תמונות בעמוד
PDF
ePub

The Muse inspires me now to look again, Hold, hold, impetuous Muse - I would restrain And see a meaner sort of sordid men

Her over-eager heat, but all in vain ; Doating on little heaps of yellow dust;

Abandon'd to delights, she longs to rove; For that despising honour, case, and lust.

I check'd her here, and now she flics to love ; Let other bards, expressing how it shines,

Shows me some rural nymph, by shepherd chasid, Describe with envy what the miser finds;

Soon overtaken, and as soon embrac'd : Only as heaps of dirt it seems to me,

The grass by her, as she by him, is press'd;
Where we such despicable vermin see,

For shame, my Muse, Jet fancy guess the rest:
Who creep through filth a thousand crooked ways, At such a point fancy can never stay,
Insensible of infamy or praise:

But flies beyond whatever you can say.
Loaded with guilt, they still pursue their course, Behold the silent shades, the amorous grove,
Not ev'n restrain'd by love or friendship's force. The dear delights, the very act of Love.

Not to enlarge on such an obvious thought, This is his lowest sphere, his country scene, Behold their folly, which transcends their fault! Where Love is humble, and his fare but mcan ; Alas! their cares and cautions only tend

Yet springing up without the help of art, To gain the means, and then to lose the end. Leaves a sincerer relish in the heart, Like heroes in romances, still in sight

More healthfully, though not so finely fed, For mistresses that yield them no delight.

And better thrives than where more nicely brede
This, of all vice, does most debase the mind, But 'tis in courts where most he makes a show,
Gold is itself th' allay to human-kind.

And, high enthron'd, governs the world below ;
Oh, happy times! when no such thing as coin For though in histories learn'd ignorance
E’er tempted friends to part, or foes to join ! Attributes all to cunning or to chance,
Cattle or corn, among those harmless men, Lore will in those disguises often smile,
Was all their wealth, the gold and silver then : And knows the cause was kindness all the whila
Corn was too bulky to corrupt a tribe,

What story, place, or person, cannot prove
And bellowing herds would have betray'd the bribe. The boundless influence of mighty Love?
Ev'n traffic now is intercourse of ill,

Where'er the Sun can vigorous heat inspire, And every wind brings a new mischief still ; Both sexes glow, and languish with desire. By trade we flourish in our leaves and fruit, The weary'd swain, fast in the arms of sleep, But avarice and excess devour the root.

Love can awake, and often sighing keep ; Thus far the Muse unwillingly has been

And busy gown-men, by fond love disguis'd, Fix'd on the dull, less happy sorts of sin ;

Will leisure find to make themselves despis'd. But now, more pleas'd, she views the different ways The proudest kings submit to Beauty's sway; Of luxury, and all its charms surveys.

Beauty itself, a greater prince than they, Dear Luxury! thou soft, but sure deceit !

Lies sometimes languishing with all its pride Rise of the mean, and ruin of the great!

By a belov'd, though fickle lover's side.
Thou sure presage of ill-approaching fates,

I mean to slight the soft enchanting charm,
The bane of empires, and the change of states ! But, oh! my head and heart are both too warm,
Armies in vajn resist thy mighty power;

I doat on womnan-kind with all their faults,
Not the worst conduct would confound them Love turns my satire into softest thoughts;

Of all that passion which our peace destroys
Thus Roine herself, while o'er the world she flew, Instead of mischief, I describe the joys.
And did by virtue all that world subdue,

But short will be bis reign (I fear too short),
Was by her own victorious arms oppress'd, And present cares shall be my future sport.
And catch'd infection from the conquer'd East;

Then Love's bright torch put out, his arrows broke, Whence all those vices came, which soon devour Loose from kind chains, and from th' engaging yoke, The best foundations of renown and power.

To all fond thoughts I'll sing such counter-charms, But oh! what need have we abroad to roam, The fair shall listen in their lovers arms. Who feel too much the sad effects at home,

Now the enthusiastic fit is spent, Of wild excess! which we so plainly find

I feel my weakness, and too late repent.
Decays the body, and impairs the mind.

As they who walk in dreams oft climb too high
But yet grave fops must not presume from hence For sense to follow with a waking eye ;
To slight the sacred pleasures of the sense :

And in such wild attempts are blindly bold,
Our appetites are Nature's laws, and given Which afterwards they tremble to behold :
Under the broad authentic seal of Heaven.

