Chapter IX: Part III: Burials (2)

Lo! all in Silence, all in Order stand,
And mighty Folio’s first, a lordly Band;
Then Quarto’s their well-order’d Ranks maintain,
And light Octavo’s fill a spacious Plain;
See yonder, rang’d in more frequented Rows,
An humbler Band of Duodecimo’s;
While undistinguish’d Trifles swell the Scene,
The last new Play and fritter’d Magazine:
Thus ’tis in Life, where first the Proud, the Great,
In leagu’d Assembly keep their cumbrous State;
Heavy and huge, they fill the World with dread,
Are much admir’d and are but little read:
The Commons next, a middle Rank are found;
Professions fruitful pour their Offspring round;
Reasoners and Wits are next their Place allow’d,
And last, of vulgar Tribes, a countless Crowd.
First let us view the Form, the Size, the Dress;
For, these the Manners, nay the Mind express;
That Weight of Wood, with leathern Coat o’erlaid,
Those ample Clasps, of solid Metal made;
The close-prest Leaves, unclos’d for many an Age,
The dull red Edging of the well-fill’d Page;
On the broad Back the stubborn Ridges roll’d,
Where yet the Title stands in tarnish’d Gold:
These all a sage and labour’d Work proclaim,
A painful Candidate for lasting Fame:
No idle Wit, no trifling Verse can lurk,
In the deep Bosom of that weighty Work;
No playful Thoughts degrade the solemn Style,
Nor one light Sentence claims a transient Smile.
Hence, in these Times, untouch’d the Pages lie,
And slumber out their Immortality;
They _had_ their Day, when, after all his Toil,
His Morning Study, and his Midnight Oil,
At length an Author’s ONE great Work appear’d,
By patient Hope and Length of Days, endear’d;
Expecting Nations hail’d it from the Press,
Poëtic Friends prefix’d each kind Address;
Princes and Kings receiv’d the pond’rous Gift,
And Ladies read the Work, they could not lift.
Fashion, though Folly’s Child, and Guide of Fools,
Rules e’en the Wisest, and in Learning rules;
From Crowds and Courts to Wisdom’s Seat she goes,
And reigns triumphant o’er her Mother’s Foes.
For lo! these Fav’rites of the ancient Mode
Lie all neglected like the _Birth-day Ode_;
Ah! needless now this weight of massy Chain[11];
Safe in themselves, the once-lov’d Works remain;
No Readers now invade their still Retreat,
None try to steal them from their Parent-seat;
Like antient Beauties, they may now discard
Chains, Bolts, and Locks, and lie without a Guard.
Our patient Fathers, trifling Themes laid by,
And roll’d, o’er labour’d Works, th’ attentive Eye;
Page after Page, the much-enduring Men
Explor’d, the Deeps and Shallows of the Pen;
Till, every former Note and Comment known,
They mark’d the spacious Margin with their own:
Minute Corrections prov’d their studious Care;
The little Index pointing, told us where;
And many an Emendation show’d, the Age
Look’d far beyond the Rubric Title-page.
Our nicer Palates lighter Labours seek,
Cloy’d with a Folio-_Number_ once a Week;
Bibles with Cuts and Comments, thus go down;
Ev’n light Voltaire is _Number’d_ through the Town:
Thus Physic flies abroad and thus the Law,
From men of Study and from men of Straw;
Abstracts, Abridgements, please the fickle Times,
Pamphlets and Plays and Politics and Rhymes:
But though, to write be now a Task of Ease,
The Task is hard by manly Arts to please;
When all our Weakness is expos’d to view,
And half our Judges are our Rivals too.

Amid these Works, on which the eager Eye
Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by;
When all combin’d, their decent Pomp display,
Where shall we first our early Off’ring pay?

To thee, DIVINITY! to thee, the Light
And Guide of Mortals, through their mental Night;
By whom we learn, our Hopes and Fears to guide,
To bear with Pain and to contend with Pride;
When griev’d, to pray; when injur’d, to forgive;
And with the World in Charity to live.
Not Truths like these, inspir’d that numerous Race,
Whose pious Labours fill this ample Space;
But Questions nice, where Doubt on Doubt arose,
Awak’d to War the long-contending Foes.
For dubious Meanings, learn’d Polemics strove,
And Wars on Faith prevented Works of Love;
The Brands of Discord far around were hurl’d,
And holy Wrath inflam’d a sinful World.--
Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,
With Wit disgusting and despis’d without;
Saints in Design, in Execution, Men,
Peace in their Looks and Vengeance in their Pen.

Methinks I see, and sicken at the Sight,
Spirits of Spleen from yonder Pile alight;
Spirits who prompted every damning Page,
With Pontiff Pride and still-increasing Rage:
Lo! how they stretch their gloomy Wings around,
And lash with furious strokes the trembling Ground!
They prey, they fight, they murder, and they weep,
Wolves in their Vengeance, in their Manners Sheep.
Too well they act the Prophet’s fatal Part,
Denouncing Evil with a zealous Heart;
And each, like Jonas, is displeas’d if God
Repent His Anger, or withhold His Rod.
But here, the dormant Fury rests unsought,
And Zeal sleeps soundly by the Foes she fought;
Here all the Rage of Controversy ends,
And rival Zealots rest like Bosom-Friends;
An Athanasian here in deep repose,
Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian Foes;
Socinians here with Calvinists abide,
And thin Partitions angry Chiefs divide;
Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,
And _Bellarmine_ has rest at _Luther_’s feet.
Great Authors for the Church’s glory fir’d,
Are for the Church’s peace, to rest retir’d;
And close beside, a mystic, maudlin Race,
Lie, “Crumbs of Comfort, for the Babes of Grace.”
Against her Foes, Religion well defends
Her sacred Truths, but often fears her Friends;
If learn’d, their Pride, if weak, their Zeal she dreads,
And their Hearts’ weakness, who have soundest Heads;
But most she fears the controversial Pen,
The holy Strife of disputatious Men;
Who the blest Gospel’s peaceful Page explore,
Only to fight against its Precepts more.
Near to these Seats, behold yon slender Frames,
All closely fill’d and mark’d with modern Names;
Where no fair Science ever shews her Face,
Few sparks of Genius and no spark of Grace;
There Sceptics rest, a still-increasing Throng,
And stretch their widening Wings ten-thousand strong;
Some in close fight their dubious Claims maintain;
Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again;
Coldly profane and impiously gay,
Their End the same, though various in their Way.
When first Religion came to bless the Land,
Her Friends were then a firm believing Band;
To doubt was, then, to plunge in Guilt extreme,
And all was Gospel that a Monk could dream;
Insulted Reason fled the grov’ling Soul,
For Fear to guide and Visions to controul:
But now, when Reason has assum’d her Throne,
She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;
Rejecting all that lies beyond her View,
And, being Judge, will be a Witness too;
Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful Mind,
To seek for Truth, without a power to find:
Ah! when will both in friendly Beams unite,
And pour on erring Man resistless Light?

