BIBLIOTHECA: A POEM. OCCASIONED BY THE SIGHT OF A MODERN LIBRARY. WITH SOME VERY USEFUL EPISODES AND DIGRESSIONS.
[20]BIBLIOTHECA*.
[19]—Ridiculum acri
" Fortius et melius magnas plerunque ſecat res.
"—Utile dulci."
HOR.
To the moſt noble Prince HENRY, Duke of Beaufort, Marquis and Earl of Worceſter, Earl of Glamorgan, Baron Herbert, Lord of Chepſtow, Ragland, and Gower; and the illuſtrious Brotherhood
†, over which his Grace preſides; this POEM is humbly dedicated, by their moſt obedient, moſt dutiful, and humble ſervant.
THE tea was ſipp'd, Ocella gone
To regulate affairs alone;
When, from the marriage lumber freed,
The Doctor with himſelf decreed
To nod—or, much the ſame, to read.
He always ſeem'd a wondrous lover
Of painted leaf, and Turky cover,
[21]While no regard at all was had
To ſots in homely ruſſet clad,
Concluding he muſt be within
A calf, that wore without his ſkin.
Scott
†, if in rags, was not admir'd,
While Lacy
‡ ſeem'd as much inſpir'd,
And, in rich purple nicely dreſt,
Diſcours'd as ſaintly as the beſt.
[22]Great Sherlock, Barrow, and thoſe few
That teach our paſſions to ſubdue,
Without gilt backs he would deſpiſe,
Which ſeem'd at beſt but dully wiſe:
And Bunyan's Pilgrim ſhew'd the way
To Paradiſe as well as they.
But, though his thoughts were fix'd to read,
The treatiſe was not yet decreed:
Uncertain to devote the day
To politicks, or elſe to play;
What theme would beſt his genius ſuit,
Grave morals, or a dull diſpute,
Where both contending champions boaſt
The victory, which neither loſt;
As Chiefs are oft in ſtory read,
Each to purſue, when neither fled
*.
He enters now the ſhining dome
Where crouded authors ſweat for room;
So cloſe, a man could hardly ſay
Which were more fixt, the ſhelves, or they.
Each with his golden title tells
Its author's name, and where he dwells;
And, to enlarge his credit more,
Directs us to his very door;
Boaſting of wonders to be ſeen,
If we have faith to look, within.
To pleaſe the eye, the higheſt ſpace
A fett of wooden volumes grace;
Pure timber authors, that contain
As much as ſome that boaſt a brain;
[23]That Alma Mater never view'd,
Without degrees to writers hew'd:
Yet ſolid thus juſt emblems ſhew
Of the dull brotherhood below,
Smiling their rivals to ſurvey,
As great and real blocks as they.
Diſtinguiſh'd then in even rows,
Here ſhines the Verſe, and there the Proſe;
(For, though Britannia fairer looks
United, 'tis not ſo with books:)
The champions of each different art
Had ſtations all aſſign'd apart,
Fearing the rival chiefs might be
For quarrels ſtill, nor dead agree.
The Schoolmen firſt in long array
Their bulky lumber round diſplay;
Seem'd to lament their wretched doom,
And heave for more convenient room;
While doctrine each of weight contains
To crack his ſhelves as well as brains;
Since all with him were thought to dream,
That flagg'd before they fill'd a rheam:
His authors wiſely taught to prize,
Not for their merit, but their ſize;
No ſurer method ever found
Than buying writers by the pound;
For Heaven muſt needs his breaſt inſpire,
That ſcribbling fill'd each month a quire,
And claim'd a ſtation on his ſhelves,
Who ſcorn'd each ſot who fool'd in twelves.
[24]Say, Goddeſs! thou that tak'ſt delight
To live and lodge with folks that write;
What numbers juſtly may deſcribe
The orders of the learned tribe?
Fierce wits, that long at variance ſtood,
And drew much ink, but little blood,
Each other's pardon now implore,
The cudgels drop, and ſnarl no more;
And, filling now the ſelf-ſame place,
No longer combat, but embrace.
Here vanquiſh'd Bentley, dreading ſtill
The force of Boyle's victorious quill,
All ſuppliant now, devoutly ſwore
He ne'er would queſtion Aeſop more,
But own each page authentic ſtood
Some centuries before the flood;
Who, though the tyrant's bull of braſs
Did for a mighty wonder paſs,
On purpoſe wrote, to have it known
He made much bigger of his own
*.
Maurus
† and Garth their feuds ſurvive,
And here in endleſs friendſhip live;
Kindly concording, now impart
Their healing power and rhyming art;
Unrival'd heroes both confeſt,
To cloſe a life, or break a jeſt,
And
bath with
both Apollo 's
‡ bleſt.
[25]But who can mention Maurus' name,
Without a line to crown his fame;
Upon whoſe brows inſpiring hung
Large poppy wreaths, whene'er he ſung,
Whoſe kindred rhymes their nature keep,
Gently diſpoſing folks to ſleep?
Then ſay, great Mirror of our Time,
(Not half ſo fam'd for cures as rhyme)
Why ſhould'ſt thou other means purſue
To heal with drugs, when verſe will do?
Five tender diſtichs, from thoſe ſtrains
Where Arthur moans, and Job complains,
Shall ever boaſt a power to ſteep
The wakeful'ſt eyes in downy ſleep.
When ſtrongeſt opiates nought avail,
Preſcribe thy Muſe, 'twill never fail;
Ne'er trouble phyſick with a cure,
Each page of thine will work as ſure;
With whatſoever ills oppreſt,
'Tis ſure to give thy patient reſt.
See next the Mantuan Bard appears,
And in his hand th' Aeneid bears;
Ten thouſand laurels, round him ſpread,
Bloom ready to adorn his head,
Their greens too languid to beſtow
That fame which to his verſe we owe.
Such magick fills each heavenly line,
We read, and reading grow divine;
Conſcious we feel the extacy,
And ſeem inſpir'd as well as he;
[26]With him we ſoaring gain the ſkies,
Yet know not whence or how we riſe.
But ſee what clouds of ſullen woe
Sadly obſcure his laurel'd brow!
While the bright glory, that ſurrounds
His ſacred head, his ſorrow drowns;
In vain the weeping Muſe eſſays
To eaſe his grief with proffer'd bays;
Though, fam'd beyond the ſtarry ſky,
She vow'd th' Aeneid ne'er ſhould die!
But, while we thus his grief explore,
Oh! view the cauſe, nor wonder more:
See, cloſely fixt on either hand,
His two tranſlators
* near him ſtand,
Oblig'd to hear them both rehearſe
His wondrous ſong in doggrel verſe;
Thus doom'd to all ſucceeding times
To gingle in dull Britiſh rhymes.
" He never thought, great bard! to ſee
" His Roman ladies ſipping tea,
" Divine Lavinia taking ſnuff,
" Or grave Aeneas charge in buff,
" Againſt his Latian foes advance
" With muſket now, inſtead of launce;
" While mighty Turnus owes his fall
" Not to a javelin, but a ball;
" Shot through the belly in the fray,
" Expiring a genteeler way."
[27]Had Withers, Shirley, or the good
Laureat of Cambridge near him ſtood;
No wrinkle had been ſeen, nay more,
Even R—ll's ſelf he could have bore
(Where Nature, taking wondrous pains
To furniſh guts, ne'er thought of brains):
But doom'd to periſh by a foe,
Yet hug the arm that gave the blow;
A fate was look'd on too ſevere
For Heaven to fix, or him to bear.
So much unlike appear'd their ſtrains
To thoſe he ſung on Lat [...]an plains
(Begging their readers to diſpenſe
With pretty cuts inſtead of ſenſe),
That from thoſe lines their pencil drew,
Scarce his own ſelf great Maro knew;
Till honeſt Loggan
* let him ſee
In copper-plates it muſt be he;
No longer then he could refuſe,
But from the cuts confeſs'd the Muſe.
Oh! who can view without a tear
Great Pindar's Muſe, and D'Urfey near?
Whoſe ſoaring wit ne'er higher flew
Than to endite for Barthol'mew,
Setting, for ſots at country fairs,
Dull bawdy ſongs to Purcell's airs;
But here how ſweetly they combine,
Their fancies club, and numbers join!
[28]While the bold Grecian nobly ſings
Of gods, of heroes, and of kings,
And ſomething more than mortal fire
Exalts his voice, and warms his lyre,
That, fir'd with each tranſporting page,
We feel his heat, and catch his rage;
While each immortal warrior's name
His Muſe tranſmits to deathleſs fame,
Green wreaths upon their hearſe beſtows,
And every wound immortal grows!
But much, oh! very much below
Our meek Pindaricks gently flow,
In ſoft and eaſy metre creep,
And juſt oblige us not to ſleep,
While lovers ſtorm, and heroes weep.
Let thy dull Pegaſus no more
To Lyric ſong attempt to ſoar;
Nor with thy weight preſume to riſe,
With rival ſtrength, above the ſkies,
Which trots much better than he flies.
Let Pindar's Muſe record the flames
Of heavenly nymphs, celeſtial dames;
Be thou content to whine, and tell
How Strephon charm'd, and Phyllis fell,
Or with that willow grace thy ſong,
Where late deſpairing Chloe hung,
While the fad tree the ſtory owns,
Sprouting each May with ſighs and groans,
Which, fann'd with Zephyrs, never fail
To waft abroad the doleful tale,
[29]And ſhall to future times remain
Sacred to Love and Chloe ſlain.
Bright heroes in thy liſt ſhall ſtand,
In modern brunts that held command,
Whoſe bold adventures ſhall out-ſhine
The heroes all of Caeſar's line.
Brave Arthur and his daring crew
Shall kill each mother's ſon they view;
And great Pendragon's fatal blade
Convert each foe into a ſhade;
Guy for Alcides ſhall command,
And Highgate for Olympus ſtand.
See next, in purple ſeated high,
A dazzling Wit
* attracts the eye,
Inviting, with his radiant hue,
If not to read, at leaſt to view;
Though his dark lowering aſpect ſhews,
That Nature meant the fool for proſe;
To waſte his little ſenſe and time,
In broaching any thing but rhyme.
Yet by degrees the wretch aroſe
To trade in verſe, from vending hoſe
†;
And ſtill, in Nature's ſpite, thinks meet,
Though not in ſocks, to deal in feet.
The toothleſs ſatire that he writes
No other but its author bites
(Like thoſe miſtaken curs of yore
That for the ſtag their maſter tore);
[30]Where harmleſs pun and witty clinch
Mumble ſometimes, but never pinch;
And, aiming at a wound, are ſure
To give us ſmiles, and work our cure.
Hadſt thou no other damning crime,
Juſtice might fairly urge thy rhyme:
Heaven's votaries have ſtill pretence
To piety, at leaſt to ſenſe;
But villains dull as well as rude
A double juſtice muſt exclude.
If e'er thy ſins thou doſt rehearſe,
Be ſure in tears clap-in thy verſe;
Pardon for that with ſighs implore,
Confeſs thy guilt, and write no more;
Content to match thy fame with thoſe
That live, and [...] die, in proſe.
But, if no counſel can reclaim
Thy daring pen, and fancy tame,
That Engine
* view, where lately hung
Thy Muſe, and thee exalted ſung;
Let that at leaſt engage thy fears,
And drop thy pen, to ſave thy ears.
Oh, of what ſtrange and powerful uſe
Are pillories to inſpire a Muſe!
Hark, in what hymns and grateful lays,
The pendent bard reſounds their praiſe
[31]From rotten eggs, that round him flew,
His happy inſpirations drew,
Whoſe balmy ſcent inſpir'd his vein
To ſend them back in verſe again.
Oh, help, Apollo! now 's the time,
To, ſave thy ſon, for future rhyme!
See on his wooden throne diſmaid,
He, peeping through, implores thy aid,
The only time he ever pray'd;
And begs thee to relieve his wants,
In Helicon or kinder Nantes,
A liquor of as ſovereign uſe
As Aganippe's noble juice,
To raiſe and cheer his drooping Muſe!
See round his venerable head
Bright turnip greens for laurel ſpread!
The luſtre that his temples crown'd,
In ſable ſhowers of ordure drown'd.
Yet, Phoebus, let this wretch ſurvive,
Revenge thyſelf, and let him live!
(Ador'd by thoſe his ſaucy Muſe
In ſcoundrel ſatire durſt abuſe,
Where oft the ſtarving villain fed,
Cring'd for a groat, and fawn'd for bread)
Atoning thus for each offence
Committed againſt thee and ſenſe,
Till all the ſtuff the idiot wrote
Will ſcarce gain credit for a groat;
Till, ſtarv'd and rotting in a gaol;
He trucks his poetry for ale
[32](Too richly pay'd if his three parts
Will fetch him in as many quarts);
And ſhould his boaſted labours bring
But pence beſide to buy a ſtring,
Let him, th' experiment to try,
Swing his own "Shorteſt Way
*," and die!
Chaucer, the chief of all the throng
That whilom dealt in ancient ſong
(Whoſe laurel'd fame ſhall never ceaſe,
While Wit can charm, or Humour pleaſe),
Lies all in tatters on the ground,
With duſt inſtead of laurels crown'd;
Teaching mankind that Poets have
With vulgar Wits one common grave;
That all their boaſted labours muſt
Like other folks ſubmit to duſt;
Partake their fate the common way,
And verſe itſelf be turn'd to clay;
That none ſhall tell, while mix'd we lie,
Which mighty Spenſer was, which I;
Nor, in one common dungeon thruſt,
John Dryden's from John Bunyan's duſt;
Empty alike both ſkulls we view,
Of the ſame thickneſs, form, and hue;
Unknowing now which pate contains
The greater ſtock of ſenſe or brains;
While Bunyan here is every whit
As bright, and looks as like a wit;
[33]For the grim jaw of hungry Time
Has no regard at all for rhyme,
But bluntly down together mows
Wits fam'd for verſe, as well as profe;
Commanding oft the ſelf-ſame hearſe
To hide the poet and the verſe,
While ſweetly in one common fire
The labour and the bard expire.
This Tutchin
* found, whoſe works a while
With melting ſoftneſs charm'd our iſle;
But, when their dying lord withdrew,
They took the hint, and vaniſh'd too.
Thus Job
†, and thus the Britiſh Prince
†,
Were once, but never heard of ſince.
The Muſe that in immortal lays
So nobly ſung Eliza's praiſe,
(Extoll'd, beneath a fancy'd name,
No Fairy but a Britiſh dame)
With all his boaſted power to ſave
All other laurels from the grave,
In a dark corner rudely thrown,
Now wants a power to ſave his own;
Though Heaven itſelf his boſom fir'd,
And all the God his breaſt inſpir'd,
That Phoebus ſelf from Spenſer's Muſe
Might ſofter ſtrains and numbers chuſe;
Make Daphne liſten to his lay,
And force the flying nymph to ſtay!
[34]With all his wit deſerves no more,
Than a poor ſhelf behind the door;
His heroes in each warlike page
In hotter feuds muſt now engage;
And foes more dreadful here withſtand,
Than all they drubb'd in Fairy Land;
Regardleſs now of raviſh'd dame,
Each guards a cuſtard from the flame,
Though whilom they diſdain'd to lie
Beneath ſo weak an enemy.
Brave Gyon and Sir Britomart,
Inſtead of nymphs, protect a tart;
Though once averſe to warm deſire,
Are deſtin'd now to fall by fire;
All his brave chiefs in order fry,
And every warrior ſaves a pye.
Melodious Wither
* by himſelf,
In learned tatters, bends a ſhelf,
Though none ſo baſe as to diſpute
His title to a better ſuit;
He ſadly moans, expos'd to air,
His cover thin, and livery bare;
Grinning with envy to behold
His meaner rivals ſhine in gold.
Thy dying Muſe, when urg'd by fate,
Might ſure have claim'd to lie in ſtate;
Though living ſcorn'd, and never read,
Like other things, admir'd when dead:
[35]But ſee! ſhe hardly is allow'd,
Mingled among the common crowd,
The wretched honours of a ſhroud.
But both together muſt decay,
Kindly conſume and turn to clay;
No curious eye ſhall e'er preſume
To alter her appointed doom;
Her peaceful labours to moleſt,
But ſeal them up in endleſs reſt,
That ſleep allow her in the grave,
Which ſhe to all, when living, gave!
Cloſe by the door, if not behind,
Poor Ovid had a place aſſign'd;
And, in a muſty corner pent,
Begg'd for a ſecond baniſhment;
With all his wit, cloſe ramm'd between
Two rival bards of Aberdeen,
The firſt of all the northern clime
That turn'd adventurers in rhyme,
To teach mankind, and let them ſee
How zeal and verſe may well agree,
And that ſuch pious folks as they
Can rhyme ſometimes, as well as pray.
Inſtead of Aganippe's flood,
From Britiſh ſtreams each drank as good;
And boaſted hills as high as that
Where Phoebus and his Muſes ſat,
With this ſmall difference alone,
That had two heads, and ours but one!
Though no ſoft Tyber rolls along
To aid their verſe, and raiſe their ſong:
[36]Great Humber's ſtream, and Solway's tide,
As full of inſpiration glide;
With fancies fraught their waters flow,
And roll with raptures as they go!
Inſtead of Virgil's ſacred page,
That us'd his wonder to engage,
He now attends the rigid fights
Of doughty heroes, hardy knights,
One leg lopp'd off, that urg'd her foe
As fierce as when they fought on two!
For Turnus, great Argyll commands,
And Douglas for Aeneas ſtands;
Though Kincardin appear too long
To rhyme in verſe and Britiſh ſong,
What hero in the Latian Muſe
E'er ſounded half ſo big as Bruce!
Entail'd more glory on his race
Than his bold ſword in Chevy-chace!
Where doughty chiefs, renown'd for fight,
Obſcur'd the Roman valour quite;
Whoſe ſilly arms upon record
Were only vulgar pike and ſword,
While theſe with gun and piſtol found
A nearer way their foes to wound.
Behold the bard whoſe daring pen
The ſquabbles drew 'twixt Gods and men,
Alone upon a duſty ſhelf
Deſcribe their combats by himſelf;
For ages paſt no mortal ſight
Had once beheld the furious fight;
[37]None knowing if the champions ſtout
Engag'd in armour or without:
Whether the foe attack'd the wall
With battering ram, or iron ball,
How the fam'd Troy at length was won
With horſe of timber or of bone.
The weeping Queen of Beauty found
No reader to lament her wound;
And not a ſoul for years had read
Whoſe troops purſued, whoſe legions fled;
While Heaven's kind aid both ſides invoke,
How Jove himſelf receiv'd a ſtroke,
And, no celeſtial medicine found,
Took-up with balſam for his wound,
But, binding-on his plaiſter, ſwore
He ne'er would leave Olympus more,
Or peep from Heaven's ſecurer ſhades
To view again ſuch fighting blades,
Who, warring for ſo fair a prize,
Had no regard for Deities:
How Paris, free from hoſtile jars
Engag'd at home in ſofter wars;
Bade rival heroes ſtrive for fame,
In deathleſs annals write their name;
While bleſt with Helen's lovely eyes,
They ſhar'd the blows, and he the prize!
In Beauty's caufe his youth employ'd,
And, as they conquer'd, he enjoy'd.
Oh! who can thus unmov'd deſcry
The great Maeonian poorly lie;
[38]Entomb'd in duſt, nor on his hearſe
Kindly beſtow one grateful verſe!
Shall ſtates contend his birthright's fame,
And we not tremble at his name,
Our great arrears of duty pay,
And gratitude, as well as they;
Without a tear his heroes view,
New labours urge, new toils purſue,
More fatal far than all they bore
On fam'd Scamander's bleeding ſhore?
Great Priam in a kite aſcends,
And Hector's ſelf a caſement mends;
New trials for their valour find,
Inſtead of men, to combat wind;
The ſturdy Greek, whoſe hardy hide
Could ſtroaks of oak or ſteel abide,
And, worn inſtead of hardeſt buff,
Was deem'd both ſword and cudgel proof,
Is ſtrangely now ſurpriz'd to feel
More places mortal than his heel;
But heroes well ſuch ſlights may bear
When Gods themſelves no better fare!
Hermes, accuſtom'd to the ſkies,
Aloft in fiery rockets flies,
Swifter than when from Jove he flew
To bear ſome amorous billet-doux;
And warn the unexpecting dame
To dreſs before his highneſs came.
Phoebus, with all his luſtre bright,
Is trim'd to deck a Chriſtmas light
[](All other lights exceeding, far
As he himſelf out-ſhines a ſtar)
Till the bright God, that all things burns,
Flaming himſelf, to aſhes turns.
The mighty Mars, for all he looks
Fierce both in battles and in books,
Stript of his armour, on the floor
All peaceful lies, and ſtruts no more!
With Juno's wondrous witty ſpeech,
Ocella fairly wip'd her breech;
Her birth and godhead nought avail,
Preferr'd to jakes from madam's tail.
Gallus
*, whoſe numbers oft have charm'd
The coyeſt nymph, and coldeſt warm'd
(Doubly oblig'd to ſee and hear
The verſe ſo ſweet, and he ſo fair),
Is doom'd by too ſevere a fate
To ſing within an inch of Tate!
While both beneath the ſelf-ſame leather,
Like fair and foul in April weather,
Kindly concord, and rhyme together.
Thus have I often at a play,
Survey'd a nymph, profuſely gay,
With all the charms of nature grac'd,
Cloſe by ſome wrinkled beldam plac'd;
Oblig'd to hear the dowdy thing,
Her triumphs boaſt, and conqueſt ſing,
Whoſe breath the want of charms ſupplies,
And kills more certain than her eyes.
[]Oh! quickly, beauteous Queen of Love,
Thy ſuffering favourite hence remove;
With thy own hand thy darling bring
Where Addiſon and Congreve ſing
(By whoſe harmonious art and care
Thy matchleſs beauties ſhine more fair);
To Prior join his rival bays,
Or, liſtening to ſoft Cowley's lays,
Let him, intent on Waller's lyre,
To reach his daring flights aſpire;
To Heaven the wondrous Muſe purſue
With equal ſtrength and ſoftneſs too.
Hark, how thy Iſis' weeping ſhore
Pegins thy abſence to deplore!
And all her penſive nymphs in vain
Recal thee to her banks again;
No more their drooping heads they rear
Above their waves, thy ſong to hear,
While in their breaſt a double fire
Thy muſic and thy charms inſpire;
Then gently fall beneath the tide,
Their bluſhes and thy power to hide.
See how her ſwans their pride forego,
In murmuring ſighs confeſs their woe!
Stretch'd on their watery beds they lie,
And all their ooſy paſture fly;
No more with ſilver wings divide,
And downy breaſts, the parting tide,
As when with eager haſte they flew
Thy diſtant muſic to purſue,
[41]And, by thy voice inſtructed, try
To charm more ſoftly, as they die!
But, while great Beaufort's acts inſpire,
Demand his voice, and claim his lyre!
Bright to record the patriot's name,
In verſe, as laſting as his fame;
Thy ſmiling Thames forgets his woe,
Reſigns the Muſe, and bids her go,
Nobly to ſing, in deathleſs lays,
Her own, beneath the hero's praiſe.
Immortal Camden
* there complains,
Curſing a critick's uſeleſs pains;
In modern charms expos'd to view,
He ſcarce his own Britannia knew;
Adorn'd with wonders which his eye,
A lover's though, could never ſpy.
Here he beholds huge foreſts riſe
From Daniſh blood, and meet the ſkies;
While each complaining tree records
The fate of their unhappy lords:
There Elder weeps, from bleeding vein,
Great Sueno's fall, and Canute ſlain;
While winter-flowers, each rolling year,
Gay on their verdant ſtalks appear;
Bloom from the celebrated Thorn
†,
Mince-pies and windows to adorn,
Which ſome imagin'd, though untruly,
Not in December born, but July.
[42]See, drawn by his enchanting hand,
Britannia ſeems a Fairy Land;
Druids and Bards frequent each grove,
And nymphs in every thicket move:
To ſtreams and cooling ſhades retire,
Kindly to bleſs ſome gentle ſquire,
Unwilling yet too far to ſtray,
For fear of Satyrs in the way.
Spenſer, who ſent his chiefs ſo far
To purchaſe fame in feats of war,
Might here, not forc'd abroad to roam,
Have met with giants nearer home,
His heroes trembling to defy
Fierce Tudor or victorious Guy.
