The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by George Crabbe.

A time like this, a busy, bustling time,
Suits ill with Writers, very ill with Rhyme;
Unheard we sing when Party-rage runs strong,
And mightier Madness checks the flowing Song:
Or should we force the peaceful Muse to wield
Her feeble Arms amid the furious Field;
Where Party-Pens a wordy War maintain,
Poor is her Anger and her Friendship vain;
And oft the Foes who feel her Sting, combine,
Till serious Vengeance pays an idle Line;
For Party-Poets are like Wasps, who dart
Death to themselves and to their Foes but Smart.
Hard then our Fate: if general Themes we choose,
Neglect awaits the Song, and chills the Muse;
Or should we sing the Subject of the Day,
To-morrow’s Wonder puffs our Praise away.
More blest the Bards of that Poetic Time,
When all found Readers who could find a Rhyme;
Green grew the Bays on every teeming Head,
And Cibber was enthron’d and Settle read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the Cause of thy Decline;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine?
Alas! new Charms the wavering Many gain,
And rival Sheets the Reader’s Eye detain;
A daily Swarm, that banish every Muse,
Come flying forth, and Mortals call them News:
For these, unread the noblest Volumes lie;
For these, in Sheets unsoil’d the Muses die;
Unbought, unblest, the virgin Copies wait,
In vain for Fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.
Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our Foes,
The smoothest Numbers for the harshest Prose;
Let us, with generous scorn, the Taste deride,
And sing our Rivals with a Rival’s Pride.
Ye gentle Poets, who so oft complain
That foul Neglect is all your Labours gain;
That Pity only checks your growing Spite
To erring Man and prompts you still to write;
That your choice Works on humble Stalls are laid,
Or vainly grace the Windows of the Trade;
Be ye my Friends, if Friendship e’er can warm
Those rival Bosoms whom the Muses charm:
Think of the common Cause, wherein we go,
Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevish Chief his Leader blame,
Till crown’d with Conquest we regain our Fame;
And let us join our Forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful Crew.

I sing of News, and all those vapid Sheets
The rattling Hawker vends thro’ gaping Streets;
Whate’er their Name, whate’er the Time they fly,
Damp from the Press, to charm the Reader’s Eye:
For, soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue,
The Herald of the Morn arises too;
Post after Post succeeds, and all day long,
Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng.
When Evening comes, she comes with all her train
Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again,
Like Bats appearing when the Sun goes down,
From Holes obscure and Corners of the Town.
Of all these Triflers, all like these, I write;
Oh! like my Subject could my Song delight,
The Crowd at Lloyd’s one Poet’s Name should raise,
And all the Alley echo to his praise.
In shoals the Hours their constant Numbers bring,
Like Insects waking to th’ advancing Spring;
Which take their rise from Grubs obscene that lie,
In shallow Pools, or thence ascend the Sky;
Such are these base Ephemeras, so born
To die before the next revolving Morn.
Yet thus they differ: Insect-tribes are lost
In the first Visit of a Winter’s Frost;
While these remain, a base but constant Breed,
Whose swarming Sons their short-liv’d Sires succeed;
No changing Season makes their Number less,
Nor Sunday shines a Sabbath on the Press!!

Then lo! the sainted Monitor is born,
Whose pious Face some sacred Texts adorn:
As artful Sinners cloak the secret Sin,
To veil with seeming Grace the Guile within;
So Moral Essays on his Front appear,
But all is Carnal Business in the Rear;
The fresh-coin’d Lie, the Secret whisper’d last,
And all the Gleanings of the six Days past.
With these retir’d, thro’ half the Sabbath-day,
The London-lounger yawns his Hours away:
Not so, my little Flock!, your Preacher fly,
Nor waste the Time no worldly Wealth can buy;
But let the decent Maid and sober Clown,
Pray for these Idlers of the sinful Town:
This Day at least, on nobler Themes bestow,
Nor give to Woodfall, or the World below.

But, Sunday past, what Numbers flourish then,
What wond’rous Labours of the Press and Pen!
Diurnal most, some thrice each Week affords,
Some only once, O Avarice of Words!
When thousand starving Minds such Manna seek [12],
To drop the precious Food but once a Week.
Endless it were to sing the Powers of all,
Their Names, their Numbers; how they rise and fall;
Like baneful Herbs the Gazer’s eye they seize,
Rush to the head and poison where they please;
Like idle Flies, a busy, buzzing train,
They drop their Maggots in the Trifler’s Brain:
That genial Soil receives the fruitful Store,
And there they grow, and breed a thousand more.

