Chapter V: Act THE THIRD: SCENE, as before

FIRST PRIEST.

_Recitative._

Yes, my companions, Heaven’s decrees are past,
And our fix’d empire shall for ever last:
In vain the madd’ning prophet threatens woe--
In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow;
Still shall our name and growing power be spread,
And still our justice crush the traitor’s head.

_Air._

Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall,
Till ruin shakes all;
With the ruin of all,
Then shall Babylon fall.

FIRST PROPHET.

_Recitative._

’Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head--
A little while, and all her power is fled.
But, ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That onward slowly bends along the plain?
And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear
A pallid corse, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace
The last remains of Judah’s royal race:
Fall’n is our king, and all our fears are o’er;
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more.

_Air._

Ye wretches who, by fortune’s hate,
In want and sorrow groan--
Come, ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.

Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend;
Like yours, his life began in pride;
Like his, your lives may end.

SECOND PROPHET.

_Recitative._

Behold his wretched corse, with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs which shook with ghastly glare,
Those ill-becoming rags, that matted hair.
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe,
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low?
How long, how long, Almighty Lord of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!

ISRAELITISH WOMAN.

_Air._

As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray;
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter’s way:

Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest,
For streams of mercy long;
Streams which can cheer the sore-opprest,
And overwhelm the strong.

FIRST PROPHET.

_Recitative._

But, whence that shout? Good heavens! Amazement all!
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall:
Behold, an army covers all the ground;
’Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round:
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along--
How low the great, how feeble are the strong!
And now, behold, the battlements recline--
O God of hosts, the victory is Thine!

CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.

Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust--
Thy vengeance be begun;
Serve her as she hath serv’d the just:
And let Thy will be done.

FIRST PRIEST.

_Recitative._

All, all is lost! The Syrian army fails;
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails!
Save us, O Lord! to Thee, though late, we pray;
And give repentance but an hour’s delay.

SECOND PRIEST.

_Air._

Thrice happy, who in happy hour
To Heaven their praise bestow,
And own His all-consuming power
Before they feel the blow!

FIRST PROPHET.

_Recitative._

Now, now’s our time! ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind;
Ye seek in vain the Lord, unsought before--
Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom, are no more!

_Air._

O Lucifer! thou son of morn,
Of Heaven alike and man the foe--
Heaven, men, and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.

FIRST PROPHET.

O Babylon! how art thou fallen--
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
Thy streets forlorn
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey!

SECOND PROPHET.

_Recitative._

Such be her fate! But, hark! how from afar
The clarion’s note proclaims the finish’d war!
Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand,
And this way leads his formidable band.

Now give your songs of Zion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind:
He comes, pursuant to Divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free.

CHORUS OF YOUTHS.

Rise to raptures past expressing,
Sweeter from remember’d woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose.

CHORUS OF VIRGINS.

Cyrus comes, the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain.

SEMI-CHORUS.

Hail to him, with mercy reigning,
Skill’d in every peaceful art;
Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart.

THE LAST CHORUS.

But chief to Thee, our God, our Father, Friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end--
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee!

AN EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.]

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Ne’er rang’d in a forest, or smok’d in a platter:
The haunch was a picture for painters to study--
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of _virtù_;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;--
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold--let me pause--Don’t I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce--sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it’s no bounce: I protest in my turn,
It’s a truth--and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.[8]

To go on with my tale--as I gaz’d on the Haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch--
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose;
’Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe’s[9]--
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when:
There’s Coley,[10] and Williams, and H----rth, and Hiff--
I think they love ven’son--I know they love beef;
There’s my countryman, Higgins--Oh! let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But, hang it--to poets, who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton ’s a very good treat;
Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt,
It’s like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, enter’d;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,
And he smil’d as he look’d at the venison and me.
“What have we got here?--Why, this is good eating!
Your own, I suppose--or is it in waiting?”
“Why, whose should it be, sir?” cried I, with a flounce;
“I get these things often”--but that was a bounce:
“Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleas’d to be kind--but I hate ostentation.”

