THE AUTHOR.
[]ACCURS'D the man, whom fate ordains, in ſpite,
And cruel parents teach, to Read and Write!
What need of letters? Wherefore ſhould we ſpell?
Why write our names? A mark will do as well.
Much are the precious hours of youth miſpent,
In climbing Learning's rugged ſteep aſcent;
When to the top the bold advent'rer's got,
He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren ſpot,
[2] Whilſt in the vale of Ignorance below,
FOLLY and VICE to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth pour in on ev'ry ſide,
And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide.
O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waſte,
To cramp wild genius in the chains of taſte,
To bear the ſlaviſh drudgery of ſchools,
And tamely ſtoop to ev'ry pedant's rules,
For ſeven long years debarr'd of lib'ral eaſe,
To plod in college trammels to degrees,
Beneath the weight of ſolemn toys to groan,
Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown,
To praiſe each ſenior blockhead's thread-bare tale,
And laugh till reaſon bluſh, and ſpirits fail,
Manhood with vile ſubmiſſion to diſgrace,
And cap the fool, whoſe merit is his Place;
VICE CHANCELLORS, whoſe knowledge is but ſmall,
And CHANCELLORS, who nothing know at all,
Ill-brook'd the gen'rous Spirit, in thoſe days
When Learning was the certain road to praiſe,
When Nobles, with a love of Science bleſs'd,
Approv'd in others what themſelves poſſeſs'd.
[3]
But Now, when DULLNESS rears aloft her throne,
When LORDLY Vaſſals her wide Empire own,
When Wit, ſeduc'd by Envy, ſtarts aſide,
And baſely leagues with Ignorance and Pride,
What Now ſhould tempt us, by falſe hopes miſled,
Learning's unfaſhionable paths to tread;
To bear thoſe labours, which our Fathers bore
That Crown with-held, which They in triumph wore?
When with much pains this boaſted Learning's got,
'Tis an affront to thoſe who have it not.
In ſome it cauſes hate, in others fear,
Inſtructs our Foes to rail, our Friends to ſneer.
With prudent haſte the worldly-minded fool,
Forgets the little which he learn'd at School;
The Elder Brother, to vaſt fortunes born,
Looks on all Science with an Eye of Scorn;
Dependent Breth'ren the ſame features wear,
And younger Sons are ſtupid as the Heir.
In Senates, at the Bar, in Church and State,
Genius is vile, and Learning out of date.
Is this—O Death to think! is this the Land
Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand,
[4] Where Heroes, Parent-like, the Poet view'd?—
By whom they ſaw their glorious deeds renew'd;
Where Poets, true to Honour, tun'd their lays,
And by their Patrons ſanctify'd their praiſe?
Is this the Land, where, on our SPENCER'S tongue,
Enamour'd of his voice, Deſcription hung;
Where JOHNSON rigid gravity beguil'd,
Whilſt Reaſon thro' her Critic fences ſmil'd;
Where NATURE liſt'ning ſtood, whilſt SHAKESPEAR play'd,
And wonder'd at the Work herſelf had made?
Is this the Land, where, mindful of her charge
And Office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large;
Where, finding in our Laws a ſure defence,
She mock'd at all reſtraints, but thoſe of Senſe;
Where, health and honour trooping by her ſide,
She ſpread her ſacred empire far and wide;
Pointed the Way, Affliction to beguile,
And bade the Face of Sorrow wear a ſmile,
Bade thoſe, who dare obey the gen'rous call,
Enjoy her bleſſings, which GOD meant for all?
Is this the Land, where, in ſome Tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked Miniſterial train,
The tools of pow'r, the ſlaves of int'reſt, plann'd
Their Country's ruin, and with bribes unman'd
[5] Thoſe wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cauſe,
Gave up our liberties, and ſold our laws;
When Pow'r was taught by Meanneſs where to go,
Nor dar'd to love the Virtue of a foe;
When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her ſores Corruption ſpread,
Her iron arm when ſtern Oppreſſion rear'd,
And Virtue, from her broad baſe ſhaken, fear'd
The ſcourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slav'ry's chain;
Is this the Land, where, in thoſe worſt of times,
The hardy Poet rais'd his honeſt rimes
To dread rebuke, and bade controulment ſpeak
In guilty bluſhes on the villain's cheek,
Bade Pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made them fear the Muſe, who fear'd not Law?
How do I laugh, when men of narrow ſouls,
Whom folly guides, and prejudice controuls;
Who, one dull drowſy track of buſineſs trod,
Worſhip their Mammon, and neglect their God;
Who, breathing by one muſty ſet of rules,
Dote from the birth, and are by ſyſtem fools;
[6] Who, form'd to dullneſs from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to Goſpel truth,
Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their ſtock of faith in news:
How do I laugh, when Creatures, form'd like theſe,
Whom Reaſon ſcorns, and I ſhould bluſh to pleaſe,
Rail at all lib'ral arts, deem verſe a crime,
And hold not Truth, as Truth, if told in rime?
