A lady, wise as well as fair,
     Whose conscience always was her care,
     Thoughtful upon a point of moment,
     Would have the text as well as comment:
     So hearing of a grave divine,
     She sent to bid him come to dine.
     But, you must know he was not quite
     So grave as to be unpolite:
     Thought human learning would not lessen
     The dignity of his profession:
     And if you'd heard the man discourse,
     Or preach, you'd like him scarce the worse.
     He long had bid the court farewell,
     Retreating silent to his cell;
     Suspected for the love he bore
     To one who sway'd some time before;
     Which made it more surprising how
     He should be sent for thither now.
       The message told, he gapes, and stares,
     And scarce believes his eyes or ears:
     Could not conceive what it should mean,
     And fain would hear it told again.
     But then the squire so trim and nice,
     'Twere rude to make him tell it twice;
     So bow'd, was thankful for the honour;
     And would not fail to wait upon her.
     His beaver brush'd, his shoes, and gown,
     Away he trudges into town;
     Passes the lower castle yard,
     And now advancing to the guard,
     He trembles at the thoughts of state;
     For, conscious of his sheepish gait,
     His spirits of a sudden fail'd him;
     He stopp'd, and could not tell what ail'd him.
       What was the message I received?
     Why certainly the captain raved?
     To dine with her! and come at three!
     Impossible! it can't be me.
     Or maybe I mistook the word;
     My lady—it must be my lord.
       My lord 's abroad; my lady too:
     What must the unhappy doctor do?
     "Is Captain Cracherode[1] here, pray?"—"No."
     "Nay, then 'tis time for me to go."
     Am I awake, or do I dream?
     I'm sure he call'd me by my name;
     Named me as plain as he could speak;
     And yet there must be some mistake.
     Why, what a jest should I have been,
     Had now my lady been within!
     What could I've said? I'm mighty glad
     She went abroad—she'd thought me mad.
     The hour of dining now is past:
     Well then, I'll e'en go home and fast:
     And, since I 'scaped being made a scoff,
     I think I'm very fairly off.
     My lady now returning home,
     Calls "Cracherode, is the Doctor come?"
     He had not heard of him—"Pray see,
     'Tis now a quarter after three."
     The captain walks about, and searches
     Through all the rooms, and courts, and arches;
     Examines all the servants round,
     In vain—no doctor's to be found.
     My lady could not choose but wonder;
     "Captain, I fear you've made some blunder;
     But, pray, to-morrow go at ten;
     I'll try his manners once again;
     If rudeness be th' effect of knowledge,
     My son shall never see a college."
       The captain was a man of reading,
     And much good sense, as well as breeding;
     Who, loath to blame, or to incense,
     Said little in his own defence.
     Next day another message brought;
     The Doctor, frighten'd at his fault,
     Is dress'd, and stealing through the crowd,
     Now pale as death, then blush'd and bow'd,
     Panting—and faltering—humm'd and ha'd,
     "Her ladyship was gone abroad:
     The captain too—he did not know
     Whether he ought to stay or go;"
     Begg'd she'd forgive him. In conclusion,
     My lady, pitying his confusion,
     Call'd her good nature to relieve him;
     Told him, she thought she might believe him;
     And would not only grant his suit,
     But visit him, and eat some fruit,
     Provided, at a proper time,
     He told the real truth in rhyme;
     'Twas to no purpose to oppose,
     She'd hear of no excuse in prose.
     The Doctor stood not to debate,
     Glad to compound at any rate;
     So, bowing, seemingly complied;
     Though, if he durst, he had denied.
     But first, resolved to show his taste,
     Was too refined to give a feast;
     He'd treat with nothing that was rare,
     But winding walks and purer air;
     Would entertain without expense,
     Or pride or vain magnificence:
     For well he knew, to such a guest
     The plainest meals must be the best.
     To stomachs clogg'd with costly fare
     Simplicity alone is rare;
     While high, and nice, and curious meats
     Are really but vulgar treats.
     Instead of spoils of Persian looms,
     The costly boast of regal rooms,
     Thought it more courtly and discreet
     To scatter roses at her feet;
     Roses of richest dye, that shone
     With native lustre, like her own;
     Beauty that needs no aid of art
     Through every sense to reach the heart.
     The gracious dame, though well she knew
     All this was much beneath her due,
     Liked everything—at least thought fit
     To praise it par manière d'acquit.
     Yet she, though seeming pleased, can't bear
     The scorching sun, or chilling air;
     Disturb'd alike at both extremes,
     Whether he shows or hides his beams:
     Though seeming pleased at all she sees,
     Starts at the ruffling of the trees,
     And scarce can speak for want of breath,
     In half a walk fatigued to death.
     The Doctor takes his hint from hence,
     T' apologize his late offence:
     "Madam, the mighty power of use
     Now strangely pleads in my excuse;
     If you unused have scarcely strength
     To gain this walk's untoward length;
     If, frighten'd at a scene so rude,
     Through long disuse of solitude;
     If, long confined to fires and screens,
     You dread the waving of these greens;
     If you, who long have breathed the fumes
     Of city fogs and crowded rooms,
     Do now solicitously shun
     The cooler air and dazzling sun;
     If his majestic eye you flee,
     Learn hence t' excuse and pity me.
     Consider what it is to bear
     The powder'd courtier's witty sneer;
     To see th' important man of dress
     Scoffing my college awkwardness;
     To be the strutting cornet's sport,
     To run the gauntlet of the court,
     Winning my way by slow approaches,
     Through crowds of coxcombs and of coaches,
     From the first fierce cockaded sentry,
     Quite through the tribe of waiting gentry;
     To pass so many crowded stages,
     And stand the staring of your pages:
     And after all, to crown my spleen,
     Be told—'You are not to be seen:'
     Or, if you are, be forced to bear
     The awe of your majestic air.
     And can I then be faulty found,
     In dreading this vexatious round?
     Can it be strange, if I eschew
     A scene so glorious and so new?
     Or is he criminal that flies
     The living lustre of your eyes?"

