Classic Poem

POET. FRIEND.

P . Enough, enough; all this we knew before:
'Tis infamous, I grant it, to be poor:
And who so much to sense and glory lost,
Will hug the curse that not one joy can boast?
From the pale hag, O! could I once break loose;
Divorc'd, all hell shall not re-tie the noose!
Not with more care shall H —' avoid his wife,
Not C—pe fly swifter, lashing for his life;
Than I to leave the meager fiend behind.

  Fr . Exert your Talents; Nature, ever kind,
Enough for happiness, bestows on all;
'Tis sloth or pride that finds her gifts too small—
Why sleeps the muse?—is there no room for praise,
When such bright names in constellation blaze?
When sage N—c—tle , abstinently great,
Neglects his food to cater for the State;
And Gr—ft—n , tow'ring Atlas of the throne,
So well rewards a genius like his own:
Gr—nv—le and B—th illustrious, need I name
For sober dignity and spotless fame;
Or P—t th' unshaken Abdiel yet unsung:
Thy candour, Ch—ly ! and thy truth, O Y—nge !

  P . Th' advice is good; the question only, whether
These names and virtues ever dwelt together?
But what of that? the more the Bard shall claim,
Who can create as well as cherish fame.
But one thing more,—how loud must I repeat,
To rouze th' ingag'd attention of the Great
Amus'd, perhaps, with C —'s prolific bum,
Or rapt admidst the transports of a drum;
While the grim porter watches ev'ry door,
Stern foe to tradesmen, poets, and the poor.
Th' Hesperian dragon not more fierce and fell;
Nor the gaunt, growling janitor of hell.
Ev'n Atticus , (so wills the voice of Fate)
Inshrines in clouded Majesty, his state;
Nor to th' adoring croud vouchsafes regard,
Tho' priests adore, and ev'ry priest a bard.
Shall I then follow with the venal tribe,
And on the threshold the base mongrel bribe?
Bribe him, to feast my mute-imploring eye,
With some proud Lord, who smiles a gracious lie!
A lie to captivate my heedless youth,
Degrade my talents, and debauch my truth;
While fool'd with hope, revolves my joyless day,
And friends, and fame, and fortune fleet away;
'Till scandal, indigence, and scorn, my lot,
The dreary jail entombs me, where I rot!
Is there, ye varnish'd ruffians of the state!
Not one, among the millions whom ye cheat,
Who while he totters on the brink of woe,
Dares, ere he fall, attempt th' avenging blow!
A steady blow! his languid soul to feast;
And rid his country of one curse at least!

  Fr. What! turn assassin?

P. Let th' assassin bleed:
My fearless verse shall justify the deed.
'Tis he, who lures th' unpractis'd mind astray,
Then leaves the wretch to misery, a prey;
Perverts the race of virtue just begun,
And stabs the public in her ruin'd son.

  Fr. Heav'ns how you rail! the man's consum'd by spite!
If L—km—n 's fate attends you, when you write;
Let prudence more propitious arts inspire:
The lower still you crawl, you'll climb the higher.
Go then, with ev'ry supple virtue stor'd,
And thrive, the favour'd valet of my Lord.
Is that denied? a boon more humble crave;
And minister to him who serves a slave:
Be sure you fasten on promotion's scale;
Ev'n if you seize some footman by the tail:
Th' ascent is easy, and the prospect clear,
From the smirch'd scullion to th' embroider'd Peer.
Th' ambitious drudge preferr'd, postilion rides,
Advanc'd again, the chair benighted guides;
Here doom'd, if nature strung his sinewy frame,
The slave (perhaps) of some insatiate dame;
But if exempted from th' Herculean toil,
A fairer field awaits him, rich with spoil;
There shall he shine, with ming'ling honours bright,
His master's pathic, pimp, and parasite;
Then strut a Captain, if his wish be war,
And grasp in hope, a truncheon and a star:
Or if the sweets of peace his soul allure,
Bask at his ease in some warm sinecure;
His fate in consul, clerk, or agent, vary,
Or cross the seas, an envoy's secretary:
Compos'd of falshood, ignorance, and pride,
A prostrate sycophant shall rise a L—d :
And won from kennels to th' impure imbrace,
Accomplish'd W—n triumphs o'er disgrace.

  P. Eternal infamy his name surround,
Who planted first that vice on British ground!
A vice that 'spite of sense and nature reigns,
And poisons genial love, and manhood stains!
Pollio ! the pride of science and its shame,
The muse weeps o'er thee, while she brands thy name!
Abhorrent views that prostituted groom,
Th' indecent grotto and polluted dome!
There only may the spurious passion glow,
Where not one laurel decks the Caitiff's brow,
Obscene with crimes avow'd, of every dye,
Corruption, lust, oppression, perjury:
Let Ch—n with a chaplet round his head,
The taste of Maro and Anacreon plead;
“Sir, Flaccus knew to live as well as write,
And kept, like me, two boys array'd in white.”
Worthy to feel that appetence of fame
Which rivals Horace only in his shame!
Let Isis wail in murmurs, as she runs,
Her tempting fathers and her yielding sons;
While Dullness screens the failings of the church,
Nor leaves one sliding Rabbi in the lurch:
Far other raptures let the breast contain,
Where heav'n-born taste and emulation reign.

  Fr. Shall not a thousand virtues, then, atone
In thy strict censure for the breach of one?
If Bubo keeps a catamite, or whore,
His bounty feeds the beggar at his door:
And tho' no mortal credits Curio 's word,
A score of laquies fatten at his board:
To Christian meekness sacrifice thy spleen,
And strive thy neighbour's weaknesses to screen.

