« הקודםהמשך »
His fortune squander'd, leaves his virtue bare Your power is fixt, your fame through time codTo every bribe, and blind to every snare :
vey'd, Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,
And Britain Europe's queen-if I am paid.” Or turn a soldier, or commence a wit.
A statesman has his answer in a trice; Such heroes have we! all, but life, they stake; “ Sir, such a genius is beyond all price ; How must Spain trenible, and the German shake! What man can pay for this?"-Away be turns : Such writers have we! all, but sense, they print; His work is folded, and his bosom burns : E'en George's praise is dated from the Mint. His patron he will patronise no more ; In arms cantemptible, in arts profane,
But rushes like a tempest out of door. Such swords, such pens, disgrace a monarch's reign. Lost is the patriot, and extinct his name! Reform your lives before you thus aspire,
Out comes the piece, another, and the same; And steal (for you can steal) celestial fire.
For A, his magic pen evokes an O, 0! the just contrast ! 0! the beauteous strife! | And turns the tide of Europe on the foe : 'T wixt their cool writings, and Pindaric life : He rams his quill with scandal and with scoff; They write with phelgm, but then they live with But 't is so very foul, it won't go off :
Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. But, when once publish'd, they are heard no more. I reverence misfortune, not deride;
Thus distant bugbears fright; but, nearer draw, I pity poverty, but laugh at pride :
The block 's a block, and turns to mirth your awe. For who so sad, but must some mirth confess Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress?
such ? Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, No; every party's tainted by their touch. There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat.
Iufected persons Ay each public place; Thiese, Nature's commoners, who want a home, And none, or enemies alone, embrace: Claim the wide world for their majestic dome; To the foul fiend their every passion's sold: Tbey make a private study of the street;
They love, and hate, ertempore, for gold : And, looking full on every man they meet, What image of their fury can we form? liun souse against his chaps; who stands amaz'd Dulness and rage, a puddle in a storm. To find they did not see, but only gaz'd.
Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy, How must these bards be rapt into the skies? To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they diy: You need not read, you feel their ecstasies. Write they with rage? The tempest quickly Bags;
Will they persist ? ”T is madness; Lintot, run, A state-Ulysses tames them with his bags; Sec them confin'd—"0, that's already done.” Let him be what he will, Turk, Pagan, Jew; Most, as by leases, by the works they print, For Christian ministers of state are few. Have took, for life, possession of the Mint.
Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head, If you mistake, and pity these poor men,
That pours his politics through pipes of lead; Est ululris they cry, and write again.
Which far and near ejaculate, and spout Such wits their nuisance manfully expose, O'er tea and coffee, poison to the rout: And then pronounce just judges learning's foes; But when they have bespatter'd all they may, O frail conclusion ! the rererse is true;
The statesinan throws his filthy squirts away! If foes to learning, they 'd be friends to you:
With golden forceps, these, another takes, Treat them, ye judges ! with an honest scorn, And state elixirs of the vipers makes. And weed the cockle from the generous corn : The richest statesman wants wherewith to pay There's true gool-nature in your disrespect; A servile scycophant, if well they weigh In justice to the good, the bad neglect :
How much it costs the wretch to be so base ; For immortality, if hardships plead,
Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. Enough chastive, such prostitute applause,
But, O! what wisdom can convince a fool, If well they weigh how much it stains their cause, But that 't is dulness to conceive him dull?
But are our writers cver in the wrong? 'T is sad experience takes the censor's part, Does virtue ne'er seduce the venal tongue? Conviction, not from reason, but from smart. Yes; if well brib'd, for virtue's self they fight; A virgin-author, recent from the press,
Still in the wrong, though champions for the right: The sheets yet wet, applauds his great success; Whoe'er their crimes fur interest only quit, Surveys thein, reads them, takes their charms to Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. bed,
Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets, Those in his hand, and glory in his head :
And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; "Tis joy too great; a fever of delight !
From the same hand how various is the page! His heart beats thick, nor close his eyes all night : What civil war their brother pamphlets wage! But, rising the next morn to clasp his fame, Tracts battle tracts, self-contradictions glare; He finds that without sleeping he could dream: Say, is this limacy? -I wish it were. So sparks, they say, take goddesses to bed, If such our writers, startled at the sight, Anil find next day the devil in their stead.
