Chapter XX: Book IV (5)

Happy the bard (though few such bards we find) Who, 'bove controlment, dares to speak his mind; Dares, unabash'd, in every place appear, And nothing fears, but what he ought to fear: Him Fashion cannot tempt, him abject Need Cannot compel, him Pride cannot mislead To be the slave of Greatness, to strike sail When, sweeping onward with her peacock's tail, Quality in full plumage passes by; He views her with a fix'd, contemptuous eye, 10 And mocks the puppet, keeps his own due state, And is above conversing with the great. Perish those slaves, those minions of the quill, Who have conspired to seize that sacred hill Where the Nine Sisters pour a genuine strain, And sunk the mountain level with the plain; Who, with mean, private views, and servile art, No spark of virtue living in their heart, Have basely turn'd apostates; have debased Their dignity of office; have disgraced, 20 Like Eli's sons, the altars where they stand, And caused their name to stink through all the land; Have stoop'd to prostitute their venal pen For the support of great, but guilty men; Have made the bard, of their own vile accord, Inferior to that thing we call a lord. What is a lord? Doth that plain simple word Contain some magic spell? As soon as heard, Like an alarum bell on Night's dull ear, Doth it strike louder, and more strong appear 30 Than other words? Whether we will or no, Through Reason's court doth it unquestion'd go E'en on the mention, and of course transmit Notions of something excellent; of wit Pleasing, though keen; of humour free, though chaste; Of sterling genius, with sound judgment graced; Of virtue far above temptation's reach, And honour, which not malice can impeach? Believe it not--'twas Nature's first intent, Before their rank became their punishment, 40 They should have pass'd for men, nor blush'd to prize The blessings she bestow'd; she gave them eyes, And they could see; she gave them ears--they heard; The instruments of stirring, and they stirr'd; Like us, they were design'd to eat, to drink, To talk, and (every now and then) to think; Till they, by Pride corrupted, for the sake Of singularity, disclaim'd that make; Till they, disdaining Nature's vulgar mode, Flew off, and struck into another road, 50 More fitting Quality, and to our view Came forth a species altogether new, Something we had not known, and could not know, Like nothing of God's making here below; Nature exclaim'd with wonder--'Lords are things, Which, never made by me, were made by kings.' A lord (nor let the honest and the brave, The true old noble, with the fool and knave Here mix his fame; cursed be that thought of mine, Which with a B----[310] and E----[311] should Grafton[312] join), A lord (nor here let Censure rashly call 61 My just contempt of some, abuse of all, And, as of late, when Sodom was my theme, Slander my purpose, and my Muse blaspheme, Because she stops not, rapid in her song, To make exceptions as she goes along, Though well she hopes to find, another year, A whole minority exceptions here), A mere, mere lord, with nothing but the name, Wealth all his worth, and title all his fame, 70 Lives on another man, himself a blank, Thankless he lives, or must some grandsire thank For smuggled honours, and ill-gotten pelf; A bard owes all to Nature, and himself. Gods! how my soul is burnt up with disdain, When I see men, whom Phoebus in his train Might view with pride, lackey the heels of those Whom Genius ranks among her greatest foes! And what's the cause? Why, these same sons of Scorn, No thanks to them, were to a title born, 80 And could not help it; by chance hither sent, And only deities by accident. Had Fortune on our getting chanced to shine, Their birthright honours had been yours or mine, 'Twas a mere random stroke; and should the Throne Eye thee with favour, proud and lordly grown, Thou, though a bard, might'st be their fellow yet: But Felix never can be made a wit. No, in good faith--that's one of those few things Which Fate hath placed beyond the reach of kings: 90 Bards may be lords, but 'tis not in the cards, Play how we will, to turn lords into bards. A bard!--a lord!--why, let them, hand in hand, Go forth as friends, and travel through the land; Observe which word the people can digest Most readily, which goes to market best, Which gets most credit, whether men will trust A bard, because they think he may be just, Or on a lord will chose to risk their gains, Though privilege in that point still remains. 100 A bard!--a lord!--let Reason take her scales, And fairly weigh those words, see which prevails, Which in the balance lightly kicks the beam, And which, by sinking, we the victor deem. 