Volume I

Cambridge: at the University Press 1905

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PREFATORY NOTE.

In the present edition of Crabbe's Poems the general arrangement adopted is that of the chronological order of publication. The poem entitled _Midnight_ has been inserted at a conjectural date as belonging to the period of the Juvenile Poems (1772-1780); but all other poems contained in this edition which have hitherto remained unpublished will be printed after the published poems, in the sequence of their production so far as this is ascertainable. With the poems hitherto unpublished I have also been fortunate enough to obtain permission to include in a later volume, among other posthumously printed pieces, the _Two Poetical Epistles_ by Crabbe, first published, from a manuscript in the collection of Mr Buxton Forman, in Vol. II of _Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century_ edited by W. Robertson Nicoll and Thomas J. Wise (London, 1896). From the second of these _Epistles_ were taken, but not in their original order, the ten lines reproduced in the present volume from George Crabbe the younger's 1834 edition of his father's Poems.

The earliest of the Juvenile Poems here printed are taken from _The Lady's Magazine, or Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex, appropriated solely to their Use and Amusement_, for the year 1772, printed at London for Robinson and Roberts, 25 Paternoster Row. The first volume of this Magazine seems to have been that for the year 1770, and to have comprised the numbers from August to December inclusive; but the earlier portion of this volume had been previously published in the same year 1770 under the same title by J. Wheble at 20 Paternoster Row, 'by whom letters to the Editor are requested and received.' This then must be the 'Wheble's Magazine for 1772,' of which George Crabbe the younger in the Life prefixed to the 1834 edition of his father's Poems (p. 22) states that he had after long search discovered a copy. The Magazine seems itself to have been a revival of an earlier _Lady's Magazine_, of which portions of the volumes for 1760 and 1761 are extant, and which, according to the title-page of the volume for 1761, was printed for J. Wilkie at the Bible in St Paul's Churchyard.

But the younger Crabbe's account of his father's verses in 'Wheble's Magazine for 1772' does not tally with the actual contents of the volume for 1772 of _The Lady's Magazine_ which has been used for the present edition. It is possible, of course, though there is no evidence to support the supposition, that _The Lady's Magazine_ published by Wheble was continued at all events till 1772, parallel to _The Lady's Magazine_ published by Robinson and Roberts, with which in 1770 it had been in some measure blended. It is equally possible that the younger Crabbe made some mistake or mistakes. In any case, his statement is, that Wheble's Magazine for 1772 'contains besides the prize poem on Hope,' from which he proceeds to quote the concluding six lines, 'four other pieces, signed "G. C., Woodbridge, Suffolk," "To Mira," "The Atheist reclaimed," "The Bee," and "An Allegorical Fable."' The volume published by Robinson and Roberts contains no pieces corresponding to these, except that in its October number there is printed an _Essay on Hope_, in which the lines cited by the younger Crabbe and reprinted, on his authority, in the present edition, do not appear, but of which the concluding lines seem to imply that it was a copy of verses written in competition for a prize. It cannot however be by Crabbe. For it is signed 'C. C., Rotherhithe, 1772'; and the July number of the same volume contains a piece of verse of some length entitled _The Rotherhithe Beauties_ and signed 'C. C., Rotherhithe, July 15,' which is certainly not by Crabbe; and later in the volume follows another piece entitled _Night_, signed 'C. C., Rotherhithe, November 19, 1772,' which likewise cannot be attributed to Crabbe.

On the other hand the 1772 volume of _The Lady's Magazine_ contains certain pieces of verse which may without hesitation be assigned to him, and which are accordingly reprinted in the present edition. These are, in the September number, _Solitude_ and _A Song_, which bear as a signature the quasi-anagram 'G. EBBARE'; in the October number, the lines _To Emma_, with the quasi-anagram 'G. EBBAAC' and the date 'Suffolk'; and, in the November number, _Despair_, _Cupid_, and a _Song_, signed with the earlier form 'G. EBBARE.' This _Song_ is followed by some lines in blank verse _On the Wonders of Creation_, and, further on, by some stanzas _To Friendship_, likewise signed 'C. C.'; but manifestly neither blank verse nor stanzas are by Crabbe.

Finally, it should be noted that in the October number in the same volume the following occurs among the notices _To our Correspondents_: 'The birth of a Maccaroni, by Ebbare, in the style of the Scriptures, seems to be taking too great a liberty with things sacred; and it is our maxim, as far as possible, to abstain from every appearance of evil.' The _Lady's Magazine_ continued to be published by Robinson and Roberts for many subsequent years; and it is a curious coincidence that No. 5 of Vol. XLVII (for May, 1816) contains some stanzas entitled _Myra's Wedding-Day_.

The remaining _Juvenilia_ printed in the present edition are partly reproduced from the _Fragments of Verse, from Mr Crabbe's early Note-Books_ in Vol. II of the 1834 edition, partly from the Life in Vol. I of the same. The lines On the Death of William Springall Levett are quoted in the latter from Green's _History of Framlingham_, which has been compared.

Of the poems which follow in the present volume, _Inebriety_ is here printed from a copy of the quarto of 1775, which lacks a title-page and which bears on p. 1 the following deprecation in Crabbe's handwriting: 'NB.--pray let not this be seen at [cipher] there is very little of it that I'm not heartily asham'd of.' The imprint of the title-page here given is taken from the _Life_ (1834, p. 28).

_Midnight, a Poem_, is now first printed from the original manuscript which formed part of Dawson Turner's collection, in which it was numbered 121 at the sale of Dawson Turner's manuscripts in June, 1859. Its handwriting, as Professor Dowden points out, is identical with that of a _facsimile_ in a passage from the _Two Epistles_ mentioned above, given in the _Literary Anecdotes of the Nineteenth Century_.

_The Candidate_ is printed from the edition of 1834 (Vol. II, Appendix). This poem is not included in the edition of 1823, and after a long quest it has proved impossible to obtain a copy of the original edition of 1780 (published in quarto by H. Payne, opposite Marlborough House, Pall Mall). This edition is not in the British Museum. It was only possible to compare the forty-six lines of the poem quoted in _The Monthly Review_ for September, 1780; but no variants have been found in these.

The subsequent poems contained in the present volume are all printed from the edition of 1823, the last edition published in England in the poet's lifetime. The _Variants_ enumerated at the close of this volume are in each case the readings of the first editions of the several poems, viz., _The Library_, 1781, _The Village_, 1783, _The Newspaper_, 1785, _The Parish Register &c._, 1807, and _The Borough_, 1810. The address _To the Reader_ prefixed to _The Newspaper_, which does not appear in the edition of 1823, has been restored from that of 1785, as it appears in the younger Crabbe's edition of 1834.

The list of _Errata_ includes all the misprints, slips of the pen, and unintentional mistakes of spelling or quotation, which have been found in the texts which have been reprinted in this volume. The reading substituted here is in each case enclosed in square brackets. The list is a long one, for Crabbe was a careless writer; and in the matter of quotations (as the concluding sentence of the _Preface_ to _The Borough_ indicates) was not given to over-conscientiousness. It has seemed permissible, where this could be done, to supplement the poet's statements as to the sources of his quotations; but there are instances in which these statements themselves remain more or less doubtful. Crabbe's interpunctuation is so arbitrary, and, though no doubt largely determined by what might be described as the movement of the writer's mind, so frequently at variance even with the practice (it can hardly be called system) which he more usually follows, that it has been thought right to use as much freedom on this head as seemed consistent with a due respect for the author's intention. No alteration has been made in the matter of interpunctuation which was not warranted either by the poet's ordinary practice, or by the primary necessity of making his meaning clear.

As complete as possible a bibliography of Crabbe's Poems will, it is hoped, be published in the concluding volume of this edition.

There remains the pleasant duty of thanking those whose kindness has been of assistance in the preparation of this volume. The relatives of my dear friend the late Canon AINGER have allowed me to retain for this purpose the first editions of _Inebriety_ (with Crabbe's autograph), _The Village_ and _The Newspaper_ which he had lent me not long before his death. The Vice-Master of Trinity, Mr W. ALDIS WRIGHT, besides enabling me to borrow from Trinity Library the first edition of _The Library_, kindly lent his own copy of the _Poems_ published in 1807. I am indebted to Professor EDWARD DOWDEN, LL.D., of Trinity College, Dublin, for various services generously rendered by him to this edition of Crabbe, which will benefit from them in its concluding as it has in its opening volume. He has readily allowed me to print the whole of the interesting blank verse poem of _Midnight_, which, in his own words, 'unless it be a transcript by Crabbe from some other eighteenth-century poet, of which there is no evidence, may be assumed to be of his authorship.'

To the same kind friend, and to the special courtesy of Mr J. W. LYSTER, Librarian of the National Library of Ireland, Kildare Street, Dublin, I owe the opportunity of tracing _fide oculata_, so far as it seems possible to make sure of it, the elusive volume of _The Lady's Magazine_ containing the earliest of Crabbe's printed verse.

Mr A. R. WALLER, of Peterhouse, Assistant Secretary to the Syndics of the University Press, has in many ways facilitated the preparation of this volume. And without the unstinting and unflagging cooperation of another member of my College, Mr A. T. BARTHOLOMEW, of the University Library, who has compiled the list of variants, besides giving me much other assistance, I could not, amidst other engagements, have carried so far the execution of a delightful task.

A. W. WARD.

Peterhouse Lodge, Cambridge. _July_ 24th, 1905.

CORRIGENDA.

p. 5, _for_ Ovid _read_ Ovid [?].

p. 48, l. 41, _for_ Meonides _read_ [Maeonides].

p. 55, l. 297, _for_ [threat'ned] _read_ [threaten'd].

p. 232, l. 319, _for_ Rubens _read_ [Rubens].

p. 252, l. 5, _for_ dolor _read_ [labor].

p. 256, l. 4, _for_ deplorant _read_ [deplangunt].

p. 329, l. 11, _for_ and worship me _read_ [and worship me].

ib. l. 12, _for_ Part I _read_ Part II.

p. 364, l. 12, _for_ [erat] _read_ erant.

CONTENTS.

PAGE JUVENILIA 1 Solitude 1 A Song 3 Concluding Lines of Prize Poem on Hope 4 To Emma 4 Despair 5 Cupid 7 Song 8 [On the Death of William Springall Levett] 8 Parody on [Byrom's] "My Time, Oh ye Muses" 9 The Wish 10 INEBRIETY 11 JUVENILIA 37 [The Learning of Love] 37 Ye Gentle Gales 37 Mira 38 Hymn 39 The Wish 40 The Comparison 40 Goldsmith to the Author 41 Fragment 41 The Resurrection 42 My Birth-day 43 To Eliza 43 Life 44 The Sacrament 44 Night 45 Fragment, written at Midnight 45 MIDNIGHT 47 JUVENILIA 61 [A Farewell] 61 Time 62 The Choice 63 [A Humble Invocation] 65 [From an Epistle to Mira] 66 [Concluding Lines of an Epistle to Prince William Henry, afterwards King William IV] 66 [Drifting] 68 To the Right Honourable the Earl of Shelburne 69 An Epistle to a Friend 70 THE CANDIDATE 73 THE LIBRARY 100 THE VILLAGE 119 THE NEWSPAPER 137 THE PARISH REGISTER 158 THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY 223 REFLECTIONS 234 SIR EUSTACE GREY 238 THE HALL OF JUSTICE 252 WOMAN! 261 THE BOROUGH 263

JUVENILIA

(1772--1780.)

SOLITUDE.

[September, 1772.]

Free from envy, strife and sorrow, Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears; Free from thoughts of what to-morrow May o'er-charge the soul with cares--

Live I in a peaceful valley, By a neighbouring lonely wood; Giving way to melancholy, (Joy, when better understood).

Near me ancient ruins falling From a worn-out castle's brow; 10 Once the greatest [chiefs] installing, Where are all their honours now?

Here in midnight's gloomy terror I enjoy the silent night; Darkness shews the soul her error, Darkness leads to inward light.

Here I walk in meditation, Pond'ring all sublunar things, From the silent soft persuasion, Which from virtue's basis springs. 20

What, says truth, are pomp and riches? Guilded baits to folly lent; Honour, which the soul bewitches, When obtain'd, we may repent.

By me plays the stream meand'ring Slowly, as its waters glide; And, in gentle murmurs wand'ring, Lulls to downy rest my pride.

Silent as the gloomy graves are Now the mansions once so loud; 30 Still and quiet as the brave, or All the horrors of a croud.

This was once the seat of plunder, Blood of heroes stain'd the floor; Heroes, nature's pride and wonder, Heroes heard of now no more.

Owls and ravens haunt the buildings, Sending gloomy dread to all; Yellow moss the summit yielding, Pellitory decks the wall. 40

Time with rapid speed still wanders, Journies on an even pace; Fame of greatest actions squanders, But perpetuates disgrace.

Sigh not then for pomp or glory; What avails a heroe's name? Future times may tell your story, To your then disgrace and shame.

Chuse some humble cot as this is, In sweet philosophic ease; 50 With dame Nature's frugal blisses Live in joy, and die in peace.

G. EBBARE.

A SONG.

[September, 1772.]

I.

As Chloe fair, a new-made bride, Sat knotting in an arbour, To Colin now the damsel ty'd, No strange affection harbour.

II.

"How poor," says [she, "'s a] single life, A maid's affected carriage; Spent in sighs and inward strife, Things unknown in marriage.

III.

"Virgins vainly say they're free, None so much confin'd are; 10 Lovers kind and good may be, Husbands may be kinder.

IV.

"Then shun not wedlock's happy chain, Nor wantonly still fly man; A single life is care and pain, Blessings wait on Hymen."

G. EBBARE.

CONCLUDING LINES OF PRIZE POEM ON HOPE.

[Before October, 1772.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * But, above all, the POET owns thy powers-- Hope leads him on, and every fear devours; He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again, Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain; New schemes he forms, and various plots he tries To win the laurel, and possess the PRIZE.

TO EMMA.

View, my fair, the fading flower, Clad like thee in [beauty's] arms, Idle pageant of an hour; Soon shall time its tints devour, And what are then its charms?

Early pluck'd, it might produce A remedy to mortal pain, Afford a balmy cordial juice, That might celestial ease diffuse, Nor blossom quite in vain. 10

So 'tis with thee, my Emma fair, If nature's law's unpaid, If thou refuse our vows to hear And steel thy heart to ev'ry pray'r, A cruel frozen maid.

But yield, my fair one, yield to love, And joys unnumber'd find, In Cupid's mystic circle move, Eternal raptures thou shalt prove, Which leave no pang behind. 20

G. EBBAAC.

_Suffolk, Oct. 15, 1772._

_'Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaque labra.'_

DESPAIR.

[November, 1772.]

_Heu mihi!_ _Quod nullis amor medicabilis herbis._ OVID.

Tyrsis _and_ Damon.

_D._ Begin, my Tyrsis; songs shall sooth our cares, Allay our sorrows, and dispel our fears; Shall glad thy heart, and bring its native peace, And bid thy grief its weighty influence cease. No more those tears of woe, dear shepherd, shed, Nor ever mourn the lov'd Cordelia dead.

_T._ In vain, my Damon, urge thy fond request To still the troubles of an anxious breast: Cordelia's gone! and now what pain is life Without my fair, my friend, my lovely wife? 10 Hope! cheerful hope! to distant climes is fled, And Nature mourns the fair Cordelia dead.

_D._ But can thy tears re-animate the earth, Or give to sordid dust a second birth? Mistaken mortal! learn to bear the ill, Nor let that canker, grief, thy pleasures kill. No more in Sorrow's sable garb array'd, Still [mourn] thy lov'd, thy lost Cordelia dead.

_T._ Can I forget the fairest of her kind, Beauteous in person, fairer still in mind? 20 Can I forget she sooth'd my heart to rest, And still'd the troubl'd motion in my breast? Can I, by soothing song or friendship led, Forget to mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead?

_D._ Another fair may court thee to her arms, Display her graces, and reveal her charms; May catch thy wand'ring eye, dispel thy woe, And give to sorrow final overthrow. No longer, then, thy heart-felt anguish shed, Nor mourn, in solitude, Cordelia dead. 30

_T._ Sooner shall lions fierce forget to roam, And peaceful walk with gentle lambs at home; Sooner shall Discord love her ancient hate, And Peace and Love with Rage incorporate; Sooner shall turtles with the sparrow wed, Than I forget my lov'd Cordelia dead.

_D._ Must then Dorintha ever sigh in vain, And Cælia breathe to echoing groves her pain? Must Chloe hope in vain to steel that heart In which each nymph would gladly share a part? 40 Must these, dejected shepherd, be betray'd. And victims fall, because Cordelia's dead?

_T._ By those who love, my friend, it stands confest, No second flame can fill a lover's breast: For me no more the idle scenes of life Shall vex with envy, hatred, noise, or strife; But here, in melancholy form array'd, I'll ever mourn my lov'd Cordelia dead.

G. EBBARE.

CUPID.

[November, 1772.]

_Whoe'er thou art, thy master know; He has been, is, or shall be so._

What is he, who clad in arms, Hither seems in haste to move, Bringing with him soft alarms, Fears the heart of man to prove; Yet attended too by charms-- Is he Cupid, God of Love?

Yes, it is, behold him nigh, Odd compound of ease and smart; Near him [stands] a nymph, whose sigh Grief and joy, and love impart; 10 Pleasure dances in her eye, Yet she seems to grieve at heart.

Lo! a quiver by his side, Arm'd with darts, a fatal store! See him, with a haughty pride, Ages, sexes, all devour; Yet, as pleasure is describ'd, Glad we meet the tyrant's power.

Doubts and cares before him go, Canker'd jealousy behind; 20 Round about him spells he'll throw, Scatt'ring with each gust of wind On the motley crew below, Who, like him, are render'd blind.

This is love! a tyrant kind, Giving extacy and pain; Fond deluder of the mind, Ever feigning not to feign; Whom no savage laws can bind, None escape his pleasing chain. 30

G. EBBARE.

SONG.

[November, 1772.]

Cease to bid me not to sing. Spite of Fate I'll tune my lyre: Hither, god of music, bring Food to feed the gentle fire; And on Pægasean wing Mount my soul enraptur'd higher.

Some there are who'd curb the mind, And would blast the springing bays; All essays are vain, they'll find, Nought shall drown the muse's lays, 10 Nought shall curb a free-born mind, Nought shall damp Apollo's praise.

