THE GHOST. BY C. CHURCHILL. BOOK III.
LONDON: Printed for the AUTHOR, and Sold by WILLIAM FLEXNEY, near Gray's-Inn Gate, Holborn. M.DCC.LXII.
THE GHOST. BOOK III.
I T WAS THE HOUR, when
Huswife Morn
With
Pearl
and
Linnen
hangs each thorn;
When happy Bards, who can regale
Their Muse with Country air and ale,
Ramble afield, to Brooks and Bow'rs,
To pick up
Sentiments
and
Flow'rs
;
When Dogs and Squires from kennel fly,
And Hogs and Farmers quit their stye;
When
my Lord
rises to the Chace,
And brawny Chaplain takes his place.
THESE Images, or bad or good,
If they are rightly understood,
Sagacious
Readers must allow
Proclaim us in the Country now.
For Observations mostly rise
From Objects just before our eyes,
And ev'ry Lord in Critic Wit
Can tell you where the piece was writ,
Can point out, as he goes along,
(And who shall dare to say he's wrong)
Whether the warmth (for Bards, we know,
At present never more than glow)
Was in the Town or Country caught,
By the peculiar turn of thought.
IT WAS THE HOUR—tho' Critics frown
We now declare ourselves in Town,
Nor will a moment's pause allow
For finding when he came, or how.
The Man who deals in humble Prose,
Tied down by rule and method goes,
But they who court the vig'rous Muse
Their carriage have a right to chuse.
Free as the Air, and unconfin'd,
Swift as the motions of the Mind,
The POET darts from place to place,
And instant bounds o'er Time and Space.
Nature (whilst blended fire and skill
Inflame our passions to his will)
Smiles at her violated Laws,
And crowns his daring with applause.
SHOULD there be still some rigid few
Who keep
propriety
in view,
Whose heads turn round, and cannot bear
This whirling passage thro' the Air,
Free leave have such at home to sit,
And write a
Regimen
for Wit:
To clip our Pinions let them try,
Not having heart themselves to fly.
IT WAS THE HOUR, when Devotees
Breathe
pious curses
on their knees,
When they with pray'rs the day begin
To sanctify a Night of Sin;
When Rogues of Modesty, who roam
Under the veil of Night, sneak home,
That free from all restraint and awe,
Just to the windward of the Law,
Less modest Rogues their tricks may play
And plunder in the face of day.
BUT hold—whilst thus we play the fool,
In bold contempt of ev'ry rule,
Things of no consequence expressing,
Describing
now, and now
digressing,
To the discredit of our skill
The main concern is standing still.
IN
Plays
indeed, when storms of rage
Tempestuous in the Soul engage,
Or when the Spirits weak and low,
Are sunk in deep distress and woe,
With strict Propriety we hear
DESCRIPTION stealing on the ear,
And put off feeling half an hour
To
thatch a cot,
or
paint a flow'r
;
But in these
serious
works, design'd
To mend the morals of Mankind,
We must for ever be disgrac'd
With ev'ry nicer son of Taste,
If once, the Shadow to pursue,
We let the Substance out of view.
Our
means must uniformly tend
In due proportion to their end,
And ev'ry passage aptly join
To bring about the
one
design.
Our Friends themselves cannot admit
This rambling, wild, digressive Wit,
No—not those very Friends, who found
Their Credit on the self-same ground.
PEACE, my good grumbling Sir—for once,
Sunk in the solemn, formal Dunce,
This Coxcomb shall your fears beguile—
We will be dull—that you may smile.
COME METHOD, come in all thy pride,
DULLNESS and WHITEHEAD by thy side,
DULLNESS and METHOD still are one,
And WHITEHEAD is their darling Son.
Not HE, whose pen above controul
Struck terror to the guilty Soul,
Made Folly tremble thro' her state,
And Villains blush at being Great;
But HE, who in the Laureat Chair,
By Grace, not Merit planted there,
In aukward pomp is seen to sit,
And by his
Patent
proves his Wit;
(For favours of the Great we know,
Can Wit as well as rank bestow,
And they who without one pretension,
Can get for Fools a place or pension,
Must able be suppos'd of course
(If reason is allow'd due force)
To give such qualities and grace,
As may equip them for the place.)
BUT HE—who measures, as he goes,
A mongril kind of tinkling prose,
And is too frugal to dispense
At once both Poetry and Sense,
Who, from amidst his
slumb'ring
guards,
Deals out a Charge to
Subject Bards,
Where Couplets after Couplets creep
Propitious to the reign of sleep,
Yet ev'ry word imprints an awe,
And all his dictates pass for law,
With BEAUX, who simper all around,
And BELLES, who die in ev'ry sound.
(For in all things of this relation,
Men mostly judge from
situation,
Nor in a thousand find we one,
Who really weighs what's said or done.
They deal out Censure, or give Credit,
Merely from him who did or said it.)
BUT HE—who,
happily serene,
Means nothing, yet would seem to mean;
Who rules and cautions can dispense
With all that humble insolence,
Which Impudence in vain would teach,
And none but
modest
men can reach;
Who adds to SENTIMENTS the grace
Of always being out of place,
And
drawls
out MORALS with an air
A Gentleman would blush to wear;
Who on the
chastest, simplest
plan,
As
Chaste
as
simple
as the Man,
Without or
Character,
or
Plot,
NATURE unknown, and ART forgot,
Can with much racking of the brains,
And years consum'd in letter'd pains,
An heap of words together lay,
And smirking call the thing a Play;
Who, Champion sworn in Virtue's cause,
'Gainst Vice his
tiny bodkin
draws,
But, to no part of
Prudence
stranger,
First blunts the point for fear of danger.
So Nurses sage, as Caution works,
When Children first use knives and forks,
For fear of mischief, it is known,
To others fingers, or their own,
To take the edge off wisely chuse,
Tho' the same stroke takes off the use.
THEE, WHITEHEAD, Thee I now invoke,
Sworn foe to Satyr's gen'rous stroke,
Which makes unwilling Conscience feel,
And wounds, but only wounds to heal.