'Tis done, and Hermes, by command of Jove, Summons a synod in the sacred grove, Gods throng with gods to take their chairs on high, And sit in state, the senate of the sky, Whilst, in a kind of parliament below, Men stare at those above, and want to know 110 What they're transacting: Reason takes her stand Just in the midst, a balance in her hand, Which o'er and o'er she tries, and finds it true: From either side, conducted full in view, A man comes forth, of figure strange and queer; We now and then see something like them here. The first[313] was meagre, flimsy, void of strength, But Nature kindly had made up in length What she in breadth denied; erect and proud, A head and shoulders taller than the crowd, 120 He deem'd them pigmies all; loose hung his skin O'er his bare bones; his face so very thin, So very narrow, and so much beat out, That physiognomists have made a doubt, Proportion lost, expression quite forgot, Whether it could be call'd a face or not; At end of it, howe'er, unbless'd with beard, Some twenty fathom length of chin appear'd; With legs, which we might well conceive that Fate Meant only to support a spider's weight, 130 Firmly he strove to tread, and with a stride, Which show'd at once his weakness and his pride, Shaking himself to pieces, seem'd to cry, 'Observe, good people, how I shake the sky.' In his right hand a paper did he hold, On which, at large, in characters of gold, Distinct, and plain for those who run to see, Saint Archibald[314] had wrote L, O, R, D. This, with an air of scorn, he from afar Twirl'd into Reason's scales, and on that bar, 140 Which from his soul he hated, yet admired, Quick turn'd his back, and, as he came, retired. The judge to all around his name declared; Each goddess titter'd, each god laugh'd, Jove stared, And the whole people cried, with one accord, 'Good Heaven bless us all, is that a Lord!' Such was the first--the second[315] was a man Whom Nature built on quite a different plan; A bear, whom, from the moment he was born, His dam despised, and left unlick'd in scorn; 150 A Babel, which, the power of Art outdone, She could not finish when she had begun; An utter Chaos, out of which no might, But that of God, could strike one spark of light. Broad were his shoulders, and from blade to blade A H---- might at full length have laid; Vast were his bones, his muscles twisted strong; His face was short, but broader than 'twas long; His features, though by Nature they were large, Contentment had contrived to overcharge, 160 And bury meaning, save that we might spy Sense lowering on the penthouse of his eye; His arms were two twin oaks; his legs so stout That they might bear a Mansion-house about; Nor were they, look but at his body there, Design'd by Fate a much less weight to bear. O'er a brown cassock, which had once been black, Which hung in tatters on his brawny back, A sight most strange, and awkward to behold, He threw a covering of blue and gold. 170 Just at that time of life, when man, by rule, The fop laid down, takes up the graver fool, He started up a fop, and, fond of show, Look'd like another Hercules turn'd beau, A subject met with only now and then, Much fitter for the pencil than the pen; Hogarth would draw him (Envy must allow) E'en to the life, was Hogarth[316] living now. With such accoutrements, with such a form, Much like a porpoise just before a storm, 180 Onward he roll'd; a laugh prevail'd around; E'en Jove was seen to simper; at the sound (Nor was the cause unknown, for from his youth Himself he studied by the glass of Truth) He joined their mirth; nor shall the gods condemn, If, whilst they laugh at him, he laugh'd at them. Judge Reason view'd him with an eye of grace, Look'd through his soul, and quite forgot his face, And, from his hand received, with fair regard Placed in her other scale the name of Bard. 190 Then, (for she did as judges ought to do, She nothing of the case beforehand knew, Nor wish'd to know; she never stretch'd the laws, Nor, basely to anticipate a cause, Compell'd solicitors, no longer free, To show those briefs she had no right to see) Then she with equal hand her scales held out, Nor did the cause one moment hang in doubt; She held her scales out fair to public view, The Lord, as sparks fly upwards, upwards flew, 200 More light than air, deceitful in the weight; The Bard, preponderating, kept his state; Reason approved, and with a voice, whose sound Shook earth, shook heaven, on the clearest ground Pronouncing for the Bards a full decree, Cried--'Those must honour them, who honour me; They from this present day, where'er I reign, In their own right, precedence shall obtain; Merit rules here: be it enough that Birth Intoxicates, and sways the fools of earth.' 210 Nor think that here, in hatred to a lord, I've forged a tale, or alter'd a record; Search when you will, (I am not now in sport) You'll find it register'd in Reason's court. Nor think that Envy here hath strung my lyre, That I depreciate what I most admire, And look on titles with an eye of scorn, Because I was not to a title born. By Him that made me, I am much more proud, More inly satisfied to have a crowd 220 Point at me as I pass, and cry--'That's he-- A poor but honest bard, who dares be free Amidst corruption,' than to have a train Of flickering levee slaves, to make me vain Of things I ought to blush for; to run, fly, And live but in the motion of my eye; When I am less than man, my faults to adore, And make me think that I am something more. Recall past times, bring back the days of old, When the great noble bore his honours bold, 230 And in the face of peril, when he dared Things which his legal bastard, if declared, Might well discredit; faithful to his trust, In the extremest points of justice, just, Well knowing all, and loved by all he knew, True to his king, and to his country true; Honest at court, above the baits of gain, Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain; Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse, Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; 240 Possessing much, and yet deserving more, Deserving those high honours which he wore With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame Which all men paid, because he did not claim. When the