G. EBBARE.

[ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SPRINGALL LEVETT.]

[1774.]

What though no trophies peer above his dust, Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust; What though no earthly thunders sound his name, Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame: One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess-- More should we mourn him, did we love him less.

PARODY ON [BYROM'S] "MY TIME, OH YE MUSES."

[Woodbridge, about 1774.]

My days, oh ye lovers, were happily sped Ere you or your whimsies got into my head; I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest, And my heart play'd a regular tune in my breast. But now, lack-a-day! what a change for the worse, 'Tis as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse.

My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind, Could guide my pen gently to what I design'd. I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle, Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle. 10 But, since this vile Cupid has got in my brain, I beg of the gods to assist in my strain. And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves, And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves. * * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE WISH.

[Woodbridge, about 1774.]

My Mira, shepherds, is as fair As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale, As sylphs who dwell in purest air, As fays who skim the dusky dale, As Venus was when Venus fled From watery Triton's oozy bed.

My Mira, shepherds, has a voice As soft as Syrinx in her grove, As sweet as echo makes her choice, As mild as whispering virgin-love; As gentle as the winding stream Or fancy's song when poets dream. * * * * * * * * *

INEBRIETY.

[Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling and sixpence.]

The PREFACE.

Presumption or Meanness are but too often the only articles to be discovered in a Preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to despise the public attention, another timidly courts it. I would no more beg for than disdain applause, and therefore should advance nothing in Favor of the following little _Poem_, did it not appear a Cruelty and disregard to send a first Production naked into the WORLD.

The WORLD!--how pompous, and yet how trifling the sound. Every MAN, Gentle Reader, has a WORLD of his own, & whether it consists of half a score, or half a thousand Friends, 'tis his, and he loves to boast of it. Into my WORLD, therefore, I commit this, my Muse's earliest labor, nothing doubting the Clemency of the Climate, nor fearing the Partiality of the censorious.

Something by way of _Apology_ for this trifle, is perhaps necessary; especially for those parts, wherein I have taken such great Liberties with Mr. POPE; that Gentleman, secure in immortal Fame, would forgive me; forgive me too, my friendly Critic; I promise thee, thou wilt find the Extracts from the Swan of Thames the best Parts of the Performance; Few, I dare venture to affirm, will pay me so great a Compliment, as to think I have injured Mr POPE; Fewer, I hope, will think I endeavoured to do it, and Fewest of all will think any thing about it.

The LADIES will doubtless favor my Attempt; for them indeed it was principally composed; I have endeavored to demonstrate that it is their own Faults, if they are not deemed as good MEN, as half the masculine World; that a personal Difference of Sex need not make a real Difference; and that a tender Languishment, a refin'd Delicacy, and a particular attention to shine in Dress, will render the _Beau-Animal_ infinitely more feminine, than the generality of LADIES, whatever arcane Tokens of _Manhood_ the said _Animal_ may be indued with; and yet, ye FAIR! these creatures pass even in your catalogue for MEN; which I'm afraid is a Demonstration that the real MAN is very scarce.

Some grave _Head_ or _other_ may possibly tell me, that Vice is to be lash'd, not indulg'd; that true _Poetry_ forbids, not encourages, Folly; and such other wise and weighty Sentences, picked from POPE and HORACE, as he shall think most appertaining to his own dignity. But this, my good Reader, is a trifle; _People_ now a Days are not to be preach'd into Reflection, or they pay _Parsons_, not _Poets_ for it, if they were; they listen indeed to a Discourse from the Pulpit, for MEN are too wise to give away their Money without any consideration; and though they don't mind what is said there, 'tis doubtless a great Satisfaction to think they might if they choose it; but a MAN reads a _Poem_ for quite a different purpose: to be lul'd into ease from reflection, to be lul'd into an inclination for pleasure, and (where I confess it comes nearer the Sermon) to be lul'd--asleep.

But lest the _Apology_ should have the latter effect in itself, and so take away the merit of the Performance by forestalling that agreeable Event: I without further ceremony bid thee Adieu!

PART the FIRST.

The mighty Spirit and its power which stains[1] The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains, I sing. Say ye, its fiery Vot'ries true, The jovial Curate, and the shrill-tongu'd Shrew; Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst, Where Bowl the second charms like Bowl the first; Say, how and why the sparkling ill is shed, The Heart which hardens, and which rules the Head. When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears, A sable void the barren earth appears; 10 The meads no more their former verdure boast, Fast bound their streams, and all their Beauty lost; The herds, the flocks, their icy garments mourn, And wildly murmur for the Spring's return; The fallen branches from the sapless tree With glittering fragments strow the glassy way; From snow-top'd Hills the whirlwinds keenly blow, Howl through the Woods, and pierce the vales below; Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; 20 The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air; The floating air their downy substance glides Through springing Waters, and prevents their tides; Seizes the rolling Waves, and, as a God, Charms their swift race, and stops the refl'ent flood; The opening valves, which fill the venal road, Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood; The labouring Pulse a slower motion rules, The Tendons stiffen, and the Spirit cools; 30 Each asks the aid of [Nature's] sister Art, To Cher the senses, and to warm the Heart. The gentle fair on nervous tea relies, Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes; An inoffensive Scandal fluttering round, Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound; Champain the Courtier drinks, the spleen to chase, The Colonel burgundy, and port his Grace; Turtle and 'rrack the city rulers charm, Ale and content the labouring peasants warm; 40 O'er the dull embers happy Colin sits, Colin, the prince of joke and rural wits; Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes, He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains; And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold, Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold; Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew, Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue. The throng invisible, that doubtless float By mould'ring Tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat; 50 Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain, And all the dreadful nothing of the Green. And why not these? Less fictious is the tale, Inspir'd by Hel'con's streams, than muddy ale? Peace be to such, the happiest and the best, Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest; Who wage no war with an Avenger's Rod, Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.

When in the vaulted arch Lucina gleams, And gaily dances o'er the azure streams; 60 When in the wide cerulean space on high The vivid stars shoot lustre through the sky; On silent Ether when a trembling sound Reverberates, and wildly floats around, Breaking through trackless space upon the ear-- Conclude the Bacchanalian Rustic near; O'er Hills and vales the jovial Savage reels, Fire in his head and Frenzy at his heels; From paths direct the bending Hero swerves, And shapes his way in ill-proportion'd curves; 70 Now safe arriv'd, his sleeping Rib he calls, And madly thunders on the muddy walls; The well-known sounds an equal fury move, For rage meets rage, as love enkindles love; The buxom Quean from bed of flocks descends } With vengeful ire, a civil war portends, } An oaken plant the Hero's breast defends. } In vain the 'waken'd infant's accents shrill The humble regions of the cottage fill; In vain the Cricket chirps the mansion through, 80 'Tis war, and Blood and Battle must ensue. As when, on humble stage, him Satan hight Defies the brazen Hero to the fight; From twanging strokes what dire misfortunes rise, What fate to maple arms, and glassen eyes; Here lies a leg of elm, and there a stroke From ashen neck has whirl'd a Head of oak. So drops from either power, with vengeance big, A remnant night-cap, and an old cut wig; Titles unmusical, retorted round, 90 On either ear with leaden vengeance sound; 'Till equal Valour equal Wounds create, And drowsy peace concludes the fell debate; Sleep in her woolen mantle wraps the pair, And sheds her poppies on the ambient air; Intoxication flies, as fury fled, On rocky pinions quits the aching head; Returning Reason cools the fiery blood, And drives from memory's seat the rosy God. Yet still he holds o'er some his madd'ning rule, 100 Still sways his Sceptre, and still knows his Fool; Witness the livid lip and fiery front, With many a smarting trophy plac'd upon't; The hollow Eye, which plays in misty springs, And the hoarse Voice, which rough and broken rings. These are his triumphs, and o'er these he reigns, The blinking Deity of reeling brains.

See Inebriety! her wand she waves, And lo! her pale, and lo! her purple slaves; Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape, 110 Of every order, station, rank, and shape; The King, who nods upon his rattle-throne; The staggering Peer, to midnight revel prone; The slow-tongu'd Bishop, and the Deacon sly, The humble Pensioner, and Gownsman dry; The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great, Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state.

Lo! proud Flaminius at the splendid board, The easy chaplain of an atheist Lord, Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense, 120 And clouds his brain in torpid elegance; In china vases see the sparkling ill, From gay Decanters view the rosy rill; The neat-carv'd pipes in silver settle laid, The screw by mathematic cunning made; The whole a pompous and enticing scene, And grandly glaring for the surplic'd Swain; Oh! happy Priest whose God like Egypt's lies, At once the Deity and sacrifice! But is Flaminius, then, the man alone, 130 To whom the Joys of swimming brains are known? Lo! the poor Toper whose untutor'd sense[2] Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense; Whose head proud fancy never taught to steer Beyond the muddy extacies of Beer; But simple nature can her longing quench Behind the settle's curve, or humbler bench; Some kitchen-fire diffusing warmth around, The semi-globe by Hieroglyphics crown'd; Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll'd, 140 Nor Waiters rave, nor Landlords thirst for gold; Ale and content his fancy's bounds confine, He asks no limpid Punch, no rosy Wine; But sees, admitted to an equal share, Each faithful swain the heady potion bear. Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of taste Weigh gout and gravel against ale and rest. Call vulgar palates, what thou judgest so; Say, beer is heavy, windy, cold and slow; Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence, 150 Yet cry when tortur'd, where is Providence? If thou alone art, head and heel, not clear, Alone made steady here, untumour'd there; Snatch from the Board the bottle and the bowl, Curse the keen pain, and be a mad proud Fool.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "The mighty Mother, and her Son, who brings The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings, I sing. Say ye, her instruments, the great, Call'd to this Work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; You by whose care, in vain decry'd, and curst, Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; Say, how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep."

Pope's Dunciad.--

[2] "Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in Clouds, and hears him in the wind; Whose Soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way, Yet simple nature to his hope has given Behind the cloud-top't hill an humbler Heaven; Some safer world, in depth of woods embrac'd, Some happier island, in a watry waste: Where slaves once more their native land behold, Nor friends torment, nor Christians thirst for Gold; To live, contents his natural desire, He asks no Seraph's wing, no Angel's fire, But thinks admitted to that equal Sky, His faithful Dog, shall bear him company: Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy opinion against Providence; Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such, Say here he gives too little, here too much, Destroy all creatures for thy sport and gust, Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust; If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, Alone made perfect here, immortal there: Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Rejudge his Justice, and be God of God."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

End of PART the FIRST.

PART the SECOND.

In various forms the madd'ning Spirit moves, This drinks and fights, another drinks and loves. A bastard Zeal of different kinds it shows, And now with rage, and now Religion glows; The frantic Soul bright reason's path defies, Now creeps on Earth, now triumphs in the Skies; Swims in the seas of error and explores, Through midnight mists, the fluctuating Shores; From wave to wave in rocky Channel glides, And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides; 10 In Pride exalted, or by Shame deprest, An Angel-Devil, or a human-Beast. Without a pilot who attempts to steer, Has small discretion or has little care; That pilot Reason, in the erring Soul, Is lost, is blinded in the steaming Bowl, Charm'd by its power, we cast our guide away, And at the mercy of conjecture lay; Discretion dies with reason, Revel wakes! And o'er the head his fiery banners shakes. 20 With him come frenzy, folly and excess, Blink-ey'd conceit and shallow emptiness; At Folly's beck a train of Vices glide, Murder in madness cloak'd, in choler, Pride; Above, Impiety, with curses bound, Lours at the skies, and whirls Damnation round.

Some rage, in all the strength of folly mad, Some love stupidity, in silence clad, Are never quarrelsome, are never gay, But sleep and groan and drink the Night away; 30 Old Torpio nods, and, as the laugh goes round, Grunts through the nasal Duct, and joins the sound; Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass, Wakes at the friendly Jog, and takes his Glass; Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves; The elbow chair, good wine and Sleep he loves; Nor cares of state disturb his easy head, By grosser fumes and calmer follies fed; Nor thoughts, of when, or where, or how to come, The Canvass general, or the general Doom; 40 Extremes ne'er reach'd one passion of his Soul; A villain tame, and an unmettled fool, To half his Vices he has but pretence, For they usurp the place of common sense; To half his little Merits has no claim But very Indolence has rais'd his name, Happy in this, that under Satan's sway His passions humble, but will not obey.

The Vicar at the table's front presides, Whose presence a monastic life derides; 50 The reverend Wig, in sideway order plac'd, The reverend Band, by rubric stains disgrac'd, The leering Eye, in wayward circles roll'd, Mark him the Pastor of a jovial Fold, Whose various texts excite a loud applause, Favouring the Bottle, and the good old Cause. See! the dull smile which fearfully appears, When gross Indecency her front uprears; The joy conceal'd the fiercer burns within, As masks afford the keenest gust to Sin; 60 Imagination helps the reverend Sire, And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire. But when the gay immoral joke goes round, When Shame and all her blushing train are drown'd, Rather than hear his God blasphem'd he takes The last lov'd Glass, and then the board forsakes: Not that Religion prompts the sober thought, But slavish Custom has the practice taught. Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion Has a true levite Bias for promotion; 70 Vicars must with discretion go astray, Whilst Bishops may be d----n'd the nearest way; So puny robbers individuals kill, When hector-Heroes murder as they will.

Good honest Curio elbows the [divine,] And strives, a social sinner, how to shine; The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen'd tale, That Wilton Farmers give you with their ale: How midnight Ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass, Dance o'er the Grave, and slide along the grass; 80 How Maids forsaken haunt the lonely wood, And tye the Noose, or try the willow flood; How rural Heroes overcame the giants, And through the ramshorn trumpet blew defiance; Or how pale Cicely, within the wood, Call'd Satan forth and bargain'd with her blood. These, honest Curio, are thine, and these Are the dull Treasures of a brain at peace. No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull, Of heavy, native, [unwrought] folly full; 90 Bowl upon Bowl in vain exert their force; The breathing Spirit takes a downward course, Or, vainly soaring upwards to the head, Meets an impenetrable tence of lead.

Hast thou, Oh Reader! search'd o'er gentle Gay, Where various animals their powers display? In one strange Group, a chattering race was hurl'd, Led by the Monkey who had seen the world. He, it is said, from woodland shepherds stole, And went to Court, to greet each fellow fool. 100 Like him, Fabricio steals from guardian's side, Swims not in [pleasure's] stream, but sips the tide; He hates the Bottle, yet but thinks it right } To boast next day the honours of the night; } None like your Coward can describe a fight. } See him, as down the sparkling potion goes, Labor to grin away the horrid dose; In joy-feign'd gaze his misty eye-balls float, Th' uncivil Spirit gurgling at his throat; So looks dim Titan through a wintry scene, 110 And faintly cheers the woe-foreboding swain; But now, Alas! the hour, th'increasing flood, Rolls round and round, and cannot be withstood; Thrice he essays to stop the ruby flow, To stem its Force, and keep it still below; In vain his Art, it comes! at [distance] gaze, Ye stancher Sots, and be not near the place. As when a flood from Ossa's pendant brow Rolls rapid to its fellow streams below, It moves tempest'ous down the Mountain's sides, 120 } O'er lesser hills and vales like light'ning glides, } And o'er their beauties fall'n triumphant rides, } Each verdant spot and sunny bank defaces, And forms a minor Ocean at its basis; So from his rueful lips Fabricio pours, With melancholy Force, the tinctur'd showers; O'er the embroider'd vest they take their way, And in the grave its tinsel honours lay. No Nymph was there, to hold the helpless face, Or save from ruin's spoil the luckless lace; 130 No guardian Fair, to turn the head aside And to securer paths the torrent glide; From silk to silk it drove its wayward Course, And on the diamond buckle spent its Force. Ah! gentle Fop! what luckless fate was thine To sin through fashion, and in woe to shine. But all our Numbers why should rascals claim[3]? Rise, honest Muse, and sing a nobler name. Pleas'd in his Eye good humour always smiles, And Mirth unbought with strife the hour beguiles, 140 Who smoothed the frown on yonder surly brow? From the dry Joke who bade gay Laughter flow? Not of affected, empty rapture full, Nor in proud Strain magnificently dull, But gay and easy, giving without Art Joy to each sense, and Solace to the heart. Thrice happy Damon, able to pursue What all so wish, but want the power to do. No cares thy Head, no crimes thy Heart torment, At home thou'rt happy, and abroad content; 150 Pleas'd with thyself, and therefore form'd to please, With Moderation free, and gay with Ease, Wise in a medium, just to an extreme, "The soul of Humour, and the life of Whim," Plac'd from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame, Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name.

Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise, And Wit abus'd degenerates into vice; Timon, long practic'd in the School of art, Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart, 160 Triumphs o'er shame, and with delusive whiles, Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles. So matrons, past the awe of Censure's tongue, Deride the blushes of the fair and young. Few with more Fire on every subject spoke, But chief he lov'd the gay immoral joke; The Words most sacred, stole from holy writ, He gave a newer form, and call'd them Wit; Could twist a Sentence into various meaning, And save himself in dubious explaining; 170 Could use a manner long taught art affords, And hint Impiety in holy words. Vice never had a more sincere ally, So bold no Sinner, yet no Saint so sly; Sophist and Cynic, mystically cool, And still a very Sceptic at the soul; Learn'd but not wise, and without Virtue brave, A gay, deluding, philosophic Knave. When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire, They stir a new, but still a false desire; 180 The place of malice ridicule then holds, And woe to teachers, ministers and scolds; And, to the comfort of each untaught Fool, Horace in English vindicates the Bowl. "The man" (says Timon) "who is drunk is blest[4], No fears [disturb], no cares destroy his rest; In thoughtless joy he reels away his life, Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife. Of late I sat within the jangling bar, And heard my Rib's hoarse thunder from afar; 190 Careless I spoke, and, when she found me drunk, She breath'd one Curse, and then away she slunk, Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come, And thunders worse than thine afflict the room; Where one eternal Nothing flutters round, And senseless [titt'rings] sense of mirth confound; Or lead me bound to Garret, babel-high, Where frantic Poet rolls his crazy eye; Tiring the Ear, with oft-repeated chimes, And smiling at the never ending rhymes; 200 E'en here or there, I'll be as blest as Jove, Give me tobacco, and the wine I love." Applause from Hands the dying accents break Of stagg'ring sots, who vainly try to speak; From Milo, him who hangs upon each word, And in loud praises splits the tortur'd board, Collects each sentence, ere it's better known, And makes the mutilated joke his own, At weekly club to flourish, where he rules The glorious president of grosser fools. 210

But cease, my Muse; of those or these enough, The fools who listen, and the knaves who Scoff; The jest profane, that mocks th' offended God, Defies his power, and [sets] at nought his rod. The empty Laugh, discretion's vainest foe, From fool to fool re-echo'd to and fro; The sly Indecency, that slowly springs From barren wit, and halts on trembling wings: Enough of these, and all the charms of Wine; Be sober joys and social evenings mine, 220 Where peace and Reason unsoil'd mirth improve, The powers of friendship and the joys of love; Where thought meets thought ere Words its form array, And all is sacred, elegant, and gay; Such pleasure leaves no Sorrow on the mind, Too great to [pall], to sicken too [refin'd], Too soft for Noise, and too sublime for art, The social solace of the feeling Heart, For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high, 'Tis Virtue's Pleasure, and can never die. 230

FOOTNOTES:

[3] "But all our praises why should Lords engross? Rise honest Muse and sing the Man of Ross. Pleas'd Vaga echo's, through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds; Who hung with woods, yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry Rock, who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Nor in proud falls, magnificently lost. But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the Sick, and solace to the Swain."

