P. If merely to come in, sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about. F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow ? P. I only call those knaves who are so now. Is that too little? Come then, I'll comply— Spirit of Arnall!1 aid me while I lie. Cobham's a coward, Polwarth 2 is a slave, And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave, St John has ever been a wealthy fool- But let me add, Sir Robert 's mighty dull, Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.
But pray, when others praise him, do I blame? Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? Why rail they then, if but a wreath of mine, O all-accomplish'd St John! deck thy shrine? What shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay, Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend? Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt, But 'twas my guest at whom they threw the dirt? Sure, if I spare the minister, no rules
Of honour bind me, not to maul his tools;
Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said
His saws are toothless, and his hatchet 's lead.
It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kick'd that took his
But when he heard the affront the fellow gave, Knew one a man of honour, one a knave,
'Spirit of Arnall:' look for him in his place, Dunciad, b. ii., ver. 315. -2 Polwarth :' the Hon. Hugh Hume, son of Alexander Earl of Marchmont, grandson of Patrick Earl of Marchmont, and distinguished, like them, in the cause of liberty.-P.
The prudent general turn'd it to a jest,
And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the rest: Which not at present having time to do
F. Hold sir! for God's-sake where's the affront to you?
Against your worship when had Selkirk writ? Or Page pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the bard1 whose distich all commend 'In power a servant, out of power a friend,' To Walpole guilty of some venial sin ; What's that to you who ne'er was out nor in?
The priest whose flattery bedropp'd the crown, How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came ; Whoever borrow'd, could not be to blame,
Since the whole house did afterwards the same. Let courtly wits to wits afford supply, As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly; If one, through Nature's bounty, or his lord's, Has what the frugal, dirty soil affords, From him the next receives it, thick or thin, As pure a mess almost as it came in; The blessed benefit, not there confined, Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind; From tail to mouth, they feed and they carouse : The last full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy simile, this beastly line Quite turns my stomach-
So does flattery mine;
And all your courtly civet-cats can vent,
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
''The bard:' a verse taken out of a poem to Sir R. W.—P.
But hear me further-Japhet,1 'tis agreed, Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read, In all the courts of Pindus guiltless quite ; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write; And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown, Because the deed he forged was not my own? Must never patriot then declaim at gin, Unless, good man! he has been fairly in? No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse, Without a staring reason on his brows? And each blasphemer quite escape the rod, Because the insult's not on man, but God? Ask you what provocation I have had? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When truth or virtue an affront endures,
The affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours. 200 Mine, as a foe profess'd to false pretence,
Who think a coxcomb's honour like his sense; Mine, as a friend to every worthy mind; And mine, as man, who feel for all mankind. F. You're strangely proud.
So impudent, I own myself no knave:
So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me : Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, Yet touch'd and shamed by ridicule alone. O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
1 Japhet, Chartres:' see the epistle to Lord Bathurst.-P.
VARIATIONS.
VER. 185 in the MS.
I grant it, sir; and further, 'tis agreed,
Japhet writ not, and Chartres scarce could read.
To all but heaven-directed hands denied,
The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide : Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal ; To rouse the watchmen of the public weal, To virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall, And goad the prelate slumbering in his stall. Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The Muse's wing shall brush you all away: All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings, All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings,— All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last gazette, or the last address.
When black ambition1 stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Nor Boileau 2 turn the feather to a star.
Not so, when, diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's
Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple 3 of Eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave, Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
1 'Black ambition:' the case of Cromwell in the civil war of England; and of Louis XIV. in his conquest of the Low Countries.-P.-2 Boileau:' see his 'Ode on Namur.'—3 ‘Opes the temple:' from Milton-‘Opes the palace of Eternity.' Anstis: the chief herald-at-arms. It is the custom, at the funeral of great peers, to cast into the grave the broken staves and ensigns of honour.-P.
After VER 227 in the MS.- Where's now the star that lighted Charles to rise? -With that which follow'd Julius to the skies Angels that watch'd the Royal Oak so well, How chanced ye nod, when luckless Sorel fell?
Hence, lying miracles! reduced so low As to the regal-touch, and papal-toe; Hence haughty Edgar's title to the main, Britain's to France, and thine to India, Spain !
And may descend to Mordington from Stair :2 (Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine, Or beam, good Digby,3 from a heart like thine) Let Envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings, And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; Let Flattery sickening see the incense rise, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies : Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line, And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge of law; Here, last of Britons! let your names be read; Are none, none living? let me praise the dead, And for that cause which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.'
1'Ver. 238:' some fill up the blanks with George II., and Frederick, Prince of Wales-others, with Kent and Grafton.-2 Stair:' John Dalrymple, Earl of Stair, Knight of the Thistle.—P.—3 ‘Hough and Digby:' Dr John Hough, Bishop of Worcester, and the Lord Digby.
VARIATION.
VER. 255 in the MS.
Quit, quit these themes, and write Essays on Man.'
BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
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