grim war was placed in dread array, Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey, Or lioness of royal whelps foredone; In peace, as mild as the departing sun, A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd, Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; 250 Ever awake at Pity's tender call, A father of the poor, a friend to all; Recall such times, and from the grave bring back A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack, My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim, And every Muse conspire to swell his fame, Till Envy shall to him that praise allow Which she cannot deny to Temple now. This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget, Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, 260 To pay it like a man, and in his lays, Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise. But let not pride and prejudice misdeem, And think that empty titles are my theme; Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth; I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth. Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave, I am his friend, but cannot be his slave; Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretend To make a slave, where they may make a friend; 270 I love his virtues, and will make them known, Confess his rank, but can't forget my own. Give me a lord, who, to a title born, Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn. What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here) Tamely make way if such a wretch appear? Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee To such a shadow of nobility, A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknown For any real merit of his own, 280 And never had come forth to public note Had he not worn, by chance, his father's coat. To think a M----[317] worth my least regards, Is treason to the majesty of bards. By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake, She something more than common strove to make, When, overlooking each minute defect, And all too eager to be quite correct, In her full heat and vigour she impress'd Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) 290 The bard, (nor think too lightly that I mean Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage, The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age, Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse) The real bard, whom native genius fires, Whom every maid of Castaly inspires, Let him consider wherefore he was meant, Let him but answer Nature's great intent, 300 And fairly weigh himself with other men, Would ne'er debase the glories of his pen, Would in full state, like a true monarch, live, Nor bate one inch of his prerogative. Methinks I see old Wingate[318] frowning here, (Wingate may in the season be a peer, Though now, against his will, of figures sick, He's forced to diet on arithmetic, E'en whilst he envies every Jew he meets, Who cries old clothes to sell about the streets) 310 Methinks (his mind with future honours big, His Tyburn bob turn'd to a dress'd bag wig) I hear him cry--'What doth this jargon mean? Was ever such a damn'd dull blockhead seen? Majesty!--Bard!--Prerogative!--Disdain Hath got into, and turn'd the fellow's brain: To Bethlem with him--give him whips and straw-- I'm very sensible he's mad in law. A saucy groom, who trades in reason, thus To set himself upon a par with us; 320 If this _here's_ suffered, and if that _there_ fool, May, when he pleases, send us all to school, Why, then our only business is outright To take our caps, and bid the world good night. I've kept a bard myself this twenty years, But nothing of this kind in him appears; He, like a thorough true-bred spaniel, licks The hand which cuffs him, and the foot which kicks; He fetches and he carries, blacks my shoes, Nor thinks it a discredit to his Muse; 330 A creature of the right chameleon hue, He wears my colours, yellow or true blue, Just as I wear them: 'tis all one to him Whether I change through conscience, or through whim. Now this is something like; on such a plan A bard may find a friend in a great man; But this proud coxcomb--zounds, I thought that all Of this queer tribe had been like my old Paul.'[319] Injurious thought! accursed be the tongue On which the vile insinuation hung, 340 The heart where 'twas engender'd; cursed be those, Those bards, who not themselves alone expose, But me, but all, and make the very name By which they're call'd a standing mark of shame. Talk not of custom--'tis the coward's plea, Current with fools, but passes not with me; An old stale trick, which Guilt hath often tried By numbers to o'erpower the better side. Why tell me then that from the birth of Rhyme, No matter when, down to the present time, 350 As by the original decree of Fate, Bards have protection sought amongst the great; Conscious of weakness, have applied to them As vines to elms, and, twining round their stem, Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd support E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court? As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed, But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need, From which it rose; had bards but truly known That strength, which is most properly their own, 360 Without a lord, unpropp'd they might have stood, And overtopp'd those giants of the wood. But why, when present times my care engage, Must I go back to the Augustan age? Why, anxious for the living, am I led Into the mansions of the ancient dead? Can they find patrons nowhere but at Rome, And must I seek Maecenas in the tomb? Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note Start up, and from report Maecenas quote; 370 Under his colours lords are proud to fight, Forgetting that Maecenas was a knight: They mention him, as if to use his name Was, in some measure, to partake his fame, Though Virgil, was he living, in the street Might rot for them, or perish in the Fleet. See how they redden, and the charge disclaim-- Virgil, and in the Fleet!--forbid it, Shame! Hence, ye vain boasters! to the Fleet repair, And ask, with blushes ask, if Lloyd is there! 380 Patrons in days of yore were men of sense, Were men of taste, and had a fair pretence To rule in letters--some of them were heard To read off-hand, and never spell a word; Some of them, too, to such a monstrous height Was learning risen, for themselves could write, And kept their secretaries, as the great Do many other foolish things, for state. Our patrons are of quite a different strain, With neither sense nor taste; against the grain 390 They patronise for Fashion's sake--no more-- And keep a bard, just as they keep a whore. Melcombe (on such occasions I am loth To name the dead) was a rare proof of both. Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read, Nor could deserve their clergy by their creed; Others can write, but such a Pagan hand, A Willes[320] should always at our elbow stand: Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor,[321] of right, Would order into keeping at first sight. 400 Those who stand fairest to the public view Take to themselves the praise to others due, They rob the very spital, and make free With those, alas! who've least to spare. We see ---- hath not had a word to say, Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech[322] away. Patrons, in days of yore, like patrons now, Expected that the bard should make his bow At coming in, and every now and then Hint to the world that they were more than men; 410 But, like the patrons of the present day, They never bilk'd the poet of his pay. Virgil loved rural ease, and, far from harm, Maecenas fix'd him in a neat, snug farm, Where he might, free from trouble, pass his days In his own way, and pay his rent in praise. Horace loved wine, and, through his friend at court, Could buy it off the quay in every port: Horace loved mirth, Maecenas loved it too; They met, they laugh'd, as Goy[323] and I may do, 420 Nor in those moments paid the least regard To which was minister, and which was bard. Not so our patrons--grave as grave can be, They know themselves, they keep up dignity; Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit That men of fortune rank with men of wit: Wit, if familiar made, will find her strength-- 'Tis best to keep her weak, and at arm's length. 'Tis well enough for bards, if patrons give, From hand to mouth, the scanty means to live. 430 Such is their language, and their practice such; They promise little, and they give not much. Let the weak bard, with prostituted strain, Praise that proud Scot whom all good men disdain; What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone, He may obtain a patent for the run Of his lord's kitchen, and have ample time, With offal fed, to court the cook in rhyme; Or (if he strives true patriots to disgrace) May at the second table get a place; 440 With somewhat greater slaves allow'd to dine, And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine. And are there bards, who, on creation's file, Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle The air of freedom, with so little gall, So low a spirit, prostrate thus to fall Before these idols, and without a groan Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone? Better, and much more noble, to abjure The sight of men, and in some cave, secure 450 From all the outrages of Pride, to feast On Nature's salads, and be free at least. Better, (though that, to say the truth, is worse Than almost any other modern curse) Discard all sense, divorce the thankless Muse, Critics commence, and write in the Reviews; Write without tremor, Griffiths[324] cannot read; No fool can fail, where Langhorne can succeed. But (not to make a brave and honest pride Try those means first, she must disdain when tried) 460 There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts, By which, and fairly, men of real parts May gain a living, gain what Nature craves; Let those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves. Our real wants in a small compass lie, But lawless appetite, with eager eye, Kept in a constant fever, more requires, And we are burnt up with our own desires. Hence our dependence, hence our slavery springs; Bards, if contented, are as great as kings. 470 Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill; We may be independent, if we will. The man who suits his spirit to his state Stands on an equal footing with the great; Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he Who rules the English nation, not more free. Chains were not forged more durable and strong For bards than others, but they've worn them long, And therefore wear them still; they've quite forgot What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not. 480 Could they, though in their sleep, could they but know The blessings which from Independence flow; Could they but have a short and transient gleam Of Liberty, though 'twas but in a dream, They would no more in bondage bend their knee, But, once made freemen, would be always free. The Muse, if she one moment freedom gains, Can nevermore submit to sing in chains. Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng, The bird repays his keeper with his song; 490 But if some playful child sets wide the door, Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more, With love of liberty begins to burn, And rather starves than to his cage return. Hail, Independence!--by true reason taught, How few have known, and prized thee as they ought! Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys, Resign thee, in their childish moods, for toys; Ambition some, some avarice, misleads, And in both cases Independence bleeds. 500 Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam, Nor know they had thee in their reach at home; Some, though about their paths, their beds about, Have never had the sense to find thee out: Others, who know of what they are possess'd, Like fearful misers, lock thee in a chest, Nor have the resolution to produce, In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use. Hail, Independence!--though thy name's scarce known, Though thou, alas! art out of fashion grown, 510 Though all despise thee, I will not despise, Nor live one moment longer than I prize Thy presence, and enjoy: by angry Fate Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam'st, though late, Thou cam'st upon me, like a second birth, And made me know what life was truly worth. Hail, Independence!--never may my cot, Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot: Thither, oh! thither, oftentimes repair; Cotes,[325] whom thou lovest too, shall meet thee there. 520 All thoughts but what arise from joy give o'er, Peace dwells within, and law shall guard the door. O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door! What law? The law of England. To control and awe Those saucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb, Behold, in state, Administration come! Why, let her come, in all her terrors too; I dare to suffer all she dares to do. I know her malice well, and know her pride, I know her strength, but will not change my side. 530 This melting mass of flesh she may control With iron ribs--she cannot chain my soul. No--to the last resolved her worst to bear, I'm still at large, and independent there. Where is this minister? where is the band Of ready slaves, who at his elbow stand To hear, and to perform his wicked will? Why, for the first time, are they slow to ill? When some grand act 'gainst law is to be done, Doth ---- sleep; doth blood-hound ---- run 540 To L----, and worry those small deer, When he might do more precious mischief here? Doth Webb turn tail? doth he refuse to draw Illegal warrants, and to call them law? Doth ----, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford run, With that cold lump of unbaked dough, his son, And, his more honest rival Ketch to cheat, Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet? Believe it not; ---- is ---- still, And never sleeps, when he should wake to ill: 550 ---- doth lesser mischiefs by the by, The great ones till the term in _petto_ lie: ---- lives, and, to the strictest justice true, Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due. O my poor Country!--weak, and overpower'd By thine own sons--ate to the bone--devour'd By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred, Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed, With unavailing grief thy wrongs I see, And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee. 560 I grieve, but can't despair--for, lo! at hand Freedom presents a choice, but faithful band Of loyal patriots; men who greatly dare In such a noble cause; men fit to bear The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and Sense, Virtue and Knowledge, leagued with Eloquence, March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile Approves her honest sons, whilst down her cheek, As 'twere by stealth, (her heart too full to speak) 570 One tear in silence creeps, one honest tear, And seems to say, Why is not Granby[326] here?' O ye brave few, in whom we still may find A love of virtue, freedom, and mankind! Go forth--in majesty of woe array'd, See at your feet your Country kneels for aid, And, (many of her children traitors grown) Kneels to those sons she still can call her own; Seeming to breathe her last in every breath, She kneels for freedom, or she begs for death-- 580 Fly, then, each duteous son, each English chief, And to your drooping parent bring relief. Go forth--nor let the siren voice of Ease Tempt ye to sleep, whilst tempests swell the seas; Go forth--nor let Hypocrisy, whose tongue With many a fair, false, fatal art is hung, Like Bethel's fawning prophet, cross your way, When your great errand brooks not of delay; Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all she meets, Trembling and pale, 'A lion in the streets,' 590 Damp your free spirits; let not threats affright, Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight: Be as one man--concord success ensures-- There's not an English heart but what is yours. Go forth--and Virtue, ever in your sight, Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night-- Go forth--the champions of your native land, And may the battle prosper in your hand-- It may, it must--ye cannot be withstood-- Be your hearts honest, as your cause is good! 600