How do I laugh, when PUBLIUS, hoary grown
In zeal for SCOTLAND'S wellfare, and his own,
By ſlow degrees, and courſe of office, drawn
In mood and figure at the helm to yawn,
Too mean (the worſt of curſes Heav'n can ſend)
To have a foe, too proud to have a friend,
Erring by form, which Blockheads ſacred hold,
Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old,
Rebukes my Spirit, bids the daring Muſe
Subjects more equal to her weakneſs chuſe;
Bids her frequent the haunts of humble ſwains,
Nor dare to traffick in ambitious ſtrains;
Bids her, indulging the poetic whim
In quaint-wrought Ode, or Sonnet pertly trim,
[7] Along the Church-way path complain with GRAY,
Or dance with MASON on the firſt of May?
"All ſacred is the name and pow'r of Kings,
"All States and Stateſmen are thoſe mighty Things
"Which, howſoe'er they out of courſe may roll,
"Were never made for Poets to controul."
Peace, Peace thou Dotard, nor thus vilely deem
Of Sacred Numbers, and their pow'r blaſpheme;
I tell thee, Wretch, ſearch all Creation round,
In Earth, in Heav'n, no Subject can be found
(Our God alone except) above whoſe weight
The Poet cannot riſe, and hold his State.
The bleſſed Saints above in numbers ſpeak
The praiſe of God, tho' there all praiſe is weak;
In Numbers here below the Bard ſhall teach
Virtue to ſoar beyond the Villain's reach;
Shall tear his lab'ring lungs, ſtrain his hoarſe throat,
And raiſe his voice beyond the trumpet's note,
Should an afflicted Country, aw'd by men
Of ſlaviſh principles, demand his pen.
This is a great, a glorious point of view,
Fit for an Engliſh Poet to purſue,
[8] Undaunted to purſue, tho', in return,
His writings by the common Hangman burn.
How do I laugh, when men, by fortune plac'd
Above their Betters, and by rank diſgrac'd,
Who found their pride on titles which they ſtain,
And, mean themſelves, are of their Fathers vain,
Who would a bill of privilege prefer,
And treat a Poet, like a Creditor,
The gen'rous ardour of the Muſe condemn,
And curſe the ſtorm they know muſt break on them?
"What, ſhall a reptile Bard, a wretch unknown,
"Without one badge of merit, but his own,
"Great Nobles laſh, and Lords, like common men,
"Smart from the vengeance of a Scribbler's pen?"
What's in this name of Lord, that we ſhould fear
To bring their vices to the public ear?
Flows not the honeſt blood of humble ſwains
Quick as the tide which ſwells a Monarch's veins?
Monarchs, who wealth and titles can beſtow,
Cannot make Virtues in ſucceſſion flow.
Would'ſt Thou, Proud Man, be ſafely plac'd above
The cenſure of the Muſe, deſerve her Love,
[9] Act as thy Birth demands, as Nobles ought;
Look back, and by thy worthy Father taught,
Who earn'd thoſe Honours, Thou wert born to wear,
Follow his ſteps, and be his Virtue's heir.
But if, regardleſs of the road to Fame,
You ſtart aſide, and tread the paths of ſhame.
If ſuch thy life, that ſhould thy Sire ariſe,
The ſight of ſuch a Son would blaſt his eyes,
Would make him curſe the hour which gave Thee birth,
Would drive him, ſhudd'ring, from the face of earth
Once more, with ſhame and ſorrow, 'mongſt the dead
In endleſs night to hide his rev'rend head;
If ſuch thy life, tho' Kings had made thee more
Than ever King a ſcoundrel made before,
Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper ſpring,
Tho' God in vengeance had made Thee a King,
Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,
The Muſe ſhould drag thee trembling to the light,
Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy boſom bare
To the keen queſtion of the ſearching air.
Gods! with what pride I ſee the titled ſlave,
Who ſmarts beneath the ſtroke which Satire gave,
[10] Aiming at eaſe, and with diſhoneſt art
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when, with affected air,
(Scarce able thro' deſpite to keep his chair,
Whilſt on his trembling lip pale anger ſpeaks,
And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his cheeks)
He talks of Conſcience, which good men ſecures
From all thoſe evil moments guilt endures,
And ſeems to laugh at thoſe, who pay regard
To the wild ravings of a frantic bard.
"SATIRE, whilſt envy and ill-humour ſway
"The mind of man, muſt always make her way,
"Nor to a boſom, with diſcretion fraught,
"Is all her malice worth a ſingle thought.
