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POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
[Price Two Shillings and Sixpence ſewed.]
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POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
BY WILLIAM HAWKINS, LATE PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN OXFROD.
OXFORD, PRINTED BY W. JACKSON: Sold by J. DODSLEY, in Pall-Mall; Meſſ. RIVINGTONS, in St. Paul's Church-Yard; and W. OWEN, in Fleet-Street, London; J. and J. FLETCHER, and S. PARKER, in Oxford. MDCCLXXXI.
ADVERTISEMENT.
[v]THESE Poems (ſome of which, it is preſumed, will be found to have an original caſt,) were written partly to divert the Author's mind from reflections of un⯑pleaſing tendency, and partly to relieve it under attention to matters more profeſſional, and of much greater importance to the in⯑tereſt of virtue and religion. And he hopes at the ſame time a liberal attempt to amuſe all ſorts of readers but immoral ones, will not be leſs acceptable to the candid and the ſenſible, than the bulk of modern produc⯑tions, which are viſibly calculated to anſwer a mere temporary and ungenerous purpoſe; in the gratification of party rage, popular cenſoriouſneſs, or perſonal diſguſt.
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N. B. The Reader is deſired for Heats, to read Heat's, p. 7, l. 5. — for honours, to read humours, p. 9, at bottom; — to eraſe the period at unfold, p. 17, l. 6. — to put a comma after blame, l. 7. ibid. — for how, how, to read now, now, p. 20, l. 12. — for ſov'ring, to read ſov'reign, p. 26, l. 9. — for might, to read might, p. 44, l. 12. — for terror to read tribute, p. 52, l 18. — for Tubal, to read Jubal, p. 65, l. 12. —to put a colon at truth, p. 130, l. 8. and to correct with his pen a few other leſs conſider⯑able Errata in the ſpelling and punctuation.
CONTENTS.
[vii]- ESSAY on GENIUS, page 1
- The SONG of DEBORAH, p. 35
- BAALAM's PROPHECY, p. 42
- DEVOTION, a Poem, p. 48
- ODE for ST. CECILIA's DAY, p. 62
- HYMN to the DEITY, p. 71
- MORNING THOUGHT, p. 81
- VERSES on going through Weſtminſter Abbey, p. 84
- To a WORM which the Author accidentally trode upon, p. 86
- To a Young Gentleman of Fortune, with an Almanack, p. 88
- The BAROMETER, p. 91
- The LOOKING-GLASS, p. 93
- VANITY, a Satire, p. 96
- [viii]COXCOMBS, a Satire, Page 112
- STREPHON and THYRSIS, p. 134
- The PROGRESS of LOVE, in four Paſtoral Ballads, p. 129
- Falling in Love. Part I. ibid.
- Love Diſcovered. Part II. p. 134
- Love Declared. Part III. p. 138
- Love Rewarded. Part IV. p. 142
- A RHAPSODY in Praiſe of the PARTICLES, p. 145
- The EXPEDIENT, a Tale, p. 149
- On an ILLITERATE DIVINE who had a good Delivery, p. 154
- On an ARTIFICIAL BEAUTY, p. 155
- CHEATS ALL, a Ballad, p. 156
- BALLAD on the 5th of NOVEMBER, p. 161
- ODE to DROLLERY. p. 166
ESSAY ON GENIUS. A NEW EDITION, WITH ALTERATIONS AND ADDITIONS.
[]INQUIRE, diſpute, reply, and all you can,
Say, what is GENIUS but the ſoul of man;—
Beam of that light which animates our frame,
Alike in many, but in none the ſame?
'Tis with our Minds, as with our bodies, none
In eſſence differ, yet each knows his own.
Marks of ſpecific character we ſee
That ſtamp on ev'ry mortal,—THIS IS HE.
Nor varies more our preſent outward ſhape
(This man half-angel, and the next half-ape)
Than do the mental powers: What odds we find
Between a —'s and a * Newton's mind?
[2]Aſk you the cauſe? Firſt take it for a rule—
Whate'er the man, the ſoul is not a fool.
She came in due perfection from the ſkies,
And all defect in groſſer body lies.
Body and ſoul at beſt but ill agree;—
'Tis ſpirit wedded to infirmity:
A diſproportion'd match; and hence proceeds
The ſoul's inaction from the body's needs.
This truth once ſtate, ev'ry ſoul, 'tis plain,
Much on the filmy texture of the brain;
Much on formations that eſcape our eyes;
On nice connexions, and coherencies;
And on corporeal organs muſt depend,
For her own functions, exerciſe, and end.
Hence then the cauſe of all defects is ſeen;
For one wrong movement ſpoils the whole machine.
'Tis hence the ſeveral paſſions take their riſe,
The ſeeds of virtue, and the roots of vice;
[3]Hence notes peculiar or to young, or old,
Phlegmatic, ſanguine, amorous, or cold;
And hence from conſtitution, ſuch or ſuch,
Wit will take modes, and Genius op'rate much.
The youthful bard, a gentle, ſighing ſwain,
Like Ovid warbles in a love-ſick ſtrain;
With weaker paſſions, but with ſenſe more ſtrong.
The melancholy Young purſues his ſong.
Mixture of humours motley Genius ſhews;
'Tis ſeen, methinks, in * Hervey's dancing proſe.
Why wonder then to mark the ſons of rhyme
Gay, ſerious, turgid, eaſy, or ſublime?
The ſoul and body cloſely thus allied,
Vile is the folly as the ſin of pride;
And one great truth the firſt of men will fit —
That nothing more precarious is than wit.
[4]
Behold yon wretch, that o'er your pariſh ſtrays,
A baby-man, a driv'ler all his days!
With tongue out-lolling, and round-rolling eyes,
He grins againſt the ſun, and catches flies: —
But for ſome ſecret flaws we cannot read,
That check her motions, and her flights impede,
His ſoul, perchance, enrich'd with happieſt thought,
Had ſpoke like Tully, or like Virgil wrote.
Alas! all ſouls are ſubject to like fate,
All ſympathizing with the body's ſtate;
Let the fierce fever burn through ev'ry vein,
And drive the madding fury to the brain,
Nought can the fervour of his frenzy cool,
But Ariſtotle's ſelf's a pariſh fool!
Nay, in proportion, lighter ails controul
The mental virtue, and infect the ſoul.
Eaſe is beſt convoy in our voy'ge to truth: —
What man e'er reaſon'd with a raging tooth?
A poet with a Genius, and without,
Are the ſame creatures in the pangs of gout.
Hence then we gueſs, nor vain is our ſurmiſe,
Why ſome are fools, and none are always wiſe;
[5]Why Genius differs in life's every ſtage,
Runs wild with youth, and creeps with hobbling age,
The ſoul uncumber'd with the mortal clay
Knows no increaſe of ſtrength, nor fears decay.
A little art this ſecret may unfold —
That what can never die, is never old.
By preſent powers perfection ceaſe to ſcan,
For we may daily mourn the fall of man!
Ah! how bright wit, poſſeſt of ev'ry gift,
Dwindled to folly, and went mad in Swift.
The mighty Marlb'ro', whoſe great ſoul was prov'd
Upon the plains of Blenheim, where, unmov'd
"Amidſt confuſion, horrour, and deſpair,"
He view'd around "the dreadful ſcenes of war;
"In peaceful thought the field of death ſurvey'd;
"To fainting ſquadrons ſent the timely aid;
"Inſpir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,
"And taught the doubtful battle where to rage;"
E'en he, the ſprings of nature in decay,
And all his vital functions worn away,
Unable now to conquer realms, or buy,
With idiot geſture, and unmeaning eye,
Sits a ſpectator in the foremoſt row,
And gapes at heroes in a puppet-ſhew.
[6]
Eſchew preſumption ev'ry half-learn'd elf;
The nobleſt writer does not know himſelf.
Turn mighty Milton's ſacred volume o'er;
'Tis ſtrength, 'tis majeſty, or ſomething more;
His numbers like th'Almighty's thunders roll,
And ſtrike an aweful pleaſure to the ſoul:
We joy in ruin; and are almoſt pain'd
To ſee the (late-loſt) Paradiſe Regain'd.
This work * himſelf judg'd beſt: — tell me who read,
Was not the mighty Milton blind indeed?
GENIUS again, by inf'rence apt we ſee,
The ſame in ſpecies, differs in degree;
Propenſities are ſtrong; and few men yet
But have a reliſh for ſome kind of wit.
Homer is monarch of the Epic choir;
Yet Virgil ſnatch'd a brand of Homer's fire;
[7]The daring Homer's all-impetuous ſtrain,
Like a hot courſer bore him o'er the plain.
The muſe of Virgil, that affected ſtate,
Speeds not ſo ſwiftly, but ſhe keeps her rate.
Heats oft intenſe in Lucan's patriot page,
And Statius' muſe turns fury in her rage.
Each writer is diſtinguiſh'd in his way;
Grand Sophocles, or playful Seneca.
Bold Aeſchylus a ſtately buſkin wore,
And ſhook th'Athenian ſtage with tragic roar.
You'd ſwear, ſo ſoft Euripides appears,
And tender ſtill, he dipt his quill in tears.
Droll Ariſtophanes in humour's ſchool
Was bred, and we admire e'en envy's tool.
A pleaſant vein through laughing Plautus ran,
And Terence words it like a gentleman.
All to their fav'rite art will lay pretence;—
'Tis inclination, or 'tis excellence;
'Midſt clouds of dullneſs gleams of wit have ſhone,
Like the faint burſtings of an April ſun.
Some partly fail, as partly they excel —
Thus R-ch-rdſ-n, we know, drew nature well;
Yet ſhould a genius toy as he has done,
And ſpin morality like Grandiſon?
[8]
Grant you what's paſt, and it will leſs perplex
To aſk, why woman is the weaker ſex?
Or, why th' extremes of female wits are ſuch,
They moſtly ſay too little, or too much?
Beauty's ſoft frame, for other ends deſign'd,
Faints under toil of body, or of mind.
Shall dimpled girls "the ſtate's whole thunder wield,
And ſpinſters "ſhake the ſenate, or the field?"
Shall tender matrons with man's follies vext,
With high-ſtrain'd treble drive a pointed text?
Shall blooming virgins wage the wordy war,
And deck with brazen fronts the noiſy bar?
Let not creation's finer part repine,
Or grudge the province where they cannot ſhine.
Their pleaſing ſway a thouſand ways is ſhewn,
And beauty has an empire of its own.
Kind Heav'n that gave them beauty, all things gave:—
The ſoundeſt ſcholar is a woman's ſlave.
Yet have we known ſuperior nymphs that can
Aſſert an equal pow'r, and rival man!
Born nature's wonders, or with art to wield
The pen; or grace in arms the martial field;
To model laws; or rule a factious realm;
Witneſs Eliza at Britannia's helm;
[9]Witneſs the great Semiramis of old,
Whoſe ample proweſs fame has grav'd in gold;
Witneſs the lofty ſoul, the matchleſs worth
Of Cath'rine, recent empreſs of the north;
Witneſs th' ingenious talents of a few,
Aikin, Centlivre, Rowe, Behn, Montague;
Fine ſtrokes in pretty Novelliſts are ſeen,
And in Macaulay ſenſe atones for ſpleen!
Nay, diff'rent countries diff'rent Genius make;
Souls modes peculiar to their climate take:
B [...]eotia's foggy air was mark'd of old;
Athenian wits were bright, and Theban cold.
Juſt view near home the ſurface of the ball; —
In Holland, Genius is mechanical:
In France, the muſes breathe a livelier ſtrain;
In Italy, they ſkip; and ſtrut in Spain.
Not but the Britiſh muſe delights to ſhew
Exotic worth, and merit in a foe.
Taſſo, Corneille, Racine adorn their age,
And much we borrow from the Gallic ſtage.
In equal ſtrength, tho' diff'rent modes appear
The honours of Cervantes and Moliere.
This muſe or that propitious deigns to ſhine
On other bards, but on Voltaire the Nine.
[10]In England, O how manifold our rhyme,
Where Genius is uncertain as the clime.
We ſhew (conſult the preſs, the ſtage, the ſchools)
All ſorts of wiſe men, — as all ſorts of fools! —
And count our numbers of illuſtrious name
That climb'd by different paths the ſteeps of fame.
Ye laurell'd bards of Britain, great in ſong,
O let the muſe ſurvey your tuneful throng.
Chaucer, who notes not thy facetious glee,
Thy Genius full of quaint feſtivity?
Who reads muſt ſee, and ſeeing muſt admire
Bright Spencer's fancy, and bold Milton's fire.
Genius was ſtudied wit in artful Ben,
But flow'd ſpontaneous, Dryden, from thy pen;
'Twas thine in manly richneſs to excel,
With twice thy labour few write half ſo well.
Fletcher had copious energy of mind.
Cowley's was wit let looſe, and Wycherly's confin'd.
Who but applauds ſoft Otway's melting lay;
The negligent Simplicity of Gay;
The genuine mirth that tickled Butler's vein;
Waller's terſe ſonnet, and Young's nervous ſtrain?
[11] Garth had a trait ſarcaſtic, Vanburgh droll;
And Maſon's drama ſpeaks a Grecian ſoul.
Such various forms will Genius take to pleaſe;
In Rowe 'tis elegance; in Prior eaſe;
In Lee 'tis flame that lays half nature waſte;
And in the courtly Addiſon 'tis taſte.
In Thomſon's muſe a thouſand graces ſhine,
And ſtrong deſcription animates his line.
'Tis comic grace in Steele, that ſhunn'd offence.
In Pope 'tis ſweetneſs, purity, and ſenſe.
'Tis humour in the Dean, unequall'd yet;
And, Congreve, who could ſtand thy two-edg'd wit?
To ſev'ral bards their ſeveral beauties fall,
But to inimitable Shakeſpear — all!
He, nature's darling, unreſtrain'd by art,
Knew ev'ry ſpring that moves the human heart.
Shakeſpear! O Phoebus, lend thy golden lyre;
Give me the beams of thy coeleſtial fire;
Avaunt, ye vulgar! poets liſten round,
And all Parnaſſus thunder with the ſound,
While the muſe hails that great dramatic name,
And down time's rapid tide bears Shakeſpear's endleſs fame.
Thy genius, Shenſtone, who ſhall juſtly treat?
'Tis ſomething — ſomething exquiſitely neat.
[12]Nor muſt the wreath of glory be denied
To ſolemn Gray, or florid Akinſide:
Nor is it juſt its tribute to refuſe
To Churchill's bitter, but ungen'rous muſe.
In Lowth, in Weſt, a vein Pindaric flows;
Each Warton a commanding talent ſhews,
And claſſical alike their verſe and proſe.
Aſſert we then the force of Genius lies
In verſe alone? Are poets only wiſe?
We hinted Genius is of various kind;
And vaſt the province of the human mind.
Who well performs his heav'n-allotted part,
By ſtrength of nature, or by aid of art,
Whate'er the ſubject of his happy ſkill,
The product is the work of Genius ſtill.
That artful rhet'ric human ſouls can move,
Demoſthenes, let thy Philippics prove.
What honied dew diſtill'd from Tully's tongue!
What ſoft perſuaſion on his accents hung!
So ſmoothly ſtrong the ſweet oration flows,
We might aſſert — the muſes ſpeak in proſe.
Bid him write verſes; — who but will agree,
Cibber could make as good an Ode as he.
[13]
'Tis nought but Genius that in all preſides,
Gives word in battle, and in council guides:
Preſcribes in phyſic, and conſigns to fame
A learned Hervey's, or a Sydenham's name.
Sad woes enſu'd, where fools have ſquadrons led;
For what is Caeſar's arm without his head?
A glorious liſt in Britiſh records ſhines
Of ſtateſmen, wits, philoſophers, divines.
Great Raleigh's death, a ſacrifice to Spain,
Marks with a blot a pedant monarch's reign.
Wiſe Bacon ſaw where truth half-ſmother'd lay,
And from ſcholaſtic rubbiſh clear'd the way.
Sage Pocock, and, deep ſkill'd in annals old,
Uſher, high places in fame's temple hold.
Long lucubrations, o'er the midnight oil,
Gave to the world a Newton and a Boyle!
Sagacious Locke diſcover'd, when he wrote,
Clearneſs of notion, and vaſt depth of thought.
Each Alma Mater boaſts her fav'rite own,
OXFORD her Bradley, CAMBRIDGE Sanderſon.
Nature ſtill marks what mortals ſpeak, or write,
Chatham was copious; Cheſterfield polite.
Knowledge of vulgar manners all diſcern
In Fielding; and new pleaſantry in Stern.
[14]In Johnſon's ſtrong, but pomp-affecting proſe
A mortal wit it's ſelf-ſufficience ſhews.
This age has ſeen ſtrange pow'rs to muſic giv'n,
And Handel learn'd, or ſtole his art from heav'n.
'Tis not a puny judge can find a flaw
In Sherlock's goſpel, or in Blackſtone's law:
While Mansfield's elocution pure and ſtrong,
Reſiſtleſs as a torrent ſweeps along.
Some to high fame by ſolid judgment riſe,
'Tis Hurd's immortal fame to criticiſe.
There are who can amaze while they delight;
Bold ſpirit with cool judgment can unite.
Let * Gloſter's learned works your praiſe engage;
And Hume's, and Robertſon's hiſtoric page.
What plenteous ſtreams of eaſy ſenſe we ſee
In fluent Tillotſon's divinity?
Yet fluent Tillotſon could little ſay,
Had not the deep-read Barrow lead the way.
Others may fright you from the tempter's gin,
But South will make a man aſham'd of ſin.
Nay ſome we know (and knowing we muſt ſmile)
Bleſt with a talent, but without a ſtyle:
Hammond ſtands foremoſt of this awkward line,
A rumbling writer, but a deep divine!
[15]Who ever knew ſo ſtrange a vein as his,
Or ſo much learning in parentheſis?
'Twould tire the muſe, and reader to proceed
From reas'ning Chillingworth to flow'ry Seed;
To cite at large the theologic band
From Jewel down to Clarke and Waterland;
The works of chriſtian labour to explore
Of Hooker, Pearſon, Mede, and numbers more
That drew their manly quills for righteous ends;
The church's champions, and religion's friends.
I grieve to think what ſouls may be deſtroy'd
By wit perverſe, and Genius miſemploy'd.
Nothing awakes ſo ſoon the vengeful rod,
As wiſdom flying in the face of God.
The force of reaſon is of finite length; —
This giant that attempts beyond his ſtrength.
Our boaſted light of nature, feeble ſpark,
Guides for a while, but leaves us in the dark.
As glimm'ring vapours with a pallid ray
Light us to quagmires, and to gulphs betray.
How vain is mortal man above his ſphere!
Poor knowing fool, juſt wiſe enough to err!
Go, ſpan the globe; the world's ſtrong bounds o'erleap;
Empty the yawning caverns of the deep;
[16]Count all the fibres of that inſect's thigh;
Catch me the trembling ſun-beams as they fly;
Then take thy underſtanding's cable line,
Examine God, and meaſure truths divine.
Grant me, kind heav'n, to ſee ere I explain;
Correct all falſe ambition of my brain;
And on my mind this maxim printed be, —
The chriſtian virtue is Humility.
Happier the ſimple ſwain, the ruſtic fool.
That never took the poliſh of a ſchool,
Than, ſwell'd with pride, a maſter of all arts,
With Shaftſbury's cunning, and with St. John's parts.
Much wit obſcene has crept thro' ev'ry age;
But lewdneſs riots on the modern ſtage.
O ſhame to arts! our poets may defie
The bards of old; with Rome and Athens vie;
May boaſt invention, penetration, wit,
All qualities for either Drama fit;
May touch the paſſions with enchanting art,
And take minuteſt copies of the Heart:
Yet of paſt Dramatiſts be this the praiſe; —
They rarely ſtain'd with ribaldry their bays.
[17]
Genius depends then on the body's frame —
Tell me, will Genius never be the ſame?
Or will the diff'rence we to-day eſpy,
Subſiſt in ſouls to all eternity?
Such queſtion put, if reaſon may be bold
In humble-wiſe conjecture to unfold.
She ſeems to dictate, and ſhe fears not blame
That things once diff'ring never are the ſame.
Here or hereafter, in what light you will,
A man, you know, is ſoul and body ſtill;
And ſtill corporeal organs, and their uſe
Muſt correſpondent faculties produce:
But body, in that happier ſtate refin'd,
Shall leave its old infirmities behind
And ev'ry ſoul be perfect in her kind.
Conſult material objects, and we ſee
God's pow'r diſplay'd in ſweet variety.
The diff'rent Seaſons diff'rent beauties bring;
'Tis not one colour paints the jolly ſpring.
The ſun, high-flaming, travels in his might;
The moon with placid orb adorns the night.
Each inſect that eludes the niceſt eye,
One of the myriads floating in the ſky,
[18]His Maker's praiſe proclaim as loudly can
As Ocean's tyrant king, the great Leviathan.
