Gotham (Churchill, 1764)

== GOTHAM. == In Three Books.

BOOK I.
Far off (no matter whether east or west, A real country, or one made in jest, Nor yet by modern Mandevilles disgraced, Nor by map-jobbers wretchedly misplaced) There lies an island, neither great nor small, Which, for distinction sake, I Gotham call. The man who finds an unknown country out, By giving it a name, acquires, no doubt, A Gospel title, though the people there The pious Christian thinks not worth his care                     10 Bar this pretence, and into air is hurl'd The claim of Europe to the Western world. Cast by a tempest on the savage coast, Some roving buccaneer set up a post; A beam, in proper form transversely laid, Of his Redeemer's cross the figure made— Of that Redeemer, with whose laws his life, From first to last, had been one scene of strife; His royal master's name thereon engraved, Without more process the whole race enslaved,                     20 Cut off that charter they from Nature drew, And made them slaves to men they never knew. Search ancient histories, consult records, Under this title the most Christian lords Hold (thanks to conscience) more than half the ball; O'erthrow this title, they have none at all; For never yet might any monarch dare, Who lived to Truth, and breathed a Christian air, Pretend that Christ, (who came, we all agree, To bless his people, and to set them free)                        30 To make a convert, ever one law gave By which converters made him first a slave. Spite of the glosses of a canting priest, Who talks of charity, but means a feast; Who recommends it (whilst he seems to feel The holy glowings of a real zeal) To all his hearers as a deed of worth, To give them heaven whom they have robb'd of earth; Never shall one, one truly honest man, Who, bless'd with Liberty, reveres her plan,                      40 Allow one moment that a savage sire Could from his wretched race, for childish hire, By a wild grant, their all, their freedom pass, And sell his country for a bit of glass. Or grant this barbarous right, let Spain and France, In slavery bred, as purchasers advance; Let them, whilst Conscience is at distance hurl'd, With some gay bauble buy a golden world: An Englishman, in charter'd freedom born, Shall spurn the slavish merchandise, shall scorn                  50 To take from others, through base private views, What he himself would rather die, than lose. Happy the savage of those early times, Ere Europe's sons were known, and Europe's crimes! Gold, cursed gold! slept in the womb of earth, Unfelt its mischiefs, as unknown its worth; In full content he found the truest wealth, In toil he found diversion, food, and health; Stranger to ease and luxury of courts, His sports were labours, and his labours sports;                  60 His youth was hardy, and his old age green; Life's morn was vigorous, and her eve serene; No rules he held, but what were made for use, No arts he learn'd, nor ills which arts produce; False lights he follow'd, but believed them true; He knew not much, but lived to what he knew. Happy, thrice happy now the savage race, Since Europe took their gold, and gave them grace! Pastors she sends to help them in their need, Some who can't write; with others who can't read;                 70 And on sure grounds the gospel pile to rear, Sends missionary felons every year; Our vices, with more zeal than holy prayers, She teaches them, and in return takes theirs. Her rank oppressions give them cause to rise, Her want of prudence, means and arms supplies, Whilst her brave rage, not satisfied with life, Rising in blood, adopts the scalping-knife. Knowledge she gives, enough to make them know How abject is their state, how deep their woe;                    80 The worth of freedom strongly she explains, Whilst she bows down, and loads their necks with chains. Faith, too, she plants, for her own ends impress'd, To make them bear the worst, and hope the best; And whilst she teaches, on vile Interest's plan, As laws of God, the wild decrees of man, Like Pharisees, of whom the Scriptures tell, She makes them ten times more the sons of Hell. But whither do these grave reflections tend? Are they design'd for any, or no end? 90 Briefly but this—to prove, that by no act Which Nature made, that by no equal pact 'Twixt man and man, which might, if Justice heard, Stand good; that by no benefits conferr'd, Or purchase made, Europe in chains can hold The sons of India, and her mines of gold. Chance led her there in an accursed hour; She saw, and made the country hers by power; Nor, drawn by virtue's love from love of fame, Shall my rash folly controvert the claim,                        100 Or wish in thought that title overthrown Which coincides with and involves my own. Europe discover'd India first; I found My right to Gotham on the self-same ground; I first discover'd it, nor shall that plea To her be granted, and denied to me; I plead possession, and, till one more bold Shall drive me out, will that possession hold. With Europe's rights my kindred rights I twine; Hers be the Western world, be Gotham mine. 110 Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? As on a day, a high and holy day, Let every instrument of music play, Ancient and modern; those which drew their birth (Punctilios laid aside) from Pagan earth,                        120 As well as those by Christian made and Jew; Those known to many, and those known to few; Those which in whim and frolic lightly float, And those which swell the slow and solemn note; Those which (whilst Reason stands in wonder by) Make some complexions laugh, and others cry; Those which, by some strange faculty of sound, Can build walls up, and raze them to the ground; Those which can tear up forests by the roots, And make brutes dance like men, and men like brutes;             130 Those which, whilst Ridicule leads up the dance, Make clowns of Monmouth ape the fops of France; Those which, where Lady Dulness with Lord Mayors Presides, disdaining light and trifling airs, Hallow the feast with psalmody; and those Which, planted in our churches to dispose And lift the mind to Heaven, are disgraced With what a foppish organist calls Taste: All, from the fiddle (on which every fool, The pert son of dull sire, discharged from school,               140 Serves an apprenticeship in college ease, And rises through the gamut to degrees) To those which (though less common, not less sweet) From famed Saint Giles's, and more famed Vine Street, (Where Heaven, the utmost wish of man to grant, Gave me an old house, and an older aunt) Thornton, whilst Humour pointed out the road To her arch cub, hath hitch'd into an ode;— All instruments (attend, ye listening spheres! Attend, ye sons of men! and hear with ears),                     150 All instruments (nor shall they seek one hand Impress'd from modern Music's coxcomb band), All instruments, self-acted, at my name Shall pour forth harmony, and loud proclaim, Loud but yet sweet, to the according globe, My praises; whilst gay Nature, in a robe, A coxcomb doctor's robe, to the full sound Keeps time, like Boyce, and the world dances round. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,                      160 The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Infancy, straining backward from the breast, Tetchy and wayward, what he loveth best Refusing in his fits, whilst all the while The mother eyes the wrangler with a smile, And the fond father sits on t' other side, Laughs at his moods, and views his spleen with pride,            170 Shall murmur forth my name, whilst at his hand Nurse stands interpreter, through Gotham's land. Childhood, who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears, Pleased and displeased by starts, in passion warm, In reason weak; who, wrought into a storm, Like to the fretful billows of the deep, Soon spends his rage, and cries himself asleep; Who, with a feverish appetite oppress'd, For trifles sighs, but hates them when possess'd;                180 His trembling lash suspended in the air, Half-bent, and stroking back his long lank hair, Shall to his mates look up with eager glee, And let his top go down to prate of me. Youth, who, fierce, fickle, insolent, and vain, Impatient urges on to Manhood's reign, Impatient urges on, yet with a cast Of dear regard looks back on Childhood past, In the mid-chase, when the hot blood runs high, And the quick spirits mount into his eye;                        190 When pleasure, which he deems his greatest wealth, Beats in his heart, and paints his cheeks with health; When the chafed steed tugs proudly at the rein, And, ere he starts, hath run o'er half the plain; When, wing'd with fear, the stag flies full in view, And in full cry the eager hounds pursue, Shall shout my praise to hills which shout again, And e'en the huntsman stop to cry, Amen. Manhood, of form erect, who would not bow Though worlds should crack around him; on his brow               200 Wisdom serene, to passion giving law, Bespeaking love, and yet commanding awe; Dignity into grace by mildness wrought; Courage attemper'd and refined by thought; Virtue supreme enthroned; within his breast The image of his Maker deep impress'd; Lord of this earth, which trembles at his nod, With reason bless'd, and only less than God; Manhood, though weeping Beauty kneels for aid, Though Honour calls, in Danger's form array'd,                   210 Though clothed with sackloth, Justice in the gates, By wicked elders chain'd, Redemption waits, Manhood shall steal an hour, a little hour, (Is't not a little one?) to hail my power. Old Age, a second child, by Nature cursed With more and greater evils than the first; Weak, sickly, full of pains, in every breath Railing at life, and yet afraid of death; Putting things off, with sage and solemn air, From day to day, without one day to spare;                       220 Without enjoyment, covetous of pelf, Tiresome to friends, and tiresome to himself; His faculties impair'd, his temper sour'd, His memory of recent things devour'd E'en with the acting, on his shatter'd brain Though the false registers of youth remain; From morn to evening babbling forth vain praise Of those rare men, who lived in those rare days, When he, the hero of his tale, was young; Dull repetitions faltering on his tongue;                        230 Praising gray hairs, sure mark of Wisdom's sway, E'en whilst he curses Time, which made him gray; Scoffing at youth, e'en whilst he would afford All but his gold to have his youth restored, Shall for a moment, from himself set free, Lean on his crutch, and pipe forth praise to me. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,                        240 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Things without life shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. The snowdrop, who, in habit white and plain, Comes on, the herald of fair Flora's train; The coxcomb crocus, flower of simple note, Who by her side struts in a herald's coat; The tulip, idly glaring to the view, Who, though no clown, his birth from Holland drew;               250 Who, once full dress'd, fears from his place to stir, The fop of flowers, the More of a parterre; The woodbine, who her elm in marriage meets, And brings her dowry in surrounding sweets; The lily, silver mistress of the vale; The rose of Sharon, which perfumes the gale; The jessamine, with which the queen of flowers, To charm her god, adorns his favourite bowers, Which brides, by the plain hand of Neatness dress'd, Unenvied rival, wear upon their breast,                          260 Sweet as the incense of the morn, and chaste As the pure zone which circles Dian's waist; All flowers, of various names, and various forms, Which the sun into strength and beauty warms, From the dwarf daisy, which, like infants, clings, And fears to leave the earth from whence it springs, To the proud giant of the garden race, Who, madly rushing to the sun's embrace, O'ertops her fellows with aspiring aim, Demands his wedded love, and bears his name;                     270 All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Forming a gloom, through which, to spleen-struck minds, Religion, horror-stamp'd, a passage finds,                       280 The ivy crawling o'er the hallow'd cell Where some old hermit's wont his beads to tell By day, by night; the myrtle ever green, Beneath whose shade Love holds his rites unseen; The willow, weeping o'er the fatal wave Where many a lover finds a watery grave; The cypress, sacred held, when lovers mourn Their true love snatch'd away; the laurel worn By poets in old time, but destined now, In grief, to wither on a Whitehead's brow;                       290 The fig, which, large as what in India grows, Itself a grove, gave our first parents clothes; The vine, which, like a blushing new-made bride, Clustering, empurples all the mountain's side; The yew, which, in the place of sculptured stone, Marks out the resting-place of men unknown; The hedge-row elm; the pine, of mountain race; The fir, the Scotch fir, never out of place; The cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud, Whilst his old father Lebanon grows proud                        300 Of such a child, and his vast body laid Out many a mile, enjoys the filial shade; The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,                        310 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The showers, which make the young hills, like young lambs, Bound and rebound; the old hills, like old rams, Unwieldy, jump for joy; the streams which glide, Whilst Plenty marches smiling by their side, And from their bosom rising Commerce springs; The winds, which rise with healing on their wings, Before whose cleansing breath Contagion flies; The sun, who, travelling in eastern skies,                       320 Fresh, full of strength, just risen from his bed, Though in Jove's pastures they were born and bred, With voice and whip can scarce make his steeds stir, Step by step, up the perpendicular; Who, at the hour of eve, panting for rest, Rolls on amain, and gallops down the west As fast as Jehu, oil'd for Ahab's sin, Drove for a crown, or postboys for an inn; The moon, who holds o'er night her silver reign, Regent of tides, and mistress of the brain,                      330 Who to her sons, those sons who own her power, And do her homage at the midnight hour, Gives madness as a blessing, but dispenses Wisdom to fools, and damns them with their senses; The stars, who, by I know not what strange right, Preside o'er mortals in their own despite, Who, without reason, govern those who most (How truly, judge from thence!) of reason boast, And, by some mighty magic yet unknown, Our actions guide, yet cannot guide their own;                   340 All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The moment, minute, hour, day, week, month, year, Morning and eve, as they in turn appear;                         350 Moments and minutes, which, without a crime, Can't be omitted in accounts of time, Or, if omitted, (proof we might afford) Worthy by parliaments to be restored; The hours, which, dress'd by turns in black and white, Ordain'd as handmaids, wait on Day and Night; The day, those hours, I mean, when light presides, And Business in a cart with Prudence rides; The night, those hours, I mean, with darkness hung, When Sense speaks free, and Folly holds her tongue;              360 The morn, when Nature, rousing from her strife With death-like sleep, awakes to second life; The eve, when, as unequal to the task, She mercy from her foe descends to ask; The week, in which six days are kindly given To think of earth, and one to think of heaven; The months, twelve sisters, all of different hue, Though there appears in all a likeness too; Not such a likeness as, through Hayman's works, Dull mannerist! in Christians, Jews, and Turks,                  370 Cloys with a sameness in each female face, But a strange something, born of Art and Grace, Which speaks them all, to vary and adorn, At different times of the same parents born; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,                        380 The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Frore January, leader of the year, Minced-pies in van, and calves' heads in the rear; Dull February, in whose leaden reign My mother bore a bard without a brain; March, various, fierce, and wild, with wind-crack'd cheeks, By wilder Welshmen led, and crown'd with leeks; April, with fools, and May, with bastards bless'd; June, with White Roses on her rebel breast;                      390 July, to whom, the Dog-star in her train, Saint James gives oysters, and Saint Swithin rain; August, who, banish'd from her Smithfield stand, To Chelsea flies, with Doggett in her hand; September, when by custom (right divine) Geese are ordain'd to bleed at Michael's shrine, Whilst the priest, not so full of grace as wit, Falls to, unbless'd, nor gives the saint a bit; October, who the cause of Freedom join'd, And gave a second George to bless mankind; 400 November, who, at once to grace our earth, Saint Andrew boasts, and our Augusta's birth; December, last of months, but best, who gave A Christ to man, a Saviour to the slave, Whilst, falsely grateful, man, at the full feast, To do God honour makes himself a beast; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,                      410 The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? The seasons as they roll; Spring, by her side Lechery and Lent, lay-folly and church-pride, By a rank monk to copulation led, A tub of sainted salt-fish on her head; Summer, in light transparent gauze array'd, Like maids of honour at a masquerade,                            420 In bawdry gauze, for which our daughters leave The fig, more modest, first brought up by Eve, Panting for breath, inflamed with lustful fires, Yet wanting strength to perfect her desires, Leaning on Sloth, who, fainting with the heat, Stops at each step, and slumbers on his feet; Autumn, when Nature, who with sorrow feels Her dread foe Winter treading on her heels, Makes up in value what she wants in length, Exerts her powers, and puts forth all her strength,              430 Bids corn and fruits in full perfection rise, Corn fairly tax'd, and fruits without excise; Winter, benumb'd with cold, no longer known By robes of fur, since furs became our own; A hag, who, loathing all, by all is loathed, With weekly, daily, hourly, libels clothed, Vile Faction at her heels, who, mighty grown, Would rule the ruler, and foreclose the throne, Would turn all state affairs into a trade, Make laws one day, the next to be unmade,                        440 Beggar at home, a people fear'd abroad, And, force defeated, make them slaves by fraud; All, one and all, shall in this chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? 450 The year, grand circle! in whose ample round The seasons regular and fix'd are bound, (Who, in his course repeated o'er and o'er, Sees the same things which he had seen before; The same stars keep their watch, and the same sun Runs in the track where he from first hath run; The same moon rules the night; tides ebb and flow; Man is a puppet, and this world a show; Their old dull follies, old dull fools pursue, And vice in nothing, but in mode, is new;                        460 He —— a lord (now fair befall that pride, He lived a villain, but a lord he died) Dashwood is pious, Berkeley fix'd as Fate, Sandwich (thank Heaven!) first minister of state; And, though by fools despised, by saints unbless'd, By friends neglected, and by foes oppress'd, Scorning the servile arts of each court elf, Founded on honour, Wilkes is still himself) The year, encircled with the various train Which waits, and fills the glories of his reign,                 470 Shall, taking up this theme, in chorus join, And, dumb to others' praise, be loud in mine. Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice; Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice, The voice of gladness; and on every tongue, In strains of gratitude, be praises hung, The praises of so great and good a king: Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing? Thus far in sport—nor let our critics hence, Who sell out monthly trash, and call it sense,                   480 Too lightly of our present labours deem, Or judge at random of so high a theme: High is our theme, and worthy are the men To feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen; But when kind Time a proper season brings, In serious mood to treat of serious things, Then shall they find, disdaining idle play, That I can be as grave and dull as they. Thus far in sport—nor let half patriots, those Who shrink from every blast of Power which blows,                490 Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own; Who (lest bold truths, to do sage Prudence spite, Should burst the portals of their lips by night, Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep) Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap; When brave Occasion bids, for some great end, When Honour calls the poet as a friend, Then shall they find that, e'en on Danger's brink, He dares to speak what they scarce dare to think. 500

BOOK II.