“If that be the case, then,” cried he, very gay,
“I’m glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me:
No words--I insist on’t--precisely at three.
We’ll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight, or I’d ask my Lord Clare.
And now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you?--a pasty?--it shall, and it must;
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter!--this venison with me to Mile End;
No stirring, I beg--my dear friend--my dear friend!”
Thus snatching his hat, he brush’d off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow’d behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And “nobody with me at sea but myself;”[11]
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never dislik’d in my life--
Though clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife;
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.

When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber’d closet, just twelve feet by nine)--
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
“For I knew it,” he cried, “both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t’ other with Thrale.
But no matter, I’ll warrant we’ll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They ’re both of them merry, and authors, like you;
The one writes the _Snarler_, the other the _Scourge_;
Some think he writes _Cinna_--he owns to _Panurge_.”
While thus he describ’d them by trade and by name,
They enter’d, and dinner was serv’d as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty--was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it’s my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round.
But what vex’d me most was that d--d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue;
And, “Madam,” quoth he, “may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,
But I’ve eat of your tripe till I’m ready to burst.”
“The tripe,” quoth the Jew, “if the truth I may speak,
I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week;
I like these here dinners so pretty and small--
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.”
“Oh, oh!” quoth my friend, “he’ll come on in a trice--
He’s keeping a corner for something that’s nice.
There’s a Pasty”--“A Pasty!” repeated the Jew;
“I don’t care if I keep a corner for ’t too.”
“What the De’il, mon, a Pasty!” re-echoed the Scot;
“Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for that.”
“We’ll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out;
“We’ll all keep a corner,” was echo’d about.
While thus we resolv’d, and the Pasty delay’d,
With looks that quite petrified, enter’d the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak’d Priam, in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out--for who could mistake her?--
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus--but let similes drop--
And now that I think on’t, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it’s but labour misplac’d,
To send such good verses to one of your taste.
You’ve got an odd something--a kind of discerning--
A relish--a taste--sicken’d over by learning;
At least, it’s your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that’s your own;
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Lord Clare’s nephew.

[9] Miss Dorothy Monroe.

[10] Colman.

[11] From a letter of the Duke of Cumberland.

Of old, when Scarròn[12] his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord supplies us with beef, and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself--and he brings the best dish;
Our Dean[13] shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke[14] shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will[15] shall be wild-fowl, of excellent flavour;
And Dick[16] with his pepper shall heighten their savour;
Our Cumberland’s[17] sweet-bread its place shall obtain;
And Douglas[18] is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick’s[19] a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree;
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge[20] is anchovy, and Reynolds[21] is lamb;
That Hickey’s[22] a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who’d not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I’m able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.

Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mix’d reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth;
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt--
At least, in six weeks I could not find them out;
Yet some have declar’d, and it can’t be denied them,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide them.

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow’d his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend[23] to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit:
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient;
And too fond of the _right_, to pursue the _expedient_.
In short, ’twas his fate, unemploy’d, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne’er knew half the good that was in ’t;
The pupil of impulse, it forc’d him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam--
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.

Here lies honest Richard,[24] whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest--and now breaking a limb;
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball;
Now teasing and vexing--yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish’d him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish’d to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine!
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleas’d with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that mainly directing his view
To find out men’s virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas[25] retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines--
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines!
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear’d for your safety, I fear’d for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds[26] shall be pious, our Kenricks[27] shall lecture--
Macpherson[28] write bombast, and call it a style--
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile;
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick--describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man:
As an actor, confess’d without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings--a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster’d with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
’Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn’d and he varied full ten times a day;
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas’d he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow’d what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till, his relish grown callous almost to disease,
Who pepper’d the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind--
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,[29] and Woodfalls[30] so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you rais’d,
While he was be-Roscius’d, and you were be-prais’d!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspere receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish’d his friend, and he relish’d a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask, if the man was a miser?
I answer, no, no--for he always was wiser;
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can’t accuse him of that;
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye!
He was--could he help it?--a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid; and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part--
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg’d without skill, he was still hard of hearing;
When they talk’d of their Raphaels, Coreggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,[31] and only took snuff.

Here Whitefoord[32] reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily liv’d, he is now a _grave_ man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun--
Who relish’d a joke, and rejoic’d in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere--
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter’d around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily _bon mots_ half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confin’d;
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content “if the table he set in a roar;”--
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall[33] confess’d him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes:
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it--you can do no less--
_Cross-readings_, _Ship-news_, and _Mistakes of the Press_.[34]

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit:
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse--
“Thou best-humour’d man, with the worst-humour’d muse.”