Look thro' all nature, the vaſt tracts of ſpace,
Each being has it's proper pow'r, and place.
Th' angelic hoſts that round the Godhead wait,
And iſſue forth his miniſters of fate,
Have their reſpective provinces, and know
What part to act above, and what below:
Meſſiah's ſword to Michael's might is giv'n;
And Gabriel is Ambaſſador of Heav'n.
Hence then, from inf'rence fairly drawn, we find
That ſouls will differ, and excel in kind;
But when admitted to the realms of joy,
What certain office, what preciſe employ
Shall exerciſe the ſev'ral pow'rs of each,
Preſent conception not preſumes to reach!
Enough, from gen'ral principles to ſhew
That one great point of bliſs will be — to know;
To touch perfection in a fav'rite art,
And grieve no longer but to "know in part:"
To mark where truth in her receſſes lies,
Purſue her without toil, and graſp her as ſhe flies.
[19]
The ſage Logician then ſhall clearly ſee
How all ideas differ, or agree,
And from her coverts drive ſly ſophiſtry:
No need to ſhift, to wrangle, and confute;
For ſure the bleſſed reaſon, not diſpute.
See penſive Metaphyſics! ſcience coy!
In contemplation only knowing joy!
Sober recluſe, no noiſy ſtander-by,
She ſpeculates abſtracted entity.
Purg'd of the groſſer particles of clay,
And all material obſtacles away,
In the full vigour of eternal youth,
How will ſhe ſee, embrace, adore the truth?
Phyſics ſtill fond new ſecrets to deſcry,
And look through nature with a piercing eye,
Hereafter latent cauſes may explore,
When all the preſent ſyſtem is no more;
And prove, when inmate of the bleſt abode,
This world an atom to the works of God!
The pale Aſtronomer, who kens from far
The wand'ring planet, or the ſtation'd ſtar,
When this frail earth in ruin ſhall be hurl'd,
May count the lamps that light a nobler world:
[20]And ſubtle G'ometry ſhall lend her line,
And take dimenſions of the plan divine.
What ſounds ſhall flow from Rhet'ric's ſilver tongue?
How ſweet her eloquence, her voice how ſtrong!
Her wond'rous talents graceful ſhe diſplays,
And thunders forth the heav'nly monarch's praiſe.
Hark! hark! the raptur'd bard has ſtruck his lyre;
His boſom kindles with poetic fire;
Ten thouſand vaſt ideas ſwell his mind;
Imagination ranges unconfin'd;
He ſings Jehovah's all-triumphant reign;
How ſoftly trills, how loudly ſounds the ſtrain,
And muſic fills th' unmeaſurable plain?
The winged hoſts are charm'd that hover by,
And ſeraphs ſhout applauſe that rends the ſky.
Such then the future pleaſures of the mind,
So ſolid, manly, rational, refin'd,
Source of ſublime delight, and tranquil joy,
And ſure to ſatisfy, but not to cloy;
How vain at once are all mere earthly ſchemes,
The tricks of ſtateſmen, and ambition's dreams?
Low the deſigns the wiſeſt worldlings lay;
Lower the brutal pleaſures of a day.
[21]Awake, awake; — purſue your proper plan;
Virtue and knowledge only make a man.
Deſpiſe the world; a better fortune try;
And calculate for immortality.
Ideots, by nat'ral organs ill ſupply'd;
Untutor'd louts, whoſe parts were never try'd;
Hereafter hidden excellence may ſhew,
And rank with ſouls that ſcorn'd them here below:
But for the ſot that ſees, yet ſlights his rule,
The wilful novice, and induſtrious fool,
That lulls with ſloth, or ſteeps in vice his ſenſe,
The ſlave of pleaſure, or of indolence,
How wretched is his fate? Fears he not pain,
The gnawing viper, and the galling chain?
Still wretched is this blockhead's fate — for why?
Eternal ignorance is miſery. *
Who goodly talents have, ſhould talents uſe
With care aſſiduous, but with virtuous views;
[22]For application ſometimes leſs pretence
To merit has than barren indolence.
Nothing fatigues our ſoul, or tires our brain,
Like luſt of empire, or the thirſt of gain:
And theſe o'er-ruling in an active mind,
Spoil nations, and make havock of mankind.
Ingenious tyrants only make us ſlaves; —
Were all men fools, ſure no men would be knaves.
Sly Cromwell, once obſcure unnotic'd thing,
Outwitted factions, and was more than king.
Ambition take the ſceptre and the robe,
Spread thy huge greatneſs over half the globe;
Lo! the world burſts, 'tis nature's dying day,
The ſun is dark the planets melt away: —
Now boaſt thy Genius, exerciſe thy parts,
Recount thy feats, and recognize thy arts;
Alas! thou curſeſt thy too pregnant brain,
And knowledge is acute to quicken pain.
The nature, the importance, and the end
Of Genius ſuch, be wiſe then and attend
How we may beſt our nat'ral powers improve,
And qualify the ſoul for bliſs above.
Genius lies hid, like metal in the mine,
Till ſearching education bids it ſhine.
[23]'Tis but a glorious few of deathleſs name
Have found without a guide their road to fame.
Nor ſlight their province, if we juſtly rate,
Who till the mind, and Genius cultivate;
Much penetration, and no little toil
Muſt try the ſtrength and temper of the ſoil:
Some minds rich-natur'd, like a gen'rous field,
To little culture ample harveſts yield;
Others inceſſant labour muſt ſecure,
They owe their goodly produce to manure.
Our judgment too ſhould mark where talent lies,
And, ſoon as ſeen, indulge propenſities:
For diff'rent objects diff'rent fancies ſtrike;
Genius, we ſaid before, is not alike.
Pope's forward muſe procur'd him early fame;
"He liſp'd in numbers, for the numbers came:"
Another's unharmonious tuſte is ſuch,
Sooner than poetry he'd learn High Dutch!
Yet He peculiar talents may diſplay,
And prove a very wonder in his way.
Why muſt all mortals ſeek the ſelf-ſame praiſe?
Is there no garland but a wreath of bays?
To ſteep Parnaſſus' ſummit moſt ſublime
'Tis not a ſhort-breath'd Pegaſus can climb.
[24]
Some ſeem to think that Genius may be ſold,
But wit is not, like honour, bought with gold.
To foreign regions wealthy thickſculs roam;
Tho' fools of all men ſure ſhould ſtay at home.
Another's heir thro' Wickham's ſchool muſt paſs;
He goes a blockhead, and comes home an aſs.
From form to form theſe dull indocile things
Proceed in courſe, as tumblers ſhoot thro' rings.
Yet theſe, tho' deſtitute of hopeful wit,
'Twere raſhneſs to pronounce at once unfit
For life's firſt ſtations; oft 'mongſt theſe we find
An able body, and an active mind;
A keen diſcernment; prudence; caution; care;
A hand to execute; a ſoul to dare.
No uſeful talent then ſhould dormant lie;
— 'Tis ſervice to the common enemy; —
And theſe no-ſcholars may or ſwell the ſail
Of commerce, and attend the ſhifting gale;
Or deck with great exploits a Georgia's reign,
And humble Gallic creſts, and cruſh the pride of Spain.
Others of lively parts, but wretched fate,
Want nothing but a fortune to be great.
Sometimes among the vulgar herd we find
Strong marks and features of a heav'nly mind:
[25]The village ſwain's a wit, he knows not how,
And I have ſeen philoſophy at plough.
How are our hopes by preſent chances croſt?
What oafs make p-rſ-ns, and what wits are loſt?
When now your Genius, near to ripeneſs grown,
Begins to glow with raptures all its own,
Ply it with choſen books of various kinds,
For reading is the food of hungry minds:
Mod'rate and wholſom will ſuffice your need;
'Tis not how much, but how and what you read;
To riſe with appetite is always beſt;
Gluttons devour much more than they digeſt:
'Tis vain for ever over books to pore;
Reading does much, but obſervation more.
Mere ſlaviſh plodding never yet prevail'd;
See yon lank ſtudent to his folio nail'd:
He reads at home, abroad, at meals, in bed,
And has five thouſand volumes in his head;
Yet little to perfection has he brought,
For he has read ſo much, — he never thought.
The youth more ſprightly, and the glowing bard,
That had as lieve go dig as ſtudy hard,
[26]Applies by fits, and at his fancy's call;
Little he reads, but has that little all;
He ſees, and he enjoys his author's worth,
Gathers his flow'rs, and culls his beauties forth.
He dwells with tranſport on a fav'rite part,
And claſps each ſtriking paſſage to his heart.
Your models chuſe from authors of firſt rate;
He cannot write, who dares not emulate.
To father Homer's ſov'ring poetry
Rome owes her Virgil, and our Milton we.
The tow'ring muſe of Pindar reach'd the ſky,
And Flaccus follow'd with an eager eye.
For preſent times to emulate is all: —
'Tis ſcarce in wit to be original.
Leave books, and go to company; and then
Leave company, and go to books again.
The ſtudious mind 'tis uſeful to unbend
In pleaſing converſe with a ſocial friend:
For cordial juices of the purple vine
Refreſh the weary, and the dull refine:
O'er flowing bowls rebounds the ſparkling wit,
And ſure no poet was a milkſop yet.
[27]Intemp'rate revelling alone conſumes
The mental pow'rs, and clouds the brain in fumes.
Horace, beſt handler of the Roman lyre,
In rich Falernum quaff'd poetic fire:
A jovial bard! How pleaſant are his ſtrains!
How much good-humour in his writings reigns!
He laughs, tho' angry, and will ſtill delight;
His verſe is ſatire, but it is not ſpite.
How does his muſe with free politeneſs rail!
While Juvenal's is threſhing with a flail!
Scholars ſhould know, all fire in motion lies. —
Whet then your parts with manly exerciſe.
Dulneſs ſits ſlumb'ring in an elbow-chair;
But the gay Muſes love to take the air. —
— The Shades of night are fled before the morn;
The mountains echo to the cheerful horn;
Men, dogs, and horſes, neighings, ſhouts, and cries
Shake with tumultuous jollity the ſkies;
The chace grows hot; they pant in ev'ry vein;
Now climb the ſteep hill's brow, now ſcour along the plain.
Such ſports as theſe enliven; they impart
Warmth to the brain, and gladneſs to the heart.
[28]Yet cautious ſtill indulge the vig'rous joy; —
It ſhould be relaxation, not employ.
But if due aid to Genius may be lent,
Sometimes it ſuffers by impediment.
Unhappy is the bard that deals in rhyme
When wit is obſolete, and ſenſe a crime:
When the weak muſe, in a degen'rate age,
Crawls from the preſs, or lamely treads the ſtage;
No longer dares to noble heights advance,
But chimes in ſong, or trifles in romance.
How ſhall the genuine bard eſcape from fools
That judge by narrow, or by partial rules?
A thouſand witlings maul his mangled name,
And yelping critics hunt him out of fame.
How ſtrange a fate! in writing few ſucceed;
But ev'ry man's a critic that can read!
Chance ſometimes ſeems to govern all; we ſee
Merit in vain prefer a righteous plea:
Falſe taſte, caprice, and circumſtance of times
Untowardly conſpire to damn our rhymes;
And cenſure ſo perverſely plays her tricks,
That ſhe will meaſure wit by politics!
[29]To our eternal ſhame this truth be ſaid —
That for whole Years ev'n * Milton was unread.
If theſe are plagues, ſtill more remain behind;
Wits tell you fortune frowns upon their kind.
Alas! what ſources of obſtruction lie
In the great common woe of poverty!
[30]Whoſe caſe is hardeſt, 'tis not quickly ſaid,
Or theirs that work, or theirs that write for bread.
The ſtarveling curate the fat dean ſupplies;
One makes divinity, and t'other buys. —
Who but muſt wail the ſtate of lib'ral arts,
When ſcholars pawn their coats, or fell their parts?
Bards of firſt note are hirelings ev'ry day,
And the chaſte Nine turn proſtitutes for pay.
Sure of all writers poets ſhould not lack;
'Twill ſpoil your Pegaſus to make him hack.
The muſe expands her wings before you aſk. —
She loves employment, but ſhe hates a taſk.
To Dryden the proud manager could ſay; —
On pain of thirſt and hunger bring your play.
— The play appears in breach of many a rule,
And want makes Dryden ſometimes half a fool.
Such from without the cauſes that we find
Obſtruct the operations of the mind:
Within too Genius has its enemies,
And in ourſelves too oft our hindrance lies:
Our paſſions, vices, follies, talents hide,
Intemp'rance, anger, haſtineſs, and pride.
[31]
We ſaid, debauches will oblivion bring,
And mix dull Lethe with the Muſes' ſpring.
The mind is then moſt vig'rous when ſerene;
And crude the ſentiment that flows from ſpleen.
— What then inſpires the ſharp, ſatyric page?
Oft, fix'd ill-nature; ſeldom ſudden rage.
Some giddy fancies ev'ry object hit
Alike; — you may be prodigal of wit.
The verſe is ſhort-liv'd that is premature;
The muſe tho' never ſlow, ſhould ſtill be ſure.
Theſe are thy honours, Blackmore, this thy gain,
That nonſenſe came in vollies from thy brain.
Conceit with vapours puffs an empty mind,
And makes a writer to his errors blind.
'Tis the firſt praiſe to make; the next to mend;
Go, court the cenſure of an able friend:
Procure the ſanction of a learned few;
Who knows what mortals may your works review?*
[32]True modeſty for wit may ſometimes paſs;
But ev'ry coxcomb is, as ſuch, an aſs.
The beſt productions ſome defects will ſtain,
And he affronts mankind who dares be vain!
O that my ſtrains aſſiſtance could impart,
As far as nature may be help'd by art;
Nature to mend all efforts it behoves,
And what God made 'tis art alone improves.
Give me this fame, kind heav'n, and tho' my ſong
Ranks me the meaneſt of the raptur'd throng,
I reap fair fruits, and gain an honeſt end,
Not muſe-befriended, but the muſe's friend.†
THE SONG of DEBORAH. AN ODE. JUDGES, Chap. v.
[35]BEGIN the gladſome ſhout, the loud acclaim,
Begin the univerſal choir;
Temper in ſolemn tunes the ſounding lyre
To great Jehovah's name;
Thrones, princedoms, pow'rs attend! Illuſtrious throng!
While I this glorious day
Swell to Jehovah's name the grateful ſong,
And tributary laud, and joyous homage pay. —
Who ſhall abide the dire alarms?
The God of Iſrael is in arms: —
From Edom's field, in pomp of matchleſs might
Dreadful he marches, "graſping in his hand
Ten thouſand thunders," and controuls the fight: —
Who, where is he that ſhall withſtand?
[36]And while, ſublime, the wide expanſe he trode,
Big clouds diſcharge their watry ſtores;
The dun ſtorm growls; the tempeſt roars;
The frighted elements gave place;
Proud Sinai trembled to his baſe;
And nature's melting frame confeſt the coming God.
II.
What time the ſon of Anath held command,
And juſtice ſcantly dealt throughout the land,
How wretched Iſrael's ſtate?
To inſult rude, and rapine fierce betray'd,
Thro' devious tracks, and deſarts wild they ſtray'd;
No traveller the wonted path frequents;
Each village her loſt habitants laments;
The region round was deſolate:
While rageful war, and dire alarms
Beſet the girded towns with thund'ring arms;
Nor ſpear, nor ſhield was ſeen midſt Judah's bands,
Terror diſarm'd their hearts, and hoſtile pow'r their hands.
In impotence of deep diſtreſs
From other gods they ſeek redreſs,
Adding, ungrateful to their weight of woes;
When I, the mother of my country, roſe;
I Deborah, the ſcourge of Jacob's foes:
And God, all-gracious ſet the nations free
By delegated might, and their deliverer, me!
[37]Princes, and chiefs that durſt aſſay
The dangers of that direful day,
Nobly devoted to your country's cauſe;
Bleſſings inwreathe your heads, and palms of fame's applauſe.
III.
Ye white-rob'd miniſters of judgment tell,
Rulers, and rev'rend elders ſay,
All, all recount that glorious day
When Iſrael triumph'd, and when Jabin fell —
The tumults huſh'd; the terrors fled;
And peace her downy wings o'erſpread;
And righteous Heav'n tranquility reſtor'd
By Deb'rah's counſel ſage, and Barak's ſlaught'ring ſword.
IV.
Now in the deep receſſes of the vale,
(Where far in many a limpid maze
The curling ſtreamlet ſweetly ſtrays,
At whoſe fair ſpring, or flow'r-trimm'd ſide,
The villagers their huts ſupplied
With liquid meaſures, daily drawn
At evening's cloſe, or morning's dawn;)
The blithſome ſwains exchange a ſimple tale.
Whilom in dread, and wild diſmay
They paſs'd the cheerleſs, tedious day;
[38]Sad they convers'd in whiſpers low;
Fancy made ev'ry ſhade a foe;
They ſhook with ev'ry wind that blew;
In ev'ry breeze an arrow flew.
Now, free from terror and annoy
They give their ſouls at large to joy;
Jehovah's proweſs they relate;
Jehovah's acts, and Jabin's fate;
The pleaſing theme enraptur'd they rehearſe
With ſhouts of glad acclaim, or ſtrains of ruſtic verſe.
V.
Riſe Deborah, ariſe; — prolong
In ſolemn notes thy tuneful ſong;
Barak, ariſe! Thou ſon of fame
Grace thy triumphal car
With a long captive train, thy ſlaves of war; —
Ariſe great offspring of Abinoam. —
Where were old Iſrael's ſons? ſay, did not all
The martial ſummons hear?
Or baſely did they ſhrink with fear,
Deaf to the din of arms, and glory's princely call?
Reuben no more, the brave and bold,
Attends at home his bleating fold;
[39]And Dan and Aſher's coward band,
When loud the voice of battle roars
Flie to the limits of the land,
And people wide the barren ſhores;
While Zebulon, and valiant Napthali,
Patriot aſſerters of their country's right,
Undaunted drew their ſlender ſquadrons nigh,
And fac'd the dread array, and iron front of fight.
VI.
Heirs of renown, Canaan's proud monarchs came
Unbought, and panting with the thirſt of fame!
Royal confed'rates! from afar
Earth groan'd beneath their cumb'rous war:
By fair Megiddo's moſſy banks they ſtood;
Trembled with gleams of arms the ſilver ſtood.
Now hoſts with hoſts engage
Impetuous; — hark! the clangs reſound; —
See, ſee the prancing ſteeds up-tear the ground;
And the wild tumult glows with hotter rage.
But lo! the planets frown malign;
And ah! ſee where
Jehovah's ſeraph-legions, pois'd in air,
The furious conflict join;
The flaming ſquadrons urge their deathful way,
And cruſh the wither'd pow'rs of Siſera,
Arm'd with etherial fires, and charg'd with wrath divine.
[40]Triumph my ſoul! pale fears our foes confound;
Their might I trample on the ground; —
The purple field is delug'd with the ſlain;
And antient Kiſhon's rev'rend flood
(His ſwelling waves diſtain'd with blood)
Bears in his ſweepy tide whole nations to the main.
VII.
Fair Kenite, ſpouſe of Heber, hail!
Bleſſings thy pious fraud ſhall crown,
And heart-felt joy, and high renown,
Envy of all the dames that dwell the tented vale.
Give me to drink, the toil-ſpent warrior cried,
The creamy bev'rage lib'ral ſhe ſupplied,
And from her lordly vats his parch'd thirſt gratified.
Spent with fatigue, and loſt in ſleep profound,
Gigantic length, he lay —
The mighty Siſera —
And while he preſs'd his earthy bed,
She ſnatch'd the nail; ſhe pierc'd his head;
She rivetted his temples to the ground.
Extended, breathleſs at her feet he lay —
The mighty Siſera —
Stretch'd at her feet, the chieftain died; —
This boaſt of Haroſheth, and Jabin's pride.
[41]VIII.
His noble mother darts from far
Her longing eyes,
And loud, with fond impatience, cries, —
Why tarries thus his loit'ring car?
Why comes he not, ſhe cries again,
(Preventing her attendant train)
Why comes not my victorious ſon?
Is not the glorious battle won?
Have not the leaders ſhar'd the prey? —
The captive maids with blooming charms
To bleſs the glowing victor's arms;
And broider'd robes, and glitt'ring ſpoils
Meet to reward the Soldiers toils;
And grace the neck of conq'ring Siſera?
IX.
Thus ever let indignant vengeance riſe
To blaſt Jehovah's enemies!
But let the faithful votaries of God
Diſtinguiſh'd ſhine, like yon vaſt orb of light
As thro' the purpled eaſt he takes his flaming road,
Array'd in ſplendors pure, and majeſty of might.
BAALAM's PROPHECY. AN ODE. Numbers, Chap. xxiii, and xxiv.
[42]I Burn, I burn with extaſy —
I hear, I ſee, I feel the Deity —
Impulſive ſprings my pow'rs controul,
Celeſtial truth inſpires my ſong,
Prophetic rapture trembles on my tongue,
And all the God comes ruſhing on my ſoul.
