EVERY MAN THE ARCHITECT of his own FORTUNE: OR THE ART OF RISING IN THE CHURCH.
A SATYRE.
[29]By Mr. SCOTT, of Trinity-College, Cambridge.
A DIALOGUE betwixt a POET and his FRIEND.
F.
GOOD friend, forbear—the world will ſay 'tis ſpite,
Or diſappointment goads you thus to write—
Some lord hath frown'd; ſome biſhop paſt diſpute
At ſurly diſtance ſpurn'd your eager ſuit,
Prefer'd a dull vile clod of noble earth,
And left neglected genius, wit, and worth.
P.
Regards it me what ſnarling critics ſay?
'Tis honeſt indignation points the way.
Thanks to my ſtars my infant ſleeps are o'er,
And dreams deluſive catch my thoughts no more.
[30] Let clumſy DOGMATUS, with ſimp'ring face,
Supply the nurſe's, or the footman's place,
Make coffee, when my lady calls, or whey,
And fetch, and carry, like a two-leg'd tray;
Let bluſt'ring GNATHO ſwear with patriot rage,
To poor, old, tott'ring TIMON bent with age,
" Had you, my lord, the horſe at MINDEN led,
" 'Sdeath, what deſtruction would your grace have made?
" Like Wantley's dragon you had roar'd, and thunder'd,
" And eat'n up Frenchmen hundred after hundred;"
Thus mean and vile let others live, not I,
Who ſcorn to flatter, and who fear to lye.
What honeſt man—
F.
Stop, or you ne'er can thrive—
Sure you're the ſtrangeſt, ſqueamiſh wretch alive!
What, in the name of wonder, friend, have you,
In life's low vale, with honeſty to do?
'Tis a dead weight, that will retard you ſtill,
Oft as you ſtrive to clamber up the hill.
Strip, and be wiſe—ſtrip off all baſhful pride,
Throw cumbrous honour, virtue, truth aſide,
Truſt up, and girt like VIRRO, mend your pace,
The firſt, the nimbleſt ſcoundrel in the race.
Go copy TREBIUS—
P.
Copy TREBIUS?—Hum—
And forfeit peace for all my life to come.
Should I devote my ſiſter's virgin charms
To the vile lewdneſs of a patron's arms,
[31] Too ſure my father's injur'd ghoſt would riſe,
Rage on his brow, and horrour in his eyes;
Would haunt, would goad me in the ſocial hall,
Or break my reſt—tho' ſlumb'ring in a ſtall.
Oh gracious God, of what thin flimſy gear
Is ſome men's conſcience?—
F.
Hold, you're too ſevere—
Think when temptations ev'ry ſenſe aſſail,
How ſtrong they prove, and human fleſh how frail!
When ſatan came, by righteous heav'n ordain'd
To tempt the leader of the Chriſtian band,
He drew, he caught him from the barren waſte,
And on the temple's tow'ring ſummit plac'd;
And nowadays, or ſage experience lies,
From church preferments great temptations riſe.
Spare TREBIUS then—e'en you yourſelf may yield—
P.
Not, friend, 'till vanquiſh'd reaſon quits the field:
Then I, poor madman, 'midſt the mad and vain,
May Judas-like betray my God for gain;
At HELLUO's board, where ſmokes th' eternal treat,
And all the fat on earth bow down, and eat,
A genuine ſon of LEVI may adore
The golden calf, as AARON did before.
Then welcome the full levee, where reſort
Crouds of all ranks to pay their morning court,
The well-rob'd dean with face ſo ſleek, and fair,
And tatter'd CODRUS pale and wan with care,
[32] Whoſe yearly-breeding wife, in mean attire,
To feed her hungry brats muſt ſpin for hire.
Hail medley dome, where like the ark we find
Clean, and unclean, of ev'ry ſort and kind!
Hail medley dome, where three whole hours together,
(Shiv'ring in cold, and faint in ſultry weather)
We brook, athirſt and hungry, all delay,
And wear in expectation life away!
But huſh! in comes my lord—important, big,
Squints thro' his glaſs, and buſtling ſhakes his wig,
Whoſe ſaucy curls, confin'd in triple tye,
With conſtant work his buſy hands ſupply.
He ſtops, bows, ſtares—and whiſpers out aloud
" What ſpark is you, that joſtles thro' the croud?"
Sir William's heir—"enough—my dear, good friend,
" Sir William liv'd—I think—at Ponder's end;
" Yes—yes—Sir William liv'd"—Then on he goes,
And whiſpering this grand ſecret crams his noſe
Into your wig, and ſqueezing every hand,
" 'Tis mine to ſerve you, Sir—Your's to command"—
Thus kindly breathing many a promiſe fair,
He feeds two rows of gaping fools with air;
Unmeaning gabbles ſet rotines of ſpeech,
As papiſts pray, or prelates us'd to preach,
Makes himſelf o'er in truſt, to keep his ground,
And FAIRLY CULLS HIS CREDITORS ALL ROUND.
With warm delight his words poor CODRUS hears,
Sweet as the fancy'd muſic of the ſpheres;
Then trudges jocund home thro' mire and clay,
While pleaſing thoughts beguile the long long way;
[33] A ſnug warm living ſkims before his eyes,
His tythe pig gruntles, and his grey gooſe flies;
His lonely ſhatter'd cot, all patcht with mud,
And hem'd around by many a fragrant flood,
Chang'd to a neat, and modern houſe he ſees,
Built on high ground, and ſhelter'd well with trees;
Spacious in front the chequer'd lawns extend,
With uſeful ponds, and gardens at the end,
Where art and nature kindly join to bring
The fruits of Autumn, and the flowers of Spring.
No more a ſun-burnt bob the preacher wears,
Or coat of ſerge, where ev'ry thread appears:
Behold him deckt in ſpruce and trim array,
With caſſock ſhort, and veſt of raven-grey;
In powder'd pomp the ſpacious grizzle flows,
And the broad beaver trembles o'er his noſe.
Ah dear deluſions tempt his thoughts no more,
Leave him untortur'd by deſire, though poor!
What can advance, in theſe degenerate days,
When gold, or int'reſt all preferment ſways,
A wretch unbleſt by Fortune, and by birth?
Alas, not TERRICK's parts, or TALBOT's worth!
Elſe long, long ſince had honeſt BUTLER ſhone
High in the church religion's ſpotleſs ſun;
Had beam'd around his friendly light to chear
The lonely, wayworn, wandring traveller;
Chac'd errour's black and baleful ſhades away,
And pour'd thro' every mind reſiſtleſs day.
Alas, the change! far in a lowly vale,
'Midſt ſtraggling huts, where ſome few peaſants dwell,
[34] He lives in virtue rich, in fortune poor,
And treads the path his maſter trod before.
Oh great, good man, to chear without requeſt
The drooping heart, and ſooth the troubled breaſt;
With cords of love the wayward ſheep to hold,
And draw the loſt, and wandring to the fold;
To ſpend ſo little, yet have ſome to ſpare;
To feed the hungry, and to cloath the bare;
To viſit beds of ſickneſs in the night,
When rains deſcend, and rolling thunders fright,
There death deprive of all his terrours foul,
And ſing ſoft requiems to the parting ſoul!
Bluſh, bluſh for ſhame!—Your heads, ye Paſtors, hide,
Ye pamper'd ſons of luxury and pride,
Who leave to prowling wolves your helpleſs care,
And truck preferments at the public fair;
In whoſe fat corps the ſoul ſupinely lies,
Snug at her eaſe, and wondrous loth to riſe!
F.
Friend, friend, you're warm—why this is downright ſpleen,
You flout the fat, becauſe yourſelf are lean:
Yet laugh to ſee behind the ſilver mace
Black-brow'd CORNUTUS with his ſtarveling face,
A wretch ſo worn with penury and pride,
His very bones ſtand ſtaring thro' his hide.
Why chuſe the church, if petulant and vain
You proudly ſhun the paths that lead to gain,
Yet rack'd with envy, when your brethren riſe,
Revile the prudent arts that you deſpiſe?
[35] Better ſome dirty, vile, mechanic trade,
Cobler, or ſmith—a fortune might be made;
The croſs-leg'd wretch, who ſtitches up the gown,
Is of more worth than half the clerks in town:
And laughs with purſe-proud inſolence to ſee
The needy curate's full-ſleev'd dignity.—
P.
Why chuſe the church? A father's prudent voice
Determin'd, friend, and dignify'd the choice:
To thee, religion, thro' the tranquil road,
Himſelf with honour and with virtue trod,
He led me on—and know, no ſlave to gain,
Undow'r'd I took thee, and undow'r'd retain.
What? Durſt the blind philoſopher of yore
Chuſe thy half-ſiſter Virtue, vile and poor,
Chuſe her begirt with all the ghaſtly train
Of ills, contempt, and ridicule, and pain?
And ſhall not I, O dear celeſtial dame,
Love thee with all my ſoul's devouteſt flame?
Shall I not gaze, and doat upon thy charms,
And fly to catch the heav'n within thy arms?
O my fair miſtreſs, lovelier to be ſeen
Than the chaſte lily, opening on the green;
Sweet as the bluſhing roſe in SHARON's vale,
And ſoft as IDUMEA's balmy gale!
Of thee enamour'd martyr'd heroes ſtood
Firm to their faith, and conſtant ev'n to blood;
No views of fame, no fears of ſad diſgrace,
Had pow'r to tear them from thy lov'd embrace,
[36] Wrapt up in thee, tho' harlots ſtalkt abroad,
And perſecution ſhook her iron rod!
Peace to their ſouls!—But tell me, gentle maid,
Oh tell me are thy beauties all decay'd?
Hath time's foul canker ev'ry grace devour'd?
Thy virgin charms hath ignorance deflow'r'd?
That thus thou wander'ſt helpleſs and forlorn,
Of knaves the hatred, and of fools the ſcorn!
F.
Still knave, and fool?—For God's ſake, Sir, refrain!
This petulance of pride will prove your bane.
What! you're averſe to daſh thro' thick and thin?
Try cleaner ways—'tis done, if you begin.
Go with ſoft flattery, ſtudious to oblige,
Some dull, and ſelf-admiring lord beſiege,
And like the dove, to MECCA's prophet dear,
Pick a good living from your patron's ear:
GULLION ſucceeded thus, and ſo may you—
But railing, railing!—Friend, it ne'er can do.
P.
Good heav'n forbid that I a plain blunt man,
Who cannot fawn, and loath the wretch who can,
Should brook a trencher-chaplain at the board,
The loud horſe-laugh, and raillery of my lord;
Slave to his jokes, his paſſion, and his pride,
A dull tame fool for lacquies to deride,
Who ſnort around to hear the wretch abuſe
My perſon, morals, family, and muſe!
Shall I ſuch baſe Egyptian bondage bear,
And eat my heart thro' ſorrow, grief, and care?
[37] For twice ſev'n tedious years wait, watch, ride, run,
Nor dare to live, or ſpeak, or think my own?
Obſerve with awe that fickle vane his mind,
That ſhifts, and changes with the changeful wind?
Read ev'ry look, each twinkling of his eye,
And thence divine the doubtful augury?
No PHARAOH no!—Here in this calm retreat,
Where ev'ry muſe, and virtue fix their ſeat,
Here let me ſhun each lordling proud and vain,
And ſcorn the world ere ſcorn'd by it again!
Ye happier few, that in this ſtately dome
Where ſtill the ſoul of NEWTON deigns to roam,
Inſpires each youthful candidate for fame,
His noonday viſion, and his midnight dream;
Ye happier few, by regal bounty fed,
Here eat in privacy and peace your bread;
Nor tempt the world, that monſter-bearing deep,
Where huſht in grim repoſe the tempeſts ſleep,
Where rocks, and ſands, dread miniſters of fate,
To whelm the pilot's hopes in ambuſh wait.
On a huge hill, that braves the neighbouring ſky,
Waſht by the ſable gulph of infamy,
Preferment's temple ſtands; the baſe how wide,
How ſteep the top, how cragged ev'ry ſide!
Compact of ice the dazzling mountain glows,
Like rocks of cryſtal, or Lapponian ſnows,
While all around the ſtorm-clad whirlwind rides,
Dread thunder breaks, and livid lightning glides,
Hither by hope enliven'd crouds repair,
Thick as the noontide ſwarms that float in air;
[38] Dean joſtles dean, each ſuffragan his brother,
And half the jealous mob keeps down the other.
Ah little knows the wretch, that hath not try'd,
What hell it is this ſhouldring throng to bide,
Where gariſh art, and falſehood win the day,
And ſimple ſingle truth is ſpurn'd away:
Where round, and round, with painful ſteps and ſlow,
Whoe'er would ſcale the ſudden height muſt go;
Catch ev'ry twig, each brake and op'ning trace,
Pull down his friend, nay father from his place,
And raiſe himſelf by others foul diſgrace.
Yet ſome there are, gay Folly's flutt'ring train,
That free from care and toil the ſummit gain,
Sublimely ſoar on fortune's partial wind,
And leave the ſons of Science far behind.
Thus ſtraws and feathers eaſily can fly,
And the light ſcale is ſure to mount on high;
Thin air-blown bubbles with each breath are born,
And wind will raiſe the chaff, that leaves the corn.
Others again with crouds contentious ſtrive,
And thro' mere dint of oppoſition thrive;
Stiff in opinion, active, reſtleſs wights,
They riſe againſt the wind like paper kites:
'Twas thus proud RAMUS to the mitre flew,
Oppoſing, and oppos'd—
F.
And thus muſt you—
If oppoſition, faction, broils prevail,
Take courage, friend, for ſure you ne'er can fail.
[39] Miſguided youth, is ſatyre thus your turn!
Haſte while the baleful flames of party burn,
In hiſt'ry read go join the grand diſpute,
And give one hireling more to PITT, or BUTE.
Oh would you paint his lordſhip's jerkin o'er
With imps, and fiends (like baſe inquiſitor)
Then boldly hang him out to public view,
The ſcorn and laughter of the gaping crew,
How G**A's ſons would—
P.
What?
F.
Exult for joy,
And lift your grateful praiſes to the ſky.
P.
Her ſons exult? your men of parts and ſkill
Change like their dreſs, their principles at will,
Where Mammon calls with haſte obſequious run,
And bow like Perſians to the riſing ſun.
Too long alas o'er Britain's bleeding land
Hath fell corruption wav'd her iron hand,
Too long poſſeſt a monarch's patient ear,
While all the ſons of freedom ſhrunk with fear.
Is there then one, whoſe breaſt religion warms,
And virtue decks with all her brighteſt charms;
Whoſe fiery glance the loathſome den pervades,
Where vice, and foul corruption ſculk in ſhades;
True to his king, and to the public juſt,
No dupe to paſſion, and no ſlave to luſt;
Whom all the good revere, the vile abuſe,
A friend to learning, and the gentle muſe;
[40] Scotchman, or Teague—be this his patriot view,
I'll praiſe him, love him, friend, and ſo ſhall you.