Good-natur'd, easy Creature, mild,
And gentle as a new-born Child,
Thy
heart
would never once admit
E'en
wholesome
rigour to thy Wit,
Thy
head,
if Conscience should comply,
Its kind assistance would deny,
And lend thee neither force, nor art,
To drive it onward to the heart.
O may thy sacred pow'r controul
Each fiercer working of my soul,
Damp ev'ry spark of genuine fire,
And languors, like thine own, inspire,
Trite be each Thought, and ev'ry Line
As
Moral,
and as
Dull
as THINE.
POIS'D in mid-air—(it matters not
To ascertain the very spot,
Nor yet to give you a relation
How it eluded
Gravitation
—)
Hung a
Watch-Tow'r
—by VULCAN plan'd
With such rare skill by JOVE's Command,
That ev'ry word, which whisper'd here
Scarce vibrates to the neighbour ear,
On the still bosom of the Air
Is borne, and heard distinctly there,
The Palace of an antient Dame,
Whom Men as well as Gods call FAME.
A
prattling Gossip,
on whose tongue
Proof of perpetual motion's hung,
Whose lungs in strength all lungs surpass,
Like her own Trumpet made of brass,
Who with an hundred pair of eyes
The vain attacks of sleep defies,
Who with an hundred pair of wings
News from the farthest quarters brings,
Sees, hears, and tells, untold before,
All that she knows, and ten times more.
NOT all the Virtues, which we find
Concenter'd in a HUNTER's mind,
Can make her spare the ranc'rous tale,
If in one point she chance to fail;
Or if, once in a thousand years,
A perfect Character appears,
Such as of late with joy and pride
My Soul possess'd, e're A— died,
Or such as, Envy must allow,
The World enjoys in H— now,
This Hag, who aims at all alike,
At Virtues e'en like theirs will strike,
And make faults, in the way of trade,
When she can't find them ready made.
ALL things she takes in, small and great,
Talks of a
Toy-shop
and a
State,
Of
Wits
and
Fools,
of
Saints
and
Kings,
Of
Garters, Stars,
and
Leading-Strings,
Of
Old Lords fumbling for a Clap,
And
Young Ones full of Pray'r and Pap,
Of
Courts,
of
Morals,
and
Tye-Wigs,
Of
Bears,
and
Serjeants
dancing jigs,
Of
Grave Professors
at the
Bar
Learning to
thrum
on the
Guittar,
Whilst Laws are
slubber'd
o'er in haste,
And
Judgment
sacrific'd to TASTE,
Of
whited Sepulchres, Lawn Sleeves,
And GOD's
house
made a
den of thieves,
Of
Fun'ral pomps,
where Clamours hung,
And fix'd disgrace on ev'ry tongue,
Whilst SENSE and ORDER blush'd to see
Nobles
without HUMANITY;
Of
Coronations,
where each heart
With honest raptures bore a part,
Of
City Feasts,
where ELEGANCE
Was proud her Colours to advance,
And GLUTTONY, uncommon case,
Could only get the second place,
Of
New-rais'd
Pillars in the State,
Who must be good as being great,
Of
Shoulders,
on which HONOURS sit
Almost as clumsily as
Wit
;
Of
doughty Knights,
whom
titles
please,
But not the payment of the
Fees,
Of
Lectures,
whither ev'ry Fool
In
second child-hood
goes to school,
Of
grey Beards
deaf to Reason's call,
From
Inn of Court,
or
City Hall,
Whom youthful Appetites enslave,
With one Foot fairly in the grave,
By help of Crutch, a needful Brother,
Learning of HART to dance with t'other,
Of
Doctors regularly bred
To fill the mansions of the dead,
Of
Quacks
(for Quacks they must be still
Who save when FORMS require to kill)
Who life, and health, and vigour give
To HIM, not one would wish to live,
Of
Artists,
who with noblest view
Disinterested plans pursue,
For trembling worth the ladder raise,
And mark out the ascent to praise,
Of
Arts
and
Sciences,
where meet
Sublime, Profound,
and
all compleat,
A SET (whom at some fitter time
The MUSE shall
consecrate
in
Rhime)
Who
humble
ARTISTS to out do
A far more
lib'ral
plan pursue,
And let their
well-judg'd
PREMIUMS fall
On Those, who have no worth at all,
Of
Sign-Post Exhibitions,
rais'd
For laughter, more than to be prais'd,
(Tho' by the way we cannot see
Why
Praise
and
Laughter
mayn't agree)
Where
genuine
HUMOUR runs to waste,
And justly chides our want of Taste,
Censur'd, like other things, tho' good,
Because they are not understood.
To higher subjects now SHE soars,
And talks of
Politics
and
Whores,
(If to your nice and chaster ears
That Term
indelicate
appears,
SCRIPTURE
politely
shall refine,
And melt It into
Concubine)
In the same breath spreads BOURBON's
league,
And publishes the
Grand Intrigue,
In BRUSSELS or
our own
GAZETTE,
Makes armies fight which never met,
And circulates the Pox or Plague
To LONDON, by the way of HAGUE,
For all the lies which there appear,
Stamp'd with
Authority
come here;
Borrows as freely from the gabble
Of some rude leader of a rabble,
Or from the
quaint
harangues of those
Who lead a Nation by the Nose,
As from those
storms
which, void of Art,
Burst from our
honest
PATRIOT's heart,
When ELOQUENCE and VIRTUE (late
Remark'd to live in mutual hate)
Fond of each other's Friendship grown,
Claim ev'ry sentence for their own,
And with an equal joy recites
Parade Amours,
and
half-pay Fights,
Perform'd by
Heroes
of
fair Weather,
Merely by dint of
Lace
and
Feather,
As those rare acts, which HONOUR taught
Our daring Sons where GRANBY fought,
Or those which, with superior skill,
— — atchiev'd by
standing still.
THIS HAG (the curious if they please
May search from earliest Times to these,
And POETS they will always see,
With
Gods
and
Goddesses
make free,
Treating them all, except the MUSE,
As scarcely fit to wipe their shoes)
Who had beheld, from first to last,
How our TRIUMVIRATE had pass'd
Night's dreadful interval, and heard
With strict attention ev'ry word,
Soon as she saw return of light
On sounding pinions took her flight.