II.
From Aram's lofty ſteeps I come
Where wide their radiance bright diſplay
The golden beams of orient day,
Prophet of Balak's fate, and Midian's doom. —
Curſe this invading hoſt; curſe, ban, defie
(Aſtounded Balak, and his princes cry)
The might of Jacob's ſons, and potent chivalry. —
[43]On thy devoted head the bans redound: —
The choſen legions come from far
Commiſſion'd to uproot with waſteful war,
And level thy puiſſance to the ground.
III.
Lo! from the rocky ſummits I behold
The vaſt, the formidable throng;
Lo! where they gleam in arms that flame with gold,
And like th' unbridled deluge ſweep along.
Illuſtrious, dreadful day!
Lo! lo! they ſeize th' imperial ſway; —
They graſp the ſole command,
And wipe the feeble nations from the land.
Ah! ſee th' innumerable train
Thick as autumnal leaves that ſtrew the vale,
Or whirling ſands that mantle to the gale,
Their wide-extended tribes o'erſpread the roomy plain.
IV.
Liſt Balak! ſon of Zippor hear
The oracles of God! — I claim thine ear. —
Jacob, th' immutable decree
Awards the gen'ral ſway to thee; —
The voice of truth celeſtial, name
Awful, thro' ages endleſs rounds the ſame!
[44]The God ſupreme his faithful hoſts inſpires; —
Full in their van, inſufferably bright,
His ſplendid preſence gilds the front of fight; —
They ſwell with riſing rage; — they glow with martial fires. —
How the din grows? What tumult's nigh?
What ſhouts monarchal tear the ſky?
Appear, great ſon of Jacob, O appear —
Gay as the dapple ſtag, ſtrong as the mountain ſteer.
All hail the favour'd band!
Led by Jehovah's lifted hand
From thraldom vile in Egypt's hated land.
V.
Avaunt ye miniſters of might —
Gobbling, elf, and ſhad'wy ſprite;
Necromancers, plotting harms;
Beldams, mutt'ring horrid charms;
Magic rite; and myſtic ſpell;
All the potency of hell; —
Ye blaſted pow'rs of darkneſs yield —
Behold! Jehovah takes the field!
What time the kingdoms ſtruck with dread
Shall feel th' Almighty's vengeful rod,
Pale inquiry round ſhall ſpread —
What wond'rous acts are theſe?—Who is this angry God?
[45]As ſome huge lion, rouſing in his might,
Stalks ſternly from his den in queſt of food,
And ſprings upon his prey with fierce delight,
And gluts his rage of appetite with blood; —
So Jacob's ſons, in arms renown'd,
And ſtill with wreaths of conqueſt crown'd,
March furious on, and mark their way
With ſlaughter, and enjoy the carnage of the day.
VI.
I glow, I burn with extaſy —
I hear, I ſee, I feel the Deity —
Impulſive ſprings my pow'rs controul,
Celeſtial truth inſpires my ſong,
Prophetic rapture trembles on my tongue; —
Again, again the God comes ruſhing on my ſoul.
VII.
See! what fair view yon length of ſquadrons yields!
See! what pavilions whiten all the fields!
Tents beyond tents in goodly order ſtand,
And tribes on tribes beſpread the conquer'd land.
As, planted by a bubbling river's ſide,
Some garden to the ſolar blaze
Its rich parterres, and flow'ry pride
In all their vernal luxury diſplays;
[46]While on the daiſied bank in ſolemn row
Nodding cedars ſtately grow,
And lengthen down the ſtream beyond the ken of ſight:
So Judah's hoſts, exulting in their might,
And heav'n-appointed o'er the realms to reign,
In well-form'd ranks of battle gay,
And beautiful in war's array,
Aſſert the ſov'reign rule, and ſtretch of wide domain.
All hail the favour'd band!
Led by Jehovah's lifted hand
From thraldom vile in Egypt's hated land. —
They come reſiſtleſs as the flood;
Their vengeance pours;
Their wrath devours;
Their ſhafts are drunk with blood.
VIII.
Hiſt! hiſt! methinks theſe direful foes
At eaſe within their tents repoſe;
As ſome huge lion couchant lies,
And ruminates his future prize.
Who ſhall upſtir his ſlumb'ring might;
Or dare him to the field of ſight?
IX.
I glow, I burn with extaſy —
I hear, I ſee, I feel the Deity —
[47]Impulſive ſprings my pow'rs controul,
Celeſtial truth inſpires my ſong,
Prophetic rapture trembles on my tongue; —
New light divine irradiates all my ſoul.
X.
I look thro' ages; I deſcry
Strange fruits of times to come; —
Things buried in the womb
Of dark futurity. —
I ſee, I ſee from far
The pride of Jacob, dawning like the ſtar
That lights the morn; I ſee him riſe,
Joy of all hearts, and wonder of all eyes:
I ſee him hold ſupreme command;
I ſee him rear his ſceptred hand;
In pow'r unmatch'd; benign in grace;
Iſrael's Meſſiah king, and Saviour of our race.
DEVOTION. A POEM.
[48]OFFSPRING of Love and Reaſon, Eden-born,
What time mankind's progenitor beheld
New-made creation, and himſelf the lord,
Devotion, be my theme: — O fill my ſoul
With pious ſentiment; abſtract my thought
From things corporeal; and at once engage
And purify my verſe. — Thrice bleſſed hour
Of unpolluted innocence, when thro'
The flow'ry groves of blooming paradiſe
Our gen'ral parents at ſweet random ſtray'd;
Eternal ſpring breath'd fragrance round their walks,
And nature ſmil'd as hand in hand they took
Their unfrequented way. Grateful they pour'd
Their hearts in rapture;—grateful praiſe was then
Religion's better half. Faith was unborn; —
[49]'Twas rich beatitude of ſight, when God,
Deſcending from his throne ſupernal, gave
Illuſtrious exhibition of himſelf,
Exchanging conference benign with man: —
His ſov'reign, and his friend! or, where was Hope
When life was bliſs, and full poſſeſſion crown'd
All appetite with joy? Where Charity,
Ere diſcord had a being; when one pair
Compos'd Society; bleſt pair, conjoin'd
In ſilken bands of union, woven by
Affection pure, and firſt connubial love?
But luſt of ſcience, hell-inſpir'd, unhing'd
This fabric of felicity; — behold
Eden is wilderneſs, and man — a worm!
See! this immortal grovels in the duſt —
And that devotion which was once the vow
Of cheerful worſhip, or the ſacrifice
Of placid reverence, and filial love,
Is now the feeble effort of deſpair; —
The plaintive moan of guiltineſs abaſh'd; —
The tear of anguiſh, and the ſigh of woe.
Look, thou afflicted, up — It is thy God
Uncloth'd with terrors! mark! he utters bland
[50]Redemption's word! With pious eagerneſs
Devour thoſe healing ſounds; and catch, O catch
The balmy dew of grace upon thy ſoul.
Now Faith unfurls her banner; at her ſide
Hope meekly ſmiling ſtands; while righteous ſouls
Burn with impatience to regain the bliſs
By human folly forfeited; and pant
Like exiles, longing for their native clime.
But Reaſon was man's law; and on the truths
Traditions handed down from age to age
Devotion form'd her plan. — As ſome large ſtream
That iſſues limpid from his parent ſpring,
Rolls headlong on, and in his bill'wy ſweep
Contracts foul tinctures from the lands he laves
In his wide-winding courſe; tradition thus,
Pure from it's fount, deriving in it's flow.
Collects ſtrange tenets, and exotic whims,
(Such diabolic artifice ſuggeſts,)
Or from the plaſtic faculty of man,
Or from obſervance heedleſs; till at length
Error ingraff'd upon the ſtock of truth
Shoots his luxuriant branch. — Religion ſhews
[51]Like ſome delightful, but uncultur'd ſpot,
When deſolation lays his waſteful hand
Upon its vernal beauties: noiſom weeds,
And brambly traſh uſurp the goodly ſoil
Where Flora gayly reign'd. — Now kingly pride,
And vulgar ſuperſtition ſtored the world
With ſpurious deities; while man transferr'd
To creatures vile the proſtrate homage due
To the Supreme Creator. He, t' aſſert
His violated honour, and maintain
An unadulterate faith, in early days
Vouchſaf'd to Terah's offspring to impart
His name, his will, his promiſe. — After-times
Beheld deſcending Deity in clouds
Of wavy ſmoke, and ſpiry-ſpreading flame;
When on Mount Sinai's conſecrated brow
Th' Almighty Monarch ſpecial preſence gave
To Iſrael's trembling ſons; ten thouſand ſaints,
His high retinue, clapp'd their golden wings;
And thunders roar'd; and nimble lightnings ſtreak'd
The gloomy cloud, while the big trumpet's voice
Proclaim'd his fiery law; haply that trump
Whoſe louder blaſt ſhall from earth's clayey womb
Summon all mortals in the flaming day
[52]Of gen'ral conſummation. — What ſhould ſhake
Devotion's baſis now? — Ev'n he, th' arch-fiend,
That, ſubtle, tainted pure tradition's ſtream,
And alienated firſt man's wav'ring mind
From God to idols. — In a world corrupt,
Iſra'l, by bent of nature ever prone
To novelty, and ſmooth ſeductions, caught
The ſpirit'al contagion: while a few,
Still eminently ſingular, to heav'n
With pureneſs of affection uneſtrang'd
Paid adorations meet. Illuſtrious names!
Recorded in the ſacred page of truth.
But better times ſucceeded. Hark! methinks
Celeſtial muſic charms my raviſh'd ear!
Iſra'l's "ſweet ſinger" wakes his tuneful lyre
To ſounds harmonious; in exalted hymns
He celebrates Omnipotence; he pours
Terror of pious praiſe; th' angelic hoſts
Hear with delight, and to God's cloud-wrapt throne
Waft the melodious ſacrifice. — But ſee!
Ah ſee! he drops his harp; he ſweeps no more
The vocal, ſprightly ſtrings; he mourns; he droops;
He languiſhes in heavineſs of ſoul. —
[53]Yet movingly he breathes his humbleſt ſtrains
Of penitential ſorrow; off'ring now
Contrition's victim in a bleeding heart.
Bleſt minſtrel, whoſe ſweet notes ſhall one day join
In uniſon with heav'n's eternal choir,
Accept this tribute; thou, whoſe royal name
Shall ſtand conſpicuous pattern thro' all time
Of deep remorſe, of penitence unfeign'd,
Of holy rapture, and triumphal joy.
O! ſee where beauty in her unfelt ſnare
Holds ſapience tangled. See! wiſe Solomon
Led by a ſmile, and to idol'trous rites
Decoy'd by ſoft allurements, and the charms
Of alien princeſſes. — See! Nebat's ſon,
In policy accurs'd, erects his calves
In Bethel and in Dan; all Iſra'l pay
Devoir to theſe fictitious deities; —
Revolters from their king, and from their God!
And now Religion, thro' a length of times
Adult'rate, and deform, (for what avail'd
The zeal, the pious fervour of a few?)
[54]Call'd down the vengeance of th' Almighty's arm
In viſitation various; till at length
The deſolating hand of merc'leſs war
Swept Iſra'l off, and to a foreign pow'r
Captiv'd his recreant tribes. The hoſts of God
Pine in Chaldea: — Yet he left not there
Omnipotence unwitneſs [...]d: O behold
Th' intrepid three, who brave defiance hurl'd
In the fierce tyrant's teeth; ſerene they walk
Thro' undulating flames, that round them play
Soft as the breath of ſpring. Lo! at their head
Smiling in dignity of conſcious might,
The captain of their cauſe — the Son of God!
See too th' illuſtrious prophet, envy-doom'd,
As in a peaceful grot, by zephyrs lull'd,
Sleeps in the lions' den, that friſk, and bound
With lamb-like innocence. — Devotion ſtill
Diſarms grim terror of his properties,
And from th' inſatiate maw of hungry death
Reſcues her genuine ſons. — Now ſee again
The tribes in peace reſtor'd; Judea ſmiles
Beneath the hand of culture; to the view
A ſecond temple riſes in its pride,
And blazing altars to th' eternal throne
[55]Send clouds of fragrancy. — Jehovah reigns
Unrivall'd by Tartarean deities,
Singly confeſt ſupreme; — but taintleſs faith
Secures not pure Devotion. — Num'rous ſects
Divide old Jacob's ſons; while ſolemn traſh
Of inſtitutions ritual, ſhad'wy forms
Of ceremonious import, ill-maintain'd
By zeal for vain traditions, ſtood in place
Of that high moral law from Sinai's brow
In pomp of viſible Divinity
Magnificiently taught. — Man worſhipp'd God,
But ſerv'd his appetite. — In ſuch a ſtate
Of ſanctity extern, MESSIAH came
Claiming the world's allegiance. — Hail! all hail
Our Lawgiver Divine! Thee uſher'd not
Or proud imperial enſigns, or the voice
Of trumpets in loud ſymphony, or ſmoke,
Or flaming fire, or thunder's pealing roar: —
The tidings of thine advent, King of Kings,
Placid deſcending from the realms above,
A full-wing'd Seraph bore to ſimple ſwains
That by the paly glimpſes of the moon
Tended their fleecy charge; when ſudden join'd
That heav'nly harbinger an angel-choir
[56]Hymning the great event, and making night
With lucent viſion glorious. — Thee proclaim'd
In ſackcloth, garb of lowly penitence,
And in the deſert's ſolitary waſte,
Thy Baptiſt-herald; — loud, repent, he cried,
Repent — erecting in the human heart
Thy ſpirit'al domain. O hail! all-hail
Thou greater Baptiſt! author of our bliſs!
Our promis'd Legiſlator, Saviour, Lord! —
I ſee, I ſee thee bleeding on the croſs!
Thee, univerſal Paſſover! I ſee
The Prince of Life expiring! — It is paid —
The debt enormous by primaeval ſin
Contracted. — It is finiſhed. — Satan falls,
Like lightning ſhooting from th' etherial ſky. —
Look where he wallows in the fiery gulf
Of "bottomleſs perdition;" — how he rolls
His eye with anguiſh! and in deep deſpair
Roars like a wounded lion! Hell rebounds
Thro' all her burning caverns. — Horrid ſcene!
O let me turn, and, blithſome, lift my ſoul
Upon the ſteady wing of ſoaring faith
To happier regions; thoſe delightful ſeats
(Our bleſt Redeemer's purchaſe) where heav'n's ſaints,
[57]Array'd in robes whiter than maiden ſnow,
And crown'd with crowns of gold, joying delights
Beyond conception's graſp, to the great Sire
Of beings with exalted voices ſing
Eternal Hallelujahs! — Faith has now
A firm foundation — Hope an anchor ſure —
Devotion a new theme. — Like that above,
The Chriſtian worſhip ſhould be uniform,
Grave, ſolemn, fervent, ſpirit'al, divine!
Thou holy Mother Church, to whom I owe
True love, and filial rev'rence, let thy ſon,
Duteous, tho' mean, pay to thine excellence
His pious mite of praiſe. — Light of the world,
And Reformation's boaſt! — Envy of Rome!
And pillar of the Faith! Thee nobly mark
Thy doctrines ſound; thy worſhip manly, pure;
Thy cuſtoms primitive; thy ſober rites
Significantly decent. — Is there aught
Beneath the ſacred minſtrelſy of heav'n
To cheer, to warm, to elevate the ſoul,
Like the religious harmony of choirs
Within ſome temple's venerable pile
[58]On feſtivals aſſemb'ed? — With full tone
"The deep, majeſtic, ſolemn organs blow;"
Or ſweetly modulate their varying notes
To voices well-attun'd; now melody
Alternate Strikes our ear; now jointly ſwells
The univerſal chorus, ſtorming heav'n
With holy violence. — Or, if we breathe
Devotion's earneſt ſtrains in humbler mode,
And unadorn'd ſimplicity of pray'r,
This, this is ſacrifice that burns as bright,
And, tow'ring, mounts as h [...]gh. — The ſoul that ſends
Her full affections forth in privacy,
Shall reap her harveſt of eternal joy
In light of worlds. — Ejaculations launch'd
By pious zeal amidſt a thouſand dins
Of war and tumult, ſhall aſſert their way
To the celeſtial throne. — What mortal knows
The mental flights that meditation takes,
When, from life's cares retiring, ſhe enjoys
Her cloſet-muſings? — Sometimes lone ſhe ſtrays
Along the rocky beach at dead of night,
By the moon's ſilver lamp, nor heeds the winds
That whiſtle round, nor notes the ſullen ſurge
[59]That beats the pebbled ſhore. Or, ſilent, roves
Down the ſequeſtred dale where Philomel
With melancholy muſic holds night's ear
Attentive to her plaint. Or, takes her ſtand
With folded arms, and moveleſs eye, beneath
Some ivy-mantled battlement, once ſeat
Of a great lord, but now reputed haunt
Of fays, and ſprites nocturnal. — Yet her thoughts,
Which ſhun man's note, to knowledge infinite
Are viſible as characters inſcrib'd
On monumental braſs, or works perform'd
With oſtentatious ſhew to publick view
In the broad eye of day. — Such various forms
Aſſuming, true devotion is the ſame,
Vocal or intellectual. — Ah! how low,
How wild, or how jejune the ſubſtitutes
Of rational Religion, which the zeal
Of ſuperſtitious folly has devis'd,
Or pious frenzy rais'd? — Glitt'ring parade,
Or affectation of auſterity,
Is Roman godlineſs; denoted now
By cowls, and beads, and lifted crucifix,
Penance, and faſt, and cloiſter'd ſolitude; —
[60]And now exhibited in grand diſplay
Of ſuperficial pomp. — O what avails
This laviſhment of ſplendor? Will a God
Of purity immaculate accept
The lifeleſs off'rings of a carnal heart?
Or periodic public abſtinence
Atone for ſtolen luxury? — Nor more
Of reaſon, or devotion hath the pride
Of zealots that in mad fanatic rage
Diſclaim all government; order renounce;
And vent the product of a ſickly brain
For ſpirit'al effuſions: with wan looks,
And geſture wild, and horrible grimace,
And clamours ſtrain'd, amidſt a ſtaring crowd
Dealing damnation. — Keep me, pow'r ſupreme,
Alike from idle faith in fooleries,
And from imagination's tenet dire
(Child of deſpair, or pride) that circumſcribes
Infinity, and with a word * dethrones
Thee from thy MERCY-SEAT. — Give me a faith
Stedfaſt in him that bled! a lively hope!
[61]An humble confidence! an ardent love;
And cordial charity that knows no bounds!
Let virtue be my rule, but not my boaſt: —
And death my expectation, not my fear.
Give me to live in peace; cheerful to wait
My hour of diſſolution; take my leave
Of this vain world in ſmiles; look up to thee;
And in an act of piety expire.
ODE FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY.
[62]HARK! hark! what harſh and horrid craſh I hear?
What jarring diſcords burſt upon mine ear?
'Tis chaos audible; — and more and more
Loud the tumbling waters roar:
Anarch tumultuous holds his dreary reign,
And o'er the future globe
Darkneſs throws her ſableſt robe. —
But, hark again!
Hark to a ſweetly-ſolemn ſtrain,
That ſooths my aching boſom's pain;
The ſtrain that companies the voice of GOD:
And, as he bids the jarring diſcords ceaſe,
And ſpeaks confuſion into peace,
[63]Calms the gath'ring deeps around
With harmony of nobleſt ſound;
While light, ſwift-guſhing in etherial ſtreams
That from the throne eternal flow'd,
Silvers the vaſt obſcure with virgin beams:
And bands of rich-plum'd angels in full quire,
Sonorous ſweeping each his golden lyre,
Their purple banners wide unfurl'd,
Salute with hymns of joy the birth-day of the world!
CHORUS.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high,
Pureſt heav'n is thy abode,
Thou, coeternal with the Deity
And daughter of the voice of GOD:
II.
Muſick, to various ends by wiſdom giv'n,
Bounty of indulgent heav'n
Thro' nature ſways without controul;
Rouſes the paſſions ſlumb'ring in the ſoul,
Or ſtills the mental ſtorms that in the boſom roll.
Tuneful meaſures ſweetly move
Pleaſing throbs of glowing love;
[64]Sadly-pining griefs aſſwage;
Lull the pains of drooping age;
Smooth the brow of anxious care;
Drive the cloud that wraps deſpair;
Feelings touch with niceſt art,
And heave with pity's pants the ruthleſs heart.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high, &c.
III.
But when loud clangours ſound alarms,
And manly muſick fires the ſoul to arms;
When the ſhrill trumpet's brazen breath
Sends thro' the walks of war the blaſts of death;
The lofty ſtrain all fear diſpels;
Each breaſt with martial emulation ſwells;
The troops are eager to engage;
The leaders kindle into rage;
And, warm with longings for a warriour's name,
Already ſee their valiant deeds enroll'd
In deathleſs characters of gold,
And wear the palm of fame.