Now be their Arts display’d, how first they choose
A Cause and Party, as the Bard his Muse;
Inspir’d by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,
And thro’ the Town their Dreams and Omens fly:
So the Sibylline [13] Leaves were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of Fate involv’d in doubt:
So idle Dreams, the Journals of the Night,
Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle Wrong with Right.
Some Champions for the Rights that prop the Crown,
Some sturdy Patriots, sworn to pull them down;
Some neutral Powers, with secret Forces fraught,
Wishing for War, but willing to be bought;
While some to every Side and Party go,
Shift every Friend and join with every Foe;
Like sturdy Rogues in Privateers they strike
This side and that, the Foes of both alike;
A Traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled Times,
Fear’d for their Force and courted for their Crimes.
Chief to the prosperous side the Numbers sail,
Fickle and false, they veer with every Gale;
As Birds that migrate from a freezing Shore,
In search of warmer Climes, come skimming o’er,
Some bold Adventurers first prepare to try
The doubtful Sunshine of the distant Sky;
But soon the growing Summer’s certain Sun
Wins more and more, till all at last are won;
So, on the early Prospect of Disgrace,
Fly in vast Troops this apprehensive Race;
Instinctive Tribes! their failing Food they dread,
And buy, with timely Change, their future Bread.

Such are our Guides; how many a peaceful Head,
Born to be still, have they to wrangling led!
How many an honest Zealot, stol’n from Trade,
And factious Tools of pious Pastors made!
With Clews like these they tread the Maze of State,
These Oracles explore, to learn our Fate;
Pleas’d with the Guides who can so well deceive,
Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.

Oft lend I, loth, to some sage Friend an ear,
(For we who will not speak are doom’d to hear);
While he, bewilder’d tells his anxious Thought,
Infectious Fear from tainted Scribblers caught,
Or idiot Hope; for each his Mind assails,
As Lloyd’s Court-light or Stockdale’s Gloom prevails.
Yet stand I patient while but one declaims,
Or gives dull Comments on the Speech he maims;
But oh! ye Muses, keep your Votary’s feet
From Tavern-haunts where Politicians meet;
Where Rector, Doctor, and Attorney pause,
First on each Parish then each public Cause:
Indited Roads and Rates that still increase;
The murmuring Poor, who will not fast in peace;
Election-zeal and Friendship, since declin’d;
A Tax commuted, or a Tithe in Kind;
The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife,
Dull Port and Poachers vile! the serious Ills of Life.
Here comes the neighbouring Justice, pleas’d to guide
His little Club and in the Chair preside.
In private Business his Commands prevail,
On public Themes his Reasoning turns the scale;
Assenting Silence soothes his happy Ear,
And, in or out, his Party triumphs here.

Nor here th’ infectious rage for Party stops,
But flits along from Palaces to Shops;
Our weekly Journals o’er the Land abound,
And spread their Plagues and Influenzas round;
The Village too, the peaceful, pleasant Plain,
Breeds the Whig-farmer and the Tory-swain;
Brooks’ and St. Alban’s boasts not, but instead,
Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney’s Head:—
Hither, with all a Patriot’s care, comes he
Who owns the little Hut that makes him free;
Whose yearly Forty Shillings buy the Smile
Of mightier Men, and never waste the while;
Who feels his Freehold’s Worth and looks elate,
A little Prop and Pillar of the State.
Here he delights the weekly News to con,
And mingle Comments as he blunders on;
To swallow all their varying Authors teach,
To spell a Title and confound a Speech:
Till with a muddled Mind he quits the News,
And claims his Nation’s Licence to abuse;
Then joins the Cry, “That all the Courtly Race,
“Are venal Candidates for Power and Place;”
Yet feels some joy amid the general Vice,
That his own Vote will bring its wonted Price.
These are the Ills the teeming Press supplies,
These pois’nous Springs from Learning’s Fountain rise;
Not there the Wise alone their Entrance find,
Imparting useful Light to Mortals blind;
But, blind themselves, these erring Guides hold out
Alluring Lights, to lead us far about;
Screen’d by such Means, here Scandal whets her Quill,
Here Slander shoots unseen, whene’er she will;
Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive,
And Folly aids them both, impatient to believe.

Such, Sons of Britain!, are the Guides ye trust;
So wise their Counsel, their Reports so just:—
Yet, though we cannot call their Morals pure,
Their Judgment nice, or their Decisions sure;
Merit they have to mightier Works unknown,
A Style, a Manner, and a Fate their own.
We, who for longer Fame with labour strive,
Are pain’d to keep our sickly Works alive;
Studious we toil, with patient Care refine,
Nor let our Love protect one languid Line.
Severe ourselves, at last our Works appear,
When, ah! we find our Readers more severe;
For after all our Care and Pains, how few
Acquire Applause, or keep it if they do!—
Not so these Sheets, ordain’d to happier fate,
Prais’d thro’ their Day, and but that Day their Date;
Their careless Authors only strive to join
As many Words, as make an even Line [14];
As many Lines, as fill a Row complete;
As many Rows, as furnish up a Sheet:
From side to side, with ready Types they run,
The Measure’s ended, and the Work is done;
Oh, born with Ease, how envy’d and how blest!
Your Fate to-day and your to-morrow’s Rest.
To you all Readers turn, and they can look
Pleas’d on a Paper, who abhor a Book;
Those who ne’er deign’d their Bible to peruse,
Would think it hard to be deny’d their News;
Sinners and Saints, the wisest with the weak,
Here mingle Tastes and one Amusement seek:
This, like the Public Inn, provides a Treat,
Where each promiscuous Guest sits down to eat;
And such this mental Food, as we may call,
Something to all Men and to some Men all.