"The Wiſe have not the will, nor Fools the pow'r
"To ſtop her headſtrong courſe; within the hour,
"Left to herſelf, ſhe dies; oppoſing Strife,
"Gives her freſh vigour, and prolongs her life.
"All things her prey, and ev'ry man her aim,
"I can no patent for exemption claim,
"Nor would I wiſh to ſtop that harmleſs dart
"Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart:
"Tho' pointed at myſelf, be SATIRE free;
"To Her 'tis pleaſure, and no pain to Me."
[11]
Diſſembling Wretch! hence to the Stoic ſchool,
And there amongſt thy breth'ren play the fool,
There, unrebuk'd, theſe wild, vain doctrines preach;
Lives there a Man, whom SATIRE cannot reach?
Lives there a Man, who calmly can ſtand by,
And ſee his conſcience ripp'd with ſteady eye?
When SATIRE flies abroad on Falſhood's wing,
Short is her life indeed, and dull her ſting;
But when to Truth allied, the wound ſhe gives
Sinks deep, and to remoteſt ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pamper'd fleſh ſhall rot,
And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot,
Still ſhalt Thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and ſtink to after-times.
Haſt Thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride,
And own thoſe paſſions which Thou ſhalt not hide.
S—, who, from the moment of his birth,
Made human Nature a reproach on earth,
Who never dar'd, nor wiſh'd behind to ſtay,
When Folly, Vice, and Meanneſs led the way,
Would bluſh, ſhould he be told, by Truth and Wit,
Thoſe actions, which he bluſh'd not to commit;
[12] Men the moſt infamous are fond of fame,
And thoſe who fear not guilt, yet ſtart at ſhame.
But whither runs my zeal, whoſe rapid force,
Turning the brain, bears Reaſon from her courſe,
Carries me back to times, when Poets, bleſs'd
With courage, grac'd the Science they profeſs'd;
When They, in Honour rooted, firmly ſtood
The bad to puniſh, and reward the good;
When, to a flame by Public Virtue wrought,
The foes of Feedom They to juſtice brought,
And dar'd expoſe thoſe ſlaves, who dar'd ſupport
A Tyrant plan, and call'd themſelves a Court.
Ah! What are Poets now? as ſlaviſh thoſe
Who deal in Verſe, as thoſe who deal in Proſe.
Is there an Author, ſearch the Kingdom round,
In whom true worth, and real Spirit's found?
The Slaves of Bookſellers, or (doom'd by Fate
To baſer chains) vile penſioners of State;
Some, dead to ſhame, and of thoſe ſhackles proud
Which Honour ſcorns, for ſlav'ry roar aloud,
Others, half-palſied only, mutes become,
And what makes SMOLLET write, makes JOHNSON dumb.
[13] Why turns you villain pale? why bends his eye
Inward, abaſh'd, when MURPHY paſſes by?
Doſt Thou ſage MURPHY for a blockhead take,
Who wages war with vice for Virtue's ſake?
No, No—like other Worldlings, you will find
He ſhifts his ſails, and catches ev'ry wind.
His ſoul the ſhock of int'reſt can't endure,
Give him a penſion then, and ſin ſecure.
With laurell'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows adorn,
Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn,
Bid Cowards thrive, put honeſty to flight,
MURPHY ſhall prove, or try to prove it right.
Try, thou State-Juggler, ev'ry paltry art,
Ranſack the inmoſt cloſet of my heart,
Swear Thou'rt my Friend; by that baſe oath make way
Into my breaſt, and flatter to betray;
Or, if thoſe tricks are vain, if wholeſome doubt
Detects the fraud, and points the Villain out,
Bribe thoſe who daily at my board are fed,
And make them take my life who eat my bread;
On Authors for defence, for praiſe depend;
Pay him but well, and MURPHY is thy friend.
[14] He, He ſhall ready ſtand with venal rimes
To varniſh guilt, and conſecrate thy crimes,
To make corruption in falſe colours ſhine,
And damn his own good name, to reſcue thine.
But, if thy niggard hands their gifts with-hold,
And Vice no longer rains down ſhow'rs of gold,
Expect no mercy; facts, well grounded, teach,
MURPHY, if not rewarded, will impeach.
What tho' each man of nice and juſter thought,
Shunning his ſteps, decrees, by Honour taught,
He ne'er can be a Friend, who ſtoops ſo low
To be the baſe betrayer of a foe;
What tho', with thine together link'd, his name
Muſt be with thine tranſmitted down to ſhame,
To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown,
Rather than not blaſt thine, he'll blaſt his own.
