1. THE CANDIDATE.
ENOUGH of Actors—let them play the play'r,
And, free from cenſure, fret, ſweat, ſtrut, and ſtare.
GARRICK 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,
Indulg'd in laughter, or diſſolv'd in tears,
When, in return for labour, time, and health,
The Town had giv'n ſome little ſhare of wealth,
Could'ſt Thou repine at being ſtill a ſlave?
Dar'ſt Thou preſume t' enjoy that wealth She gave?
Could'ſt Thou repine at laws ordain'd by Thoſe,
Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes,
Whom, too refin'd for honeſty and trade,
By need made tradeſmen, Pride had Bankrupts made,
Whom Fear made Drunkards, and, by modern rules,
Whom Drink made Wits, tho' Nature made them Fools?
With Such, beyond all pardon is thy crime,
In ſuch a manner, and at ſuch a time,
To quit the ſtage, but Men of real Senſe
Who neither lightly give, nor take offence,
Shall own Thee clear, or paſs 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 th' uncommon gift of brains,
The Laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains,
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,
Verſemen or Proſemen, 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?
Why may not LANGHORNE, 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 DULLNESS on her throne,
Secure from any malice, but their own.
Enough of Critics—let them, if they pleaſe,
Fond of new pomp, each month paſs new decrees;
Wide and extenſive be their infant State,
Their Subjects many, and thoſe Subjects great,
Whilſt all their mandates as ſound Law ſucceed,
With Fools who write, and greater fools who read.
What, tho' they lay the realms of Genius waſte,
Fetter the Fancy, and debauch the Taſte;
Tho' They, like Doctors, to approve their ſkill,
Conſult not how to cure, but how to kill;
Tho' by whim, envy, or reſentment led,
They damn thoſe authors whom they never read,
Tho', other rules unknown, one rule they hold,
To deal out ſo much praiſe for to much gold;
Tho' Scot with Scot, in damned cloſe intrigues,
Againſt the Commonwealth of Letters leagues;
Uncenſur'd let them Pilot at the helm,
And, rule in Letters, as they rul'd 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 remov'd, effects of courſe ſhould ceaſe.
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 plum'd
In tenfold pride the port of BUTE aſſum'd,
Now that the River God, convinc'd, tho' late,
And yielding, tho' reluctantly, to fate,
Holds his fair courſe, and with more humble tides,
In tribute to the ſea, as uſual, glides.
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, uncontroul'd
By fear or ſhame, let Vice, ſecure and bold,
Lord it with all her ſons, whilſt Virtue's groan
Meets with compaſſion only from the Throne.
Enough of Patriots—all I aſk of man
Is only to be honeſt as he can.
Some have deceiv'd, and ſome may ſtill deceive;
'Tis the Fool's curſe at random to believe.
Would thoſe, who, by Opinion plac'd 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 Heav'n forbid) to win the grace
Of ſome proud Courtier, or to gain a place,
Their King and Country Sell, with endleſs ſhame
Th' avenging Muſe ſhall mark each trait'rous name;
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 foſt'ring FRANCE ſhall ne'er betray her truſt;
'Tis a brave debt which Gods on men impoſe,
To pay with praiſe the merit e'en of foes.
When the great Warriour of Amilcar's race
Made ROME's wide Empire tremble to her baſe,
To prove her Virtue, tho' 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;
On which with ſeeming diſregard they write,
Then prizing moſt, when moſt they ſeem to ſlight;
Vain proof of Folly tinctur'd 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 deriv'd from ſome brave few,
Who, prizing Honour, prize her Vot'ries 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.
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 tho' 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 tho' great,
Pretending Friendſhip to give malice weight,
Publiſh my life; let no falſe, ſneaking peer
(Some ſuch there are) to win the public ear,
Hand me to ſhame with ſome vile anecdote,
Nor ſoul-gall'd Biſhop damn 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 Heav'n indulgent grant that pray'r)
Be planted on my grave, nor wither there;
And when, on travel bound, ſome riming gueſt
Roams thro' the Church-yard, whilſt his Dinner's dreſs'd,
Let It hold up this Comment to his eyes;
Life to the laſt enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;
Whilſt (O, what joy that pleaſing flatt'ry 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 rimes.
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.
