Chapter 10

But what in either sex, beyond All parts, our glory crowns? "In ruffling seasons to be calm, And smile, when fortune frowns."

Heaven's choice is safer than our own; Of ages past inquire, What the most formidable fate? "To have our own desire."

If, in your wrath, the worst of foes You wish extremely ill; Expose him to the thunder's stroke, Or that of his own will.

What numbers, rushing down the steep Of inclination strong, Have perish'd in their ardent wish! Wish ardent, ever wrong!

'Tis resignation's full reverse, Most wrong, as it implies Error most fatal in our choice, Detachment from the skies.

By closing with the skies, we make Omnipotence our own; That done, how formidable ill's Whole army is o'erthrown!

No longer impotent, and frail, Ourselves above we rise: We scarce believe ourselves below! We trespass on the skies!

The Lord, the soul, and source of all, Whilst man enjoys his ease, Is executing human will, In earth, and air, and seas;

Beyond us, what can angels boast? Archangels what require? Whate'er below, above, is done, Is done as----we desire.

What glory this for man so mean, Whose life is but a span! This is meridian majesty! This, the sublime of man!

Beyond the boast of pagan song My sacred subject shines! And for a foil the lustre takes Of Rome's exalted lines.

"All, that the sun surveys, subdued, But Cato's mighty mind." How grand! most true; yet far beneath The soul of the resign'd:

To more than kingdoms, more than worlds, To passion that gives law; Its matchless empire could have kept Great Cato's pride in awe;

That fatal pride, whose cruel point Transfix'd his noble breast; Far nobler! if his fate sustain'd And left to heaven the rest;

Then he the palm had borne away, At distance Caesar thrown; Put him off cheaply with the world, And made the skies his own.

What cannot resignation do? It wonders can perform; That powerful charm, "Thy will be done," Can lay the loudest storm.

Come, resignation! then, from fields, Where, mounted on the wing, A wing of flame, blest martyrs' souls Ascended to their king.

Who is it calls thee? one whose need Transcends the common size; Who stands in front against a foe To which no equal rise:

In front he stands, the brink he treads Of an eternal state; How dreadful his appointed post! How strongly arm'd by fate:

His threatening foe! what shadows deep O'erwhelm his gloomy brow! His dart tremendous!----at fourscore My sole asylum, thou!

Haste, then, O resignation! haste, 'Tis thine to reconcile My foe, and me; at thy approach My foe begins to smile:

O! for that summit of my wish, Whilst here I draw my breath, That promise of eternal life, A glorious smile in death:

What sight, heaven's azure arch beneath, Has most of heaven to boast? The man resign'd; at once serene, And giving up the ghost.

At death's arrival they shall smile, Who, not in life o'er gay, Serious and frequent thought send out To meet him on his way:

My gay coevals! (such there are) If happiness is dear; Approaching death's alarming day Discreetly let us fear:

The fear of death is truly wise, Till wisdom can rise higher; And, arm'd with pious fortitude, Death dreaded once, desire:

Grand climacteric vanities The vainest will despise; Shock'd, when beneath the snow of age Man immaturely dies:

But am not I myself the man? No need abroad to roam In quest of faults to be chastis'd; What cause to blush at home?

In life's decline, when men relapse Into the sports of youth, The second child out-fools the first, And tempts the lash of truth;

Shall a mere truant from the grave With rival boys engage? His trembling voice attempt to sing, And ape the poet's rage?

Here, madam! let me visit one, My fault who, partly, shares, And tell myself, by telling him, What more becomes our years;

And if your breast with prudent zeal For resignation glows, You will not disapprove a just Resentment at its foes.

In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead For some indulgence due; When heads are white, their thoughts and aims Should change their colour too:

How are you cheated by your wit! Old age is bound to pay, By nature's law, a mind discreet, For joys it takes away;

A mighty change is wrought by years, Reversing human lot; In age 'tis honour to lie hid, 'Tis praise to be forgot;

The wise, as flowers, which spread at noon, And all their charms expose, When evening damps and shades descend, Their evolutions close.

What though your muse has nobly soar'd, Is that our truth sublime? Ours, hoary friend! is to prefer Eternity to time:

Why close a life so justly fam'd With such bold trash as this?(54) This for renown? yes, such as makes Obscurity a bliss:

Your trash, with mine, at open war, Is obstinately bent,(55) Like wits below, to sow your tares Of gloom and discontent:

With so much sunshine at command, Why light with darkness mix? Why dash with pain our pleasure? Your Helicon with Styx?

Your works in our divided minds Repugnant passions raise, Confound us with a double stroke, We shudder whilst we praise;

A curious web, as finely wrought As genius can inspire, From a black bag of poison spun, With horror we admire.

Mean as it is, if this is read With a disdainful air, I can't forgive so great a foe To my dear friend Voltaire:

Early I knew him, early prais'd, And long to praise him late; His genius greatly I admire, Nor would deplore his fate;

A fate how much to be deplor'd! At which our nature starts; Forbear to fall on your own sword. To perish by your parts:

"But great your name"--To feed on air, Were then immortals born? Nothing is great, of which more great, More glorious is the scorn.

Can fame your carcass from the worm Which gnaws us in the grave, Or soul from that which never dies, Applauding Europe save?

But fame you lose; good sense alone Your idol, praise, can claim; When wild wit murders happiness, It puts to death our fame!

Nor boast your genius, talents bright; E'en dunces will despise, If in your western beams is miss'd A genius for the skies;

Your taste too fails; what most excels True taste must relish most! And what, to rival palms above, Can proudest laurels boast?

Sound heads salvation's helmet seek,(56) Resplendent are its rays, Let that suffice; it needs no plume, Of sublunary praise.

May this enable couch'd Voltaire To see that--"All is right,"(57) His eye, by flash of wit struck blind, Restoring to its sight;

If so, all's well: who much have err'd, That much have been forgiven; I speak with joy, with joy he'll hear, "Voltaires are, now, in heaven."

Nay, such philanthropy divine, So boundless in degree, Its marvellous of love extends (Stoops most profound!) to me:

Let others cruel stars arraign, Or dwell on their distress; But let my page, for mercies pour'd, A grateful heart express:

Walking, the present God was seen, Of old, in Eden fair; The God as present, by plain steps Of providential care,

I behold passing through my life; His awful voice I hear; And, conscious of my nakedness, Would hide myself for fear:

But where the trees, or where the clouds, Can cover from his sight? Naked the centre to that eye, To which the sun is night.

As yonder glittering lamps on high Through night illumin'd roll; My thoughts of him, by whom they shine, Chase darkness from my soul;

My soul, which reads his hand as clear In my minute affairs, As in his ample manuscript Of sun, and moon, and stars;

And knows him not more bent aright To wield that vast machine, Than to correct one erring thought In my small world within;

A world, that shall survive the fall Of all his wonders here; Survive, when suns ten thousand drop, And leave a darken'd sphere.

Yon matter gross, how bright it shines! For time how great his care! Sure spirit and eternity Far richer glories share;

Let those our hearts impress, on those Our contemplation dwell; On those my thoughts how justly thrown, By what I now shall tell:

When backward with attentive mind Life's labyrinth I trace, I find him far myself beyond Propitious to my peace:

Through all the crooked paths I trod, My folly he pursued; My heart astray to quick return Importunately woo'd;

Due resignation home to press On my capricious will, How many rescues did I meet, Beneath the mask of ill!

How many foes in ambush laid Beneath my soul's desire! The deepest penitents are made By what we most admire.

Have I not sometimes (real good So little mortals know!) Mounting the summit of my wish, Profoundly plung'd in woe?

I rarely plann'd, but cause I found My plan's defeat to bless: Oft I lamented an event; It turn'd to my success.

By sharpen'd appetite to give To good intense delight, Through dark and deep perplexities He led me to the right.

And is not this the gloomy path, Which you are treading now? The path most gloomy leads to light, When our proud passions bow:

When labouring under fancied ill, My spirits to sustain, He kindly cur'd with sovereign draughts Of unimagin'd pain.

Pain'd sense from fancied tyranny Alone can set us free; A thousand miseries we feel, Till sunk in misery.

Cloy'd with a glut of all we wish, Our wish we relish less; Success, a sort of suicide, Is ruin'd by success:

Sometimes he led me near to death, And, pointing to the grave, Bid terror whisper kind advice; And taught the tomb to save:

To raise my thoughts beyond where worlds As spangles o'er us shine, One day he gave, and bid the next My soul's delight resign.

We to ourselves, but through the means Of mirrors, are unknown; In this my fate can you descry No features of your own?

And if you can, let that excuse These self-recording lines; A record, modesty forbids, Or to small bound confines:

In grief why deep ingulf'd? You see You suffer nothing rare; Uncommon grief for common fate! That wisdom cannot bear.

When streams flow backward to their source, And humbled flames descend, And mountains wing'd shall fly aloft, Then human sorrows end;

But human prudence too must cease, When sorrows domineer, When fortitude has lost its fire, And freezes into fear:

The pang most poignant of my life Now heightens my delight; I see a fair creation rise From chaos, and old night:

From what seem'd horror, and despair, The richest harvest rose; And gave me in the nod divine An absolute repose.

Of all the plunders of mankind, More gross, or frequent, none, Than in their grief and joy misplac'd, Eternally are shown.

But whither points all this parade? It says, that near you lies A book, perhaps yet unperus'd, Which you should greatly prize:

Of self-perusal, science rare! Few know the mighty gain; Learn'd prelates, self-unread, may read Their Bibles o'er in vain:

Self-knowledge, which from heaven itself (So sages tell us) came, What is it, but a daughter fair Of my maternal theme?

Unletter'd and untravel'd men An oracle might find, Would they consult their own contents, The Delphos of the mind.

Enter your bosom; there you'll meet A revelation new, A revelation personal; Which none can read but you.

There will you clearly read reveal'd In your enlighten'd thought, By mercies manifold, through life, To fresh remembrance brought,

A mighty Being! and in him A complicated friend, A father, brother, spouse; no dread Of death, divorce, or end:

Who such a matchless friend embrace, And lodge him in their heart, Full well, from agonies exempt, With other friends may part:

As when o'erloaded branches bear Large clusters big with wine, We scarce regret one falling leaf From the luxuriant vine.