Next to the Seats, well stor’d with Works Divine,
An ample Space, PHILOSOPHY!, is thine;
Our Reason’s Guide, by whose assisting Light,
We trace the moral Bounds of Wrong and Right;
Our Guide through Nature, from the sterile Clay,
To the bright Orbs of yon Celestial Way!
’Tis thine, the great, the golden Chain to trace,
Which runs through all, connecting Race with Race;
Save where those puzzling, stubborn Links remain,
Which thy inferior Light pursues in vain:--
How Vice and Virtue in the Soul contend;
How widely differ, yet how nearly blend!
What various Passions war on either part,
And now confirm, now melt the yielding Heart;
How Fancy loves around the World to stray,
While Judgment slowly picks his sober way;
The Stores of Memory and the Flights sublime
Of Genius, bound by neither Space nor Time;--
All these, divine Philosophy explores,
Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores.
From these descending to the Earth she turns,
And Matter, in its various Form, discerns;
She parts the beamy Light with skill profound,
Metes the thin Air and weighs the flying Sound;
’Tis her’s, the Lightning from the Clouds to call,
And teach the fiery Mischief where to fall.
Yet more her Volumes teach,--on these we look
As Abstracts drawn from Nature’s larger Book:
Here first describ’d, the torpid Earth appears,
And next, the Vegetable-robe it wears;
Where flow’ry Tribes, in Valleys, Fields and Groves,
Nurse the still Flame, and feed the silent Loves;
Loves, where no Grief, nor Joy, nor Bliss, nor Pain,
Warm the glad Heart or vex the labouring Brain;
But as the green Blood moves along the Blade,
The Bed of Flora on the Branch is made;
Where without Passion, Love instinctive lives,
And gives new Life, unconscious that it gives.
Advancing still in Nature’s maze, we trace,
In Dens and burning Plains, her Savage-race;
With those Tame-tribes who on their Lord attend,
And find, in Man, a Master and a Friend:
Man crowns the Scene, a World of Wonders new,
A Moral World, that well demands our view,
This World is here; for, of more lofty kind,
These neighbouring Volumes reason on the Mind;
They paint the State of Man ere yet endu’d
With Knowledge;--Man, poor, ignorant, and rude;
Then, as his State improves, their Pages swell,
And all its Cares and all its Comforts, tell:
Here we behold how Inexperience buys,
At little price, the Wisdom of the Wise;
Without the Troubles of an active State,
Without the Cares and Dangers of the Great,
Without the Miseries of the Poor, we know
What Wisdom, Wealth, and Poverty bestow;
We see how Reason calms the raging Mind,
And how contending Passions urge Mankind:
Some, won by Virtue, glow with sacred fire;
Some, lur’d by Vice, indulge the low desire;
Whilst others, won by either, now pursue
The guilty Chace, now keep the good in view;
For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,
They lead a puzzled, vext, uncertain Life;
For, transient Vice bequeaths a lingering Pain,
Which transient Virtue seeks to cure in vain.

Whilst thus engag’d, high Views enlarge the Soul,
New Interests draw, new Principles controul;
Nor thus the Soul alone resigns her Grief,
But here the tortur’d Body finds Relief;
For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes
Her subtile Gin, that not a Fly escapes!
There PHYSIC fills the Space, and far around,
Pile above pile, her learned Works abound;
Glorious their Aim--to ease the labouring Heart,
To war with Death and stop his flying Dart;
To trace the Source whence the fierce Contest grew,
And Life’s short Lease on easier Terms renew;
To calm the Frenzy of the burning Brain,
To heal the Tortures of imploring Pain,
Or, when more powerful Ills all Efforts brave,}
To ease the Victim no Device can save, }
And smooth the stormy Passage to the Grave. }
But Man, who knows no Good unmix’d and pure,
Oft finds a Poison where he sought a Cure:
For, grave Deceivers lodge their Labours here,
And cloud the Science they pretend to clear:
Scourges for Sin, the solemn Tribe are sent;
Like Fire and Storms, they call us to repent:
But Storms subside, and Fires forget to rage:
_These_ are eternal Scourges of the Age:
’Tis not enough that each terrific Hand
Spreads Desolation round a guilty Land;
But, train’d to ill, and harden’d by its Crimes,
Their Pen relentless kills through future Times.
Say ye, who search these Records of the Dead,
Who read huge Works, to boast what ye have read;
Can all the real Knowledge ye possess,
Or those (if such there are), who more than guess,
Atone for each Impostor’s wild Mistakes,
And mend the Blunders Pride or Folly makes?
What Thought so wild, what airy Dream so light,
That will not prompt a Theorist to write?
What Art so prevalent, what Proof so strong,
That will convince him his Attempt is wrong?
One in the Solids finds each lurking Ill,
Nor grants the passive Fluids power to kill;
A learned Friend some subtler Reason brings,
Absolves the Channels, but condemns their Springs;
The subtile Nerves, that shun the Doctor’s Eye,
Escape no more his subtler Theory;
The vital Heat, that warms the labouring Heart,
Lends a fair System to these Sons of Art;
The vital Air, a pure and subtle Stream, }
Serves a Foundation for an airy Scheme, }
Assists the Doctor, and supports his Dream.}
Some have their favourite Ills, and each Disease
Is but a younger Branch that kills from these:
One to the Gout contracts all human Pain,
He views it raging in the frantic Brain;
Finds it in Fevers all his efforts mar,
And sees it lurking in the cold Catarrh:
Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,
Rage the fantastic Dæmons of the Spleen;
And every Symptom of the strange Disease
With every System of the Sage agrees.
Ye frigid Tribe, on whom I wasted long
The tedious Hours and ne’er indulg’d in Song;
Ye first Seducers of my easy Heart,
Who promis’d Knowledge, ye could not impart;
Ye dull Deluders, Truth’s destructive Foes;
Ye Sons of Fiction, clad in stupid Prose;
Ye treacherous Leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,
Light up false Fires and send us far about;--
Still may yon Spider round your Pages spin,
Subtle and slow, her emblematic Gin!
Buried in Dust and lost in Silence, dwell,
Most potent, grave, and reverend Friends--Farewell!