Next, in what rare Production shall we trace,
Such various Subjects in so small a Space?
As the first Ship upon the Waters bore
Incongruous Kinds who never met before;
Or as some curious Virtuoso joins,
In one small room, Moths, Minerals, and Coins,
Birds, Beasts, and Fishes; nor refuses place
To Serpents, Toads, and all the Reptile-race;
So here, compress’d within a single Sheet,
Great things and small, the mean and mighty meet;
’Tis this which makes all Europe’s Business known,
Yet here a private Man may place his own;
And where he reads of Lords and Commons, he
May tell their Honours that he sells Rappee.
Add next th’ Amusement which the motley Page
Affords to either Sex and every Age:
Lo! where it comes before the cheerful Fire,
Damps from the Press in smoky Curls aspire,
(As from the Earth the Sun exhales the Dew,)
Ere we can read the Wonders that ensue:
Then eager every Eye surveys the Part,
That brings its favourite Subject to the Heart;
Grave Politicians look for Facts alone,
And gravely add Conjectures of their own:
The sprightly Nymph, who never broke her rest
For tottering Crowns, or mighty Lands opprest,
Finds Broils and Battles, but neglects them all
For Songs and Suits, a Birth-day, or a Ball:
The keen warm Man o’erlooks each idle Tale
For “Moneys wanted,” and “Estates on Sale;”
While some with equal Minds to all attend,
Pleas’d with each Part and griev’d to find an End.

So charm the News; but we, who, far from Town,
Wait till the Post-man brings the Packet down,
Once in the Week, a vacant Day behold,
And stay for Tidings, till they’re three Days old:
That Day arrives; no welcome Post appears,
But the dull Morn a sullen Aspect wears;
We meet, but ah! without our wonted Smile,
To talk of Headaches, and complain of Bile;
Sullen we ponder o’er a dull Repast,
Nor feast the Body while the Mind must fast.
A master Passion is the Love of News,
Not Music so commands, nor so the Muse;
Give Poets Claret, they grow idle soon;
Feed the Musician and he’s out of tune;
But the sick Mind of this Disease possest,
Flies from all Cure and sickens when at rest.

Now sing, my Muse, what various Parts compose
These rival Sheets of Politicks and Prose.
First, from each Brother’s Hoard a Part they draw,
A mutual Theft that never fear’d a Law;
Whate’er they gain, to each man’s Portion fall,
And read it once, you read it through them all:
For this their Runners ramble day and night,
To drag each lurking Deed to open Light;
For daily Bread the dirty Trade they ply,
Coin their fresh Tales and live upon the Lie:
Like Bees for Honey, forth for News they spring,
Industrious Creatures! ever on the Wing;
Home to their several Cells they bear the Store,
Cull’d of all Kinds, then roam abroad for more.
No anxious Virgin flies to “fair Tweed-side;”
No injur’d Husband mourns his faithless Bride;
No Duel dooms the fiery Youth to bleed;
But thro’ the Town transpires each vent’rous Deed.

Should some fair Frail-one drive her prancing Pair,
Where rival Peers contend to please the Fair;
When with new force, she aids her conquering Eyes,
And Beauty decks, with all that Beauty buys;
Quickly we learn whose Heart her Influence feels,
Whose Acres melt, before her glowing Wheels.
To these a thousand idle Themes succeed,
Deeds of all kinds and Comments to each Deed.
Here Stocks, the State-Barometers we view,
That rise or fall, by Causes known to few;
Promotion’s Ladder who goes up or down,
Who wed, or who seduc’d, amuse the Town;
What new’-born Heir has made his Father blest,
What Heir exults, his Father now at rest;
That ample List the Tyburn-herald gives,
And each known Knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the Work, and now the Printer tries
His Powers no more, but leans on his Allies.

When lo! the advertising Tribe succeed,
Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;
And chief th’ illustrious Race, whose Drops and Pills
Have patent Powers to vanquish human Ills:
These, with their Cures, a constant Aid remain,
To bless the pale Composer’s fertile Brain:
Fertile it is, but still the noblest Soil
Requires some pause, some intervals from Toil;
And they at least a certain Ease obtain
From Katterfelto’s Skill, and Graham’s glowing Strain.

