| |
| POLLIO, be kind! nor chide an early crime, | |
| Spawn of chagrin, and labor’d waste of time; | |
| This heart misguides me with a bent so strong, | |
| It mocks restraint, and boldly errs in song: | |
| Thus crimes indulged, such vigorous growth obtain, | 5 |
| Your friendly caution frowns rebuke in vain. | |
| |
| ’T is not great Churchill’s ghost that claims your ear | |
| For even ghosts of wit are strangers here; | |
| The patriot-soul to other climes removed, | |
| Well-pleased enjoys that liberty he loved; | 10 |
| No pang resents for W—— to exile driven, | |
| Exults that worth and Pratt are dear to heaven: | |
| Young sure it is not, from whose honey’d lays | |
| Streams a rank surfeit of redundant praise; | |
| For guilt like his what genius shall atone? | 15 |
| Curse the foul verse that daubs a Stuart’s throne. | |
| |
| Cursed lack of genius, or thou soon should’st know, | |
| This humble cot conceals a tyrant’s foe; | |
| By nature artless, unimproved by pains, | |
| No favor courts me, and no fear restrains, | 20 |
| Wild as the soil, and as the heavens severe, | |
| All rudely rough, and wretchedly sincere; | |
| Whose frowning stars have thrown me God knows where, | |
| A wild exotic neighbor to the bear; | |
| One glebe supports us, brethren cubs we run, | 25 |
| Shoot into form, as fostered by the sun; | |
| No tutoring hand the tender sapling train’d | |
| Through walks of science, nor his growth sustain’d; | |
| Such fruit he yields, luxuriant wildings bear, | |
| Coarse as the earth, and unconfined as air: | 30 |
| No muse I court, an alien to the Nine, | |
| Thou chaste instructress, Nature! thou art mine; | |
| Come, blessed parent, mistress, muse, and guide, | |
| With thee permit me wander, side by side; | |
| Smit with thy charms, my earliest joy I trace, | 35 |
| Fondly enamor’d of thy angel face; | |
| Succeeding labors smother not the flame, | |
| Still, still the dear attachment lives the same. | |
| |
| No idle task the earliest muse began, | |
| But mark’d the morals, e’er she praised the man; | 40 |
| To struggling worth supplied no feeble aid, | |
| And wove the honest wreath for virtue’s head, | |
| Uncourtly grave, or through the lessen’d page | |
| Shed wisdom’s lore, and humanized the age; | |
| Pour’d wholesome treasures from her magic tongue, | 45 |
| Instructed, ruled, corrected, blest, by song: | |
| How changed! how lost! in these degenerate days, | |
| She stuns me with the clamor of her praise: | |
| Is there a villain eminent in state, | |
| Without one gleam of merit?—she ’ll create; | 50 |
| Is there a scoundrel, has that scoundrel gold? | |
| There the full tide of panegyric ’s roll’d; | |
| From venal quills shall stream the sugar’d shower, | |
| And bronze the wretched lordling—if in power: | |
| Stamp me that blockhead, which (kind heaven be blest!) | 55 |
| My Maker form’d my temper to detest, | |
| If sacred numbers I again desert, | |
| The native bias of an honest heart, | |
| Basely to truckle to a wretch in rule, | |
| Or spread a feast for gods, to cram a fool. | 60 |
| Not for a monarch would I forge a lie, | |
| To nestle in the sunshine of his eye. | |
| The paths of error if in youth I trod, | |
| Dress’d a gay idol in the garb of God, | |
| The pageant shrinks, I weep my folly past, | 65 |
| Heaven frown me dead, but there I ’ve sinn’d my last. | |
| George, scarce one lustrum numbers out its days, | |
| Since every tongue was busy in thy praise; | |
| (O make it nameless in the tale of time, | |
| Nor consecrate to ages such a crime; | 70 |
| We loved him, love him still, by heavens do more, | |
| But make us British subjects, we ’ll adore.) | |
| Successful war has added wide domain, | |
| And crowded oceans scarce his fleets sustain. | |
| United Gaul and Spain his easy prey, | 75 |
| And but compact to give their realms away; | |
| Where’er he bids, consenting Britons fly, | |