'Twas pity
* Sidney's fam'd deſign
So long, great ſage, preceded thine;
Philoclea elſe the crown had worn,
And Muſidorus here been born;
Cloſe by her vanquiſh'd lover's ſide
The fair Parthenia too had dy'd.
Thy every page preſents our ſight
With chiefs as brave, and dames as bright,
As in her fam'd Arcadian plain
Romantic Greece could ever feign;
And for the time to come ſhall ſtore us
With warriors great as Muſidorus,
And every grove oblige our ſight
With virgins as Pamela bright;
That, furniſh'd with fair rural dames,
Protecting ſquires, and lovers flames,
[43]We ne'er ſhall want a chief for fight,
While thou and great Cervantes write.
One day the Doctor, quite o'ercome
With luſcious tales of Greece and Rome,
Inſtead of taking tea or air,
Does to the female world repair;
To pleaſe himſelf among the fair
(Where if no ſenſe was to be found;
He's ſure to be oblig'd with ſound).
Sappho had ſoftneſs, but her ſong
Was jargon all in ſuch a tongue,
Requiring too much pains to ſeek,
And labour for her wit in Greek,
Which would have edify'd as much
Recorded in Chineſe or Dutch.
Dacier, though penn'd with ſo much eaſe,
Too much a critick, ſeem'd to pleaſe,
But, being courtly and well-bred,
And pleas'd with that he never read;
Smiling on every page ſhe writ,
Takes her on truſt to be a wit.
Italian dames his ears ſurprize
With harmony of O's and I's,
So ſoft the tender vowels chime,
No haſher ſenſe e'er marr'd the rhyme,
Of ſtrength depriv'd more gently flow,
And warble muſically low;
But, when his ſearching judgement found,
Neglecting ſenſe, they ſtudy'd ſound,
To Britiſh dames he next apply'd
For that which Greece and Rome deny'd,
[44]And ſought amidſt our tuneful fair
A ſong more grateful to his ear;
Where harmony with ſtrength conſpir'd
To make the verſe, and nymphs admir'd.
Wh—n
* the coldeſt breaſt might move,
But that ſhe talk'd too much of love!
Of burning flames and hot deſire,
That every line was red with fire.
Singer
†, by name and nature made
For muſic and the rhyming trade,
For her weak genius ſoar'd too high,
And loſt her Muſe above the ſky;
A flaming ſun, a radiant light,
In every verſe, diſtract our ſight,
Diffuſe their dazzling beams from far,
And not one line without a ſtar!
Through ſtreams of light we ſeem to rove,
And tread on ſhining orbs above.
Orinda
‡ next demands his view,
For titles fam'd, and rhyming too;
And had been read, but that her ſong,
To be admir'd, was quite too long.
[45]Their miſtreſs' want of pride to ſhew,
Her numbers glide but wondrous low,
Inſtead of rapture give us ſleep,
And, ſtriving to be humble, creep.
Philipps in verſe her paſſion told,
Intreats the youth to be leſs cold;
Begs him, while nature charms denies,
To mind her wit, and not her eyes;
Inſtructs the novice how to wooe,
And ſhews what little art will do,
A virgin's yielding heart to move,
And melt a breaſt inclin'd to love!
Softneſs her want of ſenſe ſupplies,
She faints in every line, and dies;
Again reſumes her tender ſtrain,
And only lives to dye again.
Unhappy maid, correct thy Muſe,
Some nearer way to wedlock chuſe:
She warbles with ſo ill a grace,
Thy airs are coarſer than thy face;
And will be found (believe me) ſtill
To frighten ten, for one they kill.
Dear Phyllis, then, leave-off in time,
Lovers are ne'er trepann'd by rhyme;
Thy bobbins or thy needle take,
Each will as deep impreſſions make;
And, to enjoy the youth's embrace,
Caſhier thy Muſe, and ſtick to lace.
A croud of other females paſt,
Whoſe fame for verſe ſhall ever laſt,
[46]While artleſs ſounds our ſoul diſarm,
And muſic, void of ſenſe, can charm.
Immortal Behn
* at laſt he ſpy'd,
" Hail, beauteous nymph! the lover cry'd,
See at your feet I proſtrate bow,
Neglecting every fair, for you;
Their worthleſs labours tumbling o'er
In haſte, your beauties to adore,
With your bright features, or your quill,
Arm'd with a double power to kill!"
But, as no mortal thing below
Can long ſurvive without a foe,
Here he beholds in triumph ſit
The bane
† of beauty, ſenſe, and wit;
Demoliſh'd diſtichs round his head,
Half lines and ſhatter'd ſtanza's ſpread,
While the inſulting conqueror climbs
O'er mighty heaps of ruin'd rhymes,
And, proudly mounted, views from high,
Beneath th' harmonious fragments lie;
Boaſting himſelf from foes ſecur'd,
In ſtanza's lodg'd, in verſe immur'd.
Furious the lover ſilence broke
And thus, red hot with vengeance, ſpoke:
" And could thy ſqueamiſh ſtomach chuſe
To feaſt on nothing but a Muſe;
Nought elſe thy courtly palate hit,
But virgin ſenſe and female wit;
[47]M [...] favourite nymph to nib and waſte,
To pleaſure thy luxurious taſte;
Seldom content to ſup or dine
Without a diſtich or a line;
Making thoſe rhymes, thy hunger fed,
Each day thy food, each night thy bed;
Proudly aſpiring thus to lie,
In ſheets of downy poetry?
On twenty more, deſign'd to be
Fit nouriſhment for ſuch as thee,
Thou might'ſt have fed, or made a ſeat in,
Publiſh'd alone but to be eaten,
Volumes fit only for a neſt,
Where vermin ſuch as thou ſhould reſt.
Had'ſt thou choſe rather to be pent in,
The Councils Lateran or Tridentine
(As many an honeſt inſect feeds
On Canons and outlandiſh Creeds),
Meanly to no one diſh confin'd,
Thou might'ſt have, great as Caeſar, din'd:
Cloy'd with inſipid verſe, have choſe
To diet on more ſavoury proſe;
In mighty folio's lodg'd, been able
Greatly each day to ſhift thy table:
And found materials to aſſuage
Thy hunger in each fruitful page:
Or, if Decrees and Councils ſhew'd
For courtly taſtes too mean a food,
On Wars and Battles, ſeldom read,
Thou might'ſt without offence have fed;
[48]Thy rage the warriors ſhould out-do,
Eating up fights and heroes too;
In ſpight of all their guns and ſteel,
Devour a champion at each meal;
Philippi but one feaſt would yield,
And ſcarce ſo much Pharſalia's field;
Great Ammon's ſon muſt here ſubmit,
To be demoliſh'd at a bit,
All others conquering, doom'd to be
Subdued at laſt by puny Thee!
But ſay, while fifty more, as good,
If not for ſenſe, at leaſt for food,
Crowded on every ſhelf appear,
Why, envious vermin, only here?
See, from their fair apartment drove,
Here ſprawls a Cupid, there a Love;
Unarm'd, the young immortals ſhew,
This wants a ſhaft, and that a bow,
And tears in mighty ſtreams diſtil,
Robb'd of their tools to wound and kill.
Fair Venus, in a penſive mood,
Sadly laments her mumbled hood;
That nought beſide a veil of lawn
Was o'er her radiant ſhoulders drawn,
While two meals more, without my care,
Had ſtripp'd the bluſhing Goddeſs bare.
Nor does fair Beauty's wounded Queen
Confeſs alone thy little ſpleen;
The Muſe, whom brighter charms adorn,
Laments herſelf in pieces torn.
[49]See, ſcatter'd round thy dark abode,
Here lies a Satire, there an Ode,
Ceaſing, through thy malignant ſpite,
Or this to praiſe, or that to bite:
And Elegy, but now too late,
Laments her own untimely fate;
Thoſe tears, deſign'd for lovers' moan,
Sadly applying to her own.
A limping line there wants a foot,
The rhyme nibb'd off, and ſenſe to boot,
And mangled now, without a cloſe,
Degenerates into rumbling proſe;
A ſolitary verſe alone,
His partner quite devour'd and gone,
There weeps, he can no longer chime
And warble with his fellow-rhyme;
With the ſad diſmal loſs perplex'd,
He ſtrives to gingle with the next,
His ſtrength the ſame, and ſoftneſs too,
But, wanting ſound, it muſt not do.
Say then, before this murdering thumb
Relentleſs ſeals thy certain doom,
What art or cunning can repair
The ruins of the injur'd fair?
Patch up her muſic, and reſtore
The nymph harmonious as before?"
But ſee, too proud to make amends
(As ſilence ſtill on guilt attends),
Speechleſs the vermin turns away,
With not one ſingle word to ſay,
[50]Confeſſing thus the bloody crime
Of wounding wit, and murdering rhyme.
Take then a life, propitious maid,
Sent to atone thy wandering ſhade;
Though vile the gift, 'tis yet the moſt
I now can give thy injur'd ghoſt.
But let one foe, thus nobly ſlain,
Thy reeking altar ſerve to ſtain,
Till thouſands more, before thy eye,
To pleaſe thy glutted vengeance, die;
Thy ſoul thus giving, by their doom,
Through endleſs ſcenes of bliſs to roam.
Diverted from the doleful ſong
He ſtill ſeem'd eager to prolong,
Horace, in ſad and mournful ſtrains,
To liſtening Phoebus thus complains;
" Patron of verſe, and God of days,
Inſpirer of our voice and lays;
Permit me, in ſome diſmal cell,
With Goths or Leyden bards, to dwell,
Or to conſume my wretched time,
'Twixt Dublin verſe and Glaſgow rhyme;
Nay, to augment my laſt deſpair,
Place Ayloffe's
* ſelf and Marvell
† there
(A fam'd dull pair, that purely wrote
To raiſe our ſpleen, and die forgot):
If, ſuffering thus, my works may be
From criticks and tranſlators free;
[51]Or, in one wiſh, to ſum up all
The plagues that can a wretch befall;
May it be doom'd my harder fate
To read whatever they tranſlate;
And hear, for great Auguſtus' name,
In dull heroicks Arthur's fame,
His ſire in modern ſtory paſs
For what my lov'd Maecenas was:
Let theirs exceed my hero's praiſe,
To ſave my Muſe from Creech and Bayes!"
A Proteus
* Wit almoſt eſcapes,
That writes and fools in fifty ſhapes;
To pleaſe in every art prepar'd,
An Atheiſt now, and now a Bard,
Phyſician ſtrait, another time
Projecting tools to work in rhyme;
Or forging odd receipts to make
Verſe, duller than his Worſhip's, take.
Horace, moſt courtly grown and kind,
Exactly ſpeaks the Poet's mind,
Stands ſponſor, by his worth and fame,
To guard his infant Muſe from ſhame:
Whilſt he in mighty ſecrets deals,
And beauties long obſcur'd reveals,
Does from his own preſcriptions fall,
Gives fifty rules, and breaks them all;
[52]Though he that fartheſt from them ſtrays
Bids faireſt much to win the bays.
From verſe he haſtens to diſpute
Himſelf into a nobler brute,
Greatly reſolv'd his murdering quill
Should, certain as his phyſick kill:
He [...]eeds would have mankind control
The univerſe without a ſoul;
That matter, nicely wrought and ſpun,
Might all thoſe mighty fears have done,
Which antient dotards were inclin'd
To attribute to Thought and Mind;
Thus, as the threads are drawn, it hits,
The coarſe are fools, the fine ones wits;
While others, of a middle ſize,
Prove harmleſs things, not dull nor wiſe;
And hence it plainly comes to paſs,
That Coward's now what Sternhold was,
Becauſe, in Nature's fo [...]ming liſt,
His threads were of a clumſy twiſt;
And Chance had ſo contriv'd his doom,
To draw him from a hobbling loom.
A proof within himſelf he feels,
That all mankind is mov'd by wheels:
That chains, and pendulums, and ſprings,
With twenty other curious things,
Were firſt by artful Nature made,
Ere clocks and watches form'd a trade.
Exchange, great ſir, a word or two,
And your fam'd theſis ſtill may do;
[53]" Thou art thyſelf compleat and whole,
" Thy verſes only want a ſoul,
" While both a different fate ſhall try,
" Thou half, and they entirely die,
" Condemn'd by thee, not partial Fate,
" E'er to behold a future ſtate!"
Behold a modeſt
* Bard refuſe,
The laurels waiting on his Muſe!
[54]Pity firſt taught her how to ſing,
To try her voice, and prune her wing;
Touch'd with a tender Chriſtian woe,
In Wallia's realms to meet a foe,
That, lawleſs long and unreſtrain'd,
Had in her milky dainties reign'd:
And every year triumphant won
A dowry for a yeoman's ſon.
Virgil, that taught thy Muſe to ſing,
A nobler verſe could hardly bring,
Or on a theme ſo mean and low,
More thought and majeſty beſtow;
Henceforth his ſmiling ghoſt ſhall move
More joyous through her laureat grove;
To hear thy tuneful voice above.
Take then a gift I trembling bring,
Inſtructed near thy Muſe to ſing;
Which prun'd her pinions in that ſhade,
Whence mine her earlieſt flights eſſay'd;
Both ſipping, to inſpire our themes,
*Oxe-eyes, for clear Caſtalian ſtreams.
Oh! may thy fame for ever run,
A glorious rival to the ſun;
" Till mice in pantries ceaſe to dwell,
" Or brimſtone at Glamorgan ſell;
[55]" Till mites no more in Chedder breed,
" Nor goats on craggy Pen-maur feed;
" Till leeks and onions ſmell amiſs,
" Till ſcrubbing ſeems no more a bliſs;
" Till great Plinlimmon leaves the ſkies,
" Till thy immortal labour dies
*!"
While Dennis aids the Muſe to ſing.
Or gives her plumes, or clips her wing,
Directs her cautious how to fly
Unbeaten tracts along the ſky;
With ſafety we ſublimely ſtray,
And ſoaring gain the realms of day,
Till, trembling from thoſe heights above,
And dazzling orbs o'er which we move:
We gently ſink in humbler ſtrains,
To vales beneath, and rural plains.
Great Toland, with his name below,
Bought purely to make-out the ſhow;
Adorns at once and fills a row
(Though ſome aver it ſtrongly ſtill
That emptineſs could never fill).
Hadſt thou been wiſe or dull by rule,
Thy ſilence might have ſkreen'd the fool;
But thus to cant, and own it too,
No mortal ſure but thee would do;
The twilight owl and ſerious aſs
Would needs for modern criticks paſs,
Till both their want of ſenſe betray'd,
One hooting, while the other bray'd.
[56]Near Blackall
* his fam'd rival lay,
But, frowning, lean'd another way;
His forehead into wrinkles drawn,
To ſit within the ſmell of lawn:
But cloſe, as to his elm the vine,
Round pious Baxter ſeems to twine;
Adores the ſaint on bended knees,
That taught him firſt to cant and pleaſe;
And to the wondering world reveal
Good Chriſtian methods to rebel.
While Milton's ſoaring fancy flies,
And ſings of feuds above the ſkies,
Dreadfully fills the heavenly plain,
With vanquiſh'd powers, and cherubs ſlain,
Surpriz'd and trembling from afar,
We ſcarce behold th' immortal war;
Their fauchions formidably bright,
Their ſwords compos'd of beaten light;
And beamy arms with dreadful blaze
From each contending van amaze;
With dread we view th' apoſtate foe,
Plung'd in the deep abyſs below.
See Rag
† on Phillips ſtill attends;
In life, in death, harmonious friends;
Pleas'd his lov'd Iſis to forego,
To meet the darling ſhade below.
Who in th' Elyſian fragrant bowers
Beguile each day the ſmiling hours,
[57]With more delight than wine or love
E [...]e gave the Bards in realms above;
Each here tranſported to behold
Rich branches bloom with radiant gold
(Strangely ſurpriz'd to view an ore
They ne'er on earth once touch'd before).
No more refulgent to their eyes
The Splendid Shilling's
* charms ſurprize;
Once the ſole bliſs of Heaven implor'd,
For that alone, by each ador'd;
That ale or oyſters could command,
The nobleſt boons of ſea or land,
And bid them, to enjoy a friend,
From lonely garret oft deſcend:
No longer to their cells reſtrain'd,
Where Want and diſmal Darkneſs reign'd;
With harmleſs pun
†, and clinches gay,
They now repeat each ſmiling day;
Nor dreadful reckoning trembling fear,
As if kind Herbert too was there,
For vile mundung and fumy ale,
Incenſe and odours, now exhale,
And, ſipping nectar from each ſtream,
No more of Tiff and Viner's
‡ dream;
[58]Convinc'd their Iſis could beſtow
No cups ſo ſoft as thoſe below.
No longer now the modiſh gown
In ropy ſhreds hangs quivering down,
Tuck'd cloſe, but gently, round the ſide,
Some diſmal breach beneath to hide;
Or elſe protecting from the air
Some parts, as nature form'd them, bare.
See next the
* Muſe that fill'd the ſkies
With ſleepy lolling deities,
Careleſs and unconcern'd to know,
What mortals acted here below;
Gives us receipts of wondrous fame,
New worlds to raiſe, and beings frame;
Which Burnet
† by experience knew
In every tittle to be true:
After a long eternal round,
No ſtage to eaſe their labour found,
The wearied atoms all combine,
In different forms themſelves to join:
Theſe ſink beneath, thoſe upwards fly,
To deck and to adorn the ſky;
In radiant planets ſhine from far,
Or loſe their brightneſs in a ſtar.
Millions, for heavenly forms unfit,
To meaner fates below ſubmit;
While long the little ſportive train
A thouſand tricks attempt in vain,
Before they can fit natures chuſe,
And their light empty beings loſe!
[59]The briſk, the nimble, and the light,
To frame the female world unite;
And, while the beauteous kind they fill,
Seem to preſerve their nature ſtill:
The giddy into order range,
But ſcarcely undergo a change,
Still act as in their antient ſphere,
Whirling in mad projectors here,
Or elſe their roving powers reſtrain,
Beneath ſome madder poet's brain:
Thoſe of a rough and knotty make,
Their ſtations all in criticks take;
Which makes it harder much to gain
Their ſenſe, than his they would explain,
And much more ſkill requir'd to find
The critick's, than the author's, mind:
Thoſe of a tall and ſlender ſize
In monuments and ſteeples riſe;
For ſtructures, like our elm and yew,
At nature's birth, ſpontaneous grew,
Inſtructed upwards how to climb
Without the help of brick or lime:
The dull, the empty, and the gay,
Conſent to take a different way
Theſe mingling form coquettes, and thoſe
Unite in aſſes, and in beaux!
Deſcending from a finiſh'd ſtar,
Some leave the ſkies, to grace the fair;
While thoſe to Heaven their light confine,
And theſe in Lumley's beauties ſhine,
[60]In Beaufort's air they all unite
Their ſofteſt beams, their faireſt light;
In March's lovely form ſurprize,
Or ſmile confeſs'd in Biſhop's eyes;
While, honeſt Tindal, thou and I,
Were form'd of lumps that downwards fly,
And daily give ſome wretched proof
Of our deſcending weighty ſtuff;
Which makes whate'er we write or ſay
Thus ſavour of our kindred clay,
And every fair and juſt deſign
With ſuch a native force decline,
That, while we ſtrive ſublime to ſoar,
We ſink and founder ſo much lower.
Hence 'tis, our labours come to nought,
Each beauteous product, which we thought
Of ſprightly wit and reaſon full,
Is ſtrangely leaven'd with the dull;
But let us learn true wiſdom hence,
Not whine like fools for want of ſenſe;
Rather accuſe our partial fate,
Aſſigning each ſo dull a pate:
Pu [...]y by nature form'd in ſpite,
To plague mankind in print, and write.
*
Bentley immortal honour gets,
By changing Que's for nobler Et's:
[61]From Cam to Iſis ſee him roam,
To fetch ſtray'd Interjections home;
While the glad ſhores with joy rebound,
For Periods and loſt Comma's found:
Poor Adverbs, that had long deplor'd
Their injur'd rights, by him reſtor'd!
Smil'd to ſurvey a rival's doom,
While they poſſeſs'd the envied room;
And, hiſſing from their reſcued throne
Th' uſurper's fate, applaud their own.
The Roman nymphs, for want of notes
More tender, ſtrain'd their little throats,
Till Bentley, to relieve their woes,
Gave them a ſett of Ah's and Oh's:
More muſically to complain,
And warble forth their gentle pain.
The ſuffering fair no more repine,
For vowels now to ſob and whine;
In ſofteſt air their paſſion try,
And, without ſpoiling metre, die:
With Interjections of his own,
He helps them now to weep and groan;
That, reading him, no lover fears
Soft vehicles for ſighs and tears.
Inſtructed by his learned code,
What makes a Jig, or forms an Ode,
We view what various beauties meet,
To leave each fragrant line ſo ſweet;
How Horace' lines our paſſions keep
Awake, and Bentley's lull aſleep.
[62]No verſe can moan a limping foot,
But he applies his plaſter to't:
With pious care binds up the ſore,
And kindly bids it hop no more!
While, with his helping comments nigh,
Inſtead of crutches to apply
To crazy verſe (which envious Time
Had weaken'd both in ſenſe and rhyme);
For a lame Muſe's ſurgeon meet,
Inſtead of legs, ſets broken feet.
Though no one ſingle charm can fly
The ſearch of his ſagacious eye
(That
* Horace but in vain pretends,
To own a line which Bentley mends).
The reverend critick hardly knows
If David wrote in verſe or proſe;
While every ſtring and ſounding wire,
That erſt compos'd the Roman lyre,
Were to the ſage as fully known,
As if the harp had been his own!
Could'ſt thou, great bard, without a qualm,
But hear rehears'd one pious Pſalm;
To ſlighted David lend an ear,
Not ſwooning what he ſung to hear;
We then might view thy learn'd abodes,
With Hymns adorn'd, inſtead of Odes;
[63]And thou thyſelf perhaps content
To con him o'er, at leaſt in Lent;
To mortify, the Jewiſh chuſe,
Regaling on the Latian Muſe.
Cloſe by, where wits, in purple pride
And all their glory dreſt, preſide;
Beneath a dark and gloomy cell,
A lazy Goddeſs choſe to dwell,
Well-pleas'd to ſlumber out her time,
'Twixt ſleepy proſe and drowſy rhyme:
Dating from books her empire's fame,
OBLIVION was her dreaded name;
On verſe and laudanum ſhe feeds,
Now takes a doſe, now poems reads;
Each of experienc'd power to cloſe
Her ſinking eyes in ſoft repoſe:
While Bentley, of more ſovereign uſe
Than rhyme itſelf or poppy-juice,
The Goddeſs trembles to explore,
For fear of never waking more;
Each weeping wall bedew'd appears
With Cloe's ſighs, and Strephon's tears;
Sad Dirges, breathing Lovers' pain,
And ſoft complaints of Virgins ſlain:
While Females' Sonnets, Poets' Themes,
Beaux' Stratagems, Projector's Dreams,
Around the lonely ſtructure fly,
Slumber a while, and gently die.
A thouſand wretched things, above
The joys of wine, the ſweets of love;
[64]That kindly promis'd deathleſs fame
And glories to their author's name,
Here in one month for reſt retire,
Deſcend, and decently expire.
Scatter'd, delightful to her eye,
Rheams of Reviews and Medleys lie;
Wide to extend her empire's ſway,
Keeping their ſires above in pay;
Soft tranſport gliding through her breaſt,
Of Tutchin's works entire poſſeſt:
Who, to augment the Goddeſs' power,
Was ſeldom known to ſlip an hour,
That did not gratefully produce
Whole pages for his ſovereign's uſe,
While now and then a mitred friend
Is graciouſly inclin'd to ſend,
His tributes, and a gift beſtows
Among her Bunyans and De Foes.
O'ercome with rapture, to ſurvey
Melodious nonſenſe round her lay
(While here each fruitful labouring preſs
Groan'd with ſeraphic emptineſs;
Which every hour ſpontaneous came,
Kind to enrol its author's name);
While the great patriots of her reign,
That with her pens her fame ſuſtain,
Wits, Criticks, Politicians, Beaux,
In meaſure nod, and ſleep in rows,
Soft tranſport does her thoughts employ,
While thus ſhe ſpeaks her riſing joy:
[65]" Hail, mighty names! to whom I owe
My empire's
* ſpreading fame below;
By whoſe kind labours I out-do
The Vatican and Bodley too;
Who ſlighted fame above diſdain,
With me in ſilent night to reign.