I too must aid, and pay to see my Name
Hung in these dirty Avenues to Fame;
Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen
And sung, could make those Avenues more clean;
Could stop one Slander ere it found its way,
And gave to public Scorn its helpless Prey.
By the same Aid, the Stage invites her Friends,
And kindly tells the Banquet she intends;
Thither from real Life the Many run,
With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon;
Pleas’d in fictitious Joy or Grief, to see
The mimic Passion with their own agree;
To steal a few enchanted Hours away
From Care and drop the Curtain on the Day.
But who can steal from Self that wretched Wight,
Whose darling Work is try’d, some fatal Night?
Most wretched Man! when, bane to every Bliss,
He hears the Serpent-Critic’s rising Hiss;
Then Groans succeed: not Traitors on the Wheel,
Can feel like him, or have such Pangs to feel.
Nor end they here; next day he reads his Fall,
In every Paper; Critics are they all;
He sees his branded Name, with wild affright,
And hears again the Cat-calls of the Night.

Such Help the Stage affords; a larger Space,
Is fill’d by Puffs and all the Puffing Race.
Physic had once alone the lofty Style,
The well-known Boast, that ceas’d to raise a smile:
Now all the Province of that Tribe invade,
And we abound in Quacks of every Trade.

The simple Barber, once an honest Name,
Cervantes founded, Fielding rais’d his Fame:
Barber no more; a gay Perfumer comes,
On whose soft Cheek his own Cosmetic blooms;
Here he appears, each simple Mind to move,
And advertises Beauty, Grace, and Love.—
“Come, faded Belles, who would your Youth renew,
And learn the Wonders of Olympian Dew;
Restore the Roses that begin to faint,
Nor think celestial Washes, vulgar Paint:
Your former Features, Airs, and Arts assume,
Circassian Virtues, with Circassian Bloom,
“Come, batter’d Beaux, whose Locks are turn’d to gray,
And crop Discretion’s lying Badge away;
Read where they vend these smart engaging Things,
These flaxen Frontlets with elastic Springs;
No Female Eye the fair Deception sees,
Not Nature’s self so natural as these.”
Such are their Arts, but not confin’d to them,
The Muse impartial must her Sons condemn:
For they, degenerate! join the venal Throng,
And puff a lazy Pegasus along:
More guilty these, by Nature less design’d
For little Arts that suit the Vulgar-kind.
That Barber’s Boys, who would to Trade advance,
Wish us to call them, smart Frisseurs from France;
That he who builds a Chop-house, on his Door
Paints “The true old original Blue Boar!”
These are the Arts by which a thousand live,
Where Truth may smile and Justice may forgive;
But when amid this Rabble-rout we find
A puffing Poet to his Honour blind;
Who silly drops Quotations all about
Packet or Post and points their Merit out;
Who advertises what Reviewers say,
With sham Editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his Praises out of Sight,
But hurries into Fame with all his might;
Although the Verse some transient Praise obtains,
Contempt is all the anxious Poet gains.
Now Puffs exhausted, Advertisements past,
Their Correspondents stand expos’d at last:
These are a numerous Tribe to Fame unknown,
Who for the public Good forego their own;
Who Volunteers in Paper-war engage,
With double Portion of their Party’s Rage:
Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear
Wooing the Printer for Admission here;
Whose generous Souls can condescend to pray
For leave to throw their precious Time away.

Oh! cruel Woodfall! when a Patriot draws
His grey-goose Quill in his dear Country’s Cause,
To vex and maul a Ministerial Race,
Can thy stern Soul refuse the Champion place?
Alas! thou know’st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-lov’d Labours to impart;
How he has sent them to thy Brethren round,
And still the same unkind Reception found:
At length indignant will he damn the State,
Turn to his Trade and leave us to our Fate.

These Roman Souls, like Rome’s great Sons, are known
To live in Cells on Labours of their own.
Thus Milo, could we see the noble Chief,
Feeds, for his Country’s good, on Legs of Beef:
Camillus copies Deeds for sordid Pay,
Yet fights the public Battles twice a day:
Ev’n now the godlike Brutus views his Score
Scroll’d on the Bar-board, swinging with the Door;
Where, tippling Punch, grave Cato’s self you’ll see,
And Amor Patriæ vending smuggled Tea.

Last in these Ranks and least, their Art’s Disgrace,
Neglected stand the Muses’ meanest Race;
Scribblers who court Contempt, whose Verse the Eye
Disdainful views, and glances swiftly by:
This Poet’s Corner is the place they choose,
A fatal Nursery for an infant Muse;
Unlike that Corner where true Poets lie,
These cannot live and they shall never die;
Hapless the Lad whose Mind such Dreams invade,
And win to Verse the Talents due to Trade.

Curb then, O Youth! these Raptures as they rise,
Keep down the Evil Spirit and be wise;
Follow your Calling, think the Muses foes,
Nor lean upon the Pestle, and compose.

