The hardy poet raised his honest rhymes
To dread rebuke, and bade Controlment speak
In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek;
Bade Power turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law?
How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls,
Whom folly guides, and prejudice controls;
Who, one dull, drowsy track of business trod,
Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God;
Who, breathing by one musty set of rules,
Dote from their birth, and are by system fools;
Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to Gospel-truth;
Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their stock of faith in news;
How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like
Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please,
Rail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime,
And hold not truth, as truth, if told in rhyme?
How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown
In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own,
By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn
In mood and figure at the helm to yawn,
Too mean (the worst of curses Heaven can send)
88 Andrew Marvell. He was member for Hull during several Parliaments, from the Restoration till his death. Being a man of no property, his constituents gave him an income sufficient for his maintenance, during the whole time he represented them. Marvell made himself so obnoxious to the Court by his public spirit and integrity, that towards the close of his career his life was considered in danger. He died in 1678, in the fifty-eighth year of his age, not without some suspicion of his having been poisoned.
07 Smollett, then editor of the Critical Review.
To have a foe; too proud to have a friend;
Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold,
Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old,
Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse
Subjects more equal to her weakness choose;
Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains,
Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains;
Bids her, indulging the poetic whim
In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, 120
Along the church-way path complain with Gray,
Or dance with Mason on the first of May!
"All sacred is the name and power of kings;
All states and statesmen are those mighty things
Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll,
Were never made for poets to control."
Peace, peace, thou Dotard, nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their power blaspheme. I tell thee, Wretch, search all creation round, In earth, in heaven, no subject can be found (Our God alone except) above whose weight The poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, though there all praise is weak ; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach;
Shall tear his labouring lungs, strain his hoarse throat,
And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note,
Should an afflicted country, awed by men
Of slavish principles, demand his pen.
This is a great, a glorious point of view,
Fit for an English poet to pursue,
Undaunted to pursue, though, in return,
His writings by the common hangman burn.
How do I laugh, when men, by fortune placed
Above their betters, and by rank disgraced,
Who found their pride on titles which they stain,
And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain;
Who would a bill of privilege prefer,
And treat a poet like a creditor,
The generous ardour of the Muse condemn,
And curse the storm they know must break on them!
"What, shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown,
Without one badge of merit but his own,
Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men,
Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?"
What's in this name of Lord, that I should fear
To bring their vices to the public ear?
Flows not the honest blood of humble swains
Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins?
Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow,
Cannot make virtues in succession flow.
Wouldst thou, proud man, be safely placed above
The censure of the Muse-deserve her love:
Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought;
Look back, and, by thy worthy father taught,
Who earn'd those honours, thou wert born to wear;
Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir:
But if, regardless of the road to fame,
You start aside, and tread the paths of shame;
If such thy life, that should thy sire arise,
The sight of such a son would blast his eyes,
Would make him curse the hour which gave thee
Would drive him, shuddering, from the face of earth,
Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead
In endless night to hide his reverend head;
If such thy life, though kings had made thee more Than ever king a scoundrel made before;
Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring,
Though God in vengeance had made thee a king,
Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,
The Muse should drag thee trembling to the light,
Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare
To the keen question of the searching air.
Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave,
Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave,
Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when, with affected air,
(Scarce able through despite to keep his chair, 190
Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks,
And the chafed blood flies mounting to his cheeks,)
He talks of Conscience, which good men secures
From all those evil moments guilt endures,
And seems to laugh at those who pay regard
To the wild ravings of a frantic bard.
"Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway
The mind of man, must always make her way;
Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught,
Is all her malice worth a single thought.
The wise have not the will, nor fools the power,
To stop her headstrong course; within the hour,
Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife
Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life.
All things her prey, and every man her aim,
I can no patent for exemption claim,
Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart
Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart;
Though pointed at myself, be Satire free;
To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me."
Dissembling Wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There, unrebuked, these wild, vain, doctrines preach: Lives there a man whom Satire cannot reach? Lives there a man who calmly can stand by, And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye? When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives. When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot, Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times.
Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off pride, And own those passions which thou shalt not hide. Sandwich, who from the moment of his birth Made human nature a reproach on earth, Who never dared, nor wish'd behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, 230 Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit Those actions, which he blush'd not to commit. Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.
But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, graced the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood
218 The 1st edition has,
"Short is her life indeed, and dull her sting;"
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