My short advice to you may sound Obscure or somewhat odd, Though 'tis the best that man can give,-- "E'en be content with God."

Through love he gave you the deceas'd, Through greater took him hence; This reason fully could evince, Though murmur'd at by sense.

This friend, far past the kindest kind, Is past the greatest great; His greatness let me touch in points Not foreign to your state;

His eye, this instant, reads your heart; A truth less obvious hear; This instant its most secret thoughts Are sounding in his ear:

Dispute you this? O! stand in awe, And cease your sorrow; know, That tears now trickling down, he saw Ten thousand years ago;

And twice ten thousand hence, if you Your temper reconcile To reason's bound, will he behold Your prudence with a smile;

A smile, which through eternity Diffuses so bright rays, The dimmest deifies e'en guilt, If guilt, at last, obeys:

Your guilt (for guilt it is to mourn When such a sovereign reigns), Your guilt diminish; peace pursue; How glorious peace in pains!

Here, then, your sorrows cease; if not, Think how unhappy they, Who guilt increase by streaming tears, Which guilt should wash away;

Of tears that gush profuse restrain; Whence burst those dismal sighs? They from the throbbing breast of one (Strange truth!) most happy rise;

Not angels (hear it, and exult!) Enjoy a larger share Than is indulg'd to you, and yours, Of God's impartial care;

Anxious for each, as if on each His care for all was thrown; For all his care as absolute, As all had been but one.

And is he then so near! so kind!-- How little then, and great, That riddle, man! O! let me gaze At wonders in his fate;

His fate, who yesterday did crawl A worm from darkness deep, And shall, with brother worms, beneath A turf, to-morrow sleep;

How mean!--And yet, if well obey'd His mighty Master's call, The whole creation for mean man Is deem'd a boon too small:

Too small the whole creation deem'd For emmets in the dust! Account amazing! yet most true; My song is bold, yet just:

Man born for infinite, in whom Nor period can destroy The power, in exquisite extremes, To suffer, or enjoy;

Give him earth's empire (if no more) He's beggar'd, and undone! Imprison'd in unbounded space! Benighted by the sun!

For what the sun's meridian blaze To the most feeble ray Which glimmers from the distant dawn Of uncreated day?

'Tis not the poet's rapture feign'd Swells here the vain to please; The mind most sober kindles most At truths sublime as these;

They warm e'en me.--I dare not say, Divine ambition strove Not to bless only, but confound, Nay, fright us with its love;

And yet so frightful what, or kind, As that the rending rock, The darken'd sun, and rising dead, So formidable spoke?

And are we darker than that sun? Than rocks more hard, and blind? We are;--if not to such a God In agonies resigned.

Yes, e'en in agonies forbear To doubt almighty love; Whate'er endears eternity, Is mercy from above;

What most imbitters time, that most Eternity endears, And thus, by plunging in distress, Exalts us to the spheres;

Joy's fountain head! where bliss o'er bliss, O'er wonders wonders rise, And an Omnipotence prepares Its banquet for the wise:

Ambrosial banquet! rich in wines Nectareous to the soul! What transports sparkle from the stream, As angels fill the bowl!

Fountain profuse of every bliss! Good-will immense prevails; Man's line can't fathom its profound An angel's plummet fails.

Thy love and might, by what they know, Who judge, nor dream of more; They ask a drop, how deep the sea! One sand, how wide the shore!

Of thy exuberant good-will, Offended Deity! The thousandth part who comprehends, A deity is he.

How yonder ample azure field With radiant worlds is sown! How tubes astonish us with those More deep in ether thrown!

And those beyond of brighter worlds Why not a million more?-- In lieu of answer, let us all Fall prostrate, and adore.

Since thou art infinite in power, Nor thy indulgence less; Since man, quite impotent and blind, Oft drops into distress;

Say, what is resignation? 'T is Man's weakness understood; And wisdom grasping, with a hand Far stronger, every good.

Let rash repiners stand appall'd, In thee who dare not trust; Whose abject souls, like demons dark, Are murmuring in the dust;

For man to murmur, or repine At what by thee is done, No less absurd, than to complain Of darkness in the sun.

Who would not, with a heart at ease, Bright eye, unclouded brow, Wisdom and goodness at the helm, The roughest ocean plough?

What, though I'm swallow'd in the deep? Though mountains o'er me roar? Jehovah reigns! as Jonah safe, I'm landed, and adore:

Thy will is welcome, let it wear Its most tremendous form; Roar, waves; rage, winds! I know that thou Canst save me by a storm.

From the immortal spirits born, To thee, their fountain, flow, If wise; as curl'd around to theirs Meandering streams below:

Not less compell'd by reason's call, To thee our souls aspire, Than to thy skies, by nature's law, High mounts material fire;

To thee aspiring they exult, I feel my spirits rise, I feel myself thy son, and pant For patrimonial skies;

Since ardent thirst of future good, And generous sense of past, To thee man's prudence strongly ties, And binds affection fast;

Since great thy love, and great our want, And men the wisest blind, And bliss our aim; pronounce us all Distracted, or resigned;

Resign'd through duty, interest, shame; Deep shame! dare I complain, When (wondrous truth!) in heaven itself Joy ow'd its birth to pain?

And pain for me! for me was drain'd Gall's overflowing bowl; And shall one drop to murmur bold Provoke my guilty soul?

If pardon'd this, what cause, what crime Can indignation raise? The sun was lighted up to shine, And man was born to praise;

And when to praise the man shall cease, Or sun to strike the view; A cloud dishonors both; but man's The blacker of the two:

For oh! ingratitude how black! With most profound amaze At love, which man belov'd o'erlooks, Astonish'd angels gaze.

Praise cheers, and warms, like generous wine; Praise, more divine than prayer; Prayer points our ready path to heaven; Praise is already there.

Let plausive resignation rise, And banish all complaint; All virtues thronging into one, It finishes the saint;

Makes the man bless'd, as man can be; Life's labours renders light; Darts beams through fate's incumbent gloom, And lights our sun by night;

'T is nature's brightest ornament, The richest gift of grace, Rival of angels, and supreme Proprietor of peace;

Nay, peace beyond, no small degree Of rapture 't will impart; Know, madam! when your heart's in heaven, "All heaven is in your heart."

But who to heaven their hearts can raise? Denied divine support, All virtue dies; support divine The wise with ardour court:

When prayer partakes the seraph's fire, 'T is mounted on his wing, Bursts thro' heaven's crystal gates, and Sure audience of its king:

The labouring soul from sore distress That bless'd expedient frees; I see you far advanc'd in peace; I see you on your knees:

How on that posture has the beam Divine for ever shone! An humble heart, God's other seat!(58) The rival of his throne:

And stoops Omnipotence so low! And condescends to dwell, Eternity's inhabitant, Well pleas'd, in such a cell?

Such honour how shall we repay? How treat our guest divine? The sacrifice supreme be slain! Let self-will die: resign.

Thus far, at large, on our disease; Now let the cause be shown, Whence rises, and will ever rise, The dismal human groan:

What our sole fountain of distress? Strong passion for this scene; That trifles make important, things Of mighty moment mean:

When earth's dark maxims poison shed On our polluted souls, Our hearts and interests fly as far Asunder, as the poles.

Like princes in a cottage nurs'd, Unknown their royal race, With abject aims, and sordid joys, Our grandeur we disgrace;

O! for an Archimedes new, Of moral powers possess'd, The world to move, and quite expel That traitor from the breast.

No small advantage may be reap'd From thought whence we descend; From weighing well, and prizing weigh'd Our origin, and end:

From far above the glorious sun To this dim scene we came: And may, if wise, for ever bask In great Jehovah's beam:

Let that bright beam on reason rous'd In awful lustre rise, Earth's giant ills are dwarf'd at once, And all disquiet dies.

Earth's glories too their splendour lose, Those phantoms charm no more; Empire's a feather for a fool, And Indian mines are poor:

Then levell'd quite, whilst yet alive, The monarch and his slave; Not wait enlighten'd minds to learn That lesson from the grave:

A George the Third would then be low As Lewis in renown, Could he not boast of glory more Than sparkles from a crown.

When human glory rises high As human glory can; When, though the king is truly great, Still greater is the man;

The man is dead, where virtue fails; And though the monarch proud In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe Is but a gaudy shroud.

Wisdom! where art thou? None on earth, Though grasping wealth, fame, power, But what, O death! through thy approach, Is wiser every hour;

Approach how swift, how unconfin'd! Worms feast on viands rare, Those little epicures have kings To grace their bill of fare:

From kings what resignation due To that almighty will, Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail, Can throne them higher still!

Who truly great? The good and brave, The masters of a mind The will divine to do resolv'd, To suffer it resign'd.

Madam! if that may give it weight, The trifle you receive Is dated from a solemn scene, The border of the grave;

Where strongly strikes the trembling soul Eternity's dread power, As bursting on it through the thin Partition of an hour;

Hear this, Voltaire! but this, from me, Runs hazard of your frown; However, spare it; ere you die, Such thoughts will be your own.

In mercy to yourself forbear My notions to chastise, Lest unawares the gay Voltaire Should blame Voltaire the wise:

Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear, Now, makes us disagree; When a far louder trumpet sounds, Voltaire will close with me:

How shocking is that modesty, Which keeps some honest men From urging what their hearts suggest, When brav'd by folly's pen.

Assaulting truths, of which in all Is sown the sacred seed! Our constitution's orthodox, And closes with our creed:

What then are they, whose proud conceits Superior wisdom boast? Wretches, who fight their own belief, And labour to be lost!

Though vice by no superior joys Her heroes keeps in pay; Through pure disinterested love Of ruin they obey!

Strict their devotion to the wrong, Though tempted by no prize; Hard their commandments, and their creed A magazine of lies

From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles At reason plain, and cool; Fancy, whose curious trade it is To make the finest fool.

Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse That mortals can receive, When they imagine the chief end Of living is to live;

Quite thoughtless of their day of death, That birthday of their sorrow! Knowing, it may be distant far, Nor crush them till--to-morrow.

These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd Beneath an humble cot; Not mine, your genius, or your state, No castle is my lot:(59)

But soon, quite level shall we lie; And, what pride most bemoans, Our parts, in rank so distant now, As level as our bones;

Hear you that sound? Alarming sound! Prepare to meet your fate! One, who writes finis to our works, Is knocking at the gate;

Far other works will soon be weigh'd; Far other judges sit; Far other crowns be lost or won, Than fire ambitious wit:

Their wit far brightest will be prov'd, Who sunk it in good sense; And veneration most profound Of dread omnipotence.

'Tis that alone unlocks the gate Of blest eternity; O! mayst thou never, never lose That more than golden key!(60)

Whate'er may seem too rough excuse, Your good I have at heart: Since from my soul I wish you well; As yet we must not part:

Shall you, and I, in love with life, Life's future schemes contrive, The world in wonder not unjust, That we are still alive?

What have we left? How mean in man A shadow's shade to crave! When life, so vain! is vainer still, 'Tis time to take your leave:

Happier, than happiest life, is death, Who, falling in the field Of conflict with his rebel will, Writes vici, on his shield;

So falling man, immortal heir Of an eternal prize; Undaunted at the gloomy grave, Descends into the skies.

O! how disorder'd our machine, When contradictions mix! When nature strikes no less than twelve, And folly points at six!

To mend the moments of your heart, How great is my delight Gently to wind your morals up, And set your hand aright!

That hand, which spread your wisdom wide To poison distant lands: Repent, recant; the tainted age Your antidote demands;

To Satan dreadfully resign'd, Whole herds rush down the steep Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd, And perish in the deep.

Men's praise your vanity pursues; 'Tis well, pursue it still; But let it be of men deceas'd, And you'll resign the will;

And how superior they to those At whose applause you aim; How very far superior they In number, and in name!

Postscript.

Thus have I written, when to write No mortal should presume; Or only write, what none can blame, Hic jacet--for his tomb:

The public frowns, and censures loud My puerile employ; Though just the censure, if you smile, The scandal I enjoy;

But sing no more--no more I sing Or reassume the lyre, Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part Where Raphael leads the choir:

What myriads swell the concert loud! Their golden harps resound High as the footstool of the throne, And deep as hell profound:

Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song Of raptur'd angels drowns In self-will's peal of blasphemies, And hideous burst of groans;

But drowns them not to me; I hear Harmonious thunders roll (In language low of men to speak) From echoing pole to pole!

Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies-- "Above, beneath the sun, Through boundless age, by men, by gods, Jehovah's will be done!"

'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'd Self-will with Satan fell; And must from earth be banish'd too, Or earth's another hell;

Madam! self-will inflicts your pains: Self-will's the deadly foe Which deepens all the dismal shades, And points the shafts of woe:

Your debt to nature fully paid, Now virtue claims her due: But virtue's cause I need not plead, 'Tis safe; I write to you:

You know, that virtue's basis lies In ever judging right; And wiping error's clouds away, Which dim the mental sight:

Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave, From storm that safe resort; We still are tossing out at sea, Our admiral in port.

Was death denied, this world, a scene How dismal and forlorn! To death we owe, that 'tis to man A blessing to be born;

When every other blessing fails, Or sapp'd by slow decay, Or, storm'd by sudden blasts of fate, Is swiftly whirl'd away;

How happy! that no storm, or time, Of death can rob the just! None pluck from their unaching heads Soft pillows in the dust!

Well pleas'd to bear heaven's darkest frown, Your utmost power employ; 'Tis noble chemistry to turn Necessity to joy.

Whate'er the colour of my fate, My fate shall be my choice: Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe, To praise and to rejoice;

What ample cause! triumphant hope! O rich eternity! I start not at a world in flames, Charm'd with one glimpse of thee:

And thou! its great inhabitant! How glorious dost thou shine! And dart through sorrow, danger, death, A beam of joy divine!

The void of joy (with some concern The truth severe I tell) Is an impenitent in guilt, A fool or infidel!

Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire! From joyless murmur free; Or, let us know, which character Shall crown you of the three.

Resign, resign: this lesson none Too deeply can instill; A crown has been resign'd by more, Than have resign'd the will;

Though will resign'd the meanest makes Superior in renown, And richer in celestial eyes, Than he who wears a crown;

Hence, in the bosom cold of age, It kindled a strange aim To shine in song; and bid me boast The grandeur of my theme:

But oh! how far presumption falls Its lofty theme below! Our thoughts in life's December freeze, And numbers cease to flow.

First! greatest! best! grant what I wrote For others, ne'er may rise To brand the writer! thou alone Canst make our wisdom wise;

And how unwise! how deep in guilt! How infamous the fault! "A teacher thron'd in pomp of words, Indeed, beneath the taught!"

Means most infallible to make The world an infidel; And, with instructions most divine, To pave a path to hell;

O! for a clean and ardent heart, O! for a soul on fire, Thy praise, begun on earth, to sound Where angels string the lyre;

How cold is man! to him how hard (Hard, what most easy seems) "To set a just esteem on that, Which yet he--most esteems!"

What shall we say, when boundless bliss Is offer'd to mankind, And to that offer when a race Of rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too high Are our ideas wrought; Of human merit ne'er too low Depress'd the daring thought.

ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE

Inscribed to Joseph Addison, Esq. Secretary to Their Excellencies the Lords Justices.

Gaudia curis.

--HOR.

Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, My fame at once, and duty to pursue, And please the public, by respect to you. Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country's glory with your own; To me you never did more lovely shine, Than when so late the kindled wrath divine Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate, And darken'd all the pomp of human state. Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay, Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away, Your lustre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, I chose that moment to profess to you, When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe, Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere. And when no motives could have force to raise A serious value, and provoke my praise, But such as rise above, and far transcend, Whatever glories with this world shall end, Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot. I sing--but ah! my theme I need not tell, See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, Can only show his duty, not his choice. How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain! We languish, and to speak is to complain. Let us look back, (for who too oft can view That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, And pay a constant tribute, not their own. Her summer's heats nor fruits alone bestow, They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; And when black storms confess the distant sun, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won. Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year. To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, And glorious victory is lost in peace. Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle? Did partial fortune on our virtue smile? Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim, Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same. Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; 'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic squadrons fly. We spread our canvass to the southern shore; 'Tis Anna reigns! the south resigns her store. Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main, And swells the field with mountains of the slain Argyll and Churchill but the glory share, While millions lie subdu'd by Anna's prayer. How great her zeal! how fervent her desire! How did her soul in holy warmth expire! Constant devotion did her time divide, Not set returns of pleasure or of pride. Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray, But finish'd duty, limited the day. How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams! Her royal couch descending angels spread, And join'd their wings a shelter o'er her head. Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part, Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her heart: She saw, and griev'd to see, the mean estate Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait; She shed her bounty, piously profuse, And thought it more her own in sacred use. Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand, And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, And providently scatters all his grain. What strikes my sight? does proud Augusta rise New to behold, and awfully surprise! Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown, And sacred domes on palaces look down: A noble pride of piety is shown, And temples cast a lustre on the throne. How would this work another's glory raise! But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise. Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears, Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears? Who stoop'd from high to succour the distrest And reconcile the wounded heart to rest? Great in her goodness, well could we perceive, Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave. Misfortune lost her name, her guiltless frown But made another debtor to the crown; And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore, Became our title to the regal store. Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot, And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit. Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, When first the dreadful blast of fame arriv'd, Say what a shock, what agonies you felt, How did your souls with tender anguish melt! That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd, Shook like a tempest every grateful breast, A second fate our sinking fortunes tried! A second time our tender parents died! Heroes returning from the field we crown, And deify the haughty victor's frown. His splendid wealth too rashly we admire, Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire: Wisely to spend, is the great art of gain; And one reliev'd transcends a million slain. When time shall ask, where once Ramillia lay, Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away, One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry, Shall rise a fountain of eternal joy. But ah! to that unknown and distant date Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate; Here random shafts in every breast are found, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound. August in native worth and regal state, Anna sate arbitress of Europe's fate; To distant realms did every accent fly, And nations watch'd each motion of her eye. Silent, nor longer awful to be seen, How small a spot contains the mighty queen! No throng of suppliant princes mark the place, Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace: The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise, And a stone tells us where the monarch lies. Thus end maturest honours of the crown! This is the last conclusion of renown! So when with idle skill the wanton boy Breathes through his tube; he sees, with eager joy, The trembling bubble, in its rising small; And by degrees expands the glittering ball. But when, to full perfection blown, it flies High in the air, and shines in various dyes, The little monarch, with a falling tear, Sees his world burst at once, and disappear, 'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom, No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb! Why then this fond indulgence of our woe! What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow! Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress We learn how much in George the gods can bless Had a less glorious princess left the throne, But half the hero had at first been shown: An Anna falling all the king employs, To vindicate from guilt our rising joys: Our joys arise and innocently shine, Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine! Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne! Nor let thy country think thee all her own. Of thy delay how oft did we complain! Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main. With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet; With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet; And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore, We bending bless'd the gods, and ask'd no more. What hand but thine should conquer and compose, Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes? Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, And by his rival's greatness give him fame? Now in some foreign court he may sit down, And quit without a blush the British crown. Secure his honour, though he lose his store, And take a lucky moment to be poor. Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour, In Britain's favour, you exert your power; To us, far back in time, I joy to trace The numerous tokens of your princely grace. Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine, Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine; In the more scenes your genius was display'd, The greater debt was on Britannia laid: They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise, And your new subjects proudly share the praise. All share; but may not we have leave to boast That we contemplate, and enjoy it most? This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat; For many roiling ages justly fam'd, Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd; And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!) Her blood and treasure to support the throne! For England's church her latest accents strain'd; And freedom with his dying hand retain'd. No wonder then her various ranks agree In all the fervencies of zeal for thee. What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast, And seas divide thee from the British coast? The crown's impatient to enclose thy head: Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread. Our strict obedience through the world shall tell That king's a Briton, who can govern well!

THE INSTALMENT.

