Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 23

[261] 'On that day:' alluding to Lord Talbot's horsemanship as high-steward at the coronation.

[262] 'Good Bishop:' Warburton was married on Allen's niece.

[263] 'Cottrell:' Sir Clement Cottrell, master of the ceremonies.

[264] 'Building:' the Savoy and Old Somerset House were formerly the residences of the Queens of England.

[265] 'Bridge.' referring to a clamour excited by interested persons of all descriptions against the erection of a bridge over the Thames at Blackfriars. It was carried by the exertions of Paterson, an Anti-Wilkite, and built by Mylne, a Scotchman.

[266] 'Patavinity:' the provincial dialect of Padua, in which Livy wrote.

[267] 'Isle:' alluding to the insignificant size of the Isle of Bute.

[268] 'A queen:' Penelope, in the Odyssey.

[269] 'John Lockman:' secretary to the British Herring Fishery Board.

[270] 'Drawcansir:' Lord Talbot.

[271] 'Amyand:' George and Claudius Amyand were eminent merchants.

[272] 'Perry Cust:' a London merchant.

[273] 'Gideon:' Sampson Gideon, a wealthy Jew broker.

[274] 'Ponton:' Daniel Ponton, a gentleman of fortune, and a friend of the administration, was a magistrate for the county of Surrey.

[275] 'Faithful to James:' alluding to the Earl of Mansfield's original predilection for the Pretender.

THE CANDIDATE.

This poem was written in 1764, on occasion of the contest between the Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The election was fixed for the 30th of March, when, after much altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded; whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senate _sine die_. On appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly.

Enough of Actors--let them play the player, And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare; Garrick[276] abroad, what motives can engage To waste one couplet on a barren stage?

Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days, In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise; When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years, Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears; When in return for labour, time, and health, The town had given some little share of wealth, 10 Couldst thou repine at being still a slave?

Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave?

Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes?

Whom, too refined for honesty and trade, By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made; Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules, Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools; With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime, In such a manner, and at such a time, 20 To quit the stage; but men of real sense, Who neither lightly give, nor take offence, Shall own thee clear, or pa.s.s an act of grace, Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place.

Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail, Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale?

Why must they pity, why contempt express, And why insult a brother in distress?

Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; 30 Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom, And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb.

Let those who without genius write, and write, Vers.e.m.e.n or pros.e.m.e.n, all in Nature's spite, The pen laid down, their course of folly run In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.

Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate, That Francis once endeavour'd to translate?

Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head, Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? 40 Why may not Langhorne,[277] simple in his lay, Effusion on effusion pour away; With friendship and with fancy trifle here, Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere?

Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne, Secure from any malice but their own.

Enough of Critics--let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month pa.s.s new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant state, Their subjects many, and those subjects great, 50 Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed, With fools who write, and greater fools who read.

What though they lay the realms of Genius waste, Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste; Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill, Consult not how to cure, but how to kill; Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, They d.a.m.n those authors whom they never read; Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold, To deal out so much praise for so much gold: 60 Though Scot with Scot, in d.a.m.ned close intrigues, Against the commonwealth of letters leagues; Uncensured let them pilot at the helm, And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm: Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse, (Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse, To do our sense and honour deep despite) To credit what they say, read what they write.

Enough of Scotland--let her rest in peace; The cause removed, effects of course should cease; 70 Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown, And proudly swell'd with waters not his own, Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led, O'er our fair England desolation spread, Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumed In tenfold pride, the port of Bute a.s.sumed, Now that the river G.o.d, convinced, though late, And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate, Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides, In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? 80 Enough of States, and such like trifling things; Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings; Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie, Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly; Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'd By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold, Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan Meets with compa.s.sion only from the throne.

Enough of Patriots--all I ask of man Is only to be honest as he can: 90 Some have deceived, and some may still deceive; 'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe.

Would those, who, by opinion placed on high, Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye, Maintain that honour, let me in their ear Hint this essential doctrine--Persevere.

Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the grace Of some proud courtier, or to gain a place, Their king and country sell, with endless shame The avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; 100 But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend, And, proudly honest, hold out to the end, Their grateful country shall their fame record, And I myself descend to praise a lord.

Enough of Wilkes--with good and honest men His actions speak much stronger than my pen, And future ages shall his name adore, When he can act and I can write no more.

England may prove ungrateful and unjust, But fostering France[278] shall ne'er betray her trust: 110 'Tis a brave debt which G.o.ds on men impose, To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes.

When the great warrior of Amilcar's race Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base, To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride, Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied.

Enough of Self--that darling luscious theme, O'er which philosophers in raptures dream; Of which with seeming disregard they write, Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; 120 Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride!

What man can from himself, himself divide?

For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim (Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame; Some little fame derived from some brave few, Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too.

Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek) Who know me well, what they know, freely speak, So those (the greatest curse I meet below) Who know me not, may not pretend to know. 130 Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts above My feeble genius, still I dare to love, Doing more mischief than a thousand foes, Posthumous nonsense to the world expose, And call it mine; for mine though never known, Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own.

Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find, Die when I will, one couplet left behind.

Let none of those, whom I despise, though great, Pretending friendship to give malice weight, 140 Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer,[279]

(Some such there are) to win the public ear, Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote.

Nor soul-gall'd bishop[280] d.a.m.n me with a note.

Let one poor sprig of bay around my head Bloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead; Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!) Be planted on my grave, nor wither there; And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guest Roams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, 150 Let it hold up this comment to his eyes-- 'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;'

Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!) Reading my works, he cries--'Here Churchill lives.'