Near these, and where the setting Sun displays,
Through the dim Window, his departing Rays,
And gilds yon Columns, there on either side,
The huge Abridgements of the LAW abide;
Fruitful as Vice the dread Correctors stand,
And spread their guardian Terrors round the Land;
Yet, as the best that human Care can do,
Is mixt with Error, oft with Evil too;
Skill’d in Deceit, and practis’d to evade,
Knaves stand secure, for whom these Laws were made:
And Justice vainly each expedient tries,
While Art eludes it, or while Power defies.
“Ah! happy Age,” the youthful Poet sings,
“When the free Nations knew not Laws nor Kings;
When all were blest to share a common Store,
And none were proud of Wealth, for none were poor;
No Wars, nor Tumults vex’d each still Domain,
No thirst of Empire, no desire of Gain;
No proud Great Man, nor one who would be great,
Drove modest Merit from its proper State;
Nor into distant Climes would Avarice roam,
To fetch Delights for Luxury at Home.
Bound by no ties which kept the Soul in awe,
They dwelt at liberty, and Love was Law!”
“Mistaken Youth! each Nation first was rude,
Each Man a cheerless Son of Solitude,
To whom no Joys of Social life were known,
None felt a Care that was not all his own;
Or in some languid Clime his abject Soul
Bow’d to a little Tyrant’s stern controul;
A Slave, with Slaves his Monarch’s Throne he rais’d,
And in rude Song his ruder Idol prais’d;
The meaner Cares of Life were all he knew,
Bounded his Pleasures, and his Wishes few:
But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,
And Science waken’d from her long Repose;
When Commerce, rising from the Red of Ease,
Ran round the Land and pointed to the Seas;
When Emulation, born with jealous Eye,
And Avarice, lent their Spurs to industry;
Then one by one the numerous Laws were made,
Those to controul, and these to succour Trade;
To curb the Insolence of rude Command,
To snatch the Victim from the Usurer’s hand;
To awe the Bold, to yield the Wrong’d redress,
And feed the Poor with Luxury’s excess.”
Like some vast Flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,
His Nature leads ungovern’d Man along;
Like mighty Bulwarks made to stem that Tide,
The Laws are form’d and plac’d on ev’ry side;
Whene’er it breaks the Bounds by these decreed,
New Statutes rise, and stronger Laws succeed;
More and more gentle grows the dying Stream,
More and more strong the rising Bulwarks seem;
Till, like a Miner working sure and slow,
Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;
The Basis sinks, the ample Piles decay,
The stately Fabric shakes and falls away;
Primæval Want and Ignorance come on,
But Freedom, that exalts the Savage State, is gone.

Next, HISTORY ranks;--there full in front she lies,
And every Nation her dread Tale supplies;
Yet History has her Doubts, and every Age
With sceptic Queries marks the passing Page;
Records of old nor later Date are clear,
Too distant those and these are plac’d too near;
There Time conceals the Objects from our view,
Here our own Passions and a Writer’s too:
Yet in these Volumes see how States arose!
Guarded by Virtue from surrounding Foes;
Their Virtue lost, and of their Triumphs vain,
Lo! how they sunk to Slavery again!
Satiate with Power, of Fame and Wealth possest,
A Nation grows too glorious to be blest;
Conspicuous made, she stands the Mark of all,
And Foes join Foes to triumph in her Fall.
Thus speaks the Page that paints Ambition’s Race,
The Monarch’s Pride, his Glory, his Disgrace;
The headlong Course, that madd’ning Heroes run,
How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;
How Slaves, turn’d Tyrants, offer Crowns to sale,
And each fall’n Nation’s melancholy Tale.

Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,
Old pious Tracts, and Bibles bound in Wood;
There, such the Taste of our degenerate Age,
Stand the profane Delusions of the STAGE:
Yet Virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a Friend,
Fable her Means, Morality her End;
For this she rules all Passions in their turns,
And now the Bosom bleeds, and now it burns;
Pity with weeping Eye surveys her Bowl,
Her Anger swells, her Terror chills the Soul;
She makes the Vile to Virtue yield Applause,
And own her Sceptre while they break her Laws;
For Vice in others is abhorr’d of all,
And Villains triumph when the Worthless fall.

Not thus her Sister COMEDY prevails,
Who shoots at Folly, for her Arrow fails
Folly, by Dulness arm’d, eludes the Wound,
And harmless sees the feather’d Shafts rebound;
Unhurt she stands, applauds the Archer’s Skill,
Laughs at her Malice, and is Folly still.
Yet well the Muse pourtrays in fancied Scenes,
What Pride will stoop to, what Profession means;
How formal Fools the Farce of State applaud,
How Caution watches at the Lips of Fraud;
The wordy Variance of Domestic Life,
The tyrant Husband, the retorting Wife;
The Snares for Innocence, the Lie of Trade,
And the smooth Tongue’s habitual Masquerade.
With her the Virtues too obtain a Place,
Each gentle Passion, each becoming Grace;
The social Joy in Life’s securer Road,
Its easy Pleasure, its substantial Good;
The happy Thought that conscious Virtue gives,
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.