POPE.--

[4] "Integer vitæ, scelerisque [purus] Non eget &c. &c."

HORACE.

End of PART the SECOND.

PART the THIRD.

Now soar, my Muse! and leave the meaner crew[5], To aim at bliss, and vainly bliss pursue; Let us (since Man no privilege can claim, Than a contended, half superior name) Expatiate o'er the raptures of the Fair, Vot'ries to stolen joys, but yet sincere; In secret Haunts, where never day-light gleams By bottles, tempting with forbidden streams, Together let us search; above, below, Try what the Closets, what the Cellars show; 10 The latent vault with piercing view explore Of her who hides the all reviving store. Eye Beauty's walks, when round the welkin rolls, And catch the stumbling Charmer as she falls; Laugh where we must, but pity where we can, And vindicate the sweet soft souls to Man.

Pardon, ye Fair, the Poet and his Muse, And what ye can't approve, at least excuse; Far be from him the iron lash of Wit, The jokes of Humour, and the sneers that hit; 20 He speaks of Freedom, and he speaks to you, His Verse is simple, but his Subject new; And novelty, ye Fair, beyond a doubt, Is philosophic truth, the World throughout.

Hard is the lot of Woman, so have sung The pensive old, and the presuming young; Born without privilege, in bondage bred, Slave from the Cradle to the marriage Bed; Slave from the hour hymeneal to the grave, In age, in youth, in infancy a Slave. 30 Happy the Bard, who, bold in pride of song Shall free the chain, by Custom bound so long, And show the Fair, to mean tradition prone, Though Virtue may have sex, yet Vice has none. If Man is licenc'd to confuse his mind, Say, why should female Frailty be confin'd? Is't right that she who dearly bought the fruit, } Of all our wayward appetites the root, } Who first made Man a fool and then a brute; } Who fair in spells of tender kind can slay, 40 Like Israel's Judge, her thousands in a day; Nay farther, has a far superior Pow'r, And almost thousands in a day can cure; She, the bright cause of fury in Man's breast; And brighter cause who bids that fury rest; Who raises peace or war at her command, And bids a sword destroy a tipsy Land; Say, is it right that she who kills and saves, Makes wise Men mad, and takes the veil from Knaves, Should want the pow'r, the magic, which alone, 50 Can Conquests boast more fatal than her own? For Man alone did earth produce her fruit, The sole, as well as the superior, brute; Does he alone the glorious licence claim, To put the human off, and loose his Name? Woman in Knowledge was the earlier curst, And tasted of forbidden Fruit the first; Prior to Man, the law she disobey'd, And shall she want the Freedom she convey'd? By her first Theft each fiery ill we feel, 60 And yet compel the gen'rous Fair to steal; First made by her for soaring actions fit, Woman! the spring of super-human wit, Shall we from her each dear bought bliss withhold, As Spaniards use the Indians for their Gold? Ungrateful Man! in pride so high to aim, As to be sole inheritor of shame!

And you, ye Fair! why slumber on disdain, Forbear to vindicate, yet can't refrain? Why should Papilla seek the vaulted hoard, 70 And but in secret ape her honest Lord? Why should'st thou, Celia, to thy stores repair, And sip the generous Spirit in such fear? Reform the Error, and revoke your plan, And as ye dare to imitate, be----Man.

First know yourselves, and frame your passions all[6], In proper order, how to rise and fall; Woman's a Being, dubiously great, Never contented with a passive state; With too much Knowledge to give Man the sway, 80 With too much Pride his humours to obey, She hangs in doubt, [too] humble or [too] brave; In doubt to be a Mistress or a Slave; In doubt herself or Husband to controul; Born to be made a tyrant or a fool; In one extreme, her Power is always such Either to show too little, or too much; Bred up in Passions, by their sway abus'd, The weaker for the stronger still refus'd; Created oft' to rise, and oft' to fall, 90 Changing in all things, yet alike in all; Soft Judge of right or wrong, or blest or curst, The happiest, saddest, holiest, or the worst.

And why? because your failings ye suppress, And what ye dare to act, dare not confess. Would you, ye Fair, as Man your vices boast, And she be most admir'd, who sins the most; Would ye in open revel gaily spring, And o'er the wanton Banquet vaunting sing; The doubtful Precedence we then should own, 100 And you be first in [Error's] mazes known.

But why to Vices of the boist'rous kind Tye the soft Soul, and urge the gentle Mind? Forbid it, Nature! to the Fair I speak, By her made strong, by Custom rendered weak; Whose passions, trembling for unbounded sway, Will thank the Bard, who points the nearest way; All Vice through Folly's regions first should pass, And Folly holds her sceptre o'er the glass. Drink then, ye Fair! and nature's laws fulfill; 110 Be ev'ry thing at once, and all ye will; Put off the mask that hides the Sex's claim And makes Distinction but an empty name.

Go, wond'rous Creature! where the potion glides[7] From Bowls unmeasured in illumin'd tides; Instruct each other, in your due degrees; Correct old Rules, and be e'en what you please; Go, drink! for who shall jointed power contest? Drink to the passable, the good, the best. And, quitting Custom and her idle plan, 120 Call drowning reason imitating Man; Like lovers' brains in giddy circles run, And, all exhausting, imitate the Sun; Go, and be Man in noise and glorious strife, Then drop into his Arms and be a----Wife.

Ye Gods! what scenes upon my Fancy press, The Consequence of unconfin'd excess; When Vice in common has one general name, And male and female Errors be the same; For, as the strength of Spirit none contest, 130 That daring Ill shall introduce the rest; Then, what a field of glory will arise, What dazzling scenes, ye Fair, before your eyes: As female duels, Jockies----what besides? Gamblers in petticoats, and booted brides; The tender Billet to the gentle swain, That boldly dares avouch the am'rous pain; Soft Beaux intreated, gentle Coxcombs prest, And Fops asham'd half blush to be addrest. Thus to sweet Strephon will his Chloris say, 140 One cup of Nectar having pav'd the way; "Oh! why so dead to my emploring eyes, Deaf to my prayer, and speechless to my sighs? Sure never Nymph of old, my darling Boy, When Men intreated, and when we were coy, Was prest so warmly by a bleeding swain, Or shot from killing eyes such cold disdain." And thus will run wild Flavia's Billetdoux, The writing bold, and e'en the spelling true: "No more, my Belmour, shun these longing arms, 150 Thou quintessence of all thy Sex's charms; At ten--behind the elm, where echoes sigh, Shall, taught [by] me, teach thee my swain to die; The conscious Moon shall fill her lucid horn, And join thy Blush to mock the crimson morn; The limpid Stream shall softly move along, And hear its own sweet warble from thy tongue; There come, dear boy, or vainly flow the streams, There come, or vainly sheds the moon her beams; Vainly on her my Moments I shall waste, 160 She who like thee is cold, and who like thee is chaste." But then what tender Stripling shall escape? What blushing Boy avoid a Lady-Rape? Where shall each lisping creature hide his head, To amazonian desires betray'd? Where from the wily Heroine remove, Clad in the fortitude of Wine and Love? Oh! hapless Lad, what refuge canst thou find Too soft, too mild, too tender to be kind? Yet this is no objection understood, 170 "For partial Evil's universal Good."

Nor think of Nature's state I make a jest[8]: The state of Nature is a state undrest; The love of Pleasure at our birth began, Pleasure the aim of all things, and of Man. Law then was not, the swelling flame to kill, Man walk'd with beast, and--so he always will; And Woman too, the same their board and bed, And would be now, but Folks are better bred; In some convenient grot, or tufted wood, 180 All human beings Nature's circuit trod; The shrine was her's, with no gay vesture laid; Unbrib'd, unmarried stood the willing maid; Her attribute was universal Love, And man's prerogative to range and rove. But how unlike the Pairs of times to come, Wedded, yet separate, abroad at home, Who foes to Nature, and to evil prone, Despising all, but hating most their own. A wayward craving this Neglect succeeds, 190 As every Monster monst'rous children breeds; Strange motly passions from this vice began, And Man unnatural turn'd to worship Man.

For this the Muse now calls the Fair to rise, To shew our failings, and to make us wise; Be now to Bacchus, now to Venus prone, And share each folly Man has thought his own; Shame him from Vice, by shewing him your shame, And part with yours, to reinstate his Fame; Be generously vile, and this your view: 200 That Man may hate his errors seen in you.

Say, when the Coxcomb flatters and adores, When (taking snuff) your pity he implores; With many a gentle Dem'me swears to die, And humbly begs Destruction from your eye; When your own arts he takes, and speaks in smiles, With Softness woos, and with a Voice beguiles; Does it not move your pity and disdain, Such flow'ry passion, and such mincing pain; Your various Follies you with anger scan, 210 So shewn by one whom Nature meant for Man. E'en so do we our faults in you despise, And Vice has double malice in those Eyes. When Chloe toasts her Beau, or raves too loud; When Flavia leaves her home, and joins a croud; When Silvia fearless rolls the roguish eye, And Damon's want of confidence supply; When betts, and duns, and every rougher name, Sound in the ear of either Sex the same; How should we tell, when thus you love and hate, 220 Who acts the Man, and who's effeminate?

Drink, then! disclaim your Sex, be Man in all, Shew us at once, distinction ought to fall; And from the humble things ye were of old, Be reeling Cæsars in a cyprian mould.

Better for us, 'tis granted, it might be[9], Were you all Softness, and all Honour we; That never rougher Passion mov'd your mind; That we were all or excellent or blind; But, as we now subsist by passions strife, 230 Which are (POPE writes) the elements of life, The general order, since the whole began, Should be dissolv'd, and Manners make the Man.

Nor fear, if once ye break through general Laws, To draw in thousands, and gain our applause; Nor fear but Fame your merits shall make known, And female Bravos trample Hectors down; From Man himself you'll learn the art he boasts, Rule in his room, and govern in his posts.

Thus does the Muse in vein didactic speak----[10] 240 "Go, from proud Man thy full instructions take; Learn from the Law, what gain its mazes yield; Learn of the Brave the police of the field; Thy arts of shuffling from the Courtier get; Learn of his Grace to stare away a debt; Learn from the Sot his poison to caress, Shake the mad room, and revel in excess; From Man all forms of grand deception find, And so be tempted to delude Mankind. Here frantic schemes of wild Ambition see; 250 There all the plots, my Fair! he lays for thee. Learn each small People's genius, humours, aims, The Jocky's dealing, and Newmarket games; How there in common wealth in currents go, And poverty and riches ebb and flow; And these for ever, though a Saint deny'd, To splendour or contempt their Masters guide; Mark the nice rules of modern honour well, Rules which the laws of Nature far excel. In vain thy fancy finer whims shall draw; 260 Good-breeding is as difficult as Law, And, form'd so complex, makes itself a science, To bid the Scholar and the Clown defiance. Go then, and thus thy present Lords survey, And let the Creatures feel they must obey; Learn all their Arts, be these thy choicest hoard, Be fear'd for these, and be for these ador'd."

And where are these? within the Bowl they lie; Thence spring ambitious thoughts, there doubtings die; From thence we trace the horrors of a War, 270 Chaotic counsel, ministerial jar; This makes a gambling Lord, a Patriot vain, The Soldier's fury, and the Lover's pain; Fills Bedlam's wards with souls of ærial mould; This makes the Madman, this supplies the Scold; Here rules the one grand Passion in extreme, A love of lucre, or a love of fame; The Scholar's boast, the Politician's plan; Here shines the Bubble, and here falls the Man.

Oh! happy fall of insolence and pride, 280 Which makes the humblest with the great allied; Which levels like the Grave all earthly things, For drunken Coblers are as proud as Kings; Which plucks the sons of grandeur from their sphere, For who is lower than a stagg'ring Peer? Yet here, ye Fair, tho' ev'ry Soul's the same, And Prince and Pedlar differ but in name, Folly with Fashion is discreetly grac'd, And, if all sin, not all can sin in taste; For who, ye Gods! would ever go astray, 290 If 'twas not something in a modish way?

Oh! Fashion, caprice, pride--whate'er we call-- Thou something, nothing, dear attractive all; Thou serious trifle of the gentle Soul, Worship'd, yet changing, varying to controul; Sweet Child of wanton fancy, artful whim, Bred in an instant, born in an Extreme; Folly's best friend, and luxury's ally, Who, dying always, prov'st thou canst not die; Attend us here; let us grow mad in Form, 300 Rage with an Air, and elegantly storm; Invoke destruction with a Grace divine, And call for Satan as a child of thine; Genteely stagger from the common road; And ape the brute, but ape him in the mode; With a Court-grace make every action known, For who'd be d----n'd for sins they blush to own?

Far as the power of human vice extends[11], Her scale of sensual vanity ascends; Mark how it rises to the gilded Throne, 310 From the poor wretch who dully topes alone. What modes of folly, each in one extreme, The sots dim sense, th' Epicurean's dream; Of scent, what difference 'twixt the pungent rum And noxious vapours of fermenting stum; Of hearing, to Champain's decanted swell From the dull gurgle of expiring ale? The touch, how distant in the mean and great, Who feel all roughness, or who feed from plate; In the nice Lord, behold what arts produce; 320 From vases carv'd is quaff'd the balmy juice; How palates vary in the poor Divine, Compar'd, half-reasoning Nobleman! with thine.

Thus every sense is fill'd in due degree, And proper barriers bound his Grace and me; Here every Passion is at length display'd, Nations are ruin'd, Ministers betray'd; And what, ye Fair, concerns your pleasures most, Intrigues are plan'd, and Reputations lost: By you persuaded, Man was overcome, 330 And conquer'd once, received a general doom; Requite the deed, partake a general Curse; We fell with you, and you should fall with us.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] "Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of Kings; Let us (since Life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die) Expatiate free o'er all this scene of Man, A mighty maze, but not without a plan; A Wild, where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot Or Garden, tempting with forbidden fruit. Together let us beat this ample field, Try what the open, what the covert yield; The latent tracts, the giddy heights explore, Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar; Eye Nature's walks, shoot Folly as it flies, And catch the Manners, living as they rise; Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, But vindicate the ways of God to Man."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[6] "Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, A Being darkly wise, and rudely great; With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between: in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast; In doubt his Mind or Body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in Ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much; Chaos of Thought and Passion; all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd: Created half to rise, and half to fall, Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of Truth, in endless Error hurl'd; The glory, jest, and riddle of the World!"

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[7] "Go, wondrous creature! mount where Science guides; Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; Instruct the planets in what orbs to run, Correct old Time, and regulate the Sun; Go, soar, with Plato, to th' empyreal sphere, To the first Good, first Perfect, and first Fair; Or tread the mazy round his foll'wers trod, And quitting sense call imitating God; As eastern Priests in giddy circles run, And turn their heads to imitate the Sun; Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule; Then drop into thyself, and be a Fool."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[8] "Nor think, in Nature's State they blindly trod; The state of Nature was the reign of God: Self-love and social at her birth began, Union the bond of all things, and of Man. Pride then was not; nor Arts, that Pride to aid; Man walk'd with beast, joint tenant of the shade; The same his table, and the same his bed; No murder cloath'd him, and no murder fed. In the same temple, the resounding wood, All vocal beings hymn'd their equal God; The shrine with gore unstain'd, with gold undrest; Unbrib'd, unbloody, stood the blameless priest; Heav'n's attribute was universal care, And Man's prerogative to rule, but spare. Ah! how unlike the man of times to come! Of half that live the butcher and the tomb; Who, foe to Nature, hears the gen'ral groan, Murders their species, and betrays his own. But just Disease to luxury succeeds, And ev'ry death its own avenger breeds; The Fury-passions from that blood began, And turn'd on Man a fiercer savage, Man."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[9] "Better for us, I grant, it might appear, Were there all Harmony, all Virtue here; That never air or ocean felt the wind, That never passion discompos'd the mind; But all subsists by elemental strife, And passions are the elements of life; The general Order, since the whole began Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man."

[10] "Thus then to Man the voice of Nature spake---- 'Go, from the creatures thy instructions take: Learn from the birds what food the thickets yield; Learn from the beasts the physic of the field; Thy arts of building from the bee receive; Learn of the mole to plough, the worm to weave; Learn of the little nautilus to sail, Spread the thin oar, and catch the driving gale. Here too all forms of social union find, And hence let Reason, late, instruct Mankind; Here subterranean works and cities see, There towns aerial on the waving tree. Learn each small people's genius, policies, The ant's republic, and the realm of bees; How those in common all their wealth bestow, And anarchy without confusion know; And these for ever, though a monarch reign, Their sep'rate cells and properties maintain. Mark what unvary'd laws preserv'd each state, Laws wise as nature, and as fix'd as Fate. In vain thy Reason finer webs shall draw, Intangle Justice in her net of law, And right, too rigid, harden into wrong, Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. Yet go! and thus o'er all the creatures sway; Thus let the wiser make the rest obey; And, for those arts mere Instinct could afford, Be crown'd as Monarchs, or as Gods ador'd.'"

Pope's Essay on Man.--

[11] "Far as Creation's ample range extends, The scale of sensual, mental pow'rs ascends; Mark how it mounts to Man's imperial race, From the green myriads in the peopled grass What modes of sight, betwixt each wide extreme, The mole's dim curtain, and the lynx's beam: Of smell the head-long lioness between, And hound sagacious on the tainted green. Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood, To that which warbles thro' the vernal wood, The spider's touch, how exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line; In the nice bee what art, so subtly true, From pois'nous herbs extracts the healing dew; How Instinct varies in the grov'ling swine, Compar'd, half-reasoning elephant, with thine."

