The farewell

THE FAREWELL.

[]

FAREWELL to Europe, and at once farewell

To all the follies which in Europe dwell,

To Eaſtern India now, a richer clime,

Richer alas in ev'ry thing but Rime,

The Muſes ſteer their courſe, and, fond of change,

At large, in other Worlds, deſire to range,

Reſolv'd at leaſt, ſince They the fool muſt play,

To do it in a diff'rent place, and way.

What whim is this, what errour of the brain,

What madneſs worſe than in the dog-ſtar's reign?

[2] Why into foreign countries would You roam,

Are there not knaves and fools enough at home?

If Satire be thy object, and thy lays

As yet have ſhewn no talents fit for praiſe,

If Satire be thy object, ſearch all round,

Nor to thy purpoſe can one ſpot be found

Like England, where to rampant vigour grown

Vice choaks up ev'ry Virtue, where, ſelf-ſown,

The ſeeds of Folly ſhoot forth rank and bold,

And ev'ry ſeed brings forth a hundred fold.

No more of this—tho' Truth (the more our ſhame,

The more our guilt) tho' Truth perhaps may claim,

And juſtify her part in this, yet here,

For the firſt time, e'en Truth offends my ear.

Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn,

Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born,

I hear, and hate—be England what She will,

With all her faults She is my Country ſtill.

Thy Country, and what then? Is that mere word

Againſt the voice of Reaſon to be heard?

Are prejudices, deep imbib'd in youth,

To counter-act, and make thee hate the truth?

[3] 'Tis the ſure ſymptom of a narrow ſoul

To draw its grand attachment from the whole,

And take up with a part; Men, not confin'd

Within ſuch paltry limits, Men deſign'd

Their nature to exalt; where'er they go,

Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow,

Where'er the bleſſed Sun, plac'd in the ſky

To watch this ſubject world, can dart his eye,

Are ſtill the ſame, and, prejudice outgrown,

Conſider ev'ry country as their own.

At one grand view They take in Nature's plan,

Not more at home in England, than Japan.

My good, grave Sir of Theory, whoſe wit,
Graſping at ſhadows, ne'er caught ſubſtance yet,
'Tis mighty eaſy o'er a glaſs of wine
On vain refinements vainly to refine,
To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,
To boaſt of Apathy when out of pain,
And in each ſentence, worthy of the Schools,
Varniſh'd with ſophiſtry, to deal out rules
Moſt fit for practice, but for one poor fault
That into practice they can ne'er be brought.

[4]At home, and ſitting in your elbow-chair
You praiſe Japan, tho' you was never there.
But was the Ship this moment under ſail,
Would not your mind be chang'd, your Spirits fail,
Would you not caſt one longing eye to ſhore,
And vow to deal in ſuch wild ſchemes no more?
Howe'er our pride may tempt us to conceal
Thoſe paſſions, which we cannot chuſe but feel,
There's a ſtrange Something, which without a brain
Fools feel, and with one wiſe men can't explain,
Planted in Man, to bind him to that earth,
In deareſt ties, from whence he drew his birth.

If Honour calls, where'er She points the way,
The Sons of Honour follow, and obey;
If Need compels, wherever we are ſent,
'Tis want of courage not to be content;
But, if we have the liberty of choice,
And all depends on our own ſingle voice,
To deem of ev'ry Country as the ſame
Is rank rebellion 'gainſt the lawful claim
Of Nature, and ſuch dull indifference
May be PHILOSOPHY, but can't be SENSE.

[5]

Weak and unjuſt Diſtinction, ſtrange deſign,
Moſt peeviſh, moſt perverſe, to undermine
PHILOSOPHY, and throw her empire down
By means of SENSE, from whom ſhe holds her crown.
Divine PHILOSOPHY, to Thee we owe
All that is worth poſſeſſing here below;
Virtue and Wiſdom conſecrate thy reign,
Doubled each joy, and Pain no longer Pain.

When, like a Garden, where for want of toil,
And wholſome diſcipline, the rich, rank ſoil
Teems with incumbrances, where all around
Herbs noxious in their nature make the Ground,
Like the good Mother of a thankleſs Son,
Curſe her own womb, by fruitfulneſs undone,
Like ſuch a garden, when the human ſoul,
Uncultur'd, wild, impatient of controul,
Brings forth thoſe paſſions of luxuriant race,
Which ſpread, and ſtifle ev'ry herb of grace,
Whilſt Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of ſcorn,
Seems with'ring on the bed where ſhe was born,
PHILOSOPHY ſteps in, with ſteady hand
She brings her aid, ſhe clears th' encumber'd land,
[6] TOO virtuous, to ſpare vice one ſtroke, too wiſe
One moment to attend to Pity's cries,
See with what Godlike, what relentleſs pow'r
She roots up ev'ry weed