SWIFT thro' the regions of the sky,
Above the reach of human eye,
Onward she drove the furious blast,
And rapid as a whirlwind past,
O'er
Countries,
once the seats of
Taste,
By Time and Ignorance laid waste,
O'er lands, where former ages saw
Reason
and
Truth
the only Law,
Where
Arts
and
Arms,
and
Public Love
In gen'rous emulation strove,
Where
Kings
were proud of
legal
sway,
And Subjects
happy
to obey,
Tho' now in slav'ry sunk, and broke
To
Superstition's
galling yoke,
Of
Arts,
of
Arms,
no more they tell,
Or
Freedom
which with
Science
fell.
By Tyrants aw'd, who never find
The Passage to their people's mind,
To whom the joy was never known
Of planting in the heart their throne,
Far from all prospect of relief
Their hours in fruitless pray'rs and grief,
For loss of blessings
they
employ,
Which WE
unthankfully
enjoy.
Now is the time (had we the will)
T'amaze the Readers with our skill,
To pour out such a flood of knowledge
As might suffice for a whole College,
Whilst with a true Poetic force
We trac'd the Goddess in her course,
Sweetly
describing in our flight,
Each
Common
and
Uncommon
Sight,
Making our journal gay and pleasant,
With things long past, and things now present.
Rivers
—once NYMPHS—(a
Transformation
Is mighty pretty in Relation)
From
great Authorities
we know
Will matter for a
Tale
bestow.
To make the observation clear
We give our Friends an instance here.
THE DAY (that never is forgot)
Was
very fine,
but
very hot
;
The NYMPH (another gen'ral rule)
Enflam'd with heat, laid down to cool;
Her
Hair
(we no exceptions find)
Wav'd careless floating in the wind;
Her
heaving breasts,
like
Summer seas,
Seem'd am'rous
of the
playful breeze
;
Should
fond
DESCRIPTION tune our lays
In
choicest
accents to her praise,
DESCRIPTION we at last should find
Baffled and weak would halt behind.
NATURE had form'd her to inspire
In ev'ry bosom soft desire,
Passions to raise she could not feel,
Wounds to inflict she would not heal.
A GOD (his name is no great matter,
Perhaps a JOVE, perhaps a SATYR)
Raging with
Lust,
a GODLIKE flame,
By Chance,
as usual,
thither came:
With gloting eyes the Fair one view'd,
Desir'd her first, and then pursu'd;
She
(for what other can she do)
Must fly — or how can He pursue?
The
Muse
(so Custom hath decreed)
Now proves her Spirit by her speed,
Nor must one
limping
line disgrace
The life and vigour of the Race.
SHE RUNS, AND HE RUNS, 'till at length
Quite destitute of Breath and strength,
To
Heav'n
(for there we
all
apply
For help, when there's no other nigh)
She offers up her
Virgin
Pray'r,
(Can
Virgins
pray unpitied there)
And when the God thinks He has caught her,
Slips thro' his hands, and runs to water,
Becomes a
Stream,
in which the POET,
If He has any Wit, may shew it.
A
City
once for Pow'r renown'd,
Now levell'd even to the ground,
Beyond all doubt is a direction
To introduce some
fine
reflexion.
Ah, woeful me! Ah, woeful Man!
Ah! woeful All, do all we can!
Who can on earthly things depend
From one to t'other moment's end?
HONOUR, WIT, GENIUS, WEALTH, and GLORY,
Good lack! good lack!
are transitory,
Nothing is sure and stable found,
The very
Earth
itself turns round.
Monarchs,
nay MINISTERS must die,
Must
rot,
must
stink—Ah, me! ah, why!
Cities
themselves in Time decay,
If
Cities
thus—
Ah, well-a-day!
If
Brick
and
Mortar
have an end,
On what can
Flesh
and
Blood
depend?
Ah woeful me! Ah woeful Man!
Ah, woeful All, do All we can.
ENGLAND (for that's at last the Scene,
Tho' Worlds on Worlds should rise between,
Whither we must our course pursue)
ENGLAND should call into review
Times long since past indeed, but not
By ENGLISHMEN to be forgot,
Tho' ENGLAND,
once
so dear to Fame,
Sinks in GREAT BRITAIN's
dearer
name.
HERE could we mention
Chiefs of old,
In plain and rugged honour bold,
To Virtue kind, to Vice severe,
Strangers to Bribery and Fear,
Who kept no wretched
Clans
in awe,
Who never broke, or
warp'd
the Law,
Patriots,
whom in her
better
days
Old Rome
might have been proud to raise,
Who, steddy to their Country's claim,
Boldly stood up in
Freedom's
name,
E'en to the teeth of
Tyrant Pride,
And, when they could no more, THEY DIED.
THERE
(striking contrast)
might we place
A servile, mean, degen'rate race,
Hirelings,
who valued nought but gold,
By the best Bidder bought and sold,
Truants from Honour's sacred Laws,
Betrayers of their Country's cause,
The Dupes of Party, Tools of Pow'r,
Slaves to the
Minion of an Hour,
Lacquies, who watch'd a
Favorite's
nod,
And took a
Puppet
for their
God.
SINCERE and honest in our Rimes
How might we praise these
happier
times!
How might the Muse exalt her lays,
And wanton in a Monarch's praise,
Tell of a Prince in ENGLAND born,
Whose Virtues ENGLAND's crown adorn,
In Youth a pattern unto age,
So chaste, so Pious, and so Sage,
Who, true to all those sacred bands
Which private happiness demands,
Yet never let's them rise above
The stronger ties of Public Love.
WITH conscious Pride see ENGLAND stand,
Our
holy Charter
in her hand,
She waves it round, and o'er the Isle
See
Liberty
and
Courage
smile.
No more she mourns her treasures hurl'd
In
Subsidies
to all the world,
No more by foreign threats dismay'd,
No more deceiv'd with foreign aid,
She deals out Sums to
petty
States,
Whom
Honour
scorns, and Reason hates,
But, wiser by Experience grown,
Finds safety in herself alone.