I know your Day-dreams, and I know the Snare
Hid in your flow’ry path, and cry “Beware.”
Thoughtless of Ill, and to the future blind,
A sudden Couplet rushes in your Mind;
Here you may nameless print your idle Rhymes,
And read your first-born Work a thousand times;
Th’ Infection spreads, your Couplet grows apace,
Stanzas to Delia’s Dog or Celia’s Face;
You take a Name; Philander’s Odes are seen,
Printed, and prais’d, in every Magazine;
Diarian Sages greet their brother Sage,
And your dark Pages please th’ enlighten’d Age.—
Alas! what Years you thus consume in vain,
Rul’d by this wretched Bias of the Brain!

Go! to your Desks and Counters all return;
Your Sonnets scatter, your Acrostics burn;
Trade, and be rich; or should your careful Sires
Bequeath you Wealth! indulge the nobler Fires;
Should Love of Fame your youthful Heart betray,}
Pursue fair Fame, but in a glorious Way, }
Nor in the idle Scenes of Fancy’s Painting stray. }

Of all the good that mortal Men pursue,
The Muse has least to give and gives to few;
Like some coquettish Fair, she leads us on,
With Smiles and Hopes, till Youth and Peace are gone;
Then, wed for Life, the restless wrangling Pair,
Forget how constant one and one how fair:
Meanwhile Ambition, like a blooming Bride,
Brings Power and Wealth to grace her Lover’s Side;
And tho’ she smiles not with such flattering Charms,
The Brave will sooner win her to their Arms.
Then wed to her, if Virtue tie the Bands,
Go spread your Country’s Fame in hostile Lands;
Her Court, her Senate, or her Arms adorn,
And let her Foes lament that you were born:
Or weigh her Laws, their ancient Rights defend,
Tho’ Hosts oppose, be theirs and Reason’s Friend;
Arm’d with strong Powers, in their Defence engage,
And rise the Thurlow of the future Age.

Muse of my Spencer, who so well could sing,
The Passions all, their Bearings and their Ties;
Who could in View those shadowy Beings bring,
And with bold Hand, remove each dark Disguise,
Wherein Love, Hatred, Scorn, or Anger lies:
Guide him to Fairy Land, who now intends
That Way his Flight; assist him as he flies,
To mark those Passions, Virtue’s Foes and Friends,
By whom when led she droops, when leading she ascends.
Yes! they appear, I see the Fairy-Train!
And who that modest Nymph of meek Address?
Not Vanity, though lov’d by all the Vain;
Not Hope, though promising to all, Success;
Nor Mirth, nor Joy, though Foe to all Distress;
Thee, sprightly Siren, from this Train I choose,
Thy Birth relate, thy soothing Arts confess,
’Tis not in thy mild Nature to refuse,
When Poets ask thine Aid, so oft their Meed and Muse.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

In Fairy-Land, on wide and cheerless Plain,
Dwelt, in the House of Care, a sturdy Swain;
An hireling he, who when he till’d the Soil,
Look’d to the Pittance, that repay’d his Toil;
And to a Master left the mingled Joy,
And anxious Care that follow’d his Employ:
Sullen and patient he at once appear’d,
As one who murmur’d, yet as one who fear’d;
Th’ Attire was coarse that cloth’d his sinewy Frame,
Rude his Address and Poverty his Name.

In that same Plain a Nymph of curious Taste,
A Cottage (plann’d with all her Skill) had plac’d:
Strange the Materials and for what design’d
The various Parts, no simple Man might find;
What seem’d the Door, each entering Guest withstood,
What seem’d a Window was but painted Wood;
But by a secret Spring the Wall would move,
And Day-light drop through glassy Door above;
’Twas all her Pride, new Traps for Praise to lay,
And all her Wisdom was to hide her Way;
In small Attempts incessant were her Pains,
And Cunning was her Name among the Swains.

Now, whether Fate decreed this Pair should wed,
And blindly drove them to the Marriage-Bed;
Or whether Love in some soft Hour inclin’d
The Damsel’s Heart and won her to be kind,
Is yet unsung: they were an ill-match’d Pair,
But both dispos’d to wed and wed they were.

Yet though united in their Fortune, still
Their Ways were diverse, varying was their Will,
Nor long the Maid had blest the simple Man,
Before Dissentions rose and she began:—

“Wretch that I am! since to thy Fortune bound,
“What plan, what project with success is crown’d?
“I, who a thousand secret Arts possess,
“Who every Rank approach with right Address;
“Who’ve loos’d a Guinea from a Miser’s Chest,
“And worm’d his Secret from a Traitor’s Breast;
“Thence Gifts and Gains collecting, great and small,
“Have brought to thee and thou consum’st them all;
“For Want like thine, a Bog without a Base,
“Ingulph’st all gains, I gather for the Place;
“Feeding, unfill’d; destroying, undestroy’d;
“It craves for ever and is ever void:—
“Wretch that I am! what Misery have I found,
“Since my sure Craft was to thy Calling bound?”

