Injurious thought! accurfed be the tongue
On which the vile infinuation hung,
The heart where 'twas engender'd! Curft be thofe,
Thofe Bards, who not themselves alone expofe,
But Me, but All, and make the very name
By which they're call'd, a standing mark of shame.
Talk not of cuftom-'tis the coward's plea,
Current with fools, but paffes not with me;
An old ftale trick, which Guilt hath often tried
By numbers to o'erpow'r the better fide.
Why tell me, then, that from the birth of Rime,
No
matter when, down to the prefent time,
As by th' original decree of Fate,

Bards have protection fought amongst the great;
Confcious of weakness, have applied to them
As vines to elms, and twining round their ftem,
Flourish'd on high; to gain this wish'd fupport,
E'en Virgil to Maecenas paid his court;
As to the custom, 'tis a point agreed,
But 'twas a foolish diffidence, not need,
From which it rofe: had Bards but truly known
That ftrength, which is molt properly their own,
Without a Lord, unpropp'd, they might have stood,
And overtopp'd thofe giants of the wood.

But why, when present times my care engage,
Muft I go back to the Auguftan age?
Why, anxious for the living, am I led
Into the manfions of the ancient dead?
Can they find patrons no where but at Rome,
And muft I feek Mæcenas in the tomb ?
Name but a Wingate, twenty fools of note
Start up, and from report Mæcenas quote;
Under his colours Lords are proud to fight,
Forgetting that Mæcenas was a Kright;
They mention him, as if to use his name
Was in fome measure to partake his fame,
Tho' Virgil, were he living, in the street
Might rot for them, or periff in the Fleet.
See how they redden, and the charge disclaim-
Virgil, and in the Fleet !Forbid it, Shame.
Hence, ye vain boafters, to the Fleet repair,
And afk, with blushes afk, if LLOYD is there*,
Patrons, in days of yore, were men of fenfe,
Were men of tafte, and had a fair pretence
To rule in letters. Some of them were heard
To read off-hand, and never spell a word;
Some of them too, to fuch a monstrous height
Was learning rifen, for themselves could write,
And kept their Secretaries, as the great
Do many other foolish things, for ftate:

Our patrons are of quite a diff'rent strain,
With neither fenfe nor tafte, against the grain,
They patronize för fashion fake-no more-
And keep a Bard, just as they keep a Whore:
Melcombe † (on fuch occafion I am loth
To name the dead) was a rare proof of both.
Some of them would be puzzled e'en to read,
Nor could deferve their Clergy by their Creed
Others can write, but fuch a pagan hand,
A Willes fhould always at our elbow stand;

Many, if begg'd, a Chancellor, of right,
Would order into keeping at firft fight.
Thofe who ftand faireft to the public view,
Take to themselves the praife to others due ;
They rob the very Jpital, and make free
With thofe, alas! "who've leatt to spare.-We fee,
hath not had a word to say,

Since winds and waves bore Singlespeech away.
Patrons in days of yore, like patrons now,
Expected that the Bard fhould make his bow
At coming in, and ev'ry now and then
Hint to the world that they were more than men ;
But, like the patrons of the present day,
They never bilk'd the poet of his pay.
Virgil lov'd rural eafe, and, far from harm,
Mæcenas fix'd him in a neat, fnug farm,
Where he might, free from trouble, pafs his days
In his own way, and pay his rent in praife.
Horace lov'd wine, and thro' his friend at Court,
Could buy it off the key in ev'ry port;
Horace lov'd mirth, Mæcenas lov'd it too,
They met, they laugh'd, as Goy || and I may do,
Nor in those moments paid the leaft regard
To which was Minifter, and which was Bard.

Not fo our patrons-grave as grave can be,
They know themselves, they keep up dignity;
Bards are a forward race, nor is it fit

That men of fortune rank with men of wit;
Wit, if familiar made, will find her ftrength-
"Tis beft to keep her weak and at arms-length.
'Tis well enough for Bards, if patrons give,
From hand to mouth, the fcanty means to live.
Such is their language, and their practice fuch,
They promife little, and they give not much.
Let the weak Bard, with prostituted strain,
Praife that proud Scot, whom all good men difdain,
What's his reward? Why, his own fame undone,
He may obtain a patent for the run

Of his Lord's kitchen, and have ample time,
With offal fed, to court the cook in rime;
Or (if he strives true patriots to difgrace)
May at the fecond table get a place,
With fomewhat greater flaves allow'd to dine,
And play at crambo o'er his gill of wine.

