Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 15

[167] 'Dunkirk:' Dunkirk was, in 1662, sold by Charles the Second to the French for 400,000.

[168] 'Tangier:' Tangier, in Africa, was also shamefully sacrificed by Charles the Second.

[169] 'Amboyna:' where the Dutch inflicted dreadful and unavenged cruelties on the English. This happened, however, in 1622, under James the First, not Charles the Second.

[170] Isa. xlix. 15.

THE AUTHOR.[171]

Accursed the man, whom Fate ordains, in spite, And cruel parents teach, to read and write!

What need of letters? wherefore should we spell?

Why write our names? A mark will do as well.

Much are the precious hours of youth misspent, In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent; When to the top the bold adventurer's got, He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot; Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below, Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow; 10 Honours and wealth pour in on every side, And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide.

O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste, To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste, To bear the slavish drudgery of schools, And tamely stoop to every pedant's rules; For seven long years debarr'd of liberal ease, To plod in college trammels to degrees; Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan, Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown; 20 To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare tale, And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail; Manhood with vile submission to disgrace, And cap the fool, whose merit is his place, Vice-Chancellors, whose knowledge is but small, And Chancellors, who nothing know at all: Ill-brook'd the generous spirit in those days When learning was the certain road to praise, When n.o.bles, with a love of science bless'd, Approved in others what themselves possess'd. 30 But now, when Dulness rears aloft her throne, When lordly va.s.sals her wide empire own; When Wit, seduced by Envy, starts aside, And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride; What, now, should tempt us, by false hopes misled, Learning's unfashionable paths to tread; To bear those labours which our fathers bore, That crown withheld, which they in triumph wore?

When with much pains this boasted learning's got, 'Tis an affront to those who have it not: 40 In some it causes hate, in others fear, Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer.

With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool Forgets the little which he learn'd at school: The elder brother, to vast fortunes born, Looks on all science with an eye of scorn; Dependent brethren the same features wear, And younger sons are stupid as the heir.

In senates, at the bar, in church and state, Genius is vile, and learning out of date. 50 Is this--oh, 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 saw their glorious deeds renew'd?

Where poets, true to honour, tuned their lays, And by their patrons sanctified their praise?

Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue, Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung?

Where Jonson rigid Gravity beguiled, Whilst Reason through her critic fences smiled? 60 Where Nature listening stood whilst Shakspeare play'd, And wonder'd at the work herself had made?

Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large?

Where, finding in our laws a sure defence, She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense?

Where, Health and Honour trooping by her side, She spread her sacred empire far and wide; Pointed the way, Affliction to beguile, And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile; 70 Bade those, who dare obey the generous call, Enjoy her blessings, which G.o.d meant for all?

Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign, When a weak, wicked, ministerial train, The tools of power, the slaves of interest, plann'd Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd Those wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause, Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws; When Power was taught by Meanness where to go, Nor dared to love the virtue of a foe; 80 When, like a leprous plague, from the foul head To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread; Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd; And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain, Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain?

Is this the land, where, in those worst of times, The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek; 90 Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe, And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law?

How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls, Whom Folly guides, and Prejudice controls; Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod, Worship their Mammon, and neglect their G.o.d; Who, breathing by one musty set of rules, Dote from their birth, and are by system fools; Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth, Lies of the day prefer to gospel truth; 100 Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews, And lay out all their stock of faith in news; How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like these, Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please, Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime, And hold not truth, as truth, if told in rhyme!

How do I laugh, when Publius,[172] h.o.a.ry grown In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own, By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn In mood and figure at the helm to yawn, 110 Too mean (the worst of curses Heaven can send) To have a foe, too proud to have a friend; Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old, Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness choose; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; Bids her, indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, 120 Along the church-way path complain with Gray, Or dance with Mason on the first of May!

'All sacred is the name and power of kings; All states and statesmen are those mighty things Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll, Were never made for poets to control.'

Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme.

I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round, In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found: 130 (Our G.o.d alone except) above whose height The poet cannot rise, and hold his state.

