Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 6

Her shape is often varied; but her aim, To prop the cause of Virtue, still the same.

In praise of Mercy let the guilty bawl; When Vice and Folly for correction call, Silence the mark of weakness justly bears, And is partaker of the crimes it spares.

But if the Muse, too cruel in her mirth, 330 With harsh reflections wounds the man of worth; If wantonly she deviates from her plan, And quits the actor to expose the man;[91]

Ashamed, she marks that pa.s.sage with a blot, And hates the line where candour was forgot.

But what is candour, what is humour's vein, Though judgment join to consecrate the strain, If curious numbers will not aid afford, Nor choicest music play in every word?

Verses must run, to charm a modern ear, 340 From all harsh, rugged interruptions clear.

Soft let them breathe, as Zephyr's balmy breeze, Smooth let their current flow, as summer seas; Perfect then only deem'd when they dispense A happy tuneful vacancy of sense.

Italian fathers thus, with barbarous rage, Fit helpless infants for the squeaking stage; Deaf to the calls of pity, Nature wound, And mangle vigour for the sake of sound.

Henceforth farewell, then, feverish thirst of fame; 350 Farewell the longings for a poet's name; Perish my Muse--a wish 'bove all severe To him who ever held the Muses dear-- If e'er her labours weaken to refine The generous roughness of a nervous line.

Others affect the stiff and swelling phrase; Their Muse must walk in stilts, and strut in stays; The sense they murder, and the words transpose, Lest poetry approach too near to prose.

See tortured Reason how they pare and trim, 360 And, like Procrustes, stretch, or lop the limb.

Waller! whose praise succeeding bards rehea.r.s.e, Parent of harmony in English verse, Whose tuneful Muse in sweetest accents flows, In couplets first taught straggling sense to close.

In polish'd numbers and majestic sound, Where shall thy rival, Pope! be ever found?

But whilst each line with equal beauty flows.

E'en excellence, unvaried, tedious grows.

Nature, through all her works, in great degree, 370 Borrows a blessing from variety.

Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires.

Still in one key, the nightingale would tease; Still in one key, not Brent would always please.

Here let me bend, great Dryden! at thy shrine, Thou dearest name to all the Tuneful Nine!

What if some dull lines in cold order creep, And with his theme the poet seems to sleep?

Still, when his subject rises proud to view, 380 With equal strength the poet rises too: With strong invention, n.o.blest vigour fraught, Thought still springs up and rises out of thought; Numbers enn.o.bling numbers in their course, In varied sweetness flow, in varied force; The powers of genius and of judgment join, And the whole Art of Poetry is thine.

But what are numbers, what are bards to me, Forbid to tread the paths of poesy?

A sacred Muse should consecrate her pen-- 390 Priests must not hear nor see like other men-- Far higher themes should her ambition claim: Behold where Sternhold points the way to fame!

Whilst with mistaken zeal dull bigots burn, Let Reason for a moment take her turn.

When coffee-sages hold discourse with kings, And blindly walk in paper leading-strings, What if a man delight to pa.s.s his time In spinning reason into harmless rhyme, Or sometimes boldly venture to the play? 400 Say, where's the crime, great man of prudence, say?

No two on earth in all things can agree; All have some darling singularity: Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gew-gaws take delight, and sigh for toys.

Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings.

In things indifferent Reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a Muse.

What the grave triflers on this busy scene, 410 When they make use of this word Reason, mean, I know not; but according to my plan, 'Tis Lord Chief-Justice in the court of man; Equally form'd to rule in age or youth, The friend of virtue and the guide to truth; To her I bow, whose sacred power I feel; To her decision make my last appeal; Condemn'd by her, applauding worlds in vain Should tempt me to take up the pen again; By her absolved, my course I'll still pursue: 420 If Reason's for me, G.o.d is for me too.

Footnotes:

[83] For occasion, &c. of this, see Life.

[84] 'Hamilton:' Archibald Hamilton, printer of the 'Critical Review.'

[85] 'Voltaire:' Smollett had changed his opinion of Voltaire, and from praising, had begun to abuse him.

[86] 'Thy name:' Dr Tobias Smollett, the well-known author of 'Roderick Random, 'The Regicide,' an unfortunate tragedy, and one of the editors of the 'Critical Review,'is here satirised.

[87] 'Fopperies of France,' &c.: in these lines the poet refers to Murphy's practice of vamping up French plays, and to his 'Desert Island,' a ridiculous pastoral drama.

[88] 'Modern tragedy:' Mr Murphy again.