To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

Quaesitam meritis.

--HOR.

With invocations some their breasts inflame; I need no muse, a Walpole is my theme. Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise! Our morning stars! our boast in former days! Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display, Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day, Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around; By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd; This, clasp the diamond girdle round his waist; His breast, with rays, let just Godolphin spread; Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head; And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race, None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace. When fate would call some mighty genius forth To wake a drooping age to godlike worth, Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil, It bids his blood with generous ardour boil; His blood, from virtue's celebrated source, Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course; That men prepar'd may just attention pay, Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day, When all the scatter'd merits of his line Collected to a point, intensely shine. See, Britain, see thy Walpole shine from far, His azure ribbon, and his radiant star; A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide. If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; And, gathering tribute from each distant shore, In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour. If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames, With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent To claim the seas, and awe the continent. This shall direct it where the bolt to throw, A star for us, a comet to the foe. At this the muse shall kindle, and aspire: My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire. The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, Refresh the dry domains of poesy. My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care, What slender worth forbids us to despair: Be this thy partial smile from censure free; 'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me. Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse, Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views. False praises are the whoredoms of the pen, Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men: This profanation of celestial fire Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire. Let those I praise to distant times be known, Not by their author's merit, but their own. If others think the task is hard, to weed From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed, And rooted deep; one means must set them free, Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee. While vulgar trees ignobler honours wear, Nor those retain, when winter chills the year; The generous orange, favourite of the sun, With vigorous charms can through the seasons run; Defies the storm with her tenacious green; And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen: Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring; And midst their sweets the feather'd poets sing. On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view At once her ornament and profit too; The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame, Matur'd and gilded by the royal beam. He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise; Lets fall no honours, but, securely great, Unfaded holds the colour of his fate: No winter knows, though ruffling factions press; By wisdom deeply rooted in success; One glory shed, a brighter is display'd;(61) And the charm'd muses shelter in his shade. O how I long, enkindled by the theme, In deep eternity to launch thy name! Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead, But what chaste truth indites, old time shall read. "Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood, Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good; Whose glory great, but natural appears, The genuine growth of services and years; No sudden exhalation drawn on high, And fondly gilt by partial majesty: One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease, One born to serve us, and yet born to please: Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays, The prince may trust, and yet the people praise; His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear, His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere, His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle, And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile." Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son, To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won; Who nobly conscious meets the smiles of fate; True greatness lies in daring to be great. Let dastard souls, or affectation, run To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won; Such men prefer, misled by false applause, The pride of modesty to virtue's cause. Honours, which make the face of virtue fair, 'Tis great to merit, and 'tis wise to wear; 'Tis holding up the prize to public view, Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new; Heightens the lustre of our age and clime, And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time. Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'd, Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd, As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood, The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood. Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide, And both Minervas rise in equal pride; Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne, Who shines illustrious not in wars alone. Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes; They coldly court desert, who fame despise. For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail? And what applause, but her propitious gale? When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind To glorious aims, as to the port design'd; When chain'd, without it, to the labouring oar, She toils! she pants! nor gains the flying shore, From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide: For one that has succeeded ten are lost, Of equal talents, ere they make the coast. Then let renown to worth divine incite, With all her beams, but throw those beams aright. Then merit droops, and genius downward tends, When godlike glory, like our land, descends. Custom the garter long confin'd to few, And gave to birth, exalted virtue's due: Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down; And high desert embraces fair renown. Though rival'd, let the peerage smiling see (Smiling, in justice to their own degree) This proud reward by majesty bestow'd On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd. From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss'd to guard, Let subjects merit, and let kings reward. Gods are most gods by giving to excel, And kings most like them, by rewarding well. Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn aright, Short is the winged arrow's upward flight; But if an eagle it transfix on high, Lodg'd in the wound, it soars into the sky.

Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays, And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise; Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame, Not lifted by my genius, but my theme. No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent On mighty Brunswick, for the great event, Brunswick of kings the terror or defence! Who dares detain thee at a world's expense?

AND EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

1712.

Parnassia laurus Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.

--VIRG.

When Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone, And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone, While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate; Horace did oft the mighty man detain, And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain; Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string; And taught the Roman genius how to sing. Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue, Who know no want of Caesar, finding you; The muse's friend is pleas'd the muse should press Through circling crowds, and labor for access, That partial to his darling he may prove, And shining throngs for her reproach remove, To all the world industrious to proclaim His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame. Long has the western world reclin'd her head, Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd, And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd; By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd. In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow'd, In vain the vintage liberally flow'd; Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear, Not by the various aspects of the year; The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh. But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, And bids us smile on all our labours past; Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, And every monarch call his crown his own: To valour gentler virtues now succeed; No longer is the great man born to bleed; Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, And without trembling we resound his name. No more the rising harvest whets the sword, No longer waves uncertain of its lord; Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, Nor chance of battle change the master's name. Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows; The brighter sun a fuller day bestows; All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, And thank great Anna for returning peace. The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, No longer he invokes the gods in vain, But rises to new life; in every field He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield; Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, And borrow beauties from his late disease. Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, As more than bids the rage of battle cease. Death may determine war, and rest succeed, 'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed: In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes, And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose. See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; So well receiv'd, so welcome, so at home, (Blest change of fate,) in Bourbon's stately dome; The monarch pleas'd, descending from his throne, Will not that Anna call him all her own; He claims a part, and looking round to find Something might speak the fulness of his mind, A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near, Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear; Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd on one, Who makes him less regret his darling son; So dear is Anna's minister, so great, Your glorious friend in his own private state. To make our nations longer two, in vain Does nature interpose the raging main: The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows: From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find, And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove. What Briton but must prize th' illustrious sword, That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame? Thus generous hatred in affection ends, And war, which rais'd the foes, completes the friends. A thousand happy consequences flow (The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow); Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole; The British merchant, who with care and pain For many moons sees only skies and main; When now in view of his loved native shore, The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er, Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind; By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe, And give him strength to strike a deeper blow. Sweet Philomela providently flies To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, To feed her young, and make them try the wing, And with their tender notes attempt to sing: Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare, And renders vain the tuneful mother's care. Britannia's bold adventurer of late The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate. Goodness is greatness in its utmost height, And power a curse, if not a friend to right: To conquer is to make dissension cease, That man may serve the King of kings in peace. Religion now shall all her rays dispense, And shine abroad in perfect excellence; Else we may dread some greater curse at hand, To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land: Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest; The meagre famine, and the spotted pest, Deputed in her stead, may blast the day, And sweep the relics of the sword away. When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, Jove in the fulness of his glory shone; Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle. Those mighty souls, whom military care Diverted from their only great affair, Shall bend their full united force, to bless Th' Almighty Author of their late success. And what is all the world subdued to this? The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss; But there are conquests to great Anna known, Above the splendour of an earthly throne; Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within The scanty bounds of matter to begin; Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun, And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun. Heroic shades! whom war has swept away, Look down, and smile on this auspicious day: Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell, Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell; Then deep into eternity retire, Of greater things than peace or war inquire; Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know What farther passes in the world below. The bravest of mankind shall now have leave To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave: On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet Sad melancholy numbers in each street (Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain, Or wasting in the bottom of the main); To turn us back from joy, in tender fear, Lest it an insult of their woes appear, And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food. Devotion shall run pure, and disengage From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage. On heaven without a sin we now may call, And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall; Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death. But O! I view with transport arts restor'd, Which double use to Britain shall afford; Secure her glory purchas'd in the field, And yet for future peace sweet motives yield: While we contemplate on the painted wall, The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul, In such bright images, such living grace, As leave great Raphael but the second place; Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise, And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes; Much we shall triumph in our battles past, And yet consent those battles prove our last; Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive, We lose the means to keep that fame alive. In silent groves the birds delight to sing, Or near the margin of a secret spring: Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve, Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love. But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string, Or breathing canvass, when the muses sing? The muse, my lord, your care above the rest, With rising joy dilates my partial breast; The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar, Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar; Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead, And all her warlike neighbours round her bled; For Janus shut, her Ioe Paeans rung, Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung. A thousand various forms the muse may wear, (A thousand various forms become the fair;) But shines in none with more majestic mien, Than when in state she draws the purple scene; Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage, And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage; Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use The noblest virtues time did e'er produce; Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind; They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd, Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks The hero's presence deep impression makes; The scenes his soul and body reunite, Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight; Make our contemporary him that stood High in renown, perhaps before the flood; Make Nestor to this age advice afford, And Hector for our service draw his sword. More glory to an author what can bring, Whence nobler service to his country spring, Than from those labours, which, in man's despight, Possess him with a passion for the right? With honest magic make the knave inclin'd To pay devotion to the virtuous mind; Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove, And with her wants and anguish fall in love? Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan, And does not wish the glorious pain his own? Lend but your understanding, and their skill Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will: Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past; Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast. How often have I seen the generous bowl With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, And steal a truth, which every sober hour (The prose of life) had kept within her power! The grape victorious often has prevail'd, When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, fail'd: Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; But mourn'd too late, no longer could deny, And on her own confession charge the lie. Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love Of goodness here, or mercy from above, Or fear of future pains, or human laws Could render advocates in virtue's cause, Caught by the scene, have unawares resign'd Their wonted disposition of the mind: By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale, As circling glasses on our senses steal; Till thoroughly by the muses' banquet warm'd, The passions tossing, all the soul alarm'd, They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage, Rise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage, Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring, Or turn the poniard on some tyrant king. How can they cool to villains? how subside To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride? To spoiling orphans how to day return, Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn? In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit To govern, and control the world of wit, As Talbot, Lansdowne's friend, has Britain known? Him polish'd Italy has call'd her own; He in the lap of elegance was bred, And trac'd the muses to their fountain head: But much we hope, he will enjoy at home What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome. Nor fear I mention of the court of France, When I the British genius would advance; There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste; Yet still we dare invite him to our feast: For Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress Of Oroonoko, and presume him less: What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe Waters those bays that shall for ever grow. Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse, The drama glories in the British muse. The French are delicate, and nicely lead Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread; Our genius more affects the grand, than fine, Our strength can make the great plain action shine: They raise a great curiosity indeed, From his dark maze to see the hero freed; We rouse th' affections, and that hero show Gasping beneath some formidable blow: They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care We heighten into terror and despair; Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch, Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much. What's great in nature we can greatly draw, Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law. The fate of Caesar is a tale too plain The fickle Gallic taste to entertain; Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove The golden arras with gay flowers of love: We know heaven made him a far greater man Than any Caesar, in a human plan, And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd, To stand affected with what heaven design'd. To claim attention, and the heart invade, Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made. Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays, 'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise; On nature's surer aid Britannia calls, None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls; Then with a sigh returns our audience home, From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome. France yields not to the glory of our lines, But manly conduct of our strong designs; That oft they think more justly we must own, Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown: Greece thought but justly, they think justly too; We sometimes err by striving more to do. So well are Racine's meanest persons taught, But change a sentiment, you make a fault; Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame: When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame. And yet in Shakespeare something still I find, That makes me less esteem all human kind; He made one nature, and another found, Both in his page with master strokes abound: His witches, fairies, and enchanted isle. Bid us no longer at our nurses smile; Of lost historians we almost complain, Nor think it the creation of his brain. Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance? With his great Talbot(62) too he conquer'd France. Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run In great descendants, Shakespeare has but one; And him, my lord, permit me not to name, But in kind silence spare his rival's shame:-- Yet I in vain that author would suppress, What can't be greater, cannot be made less: Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim, And to himself great Agamemnon name. Should Shakespeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's smile, E'en Shakespeare's self would curse this barren isle: But if that reigning star propitious shine, And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine; E'en I, by far the meanest of your age, Shall not repent my passion for the stage. Thus did the will almighty disallow, No human force could pluck the golden bough, Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command, And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand. Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write To you, the muses' glory and delight; Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise, And mortify an author with your praise: Praise wounds a noble mind, when 'tis not due, But censure's self will please, my lord, from you; Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend To point them out, and teach us how to mend. What though the great man set his coffers wide, That cannot gratify the poet's pride; Whose inspiration, if 'tis truly good, Is best rewarded, when best understood. The muses write for glory, not for gold, 'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold: The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves To speak a sense of what the muse deserves; The muse which from her Lansdowne fears no wrong, Best judge, as well as subject, of her song. Should this great theme allure me further still, And I presume to use your patience ill, The world would plead my cause, and none but you Will take disgust at what I now pursue: Since what is mean my muse can't raise, I'll choose A theme that's able to exalt my muse. For who, not void of thought, can Granville name, Without a spark of his immortal flame? Whether we seek the patriot, or the friend, Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend; Whether we choose to love or to admire, You melt the tender, and th'ambitious fire. Such native graces without thought abound, And such familiar glories spread around, As more incline the stander by to raise His value for himself, than you to praise. Thus you befriend the most heroic way, Bless all, on none an obligation lay; So turn'd by nature's hand for all that's well, 'Tis scarce a virtue when you most excel. Tho' sweet your presence, graceful is your mien, You to be happy want not to be seen; Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone, Nor court an approbation but your own: In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please; You, were all blind, would still deserve applause; The world's your glory's witness, not its cause; That lies beyond the limits of the day, Angels behold it, and their God obey. You take delight in others' excellence; A gift, which nature rarely does dispense: Of all that breathe 'tis you, perhaps, alone Would be well pleas'd to see yourself outdone. You wish not those, who show your name respect, So little worth, as might excuse neglect; Nor are in pain lest merit you should know; Nor shun the well deserver as a foe; A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim To be well us'd, or dye your cheek with shame. You wish your country's good; that told so well Your powers are known, th' event I need not tell. When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd; That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd: And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought, Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought. When you, my lord, to sylvan scenes retreat, No crowds around for pleasure, or for state, You are not cast upon a stranger land, And wander pensive o'er the barren strand; Nor are you by receiv'd example taught, In toys to shun the discipline of thought; But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place, You choose companions from all human race; Converse with those the deluge swept away, Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day. Books not so much inform, as give consent To those ideas your own thoughts present; Your only gain from turning volumes o'er, Is finding cause to like yourself the more: In Grecian sages you are only taught With more respect to value your own thought: Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew Those precepts we behold alive in you: Your life is so adjusted to their schools, It makes that history they meant for rules. What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise Within your breast, and lift you to the skies, When, in each learned page that you unfold, You find some part of your own conduct told! So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, AEneas stood, And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, When far from Trojan shores the hero spied His story shining forth in all its pride; Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand The praise and wonder of a foreign land. He knows not half his being, who's confin'd In converse, and reflection on mankind: Your soul, which understands her charter well, Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell; Ranges eternity without the leave Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave. When pains eternal, and eternal bliss, When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss, In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend, And for your ease to deathless fame descend. Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand, Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand.(63) Behold the glories of your life complete! Still at a flow, and permanently great; New moments shed new pleasures as they fly, And yet your greatest is, that you must die. Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat Of honour, and confess'd her servant great; Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful fame Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name; Though you in modesty the title wear, Your name shall be the title of your heir; Farther than ermine, make his glory known, And cast in shades the favour of a throne. From thrones the beam of high distinction springs; The soul's endowments from the King of kings, Lo! one great day calls forth ten mighty peers! Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years; Anna, be thou content to fix the fate Of various kingdoms, and control the great; But O! to bid thy Granville brighter shine! To him that great prerogative resign, Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher, His lamp illumine, set his flames on fire. Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear, A darling friend whom near your heart you wear; That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must blame, That I grow thus familiar with your name. He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice, Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice: Vice has he none, or such as none wish less, But friends indeed, good-nature in excess. You cannot boast the merit of a choice, In making him your own, 'twas nature's voice, Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood, Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood; Similitude of manners, such a mind As makes you less the wonder of mankind. Such ease his common converse recommends, As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's; Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force Of all beneath the sun, to bend his course.(64) Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair, Flatters the motions of the wanton air; Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd: The pliant branches dance in every wind: But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains, And all the fury of the north disdains. How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend! Alas! with me the joys of friendship end; O Harrison! I must, I will complain; Tears soothe the soul's distress, tho' shed in vain; Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?-- Thy task was early done, and I must own Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone. But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn, The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn; Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive, They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grave. With aching heart, and a foreboding mind, I night to day in painful journey join'd, When first inform'd of his approaching fate; But reach'd the partner of my soul too late: 'Twas past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song, Now languish'd, wanted strength to speak his pain, Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again: Each art of life, in which he bore a part, Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart. To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power, But more to load that most unhappy hour? Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind; That, not in health, or life itself confin'd, Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace, Mounted to joy, and smil'd in death's embrace. His spirit now just ready to resign, No longer now his own, no longer mine, He grasps my hand, his swimming eyeballs roll, My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul: Then with a groan--Support me, O! beware Of holding worth, however great, too dear!(65) Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief, That in untimely freedom seeks relief; To better fate your love I recommend, O! may you never lose so dear a friend! May nothing interrupt your happy hours; Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers: Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn; To make the muse immortal, you was born. Sing; and in latest time, when story's dark, This period your surviving fame shall mark; Save from the gulf of years this glorious age, And thus illustrate their historian's page. The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung, And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung: That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword, When this great man was first saluted lord.

TWO EPISTLES TO MR. POPE

Concerning the Authors of the Age. 1730.

Epistle I.

