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But random praife-the task can ne'er be done:
Each mother asks it for her booby fon.
Each widow afks it for the best of men;
For him the weeps, for him the weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like fatire, to the ground:
The number may be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'fcape my cenfure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend-
What Richelieu wanted, Louis fcarce could gain;
And what young Ammon wifh'd, but with'd in
No pow'r the Mufe's friendship can command;
No pow'r, when virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honeft line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine!
What are you thinking? F.'Faith, the thought's
I think your friends are out, and would be in.
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow.
P. I only call thofe knaves who are fo now.
Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwart is a slave;
And Lyttelton a dark, defigning knave;
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool-
But let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull;
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, befides, a tyrant to his wife.
when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolfey, any odious name?
Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine,
O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy fhrine?
What, fhall each fpur-gall'd hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay;
Or each new-penfion'd fycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend;
Then wifely plead, to me they meant no hurt;
But 'twas my gueft at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure, if I fpare the Minifter, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be faid
His faws are toothless, and his hatchets lead.
P. 'Faith, it imports not much from whom it came;
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To fee a footman kick'd that took his pay:
But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a man of honour, one a knave;
The prudent gen'ral turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest:
Which not at prefent having time to do [you?
F. Hold, fir, for God's fake,where's th' affront to
Against your worship when had S-k writ?
Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit?
the Bard whofe diftich all commend
(In pow'r a fervant, out of pow'r a friend)
To W-le guilty of fome venial fin;
What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in
The Pricft whofe flattery bedropp'd the Crown,
How hurt he you? he only ftain'd the gown.
And how did, pray, the Horid youth offend,
Whofe fpeech you took, and gave it to a friend
Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole Houfe did afterwards the fame.
Let courtly wits to wits afford fupply,
As hog to hog in huts of Weftphaly;
If one thro' nature's bounty, or his lord's,
Has what the frugal dirty foil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mefs almost as it came in ;
The bleffed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind:
From tail to mouth they feed and they caroufe;
The laft full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy fimile, this beaftly line
Quite turns my ftomach-
P. So does flatt'ry mine:
And all your courtly Civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me farther-Japhet, 'tis agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres fcarce could write or read,
In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot
And muft no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Muft never Patriot then declaim at gin,
Unlefs, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous paftor blame a failing spouse,
Without a ftaring reafon on his brows?
And each blafphemer quite efcape the rod,
Because the infult 's not on man, but God?
Afk you what provocation I have had ?
The ftrong antipathy of good to bad.
When truth or virtue an affront endures,
Th'affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.
Mine, as a foe profeft to falfe pretence,
Who think a Coxcomb's honour like his fenfe ;
Mine, as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind;
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You 're ftrangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no flave;
So impudent, I own myfelf no knave;
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud, I must be proud, to fee
Men not afraid of God afraid of me:
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and fham'd by ridicule alone.
O facred weapon! left for truth's defence;
Sole dread of folly, vice, and infolence!
To all but Heaven-directed hands denied,
The Mufe may give thee, but the Gods muft guide;
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honeft zeal;
To route the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the Prelate flumb'ring in his ftall.
Ye tinfel infects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Mufe's wing shall brush you ali away:
All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship fings,
All that makes faints of queens, and gods of kings,
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the prefs,
Like the laft Gazette, or the last addrefs.
When black ambition ftains a public cause, A monarch's fword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's fcar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.
Not fo, when diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's fhrine,
Her pricftefs Mufe forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of Eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than fuch as Anftis cafts into the grave;
Far other stars than and ** wear,
And may defcend to Mornington from Stair
(Such as on Hough's unfullied mitre fhine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine);
Let Envy howl, while heaven's whole chorus fings,
And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;
Let Flatt'ry fick'ning fee the incenfe rife,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the fkics:
Truth guards the Poet, fanétines the line,
And makes immortal, verfe as mean as mine.
§ 22. IMITATIONS OF HORACE. POPE.
EPISTLE VII. +
Imitated in the manner of Dr. Swift.
IS true, my Lord, I gave my word
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to Auguft; and, in fhort,
Have kept it as you do at Court.
You humour me when I am fick,
Why not when I am fplenetic ?
In town, what objects could I meet?
The fhops fhut up in ev'ry ftreet,
And fun'rals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a duft in ev'ry place?
And a thin Court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W and H both in town!
"The dog-days are no more the cafe."