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Footnotes:

[310] 'B----:' Bute.

[311] 'F----:' Fox.

[312] 'Grafton:' see Junius, _passim_.

[313] 'First:' Lyttelton.

[314] 'Archibald:' Archibald Bower, the infamous author of 'Lives of
the Popes,' patronised at first by Lyttelton, but detected and
exposed by Dr Douglas.

[315] 'Second:' Churchill himself.

[316] 'Hogarth:' here satirically represented as dead, lived four weeks
after this poem was published, and died nine days before Churchill.

[317] 'M----:' Melcombe.

[318] 'Wingate:' the purse-proud upstarts of the day are here
designated by the generic name of Wingate, an eminent arithmetician,
who lived early in the seventeenth century.

[319] 'Old Paul:' Paul Whitehead, a contemptible sycophant as well as
profligate.

[320] 'Willes:' Dr Edward Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells.

[321] 'Chancellor:' the Lord High Chancellor is intrusted with the
custody of all idiots and lunatics.

[322] 'Singlespeech:' the Right Honourable William Gerrard Hamilton.
See Boswell, who describes him as a man of great talent; others have
ascribed his single speech to the aid of Burke.

[323] 'Goy:' M. Pierre Goy, a Frenchman of brilliant accomplishments.

[324] 'Griffiths:' Ralph Griffiths, a bookseller, who, in 1749,
published the first number of the 'Monthly Review.'

[325] 'Cotes:' Humphrey Cotes, a staunch supporter of Wilkes.

[326] 'Granby:' the Marquis of Granby, in 1766, was appointed
Commander-in-Chief of all his Majesty's land forces in Great Britain.
See Junius.

THE JOURNEY.[327]

Some of my friends (for friends I must suppose All, who, not daring to appear my foes, Feign great good will, and, not more full of spite Than full of craft, under false colours fight), Some of my friends (so lavishly I print), As more in sorrow than in anger, hint (Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt) That I shall run my stock of genius out, My no great stock, and, publishing so fast, Must needs become a bankrupt at the last. 10 'The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil, Which, rich in disposition, pays his toil More than a hundredfold, which swells his store E'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er, By long Experience taught, who teaches best, Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest: The land, allow'd its losses to repair, Refresh'd, and full in strength, delights to wear A second youth, and to the farmer's eyes Bids richer crops, and double harvests rise. 20 'Nor think this practice to the earth confined, It reaches to the culture of the mind. The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear, Though next in power to God's, continual care. Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown) Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down, And fallow'd well: had Churchill known but this, Which the most slight observer scarce could miss, He might have flourish'd twenty years or more, Though now, alas! poor man! worn out in four.'[328] 30 Recover'd from the vanity of youth, I feel, alas! this melancholy truth, Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend, And am, if not too late, resolved to mend, Resolved to give some respite to my pen, Apply myself once more to books and men; View what is present, what is past review, And, my old stock exhausted, lay in new. For twice six moons (let winds, turn'd porters, bear This oath to Heaven), for twice six moons, I swear, 40 No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay, Nor draw me from Improvement's thorny way. Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend, Who, in my hearing, shall a rhyme commend. It cannot be--whether I will, or no, Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow. Convinced, determined, I in prose begin, But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in, And taints me through and through; by this good light, In verse I talk by day, I dream by night! 50 If now and then I curse, my curses chime, Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme. E'en now I err, in spite of Common Sense, And my confession doubles my offence. Rest then, my friends;--spare, spare your precious breath, And be your slumbers not less sound than death; Perturbed spirits rest, nor thus appear, To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear; On your grave lessons I cannot subsist, Nor even in verse become economist. 60 Rest then, my friends; nor, hateful to my eyes, Let Envy, in the shape of Pity, rise To blast me ere my time; with patience wait, ('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate Shall glut your pride, and every son of phlegm Find ample room to censure and condemn. Read some three hundred lines (no easy task, _But probably the last that I shall ask_), And give me up for ever; wait one hour, Nay not so much, revenge is in your power, 70 And ye may cry, ere Time hath turn'd his glass, Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass. Let those, who poetry in poems claim, Or not read this, or only read to blame; Let those who are by Fiction's charms enslaved, Return me thanks for half-a-crown well saved; Let those who love a little gall in rhyme Postpone their purchase now, and call next time; Let those who, void of Nature, look for Art, Take up their money, and in peace depart; 80 Let those who energy of diction prize, For Billingsgate quit Flexney,[329] and be wise: Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force, Mean are the words, and such as come of course; The subject not less simple than the lay; A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a Day. Far from me now be every tuneful maid, I neither ask, nor can receive their aid. Pegasus turn'd into a common hack, Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track, 90 Nor would I have the Sisters of the hill Behold their bard in such a dishabille. Absent, but only absent for a time, Let them caress some dearer son of Rhyme; Let them, as far as decency permits, Without suspicion, play the fool with wits, 'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule, Wits are safe things; there's danger in a fool. Let them, though modest, Gray more modest woo; Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo; 100 Let them with Franklin,[330] proud of some small Greek, Make Sophocles, disguised, in English speak; Let them, with Glover,[331] o'er Medea doze; Let them, with Dodsley, wail Cleone's[332] woes, Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears, Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers; Let them, with simple Whitehead[333] taught to creep Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep; Let them with Browne,[334] contrive, no vulgar trick, To cure the dead, and make the living sick; 110 Let them, in charity, to Murphy give Some old French piece, that he may steal and live; Let them with antic Foote, subscriptions get, And advertise a summer-house of wit. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed; I on my Journey all alone proceed. If fashionable grown, and fond of power, With humorous Scots let them disport their hour, 120 Let them dance, fairy like, round Ossian's tomb; Let them forge lies and histories for Hume; Let them with Home, the very prince of verse, Make something like a tragedy in Erse; Under dark Allegory's flimsy veil, Let them, with Ogilvie,[335] spin out a tale Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure, Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth; With every pert, prim prettiness of youth, 130 Born of false taste, with Fancy (like a child Not knowing what it cries for) running wild, With bloated style, by Affectation taught, With much false colouring, and little thought, With phrases strange, and dialect decreed By Reason never to have pass'd the Tweed, With words, which Nature meant each other's foe, Forced to compound whether they will or no; With such materials, let them, if they will, To prove at once their pleasantry and skill, 140 Build up a bard to war 'gainst Common Sense, By way of compliment to Providence; Let them, with Armstrong[336], taking leave of Sense, Read musty lectures on Benevolence, Or con the pages of his gaping Day, Where all his former fame was thrown away, Where all, but barren labour, was forgot, And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot; Let them, with Armstrong, pass the term of light, But not one hour of darkness: when the night 150 Suspends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes, When for our past misdoings, Conscience takes A deep revenge, when, by Reflection led, She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead, Let every Muse be gone; in vain he turns, And tries to pray for sleep; an Aetna burns, A more than Aetna, in his coward breast, And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him rest: Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing, His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring; 160 Ingratitude hath planted daggers there No good man can deserve, no brave man bear. Thus, or in any better way they please, With these great men, or with great men like these, Let them their appetite for laughter feed; I on my Journey all alone proceed.

