Occasioned by his Dialogues on Medals.

See the wild waste of all-devouring years!

How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread!

The very tombs now vanished like their dead!

Imperial wonders raised on nations spoiled, Where mixed with slaves the groaning martyr toiled: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drained a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring G.o.ds with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they!

Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage.

Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.

Perhaps, by its own ruins saved from flame, Some buried marble half preserves a name; That name the learned with fierce disputes pursue, And give to t.i.tus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sighed: she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretched from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e, Their ruins perished, and their place no more; Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps; Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye G.o.ds, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie.

With sharpened sight pale antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years!

To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams.

Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devoured, Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scoured; And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: Touched by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine; Her G.o.ds and G.o.d-like heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew.

Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?

In living medals see her wars enrolled, And vanquished realms supply recording gold?

Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; There warriors frowning in historic bra.s.s?

Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; Or in fair series laurelled bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio shine; With aspect open, shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, "Statesmen, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, served no private end, Who gained no t.i.tle and who lost no friend; Enn.o.bled by himself, by all approved, And praised, unenvied, by the muse he loved."

SATIRES.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT To the first publication of this Epistle.

This Paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by s.n.a.t.c.hes, as the several occasions offered. I had no thoughts of publishing it, till it pleased some persons of rank and fortune (the authors of "Verses to the Imitator of Horace," and of an "Epistle to a Doctor of Divinity from a n.o.bleman at Hampton Court") to attack, in a very extraordinary manner, not only my writings (of which, being public, the public is judge), but my person, morals, and family, whereof, to those who know me not, a truer information may be requisite. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circ.u.mstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please.

I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness.-P.

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT, BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.

P. Shut, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.

The dog-star rages! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parna.s.sus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.

No place is sacred, not the Church is free; Even Sunday shines no Sabbath Day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross?

Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?

All fly to Twitenham, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my d.a.m.ned works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?

Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?

A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped, If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.

Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I!

Who can't be silent, and who will not lie.

To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.

I sit with sad civility, I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years."

"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury Lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Obliged by hunger, and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it, I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place."

'Pitholeon libelled me'-"but here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine."

Bless me! a packet.-"'Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse."

If I dislike it, "Furies, death and rage!"

If I approve, "Commend it to the stage."

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends, Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath I'll print it, And shame the fools-Your interest, sir, with Lintot!"

'Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:'

"Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch."

All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."

Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Sir, let me see your works and you no more.

'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring (Midas, a sacred person and a king), His very minister who spied them first (Some say his queen) was forced to speak, or burst.

And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every c.o.xcomb perks them in my face?

A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things.

I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; Keep close to ears, and those let a.s.ses p.r.i.c.k; 'Tis nothing- P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?

Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pa.s.s, That secret to each fool, that he's an a.s.s: The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I.

You think this cruel? take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool.

Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break, Thou unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack: Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurled, Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world.

Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through, He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew: Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again, Throned in the centre of his thin designs, Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!

Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, Lost the arched eyebrow, or Parna.s.sian sneer?

And has not Colley still his lord, and w***e?

His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore?

Does not one table Bavius still admit?

Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit?

Still Sappho- A. Hold! for G.o.d's sake-you'll offend, No names!-be calm!-learn prudence of a friend!

I too could write, and I am twice as tall; But foes like these- P. One flatterer's worse than all.

Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.

A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent.

One dedicates in high heroic prose, And ridicules beyond a hundred foes: One from all Grubstreet will my fame defend, And more abusive, calls himself my friend.

This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."

There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you have an eye"- Go on, obliging creatures, make me see All that disgraced my betters, met in me.

Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, "Just so immortal Maro held his head:"

And when I die, be sure you let me know Great Homer died three thousand years ago.

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own?

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.

I left no calling for this idle trade, No duty broke, no father disobeyed.

The Muse but served to ease some friend, not wife, To help me through this long disease, my life, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, And teach the being you preserved, to bear.

But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natured Garth, inflamed with early praise; And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield, read; Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friends before) With open arms received one poet more.

Happy my studies, when by these approved!

Happier their author, when by these beloved!

From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cookes.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, While pure description held the place of sense?

Like gentle f.a.n.n.y's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream.