While Roman Spirit charms, and Attic Wit?
Argyle, the state’s whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate and the field?
Or Wyndham, just to freedom and the throne, 260
The Master of our Passions and his own?
Names which I long have lov’d, nor lov’d in vain,
Rank’d with their friends, not number’d with their train;
And if yet higher the proud list should end,
Still let me say, — no foll’wer, but a Friend. 265
Yet think not friendship only prompts my lays;
I follow Virtue; where she shines I praise,
Point she to priest or elder, Whig, or Tory,
Or round a quaker’s beaver cast a glory.
I never (to my sorrow I declare) 270
Dined with the Man of Ross or my Lord Mayor.
Some in their choice of friends (nay, look not grave)
Have still a secret bias to a knave:
To find an honest man I beat about,
And love him, court him, praise him, in or out. 275
F. Then why so few commended?
P. Not so fierce;
Find you the Virtue, and I ‘ll find the Verse.
But random praise — the task can ne’er be done;
Each mother asks it for her booby son;
Each widow asks it for the best of men, 280
For him she weeps, for him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground;
The number may be hang’d, but not be crown’d.
Enough for half the greatest of these days
To ‘scape my Censure, not expect my Praise. 285
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend? —
What Richelieu wanted, Louis scarce could gain,
And what young Ammon wish’d, but wish’d in vain.
No power the Muse’s friendship can command; 290
No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand.
To Cato, Virgil paid one honest line;
O let my country’s friends illumine mine!
— What are you thinking? F. Faith, the thought’s no sin;
I think your friends are out, and would be in. 295
P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out,
The way they take is strangely round about.
F. They too may be corrupted, you ‘ll allow?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that-too little? come, then, I ‘ll comply — 300
Spirit of Arnall, aid me while I lie!
Cobham ‘s a coward! Polworth is a slave!
And Lyttelton a dark designing knave!
St. John has ever been a wealthy fool! —
But let me add, Sir Robert ‘s mighty dull, 305
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife!
But pray, when others praise him, do I blame?
Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name?
Why rail they then if but a wreath of mine, 310
O all-accomplish’d St. John! deck thy shrine?
What! shall each spur-gall’d hackney of the day,
When Paxton gives him double pots and pay,
Or each new-pension’d Sycophant, pretend
To break my windows if I treat a friend; 315
Then, wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt,
But ‘t was my guest at whom they threw the dirt?
Sure if I spare the Minister, no rules
Of honour bind me not to maul his Tools;
Sure if they cannot cut, it may be said 320
His saws are toothless, and his hatchet’s lead.
It anger’d Turenne, once upon a day,
To see a footman kick’d that took his pay;
But when he heard th’ affront the fellow gave,
Knew one a Man of Honour, one a Knave, 325
The prudent Gen’ral turn’d it to a jest,
And begg’d he ‘d take the pains to kick the rest;
Which not at present having time to do —
F. Hold, Sir! for God’s sake, where ‘s th’ affront to you?
Against your worship when had S[herloc]k writ, 330
Or P[a]ge pour’d forth the torrent of his wit?
Or grant the bard whose distich all commend
(‘In power a servant, out of power a friend’)
To W[alpo]le guilty of some venial sin,
What ‘s that to you who ne’er was out nor in? 335
The Priest whose flattery bedropp’d the crown,
How hurt he you? he only stain’d the gown.
And how did, pray, the florid youth offend,
Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?
P. Faith, it imports not much from whom it came; 340
Whoever borrow’d could not be to blame,
Since the whole House did afterwards the same.
Let courtly Wits to Wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly:
If one, thro’ Nature’s bounty or his Lord’s 345
Has what the frugal dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in;
The blessed benefit, not there confin’d,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind; 350
From tail to mouth they feed and they carouse;
The last full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy simile, this beastly line,
Quite turns my stomach — P. So does flatt’ry mine;
And all your courtly civet-cats can vent, 355
Perfume to you, to me is excrement.