How much mistaken are the men who think That all who will, without restraint may drink, May largely drink, e'en till their bowels burst, Pleading no right but merely that of thirst, At the pure waters of the living well, Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell! Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy, A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy May play untaught, whilst, without art or force, Make it but jingle, music comes of course. 10 Little do such men know the toil, the pains, The daily, nightly racking of the brains, To range the thoughts, the matter to digest, To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest; To know the times when Humour on the cheek Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should speak, And when be silent; when to use the powers Of ornament, and how to place the flowers, So that they neither give a tawdry glare, 'Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air;'                    20 To form, (which few can do, and scarcely one, One critic in an age, can find when done) To form a plan, to strike a grand outline, To fill it up, and make the picture shine A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time; To make proud Sense against her nature bend, And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her friend. Some fops there are, amongst the scribbling tribe, Who make it all their business to describe,                       30 No matter whether in or out of place; Studious of finery, and fond of lace, Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings, The rags of beggars, and the robes of kings. Let dull Propriety in state preside O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide; Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence Of those tame drudges, Judgment, Taste, and Sense, Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime Of keeping terms with Person, Place, and Time. 40 Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon, With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon; Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore, Let streams meander, and let torrents roar; Let them breed up the melancholy breeze, To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees; Let vales embroidery wear; let flowers be tinged With various tints; let clouds be laced or fringed, They have their wish; like idle monarch boys, Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys;                  50 Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe, Who will may take the power, and rule the globe. Others there are, who, in one solemn pace, With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace, Railing at needful ornament, depend On Sense to bring them to their journey's end: They would not (Heaven forbid!) their course delay, Nor for a moment step out of the way, To make the barren road those graces wear Which Nature would, if pleased, have planted there. 60 Vain men! who, blindly thwarting Nature's plan, Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man; Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land, Scorn every thing they do not understand; Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste, Let all their little knowledge run to waste, And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear The robes of Learning with a sloven's air. Though solid reasoning arms each sterling line, Though Truth declares aloud, 'This work is mine,' Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep,                 70 Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep. Sense, mere dull, formal Sense, in this gay town, Must have some vehicle to pass her down; Nor can she for an hour insure her reign, Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train. Let her from day to day, from year to year, In all her grave solemnities appear, And with the voice of trumpets, through the streets, Deal lectures out to every one she meets;                         80 Half who pass by are deaf, and t' other half Can hear indeed, but only hear to laugh. Quit then, ye graver sons of letter'd Pride! Taking for once Experience as a guide, Quit this grand error, this dull college mode; Be your pursuits the same, but change the road; Write, or at least appear to write, with ease, 'And if you mean to profit, learn to please.' In vain for such mistakes they pardon claim, Because they wield the pen in Virtue's name:                      90 Thrice sacred is that name, thrice bless'd the man Who thinks, speaks, writes, and lives on such a plan! This, in himself, himself of course must bless, But cannot with the world promote success. He may be strong, but, with effect to speak, Should recollect his readers may be weak; Plain, rigid truths, which saints with comfort bear, Will make the sinner tremble and despair. True Virtue acts from love, and the great end At which she nobly aims is to amend. 100 How then do those mistake who arm her laws With rigour not their own, and hurt the cause They mean to help, whilst with a zealot rage They make that goddess, whom they'd have engage Our dearest love, in hideous terror rise! Such may be honest, but they can't be wise. In her own full and perfect blaze of light, Virtue breaks forth too strong for human sight; The dazzled eye, that nice but weaker sense, Shuts herself up in darkness for defence:                        110 But to make strong conviction deeper sink, To make the callous feel, the thoughtless think, Like God, made man, she lays her glory by, And beams mild comfort on the ravish'd eye: In earnest most, when most she seems in jest, She worms into, and winds around, the breast, To conquer Vice, of Vice appears the friend, And seems unlike herself to gain her end. The sons of Sin, to while away the time Which lingers on their hands, of each black crime                120 To hush the painful memory, and keep The tyrant Conscience in delusive sleep, Read on at random, nor suspect the dart Until they find it rooted in their heart. 'Gainst vice they give their vote, nor know at first That, cursing that, themselves too they have cursed; They see not, till they fall into the snares, Deluded into virtue unawares. Thus the shrewd doctor, in the spleen-struck mind, When pregnant horror sits, and broods o'er wind,                 130 Discarding drugs, and striving how to please, Lures on insensibly, by slow degrees, The patient to those manly sports which bind The slacken'd sinews, and relieve the mind; The patient feels a change as wrought by stealth, And wonders on demand to find it health. Some few, whom Fate ordain'd to deal in rhymes In other lands, and here, in other times, Whom, waiting at their birth, the midwife Muse Sprinkled all over with Castalian dews,                          140 To whom true Genius gave his magic pen, Whom Art by just degrees led up to men; Some few, extremes well shunn'd, have steer'd between These dangerous rocks, and held the golden mean; Sense in their works maintains her proper state, But never sleeps, or labours with her weight; Grace makes the whole look elegant and gay, But never dares from Sense to run astray: So nice the master's touch, so great his care, The colours boldly glow, not idly glare;                         150 Mutually giving and receiving aid, They set each other off, like light and shade, And, as by stealth, with so much softness blend, 'Tis hard to say where they begin or end: Both give us charms, and neither gives offence; Sense perfects Grace, and Grace enlivens Sense. Peace to the men who these high honours claim, Health to their souls, and to their memories fame! Be it my task, and no mean task, to teach A reverence for that worth I cannot reach:                       160 Let me at distance, with a steady eye, Observe and mark their passage to the sky; From envy free, applaud such rising worth, And praise their heaven, though pinion'd down to earth! Had I the power, I could not have the time, Whilst spirits flow, and life is in her prime, Without a sin 'gainst Pleasure, to design A plan, to methodise each thought, each line Highly to finish, and make every grace, In itself charming, take new charms from place. 170 Nothing of books, and little known of men, When the mad fit comes on, I seize the pen, Rough as they run, the rapid thoughts set down. Rough as they run, discharge them on the town. Hence rude, unfinish'd brats, before their time, Are born into this idle world of Rhyme, And the poor slattern Muse is brought to bed 'With all her imperfections on her head.' Some, as no life appears, no pulses play Through the dull dubious mass, no breath makes way,              180 Doubt, greatly doubt, till for a glass they call, Whether the child can be baptized at all; Others, on other grounds, objections frame, And, granting that the child may have a name, Doubt, as the sex might well a midwife pose, Whether they should baptize it Verse or Prose. E'en what my masters please; bards, mild, meek men, In love to critics, stumble now and then. Something I do myself, and something too, If they can do it, leave for them to do. 190 In the small compass of my careless page Critics may find employment for an age: Without my blunders, they were all undone; I twenty feed, where Mason can feed one. When Satire stoops, unmindful of her state, To praise the man I love, curse him I hate; When Sense, in tides of passion borne along, Sinking to prose, degrades the name of song, The censor smiles, and, whilst my credit bleeds, With as high relish on the carrion feeds                         200 As the proud earl fed at a turtle feast, Who, turn'd by gluttony to worse than beast, Ate till his bowels gush'd upon the floor, Yet still ate on, and dying call'd for more. When loose Digression, like a colt unbroke, Spurning Connexion and her formal yoke, Bounds through the forest, wanders far astray From the known path, and loves to lose her way, 'Tis a full feast to all the mongrel pack To run the rambler down, and bring her back. 210 When gay Description, Fancy's fairy child, Wild without art, and yet with pleasure wild, Waking with Nature at the morning hour To the lark's call, walks o'er the opening flower Which largely drank all night of heaven's fresh dew, And, like a mountain nymph of Dian's crew, So lightly walks, she not one mark imprints, Nor brushes off the dews, nor soils the tints; When thus Description sports, even at the time That drums should beat, and cannons roar in rhyme,               220 Critics can live on such a fault as that From one month to the other, and grow fat. Ye mighty Monthly Judges! in a dearth Of letter'd blockheads, conscious of the worth Of my materials, which against your will Oft you've confess'd, and shall confess it still; Materials rich, though rude, inflamed with thought, Though more by Fancy than by Judgment wrought Take, use them as your own, a work begin Which suits your genius well, and weave them in,                 230 Framed for the critic loom, with critic art, Till, thread on thread depending, part on part, Colour with colour mingling, light with shade, To your dull taste a formal work is made, And, having wrought them into one grand piece, Swear it surpasses Rome, and rivals Greece. Nor think this much, for at one single word, Soon as the mighty critic fiat's heard, Science attends their call; their power is own'd; Order takes place, and Genius is dethroned:                      240 Letters dance into books, defiance hurl'd At means, as atoms danced into a world. Me higher business calls, a greater plan, Worthy man's whole employ, the good of man, The good of man committed to my charge: If idle Fancy rambles forth at large, Careless of such a trust, these harmless lays May Friendship envy, and may Folly praise. The crown of Gotham may some Scot assume, And vagrant Stuarts reign in Churchill's room! 250 O my poor People! O thou wretched Earth! To whose dear love, though not engaged by birth, My heart is fix'd, my service deeply sworn, How, (by thy father can that thought be borne?