Curſt be the lines (tho' ev'ry THESPIAN maid
Come uninvoked, and lend her timely aid,
View them, like THETIS, with a mother's eye,
And dip them o'er in dews of CASTALY)
Curſt be the lines, that pow'rful vice adorn,
Or treat fair virtue, and her friends with ſcorn:
Let 'em cloath candles, wrap up cheeſe, line trunks;
Or flutt'ring on a rail, 'midſt rogues and punks,
Ne'er meet the mild judicious critic's praiſe,
But die, like thoſe that FANNY ſings or ſays:
FANNY, dull wight, to whom the ghoſt appears
Of murder'd HORACE, pale and wan with tears;
FANNY, dull wight, a Mammon-ſerving ſlave,
Half politician, atheiſt, parſon, knave,
That drunk each night, and liquor'd ev'ry chink,
Dyes his red face in port, and his black ſoul in ink.
No ſly fanatic, no enthuſiaſt wild,
No party tool, beguiling and beguil'd,
No ſlave to pride, no canting pimp to pow'r,
Nor rigid churchman, nor diſſenter ſour,
No fawning flatterer to the baſe and vain,
No timiſt vile, or worſhipper of gain;
When gay not diſſolute, grave not ſevere,
Tho' learn'd no pedant, civil tho' ſincere;
Nor mean nor haughty, be one preacher's praiſe
That—if he riſe, he riſe by manly ways:
Yes, he abhors each ſordid ſelfiſh view,
And dreads the paths your men of art purſue;
[41] Who truſt ſome wand'ring meteor's dubious ray,
And fly like owls from truth's meridian day.
F.
Alas, Alas! I plainly, friend, foreſee
In points like theſe we never ſhall agree.
Too ſure debar'd from all the joys of life,
From heav'n's beſt gifts, a living, and a wife,
Chain'd to a college you muſt waſte your days,
(Wrapt up in monkiſh indolence, and eaſe,)
In one dull round of ſleeping, eating, drinking,
A foe to care, but more a foe to thinking.
There when ten luſtrums are ſupinely ſpent
In ENVIOUS SLOTH, AND MOPISH DISCONTENT;
When not one friend, one comfort more remains;
But ſlowly creeps the cold blood thro' your veins,
And palſy'd hands, and tott'ring knees betray
An helpleſs ſtate of nature in decay;
While froward youth derides your ſqualid age,
And longs to ſhove you trembling off the ſtage;
Then then you'll blame your conduct—but too late,
And curſe your enemies, and friends, and fate.
P.
Better be worn with age, with ills oppreſt,
Diſtreſt in fame, in fortune too diſtreſt;
Better unknown, and unlamented die,
With no kind friend to cloſe the parting eye,
(So all is calm, and undiſturb'd within)
Than feel, and fear the biting pangs of ſin.
For oh what odds, the curtain once withdrawn,
Betwixt a ſaint in rags, and rev'rend knave in lawn?
ALBIN and the DAUGHTER of MEY.
An old tale, tranſlated from the Iriſh.
[47]By the late Mr. JEROM STONE.
WHence come theſe diſmal ſounds that fill our ears!
Why do the groves ſuch lamentations ſend!
Why ſit the virgins on the hill of tears,
While heavy ſighs their tender boſoms rend!
They weep for ALBIN with the flowing hair,
Who periſh'd by the cruelty of MEY;
A blameleſs hero, blooming, young, and fair;
Becauſe he ſcorn'd her paſſion to obey.
See on you weſtern hill the heap of ſtones,
Which mourning friends have raiſed o'er his bones!
O woman! bloody, bloody was thy deed;
The blackneſs of thy crime exceeds belief;
The ſtory makes each heart but thine to bleed,
And fills both men and maids with keeneſt grief!
Behold thy daughter, beauteous as the ſky,
When early morn tranſcends yon eaſtern hills,
She lov'd the youth who by thy guile did die,
And now our ears with lamentations fills:
[48] 'Tis ſhe, who ſad, and grov'ling on the ground,
Weeps o'er his grave, and makes the woods reſound.
A thouſand graces did the maid adorn:
Her looks were charming and her heart was kind;
Her eyes were like the windows of the morn,
And Wiſdom's habitation was her mind.
A hundred heroes try'd her love to gain:
She pity'd them, yet did their ſuits deny:
Young ALBIN only courted not in vain,
ALBIN alone was lovely in her eye:
Love fill'd their boſoms with a mutual flame;
Their birth was equal, and their age the ſame.
Her mother MEY, a woman void of truth,
In practice of deceit and guile grown old,
Conceiv'd a guilty paſſion for the youth,
And in his ear the ſhameful ſtory told:
But o'er his mind ſhe never could prevail;
For in his life no wickedneſs was found;
With ſhame and rage he heard the horrid tale,
And ſhook with indignation at the ſound:
He fled to ſhun her; while with burning wrath
The monſter, in revenge, decreed his death.
Amidſt Lochmey, at diſtance from the ſhore,
On a green iſland, grew a ſtately tree,
With precious fruit each ſeaſon cover'd o'er,
Delightful to the taſte, and fair to ſee:
[49] This fruit, more ſweet than virgin honey found,
Serv'd both alike for phyſic and for food;
It cur'd diſeaſes, heal'd the bleeding wound,
And hunger's rage for three long days withſtood.
But precious things are purchas'd ſtill with pain,
And thouſands try'd to pluck it, but in vain.
For at the root of this delightful tree,
A venomous and awful dragon lay,
With watchful eyes, all horrible to ſee,
Who drove th' affrighted paſſengers away.
Worſe than the viper's ſting its teeth did wound,
The wretch who felt it ſoon behov'd to die;
Nor could phyſician ever yet be found
Who might a certain antidote apply:
Ev'n they whoſe ſkill had ſav'd a mighty hoſt,
Againſt its bite no remedy could boaſt.
Revengeful MEY, her fury to appeaſe,
And him deſtroy who durſt her paſſion ſlight,
Feign'd to be ſtricken with a dire diſeaſe,
And call'd the hapleſs ALBIN to her ſight:
" Ariſe, young hero! ſkill'd in feats of war,
On yonder lake your dauntleſs courage prove;
To pull me of the fruit, now bravely dare,
And ſave the mother of the maid you love.
I die without its influence divine;
Nor will I taſte it from a hand but thine."
[50]With downcaſt-look the lovely youth reply'd,
" Though yet my feats of valour have been few,
My might in this adventure ſhall be try'd;
I go to pull the healing fruit for you."
With ſtately ſteps approaching to the deep,
The hardy hero ſwims the liquid tide;
With joy he finds the dragon faſt aſleep,
Then pulls the fruit, and comes in ſafety back;
Then with a chearful countenance, and gay,
He gives the preſent to the hands of MEY.
" Well have you done, to bring me of this fruit;
But greater ſigns of proweſs muſt you give:
Go pull the tree entirely by the root,
And bring it hither, or I ceaſe to live."
Though hard the taſk, like lightning faſt he flew,
And nimbly glided o'er the yielding tide;
Then to the tree with manly ſteps he drew,
And pull'd, and tugg'd it hard, from ſide to ſide:
Its burſting roots his ſtrength could not withſtand;
He tears it up, and bears it in his hand.
But long, alas! ere he could reach the ſhore,
Or fix his footſteps on the ſolid ſand,
The monſter follow'd with a hideous roar,
And like a fury graſp'd him by the hand.
Then, gracious God! what dreadful ſtruggling roſe!
He graſps the dragon by th' invenom'd jaws,
In vain: for round the bloody current flows,
While its fierce teeth his tender body gnaws.
[51] He groans through anguiſh of the grievous wound,
And cries for help; but, ah! no help was found?
At length the maid, now wond'ring at his ſtay,
And rack'd with dread of ſome impending ill,
Swift to the lake, to meet him, bends her way;
And there beheld what might a virgin kill!
She ſaw her lover ſtruggling on the flood,
The dreadful monſter gnawing at his ſide;
She ſaw young ALBIN fainting, while his blood
With purple tincture dy'd the liquid tide!
Though pale with fear, ſhe plunges in the wave,
And to the hero's hand a dagger gave!
Alas! too late; yet gath'ring all his force,
He drags, at laſt, his hiſſing foe to land.
Yet there the battle ſtill grew worſe and worſe,
And long the conflict laſted on the ſtrand.
At length he happily deſcry'd a part,
Juſt where the ſcaly neck and breaſt did meet;
Through this he drove a well-directed dart,
And laid the monſter breathleſs at his feet.
The lovers ſhouted when they ſaw him dead,
While from his trunk they cut the bleeding head.
But ſoon the venom of his mortal bite
Within the hero's boſom ſpreads like flame;
His face grew pale, his ſtrength forſook him quite,
And o'er his trembling limbs a numbneſs came.
[52] Then fainting on the ſlimy ſhore he fell,
And utter'd, with a heavy, dying groan,
Theſe tender words, "My lovely maid, farewel!
Remember ALBIN; for his life is gone!"
Theſe ſounds, like thunder, all her ſenſe oppreſs'd,
And ſwooning down ſhe fell upon his breaſt.
At laſt, the maid awak'ning as from ſleep,
Felt all her ſoul o'erwhelm'd in deep deſpair,
Her eyes ſtar'd wild, ſhe rav'd, ſhe could not weep,
She beat her boſom, and ſhe tore her hair!
She look'd now on the ground, now on the ſkies,
Now gaz'd around, like one imploring aid:
But none was near in pity to her cries,
No comfort came to ſooth the hapleſs maid!
Then graſping in her palm, that ſhone like ſnow,
The youth's dead hand, ſhe thus expreſs'd her wo.
Burſt, burſt, my heart! the lovely youth is dead,
Who, like the dawn, was wont to bring me joy;
Now birds of prey will hover round his head,
And wild beaſts ſeek his carcaſe to deſtroy;
While I who lov'd him, and was lov'd again,
With ſighs and lamentable ſtrains muſt tell,
How by no hero's valour he was ſlain,
But ſtruggling with a beaſt inglorious fell!
This makes my tears with double anguiſh flow,
This adds affliction to my bitter woe!
[53]Yet fame and dauntleſs valour he could boaſt;
With matchleſs ſtrength his manly limbs were bound;
That force would have diſmay'd a mighty hoſt,
He ſhow'd, before the dragon could him wound.
His curling locks, that wanton'd in the breeze,
Were blacker than the raven's ebon wing;
His teeth were whiter than the fragrant trees,
When bloſſoms clothe them in the days of ſpring;
A brighter red his glowing cheeks did ſtain,
Than blood of tender heifer newly ſlain.
A purer azure ſparkled in his eye,
Than that of icy ſhoal in mountain found;
Whene'er he ſpoke, his voice was melody,
And ſweeter far than inſtrumental ſound.
O he was lovely! fair as pureſt ſnow,
Whoſe wreaths the tops of higheſt mountains crown;
His lips were radiant as the heav'nly bow;
His ſkin was ſofter than the ſofteſt down;
More ſweet his breath than fragrant bloom, or roſe,
Or gale that croſs a flow'ry garden blows.
But when in battle with our foes he join'd,
And ſought the hotteſt dangers of the fight,
The ſtouteſt chiefs ſtood wond'ring far behind,
And none durſt try to rival him in might!
His ample ſhield then ſeem'd a gate of braſs,
His awful ſword did like the lightning ſhine!
No force of ſteel could through his armour paſs,
His ſpear was like a maſt, or mountain-pine!
[54] Ev'n kings and heroes trembled at his name,
And conqueſt ſmil'd where-'er the warrior came!
Great was the ſtrength of his unconquer'd hand,
Great was his ſwiftneſs in the rapid race;
None could the valour of his arm withſtand,
None could outſtrip him in the days of chace.
Yet he was tender, merciful, and kind;
His vanquiſh'd foes his clemency confeſs'd;
No cruel purpoſe labour'd in his mind,
No thought of envy harbour'd in his breaſt.
He was all gracious, bounteous, and benign,
And in his ſoul ſuperior to a king!
But now he's gone! and nought remains but wo
For wretched me; with him my joys are fled,
Around his tomb my tears ſhall ever flow,
The rock my dwelling, and the clay my bed!
Ye maids, and matrons, from your hills deſcend,
To join my moan, and anſwer tear for tear;
With me the hero to his grave attend,
And ſing the ſongs of mourning round his bier.
Through his own grove his praiſe we will proclaim,
And bid the place for ever bear his name.
THE ACTOR.
ADDRESSED TO BONNELL THORNTON, Eſq
[67]BY THE SAME.
ACTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws
From no obſervance of mechanic laws:
No ſettled maxims of a fav'rite ſtage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary ſkill.
If, 'mongſt the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to ſit,
Is he pleas'd more becauſe 'twas acted ſo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes ſo near.
Why lov'd we Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone;
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius muſt our wonder raiſe,
But gives his mimic no reflected praiſe.
[68] Thrice happy Genius, whoſe unrival'd name
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead, with more than magic ſkill,
The train of captive paſſions at thy will;
To bid the burſting tear ſpontaneous flow
In the ſweet ſenſe of ſympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chilneſs creep,
When horrors ſuch as thine have murder'd ſleep;
And at the old man's look and frantic ſtare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I ſee him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The comic muſe too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful requiſite to pleaſe,
Taſte, ſpirit, judgment, elegance, and eaſe,
Familiar nature forms thy only rule,
From Ranger's rake to Drugger's vacant fool.
With powers ſo pliant, and ſo various bleſt,
That what we ſee the laſt, we like the beſt.
Not idly pleas'd, at judgment's dear expence,
But burſt outrageous with the laugh of ſenſe:
Perfection's top, with weary toil and pain,
'Tis genius only that can hope to gain.
The play'r's profeſſion (tho' I hate the phraſe,
'Tis ſo mechanie in theſe modern days)
Lies not in trick, or attitude, or ſtart,
Nature's true knowledge is his only art.
The ſtrong-felt paſſion bolts into the face,
The mind untouch'd, what is it but grimace?
To this one ſtandard make your juſt appeal,
Here lies the golden ſecret; learn to FEEL.
[69] Or fool, or monarch, happy, or diſtreſt,
No actor pleaſes that is not poſſeſs'd.
Once on the ſtage, in Rome's declining days,
When Chriſtians were the ſubject of their plays,
E'er perſecution dropp'd her iron rod,
And men ſtill wag'd an impious war with God,
An actor flouriſh'd of no vulgar fame,
Nature's diſciple, and Geneſt his name.
A noble object for his ſkill he choſe,
A martyr dying 'midſt inſulting foes;
Reſign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's cauſe.
Fill'd with th' idea of the ſecret part,
He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
While look and voice, and geſture, all expreſt
A kindred ardour in the player's breaſt;
Till as the flame thro' all his boſom ran,
He loſt the actor, and commenc'd the man:
Profeſt the faith, his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.
The player's province they but vainly try,
Who want theſe pow'rs, deportment, voice, and eye.
The critic ſight 'tis only grace can pleaſe,
No figure charms us if it has not eaſe.
There are, who think the ſtature all in all,
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling ſenſe all other want ſupplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his ſize.
Superior height requires ſuperior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?
[70]Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait,
Affect to mark the ſolemn pace of ſtate.
