The Poetical Works of Edward Young Part 9

To deck my list, by nature were design'd Such s.h.i.+ning expletives of human kind, Who want, while thro' blank life they dream along, Sense to be right, and pa.s.sion to be wrong.

To counterpoise this hero of the mode, Some for renown are singular and odd; What other men dislike, is sure to please, Of all mankind, these dear antipodes; Thro' pride, not malice, they run counter still, And birthdays are their days of dressing ill, Arbuthnot is a fool, and F-- a sage, S-ly will fright you, E-- engage; By nature streams run backward, flame descends, Stones mount, and Suss.e.x is the worst of friends; They take their rest by day, and wake by night, And blush, if you surprise them in the right; If they by chance blurt out, ere well aware, A swan is white, or Queensberry is fair.

Nothing exceeds in ridicule, no doubt, A fool in fas.h.i.+on, but a fool that's out, His pa.s.sion for absurdity's so strong, He cannot bear a rival in the wrong; Tho' wrong the mode, comply; more sense is shown In wearing others' follies, than your own.

If what is out of fas.h.i.+on most you prize, Methinks you should endeavour to be wise.

But what in oddness can be more sublime Than Sloane, the foremost toyman of his time?

His nice ambition lies in curious fancies, His daughter's portion a rich sh.e.l.l inhances, And Ashmole's baby-house is, in his view, Britannia's golden mine, a rich Peru!

How his eyes languis.h.!.+ how his thoughts adore That painted coat, which Joseph never wore!

He shows, on holidays, a sacred pin, That touch'd the ruff, that touch'd Queen Bess's chin.

"Since that great dearth our chronicles deplore, Since that great plague that swept as many more, Was ever year unblest as this?" he'll cry, "It has not brought us one new b.u.t.terfly!"

In times that suffer such learn'd men as these, Unhappy I--y! how came you to please?

Not gaudy b.u.t.terflies are Lico's game; But, in effect, his chase is much the same; Warm in pursuit, he levees all the great, Stanch to the foot of t.i.tle and estate: Where'er their lords.h.i.+ps go, they never find Or Lico, or their shadows, lag behind!

He sets them sure, where'er their lords.h.i.+ps run, Close at their elbows, as a morning dun; As if their grandeur, by contagion, wrought, And fame was, like a fever, to be caught: But after seven years' dance, from place to place, The(13) Dane is more familiar with his grace.

Who'd be a crutch to prop a rotten peer; Or living pendant dangling at his ear, For ever whisp'ring secrets, which were blown For months before, by trumpets, thro' the town?

Who'd be a gla.s.s, with flattering grimace, Still to reflect the temper of his face; Or happy pin to stick upon his sleeve, When my lord's gracious, and vouchsafes it leave; Or cus.h.i.+on, when his heaviness shall please To loll, or thump it, for his better ease; Or a vile b.u.t.t, for noon, or night, bespoke, When the peer rashly swears he'll club his joke?

Who'd shake with laughter, tho' he could not find His lords.h.i.+p's jest; or, if his nose broke wind, For blessings to the G.o.ds profoundly bow, That can cry, chimney sweep, or drive a plough?

With terms like these, how mean the tribe that close!

Scarce meaner they, who terms like these, impose.

But what's the tribe most likely to comply?

The men of ink, or ancient authors lie; The writing tribe, who shameless auctions hold Of praise, by inch of candle to be sold: All men they flatter, but themselves the most, With deathless fame, their everlasting boast: For fame no cully makes so much her jest, As her old constant spark, the bard profest.

"Boyle s.h.i.+nes in council, Mordaunt in the fight, Pelham's magnificent; but I can write, And what to my great soul like glory dear?"

Till some G.o.d whispers in his tingling ear, That fame's unwholesome taken without meat.

And life is best sustain'd by what is eat: Grown lean, and wise, he curses what he writ, And wishes all his wants were in his wit.

Ay! what avails it, when his dinner's lost, That his triumphant name adorns a post?

Or that his s.h.i.+ning page (provoking fate!) Defends sirloins, which sons of dulness eat?

What foe to verse without compa.s.sion hears, What cruel prose-man can refrain from tears, When the poor muse, for less than half a crown, A prost.i.tute on every bulk in town, With other wh.o.r.es undone, tho' not in print, Clubs credit for Geneva in the mint?

Ye bards! why will you sing, tho' uninspir'd?

Ye bards! why will you starve, to be admir'd?

Defunct by Phbus' laws, beyond redress, Why will your spectres haunt the frighted press?

Bad metre, that excrescence of the head, Like hair, will sprout, altho' the poet's dead.