Pope's Essay on Man.--

_FINIS._

JUVENILIA.

[THE LEARNING OF LOVE.]

[About 1776.]

Ah! blest be the days when with Mira I took The learning of Love.... When we pluck'd the wild blossoms that blush'd in the grass, And I taught my dear maid of their species and class; For Conway, the friend of mankind, had decreed That Hudson should show us the wealth of the mead.

YE GENTLE GALES.

Woodbridge, 1776.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move, Go whisper to the Fair I love; Tell her I languish and adore, And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request, Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest-- My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim, And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain, And thinks I feel a common pain-- 10 Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly, And tell the haughty Fair I die.

MIRA.

Aldborough, 1777.

A wanton chaos in my breast raged high, A wanton transport darted in mine eye; False pleasure urged, and ev'ry eager care, That swell the soul to guilt and to despair. My Mira came! be ever blest the hour, That drew my thoughts half way from folly's power; She first my soul with loftier notions fired; I saw their truth, and as I saw admired; With greater force returning reason moved, And as returning reason urged, I loved; 10 Till pain, reflection, hope, and love allied My bliss precarious to a surer guide-- To Him who gives pain, reason, hope, and love, Each for that end that angels must approve. One beam of light He gave my mind to see, And gave that light, my heavenly fair, by thee; That beam shall raise my thoughts, and mend my strain, Nor shall my vows, nor prayers, nor verse be vain.

HYMN.

Beccles, 1778.

Oh, Thou! who taught my infant eye To pierce the air, and view the sky, To see my God in earth and seas, To hear him in the vernal breeze, To know him midnight thoughts among, O guide my soul, and aid my song! Spirit of Light! do thou impart Majestic truths, and teach my heart; Teach me to know how weak I am, How vain my powers, how poor my frame; 10 Teach me celestial paths untrod-- The ways of glory and of God.

No more let me, in vain surprise, To heathen art give up my eyes-- To piles laborious science rear'd For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd; But quit Philosophy, and see The Fountain of her works in Thee.

Fond man! yon glassy mirror eye-- Go, pierce the flood, and there descry 20 The miracles that float between The rainy leaves of wat'ry green; Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan; See nations swimming round a span.

Then wilt thou say--and rear no more Thy monuments in mystic lore-- My God! I quit my vain design, And drop my work to gaze on Thine: Henceforth I'll frame myself to be, Oh, Lord! a monument of Thee. 30

THE WISH.

Aldborough, 1778.

Give me, ye Powers that rule in gentle hearts, The full design, complete in all its parts, Th' enthusiastic glow, that swells the soul-- When swell'd too much the judgment to control-- The happy ear that feels the flowing force Of the smooth line's uninterrupted course; Give me, oh give, if not in vain the prayer, That sacred wealth, poetic worth, to share-- Be it my boast to please and to improve, To warm the soul to virtue and to love; 10 To paint the passions, and to teach mankind Our greatest pleasures are the most refined; The cheerful tale with fancy to rehearse, And gild the moral with the charm of verse.

THE COMPARISON.

Parham, 1778.

Friendship is like the gold refined, And all may weigh its worth; Love like the ore, brought undesign'd In virgin beauty forth.

Friendship may pass from age to age, And yet remain the same; Love must in many a toil engage, And melt in lambent flame.

GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR.

Aldborough, 1778.

_Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum._

You're in love with the Muses? Well, grant it be true, When, good Sir, were the Muses enamour'd of you? _Read_ first--if my lectures your fancy delight-- Your taste is diseased, can your cure be to _write_?

You suppose you're a genius, that ought to engage The attention of wits and the smiles of the age: Would the wits of the age their opinion make known, Why--every man thinks just the same of his own.

You imagine that Pope--but yourself you beguile-- Would have wrote the same things, had he chose the same style. 10 Delude not yourself with so fruitless a hope-- Had he chose the same style, he had never been Pope.

You think of _my_ muse with a friendly regard, And rejoice in her author's esteem and reward: But let not his glory your spirits elate, When pleased with his honours, remember his fate.

FRAGMENT.

Aldborough, 1778.

_Lord, what is man, that thou art mindful of him?_

Proud, little Man, opinion's slave. Error's fond child, too duteous to be free, Say, from the cradle to the grave, Is not the earth thou tread'st too grand for thee? This globe that turns thee, on her agile wheel Moves by deep springs, which thou canst never feel; Her day and night, her centre and her sun, Untraced by thee, their annual courses run. A busy fly, thou sharest the march divine, And flattering fancy calls the motion thine; 10 Untaught how soon some hanging grave may burst, And join thy flimsy substance to the dust.

THE RESURRECTION.

Aldborough, 1778.

The wintry winds have ceased to blow, And trembling leaves appear; And fairest flowers succeed the snow, And hail the infant year.

So, when the world and all its woes Are vanish'd far away, Fair scenes and wonderful repose Shall bless the new-born day--

When, from the confines of the grave, The body too shall rise, 10 No more precarious passion's slave, Nor error's sacrifice.

'Tis but a sleep--and Sion's king Will call the many dead; 'Tis but a sleep--and then we sing O'er dreams of sorrow fled.

Yes!--wintry winds have ceased to blow, And trembling leaves appear, And Nature has her types to show Throughout the varying year. 20

MY BIRTH-DAY.

Aldborough, December 24, 1778.

Through a dull tract of woe, of dread, The toiling year has pass'd and fled: And, lo! in sad and pensive strain, I sing my birth-day date again.

Trembling and poor, I saw the light, New waking from unconscious night; Trembling and poor I still remain, To meet unconscious night again.

Time in my pathway strews few flowers, To cheer or cheat the weary hours; 10 And those few strangers, dear indeed, Are choked, are check'd, by many a weed.

TO ELIZA.

Beccles, 1779.

The Hebrew king, with spleen possest, By David's harp was soothed to rest; Yet, when the magic song was o'er, The soft delusion charm'd no more; The former fury fired the brain, And every care return'd again.

But had he known Eliza's skill To bless the sense and bind the will, To bid the gloom of care retire, And fan the flame of fond desire, 10 Remembrance then had kept the strain, And not a care return'd again.

LIFE.

Aldborough, 1779.

Think ye, the joys that fill our early day, Are the poor prelude to some full repast? Think you, they _promise_?--ah! believe they _pay_; The purest ever, they are oft the last. The jovial swain that yokes the morning team, And all the verdure of the field enjoys, See him, how languid, when the noon-tide beam Plays on his brow, and all his force destroys. So 'tis with us, when, love and pleasure fled, We at the summit of our hill arrive: 10 Lo! the gay lights of Youth are past--are dead, But what still deepening clouds of Care survive!

THE SACRAMENT.

Aldborough, 1779.

O sacred gift of God to man, A faith that looks above, And sees the deep amazing plan Of sanctifying love.

Thou dear and yet tremendous God, Whose glory pride reviles; How did'st thou change thy awful rod To pard'ning grace and smiles!

Shut up with sin, with shame below, I trust, this bondage past, 10 A great, a glorious change to know, And to be bless'd at last.

I _do_ believe, that, God of light! Thou didst to earth descend, With Satan and with Sin to fight-- Our great, our only friend.

I _know_ thou did'st ordain for me, Thy creature, bread and wine; The depth of grace I cannot see, But worship the design. 20

NIGHT.

Aldborough, 1779.

The sober stillness of the night That fills the silent air, And all that breathes along the shore, Invite to solemn prayer.

Vouchsafe to me that spirit, Lord! Which points the sacred way, And let thy creatures here below Instruct me how to pray.

FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

Aldborough, 1779.

Oh, great Apollo! by whose equal aid The verse is written and the med'cine made, Shall thus a boaster, with his fourfold powers, In triumph scorn this sacred art of ours? Insulting quack! on thy sad business go, And land the stranger on this world of woe. Still I pass on, and now before me find The restless ocean, emblem of my mind; There wave on wave, here thought on thought succeeds, Their produce idle works and idle weeds. 10 Dark is the prospect o'er the rolling sea, But not more dark than my sad views to me; Yet from the rising moon the light beams dance In troubled splendour o'er the wide expanse; So on my soul, whom cares and troubles fright, The Muse pours comfort in a flood of light.-- Shine out, fair flood! until the day-star flings His brighter rays on all sublunar things. "Why in such haste? by all the powers of wit, I have against thee neither bond nor writ. 20 If thou'rt a poet, now indulge the flight Of thy fine fancy in this dubious light; Cold, gloom, and silence shall assist thy rhyme, And all things meet to form the true sublime."-- "Shall I, preserver deem'd around the place, With abject rhymes a doctor's name disgrace? Nor doctor solely, in the healing art I'm all in all, and all in every part; Wise Scotland's boast let that diploma be Which gave me right to claim the golden fee. 30 Praise, then, I claim, to skilful surgeon due, For mine th' advice and operation too; And, fearing all the vile compounding tribe, I make myself the med'cines I prescribe. Mine, too, the chemic art; and not a drop Goes to my patients from a vulgar shop. But chief my fame and fortune I command From the rare skill of this obstetric hand: This our chaste dames and prudent wives allow, With her who calls me from thy wonder now." 40

MIDNIGHT

A POEM.

[About 1779.]

Life is a Dream;--it steals upon the Man, He knows not how, but thinks himself awake; 'Tis like a Bubble dancing on the Deep, That turns its glossy surface to the Sun, Catches a Rainbow-Vest, and sparkles, proud Of momentary Being--then it breaks-- To some tremendous Billow drops a prey, And joins th' eternal Source, from whence it sprang.

But ah! how dismal are the Dreams of Care, How much of Care do e'en the happiest dream, 10 And some--hard Fortune theirs--of Care alone.

Forgive me then, ye Wise, who seem awake, A Midnight Song, and let your Censure sleep; While Sorrow's Theme, and Contemplation sad, And Soul-dilating Fancy's pensive Flight Through Star-crown'd Gloom, I sing; inspir'd by her, Whom Virtue loves, whom Wisdom; from whose Touch Grief borrows Charm, and Expectation sits On the cold Bosom of the Tomb serene. Pale Melancholy she; nor softer shines 20 The sabled Fair, her Votress, o'er the Grave Of the departed Lover; nor more mild Sits yonder Moon's chaste ray upon the Rock, That, rising from the Bosom of the Wave, Flings Awe on Night. Thou Grave-enamour'd Fair, Attune my Song, and, languid as thou art, The Song shall please; and I will paint the Dream That Midnight gave thee, when with wintry Wing She swept thy Grot, and shook her grisled Dew Upon the frozen Garment of the pool; 30 And I will drown mine Eye in Tears like thine, And give my hollow Cheek a dewy pale, And dress me in the Livery of the Dead; And o'er their dreary Mansions walk with thee; Bidding a brief Farewell to little Cares, And Visionary Honour's frantic Sons, Who feed on Adulation--let them feed, Till the full Soul disdains the nauseous Trash, And sickens with Repletion.--

I will ask, No Voice of Fame to spread abroad my Song, 40 Nor Court Applause--Meonides had Fame, And with her poverty and pain and Care, Attendants on the Bard-deluding Nymph, Who mock the Babbling of her loudest Note; From Heaven he stole Description, Nature's Key, And loosen'd into Light her Mysteries; Ambition started when he sang of War, In Language all her own; and o'er his Lyre Hung Devastation, glowing at the Sound, And frantic for the Field; and there Distress, 50 As if enamour'd of the Mighty Man, With cruel Constancy repaid his Muse; And chiding Fame, by whispering to the Soul Domestic Ills, she [triumph'd] over praise, And, through th' untasted Plaudit of a World, Led the blind Bard in Sadness to the Tomb.--

I ask no Mantuan Muse with silver Wing To bear me in some rapid even flight Thro' distant Ages, tho' so sweet her Bard That yet the Traveller o'er each Hill he sang, 60 Transported, [wanders], feeling power divine New-rising on his Soul to chain its Cares. Imagination turns the Tide of Time, Unwinds each year, and, thro' reviving Light, And thro' the vandal Gloom of Centuries drear, And falling Rome works back, till Nature smiles And [Tityrus] sings anew; then laughs each Scene, And cloudless skies appear, and Beachen Boughs That Shade the [Nereids] listning from their Streams.--

Nor Milton's muse I boast, to whom the Morn 70 And all her rosy Train, and blazing Noon, Dipping his fiery Tresses in the Stream Of Pison, bank'd with Gold, and tepid Eve, Who in her soft recesses cradles Thought, And Worlds unsung pay Homage, and the Suns, From which the Light yet wings its rapid Way, Nor on the gloomy Bosom of the Earth, Sleeps from the Labour of its long Career.

Nor feels my Bosom that ambiguous Flame, That now from Skies, and now from central Gloom, 80 Shot devious o'er the fervent Page of Young-- Young, Thought's Oeconomist, who wove reproof Her [gloomiest] Vest, and yet a Vest that shone; Whose Invitation was assault: he found The World asleep and rent its drowsy Ear.

Nor shares my Soul the soft enchanting Stream, The lambent Blaze, that [Thomson] knew to blend With his Creation; when he led the Eye Through the [year's Verdant] Gate, the budding Spring; And from the Willow o'er the tuneless Stream, 90 And from the [Aspen] Rind, ere yet her Leaf Unfolding flicker'd, and from limpid rills Unmantled, cull'd Simplicity and Grace. Ah! who with mingled Modesty and Love So paints the bathing Maid; who so describes The new-mown Meadow, and the new shorn Lamb? Hard is the Task to strip the Muse's Wing Of Learning's plume, yet leave enough to charm; But this was thine! Grace beautify'd thy page, And led thy weary plowman from the field, 100 And spread thy simple Foliage on the Sod, And hung thy ponderous Treasures on the Bough, And rov'd with thy Lavinia where the Winds, Rustling along the golden [Valley], bear The Grain just dropping from its withering Glume. And Winter too was thine! permit me there To bear a part, for mine are wintry Thoughts.--

Nor dare I hope his Dignity and Fire, Who led the soul thro' Nature, and display'd Imagination's pleasures to its Eye; 110 His the blest Task, a [gloomier] task is mine; His were the Smiles of Fortune, mine her Frowns; And when her Frowns and Smiles shall charm alike, At that dread Hour when the officious Friend, Stammering his Idiot-Comfort, soothes amiss, May Joys he painted dart upon the Soul, And, more than Fancy pointing to the Skies, Whisper a noble [Challenge] to the Tomb.-- Tho' far behind my Song, my Hope the same, And not behind my Song; with Vulgar souls, 120 Both sentenc'd to Contempt--unletter'd pride-- Grins the pale Bard Disgrace alike to him Who soars above or labours in the Clouds, Who travels the sublime, or dives profound In the Wild Chaos of a School-boy's Dream: He, tyed to some poor Spot, where e'en the rill That owns him Lord untasted steals away, Hallows a Clod, and spurns Immensity.

Ye gentle, nameless Bards, who float a-down The soft smoothe Stream of silver poesy 130 And dream your pretty Dreams, permit my Song Cold inspiration from a Winter's Night. This is no Stanza'd Birth-Day of his Grace, Your patron; no sad Satire of the Lord, Your Foe; no Dunciad arm'd with power, To dive into the Depths of your profound, And with a vile assemblage gather'd there Whip the pale Moonshine from your with'ring Bays.--

Is there, who sick of Pleasure's daily Draught, In repetition mawkish, or who tir'd 140 Thinks Life an Idiot's Tale? or whom the Hand Of [Disappointment] snatches from the Vice That waits on power? or who has lost a friend, And mingles with the dew that wets his Tomb A frequent Tear? or who by Nature's mild And melancholy Bias from the Womb Was fashioned for the View of serious Things, And with the sober chiding of his eye, Freezes the [Current] within Laughter's Cheek, And awes the Voice of loud Garrulity? 150 Let him approach, and I will tell my Soul, EUGENIO rises from the Grave, and give The Living Youth the Manners of my Friend. From the Enshrouded Tenant of the Sod I'll call the speaking Eye, the open Heart, The Tongue belov'd of Knowledge, and the Form That, could Deceit put on, Grey-headed Guile, That judges from his own embosom'd Guilt, Would yet be won, and lend a ductile Ear.

Together, while the [Echo's] feeble Sound, 160 Halting in frozen regions of the Air, Mocks our slow Step, we from the Mountain's Brow, Will look around and court the Stars of Heav'n For as much Light as guides the Miser's hand, To grasp Delusion in her Guise of Gold.--

The Morn is banish'd now, nor down the Hill Slopes the faint Shadow; now in other Realms She drinks the Dew that on the Vi'lets Lip Slept thro' the Night; and, with her golden Dart Bays the pale Moon, retiring from the View. 170 In other Climates, from the rays of Noon Embower'd, Content lies sleeping; and the palm Drinking the fiery Stream, plays o'er the Brow Of shadied Weariness; and distant now Draws meek-ey'd Eve, with even hand and slow, The fringed Curtain of the setting Sun, Ting'd with the golden Splendour he bequeaths, The brief, but beauteous Legacy of Light. 'Tis Midnight round us, canopied by Dim And twinkling Orbs that, gleaming ghastly, gild 180 The restless Bosom of the briny Deep. The fiery Meteor in the foggy Air Rides emulous of Fame and apes the Star, Till, in the Compass of a Maiden's Wish, It mocks the Eye, and sheds an [igneous] Stream, Within the bosom of Oblivion.

The Sea-Bird sleeps upon yon hoary Cliff, Unconscious of the Surge that grates below The frozen Shore; and Icy Friendship binds, As Danger Wretches Destitute of Soul, 190 The wave-worn pebbles, which the ebbing Tide, Left with the Salt-Flood shining; dark is now The awfull Deep, and o'er the Seaman's Grave Rolls pouring, and forbids the lucid Stream, That silvers oft the way, a shining Vest, Sprung from the scaly people's putrid Dead, Hanging unhers'd upon the Coral Bough; Or, as the Sage explains, from Stores of Light Imprizon'd in the Bowels of the Deep, And now escaping, when the parent Sun 200 Flings [out] his fiery Noon with Beam direct, Upon the Glossy Surface of the wave.