One foot put forward in poſition ſtrong,
The other, like its vaſſal, dragg'd along.
So grave each motion, ſo exact and ſlow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-ſhow.
The mien delights us that has native grace,
But affectation ill ſupplies its place.
Unſkilful actors, like your mimic apes,
Will writhe their bodies in a thouſand ſhapes;
However foreign from the poet's art,
No tragic hero but admires a ſtart.
What though unfeeling of the nervous line;
Who but allows his attitude is fine?
While a whole minute equipois'd he ſtands,
Till praiſe diſmiſs him with her echoing hands!
Reſolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pauſe,
By perſeverance to extort applauſe.
When Romeo ſorrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madneſs burſts the canvas tomb,
The ſudden whirl, ſtretch'd leg, and lifted ſtaff,
Which pleaſe the vulgar, make the critic laugh.
To paint the paſſion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's ſelf will tell:
No pleaſing pow'rs diſtortions e'er expreſs,
And nicer judgment always loaths exceſs.
In ſock or buſkin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Diſguſts our reaſon, and the taſte confounds.
Of all the evils which the ſtage moleſt,
I hate your fool who overacts his jeſt:
[71] Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With ſhrug, and grin, and geſture out of place,
And writes a fooliſh comment with his face.
Old Johnſon once, tho' Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous train,
With ſteady face, and ſober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ſtrong outlines of the comic ſcene.
What was writ down, with decent utt'rance ſpoke,
Betray'd no ſymptom of the conſcious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And tho' upon the ſtage, appear'd no play'r.
The word and action ſhould conjointly ſuit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While ſober humour marks th' impreſſion ſtrong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me cloſer to the poet's wit;
With her delighted o'er each ſcene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not aſham'd of being ſo.
But let the generous actor ſtill forbear
To copy features with a mimic's care!
'Tis a poor ſkill, which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile ſtage-cuſtom, honour'd in the breach.
Worſe as more cloſe, the diſingenuous art
But ſhews the wanton looſeneſs of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public ſcene,
Forſaking nature's fair and open road
To mark ſome whim, ſome ſtrange peculiar mode,
[72] Fir'd with diſguſt, I loath his ſervile plan,
Deſpiſe the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hoſpitals repair,
And hunt for humour in diſtortions there!
Fill up the meaſure of the motley whim
With ſhrug, wink, ſnuffle, and convulſive limb;
Then ſhame at once, to pleaſe a trifling age,
Good ſenſe, good manners, virtue, and the ſtage!
'Tis not enough the voice be ſound and clear,
'Tis modulation that muſt charm the ear.
When deſperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their ſorrows in a ſee-ſaw tone,
The ſame ſoft ſounds of unimpaſſioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of paſſion can expreſs,
That marks the proper word with proper ſtreſs.
But none emphatic can that actor call,
Who lays an equal emphaſis on all.
Some o'er the tongue the labour'd meaſures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,
Point ev'ry ſtop, mark ev'ry pauſe ſo ſtrong,
Their words, like ſtage-proceſſions, ſtalk along.
All affectation but creates diſguſt,
And e'en in ſpeaking we may ſeem too juſt.
Nor proper, Thornton, can thoſe ſounds appear
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear:
In vain for them the pleaſing meaſure flows,
Whoſe recitation runs it all to proſe;
Repeating what the poet ſets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun,
[73] While pauſe, and break, and repetition join
To make a diſcord in each tuneful line.
Some placid natures fill th' allotted ſcene
With lifeleſs drone, inſipid and ſerene;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almoſt crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft and finer ſtrokes are ſhown,
In the low whiſper than tempeſtuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who ſwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the ſtage.
He, who in earneſt ſtudies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A ſingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd oh.
Up to the face the quick ſenſation flies,
And darts its meaning from the ſpeaking eyes!
Love, tranſport, madneſs, anger, ſcorn, deſpair,
And all the paſſions, all the ſoul is there.
In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round,
And with her ſtraws fantaſtic ſtrews the ground,
In vain now ſings, now heaves the deſp'rate ſigh,
If phrenzy ſit not in the troubled eye.
In Cibber's look commanding ſorrows ſpeak,
And call the tear faſt trickling down my cheek.
There is a fault which ſtirs the critic's rage;
A want of due attention on the ſtage.
[74] I have ſeen actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whoſe tongues wound up ſet forward from their cue;
In their own ſpeech who whine, or roar away,
Yet ſeem unmov'd at what the reſt may ſay;
Whoſe eyes and thoughts on diff'rent objects roam,
Until the prompter's voice recal them home.
Diveſt yourſelf of hearers, if you can,
And ſtrive to ſpeak, and be the very man.
Why ſhould the well-bred actor wiſh to know
Who fits above to-night, or who below?
So, 'mid th' harmonious tones of grief or rage,
Italian ſquallers oft diſgrace the ſtage;
When, with a ſimp'ring leer, and bow profound,
The ſqueaking Cyrus greets the boxes round;
Or proud Mandane, of imperial race,
Familiar drops a curt'ſie to her grace.
To ſuit the dreſs demands the actor's art,
Yet there are thoſe who over-dreſs the part.
To ſome preſcriptive right gives ſettled things,
Black wigs to murd'rers, feather'd hats to kings:
But Michael Caſſio might be drunk enough,
Tho' all his features were not grim'd with ſnuff.
Why ſhou'd Pol Peachum ſhine in ſatin cloaths?
Why ev'ry devil dance in ſcarlet hoſe?
But in ſtage-cuſtoms what offends me moſt
Is the ſlip-door, and ſlowly-riſing ghoſt.
Tell me, nor count the queſtion too ſevere,
Why need the diſmal powder'd forms appear?
When chilling horrors ſhake th' affrighted king,
And guilt torments him with her ſcorpion ſting;
[75] When keeneſt feelings at his boſom pull,
And fancy tells him that the ſeat is full;
Why need the ghoſt uſurp the monarch's place,
To frighten children with his mealy face?
The king alone ſhou'd form the phantom there,
And talk and tremble at the vacant chair.
If Belvidera her lov'd loſs deplore,
Why for twin ſpectres burſts the yawning floor?
When with diſorder'd ſtarts, and horrid cries,
She paints the murder'd forms before her eyes,
And ſtill purſues them with a frantic ſtare,
'Tis pregnant madneſs brings the viſions there.
More inſtant horror would enforce the ſcene,
If all her ſhudd'rings were at ſhapes unſeen.
Poet and actor thus, with blended ſkill,
Mould all our paſſions to their inſtant will;
'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads the ſtage,
(The ſpeaking comment of his Shakeſpear's page)
Oft as I drink the words with greedy ears,
I ſhake with horror, or diſſolve with tears.
O, ne'er may folly ſeize the throne of taſte,
Nor dulneſs lay the realms of genius waſte!
No bouncing crackers ape the thund'rer's fire,
No tumbler float upon the bending wire!
More natural uſes to the ſtage belong,
Than tumblers, monſters, pantomime, or ſong.
For other purpoſe was that ſpot deſign'd:
To purge the paſſions, and reform the mind,
To give to nature all the force of art,
And while it charms the ear to mend the heart.
[76]Thornton, to thee, I dare with truth commend,
The decent ſtage as virtue's natural friend.
Tho' oft debas'd with ſcenes profane and looſe,
No reaſon weighs againſt it's proper uſe.
Tho' the lewd prieſt his ſacred function ſhame,
Religion's perfect law is ſtill the ſame.
Shall they, who trace the paſſions from their riſe,
Shew ſcorn her features, her own image vice?
Who teach the mind it's proper force to ſcan,
And hold the faithful mirror up to man,
Shall their profeſſion e'er provoke diſdain,
Who ſtand the foremoſt in the mortal train,
Who lend reflection all the grace of art,
And ſtrike the precept home upon the heart?
Yet, hapleſs artiſt! tho' thy ſkill can raiſe
The burſting peal of univerſal praiſe,
Tho' at thy beck applauſe delighted ſtands,
And lifts, Briareus' like, her hundred hands,
Know, fame awards thee but a partial breath!
Not all thy talents brave the ſtroke of death.
Poets to ages yet unborn appeal,
And lateſt times th' eternal nature feel.
Tho' blended here the praiſe of bard and play'r,
While more than half becomes the actor's ſhare,
Relentleſs death untwiſts the mingled fame,
And ſinks the player in the poet's name.
The pliant muſcles of the various face,
The mien that gave each ſentence ſtrength and grace,
The tuneful voice, the eye that ſpoke the mind,
Are gone, nor leave a ſingle trace behind.
ZEPHIR: or, the STRATAGEM.
BY THE SAME.
Egregiam vero laudem et ſpolia ampla refertis,
Una dolo Divûm ſi Foemina victa duorum eſt.
VIRG.
THE ARGUMENT.
A certain young lady was ſurprized, on horſe-back, by a violent ſtorm of wind and rain from the SOUTH-WEST; which made her diſmount, ſomewhat precipitately.
THE God, in whoſe gay train appear
Thoſe gales that wake the purple year;
Who lights up health and bloom and grace
In NATURE's, and in MIRA's face;
[85] To ſpeak more plain, the weſtern wind,
Had ſeen this brighteſt of her kind:
Had ſeen her oft with freſh ſurprize!
And ever with deſiring eyes!
Much, by her ſhape, her look, her air,
Diſtinguiſh'd from the vulgar fair;
More, by the meaning ſoul that ſhines
Thro' all her charms, and all refines.
Born to command, yet turn'd to pleaſe,
Her form is dignity, with eaſe:
Then—ſuch a hand, and ſuch an arm,
As age or impotence might warm!
Juſt ſuch a leg too, ZEPHIR knows,
The Medicéan VENUS ſhows!
So far he ſees; ſo far admires.
Each charm is fewel to his fires:
But other charms, and thoſe of price,
That form the bounds of PARADISE,
Can thoſe an equal praiſe command;
All turn'd by Nature's fineſt hand?
Is all the conſecrated ground
With plumpneſs, firm, with ſmoothneſs, round?
The world, but once, one ZEUXIS ſaw,
A faultleſs form who dar'd to draw:
And then, that all might perfect be,
All rounded off in due degree,
To furniſh out the matchleſs piece,
Were rifled half the toaſts of GREECE.
'Twas PITT's white neck, 'twas DELIA's thigh;
'Twas WALDEGRAVE's ſweetly-brilliant eye;
[86] 'Twas gentle PEMBROKE's eaſe and grace,
And HERVEY lent her maiden-face.
But dares he hope, on BRITISH ground,
That theſe may all, in one, be found?
Theſe chiefly that ſtill ſhun his eye?
He knows not; but he means to try.
AURORA riſing, freſh and gay,
Gave promiſe of a golden day,
Up, with her ſiſter, MIRA roſe,
Four hours before our London beaus;
For theſe are ſtill aſleep and dead,
Save ARTHUR's ſons—not yet in bed.
A roſe, impearl'd with orient dew,
Had caught the paſſing fair one's view;
To pluck the bud he ſaw her ſtoop,
And try'd, behind, to heave her hoop:
Then, while acroſs the daiſy'd lawn
She turn'd, to feed her milk-white fawn,
Due weſtward as her ſteps ſhe bore,
Would ſwell her petticoat, before;
Would ſubtley ſteal his face between,
To ſee—what never yet was ſeen!
" And ſure, to fan it with his wing,
No nine-month ſymptom e'er can bring:
His aim is but the nymph to pleaſe,
Who daily courts his cooling breeze."
But liſten, fond believing maid:
When Love, ſoft traitor, would perſuade,
With all the moving ſkill and grace
Of practic'd paſſion in his face,
[87] Dread his approach, diſtruſt your power—
For oh! there is one ſhepherd's hour:
And tho' he long, his aim to cover,
May, with the friend, diſguiſe the lover,
The ſenſe, or nonſenſe, of his wooing
Will but adore you into ruin.
But, for thoſe butterflies, the beaus,
Who buzz around in tinſel-rows,
Shake, ſhake them off, with quick diſdain:
Where inſects ſettle, they will ſtain.
Thus, ZEPHIR oft the nymph aſſail'd,
As oft his little arts had fail'd:
The folds of ſilk, the ribs of whale,
Reſiſted ſtill his feeble gale.
With theſe repulſes vex'd at heart,
Poor ZEPHIR has recourſe to art:
And his own weakneſs to ſupply,
Calls in a brother of the ſky,
The rude South-Weſt; whoſe mildeſt play
Is war, mere war, the Ruſſian way:
A tempeſt-maker by his trade,
Who knows to raviſh, not perſuade.
The terms of their aëreal league,
How firſt to harraſs and fatigue,
Then, found on ſome remoter plain,
To ply her cloſe with wind and rain;
Theſe terms, writ fair and ſeal'd and ſign'd
Should WEB or STUKELY wiſh to find,
Wiſe antiquaries, who explore
All that has ever paſs'd—and more;
[88] Tho' here too tedious to be told,
Are yonder in ſome cloud enroll'd,
Thoſe floating regiſters in air:
So let them mount, and read 'em there.
The grand alliance thus agreed,
To inſtant action they proceed;
For 'tis in war a maxim known,
As PRUSSIA's monarch well has ſhown,
To break, at once, upon your foe,
And ſtrike the firſt preventive blow.
With TORO's lungs, in TORO's form,
Whoſe very how-d'ye is a ſtorm,
The dread South-Weſt his part begun.
Thick clouds, extinguiſhing the ſun,
At his command, from pole to pole
Dark-ſpreading, o'er the fair one roll;
Who, preſſing now her favourite ſteed,
Adorn'd the pomp ſhe deigns to lead.
O MIRA! to the future blind,
Th' inſidious foe is cloſe behind:
Guard, guard your treaſure, while you can;
Unleſs this God ſhould be the man.
For lo! the clouds, at his known call,
Are cloſing round—they burſt! they fall!
While at the charmer, all-aghaſt,
He pours whole winter in a blaſt:
Nor cares, in his impetuous mood,
If navies founder on the flood;
[89] If BRITAIN's coaſt be left as bare
* As he reſolves to leave the fair.
Here, Gods reſemble human breed;
The world be damn'd—ſo they ſucceed.
Pale, trembling, from her ſteed ſhe fled,
With ſilk, lawn, linen, round her head;
And, to the fawns who fed above,
Unveil'd the laſt receſs of love.
Each wondering fawn was ſeen to bound
†,
Each branchy deer o'erleap'd his mound,
At ſight of that ſequeſter'd glade,
In all its light, in all its ſhade,
Which riſes there for wiſeſt ends,
To deck the temple it defends.
Lo! gentle tenants of the grove,
For what a thouſand heroes ſtrove,
When EUROPE, ASIA, both in arms,
Diſputed one fair lady's charms.
The war pretended HELEN's eyes
‡;
But this, believe it, was the prize.
This rous'd ACHILLES' mortal ire,
This ſtrung his HOMER's epic lyre;
Gave to the world LA MANCHA's knight,
And ſtill makes bulls and heroes fight.
Yet, tho' the diſtant conſcious muſe
This airy rape delighted views;
[90] Yet ſhe, for honour guides her lays,
Enjoying it, diſdains to praiſe,
If Frenchmen always fight with odds,
Are they a pattern for the gods?
