Elegant Extracts

"He doth an honour to his gown, "By bravely running prieftcraft down: "He fhews, as fure as God 's in Gloucester, "That Mofes was a grand impoftor; "That all his miracles were cheats, "Perform'd as jugglers do their feats. "The church had never fuch a writer; A fhame he hath not got a mitre !" Suppofe me dead; and then fuppofe A club affembled at the Rofe; Where, from difcourfe of this and that, I grow the fubject of their chat. And while they tofs my name about, With favour fome, and some without ; One, quite indifferent in the caufe, My character impartial draws:

The Dean, if we believe report, "Was never ill receiv'd at court. "Although ironically grave,

"He fham'd the fool, and lath'd the knave; "To fteal a hint was never known, "But what he writ was all his own."

"Sir, I have heard another ftory: He was a moft confounded Tory; "And grew, or he is much belied, "Extremely dull before he died.'

"Can we the Drapier then forget? "Is not our nation in his debt? "'Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters!" "He fhould have left them for his betters; We had a hundred abler men, "Nor need depend upon his pen. "Say what you will about his reading, "You never can defend his breeding;' "Who, in his fatires running riot, "Could never leave the world in quiet; "Attacking, when he took the whim,

Court, city, camp-all one to him. "But why thould he, except he flobber'd, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whofe counfels aid the fovereign pow'r "To fave the nation every hour? "What fcenes of evil he unravels

In fatires, libels, lying travels: "Not fparing his own clergy cloth; "But cats into it, like a moth!"

Perhaps I may allow the Dean "Had too much fatire in his vein,

And feem'd determin'd not to starve it,
"Because no age could more defurve it.
Yet malice never was his aim;
"He lafh'd the vice, but fpar'd the name.
"No individual could refent,

"Where thousands equally were meant ;
"His fatire points at no defect
"But what all mortals may correct;
"For he abhorr'd the fenfelefs tribe

Who call it humour when they jibe:
"He fpar'd a hump, or crooked nofe,
"Whofe owners fet not up for beaux.
"True genuine dulnefs mov'd his pity,
"Unlets it offer'd to be witty.

Thofe who their ignorance confefs'd,
He ne'er offended with a jeft

"But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote "A verfe from Horace learn'd by rote. "Vice, if it e'er can be abafh'd, "Must be or ridicul'd or lafh'd. "If you refent it, who 's to blame? "He neither knows you, nor your name. Should vice expect to fcape rebuke, "Because its owner is a duke? "His friend fhips, ftill to few confin'd, "Were always of the middling kind; "No fools of rank or mongrel breed, "Who fain would pafs for lords indeed: "Where titles give no right or pow'r, "And peerage is a wither'd flow'r; "He would have deem'd it a difgrace, "If fuch a wretch had known his face. "On rural 'fquires, that kingdom's bane, "He vented oft his wrath in vain. ********* fquires to market brought; *** for nought;

"Who fell their fouls and "The

go joyful back,

"To rob the church, their tenants rack, "Go fnacks with

juftices,

"And keep the peace to pick up fees:
"In every job to have a fhare,
"A gaol or turnpike to repair;
"And turn to public roads
"Commodious to their own abodes.

"He never thought an honour done him, "Becaufe a peer was proud to own him; "Would rather flip afide, and choose "To talk with wits in dirty fhoes; "And fcorn the tools with stars and garters, "So often feen careifing Chartres. "He never courted men in ftation "No perfons held in admiration; "Of no man's greatnefs was afraid, "Becaufe he fought for no man's aid. "Though trufted long in great affairs, "He gave himself no haughty airs : "Without regarding private ends, "Spent all his credit for his friends: "And only chofe the wife and good; "No flatterers, no allies in blood: "But fuccour'd virtue in diftrefs, "And feldom fail'd of good fuccefs; "As numbers in their hearts must own, "Who, but for him, had been unknown. "He kept with princes due decorum; "Yet never flood in awe before 'em. "He follow'd David's leffon juft; "In princes never put his truft; "And, would you make him truly four, "Provoke him with a flave in pow`r. "The Irish fenate if you nam'd, "With what impatience he declaim'd! "Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, "For her he food prepar'd to die; "For her he boldly food alone;

For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, juft as faction led,
Had fet a price upon his head;
But not a traitor could be found,
To fell him for fix hundred pound.