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[327] 'Journey:' a posthumous publication.

[328] 'In four:' he did not complete the fourth.

[329] 'Flexney.' the publisher of his poems.

[330] 'Franklin:' Dr Franklin, author of a translation of Sophocles.

[331] 'Glover:' Dr Glover in his tragedy of Medea.

[332] 'Cleone:' a tragedy by Robert Dodsley.

[333] 'Whitehead:' Whitehead dedicated his 'School for Lovers' to the
memory of Fontenelle.

[334] 'Browne:' 'The Cure of Saul,' a sacred ode by Dr Browne, was set
to music.

[335] 'Ogilvie:' John Ogilvie, A.M., was the author of 'Providence,' an
allegorical poem.

[336] 'Armstrong:' Dr John Armstrong, author of that beautiful poem,
'The Art of Preserving Health,' also of one entitled 'Day,' in which he
reflected on Churchill, who had been his friend.

DEDICATION

To Churchill's Sermons.

The manuscript of this unfinished poem was found among the few papers
Churchill left behind him.

Health to great Glo'ster!--from a man unknown, Who holds thy health as dearly as his own, Accept this greeting--nor let modest fear Call up one maiden blush--I mean not here To wound with flattery; 'tis a villain's art, And suits not with the frankness of my heart. Truth best becomes an orthodox divine, And, spite of Hell, that character is mine: To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear; But truth, my lord, is panegyric here. 10 Health to great Glo'ster!--nor, through love of ease, Which all priests love, let this address displease. I ask no favour, not one _note_ I crave, And when this busy brain rests in the grave, (For till that time it never can have rest) I will not trouble you with one bequest. Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done, More near in blood, a nephew or a son, In that dread hour executor I'll leave, For I, alas! have many to receive; 20 To give, but little.--To great Glo'ster health! Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth Here take a false alarm--in purse though poor, In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure The mention of a bribe--thy pocket's free: I, though a dedicator, scorn a fee. Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share; I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir. Think not,--a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, 30 Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine,-- Think not that pomp and power can work on mine. 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state, 'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art, 'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart. State is a farce; names are but empty things, Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings, Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, 40 Unless set off by virtue; who deceives Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves Enhances guilt, commits a double sin; So fair without, and yet so foul within. 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene, Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart The force of Love, and point his blunted dart; 50 'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made An index to thy soul; though there display'd We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within; 'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine, Around our heads no lineal glories shine-- But what is birth,--when, to delight mankind, Heralds can make those arms they cannot find, When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown, A whole Welsh genealogy alone? 60 No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth, Thy right just estimation here on earth, Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd, And flowing from that wholesome source, thy mind; Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod, Thy charity for man, thy love of God, Thy faith in Christ, so well approved 'mongst men, Which now give life and utterance to my pen. Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays; 'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint, I praise: 70 Raised by that theme, I soar on wings more strong, And burst forth into praise withheld too long. Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep Which, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep,-- Ordain'd, alas! to keep, through need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice, Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, Which stray'd themselves, yet grieved that I should stray; Those sheep which my good father (on his bier Let filial duty drop the pious tear) 80 Kept well, yet starved himself, e'en at that time Whilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme, Whilst, sacred Dulness ever in my view, Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,-- Much did I wish, though little could I hope, A friend in him who was the friend of Pope. His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide, And lead me safe where thousands fall beside; His temper, his experience, shall control, And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; 90 His judgment teach me, from the critic school, How not to err, and how