Or if pealing organs blow
Majeſtically ſlow
[65]In well-fill'd quires;
Or the tall roof with hallelujahs rings
From dulcet voices to the King of Kings,
The ſacred melody inſpires
Meek raptures, ſober joys, and pure deſires:
The ſoul refin'd,
And on devotion's wing born high,
Aſſerts her native ſky,
And ſoars thro' boundleſs ſpace, and leaves the world behind.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high, &c.
IV.
Hail, princely Tubal! ſon of Lamech, deign
To ſmile upon my grateful ſtrain!
Father of earthly muſick! ſire renown'd!
Thee, ſtill with rev'rence let me name,
That didſt invent the deep-ton'd organ's frame;
And teach the vocal ſtrings to greet
The liſt'ning ear with warblings ſweet,
And charm th' aſtoniſh'd world with cheerful ſound.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high, &c.
[66]V.
Say, Muſe, who next thy verſe ſhall grace?
Or he, the fabled bard of Thrace,
Whoſe liquid notes allur'd the woods,
And check'd the ſpeed of rapid floods,
And tam'd the fierceneſs of the ſavage beaſt,
And huſh'd the growling tempeſt into reſt,
And all th' infernal woes beguil'd; —
The furies dropt their ſnakes, and hell's grim tyrant ſmil'd:
Or he whoſe lute's attractive call
Rais'd the ſtately Theban wall:
Or he, muſician ſweet,
That, "at the royal feaſt for Perſia won
By Philip's warlike ſon,"
From his exalted ſeat
With wond'rous art, by all confeſs'd,
Led the obſequious paſſions round
With magic melody of ſound,
And moulded at his will the yielding monarch's breaſt:
Or, rather, he who reign'd
Vice-gerent of the higheſt, Iſrael's king,
(Asſure no ſweeter muſe hath ſtory feign'd,)
[67] David, immortal minſtrel, ſkill'd to ſing
Jehovah's might omnipotent, and raiſe
To him enthron'd on high
In cloud-environ'd majeſty
Songs ſublime, and joyous praiſe.
O with how delicate a touch
He wak'd the ſoft-ton'd lyre
That, warbling, heal'd Saul's wounded breaſt,
And laid his frantic ire. —
Let the great maſter 'gin to play,
And the foul fiend is ſeiz'd with deep diſmay,
Owns the commanding ſounds, and quits the realms of day.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high, &c.
VI.
Ceaſe, ceaſe hereafter ev'ry ſtrain
That breathes an air profane,
Looſely gay, and lightly vain;
That may to virtue treach'rous prove,
And carnal thoughts with luſcious food ſupply,
And aid the board of ſumptuous luxury;
Unnerve the ſoul, and melt to ſenſual love.
[68]Strike me ſuch pow'rful notes as fell
From Miriam's ſacred ſhell,
When at the head of Iſrael's female throng
She led the dance, ſhe tun'd the ſong,
While the great Law-giver ſtood by,
And Jacob's hoſts exulting, late
Victorious over Egypt's fate,
Shook heav'n's blue vault with melody;
Or ſuch as hail'd, after the battle won,
The might of Jeſſe's ſon,
Wreath'd with unfading laurels from the blow
That laid the proud Philiſtine low:
Or cheer me with that loftineſs of ſound
Which brazen cymbals dealt around,
When hills and woods, and vallies rung,
And pſalt'ries play'd, and Levites ſung,
And on their ſhoulders bore their hallow'd load,
The ARK OF GOD:
Or lift me into extaſy
With ſtrains of ſacred harmony,
Such as when Solomon the wiſe
Bade Jehovah's temple riſe,
Charm'd the ſpheres, and ſtorm'd the ſkies:
'Twas tributary praiſe; — a nation's ſacrifice;
[69]Voices ſweet-attun'd combin'd,
One univerſal chorus join'd
With pſalt'ries, and harps, and trumpets loud;
What time, deſcending in a golden cloud,
Glory divine
Took poſſeſſion of the ſhrine:
The prieſts with awe retiring far away,
Impatient of the blaze of that tranſcendent day.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high, &c.
VII.
O, when the final trumpet's ſound
Shall ſhake the frame of nature round;
When that tremendous blaſt ſhall ſpread; —
The muſick which ſhall wake the dead —
May I be number'd with the ſons of grace
That manfully have run their Chriſtian race;
So ſhall Cecilia, ſweet harmonious maid,
In robe of ſpeckleſs white array'd,
Smiling, take me by the hand,
And place me in her tuneful band
That ſhall triumphant mount the ſtarry ſky
With ſhouts of joy, and ſongs of melody;
[70]And fill'd with gladneſs, peace, and love▪
Join the celeſtial choir that ceaſeleſs hymns above.
CHORUS.
Muſick, eſſence holy, high,
Pureſt heav'n is thy abode,
Thou, coeternal with the Deity,
And daughter of the voice of GOD!
HYMN TO THE SUPREME BEING. PSALM civ. &c. &c.
[71]LAUD to the Higheſt! laud to him enthron'd
In dignity ſupreme; array'd
In uncreated light, as with a robe
Flowing redundant: — look th' Almighty's hand
Wide throws the burſting clouds,
That, curtain-like, heav'n's pure expanſe
Veil'd from all ſight; and to a thouſand worlds
Unfolds at large
His pomp, and blaze of Majeſty Divine.
II.
Deep beneath Ocean's vaſt abyſs,
Profound unmeaſurable, lies
[72]The baſe of God's unſhaken throne!
Behold! he lifts him in his might, and now
Aſcends the golden clouds, up-born ſublime
In his etherial chariot; now
Deſcends, and on the rapid pinions of the wind
Walks in imperial ſtate.
III.
Myriads of tribes angelic, countleſs hoſts
Of ſpirits, fiery natures, watch
Thy high beheſts, Creator; thee
Thy flaming legions, train auguſt,
Tended with wond'ring eye, what time thou bad'ſt,
The pillars of this ample univerſe
Riſe from dark chaos; all was wat'ry waſte,
And wild confuſion, and rude din,
'Till thy commanding voice,
Thy thunder's roar, rebuk'd
That elemental war: — th' affrighted floods
Flew to their channels; earth appear'd
Cloth'd in her mantle green; and at thy word
Order came graceful forth, and infant Beauty ſmil'd.
[73]IV.
Thy pow'r omnipotent that wak'd
Inſenſate nature into birth
Can with a breathe diſſolve it; — when man's guilt
Clamour'd for vengeance, thou didſt ope
Heav'n's windows, and the flood-gates of the deep
Uplifting, let Deſtruction forth
To ravage all abroad. Deluge involv'd
Creation's noble work. Death had not known
Repaſt ſo rich before. Or, if thou lift'ſt
Thine arm in local wrath,
Fell Deſolation in an inſtant flies
Thy dread commiſſion to fulfil,
Wrapt in celeſtial flame, and ſheets of fire. —
Gomorrah ſmokes to heav'n!
V.
O thou preſerver of that world which grew
Beneath thy plaſtic hand,
Guardian of Iſra'ls ſons,
Terror of Jacob's foes,
My glowing boſom throbs with ſtrong deſire
[74]To celebrate thy name; —
Thy proweſs to deliver down
In monumental verſe to future times. —
How marvellous was thy puiſſant arm
In Memphian ruins? — Now, on eaſtern blaſts
Born high, vaſt clouds of locuſts ſweep
Thro' air, eclipſing day. Spring mourns
His plunder'd fruitage. Now, proud Nile,
Rolling his crimſon waves, laments
His ſcaly ſons expiring. Now
Dire Hail, down-pour'd in clutt'ring cataracts,
And Fire, his ruddy mate, devour
All ſummer's pride. Now Ocean wraps
The flow'r of Egypt in his wave,
Ingulfing thouſands; while thy hoſts
Their harneſs'd ſquadrons moving on with pace
Solemn and ſlow,
In firm array
March'd 'twixt the cryſtal battlements,
Their banners gayly waving to the ſun,
Hymning all-joyful to thy praiſe,
Jehovah, — victor Lord — glory's triumphant King.
[75]VI.
How did paternal Providence ſuſtain
A nation in the wilderneſs
With bread mirac'lous — nouriſhment of Gods
And Spirits incorporeal. — Down
In heaps on heaps deſcending fell
The feather'd food,
Diurnal ſuſtenance, that ſtrew'd the camp
Plenteous as Lybian duſt, or ſands
That line the ſhelvy beach. — When drought
Choak'd the parch'd ſoil, the ſmitten rock
In copious ſtreams diſcharg'd
His liquid treaſures, and a thouſand rills
Purl'd thro' the burning plain. The year reviv'd,
And all was ſprighly joy, and all was laughing ſpring.
VII.
But Nature in her conſtant courſe proclaims
Her origin divine.
The ſun, bright ruler of the day; —
The moon, fair regent of the night; —
The ſtars, heav'n's hoſt innumerable, roll
[76]Their glitt'ring orbs in revolutions true,
From century to century, and ſhall,
'Till he, that lighted firſt, ſhall quench their fires.
Spring heads the ſeaſons, leading in his hand
His luſty children; Health that hails the morn
With roſeate cheek; and Strength that ſtalks
With giant ſtrides, and brow erect;
And Beauty, queen of May; while Flora ſtrews
His verdant path with violets;
And the wing'd habitants of air
Greet him with matin ſong. — Next Summer ſhews
His ſun-burnt countenance; with genial heat
Warming the vegetable world.
Thunder, lightning, ſable ſtorm
Wait on his pleaſure; armies that defend
His ſultry reign from peſtilence
That ſtill annoys his borders. — Now
Autumn, great lord of harveſt, ſends
His ſwarthy labour'rs to collect
The various tribute of the year.
He ſtores his granaries with golden grain;
And in poſſeſſion of earth's riches, ſmiles
At Winter's ſtern approach; tho' Winter's ſelf,
Arm'd as he is with ſharp-fang'd froſt,
[77]And barbed hail, and ſmoth'ring ſnow,
Locks weary nature up in ſleep
Profound with friendly hand,
In vigour freſh
To be re-wak'd by Spring. — Thou Nature's Lord
Benign, as mighty; good, as great;
How does this wonderful viciſſitude
Lift thy all-glorious name!
VIII.
What language ſhall recite
Thy wonders, or thy mercies, in
The navigable deeps,
Where active Commerce ſpreads her daring wing,
Viſiting round the globe. Behold!
How ſwift yon veſſel ſpeeds it's courſe,
And ſkims along the level of the main. —
But ſudden winds unſeen
Creep from their caverns dark,
Whiſtling inſidious. Now they ſwell
With rougher blaſt; and now
Bellow with hideous voice, and dreadful roar.
Quick flit the fleecy clouds; the wat'ry South
Conducts the gloomy ſtorm; deep thunders roll
[78]With angry rumblings; lightning ſhoots
His vivid flaſh, ſtreaking the floods
With gleams of fire. — The winds the helpleſs bark
Toſs like a feather; now ſhe rides
Upon the ſurge to heav'n; now down ſhe drops
To earth's deep centre. — Who ſhall ſtill this rage?
Thou that didſt ſilence chaos. — At thy beck
Tumult and uproar ceaſe; the winds
Forget to blow; the ſea his waves
Smooths to a plain; and Phoebus ſpreads around
The comfortable blaze of cloudleſs day.
IX.
O thou, preſerver of whatever breathes
The common vital air,
Man, beaſt, fowl, fiſh, or reptile — all
Thy providence munificent confeſs. —
Thou dealeſt plenty with a lib'ral hand; —
The feather'd ſongſters grateful chaunt
Thy praiſes, pouring liquid melody
From their aerial ſeats.
The beaſts that ſlake their eager thirſt
At many at ſtream, that winds
His ſilver current thro' the vale,
[79]Know their preſerver. Loud
The lion's princely youngling roars,
Seeking his food from thee. When ſlumber ſeals
Man's eye, and night imbrowns the world
With dreary gloom,
The foreſt ſends his ſavage natives forth
Roaming for prey. They know their hour
Pre-deſtin'd; and when morning marks
The welkin with her bluſh, conſcious retire
At once, reſigning day.
Nor leſs their bounteous Maker own
The finny multitudes, that dwell
The wat'ry regions; from the ſmalleſt fry
That writhe, like infects, their exiguous forms
To huge leviathan,
Lord of the floods, that rolls his ſtately bulk
Sporting in Ocean! Let not man be laſt
In grateful homage, whoſe diſtinguiſh'd race
Stands firſt in favour. 'Tis for him
Nature abounds with wealth. For him
Earth, air, and ſea are peopled. 'Tis for him
The ſun impregns the glebe; the cloud diſtils
The fatneſs, and the joyful valley ſings.
For him the ground, rewarding culture's toil,
[80]Abundant yields the wheaten grain,
Strengthner of human hearts.
For him the grape ſwells with nectareous juice,
Cordial of life, that ſooths
Our nat'ral griefs, and gladdens worldly care. —
Laud then to him Moſt High! And while
Creation joins in gen'ral chorus, thou,
O thou, praiſe God my ſoul.
A MORNING THOUGHT.
[81]NIGHT in her fableſt mantle had cloſe wrapt
The peaceful world; and, o'er the lid of toil
His heavy mace ſlow-waving, down-rob'd ſleep
Held mortals bound in his oblivious chain;
When chanticleer, firſt herald that proclaims
Returning day, ſoon as the grey-ey'd dawn
Sprinkles with ſcanty beams the mountain's brow,
Pour'd thro' his out-ſtretched neck his ſhrilling notes,
Startling the reign of ſilence. I awoke,
And gave my ſtill attention to the call
Of this quotidian monitor. Methought
His ſummons typified thoſe final ſounds
That ſhall hereafter from death's leaden ſleep
Arouſe all nations; when the trump of God
Shall vent it's blaſt ſonorous, louder than
The brazen voice of clarions when they blow
Prologue to battle; or the rattling roar
[82]Of twice ten thouſand thunders; while big ſhouts
Of angels, and arch-angels rend the frame
Of univerſal nature. — How my ſoul
Hangs hov'ring o'er the thought! — And now the ſun
Threw wide the windows of the bluſhing eaſt,
And led the new-born day. Delighted Spring
Look'd cheerfully, and welcom'd his fair orb
With all her fragrance; whilſt the feather'd tribes
In various ſtrains, and warblings ſweetly wild,
Hail'd his enliv'ning ſplendor. — Glorious ſcene!
Yet, what is this to that tranſcendent blaze,
That luſtre pure, refin'd, ineffable,
Which ſhall inveſt the Sun of righteouſneſs
At his laſt awful advent? — What is this? —
'Tis duſk, 'tis cloud, 'tis ſhade, 'tis pitchy night! —
Now opes the ſcene of immortality, —
Proſpect ſtupendous! — Nature's dying-day
Is birth-day to a life unknowing end! —
Inquire then, O my ſoul, where, where is now
The pageantry of pow'r, the vaunt of pride
And high ambition graſping at the globe?
Where now the fame of Caeſar? — Where the flow'rs
That laughing pleaſure ſo profuſely ſtrew'd
Before youth's roving eye? — Or, where the wealth
[83]That ſwell'd the bags of av'rice? — Where the cares
That haraſs'd manhood, and o'erloaded age?
The film which Zephyr ſweeps from yonder bud
Hath ſubſtance more compact. — Come then, my ſoul,
Heireſs of bliſs, ſurvivor of the worlds,
Prepare thee for thine audit. — Stretch thy view
Beyond this ſpan of being, into lengths
Illimitable; — from heav'n's wardrobe take
The garments of ſalvation, wear the robe
Of righteouſneſs, begird thyſelf with truth,
Put on array more billiant than e'er deck'd
Bridegroom apparell'd for his nuptial hour,
And DRESS this morning for eternity.
A THOUGHT That occurred to the AUTHOR in paſſing through WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
[84]THESE ſolemn ſcenes all lighter thoughts controul—
They are an entertainment for the ſoul!
Awe corrects pleaſure. — Round I throw my eyes,
And ages paſt to recollection riſe.
Kings, patriots, ſages, heroes, bards appear —
Sure all that's great and good was buried here! —
If tombſtones tell us truth, that proſe, thoſe rhymes
Are ſtrong reproaches on the preſent times. —
But if they lie — the fulſom'ſt thing that's ſaid
To ſooth the living; but inſults the dead. —
I feel emotions warm my boſom raiſe
At this profuſion of licentious praiſe. —
Is there a God above who does not know
Our virtues, 'till they're ſculptur'd here below?
[85]The beſt with labour earn immortal bliſs —
Look here — and not a creature does amiſs.
When theſe bold Gothic buildings ſhall decay,
And monuments themſelves ſhall mould away;
When time reſiſtleſs ſhall deſtroy our buſt,
And blot the verſe that dignifies our duſt;
When marble records ſhall no more declare
That Newton, Shakeſpeare, Milton, Dryden, were; —
Then virtue clear'd, and vice abaſh'd, ſhall prove
Our characters are drawn, at their full-length, above.
TO A WORM WHICH THE AUTHOR ACCIDENTALLY TRODE UPON.
[86]METHINKS thou writheſt as in rage; —
But, dying reptile, know,
Thou ow'ſt to chance thy death! — I ſcorn
To cruſh my meaneſt foe.
Anger, 'tis true, and juſtice ſtern
Might fairly here have place. —
Are not thy ſubterraneous tribes
Devourers of our race?
[87]
On princes they have richly fed,
When their vaſt work was done;
And monarchs have regal'd vile worms,
Who firſt the world had won.
Let vengeance then thine exit cheer,
Nor at thy fate repine:
Legions of worms (who knows how ſoon?)
Shall feaſt on me, and mine.
TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF FORTUNE, WITH AN ALMANACK.
[88]YOUNG friend of twenty, ent'ring freſh
A world of care and ſtrife;
Read in the circle of the year
A lecture upon life.
Thou think'ſt Time halts on leaden feet,
Tho' Time is on the wing;
Nor ſeeſt a Winter to thy days,
Becauſe 'tis yet but Spring.
Now dimpled pleaſure to thy view
Preſents ſcenes bright and gay; —
But thorns inveſt the ſweeteſt flow'rs
That paint the bloomy May.
[89]
Ambition will thy manly prime
Allure with many a call;
As Summers cheriſh golden fruits
That ripen but to fall.
Wealth to thy waning age, belike,
Shall glitt'ring hoards diſplay: —
But Autumn's ſtill, tho' plenty crown'd,
The ſeaſon of decay.
Old Age is Winter; — Winter brings
Indeed a cheerleſs hour:
Where now is vernal beauty? — Where
Is pleaſure, pomp, or pow'r?
The Seaſons then may teach thy youth
To form the prudent plan. —
An Almanack will ſerve to ſhew
The chequer'd ſtate of man.
Look down the margent of each month; —
Obſerve the weather's train; —
Now calm, and clear, attract your eye,
Now cloud, and wind, and rain.
[90]
So joys and cares thro' various life
Altern emotions raiſe; —
'Twere folly to expect to baſk
In ſunſhine all your days. —
'Tis worth your pains to mark (for ſure
'Twill rouſe an honeſt pride)
That regal liſt; — you'll ſee what kings
Were born, and reign'd, and died.
Here's all th' account of what they did,
Or worthy, or amiſs: —
Dear youth, ſecure a fairer page
Of Hiſtory than this.
May no diſhoneſt, paltry deed
Obſtruct thy road to fame;
No baſeneſs viſibly eclipſe
The ſplendor of thy name.
So ſhalt thou flouriſh in renown
Amongſt the good, and great;
So reap eternal bliſs, when time
Itſelf is out of date.
THE BAROMETER.
[91]IN things quite out of common gueſs
Strong emblems oft you'll find:
The atmoſphere, for inſtance, ſhews
The race of womankind.
Sallies of rage, and paſſion's guſts
Some female breaſts deform;
And theſe are well denoted by
Much tempeſt and loud ſtorm.
By vapours preſs'd, with clouded brow,
And ſtill in weeping vein,
Your tender, melting things, methinks,
Are typified by rain.
[92]
Moſt of the ſex inconſtant are;
Fickle from high to low; —
As weather in this clime too oft
Is changeable you know.
If ſmiles give life to beauty's cheek
All gay and debonair,
'Tis like the face of nature, when
The glaſs is up at fair.
But when Religion womanhood
Adorns with graces rare;
Good-humour has a baſis ſure;
And then 'tis — ſettled fair.
THE LOOKING-GLASS.
[93]SYLVIA, ſo pleas'd thy time to paſs
Before thy faithful looking glaſs;
Happy that figure to ſurvey;
That graceful mien; that aſpect gay;
And ruby lip, and ſpeaking eye;
For which ſo many lovers die:
And ſtudious, what Dame Nature lent
To aid with art and ornament;
Say, ſhould ſmall-pox (you've known the caſe)
Make depredations on thy face;
Or ſanguine pimples fluſh thy cheek
So fair, ſo bloomy, and ſo ſleek;
Or caſualties, or nat'ral harms
Deſpoil thy all-triumphant charms;
Shouldſt thou not droop, and pout, and fret,
A victim to continual pet,
[94]With aching heart the loſs deplore,
And loath the glaſs you now adore.