But who are these? Methinks a noble Mien,
And awful Grandeur in their Form are seen,
Now in disgrace: what tho’ by Time is spread,
Polluting Dust o’er every reverend Head;
What though beneath yon gilded Tribe they lie,
And dull Observers pass insulting by:
Forbid it Shame, forbid it decent Awe,
What seems so grave, should no Attention draw!
Come, let us then with reverend step advance,
And greet--the ancient Worthies of ROMANCE.
Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread,
A thousand Visions float around my head:
Hark! hollow Blasts through empty Courts resound,
And shadowy Forms with staring Eyes stalk round;
See! Moats and Bridges, Walls and Castles rise,
Ghosts, Fairies, Dæmons, dance before our eyes;
Lo! Magic Verse inscrib’d on golden Gate,
And bloody Hand that beckons on to Fate;--
“And who art thou, thou little Page, unfold?
“Say, Doth thy Lord my _Claribel_ with-hold;
“Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign
“The captive Queen:--for, _Claribel_ is mine.”
Away he flies; and now for bloody Deeds,
Black Suits of Armour, Masks, and foaming Steeds;
The Giant falls; his recreant Throat I seize,
And from his Corslet take the massy Keys:--
Dukes, Lords, and Knights in long procession move,
Releas’d from bondage with my virgin Love;--
She comes! she comes! in all the Charms of Youth,
Unequall’d Love and unsuspected Truth!
Ah! happy he who thus in magic Themes,
O’er Worlds bewitch’d, in early rapture dreams,
Where wild Enchantment waves her potent Wand,
And Fancy’s Beauties fill her Fairy Land;
Where doubtful Objects strange Desires excite,
And Fear and Ignorance afford Delight.
But lost, for ever lost, to me these Joys,
Which Reason scatters and which Time destroys,
Too dearly bought; maturer Judgment calls
My busied Mind, from Tales and Madrigals;
My doughty Giants all are slain or fled,
And all my Knights, Blue, Green, and Yellow, dead;
No more the midnight Fairy Tribe I view,
All in the merry Moonshine tippling Dew;
Ev’n the last lingering Fiction of the Brain,
The church-yard Ghost, is now at rest again:
And all these wayward Wanderings of my Youth,
Fly Reason’s Power and shun the Light of Truth.
With Fiction then does real Joy reside,
And is our Reason the delusive Guide?
Is it then right to dream the Syrens sing?
Or mount enraptur’d on the Dragon’s Wing?
No, ’tis the infant Mind, to Care unknown,
That makes th’ imagin’d Paradise its own;
Soon as Reflections in the Bosom rise,
Light Slumbers vanish from the clouded Eyes:
The Tear and Smile, that once together rose,
Are then divorc’d; the Head and Heart are foes;
Enchantment bows to Wisdom’s serious Plan,
And Pain and Prudence make and mar the Man.

While thus, of Power and fancy’d Empire vain,
With various Thoughts my Mind I entertain;
While Books my Slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,
Pleas’d with the Pride that will not let them please;
Sudden I find terrific Thoughts arise,
And sympathetic Sorrow fills my Eyes;
For, lo! while yet my Heart admits the Wound,
I see the CRITIC Army rang’d around.
Foes to our Race! if ever ye have known
A Father’s fears for Offspring of your own;--
If ever, smiling o’er a lucky Line,
Ye thought the sudden Sentiment divine,
Then paus’d and doubted, and then, tir’d of doubt,
With rage as sudden dash’d the Stanza out;--
If, after fearing much and pausing long,
Ye ventur’d on the World your labour’d Song,
And from the crusty Critics of those Days,
Implor’d the feeble Tribute of their Praise;
Remember now, the Fears that mov’d you then,
And, spite of Truth, let Mercy guide your Pen.
What vent’rous Race are ours! what mighty Foes,
Lie waiting all around them to oppose!
What treacherous Friends betray them to the Fight!
What Dangers threaten them!; yet still they write:
A hapless Tribe! to every Evil born,
Whom Villains hate and Fools affect to scorn:
Strangers they come, amid a world of Woe,
And taste the largest Portion ere they go.

Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;
The Roof, methought, return’d a solemn Sound;
Each Column seem’d to shake, and Clouds, like Smoke,
From dusty Piles and ancient Volumes broke;
Gathering above, like Mists condens’d they seem,
Exhal’d in Summer from the rushy Stream;
Like flowing Robes they now appear, and twine
Round the large Members of a Form divine;
His Silver Beard, that swept his aged Breast, }
His piercing Eye, that inward Light express’d, }
Were seen,--but Clouds and Darkness veil’d the rest.}
Fear chill’d my Heart; to one of mortal Race,
How awful seem’d the Genius of the Place!
So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw
His Parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;
Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,
When from the pitying Power broke forth a solemn Sound:--

“Care lives with all; no Rules, no Precepts save}
The Wise from Woe, no Fortitude the Brave: }
Grief is to Man as certain as the Grave; }
Tempests and Storms in Life’s whole progress rise,
And Hope shines dimly through o’erclouded skies;
Some drops of Comfort on the favour’d fall,
But showers of Sorrow are the Lot of _all_:
Partial to Talents, then, shall Heav’n withdraw
Th’ afflicting Rod, or break the general Law?
Shall he who soars, inspir’d by loftier Views,
Life’s little Cares and little Pains refuse?
Shall he not rather feel a double Share
Of mortal Woe, when doubly arm’d to bear?
“Hard is his Fate who builds his Peace of Mind
On the precarious Mercy of Mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
And mounts o’er unknown Seas with vent’rous Wings:
But as, of various Evils that befall
The human Race, some Portion goes to all;
To him perhaps the milder Lot’s assign’d,
Who feels his Consolation in his Mind;
And lock’d within his Bosom, bears about
A mental Charm for every Care, without.
Ev’n in the Pangs of each domestic Grief,
Or Health or vigorous Hope affords Relief;
And every Wound the tortur’d Bosom feels,
Or Virtue bears, or some Preserver heals;
Some generous Friend, of ample Power possest;
Some feeling Heart, that bleeds for the distrest;
Some Breast that glows with Virtues all divine;
Some noble RUTLAND, Misery’s Friend and thine.
“Nor say, the Muses’ Song, the Poet’s Pen,
Merit the Scorn they meet from little men.
With cautious freedom if the Numbers flow,
Not wildly high, not pitifully low;
If Vice alone their honest Aims oppose,
Why so asham’d their Friends, so loud their Foes?
Happy for Men in every Age and Clime,
If all the Sons of Vision dealt in Rhyme.
Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue
The airy Dreams; the World is dreaming too.
Ambition’s lofty Views, the Pomp of State,
The Pride of Wealth, the Splendour of the Great,
Stript of their Mask, their Cares and Troubles known,
Are Visions far less happy than thy own:
Go on! and, while the Sons of Care complain,
Be wisely gay and innocently vain;
While serious Souls are by their Fears undone,
Blow sportive Bladders in the beamy Sun,
And call them Worlds!, and bid the greatest show
More radiant Colours in their World below:
Then, as they break, the Slaves of Care reprove,
And tell them, Such are all the Toys they love.”

THE

NEWSPAPER:

A Poem.

ARGUMENT.