All other trades demand, verse makers beg; A dedication is a wooden leg; A barren Labeo, the true mumper's fas.h.i.+on, Exposes borrow'd brats to move compa.s.sion.

Tho' such myself, vile bards I discommend; Nay more, tho' gentle Damon is my friend.

"Is 't then a crime to write?"-If talent rare Proclaim the G.o.d, the crime is to forbear: For some, tho' few, there are large-minded men, Who watch unseen the labours of the pen; Who know the muse's worth, and therefore court, Their deeds her theme, their beauty her support; Who serve, unask'd, the least pretence to wit; My sole excuse, alas! for having writ.

Argyll true wit is studious to restore; And Dorset smiles, if Phbus smil'd before; Pembroke in years the long-lov'd arts admires, And Henrietta like a muse inspires.

But, ah! not inspiration can obtain That fame, which poets languish for in vain.

How mad their aim, who thirst for glory, strive To grasp, what no man can possess alive!

Fame's a reversion in which men take place (O late reversion!) at their own decease.

This truth sagacious Lintot knows so well, He starves his authors, that their works may sell.

That fame is wealth, fantastic poets cry; That wealth is fame, another clan reply; Who know no guilt, no scandal, but in rags; And swell in just proportion to their bags.

Nor only the low-born, deform'd and old, Think glory nothing but the beams of gold; The first young lord, which in the mall you meet, Shall match the veriest huncks in Lombard-street, From rescu'd candles' ends, who rais'd a sum, And starves to join a penny to a plumb.

A beardless miser! 'tis a guilt unknown To former times, a scandal all our own.

Of ardent lovers, the true modern band Will mortgage Celia to redeem their land.

For love, young, n.o.ble, rich, Castalio dies: Name but the fair, love swells into his eyes.

Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down; No rival can prevail,-but half a crown.

He glories to late times to be convey'd, Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made: Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd, When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd: He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain: Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain.

"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries, While love of glory sparkles from his eyes: To deathless fame he loudly pleads his right,- Just is his t.i.tle,-for he will not fight: All soldiers valour, all divines have grace, As maids of honour beauty,-by their place: But, when indulging on the last campaign, His lofty terms climb o'er the hills of slain; He gives the foes he slew, at each vain word, A sweet revenge, and half absolves his sword.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid: Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy; Who strive to grasp it, as they touch, destroy: 'Tis the world's debt to deeds of high degree; But if you pay yourself, the world is free.

Were there no tongue to speak them but his own, Augustus' deeds in arms had ne'er been known.

Augustus' deeds! if that ambiguous name Confounds my reader, and misguides his aim, Such is the prince's worth, of whom I speak, The Roman would not blush at the mistake.

Satire V.

On Women.

O fairest of creation! last and best Of all G.o.d's works! Creature in whom excell'd Whatever can to sight, or thought, be form'd!

Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!

How art thou lost!----

MILTON.

Nor reigns ambition in bold man alone; Soft female hearts the rude invader own: But there, indeed, it deals in nicer things, Than routing armies, and dethroning kings: Attend, and you discern it in the fair Conduct a finger, or reclaim a hair; Or roll the lucid orbit of an eye; Or, in full joy, elaborate a sigh.

The s.e.x we honour, tho' their faults we blame; Nay, thank their faults for such a fruitful theme: A theme, fair --! doubly kind to me, Since satirizing those is praising thee; Who wouldst not bear, too modestly refin'd, A panegyric of a grosser kind.

Britannia's daughters, much more fair than nice, Too fond of admiration, lose their price; Worn in the public eye, give cheap delight To throngs, and tarnish to the sated sight: As unreserv'd, and beauteous, as the sun, Through every sign of vanity they run; a.s.semblies, parks, coa.r.s.e feasts in city-halls, Lectures, and trials, plays, committees, b.a.l.l.s, Wells, bedlams, executions, Smithfield scenes, And fortune-tellers' caves, and lions' dens, Taverns, exchanges, bridewells, drawing-rooms, Installments, pillories, coronations, tombs, Tumblers, and funerals, puppet-shows, reviews, Sales, races, rabbits, (and still stranger!) pews.

Clarinda's bosom burns, but burns for fame; And love lies vanquished in a n.o.bler flame; Warm gleams of hope she, now, dispenses; then, Like April suns, dives into clouds again: With all her l.u.s.tre, now, her lover warms; Then, out of ostentation, hides her charms: 'Tis, next, her pleasure sweetly to complain, And to be taken with a sudden pain; Then, she starts up, all ecstasy and bliss, And is, sweet soul! just as sincere in this: O how she rolls her charming eyes in spite!