What rival power did e'er ſurvey
A nobler hoſt adorn his ſway!
You, bleſt aſſociates, beſt can tell
What numbers at my altars fell,
When you approach'd, and only ſtay
Above, to own my ſovereign ſway.
'Twas I inſpir'd great Whiſton's
† theme,
And nobly taught him to blaſpheme:
By me inſtructed he withdrew,
To head a young apoſtate crew;
Who, proud of ſuch a leader grown,
With his ſtale non ſenſe mix their own;
Liſping, their trade they firſt begin,
By ſlow degrees advance in ſin,
Till, ripen'd by improving time,
To thy grey hoary fame they climb,
[66]And claim thoſe laurels, as their due,
Juſtice before aſſign'd to you.
The Grecian
* ſages too decree
The fame of all they write to me;
Beneath my influence kindly bred,
Proud to blaſpheme before they read;
In the dull trade improve ſo well,
Firſt ſwear, and after learn to ſpell;
And oft a deathleſs name compleat,
Ere perfect in their alphabet.
Oh! would they oft in print appear,
What rheams of ſtuff each fruitful year
Would downward ſink, to ſwell my fame,
Dully confeſſing whence they came;
The hateful realms of light forego,
To hang in empty ſhoals below;
Whoſe labours, like a glimmering fire,
Kindly as ſoon as born expire,
Scarce th' age of one ſhort day ſurvive
Stone dead, ere breathing well alive!
'Twas I alone that hither drew
From Tyber's bank
† the warbling crew,
That charm our wondering theatres
With witty Lions
‡, Bulls, and Bears,
Deſign'd (if fame ſays true) this ſpring
To learn their gamut too, and ſing;
[67]Whoſe gay harmonious nonſenſe, drown'd
Beneath ſoft airs and helping ſound,
Paſſes with critics of the pit
For ſterling ſenſe, and Engliſh wit.
Each valet now muſt blow his fire
In notes as ſoft as Alamire;
Nor dare perfume his maſter's hair,
Or rub his boots, without an air;
Hear him in ſofteſt muſic tell,
" His lordſhip's running nag is well;"
Oblig'd a bolder note to uſe,
" Informing when he loſt his ſhoes;"
Still riſing to a nobler ſtrain,
" To paint him ſcouring o'er the plain."
The rival waiting-maid, to find
Her ſpark to muſic thus inclin'd,
Tells madam, ſinging, "that ſhe ſpoils
" Her tea, to drink it ere it boils;"
While notes more penſive far relate
Her lap-dog's unexpected fate.
The hero, burning to engage,
" Moſt ſweetly murmurs out his rage;"
Defers to ſhew his wrath too ſoon,
Or kill his foe to ſpoil his tune;
Though both are warm'd with equal fire,
They can't without one ſong expire;
In doleful dirges, but too late,
Hear how they ſigh each other's fate;
For notes through all the gamut try
To fall more tunefully and die.
[68]See how my crowded region fills
With colonies entire from Will's
*;
Slumbering in rival ranks they ſnore,
And meditate ſharp clinch no more;
Their merit by their dulneſs prove,
Out-dreaming thoſe they left above!
'Twas I, my empire to enlarge,
Gave Hoadly firſt my royal charge,
To preach rebellion, and in ſpite
Of duty, oaths, and ſenſe, to write.
'Tis I that by my influence ſtill
Direct great Toland's
† ſacred quill;
And lately by my ſoothing power
Seduc'd myſterious
‡ Dodwell o'er,
Who, to his bright immortal fame,
Was never known ſix weeks the ſame!
While Fate thus makes a ſmall amends
For what I loſt in kinder friends
(As, when it forc'd me to bewail
Great Hobbes's death, ſtill left me
‖ Bayle);
[69]Filling that ſpace that was deſign'd,
For Sarum's
* labours ſtill behind.
See how that wall is ſadly hung,
With doleful verſe, by ladies ſung,
And penſive airs by lovers try'd,
Juſt as they kindly kiſs'd and dy'd.
With dreams and ſighs the next is blur'd,
With Dolben's eloquence a third;
While to the wicked, Baxter's Call
Quite covers and obſcures them all.
Swiſs lumber ſinks to our abodes,
Not poorly by the quire, but loads;
While Leyden rhymes ſubmiſſive come,
And croaking ſupplicate for room.
Scotch
† creeds, and articles explain'd,
Cloſe by in ſilence ſlumbering reign'd,
With myſtic comments ſo perplex'd,
The notes are darker than the text.
Fam'd Theoriſts
‡ by dozens rot,
Juſt as the worlds they fram'd, forgot,
And in thoſe very atoms fall
They vainly forg'd, to raiſe this ball;
Which prov'd their theſis partly true,
Fate ne'er could build, but might undo,
[70]And that dull books might ſooner dance,
Than planets, into form by chance;
Would ſmiling Fate but once inſpire
Hibernian bards, to touch the lyre,
Gently in Dublin airs to ſing,
And their fam'd harps
*, long ſilent, ſtring;
Now, wanting room, I muſt implore
Kind Heaven with ardent vows for more:
Where ſhall I place my future friends
If Collins
† monthly tributes ſends'
If Clarke
‡ and Hare
‡, to choak me quite,
Without remorſe or pity write?
Ye envious niggard powers, whoe'er
Allot each God his empire's ſhare,
To all ſuch ſpacious realms aſſign'd,
Why am I only thus confin'd?
From theirs how different is my doom!
They grieve for ſubjects, I for room.
Extend my realms below, great Jove,
Or ſtop great Boyer's
‖ pen above!
Gods! in what ſable liquid ſhowers
And inky deluges he pours,
Each year his ſickly nonſenſe down!
Ten ſuch would half my empire drown,
And force me, to preſerve my breath,
To quit my ſtifling cell beneath.
Whatever theme his Muſe has got
She ſtill maintains her favourite trot;
[71]Still one dull pace demurely jogs,
O'er rivers, meadows, lawns, and bogs;
While, dreſt with equal charms, are ſeen
A milk-maid here, and there a queen;
And ſtrains as mournful fill the ſky
When porters, as when monarchs, die!"
Still to proceed the Goddeſs try'd,
Till Steele's immortal works eſpy'd;
Trembling her dreaded foe to view,
She ſunk and ſilently withdrew,
While Sarum's labours, round her ſpread,
Suſtain and prop her drowſey head.
Hail, mighty name! of all thy pen
Has dropt, to charm both gods and men,
Time nor oblivion e'er ſhall boaſt
One line or ſingle period loſt!
Improving youth, and hoary age,
Are better'd by thy matchleſs page;
And, what no mortal could deviſe,
Women, by reading thee, grow wiſe;
Divines had taught, and huſbands rav'd,
Now threat'ned, then as poorly crav'd,
But, ſpite of all, the ſtubborn dame
Remain'd our curſe, and ſtill the ſame;
Modiſh and flippant as before,
The ſmoothing paint and patch are wore;
Two hours each morning ſpent to dreſs,
And not one ounce of tea the leſs:
While the provoking ideot vows
Her lover fairer much than ſpouſe.
[72]Great Socrates but vainly try'd,
To ſooth the paſſions of his bride;
Her female empire ſtill ſhe holds,
And as he preaches peace, ſhe ſcolds:
In vain he talks, in vain he writes;
One kiſſing, while the other bites;
Precepts with her, and moral rules,
Are only ginns to hamper fools;
And, preach and dictate what he will,
Madam perſiſts Xantippe ſtill.
But wedlock by thy art is got
To be a ſoft and eaſy knot;
Which ſmiling ſpouſe and kinder bride
Now ſeldom wiſh ſhould be unty'd;
Think parting now the greateſt ſin,
And ſtrive more cloſe to draw the ginn:
Taught by thoſe rules thy pen inſtills,
Nobly to conquer human ills;
The female ſufferer now ſuſtains
Each mournful loſs, with leſſened pains;
A week is now enough to pine,
When puking lap-dog cannot dine;
While grief as real ſwells her eyes
When ſpouſe, as when her parrot, dies.
The fop no longer ſhall believe
Senſe ty'd to every modiſh ſleeve,
Nor, conſcious of his wants, preſume
To meaſure merit by perfume;
That courage in Pulvilio dwells,
The boldeſt he, who ſtrongeſt ſmells;
[73]To prove his ſenſe, no longer bring
The doughty proofs of box and ring;
Strongly profeſſing ne'er to know
An aſs conceal'd beneath a beau;
Each taught by thee, ſhall hence confeſs
Virtue has no regard for dreſs;
That the bright nymph as often dwells
In homely bays as rural cells;
And in a ruff as fairly ſhin'd,
As now to modern peak confin'd;
Bluſhing, thus half expos'd to view,
Both herſelf and miſtreſs too.
The widow, pining for her dear,
Shall curſe no more the tedious year;
In ſighs conſume each penſive day,
Nor think it long from June to May.
See how the penſive relict lies,
Oppreſs'd with ſpouſe's fate, and dies;
That Betty with her drops in vain,
Recalls her flying ſoul again;
No colour now ſo fair appears,
As is the fable veſt ſhe wears,
To be her only garment vow'd,
Till death exchange it for a ſhroud,
And her cold aſhes kindly place
Once more within her lord's embrace.
The ladies, pleas'd with thee to dwell,
Aſpire to write correct, and ſpell:
We ſcarce behold, though writ in haſte,
Five letters in a ſcore miſplac'd;
[74]Marſhal'd in rank they all appear,
With no front vowels in the rear,
Nor any, out of ſhame or dread,
Skulking behind, that ſhould have led;
In every line they now demur,
'Tis now no longer Wurthee Surr;
With half our uſual ſweat and pain,
We both unravel and explain,
Nor call-in foreign aid to find,
In myſtic terms, the fair-one's mind.
Maintain, grea [...] ſage, thy deathleſs name,
Thou canſt no wider ſtretch thy fame,
Till, gliding from her native ſkies,
Virtue once more delighted flies;
By each adoring patriot own'd,
And boaſts herſelf by thee enthron'd
*,
THE APPARITION, BY ABEL EVANS*, D.D. OCCASIONED BY THE PUBLICATION OF TINDAL'S RIGHTS OF THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH.
" Dii, quibus imperium eſt animarum; Umbraeque ſilentes;
" Et Chaos, & Phlegethon, loca nocte ſilentia late,
" Sit mihi fas audita loqui."
VIRG. Aen. VI. 264.
BEGIN, my Muſe; the dire adventure tell,
How the ſupremeſt gloomy Power of Hell
Convers'd familiar with a mortal Man;
Where, when, and how, the conference began;
[119]Bring each particular in open ſight,
And do the Devil and the Doctor right.
As round the world that reſtleſs ſpirit flew,
This ſpacious Earth and all her ſons to view;
To ſee how Treaſon, Luſt, and Murder ſtrove
To fill his realms, and empty thoſe above;
While Truth was trampled on by Lies and Spite,
And Wrong victorious triumph'd over Right;
Vice domineer'd, and haughty ſwore aloud,
Surrounded with a numerous flattering crowd;
Virtue, with bluſhes cover'd o'er, retir'd,
By all forſaken; though by all admir'd;
Silent ſhe griev'd, with pity, at the ſight,
Then wing'd tow'rds Heaven her ſolitary flight.
Not ſo the Fiend, with other paſſions fraught,
Exulting, on his mighty conqueſts thought:
Wide to his view the lovely proſpect lay,
But ſtill with joy malign he ey'd the prey:
[120]For ſome eſcaping made his madneſs riſe,
Louring he ſcowl'd, and darken'd all the ſkies:
Unmindful of the many, Satan ſtood,
Revenge againſt thoſe flying few he vow'd:
Then toſs'd the vipers round his horrid head,
And thus indignant to himſelf he ſaid:
" Theſe kingdoms of the Earth of old were given,
If I miſtake not, in exchange for Heaven:
Their power, their wealth, and glory, all are mine;
I hold them from above by grant divine.
Uxorious Adam, by my cunning croſt,
Forfeit to treaſon, all their tenures loſt:
Then, if I hold by titles ſuch as theſe,
Who ſhall my tenures dare diſpute or ſeize?
Yet—for all this—ſpite of my ſovereign will,
Some nations do decline their homage ſtill.
The three great quarters of the world are mine;
See how their altars ſmoak, and temples ſhine!—
In Europe too, nor am I leſs rever'd
Where grateful Rome her images has rear'd:
Or where Fanatic Sectaries abound,
I ſcower with pleaſure my devouring round:
But Albion, curſed iſle! by Prieſts miſled,
Falſe to my hopes, is in rebellion bred.
Not that my emiſſaries there I want:
Atheiſts to curſe, and Hypocrites to cant.
Burgeſs
* aloft harangues the gaping crowd,
While witty Garth
† below blaſphemes aloud;
And to each other, though ſo oppoſite,
Yet in my cauſe both lovingly unite:
[121]The Toleration to my wiſh proceeds,
Neglected gardens muſt be choak'd with weeds.
Oh, could I ſink the Sacramental Teſt!
Down falls at once the Altar and the Prieſt:
For ſtill th' Eſtabliſh'd Church is all my bane;
And, while that ſtands, I ne'er muſt hope to reign.
But then that Oxford, damn'd pedantic town!
Thus to be fool'd by a ſquare-cap and gown!
How old and ſilly, Satan, art thou grown!
—But 'tis reſolv'd, new meaſures I will try,
Quick to All-Souls, to Tindal I will fly:
Tindal, alike with me by GOD accurs'd;
In vice and error from his cradle nurs'd:
He ſtudies hard, and takes extreme delight,
In whores or hereſies to ſpend the night:
My vaſſal ſworn! he loves Confuſion's cauſe,
And hates, like me, all government and laws:
All ties of duty, gratitude, are vain;
No bonds his furious malice can reſtrain:
All intereſts, civil, ſacred, ſtill unite
With idle toil, to check his ardent ſpite."
Thus having ſaid, quick down to earth he fell;
Full in the middle of the Quadrangle:
With ſudden glance he travers'd all the rooms,
And then forthwith a human ſhape aſſumes.
Like an old College-bedmaker he bent;
His cloven-foot he wriggled as he went;
A frowzy high-crown'd hat his face did hide,
A hooked ſtaff his tottering ſteps did guide,
A bunch of various keys hung jangling by his ſide.
[122]Quick to the Doctor's chamber he repair'd,
Three ſolemn raps upon the door were heard;
The Doctor, liſtening, trembled, ſwore, and ſtar'd.
And in an inſtant tow'rds the door he goes,
The door, ſelf-opening, took him thwart the noſe.
Aſtoniſh'd, back he ſtarted with a bound;
And thought, at leaſt, he trod enchanted ground.
But, as the ſpectre nearer to him drew,
Reſolv'd at laſt, he cries, "Zounds! what are you?"
The Spright, obſerving ſtreight his great confuſion,
Thus calmly ſilence broke (as he who knows one):
" Dear Doctor! pr'ythee do not tremble ſo:
Pray be compos'd! what?—not Crippelia know!
The Devil is not come to fetch you now.
Once I was young, nor wanted female charms,
When I lay panting in your curling arms:
Lock'd in the folds of Love, we both defy'd
The Statutes, and the Laws of GOD beſide.
Then, my Civilian! as intranc'd you lay,
How did you ſigh and kiſs the hours away!
Not Alexander, with Statira bleſt,
His paſſion with more tenderneſs expreſs'd.
What though with age and weakneſs now I bend,
With wrinkles ſhrivel'd—for one tumbler ſend:
If not a miſtreſs, uſe me like a friend.
For favours paſt, ſome ſmall regards are due;
I would not at theſe years have flouted you!
Turn then, Barbarian, turn thy lovely eyes;
Survey me well:—and mark my thin diſguiſe.—
[123]No muſty college-matron here thou ſee'ſt;
Them and their maſters I alike deteſt,
Abhor, as thou doſt any Chriſtian prieſt.
Before thee ſtands Hell's mighty ſovereign king:
My ſubjects thanks for thy laſt works I bring.
All my grim ſons, with emulation fir'd,
Reſtleſs, thy Rights, thy Chriſtian Rights requir'd,
Thy Chriſtian Church's Rights: immortal page,
Worthy thy malice, impudence, and rage!
Envious they aſk, in ſullen ſurly mood,
What Incubus did o'er thy fancy brood?
All Hell reſounds thy name with loud applauſe,
And love the leader, as they like the cauſe:
But above all, the hot-brain'd Athieſt crew,
That ever Greece, or Rome, or Britain, knew,
Wave all their laurels, and their palms to you.
Spinoza ſmiles, and cries—The work is done;
Tindal ſhall finiſh (Satan's darling ſon!)
Tindal ſhall finiſh what Spinoza firſt begun.
Hobbes, Milton, Blount, Vanini, with him join;
All equally admire the vaſt deſign.
Then—to the trumpet's and the clarion's ſound;
The giddy goblets whirl in eddies round,
To Tindal's health:—on earth may Tindal dwell!
Late may we have his preſence here in Hell!
Till he the glorious work has done, they cry,
Till Chriſtian churches all in ruins lie!
(Sonorous ſhoutings rend the livid ſky.)
No ſingle fiend, through all the numerous hoſt,
Declines the glaſs, when Tindal is the toaſt.
[124]Old Epicurus to Lucretius bow'd,
Young, witty, learn'd, vain, impudent, and proud:
Diagoras next Apollonius ſate;
The ſolemn ſages on thy works debate:
The traitor Judas, liſtening, grimning, ſtood;
Sometimes he mus'd, and then he laugh'd aloud:
'Twixt rage, and hate, and ſcorn, at laſt he cries,
Curſe on thee, for thy ſilly random kiſs,
To take the Founder, and the Church to miſs!
Apoſtate Julian roſe, and loudly ſwore,
The Galilean's empire was no more;
His royal prieſthood ſhould for ever ceaſe,
And Satan ſhall regain the realms of bliſs."
By this time Tindal quite recover'd ſtood;
His viſage redden'd with returning blood;
And thus he anſwer'd (when he thrice had bow'd):
Dr. "Great are the honours, which the Prince of Hell
Beſtows upon a mortal Infidel:
Nor with leſs pleaſure I the praiſes hear
Your ſubjects to my trifling labours ſpare;
Neither to you nor them, I muſt confeſs,
My duty, as I ought, I can expreſs:
Fain would I merit more! would they but praiſe me leſs.
But give me leave (as I'm in duty bound)
To pay thee, Satan! reverence moſt profound
(Here with his head nine times he touch'd the ground).
Civility ſurprizing, I acknowledge;
To viſit a poor Fellow of a College!
[125]For Hell's dread emperor to condeſcend,
Himſelf, to ſee a vile terreſtrial friend!
Tell me, ye Gods of Erebus and Night!
How have ye heard of ſuch a worthleſs wight!
What thanks are then, Supreme Apoſtate! due
From me (the meaneſt of God's foes) to you?"
S. "Egregious youth! thou laſt beſt hopes of Hell!
All Satan's ſons have hitherto done well;
But thou all Satan's ſons do'ſt far excel.
—However, let us not, my worthy friend,
Our time in ceremonies only ſpend:
Nine times three minutes I can only ſtay,
And cannot bear the leaſt approach of day:
Then to the buſineſs quickly let us come;
'Tis what you ſtudy here, and I at home.
The Church of England is the curſed thing,
That you and I muſt to deſtruction bring."
D. "Thanks, great Deſtroyer! if ſo mean a man
As I but work ſuch mighty miſchief can;
No time nor coſt I'll ſpare; no ſtrength or pains
(The Church of England's loſſes are my gains).
Some Deanry then to my lay-fee ſhall fall;
The Biſhopricks—my betters muſt have—All."
S. "I tell thee, Tindal, and obſerve it well:
Merit like thine does all reward excel.
For gold, or fame, let little ſouls contend;
Diſintereſted miſchief be thy end:
Only with patience in thy work perſiſt;
To Hell's infernal Caeſar leave the reſt."
D. "Oh, Emperor! what merit can I claim,
The youngeſt hero in thy liſts of fame?
[126]Had I of old (as Scripture-annals ſing)
Wag'd war with thee 'gainſt Heaven's perpetual King;
Had I (but only on the conquer'd ſide)
Diſplay'd with thee my vanity and pride;
Some laurel then I could with pleaſure wear,
And without bluſhing now my praiſes hear."
S. "Extremes on all ſides we with juſtice blame;
A little then thy headſtrong rage reclaim;
And try thy luſt of anarchy to tame.
Miſchief enough remains on earth undone;
Then check thy flight tow'rds Heaven, my towering ſon,
The greateſt worth ſtill bounds and limits knows;
Be ſatisfy'd—and gall thy preſent foes.
The Chriſtian Church is ſtill in ſafety found;
Let that be firſt quite level'd to the ground.
When thou haſt finiſh'd this (no ſmall deſign),
Thou may'ſt with reaſon for freſh miſchief pine:
And, before all the Chriſtian Churches, ſtill
Let Albion's Church employ thy utmoſt ſkill;
Quick againſt that thy ſecond battery raiſe,
And equal to thy miſchief be thy praiſe.
Her Clergy firſt with fouleſt lyes defame;
Her Clergy, of whatever age or name:
Rome's Pontiff and the ruling Elders ſpare;
To blacken Albion's Biſhops, be thy care:
Tell how that realm is by the Biſhops curs'd;
All diſcord, error, by their canons nurs'd:
New ſchemes of government unheard-of raiſe;
And all (but that which you live under) praiſe:
For mad Republics ſtill thy ſtrains purſue;
For mad Republics, whether old or new,
[127]All curſed Monarchies alike decry,
Mix'd, abſolute, their various rights deny:
Monarchs as Tyrants in thy books diſplay;
Biſhops as feller Tyrants far than they:
Falſe are our hopes, and profitleſs our pains,
While Biſhops mitres wear, and Anna reigns."
D. "It ſhall be done: great Enemy of light!
I bear them all with thee an equal ſpite:
An equal ſpite, though not a power, I bring
With thee, 'gainſt Heaven's all-ruling tyrant King.
I hate his Son, as much as you, or more."
S. "Why wilt thou thus aloft unbounded ſoar?
Stoop, ſtoop thy wings; on earth again deſcend."
D. "At thy monition, downwards thus I bend;
And only wiſh—His Church on earth may end!
Oh, were my will but once Britannia's Law!
Rome ſhould again the ſervile nation awe;
The Druids elſe regain their loſt abodes,
And Thor and Woden be Britannia's Gods:
Idols in every temple ſhould be found,
The poor in chains of Superſtition bound;
The rich in Luxury and Atheiſm drown'd:
All Decency and Order ſhould be damn'd;
And wild Enthuſiaſm run bellowing through the land.
All, in their turns, be Prophets, Prieſts, and Kings;
Diſtinctions are but meer fantaſtic things:
All Government does from the people flow;
Whom they make Prieſts or Kings, are truly ſo.
Theſe are the doctrines in the Rights I teach,
No matter what the Prophets or Apoſtles preach."
[128]S. "Moſes indeed (a wonder-working Jew)
Tells you, how Empire firſt in Eden grew;
That Adam was the firſt undoubted King,
And from his loins all future Monarchs ſpring:
All [...]egal power on earth with him began,
And through his veins to his firſt-born it ran:
God made the Monarch when he made the Man.
The Patriarchs hence their right imperial claim'd;
And the firſt ſon the ſucceſſor was nam'd:
The People never gave Dominion birth;
As well might crowns like muſhrooms ſpring from earth:
Notions, I own, that have been reckon'd good,
But wondrous old—I think—before the flood.
Dry; hard to ſwallow: ſome of narrower throats
Doubt, or deny, and think this Rabbi doats;
So comment all the text away with notes.
Next, He of Nazareth, the Prophet, came
(To me and thee
* an ever hateful name):
The ſcheme Moſaic he in pieces broke;
But gall'd the nations with an equal yoke:
Of Monarchs and their crowns he little ſaid;
(Only, To Caeſar, Caeſar's things be paid).