The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of G.o.d, though there all praise is weak; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach; Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoa.r.s.e throat, And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note, Should an afflicted country, awed by men Of slavish principles, demand his pen. 140 This is a great, a glorious point of view, Fit for an English poet to pursue; Undaunted to pursue, though, in return, His writings by the common hangman burn How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed Above their betters, and by rank disgraced, Who found their pride on t.i.tles which they stain, And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain; Who would a bill of privilege prefer, And treat a poet like a creditor; 150 The generous ardour of the Muse condemn, And curse the storm they know must break on them!

'What! shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown, Without one badge of merit but his own, Great n.o.bles lash, and lords, like common men, Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?'

What's in this name of lord, that I should fear To bring their vices to the public ear?

Flows not the honest blood of humble swains Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins? 160 Monarchs, who wealth and t.i.tles can bestow, Cannot make virtues in succession flow.

Wouldst thou, proud man! be safely placed above The censure of the Muse? Deserve her love: Act as thy birth demands, as n.o.bles ought; Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught, Who earn'd those honours thou wert born to wear, Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir.

But if, regardless of the road to fame, You start aside, and tread the paths of shame; 170 If such thy life, that should thy sire arise, The sight of such a son would blast his eyes, Would make him curse the hour which gave thee birth, Would drive him shuddering from the face of earth, Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead In endless night to hide his reverend head; If such thy life, though kings had made thee more Than ever king a scoundrel made before; Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring, Though G.o.d in vengeance had made thee a king, 180 Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee, trembling, to the light, Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air.

G.o.ds! with what pride I see the t.i.tled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave, Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!

How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, 190 Whilst on his trembling lip pale Anger speaks, And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks) He talks of Conscience, which good men secures From all those evil moments Guilt endures, And seems to laugh at those who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard.

'Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway The mind of man, must always make her way; Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. 200 The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course; within the hour, Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life.

All things her prey, and every man her aim, I can no patent for exemption claim, Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart; Though pointed at myself, be Satire free; To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me.' 210 Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There, unrebuked, these wild, vain doctrines preach.

Lives there a man whom Satire cannot reach?

Lives there a man who calmly can stand by, And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye?

When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. 220 When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy memory be forgot, Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times.

Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride, And own those pa.s.sions which thou shalt not hide.

Sandwich, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth, Who never dared, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, 230 Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit, Those actions which he blush'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, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, graced the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood, The bad to punish, and reward the good; 240 When, to a flame by public virtue wrought, The foes of freedom they to justice brought, And dared expose those slaves who dared support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court?

Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose.

Is there an Author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found?

The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; 250 Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns, for slavery roar aloud; Others, half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollett write, makes Johnson dumb.

Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye Inward, abash'd, when Murphy pa.s.ses by?

Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake?

No, no, like other worldlings, you will find He shifts his sails and catches every wind. 260 His soul the shock of Interest can't endure: Give him a pension then, and sin secure.

With laurell'd wreaths the flatterer's brows adorn: Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn; Bid cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight, Murphy shall prove, or try to prove it right.

Try, thou state-juggler, every paltry art; Ransack the inmost closet of my heart; Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way Into my breast, and flatter to betray. 270 Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome doubt Detects the fraud, and points the villain out; Bribe those who daily at my board are fed, And make them take my life who eat my bread.

On Authors for defence, for praise depend; Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend: He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes, To varnish guilt, and consecrate thy crimes; To make Corruption in false colours shine, And d.a.m.n his own good name, to rescue thine. 280 But, if thy n.i.g.g.ard hands their gifts withhold, And Vice no longer rains down showers of gold, Expect no mercy; facts, well-grounded, teach, Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.

What though each man of nice and juster thought, Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honour taught, He ne'er can be a friend, who stoops so low To be the base betrayer of a foe?

What though, with thine together link'd, his name Must be with thine transmitted down to shame? 290 To every manly feeling callous grown, Rather than not blast thine, he 'll blast his own.

