Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 10

But truth forbids, and in these simple lays, Contented with a different kind of praise, Must Hogarth stand; that praise which Genius gives, In which to latest time the artist lives, 550 But not the man; which, rightly understood, May make us great, but cannot make us good: That praise be Hogarth's; freely let him wear The wreath which Genius wove, and planted there: Foe as I am, should Envy tear it down, Myself would labour to replace the crown.

In walks of humour, in that cast of style, Which, probing to the quick, yet makes us smile; In comedy, his natural road to fame,-- Nor let me call it by a meaner name, 560 Where a beginning, middle, and an end, Are aptly join'd; where parts on parts depend, Each made for each, as bodies for their soul, So as to form one true and perfect whole; Where a plain story to the eye is told, Which we conceive the moment we behold,-- Hogarth unrivall'd stands, and shall engage Unrivall'd praise to the most distant age.

How couldst thou, then, to shame perversely run, And tread that path which Nature bade thee shun? 570 Why did ambition overleap her rules, And thy vast parts become the sport of fools?

By different methods different men excel; But where is he who can do all things well?

Humour thy province, for some monstrous crime Pride struck thee with the frenzy of sublime; But, when the work was finish'd, could thy mind So partial be, and to herself so blind, What with contempt all view'd, to view with awe, Nor see those faults which every blockhead saw? 580 Blush, thou vain man! and if desire of fame, Founded on real art, thy thoughts inflame, To quick destruction Sigismunda give, And let her memory die, that thine may live.

But should fond Candour, for her mercy sake, With pity view, and pardon this mistake; Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind, Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind; Of arts despised, of artists, by thy frown Awed from just hopes, of rising worth kept down, 590 Of all thy meanness through this mortal race, Canst thou the living memory erase?

Or shall not vengeance follow to the grave, And give back just that measure which you gave?

With so much merit, and so much success, With so much power to curse, so much to bless, Would he have been man's friend, instead of foe, Hogarth had been a little G.o.d below.

Why, then, like savage giants, famed of old, Of whom in Scripture story we are told, 600 Dost thou in cruelty that strength employ, Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?

Why dost thou, all in horrid pomp array'd, Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou hast made?

Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art, But even Candour must condemn thy heart.

For me, who, warm and zealous for my friend, In spite of railing thousands, will commend; And no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes, Spite of commending thousands, will oppose, 610 I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage, But with an eye of pity view thy age; Thy feeble age, in which, as in a gla.s.s, We see how men to dissolution pa.s.s.

Thou wretched being, whom, on Reason's plan, So changed, so lost, I cannot call a man, What could persuade thee, at this time of life, To launch afresh into the sea of strife?

Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth, Almost as much a child as at thy birth, 620 To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath, And sunk unnoticed in the arms of Death.

Why would thy gray, gray hairs resentment brave, Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?

Now, by my soul! it makes me blush to know, My spirit could descend to such a foe: Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke, It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke.

Sure 'tis a curse which angry fates impose, To mortify man's arrogance, that those 630 Who're fashion'd of some better sort of clay, Much sooner than the common herd decay.

What bitter pangs must humbled Genius feel, In their last hours to view a Swift and Steele!

How must ill-boding horrors fill her breast, When she beholds men mark'd above the rest For qualities most dear, plunged from that height, And sunk, deep sunk, in second childhood's night!

Are men, indeed, such things? and are the best More subject to this evil than the rest, 640 To drivel out whole years of idiot breath, And sit the monuments of living death?

Oh, galling circ.u.mstance to human pride!

Abasing thought, but not to be denied!

With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.

Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out her powers, and leaves a blank behind.

But let not youth, to insolence allied, In heat of blood, in full career of pride, 650 Possess'd of genius, with unhallow'd rage Mock the infirmities of reverend age: The greatest genius to this fate may bow; Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now.

Footnotes:

[117] For occasion of this poem, see Life.

[118] 'Fox:' Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland, supposed not to be over-honest.

[119] 'Dashwood:' Sir Francis Dashwood, generally thought a bigoted and stupid Tory.

