Chapter 2

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by gods and men, To my aerial citadel ascends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell! My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes; ye gods, avert Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods, With force incredible, and magic charms, Erst have endued; if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make: with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils; Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.

So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and the inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea; in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700.

We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,' a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of a comico-serious song of some merit, entitled 'The Old Man's Wish.'

SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had instituted a dispensary, for the purpose of furnishing the poor with medicines gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first canto of the poem.

THE DISPENSARY.

Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; And why physicans were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; How by a journey to the Elysian plain Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again. Not far from that most celebrated place, Where angry Justice shows her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Raised for a use as noble as its frame; Nor did the learn'd society decline The propagation of that great design; In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, And, as she disappeared, their search pursued. Wrapped in the shade of night the goddess lies, Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes, And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, By just degrees to harden into bone; While the more loose flow from the vital urn, And in full tides of purple streams return; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, And floods of chyle in silver currents run; How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; To how minute an origin we owe Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Nassau; Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, And why chill virgins redden into flame; Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; All ice, why Lucrece; or Sempronia, fire; Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; How matter, by the varied shape of pores, Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, How body acts upon impassive mind; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; Why our complexions oft our soul declare, And how the passions in the features are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will. With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie.

But now no grand inquiries are descried, Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside. Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, And for important nothings show a zeal: The drooping sciences neglected pine, And Paean's beams with fading lustre shine. No readers here with hectic looks are found, Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; The lonely edifice in sweats complains That nothing there but sullen silence reigns.

This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, The god of sloth for his asylum chose; Upon a couch of down in these abodes, Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease, With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: The poppy and each numbing plant dispense Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; No passions interrupt his easy reign, No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert Blackmore of Corsham, in Wiltshire, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic entitled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,' 'Queen Elizabeth,' 'Redemption,' 'The Creation,' &c. Some of these productions were popular; one, 'The Creation,' has been highly praised by Dr Johnson; but most of them were heavy. Matthew Henry has preserved portions in his valuable Commentary. Blackmore, a man of excellent character and of extensive medical practice, was yet the laughingstock of the wits, perhaps as much for his piety as for his prosiness. Old, rich, and highly respected, he died on the 8th of October 1729, while some of his poetic persecutors came to a disgraceful or an early end.

We quote the satire of John Gay, as one of the cleverest and best conditioned, although one of the coarsest of the attacks made on poor Sir Richard:--

VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF SIR R. BLACKMORE, CONTAINING A COMPLETE CATALOGUE OF HIS WORKS.

See who ne'er was, nor will be half read, Who first sang Arthur, then sang Alfred; Praised great Eliza in God's anger, Till all true Englishmen cried, Hang her; Mauled human wit in one thick satire, Next in three books spoiled human nature; Undid Creation at a jerk, And of Redemption made ---- work; Then took his Muse at once, and dipt her Full in the middle of the Scripture; What wonders there the man grown old did, Sternhold himself he out Sternholded; Made David seem so mad and freakish, All thought him just what thought King Achish; No mortal read his Solomon But judged Reboam his own son; Moses he served as Moses Pharaoh, And Deborah as she Sisera; Made Jeremy full sore to cry, And Job himself curse God and die.

What punishment all this must follow? Shall Arthur use him like King Tollo? Shall David as Uriah slay him? Or dext'rous Deborah Sisera him? Or shall Eliza lay a plot To treat him like her sister Scot? No, none of these; Heaven save his life, But send him, honest Job, thy wife!

CREATION.