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 prais'd by men who ſtain a Court;
Propp'd by the arm of Pow'r, when Vice, high-born,
High-bred, high-ſtation'd, holds rebuke in ſcorn,
When She is loſt to ev'ry 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, PANEGYRICK—tho' the MUSE diſdains,
Founded on Truth, to proſtitute her ſtrains
At the baſe inſtance of thoſe men, who hold
No argument but pow'r, no God but Gold,
Yet, mindful that from heav'n 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 PANEGYRICK—in a former hour,
My ſoul with pleaſure yielding to thy pow'r,
Thy ſhrine I ſought, I pray'd—but wanton air,
Before it reach'd thy ears, diſpers'd my pray'r;
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 brought too quickly to his end,
I loſt a Subject, and Mankind a friend.
Come PANEGYRICK—bending at thy throne,
Thee and thy Pow'r my ſoul is proud to own,
Be Thou my kind Protector, Thou my Guide,
And lead me ſafe thro' paſſes yet untry'd.
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 tho' no theme I chuſe 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 tho' a theme I chuſe, which might demand
The niceſt touches of a Maſter's hand,
Yet, if the inward workings of my ſoul
Deceive me not, I ſhall attain the goal,
And Envy ſhall behold, in triumph rais'd,
The Poet praiſing, and the Patron prais'd.
What Patron ſhall I chuſe? ſhall public voice,
Or private knowledge influence my choice?
Shall I prefer the grand retreat of STOWE,
Or, ſeeking Patriots, to friend WILDMAN's go?
To WILDMAN's, cried DISCRETION (who had heard
Cloſe-ſtanding at my elbow, ev'ry word)
To WILDMAN's! art Thou mad? can'ſt 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 Hell,
In Doomſday book by Miniſters ſet down,
Who ſtile their pride the honour of the crown?
Make no reply—let Reaſon ſtand aloof—
Preſumptions here muſt paſs as ſolemn proof.
That ſettled Faith, that Love which ever ſprings
In the beſt Subjects, for the beſt of Kings,
Muſt not be meaſur'd now, by what Men think,
Or ſay, or do—by what They eat, and drink,
Where, and with whom, that Queſtion's to be try'd,
And Stateſmen are the Judges to decide;
No Juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe,
They, facts confeſt, in themſelves veſt the law.
Each diſh at WILDMAN's of ſedition ſmacks;
Blaſphemy may be Goſpel at ALMACK's.
Peace, good DISCRETION, peace—thy fears are vain;
Ne'er will I herd with WILDMAN's factious train,
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 (tho' ſcarce a doubt remains)
Search thro' 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:
Let Mad-men follow error to the end,
I, of miſtakes convinc'd, 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;
A ſide I choſe, and on that ſide was ſtrong,
'Till time hath fairly prov'd me in the wrong;
Convinc'd, I change (can any Man do more,
And have not greater Patriots chang'd before)
Chang'd, 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.
Hail SANDWICH,—nor ſhall WILKES reſentment ſhew
Hearing the praiſes of ſo brave a foe—
Hail, SANDWICH,—nor, thro' pride, ſhalt Thou refuſe
The grateful tribute of ſo mean a Muſe—
SANDWICH, All Hail—when BUTE with foreign hand,
Grown wanton with ambition, ſcourg'd the land,
or ſlaves to Scotſmen
ſteer'd the helm,
When Peace, inglorious Peace, diſgrac'd the realm,
Diſtruſt, and gen'ral diſcontent prevail'd;
But when (he beſt knows why) his ſpirits fail'd,
When, with a ſudden panic ſtruck, he fled,
Sneak'd out of pow'r, 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 pow'r, atone bold leap,
A perfect Connoiſſeur in Statemanſhip;
When, like another MACHIAVEL, we ſaw
Thy fingers twiſting, and untwiſting law,
Straining, where godlike Reaſon bade, and where
She warranted thy Mercy, pleas'd to ſpare,
Saw Thee reſolv'd, and fix'd (come what, come might)
To do thy God, thy King, thy Country right;
All things were chang'd, ſuſpence 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)
Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Common-weal
Expects her ſafety from thy ſtubborn zeal.
A place amongſt the reſt the Muſes claim,
And bring this free-will off'ring 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 grey,
When riotous exceſs with waſteful hand
Shakes life's frail glaſs, and haſtes each ebbing ſand,
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,
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,
Whilſt, in moſt bleſſed union, rogue and whore
Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, Encore,
Whilſt grey Authority, who ſlumbers there
In robes of Watchman's fur, gives up his chair,
With midnight howl to bay th' affrighted Moon,
To walk with torches thro' 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,
'Gainſt all the reſt to take the northern wind,
BUTE to ride firſt, and He to ride behind,
To coin new-fangled 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, tho' 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 thro' the loyal land)
Queen ev'ry 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 engag'd, and won from all the prize;
Her Cap he wears, which from his Youth he wore,
And ev'ry day deſerves it more and more.
