storm;

While genius is but cold, their passion warm;
While public good aloft, in pomp they wield;
And private int rest sculks behind the shield;
While Mist and Wilkins rise in weekly might,
Make presses groan, lead senators to fight;
Exalt our coffee with lampoons, and treat
The pamper'd mob with ministers of state:
"+While Até, hot from hell, makes heroes
shrink,

"Cries havoc, and lets loose the dogs of ink:
Nor rank nor sex escapes the gen'ral frown,
But ladies are ripp'd up and cits knock'd down:
Tremendous force! where e'en the victor bleeds;
And he deserves our pity that succeeds:
Immortal Juvenal! and thou of France!
In your fam'd field my Satire dares advance;
But cuts herself a track to you unknown;
Nor crops your laurel, but would raise her own:
A bold adventure! but a safe one too!
For though surpass'd, I am surpass'd by you.

On this last labor, this my closing strain,
Smile, Walpole, or the Nine inspire in vain.
To thee 'tis due; that verse how justly thine,
Where Brunswick's glory crowns the whole
design!

That glory which thy counsels make so bright,
That glory which on thee reflects a light.
Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known!
To give and take a lustre from the throne.
Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme;
The fountain is not foreign to the stream.
How all mankind will be surpris'd to see
This flood of British folly charg'd on thee!
Yet, Britain, whence this caprice of thy sons,
Which through their various ranks with fury

runs?

The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless,
For caprice is the daughter of success,
(A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause)
And gives our rulers undesign'd applause;
Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,
And lulls us in the downy lap of peace.

While I survey the blessings of our isle,
Her arts triumphant in the royal smile,
Her public wounds bound up, her credit high,
Her commerce spreading sails in ev'ry sky,
The pleasing scene recalls my theme again,
And shows the madness of ambitious men,
Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring
sword,

And burn to give mankind a single lord.

The follies past are of a private kind, Their sphere is small, their mischief is confin'd: + Shakspeare.

* Lucan.

Who, stung by glory, rave and bound away; The world their friend, and human kind their prey.

The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride, With Rage and Terror stalking by his side, Raves round the globe; he soars into a god! Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod, The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns, And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains. What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze! What wasted countries! and what crimson seas! With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows, And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.

And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise The boist'rous boy, and blast his guilty bays? Why want we then encomiums on the storm, Or famine, or volcano? they perform Their mighty deeds; they, hero-like, can slay, And spread their ample deserts in a day. O great alliance! O divine renown! With dearth and pestilence to share the crown. When men extol a wild destroyer's name, Earth's Builder and Preserver they blaspheme. One to destroy is murder by the law; And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe. To murder thousands takes a specious name, War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame. When after battle I the field have seen Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were

men;

A nation crush'd! a nation of the brave!
A realm of death! and on this side the grave!
Are there, said I, who from this sad survey,
This human chaos, carry smiles away?
How did my heart with indignation rise!
How honest nature swell'd into my eyes!
How was I shock'd, to think the hero's trade
Of such materials, fame and triumph made!

How guilty these! yet not less guilty they
Who reach false glory by a smoother way;
Who wrap destruction up in gentle words,
And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their
swords;

Who stifle nature, and subsist on art;
Who coin the face, and petrify the heart;
All real kindness for the show discard,
As marble polish'd and as marble hard;
Who do for gold what Christians do through
grace,

"With open arms their enemies embrace;"
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine;
"The thinnest food on which a wretch can
dine,"

Or if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd;
And in their height of kindness are unkind.
Such courtiers were, and such again may be,
Walpole, when men forget to copy thee.

Here cease, my Muse! the catalogue is writ, Nor one more candidate for fame admit; Though disappointed thousands justly blame Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim,

Be this their comfort-fools omitted here
May furnish laughter for another year.
Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refus'd
The justice yet of being well abus'd,
With patience wait, and be content to reign
The pink of puppies in some future strain;
Soine future strain, in which the Muse shall
tell

How science dwindles, and how volumes swell;
How commentators each dark passage shun,
And hold their farthing candle to the sun;
How tortur'd texts to speak our sense are made,
And ev'ry vice is to the Scripture laid;
How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer,
His sins to Lucifer not half so dear;

How Verres is less qualified to steal
With sword and pistol, than with wax and seal;
How lawyers' fees to such excess are run,
That clients are redress'd till they're undone;
How one man's anguish is another's sport,
And e'en denials cost us dear at court;

prey.

