VERSES

I court no muse amidst the tuneful throng, Thy genii, Campbell, shall inspire my song; The gentle summons every thought obeys, Wakens my soul, and tunes it all to lays. Among the thousand wonders thou hast shown, I, in a moment, am a poet grown; The rising images each other meet; Fall into verse, and dance away with feet: Now with thy Cupid and thy lamb I rove[A], Through ev'ry bloomy mead and fragrant grove. A thousand things I can myself divine, Thy little genii whispers them to mine; Beyond the grave I see thy deathless fame, The fair and young all singing Campbell's name; And Love himself—for Love and thou art friends, He joins the chorus, and his dart defends. What noisy talker can thy magic boast? Let those dull wretches try who scorn thee most. O, sacred silence! let me ever dwell, With the sweet muses, in thy lonely cell! Or else bind up, in thy eternal chain, Scandal and noise, and all that talk in vain. M. Fowke.

Sweet nightingale! whose artful numbers show, Expressive eloquence to silent woe, Sing on, and in thy sex's power presume, By praising Campbell, to strike nations dumb. Whene'er you sing, silent, as he, they'll stand, Speak by their eyes, grow eloquent by hand: Tongues are confusion, but as learnt by you, All but Pythagoras's doctrine's true; Campbell and he taught silence—had he heard How much thy lays to silence were preferr'd, He had recanted from thy powerful song, And justly wish'd each organ had a tongue. But could he see, what you, in every line, Prophetic tell of Campbell's sight divine, Like Crœsus's sons his loosened nerves must break, And ask the cause—or make his Campbell speak. G. S.

Milton's immortal wish[B] you sure must feel, To point those fates which you to all reveal; If second-sight so much alarms mankind, What transports must it give to know thy mind? Thy book is but the shadow of thy worth, Like distant lights, which set some picture forth. But if the artist's skill we nearer trace, And strictly view each feature of the face, We find the charm that animates the whole, And leave the body to adore the soul. Milton's immortal wish you sure must feel, To point those fates which you to all reveal. I. Philips.

To see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight, Paradise Lost.

