The Poetical Works of Mark Akenside Part 29

Long did the nymph her regal state maintain, As long mankind were bless'd beneath her reign; Till dire Ambition, h.e.l.lish fiend, arose To plague the world, and banish man's repose, A monster sprung from that rebellious crew Which mighty Jove's Phlegraean thunder slew.

Resolved to dispossess the royal fair, On all her friends he threaten'd open war; Fond of the novelty, vain, fickle man In crowds to his infernal standard ran; 30 And the weak maid, defenceless left alone, To avoid his rage, was forced to quit the throne.

It chanced, as wandering through the fields she stray'd, Forsook of all, and dest.i.tute of aid, Upon a rising mountain's flowery side, A pleasant cottage, roof'd with turf, she spied: Fast by a gloomy, venerable wood Of shady planes and ancient oaks it stood.

Around, a various prospect charm'd the sight; Here waving harvests clad the field with white, 40 Here a rough s.h.a.ggy rock the clouds did pierce, From which a torrent rush'd with rapid force; Here mountain-woods diffused a dusky shade; Here flocks and herds in flowery valleys play'd, While o'er the matted gra.s.s the liquid crystal stray'd.

In this sweet place there dwelt a cheerful pair, Though bent beneath the weight of many a year; Who, wisely flying public noise and strife, In this obscure retreat had pa.s.s'd their life; The husband Industry was call'd, Frugality the wife. 50 With tenderest friends.h.i.+p mutually bless'd, No household jars had e'er disturbed their rest.

A numerous offspring graced their homely board, That still with nature's simple gifts was stored.

The father rural business only knew; The sons the same delightful art pursue.

An only daughter, as a G.o.ddess fair, Above the rest was the fond mother's care, Plenty; the brightest nymph of all the plain, Each heart's delight, adored by every swain. 60 Soon as Content this charming scene espied, Joyful within herself the G.o.ddess cried:-- 'This happy sight my drooping heart doth raise; The G.o.ds, I hope, will grant me gentler days.

When with prosperity my life was bless'd, In yonder house I've been a welcome guest: There now, perhaps, I may protection find; For royalty is banish'd from my mind; I'll thither haste: how happy should I be, If such a refuge were reserved for me!' 70

Thus spoke the fair; and straight she bent her way To the tall mountain, where the cottage lay: Arrived, she makes her changed condition known; Tells how the rebels drove her from the throne; What painful, dreary wilds she'd wander'd o'er; And shelter from the tyrant doth implore.

The faithful, aged pair at once were seized With joy and grief, at once were pain'd and pleased; Grief for their banish'd queen their hearts' possess'd, And joy succeeded for their future guest: 80 'And if you'll deign, bright G.o.ddess, here to dwell, And with your presence grace our humble cell, Whate'er the G.o.ds have given with bounteous hand, Our harvest, fields, and flocks, our all command.'

Meantime, Ambition, on his rival's flight, Sole lord of man, attain'd his wish's height; Of all dependence on his subjects eased, He raged without a curb, and did whate'er he pleased; As some wild flame, driven on by furious winds, Wide spreads destruction, nor resistance finds; 90 So rush'd the fiend destructive o'er the plain, Defaced the labours of th' industrious swain; Polluted every stream with human gore, And scatter'd plagues and death from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e.

Great Jove beheld it from the Olympian towers, Where sate a.s.sembled all the heavenly powers; Then with a nod that shook the empyrean throne, Thus the Saturnian thunderer begun:-- 'You see, immortal inmates of the skies, How this vile wretch almighty power defies; 100 His daring crimes, the blood which he has spilt, Demand a torment equal to his guilt.

Then, Cyprian G.o.ddess, let thy mighty boy Swift to the tyrant's guilty palace fly; There let him choose his sharpest, hottest dart, And with his former rival wound his heart.

And thou, my son (the G.o.d to Hermes said), s.n.a.t.c.h up thy wand, and plume thy heels and head; Dart through the yielding air with all thy force, And down to Pluto's realms direct thy course; 110 There rouse Oblivion from her sable cave, Where dull she sits by Lethe's sluggish wave; Command her to secure the sacred bound.