'Tis true, but winter comes apace :
Then fouthward let your bard retire,
Hold out fome months 'twixt fun and fire,
And you fhall fee, the first warm weather,
Me and the butterflies together.
My lord, your favours well I know; 'Tis with diftin&tion you beftow; And not to ev'ry one that comes, Juft as a Scotfman does his plums. "Pray, take them, fir; enough's a feaft: "Eat fome, and pocket up the rest.” What, rob your boys, thofe pretty rogues? "No, fir, you'll leave them to the hogs." Thus fools with compliments befiege ye, Contriving never to oblige ye.'"
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;
And 'tis but juft, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wife man always is or fhould
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a diff'rence in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.
Now this I'll fay; you'll find in me
A fafe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near-
A word, pray, in your Honour's ear.
I hope it is your refolution
To give me back my Conftitution!
The fprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging fmile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a fummer fun,
And kept you up fo oft till one;
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my ftrain.
A weazel once made fhift to flink In at a corn-loft thro' a chink; But, having amply stuff'd his skin, Could not get out as he got in: Which one belonging to the house ('Twas not a man, it was a mouse) Obferving, cried, "You 'fcape not fo; "Lean as you came, fir, you must go.'
Sir, you may fpare your application, I'm no fuch beaft, nor his relation; Nor one that temperance advance, Cramm'd to the throat with Ortolans: Extremely ready to refign
All that may make ine none of mine. South-fea fubfcriptions take who please, Leave me but liberty and cafe. 'Twas what I faid to Craggs and Child, Who prais'd my modefty, and fmil'd. Give me, I cried (enough for me), My bread, and independency! So bought an annual rent or two, And liv'd-just as you fee I do; Near fifty, and without a wife, I trust that finking fund, my life. Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well; Shrink back to my paternal cell, A little houfe, with trees a-row, And, like its mafter, very low. There died my father, no man's debtorAnd there I'll die, nor worfe nor better. To fet this matter full before ye, Our old friend Swift will tell his story: Harley, the nation's great fupport,"But you may read it, I ftop fhort.
Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;
But here a grievance feems to lie, All this is mine but till I die; "I can't but think 't would found more clever "To me, and to my heirs for ever."
If I ne'er got or loft a groat By any trick, or any fault;
• And if I pray by reafon's rules, And not like forty other fools,
As thus: "Vouchfafe, O gracious Maker! "To grant me this and t' other acre; "Or, if it be thy will and pleafure, "Direct my plough to find a treasure;" But only what my ftation fits, • And to be kept in my right wits: Preferve, Almighty Providence ! Juft what you gave me, competence: And let me in thefe thades compofe Something in verfe as true as profe; Remov'd from all th' ambitious fcene, Nor puff'd by pride, nor funk by spleen.' In thort, I'm perfectly content, Let me but live on this fide Trent; Nor cross the Channel twice a year, To spend fix months with statesmen here.
I must by all means come to town, 'Tis for the fervice of the crown. "Lewis, the Dean will be of use; "Send for him up, take no excuse. The toil, the danger of the feas, Great Minifters ne'er think of these ; Or let it coft five hundred pound, No matter where the money 's found; It is but fo much more in debt, And that they ne'er confider'd yet.
"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, "Let my Lord know you 're come to town.' I hurry me in hafte away,
Not thinking it is levee-day;
And find his Honour in a pound,
Hemm'd by a triple circle round,
Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green 3
How should I thruft myself between ?
obferves me thus perplex'd,
And, fmiling, whispers to the next,
"I thought the Dean had been too proud
"To joftle here among a crowd."
Another, in a furly fit,
Tells me I have more zeal than wit:
"So eager to express your love,
"You ne'er confider whom you fhove,
"But rudely prefs before a Duke."
I own I'm pleas'd with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant to fhew
What I defire the world thould know,
I get a whifper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never faw Come with petitions fairly penn'd, Defiring I would ftand their friend.
This humbly offers me his cafe, That begs my int'reft for a place: A hundred other men's affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears.
"To-morrow my appeal comes on ;
"Without your help the caufe is gone-"
The Duke expects my Lord and you,
About fome great affairs, at two-
"Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,
"To get my warrant quickly fign'd:
"Confider, 'tis my first request.'
