by John Dryden
No Treatise of Humility is found.
But if none were, the Gospel does not want, 215
Our Saviour preach’d it, and I hope you grant,
The Sermon in the mount was Protestant:
No doubt, reply’d the Hind, as sure as all
The writings of Saint Peter and Saint Paul.
On that decision let it stand or fall. 220
Now for my converts, who you say unfed
Have follow’d me for miracles of bread.
Judge not by hear-say, but observe at least,
If since their change, their loaves have been increast.
The Lyon buyes no Converts, if he did, 225
Beasts wou’d be sold as fast as he cou’d bid.
Tax those of int’rest who conform for gain,
Or stay the market of another reign.
Your broad-way sons wou’d never be too nice
To close with Calvin, if he paid their price; 230
But, rais’d three steeples high’r, wou’d change their note,
And quit the Cassock for the Canting-coat.
Now, if you damn this censure, as too bold,
Judge by your selves, and think not others sold.
Mean-time my sons accus’d, by fames report 235
Pay small attendance at the Lyon’s court,
Nor rise with early crowds, nor flatter late,
(For silently they beg who daily wait.)
Preferment is bestow’d that comes unsought,
Attendance is a bribe, and then ’tis bought. 240
How they shou’d speed, their fortune is untry’d,
For not to ask, is not to be denied.
For what they have their God and King they bless,
And hope they shou’d not murmur, had they less.
But if reduc’d subsistence to implore, 245
In common prudence they wou’d pass your door.
Unpitty’d Hudibrass, your Champion friend,
Has shown how far your charities extend.
This lasting verse shall on his tomb be read,
He sham’d you living, and upbraids you dead. 250
With odious Atheist names you load your foes,
Your lib’ral Clergy why did I expose?
It never fails in charities like those.
In climes where true religion is profess’d,
That imputation were no laughing jest, 255
But Imprimatur, with a Chaplain’s name,
Is here sufficient licence to defame.
What wonder is’t that black detraction thrives?
The Homicide of names is less than lives,
And yet the perjur’d murtherer survives. 260
This said, she paus’d a little, and suppress’d
The boiling indignation of her breast;
She knew the vertue of her blade, nor wou’d
Pollute her satyr with ignoble bloud:
Her panting foes she saw before her lye, 265
And back she drew the shining weapon dry
So when the gen’rous Lyon has in sight
His equal match, he rouses for the fight;
But when his foe lyes prostrate on the plain,
He sheathes his paws, uncurls his angry mane; 270
And, pleas’d with bloudless honours of the day,
Walks over and disdains th’ inglorious Prey.
So JAMES, if great with less we may compare,
Arrests his rowling thunder-bolts in air;
And grants ungratefull friends a lengthn’d space, 275
T’ implore the remnants of long suff’ring grace.
This breathing-time the Matron took; and then,
Resum’d the thrid of her discourse agen.
Be vengeance wholly left to pow’rs divine,
And let heav’n judge betwixt your sons and mine: 280
If joyes hereafter must be purchas’d here
With loss of all that mortals hold so dear,
Then welcome infamy and publick shame,
And, last, a long farewell to worldly fame.
’Tis said with ease, but oh, how hardly try’d 285
By haughty souls to humane honour ty’d!
O sharp convulsive pangs of agonizing pride!
Down then, thou rebell, never more to rise,
And what thou didst and dost so dearly prize,
That fame, that darling fame, make that thy sacrifice. 290
’Tis nothing thou hast giv’n; then add thy tears
For a long race of unrepenting years
’Tis nothing yet; yet all thou hast to give:
Then add those may-be years thou hast to live.
Yet nothing still: then poor, and naked come, 295
Thy father will receive his unthrift home,
And thy blest Saviour’s bloud discharge the mighty sum.
Thus (she pursu’d) I discipline a son
Whose uncheck’d fury to revenge wou’d run:
He champs the bit, impatient of his loss, 300
And starts a-side and flounders at the cross.
Instruct him better, gracious God, to know,
As thine is vengeance, so forgiveness too;
That, suff’ring from ill tongues he bears no more
Than what his Sovereign bears, and what his Saviour bore. 305
It now remains for you to school your child,
And ask why God’s anointed he revil’d;
A King and Princess dead! did Shimei worse?
The curser’s punishment should fright the curse:
Your son was warn’d, and wisely gave it o’re, 310
But he who councell’d him has paid the score:
The heavy malice cou’d no higher tend,
But woe to him on whom the weights descend:
So to permitted ills the Dæmon flys:
His rage is aim’d at him who rules the skyes; 315
Constrain’d to quit his cause, no succour found,
The foe discharges ev’ry Tyre around,
In clouds of smoke abandoning the fight,
But his own thund’ring peals proclaim his flight.
