be ſo rude?
"My maſter's ſnug in bed, and I
"Have hardly yet had time to try,
"Or we ſhould maul a prude.

"Sam J— n — n! madam.—Don't you know
"That he was 'peach'd ſome time ago,
"Full fifteen years and more;
"When he and Lauder, link'd together,
"Robb'd Milton of the cap and feather,
"Shame forc'd them to reſtore.

"When Shakeſpear was aſſaſſinated,
"Such crimes you alſo ſaid you hated,
"And wiſh'd th' aſſaſſin noos'd:
"And yet no ſooner is he taken,
"Than you, to ſave the culprit's bacon,
"Complain he's hardly us'd.

"At Tyburn thus, with hearts ſo tender,
"When ſome flagitious old offender
"The mob hath juſt harangu'd;
"The wenches ſnivelling cry, in truth,
"The priſoner was a hopeful youth,
"'Tis pity that he's hang'd.

[170]"But know that Shakeſpear, ſoon or late,
"Shall fully be aveng'd by fate,
"Without your gracious leave;
"Nor ſhall e'en Garrick's kindred worth,
"His beſt interpreter on earth,
"Get J — n — n a reprieve."

RALPH MOULSEY'S DESCRIPTION OF RICHMOND PLAYHOUSE.

[171]

WHERE Hodge, ye great oaf, have you been,
That you ha'not yet been to the play?
The playhouſe at Richmond I mean,
Which i'faith is moſt gallant and gay.

We ſhew-folk have ſeen afore now
Enact kings and queens in a barn;
But this is a palace, I vow,
And a coſtly one too, as I learn.

I ſtar'd, as you'll think, all about,
To ſee ſuch a wonderful thing;
But I found, when the ſecret came out,
'Twas deſign'd to be fit for the king.

God bleſs'n, had he but been there,
And the queen, I'd ha' gi'n half a crown;
For they come not to wake nor to fair;
And 'tis miles up to London fine town.

Tho elſe there were ſmart folks enow:
No wonder, entic'd by ſuch ſkill;
For they play'd ſo—I cannot tell how,
But I doat on that Maid i'the Mill.

[172]

So ſweetly ſhe ſings, without doubt

I could like, and I'm ſure ſo could you—

Could a body but bring it about;

But, pize on it, the maid's married too.

Yet, acting apart, there's the ſcenes,
All freſh as the barley-mow ſign;
Shifting backwards and forwards like ſkreens,
And painted moſt deſperate fine.

Then, ſimple tho I as a ſheep,
The man of the ſhew was ſo kind,
As to let me juſt have a bo-peep
At the fine actor-people behind.

There I thought to have found out a flam;
For of tinſel and ſtuff I've been told;
But their dreſſes, ecod, were no ſham;
But velvet and ſilver and gold.

In the green-room, which I took for blue,
Gay ladies I ſaw richly dreſs'd;
And ſome of them handſome ones too;
But their manners were none of the beſt.

[173]

For a laſs, with one leg in the air,

The other knee-high to be ſeen,

With her head leaning back on her chair,

Look'd like a carv'd ivory queen.

Her red pouting nib lay ſo fair
For a kiſs, had I fear'd no denial;
But her eyes ſparkled, " Do if you date,"
So Ralph was afraid to ſtand trial.

On the ſtage did you ſee her but dance,
And ſkip here and there like a vapour,
She'd fling you ſoon into a trance,
To ſee what you'd ſee ev'ry caper.

For, whiſking and friſking about,
As nimble and light as a feather,
Her petticoat makes ſuch a rout,
That one's heart and her heels go together.

So, Hodge, if ſo be you're inclin'd,
To the play we will go, lad, together:
Next week, if I hold in the mind,
And God ſends the farmers good weather.

ON HUMAN CERTITUDE, AND THE UNIVERSALITY OF SCIENCE.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[174]

NOT to the fount of Hippocrene,
Nor groves of laurel ever green,
Nor where the ſportive graces ſtray
With flowers is ſtrown the Muſe's way.
Lorenzo, no, I more rejoice
At Reaſon's bold, and manly, voice
Than at the ſofteſt, ſprightlieſt air,
Mirth ever ſung to lighten care;
Truth's ſober tale more pleas'd to hear
Than all that tickle Fancy's ear;
Tho ſuch, to babbling echo ſweet,
Aloud the public voice repeat.
Her numbers, then, let Truth excuſe,
Tho rudely ſing th' unpoliſh'd muſe;
Careleſs of ornament, and proud
To differ from the ſing-ſong crowd,
So boaſtful of the poor pretence
To ſwell with ſound the ſtarveling ſenſe.
Truth hopes not for poetic praiſe:
To fiction ſacred are the bays.
[175]Doſt thou demand, ingenuous youth,
What is, and who doth teach, the truth?
I anſwer—Wouldſt thou learn of me,
'Tis that wherein mankind agree:
At leaſt no ſafer truths we know
Than what the world will grant us ſo.

The truth, indeed, as ſages tell,
Of yore lay buried in a well,
So deep, that hid, for want of light,
From ev'ry peering mortal's ſight,
The more ſuſpicious than the reſt
Conceiv'd its being was a jeſt;
And, as no ſoul could find it out,
That fact itſelf was all a doubt.
Philoſophizing train of thought!
Since by improving moderns caught;
Who tell us nature trick'd mankind,
When giving eyes ſhe left us blind;
Heaven making fools, and thinking fit
To play upon their want of wit.

But ſure we boldly may receive
As truth what all mankind believe:
Such univerſal faith a guide
In ſkepticiſm itſelf implied.
[176]Yet ſayſt thou, "till the world unite
"To fix on ſome one rule of right,
"Enquiry ſtill is at a pauſe;
"Still vague inveſtigation's laws."

Lorenzo, all, with you and me,
In points demonſtrable agree;
Conviction, right or wrong, the teſt
Of truth in ev'ry human breaſt;
For what's demonſtratively ſo,
Believers ev'n profeſs to know.
On Science hence our ſearch muſt reſt;
An univerſal rule confeſs'd.

Laid then thoſe ſubtilties aſide
Where human certitude's denied,
Inquiry ſafely may proceed
To form its ſcientific creed.
Let Prior's Solomon profeſs
His ſcience all uncertain gueſs,
Th' egregious ſophiſt but affirms
A contradiction, even in terms:
For who his ign'rance can ſuppoſe
Of what he's conſcious that he knows?

Doſt thou, my pupil, ſtill delay?
In ſearch of truth afraid to ſtray,
[177]If plac'd belief in points alone
That are demonſtratively known;
Theſe much too few and too confin'd
To ſerve the purpoſe of mankind?

Lorenzo, ſee to common-ſenſe
How juſt, how gen'ral the pretence.
To nation, climate, age or ſect,
Unlimited without reſpect:
Hence, howſoever wide we ſtray,
When church, or ſyſtem, lead the way
All, of neceſſity, agree
In what alike, they hear and ſee.
For not a ſon of Adam's race
Innate conviction can efface.
The highland loon, the lowland lout,
Wild Iriſh fierce, and Cambrian ſtout,
The boor that Rhynland's polder drains,
Tho reaſon ſlumber in his brains,
All the ſame premiſes in view,
The ſame concluſions ever drew.

For know that like our mother earth
Its human offspring, at its birth.
Where fertile clay and barren ſand
Compoſe the variegated land,
Th' unequal ſtrata of the ſoil
Unequally demand our toil:
[178]The rich that toil with gain repay;
Thrown on the poor our pains away.
In man's uncultivated mind
So varied is the ſoil, in kind.
The flow'rs of ſcience, freſh and fair,
On ſome expand, without our care;
On others ſcarce, by culture, grow
The buds, that wither as they blow▪
Yet here eſſentially allied,
Howev'r elſe diverſified.
The fertile marl, the ſteril ſand
Alike the ſeed or plant, demand:
Denied alike ſpontaneous grain
To Bergen's rocks and Baiae's plain.
So, not a truth innate our own,
The ſeeds of knowledge muſt be ſown
Experience ſlow muſt ſwell the root,
And tend the fibres as they ſhoot;
Or ſpeedier aid inſtruction grant,
And ſlips of foreign growth implant.

The mental and material claim
Here too eſſentially the ſame:
Grow ſeed or plant where'er it will
In kind 'tis propagated ſtill.
No ſoil nor climate can produce
From tares the barley's potent juice:
[179]To thorns no culture can aſſign
The purple honours of the vine.
Thus when, by ſimple nature's aid,
Put forth ſenſation's tender blade,
If, to perfection hearer brought,
It bloom and ripen into thought,
Wherever ſituate the root,
The ſame its intellectual fruit.
Its taſte, its form; perhaps, we blame,
But ſtill its genus is the ſame:
In this no poverty of ſoil,
No dulneſs ever mock'd our toil.

If vainly, then, in letter'd pride;
The ſcholar deep is dignified;
So falſe, ſo empty the pretence
Of wits to more than common-ſenſe.
If plain to th' idiot as to you
Th' immediate object of his view,
While ev'n the blockhead truly knows
Far as his little ſcience goes,
Conſiſtent, ſure's our confidence,
In ſearch of truth, on common-ſenſe:
That gen'ral index to mankind,
To taſte and genius unconfin'd,
Pointing in all one common way,
By dullneſs ſhorten'd but its ray,
[180]Of wit and knowledge all the end
In length that radius to extend;
In ſtubborn age, or pliant youth,
Its bearing in the line of truth;
A needle conſtant to the pole,
Whence beams true faith upon the ſoul.

Doſt thou object "if common-ſenſe
"So plauſible an evidence,
"And all mankind of this poſſeſs'd,
"That any differ from the reſt?"
Know thou, when honeſt minds diſſent,
Miſunderſtood's their argument:
Diff'rent the premiſes appear,
Elſe were the fix'd deduction clear.
Hence half our numerous quarrels riſe;
We ſee not with each others eyes:
So that preciſely all alike
Nor terms, nor things conception ſtrike.
For every individual draws
His plan by mere perſpective laws;
Fix'd to one ſtation, time and place,
In pow'r no full ſurvey to trace,
The falſe miſtaking oft for true,
Obſerv'd at diff'rent points of view.
So, when to cheat the partial ſight,
And prove in mirth that black is white,
[181]With lights diſpos'd the ſhades between,
In folds is ſpread the artful ſcene,
Oppos'd, the colours ſtrike the eye,
And he affirms what you deny.
Here ſpotleſs all appears and fair;
Perceiv'd a total blackneſs there.
The demonſtration of his ſight
Who doubts? who knows not black from white?
Thus evidence ſupports diſpute;
Nor one the other can refute.
And yet is common-ſenſe to blame?
The premiſes were not the ſame.
Were theſe alike, tho ſay you err,
Both would infallibly concur:
For take each others point of ſight,
And ſet, at once, the matter right.

Conceive not, then, becauſe we find
One ſource of truth in ev'ry mind,
We e'er ſhall individuals ſee,
At ev'ry time and place, agree.
As ſoon, amidſt yon grove of trees,
While plays a conſtant eaſtern breeze,
We ev'ry ſingle ſpray ſhall find
In one direction, weſt, reclin'd.
For, tho to truth alike our claim,
Our taſte nor ſentiment's the ſame.
[182]For duſky green the jaundic'd eye
Miſtakes the clear-blue ſummer ſky;
The diſtant ſcene, however bright,
Is darkneſs to the ſhort-of-ſight;
To loaded ears as whiſpers ſtill
The clack and thunder of the mill.
Thus loſt, as colours on the blind,
On dulneſs qualities refin'd;
Than muſick to the deaf no more,
To ignorance th' abſtracted lore.
Hence oft objection calls us out,
To ſatisfy the blockhead's doubt;
Who not one proof, whereon depends
His ſought ſolution, comprehends:
The triteſt arguments, of yore,
In vain repeated o'er and o'er,
Proving how fruitleſs were the toil,
The jarring world to reconcile.
And yet, as but from time and place
Our ſeveral modes of thought we trace,
Alas! how blindly do we run
Each others hereſy to ſhun;
Our own our glory and our pride,
While curſes all the reſt betide:
By pious children doom'd their  [...]ire,
By fires their children to hell-fire;
Heirs to ſalvation's brighter ſphere
So ſtrangely damn'd, and damning here!
[183]Thus Calvin ignorantly raves
At ſouls which, therefore, Luther ſaves;
To both denied Lord Peter's keys;
Who ſhuts out hereticks like theſe.
And yet ev'n thoſe, who boaſt to feel
Their boſoms burn with chriſtian zeal;
Who, dooming dervizes to hell,
With pride uncharitable ſwell,
In Naz'reth bred, or Bethle'm born,
Had laugh'd our Saviour's birth to ſcorn;
Mere Turks, denounc'd for you and me.
The bitter fruit of Zacon's tree
To eat with fiends below; the doom
Of Anti-Mahomet and Rome!
Yet, blind as Sampſon, when deſpair
Had ſunk his life below his care,
The numbers wanton Gaza loſt
Deſtroy'd but at his proper coſt,
Half-witted Zeal, of all the teſt,
Itſelf condemns among the reſt:
For, if requir'd by gracious heaven
Our ſervice but as knowledge given,
Should I in pope or mufti, truſt;
For proving to their tenets juſt,
Your rule to cenſure me, or mine,
Holds the like condemnation thine.
Yet ſtill more wicked, weak and blind
This reprobating zeal we find;
[184] When, void of truth, abſurd and vain
The tenets zealots thus maintain.
For ſure ridiculous and odd
That zeal precipitate for God,
So ſhort of knowledge, that, indeed,
It underſtands not ev'n its creed!

For know; whate'er the world pretend,
But few believe what they defend.
In modes of faith tho falſehood taught,
Nonſenſe is equally their fault:
Thouſands by forms of ſpeech deceiv'd
Ne'er yet by mortal man believ'd;
Creeds penn'd, as ſaid, at heaven's command,
In terms no ſoul can underſtand;
Or ſuch, tho thunder'd from on high,
That plainly give themſelves the lie.
But ſure, if words no ſenſe convey,
Faith in their utt'rance dies away;
Nor can a ſingle ſon of Eve
Apparent falſehood e'er believe.
Belief no vague declaimer's rant,
No bigot's creed, no ſophiſt's cant;
'Tis not the ſcripture text to quote;
To get our catechiſm by rote;
O'er homilies to ſpend the day;
At midnight, half aſleep, to pray;
[185]To chatter matins at the dawn
Or gabble with the man of lawn:
True faith, that conſciouſneſs of ſoul,
That times nor accidents control;
Save thoſe adapted and combin'd
To root conviction from the mind.
For know that neither threat nor blows
Sincere belief can e'er impoſe.
The monk's hot zeal, the jeſuit's ſkill
Lead not conviction as they will.
Go, turn inquiſitor and burn
The hereticks, all round, in turn;
The Turk, refuſing to reſign
His ſenſual paradiſe for thine;
The Indian, that in death pretends
To viſit but his former friends;
Unleſs his faith what you may tell,
Of joys in heaven and pains in hell.
Not one of all the ſuffering tribe
Thy ſentiments per-force imbibe.
Howe'er induc'd by hope or fear,
The mind is no free agent here:
To change their faith beyond the power
Of martyrs at their dying hour.
How idly, then, enthuſiaſts rave
Of ſyſtems, that will damn or ſave;
Or think true proſelytes to gain
By torture, gallows, whip or chain;
[186] Since, ever conſtant to its cauſe,
True faith depends on nature?s laws;
By nonſenſe nor caprice miſled,
The honeſt heart and ſober head!
How idly wild fanaticks preach,
While ignorant of what they teach;
The ſpirit ne'er affects the mind,
Unleſs with th' underſtanding join'd;
Nor hath the word, if void of ſenſe,
To goſpel pow'r the leaſt pretence.
Some certain meaning, hence, and plain
A ſaving faith muſt needs contain:
If fix'd its object, ſure, no leſs
The ſenſe of terms our creed expreſs:
A parrot, elſe, if none deceive her,
A ſound and orthodox believer;
Convinc'd as much as ever yet
The Athanaſian paroquet.
Let not fanaticiſm deceive:
None can a myſtery believe.
Tho plung'd by zeal in error deep,
While common-ſenſe lies faſt aſleep,
Their faith raſh bigots ſtrangely boaſt;
The ſtrongeſt his who's cheated moſt;
Who leaſt for truth preſumes to ſearch;
But headlong runs into the church.
For, laid thy hand upon thy heart,
The formule of thy creed impart;
[187] Doſt thou its ſubſtance comprehend?
Lo! all its myſtery's at an end.
In ſpite of their miſguiding Zeal,
Here to their hearts let all appeal:
Enough if juſt be their pretence
To honeſty and common-ſenſe:
Here reſts that umpire of mankind,
Conſcience, the God within the mind.