The laws of earthly realms he let alone;
But, in exchange, beneath his prieſts ye groan:
And if from Heaven (as they pretend) he came;
Their Prieſthood then from Heaven they juſtly claim:
But that a little ſhocks my faith." D. "Much mine:"
S. "The Chriſtian Prieſthood then is not divine.
[129]If Jeſus then was not the Son of God,
Then an impoſtor;" D. "Which I think:" S. Allow'd!"
D. "And juſtly on the croſs th' impoſtor bow'd.
Ye coming ages, for th' impoſtor's ſake,
Of all his tribe the like examples make;
With equal pain and ſhame his followers vex,
With endleſs plagues that progeny perplex;
Let them from earth with utmoſt fury fly,
To ſeek their weights of glory in the ſky
*!"
S. "He firſt, then they, thoſe ſlaviſh doctrines taught,
That no revenge muſt on your foes be wrought;
That crowns celeſtial were to cowards given;
And only ſlaves on earth were lords in heaven:
Doctrines, too low for thy erected race!
Reject them then, ſublimer far embrace;
Submiſſion does thy manly tribe diſgrace.
Do thou thy native fierceneſs bravely ſhow;
Rather than pardon, give the foremoſt blow:
Forgiveneſs is the coward's want of ſkill,
Or ſtrength to execute his angry will;
Or elſe revenge delayed, till time mature
Succeed the vengeance, make reſentment ſure.
Thou on thy foes with ſpeed and vigour fly;
And every bold offender, let him die:
Stay not till he thy pardon may implore;
Or, if he does, let that incenſe thee more;
[130]It ſhews a coward; and a coward's blow
Deſerves the utmoſt that thy rage can do:
Thy humour be thy law, thy luſt thy guide;
Nor ſubject be to any thing beſide,
But obſtinacy, vanity, and pride.
In truths like theſe the hardy Britons train;
Thus ſubjects wiſe their liberties maintain;
And thus Rebellion will ſecurely reign.
Subjects like theſe their trembling rulers awe;
Thus Kings receive, the People give, the law.
If any ſaucy Monarch dare oppoſe,
Or pedant Biſhop, let them feel their foes;
To death or exile quick the traitors drive;
No Rebels to the People ought to live.
Thus Laud
* and Stuart
* both with juſtice died;
Fierce Cromwell, with the many on his ſide,
Thus check'd the Prelate's and the Monarch's pride."
D. "And thus it is, True Oracle of Lyes!
That, in the Rights, the Britons I adviſe:
But they remain reluctant to my will;
Their beer and beef confirm them blockheads ſtill.
Would they but publicly my doctrines own,
The Monarchy had long ere this been down:
Epiſcopacy of that name bereft;
And that is almoſt all it now has left.
If common fortune does my toils attend,
My Second Rights that order quite ſhall end.
Inſtruct me, mighty Leader! to oppoſe
Prieſts, Biſhops, Kings, Britannia's only foes.
[131]S. "Tindal!—Your Rights I like in general well;
Yet, in ſome parts, you've broke the laws of Hell.
You ſpeak too plain, and lay your cloak aſide:
Forbear; be cover'd—I chaſtiſe ſuch pride.
Wiſe fowlers do not thus themſelves proclaim,
But wind with caution round the watchful game:
Had I, like you, the Hypocrite diſown'd,
Adam had ne'er beneath my ſceptre groan'd.
Bravoes in other countries never cry
The men in public they intend ſhall die.
Would'ſt thou? Civilian! depths Satanic know;
Then to theſe rules with deep attention bow.
Let Moderation all your counſels guide;
Nothing does Vice ſo well as Virtue hide:
True ſterling and infernal Treaſon's—this;
Formal begin, 'All hail!—and then the kiſs:
With caution moſt deliberate proceed;
The ſwifteſt is not ſtill the ſureſt ſpeed:
To brutal raſhneſs few great deeds we owe;
Heroes in miſchief civil are, and ſlow:
A gentle anſwer all objection ſolves;
Sheeps cloathing is the proper garb for wolves.
In vain againſt Religion war you wage,
Without the Serpent's cunning, with his rage."
D. "Accept my thanks, Hades, all-ſapient Sire!
Who can enough thy politicks admire?
Proſtrate I kneel, and for thy pardon ſue;
For Moderation all my vows renew:
Then bow thine ear, and liſten to my cries;
And make me, like thyſelf, both brave and wiſe!"
[132]S. "Thus your Stage-poets too are all to blame,
Thoſe puppies ever over-run theie game;
Over all bounds, all precipices leap;
Nor mind the laſhings of the Hunter's whip:
Bawdy, Prophaneneſs, Blaſphemy, they join;
Think only Wit with Wickedneſs divine;
Turn every thing that's ſacred to a jeſt;
In Chriſtian countries, never ſpare a Prieſt.
For faults like theſe, fierce Jerry Collier
* roſe;
Briſkly he charg'd and routed all his foes:
E'en the train-band reformers could engage
Such ſots, with glory equal to their rage.
For faults like theſe, from France the dancers come,
And eunuch ſinging-choiriſters from Rome:
At vaſt expence thoſe epicures are fed;
The Poets, Players, juſtly want their bread.
'Tis for theſe reaſons Theatres decay,
Prophaneneſs ſinks, and Blaſphemy gives way:
Bawdy no more with pleaſure can be heard;
The modeſt civil ſinners all are ſcar'd.
For this, one houſe a timber-yard is turn'd;
Oh! had you heard—how wanton D—t
† mourn'd!
The pillars too of all the others bend;
I ſee their pageant Deities deſcend;
And all in real flames their painted glories end.
The mightieſt Emperors, moſt gracious Queens,
Dwindle to pimps and whores behind the ſcenes.
With prudence then divert th' impending blow,
Some moderation in your madneſs ſhow:
[133]For lewdneſs, for diſcreeter lewdneſs, call;
For modeſt vice;—or elſe the ſtage will fall.
Your naſty nakedneſs to rage provokes;
On quickly with your vizards—all, and cloaks.
Plays are like poiſons; if they're temper'd right,
They ne'er offend the taſte, the ſmell, or ſight:
Bawdy bare-fac'd muſt never be allow'd;
Ev'n whores are maſk'd, and modeſt in a croud.
No Blaſphemies be bellow'd from the ſtage,
Nor any public wars with Virtue wage:
In private be as wicked as ye will;
Do not abroad my myſteries reveal!—
Rakes I abhor: all ſots ſo loudly lewd;
Hell bluſhes at the giddy ſenſeleſs brood:
Whate'er you think (and pray ſuch coxcombs tell).
We have ſome modeſty at leaſt—in Hell:
Not ſuch as is in ſilly virgins ſeen;
Grave, ſolid, ſober, ſerious Vice, I mean.
Be then theſe rules obſerv'd alike by all;
And Vice again ſhall riſe, and Virtue fall:
The realms of Darkneſs every day increaſe;
Lewdneſs grow great, as Modeſty grows leſs:
Atheiſts, with Poets, Players, (wretches vile
By the Saints call'd) ſhall govern Albion's iſle;
And Satan on you all propitious ſmile."
D. "If Satan ſmiles, what mortal ſhall withſtand
Th' unerring thunder of my vengeful hand?
Liſten, ye Britons, then, to Tindal's lore;
I'll ſoon relieve you from tyrannie power:
[134]Nor Prieſts nor Monarchs ſhall in fetters bind
Much longer any free-born Briton's mind:
I'll teach you, every bullet-headed wight,
To drink all day, and fornicate all night."
S. "Well ſtarted, Caſuiſt!—'tis a Briton's right.
Whoring's a very little venial ſin,
If Phyllis be but wholeſome, cheap, and clean;
And drunkenneſs is phyſically good,
To cure the ſpleen, and circulate the blood.
Pray, when you take a new Satanic text,
Inſtruct your honeſt blockhead Britons next
How by the Goſpel they're all plagued and vext:
Show them, that 'tis beneath a Briton's care,
To ſpend his time in ſacraments and prayer."
D. "It ſhall be done, moſt Anti-chriſtian Spright!
And the Three Creeds, my Liege, can ne'er be right:
Three Creeds? but One my faith does puzzle quite.
Suppoſe that NOT were by the Commons freed
Out of the Decalogue, and plac'd i' th' Creed:
That little trifling particle—that NOT!
(Or if expung'd—'twould be no mighty blot.)"
S. "Compendious thought! well worthy to ſuc⯑ceed."
D. "Thus Faith and Practice both at once would bleed:"
S. "That would be Liberty and Property indeed!"
D. "Oh, would but time that happy ſcene dicloſe,
In which no Senator ſhould dare oppoſe
That vote; but all unanimouſly join,
Me and themſelves to free from laws divine!
[135]Then uncontrol'd I'd humour every luſt,
And only be to wine and women juſt."
S. "Nothing ſhould bind a Britiſh Parliament,
Without each individual's conſent.
The Horeb contract never yet was laid
Before the Houſes; nor has once been read,
Or paſs'd in either.—Wherefore then obey'd?"
D. "Was Horeb's rigid contract made for me?
Did I the thunders hear, or lightnings ſee?"
S. "Then, not conſenting, you are plainly free.
All contracts, where one party 's over-aw'd,
The Civil Law, I think, deems null and void.
No freedom with thoſe Ten Commandments laſts,
That Horeb contract all your freedom blaſts:
Diſſolve that contract, try your utmoſt ſtrength,
You may, perhaps, find friends enough at length:
Do thou, my Canoniſt! prepare a bill;
The houſe can any Covenants repeal:
And who ſhall dare oppoſe a Senate's will?
But, I'm afraid, their boggling at the Teſt
Gives us but ſlender ground to hope the beſt.
Had they that Bill but generouſly paſs'd,
With better grace you might have urg'd this laſt."
D. "Your Majeſty makes merry with your ſlave."
S. "Doſt thou then reckon thine own projects grave,
Thy projects in the Rights? thou partial knave!
Well, to be ſerious—nay, nay, why that look?—
There's very wretched reaſoning in thy book:
But, if you pleaſe the nation with ſuch ſtuff;
And make the Clergy odious—'tis enough.
[136]Thy knowledge of the Scripture too is ſmall,
But that, and logic in a Lawyer, ſhall
Not be by me inſiſted on at all.
Could you no better than you reaſon rail;
Tindal, 'twixt friends, the Parſons would prevail."
D. "I 've done my beſt: what mortal can do more?
I'm ſure there's malice in my book, good ſtore."
S. "Yes, pretty well—Doctor of Civil Law!
At laſt—I heed not logic of a ſtraw:
Though leſs than in thy Rights, I own, I never ſaw.
—No matter—Malice, Slander, does as well:
Theſe are our conſtant arguments in Hell.
Be ſure, then, in your Second Rights, take care,
That curs'd Eſtabliſh'd Clergy not to ſpare:
Load them with Malice, Slander, every where.
Stab them, my Ruffian! ſtab them through with lyes:
Till at thy feet that order, gaſping, dies.
Then I myſelf will lead thee down to Hell,
There, in ſupremeſt pomp, with me to dwell.
The Furies patient ſhall thy coming wait,
In magic circles, to attend thy State:
Ten thouſand Infidels before thee fly,
To clear thy paſſage through the crouded ſky.
At thy approach, Rebellion ſtern will riſe,
All ſmear'd with blood and gaſh'd: ('To arms! ſhe cries,
Hurling a ſpear tow'rds Heaven) ſince Tindal's ours,
Let's re-attack, ye Fiends, th' aetherial towers.'
Democracy, (a noiſy patriot fool.
The rabble's idol, and the ſtateſman's tool,)
After her ſaucy and familiar way,
' Doctor, I'm yours; yours heartily! ſhe 'll ſay.
[137]How fares on earth the Jus Divinum? dead!
Do the Patricii the Plebes dread?
Almoſt—then fling this Mirre at that Monarch's head.'
Sedition loud, to Tumult mad, ſhall bawl;
And welcome thee to Satan's gloomy hall:
Slander with all her ſnakes ſhall hiſs thy praiſe;
Treaſon leave all her plots, on thee to gaze:
Lewdneſs with Deiſm ſhall record thy name,
And Envy ſhall not envy thee thy fame.
That wither'd, crooked witch, old Hereſy,
Will wanton, frantic grow, at ſight of thee;
Catch thee with luſt exſtatic in her arms,
Smiling with youth renew'd, and virgin charms;
Then eager preſs her burning lips to thine,
And round thy neck, like a fond miſtreſs, twine.
Vain-glory (mighty Builder!) laſt ſhall raiſe,
At my expence, this fabrick to thy praiſe:
Three hundred cubits from the ſolid ground,
(And all emboſs'd with ſwelling ſculpture round)
The column riſes juſt; with ſtrength and beauty crown'd.
High on its flaming top ſhall Tindal ſtand;
The Chriſtian Rights wide open in thy hand:
There thou ſhalt teach the damn'd to curſe, revile
God's Prieſthood and his Sons: the damn'd, the while,
Forgetting all their pains, ſhall liſtening ſmile.
Sullen Enthuſiaſm, tearing of his hair,
Diſtorted, foaming, trembling, in deſpair,
Low at the pillar's baſe half-rais'd ſhall lie,
Then, ſtaring upwards, with a ſhriek ſhall cry,
' Are Atheiſts lifted up in Hell ſo high!'
[138]On thy right-hand proud Blaſphemy, ſhall ſit,
And on thy left, Prophaneneſs: ſcurrile Wit,
Impudence, Sophiſtry, (Hell's rabble rout)
With Error, Folly, Vanity, and Doubt,
' Huzza—the Rights—the Chriſtian Rights!' ſhall ſhout.
The Scriptures, all to ſhivers torn, ſhall fly
Like driving ſnows along a ſtormy ſky;
The ſpoils of Chriſtian Churches ſhall beſtrow
With ſweet confuſion all the plain below.
Rage unreclaim'd ſhall round the ruins ride,
With ſtupid Irreligion by his ſide:
(On earth by Flattery both for Patriots prais'd,
In Hell by me to ſeats infernal rais'd:)
Theſe ſhall the ſceptre, robes, and diadem, bring,
While I anoint thee—Miſchief's Monkey King.
Such are the honours I prepare for thoſe,
Who are, like thee, to Prieſts immortal foes.
Was ever land by ſilly Prieſts miſled?
Did ever ancient heroes Parſons dread?
Ye drowzy Senators, from ſleep ariſe!
Ye public Patriots, when will ye be wiſe?
Would ye a true dependent Prieſthood have,
Reſume the Tithes your dull Forefathers gave.
Let them at altars for ſubſcriptions wait,
Or arbitrary penſions of the State:
Then, if they dare but what you'd have them teach,
Let them, like Paul, at their own charges preach:
While they their Biſhopricks and Deanries keep,
Theſe Wolves will never tremble at you Sheep."
D. "That little text, my Liege! theſe notions nicks;
' Jefurun, till he fattens, never kicks'."
[139]S. "The Convocation, do whate'er I can,
Still thwarts the meaſures of my dark Divan."
D. "Might Slaves with Emperors in counſel ſhare,
That Senate in ten thouſand pieces tear.
In that Britannia's Church collected ſtands
A giant with two heads, three hundred hands.
Bodies united terrible appear;
Which ſeparate no ſingle man would fear:
Each coward ſingly I myſelf could beat;
But dare not all of them together meet.
So wary hawks do fearful pigeons fly,
As they in ſquadrons wing the liquid ſky:
When join'd in troops, the foe they wiſely ſhun;
And yet they'll kill a thouſand, one by one."
S. "Now I commend thee, Matthew! wiſely ſaid;
And wiſely with ſuch enemies proceed:
Do thou inſtruct the Commons, and the Law,
With praemunires ſtill thoſe Prieſts to awe;
Then they'll ſubmit: thus Henry gain'd his cauſe:
All ſhepherds tremble at a lion's paws:
For though to others they of ſuffering talk,
In their own caſe they ſtill that doctrine baulk.
And, after all, if thoſe Two Houſes meet—"
—D. "The Devil"—S. "And the Doctor"—D. "Both are bit:
But for their gracious Empreſs—there's the taſk—"
S. "Which will my utmoſt care and caution aſk.
I own, ſhe's arm'd with piety and prayers;
Such goodneſs frequently eludes my ſnares.
Firm and unſhaken, hitherto ſhe 'as ſtood:
Nor heeds the noiſe and workings of the flood.
[140]But Hope, you mortals ſay, with life does laſt;
Though beaten ſtill, ſtill I can riſe as faſt.
You cannot but remember gentle Eve;
To me—the wheedling of the ladies leave.
Old Clarendon does well my friends diſgrace:
What then? my friends at court have met with place.
Patient I'll wait—obſerve the rolling ſky;
Then—catch the lucky minutes as they fly.
Once, with ſucceſs, I hunted mighty game;
That day ſhall ſtand conſign'd to deathleſs fame,
Earth trembled as my Beagles roaring onward came.
Remorſeleſs round the Royal Hart they ſtood,
And plung'd their dewlaps in his ſacred blood.
The powers infernal, jealous, wonder'd why,
'Twas given to mortal men to ſin ſo high.
Thus fell old pious Charles, in ſufferings brave;
The Rebels rul'd, their Monarch was their ſlave:
His clemency did firſt his ſtate enthrall;
And by his goodneſs 'twas I wrought his fall.
I fill'd his Senates with my ſaucy brood,
Erect with ſin and impudence they ſtood;
The Subject hector'd, and the Monarch bow'd.
For that, perhaps, above he is renown'd;
But, ſince on earth a traitor's death he found,
I'm ſatisfy'd." D. "So may all kings be crown'd!"
S. "Oh, Anna! when will thy devotion ceaſe?
When will thy ſtreams of charity decreaſe,
That better hopes may to our proſpect riſe?
But thou 'rt confirm'd the Darling of the Skies.
Why art thou thus too generouſly great,
To ſink thy own, to raiſe the Clergy's ſtate;
[141]What bleſſings ſtill attend thy glorious reign!
Oh, Anna! moſt perverſely pious Queen!
Heaven ſmiles to ſee thee rule thy realms below;
And ſovereign power with ſovereign goodneſs ſhow:
The royal Grandſire's worth, with better fate,
Shall make thee through all ages truly great."
D. "All mighty ills by Fates adverſe are croſs'd;
Thus we not works, but wiſhes only boaſt:
Brave Ravillac
* ſhould elſe but ſecond ſtand
To me, in Hell's aſſaſſinating band
Were it not otherwiſe decreed above;
The Guardian Angels ſtill the ſtrongeſt prove.
But, Sir,—thoſe fooliſh Univerſities!
Are they too guarded by Supreme Decrees?
Oh, would ſome other Henry but ariſe!
Diſſolve their colleges, their buildings burn.
And all their books to flames and aſhes turn;
Sell all their lands, to make the nobles drunk,
That every commoner, as olim nunc,
Might at the Church's charges keep—a punk.
Then thou, Bridgewater
†! ſhould'ſt in Europe claim
Oxford's immortal venerable name:
Cambridge to Taunton
† all her towers reſign;"
S. "And both in mighty Tindal's praiſes join."
D. "Thus Piety and Learning ſhould decay,
And Ignorance and Atheiſm bear the ſway."
S. "Exquiſite fiend! Satan's undoubted ſeed!
How does thy likeneſs juſtify thy breed!
[142]What pity 'tis, it ever ſhould be ſaid,
That thou didſt eat a paltry prelate's bread!
For ſhame! for ſhame! thy Fellowſhip reſign!
Nor longer with thoſe Chriſtian coxcombs dine;
Forſake thy pedant cell, to courts repair,
Triumphant Atheiſm thou wilt meet with there:
Thy moſt degenerate friends the courtiers tell,
We have not ſuch ingratitude in Hell:
To let a youth like thee regardleſs paſs,
Nor mind the glories of thy glittering face.
Merit like thine to meet with no reward!
Ye guardian powers of Vice, 'tis wondrous hard!
King David's admonition here is juſt;
' Not princes, nor in any courtiers truſt!'
But hold—my time is almoſt quite expir'd;
Beſides, below my preſence is requir'd.
—Rot theſe Republicans! I am betray'd;
That Tutchin has an inſurrection made
With his depoſing doctrines; but, ere day,
I'll teach that dog Hell's Monarch to obey.
Do thou, then, quickly theſe few orders take,
And I thy room, at preſent, will forſake:
" To all thy real and admiring friends,
" Satan, by thee, his hearty love commends.
" To Toland, Collins, Stephens, Aſgill, tell,
" Sir Robert Howard greets them kindly well;
" And hopes to ſee them ſhortly all—in Hell.
" From me the Phoenix Editors ſalute;
" And I've a letter here for Squire Shute
*.
[143]" John Dunton, with his brethren of the bays,
" His love to Garth, blaſpheming Garth, conveys:
" And thanks him for his Pagan funeral praiſe.
" Hopes Wycherley, whoſe Chriſtian name is Will,
" Continues very witty, wicked ſtill:
" The like of Congreve, Vanbrook
*, and the reſt,
" Who ſwear, that all Religion is a Jeſt.
" Tell Doctor Burnet
†, Theory I mean,
" His Eve and Serpent have our Tatler been:
" Lucian the maſter for that dialogue thanks;
" The Snake and Lady, faith, play—pretty pranks.
" Hugh Peters ſomething ſaid, a canting ſot,
" About one Ben
‡—his ſur-name I forgot
‖:
" His 'Meaſures of Submiſſion' were obey'd
" Exactly by Wat Tyler and Jack Cade.
" George Fox to Lacy had ſome warnings groan'd,
" But his ſtiff ſcribe was no where to be found:
" The fool himſelf can neither write nor read;
" The motions of his chops I did not heed.
" Old Arius cry'd, O Lucifer! I charge ye,
" Thank Whiſton for his Moneo to the clergy.
" Oliver's porter ſtopp'd me at Hell's door,
" And in my ears this prophecy did roar:
" A certain circumflex enthuſiaſt Knight,
" Of Britain-Great, a very little wight,
[144]" Sir Richard Bulkeley
* call'd; bid him but wait,
" When Emes
† does riſe, his worſhip will be ſtreight.
" Have ye not here on earth, pray, Hell-whelps too?"
D. "Your Highneſs means, if I conjecture true,
Our Blockhead Obſervator and Review."
S. "The ſame—They're lazy curs, I'll have them hang'd;
Or elſe, 'till all their bones are broken, bang'd.
In half this time Pryn ruin'd Church and State."
D. "All Scoundrels cannot grow, by ſcribbling, great."
S. "If they can nothing more to purpoſe ſay,
I'll burn their papers, and withdraw their pay.
Pr'ythee reach hither, Matt! the Bibliotheque
Choiſy, where th' author of your works does ſpeak:
Becauſe Socinus has a wager laid,
There's ſomething greatly to your honour ſaid:
And that our ſcribbling Swiſs, Le Clerc, will ſay
As much—of any Devil in Hell—for pay.
In winter, when at Conſtantine's you meet,
Pray tell that club, I kiſs their cloven feet.
And at the Calve's-head-feaſt when next you dine,
Accept theſe flaſks of Acherontic wine:
The toaſt be—honeſt Noll's good health and mine.
I'll have a brace of Dukes within this ſe'n night,
Spite of the doctrine of that Doctor Kennet.
From me, as from a friend, his Reverence tell,
We 've Men of Senſe and Quality in Hell.
'Tis well remember'd—Take one parting kiſs;
Thine elder brother Judas ſent thee this."
Thus having ſaid, he in a miſt withdrew,
And in a moment up the chimney flew.
VERTUMNUS, AN EPISTLE;
TO MR. JACOB BOBART*, 1713.
[145]BY DR. EVANS.
THANK heaven! at laſt our wars are o'er;
We're very wiſe, and very poor:
All our campaigns at once are done:
We 've ended where we juſt begun,
In perfect peace: long may it laſt,
And pay for all the taxes paſt!
Refill th' Exchequer, chace our fears,
And dry up all the ladies' tears,
[146]For huſbands, ſons, and lovers loſt;
In duels ſome, in battles moſt.
Riſe, riſe, ye Britons, thankful riſe!
Extol your Empreſs to the ſkies;
Crown her with laurels ever green,
With olives fair inwove between:
Her courage drew the conquering ſword;
Her wiſdom baniſh'd peace reſtor'd.