Nor in ſuch limits reſts his ſoul confin'd;
Folly may ſhare, but can't engroſs his mind;
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 eaſy 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?
Is ſome brave Friend, who, men but little known,
Deems ev'ry heart as honeſt as his own,
And, free himſelf, in others fears no guile,
To be enſnar'd, and ruin'd with a ſmile?
Is Law to be perverted from her courſe?
Is abject fraud to league with brutal force?
Is Freedom to be cruſh'd, and ev'ry ſon,
Who dares maintain her cauſe, to be undone?
Is baſe Corruption, creeping thro' the land,
To plan, and work her ruin, underhand,
With regular approaches, ſure tho' ſlow,
Or muſt ſhe periſh by a ſingle blow?
Are Kings (who truſt to ſervants, and depend
In ſervants (fond, vain thought) to find a friend)
To be abus'd, and made to draw their breath
In darkneſs thicker than the ſhades of death?
Is God's moſt holy name to be profan'd,
His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd,
His ſervants ſcorn'd, as men who idly dream'd,
His ſervice laugh'd at, and his Son blaſphem'd?
Are Debauchees in Morals to preſide,
Is Faith to take an Atheiſt for her guide?
Is Science by a Blockhead to be led?
Are States to totter on a Drunkard's head?
To anſwer all theſe purpoſes, and more,
More black than ever Villain plann'd before,
Search Earth, ſearch Hell, the Devil cannot find
An Agent, like LOTHARIO, to his mind.
Is this Nobility, which, ſprung from Kings,
Was meant to ſwell the pow'r from whence it ſprings?
Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit,
Which Nature hop'd for from ſo rich a root?
Were there but two (ſearch all the world around)
Were there but two ſuch Nobles to be found,
The very name would ſink into a term
Of ſcorn, and Man would rather be a worm,
Than be a Lord; but Nature, full of grace,
Nor meaning birth, and titles to debaſe,
Made only One, and, having made him, ſwore,
In mercy to mankind, to make no more.
Nor ſtopp'd She there, but, like a gen'rous friend,
The ills which Error caus'd, She ſtrove to mend,
And, having brought LOTHARIO forth to view,
To ſave her credit, brought forth SANDWICH too.
Gods! with what joy, what honeſt joy of heart,
Blunt as I am, and void of ev'ry art,
Of ev'ry art which great Ones in the ſtate
Practice on knaves they fear, and fools they hate,
To Titles with reluctance taught to bend,
Nor prone to think that Virtues can deſcend,
Do I behold (a ſight alas! more rare
Than honeſty could wiſh) the Noble wear
His Father's honours, when his life makes known,
They're his by Virtue, not by birth alone,
When he recalls his Father from the grave,
And pays with int'reſt back that fame he gave.
Cur'd of her ſplenetic and ſullen fits,
To ſuch a Peer my willing ſoul ſubmits,
And to ſuch virtue is more proud to yield
Than 'gainſt ten titled rogues to keep the field.
Such (for that Truth e'en Envy ſhall allow)
Such WYNDHAM was, and ſuch is SANDWICH now.
O gentle MONTAGUE, in bleſſed hour
Didſt thou ſtart up, and climb the ſtairs of pow'r;
ENGLAND of all her fears at once was eas'd,
Nor, 'mongſt her many foes, was One diſpleas'd.
FRANCE heard the news, and told it Couſin SPAIN;
SPAIN heard, and told it Couſin FRANCE again;
The HOLLANDER relinquiſh'd his deſign
Of adding ſpice to ſpice, and mine to mine,
Of Indian villainies he thought no more,
Content to rob us on our native ſhore;
Aw'd by thy fame, (which winds with open mouth,
Shall blow from Eaſt to Weſt, from North to South)
The weſtern world ſhall yield us her increaſe,
And her wild Sons be ſoften'd into peace;
Rich Eaſtern Monarchs ſhall exhauſt their ſtores,
And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's ſhores,
Unbounded wealth, which from thoſe golden ſcenes,
And all acquir'd by honourable means,
Some honourable Chief ſhall hither ſteer,
To pay our debts, and ſet the nation clear.