[120] 'Norton:' Sir Fletcher Norton, Attorney-General from 1763 to 1765, created a peer in 1782 by the t.i.tle of Lord Grantley.

[121] 'Mansfield:' the celebrated Murray, Lord Mansfield. See Junius.

[122] 'Rochester:' Pearce, Bishop of Rochester, mentioned above as a foe to Churchill.

[123] 'Ayliffe:' a forger of the period, said to have been ill-used by Lord Holland. Churchill intended to write a poem, ent.i.tled, 'Ayliffe's Ghost,' but did not live to accomplish his intention.

[124] 'Mighty name:' Pope, referring to his famous attack on Addison.

[125] 'Fathers:' Thomas Potter, Esq., a man of splendid abilities, was disinherited by his father, the Archbishop of Canterbury, on account of his dissolute life.

[126] 'Martin:' Samuel Martin, Esq., F.R.S., M.P. for Camelford; the hero of 'The Duellist.'

[127] 'Webb:' Philip Carteret Webb. Esq., Solicitor to the Treasury.

[128] 'C----:' name not known.

[129] 'Pratt:' Charles Pratt, Earl Camden, Chief-Justice of the Common Pleas, friendly to Wilkes. See Junius.

[130] 'Sigismunda;' a detestable miscreation of Hogarth's pencil, admired by none but himself.

[131] 'The Scottish sun:' The addresses to the King which followed the parliamentary approbation of the preliminary articles of peace in 1763, were obtained by means equally dishonourable and corrupt.

THE DUELLIST.[132]

In Three Books.

BOOK I.

The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe Darkness had spread her pitchy robe: Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod, Treading as if in fear he trod, Gentle as dews at even-tide, Distill'd his poppies far and wide.

Ambition, who, when waking, dreams Of mighty, but fantastic schemes, Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that rest With which the humbler soul is blest, 10 Was building castles in the air, Goodly to look upon, and fair, But on a bad foundation laid, Doom'd at return of morn to fade.

Pale Study, by the taper's light, Wearing away the watch of night, Sat reading; but, with o'ercharged head, Remember'd nothing that he read.

Starving 'midst plenty, with a face Which might the court of Famine grace, 20 Ragged, and filthy to behold, Gray Avarice nodded o'er his gold.

Jealousy, his quick eye half-closed, With watchings worn, reluctant dozed; And, mean Distrust not quite forgot, Slumber'd as if he slumber'd not.

Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground, His hardy offspring sleeping round, Snored restless Labour; by his side Lay Health, a coa.r.s.e but comely bride. 30 Virtue, without the doctor's aid, In the soft arms of Sleep was laid; Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast, Could not be physic'd into rest.