"Had

"Had he but fpar'd his tongue and pen "He might have rofe like other men: "But pow'r was never in his thought, "And wealth he valued not a groat: "Ingratitude he often found, "And pitied those who meant the wound: But kept the tenor of his mind, "To merit well of human-kind: "Nor made a facrifice of those "Who still were true, to please his foes. "He labour'd many a fruitless hour, "To reconcile his friends in pow'r "Saw mifchief by a faction brewing, While they purfued cach other's ruin. "But, finding vain was all his care, "He left the court in mere despair.

"And, O! how thort are human schemes ! "Here ended all our golden dreams. "What St. John's fkill in ftate affairs, "What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cales, "To fave their finking country lent, "Was all destroy'd by one event. "Too foon that precious life was ended, "On which alone our weal depended. "When up a dangerous faction ftarts, "With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; "By folemn league and covenant bound, "To ruin, flaughter, and confound; "To turn religion to a fable, "And make the government a Babel; "Pervert the laws, difgrace the gown, "Corrupt the fenate, rob the crown; "To facrifice Old England's glory, "And make her infamous in ftory: “When fuch a tempeft fhook the land, "How could unguarded Virtue ftand?

"With horror, grief, defpair, the Dean
"Beheld the dire deftructive scene:
"His friends in exile, or the Tower,
"Himfelf within the frown of power;
"Purfued by bafe-invenom'd pens,
"Far to the land of f and fens;

"A fervile race in folly nurft,
"Who truckle moft when treated worft.

"By innocence and refolution,
"He bore continual perfecution;
"While numbers to preferment rofc
"Whofe merit was to be his foes;
"When ev'n his own familiar friends,
"Intent upon their private ends,
"Like renegadoes now he feels
"Against him lifting up their heels.

"The Dean did, by his pen, defeat
"An infamous deftructive cheat;
"Taught fools their intereft how to know,
"And gave them arms to ward the blow.

Envy hath own'd it was his doing, "To fave that hapless land from ruin; "While they who at the fteerage food, "And reap'd the profit, fought his blood.. "To fave them from their evil fate, "In him was held a crime of state. "A wicked monster on the bench,

"Whofe fury blood could never quench;

"As vile and profligate a villain, "As modern Scroggs, or old Treffilian ; "Who long all juftice had discarded, "Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded; "Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, "Andmake him of his zeal repent. "But Heaven his innocence defends, "The grateful people ftand his friends: "Not ftrains of law, nor judge's frown, "Nor topics brought to pleafe the crown, "Nor witnefs hir'd, nor jury pick'd, "Prevail to bring him in convict.

"In exile, with a steady heart "He spent his life's declining part; "Where folly, pride, and faction fway, "Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay." Alas, poor Dean! his only scope "Was to be held a mifanthrope: "This into general odium drew him; "Which if he lik`d, much good may 't do him. "His zeal was not to lafh our crimes, "But difcontent against the times: "For, had we made him timely offers "To raife his poft, or fill his coffers, "Perhaps he might have truckled down, "Like other brethren of his gown; "For party he would fcarce have bled:"I fay no more--becaufe he 's dead. "What writings has he left behind?”

"I hear they're of a different kind: "A few in verfe, but moft in profe."

"Some high-flown pamphlets, I fuppofe: "All fcribbled in the worst of times, "To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; To praife Queen Anne; nay more, defend her, "As never favouring the Pretender: "Or libels yet conccal'd from fight,

Against the court to fhew his fpite: Perhaps his travels, part the third; "A lie at every fecond word"Offenfive to a loyal car;

"But not one fermon, you may fwear."

"He knew an hundred pleasing stories, "With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: "Was cheerful to his dying day;

And friends would let him have his way." "As for his works in verfe or profe,

"I own myfelf no judge of those.

Nor can I tell what critics thought them; "But this I know, all people bought them, "As with a moral view defign'd

To pleafe and to reform mankind: "And, if he often mifs'd his aim, "The world muft own it, to their fhame, "The praife is his, and theirs the blame. "He gave the little wealth he had "To build a houfe for fools and mad, "To fhew, by one fatiric touch, "No nation wanted it fo much. "That kingdom he hath left his debtor, "I wish it foon may have a better. dread no farther lashes, "And, fince you "Methinks you may forgive his afhes." 3 F4