NABOBS themſelves, allur'd by thy renown,
Shall pay due homage to the Engliſh crown,
Shall freely as their King our King receive—
PROVIDED, the Directors give them leave.
Union at home ſhall mark each riſing year
Nor taxes be complain'd of, tho' ſevere,
Envy her own deſtroyer ſhall become,
And Faction with her thouſand mouths be dumb,
With the meek man thy Meekneſs ſhall prevail,
Nor with the ſpirited thy ſpirit fail,
Some to thy force of reaſon ſhall ſubmit,
And ſome be converts to thy princely Wit,
Rev'rence for Thee ſhall ſtill a Nation's cries,
A grand concurrence crown a grand exciſe,
And Unbelievers of the firſt degree
Who have no faith in God, have faith in Thee.
When a ſtrange jumble, whimſical and vain,
Poſſeſs'd the region of each heated brain,
When ſome were fools to cenſure, ſome to praiſe,
And all were mad, but mad in diff'rent ways;
When Commonwealth's-men, ſtarting at the ſhade
Which in their own wild fancy had been made,
Of Tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown,
And with State-Bloodhounds hunted Freedom down;
When Others, ſtruck with Fancies not leſs vain,
Saw mighty Kings by their own ſubjects ſlain,
And, in each friend of Liberty and Law,
With horrour big, a future CROMWELL ſaw;
Thy manly zeal ſtepp'd forth, bade diſcord ceaſe,
And ſung each jarring atom into peace.
LIBERTY, chear'd by thy all-chearing eye,
Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die,
And, patroniz'd by Thee, PREROGATIVE,
Shall, ſtriding forth at large, not die, but live,
Whilſt PRIVILEGE, hung betwixt earth and ſky,
Shall not well know, whether to live, or die.
When on a rock which overhung the flood,
And ſeem'd to totter, COMMERCE ſhiv'ring ſtood;
When CREDIT, building on a ſandy ſhore,
Saw the ſea ſwell, and heard the Tempeſt roar,
Heard death in ev'ry blaſt, and in each wave
Or ſaw, or fancied that She ſaw her grave;
When PROPERTY, transferr'd from hand to hand,
Weak'ned by change, crawl'd ſickly thro' the land;
When mutual Confidence was at an end,
And Man no longer could on Man depend;
Oppreſs'd with debts of more than common weight,
When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of ſtate;
When, certain death to honour, and to trade,
A Sponge was talk'd of as our only aid,
That to be ſav'd we muſt be more undone,
And pay off all our debts, by paying none;
Like England's better Genius, born to bleſs,
And ſnatch his ſinking country from diſtreſs,
Did'ſt Thou ſtep forth, and without ſail or oar,
Pilot the ſhatter'd veſſel ſafe to ſhore,
Nor ſhalt Thou quit, till anchor'd firm, and faſt,
She rides ſecure, and mocks the threat'ning blaſt!
Born in thy houſe, and in thy ſervice bred,
Nurs'd in thy arms, and at thy table fed,
By thy ſage counſels to reflection brought,
Yet more by pattern, than by precept taught,
OECONOMY her needful aid ſhall join
To forward, and compleat thy grand deſign,
And, warm to ſave, but yet with Spirit warm,
Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form.
Let Friends of Prodigals ſay what they will,
Spendthrifts at home, abroad are Spendthrifts ſtill.
In vain have ſly and ſubtle Sophiſts tried
Private from public Juſtice to divide,
For Credit on each other they rely,
They live together, and together die.
'Gainſt all experience 'tis a rank offence,
High Treaſon in the eye of Common Senſe,
To think a Stateſman ever can be known
To pay our debts, who will not pay his own.
But now, tho' late, now may we hope to ſee
Our debts diſcharg'd, our Credit fair and free,
Since rigid Honeſty, fair fall that hour,
Sits at the helm, and SANDWICH is in pow'r.
With what delight I view the wond'rous Man,
With what delight ſurvey thy ſterling plan,
That plan which All with wonder muſt behold,
And ſtamp thy age the only age of gold.
