DEATH OF CHURCHILL.
PROSE-DRIVING dunces, waddling fools in
Scoundrels of every kind, by vengeance led, Spit forth your venom, poison all your clime, Churchill, who scourged you to your holes,is dead!
SAYS Tom to Richard- Churchill's dead!'
Says Richard Tom, you lie :
Old Rancour the report hath spread;
But genius cannot die.'
IN Anna's wars immortal Churchill rose,
And, great in arms,
subdued Britannia's foes;
A greater Churchill now commands our praise,
And the palm yields her empire to the bays.
Though John fought nobly at his army's head,
And slew his thousands with the balls of lead;
Yet must the hero to the bard submit,
Who hurls, unmatch'd, the thunderbolts of wit.
FROM THE POST.
A Poetical Epistle,
ADDRESSED BY LLOYD TO CHURCHILL.
Is there a man, whose genius strong
Rolls like a rapid stream along;
Whose Muse, long hid in cheerless night,
Pours on us like a flood of light;
Whose active, comprehensive mind
Walks Fancy's regions unconfined;
Whom nor the surly sense of pride
Nor affectation warps aside;
Who drags no author from his shelf
To talk on, with an eye to self;
Careless alike, in conversation,
Of censure or of approbation;
Who freely thinks, who freely speaks,
And meets the wit he never seeks;
Whose reason calm, whose judgment cool,
Can pity, but not hate a fool;
Who can a hearty praise bestow,
If merit sparkles in a foe;
Who, bold and open, firm and true,
Flatters no friends, yet loves them too?
Churchill will be the last to know,
His is the portrait I would show.
CONTEMPORARIES all surpass'd, see one,
Short his career indeed, yet ably run;
Churchill! himself unconscious of his
In penury consumed his idle hours,
And, like a scatter'd seed at random sown,
Was left to spring by vigour of his own:
Lifted at length, by dignity of thought
And dint of genius, to an affluent lot,
He laid his head in Luxury's soft lap,
And there too often took his easy nap.
If brighter beams than all he threw not forth,
'Twas negligence in him, not want of worth:
Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse,
Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force,
Spendthrift alike of money and of wit,
Always at speed, and never drawing bit,
He struck the lyre in such a careless mood,
And so disdain'd the rules he understood,
The laurel seem'd to wait on his command,
He snatch'd it rudely from the Muse's hand,
HEALTH to great Glo'ster-from a man unknown,
Who holds thy 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 suits not with the frankness of my
Truth best becomes an orthodox divine,
And, spite of hell, that character is mine:
To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear:
But truth, my Lord, is panegyric here.
Health to great Glo'ster-nor, through love of ease,
Which all priests love, let this address displease.
I ask no favour, not one note I crave;
And when this busy brain rests in the grave
(For till that time it never can have rest),
I will not trouble you with one bequest.
Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a nephew or a son,
In that dread hour executor I'll leave,
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give, but little.-To great Glo'ster health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
This unfinished ironical dedication to an intended volume of Sermons was addressed to Dr. Warburton, Bishop of Gloucester, the commentator on Pope, &c.
Here take a false alarm-in purse though poor,
In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free:
I, though a dedicator, scorn a
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share;
I would not Allen rob nor Allen's heir.
Think not, a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, Which never offer'd up at Power's vain shrine; Think not that pomp and power can work on mine. 'Tis not thy name, though that indeed is great; 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state;
'Tis not thy title, Doctor though thou art;
'Tis not thy mitre which hath won my heart.
State is a farce; names are but empty things,
Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft misplaced; mitres, which shine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless set off by virtue; who deceives
Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves
Enhances guilt, commits a double sin;
So fair without, and yet so foul within,
"Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien,
Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene,
Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from sixty to sixteen impart
The force of Love, and point his blunted dart!
'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made
An index to thy soul; though there display'd
We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin
Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within;
2 Ralph Allen, Esq. the patron of Warburton, and the well-known object of Pope's graceful panegyric.
|