Classic Poem

BOOK I. EPISTLE XVIII .

Dear Ramsay, if I know thy soul aright,
Plain-dealing honesty's thy dear delight:
Not great, but candid born; not rich, but free;
Thinks kings most wretched, and most happy me:
Thy tongue untaught to lie, thy knee to bend,
I fear no flatterer where I wish a friend.
As the chaste matron's tender look and kind,
Where sits the soul to speak the yearning mind,
From the false colouring of the wanton shows
The' unhallow'd roses and polluted snows,
A glare of beauty, nauseous to the sight,
Gross but to feed desire, not raise delight:
So differs far, in value, use, and end,
The praising foe from the reproving friend.
Such distance lies between, nay greater far,
Who bears an honest heart or bears a star.
A fault there is, but of another sort,
That aims by nastiness to make its court;
By downright rudeness would attempt to please,
And sticks his friendship on your lips in grease:
With him (for such were Sparta's rigid rules)
All the polite are knaves; the cleanly, fools;
Good humour for impertinence prevails;
So strangely honest, — he'll not pair his nails.
Know, virtuous Sir, if not indeed a slave,
Yet, sordid as the thing, thou art a knave;
Virtue, its own and every plain man's guide,
Serenely walks, with Vice on every side,
Keeps its own course, to its own point does bend,
To follies deaf, that call from either end.
This simple maxim should a statesman doubt,
Two characters shall make it plainly out:
The first is his, (the opposite of proud)
By far more humble than a Christian should,
Pursues, distasteful of plain sober cheer,
The' inhospitable dinner of a peer;
Usurps, without the task of saying grace,
The poor starv'd chaplain's perquisites and place;
To vice gives virtue, to old age gives youth;
So well-bred he, — he never spoke one truth:
With watchful eyes sits full against my lord,
And catches, as it falls, each heavy word;
That, echo'd back, and sent from lungs more able,
Assumes new force, and bandies round the table.
All stare: " Was ever thing so pretty spoke?"
You'd almost swear it was his Grace's joke.
Yet such as these divide the great man's store,
And flatter out the friendless and the poor.
Nor less the fool our censure must engage,
Whom every trifle rouses into rage.
He arms for all, so fierce the wordy war,
Labeo far less tenaceous at the bar;
Words heap'd on words so fast together drive,
Like clustring bees that darken from the hive,
He fights alas! what mortal dares confute him?
With tongue, hand, eyes, and every inch about him?
Deny me this; ah! rather than comply
A thing so plain, — I'd sooner starve or die.
But, pray, what all this mighty fury draws?
Say, raves the patriot o'er expiring laws?
Say, on the oppressor does his anger fall?
Pleads he for the distress'd, like good Newhall?
Against corruption does his vengeance rise?
The army? or the general excise?
On trifling themes like these our man is mute,
As S — — — , if fee-less you present your suit.
More sacred truths his zealous rage supply;
What all acknowledge, or what all deny:
If rogues in red are worse than rogues in lawn;
Or *** be as great a dunce as — —
Or if our Hannibal's fam'd Alpine road
Be thirty foot, or five-and-thirty broad.
The vicious man, though in the worst degree,
His neighbour thinks more vicious still than he.
Is there whom lawless love should bring to gallows?
He cries, " What vengeance waits on perjur'd fellows!"
Ruchead, who pin'd amidst his boundless store,
Could wonder why rich Selkirk wish'd for more:
The youthful knight, who squanders all away,
On whores, on equipage, on dress, and play;
The man who thirsts and hungers after gold;
The tricking tradesman, and the merchant bold,
Whom fear of poverty compels to fly
Through seas, excisemen, rocks, oaths, perjury;
Start at each other's crimes with pious fright,
Yet think themselves for ever in the right.