P. and ev'ry flow'r.

PHILOSOPHY, a name of meek degree,
Embrac'd, in token of humility,
By the proud Sage, who, whilſt he ſtrove to hide,
In that vain artifice, reveal'd his pride.
PHILOSOPHY, whom Nature had deſign'd
To purge all errours from the human mind,
Herſelf miſled by the Philoſopher,
At once her Prieſt and Maſter, made us err;
Pride, Pride, like leaven in a maſs of flour,
Tainted her laws, and made e'en Virtue ſowre.

Had ſhe, content within her proper ſphere,
Taught leſſons ſuited to the human ear,
Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce,
Made not for ornament, but real uſe,
The heart of Man unrival'd ſhe had ſway'd;
Prais'd by the good, and by the bad obey'd.
[7] But when She, overturning Reaſon's throne,
Strove proudly in its place to plant her own,
When She with Apathy the breaſt would ſteel,
And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel,
When She would wildly all her force employ,
Not to correct our paſſions, but deſtroy,
When, not content our Nature to reſtore,
As made by God, She made it all new o'er,
When, with a ſtrange and criminal exceſs,
To make us more than Men, ſhe made us leſs,
The Good her dwindled pow'r with pity ſaw,
The Bad with joy, and none but fools with awe.

Truth, with a ſimple and unvarniſh'd tale,
E'en from the mouth of N—might prevail,
Could She get there, but Falſhood's ſugar'd ſtrain
Should pour her fatal blandiſhments in vain,
Nor make one convert, tho' the Siren hung,
Where ſhe too often hangs, on M—tongue.
Should all the SOPHS, whom in his courſe the Sun
Hath ſeen, or paſt or preſent, riſe in One,
Should He, whilſt pleaſure in each ſentence flows,
Like PLATO, give us Poetry in Proſe,
[8] Should He, full Orator, at once impart
Th' ATHENIAN'S Genius, with the ROMAN'S Art,
Genius and Art ſhould in this inſtance fail,
Nor Rome tho' join'd with Athens here prevail.
'Tis not in Man, 'tis not in more than man
To make me find one fault in Nature's plan.
Plac'd low ourſelves, we cenſure thoſe above,
And, wanting judgment, think that She wants love,
Blame, where we ought in reaſon to commend,
And think her moſt a foe, when moſt a friend.
Such be PHILOSOPHERS—their ſpecious art,
Tho' Friendſhip pleads, ſhall never warp my heart;
Ne'er make me from this breaſt one paſſion tear,
Which Nature, my beſt friend, hath planted there.

Forgiving as a Friend, what, whilſt I live,
As a Philoſopher I can't forgive,
In this one point at laſt I join with You;
To Nature pay all that is Nature's due,
But let not clouded Reaſon ſink ſo low,
To fancy debts ſhe does not, cannot owe.
Bear, to full Manhood grown, thoſe ſhackles bear,
Which Nature meant us for a time to wear,
[9] As we wear leading-ſtrings
Are laid aſide, when we can walk alone.
But on thyſelf, by peeviſh humour ſway'd,
Wilt Thou lay burdens Nature never laid?
Wilt Thou make faults, whilſt Judgment weakly errs,
And then defend, miſtaking them for her's?
Dar'ſt Thou to ſay, in our enlight'ned age,
That this grand Maſter Paſſion, this brave rage,
Which flames out for thy country, was impreſt,
And fix'd by Nature in the human breaſt.

If you prefer the place where you was born,
And hold all others in contempt and ſcorn
On fair Compariſon; If on that land
With lib'ral, and a more than equal hand
Her gifts, as in profuſion, Plenty ſends;
If Virtue meets with more and better friends;
If Science finds a Patron 'mongſt the great;
If Honeſty is Miniſter of State;
If Pow'r, the guardian of our rights deſign'd,
Is to that great, that only end confin'd;
If Riches are employ'd to bleſs the poor;
If Law is ſacred, Liberty ſecure;
[10] Let but theſe facts depend on proofs of weight,
Reaſon declares, thy Love can't be too great,
And, in this light could he our Country view,
A very HOTTENTOT muſt love it too.