This not a Time favourable to Poetical Composition: and
why.--Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general
Influence:--their Numbers.--The Sunday Monitor.--Their general
Character.--Their Effect upon Individuals;--upon Society,--in the
Country.--The Village-Freeholder.--What kind of Composition a
Newspaper is; and the Amusement it affords.--Of what Parts it is
chiefly composed.--Articles of Intelligence:--Advertisements:--The
Stage:--Quacks:--Puffing.--The Correspondents to a Newspaper,
Political and Poetical:--Advice to the latter.--Conclusion.

THE

NEWSPAPER.

E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures,
Hi narrata ferunt aliò; mensuráque ficti
Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:
Illìc credulitas, illìc temerarius error,
Vanáque lætitia est, consternatique timores,
Seditióque repens, dubióque auctore susurri.
OVID. Metamorph. Lib. xii.

A time like this, a busy, bustling time,
Suits ill with Writers, very ill with Rhyme;
Unheard we sing when Party-rage runs strong,
And mightier Madness checks the flowing Song:
Or should we force the peaceful Muse to wield
Her feeble Arms amid the furious Field;
Where Party-Pens a wordy War maintain,
Poor is her Anger and her Friendship vain;
And oft the Foes who feel her Sting, combine,
Till serious Vengeance pays an idle Line;
For Party-Poets are like Wasps, who dart
Death to themselves and to their Foes but Smart.
Hard then our Fate: if general Themes we choose,
Neglect awaits the Song, and chills the Muse;
Or should we sing the Subject of the Day,
To-morrow’s Wonder puffs our Praise away.
More blest the Bards of that Poetic Time,
When all found Readers who could find a Rhyme;
Green grew the Bays on every teeming Head,
And _Cibber_ was enthron’d and _Settle_ read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the Cause of thy Decline;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?
Alas! new Charms the wavering Many gain,
And rival Sheets the Reader’s Eye detain;
A daily Swarm, that banish every Muse,
Come flying forth, and Mortals call them NEWS:
For these, unread the noblest Volumes lie;
For these, in Sheets unsoil’d the Muses die;
Unbought, unblest, the virgin Copies wait,
In vain for Fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.
Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our Foes,
The smoothest Numbers for the harshest Prose;
Let us, with generous scorn, the Taste deride,
And sing our Rivals with a Rival’s Pride.
Ye gentle Poets, who so oft complain
That foul Neglect is all your Labours gain;
That Pity only checks your growing Spite
To erring Man and prompts you still to write;
That your choice Works on humble Stalls are laid,
Or vainly grace the Windows of the Trade;
Be ye my Friends, if Friendship e’er can warm
Those rival Bosoms whom the Muses charm:
Think of the common Cause, wherein we go,
Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevish Chief his Leader blame,
Till crown’d with Conquest we regain our Fame;
And let us join our Forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful Crew.

I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid Sheets
The rattling Hawker vends thro’ gaping Streets;
Whate’er their Name, whate’er the Time they fly,
Damp from the Press, to charm the Reader’s Eye:
For, soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue,
The HERALD of the Morn arises too;
POST after POST succeeds, and all day long,
GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throng.
When Evening comes, she comes with all her train
Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and POSTS again,
Like Bats appearing when the Sun goes down,
From Holes obscure and Corners of the Town.
Of all these Triflers, all like these, I write;
Oh! like my Subject could my Song delight,
The Crowd at _Lloyd_’s one Poet’s Name should raise,
And all the _Alley_ echo to his praise.
In shoals the Hours their constant Numbers bring,
Like Insects waking to th’ advancing Spring;
Which take their rise from Grubs obscene that lie,
In shallow Pools, or thence ascend the Sky;
Such are these base Ephemeras, so born
To die before the next revolving Morn.
Yet thus they differ: Insect-tribes are lost
In the first Visit of a Winter’s Frost;
While these remain, a base but constant Breed,
Whose swarming Sons their short-liv’d Sires succeed;
No changing Season makes their Number less,
Nor Sunday shines a Sabbath on the Press!!

Then lo! the sainted MONITOR is born,
Whose pious Face some sacred Texts adorn:
As artful Sinners cloak the secret Sin,
To veil with seeming Grace the Guile within;
So Moral Essays on his Front appear,
But all is Carnal Business in the Rear;
The fresh-coin’d Lie, the Secret whisper’d last,
And all the Gleanings of the six Days past.
With these retir’d, thro’ half the Sabbath-day,
The London-lounger yawns his Hours away:
Not so, my little Flock!, your Preacher fly,
Nor waste the Time no worldly Wealth can buy;
But let the decent Maid and sober Clown,
Pray for these Idlers of the sinful Town:
This Day at least, on nobler Themes bestow,
Nor give to _Woodfall_, or the World below.

But, Sunday past, what Numbers flourish then,
What wond’rous Labours of the Press and Pen!
Diurnal most, some thrice each Week affords,
Some only once, O Avarice of Words!
When thousand starving Minds such Manna seek[12],
To drop the precious Food but once a Week.
Endless it were to sing the Powers of all,
Their Names, their Numbers; how they rise and fall;
Like baneful Herbs the Gazer’s eye they seize,
Rush to the head and poison where they please;
Like idle Flies, a busy, buzzing train,
They drop their Maggots in the Trifler’s Brain:
That genial Soil receives the fruitful Store,
And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.

Now be their Arts display’d, how first they choose
A Cause and Party, as the Bard his Muse;
Inspir’d by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,
And thro’ the Town their Dreams and Omens fly:
So the Sibylline[13] Leaves were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of Fate involv’d in doubt:
So idle Dreams, the Journals of the Night,
Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle Wrong with Right.
Some Champions for the Rights that prop the Crown,
Some sturdy Patriots, sworn to pull them down;
Some neutral Powers, with secret Forces fraught,
Wishing for War, but willing to be bought;
While some to every Side and Party go,
Shift every Friend and join with every Foe;
Like sturdy Rogues in Privateers they strike
This side and that, the Foes of both alike;
A Traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled Times,
Fear’d for their Force and courted for their Crimes.
Chief to the prosperous side the Numbers sail,
Fickle and false, they veer with every Gale;
As Birds that migrate from a freezing Shore,
In search of warmer Climes, come skimming o’er,
Some bold Adventurers first prepare to try
The doubtful Sunshine of the distant Sky;
But soon the growing Summer’s certain Sun
Wins more and more, till all at last are won;
So, on the early Prospect of Disgrace,
Fly in vast Troops this apprehensive Race;
Instinctive Tribes! their failing Food they dread,
And buy, with timely Change, their future Bread.