To ope the fountain whence sedition springs, To slander government, and libel kings; With Freedom's name to serve a present hour, Though born and bred to arbitrary power; To talk of William with insidious art, Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart; And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome head, Flattering the living, to abuse the dead, 300 Where is Shebbeare?[173] Oh, let not foul reproach, Travelling thither in a city-coach, The pillory dare to name: the whole intent Of that parade was fame, not punishment; And that old staunch Whig, Beardmore,[174] standing by, Can in full court give that report the lie.

With rude unnatural jargon to support, Half-Scotch, half-English, a declining court; To make most glaring contraries unite, And prove beyond dispute that black is white; 310 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 saved must mean to be undone, Is there not Guthrie?[175] Who, like him, can call All opposites to proof, and conquer all?

He calls forth living waters from the rock; He calls forth children from the barren stock; He, far beyond the springs of Nature led, Makes women bring forth after they are dead; 320 He, on a curious, new, and happy plan, In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man; And to complete the whole, most strange, but true, By some rare magic, makes them fruitful too; Whilst from their loins, in the due course of years, Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's 'English Peers.'

Dost thou contrive some blacker deed of shame, Something which Nature shudders but to name, Something which makes the soul of man retreat, And the life-blood run backward to her seat? 330 Dost thou contrive, for some base private end, Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend; To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, And promise life, to work him surer death?

Grown old in villany, and dead to grace, h.e.l.l in his heart, and Tyburn in his face, Behold, a parson at thy elbow stands, Lowering d.a.m.nation, and with open hands, Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward, The Atheist chaplain of an Atheist lord![176] 340 Bred to the church, and for the gown decreed, Ere it was known that I should learn to read; Though that was nothing, for my friends, who knew What mighty Dulness of itself could do, Never design'd me for a working priest, But hoped I should have been a Dean at least: Condemn'd, (like many more, and worthier men, To whom I pledge the service of my pen)[177]

Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd sons of lawn, Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn) 350 In pomp of reverend beggary to appear, To pray, and starve on forty pounds a-year: My friends, who never felt the galling load, Lament that I forsook the packhorse road, Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears, In throwing off that gown which Francis[178] wears.

What creature's that, so very pert and prim, So very full of foppery, and whim, So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet, So fit to prattle at a lady's feet; 360 Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod, And by his garb appears a man of G.o.d?

Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show; The villain lurks beneath the ca.s.sock'd beau; That's an informer; what avails the name?

Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came.

His tongue is deadly--from his presence run, Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.

No ties can hold him, no affection bind, And fear alone restrains his coward mind; 370 Free him from that, no monster is so fell, Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in h.e.l.l.

His silken smiles, his hypocritic air, His meek demeanour, plausible and fair, Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way, And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey.

Attend his church--his plan of doctrine view-- The preacher is a Christian, dull, but true; But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er, That plan of doctrine's never thought of more; 380 Christ is laid by neglected on the shelf, And the vile priest is gospel to himself.

By Cleland[179] tutor'd, and with Blacow[180] bred, (Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led, Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame, Ere this, had d.a.m.n'd to everlasting shame) Their steps he follows, and their crimes partakes; To virtue lost, to vice alone he wakes, Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes, And whilst he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes. 390 Are these the arts which policy supplies?

Are these the steps by which grave churchmen rise?

Forbid it, Heaven; or, should it turn out so, Let me and mine continue mean and low.

Such be their arts whom interest controls; Kidgell[181] and I have free and modest souls: We scorn preferment which is gain'd by sin, And will, though poor without, have peace within.

Footnotes:

[171] 'The Author:' published in 1763. For this poem and 'The Duellist,' Churchill received 450.

[172] 'Publius:' Smollett.

[173] 'Shebbeare:' Dr John Shebbeare, a physician and notorious jacobitical writer, who, after having been pilloried for a seditious production, was pensioned by George the Third.

[174] 'Beardmore:' under sheriff.

[175] 'Guthrie:' William Guthrie, a literary hack. See Boswell. He wrote an absurd History of the Peerage.

[176] 'Atheist lord:' See note on 'Epistle to William Hogarth.'

[177] 'Service of my pen:' he designed, and partly executed, a poem ent.i.tled 'The Curate.'