Felons may bless their stars they cannot write! In vain advertisements the town o'erspread; How justly Protens' transmigrations fit They 're epitaphs, and say the work is dead. The monstrons changes of a modern wit ! Who press for fame, but small recruits will raise; Now such a gentle stream of eloquence "Tis volunteers alone can give the bays.
As seldom rises to the verge of sense ; A famous author visits a great man,
Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame, Of his immortal work displays the plan,
Which yet fit engines, well apply'd, can tame; And says, “Sir, I'm your friend; all fears dismiss; Now, on immodest trash, the suine ol'scene Your glory, and my own, shall live by this; Invites the town to sup at Drury-lane;
A dreadful lion, now he roars at power,
All write at London ; shall the rage abate
Here, where it most should sbine, the Muses' seat? The flood, fiame, swine, the lion, and the snake, The learn'd may choose eternity or ease?
Where, mortal, or immortal, as they please, Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make : 'The snake reigns most; snakes, Pliny says, are
Has not a royal patron' wisely strove
To woo the Muse in her Athenian grore ? bred, When the vrnin's perish'd in a human head.
Added new strings to her harmonious shell, Yegrov'lling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things, And given new tongues to those who spoke so well ? Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings !
Let these instruct with truth's illustrious ray, Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you,
Awake the world, and scare our owls away.
Mean while, O friend ! indulge me, if I give curst To scribble in the dust, was Snake the first.
Some needful precepts how to write, and live; What is the figure should ia fact prove true?
Serious should be an author's final views; It did in Elkenal', why not in you ?
Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse, Poor Elkevah, all other changes past,
An author! 'Tis a venerable name ! For bread in Smithfield dragons hiss'd at last,
How few deserve it, and what oumbers claim !
Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd,
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind ?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause, So liv'd your prototype; and so he died.
That sole proprietor of just applause ? Th' abandon'd manners of our writing train
Ye restless men, who pant for letter'd praise, May tempt mankind to think religion vain;
With whom would you consult to gain the bays? But in their fate, their habit, and their mien,
With those great authors whose fain'd works you
read i That gods there are is eminently seen: Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen,
'T is well : go, then, consult the laurel'd shade, And marks the murderers of fame from men:
What answer will the laurel'd shade return?
Hear it, and tremble! he commands you burn Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath,
The noblest works his envy'd genius writ,
That boast of naught more excellent than uit. And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.
If this be true, as 't is a truth most dread, The trajsiept vestment of these frugal men
Woe to the page which has not that to plead !
Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd unwrote Hastens to paper for our mirth again: Too soon (O merry-melancholy fate!)
The sprightliest etsorts of their wanton thought:
Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame,
Con lemn the charm of ages to the flame;
And in one point is all true wisdom cast,
Immortal wits, e'en dead, break Nature's laws, Su fare the men, who writers dare commence
Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; Without their patent, probity and sense.
And their guilt growing, as their bodies rot, From these, their politics our quidnuncs seek,
(Revers'd ambition !) pant to be forgot. And Saturday's the learning of the week:
Thus ends your courted fame : does lucre then,
The sacred thirst of gold betray your pen?
In prose 't is blameable, in verse 't is worse,
Provokes the Muse, extorts Apollo's curse; Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so
His sacred influence nerer should be sold; And hem at every thump upon your scull:
'T is arrant simony to sing for gold : These stanch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,
'T is immortality should fire your mind; And honest folly echoes to the lie.
Scorn a less paymaster than ali mankind. O how I laugh, when I a blockhead see,
If bribes ye seek, know this, ye writing tribe !
Who writes for virtue has the largest bribe :
All's on the party of the virtuous man;
The good will surely serve hiin, if they can; It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's
The bad, when interest or ambition guide, Sincere encomium on his friend the for,
And 't is at once their interest and their pride :
But should both fail to take bim to their care, Sole patron of his literties and rights !
ile boasts a greater friend, and both may spare. While graceless Reynard listens till he bites.