As Denham sings, mysterious 'twas, the same Should be the prophet's and the poet's name[C]; But while the sons of genius join to praise, What thine presaging dictates to their lays, The things they sweetly sing, and you foreshow, Open the Sampson riddle to our view; Strong are thy prophecies, their numbers sweet, And with the lion combs of honey meet. Late on fantastic cabalistic schemes, Of waking whimsies, or of feverish dreams, New cobweb threads of poetry were spun, In gaudy snares, like flies, were witlings won, Their brains entangled, and our art undone. Pope, first, descended from a monkish race, Cheapens the charms of art, and daubs her face; From Gabalis[D] his mushroom fictions rise, Lop off his sylphs—and his Belinda[E] dies; The attending insects hover in the air, No longer than they're present is she fair; Some dart those eyebeams, which the youths beguile, And some sit conquering in a dimpling smile. Some pinch the tucker, and some smooth the smock. Some guard an upper, some a lower lock; But if these truant body-guards escape, In whip the gnomes and strait commit a rape; The curling honours of her head they seize, Hairs less in sight, or any hairs they please; But if to angry frowns her brow she bends, Upon her front some sullen gnome descends, Whisks through the furrows with its airy form, Bristles her eyebrows and 'directs the storm.' As wide from these are Addisonian themes, As angels' thoughts are from distempered dreams; Spenser and he, to image nature, knew, Like living persons, vice and virtue drew: At once instructed and well pleas'd we read, While in sweet morals these two poets lead, No less to wisdom than to wit pretence, They led by music, but they led to sense. But Pope scarce ever force to fancy joins, With dancing-master's feet equips his lines, Plumes empty fancy, and in tinsel shines. Or if by chance his judgment seems to lead, Where one poor moral faintly shows its head, 'Tis like a judge, that reverently drest, Peeps through the pageants at a lord may'r's feast; By starts he reasons, and seems wise by fits, Such wit's call'd wisdom, that has lost its wits. Unnam'd by me this witling bard had been, Had not the writer's caused the reader's sin; But less by comedies and lewd romances, Are ruin'd, less by French lascivious dances, Than by such rhymers' masqueraded fancies. From such the root of superstition grew, Whose old charms fertile, daily branch'd in new; From such chimeras first inspired, the fair The conj'rer's ring approach'd, and Jesuit's chair; Throng'd to the doors where magic rogues divin'd, And sold out ignes fatui to the mind. Wizards and Jesuits differ but in name, Both demon's envoys, and their trade the same; Weak wills they lead, and vapour'd minds command, And play the game into each others' hand; Like spiritual jugglers at the cup and ball, Rising by foolish maids, that long to fall. Some into love they damn, and some they pray, For greensick minds are caught a different way; To the same end, tho' several paths, they run, Priests to undo and maids to be undone; Some blacker charms, some whiter spells cajole, As some lick wall and some devour a coal. Here ladies, strong in vapours, see men's faces Imprinted in the conjurer's dazzling glasses, There, when, in spring time, the too praying priest, Toasts, and does something better,—to the best A spouse is promised on next Baptist's[F] feast. First some young contrite rake's enjoined to marry, Lest—madam's forc'd to squeak for't—or, miscarry: In June, the lass does to the fields repair, Where good sir Domine just took the air. When, O strange wonder! near a plaintain root, She finds a coal—and so a spouse to boot. She longs to dream and to secure the sport That very day the youth design'd—must court, He does—she struck with rapture and delight. Bespeaks her fancy—strongly—dreams at night. The yielding fair, the ravish'd youth obtains, A maid she passes—so his child's free gains, He has the pleasure, yet is sav'd the pains. Thus when priest's wench—to cure the growing evil Poor St. John Baptist must forerun the devil. But if the ladies fall, at fall of leaf, Or in the winter—still there's fresh relief; Let her lace close four months, and if she can, St. Agnes[G] heals the breach and brings the man. Thus a lewd priest to vapour'd virgins cants, And into pimps reverts his vestal saints. O! dire effects of mask'd impiety! And shall they, Christian muse! have aids from thee; Wilt thou, like witty heathens, lewdly given, To a Gehenna metamorphose Heaven? Wilt thou?—O no—forbid th' unhallow'd song, Such profanations to Rome's bard belong. Let one, who gods and goddesses adores, Paint them like rakes and bullies, bawds, and whores. Our genii, Campbell, shall be all divine, Shall high o'er theirs as much distinguish'd shine, As o'er such priests or chiromancers, thine. Thine, which does future time's events command To leap to sight, and in thy presence stand; Thine, whose eyes glowing with a gifted ray, New roads of life o'er wisdom's Alps survey, And guide benighted travellers to day. Let me, for once, a daring prophet be, Mark from this hour—and poetry thoul't see Date a new era from thy book and thee; Thy book, where, thro' the stories, thou hast laid, All moral wisdom's to the mind convey'd; And thus far prophecies each page, that all Must rise by virtues, or by vices fall. Poets shall blush to see their wit outdone, Resume their reason and assert its throne, Shall fables still for virtue's sake commend; And wit the means, shall wisdom make its end. Who hopes to please, shall strive to please by pains, Shall gaining fame, earn hard whate'er he gains And Denham's morals join to Denham's strains. Here paint the Thames[H] 'when running to the sea Like mortal life to meet eternity.' There show both kings and subjects 'one excess, Makes both, by striving, to be greater, less.' Shall climb and sweat, and falling, climb up still, Before he gains the height of Cooper's Hill. In Windsor Forest, if some trifling grace Gives, at first blush, the whole a pleasing face, 'Tis wit, 'tis true; but then 'tis common-place. The landscape-writer branches out a wood, Then digging hard for't finds a silver flood. Here paints the woodcock quiv'ring in the air, And there, the bounding stag and quaking hare. Describes the pheasant's scarlet-circled eye, And next the slaught'ring gun that makes him die. From common epithets that fame derives, By which his most uncommon merit lives. 'Tis true! if finest notes alone could show, (Tun'd justly high or regularly low,) That we should fame to these mere vocals give, Pope more, than we can offer, should receive. For, when some gliding river is his theme, His lines run smoother than the smoothest stream; Not so when thro' the trees fierce Boreas blows, The period blust'ring with the tempest grows. But what fools periods read for periods' sake? Such chimes improve not heads, but make 'em ache; Tho' strict in cadence on the numbers rub, Their frothy substance is whip-syllabub; With most seraphic emptiness they roll, Sound without sense, and body without soul. Not such the bards that give you just applause, Each, from intrinsic worth, thy praises draws, Morals, in ev'ry page, where'er they look, They find divinely scatter'd thro' thy book: They find thee studious with praiseworthy strife, To smooth the future roads of human life, To help the weak, and to confirm the strong, Make our griefs vanish, and our bliss prolong, With Phineus' equal find thy large desert, And in thy praise would equal Milton's art. Some fools, we know, in spite of nature born, Would make thee theirs, as they are mankind's scorn, For still 'tis one of truth's unerring rules, No sage can rise without a host of fools. Coxcombs, by whose eternal din o'ercome, The wise in just revenge, might wish them dumb, Say on the world your dumbness you impose, And give you organs they deserve to lose. Impose, indeed, on all the world you would, If you but held your tongue, because you could; 'Tis hard to say, if keeping silence still, In one, who, could he speak, would speak with skill, Is worse, or talk in these, who talk so ill. Why on that tongue should purposed silence dwell, Whence every word would drop an oracle? More fools of thy known foresight make a jest, For all bate greatest gifts who share the least, (As Pope calls Dryden the often to the test[I]) Such from thy pen, should Irwin's sentence[J] wait, And at the gallows own the judge of fate. Or, while with feeble impotence they rail, Write wonders on, and with the wise prevail. Sooner shall Denham cease to be renown'd, Or Pope for Denham's sense quit empty sound, To Addison's immortal heights shall rise, Or the dwarf reach him in his native skies. Sooner shall real gipsies grow most fair, Or false ones mighty truths like thine declare, Than these poor scandal-mongers hit their aim, And blemish thine or Curll's acknowledg'd fame. Great Nostradamus thus, his age advis'd, The mob his counsels jeer'd, some bards[K] despis'd Him still, neglecting these his genius fir'd, A king encourag'd, and the world admir'd; Greater (as times great tide increas'd) he grew, When distant ages proved what truths he knew; Thy nobler book a greater king received, Whence I predict, and claim to be believ'd, That by posterity, less fame shall be To Nostradamus granted, than to thee; Thee! whom the best of Kings does so defend, And (myself barring) the best bards commend. H. Stanhope.