But, above all, the rogue of wealth exclaims,
And calls the poorer sinner filthy names;
Though his foul soul, discolour'd all within,
Has deeper drank the tincture of each sin:
Or else advises, as the mother sage
Rebukes the hopes and torment of her age,
(And, faith, though insolent of wealth, in this
Methinks, good friend, he talks not much amiss)
" Yield, yield, O fool! to my superior merit,
Without a sixpence thou, and sin with spirit!
For me those high adventures kept by fate;
For crimes look graceful with a large estate:
Then cease, vain madman, and contend no more;
Heav'n meant thee virtuous when it made thee poor."
But crimes like these to gold we can forgive;
What boots it how they die or how they live?
Then weep, my friend, when wicked wealth you find,
To change the species of the virtuous mind.
You've doubtless heard how 'twas a statesman's way,
Whene'er he would oblige, that is, betray,
Invited first the destin'd prey to dine,
Then whisper'd in his ear, " You must be fine:
Fine clothes, gay equipage, a splendid board
Give youth a lustre, and become a lord.
Why loiter meanly in paternal grounds,
To neighbours owe thy ease, thy health to hounds?
Go roam about in gilded chariot hurl'd;
Make friends of strangers, child, and learn the world:
These kind instructors teach you best of any,
The wise Sir William, and the good Lord Fanny."
Guiltless he hears of pension and of place,
Then sinks in honour as he swells in lace;
Each hardy virtue yields, and, day by day,
Melts in the sunshine of a court away.
At first (not every manly thought resign'd)
He wonders why he dares not tell his mind;
Feels the last footsteps of retiring grace,
And virtuous blushes lingering on his face:
The artful tempter plies the slavish hour,
And works the gudgeon now within his pow'r;
Then tips his fellow Statesman, " He'll assume
New modes of thinking in the Drawing-room;
See idle dreams of greatness strike his eyes,
See pensions, ribbons, coronets arise.
The man, whom labour only could delight,
Shall loiter all the day, and feast all night:
Who, mild, did once the kindest nature boast,
Unmov'd shall riot at the orphan's cost;
To pleasures vile, that health and fame destroy,
Yield the domestic charm, the social joy.
See, charm'd no more with Maro's rural page,
He slumbers over Lucan's free-born rage.
Each action in inverted lights is seen;
Meanness, frugality; and freedom, spleen;
How foolish Cato! Caesar how divine!
In spite of Tully, friend to Catiline."
Thus to each fair idea long unknown,
The slave of each man's vices and his own,
Inroll'd a member of the hireling tribe,
He tow'rs to villany's last act, a bribe;
And turns, to make his ruin'd fortunes clear,
Or gamester, bully, jobber, pimp, or peer;
Till, late refracted through a purer air,
The beams of royal favour fall elsewhere:
Lo, vile, obscure, he ends his bustling day,
All stain'd the lustre of his orient ray;
And envies, poor, unpitied, scorn'd by all,
Marchmont the glories of a generous fall.
Such sad examples can this land afford?
Why 'tis the history of many a Lord!
But you, perhaps, think odd whate'er I say;
Yet drink with such originals each day.
Then censure we no more, too daring friend,
Whom Scandalum Magnatum may offend.
How poor a figure should a poet make,
Ta'en into custody for scribbling's sake?
Ah, how (you know the muses never pay)
With all his verses earn five pounds a day?
Leave we to Pope each knave of high degree,
Sing we such rules as suit or you or me.
Then, first, into no other's secrets pry;
To such be deaf your ear, be blind your eye:
Of these, unask'd, why should you claim a share?
But keep these safe intrusted to your care:
For this, beware the cunning low design,
That takes advantage of your rage or wine;
For rage no pause of cooler thought affords,
Is rash, intemperate, headlong in its words.
Lock fast your lips; then guard whate'er you say,
Lest in the fit of passion you betray;
And dread the wretch, who boasts the fatal pow'r
To cheat in friendship's unsuspecting hour!
There is a certain pleasing force, that binds
Faster than chains do slaves, two willing minds.
Tempers oppos'd each may itself controul,
And melt two varying natures in one soul.