O then, ſince doubtleſs ſoon or late
Decay is tranſient beauty's fate,
Sylvia, think that inſtruction kind
That cautions thee to deck thy mind,
And graces cultivate with care
Time may improve, but can't impair.
'Tis univerſally confeſt
There is a mirror in the breaſt,
Which what we ſay, or think, or do,
Exhibits in reflection true. —
'Twere prudent to look into this,
To know what's right, and what's amiſs.
If virtue, innocence, and truth,
(Habits which beſt become our youth)
Should ſtrike at once your ſearching ſight,
Tongue can't deſcribe your pure delight.
If fluſhes of unchaſte deſire,
Paleneſs of envy, paſſion's fire,
Swellings of vanity and pride,
Or moral blemiſhes beſide,
[95]Appear; — O Sylvia, thou wilt ſee
With grief thy ſoul's deformity. —
But ſtill remember, art and care,
Which never can a face repair,
Will for theſe ſports ſure waſhes find:—
There are coſmetics for the mind. —
Ah! then regard a friend ſincere;
Beſtow your firſt attention here:
In this wiſe ſearch your mornings paſs,
And Conſcience be — your Looking-glaſs.
VANITY. A SATIRE.
[96]O For the manly wrath, the noble rage
That pointed ev'ry verſe in ev'ry page
Of angry Juvenal; — or the keen ſtroke
Of Horace, whoſe ſeverity of joke
Laid folly low, and knav'ry brought to ſhame;
Or the ſatiric Muſe of equal name
That fir'd immortal Pope's prolific brain,
Young's nervous line, and Dryden's cutting ſtrain:
Our age is mark'd with fool'ries that would call
For the beſt wit, or blackeſt ſpleen of all!
'Tis Vanity that all the world can draw;
It hath the force of Goſpel, and of law.
Amongſt old Adam's offspring there's no ſtrife
Like that of ſhining in this mortal life.
[97]It is the thought, the plan, the dream, the whole
Wiſh, and ambition of the worldling's ſoul:
This one grand aim we ſteadily purſue,
As inclination points, and — whimſey too. —
Some hope reſpect, or envy to engage
With novelty, or glare of equipage.
Time was, precurſors could our worth proclaim,
And running-footmen tript us into fame.
Now with parade more ſolemn we approach,
And ſervants hang in cluſters to the coach.
One keeps ſmart grooms, fine ſteeds, and courſers able:—
The temple of his fame is his own ſtable!
Another nobly lives, with ſplendor treats,
And man becomes immortal — as he eats!
Theſe Taſte in lofty palaces diſplay,
And we have Babels building ev'ry day.
Who but his daring fancy muſt approve
That without faith whole mountains can remove? —
Or bids new ſtreams in unknown channels go,
And teaches wand'ring rivers where to flow?
Nature ſubdued to ſkilful labour yields,
And barren heaths commence Elyſian fields.
"How, Sir! all ſtate, all art, all works deride?"
Miſtake not — 'tis not uſe I blame — but pride.
[98]The things heav'n ſends us are commodious things;
And princes born ſhould live like ſons of kings.
Steeds, chariots, villas, ſuit the man of ſenſe;
They are his comforts; not his excellence.
Life ſhould be decent; grand, as means afford; —
What is ſo little as a little Lord?
A noble ſpirit marks the great and wiſe:
But Monarchs ſelf-ſufficient I deſpiſe.
Nay, fruits of bold deſign juſt praiſe command
When Genius takes Convenience by the hand,
And what is undertook is underſtood.
The true projector is a publick good. —
Bridgewater's name ſhall glide thro' ev'ry age;
And makes a glorious botch in Satire's page.
Look round the ſurface of the globe, you'll ſee
Nought more contagious is than Vanity.
All pant with longings to be rich and great,
And emulate their betters — in eſtate.
Pomp is our idol; we indulge in ſhow;
Appearance is the only thing below.
For this we toil, watch, cozen, forge, ſwear, lie. —
There is no ſin on earth but poverty.
[99]Nay more, we yield to be diſtreſs'd for this;
Make our own troubles; and in ſeeming bliſs
Labour with grievance real. Criſpus clear
Hath leſs than twice two hundred pounds a year.
Yet, little as ſuch ſubſtance will afford,
He eats, drinks, whores, and gambles with my lord:
Among the foremoſt ſhines at balls or play,
For ever anxious, and for ever gay.
And now he riggles 'neath the gripe of law;
And mortgage on his lands lays iron paw:
Ills upon ills beſet his haraſs'd life;
He hears in tortures a complaining wife;
He ſtorms; he curſes; throws the blame on fate;
While duns inceſſant thunder at his gate;
His folly is reflection's endleſs theme;
Care haunts his walk; and horror rides his dream;
'Till at the laſt all his misfortunes meet
In one, and Criſpus figures — in the Fleet.
Few ſee the ſorrows that with ſplendors mix,
Can man be wretched with a coach and ſix?
Such ſentiment the worldly fool reveals
Who thinks there is no woe but that he feels.
[100]At leaſt to keep a carriage and a pair
Is requiſite for decency, — and air.
Borne thro' ſome country town, th' admiring throng
Believe us great ones as we whirl along.
All eyes behold us when we gaily roam;
But we can keep our miſeries at home. —
Pride, how prepoſt'rous is thy burning itch?
Sure people ſhould have riches to be rich!
'Tis not in common language to expreſs
The pleaſure or the privilege of dreſs!
It is the moſt commodious thing on earth; —
It covers exigence; ſuppoſes birth;
Supplies defect of dignity, or grace;
And gives to impudence itſelf a face!
Mortals of lofty ſpirits, when unknown,
Command attention from their garb alone;
And ere to-day, by virtue of fine cloaths,
Tailors have danc'd, and barbers rank'd with beaus.
You'll ſcarce diſcern, as caſes may be laid,
Between a counteſs and a chamber-maid.
Both ſeem alike well-dreſt, alike well-bred,
And painted ſtreamers wave from either head.
[101]Some taſte and judgment muſt detect a cheat—
The ſilks of Ludgate-Hill and Monmouth-Street
Glow with an equal tint to vulgar eyes:
And often our beſt ornaments are lies.
Sometimes (as ſoon a ſtory ſhall explain)
Juſt diſappointment mortifies the vain.
A lawyer's dapper clerk of ſlender ſkill
(Who brandiſh'd with reluctant hand the quill)
Was pert, and proud; talk'd much, but little meant: —
In ſhort, his coat—was his accompliſhment. —
I mean his firſt, for he could ſing, and dance,
Take ſnuff, read novels, and diſcourſe of France
With fluency — of inſignificance.
Full oft he paſt, in ſplendor of attire,
For what he pleas'd; — lord, baronet, or 'ſquire; —
A man of taſte, and elegance refin'd;
One that had ſtudied life, and knew mankind. —
It happen'd once, as anecdotes declare,
(What boots it, my good reader, when or where?)
Our hero inn'd in a ſnug country-town. —
(The houſe, for rhyme-ſake, we will call the Crown;)
"What noiſe was that?" "Th' aſſembly's held to night."
His car devours the tidings with delight? —
[102]
Suppoſe we now all previous matters ſet
In order, and this belle aſſembly met.
Our ſtranger ſpruce, and trim, and debonair,
Attracts reſpect; — the chief male figure there.
Among the females with ſuperior grace
Of perſon, and ſoft ſymmetry of face,
Vaneſſa ſhone — the ſwain that ſees her dies; —
Nothing her dreſs outſparkles — but her eyes:
Her lovely head a load of plumage bore;
Such as we read old Homer's heroes wore:
Sweetly ſhe prattled, while attention hung
Upon the pretty liſpings of her tongue. —
All-conſcious of commanding charms ſhe moves,
And round her ſkipt a train of little loves.
Our ſpark, who ever thought it bounden duty
To proſtrate to pre-eminence of beauty,
And in this fair-one could diſtinctly ſee
Virtue, wit, breeding, fortune, family,
Humbly the favour of her hand implores
To join the dance, — enjoys it, and adores!
Now in her ear he labours to impart
His fervent love, and throbbings of his heart:
[103]In whiſpers owns her beauty's ſov'reign pow'r;
Like a bee buzzing round ſome maiden flow'r!
Hops, ſmiles, ſighs, ogles, moans, yet joys his pains;
Like a tame monkey friſking in his chains!
Full he appears to all her ſlave confeſt,
And envy tortures ev'ry female breaſt.
Well-pleas'd Vaneſſa hails this happy night;
Her boſom flutters with the dear delight;
And to herſelf, in native pride, ſays ſhe,
This is indeed a conqueſt worthy me!
The bell beats twelve; the hour of parting's come;
And now the univerſal word is — home. —
(For country-girls are not like city-jades
That waſte the live-long night at maſquerades.)
Our 'ſquire officious will conduct his fair
To her nigh-neighb'ring manſion — his fond care
Reluctant ſhe declines — he ſtill inſiſts —
In forms a lover does the thing he liſts. —
O! mark how ſoon realities deſtroy
The neateſt fabric of ideal joy. —
[104]Soon as they reach'd her father's clumſy doors,
The ſurly guardian of his leather ſtores,
With barkings loud aſſails our wooers ear;
Above in painted rows boots, ſhoes appear;
He ſmokes his fair plebeian; "pretty dear,
"Remember me to Criſpin." — rude he cries,
And, ſcornful, from his pouting charmer flies. —
Yet, juſtly neither party could complain; —
No lady, ſhe; and he, no gentle ſwain.
Time was (will ſuch a time be known again?)
When only gentry liv'd like gentlemen: —
When people dreſs'd, and fed like what they were;
And income was the rule of daily fare:
When houſewifery the decent pantry ſtor'd,
And prudence order'd the convivial board;
Moſt tables were ſupplied with eaſe — for why?
Pudding, and beef, and beer, was luxury! —
Each ſocial dinner now muſt be a treat: —
And there are thouſands ſtudy — what to eat!
Lo! Vanity her various charms diſplays —
How rich, how beautiful your ſide-board's blaze! —
[105]Promiſe of high repaſt! Th' expectants feel
Complacence, and premeditate the meal.
Now ſav'ry viands well-arrang'd appear;
The ſight an alderman himſelf might cheer;
In turns the bounties of the ſeaſon ſmoke;
And coſtly wines freſh appetite provoke.
The gueſts profuſely in your praiſe deſcant: —
This, how ſuperb! and that, how elegant!
The point is gain'd; you reach the wiſh'd-for fame;
And all — but creditors applaud your name.
There are thoſe half-bred dames whoſe mode is ſuch,
They plague by being civil overmuch.
Simp'ring they do the honours of the feaſt. —
"Sir, can you make a dinner? — I proteſt
There's nothing to be got. — You'll ſadly fare. —
Pray, taſte the pheaſant; — will you try the hare?"
We ſooth our vanity a hundred ways: —
Unjuſt abuſe is the high road to praiſe.
But ſuch impertinence is ſtrangely vain,
And tho' no vice will teaze us more than ten.
Facts are ſure vouchers; elſe you'd ſwear I dream.—
'Tis wonderful what folks will do to ſeem.
[106]One cornice will a ream of paper waſte;
And brilliant di'monds are compos'd of paſte:
Glaſs ſtands for china; and the maſſy weight
Of burniſh'd candleſticks is — pure French plate.
Some entertain you by mere dint of force; —
And will almoſt create a ſecond courſe.
With a few diſhes they their friends regale,
But they are twenty if you go by tale.
Here couch'd in ſalt four eggs attract your eye;
And there a leaſh of ſwarthy walnuts lie;
Here ſhreds of butter neatly ſhav'd appear;
And half a dozen olives juſtle there.
Nay, at ſome tables of the great, we know,
Proviſions enter leſs for uſe than ſhew.
Day after day the formal board they grace:
You might ſuppoſe each viand knew its place: —
They are the ſtanding diſhes of the year;
Not part of, but th' appendix to your cheer:
Nothings are potted! nought's beneath that lid; —
The whole is handſome, but one half forbid.
My Lady theſe by law of uſage gives; —
They are not eatables, but expletives.
[107]
I've heard of dainties (if truth ſome aver)
Which he who carves muſt be a carpenter; —
Viz. — fowls, tongues, ſundry articles of wood,
Perpetual repreſentatives of food!
'Tis lofty precedent that makes us fools,
And thro' the world fantaſtic faſhion rules:
We ſet no limits to our vain deſires;
'Squires rival lords, and yeomen rival 'ſquires.
Is it in Chriſtian patience to endure
High-life burleſqu'd, and ſtate in miniature?
Some domes are neat, and ſome excel in glory;
Bur ev'ry bandbox has its attic ſtory.
A rambler oft in his excurſions ſees
Two crooked ſticks form a chevaux de frife.
Meandring ſtreamlets are from ditches made;
And ſpouts low-bending dribble a caſcade!
Pebbles, and moſs, and beads together got
Are Merlin's cavern, or Calypſo's grot.
Sometimes a paſteboard bridge diſplays it's ſhow,
O'er the dull muddy brook that creeps below.
'Tis foolery too groſs to be deny'd,
When Avarice goes hand in hand with Pride:
[108]Then hoarded gold is rather ſqueez'd than ſpent;
We are half-mean, and half magnificent.
Miſſello's ſeat to common view will ſhew
Like Wilton's ſplendour, or the pomp of Stowe.
There niggard Vanity has play'd his part,
And awkard Labour ſav'd the coſts of Art.
Grim Tritons there in empty baſons play,
And Neptune ſcorches in the noon-tide ray.
A meek-ey'd Pallas graſps her harmleſs ſpear,
And ghaſtly Cupids like young imps appear.
Diana looks moſt ſmirking, and moſt civil,
And Venus is as ugly as the d—l.
A ſhatter'd green-houſe feebly lengthens there,
Tott'ring with age, and groaning for repair:
There broken ſlates, and many a crazy pane
With hoſpitable gap invite the rain:
While ſick exotics ſhake as Eurus blows,
And myrtles droop beneath oppreſſive ſnows.
Here pictures bought at auctions boaſt no names,
But ſtrike th' admiring eye with — tawdry frames.
Fine drawings are expenſive, uſeleſs ſtuff;
The rooms are fitted up — and that's enough.
Or thick-daub'd portraits which your ſight abhors
Will paſs extremely well for anceſtors!
[109]Yet may one plea Miſello's fame ſecure; —
He is a chapman, not a connoiſeur,
And underſtands not taſte in furniture.
Look round about, and thouſands you will ſee
Vain of a little ſpriggy pedigree. —
In Wales high birth is ev'ry native's claim,
And num'rous tribes exult in Tudor's name. —
Dick lets us know with triumph of delight
His grandſire's ſecond couſin was a knight,
An alderman, a ſheriff, and lord mayor; —
Elate with this connection, Dick will ſtare,
Strut, cock his hat, affect the man of note,
And now his honour pawn, and now — his coat.
As big as Nobles look, moſt folks agree
A little blood may ſerve a family:
As a few ſanguine drops the tide will ſtain,
And roll a tinctur'd current to the main.
There are, experience ſhews, who cannot trace
One anceſtor to dignify their race,
Nor yet have worth, or ſpirit to make known
A gallant deed, or virtue of their own.
No creatures ſo deſerving are of ſcorn,
Except the ſc—ndr—ls that are highly born,
[110]Who baſely to all ſenſe of honour loſt,
Diſgrace their birth, and blot the line they boaſt.
Were we to judge by practice, ſure ſome hold
That merit is transferrable like gold;
That virtue thro' all progeny will run,
And fame, like land, deſcend from ſon to ſon.
Nay, ſtranger ſtill, where vice and folly reign,
Monſtrous effect! — the wicked will be vain!
Let bold corruption once invert all rules
The beſt, are madmen; and the wiſeſt, fools.
'Mongſt libertines, that ſyſtems can unmake,
Men will be vile — for reputation's ſake!
Have we not liv'd flagitious feats to ſee
Vaunted by coxcombs in iniquity?
Have we not mark'd in this licentious town
Rakes in eſteem, and r—ſc—ls of renown?
O come Religion, thy ſoft balm impart,
To melt into remorſe each harden'd heart!
Religion come, and with thy ſtrong controul
Allay this raging fever of the ſoul!
Preſent to Faith's weak ſight, and guilt-dimm'd eye
An awful picture of the God moſt high!
[111]Preſent him great, and good, and wiſe, and juſt,
'Till mortals humble carnal pride in duſt; —
Renounce falſe pleaſure; — ſenſual joys forego;
And tremble at the gulf that yawns below!
Come Reaſon, come, and with thy ſober ray
Enlighten minds by fopp'ry led aſtray; —
Teach us to form each ſcheme by judgment's plan,
Aſſert ourſelves, and live the life of man:
Teach us to riſe, or ſink in our deſires,
As ſtation warrants, or as need requires.
Affecting to be great, we laughter move; —
Aſpiring to be good, we challenge love; —
Virtue can never low, or mean appear,
And ev'ry peaſant may adorn his ſphere.
The ſouls of honeſt men with ſcorn look down
On uncarn'd greatneſs, and a tarniſh'd crown.
At that perhaps advancing dreadful day,
When wealth ſhall melt, and grandeur mould away,
Who's good — who's bad — Omniſcience ſhall enquire,
And all diſtinctions but that one expire. —
E'en Reaſon dictates this — the doctrine's plain —
Mark, think, reflect, and, if thou canſt — be vain.
COXCOMBS. A SATIRE.
[112]'TIS fooliſh from propriety to ſwerve. —
The maxim moſt admit, but few obſerve.
All cenſure when abſurdities are big;
You'd laugh to ſee a Biſhop dance a jig:
And yet time is, a curious eye might ſee
Something almoſt as wrong in you or me.
For more or leſs, throughout, from great to ſmall,
There is an affectation in us all.
Our neighbours inconſiſtencies are ſhewn
In glaring light; but ſelf-love hides our own;
Or kindly from our conduct takes all blame; —
Fools call that credit, which the wiſe call ſhame.
"Well, all extremes are wrong." 'Tis granted, brother;
And therefore one's as blameful as another.
[113]
Do but ſurvey him, and from top to too
You'll find Will Tinſel an accompliſh'd beau!
A ſimple, plain-clad man would ne'er divine
How much it is Will's glory to be fine;
He ſtudies neatneſs daily, early, late,
And in his dreſs is moſt immaculate. —
O touch him not — for pity come not nigh
For he will crumble like a butterfly!
He trembles if a breeze juſt ſtirs a feather,
And dares not wag an inch in rainy weather.
He ſhrinks from cold, or heat; by both undone;
As tulips muſt be ſkreen'd from wind and ſun.
He ſcents the atmoſphere, and all he meets
Poiſons with fragrancy; — he ſtinks of ſweets!
Whene'er this fribbler comes acroſs your ſight,
You term him Coxcomb, and you term him right.
But ſome there are who as abſurdly ſhew,
The very contraſt to this brittle beau;
And they are Coxcombs too, I'd have you know.
Dick Loutly ſo neglectful is of dreſs
He will torment your eye with naſtineſs: —
His hands are dirty; greaſy are his chops;
His beard's a bramble; and his wig a copſe;
[114]Your houſe-maid frets whene'er ſhe ſees him come;
He's worſe than twenty ſpaniels in a room.
Elab'rate ſpruceneſs gives a man the ſpleen;
Yet we were all created to be ſeen!
In ſhort, the Muſes no extremes will ſpare —
We loath alike a monkey and a bear:
Let medium be the rule; I would not ſtop
Or at a dunghill, or perfumer's ſhop;
There's odds (for illuſtrations offer pat)
Betwixt rank Reynard and a Civet-cat.
By uſage we deem coxcomb, fop, or beau,
While ev'ry man that's ſingular is ſo.
Would you be ſure your conduct ſhall not err —
The point is ſtill to act in character.
Ambition ſhould be taught to reaſon well; —
For ſome have fail'd by meaning to excel.
Charles of the North (a memorable name)
Wiſh'd to ſurpaſs the Macedonian's fame;
The Greek luxurious quaff'd wines ſtrong and rich;
The Swede would guzzle water from a ditch;
That in gay Perſian robes attracted note;
This was diſtinguiſh'd by a thread-bare coat;
[115]One dallying ſoft with wanton whores was ſeen;
'Tother would turn his back upon a queen.
For want of underſtanding one plain rule
This royal, ſober ſloven, was a fool.
Some from propriety affect to ſtray,
And long to be immortal the wrong way!
A frantic wretch Diana's Temple fir'd: —
Pray, is his name deteſted or admir'd?
Stern Nero had a view to ſtrange renown
When in a frolic he conſum'd the town.