At eaſtern temples, as of yore,
Without the threſhold of the door,
In reverence, did the zealot uſe
To doff, and leave, his dirty ſhoes:
Like him, the modern faithful, taught
That reaſon is a thing of naught,
Leſt they ſhould ſoil the church with doubt,
Their underſtandings leave without.
For aſk who thus in myſtery truſt,
If Euclid's demonſtration's juſt;
If truth the geometric art,
Or ſubtile algebra, impart.
Unknowing what preciſely meant,
They honeſtly refuſe aſſent;
Confeſs they firſt muſt comprehend,
Before they credit or contend.
O ſelf condemn'd! O dead to ſhame!
Have theſe a conſcience void of blame;
[188] Who take no worldly points on truſt,
But ſcruple till they know them juſt;
Yet their ſupreme concerns will reſt
On tenets half the world conteſt
Conviction openly defy,
And with their tongues their hearts belie?
Theſe the true faithful ſhall we call?
Theſe have, alas, no faith at all.
For, howſoe'er with art they ſtrive
To keep abſurdity alive,
Cloath'd in equivocal diſguiſe,
Or garb of truth, their ſpecious lies,
Still common-ſenſe, unrooted out,
Will find a flaw to fix a doubt:
And where one doubt is left behind
No firm belief informs the mind.

Yet is there whoſe officious zeal
Pretends a conſciouſneſs to feel,
A fix'd internal evidence
Of axioms, hid from common-ſenſe;
A ſtronger teſtimony given,
By inſpiration breath'd from heaven?
Lorenzo, neither you, nor I,
What God reveals can e'er deny.
But here how needful to be wiſe
To know where revelation lies.

[189]Art them thyſelf ihſpir'd by Heav'n?
Tell me what certain proof is given.
Doſt thou intuitively view
What reaſon tells thee muſt be true?
No revelation here requir'd,
How proves ſuch truth that thou'rt ihſpir'd?
For why inſpir'd, if but to tell
What reaſon might have told as well?
As truth beholds thy mental eye
What ſeems to all the world a lie;
Thy proof imagination ſtrong?
Here alſo may'ſt thou ſtill be wrong.
If heaven hath ever fir'd conceit,
Brandy has alſo done the feat.
Nay oft th' infatuate-of-brain,
Of heav'n's preſum'd injunctions vain,
Have madly broke its dread commands,
And dipt in blood their murd'ring hands.
If God or devil then inſpire,
Of reaſon ſtill we muſt inquire:
And reaſon doubtleſs would reply,
"Heaven never yet reveal'd a lie."
On others gifts confiding more,
Doſt give thine own pretenſions o'er?
Doſt from th' inſpir'd thy faith receive,
And pin it on thy neighbour's ſleeve?
Reaſon or heaven muſt tell thee too,
If ſuch be more inſpir'd than you.
[190] "Where then the proof?" I frankly own,
To me, yet uninſpir'd, unknown:
Such guides, to me, by madneſs fir'd,
As madmen, with the Turks, inſpir'd.

In ſpite of Middleton and Hume,
Doſt thou on miracles preſume?
To revelation theſe thy guide;
Thy faith by wonders verified.
Go thou, and, eaſy of belief,
My comrade aſk if I'm a thief.
If inſpiration's falſe and true,
Sure miracles ſuſpicious too;
And, hence, thy conduct moſt abſurd,
To take for one the other's word.
Our ſouls how long to damn and ſave,
Hath ſubtile prieſtcraft play'd the knave!
Its pupils train'd, from early youth,
T' equivocate and hide the truth;
To practiſe the deception nice,
Of tricking hand, or quaint device;
To cheat the palate, noſe and eye,
And gild that dirty pill, a lie!
Yet doſt thou miracles maintain?
Be here thy definition plain:
The muſe diſdaining to reply
To ſuch as ſhock the naked eye.
Events as miracles doſt own,
Whoſe cauſe immediate is unknown?
[191] Or is thy faith eſtabliſh'd more
On actions ne'er perform'd before?
Alas, my much-believing friend,
The times of yore might theſe defend;
When heretic free-thinkers roſe,
That dar'd the holy church oppoſe;
For infidelity renown'd,
Aſſerting that the globe was round;
Vile hereſy! whence, doom'd to hell,
Upſal's good biſhop martyr fell:
Wretches, ſo impious as to hold,
The earth about its axis roll'd,
And, as the years their courſes run,
Still took its journeys round the ſun;
Vile hereſy! for which, 'tis ſaid,
Old Galileo too had bled,
Had not the ſage, more loth to die,
Recanting, damn'd it for a lie *.
In days of ignorance like theſe,
When legends had the power to pleaſe;
While love of wonder ſalv'd deceit,
And gudgeons ſwallow'd whole the cheat;
How little ſtrange that monks and fryars
Should prove miraculouſly liars;
[192] Or converts to divines ſo ſad
Turn out miraculouſly mad!
But now, a century worn away,
Time working wonders ev'ry day,
The vaſt diſcov'ries years have made
Have ſpoilt the wonder-monger's trader.

Wouldſt thou, ſince facts ſo ſtrange of yore
Are now miraculous no more,
Thy genuine miracles define
As real acts of power divine,
Th' effects of ſome immediate cauſe,
In fact tranſgreſſing nature's laws?
How!—did th' omnipotent, on high,
Let thoſe, his laws, at random fly:
Or was his providence ſo blind
To what omniſciency deſign'd,
That ſtill his ſov'reign will attends
To ſtrike his foes or ſkreen his friends;
That pow'r beyond th' Almighty's art
To nature's ſyſtem to impart;
Needful heaven's arbitrary fire
To blaſt a fig-tree or a liar?
Lorenzo, be not thou ſo vain,
To think thus brittle nature's chain;
From which whatever link we ſtrike,
Tenth or ten thouſandth, broke alike,
[193] Connecting ſyſtems all deſtroy'd,
Unballanc'd worlds would ſtrow the void,
To atoms burſt! reſtor'd again
Old Chaos to his ancient reign,
Unleſs, in time, the God attend
The works of his own hand to mend.
Alas, how blaſphemous to ſay
That heaven can ſave no other way;
Or that, for trifles or in joke,
Creation's ſacred order's broke.
For do we not, in fact, confeſs,
If God may nature's laws tranſgreſs,
The wiſe creator wanted ſkill
His vaſt intentions to fulfil,
Or that th' intention, tho his own,
Was in th' extent to him unknown?
Or, ſtill more impiouſly, imply
That heaven can give itſelf the lie?
Say, then, that miracles there be;
They're but miraculous to thee:
So many links conceal'd remain,
Which form the complicated chain,
True cauſes and effects between,
In nature's providential ſcene.
What tho without an obvious cauſe
We ſee inverted cuſtom's laws,
Muſt we immediately infer
That nature from itſelf can err?
[194] Commanded by the word divine,
Say water chang'd itſelf to wine;
Graves open'd wide their pond'rous jaws;
A breath the ſole apparent cauſe.
Ah, who ſhall boaſt, that God revere,
Creation's laws were broken here?
Might not ten thouſand ſprings unite,
Cauſes too fine for mortal ſight,
Such varied wonders to produce;
To providential ends of uſe:
Form'd when by heaven, its power diſplay'd,
The earth's foundation firſt was laid:
Or when that logos was deſign'd
By miracles to ſave mankind.

Think not, Lorenzo, nature ſtrays
Whene'er the world is in amaze.
Extend thy view from pole to pole:
See one great miracle the whole;
Where all events their cauſe ſucceed,
As once the great, firſt-cauſe decreed;
Where order ſtill from order flows,
And never interruption knows;
Capricious but to mortal ſenſe
The harmony of providence.

How ſtrangely, therefore, bigots err
Who wonders to plain facts prefer;
[195] With liſt'ning ear, who love to range,
And greedy eye, for all that's ſtrange;
Rejecting their creator's plan,
The voice of God for that of man!

Beſides, thy miracles confin'd
To former ages of mankind,
Nature in theſe our latter days
Unmov'd by prayer, and deaf to praiſe,
Ne'er turning back, nor led aſide,
To help our wants, or ſooth our pride;
But keeping, pack-horſe like, its track,
Bearing the world upon its back:
Say ſuch to revelation guide;
For theſe on hear-ſay we confide:
In want of proof, on truſt muſt take
For honeſt jew or gentile's ſake;
Since, howſoe'er the truth's conceal'd,
None truſt in miracles reveal'd;
Unleſs learn'd Jortin's ſcheme may paſs
Of dreaming Balaam's talking aſs.
Doſt thou, ſecure, hiſtorians truſt?
How know we if their tale be juſt?
From num'rous cauſes prone to err,
Dubious, alas, what theſe aver.
What from deception e'er can ſave
The man whoſe truſt is in a knave?
[196] To falſehood he how oft a tool
Whoſe confidence is in a fool!
And ſhould, themſelves, the honeſt ſpeak;
The honeſt may be blind or weak;
Be led a viſionary dance,
Like Peter, in prophetic trance;
Or Paul, that ſometimes hardly knew
If what he ſaid was falſe or true;
Inconſcious, his own word to take,
If faſt aſleep or wide awake.
My friend, no wonder, then, at all,
Adventures ſtrange ſhould ſuch befal;
Or that, by wild opinions, they
From truth are blindly led aſtray,
Who, like old wives in winter nights,
Hear, ſee, and feel, and chat with ſprights.
Their prudent caution, therefore, juſt,
Who waking dreamers ſeldom truſt;
To whom light viſions fact may ſeem,
And fact itſelf an idle dream.

In awful reverence, yet, we own
The power and will of God unknown;
Confin'd not to the narrow bound
Of reaſon's moſt extenſive round;
Active a thouſand ways beſide;
Beyond, unknown how far and wide.
[197] From grey experience, hence, conceal'd
The gifts of grace to babes reveal'd;
From ſcience hid that ſacred fire
Heaven's choſen ſervants doth inſpire;
Who, highly favour'd from above,
Behold deſcend th' all-quickening dove,
Or cloven tongue; the ſpiritual boaſt
Of brethren in the Holy Ghoſt.
Lorenzo, then let you, nor I,
Unleſs we can diſprove, deny.
And yet, in ſearch of truths unknown,
Experience be thy guide alone;
Nay held perception in ſuſpenſe
Till reaſon may confirm the ſenſe:
By ſcience only unconfin'd
When God, himſelf, informs the mind.

VERSES ON READING LORD LYTTELTON'S NEW DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD, AND SEEING HIS LORDSHIP'S PICTURE AT W—'S.

[198]

ARE theſe the Dialogues of the Dead?—
The ſpeakers are alive,
And ſay what, ages-paſt, they ſaid,
Again in ſixty-five.

Such converſe charms in ev'ry page,
No wonder all admire it:
'Tis ſtrange though, where, in this dull age,
His Lordſhip ſhould acquire it.

He deals not with the devil, they ſay,
Yet I was once in doubt;
But in Great Queen-ſtreet, t'other day,
I found the ſecret out.

Calling at W—'s, behold
The man, to riſe unable;
Yet, rais'd by him, the dead of old,
Were rang'd around the table.

[199]

Above him, juſt about to write,

With countenance obſervant,

Lord Lyttelton ſat, full in ſight—

"My Lord, your humble ſervant."

Touch'd by the artiſt's curious hand,
Each ven'rable antique
So looks, his thoughts you underſtand,
And think you hear him ſpeak.

Can then his Lordſhip fail to write,
As ancient Sages ſay,
The gems of W— in his ſight
Remaining night and day?

A DRINKING SONG, TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

[200]

LET Euler go meaſure the ſun,
His knowledge muſt truckle to mine,
I meaſure the ſize of my tun,
And know it in bottles of wine.

Let Meyer chop logic for nought,
A ſyllogiſt is but an aſs;
While I, without waſting a thought,
Infer from the bottle the laſs.

Let Haller miſpend half his time,
O'er moſs, weeds, and rubbiſh to pore;
I only ſeek out for a rhime,
As he, wiſer once, did before.

Let Bodmer his inference draw,
And ſtoutly with caſuiſts fight;
He might as well balance a ſtraw,
He'll never put folly to flight.

And in ages to come, tho they cry,
"Such men when again ſhall we ſee!"
While I am forgot—What care I—
What are ages to come, pray, to me?

THE HARE AND THE CROW.
A FABLE.

[201]

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF FATHER DESBILLONS.

THE flow'ry meads were in their prime,
And leverets cropt the fragrant thyme,
When, high in air, a medling crow
Saw puſs ſecurely feaſt below;
Meanwhile the hunters, from afar,
Let looſe the yelping dogs of war.
"Alas, poor hare! ere yet too late
"O let me warn thee of thy fate."
Exclaim'd the crow; and quick deſcended,
To give the good advice intended.
The hare, alarm'd, with ſpeed withdrew,
Not doubting but the tale was trae:
Whereas, in truth, th' unkennell'd pack
Had ta'en, full cry, a different track.
But now, to mount on wing again,
The ſtruggling crow attempts in vain;
For, while intent t'adviſe the hare,
She lighted on the fowler's ſnare;
And found, at length, herſelf the bubble
Of all her needleſs pains and trouble.
[202] Who meddle thus with others cares,
Too oft neglect their own affairs:
But who abroad for buſineſs roam,
Should nothing leave undone at home.

TO A NEW-MARRIED LADY, WHO INSISTED ON THE AUTHOR'S WRITING A SONG ON HER.
MDCCLVIII.

[203]

OF unmarried ladies, good-natur'd and gay,
I often have ſung, as a body may ſay;
But now I muſt ſing, as I would for my life,
Of notable Nancy, a new-married wife.

"A wife! Man.—A wife!—as I hope to live, ſee,
"Put in ſuch a word and I'll never forgive ye—."
"Why, Madam, your huſband— "My huſband! O Lurd!
"That's juſt ſuch another prepoſterous word.

"The lines of a ſong ſhould run ſmooth and de⯑lightful:
"But huſband! and wife! wife and huſband! Oh frightful!
"Tis true Mr. K. I ne'er ſaw you till lately,
"But I vow and proteſt, from this time I ſhall hate ye.

"No doubt but you'll pen it all down, in your raillery,
"How we climb'd up like fools to look over the gal⯑lery;
[204] "At the top of the houſe, at the top of the hill;
"Where, for want of my dinner; you know I was ill:

"For their Ham was ſo bad, and their Liſbon ſo prick'd,
"That the vintner and cook, both deſerv'd to be kick'd;
"Which made me ſit glouting and pouting, as ſour
"As the white wine itſelf, for at leaſt a full hour.

"Then truly, at laſt, when things came on the table,
"For my part I ſat like the aſs in the fable;
"Ducks, pullets, ſcotch-collops! and yet, with all that,
"The vittles for ſix, one might put in one's hat:

"Then ſuch bad attendance! the diſhes ſo ſmall!
"Not turnips enow, and no carrots at all!
"The beef upon table, and they in the pot!
"And then the deſert, with—no fruit to be got!

"The French wine too, adding ſome crowns to the charges,
"You gentlemen ſaid, was no better than verjuice:
"For which I remember you rav'd at the hoſt;
"Tho you might juſt as well have e'en talk'd to the poſt.

[205]

"I warrant you would, if you could, and had time,

"Put this odd-come-ſhortly fine ſtuff into rhime."

True, Ma'am, and as you can take nothing amiſs,

Oblige me, and make a cantata of this.

ON A CERTAIN MUSICIAN'S TURNING POET.

[206]

IN vain of late did Dr. B — n,
Amuſe awhile the gaping town,
With Poetry and Muſick:
King David, in the cure of Saul, *
So hideouſly did ſqueak and ſquall,
It would have made a Jew ſick.

But ſee at length both arts, in one,
By great Apollo's favourite ſon,
Moſt happily united.
Harmoniouſly the fiddlers play;
But, heard you what the ſingers ſay,
You'd ſurely be delighted!

Split, then, your gooſe-quills, bards, or learn
His two-fold art from Dr. A—;
Go, and compoſe Sonatas;
Or ſoon, I'll hold ye ſeven to ſix,
Tenducci with old fiddle-ſticks
Will ſcrawl his own Cantatas.