But hear me further — Japhet, ‘t is agreed,
Writ not, and Chartres scarce could write or read
In all the courts of Pindus, guiltless quite;
But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write, 360
And must no egg in Japhet’s face be thrown,
Because the deed he forged was not my own?
Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous Pastor blame a failing spouse 365
Without a staring reason on his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult ‘s not on man but God?
Ask you what provocation I have had?
The strong antipathy of good to bad. 370
When Truth or Virtue an affront endures,
Th’ affront is mine, my friend, and should be yours.
Mine, as a foe profess’d to false pretence,
Who think a coxcomb’s honour like his sense;
Mine, as a friend to ev’ry worthy mind; 375
And mine as man, who feel for all mankind.
F. You ‘re strangely proud.
P. So proud, I am no slave;
So impudent, I own myself no knave;
So odd, my country’s ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see 380
Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me;
Safe from the Bar, the Pulpit, and the Throne,
Yet touch’d and shamed by Ridicule alone.
O sacred weapon! left for Truth’s defence,
Sole dread of Folly, Vice, and Insolence, 385
To all but Heav’n-directed hands denied,
The Muse may give thee, but the Gods must guide!
Rev’rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To Virtue’s work provoke the tardy hall, 390
And goad the Prelate, slumb’ring in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a Court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o’er the eye of day!
The Mus
e’s wing shall brush you all away. 395
All His Grace preaches, all His Lordship sings,
All that makes Saints of Queens, and Gods of Kings;
All, all but Truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last Gazette, or the last Address.
When black Ambition stains a public cause, 400
A Monarch’s sword when mad Vainglory draws,
Not Waller’s wreath can hide the nation’s scar,
Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.
Not so when, diadem’d with rays divine,
Touch’d with the flame that breaks from Virtue’s shrine, 405
Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the Temple of Eternity.
There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars than [Kent] and [Grafton] wear, 410
And may descend to Mordington from Stair; —
Such as on Hough’s unsullied mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.
Let envy howl, while heav’n’s whole chorus sings,
And bark at honour not conferr’d by Kings; 415
Let Flatt’ry sick’ning see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the Poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for Freedom let me draw, 420
When Truth stands trembling on the edge of law
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read;
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead;
And for that cause which made your fathers shine
Fall by the votes of their degen’rate line. 425
F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.
The Sixth Satire of the Second Book of Horace
The First Part Imitated in the Year 1714 by Dr. Swift; the Latter Part Added Afterwards
Of the following Imitations of Horace the first two are rather imitations of Swift, Horace merely supplying the text for the travesty. For (as previous editors have not failed to point out) no styles could be found less like one another than the bland and polite style of Horace and the downright, and often cynically plain, manner of Swift. With Pope the attempt to write in Swift’s style was a mere tour de force, which he could indeed carry out with success through a few lines, but not further, without relapsing into his own more elaborate manner. Swift’s marvellous precision and netteté of expression are something very different from Pope’s pointed and rhetorical elegance. The Ode to Venus, which was first published in 1737, more nearly approaches the character of a translation. (Ward.)
I ‘VE often wish’d that I had clear
For life six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden’s end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood 5
Of land set out to plant a wood.
Well, now I have all this, and more,
I ask not to increase my store;
But here a grievance seems to lie,
All this is mine but till I die; 10
I can’t but think ‘t would sound more clever,
To me and to my heirs for ever.
If I ne’er got or lost a groat
By any trick or any fault;
And if I pray by Reason’s rules, 15
And not like forty other fools,
As thus: ‘Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker!
To grant me this and t’ other acre;
Or, if it be thy will and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure; 20
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, almighty Providence!
Just what you gave me, Competence;
And let me in these shades compose 25
Something in verse as true as prose,
Remov’d from all th’ ambitious scene,
Nor puff’d by Pride, nor sunk by Spleen.’