Where lives Content retired, and all around Diffuse the deepest glooms of Stygian night, And screen the virgin from the tyrant's sight; That the vain purpose of his life may try Still to explore, what still eludes his eye.'

He spoke; loud praises shake the bright abode, And all applaud the justice of the G.o.d. 120

THE POET. A RHAPSODY.

Of all the various lots around the ball, Which fate to man distributes, absolute, Avert, ye G.o.ds! that of the Muse's son, Cursed with dire poverty! poor hungry wretch!

What shall he do for life? He cannot work With manual labour; shall those sacred hands, That brought the counsels of the G.o.ds to light; Shall that inspired tongue, which every Muse Has touch'd divine, to charm the sons of men; These hallow'd organs! these! be prost.i.tute 10 To the vile service of some fool in power, All his behests submissive to perform, Howe'er to him ungrateful? Oh! he scorns The ign.o.ble thought; with generous disdain, More eligible deeming it to starve, Like his famed ancestors renown'd in verse, Than poorly bend to be another's slave,-- Than feed and fatten in obscurity.-- These are his firm resolves, which fate, nor time, Nor poverty can shake. Exalted high 20 In garret vile he lives; with remnants hung Of tapestry. But oh! precarious state Of this vain transient world! all-powerful Time, What dost thou not subdue? See what a chasm Gapes wide, tremendous! see where Saul, enraged, High on his throne, encompa.s.s'd by his guards, With levell'd spear, and arm extended, sits, Ready to pierce old Jesse's valiant son, Spoil'd of his nose!--around in tottering ranks, On shelves pulverulent, majestic stands 30 His library; in ragged plight, and old; Replete with many a load of criticism, Elaborate products of the midnight toil Of Belgian brains; s.n.a.t.c.h'd from the deadly hands Of murderous grocer, or the careful wight, Who vends the plant, that clads the happy sh.o.r.e Of Indian Patomac; which citizens In balmy fumes exhale, when, o'er a pot Of sage-inspiring coffee, they dispose Of kings and crowns, and settle Europe's fate. 40

Elsewhere the dome is fill'd with various heaps Of old domestic lumber; that huge chair Has seen six monarchs fill the British throne: Here a broad ma.s.sy table stands, o'erspread With ink and pens, and scrolls replete with rhyme: Chests, stools, old razors, fractured jars, half-full Of muddy Zythum, sour and spiritless: Fragments of verse, hose, sandals, utensils Of various fas.h.i.+on, and of various use, With friendly influence hide the sable floor. 50

This is the bard's museum, this the fane To Phoebus sacred, and the Aonian maids: But, oh! it stabs his heart, that n.i.g.g.ard fate To him in such small measure should dispense Her better gifts: to him! whose generous soul Could relish, with as fine an elegance, The golden joys of grandeur, and of wealth; He who could tyrannise o'er menial slaves, Or swell beneath a coronet of state, Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien, 60 Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all.

But 'tis in vain to rave at destiny: Here he must rest and brook the best he can, To live remote from grandeur, learning, wit; Immured amongst th' ign.o.ble, vulgar herd, Of lowest intellect; whose stupid souls But half inform their bodies; brains of lead And tongues of thunder; whose insensate b.r.e.a.s.t.s Ne'er felt the rapturous, soul-entrancing fire Of the celestial Muse; whose savage ears 70 Ne'er heard the sacred rules, nor even the names Of the Venusian bard, or critic sage Full-famed of Stagyra: whose clamorous tongues Stun the tormented ear with colloquy, Vociferate, trivial, or impertinent; Replete with boorish scandal; yet, alas!