And are there Bards, who on Creation's file
Stand rank'd as men, who breathe in this fair isle
The air of Freedom, with fo little gall,
So low a fpirit, proftrate thus to fall
Before thefe idols, and without a groan

Bear wrongs might call forth murmurs from a stone ?
Better, and much more noble, to abjure
The fight of men, and in fome cave, fecure
From all the outrages of pride, to feaft
On Nature's fallads, and be free at least.
Better (tho' that, to fay the truth, is worfe
Than almoft any other modern curfe)
Difcard all fenfe, divorce the thanklefs Mufe,
Critics commence, and write in the Reviews;
Write without tremor, Griffiths cannot read;
No fool can fail, where Langhorne can fucceed.
But (not to make a brave and honeft Pride
Try thofe means firft, fhe must difdain when tried)
There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,
By which, and fairly, men of real parts

A Frenchman, Secretary to Mr. Wilkes:

May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;
Let thofe, who pine for more, live, and be flaves.
Our real wants in a small compass lye,

But lawless Appetite with eager eye,
Kept in a conftant fever, more requires,
And we are burnt up with our own defires.

Hence our dependence, hence our flav'ry fprings ;
Bards, if contented, are as great as Kings.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill;
We may be independent, if we will.
The man who fuits his fpirit to his state,
Stands on an equal footing with the great;
Moguls themselves are not more rich, and he
Who rules the English nation, not more free.
Chains were not forg'd more durable and strong
For Bards than others, but they've worn them long,
And therefore wear them ftill; they've quite forgot
What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not.
Could they, tho' in their fleep, could they but
know

The blefings which from Independence flow;
Could they but have a fhort and tranfient gleam
Of Liberty, tho' 'twas but in a dream;
They would no more in bondage bend their knee,
But, once made Freemen, would be always free.
The Mufe, if the one moment freedom gains,
Can never more fubmit to fing in chains.
Bred in a cage, far from the feather'd throng,
The bird repays his keeper with his fong,
But if fome playful child fets wide the door,
Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,
With love of liberty begins to burn,
And rather starves than to his cage return.

Hail, Independence-by true reafon taught, How few have known, and priz'd thee as they ought.

Some give thee up for riot; fome, like boys,
Refign thee, in their childish moods, for toys;
Ambition fome, fome avarice mifleads,
And in both cafes Independence bleeds:
Abroad, in quest of thee, how many roam,
Nor know they had thee in their reach at home;
Some, tho' about their paths, their beds about,
Have never had the fenfe to find thee out;
Others, who know of what they are poffefs'd,
Like fearful mifers, lock thee in a cheft,
Nor have the resolution to produce

In these bad times, and bring thee forth for ufe.
Hail, Independence-tho' thy name's fearce known,
Tho' thou, alas! art out of fashion grown,
Tho' all defpife thee, I will not defpife,
Nor live one moment longer than I prize
Thy prefence, and enjoy: by angry Fate

Bow'd down, and almoft cruth'd, Thou cam'ft, tho late,

Thou cam'ft upon me, like a fecond birth,
And made me know what life was truly worth,
Hail, Independence-never may my cot,
'Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot;
Thither, O thither, oftentimes repair;
Cotes *, whem thou lov'ft too, fhall meet

there;

thee

All thoughts, but what arife from joy, give o'er Peace dwells within, and Law shall guard the door.

* Humphrey Cotes,

O'erweening Bard! Law guard thy door, what

Law?

The Law of England ?- -To controul, and awe Thofe faucy hopes, to strike that spirit dumb, Behold, in ftate, Adminiftration come.

Why let her come, in all her terrors too;
I dare to fuffer all the dares to do.

I know her malice well, and know her pride,
I know her ftrength, but will not change my fide.
This melting maf's of flesh the may controul
With iron ribs, the cannot chain my foul.
No-to the laft resolv'd her worst to bear,
I'm ftill at large, and Independent there.

Where is this Minifter? Where is the band
Of ready flaves, who at his elbow ftand
To hear, and to perform his wicked will?
Why, for the first time, are they flow to ill?
When fome grand at 'gainst Law is to be done,
Doth -fleep; doth bloodhound --- run
To L-
and worry thofe fmall deer,
When he might do more precious mischief here?
Doth Webb turn tail? Doth he refufe to draw
Ilegal warrants, and to call them Law?
Doth Webb, at Guildford kick'd, from Guildford
run,

is

With that cold lump of unbak'd dough, his fon,
And, his more honeft rival Ketch to cheat,
Purchase a burial-place where three ways meet?
Believe it not;
fit,
And never fleeps, when he should wake to ill;
doth leffer mifchiefs by the bye,
The great ones 'till the Term in petto lie;
Webb lives, and to the strictest juftice true,
Scorns to defraud the hangman of his due.