How man eternally false judgements makes,
And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes.
This swarm of themes that settles on my pen,
Which I, like summer-flies, shake off again,
Let others sing; to whom my weak essay
But sounds a prelude, and points out their
That duty done, I hasten to complete
My own designs; for Tonson's at the gate.
The love of fame, in its effects survey'd,
The Muse has sung; be now the cause display'd,
Since so diffusive and so wide its sway,
What is this Pow'r whom all mankind obey?
Shot from above, by Heav'n's indulgence caine
This gen'rous ardor, this unconquer'd flame,
To warm, to raise, to deify mankind,

Still burning brightest in the noblest mind.
By large-soul'd men, for thirst of fame renown'd,
Wise laws were fram'd, and secret arts were
found;

Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest,
And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast;
It bids Argyle in fields and senates shine:
What more can prove its origin divine?

But, oh! this passion planted in the soul,
On eagles' wings to mount her to the pole,
The flaming minister of virtue meant,
Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent.
Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force,
Of blots and beauties an alternate source;
Hence Gildon rails, the raven of the pit,
Who thrives upon the carcases of wit:
And in art-loving Scarborough is seen,
How kind a patron Pollio might have been.
Pursuit of fame with pedants fills our schools,
And into coxcombs burnishes our fools;
Pursuit of fame makes solid learning bright,
And Newton lifts above a mortal height:
That key of nature, by whose wit she clears
Her long, long secrets of five thousand years.
Would you then fully comprehend the whole,
Why, and in what degrees, Pride sways the soul?
(For, though in all not equally she reigns)
Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains.

Ye doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose, As true as if 'twere writ in dullest prose; As if a letter'd dunce had said, "Tis right," And imprimatur usher'd it to light.

To glorious deeds this passion fires the mind, And closer draws the ties of human kind; Confirms society; since what we prize, As our chief blessing, must from others rise. Ambition in the truly noble mind, With sister-virtue is for ever join'd; As in fam'd Lucrece, who with equal dread From guilt, and shame, by her last conduct fled; Her virtue long rebell'd in firm disdain, And the sword pointed at her heart in vain; But, when the slave was threaten'd to be laid Dead by her side, her love of fame obey'd.

In meaner minds ambition works alone;
But with such art puts virtue's aspect on,
That not more like in feature, and in mien,
The god and mortal in the comic scene *.
False Julius, ambush'd in his fair disguise,
Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.

No mask in basest minds ambition wears,
But in full light pricks up her ass's ears;
All I have sung are instances of this,
And prove my theme unfolded, not amiss.

Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife;
Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life.
The true ambition there alone resides,
Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides;
Where inward dignity joins outward state,
Our purpose good, as our achievement great;
Where public blessings public praise attend,
Where glory is our motive, not our end.
Wouldst thou be fam'd? have those high deeds
in view,
Censue.
Brave men would act, though scandal should
Behold a prince whom no swoln thoughts in-
flame,

No pride of thrones, no fever after fame;
But when the welfare of mankind inspires,
And death in view to dear-bought glory fires,
Proud conquests then, then regal pomps delight;
Then crimes, then triumphs, sparkle in his
sight;
[bring

Tumult and noise are dear, which with them
His people's blessings to their ardent king:
But, when those great heroic motives cease,
His swelling soul subsides to native peace;
From tedious grandeur's faded charins with-
draws,

A sudden foe to splendor and applause;
Greatly deferring his arrears of fame,
Till men and angels jointly shout his name.
O pride celestial, which can pride disdain !
O blest ambition, which can ne'er be vain!
From one fam'd Alpine hill, which props the
sky,

In whose deep womb unfathom'd waters lie, Here burst the Rhone and sounding Po, there shine

In infant rills the Danube and the Rhine;

• Amphytrion.

From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies, Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests

rise.

In Brunswick such a source the Muse adores, Which public blessings through halt Europe

pours.

When his heart burns with such a god-like aim, Angels and George are rivals for the fame; George, who in foes can soft affections raise, And charm envenom'd Satire into praise.

Nor human rage alone his pow'r perceives, But the mad winds and the tumultuous waves E'en storms (death's fiercest ministers!) forbear, And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare. Thus nature's self, supporting man's decree, Styles Britain's Sovereign, Sovereign of the Sea, While sea and air, great Brunswick! shook

our state,

And sported with a king's and kingdom's fate,
Depriv'd of what she lov'd, and press'd by fear
Of ever losing what she held most dear,
How did Britannia, like Achilles †, weep,
And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep!
Hang o'er the floods, and in devotion warm,
Strive for thee with the surge, and fight the
storm!

What felt thy Walpole, pilot of the realm?
Our Palinurus slept not at the helm ;
His eyes ne'er clos'd; long since inur'd to wake,
And outwatch ev'ry star, for Brunswick's sake;
By thwarting passions tost, by cares opprest,
He found thy tempest pictur'd in his breast.
But now what joys that gloom of heart dispel,'
No pow'rs of language-but his own, can tell;
His own, which Nature, and the Graces form,
At will to raise or hush the civil storm.

$49. The Castle of Indolence. An Allegorical Poem. THOMSON.

The Castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury;
Where for a little time, alas!

We liv'd right jollily.

