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When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail'd; Who the Sun's height can raise at pleasure higber, That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd :
His lamp illumine, set bis flames on fire. And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought, Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear, Who meant he conquerid, only said he fought.
A darling friend whom near your heart you wear; When you, my lord, to sylvan scenes retreat, That lovely youth, my lord, whom you inust No crowds around for pleasure, or for state,
blame, You are not cast upon a stranger land,
That I grow thus familiar with your name, And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;
He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice, Nor are you by receir'd example taught,
Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice : In toys to sbun the discipline of thought;
Vice he has none, or such as none wish less, But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place, But friends indeed, good-nature in excess. You choose companions from all human race; You cannot boast the merit of a choice, Converse with those the deluge swept away, In making him your own, 'twas Nature's voice, Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day. Which callid too loud by man to be withstood,
Books not so much inform, as give consent Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood;
Similitude of manners, such a mind
Such ease his common converse recommends,
As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's; With more respect to value your own thought : Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew
Of all beneath the Sun, to bend his course). Those precepts we behold alive in you :
Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair, Your life is so adjusted to their schools,
Flatters the motions of the wanton air; It makes that history they meant for rules, Salutes each passing breeze with head reelin'd; What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise The pliant branches dance in every wind : Within your breast, and lift you to the skies, But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains, When in each lcarned page
And all the fury of the North disdains. You find some part of your own conduct told ! How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend !
So pleas'd, and so surpris’d, Æneas stood, Alas! with me the joys of friendship end ; And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, O Harrison! I must, I will complain ; When far from Trojan shores the hero spied Tears sooth the soul's distress, though shed in rain; His story shining forth in all its pride;
Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore Admir'd bimself, and saw his actions stand With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?-The praise and wonder of a foreign land.
Thy task was early done, and I must own
But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn,
They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grare. Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave.
With aching heart, and a foreboding mind, When pains eternal,, and eternal bliss,
I night to day in painful journey join'd, When these bigh cares your weary thoughts dismiss, When first inforin’d of his approaching fate; In heavenly nuinbers you your soul unbend, But reach'd the partner of my soul too late : Aud for your ease to deathless fame descend. 'Twas past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, Ye kings! would ve true greatness understand, Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song, Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand ? Now languish’d, wanted strength to speak his pain,
Behold the glories of your life complete! Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again : Säill at a flow, and permanently great;
Each art of life, in which he bore a part, New moments shed new pleasures as they fy, Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart. And yet your greatest is, that you must die. To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,
Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat But more to lead that most unhappy hour? Of honour, and confess'd her servant great;
Yet still prevailid the greatness of his mind; Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful Fame That, not in bealth, or life itself confin'd, Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's l'elt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace, nane;
Mounted to joy, and smil'd in Death's embrace. Though you in modesty the title wear,
His spirit nuw just ready to resign, Your name shall be the title of your heir;
No longer now his own, no longer mine, Farther than ermin make bis glory known,
He grasps my hand, his swimining eye-balls roll, And cast in shades the favour of a throne.
My hand be grasps, and enters
YOUNG. To him that great prerogative resign,
4 The author here bewails that most ingenivus
gentleman, Mr. William Blarrison, fellow of New2 See lis loriship's tragedy entitled “ Heroic College, Oxon. Young-[See a more particular Lure,' 'Young,
account of him in the Supplement to Swift.]
Te better fate your love I recommend,
Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad; 0! may you never lose so dear a friend !
Whether extremely witty, or quite mad; May nothing interrupt your happy hours; Profoundiy dull, or shallowly polite; Enjoy the blessings peace on Europe showers : Men that read well, or men that only write; Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn ;
Whcther peers, porters, tajlors, tune the reeds, To make the Muse immortal, you was born. And measuring words to measuring shapes succeeds; Sing; and in latest time, when story 's dark, For bankrupts write, when ruin'd shops are shut, This period your surviving fime shall mark; As maggots crawl from out a perish'd nut. Save from the gulf of years this glorious age, His hainmner this, and that bis trowel quits, And thus illustrate their historian's page.
And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits.
Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alone belong
Thee well a land of liberty we name,
Where all are free to scandal and to shame;
Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease, TO MR. POPE,
And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they please; CONCERNING
Like trodilen filth, their vile and abject sense THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE.
Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence :
Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires;
Their verse immortal kindles loose desires :
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime, EPISTLE I.
Our sport and pity, punishment and crinie.
What glorious motives urge our authors on, Whilst vou at Twickenham plan the future wood, Chus to undo, and thus to be undone!