     [Footnote 1: The gentleman who brought the message.—Scott.]

INSCRIBED TO LORD CARTERET[1]
     1724

     Gratior et pulcro veniens in corpore virtus.—VIRG., Aen., v, 344.

     Once on a time, a righteous sage,
     Grieved with the vices of the age,
     Applied to Jove with fervent prayer—
     "O Jove, if Virtue be so fair
     As it was deem'd in former days,
     By Plato and by Socrates,
     Whose beauties mortal eyes escape,
     Only for want of outward shape;
     Make then its real excellence,
     For once the theme of human sense;
     So shall the eye, by form confined,
     Direct and fix the wandering mind,
     And long-deluded mortals see,
     With rapture, what they used to flee!"
       Jove grants the prayer, gives Virtue birth,
     And bids him bless and mend the earth.
     Behold him blooming fresh and fair,
     Now made—ye gods—a son and heir;
     An heir: and, stranger yet to hear,
     An heir, an orphan of a peer;[2]
     But prodigies are wrought to prove
     Nothing impossible to Jove.
       Virtue was for this sex design'd,
     In mild reproof to womankind;
     In manly form to let them see
     The loveliness of modesty,
     The thousand decencies that shone
     With lessen'd lustre in their own;
     Which few had learn'd enough to prize,
     And some thought modish to despise.
       To make his merit more discern'd,
     He goes to school—he reads—is learn'd;
     Raised high above his birth, by knowledge,
     He shines distinguish'd in a college;
     Resolved nor honour, nor estate,
     Himself alone should make him great.
     Here soon for every art renown'd,
     His influence is diffused around;
     The inferior youth to learning led,
     Less to be famed than to be fed,
     Behold the glory he has won,
     And blush to see themselves outdone;
     And now, inflamed with rival rage,
     In scientific strife engage,
     Engage; and, in the glorious strife
     The arts new kindle into life.
       Here would our hero ever dwell,
     Fix'd in a lonely learned cell:
     Contented to be truly great,
     In Virtue's best beloved retreat;
     Contented he—but Fate ordains,
     He now shall shine in nobler scenes,
     Raised high, like some celestial fire,
     To shine the more, still rising higher;
     Completely form'd in every part,
     To win the soul, and glad the heart.
     The powerful voice, the graceful mien,
     Lovely alike, or heard, or seen;
     The outward form and inward vie,
     His soul bright beaming from his eye,
     Ennobling every act and air,
     With just, and generous, and sincere.
       Accomplish'd thus, his next resort
     Is to the council and the court,
     Where Virtue is in least repute,
     And interest the one pursuit;
     Where right and wrong are bought and sold,
     Barter'd for beauty, and for gold;
     Here Manly Virtue, even here,
     Pleased in the person of a peer,
     A peer; a scarcely bearded youth,
     Who talk'd of justice and of truth,
     Of innocence the surest guard,
     Tales here forgot, or yet unheard;
     That he alone deserved esteem,
     Who was the man he wish'd to seem;
     Call'd it unmanly and unwise,
     To lurk behind a mean disguise;
     (Give fraudful Vice the mask and screen,
     'Tis Virtue's interest to be seen;)
     Call'd want of shame a want of sense,
     And found, in blushes, eloquence.
       Thus acting what he taught so well,
     He drew dumb merit from her cell,
     Led with amazing art along
     The bashful dame, and loosed her tongue;
     And, while he made her value known,
     Yet more display'd and raised his own.
       Thus young, thus proof to all temptations,
     He rises to the highest stations;
     For where high honour is the prize,
     True Virtue has a right to rise:
     Let courtly slaves low bend the knee
     To Wealth and Vice in high degree:
     Exalted Worth disdains to owe
     Its grandeur to its greatest foe.
       Now raised on high, see Virtue shows
     The godlike ends for which he rose;
     For him, let proud Ambition know
     The height of glory here below,
     Grandeur, by goodness made complete!
     To bless, is truly to be great!
     He taught how men to honour rise,
     Like gilded vapours to the skies,
     Which, howsoever they display
     Their glory from the god of day,
     Their noblest use is to abate
     His dangerous excess of heat,
     To shield the infant fruits and flowers,
     And bless the earth with genial showers.
       Now change the scene; a nobler care
     Demands him in a higher sphere:[3]
     Distress of nations calls him hence,
     Permitted so by Providence;
     For models, made to mend our kind,
     To no one clime should be confined;
     And Manly Virtue, like the sun,
     His course of glorious toils should run:
     Alike diffusing in his flight
     Congenial joy, and life, and light.
     Pale Envy sickens, Error flies,
     And Discord in his presence dies;
     Oppression hides with guilty dread,
     And Merit rears her drooping head;
     The arts revive, the valleys sing,
     And winter softens into spring:
     The wondering world, where'er he moves,
     With new delight looks up, and loves;
     One sex consenting to admire,
     Nor less the other to desire;
     While he, though seated on a throne,
     Confines his love to one alone;
     The rest condemn'd with rival voice
     Repining, do applaud his choice.
       Fame now reports, the Western isle
     Is made his mansion for a while,
     Whose anxious natives, night and day,
     (Happy beneath his righteous sway,)
     Weary the gods with ceaseless prayer,
     To bless him, and to keep him there;
     And claim it as a debt from Fate,
     Too lately found, to lose him late.