[89] 'Vain tyrant,' &c.: Garrick is here meant; he had displeased Churchill by pretending that he had written 'The Rosciad' to gain the freedom of the playhouse. He apologised very humbly to Churchill, and a reconciliation took place.

[90] 'A man:' Dr Smollett again.

[91] 'Expose the man:' referring to some personal lines on one Mr John Palmer, which occurred in the first edition, but which he expunged.

NIGHT.[92]

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD.

Contrarius evehor orbi.--OVID, Met. lib. ii.

When foes insult, and prudent friends dispense, In pity's strains, the worst of insolence, Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief, And in thy social converse find relief.

The mind, of solitude impatient grown, Loves any sorrows rather than her own.

Let slaves to business, bodies without soul, Important blanks in Nature's mighty roll, Solemnise nonsense in the day's broad glare, We Night prefer, which heals or hides our care. 10 Rogues justified, and by success made bold, Dull fools and c.o.xcombs sanctified by gold, Freely may bask in fortune's partial ray, And spread their feathers opening to the day; But threadbare Merit dares not show the head Till vain Prosperity retires to bed.

Misfortunes, like the owl, avoid the light; The sons of Care are always sons of Night.

The wretch, bred up in Method's drowsy school, Whose only merit is to err by rule, 20 Who ne'er through heat of blood was tripping caught, Nor guilty deem'd of one eccentric thought; Whose soul directed to no use is seen, Unless to move the body's dull machine, Which, clock-work like, with the same equal pace Still travels on through life's insipid s.p.a.ce, Turns up his eyes to think that there should be, Among G.o.d's creatures, two such things as we; Then for his nightcap calls, and thanks the powers Which kindly gave him grace to keep good hours. 30 Good hours!--fine words--but was it ever seen That all men could agree in what they mean?

Florio, who many years a course hath run In downright opposition to the sun, Expatiates on good hours, their cause defends With as much vigour as our prudent friends.

The uncertain term no settled notion brings, But still in different mouths means different things; Each takes the phrase in his own private view; With Prudence it is ten, with Florio two. 40 Go on, ye fools! who talk for talking sake, Without distinguishing, distinctions make; Shine forth in native folly, native pride, Make yourselves rules to all the world beside; Reason, collected in herself, disdains The slavish yoke of arbitrary chains; Steady and true, each circ.u.mstance she weighs, Nor to bare words inglorious tribute pays.

Men of sense live exempt from vulgar awe, And Reason to herself alone is law: 50 That freedom she enjoys with liberal mind, Which she as freely grants to all mankind.

No idol-t.i.tled name her reverence stirs, No hour she blindly to the rest prefers; All are alike, if they're alike employ'd, And all are good if virtuously enjoy'd.

Let the sage Doctor (think him one we know) With sc.r.a.ps of ancient learning overflow, In all the dignity of wig declare The fatal consequence of midnight air, 60 How damps and vapours, as it were by stealth, Undermine life, and sap the walls of health: For me let Galen moulder on the shelf, I'll live, and be physician to myself.

Whilst soul is join'd to body, whether fate Allot a longer or a shorter date, I'll make them live, as brother should with brother, And keep them in good humour with each other.

The surest road to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill. 70 Most of those evils we poor mortals know, From doctors and imagination flow.

Hence to old women with your boasted rules, Stale traps, and only sacred now to fools; As well may sons of physic hope to find One medicine, as one hour, for all mankind!

If Rupert after ten is out of bed, The fool next morning can't hold up his head; What reason this which me to bed must call, Whose head, thank Heaven, never aches at all? 80 In different courses different tempers run; He hates the moon, I sicken at the sun.

Wound up at twelve at noon, his clock goes right; Mine better goes, wound up at twelve at night.

Then in oblivion's grateful cup I drown The galling sneer, the supercilious frown, The strange reserve, the proud, affected state Of upstart knaves grown rich, and fools grown great.

No more that abject wretch[93] disturbs my rest, Who meanly overlooks a friend distress'd. 90 Purblind to poverty, the worldling goes, And scarce sees rags an inch beyond his nose; But from a crowd can single out his Grace, And cringe and creep to fools who strut in lace.

Whether those cla.s.sic regions are survey'd Where we in earliest youth together stray'd, Where hand in hand we trod the flowery sh.o.r.e, Though now thy happier genius runs before; When we conspired a thankless wretch[94] to raise, And taught a stump to shoot with pilfer'd praise, 100 Who once, for reverend merit famous grown, Gratefully strove to kick his maker down; Or if more general arguments engage,-- The court or camp, the pulpit, bar, or stage; If half-bred surgeons, whom men doctors call, And lawyers, who were never bred at all, Those mighty letter'd monsters of the earth, Our pity move, or exercise our mirth; Or if in t.i.ttle-tattle, toothpick way, Our rambling thoughts with easy freedom stray,-- 110 A gainer still thy friend himself must find, His grief suspended, and improved his mind.