8 249

§ 240. The Author. CHURCHILL.
ACCURS'D the man whom fate ordains, in fpite,
And cruel parents teach, to read and write!
What need of letters? Wherefore fhould we fpell:
Why write our names? A mark will do as well.
Much are the precious hours of youth mifpent,
In climbing Learning's rugged fteep afcent;
When to the top the bold advent'rer 's got,
He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren ipot,
Whilft, in the vale of Ignorance below,
Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth pour in on ev ry fide,
And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide.
O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to wafte,
To cramp wild genius in the chains oiltalte;
To bear the flavish drudgery of schools,
And tamely ftoop to ev'ry pedant's rules;
For feven long years debarr'd of lib'ral eafe,
To plod in college trammels to degrees;
Beneath the weight of folemn toys to groan,
Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown;
To praife each fenior block head's thread-bare tale,
And laugh till reafon blufh, and fpirits fail,
Manhood with vile fubmiffion to disgrace,
And cap
the fool, whofe merit is his place;
Vice-chancellors, whofe knowledge is but finall,
And Chancellors, who pothing know at all;
Ill brook'd the gen'rous fpirit, in those days
When Learning was the certain read to praife,
When Nobles, with a love of fcience blefs'd,
Approv'd in others what themfelves poffets'd.
But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne,
When lordly vaffals her wide empire own;
When Wit, feduc'd by Envy, ftarts afide,
And bafely leagues with Ignorance and Pride,
What now fhould tempt us, by falfe hopes milled,
Learning's unfafhionable paths to tread,

To bear thofe labours which our fathers bere,
That crown with-held which they in triumph

wore?

When with much pains this boafted Learning's

got,

'Tis an affront to those who have it not.
In fome it caufes hate, in others fear,
Inftructs our foes to rail, our friends to fneer.
With prudent hafte the worldly-mded fool
Forgets the little which he learn'd at fchool;
The Elder Brother, to vaft fortunes born,
Looks on all fcience with an eye of fco:n;
Dependent brethren the fame features wear,
And younger fons are ftupid as the Heir.
In Senates, at the Bar, in Church and State,.
Genius is vile, and Learning out of date.

Is this O death to think! is this the land
Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand;
Where Heroes, parent-like, the Poet view'd,
By whom they faw their glorious deeds renew'd;
Where Poets, true to honour, tun'd their lays,
And by their Patrons fanctify'd their praife?
Is this the land where, on our Spencer's tongue,
Enamour'd of his voice, Defcription hung;
Where Jonfon rigid gravity beguil'd,
Whilft Reafon thro' her critic fences fmil'd;

Where Nature lift'ning ftood, whilft Shakespear
play'd,

And wonder'd at the work herfelf had made?
Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge
And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large;
She mock'd at all reftraints, but thofe of Senfe;
Where, finding in our laws a fure defence,
Where, Health and Honour trooping by her
fide,

She fpread her facre empire far and wide;
Fointed the way Affliction to beguile,
And bade the face of Sorrow wear a fimile;
Bade those who dare obey the gen'rous call
Enjoy her bleffings, which God meant for all?
Is this the land, where, in fome tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked Minifterial train,
The tools of pow'r, the flaves of int'reft, plann'd
Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd
Thofe wretches who, ordain'd in Freedom's caufe,
Gave up our liberties, and fold our laws;
When Pow'r was taught by Meannefs where to go,
Nor dar'd to love the virtue of a foe;

When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her fores Corruption fpread;
Her iron arm when ftern Oppreffion rear'd,
And Virtue, from her broad bafe fhaken, fear'd
The fcourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slav'ry's chain;
Is this the land, where, in those worst of times,
The hardy Poct rais'd his honeft rhymes
To dread rebuke, and bade controlment fpeak
Bade Pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
in guilty blushes on the villain's check;

And made them fear the Mufe who fear'd not Law?

How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls,
Whom folly guides and prejudice controuls;
Who, one dull drowsy track of bufineis trod,
Worthip their Mammon, and neglect their God;
Who, breathing by one mufty fet of rules,
Dote from the birth, and are by fyftem fools;
Who, form'd to dulnefs from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to Gofpel-truth;
Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their ftock of faith in news:
How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like
thefe,

Whom Reafon fcorns, and I should blush to please,
Rail at all lib'ral arts, deem verfe a crime,
And hold not Truth as Truth if told in rhyme !

How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown,
In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own,
By flow degrees, and courfe of office, drawn
In mood and figure at the helm to yawn;
Too mean (the worst of curfes Heav'n can fend)
To have a foe, too proud to have a friend,
Erring by form, which blockheads facred hold,
Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old,
Rebukes my fpirit, bids the daring Mufe
Subjects more equal to her weakness choose;
Bids her frequent the haunts of humble fwains,
Nor dare to traffick in ambitious ftrains;
Bids her, indulging the poetic whim
In quaint-wrought ode, or fonnet pertly trim,

Along

Along the church-way path complain with Gray,
Or dance with Mafon on the first of May!