Be fatisfied, I'll do my beft:
Then prefently he falls to teafe,
"You may for certain, if you please;
"I doubt not, if his Lordship knew-
"And, Mr. Dean, one word from you-"
'Tis (let me fee) three years and more
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me firft attend,
And chofe me for a humble friend;
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And queftion me of this and that;
As, What's o'clock?' and, How's the wind?"
Whofe chariot's that we left behind?'
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country figns;
Or, Have you nothing new to-day
From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?*
Such tattle often entertains
My Lord and me as far as Stains; As once a week we travel down To Windfor, and again to Town, Where all that paffes inter nos Might be proclaim'd at Charing-Crofs. Yet fome I know with envy fwell, Because they fee me us'd fo well: "How think you of our friend the Dean? "I wonder what fome people mean; "My Lord and he are grown fo great, "Always together tête-à-tête ; "What, they admire him for his jokes"See but the fortune of fome folks !" There flies about a strange report Of fome exprefs arriv'd at Court: I'm ftopp'd by all the fools I meet, And catechis'd in ev'ry street. "You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great; "Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat? "Or do the prints and papers lie?" 'Faith, Sir, you know as much as I. "Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! "'Tis now no fecret"-I proteft 'Tis one to me-" Then tell us, pray, "When are the troops to have their pay?" And, tho' I folemnly declare
I know no more than my Lord Mayor, They ftand amaz'd, and think me grown The clofeft mortal ever known.
My friends above, my folks below,
Chatting and laughing all a-row,
The beans and bacon fet before 'em,
The grace-cup ferv'd with all decorum:
Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And even the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian fings,
A neighbour's madnefs, or his fpoufe's,
Or what's in either of the houses:
But fomething much more our concern,
And quite a fcandal not to learn:
Which is the happier, or the wifer,
A man of merit, or a mifer?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what, the very best of all?
Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremely à propos :
Name a town life, and in a trice
He had a story of two mice.
Once on a time, fo runs the fable,
A country mouse, right hofpitable,
Receiv'd a town moufe at his board,
Juft as a farmer might a lord.
A frugal moufe upon the whole,
Yet lov'd his friend, and had a foul:
Knew what was handsome, and would do 't,
On juft occafion, coute qui coute.
He brought him bacon (nothing lean),
Pudding that might have pleas'd a dean;
Cheese, fuch as men in Suffolk make,
But wifh'd it Stilton for his fake;
Yet, to his guest tho' no way fparing,'
He ate himself the rind and paring.
Our courtier fcarce would touch a bit,
But fhew'd his breeding and his wit;
He did his best to feem to eat,
And cried: "I vow you 're mighty neat. "But, Lord! my friend, this favage fcene! "For God's fake, come and live with men : "Confider, mice like men must die, "Both small and great, both you and I: "Then spend your life in joy and fport. "This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court."
The verieft hermit in the nation
May yield, God knows, to ftrong temptation.
Away they come, thro' thick and thin,
To a tall houfe near Lincoln's-Inn:
'Twas on the night of a debate,
When all their lordships had fat late.
Behold the place where, if a poet Shin'd in defcription, he might fhew it; Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls, And tips with filver all the walls; Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotefco roofs, and ftucco floors: But let it, in a word, be faid, The moon was up, and men a-bed, The napkins white, the carpet red: The guests withdrawn had left the treat, And down the mice fat, téte-à-tête,
Our courtier walks from dish to dish, Taftes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law, "Que ça eft bon! Ab, goutez ça! "That jelly 's rich, this malmsey healing; "Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in." Was ever fuch a happy fwain? He stuffs and swills; and stuffs again. "I'm quite afham'd-'tis mighty rude "To eat fo much—but all's fo good I "I have a thousand thanks to give"My Lord alone knows how to live." No fooner faid, but from the hall Rufh chaplain, butler, dogs and all : "A rat! a rat! clap-to the door."The cat comes bouncing on the floor! O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods, to fave them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd ftucco has no chink.) "An't please your Honour," quoth the peasant, "This fame defert is not fo pleasant : "Give me again my hollow tree, "A cruft of bread, and liberty !”
ODE I. BOOK IV.
AGAIN? new tumults in my breast?
Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me reft!
I am not now, alas! the man
As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne.
Ah found no more thy foft alarms,
Nor circle fober fifty with thy charms!
Mother too fierce of dear defires!
Turn, turn, to willing hearts your wanton fires,
To number five direct your doves,
There fpread round Murray all your blooming
Noble and young, who ftrikes the heart
With ev'ry fprightly, ev'ry decent, part;
Equal, the injur'd to defend,
To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend.
He, with a hundred arts refin'd,
Shall ftretch thy conquefts over half the kind:
To him each rival thall fubmit,
Make but his riches equal to his wit.
Then shall thy form the marble grace
(Thy Grecian form), and Chloe lend the face:
His houfe embofom'd in the grove,
Sacred to focial life and focial love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendant green, Where Thames reflects the vifionary scene: Thither the filver-founding lyres Shall call the fmiling loves and young defires: There ev'ry grace and muse thall throng, Exalt the dance, or animate the fong;
There youths and nymphs, in concert gay, Shall hail the rifing, close the parting day.
With me, alas! those joys are o'er; For me the vernal garlands bloom no more. Adieu, fond hope of mutual fire! The still-believing, ftill-renew'd defire ; Adieu, the heart-expanding bowl! And all the kind deceivers of the foull
Whether this portion of the world were rent
By the rude ocean from the continent,
Or thus created; it was fure defign'd
To be the facred refuge of mankind.
Hither th' oppreffed fhall henceforth refort,
Juftice to crave, and fuccour, at your court;
And then your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the world's Protector fhall be known.
Fame, fwifter than your winged navy, flies
Through ev'ry land that near the ocean lies;
Sounding your name, and telling dreadful news
To all that piracy and rapine ufe.
Part of the Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book.
LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which founds the filver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly,
Above the reach of vulgar fong
Tho' daring Milton fits fublime,
In Spenfer native mufes play;
Nor yet fhall Waller yield to time,
Nor penfive Cowley's moral lay. Sages and chiefs long fince had birth,
Ere Cæfar was, or Newton nam'd;
Thefe rais'd new empires o'er the earth,
And thole new heavens and systems fram'd.
Vain was the chief's, the fage's pride!
They had no poet, and they died;
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled!
They had no poet, and are dead.
23. A Panegyric to my Lord Protector, of the prefent Greatness, and joint Intereft, of bis Highness and this Nation. Waller. WHI
HILE with a ftrong, and yet a gentle hand,
You bridle faction, and our hearts command;
Protect us from ourfelves, and from the foe;
Make us unite, and make us conquer too :
Let partial fpirits ftill aloud complain,
Think themfelves injur'd that they cannot reign;
And own no liberty, but where they may
Without controul upon their fellows prey.
Above the waves as Neptune fhew'd his face
To chide the winds, and fave the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, rais'd above the reft,
Storms of ambition, toffing us, reprefs'd.
Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Reftor'd by you, is made a glorious state;
The feat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.
The fea's our own; and now all nations greet,
With bending fails, each veffel of our fleet:
Your pow'r extends as far as winds can blow,
Or fwelling fails upon the globe may go.
Heaven (that hath plac'd this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her ftates to awe)
In this conjunction doth on Britain smile;
The greatest Leader, and the greatest Ifle!
With fuch a Chief the meaneft nation bleft,
Might hope to lift her head above the reft;
What may be thought impoffible to do
By us, embraced by the Sea and You!
Lords of the world's great wafte, the ocean, we
Whole forefts fend to reign upon the fea;
And ev'ry coaft may trouble or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.
Angels and we have this prerogative,
That none can at our happy feats arrive;
While we defcend at pleafure to invade
The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.
Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundlefs ocean fet,
Of her own growth hath all that nature craves;
And all that's rare, as tribute from the waves.
As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;
So what our earth, and what our heaven, denies,
Our ever-conftant friend, the fea, fupplies,
The tafte of hot Arabia's fpice we know,
Free from the fcorching fun that makes it grow
Without the worm, in Perfian filks we fhine
And, without planting, drink of ev'ry vine.
To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs ;
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither fwims:
Ours is the harveft where the Indians mow;
We plough the deep, and reap what others fow.
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds:
Things of the noblest kind our own foil breeds;
Rome, tho' her eagle thro' the world had flown,
Could never make this ifland all her own.
Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too,
France-conqu'ring Henry, flourish'd; and now You;
For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.
When for more worlds the Macedonian cried,
He wift not Theris in her lap did hide
Another yet; a world referv'd for you
To make more great than that he did fubdue.
He fafely might old troops to battle lead,
Against th' unwarlike Perfian and the Mede;
Whofe hafty flight did, from a bloodlefs field,
More fpoils than honour to the victor yield.
A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your fame,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.