So I review these sallies of my pen, Let pedants wrangle, and let bigots fight,

And modest Reason is return'd again ;
To put restraint on innocent delight,

My confidence I curse, my fate accuse,
But Heaven and Nature's always in the right; Scarce hold from censuring the sacred Muse.
They would not draw poor wretched mortals in, No wretched poet of the railing pit,
Or give desires that shall be doom'd for sin. No critic curs’d with the wrong side of wit,
Yet, that in height of harmless joy we may Is more severe from ignorance and spite,
Last to old age, and never lose a day,

Than I with judgment against all I write.
Amidst our pleasures we ourselves should spare,
And manage all with temperance and care.
The gods forbid but we sometimes may steep
Our joys in wine, and lull our cares asleep:
It raises Nature, ripens seeds of worth,

MR. HOBBES, AND HIS WRITINGS.
As moistening pictures calls the colours forth;
But if the varnish we too oft apply,

Such is the mode of these censorious days,
Alas! like colours, we grow faint and die.

The art is lost of knowing liow to praise ;

more.

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

ON

THE MIRACLE... ON THE DEATH OF HENRY PURCELL.

97 Poets are envious now, and fools alone

For how could such a wretch succeed,
Adınire at wit, because themselves have none. But that, alas, it was decreed?
Yet whatsoe'er is by vain critics thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault;
Jo homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excel,
Italiaos only can draw beauty well.
As strings, alike wound up, so equal prove,

THE MIRACLE, 1707.
That one resounding makes the other move ;

Merit they hate, and wit they slight;
From such a cause our satires please so much,
We sympathize with each ill-natur'd touch ;

They neither act, nor reason right,
And as the sharp infection spreads about,

And nothing mind but pence.

Vaskilful they victorious are, The reader's malice helps the writer out

Conduct a kingdom without care,
To blame, is easy; to commend, is bold,;

A council without sense.
Yet, if the Muse inspires it, who can hold ?
To merit we are bound to give applause,

So Moses once and Joshua,

And that virago Debora,
Content to suffer in so just a cause.
While in dark ignorance we lay, afraid

Bestrid poor Israel :
Of fancies, ghosts, and every empty shade,

Like reverence pay to these! for who

Could ride a nation as they do,
Great Hobbes appear'd, and by plain reason's light

Without a miracle?
Put such fantastic forins to shameful flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs must be
To vice enslav'd, if from vain terrours free ;
The wise and good morality will guide,
And superstition all the world beside.

ODE
In other authors, though the thought be good,
'Tis not sometimes so easily understood;

ON THE DEATH OF HENRY TI'RCELL. That jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd;

Good angels snatch'd him eagerly on high ; Some words should be left out, and some explain'd; Joyful they flew, singing and soaring through the So that in search of sense, we either stray,

sky, Or else grow weary in so rough a way. But here sweet eloquence does always smile,

Teaching his new-fledgid soul te fly; In such a choice, yet unaffected style,

While we, alas ! lamenting lie.

He went musing all along,
As must both knowledge, and delight impart,
The force of reason, with the flowers of art;

Composing new their heavenly song:
Clear as a beautiful transparent skin,

A while his skilful notes loud hallelujahs drown'd; Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in:

But soon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleas. Like a delicious stream it ever ran,

ing sound.

David himself improv'd the harmony,
As smooth as woman, but as strong as man.

David, in sacred story so renown'd
Bacon himself, whose universal wit
Does admiration through the world beget,

No less for music, than for poetry !

Genius sublime in either art!
Scarce more his age's ornament is thought,
Or greater credit to his country brought.

Crown'd with applause surpassing all desert !!

A man just after God's own heart !
While Panne is young, too weak to fly away,
Malice pursues her, like some bird of prey;

If human cares arc lawful to the blest,
But once on wing, then all the quarrels cease ;

Already settled in eternal rest; Envy herself is glad to be at peace,

Needs must he wish, that Purcell only might

Have liv'd to set what he vouchsaf'd to write; Gives over, weary'd with so high a fight,

For, sure, the noble thirst of fame Above her reach, and scarce within her sight.

With the frail boxy never dies; Hubbes, to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,

But with the soul ascends the skies, Might have look'd down with pride un dangers past:

From whence at first it came But such the frailty is of human-kind,

"Tis sure no little proof we have Men toil for Pame, which no man lives to find;

That part of us survives the grave, Long ripening under ground this China lies;

And in our fame below still bears a share: Fame bears no fruit, till the rain planter dies.

Why is the future else so much our care,
Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual length

Evin in our latest moment of despair?
Of life, which put her to her utmost strength,
Such stock of wit unable to supply,

And death despis'd for fame by all the wise and

brave? To spare berself, was glad to let him die.