ON MORAL SENTIMENT.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[207]

HARK! my Lorenzo, how, they rage,
The pious of our pious age;
Thoſe who think heaven an eaſy fool,
Of wiſer mortals made the tool,
Takes counters vile for current coin,
Our filthy rags for robes divine;
We made its joint immortal heirs
For penance, paltry alms and prayers!
What racks their diſappointed zeal
Dooms the poor, culprit bard to feel;
The thief, whoſe rhimes the rents have ſtole,
Long mark'd on their celeſtial roll!
So angry bees take ſudden wing,
Furious the harmleſs boy to ſting,
Who, leſs in anger than in play,
O'erturns their labours in his way.
Have they the poor their farthings lent,
At more than th' uſual cent. per cent.;
Becauſes the promiſes of heaven
For principal and intereſt given;
Yet, loth to mortgage houſe or land,
Dealing ev'n theſe with ſparing hand:
[208] Hard times and taxes wont to moan,
T' excuſe their adding to the loan;
Spite of hypocriſy, confeſs'd
The world's ſecurity the beſt?
Vile us'rers! yet ye think it hard,
Your virtue ſhould not meet reward!
I think ſo too—hence, hence, to hell,
And there your worth to devils tell.

Do here th' immoral pertly aſk,
What profits riſe from virtue's taſk?
If "vice and virtue, bliſs and woe
"Quit ſcores effectually below;
"While, unaffected, heaven ſurveys
"Its ends fulfill'd in human ways."
Say they "if pain give pleaſure birth,
"To joy proportion'd grief, on earth;
"Our ſuff'rings all comparative;
"What matters how th' ungodly live?
"What can we gain by ſelf-denial,
"Or ſtanding virtue's fiery trial?"
Virtue's clear gain, my friend, 'tis true,
If any, hid from me and you,
Lodg'd in the dark decrees of fate,
Awaits us in ſome future ſtate;
A gift heaven pleaſes to beſtow,
Wholly unmerited below.
[209] So, whatſoever diff'rent ſtate
May vice in future life await,
Hid in the counſels of th' all-wiſe,
The reprobating ſecret lies;
Predeſtination's awful plan
Beyond the ſcrutiny of man.

Can yet Lorenzo weakly dream
That ours is an immoral ſcheme:
Becauſe we hold that joy and ſtrife
Are ballanc'd probably in life;
Whence equally nor bleſt nor curſt
The lives of th' unjuſt and the juſt?
Shines not the ſun alike, on earth,
On good and bad of mortal birth?
Falls not the plant-enliv'ning rain
Alike on mountain-heath and plain?
Tho noxious there vile brambles ſhoot;
Here ſweeteſt flow'rs and choiceſt fruit.
To reaſon's ſober call, my friend,
Did the blind paſſions but attend;
While ever preſent to the mind
A full conviction we might find,
"That in the luſt of mere deſire
"No certain pleaſure men acquire;
"But what in extaſy they gain
"They're ſure to loſe in future pain;"
[210] By truth enlighten'd, hence, to fly
The diſtant evil as the nigh,
Men were no longer prone to vice;
Now ſtript of all her charms t' entice;
But, arming in their own defence,
Would ſtand in neutral innocence.

Thro reaſon let a ſenſual eye
Th' enchanting form of vice eſpy;
Equivocal in make and face,
Her left ſide doth her right diſgrace.
As form'd to give, and ſhare, delight,
One blooming cheek doth hearts invite;
While roguiſh loves in ambuſh lie,
And dart their arrows from her eye.
A poliſh'd arm, a taper ſide,
Her thigh that ſcarce her garments hide,
Her well-turn'd leg, and ancle neat,
The half of beauty's form compleat.
But ah, the contraſt ſide appears
Worn out with care and grey with years;
With wrinkled brow and ſquinting eye,
Scowling moſt haggardly awry;
While hollow cheek and noſtril maim'd,
Notch'd ear, burnt hand, and thigh-bone lam'd,
Diſplay a wretch▪ from head to tail
Diſeas'd with many a deſp'rate ail;
[211] A form, which, wrapt in ſqualid dreſs,
Compleats the half of uglineſs.
Behold the charmer,—this is vice.
Embrace her.—Is thy ſtomach nice?
Too often paſſion, ſingle-ey'd,
Enamour'd with the fairer ſide,
The monſter claſps; till, turn'd her face,
We ſtarting fly her loath'd embrace:
Thro reaſon's medium only ſhown
Her real form, in tints her own;
Which, thus diſguſting to the ſenſe,
Could ne'er beguile our innocence.

Should virtue, then, diſown the muſe;
At leaſt let innocence excuſe:
The ſtricteſt moraliſts content
If mortals were but innocent.
In actual virtue, true, indeed,
I ſee no hopes we ſhould ſucceed;
If once by reaſon grown ſo tame
That naught our paſſions could inflame.
For ſay, deſires may not extrude
A ſenſe of moral rectitude;
This only points, to what is right;
But ne'er to virtue can excite.
Reaſon, indiff'rent to th' event,
Merely beſtows its cold aſſent;
[212] As far as truth's concern'd, in part,
Speaks to the head, but not the heart;
Reaſon beſtow'd, an humble friend,
Not to keep faultleſs, but to mend;
With hopes to cheer or fears to bind
Self-love, a glutton deaf and blind;
To give our ſcene of action light;
To check the ſenſual appetite;
To ſhow us what is good ahd fair;
And paſſion's blunders to repair.

To virtue ſenſe of right and wrong
Muſt of neceſſity belong;
But from this knowledge who infer
The conſcious party cannot err?
Nay, founded on ſuch ſenſe our claim
To bear of vice the moral blame:
The fool, the mad, do what they will,
Standing excus'd of moral ill.
Say, then, the virtuous muſt be wiſe;
In wiſdom, ſayſt thou, virtue lies?
By other motives muſt the mind
To virtuous actions be inclin'd.
"What other motive?" doſt thou aſk?
Lorenzo, difficult the taſk
T' unravel here the human mind;
Its moral principles to find.
[213] Sayſt thou we all true virtue love;
And virtue that which all approve.
Suppoſing this, yet is't with you
That very approbation too?
Is this, Lorenzo, what is meant
By virtue ſprung from ſentiment? *
By that ambiguous term of art
The native goodneſs of the heart?
Pride not yourſelves, ye phariſees,
That acts of kindneſs give you eaſe:
Nor think, ye publicans, from heaven
An evil inclination's given.
Know that from diff'rent paſſions vice
And virtue take not ſep'rate riſe.
For, tho deducing moral ill
But from th' indulgence of the will,
No paſſion, not the love of pelf,
Is really vicious, in itſelf;
The nobleſt in the human breaſt,
Motives to action but confeſs'd,
Howe'er admir'd, howe'er approv'd,
From actual virtue far remov'd.
For a good heart, as put to uſe,
Or vice or virtue may produce;
A fertile ſoil, where, taking root,
Plants good and bad bear equal fruit.
[214] Narciſſa boaſted once a mind,
The pureſt ſure of human kind,
Till growing paſſions taught her breaſt
To feel for all that ſeem'd diſtreſs'd,
To melt in tenderneſs of grief,
And ſigh to give, unaſk'd, relief.
Ah, ſince, by cruel arts betray'd,
How low is fall'n the hapleſs maid!
Too innocent to feel diſtruſt,
Or know how diff'rent love and luſt,
Now, by her tempter ev'n accus'd,
See her abandon'd and abus'd;
Her open heart, her generous mind
To proſtitution how reſign'd!
Of vices glorying in the ſhame
Her former ſelf had bluſh'd to name!
Alas, for pity! ſee, mean-while,
At loſt Narciſſa's ruin ſmile
Gremia, to pity never mov'd,
As little loving as belov'd;
In ſpite of all vile man could ſay,
In pious maidenhood grown grey,
Bleſſing her better ſtars, that ſhe
Still triumphs in her chaſtity;
Tho, with the planets, on her fide
Ill-nature, uglineſs and pride.
[215] See Phormio, ſtoically cold,
In youth by conſtitution old,
Who never yet, his heart of ſtone,
Made once another's cauſe his own;
But, living for himſelf, or heirs,
Minds nothing but his own affairs:
Whoſe word to take not faithleſs Jews,
For more than heaven is worth, refuſe;
His credit ſacred, eaſt and weſt
His bills negotiating beſt;
Safe in his hands were many a pound;
Too good a man to run a-ground.
O worthy, honeſt man! we cry;
While bankrupt knaves in dungeons lie:
So vile the rogue, who, ſcorning pelf,
Lov'd others better than himſelf!

Thus oft th' inflexible, the juſt,
The man who never broke his truſt,
Is virtuous but from fear or art,
Or killing coldneſs in his heart;
While baſe and mean the quick-of-ſenſe,
From glowings of benevolence.

Lorenzo, feelingly I ſpeak
Of failings where myſelf am weak;
To whom adverſity evere
Hath ſold experience much too dear:
[216] Hard hearted prudence far from me,
And narrow-ſoul'd frugality,
Hence oft to knave and fool a prey,
No match for either in his way,
Till cheated, plunder'd, fill'd with ſhame,
Lit on my luckleſs head the blame.
How ſhort, Lorenzo, plainly, hence,
Of virtue is benevolence!
To mere good nature, while you live,
No more that pompous title give;
The milk of kindneſs in a trice
Yielding the luſcious cream of vice *.

The dryeſt eye, the hardeſt heart,
May act as virtuous a part;
Tho turn'd, as adders deaf, the ear
To all that others feel or fear;
While vicious ſloth, a whining cheat,
Is forc'd to work before it eat;
Misfortune, ſtruggling in its thrall,
Riſes more glorious from its fall.

Should to the prodigal the friend,
On whom his ſpendthrift hopes depend,
[217] When aſk'd aſſiſtance or advice,
Reply, with looks as cold as ice,
With all the inſolence of eaſe,
"Friend, you know beſt, do what you pleaſe."
May this not teach the hand profuſe
Virtuous diſcretion's ſov'reign uſe;
And thus a coldneſs of the heart
A good to too much warmth impart?

How oft leſs vicious is the mind,
That ne'er, beneficent or kind,
For others broke one moment's reſt,
Nor cheer'd with comfort the diſtreſs'd,
Than his whoſe open hand and heart
Eſpouſe the poor and needy's part,
Plunging in unforeſeen diſtreſs
Hundreds, in ſtriving one to bleſs.

Too ſhort of ſight, benevolence
Proves oft a breach of innocence:
To virtue therefore it is firſt
Requir'd the man be ſtrictly juſt.

Paſſions, the ſprings of joy and ſtrife,
Are but the elements of life;
And, as rich, ſtreams from mountains flow,
Smooth winding ſome through vales below,
[218] While others, raging as they come,
Tear up their mother-mountain's womb;
Or, pouring down the hills amain,
Deluge at once the humble plain;
So flow ſome paſſions gently mild,
While others, furious, bold, and wild,
Foaming o'er reaſon's rock-built mounds,
Diſdain the check of moral bounds.
But ſee in paſtures ſtreams of uſe
When art corrects the flood's abuſe,
When, their due channels taught to keep,
In ſhallow brook or river deep,
Smiling thro dappled meads they go;
And paint the flow'rs they cauſe to grow.
Corrected thus, by reaſon's art,
The burſts, or meltings, of the heart,
In virtue's channels ſee them glide:
Her flow'rs the blooming margin's pride.

Is the ſmall ſpring thy fav'rite theme,
That trickles forth a ſhallow ſtream,
In murmurs ſoft, a purling rill?
What wilt thou do to drive the mill?
How wilt thou make to ride at large
Thy timber, or thy loaded barge?
As much as purling rills admir'd
The navigable ſtream's requir'd;
[219] The ſtream, whoſe turbulence abides
The roaring of the ſwelling tides,
Alike whoſe raging boſom ſwells,
And back the threat'ning tide repels.
The hero, thus, the ſoldier brave *
How needful half the world to ſave!
Like Pruſſia's king, thro ſeas of blood
Wading, for threaten'd Europe's good!

[220]Virtuouſly uſeful to mankind,
The ſtrongeſt as the weakeſt mind,
Thus, one's no better than the other,
The warmeſt heart the cold one's brother;
And neither this nor that, in fact,
Are virtuous till as ſuch they act.

Yet here, appearances believ'd,
In virtuous actions oft deceiv'd,
How plain in th' hypocritic face
We read the characters of grace;
And falſely to youth's giddy tribe
Deſigning villainy aſcribe;
While time, and circumſtance, and place,
Our byaſs'd judgments here diſgrace.

Is there a man, whoſe tender heart
Takes in another's pains a part,
Who cloathes the naked, feeds the poor,
And bribes the orphan to his door;
So kind he cannot bear to ſee
Another leſs at eaſe than he?
Godlike benevolence; you cry!
And praiſe his virtue to the ſky.
But were this virtuous mortal poor,
Oblig'd to beg from door to door;
Could he not eat the bread at reſt,
Torn by the law from the diſtreſs'd;
[221] Should his weak mind compunction feel,
In honeſt ways of trade, to ſteal;
Could not the ſoftneſs of his heart
Torture the horſe, that draws the cart;
Mangle the lamb before it die,
Or draw its heart's blood thro its eye;
Who would not cry, "too proud to ſerve!
"Work, idle wretch, or work or ſtarve;"
To Bridewell's laſh the knave conſign'd,
For vicious tenderneſs of mind.

Is there who, worn with vice, begins
To hide his multitude of ſins,
Leave of the wicked world doth take
And hermit turns for virtue's ſake;
Or, anxious for the ſouls of men,
Flies to the pulpit or the pen?
Behold another Paul! we cry,
A new apoſtle from on high!

Are there whom cares nor want exclude,
At little coſt, from doing good;
In pious practices that ſpend
Their fortune and their latter end;
The ſick who phyſic in diſtreſs;
And make the trav'ler's burthen leſs?
To theſe what virtue will refuſe
The praiſeful elegiac muſe!
[222] But, ſay, doth tenderneſs of heart
Teach the divine's or doctor's art?
Too oft unletter'd preachers rave,
And damn the ſouls they meant to ſave:
Too oft, alas, the pious pill
Of charity, like Ward's, doth kill:
While lighten'd more the pedlar's pack
To clothe our own than ſave his back.

"Whence then is virtue," doſt thou cry?
In truth and nature, I reply:
Reaſon and paſſion both combin'd
To form true virtue in the mind.
Nor reſts it there in mere deſign;
To go where theſe may chance t' encline.
'Tis not ſufficient to ſet out,
Tho meaning well, thy way in doubt;
Here known experience ſhouldſt thou uſe,
That paſſion reaſon mayn't abuſe;
Cautious in virtue's rout to go
No farther than our path we know:
Leſt, when, thro ign'rance loſt our way,
Paſſion to vice ſhould lead aſtray.
'Tis not enough to mean aright,
Unleſs the meant effect's in ſight:
Too apt to wander from the mark,
When blund'ring forward in the dark.
[223] 'Tis no excuſe to have it ſaid
The heart had put it in the head,
When miſchief done, inſtead of good,
For want of being underſtood.
To virtue pitiful our claim
When, at a venture taking aim,
More by good luck than ſenſe or wit,
The mark of moral good we hit.
What virtue's in the madman's dream,
Or fool's impracticable ſcheme?
Whoſe, ſhould they ev'n ſucceed, at beſt,
Chance-medley virtue is confeſs'd.

Knowledge, my friend, goes, hence 'tis plain,
Foremoſt in virtue's ſplendid train;
While reaſon and the paſſions, join'd,
Walk cloſely, hand in hand, behind.

Is't ſaid? "one mere good-natur'd deed
"All worth in ſcience doth exceed." *
On this weak maxim doſt object
We virtuous merit here neglect;
Thus honeſt ign'rance to contemn;
And inability condemn?
[224] Sayſt thou "as no fore-knowledge given,
"Events are in the hands of heaven;
"And, therefore, virtuous thoſe confeſs'd
"From what they know who act the beſt."
Lorenzo, no—unleſs 'tis ſhown
That ſuch no better might have known.
'Tis true, as individuals here
Are plac'd in nature's proper ſphere,
Their knowledge more or leſs compleat
As genius and inſtruction meet,
Man by no ſeraph's rapture fir'd,
Virtue's as knowledge giv'n requir'd.
But think not thou that bounteous heaven
Hath barren underſtanding given;
Hath talents lent which, unapplied,
'Tis virtuous in the earth to hide.
No— with the pow'r of reaſon bleſt,
Improvement's claim'd, as intereſt.