All facred is the name and power of Kings;
"All States and Statefmen are thofe mighty Things
"Which, howfoe'er they out of courte may roll,
"Were never made for Poets to controul."
Peace, peace, thou dotard, nor thus vilcly deem
Of facred numbers, and their pow'r blafpheme;
I tell thee, wretch, fearch all creation round,
In earth, in heav'n, no fubject can be found
(Our God alone except) above whofe weight
The Poet cannot rife, and hold his state.
The bleffed Saints above in numbers fp.ak
The praife of God, tho' there all praife is weak;
In numbers here below the Bard fhall teach
Virtue to foar beyond the villain's reach;
Shall tear his lab'ring lungs, ftrain his hoarfe
throat,

And raife his voice beyond the trumpet's note,
Should an afflicted country, aw'd by men
Of flavih principles, demand his pen.
This is a great, a glorious point of view,
Fit for an English Post to purfue,
Undaunted to pursue, tho', in return,
His writings by the common hangman burn.

Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper fpring,
Tho' God in vengeance had made thee a King;
Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,
The Mufe fhould drag thee trembling to the light,
Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bofom bare
To the keen quetion of the fearching air.

Gods! with what pride I fee the titled flave,
Who fmarts beneath the ftroke which Satire gave,
Aiming at cafe, and with difhoneft art
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when, with affected air,
(Scarce able thro' defpite to keep his chair,
Whilft on his trembling lip pale anger fpeaks,
And the chaf d blood flies mounting to his cheeks)
He talks of Confcience, which good men fecures
From all thofe evil moments guilt endures,
And feems to laugh at thofe who pay regard
To the wild ravings of a frantic bard!
"Satire, whilft envy and ill-humour fway
"The mind of man, must always make her way;
"Nor to a bofom with difcretion fraught
"Is all her malice worth a fingle thought.
"The Wife have not the will, nor Fools the

"Toftop her headftrong courfe; within the hour,

How do I laugh, when men, by fortune plac'd" Left to herself, the dies; oppofing strife

Above their betters, and by rank difgrac'd,

"Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life.

Who found their pride on titles which they ftain," All things her prey, and ev'ry man her aim,
And, mean themfelves, are of their fathers vain,
Who would a bill of privilege prefer,
And treat a Poet like a creditor,
The gen'rous ardour of the Mufe condemn,
And curfe the ftorm they know muft break on
them!

"I can no patent for exemption claim;
"Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart
"Which plays around, but cannot wound my

"What, fhall a reptile Bard, a wretch unknown,
"Without one badge of merit, but his own,
"Great Nobles lafh, and Lords like common men
"Smart from the vengeance of a fcribbler's pen?'
What's in the name of Lord, that I fhould fear
To bring their vices to the public ear?
Flows not the honeft blood of humble. fwains
Quick as the tide which fwells a Monarch's veins
Monarchs, who wealth and titles can beftow,
Cannot make virtues in fucceffion flow.
Wouldst thou, proud man, be fafely plac'd above
The cenfure of the Mufe, deferve her love;
Act as thy birth demands, as Nobles ought;
Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught,
Who earn'd thofe honours thou wert born to

"heart:

"Tho' pointed at myself, be Satire free;
"To her 'tis pleafure, and no pain to me."

Diffembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school,
And there amongft thy brethren play the fool;
There, unrebuk'd, thefe wild, vain doctrines
preach:

Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach?
Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by,
And fee his confcience ripp'd with steady eye?
When Satire flies abroad on Falfehood's wing,
Short is her life, and impotent her fting;
But, when to Truth allied, the wound the gives
Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot,
And e'en by friends thy mem ry be forgot,
Still fhalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and flink to after-times.

Haft thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off
pride,

And own thofe paffions which thou shalt not

hide.

S――, who, from the moment of his birth,
Made human nature a reproach on earth;
Who never dar'd, nor with'd behind to stay,
When Folly, Vice, and Meannefs, led the way,
Would bluth, should he be told, by Truth and
Wit,

Thofe actions which he blufh'd not to commit:
Men the most infamous are fond of fame,
And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.