  P. Scorn'd be the bard, and wither'd all his fame,
Who wounds a brother weeping o'er his shame!
But if an impious wretch with frantic pride,
Throws honour, truth, and decency aside,
If nor by Reason aw'd, nor check'd by Fears,
He counts his glories from the stains he bears;
Th' indignant muse to Virtue's aid shall rise,
And fix the brand of infamy on vice.
What if arous'd at his imperious call,
An hundred footsteps echo thro' his hall;
And on high Columns rear'd, his lofty dome
Proclaims th' united art of Greece and Rome:
What tho' whole Hecatombs his Crew regale,
And each Dependant slumbers o'er his ale;
While the remains through Mouths unnumber'd past,
Indulge the beggar and the dogs at last:
Say, friend, is it benevolence of soul,
Or pomp'ous vanity, that prompts the whole?
These sons of sloth who by profusion thrive,
His pride inveigled from the public hive;
And numbers pine in solitary woe,
Who furnish'd out this phantasie of shew.
When silent misery assail'd his eyes,
Did e'er his throbbing bosom sympathize?
Or his extensive charity, pervade
To those who languish in the barren shade,
Where oft by want and modesty suppress'd,
The bootless talent warms the lonely breast?
No! petrify'd by dullness and disdain,
Beyond the feeling of another's pain;
The tear of pity ne'er bedew'd his eye,
Nor his lewd bosom felt the social sigh!

  Fr. Alike to thee his virtue or his vice,
If his hand lib'ral, owns thy merit's price.

  P. Sooner, in hopeless anguish would I mourn,
Than owe my fortune to the man I scorn!—
What new Resource?

Fr. A thousand yet remain,
That bloom with honours, or that teem with gain:
These arts,—are they beneath—beyond thy care?
Devote thy studies to th' auspicious Fair:
Of truth divested, let thy tongue supply
The hinted slander, and the whisper'd lie;
All merit mock, all qualities depress,
Save those that grace th' excelling patroness;
Trophies to her, on others' follies raise,
And heard with joy, by defamation praise:
To this collect each faculty of face,
And ev'ry feat perform of sly grimace;
Let the grave sneer sarcastic speak thee shrewd,
The smutty joke ridiculously lewd;
And the loud laugh thro' all its changes rung,
Applaud th' abortive sallies of her tongue:
Enroll'd a member in the sacred list,
Soon shalt thou sharp in company, at whist;
Her midnight rites and revels regulate,
Priest of her love, and dæmon of her hate.

  P. But say, what recompence, for all this waste
Of honour, truth, attention, time, and taste?
To shine confess'd, her Zany and her Tool,
And fall by what I rose, low ridicule?
Again shall Handel raise his laurel'd brow,
Again shall harmony with rapture glow!
The spells dissolve, the combination breaks,
And Punch , no longer Frasi 's rival squeaks.
Lo, R—l falls a sacrifice to whim,
And starts amaz'd in Newgate from his dream:
With trembling hands implores their promis'd aid;
And sees their favour like a vision fade!
Is this, ye faithless Syrens !—this the joy
To which, your smiles th' unwary wretch decoy?
Naked and shackled, on the pavement prone,
His mangled flesh devouring from the bone;
Rage in his heart, distraction in his eye!
Behold, inhuman Hags! your Minion lye!
Behold his gay career to ruin run,
By you seduc'd, abandon'd and undone!
Rather in garret pent, secure from harm,
My muse with murders shall the town alarm;
Or plunge in politics with patriot zeal,
And snarl like G—ie for the public weal;
Than crawl an Insect, in a Beldame 's power,
And dread the crush of caprice ev'ry hour!

  Fr. 'Tis well;—enjoy that petulance of stile,
And, like the envious adder, lick the file:
What 'tho' success will not attend on all?
Who bravely dares, must sometimes risk a fall.
Behold the bounteous board of fortune spread;
Each weakness, vice and folly yields thee bread;
Wouldst thou with prudent condescension strive
On the long settled terms of life to thrive.

  P . What! join the Crew that pilfer one another,
Betray my Friend, and persecute my brother:
Turn usurer, o'er cent. per cent . to brood,
Or quack, to feed like fleas, on human blood?

  Fr . Or if thy soul can brook the gilded curse,
Some changeling heiress steal—

P . Why not a purse?
Two things I dread, my conscience and the law.
  Fr . How? dread a mumbling bear without a claw?
Nor this, nor that is standard right or wrong,
'Till minted by the mercenary tongue,
And what is conscience, but a fiend of strife,
That chills the joys, and damps the schemes of life?
The wayward child of vanity and fear,
The peevish dam of poverty and care;
Unnumber'd woes engender in the breast
That entertains the rude, ungrateful guest!

  P . Hail, sacred pow'r! my glory and my guide!
Fair source of mental peace, what e'er betide;
Safe in thy shelter, let disaster roll
Eternal hurricanes around my soul;
My soul serene, admidst the storms shall reign,
And smile to see their fury burst in vain!

  Fr . Too coy to flatter, and too proud to serve,
Thine be the joyless dignity to starve.

  P . No;—thanks to discord, war shall be my friend;
And moral rage, heroic courage lend
To pierce the gleaming squadron of the foe,
And win renown by some distinguish'd blow.

  Fr . Renown! ay, do—unkennel the whole pack
Of military cowards on thy back.
What difference, say, 'twixt him who bravely stood,
And him who sought the bosom of the wood?
Invenom'd calumny the First shall brand,
The Last enjoy a ribbon and command.

  P . If such be life, its wretches I deplore,
And long to quit th' unhospitable shore.