WHILST thus, she cries, my children stand,
An honest, valiant,
native
band,
A train'd MILITIA, brave and free,
True to their KING, and true to ME,
No
foreign
Hirelings shall be known,
Nor need we Hirelings of
our own.
Under a just and pious reign
The Statesman's sophistry is vain,
Vain is each vile corrupt pretence,
These are my
natural
defence,
Their Faith I know, and they shall prove,
The Bulwark of the KING they Love.
THESE, and a thousand things beside,
Did we consult a Poet's Pride,
Some gay, some serious, might be said,
But ten to one they'd not be read,
Or were they by some curious few
Not even those would think them true.
For, from the time that JUBAL first
Sweet ditties to the harp rehears'd,
Poets
have always been suspected
Of having Truth in Rhime neglected,
That
Bard
except, who, from his Youth
Equally fam'd for
Faith
and
Truth,
By Prudence taught in
courtly chime,
To
Courtly ears
brought
Truth in Rhime.
BUT tho' to Poets we allow,
No matter when acquir'd or how,
From Truth unbounded deviation,
Which custom calls
Imagination,
Yet can't they be suppos'd to lie
One half so fast as FAME can fly.
Therefore (to solve this
Gordian
knot,
A point we almost had forgot)
To courteous Readers be it known
That fond of verse and falshood grown,
Whilst we in sweet digression sung,
FAME check'd her flight, and held her tongue,
And now pursues with double force,
And double speed her destin'd course,
Nor stops, 'till She the place arrives
Where GENIUS starves, and DULLNESS thrives,
Where Riches Virtue are esteem'd,
And Craft is truest Wisdom deem'd,
Where COMMERCE proudly rears her throne
In state to other Lands unknown,
Where to be cheated and to cheat
Strangers from ev'ry quarter meet,
Where CHRISTIANS, JEWS, and TURKS shake hands,
United in
Commercial
bands,
All of one
Faith,
and that to own
No GOD but INTEREST alone.
WHEN Gods and Goddesses come down
To look about them here in Town,
(For Change of Air is understood,
By Sons of Physic, to be good,
In due proportions now and then
For these same Gods as well as Men)
By Custom rul'd, and not a Poet
So very dull, but he must know it,
In order to remain
incog,
They always travel in a fog.
For if we Majesty expose
To vulgar eyes, too cheap it grows,
The force is lost, and free from awe,
We spy and censure ev'ry flaw.
But well preserv'd from public view,
It always breaks forth fresh and new,
Fierce as the Sun in all his pride
It shines, and not a spot's descried.
WAS JOVE to lay his thunder by,
And with his brethren of the sky
Descend to earth, and frisk about,
Like chatt'ring N * * *, from rout to rout,
He would be found with all his host,
A nine days Wonder at the most.
Would we in trim our Honours wear,
We must preserve them from the air;
What is familiar, Men neglect,
However worthy of respect.
Did they not find a certain friend
In
Novelty
to recommend,
(Such we by sad experience find
The wretched folly of mankind)
VENUS might unattractive shine,
And H * * * fix no eyes but
mine.
BUT FAME, who never car'd a jot
Whether she was admir'd or not,
And never blush'd to shew her face
At any time in any place,
In her own shape, without disguise,
And visible to mortal eyes,
On CHANGE, exact at seven o'clock,
Alighted on the
Weather-Cock,
Which, planted there time out of mind
To note the changes of the wind,
Might no improper emblem be
Of her own mutability.
THRICE did
She
sound her TRUMP (the same
Which from the first belong'd to FAME,
An
old ill-favour'd
Instrument
With which the Goddess was content,
Tho' under a
politer
race
Bag-pipes
might well supply its place)
And thrice, awaken'd by the sound,
A gen'ral din prevail'd around,
CONFUSION thro' the City past,
And FEAR bestrode the dreadful blast.
THOSE
fragrant Currents,
which we meet
Distilling soft thro' ev'ry street,
Affrighted from the usual course
Ran
murm'ring
upwards to their source;
Statues
wept tears of blood, as fast
As when a CAESAR breath'd his last;
Horses, which always us'd to go,
A
foot-pace
in my
Lord-Mayor's Shew,
Impetuous
from their Stable broke,
And ALDERMEN, and OXEN spoke.
HALLS felt the force,
Tow'rs
shook around,
And
Steeples
nodded to the ground,
ST. PAUL himself (strange sight) was seen
To bow as humbly as the
Dean.
The
Mansion-House,
for ever plac'd
A Monument of
City Taste,
Trembl'd, and seem'd aloud to groan
Thro' all that hideous weight of stone.
To still the sound, or stop her ears,
Remove the cause or sense of fears,
PHYSIC, in
College
seated high,
Would any thing but
Med'cine
try.
No more in PEWT'RER's-HALL was heard
The proper force of ev'ry word,
Those seats were desolate become,
And hapless ELOCUTION dumb.
FORM,
City-born,
and
City-bred,
By strict
Decorum
ever led,
Who threescore years had known the grace
Of
one, dull, stiff, unvaried
pace;
TERROR prevailing over PRIDE,
Was seen to take a larger stride;
Worn to the bone, and cloath'd in rags,
See AV'RICE closer hug his bags;
With her own weight unwieldy grown,
See CREDIT totter on her Throne;
VIRTUE alone, had She been there,
The mighty sound unmov'd could bear.
UP from the gorgeous bed, where Fate
Dooms annual Fools to sleep in state,
To sleep so sound that not one gleam
Of Fancy can provoke a dream,
Great DULLMAN started at the sound,
Gap'd, rub'd his eyes, and star'd around.
Much did he wish to know, much fear
Whence sounds so horrid struck his ear,
So much unlike those peaceful notes,
That equal harmony which floats
On the dull wing of City air,
Grave prelude to a feast or fair;
Much did he inly ruminate
Concerning the decrees of Fate,
Revolving, tho' to little end,
What this same trumpet might portend.