O my poor Country-weak and overpower'd
By thine own fons-cat to the bone-devour'd
By vipers, which, in thine own entrails bred,
Prey on thy life, and with thy blood are fed,
With unavailing griefs thy wrongs I fee,
And, for myself not feeling, feel for thee.
I grieve, but can't defpair-for, lo, at hand
Freedom prefents a choice, but faithful band
Of loyal patriots, men who greatly dare
In fuch a noble caufe, men fit to bear

The weight of empires; Fortune, Rank, and
Senfe,

Virtue and Knowledge, leagu'd with Eloquence,
March in their ranks; Freedom from file to file
Darts her delighted eye, and with a smile
Approves her honeft fons, whilft down her cheek,
As 'twere by fealth (her heart too full to speak)
One tear in filence creeps, one honeft tear,
And feems to fay, "Why is not Granby here ?"
O ye brave few, in whom we still may find
A love of Virtue, Freedom, and Mankind,
Go forth, in majefty of woe array'd,
See, at your feet your Country kneels for aid,
And (many of her children traitors grown)
Kneels to thofe fons fhe ftill can call her own i
Seeming to breathe her laft in ev'ry breath,
She kneels for freedom, or the begs for death--
Fly then, each duteous fon, each English chief,
And to your drooping parent bring relief.
Go forth-nor let the firen voice of Eafe
Tempt ye to fleep, whilft tempests fwell the feas
Go forth-nor let Hypocrify, whofe tongue
With many a fair, falfe, fatal art is bung,

Like Bethel's fawning prophet cross your way,
When your great errand brocks not of delay;
Nor let vain Fear, who cries to all he meets,
Trembling and pale--" A lion in the streets"-
Damp your free fpirits; let not threats affright,
Nor bribes corrupt, nor flatteries delight.
Be as one man-Concord fuccefs enfures-
There's not an English heart but what is yours.
Go forth-and Virtue, ever in your fight,
Shall be your guide by day, your guard by night-
Go forth the champions of your native land,
And may the battle profper in your hand-
It may, it must-Ye cannot be withstood-
Be your Hearts honeft, as your Cause is good.

breath,

And be your flumbers not lefs found than death;
Perturbed fpirits reft, nort thus appear

To waste your counfels in a fpendthrift's ear,
On your grave leffons I cannot fubfift,
Nor e'en in verfe become cecnomift;

SOME

OME of my friends (for friends I must suppose All, who, not daring to appear my foes, Feign great good-will, and, not more full of spite Than full of craft, under false colours fight) Some of my friends (fo lavishly I print) As more in forrow than in anger, hint Tho' that indeed will scarce admit a doubt) That I shall run my stock of genius out, My no great stock, and, publishing fo faft, Muft needs become a bankrupt at the last.

"The husbandman, to fpare a thankful foil, "Which, rich in difpofition, pays his toil "More than a hundred fold, which fwells his ftore "E'en to his wifh, and makes his barns run o'er, "By long experience taught who teaches beft, "Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest, "The land, allow'd its loffes to repair,

Refresh'd, and full in ftrength, delights to wear "A fecond youth, and to the farmer's eyes "Bids riche crops and double harvests rise.

"Nor think this practice to the earth confin'd, "It reaches to the culture of the mind. "The mind of man craves reft, and cannot bear, "Tho' next in pow'r to God's continual care. "Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown) "Muft, to enfure his vigour, be laid down, "And fallow'd well had Churchill known

this,

"Which the most flight obferver fcarce could mifs, "He might have flourish'd twenty years or more, "Tho' now, alas! poor man! worn out in four." Recover'd from the vanity of youth,

I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,

Let Envy in the shape of Pity rife

To blaft me ere my time; with patience wait,
('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate
Shall glut your pride, and ev'ry son of phlegm
Find ample room to cenfure and condemn.
Read fome three hundred lines, (no easy task;
But probably the last that I fhall afk)

And give me up for ever; wait one hour,
Nay not fo much, revenge is in your pow'r,
And ye may cry, "Ere Time hath turn'd his
glafs,

"Lo! what we prophefied is come to pass."