Letters to man uncommon light dispense; As, when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded
And what is virtue, but superior sense? state Discharges all her poor and profligate ;
In parts and learning se who place your pride, Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,
Your facilis are crimes, your crimes are double.
dy'd. And prisons pour their tilth into the field;
What is a scandal of the first renown, Thus Nature's refuse, and the dregs of inen,
But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown? Compose the black mililia of the pen. · Settle, the city poet.
• King George I.
'Tis harder far to please than give offence; Our age demands correctness ; Addisont The least misconduct damns the brightest sense ; And you this commendable hurt hare done. Each shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Now writers find, as once Andes found, Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. The whole is mortal, if a part 's unsound. Flagitious manners make impressions deep
He that strikes out, and strikes nut out the best, On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep :
Ponrs lustre in, and dignifies the rest : Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, Give e'er so little, if what's right be there, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. We praise for what you turn, and what you spares Wits are a despicable race of men,
The part you burn sinells sweet before the shrine, If they confine their talents to the pen;
And is as incense to the part divine. When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Nor frequent write, though you can eat well ; Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.
Men may too oft, though not too muh, excel. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence sume dispense, A few good works gain fame; more si: k their price; And play the fool, because they 're men of sense. Mankind are fickle, and hate pa jug twice: What instances bleed recent in each thoaght, They granted you writ well: what can they more, Of men to ruin by their genius brought!
Unless you let them praise for giving o'er ? Against their wills what numbers ruin shun,
Do boldly what you du; and let your page Purely through want of wit to be undone !
Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. Nature has shown, by making it so rare,
So faintly Lucius censures and co!nmends, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. That Lucius has no foes, except his friends. Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; Let satire less engage you than applause ; With that we drive the most substantial trade. It shows a generous mind to wink at naws:
Prudence protects and guides us, wit betrays; Is genius yours? Be yours a glorious end, A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways ; Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend; A certain snare to miseries immense ;
The public glory by your own beget; A gay prerogative from common sense ;
Run nations, run posterity, in debi. Unless strong judgment that wild thing can tame, And since the fam'd alone make others live, And break to paths of virtue and of fame,
First have that glory you presume to give. But grant your judgment equal to the best, If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man; Sense fills your head, and genius fires your breast; 'Tis dull to be as witty as you can. Yet still forbear: your wit (consider well)
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high ; 'Tis great to show, but greater to conceal; Round your own fame the fatal splinters fly. As it is great to seize the golden prize
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Of place or power; but greater to despise.
Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart. If still you languish for an author's name,
Painters and surgeons may the structure scap; Think private merit less than public fame,
Genius and morals be with you the man : And fancy not to write is not to live;
Delaults in those alone should give offence; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative,
Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. But ponder what it is; how dear 't will cost, My narrow-minded satire can't extend To write one page which you may justly boast. To Codrus' form ; I'm not so much his friend :
Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press ; Himself should publish that the world agree) Who write, an awful character profess;
Before his works, or in the pillory. The world as pupil of their wisdom claim,
Let him be black, fair, tall, short, thin, or fat, And for their stipend an immortal fame:
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that, Nothing but what is solid or retin'd
Is that call'd humour » It has this pretence, Should dare ask public audience of mankind. 'T'is neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense.
Severely weigh your learning and your wit : Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift. No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, Much trust example, but reflection inore :
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before, More had the antients writ, they more had taught; If naught peculiar through your labours run, Which shows some work is left for modern thought. They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
This weigh'd perfection know ; and, know Think frequently, think close, read nature, turn Toil, burn for that; but do not aim at more ; Men's manners o'er, and half your volumes burn; Above, beneath it, the just limits fix;
To nurse with quick reflection be your strife, And zealously prefer four lines to six.
Thoughts born from present objects, warm from life; Write, and re-write, blot out, and write again, When must unsought, such inspirations rise, And for its swiftness ne'er applaud your pen. Slighted by fools, and cherish'd by the wise : Leave to the jockeys that Newmarket praise, Expect peculiar fame from these alone; Slow runs the Pegasus that wins the bays.
These make an author, these are all your own. Much time for immortality to pay,
Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turn o'er; Is just and wise; for less is thrown away.