Nor reſt thy triumphs here—That Diſcord fled,
And ſought with grief the hell where She was bred;
That Faction, 'gainſt her Nature forc'd to yield,
Saw her rude rabble ſcatter'd o'er the field,
Saw her beſt friends a ſtanding jeſt become,
Her Fools turn'd ſpeakers, and her Wits ſtruck dumb;
That our moſt bitter Foes (ſo much depends
On Men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends;
That our offended Friends (ſuch terrour flows
From Men of name) dare not appear our foes;
That Credit, gaſping in the jaws of death,
And ready to expire with ev'ry breath,
Grows ſtronger from diſeaſe; that Thou haſt ſav'd
Thy drooping Country; that thy name engrav'd
On plates of braſs defies the rage of time;
Than plates of braſs more firm, that ſacred Rime
Embalms thy mem'ry, bids thy glories live,
And gives Thee what the Muſe alone can give;
Theſe heights of virtue, theſe rewards of Fame,
With Thee in common other Patriots claim.
But that poor, ſickly SCIENCE, who had laid,
And droop'd for years beneath neglect's cold ſhade,
By thoſe who knew her purpoſely forgot,
And made the jeſt of thoſe who knew her not,
Whilſt Ignorance in pow'r, and Pamper'd Pride,
Clad like a Prieſt, paſs'd by on t'other ſide,
Recover'd from her wretched ſtate, at length
Puts on new health, and cloathes herſelf with ſtrength,
To Thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand
Which rais'd, and gave her to poſſeſs the land.
This praiſe, tho' in a court, and near a throne,
This praiſe is thine, and thine, alas! alone.
With what fond rapture did the Goddeſs ſmile,
What bleſſings did ſhe promiſe to this Iſle,
What honour to herſelf, and length of reign!
Soon as She heard, that Thou did'ſt not diſdain
To be her Steward; but what grief, what ſhame,
What rage, what diſappointment ſhook her frame,
When her proud children dar'd her will diſpute,
When Youth was inſolent, and Age was mute.
That Young Men ſhould be fools, and ſome wild few,
To Wiſdom deaf, be deaf to int'reſt too,
Mov'd not her wonder, but that Men, grown grey
In ſearch of Wiſdom, Men who own'd the ſway
Of Reaſon, Men who ſtubbornly kept down
Each riſing paſſion, Men who wore the gown,
That They ſhould croſs her will, That They ſhould dare
Againſt the cauſe of int'reſt to declare,
That They ſhould be ſo abject and unwiſe,
Having no fear of loſs before their eyes,
Nor hopes of gain, ſcorning the ready means
Of being Vicars, Rectors, Canons, Deans,
With all thoſe honours which on Mitres wait,
And mark the virtuous favourites of ſtate,
That They ſhould dare a HARDWICK to ſupport,
And talk, within the hearing of a Court,
Of that vile beggar Conſcience, who undone,
And ſtarv'd herſelf, ſtarves ev'ry wretched ſon;
This turn'd her blood to gall, This made her ſwear
No more to throw away her time and care
On wayward Sons who ſcorn'd her love, no more
To hold her courts on CAM's ungrateful ſhore.
Rather than bear ſuch inſults, which diſgrace
Her royalty of Nature, birth, and place,
Tho' DULLNESS there unrivall'd State doth keep,
Would She at WINCHESTER with BURTON ſleep;
Or, to exchange the mortifying ſcene
For ſomething ſtill more dull, and ſtill more mean,
Rather than bear ſuch inſults, She would fly
Far, far beyond the ſearch of Engliſh eye,
And reign amongſt the SCOTS; to be a Queen
Is worth ambition, tho' in ABERDEEN.
O, ſtay thy flight, fair SCIENCE; what tho' ſome,
Some baſe-born children Rebels are become,
All are not Rebels; ſome are duteous ſtill,
Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will;
Thy int'reſt is oppos'd by thoſe alone
Who either know not, or oppoſe their own.
Of Stubborn Virtue, marching to thy aid,
Behold in black, the liv'ry of their trade,
Marſhall'd by form, and by Diſcretion led,
A grave, grave troop, and SMITH is at their head,
Black SMITH of TRINITY; on Chriſtian ground
For Faith in Myſteries none more renown'd.
Next (for the beſt of cauſes now and then
Muſt beg aſſiſtance from the worſt of men)
Next, (if old Story lies not) ſprung from Greece,
Comes PANDARUS, but comes without his Niece.
Her, wretched Maid! committed to his truſt,
To a rank Letcher's coarſe and bloated luſt,
The Arch, old, hoary Hypocrite had ſold,
And thought himſelf and her well damn'd for gold.