Long, wondrous Anna! may'ſt thou live,
T' enjoy thoſe bleſſings which you give:
To guard thy friends, confound thy foes,
And fix the Church and State's repoſe:
And late, for peace to Britain given,
Be crown'd with endleſs peace in Heaven!
Farewell, ye camps and ſieges dire,
With all your cannons, ſmoke, and fire!
Ye victories and trophies vain,
A certain loſs, uncertain gain!
Ye ſquadrons and battalions brave,
Who firſt your foes, then friends enſlave!
Ye gallant leaders, who delight,
For glory leſs, than gold, to fight!
Ye public patriots, plac'd on high,
To ſell thoſe votes, which firſt ye buy!
And bards, whoſe mercenary lays
Such heroes and ſuch ſtateſmen praiſe!
An honeſt Muſe alike diſclaims
Such authors, and their impious themes;
And, with a more becoming grace,
Her ſong impartial does addreſs,
[147]Bobart, to thee, the Muſes' friend:
Bobart, the promis'd ſong attend.
And where no difference appears
Betwixt the ſubject, and the verſe;
But he who praiſes, and is prais'd,
On equal eminence are rais'd:
No flatteries thence are to be fear'd,
Nor hopes encourag'd of reward.
Such is our caſe:—I honour thee
For ſomething, thou for ſomething me;
Sincerely both: our thoughts the ſame,
Of courtiers, fortune, and of fame;
Alike (in pity to mankind)
To peace, to heavenly peace, inclin'd.
To peace, my friend! that thou and I,
No colours fluttering in the ſky;
With frightful faces, glittering arms
(Bellona's military charms);
May undiſturb'd and ſtudious rove,
O'er every lawn, through every grove.
See various Nature, in each field,
Her flowers and fruits luxuriant yield;
While the bright God of day preſides
Aloft, and all the ſeaſons guides;
Jocund to run his annual courſe,
With never-tiring ſpeed and force.
With golden hair the God of day
Wings from the Eaſt his fervid way;
The ſtars, applauding as he flies,
To ſee him ſtretch along the ſkies;
[148]To ſee him roll his fiery race
Athwart the vaſt aethereal ſpace;
Unbind the froſts, diſſolve the ſnows,
As round the radiant Belt he goes.
Mild Zephyrus the Graces leads,
To revel o'er the fragant meads;
The mountains ſhout, the foreſts ring,
While Flora decks the purple Spring:
The Hours (attendant all the while)
On Zephyrus and Flora ſmile:
The valleys laugh, the rivers play,
In honour of the God of day.
The birds, that fan the liquid air,
To tune their little throats prepare;
The joyous birds of every ſhade,
For loitering, love, and muſic made,
Their voices raiſe on every ſpray,
To welcome-in the God of day.
The vegetable Earth beneath
Bids all her plants his praiſes breathe:
Clouds of freſh fragrance upwards riſe,
To chear his progreſs through the ſkies;
And Heaven, and Earth, and Air unite,
To celebrate his heat and light:
That light and heat which on our world
From his gay chariot-wheels is hurl'd;
And every morn does roſy riſe,
To glad our dampy, darkſome ſkies:
Which once deſerted by his light
Would languiſh in eternal night.
[149]But Gardening were of all a toil,
That on our hopes the leaſt would ſmile;
Should the kind God of day forbear
T' exhale the rains, foment the air:
Or, in an angry mood, decline
With his prolific beams to ſhine.
Ev'n thou! (though that's thy meaneſt praiſe)
Nor fruits nor flowers could'ſt hope to raiſe;
(Howe'er thou may'ſt in order place,
Of both, the latter, earlier race;
In glaſſes or in ſheds confin'd,
To ſhield them from the wintery wind;
Or, in the Spring, with ſkilful care,
Place them his influence beſt to ſhare):
Did not the ſun, their genial ſire,
The vegetative ſoul inſpire:
Inſtruct the ſenſeleſs aukward root,
And teach the fibres how to ſhoot:
Command the taper ſtalk to rear
His flowering head, to grace the year;
To ſhed ambroſial odours round,
And paint, with choiceſt dyes, the ground.
Thou, next to him, art truly great:
On earth his mighty delegate:
The Vegetable world to guide,
And o'er all Botany preſide:
To ſee that every dewy morn
Succeſſive plants the earth adorn:
That flowers through every month be found,
Conſtant to keep their gaudy round:
[150]That flowers, in ſpite of froſt and ſnow,
Throughout our year, perpetual blow:
That trees, in ſpite of winds, are ſeen
Array'd in everlaſting green.
Nor with a care beneath thy ſkill
Doſt thou that vaſt employment fill.
Hail, Horticulture's ſapient King!
Receive the homage that we bring:
While at thy feet, with reverence low,
All Botaniſts and Floriſts bow;
Their knowledge, practice, all reſign,
Short, infinitely ſhort, of thine.
For thou 'rt not ſatisfied to know
The plants that in three nations blow
(Their names, their ſeaſons, native place,
Their culture, qualities, and race);
Or Europe's more extended plains;
Sylva [...]us, Flora's wide domains:
Whate'er in Africk, Aſia, ſhoots
From ſeeds, from layers, grafts, or roots;
At both the Indies, both the Poles,
Whate er the ſea or ocean rolls;
Of the botanic, herbal kind,
Lies open to thy ſearching mind.
Nobleſt ambition of thy ſoul!
Which limits but in vain control.
Let others, meanly ſatisfy'd
With partial knowledge, ſooth their pride:
While thou, with thy prodigious ſtore,
But ſhew'ſt thy modeſty the more.
[151]Thou venerable Patriarch wiſe,
Inſtruct us in thy myſteries:
From thee the Gods no knowledge hide,
No knowledge have to thee deny'd:
The rural Gods of hills or plains,
Where Faunus, or Favonia reigns.
Then tell us, as thou beſt doſt know,
Where perfect happineſs does grow.
What herbs or bodies will ſuſtain
Secure from ſickneſs, and from pain:
What plants protect us from the rage
Of blighting Time, or blaſting Age;
Which ſhrubs, of all the flowery field,
Moſt aromatic odours yield.
Shew us the trees by Nature ſpread,
To form the cooleſt noon-tide ſhade;
When our firſt anceſtors were ſeen,
Out-ſtretch'd upon the graſſy green:
Nor any food or covering ſought,
But what from trees and woods they got:
Who, after various ages ſpent
In eaſe, abundance, and content,
Knew not what wars, or ſickneſs meant;
But, chearful, when the Fates requir'd,
Quick to th' Elyſian fields retir'd.
Recount the precepts they obſerv'd;
How from their rules they never ſwerv'd:
Such as Alcinous of old
To his beloved Phaeaceans told;
Or thoſe Apollo firſt did teach
His ſon, the Epidaurian
* leech.
[152]Long ere the Romans us'd to dine
Beneath their planes manur'd with wine;
On Tyrian couches, thoughtleſs lay,
And drank, and laugh'd, and kiſs'd away
Each fultry, circling, Summer's day:
On poliſh'd ivory beds reclin'd,
Flung care and ſorrow to the wind:
And, ſcorning Nature's temperate rules,
Like madmen liv'd, and dy'd like fools:
Teach us, thou learn'd judicious ſage,
The manners of a wiſer age!
To thee was given by Jove to keep
Thoſe grottoes where the Muſes ſleep:
To plant their foreſts where they ſing,
Faſt by the cool Caſtalian ſpring:
With myrtles their pavilions raiſe;
Soft, intermix'd with Delian bays:
And when, they wake at earlieſt day,
To ſtrew with ſweeteſt flowers their way.
Tranſcendent honour! here below,
The Muſes and their haunts to know!
Anna! look down on Iſis' towers;
Be gracious to the Muſes' bowers:
And, now thy toils of war are done;
Anna! protect Apollo's throne:
'Twas he the dart unerring threw;
Python the ſnaky monſter ſtew.
The Muſes' bowers, by all admir'd,
But thoſe Fanatic rage has fir'd,
Or Atheiſt fools, who freedom boaſt,
Themſelves to ſlavery fetter'd moſt.
[153]Stern Mars may thunder, Momus rail;
But Wiſdom's goodneſs will prevail.
On Iſis' banks, retirement ſweet!
Tritonian Pallas holds her ſeat.
Minerva's gardens are thy care;
Bobart! the Virgin-power revere:
Thy hoary head with vervain bound,
The myſtic grove thrice compaſs round;
The waters of luſtration pour,
And thrice the winding walks explore:
Leſt ſome preſumptuous wretch intrude,
With impious ſteel to wound the wood;
Or, with raſh arm, prophanely dare
To ſhake the trees, the leaves to bare,
And violate their ſacred hair;
Or, by worſe ſacrilege betray'd,
The bloſſoms, fruits, or flowers, invade.
Ye ſtrangers! guard your heedleſs feet,
Leſt from the herbs their dews ye beat;
Coſmetic dews (by virgins fair,
Exhal'd in May, with early care)
Will to their eyes freſh luſtre give,
And make their charms for ever live.
Minerva's gardens are thy care;
Jacob, the Goddeſs-maid revere.
All plants which Europe's fields contain,
For health, for pleaſure, or for pain
(From the tall cedar that does riſe
With conic pride, and mates the ſkies;
Down to the humbleſt ſhrub that crawls
On earth, or juſt aſcends our walls),
[154]Her ſquares of Horticulture yield:
By Danby
* planted, Bobart till'd.
Delightful ſcientific ſhade,
For knowledge, as for pleaſure, made!
'Twas generous Danby firſt inclos'd
The waſte, and in parterres diſpos'd;
Transform'd the faſhion of the ground,
And fenc'd it with a rocky mound;
The figure diſproportion'd chang'd,
Trees, ſhrubs, and plants, in order rang'd;
Stock'd it with ſuch exceſſive ſtore,
Only the ſpacious earth had more:
[155]At his command the plat was choſe,
And Eden from the chaos roſe:
Confuſion in a moment fled,
And roſes bluſh'd where thiſtles bred.
The Portico, next, high he rear'd,
By builders now ſo much rever'd,
(Which like ſome ruſtic beauty ſhews,
Who all her charms to Nature owes;
Yet fires the heart, and warms the head,
No leſs than thoſe in cities bred;
Our wonder equally does raiſe
With them, as well deſerves our praiſe).
The work of Jones's maſter-hand:
Jones, the Vitruvius of our land;
He drew the plan, the fabrick fix'd,
With equal ſtrength and beauty mix'd:
With perfect ſymmetry deſign'd;
Conſummate, like the donor's mind.
Illuſtrious Danby! ſplendid peer!
Look downward from thy radiant ſphere,
The Muſes' thanks propitious hear.
When, Albion will thy Nobles now,
Such bounty to Minerva ſhew?
With true Patrician renown,
In honour of the Church and Crown
Grace with ſuch gifts the Muſes' town?
There, where old Cherwell gently leads
His humid train along the meads;
And courts fair Iſis, but in vain,
Who laughs at all his amorous pain;
[156]Away the ſcornful Naid turns,
For younger Tamus Iſis burns.
Cloſe to thoſe towers, ſo much renown'd
For ſlavery loſt and freedom found:
Where thy brave ſons, in hapleſs days,
Wainfleet
*, to thy immortal praiſe,
Their rights municipal maintain'd
Submiſs, nor their allegiance ſtain'd
†:
To loyalty and conſcience true;
Gave Caeſar and Themſelves their due;
Cloſe to thoſe towers, by Jove's command,
The gardens of Minerva ſtand.
There 'tis we ſee thee, Bobart, tend
Thy favourite greens; from harms defend
Exotic plants, which, finely bred
In ſofter ſoils, thy ſuccour need;
[157]Whoſe birth far-diſtant countries claim,
Sent here in honour to thy name.
To thee the ſtrangers trembling fly,
For ſhelter from our barbarous ſky,
And murdering winds, that frequent blow,
With cruel drifts of rain or ſnow;
And dreadful ills, both Fall and Spring,
On alien vegetables bring.
Nor art thou leſs inclin'd to ſave,
Than they thy generous aid to crave:
But, with like pleaſure and reſpect,
Thy darling tribe thou doſt protect:
Leſſen their fears, their hopes dilate,
And ſave their fragrant ſouls from fate:
While they, ſecure in health and peace,
Their covert and their guardian bleſs.
This makes thee rouze at prime of day,
Thy doubtful nurſery to ſurvey:
At noon to count thy flock with care,
And in their joys and ſorrows ſhare
(By each extreme unhappy made,
Of too much ſun, or too much ſhade);
Be ready to attend their cry,
And all their little wants ſupply;
By day ſevereſt ſentry keep,
By night ſit by them as they ſleep;
With endleſs pain, and endleſs pleaſure,
As miſers guard their hoarded treaſure.
Till ſoft Favonius fans the flowers,
Breathes balmy dews, drops fruitful ſhowers;
[158]Favonius ſoft, that ſweetly blows,
The Tulip paints, perfumes the Roſe;
And, with the gentle Twins at play,
Brings in th' Elyſian month of May.
Then boldly from their lodge you bring
Your gueſts, to deck our gloomy Spring.
Thrice happy Foreigners! to find
From Iſlanders ſuch treatment kind:
Not only undiſturb'd to live,
But, by thy goodneſs, Bobart, thrive:
Grow ſtrong, increaſe, their verdure hold,
As dwelling in their native mold.
The reſt, who will no culture know,
But ceaſeleſs curſe our rains and ſnow:
A ſickly, ſullen, fretful race;
The gardener's and his art's diſgrace:
Whom Bobart's ſelf in vain does ſtrive,
With all his ſkill to keep alive:
Which from beneath th' Aequator come,
In India's ſultry foreſts bloom.
Of theſe, at leaſt, ſince nature more
Denies t' encreaſe thy living ſtore,
Their barks, or roots, their flowers, or leaves,
Thy Hortus Siccus
* ſtill receives:
In tomes twice ten, that work immenſe!
By thee compil'd at vaſt expence;
With utmoſt diligence amaſs'd,
And ſhall as many ages laſt.
[159]And now, methinks, my Genius ſees
My friend, amidſt his plants and trees;
Full in the center, there he ſtands,
Encircled with his verdant bands;
Who all around obſequious wait,
To know his pleaſure, and their fate:
His royal orders to receive,
To grow, decay, to die, or live:
That not the proudeſt kings can boaſt
A greater, or more duteous, hoſt.
Thou all that power doſt truly know,
Which they but dream-of here below;
Thy abſolute deſpotic reign
Inviolably doſt maintain,
Nor with ill-govern'd wrath affright
Thy people, or inſult their right:
(But, as thy might in greatneſs grows,
Thy mercy in proportion flows):
Nor they undutiful deny
What 's due to lawful majeſty;
Safe in thy court from all the cares,
Domeſtic treaſons, foreign wars,
Which monarchs and their crowns perplex,
Whom factions ſtill, or favourites vex.
But thou, on thy botanic throne,
Sit'ſt fearleſs, uncontrol'd, alone:
Thy realms in tumults ne'er involv'd,
Or, riſing, are as ſoon diſſolv'd:
Free from the miſchiefs and the ſtrife
Of a falſe friend, or fury wife:
[160]And if a rebel ſlave, or ſon,
Audacious by indulgence grown,
Preſumes above his mates to riſe,
And their dull loyalty deſpiſe;
Thou, awful Sultan! with a look,
Canſt all his arrogance rebuke;
And, darting one imperial frown,
Hurl the bold traitor headlong down:
His brethren, trembling at his fate,
Thy dread commands with reverence wait:
Thy wondrous power and juſtice own,
And learn t' aſſert a tottering throne.
Thus Kings, that were in empire wiſe,
Rebellions early ſhould chaſtiſe;
And give their clemency no time,
Betwixt th' offender and the crime,
With fatal eloquence to plead,
Which does more rebels only breed.
Bobart, to Kings thy rules commend,
For thou to Monarchs art a friend.
Thus, Sovereign Planter! I have paid
The debt, the promis'd preſent made:
Do thou, what 's written for thy ſake
With freedom, with like freedom take:
Take the juſt praiſe thy friend does give,
And in my verſe for ever live!
"—Tibi candida Naïs
" Pallentes violas & ſumma papavera carpens,
" Narciſſum & florem jungit bene olentis anethi."
Virg. Ecl. ii. 46.
ESSAY ON THE DIFFERENT STYLES OF POETRY*.
TO HENRY LORD VISCOUNT BOLINGBROKE.
[217]"—Vatibus addere calcar,
" Ut ſtudio majore petant Helicona virentem."
HOR. Ep. II. 1.
I HATE the vulgar with untuneful mind;
Hearts uninſpir'd, and ſenſes unrefin'd.
Hence, ye prophane: I raiſe the ſounding ſtring,
And Bolingbroke defcends to hear me ſing.
[218]When Greece could truth in Myſtie Fable ſhroud,
And with delight inſtruct the liſtening crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has loſt his name)
Deliver'd ſtrains on Verſe to future fame.
Still, as he ſung, he touch'd the trembling lyre,
And felt the notes a riſing warmth inſpire.
Ye ſweetening Graces, in the Muſic throng,
Aſſiſt my genius, and retrieve the ſong
From dark oblivion. See, my genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem roſe.
[219]" WIT is the Muſes' horſe, and bears on high
The daring rider to the Muſes' ſky:
Who, while his ſtrength to mount aloft he tries,
By regions varying in their nature flies.
At firſt, he riſeth o'er a land of toil,
A barren, hard, and undeſerving ſoil,
Where only weeds from heavy labour grow,
Which yet the nation prune, and keep for ſhow.
[220]Where couplets jingling on their accent run,
Whoſe Point of Epigram is ſunk to Pun;
Where
* wings by fancy never feather'd fly,
Where lines by meaſure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars ſtand, erected Porches gape,
And ſenſe is cramp'd while words are par'd to ſhape;
Where mean Acroſticks, labour'd in a frame
On ſcatter'd letters, raiſe a painful ſcheme;
And, by confinement in their work, control
The great enlargings of the boundleſs ſoul;
Where if a warrior's elevated fire
Would all the brighteſt ſtrokes of verſe require,
Then ſtraight in Anagram a wretched crew
Will pay their undeſerving praiſes too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed name
Muſt tell its maſter's character to Fame.
And (if my fire and fears aright preſage)
The labouring writers of a future age
Shall clear new ground, and grots and caves repair,
To civilize the babbling echoes there.
Then, while a lover treads a lonely walk,
His voice ſhall with its own reflection talk,
The cloſing ſounds of all the vain device
Select by trouble frivolouſly nice,
Reſound through verſe, and with a falſe pretence
Support the dialogue, and paſs for ſenſe.
Can things like theſe to laſting praiſe pretend?
Can any Muſe the worthleſs toil befriend?
[221]Ye ſacred Virgins, in my thoughts ador'd,
Ah, be for ever in my lines deplor'd,
If tricks on words acquire an endleſs name,
And trifles merit in the court of Fame!"
At this the Poet ſtood concern'd a while,
And view'd his objects with a ſcornful ſmile:
Then other images of different kind,
With different workings, enter'd on his mind;
At whoſe approach, he felt the former gone,
And ſhiver'd in conceit, and thus went on:
" By a cold region next the Rider goes,
Where all lies cover'd in eternal ſnows;
Where no bright Genius drives the chariot high,
To glitter on the ground, and gild the ſky.
Bleak level Realm, where Frigid Styles abound,
Where never yet a daring thought was found,
But counted feet is Poetry defin'd;
And ſtarv'd conceits, that chill the reader's mind,
A little ſenſe in many words imply,
And drag in loitering numbers ſlowly by.
Here dry ſententious ſpeeches, half aſleep,
Prolong'd in lines, o'er many pages creep;
Nor ever ſhew the paſſions well expreſs'd,
Nor raiſe like paſſions in another's breaſt.
Here flat narrations fair exploits debaſe,
In meaſures void of every ſhining grace;
Which never arm their hero for the field,
Nor with prophetic ſtory paint the ſhield,
Nor ſix the creſt, nor make the feathers wave,
Nor with their characters reward the brave;
[222]Undeck'd they ſtand, and unadorn'd with praiſe,
And fail to profit while they fail to pleaſe.
Here forc'd Deſcription is ſo ſtrangely wrought,
It never ſtamps its image on the thought;
The lifeleſs trees may ſtand for ever bare,
And rivers ſtop, for aught the readers care;
They ſee no branches trembling in the woods,
Nor hear the murmurs of increaſing floods,
Which near the roots of ruffled waters flow,
And ſhake the ſhadows of the boughs below.
Ah, ſacred Verſe, replete with heavenly flame,
Such cold endeavours would invade thy name!
The writer fondly would in theſe ſurvive,
Which, wanting ſpirit, never ſeem'd alive:
But, if Applauſe or Fame attend his pen,
Let breathleſs ſtatues paſs for breathing men."
Here ſeem'd the Singer touch'd at what he ſung,
And grief a while delay'd his hand and tongue:
But ſoon he check'd his fingers, choſe a ſtrain,
And flouriſh'd ſhrill, and thus aroſe again:
" Paſs the next region which appears to ſhow:
'Tis very open, unimprov'd, and low;
No noble flights of elevated thought,
No nervous ſtrength of ſenſe maturely wrought,
Poſſeſs this Realm; but common turns are there,
Which idly ſportive move with childiſh air.
On callow wings, and like a plague of flies,
The little fancies in a Poem riſe,
The jaded Reader every where to ſtrike,
And move his paſſions every where alike.
[223]There all the graceful nymphs are forc'd to play
Where any water bubbles in the way:
There ſhaggy Satyrs are oblig'd to rove
In all the fields, and over all the grove:
There every ſtar is ſummon'd from its ſphere,
To dreſs one face, and make Clorinda fair:
There Cupids fling their darts in every ſong,
While Nature ſtands neglected all along:
Till the teaz'd hearer, vex'd at laſt to find
One conſtant object ſtill aſſault the mind,
Admires no more at what's no longer new,
And haſtes to ſhun the perſecuting view.
There bright ſurprizes of Poetic rage
(Whoſe ſtrength and beauty, more confirm'd in age
For having laſted, laſt the longer ſtill)
By weak attempts are imitated ill,
Or carried on beyond their proper light,
Or with refinement flouriſh'd out of ſight.
There Metaphors on Metaphors abound,
And ſenſe by differing images confound:
Strange injudicious management of thought,
Not born to rage, nor into method brought.
Ah, ſacred Muſe! from ſuch a Realm retreat,
Nor idly waſte the influence of thy heat
On ſhallow ſoils, where quick productions riſe,
And wither as the warmth that rais'd them dies."
Here o'er his breaſt a ſort of pity roll'd,
Which ſomething labouring in the mind control'd,
And made him touch the loud reſounding ſtrings,
While thus with Muſic's ſtronger tones he ſings:
[224]" Mount higher ſtill, ſtill keep thy faithful ſeat,
Mind the firm reins, and curb thy courſer's heat;
Nor let him touch the Realms that next appear,
Whoſe hanging turrets ſeem a fall to fear;
And ſtrangely ſtand along the tracts of air,
Where thunder rolls, and bearded comets glare.
The thoughts that moſt extravagantly ſoar,
The words that ſound as if they meant to roar;
For rant and noiſe are offer'd here to choice,
And ſtand elected by the public voice.
All ſchemes are ſlighted which attempt to ſhine
At once with ſtrange and probable deſign;
'Tis here a mean conceit, a vulgar view,
That bears the leaſt reſpect to ſeeming true;
While every trifling turn of things is ſeen
To move by Gods deſcending in machine.
Here ſwelling lines with ſtalking ſtrut proceed,
And in the clouds terrific rumblings breed;
Here ſingle heroes deal grim deaths around,
And armies periſh in tremendous ſound;
Here fearful monſters are preſerv'd to die,
In ſuch a tumult as affrights the ſky;
For which the golden ſun ſhall hide with dread,
And Neptune lift his ſedgy-matted head,
Admire the roar, and dive with dire diſmay,
And ſeek his deepeſt chambers in the ſea.
To raiſe their ſubject thus the lines deviſe,
And falſe extravagance would fain ſurprize;
Yet ſtill, ye Gods, ye live untouch'd by fear,
And undiſturb'd at bellowing monſters here:
[225]But with compaſſion guard the brain of men,
If thus they bellow through the Poet's pen:
So will the Reader's eyes diſcern aright
The raſheſt ſally from the nobleſt flight,
And find that only boaſt and ſound agree
To ſeem the life and voice of majeſty,
When Writers rampant on Apollo call,
And bid him enter and poſſeſs them all,
And make his flames afford a wild pretence
To keep them unreſtrain'd by common ſenſe.