‘Oh! vaunt of worthless Arts,’ the Swain replied,
Scowling Contempt, ‘how pitiful this Pride!
‘What are these specious Gifts, these paltry Gains,
‘But base Rewards for ignominious Pains?
‘With all thy Tricking, still for Bread we strive,
‘Thine is, proud Wretch! the Care that cannot thrive,
‘By all thy boasted Skill and baffled Hooks,
‘Thou gain’st no more than Students by their Books;
‘No more than I for my poor Deeds am paid,
‘Whom none can blame, will help, or dare upbraid.
‘Call this our Need, a Bog that all devours;
‘Then what thy petty Arts, but Summer-Flowers,
‘Gaudy and mean and serving to betray
‘The Place, they make unprofitably gay?
‘Who know it not, some useless Beauties see;
‘But ah! to prove it was reserv’d for me.’
Unhappy State! that, in Decay of Love,
Permits harsh Truth his Errors to disprove:
While he remains, to wrangle and to jar,
Is friendly Tournament not fatal War;
Love in his Play will borrow Arms of Hate,
Anger and Rage, Upbraiding and Debate;
And by his Power the desperate Weapons thrown,
Become as safe and pleasant as his own;
But left by him, their Natures they assume,
And fatal, in their poisoning Force, become.

Time fled, and now the Swain compell’d to see
New Cause for Fear—‘Is this thy Thrift?’ quoth he.
To whom the Wife with cheerful voice replied:—
“Thou moody Man, lay all thy Fears aside,
“I’ve seen a Vision;—they from whom I came,
“A Daughter promise, promise Wealth and Fame;
“Born with my Features, with my Arts, yet she}
“Shall patient, pliant, persevering be, }
“And in thy better Ways resemble thee. }
“The Fairies round shall at her Birth attend,
“The Friend of all in all shall find a Friend,
“And save that one sad Star that Hour must gleam
“On our fair Child, how glorious were my Dream!”

This heard the Husband and in surly smile,
Aim’d at Contempt, but yet he hop’d the while;
For as when sinking, wretched Men are found,
To catch at Rushes rather than be drown’d;
So on a Dream our Peasant plac’d his Hope,
And found that Rush as valid as a Rope.

Swift fled the Days, for now in Hope they fled;
When a fair Daughter bless’d the Nuptial Bed;
Her Infant-face the Mother’s Pains beguil’d,
She look’d so pleasing and so softly smil’d;
Those Smiles, those Looks, with sweet Sensations mov’d
The Gazer’s Soul, and as he look’d, he lov’d.

And now the Fairies came with Gifts to grace,
So mild a Nature and so fair a Face.
They gave, with Beauty, that bewitching Art,
That holds in easy Chains the human Heart;
They gave her Skill to win the stubborn Mind,
To make the Suffering to their Sorrows blind,
To bring on pensive Looks the pleasing Smile,
And Care’s stern Brow of every Frown beguile.
These magic Favours grac’d the Infant-maid,
Whose more enlivening Smile, the charming Gifts repaid.

Now Fortune chang’d, who, were she constant long,
Would leave us few Adventures for our Song.
A wicked Elfin rov’d this Land around,
Whose Joys proceeded from the Griefs he found;
Envy his Name:—his fascinating Eye,
From the light Bosom drew the sudden Sigh;
Unsocial he, but with malignant Mind,
He dwelt with Man, that he might curse Mankind;
Like the first Foe he sought th’ Abode of Joy,
Griev’d to behold but eager to destroy;
Round blooming Beauty, like the Wasp, he flew,
Soil’d the fresh Sweet and chang’d the rosy Hue;
The Wise, the Good, with anxious Heart, he saw,
And here a Failing found and there a Flaw;
Discord in Families ’twas his to move,
Distrust in Friendship, Jealousy in Love;
He told the Poor, what Joys the Great possess’d,
The Great—what calm Content the Cottage bless’d;
To part the Learned and the Rich he tried,
Till their slow Friendship perish’d in their Pride.
Such was the Fiend, and so secure of Prey,
That only Misery pass’d unstung away.

Soon as he heard the Fairy-babe was born,
Scornful he smil’d, but felt no more than Scorn;
For why, when Fortune plac’d her State so low,
In useless Spite his lofty Malice show?
Why in a Mischief of the meaner Kind,
Exhaust the Vigour of a rancorous Mind?
But soon as Fame the Fairy-gifts proclaim’d,
Quick-rising Wrath his ready Soul inflam’d;
To swear by Vows, that ev’n the Wicked tie,
The Nymph should weep her varied Destiny;
That every Gift, that now appear’d to shine
In her fair Face and make her Smiles divine,
Should all, the Poison of his Magic prove,
And they should scorn her, whom she sought for Love.