     [Footnote 1: See Swift's "Vindication of Lord Carteret," "Prose Works,"
     vii, 227; and his character as Lord Granville in my "Wit and Wisdom of
     Lord Chesterfield."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: George, the first Lord Carteret, father of the Lord
     Lieutenant, died when his son was between four and five years of
     age.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 3: Lord Carteret had the honour of mediating peace for Sweden,
     with Denmark, and with the Czar.—H.]

     As a thorn bush, or oaken bough,
     Stuck in an Irish cabin's brow,
     Above the door, at country fair,
     Betokens entertainment there;
     So bays on poets' brows have been
     Set, for a sign of wit within.
     And as ill neighbours in the night
     Pull down an alehouse bush for spite;
     The laurel so, by poets worn,
     Is by the teeth of Envy torn;
     Envy, a canker-worm, which tears
     Those sacred leaves that lightning spares.
       And now, t'exemplify this moral:
     Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel,
     (Which, measured on his head, was found
     Not long enough to reach half round,
     But, like a girl's cockade, was tied,
     A trophy, on his temple-side,)
     Paddy repined to see him wear
     This badge of honour in his hair;
     And, thinking this cockade of wit
     Would his own temples better fit,
     Forming his Muse by Smedley's model,
     Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle,
     Pelts him by turns with verse and prose
     Hums like a hornet at his nose.
     At length presumes to vent his satire on
     The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron.
     The eagle in the tale, ye know,
     Teazed by a buzzing wasp below,
     Took wing to Jove, and hoped to rest
     Securely in the thunderer's breast:
     In vain; even there, to spoil his nod,
     The spiteful insect stung the god.

     [Footnote 1: For particulars of this publication, the work of two only,
     Swift and Sheridan, see "Prose Works," vol. ix, p. 311. The satire seems
     To have provoked retaliation from Tighe, Prendergast, Smedley, and even
     from Delany. Hence this poem.—W. E. B.]

       Credis ob haec me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare,
       Propter quae vulgus crassaque turba rogat.
MART., Epig., lib. ix, 22.