Is there who turns away his ear,
Inſtruction's voice averſe to hear,
Moſt obſtinately bent to plod
Along the road his father trod,
Old cuſtom never to forſake;
Nor uſe of eye or ear to make?
Tho right the wilful wretch we find,
Is his a virtuous turn of mind?
[225] With God above, or man below,
How is't deſerving not to know?

Of virtue's merit, Folly, huſh;
Nor put true wiſdom to the bluſh.
Remember virtue ſtill depends
Both on our motives and our ends.
What merit is't we gladly do
That which our hearts incline us to?
Or what that reaſon doth ſubmit
To own the truth is right and fit?
For ſay that by the heart or head
Solely to virtue men were led;
If by the heart, and that alone,
What man e'er call'd his heart his own?
Right oft by impulſe forc'd to go,
Whether his reaſon lead or no;
Apparently againſt the will,
As oft conducting him to ill.
How meritorious then the beſt,
That love or pity warms the breaſt?
For this, nor that, from vice can ſave;
Or if they could—'tis God that gave.

Is it from caution, practis'd long,
You ſeek the right and ſhun the wrong;
By juſt experience underſtood
Your worldly intereſt's to be good,
[226] What merits here the clod of earth
That nature ſmil'd upon its birth,
And gave it reaſon's foſt'ring aid
To teach it virtue, as its trade?
Sayſt thou "when head and heart we praiſ [...]
"Doth this not virtue's merit raiſe?
"The man of vicious acts aſham'd"—
May yet for ſpiritual pride be blam'd.
"The elegantly juſt"—too nice
Perhaps for vulgar ſcenes of vice.
"The lowly-minded, kind and meek"—
Mean, pitiful, perhaps, and weak.
"The patriot, in his country's cauſe"—
A gudgeon, greedy of applauſe.
"The pious, who their God revere,"—
Only, perhaps, of hell in fear;
Or, not by fears ſufficient driven,
Puſh'd forward by the hopes of heaven.
So little do we truly know
The cauſe to which we virtue owe;
To what bad principle or good
Ev'n we ourſelves have vice withſtood:
Nor can the beſt of mortals ſay,
From what has yet directed, may;
Or in a ſtate he never knew
Tell what his head and heart might do.
Who then their moral worth ſhall prize?
Shall ev'n the beſt the worſt deſpiſe?
[227] Thin the partitions that divide
Ev'n vice itſelf from virtue's pride;
The virtuous boaſter weak and proud;
Like the tall idiot in the crowd,
Who, ſtalking with exalted tread,
Above his fellows rears his head,
While from his more diſtinguiſh'd height
The harm upon his pate doth light.

The pride of virtue hence depreſs'd,
O learn to pity, not deteſt;
Ev'n looking with a brother's eye
On wretches doom'd by law to die;
To heaven that hath the diff'rence made
'Tween thee and them, the honour paid!
The object more of pity, ſure,
The vicious mind no leach can cure,
Than ſuch whoſe mere corporeal part
Diſeas'd admits the doctor's art!
Nay, if by virtue underſtood
The act producing moral good,
And moral good and evil known
By ſenſe of phyſical alone,
The term of merit thrown aſide,
Abaſh'd at once is virtue's pride;
Since ſuch moſt virtuous we muſt call
Who moſt promote the good of all.
[228] Here virtue ſee, in fortune's power,
Dependent ev'ry day and hour!
So little reſts on good intent,
So much alas, on accident!
See to the public good conduce
Of wealth and ſtate the ſimple uſe *;
Such power of doing good a lot
By birth, caprice, or favour got;
A poſt of virtue oft the gain
Of knavery, honeſt hearts diſdain.

Proportional to ev'ry ſtate,
Sayſt thou, its virtue we muſt rate;
Thoſe much to blame, tho doing good,
Who fail to do the moſt they cou'd?
Moſt needful, then, how far to know
Our pow'rs of doing good may go;
In ev'ry ſtation, place and time,
Neglectful ignorance a crime.
For ſay, if e'er preferr'd to place,
Dame fortune take us into grace,
Tho kings ſhould act the donor's part,
They neither give a head nor heart.

[229]'Tis true a ribbon, ſtar and garter
May make a flutt'ring fop look ſmarter;
Sir John ſounds big and mighty pretty
Among the plain Johns of the city;
But George himſelf, of many a knight,
Ne'er dubb'd one ſordid cit polite.
Clever indeed could royal grace
Fit ev'ry placeman for his place;
If being voted for with ſpirit,
Supplied our want of real merit,
Conferr'd taſte, judgment, obſervation,
Adapted to th' appointed ſtation!
Title and pow'r give conſequence;
But never gave one jot of ſenſe.

Knowledge, Lorenzo, hence confeſs'd
Of moral principles the beſt,
Well ſpent we hope our vacant days
In ſtudious ſearch of wiſdom's ways;
On reaſon while our ſteps attend,
Reaſon, fair virtue's firmeſt friend!
Hail ſober guide! O teach my youth
To woo thy lovelier ſiſter truth;
For whoſe embrace my vows I pay,
In ardent ſighs, throughout the day;
Nor, when the longeſt day is o'er,
Ceaſe, by the midnight lamp, to pore
[230] O'er the dull tale, or tedious page
Of ſaint or more laborious ſage;
Happy if ſaint or ſage could tell,
Where I with her might ever dwell;
With her for whom, and whom alone,
My genius for the verſe be known:
For truth content to loſe the bays;
The poet's for her lover's praiſe.

THE BEAVERS: A FABLE.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLX.

[231]

‘Sic vos non vobis.—’

ONCE on a time, how long ago
Perhaps chronologiſts may know,
On a wide lake, far north and cold,
A race of beavers kept their hold;
Their iſland cabbins duly ſtor'd,
And feaſted at a plenteous board.
To induſtry and labour bred,
Mean-while they toil'd, as well as fed;
Nor waited their decreaſing ſtore
To fail, ere provident of more.
Continual plenty, hence, by ſtealth,
Grew up to luxury and wealth;
When now, alas! in evil hour,
To wealth ſucceeds the thirſt of power;
No longer ſatisfied to reign
Sole maſters of the wat'ry main,
To ſee the trembling otter fly,
Hereditary Enemy,
[232] Condemn'd, tho ſtarving on the ſhore,
To treſpaſs on the lake no more:
Contented not that nature gave
The ſpoils and triumphs of the wave;
But, vainly fond to ſhew their might,
Or turn out champions for the right,
They interfere in all diſputes
Between the continental brutes,
And, parties in their feuds to make,
Their iſland tenements forſake;
Tranſporting madly brutes and ſtores,
Blind war to wage on foreign ſhores,
And ſave, from otters, bears and cats,
Land-beavers vile or worthleſs rats.
Mean-while, at home, is various ways
Their wealth's conſum'd, their ſtrength decays;
Recruits and payment of allies
Demand exorbitant ſupplies;
While e'en by battles, fought and gain'd,
Their little ſtate is only drain'd,

Sagacious creatures ſhall we call
The brutes that ſquander thus their all?
Or ſhall we not their wit deride,
Who thus expoſe their weakeſt ſide?

But time and circumſtance you ſay,
May change the face of things,—They may:
[233] Yet neither, ſure, can change the nature,
Of brutal more than human creature!
And yet, as if ſome revolution
Had happen'd in his conſtitution,
Thus, oft the beaver leaves his home,
On mountain wilds, for wars, to roam;
Unnatural wars! to him at leaſt,
Amphibious, moiſture-loving beaſt!
In which, a generous jack, with pride,
He always takes the weakeſt ſide,
And hires the poor, at his expence;
To ſtand up in their own defence;
While ten to one, he truſts the gods,
To him are even trifling odds:
As if, to win, his ſureſt way
Was ſtill to chooſe the loſing play,
Or loggerheads he took delight in,
And fought but for the ſake of fighting.

Yet beavers are accounted wiſe,
And need no burthenſome allies;
Their hold in liquid walls immur'd,
From danger and aſſaults ſecur'd,

Alas, dame nature ſurely meant
Each creature for its element:
If birds will dive and fiſhes fly,
What wonder if they droop and die!
[234] Now ſo it happ'd, as poets ſing,
A land-rat was the beavers' king:
By all belov'd, without diſpute,
A juſt, humane, and honeſt brute;
Who, yet, throughout his gracious reign▪
Too highly priz'd his old domain;
Too poor, too weak, without allies
To ſtand amidſt its enemies;
And therefore at their own expence
The beavers purchas'd its defence;
Or when by chance of war 'twas loſt
Redeem'd it always at their coſt;
Bribing the tygers, bears and cats,
With ſubſidies to ſpare the rats;
And keeping, in their conſtant pay,
The ban-dogs, not to prowl that way.

Now on a day it ſo fell out,
The landed brutes began their rout;
A cat, of cat-a-mountain race,
Spit in the lordly tyger's face;
And, aided by a wild ſhe-bear,
In pieces vow'd his limbs to tear,
The tyger bravely bid defiance,
And claim'd the beaver-king's alliance.
Mean-while the otters join'd the cats,
And wreak'd their vengeance on the rats;
[235] A vengeance they were urg'd to take,
For what they ſuffer'd on the lake;
Where now their fiſhing haunts were gone,
And holds all ruin'd one by one;
And not an otter dar'd to dive;
Or, daring, reach'd the ſhore alive.
So powerful were the beavers grown,
While conqueſt made the lake their own!
Vain conqueſt! if conſtrain'd, at laſt,
To ſully all their glory paſt,
By giving back each dear-bought prize,
To ſave their poor or weak allies;
Who now, by numerous foes enthrall'd,
Aloud for their aſſiſtance call'd;
The beavers readily conſenting
To do what, done, they're ſure repenting.
And yet, alas! 'twas all in vain,
The patriots ventur'd to complain:
'Twas all in vain to repreſent
The ſtores immenſe they yearly ſpent,
How much they ow'd, and, to their ſorrow,
How much they ſtill were forc'd to borrow:
In vain they ſhew'd the end they ſought,
When 'gainſt the otters firſt they fought,
By almoſt ev'ry battle gain'd,
At length compleatly was obtain'd;
And therefore, having got their end,
They need no longer to contend;
[236] But ſtanding on their own defence,
Might now contract the war's expence;
And, would the foe accept of peace,
Exact a general releaſe;
Or, ſparing thus their blood and treaſure,
Might leave him to make peace at leiſure.

Remonſtrance juſt! but 'twas in vain;
Succeſs had turn'd each beaver's brain;
The tyger's martial fame and fire
Did all their heated breaſts inſpire;
And every honeſt, plodding, beaver,
Seiz'd with a military fever,
Careleſs of what was done, or doing,
Ran, fighting-mad, the road to ruin.
Nay ev'n the chief, who, once, more loud
Than any of the patriot crowd,
Roar'd out his inſolent reflections
On the great rat and his connections;
A miniſterial beaver grown,
Now bow'd obedient to the throne;
And, worſe than either of the Brothers,
Adopted meaſures, damn'd in others;
Meaſures himſelf condemn'd ſo late,
As big with ruin to the ſtate!
Yet now he ſwallow'd all th' objections
He made before to land connections.
[237] "The tyger's call, the rat's diſtreſs,
"Demanded inſtantly redreſs;
"And generous brutes ſhould ſacrifice
"Themſelves, their all, for their allies."
How much unlike this ſpecious cant
To all his former, noiſy, rant!
To that fine, florid declamation,
By which he us'd to gull the nation!

But, as the mob had been ſo loud
To praiſe this idol of the crowd,
His friends were now aſham'd to own
Their honeſt chief had chang'd his tone;
And let him lead them, by the ſnout,
As tho he ne'er had turn'd about.
Mean-while, with grief, the patriot few,
Who beſt the beaver's intereſt knew,
Saw him, on every flight pretence,
Abuſe the public confidence;
And enter into every meaſure,
Contriv'd to ſquander blood and treaſure:
Beheld the waſte of both increaſe,
To purchaſe war, inſtead of peace;
While more their toil and leſs their gain:
How juſt a reaſon to complain!
The fruits of all their labour thrown
Away in quarrels not their own.

PHOEBUS DETECTED.
WRITTEN AT A SUMMER THEATRE; IN MDCCLXVII.[238]THE country was wond'ring for three weeks to⯑gether,
Where Sol had retir'd to, and ta'en the fine weather;
Some ſaid (for conjecture runs wild in theſe caſes)
The poles of the world had got out of their places;
While others ſuppos'd ſome wet planet had croſs'd us,
And ſome blam'd the Devil and ſome Dr. Fauſtus.
But, Saturday darting his beams all around,
The cauſe of our late want of ſunſhine I found:
Stepping into the play-houſe, lo, ſnug in the box,
Sat Phoebus himſelf, with his carrotty locks.
Your Godſhip's obedient, ſaid I, with a ſneer;
Who ripens the corn? What the deuce do you here?
"Why, faith, to confeſs it," his Godſhip replied,
"I have been on a viſit a little aſide;
"So well entertain'd I was never before,
"And han't been in heaven for this fortnight and more:
"Such a charmer I've met with, that loth I'm to go,
"And leave her unnotic'd with mortals below."
Oh, oh! is it ſo? return'd I, friend Apollo,
Your father's old tricks, then I ſee you ſtill follow.
[239] But tell me what Fair could your heart thus engage—
"Look you there—don't you ſee her?—She's now on the ſtage."
I whipt out my glaſs, the rogue's charmer to ſee;
And who, of all charmers, d'ye think it could be?
Mrs. L— "No ſure!"—Yes, faith, it was ſhe.

ON READING THESPIS, A SATIRE ON THE COMEDIANS OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVI.[240]WHEN feeble folly flings the random dart,
E'en let it fly.—Who feels or heeds the ſmart?
But when raſh genius, or eccentric wit,
Take wanton aim ſome deſtin'd mark to hit,
How needful is't that judgment guide aright,
And that the very feather bear no ſpite!
Elſe while the point, replete with venom, flies,
Declining worth and riſing merit dies.—
So heaven forgive, and hell afford a rope
For him who wounded Pritchard, Clive and Pope.
So wild a head, with ſo deprav'd a heart,
To heaven ſhould never mount but from a cart:
That ſtage firſt Theſpis trod, in ages paſt,
And had he juſtice, that would be his laſt.

ON THE DIVERSITY OF RELIGIOUS SECTS AND OPINIONS.
AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

[241]

LOrenzo, turn not thou aſide
From ſcience, as an erring guide;
Nor, ſoon as doubts thy courſe impede,
Abſurdly amplify thy creed,
By myſt'ries dark or dogmas old,
Becauſe to ſon from father told:
If to known truth we were confin'd,
Of little faith were all mankind.
Sayſt thou credulity outflies
Slow knowledge, ſpurning at the wiſe;
Opinion, wing'd, feet, hand and head,
In haſte, without her errand, ſped;
Or driv'n, inactive, here and there,
With ev'ry vagrant breath of air?
Wouldſt, therefore, know what ſyſtems err,
To whom opinions to refer,
Where trembling Doubt and Errour blind
At once a guard and guide may find;
At once ſucceſsfully apply,
And give to falſhood's face the lie?
[242] No ſect, alas? profeſs the rule
That reconciles the knave and fool;
That leads the fooliſh and the wiſe;
While theſe revere what thoſe deſpiſe.
Whether from Nature's general law
The outlines of our creed we draw,
Or think the truth be only given
In revelation pure from heaven,
It matters not; unleſs we find
Some active index in the mind,
Some ray of heaven's unerring light,
To point, or here or there, aright.

Let Chriſtianity diſplay
Her wond'rous volume to the day;
The ſacred lines, however true,
Alike affect not me and you:
Th' accepted ſenſe of holy writ,
Still reſting on th' accepting wit.
For who that read but comprehend
As taught by father, prieſt or friend,
Or tenets new, more nice than wiſe,
Peculiar to themſelves, deviſe.
How then prevails the ſacred text,
If by the comment thus perplex'd;
If hereticks, of ev'ry kind,
Their tenets in the goſpel find;
[243] If thus the ſpirit hide the flaw
That mars the letter of the law?