Cold Vapour, falling on the putrid Fen, Condenses grey, and wraps with glassy net The wintry Fern, and throws along the Heath A Hoary Garment, nor less fair than Spring Drops on the Sod, of Texture near as frail. The icy Atoms thro' the burden'd Air Shed Languor, and enwrap with double Fleece The Slumbering Fold; they cloathe the knotted oak, 210 Stretching its naked arms, as if to chide, With [age's] stern and touching Eloquence The ruthless Skies for Summer's slow return. The winds that in converging Furrows plough The freezing pool, and shake the [rattling] Wood, Are arm'd with pain, and vitrified their Wings. In Winter's Livery sleeps this earthly Scene-- And, save where Ocean rolls his restless Flood, The horizontal Eye grasps all things grey.--

Eugenio, see--for thou shalt bear His Name 220 Who sleeps beneath yon Sod, and was my Friend-- The Grave o'er which I weep; and give not thou A Glance contemptuous to the grassy Tomb; For oft the vaulted Chambers of the Dead, Where Vanity amid the Mouldring Scrolls Of Genealogy and mingled Bones Moves in a formal join'd Solemnity, House wretched Remnants of degenerate Man; And oft the Green Turf's temporary swell, Sepulchring all that Virtue leaves the Earth, 230 Stirs busy Memory to con o'er Deeds Of high Renown in Heaven, the Deeds of Love; Which in th' eternal Records of the Just, Are written with an Angels pen, and sung With [Symphony] of Harp, and there is Joy And Gratulation with the Sons of God.--

Alas! how chang'd the Verdure of this [Scene], How lost the Flowers, how winter-struck the Blade! No more the wild Thyme wings the passing Gale With Fragrance, nor invites the roving Bee 240 To taste its Sweets--and why this direful waste Of Verdure? why this Vegetable Death? Did all with Man commit mysterious Sin? All in rebellion rise?--and tepid Meads, And Lawns irriguous, and the blooming field, And Hills, and Vallies, and intangling Woods, Spurn GOD'S Command and drink forbidden Dew?--

There was a Time, and Poets paint it fair, (A wild, uncertain, musing, madning Race) A Golden Age, when wealth was only Love: 250 Not even Fancy dreamt a Dream of Care, The Sward was not--and Desolation slept Till by a Crime awaken'd; not e'en Song Wore Semblatude of War;--Eternal Spring From the unfurrow'd Field the heavy Ear Drew smiling, and the undistinguish'd year Brought willing plenty forth, nor scorn'd she then A Common Call, enamour'd of her plough. The Clinging Vine prest down the branching Elm E'en to the Earth, and in her verdant Lap 260 The tributary Grape, yet growing, laid. The simple Shepherd pip'd a silvan Lay; Or, while the Fair who charm'd him prest beside, The listning Vale sung hymeneal Strains, And woo'd with melting Themes a ten years' Bride.

Eugenio, thus they taught; and after this A silver age arose, and hers the Scenes Not Gold could purchase now: when Vice, afraid, Hid his pale Visage in the womb of Night, And blush'd, if but a Moon-beam met his Eye. 270 The Seasons alter'd, but the Change was slow, And Man forgot they chang'd; then Care began To plow his Furrows on the Brow of Age, And Falshood from the female Eye to steal The silent Tear; then prudence took her Seat Within the Soul, and reign'd in Virtue's room. Then Vanity, a Child, first learn'd to bend The ready Ear to tales of her own praise; Nor knew she yet the Gross of Flattery, But was, as Modesty is now, afraid 280 The Verse she lov'd should tickle her too much. Then young Ambition wore his Russet Gown Only in better Form, and Infant pomp But saw his Garden smile in richer Bloom, And propt his Cottage with a taller pier.--

Since these, dread Sorrow, consequent of Sin And foul Deformity, the Breast of Man And the Sad Surface of the Earth enrobes.--

From the Dark Bosom of the Giant Guilt Leak'd all Things terrible, and Murder first, 290 Who proul'd about the Earth and groan'd for Blood; And treachery, breaking up the League of Friends And rending Nature's Bond, a solemn writ, With Heaven's own Seal imprest: and Avarice pale, A Woolfish-Visag'd Fiend [and] fang'd with Care. Hence War, in all her guilty Majesty In slow pomp riding o'er a [threat'ned] Land, With all the murderous Whispers of the Camp And shout of Ambush, castigates the Night.--

And hence the Spirits from th' Abyss of Hell, 300 That prey upon Mankind.--Eugenio, give Thy Soul's pure Eye, that sees immortal things, To the grim Spectres hovering in the Air, And we will mark the dreary Train that vex The mortal Man, and ride with ghostly pomp, Frowning upon the Midnight's murky Wing.--

And who is he, from yonder antient roof, With Horror in his Eye, who steals around Each hollow Isle; and with a fierce Embrace Clasps the encrumbling ruin? 'Tis the Foe 310 Of Men and Virtue, Eldest-born of Night, And Superstition call'd, a Giant fond Of Dead-Men's Bones, and vagrant [Rottenness], Denied a Tomb; around him turns the wheel, And faggots blaze; and prizons, with a Groan Resounding loud, affright the Coward Soul From Reason's Law, and Nature's. Hark! he Mourns The fretted Abby where he reign'd Secure, With Indolence and Folly, social pair, Nurses to shrine-enamour'd Zeal, who built 320 The Cavern deep and dark, in which he chain'd The drowsy Nine; who yet at Morn or Eve Hail'd the arising or descending Sun With gothic Note, harmoniously sad. But now no more the Votive Maiden clasps The clay cold Saint, and mingles with her Vow The Heaven-reproaching Sigh; in these blest realms No more the power-compelling Bigot plucks The robe from Kings, and consecrates the Tomb That hides a Brother-Saint with Zeal-enforc'd 330 And ceremonious Solemnity.--

O'er the Opaque of Nature and of Night Fair Truth rose smiling, with the Heaven-born Art That shews the Man his Fellow's Thought imprest Within the Volumes' varied Character, Where to the wondering Eye the Soul reveals Her Store immortal. Hence a Bacon shone And Newton thro' the World, and Light on Light Pour'd on the human Breast, as when of old, From the Eternal Fountains of the God, 340 Etherial Streams assail'd the groaning Mass; Then Chaos and the Sun's large Eye survey'd The first [distinguish'd] Forms of mortal Things, Till then in Congregate Confusion hurl'd Without a Station, and without a Name. Then Wit began, the younger-born of Light, To sport in hallow'd Cloysters, where the arm Of Superstition, red with slaughter'd Foes, Held high the Torch of Discord. Stroke on Stroke The smiling Boy repeated with his Sword, 350 Sharp as the [Whirlwind's] Eye: yet fear'd the fight, And oft drew back, his silver wing born down By the foul Breath of Malice; till at length The Monster, rousing in Collected Might, Shook with his Roar the Earth, and at the Sound Red Tyranny, and Torture, with his Limbs Disjoint, and Ignorance that blows the blast For every Fire, prepar'd each bloody Form Of Death, and woo'd Destruction for her Wheel.--

Then on the Father dead the dying Son 360 Implor'd Heavn's Vengence. Execration shrill Shot from the lurid Flame, and to the Skies Sail'd with the Speed of Light. The Virgin's Eye Met the grey Ruffian's, speaking Nature's Fear Of Death and Pain: the Bigot's stern Reply, Forbidding Hope, on the affrightned Soul Flung Terror; till, in pity to the World, Came Wisdom, whispering to the Ear of power, And peace arose; and then the Brother wept A Brother's Death, for distant seem'd his own. 370

And now the Spirit of uneasy Man, That weds Extreme, and, ever on the Wing For Wonder, baffles peace, high o'er the Cells Of monkish Zeal, built with the base remains The tow'ring Palace of Impiety. There Jest profane, and Quibbling Mockery Of all divine grew fast, as from the Earth Enrich'd Ill-Weeds first spring; and here the Fools, Of Laughter vain, [despis'd] the Voice of Truth, And labour'd in the ludicrous obscene. 380

To these succeed, and ah! with sad Success, A Sceptic herd more cool, and fair of form, And smoothe of Tongue and apt to gloss a Lye With Semblance strong of Nature and the Truth; They shine as Serpents, and as Serpents bite, With poison'd Tooth. Alas! the State of Man, Or doom'd the Victim of ungovern'd Zeal, Or led the Captive of unquiet Doubt!--

And now, Eugenio, turn thine Eye, and view Yon Sire bare-headed to the ruthless Wind, 390 And heedless of its Force. Upon the Brow Of yon huge shapeless Ruin, see, he kneels, And urges the departed Saints who sleep, To lend a Prayer; Repentance sent him forth, Her Son, but late th' adopted of her dark And gloomy Train. Ah! heavy weighs the Crime Of Murder on his Soul, and haunts his Bed! And, shrieking by, unseals the Eye of Sleep, Or scatters on the dark and restless Mind A thousand sooty Images of Death, 400 All horrible, and making Guilt's repose Like to the fearfull rest the Vessel feels In the dread Chasm of the tempestuous Sea, Arch'd by the Wave that pauses o'er the Gulph, While Sea-men urge their momentary prayer, And with Heart-shrinking Horror view their Grave.

But hark, he speaks--attend the Wretches Tale-- Spreading his Soul upon the Wings of Night, And seeking peace by giving Themes of pain To the rude Air:

"Come, all ye little Ills, 410 Contempt, and poverty, and pale Disease With Dewy Front, and Envy-struck applause That sickens on the World, and all of Care That shed your daily Drops of bitter Dew Upon the Brow of mortal Man, here strike, That I may feel your force, and call it Joy, So made when weigh'd against the Load that Guilt, With leaden Hand, deposits on my Heart, And when a momentary Comfort strives, Lifted by hope, to spread her downy Wing, 420 Dispair, with Icy palm, arrests the Thought, And nips the still-born Joy.--

"To me no more The Good I coveted brings Joy, brings peace, Or stifles Truth's reproof that will be heard; And did I think a base and sordid Heap Had in it the Ability to pluck The Sting from Guilt, and smother how it came In the vile Knowledge that it came to me? It was a Madman's Dream--O ye good Gods! If Envy knew her Mark, she would beset 430 The poor Man's Table and the Shepherd's Hut, Unroof'd to the cold Winter's wildest Blast, Or the Embay'd Explorers of the Deep, At their still howling North; and leave the Throne, The Sceptre and the chested Gold to plant The Thorn of Care upon the Brow of State, On which Distraction drives his plow-share deep, And helps the Scythe of Time to wrinkle there.--

"When shall I rest--O! let me, Night, [besiege] Thy drowsy Ear with wailing, but be thou 440 [Tenacious] of my Guilt; and with her Band Let everlasting Silence Tye thy Tongue; The pent-up Woe now struggles to o'er-leap Murder's Discretion, and with fearfull Speech To free the Heart by telling Deeds of Death: [Death, Thought's] repose, whom the abhor'd of Man, The base assassin, gives, and after longs With Lover's Ardour to embrace, be mine, And I will yield all Hope of After-Life, All Saints have promis'd, and all poets sung-- 450 Elysium water'd with immortal Streams, And gifted with Eternity of peace, Balm-breathing Fields, and Bowers of soft repose, Walks amaranthine, and the pillowy Moss, On Banks where Harpers, to celestial Strings Attuning Nature, warble Notes of Love, The Anodyne to all-rebellious Thought.--

"These, for Oblivion, I forego, with these Foregoing pain eternal. Why then strive From off Life's galling Load to elbow Care, 460 When Life and Care may be remov'd together?-- If I were not a very Coward Wretch, A very Shadow of the Man, a thing Made to feel Burdens of my Fear, and drag A hated Being on--'twere but to leap From this rough [Eminence], and all is done-- All that is done on this Side of the Bier. But there, surrounded with impervious Fog, Sits Doubt and Questions of the Scenes to come; Oh! Death, what moves beyond thee? Fears and Hopes, 470 Dread and Confusion, Envy and Disease, Sleeping and waking Lusts, War-moving Pride, Windy Ambition, and slow Avarice, Slay in thy path; within thy Sepulchre Mould Dead Men's Bones, feed worms, rust Epitaphs, Sleep brainless Skulls in blest Vacuity! But what comes then? O for a Seraph's Eye That, piercing thro' the Mask of Mortal Things, Might scale the cloudless Battlements of Light, And in its Immaterial Robe detect 480 The Spirit, stript of the encumbring Clay."--

Alas, Eugenio! Life, Deception's Child, Gives us her fairer Side, and gives no more; The rest we seek in our reflecting View Of Self, and Guilt's o'erheard Soliloquy. How smiles the World in pain, and smiles believ'd! Yon Wretch who, muffled in the Garb of Night, Gave her the Tortures of a weary Soul, Meets--may he not?--the jovial Eye of Day, With a depictur'd Laughter in his Cheek, 490 Or the smoothe Visage of habitual Ease?

How have I mourn'd my Lot, as if the Fates Cull'd me, the vilest from their pitchy Stores That ere in Mortal Bosom planted Woe, And pain'd the Care-fraught Soul! I'll grieve no more, But, take it patient with a sober hope, That soon Distress may vary his assault, Or soon the Welcome Tomb exclude Distress.--

But see another Son of Night and Care, A Shepherd watching o'er his frozen Fold, 500 Himself benumb'd and murmuring at his Fate. Sigh not, fond Man; thy bosom only feels The gentler Blows of Nature, and receives The Common Visit of Calamity.

JUVENILIA

[A FAREWELL.]

[1779?]

The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said, How soon the happiest hours are fled! On wings of down they lately flew, But then their moments pass'd with you; And still with you could I but be, On downy wings they'd always flee.

Say, did you not, the way you went, Feel the soft balm of gay content? Say, did you not all pleasures find, Of which you left so few behind? 10 I think you did: for well I know My parting prayer would make it so.

"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake; Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake-- The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live, With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!"

TIME.

London, February, 1780.

"The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time," Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme. All big with vision, we despise the powers That vulgar beings link to days and hours-- Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts, And cut our lives in momentary parts. That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young. Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue: What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew, How much in little space they have to do; 10 To bid the busy world resign their breath, And beat each moment a soft call for death-- To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man." Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can. It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait; It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate; It tells my heart the paralysing tale Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail.

THE CHOICE.

London, February, 1780.

What vulgar title thus salutes the eye, The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy? The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse, For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse; The dull description of a scribbler's brain, And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain; A glowing chart of fairy-land estate, Romantic scenes, and visions out of date, Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers, Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers? 10

Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love; Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want, And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant; Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again, And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain! "Gain by the Muse!"--alas! thou might'st as soon Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon; As soon grow rich by ministerial nods, As soon divine by dreaming of the gods, 20 As soon succeed by telling ladies truth, Or preaching moral documents to youth; To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires, As Tully's flourishes to country squires; As simple truth within St. James's state, Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate. "Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope! Who ever gain'd by poetry--but Pope? And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part; No potent Dean commends thy head or heart! 30 What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor? They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door, They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score. What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say? What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay? For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give? Or how did Johnson--how did Otway live? Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good, Their thin revénue never understood; Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know; 40 Like thee, repining at each puny blow; Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock, Upon their wits--but with a larger stock. No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r, With supple acts to supple minds repair; Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal, And deck thee with the livery genteel; Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite, Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write. Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw 50 Give nations language, and great cities law; Whom gods, they said--and surely gods--inspired, Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired, Now common grown, they awe mankind no more, But vassals are, who judges were before. Blockheads on wits their little talents waste, As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste; Though still some good the trial may produce, To shape the useful to a nobler use. Some few of these a statue and a stone 60 Has Fame decreed--but deals out bread to none. Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse, Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse; Members by bribes, and ministers by lies, Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise: Beaux by the outside of their heads may win, And wily sergeants by the craft within: Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led, Starve by the means they use to gain their bread? Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate 70 Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate; Of children stinted in their daily meal,-- The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel. Portentous spoke that pity in my breast, And pleaded self--who ever pleads the best. No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own-- To friends, to family, to foes unknown; Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design, Shall wound no peace--shall grieve no heart but mine. One trial past, let sober Reason speak: 80 Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek? Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain A placid harbour from the stormy main; Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep, And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

[A HUMBLE INVOCATION.]

[1780.]

When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled, And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed, Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, And simpler beauties deck the withering plain. And thus, when Verse her wintry prospect weeps, When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps, When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar, And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more, An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites, Who led by hope and inclination writes; 10 With half their art, he tries the soul to move, And swell the softer strain with themes of love.

[FROM AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.]

[April, 1780.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * Of substance I've thought, and the varied disputes On the nature of man and the notions of brutes; Of systems confuted, and systems explain'd; Of science disputed, and tenets maintain'd. These, and such speculations on these kind of things, Have robb'd my poor Muse of her plume and her wings; Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire, The spirit extracted, extinguish'd the fire; Let out all the ether, so pure and refined, And left but a mere _caput mortuum_ behind. 10 * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[CONCLUDING LINES OF AN EPISTLE TO PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY, AFTERWARDS KING WILLIAM IV.]

[April, 1780.]

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * Who thus aspiring sings, would'st thou explore? A Bard replies, who ne'er assumed before-- One taught in hard affliction's school to bear Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear; Who sees from thence the proper point of view, What the wise heed not, and the weak pursue. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "And now farewell," the drooping Muse exclaims; She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war, And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar, Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, 10 Without her misery and without her care. For, ah! unknown to thee, a rueful train, Her hapless children sigh, and sigh in vain; A numerous band, denied the boon to die, Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity. Unknown to thee! and yet, perhaps, thy ear Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear, How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease; How some, like Savage, sicken'd by degrees; How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed 20 The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread; Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse.

One of this train--and of these wretches one-- Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son-- Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed On Henry, laurels, on his poet, bread! Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse; Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse; Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex, 30 And every friend, and every brother vex-- Each fond companion?--No, I thank my God. There rests my torment--there is hung the rod. To friend, to fame, to family unknown, Sour disappointments frown on me alone. Who hates my song, and damns the poor design, Shall wound no peace--shall grieve no heart but mine!

Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that will intrude, For want is absent, and dejection rude. Methinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame, 40 Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name; And Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day, One British bard should grieve when all are gay. No! let him find his country has redress, And bid adieu to every fond distress; Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire, Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire!

[DRIFTING.]

[May, 1780.]

Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost, My rudder broken, and my compass lost, My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last, Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast, My anchor, Hope, scarce fix'd enough to stay Where the strong current Grief sweeps all away, I sail along, unknowing how to steer, Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks appear. Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark, The rapid sword-fish, and the rav'ning shark, 10 Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell, And knaves and fools and sycophants live well. What have I left in such tempestuous sea? No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me! A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears-- Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings, Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings. * * * * * * * * * * * *

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SHELBURNE.