His Spell prepar’d, in Form an antient Dame,
A Fiend in Spirit, to the Cot he came;
There gain’d Admittance and the Infant press’d,
(Muttering his wicked Magic) to his Breast;
And thus he said:—“Of all the Powers, who wait
“On Jove’s Decrees and do the Work of Fate,
“Was I alone, despis’d or worthless, found,
“Weak to protect or impotent to wound?
“See then thy Foe, regret the Friendship lost,
“And learn my Skill but learn it at your Cost.
“Know then, O Child! devote to Fates severe,
“The Good shall hate thy Name, the Wise shall fear;
“Wit shall deride and no protecting Friend
“Thy Shame shall cover or thy Name defend.
“Thy gentle Sex, who, more than ours, should spare
“An humble Foe, will greater Scorn declare;
“The Base alone thy Advocates shall be,
“Or boast Alliance with a Wretch like thee.”
He spake and vanish’d, other Prey to find,
And waste in slow Disease the conquer’d Mind.

Aw’d by the Elfin’s Threats, and fill’d with dread,
The Parents wept and sought their Infant’s Bed;
Despair alone the Father’s Soul possess’d;
But Hope rose gently in the Mother’s Breast;
For well she knew that neither Grief nor Joy,
Pain’d without Hope or pleas’d without Alloy;
And while these Hopes and Fears her Heart divide,
A cheerful Vision bade the Fears subside.

She saw descending to the World below,
An antient Form with solemn Pace and slow.