Ah, ſacred Verſe! leſt Reaſon quit thy ſeat,
Give none to ſuch, or give a gentler heat."
'Twas here the Singer felt his temper wrought
By fairer proſpects, which aroſe to thought;
And in himſelf a while collected ſat,
And much admir'd at this, and much at that;
Till all the beauteous forms in order ran,
And then he took their track, and thus began:
" Above the beauties, far above the ſhow
In which weak Nature dreſſes here below,
Stands the great palace of the Bright and Fine,
Where fair ideas in full glory ſhine;
Eternal models of exalted parts,
The pride of minds, and conquerors of hearts.
Upon the firſt arrival here, are ſeen
Rang'd walks of bay, the Muſes' ever-green,
Each ſweetly ſpringing from ſome ſacred bough,
Whoſe circling ſhade adorn'd a Poet's brow,
While through the leaves, in unmoleſted ſkies,
The gentle breathing of applauſes flies,
[226]And flattering ſounds are heard within the breze,
And pleaſing murmur runs among the trees,
And falls of water join the flattering ſounds,
And murmur ſoftening from the ſhore rebounds.
The warbled melody, the lovely ſights,
The calms of ſolitude inſpire delights,
The dazzled eyes, the raviſh'd ears, are caught,
The panting heart unites to purer thought,
And grateful ſhiverings wander o'er the ſkin,
And wondrous ecſtaſies ariſe within,
Whence admiration overflows the mind,
And leaves the pleaſure felt, but undefin'd.
Stay, daring Rider, now no longer rove;
Now paſs to find the palace through the grove:
Whate'er you ſee, whate'er you feel, diſplay
The Realm you ſought for; daring Rider, ſtay.
Here various Fancy ſpreads a varied ſcene,
And Judgement likes the ſight, and looks ſerene,
And can be pleas'd itſelf, and helps to pleaſe,
And joins the work, and regulates the lays.
Thus, on a plan deſign'd by double care,
The building riſes in the glitterring air,
With juſt agreement fram'd in every part,
And ſmoothly poliſh'd with the niceſt art.
Here laurel-boughs, which ancient heroes wore,
Now not ſo fading as they prov'd before,
Wreath round the pillars which the Poets rear,
And ſlope their points to make a foliage there.
Here chaplets, pull'd in gently-breathing wind,
And wrought by lovers innocently kind,
[227]Hung o'er the porch, their fragrant odours give,
And freſh in laſting ſong for ever live.
The ſhades, for whom with ſuch indulgent care
Fame wreaths the boughs, or hangs the chaplets there,
To deathleſs honours thus preſerv'd above,
For ages conquer, or for ages love.
Here bold Deſcription paints the walls within,
Her pencil touches, and the world is ſeen:
The fields look beauteous in their flowery pride,
The mountains rear aloft, the vales ſubſide;
The cities riſe, the rivers ſeem to play,
And hanging rocks repell the foaming ſea;
The foaming ſeas their angry billows ſhow,
Curl'd white above, and darkly roll'd below,
Or ceaſe their rage, and, as they calmly lie,
Return the pleaſing pictures of the ſky;
The ſkies, extended in an open view,
Appear a lofty diſtant arch of blue,
In which Deſcription ſtains the painted bow,
Or thickens clouds, and feathers-out the ſnow,
Or mingles bluſhes in the morning ray,
Or gilds the noon, or turns an evening gray.
Here, on the pedeſtals of War and Peace,
In different rows, and with a different grace,
Fine Statues proudly ride, or nobly ſtand,
To which Narration with a pointing hand
Directs the ſight, and makes examples pleaſe
By boldly venturing to dilate in praiſe;
While choſen beauties lengthen out the ſong,
Yet make her hearers never think it long.
[228]Or if, with cloſer art, with ſprightly mien,
Scarce like herſelf, and more like Action ſeen,
She bids their facts in images ariſe,
And ſeem to paſs before the Reader's eyes,
The words like charms inchanted motion give,
And all the Statues of the Palace live.
Then hoſts embattled ſtretch their lines afar,
Their leaders' ſpeeches animate the war,
The trumpets ſound, the feather'd arrows fly,
The ſword is drawn, the lance is toſs'd on high,
The brave preſs-on, the fainter forces yield,
And death in different ſhapes deforms the field.
Or, ſhould the ſhepherds be diſpos'd to play,
Amintor's jolly pipe beguiles the day,
And jocund Echos dally with the ſound,
And Nymphs in meaſures trip along the ground,
And, ere the dews have wet the graſs below,
Turn homewards ſinging all the way they go.
Here, as on circumſtance Narrations dwell.
And tell what moves, and hardly ſeem to tell,
The toil of Heroes on the duſty plains,
Or on the green the merriment of Swains,
Reflection ſpeaks: then all the Forms that roſe
In life's inchanted ſcene themſelves compoſe;
Whilſt the grave voice, controling all the ſpells,
With ſolemn utterance, thus the Moral tells:
" So Public Worth its enemies deſtroys,
Or Private Innocence itſelf enjoys."
Here all the Paſſions, for their greater ſway,
In all the power of words themſelves array;
[229]And hence the ſoft Pathetic gently charms,
And hence the bolder fills the breaſt with arms.
Sweet Love in numbers finds a world of darts,
And with Deſirings wounds the tender hearts.
Fair Hope diſplays its pinions to the wind,
And flutters in the lines, and lifts the mind.
Briſk Joy with tranſport fills the riſing ſtrain,
Breaks in the notes, and bounds in every vein.
Stern Courage, glittering in the ſparks of Ire,
Inflames thoſe lays that ſet the breaſt on fire.
Averſion learns to fly with ſwifter will,
In numbers taught to repreſent an ill.
By frightful accents Fear produces fears;
By ſad expreſſion Sorrow melts to tears:
And dire Amazement and Deſpair are brought
By words of Horror through the wilds of thought.
'Tis thus tumultuous Paſſions learn to roll;
Thus, arm'd with Poetry, they win the ſoul.
Paſs further through the Dome, another view
Would now the pleaſures of thy mind renew,
Where oft Deſcription for the colours goes,
Which raiſe and animate its native ſhows;
Where oft Narration ſeeks a florid grace
To keep from ſinking ere 'tis time to ceaſe;
Where eaſy turns Reflection looks to find,
When Morals aim at dreſs to pleaſe the mind;
Where lively Figures are for uſe array'd,
And theſe an Action, thoſe a Paſſion, aid.
There modeſt Metaphors in order ſit,
With unaffected, undiſguiſing Wit,
[230]That leave their own, and ſeek another's place,
Not forc'd, but changing with an eaſy pace,
To deck a notion faintly ſeen before,
And Truth preſerves her ſhape, and ſhines the more.
By theſe the beauteous Similes reſide,
In look more open, in deſign ally'd,
Who, fond of likeneſs, from another's face
Bring every feature's correſponding grace,
With near approaches in expreſſion flow,
And take the turn their pattern loves to ſhow;
As in a glaſs the ſhadows meet the fair,
And dreſs and practiſe with reſembling air.
Thus Truth by pleaſure doth her aim purſue,
Looks bright, and fixes on the doubled view.
There Repetitions one another meet,
Expreſsly ſtrong, or languiſhingly ſweet,
And raiſe the ſort of ſentiment they pleaſe,
And urge the ſort of ſentiment they raiſe.
There cloſe in order are the Queſtions plac'd,
Which march with art conceal'd in ſhows of haſte,
And work the Reader till his mind be brought
To make its anſwers in the Writer's thought.
For thus the moving Paſſions ſeem to throng,
And with their quickneſs force the ſoul along;
And thus the ſoul grows fond they ſhould prevail,
When every Queſtion ſeems a fair appeal;
And if by juſt degrees of ſtrength they ſoar,
In ſteps as equal each affects the more.
There ſtrange Commotion, naturally ſhown,
Speaks on regardleſs that ſhe ſpeaks alone,
[231]Nor minds if they to whom ſhe talks be near,
Nor cares if that to which ſhe talks can hear.
The warmth of Anger dares an abſent Foe;
The words of Pity ſpeak to tears of Woe;
The Love that hopes, on errands ſends the breeze;
And Love deſpairing moans to naked trees.
There ſtand the new Creations of the Muſe,
Poetic Perſons, whom the Writers uſe
Whene'er a cauſe magnificently great
Would fix attention with peculiar weight.
'Tis hence that humble Provinces are ſeen
Transform'd to Matrons with neglected mien,
Who call their Warriors in a mournful ſound,
And ſhew their Crowns of Turrets on the ground,
While over Urns reclining Rivers moan
They ſhould enrich a nation not their own.
'Tis hence the Virtues are no more confin'd
To be but rules of reaſon in the mind;
The heavenly Forms ſtart forth, appear to breathe,
And in bright ſhapes converſe with men beneath;
And, as a God in combat Valour leads,
In council Prudence as a Goddeſs aids.
There Exclamations all the voice employ
In ſudden fluſhes of Concern or Joy:
Then ſeem the ſluices, which the Paſſions bound,
To burſt aſunder with a ſpeechleſs ſound;
And then with tumult and ſurprize they roll,
And ſhew the caſe important in the ſoul.
There riſing Sentences attempt to ſpeak,
Which Wonder, Sorrow, Shame, or Anger, break;
[232]But ſo the Part directs to find the reſt,
That what remains behind is more than gueſs'd.
Thus fill'd with eaſe, yet left unfiniſh'd too,
The ſenſe looks large within the Reader's view:
He freely gathers all the Paſſion means,
And artful ſilence more than words explains.
Methinks a thouſand Graces more I ſee,
And I could dwell—but when would thought be free?
Engaging Method ranges all the band,
And ſmooth Tranſition joins them hand in hand:
Around the muſick of my lays they throng,
Ah, too deſerving objects of my ſong!
Live, wondrous Palace, live ſecure of time,
To Senſes Harmony, to Souls ſublime,
And juſt Proportion all, and great Deſign,
And lively Colours, and an Air divine.
'Tis here that, guided by the Muſes' fire,
And fill'd with ſacred thought, her Friends retire,
Unbent to care, and unconcern'd with noiſe,
To taſte repoſe and elevated joys,
Which in a deep untroubled leiſure meet,
Serenely raviſhing, politely ſweet.
From hence the Charms that moſt engage they chooſe,
And, as they pleaſe, the glittering objects uſe;
While to their Genius, more than Art, they truſt,
Yet Art acknowledges their labours juſt.
From hence they look, from this exalted ſhow,
To chooſe their ſubject in the world below,
And where an Hero well deſerves a name,
They conſecrate his acts in ſong to Fame;
[233]Or, if a Science unadorn'd they find,
They ſmooth its look to pleaſe and teach the mind;
And where a Friendſhip 's generouſly ſtrong,
They celebrate the knot of ſouls in ſong;
Or, if the Verſes muſt inflame Deſire,
The thoughts are melted, and the words on fire:
But, when the Temples deck'd with glory ſtand,
And hymns of Gratitude the Gods demand,
Their boſoms kindle with Celeſtial Love,
And then alone they caſt their eyes above.
Hail, ſacred Verſe! ye ſacred Muſes, hail!
Could I your pleaſures with your fire reveal,
The world might then be taught to know you right,
And court your rage, and envy my delight.
But, whilſt I follow where your pointed beams
My courſe directing ſhoot in golden ſtreams,
The bright appearance dazzles Fancy's eyes,
And weary'd-out the fix'd Attention lies;
Enough, my Verſes, have you work'd my breaſt,
I'll ſeek the ſacred Grove, and ſink to reſt."
No longer now the raviſh'd Poet ſung,
His voice in eaſy cadence left the tongue;
Nor o'er the muſick did his fingers fly,
The ſounds ran tingling, and they ſeem'd to die.
O, Bolingbroke! O Favourite of the ſkies,
O born to gifts by which the nobleſt riſe,
Improv'd in arts by which the brighteſt pleaſe,
Intent to buſineſs, and polite for eaſe;
Sublime in eloquence, where loud applauſe
Hath ſtil'd thee Patron of a nation's cauſe.
[234]'Twas there the world perceiv'd and own'd thee great,
Thence Anna call'd thee to the reins of State;
" Go, ſaid the greateſt Queen, with Oxford go,
And ſtill the tumults of the world below,
Exert thy powers, and proſper; he that knows
To move with Oxford, never ſhould repoſe."
She ſpake: the Patriot overſpread thy mind,
And all thy days to public good reſign'd.
Elſe might thy ſoul, ſo wonderfully wrought
For every depth and turn of curious thought,
To this the Poet's ſweet receſs
* retreat,
And thence report the pleaſures of the ſeat,
Deſcribe the raptures which a Writer knows,
When in his breaſt a vein of fancy glows,
Deſcribe his buſineſs while he works the mine,
Deſcribe his temper when he ſees it ſhine,
Or ſay, when Readers eaſy verſe inſnares,
How much the Writer's mind can act on theirs:
Whence images, in charming numbers ſet,
A ſort of likeneſs in the ſoul beget,
And what fair viſions oft we fancy nigh
By fond deluſions of the ſwimming eye,
Or further pierce through Nature's maze to find
How paſſions drawn give paſſions to the mind.
Oh, what a ſweet confuſion! what ſurprize!
How quick the ſhifting views of pleaſure riſe!
While, lightly ſkimming, with a tranſient wing,
I touch the beauties which I wiſh to ſing.
[235]Is Verſe a ſovereign Regent of the ſoul,
And fitted all its motions to control?
Or are they ſiſters, tun'd at once above,
And ſhake like uniſons if either move?
For, when the numbers ſing an eager ſight,
I've heard a ſoldier's voice expreſs delight;
I've ſeen his eyes with crowding ſpirits ſhine,
And round his hilt his hand unthinking twine.
When from the ſhore the fickle Trojan flies,
And in ſweet meaſures poor Eliza dies,
I've ſeen the book forſake the virgin's hand,
And in her eyes the tears but hardly ſtand.
I've known her bluſh at ſoft Corinna's name,
And in red characters confeſs a flame:
Or wiſh ſucceſs had more adorn'd his arms,
Who gave the world for Cleopatra's charms.
Ye Sons of Glory, be my firſt appeal,
If here the power of lines theſe lines reveal.
When ſome great youth has with impetuous thought
Read o'er atchievements which another wrought,
And ſeen his courage and his honour go
Through crowding nations in triumphant ſhow,
His ſoul, enchanted by the words he reads,
Shines all impregnated with ſparkling ſeeds,
And courage here, and honour there, appears
In brave deſign that ſoars beyond his years,
And this a ſpear, and that a chariot lends,
And war and triumph he by turns attends;
Thus gallant pleaſures are his waking dream.
Till ſome fair cauſe have call'd him forth to fame.
[236]Then, form'd to life on what the Poet made,
And breathing ſlaughter, and in arms array'd,
He marches forward on the daring foe,
And emulation acts in every blow.
Great Hector's ſhade in fancy ſtalks along,
From rank to rank amongſt the martial throng;
While from his acts he learns a noble rage,
And ſhines like Hector in the preſent age.
Thus verſe will raiſe him to the victor's bays;
And verſe, that rais'd him, ſhall reſound his praiſe.
Ye tender Beauties, be my witneſs too,
If Song can charm, and if my Song be true.
With ſweet experience oft a Fair may find
Her paſſions mov'd by paſſions well deſign'd;
And then ſhe longs to meet a gentle ſwain,
And longs to love, and to be lov'd again.
And if by chance an amorous youth appears,
With pants and bluſhes ſhe the courtſhip hears;
And finds a tale that muſt with theirs agree,
And he's Septimius, and his Acme
* ſhe:
Thus loſt in thought her melted heart ſhe gives,
And the rais'd Lover by the Poet lives.
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
Notes
* The political moral of this little apologue is too evident to need any other comment, than barely mentioning that the lady was Queen Anne; deſiring the reader to recollect the change which ſhe made in her miniſtry in 1709, the year in which this poem was written; and referring to Dr. King's "Rufinus, or the Favourite," in the Engliſh Poets, vol. XX. [...]. 367 N.
* To the works of this excellent Humouriſt, which were firſt collected in 1776, I prefixed ſome Memoirs of his Life; which have ſince been ſo elegantly epitomized, that it would be ſuperfluous to enlarge on this article. Some extracts from his laſt biographer ſhall therefore ſupply the place: ‘"William King was born in London in 1663, the ſon of Ezekiel King, a gentleman. He was allied to the family of Clarendon. From Weſtminſter-ſchool, where he was a ſcholar on the foundation under the care of Dr. Buſby, he was at eighteen elected to Chriſt-church, in 1681. In 1688, he was made maſter of arts; and, engaging in the ſtudy of the Civil Law, became doctor in 1692, and was admitted advocate at Doc⯑tors Commons.—Though he was a regular advocate in the courts of civil and canon law, he did not love his profeſſion, nor indeed any kind of buſineſs which interrupted his volup⯑tuary dreams, or forced him to rouſe from that indulgence in which only he could find delight. His reputation as a civi⯑lian was yet maintained by his judgements in the courts of Delegates, and raiſed very high by the addreſs and know⯑ledge which he diſcovered in 1700, when he defended the earl of Angleſea againſt his lady, afterwards dutcheſs of Buckinghamſhire, who ſued for a divorce, and obtained it. The expence of his pleaſures, and neglect of buſineſs, had now leſſened his revenues; and he was willing to accept of a ſettlement in Ireland, where, about 1702, he was made judge of the admiralty, commiſſioner of the prizes, keeper of the records in Birmingham's tower, and vicar-general to Dr. Marſh the primate. But it is vain to put wealth within the reach of him who will not ſtretch out his hand to take it. King ſoon found a friend, as idle and thoughtleſs as himſelf, in Upton, one of the judges, who had a pleaſant houſe called Mountown, near Dublin, to which King frequently retired; delighting to neglect his intereſt, forget his cares, and deſert his duty. Here he wrote "Mully of Mountown," a poem, by which, though fanciful readers in the pride of ſagacity have given it a political interpretation, was meant originally no more than it expreſſed, as it was dictated only by the au⯑thor's delight in the quiet of Mountown. In 1708, when lord Wharton was ſent to govern Ireland, King returned to London, with his poverty, his idleneſs, and his wit. In 1711, competence, if not plenty, was again put into his power. He was, without the trouble of attendance, or the mortification of a requeſt, made gazetteer. He was now again [...]laced in a profitable employment, and again threw the be⯑nefit away. An Act of Inſolvency made his buſineſs at that time particularly troubleſome; and he would not wait till hurry ſhould be at an end, but impatiently reſigned it, and returned to his wonted indigence and amuſements. One of his amuſements at Lambeth, where he reſided, was to mor⯑tify Dr. Tenniſon, the archbiſhop, by a publick feſtivity, on the ſurrender of Dunkirk to Hill; an event with which Ten⯑niſon's political bigotry did not ſuffer him to be delighted. King was reſolved to counteract his ſullenneſs, and at the ex⯑pence of a few barrels of ale filled the neighbourhood with honeſt merriment. In the autumn of 1712 his health de⯑clined; he grew weaker by degrees, and died on Chriſtmas-day. Though his life had not been without irregularity, his principles were pure and orthodox, and his death was pious. After this relation, it will be naturally ſuppoſed that his poems were rather the amuſements of idleneſs than efforts of ſtudy; that he endeavoured rather to divert than aſtoniſh; that his thoughts ſeldom aſpired to ſublimity; and that, if his verſe was eaſy and his images familiar, he attained what he deſired. His purpoſe is to be merry; though perhaps, to enjoy his mirth, it may be ſometimes neceſſary to think well of his opinions."’ I need not repeat that this is quoted from Dr. Johnſon.
The poems which are now preſented to the reader are none of them in the late collection of the Engliſh Poets. N.
* [...], amongſt the Greeks, ſignifies ‘"Honour as tender as the eye."’ KING.
* The political drift of this pretended prophecy is ſtill more evident than that of the preceding poem; the ſatire being abundantly more perſonal. N.
* This is aſcribed to Dr. King upon conjecture only. It was publiſhed in 1712, the winter before he died, by his bookſeller, inſcribed to his patron, and is very much in his manner. His name is accordingly affixed to the author's notes. The poem is on many accounts worth preſerving; and if it is not Dr. King's, it is at leaſt not by an inferior writer. N.
† The duke was captain of the band of gentlemen pen⯑ſioners. N.
* Though the intereſts of Virtue and Religion are beſt ſe⯑cured by the ſevereſt reaſon and argument, yet I hope a leſs ſolemn recommendation of them to the world- may not be eſteemed a prejudice to either. How oft has a ſtubborn folly been ſucceſsfully arraigned by a candid and eaſy rebuke, which had long maintained itſelf againſt a more powerful, though a leſs familiar, conviction! If we can ſmile away the follies of an adverſary, ſport with his vanities, and laugh him into a ſenſe of his errors; why ſhould we forfeit that exquiſite pleaſure of complacency and good-humour, which a malicious conflict with a rival would moſt certainly deprive us of? If we miſcarry in an attempt of this nature, our defeat would be the leſs diſhonourable, becauſe we ſeemed only to play and trifle with the miſtakes of an author; but ſhould we, under the maſk of a little raillery, wit, and good-humour, obtain our end, it would double our ſatisfaction, as well as the glory of our conqueſt. Two important debates of the utmoſt conſequence in religion (Eachard's Contempt of the Clergy, and Philautus and Timothy) have with won⯑derful applauſe lately appeared in the world; the beauties of their author's ſtile, the purity of their diction, the elegant turn of thought, and above all a torrent of ſevere but good-natured wit, drew a thouſand readers to peruſe an hypotheſis they little imagined ever to eſpouſe; but they were inſenſibly deluded into good principles, and betrayed into a conviction of thoſe very truths they came on purpoſe to deride and ridicule. Where they expected to gratify a fancy only, they found a more real advantage in the reformation of their judgement, and, from admirers of the author's wit and beauties, became at laſt proſelytes to their opinions. If in two or three inſtances I have tranſgreſſed my own rules, the Fool or the Knave muſt be imagined very notorious; and that thoſe tender and merciful laſhes that were judged ſufficient for little offenders would hardly have reached the vanities of the one, or the villainies of the other. And if I am thought to have injured any perſon in his character, or to have ſaid as much as I am able, I muſt beg leave to aſſure the world, that it was owing to abundance of humanity and good-nature I did not ſay a great deal more; and would rather adviſe them to ſit eaſy and quiet under the innocent rebukes of a ſatire, than provoke others to prepare that correction, which their ignorance, their impudence, or both, have ſo juſtly deſerved. KING.
† John Scott, D.D. author of the Chriſtian Life, 5 vols. R.
‡ A whimſical odd fellow, and a preacher among the Camiſars. KING. — Lacy was one of thoſe enthuſiaſts who ſupported the French prophets. R.
* See the battle of Mons, 1709. KING.
* Dr. King's very humourous "Dialogues of the Dead" are particularly leveled againſt this coloſſal critic. N.
† Sir Richard Blackmore. N.
‡ The God of Medicine and of Verſe. N.
* Ogilby and Lauderdale. KING. — To the latter of theſe tranſlators, however, Mr. Dryden was conſiderably indebted. N.
* An engraver of ſingular eminence. N.
* De Foe. He wrote a dull ſcandalous libel on all the Engliſh nobility, called "The true-born Engliſh-man." KING.
† De Foe's firſt profeſſion. N.
* He wrote an infamous libel called "The ſhorteſt Way," for which he was apprehended and ſtood in the pillory, to which afterwards he wrote a "Hymn," KING.
* An alluſion to one of his tracts, called "The Shorteſt Way with the Diſſenters." N.
* Of whom, ſee the Supplement to Swift. N.
† Two poems by ſir Richard Blackmore. KING.
† Two poems by ſir Richard Blackmore. KING.
* Of George Wither, whoſe memory is preſerved wi [...] unjuſt contempt by Swift and Pope, ſee Dean Percy [...] "Reliques of Ancient Poetry," vol. III. p. 190. N.
* John Sheffield, duke of Buckingham. N.