Let Nature's ſtriking ſcenes engage
The letter'd and unletter'd age;
Various, as ev'ry varied tribe,
The notions hence the world imbibe.
When meteors glow and comets blaze,
How wond'ring ignorance doth gaze;
Foretelling, ev'n in errour wiſe,
The judgments gath'ring in the ſkies!
Th' aurora * ſtreaming from the pole,
What groundleſs fears the weak controul!
Hear them addreſs their angry God,
And take his mercies for his rod:
Whilſt thine, or Bradley's, curious eyes
As calmly view the threat'ning ſkies,
The plagues, the famines, wars they yield,
As Colin drives his team a-field.
Rolls the big thunder o'er the plain?
Melt the fierce light'nings clouds to rain?
Ah me! how impious, Crito cries,
To lift thy hand againſt the ſkies;
Thy lines of magic ſteel to form,
To brave the fury of the ſtorm;

[244]With Franklin, madly to defy
The thunderer's red right-arm, on high,
Bold Titan! to erect thy ſtand
To wreſt the lightnings from his hand! *
Yet thoſe in phyſicks better read
At honeſt Crito ſhake the head:
In pity, or deriſion, ſmile;
Nature and truth their guard the while.

Thus, by unlike experience taught,
Peculiar are our modes of thought;
Explained, by cuſtom's partial nod,
The voice of nature and of God.

Doſt thou apply to ſaint or ſage,
The guides of our believing age,
The truths, which myſteries conceal,
Or thoſe of ſcience to reveal?
From far and near, what tales abſurd
Adulterate the written word!
How oft the pure, and perfect text,
Have baſe theologiſts perplex'd!
[245] What tranſcripts! what interpolation!
Eternal ſource of diſputation!

Alas, Lorenzo, few believe,
In fact, the doctrines they receive!
How few of ev'n the reverend tribe
The very canons they ſubſcribe!
Do ſuch their mother-church defend?
On her pluralities depend;
The mitre and the ſine-cure
Preſerving beſt her tenets pure.
For, rob the prieſthood of its gain,
What pillar will the church ſuſtain?
What cement binds the crazy wall,
Whoſe ſapt foundation threats its fall?
Do ſuch profeſs to turn the key
On myſt'ries, hid from you and me;
Or of the oracles of old
The dubious phraſes to unfold;
To teach the truth to vulgar minds,
Which heaven's own blaze of rhetorick blinds?
Ah, think not theſe will e'er diſplay
Their ſecrets to the eye of day.
Tell me what artiſt will impart
To thee th' arcanum of his art.
Not one—but all, reſerv'd and ſly,
Affect to cheat th' obſerver's eye:
[246] Their ſlighteſt knacks important made,
To raiſe the wonder of their trade.
Thus oft the reverend tiro, taught
That none may ſerve their God for nought,
Caſts o'er his ignorance a veil,
Or maſks the moral of his tale;
Securely laughing in his ſleeve,
When fools the tale itſelf believe.
To ſave his calling from abuſe
His caution here, in fact, of uſe;
For once his art and myſt'ry known
Who church-authority would own?
As, when ſublime conundrums hit,
We laugh to ſcorn the quibbler's wit;
So, in rever'd enigmas wiſe,
His riddling reverence we deſpiſe.

Yet while the orthodox, for gain
Or vanity their craft maintain,
The truth, a term of meaning wide,
To all the prieſt affirms applied;
No leſs the het'rodox than they,
From pride or av'rice, go aſtray:
For motives ſimilar prevail
With thoſe who brew or broach the tale.
Say, elſe, if ſelf-conviction true
The conſcientious Henley knew;
[247] Fir'd by a pure, religious zeal,
That champion of the public weal,
For pence, the primacy to ſlight*,
To jeſt with ev'ry ſacred right,
To trample, with avow'd deſign,
On laws both human and divine.
Say what his aim, whoſe dread rebukes
Craz'd his poor neighbours of St. Luke's †
Who, godly warfare proud to ſeek,
In ſuff'rance turns the ſmitten cheek:
As knaviſh Jews, to ſell their ware,
Abuſe and inſult tamely bear.
No worldly gain to Whitfield yields
The plenteous harveſt of Moorfields,
While from the gift of ſterling gold,
Like off'rings to the Lord of old ‡,

[248]The coatleſs prieſt with Aaron vies*,
And modern tabernacles riſe?
Or, are fanatic weavers led
Becauſe his vanity is fed,
A tickling tranſport while he feels,
To find his thouſands at his heels;
To hear the Io Paeans ring,
Due to the hero, ſaint or king;
Which yet as oft the mob beſtow,
On ſainted pick-pockets, below.

If then, by poverty or pride,
The prieſt or parſon's led aſide;
While theſe, th' inſtructors of mankind,
Their intereſt in our ignorance find;
O ſhun, Lorenzo, ſhun the ſtreet
Where diſputant theologues meet.
See the wing'd cork, from ſide to ſide
Rebound, the truant ſchool-boy's pride,
With equal warmth, with equal noiſe,
So theſe, by turns, like truant boys,
Between what ſaint or father ſaith,
Bang the light ſhittle-cock of faith.

[249]But hark! what jargon ſtrikes our ear?
What Hebrew madmen have we here?
What pen the phrenzy ſhall deſcribe
Of Hutchinſon's or Behmen's tribe*;
Who, ſcorning reaſon's vain pretence,
Make war, a dire croiſade, on ſenſe?
If reaſon, then, reprizals make,
At once their cauſe and them forſake,
What wonder? yet, in truth, 'twere well
Might Bedlam ſpare one vacant cell;
Since no good chriſtian, yet, for Law†,
Hath ſtrown his darken'd room with ſtraw.

Theologiſts ſo prone to err,
Doſt thou philoſophers prefer?
Theſe oft, an intereſted ſect,
Like poverty or pride affect.
Logicians, caſuiſts by trade,
At random draw their furious blade;
Taking, in gladiatorial pride,
The cudgels up on either ſide.

[250]To them indiff'rent wrong or right;
Swiſs champions! theirs the taſk to fight,
And ſhare, with venal art, the prey;
The golden gettings of the day.
So Broughton's * heroes bruis'd and bled,
At once for honour and for bread:
And Powel's † virtuous thirſt of fame
Inur'd his iron lips to flame.
The learn'd, prodigious wiſe indeed
The man by heaven inſpir'd to read!
Affecting merely to decide,
Indulge their magiſterial pride,
And, deigning ſcarce on ſenſe a look,
Profoundly dogmatize by book;
Save here thoſe champions of the gown,
Meek Warburton and modeſt Brown,
Madan, and that mild man-of-God,
The rev'rend doodle, doctor Dodd:
To real merit's ne'er allied
The pedant's, or the parſon's pride.

By ſingularity of taſte
Good ſenſe and lit'rature diſgrac'd,
See wrangling ſophiſts thus intent
On croſs-grain'd paradoxes bent;
[251] As if to truth they made pretence
By wand'ring but from common-ſenſe.
Among the witty and the wiſe,
Hence in mere words the difference lies;
While empty terms, for years, engage
The ſcholar's and the ſkeptick's rage;
Till, wearied out, they ſtare to ſee
How nearly all in fact agree.
So, poiz'd between two empty ſcales,
Now here, now there, the beam prevails,
Which, as their falſe vibrations ceaſe,
In equilibrio reſts in peace.
Nor yet when even in fact diſſent
Theſe ſlaſhing ſons of argument,
Their ſubject-matter in debate
Is worth the pains t' inveſtigate.
Philoſophy at Arthur's * taught,
So Bond and Brag, diſputing, fought,
Whether as near, from Change to Kew †,
To croſs the old bridge or the new.
"Could neither wheel nor chain decide?"
Alas, my friend, they never tried.
[252] For neither of theſe learned youth
Car'd one braſs farthing for the truth;
But each, to make his judgment out,
Would drive full-ſpeed ten miles about.

The firſt-philoſophy* in uſe
Thus argumentative abuſe:
While truth and falſehood, right and wrong,
Serve as the burthen of a ſong:
With ſophiſts, as with ſcolding wives,
Quarrel the buſineſs of their lives.
Leave then, Lorenzo, vain diſpute;
Empty the triumph to confute:
Nor thoſe for truth's defenders take,
Who cavil but for cavil's ſake.

But is there, lay-man or divine,
In whom good ſenſe and temper join;
A prieſt of honeſt Clogher's † mould,
A thieſt moderate as bold,
To whom indulgent heaven aſſign'd
A truly ethic turn of mind;

[253]Who dares the mob in ſcorn to hold;
Hath weigh'd the happineſs of gold;
Hath found the pond'rous cheat ſo light,
That avarice gets nothing by't;
Who rates the value of a name
From th' inſignificance of fame;
Not vainly ſeeking more to know
Than God has given to man below;
Yet, whereſoe'er diſplay'd her charms,
Embracing truth with open arms?
On ſuch Lorenzo may depend,
For guide, philoſopher and friend.
"But where ſuch friend and guide," you cry.
Knowſt thou no ſuch? alas, nor I.
For O, the truth, in fact, how few
Have pow'r or talents, to purſue!
Alike th' abilities unfit
Of pedant dull or ſprightly wit,
Of captious criticks, ſcholiaſts vain,
With ev'ry ſuperficial brain.
Indeed too oſt ev'n genius gains
Its labours only for its pains:
Immortal bards not ſeldom here,
Dupes, from their mother's milk, to fear.
Tho ſmoothly run the hackney'd lay
Along the beaten, moral way;
Should truth on cuſtom turn its back,
Or deviate from the vulgar track,
[254] Like crabs, with retrogreſſive feet,
Such temporizing bards retreat;
Humming, their credit to maintain,
To worn-out tunes th' old catch again.

Ev'n thus thy fav'rite bard retir'd
Whom ev'ry muſe at once inſpir'd,
Whoſe ſtrains immortalize the guide
His ſcholiaſt piouſly decried,
Thy Pope, who, like a forward child,
In leading-ſtrings, ran bold and wild;
But, fearful of himſelf to ſtand,
Seiz'd his old, tottering mother's hand *.

Looks back, Lorenzo, ſhrinking now,
When ſet his hand unto the plough?
In vain we ſacrifice to truth
The ſportive giddineſs of youth,
[255] If falſhood's painted charms engage
The doating levity of age.
Truth's thorny paths who fear to run,
Should firſt her dangerous portal ſhun:
Nor ſet like heroes boldly out,
To founder in the deeps of doubt.
Yet ſtill beware—tho boldneſs thine,
Temp'rance that boldneſs muſt refine.
True temp'rance, rational and brave;
To ſtoic pride no ſullen ſlave:
Not ſuch as, gently meek and mild,
Betrays the weakneſs of a child;
Nor that, without or fear or wit,
By chance, ev'n blunderers may get.
The raſh, too angry to be bold,
By Falſhood oft are bought and ſold.
The proud, too haughty to be wiſe.
See not where grov'ling Errour lies.
The heedleſs counts without his hoſt,
Or runs his noſe againſt the poſt:
And oft their tim'rous indolence
The meek indulge, at Truth's expence.

So hard to keep that middle way,
From which enquiry ne'er ſhould ſtray;
While, for the taſk, ſo hard to find
A truly firm, capacious mind;
[256] No wonder fools, the would-be-wiſe,
Suppoſe in doubt that wiſdom lies:
Or that, becauſe ſo ſhort their ſight,
Truth may be errour, wrong be right *!
For ignorance, to ſooth its pride,
Muſt ſeek its own defects to hide.

Affecting, hence, all unbelief,
Is Scoto infidel in chief;
His hand and heart, his ears and eyes
Confeſſing what his tongue denies?
To truth in ev'ry ſyſtem blind,
Yet ſeeking it where none ſhall find;
Lorenzo, here his wit's a cheat,
That mocks his judgment with deceit.
[257] Where'er opinion gaily dreſs'd.
Runs gadding in her rainbow veſt,
Among her ſiſterhood, a crew
Of motley wives black, red or blue,
See ſkepticiſm, the truth in chaſe,
Run giddily, from face to face;
Now this, now that, by turns, enjoy;
Nor find them falſe till found to cloy.
Thus, with the fair he moſt admires,
Full ſoon the wav'ring lover tires;
At morn, her ſmiles with rapture meets;
At night, affronts her in the ſtreets;
By looſe ſuſpicion wand'ring led,
Or ſpider Fancy's flimſy thread;
Till, on ſome lying whore, at laſt,
He lights, and holds her tenets faſt.

Nor ſtrange, oppos'd to theſe, to find,
In uniformity combin'd,
Believing thouſands; who ſuppoſe
Truth with the croud for ever goes:
As if convinc'd the rabble rout,
Becauſe too obſtinate to doubt.
Yet cuſtoms old or faſhions new
Are all th' unthinking herd purſue.
[258] The orthodox in dreſs or ſong
As modiſh as to right and wrong *.
Of cuſtom born, to faſhion bred,
Thus blind credulity is led;
While modes of faith, like modes of dreſs,
Mankind capriciouſly profeſs.
Yet all agreed, thro ſhame or pride,
Nature's ſimplicity to hide,
Whate'er the faſhion of the time,
It holds the naked truth a crime.
Thus, to a man, we find the crowd,
To doubt too baſhful, or too proud,
In errour rather chuſe to fall,
Than boaſt no ſcheme of faith at all.
Impatient, hence, of ſtop or ſtay,
They blunder on the broadeſt way;
Or make a guide, in every ſtreet,
Of fool or knave, the firſt they meet.

Authorities how blind and lame
Hence bring the credulous to ſhame;
While all revere the mould'ring page,
Where moths have ſpent their gothic rage:
[259] Tales half deſtroy'd, the reſt ſo true!
So much inſpir'd the Lord-knows-who!

Couldſt thou, Lorenzo, build thy hopes
On muftis, patriarchs or popes;
On names implicitly depend,
And mere authorities defend?
Split on this rock, miſtaken youth,
Loſt were thy voyage to the truth:
'Twere beſt to give thy labour o'er,
Nor urge in vain thy genius more.

O, credit not, my friend, too ſoon
Fine tales and tidings from the moon;
Nor, howſoever learn'd or juſt,
In prieſt or prophet put thy truſt.
By Paul or by Apollos taught,
Still to one teſt their tenets brought,
Their doctrines, howſoever true,
Believe not till they're ſo to you:
For oft the wiſdom of the wiſe
Is only folly in diſguiſe.

Yet ſuperciliouſly reject:
No tenets that the world reſpect.
'Gainſt ſuch too raſhly ne'er inveigh;
Nor caſt thy grandfire's wit away.
[260] Diſdaining at the lamp to pore,
That lights us to the caſſic lore,
The half-taught deiſt thus exclaims
At texts rever'd and hallowed names;
Damning profane or ſacred writ,
That ſquares not with his ſhallow wit.

But while, thro ignorance or pride,
Opinions thus the world divide;
By turns while truth and falſehood rule,
As made the prieſt's or ſtateſman's tool;
Or, with ſome temporizing view,
Nonſenſe, that's neither falſe nor true;
Canſt thou, at eaſe in doubt, my friend,
On points too dark thy faith ſuſpend?
Canſt thou the world's applauſe forego;
And burns thy boſom but to know?
Is truth thy only creed profeſs'd?
Can'ſt leave to providence the reſt?
Throw partial ſyſtems all aſide,
Truſt to knowledge, as thy guide.
See where the ſtream of ſcience flows
From nature's fountain, whence it roſe;
Thro hills and dales meand'ring led,
As clear as at the fountain head;
Stand thou not ſhiv'ring on the brink;
Once well embark'd thou canſt not ſink:
[261] Nor can the current falſely guide,
While reaſon's banks incloſe the tide;
Whence truth, in ſight, on either hand,
Smiles on thy voyage thro the land.

But, O, with caution hoiſt thy ſail,
To court the metaphyſic gale;
Leſt, hurried on, thy heedleſs youth
Should loſe, with land, the ſight of truth:
Turn'd forth adrift, thy lot to take,
On errour's broad unfathom'd lake;
'Mong ſtruck leviathans, in vain,
To plunge and flounder thro the main;
Where tides nor ſet, nor currents ſteer,
But winds all round the compaſs veer;
While floating iſles, that cheat the ſight,
To faithleſs anchorage invite:
Hobbes, St. John, Hume, and hundreds more,
Rich barks! all ſhip-wreck'd on the ſhore!

THE LOADED ASS; OR PUBLIC CREDIT.
A POLITICAL FABLE.

[262]

A Mettled aſs, in days of yore,
Who burthens baſely never bore,
In freedom rang'd the fields around,
And leap'd whatever mares he found;
Where'er he choſe in ſafety fed,
And made what ſtraw he pleas'd, his bed.
But, grown by long indulgence bold,
He ſcorn'd at length to be controul'd;
And, when his maſter dar'd to lick him,
Was ſure with lifted hoof to kick him.