Oh, all ye blest harmonious choir !
Who Power Almighty only love, and only that ad-

mire
Dook down with pity from your peaceful bower,

On this sad isle perplex'd,
WRITTEN OVER A GATE,

And ever, ever vex'd
Hexe lives a man, who, by relation,

With anxious care of trifles, wealth and power. Depends upon predestination;

In our rough minds due reverence infuse For which the learned and the wise

For sweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious His understanding much despiso:

Muse. But I pronounce with loyal tongue.

Music exalts man's nature, and inspires Him in the right, them in the wrong;

High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires. YOL X

1

[ocr errors][merged small][ocr errors]

One moral, or a mere well-natur'à deed,
ON THE LOSS OF AN ONLY SON,

Can all desert in sciences exceed.

'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways; ROBERT MARQUIS OF NORMANBY.

But a much greater to give merit praise.
Our morning's gay and shining;

The days our joys declare ;
At evening no repining;
And night's all void of care.

STANZAS.
A fond transported mother

WH

HEXE'Er my foolish bent to public good, Was often heard to cry,

Or fonder zeal for some misguided prince, Oh, where is such an other

Shall make my dangerous humour understood, So bless'd by Heaven as I ?

For changing ministers for men of sense : A child at first was wanting;

When, vainly proud to show my public care, Now such a son is sent,

And ev'n asham'd to see three nations foolid, As parents most lamenting

I shall no longer bear a wretched share In him would find content.

In ruling ill, or being over-rul'd : A child of whom kind Heaven

Then, as old lechers in a winter's night Not only hope bestows,

To yawning hearers all their pranks disclose ; But has already given

And what decay deprives them of delight, Him all our hopes propose.

Supply with vain endeavours to impose : The happy sire's possessing

Just so shall I as idly entertain His share in such a boy,

Some stripling patriots, fond of seeming wise; Adds still a greater blessing

Tell how I still could great employments gain, To all my other joy.

· Without concealing truths, or whispering lies! But ah! this shiny weather

Boast of succeeding in my country's cause Became too hot at last;

Ev'n against some almost too high to blame ; Black clouds began to gather,

Whom, when advanc'd beyond the reach of laws, And all the sky o'ercast.

I oft' had ridicul'd to sense and shame: So fierce a fever rages,

Say, I resisted the most potent fraud; We all lie drown'd in tears;

But friendless merit openly approv'd; And dismal sad presages

And that I was above the being aw'd Come thundering in our ears.

Not only by my prince, but those he lov'd: The doubts that made us languish

Who knows but my example then may please Did worse, far worse than kill.

Such noble, hopeful spirits as appear Yet, oh, with all their anguish,

Willing to slight their pleasures and their ease, Would we had doubted still !

For fame and honour? till at last they hear, But why so much digression,

After much trouble bome, and danger run, This fatal loss to show?

The crown assisted, and my country serv'd ; Alas, there's no expression

Without good fortune I had been undone, Can tell a parent's woc !

Without a good estate I might have starr'd.

THE ELECTION OF A POET LAUREAT

IN M.DCC. XIX.

FAMOUS

[merged small][ocr errors]

ON MR. POPE, AND HIS POEMS.
With age decay'd, with courts and business tird,
Caring for nothing but what ease requir'd,
Too serious now a wanton Muse to court,
And from the critics safe arriv'd in port;
I little thought of lanching forth again,
Amidst adventurous rovers of the pen ;
And, after some small undeserv'd success,
Thus hazarding at last to make it less.

Encoiniums suit not this censorious time,
Itself a subject for satiric rhyme;
Ignorance honour'd, Wit and Worth defam'd,
Folly triumphant, and ev'n Homer blam'd.
But to this genius, join'd with so much art,
Such various learning mix'd in every part,
Poets are bound a loud applause to pay;
Apollo bids it, and they must obey.

And yet so wondrous, so sublime a thing,
As the great Hiad, scarce could make me sing ;
Except I justly could at once commend
A good companion, and as firm a friend.

A sous assembly was summond of late:
To crown a new Laurcat, came Phobus in state,
With all that Montfaucon himself could desire,
His bow, laurel, harp, and abundance of fire.
At Bartlemew-fair ne'er did bullies so justle,
No country-election c'er made such a bustle:
From garret, mint, tavern, they all post away,
Sune thirsting for sack, some ambitious of bay.
All came with full contidence, flush'd with vain

hope,
Froun Cibber and Durfey, to Prior and Pope,
Pha:bus smild on these last, but yet ne'ertheless,
Said, he hop'd they had got enough by the press.
With a huge inountain-load of heroical lumber,
Which from Tonson to Curll every press had groan'd

under,

name.

