Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 100

But, if you think this trade too base, (Which seldom is the dunce's case,) Put on the critic's brow, and sit At Will's the puny judge of wit.

A nod, a shrug, a scornful smile, With caution used, may serve a while.

Proceed on further in your part, Before you learn the terms of art; For you can never be too far gone In all our modern critics' jargon; Then talk with more authentic face Of unities, in time, and place; Get sc.r.a.ps of Horace from your friends, And have them at your fingers' ends; Learn Aristotle's rules by rote, And at all hazards boldly quote; Judicious Rymer oft review, Wise Dennis, and profound Bossu; Read all the prefaces of Dryden-- For these our critics much confide in, (Though merely writ at first for filling, To raise the volume's price a shilling.)

A forward critic often dupes us With sham quotations _Peri Hupsous_.

And if we have not read Longinus, Will magisterially outshine us.

Then, lest with Greek he overrun ye, Procure the book for love or money, Translated from Boileau's translation, And quote quotation on quotation.

At Will's you hear a poem read, Where Battus from the table-head, Reclining on his elbow-chair, Gives judgment with decisive air; To whom the tribes of circling wits As to an oracle submits.

He gives directions to the town, To cry it up, or run it down; Like courtiers, when they send a note, Instructing members how to vote.

He sets the stamp of bad and good, Though not a word he understood.

Your lesson learned, you'll be secure To get the name of connoisseur: And, when your merits once are known, Procure disciples of your own.

For poets, (you can never want 'em,) Spread through Augusta Trin.o.bantum, Computing by their pecks of coals, Amount to just nine thousand souls.

These o'er their proper districts govern, Of wit and humour judges sovereign.

In every street a city-bard Rules, like an alderman, his ward; His undisputed rights extend Through all the lane, from end to end; The neighbours round admire his shrewdness For songs of loyalty and lewdness; Outdone by none in rhyming well, Although he never learned to spell.

Two bordering wits contend for glory; And one is Whig, and one is Tory: And this for epics claims the bays, And that for elegiac lays: Some famed for numbers soft and smooth, By lovers spoke in Punch's booth; And some as justly Fame extols For lofty lines in Smithfield drolls.

Bavius in Wapping gains renown, And Mavius reigns o'er Kentish-town; Tigellius, placed in Phoebus' car, From Ludgate shines to Temple-bar: Harmonious Cibber entertains The court with annual birth-day strains; Whence Gay was banished in disgrace; Where Pope will never show his face; Where Young must torture his invention To flatter knaves, or lose his pension.

But these are not a thousandth part Of jobbers in the poet's art; Attending each his proper station, And all in due subordination, Through every alley to be found, In garrets high, or under ground; And when they join their pericranies, Out skips a book of miscellanies.

Hobbes clearly proves that every creature Lives in a state of war by nature; The greater for the smallest watch, But meddle seldom with their match.

A whale of moderate size will draw A shoal of herrings down his maw; A fox with geese his belly crams; A wolf destroys a thousand lambs: But search among the rhyming race, The brave are worried by the base.

If on Parna.s.sus' top you sit, You rarely bite, are always bit.

Each poet of inferior size On you shall rail and criticise, And strive to tear you limb from limb; While others do as much for him.

The vermin only tease and pinch Their foes superior by an inch: So, naturalists observe, a flea Hath smaller fleas that on him prey; And these have smaller still to bite 'em, And so proceed _ad infinitum_.

Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces fools and sons of wh.o.r.es, Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors out-sung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother-dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash.

O Grub Street! how do I bemoan thee, Whose graceless children scorn to own thee!

Their filial piety forgot, Deny their country like a Scot; Though by their idiom and grimace, They soon betray their native place.

Yet thou hast greater cause to be Ashamed of them, than they of thee, Degenerate from their ancient brood Since first the court allowed them food.

Remains a difficulty still, To purchase fame by writing ill.

From Flecknoe down to Howard's time, How few have reached the low sublime!

For when our high-born Howard died, Blackmore alone his place supplied; And lest a chasm should intervene, When death had finished Blackmore's reign, The leaden crown devolved to thee, Great poet of the Hollow Tree.

