If honour bids, to-morrow kill or die.
But calm advice against a raging fit
Avails too little; and it braves the power
Of all that ever taught in prose or song,
To tame the fiend that sleeps a gentle lamb,
And wakes a lion. Unprovoked and calm,
You reason well; see as you ought to see,
And wonder at the madness of mankind:
Seized with the common rage, you soon forget
The speculations of your wiser hours.
Beset with furies of all deadly shapes,
Fierce and insidious, violent and slow,
With all that urge or lure us on to fate:
What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare?
Where Reason proves too weak, or void of wiles
To cope with subtle or impetuous powers,
I would invoke new Passions to your aid:
With Indignation would extinguish Fear,
With Fear or generous Pity vanquish Rage,
And Love with Pride; and force to force oppose.
There is a charm, a power, that sways the
breast;
Bids every Passion revel or be still:
Inspires with rage, or all your cares dissolves;
Can sooth distraction, and almost despair.
That power is Music: far beyond the stretch
Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;
Those clumsy heroes, those fat-headed gods,
Who move no passion justly but contempt:
Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)
Do wondrous feats, but never heard of grace.
The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts;
Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest
peals,
Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;
And, with insipid show of rapture, die
Of idiot notes impertinently long.
But he the Muse's laurel justly shares,
A poet he, and touch'd with Heaven's own fire,
Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,
Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;
Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,
In love dissolves you; now, in sprightly strains
Breathes a gay rapture through your thrilling
breast;
Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;
Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings.
Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old
Appeased the fiend of melancholy Saul.
Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,
The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,
And tamed the savage nations with his song;
And such the Thracian, whose melodious lyre,
Tuned to soft woe, made all the mountains weep;
Sooth'd e'en the' inexorable powers of hell,
And half redeem'd his lost Eurydice.
Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain,
Subdues the rage of poison and the plague;
And hence the wise of ancient days adored
One power of Physic, Melody, and Song.
[This little piece was addressed to a worthy Gentleman, as an expression of gratitude for his kind endeavours to do the Author a great piece of service.]
KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear;
Once more I try the patience of your ear.
Not oft I sing: the happier for the town,
So stunn'd already, they're quite stupid grown
With monthly, daily-charming things, I own.
Happy for them, I seldom court the Nine;
Another art, a serious art is mine.
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
You cannot say I did it', if you're sick;
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine, by flashy fits,
Amongst the daily, weekly, monthly wits.
Content, if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with love of fame,
I would not scrawl one hundred idle lines-
Not for the praise of all the Magazines.
Yet once a moon, perhaps, I steal a night;
And (if our sire Apollo pleases) write.
You smile; but all the train the Muse that follow, Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo. Unhappy still our poets will rehearse
To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse;
To the rank tribes submit their virgin lays:
So gross, so bestial is the lust of praise!
I to sound judges from the mob appeal, And write to those who most my subject feel. Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust
With you, whom nought that's moral can disgust. With you I venture, in plain homespun sense, What I imagine of Benevolence.
Of all the monsters of the humankind, What strikes you most, is the low selfish mind. You wonder how, without one liberal joy, The steady miser can his years employ; Without one friend, howe'er his fortunes thrive, Despised and hated, how he bears to live. With honest warmth of heart, with some degree Of pity, that such wretched things should be, You scorn the sordid knave-He grins at you, And deems himself the wiser of the two."Tis all but taste, howe'er we sift the case; He has his joy, as every creature has. 'Tis true, he cannot boast an angel's share, Yet has what happiness his organs bear. • Thou likewise madest' the high seraphic soul, Maker Omnipotent!' and thou the owl. [use; Heaven form'd him too, and doubtless for some But Crane Court knows not yet all nature's views. "Tis chiefly taste, or blunt or gross or fine, Makes life insipid, bestial, or divine. Better be born with taste to little rent, Than the dull monarch of a continent. Without this bounty which the gods bestow, Can fortune make one favourite happy?—No. As well might fortune, in her frolic vein, Proclaim an oyster sovereign of the main.
Without fine nerves, and bosom justly warm'd,
An eye, an ear, a fancy to be charm'd,
In vain majestic Wren expands the dome;
Blank, as pale stucco, Rubens lines the room;
Lost are the raptures of bold Handel's strain;
Great Tully storms, sweet Virgil sings, in vain.
The beauteous forms of nature are effaced:
Tempe's soft charms, the raging watery waste,
Each greatly wild, each sweet romantic scene
Unheeded rises, and almost unseen.
Yet these are joys, with some of better clay,
To sooth the toils of life's embarrass'd way.
These the fine frame with charming horrors chill,
And give the nerves delightfully to thrill.
But of all Taste the noblest and the best,
The first enjoyment of the generous breast,
Is to behold, in man's obnoxious state,
Scenes of content, and happy turns of fate:
Fair views of nature, shining works of art,
Amuse the fancy; but those touch the heart.
Chiefly for this proud epic song delights,
For this some riot on the' Arabian Nights.
Each case is ours: and for the human mind
'Tis monstrous not to feel for all mankind.
Were all mankind unhappy, who could taste
Elysium, or be solitarily bless'd?
Shock'd with surrounding shapes of human woe,
All that or sense or fancy could bestow
You would reject with sick and coy disdain,
And pant to see one cheerful face again.
But if life's better prospects to behold
So much delight the man of generous mould;
How happy they, the great, the godlike few,
Who daily cultivate this pleasing view!
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