Thou b.l.o.o.d.y man! whose ruffian knife Is drawn against thy neighbour's life, And never scruples to descend Into the bosom of a friend; A firm, fast friend, by vice allied, And to thy secret service tied, 40 In whom ten murders breed no awe, If properly secured from law: Thou man of l.u.s.t! whom pa.s.sion fires To foulest deeds, whose hot desires O'er honest bars with ease make way, Whilst idiot beauty falls a prey, And to indulge thy brutal flame A Lucrece must be brought to shame; Who dost, a brave, bold sinner, bear Rank incest to the open air, 50 And rapes, full blown upon thy crown, Enough to weigh a nation down: Thou simular of l.u.s.t! vain man, Whose restless thoughts still form the plan Of guilt, which, wither'd to the root, Thy lifeless nerves can't execute, Whilst in thy marrowless, dry bones Desire without enjoyment groans: Thou perjured wretch! whom falsehood clothes E'en like a garment; who with oaths 60 Dost trifle, as with brokers, meant To serve thy every vile intent, In the day's broad and searching eye Making G.o.d witness to a lie, Blaspheming heaven and earth for pelf, And hanging friends[133] to save thyself: Thou son of Chance! whose glorious soul On the four aces doom'd to roll, Was never yet with Honour caught, Nor on poor Virtue lost one thought; 70 Who dost thy wife, thy children set, Thy all, upon a single bet, Risking, the desperate stake to try, Here and hereafter on a die; Who, thy own private fortune lost, Dost game on at thy country's cost, And, grown expert in sharping rules, First fool'd thyself, now prey'st on fools: Thou n.o.ble gamester! whose high place Gives too much credit to disgrace; 80 Who, with the motion of a die, Dost make a mighty island fly-- The sums, I mean, of good French gold For which a mighty island sold; Who dost betray intelligence, Abuse the dearest confidence, And, private fortune to create, Most falsely play the game of state; Who dost within the Alley sport Sums which might beggar a whole court, 90 And make us bankrupts all, if Care, With good Earl Talbot,[134] was not there: Thou daring infidel! whom pride And sin have drawn from Reason's side; Who, fearing his avengeful rod, Dost wish not to believe a G.o.d; Whose hope is founded on a plan Which should distract the soul of man, And make him curse his abject birth; Whose hope is, once return'd to earth, 100 There to lie down, for worms a feast, To rot and perish like a beast; Who dost, of punishment afraid, And by thy crimes a coward made, To every generous soul a curse Than h.e.l.l and all her torments worse, When crawling to thy latter end, Call on Destruction as a friend, Choosing to crumble into dust Rather than rise, though rise you must: 110 Thou hypocrite! who dost profane, And take the patriot's name in vain; Then most thy country's foe, when most Of love and loyalty you boast; Who, for the love of filthy gold, Thy friend, thy king, thy G.o.d hast sold, And, mocking the just claim of h.e.l.l, Were bidders found, thyself wouldst sell: Ye villains! of whatever name, Whatever rank, to whom the claim 120 Of h.e.l.l is certain, on whose lids That worm, which never dies, forbids Sweet sleep to fall, come, and behold, Whilst envy makes your blood run cold, Behold, by pitiless Conscience led, So Justice wills, that holy bed Where Peace her full dominion keeps, And Innocence with Holland sleeps.

Bid Terror, posting on the wind, Affray the spirits of mankind; 130 Bid Earthquakes, heaving for a vent, Rive their concealing continent, And, forcing an untimely birth Through the vast bowels of the earth, Endeavour, in her monstrous womb, At once all Nature to entomb; Bid all that's horrible and dire, All that man hates and fears, conspire To make night hideous as they can, Still is thy sleep, thou virtuous man! 140 Pure as the thoughts which in thy breast Inhabit, and insure thy rest; Still shall thy Ayliffe, taught, though late, Thy friendly justice in his fate, Turn'd to a guardian angel, spread Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head.

Dark was the night, by Fate decreed For the contrivance of a deed More black than common, which might make This land from her foundations shake, 150 Might tear up Freedom by the root, Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute.

Deep Horror held her wide domain; The sky in sullen drops of rain Forewept the morn, and through the air, Which, opening, laid its bosom bare, Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd; The owl at Freedom's window scream'd, The screech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath Brings sickness, and whose note is death; 160 The churchyard teem'd, and from the tomb, All sad and silent, through the gloom The ghosts of men, in former times, Whose public virtues were their crimes, Indignant stalk'd; sorrow and rage Blank'd their pale cheeks; in his own age The prop of Freedom, Hampden there Felt after death the generous care; Sidney by grief from heaven was kept, And for his brother patriot wept: 170 All friends of Liberty, when Fate Prepared to shorten Wilkes's date, Heaved, deeply hurt, the heartfelt groan, And knew that wound to be their own.

Hail, Liberty! a glorious word, In other countries scarcely heard, Or heard but as a thing of course, Without, or energy, or force: Here felt, enjoy'd, adored, she springs, Far, far beyond the reach of kings, 180 Fresh blooming from our mother Earth: With pride and joy she owns her birth Derived from us, and in return Bids in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s her genius burn; Bids us with all those blessings live Which Liberty alone can give, Or n.o.bly with that spirit die Which makes death more than victory.

