Some of my friends (so lavishly I print)
As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
(Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
That I shall run my stock of genius out,
My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
Must needs become a bankrupt at the last.
"The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil,
Which, rich in disposition, pays his toil
More than a hundred fold, which swells his store
E'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er,
By long experience taught, who teaches best,
Foregoes his hopes awhile, and gives it rest.
The land, allowed its losses to repair,
Refreshed, and full in strength, delights to wear
A second youth, and to the farmer's eyes
Bids richer crops and double harvests rise.
Nor think this practice to the earth confined;
It reaches to the culture of the mind.
The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear,
Though next in power to gods, continual care.
Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown)
Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down,
And fallowed well; had Churchill known but this,
Which the most slight observer scarce could miss,
He might have flourished twenty years, or more,
Though now alas! poor man! worn out in four."
Recovered from the vanity of youth,
I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend;
And am, if not too late, resolved to mend,-
Resolved to give some respite to my pen,
Apply myself once more to books and men,
View what is present, what is past review,
And, my old stock exhausted, lay-in new.
For twice six moons (let winds, turned porters, bear
This oath to heaven) for twice six moons I swear,
No Muse shall tempt me with her siren lay,
Nor draw me from improvement's thorny way.
Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend
Who in my hearing shall a rhyme commend.
It cannot be !--Whether I will or no,
Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.
Convinced, determined, I in prose begin ;
But, ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,
And taints me through and through. By this good light! In verse I talk by day, I dream by night;
If now and then I curse, my curses chime,
Nor can I pray unless I pray in rhyme.
E'en now I err, in spite of common sense,
And my confession doubles my offence.
Rest then, my friends-spare, spare your precious breath, And be your slumbers not less sound than death;
Perturbed spirits, rest! nor thus appear
To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear.
On your grave lessons I cannot subsist,
Nor e'en in verse become economist.
Rest then, my friends, nor, hateful to my eyes,
Let envy, in the shape of pity, rise
To blast me ere my time; with patience wait.
'Tis no long interval: propitious fate
Shall glut your pride, and every son of phlegm
Find ample room to censure and condemn.
Read some three-hundred lines (no ea 7 task;
But probably the last that I shall ask),
And give ine up for ever; wait one hour,—
Nay not so much. Revenge is in your power,
And ye may cry, ere Time hath turned his glass,
"Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass.'
Let those who poetry in poems claim
Or not read this, or only read to blame;
Let those who are by fiction's charms enslaved
Return me thanks for half-a-crown well-saved;
Let those who love a little gall in rhyme
Postpone their purchase now, and call next time;
Let those who, void of nature, look for art,
Take up their money, and in peace depart;
Let those who energy of diction prize
For Billingsgate quit Flexney, and be wise.
Here is no lie, no gall, no art, no force;
Mean are the words, and such as come of course;
The subject not less simple than the lay,-
A plain, unlaboured journey of a day.
Far from me now be every tuneful maid;
I neither ask nor can receive their aid.
Pegasus turned into a common hack,
Alone I jog, and keep the beaten track;
Nor would I have the sisters of the hill
Behold their bard in such a dishabille.
Absent, but only absent for a time,
Let them caress some dearer son of rhyme;
Let them, as far as decency permits,
Without suspicion, play the fool with wits,
'Gainst fools be guarded; 'tis a certain rule,―
Wits are safe things, there's danger in a fool.
Let them, though modest, Gray more modest woo;
Let them with Mason bleat, and bray, and coo;
Let them with Franklin, proud of some small Greek,
Make Sophocles, disguised, in English speak;
Let them with Glover o'er Medea doze;
Let them with Dodsley wail Cleone's woes,
Whilst he, fine feeling creature, all in tears,
Melts as they melt, and weeps with weeping peers;
Let them with simple Whitehead, taught to creep
Silent and soft, lay Fontenelle asleep;
Let them with Browne contrive, no vulgar trick,
To cure the dead, and make the living sick;
Let them in charity to Murphy give
Some old French piece, that he may steal and live;
Let them with antic Foote subscriptions get,
And advertise a summer-house of wit.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed ;
I on my journey all alone proceed.