Can Ruſſia, can th' Hungarian vampire
*,
With whom caſt in the SWEDES and empire,
Can four ſuch powers, who one aſſail,
Deſerve our praiſe, ſhould they prevail?
O mighty triumph! high renown!
Two gods have brought one mortal down;
Have club'd their forces in a ſtorm,
To ſtrip one helpleſs female form!
Strip her ſtark naked; yet confeſs,
Such charms are Beauty's faireſt dreſs!
But, all-inſenſible to blame,
The ſky-born raviſhers on flame
Enchanted at the proſpect ſtood,
And kiſs'd with rapture what they view'd.
Sleek S**R too had done no leſs?
Would parſons here the truth confeſs:
Nay, one briſk PEER, yet all-alive,
Would do the ſame, at eighty-five
†.
But how, in colours ſoftly-bright,
Where ſtrength and harmony unite,
To paint the limbs, that fairer ſhow
Than MESSALINA's borrow'd ſnow;
[91] To paint the roſe, that, thro' its ſhade,
With theirs, one human eye ſurvey'd;
Would gracious PHOEBUS tell me how,
Would he the genuine draught avow,
The muſe, a ſecond TITIAN then,
To fame might conſecrate her pen!
That TITIAN, Nature gave of old
The queen of beauty to behold,
Like MIRA unadorn'd by dreſs,
But all-complete in nakedneſs:
Then bade his emulating art
Thoſe wonders to the world impart.
Around the ready graces ſtand,
His tints to blend, to guide his hand.
Each heightening ſtroke, each happy line,
Awakes to life the form divine;
Till rais'd and rounded every charm,
And all with youth immortal warm,
He ſees, ſcarce crediting his eyes,
He ſees a brighter VENUS riſe!
But, to the gentle reader's coſt,
His pencil with his life, was loſt:
And MIRA muſt contented be,
To live by RAMSAY, and by ME.
ODE on the Duke of YORK's ſecond De⯑parture from England, as REAR ADMIRAL.
By the Author of the SHIPWRECK.
AGAIN the royal ſtreamers play!
To glory Edward haſtes away:
Adieu ye happy ſylvan bowers
Where Pleaſure's ſprightly throng await!
Ye domes where regal grandeur towers
In purple ornaments of ſtate!
[100] Ye ſcenes where virtue's ſacred ſtrain
Bids the tragic Muſe complain!
Where Satire treads the comic ſtage,
To ſcourge and mend a venal age:
Where Muſic pours the ſoft, melodious lay,
And melting ſymphonies congenial play!
Ye ſilken ſons of eaſe, who dwell
In flowery vales of peace, farewel!
In vain the Goddeſs of the myrtle grove
Her charms ineffable diſplays;
In vain ſhe calls to happier realms of love,
Which Spring's unfading bloom arrays:
In vain her living roſes blow,
And ever-vernal pleaſures grow;
The gentle ſports of youth no more
Allure him to the peaceful ſhore:
Arcadian eaſe no longer charms,
For war and fame alone can pleaſe.
His glowing boſom beats to arms,
To war the hero moves, thro' ſtorms and wint'ry ſeas.
Tho' danger's hoſtile train appears
To thwart the courſe that honor ſteers;
Deſpiſing peril and diſmay,
Our royal ſailor haſtes away:
His country calls; to guard her laws,
Lo! ev'ry joy the gallant youth reſigns;
Th' avenging naval ſword he draws,
And o'er the waves conducts her martial lines:
Hark! his ſprightly clarions play,
Follow where he leads the way;
[101] The ſhrill-ton'd fife, the thundering drum,
Tell the deeps their maſter's come.
Thus Alcmena's warlike ſon
The thorny courſe of virtue run,
When, taught by her unerring voice,
He made the glorious choice:
Severe, indeed, th' attempt he knew,
Youth's genial ardors to ſubdue:
For Pleaſure Cytherea's form aſſum'd,
Her glowing charms divinely bright,
In all the pride of beauty bloom'd,
And ſtruck his raviſh'd ſight.
Transfix'd, amaz'd,
Alcides gaz'd
O'er every angel-grace
Of that all-lovely face;
While deepening bluſhes ſoon confeſt
The alternate paſſions in his breaſt.
Her lips of coral hue,
Young Spring embalm'd with nectar-dew:
That ſwelling boſom half-reveal'd,
Thoſe eyes that ſparkle heavenly light,
His breaſt with tender tumults fill'd,
And wak'd his ſoul to ſoft delight.
Her limbs, that amorous ſilks enfold,
Were caſt in nature's fineſt mould;
Perſuaſion's ſweeteſt language hung
In melting accents on her tongue:
[102] Deep in his heart, th' inchanting tale
Impreſt her pleaſing power,
She points along the daiſied vale,
And ſhews th' Elyſian bower:
Her hand, that trembling ardors move,
Conducts him bluſhing to the bleſt alcove,
That ſweet receſs of dying love!
Ah! ſee o'erpower'd by beauty's arms,
And won by love's reſiſtleſs charms,
The captive youth obeys the ſtrong alarms!
And will no guardian power above
From ruin ſave the ſon of Jove?
Ah! ſhall that ſoft delicious chain
The godlike victim thus enſlave;
Kind heaven his ſinking ſoul ſuſtain,
And from perdition ſnatch the brave!—
By heavenly mandate Virtue came,
To wake the ſlumbering ſparks of fame,
To kindle and arouſe the dying flame.
Swift as the quivering needle wheels,
Whoſe point the magnet's influence feels;
Impreſt with filial awe,
The wondering hero ſaw
Her form tranſcendent ſhine
With majeſty divine;
And while he view'd the holy maid,
His heart a ſacred impulſe ſway'd:
His eyes with eager tumult roll,
As on each rival-nymph they bend,
Whilſt love, regret, and hope divide his ſoul
By turns, and with conflicting anguiſh rend.
[103] But ſoon he felt fair Virtue's voice compoſe
The painful ſtruggle of inteſtine woes:
He felt her balm each pang deſtroy:
And all the numbers of his heart,
Retun'd by her celeſtial art,
Now ſwell'd to ſtrains of nobler joy.
Thus tutor'd by her magic lore,
His happy ſteps the realms explore,
Where guilt and error are no more:
The clouds that veil'd his intellectual ray,
Before her breath diſpelling, melt away.
Broke looſe from Pleaſure's glittering chain,
He ſcorn'd the ſoft inglorious reign:
Convinc'd, reſolv'd, to Virtue then he turn'd,
And in his breaſt paternal glory burn'd.
So when on Britain's other hope ſhe ſhone,
Like him the royal youth ſhe won:
Thus taught, he flies the peaceful ſhore,
And bids our warlike fleet advance,
The hoſtile ſquadrons to explore,
To curb the powers of Spain and France:
Aloſt his martial enſigns flow!
And hark! his brazen trumpets blow!
The watry profound,
Awak'd by the ſound,
All trembles around:
While Edward o'er the azure fields
Fraternal thunder wields:
High on the deck behold he ſtands,
And views around his floating bands
[104] In awful order join;
They, while the warlike trumpet's ſtrain
Deep-ſounding, ſwells along the main,
Extend th' embattled line.
Now with ſhouting peals of joy,
The ſhips their horrid tubes diſplay,
Tier over tier in terrible array,
And wait the ſignal to deſtroy.
The ſailors all burn to engage:
Hark! hark! their ſhouts ariſe,
And ſhake the vaulted ſkies!
Exulting with Bacchanal rage;
While Britain in thunder array'd,
Her ſtandard of battle diſplay'd!
Then Neptune that ſtandard revere,
Whoſe power is ſuperior to thine!
And when her proud ſquadrons appear,
The trident and chariot riſign!
Albion, wake thy grateful voice!
Let thy hills and vales rejoice!
O'er remoteſt hoſtile regions
Thy victorious flags are known;
Thy reſiſtleſs martial legions
Dreadful ſtride from zone to zone:
Thy flaming bolts unerring roll,
And all the trembling globe controul.
Thy ſeamen, invincibly true,
No menace, no fraud can ſubdue:
All diſſonant ſtrife they diſclaim;
And only are rivals in fame.
[105] For Edward tune your harps, ye Nine!
Triumphant ſtrike each living ſtring!
For him in extacy divine,
Your choral Io Paeans ſing!
For him your feſtal concerts breathe!
For him your flowery garlands wreathe!
Wake! O wake the joyful ſong!
Ye Fauns of the woods,
Ye Nymphs of the floods,
The muſical current prolong?
Ye Sylvans that dance on the plain,
To ſwell the grand chorus accord!
Ye Tritons, that ſport on the main,
Exulting, acknowledge your Lord!
Till all the wild numbers combin'd,
That floating proclaim
Our admiral's name,
In ſymphony roll on the wind!
O! while conſenting Britons praiſe,
Theſe votive meaſures deign to hear;
For thee, the Muſe awakes her artleſs lays,
For thee her harp ſpontaneous plays
The tribute of a ſoul ſincere.
Nor thou, illuſtrious chief refuſe
The incenſe of a naval Muſe!
No happy ſon of wealth or fame,
To court a royal patron came:
A hapleſs youth, whoſe vital page
Was one ſad lengthen'd tale of woe,
Where ruthleſs fate, impelling tides of rage,
Bade wave on wave in dire ſucceſſion flow,
[106] To glittering ſtars and titled names unknown,
Prefer'd his ſuit to thee alone.
The tragic tale your pity mov'd;
You felt, conſented, and approv'd.
Then touch my ſtrings, ye bleſt Pierian quire!
Exalt to rapture every happy line!
My boſom kindle with Promethean fire,
And ſwell each note with energy divine!
No more to plaintive ſounds of woe
Let the vocal numbers flow!
But tune to war the nervous ſtrain,
Where Horror ſtrides triumphant o'er the main;
Where the fell lightning of the battle pours
Along the blaſted wave in flaming ſhowers.
Perhaps ſome future patriot-lay
With this important theme may glow,
Where Albion's ſquadrons crowd in black array,
To roll her thunders on th' inſulting foe.
My boſom feels the ſtrong alarms,
My ſwelling pulſes beat to arms;
While warm'd to life by Fancy's genial ray,
Some great event ſeems kindling into day;
But Time the veil of ſilence draws between,
While Thought behind portrays th' ideal ſcene.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A POET AND HIS SERVANT.
BY THE LATE Mr. CHRIST. PITT.
To enter into the beauties of this ſatire, it muſt be remem⯑bered, that ſlaves, among the Romans, during the feaſts of Saturn, wore their maſters habits, and were allow⯑ed to ſay what they pleaſed.
SERVANT.
SIR,—I've long waited in my turn to have
A word with you—but I'm your humble ſlave.
P.
What knave is that? my raſcal!
S.
[171]Sir, 'tis I,
No knave nor raſcal, but your truſty Guy.
P.
Well, as your wages ſtill are due, I'll bear
Your rude impertinence this time of year.
S.
Some folks are drunk one day, and ſome for ever,
And ſome, like Wharton, but twelve years together.
Old Evremond, renown'd for wit and dirt,
Would change his living oftener than his ſhirt;
Roar with the rakes of ſtate a month; and come
To ſtarve another in his hole at home.
So rov'd wild Buckingham the public jeſt,
Now ſome innholder's, now a monarch's gueſt;
His life and politics of every ſhape,
This hour a Roman, and the next an ape.
The gout in every limb from every vice
Poor Clodio hir'd a boy to throw the dice.
Some wench for ever; and their ſins on thoſe,
By cuſtom, ſit as eaſy as their cloaths.
Some fly, like pendulums, from good to evil,
And in that point are madder than the devil:
For they—
P.
To what will theſe vile maxims tend?
And where, ſweet ſir, will your reflections end?
S.
In you.
P.
In me, you knave? make out your charge.
S.
You praiſe low-living, but you live at large.
Perhaps you ſcarce believe the rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practiſe what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle journey down,
But, without buſineſs, you're again in town.
[172] If none invite you, ſir, abroad to roam,
Then—Lord, what pleaſure 'tis to read at home;
And ſip your two half-pints, with great delight,
Of beer at noon, and muddled port at night.
From
*Encombe, John comes thundering at the door,
With "Sir, my maſter begs you to come o'er,
" To paſs theſe tedious hours, theſe winter nights,
" Not that he dreads invaſions, rogues, or ſprites."
Strait for your two beſt wigs aloud you call,
This ſtiff in buckle, that not curl'd at all,
" And where, you raſcal, are the ſpurs," you cry;
" And O! what blockhead laid the buſkins by?"
On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none)
Splaſh, plunge, and ſtumble, as you ſcour the heath;
All ſwear at Morden 'tis on life or death:
Wildly thro' Wareham ſtreets you ſcamper on,
Raiſe all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for ſix long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingſton gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high reſpect, it ſeems, and eager love:
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shafteſbury, Doddington may ſend in vain.
Before you go, we curſe the noiſe you make,
And bleſs the moment that you turn your back.
As for myſelf, I own it to your face,
I love good eating, and I take my glaſs:
But ſure 'tis ſtrange, dear ſir, that this ſhould be
In you amuſement, but a fault in me.
[173] All this is bare refining on a name,
To make a difference where the fault's the ſame.
My father ſold me to your ſervice here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you ſhould wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove—but lay your cudgel by.
You ſerve your paſſions—Thus, without a jeſt,
Both are but fellow-ſervants at the beſt.
Yourſelf, good Sir, are play'd by your deſires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.
P.
Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S.
The brave, wiſe, honeſt man, and only he:
All elſe are ſlaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, ſir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater ſtill) is maſter of himſelf:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But looſe to all the intereſts of the world:
And while that world turns round, entire and whole,
He keeps the ſacred tenor of his ſoul;
In every turn of fortune ſtill the ſame,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himſelf, with godlike pride,
He ſees the darts of envy glance aſide;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempeſts blow,
Smiles at the idle ſtorms that roar below.
One ſuch you know, a layman, to your ſhame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name.
If you can ſuch a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your ſlave again.
[174]But when in Hemſkirk's pictures you delight,
More than myſelf, to ſee two drunkards fight;
" Fool, rogue, ſot, blockhead," or ſuch names are mine:
" Your's are "a Connoiſſeur," or "Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,
The ſacred prize of learning, worth and wit:
And yet ſome ſell their lands, theſe bits to buy;
Then, pray, who ſuffers moſt from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I ſeal no bonds, I mortgage no eſtate.
Beſides, high living, ſir, muſt wear you out
With ſurfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By ſome new pleaſures are you ſtill engroſs'd,
And when you ſave an hour, you think it loſt.
To ſports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.
You hunt, drink, ſleep, or (idler ſtill) you rhyme;
Why?—but to baniſh thought, and murder time.
And yet that thought, which you diſcharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.
P.
Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a ſtone,—
S.
For what?
P.
A ſword, a piſtol, or a gun:
I'll ſhoot the dog.
S.
Lord! who would be a wit?
He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.
P.
Fly, fly, you raſcal, for your ſpade and fork;
For once I'll ſet your lazy bones to work.