     Thou wise and learned ruler of our isle,
     Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile;
     When next your generous soul shall condescend
     T' instruct or entertain your humble friend;
     Whether, retiring from your weighty charge,
     On some high theme you learnedly enlarge;
     Of all the ways of wisdom reason well,
     How Richelieu rose, and how Sejanus fell:
     Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends,
     Circled with Swift and some delighted friends;
     When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine,
     Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine:
     Nor with less praise the conversation guide,
     Than in the public councils you decide:
     Or when the Dean, long privileged to rail,
     Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal;
     You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute)
     With soft concessions shortening the dispute;
     Then close with kind inquiries of my state,
     "How are your tithes, and have they rose of late?
     Why, Christ-Church is a pretty situation,
     There are not many better in the nation!
     This, with your other things, must yield you clear
     Some six—at least five hundred pounds a-year."
       Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom
     To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em;
     You shall rejoin, my lord, when I've replied,
     And, if you please, my lady shall decide.
       "My lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well,
     And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell;
     But you'll forgive me, if I own the event
     Is short, is very short, of your intent:
     At least, I feel some ills unfelt before,
     My income less, and my expenses more."
       "How, doctor! double vicar! double rector!
     A dignitary! with a city lecture!
     What glebes—what dues—what tithes—what fines—what rent!
     Why, doctor!—will you never be content?"
     "Would my good Lord but cast up the account,
     And see to what my revenues amount;[2]
     My titles ample; but my gain so small,
     That one good vicarage is worth them all:
     And very wretched, sure, is he that's double
     In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
     And to this crying grievance, if you please,
     My horses founder'd on Fermanagh ways;
     Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone,
     Where every step endangers every bone;
     And, more to raise your pity and your wonder,
     Two churches—twelve Hibernian miles asunder:
     With complicated cures, I labour hard in,
     Beside whole summers absent from—my garden!
     But that the world would think I play'd the fool,
     I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school.[3]
     What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make,
     Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake!
     There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe,
     Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph:[4]
     There's not a better steerer in the realm;
     I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm."—
       "Doctor—a glorious scheme to ease your grief!
     When cures are cross, a school's a sure relief.
     You cannot fail of being happy there,
     The lake will be the Lethe of your care:
     The scheme is for your honour and your ease:
     And, doctor, I'll promote it when you please.
     Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit,
     Yet, doctor, you've a philosophic spirit;
     Your wants are few, and, like your income, small,
     And you've enough to gratify them all:
     You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store:
     And what would a philosopher have more?
     You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks—"
       "My lord, I've not enough to buy me books—
     Or pray, suppose my wants were all supplied,
     Are there no wants I should regard beside?
     Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve,
     Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve?
     Who can be happy—who should wish to live,
     And want the godlike happiness to give?
     That I'm a judge of this, you must allow:
     I had it once—and I'm debarr'd it now.
     Ask your own heart, my lord; if this be true,
     Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!"
       "'Tis true—but, doctor, let us wave all that—
     Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?"
       "Excuse me, good my lord—I won't be sounded,
     Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded.
     My lord, I challenge nothing as my due,
     Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you.
     Yet this might Symmachus himself avow,
     (Whose rigid rules[5] are antiquated now)—
     My lord; I'd wish to pay the debts I owe—
     I'd wish besides—to build and to bestow."

     [Footnote 1: Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through
     the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of
     Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chancellorship
     of Christ-Church, and a prebend's stall in St. Patrick's, neither of
     which exceeded the same annual amount. Yet a clamour was raised among the
     Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge
     was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant of extravagant favour to a Tory
     divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation
     in his "Vindication of Lord Carteret." It appears, from the following
     verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who
     thought he was too amply provided for.—Scott. See the "Vindication,"
     "Prose Works," vii, p. 244.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Which, according to Swift's calculation, in his "Vindication
     of Lord Carteret," amounted only to £300 a year. "Prose Works," vol. vii,
     p. 245.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith,
     Esq.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 4: Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of
     Erin.—F.]

     [Footnote 5: Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man
     should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the
     incumbent.—H.]