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Paul Scarròn, a popular French writer, who died in 1660.

[13] Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland.

[14] Edmund Burke.

[15] Mr. William Burke, secretary to General Conway.

[16] Mr. Richard Burke.

[17] Richard Cumberland, author of “The West Indian,” and other dramatic pieces.

[18] Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and Bishop of Salisbury.

[19] David Garrick, the actor.

[20] An Irish barrister.

[21] Sir Joshua Reynolds.

[22] An eminent attorney.

[23] Thomas Townshend, Member for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney.

[24] Richard Burke had broken a leg, about seven years before this poem was written.

[25] Douglas had vindicated Milton from the insolence of Lauder, ingeniously refuted the cavils of Hume, and exposed Bower.

[26] The Rev. Dr. Dodd.

[27] Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures, under the title of “The School of Shakspere.”

[28] James Macpherson, the translator of Ossian.

[29] Hugh Kelly, author of “False Delicacy,” “School for Wives,” &c.

[30] Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the _Morning Chronicle_.

[31] Sir Joshua Reynolds used an ear-trumpet in company.

[32] Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. He was so fond of punning, that Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to be in his company without being infected with the disorder.

[33] Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the _Public Advertiser_.

[34] Mr. Whitefoord contributed papers on these subjects to the _Public Advertiser_.

A TALE]

Secluded from domestic strife,
Jack Book-Worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke,
And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.

Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arriv’d at thirty-six?
Oh! had the Archer ne’er come down
To ravage in a country town;
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop!
Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.
Oh!--but let exclamation cease;
Her presence banish’d all his peace!
So, with decorum all things carried,
Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was--married.

The honey-moon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports, too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss;
The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:
But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay--
Found half the charms that deck’d her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain’d behind--
That very face had robb’d her mind.

Skill’d in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace--
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain-lectures bring
To decency so fine thing?
In short--by night, ’twas fits or fretting;
By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder’d coxcombs at her levee;
The ’squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations.
Jack suck’d his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass’d between
Insulting repartee or spleen.

Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown:
He fancies every vice she shows
Or thins her lip, or points her nose;
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz--
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,
As each a different way pursues--
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promis’d to hold them on for life--
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty’s transient flower,
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell’d its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a--perfect fright.
Each former art she vainly tries,
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her pastes and creams,
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams:
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The ’squire himself was seen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemn’d to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old.
With modesty her cheeks are dy’d;
Humility displaces pride:
For tawdry finery is seen,
A person ever neatly clean:
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day:
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a--perfect beauty.

IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make,
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver--
Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give; and let them:
If gems or gold impart a joy,
I’ll give them--when I get them.

I’ll give--but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud, more in fashion--
Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose
A transitory passion--

I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I’ll give thee--ah! too charming maid,
I’ll give thee to the devil!

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

Logicians have but ill defin’d
As rational, the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man--
But let them prove it, if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,[35]
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
_Homo est ratione præditum_--
But for my soul I cannot credit ’em:
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain,
And that this boasted child of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature--
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason--boasting mortals’ pride,
And that brute beasts are far before ’em:
_Deus est anima brutorum._
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute;
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who’s in or out at court:
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace;
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;[36]
Fraught with invective they ne’er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No jugglers, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others’ throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess’d, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators:
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters,
Their masters’ manners still contract--
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike--for all ape all.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] Smiglecius, a native of Poland, wrote a Treatise on Logic, which Goldsmith had probably seen at the University.

[36] Sir Robert Walpole.

]

Good people of all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there lived a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene’er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found:
As many dogs there be--
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran;
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem’d both sore and sad
To every christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show’d the rogues they lied--
The man recover’d of the bite;
The dog it was that died.

FOOTNOTES:

[37] “‘My brother Dick,’ cried Bill, my youngest, ‘is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I’ll sing them for you, Papa. Which song do you choose, the Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the Mad Dog?’ ‘The Elegy, child, by all means,’ said I: ‘I never heard that yet.’”--VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, Chap. XVII.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS,

THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.[38]