This, this! he must endure, or muse alone, Pensive and moping o'er the stubborn rhyme, Or line imperfect--No! the door is free, And calls him to evade their deafening clang, 80 By private ambulation;--'tis resolved: Off from his waist he throws the tatter'd gown, Beheld with indignation; and unloads His pericranium of the weighty cap, With sweat and grease discolour'd: then explores The s.p.a.cious chest, and from its hollow womb Draws his best robe, yet not from tincture free Of age's reverend russet, scant and bare; Then down his meagre visage waving flows The shadowy peruke; crown'd with gummy hat 90 Clean brush'd; a cane supports him. Thus equipp'd He sallies forth; swift traverses the streets, And seeks the lonely walk.--'Hail, sylvan scenes, Ye groves, ye valleys, ye meandering brooks, Admit me to your joys!' in rapturous phrase, Loud he exclaims; while with the inspiring Muse His bosom labours; and all other thoughts, Pleasure and wealth, and poverty itself, Before her influence vanish. Rapt in thought, Fancy presents before his ravish'd eyes 100 Distant posterity, upon his page With transport dwelling; while bright learning's sons That ages hence must tread this earthly ball, Indignant, seem to curse the thankless age, That starved such merit. Meantime swallow'd up, In meditation deep, he wanders on, Unweeting of his way.--But, ah! he starts With sudden fright! his glaring eyeb.a.l.l.s roll, Pale turn his cheeks, and shake his loosen'd joints; His cogitations vanish into air, 110 Like painted bubbles, or a morning dream.

Behold the cause! see! through the opening glade, With rosy visage, and abdomen grand, A cit, a dun!--As in Apulia's wilds, Or where the Thracian Hebrus rolls his wave, A heedless kid, disportive, roves around, Unheeding, till upon the hideous cave On the dire wolf she treads; half-dead she views His bloodshot eyeb.a.l.l.s, and his dreadful fangs, And swift as Eurus from the monster flies. 120 So fares the trembling bard; amazed he turns, Scarce by his legs upborne; yet fear supplies The place of strength; straight home he bends his course, Nor looks behind him till he safe regain His faithful citadel; there, spent, fatigued, He lays him down to ease his heaving lungs, Quaking, and of his safety scarce convinced.

Soon as the panic leaves his panting breast, Down to the Muse's sacred rites he sits, Volumes piled round him; see! upon his brow 130 Perplex'd anxiety, and struggling thought, Painful as female throes: whether the bard Display the deeds of heroes; or the fall Of vice, in lay dramatic; or expand The lyric wing; or in elegiac strains Lament the fair; or lash the stubborn age, With laughing satire; or in rural scenes With shepherds sport; or rack his hard-bound brains For the unexpected turn. Arachne so, In dusty kitchen corner, from her bowels 140 Spins the fine web, but spins with better fate, Than the poor bard: she! caitiff! spreads her snares, And with their aid enjoys luxurious life, Bloated with fat of insects, flesh'd in blood: He! hard, hard lot! for all his toil and care, And painful watchings, scarce protracts a while His meagre, hungry days! ungrateful world!

If with his drama he adorn the stage, No worth-discerning concourse pays the charge.

Or of the orchestra, or the enlightening torch. 150 He who supports the luxury and pride Of craving Lais; he! whose carnage fills Dogs, eagles, lions; has not yet enough, Wherewith to satisfy the greedier maw Of that most ravenous, that devouring beast, Ycleped a poet. What new Halifax, What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find, Thou hungry mortal? Break, wretch, break thy quill, Blot out the studied image; to the flames

Commit the Stagyrite; leave this thankless trade; 160 Erect some pedling stall, with trinkets stock'd, There earn thy daily halfpence, nor again Trust the false Muse; so shall the cleanly meal Repel intruding hunger.--Oh! 'tis vain, The friendly admonition's all in vain; The scribbling itch has seized him, he is lost To all advice, and starves for starving's sake.

Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood, Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth; But, oh! ye G.o.ds, avert th' impending stroke 170 This luckless omen threatens! Hark! methinks I hear my better angel cry, 'Retreat, Rash youth! in time retreat; let those poor bards, Who slighted all, all! for the flattering Muse, Yet cursed with pining want, as landmarks stand, To warn thee from the service of the ingrate.'

A BRITISH PHILIPPIC.

OCCASIONED BY THE INSULTS OF THE SPANIARDS, AND THE PRESENT PREPARATIONS FOR WAR. 1738.

