Page images
PDF
EPUB

1

Go on, obliging creatures! make me fee
All that disgrac'd my betters met in me.
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head:"
And when I die, be fure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what fin to me unknown
Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came:
I left no calling for this idle trade,

120

125

No duty broke, no father disobey'd :
The Muse but ferv'd to ease fome friend, not wife,
To help me thro' this long disease, my life,

130

To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,

And teach the being you preferv'd to bear.

140

But why then publish? Granville, the polite, 135
And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praife,
And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd, my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read,
E'en mitred Rochester would nod the head,
And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends before)
With open arms receiv'd one poet more.
Happy my ftudies, when by these approv'd!
Happier their Author, when by these belov'd!
From thefe the world will judge of men and books;
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. 146

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence,

While pure description held the place of fenfe?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat ftill :
Yet then did. Dennis rave in furious fret;
I never anfwer'd; I was not in debt.

150

If want provok'd, or madness made them print, 155
I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did fome more sober critic come abroad;
If wrong'd, I smil'd; if right, I kiss the rod.

Pains,

160

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.
Commas and points they set exactly right,
And 'twere a fin to rob them of their mite;
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribbalds,
From flashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds:
Each wight who reads not, and but scans and spells,
Each word-catcher, that lives on fyllables,
E'en fuch small critics fome regard may claim,
Preferv'd in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

166

Of hair, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! 170
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,

But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry; I excus'd them too;
Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find,
But each man's fecret standard in his mind.
That cafting weight pride adds to emptiness,
This who can gratify? for who can guess ?
The bard whom pilfer'd paftorals renown,
Who turns a Perfian tale for half-a-crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year;

175

180

He who still wanting, tho he lives on theft,

Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left;
And he who now to sense, now nonsense, leaning, 185
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning;
And he whose fustain's so fublimely bad,

It is not poetry, but profe run mad:
All these my modest Satire bade translate,
And own'd that nine fuch poets made a Tate.
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!
And swear not Addison himself was safe.

Peace to all fuch! But were there one whose fires

True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires,
Bless'd with each talent, and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease;
Should fuch a man, too fond to rule alone,

190

195

Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne;
VOL. II.

D

View

1

View him with scornful yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rife;
Damn with faint praise, affent with civil leer,
And without sneering teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike;
Just hint a fault, and hefitate dislike;
Alike referv'd to blame, or to commend;
A tim'rous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading e'en fools; by flatterers befieg'd,
And fo obliging that he ne'er oblig'd;
Like Cato give his little fenate laws,
And fit attentive to his own applause;
While wits and Templars ev'ry sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praife-
Who but must laugh if such a man there be!
Who would not weep if Atticus were he!

200

205

210

215

What tho' my name stood rubric on the walls Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or fmoaking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I fought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their fight: Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday fong; I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days,

220

To spread about the itch of verse and praise;

Nor like a puppy daggled thro' the Town
To fetch and carry fing-fong up and down;
Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd,
With handkerchief and orange at my fide;
But, fick of fops, and poetry, and prate,
To Bufo left the whole Castalian state.

225

230

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill
Sat full-blown Bufo, puff'd by ev'ry quill;
Fed with foft dedication all day long,
Horace and he went hand in hand in fong.
His library (where busts of poets dead
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race,
Who first his judgment afk'd, and then a place:

235

Much

240

Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his feat,
And flatter'd ev'ry day, and fome days ate;
Till grown more frugal in his riper days,
He paid fome bards with port, and fome with praise;
To fome a dry rehearsal was affign'd,
And others (harder still) he paid in kind.
Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh;

Dryden alone escap'd this judging eye:
But still the great have kindness in referve,
He help'd to bury whom he help to starve.

245

May some choice patron bless each gray-goose quill!

May ev'ry Bavius have his Bufo still!

250

So when a statesman want's a day's defence,
Or Envy holds a whole week's war with Sense,
Or fimple Pride for flatt'ry makes demands,
May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!
Bless'd be the great! for these they take away,
And those they left me for they left me Gay;
Left me to fee neglected genius bloom,

255

Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb:

Of all thy blameless life the sole return
My verse, and Queenfb'ry weeping o'er thy urn! 260

O! let me live my own, and die so too!

(To live and die is all I have to do ;)

Maintain a poet's dignity and ease,

And fee what friends, and read what books, I please;

Above a patron, tho' I condescend

Sometimes to call a minifter my friend.

I was not born for courts or great affairs;
I pay my debts, believe, and fay my pray'rs;

Can fleep without a poem in my head,

Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I ask'd what next shall fee the light?

Heav'ns! was I born for nothing but to write ?
Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave)

265

270

274

Have I no friend to ferve, no foul to save? " I found him close with Swift"--"Indeed? no doubt

(Cries prating Balbus) fomething will come out."

'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will;

"No, such a genius never can lie still;"

And then for mine obligingly mistakes,
The first lampoon Sir Will. or Bubo makes.
Poor guiltlefs I! and can I chuse but fmile,
When ev'ry coxcomb knows me by my Style?
Curft be the verte, how well fo'er it flow,
That tends to make one worthy man my foe,
Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,
Or from the foft-ey'd virgin steal a tear!
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace,
Infults fall'n worth, or beauty in distress,
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;.
That fop whose pride affects a patron's name,
Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame;
Who can your merit selfishly approve,
And show the sense of it without the love;
Who has the vanity to call you Friend,
Yet wants the honour, injur'd, to defend;
Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say,

280

285

290

295

And if he lie not, must at least betray;

Who to the Dean and filver bell can swear,

And fees at Canons what was never there;
Who reads but with a lust to mitapply,
Makes satire a lampoon, and fiction lie;
A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
But all fuch babbling blockheads in his stead.

300

Let Sporus tremble-A. What? that thing of filk,

Sporus! that mere white curd of affes' milk?
Satire or fense, alas! can Sporus feel!

306

Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; 310

Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,

Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:

So well-bred spanieis civilly delight

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,

315

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.

Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And as the prompter breathes the puppet squeaks,

Or

« PreviousContinue »