Whilst you at Twickenham plan the future wood, Or turn the volumes of the wise and good, Our senate meets; at parties, parties bawl, And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall; So rushing tides bring things obscene to light, Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight; The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns, And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains. Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, Where speculation roosted near the sky; Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, And all the garret thunders on the throng! O Pope! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain; I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain: Truce, truce, ye Vandals! my tormented ear Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer; I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each hour, Shan't I return the vengeance in my power? For who can write the true absurd like me?---- Thy pardon, Codrus! who, I mean, but thee? Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style, The blood of vipers had not stain'd thy file; Merit less solid, less despite had bred; They had not bit, and then they had not bled. Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys, But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys; With fame, in just proportion, envy grows; The man that makes a character, makes foes: Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise, As a bright day awakes the world of flies; With hearty malice, but with feeble wing, (To show they live) they flutter, and they sting: But as by depredations wasps proclaim The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame. Shall we not censure all the motley train, Whether with ale irriguous, or champaign? Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb, And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme; The college sloven, or embroider'd spark; The purple prelate, or the parish clerk; The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig; The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig; Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad; Whether extremely witty, or quite mad; Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite; Men that read well, or men that only write; Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds, And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds; For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut, As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut. His hammer this, and that his trowel quits, And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits. By thriving men subsists each other trade; Of every broken craft a writer's made: Thus his material, paper, takes its birth From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on earth. Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alone belong Millions of wits, and brokers in old song: Thee well a land of liberty we name, Where all are free to scandal and to shame; Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease, And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please; Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence: Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires; Their verse immoral kindles loose desires: Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime, Our sport and pity, punishment and crime. What glorious motives urge our authors on, Thus to undo, and thus to be undone? One loses his estate, and down he sits, To show (in vain!) he still retains his wits: Another marries, and his dear proves keen; He writes as an hypnotic for the spleen: Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt; Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 'tis wet; Through private pique some do the public right, And love their king and country out of spite: Another writes because his father writ, And proves himself a bastard by his wit. Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? Neither: why write then? He wants twenty pound: His belly, not his brains, this impulse give; He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live: He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream, With no provision made, but of his theme; Perhaps a title has his fancy smit, Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit: He writes, in inspiration puts his trust, Tho' wrong his thoughts, the gods will make them just; Genius directly from the gods descends, And who by labour would distrust his friends? Thus having reason'd with consummate skill, In immortality he dips his quill: And, since blank paper is denied the press, He mingles the whole alphabet by guess: In various sets, which various words compose, Of which, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows. So sounds spontaneous from the sibyl broke, Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke; The priests found out the meaning, if they could; And nations star'd at what none understood. Clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole And great concern of an immortal soul!) Oft have I said, "Awake! exist! and strive For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!" As oft I overheard the demon say, Who daily met the loit'rer in his way, "I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:" the youth replies, "I'll meet thee there," and falls his sacrifice; His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare To ev'ry bribe, and blind to ev'ry snare: Clodio for bread his indolence must quit, Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit. Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake; How must Spain tremble, and the German shake! Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print; Ev'n George's praise is dated from the mint. In arms contemptible, in arts profane, Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign. Reform your lives before you thus aspire, And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire. O the just contrast! O the beauteous strife! 'Twixt their cool writings, and pindaric life: They write with phlegm, but then they live with fire; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. I reverence misfortune, not deride; I pity poverty, but laugh at pride: For who so sad, but must some mirth confess At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress? Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat. These, nature's commoners, who want a home, Claim the wide world for their majestic dome; They make a private study of the street; And, looking full on every man they meet, Run souse against his chaps; who stands amaz'd To find they did not see, but only gaz'd. How must these bards be rapt into the skies! you need not read, you feel their ecstasies. Will they persist? 'Tis Madness; Lintot, run, See them confin'd--"O that's already done." Most, as by leases, by the works they print, Have took, for life, possession of the mint. If you mistake, and pity these poor men, est Ulubris, they cry, and write again. Such wits their nuisance manfully expose, And then pronounce just judges learning's foes; O frail conclusion; the reverse is true; If foes to learning, they'd be friends to you: Treat them, ye judges! with an honest scorn, And weed the cockle from the generous corn: There's true good nature in your disrepect; In justice to the good, the bad neglect: For immortality, if hardships plead, It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. But, O! what wisdom can convince a fool, But that 'tis dulness to conceive him dull? 'Tis sad experience takes the censor's part, Conviction, not from reason, but from smart. a virgin author, recent from the press, The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success; Surveys them, reads them, takes their charms to bed, Those in his hand, and glory in his head; 'Tis joy too great; a fever of delight! His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night: But rising the next morn to clasp his fame, He finds that without sleeping he could dream: So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed, And find next day the devil in their stead. In vain advertisements the town o'erspread; They're epitaphs, and the work is dead. Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise; 'Tis volunteers alone can give the bays. A famous author visits a great man, Of his immortal work displays the plan, And says, "Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss; Your glory, and my own, shall live by this; Your power is fixt, your fame thro' time convey'd, And Britain Europe's queen--if I am paid." A statesman has his answer in a trice: "Sir, such a genius is beyond all price; What man can pay for this?"--Away he turns; His work is folded, and his bosom burns: His patron he will patronize no more; But rushes like a tempest out of door. Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name! Out comes the piece, another, and the same; For A, his magic pen evokes an O, And turns the tide of Europe on the foe: He rams his quill with scandal, and with scoff; But 'tis so very foul, it wont go off: Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar; But when once publish'd, they are heard no more. Thus distant bugbears fright, but, nearer draw, The block's a block, and turns to mirth your awe. Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are such? No; every party's tainted by their touch. Infected persons fly each public place; And none, or enemies alone, embrace: To the foul fiend their every passion's sold: They love, and hate, extempore, for gold: What image of their fury can we form? Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm. Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy, To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fly: Write they with rage? The tempest quickly flags; A state Ulysses tames 'em with his bags; Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew: For Christian ministers of state are few. Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, That pours his politics through pipes of lead, Which far and near ejaculate, and spout O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout: But when they have bespatter'd all they may, The statesman throws his filthy squirts away! With golden forceps, these, another takes, And state elixirs of the vipers makes. The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay A servile sycophant, if well they weigh How much it costs the wretch to be so base; Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, Enough chastise, such prostitute applause, If well they weigh how much it stains their cause. But are our writers ever in the wrong? Does virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue? Yes; if well brib'd, for virtue's self they fight; Still in the wrong, tho' champions for the right: Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit, Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets, And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; From the same hand how various is the page! What civil war their brother pamphlets wage! Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare; Say, is this lunacy?--I wish it were. If such our writers, startled at the sight, Felons may bless their stars they cannot write! How justly Proteus' transmigrations fit The monstrous changes of a modern wit! Now, such a gentle stream of eloquence As seldom rises to the verge of sense; Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame, Which yet fit engines, well applied, can tame; Now, on immodest trash, the swine obscene, Invites the town to sup at Drury Lane; A dreadful lion, now he roars at power, Which sends him to his brothers at the Tower; He's now a serpent, and his double tongue Salutes, nay licks, the feet of those he stung; What knot can bind him, his evasion such? One knot he well deserves, which might do much. The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake, Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make: The snake reigns most; snakes, Pliny says, are bred When the brain's perish'd in a human head. Ye grov'ling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things, Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings! Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you, curst To scribble in the dust, was snake the first. What if the figure should in fact prove true! It did in Elkenah, why not in you? Poor Elkenah, all other changes past, For bread in Smithfield dragons hist at last, Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape, And found his manners suited to his shape: Such is the fate of talents misapplied; So liv'd your prototype; and so he died. Th' abandon'd manners of our writing train May tempt mankind to think religion vain; But in their fate, their habit, and their mien, That gods there are is eminently seen: Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen, And marks the murderers of fame from men: Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath, As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth: Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt, And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt. The transient vestments of these frugal men, Hastens to paper for our mirth again: Too soon (O merry melancholy fate!) They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate: The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight; The friend through pity gives, the foe through spite; And though full conscious of his injur'd purse, Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse. So fare the men, who writers dare commence Without their patent, probity, and sense. From these, their politics our quidnuncs seek, And Saturday's the learning of the week: These labouring wits, like paviours, mend our ways, With heavy, huge, repeated, flat essays; Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so dull; And hem at every thump upon your skull: These staunch bred writing hounds begin the cry, And honest folly echoes to the lie. O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see, Thanking a villain for his probity; Who stretches out a most respectful ear, With snares for woodcocks in his holy leer: It tickles thro' my soul to hear the cock's Sincere encomium on his friend the fox, Sole patron of his liberties and rights! While graceless Reynard listens--till he bites. As when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded state Discharges all her poor and profligate; Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield, And prisons pour their filth into the field; Thus nature's refuse, and the dregs of men, Compose the black militia of the pen.

Epistle II.

From Oxford.

All write at London; shall the rage abate Here, where it most should shine, the muses' seat? Where, mortal or immortal, as they please, The learn'd may choose eternity, or ease? Has not a (66)royal patron wisely strove To woo the muse in her Athenian grove? Added new strings to her harmonious shell, And given new tongues to those who spoke so well? Let these instruct, with truth's illustrious ray, Awake the world, and scare our owls away. Meanwhile, O friend! indulge me, if I give Some needful precepts how to write, and live! Serious should be an author's final views; Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse. An author! 'tis a venerable name! How few deserve it, and what numbers claim! Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind? Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause? That sole proprietor of just applause. Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, With whom would you consult to gain the bays?-- With those great authors whose fam'd works you read? 'Tis well: go, then, consult the laurell'd shade. What answer will the laurell'd shade return? Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn The noblest works his envied genius writ, That boast of nought more excellent than wit. If this be true, as 'tis a truth most dread, Woe to the page which has not that to plead! Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote, The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought: Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, Condemn the charm of ages to the flame: And in one point is all true wisdom cast, To think that early we must think at last. Immortal wits, ev'n dead, break nature's laws, Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot, (Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot. Thus ends your courted fame: does lucre then, The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen? In prose 'tis blameable, in verse 'tis worse, Provokes the muse, extorts Apollo's curse: His sacred influence never should be sold: 'Tis arrant simony to sing for gold: 'Tis immortality should fire your mind; Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind. If bribes you seek, know this, ye writing tribe! Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe: All's on the party of the virtuous man; The good will surely serve him, if they can; The bad, when interest, or ambition guide, And 'tis at once their interest and their pride: But should both fail to take him to their care, He boasts a greater friend, and both may spare. Letters to man uncommon light dispense; And what is virtue, but superior sense? In parts and learning you who place your pride, Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double dyed. What is a scandal of the first renown, But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown? 'Tis harder far to please than give offence; The least misconduct damns the brightest sense; Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. Flagitious manners make impressions deep On those, that o'er a page of Milton sleep: Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. Wits are a despicable race of men, If they confine their talents to the pen; When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, And play the fool, because they're men of sense. What instances bleed recent in each thought, Of men to ruin by their genius brought! Against their wills what numbers ruin shun, Purely through want of wit to be undone! Nature has shown, by making it so rare, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; With that we drive the most substantial trade. Prudence protects and guides us; wit betrays; A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; A certain snare to miseries immense; A gay prerogative from common sense; Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, And break to paths of virtue and of fame. But grant your judgment equal to the best, Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well) 'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal; As it is great to seize the golden prize Of place or power; but greater to despise. If still you languish for an author's name, Think private merit less than public fame, And fancy not to write is not to live; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative. But ponder what it is; how dear 'twill cost, To write one page which you may justly boast. Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press; Who write, an awful character profess; The world as pupil of their wisdom claim, And for their stipend an immortal fame: Nothing but what is solid or refin'd, Should dare ask public audience of mankind. Severely weigh your learning, and your wit: Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Much trust example, but reflection more: More had the ancients writ, they more had taught; Which shows some work is left for modern thought. This weigh'd, perfection know; and known, adore; Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more; Above, beneath it, the just limits fix; And zealously prefer four lines to six. Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen. Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays. Much time for immortality to pay, Is just and wise; for less is thrown away. Time only can mature the labouring brain; Time is the father, and the midwife pain: The same good sense that makes a man excel, Still makes him doubt he ne'er has written well. Downright impossibilities they seek; What man can be immortal in a week? Excuse no fault; though beautiful, 'twill harm; One fault shocks more than twenty beauties charm. Our age demands correctness; Addison And you this commendable hurt have done. Now writers find, as once Achilles found, The whole is mortal, if a part's unsound. He that strikes out, and strikes not out the best, Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest: Give e'er so little, if what's right be there, We praise for what you burn, and what you spare: The part you burn, smells sweet before the shrine, And is as incense to the part divine. Nor frequent write, though you can do it well; Men may too oft, though not too much, excel. A few good works gain fame; more sink their price; Mankind are fickle, and hate paying twice: They granted you writ well, what can they more, Unless you let them praise for giving o'er? Do boldly what you do, and let your page Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. So faintly Lucius censures and commends, That Lucius has no foes, except his friends. Let satire less engage you than applause; It shows a gen'rous mind to wink at flaws: Is genius yours? be yours a glorious end, Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend; The public glory by your own beget; Run nations, run posterity, in debt. And since the fam'd alone make others live, First have that glory you presume to give. If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high; Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Good breeding sends the satire to the heart. Painters and surgeons may the structure scan; Genius and morals be with you the man: Defaults in those alone should give offence! Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. My narrow minded satire can't extend To Codrus' form; I'm not so much his friend: Himself should publish that (the world agree) Before his works, or in the pillory. Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin, or fat, Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that. Is that call'd humour? It has this pretence, 'Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense. Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift. Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, 'Tis printing what was publish'd long before. If nought peculiar through your labours run, They're duplicates, and twenty are but one. Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn; To nurse with quick reflection be your strife, Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life: When most unsought, such inspirations rise, Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise: Expect peculiar fame from these alone; These make an author, these are all your own. Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er; Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. True, all men think of course, as all men dream; And if they slightly think, 'tis much the same. Letters admit not of a half renown; They give you nothing, or they give a crown. No work e'er gain'd true fame, or ever can, But what did honour to the name of man. Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse, Clear be the style, the very sound of force; Easy the conduct, simple the design, Striking the moral, and the soul divine: Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed; O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed: Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's, grow; Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau: And when your genius exquisitely shines, Live up to the full lustre of your lines: Parts but expose those men who virtue quit; A fallen angel is a fallen wit; And they plead Lucifer's detested cause, Who for bare talents challenge our applause. Would you restore just honours to the pen? From able writers rise to worthy men. "Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would restrain? Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain? Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete? As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?" Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt, And challenge all mankind to find one fault? With huge examens overwhelm my page, And darken reason with dogmatic rage? As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme, In prose a duller could excuse the crime: Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing Is gravely to harangue on what we sing. At that tribunal stands the writing tribe, Which nothing can intimidate or bribe: Time is the judge; time has nor friend nor foe; False fame must wither, and the true will grow. Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy; For if I fall, by my own pen I die; While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain To wound immortals, or to slay the slain. Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head, Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain, Of recent form, to serve me this campaign: And safely hope to quit the dreadful field Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray In all his might, and damns me--for a day. As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite, So war their quills, when sons of dulness write.

AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

By Mr. Doddington, Afterwards Lord Melcombe.

--Quae censet amiculus, ut si Caecus iter monstrare velit

--HOR.

Though strength of genius, by experience taught, Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought, To trace the various workings of the mind, And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind; (Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend Can aught of use impart, though void of skill, And win attention by sincere good-will; For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies, The heart may furnish what the head denies. As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides, To grace old ocean's court, in triumph rides, Tho' rich his source, he drains a thousand springs, Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings. So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, Since no mean interest shall profane the muse, No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend. When first a generous mind surveys the great, And views the crowds that on their fortune wait; Pleas'd with the show (though little understood) He only seeks the power, to do the good; Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to dispose, And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows; That every grant sincere affection wins, And where our wants have end, our love begins: But those who long the paths of state have trod, Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd, Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates besiege, 'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige. This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, The chief perfection of the statesman's art, To give to fair assent a fairer face, Or soften a refusal into grace: But few there are that can be truly kind, Or know to fix their favours on the mind; Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend, And, while they make the fortune, lose the friend; Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not bestow; For great men want not, what to give, but how. The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true, Think all they get, and more than all, their due; Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts, And measure by their interest, not their parts: From this mistake so many men we see But ill become the thing they wish'd to be; Hence discontent, and fresh demands arise, More power, more favour in the great man's eyes; All feel a want, though none the cause suspects, But hate their patron, for their own defects; Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts, And, when he gives them places, gives them parts. As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great May sell their favour at too dear a rate; When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd, And long attachment waits among the herd; When no distinction, where distinction 's due, Marks from the many the superior few; When strong cabal constrains them to be just, And makes them give at last--because they must; What hopes that men of real worth should prize, What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys? The man who justly o'er the whole presides, His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides; Knows when to stop with grace, and when advance, Nor gives through importunity or chance; But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd, When favours are extorted, not bestow'd. When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd Surround the great, importunate, and loud; Through such a tumult, 'tis no easy task To drive the man of real worth to ask: Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show, 'Tis hard for great men rightly to bestow; From hence so few are skill'd, in either case, To ask with dignity, or give with grace. Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; Till we forget the hand that made us great, And grow to envy, not to emulate: To emulate, a generous warmth implies, To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; But envy wears a mean malignant face, And aims not at their virtues--but their place. Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence! When every favour is a fresh offence, By which superior power is still implied, And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride. Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; But those who hate from envy, hate indeed. "Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?" Methinks I hear thee cry--The brave and just; The man by no mean fears or hopes controll'd, Who serves thee from affection, not for gold. We love the honest, and esteem the brave, Despise the coxcomb, but detest the knave; No show of parts the truly wise seduce, To think that knaves can be of real use. The man, who contradicts the public voice, And strives to dignify a worthless choice, Attempts a task that on that choice reflects, And lends us light to point out new defects. One worthless man, that gains what he pretends, Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends: And since no art can make a counterpass, Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass, When princes to bad ore their image join, They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin. Be thine the care, true merit to reward And gain the good--nor will that task be hard; Souls form'd alike so quick by nature blend, An honest man is more than half thy friend. Him, no mean views, or haste to rise, shall sway, Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray: Ambition, here, shall at due distance stand Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand: Besides, if failings at the bottom lie, We view those failings with a lover's eye; Though small his genius, let him do his best, Our wishes and belief supply the rest. Let others barter servile faith for gold, His friendship is not to be bought or sold: Fierce opposition he, unmov'd, shall face, Modest in favour, daring in disgrace, To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend; In power, a servant; out of power, a friend. Here pour thy favours in an ample flood, Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good: Nor think that good to him alone confin'd; Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind. If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free, And teach us long to love the king, through thee: Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe, And make him tremble when he strikes the blow; While honour, gratitude, affection join To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline; (Illustrious doom!) the great, when this displac'd, With friendship guarded, and with virtue grac'd, In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall, The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul. No doubt, to genius some reward is due, (Excluding that, were satirizing you;) But yet, believe thy undesigning friend, When truth and genius for thy choice contend, Tho' both have weight when in the balance cast, Let probity be first, and parts the last. On these foundations if thou dar'st be great, And check the growth of folly and deceit; When party rage shall droop thro' length of days, And calumny be ripen'd into praise, Then future times shall to thy worth allow That fame, which envy would call flattery now. Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit, Has pointed out the rocks where others split; By that inspir'd, though stranger to the Nine, And negligent of any fame--but thine, I take the friendly, but superfluous part; You act from nature what I teach from art.

THE OLD MAN'S RELAPSE.

Verses Occasioned by the Foregoing Epistle.

Sopitos suscita ignes.

--VIRG.

From man's too curious and impatient sight, The future, Heaven involves in thickest night. Credit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast, Some least perform, what they determine most. What sudden changes our resolves betray! To-morrow is the satire on to-day, And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe, When constantly themselves, themselves deceive?

Long had I bid my once-loved muse adieu; You warm old age; my passion burns anew. How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind! What power of words! what skill in dark mankind! Polite the conduct; generous the design; And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line. Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, beset; Your wit has caught them in its golden net.

But what strikes home with most exalted grace Is, haughty genius taught to know its place; And, where worth shines, its humbled crest to bend, With zeal devoted to that godlike end. When we discern so rich a vein of sense, Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence; 'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold.

But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece? The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece; The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim, And slowly take possession of the fame. But I nor know, nor care, by whom 'twas writ, Enough for me that 'tis from human wit; That soothes my pride: all glory in the pen Which has done honour to the race of men.

But this have others done; a like applause An ancient and a modern Horace draws.(67) But they to glory by degrees arose, Meridian lustre you at once disclose. 'Tis continence of mind, unknown before, To write so well, and yet to write no more. More bright renown can human nature claim, Than to deserve, and fly immortal fame?

Next to the godlike praise of writing well, Is on that praise with just delight to dwell. O, for some God my drooping soul to raise! That I might imitate, as well as praise; For all commend: e'en foes your fame confess; Nor would Augustus' age have priz'd it less; An age, which had not held its pride so long, But for the want of so complete a song.

A golden period shall from you commence: Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense; Whether your genius or your rank they view, The muses find their Halifax in you. Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own; For lofty stations are but golden snares, Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares.

I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. Though life I hate, methinks I could renew Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? When such your genius, who shall dare to write? In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er, And, to commend you most, commend no more.

Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast Erelong I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost; The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell! Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell; There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free, And think of immortality and thee-- My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine; Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine.

VERSES

Sent by Lord Melcombe to Dr. Young, Not Long Before His Lordship's Death.(68)

Kind companion of my youth, Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth! Take what friendship can impart, Tribute of a feeling heart; Take the muse's latest spark,(69) Ere we drop into the dark. He, who parts and virtue gave, Bad thee look beyond the grave Genius soars, and virtue guides; Above, the love of God presides. There's a gulf 'twixt us and God; Let the gloomy path be trod: Why stand shivering on the shore? Why not boldly venture o'er? Where unerring virtue guides, Let us have the winds and tides: Safe, through seas of doubts and fears, Rides the bark which virtue steers.

The End

FOOTNOTES

1 The Duke of Marlborough.

2 Westminster Abbey.

3 Founders of New College, Corpus Christi, and All Souls, in Oxford; of all which the author was a member.

4 Here she embraces them.

5 Val. Max.

6 Horace.

7 A famous statue.

8 A famous tailor.

9 This refers to the first satire.

10 The name of a tulip.

11 Letters sent to the author, signed Marcus.

12 Milton.

13 A Danish dog of the Duke of Argyle.

14 Lap-dog.

15 Shakespeare.

16 ----Solem quis dicere falsum Audeat?

Virg.

17 Shakespeare.

18 Milton.

19 Amphitryon.

20 The king in danger by sea.

21 Hom. Il. lib. I.

22 Ecce Deus ramum Lethaeo rore madentem, &c.

Virg.