Whence this unwonted transport in my breast?

Why glow my thoughts, and whither would the Muse Aspire with rapid wing? Her country's cause Demands her efforts: at that sacred call She summons all her ardour, throws aside The trembling lyre, and with the warrior's trump She means to thunder in each British ear; And if one spark of honour or of fame, Disdain of insult, dread of infamy, One thought of public virtue yet survive, 10 She means to wake it, rouse the generous flame, With patriot zeal inspirit every breast, And fire each British heart with British wrongs.

Alas, the vain attempt! what influence now Can the Muse boast! or what attention now Is paid to fame or virtue? Where is now The British spirit, generous, warm, and brave, So frequent wont from tyranny and woe To free the suppliant nations? Where, indeed!

If that protection, once to strangers given, 20 Be now withheld from sons? Each n.o.bler thought, That warrn'd our sires, is lost and buried now In luxury and avarice. Baneful vice!

How it unmans a nation! yet I'll try, I'll aim to shake this vile degenerate sloth; I'll dare to rouse Britannia's dreaming sons To fame, to virtue, and impart around A generous feeling of compatriot woes.

Come, then, the various powers of forceful speech, All that can move, awaken, fire, transport! 30 Come the bold ardour of the Theban bard!

The arousing thunder of the patriot Greek!

The soft persuasion of the Roman sage!

Come all! and raise me to an equal height, A rapture worthy of my glorious cause!

Lest my best efforts, failing, should debase The sacred theme; for with no common wing The Muse attempts to soar. Yet what need these?

My country's fame, my free-born British heart, Shall be my best inspirers, raise my flight 40 High as the Theban's pinion, and with more Than Greek or Roman flame exalt my soul.

Oh! could I give the vast ideas birth Expressive of the thoughts that flame within, No more should lazy Luxury detain Our ardent youth; no more should Britain's sons Sit tamely pa.s.sive by, and careless hear The prayers, sighs, groans, (immortal infamy!) Of fellow Britons, with oppression sunk, In bitterness of soul demanding aid, 50 Calling on Britain, their dear native land, The land of Liberty; so greatly famed For just redress; the land so often dyed With her best blood, for that arousing cause, The freedom of her sons; those sons that now Far from the manly blessings of her sway, Drag the vile fetters of a Spanish lord.

And dare they, dare the vanquish'd sons of Spain Enslave a Briton? Have they then forgot, So soon forgot, the great, the immortal day, 60 When rescued Sicily with joy beheld The swift-wing'd thunder of the British arm Disperse their navies? when their coward bands Fled, like the raven from the bird of Jove, From swift impending vengeance fled in vain?

Are these our lords? And can Britannia see Her foes oft vanquish'd, thus defy her power, Insult her standard, and enslave her sons, And not arise to justice? Did our sires, Unawed by chains, by exile, or by death, 70 Preserve inviolate her guardian rights, To Britons ever sacred, that her sons Might give them up to Spaniards?--Turn your eyes, Turn, ye degenerate, who with haughty boast Call yourselves Britons, to that dismal gloom, That dungeon dark and deep, where never thought Of joy or peace can enter; see the gates Harsh-creaking open; what a hideous void, Dark as the yawning grave, while still as death A frightful silence reigns! There on the ground 80 Behold your brethren chain'd like beasts of prey: There mark your numerous glories, there behold The look that speaks unutterable woe; The mangled limb, the faint, the deathful eye, With famine sunk, the deep heart-bursting groan, Suppress'd in silence; view the loathsome food, Refused by dogs, and oh! the stinging thought!

View the dark Spaniard glorying in their wrongs, The deadly priest triumphant in their woes, And thundering worse d.a.m.nation on their souls: 90 While that pale form, in all the pangs of death, Too faint to speak, yet eloquent of all, His native British spirit yet untamed, Raises his head; and with indignant frown Of great defiance, and superior scorn, Looks up and dies.--Oh! I am all on fire!