Such are our Guides; how many a peaceful Head,
Born to be still, have they to wrangling led!
How many an honest Zealot, stol’n from Trade,
And factious Tools of pious Pastors made!
With Clews like these they tread the Maze of State,
These Oracles explore, to learn our Fate;
Pleas’d with the Guides who can so well deceive,
Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.

Oft lend I, loth, to some sage Friend an ear,
(For we who will not speak are doom’d to hear);
While he, bewilder’d tells his anxious Thought,
Infectious Fear from tainted Scribblers caught,
Or idiot Hope; for each his Mind assails,
As LLOYD’s Court-light or STOCKDALE’s Gloom prevails.
Yet stand I patient while but one declaims,
Or gives dull Comments on the Speech he maims;
But oh! ye Muses, keep your Votary’s feet
From Tavern-haunts where Politicians meet;
Where Rector, Doctor, and Attorney pause,
First on each Parish then each public Cause:
Indited Roads and Rates that still increase;
The murmuring Poor, who will not fast in peace;
Election-zeal and Friendship, since declin’d;
A Tax commuted, or a Tithe in Kind;
The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife,
Dull Port and Poachers vile! the serious Ills of Life.
Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleas’d to guide
His little Club and in the Chair preside.
In private Business his Commands prevail,
On public Themes his Reasoning turns the scale;
Assenting Silence soothes his happy Ear,
And, in or out, his Party triumphs here.

Nor here th’ infectious rage for Party stops,
But flits along from Palaces to Shops;
Our weekly Journals o’er the Land abound,
And spread their Plagues and Influenzas round;
The Village too, the peaceful, pleasant Plain,
Breeds the Whig-farmer and the Tory-swain;
Brooks’ and St. Alban’s boasts not, but instead,
Stares the Red Ram, and swings the _Rodney_’s Head:--
Hither, with all a Patriot’s care, comes he
Who owns the little Hut that makes him free;
Whose yearly Forty Shillings buy the Smile
Of mightier Men, and never waste the while;
Who feels his Freehold’s Worth and looks elate,
A little Prop and Pillar of the State.
Here he delights the weekly News to con,
And mingle Comments as he blunders on;
To swallow all their varying Authors teach,
To spell a Title and confound a Speech:
Till with a muddled Mind he quits the News,
And claims his Nation’s Licence to abuse;
Then joins the Cry, “That all the Courtly Race,
“Are venal Candidates for Power and Place;”
Yet feels some joy amid the general Vice,
That his own Vote will bring its wonted Price.
These are the Ills the teeming Press supplies,
These pois’nous Springs from Learning’s Fountain rise;
Not there the Wise alone their Entrance find,
Imparting useful Light to Mortals blind;
But, blind themselves, these erring Guides hold out
Alluring Lights, to lead us far about;
Screen’d by such Means, here Scandal whets her Quill,
Here Slander shoots unseen, whene’er she will;
Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,
And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.

Such, Sons of BRITAIN!, are the Guides ye trust;
So wise their Counsel, their Reports so just:--
Yet, though we cannot call their Morals pure,
Their Judgment nice, or their Decisions sure;
Merit they have to mightier Works unknown,
A Style, a Manner, and a Fate their own.
We, who for longer Fame with labour strive,
Are pain’d to keep our sickly Works alive;
Studious we toil, with patient Care refine,
Nor let our Love protect one languid Line.
Severe ourselves, at last our Works appear,
When, ah! we find our Readers more severe;
For after all our Care and Pains, how few
Acquire Applause, or keep it if they do!--
Not so these Sheets, ordain’d to happier fate,
Prais’d thro’ their Day, and but that Day their Date;
Their careless Authors only strive to join
As many Words, as make an even Line[14];
As many Lines, as fill a Row complete;
As many Rows, as furnish up a Sheet:
From side to side, with ready Types they run,
The Measure’s ended, and the Work is done;
Oh, born with Ease, how envy’d and how blest!
Your Fate to-day and your to-morrow’s Rest.
To you all Readers turn, and they can look
Pleas’d on a Paper, who abhor a Book;
Those who ne’er deign’d their Bible to peruse,
Would think it hard to be deny’d their News;
Sinners and Saints, the wisest with the weak,
Here mingle Tastes and one Amusement seek:
This, like the Public Inn, provides a Treat,
Where each promiscuous Guest sits down to eat;
And such this mental Food, as we may call,
Something to all Men and to some Men all.

Next, in what rare Production shall we trace,
Such various Subjects in so small a Space?
As the first Ship upon the Waters bore
Incongruous Kinds who never met before;
Or as some curious Virtuoso joins,
In one small room, Moths, Minerals, and Coins,
Birds, Beasts, and Fishes; nor refuses place
To Serpents, Toads, and all the Reptile-race;
So here, compress’d within a single Sheet,
Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet;
’Tis this which makes all Europe’s Business known,
Yet here a private Man may place his own;
And where he reads of Lords and Commons, he
May tell their Honours that he sells Rappee.
Add next th’ Amusement which the motley Page
Affords to either Sex and every Age:
Lo! where it comes before the cheerful Fire,
Damps from the Press in smoky Curls aspire,
(As from the Earth the Sun exhales the Dew,)
Ere we can read the Wonders that ensue:
Then eager every Eye surveys the Part,
That brings its favourite Subject to the Heart;
Grave Politicians look for Facts alone,
And gravely add Conjectures of their own:
The sprightly Nymph, who never broke her rest
For tottering Crowns, or mighty Lands opprest,
Finds Broils and Battles, but neglects them all
For Songs and Suits, a Birth-day, or a Ball:
The keen warm Man o’erlooks each idle Tale
For “Moneys wanted,” and “Estates on Sale;”
While some with equal Minds to all attend,
Pleas’d with each Part and griev’d to find an End.

So charm the News; but we, who, far from Town,
Wait till the Post-man brings the Packet down,
Once in the Week, a vacant Day behold,
And stay for Tidings, till they’re three Days old:
That Day arrives; no welcome Post appears,
But the dull Morn a sullen Aspect wears;
We meet, but ah! without our wonted Smile,
To talk of Headaches, and complain of Bile;
Sullen we ponder o’er a dull Repast,
Nor feast the Body while the Mind must fast.
A master Passion is the Love of News,
Not Music so commands, nor so the Muse;
Give Poets Claret, they grow idle soon;
Feed the Musician and he’s out of tune;
But the sick Mind of this Disease possest,
Flies from all Cure and sickens when at rest.