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. Time only can mature the labouring brain;
True, all men think of course, as all men dream; Time is the father, and the midwife pain :
And if they slightly think, 't is much the same. The same good sense that makes a man excel, Letters admit not of a half-renown; Still makes bim doubt he ne'er has written well. They give you nothing, or they give a crown. Downright impossibilities they seek;
No work e'er ga n'd true fame, or ever can, What man can be immortal in a week?
But what did honour to the name of inan. Excuse no fault; though beautiful, 't will harm; Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse, Que fault shocks more than twenty beautics charm. ) Clear be the style, the very sound of force ;
Easy the conduct, simple the design,
As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides, Striking the moral, and the soul divine :
Te grace old Ocean's court, in triumph rides, Let nature art, and judgment wit, exceed; Though rich bis source, he drains a thousand springs, O'er learning reason reign; o'er that, your creed : Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings. Thus virtue's seeds, at once, and laurel's grow; So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Do thus, and rise a Pope, or a Despreau :
Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day ;. And when your genius exquisitely shines,
Shalt like, or, wbere thou canst not like, excuse, Live up to the full lastre of your lines :
Since no mean interest shall profane the Muse, Parts but expose those men who virtue quit; No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, A fallen angel is a fallen wit;
Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend. And they plead Lucifer's detested cause,
When first a generous mind surveys the great, Who for bare talents challenge our applause. And views the crowds that on their fortyne wait; Would vou restore just honours to the pen ? Pleas'd with the show (though little understood) From able writers rise to worthy men. (strain? | He only seeks the power, to do the good;
“Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would re- Thinks, till he tries, 't is godlike to dispose, Who's this,” they cry,“so vainly schools the vajo? And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows; Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete? That every grant sincere affection wins, As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?” And where our wants have end, our love begins : Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt,
But those who long the paths of state bave trod, And challenge all mankind to find one fault? Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd, With huge examens overwhelm my page,
Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates beAnd darken reas n with dogmatic rage ?
siege, As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme,
'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige. In prose a duller could excuse the crime?
This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing The chief perfection of the statesnian's art, Is gravely to harangue on what we sing.
To give to fair assent a fairer face, At that tribunal stands the writing tribe, Or soften a refusal into grace : Which nothing can intimidate or bribe,
But few there are that can be truly kind, Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe; Or know to fix their favours on the mind; False fame must wither, and the true will grow. Hence, some, whene'er they would oblige, offend, Armd with this truth, all critics I defy;
And while they make the fortune, lose the friend ; For if I fall, by my own pen I die;
Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not bestow; While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain, For great men want not, what to give, but how. To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.
The race of men that follow courts, 't is true, Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread Think all they get, and more than all, their due; Of twenty pamphlets level'd at my head,
Still ask, but ne'er consult their own deserts, Thus hare I forg'd a buckler in my brain, And measure by their interest, not their parts : Of recent form, to serve me this campaign ! From this mistake so many men we see And safely hope to quit the dreadful field
But ill become the thing they wish'd to be ; Delug'd with inrk, and sleep behind my shield; Hence discontent, and fresh demands arise, Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray
More power, more favour in the great man's eyes; In all his might, and damns me--for a day. All ivel a want, though none the cause suspects, As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, But hate their patron, for their own defects; Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts, (Ridiculous in rage !) to hiss, not bite,
And, when he gives them places, gives them parts. So war their quills, when sons of dulness write. As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great
May sell their favour at too dear a rate;
And long attachment waits among the herd;
When no distinction, where distinction's due,
Marks from the many the superior few; THE RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.
When strong cabal constrains them to be just,
And makes thein give at last--because they must;
What hopes that men of real worth should prize,
The man who justly o'er the whole presides,
His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides ; Cæcus iter monstrare relit Hor. Knows when to stop with grace, and when ad
Nor gives through importunity or chance ; Trovcu strength of genius, by experience taught, But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd, Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought, When favours are extorted, not bestow'd, To trace the various workings of the mind,
When, safe on shore ourselves, we see the crowd And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind; urround the great, importunate, and loud ; (Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend Chrough such a tumult; 't is no easy task To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend
ro drive the man of real worth to ask : Can aught of use impart, thougla void of skill, Surrounded thus, and giddy with the show, And win attention by sincere good-will;
Tis hard for great men, rightly to bestow; For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies, Prom hence so few are skill'd, in either case, The heart may furnish what the bead denies. so ask with dignity, or give with grace.