COULD the FRENCH—no—that could not be
Under BUTE's
active
ministry,
Too watchful
to be so deceiv'd,
Have stolen hither unperceiv'd,
To NEWFOUNDLAND indeed we know,
Fleets of war unobserv'd may go,
Or, if observ'd, may be suppos'd,
At intervals when Reason doz'd,
No other point in view to bear
But Pleasure, Health, and Change of Air.
But Reason ne'er could sleep so sound
To let an enemy be found
In our Land's heart, e're it was known
They had departed from their own.
OR could his
Successor
(Ambition
Is ever haunted with suspicion)
His daring
Successor elect
All Customs, rules, and forms reject,
And aim, regardless of the crime,
To seize the chair before his time;
OR (deeming this the lucky hour,
Seeing his
Countrymen
in pow'r,
Those Countrymen,
who from the first
In tumults and
Rebellion
nurs'd,
Howe'er they wear the mask of art,
Still love a
STUART
in their heart)
Could SCOTTISH CHARLES —
Conjecture
thus,
That mental IGNIS FATUUS,
Led his poor brains a weary dance
From FRANCE to ENGLAND, hence to FRANCE,
Till INFORMATION, (in the shape
Of Chaplain learned, good SIR CRAPE,
A lazy, lounging, pamper'd Priest,
Well known at ev'ry City feast,
For he was seen much oft'ner there
Than in the House of God at Pray'r;
Who, always ready in his place,
Ne'er let God's creatures wait for grace,
Tho', as the best Historians write,
Less fam'd for Faith than Appetite,
His disposition to reveal,
The Grace was short, and long the meal;
Who always would excess admit,
If
Haunch
or
Turtle
came with it,
And ne'er engag'd in the defence
Of self-denying Abstinence,
When he could fortunately meet
With any thing he lik'd to eat;
Who knew that Wine, on Scripture plan,
Was made to cheer the heart of Man,
Knew too, by long experience taught,
That Chearfulness was kill'd by thought,
And, from those premisses collected,
(Which few perhaps would have suspected)
That none, who with due share of sense
Observ'd the ways of Providence,
Could with safe Conscience leave off drinking,
Till they had lost the pow'r of thinking)
With eyes half-clos'd came
waddling
in,
And, having strok'd his double
chin,
(That
Chin,
whose credit to maintain
Against the Scoffs of the profane
Had cost him more, than ever State
Paid for a
poor Electorate,
Which, after all the cost and rout,
It had been better much without)
Briefly (for
Breakfast,
you must know,
Was waiting all the while below)
Related, bowing to the ground,
The cause of that uncommon sound,
Related too, that at the door
POMPOSO, PLAUSIBLE, and M—E,
Begg'd that FAME might not be allow'd,
Their shame to publish to the croud,
That some new laws he would provide,
(If Old could not be misapplied
With as much ease and safety there,
As they are misapplied
elsewhere)
By which
it might be construed treason
In Man to exercise his reason;
Which
might
ingeniously
devise
One punishment for Truth and Lies,
And fairly prove, when they had done,
That Truth and Falshood were but one;
Which
JURIES must indeed retain,
But their effect should render vain,
Making all real pow'r to rest
In
one corrupted rotten breast,
By whose
false gloss
the very BIBLE
Might be interpreted a
Libel.
M * * *, (who, his Reverence to save,
Pleaded the Fool to screen the Knave,
Tho' all, who witnessed on his part,
Swore for his
head
against his
heart)
Had taken down from first to last
A just account of all that past;
But, since the gracious will of
Fate,
Who mark'd the Child for wealth and state
E'en in his Cradle, had decreed
The
mighty
DULLMAN ne'er should read,
That office of
disgrace
to bear
The
smooth-lip'd
PLAUSIBLE was there.
From H * * * * * e'en to CLERKENWELL
Who knows not
smooth-lip'd
PLAUSIBLE?
A Preacher deem'd of greatest note,
For Preaching that which others wrote.
HAD DULLMAN now (and Fools we see
Seldom want Curiosity)
Consented (but the
mourning shade
Of GASCOIGNE hast'ned to his aid,
And in his hand, what could he more,
Triumphant CANNING's Picture bore)
That
our three Heroes
should advance
And read their
Comical Romance,
How rich a feast, what royal fare
We for our Readers might prepare!
So rich, and yet so safe a feast,
That no
one foreign blatant
beast,
Within the purlieus of the
Law,
Should dare thereon to lay his paw,
And,
growling,
cry with surly tone,
Keep off—
this feast is all my own.
BENDING to earth the downcast eye,
Or planting it against the sky,
As
One
immers'd in deepest Thought,
Or with some holy Vision caught,
His Hands, to aid the traitor's art,
Devoutly folded o'er his heart,
Here
M * * * *, in fraud well skill'd, should go
All Saint,
with solemn step and slow.
O that RELIGION's sacred name,
Meant to inspire the purest flame,
A Prostitute should ever be
To that
Arch-fiend
HYPOCRISY,
Where we find ev'ry other vice
Crown'd with
damn'd sneaking Cowardice
;
Bold
Sin reclaim'd is often seen;
Past hope that Man, who dares be mean.
THERE, full of
flesh,
and full of
Grace,
With that
fine round unmeaning
face,
Which NATURE gives to sons of earth,
Whom she designs for ease and mirth,
Should the
prim
PLAUSIBLE be seen;
Observe his stiff affected mein,
'Gainst NATURE arm'd by GRAVITY
His features too in buckle see,
See, with what Sanctity he reads,
With what Devotion tells his beads!
Now Prophet, shew me by thine art
What's the Religion of his heart:
Shew
there,
if Truth thou can'st unfold,
Religion center'd all in Gold,
Shew
Him,
nor fear Correction's rod,
As false to
Friendship,
as to GOD.
HORRID,
unweildy, without Form,
Savage,
as OCEAN in a Storm,
Of size prodigious,
in the rear,
That Post of Honour,
should appear
POMPOSO;
Fame
around should tell
How he a slave to int'rest fell,
How, for
Integrity
renown'd,
Which Booksellers have often found,
He for
Subscribers
baits his hook,
And takes their cash—but where's the Book?