— For monarchs, would they all but think like me, Are only fathers in the best degree) How must thy glories fade, in every land Thy name be laugh'd to scorn, thy mighty hand Be shorten'd, and thy zeal, by foes confess'd, Bless'd in thyself, to make thy neighbours bless'd,              260 Be robb'd of vigour; how must Freedom's pile, The boast of ages, which adorns the isle And makes it great and glorious, fear'd abroad, Happy at home, secure from force and fraud; How must that pile, by ancient Wisdom raised On a firm rock, by friends admired and praised, Envied by foes, and wonder'd at by all, In one short moment into ruins fall, Should any slip of Stuart's tyrant race, Or bastard or legitimate, disgrace                               270 Thy royal seat of empire! But what care, What sorrow must be mine, what deep despair And self-reproaches, should that hated line Admittance gain through any fault of mine! Cursed be the cause whence Gotham's evils spring, Though that cursed cause be found in Gotham's king. Let War, with all his needy ruffian band, In pomp of horror stalk through Gotham's land Knee-deep in blood; let all her stately towers Sink in the dust; that court which now is ours                   280 Become a den, where beasts may, if they can, A lodging find, nor fear rebuke from man; Where yellow harvests rise, be brambles found; Where vines now creep, let thistles curse the ground; Dry in her thousand valleys be the rills; Barren the cattle on her thousand hills; Where Power is placed, let tigers prowl for prey; Where Justice lodges, let wild asses bray; Let cormorants in churches make their nest, And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest;                      290 Be all, though princes in the earth before, Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more; Much rather would I, might the will of Fate Give me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd state By ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down, Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown. Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host, Those servants who their Maker know, who boast Obedience as their glory, and fulfil, Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will;                  300 Let raging winds root up the boiling deep, And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep; Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye, Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky; Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise; Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes; Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think, In the deep gulf let all my subjects sink Before my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel; Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel,                         310 Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod, And, having own'd the justice of my God, Myself with firmness to the ruin give, And die with those for whom I wish to live. This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decrees Ne'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!) This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear; But that the Stuart race my crown should wear, That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shone Bright as the glories of the midday sun;                         320 Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule, Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school, To the whip crouch and tremble—Oh, that thought! The labouring brain is e'en to madness brought By the dread vision; at the mere surmise The thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise; My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats, And, turn me where I will, distraction meets. O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms, The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms                        330 To high achievements; can your spirits bend, Through base control (ye never can descend So low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain, Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign? If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide, Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride, The tyranny and falsehood of those lords, Contents you not, search England's fair records; England, where first the breath of life I drew, Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due;                      340 There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand, They rule no more, to curse that happy land. The first, who, from his native soil removed, Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved: Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which spring In souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king; Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws. To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause; On practices most mean he raised his pride, And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. 350 Ne'er could he feel how truly man is blest In blessing those around him; in his breast, Crowded with follies, Honour found no room; Mark'd for a coward in his mother's womb, He was too proud without affronts to live, Too timorous to punish or forgive. To gain a crown which had, in course of time, By fair descent, been his without a crime, He bore a mother's exile; to secure A greater crown, he basely could endure                          360 The spilling of her blood by foreign knife, Nor dared revenge her death who gave him life: Nay, by fond Pear, and fond Ambition led, Struck hands with those by whom her blood was shed. Call'd up to power, scarce warm on England's throne, He fill'd her court with beggars from his own: Turn where you would, the eye with Scots was caught, Or English knaves, who would be Scotsmen thought. To vain expense unbounded loose he gave, The dupe of minions, and of slaves the slave;                    370 On false pretences mighty sums he raised, And damn'd those senates rich, whom poor he praised; From empire thrown, and doom'd to beg her bread, On foreign bounty whilst a daughter fed, He lavish'd sums, for her received, on men Whose names would fix dishonour on my pen. Lies were his playthings, parliaments his sport; Book-worms and catamites engross'd the court: Vain of the scholar, like all Scotsmen since, The pedant scholar, he forgot the prince;                        380 And having with some trifles stored his brain, Ne'er learn'd, nor wish'd to learn, the art to reign. Enough he knew, to make him vain and proud, Mock'd by the wise, the wonder of the crowd; False friend, false son, false father, and false king, False wit, false statesman, and false everything, When he should act, he idly chose to prate, And pamphlets wrote, when he should save the state. Religious, if religion holds in whim; To talk with all, he let all talk with him;                      390 Not on God's honour, but his own intent, Not for religion's sake, but argument; More vain if some sly, artful High-Dutch slave, Or, from the Jesuit school, some precious knave Conviction feign'd, than if, to peace restored By his full soldiership, worlds hail'd him lord. Power was his wish, unbounded as his will, The power, without control, of doing ill; But what he wish'd, what he made bishops preach, And statesmen warrant, hung within his reach                     400 He dared not seize; Fear gave, to gall his pride, That freedom to the realm his will denied. Of treaties fond, o'erweening of his parts, In every treaty of his own mean arts He fell the dupe; peace was his coward care, E'en at a time when Justice call'd for war: His pen he'd draw to prove his lack of wit, But rather than unsheath the sword, submit. Truth fairly must record; and, pleased to live In league with Mercy, Justice may forgive                        410 Kingdoms betray'd, and worlds resign'd to Spain, But never can forgive a Raleigh slain. At length, (with white let Freedom mark that year) Not fear'd by those whom most he wish'd to fear, Not loved by those whom most he wish'd to love, He went to answer for his faults above; To answer to that God, from whom alone He claim'd to hold, and to abuse the throne; Leaving behind, a curse to all his line, The bloody legacy of Right Divine. 