Part 14 (1/2)
To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.
Carmina tum melius, c.u.m venerit ipse, canemus.
VIRG.
On this last labour, this my closing strain, Smile, Walpole! or the Nine inspire in vain: To thee, 'tis due; that verse how justly thine, Where Brunswick's glory crowns the whole design!
That glory, which thy counsels make so bright; That glory, which on thee reflects a light.
Ill.u.s.trious commerce, and but rarely known!
To give, and take, a l.u.s.tre from the throne.
Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme; The fountain is not foreign to the stream.
How all mankind will be surprised, to see This flood of British folly charg'd on thee!
Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy sons, Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs?
The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless; For caprice is the daughter of success, (A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause!) And gives our rulers undesign'd applause; Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase, And lulls us in the downy lap of peace.
While I survey the blessings of our isle, Her arts triumphant in the royal smile, Her public wounds bound up, her credit high, Her commerce spreading sails in every sky, The pleasing scene recalls my theme again, And shows the madness of ambitious men, Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring sword, And burn to give mankind a single lord.
The follies past are of a private kind; Their sphere is small; their mischief is confin'd: But daring men there are (Awake, my muse, And raise thy verse!) who bolder frenzy choose; Who stung by glory, rave, and bound away; The world their field, and humankind their prey.
The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride, With rage and terror stalking by his side, Raves round the globe; he soars into a G.o.d!
Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod.
The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns, And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains, What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze!
What wasted countries! and what crimson seas!
With orphans' tears his impious bowl o'erflows, And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.
And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise The boist'rous boy, and blast his guilty bays?
Why want we then encomiums on the storm, Or famine, or volcano? They perform Their mighty deeds: they, hero-like, can slay, And spread their ample desarts in a day.
O great alliance! O divine renown!
With dearth, and pestilence, to share the crown.
When men extol a wild destroyer's name, Earth's builder and preserver they blaspheme.
One to destroy, is murder by the law; And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; To murder thousands, takes a specious name, War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
When, after battle, I the field have seen Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were men; A nation crush'd, a nation of the brave!
A realm of death! and on this side the grave!
Are there, said I, who from this sad survey, This human chaos, carry smiles away?
How did my heart with indignation rise!
How honest nature swell'd into my eyes!
How was I shock'd to think the hero's trade Of such materials, fame and triumph made!
How guilty these! Yet not less guilty they, Who reach false glory by a smoother way: Who wrap destruction up in gentle words, And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their swords; Who stifle nature, and subsist on art; Who coin the face, and petrify the heart; All real kindness for the show discard, As marble polish'd, and as marble hard; Who do for gold what Christians do thro' grace, ”With open arms their enemies embrace:”
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine; ”The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine:”
Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd, And, in their height of kindness, are unkind.
Such courtiers were, and such again may be, Walpole! when men forget to copy thee.
Here cease, my muse! the catalogue is writ; Nor one more candidate for fame admit, Tho' disappointed thousands justly blame Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim: Be this their comfort, fools, omitted here, May furnish laughter for another year.
Then let Crispino, who was ne'er refused The justice yet of being well abus'd, With patience wait; and be content to reign The pink of puppies in some future strain.
Some future strain, in which the muse shall tell How science dwindles, and how volumes swell.
How commentators each dark pa.s.sage shun, And hold their farthing candle to the sun.
How tortur'd texts to speak our sense are made, And every vice is to the scripture laid.
How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer; His sins to Lucifer not half so dear.