     As Jove will not attend on less,
     When things of more importance press:
     You can't, grave sir, believe it hard,
     That you, a low Hibernian bard,
     Should cool your heels a while, and wait
     Unanswer'd at your patron's gate;
     And would my lord vouchsafe to grant
     This one poor humble boon I want,
     Free leave to play his secretary,
     As Falstaff acted old king Harry;[1]
     I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print,
     Folks shrug, and cry, "There's nothing in't."
     And, after several readings over,
     It shines most in the marble cover.
       How could so fine a taste dispense
     With mean degrees of wit and sense?
     Nor will my lord so far beguile
     The wise and learned of our isle;
     To make it pass upon the nation,
     By dint of his sole approbation.
     The task is arduous, patrons find,
     To warp the sense of all mankind:
     Who think your Muse must first aspire,
     Ere he advance the doctor higher.
       You've cause to say he meant you well:
     That you are thankful, who can tell?
     For still you're short (which grieves your spirit)
     Of his intent: you mean your merit.
       Ah! quanto rectius, tu adepte,
     Qui nil moliris tarn inepte?[2]
     Smedley,[3] thou Jonathan of Clogher,
     "When thou thy humble lay dost offer
     To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart,
     Thy thanks and verse devoid of art:
     Content with what his bounty gave,
     No larger income dost thou crave."
       But you must have cascades, and all
     Iërne's lake, for your canal,
     Your vistoes, barges, and (a pox on
     All pride!) our speaker for your coxon:[4]
     It's pity that he can't bestow you
     Twelve commoners in caps to row you.
     Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,[5]
     Held monarchs labouring at the oar;
     And, as he pass'd, so swell'd the Dee,
     Enraged, as Ern would do at thee.
       How different is this from Smedley!
     (His name is up, he may in bed lie)
     "Who only asks some pretty cure,
     In wholesome soil and ether pure:
     The garden stored with artless flowers,
     In either angle shady bowers:
     No gay parterre with costly green
     Must in the ambient hedge be seen;
     But Nature freely takes her course,
     Nor fears from him ungrateful force:
     No shears to check her sprouting vigour,
     Or shape the yews to antic figure."
       But you, forsooth, your all must squander
     On that poor spot, call'd Dell-ville, yonder;
     And when you've been at vast expenses
     In whims, parterres, canals, and fences,
     Your assets fail, and cash is wanting;
     Nor farther buildings, farther planting:
     No wonder, when you raise and level,
     Think this wall low, and that wall bevel.
     Here a convenient box you found,
     Which you demolish'd to the ground:
     Then built, then took up with your arbour,
     And set the house to Rupert Barber.
     You sprang an arch which, in a scurvy
     Humour, you tumbled topsy-turvy.
     You change a circle to a square,
     Then to a circle as you were:
     Who can imagine whence the fund is,
     That you quadrata change rotundis?
       To Fame a temple you erect,
     A Flora does the dome protect;
     Mounts, walks, on high; and in a hollow
     You place the Muses and Apollo;
     There shining 'midst his train, to grace
     Your whimsical poetic place.
       These stories were of old design'd
     As fables: but you have refined
     The poets mythologic dreams,
     To real Muses, gods, and streams.
     Who would not swear, when you contrive thus,
     That you're Don Quixote redivivus?
     Beneath, a dry canal there lies,
     Which only Winter's rain supplies.
     O! couldst thou, by some magic spell,
     Hither convey St. Patrick's well![6]
     Here may it reassume its stream,
     And take a greater Patrick's name!
       If your expenses rise so high;
     What income can your wants supply?
     Yet still you fancy you inherit
     A fund of such superior merit,
     That you can't fail of more provision,
     All by my lady's kind decision.
     For, the more livings you can fish up,
     You think you'll sooner be a bishop:
     That could not be my lord's intent,
     Nor can it answer the event.
     Most think what has been heap'd on you
     To other sort of folk was due:
     Rewards too great for your flim-flams,
     Epistles, riddles, epigrams.
       Though now your depth must not be sounded,
     The time was, when you'd have compounded
     For less than Charley Grattan's school!
     Five hundred pound a-year's no fool!
     Take this advice then from your friend,
     To your ambition put an end,
     Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe,
     Before you build and you bestow.
     Be modest, nor address your betters
     With begging, vain, familiar letters.
       A passage may be found,[7] I've heard,
     In some old Greek or Latian bard,
     Which says, "Would crows in silence eat
     Their offals, or their better meat,
     Their generous feeders not provoking
     By loud and inharmonious croaking,
     They might, unhurt by Envy's claws,
     Live on, and stuff to boot their maws."

     [Footnote 1: "King Henry the Fourth," Part I, Act ii,
     Scene 4.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: Adapted from Hor., "Epist. ad Pisones," 140.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: See the "Petition to the Duke of Grafton," post,
     p. 345.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 4: Alluding to Dr. Delany's ambitious choice of fixing in the
     island of the Lake of Erin, where Sir Ralph Gore had a villa.—Scott.]

     [Footnote 5: When residing at Chester, he obliged eight of his tributary
     princes to row him in a barge upon the Dee. Hume's "History of England,"
     vol. i, p. 106.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: Which had suddenly dried up. See post, vol. ii, "Verses on
     the sudden drying up of St. Patrick's Well, near Trinity College,
     Dublin."—W.E.B.]

     [Footnote 7: Hor., "Epist.," lib. I, xvii, 50.
       "Sed tacitus pasci si corvus posset, haberet
       Plus dapis, et rixae multo minus invidiaeque."
     I append the original, for the sake of Swift's very free
     rendering.—W. E. B.]