Fly, or I'll ſend you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you firſt were caught.
THE LADY AND THE LINNET.
A TALE.
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.
Sumit Myrrha novos, veteres ut ponit amictus,
Mutat amatores miſeros, ſic mutat amicos.
FRAGM. INCERT. AUTH.
TO lift the low, the proud depreſs,
And ſuccour weakneſs in diſtreſs;
A foe forgive, and yet contend
With generous ardour for a friend:
Are virtues, tho' but thinly ſown,
Not circumſcrib'd to you alone;
Since hourly obſervation finds
They ſpring in ſome inferior minds;
[185] Which, tho' we juſtly paſs our praiſe on,
Are not the ſound effects of reaſon;
But often flow from whim or faſhion,
From pride, or ſome impurer paſſion.
But you, whom heaven at firſt deſign'd
The boaſt and envy of your kind;
Above your ſex's cenſure plac'd,
In beauty, breeding, temper, taſte;
Who only ſhow regard to merit,
Unconſcious what yourſelf inherit;
While other ladies fume and rail
In indignation at my tale;
With each reflection pick a quarrel,
And find a ſatire in each moral;
May ſafely every page peruſe,
Nor be offended with the Muſe;
Where not a ſingle line appears,
Which honour dreads, or virtue fears.
A hungry hawk, in queſt of prey,
Wide o'er the foreſt wing'd his way;
Whence every bird, that haunts the glade,
Or warbles in the rural ſhade,
Diſpers'd, in wild diſorder flies
Before the tyrant of the ſkies.
A linnet, feebler than the reſt,
With weary wings and panting breaſt
Sought Sylvia's window in deſpair,
And fluttering crav'd protection there.
Compaſſion touch'd the fair one's mind,
(For female hearts are always kind.)
[186] Upward the gliding ſaſh ſhe threw,
And in the little ſtranger flew;
There, in her fragrant boſom preſt,
The nymph revives her drooping gueſt;
Then (danger o'er, and all ſerene)
Reſtores him to his fields again.
What wondrous joy, what grateful love!
Inſpir'd the wanderer of the grove!
In unexpected life elate,
When now he recollects his fate!
And ſets the friendly fair in view,
Who gave him life and freedom too!
For gratitude, to courts unknown,
And unreturn'd by man alone,
Wide thro' the wing'd creation reigns,
And dwells amidſt the humble plains;
In every verdant field and ſhade,
The juſt, the generous debt is paid.
Back from the Sylvan bower he hies,
To thank his dear deliverer flies;
And, at her window, chaunting ſtood
Her praiſe, with all the zeal he could.
There Lin his morning viſits pays,
And there he tunes his evening lays;
There oft the noon-day hour prolongs,
And pours his little ſoul in ſongs.
His heavenly airs attention drew,
And Sylvia ſoon the warbler knew;
Then uſes every charm to win,
And draw the wild muſician in;
[187] He enters, fearleſs of a ſnare,
For how ſhould fraud inhabit there?
And now by frequent viſits free,
At firſt he perches on her knee;
Then, grown by long acquaintance bolder,
Familiarly aſcends her ſhoulder;
And, wholly now devoid of fear,
Plays with the pendant in her ear;
O'er all her neck and boſom ſtrays,
And, like a lover, learns to teaze;
Pecks on her hand, and fondly ſips
Delicious nectar from her lips.
Thrice happy bird, how wert thou bleſs'd,
Of ſuch ſuperior love poſſeſs'd!
Couldſt thou but make the tenure ſure,
And thoſe unrivall'd hours endure;
But love, a light, fantaſtic thing,
Like thee, is always on the wing;
And ſacred friendſhip oft a jeſt,
When center'd in a female breaſt!
Thus Lin the circling moments paſt
In raptures too refin'd to laſt;
When (as his conſtant court he paid)
Some envious ſongſters of the ſhade
Obſerv'd his motions to and fro,
For merit's ne'er without a foe.
They mark'd the tranſports of his eye,
His ſprightly air and gloſſy dye;
And all agreed to know, ere night,
What gave the vagrant ſuch delight.
[188]Strait to the beauteous bower they throng,
Nor for admittance waited long;
The nymph, whom every charm attends,
Receives her new, aerial friends;
With crumbled cake, and fruitage feeds,
And feaſts them on her choiceſt ſeeds;
Did all, that kindneſs could inſpire,
To bring her coy acquaintance nigh her;
And Linny now returns, to pay
The due devotions of the day;
When to his wondering eyes aroſe
A numerous circle of his foes;
Grief touch'd his ſoul, to ſee them there,
But, with a ſeeming eaſy air,
He took his place among the reſt,
And ſat an undiſtinguiſh'd gueſt.
Alas, how ſoon can time deſtroy
The ſureſt pledge of earthly joy?
A favourite's flattering hopes defeat,
And tumble tyrants from their ſtate?
For time, indulgent but to few,
Depoſes kings—and linnets too.
He, who was once the nymph's delight,
Sits now neglected in her ſight;
In vain to charm her ear he tries,
New forms engag'd her ears and eyes!
The goldfinch ſpreads his gaudy coat,
And all were raviſh'd with his note;
While none attends to Linny's ſtrain,
For, ah, poor Linny's plumes were plain.
[189]And now (the mournful warbler flown)
The nymph and friendly bower their own,
O'er all reſerve their ſpleen prevails,
And every tongue in concert rails:
All wonder'd what her eyes could ſee
In ſuch a worthleſs thing as he!
Who ſtill purſues his private ends,
Ungrateful to his kindeſt friends;
One inſtance ſure might ſerve to ſhow him!
Alas, how little did they know him?
Some then recounted all the arts
He us'd, to vanquiſh little hearts;
Affirm'd, he ſtill was making love,
And kept a miſs in every grove;
Could trifle with the meaneſt fowl,
Nay, offer courtſhip to an owl!
Scandal, tho' pointed in the dark,
Is ſeldom known to miſs its mark;
While few will interrupt its aim,
Regardleſs of another's fame!
Even they, by whom we once were lov'd,
Thro' life for ſeveral years approv'd!
When ſpleen and envy rail aloud,
Are often carried with the crowd;
Preferring, rather than contend,
To ſacrifice their neareſt friend.
Thus Sylvia yielded to the birds,
Too complaiſant to doubt their words;
Nor thought, that creatures ſo polite
Could deal in calumny and ſpite!
[190] The injur'd Linnet, with their leaves,
For decency ſhe ſtill receives;
Who, tho' he ſees his foes careſt,
Like ſome fond lover, hopes the beſt;
And doubts his own diſcerning eyes,
But, ah, how obvious is diſguiſe?
At length of hope itſelf bereft,
When now no friendly look was left,
And every mark of fondneſs fled;
He hung his wings, and droop'd his head.
And am I then reſign'd, he ſays,
To ſuch ungenerous foes as theſe?
By theſe defrauded of my bliſs?
Is all her kindneſs come to this?
Yet ah, my tongue, forbear to blame
That lov'd, that ever-honour'd name;
This heart, howe'er miſus'd at laſt,
Muſt own unnumber'd favours paſt;
And ſhall, tho' ne'er to meet again,
The dear remembrance ſtill retain.
He ſpoke—and to the window flew,
There ſat, and ſung his laſt adieu.
AN EPISTLE OF M. DE VOLTAIRE
UPON HIS ARRIVAL AT HIS ESTATE NEAR THE LAKE OF GENEVA, IN MARCH, MDCCLV.
FROM THE FRENCH.
[202]O Take, O keep me, ever bleſt domains,
Where lovely Flora with Pomona reigns;
Where Art fulfils what Nature's voice requires,
And gives the charms to which my verſe aſpires;
Take me, the world with tranſport I reſign,
And let your peaceful ſolitude be mine!
Yet not in theſe retreats I boaſt to find
That perfect bliſs that leaves no wiſh behind;
This, to no lonely ſhade kind Nature brings,
Nor Art beſtows on courtiers, or on kings;
Not even the Sage this boon has e'er poſſeſs'd,
Tho' join'd with wiſdom, virtue ſhar'd his breaſt;
This tranſient life, alas! can ne'er ſuffice
To reach the diſtant goal, and ſnatch the prize;
Yet, ſooth'd to reſt, we feel ſuſpence from woe,
And tho' not perfect joy, yet joy we know.
Enchanting ſcenes! what pleaſure you diſpenſe
Where'er I turn, to every wondering ſenſe!
An
*ocean here, where no rude tempeſt roars,
With cryſtal waters laves the hallow'd ſhores;
[203] Here flowery fields with riſing hills are crown'd,
Where cluſtering vines empurple all the ground;
Now by degrees from hills to Alps they riſe,
Hell groans beneath, above they pierce the ſkies!
See the proud ſummit, white with endleſs froſt,
Eternal bulkwark of the bliſsful coaſt!
The bliſsful coaſt the hardy Lombards gain,
And froſt and mountains croſs their courſe in vain;
Here glory beckon'd mighty chiefs of old,
And planted laurels to reward the bold;
Charles, Otho, Conti heard her trumpet ſound,
And, borne on victory's wings, they ſpurn'd the mound.
See, on thoſe banks where yon calm waters ſwell,
The hair-clad epicure's luxurious cell!
See fam'd Ripaille, where once ſo grave, ſo gay,
Great Amedeus
† paſs'd from prayer to play:
Fantaſtic wretch! thou riddle of thy kind!
What ſtrange ambition ſeiz'd thy frantic mind?
Prince, hermit, lover! bleſt thro' every hour
With bliſsful change of pleaſure and of power,
Couldſt thou, thus paradis'd, from care remote,
Ruſh to the world, and fight for Peter's boat?
[204] Now by the Gods of ſweet repoſe I ſwear,
I would not thus have barter'd eaſe for care,
Spight of the keys that move our fear and hope,
I ne'er would quit ſuch penance to be Pope.
Let him who Rome's ſtern tyrant ſtoop'd to praiſe,
The tuneful chanter of ſweet georgic lays,
Let Maro boaſt of ſtreams that Nature pours
To lave proud villas on Italia's ſhores;
Superior far the ſtreams that court my ſong,
Superior far the ſhores they wind along:
Bleſt ſhores! the dwelling of that ſacred power
Who rules each joyful, and each glorious hour,
Queen of whate'er the good or great deſire,
The patriot's eloquence, the hero's fire,
Shrin'd in each breaſt, and near the tyrant's ſword
Invok'd in whiſpers, and in ſighs ador'd,
Immortal Liberty, whoſe generous mind
With all her gifts would bleſs all human-kind!
See, from Morat
* ſhe comes in martial charms,
And ſhines like Pallas in celeſtial arms,
Her ſword the blood of boaſtful Auſtria ſtains,
And Charles, who threaten'd with opprobrious chains.
Now hoſtile crowds Geneva's towers aſſail,
They march in ſecret, and by night they ſcale;
[205] The Goddeſs comes—they vaniſh from the wall.
Their launces ſhiver, and their heroes fall,
For fraud can ne'er elude, nor force withſtand
The ſtroke of Liberty's victorious hand
*.
She ſmiles; her ſmiles perpetual joys diffuſe;
A ſhouting nation where ſhe turns purſues;
Their heart-felt Paeans thunder to the ſky,
And echoing Appenines from far reply:
Such wreaths their temples crown as Greece entwin'd
Her hero's brows at Marathon
† to bind;
Such wreaths the ſons of freedom hold more dear,
Than circling gold and gems that crown the peer,
Than the broad hat which ſhades the Pontiff's face,
Or the cleft mitre's venerable grace.
Inſulting grandeur, in gay tinſel dreſt,
Shows here no ſtar embroider'd on the breaſt,
No tiſſued ribbon on the ſhoulder tied,
Vain gift implor'd by Vanity from Pride!
Nor here ſtern Wealth, with ſupercilious eyes,
The faltering prayer of weeping want denies;
Here no falſe Pride at honeſt labour ſneers,
Men here are brothers, equal but in years;
[206] Here heaven, O! Liberty, has fix'd thy throne,
Fill'd, glorious Liberty! by thee alone.
Rome ſees thy face, ſince Brutus fell, no more,
A ſtranger thou on many a cultur'd ſhore:
The Poliſh lord, of thy embraces vain,
Pricks his proud courſer o'er Sarmatia's plain;
Erects his haughty front in martial pride,
And ſpurns the burgher, grovelling at his ſide;
The grovelling burgher burns with ſecret fires,
Looks up, beholds thee, ſighs, deſpairs, expires.
Britain's rough ſons in thy defence are bold,
Yet ſome pretend at London thou art ſold;
I heed them not, to ſell too proud, too wiſe,
If blood muſt buy, with blood the Briton buys.
On Belgic bogs, 'tis ſaid, thy footſteps fail,
But thou ſecure may'ſt ſcorn the whiſper'd tale;
To lateſt times the race of great Naſſau,
Who rais'd ſeven altars
* to thy ſacred law,
With faithful hand thy honours ſhall defend,
And bid proud factions to thy faſces bend.
Thee Venice keeps, thee Genoa now regains;
And next the throne thy ſeat the Swede maintains;
How few in ſafety thus with kings can vie!
If not ſupreme, how dangerous to be high!
O! ſtill preſide where'er the law's thy friend,
And keep thy ſtation, and thy rights defend:
But take no factious League's
† reproachful name,
Still prone to change, and zealous ſtill to blame,
[207] Cloud not the ſunſhine of a conquering race,
Whom wiſdom governs, and whom manners grace;
Fond of their ſovereign, of ſubjection vain,
They wiſh no favours at thy hands to gain,
Nor need ſuch vaſſals at their lord repine,
Whoſe eaſy ſway they fondly take for thine.
Thro' the wide Eaſt leſs gentle is thy fate,
Where the dumb murderer guards the ſultan's gate;
Here pale and trembling, in the duſt o'erturn'd,
With chains diſhonour'd, and by eunuchs ſpurn'd,
The ſword and bow-ſtring plac'd on either ſide
Thou mourn'ſt, while ſlaves of life and death decide.
Spoil'd of thy cap thro' all the bright Levant
Tell
* gave thee his, and well ſupply'd the want,
O! come my Goddeſs, in thy choſen hour,
And let my better fortune hail thy power;
Fair friendſhip calls thee to my green retreat,
O! come, with friendſhip ſhare the moſſy ſeat;
Like thee ſhe flies the turbulent and great,
The craft of buſineſs, and the farce of ſtate;
To you, propitious powers, at laſt I turn,
To you, my vows aſcend, my altars burn;
Let me of each the pleaſing influence ſhare,
My joys now heighten'd, and now ſooth'd my care;
Each ruder paſſion baniſh'd from my breaſt,
Bid the ſhort remnant of my days be bleſt.
THE THIRTEENTH BOOK OF VIRGIL.
[229]THE THIRTEENTH BOOK OF VIRGIL.
[]WRITTEN BY MAPHOEUS VEGIUS.
Tranſlated into ENGLISH VERSE, By MOSES MENDES, Eſq.
[228]ADVERTISEMENT.
