Easy the conduct, simple the design, And they plead Lucifer's detested cause, At that tribunal stands the writing tribe, Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread Of twenty pamphlets level'd at my head, Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain, Of recent form, to serve me this campaign! And safely hope to quit the dreadful field Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield; Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray Is all his might, and damns me-for a day. As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite, So war their quilis, when sons of dulness write. As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides, Te grace old Ocean's court, in triumph rides, Though rich his source, he drains a thousand springs, Nor scorns the tribute each small rivulet brings. So thou shalt, hence, absorb each feeble ray, Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day; Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excuse, Since no mean interest shall profane the Muse, No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend, Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend. When first a generous mind surveys the great, And views the crowds that on their fortune wait Pleas'd with the show (though little understood) He only seeks the power, to do the good; Thinks, till he tries, 't is godlike to dispose, And gratitude still springs, where bounty sows; That every grant sincere affection wins, And where our wants have end, our love begins: But those who long the paths of state have trod, Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd, Which cramm'd, yet craving still, their gates besiege, 'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige. This of thy conduct seems the nicest part, The chief perfection of the statesman's art, To give to fair assent a fairer face, Or soften a refusal into grace: But few there are that can be truly kind, The race of men that follow courts, 't is true, As these o'erprize their worth, so sure the great May sell their favour at too dear a rate; When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd, And long attachment waits among the herd; When no distinction, where distinction 's due, Marks from the many the superior few; When strong cabal constrains them to be just, And makes them give at last-because they must; What hopes that men of real worth should prize, What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys? The man who justly o'er the whole presides, His well-weigh'd choice with wise affection guides; Knows when to stop with grace, and when ad vance, Nor gives through importunity or chance; Sometimes the great, seduc'd by love of parts, Consult our genius, and neglect our hearts; Pleas'd with the glittering sparks that genius flings, They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings, Mark out the flights by which themselves begun, And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the sun; Till we forget the hand that made us great, And grow to envy, not to emulate : To emulate, a generous warmth implies, To reach the virtues, that make great men rise; But envy wears a mean malignant face, And aims not at their virtues-but their place. Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence ! When every favour is a fresh offence, By which superior power is still imply'd, And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride. Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed; But those who hate from envy, hate indeed. "Since so perplex'd the choice, whom shall we trust?" Methinks I hear thee cry-The brave and just ; We love the honest, and esteem the brave, Be thine the care, true merit to reward, Him, no mean views, or haste to rise, shall sway, Thy choice to sully, or thy trust betray: Let others barter servile faith for gold, If thus thy mighty master's steps thou trace, The brave to cherish, and the good to grace; Long shalt thou stand from rage and faction free, And teach us long to love the king, through thee: Or fall a victim dangerous to the foe, And make him tremble when he strikes the blow; In awful ruin, like Rome's senate, fall, On these foundations if thou dar'st be great, Then future times shall to thy worth allow FROM man's too curious and impatient sight, Long bad I bid my once-lov'd Muse adieu; But what strikes home with most exalted grace But whence so finish'd, so refin'd a piece? But this have others done; a like applause 1 Boileau. "T is continence of mind, unknown before, Next to the godlike praise of writing well, A golden period shall from you commence : Peace shall be sign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense; Whether your genius or your rank they view, The Muses find their Halifax in you. Like him succeed! nor think my zeal is shown For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own; For lofty stations are but golden snares, Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares. I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein, 'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again. Though life I hate, methinks I could renew Its tasteless, painful course, to sing of you. When such the subject, who shall curb his flight? When such your genius, who shall dare to write? In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er, And, to commend you most, commend no more. Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast Ere long I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost; The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell! Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell; There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free, And think of immortality and thee My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine; Each maid presents her thanks, and all present thee mine. VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP'S DEATH'. KIND companion of my youth, He, who parts and virtue gave, 1 A Poetical Epistle from the late lord Melcombe to the earl of Bute, with corrections by the author of the Night Thoughts, was published in 4to, 1776. 2 See Mr. Cust's Life of Young. SEA-PIECE: CONTAINING I. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S EXULTATION. II. HIS PRAYER BEFORE ENGAGEMENT. THE DEDICATION. TO MR. VOLTAIRE. My Muse, a bird of passage, flies To dive full deep in ancient days', But where's his dolphin? Know'st thou, where? "Tell me," say'st thou, "who courts my smile? What stranger stray'd from yonder isle!" No stranger, sir! though born in foreign climes; On Dorset downs, when Milton's page, With Sin and Death, provok'd thy rage, Thy rage provok'd, who sooth'd with gentle rhymes ? Who kindly couch'd thy censure's eye, Sound judgment giving law to fancy strong? Nor could thy modesty do less, But such debates long since are flown; The present, in oblivion cast, Full soon shall sleep, as sleeps the past; Full soon the wide distinction die between The frowns and favours of the great; High flush'd success, and pale defeat; The Gallic gaiety, and British spleen. Ye wing'd, ye rapid moments! stay!Oh friend! as deaf as rapid, they; Life's little drama done, the curtain falls Dost thou not hear it? I can hear, Though nothing strikes the listening ear ; Time groans his last! Eternal loudly calls! Nor calls in vain; the call inspires Far other counsels and desires, Than once prevail'd; we stand on higher ground; What scenes we see !-Exalted aim! With ardours new, our spirits flame; Ambition blest! with more than laurels crown'd. 'Annals of the emperor Charles XII, Lewis XIV. ODE THE FIRST. THE BRITISH SAILOR'S EXULTATION. Who brave the fee, but fear the fight; From whence arise these loud alarms? Why gleams the south with brandish'd arms? War, bath'd in blood, from curst ambition springs: Ambition! mean, ignoble pride! Perhaps their ardours may subside, When weigh'd the wonders Britain's sailor sings. Hear, and revere.-At Britain's nod, From each enchanted grove and wood Hastes the huge oak or shadeless forest leaves; The mountain pines assume new forins, Spread canvass-wings, and fly through storms, And ride o'er rocks, and dance on foaming waves. She nods again: the labouring Earth In smoking rivers runs her molten ore; Thence monsters of enormous size, Flame from the deck, from trembling bastions roar. On empires wide, an island's will, [powers! When thrones unjust wake vengeance; know, ye From hope's triumphant summit thrown, And leave all law below them; then they blaze! Then furies rise! the battle raves! And rends the skies! and warms the waves! And calls a tempest from the peaceful deep, In spite of Nature, spite of Jove, While all serene, and hush'd above, Tumultuous winds in azure chambers sleep. A thousand deaths the bursting bomb Hurls from her disembowel'd womb; Chain'd, glowing globes, in dread alliance join'd, Red-wing'd by strong, sulphureous blasts, Sweep, in black whirlwinds, men and masts; And leave singed, naked, blood-drown'd, decks be hind. Dwarf laurels rise in tented fields; There war's whole sting is shot, whole fire is spent, 2 House of lords. From the dread front of ancient war Less terrour frown'd; her scythed car, Her castled elephant, and battering beam, Stoop to those engines which deny Superior terrours to the sky, And boast their clouds, their thunder, and their flame. The flame, the thunder, and the cloud, Hosts whirl'd in air, the yell of sinking throngs, Where Jove's red bolts the giant brothers frame? Ye sons of Etna! hear my call; Yon shield of Mars, Minerva's helmet blue: Your strokes suspend, ye brawny throng! Begin and first take rapid flight 3, Then borrow from the north his roar, Mix groans and deaths; one phial pour Of wrong'd Britannia's wrath; and it is made; Gaul starts and trembles-at your dreadful trade. ODE THE SECOND: IN WHICH IS THE SAILOR'S PRAYER BEFORE ENGAGEMENT. Ye warlike dead, who fell of old The day commission'd from above, That day 's arriv'd, that fatal hour!