You feast the fancy, and enchant the ear; Still Welstead tunes his beer-inspired lays, Shall embrio wits thy studious hours engage, Maintains her honours, and defends her laws? And, like a Pult'ney, then a Brutus charm'd. How blest, while we a British Brutus see, And all the Roman stands confest in thee! Equal thy worth, but equal were thy dcom, To save Britannia, as he rescu'd Rome: He from a Tarquin snatch'd the destin'd prey; Britannia still laments a Walpole's sway. Arise, my tuneful bard, nor thus in vain Let thy Britannia, whom thou lov'st, complain : • Still Welstead, And Ralph.] Two alte thors, remarkable for nothing so much as the figure they make in the Dunciad, unjustly, on the part of Welstead, who certainly was not a despicable writer. Whitehead was afterwards very intimate with Ralph, whom he frequently metat Bubb Doddington's.-C. Afterwards earl of Bath. If thon in moanful lays relate her woe, Olet Britannia be her poet's care! Let dull Parnassian sons of rh, me no more Provoke thy satire, and employ thy pow'r; New objects rise to share an equal fate, The big, rich, mighty, Dunces of the State. Shall Ralph, Cooke, Welstead, then engross thy rage, While courts afford a Hervey, York, or Gage? Amidst the mighty dull, behold how great Loads of dull lumber, all inspir'd by pay: care, To sooth his sorrows, and divert despair: But long his grief sleep's gentle aid denies; At length a slumb'rous Briton clos'd his eyes. Yet vain the healing balm of downy rest, To chase his woe, or ease his lab'ring breast: Now frightful forms rise hideous to his view, More, Strafford, Laud, and all the headless crew; Daggers and halters boding terrour breeds, And here a Dudley swings, there Villiers bleeds. Now goddess Dulness, watchful o'er his fate, And ever anxious for her child of state; From couch of down slow rais'd her drowsy head, Forsook her slumbers, and to Appius sped. "Awake, my son, awake," the goddess cries, "Nor longer mourn thy darling lost excise:" (Here the sad sound unseal'd the statesman's eyes) "Why slumbers thus my son, opprest with care? 8 Names assumed by writers of two ministerial papers. The bench and bar alike my influence owns ; Here prate my magpies, and there doze my drones. In the grave dons, how formal is my mien, "O goddess, sole inspirer of my breast! For this, on senates see my bounty shed; fought! What wand'ring maze of error blunder'd through, "Lo! on thy sons alone my favours show'r; 9 Caleb D'Anvers, the name assumed by the writers of the Craftsman, "But turn, O goddess! turn thine eyes, and view The darling leaders of thy gloomy crew. "Full open-mouth'd Newcastle there behold, Aping a Tully, swell into a scold, Grievous to mortal ear.-As at the place Where loud tongu'd virgins vend the scaly race, Harsh peals of vocal thunder fill the skies, And stunning sounds in hideous discord rise; So, when he tries the wond'rous power of noise, Each hapless ear's a victim to his voice. 10 How blest, O Cheselden! whose art can mend Those ears Newcastle was ordain'd to rend. "See Harrington secure in silence sit; No empty words betray his want of wit: If sense in hiding folly is express'd, O Harrington! thy wisdom stands confess'd. "To Dullness' sacred cause for ever true, Thy darling Caledonian, goddess, view; The pride and glory of thy Scotia's plains, And faithful leader of her venal swains: Loaded he moves beneath a servile weight, The dull laborious packhorse of the state; Drudges through tracks of infamy for pay, And hackneys out his conscience by the day: Yonder behold the busy peerless peer, With aspect meagre and important air; His form how gothic, and his looks how sage! He seems the living Plato of the age. Blest form in which alone thy merit's seen, Since all thy wisdom centers in thy mien ! "Here Egmont, Albemarle, (for senates fit) And Wby the wise, in council sit: Here looby Gn, Grm over dull, By birth a senator, by fate a fool. "While these, Britannia, watchful o'er thy state, Maintain thine honours, and direct thy fate, "Lo! to yon bench now, goddess, turn thine fail'd. "But chief Pastorius, ever grave and dull, Devoid of sense, of zeal divinely full, Retails his squibs of science o'er the town, While charges, past'rals, through each street resound; These teach a heav'nly Jesus to obey, "Who wou'd not trim, speak, vote, or consci- To lord it o'er a see, and swell in lawn? 1. William Cheselden, an eminent surgeon. VOL. XVI. If arts like those, O Sherlock, honours claim, "Lo! o'er yon flood Hare casts his low'ring And wishful sees the rev'rend turrets rise. [eyes, While Lambeth opens to thy longing view, Hapless! the mitre ne'er can bind thy brow: Though courts should deign the gift, how won. d'rous hard By thy own doctrines still to be debarr'd! "Full plac'd and pension'd,see! Horatio