  [1779?] The hour arrived! I sigh'd and said, How soon the happiest hours are fled! On wings of down they lately flew, But then their moments pass'd with you; And still with you could I but be, On downy wings they'd always flee. Say, did you not, the way you went, Feel the soft balm of gay content? Say, did you not all pleasures find, 10 Of which you left so few behind? I think you did: for well I know My parting prayer would make it so. "May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake; Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake— The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live, With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!" TIME.London, February, 1780. "The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time," Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme. All big with vision, we despise the powers That vulgar beings link to days and hours— Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts, And cut our lives in momentary parts. That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young. Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue: What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew, 10 How much in little space they have to do; To bid the busy world resign their breath, And beat each moment a soft call for death— To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man." Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can. It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait; It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate; It tells my heart the paralysing tale Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail. THE CHOICE.London, February, 1780. What vulgar title thus salutes the eye, The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy? The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse, For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse; The dull description of a scribbler's brain, And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain; A glowing chart of fairy-land estate, Romantic scenes, and visions out of date, Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers, 10 Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers? Not thus! too long have I in fancy wove My slender webs of wealth, and peace, and love; Have dream'd of plenty, in the midst of want, And sought, by Hope, what Hope can never grant; Been fool'd by wishes, and still wish'd again, And loved the flattery, while I knew it vain! "Gain by the Muse!"—alas! thou might'st as soon Pluck gain (as Percy honour) from the moon; As soon grow rich by ministerial nods, 20 As soon divine by dreaming of the gods, As soon succeed by telling ladies truth, Or preaching moral documents to youth; To as much purpose, mortal! thy desires, As Tully's flourishes to country squires; As simple truth within St. James's state, Or the soft lute in shrill-tongued Billingsgate. "Gain by the Muse!" alas, preposterous hope! Who ever gain'd by poetry—but Pope? And what art thou? No St. John takes thy part; 30 No potent Dean commends thy head or heart! What gain'st thou but the praises of the poor? They bribe no milkman to thy lofty door, They wipe no scrawl from thy increasing score. What did the Muse, or Fame, for Dryden, say? What for poor Butler? what for honest Gay? For Thomson, what? or what to Savage give? Or how did Johnson—how did Otway live? Like thee, dependent on to-morrow's good, Their thin revÉnue never understood; 40 Like thee, elate at what thou canst not know; Like thee, repining at each puny blow; Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock, Upon their wits—but with a larger stock. No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r, With supple acts to supple minds repair; Learn of the base in soft grimace to deal, And deck thee with the livery genteel; Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite, Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write. 50 Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw Give nations language, and great cities law; Whom gods, they said—and surely gods—inspired, Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world admired, Now common grown, they awe mankind no more, But vassals are, who judges were before. Blockheads on wits their little talents waste, As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste; Though still some good the trial may produce, To shape the useful to a nobler use. 60 Some few of these a statue and a stone Has Fame decreed—but deals out bread to none. Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse, Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse; Members by bribes, and ministers by lies, Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise: Beaux by the outside of their heads may win, And wily sergeants by the craft within: Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led, Starve by the means they use to gain their bread? 70 Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the fate Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate; Of children stinted in their daily meal,— The joke of wealthier wits who could not feel. Portentous spoke that pity in my breast, And pleaded self—who ever pleads the best. No! thank my stars, my misery's all my own— To friends, to family, to foes unknown; Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design, Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine. 80 One trial past, let sober Reason speak: Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek? Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain A placid harbour from the stormy main; Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep, And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep. [A HUMBLE INVOCATION.][1780.] When summer's tribe, her rosy tribe, are fled, And drooping beauty mourns her blossoms shed, Some humbler sweet may cheer the pensive swain, And simpler beauties deck the withering plain. And thus, when Verse her wintry prospect weeps, When Pope is gone, and mighty Milton sleeps, When Gray in lofty lines has ceased to soar, And gentle Goldsmith charms the town no more, An humbler Bard the widow'd Muse invites, 10 Who led by hope and inclination writes; With half their art, he tries the soul to move, And swell the softer strain with themes of love. [FROM AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.][April, 1780.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Of substance I've thought, and the varied disputes On the nature of man and the notions of brutes; Of systems confuted, and systems explain'd; Of science disputed, and tenets maintain'd. These, and such speculations on these kind of things, Have robb'd my poor Muse of her plume and her wings; Consumed the phlogiston you used to admire, The spirit extracted, extinguish'd the fire; Let out all the ether, so pure and refined, 10 And left but a mere caput mortuum behind. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [CONCLUDING LINES OF AN EPISTLE TO PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY, AFTERWARDS KING WILLIAM IV.][April, 1780.] * * * * * * * * * * * * Who thus aspiring sings, would'st thou explore? A Bard replies, who ne'er assumed before— One taught in hard affliction's school to bear Life's ills, where every lesson costs a tear; Who sees from thence the proper point of view, What the wise heed not, and the weak pursue. * * * * * * * * * * * * "And now farewell," the drooping Muse exclaims; She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war, And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar, 10 Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, Without her misery and without her care. For, ah! unknown to thee, a rueful train, Her hapless children sigh, and sigh in vain; A numerous band, denied the boon to die, Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity. Unknown to thee! and yet, perhaps, thy ear Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear, How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease; How some, like Savage, sicken'd by degrees; 20 How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed The proud, big tear on song-extorted bread; Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse. One of this train—and of these wretches one— Slave to the Muses, and to Misery son— Now prays the Father of all Fates to shed On Henry, laurels, on his poet, bread! Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse; Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse; 30 Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex, And every friend, and every brother vex— Each fond companion?—No, I thank my God. There rests my torment—there is hung the rod. To friend, to fame, to family unknown, Sour disappointments frown on me alone. Who hates my song, and damns the poor design, Shall wound no peace—shall grieve no heart but mine! Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that will intrude, For want is absent, and dejection rude. 40 Methinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame, Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name; And Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day, One British bard should grieve when all are gay. No! let him find his country has redress, And bid adieu to every fond distress; Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes retire, Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire! [DRIFTING.][May, 1780.] Like some poor bark on the rough ocean tost, My rudder broken, and my compass lost, My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last, Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast, My anchor, Hope, scarce fix'd enough to stay Where the strong current Grief sweeps all away, I sail along, unknowing how to steer, Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks appear. Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark, 10 The rapid sword-fish, and the rav'ning shark, Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid shell, And knaves and fools and sycophants live well. What have I left in such tempestuous sea? No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me! A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling tears— Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings, Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings. * * * * * * * * * * * TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SHELBURNE.[June, 1780.] Ah! Shelburne, blest with all that's good or great T'adorn a rich, or save a sinking, state— If public Ills engross not all thy care, Let private Woe assail a patriot's ear; Pity confined, but not less warm, impart, And unresisted win thy noble heart; Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share, Because I hope to have some interest there. Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun, 10 Though with more fav'ring beams enlight'ning one; As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest, Yet still in general bounty feeds the rest. Oh, hear the Virtue thou reverest plead; She'll swell thy breast, and there applaud the deed. She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray, And leads thee on to fame a shorter way; Where, if no withering laurel's thy reward, There's shouting Conscience, and a grateful Bard; A bard untrained in all but misery's school, 20 Who never bribed a knave or praised a fool. 'Tis Glory prompts, and, as thou read'st, attend; She dictates pity, and becomes my friend; She bids each cold and dull reflection flee, And yields her Shelburne to distress and me! AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.[June, 1780.] Why, true, thou say'st the fools, at Court denied, Growl vengeance—and then take the other side; The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power, As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid sour. But thou, the counsel to my closest thought, Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought. The Muse I court ne'er fawn'd on venal souls, Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise controls; She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream, 10 Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme. But, when she sees a titled nothing stand The ready cipher of a trembling land— Not of that simple kind that, placed alone, Are useless, harmless things, and threaten none; But those which, join'd to figures, well express A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress, Grow in proportion to their number great, And help each other in the ranks of state— When this and more the pensive Muses see, 20 They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee; To Court on wings of agile anger speed, And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed. Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest, And fright base action from sin's wavering breast; For, though the Knave may scorn the Muse's arts, Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. Some, though they wish it, are not steel'd enough, Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof. And what, my friend, is left my song besides? 30 No school-day wealth that roll'd in silver tides, No dreams of hope that won my early will, Nor love, that pain'd in temporary thrill; No gold to deck my pleasure-scorn'd abode, No friend to whisper peace, to give me food. Poor to the World, I'd yet not live in vain, But show its lords their hearts, and my disdain. Yet shall not Satire all my song engage In indiscriminate and idle rage; True praise, where Virtue prompts, shall gild each line, 40 And long—if Vanity deceives not—shine. For, though in harsher strains, the strains of woe, And unadorn'd my heart-felt murmurs flow, Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend. A Man—for other title were too poor— Such as 'twere almost virtue to adore, He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale, As the sun vapours from the dew-press'd vale; Himself uninjuring, shall new warmth infuse, 50 And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse. Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice, His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice; Round the reviving bays new sweets shall spring, And Shelburne's fame through laughing valleys ring. |
|