| For George they conquer, or for George they die; | |
| Bless the glad hour, the glorious strife approve, | |
| That sounds his glory, and proclaims their love; | 80 |
| Ah, sad reverse! with doubling sighs I speak, | |
| A flood of sorrow coursing down my cheek, | |
| The salient heart for George forgets to bound, | |
| Dark disaffection sheds her gloom around; | |
| Fair liberty, our soul’s most darling prize, | 85 |
| A bleeding victim flits before our eyes: | |
| Was it for this our great forefathers rode | |
| O’er a vast ocean to this bleak abode! | |
| When liberty was into contest brought, | |
| And loss of life was but a second thought; | 90 |
| By pious violence rejected thence, | |
| To try the utmost stretch of providence; | |
| The deep, unconscious of the furrowing keel, | |
| Essay’d the tempest to rebuke their zeal; | |
| The tawny natives and inclement sky | 95 |
| Put on their terrors, and command to fly; | |
| They mock at danger; what can those appal? | |
| To whom fair liberty is all in all. | |
| See the new world their purchase, blest domain, | |
| Where lordly tyrants never forged the chain; | 100 |
| The prize of valor, and the gift of prayer, | |
| Hear this and redden, each degenerate heir! | |
| Is it for you their honor to betray, | |
| And give the harvest of their blood away? | |
| Look back with reverence, awed to just esteem, | 105 |
| Preserve the blessings handed down from them; | |
| If not, look forwards, look with deep despair, | |
| And dread the curses of your beggar’d heir: | |
| What bosom beats not, when such themes excite? | |
| Be men, be gods, be stubborn in the right. | 110 |
| |
| Where am I hurried? Pollio, I forbear, | |
| Again I ’m calm, and claim thy sober ear; | |
| To independence bend the filial knee, | |
| And kiss her sister sage economy. | |
| Economy, you frown! “O hide our shame! | 115 |
| ’T is vile profusion’s ministerial name, | |
| To pinch the farmer groaning at the press, | |
| Commission leeches to adopt the peace; | |
| That peace obtain’d Scotch armies to augment, | |
| And sink the nation’s credit two per cent; | 120 |
| With barren Scottish bards the lists to load, | |
| Both place and pension partially bestowed; | |
| Nay more, the cave of famine to translate | |
| Within the purlieus of the royal gate; | |
| While brats from northern hills, full, battening lie, | 125 |
| Their meagre southern masters pining by.” | |
| Peace, peace, my Pollio! sluice thy sorrows here; | |
| Thy country’s ghost now points thee to its bier. | |
| Of foreign wrongs, and unfelt woes no more, | |
| While dogs cry havock on thy natal shore; | 130 |
| Yon funeral torch that dimly gilds my cell, | |
| Comes fraught with mischiefs, terrible to tell; | |
| It dawns in sables——too officious ray! | |
| Yet, yet compassionately roll away; | |
| All, all is o’er, but anguish, slavery, fear, | 135 |
| The chains already clanking in my ear; | |
| O death! though awful, but prevent this blow, | |
| No more thou ’rt censured for the human foe; | |
| O’er life’s last ebbs, thy dregs of sorrow fling, | |
| Point all my pangs, and stab with every sting; | 140 |
| I ’ll bless the alternative, if not a slave, | |
| And scorn the wretch who trembles at the grave. | |
| |
| Art thou persuaded, for a moment cool, | |
| That nature made thee slave, and mark’d thee fool, | |
| That what we won by hardy war, was given, | 145 |
| That non-resistance is secure of heaven; | |
| That persecution in our infant state, | |
| Was nursing kind compassion in the great; | |
| That emigration was not to secure | |
| Our liberties, but to enslave the more; | 150 |
| That charters, privileges, patents, powers, | |
| Were ours till now, and now no longer ours; | |
| To claim exemption by the charter seal, | |
| Will rashly violate the common weal; | |
| Juries are nuisances, and traffic worse, | 155 |
| And to be blind, sagacity of course; | |
| The stamp and land tax are as blessings meant, | |