Th' Imperial Fiddler with pleas'd eye ſurvey'd
The ſpreading flames; Rome burnt; the Monarch play'd;
Loathſome to all his memory remains,
And he is curſt for ever for his pains.
Then call not Coxcomb only him, or him;
The term belongs to villainy; and whim;
To ev'ry ſingle ſoul throughout the nation
That's mark'd by any kind of affectation.
Tom Snarlwell is a Coxcomb, tho' no beau;
He is an oracle to all the row:
[116]Stateſman, at club or coffee-houſe, moſt able,
He lays down politics for all the table:
In truth, tho' ſilent you'd believe him wiſe,
He looks ſo very knowing with his eyes!
With patriotic zeal he ſhews his hate
To ev'ry blund'ring Miniſter of State;
Like a true Briton, without fear or doubt,
Cenſures all in, and magnifies all out:
Now fixes ev'ry meaſure to his teſt;
And now demonſtrates —'s ſyſtem beſt.
He knows the Conſtitution to a T,
And is impertinent — becauſe he's free.
Numbers extol Tom's fluent eloquence;
His ſtrong ſagacity his manly ſenſe;
Yet, ſo perverſely have the fates decreed,
Tom can ſcarce write a line that you can read.
Flirtilla, lively, beautiful, and young,
Has a perpetual motion in her tongue;
Her lungs, not wit, moſt folks with wonder ſtrike;
She talks of all things, and of all alike:
And, while diſcourſing, ev'ry heart beguiles
With piercing glances, and coquetiſh ſmiles.
[117]The ceaſeleſs prattle charm'd her audience hears,
The nonſenſe ſounds ſo ſweetly in their ears. —
Muſic for want of ſenſe atonement brings. —
We rail not at the bird that always ſings.
The grave Prudiſſa with a face as fair
Sits ſerious as a quaker in her chair;
'Tis with reluctance ſhe can ſilence break;
She holds it is immodeſty to ſpeak;
Her looks preciſe all am'rous hopes deſtroy; —
You'd think ſhe bore antipathy to joy. —
That prattles ever, this will nothing ſay;
But both are pretty Coxcombs in their way.
We love romantic tales; tho' by the bye
It will require ſome parts — to tell a lie.
There muſt be happy manner, air, and grace,
And calm ſtagnation of proteſting face.
Think not without a talent to deceive;
Readieſt believers don't all folks believe.
'Tis ſtrange what lengths adepts in falſehood try
To cram you with impoſſibility!
Were but a tenth of what's reported, done;
'Twould be a full reply to M—ddl—t—n.
[118]Enlarge at will, ye travellers that roam;
But why ſo many miracles at home?
The formal Pedant better taught than bred,
With a fine group of claſſicks in his head,
Plagues you with Learning; ever out of place
He darts a Latin ſentence in your face.
He cannot ſpeak ten words without quotation,
And lards your meal with piebald converſation.
The Ladies laugh; the Captain ſhakes his head
At ſomething which he thinks the Doctor ſaid.
Whate'er the wit, or ſenſe, ſuch prigs advance —
I'm better pleas'd with cheerful ignorance. —
Shall we proceed? — O what extremes we ſee
In "civil leer," and rough ruſticity!
One cringes, bows, and ſprings to your embrace;
Another gapes, or hiccups in your face.
Manners uncouth 'gainſt decency tranſgreſs;
And complaiſance is painful in exceſs.
Tom Brazenface aſſumes a thouſand airs
In terms that ſhock you, when he ſpeaks, he ſwears;
[119]Deals wantonly in imprecations vain,
And is, for horrid humour's ſake, profane:
Or vents vile thoughts in language groſs and mean,
Looſe without ſenſe, and without wit obſcene:
In wounding the chaſte ear he has an end;
For 'tis his ſole ambition — to offend.
And yet, if we reverſe this odious caſe,
What more diſguſts us than affected grace?
No colours can th' abandon'd ſinner paint
But ſuch as could deſcribe an outſide ſaint,
Whoſe meagre countenance, and ſolemn mien,
Is ſanctity that labours to be ſeen;
Who under pious ſpeech, and eye demure,
Forms knaviſh plans, or harbours thoughts impure;
The world with groſs hypocriſy beguiles,
And righteous is — becauſe he never ſmiles!
Whoſe godlineſs is ſhew, and virtue art,
Saint in his face, and villain at his heart.
The ground of theſe ſtrange whims 'twere vain to hide;
'Tis emulation, or miſtaken pride.
An ancient proverb, and as good as any,
Aſſures us in plain terms — one fool makes many.
[120]Nor can Example's infl'ence be denied —
'Tis almoſt ev'ry hour exemplified.
Moſt ſerious truth, which ever ſhould have weight
With all, but to a ſcruple with the great.
Our imitation is our daily ſtrife,
And nothing is more catching than high life.
One trifling Lord that's delicate, or vain,
Shall have a thouſand foplings in his train.
Our habits, cuſtoms, manners, vices, ſports,
Savour of greatneſs, and derive from courts.
When crook-back'd Richard rear'd his ſceptre high,
'Tis ſaid that ev'ry Courtier went awry.
When great Eliza ſat at Britain's helm,
No female neck was ſeen throughout the realm.
In Charles's days all lewdneſs was approv'd;
"All by the King's example liv'd and lov'd." —
Yet higheſt patterns now won't ſet us right—
We are not good enough — to be polite.
O monſtrous proof of Vice's boundleſs ſwing —
John W—lk—s ſhall make more converts than the K—g.
Some folks are ſtudious to find grounds for ſtrife,
And to be thought well-bred ill-treat a wife:
[121]Rail at the nuptial yoke in words of courſe,
And ſigh for caſh to purchaſe a divorce.
While haply this ſame conſort is diſcreet,
Fair, virtuous, decent, elegantly neat. —
But joys are fled, when liberty is flown;
And 'tis ſuch low-life to be tied to one. —
Bleſt with ſnug means, and competent eſtate,
Theſe blockheads might be happier than the great.
But Coxcombs reigning vices fain would try,
And are rank raſcals tho' they ſcarce know why.
I knew a wretch (record him, O my rhymes)
That ſtrove to ape the manners of the times.
High precedent he made his conduct's rule,
And had juſt ſenſe enough — to be a fool!
By nature dull, a finiſh'd rake he'd be,
Yet was at beſt an aukward debauchee.
No age has witneſs'd to ſo ſtrange a caſe;
He could not ſerve the d—v—l with a grace!
Of horſes he had ſtuds in various places; —
He had a paſſion for Newmarket races.
He could a double character aſſume,
Of gentleman, and jockey, 'ſquire, and groom; —
[122]Vain without taſte, expenſive without art,
He was an arrant miſer in his heart.
His thouſands he has ſquander'd, but ne'er ſpent
In common life a ſhilling with content.
Proud without ſpirit, active without fire,
Gay without joy, and lewd without deſire.
A Libertine profeſt would bluſh to name
His brutiſh deeds, and yet he look'd ſo tame,
You'd think him innocent for very fear: —
He was a villain with a booby's leer.
He pouted, ſlouch'd like one diſpos'd to ſleep. —
His betters have been hang'd for ſtealing ſheep.
Of ladies fair he kept a buxom brace,
But hardly ever look'd them in the face.
Theſe fleec'd his ſubſtance, in one plan combin'd,
Who wou'd not give a groat to ſave mankind!
The paltry character has held me long; —
It finiſhes my theme; it crowns my ſong.
The race of Coxcombs is a num'rous tribe. —
Heav'n give myſelf to ſhun what I deſcribe:
Give me to act a plain, conſiſtent part,
From affectation free, and void of art;
[123]With caution to eſchew each mode that draws
On conduct juſt reproach, or falſe applauſe;
To ſeek no road by odd fantaſtic ways
To fame, but look into myſelf for praiſe,
Or cenſure; to myſelf attention lend,
My little good improve, my follies mend.
STREPHON and THYRSIS A PASTORAL.
[124]NOW had bright Phoebus clos'd a gaudy day,
And ſober Ev'ning wore her robe of gray;
Huſh'd were the winds; no ſound but from the rill
That pour'd its limpid murmurs down the hill;
Or from the bleatings of the num'rous flocks
That playful echo bandy'd round the rocks;
The winged ſongſters ceas'd; the bird of night
Thro' the brown vale ſlow took his ſolemn flight:
Strephon and Thyrſis met upon the plain,
And ſimply thus began th' alternate ſtrain.
THYRSIS.
Why homeward haſtens Strephon ſo caſt down?
Is there ſuch miſchief in a wench's frown?
Would thou wert bleſt like me; the birds that fly
So briſk, ſo blithe, are ſcarce ſo bleſt as I.
STREPHON.
[125]Ah! Thyrſis, thou art happy, far above
The neighb'ring ſhepherds all, in Chloe's love;
But Phyllida is cold to all I ſay,
Cold as a blaſt that nips the buds in May.
THYRSIS.
How many a yeoman in Great Britain's iſle
Would give his team to purchaſe Chloe's ſmile!
But love makes trifles bounties; ſee, look here,
Theſe apples are a preſent to my dear.
STREPHON.
'Twas but this morning, purblind Cupid knows,
I tender'd to my laſs a damaſk roſe; —
With ſcorn ſo lady-like away 'twas thrown; —
Yet, Thyrſis, by my troth, 'twas newly blown.
THYRSIS.
My love and I together ſtill are ſeen
At market, in the fold, or on the green;
My crook ſhe plays with; prattles by my ſide;
And all the pariſh ſees ſhe'll be my bride.
STREPHON.
[126]My damſel's proud to let the village know
Her preference for Lubbinol, my foe:
Yet to my eye he is the uglieſt ſwain
That ever tended ſheep upon the plain.
THYRSIS.
When 'neath the branching oak in yonder mead
At even-tide I tune my ſlender reed,
The ſprightly notes delight the liſt'ning ſwains,
And Chloe's pleas'd, and thanks me for my pains.
STREPHON.
Once at our wake, with my beſt ſkill and air,
I ſung the ballad which I bought at fair;
Pert Phylly cry'd, we'll hear the ſquall no more,
And, ſnatching from my hand, the ballad tore.
THYRSIS.
Oft, as in turn the jovial ſeaſons come,
Gay ſhearing-time or jolly harveſt-home,
Chloe and I regale; we laugh, we ſing;
Time merry glides; and all the year is Spring.
STREPHON.
[127]To me, alas! alike each morning low'rs; —
In vain ſoft April ſheds her ſilver ſhow'rs:
Nor can I joy, deſpair ſo wounds my breaſt,
Or peace on work-days, or on Sundays reſt.
THYRSIS.
My love is cheerful or at work or play;
Smiling ſhe binds the ſheaf, ſhe teds the hay;
Nought o'er her eaſy temper can prevail:
She'll ſing beneath the largeſt milking-pail.
STREPHON.
Still Phyllis pays my wooings with a frown;
She toſſes up her head; ſhe calls me clown;
Nought but high airs, and ſour diſdain I ſee;
She never ſmiles, or never ſmiles on me.
THYRSIS.
The ſun ſhall ſtop, the wind forget to blow,
The ſtars to twinkle, and the ſtream to flow,
The lamb to bleat, the buſy bee to rove,
Ere Cloe's falſe, or Thyrſis ceaſe to love.
STREPHON.
[128]Would I could rid me of this cruel fair; —
Would I could break the bond I groan to bear: —
I'll try my beſt; reſolve to be a man;
And learn to hate this vixen — if I can.
The night drew on apace; the ſhepherds part;
That whiſtling as he tript, this with a heavy heart.
THE PROGRESS of LOVE: IN FOUR PASTORAL BALLADS. AFTER THE MANNER OF MR. SHENSTON.
[129]FALLING IN LOVE. PART I.
YE Swains that confeſs the ſweet ſway
Of Cupid, that pow'r ſo divine,
And offerings cheerfully pay
At Beauty's all-powerful ſhrine;
That know what it is to endure,
But know not what 'tis to complain,
Nor wiſh for your anguiſh a cure,
And cheriſh the ſtrong-throbbing pain:
[130]II.
Ye Nymphs who diſclaim prudiſh arts,
Whoſe boſoms can hold a warm ſigh,
Who kindly diſcover your hearts
By ſoftneſs that melts in your eye;
That brighten with ſmiles your fair brows,
When gracefully preſt by ſome youth
Whoſe countenance warrants his vows
Pour'd all from a fountain of truth.
III.
All lovers attend to my verſe,
For lovers my verſe will approve,
And ſmile on the lays that rehearſe
The delicate progreſs of Love.
But hence ye unfeeling begone,
Still bent private ends to purſue;
Ye wordlings will frown on my ſong;
The ſubject's too tender for you.
IV.
The zephyrs 'gan ſoftly to blow;
The wood's feather'd warblers to ſing;
The meads made a beautiful ſhow,
And gay were the daughters of Spring;
[131]When lone thro' the thick-daified vale
With freedom of fancy I ſtray'd;
And there (Muſe record the fond tale)
There firſt I beheld the dear maid.
V.
A bevy of damſels ſo neat
Hard by me came tripping to fair; —
You'd have thought they had wings on their feet —
But O! what a damſel was there!
They tell us of Graces of yore,
And they talk of a Paphian Queen;
But never, believe me, before
So peerleſs a beauty was ſeen.
VI.
No painter with pencil could trace,
Tho' dipt in the richeſt of dies,
The ſweetneſs that dwelt in that face,
The brightneſs that beam'd from thoſe eyes,
No poet, tho' poets they ſay
Of all your fine writers are beſt,
Could tell my heart's feeling that day,
Unleſs he could read in my breaſt.
[132]VII.
I ſhall not attempt to recite
The raptures that glow'd in my mind; —
She flew like a bird out of ſight,
But left her fair image behind.
My thought was employ'd all the day,
Thoſe charms the delectable theme,
And when on my pillow I lay,
They pleaſingly furniſh'd my dream.
VIII.
I roſe with the larks of the dale,
Indulging my ſoft-growing care;
I meant not to go to the vale; —
But wander'd — and found myſelf there!
I travers'd the lawn to and fro,
I loaded the welkin with ſighs;
And this you'll call folly: — but, know,
I wiſh not again to be wiſe.
IX.
My love had bewilder'd me quite; —
I met an acquaintance of mine, —
He aſk'd me the time of the night, —
I told him — the Nymph was divine.
[133]Engagements I made without end,
And broke 'em, tho' ever ſo new;
For he may be falſe to his friend,
Who moſt to his paſſion is true.
X.
At length to myſelf thus I ſaid, —
As penſive I rambled one morn,
Oh, could I addreſs the dear maid!
An angel's a ſtranger to ſcorn.
My ſecret I burn to reveal
In language untutor'd by art; —
She'll pity at leaſt what I feel:
I long to unburthen my heart.
LOVE DISCOVERED. PART II.
[134]ONE, eve of the ſweet-breathing May
I firſt became known to my dear; —
Ye Muſes, remember the day,
And name it the prime of the year.
The moments were ſocially ſpent;
The time with diſcourſe was beguil'd:
She look'd with a look of content,
And O! how ſhe look'd when ſhe ſmil'd.
II.
She mark'd my reſpectful diſtreſs;
She conſtrued my half-ſmother'd ſighs: —
The belov'd have a wonderful gueſs,
And lovers can ſpeak with their eyes.
Methought too ſhe joy'd that ſweet night; —
That thought gave anxiety eaſe;
'Twas tranſport to yield her delight;
An exquiſite pleaſure to pleaſe.
[135]III.
Acquaintance augmented the fire
That ſtrong in my boſom was blown:
And ſoon to my eager deſire
I met my fair maiden alone.
The birds cheer'd the woodlands with ſong;
The lilies enamell'd the grove;
The brook ſoftly murmur'd along;
And ſure 'twas a ſeaſon for love.
IV.
This, this was the much-ſigh'd for hour
My paſſion at large to diſplay;
Yet now it was full in my pow'r,
In vain I ſtrove ſomething to ſay.
Of matters inſipid I talk'd,
As tho' we'd no buſineſs together;
And thrice I obſerv'd as we walk'd —
"Indeed 'tis moſt excellent weather!"
V.
Doubts, fears, and an aukward reſtraint,
Which beſt our ſincerity prove,
Prevented my tender complaint: —
There's not ſuch a coward as love.
[136]Complacent ſhe ſeem'd all this while;
Myſelf ſeem'd like one that was chid:
As tho' there were pride in a ſmile,
Or ſweetneſs itſelf cou'd forbid!
VI.
I thought I'd take courage next day; —
I met her again in the grove:
But Strephon was now in the way —
A witneſs is hateful to love.
He was dreſs'd in his holiday clothes,
Trick'd out like a finical aſs: —
I never could bear your trim beaus
That make themſelves fine in a glaſs.
VII.
He gave himſelf many an air
As great as a lord of the land;
Could prattle, and ogle, and ſwear —
And once he kiſs'd Phyllida's hand. —
I ſaw ſaucy hope in his eye;
I ſaw no diſdain in her look; —
If Phyllida had not been by,
I'd plung'd his curl'd locks in the brook.
[137]VIII.
The day I began with delight
I clos'd with a ſorrowful breaſt;
I wiſh'd from my ſoul for the night; —
Tho' night could afford me no reſt.
Ye mock at ſuch ſighs and ſuch groans,
Who never felt Jealouſy's ſmart;
There's not a true lover but owns
No place is ſo ſore as the heart.
IX.
All night I lay toſſing, perplext
With cares which uncertainties bring;
Now hopeleſs, now mad to be vext
By ſuch a light fluttering thing.
But Reaſon in vain lends her aid
Such feelings as theſe to remove:
Fond lovers are always afraid;
And trifles are torments in love.
LOVE DECLARED. PART III.
[138]THE, morn ſpread her bluſh o'er the plain,
Serene was the region above;
I wil [...]lly nouriſh'd my pain;
I ſigh'd, and I ſtray'd to the grove.
But never let lovers deſpair,
'Cauſe ſometimes things happen amiſs —
For whom ſhould I meet but my fair, —
And O! what a meeting was this.
II.
Her eye ſuch a ſoftneſs poſſeſt,
Her air was ſo placidly gay,
It ſcatter'd the cloud from my breaſt,
As ſun-ſhine enlivens the day.
Reviv'd, I determin'd at laſt
To act if I could like a man; —
My boſom I felt beating faſt; —
I faulter'd, — but thus I began.
[139]III.
Dear Phyllida, liſt to the ſtrain
Humility pours in your ear: —
Ah! do not deſpiſe a poor ſwain
Who ſhews you his faith in his fear.
Can we hide, if we would, from the fair
The conqueſts they make with their eyes? —
Then let me my paſſion declare,
Who cannot my paſſion diſguiſe.
IV.
'Tis bold an attempting to move
A damſel ſo matchleſs as you: —
It may be a folly to love;
It is not a crime to be true.
What tho' with the ſpruce-powder'd cit
Your Corydon paſs for a clown; —
There's much of aſſurance, and wit,
But little of truth in the town.
V.
My cattle's a plentiful ſtock;
My barns are well loaded with grain;
And healthy my numerous flock
That white with their fleeces the plain.
[140]But hope I to win thee with theſe,
Or goods of much value beſide?
Ah! no — I've ambition to pleaſe,
And only my love is my pride.
VI.
I could live with content in a cot
With Phyllida, eas'd of all care;
And bleſs the contemptible lot
That happily ſettled us there.
Soft lodg'd in my Phyllida's arms,
My bliſs would admit no increaſe;
Parade for the wiſe has no charms,
And Plenty is nothing to Peace.
VII.
In Phyllida's hand is my fate;
In Phyllida's ſmile is my joy:
O do not deſtroy me with hate; —
Such ſweetneſs can never deſtroy.
Forgive, if you cannot be kind,
And conſtant for ever I'll be;
If I'm not the man to your mind,
The world has no woman for me.
[141]VIII.
I paus'd, and I bow'd moſt profound; —
Her ſoft hand I tremblingly preſt; —
She caſt her fair eyes on the ground;
A ſigh ſeem'd to 'ſcape from her breaſt.
Then, bluſhing, ſhe midly replied,
Here Corydon ceaſe the fond ſtrain,
By Strephon thy truth I have tried; —
To-morrow I'll meet you again.
LOVE REWARDED. PART IV.
[142]WHAT tongue can the pleaſure expreſs,
The tranſport expanding the mind,
When lovers foreſee their ſucceſs,
And nymphs grow inſenſibly kind?
Embolden'd my joys to purſue,
My courtſhip I daily renew'd;
And oh! how delightſom to woo,
When Phyllida wiſh'd to be woo'd!
II.
Come — ſay, can you faithfully count
The waves that inceſſantly roar:
Or tell me preciſe the amount
Of pebbles that garniſh the ſhore?
O then you'll exactly recite
The raptures fond Gratitude ſhews,
When, bleſt in his miſtreſs's ſight,
The heart of a ſwain overflows.
[143]III.