Came Blackmore, and cry'd, “Look, all these are , And so spying one who came only to gaze, my lays,

A hater of verse, and despiser of plays; But at present I beg you'd but read my Essays." To bim in great form, without any delay, Lampooners and critics rush'd in like a tide,

('Though a zealous fanatic) presented the bay: Stern Dennis and Gildon came first side-by side. All the wits stood astonish'd at hearing the god Apollo confess'd that their lashes had stings, So gravely pronounce an elvetion so odd; But beadles and hangmen were never chose kings. And though Prior and Pope only laugh'd in his face, Steele long had so cunningly inanag'd the town,

Most others were ready to sink in the place. He could not be blam'd for expecting the crown; Yet some thought the vacancy open was kept, Apollo demurr'd as to granting his wish,

Concluding the bigot would never accept : But wish'd him good luck in his project of fish. But the hypocrite told them, he well understood, Lame Congreve, unable such things to endure,

Though the function was wicked, the stipend was Of Apollo begg'd either a crown or a cure;

good. To refuse such a writer, Apollo was loth,

At last in rush'd Eusden, and cry'd, “ Who shall And almost inclin'd to have granted him both.

have it, When Buckingham came, he scarce card to be Apollo begg'd pardon, and granted his claim;

But I, the true laureat, to whom the king gave it?" seen, Till Phæbus desir'd his old friend to walk in;

But vow'd though, till then he ne'er heard of his
But a laureat peer had never been known,
The commoners claim'd that place as their own.
Yet if the kind god had been ne'er so inclin'd
To break an old rule, yet he well knew his mind,
Who of such preferınent would only make sport,

ON THE TIMES.
And laugh'd at all suitors for places at court.
Notwithstanding this law,yet Lansdowne was nam’d, Hear, for once, a poet preach.

Since in vain our parsons teach,
But Apollo with kindness his indolence blam'd,

Vice has lost its very name, And said he would choose him, but that he should fear

Skill and cozenage thought the same;

Only playing well the game.
An employment of trouble he never could bear.

Foul contrivances we see
A prelate' for wit and for cloquence fam'd, Call'd but ingenuity:
Apollo soon miss'd, and he needs not be nam'd; Ample fortunes often made
Since, amidst a whole bench, of which some are so Out of frauds in every trade,
bright,

Which an aukward child afford
No one of them shines so learn'd and polite. Enough to wed the greatest lord.

The miser starves to raise a son, To Shippen, Apollo was cold with respect,

But, if once the fool is gone, Since he for the state could the Muses neglect :

Years of thrift scarce serve a day, But said, in a greater assembly he sbin'd,

Rake-hell squanders all away.
And places were things he had ever declin'd.

Husbands seeking for a place,
Trapp, Young, and Vanbrugh, expected reward, Or toiling for their pay;
For some things writ well : but Apollo declar'd, While their wives undo their race
That one was too flat, the other too rough,

By petticoats and play:
And the third sure already had places enough. Breeding boys to drink and Jice,

Carrying girls to comedies,
Pert Budgell came next, and, demanding the bays, where mamma's intrigues are shown,
Said, “ Those works must be good, which had Addi- Which ere long will be their own.
son's praise;"

Having first at sermon slept,
But Apollo reply'd, “ Child Eustace, 'tis known,

Tedious day is weekly kept Most authors will praise whatsoever's their own.”

By worse hypocrites than men, When Philips came forth, as starch as a Quaker,

Till Monday comes to cheat again. Whose simple profession's a Pastoral-maker;

Ev'n among the noblest-born,

Moral virtue is a scorn;
Apollo advis'd him from playhouse to keep,
And pipe to nought else but his dog and his sheep.

Gratitude, but rare at best,

And fidelity a jest.
Hughes, Fenton, and Gay, came last in the train,

All our wit but party-mocks,
Too modest to ask for the crown they would gain: All our wisdom raising stocks :
Phæbus thought them too bashful, and said they Counted fully to defend
would need

Sinking side, or falling friend,
More boldness, if ever they hop'd to succeed. Long an officer may serve,
Apollo, now driven to a cursed quandary,

Prais'd and wounded, he may starre: Was wishing for Swift, or the fam'd lady Mary:

No receipt, to make him rise, Nay, had honest Tom Southerne but been within

Like inventing loyal lies.

We, whose ancestors have shin'd call But at last he grew wanton, and laugh'd at them all :

In arts of peace, and fields of fame,

To ill and idleness inclin'd, ? Dr. Atterbury, bishop of Rochester.

Now are grown a public shame.

Fatal that intestine jar,
Which produc'd our civil war !