No matter where—
Wise
Fear, we know,
Forbids the robbing of a Foe,
But what, to serve our private ends
Forbids the cheating of our Friends?
No Man alive, who would not swear
All's
safe,
and therefore
honest
there.
For, spite of all the learned say,
If we to Truth attention pay,
The word
Dishonesty
is meant
For nothing else but
Punishment.
Fame
too should tell, nor heed the threat
Of Rogues, who Brother Rogues abet,
Nor tremble at the terrors hung
Aloft,
to make her hold her tongue,
How, to all Principles untrue,
Nor fix'd to
old
Friends, nor to
New,
He damns the
Pension
which he takes,
And loves the STUART he forsakes.
NATURE (who justly regular
Is very seldom known to err,
But now and then in
sportive mood,
As some
rude
wits have understood,
Or
through much work requir'd in haste,
Is with a random stroke disgrac'd)
POMPOSO form'd on
doubtful
plan,
Not quite a
Beast,
nor quite a
Man,
Like—
God knows what
—for never yet
Could the most subtle human Wit,
Find out a Monster, which might be
The Shadow of a
Simile.
THESE THREE, THESE GREAT, THESE MIGHTY THREE,
Nor can the
Poet's
Truth agree,
Howe'er Report hath done him wrong,
And warp'd the purpose of his song,
Amongst the refuse of their race,
The Sons of Infamy, to place
That open, gen'rous, manly mind,
Which we with joy in ALDRICH find.
THESE THREE, who now are
faintly
shewn,
Just sketch'd,
and scarcely to be known,
If DULLMAN their Request had heard,
In stronger Colours had appear'd,
And Friends, tho' partial, at first view,
Shudd'ring,
had own'd the picture true.
BUT had their Journal been display'd,
And the whole process open laid,
What a vast, unexhausted field
For Mirth, must such a Journal yield!
In her own anger strongly charm'd,
'Gainst Hope, 'gainst Fear by Conscience arm'd,
Then had bold SATIRE made her way,
Knights, Lords,
and
Dukes
her destin'd prey.
BUT PRUDENCE, ever sacred name
To those who feel not VIRTUE's flame,
Or only feel it at the best
As the dull dupe of
Interest,
Whisper'd aloud (for this we find
A Custom current with Mankind,
So loud to Whisper, that each word
May all around be plainly heard,
And Prudence sure would never miss
A Custom so contriv'd as this
Her Candour to secure, yet aim
Sure Death against another's fame)
Knights, Lords,
and
Dukes
—mad wretch, forbear,
Dangers unthought of ambush there;
Confine thy rage to weaker slaves,
Laugh at
small Fools,
and lash
small Knaves,
But never,
helpless, mean,
and
poor,
Rush on, where Laws cannot secure,
Nor think thyself, mistaken Youth,
Secure in Principles of
Truth.
Truth!
why, shall ev'ry wretch of Letters
Dare to speak
Truth
against his
Betters?
Let
ragged
VIRTUE stand aloof,
Nor mutter accents of reproof;
Let
ragged
WIT a Mute become,
When Wealth and Pow'r would have her dumb.
For who the Devil doth not know,
That Titles and Estates bestow
An ample stock, where're they fall,
Of Graces which we mental call.
Beggars in ev'ry age and nation,
Are Rogues and Fools by Situation,
The Rich and Great are understood,
To be of Course both wise and good.
Consult then Int'rest more than Pride,
Discreetly take the stronger side,
Desert in Time the simple few,
Who
Virtue
's barren path pursue,
Adopt my maxims—follow Me—
To BAAL bow the prudent knee;
Deny thy God, betray thy Friend,
At BAAL's altars hourly bend,
So shalt Thou rich and great be seen;
To be Great
now,
You must be mean.
HENCE,
Tempter,
to some weaker Soul,
Which Fear and Interest controul,
Vainly thy precepts are address'd
Where VIRTUE steels the steady breast.
Through Meanness wade to boasted pow'r,
Through Guilt repeated ev'ry hour,
What is thy Gain, when all is done,
What mighty Laurels hast Thou won?
Dull Crouds, to whom the heart's unknown,
Praise Thee for Virtues not thine own;
But will, at once Man's scourge and friend,
Impartial
CONSCIENCE too commend?
From her reproaches can'st Thou fly?
Can'st Thou with worlds her silence buy?
Believe it not—her stings shall find
A Passage to thy
Coward
Mind,
There shall she fix her sharpest dart,
There shew Thee truly,
as Thou art,
Unknown to those, by whom Thou'rt priz'd;
Known to Thyself, to be despis'd.
THE Man, who weds the sacred MUSE,
Disdains all mercenary views,
And He, who VIRTUE's throne would rear,
Laughs at the Phantoms rais'd by Fear.
Tho'
Folly,
rob'd in Purple, shines,
Tho'
Vice
exhausts
Peruvian
mines,
Yet shall they tremble, and turn pale,
When SATIRE wields her mighty Flail;
Or should They, of rebuke afraid,
With M * * * * seek Hell's deepest shade,
SATIRE, still mindful of her aim,
Shall bring the Cowards back to Shame.
HATED by many, lov'd by few,
Above each little private view,
Honest, tho' poor, and who shall dare
To disappoint my boasting there?
Hardy and resolute, tho' weak,
The dictates of my heart to speak,
Willing I bend at SATIRE's Throne;
What Pow'r I have, be all her own.
NOR shall yon
Lawyer
's specious art,
Conscious of a corrupted heart,
Create imaginary Fear
To damp us in our bold Career.
Why should we Fear, and what? the Laws?
They all are arm'd in VIRTUE's cause.
And, aiming at the self-same end,
SATIRE is always VIRTUE's Friend.
Nor shall that Muse, whose honest rage,
In a corrupt degen'rate age,
(When, dead to ev'ry nicer sense,
Deep sunk in Vice and Indolence,
The Spirit of old ROME was broke
Beneath the
Tyrant Fidler's
yoke)
Banish'd the Rose from NERO's cheek;
Under a BRUNSWICK fear to speak.