But ah! how unsecure thy throne!

A thousand bards thy right disown; They plot to turn, in factious zeal, Duncenia to a commonweal; And with rebellious arms pretend An equal privilege to defend.

In bulk there are not more degrees From elephants to mites in cheese, Than what a curious eye may trace In creatures of the rhyming race.

From bad to worse, and worse, they fall; But who can reach the worst of all?

For though in nature, depth and height Are equally held infinite; In poetry, the height we know; 'Tis only infinite below.

For instance, when you rashly think No rhymer can like Welsted sink, His merits balanced, you shall find The laureate leaves him far behind; Concannen, more aspiring bard, Soars downwards deeper by a yard; Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour drops; The rest pursue as thick as hops.

With heads to point, the gulf they enter, Linked perpendicular to the centre; And, as their heels elated rise, Their heads attempt the nether skies.

Oh, what indignity and shame, To prost.i.tute the Muse's name, By flattering kings, whom Heaven designed The plagues and scourges of mankind; Bred up in ignorance and sloth, And every vice that nurses both.

Fair Britain, in thy monarch blest, Whose virtues bear the strictest test; Whom never faction could bespatter, Nor minister nor poet flatter; What justice in rewarding merit!

What magnanimity of spirit!

What lineaments divine we trace Through all his figure, mien, and face!

Though peace with olive bind his hands, Confessed the conquering hero stands.

Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges, Dread from his hand impending changes; From him the Tartar and the Chinese, Short by the knees, entreat for peace.

The comfort of his throne and bed, A perfect G.o.ddess born and bred; Appointed sovereign judge to sit On learning, eloquence and wit.

Our eldest hope, divine Iulus, (Late, very late, oh, may he rule us!) What early manhood has he shown, Before his downy beard was grown!

Then think what wonders will be done, By going on as he begun, An heir for Britain to secure As long as sun and moon endure.

The remnant of the royal blood Comes pouring on me like a flood: Bright G.o.ddesses, in number five; Duke William, sweetest prince alive!

Now sings the minister of state, Who shines alone without a mate.

Observe with what majestic port This Atlas stands to prop the court, Intent the public debts to pay, Like prudent Fabius, by delay.

Thou great vicegerent of the king, Thy praises every Muse shall sing!

In all affairs thou sole director, Of wit and learning chief protector; Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care.

Of pious prelates what a stock You choose, to rule the sable flock!

You raise the honour of your peerage, Proud to attend you at the steerage; You dignify the n.o.ble race, Content yourself with humbler place.

Now learning, valour, virtue, sense, To t.i.tles give the sole pretence.

St George beheld thee with delight Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, When on thy b.r.e.a.s.t.s and sides herculean He fixed the star and string cerulean.

Say, poet, in what other nation, Shone ever such a constellation!

Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, And tune your harps, and strew your bays: Your panegyrics here provide; You cannot err on flattery's side.

Above the stars exalt your style, You still are low ten thousand mile.

On Louis all his bards bestowed Of incense many a thousand load; But Europe mortified his pride, And swore the fawning rascals lied.

Yet what the world refused to Louis, Applied to George, exactly true is.

Exactly true! invidious poet!

'Tis fifty thousand times below it.

Translate me now some lines, if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.

They could all power in heaven divide, And do no wrong on either side; They teach you how to split a hair, Give George and Jove an equal share.

Yet why should we be laced so strait?

I'll give my monarch b.u.t.ter weight; And reason good, for many a year Jove never intermeddled here: Nor, though his priests be duly paid, Did ever we desire his aid: We now can better do without him, Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.

ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT.

Occasioned by reading the following maxim in Rochefoucault, 'Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas;'--'In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.'

As Rochefoucault his maxims drew From nature, I believe them true:

They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: 'In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circ.u.mstance to please us.'

If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes Our equals raised above our size.

Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low?

I love my friend as well as you: But why should he obstruct my view?

Then let me have the higher post; Suppose it but an inch at most.

If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion killed, or trophy won; Rather than thus be over-topped, Would you not wish his laurels cropped?

Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies racked with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan!

How glad the case is not your own!

What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he?