420 With many virtues which a radiance fling Round private men; with few which grace a king, And speak the monarch; at that time of life When Passion holds with Reason doubtful strife, Succeeded Charles, by a mean sire undone, Who envied virtue even in a son. His youth was froward, turbulent, and wild; He took the Man up ere he left the Child; His soul was eager for imperial sway, Ere he had learn'd the lesson to obey. 430 Surrounded by a fawning, flattering throng, Judgment each day grew weak, and humour strong; Wisdom was treated as a noisome weed, And all his follies left to run to seed. What ills from such beginnings needs must spring! What ills to such a land from such a king! What could she hope! what had she not to fear! Base Buckingham possess'd his youthful ear; Strafford and Laud, when mounted on the throne, Engross'd his love, and made him all their own;                  440 Strafford and Laud, who boldly dared avow The traitorous doctrine taught by Tories now; Each strove to undo him in his turn and hour, The first with pleasure, and the last with power. Thinking (vain thought, disgraceful to the throne!) That all mankind were made for kings alone; That subjects were but slaves; and what was whim, Or worse, in common men, was law in him; Drunk with Prerogative, which Fate decreed To guard good kings, and tyrants to mislead;                     450 Which in a fair proportion to deny Allegiance dares not; which to hold too high, No good can wish, no coward king can dare, And, held too high, no English subject bear; Besieged by men of deep and subtle arts, Men void of principle, and damn'd with parts, Who saw his weakness, made their king their tool, Then most a slave, when most he seem'd to rule; Taking all public steps for private ends, Deceived by favourites, whom he called friends,                  460 He had not strength enough of soul to find That monarchs, meant as blessings to mankind, Sink their great state, and stamp their fame undone, When what was meant for all, they give to one. Listening uxorious whilst a woman's prate Modell'd the church, and parcell'd out the state, Whilst (in the state not more than women read) High-churchmen preach'd, and turn'd his pious head; Tutor'd to see with ministerial eyes; Forbid to hear a loyal nation's cries;                           470 Made to believe (what can't a favourite do?) He heard a nation, hearing one or two; Taught by state-quacks himself secure to think, And out of danger e'en on danger's brink; Whilst power was daily crumbling from his hand, Whilst murmurs ran through an insulted land, As if to sanction tyrants Heaven was bound, He proudly sought the ruin which he found. Twelve years, twelve tedious and inglorious years, Did England, crush'd by power, and awed by fears,                480 Whilst proud Oppression struck at Freedom's root, Lament her senates lost, her Hampden mute. Illegal taxes and oppressive loans, In spite of all her pride, call'd forth her groans; Patience was heard her griefs aloud to tell, And Loyalty was tempted to rebel. Each day new acts of outrage shook the state, New courts were raised to give new doctrines weight; State inquisitions kept the realm in awe, And cursed Star-Chambers made or ruled the law;                  490 Juries were pack'd, and judges were unsound; Through the whole kingdom not one Pratt was found. From the first moments of his giddy youth He hated senates, for they told him truth. At length, against his will compell'd to treat, Those whom he could not fright, he strove to cheat; With base dissembling every grievance heard, And, often giving, often broke his word. Oh, where shall hapless Truth for refuge fly, If kings, who should protect her, dare to lie? 500 Those who, the general good their real aim, Sought in their country's good their monarch's fame; Those who were anxious for his safety; those Who were induced by duty to oppose, Their truth suspected, and their worth unknown, He held as foes and traitors to his throne; Nor found his fatal error till the hour Of saving him was gone and past; till power Had shifted hands, to blast his hapless reign, Making their faith and his repentance vain. 510 Hence (be that curse confined to Gotham's foes!) War, dread to mention, Civil War arose; All acts of outrage, and all acts of shame, Stalk'd forth at large, disguised with Honour's name; Rebellion, raising high her bloody hand, Spread universal havoc through the land; With zeal for party, and with passion drunk, In public rage all private love was sunk; Friend against friend, brother 'gainst brother stood, And the son's weapon drank the father's blood;                   520 Nature, aghast, and fearful lest her reign Should last no longer, bled in every vein. Unhappy Stuart! harshly though that name Grates on my ear, I should have died with shame To see my king before his subjects stand, And at their bar hold up his royal hand; At their commands to hear the monarch plead, By their decrees to see that monarch bleed. What though thy faults were many and were great? What though they shook the basis of the state? 530 In royalty secure thy person stood, And sacred was the fountain of thy blood. Vile ministers, who dared abuse their trust, Who dared seduce a king to be unjust, Vengeance, with Justice leagued, with Power made strong, Had nobly crush'd—'The king could do no wrong.' Yet grieve not, Charles! nor thy hard fortunes blame; They took thy life, but they secured thy fame. Their greatest crimes made thine like specks appear, From which the sun in glory is not clear. 540 Hadst thou in peace and years resign'd thy breath At Nature's call; hadst thou laid down in death As in a sleep, thy name, by Justice borne On the four winds, had been in pieces torn. Pity, the virtue of a generous soul, Sometimes the vice, hath made thy memory whole. Misfortunes gave what Virtue could not give, And bade, the tyrant slain, the martyr live. Ye Princes of the earth! ye mighty few! Who, worlds subduing, can't yourselves subdue;                   550 Who, goodness scorn'd, wish only to be great; Whose breath is blasting, and whose voice is fate; Who own no law, no reason, but your will, And scorn restraint, though 'tis from doing ill; Who of all passions groan beneath the worst, Then only bless'd when they make others cursed; Think not, for wrongs like these, unscourged to live; Long may ye sin, and long may Heaven forgive; But when ye least expect, in sorrow's day, Vengeance shall fall more heavy for delay;                       560 Nor think that vengeance heap'd on you alone Shall (poor amends!) for injured worlds atone; No, like some base distemper, which remains, Transmitted from the tainted father's veins, In the son's blood, such broad and general crimes Shall call down vengeance e'en to latest times, Call vengeance down on all who bear your name, And make their portion bitterness and shame. From land to land for years compell'd to roam, Whilst Usurpation lorded it at home,                             570 Of majesty unmindful, forced to fly, Not daring, like a king, to reign or die, Recall'd to repossess his lawful throne, More at his people's seeking than his own, Another Charles succeeded. In the school Of Travel he had learn'd to play the fool; And, like pert pupils with dull tutors sent To shame their country on the Continent, From love of England by long absence wean'd, From every court he every folly glean'd,                         580 And was—so close do evil habits cling— Till crown'd, a beggar; and when crown'd, no king. Those grand and general powers, which Heaven design'd, An instance of his mercy to mankind, Were lost, in storms of dissipation hurl'd, Nor would he give one hour to bless a world; Lighter than levity which strides the blast, And, of the present fond, forgets the past, He changed and changed, but, every hope to curse, Changed only from one folly to a worse:                          590 State he resign'd to those whom state could please; Careless of majesty, his wish was ease; Pleasure, and pleasure only, was his aim; Kings of less wit might hunt the bubble Fame; Dignity through his reign was made a sport, Nor dared Decorum show her face at court; Morality was held a standing jest, And Faith a necessary fraud at best. Courtiers, their monarch ever in their view, Possess'd great talents, and abused them too;                    600 Whate'er was light, impertinent, and vain, Whate'er was loose, indecent, and profane, (So ripe was Folly, Folly to acquit) Stood all absolved in that poor bauble, Wit. In gratitude, alas! but little read, He let his father's servants beg their bread— His father's faithful servants, and his own, To place the foes of both around his throne. Bad counsels he embraced through indolence, Through love of ease, and not through want of sense;             610 He saw them wrong, but rather let them go As right, than take the pains to make them so. Women ruled all, and ministers of state Were for commands at toilets forced to wait: Women, who have, as monarchs, graced the land, But never govern'd well at second-hand. To make all other errors slight appear, In memory fix'd, stand Dunkirk and Tangier; In memory fix'd so deep, that Time in vain Shall strive to wipe those records from the brain,               620 Amboyna stands—Gods! that a king could hold In such high estimate vile paltry gold, And of his duty be so careless found, That when the blood of subjects from the ground For vengeance call'd, he should reject their cry, And, bribed from honour, lay his thunders by, Give Holland peace, whilst English victims groan'd, And butcher'd subjects wander'd unatoned! Oh, dear, deep injury to England's fame, To them, to us, to all! to him deep shame! 630 Of all the passions which from frailty spring, Avarice is that which least becomes a king. To crown the whole, scorning the public good, Which through his reign he little understood, Or little heeded, with too narrow aim He reassumed a bigot brother's claim, And having made time-serving senates bow, Suddenly died—that brother best knew how. No matter how—he slept amongst the dead, And James his brother reigned in his stead:                      640 But such a reign—so glaring an offence In every step 'gainst freedom, law, and sense, 'Gainst all the rights of Nature's general plan, 'Gainst all which constitutes an Englishman, That the relation would mere fiction seem, The mock creation of a poet's dream; And the poor bards would, in this sceptic age, Appear as false as _their_ historian's page. Ambitious Folly seized the seat of Wit, Christians were forced by bigots to submit;                      650 Pride without sense, without religion Zeal, Made daring inroads on the Commonweal; Stern Persecution raised her iron rod, And call'd the pride of kings, the power of God; Conscience and Fame were sacrificed to Rome, And England wept at Freedom's sacred tomb. Her laws despised, her constitution wrench'd From its due natural frame, her rights retrench'd Beyond a coward's sufferance, conscience forced, And healing Justice from the Crown divorced,                     660 Each moment pregnant with vile acts of power, Her patriot Bishops sentenced to the Tower, Her Oxford (who yet loves the Stuart name) Branded with arbitrary marks of shame, She wept—but wept not long: to arms she flew, At Honour's call the avenging sword she drew, Turn'd all her terrors on the tyrant's head, And sent him in despair to beg his bread; Whilst she, (may every State in such distress Dare with such zeal, and meet with such success!)                670 Whilst she, (may Gotham, should my abject mind Choose to enslave rather than free mankind, Pursue her steps, tear the proud tyrant down, Nor let me wear if I abuse the crown!) Whilst she, (through every age, in every land, Written in gold, let Revolution stand!) Whilst she, secured in liberty and law, Found what she sought, a saviour in Nassau.