No more of courts, of triumphs, or of arms, No more of valour's force, or beauty's charms; The themes of vulgar lays, with just disdain, I leave unsung, the flocks, the amorous swain, The pleasures of the land, and terrors of the main. How abject, how inglorious 'tis to lie Grovelling in dust and darkness, when on high Empires immense and rolling worlds of light, To range their heavenly scenes the muse invite; I meditate to soar above the skies, To heights unknown, through ways untried, to rise; I would the Eternal from his works assert, And sing the wonders of creating art. While I this unexampled task essay, Pass awful gulfs, and beat my painful way, Celestial Dove! divine assistance bring, Sustain me on thy strong extended wing, That I may reach the Almighty's sacred throne, And make his causeless power, the cause of all things, known. Thou dost the full extent of nature see, And the wide realms of vast immensity; Eternal Wisdom thou dost comprehend, Rise to her heights, and to her depths descend; The Father's sacred counsels thou canst tell, Who in his bosom didst for ever dwell; Thou on the deep's dark face, immortal Dove! Thou with Almighty energy didst move On the wild waves, incumbent didst display Thy genial wings, and hatch primeval day. Order from thee, from thee distinction came, And all the beauties of the wondrous frame. Hence stamped on nature we perfection find, Fair as the idea in the Eternal Mind. See, through this vast extended theatre Of skill divine, what shining marks appear! Creating power is all around expressed, The God discovered, and his care confessed. Nature's high birth her heavenly beauties show; By every feature we the parent know. The expanded spheres, amazing to the sight! Magnificent with stars and globes of light, The glorious orbs which heaven's bright host compose, The imprisoned sea, that restless ebbs and flows, The fluctuating fields of liquid air, With all the curious meteors hovering there, And the wide regions of the land, proclaim The Power Divine, that raised the mighty frame. What things soe'er are to an end referred, And in their motions still that end regard, Always the fitness of the means respect, These as conducive choose, and those reject, Must by a judgment foreign and unknown Be guided to their end, or by their own; For to design an end, and to pursue That end by means, and have it still in view, Demands a conscious, wise, reflecting cause, Which freely moves, and acts by reason's laws; That can deliberate, means elect, and find Their due connexion with the end designed. And since the world's wide frame does not include A cause with such capacities endued, Some other cause o'er nature must preside, Which gave her birth, and does her motions guide; And here behold the cause, which God we name, The source of beings, and the mind supreme; Whose perfect wisdom, and whose prudent care, With one confederate voice unnumbered worlds declare.

ELIJAH FENTON.

This author, who was very much respected by his contemporaries, and who translated a portion of the Odyssey in conjunction with Pope, was born May 20, 1683, at Newcastle, in Staffordshire; studied at Cambridge, which, owing to his nonjuring principles, he had to leave without a degree; and passed part of his life as a schoolmaster, and part of it as secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery. By his tragedy of 'Mariamne' he secured a moderate competence; and during his latter years, spent his life comfortably as tutor in the house of Lady Trumbull. He died in 1730. His accomplishments were superior, and his character excellent. Pope, who was indebted to him for the first, fourth, nineteenth, and twentieth of the books of the Odyssey, mourns his loss in one of his most sincere-seeming letters. Fenton edited Waller and Milton, wrote a brief life of the latter poet,--with which most of our readers are acquainted,--and indited some respectable verse.

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716.

1 O'er Winter's long inclement sway, At length the lusty Spring prevails; And swift to meet the smiling May, Is wafted by the western gales. Around him dance the rosy Hours, And damasking the ground with flowers, With ambient sweets perfume the morn; With shadowy verdure flourished high, A sudden youth the groves enjoy; Where Philomel laments forlorn.

2 By her awaked, the woodland choir To hail the coming god prepares; And tempts me to resume the lyre, Soft warbling to the vernal airs. Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign For me, the meanest of your train, Unblamed to approach your blest retreat: Where Horace wantons at your spring, And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; Whose notes the Aonian hills repeat.

3 Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; Thither, indulgent to my prayer, Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair, To swell the notes I feebly raise: So with aspiring ardours warmed May Gower's propitious ear be charmed To listen to my lays.

4 Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, Like Thracian Mars, the undaunted Swede[1] To dint of sword defies the foe; In fight unknowing to recede: From Volga's banks, the imperious Czar Leads forth his furry troops to war; Fond of the softer southern sky: The Soldan galls the Illyrian coast; But soon, the miscreant Moony host Before the Victor-Cross shall fly.

5 But here, no clarion's shrilling note The Muse's green retreat can pierce; The grove, from noisy camps remote, Is only vocal with my verse: Here, winged with innocence and joy, Let the soft hours that o'er me fly Drop freedom, health, and gay desires: While the bright Seine, to exalt the soul, With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, And wit and social mirth inspires.