At length, howe'er, by chance he fell
To one, who knew the manage well;
And, bent to tame our reſtive jack,
Reſolv'd to let him for a hack.
A neighbouring miller ſoon he found,
Who corn for all the pariſh ground,
And, wanting ſuch a beaſt to bear
The griſt committed to his care,
[263] To him our ſturdy aſs was lent
At a large premium per cent.

To market ſoon the miller goes,
Leading the jack-aſs by the noſe;
At night returning with a ſack,
Laid right acroſs our hero's back;
Who, bending now beneath its weight,
Began to ſorrow for his fate,
And, as the miller lagg'd behind,
Unburthen'd thus his troubled mind.

"Alas for what myſterious end
"Muſt I beneath this burthen bend?
"I, that have liv'd an aſs ſo free
"And bray'd in boundleſs liberty!
"I, that have long diſdain'd the bit!
"Muſt I, inſulted thus, ſubmit
"To bear a cruel weight, alack!
"That needs in time muſt break my back!"

Then, iſſuing forth a piteous groan,
His load he gladly would have thrown,
But that the miller faſt had tied,
And girt it on the underſide:
While having ſeen his inclination,
He gave him hearty flagellation.
[264] With grumbling, and no little ſcrubbing,
Th' impatient aſs put up the drubbing;
But ſtill moſt grievouſly complain'd
Of pains he either felt or feign'd.
Again next day to market ſent,
with heavy heart and head he went;
But gueſs with what diſdain he burn'd,
When with two ſacks he back return'd:
Yet, thus t' augment his toil and trouble,
Each day he found his burthen double;
At the ſame time (the truth be ſpoken)
His wind and back remain'd unbroken.
For, tho a life of toil he led,
The more he work'd, the more he fed;
So that, at firſt, tho lank and weak,
He daily grew mere round and ſleek:
While, as they added ſack by ſack,
More ſturdy ſeem'd his brawny back,

In ſuch good caſe, 'twas all in vain
He found, to murmur or complain.
Tho conſtantly, the trough to fill,
More ſacks were ſent for to the mill.

But no this tonic once ſet thinking,
He judg'd. at leaſt when freſh with drinking,
That fro [...] the grievous weights he bore,
He gather'd ſtrength but more and more,
[265] And might in time, like Atlas, carry
The world upon his back.—Ay, marry!
'Twere fine if that could come to paſs;
But, what ſo ſtupid as an aſs?
Know, dull machine, and have a care,
There is a weight thou canſt not bear:
Much farther ſhould thy maſters try
Thy ſtrength, 'twill give their hopes the lye.
Know, even now, thy life's at ſtake;
A few more ſacks thy back will break.
Bethink thee, then, vain brute, in time;
Self-murder is a horrid crime;
Be paſſive to thy load no more,
But freedom ſeek as heretofore;
Nor think, becauſe thy belly's fed,
No other care ſhould fill thy head.
A broken back may, let me tell ye,
Attend at laſt a burſting belly.

Needs this our fable illuſtration?
The loaded jack-aſs is the nation,
Oppreſs'd (at leaſt the wiſe have ſaid it)
With yearly loads of public credit;
Lamented ſurely heretofore,
Becauſe ſuch grievous weights ſhe bore;
Her miniſters in piteous taking
Exclaiming oft her back was breaking;
[266] Who, now, tho ten times more lies on her,
Maintain ſhe'll bear it off with honour;
As if, by ſufferance taught t' endure,
The ſame the means that kill and cure.

ON THE STATE OF THE THEATRES
IN MDCCXLIX.

[267]

ONE proud Goliah Gath could boaſt,
And Philiſtines of yore;
But Covent-Garden's threatening hoſt
Boaſt one Goliah * more.

Yet fear not you of Drury-Lane,
By little champion led;
Their two Goliahs roar in vain
While David's † at your head.

INVOCATION TO SILENCE.
OCCASIONED BY A LADY'S SINGING.

[268]

LOVE, reſolv'd my heart to wound,
Youth nor beauty made his choice;
But his arrows wing'd with ſound,
And ſtruck me with Cecilia's voice,

Echo thus made Pan of yore
Amorous of the vocal wind.
Silence, oh, my peace reſtore;
Or make me deaf as Love is blind.

THE POETICAL TRIUMVIRATE.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVII.

[269]

Three poets in three diſtant ages born,
Greece, Italy and England did adorn:
The firſt in loftineſs of thought ſurpaſs'd,
The next in majeſty, in both die laſt:
The force of nature could no farther go,
To make a third, ſhe join'd the former two.
DRYDEN.

POOR Dryden! what a theme hadſt thou,

Compar'd with that which offers now?

What are your Britons, Romans, Grecians,

Compar'd with thorough-bred Mileſians?

Step into G—ff-n's ſhop, he'll tell ye

Of G—dſ—th, B—k-rſ—ff, and K-ll-:

Three poets of one age and nation,

Whoſe more than mortal reputation,

Mounting in trio to the ſkies,

O'er Milton's fame and Virgil's flies;

While, take one Iriſh evidence for t'other,

Ev'n Homer's ſelf is but their foſter-brother.

ODE. TO COUNT BRUHL.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA.

[270]

I.SLAVE to thy fortune! caſt aſide
The gaudy pageants of thy pride;
Aſſum'd in evil hour.
Tho flatt'ring, 'tis a dangerous thing
To lord it o'er an eaſy king,
And weild the ſword of power.

II.With his magnificence, we ſee
Thy ſov'reign's cares transferr'd to thee,
Unhappy as thou'rt great.
Suſpicion poiſons thy delights;
Thy reſtleſs days, and ſleepleſs nights,
Betray the wretch in ſtate.

[271]III.Leave thy proud halls where columns riſe,
In lofty grandeur to the ſkies,
The envy of the age;
Where, ſerv'd in regal pomp, thy fears
Whiſper ſedition in thine ears,
And faction's deſperate rage.

IV.A tempeſt hovering o'er thine head,
An injur'd people's hate thy dread,
How irkſome is thy fate!
Then learn, tho, greater than a king,
The mob's loud Io's round thee ring,
The emptineſs of ſtate.

V.Inſipid is the life, and vain,
The ſame dull forms run o'er again,
Without one leiſure hour.
Ev'n vanity, in its retreat,
Finds eaſe and freedom oft as ſweet
As opulence and power.

[272]VI.In ſylvan ſcenes, where nature ſmiles,
And pure ſimplicity beguiles,
With charms beſt form'd to pleaſe;
Ev'n wealth forgets its anxious cares,
And pow'r the burthen that it bears,
To ſet our hearts at eaſe.

VII:Already, ſee, the ſpring is fled;
The raging dog-ſtar rears his head;
And fierce the noon-tide ray,
Repoſe invites; accept the prize;
Enjoy the ſummer ere it flies,
And live at eaſe to-day.

VIII.Beneath the cool refreſhing ſhade,
Stretch'd out, the ſhepherd ſwain is laid,
And tends his flocks at eaſe:
The zephyrs ſcarce are heard to ſigh;
The drooping jaſmines, fading, die,
Late broken by the breeze.

[273]IX.While thus all nature's charm'd to reſt,
Say, wherefore, Bruhl, thy lab'ring breaſt
Forebodes thy country's fate?
Pruſſia thou ſeeſt before thine eyes,
With num'rous nations, his allies,
Thund'ring at Dreſden's gate.

X.Wak'd at the dreadful voice of war,
Thy fears already bring from far
An hoſt of ſavage foes;
Turk, Tartar, ravaging the ſoil,
From where Sarmatian peaſants toil,
To where Euphrates flows.

XI.The gods, for reaſons juſt and wiſe,
'Twixt future ſcenes and mortal eyes,
The darkeſt veil have thrown;
To ſhew preſumptuous man how vain
His art the knowledge e'er to gain,
Of what heaven keeps unknown.

[274]XII.Then let us grateful homage pay,
Enjoy the bleſſings of to-day,
And leave to-morrow's cares.
Let us, ſubmitting to their power,
Employ, content, the preſent hour:
Futurity is theirs.

XIII.Moſt impotent the vain pretence
To wreſt the hand of providence,
By human art or force:
Man's ſingle arm as well might guide,
Or ſtop the Rhine's majeſtic tide,
Uncertain in its courſe:

XIV.Now ſmoothly doth its current flow,
Its wonted tribute to beſtow,
By rolling to the main;
Now, ſwelling from the mountain floods
It burſts its banks, roots up the woods,
And deluges the plain.

[275]XV.If cloudy prove to-morrow's dawns,
Or darts its beams acroſs the lawn
The golden orb of day;
What is it to the virtuous mind,
If howls the loud tempeſtuous wind,
Or radiant ſun-beams play?

XVI.With clouds the future's overcaſt,
Nor fate itſelf can change the paſt,
Recalling former days;
While time, in haſte, and wing'd for flight,
Before he's even out of ſight,
The preſent doth eraze.

XVII.Inconſtant fortune, light as air,
Involves us now in black deſpair,
Now ſooths with flattering ſmiles;
In diſappointments takes delight,
And mocking us in cruel ſpite,
All human-kind beguiles.

[276]XVIII.On me her favours thrown away,
She ſhowers them laviſh down, to-day;
And why no mortal knows.
To-morrow, ſtript at her command,
Thoſe favours, with as laviſh hand,
On others ſhe beſtows.

XIX.Yet think not fortune's wild caprice,
O Bruhl! ſhall e'er deſtroy my peace,
Or fill my heart with ſpleen.
I uſe, with gratitude, as mine,
Her gifts; which yet I can reſign
Without the leaſt chagrin.

XX.By nobler ſentiments inſpir'd,
By nobler views to virtue fir'd,
Ev'n poverty I'd wed,
Did ſhe, a portion for a king,
Integrity and honour bring,
To crown her nuptial bed.

AN EPISTLE TO A—R M—Y, ESQ.
ON THE SUCCESS OF HIS LAST NEW COMEDIES.

[277]

YOU'LL, doubtleſs, M — y, be ſurpriz'd to ſee
My rhimes addreſs'd familiarly to thee;
Nine years, or thereabouts, now gone and paſt
Since the firſt time I ſaw you and the laſt:
But, as epiſtles 'tis the mode to write,
Witneſs the Day*, and witneſs too the Night †,
Why may not I be modiſhly employ'd,
And write to you, as Churchill does to Lloyd?

My grave acquaintance may reply, 'tis true,
That I have got much better things to do.
What then? no reſpite muſt the jaded mind
From paradox and crabbed problems find?
Muſt I, perplex'd, continue evermore
On puzzling ſchemes and diagrams to pore
Dull Philomath himſelf gets theſe diſmiſs'd,
And ſpends his evenings pleaſantly at whiſt,
Now juſt as pleaſantly I paſs my time,
Set in to play an harmleſs game at rhime.
Severer ſtudies may more nobly pleaſe,
But pleaſure yields the palm ſometimes to eaſe;
[278] And tho' no great adept in Philo's way
The haut calcul or conjuring algebra;
Yet, entre nous, of that perplexing ſtuff,
Call'd metaphyſicks, I have had enough;
And therefore hope no cenſor will refuſe
An hour's indulgence to an idle muſe.
Idle I call her, who ne'er toils to pleaſe:
Verſe, if I write, 'tis always at my eaſe.
No poet bred, compleatly careleſs I,
Whether my Pegaſus or creep or fly;
Whether on hobbling feet my lame verſe goes,
Or ſoft and ſmooth in eaſy numbers flows;
Whether in lines the rhime and ſenſe chime pat;
To me, as Falſtaff ſays, all's one for that.
Criticks allow, in looſer ſtrains 'tis fitting
Epiſtolary writing ſhould be written.

I ſmile to ſee the letter to a friend,
With curious art and ſtudied caution penn'd:
Fill'd with choice terms, and freed from all defect;
So nice! ſo quaint! ſo labour'd! ſo correct!
Nor ſhould I ſhake my ſides much more to ſee
The meſſenger, with like propriety,
Take equal caution not to ſoil or tear it;
And, in a birth-day ſuit, ride poſt to bear it.

My plain muſe travels in leſs ſtate the roads;
And brings, for letters, elegies nor odes.
[279] Booted and ſpurr'd, ſhe leaves her palfry free
Nor picks the flowery paths of poeſy,
Culls thee no plants that on the borders ſmile,
Therewith t'adorn another Deſart Iſle;
But jogging on, nor ſeeks, nor ſhuns the dirt,
Fearleſs herſelf, as meaning none to hurt:
And when of flowers of rhetorick in need,
Takes up with high-way furze or hedge-row weed;
And tho' e'en theſe with ſafety may not paſs
The keen reviewer's hard-mouth'd critic aſs;
Here let him crop the literary thiſtle;
Hard are his gums who grinds * this rough epiſtle.

Authors, you know and actors, as they're call'd
Have been of late unmercifully maul'd;
Whilſt, M—y, you, howe'er to own it loth,
A fellow-feeling muſt have had for both.
Indeed 'twas natural in th' adventurous wit,
Who brav'd at once both coffee-houſe and pit,
To feel for thoſe engag'd, in either caſe,
To prove their powers of genius, lungs, or face.
Bold was the man who ventur'd firſt to ſea †;
Poh! all's comparative—he bold! —not he.
[280] Bold is the man, indeed, who in this age
Ventures his works, or perſon, on the ſtage;
Doom'd to ſubmit to th' inſolence of power,
And wait an o'ergrown actor's leiſure hour;
To watch his coming at the play-houſe door,
Or what is worſe, the lodgings of his whore;
To bear a manager's inſulting airs:
Prime miniſters not half ſo proud as players!
To find himſelf of all their art in need;
Shewn how to write by thoſe who cannot read;
Or kindly taught to mouth a ſpeech as well
As one who in his life ne'er learn'd to ſpell.
But, mortified ſeven years, this penance paſt,
Suppoſe himſelf or play brought on at laſt;
What is the raging of the ſtormy ſeas!
A ſtormy houſe no merit can appeaſe:
The gods above may hear the ſea-man's prayer;
But gallery * gods nor bard nor actor ſpare.
How have I ſeen their light'nings flaſh around,
And dart, in ſhape of candles, to the ground!
Thoſe flaming inſtruments of vengeance hurl'd,
Threat'ning deſtruction to the mimic world †!
How have I ſeen them, wanton in their ire,
Shower down their rattling balls of ſolid fire:
[281] (Pippins and oranges to mortal eyes),
But thunder-bolts they were in that diſguiſe;
Which th' angry gods, to ſtrike preſumption dead,
Aim'd, at th' aſpiring player's devoted head!
How have I heard ariſe the diſmal yell,
Where poets damn'd and damning critics dwell;
When now the demons of th' infernal pit
Tear up the lordly thrones on which they ſit;
And, wanting lightnings, hurl their ſeats in rage
With double horrour on th' affrighted ſtage!
In vain mean while the powers of earth and air
Skreening the deſtin'd victim from deſpair;
While heav'n and hell appear at once combin'd
With fate itſelf againſt the culprit join'd:
For lo! aloft, beneath a cat-call's form,
Malicious Fun, ſhrill ſpirit of the ſtorm *!
Pleas'd with the ruin of th' advent'rous wight,
Enjoys the glorious miſchief of the night.
Hard lot of Genius! but, as ſuch the rage
Of theſe tremendous rulers of the ſtage;
Let me adviſe thee, tempt thy fate no more,
Where critics groan, fools hiſs, and bullies roar.
Forbear to wage with witlings endleſs war,
But puſh thy better fortunes at the bar;
No criticks groaning for damnation call,
Within the precincts of Weſtminſter-hall;
[282] Nor gods above, nor devils in the pit,
There pelt their council for his want of wit.
But all are kept in a tremendous awe,
By the dread weight and dullneſs of the law:
Beneath whoſe influence, gouty, rich and fat,
May'ſt thou out-bully N—n and out-patriot P—t!