Book III
Can the fond mother from herself depart? Can she forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed; To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live? Yes, from herself the mother may depart, She may forget the darling of her heart, The little darling whom she bore and bred, Nursed on her knees, and at her bosom fed,                        10 To whom she seem'd her every thought to give, And in whose life alone she seem'd to live; But I cannot forget, whilst life remains, And pours her current through these swelling veins, Whilst Memory offers up at Reason's shrine; But I cannot forget that Gotham's mine. Can the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast tear her young child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone? 20 Yes, the stern mother, than the brutes more wild, From her disnatured breast may tear her child, Flesh of her flesh, and of her bone the bone, And dash the smiling babe against a stone; But I, (forbid it, Heaven!) but I can ne'er The love of Gotham from this bosom tear; Can ne'er so far true royalty pervert From its fair course, to do my people hurt. With how much ease, with how much confidence— As if, superior to each grosser sense,                            30 Reason had only, in full power array'd, To manifest her will, and be obey'd— Men make resolves, and pass into decrees The motions of the mind! with how much ease, In such resolves, doth passion make a flaw, And bring to nothing what was raised to law! In empire young, scarce warm on Gotham's throne, The dangers and the sweets of power unknown, Pleased, though I scarce know why, like some young child, Whose little senses each new toy turns wild,                      40 How do I hold sweet dalliance with my crown, And wanton with dominion, how lay down, Without the sanction of a precedent, Rules of most large and absolute extent; Rules, which from sense of public virtue spring, And all at once commence a Patriot King! But, for the day of trial is at hand, And the whole fortunes of a mighty land Are staked on me, and all their weal or woe Must from my good or evil conduct flow,                           50 Will I, or can I, on a fair review, As I assume that name, deserve it too? Have I well weigh'd the great, the noble part I'm now to play? have I explored my heart, That labyrinth of fraud, that deep dark cell, Where, unsuspected e'en by me, may dwell Ten thousand follies? have I found out there What I am fit to do, and what to bear? Have I traced every passion to its rise, Nor spared one lurking seed of treacherous vice? 60 Have I familiar with my nature grown? And am I fairly to myself made known? A Patriot King!—why, 'tis a name which bears The more immediate stamp of Heaven; which wears The nearest, best resemblance we can show Of God above, through all his works below. To still the voice of Discord in the land; To make weak Faction's discontented band, Detected, weak, and crumbling to decay, With hunger pinch'd, on their own vitals prey;                    70 Like brethren, in the self-same interests warm'd, Like different bodies, with one soul inform'd; To make a nation, nobly raised above All meaner thought, grow up in common love; To give the laws due vigour, and to hold That secret balance, temperate, yet bold, With such an equal hand, that those who fear May yet approve, and own my justice clear; To be a common father, to secure The weak from violence, from pride the poor;                      80 Vice and her sons to banish in disgrace, To make Corruption dread to show her face; To bid afflicted Virtue take new state, And be at last acquainted with the great; Of all religions to elect the best, Nor let her priests be made a standing jest; Rewards for worth with liberal hand to carve, To love the arts, nor let the artists starve; To make fair Plenty through the realm increase, Give fame in war, and happiness in peace;                         90 To see my people virtuous, great, and free, And know that all those blessings flow from me; Oh! 'tis a joy too exquisite, a thought Which flatters Nature more than flattery ought; 'Tis a great, glorious task, for man too hard; But no less great, less glorious the reward, The best reward which here to man is given, 'Tis more than earth, and little short of heaven; A task (if such comparison may be) The same in Nature, differing in degree,                         100 Like that which God, on whom for aid I call, Performs with ease, and yet performs to all. How much do they mistake, how little know Of kings, of kingdoms, and the pains which flow From royalty, who fancy that a crown, Because it glistens, must be lined with down! With outside show, and vain appearance caught, They look no further, and, by Folly taught, Prize high the toys of thrones, but never find One of the many cares which lurk behind. 110 The gem they worship which a crown adorns, Nor once suspect that crown is lined with thorns. Oh, might Reflection Folly's place supply, Would we one moment use her piercing eye, Then should we find what woe from grandeur springs, And learn to pity, not to envy kings! The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear,                         120 His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labour his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power. Call'd up by health, he rises with the day, And goes to work, as if he went to play, Whistling off toils, one half of which might make The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake; 'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint, Harden'd by constant use, without complaint                      130 He bears what we should think it death to bear; Short are his meals, and homely is his fare; His thirst he slakes at some pure neighbouring brook, Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook. When the dews fall, and when the sun retires Behind the mountains, when the village fires, Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh, At distance catch, and fix his longing eye, Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood Of raw-boned cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food,                140 Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride 'Gainst his return is happy to provide; Then, free from care, and free from thought, he creeps Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps. Not so the king—with anxious cares oppress'd His bosom labours, and admits not rest: A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight Of majesty, and gives up ease for state. E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride, Are treasured and preserved from side to side,                   150 Fly round the court, e'en when, compell'd by form, He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm. Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone, With all her nest of vipers, round his throne By day crawls full in view; when Night bids sleep, Sweet nurse of Nature! o'er the senses creep; When Misery herself no more complains, And slaves, if possible, forget their chains; Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim, That rest which comes to all, comes not to him. 160 E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids; From night to night she watches at his bed; Now, as one moped, sits brooding o'er his head; Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings, Croaks forth aloud—'Sleep was not made for kings!' Thrice hath the moon, who governs this vast ball, Who rules most absolute o'er me and all; To whom, by full conviction taught to bow, At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow;                          170 Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd, Since, (bless'd be that season, for before I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more, One of the herd, a lump of common clay, Inform'd with life, to die and pass away) Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne, With full and ample power, became my own; Thrice hath the moon her wonted course pursued, Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd,               180 Since sleep, kind sleep! who like a friend supplies New vigour for new toil, hath closed these eyes. Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success, And I am made an instrument to bless The people whom I love, shall I repine; Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine. Mindful of that high rank in which I stand, Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land, Let me,—and Reason shall her aid afford,— Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord. 190 With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown, Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown 'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while Meets his own vices with a partial smile. How can a king (yet on record we find Such kings have been, such curses of mankind) Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf Which conscience tells him he hath broke himself? Can he some petty rogue to justice call For robbing one, when he himself robs all? 200 Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye, To scourge the oppressor, when the State, distress'd And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd? Against himself doth he not sentence give; If one must die, t' other's not fit to live. Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground. All envy power in others, and complain Of that which they would perish to obtain. 210 Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold, Not to be awed by threats, nor bought with gold, Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway Makes it their real interest to obey; When kings, and none but fools can then rebel, Not less in virtue, than in power, excel. Be that my object, that my constant care, And may my soul's best wishes centre there; Be it my task to seek, nor seek in vain, Not only how to live, but how to reign;                          220 And to those virtues which from Reason spring, And grace the man, join those which grace the king. First, (for strict duty bids my care extend And reach to all who on that care depend, Bids me with servants keep a steady hand, And watch o'er all my proxies in the land) First, (and that method Reason shall support) Before I look into, and purge my court, Before I cleanse the stable of the State, Let me fix things which to myself relate. 