Now sing, my Muse, what various Parts compose
These rival Sheets of Politicks and Prose.
First, from each Brother’s Hoard a Part they draw,
A mutual Theft that never fear’d a Law;
Whate’er they gain, to each man’s Portion fall,
And read it once, you read it through them all:
For this their Runners ramble day and night,
To drag each lurking Deed to open Light;
For daily Bread the dirty Trade they ply,
Coin their fresh Tales and live upon the Lie:
Like Bees for Honey, forth for News they spring,
Industrious Creatures! ever on the Wing;
Home to their several Cells they bear the Store,
Cull’d of all Kinds, then roam abroad for more.
No anxious Virgin flies to “fair Tweed-side;”
No injur’d Husband mourns his faithless Bride;
No Duel dooms the fiery Youth to bleed;
But thro’ the Town transpires each vent’rous Deed.

Should some fair Frail-one drive her prancing Pair,
Where rival Peers contend to please the Fair;
When with new force, she aids her conquering Eyes,
And Beauty decks, with all that Beauty buys;
Quickly we learn whose Heart her Influence feels,
Whose Acres melt, before her glowing Wheels.
To these a thousand idle Themes succeed,
Deeds of all kinds and Comments to each Deed.
Here Stocks, the State-Barometers we view,
That rise or fall, by Causes known to few;
Promotion’s Ladder who goes up or down,
Who wed, or who seduc’d, amuse the Town;
What new’-born Heir has made his Father blest,
What Heir exults, his Father now at rest;
That ample List the Tyburn-herald gives,
And each known Knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the Work, and now the Printer tries
His Powers no more, but leans on his Allies.

When lo! the advertising Tribe succeed,
Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;
And chief th’ illustrious Race, whose Drops and Pills
Have patent Powers to vanquish human Ills:
These, with their Cures, a constant Aid remain,
To bless the pale Composer’s fertile Brain:
Fertile it is, but still the noblest Soil
Requires some pause, some intervals from Toil;
And they at least a certain Ease obtain
From _Katterfelto_’s Skill, and _Graham_’s glowing Strain.

I too must aid, and pay to see my Name
Hung in these dirty Avenues to Fame;
Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen
And sung, could make those Avenues more clean;
Could stop one Slander ere it found its way,
And gave to public Scorn its helpless Prey.
By the same Aid, the Stage invites her Friends,
And kindly tells the Banquet she intends;
Thither from real Life the Many run,
With SIDDONS weep, or laugh with ABINGDON;
Pleas’d in fictitious Joy or Grief, to see
The mimic Passion with their own agree;
To steal a few enchanted Hours away
From Care and drop the Curtain on the Day.
But who can steal from Self that wretched Wight,
Whose darling Work is try’d, some fatal Night?
Most wretched Man! when, bane to every Bliss,
He hears the Serpent-Critic’s rising Hiss;
Then Groans succeed: not Traitors on the Wheel,
Can feel like him, or have such Pangs to feel.
Nor end they here; next day he reads his Fall,
In every Paper; Critics are they all;
He sees his branded Name, with wild affright,
And hears again the Cat-calls of the Night.

Such Help the STAGE affords; a larger Space,
Is fill’d by PUFFS and all the Puffing Race.
Physic had once alone the lofty Style,
The well-known Boast, that ceas’d to raise a smile:
Now all the Province of that Tribe invade,
And we abound in Quacks of every Trade.

The simple Barber, once an honest Name,
CERVANTES founded, FIELDING rais’d his Fame:
Barber no more; a gay Perfumer comes,
On whose soft Cheek his own Cosmetic blooms;
Here he appears, each simple Mind to move,
And advertises Beauty, Grace, and Love.--
“Come, faded Belles, who would your Youth renew,
And learn the Wonders of Olympian Dew;
Restore the Roses that begin to faint,
Nor think celestial Washes, vulgar Paint:
Your former Features, Airs, and Arts assume,
Circassian Virtues, with Circassian Bloom,
“Come, batter’d Beaux, whose Locks are turn’d to gray,
And crop Discretion’s lying Badge away;
Read where they vend these smart engaging Things,
These flaxen Frontlets with elastic Springs;
No Female Eye the fair Deception sees,
Not Nature’s self so natural as these.”
Such are their Arts, but not confin’d to them,
The Muse impartial must her Sons condemn:
For they, degenerate! join the venal Throng,
And puff a lazy Pegasus along:
More guilty these, by Nature less design’d
For little Arts that suit the Vulgar-kind.
That Barber’s Boys, who would to Trade advance,
Wish us to call them, smart Frisseurs from France;
That he who builds a Chop-house, on his Door
Paints “The true old original Blue Boar!”
These are the Arts by which a thousand live,
Where Truth may smile and Justice may forgive;
But when amid this Rabble-rout we find
A puffing Poet to his Honour blind;
Who silly drops Quotations all about
Packet or Post and points their Merit out;
Who advertises what Reviewers say,
With sham Editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his Praises out of Sight,
But hurries into Fame with all his might;
Although the Verse some transient Praise obtains,
Contempt is all the anxious Poet gains.
Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past,
Their Correspondents stand expos’d at last:
These are a numerous Tribe to Fame unknown,
Who for the public Good forego their own;
Who Volunteers in Paper-war engage,
With double Portion of their Party’s Rage:
Such are the BRUTI, DECII, who appear
Wooing the Printer for Admission here;
Whose generous Souls can condescend to pray
For leave to throw their precious Time away.

Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a Patriot draws
His grey-goose Quill in his dear Country’s Cause,
To vex and maul a Ministerial Race,
Can thy stern Soul refuse the Champion place?
Alas! thou know’st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-lov’d Labours to impart;
How he has sent them to thy Brethren round,
And still the same unkind Reception found:
At length indignant will he damn the State,
Turn to his Trade and leave us to our Fate.

These Roman Souls, like Rome’s great Sons, are known
To live in Cells on Labours of their own.
Thus MILO, could we see the noble Chief,
Feeds, for his Country’s good, on Legs of Beef:
CAMILLUS copies Deeds for sordid Pay,
Yet fights the public Battles twice a day:
Ev’n now the godlike BRUTUS views his Score
Scroll’d on the Bar-board, swinging with the Door;
Where, tippling Punch, grave CATO’s self you’ll see,
And _Amor Patriæ_ vending smuggled Tea.