But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birth
To ſome moſt barren and penurious earth,
Where, ev'ry comfort of this life denied,
Her real wants are ſcantily ſupplied,
Where Pow'r is Reaſon, Liberty a Joke,
Laws never made, or made but to be broke,
To fix thy love on ſuch a wretched ſpot
Becauſe, in luſt's wild fever, there begot,
Becauſe, thy weight no longer fit to bear,
By chance not choice, thy Mother dropt thee there,
Is Folly which admits not of defence;
It can't be Nature, for it is not Senſe.
By the ſame argument which here you hold,
(When Falſhood's inſolent, let Truth be bold)
If Propagation can in torments dwell,
A Devil muſt, if born there, love his hell.

Had Fate, to whoſe decrees I lowly bend,
And e'en in puniſhment confeſs a friend,
[11] Ordain'd my birth in ſome place yet untried,
On purpoſe made to mortify my pride,
Where the Sun never gave one glimpſe of day,
Where Science never yet could dart one ray,
Had I been born on ſome bleak, blaſted plain
Of barren Scotland, in a STUART'S reign,
Or in ſome kingdom, where Men, weak or worſe,
Turn'd Nature's ev'ry bleſſing to a curſe,
Where crowns of Freedom, by the Fathers won,
Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degen'rate Son,
In ſpite of all the wiſdom you diſplay,
All you have ſaid, and yet may have to ſay,
My weakneſs here, if weakneſs, I confeſs,
I, as my country, had not lov'd her leſs.

Whether ſtrict Reaſon bears me out in this,
Let thoſe who, always ſeeking, always miſs
The ways of Reaſon, doubt with precious zeal;
Their's be the praiſe to argue, mine to feel.
Wiſh we to trace this paſſion to the root,
We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit,
From its rich ſtem ten thouſand virtues ſpring,
Ten thouſand bleſſings on its branches cling,
[12] Yet in the circle of revolving years,
Not one misfortune, not one vice appears.
Hence then, and what you Reaſon call adore;
This, if not Reaſon, muſt be ſomething more.

But (for I wiſh not others to confine,
Be their opinions unreſtrain'd as mine)
Whether this Love's of good, or evil growth,
A Vice, a Virtue, or a ſpice of both,
Let men of nicer argument decide;
If it is virtuous, ſooth an honeſt pride
With lib'ral praiſe; if vicious, be content,
It is a Vice I never can repent;
A Vice which, weigh'd in Heav'n, ſhall more avail
Than ten cold virtues in the other ſcale.

This wild, untemper'd zeal (which after all
We, Candour unimpeach'd, might madneſs call)
Is it a Virtue? that You ſcarce pretend;
Or can it be a Vice, like Virtue's friend,
Which draws us off from, and diſſolves the force
Of private ties, nay, ſtops us in our courſe
To that grand object of the human ſoul,
That nobler Love which comprehends the whole.
[13] Coop'd in the limits of this petty iſle,
This nook, which ſcarce deſerves a frown, or ſmile,
Weigh'd with Creation, You, by whim undone,
Give all your thoughts to what is ſcarce worth one.
The gen'rous Soul, by Nature taught to ſoar,
Her ſtrength confirm'd in Philoſophic lore,
At one grand view takes in a world with eaſe,
And, ſeeing all mankind, loves all ſhe ſees.

Was it moſt ſure, which yet a doubt endures,
Not found in Reaſon's Creed, though found in your's,
That theſe two ſervices, like what we're told
And know of God's and Mammon's, cannot hold
And draw together, that, however loth,
We neither ſerve, attempting to ſerve both,
I could not doubt a moment which to chuſe,
And which in common Reaſon to refuſe.

Invented oft for purpoſes of Art,
Born of the head, tho' father'd on the heart,
This grand love of the world muſt be confeſt
A barren ſpeculation at the beſt.
Not one Man in a thouſand, ſhould he live
Beyond the uſual term of life, could give,
[14] So rare Occaſion comes, and to ſo few,
Proof whether his regards are feign'd, or true.

The Love we bear our Country, is a root
Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit,
'Tis in the mind an everlaſting Spring
Of glorious actions, which become a King
Nor leſs become a Subject; 'tis a debt
Which bad Men, tho' they pay not, can't forget;
A duty, which the Good delight to pay,
And ev'ry Man can practice ev'ry day.

Nor, for my life (ſo very dim my eye,
Or dull your argument) can I deſcry
What you with faith aſſert, how that dear love
Which binds me to my Country, can remove
And make me of neceſſity forego,
That gen'ral love which to the world I owe.
Thoſe ties of private nature, ſmall extent,
In which the mind of narrow caſt is pent,
Are only ſteps on which the gen'rous ſoul
Mounts by degrees till She includes the whole.
That ſpring of Love, which in the human mind,
Founded on ſelf, flows narrow and confin'd,
[15] Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends
The ſocial Charities of blood, and friends,
Till ſmaller ſtreams included, not o'erpaſt,
It riſes to our Country's love at laſt,
And He, with lib'ral and enlarged mind,
Who loves his Country, cannot hate mankind.