stands; "Silence! ye senates, while enribbon'd Younge Pours forth melodious nothings from his tongue! How sweet the accents play around the ear, Form'd of smooth periods, and of well-tun'd air! Leave, gentle Younge, the senate's dry debate, "There W and P, goddess, view, Firm in thy cause, and to thy Appius true! Lo! from their labours what reward betides! One pays my army, one my navy guides. "To dance, dress, sing, and serenade the fair, • Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair,' O'er baleful tea with females taught to blame, And spread a slander o'er a virgin's fame; Form'd for these softer arts shall Hervey strain With stubborn politics his tender brain! "A noted sermon preached on the 30th of January, on this text, "Woe be unto them that are given to change," &c. 12 This gentleman, with the assistance of Roome, Concanen, and several others, altered the co medy of the Jovial Crew into a modern balla ! opera; which was scarce exhibited on the stage, before it was thought necessary to be contracted into one act, P For ministers laborious pamphlets write, "Behold a star emblazon Cn's coat! "To murder science, and my cause defend, Now shoals of Grub-street garretteers descend; From schools and desks the writing insects crawl, Unlade their dullness, and for Appius bawl. "Lo! to thy darling Osborne turn thine eyes, See him o'er politics superior rise; While Caleb feels the venom of his quill; And wond'ring ministers reward his skill: Unlearn'd in logic, yet he writes by rule, And proves himself in syllogism-a fool; Now flies obedient, war with sense to wage, And drags th' idea thro' the painful page: Unread, unanswer'd, still he writes again, Still spins the endless cobweb of his brain : Charm'd with each line, reviewing what he writ, Blesses his stars, and wonders at his wit. "Nor less, O Walsingham, thy worth appears! Alike in merit, tho' unlike in years: Ill-fated youth! what stars malignant shed Their baneful influence o'er thy brainless head, Doom'd to be ever writing, never read! For bread to libel liberty and sense, And damn thy patron weekly with defence. Drench'd in the sable flood, O hadst thou still O'er skins of parchment drove thy venal quill, At Temple ale-house told an idle tale, And pawn'd thy credit for a mug of ale; Unknown to Appius then had been thy name, Unlac'd thy coat, unsacrific'd his fame; Nor vast unvended reams would Peele deplore, As victims destin'd to the common-shore. "As dunce to dunce in endless numbers breed, So to Concanen see a Ralph succeed; A tiny witling of these writing days, [plays. Full-fam'd for tuneless rhimes, and short-liv'd Write on, my luckless bard, still unasham'd, Tho' burnt thy journals, and thy dramas damn'd; 'Tis bread inspires thy politics and lays, Not thirst of immortality or praise. "These, goddess, view, the choicest of the train, While yet unnumber'd dunces still remain; Deans, critics, lawyers, bards, a motley crew, To dullness faithful, as to Appius true." "Enough,"the goddess cries, "enough I've seen; While these support, secure my son shall reign; Still shalt thou blund'ring rule Britannia's fate, Still Grub-street hail thee minister of state. MANNERS: A SATIRE, 1738. Paulus vel Cossus vel Drusus moribus esto. JUVENAL, "WELL-of all plagues which make mankind their sport, [-a court. Guard me, ye Heav'ns! from that worst plague 'Midst the mad mansions of Moorfields, I'd be "Thrice happy patriot! whom no courts debase, "Say, is the mighty crime, to be in place? A place may claim our rev'rence, sir, I own; What courts are sacred, when I tell your grace, Manners alone must sanctify the place? Hence only each its proper name receives; Haywood's a brothel; White's' a den of thieves: Bring whores and thieves to court, you change the scene, St. James's turns the brothel, and the den. Who would the courtly chapel holy call, Tho' the whole bench should consecrate the wall? While the trim chaplain, conscious of a fee, Cries out, "My king, I have no God but thee;" Lifts to the royal seat the asking eye, And pays to George the tribute of the sky; Proves sin alone from humble roofs must spring, Nor can one earthly failing stain a king. Bishops and kings may consecrate, 'tis true; Manners alone claim homage as their due. Without, the court and church are both prophane, Whatever prelate preach, or monarch reign; Religion's rostrum virtue's scaffold grows, And crowns and mitres are mere raree-shows. In vain, behold yon rev'rend turrets rise, And Sarum's sacred spire salute the skies! 'Dr. Swift says, "that the late earl of Oxford, in the time of his ministry, never passed by White's chocolate-house (the common rendezvous of infamous sharpers and noble cullies) without bestowing a curse upon that famous academy, as the bane of half the English nobility." |