[June, 1780.]

Ah! SHELBURNE, blest with all that's good or great T'adorn a rich, or save a sinking, state-- If public Ills engross not all thy care, Let private Woe assail a patriot's ear; Pity confined, but not less warm, impart, And unresisted win thy noble heart; Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share, Because I hope to have some interest there. Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun, Though with more fav'ring beams enlight'ning one; 10 As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest, Yet still in general bounty feeds the rest. Oh, hear the Virtue thou reverest plead; She'll swell thy breast, and there applaud the deed. She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray, And leads thee on to fame a shorter way; Where, if no withering laurel's thy reward, There's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard; A bard untrained in all but misery's school, Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool. 20 'Tis Glory prompts, and, as thou read'st, attend; She dictates pity, and becomes my friend; She bids each cold and dull reflection flee, And yields her Shelburne to distress and me!

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

[June, 1780.]

Why, true, thou say'st the fools, at Court denied, Growl vengeance--and then take the other side; The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power, As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid sour. But thou, the counsel to my closest thought, Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought. The Muse I court ne'er fawn'd on venal souls, Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls; She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream, Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme. 10 But, when she sees a titled nothing stand The ready cipher of a trembling land-- Not of that simple kind that, placed alone, Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none; But those which, join'd to figures, well express A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress, Grow in proportion to their number great, And help each other in the ranks of state-- When this and more the pensive Muses see, They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee; 20 To Court on wings of agile anger speed, And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed. Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest, And fright base action from sin's wavering breast; For, though the Knave may scorn the Muse's arts, Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. Some, though they wish it, are not steel'd enough, Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof.

And what, my friend, is left my song besides? No school-day wealth that roll'd in silver tides, 30 No dreams of hope that won my early will, Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill; No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn'd abode, No friend to whisper peace, to give me food. Poor to the World, I'd yet not live in vain, But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain.

Yet shall not Satire all my song engage In indiscriminate and idle rage; True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line, And long--if Vanity deceives not--shine. 40 For, though in harsher strains, the strains of woe, And unadorn'd my heart-felt murmurs flow, Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend. A Man--for other title were too poor-- Such as 'twere almost virtue to adore, He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale, As the sun vapours from the dew-press'd vale; Himself uninjuring, shall new warmth infuse, And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse. 50 Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice, His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice; Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring, And SHELBURNE'S fame through laughing valleys ring.

THE CANDIDATE;

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

_Multa quidem nobis facimus mala sæpe poetæ, (Ut vineta egomet cædam mea) cum tibi librum Sollicito damus, aut fesso, &c._

HOR. Lib. ii. Ep. I.

[London, 1780.]

AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS POEMS.

Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care, Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where? As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote On the fair type, or the embroider'd coat; Detest my modest shelf, and long to fly, Where princely POPES and mighty MILTONS lie? Taught but to sing, and that in simple style, Of Lycia's lip, and Musidora's smile, Go, then! and taste a yet unfelt distress, The fear that guards the captivating press; 10 Whose maddening region should ye once explore, No refuge yields my tongueless mansion more. But thus ye'll grieve, Ambition's plumage stript, "Ah, would to Heaven, we'd died in manuscript!" Your unsoil'd page each yawning wit shall flee --For few will read, and none admire like me.-- Its place, where spiders silent bards enrobe. Squeezed betwixt Cibber's Odes and Blackmore's Job; Where froth and mud, that varnish and deform, Feed the lean critic and the fattening worm; 20 Then sent disgraced--the unpaid printer's bane-- To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane, On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire, Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire, Who half reluctant has his care resign'd, Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.

Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth. View the strange land, and tell us of its worth; And, should he there barbarian usage meet, The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat. 30

And thou, the first of thy eccentric race, A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place, Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard, Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard. Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize, The Muses yield, as the Hesperides; Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's done, For every maid is willing to be won.

Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand, And beg our passage through the fairy land: 40 Beg more--to search for sweets each blooming field, And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield; To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow, And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow; Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop, Soothe without fear, and without trembling hope.

TO THE READER.

The following Poem being itself of an introductory nature, its author supposes it can require but little preface.

It is published with a view of obtaining the opinion of the candid and judicious reader on the merits of the writer as a poet; very few, he apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently impartial to decide for themselves.

It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly Review, as to critics of acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has afforded the writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to others a just and sufficient plea for the preference.

Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be much surprised to find he has mistaken his talent. However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, he promises to his readers some entertainment, and is assured that, however little in the ensuing Poem is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits contempt.

TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

The pious pilot, whom the Gods provide, Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide, Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep, Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep; But, whilst with nicest skill he steers his way, The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray. Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome, The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb.

Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer, I dread the storm, that ever rattles here; 10 Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul Has felt the Muse's soft, but strong, control; Nor think enough that manly strength and ease, Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please; But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow, Here burn my incense, and here pay my vow; That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er, And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more. And ye, whom authors dread or dare in vain, Affecting modest hopes or poor disdain, 20 Receive a bard, who, neither mad nor mean, Despises each extreme, and sails between; Who fears; but has, amid his fears confess'd, The conscious virtue of a Muse oppressed; A Muse in changing times and stations nursed, By nature honour'd and by fortune cursed.

No servile strain of abject hope she brings, Nor soars presumptuous, with unwearied wings; But, pruned for flight--the future all her care-- Would know her strength, and, if not strong, forbear. 30

The supple slave to regal pomp bows down, Prostrate to power, and cringing to a crown; The bolder villain spurns a decent awe, Tramples on rule, and breaks through every law; But he whose soul on honest truth relies, Nor meanly flatters power, nor madly flies. Thus timid authors bear an abject mind, And plead for mercy they but seldom find. Some, as the desperate to the halter run, Boldly deride the fate they cannot shun; 40 But such there are, whose minds, not taught to stoop, Yet hope for fame, and dare avow their hope; Who neither brave the judges of their cause, Nor beg in soothing strains a brief applause. And such I'd be;--and, ere my fate is past, Ere clear'd with honour, or with culprits cast, Humbly at Learning's bar I'll state my case, And welcome then distinction or disgrace!

When in the man the flights of fancy reign, Rule in the heart, or revel in the brain, 50 As busy Thought her wild creation apes, And hangs delighted o'er her varying shapes, It asks a judgment, weighty and discreet, To know where wisdom prompts, and where conceit; Alike their draughts to every scribbler's mind (Blind to their faults as to their danger blind)-- We write enraptured, and we write in haste, Dream idle dreams, and call them things of taste; Improvement trace in every paltry line, And see, transported, every dull design; 60 Are seldom cautious, all advice detest, And ever think our own opinions best; Nor shows my Muse a muse-like spirit here, Who bids me pause, before I persevere.

But she--who shrinks, while meditating flight In the wide way, whose bounds delude her sight, Yet tired in her own mazes still to roam, And cull poor banquets for the soul at home-- Would, ere she ventures, ponder on the way, Lest dangers yet unthought-of flight betray; 70 Lest her Icarian wing, by wits unplumed, Be robb'd of all the honours she assumed, And Dulness swell--a black and dismal sea, Gaping her grave, while censures madden me.

Such was his fate, who flew too near the sun, Shot far beyond his strength, and was undone; Such is his fate, who creeping at the shore The billow sweeps him, and he's found no more. Oh! for some God, to bear my fortunes fair Midway betwixt presumption and despair! 80

"Has then some friendly critic's former blow Taught thee a prudence authors seldom know?"

Not so! their anger and their love untried, A wo-taught prudence deigns to tend my side: Life's hopes ill-sped, the Muse's hopes grow poor, And though they flatter, yet they charm no more; Experience points where lurking dangers lay, And as I run, throws caution in my way.

There was a night, when wintry winds did rage, Hard by a ruin'd pile I met a sage; 90 Resembling him the time-struck place appear'd, Hollow its voice, and moss its spreading beard; Whose fate-lopp'd brow, the bat's and beetle's dome, Shook, as the hunted owl flew hooting home. His breast was bronzed by many an eastern blast, And fourscore winters seem'd he to have past; His thread-bare coat the supple osier bound, And with slow feet he press'd the sodden ground; Where, as he heard the wild-wing'd Eurus blow, He shook, from locks as white, December's snow; 100 Inured to storm, his soul ne'er bid it cease, But lock'd within him meditated peace.

"Father," I said--for silver hairs inspire, And oft I call the bending peasant Sire-- "Tell me, as here beneath this ivy bower, That works fantastic round its trembling tower, We hear Heaven's guilt-alarming thunders roar, Tell me the pains and pleasures of the poor; For Hope, just spent, requires a sad adieu, And Fear acquaints me I shall live with you. 110

"There was a time when, by Delusion led, A scene of sacred bliss around me spread; On Hope's, as Pisgah's lofty top, I stood, And saw my Canaan there, my promised good. A thousand scenes of joy the clime bestow'd, And wine and oil through vision's valleys flow'd; As Moses his, I call'd my prospect bless'd, And gazed upon the good I ne'er possess'd: On this side Jordan doom'd by fate to stand, Whilst happier Joshuas win the promised land." 120 "Son," said the Sage--"be this thy care suppressed; The state the Gods shall choose thee is the best: Rich if thou art, they ask thy praises more, And would thy patience, when they make thee poor. But other thoughts within thy bosom reign, And other subjects vex thy busy brain; Poetic wreaths thy vainer dreams excite, And thy sad stars have destined thee to write. Then, since that task the ruthless fates decree, Take a few precepts from the Gods and me! 130

"Be not too eager in the arduous Chase: Who pants for triumph seldom wins the race; Venture not all, but wisely hoard thy worth, And let thy labours one by one go forth; Some happier scrap capricious wits may find On a fair day, and be profusely kind; Which, buried in the rubbish of a throng, Had pleased as little as a new-year's song, Or lover's verse, that cloy'd with nauseous sweet, Or birth-day ode, that ran on ill-pair'd feet. 140 Merit not always--Fortune feeds the bard, And, as the whim inclines, bestows reward; None without wit, nor with it numbers gain; To please is hard, but none shall please in vain. As a coy mistress is the humour'd town, Loth every lover with success to crown; He who would win must every effort try, Sail in the mode, and to the fashion fly; Must gay or grave to every humour dress, And watch the lucky Moment of Success; 150 That caught, no more his eager hopes are crost; But vain are Wit and Love, when that is lost."

Thus said the God; for now a God he grew, } His white locks changing to a golden hue, } And from his shoulders hung a mantle azure-blue. } His softening eyes the winning charm disclosed Of dove-like Delia, when her doubts reposed; Mira's alone a softer lustre bear, When wo beguiles them of an angel's tear; Beauteous and young the smiling phantom stood, 160 Then sought on airy wing his blest abode.

Ah! truth distasteful in poetic theme, Why is the Muse compell'd to own her dream? Whilst forward wits had sworn to every line, I only wish to make its moral mine.

Say then, O ye who tell how authors speed, May Hope indulge her flight, and I succeed? Say, shall my name, to future song prefix'd, Be with the meanest of the tuneful mix'd? Shall my soft strains the modest maid engage, 170 My graver numbers move the silver'd sage, My tender themes delight the lover's heart, And comfort to the poor my solemn songs impart?

For O! thou, Hope's--thou, Thought's eternal King, Who gav'st them power to charm, and me to sing, Chief to thy praise my willing numbers soar, And in my happier transports I adore; Mercy thy softest attribute proclaim, Thyself in abstract, thy more lovely name; That flings o'er all my grief a cheering ray, 180 As the foil moon-beam gilds the watery way. And then too, Love, my soul's resistless lord, Shall many a gentle, generous strain afford, To all the soil of sooty passions blind, Pure as embracing angels, and as kind; Our Mira's name in future times shall shine, And--though the harshest--Shepherds envy mine.

Then let me (pleasing task!) however hard, Join, as of old, the prophet and the bard; If not, ah! shield me from the dire disgrace 190 That haunts the wild and visionary race; Let me not draw my lengthen'd lines along, And tire in untamed infamy of song; Lest, in some dismal Dunciad's future page, I stand the CIBBER of this tuneless age; Lest, if another POPE th' indulgent skies Should give, inspired by all their deities, My luckless name, in his immortal strain, Should, blasted, brand me as a second Cain; Doom'd in that song to live against my will, 200 Whom all must scorn, and yet whom none could kill.

The youth, resisted by the maiden's art, Persists, and time subdues her kindling heart; To strong entreaty yields the widow's vow, As mighty walls to bold besiegers bow; Repeated prayers draw bounty from the sky, And heaven is won by importunity. Ours, a projecting tribe, pursue in vain, In tedious trials, an uncertain gain; Madly plunge on through every hope's defeat, 210 And with our ruin only, find the cheat.

"And why then seek that luckless doom to share?" Who, I?--To shun it is my only care.

I grant it true, that others better tell Of mighty WOLFE, who conquer'd as he fell[12]; Of heroes born their threaten'd realms to save, Whom Fame anoints, and Envy tends whose grave; Of crimson'd fields, where Fate, in dire array, Gives to the breathless the short-breathing clay; Ours, a young train, by humbler fountains dream, 220 Nor taste presumptuous the Pierian stream; When Rodney's triumph comes on eagle-wing, We hail the victor, whom we fear to sing; Nor tell we how each hostile chief goes on, The luckless Lee, or wary Washington; How Spanish bombast blusters--they were beat, And French politeness dulcifies--defeat. My modest Muse forbears to speak of kings, Lest fainting stanzas blast the name she sings; For who, the tenant of the beechen shade, 230 Dares the big thought in regal breasts pervade? Or search his soul, whom each too-favouring God Gives to delight in plunder, pomp, and blood? No; let me, free from Cupid's frolic round, Rejoice, or more rejoice by Cupid bound; Of laughing girls in smiling couplets tell, And paint the dark-brow'd grove, where wood-nymphs dwell, Who bid invading youths their vengeance feel, And pierce the votive hearts they mean to heal. Such were the themes I knew in school-day ease, 240 When first the moral magic learn'd to please; Ere Judgment told how transports warm'd the breast, Transported Fancy there her stores imprest; The soul in varied raptures learn'd to fly, Felt all their force, and never question'd why. No idle doubts could then her peace molest; She found delight, and left to heaven the rest. Soft joys in Evening's placid shades were born, And where sweet fragrance wing'd the balmy morn. When the wild thought roved vision's circuit o'er, 250 And caught the raptures, caught, alas! no more: No care did then a dull attention ask, For study pleased, and that was every task; No guilty dreams stalk'd that heaven-favour'd round, Heaven-guarded too; no Envy entrance found; Nor numerous wants, that vex advancing age, Nor Flattery's silver'd tale, nor Sorrow's sage; Frugal Affliction kept each growing dart, T' o'erwhelm in future days the bleeding heart. No sceptic art veil'd Pride in Truth's disguise, 260 But prayer, unsoil'd of doubt, besieged the skies; Ambition, avarice, care, to man retired, Nor came desires more quick, than joys desired.

A summer morn there was, and passing fair; Still was the breeze, and health perfumed the air; The glowing east in crimson'd splendour shone, What time the eye just marks the pallid moon; Vi'let-wing'd Zephyr fann'd each opening flower, And brush'd from fragrant cups the limpid shower; A distant huntsman fill'd his cheerful horn, 270 } The vivid dew hung trembling on the thorn, } And mists, like creeping rocks, arose to meet the morn. } Huge giant shadows spread along the plain, Or shot from towering rocks o'er half the main. There to the slumbering bark the gentle tide Stole soft, and faintly beat against its side; Such is that sound, which fond designs convey, When, true to love, the damsel speeds away; The sails, unshaken, hung aloft unfurl'd, And, simpering nigh, the languid current curl'd; 280 A crumbling ruin, once a city's pride, The well-pleased eye through withering oaks descried, Where Sadness, gazing on time's ravage, hung, And Silence to Destruction's trophy clung-- Save that, as morning songsters swell'd their lays, Awaken'd Echo humm'd repeated praise. The lark on quavering pinion woo'd the day, } Less towering linnets fill'd the vocal spray, } And song-invited pilgrims rose to pray. } Here at a pine-prest hill's embroider'd base 290 I stood, and hail'd the Genius of the place. Then was it doom'd by fate, my idle heart, Soften'd by Nature, gave access to Art; The Muse approach'd, her syren-song I heard, Her magic felt, and all her charms revered: E'er since she rules in absolute control, And Mira only dearer to my soul. Ah! tell me not these empty joys to fly; If they deceive, I would deluded die; To the fond themes my heart so early wed, 300 So soon in life to blooming visions led, So prone to run the vague uncertain course-- 'Tis more than death to think of a divorce.

What wills the poet of the favouring gods, Led to their shrine, and blest in their abodes[13]? What, when he fills the glass, and to each youth Names his loved maid, and glories in his truth? Not India's spoils, the splendid nabob's pride, Not the full trade of Hermes' own Cheapside, Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves, 310 Or shrouds, well shrouded in his sacred waves; Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in trim array, Which the more noble Thames bears far away. Let those whose nod makes sooty subjects flee, Hack with blunt steel the savory callipee; Let those whose ill-used wealth their country fly, Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy: Favour'd by fate, let such in joy appear, Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year; Disdaining these, for simpler food I'll look, 320 And crop my beverage at the mantled brook.

O Virtue! brighter than the noon-tide ray, My humble prayers with sacred joys repay! Health to my limbs may the kind Gods impart, And thy fair form delight my yielding heart! Grant me to shun each vile inglorious road, To see thy way, and trace each moral good; If more--let Wisdom's sons my page peruse, And decent credit deck my modest Muse.

Nor deem it pride that prophesies, my song 330 Shall please the sons of taste, and please them long. Say, ye, to whom my Muse submissive brings Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings, May she not hope in future days to soar, Where fancy's sons have led the way before? Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower To snatch with agile hand the opening flower? To cull what sweets adorn the mountain's brow, What humbler blossoms crown the vales below? To blend with these the stores by art refined, 340 And give the moral Flora to the mind?

Far other scenes my timid hour admits, Relentless critics, and avenging wits; E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen, And to each "let-him-perish" cry Amen! And thus, with wits or fools my heart shall cry, For if they please not, let the trifles die-- Die, and be lost in dark oblivion's shore, And never rise to vex their author more.