Friend as You would appear to Common Senſe,

Tell me, or think no more of a defence,

Is it a proof of love by choice to run

A vagrant from Your country?

Can the Son,

(Shame, Shame on all ſuch ſons) with ruthleſs eye,

And heart more patient than the flint, ſtand by,

And by ſome ruffian, from all ſhame divorc'd,

All Virtue, ſee his honour'd Mother forc'd;

Then, no, by Him that made me, not e'en then,

Could I with patience, by the worſt of Men,

Behold my Country plunder'd, beggar'd, loſt

Beyond Redemption, all her glories croſs'd

E'en when Occaſion made them ripe, her fame

Fled like a dream, while She awakes to ſhame.

[16]

Is it not more the office of a friend,

The office of a Patron, to defend

Her ſinking ſtate, than baſely to decline

So great a cauſe, and in deſpair reſign?

Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies,
And, whilſt more able Patriots doubt, ſhe dies.
From a foul ſource, more deep than we ſuppoſe,
Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows.
'Tis not that Peace our glorious hopes defeats,
'Tis not the Voice of Faction in the ſtreets,
'Tis not a groſs attack on Freedom made,
'Tis not the arm of Privilege diſplay'd
Againſt the Subject, whilſt She wears no ſting
To diſappoint the purpoſe of a King,
Theſe are no ills, or trifles, if compar'd
With thoſe, which are contriv'd, tho' not declar'd.

Tell me, Philoſopher, is it a crime
To pry into the ſecret womb of Time,
Or, born in ignorance, muſt we deſpair
To reach events, and read the future there?
Why, be it ſo—ſtill 'tis the right of Man,
Imparted by his Maker, where he can,
[17] To former times and men his eye to caſt,
And judge of what's to come, by what is paſt.

Should there be found in ſome not diſtant year
(O how I wiſh to be no Prophet here)
Amongſt our Britiſh Lords ſhould there be found
Some great in pow'r, in principles unſound,
Who look on Freedom with an evil eye,
In whom the ſprings of Loyalty are dry,
Who wiſh to ſoar on wild Ambition's wings,
Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings,
Who would divide the people and the throne
To ſet up ſep'rate int'reſts of their own,
Who hate whatever aids their wholſome growth,
And only join with, to deſtroy them both,
Should there be found ſuch men in after-times,
May Heav'n in mercy to our grievous crimes
Allot ſome milder vengeance, nor to them,
And to their rage this wretched land condemn.

Thou God above, on whom all States depend,
Who knoweſt from the firſt their riſe, and end,
If there's a day mark'd in the book of fate
When ruin muſt involve our equal ſtate,
[18] When Law alas! muſt be no more, and we,
To Freedom born, muſt be no longer free,
Let not a Mob of Tyrants ſeize the helm,
Nor titled upſtarts league to rob the realm,
Let not, whatever other ills aſſail,
A damned ARISTOCRACY prevail.
If, all too ſhort, our courſe of Freedom run,
'Tis thy good pleaſure we ſhould be undone,
Let us, ſome comfort in our griefs to bring,
Be ſlaves to one, and be that one a King.

Poets, accuſtom'd by their trade to feign,

Oft ſubſtitute creations of the brain

For real ſubſtance, and, themſelves deceiv'd,

Would have the fiction by mankind believ'd.

Such is your caſe—but grant, to ſooth your pride,

That You know more than all the world beſide,

Why deal in hints, why make a moment's doubt,

Reſolv'd, and like a Man, at once ſpeak out,

Shew us our danger, tell us where it lies,

And, to enſure our ſafety, make us wiſe.

Rather than bear the pain of thought, fools ſtray;

The Proud will rather loſe than aſk their way;

[19] To men of Senſe what needs it to unfold,

And tell a tale which they muſt know untold?

In the bad, Int'reſt warps the canker'd heart,

The Good are hood-wink'd by the tricks of art;

And whilſt Arch, ſubtle Hypocrites contrive

To keep the flames of diſcontent alive,

Whilſt They, with arts to honeſt men unknown,

Breed doubts between the People and the Throne,

Making us fear, where Reaſon never yet

Allow'd one fear, or could one doubt admit,

Themſelves paſs unſuſpected in diſguiſe,

And 'gainſt our real danger ſeal our eyes.

Mark them, and let their names recorded ſtand

On Shame's black roll, and ſtink thro' all the land.

That might ſome Courage, but no Prudence be;

No hurt to them, and jeopardy to me.