AFTERWARDS LORD MELCOMBE.
OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING EPISTLE.
Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; The prey and worship of the wondering Gaul. Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius fings, No doubt, to genius some reward is due, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, (Excluding that, were satirizing you ;). Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, But yet, believe thy undesigning friend, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; When truth and genius for thy choice contend, Till we forget the hand that made us great, Though both have weight when in the balance cast, And grow to envy, not to emulate :
Let probity be first, and parts the last. To emulate, a generous warmth implies,
On these foundations if thou dar'st be great, To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; And check the growth of folly and deceit; But envy wears a mean malignant face,
When party rage shall droop through length of days, And aims not at their virtues—but their place. And calumnoy be ripend into praise,
Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence ! Then future times shall to thy worth allow When every favour is a fresh offence,
That fame, which envy would cail fattery now. By which superior power is still imply'd,
Thus far my zeal, though for the task unfit, And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride. Has pointed out the rocks where others split; Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; By that inspir'd, though stranger to the Nine, But those who hate from envy, hate indeed.
And negligent of any fame-but thine,
You act froin nature what I teach from 'art,
THE OLD MAN'S RELAPSE.
The man, who contradicts the public voice,
-Sopitos suscitat ignes.
VIRG. Attempts a task that on that choice reflects, And lends us light to point out new defects. From man's too curious and impatient sight, One worthless man, that gains what he pretends, The future, Heaven involves in thickest night. Disgusts a thousand unpretending friends: Creilit gray hairs: though freedom much we boast, And since no art can make a counterpass,
Some least performi, what they determine most. Or add the weight of gold to mimic brass,
What sudden changes our resolves betray! When princes to bad ore their image join,
To morrow is a satire on to day, They more debase the stamp, than raise the coin. And shows its weakness. Whom shall men believe,
Be thine the care, true merit to reward, When constantly themselves, themselves deceive? And gain the good-nor will that task be hard ; Souls form'd alike so quick by nature blend,
Long had l bid my once-lov'd Muse adieu ; An honest man is more than half thy friend.
You warm old age; my passion burns anew. Him, no mean views, or haste to rise, skall
How sweet your verse! how great your force of mind!
What power of words! what skill in dark mankind ! sway,
Polite the conduct; generous the design;
And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line, Nor is wit dangerous in an honest hand:
Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, beset; Besides, if failings at the bottom lie,
Your wit has caught thein in its golden net. We view those failings with a lover's eve;
But what strikes home with most exalted grace Though small his genius, let him do his best, Is, baughty genius taught to know its place; Our wishes and belief supply the rest.
And, where worth shines, its humbled crest to bend, Let others barter servile faith for gold,
With zeal deroted to that godlike end. His friendship is not to be bought or sold :
When we discern so rich a vein of sense, Fierce opposition he, unmov'd, shall face,
Through the smooth flow of purest eloquence; Modest in favour, daring in disgrace,
'T is like the limpid streams of Tagus rollid To share thy adverse fate alone, pretend;
O'er boundless wealth, o'er shining beds of gold. In power, a servant; out of power, a friend.
But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece ? Here pour thy favours in an ample flood,
The tongue denjes it to old Roine and Greece ; Indulge thy boundless thirst of doing good :
The genius bids the moderns doubt their claim, Nor think that good to hiin alone contin'd;
And slowly take possession of the fame. Such to oblige, is to oblige mankind.
But I nor know, nor care, by whom 't was writ, If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, Enough for me that 't is from human wit, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; That sooths my pride: all glory in the pen Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free, Which has done honour to the race of men. And teach us long to love the king, through thee: Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe,
But this have others done; a like applause And make him tremble when he strikes the blow;
An ancient and a modern Horace draws'. While honour, gratitude, affection join
But they to glory by degrees aruse, To deck thy close, and brighten thy decline;
Meridian lustre you at once disclose. (Illustrious doom !) the great, when thus displac'd, With friendship guarded, and with yirtue grac'd,