One loses bis estate, and down he sits,
Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 't is wet; And Codrus' prose works up, and Licu's strains. Through private pique some do the public right, Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, And love their king and country out of spite: Where speculation roosted near the sky;
Another writes because his father writ, Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, And proves himself a bastard by his wit. And all the garret thunders on the throng!
Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound? ( Pope! I burst ; nor can, nor will, refrain; Neither: why write then? He wants twenty pound: I'll write; let others, in their turn, complain : His belly, not his brains, this impulse give; Truce, truce, ye Vandals ! my tormented ear He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live: Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer;
He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream, l've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each | With no provision made, but of his theme; hour,
Perhaps a titie has his fancy smit,
Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style, them just;
And who by labour would distrust bis friends ? 'They had not bit, and then they had not bleid. Thus having reason'd with consummate skill, Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys,
In immortality be dips his quill: But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys; And, since blank paper is deny'd the press, With fame, in just propor: ion, emy grows; He mingles the whole alphabet by guess: The man that makes a character, makes fues : Tu various sets, which various words compose, Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise,
Of ubich, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows. As a bright day awakes the world of flies;
Se sounds spontaneous froin the Sibyl broke, With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,
Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke; (To show they live) they flutter, and they sting: The priests found out the ineaning, if they could; But as by depredations wasps proclaim
And nations star'd at what none understood. The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.
Clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, the whole Shall we not censure all the motley train, And great concern of an immortal soul!) Whether witb ale irriguous, or Champain? Oft have I said Anake! exist! and strive Whether they treat the vale of prose, or climb, For birth! nor think to loiter is to live !" And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhymne; As oft I overheard the demon say, The college sloven, or embroider'd spark;
Who daily met the loiterer in his way, The purple prelate, or the parish clerk ;
• I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:” the yonth The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig;
replies, The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig;
“I'll meet thee there," and fails his sacrifice; VOL. XIII,
His fortune squanderd, leaves his virtue bare Your power is fixt, your fame through time con. To every bribe, and blind to every snare :
vey'd, Clodio for bread his indolence must quit,
And Britain Europe's queen—if I am paid.”
A statesman has his answer in a trice;
But rushes like a tempest out of door.
Out comes the piece, another, and the same; And steal (for you can steal) celestial tire.
For A, bis magic pen evokes an 0, 0! the just contrast! 0! the beauteous strife! And turns the tide of Europe on the foe : 'T wixt their cool writings, and Pindaric life : He rams his quill with scandal and with scoff; They write with phelgm, but then they live with But 't is so very foul, it won't go off :
Dreadful his thunders, while unprinted, roar; They cheat the lender, and their works the buyer. But, when once publish'd, they are heard no more. I reverence misfortune, not deride;
Thus distant bugbears fright; but, nearer draw, I pity poverty, but laugh at pride:
The block 's a block, and turns to mirth your awe. For who so sad, but must some mirth confess Can those oblige, whose heads and hearts are At gay Castruchio's miscellaneous dress?
such ? Though there's but one of the dull works he wrote, No; every party's tainted by their touch. There's ten editions of his old lac'd coat.
Infected persons fly each public place;
They love, and hate, extempore, for gold :
Rest they in peace? If you are pleas'd to buy, How must these bards be rapt into the skies? To swell your sails, like Lapland winds, they fir: You need not read, you feel their ecstasies. Write they with rage? The tempest quickly flags;
Will they persist? 'T is madness; Lintot, run, A state-Ulysses tames them with his bags;
Behind the curtain lurks the fountain head,
That pours his polities through pipes of lead;
Which far and near ejaculate, and spout
The statesman throws his filthy squirts away!
With golden forceps, these, another takes,
How much it costs the wretch to be so base ;
Nor can the greatest powers enough disgrace, It is not theirs who write, but ours who read. Enough chastise, such prostitute applause,
But, (! what wisdom can convince a fool, If well they weigh how much it stains their cause. But that 't is dulness to conceive him dull?
But are our writers ever in the wrong?
still in the wrong, though champions for the right: The sheets yet wet, applands his great success ; Whoe'er their crimes for interest only quit, Surveys them, reads thein, takes their charms to Sin on in virtue, and good deeds commit. beri,
Nought but inconstancy Britannia meets, Those in his hand, and glory in his head:
And broken faith in their abandon'd sheets; "T is joy too great; a fever of delight !
From the same hand how various is the page!
Felons may bless their stars they cannot write!