Leave out their names.

For that kind caution thanks,

But may not Judges ſometimes fill up blanks?

[20]

Your Country's laws in doubt then you reject:

The Laws I love, the Lawyers I ſuſpect:

Amongſt twelve Judges may not One be found,

(On bare, bare poſſibility I ground

This wholeſome doubt) who may Enlarge, Retrench,

Create, and Uncreate, and from the Bench,

With winks, ſmiles, nods, and ſuch like paltry arts,

May work and worm into a jury's hearts,

Or, baffled there, may, turbulent of ſoul,

Cramp their high office, and their rights controul,

Who may, tho' Judge, turn Advocate at large,

And deal replies out by the way of charge,

Making Interpretation all the way,

In ſpite of Facts, his wicked will obey,

And, leaving Law without the leaſt defence,

May damn his Conſcience to approve his Senſe.

Whilſt, the true guardians of this charter'd land,

In full and perfect vigour, Juries ſtand,

A Judge in vain ſhall awe, cajole, perplex.

Suppoſe I ſhould be tried in MIDDLESEX.

[21]

To pack a Jury they will never dare.

There's no occaſion to pack Juries there.

'Gainſt Prejudice all arguments are weak,

Reaſon herſelf without effect muſt ſpeak.

Fly then thy Country, like a Coward fly,

Renounce her int'reſt, and her laws defy.

But why, bewitch'd, to India turn thy eyes?

Cannot our Europe thy vaſt wrath ſuffice?

Cannot thy miſbegotten Muſe lay bare

Her brawny arm, and play the Butcher there?

Thy Counſel taken, what ſhould Satire do?

Where could ſhe find an object that is new?

Thoſe travell'd Youths, whom tender Mothers wean,

And ſend abroad to ſee, and to be ſeen,

With whom, leaſt they ſhould fornicate, or worſe,

A Tutor's ſent by way of a dry nurſe,

Each of whom juſt enough of Spirit bears,

To ſhew our follies, and to bring home their's,

Have made all Europe's vices ſo well known,

They ſeem almoſt as nat'ral as our own.

[22]

Will India for thy purpoſe better do?

In one reſpect at leaſt—there's ſomething New.

A harmleſs People, in whom Nature ſpeaks

Free and untainted, 'mongſt whom Satire ſeeks,

But vainly ſeeks, ſo ſimply plain their hearts,

One boſom where to lodge her poiſon'd darts.

From knowledge ſpeak You this, or, doubt on doubt

Weigh'd and reſolv'd, hath Reaſon found it out?

Neither from knowledge, nor by Reaſon taught,

You have Faith ev'ry where but where You ought.

India or Europe—What's there in a name?

Propenſity to vice in both the ſame,

Nature alike in both works for Man's good,

Alike in both by Man himſelf withſtood.

Nabobs, as well as thoſe who hunt them down,

Deſerve a cord much better than a crown,

And a Mogul can thrones as much debaſe

As any poliſh'd Prince of Chriſtian race.

Could You, a taſk more hard than You ſuppoſe,

Could You, in ridicule whilſt Satire glows,

[23] Make all their follies to the life appear,

'Tis ten to one You gain no credit here.

Howe'er well-drawn, the Picture after all,

Becauſe we know not the Original,

Would not find favour in the public eye.

That, having your good leave, I mean to try.

And if Your obſervations ſterling hold,

If the Piece ſhould be heavy, tame, and cold,

To make it to the ſide of Nature lean,

And, meaning nothing, ſomething ſeem to mean,

To make the whole in lively colours glow,

To bring before us ſomething that we know,

And from all honeſt men applauſe to win,

I'll groupe the Company, and put them in.

Be that ungen'rous thought by ſhame ſuppreſs'd,

Add not diſtreſs to thoſe too much diſtreſs'd.

Have They not, by blind Zeal miſled, laid bare

Thoſe ſores which never might endure the air?

Have They not brought their myſteries ſo low

That what the Wiſe ſuſpected not; Fools know?

From their firſt riſe e'en to the preſent hour

Have They not prov'd their own abuſe of pow'r,

[24] Made it impoſſible, if fairly view'd,

Ever to have that dang'rous pow'r renew'd,

Whilſt, unſeduc'd by Miniſters, the throne

Regards our Intereſts, and knows its own.

Should ev'ry other ſubject chance to fail,

Thoſe who have ſail'd, and thoſe who wiſh'd to ſail

In the laſt Fleet, afford an ample field

Which muſt beyond my hopes a harveſt yield.

On ſuch vile food Satire can never thrive,

She cannot ſtarve, if there was only CLIVE.

THE END.