The linnets have tunable throats;
And larks that ſoar over the hill;
And ſweetly the nightingale's notes
The meadows with melody fill:
But vain are theſe voices to cheer,
And pow'rleſs that muſic to move,
To the ſound that enchanted my ear —
When Phyllida whiſper'd — I love.
IV.
One favour I yet had to ſeek,
And that was to make her my brides; —
I aſk'd, — and the bluſh in her cheek
With ſoftneſs bewitching comply'd.
My heart had no more to purſue;
Love's taſk became innocent play;
And Corydon nought had to do
But wiſh a long fortnight away.
[144]V.
At length came the morning ſo bright,
Sure never a brighter could ſhine,
Which gave me my ſoul's firſt delight,
And made my dear Phyllida mine. —
May time to our mutual content
The bleſſings of wedlock improve;
And friendſhip the union cement
We ſweetly contracted in love.
A RHAPSODY IN PRAISE OF THE PARTICLES.
[145]WHAT! ſhall a thouſand little arguments
Be playthings for the Muſe? Shall frogs, and gnats,
Ladles, and locks of hair, pattens, and fans,
And nothing be the boaſted theme of verſe?
And ſhall the PARTICLES remain unſung?
Phoebus forbid. Dan Swift to public view
Diſplays the merit of the Alphabet,
When ev'ry letter his pretenſion puffs
To conſtitute a part of Durfey's name:
And Steele, Spectator gen'ral of the land,
Deign'd to receive petition in behalf
Of two inſulted Pronouns, — who and which:
And Brown, call'd Tom, of Garreteers the chief,
Rang'd his illuſtrious Adverbs in a ſtring
[146]Of florid declamation; yet forgot
Conjunctions, Prepoſitions, Interjec-
Tions, in blameful negligence. — Ah! how
Could ſuch a lofty genius theſe decline?
Ye needful Parts of Speech, be it my praiſe
To reſcue from oblivion's vaſty gulf
Your num'rous tribes.—Pronouns, and Nouns, and Verbs
Of Active import, Paſſive too and tame,
And Participles eke that proudly vaunt
Your double nature, like the two-fold bat,
What are ye all with all your energy,
Without the friendly aid of Particles,
But wind articulate, and ſenſeleſs ſound?
Homer's immortal Epic; Virgil's plan
With ſolid judgment laid; bold Milton's thought
Of moſt ſublime excurſion; Spenſer's flights
Thro' Fancy's trackleſs regions; Mansfield's flow
Of eloquence; Butler's original wit;
Newton's philoſophy; and Blackſtone's law;
All that has figured yet in proſe or rhyme;
Unparticled is jargon: — e'en thy page,
O Jacob Behmen, is more nonſenſe ſtill.
[147]
So from ſome huge machine, egregious work
Of a mechanic genius, great as thine,
O C—x, of brilliant mem'ry, but extract
A few ſmall pins, in rattling ruins down
It ſinks at once, and of ingenious art
Leaves not a trace behind. — O Parts of Speech
Declinable, ye are precarious all!
Perplexing apprehenſion with the force
Of terminations various — es, or ed,
Or hiſſing double ſs, or iſh, or ing;
While the firm Particles, unapt to change
From the firſt page to diſtant Finis, ſtand
Inflexibly the ſame. — What tho' pert Nouns,
E'en Adjectives, dependent as they are,
And in themſelves unmeaning; and proud Verbs
Boaſt their ſonorous tone, and rumblings rough,
Cracking pronouncer's teeth; the ſtamm'rer's curſe!
Or ſometimes, Vowel-aided, ſmoothly glide
Into a liquid train of Syllables;
The Particles have their importance too;
Their ſmoothneſs; and ſignificance of ſound;
Their ſtrength; their force; and oft themſelves contain
Much pithy ſenſe. — Let a ſelected few
Be vouchers to my Muſe. — Videlicet. —
[148](Itſelf emphatic here) indeed — that ſeals
A verbal promiſe, or a truth; — alack —
Of lamentable import, tho' conciſe; —
And — how — or angry, or inquiſitive;
And ſad — heigh-ho! — denoting heavy heart;
And formal peradventure; and whereas, —
That ſtately takes the lead in legal acts,
And Proclamations royal; — ha! — that ſtarts
At ſhade, or wonder; — by — that foreruns oaths
Expreſs'd, or underſtood; — contemptuous pſhaw! —
And quaint albeit; — and peremptory ſure —
Modeſt perhaps; — the quaker's ſolemn yea, —
That in grave courts of juſtice weighs as much
As carnal Chriſtian's oath; — deciſive no; —
Stern negative, that lays an interdict
Upon the ſuit of cringing poverty,
And the lean lover's wiſh; — and if; — that heads
Hypotheſis of various ſort, to ſooth
Ambition's appetite, or Wiſdom's pride. —
But hold — the taſk is done — my rambling ſtrain
One Adverb ſhall conclude, and that's enough.
THE EXPEDIENT. A TALE. BEING AN OLD STORY VERSIFIED.
[149]I HATE a theoretic point; —
It puts Good-nature out of joint;
And for whole months and ſometimes years,
Sets folks together by the ears: —
That truth is to my humour fitted;
Which, when once mention'd, is admitted: —
For inſtance — 'tis a wretched life
'Twixt diſagreeing man and wife.
Who this denies in any ſtation,
Muſt be a foe to affirmation;
And may fate link him to a ſhrew,
That he may feel th' aſſertion true.
But if this theſis none deny; —
The queſtion is — what remedy?
[150]My tale ſhall prove to all your faces
The uſe of cunning in ſuch caſes.
Roger and Nell (Euterpe finds)
Tho' but one fleſh were of two minds.
Their life of jars, and brawls, and care
Was worſe than Prior's — as it were;
Neither was open to conviction;
'Twas all determin'd contradiction.
For want of topics, when together
They would diſpute about the weather. —
Quoth Hodge, — the Sun's deſcending ray
Is earneſt of a glorious day.
Quoth Nell, — I'll ſwear thoſe clouds are warning
'Twill rain before to-morrow morning.
Judge then how well they muſt agree
In matters of oeconomy.
In ſhort, they ſtill each other rated, —
Scolded, — complain'd, — recriminated, —
Nay, ſometimes cuff'd: — how many times,
I ſay not, — for I can't in rhymes.
[151]
Hodge, who had art, as well as ſpleen,
(Which in the ſequel will be ſeen)
With ſighs and groans that he could ſham,
One ev'ning thus addreſs'd his dame. —
We have been coupled, Nell, he ſays,
Six years, nine months, and thirteen days:
Joys in unheeded circles flow,
But Nature items ev'ry woe;
No mortals ever toil'd for riches
As we have ſtruggl'd for the breeches. —
O 'tis too much; the conflict's paſt;
Thy proweſs I muſt own at laſt,
And, ſpent with matrimonial ſtrife,
Confeſs, I'm weary of my life.
Kind heav'n in ſuch a caſe as mine is
Muſt needs approve what my deſign is. —
My breath I'll render to the giver,
And plunge this inſtant in the river.
For once oblige me, Nell, and be
Witneſs to my cataſtrophe!
A wife, ſays Nell, muſt not gainſay —
You know, you'd always have your way.
[152]
Our couple now jog on with ſpeed: —
'Twas the firſt time they had agreed;
And in an hour, or leſs, I think,
They reach the fatal river's brink.
A poet that delights to wield
His pen in fair deſcription's field,
Might here enrich his copious theme
With all the beauties of the ſtream.
Recount the Nereids that each day
Upon the gliding mirror play;
The flow'rs that deck its gaudy ſide
With full diſplay of ſummer's pride;
Comparing its delightful flow
With Britiſh Thames, or Latian Po.
But 'twill ſuffice in humble ſong
T' aver the ſtream was deep and ſtrong;
And, only granting it no ſin,
Proper to drown a Chriſtian in.
Hodge hem'd a pray'r, and hum'd a pſalm; —
Then, feigning well a ſudden qualm,
Cries, wife, there's ſome impediment
Betwixt this act and my intent;
[153]As little as I deal in fear,
I find a ſlight miſgiving here;
And, tho' determin'd on my ruin,
Methinks this work of my undoing
I ſhould purſue with zeal more hearty,
If you would kindly be a party;
That I may one day fairly plead
'Twas not entire my act and deed. —
Step back as far as yonder buſh,
And drive me headlong with a puſh. —
The dame, whoſe conſcience was not nice,
Accedes to this ſame compromiſe;
And, pleas'd his orders to fulfil,
Springs from her poſt with right good will;
When, whimſical enough to tell ye,
Hodge ſlipt aſide, and — in popt Nelly.
ON AN ILLITERATE DIVINE WHO HAD A GOOD DELIVERY.
[154]WITH caſſock of rich ſilk, and hair well dreſt,
One Sunday, Parſon —, the priggiſh prieſt,
Mounted the pulpit at St. J—'s; there
With voice of mellow tone, and pompous air,
Utter'd fine ſounding words that nothing meant,
And vented florid phraſe for argument.
The bulk he pleas'd; but at the ſermon's end,
A critic arch thus whiſper'd to his friend; —
This preacher, the moſt envious muſt agree,
Happy deliv'ry has, and — ſo have we!
ON AN ARTIFICIAL BEAUTY.
[155]CELIA to night in ſplendor deck'd,
And pride of rich array,
With artificial charms would ſteal
The tougheſt heart away.
No lilies in their fragrant bed
Such ſtainleſs white diſcloſe; —
The bluſh that kindles on her cheek
Outvies the new-blown roſe.
But if to-morrow to your view
The genuine maid be ſhewn: —
She who with borrow'd face could kill,
Will cure you with her own.
CHEATS ALL. A BALLAD.
[156]To the Tune of— I am a jolly Beggar, &c.
YE mortals that are habitants
Of this vile earthly ball,
Attend the Muſe; — the Muſe ſhall ſhew
We are rank cheaters all.
And a cheating, &c.
The Gambler, eldeſt ſon of fraud,
Will chowſe you in a trice;
And all your ſatisfaction is —
The D—l's in the dice.
[157]
The Farmer, clad in ruſty coat,
Whoſe mode is to complain,
In plenty lives, yet ſwears he ſtarves;
For he's a rogue in grain.
The Tradeſman puffs his damag'd wares
With ſnug addreſs and ſkill
To bilk his Lord—p; — but my L—d
Forgets to pay the bill.
The Captain ſtruts, looks big, and boaſts
Of many a bloody fray;
Caſtles he ſtorms; and duels fights;
And ſometimes — runs away.
Newmarket knowing ones, who try
Their wits on great and ſmall,
Had beſt pull in, ere Satan gets
The whip-hand of them all.
'Tis mock'ry vile, and pert grimace
Midſt Foplings, Belles, and Beaus;
And he that takes the C—rt—r right,
Muſt take him by the noſe.
[158]
From clime to clime in queſt of wealth
Our greedy Merchants roam: —
Eaſt-Idia Nabobs rob abroad,
And Highwaymen at home.
The Trav'ller lards his tale with lies;
The Cit plain-dealing ſcorns;
Widows are happy in their weeds;
And Cuckholds hide their horns.
Miſs Dainty, with a look demure,
Whoſe virtue was her boaſt,
Laſt week miſcarried, and reviv'd
The play — Love's Labour Loſt.
Young Damon rich Clarinda plies
With courtſhip's melting art; —
Vows, ſwears, proteſts; — for ſure he loves —
Her fortune at his heart.
The Lawyer with his querks, and pleas,
Your bags and pockets drains;
And when you're pennyleſs, you'll get —
A verdict for your pains.
[159]
The Doctor with his ſolemn phiz,
Train'd up in Galen's School,
Bleeds, phyſics, ſweats, and bliſters you —
And ſo you die by rule.
In Church, or State, if merit thrive,
'Tis matter of ſurprize; —
The Patron ſells his benefice;
The Prelate ſtoops to riſe!
The Vicar's cribb'd Divinity
You hear with one accord;
'Tis Rogers, Wake, or Tillotſon,
And ſometimes — Sharp's the word!
The ſtarch Fanatick trumpeter,
In righteous ſoul ſo vext,
Whines, cants, and raves to mend the age,
But only mars a text.
The Stateſman that thro' life has toil'd
To ſave his country dear,
Has nothing for his labour but —
Three thouſand pounds a year!
[160]
The Patriot loud avows himſelf
Fair Freedom's champion ſtout;
But words are wind; — and who'll believe
The wiſeſt, when they're out?
Then what conclude we from my ſong,
Since Frauds in all we meet? —
Why — take your bumper; — for in that
You'll find there's no deceit.
And a cheating, &c.
THE FOLLOWING BALLAD (Of which ſeveral incorrect Copies have been publiſhed) Was delivered to the DEAN of Pembroke College, Oxford, in the Common Hall, On the Fifth Day of NOVEMBER, 1741, As the AUTHOR's EXERCISE on that ANNIVERSARY. Its Date muſt be its Apology.
[161]I.
I'LL ſing you what paſt
In the century laſt
When the Pope went to viſit the D-v-l: —
And if you'll attend,
You'll find to a friend
Old Nick can behave very civil.
[162]II.
How doſt do? quoth the Seer,
What a plague brought you here?
To be ſure 'twas a whimſical maggot: —
Come, draw tow'rd the fire;
Nay, prithee ſit nigher;
Here, ſirrah, lay on t'other faggot.
III.
You're welcome to hell;
I hope friends are well
At Paris, Madrid, and at Rome;
But now you elope,
I ſuppoſe, my friend Pope,
The Conclave will hang out a broom.
IV.
Then his Holineſs cry'd,
All jeſting aſide,
Give the Pope and the D-v-l their dues; —
Take my word for't, old lad,
I'll make your heart glad,
For faith I have brought you rare news.
[163]V.
There's a fine plot in hand
To ruin the land
Call'd Britain, that obſtinate nation,
Which ſo ſlily behav'd
In hopes to be ſav'd
By the help of a d-mn'd Reformation!
VI.
We ſhall never have done
If we burn one by one,
Nor deſtroy the whole heretic race:
From that Hydra for ever
A head you may ſever,
And a new will ſpring up in its place.
VII.
Believe me, old Nick
We'll now play a trick,
A trick that ſhall ſerve for the nonce; —
This day before dinner,
Or elſe I'm a ſinner,
We'll ſmaſh all the raſcals at once.
[164]VIII.
While the Parliament fits,
And all try their wits,
Conſulting about muſty papers,
A gunpowder greeting
Shall break up their meeting,
And ſhew who can cut the beſt capers.
IX.*
How the rabble will ſtare
When they ſee in the air
Such a medley half burnt to a cinder?
Look parch'd will each phiz,
And whiſkers will whiz;
Lawn ſleeves will make excellent tinder!
X.
When the King and his ſon,
And the Parliament's gone,
And the people are left in the lurch,
Things ſhall take their old ſtation,
And you d-mn the nation; —
And I'll be the head of the Church!
[165]XI.
Theſe words were ſcarce ſaid
When in popt the head
Of an old Jeſuitical Wight,
Who cry'd, you're miſtaken,
They've all ſaved their bacon,
But Jemmy ſtill ſtinks with the fright!
XII.
Then Satan was ſtruck,
And cry'd, 'tis ill luck,
But both for your pains ſhall be thanked: —
So he call'd at the door
Six d-v-ls or more,
And they toſt Pope and Prieſt in a blanket.
ODE to DROLLERY. By SAMPSON FROLICK, Eſq. AN ENTIRE NEW WORK. Where's the motto?
[166]YE bonny Songſters Nine
That, in a ſummer's eve, drink tea upon
The flow'r-enamell'd brow of Helicon;
(There, there's a line!)
Or with Apollo friſk a top of Pindus;
Who tell us tales ſo fine
Of thoſe bucks of renown
That took Troy town,
And at 12 o'Clock at night broke honeſt peoples windows:
I'm not afraid
To aſk your aid; —
I know you'll fire me,
And inſpire me
[167]At all times
With jingling rhymes: —
So ſacred my eccentric lay ſhall be
To thee,
Terreſtrial goddeſs, Drollery.
II.
Fidlers, avaunt! I never knew
So vile a crew!
Baſs-viols, and haut-boys, and French-horns be mute;
And harpſichord too
With all thou canſt do;
And eke thou ſoftly-breathing flute.
Know, the terreſtrial goddeſs Drollery
Kicks, fumes, and frets, and ſnuffs, at ſounds of harmony.
[168]Hither, ſons of diſcord, hither come — come —
The rough hurdy-gurdy thrum;
Jarring keys and platters bring;
The crack'd crowd with ſhrilling ſtring;
Broken trumpet's harſh-ton'd ſtrain;
Catcall, bard dramatic's bane;
Clanging pan, and hollow tub,
Drum-minor, beating dub a dub;
Grunting cowlſtaff, mock-baſſoon;
Fourſcore voices out of tune;
Screams, and hoots outdoing quite
The owl, ear-piercing bird of night;
Rattling ſalt-box; baſtards ſqualling;
Fifty thouſand brickbats falling;
And ten cats a caterwauling: —
All ſounds grating, ſharp, and queer: —
See! the goddeſs pricks her ear!
Comical goddeſs, deign to hear: —
For thy delight is tuneleſs noiſe,
Clamour loud, and midnight joys,
Jocund ſport, and wakeful glee,
And overlaſting ha, ha, ha, ha, he!
From Drollery, &c.
[169]III.
Goddeſs, I look before, I look behind me —
Where, goddeſs, ſhall a merry mortal find thee?
O thou doſt rule the roaſt,
Hic et ubique, like old Hamlet's Ghoſt.
From age to age,
And thro' life's ev'ry ſtage,
Thou doſt poſſeſs the jovial of all nations;
The jeſters, and the punſters of all ſtations;
Rich, poor, wiſe, weak, fat, bony, ſhort, and tall;
And art the quinteſſence of fun, and oddity in all.
Bards, and wits pagan have ſome whimſies taught us —
For this one ſees
In Ariſtopha-nes,
And mirthful Lucian, and old Plautus.
Oft haſt thou ſat aſtride a modern poet's brain: —
And then 'tis all fantaſtic —
And then 'tis Hudibraſtic —
Then Chaucer tells a ſtory
Full worthy of me-mory;
And Butler, ſo well known, ſir,
Who had a Muſe of his own, ſir,
Mauls your ſham-ſaints and godly,
And makes them look moſt oddly;
[170]And lends them a ſound thump, ſir,
That they are ſore in the rump, ſir;
Then Prior ſings his Ladle —
(You know who 'twas that pray'd ill;)
And others with ſtrange qualms
Burleſque the book of Pſalms: —
Fie Sternhold! Hopkins, fie
Upon your melo-dy! —
Then Pope, with fools half mad,
In his Dunci-ad
Batters the Bards that write from ſtreet call'd Grub,
And gives them ſuch a rub!
And then — O let me fetch a rhyme for brain —
Jack Falſtaff blows, and puffs, and lies in many a hum'rous vein.
From Drollery, &c.
IV.
Sometimes thou twitcheſt by the noſe
(Of which the muſcles are at thy diſpoſe)
The laughing votariſts of proſe:
And then all language ſcant is,
And, were a man ever ſo able,
It is almoſt impracti-cable
[171]To recount
The full amount
Of the jeers,
And the ſneers,
And the witticiſm,
And the criticiſm,
And the working,
And the jerking,
And the matter
Stuff'd with ſatire
Of waggiſh Swift, and roguiſh Stern, and the thrice-fam'd Cervantes.
From Drollery, &c.
V.
Among the dealers droll in proſe and verſe
May I, my goddeſs, name philoſo-phers?
They ſay — "You can't endure us."
But 'tis a lie. —
I'll tell you why —
There's not a queerer dog than Maſter Epicurus:
For he
And ſome few dozens,
All cater-couſins,
[172]And all poſſeſt by thee,
Superfine fellows,
Frankly tells us
That, this world was made by a company of atoms at a certain rout,
Which met by no appointment, and did not know what they were about. —
Hence the ſmooth flow of tuneful numbers, hence —
For here you have no pretence: —
My verſes muſt now run rumbling,
In ſpite of any body's grumbling; —
(And ſure there is not half the ſport in walking that there is in tumbling;)
Does not Alexander Pope ſay,
(And now you ſhall have an Alexandrine
Which I think tolerably fine)
The ſound upon all occaſions ſhould be an echo to the ſenſe?
Now, Sir, a parcel of theſe atoms or particles
(He that argues which
Is a ſceptical ſon of a b—;
'Tis rather a free expreſſion —
But all's one in a digreſſion;)
[173]In a frolick,
Or having ſomething like a fit of the cholick,
Jumbled all together,
(I ſhould think, in bad weather,)
Some ſhort, and ſome long,
Pell-mell, ding-dong,
Helter,
To which you may add, ſkelter; —
Some of them ſquare, and ſome round,
Some rotten, and a few of them ſound;
Some tender, and ſome plaugy tough;
Some ſmooth, and ſome confoundedly rough;
Some cold, and a good many hot;
Some dry, and ſome moiſt; and what not?