Let thofe, who poetry in poems claim,
Or not read this, or only read to blame;
Let thofe, who are by fiction's charms enslav'd,
Return me thanks for half-a-crown well fav'd;
Let thofe, who love a little gall in rime,
Postpone their purchase now, and call next time;
Let thofe, who, void of nature, look for art:
Take up their money, and in peace depart;
Let thofe, who energy of diction prize,
For Billingsgate quit Flexney, and be wife;
Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force;
Mean are the words, and fuch as come of course,
The fubject not lefs fimple than the lay;
A plain, unlabour'd Journey of a day.

Far from Me now be ev'ry tuneful Maid,

I neither ask, nor can receive their aid.
Pegafus turn'd into a common hack,
Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track,
Nor would I have the Sifters of the Hill
Behold their Bard in such a dishabille.
Abfent, but only abfent for a time,
Let them carefs fome dearer fon of rime;
Let them, as far as decency permits,
Without fufpicion, play the fool with wits,

'Gainft fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule, Wits are falfe things, there's danger in a fool.

Let them, tho' modeft, Gray more modeft wooe;
Let them with Mafon bleat, and bray, and cooe;
Let them with Franklin, proud of fome small
Greek,

Make Sophocles difguis'd, in English speak;
Let them with Glover o'er Medea doze ;
Let them with Dodfley wail Cleone's woes,
Whilft he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,
Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;
Let them with fimple Whitehead; taught to creep
Silent and foft, lay Fontenelle asleep* ;
Let them with Browne contrive, to vulgar trick,
To cure the dead, and make the living fick ti
Let them in charity to Murphy give

Some old French piece, that he may fteal and

live;

Let them with antick Foote fubfcriptions get,
And advertise a Summer-houfe of Wit.

Thus, or in any better way they please,

With thefe great men, or with great men like thefe,

Let them their appetite for laughter feed ;

I on my Journey all alone proceed.

If fashionable grown, and fond of pow'r,
With hum'rous Scots let them difport their hour :
Let them dance, fairy-like, round Offian's tomb ;
Let them forge lies, and hiftories for Hume;
Let them with Home, the very prince of verfe,
Make fomething like a Tragedy in Erfe;
Under dark Allegory's flimfey veil
Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale

Of rueful length; Let them plain things obfcure,
Debafe what's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer ftill by jargon moft uncouth;
With ev'ry pert, prim prettinefs of youth
Born of falfe Tafte, with Fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated stile, by affectation taught,
With much falfe colouring, and little thought,
With phrases strange, and dialect decreed
By reafon never to have pass'd the Tweed,
With words which Nature meant each other's foe,
Forc'd to compound whether they will or no;
With fuch materials, let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a bard to war 'gainft Common Senfe,
By way of compliment to Providence;

Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of Senfe,
Read mufty lectures on Benevolence,
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a letter'd Scot;
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness; when the night
Sufpends this mortal coil, when Memory wakes,
When for our paft mifdoings Confcience takes
A deep revenge, when by Reflection led,
She draws his curtains, and looks Comfort dead,

Let ev'ry Mufe be gone; in vain he turns And tries to pray for fleep; an Ætna burns, A more than Etna in his coward breast,

And Guilt, with vengeance arm'd, forbids him reft:

Tho' foft as plumage from young zephyr's wing,
His couch feems hard, and no relief can bring.
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there,

No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like
thefe,

Let them their appetite for laughter feed;

I on my Journey all alone proceed.

END OF THE JOURNEY.

DEDICATION

то

CHURCHILL'S SERMONS.

HEALTH to great Glofter-from a man ux

known,

Who holds his health as dearly as his own,
Accept this greeting-nor let modest fear
Call up one maiden blush-I mean not here
To wound with flattery-'tis a villain's art,
And fuits not with the frankness of my heart.
Truth best becomes an Orthodox Divine,
And, fpite of hell, that character is mine:
To fpeak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my Lord, is panegyric here.

Health to great Glofter-nor, thro' love of cafe,
Which all Priefts love, let this address displease.
I afk no favour, not one note I crave,
And when this busy brain refts in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have reft)

I will not trouble you with one bequest;
Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a nephew or a fon,
In that dread hour executor I'll leave;
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give but little-To great Glofter health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a falfe alarm-in purfe tho' poor,
In fpirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free,
I, tho' a Dedicator, fcorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;
I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.

Think not, a thought unworthy thy great foul, Which pomps of this world never could controul,