But (to wipe off ſuch traces from the mind,
And make us in good humour with mankind)
Leading on Men, who, in a College bred,
No Women knew, but thoſe which made their bed,
Who, planted Virgins on Cam's virtuous ſhore,
Continued ſtill Male Virgins at threeſcore,
Comes SUMPNER, wiſe, and chaſte as chaſte can be,
With LONG as wiſe, and not leſs chaſte than He.
Are there not Friends too, enter'd in thy cauſe,
Who, for thy ſake, defying penal Laws,
Were, to ſupport thy honourable plan,
Smuggled from JERSEY, and the ISLE of MAN?
Are there not PHILOMATHS of high degree
Who, always dumb before, ſhall ſpeak for thee?
Are there not PROCTORS, faithful to thy will,
One of full growth, others in Embryo ſtill,
Who may perhaps in ſome ten years, or more,
Be aſcertain'd that Two and Two make four,
Or may a ſtill more happy method find,
And, taking One from too, leave none behind.
With ſuch a mighty pow'r on foot, to yield
Were death to Manhood; better in the field
To leave our Carcaſes, and die with fame,
Than fly, and purchaſe life on terms of ſhame▪
SACKVILLES alone anticipate defeat,
And, e're they dare the battle, ſound retreat.
But if Perſuaſions ineffectual prove,
If Arguments are vain, nor Pray'rs can move,
Yet, in thy bitterneſs of frantic woe,
Why talk of BURTON? why to SCOTLAND go?
Is there not OXFORD? She with open arms
Shall meet thy wiſh, and yield up all her charms,
Shall for thy love her former loves reſign,
And jilt the baniſh'd STUARTS to be thine.
Bow'd to the yoke, and, ſoon as ſhe could read,
Tutor'd to get by heart the Deſpot's Creed,
She, of ſubjection proud, ſhall knee thy throne,
And have no principles but thine alone,
She ſhall thy will implicitely receive,
Nor act, or ſpeak, or think, without thy leave.
Where is the glory of imperial ſway
If ſubjects none but juſt commands obey?
Then, and then only is obedience ſeen,
When, by command, they dare do all that's mean.
Hither then wing thy flight, here fix thy ſtand,
Nor fail to bring thy SANDWICH in thy hand.
Gods, with what joy (for Fancy now ſupplies,
And lays the future open to my eyes)
Gods, with what joy I ſee the Worthies meet,
And Brother LITCHFIELD Brother SANDWICH greet!
Bleſt be your greetings, bleſt each dear embrace,
Bleſt to yourſelves, and to the human race.
Sick'ning at Virtues, which She cannot reach,
Which ſeem her baſer nature to impeach,
Let ENVY, in a whirlwind's boſom hurl'd,
Outrageous, ſearch the corners of the world,
Ranſack the preſent times, look back to paſt,
Rip up the future, and confeſs at laſt,
No times, paſt, preſent, or to come, could e'er
Produce, and bleſs the world with ſuch a pair.
PHILLIPS, the good old PHILLIPS, out of breath,
Eſcap'd from MONMOUTH, and eſcap'd from death,
Shall hail his SANDWICH, with that virtuous zeal,
That glorious ardour for the Common-weal,
Which warm'd his loyal heart, and bleſs'd his tongue,
When on his lips the cauſe of Rebels hung.
Whilſt Womanhood, in habit of a Nun,
At M— — lies, by backward Monks undone;
A nation's reck'ning, like an alehouſe ſcore,
Whilſt PAUL the aged chalks behind a door,
Compell'd to hire a foe to caſt it up;
— —, ſhall pour, from a Communion Cup,
Libations to the Goddeſs without eyes,
And Hob or Nob in Cyder and exciſe.