     Deluded mortals, whom the great
     Choose for companions tête-à-tête;
     Who at their dinners, en famille,
     Get leave to sit whene'er you will;
     Then boasting tell us where you dined,
     And how his lordship was so kind;
     How many pleasant things he spoke;
     And how you laugh'd at every joke:
     Swear he's a most facetious man;
     That you and he are cup and can;
     You travel with a heavy load,
     And quite mistake preferment's road.
       Suppose my lord and you alone;
     Hint the least interest of your own,
     His visage drops, he knits his brow,
     He cannot talk of business now:
     Or, mention but a vacant post,
     He'll turn it off with "Name your toast:"
     Nor could the nicest artist paint
     A countenance with more constraint.
       For, as their appetites to quench,
     Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench;
     So men of wit are but a kind
     Of panders to a vicious mind
     Who proper objects must provide
     To gratify their lust of pride,
     When, wearied with intrigues of state,
     They find an idle hour to prate.
     Then, shall you dare to ask a place,
     You forfeit all your patron's grace,
     And disappoint the sole design,
     For which he summon'd you to dine.
       Thus Congreve spent in writing plays,
     And one poor office, half his days:
     While Montague,[1] who claim'd the station
     To be Mæcenas of the nation,
     For poets open table kept,
     But ne'er consider'd where they slept:
     Himself as rich as fifty Jews,
     Was easy, though they wanted shoes;
     And crazy Congreve scarce could spare
     A shilling to discharge his chair:
     Till prudence taught him to appeal
     From Pæan's fire to party zeal;
     Not owing to his happy vein
     The fortunes of his later scene,
     Took proper principles to thrive:
     And so might every dunce alive.[2]
       Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ,
     And flourish'd by imputed wit,
     From perils of a hundred jails,
     Withdrew to starve, and die in Wales.
       Thus Gay, the hare with many friends,
     Twice seven long years the court attends:
     Who, under tales conveying truth,
     To virtue form'd a princely youth:[3]
     Who paid his courtship with the crowd,
     As far as modest pride allow'd;
     Rejects a servile usher's place,
     And leaves St. James's in disgrace.[4]
       Thus Addison, by lords carest,
     Was left in foreign lands distrest;
     Forgot at home, became for hire
     A travelling tutor to a squire:
     But wisely left the Muses' hill,
     To business shaped the poet's quill,
     Let all his barren laurels fade,
     Took up himself the courtier's trade,
     And, grown a minister of state,
     Saw poets at his levee wait.[5]
       Hail, happy Pope! whose generous mind
     Detesting all the statesman kind,
     Contemning courts, at courts unseen,
     Refused the visits of a queen.
     A soul with every virtue fraught,
     By sages, priests, or poets taught;
     Whose filial piety excels
     Whatever Grecian story tells;[6]
     A genius for all stations fit,
     Whose meanest talent is his wit:
     His heart too great, though fortune little,
     To lick a rascal statesman's spittle:
     Appealing to the nation's taste,
     Above the reach of want is placed:
     By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
     Which Homer never could alive;
     And sits aloft on Pindus' head,
     Despising slaves that cringe for bread.
       True politicians only pay
     For solid work, but not for play:
     Nor ever choose to work with tools
     Forged up in colleges and schools,
     Consider how much more is due
     To all their journeymen than you:
     At table you can Horace quote;
     They at a pinch can bribe a vote:
     You show your skill in Grecian story;
     But they can manage Whig and Tory;
     You, as a critic, are so curious
     To find a verse in Virgil spurious;
     But they can smoke the deep designs,
     When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines.
       Besides, your patron may upbraid ye,
     That you have got a place already;
     An office for your talents fit,
     To flatter, carve, and show your wit;
     To snuff the lights and stir the fire,
     And get a dinner for your hire.
     What claim have you to place or pension?
     He overpays in condescension.
       But, reverend doctor, you we know
     Could never condescend so low;
     The viceroy, whom you now attend,
     Would, if he durst, be more your friend;
     Nor will in you those gifts despise,
     By which himself was taught to rise:
     When he has virtue to retire,
     He'll grieve he did not raise you higher,
     And place you in a better station,
     Although it might have pleased the nation.
       This may be true—submitting still
     To Walpole's more than royal will;
     And what condition can be worse?
     He comes to drain a beggar's purse;
     He comes to tie our chains on faster,
     And show us England is our master:
     Caressing knaves, and dunces wooing,
     To make them work their own undoing.
     What has he else to bait his traps,
     Or bring his vermin in, but scraps?
     The offals of a church distrest;
     A hungry vicarage at best;
     Or some remote inferior post,
     With forty pounds a-year at most?
       But here again you interpose—
     Your favourite lord is none of those
     Who owe their virtues to their stations,
     And characters to dedications:
     For, keep him in, or turn him out,
     His learning none will call in doubt;
     His learning, though a poet said it
     Before a play, would lose no credit;
     Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
     Although to praise it Philips writ.
     I own he hates an action base,
     His virtues battling with his place:
     Nor wants a nice discerning spirit
     Betwixt a true and spurious merit;
     Can sometimes drop a voter's claim,
     And give up party to his fame.
     I do the most that friendship can;
     I hate the viceroy, love the man.
       But you, who, till your fortune's made,
     Must be a sweetener by your trade,
     Should swear he never meant us ill;
     We suffer sore against his will;
     That, if we could but see his heart,
     He would have chose a milder part:
     We rather should lament his case,
     Who must obey, or lose his place.
       Since this reflection slipt your pen,
     Insert it when you write again;
     And, to illustrate it, produce
     This simile for his excuse:
       "So, to destroy a guilty land
     An [7]angel sent by Heaven's command,
     While he obeys Almighty will,
     Perhaps may feel compassion still;
     And wish the task had been assign'd
     To spirits of less gentle kind."
       But I, in politics grown old,
     Whose thoughts are of a different mould,
     Who from my soul sincerely hate
     Both kings and ministers of state;
     Who look on courts with stricter eyes
     To see the seeds of vice arise;
     Can lend you an allusion fitter,
     Though flattering knaves may call it bitter;
     Which, if you durst but give it place,
     Would show you many a statesman's face:
     Fresh from the tripod of Apollo,
     I had it in the words that follow:
     Take notice to avoid offence,
     I here except his excellence:
       "So, to effect his monarch's ends,
     From hell a viceroy devil ascends;
     His budget with corruptions cramm'd,
     The contributions of the damn'd;
     Which with unsparing hand he strews
     Through courts and senates as he goes;
     And then at Beelzebub's black hall,
     Complains his budget was too small."
       Your simile may better shine
     In verse, but there is truth in mine.
     For no imaginable things
     Can differ more than gods and kings:
     And statesmen, by ten thousand odds,
     Are angels just as kings are gods.