THE great character Maphaeus Vegius bore among the learned, may be a ſufficient reaſon for me to have attempted the following tranſlation; in which I was the more encouraged, as I do not know of any other verſion but one by Thomas Twine, doctor of phyſic, printed in the year 1584; and he, I am ſure, is no powerful antagoniſt. I ſhall not pretend to criticiſe upon my author; but ſhall only obſerve, by the way, that I think him too fond of repetitions, ſome of which I have hurried over, and others I have entirely ſtruck out.
Maphaeus Vegius was born at Lodi, in the Milaneze, in the year 1407, and was ſecretary of the briefs to pope Martin the Fifth, and afterwards datary. He was like⯑wiſe endowed with a canonry of St. Peter's, with which he was ſo well contented, that he refuſed a rich biſhoprick. Pope Eugenius the Fourth, and Nicholas the Fifth, out of their regard for his learning, and affection to his perſon, continued him in his office of datary.
He died at Rome in the year 1459.
THE ARGUMENT.
Turnus being ſlain by Eneas, the Rutuli ſubmit to the conqueror, and are ſuffered to carry off their dead leader with all his armour, except the belt of Pallas, which īs to be ſent back to Evander. Eneas ſacrifices to the gods. Latinus deplores the death of Turnus. So does Daunus his father, who likewiſe laments a great confla⯑gration, that lays his city in aſhes, and is miraculouſly tranſ⯑formed into a bird called a heron. Latinus ſends meſſengers to Eneas with propoſals of peace, and a treaty of marriage with his daughter Lavinia, which are both accepted. He comes to Lau⯑rentum, marries the daughter of the king, and at his death ſucceeds him in the kingdom, having firſt founded a city of his own, which he names Lavinium. Venus interceeds with Jupiter to make her ſon a god, which he conſents to. She flies with him to heaven, and he is afterwards worſhipped by the Romans.
DEform'd in duſt now Turnus preſs'd the ground,
The ſoul indignant ruſhing from the wound,
While eminent amid the gazing bands,
Like Mars himſelf, the Trojan victor ſtands;
[230] Groans thick in conſort from the Latians riſe,
And ev'ry heart in every boſom dies.
As the tall wood bewails in hollow ſound,
By ſtorms impell'd, her honours on the ground:
Now, fix'd in earth their ſpears, the humbled foe
Reſt on their ſwords, and targets from them throw;
Condemn the thirſt of battle, and abhor
The dreaded fury of deſtructive war;
Submit to all the conqu'ror ſhall impoſe,
And pardon crave and end of all their woes.
As when two bulls, inflam'd with martial rage,
Impetuous in the bloody fight engage,
To each his herd inclines, who anxious wait
The dubious conflict, and their champion's fate;
But, one victorious, t'others dames in awe
From their foil'd chief their former faith withdraw:
They grieve indeed, but join with one accord
To ſhare the fortunes of an happier lord.
So the Rutulians, ſtruck with mighty dread,
Tho' deep their ſorrow for their leader dead,
Yet now the Phrygians glorious arms would join,
Conducted by a leader ſo divine;
And a firm league of laſting peace implore,
That cruel war might vex their lives no more.
Then ſtriding o'er the foe, the ghaſtly dead,
The Trojan chief expoſtulating ſaid:
[231]" What madneſs ſeiz'd thee, Daunian, in the thought,
That we by Heaven's appointment hither brought,
Here planted by the thunderer's decree,
Could from our manſions be expell'd by thee?
Oh raſh, the will celeſtial to oppoſe,
To anger Jove, and make the gods thy foes.
At length the utmoſt of thy rage is done
'Gainſt Teucer's race with breach of league begun:
Lo, future times from this inſtructive day
Almighty Jove ſhall fear to diſobey;
And learn from dread example, to abhor
The crime of kindling, without cauſe, a war.
Now boaſt thy arms: a noble corſe thou'rt laid;
Since ſuch a price thou for Lavinia paid:
Nor yet ſhall fame to thy diſhonour tell,
That thou defeated by Eneas fell.
But, oh Rutulians, bear away your chief,
Funereal rites perform, indulge your grief;
With all his arms your hero I reſtore,
Except the belt which erſt young Pallas wore;
That, to his hoary ſire I mean to ſend,
Perhaps ſome comfort may the gift attend:
The ſullen joy that ſlak'd revenge beſtows,
May ſooth his ſoul, and mollify his woes.
And ye, Auſonians, under better ſtars
Shall lead your legions to ſucceſsful wars,
If juſtice wield the ſword. I never ſought
To harm your friends, but ſelf-defending fought,
To ſave my own the hoſtile ſteel I drew,
Fate crown'd my honeſt aim, and frown'd on you."
[232]Eneas ſaid, and ſought with inward joy
The walls that hold the poor remains of Troy;
Mean while his troops their well-lov'd chief attend,
And with reproach the conquer'd hoſts offend:
Their ſhouts triumphant eccho to the ſky,
The mettl'd courſers neigh, and ſeem to fly.
The pious Trojan ere he light the fire
Due to his friends upon the ſacred pyre,
By other flames begins his juſt returns,
And to the gods each holy altar burns;
Obſervant ever of his country's rites,
The mitred prieſt devoted heifers ſmites.
The clam'rous ſwine increaſe the heaps of ſlain,
And milk-white lambkins plead for life in vain.
Forth from each victim are the entrails torn,
And piece-meal cut, in ſacred chargers borne.
They ſtrip the fleecy mother of her pride,
And roaſting fires th' attendant throngs provide:
From deep-mouth'd urns they pour upon the ſhrine
Their due libations to the god of wine.
With grateful incenſe they the pow'rs invoke,
And from each altar curls the fragrant ſmoke.
The choral bands the hymns appointed ſing
To thee, O Venus, and to Heav'ns Great King;
Saturnian Juno heard her praiſe with joy,
Her rage abated tow'rd the ſons of Troy.
Mars too was ſung, and then the num'rous hoſt
Of minor gods, who ſeats aetherial boaſt.
[233] Eneas with his hands to Heaven addreſs'd,
And folding young Iülus to his breaſt,
Beſpoke the boy; "At length, my only ſon,
Our toils are o'er, the taſk of war is done,
At length approaches the long wiſh'd-for hour
To claſp ſoft quiet, now within our pow'r.
Soon as the morn ſhall ope the gates of day
To yon proud walls, O wing thy ſpeedy way:"
Next to his friends he turn'd him graceful round,
" Ye ſons of Ilion, ever-faithful found,
Too long, alas, we've ſtrangers been to eaſe,
The brunt of battle, and the rage of ſeas
Have been our lot, a ſcene of endleſs pain
Involv'd us all, but better days remain;
Our pangs are paſt, our ſuff'rings all are o'er,
Peace, dove-ey'd Peace, ſalutes us on this ſhore;
For know, Lavinia ſhall be firmly mine,
And Trojan ſhall with Latian blood combine;
From whoſe great mixture ſhall a nation ſpring,
To give the world one univerſal king,
Whoſe wide domain ſhall ſtretch from pole to pole,
Where earth is ſeen, or mighty oceans roll.
Then, dear companions, with th'Auſonian band
In peace and concord ſhare this happy land;
The good Latinus as your king obey,
For who more juſt, more fit for regal ſway.
This have I fix'd; by me be taught to dare
The rough approaches of invaſive war,
By me inſtructed, ſuffer as you ought,
Nor on the gods caſt one unhallow'd thought;
[234] By heav'n I ſwear, my friends ſo often try'd,
Now wanton Fortune combats on my ſide,
The toils you've ſuffered, and the dangers paſt,
Shall meet with ample uſury at laſt."
So ſpoke the chief, revolving in his mind
The various fortunes that attend mankind,
Rejoic'd to ſee the objects of his care
Safe, thro' his means, from tempeſts, rage, and war.
As when a kite in many a whirling ring
Intent on blood, comes ſtooping on the wing,
The anxious hen, for her young brood in dread,
The fell deſtroyer hov'ring o'er their head,
Whets her ſharp bill, th' invader to engage,
And urg'd by fondneſs conquers lawleſs rage;
The tyrant flies, nor yet her fears ſuppreſs'd,
She calls each feather'd wand'rer to her breaſt,
There ſhields them cloſe, and counts them o'er and o'er,
And dangers over-paſt regards no more:
Anchiſes ſon thus to his bands of Troy
By former woe enhances preſent joy,
The perils paſt of battle, land and ſeas,
Are ſweet rememb'rance to an heart at eaſe,
For which the hero grateful homage pays
To ev'ry god, and hymns the thund'rer's praiſe.
The ſad Rutulians their dead leader bear,
And the laſt office for the chief prepare,
The clam'rous ſorrow catches all around,
Latinus heard the melancholy ſound;
[235] Preſaging fears his anxious breaſt divide:
But when he ſaw the wound in Turnus ſide,
He quickly caught the epidemic woe,
His boſom heav'd, his eyes in torrents flow,
In graceful guiſe he wav'd his ſcepter'd hand,
And order'd ſilence to th' intruding band,
Who came in cluſters thronging to the plain,
To view the features of the mighty ſlain.
As when the foaming boar, whom dogs ſurround,
Rips up their gen'rous chief with mortal wound,
The howling pack about the hunter throng,
And ſeem to call him to avenge the wrong;
The well known ſignals of his hand and voice
Reduce their tumult, and compoſe the noiſe:
Latinus ſilenc'd thus the clam'rous train,
And a dumb ſorrow dwelt on all the plain;
The ſolemn pauſe the good old monarch broke,
And the big drops fell from him as he ſpoke.
" What ſcenes of various ills, of care, and ſtrife,
Await poor mortals on this ſea of life;
Pride finds in crowns her pleaſures all compleat,
Deluded wretch to call a poiſon ſweet;
Ambition haſtens to the duſty field,
Can death, can dangers ſoft contentment yield?
Th' example now is recent to your eyes,
Young Turnus fate ſhou'd teach you to be wiſe.
Beneath the glitt'ring throne that bears a king
Are poniards hid, and aſpies dart their ſting:
[236] Few, few alas, a monarch's cares behold,
He ſighs in purple, and repines in gold,
Control'd to act againſt his own intent,
And when he ſighs for peace, to war conſent.
" Ah, what avail'd, miſtaken Turnus ſay,
To urge my people to the lawleſs fray,
To break that knot which ſacred faith had ty'd,
And war 'gainſt thoſe with whom th' immortals ſide?
'Twas with regret the ſword of rage I drew,
For ah too well the conſequence I knew.
Oft have I ſeen thee on thy bounding ſteed,
In burniſh'd arms the willing nations lead,
As oft my prayers have ſooth'd thee from the plain;
But ſober prudence counſels rage in vain.
" My cities thinn'd, are nodding to their fall,
Each uſeleſs fortreſs weeps her ruin'd wall,
A ſanguine dye, once happier rivers yield,
And Latian courſers whiten ev'ry field:
Ah me, what ſcenes attend Latinus' age,
Grief, devaſtation, war, deſpair, and rage!
" Farewel, once more. Ah, Turnus, where is now
That warmth for glory, and that awful brow?
That pleaſing face, by youth more pleaſing dreſs'd,
Now ſhocks the ſight that once charm'd ev'ry breaſt.
Ah me! what horrors ſhall on Daunus wait,
When he ſhall hear his Turnus' rigid fate!
[237] What ſtings of ſorrow ſhall his boſom tear,
And Ardea's ſons their monarch's grief ſhall ſhare!
Yet ſoil'd with duſt, and grim with clotted blood,
Cleanſe the pale corſe in yonder ſilver flood,
Perhaps ſome eaſe his father's heart may feel,
To know he ſunk beneath an hero's ſteel."
He ſpake and wept, and turning to the train,
They raiſe the body off the duſty plain,
Plac'd on a bier, to Ardea's walls they tend,
A horrid preſent to a ſire to ſend.
Shields, horſes, ſwords, the prizes of the war,
Are borne aloft, next moves the rattling car,
Still wet with Phrygian blood. Metiſcus now
Moves ſlowly on, and ſorrow clouds his brow;
Metiſcus, born to tame the gen'rous ſteed,
Doth in proceſſion Turnus' courſer lead.
The noble beaſt, who ne'er before knew fear,
Now ſhakes, and drops the ſympathizing tear.
Full oft had he his daring maſter led,
Where the war thunder'd, and the nations bled,
To death, to danger, never known to yield,
The pride, the fear, the glory of the field.
Inverted arms the foll'wing legions bear,
And ſtuieks of ſorrow pierce the yielding air.
Thro' night's dull ſhade they march, while Latium's king
Deep in his palace feels keen ſorrow's ſting,
[238] Foreſees ſtrange horrors: widows, maids, and wives,
Young men and old, all anxious for their lives,
Join in one ſhrill complaint: thus ſurges roar,
When preſs'd by winds, they break upon the ſhore.
Nor yet had Daunus heard, his ſon no more
Should cheer his age, or what his army bore
In ſullen pomp approaching Ardea's walls,
Another grief the penſive monarch calls:
For while the Latins had engag'd in fight,
And war-like Turnus glory'd in his might,
Involving flames had ſeiz'd his native land,
And Ardea's town was level'd to the ſand.
Beyond the ſtars aſcending ſparkles fly,
And gleamy horror blazes thro' the ſky.
So will'd the gods; perhaps the crumb'ling wall
In omen dread predicted Turnus fall;
Th' affrighted citizens in dread array,
Thro' flames and death purſue their dubious way;
The ſhrieks of matrons witneſs their deſpair,
And clouds of ſmoak involve the dark'ning air.
As careful ants for future wants provide,
Where an old oak preſents her riven ſide,
But if the ax the ſhelt'ring timber wound,
Or bring its leafy honours to the ground,
Among the croud what cares tumultuous riſe,
This way and that the ſable cohort flies;
Or as the tortoiſe broiling on the fire,
When on her back, unable to retire,
[239] With head, with feet, with tail declares her pain,
And tries all ſtrength and ſtratagem in vain:
Thus Ardea's ſons, beſet with perils round,
And wild confuſion, no deliv'rance found;
When from amid the flames was ſeen to riſe
With clapping wings, a fowl that cuts the ſkies:
'Twas Ardea
*, but transform'd, and ſhe e'er while
With turrets crown'd, and many a ſtately pile,
Now, giv'n the city's name and mark to bear,
On ample pinions flits around in air.
Fix'd with diſmay th' aſtoniſh'd vulgar gaze,
Nor further fly to ſhun the dreadful blaze;
But who a monarch's ſorrows can relate,
A monarch trembling for his country's fate,
Doom'd tales of freſh affliction ſoon to know,
Doom'd to a ſad variety of woe.
The ſolemn train approaches now too near,
And Turnus corſe beheld upon the bier;
Black torches, ſo their country's rites demand,
Each ſad attendant carries in his hand;
A gen'ral ſorrow ſeizes all the croud,
The tim'rous matrons, in afflictions loud,
Pierce heav'ns blue arch, their flowing garments tear,
Beat their ſoft breaſts, and rend their flowing hair.
But when the father heard his Turnus ſlain,
He ſeem'd a ſtatue fix'd upon the plain:
But ſoon his ſorrows found a diff'rent way,
He flies like light'ning where the body lay,
[240] The breathleſs corſe he held in grapples faſt,
And, tongue-ty'd long by grief, found words at laſt.