This made two brothers' different humours hit,
Though one had probity, and one had wit:
Of sober manners this and plain good sense,
Avoided cards, wine, company, expence;
Safe from the tempting fatal sex withdrew,
Nor made advances further than a bow.
A different train of life his twin pursues;
Lov'd pictures, books, (nay authors write) the stews,
A mistress, opera, play, each darling theme;
To scribble, above all, his joy supreme.
Must these two brothers always meet to scold,
Or quarrel, like to Jove's fam'd twins of old?
Each yielding, mutual, could each other please,
And drew life's yoke with tolerable ease:
This thinking mirth not always in the wrong,
Would sometimes condescend to hear a song;
And that, fatigued with his exalted fits,
His beauties, gewgaws, whirligigs, and wits,
Would leave them all, far happier to regale
With prose and friendship o'er a pot of ale.
Then to thy friend's opinion sometimes yield,
And seem to lose, although thou gain'st the field;
Nor, proud that thy superior sense be shown,
Rail at his studies, and extol your own.
For when Aurora weeps the balmy dew,
(And dreams, as reverend dreamers tell, are true)
Sir George my shoulder slaps, just in the time
When some rebellious word consents to rhyme:
Sudden my verses take the rude alarm,
New-coin'd, and from the mint of fancy warm;
I start, I stare, I question with my eyes: —
At once the whole poetic vision flies.
" Up, up, exclaims the Knight; " the season fair;
See how serene the sky, how calm the air;
Hark! from the hills the cheerful horns rebound,
And Echo propagates the jovial sound;
The certain hound in thought his prey pursues,
The scent lies warm, and loads the tainted dews."
I quit my couch, and cheerfully obey,
Content to let the younker have his way;
I mount my courser, fleeter than the wind,
And leave the rage of poetry behind:
But when, the day in healthful labour lost,
We eat our supper earn'd at common cost;
When each frank tongue speaks out without controul,
And the free heart expatiates o'er the bowl;
Though all love prose, my poetry finds grace,
And, pleas'd, I chant the glories of the chase.
Of old, when Scotia's sons for empire fought,
Ere avarice had debas'd each generous thought,
Ere yet, each manlier exercise forgot,
One half had learn'd to dose, one half to vote,
Each hardy toil confirm'd their dawning age,
And mimic sights inspir'd to martial rage;
'Twas theirs with certain speed the dart to send,
With youthful force the stubborn yew to bend;
O'ercame with early arm the fiercest floods,
Or rang'd 'midst chilling snows the pathless woods;
Toil'd for the savage boar on which they fed:
'Twas thus the chief of Bannockburn was bred:
That gave (not polish'd then below mankind)
Strength to the limbs, and vigour to the mind.
The smiling dame, in those victorious days,
Was woo'd by valour, not seduc'd by praise;
Who ne'er did fears, but for her country, feel,
And never saw her lover, but in steel;
Could make a Douglas' stubborn bosom yield,
And send her hero raging to the field;
Heard kind the honest warrior's one-tongu'd vow,
Pleas'd with a genuine heart, as H is now.
How would the generous lass detest to see
An essenc'd fopling puling o'er his tea;
Ah how, distasteful of the mimic show,
Disdain the false appearance, as a foe!
To greet, unfolding every social charm,
Her soldier from the field of glory warm.
But now, alas! these generous aims are o'er;
Each foe insults, and Britain fights no more.
Yet humbler tasks may claim the patriot's toil:
Who aids her laws no more, may mend her soil.
Since to be happy man must ne'er be still,
The' internal void let peaceful labours fill;
When kind amusements hours of fame employ,
The working mind subsides to sober joy:
Behold, in fair autumnal honours spread,
The wheaten garland wreathe the laurel'd head;
Where stagnant waves did in dull lakes appear,
Rich harvests wave, the bounty of the year;
In barren heaths, where Summer never smil'd,
The rural city rises o'er the wild;
Along the cool canal, or shooting grove,
Disport the sons of mirth and gamesome love.
