Not but there are, who merit other palms ;
Hopkins and Sternhold * glad the heart with Pfalms : 230
The boys and girls whom charity maintains,
Implore your help in these pathetic ftrains :
How could devotion touch the country pews,
Unless the gods beftow'd a proper Muse?
Verfe chears their leifure, verfe affifts their work, 235
Verfe prays for peace, or fings down Pope and Turk.
The filenc'd preacher yields to potent strain,
And feels that grace his pray'r befought in vain;
The bleffing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng,
And heav'n is won by violence of fong.
Our rural ancestors, with little bleft,
Patient of labour when the end was reft,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain,
With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful ftrain :
The joy their wives, their fons, and fervants fhare, 245
Eafe of their toil, and partners of their care:
The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl,
Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and open'd ev'ry foul :
With growing years the pleasing licence grew,
And taunts alternate innocently flew.
But times corrupt, and nature ill-inclin'd,
Produc'd the point that left a fting behind;
Till friend with friend, and families at ftrife,
Triumphant malice rág'd thro' private life.
Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm,
Appeal'd to law, and justice lent her arm.
At length, by wholesome dread of ftatutes bound,
The poets learn'd to please, and not to wound:
Moft warp'd to flatt'ry's fide; but fome, more nice,
Preferv'd the freedom, and forbore the vice.
Hence fatire rofe, that just the medium hit,
And heals with morals what it hurts with wit.
One of the verfifiers of the old finging pfalms. He was a courtier, and groom of the robes to Henry VIII. and of the bedchamber to Edward VI. Fuller, in his Church History, fays he was esteemed an excellent poct.
We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's charms;
Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
Britain to foft refinements lefs a foe,
Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow.
Waller was fmooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verfe, the full-refounding line,
The long majeftic march, and energy divine.
Tho' ftill fome traces of our ruftic vein
And splay foot verfe remain'd, and will remain.
Late, very late, correctness grew our care,
When the tir'd nation breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire,
Show'd us that France had fomething to admire.
Not but the tragic fpirit was our own,'
And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway fhone:
But Otway fail'd'to polish or refine,
And fluent Shakespeare scarce effac'd a line.
Ev'n copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laft and greatest art, the art to blot.
Some doubt, if equal pains, or equal fire
The humbler Mufe of comedy require.
But in known images of life, I guess
The labour greater, as th' indulgence less.
Obferve how feldom ev'n the best fucceed:
Tell me if Congreve's fools are fools indeed?
What pert low dialogue has Farqu'ar writ!
How Van wants grace, who never wanted wit!
The stage how loosely does Aftræa + tread,
Who fairly puts all characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinky eat with vaft applause!
But fill their purfe, our poets work is done,
Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun.
* Mr. Waller, about this time, with the earl of Dorfet, Mr. Godolphin, and others, translated the Pompey of Corneille; and the more corre& French poets began to be in reputation.
A name taken by Mrs. Behn, authorcss of several obscene plays, &c.
O you!
::Ọ you! whom Vanity's light bark conveys
On Fame's mad voyage by the wind of praise,
With what a shifting gale your courfe you ply,
For ever funk too low, or borne too high!
Who pants for glory finds but short repose,
A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows.
Farewell the ftage! if just as thrives the play,
The filly bard grows fat, or falls away.
There ftill remains, to mortify a wit,
The many-headed monster of the pit :
A fenfelefs, worthlefs, and unhonour'd croud ;
Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud,
Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are spoke,
Call for the farce, the bear, or the Black-joke.
What dear delight to Britons farce affords !
Ever the taste of mobs, but now of lords;
(Tafte, that eternal wanderer, which flies
From heads to ears, and now from ears to eyes)
The play ftands ftill; damn action and discourse,
Back fly the scenes, and enter foot and horse;
Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn,
Peers, heralds, bishops, ermin, gold and lawn;
The champion too! and, to complete the jeft,
Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breast *.
With laughter fure Democritus had dy'd,
Had he beheld an audience gape fo wide.
Let bear or elephant be e'er fo white,
The people, fure, the people are the fight !
Ah luckless poet! ftretch thy lungs and roar,
That bear or elephant fhall heed thee more;
While all its throats the gallery extends,
And all the thunder of the pit ascends!
Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' ftormy steept,
Howl to the roarings of the Northern deep.
* The coronation of Henry VIII. and queen Anne Boleyn, in which the playhouses vied with each other to represent all the pomp of a coronation. In this noble contention, the armour of one of the kings of England was borrowed from the Tower, to dress the champion.
The fartheft Northern Promontory of Scotland, oppofite the Orcades.
Such is the fhout, the long-applauding note,
At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat;
Or when from court a birth-day fuit bestow'd,
Sinks the loft actor in the tawdry load.
Booth enters-hark! the universal peal!
But has he spoken ?" Not a fyllable.
What fhook the ftage, and made the people ftare ?
Cato's long wig, flower'd gown, and lacquer'd chair.
Yet left you think I rally more than teach,
Or praise malignly arts I cannot reach,
Let me for once, prefume t' inftruct the times,
To know the poet from the man of rhymes
'Tis he who gives my breast a thousand pains,
Can make me feel each paffion that he feigns;
Iarage, compofe, with more than magic art,
With pity, and with terror, tear my heart,
And fnatch me, o'er the earth, or thro' the air,
To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where.
But not this part of the poetic ftate
Alone, deferves the favour of the great;
Think of those authors, Sir, who would rely
More on a reader's fenfe, than gazer's eye.
Or who fhall wander where the Mufes fing?
Who climb their mountain, or who taste their spring? How fhall we fill a library * with wit,
When Merlin's cave + is half unfurnish'd yet?
My liege! why writers little claim your thought, I guess; and, with their leave, will tell the fault : We poets are (upon a poet's word)
Of all mankind, the creatures most abfurd:
The season, when to come, and when to go,
To fing, or cease to fing, we never know;
And if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lose your patience, juft like other men,
The Palatine Library then building by Auguftus.
A building in the Royal Gardens of Richmond, where is a small, but
choice collection of books.
Then too we hurt ourfelves when to defend
A fingle verfe, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unafk'd; lament, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.
But moft, when straining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write epiftles to the king;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a place, or penfion from the crown;
Or dubb'd hiftorians by exprefs command,
T'enroll your triumphs o'er the feas and land,
Be call'd to court to plan fome work divine,
As once for Louis, Boileau and Racine,
Yet think, great Sir! (fo many virtues fhown)
Ah think, what poet beft may make them known?
Or chufe at leaft fome minifter of grace,
Fit to bestow the laureat's weighty place.
Affign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
Charles, to late times to be tranfmitted fair,
And great Naffau to Kneller's hand decreed
To fix him graceful on the bounding fteed;
So well in paint and stone they judg'd of merit :
But kings in wit may want difcerning spirit.
The hero William, and the martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one penfion'd Quarles; Which made old Ben, and furly Dennis fwear, "No lord's anointed, but a Ruffian bear." Not with fuch majefty, fuch bold relief, The forms auguft, of king, or conqu'ring chief, E'er fwell'd on marble; as in verfe have fhin'd (In polifh'd verfe) the manners and the mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
Your arms, your actions, your repose to fing!
What feas you travers'd, and what fields you fought!
Your country's peace, how oft, how dearly bought!
How barb'rous rage fubfided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the sword!
How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep,
Peace ftole her wing, and wrapt the world in fleep;
|