MARY, THE COOK-MAID'S ADDRESS TO HER FELLOW ARTISTS OF LONDON AND WESTMINSTER.
AN IMITATION OF SWIFT.
WRITTEN SOON AFTER HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION.[283]GE'MEN and ladies of the ſpits, pots, ſaucepans, and kettles,
And all the other 'tenſils made uſe of in dreſſing of wittles;
Theſe lines are to let you know, that I wonder what you mean,
That you don't all meet together, dreſs'd ſweet and clean;
And, while you ſee 'tis the faſhion, throughout the nation,
To 'drefs the K—(God bleſs him) with 'dolence and 'gratulation,
Go, all in a body, and preſent him your duty on his acceſſion,
As other loyal ſubjects of like reſpectable profeſſion.
[284] You hear that as how the painters, and gravers that dine at
The foundling hoſpital, and called themſelves artiſts, deſign it.
Now, that we are artiſts as well as they, ſtands upon record in bookery;
For who of you all hath not read books on the Art of Cookery?
Nay I myſelf have wrote a volume upon it.— But let that paſs;
Tho' it was allowed to be as full of 'rudition as Mrs. Glaſſe;
And, but that I then liv'd well, and thought begging an impropriety,
I might have had, if I had aſk'd, a premium from the what-do-ye-call-it ſociety.
For you are to know that I have not had ſo low a breeding,
But that, tho' a cook-maid, I am had-up * in writing and reading,
And remember that Mr. Pope, when he tells of lord Timon's feats,
Joins together the artiſts of pictures, muſick, meats.
Stand up, therefore, my friends, for the honour of your profeſſion,
And inſiſt upon making a party in the artiſt's proceſſion.
[285] But, if you are prevented by thoſe nigglers of the pencil and chiſſel,
Make a proceſſion of your own, and let them go whiſtle;
At the ſame time give a hint to their cook, who is the ſon of a ſinner,
If, while they are gone to St. James's, he don't take care to ſpoil their dinner;
Nay, for the ſlight already put on us, as I hold my pen,
If ev'ry cook was of my mind, they ſhould never have a good dinner again.
They pride themſelves mightily on their taſte! to be ſure!
But, in all matters of taſte, a cook muſt certainly be the greateſt coney-ſewer *.
I like ſuch fellows pretending to have of us no opinion,
When, I'll be hanged, if any of them know the taſte of a ſhalott from an onion.
They are ſo vain forſooth, of their paultry raree-ſhow of painting.
I am ſure, I was ſtarved and ſqueedged † there till I was almoſt fainting.
[286] Such ſights may ſerve indeed your ſkinny, ſcraggy people of condition;
But, in my mind, a well-roaſted ſirloin of beef is a much more better exhibition.
Let theſe upſtarts, however, do as they will, I do ſeriouſly profeſs
That, as to going to St. James's, I think you can do no leſs.
For, if what I have heard be true, our calling is aggriev'd:
And 'tis neceſſary you ſhould do your beſt to get it reliev'd:
Being told as how that good-eating is going out of faſhion,
Which is, you know, enough to put any cook in the world into a paſſion.
But what vexes me moſt, and ſeems to be a bad preſage, is,
That I hear the K—g's, ſervants are all actually at board-wages:
So that, as his example will likely be followed by the quality,
Good-bye to new French ſauces, and old Engliſh hoſpitality.
Nay, John, the butler, tells me (tho' he's a little waggiſh)
That one of the greateſt ladies in the kingdom ſups on Scotch kale and haggis.
[287] Not but what ladies ſhould eat what they like; but 'tis ſo comical,
That great folks ſhould be, as our chaplain ſays, ſo e-canonical *.
I would have you, therefore, go and make an humble repreſentation
Of the evils that threaten the ſtate of cookery in this nation:
And I doubt not, by what I have heard of the K—g's goodneſs and ſagicity †
But that you will meet with proper encouragement from his M-j—y;
Who, the premiſes conſidered, will certainly, on mature reflection,
Take every man and woman of us under his protection;
And, if he does not find us work, will have the gracious intentions,
To give us ſomething to play with, by granting us all penſions.
Yours to command, MARY THE COOK-MAID.

THE BULLFINCH AND SPARROW.
A FABLE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA.

[288]

O greatneſs, and its pompous train,
What notions falſe, we entertain!
The glitt'ring dreſs, the ſplendid feaſt,
Thoſe ſeeking moſt who know them leaſt;
Our time, anxiety, and coſt,
In the vain acquiſition loſt.

Its joys and griefs to every ſtate
Adapted by the will of fate,
The man we envy, oft as bleſt,
In ſecret pines, with care oppreſs'd!
Of this, though trite, juſt obſervation,
My fable is an illuſtration.

As, on the rake, one winter's day,
A town-bred ſparrow wing'd his way,
Poſſeſs'd of each engaging art
To win the feather'd ſair one's heart,
To all his rivals ſtill preferr'd,
The fav'rite of each female bird.
[289] He lighted near an ancient ſeat,
Whoſe turrets mark the ſquire's retreat;
The manſion, where renown'd in fame,
Reſides the guardian of the game;
Or the right worſhipful the mayor,
Whoſe corporation's all his care.

There, hopping round from tree to tree
Curious, no doubt, to hear and ſee,
A bullfinch, from a window nigh,
Attracted the young rover's eye.
Struck with the warbler's gilded cage,
He glow'd with envy, grief, and rage.
"How partial,"he exclaim'd, "is fate!
"See how that bullfinch lives in ſtate,
"The happieſt of the feather'd race!
"How diff'rent the poor ſparrow's caſe!
"He, ſhelter'd from the winds and rain,
"Still chaunts at eaſe his warbling ſtrain.
"While I ſit, ſhiv'ring in the ſhower,
"Expos'd through each inclement hour
"To nipping froſts, or melting ſnows;
"Ills that no pamper'd bullfinch knows!
"He, cheriſh'd at a ſumptuous board,
"Is lodg'd and feaſted like a lord;
"Fondled, and by his maſter fed,
"With ſweeteſt cakes and whiteſt bread;
[290] "While after me the village runs,
"With pelting ſtones and popping guns;
"Forc'd by ſuch barb'rous ſport to fly,
"A miſerable wand'rer I,
"In the more hoſpitable wood
"Pick, up and down, precarious food.
"Hard lot! alas! how diff'rent mine,
"Compar'd, thrice happy bird! with thine.
"Why, cruel fate! live I to rue
"I was not hatch'd a bullfinch too!"

The finch, in quite a well-bred way,
Heard what our ſparrow had to ſay,
And underſtood him, though at diſtance,
Without th' interpreter's aſſiſtance.
Indeed a bird, not quite a fool,
Brought up in ſo polite a ſchool,
Could not be thought in want of learning:
A word's enough to the diſcerning.
Not comprehend the vulgar folk!
Poh, comprehend! tis all a joke.
Smiling to find the aukward blunder
The fooliſh fellow labour'd under;
He, pluming up his haughty creſt,
The envious grumbler thus addreſs'd:
"Sure, my good friend, you're touch'd in brain,
"To talk in this miſtaken ſtrain;
[291] "'Tis true there's ſomething. of a ſmattering
"Of wit, in what you have been chattering;
"But, chirp as ſmartly as you will
"Truſt me you reaſon very ill;
"And, to be ſerious for a while,
"In truth, your envy makes me ſmile.
"What is there in this fine gilt cage
"So much your fancy ſhould engage?
"Theſe wires my priſon bars, where I,
"A ſplendid ſlave, muſt live and die!
"Go hence, content, and learn of me,
"How vain the finery you ſee.
"Forbear my joys tree bliſs to call:
"Thy liberty is worth them all."

ON THE MAN OF PARTS, AND HEAD OF THE PRESS.

[292]

HOW! Doctor! — You a man of parts!
Pray, are you ſkillful in the arts?
What ſcience may you know?
"I am the Head, Sir, of the preſs."
You are! — Indeed, I thought no leſs;
But ſay, how came you ſo?

Juſt as, on ancient cup-board carv'd,
The rueful phyz of wight half-ſtarv'd,
Reſembling—whom you'll gueſs:
Plac'd by the joiner, there it ſtood
A maggot-bitten head of wood;
The Head, Sir, of the preſs.

PROLOGUE TO FALSTAFF'S WEDING, A COMEDY.
WRITTEN IN IMITATION OF SHAKESPEARE, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.

[293]

SPOKEN BY MR. DODD, IN THE CHARACTER OF MERCURY.

Mercury deſcends from the clouds, flying a-croſs the ſtage: re-enters, followed by a ſervant, car⯑rying a counſellor's gown and wig.

A La Mercure, equipp'd from top to toe,
My godſhip's name and quality you know:
Commiſſion'd from Apollo, I come down
T' attend this bench of juſtices, the town;
Aſſembled here, all members of the quorum;
To lay a matter of complaint before 'em.

The errand's not in character, 'tis true;
But what our betters bid us, we muſt do
Therefore, t'appear with decency at ſeſſion,
I've ſtole, you ſee, the garb of the profeſſion.
[294] This gown and band belong to ſerjeant Prig—
And this—our brother Puzzle's learned wig— Putting on the gown, &c.
Dreſs makes the man, ſirs, veſtis virum facit—
So—now to buſineſs—Hem!—ſi veſtris placet—
May't pleaſe your worſhips—Forgery, which is grown
To ſuch a height as ne'er before was known—
I ſay, a forgery hath been committed,
By which king Pluto's mirmidons, outwitted,
Certain choice ſpirits, in theatric ſhape,
Have ſuffer'd from Elyſium to eſcape;
Of Shakeſpeare's offspring an ideal train,
Sprung, Pallas like, from an immortal brain!
Their names—I have 'em down—but, to be brief,
Shall only juſt recapitulate the chief.
Imprimis, with madeira ſwell'd, and ſack,
There's Sir John Falſtaff, alias call'd Plump Jack;
Next, captain Piſlol, a notorious bully;
And miſs Dol Tearſheet, fam'd for jilting cully;
The widow Quickly, vintner, bawd and whore,
With Bardolph, Peto, Nym and ſeveral more;
Link'd in a gang, each cut-purſe with his crony,
All arrant thieves, and dramatis perſonae;
Bent, as ſuppos'd, to proſtitute to ſhame
Th' aforeſaid Shakeſpeare's honour, name and fame.

I ſhall not treſpaſs on your worſhips' time,
T' explain at full the nature of their crime:
[295] But, poets having an excluſive right
To bring their mental progeny to light,
This right's invaded by the party 'peach'd;
Who, vi et armis, hath th' old bard o'er-reach'd:
By counterfeiting of his hand, do you ſee,
Feloniouſly to ſet theſe vagrants free;
With baſe deſign t'adopt them for his own,
Tho' Shakeſpeare's property, and his alone.
Such is the fact.— A critic were an aſs,
No doubt, to let ſuch impoſition paſs;
Nor could a cheat, ſo palpable ſucceed,
But that the captain, of the guard cou'dn't read—
Not he, for laughing, tho' to've ſav'd his ſoul;
The ſcene and circumſtances were ſo droll.

Piſtol, with yellow night-cap patch'd with red.
With mother Quickly was retir'd to bed;
And, waking, ſwore, by Styx, he would not come,
Sans preparation, pike and beat of drum.

Of aqua-vitae having ſtole a flaggon,
Bardolph and Nym were playing at ſnap-dragon;
Sometimes proceeding from hard words'to blows,
As by miſtake Nym ſeiz'd on Bardoph's noſe.

With Falſtaff ſat Dol Tearſheet, cheek by joll,
And while ſhe buſs'd his chin and ſcratch'd his poll,
[296] Slipp'd from his thumb his grandfire's copper ring,
For love, not for the value, of the thing;
Then ſtole his empty purſe: but no abuſe;
'Twas only done to keep her hand in uſe:
He ſwearing, he'd be damn'd as ſoon as truſt his
Round belly more with Hall, or his chief juſtice.

But this is wandering from the point.—They're here,
And on your ſummons ready to appear:
Pleaſe to proceed then to examination;
And be attentive to their information.
If, as your judgment cannot be erroneous,
You take this forgery to be felonious,
The author meaning fraud, I need not mention
Your iſſuing warrants for his apprehenſion.
And when you've caught and into peices tore him,
Hang up his mangled carcaſe in terrorem:
In f [...]agrant crimes the proceſs ſhould be ſhort:
The law is clear.—I leave it with the court.

EPILOGUE TO THE SAME.

[297]

MRS. H. ENTERS READING A CARD.

THE muſe of Shakeſpeare's compliments! —A card
T'excuſe this evening's enterprizing bard!
Great his preſumption, to confeſs the truth:
But, as he pleads the paſſion of his youth,
Together with the magick of her charms,
Attracting him reſiſtleſs to her arms;
Tho' ſomewhat by ſurprize, ſhe owns, ſhe ſuffer'd,
Yet, as no actual violence was offer'd,
She's willing, if the audience ſhould agree,
For this one time to ſet th' offender free.
We women ſoon forgive, if not forget,
The crimes our beauties make the men commit,
Eſpecially when once we're paſt our prime,
And Shakeſpeare's muſe, like me, 's the worſe for time.
For, tho' ſhe charm with fancy ever young,
Tho heav'nly muſick dwell upon her tongue,
Loſt many an artleſs ſmile and dimple ſleek,
Which ſat alluring on her virgin cheek;
Beauties, that faded on the gazer's eye,
And no cold-cream of comment can ſupply.
[298] As for what Merc'ry in the prologue told ye;
Pray, let not that from clemency with-hold ye.
That Hermes was of old a lying blade,
And practic'd in impoſture, as his trade;
The patron he, or claſſic lore deceives,
Of cheats, foreſtallers, higglers, huckſters, thieves.

Beſides, —to tell you a ſtage-trick of ours—
But you'll not ſpread the ſecret out of doors,—
The man was no more Mercury, than I am
Queen Hecuba, the wife of Trojan Priam.
A meſſenger from Phoebus! He a god!
I can aſſure you all, 'twas Mr. Dodd;
His dropping from the clouds, was all a ſham;
And his pretended errand but a flam.
We've heathen gods of paſte-board, made to fly
On hempen cords acroſs the painted ſky;
Thoſe canvaſs clouds, that dangle there above,
Inveloping the throne itſelf of Jove!

His tale fictitious too, tho' told ſo glib;
For take it on my word, 'twas all a fib.
Old Falſtaff in Elyſium!—To my thinking,
So great his natural tendency to ſinking,
That to the ſhades if he had once deſcended,
To bring him back not Atlas had pretended.
Dramatic ſprites (at leaſt they tell me ſo)
Dwell not with ſaints above, nor devils below:
[299] But, form'd th' imagination to engage,
During their ſhort-liv'd paſſage o'er the ſtage,
As mere ideal characters exiſt,
And ſtand as cyphers mark'd on nature's liſt;
To genius giv'n a delegated power
To form theſe tranſient beings of an hour;
Which, from this mimic world whene'er they go,
Are free to range in fancy's pimlico:
A limbo large and broad; which in the ſchools
Is call'd by ſome the paradiſe of fools.
Ferae naturae there, their preſervation
Is purchas'd by no game aſſociation;
The poaching plagiary alone denied
A privilege, granted to each bard beſide;
Who, tho' a cottager, to try his ſkill,
May ſhoot, or courſe, or hunt them down at will;
In his own paddock may the ſtrays receive,
And ſcorn to aſk a lordly owner's leave.

Not but that here, the author of the play,
By me begs leave ſubmiſſively to ſay,
"None more than he reveres great Shakeſpeare's name,
"Or glows with zeal to vindicate his fame."

AN EPISTLE DEDICATORY.
TO THE FIRST MINISTER OF STATE, FOR THE TIME BEING.
PREFIX'D TO THE SECOND EDITION OF EPISTLES TO LORENZO.

[300]

HAIL, mighty Pam! if ſong without offence
Thus hail the firſt court-card in eminence,
Thou in whom kings find oft the ſov'reign ſway;
For kings at Loo the leading knave obey:
Or if, content to play an humbler game,
Plain Jack we ſtile thee, more familiar name:
Thou, whoſe ſly blows the lower party feels,
While bent the high to catch thy tripping heels!
Great in thyſelf, whatever thou art call'd,
Nations by thee enfranchis'd or inthrall'd,
Holla'd to day to Palace-yard along,
Flatter'd at once in metzotint and ſong;
Or piqu'd, perhaps, while chimes the preſent line,
Ere yet turn'd out, as uſual, to reſign;
Branded by th' honeſt ſatire of the times
With all a miniſter's myſterious crimes!
To thee I pay my  [...], till in diſgrace,
And then as humbly to the next in place.
[301] For know, what private worth ſoe'er thy boaſt,
Thy perſon I addreſs not, but thy poſt.