It now remains I counsel, if indeed
My counsel, friend, can stand thee ought in stead.
Judge well of whom you speak; nor will you find
It always safe to tell each man your mind.
Ev'n honesty regard to safety owes;
Nor need it publish all it thinks and knows.
The' eternal quest'ner shun: a certain rule,
There is no blab like to the quest'ning fool;
Ev'n scarce before you turn yourself about,
Whate'er he hears his leaky tongue runs out;
The word elanc'd no longer we controul,
Once sally'd forth, it bursts from pole to pole.
Guard well your heart, ah! still be beauty-proof
Beneath fair friendship's venerable roof,
What though she shines the brightest of the fair,
A form even such as Wallace self might wear!
What though no rocks nor marble arm her breast,
A yielding Helen to her Trojan guest,
The dangerous combat fly: why wouldst thou gain
A shameful conquest won by years of pain?
For know, the short-liv'd guilty rapture past,
Reflection comes, a dreadful judge, at last:
'Tis that avenges (such its pointed stings)
The poor man's cause on statesmen and on kings.
To praise aright, is sure no easy art;
Yet prudence here directs the wise man's part.
Let long experience then confirm the friend,
Dive to his depth of soul, ere you commend.
Should you extol the fool but slightly known,
Guiltless you blush for follies not your own.
Alas! we err: for villains can betray,
And gold corrupt the saint of yesterday.
Then yield, convicted by the public voice,
And frankly own the weakness of your choice;
So greater credit shall your judgment gain,
When you defend the worth that knaves arraign;
Whose soul secure, confiding in your aid,
Hopes the kind shelter of your friendly shade;
When envy on his spotless name shall fall
Whose venom'd tooth corrupts and blackens all;
This mutual help the kindred virtues claim;
For calumny eats on from fame to fame.
When o'er thy neighbour's roof the flames aspire,
Say, claims it not thy care to quench the fire?
When envy rages, small the space betwixt,
In worth ally'd, thy character is next.
Fir'd at the first with what the great impart,
Frank we give way, and yield up all the heart.
How sweet the converse of the potent friend!
How charming when the mighty condescend!
The smile so affable, the courtly word! —
And, as we would a mistress, trust a lord.
The' experienc'd dread the cheat; with prudent care
Distrust alike the powerful and the fair.
Thou, when thy vessel flies before the wind,
Think on the peaceful port thou left behind;
Though all serene, yet bear an humble sail,
Lest veering greatness shift the treacherous gale.
How various, man! yet such are Nature's laws.
With powerful force each different humour draws:
The grave the cheerful hate; these hate the sad;
Your sober wiseman thinks the wit quite mad;
He, happy too in wit's inverted rule,
Thinks every sober wiseman more than fool;
Whose active mind from toil to toil can run,
And join the rising to the setting sun,
Like Philip's son for fame, pursuing gains
While yet one penny unsubdued remains;
Admires how lovers waste the' inactive day,
Sigh, midst the fair, their gentle souls away.
The tuneful bard, who boasts his varied strains,
Shares with the lark the glory of the plains,
Whose life the' impression of no sorrow knows,
So smoothly calm, he scarcely feels it flows.
In vocal woods each fond conceit pursues,
Pleas'd with the gingling bauble of a muse,
Pities the toiling madman's airy scheme,
When greatness sickens o'er the' ambitious dream;
Each boon companion, who the night prolongs
In noise and rapture, festivals and songs,
Condemns the graver mortal for an ass,
Who dares refuse his bumper and his lass;
Still urging on, what boots it that you swear
You dread the vapours and nocturnal air;
Yet grant a little to the social vine,
Full on the friend with cloudless visage shine,
Oft sullen silence speaks a want of sense,
Or folly lurks beneath the wise pretence.
Is there severe, who balks the genial hour?
He's not so sober, were he not so sour.