I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line, 350 Amid a thousand blunders form'd to shine; Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be, } From every fault, and every beauty free, } Curst with tame thoughts and mediocrity. } Some have I found so thick beset with spots, 'Twas hard to trace their beauties through their blots; And these, as tapers round a sick-man's room, Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the tomb!

O! if you blast, at once consume my bays, And damn me not with mutilated praise. 360 With candour judge; and, a young bard in view. Allow for that, and judge with kindness too. Faults he must own, though hard for him to find, Not to some happier merits quite so blind; These if mistaken Fancy only sees, Or Hope, that takes Deformity for these; If Dunce, the crowd-befitting title, falls His lot, and Dulness her new subject calls: To the poor bard alone your censures give-- Let his fame die, but let his honour live; 370 Laugh if you must--be candid as you can, And when you lash the Poet, spare the Man.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] IMIT.--Scriberis Vario fortis, et hostium Victor, Mæonii carminis alite, Quam rem cumque ferox navibus aut equis Miles, te duce, gesserit, &c. &c.

HOR. Lib. i. Od. [6].

[13] IMIT.--Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem Vates? quid orat, de paterâ novum Fundens liquorem? &c. &c.

HOR. Lib. i. _Carm._ xxxi.

POEMS.

Ipse per Ausonias Æneïa carmina gentes Qui sonat, ingenti qui nomine pulsat Olympum, Mæoniumque senem Romano provocat ore: Forsitan illius nemoris latuisset in umbrâ Quod canit, et sterili tantum cantâsset avenâ Ignotus populi, si Mæcenate careret.

Paneg. ad Pisones.

TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY RICHARD FOX,

LORD HOLLAND,

OF HOLLAND, IN LINCOLNSHIRE; LORD HOLLAND OF FOXLEY; AND FELLOW OF THE SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES.

MY LORD,

That the longest poem in this collection was honoured by the notice of your Lordship's right honourable and ever-valued relation, Mr. FOX; that it should be the last which engaged his attention; and that some parts of it were marked with his approbation: are circumstances productive of better hopes of ultimate success than I had dared to entertain before I was gratified with a knowledge of them; and the hope thus raised leads me to ask permission that I may dedicate this book to your Lordship, to whom that truly great and greatly lamented personage was so nearly allied in family, so closely bound in affection, and in whose mind presides the same critical taste which he exerted to the delight of all who heard him. He doubtless united with his unequalled abilities a fund of good-nature; and this possibly led him to speak favourably of, and give satisfaction to writers, with whose productions he might not be entirely satisfied; nor must I allow myself to suppose his desire of obliging was withholden, when he honoured any effort of mine with his approbation. But, my Lord, as there was discrimination in the opinion he gave; as he did not veil indifference for insipid mediocrity of composition under any general expression of cool approval: I allow myself to draw a favourable conclusion from the verdict of one who had the superiority of intellect few would dispute, which he made manifest by a force of eloquence peculiar to himself; whose excellent judgment no one of his friends found cause to distrust, and whose acknowledged candour no enemy had the temerity to deny.

With such encouragement, I present my book to your Lordship: the Account of the _Life and Writings of Lopez de Vega_ has taught me what I am to expect; I there perceive how your Lordship can write, and am there taught how you can judge of writers: my faults, however numerous, I know will none of them escape through inattention, nor will any merit be lost for want of discernment; my verses are before him who has written elegantly, who has judged with accuracy, and who has given unequivocal proof of abilities in a work of difficulty--a translation of poetry, which few persons in this kingdom are able to read, and in the estimation of talents not hitherto justly appreciated. In this view, I cannot but feel some apprehension; but I know also, that your Lordship is apprised of the great difficulty of writing well; that you will make much allowance for failures, if not too frequently repeated; and, as you can accurately discern, so you will readily approve, all the better and more happy efforts of one who places the highest value upon your Lordship's approbation, and who has the honour to be,

My LORD,

Your Lordship's most faithful

and obliged humble servant,

GEO. CRABBE.

PREFACE.

About twenty-five years since was published a poem called "The Library," which, in no long time, was followed by two others, "The Village," and "The Newspaper." These, with a few alterations and additions, are here reprinted; and are accompanied by a poem of greater length, and several shorter attempts, now, for the first time, before the public; whose reception of them creates in their author something more than common solicitude, because he conceives that, with the judgment to be formed of these latter productions, upon whatever may be found intrinsically meritorious or defective, there will be united an inquiry into the relative degree of praise or blame which they may be thought to deserve, when compared with the more early attempts of the same writer.

And certainly, were it the principal employment of a man's life to compose verses, it might seem reasonable to expect that he would continue to improve as long as he continued to live; though, even then, there is some doubt whether such improvement would follow, and perhaps proof might be adduced to show it would not. But when, to this "_idle trade_" is added some "_calling_," with superior claims upon his time and attention, his progress in the art of versification will probably be in proportion neither to the years he has lived, nor even to the attempts he has made.

While composing the first-published of these poems, the author was honoured with the notice and assisted by the advice of the Right Honourable Edmund Burke; part of it was written in his presence, and the whole submitted to his judgment; receiving, in its progress, the benefit of his correction. I hope, therefore, to obtain pardon of the reader, if I eagerly seize the occasion, and, after so long a silence, endeavour to express a grateful sense of the benefits I have received from this gentleman, who was solicitous for my more essential interests, as well as benevolently anxious for my credit as a writer.

I will not enter upon the subject of his extraordinary abilities; it would be vanity, it would be weakness, in me to believe that I could make them better known or more admired than they now are. But of his private worth, of his wishes to do good, of his affability and condescension; his readiness to lend assistance when he knew it was wanted, and his delight to give praise where he thought it was deserved: of these I may write with some propriety. All know that his powers were vast, his acquirements various; and I take leave to add, that he applied them with unremitted attention to those objects which he believed tended to the honour and welfare of his country. But it may not be so generally understood that he was ever assiduous in the more private duties of a benevolent nature; that he delighted to give encouragement to any promise of ability, and assistance to any appearance of desert. To what purposes he employed his pen, and with what eloquence he spake in the senate, will be told by many, who yet may be ignorant of the solid instruction, as well as the fascinating pleasantry, found in his common conversation, amongst his friends, and his affectionate manners, amiable disposition, and zeal for their happiness, which he manifested in the hours of retirement with his family.

To this gentleman I was indebted for my knowledge of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was as well known to his friends for his perpetual fund of good-humour and his unceasing wishes to oblige, as he was to the public for the extraordinary productions of his pencil and his pen. By him I was favoured with an introduction to Doctor Johnson, who honoured me with his notice, and assisted me, as Mr. Boswell has told, with remarks and emendations for a poem I was about to publish. The doctor had been often wearied by applications, and did not readily comply with requests for his opinion: not from any unwillingness to oblige, but from a painful contention in his mind between a desire of giving pleasure and a determination to speak truth. No man can, I think, publish a work without some expectation of satisfying those who are to judge of its merit; but I can, with the utmost regard to veracity, speak my fears, as predominating over every pre-indulged thought of a more favourable nature, when I was told that a judge so discerning had consented to read and give his opinion of "The Village," the poem I had prepared for publication. The time of suspense was not long protracted; I was soon favoured with a few words from Sir Joshua, who observed, "If I knew how cautious Doctor Johnson was in giving commendation, I should be well satisfied with the portion dealt to me in his letter." Of that letter the following is a copy:

"SIR,

"I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant. The alterations which I have made, I do not require him to adopt; for my lines are, perhaps, not often better [than] his own: but he may take mine and his own together, and perhaps, between them, produce something better than either.--He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced; a wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean.--His Dedication will be least liked: it were better to contract it into a short sprightly address.--I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success.

"I am, Sir, your most humble servant,

"SAM. JOHNSON."

"_March_ 4, 1783."

That I was fully satisfied, my readers will do me the justice to believe; and I hope they will pardon me, if there should appear to them any impropriety in publishing the favourable opinion expressed in a private letter: they will judge, and truly, that by so doing, I wish to bespeak their good opinion, but have no design of extorting their applause. I would not hazard an appearance so ostentatious to gratify my vanity, but I venture to do it in compliance with my fears.

After these was published "The Newspaper": it had not the advantage of such previous criticism from any friends, nor perhaps so much of my own attention as I ought to have given to it; but the impression was disposed of, and I will not pay so little respect to the judgment of my readers as now to suppress they then approved.

Since the publication of this poem more than twenty years have elapsed, and I am not without apprehension, lest so long a silence should be construed into a blamable neglect of my own interest, which those excellent friends were desirous of promoting; or, what is yet worse, into a want of gratitude for their assistance, since it becomes me to suppose, they considered these first attempts as promises of better things, and their favours as stimulants to future exertion. And here, be the construction put upon my apparent negligence what it _may_, let me not suppress my testimony to the liberality of those who are looked up to as patrons and encouragers of literary merit, or indeed of merit of any kind: their patronage has never been refused, I conceive, when it has been reasonably expected or modestly required; and it would be difficult, probably, to instance, in these times and in this country, any one who merited or was supposed to merit assistance, but who nevertheless languished in obscurity or necessity for want of it; unless in those cases where it was prevented by the resolution of impatient pride, or wearied by the solicitations of determined profligacy. And, while the subject is before me, I am unwilling to pass silently over the debt of gratitude which I owe to the memory of two deceased noblemen, His Grace the late Duke of Rutland, and the Right Honourable the Lord Thurlow: sensible of the honour done me by their notice, and the benefits received from them, I trust this acknowledgment will be imputed to its only motive, a grateful sense of their favours.

Upon this subject I could dwell with much pleasure; but, to give a reason for that appearance of neglect, as it is more difficult, so, happily, it is less required. In truth, I have, for many years, intended a republication of these poems, as soon as I should be able to join with them such other of later date as might not deprive me of the little credit the former had obtained. Long indeed has this purpose been procrastinated; and, if the duties of a profession, not before pressing upon me--if the claims of a situation, at that time untried--if diffidence of my own judgment, and the loss of my earliest friends, will not sufficiently account for my delay, I must rely upon the good-nature of my reader, that he will let them avail as far as he can, and find an additional apology in my fears of his censure.

These fears being so prevalent with me, I determined not to publish any thing more, unless I could first obtain the sanction of such an opinion as I might with some confidence rely upon. I looked for a friend who, having the discerning taste of Mr. Burke, and the critical sagacity of Doctor Johnson, would bestow upon my MS. the attention requisite to form his opinion, and would then favour me with the result of his observations; and it was my singular good fortune to gain such assistance; the opinion of a critic so qualified, and a friend so disposed to favour me. I had been honoured by an introduction to the Right Honourable Charles James Fox some years before, at the seat of Mr. Burke; and, being again with him, I received a promise that he would peruse any work I might send to him previous to its publication, and would give me his opinion. At that time, I did not think myself sufficiently prepared; and when, afterwards, I had collected some poems for his inspection, I found my right honourable friend engaged by the affairs of a great empire, and struggling with the inveteracy of a fatal disease; at such time, upon such mind, ever disposed to oblige as that mind was, I could not obtrude the petty business of criticising verses; but he remembered the promise he had kindly given, and repeated an offer, which, though I had not presumed to expect, I was happy to receive. A copy of the poems, now first published, was immediately sent to him, and (as I have the information from Lord Holland, and his Lordship's permission to inform my readers) the poem which I have named "The Parish Register" was heard by Mr. Fox, and it excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to gain for me the benefit of his judgment upon the whole. Whatever he approved, the reader will readily believe, I have carefully retained; the parts he disliked are totally expunged, and others are substituted, which I hope resemble those, more conformable to the taste of so admirable a judge. Nor can I deny myself the melancholy satisfaction of adding, that this poem (and more especially the story of Phoebe Dawson, with some parts of the second book), were the last compositions of their kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind of this great man.

The above information I owe to the favour of the Right Honourable Lord Holland; nor this only, but to his Lordship I am indebted for some excellent remarks upon the other parts of my MS. It was not indeed my good fortune then to know that my verses were in the hands of a nobleman who had given proof of his accurate judgment as a critic, and his elegance as a writer, by favouring the public with an easy and spirited translation of some interesting scenes of a dramatic poet, not often read in this kingdom. The Life of Lopez de Vega was then unknown to me; I had, in common with many English readers, heard of him, but could not judge whether his far-extended reputation was caused by the sublime efforts of a mighty genius, or the unequalled facility of a rapid composer, aided by peculiar and fortunate circumstances. That any part of my MS. was honoured by the remarks of Lord Holland yields me a high degree of satisfaction, and his Lordship will perceive the use I have made of them; but I must feel some regret when I know to what small portion they were limited; and discerning, as I do, the taste and judgment bestowed upon the verses of Lopez de Vega, I must perceive how much my own needed the assistance afforded to one who cannot be sensible of the benefit he has received.

But how much soever I may lament the advantages lost, let me remember with gratitude the helps I have obtained. With a single exception, every poem in the ensuing collection has been submitted to the critical sagacity of a gentleman, upon whose skill and candour their author could rely. To publish by advice of friends has been severely ridiculed, and that too by a poet, who probably, without such advice, never made public any verses of his own: in fact, it may not be easily determined who acts with less discretion, the writer who is encouraged to publish his works, merely by the advice of friends whom he consulted, or he who, against advice, publishes from the sole encouragement of his own opinion. These are deceptions to be carefully avoided; and I was happy to escape the latter, by the friendly attentions of the Reverend Richard Turner, minister of Great Yarmouth. To this gentleman I am indebted more than I am able to describe, or than he is willing to allow, for the time he has bestowed upon the attempts I have made. He is, indeed, the kind of critic for whom every poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom every man would be happy to acquire; he has taste to discern all that is meritorious, and sagacity to detect whatsoever should be discarded; he gives just the opinion an author's wisdom should covet, however his vanity might prompt him to reject it; what altogether to expunge and what to improve he has repeatedly taught me, and, could I have obeyed him in the latter direction, as I invariably have in the former, the public would have found this collection more worthy its attention, and I should have sought the opinion of the critic more void of apprehension.

But whatever I may hope or fear, whatever assistance I have had or have needed, it becomes me to leave my verses to the judgment of the reader, without my endeavour to point out their merit, or an apology for their defects. Yet as, among the poetical attempts of one who has been for many years a priest, it may seem a want of respect for the legitimate objects of his study, that nothing occurs, unless it be incidentally, of the great subjects of religion: so it may appear a kind of ingratitude of a beneficed clergyman, that he has not employed his talent (be it estimated as it may) to some patriotic purpose--as in celebrating the unsubdued spirit of his countrymen in their glorious resistance of those enemies, who would have no peace throughout the world, except that which is dictated to the drooping spirit of suffering humanity by the triumphant insolence of military success.

Credit will be given to me, I hope, when I affirm that subjects so interesting have the due weight with me, which the sacred nature of the one, and the national importance of the other, must impress upon every mind not seduced into carelessness for religion by the lethargic influence of a perverted philosophy, nor into indifference for the cause of our country by hyperbolical or hypocritical professions of universal philanthropy; but, after many efforts to satisfy myself by various trials on these subjects, I declined all further attempt, from a conviction that I should not be able to give satisfaction to my readers. Poetry of religious nature must indeed ever be clogged with almost insuperable difficulty; but there are doubtless to be found poets who are well qualified to celebrate the unanimous and heroic spirit of our countrymen, and to describe in appropriate colours some of those extraordinary scenes, which have been and are shifting in the face of Europe, with such dreadful celerity; and to such I relinquish the duty.

It remains for me to give the reader a brief view of those articles in the following collection, which for the first time solicit his attention.

In the "Parish Register," he will find an endeavour once more to describe village-manners, not by adopting the notion of pastoral simplicity or assuming ideas of rustic barbarity, but by more natural views of the peasantry, considered as a mixed body of persons, sober or profligate, and hence, in a great measure, contented or miserable. To this more general description are added the various characters which occur in the three parts of a Register: Baptism, Marriages, and Burials.

If the "Birth of Flattery" offer no moral, as an appendage to the fable, it is hoped that nothing of an immoral, nothing of improper, tendency will be imputed to a piece of poetical playfulness. In fact, genuine praise, like all other species of truth, is known by its bearing full investigation: it is what the giver is happy that he can justly bestow, and the receiver conscious that he may boldly accept; but adulation must ever be afraid of inquiry, and must, in proportion to their degrees of moral sensibility,

Be shame "to him that gives and him that takes."

The verses in page[s 234-7] want a title; nor does the motto, although it gave occasion to them, altogether express the sense of the writer, who meant to observe that some of our best acquisitions, and some of our nobler conquests, are rendered ineffectual, by the passing away of opportunity, and the changes made by time: an argument that such acquirements and moral habits are reserved for a state of being in which they have the uses here denied them.

In the story of "Sir Eustace Grey," an attempt is made to describe the wanderings of a mind first irritated by the consequences of error and misfortune, and afterwards soothed by a species of enthusiastic conversion, still keeping him insane: a task very difficult, and, if the presumption of the attempt may find pardon, it will not be refused to the failure of the poet. It is said of our Shakspeare, respecting madness,

"In that circle none dare walk but he."

Yet be it granted to one who dares not to pass the boundary fixed for common minds, at least to step near to the tremendous verge, and form some idea of the terrors that are stalking in the interdicted space.

When first I had written "Aaron, or The Gipsy," I had no unfavourable opinion of it; and, had I been collecting my verses at that time for publication, I should certainly have included this tale. Nine years have since elapsed, and I continue to judge the same of it, thus literally obeying one of the directions given by the prudence of criticism to the eagerness of the poet; but how far I may have conformed to rules of more importance must be left to the less partial judgment of the readers.

The concluding poem, entitled "Woman!" was written at the time when the quotation from Mr. Ledyard was first made public; the expression has since become hackneyed; but the sentiment is congenial with our feelings, and though somewhat amplified in these verses, it is hoped they are not so far extended as to become tedious.

After this brief account of his subjects, the author leaves them to their fate, not presuming to make any remarks upon the kinds of versification he has chosen, or the merit of the execution. He has indeed brought forward the favourable opinion of his friends, and for that he earnestly hopes his motives will be rightly understood; it was a step of which he felt the advantage while he foresaw the danger; he was aware of the benefit, if his readers would consider him as one who puts on a defensive armour against hasty and determined severity; but he feels also the hazard, lest they should suppose he looks upon himself to be guarded by his friends, and so secure in the defence, that he may defy the fair judgment of legal criticism. It will probably be said, "he has brought with him his testimonials to the bar of the public," and he must admit the truth of the remark; but he begs leave to observe in reply, that of those who bear testimonials of any kind the greater numbers feel apprehension, and not security: they are indeed so far from the enjoyment of victory, of the exultation of triumph, that, with all they can do for themselves, with all their friends have done for them, they are, like him, in dread of examination, and in fear of disappointment.