| And opposition is our free consent; | |
| That where we are not, we most surely are, | |
| That wrong is right, black white, and foul is fair; | 160 |
| That Mansfield ’s honest, and that Pitt ’s a knave, | |
| That Pratt ’s a villain, and that Wilkes ’s a slave; | |
| That godlike Temple is not greatly good, | |
| Nor Bute a rigid jacobite by blood; | |
| That sordid Grenville lately is become | 165 |
| The patron of our liberties at home, | |
| (For whom, now hear me, gods! be hell inflamed, | |
| And murderers of their country doubly d——d) | |
| Now stretch thy pliant faith, adopt this creed, | |
| And be a J-r-d Ing-rs-l indeed; | 170 |
| If thou art wretched, crawling in the dust, | |
| Condemn’d, despised, and herded with the just: | |
| Frown, honest Satire! menace what you will, | |
| Rogues rise luxuriant, and defeat you still; | |
| Fatigued with numbers, and oppress’d with gall, | 175 |
| One general curse must overwhelm them all: | |
| But O ye vilest vile, detested few! | |
| Eager, intent, and potent to undo; | |
| Come out, ye parricides! here take your stand, | |
| Your solemn condemnation is at hand; | 180 |
| Behold your crimes, and tremblingly await | |
| The grumbling thunder of your country’s hate; | |
| Accursed as ye are! how durst ye bring | |
| An injured people to distrust their king? | |
| Accursed as ye are, how could ye dare, | 185 |
| To lisp delusion in your monarch’s ear? | |
| How do I laugh, when such vain coxcombs lower, | |
| Some grave pretence of dread, from lawless power; | |
| To hear a scribbling fry, beneath my hate, | |
| Adopt the fraud, and sanctify deceit; | 190 |
| With mean importance, point regardless stings, | |
| To aid injustice, menace mighty things; | |
| Nay to such height of insolence they ’re flown, | |
| The knaves crave shelter underneath a throne; | |
| A throne all-gracious, such is George’s praise, | 195 |
| Nor shall oppression blast his sacred bays. | |
| |
| Witness, ye fathers! whose protracted time, | |
| Fruitful of story, chronicles the clime; | |
| These howling deserts, hospitably tame, | |
| Erst snatch’d ye, martyrs, from the hungry flame; | 200 |
| ’T was heaven’s own cause, beneath whose sheltering power, | |
| Ye grew the wonder of the present hour; | |
| With anxious ear we ’ve drank your piteous tale, | |
| Where woes unnumber’d long and loud prevail; | |
| Here savage demons, sporting with your pains, | 205 |
| There boding mischief in a Stuart reigns; | |
| Mark the glad era, when prevailing foes, | |
| The state’s fell harpies, doubling woes on woes, | |
| Had wing’d destruction—vengeance slept no more, | |
| But flung the tyrant from the British shore: | 210 |
| Learn hence, ye minions! reverence to the law, | |
| Salvation died not with the great Nassau. | |
| And shall such sons, from such distinguished sires, | |
| Nurtured to hardships, heirs of all their sires, | |
| Shall they, O pang of heart! thus tamely bear, | 215 |
| Who stalk erect, and toss their heads in air? | |
| Let beasts of burthen meanly woo the chain, | |
| We talk of masters with a proud disdain. | |
| “Prythee forbear, rash youth! conceal thy fears, | |
| A modest silence best becomes thy years; | 220 |
| Submit, be prudent—in some future hour, | |
| You ’ll feel the iron-gripe of ruthless power:” | |
| Truce, spawn of phlegm! thy frozen heart conceal, | |
| Benumb’d, unerring, and unapt to feel; | |
| No deed of glory can that soul entice, | 225 |
| Involved in adamantine walls of ice; | |
| Within that bosom is a nook so warm, | |
| That vice or virtue kindles to a storm? | |
| Could nature ever lure thee into sin? | |
| Or bursts of passion thaw the frost within? | 230 |
| Thou happy cynic! still thy senses lull, | |
| Profoundly cautious, and supinely dull; | |
| And should some hero start his rash career, | |
| Eccentric to thy lazy, drowsy sphere; | |
| Be wondrous wise, thy frigid temper bless, | 235 |