As seldom rises to the verge of sense;
Now, by mad rage, transform'd into a flame,
Which yet fit engines, well apply'd, can tame;
A dreadful lion, now he roars at power,
All write at London ; shall the rage abate
Here, where it most should shine, the Muses' seat? The flood, flame, swine, the lion, and the snake,
Where, mortal, or immortal, as they please, Those fivefold monsters, modern authors make :
The learn'd may choose eternity or ease? The snake reigns most ; snakes, Pliny says, are
Has not a royal patron' wisely strove bred,
To woo the Muse in her Athenian grove? When the brain's perish'd in a human head.
Added new strings to her harmonious shell, Yegrov'lling, trodden, whipt, stript, turncoat things,
And given new tongues to those who spoke so well ? Made up of venom, volumes, stains, and stings!
Let these instruct with truth's illustrious ray, Thrown from the tree of knowledge, like you,
Awake the world, and scare our owls away.
Mean while, O friend ! indulge me, if I give curst To scribble in the dust, was Snake the first.
Some needful precepts how to write, and live; What if the figure should in fact prove true ?
Serious should be an author's final views; It did in Elkenah', why not in you?
Who write for pure amusement, ne'er amuse. Poor Elkenah, all other changes past,
An author! 'Tis a venerable name! For bread in Smithfield dragons hiss'd at last,
How few deserve it, and what numbers claim ! Spit streams of fire to make the butchers gape,
Unblest with sense above their peers refin'd, And found his manners suited to his shape:
Who shall stand up, dictators to mankind ? Such is the fate of talents misapply'd ;
Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause,
That sole proprietor of just applause ?
who Th’ abandon'd manners of our writing train
pant for letter'd praise, May tempt mankind to think religion vain;
With whom would you consult to gain the bays ?But in their fate, their habit, and their mien,
With those great authors whose fam'd works you That gods there are is eminently seen:
read? Heaven stands absolv'd by vengeance on their pen,
'T is well : go, then, consult the laurel'd shade, And marks the murderers of fame from men:
What answer will the laurel'd shade return ?
Hear it, and tremble ! he commands you burn Through meagre jaws they draw their venal breath, As ghastly as their brothers in Macbeth :
The noblest works his envy'd genius arit, Their feet through faithless leather meet the dirt,
That boast of naught more excellent than uit. And oftener chang'd their principles than shirt.
If this be true, as 't is a truth most dread, The transient vestment of these frugal men
Woe to the page which has not that to plead! Hastens to paper for our mirth again :
Fontaine and Chaucer, dying, wish'd inwrote Too soon (O merry-melancholy fate!)
The sprightliest efforts of their wanton thought: They beg in rhyme, and warble through a grate:
Sidney and Waller, brightest sons of fame, The man lampoon'd forgets it at the sight;
Condemn the charm of ages to the flame ; The friend through pity gives, the fue through spite; And in one point is all true wisdom cast, And though full conscious of his injur'd purse,
To think that early we must think at last. Lintot relents, nor Curll can wish them worse.
Iminortal wits, e'en dead, break Nature's laws, So fare the men, who writers dare commence
Injurious still to virtue's sacred cause; Without their patent, probity and sense.
And their guilt growing, as their borlies rot, From these, their politics our quidnunes seek,
(Revers'd ambition!) pant to be forgot. And Saturday's the learning of the week :
Thus ends your courted fame : does lucre then, These labouring wits, like paviers, mend our ways,
The sacred thirst of gold, betray your pen? With heavy, huge, repeated, flat essays ;
In prose 't is blameable, in verse 't is worse, Ram their coarse nonsense down, though ne'er so
Provokes the Muse, extorts Apello's curse;
His sacred intluence never should be sold; And hem at every thump upon your scull:
'Tis arrant simony to sog for gold : These stanch-bred writing hounds begin the cry,
'T' is immortality should fire your mind; And honest folly echoes to the lie.
Scorn a less paymaster than all mankind.
If bribes ye scek, know this, ye writing tribe ! O bow I laugh, when I a blockhead see,
Ilbo writes for virtue has the largest bribe :
All's on the party of the virtuous man ;
The good will surely serve him, if they can; It tickles through my soul to hear the cock's
The bail, when interest or ambition guide, Sincere encomium on his friend the fox,
And 't is at once their interest and iheir pride :
But should both fail to take bim to their care, Sole patron of his liberties and rights!
He buasts a greater friend, and both may spare. While graceless Reynard li-tens-ill he bites,
Letters to man uncommon light dispense; As, when the trumpet sounds, th' o'erloaded
And what is virtue, but superior sense ? state Discharges all her poor and profligate ;
In parts and learning se who place your pride, Crimes of all kinds dishonour'd weapons wield,
Your faults are crimes, your crimes are double
dy'd. And prisons pour their filth into the field;
What is a scandal of the first renown, Thus Nature's refuse, and the dregs of inen,
But letter'd knaves, and atheists in a gown? Compose the black militia of the pen. · Settle, the city poct.