ON THE DEITY,
Ever since, how sad a race!

WRETCHED mankind ! void of both strength and Senseless, violent, and base !

skill!
Dextrous at nothing but at doing ill!
In merit humble, in pretensions high,

Among them none, alas! more weak than 1,
ON THE DUKE OF YORK

And none more blind : though still I worthless

The best I ever spoke, or ever wrote. (thought BANISHED TO BRUSSELS.

But zealous heat exalts the humblest mind;
I real a strange impulse, a strong desire, Within my soul such strong impulse I find
(For whut vain thoughts will not a Muse inspire?) The heavenly tribute of due į raise to pay:
To sing on lofty subjects, and to raisc

Perhaps 'tis sacred, and I must obey.
My own low fame, by writing James's praise.
Oft have we heard the wonders of his youth,

Yet such the subjects, various, and so high, Observ'd those seeds of fortititude and truth,

Stupendous wonders of the Deity!

Miraculous effects of boundless power! Which since have spread so wide, so wondrous high,

And that as boundless goodness shining more! The good distress'd beneath that shelter lie.

All these so numberless my thoughts attend,
In arms more active than ev'n war requir'd,
And in the midst of mighty chiefs admir'd.

Oh where shall I begin, or ever end ?
Of all Heaven's gifts, no temper is so rare,

But on that theme which ev'n the wise abuse, As so much courage mix'd with so much care. So sacred, so sublime, and so abstruse, When martial fire makes all the spirits boil, Abruptly to break off, wants po excuse. And forces youth to military toil; No wonder it should fiercely then engage :

While others vainly strive to know thee more, Women themselves will venture in a rage :

Let me in silent reverence adore; But in the midst of all that furious heat,

Wishing that human power were higher raisid, While so intent on actions brave and great,

Only that thine might be more nobly prais'd! For others' lives to feel such tender fears,

Thrice happy angels in their high degree,
And, careless of his own, to care for theirs,

Created worthy of extolling thee!
Is that composure which a hero makes,
And which illustrious York alone partakes,
With that eat man“, whose fame has flown so

PROLOGUE
Who taught him first the noble art of war. [far,

Oh, wondrous pair! whom equal virtues crown, Oh worthy of each other's vast renown!

Hope to mend Shakespeare' or to match his style! None but Turenne with York could glory share, And none but York deserves so great a master's T'is such a jest would make a Stoc smile.

Too fond of fame, our poet soars too high, care.

Yet freely owns he wants the wings to fly : Scarce was he come to bless his native isle,

So sensible of his presumptuous thought, And reap the soft reward of glorious toil,

That he confesses while he does the fault; But, like Alcides, still now dangers call

This to the fair will no great wonder prove,
His courage forth, and still be vanquish'd all.

Who oft in blushes yield to what they love.
At sea, that bloody scene of boundless rage,
Where floating castles in fierce fames engage,

Of grtato.st actions, and of noblest men, (Where Mars himself does frowningly command,

This story most deserves a poet's pen : And by lieutenants only fights at land)

For who can wish a scene more justly fam'd, For his own fame howe'er he fought before,

When Rome and nighty Julius are but nam'd!

That state of herocs who the world had brar'd! For England's honour yet he ventur'd more. In those black times, when, faction raging high, | Yet loth he was to take so rough a way,

That wondrous man who such a state enslar'd! Valour and Innocence were forc'd to fly, With York they fled; but not deprest his mind,

And after govern'd with so mild a sway. Still, like a diamond in the dust, it shin'd.

At distance now of seventeen bundred years, When from afar his drooping friends beheld

Methinks a lovely ravisher appears ; How in distress he ev'n himself excell'd;

Whom, though forbid by virtue to excuse, How to his envious fate, his country's frown,

A nyaph might pardon, and could scarce refase. His brother's will, he sacrific'd his own; They rais'd their hearts, and never doubted more But that just Heaven would all our joys restore. So when black clouds surround Heaven's glorious

CHORUSES IN JULIUS CÆSAR. face, Tempestuous darkness covering all the place, If we discern but the least glimmering ray

WHITHER is Roman honour gone? Of that bright orb of fire which rules the day,

Where is your ancient virtuc now? The cheerful sight our fainting courage warins,

That valour, which so bright has shone, Fix'd upon that we fear no future harms.

And with the wings of conquest flown,

Must to a haughty master bow:

Who, with our toil, our blood, and all we have beside, * The mareschal de Turenne

Gorges his ill-got power, his humour,and his pride.

TO THE ALTERATION OF JULIUS CÆSAR.

CHORUS I.

« הקודםהמשך »