Poetical Works by Charles Churchill Part 7

His mighty charge of souls the priest forgets, The court-bred lord his promises and debts; 220 Soldiers their fame, misers forget their pelf, The rake his mistress, and the fop himself; Whilst thoughts of higher moment claim their care, And their wise heads the weight of kingdoms bear.

Females themselves the glorious ardour feel, And boast an equal or a greater zeal; From nymph to nymph the state-infection flies, Swells in her breast, and sparkles in her eyes.

O'erwhelm'd by politics lie malice, pride, Envy, and twenty other faults beside. 230 No more their little fluttering hearts confess A pa.s.sion for applause, or rage for dress; No more they pant for public raree-shows, Or lose one thought on monkeys or on beaux: Coquettes no more pursue the jilting plan, And l.u.s.tful prudes forget to rail at man: The darling theme Cecilia's self will choose, Nor thinks of scandal whilst she talks of news.

The cit, a common-councilman by place, Ten thousand mighty nothings in his face, 240 By situation as by nature great, With nice precision parcels out the state; Proves and disproves, affirms and then denies, Objects himself, and to himself replies; Wielding aloft the politician rod, Makes Pitt by turns a devil and a G.o.d; Maintains, e'en to the very teeth of Power, The same thing right and wrong in half an hour: Now all is well, now he suspects a plot, And plainly proves, whatever is, is not: 250 Fearfully wise, he shakes his empty head, And deals out empires as he deals out thread; His useless scales are in a corner flung, And Europe's balance hangs upon his tongue.

Peace to such triflers! be our happier plan To pa.s.s through life as easy as we can.

Who's in or out, who moves this grand machine, Nor stirs my curiosity, nor spleen.

Secrets of state no more I wish to know Than secret movements of a puppet-show: 260 Let but the puppets move, I've my desire, Unseen the hand which guides the master-wire.

What is't to us if taxes rise or fall?

Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all.

Let muckworms, who in dirty acres deal, Lament those hardships which we cannot feel.

His Grace, who smarts, may bellow if he please, But must I bellow too, who sit at ease?

By custom safe, the poet's numbers flow Free as the light and air some years ago. 270 No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours, and excise our brains.

Burthens like these, vile earthly buildings bear; No tribute's laid on castles in the air.

Let, then, the flames of war destructive reign, And England's terrors awe imperious Spain; Let every venal clan[95] and neutral tribe Learn to receive conditions, not prescribe; Let each new year call loud for new supplies, And tax on tax with double burthen rise; 280 Exempt we sit, by no rude cares oppress'd, And, having little, are with little bless'd.

All real ills in dark oblivion lie, And joys, by fancy form'd, their place supply; Night's laughing hours unheeded slip away, Nor one dull thought foretells approach of day.

Thus have we lived, and whilst the Fates afford Plain plenty to supply the frugal board; Whilst Mirth with Decency, his lovely bride, And wine's gay G.o.d, with Temperance by his side, 290 Their welcome visit pay; whilst Health attends The narrow circle of our chosen friends; Whilst frank Good-humour consecrates the treat, And woman makes society complete, Thus will we live, though in our teeth are hurl'd Those hackney strumpets, Prudence and the World.

Prudence, of old a sacred term, implied Virtue, with G.o.dlike wisdom for her guide; But now in general use is known to mean The stalking-horse of vice, and folly's screen. 300 The sense perverted, we retain the name; Hypocrisy and Prudence are the same.

A tutor once, more read in men than books, A kind of crafty knowledge in his looks, Demurely sly, with high preferment bless'd, His favourite pupil in these words address'd:-- Wouldst thou, my son, be wise and virtuous deem'd; By all mankind a prodigy esteem'd?

Be this thy rule; be what men prudent call; Prudence, almighty Prudence, gives thee all. 310 Keep up appearances; there lies the test; The world will give thee credit for the rest.

Outward be fair, however foul within; Sin if thou wilt, but then in secret sin.

This maxim's into common favour grown, Vice is no longer vice, unless 'tis known.

Virtue, indeed, may barefaced take the field; But vice is virtue when 'tis well conceal'd.

Should raging pa.s.sion drive thee to a wh.o.r.e, Let Prudence lead thee to a postern door; 320 Stay out all night, but take especial care That Prudence bring thee back to early prayer.

As one with watching and with study faint, Reel in a drunkard, and reel out a saint.