23 A new fund for Greenwich hospital, recommended from the throne.

24 Written soon after King George the First's accession.

25 It is disputed amongst the critics who was the author of the book of Job; some give it to Moses, some to others. As I was engaged in this little performance, some arguments occurred to me which favour the former of those opinions; which arguments I have flung into the following notes, where little else is to be expected.

26 The Almighty's speech, chapter xxxviii. &c. which is what I paraphrase in this little work, is by much the finest part of the noblest and most ancient poem in the world. Bishop Patrick says, its grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as thunder is louder than a whisper. In order to set this distinguished part of the poem in a fuller light, and give the reader a clearer conception of it, I have abridged the preceding and subsequent parts of the poem, and joined them to it; so that this piece is a sort of an epitome of the whole book of Job.

I use the word paraphrase, because I want another which might better answer to the uncommon liberties I have taken. I have omitted, added, and transposed. The mountain, the comet, the sun, and other parts, are entirely added: those upon the peacock, the lion, &c. are much enlarged; and I have thrown the whole into a method more suited to our notions of regularity. The judicious, if they compare this piece with the original, will, I flatter myself, find the reasons for the great liberties I have indulged myself in through the whole.

Longinus has a chapter on interrogations, which shows that they contribute much to the sublime. This speech of the Almighty is made up of them. Interrogation seems indeed the proper style of majesty incensed. It differs from other manner of reproof, as bidding a person execute himself does from a common execution; for he that asks the guilty a proper question, makes him, in effect, pass sentence on himself.

27 The book of Job is well known to be dramatic, and, like the tragedies of old Greece, is fiction built on truth. Probably this most noble part of it, the Almighty speaking out of the whirlwind, (so suitable to the after-practice of the Greek stage, when there happened _dignus vindice nodus_,) is fictitious; but is a fiction more agreeable to the time in which Job lived, than to any since. Frequent before the law were the appearances of the Almighty after this manner, Exod. c. xix. Ezek. c. i. &c. Hence is he said to "dwell in thick darkness: and have his way in the whirlwind."

28 There is a very great air in all that precedes, but this is signally sublime. We are struck with admiration to see the vast and ungovernable ocean receiving commands, and punctually obeying them; to find it like a managed horse, raging, tossing, and foaming, but by the rule and direction of its master. This passage yields in sublimity to that of "Let there be light," &c., so much only as the absolute government of nature yields to the creation of it.

29 Another argument that Moses was the author, is, that most of the creatures here mentioned are Egyptian. The reason given why the raven is particularly mentioned as an object of the care of Providence, is, because by her clamorous and importunate voice, she particularly seems always calling upon it; thence [Greek: korasso, a korax], AElian. l. ii. c. 48, is "to ask earnestly." And since there were ravens on the bank of the Nile more clamorous than the rest of that species, those probably are meant in that place.

30 There are many instances of this bird's stupidity: let two suffice. First, it covers its head in the reeds, and thinks itself all out of sight,

Stat lumine clauso Ridendum revoluta caput, creditque latere Quae non ipsa videt.

Claud.

Secondly, they that go in pursuit of them, draw the skin of an ostrich's neck on one hand, which proves a sufficient lure to take them with the other.

They have so little brain, that Heliogabalus had six hundred heads for his supper.

Here we may observe, that our judicious as well as sublime author, just touches the great points of distinction in each creature, and then hastens to another. A description is exact when you cannot add, but what is common to another thing; nor withdraw, but something peculiarly belonging to the thing described. A likeness is lost in too much description, as a meaning often in too much illustration.

31 Here is marked another peculiar quality of this creature, which neither flies nor runs directly, but has a motion composed of both, and, using its wings as sails, makes great speed.

Vasta velut Libyae venantum vocibus ales Cum premitur, calidas cursu transmittit arenas, Inque modum veli sinuatis flamine pennis Pulverulenta volat.

Claud. in Eutr.

32 Xenophon says, Cyrus had horses that could overtake the goat and the wild ass; but none that could reach this creature. A thousand golden ducats, or a hundred camels, was the stated price of a horse that could equal their speed.

33 Though this bird is but just mentioned in my author, I could not forbear going a little farther, and spreading those beautiful plumes (which are there shut up) in half a dozen lines. The circumstance I have marked of his opening his plumes to the sun is true. Expandit colores adverso maxime sole, quia sic fulgentius radiant. Plin. l. x. c. 20.

34 Thyanus (de Re Accip.) mentions a hawk that flew from Paris to London in a night.

And the Egyptians, in regard to its swiftness, made it their symbol for the wind; for which reason we may suppose the hawk, as well as the crow above, to have been a bird of note in Egypt.

35 The eagle is said to be of so acute a sight, that when she is so high in air that man cannot see her, she can discern the smallest fish under water. My author accurately understood the nature of the creatures he describes, and seems to have been a naturalist as well as a poet, which the next note will confirm.

36 The meaning of this question is, Knowest thou the time and circumstances of their bringing forth? For to know the time only was easy, and had nothing extraordinary in it; but the circumstances had something peculiarly expressive of God's providence, which makes the question proper in this place. Pliny observes, that the hind with young is by instinct directed to a certain herb called Seselis, which facilitates the birth. Thunder also (which looks like the more immediate hand of Providence) has the same effect. Ps. xxix. In so early an age to observe these things, may style our author a naturalist.

37 Pursuing their prey by night is true of most wild beasts, particularly the lion. Ps. cvi. 20. The Arabians have one among their five hundred names for the lion, which signifies "the hunter by moonshine."

38 Cephissi glaciale caput, quo suetus anhelam Ferre sitim Python, amnemque avertere ponto.

Stat. Theb. vii. 349.

Qui spiris tegeret montes, hauriret hiatu Flumina, &c. Claud. Pref. in Ruf.

Let not then this hyperbole seem too much for an eastern poet, though some commentators of name strain hard in this place for a new construction, through fear of it.

39 The taking the crocodile is most difficult. Diodorus says, they are not to be taken but by iron nets. When Augustus conquered Egypt, he struck a medal, the impress of which was a crocodile chained to a palm-tree, with this inscription, Nemo antea religavit.

40 This alludes to a custom of this creature, which is, when sated with fish, to come ashore and sleep among the reeds.

41 The crocodile's mouth is exceeding wide. When he gapes, says Pliny, sic totum os. Martial says to his old woman,

Cum comparata rictibus tuis ora Niliacus habet crocodilus angusta.

So that the expression there is barely just.

42 This too is nearer the truth than at first view may be imagined. The crocodile, say the naturalists, lying long under water, and being there forced to hold its breath, when it emerges, the breath long represt is hot, and bursts out so violently, that it resembles fire and smoke. The horse suppresses not his breath by any means so long, neither is he so fierce and animated; yet the most correct of poets ventures to use the same metaphor concerning him:

Collectumque premens volvit sub naribus ignem.

By this and the foregoing note I would caution against a false opinion of the eastern boldness, from passages in them ill understood.

43 "His eyes are like the eyelids of the morning." I think this gives us as great an image of the thing it would express as can enter the thought of man. It is not improbable that the Egyptians stole their hieroglyphic for the morning, which is the crocodile's eye, from this passage, though no commentator, I have seen, mentions it. It is easy to conceive how the Egyptians should be both readers and admirers of the writings of Moses, whom I suppose the author of this poem.

I have observed already that three or four of the creatures here described are Egyptian; the two last are notoriously so, they are the river-horse and the crocodile, those celebrated inhabitants of the Nile; and on these two it is that our author chiefly dwells. It would have been expected from an author more remote from that river than Moses, in a catalogue of creatures produced to magnify their Creator, to have dwelt on the two largest works of his hand, viz. the elephant and the whale. This is so natural an expectation, that some commentators have rendered behemoth and leviathan, the elephant and whale, though the descriptions in our author will not admit of it; but Moses being, as we may well suppose, under an immediate terror of the hippopotamus and crocodile, from their daily mischiefs and ravages around him, it is very accountable why he should permit them to take place.

44 Though the report was propagated without the least truth, it may be sufficient ground to justify a poetical fancy's enlarging on it.

45 Lord Aubrey Beauclerk was the eighth son of the Duke of St. Albans, who was one of the sons of King Charles the Second. He was born in the year 1711; and, being regularly bred to the sea service, in 1731 he was appointed to the command of his majesty's ship the Ludlow Castle; and he commanded the Prince Frederick at the attack of the harbour of Carthagena, March 24, 1741. This young nobleman was one of the most promising commanders in the king's service. When on the desperate attack of the castle of Bocca Chica, at the entrance of the said harbour, he lost his life, both his legs being first shot off. The prose part of the inscription on his monument was the production of Mrs. Mary Jones of Oxford; who also wrote a poem on his death, printed in her Miscellanies, 8vo, 1752.--_R._

46 Lord Sommers procured a pension for Mr. Addison, which enabled him to prosecute his travels.--_R._

47 The publication of his Works.

48 The invader affects the character of Charles XII. of Sweden.

49 Mrs. M----.

50 Whilst the author was writing this, he received the news of Mr. Samuel Richardson's death, who was then printing the former part of the poem.

51 Mrs. Montague.

52 Mrs. Montague.

53 Mrs. Montague. Mrs Carter.

54 Candide.

55 Second Part.

56 Ephes. vi. 17.

57 Which his romance ridicules.

58 Isaiah lvii. 15.

59 Letter to Lord Lyttelton.

60 Alluding to Prussia.

61 Knight of the Bath, and then of the Garter.

62 An ancestor of the Duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.--Young.

63 See his lordship's tragedy entitled "Heroic Love." --Young.

64 His lordship's nephew, who took orders.--Young.

65 The author here bewails that most ingenious gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, fellow of New-College, Oxon.--Young. [See a more particular account of him in the Supplement to Swift.]

66 His late majesty's benefaction for modern languages.

67 Boileau.

68 A Poetical Epistle from the late Lord Melcombe to the Earl of Bute, with corrections by the author of the Night Thoughts, was published in 4to, 1776.

69 See Mr. Cust's Life of Young.