If fashionable grown, and fond of power,
With humorous Scots let them disport the hour
Let them dance, fairy-like, round Ossian's tomb;
Let them forge lies and histories for Hume;
Let them with Home, the very prince of verse,
Make something like a tragedy in Erse;
Under dark allegory's flimsy veil
Let them with Ogilvie spin out a tale
Of rueful length; let them plain things obscure,
Debase what's truly rich, and what is poor
Make poorer still by jargon most uncouth.
With every pert prim prettiness of youth
Born of false taste, with fancy (like a child
Not knowing what it cries for) running wild,
With bloated style, by affectation taught,
With much false colouring, and little thought,
With phrases strange, and dialect decreed
By reason never to have passed the Tweed,
With words, which nature meant each other's foe,
Forced to compound whether they will or no,-
With such materials, let them, if they will,
To prove at once their pleasantry and skill,
Build up a bard to war 'gainst common sense,
By way of compliment to Providence.
Let them with Armstrong, taking leave of sense,
Read musty lectures on benevolence,
Or con the pages of his gaping Day,
Where all his former fame was thrown away,
Where all but barren labour was forgot,
And the vain stiffness of a lettered Scot.
Let them with Armstrong pass the term of light,
But not one hour of darkness. When the night
Suspends this mortal coil, when memory wakes,
When for our past misdoings conscience takes
A deep revenge, when, by reflection led,
She draws his curtains, and looks comfort dead,
Let every Muse be gone; in vain he turns,
And tries to pray for sleep; an Ætna burns,
A more than Etna, in his coward breast,
And guilt, with vengeance armed, forbids him rest.
Though soft as plumage from young Zephyr's wing,
His couch seems hard, and no relief can bring.
Ingratitude hath planted daggers there
No good man can deserve, no brave man bear.
Thus, or in any better way they please,
With these great men, or with great men like
these,
Let them their appetite for laughter feed;
I on my journey all alone proceed.
[Born in 1738, died in 1819: wrote under the pseudonym of "Peter Pindar." Began life as an apothecary; took his degree as a physician, and went out to Jamaica, where he found it convenient to occupy a clerical living, and so took holy orders. He afterwards resumed practice as a physician in Cornwall and Devonshire, and won a name as a satirist-more especially in matters connected with fine art, literature, and politics: he had himself some skill as a draughtsman, and more especially as a musician. Wolcot made many enemies by his pen, and his general character was that of a selfish man: at the same time, he gladly fostered merit where he discerned it, and had friends whose good opinion he secured].
TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE.i
WHY flyest thou away with fear?
Trust me, there's nought of danger near;
I have no wicked hooke
All covered with a snaring bait,.
Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate,
And dragge thee from the brooke.
O harmless tenant of the flood,
I do not wish to spill thy blood,
For Nature unto thee
Perchance hath given a tender wife,
And children dear, to charm thy life,
As she hath done for me.
1 The reader will understand the antiquated spelling to be a "take-off” of Walton,
Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish; And, when an angler for his dish, Through gluttony's vile sin, Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, God give thee strength, O gentle trout, To pull the raskall in!
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
A BRACE of sinners, for no good,
Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loreto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel: In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes :
A nostrum, famous in old Popish times,
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes;
A sort of apostolic salt,
That Popish parsons for its power exalt
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen-salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray.
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Light as a bullet from a gun;
The other limped as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon- "Peccavi" criedHad his soul whitewashed all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit with saints above to live for ever.
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother-rogue about half way,
Hobbling with outstretched hams and bended knees,
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas;
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke,
"Odds curse it !" cried the other, "'tis no joke;
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as blubber.
"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear :
As for Loreto, I shall not go there;
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For hang me if I ha'n't lost every toe!
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