to err by rule; Instruct me, mingle profit with delight, Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspeare was not right; Where they are justly praised, and where, through whim, How little's due to them, how much to him. Raised 'bove the slavery of common rules, Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools, Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all, Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, 100 He by his great example might impart A better something, and baptize it Art; He, all the feelings of my youth forgot, Might show me what is taste by what is not; By him supported, with a proper pride, I might hold all mankind as fools beside; He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown, Explode his maxims and assert their own) Might teach me, like himself, to be content, And let their folly be their punishment; 110 Might, like himself, teach his adopted son, 'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton. Fool that I was! could I so much deceive My soul with lying hopes? could I believe That he, the servant of his Maker sworn, The servant of his Saviour, would be torn From their embrace, and leave that dear employ, The cure of souls, his duty and his joy, For toys like mine, and waste his precious time, On which so much depended, for a rhyme? 120 Should he forsake the task he undertook, Desert his flock, and break his pastoral crook? Should he (forbid it, Heaven!) so high in place, So rich in knowledge, quit the work of grace, And, idly wandering o'er the Muses' hill, Let the salvation of mankind stand still? Far, far be that from thee--yes, far from thee Be such revolt from grace, and far from me The will to think it--guilt is in the thought-- Not so, not so, hath Warburton been taught, 130 Not so learn'd Christ. Recall that day, well known, When (to maintain God's honour, and his own) He call'd blasphemers forth; methinks I now See stern Rebuke enthroned on his brow, And arm'd with tenfold terrors--from his tongue, Where fiery zeal and Christian fury hung, Methinks I hear the deep-toned thunders roll, And chill with horror every sinner's soul, In vain they strive to fly--flight cannot save. And Potter trembles even in his grave-- 140 With all the conscious pride of innocence, Methinks I hear him, in his own defence, Bear witness to himself, whilst all men knew, By gospel rules his witness to be true. O glorious man! thy zeal I must commend, Though it deprived me of my dearest friend; The real motives of thy anger known, Wilkes must the justice of that anger own; And, could thy bosom have been bared to view, Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you. 150 Bred to the law, you wisely took the gown, Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down; Hence double strength our Holy Mother drew, Me she got rid of, and made prize of you. I, like an idle truant fond of play, Doting on toys, and throwing gems away, Grasping at shadows, let the substance slip; But you, my lord, renounced attorneyship With better purpose, and more noble aim, And wisely played a more substantial game: 160 Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger son, For Mansfield does what Glo'ster would have done. Doctor! Dean! Bishop! Glo'ster! and My Lord! If haply these high titles may accord With thy meek spirit; if the barren sound Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round Of Fortune's ladder got, despise not one For want of smooth hypocrisy undone, Who, far below, turns up his wondering eye, And, without envy, sees thee placed so high: 170 Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might) Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height, Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill And wonted powers of knowing good from ill, Of sifting truth from falsehood, friends from foes; Let Glo'ster well remember how he rose, Nor turn his back on men who made him great; Let him not, gorged with power, and drunk with state, Forget what once he was, though now so high, How low, how mean, and full as poor as I. 180

* * * * *

_Caetera desunt_.

* * * * *

LINES WRITTEN IN WINDSOR PARK.

These verses appeared with Churchill's name to them in the London
Magazine for 1763, and there is no reason to doubt their being
genuine.

When Pope to Satire gave its lawful way, And made the Nimrods of Mankind his prey; When haughty Windsor heard through every wood Their shame, who durst be great, yet not be good; Who, drunk with power, and with ambition blind, Slaves to themselves, and monsters to mankind, Sinking the man, to magnify the prince, Were heretofore, what Stuarts have been since: Could he have look'd into the womb of Time, How might his spirit in prophetic rhyme, 10 Inspired by virtue, and for freedom bold, Matters of different import have foretold! How might his Muse, if any Muse's tongue Could equal such an argument, have sung One William,[337] who makes all mankind his care, And shines the saviour of his country there! One William, who to every heart gives law; The son of George, the image of Nassau!

* * * * *

Footnotes:

[337] 'William:' Duke of Cumberland--the Whig hero.

* * * * *

THE END.