| That never wrought thee to a bold excess: | |
| Call truth a libel, treason, honest zeal, | |
| So strange is virtue, and so few can feel; | |
| Call Churchill blockhead, Freedom, madness, rage, | |
| Call injured Wilkes a monster of the age; | 240 |
| To make me blest, unite this lay with those, | |
| And then, then kindly rate yourselves my foes. | |
| |
| Fop, witling, favorite, stampman, tyrant, tool, | |
| Or all those mighty names in one, thou fool! | |
| Let mean ambition, sordid lust of pride, | 245 |
| League thee, vile pander! to a tyrant’s side. | |
| Sport with thy country’s groans, and be the first | |
| To stab the bosom which a traitor nursed; | |
| Rifle the womb, and on those bowels prey, | |
| To plague mankind, that spawn’d thee into day; | 250 |
| Be eminent, thy little soul exert, | |
| And call forth all the rancor of thy heart: | |
| But should the eye of merit on thee lower, | |
| (Though lowly crush’d beneath the wheel of power,) | |
| Thou art my pity, monster! I forgive, | 255 |
| And beg one only curse, that thou mayst live. | |
| |
| Where lies our remedy, in humble prayer? | |
| Our lordly butchers have forgot to hear; | |
| ’T is rank rebellion, rashness to complain, | |
| And all submission tighter tugs the chain: | 260 |
| Go ask your heart, your honest heart regard, | |
| And manumission is your sure reward; | |
| Would’st thou be blest, thy sovereign pride lay by, | |
| To tyrant custom give the hardy lie; | |
| Yon shag will warm thee, in thy country fleece | 265 |
| Sleeps independence lined with balmy peace; | |
| Would’st thou be blest? be diligent! be wise! | |
| And make a chaste sufficiency suffice: | |
| Ye lovely fair! whom heaven’s blest charms array, | |
| The proud Sultanas of some future day; | 270 |
| Sweet as ye are, complete in every grace, | |
| That spreads angelic softness o’er the face; | |
| Go ply the loom—there lies the happy art, | |
| By new avenues to attack the heart; | |
| With labors of your own, but deck those charms, | 275 |
| We ’ll rush with transport to your blissful arms. | |
| Amid this wreck——from all aspersions clear, | |
| Nay blush not, Peter, honest truths to hear; | |
| Base adulation never stain’d my lay, | |
| But modest merit must be brought to day; | 280 |
| What though thy great desert mounts far above | |
| The mean expression of thy country’s love; | |
| In praise like thine the rustic muse will soar, | |
| Then damn’d to endless silence sing no more. | |
| “With great contempt of power, alone to stand, | 285 |
| Thy life, and spotless honors in thy hand; | |
| To wage unequal wars—and dare the worst, | |
| And if thy country perish, perish first; | |
| With pious vigilance the state to guard, | |
| And eminent in virtue, shun reward; | 290 |
| No force of avarice warps thy steady heart, | |
| To meanness, falsehood, or dishonest art; | |
| A tyrant’s mandate, thy supreme disdain, | |
| Our last, best bulwark in a Scottish reign.” | |
| These are the honors we to fame consign, | 295 |
| Nay blush not, Peter—these are surely thine. | |
| |
| To close—dread sovereign at whose sacred seat, | |
| Justice and mercy, spotless maidens meet; | |
| George! parent! king! our guardian, glory, pride, | |
| And thou, fair regent! blooming by his side! | 300 |
| Thy offspring pleads a parent’s fostering care, | |
| Reject not, frown not, but in mercy spare; | |
| Besprent with dust, the lowly suppliant lies, | |
| A helpless, guilty, injured sacrifice: | |
| If e’er our infant efforts could delight, | 305 |
| Or growing worth found favor in thy sight, | |
| If warm affection due returns may plead, | |
| Or faith unshaken ever intercede; | |
| With modest boldness we thy smiles demand, | |
| Nor wish salvation from another hand; | 310 |
| Depress’d, not helpless, while a Brunswick reigns, | |
| Whose righteous sceptre, no injustice stains. | |
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