“Daughter, no more be sad,” (the Phantom cried,)
“Success is seldom to the Wise denied;
“In idle Wishes Fools supinely stay,
“Be there a Will and Wisdom finds a Way;
“Why art thou griev’d? Be rather glad, that he,
“Who hates the happy aims his Darts at thee;
“But aims in vain; thy favour’d Daughter lies,
“Serenely blest and shall to Joy arise.
“For, grant that Curses on her Name shall wait,
“(So Envy wills and such the voice of Fate,)
“Yet if that Name be prudently suppress’d,
“She shall be courted, favour’d, and caress’d.
“For what are Names? and where agree Mankind,
“In those to Persons or to Acts assign’d?
“Brave, learn’d or wise, if some their Favourites call,
“Have they the Titles or the Praise from all?
“Not so, but others will the Brave disdain
“As rash, and deem the Sons of Wisdom, vain;
“The self-same Mind shall Scorn or Kindness move,
“And the same Deed attract Contempt and Love.
“So all the Powers, who move the human Soul,
“With all the Passions, who the Will controul,
“Have various Names.—One giv’n by Truth divine,
“(As Simulation thus was fix’d for mine,)
“The rest by Man, who now as Wisdom’s prize
“My secret Counsels, now as Art despise;
“One hour as just, those Counsels they embrace,
“And spurn, the next, as pitiful and base.
“Thee too, my Child, those Fools as Cunning fly,
“Who on thy Counsel and thy Craft rely,
“That worthy Craft in others they condemn:
“But ’tis their Prudence, while conducting them.
“Be Flattery, then, thy happy Infant’s Name,
“Let Honour scorn her and let Wit defame;
“Let all be true that Envy dooms, yet all,
“Not on herself, but on her Name, shall fall;
“While she thy Fortune and her own shall raise,
“And decent Truth be call’d and lov’d, as modest Praise.
“O happy Child! the glorious Day shall shine,}
“When every Ear shall to thy Speech incline, }
“Thy Words alluring and the Voice divine: }
“The sullen Pedant and the sprightly Wit,
“To hear thy soothing Eloquence, shall sit;
“And both, abjuring Flattery, will agree,
“That Truth inspires and they must honour thee.
“Envy himself shall to thy Accents bend,
“Force a faint smile and sullenly attend,
“When thou shalt call him Virtue’s jealous Friend,
“Whose Bosom glows with generous rage to find,
“How Fools and Knaves are flatter’d by Mankind.
“The Sage retir’d, who spends alone his Days,
“And flies th’ obstreperous Voice of public Praise;
“The vain, the vulgar Cry,—shall gladly meet,
“And bid thee welcome to his still Retreat;
“Much will he wonder, how thou cam’st to find
“A Man to Glory dead, to Peace consign’d.
“O Fame! he’ll cry, (for he will call thee Fame,)
“From thee I fly, from thee conceal my Name;
“But thou shalt say, Though Genius takes his Flight,
“He leaves behind a glorious Train of Light,
“And hides in vain:—yet prudent he that flies
“The Flatterer’s Art, and for himself is wise.
“Yes, happy Child! I mark th’ approaching Day,
“When warring Natures will confess thy Sway;
“When thou shalt Saturn’s golden Reign restore,
“And Vice and Folly shall be known no more.
“Pride shall not then in Human-kind have place,
“Chang’d by thy Skill, to Dignity and Grace;
“While Shame, who now betrays the inward Sense
“Of secret Ill, shall be thy Diffidence;
“Avarice shall thenceforth prudent Forecast be,
“And bloody Vengeance, Magnanimity;
“The lavish Tongue shall honest Truths impart, }
“The lavish Hand shall show the generous Heart,}
“And Indiscretion be, Contempt of Art: }
“Folly and Vice shall then, no longer known,
“Be, this as Virtue, that as Wisdom, shown.
“Then shall the Robber, as the Hero rise
“To seize the Good, that churlish Law denies;
“Throughout the World shall rove the generous Band,
“And deal the Gifts of Heaven from hand to hand.
“In thy blest Days no Tyrants shall be seen,
“Thy gracious Kings shall rule contented Men;
“In thy blest Days shall not a Rebel be,
“But Patriots all and well approv’d of thee.
“Such Powers are thine, that Man, by thee, shall wrest
“The gainful Secret from the cautious Breast;
“Nor then, with all his care, the Good retain,
“But yield to thee the Secret and the Gain.
“In vain, shall much Experience guard the Heart,
“Against the Charm of thy prevailing Art;
“Admitted once, so soothing is thy Strain,
“It comes the sweeter, when it comes again;
“And when confest as thine, what Mind so strong,
“Forbears the Pleasure it indulg’d so long?
“Soft’ner of every Ill! of all our Woes
“The balmy Solace! Friend of fiercest Foes!
“Begin thy Reign and like the Morning rise;
“Bring Joy, bring Beauty, to our eager Eyes;
“Break on the drowsy World like opening Day,    }
“While Grace and Gladness join thy flow’ry Way; }
“While every Voice is Praise, while every Heart is gay.}
“From thee, all Prospects shall new Beauties take,
“’Tis thine to seek them and ’tis thine to make;
“On the cold Fen, I see thee turn thine Eyes,
“Its Mists recede, its chilling Vapour flies;
“Th’ enraptur’d Lord th’ improving Ground surveys,
“And for his Eden, asks the Traveller’s Praise,
“Which yet, unview’d of thee, a Bog had been,
“Where spungy Rushes hide the plashy Green.
“I see thee breathing on the barren Moor,
“That seems to bloom although so bleak before;
“There if beneath the Gorze the Primrose spring,
“Or the pied Daisy smile below the Ling,
“They shall new Charms, at thy Command, disclose,
“And none shall miss the Myrtle or the Rose.
“The wiry Moss, that whitens all the Hill,
“Shall live a Beauty by thy matchless Skill;
“Gale[15] from the Bog shall yield Arabian Balm,
“And the Grey Willow wave a golden Palm.
“I see thee smiling in the pictur’d Room,
“Now breathing Beauty, now reviving Bloom;
“There, each immortal Name, ’tis thine to give,
“To graceless Forms, and bid the Lumber live.
“Should’st thou coarse Boors or gloomy Martyrs see,
“These shall thy Guidos, those thy Tenniers be;
“There shalt thou, Raphaël’s Saints and Angels trace,}
“There make for Reubens and for Reynolds place,    }
“And all the Pride of Art shall find in her, Disgrace. }
“Delight of either Sex! thy Reign commence; }
“With balmy Sweetness, soothe the weary Sense, }
“And to the sickening Soul thy cheering Aid dispense. }
“Queen of the Mind! thy golden Age begin;    }
“In mortal Bosoms varnish Shame and Sin, }
“Let all be fair without, let all be calm within.”}

The Vision fled, the happy Mother rose,
Kiss’d the fair Infant, smil’d at all her Foes,
And Flattery made her Name:—Her Reign began,
Her own dear Sex she rul’d, then vanquish’d Man;
A smiling Friend, to every Class, she spoke,
Assum’d their Manners and their Habits took;
Her, for her humble Mien, the Modest lov’d;
Her cheerful Looks, the Light and Gay approv’d;
The Just beheld her, firm; the Valiant, brave;
Her Mirth the Free, her Silence pleas’d the Grave;
Zeal heard her Voice, and as he preach’d aloud,
Well-pleas’d he caught her Whispers from the Crowd,
(Those Whispers soothing-sweet to every Ear,
Which some refuse to pay, but none to hear):
Shame fled her Presence; at her gentle Strain,
Care softly smil’d and Guilt forgot its Pain;
The Wretched thought, the Happy found her true,
The Learn’d confess’d, that she their Merits knew;
The Rich—could they a constant Friend condemn?
The Poor believ’d—for who should flatter them?

Thus on her Name, while all Disgrace attend,
In every Creature she beholds a Friend.

THE

NEWSPAPER:

THE

NEWSPAPER.

THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

THE NEWSPAPER:

THE NEWSPAPER.

THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

THE

NEWSPAPER:

THE

NEWSPAPER.

THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

THE

BIRTH OF FLATTERY.