Some (I muſt make a word) in jangles,
And nine or ten dozen in right angles;
Arid atoms all ſmaſhing,
Wat'ry ones for a very good reaſon ſplaſhing,
And all together in hurly-burly craſhing:
(O that an honeſt man could have been there!
It muſt have been a jovial day — it was chaos fair!)
[174]And ſo, Sir, here being no creation,
(For that theſe Gentlemen ſay would have been a work of pains and moleſtation,)
From this rude orig'nal dance,
And from all theſe comical jars,
In about a fortnight's time out-jumped the ſun and the moon,
(How they muſt ſhake their ears
When they firſt mounted their ſpheres?)
Attended with a pretty little train of I can't tell you how many ſtars. —
Now, look back till you come to the word—dance—
Your moſt obedient ſervant, madam chance!
So (not my aim to fruſtrate,
For want of a ſimile this matter to illuſtrate;
A ſimile which ſhall be half-like, and half not,
As that in compoſition is never reckon'd a blot;)
Our cook, fat greaſy Nan,
Takes a large bowl, or perhaps an earthen pan,
Full of ingredients various,
And, I will be bold to ſay, precarious,
[175]And thruſts a long ſpoon of wood in;
There's flour, there's milk, there's eggs, there's ſugar, there's raiſins, there's currants, there's nutmeg, there's mace:
And theſe ſhe ſtirs, and ſtirs about
With all her might and main,
Again, and again,
And makes a wond'rous rout;
And from this odd confuſion,
And manifold contuſion,
In a few hours ſpace
Upon the table ſmokes a fine, large, round plumb pudding▪
From Drollery, &c.
VI.
Come, put about the bottle —
Let's drink a health to ev'ry man of mirth
In ev'ry corner of the earth —
And then, O Drollery,
Another votary
Shall enter on our ſtage, — grave Aris-totle;
A man of paſſing parts,
And the firſt that took the degree of M. A. or in rhyme, and plain Engliſh, Maſter of Arts;
[176]And at his heels, Frommenius;
A dry, outlandiſh genius;
And theſe in half a minute
(Why, there is nothing in it)
Shall cure the hyp, and grubs, and gripes, and ptiſic,
With a good quan. ſuff. doſe of Meta-phyſic.
O there is no ſpecific like a queer hum —
Take a drachm of formality,
And an ounce of quiddity and quality,
And tincture of perſonality,
And ſome grains of individuality,
And elixir of tranſcendentality;
(Do you know Norris? I've heard him ſay
This is a ſov'reign med'cine for the quinſy;)
And next it follows in naturâ rerum
That, tho' the D—l's a liar, yet omne ens eſt verum.
A RAPTURE.
I catch the mental flame; — my wits are blown
By fancy's blaſt, that ſweeps thro' boundleſs ſpace
To intellectual regions all unknown,
Where concretes groſs, and matter vile ne'er held their cumbrous place;
[177]Where ſimple truths, and axioms ſure,
Ideas chaſte, and abſtracts pure,
And forms, unconſcious of corporeal dreſs,
Float in the vaſty void of ample emptineſs. —
Earth, air, fire, water — what are theſe?
Hail! mighty world of eſſences!
Sublimities refin'd my pow'rs employ,
And I diſdain terreſtrial joy. —
Now, now exalted 'bove the ſtarry ſky,
Where mortal poet never yet had handle,
All ocean ſeems a puddle to my eye,
And yonder twinkling ſun a farthing candle.
Higher, yet higher would I ſoar —
But ah! I feel, I can no more —
I flag, I faint, I droop, I doubt*—
See! my rapture is out. —
HERE ENDETH THE RAPTURE.
From Drollery, &c.
[178]VII.
Deſcend, my Muſe, deſcend, I beg,
And humbly take a lower peg;
Come down, I ſay, come down my rhymes
To matters known, and later times;
For Drollery has got poſſeſſion
In ev'ry calling and profeſſion. —
Like Proteus ſtill ſhe varies ſhapes; —
She's archer than a thouſand apes. —
Why — you aſſerted this before. —
Now then, we'll prove it — and that's more. —
— Pray, leave your liquor;
And ſtep to church, and hear the Vicar.
I ſpeak with rev'rence for the gown —
He preaches of his kind the beſt in town;
And boaſts a Sunday's congregation,
The quieteſt in all the nation:
For then with hum-drum ſounds in drawling tone expreſs'd,
He lulls his calm pariſhioners to reſt.
You ſay — the Doctor's dull —
Sir, I pronounce him droll. —
But my dear ſon of Alma Mater,
You ſhall have — aliter probatur. —
[179]For mark a contraſt now of Mirth's own handy-making!
That bawling fellow on the ſtool
Will hold all mortals waking;
He's a fanatic,
Who with extatic
Geſture, and aukward motion,
(Current for good devotion,)
And whining and canting,
And wailing and ranting.
And bell'wings loud,
And ſcrew'd-up face,
Humbugs the gaping crowd,
And this is ſaving grace! —
You've ſeen Phyſicians holding conſultation
In deep ſpeculation,
With canes at their noſes;
(For that our ſuppoſe is;)
What grimaces!
What wry faces!
While cooly they're retiring,
The patient lies expiring
In doleful plight; —
'Twould ſoften quite
[180]The heart of any Turk: —
But they have only done their work. —
Had you never a call
To Weſtminſter-Hall?
There's noble haranguing
And thorough tongue-banging;
And laying down law
Without crack or flaw:
Prating,
Rating,
Billings-gating;
There's running of rigs,
And toſſing of wigs;
And quibblings, and querkings,
And under-hand workings;
There's a number of caſes,
And ſolemn old faces;
And a million of gim-cracks, and fancies:
Demurrers, pleas, recogni-zances;
And a ſet of reports
That have run through all courts;
There's Plaintiff and Defendant;
(By my troth there's no end on't;)
[181] Leſſor and Leſſee, and poor Spinſter: —
O rare Weſt-minſter! —
'Tis a troubleſome day,
But the Client's to pay. —
For * they wrangle, and they jangle,
And yet they all agree;
And the tenor of the law runs merrily.
From Drollery, &c.
VIII.
Don't ſtare,
But I'm going to ſwear
By all the gods, and all the goddeſſes
In Homer's Iliads, and his Odyſſeys,
And by Momus, the droll of the ſkies;
Suppoſing you're quaffing,
I'll ſet you a laughing,
Till the liquor flows out at your eyes.
[182]Only take a ſhort jaunt,
And I'll ſhew you my aunt: —
There ſhe ſits by the fire
In ancient attire;
She's queer, and ſhe's quaint,
Like a Methodiſt ſaint;
At the ſins of the age
She burſts in a rage;
If you tell but two lies
She turns up her eyes;
If you mention a male,
Her cheek will turn pale;
She hates the young jades
That haunt maſquerades;—
The name of ſuch creatures
Sets at work all her features;
She turns her about,
She wriggles her ſnout: —
She's faddle and fiddle,
And a ſort of a riddle.
She knows all diſeaſes;
And cures whom ſhe pleaſes;
She's a gen'ral phyſician:
And a ſtaunch politician;
[183]She hopes reformation,
And mends the whole nation;
She loves party ſcuffles;
She thumb-plaits her ruffles;
She wears taudry ſilks;
Her toaſt is Jack W-lk-s:
She's this, and ſhe's that;
And ſhe keeps an old cat,
A parrot and dog;
(Mog, Mog, Mog, come Mog, poor Mog;) —
She's too old to have fits;
But ſhe's out of her wits. —
Upon my ſoul
My aunt's a droll!
From Drollery, &c.
IX.
You need not long in London range —
There's Drollery enough on 'Change,
Where buſy folk of all ſorts meet;
French, Spaniſh, Dutch, Italians, Pruſſians,
Venetians, Swedes, and Danes, and Ruſſians; —
All nations trade, — and ſometimes cheat. —
[184]What a hurry, and fuſs!
What a ſtir, and what buz!
'Tis the whole world in coalition,
Or Babel in a new edition. —
Hey! for the regions of con-ſol,
The jobber's clime and broker's;
Throughout the alley you ſhall find
Dry fellows, though dull jokers;
In bond, and transfer, par, and cent.
Sure there can be no ſin-a:
One rule will ſerve for monied men —
And that is — laugh and win-a.
And now look in (I'll pawn my word
'Twill pay you well for peeping,)
Upon that ghaſtly, ſallow tribe
Of Jews, high-ſabbath keeping: —
Believe me, Sir, I ſcorn to treat
Pagans, or any men ill; —
But they reſemble puppies much
Howling about a kennel.
From Drollery, &c.
[185]X.
Tell me, ye lads of Mirth, can Droll'ry ſhew
A gayer group, or a more joyous ſcene
Than a Lord Mayor, and Aldermen,
And Livery men al-ſo,
Sitting at dinner in a row? —
The very mention of the matter
May make my Reader's mouth to water.
Happy thrice, thrice happy gueſt
At a genial city feaſt! —
They tuck the napkin to their roſy jowls,
And for the meal prepare — with all their ſouls. —
The word is given — they begin —
They ſlaſh through thick and thin;
"Through rills of fat, and deluges of lean,
"With knives as razors keen."
Fleſh, fiſh, and fowl nice appetites regale,
And viands rich ambroſial ſteams exhale;
And weighty ſlivers from delicious haunches
Diſtend to their full ſize enormous paunches. —
O nameleſs tranſport of a feaſting hour!
Mutton men eat, but turtle they devour. —
Now, now for a whet, boys; — then to it again;
Bring, waiter, Madeira, or lively Champaigne;
[186]Behold them now again their knives applying;
Stomachs vaſt with ſtomachs vying!
Now with fat cuſtards, and high jellies,
They cram the corners of their bellies.
See! ſee! how Sir Coddlehead ſwallows that tart —
Ye gods! — Is it eating, or filling a cart?
Give, give them elbow-room — they have a call
One and all;
Let none the licens'd luxury gainſay;
For guttling is the buſineſs of the day.
Happy thrice, thrice happy gueſt
At a genial city feaſt! —
From Drollery, &c.
XI.
Now thrum the hurdy-gurdy, thrum again
A droller yet, and yet a droller ſtrain;
Split * our very ſides aſunder
With laughter, loud as rattling peals of thunder.
[187]O lend me fifty tongues,
And Mr. Stentor's leather lungs,
And I'll ſtrive to recite
The joyous delight,
And the noiſe, and the craſh, and the glee
Of a jovial ſet,
Together met,
At the gay noon of night; —
Seaſon of joke profuſe, and careleſs jollity.
O what calling,
And what bawling,
And what ſinging,
And what ringing,
And what roaring,
And what ſnoring,
And what ſwagg'ring,
And what ſtagg'ring; —
Here one mumbles;
Here one tumbles;
Here Dick rattl'ing;
There Sam prattling;
Some wild-ſtaring;
Some loud-ſwearing;
[188]Theſe rebuking,
And thoſe puking;
Bottles filling;
Glaſſes ſpilling;
Veins ſtrong-burning;
Heads round-turning;
Wine high-flavour'd;
No one favour'd;
Bowls rich-flowing; —
No one going.
Shouts, clamours, tumults reign beyond reſiſtance —
The world is theirs,
And ſober cares
Are kick'd down ſtairs,
And the dull fool that ſleeps muſt keep his diſtance. —
But hark! the Toaſt-maſter to order calls!
Silence your jokes, or brawls!
This fire-ey'd monarch of the ſocial hour
Rules with licentious ſwing of arbitrary pow'r. —
The ſons of riot
Themſelves are quiet;
Each ſtrokes his beard;
No ſound is heard
[189]Save that of hiccups check'd, that die along the walls. —
Miſs Clio never ſlow is
To celebrate ſuch proweſs. —
Hail! thou of jolly fellows ſole commander!
Succeſſor of Alexander!
Great, *
As was that drunken potentate,
Thyſelf doſt ſtand, or try to ſtand,
With a pint-bumper ſparkling in thy hand. —
Thou giv'ſt thy toaſt;
Thy joy, thy boaſt;
The toaſt goes round;
Three cheers rebound;
The table ſhakes with univerſal roar,
And many a gallant gentleman lies ſprawling on the floor.†
From Drollery, &c.
[190]XII.
The goddeſs ever ſhifts her mode —
Now ſhe appears in Cibber's Ode;
In Hogarth's print; — in Garrick's Brute; —
Would you have proofs from low life? — Yes,*
A few. — Then mark theſe inſtances. —
An undertaker's mute in chief
Upon a ſtair-caſe ſhamming grief. —
A bear and monkey ſhewing tricks. —
A barber talking politics. —
'Tis the ſonorous ſhout or ra'llery †
Of gods theatric in the gallery:
And the dumb terror, or the rage
Of clowns in farces on the ſtage. —
'Tis a great booby in fine clothes. —
A ſniv'ling lover forging oaths. —
Two tailors on a Sunday greeting. —
On the ſame day a quaker's meeting.
Two ballad-ſingers you may meet
(Or you've no luck) in any ſtreet,
[191]That, with alternate bawlings, try
To ſtun folks with mock-melody. —
'Tis a quack-doctor vainly boaſting;
And Merry-andrew doctor-roaſting. —
A raſcal in the pill'ry ſtanding;
Our ſov'reign lord the mob commanding. —
In ſhort, in fine, and in a word,
Sir, Ma'am, your Honour, or my Lord,
Not to enlarge our catalogue
With ev'ry oddity in vogue,
'Tis what ſome ſing, and what ſome ſay: —
So read at length &c.
From Drollery, &c.
XIII.
Hold! what's o'clock? 'Tis rather late;
And time for Pegaſus to bait: —
'Twould not be kind
To ride him out of wind. —
O Drollery, diſmiſs me now; —
I have been long poſſeſt, I trow. —
Beſides, my reader may be weary; —
How fares it, honeſt friead? — How cheer ye?
[192]Well — let's part friends — for if my ode
Delights thee not, — thou'rt a ſad toad —
A rat—or ſhake — or pois'nous viper —
Or, what's ſtill worſe, a critic-hyper: —
So, hoping you as well as myſelf are at this moment laughing outright,
I heartily wiſh you a good morning;
Or, if you are reading by a candle,
Why, I wiſh you a good night.
FINIS.
Notes
*
In the courſe of this Eſſay, the names of many who have diſtinguiſhed themſelves by their ability will occur; but it will not be expected, that honour ſhould be done to, or mention made of all the ſucceſsful candidates for celebrity, in all countries and ages of the world. It will be thought ſufficient, 'tis preſumed, for the illuſtra⯑tion of the ſubject, to have produced ſome of the moſt eminent and popular names, eſpecially among thoſe of our own nation.
*
The author means not hereby to throw any re⯑flection on the literary character of the late ingenious and worthy Mr. Hervey, whoſe MEDITATIONS have done conſiderable ſervice to religion, and will rank him in the firſt claſs of elegant writers; — proper allowances made for the enthuſiaſm with which they are a little tinctured, and for the exuberance of a ſometimes too playful imagination.
*
See Fenton's Life of Milton, prefixed to his edition of Paradiſe Loſt.
The learned Dr. Newton tells us, in his Life of Milton, that, ‘all that we can aſſert upon good authority is, that he could not endure to hear the Paradiſe Regained cried down ſo much as it was, in compariſon with the other poem.’ But, I believe, my reader will agree with me, that ſuch a partiality as this, will ſufficiently warrant what is ſaid in the Eſſay. Probably I may have more to ſay upon this ſubject in another place.
*
Warburton.
*
The author apprehends this ſentiment to be juſtified by reaſonable preſumptions, and the ſenſe which the fol⯑lowing paſſage of S. S. will at leaſt admit: — He that is unjuſt, let him be unjuſt ſtill. &c. REV. ch. xx. ver. 11.
*
In fact, as fair a chance for renown as literary worth will be acknowledged to have in the main, it cannot be denied that Authors before now have been leſs indebted to the intrinſic merit of their productions for their repu⯑tation, than to a powerful patronage, or a favourable criſis. The world is not invariably juſt in its deciſions. I will only detain the reader with one notorious inſtance. Mr. Addiſon's Comedy of the Drummer was hardly able to wriggle itſelf into the world at all; while the Tragedy of Cato, by virtue principally of the popular word Liberty, recommended itſelf to uncommon applauſe, and was long time the favourite entertainment of the nation. For this performance, notwithſtanding the random panegyric be⯑ſtowed on it by a few † Gentlemen connected with its au⯑thor by principle, or attached to him by friendſhip, is, in point merely of dramatic merit, moſt unqueſtionably far inferiour to the Comedy above-mentioned. In ſhort, the fate of writers is too often determined by many ſuppoſable contingencies and circumſtances; and literary reputation is ſometimes temporary, ſometimes poſthumous, and always in ſome meaſure precarious.
†
See GUARDIAN, Vol. I. No. 33, &c.
*
In the former edition the word—review—was printed in Italics; — of which the author confeſſes the impropriety. — But whether the general queſtion be pertinent or other⯑wiſe, he leaves to the determination of every candid and impartial reader.
†
The reader will find in the firſt edition of this poem a few lines of complimental addreſs to the univerſity of OXFORD; (a place ever to be mentioned by the author with the utmoſt gratitude and reſpect;) and a few more relative to his own political principles, which are all here omitted as totally extraneous to his ſubject. But becauſe the omiſſion of the latter may be liable to miſconſtruction; or lay him open to a charge of tergiverſation, and deſer⯑tion of ſentiment, from more quarters than one, it is thought proper to produce the paſſage in this place, with as much of comment on it as will, 'tis hoped, be ſufficient for his vindication, and the ſatisfaction of the reader.— The lines are as follows:
For me, howe'er, I covet laſting fame,
And pant with longings for a poet's name,
Yet let my ſoul confeſs a nobler aim!
Give me, kind heav'n, ſtill higher points to reach;
Give me to practice what I ſtrive to teach;
My ſtanding rules of daily conduct be
Faith, honour, juſtice, candour, charity;
Careleſs of falſe reproach, or vain applauſe,
Be worth my eulogy, and truth my cauſe.
O may I wield an independent pen,
A friend to virtue, not a tool to men;
In perſeverance placing all my glory,
While TORIES, WHIGS, and all Men call me TORY!
Warm in my breaſt may patriot paſſion glow;
Righteous reſentment of my country's woe:
With voice and heart for ever may I ſtand
'Gainſt vermin that devour my native land;
And in one wiſh my wiſhes centered be —
That I may live to hail my country free!
Two of theſe verſes are a parody on a well-known paſ⯑ſage in Mr. Pope, and reprobate that Gentleman's there-avowed mediocrity of principle. — However let ſtreſs be laid not on names, but things. Ideas are often affixed to terms with which they are not neceſſarily connected, either by the indiſcretion, or the violence, or the artifice of party. Men may load the word Tory with what Imputa⯑tions they pleaſe; — but (to be as explicit as the occaſion ſeems to require) if to profeſs himſelf a friend to the Conſtitution in Church and State; a foe alike to Maſs and Meeting, as far as candour will warrant, and charity admit; if to avow himſelf zealous equally for the Prero⯑gative of the Crown, the freedom and independence of Parliament, and the privileges and liberties of the People; if to hold the rights of conſcience ſacred and inviolable, and to deſire to ſee every peaceable ſubject in full poſſeſſion of his religious ſentiments, but at the ſame time to deteſt thoſe latitudinarian principles, publickly maintained and inſolently diſſeminated, which manifeſtly tend to undermine the foundations of all order and cccleſiaſtical eſtabliſhment whatſoever; if to reverence at all times a conſtitutional oppoſition to miniſtry, but to abhor a factious one; if to wiſh to find the love of our country the univerſal paſſion, and the public good the grand aim and object of all orders and degrees of men among us; —if to do and to deſire all this, and all that this implies, conſtitutes Toryiſm in the whole or in part, a Tory the author has been from his youth upon the fulleſt conviction, and a Tory he hopes to be to the laſt moment of his exiſtence.
*
Predeſtination.
*
This Stanza is new.
*
IMITATIONS.
From harmony, from harmony
This univerſal frame began.
Dryden's worſt Ode.
*
IMITATIONS.
I droop, I doubt,
See my courage is out.
Macheath. in the Beggar's Opera.
*
IMITATIONS.
For thee wrangle and they jangle,
And they never can agree,
And the tenor of the ſong goes merrily.
Chorus of an Old Ballad. Auct. Incert.
*
IMITATIONS.
Now ſtrike the golden lyre again,
A louder yet, and yet a louder ſtrain;
Break his bands of ſleep aſunder,
And rouſe him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Dryden's beſt Ode.
*
IMITATIONS.
Great as the Perſian God ourſelf ſhall ſtand, &c.
Lee's Alexander.
†
And many a gallant gentleman
Lay gaſping on the ground.
Chevey Chace.
*
Alexander Stevens.
*
Alexander Stevens.
†
Note an Ellipſis here.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3473 Poems on various subjects By William Hawkins. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-60D3-9