Hail, those old patriots! on whose tongue Persuasion in the senate hung, 190 Whilst they the sacred cause maintain'd.

Hail, those old chiefs! to honour train'd, Who spread, when other methods fail'd, War's b.l.o.o.d.y banner, and prevail'd.

Shall men like these unmention'd sleep Promiscuous with the common heap, And (Grat.i.tude forbid the crime!) Be carried down the stream of time In shoals, unnoticed and forgot, On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot? 200 No--they shall live, and each fair name, Recorded in the book of Fame, Founded on Honour's basis, fast As the round earth to ages last.

Some virtues vanish with our breath; Virtue like this lives after death.

Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by, Himself lost in eternity, An everlasting crown shall twine To make a Wilkes and Sidney join. 210 But should some slave-got villain dare Chains for his country to prepare, And, by his birth to slavery broke, Make her, too, feel the galling yoke, May he be evermore accursed, Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst; May he be still himself, and still Go on in vice, and perfect ill; May his broad crimes each day increase, Till he can't live, nor die in peace; 220 May he be plunged so deep in shame, That Satan mayn't endure his name, And hear, scarce crawling on the earth, His children curse him for their birth; May Liberty, beyond the grave, Ordain him to be still a slave, Grant him what here he most requires, And d.a.m.n him with his own desires!

But should some villain, in support And zeal for a despairing court, 230 Placing in craft his confidence, And making honour a pretence To do a deed of deepest shame, Whilst filthy lucre is his aim; Should such a wretch, with sword or knife, Contrive to practise 'gainst the life Of one who, honour'd through the land, For Freedom made a glorious stand; Whose chief, perhaps his only crime, Is (if plain Truth at such a time 240 May dare her sentiments to tell) That he his country loves too well: May he--but words are all too weak The feelings of my heart to speak-- May he--oh for a n.o.ble curse, Which might his very marrow pierce!-- The general contempt engage, And be the Martin of his age!

BOOK II.

Deep in the bosom of a wood, Out of the road, a Temple[135] stood: Ancient, and much the worse for wear, It call'd aloud for quick repair, And, tottering from side to side, Menaced destruction far and wide; Nor able seem'd, unless made stronger, To hold out four or five years longer.

Four hundred pillars, from the ground Rising in order, most unsound, 10 Some rotten to the heart, aloof Seem'd to support the tottering roof, But, to inspection nearer laid, Instead of giving, wanted aid.

The structure, rare and curious, made By men most famous in their trade, A work of years, admired by all, Was suffer'd into dust to fall; Or, just to make it hang together, And keep off the effects of weather, 20 Was patch'd and patch'd from time to time By wretches, whom it were a crime, A crime, which Art would treason hold To mention with those names of old.

Builders, who had the pile survey'd, And those not Flitcrofts[136] in their trade, Doubted (the wise hand in a doubt Merely, sometimes, to hand her out) Whether (like churches in a brief[137], Taught wisely to obtain relief 30 Through Chancery, who gives her fees To this and other charities) It must not, in all parts unsound, Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground; Whether (though after ages ne'er Shall raise a building to compare) Art, if they should their art employ, Meant to preserve, might not destroy; As human bodies, worn away, Batter'd and hasting to decay, 40 Bidding the power of Art despair, Cannot those very medicines bear, Which, and which only, can restore, And make them healthy as before.

To Liberty, whose gracious smile Shed peace and plenty o'er the isle, Our grateful ancestors, her plain But faithful children, raised this fane.

Full in the front, stretch'd out in length, Where Nature put forth all her strength 50 In spring eternal, lay a plain Where our brave fathers used to train Their sons to arms, to teach the art Of war, and steel the infant heart.

Labour, their hardy nurse, when young, Their joints had knit, their nerves had strung; Abstinence, foe declared to Death, Had, from the time they first drew breath, The best of doctors, with plain food, Kept pure the channel of their blood; 60 Health in their cheeks bade colour rise, And Glory sparkled in their eyes.