     [Footnote 1: Earl of Halifax; see Johnson's "Life of
     Montague."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 2: The whole of this paragraph is unjust both to Halifax and
     Congreve; for immediately after the production of Congreve's first play,
     "The Old Bachelor," Halifax gave him a place in the Pipe Office, and
     another in the Customs, of £600 a year. Ultimately he had at least four
     sinecure appointments which together afforded him some £1,200 a year. See
     Johnson's "Lives of the Poets," edit. Cunningham.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 3: William, Duke of Cumberland, son to George II, "The
     Butcher."]

     [Footnote 4: See ante, p. 215, note.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 5: See Johnson's "Life of Addison."—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 6: See "Prologue to the Satires," 390 to the end.—W. E. B.]

     [Footnote 7: "So when an angel by divine command," etc.
ADDISON'S Campaign.]

                       —Tanti tibi non sit opaci
     Omnis arena Tagi quodque in mare volvitur aurum.—Juv. iii, 54.

     As some raw youth in country bred,
     To arms by thirst of honour led,
     When at a skirmish first he hears
     The bullets whistling round his ears,
     Will duck his head aside, will start,
     And feel a trembling at his heart,
     Till 'scaping oft without a wound
     Lessens the terror of the sound;
     Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
     He runs into a cannon's chops.
     An author thus, who pants for fame,
     Begins the world with fear and shame;
     When first in print you see him dread
     Each pop-gun levell'd at his head:
     The lead yon critic's quill contains,
     Is destined to beat out his brains:
     As if he heard loud thunders roll,
     Cries, Lord have mercy on his soul!
     Concluding that another shot
     Will strike him dead upon the spot.
     But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
     He cannot see one creature dropping;
     That, missing fire, or missing aim,
     His life is safe, I mean his fame;
     The danger past, takes heart of grace,
     And looks a critic in the face.
       Though splendour gives the fairest mark
     To poison'd arrows in the dark,
     Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
     They glance aside without a wound.
       'Tis said, the gods tried all their art,
     How pain they might from pleasure part:
     But little could their strength avail;
     Both still are fasten'd by the tail;
     Thus fame and censure with a tether
     By fate are always link'd together.
       Why will you aim to be preferr'd
     In wit before the common herd;
     And yet grow mortified and vex'd,
     To pay the penalty annex'd?
       'Tis eminence makes envy rise;
     As fairest fruits attract the flies.
     Should stupid libels grieve your mind,
     You soon a remedy may find;
     Lie down obscure like other folks
     Below the lash of snarlers' jokes.
     Their faction is five hundred odds,
     For every coxcomb lends them rods,
     And sneers as learnedly as they,
     Like females o'er their morning tea.
       You say the Muse will not contain
     And write you must, or break a vein.
     Then, if you find the terms too hard,
     No longer my advice regard:
     But raise your fancy on the wing;
     The Irish senate's praises sing;
     How jealous of the nation's freedom,
     And for corruptions how they weed 'em;
     How each the public good pursues,
     How far their hearts from private views;
     Make all true patriots, up to shoe-boys,
     Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;[1]
     Thus grown a member of the club,
     No longer dread the rage of Grub.
       How oft am I for rhyme to seek!
     To dress a thought I toil a week:
     And then how thankful to the town,
     If all my pains will earn a crown!
     While every critic can devour
     My work and me in half an hour.
     Would men of genius cease to write,