O MORTAL man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate:
That like an emmet thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date;
And, certes, there is for it reason great;
For, though sometimes it makes thee weep
and wail,

And curse thy star, and early drudge and late; Withouten that would come an heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.

As Idleness fancied in her dreaming mood: And up the hills on either side a wood Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood; And where this valley winded out below, The nurmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

A pleasing land of drowsihed it was, Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, For ever flushing round a summer sky; There eke the soft delights that witchingly Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, And calm the pleasures, always hover'd nigh, But whate'er smack'd of noyance, or unrest, Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.

The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease, Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) Close hid his castle 'mid embow'ring trees, That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, [night:

And made a kind of checquer'd day and

+ Hom. II. lib. 1.

verses sung:

May!

"What youthful bride can equal her array? "Who can with her for easy pleasure vie? "From mead to mead with gentle wing to

stray, [Aly, "From flow'r to flow'r on balmy gales to "Is all she hath to do beneath the radiant sky.

"Behold the merry minstrels of the morn, "The swarming songsters of the careless 66 grove, [ing thorn "Ten thousand throats! that from the flower"Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of "love,

"Such grateful kindly raptures them emove: "They neither plough nor sow; ne, fit for flail,

"E'er to the barn the nodding sheaves they

"drove;

"Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale, "Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along vale.

“Outcast of nature, man! the wretched thrall "Of bitter-dropping sweat, of sweltry pain, "Of cares that eat away thy heart with gall, "And of the vices, an inhuman train, "That all proceed from savage thirst of gain: "For when hard-hearted interest first began "To poison earth, Astrea left the plain; "Guile, violence, and murder seiz'd on man, "And, for soft milky streams, with blood the "rivers ran.

"Come ye who still the cumbrous load of "life

[steep

"Push hard up hill; but, as the farthest "You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, "Down thunders back the stone with mighty

"For ever vain; come, and withouten fee "I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, [sea "Your cares, your toils; will steep you in a Of full delight: oh come, ye weary wights, to "me!

"With me you need not rise at early dawn, "To pass the joyless day in various sounds; "Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn, "And sell fair honor for some paltry pounds: "Or through the city take your dirty rounds, "To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, "Now flattering base, now giving secret "wounds;

"Or prowl in courts of law for human prey, In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad high

66

ways please;

"On others' ways they never squint a frown, "Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town. "Thus, from the source of tender indolence, "With milky blood the heart is overflown, "Is sooth'd and sweeten'd by the social sense: "For int'rest, envy, pride, and strife are "banish'd hence.

"But if a little exercise you choose, "Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here. "Amid the groves you may indulge the "Muse; [year; "Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal "Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry "You may delude: the whilst amus'd you "hear

For, whomsoe'er the villain takes in hand,
Their joints unknit, their sinews melt apace,
As lithe they grow as any willow wand,
And of their vanquish'd force remains no

trace.

So when a maiden fair, of modest grace,
In all her buxom blooming May of charms,
Is seized in some losel's hot embrace,
She waxeth very weakly as she warms,

"phyr's sigh,

"Attuned to the birds and woodland melody.

"dun:

"But sure it is of vanities most vain, [tain." "To toil for what you here untoiling may ob

He ceas'd. But still their trembling ears
retain'd

The deep vibrations of his 'witching song;
That by a kind of magic pow'r constrain'd
To enter in, pell-mell, the list'ning throng.
Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they slipp'd
along,

In silent ease; as when beneath the beam

Of summer moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam, The soft embodied fays through airy portal

stream.

Though feeble wretch he seem'd of sallow

harms.

Wak'd by the crowd, slow from his bench

arose

A comely full-spread porter, swoln with sleep; His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breath'd

repose,

And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep. He could himself from ceaseless yawning keep,

While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, Through which his half-wak'd soul would faintly peep.

Then taking his black staff, he call'd his man, And rous'd himself as much as rouse himself he

can.

The lad leap'd lightly at his master's call,
He was, to weet, a little roguish page,
Save sleep and play who minded not at all,
Like most the untaught striplings of his age.
This boy he kept each band to disengage,
Garters, and buckles, task for him unfit,
But ill-becoming his grave personage,
And which his portly paunch would not
permit;

So this same limber page to all performed it.

Meantime the master-porter wide display'd Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns;

Wherewith he those who enter'd in array'd, Loose as the breeze that plays along the downs,

And waves the summer-woods when evening frowns.

O fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, But ev'ry flowing limb in pleasure drowns, And heightens ease with grace. This done, right fain, [again. Sir porter sat him down, and turn'd to sleep

Thus easy rob'd, they to the fountain sped,
That in the middle of the court up-threw
A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed,
And falling back again in drizzly dew:
There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted,

drew.

It was a fountain of Nepenthe rare :
Whence, as Dan Homier sings, huge plea-

saunce grew,

And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care;

rus.

dreams more fair.