In Henry’s change his charge as ill succeeds; 320
To that long story little answer needs,
Confront but Henry’s words with Henry’s deeds.
Were space allow’d, with ease it might be prov’d,
What springs his blessed reformation mov’d.
The dire effects appear’d in open sight, 325
Which from the cause, he calls a distant flight
And yet no larger leap than from the sun to light.
Now last, your sons a double Pæan sound,
A Treatise of Humility is found.
’Tis found, but better had it ne’er been sought 330
Than thus in Protestant procession brought.
The fam’d original through Spain is known,
Rodriguez work, my celebrated son,
Which yours by ill-translating made his own;
Conceal’d its authour, and usurp’d the name, 335
The basest and ignoblest theft of fame.
My Altars kindl’d first that living coal;
Restore, or practice better what you stole:
That vertue could this humble verse inspire,
’Tis all the restitution I require. 340
Glad was the Panther that the charge was clos’d,
And none of all her fav’rite sons expos’d.
For laws of arms permit each injur’d man
To make himself a saver where he can.
Perhaps the plunder’d merchant cannot tell 345
The names of Pirates in whose hands he fell:
But at the den of thieves he justly flies,
And ev’ry Algerine is lawfull prize.
No private person in the foes estate
Can plead exemption from the publick fate. 350
Yet Christian laws allow not such redress;
Then let the greater supersede the less.
But let th’ Abbetors of the Panther’s crime
Learn to make fairer wars another time.
Some characters may sure be found to write 355
Among her sons; for ’tis no common sight,
A spotted Dam, and all her offspring white.
The Salvage, though she saw her plea controll’d,
Yet wou’d not wholly seem to quit her hold,
But offer’d fairly to compound the strife; 360
And judge conversion by the convert’s life.
’Tis true, she said, I think it somewhat strange
So few shou’d follow profitable change;
For present joys are more to flesh and bloud
Than a dull prospect of a distant good. 365
’Twas well alluded by a son of mine,
(I hope to quote him is not to purloin;)
Two magnets, heav’n and earth, allure to bliss;
The larger loadstone that, the nearer this:
The weak attraction of the greater fails, 370
We nodd a-while, but neighbourhood prevails:
But when the greater proves the nearer too,
I wonder more your converts come so slow.
Methinks in those who firm with me remain,
It shows a nobler principle than gain. 375
Your inf’rence wou’d be strong (the Hind reply’d)
If yours were in effect the suff’ring side;
Your clergy sons their own in peace possess,
Nor are their prospects in reversion less.
My Proselytes are struck with awfull dread, 380
Your bloudy Comet-laws hang blazing o’re their head.
The respite they enjoy but onely lent,
The best they have to hope, protracted punishment.
Be judge your self, if int’rest may prevail,
Which motives, yours or mine, will turn the scale. 385
While pride and pomp allure, and plenteous ease,
That is, till man’s predominant passions cease,
Admire no longer at my slow encrease.
By education most have been misled;
So they believe, because they so were bred. 390
The Priest continues what the nurse began,
And thus the child imposes on the man.
The rest I nam’d before, nor need repeat;
But int’rest is the most prevailing cheat,
The sly seducer both of age and youth; 395
They study that, and think they study truth:
When int’rest fortifies an argument,
Weak reason serves to gain the wills assent;
For souls, already warp’d, receive an easie bent.
Add long prescription of establish’d laws, 400
And picque of honour to maintain a cause,
And shame of change, and fear of future ill,
And Zeal, the blind conductor of the will;
And chief among the still mistaking crowd,
The fame of teachers obstinate and proud, 405
And, more than all, the private Judge allowed.
Disdain of Fathers which the daunce began,
And last, uncertain whose the narrower span,
The clown unread, and half-read gentleman.
To this the Panther, with a scornfull smile: 410
Yet still you travail with unwearied toil,
And range around the realm without controll
Among my sons for proselytes to prole,
And here and there you snap some silly soul.
You hinted fears of future change in state, 415
Pray heav’n you did not prophesie your fate;
Perhaps you think your time of triumph near,
But may mistake the season of the year;
The Swallows fortune gives you cause to fear.
For charity (reply’d the Matron) tell 420
What sad mischance those pretty birds befell.
Nay, no mischance, (the salvage Dame reply’d,)
But want of wit in their unerring guide,
And eager haste and gaudy hopes and giddy pride.
Yet, wishing timely warning may prevail, 425
Make you the moral, and I’ll tell the tale.
The Swallow, privileg’d above the rest
Of all the birds as man’s familiar guest,
Pursues the Sun in summer brisk and bold,
But wisely shuns the persecuting cold: 430
Is well to chancels and to chimnies known,
Though ’tis not thought she feeds on smoak alone.