Last in these Ranks and least, their Art’s Disgrace,
Neglected stand the Muses’ meanest Race;
Scribblers who court Contempt, whose Verse the Eye
Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:
This Poet’s Corner is the place they choose,
A fatal Nursery for an infant Muse;
Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,
These cannot live and they shall never die;
Hapless the Lad whose Mind such Dreams invade,
And win to Verse the Talents due to Trade.

Curb then, O Youth! these Raptures as they rise,
Keep down the Evil Spirit and be wise;
Follow your Calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the Pestle, and compose.

I know your Day-dreams, and I know the Snare
Hid in your flow’ry path, and cry “Beware.”
Thoughtless of Ill, and to the future blind,
A sudden Couplet rushes in your Mind;
Here you may nameless print your idle Rhymes,
And read your first-born Work a thousand times;
Th’ Infection spreads, your Couplet grows apace,
Stanzas to Delia’s Dog or Celia’s Face;
You take a Name; Philander’s Odes are seen,
Printed, and prais’d, in every Magazine;
Diarian Sages greet their brother Sage,
And your dark Pages please th’ enlighten’d Age.--
Alas! what Years you thus consume in vain,
Rul’d by this wretched Bias of the Brain!

Go! to your Desks and Counters all return;
Your Sonnets scatter, your Acrostics burn;
Trade, and be rich; or should your careful Sires
Bequeath you Wealth! indulge the nobler Fires;
Should Love of Fame your youthful Heart betray, }
Pursue fair Fame, but in a glorious Way, }
Nor in the idle Scenes of Fancy’s Painting stray.}

Of all the good that mortal Men pursue,
The Muse has least to give and gives to few;
Like some coquettish Fair, she leads us on,
With Smiles and Hopes, till Youth and Peace are gone;
Then, wed for Life, the restless wrangling Pair,
Forget how constant one and one how fair:
Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming Bride,
Brings Power and Wealth to grace her Lover’s Side;
And tho’ she smiles not with such flattering Charms,
The Brave will sooner win her to their Arms.
Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the Bands,
Go spread your Country’s Fame in hostile Lands;
Her Court, her Senate, or her Arms adorn,
And let her Foes lament that you were born:
Or weigh her Laws, their ancient Rights defend,
Tho’ Hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason’s Friend;
Arm’d with strong Powers, in their Defence engage,
And rise the THURLOW of the future Age.

THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

ARGUMENT.

The Subject:--Poverty and Cunning described:--When united, a
jarring Couple.--Mutual Reproof.--The Wife consoled by a
Dream.--Birth of a Daughter.--Description and Prediction of
Envy:--How to be rendered ineffectual, explained in a
Vision.--Simulation foretells the future Success and Triumphs of
Flattery.--Her Power over various Characters and different
Minds;--over certain Classes of Men;--over Envy himself.--Her
successful Art of softening the Evils of Life;--of changing
Characters;--of meliorating Prospects, and affixing Value to
Possessions, Pictures, &c.--Conclusion.

THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

Omnia habeo, nec quicquam habeo;
Quidquid dicunt, laudo; id rursum si negant, laudo id quoque:
Negat quis, nego; ait, aio:
Postremò imperavi egomet mihi
Omnia assentari.
TERENT, in Eunuch.

It has been held in antient Rules,
That Flattery is the Food of Fools;
Yet now and then your Men of Wit
Will condescend to taste a Bit.
SWIFT.

Muse of my _Spencer_, who so well could sing,
The Passions all, their Bearings and their Ties;
Who could in View those shadowy Beings bring,
And with bold Hand, remove each dark Disguise,
Wherein Love, Hatred, Scorn, or Anger lies:
Guide him to _Fairy Land_, who now intends
That Way his Flight; assist him as he flies,
To mark those Passions, Virtue’s Foes and Friends,
By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.
Yes! they appear, I see the Fairy-Train!
And who that modest Nymph of meek Address?
Not _Vanity_, though lov’d by all the Vain;
Not _Hope_, though promising to all, Success;
Nor _Mirth_, nor _Joy_, though Foe to all Distress;
Thee, sprightly Siren, from this Train I choose,
Thy Birth relate, thy soothing Arts confess,
’Tis not in thy mild Nature to refuse,
When Poets ask thine Aid, so oft their Meed and Muse.

* * * * *

In Fairy-Land, on wide and cheerless Plain,
Dwelt, in the House of _Care_, a sturdy Swain;
An hireling he, who when he till’d the Soil,
Look’d to the Pittance, that repay’d his Toil;
And to a Master left the mingled Joy,
And anxious Care that follow’d his Employ:
Sullen and patient he at once appear’d,
As one who murmur’d, yet as one who fear’d;
Th’ Attire was coarse that cloth’d his sinewy Frame,
Rude his Address and _Poverty_ his Name.

In that same Plain a Nymph of curious Taste,
A Cottage (plann’d with all her Skill) had plac’d:
Strange the Materials and for what design’d
The various Parts, no simple Man might find;
What seem’d the Door, each entering Guest withstood,
What seem’d a Window was but painted Wood;
But by a secret Spring the Wall would move,
And Day-light drop through glassy Door above;
’Twas all her Pride, new Traps for Praise to lay,
And all her Wisdom was to hide her Way;
In small Attempts incessant were her Pains,
And _Cunning_ was her Name among the Swains.

Now, whether Fate decreed this Pair should wed,
And blindly drove them to the Marriage-Bed;
Or whether Love in some soft Hour inclin’d
The Damsel’s Heart and won her to be kind,
Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match’d Pair,
But both dispos’d to wed and wed they were.

Yet though united in their Fortune, still
Their Ways were diverse, varying was their Will,
Nor long the Maid had blest the simple Man,
Before Dissentions rose and she began:--

“Wretch that I am! since to thy Fortune bound,
“What plan, what project with success is crown’d?
“I, who a thousand secret Arts possess,
“Who every Rank approach with right Address;
“Who’ve loos’d a Guinea from a Miser’s Chest,
“And worm’d his Secret from a Traitor’s Breast;
“Thence Gifts and Gains collecting, great and small,
“Have brought to thee and thou consum’st them all;
“For Want like thine, a Bog without a Base,
“Ingulph’st all gains, I gather for the Place;
“Feeding, unfill’d; destroying, undestroy’d;
“It craves for ever and is ever void:--
“Wretch that I am! what Misery have I found,
“Since my sure Craft was to thy Calling bound?”