But whither runs my zeal, whofe rapid force,
Turning the brain, bears Reafon from her courfe;

Carrics

Carries me back to times, when Poets, blefs'd
With courage, grac'd the fcience they profefs'd;
When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood
The bad to punish, ard reward the good;
When to a flame by Public Virtue wrought,
The foes of Freedom they to juftice brought,
And dar'd expofe thofe flaves, who dar'd fupport
A tyrant plan, and call'd themfelves a Court?
Ah! what are Poets now As flavish thofe
Who deal in verfe as thofe who deal in profe.
Is there an Author, fearch the kingdom round,
In whom true worth and real fpirit's found?
The flaves of Bookfellers, or (doom'd by fate
To bafer chains) vile penfioners of State;
Some, dead to fhame, and of thofe Thackles proud
Which Honour fcorns, for flav'ry roar aloud;
Others, half-palfied only, mutes become,
And what makes Smollet write makes Johnson
dumb.

Why turns yon' villain pale

why bends his eyc Inward, abafh'd, when Murphy paffes by Doft thou fage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with vice for Virtue's fake? No, no-like other worldlings, you will find He fhifts his fails, and catches ev'ry wind. His feel the fhock of int'reft can't endure: Give him a penfion then, and fin fecure.

With laurel'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows
adorn,

Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn,
Bid cowards thrive, put honefty to flight,
Murphy fhall prove, or try to prove it right.
Try, thou State-Juggler, ev'ry paltry art,
Ranfack the inmoft clofet of my heart,
Swear thou'rt my friend; by that bafe oath
make way

Into my breaft, and flatter to betray.
Or, if thofe tricks are vain; if whole fome doubt
Detes the fraud, and points the villain out,
Bribe thofe who daily at my board are fed,
And make them take my life who cat my bread;
On Authors for defence, for praife depend;
Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend.
He, he hall ready ftand with venal rhymes,
To varnish guilt and confecrate thy crimes,
To make corruption in falfe colours thine,
And damn his own good name, to rescue thine.
But, if thy niggard hands their gifts with-hold,
And Vice no longer rains down fhow'rs of gold,
Expect no mercy, facts, well grounded, teach,
Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.
What tho' cach man of nice and juster thought,
Shunning his fteps, decrees, by Honour taught,
He ne'er can be a friend who toops fo low
To be the bale betrayer of a foe;

What tho', with thine together link'd, his name
Must be with thine tranfmitted down to fhame,
To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown,
Rather than not blaft thine, he 'll blaft his own.
To ope the fountain whence Sedition fprings,
To flander Government, and libel Kings;
With Freedom's name to farve a prefent hour,
Tho' born and bred to arbitrary pow'r;

To talk of William with infidious art,
Whilft a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart;
And, whilft mean Envy rears her loathiome head,
Flatt'ring the living, to abufe the dead,
Where is Shebbeare? O, let not foul reproach,
Travelling thither in a city-coach,
The pill'ry dare to name; the whole intent
Of that parade was fame, not punishment; [by,
And that old, ftaunch Whig, Beardmore, ftanding
Can in full court give that report the lie.

With rude unnat 'ral jargon to fupport,
Half Scotch, half English, a declining Court;
To make moft glaring contraries unite,
And prove, beyond difpute, that black is white;
To make firm Honour tamely league with Shame,
Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name,
To prove that chains and freedom are but one,
That to be fav'd muft mean to be undone,
Is there not Guthrie Who, like him, can call
All oppofites to proof, and conquer all?
He calls forth living waters from the rock;
He calls forth children from the barren ftock;
He, far beyond the fprings of Nature led,
Makes women bring forth after they are dead;
He, on a curious, new, and happy plan,
In wedlock's facred bands joins man to man;
And, to complete the whole, moft ftrange, bur

true,

By fome rare magic makes them fruitful too; Whilft from their loins, in the due course of

years,

Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's English Peers,

Doft thou contrive fome blacker decd of fhame, Something which Nature fhudders but to name, Something which makes the foul of man retreat, And the life-blood run backward to her feat? Dot thou contrive, for fome bafe private end, Some felfifh view, to hang a trutting friend, To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, And promife life to work him furer death? Grown old in villany, and dead to grace, Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face: Behold a Parfon at thy elbow ftands, Low'ring damnation, and with open hands Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward; The Atheist Chaplain of an Atheist Lord.

Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed, Ere it was known that I fhould learn to read; Tho' that was nothing, for my friends, who knew

What mighty Dulnefs of itfelf could do,
Never defign'd me for a working Pricft,
But hop'd I fhould have been a Dean at leaft;
Condemn'd (like many more, and worthier men,
To whom I pledge the fervice of my pen),
Condemn'd (whilft proud and pamper'd Sons of

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