DRAWN by
Conceit
from REASON's plan,
How vain is that
poor Creature,
MAN!
How pleas'd is ev'ry paultry elf
To prate about that thing himself!
After my Promise made in Rhime,
And meant in earnest at that time,
To jog, according to the Mode,
In one dull pace, in one dull road,
What but that Curse of Heart and Head
To this
digression
could have led,
Where plung'd, in vain I look about,
And can't stay in, nor well get out.
COULD I, whilst
Humor
held the Quill,
Could I
digress
with half that skill,
Could I with half that skill return,
Which we so much admire in STERNE,
Where each
Digression,
seeming vain,
And only fit to entertain,
Is found on better recollection,
To have a just and nice Connection,
To help the whole with wond'rous art,
Whence it seems idly to depart,
Then should our Readers ne'er accuse
These wild excursions of the Muse,
Ne'er backward turn dull Pages o'er
To recollect what went before;
Deeply impress'd, and ever new
Each Image past should start to view,
And We to DULLMAN now come in,
As if we ne'er had absent been.
HAVE you not seen, when danger's near,
The coward cheek turn
white
with fear?
Have you not seen, when danger's fled,
The self-same cheek with joy turn
red?
These are
low
symptoms which we find
Fit only for a vulgar mind,
Where honest features, void of art,
Betray the feelings of the heart;
Our DULLMAN with a face was bless'd
Where no one passion was express'd,
His eye, in a
fine stupor
caught,
Imply'd a plenteous lack of thought,
Nor was one line that whole face seen in,
Which could be justly charg'd with meaning.
TO AVARICE by
birth
ally'd,
Debauch'd by
Marriage
into
Pride,
In age grown fond of youthful sports,
Of Pomps, of Vanities, and Courts,
And by success too mighty made,
To love his Country, or his Trade,
Stiff in opinion, (no rare case
With Blockheads in, or out of Place)
Too weak, and insolent of Soul,
To suffer Reason's just controul,
But bending of his own accord
To that
trim transient toy,
MY LORD,
The dupe of SCOTS (a fatal race,
Whom GOD in
wrath
contriv'd to place,
To scourge our crimes, and gall our pride,
A constant thorn in ENGLAND's side,
Whom first, our greatness to oppose,
He in his vengeance mark'd for
foes,
Then, more to serve his wrathful ends,
And
more to curse us,
mark'd for
Friends)
Deep
in the state, if we give credit
To
Him,
for no one else e're said it,
Sworn friend of great Ones not a few,
Tho' he their Titles only knew,
And those (which envious of his breeding
Book-worms
have charg'd to want of reading)
Merely to shew himself polite
He never would pronounce aright;
An
Orator
with whom a host
Of those which ROME and ATHENS boast
In all their Pride might not contend,
Who, with no Pow'rs to recommend,
Whilst JACKY HUME, and BILLY WHITEHEAD,
And DICKY GLOVER sat delighted,
Could speak whole days in Nature's spite,
Just as those
able Verse-men
write.
Great DULLMAN from his bed arose—
Thrice did he spit—thrice wip'd his nose—
Thrice strove to smile—thrice strove to frown—
And thrice look'd up—and thrice look'd down—
Then Silence broke—CRAPE, who am I?
CRAPE bow'd, and smil'd an arch reply,
Am I not, CRAPE? I am, you know,
Above all those who are below?
Have I not knowledge? and for
Wit,
Money will always purchase it,
Nor, if it needful should be found,
Will I grudge ten, or twenty Pound,
For which the whole stock may be bought
Of
scoundrel wits
not worth a Groat.
But least I should proceed too far,
I'll feel my Friend
the Minister,
(Great Men, CRAPE, must not be neglected)
How he in this point is affected,
For, as I stand a magistrate
To serve him first, and next the State,
Perhaps He may not think it fit
To let
his
magistrates have wit.
BOAST I not, at this very hour,
Those large effects which troop with pow'r?
Am I not mighty in the land?
Do not I sit, whilst others stand?
Am I not, with rich garments grac'd,
In seat of honour always plac'd,
And do not
Cits
of chief degree,
Tho' proud to others, bend to me?
HAVE I not, as a JUSTICE ought,
The laws such wholesome rigor taught,
That
Fornication
in disgrace
Is now afraid to shew her face,
And not one Whore these walls approaches
Unless They ride in our own coaches?
And shall
this
FAME, an
old poor
Strumpet,
Without our Licence sound her Trumpet,
And, envious of our City's quiet,
In broad Day-light blow up a Riot,
If insolence like this we bear,
Where is our State? our office where?
Farewell
all honours of our reign,
Farewell
the
Neck-enobling
CHAIN,
Freedom's
known
badge o'er all the globe,
Farewell
the
solemn-spreading
ROBE,
Farewell
the SWORD,—
farewell
the MACE,
Farewell
all TITLE, POMP, and PLACE.
Remov'd from Men of high degree,
(A loss to
them,
CRAPE, not to
Me)
Banish'd to CHIPPENHAM, or to FROME,
DULLMAN once more shall ply the Loom.
CRAPE, lifting up his hands and eyes,
DULLMAN—the
Loom
—at CHIPPENHAM—cries,
If there be Pow'rs which greatness love,
Which
rule below,
but
dwell above,
Those Pow'rs united all shall join
To contradict the rash design.
SOONER shall stubborn WILL lay down
His opposition with his
Gown,
Sooner shall TEMPLE leave the road
Which leads to VIRTUE's
mean
abode,
Sooner shall SCOTS this Country quit,
And ENGLAND's Foes be Friends to PITT,
Than DULLMAN, from his grandeur thrown,
Shall wander out-cast, and unknown.
SURE as that
Cane
(a
Cane
there stood
Near to a
Table,
made of
Wood,
Of
dry fine
Wood a Table made
By some rare artist in the trade,
Who had enjoy'd immortal praise
If he had liv'd in HOMER's days.)
