C h ur chil t

(Charles Churchill, geboren 1731, geftorben 1764, eva warb sich während des leztern Theils seines kurzen Lebens fehr viel Ruhm durch eine schnelle Folge satirischer Gedich te, worin er mit unleugbaren, obgleich nicht genug ausges bildeten Talenten, mit einem mehr als juvenalischen Hener, mit dußerster Strenge und einer nur allzu oft übertriebenen und beleidigenden Bitterkeit, die Sitten feines Zeitalters schilderte und bestrafte. Seine vielen persönlichen Anzüglichkeiten wider einige der würdigsten Männer, . B. Dr. Johnson, Hogarth, Garrick,u.a. m. und seinePartheilich keit für den unpatriotischenPatrioten Wilkes erregen mit Recht den Unwillen jedes unbefangenen Lesers. Die Satire, The Prophecy of Famine, woraus folgende Stelle genommen ist, pannte er bei ihrer ersten Erscheinung im Jahr 1763, AScots Paftoral, und richtete sie durchaus, und mit der größten Bits terkeit, wider die Schottländer, und ihre damalige Begüns ftigung von einem Theil des englischen Parlamente. Ein Ungenannter ließ in eben dem Jahr einen zweiten Theil dies fer Satire drucken, der ihr aber an poetischem Werthe sehr weit nachsteht.)'

THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.

V. 79-260.

Me, whom no Mufe of heav'nly birth infpires,
No judgment tempers when rafh genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of fenfe, and fatire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim Fancy leads,
By prattling ftreams o'er flow'r-empurpled meads
Who often, but without fuccefs, have pray'd
For apt Alliteration's artful aid;

Who would, but cannot, with a master's fkill
Coin fine new epithets which mean no ill;
Me, thus uncouth, thus ev'ry way unfit
For pacing poefy and ambling wit,

Tafte with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

M4

Thou

Churchill.

Churchill.

Thou, Nature! art my goddefs! - to thy law
Myself I dedicate; hence, flavifh awe,
Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules
Impof'd at first and fince obferv'd by fools;
Hence, thofe vile tricks, which mar fine Nature's
hue,

And bring the fober matron forth to view
With all that artificial tawdry glare

Which virtue fcorns, and none but ftrumpets wear!
Sick of thofe pomps, those vanities, that waste,
Of toil, which critics now miftake for tafte,
Of falfe refinements fick, and labour'd eafe,
Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please,
By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) fubdu'd,
However plain her drefs, and 'haviour rude,
To northern climes my happier course I steer,
Climes, where the goddefs reigns throughout the

year,

Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,
She rules the loyal laird and faithful clan.

To that rare foil, where virtues cluft'ring grow,
What mighty bleffings does not England owe!
What wagon-loads of courage, wealth, and fenfe,
Doth each revolving day import from thence!
To us fhe gives, difinterefted friend!

Faith without fraud, and Stewarts without end
When we profperity's rich trappings wear,
Come not her gen'rous fons and take a fhare?
And if, by fame difaft'rous turn of fate,
Change fhould enfue, and ruin feize the state,
Shall we not find, fafe in that hallow'd ground,
Such refuge as the holy Martyr found?

Nor lefs our debt in fcience, tho' deny'd
By the weak flaves of prejudice and pride.
Thence came the Ramfays, names of worthy note,
Of whom one paints as well as th' other wrote,
Thence Home, difbanded from the fons of pray'r
For loving plays, tho' no dull dean was there;

Thence

Thence iffu'd forth, at great Macpherson's call,
That old, new, epic paftoral, Fingal,

Churchill.

Thence Malloch, friend alike of church and state,
Of Chrift and Liberty, by grateful Fate
Rais'd to rewards, which, in a pious reign,
All darling infidels fhould feek in vain;
Thence fimple bards, by fimple prudence taught,
To this wife town by fimple patrons brought,
In fimple manner utter fimple lays,

And take, with fimple penfions, fimple praife.