With joy the youth this useful lesson heard, And in his memory stored each precious word; Successfully pursued the plan, and now, Room for my Lord--Virtue, stand by and bow.

And is this all--is this the worldling's art, To mask, but not amend a vicious heart 330 Shall lukewarm caution, and demeanour grave, For wise and good stamp every supple knave Shall wretches, whom no real virtue warms, Gild fair their names and states with empty forms; While Virtue seeks in vain the wish'd-for prize, Because, disdaining ill, she hates disguise; Because she frankly pours fourth all her store, Seems what she is, and scorns to pa.s.s for more Well--be it so--let vile dissemblers hold Unenvied power, and boast their dear-bought gold; 340 Me neither power shall tempt, nor thirst of pelf, To flatter others, or deny myself; Might the whole world be placed within my span, I would not be that thing, that prudent man.

What! cries Sir Pliant, would you then oppose Yourself, alone, against a host of foes?

Let not conceit, and peevish l.u.s.t to rail, Above all sense of interest prevail.

Throw off, for shame! this petulance of wit; Be wise, be modest, and for once submit: 350 Too hard the task 'gainst mult.i.tudes to fight; You must be wrong; the World is in the right.

What is this World?--A term which men have got To signify, not one in ten knows what; A term, which with no more precision pa.s.ses To point out herds of men than herds of a.s.ses; In common use no more it means, we find, Than many fools in same opinions join'd.

Can numbers, then, change Nature's stated laws?

Can numbers make the worse the better cause? 360 Vice must be vice, virtue be virtue still, Though thousands rail at good, and practise ill.

Wouldst thou defend the Gaul's destructive rage, Because vast nations on his part engage?

Though, to support the rebel Caesar's cause, Tumultuous legions arm against the laws; Though scandal would our patriot's name impeach, And rails at virtues which she cannot reach, What honest man but would with joy submit To bleed with Cato, and retire with Pitt?[96] 370 Steadfast and true to virtue's sacred laws, Unmoved by vulgar censure, or applause, Let the World talk, my friend; that World, we know, Which calls us guilty, cannot make us so.

Unawed by numbers, follow Nature's plan; a.s.sert the rights, or quit the name of man.

Consider well, weigh strictly right and wrong; Resolve not quick, but once resolved, be strong.

In spite of Dulness, and in spite of Wit, If to thyself thou canst thyself acquit, 380 Rather stand up, a.s.sured with conscious pride, Alone, than err with millions on thy side.

Footnotes:

[92] 'Night:' this poem was written to defend the irregularities imputed to the poet.

[93] 'Abject wretch:' Thornton, who abandoned Lloyd in his distress.

[94] 'Thankless wretch:' one Sellon, a popular clergyman, aided at first by Churchill and his set, but who betrayed and blackened them afterwards. We meet with him again in 'The Ghost' as Plausible.

[95] 'Venal Clan:' alluding to Mr Pitt's employing the Highland clans in the American war.

[96] 'Pitt:' who retired in 1761, because the cabinet would not go to war with Spain.

THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.

A SCOTS PASTORAL INSCRIBED TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ.

Nos patriam fugimus.--VIRGIL.

When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye, The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens, Receives the wound, and wonders what it means; His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire; Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views, And fain would speak, but can't--without a Muse.

So to the sacred mount he takes his way, Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, 10 His oaten reed to rural ditties frames, To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims, In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains, The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.

Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore, In rustic weeds--a cook-maid now no more-- Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies-- Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.

From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. 20 The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays, Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.

Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream, And the full chorus dies a-down the stream: The streams, with music freighted, as they pa.s.s Present the fair Lardella with a gla.s.s; And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan, Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.

But when maturer Judgment takes the lead, These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; 30 Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe, Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law; Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears, And founds his merit on our servile fears; Then we discard the workings of the heart, And nature's banish'd by mechanic art; Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown; Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown: Then Ostentation marches to our aid, And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; 40 Beneath their care behold the work refine, Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line; Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear The robes of ancients with a modern air; Nonsense with cla.s.sic ornaments is graced, And pa.s.ses current with the stamp of taste.

Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er, And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's sh.o.r.e; Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam, Easy and free as if they were at home; 50 Nymphs, naads, nereds, dryads, satyrs, fauns, Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns; Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome, More fair revive in England's meads to bloom; Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn, And roses blush, but blush without a thorn; Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise, And new creations strike our wondering eyes.