Whilst peaceful slumbers bless the homely bed Where virtue, self-approved, reclines her head; Whilst vice beneath imagined horrors mourns, And conscience plants the villain's couch with thorns; Impatient of restraint, the active mind, No more by servile prejudice confined, Leaps from her seat, as waken'd from a trance And darts through Nature at a single glance 120 Then we our friends, our foes, ourselves, survey, And see by Night what fools we are by day.

Stripp'd of her gaudy plumes, and vain disguise, See where ambition, mean and loathsome, lies; Reflection with relentless hand pulls down The tyrant's b.l.o.o.d.y wreath and ravish'd crown.

In vain he tells of battles bravely won, Of nations conquer'd, and of worlds undone; Triumphs like these but ill with manhood suit, And sink the conqueror beneath the brute. 130 But if, in searching round the world, we find Some generous youth, the friend of all mankind, Whose anger, like the bolt of Jove, is sped In terrors only at the guilty head, Whose mercies, like heaven's dew, refreshing fall In general love and charity to all, Pleased we behold such worth on any throne, And doubly pleased we find it on our own.

Through a false medium things are shown by day; Pomp, wealth, and t.i.tles, judgment lead astray. 140 How many from appearance borrow state, Whom Night disdains to number with the great!

Must not we laugh to see yon lordling proud Snuff up vile incense from a fawning crowd?

Whilst in his beam surrounding clients play, Like insects in the sun's enlivening ray, Whilst, Jehu-like, he drives at furious rate, And seems the only charioteer of state, Talking himself into a little G.o.d, And ruling empires with a single nod; 150 Who would not think, to hear him law dispense, That he had interest, and that they had sense?

Injurious thought! beneath Night's honest shade, When pomp is buried, and false colours fade, Plainly we see at that impartial hour, Them dupes to pride, and him the tool of power.

G.o.d help the man, condemn'd by cruel fate To court the seeming, or the real great!

Much sorrow shall he feel, and suffer more Than any slave who labours at the oar! 160 By slavish methods must he learn to please, By smooth-tongued flattery, that cursed court-disease; Supple, to every wayward mood strike sail, And shift with shifting humour's peevish gale.

To nature dead, he must adopt vile art, And wear a smile, with anguish in his heart.

A sense of honour would destroy his schemes, And conscience ne'er must speak unless in dreams.

When he hath tamely borne, for many years, Cold looks, forbidding frowns, contemptuous sneers, 170 When he at last expects, good easy man!

To reap the profits of his labour'd plan, Some cringing lackey, or rapacious wh.o.r.e, To favours of the great the surest door, Some catamite, or pimp, in credit grown, Who tempts another's wife, or sells his own, Steps 'cross his hopes, the promised boon denies, And for some minion's minion claims the prize.

Foe to restraint, unpractised in deceit, Too resolute, from nature's active heat, 180 To brook affronts, and tamely pa.s.s them by, Too proud to flatter, too sincere to lie, Too plain to please, too honest to be great, Give me, kind Heaven, an humbler, happier state: Far from the place where men with pride deceive, Where rascals promise, and where fools believe; Far from the walk of folly, vice, and strife, Calm, independent, let me steal through life; Nor one vain wish my steady thoughts beguile To fear his Lordship's frown, or court his smile. 190 Unfit for greatness, I her snares defy, And look on riches with untainted eye: To others let the glittering baubles fall, Content shall place us far above them all.

Spectators only on this bustling stage, We see what vain designs mankind engage: Vice after vice with ardour they pursue, And one old folly brings forth twenty new.

Perplex'd with trifles through the vale of life, Man strives 'gainst man, without a cause for strife: 200 Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleed For some vile spot, where fifty cannot feed.

Squirrels for nuts contend, and, wrong or right, For the world's empire kings, ambitious, fight.

What odds?--to us 'tis all the self-same thing, A nut, a world, a squirrel, and a king.

Britons, like Roman spirits famed of old, Are cast by nature in a patriot mould; No private joy, no private grief, they know, Their souls engross'd by public weal or woe; 210 Inglorious ease, like ours, they greatly scorn; Let care with n.o.bler wreaths their brows adorn: Gladly they toil beneath the statesman's pains, Give them but credit for a statesman's brains.

All would be deem'd, e'en from the cradle, fit To rule in politics as well as wit.

The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce, Start up (G.o.d bless us!) statesman all at once.