But above all, I charge thee o'er and o'er,
Fair Peace through all her secret haunts explore;
Consult the learn'd in life, (these best advise)
The good in this, more knowing than the wise;
Their sacred science learn, and what the art
To guard the sallies of the' impetuous heart;
With temper due the' internal poise to keep,
Not soaring impudent, nor servile creep;
How sure thyself, thy friends, thy God to please,
Firm health without, within unshaken peace;
Lest keen desire, still making new demands,
Should raise new foes unnumber'd on thy hands:
Or hope, or fear inspire the' unmanly groan,
For things of little use, perhaps of none:
Who best can purchase Virtue's righteous dow'r,
The sage with wisdom, or the king with pow'r:
Or if the mighty blessing stands confin'd,
To the chaste nature and the heav'n-taught mind:
And chief the' important lesson wise attend,
What makes thee to thyself thyself's best friend:
If gold a pure tranquillity bestows,
Or greatness can insure a night's repose;
Or must we seek it in the secret road
That leads through virtue to the peaceful God;
A shaded walk, where, separate from the throng,
We steal through life all unperceiv'd along.
For me, afraid of life's tempestuous gale,
I make to port, and crowd on all my sail.
Soon may the peaceful grove and shelter'd seat
Receive me weary in the kind retreat;
Blest if my **** be the destin'd shade,
Where childhood sported, of no ills afraid,
Ere youth full grown its daring wing display'd.
That often crost by life's intestine war,
Foresaw that day of triumph from afar,
When warring passions mingling in the fray,
Had drawn the youthful wanderer from his way:
But recollecting the short error, mourn'd,
And duteous to the warning voice return'd.
No more the passions hurrying into strife,
My soul enjoys the gentler calms of life.
Like Tityrus, bless'd among the rural shades,
Whose hallow'd round no guilty wish invades;
No joy tumultuous, no depressing care;
All that I want is Amaryllis there;
Where silver Forth each fair meander leads
Through breathing harvests and empurpled meads;
Whose russet swains enjoy the golden dream,
And thankful bless the plenty-giving stream.
There youth, convinc'd, foregoes each daring claim,
And settling manhood takes a surer aim;
Till age accomplish late the fair design,
And calm possess the good, if age be mine.
What think'st thou, then, my friend, shall be my cares,
My daily studies, and my nightly prayers?
Of the propitious Pow'r this boon I crave,
Still to preserve the little that I have;
Nor yet repugnance at the lot express,
Should Fate decree that little to be less,
That what remains of life to Heav'n I live,
If life indeed has any time to give:
Or if the fugitive will no longer stay,
To part as friends should do, and slip away:
Thankful to Heav'n, or for the good supply'd,
To Heav'n submissive for the good deny'd,
Renounce the houshold charm, a bliss divine!
Heav'n never meant for me, and I resign:
In other joys the' allotted hours improve,
And gain in friendship what was lost in love:
Some comfort snatch'd, as each vain year return'd,
When nature suffer'd, or when friendship mourn'd,
Of all that stock so fatally bereft,
Once youth's proud boast, alas! the little left;
These friends, in youth belov'd, in manhood tried,
Age must not change through avarice or pride:
For me let Wisdom's sacred fountain flow,
The cordial draught that sweetens every woe;
Let fortune kind, the Just Enough provide,
Nor dubious float on Hope's uncertain tide;
Add thoughts compos'd, affections ever even. —
Thus far suffices to have ask'd of Heaven,
Who in the dispensations of a day,
Grants life, grants death; now gives, now takes away;
To scaffolds oft the ribbon'd spoiler brings;
Takes power from statesmen, and their thrones from kings;
From the unthankful heart the bliss decreed — —
But leaves the man of worth still bless'd indeed:
Be life Heaven's gift, be mine the care to find
Still equal to itself the balanc'd mind;
Fame, beauty, wealth forgot, each human toy,
With thoughtful quiet pleas'd, and virtuous joy;
In these, and these alone, supremely blest,
When fools and madmen scramble for the rest.