Sure as that
Cane,
which once was seen
In pride of life all fresh and green,
The banks of INDUS to adorn;
Then,
of its leafy honours shorn,
According to exactest rule,
Was fashion'd by the workman's tool,
And which at present we behold
Curiously
polish'd, crown'd with
gold,
With gold
well-wrought,
sure as that
Cane
Shall never on its native plain
Strike root afresh, shall never more
Flourish on Tawny INDIA's shore,
So sure shall DULLMAN and his race
To latest times this station grace.
DULLMAN, who all this while had kept
His eye-lids clos'd as if He slept,
Now, looking stedfastly on CRAPE,
As at some God in human shape—
CRAPE, I protest, you seem to me
To have discharg'd a Prophecy,
Yes
—from the first it doth appear,
Planted by FATE, the DULLMANS
here
Have always held a quiet reign,
And
here
shall to the last remain.
CRAPE, they're all wrong about this
Ghost
—
Quite on the wrong side of the Post—
Blockheads,
to take
it
in their head
To be a message from the dead,
For that by
Mission
they design,
A word not half so good as mine.
CRAPE—
here
it is—start not one doubt—
A
Plot
—a
Plot
—I've found it out.
O GOD!—cries CRAPE,—how blest the nation
Where one Son boasts such penetration.
CRAPE, I've not time to tell you now
When
I discover'd this, or
how
;
To STENTOR go—if he's not there,
His place let
Bully
NORTON bear—
Our Citizens to Council call—
Let
All
meet—'tis the cause of
All.
Let the three Witnesses attend
With
Allegations
to befriend,
To swear just so much and no more
As We instruct them in before.
STAY—CRAPE—come back—what, don't you see
Th' effects of this discovery?
DULLMAN all care and toil endures—
The Profit, CRAPE, will all be
Yours.
A
Mitre,
(for, this arduous task
Perform'd, they'll grant whate'er I ask)
A
Mitre
(and perhaps the best)
Shall thro' my Interest make thee blest.
And at this time, when
gracious
FATE
Dooms to the
Scot
the reins of State,
Who is more fit (and for your use
We could some instances produce)
Of ENGLAND's
Church
to be the
Head
Than You, a
Presbyterian
bred.
But when thus mighty you are made,
Unlike the Brethren of thy trade,
Be grateful, CRAPE, and let Me not,
Like
Old
NEWCASTLE, be forgot.
BUT an Affair, CRAPE, of this size
Will ask from Conduct vast supplies;
It must not, as the Vulgar say,
Be done in
Hugger Mugger
way.
Traitors indeed (and that's discreet)
Who hatch the Plot, in private meet;
They should in Public go, no doubt,
Whose business is to find it out.
TO-MORROW—if the day appear
Likely to turn out fair and clear—
Proclaim a
Grand Processionade
—
Be all the City Pomp display'd,
Let the
Train-bands
— CRAPE shook his head—
They heard the Trumpet, and were fled—
Well—cries the Knight—if that's the case,
My Servants
shall supply their place—
My
Servants—
mine alone
—no more
Than what
my
Servants did before—
Dost not remember, CRAPE, that day,
When, DULLMAN's grandeur to display,
As all too simple, and too low,
Our City Friends were thrust below,
Whilst, as more worthy of our Love,
Courtiers were entertain'd above?
Tell me, who waited then? and how?
My
Servants—
mine
—and why not now?
In haste then, CRAPE, to STENTOR go—
But send up HART who waits below,
With him, 'till You return again
(Reach me my
Spectacles
and
Cane)
I'll make a proof how I advance in
My new accomplishment of
dancing.
NOT quite so fast as Lightning flies,
Wing'd with
red
anger, thro' the skies;
Not quite so fast as, sent by JOVE,
IRIS descends on wings of Love;
Not quite so fast as TERROR rides
When He the chasing winds bestrides;
CRAPE Hobbled—but his mind was good—
Cou'd he go faster than He cou'd?
NEAR to that
Tow'r,
which, as we're told,
The mighty JULIUS rais'd of old,
Where, to the Block by Justice led,
The
Rebel
SCOT hath often bled,
Where Arms are kept so clean, so bright,
'Twere Sin they should be soil'd in fight,
Where Brutes of
foreign
race are shewn
By Brutes much greater of
our own,
Fast by the crouded
Thames,
is found
An ample square of sacred ground,
Where artless
Eloquence
presides,
And
Nature
ev'ry sentence guides.
HERE
Female Parliaments
debate
About Religion, Trade, and State,
Here ev'ry NAIAD's Patriot soul,
Disdaining
Foreign
base controul,
Despising
French,
despising
Erse,
Pours forth the
plain Old English
Curse,
And bears aloft, with terrors hung,
The Honours of the
Vulgar Tongue.
HERE, STENTOR, always heard with awe,
In thund'ring accents deals out Law.
Twelve Furlongs off each dreadful word
Was plainly and distinctly heard,
And ev'ry neighbour hill around
Return'd and swell'd the mighty sound.
The loudest Virgin of the stream
Compar'd with
him,
would silent seem;
THAMES (who, enrag'd to find his course,
Oppos'd, rolls down with double force,
Against the Bridge indignant roars,
And lashes the resounding shores)
Compar'd with
him,
at lowest Tide
In softest whispers seem to glide.
HITHER directed by the noise,
Swell'd with the hope of future joys,
Thro' too much zeal and haste made lame,
The
Rev'rend
slave of DULLMAN came.
STENTOR—with such a serious air,
With such a face of
solemn
care,
As might import him to contain
A Nation's welfare in his brain—
STENTOR—cries CRAPE—I'm hither sent
On business of most high intent,
Great DULLMAN's orders to convey;
DULLMAN commands, and I obey.
Big with those throes which Patriots feel,
And lab'ring for the common weal,
Some secret, which forbids him rest,
Tumbles
and
Tosses
in his breast,
Tumbles
and
Tosses
to get free;
And thus the Chief commands by Me:
TO-MORROW—if the Day appear
Likely to turn out fair and clear—
Proclaim a
Grand Processionade
—
Be all the City Pomp display'd—
Our Citizens to Council call—
Let
All
meet—'tis the Cause of
All.
END OF THE THIRD BOOK.