From thoſe deep ſhades, where VANITY, unknown,
Doth Penance for her pride, and pines alone,
Curs'd in herſelf, by her own thoughts undone,
Where She ſees all, but can be ſeen by none,
Where She no longer, Miſtreſs of the ſchools,
Hears Praiſe loud pealing from the mouth of fools,
Or hears it at a diſtance, in deſpair
To join the croud, and put in for a ſhare,
Twiſting each thought a thouſand diff'rent ways,
For his new friends new-modelling old praiſe,
Where frugal Senſe ſo very fine is ſpun,
It ſerves twelve hours tho' not enough for one,
KING ſhall ariſe, and, burſting from the dead,
Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head▪
BURTON (whilſt awkward Affectation's hung
In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue,
Who 'gainſt their will makes Junior Blockheads ſpeak,
Ign'rant of both, new Latin, and new Greek,
Not ſuch as was in Greece and Latium known,
But of a modern cut, and all his own;
Who threads, like beads, looſe thoughts on ſuch a ſtring,
They're Praiſe, and Cenſure; Nothing, Ev'ry-thing;
Pantomime thoughts, and Stile ſo full of trick
They even make a MERRY ANDREW ſick,
Thoughts all ſo dull, ſo pliant in their growth,
They're Verſe, They're Proſe, They're Neither, and They're Both)
Shall (tho' by Nature ever loth to praiſe)
Thy curious worth ſet ſorth in curious phraſe,
Obſcurely ſtiff, ſhall preſs poor Senſe to death,
Or in long periods run her out of breath,
Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame,
ADAM could not have found a proper name,
Whilſt, beating out his features to a ſmile,
He hugs the baſtard brat, and calls it STILE.
Huſh'd be all Nature as the land of Death;
Let each Stream ſleep, and each wind hold his breath,
Be the Bells muffled, nor one ſound of care,
Preſſing for Audience, wake the ſlumb'ring air;
BROWNE comes — behold how cautiouſly he creeps—
How ſlow he walks, and yet how faſt he ſleeps—
But to thy praiſe in ſleep he ſhall agree;
He cannot wake, but he ſhall dream of Thee.
PHYSICK, her head with opiate Poppies crown'd,
Her loins by the chaſte matron Camphire bound,
PHYSICK, obtaining ſuccour from the pen,
Of her ſoft ſon, her gentle HEBERDEN,
If there are Men who can thy virtue know,
Yet ſpite of Virtue treat Thee as a foe,
Shall, like a Scholar, ſtop their rebel breath,
And in each RECIPE ſend Claſſic death.
So deep in knowledge that few lines can ſound,
And plumb the bottom of that vaſt profound,
Few grave ones with ſuch gravity can think,
Or follow half ſo faſt as he can ſink,
With nice diſtinctions gloſſing o'er the text,
Obſcure with meaning, and in words perplext,
With ſubtleties on ſubtleties refin'd,
Meant to divide, and ſubdivide the mind,
Keeping the forwardneſs of Youth in awe,
The Scowling BLACKISTON bears the train of LAW.
DIVINITY, enrob'd in College fur,
In her right hand a New Court Calendar,
Bound like a Book of Pray'r, thy coming waits
With all her pack, to hymn Thee in the gates.
LOYALTY, fix'd on ISIS' alter'd ſhore,
A ſtranger long, but ſtranger now no more,
Shall pitch her tabernacle, and with eyes,
Brim-full of rapture, view her new allies,
Shall with much pleaſure, and more wonder view
Men great at Court, and great at Oxford too.
O Sacred LOYALTY! accurs'd be thoſe
Who ſeeming friends turn out thy deadlieſt foes,
Who proſtitute to Kings thy honour'd name,
And ſoothe their paſſions to betray their fame;
Nor prais'd be thoſe, to whoſe proud Nature clings
Contempt of government, and hate of Kings,
Who, willing to be free, not knowing how,
A ſtrange intemperance of zeal avow,
And ſtart at LOYALTY, as at a word
Which without danger FREEDOM never heard.
Vain errors of vain men—wild both extremes,
And to the State not wholeſome, like the dreams,
Children of night, of indigeſtion bred,
Which, Reaſon clouded, ſeize and turn the head,
LOYALTY without FREEDOM is a chain
Which Men of lib'ral notice can't ſuſtain,
And FREEDOM without LOYALTY, a name
Which nothing means, or means licentious ſhame.
Thine be the art, my SANDWICH, thine the toil,
In OXFORD's ſtubborn, and untoward ſtile,
To rear this plant of Union, till at length,
Rooted by time, and foſter'd into ſtrength,
Shooting aloft, all danger It defies,
And proudly lifts its branches to the ſkies,
Whilſt, Wiſdom's happy ſon, but not her ſlave,
Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave,
Free from the dull impertinence of thought,
Beneath that ſhade, which thy own labours Wrought,
And faſhion'd into ſtrength, ſhalt Thou repoſe,
Secure of lib'ral praiſe, ſince ISIS flows,
True to her TAME, as duty hath decreed,
Nor longer, like a harlot, luſt for TWEED,
And thoſe old wreaths, which OXFORD once dar'd twine,
To grace a STUART brow, ſhe plants on thine.