     The rogues must die for want and spite;
     Must die for want of food and raiment,
     If scandal did not find them payment.
     How cheerfully the hawkers cry
     A satire, and the gentry buy!
     While my hard-labour'd poem pines
     Unsold upon the printer's lines.
       A genius in the reverend gown
     Must ever keep its owner down;
     'Tis an unnatural conjunction,
     And spoils the credit of the function.
     Round all your brethren cast your eyes,
     Point out the surest men to rise;
     That club of candidates in black,
     The least deserving of the pack,
     Aspiring, factious, fierce, and loud,
     With grace and learning unendow'd,
     Can turn their hands to every job,
     The fittest tools to work for Bob;[2]
     Will sooner coin a thousand lies,
     Than suffer men of parts to rise;
     They crowd about preferment's gate,
     And press you down with all their weight;
     For as of old mathematicians
     Were by the vulgar thought magicians;
     So academic dull ale-drinkers
     Pronounce all men of wit free-thinkers.
       Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends,
     Disdains to serve ignoble ends.
     Observe what loads of stupid rhymes
     Oppress us in corrupted times;
     What pamphlets in a court's defence
     Show reason, grammar, truth, or sense?
     For though the Muse delights in fiction,
     She ne'er inspires against conviction.
     Then keep your virtue still unmixt,
     And let not faction come betwixt:
     By party-steps no grandeur climb at,
     Though it would make you England's primate;
     First learn the science to be dull,
     You then may soon your conscience lull;
     If not, however seated high,
     Your genius in your face will fly.
       When Jove was from his teeming head
     Of Wit's fair goddess[3] brought to bed,
     There follow'd at his lying-in
     For after-birth a sooterkin;
     Which, as the nurse pursued to kill,
     Attain'd by flight the Muses' hill,
     There in the soil began to root,
     And litter'd at Parnassus' foot.
     From hence the critic vermin sprung,
     With harpy claws and poisonous tongue:
     Who fatten on poetic scraps,
     Too cunning to be caught in traps.
     Dame Nature, as the learned show,
     Provides each animal its foe:
     Hounds hunt the hare, the wily fox
     Devours your geese, the wolf your flocks
     Thus Envy pleads a natural claim
     To persecute the Muse's fame;
     On poets in all times abusive,
     From Homer down to Pope inclusive.
       Yet what avails it to complain?
     You try to take revenge in vain.
     A rat your utmost rage defies,
     That safe behind the wainscot lies.
     Say, did you ever know by sight
     In cheese an individual mite!
     Show me the same numeric flea,
     That bit your neck but yesterday:
     You then may boldly go in quest
     To find the Grub Street poet's nest;
     What spunging-house, in dread of jail,
     Receives them, while they wait for bail;
     What alley are they nestled in,
     To flourish o'er a cup of gin;
     Find the last garret where they lay,
     Or cellar where they starve to-day.
     Suppose you have them all trepann'd,
     With each a libel in his hand,
     What punishment would you inflict?
     Or call them rogues, or get them kickt?
     These they have often tried before;
     You but oblige them so much more:
     Themselves would be the first to tell,
     To make their trash the better sell.
       You have been libell'd—Let us know,
     What fool officious told you so?
     Will you regard the hawker's cries,
     Who in his titles always lies?
     Whate'er the noisy scoundrel says,
     It might be something in your praise;
     And praise bestow'd in Grub Street rhymes,
     Would vex one more a thousand times.
     Till critics blame, and judges praise,
     The poet cannot claim his bays.
     On me when dunces are satiric,
     I take it for a panegyric.
     Hated by fools, and fools to hate,
     Be that my motto, and my fate.