King George I.
ST is harder far to please than give offence; Our age demands correctness ; Addison The least misconduct damns the brightest sense ; And you this commendable hurt have done. Fach shallow pate, that cannot read your name, Now writers find, as once Achilles found, Can read your life, and will be proud to blame. The whole is mortal, if a part's unsound. Flagitious manners make impressions deep
He that strikes out, and strikes not out the test, On those that o'er a page of Milton sleep :
Pours lustre in, and dignifies the rest : Nor in their dulness think to save your shame, Gire e'er so little, if what's right be there, True, these are fools; but wise men say the same. We praise for what you l'urn, and what you spare : Wits are a despicable race of men,
The part you burn smells sweet before the shrine, If they confine their talents to the pen;
And is as incense to the part divine. When the man shocks us, while the writer shines, Nor frequent write, though you can do it well; Our scorn in life, our envy in his lines.
Men may tvo oft, though not too much, excel. Yet, proud of parts, with prudence some dispense, A few good works gain fame; more sink their price; And play the fool, because they ’re men of sense. Mankind are fickle, and hate paring twice: What instances bleed recent in each thought, They granted you writ well: wbat can they more, Of men to ruin by their genius brought!
Unless you let them praise for giving o'er? Against their wills what numbers ruin shun,
Do boldly what you do; and let your page Purely through want of wit to be undone !
Smile, if it smiles, and if it rages, rage. Nature has shown, by making it so rare,
So faintly Lucius censures and commends, That wit's a jewel which we need not wear. That Lucins has no foes, except his friends. Of plain sound sense life's current coin is made; Let satire less engage you than applause ; With that we drive the most substantial trade. It shows a generous mind to wink at flaws:
Prudence protects and guides us, wit betrays; Is genius yours? Be yours a glorious end, A splendid source of ill ten thousand ways; Be your king's, country's, truth's, religion's friend; A certain snare to miseries immense ;
The public glory by your own beget;
Run nations, run posterity, in debt.
First have that glory you presume to give.
Satire recoils whenever charg'd too high; "Tis great to show, but greater to conceal;
Round your own fame the fatal splinters fy. As it is great to seize the golden prize
As the soft plume gives swiftness to the dart, Of place or power; but greater to despise. Good-breeding sends the satire to the heart. If still you languish for an author's name,
Pajuters and sirgeons may the structure scan; Think private merit less than public fame,
Genius and morals be with yon the man: And fancy not to write is not to live;
Defaults in those alone should give offence; Deserve, and take, the great prerogative,
Who strikes the person, pleads his innocence. But ponder what it is; how dear 't will cost, My narrow-minded satire can't extend To write one page which you may justly boast. To Codrus' forin; I'm not so much his friend :
Sense may be good, yet not deserve the press; Himself should publish that the world agree) Who write, an awful character profess;
Before his works, or in the pillory. The world as pupil of their wisdom claim,
Let him be black, fair, tall, shurt, thin, or fat, And for their stipend an inmortal faine :
Dirty or clean, I find no theme in that, Nothing but what is solid or refin'd
Is that call'il humour. It has this pretence, Should dare ask publie audience of mankind. "Tis neither virtue, breeding, wit, or sense.
Severely weigh your learning and your wit: Unless you boast the genius of a Swift, Keep down your pride by what is nobly writ: Beware of humour, the dull rogue's last shift. No writer, fam'd in your own way, pass o'er; Can others write like you? Your task give o'er, Much trust example, but reflection more:
'Tis printing what was publish'd long before. More had the antients writ, they more had taught; If nanght peculiar through your labours run, Which shows some work is left for modern thought. They're duplicates, and twenty are but one.
This weigh'd perfection know; and, know Think frequently, tbink close, read nature, turn Toil, brurn for that; but do not aim at more ; Men's manners o'er, and half your volume: buru; Above, beneath it, the just liinits fix;
To purse with quick reflection be your strife,
Thoughits born from present objects, warm from life;
These make an anthor, these are all your own.
Life, like their Bibles, coolly men turni o'er; Is just and wise ; for less is thrown away.
Hence unexperienc'd children of threescore. Time only can mature the labouring brain
Crue, all men think of course, as all men dream;
And if they slightly think, 't is much the same.
No work c'er gain'd true fame, or ever can,
But what did honour to the name of man. Excuse no foult; though beautiful, 't will harm; Weighty the subject, cogent the discourse, Oro fauit shendes more than twenty beauties charm. Clear be the style, the very sound of force;