6 Enamoured of the Seine, celestial fair, (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care, Lashed his swift tigers to the Celtic plain: There secret in her sapphire cell, He with the Nais wont to dwell; Leaving the nectared feasts of Jove: And where her mazy waters flow He gave the mantling vine to grow, A trophy to his love.

7 Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, With blind opinion for his guide; And, rebel to her rightful sway, Leave all her beauties unenjoyed? Fool! Time no change of motion knows; With equal speed the torrent flows, To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: The past is all by death possessed; And frugal fate that guards the rest, By giving, bids him live To-Day.

8 O Gower! through all the destined space, What breath the Powers allot to me Shall sing the virtues of thy race, United and complete in thee. O flower of ancient English faith! Pursue the unbeaten Patriot-path, In which confirmed thy father shone: The light his fair example gives, Already from thy dawn receives A lustre equal to its own.

9 Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns reared, Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume; Loud Paeans echoing round the roof are heard And clouds of incense all the void perfume. There Phocion, Laelius, Capel, Hyde, With Falkland seated near his side, Fixed by the Muse, the temple grace; Prophetic of thy happier fame, She, to receive thy radiant name, Selects a whiter space.

[1] Charles XII.

ROBERT CRAWFORD.

Robert Crawford, a Scotchman, is our next poet. Of him we know only that he was the brother of Colonel Crawford of Achinames; that he assisted Allan Ramsay in the 'Tea-Table Miscellany;' and was drowned when coming from France in 1733. Besides the popular song, 'The Bush aboon Traquair,' which we quote, Crawford wrote also a lyric, called 'Tweedside,' and some verses, mentioned by Burns, to the old tune of 'Cowdenknowes.'

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

1 Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; Though thus I languish and complain, Alas! she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded, never move her; At the bonnie Bush aboon Traquair, 'Twas there I first did love her.

2 That day she smiled and made me glad, No maid seemed ever kinder; I thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her; I tried to soothe my amorous flame, In words that I thought tender; If more there passed, I'm not to blame-- I meant not to offend her.

3 Yet now she scornful flies the plain, The fields we then frequented; If e'er we meet she shows disdain, She looks as ne'er acquainted. The bonnie bush bloomed fair in May, Its sweets I'll aye remember; But now her frowns make it decay-- It fades as in December.

4 Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me? Oh, make her partner in my pains, Then let her smiles relieve me! If not, my love will turn despair, My passion no more tender; I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-- To lonely wilds I'll wander.

THOMAS TICKELL.

Tickell is now chiefly remembered from his connexion with Addison. He was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, near Carlisle. In April 1701, he became a member of Queen's College in Oxford. In 1708, he was made M.A., and two years after was chosen Fellow. He held his Fellowship till 1726, when, marrying in Dublin, he necessarily vacated it. He attracted Addison's attention first by some elegant lines in praise of Rosamond, and then by the 'Prospect of Peace,' a poem in which Tickell, although called by Swift Whiggissimus, for once took the Tory side. This poem Addison, in spite of its politics, praised highly in the _Spectator_, which led to a lifelong friendship between them. Tickell commenced contributing to the _Spectator_, among other things publishing there a poem entitled the 'Royal Progress.' Some time after, he produced a translation of the first book of the Iliad, which Addison declared to be superior to Pope's. This led the latter to imagine that it was Addison's own, although it is now, we believe, certain, from the MS., which still exists, that it was a veritable production of Tickell's. When Addison went to Ireland, as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was employed in public business. When Addison became Secretary of State, he made Tickell Under-Secretary; and when he died, he left him the charge of publishing his works, with an earnest recommendation to the care of Craggs. Tickell faithfully performed the task, prefixing to them an elegy on his departed friend, which is now his own chief title to fame. In 1725, he was made secretary to the Lords-Justices of Ireland, a place of great trust and honour, and which he retained till his death. This event happened at Bath, in the year 1740.

His genius was not strong, but elegant and refined, and appears, as we have just stated, to best advantage in his lines on Addison's death, which are warm with genuine love, tremulous with sincere sorrow, and shine with a sober splendour, such as Addison's own exquisite taste would have approved.

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR ADDISON.