Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/135

Rh Those arts be theirs that hate his gentle reign, But he that loves him has no need to feign. A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown addressed, Seems to imply a censure on the rest. B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, Asked, when in hell, to see the royal jail, Approved their method in all other things, "But where, good Sir, do you confine your kings?" "There," said his guide, "the group is full in view." "Indeed?" replied the Don; "there are but few." His black interpreter the charge disdained;— "Few, fellow? There are all that ever reigned." Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike The guilty and not guilty, both alike. I grant the sarcasm is too severe, And we can readily refute it here, While Alfred's name, the father of his age, And the Sixth Edward's grace the historic page. A. King's then at last have but the lot of all; By their own conduct they must stand or fall. B. True. While they live, the courtly laureate pays His quit-rent ode, his pepper-corn of praise, And many a dunce whose fingers itch to write, Adds, as he can, his tributary mite; A subject's faults, a subject may proclaim, A monarch's errors are forbidden game. Thus free from censure (overawed by fear,) And praised for virtues that they scorn to wear, The fleeting forms of majesty engage Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage, Then leave their crimes for history to scan, And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man? I pity kings whom worship waits upon Obsequious, from the cradle to the throne, Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows. Whom education stiffens into state, And death awakens from that dream too late. Oh! if servility with supple knees, Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please;— If smooth dissimulation, skilled to grace A devil's purpose with an angel's face,— Is smiling peeresses and simpering peers, Encompassing his throne a few short years,— If the gilt carriage and the pampered steed, That wants no driving and disdains the lead,— If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks, Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks; Should'ring and standing as if struck to stone, While condescending majesty looks on; If monarchy consist in such base things, Sighing, I say again, I pity kings!