And looks delightfully with all her might!

But, like our heroes, much more brave than wise, She conquers for the triumph, not the prize.

Zara resembles aetna crown'd with snows; Without she freezes, and within she glows: Twice ere the sun descends, with zeal inspir'd, From the vain converse of the world retir'd, She reads the psalms and chapters for the day, In -- Cleopatra, or the last new play.

Thus gloomy Zara, with a solemn grace, Deceives mankind, and hides behind her face.

Nor far beneath her in renown, is she, Who, through good breeding, is ill company; Whose manners will not let her larum cease, Who thinks you are unhappy, when at peace; To find you news, who racks her subtle head, And vows-that her great-grandfather is dead.

A dearth of words a woman need not fear, But 'tis a task indeed to learn-to hear: In that the skill of conversation lies; That shows, or makes, you both polite and wise.

Xantippe cries, "Let nymphs, who nought can say, Be lost in silence, and resign the day; And let the guilty wife her guilt confess, By tame behaviour, and a soft address;"

Through virtue, she refuses to comply With all the dictates of humanity; Through wisdom, she refuses to submit To wisdom's rules, and raves to prove her wit; Then, her unblemish'd honour to maintain, Rejects her husband's kindness with disdain: But if, by chance, an ill-adapted word Drops from the lip of her unwary lord, Her darling china, in a whirlwind sent, Just intimates the lady's discontent.

Wine may indeed excite the meekest dame; But keen Xantippe, scorning borrow'd flame, Can vent her thunders, and her lightnings play, O'er cooling gruel, and composing tea: Nor rests by night, but, more sincere than nice, She shakes the curtains with her kind advice: Doubly, like echo, sound is her delight, And the last word is her eternal right.

Is't not enough, plagues, wars, and famines rise To lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise?

Famine, plague, war, and an unnumber'd throng Of guilt-avenging ills, to man belong: What black, what ceaseless cares besiege our state!

What strokes we feel from fancy, and from fate!

If fate forbears us, fancy strikes the blow; We make misfortune; suicides in woe.

Superfluous aid! unnecessary skill!

Is nature backward to torment, or kill?

How oft the noon, how oft the midnight, bell, (That iron tongue of death!) with solemn knell, On folly's errands as we vainly roam, Knocks at our hearts, and finds our thoughts from home!

Men drop so fast, ere life's mid stage we tread, Few know so many friends alive, as dead.

Yet, as immortal, in our up-hill chase We press coy fortune with unslacken'd pace; Our ardent labours for the toys we seek, Join night to day, and Sunday to the week: Our very joys are anxious, and expire Between satiety and fierce desire.

Now what reward for all this grief and toil?

But one; a female friend's endearing smile; A tender smile, our sorrows' only balm, And, in life's tempest, the sad sailor's calm.

How have I seen a gentle nymph draw nigh, Peace in her air, persuasion in her eye; Victorious tenderness! it all o'ercame, Husbands look'd mild, and savages grew tame.

The Sylvan race our active nymphs pursue; Man is not all the game they have in view: In woods and fields their glory they complete; Their Master Betty leaps a five-barr'd gate; While fair Miss Charles to toilets is confin'd, Nor rashly tempts the barb'rous sun and wind.

Some nymphs affect a more heroic breed, And volt from hunters to the manag'd steed; Command his prancings with a martial air, And Fobert has the forming of the fair.

More than one steed must Delia's empire feel, Who sits triumphant o'er the flying wheel; And as she guides it thro' th' admiring throng, With what an air she smacks the silken thong!

Graceful as John, she moderates the reins, And whistles sweet her diuretic strains; Sesostris like, such charioteers as these May drive six harness'd monarchs, if they please: They drive, row, run, with love of glory smit, Leap, swim, shoot flying, and p.r.o.nounce on wit.

O'er the belle-lettre lovely Daphne reigns; Again the G.o.d Apollo wears her chains: With legs toss'd high, on her sophee she sits Vouchsafing audience to contending wits: Of each performance she's the final test; One act read o'er, she prophesies the rest; And then, p.r.o.nouncing with decisive air, Fully convinces all the town-she's fair.

Had lovely Daphne Hecatessa's face, How would her elegance of taste decrease!

Some ladies' judgment in their features lies, And all their genius sparkles from their eyes.

"But hold," she cries, "lampooner! have a care; Must I want common sense, because I'm fair?"

O no: see Stella; her eyes s.h.i.+ne as bright As if her tongue was never in the right; And yet what real learning, judgment, fire!

She seems inspir'd, and can herself inspire: How then (if malice rul'd not all the fair) Could Daphne publish, and could she forbear?