" My ſon, my ſon! my age's laſt relief,
Thy fire's late glory, now his cauſe of grief;
Prop of my age, and guardian of my throne,
Which totters to its fall now thou art gone:
Comfort no more her healing balm will ſhed,
My Turnus falls, and Daunus peace is fled.
Are theſe the trophies of thy vaſt renown?
Are theſe the glories of an added crown?
Are theſe the honours of extended pow'r,
O Fortune, giddy as the whirling hour?
Man builds up ſchemes for her to over-turn,
We graſp at ſceptres, and poſſeſs an urn:
And thou, who, lately a whole nation's joy,
Didſt drive thy thunders on the ſons of Troy,
Now ly'ſt an empty form of lifeleſs clay,
Our hope no longer, nor the foe's diſmay.
No more that tongue ſhall liſt'ning crouds perſuade,
No more that face ſhall charm each gazing maid,
No more that form ſhall catch th' admiring view,
Thoſe eyes no more their luſtre ſhall renew;
Thy port majeſtic no one now ſhall prize,
In arts of peace, ah, Turnus. vainly wiſe;
Mars crop'd thy honours in their vernal bloom,
And ev'ry virtue withers on thy tomb.
Urg'd on to war, too eager in thy hate,
Thou ruſh'd to ſight, and half-way met thy fate.
[241] O Death, relentleſs, thy unerring blow
Strikes down the great, and lays the haughty low;
Kings, princes, people, his dread rigor fear,
And ſhrink to duſt when he approaches near.
Inſatiate pow'r, among the old and young,
Each day o'er whom thy ſable ſtole is flung,
Could not thy hand arreſt-one ſingle dart,
That thro' a ſon's has riv'd a parent's heart?
Amata happy! now at endleſs reſt,
Thy ſlaughter'd ſon moves not thy quiet breaſt.
Say, ſay, ye pow'rs! have I yet more to dread?
What drive ye next on this devoted head?
Ye crop'd my bloſſom in his earlieſt ſpring,
And blazing Ardea flutters on the wing.
Yet what is Ardea? for my child I moan.
The loſs of him is ev'ry loſs in one;
Some woe ſuperior was for me decreed,
I have it now, and am a wretch indeed.
When once the Fates have mark'd their deſtin'd prey,
Each various ill purſues him on his way;
This way and that the fainting wretch is hurl'd,
The ſport of heav'n, and pity of the world."
No more he ſaid, but down his rev'rend cheeks,
In ſcalding ſtreams, the briny torrent breaks;
Thick groans diſtend his breaſt, his eye-balls ſtare,
And all his looks are horror and deſpair.
So when a fawn is from th'embow'ring grove,
Truſs'd by the bird of thunder-bearing Jove,
[242] The hapleſs mother ſhakes with deadly fear,
And gives what aid ſhe can, a fruitleſs tear.
Now from the portals of the roſy ſky
The morn ariſing, earth born vapours fly;
When good Latinus, finding that 'twas vain
To try the fortunes of the warlike plain,
(For his pale legions ſhudder'd at the word,
And almoſt wiſh'd to call Eneas, lord,)
He much revolv'd of former breach of vows,
The truce infring'd, and long-diſputed ſpouſe.
At length a ſolemn embaſſy is ſent,
A thouſand men ſelect for that intent;
Commiſſion'd theſe the virtuous chief t'implore,
To waſte Laurentum with his arms no more;
To quiet hoſtile rage amongſt the bands,
And viſit friendly old Latinus' lands.
With theſe went ſages vers'd in Wiſdom's lore,
Well ſkill'd to plead, and princes ſtand before:
Inſtructed to declare their king's deſire,
To accompliſh what the awful gods require;
And as they will'd, that Troy and Latium's blood
Should flow commingl'd in one common flood,
He yielded gladly to their wiſe decree,
And wiſh'd the Dardans and their chief to ſee.
Mean while Latinus cheers the anxious crew,
Relates his meaſures, and his pious view;
[243] Hope ſwells their boſoms, and expels their fears,
The news in tranſport all Auſonia hears.
Now the glad city rings with peals of joy,
And all prepare to meet the ſons of Troy,
Not in the plain in warfare to contend,
But as to meet a brother or a friend.
The royal court is deck'd with double care,
Worthy the chief who ſhall be ſhortly there.
The appointed envoys reach the camp deſign'd,
Their reverend heads fair olive-branches bind,
Of peace the token, and their tongues no leſs
Of friendly talk the full intent profeſs.
Within his palace, Venus' god-like ſon
With kind demeanor welcomes ev'ry one;
To whom thus Drances, Drances, firſt in age,
And who 'gainſt Turnus nouriſh'd endleſs rage:
" O Trojan chief! thy Phrygia's chiefeſt boaſt,
In virtue firſt, and mightieſt of the hoſt,
Our royal maſter ſwears by all the pow'rs,
(Hear me, immortals, in your heav'nly bow'rs)
That 'gainſt his will the treaties ſworn, he broke,
Or did to fight your valiant bands provoke;
But inly wiſh'd to gratify the choice
The gods had made, by his aſſenting voice;
To give his daughter to thy longing arms,
Lavinia, fam'd for virtue, as for charms.
[244] But if ſtern rage has turn'd his view aſide,
If ſeas of blood have flow'd on either ſide;
If madding fury, reaſon over came,
O powerful chief, let Turnus bear the blame;
His buſy mind diſdain'd all peace and reſt,
And floods of gall o'erflow'd his ranc'rous breaſt.
Long our Latinus ſtedfaſtly deny'd
To lend his troops, and 'gainſt his will comply'd:
Ev'n then our armies wiſh'd the frantic boy
Would yield obedience to the chief of Troy.
Our monarch too requeſting nations join'd;
But ſay, can Reaſon bend the ſtubborn mind?
Can human reaſon hope for weight or force,
When not the gods could turn his impious courſe?
In dire portents they ſpoke their will in vain,
His rage renews, he hurries to the plain,
Where his reward the daring caitiff found;
O'erborn by thee, he bites the bloody ground.
Ah, wicked youth! in Tartarus' black ſhade
Contract new nuptials with ſome Stygian maid;
If rage and fury ſtill be thy delight,
In Acheron diſplay thy ſkill in fight.
But thou, the happy heir of Latium's throne,
Whom all our people their protector own;
Whoſe ample praiſes are with rapture ſung,
Whoſe glorious deeds untie the infant's tongue;
Our youth, our ſages, and each ſober dame,
With one accord all celebrate thy name:
That Turnus fell by thee we all rejoice,
Believe not me, but hear a nation's voice;
[245] On thee, the Latians turn an eye of joy,
Latinus waits thee. O thou ſon of Troy,
Forbear a while to ſeek the ſhades of night,
In full expectance of the nuptial rite;
So ſhall th' Italian and the Phrygian race
Join in one ſtock, which time ſhall ne'er efface.
Then haſte, great chief! thy conduct be our care,
To gain thoſe honours thou waſt born to wear."
He ſaid; the ſhouting bands his ſenſe approve,
And former hate gives way to new-born love:
To which the pious hero ſmiling kind,
Thus ſpoke the gentle dictates of his mind:
" The rage of combats, and paſt ſcenes of woe,
Ye and your king are guiltleſs of I know:
Turnus alone provok'd the martial ſtrife,
Laviſh of blood, and prodigal of life;
A raging paſſion for deluſive fame
Too oft we find the youthful breaſt inflame;
Then tell your king his will ſhall be obey'd,
With rapture I embrace the Latian maid,
And peace eternal ſwear. Nor till the pow'rs
Have ſtopp'd the courſe of good Latinus' hours,
Shall his imperial ſceptres grace theſe hands;
But, born a king, he ſtill ſhall rule theſe lands.
Another city ſhall my Trojans found,
Where added houſhold gods ſhall bleſs the ground;
Lavinia's name ſhall grace the riſing town,
And equal laws united bands ſhall own:
[246] May love and friendſhip ſpread thro' all the hoſt,
And Troy and Latium in one name be loſt.
What now remains but with a pious care
To burn thoſe corſes that infect the air,
Sad victims of the war, whoſe rav'nous hand
Smites mighty heroes, and deſtroys a land?
That bus'neſs done, to-morrow's ſun ſhall guide
The happy lover to his blooming bride."
He ſaid; th' attentive people round him gaze,
His virtues charm them, and they ſhout his praiſe.
Now ſee the buſy legions all around,
Trees crack'ling fall, and axes loud reſound;
With holy zeal they ſhape the diff'rent pyres,
And high to heav'n aſcend the curling fires;
Thick clouds of ſmoke mount ſlowly to the ſky,
A thouſand ſheep, appointed victims, die;
The blood of ſwine impurples all the plain,
And in the flames they caſt the heifers ſlain:
No more the field is loaded with the dead,
And noiſy ſhouts around the plain are ſpread;
At length the ſun diffus'd his golden ray,
And all prepar'd to haſten on their way.
Eneas firſt his fiery ſteed beſtrode,
And at his ſide the rev'rend Drances rode,
Who much beſpoke the chief; the next to ſight
Aſcanius came, in youthful honours bright:
The good Aletes, deeply worn with age,
Ilioneus, and Mneſtheus, worthy ſage;
[247] Sereſtus and Sergeſtus paſs'd along,
And valiant Gyas, and Cloanthus ſtrong.
In bands commix'd, the foll'wing troops ſucceed,
For ſo the friendly leaders had decreed.
Now on Laurentum's wall, a gaping train
View'd the proceſſion moving o'er the plain;
Each citizen exults with inward joy,
To think the ſword no longer ſhall deſtroy.
Latinus from the town, a certain way
With choſen friends, to meet the Trojan, lay:
Nor could the croud the god-like chief conceal,
The mighty prince his actions all reveal;
High o'er the reſt in graceful pomp he trod,
Each action ſpoke the offspring of a god.
Thus met, the leader of the Latian band
Addreſs'd the chief, and preſs'd his friendly hand:
" At length, thou glory of the Trojan race,
My hope's compleat, for I behold thy face.
To me at length the happy hour is giv'n,
To claſp the choiceſt fav'rite of heav'n;
With joy to yield to the divine decree,
That here hath fix'd a reſting place for thee.
Long toſs'd thro' perils, here thy rigors ceaſe,
Theſe lands, theſe happy lands, enjoy in peace.
Tho' furious rage that knows not e'er to yield,
Tho' Jove ſhould frown, has drench'd with blood the field,
[248] Tho' lawleſs licence arm'd her harpy claws,
And wildly boaſted violated laws;
Yet I, alas, unwillingly comply'd,
With tears, not blood, Latinus' ſteel was dy'd:
Deceiv'd my legions fought, and he who moſt,
In Jove's deſpight, attack'd thy pious hoſt,
Now lies a carcaſs on the barren ſand,
Victim of heav'n, and of thy mighty hand.
No more the trumpet ſhall awake to arms
Thy martial ſoul, that bends to Hymen's charms.
Some realms I have, and towns my own I call,
Fit for defence, and girdl'd with a wall:
Yet of all objects that my ſoul engage,
Lavinia's chief, the comfort of my age;
She and her charms, O mighty ſon, be thine,
In this embrace I the ſweet maid reſign.
Dear to my ſoul, thy virtues I adore,
Sprung from my loins, I could not love thee more."
To whom Eneas, "When that rev'rend head
Meets my glad ſight, by hoary Time o'erſpread,
I ſoon conclude that battle's ſtubborn rage
Was ne'er the option of thy prudent age;
If thou haſt fears, oh, give them to the wind,
In thee, oh monarch, I a father find;
Believe thy ſon, when'er that form I view,
The thoughts of good Anchiſes riſe anew;
Again his figure in full ſight appears,
And filial duty melts me into tears."
[249]Now to the palace haſtes the royal pair,
The Latian crowd confeſs the ſtrangers fair;
Maids, women, boys, and hoary ſires combine
To praiſe the beauties of their gueſts divine.
But chief Eneas ſtruck their wond'rous eyes:
His fair demeanour, and ſuperior ſize,
Caught ev'ry gazer, and ſincere their praiſe
Attends the chief who bleſs with peace their days.
As when long rains have drench'd the genial plain,
In gloomy ſadneſs ſits each penſive ſwain;
With arms infolded, and dejected brow,
The farmer weeps his unavailing plow:
But clad in ſplendor ſhould the ſun ariſe,
And pour his golden glories thro' the ſkies,
They haſte exulting to their honeſt care,
And wound earth's boſom with the crooked ſhare:
So the Auſonians lull'd their mind to eaſe,
And ſhout and revel at the approach of peace.
Latinus now had reach'd the palace gate,
Eneas joins, Iülus ſwells the ſtate;
Trojans, Italians, march in pomp along,
And the court brightens with a noble throng:
By matrons circled, and by virgins led
Appear'd the partner of Eneas bed;
Her eyes like ſtars diffus'd a luſtre round,
Her modeſt eyes ſhe rivets to the ground.
Soon as the Trojan ſaw the beauteous maid,
He gaz'd, he lov'd, and thus in ſecret ſaid:
[250] " I blame not, Turnus, thy ambitious rage,
For ſuch a prize who'd not in war engage?
To taſte ſuch beauties, ſuch tranſcendent charms,
Kings rouſe the nations, and the world's in arms."
The ſacred prieſt faſt by the altar ſtands,
And joins in marriage-bond their plighted hands:
With peals of joy the vaulted roofs reſound,
And Hymeneal ſongs are wafted all around.
And now Achates, by his prince fore-taught,
From out the camp the various preſents brought.
Veſts work'd with gold which Hector's conſort gave,
Ere yet the Greeks had croſs'd the briny wave;
A collar too, whoſe gems emitted flame,
And once the honour of the princely dame:
Nor was forgot a bowl inſculptur'd high,
Pond'ious to bear, and beauteous to the eye,
Which on Anchiſes' board did whilom blaze,
The gift of Priam in his happier days.
This for Latinus good Achates brings,
Such royal preſents kings may ſend to kings:
But the gay robes, and collar's radiant pride,
Are juſtly deſtin'd for the blooming bride.
Now converſe ſweet, and joy without allay,
Deceives the winged hours, and cloſes day;
The genial feaſt is ſerv'd in ſumptuous ſtate,
For luxury, at times, becomes the great.
On purple couches all the nobles lie,
The taught attendants wait attentive by;
[251] From chryſtal urns are living waters pour'd,
And every dainty loads the regal board.
Bright Ceres here provides her gifts divine,
And the red god beſtows his choiceſt wine.
With eye attentive ev'ry waiter ſtands,
And flies to execute each gueſt's commands.
This ſerves the chargers, that the mantling bowl,
And crowds in billows ſeem to wave, and roll.
Latinus near Iülus at the board,
Heard him with tranſport, and devour'd each word;
For in the godlike youth at once combin'd,
The grace of feature with the worth of mind;
His manly talk, his obſervations ſage,
Beſpoke a judgment riper than his age.