From hence she has been held of heav’nly line,
Endu’d with particles of soul divine.
This merry Chorister had long possess’d 435
Her summer seat, and feather’d well her nest:
Till frowning skys began to change their chear,
And time turn’d up the wrong side of the year;
The shedding trees began the ground to strow
With yellow leaves, and bitter blasts to blow. 440
Sad auguries of winter thence she drew,
Which by instinct, or Prophecy, she knew:
When prudence warn’d her to remove betimes,
And seek a better heav’n and warmer clymes.
Her sons were summon’d on a steeples height, 445
And, call’d in common council, vote a flight;
The day was nam’d, the next that shou’d be fair,
All to the gen’ral rendezvous repair,
They try their flutt’ring wings and trust themselves in air.
But whether upward to the moon they go, 450
Or dream the winter out in caves below,
Or hawk at flies elsewhere, concerns not us to know.
Southwards, you may be sure, they bent their flight,
And harbour’d in a hollow rock at night;
Next morn they rose, and set up ev’ry sail; 455
The wind was fair, but blew a mackrel gale:
The sickly young sat shiv’ring on the shoar,
Abhorr’d salt-water never seen before,
And pray’d their tender mothers to delay
The passage, and expect a fairer day. 460
With these the Martyn readily concurr’d,
A church-begot and church-believing bird;
Of little body, but of lofty mind,
Round belly’d, for a dignity design’d,
And much a dunce, as Martyns are by kind. 465
Yet often quoted Canon-laws and Code
And Fathers which he never understood,
But little learning needs in noble bloud.
For, sooth to say, the Swallow brought him in,
Her household Chaplain, and her next of kin. 470
In Superstition silly to excess,
And casting Schemes, by planetary guess:
In fine, shortwing’d, unfit himself to fly,
His fear foretold foul-weather in the sky.
Besides, a Raven from a withered Oak, 475
Left of their lodging, was observed to croke.
That omen lik’d him not, so his advice
Was present safety, bought at any price:
(A seeming pious care that covered cowardise.)
To strengthen this, he told a boding dream, 480
Of rising waters and a troubl’d stream,
Sure signs of anguish, dangers, and distress,
With something more, not lawfull to express:
By which he slyly seemed to intimate
Some secret revelation of their fate. 485
For he concluded, once upon a time,
He found a leaf inscrib’d with sacred rime,
Whose antique characters did well denote
The Sibyl’s hand of the Cumæan Grott:
The mad divineress had plainly writ, 490
A time should come (but many ages yet,)
In which, sinister destinies ordain,
A Dame should drown with all her feather’d train,
At this, some shook for fear, the more devout 495
Arose, and bless’d themselves from head to foot.
’Tis true, some stagers of the wiser sort
Made all these idle wonderments their sport
They said, their onely danger was delay,
And he who heard what ev’ry fool cou’d say, 500
Would never fix his thoughts, but trim his time away.
The passage yet was good; the wind, ’tis true,
Was somewhat high, but that was nothing new,
Nor more than usual Equinoxes blew.
The Sun (already from the scales declin’d) 505
Gave little hopes of better days behind,
But change from bad to worse of weather and of wind.
Nor need they fear the dampness of the Sky
Should flag their wings, and hinder them to fly,
’Twas onely water thrown on sails too dry. 510
But, least of all, Philosophy presumes
Of truth in dreams, from melancholy fumes;
Perhaps the Martyn, hous’d in holy ground,
Might think of Ghosts that walk their midnight round,
Till grosser atoms tumbling in the stream 515
Of fancy, madly met and clubb’d into a dream.
As little weight his vain presages bear,
Of ill effect to such alone who fear.
Most prophecies are of a piece with these,
Each Nostradamus can foretell with ease: 520
Not naming persons, and confounding times,
One casual truth supports a thousand lying rimes.
Th’ advice was true, but fear had seized the most,
And all good counsel is on cowards lost.
The question crudely put, to shun delay, 525
’Twas carried by the major part to stay.
His point thus gained, Sir Martyn dated thence
His pow’r, and from a Priest became a Prince.
He order’d all things with a busie care,
And cells, and refectories did prepare, 530
And large provisions laid of winter fare.
But now and then let fall a word or two
Of hope, that heav’n some miracle might show,
And, for their sakes the sun should backward go;
Against the laws of nature upward climb, 535
And, mounted on the Ram, renew the prime:
For which two proofs in Sacred story lay,
Of Ahaz dial and of Joshuah’s day.
In expectation of such times as these
A chapel hous’d ‘em, truly called of ease: 540
For Martyn much devotion did not ask,
They pray’d sometimes, and that was all their task.
It happen’d (as beyond the reach of wit
Blind prophecies may have a lucky hit)
That this accomplish’d, or at least in part, 545