Enough of Satire--in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes.

I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave; Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms. 160 When in her faithful and immortal page They saw transmitted down from age to age Recorded villains, and each spotted name Branded with marks of everlasting shame, Succeeding villains sought her as a friend, And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend; But in an age, when actions are allow'd Which strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'd Too terrible to suffer the report, Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, 170 Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born, High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn; When she is lost to every thought of fame, And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame; When Prudence a much easier task must hold To make a new world, than reform the old, Satire throws by her arrows on the ground, And if she cannot cure, she will not wound.

Come, Panegyric--though the Muse disdains, Founded on truth, to prost.i.tute her strains 180 At the base instance of those men, who hold No argument but power, no G.o.d but gold, Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth, She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth; Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view, And loves to praise, where praise is justly due.

Come, Panegyric--in a former hour, My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power, Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd--but wanton air, Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; 190 E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand, The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand, Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine, Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design, Whilst, Hayter[281] brought too quickly to his end, I lost a subject and mankind a friend.

Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne, Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide, And lead me safe through pa.s.ses yet untried. 200 Broad is the road, nor difficult to find, Which to the house of Satire leads mankind; Narrow and unfrequented are the ways, Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise.

What though no theme I choose of vulgar note, Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote, So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream; What though a theme I choose, which might demand The nicest touches of a master's hand; 210 Yet, if the inward workings of my soul Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal, And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised, The poet praising, and the patron praised.

What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice, Or private knowledge, influence my choice?

Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe, Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's[282] go?

'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard, Close standing at my elbow, every word) 220 'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure One moment there to have thy head secure?

Are they not all, (let observation tell) All mark'd in characters as black as h.e.l.l, In Doomsday book, by ministers set down, Who style their pride the honour of the crown?

Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof-- Presumptions here must pa.s.s as solemn proof.

That settled faith, that love which ever springs In the best subjects, for the best of kings, 230 Must not be measured now by what men think, Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink, Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried, And statesmen are the judges to decide; No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe; They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law.

Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks; Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.'[283]

Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain; Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; 240 Never the vengeance of the great incur, Nor, without might, against the mighty stir.

If, from long proof, my temper you distrust, Weigh my profession, to my gown be just; Dost thou one parson know so void of grace To pay his court to patrons out of place?

If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains) Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins; There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport, A convert made by Sandwich to the court. 250 Let madmen follow error to the end, I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend, Strive to act better, being better taught, Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought: For such a change as this, must Justice speak; My heart was honest, but my head was weak.

Bigot to no one man, or set of men, Without one selfish view, I drew my pen; My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid, Obedient to that call, I left off trade; 260 A side I chose, and on that side was strong, Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong: Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?) And have not greater patriots changed before?

Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?) Without a single blush, that change confess; Confess it with a manly kind of pride, And quit the losing for the winning side, Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein, What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. 270 Hail, Sandwich!--nor shall Wilkes resentment show, Hearing the praises of so brave a foe-- Hail, Sandwich!--nor, through pride, shalt thou refuse The grateful tribute of so mean a Muse-- Sandwich, all hail!--when Bute with foreign hand, Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land; When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm; When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm, Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd; But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; 280 When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled, Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head; When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat) We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat, Into the seat of power, at one bold leap, A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship; When, like another Machiavel, we saw Thy fingers twisting, and untwisting law, Straining, where G.o.dlike Reason bade, and where She warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; 290 Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might) To do thy G.o.d, thy king, thy country right; All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more, Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before: All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use, What virtues such as thine must needs produce.

Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes) Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose, In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few, Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) 300 Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Commonweal Expects her safety from thy stubborn zeal.

A place amongst the rest the Muses claim, And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame; To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known, And, holding up thy fame, secure their own.

From his youth upwards to the present day, When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray; When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand, Shakes life's frail gla.s.s, and hastes each ebbing sand, 310 Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth, Untainted with one deed of real worth, Lothario, holding honour at no price, Folly to folly added, vice to vice, Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shame With greater zeal than good men seek for fame.

Where (Reason left without the least defence) Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense: Where Impudence made Decency submit; Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; 320 Where rude, untemper'd license had the merit Of liberty, and lunacy was spirit; Where the best things were ever held the worst, Lothario was, with justice, always first.

To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw, To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw, To play at push-pin with dull brother peers, To belch out catches in a porter's ears, To reign the monarch of a midnight cell, To be the gaping chairman's oracle; 330 Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and wh.o.r.e Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;'

Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers there In robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair; With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon, To walk with torches through the streets at noon; To force plain Nature from her usual way, Each night a vigil, and a blank each day; To match for speed one feather 'gainst another, To make one leg run races with his brother; 340 'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind, Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind; To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em, Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em; Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives, Without a rival stands, though March yet lives.

When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound, Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground, Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand, Are held as rebels through the loyal land) 350 Queen every where, but most a queen in courts, Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports; Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage, And prove her right to reign from age to age, Lothario, great above the common size, With all engaged, and won from all the prize; Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore, And every day deserves it more and more.

Nor in such limits rests his soul confined; Folly may share but can't engross his mind; 360 Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim, And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame.

Observe his follies well, and you would swear Folly had been his first, his only care; Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown, And swear that he was born for vice alone.

Is the soft nature of some hapless maid, Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd?

Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame, And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? 370 Is some brave friend, who, men but little known, Deems every heart as honest as his own, And, free himself, in others fears no guile, To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile?

Is Law to be perverted from her course?

Is abject fraud to league with brutal force?