Nor could the king with-hold his honeſt praiſe,
" Take this embrace, thou wonder of thy days:
Thrice bleſs'd Eneas, ſure the gods conſpire
To make each ſon add luſtre to the ſire."
The banquet ended, ſome their talk employ
On Grecian battles, and the fall of Troy:
Now of Laurentum's broils, what ſhrinking bands
Fled from the foe, or dar'd oppoſers hands;
Who firſt broke thro' the ranks with furious force,
And thro' the ſlaughter urg'd his foaming horſe.
But much Eneas and Latinus told
Of Latium's ancient deeds, and hero's old;
How Saturn flying from his offspring's rage,
In fair Heſperia hid his hoary age,
[252] Hence Latium call'd: he taught to raiſe the vine,
And the forc'd earth her bounties to reſign;
A wand'ring race, and mountain-bred he tam'd,
By arts improv'd them, and with laws reclaim'd.
Again Jove ſeeks his father's realms, to taſte
Electra's beauties, and the dame embrac'd,
Whence Dardanus was born: his brothers ſlain
By his own hand, he fled acroſs the main.
From Corythus he fled, with num'rous bands,
And ſafely ſettled on the Phrygian lands.
Proud of his birth, he in his banner bore
The bird of Jove, which after, Hector wore.
Much fame he won, which time ſhall ne'er deſtroy,
Th' immortal founder of imperial Troy.
To choral airs the high-roof'd palace rings,
The torches blaze, the minſtrel ſweeps the ſtrings;
Trojan and Latians to the ſound advance,
And mingle friendly in the mazy dance.
For thrice three days in revelry and joy
They drown'd their cares: at length the chief of Troy
To other taſks directs his curious eyes,
Mark'd out by plows ſhall deſtin'd cities riſe;
Here form they trenches, there dig ditches wide,
When, ſtrange to ſay, the Phrygian leader ſpy'd
A blazing glory round Lavinia's head,
Which to the ſky its flamy honours ſpread.
He ſtood aghaſt, nor knew what meant the ſign;
But thus his pray'r addreſs'd: "O king divine,
Of men and gods! if e'er my Trojan bands
Have unrepining follow'd thy commands,
[253] Still thro' all perils or by land or ſea
To thee have pray'd, have ſacrific'd to thee;
If I have led them to theſe pious deeds,
Explain this omen that belief exceeds.
Ah may no dire portent our peace oppoſe,
Be ended here, O Jove! our various woes."
While thus he pray'd, his mother lay conceal'd
Behind a cloud; but, ſoon to ſight reveal'd,
Thus ſooths her ſon: "Thy doubts and cares give o'er,
Interpret right the happineſs in ſtore
The gods predict. Peace ſpreads her olive wand,
And buxom plenty crowns the laughing land.
The lambient glories round Lavinia ſeen,
Portend the god-like iſſue of the queen;
From her a mighty race of chiefs ſhall riſe,
Whoſe fame immortal ſhall aſcend the ſkies;
The vanquiſh'd world with pride ſhall wear their chain,
Realms far divided by the ſeas in vain.
This flame, great Jove from high Olympus ſent;
Fame yet reſerv'd is mark'd by this portent;
Her ſhare of honours let Lavinia claim,
Call thy new city by her happy name.
Thy houſhold gods, eſcap'd from burning Troy,
Shall in theſe walls a double peace enjoy;
With pious awe their kindly love revere,
For know they ever ſhall inhabit here.
With ſuch affection for theſe realms they burn,
That forc'd from hence again they ſhall return;
No other climes their godheads deign to bleſs,
Then, my beſt ſon, thy happineſs confeſs.
[254] O'er Trojan bands thy legal ſway maintain,
'Till good Latinus ſeeks the Elyſian plain;
Then double ſcepters ſhall my offspring grace,
Ruler of Troy, and Latium's hardy race:
One common law ſhall bind them all in one,
No fell diviſion, and diſtinction none.
Yet mark, O mark, what ſtill remains for thee,
The gods conſenting fix'd the kind decree,
Thy days ſpun out, thou ſhalt not mix with earth,
More honours claim thy virtues and thy birth;
'Tis thine to enter in the bleſs'd abodes,
Vanquiſh proud Fate, and mingle with the gods."
She ſpoke, and quickly darting from the ſight,
Streak'd the thin ether with a trail of light.
The hero ſtood revolving in his mind
The various bounties which the pow'rs deſign'd;
Peace crown'd his days, Latinus yields to Fate,
The pious Trojan rules the happy ſtate,
Full wide extends his undiſputed ſway,
And all alike one common king obey;
Their rites, their cuſtoms, and their will the ſame,
As citizens they ſhare one gen'ral name.
And now the mother of each ſmiling love,
Proſtrate, and trembling at the throne of Jove,
Beſpoke the god: "Almighty ſire of Heav'n!
To whom the ruling of the world is giv'n,
Who read'ſt mankind, and ſeeſt the heart's intent,
Ere yet the lips have giv'n the ſecret vent,
[255] Thy ſacred promiſe let a goddeſs claim,
A goddeſs pleading for the Trojan name:
Didſt thou not vow in pity of their woes,
To eaſe their ſuff'rings by a bleſt repoſe?
Nor can I tax thy promiſe made in vain,
Three years hath peace beheld this happy plain;
Yet think, O Jove, to ſooth a mother's care,
There yet remains a ſeat in heav'n to ſpare
For great Eneas, who tranſcends all praiſe:
Speak thy decree, thine humbler ſuppliant raiſe.
Paſt mortal ſtrength his growing virtues riſe,
Too great for earth, he ripens for the ſkies."
To whom the mighty pow'r with looks ſerene.
But firſt he rais'd, and kiſs'd the Cyprian queen:
" Thy mighty ſon and all his pow'rful bands
That much I love, bear witneſs ſea and lands,
My arm hath ſnatch'd them from each peril near,
And at their ſuff'rings Jove has ſhed a tear
For thy fair ſake. My Juno now relents,
And to my grant, o'ercome, at length conſents.
Then 'tisdecreed, his virtues ſhall prevail,
Purge off each part that makes the mortal frail,
Then add him to the ſtars; ſhould others riſe
Of equal merit, they ſhall ſhare the ſkies."
The gods aſſent, and Juno vex'd no more,
Requeſts the boon ſhe often croſs'd before.
Quick from the ſtarry pole fair Venus glides,
And where Numicus rolls thro' reeds his tides,
[256] She dips her ſon, and waſhes well away
Each groſſer particle of mortal clay;
The part divine to heav'n the goddeſs bears,
And the juſt prince aetherial honours ſhares.
Him as their god the Julian race invoke,
For him do temples riſe, and ſacred altars ſmoke.
TO MR. S. TUCKER.
[267]BY Mr. MENDES.
THE ſons of man, by various paſſions led,
The paths of bus'neſs or of pleaſure tread;
The floriſt views his dear carnation riſe,
And wonders who can doat on Flavia's eyes;
The lover ſees, unmov'd, each gaudy ſtreak,
And knows no bloom but that on Daphne's cheek:
While ſome grow pale o'er Newton, Locke, or Boyle,
Miſs reads romances, and my lady Hoyle;
Thus inclination binds her fetters ſtrong,
And, juſt as judgment marks, we're right or wrong.
Fair are thoſe hills where ſacred laurels grow,
Rul'd by the pow'r who draws the golden bow;
But ſee how few attain the dang'rous road,
How few are born to feel th' inſpiring god!
Yet all, to reach the arduous ſummit try,
From ſoaring Pope to reptile Ogleby.
Among the reſt, your friend attempts to climb,
But ah, how diff'rent poeſy and rhyme!
The mid-night bard, reciting to his bell,
Who breaks our reſt, and tolls the muſes knell,
Is juſt a poet matchleſs and divine,
As he a Raphael, who, on ale-houſe ſign,
[268] Seats his bold George in attitude ſo quaint,
That none can tell the dragon from a ſaint.
Reckon each ſand in wide New-market plain,
Mount yon blue vault, and count the ſtarry train;
But numbers ne'er can comprehend the throng
Of retail dealers in the art of ſong.
Like ſummer flies they blot the ſolar ray,
And, like their brother inſects, live a day.
Am I not blaſted by ſome friendleſs ſtar,
To know my wants, yet wage unequal war?
I own I am; and dabbling thus in rhyme,
'Tis folly's bell that rings the pleaſing chyme;
Bit by the bard's tarantula I ſwell,
Write off the raging fit, and all is well.
And yet, perhaps, to loſe my time this way
Is better far than ſome miſ-ſpend the day.
The fatal dice-box never fill'd my hand,
By me no orphan weeps his raviſh'd land;
What ward can tax me with a deed unjuſt?
What friend upbraids me with a broken truſt?
(Some few except, whom pride and folly blind,
I found them chaff, and give them to the wind)
Like a poor bird, and one of meaneſt wing,
Around my cage I flutter, hop, and ſing.
Unlike in this my brethren of the bays,
I ſue for pardon, and they hope for praiſe;
And when for verſe I find my genius warm,
Like infants ſent to ſchool, I keep from harm.
[269] What time the dog-ſtar with unbating flames
Cleaves the parch'd earth, and ſinks the ſilver Thames;
While the ſhrill tenant
* of the ſun-burnt blade,
(A poet he, and ſinging all his trade)
Tears his ſmall throat, I brave the ſultry ray,
And deep-embower'd, eſcape the rage of day.
Thrice bleſs'd the man, who, ſhielded from the beam,
Sings lays melodious to the ſacred ſtream;
Thrice bleſs'd the ſtream, who views his banks of flow'rs,
Crown'd with the Muſe's or imperial tow'rs,
Whoſe limpid waters as they onwards glide,
See humble oziers nod, or threat'ning ſquadrons ride.
Health to my friend, and to his partner, peace,
A good long life, and moderate increaſe;
May Dulwich garden double treaſures ſhare,
And be both Flora and Pomona's care.
Ye Walton naiads, guard the fav'rite child,
Drive off each marſh-born fog; ye zephyrs mild,
Fan the dear innocent; ye fairies, keep
Your wonted diſtance, nor diſturb his ſleep;
Nor in the cradle, while your tricks you play,
The changeling drop, and bear our boy away.
However chance may chalk his future fate,
Or doom his manhood to be rich or great,
Is not our care; oh, let the guiding pow'r
Decide that point, who rules the natal hour;
Nor ſhall we ſeek, for knowledge to enrich,
The Delphic tripod, or your Norwood witch.
[270]But Tucker doubts, and "if not rich," he cries,
" How can the boy reward the good and wife?
Give him but gold, and merit ne'er ſhall freeze,
But riſe from want to affluence and eaſe:
The G [...]ido's touch ſhall warm his throbbing heart,
The patri [...]t's buſt ſhall ſpeak the ſculptor's art;
But if from D [...]nae's precious ſhow'r debar'd,
The Muſe he may admire, but ne'er reward."
All this I grant; but does it follow then,
That parts have drawn regard from wealthy men?
Did Gay receive the tribute of the great?
No, let his tomb be witneſs of his fate:
For Milton's days are too long paſt to ſtrike;
The rich of all times ever were alike.
See him, whoſe lines "in a fine frenzy roll,"
He comes to tear, to harrow up the ſoul;
Bear me, ye pow'rs, from his bewitching ſprite,
My eye-balls darken at exceſs of light;
How my heart dances to his magic ſtrain,
Beats my quick pulſe, and throbs each burſting vein.
From Avon's bank with ev'ry garland crown'd,
'Tis his to rouſe, to calm, to cure, to wound;
To mould the yielding boſom to his will,
And Shakeſpear is inimitable ſtill:
Oppreſs'd by fortune, all her ills he bore,
Hear this ye Muſes, and be vain no more.
[271]Nor ſhall my
*Spenſer want his ſhare of praiſe,
The heav'n-ſprung ſiſters wove the laureat's bays;
Yet what avail'd his ſweet deſcriptive pow'r,
The fairy warrior, or inchanted bow'r?
Tho' matchleſs Sidney doated on the ſtrain,
Lov'd by the learned
†ſhepherd of the main,
Obſerve what meed his lateſt labours crown'd,
Belphaebe
‡ ſmil'd not, and ſtern Burleigh frown'd.
If ſtill you doubt, conſult ſome well known friend,
Let Ellis ſpeak, to him you oft attend,
Whom truth approves, whom candor calls her own,
Known by the God, by all the Muſes known.
Where tow'r his hills, where ſtretch his lengths of vale,
Say, where his heifers load the ſmoaky pail?
Oh may this grateful verſe my debt repay,
If aught I know, he ſhow'd the arduous way;
Within my boſom fan'd the riſing flame,
Plum'd my young wing, and bade me try for fame.
Since then I ſcribbl'd, and muſt ſcribble ſtill,
His word was once a ſanction to my will;
And I'll perſiſt 'till he reſume the pen,
Then ſhrink contented, and ne'er rhyme again.
Yet, ere I take my leave, I have to ſay,
That while in ſleep my ſenſes waſted lay,
[272] The waking ſoul, which ſports in fancy's beam,
Work'd on my drowſy lids, and form'd a dream;
Then to my lines a due attention keep,
For oft when poets dream, their readers ſleep.
On a wide champian, where the ſurges beat
Th' extended beach, then ſullenly retreat,
A diſmal cottage rear'd its turfy head,
O'er which a yew her baleful branches ſpread;
The owl profane his dreadful dirges ſung,
The paſſing bell the foul night-raven rung;
No village cur here bay'd the cloudleſs moon,
No golden ſunſhine chear'd the hazy noon,
But ghoſts of men by love of gold betray'd,
In ſilence glided thro' the dreary ſhade.
There ſat pale Grief in melancholy ſtate,
And brooding Care was truſted with the gate,
Within, extended on the cheerleſs ground,
An old man lay in golden fillet bound;
Rough was his beard, and matted was his hair,
His eyes were fiery red, his ſhoulders bare;
Down furrow'd cheeks hot tears had worn their way,
And his broad ſcalp was thinly ſtrew'd with grey;
A weighty ingot in his hand he preſt,
Nor ſeem'd to feel the viper at his breaſt.
Around the caitiff, glorious to behold,
Lay minted coinage, and hiſtoric gold;
*High ſculptur'd urns in bright confuſion ſtood,
And ſtreams of ſilver form'd a precious flood.
[273]On nails, ſuſpended rows of pearls were ſeen,
Not ſuch the pendants of th' Aegyptian queen,
Who (joy luxurious ſwelling all her ſoul)
Quaff'd the vaſt price of empires in her bowl.
As ſeas voracious ſwallow up the land,
As raging flames eternal food demand,
So this vile wretch, unbleſs'd with all his ſtore,
Repin'd in plenty, and grew ſick for more;
Nor ſhall we wonder when his name I tell,
'Twas Avarice, the eldeſt born of hell.
But, hark! what noiſe breaks in upon my tale,
Be huſh'd each ſound, and whiſper ev'ry gale;
Ye croaking rooks your noiſy flight ſuſpend,
Gueſs'd I not right how all my toil would end?
My heavy rhymes have jaded Tucker quite;
He yawns—he nods—he ſnores. Good night, good night.