Is there a time when ſtateſmen, good or great,
Look down with pity on the toils of ſtate;
Superiour to the boaſt of boaſted things,
The pomp of titles, and the ſmile of kings;
When, in the private hour of ſocial eaſe,
Ambition ſleeps, and truth itſelf may pleaſe?
At ſuch an hour, when ev'n politeneſs deigns
To taſte the rudeneſs of familiar ſtrains,
Preſuming thou, in honour to the muſe,
Indulgent once her labours mayſt peruſe,
To thee thoſe honeſt labours ſhe commends;
At court, while honeſt, doubtleſs finding friends.
But, through thy levee if forbid to preſs,
In freedom's plain and anti-courtier's dreſs,
Light of her rhimes, as of petitions, made,
Should they be loſt, forgotten or miſlaid,
If not ſo vain to think thou ſhould'ſt commend,
In either caſe permit me to defend.

Too well I know imputed as a crime
The gift of reaſon to the man of rhime;
To childiſh Fiction jingling numbers tied,
As bells that dangle by an infant's ſide;
To uſeleſs whims poetic worth confin'd,
To pleaſe the ſenſe, but not improve the mind.
[302] Should on my daring verſe, then, cenſure fall,
From prieſt or prelate, waken'd in the ſtall;
Or ſhould the learned jurors take in hand
To burn the books they may not underſtand;
Scorn'd the loud torrent of the mob's abuſe,
With thee I leave my errour and excuſe.

Know then, my patron, once upon a time,
While yet a boy, I caught the itch of rhime:
But, born with hatred to the ſing-ſong train,
Whoſe numbers charm, like ſenſeleſs notes, in vain,
While ſtrange to themes t'employ the muſe about,
The peccant humour broke but little out;
Till late, in waking dreams that trouble youth,
On one ſide Prudence urg'd, on t'other Truth:
Prudence, a worldly-minded dame, and ſly,
Who fix'd on earth ſtill kept her cautious eye;
While Truth, whoſe open breaſt did mine inflame,
Look'd up to heaven; to heaven, from whence ſhe came.
When now my eager heart her power confeſs'd,
And thus her willing captive ſhe addreſs'd.
"Art thou, my friend, that enterprizing youth
"Who make pretenſions to the ſong of truth;
"By reaſon taught to leave, in early life,
"The wanton miſtreſs, for the faithful wife?
"Among the ſciences thy partner chuſe.
"Philoſophy's the ſiſter of the muſe."
[303] Prudence, who heard, made various hems and haws;
And, after due deliberating pauſe,
Shaking her head, "beware raſh youth" ſhe cried,
"Let Prudence here, your early footſteps guide.
"Art thou ſo ignorant as not to know
"Truth leads us oft to poverty and woe?
"Let me adviſe—wouldſt thou ſucceed in rhime?
"Mark, at the proper ſeaſon, well thy time:
"Taking this maxim as a gen'ral rule,
"The knave is honeſt till he plays the fool:
"For times there are of ſuch malignant face,
"That ſharpers only riſe to power and place;
"Times when the mere huzza for publick good
"Breaks down all ranks of honour and of blood;
"When ſacred characters like bawds are us'd,
"And princes with impunity abus'd;
"The throne of majeſty a vulgar thing,
"While George, the cobler, damns great George, the king.
"In times like theſe, behold on every ſide
"What pains we take offenſive Truth to hide:
"Aſham'd to ſhew her baſhful face at court,
"See her ſimplicity but made its ſport;
"Her lovers ſtigmatiz'd by gen'ral hate,
"As bold diſturbers of the church and ſtate.
"Would'ſt thou to this abandon'd tribe belong?
"What bard e'er heeded yet the truth of ſong?
[304] "Again, 'tis certain there may come a time,
"When Impudence finds no excuſe in rhime;
"When even Prudence may herſelf be juſt;
"Her int'reſt more to keep than break her truſt;
"When crowns are honour'd, and, in proper ſeaſon
"S—, dread patriot, may be hang'd for treaſon:
"A time, perhaps (years work the ſtrangeſt things)
"When the brave Scots may love their beſt of kings;
"When ſlighted ſcience may approach the throne;
"And Britons make true policy their own.
"What tho their patriot hearts are known to fail,
"When dearth of barley threatens want of ale;
"What tho religion, arm'd by common-ſenſe,
"Breaks but its weapons in its own defence;
"Ev'n yet may piety be kept alive,
"And half-expiring patriotiſm revive.
"At ſuch a ſeaſon, ſhould the muſe inſpire,
"If touch'd with caution, thou mayſt ſtrike the lyre,
"Perhaps uncenſur'd; but to look for praiſe!
"Know theſe, young bard, are no poetic days.
"But ſhould the age, as probably it may,
"Turn its looſe politicks another way;
"While, in religious mood, far puſh'd the ſchemes
"Of true born Britons, always in extremes,
"The times may yet return when frantic zeal
"Shall give its wooden ſword an edge of ſteel;
"When convocation [...] ſhall in judgment ſit,
"To canvaſs th' infidelity of wit;
[305] "On wicked Knowledge Britain's guilt to lay,
"And drive the deſtin'd victim far away.
"If thus blind Ignorance ſhould rule, in turn,
"Bards looſe their ears, and martyr theiſts burn;
"Ready reforming conſtables, at hand,
"Of ſcientific vice to cleanſe the land;
"Have thou with truth nor morals ought to do.
"Things are not always fit that may be true."

Here Prudence ended—her advice was good:
But Truth has charms that cannot be withſtood.
Hers then the muſe—how far, ſucceſs will ſhow
In times like ours her ſong be a-propos.
So much indeed of Prudence did I learn,
My fingers ne'er in politicks to burn.
Silent I ſat, amidſt the party rout,
When late the miniſtry turn'd in and out;
When rag'd the furious gooſe-quills of the times,
To ſhame their country with their ſhameleſs rhimes.
Careleſs what turtle-eating ſon of White's
Might ſet the blunders of the ſtate to rights,
If Pollio, Gallus, Tully, or his grace,
Should all keep out, or who get into place;
I car'd not, I, tho theſe, or none of theſe,
The king, the houſe, or mightier mob might pleaſe.
Blam'd I the peer, whom adverſe winds had blown
Round the wide world, to prop a monarch's throne;
[306] Taught, in the hurricanes of ſouthern ſeas,
The ſtateſman's wiſdom and the courtier's caſe;
By plunder'd Spaniards, the conſummate ſkill
To ſteer a kingdom, like a bark, at will?
Tho made too plain the lee-way of the realm,
Did I preſume to bid him mind the helm?
Nay, when the guardian genii of the land
To ſave our deſp'rate fortunes took in hand;
I ſung them not, tho crown'd, by half the nation,
With civic wreaths, from town and corporation.
I ne'er officious, crack'd my brains t'amend
Errours, the great alone might comprehend;
Plagu'd, with no ſongs of praiſe, our lord the king.
Nor gave one faggot to the blaze of Byng;
But, free from panegyrick as abuſe,
Put all my little wit to private uſe.

Thus far of temp'ral politics I'm clear;
Nor has the ſpiritual had more to fear.
Since goſpel witneſſes in form were tried,
Their valid evidence I ne'er denied;
Ne'er intermeddled with the jury's queſt,
Nor contradicted Littleton or Weſt.
When church and ſtate learn'd Warburton would join,
Tho ſad th' affair, I made it none of mine;
Nor did I e'er, 'gainſt Leland's pen, preſume
To vindicate Lord Bolingbroke or Hume:
[307] Made no pretence to freedom of debate;
Nor riſk'd, like harmleſs Annet, Woolſton's fate.
And tho for once, in this, a trick of youth,
Prudential views are ſacrific'd to truth;
Could I ſhake off thoſe vices rhime and ſenſe,
My firſt might likely prove my laſt offence;
Or, in thy cauſe enliſted once my pen,
I never more might trouble Truth again;
But to thy purpoſe turn my ready hand,
True to the law and goſpel of the land.

THE END.

Notes

A modern Centaur — See the preface to a book entitled the Centaur not fabulous.

The unhappy victims to an act of parliament, not long ſince repealed, by virtue of which many hundreds of poor wretches were formerly hanged, or burnt, for witchcraft.

A famous Hutchinſonian divine, of the church of England.

If men were not to delare their opinions in ſpite of eſtabliſh⯑ments, either in church, or ſtate, truth would be ſoon baniſhed the earth. Dedication to Eſſay on Spirit.

See Pope's Eſſay on Man.

Pope.

Eſſential Attributes.

G. C. Eſq one of the patentees of Covent-Garden.

Alluding to the prologue ſpoken at the theatre on the hill; ſaid to be written by G. C. Eſq

Liſbon, ſo called from its ſuppoſed founder, Ulyſſes.

Not, indeed, ſolely to the agent, but to mankind, or the moral world in general.

The individual gooſe-quill that was inſtrumental to the writing a Review of Dr. Johnſon's Shakeſpear.

Ego, Galileo, corde ſincero et fide non ficta, abjuro, maledico et deteſtor ſupradictos errores et haereſes.

An Oratorio ſo called, written by the Doctor.

See Hume, on the general principles of morals.

The milk of human kindneſs, a florid term in com⯑mon uſe for benevolence.

It ſhould ſeem that Mr. Pope ſuppoſed heroiſm incom⯑patible with virtue, from the following lines, in his Eſſay on Man.

Heroes are much the ſame, the point's agreed,

From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;

The whole ſtrange purpoſe of their lives, to find,

Or make, an enemy of all mankind.

I will grant that many heroic actions have been atchieved, which have given juſt room for thoſe, who have no tincture of heroiſm in themſelves, to ſuppoſe the hero to be without either head or heart. But, however reprehenſible the con⯑duct of heroes may have been in general, hiſtory may inform us, that many of the diſtinguiſhing bleſſings mankind enjoy have been effected by thoſe, whom narrow-minded moraliſts have ſtigmatized as knaves or madmen.

One moral, or a mere well-natur'd deed,

Can all deſert in ſciences exceed.

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

‘For—hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed, Health to himſelf and to his infants bread The lab'rer bears.—’ POPE.

Borealis.

Alluding to the manner of preventing the damage ap⯑prehended from thunder-clouds, diſcover'd by our late im⯑provements in electricity.

If I would have changed my principles for intereſt, I might have been archbiſhop of Canterbury before now. HENLEY, viva voce.

†

St. Luke's hoſpital, for lunaticks, in Moorfields, near the Tabernacle and Foundery.

‡

See Exod. chap. xxxv.

Alluding to their admitting coblers, porters, and beg⯑gars as well as regular divines, to the miniſtry.

Two of the moſt incomprehenſible writers that ever reflected ſcandal on the ſcience of divinity.

†

The reverend Mr. William Law, — a writer little in⯑feriour to Behmen himſelf.

A famous boxer.

†

An eminent fire-eater.

An academy well known to the ſtudents in the politer ſciences of pitting, betting and whiſt.

†

Brundiſium minuci melius via ducat, an Appi.

A term in vogue, given, by way of eminence, to the philoſophy of the preſent age.

†

The late biſhop of Clogher.

The church of Rome, to which Mr. Pope returned, affter having written his Eſſay on Man: for, that he was a true Roman-catholic at the time of his writing that eſſay is a tale, adapted merely to the credulity of a Racine: Un⯑leſs indeed we have as little opinion of his judgment as his friend Bolingbroke had, who is ſaid to have ridiculed him as one who underſtood nothing of his own principles, or ſaw to what they naturally led.

Cicero ſomewhere obſerves, there is no opinion, how⯑ever abſurd, which has not been eſpouſed by ſome or other of the philoſophers. And nothing ſurely can be more ſo than the famous inference drawn from the weakneſs of the human underſtanding, i. e. that, becauſe we do not com⯑prehend every thing, we in reality, know nothing. Agrippa, it is true, has declaimed prettily, and the ingenious biſhop of Avranches chopped logick as dextrouſly on the ſubject. Yet, alas, ſuch is the perverſeneſs of common ſenſe that the greateſt part of mankind, even to this day, do inſiſt on the certainty of their knowing their right hand from the left.

‘Whatever country you go into, let the religion be what it will, the unthinking part thereof are always the reputed orthodox.’ DED. TO ESSAY ON SPIRIT.

Meſſ. Quin and Barry.

†

Mr. Garrick.

By Dr. Armſtrong.

†

By Mr. Churchill.

A polite term, uſed among certain criticks, for review⯑ing books.

†

The firſt line of an old prologue, which Mr. M—y has imitated in the prologue to his laſt new pieces.

The gentry in the galleries are commonly called the god; in the playhouſe ſtile.

†

Totus mundus agit hiſtrionem.

See Fingal.

Adept.

Connoiſſeur.

†

Squeezed.

Oeconomical.

†

Sagacity.

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Citation Suggestion for this Object: TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4658 Poems ludicrous satirical and moral. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-60D7-5

ADVERTISEMENT.

CONTENTS.

POEMS; LUDICROUS, SATIRICAL, AND MORAL.

TO A GENTLEMAN, WHO CENSURED THE AUTHOR FOR SCRIBBLING VERSES.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

FINE SIGHTS; OR THE COUNTESS OF C—Y, IN ELYSIUM.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLX.

AN EPISTLE TO MR. GARRICK, ON THE REPORT OF HIS HAVING LEFT THE STAGE.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

ON THE INVESTIGATION OF TRUTH.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

THE FORCE OF PREJUDICE.A FABLE.THE HINT FROM HELVETIUS.

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND: OCCASIONED BY THE AUTHOR'S SEEING HIS NAME IN THE LIST OF DEATHS IN A MAGAZINE.

THE POLITICAL MAGNET.A SIMILE.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVI.

AN ALLITERATIVE DESCRIPTION OF AN ALLITERATIVE BARD.

P—AND PROTEUS.Mutatas dicere formas.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVII.

THE SNARLING PUG AND DANCING BEAR.A FABLE.ADDRESSED TO MESS. HOGARTH AND CHURCHILL.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

ON HAPPINESS, AND THE INCAPACITY OF MANKIND FOR ITS ATTAINMENT.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

SIMKIN, A FAIRY TALE.WRITTEN AT SCHOOL.

ON THE WEAKNESS OF THE HUMAN UNDERSTANDING, AND THE INCOMPRE⯑HENSIBILITY OF THE DEITY.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

PROLOGUE TO THE WIDOW'D WIFE.A COMEDY.ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DRURY-LANE.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL ON RICHMOND-GREEN, MDCCLXVII.

ON PHYSICAL AND MORAL GOOD AND EVIL.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

LUSUS NATURAE, TYPOGRAPHUS.

ART AND NATURE.A SHORT STORY.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXIV.

THE SHROPSHIRE GOOSE.A FABLE.OCCASIONED BY THE MANUFACTURE OF THE OPERA OF ALMENA.

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

CANDOUR, PENS, INK, AND PAPER,A FABLE.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXV.

RALPH MOULSEY'S DESCRIPTION OF RICHMOND PLAYHOUSE.

ON HUMAN CERTITUDE, AND THE UNIVERSALITY OF SCIENCE.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

VERSES ON READING LORD LYTTELTON'S NEW DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD, AND SEEING HIS LORDSHIP'S PICTURE AT W—'S.

A DRINKING SONG, TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

THE HARE AND THE CROW.A FABLE.

TO A NEW-MARRIED LADY, WHO INSISTED ON THE AUTHOR'S WRITING A SONG ON HER.MDCCLVIII.

ON A CERTAIN MUSICIAN'S TURNING POET.

ON MORAL SENTIMENT.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

THE BEAVERS: A FABLE.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLX.

PHOEBUS DETECTED.WRITTEN AT A SUMMER THEATRE; IN MDCCLXVII.

ON READING THESPIS, A SATIRE ON THE COMEDIANS OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVI.

ON THE DIVERSITY OF RELIGIOUS SECTS AND OPINIONS.AN EPISTLE TO LORENZO.

THE LOADED ASS; OR PUBLIC CREDIT.A POLITICAL FABLE.

ON THE STATE OF THE THEATRESIN MDCCXLIX.

INVOCATION TO SILENCE.OCCASIONED BY A LADY'S SINGING.

THE POETICAL TRIUMVIRATE.WRITTEN IN THE YEAR MDCCLXVII.

ODE. TO COUNT BRUHL.TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA.

AN EPISTLE TO A—R M—Y, ESQ.ON THE SUCCESS OF HIS LAST NEW COMEDIES.

MARY, THE COOK-MAID'S ADDRESS TO HER FELLOW ARTISTS OF LONDON AND WESTMINSTER.AN IMITATION OF SWIFT.WRITTEN SOON AFTER HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION.

THE BULLFINCH AND SPARROW.A FABLE.FROM THE FRENCH OF THE KING OF PRUSSIA.