230 That done, and all accounts well settled here, In resolution firm, in honour clear, Tremble, ye slaves! who dare abuse your trust, Who dare be villains, when your king is just. Are there, amongst those officers of state, To whom our sacred power we delegate, Who hold our place and office in the realm, Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm; Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease, Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees,                    240 And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent, To speak a language which they never meant; Are there such men, and can the fools depend On holding out in safety to their end? Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free, Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me, To think that I will prove a statesman's tool, And live a stranger where I ought to rule? What! to myself and to my state unjust, Shall I from ministers take things on trust,                     250 And, sinking low the credit of my throne, Depend upon dependants of my own? Shall I,—most certain source of future cares,— Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs? Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state, Have nothing but the name of being great; Attend at councils which I must not weigh; Do what they bid, and what they dictate, say; Enrobed, and hoisted up into my chair, Only to be a royal cipher there? 260 Perish the thought—'tis treason to my throne— And who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known Insults me more than he, who, leagued with Hell, Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel. The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues A train of guilt; who acts with double views, And wears a double face; whose base designs Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support; Who seizes all departments; packs a court;                       270 Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat, To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete; New-models armies, and around the throne Will suffer none but creatures of his own, Conscious of such his baseness, well may try, Against the light to shut his master's eye, To keep him coop'd, and far removed from those Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose, Nor ever let him in one place appear, Where truth, unwelcome truth, may wound his ear. 280 Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves proclaim, And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim. Kings must be blind into such snares to run, Or, worse, with open eyes must be undone. The minister of honesty and worth Demands the day to bring his actions forth; Calls on the sun to shine with fiercer rays, And braves that trial which must end in praise. None fly the day, and seek the shades of night, But those whose actions cannot bear the light;                   290 None wish their king in ignorance to hold But those who feel that knowledge must unfold Their hidden guilt; and, that dark mist dispell'd By which their places and their lives are held, Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led, In vengeance fall on every traitor's head. Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit, And rust in chains like these? shall I give way, And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey                      300 To power abused, in ignorance sit down, Nor dare assert the honour of my crown? When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name Justly belongs to those whose only aim, Is to preserve their country; who oppose, In honour leagued, none but their country's foes; Who only seek their own, and found their cause In due regard for violated laws) When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels,                         310 A nation up in arms, though strong not proud, Knocks at the palace gate, and, calling loud For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen, A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men: How must that king be humbled, how disgrace All that is royal in his name and place, Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance No other plea but that of ignorance! A vile defence, which, was his all at stake, The meanest subject well might blush to make;                    320 A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs; A stain to all, but most a stain to kings. The soul with great and manly feelings warm'd, Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform'd; And shall not I, fired with the glorious zeal, Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel? Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow To me, whose first great duty is—to know? Hence, Ignorance!—thy settled, dull, blank eye Would hurt me, though I knew no reason why. 330 Hence, Ignorance!—thy slavish shackles bind The free-born soul, and lethargise the mind. Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn On every meaner match, of thee was born That grave inflexibility of soul, Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control; Which neither arguments nor prayers can reach, And nothing less than utter ruin teach. Hence, Ignorance!—hence to that depth of night Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light               340 May wound thine eye—hence to some dreary cell Where monks with superstition love to dwell; Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride, And with the heads of colleges reside; Fit mate for Royalty thou canst not be, And if no mate for kings, no mate for me. Come, Study! like a torrent swell'd with rains, Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains Spreads horror wide, and yet, in horror kind, Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind;                      350 Come, Study!—painful though thy course, and slow, Thy real worth by thy effects we know— Parent of Knowledge, come!—Not thee I call, Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh Things which, when found, thy labours can't repay— Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade, A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd, A hornbook gilt and letter'd, call I thee, Who dost in form preside o'er A, B, C:                           360 Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms, As 'twere by magic, lure men to thine arms) Do I call thee, who, through a winding maze, A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways, Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains, Where, in full glory, real Science reigns; Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye, Though full rewards in thy possession lie To crown man's wish, and do thy favourites grace; Though (was I station'd in an humbler place)                     370 I could be ever happy in thy sight, Toil with thee all the day, and through the night, Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy; Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow) Must I thy sweet society forego, And to some happy rival's arms resign Those charms which can, alas! no more be mine! No more from hour to hour, from day to day, Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way                        380 Where eager love of science calls; no more Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before; No more, the mountain scaled, the desert cross'd, Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost, Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn to night, From night to morn, yet travel with delight, And having found thee, lay me down content, Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent. Farewell, ye Muses too!—for such mean things Must not presume to dwell with mighty kings—                    390 Farewell, ye Muses! though it cuts my heart E'en to the quick, we must for ever part. When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake; When the birds, sweetly twittering through the brake, Tune their soft pipes; when, from the neighbouring bloom Sipping the dew, each zephyr stole perfume; When all things with new vigour were inspired, And seem'd to say they never could be tired; How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme Deceived the way and clipp'd the wings of Time,                  400 O'er hill, o'er dale; how often laugh'd to see, Yourselves made visible to none but me, The clown, his works suspended, gape and stare, And seem to think that I conversed with air! When the sun, beating on the parched soil, Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil; When a faint langour crept through every breast, And things most used to labour wish'd for rest, How often, underneath a reverend oak, Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke,                  410 Some sacred Dryad lived; or in some grove, Where, with capricious fingers, Fancy wove Her fairy bower, whilst Nature all the while Look'd on, and view'd her mockeries with a smile, Have we held converse sweet! How often laid, Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade, Amongst those poets which make up your train, And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain, Have I, at your command, in verse grown gray, But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay                     420 Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere, And kept him from his office listening here! When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train, Led on by Silence to resume her reign, With darkness covering, as with a robe, The scene of levity, blank'd half the globe; How oft, enchanted with your heavenly strains, Which stole me from myself; which in soft chains Of music bound my soul; how oft have I, Sounds more than human floating through the sky,                 430 Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will, Transported with the harmony, stood still! How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear, Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there; Still heard their music, and, as mute as death, Sat all attention, drew in every breath, Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound, And mar that magic excellence of sound; Then, Sense returning with return of day, Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away! 440 Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore, Such were my mates, but now my mates no more. Placed out of Envy's walk, (for Envy, sure, Would never haunt the cottage of the poor, Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays) With some few friends, and some small share of praise, Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife, In peace I trod the humble vale of life. Farewell, these scenes of ease, this tranquil state; Welcome the troubles which on empire wait! 450 Light toys from this day forth I disavow; They pleased me once, but cannot suit me now: To common men all common things are free, What honours them, might fix disgrace on me. Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand, Are all engross'd; each private view withstood, And task'd to labour for the public good: Be this my study; to this one great end May every thought, may every action tend! 460 Let me the page of History turn o'er, The instructive page, and needfully explore What faithful pens of former times have wrote Of former kings; what they did worthy note, What worthy blame; and from the sacred tomb Where righteous monarchs sleep, where laurels bloom, Unhurt by Time, let me a garland twine, Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine. Nor let me with a vain and idle eye Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly,                    470 Quick as the post, which travels day and night; Nor let me dwell there, lured by false delight; And, into barren theory betray'd, Forget that monarchs are for action made. When amorous Spring, repairing all his charms, Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arms, Where, like a virgin to some lecher sold, Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold; When the weak flower, which, shrinking from the breath Of the rude North, and timorous of death,                        480 To its kind mother earth for shelter fled, And on her bosom hid its tender head, Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder sties, Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise; The hive is up in arms—expert to teach, Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch; Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch, The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies, From flower to flower, and loads her labouring thighs            490 With treasured sweets, robbing those flowers, which, left, Find not themselves made poorer by the theft, Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair, As if the pillager had not been there. Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing; Ne'er doth she, loitering, let the bloom of Spring Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast Of some fair flower indulge untimely rest; Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews Which chemist Night prepared, that faith abuse                   500 Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils, To her own private use convert the spoils. Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam, And to the stock she brings her booty home. Be this my pattern—as becomes a king, Let me fly all abroad on Reason's wing; Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the earth Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth, In any place and time, nor let one man, Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan,                        510 Escape my note; be all, from the first day Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey. From those whom Time, at the desire of Fame, Hath spared, let Virtue catch an equal flame; From those who, not in mercy, but in rage, Time hath reprieved, to damn from age to age, Let me take warning, lesson'd to distil, And, imitating Heaven, draw good from ill. Nor let these great researches, in my breast A monument of useless labour rest;                               520 No—let them spread—the effects let Gotham share, And reap the harvest of their monarch's care: Be other times, and other countries known, Only to give fresh blessings to my own. Let me, (and may that God to whom I fly, On whom for needful succour I rely In this great hour, that glorious God of truth, Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth, Assist my weakness, and direct me right; From every speck which hangs upon the sight                      530 Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud remain To spread the shades of Error o'er my brain!) Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought, Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought, Examine well on what my power depends; What are the general principles and ends Of government; how empire first began; And wherefore man was raised to reign o'er man. Let me consider, as from one great source We see a thousand rivers take their course,                      540 Dispersed, and into different channels led, Yet by their parent still supplied and fed, That Government, (though branch'd out far and wide, In various modes to various lands applied) Howe'er it differs in its outward frame, In the main groundwork's every where the same; The same her view, though different her plan, Her grand and general view—the good of man. Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams, What system in itself most perfect seems,                        550 Most worthy man, most likely to conduce To all the purposes of general use; Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason tried, It fails, when to particulars applied; Why in that mode all nations do not join, And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine. Let me the gradual rise of empires trace, Till they seem founded on Perfection's base; Then (for when human things have made their way To excellence, they hasten to decay)                             560 Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue Step after step to their decline pursue, Enabled by a chain of facts to tell Not only how they rose, but why they fell. Let me not only the distempers know Which in all states from common causes grow, But likewise those, which, by the will of Fate, On each peculiar mode of empire wait; Which in its very constitution lurk, Too sure at last to do its destined work:                        570 Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each symptom learn, That I my people's danger may discern, Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure, And, if it can be found, find out a cure. Let me, (though great, grave brethren of the gown Preach all Faith up, and preach all Reason down, Making those jar whom Reason meant to join, And vesting in themselves a right divine), Let me, through Reason's glass, with searching eye, Into the depth of that religion pry                              580 Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air, We well may change; and what, without a crime, Cannot be changed to the last hour of time. Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal Which, without knowledge, furious bigots feel, Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound, These separate points at random to confound. The times have been when priests have dared to tread, Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head;                    590 When, whilst they made religion a pretence, Out of the world they banish'd common-sense; When some soft king, too open to deceit, Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat, Duped by mock piety, and gave his name To serve the vilest purposes of shame. Pear not, my people! where no cause of fear Can justly rise—your king secures you here; Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod, Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God. 600 Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid Their monarch to behold what they wish hid, And for the purposes of knavish gain, Would have their trade a mystery remain) Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe, Dive to the very bottom of the law; Let me (the weak, dead letter left behind) Search out the principles, the spirit find, Till, from the parts, made master of the whole, I see the Constitution's very soul. 610 Let me, (though statesmen will no doubt resist, And to my eyes present a fearful list Of men, whose wills are opposite to mine, Of men, great men, determined to resign) Let me, (with firmness, which becomes a king. Conscious from what a source my actions spring, Determined not by worlds to be withstood, When my grand object is my country's good) Unravel all low ministerial scenes, Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means,               620 And track them step by step; let me well know How places, pensions, and preferments go; Why Guilt's provided for when Worth is not, And why one man of merit is forgot; Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside, And dare to know my way without a guide. Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud, Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,— As if the sun shone with less powerful ray, Less grace, less glory, shining every day,—                     630 Though when she comes forth into public sight, Unbending as a ghost, she stalks upright, With such an air as we have often seen, And often laugh'd at, in a tragic queen, Nor, at her presence, though base myriads crook The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look) Let me, (all vain parade, all empty pride, All terrors of dominion laid aside, All ornament, and needless helps of art, All those big looks, which speak a little heart)                 640 Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known) How Affability becomes a throne, Destroys all fear, bids Love with Reverence live, And gives those graces Pride can never give. Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state, And, hating all men, fear return of hate, Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne, Secure from all upbraidings but his own: Let all my subjects have access to me, Be my ears open, as my heart is free;                            650 In full fair tide let information flow; That evil is half cured, whose cause we know. And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing, Who art afraid to look up to a king, Lay by thy fears; make but thy grievance plain, And, if I not redress thee, may my reign Close up that very moment. To prevent The course of Justice from her vain intent, In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead, In vain my mother kneel; my soul may bleed,                      660 But must not change. When Justice draws the dart, Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart, 'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim— I know it duty, and I feel it fame.