But let me spare the theme, lest future times Should blush to hear that either conquer'd Spain Durst offer Britain such outrageous wrong, Or Britain tamely bore it-- 100 Descend, ye guardian heroes of the land!

Scourges of Spain, descend! Behold your sons; See! how they run the same heroic race, How prompt, how ardent in their country's cause, How greatly proud to a.s.sert their British blood, And in their deeds reflect their fathers' fame!

Ah! would to heaven ye did not rather see How dead to virtue in the public cause, How cold, how careless, how to glory deaf, They shame your laurels, and belie their birth! 110

Come, ye great spirits, Candish, Raleigh, Blake!

And ye of latter name, your country's pride, Oh! come, disperse these lazy fumes of sloth, Teach British hearts with British fires to glow!

In wakening whispers rouse our ardent youth, Blazon the triumphs of your better days, Paint all the glorious scenes of rightful war In all its splendours; to their swelling souls Say how ye bow'd th' insulting Spaniards' pride, Say how ye thunder'd o'er their prostrate heads, 120 Say how ye broke their lines and fired their ports, Say how not death, in all its frightful shapes, Could damp your souls, or shake the great resolve For right and Britain: then display the joys The patriot's soul exalting, while he views Transported millions hail with loud acclaim The guardian of their civil, sacred rights.

How greatly welcome to the virtuous man Is death for others' good! the radiant thoughts That beam celestial on his pa.s.sing soul, 130 The unfading crowns awaiting him above, The exalting plaudit of the Great Supreme, Who in his actions with complacence views His own reflected splendour; then descend, Though to a lower, yet a n.o.bler scene; Paint the just honours to his relics paid, Show grateful millions weeping o'er his grave; While his fair fame in each progressive age For ever brightens; and the wise and good Of every land in universal choir 140 With richest incense of undying praise His urn encircle, to the wondering world His numerous triumphs blazon; while with awe, With filial reverence, in his steps they tread, And, copying every virtue, every fame, Transplant his glories into second life, And, with unsparing hand, make nations bless'd By his example. Vast, immense rewards!

For all the turmoils which the virtuous mind Encounters here. Yet, Britons, are ye cold? 150 Yet deaf to glory, virtue, and the call Of your poor injured countrymen? Ah! no: I see ye are not; every bosom glows With native greatness, and in all its state The British spirit rises: glorious change!

Fame, virtue, freedom, welcome! Oh, forgive The Muse, that, ardent in her sacred cause, Your glory question'd; she beholds with joy, She owns, she triumphs in her wish'd mistake.

See! from her sea-beat throne in awful march 160 Britannia towers: upon her laurel crest The plumes majestic nod; behold, she heaves Her guardian s.h.i.+eld, and terrible in arms For battle shakes her adamantine spear: Loud at her foot the British lion roars, Frighting the nations; haughty Spain full soon Shall hear and tremble. Go then, Britons, forth, Your country's daring champions: tell your foes Tell them in thunders o'er their prostrate land, You were not born for slaves: let all your deeds 170 Show that the sons of those immortal men, The stars of s.h.i.+ning story, are not slow In virtue's path to emulate their sires, To a.s.sert their country's rights, avenge her sons, And hurl the bolts of justice on her foes.

HYMN TO SCIENCE.

'O vitas Philosophia dux! O virtutis indagatrix, expultrixque vitiorum. Tu urbes peperisti; tu inventrix legum, tu magistra morum et disciplinae fuisti: ad te confugimus, a te opem petimus.'-- _Cic. Tusc. Quaest_.

1 Science! thou fair effusive ray From the great source of mental day, Free, generous, and refined!

Descend with all thy treasures fraught, Illumine each bewilder'd thought, And bless my labouring mind.

2 But first with thy resistless light, Disperse those phantoms from my sight, Those mimic shades of thee: The scholiast's learning, sophist's cant, The visionary bigot's rant, The monk's philosophy.

3 Oh! let thy powerful charms impart The patient head, the candid heart, Devoted to thy sway; Which no weak pa.s.sions e'er mislead, Which still with dauntless steps proceed Where reason points the way.