_Muston, Leicestershire, September, 1807._

THE LIBRARY.

Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substituting a lighter Kind of Distress for its own--They are productive of other Advantages--An Author's Hope of being known in distant Times--Arrangement of the Library--Size and Form of the Volumes--The ancient Folio, clasped and chained--Fashion prevalent even in this Place--The Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c.--Subjects of the different Classes--Divinity--Controversy--The Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes--Sceptical Authors--Reason too much rejected by the former Converts; exclusively relied upon by the latter--Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to moral Subjects--Books of Medicine: their Variety, Variance, and Proneness to System: the Evil of this, and the Difficulty it causes--Farewell to this Study--Law: the increasing Number of its Volumes--Supposed happy State of Man without Laws--Progress of Society--Historians: their Subjects--Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic--Ancient Romances--The Captive Heroine--Happiness in the Perusal of such Books: why--Criticism--Apprehensions of the Author, removed by the Appearance of the Genius of the Place; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude the Subject.

When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd, Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest; When every object that appears in view, Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too: Where shall affliction from itself retire? Where fade away and placidly expire? Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain; Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain: Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream. 10 For, when the soul is labouring in despair, In vain the body breathes a purer air: No storm-toss'd sailor sighs for slumbering seas-- He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze; On the smooth mirror of the deep resides } Reflected wo, and o'er unruffled tides } The ghost of every former danger glides. } Thus, in the calms of life, we only see A steadier image of our misery; But lively gales and gently-clouded skies 20 Disperse the sad reflections as they rise; And busy thoughts and little cares avail To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail. When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd, Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd, We bleed anew in every former grief, And joys departed furnish no relief. Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art, Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart: The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, 30 And anxious searches for congenial cares-- Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined, } By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind. } And steal our grief away and leave their own behind: } A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure. But what strange art, what magic can dispose The troubled mind to change its native woes? Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see Others more wretched, more undone than we? 40 This, books can do--nor this alone: they give New views to life, and teach us how to live; They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise; Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise. Their aid they yield to all: they never shun The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone; Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; Nor tell to various people various things, But show to subjects, what they show to kings. 50 Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene, Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene; Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, The soul's best cure in all her cares behold! Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, And mental physic the diseased in mind. See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage; See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage; Here alt'ratives by slow degrees control The chronic habits of the sickly soul; 60 And round the heart, and o'er the aching head, Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, And view composed this silent multitude:-- Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound, Here all the living languages abound, Here all that live no more; preserved they lie, In tombs that open to the curious eye. Bless'd be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind!-- 70 Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, Their mutual feelings in the opening spring; But man alone has skill and power to send The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend; 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise Ages remote, and nations yet to rise. In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep, When joy forgets to smile and care to weep, When passion slumbers in the lover's breast, And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest-- 80 Why then denies the studious man to share Man's common good, who feels his common care? Because the hope is his, that bids him fly Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy; That after-ages may repeat his praise, And fame's fair meed be his for length of days. Delightful prospect! when we leave behind A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind, Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day, Shall all our labour, all our care repay. 90 Yet all are not these births of noble kind, Not all the children of a vigorous mind; But, where the wisest should alone preside, The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide; Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show The poor and troubled source from which they flow: Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive, And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. But, though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves This seat serene, and virtue's self approves; 100 Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find, The curious here, to feed a craving mind; Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; And here the poet meets his favouring muse. With awe around these silent walks I tread: These are the lasting mansions of the dead.-- "The dead," methinks, a thousand tongues reply; "These are the tombs of such as cannot die! Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime, And laugh at all the little strife of time." 110 Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above, Each in his sphere the literary Jove; And ye, the common people of these skies, A humbler crowd of nameless deities: Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind Through history's mazes, and the turnings find; Or whether, led by science, ye retire, Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire; Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers, And crowns your placid brows with living flowers; 120 Or godlike wisdom teaches you to show The noblest road to happiness below; Or men and manners prompt the easy page To mark the flying follies of the age: Whatever good ye boast, that good impart; Inform the head and rectify the heart!

Lo! all in silence, all in order stand; And mighty folios first, a lordly band, Then quartos, their well-order'd ranks maintain, And light octavos fill a spacious plain; 130 See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows, A humbler band of duodecimos; While undistinguished trifles swell the scene, The last new play and fritter'd magazine. Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great, In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state; Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread, Are much admired, and are but little read: The commons next, a middle rank, are found; Professions fruitful pour their offspring round; 140 Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd, And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. First, let us view the form, the size, the dress; For these the manners, nay the mind express; That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid; Those ample clasps, of solid metal made; The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age; The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page; On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd, Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold; 150 These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim, A painful candidate for lasting fame: No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk In the deep bosom of that weighty work; No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style, Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile. Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie, And slumber out their immortality: They _had_ their day, when, after all his toil, His morning study, and his midnight oil, 160 At length an author's ONE great work appear'd, By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd: Expecting nations hail'd it from the press; Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address; Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift, And ladies read the work they could not lift. Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools, Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules; From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes, And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes. 170 For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient mode Lie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode; Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain[14]; Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain; No readers now invade their still retreat, None try to steal them from their parent-seat; Like ancient beauties, they may now discard Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard. Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by, And roll'd o'er labour'd works th' attentive eye; 180 Page after page, the much-enduring men Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen; Till, every former note and comment known, They mark'd the spacious margin with their own: Minute corrections proved their studious care; The little index, pointing, told us where; And many an emendation show'd the age Look'd far beyond the rubric title-page. Our nicer palates lighter labours seek, Cloy'd with a folio-_Number_ once a week; 190 Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down: E'en light Voltaire is _number'd_ through the town: Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law, From men of study, and from men of straw; Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times, Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes: But though to write be now a task of ease, The task is hard by manly arts to please, When all our weakness is exposed to view, And half our judges are our rivals too. 200

Amid these works, on which the eager eye Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by, When all combined, their decent pomp display, Where shall we first our early offering pay?

To thee, DIVINITY! to thee, the light And guide of mortals through their mental night; By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide; To bear with pain, and to contend with pride; When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive; And with the world in charity to live. 210 Not truths like these inspired that numerous race, Whose pious labours fill this ample space; But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose, Awaked to war the long-contending foes. For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove. And wars on faith prevented works of love; The brands of discord far around were hurl'd, And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world-- Dull though impatient, peevish though devout, With wit disgusting and despised without; 220 Saints in design, in execution men, Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.

Methinks, I see, and sicken at the sight, Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight: Spirits who prompted every damning page, With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage. Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around, And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground! They pray, they fight, they murder, and they weep-- Wolves, in their vengeance, in their manners sheep; 230 Too well they act the prophet's fatal part, Denouncing evil with a zealous heart; And each, like Jonas, is displeased, if God Repent his anger, or withhold his rod. But here the dormant fury rests unsought, And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought; Here all the rage of controversy ends, And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends: An Athanasian here, in deep repose, Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes; 240 Socinians here with Calvinists abide, And thin partitions angry chiefs divide; Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet, And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet. Great authors, for the church's glory fired, Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired; And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race, Lie, "Crums of Comfort for the Babes of Grace." Against her foes Religion well defends Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends; 250 If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads, And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads. But most she fears the controversial pen, The holy strife of disputatious men; Who the bless'd Gospel's peaceful page explore, Only to fight against its precepts more. Near to these seats, behold yon slender frames, All closely fill'd and mark'd with modern names; Where no fair science ever shows her face, Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace. 260 There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng, And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong: Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain; Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again; Coldly profane, and impiously gay; Their end the same, though various in their way. When first Religion came to bless the land, Her friends were then a firm believing band; To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme, And all was gospel that a monk could dream; 270 Insulted Reason fled the grov'ling soul, For Fear to guide, and visions to control. But now, when Reason has assumed her throne, She, in her turn, demands to reign alone; Rejecting all that lies beyond her view, And, being judge, will be a witness too. Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind, To seek for truth, without a power to find; Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite, And pour on erring man resistless light? 280

Next to the seats, well stored with works divine, An ample space, PHILOSOPHY! is thine; Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right; Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay, To the bright orbs of yon celestial way! 'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace, Which runs through all, connecting race with race; Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain, Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:-- 290 How vice and virtue in the soul contend; How widely differ, yet how nearly blend! What various passions war on either part, And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart; How Fancy loves around the world to stray, While Judgment slowly picks his sober way! The stores of memory, and the flights sublime Of genius, bound by neither space nor time-- All these divine Philosophy explores, Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores. 300 From these, descending to the earth, she turns, And matter, in its various form, discerns; She parts the beamy light with skill profound, Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound; 'Tis hers the lightning from the clouds to call, And teach the fiery mischief where to fall. Yet more her volumes teach--on these we look As abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book: Here, first described, the torpid earth appears, And next, the vegetable robe it wears: 310 Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves, Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves-- Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain, Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain; But as the green blood moves along the blade, The bed of Flora on the branch is made; Where, without passion, love instinctive lives, And gives new life, unconscious that it gives. Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace, In dens and burning plains, her savage race; 320 With those tame tribes who on their lord attend, And find in man, a master and a friend; Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new, A moral world, that well demands our view. This world is here; for, of more lofty kind, These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind; They paint the state of man, ere yet endued With knowledge--man, poor, ignorant, and rude; Then, as his state improves, their pages swell, And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell: 330 Here we behold how inexperience buys, At little price, the wisdom of the wise; Without the troubles of an active state, Without the cares and dangers of the great, Without the miseries of the poor, we know What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow; We see how reason calms the raging mind, And how contending passions urge mankind. Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire; Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire; 340 Whilst others, won by either, now pursue The guilty chase, now keep the good in view; For ever wretched, with themselves at strife, They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life; For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain, Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.

Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul, New interests draw, new principles control: Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, But here the tortured body finds relief; 350 For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapes! There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around, Pile above pile, her learned works abound: Glorious their aim--to ease the labouring heart; To war with death, and stop his flying dart; To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew, And life's short lease on easier terms renew; To calm the frenzy of the burning brain; To heal the tortures of imploring pain; 360 Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, } To ease the victim no device can save, } And smooth the stormy passage to the grave. } But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,

Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure; For grave deceivers lodge their labours here, And cloud the science they pretend to clear. Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent; Like fire and storms, they call us to repent; But storms subside, and fires forget to rage, 370 _These_ are eternal scourges of the age. 'Tis not enough that each terrific hand Spreads desolation round a guilty land; But, train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes, Their pen relentless kills through future times. Say ye, who search these records of the dead, Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read: Can all the real knowledge ye possess, Or those (if such there are) who more than guess, Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes, 380 And mend the blunders pride or folly makes? What thought so wild, what airy dream so light, That will not prompt a theorist to write? What art so prevalent, what proof so strong, That will convince him his attempt is wrong? One in the solids finds each lurking ill, Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill; A learned friend some subtler reason brings Absolves the channels, but condemns their springs; The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye, 390 Escape no more his subtler theory; The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart, Lends a fair system to these sons of art; The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, } Serves a foundation for an airy scheme, } Assists the doctor, and supports his dream. } Some have their favourite ills, and each disease Is but a younger branch that kills from these. One to the gout contracts all human pain; He views it raging in the frantic brain; 400 Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar, And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh. Bilious by some, by others nervous seen, Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen; And every symptom of the strange disease With every system of the sage agrees. Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song; Ye first seducers of my easy heart, Who promised knowledge ye could not impart; 410 Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes; Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose; Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt, Light up false fires, and send us far about-- Still may yon spider round your pages spin, Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin! Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell; Most potent, grave, and reverend friends--farewell!

Near these, and where the setting sun displays Through the dim window his departing rays, 420 And gilds yon columns, there, on either side, The huge abridgments of the LAW abide. Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand, And spread their guardian terrors round the land; Yet, as the best that human care can do, Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too, Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade, Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made; And justice vainly each expedient tries, While art eludes it, or while power defies. 430 "Ah! happy age," the youthful poet sings, "When the free nations knew not laws nor kings; When all were bless'd to share a common store, And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor; No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain, No thirst of empire, no desire of gain; No proud great man, nor one who would be great, Drove modest merit from its proper state; Nor into distant climes would avarice roam, To fetch delights for luxury at home: 440 Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe, They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!" "Mistaken youth! each nation first was rude, Each man a cheerless son of solitude, To whom no joys of social life were known; None felt a care that was not all his own; Or in some languid clime his abject soul Bow'd to a little tyrant's stern control; A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised, And in rude song his ruder idol praised; 450 The meaner cares of life were all he knew; Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few. But when by slow degrees the Arts arose, And Science waken'd from her long repose; When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease, Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas; When Emulation, born with jealous eye, And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry; Then one by one the numerous laws were made, Those to control, and these to succour trade; 460 To curb the insolence of rude command, To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand; To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress, And feed the poor with Luxury's excess." Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong, His nature leads ungovern'd man along; Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide, The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side: Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed, New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed; 470 More and more gentle grows the dying stream, More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem; Till, like a miner working sure and slow, Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below; The basis sinks, the ample piles decay; The stately fabric shakes and falls away; Primeval want and ignorance come on, But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone.

Next, HISTORY ranks;--there full in front she lies, And every nation her dread tale supplies. 480 Yet History has her doubts, and every age With sceptic queries marks the passing page; Records of old nor later date are clear-- Too distant those, and these are placed too near; There time conceals the objects from our view, Here our own passions and a writer's too. Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose, Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes; Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain, Lo! how they sunk to slavery again! 490 Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd, A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd; Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race, The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace; The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run, How soon triumphant, and how soon undone; How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale, And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale. 500 Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood, Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood: There, such the taste of our degenerate age, Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE. Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend-- Fable her means, morality her end; For this she rules all passions in their turns, And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns; Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl; Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul; 510 She makes the vile to virtue yield applause, And own her sceptre while they break her laws; For vice in others is abhorr'd of all, And villains triumph when the worthless fall. Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails, Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails: Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound, And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound; Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill, Laughs at her malice, and is folly still. 520 Yet well the Muse portrays in fancied scenes What pride will stoop to, what profession means; How formal fools the farce of state applaud; How caution watches at the lips of fraud; The wordy variance of domestic life; The tyrant husband, the retorting wife, The snares for innocence, the lie of trade, And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade. With her the virtues too obtain a place, Each gentle passion, each becoming grace; 530 The social joy in life's securer road, Its easy pleasure, its substantial good; The happy thought that conscious virtue gives. And all that ought to live, and all that lives.

But who are these? Methinks, a noble mien And awful grandeur in their form are seen-- Now in disgrace. What, though by time is spread Polluting dust o'er every reverend head; What, though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie, And dull observers pass insulting by: 540 Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe, What seems so grave, should no attention draw! Come, let us then with [reverent] step advance, And greet--the ancient worthies of ROMANCE. Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread; A thousand visions float around my head. Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound, And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round; See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise, Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes; 550 Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate, And bloody hand that beckons on to fate:-- "And who art thou, thou little page, unfold! Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold? Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign The captive queen--for Claribel is mine." Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds, Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds; The giant falls, his recreant throat I seize, And from his corslet take the massy keys; 560 Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move, Released from bondage with my virgin love; She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth, Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth! Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes, O'er worlds bewitch'd in early rapture dreams, Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand, And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land; Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, And Fear and Ignorance afford delight. 570 But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys, Which Reason scatters, and which Time destroys-- Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls My busied mind from tales and madrigals; My doughty giants all are slain or fled, And all my knights, blue, green, and yellow, dead! No more the midnight fairy tribe I view, All in the merry moonshine tippling dew; E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain, The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again; 580 And all these wayward wanderings of my youth Fly Reason's power and shun the light of truth. With fiction, then, does real joy reside, And is our reason the delusive guide? Is it, then, right to dream the syrens sing, Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing? No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown, That makes th' imagined paradise its own; Soon as reflections in the bosom rise, Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes; 590 The tear and smile, that once together rose, Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes: Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan, And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.

While thus, of power and fancied empire vain, With various thoughts my mind I entertain; While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize, Pleased with the pride that will not let them please; Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise, And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes; 600 For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound, I see the CRITIC army ranged around. Foes to our race! if ever ye have known A father's fears for offspring of your own.-- If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line, Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine, Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt, With rage as sudden dash'd the stanza out-- If, after fearing much and pausing long, Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song, 610 And from the crusty critics of those days Implored the feeble tribute of their praise: Remember now the fears that moved you then, And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen! What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foes Lie waiting all around them to oppose! What treacherous friends betray them to the fight! What dangers threaten them--yet still they write: A hapless tribe! to every evil born, Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn; 620 Strangers they come amid a world of wo, And taste the largest portion ere they go.

Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around; The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound; Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like smoke, From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke; Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem, Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream; Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine Round the large members of a form divine; 630 His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, } His piercing eye, that inward light express'd, } Were seen--but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest. } Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race, How awful seem'd the Genius of the place! So, in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe; Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound, When from the pitying power broke forth a solemn sound:-- "Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save 640 } The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave; } Grief is to man as certain as the grave: } Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise, And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies; Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall, But showers of sorrow are the lot of _all_: Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law? Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, Life's little cares and little pains refuse? 650 Shall he not rather feel a double share Of mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear? "Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind On the precarious mercy of mankind; Who hopes for wild and visionary things, And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous wings: But as, of various evils that befall The human race, some portion goes to all: To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd, Who feels his consolation in his mind; 660 And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about A mental charm for every care without. E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief, Or health or vigorous hope affords relief; And every wound the tortured bosom feels, Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals; Some generous friend, of ample power possess'd; Some feeling heart that bleeds for the distress'd; Some breast that glows with virtues all divine; Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine. 670 "Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen, Merit the scorn they meet from little men. With cautious freedom if the numbers flow, Not wildly high, nor pitifully low; If vice alone their honest aims oppose, Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes? Happy for men in every age and clime, If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme! Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too. 680 Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state, The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great, Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known, Are visions far less happy than thy own: Go on! and, while the sons of care complain, Be wisely gay and innocently vain; While serious souls are by their fears undone, Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun, And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show More radiant colours in their worlds below; 690 Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove, And tell them, Such are all the toys they love."

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the more ancient libraries, works of value and importance were fastened to their places by a length of chain; and might so be perused, but not taken away.

THE VILLAGE.

_IN TWO BOOKS._