-- * Alluding to Virgil's description of thunder. "Let prostrate hearts, and awful fear, And deep remorse, and sighs sincere For Britain's guilt, the wrath divine appease; A wrath, inore formidable far Than angry Nature's wasteful war, The whirl of tempests, and the roar of seas. "From out the deep, to thee we cry, To thee, at Nature's helm on high! Steer thou our conduct, dread Omnipotence! To thee for succour we resort; Thy favour is our only port; Our only rock of safety, thy defence. "O thou, to whom the lions roar, And, not unheard, thy boon implore! Thy throne our bursts of cannon loud invoke: Thou canst arrest the flying ball; Or send it back and bid it fall A Pindaric carries a formidable sound; but there On those, from whose proud deck the thunder broke. is nothing formidable in the true nature of it; of "Britain in vain extends her care "Ally Supreme! we turn to thee; With seas, and winds, henceforth, thy laws fulfil: "Tis thine to beam sublime renown, is as natural as Anacreon, though not so familiar. As a fixt star is as much in the bounds of Nature, as a flower of the field, though less obvious, and of greater dignity. This is not the received notion of Pindar; I shall therefore soon support at large that hint which is now given. Trade is a very noble subject in itself; more proper than any for an Englishman; and particularly seasonable at this juncture, We have more specimens of good writing in every province, than in the sublime; our two famous epic poems excepted. I was willing to make an attempt where I had fewest rivals. If, on reading this ode, any man has a fuller idea 'Tis thine to doom, 't is thine, from death to free; of the real interest, or possible glory of his country, To turn aside his level'd dart, Or pluck it from the bleeding heart: There we cast anchor, we confide in thee. "Thou, who hast taught the north to roar, And streaming lights nocturnal pour 2, Of frightful aspect! when proud foes invade, Their blasted pride with dread to seize, Bid Britain's flags, as meteors, blaze; And George depute to thunder in thy stead. "The right alone is bold and strong; Black, hovering clouds appal the wrong With dread of vengeance: Nature's awful sire! Less than one moment shouldst thou frown, Where is puissance and renown? Thrones tremble, empires sink, or worlds expire. "Let George the just chastise the vain : Thou, who durst curb the rebel main, To mount the shore when boiling billows rave! Bid George repel a bolder tide, The boundless swell of Gallic pride; And check ambition's overwhelming wave. "And when (all milder means withstood) Ambition, tam'd by loss of blood, Regains her reason; then, on angel's wings, Let Peace descend, and shouting greet, With peals of joy, Britannia's fleet, How richly freighted! It, triumphant, brings The poise of kingdoms, and the fate of kings." 1 Russia. 2 Aurora borealis. than before; or a stronger impression from it, or a warmer concern for it, I give up to the critic any further reputation. We have many copies and translations that pass for originals. This ode I humbly conceive is an original, though it professes imitation. No man can be like Pindar, by imitating any of his particular works; any more than like Raphael, by copying the cartoons. The genius and spirit of such great men must be collected from the whole; and when thus we are possessed of it, we must exert its energy in subjects and designs of our own. Nothing is so unpindarical as following Pindar on the foot. Pindar is an original, and he must be so too, who would be like Pindar in that which is his greatest praise. Nothing so unlike as a close copy, and a noble original. As for length, Pindar has an unbroken ode of six hundred lines. Nothing is long or short in writing, but relatively to the demand of the subject, and the manner of treating it, A distich may be long, and a folio short. However, I have broken this ode into Strains, each of which may be considered as a separate ode if you please. And if the variety and fullness of matter be considered, I am rather apprehensive of danger from brevity in this ode, than from length. But lank writing is what I think ought most to be declined, if for nothing else, for our plenty of it. The ode is the most spirited kind of poetry, and the Pindaric is the most spirited kind of ode; this I speak at my own very great peril: but truth has an eternal title to our confession, though we are sure to suffer by it. |