To ope the fountain, whence Sedition ſprings,
To ſlander Government, and libel Kings,
With Freedom's name to ſerve a preſent hour,
Tho' born, and bred to arbitrary pow'r,
To talk of WILLIAMS with inſidious art,
Whilſt a vile STUART'S lurking in his heart,
[15] And, whilſt mean Envy rears her loathſome head,
Flatt'ring the living, to abuſe the dead,
Where is SHEBBEARE? O, let not foul reproach,
Travelling thither in a City-Coach,
The Pill'ry dare to name; the whole intent
Of that Parade was Fame, not Puniſhment,
And that old, ſtaunch Whig BEARDMORE ſtanding by,
Can in full Court give that report the lye.
With rude unnat'ral jargon to ſupport,
Half Scotch, half Engliſh, a declining Court,
To make moſt glaring contraries unite,
And prove, beyond diſpute, that black is white,
To make firm Honour tamely league with ſhame,
Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name,
To prove that Chains and Freedom are but one,
That to be ſav'd muſt mean to be undone,
Is there not GUTHRIE? Who, like him, can call
All Oppoſites to proof, and conquer all?
He calls forth living waters from the rock;
He calls forth children from the barren ſtock;
He, far beyond the ſprings of Nature led,
Makes Women bring forth after they are dead;
[16] He, on a curious, new, and happy plan,
In Wedlock's ſacred bands joins Man to Man;
And, to complete the whole, moſt ſtrange, but true,
By ſome rare magic, makes them fruitful too,
Whilſt from their loins, in the due courſe of years,
Flows the rich blood of GUTHRIE's Engliſh Peers.
Doſt Thou contrive ſome blacker deed of ſhame,
Something which Nature ſhudders but to name,
Something which makes the Soul of man retreat,
And the life-blood run backward to her ſeat?
Doſt Thou contrive, for ſome baſe private end,
Some ſelfiſh view, to hang a truſting friend,
To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath,
And promiſe life, to work him ſurer death?
Grown old in villainy, and dead to grace,
Hell in his heart, and TYBURNE in his face;
Behold, a Parſon at thy Elbow ſtands,
Low'ring damnation, and with open hands
Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward;
The Atheiſt Chaplain of an Atheiſt Lord.
Bred to the Church, and for the gown decreed,
'Ere it was known that I ſhould learn to read;
[17] Tho' that was nothing, for my Friends, who knew
What mighty Dullneſs of itſelf could do,
Never deſign'd me for a working Prieſt,
But hop'd, I ſhould have been a DEAN at leaſt;
Condemn'd (like many more, and worthier men,
To whom I pledge the ſervice of my pen),
Condemn'd (whilſt proud, and pamper'd Sons of Lawn,
Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn)
In pomp of rev'rend begg'ry to appear,
To pray, and ſtarve on forty pounds a year;
My Friends, who never felt the galling load,
Lament that I forſook the Packhorſe road,
Whilſt Virtue to my conduct witneſs bears
In throwing off that gown, which FRANCIS wears.
What Creature's that, ſo very pert and prim;
So very full of foppery, and whim;
So gentle, yet ſo briſk; ſo wond'rous ſweet,
So fit to prattle at a Lady's feet,
Who looks, as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod,
And by his Garb appears a man of God?
Truſt not to looks, nor credit outward ſhow;
The villain lurks beneath the caſſock'd Beau;
[18] That's an Informer; what avails the name?
Suffice it that the wretch from SODOM came.
His tongue is deadly—from his preſence run,
Unleſs thy rage would wiſh to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And Fear alone reſtrains his coward mind;
Free him from that, no Monſter is ſo fell,
Nor is ſo ſure a blood-hound found in hell.
His ſilken ſmiles, his hypocritic air,
His meek demeanour, plauſible and fair,
Are only worn to pave Fraud's eaſier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a ſurer prey.
Attend his Church—his plan of doctrine view—
The Preacher is a Chriſtian, dull but true;
But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er,
That plan of doctrine's never thought of more;
CHRIST is laid by neglected on the ſhelf,
And the vile Prieſt is Goſpel to himſelf.
By CLELAND tutor'd, and with BLACOW bred,
(BLACOW, whom by a brave reſentment led,
OXFORD, if OXFORD had not ſunk in ſame,
Ere this, had damn'd to everlaſting ſhame)
[19] Their ſteps he follows, and their crimes partakes,
To Virtue loſt, to Vice alone he wakes,
Moſt luſciouſly declaims 'gainſt luſcious themes,
And, whilſt he rails at blaſphemy, blaſphemes.
Are theſe the Arts, which Policy ſupplies?
Are theſe the ſteps, by which grave Churchmen riſe?
Forbid it, Heav'n; or, ſhould it turn out ſo,
Let Me, and Mine, continue mean and low.
Such be their Arts, whom Intereſt controuls;
KIDGELL and I have free and honeſt ſouls.
We ſcorn Preferment which is gain'd by Sin,
And will, tho' poor without, have peace within.
THE END.