* See Dr. Gibſon's edition of Camden. KING.
† See in the ſame book, Miracles of Glaſtonbury Abbey. Ib.
* This ſeems intended for Wharton; but it cannot be the lady whoſe poems are printed in the firſt volume of this col⯑lection. It may probably be the firſt wife of the marquis of Wharton, who, Mr. Walpole ſays, was a poeteſs, and has an article in the General Dictionary. I know nothing of her works. R.
† Afterwards the celebrated Mrs. Rowe. N.
‡ Mrs. Philipps. See vol. II. p. 50. N.
* Captain Ayloffe, author of "Marvell's Ghoſt."
† The ſatire on Marvell is wonderfully miſplaced. N.
* See the Mortality of the Soul, and Licentia Poetica [...]ſcuſſed, written by Dr. Coward. KING. — To the Licentia [...]oetica was prefixed the firſt known poem of Mr. Gay. [...] the Engliſh Poets, vol. XLI. p. 207. N.
* Mr. Edward Holdſworth, author of the "Muſcipula," a poem which is eſteemed a maſter-piece in its kind, written with the purity of Virgil whom the author ſo perfectly underſtood, and with the pleaſantry of Lucian, was elected demy of Magdalen college, Oxford, in July 1705; took his degree of M.A. April 18, 1711; became a college-tutor, and had a conſiderable number of pupils. In January 1715, when, according to the order of ſucceſſion at that time obſerved, he was the next to be choſen into a fellowſhip, he reſigned his demiſhip, and left the college, being determined againſt taking the oaths to the new government. From that period he was employed to the time of his death in travelling with young noblemen as tutor. He died of a fever at lord Digby's at Coleſhill, in Warwickſhire, Dec. 30, 1747. He is the [...]erſon of whom Mr. Spence ſpeaks in Polymetis, p. 174, [...]s one who underſtood Virgil in a more maſterly manner [...]han any perſon he ever knew. See alſo p. 232 and 276. He [...]as the author of a diſſertation intituled "Pharſalia & Phi⯑lippi, or the two Philippi in Virgil's Georgies attempted to be explained and reconciled to hiſtory, 1741." 4to. and a quarto volume of "Remarks and Diſſertations on Virgil; with ſome other claſſical obſervations, publiſhed" [under the inſpection of Dr. Lowth] "with ſeveral notes and ad⯑ditional remarks by Mr. Spence, 1768." 4to. See Briti [...] Topography, vol. II. p. 497, 498. N.
* Places in Oxford ſo called. KING.
* Various have been the Engliſh imitations of the Muſ⯑cipula; but no one happier than Chancellor Hoadly's. N.
* Biſhop of Exeter from 1707 to 1716. N.
† The name which Edmund Smith went by. See the Life of him by Dr. Johnſon. N.
* A very famous Burleſque Poem in imitation of Milton. KING.
† See the Deiſt's notions of a future ſtate, taken from their Orthodox ſcripture of Virgil's Sixth Aeneid. KING.
‡ A very celebrated univerſity ale-houſe. KING.
† Theory of the Earth. Ibid.
* ‘"Horatius Emendatus, invitis omnibus criticis, [...] eſſe lege [...] dum pronuncio."’ Modeſt Doctor Bentley! KING.
" Tis true, on words is ſtill our whole debate,
" Diſputes of Me or Te, of aut or at."
POPE, Dunciad IV. 219.
* See "Horatius Emendatus;" and Dr. Bentley's Dedica⯑tion of Horace to the earl of Oxford, deſigned for the late trea⯑ſurer if he had continued in his poſt till laſt Chriſtmas. KING.
* The reſemblance between OBLIVION and the GODDESS OF THE DUNCIAD is too ſtriking to have been accidental; and indeed there are many traits of that admirable Satire to be diſcerned in this "Deſcription of a Modern Library." N.
† A whimſical Theoriſt, and a late Apoſtate to Soci⯑ [...]ianiſm. KING. — However whimſical Mr. Whiſton might be in ſome of his opinions, yet candour muſt acknowledge that he was learned, pious, and indefatigable, a warm friend, and very uſeful member of ſociety. N.
* A ſcandalous atheiſtical club, at the Grecian coffee-houſe. KING.
† The Italian Singers. KING.
‡ See Hydaſpes, act third, a hero drubbing a lion. KING And ſee the Spectator. N.
* A celebrated academy in Covent-garden, obliged by [...] charter to furniſh out a dozen of Engliſh wits every ye [...] KING
† An inſolent audacious Deiſt and Republican. KING.
‡ See the Natural Mortality of the Soul, by Mr. Dod⯑well. KING.
‖ Two intimate friends, an Engliſh Atheiſt and a Dut [...] Socinian. KING.
* i. e. Biſhop Burnet. N.
† The Solemn League much preferable to the Apoſtles Creed, about Edinburgh. KING.
‡ See the Moſaical Hiſtory, corrected and confuted by Whiſton, Woodward, Burnet, Carteſius, and Ovid's Me⯑tamorphoſes. KING.
* The arms of Ireland. KING.
† Anthony Collins, eſq. N.
‡ Party prejudice is here too prevalent. N.
‡ Party prejudice is here too prevalent. N.
* The character which cloſes this poem cannot fail of pleaſing. Even the biaſs of party, which affected both Mr. Steele and this Poet, is readily forgotten and forgiven. N.
† Taken from an admirable banter of our author's, in⯑tituled, "Two Friendly Letters from honeſt Tom Boggy, to the Rev. Mr. Goddard, Canon of Windſor," very proper to be racked to the Canon's Sermon;" firſt printed in 8vo, 1710. This Sermon (full of high treaſon againſt High-church, Hereditary Right, and Sacheverell) was intituled, "The Guilt, Miſchief, and Aggravation of Cenſure; ſet forth in a Sermon preached in St. George's Chapel within her Majeſty's Caſtle of Windſor, on Sunday the 25th of June, 1710. By Thomas Goddard, A.M. Canon of Windſor. London, printed for B. Lintot, 1710." — Mr. Goddard was inſtalled canon May 26, 1707, and was alſo rector of St. Bennet Finch, London. He publiſhed a 30th of January Sermon, in 4to, 1703; and "The Mercy of God to this Church and Kingdom, exemplified in the ſeveral Inſtances of it, from the Beginning of the Reformation down to the preſent Time. A Sermon preached in St. George's Chapel at Windſor, on Tueſday the 7th of No⯑vember, the Day of Thankſgiving, 1710," 8vo. They were all reprinted in 1715, with three others, under the title of "Six Sermons on ſeveral Occaſions," 8vo. N.
* A well-known political paper by De Foe; in which Mr. Goddard's Sermon was immoderately commended. See a long account of this writer, and of Ridpath and Tutchin his aſſo⯑ciates, in the "Supplement to Swift." N.
* This poem hath been claimed as Mr. Welſted's, in "The Weekly Oracle," Auguſt 16, 1735; with a remark, that ‘"Dr. King, the Civilian, a gentleman of no mean reputation in the world of letters, let it paſs ſome years, without con⯑tradiction, as his own."’ It is in King's manner. N.
† See the old Ballad of "King Cole," in the Anglo-Saxon language, in the ſecond volume of King's Works, p. 87.
* This nobleman, the firſt Duke of Devonſhire, is more known for the political integrity of his character, and the ſpirit with which he reſiſted the tyrant of his country, than for the abilities which he diſplayed as a writer. He was born Jan. 25, 1640; and at an early age travelled with Dr. Killigrew, afterwards maſter of the Savoy, who gave him a juſt and true reliſh of poetry, and all the refinements of wit and ſenſe. He joined the party which oppoſed the arbitrary proceedings of Charles the Second, and was very active in all the meaſures which were adopted againſt that monarch and his ſucceſſor James the Second. On the death of his father, on the 23d of November, 1684, he ſucceeded him in the title of Earl of Devonſhire, and ſoon after becam
[...] a principal promoter of the Revolution, being one o
[...] thoſe who ſecretly planned it, and took up arms to carry th
[...] deſign into execution. On the accompliſhment of that im
⯑portant event, he received the rewards which his ſervice
[...] merited; and was, on the 30th of April, 1694, create
[...] Marquis of Hartington and Duke of Devonſhire. He con
⯑tinued to enjoy the favour of his ſovereign until the time o
[...] his death, which happened on the 18th of Auguſt, 1707, i
[...] the 67th year of his age. Mr. Walpole obſerves, that h
[...] was
‘"a patriot among the men, galant among the ladie [...] His friendſhip with Lord Ruſſell, his free ſpirit, hi [...] bravery, duels, honours, amours, are well known, an [...] his epitaph, will never be forgotten." WILLIELMUS DUX DEVONIAE
" BONORUM PRINCIPUM SUBDITUS FIDELIS,
" INIMICUS ET INVISUS TYRANNIS."
R.
* Another copy reads,
" Here let imaginary fears prevail,
" And give a colour to affected zeal."
N.
* I cannot aſcertain to whom theſe initials belong; per⯑haps to Mr. John Hughes. N.
* Louiſe de Queroualle, miſtreſs to Charles II; created dutcheſs Aug. 9, 1673; died April 11, 1734, at Paris. N.
* Who this J. Talbot was, I cannot diſcover; but there was a tranſlation of Seneca's Troas, by J. T. publiſhed in 1686; and in a copy thrown out of Lord Bathurſt's Library, which I ſaw, the laſt initial was filled up with the name of Talbot, and I have no doubt but he is the ſame perſon. R.
† Lady Elizabeth Seymour, daughter to William lord Al⯑lington, of Horſheath, in the county of Cambridge; ſhe was the ſecond lady of Charles lord Seymour of Trowbridge, and mother to Francis and Charles ſucceſſively dukes of Somerſet. This noble lady was afterwards married to Sir John Ernle, knt. chancellor of the exchequer. N.
* This idea occurs in "Sable Night," a favourite ſong in "The Duenna." N.
* Lady Elizabeth Audry, wife to Joſceline Percy the 11th earl of Northumberland, and after his death married to Ralph lord Montagu, afterwards created duke. N.
* Son of James Alleſtry, a bookſeller of London, who was ruined by the great fire of 1666. Jacob was educated at Weſtminſter ſchool, entered thence at Chriſt Church in Act Term 1671 at the age of 18, and was elected ſtudent in 1672. He took the degrees in Arts; was Muſic Reader in 1679, and Terrae Filius in 1681, ‘"both which offices, Wood ſays, he performed with very great applauſe, being then accounted a good philologiſt and poet. But, being exceed⯑ingly given to the vices of poets, his body was ſo much macerated and ſpent by juvenile extravagances, that he retired to an obſcure houſe in the ſuburb of Oxon;"’ where continuing incognito about 7 weeks, he died in a miſerable condition, Oct. 15, 1686, and was buried very meanly in St. Thomas's church-yard, at the eaſt end of the chancel. N
* Mr. Alleſtry had the chief hand (as Wood was informed) in making the Verſes and Paſtorals which were ſpoken in the Theatre of Oxford, May 21, 1681, by William Savile ſecond ſon of George earl (afterwards marquis) of Halifax, and George Cholmondeley third ſon of Robert viſcount Cholmondeley of Kellis (both of Chriſt Church), before James duke of York, his dutcheſs, and the lady Anne. N.
† By the death of his eldeſt brother, this young nobleman ſucceeded to his father's title of marquis of Halifax; which, on his own deceaſe in 1699, became extinct. N.
* This young gentleman was made cornet of horſe in 168 [...]. On king William's acceſſion he was appointed one of the grooms of his bedchamber, and ſerved in all the wars during that reign. He was conſtituted major general of queen Anne's forces July 1, 1702, and governor of the forts of Tilbury and Graveſand. He was continued in his employments, and pro⯑moted by George I. who created him baron of Newborough in Ireland March 15, 1714 15; and baron Newburgh in England July 2, 1716. He ſucceeded his brother as earl of Cholmondeley, March 20, 1724-5; and died May 17, 1733. N.
* The character of Damon was ſupported by Lord Savile; that of Thyrſis by Mr. Cholmondeley. N.
* The poetical name by which the earl of Rochaſter was diſtinguiſhed. See vol. II. p. 125. N.
* The honourable Edward Howard, by his poem called "The Britiſh Princes," engaged the attention of by far the moſt eminent of his contemporaries; who played upon his vanity, as the wits of half a century before had done on that of Thomas Coriat, by writing extravagant compliments on his work. See Butler's verſes, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. VII. p. 197; Waller's, vol. VIII. p. 179; Denham's, vol. IX. p. 143; Sprat's, in the ſame volume, p. 162; and the Duke of Dorſet's, vol. XI. p. 187. N.
† The ingenious writer, to whom Dr. Spratt addreſſed his Life of Cowley. He was maſter of the Charter-houſe. N.
* John lord Vaughan, grandſon to Richard the firſt earl of Carbery. He was made a knight of the Bath at the coronation of Charles II. and was for ſome time governor of Jamaica. The latter part of his days were paſſed in retire⯑ment, enjoying a fine fortune, greatly improved by his own excellent conduct. In this interval he built a handſome manſion-houſe at Chelſea; where he died, Jan. 16, 1712-13. Anne his only daughter and heir was married in 1713 to Charles marquis of Wincheſter, heir apparent to the duke of Bolton; who never cohabited with her. She died Sept. 20, 1751. N.
* An account of this poet has been already printed in vol. I. p. 128; to which the following anecdote may be added. ‘"King Charles II. ſold Dunkirk to Louis XIV. and gave him Engliſh oak enough to build the very fleet that after⯑wards attacked and defeated one of ours in Bantry Bay on the coaſt of Ireland. This puts me in mind of the foreſight of a gentleman, who had been ſome time envoy from the king to the princes and ſtates of Italy, and who, in his return home, made the coaſt of France his road; in order to be as uſeful to his country as poſſible, and to his ſovereign too, as he thought. In his audience of the king, he told his majeſty, that the French were hard at work, building men of war in ſeveral of their ports, and that ſuch a haſty increaſe of the naval power of France could not but threaten England's ſo⯑vereignty of the ſeas, and conſequently portend deſtruction to her trade. The gentleman was in the right, for our trade and the ſovereignty of the ſeas are dependent on each other; they muſt live or die together. But what a recompenſe do you think he met with for his fidelity? really ſuch a one as I would hardly have believed, had I been told it by any perſon but his own ſon, the late Mr. Bevil Higgons, whoſe works, both in proſe and verſe, have made him known to all the men of letters in Britain, and whoſe attachment to the fa⯑mily of Stuart, even to his dying day, puts his veracity in this point out of diſpute. The recompence was a ſevere re⯑primand from the king, as the fore-runner to the laying him aſide, for talking of things which his majeſty told him it was not his buſineſs to meddle with."’ I forget from which of the political writers between 1730 and 1740 this anecdote was tranſcribed; moſt probably The Craftſman. N.
* Elizabeth, counteſs of Edward the third earl. N.
* Better known as the friend and correſpondent of Mr. Pope, than by any writings of his own. It was from a miſ⯑treſs of this gentleman (Mrs. Thomas, or, as ſhe was com⯑monly called, Corinna) that Curll obtained the firſt Letters of Mr. Pope that were exhibited to public view. N.
* Dr. Abel Evans, the author of this and the following poems, though a man of genius, the friend of the firſt poets of the times, and applauded by them, is now hardly known. He is generally ſtyled Dr. Evans the Epigrammiſt, and was one of the Oxford wits enumerated in the following diſtich (wretchedly imitated in the "Additions to Pope," vol. I. p. 163.):
" Alma novem genuit celebres Rhedycina poetas;
" Bub, Stubb, Cobb, Crabb, Trapp, Young, Carey, Tickell, Evans."
He is likewiſe mentioned in the Dunciad, B. II. ver. 116. in company with Dr. Young and Dean Swift, as one of the authors whoſe works had been claimed by James More Smith. Dr. Evans was of St. John the Baptiſt's College, Oxford; and took the degree of M.A. March 23, 1699; that of B.D. April 26, 1705; and D.D. May 16, 1711. He was burſar to his college; vicar of St. Gyles's, Oxford; and appears to have been intimate with Mr. Pope, to whom there are two letters by him in print, in one of which the initial letter W. (intended for his Chriſtian name) is by miſtake put inſtead of that by which he uſed to ſign himſelf. R.
* The celebrated Diſſenter.
† The great phyſician. N.
* Tindal, bad as he was, is ſurely delineated here in terms of exaggeration. N.
* See, "The Axe laid to the Root," where you may plainly find ſuch malice, and ſuch blaſphemy, to be the ſen⯑timents and language of theſe execrable apoſtates. EVANS.
* The great archbiſhop, and his royal maſter. N.
* The great archbiſhop, and his royal maſter. N.
* The well-known declaimer againſt theatrical repreſen⯑tations. N.
† Poſſibly Docket, a good comedian. N.
* The aſſaſſinator of Henry IV. of France. N.
† Two noted Preſbyterian Seminaries in the Weſt of England. EVANS.
† Two noted Preſbyterian Seminaries in the Weſt of England. EVANS.
* I believe afterwards the great Lord Barrington, juſtly celebrated for his ſingular integrity of life, and for the piety of his writings. R.
* Sir John Vanbrugh; he was often called Vanbrook in the early part of his life.—He will appear as a poet in the fourth volume of this collection. N.
† Dr. Thomas Burnet, maſter of the Charter-houſe; author of "The Theory of the Earth." N.
‖ Swift has given this thought an admirable turn, when he wanted to expreſs contempt — ‘"The fellow who was pilloried—his name I have forgot."’ N.
* See Bp. Hoadly's Works, vol. I. p. 107. R.
† They pretended they could raiſe Dr. Emes from the dead. R.
* Botany Profeſſor to the Univerſity of Oxford, and Keeper of the Phyſic Garden; both which offices appear to have been enjoyed by his father, who was the firſt Keeper of the Phyſic Garden, wrote a volume of the "Plantarum Hiſtoria univerſalis Oxonienſis, ſeu Herbarum Diſtributio nova," and was to have added a third volume on trees, but died in 1679. The firſt volume of that work was compiled by Dr. Robert Morriſon, a native of Aberdeen, who, quit⯑ting Scotland in the troubles, ſtudied at Paris, took a degree in phyſic at Angers, directed the royal gardens at Blois till the death of the duke of Orleans; at the Reſtoration he was appointed overſeer of the king's gardens, fellow of the College of Phyſicians, and in 1669 profeſſor of Botany in the Univerſity of Oxford, where he read lectures till he ſet about publiſhing the "Univerſal Knowledge of Simples." Wood's Faſti, II. 178. Edmund Gayton, the Poetaſter, wrote a poem on Mr. Jacob Bobart's "Yeomen of the Guards to the Phyſic Garden, to the tune of the Counter Scuffle; Oxford, 1662." See "Britiſh Topography," I. 137. II. 137, 138. The younger Bobart (who was an old man in 1713) collected a Hortus Siccus in twenty volumes. See this Epiſtle, p. 158. N.
* Aeſculapius, ſo called from his temple at Epidaurus. N.
* The Phyſic Garden, which lies at the Eaſt end of Ox⯑ford, on the river Cherwell, was the donation of Henry Danvers earl of Danby; who purchaſed the ground (con⯑taining five acres) of Magdalen College, ſurrounded it with a wall, and erected ſeveral beautiful gates at its entrance; on the principal of which (of the Compoſite order) is the fol⯑lowing inſcription: ‘"Gloriae Dei optimi Maximi, Honori Caroli I. Regis, in uſum Academiae & Reipublicae, Hen⯑ricus Comes Danby, anno 1632."’ The Earl alſo ſettled an annual revenue for the maintenance of the Garden, and for ſupplying it with plants and herbs, with which it is well ſtocked. Dr. Sherrard, who was Conſul at Smyrna, brought from thence a fine collection of exotics, built a library here, furniſhed it with botanical books, and augmented the pro⯑feſſorſhip. The noble founder of the garden was created by king James I. baron Danvers of Dantſey; and by king Charles I. earl of Danby, and made a knight of the Bath. Dying unmarried, Jan. 20, 1643, the title became extinct; but was revived, in 1674, in the family of the duke of Leeds. N.
* Magdalen College was founded by William Patten of Wainfleet in Lincolnſhire, uſually called Wainfleet from the place of his birth. He was educated at Wincheſter ſchool; from whence he was ſent to New College, Oxford When he had taken the degree of B.D. he was appointed chief maſter of Wincheſter ſchool, where he continued twelve years, and was then made provoſt of Eaton by Henry VI. who preferred him to the ſee of Wincheſter in 1447, and made him chancellor in 1449. He obtained leave of the king in 1456 to convert St. John's hoſpital into ‘"a perpetual College for poor and indigent clerks in the Univerſity of Oxford, ſtudying arts and ſciences; the number of fellow [...] to be forty; with thirty demies, or ſemi-commoners, fo [...] chaplain-prieſts, eight clerks, and ſixteen choiriſters:"’ and died in 1486. N.
† See "Britiſh Topography," II. 156. N.
* A Hortus Siccus is a collection of plants, paſted upon paper, and kept dry in a book. EVANS.
* The duke of Marlborough's palace at Woodſtock. N.
† Erroneouſly aſcribed to Mr. Pope by the Editor of the "Additions to Pope's Works." N.
* Of this gentleman little is known, but that he was re
⯑markably fat. The following ſhorter epigram on his bulk is probably by Dr. Evans:
" When Tadlow walks the ſtreets, the pa [...]iours cry,
" God bleſs you, Sir! and lay their rammers by."
* This epigram, with the following variations, is aſcribed to Dr. Tadlow in the "Additions to Pope," vol. I. p. 132.
" Indulgent Nature to each kind beſtows
A ſecret inſtinct to diſcern its foes.
The gooſe, a ſilly bird, yet knows the ſox;
Hares fly from dogs, and ſailors ſteer from rocks:
This rogue the gallows for his fate foreſees,
And bears a like antipathy to trees."
† This writer has already appeared in vol. I. p. 145. I did not then know that he had publiſhed a collection of his poems, under the title of "The Ramble, an Anti-heroick Poem, together with ſome Terreſtrial Hymns and Carnal Ejaculations, by Alexander Radcliffe, of Grays Inn, Eſq. 1682," 8vo; inſcribed to James Lord Anneſley. He had publiſhed in 1680 "Ovid Traveſtie, a Burleſque upon Ovid's Epiſtles;" with a ſatirical introduction occaſioned by the "Preface to a late-Book, called The Wits paraphraſed." Mr. Tonſon printed a third edition of this Traveſtie in 1696. The Dedication "To Robert Fairbeard, of Grays Inn, Eſq." is no bad ſpecimen of the author's humour. ‘"Having com⯑mitted theſe Epiſtles to the Preſs, I was horribly put to it for a Patron. I thought of ſome great Lord, or ſome angelic Lady; but then again conſidered I ſhould never be able to adorn my Dedication with benign beams, corruſcant rays, and the Devil and all of influence. At laſt I heard my good friend Mr. Fairbeard was come to town—nay then—all's well enough. To you therefore I offer this Engliſh Ovid, to whom you may not be unaptly compared in ſeveral parcels of your life and converſation, only with this exception, that you have nothing of his Triſtibus. 'Tis you who burleſque all the fop⯑pery and conceited gravity of the age. I remember you once told a grave and affected Advocate, 'that he burleſqued God's image, for God had made him after his own likeneſs, but he made himſelf look like an aſs.' Upon the whole matter I am very well ſatisfied in my choice of you for a judge; if you ſpeak well of the book, 'tis all I deſire, and the bookſeller will have reaſon to rejoice: though by your approbation you may draw upon yourſelf a grand inconvenience; for perhaps you may too often have ſongs, ſonnets, madrigals, and an innumerable army of ſtanzas obtruded upon you by, Sir, Your humble ſervant, ALEX. RADCLIFFE."’
Amongſt his other poems, is a facetious one "On the Me⯑mory of Mr. John Sprat, late Steward of Grays Inn;" another, "On the Death of Edward Story, Eſq. Maſter of the Pond, and Principal of Bernard's Inn;" and, "The Sword's Farewell upon the Approach of Michaelmas-term." N.
* " All things were huſh'd as Nature's ſelf lay dead,
" The mountains ſeem to nod their drowſy head;
" The little birds in dreams their ſongs repeat,
" And ſleeping flowers beneath the night-dew ſweat.