Waft me, fome Mufe, to Tweed's infpiring ftream,
Where all the little groves and graces dream;
Where, flowly winding, the dull waters creep,
And feem themselves to own the pow'r of fleep;
Where, on the furface, lead like feathers fwims,
There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,
As once a Syrian bath'd in Jordan's flood,
Wash off my native ftains, correct that blood,
Which mutinies at call of English pride,
And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

-

From folemn thought, which overhangs the brow
Of patriot care, when things are God knows how;
From nice trim points, where Honour, flave to rule,
In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;
From those gay scenes where Mirth exalts his pow'r,
And eafy Humour wings the laughing hour;
From thofe foft better moments, when defire
Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire;
When mutual ardours of the melting fair
More than repay us for whole years of care,
At Friendship's fummons will my Wilkes retreat,
And fee, once feen before, that ancient feat,
That ancient feat, where Majefty display'd
Her enfigns long before the world was made!

Mean, narrow maxims, which enflave mankind!
Ne'er from its bias warp thy fettled mind;
Not dup'd by party, nor Opinion's flave,
Thofe faculties which bounteous Nature gave

M 5

Thy

Churchill. Thy honeft spirit into practice brings.

Nor courts the fmile nor dreads the frown of kings.
Let rude licentious Englifhmen comply

With Tumult's voice, and curfe they know not why;
Unwilling to condemn, thy foul difdains
To wear vile Faction's arbitrary chains,
And ftrictly weighs, in apprehenfion clear,
Things as they are, and not as they appear.
With thee good humour tempers lively wit,
Enthron'd with judgment Candour loves to fit,
And Nature gave thee, open to distress,
A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot
Of the poor, mean, defpif'd, infulted Scot,

Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,
By rancour forg'd, where prejudice prevails,
Or ftarves at home, or practises, thro' fear
Of starving, arts which damn all confcience here,
When fcribblers, to the charge by int'reft led,
The fierce North-Briton foaming at their head,
Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call,
And, injur'd by one alien, rail at all;
On Northern Pifgah when they take their stand,
To mark the weakness of that Holy Land,
With needless truths their libels to adorn,
And hang a nation up to public fcorn,
Thy gen'rous foul condemns the frantic rage,
And hates the faithful but ill-natur'd page.

The Scots are poor, cries furly English pride;
True is the charge, nor by themselves deny'd.
Are they not then in ftricteft reafon clear,
Who wifely come to mend their fortunes here?
If, by low fupple arts fuccefsful grown,
They fapp'd our vigour to increase their own;
If, mean in want, and infolent in pow'r,
They onely fawn'd more furely to devour,
Rous'd by fuch wrongs, fhould Reason take alarm,
And ev❜n the Mufe for public safety arm?

But

But if they own ingenuous Virtue's fway,
And follow where true honour points the way;
It they revere the hand by which they're fed,
And bless the donors for their daily bread,
Or, by vaft debts of higher import bound,
Are always huinble, always grateful, found;
If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,
Become difcreetly all things to all men,
That all men may become all things to them,
Envy may hate, but Juftice can't condemn.
Into our places, ftates, and beds, they creep;"
They've fenfe to get what we want fenfe to keep.

Once, be the hour accurs'd! accurs'd the place!
I ventur'd to blafpheme the chofen race.
Into thofe traps, which men, call'd Patriots, laid,
By fpecious arts unwarily betray'd,

Madly I leagu'd against that facred earth,
Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:
But fhall I meanly error's path pursue,

When heav'nly Truth presents her friendly clue?
Once plung'd in ill, fhall I go farther in?
To make the oath, was rafh; to keep it, fin.
Backward I tread the paths I trode before,
And calm Reflection hates what Paffion swore.
Converted (bleffed are the fouls which know
Thofe pleafures which from true converfion flow,
Whether to reafon, who now rules my breaft,
Or to pure faith, like Lyttleton and Weft,)
Paft crimes to expiate, be my present aim,
To raile new trophies to the Scotifh name;
To make (what can the proudeft Muse do more?)
Ev'n Faction's fons her brighter worth adore;
To make her glories, ftamp'd with honeft rhymes,
In fulleft tides roll down to latest times.

Prefumptuous wretch! and fhall a Mufe like thine, "An English Mufe! the meaneft of the Nine, Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak ftrain Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane?

Should

Churchill.