For bards like these, who neither sing nor say, Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, 60 Whose numbers in one even tenor flow, Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe; Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays, And mars one couplet in their happy lays, As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare, And ask the meaning of her coming there: For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[97] bring, Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing; In Love's paG.o.da shall they ever doze, And Gisbal[98] kindly rock them to repose; 70 My Lord ----, to letters as to faith most true-- At once their patron and example too-- Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams, Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[99]

Curious in grief (for real grief, we know, Is curious to dress up the tale of woe), From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat.

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires, No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; 80 Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme, Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time; Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads, By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads; Who often, but without success, have pray'd For apt Alliteration's artful aid; Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill, Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill: Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, 90 Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

Thou, Nature, art my G.o.ddess--to thy law Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe!

Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules Imposed at first, and since observed by fools; Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue, And bring the sober matron forth to view, With all that artificial tawdry glare Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! 100 Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste; Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease, Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please; By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued, However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude, To northern climes my happier course I steer, Climes where the G.o.ddess reigns throughout the year; Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan, She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. 110 To that rare soil, where virtues cl.u.s.tering grow, What mighty blessings doth not England owe!

What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense, Doth each revolving day import from thence?

To us she gives, disinterested friend!

Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[100] without end.

When we prosperity's rich trappings wear, Come not her generous sons and take a share?

And if, by some disastrous turn of fate, Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, 120 Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground, Such refuge as the holy martyr[101] found?

Nor less our debt in science, though denied By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.

Thence came the Ramsays,[102] names of worthy note, Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote; Thence, Home,[103] disbanded from the sons of prayer For loving plays, though no dull Dean[104] was there; Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's[105] call, That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal; 130 Thence Malloch,[106] friend alike to Church and State, Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful Fate Raised to rewards, which, in a pious reign, All daring infidels should seek in vain; Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught, To this wise town by simple patrons brought, In simple manner utter simple lays, And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.

Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream, Where all the little Loves and Graces dream; 140 Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep, And seem themselves to own the power of sleep; Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims; There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs, As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood-- Wash off my native stains, correct that blood Which mutinies at call of English pride, And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

From solemn thought which overhangs the brow Of patriot care, when things are--G.o.d knows how; 150 From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule, In compliment to Folly, plays the fool; From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power, And easy Humour wings the laughing hour; From those soft better moments, when desire Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire; When mutual ardours of the melting fair More than repay us for whole years of care, At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat, And see, once seen before, that ancient seat, 160 That ancient seat, where majesty display'd Her ensigns, long before the world was made!

Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind, Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind: Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave, Those faculties which bounteous nature gave, Thy honest spirit into practice brings, Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.

Let rude licentious Englishmen comply With tumult's voice, and curse--they know not why; 170 Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains, And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear, Things as they are, and not as they appear.

With thee good humour tempers lively wit; Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit; And nature gave thee, open to distress, A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot, 180 Who, might calm reason credit idle tales, By rancour forged where prejudice prevails, Or starves at home, or practises, through fear Of starving, arts which d.a.m.n all conscience here.

When scribblers, to the charge by interest led, The fierce North Briton[107] foaming at their head, Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call, And, injured by one alien, rail at all; On northern Pisgah when they take their stand, To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, 190 With needless truths their libels to adorn, And hang a nation up to public scorn, Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage, And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride; True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.

Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

If, by low supple arts successful grown, They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; 200 If, mean in want, and insolent in power, They only fawn'd more surely to devour, Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm, And e'en the Muse for public safety arm?

But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway, And follow where true honour points the way, If they revere the hand by which they're fed, And bless the donors for their daily bread, Or, by vast debts of higher import bound, Are always humble, always grateful found: 210 If they, directed by Paul's holy pen, Become discreetly all things to all men, That all men may become all things to them, Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn.

Into our places, states, and beds they creep; They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep.

Once--be the hour accursed, accursed the place!-- I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.

Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid, By specious arts unwarily betray'd, 220 Madly I leagued against that sacred earth, Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth: But shall I meanly error's path pursue, When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue?

Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?

To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin.

Backward I tread the paths I trod before, And calm reflection hates what pa.s.sion swore.

Converted, (blessed are the souls which know Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, 230 Whether to reason, who now rules my breast, Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[108]

Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim To raise new trophies to the Scottish name; To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?) E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore; To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes, In fullest tide roll down to latest times.