" Even Luſt and Envy ſlept," &c.
Conqueſt of Mexico, Act III. Sc. 2.
† Of this writer's life, Dr. Johnſon's elegant little com⯑poſition ſuperſedes what otherwiſe might have been ſaid. Yalden's "Hymn to Darkneſs" is ‘"his beſt performance,"’ being ‘"for the moſt part imagined with great vigour, and expreſſed with great propriety. Of his other poems it is ſufficient to ſay that they deſerve peruſal, though they are not always exactly poliſhed."’ I the rather cite this teſti⯑mony of the great Biographer, as the publiſhers of the Engliſh Poets have been cenſured for admitting Yalden into their col⯑lection; a cenſure which, if deſerved, I muſt take upon my⯑ſelf. However it happened that this writer's poems had never been before collected, I am perſuaded that there are few who have actually read them but muſt have ſound much to admire. In the "Engliſh Poets" I inſerted as many of them as could then be met with. Farther reſearches have diſcovered what are here printed: but there are ſtill four poems (which are known to be Dr. Yalden's, two of which are particularly no⯑ticed in Dr. Johnſon's life of him) which have eluded my in⯑quiries; "The Conqueſt of Namur, 1695," folio; "The Temple of Fame, to the Memory of the Duke of Glouceſter 17 [...]0," folio; "Aeſop at Court;" and a poem "on the late Queen's acceſſion," I ſuppoſe Queen Anne; which, by the title of it, ſeems not to have been publiſhed till after her death. N.
* Of whom ſee vol. I. p. 29, where ‘"about the ſame time was made chaplain,"’ &c. ſhould have been placed earlier in order of time; as it is properly done in the ſame volume, p. 70. — Dr. Chetwood, who was an early member of the Society of Antiquaries, had collected materials for a life of Lord Roſcommon. He publiſhed a "Speech in the Lower Houſe of Convocation, May 20, 1715, againſt the late Riots." His ſon (who purſued fruitleſtly the claim for an Engliſh barony) died, at an advanced age, Feb. 17, 1752. N.
* See the following poem, on her marriage. N.
† Theſe verſes of Dr. Chetwood were prefixed to Lord Roſcommon's Eſſay in 1684; with others by Mr. Dryden (ſee Engliſh Poets, vol. XIV. p. 127.) and Mr. Amherſt, and Latin verſes by Dr. Chetwood (ſee Gent. Mag. for October 1779) and Mr. C. Dryden. N.
* The French word for dikes. N.
* This humourous poem is probably Dr. Chetwood's. See the following Epiſtle of Dr. Waldren. N.
* Deſcended from an antient family, and born at Exeter, where he received the early part of his education. He was admitted a ſcholar of Exeter College, Oxford, and afterwards removed to All Souls; where he applied to the ſtudy of phyſic, which he afterwards practiſed with good reputation at Exeter. On the death of Dr. Leopol-William Finch, warden of All Souls College, he was invited in 1702 to ſucceed to that headſhip; but contracted ſuch an indiſpoſition by the journey as occaſioned his death in a few days. He was buried in the outward chapel belonging to that ſociety. Jacob ſays, ‘"he was a well-bred, genteel man, moſt agreeable in conver⯑ſation, very polite in his compoſitions, and peculiarly happy in the expreſſiion of his thoughts. The Weſt-country gentlemen mention him with very great eſteem, and his name and character are very much reſpected in the Uni⯑verſity."’ N.
† Author of a famous Book of Cookery.
‡ The maſter of a celebrated eating-houſe or tavern. See King's "Art of Cookery," ver. 484. N.
* This gentleman, who was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, was a man of wit and humour; which carried his inclinations to poetry. He publiſhed, Jacob ſays, ſeveral valuable ſmall pieces; among which, "Marvel's Ghoſt" is very much admired. In the third volume of "Dryden's Miſcellanies" is a poem "On the Death of K. Charles II. and the Acceſſion of K. James II. to the Throne," by Mr William Ayloffe, which is tolerably harmonious, but too fulſomely flattering to deſerve preſervation. N.
* The hiſtory of this man affords a very ſtriking example of the folly and madneſs of party, which could exalt an ob⯑ſcure individual, poſſeſſed of but moderate talents, to an height of popularity that the preſent times behold with wonder and aſtoniſhment. He was the ſon of Joſhua Sa⯑cheverell of Marlborough clerk (who died miniſter of St. Peter's Church in Marlborough, leaving a numerous family in very low circumſtances). Henry was put to ſchool at Marlborough, at the charge of Mr. Edward Hearſt, an apo⯑thecary, who, being his godfather, adopted him as his ſon, Hearſt's widow put him afterwards to Magdalen College, Oxford, where he became demy in 1687, at the age of 15. Young Sacheverell ſoon diſtinguiſhed himſelf by a regular ob⯑ſervation of the duties of the houſe, by his compoſitions, good-manners, and genteel behaviour; qualifications which recommended him to that ſociety, of which he was fellow, and, as public tutor, had the care of the education of moſt of the young gentlemen of quality and fortune that were ad⯑mitted of the college. In this ſtation he bred a great many perſons eminent for their learning and abilities; and among [...] others was tutor to Mr. Holdſworth, whoſe "Muſcipula" and "Diſſertations on Virgil" have been ſo deſervedly eſteem⯑ed. He was contemporaty and chamber-fellow with Mr. Addiſon, and one of his chief intimates till the time of his famous trial. Mr. Addiſon's "Account of the greateſt Engliſh Poets," dated April 3, 1694, in a Farewell-poem to the Muſes on his intending to enter into holy orders, was inſcribed "to Mr. Henry Sacheverell," his then deareſt friend and colleague. Much has been ſaid by Sacheverell's enemies of his ingratitude to his relations, and of his turbulent beha⯑viour at Oxford; but theſe appear to have been groundleſs ca⯑lumnies, circulated only by the ſpirit of party. In his younger years he wrote ſome excellent Latin poems: beſides ſeveral in the ſecond and third volumes of the "Muſae Anglicanae," aſcribed to his pupils, there is a good one of ſome length in the ſecond volume, under his own name (tranſcribed from the Oxford Collection, on Q. Mary's death, 1695). He took the degree of M.A. May 16, 1696; B.D, Feb. 4, 1707; D.D. July 1, 1708. His firſt preferment was Cannock, in the county of Stafford. He was appointed preacher of St. Saviour's, Southwark, in 1705; and while in this ſtation preached his famous ſermons (at Derby, Aug. 15, 1709; and at St. Paul's, Nov. 5, in the ſame year); and in one of them was ſuppoſed to point at lord Godolphin. under the name of Volpone. It has been ſuggeſted, that to this circumſtance, as much as to the doctrines contained in his ſermons, he was indebted for his proſecution, and eventually for his prefer⯑ment. Being impeached by the houſe of commons, his trial began Feb. 27, 1709-10; and continued until the 23d of March: when he was ſentenced to a ſuſpenſion from preach⯑ing for three years, and his two ſermons ordered to be burnt. This ridiculous proſecution overthrew the miniſtry, and laid the foundation of his fortune. To Sir Simon Harcourt, who was counſel for him, he preſented a ſilver baſon gilt, with an ele⯑gant inſcription. He very ſoon after was collated to a living near Shrewſbury; and, in the ſame month that his ſuſpenſion ended, had the valuable rectory of St. Andrew Holborn given him by the Queen. At that time his reputation was ſo high, that he was enabled to ſell the firſt ſermon, preached after his ſentence expired, for the ſum of 100l.; and upwards of 40,000 copies, it is ſaid, were ſoon fold. We find by Swift's Journal to Stella, Jan. 22, 1711-12, that he had alſo intereſt enough with the miniſtry to provide very amply for one of his bro⯑thers; yet, as the Dean had ſaid before, Aug. 24, 1711, ‘"they hated, and affected to deſpiſe him."’ In 1716, he prefixed a dedication to "Fifteen Diſcourſes, occaſionally de⯑livered before the Univerſity of Oxford, by W. Adams, M.A. late ſtudent of Chriſt Church, and rector of Staunton upon Wye, in Oxfordſhire." After this publication, we hear little of him, except by quarrels with his pariſhioners, al⯑though he was much ſuſpected to be concerned in Atterbury's plot. A conſiderable eſtate at Callow in Derbyſhire was left to him by his kinſman Geo. Sacheverell, eſq. He died June 5, 1724; and, by his will, bequeathed to Biſhop Atterbury, then in exile, who was ſuppoſed to have penned his defence for him, the ſum of 500l. By a letter to him from his uncle, 1711, it appears, that he had a brother named Thomas, and a ſiſter Suſannah. — The dutcheſs of Marlborough deſcribes him as ‘"an ignorant impudent incendiary; a man who was the ſcorn even of thoſe who made uſe of him as a tool."’ Account, &c. p. 247. — And Bp. Burnet ſays, ‘"He was a bold inſolent man, with a very ſmall meaſure of religion, virtue, learning, or good ſenſe; but he reſolved to force himſelf into popularity and preferment, by the moſt petulant railings at Diſſenters and Low-church men, in ſeveral ſermons and libels, wrote without either chaſte⯑neſs of ſtyle, or livelineſs of expreſſion."’ Hiſtory, vol. II. p. 277. N.
* The poems of this witty but profligate nobleman were very judiciouſly pruned by Dr. Johnſon before their ad⯑miſſion into the tenth volume of the Engliſh Poets. The Song here preſerved, however, is ſufficiently exempt from the cenſure too many of this writer's poems have deſerved. In the "Supplement to Swift," I have had occaſion to obſerve, from Mr. Granger, that Rocheſter had natural modeſty. The fact is, he wrote but little of the ribaldry which paſſes under his name; but, having obtained the character of a lewd writer, every thing in that ſtrain was fathered upon him. ‘"In all his works,"’ Dr. Johnſon ſays, ‘"there is ſpright⯑lineſs and vigour, and every where may be found tokens of a mind which ſtudy might have carried to excellence."’ N.
* "The Cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru; expreſſed by inſtrumental and vocal Muſick, and by art of Perſpective in Scenes, &c. Repreſented daily at The Cockpit in Drury Lane at three afternoon punctually, 1658." This Opera may ſafely be aſcribed to Sir William Davenant. It was firſt acted at the time and place and in the manner be⯑fore deſcribed, and afterwards introduced by the author into "The Playhouſe to be let." See a liſt of his dramatic wri⯑tings in the new edition of Dodſley's Old Plays, vol. VIII. N.
† Uſed by Shakſpeare and other ancient writers for Aye. N.
* To explain this, the muſic ſhould be ſeen and heard. N.
* Perhaps the baboon introduced in this opera. R.
* Of whom ſee vol. II. p. 1. N.
* An alluſion to a chirurgical inſtrument. N.
† Author of "The Metamorphoſis of Mr. Pope into a Stinging-nettle," at the end of "The Female Dunciad," 1728; and tranſlator of Burnet's "Archaeologia Philoſo⯑phica," and his tract "De futurâ Judaeorum Reſtaura⯑tione." N.
* Thomas Parnell, D.D. deſcended from an antient fa⯑mily of Congleton in Cheſhire, was born in Dublin, in the year 1679; and was admitted a member of Dublin College at the early age of thirteen. He took his degree of M.A. July 9, 1700; and in the ſame year was ordained a deacon by Dr. William King, then biſhop of Derry, having a diſ⯑penſation from the primate, as being under twenty-three years of age. He was admitted into prieſts orders about three years after, by Dr. King, then archbiſhop of Dublin; and was collated by Dr. St. George Aſhe, biſhop of Clogher, to the archdeaconry of Clogher, Feb. 9, 1705. About that time alſo he married Miſs Anne Minchin, a young lady of great merit and beauty, by whom he had two ſons, who died young, and a daughter, living in 1770. Swift, in his Journal to Stella, Auguſt 24, 1712, ſay, ‘"I am heartily for poor Mrs. Parnell's death: ſhe ſeemed ro be an excel⯑lent good-natured young woman, and I believe the poor lad is much afflicted: they appeared to live perfectly well to⯑gether."’ This event is ſuppoſed to have made an indelible impreſſion on his ſpirits. He was warmly recommended by the Dean to archbiſhop King: who gave him a prebend in 1713, and the vicarage of Finglas (worth about 400 l. a year) May 31, 1716. His gratitude is beautifully expreſſed in a poem on the Dean's birth-day, 1713. He died at Cheſter, in July 1718, on his way to Ireland; and was buried in Trinity church in that town, without any monu⯑ment to mark the place of his interment. As he left no male iſſue, his eſtate devolved to his only nephew, Sir Sir John Parnell, baronet, whoſe father was younger brother to the archdeacon, and one of the juſtices of the king's bench in Ireland. The character of Dr. Parnell is admirably pour⯑trayed by Dr. Goldſmith, in the Life prefixed to a volume of his Poems, originally publiſhed by Mr. Pope, in 1721. A poſthumous volume was printed at Dublin in 1758. And both theſe volumes united, with ſeveral additional poems which I had formerly collected, are printed in the forty-fourth volume of the "Engliſh Poets." N.
* This and the preceding Poems by Dr. Parnell (as has been already ſaid of Dr. Yalden) were omitted in the for⯑mer collection only becauſe they could not then be met with. I cannot but take this opportunity of correcting a miſtake (which I was led into by Dr. Birch) in the note on the Engliſh Poets, vol. XLIV. p. 263. What is there ſaid on the Poem on Queen Anne's Peace more probably belongs to this Eſſay. The peace was not ſigned till March 30, 1713. By Swift's Journal to Stella, Dec. 22, 25, 1712, Jan. 6. 17, 31, and Feb. 19, 1712-13, it appears that this poem received ſeveral corrections in conſequence of hints from Dr. Swift, who introduced Parnell both to Oxford and Bolingbroke. N.
† Allegory is in itſelf ſo retired a way of Writing, that it was thought proper to ſay ſomething beforehand con⯑cerning this Piece, which is entirely framed upon it. The deſign, therefore, is to ſhew the ſeveral Styles which have been made uſe of by thoſe who have endeavoured to write in verſe. The ſcheme, by which it is carried on, ſuppoſes an old Gre⯑cian Poet couching his obſervations or inſtructions within an Allegory; which Allegory is wrought out upon the ſingle word Flight, as in the figurative way it ſignifies a thought above the common level: here Wit is made to be Pegaſus, and the Poet his Rider, who flies by ſeveral countries where he muſt not touch, by which are meant ſo many vicious Styles, and arrives at laſt at the Sublime. This way of Writing is not only very engaging to the fancy whenever it is well performed; but it has been thought alſo one of the firſt that the Poets made uſe of. Hence aroſe many of thoſe ſtories concerning the Heathen Gods, which at firſt were in⯑vented to inſinuate Truth and Morality more pleaſingly, and which afterwards made Poetry itſelf more ſolemn, when they happened to be received into the Heathen Divinity. And indeed there ſeems to be no likelier way by which a Poetical Genius may yet appear as an Original, than that he ſhould proceed with a full compaſs of thought and knowledge, ei⯑ther to deſign his plan, or to beautify the parts of it, in an allegorical manner. We are much beholden to Antiquity for thoſe excellent compoſitions by which Writers at preſent form their minds; but it is not ſo much required of us to ad⯑here merely to their fables, as to obſerve their manner. For, if we preclude our own invention, Poetry will conſiſt only in expreſſion, or ſimile, or the application of old ſtories; and the utmoſt character to which a Genius can arrive will depend on imitation, or a borrowing from others, which we muſt agree together not to call ſtealing, becauſe we take only from the Ancients. There have been Poets amongſt ourſelves, ſuch as Spenſer and Milton, who have ſucceſsfully ventured further. Theſe inſtances may let us ſee that Invention is not bounded by what has been done before: they may open our imaginations, and be one method of preſerving us from Writing without ſchemes. As for what relates any further particularly to this Poem, the Reader will obſerve, that its aim is Inſtruction. Perhaps a repreſentation of ſeveral miſ⯑takes and difficulties, which happen to many who write Poe⯑try, may deter ſome from attempting what they have not been made for: and perhaps the deſcription of ſeveral beau⯑ties belonging to it may afford hints towards forming a Genius for delighting and improving mankind. If either of theſe happen, the Poem is uſeful; and upon that account its faults may be more eaſily excuſed. PARNELL.
* Theſe and the like conceits of putting Poems into ſeve-ſhapes by the different lengths of lines, are frequent in old Poets of moſt languages. PARNELL.
* That his Lordſhip occaſionally cultivated the Muſes, may be ſeen in the fourth volume of this Miſcellany. N.
* " With ſuch a huſband, ſuch a wife,,
" With Acme and Septimius' life,"
is the concluſion of Cowley's beautiful imitation of Catullus, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. I. p. 176. On theſe lines an excel
⯑lent Prelate has obſerved, that, to the honour of Cowley's morals and good taſte, by a ſmall deviation from his original, he has converted a looſe love-poem into a ſober epithalamium; we have all the grace, and, what is more, all the warmth of Catullus, without his indecency. N.
* Theſe poems are preſerved on account of the many droll anecdotes they contain. "The Chimney's Scuffle, 1662," a very indifferent poem, ſeems to have given riſe to this and many other of ſimilar titles; among others, to "Fragmenta Carceris; or, The King's-Bench Scuffle; with the Humours of the Common-ſide; the King's-Bench Litany, and the Legend of Duke Humphrey, by Samuel Speed, a Member of that Royal Society, 1675." N.
† Theſe initials are poſſibly intended for Sir Roger L'Eſtrange; who, among other viciſſitudes of fortune, ſpent near ſix years in gaols, and almoſt four under a ſentence of death in Newgate. — Richard Steere, the only contemporary poet I can find with theſe initials, was author of ſome well-meaning, but indifferent, verſes on a religious ſubject, called, "The Hiſtory of the Babyloniſh Cabal; or the Intrigues, Progreſſion, Oppoſition, Defeat, and Deſtruction, of the Daniel-Catchers, 1682." N.
* The Eccleſiaſtical Court. N.
* Will Lluellin, a priſoner there, ſome time the keeper. R. S.
† One of the under-keepers. R. S.
* A Turnkey, a ſat fellow. R. S.
* I mean no Play-doors: thoſe are too honeſt. R. S.
† An alluſion now unknown. N.
‡ I am afraid Martin Parker's-Ballads muſt be conſigned to oblivion. William Fennor was a writer in the reign of James the Firſt. He publiſhed "The Compter's Common-wealth, or A Voiage made to an Infernall Iland long ſince diſcovered by many Captaines, Seafaring Men, Gentlemen, Marchants and other Tradeſmen: But the Conditions, Na⯑tures, and Qualities of the People there inhabiting, and of thoſe that trafficke with them, were never ſo truly expreſſed or lively ſet-ſorth, as by William Fennor, his Majeſti [...] Servant, 1617." 4to. It is a deſcription of the Compte [...] and the hardſhips inflicted on priſoners. R.
* The ſheriff's officers, ſo called from their gowns. N.
* See Cowley's "Character of an Holy Siſter," in the Engliſh Poets, vol. I. p. 353. N.
* A place of confinement for tuibulent apprentices. N.
* Where the New-Church now ſtands. — Swift ſays,
" I went in vain to look for Eupolis
" Down in The Strand, juſt where the New Pole is."
N.
* This mad landlord's houſe is now unknown. N.
* The Red-bull Playhouſe, mentioned in vol. I. p. 256, was ſituate in St. John's-ſtreet. The Fortune playhouſe, which occurs in p. 255, was near Whitecroſs-ſtreet, and was re⯑built by the celebrated Edward Alleyn. See Dodſley's Old Plays, vol. IX. p. 175. N.
† It is an obvious remark, that, whatever may be the faſhionable vices of the preſent age, drunkenneſs hath re⯑ceived a ſevere check amongſt all ranks, and particularly in higher life. Not one of the abovementioned taverns now exiſts; and every man muſt remember an amazing number in London more than there are at preſent. N.
* A dramatic writer, whoſe performances both in comedy and tragedy were acted with applauſe, though comedy ſeems to have been more peculiarly his talent. Seventeen of his plays are enumerated by Jacob. He was bred under his father, an independent miniſter in Nova Scotia. Being a man of ſome genius, and impatient of the gloomy education he received in that country, he reſolved upon coming to England, to try if he could not make his fortune by his wits. When he firſt arrived here, his neceſſities were ex⯑tremely urgent: and he was obliged to become a gentleman-uſher to an old Independent lady. But he ſoon grew as weary of that preciſe office, as he was of the diſcipline of Nova Scotia. He ſet himſelf therefore to writing; and preſently made himſelf ſo known to the court and town, that he was no⯑minated by Charles II. to write "The Maſque of Calypſo." This nomination was procured him by the earl of Rocheſter: it muſt not however be aſcribed entirely to his merit, but to ſome little ſpite in this lord, who deſigned by that pre⯑ference to mortify Mr. Dryden. Upon the breaking-out of the two parties, after the pretended diſcovery of the Popiſh plot, the favour Crowne was in at court induced him to embrace the Tory party; about which time he wrote a comedy called "The City Politicks," in order to ſatirize and expoſe the Whigs. This comedy was by many intrigues of the party-men hindered from appearing upon the ſtage, till the king himſelf laid his abſolute commands on the lord cham⯑berlain to have it acted immediately. About the latter end of this reign, Crowne, tired out with writing, and deſirous to ſhelter himſelf from the reſentment of many enemies he had made by his "City Politicks," ventured to addreſs the king himſelf, for an eſtabliſhment in ſome office that might be a ſecurity to him for life. The king anſwered, ‘"he ſhould be provided for;"’ but added, ‘"that he would firſt ſee another comedy."’ Mr. Crowne endeavoured to excuſe himſelf, by telling the king, that ‘"he plotted ſlowly and aukwardly."’ His majeſty replied, that ‘"he would help him to a plot;"’ and ſo put into his hand the Spaniſh comedy, called "Non pued eſſer," out of which Mr. Crowne took the comedy of "Sir Courtly Nice" The play was juſt ready to appear to the world; and Mr. Crowne extremely delighted to think that he was going to be made happy the remaining part of his life, by the performance of the king's promiſe. But, upon the laſt day of the rehearſal, he met Underhill the player coming from the houſe as he was going to it; upon which, reprimanding him for neglecting ſo conſiderable a part as he had in the comedy, and upon the laſt day too; ‘"Lord, Sir, ſays Underhill, we are all un⯑done." — "How! ſays Crowne, is the playhouſe on fire?" "The whole nation, replies the player, will quickly be ſo, for the king is dead."’ The king's death ruined Crowne, who had now nothing but his wits to live on for the re⯑maining part of his life. It is not certain when he died, but it is ſuppoſed to be ſomewhere about the year 1703. See Dennis's Letters, 1721, vol. I. p. 48. and the Biographical Dictionary, 8vo. Mr. Crowne was author of two other poems, called "Pandion and Amphiginia," and "Daeneids." N.
* See an account of this writer, and ſome of his poems, vol. I. p. 125; and in this volume, p. 111. — I have ſince been told, that he publiſhed a poem on the Peace of Utrecht; and had ſome others by him, which he intended for the preſs. He was firſt couſin to the late earl Granville. Two lines of his verſes on the Death of Waller, vol., I. p. 130, are evi
⯑dently to be traced in the following couplet of Tickell, in the Engliſh Poets, vol. XXV. p. 188.
" Near to thoſe chambers, where the mighty reſt,
" Since their foundation, came a nobler gueſt."
N.
* Son to Sir Simon (afterwards lord) Harcourt. This young gentleman did not ſucceed to the title; as he died in 1720, ſeven years before his father. On his tomb at Stanton Harcourt is a beautiful epitaph by Mr. Pope. He was father to the firſt, and grandfather to the preſent, earl Harcourt. N.
* I cannot find who Mr. Cowſlade was; and it is remark⯑able, that not one of theſe four Speakers took a regular degree at the Univerſity. N.
* Heneage, grandſon to the firſt earl of Nottingham. His father was created baron Guernſey, March 16, 1703; and earl of Aylesford, Oct. 26, 1714. — The ſpeaker of theſe verſes died earl of Aylesford, June 26, 1757; and was grand-father to the preſent earl. N.
* This was very likely to have been the late lord Bath; and I am ſorry that it cannot be aſcertained. N.