In short, I ‘m perfectly content,
Let me but live on this side Trent, 30
Nor cross the channel twice a year,
To spend six months with statesmen here.
I must by all means come to town,
T is for the service of the Crown;
‘Lewis, the Dean will be of use; 35
Send for him up; take no excuse.’
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne’er think of these;
Or, let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money ‘s found; 40
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne’er consider’d yet.
‘Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown,
Let my Lord know you ‘re come to town.’
I hurry me in haste away, 45
Not thinking it is Levee day,
And find His Honour in a pound,
Hemm’d by a triple circle round,
Chequer’d with ribbons blue and green:
How should I thrust myself between? 50
Some wag observes me thus perplex’d,
And smiling, whispers to the next,
‘I thought the Dean had been too proud
To jostle here among a crowd.’
Another, in a surly fit, 55
Tells me I have more zeal than wit;
‘So eager to express your love,
You ne’er consider whom you shove,
But rudely press before a Duke.’
I own I ‘m pleas’d with this rebuke, 60
And take it kindly meant, to show
What I desire the world should know.
I get a whisper, and withdraw;
When twenty fools I never saw
Come with petitions fairly penn’d, 65
Desiring I would stand their friend.
This humbly offers me his Case —
That begs my int’rest for a Place —
A hundred other men’s affairs,
Like bees, are humming in my ears; 70
‘To-morrow my appeal comes on,
Without your help the cause is gone.’
‘The Duke expects my Lord and you
About some great affair at two.’
‘Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind 75
To get my warrant quickly sign’d:
Consider, ‘t is my first request.’ —
‘Be satisfied, I ‘ll do my best:’ —
Then presently he falls to tease,
‘You may be certain, if you please; 80
I doubt not, if his Lordship knew —
And, Mr. Dean, one word from you.’ —
‘T is (let me see) three years and more
(October next it will be four)
Since Harley bid me first attend, 85
And chose me for an humble friend:
Would take me in his coach to chat,
And question me of this and that;
As, ‘What ‘s o’clock?’ and, ‘How ‘s the wind?’
‘Whose chariot ‘s that we left behind?’ 90
Or gravely try to read the lines
Writ underneath the country signs;
Or, ‘Have you nothing new to-day
From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?’
Such tattle often entertains 95
My Lord and me as far as Staines,
As once a week we travel down
To Windsor, and again to town,
Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaim’d at Charing-cross. 100
Yet some I know with envy swell
Because they see me used so well.
‘How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean;
My lord and he are grown so great, 105
Always
together tête-à-tête.
What! they admire him for his jokes —
See but the fortune of some folks!’
There flies about a strange report
Of some express arrived at Court; 110
I ‘m stopp’d by all the fools I meet,
And catechised in every street.
‘You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great:
Inform us, will the Emp’ror treat?
Or do the prints and papers lie?’ 115
‘Faith, Sir, you know as much as I.’
‘Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest!
‘T is now no secret.’—’I protest
‘T is one to me.’—’Then tell us, pray,
When are the troops to have their pay?’ 120
And tho’ I solemnly declare
I know no more than my Lord Mayor,
They stand amazed, and think me grown
The closest mortal ever known.
Thus in a sea of folly tost, 125
My choicest hours of life are lost;
Yet always wishing to retreat:
O, could I see my country-seat!
There leaning near a gentle brook,
Sleep, or peruse some ancient book, 130
And there, in sweet oblivion drown
Those cares that haunt the Court and town.
O charming Noons! and Nights divine!
Or when I sup, or when I dine,
My friends above, my folks below, 135
Chatting and laughing all-a-row,
The beans and bacon set before ‘em,
The grace-cup served with all decorum;
Each willing to be pleas’d, and please,
And ev’n the very dogs at ease! 140
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian sings,
A Neighbour’s madness, or his Spouse’s,
Or what ‘s in either of the Houses;
But something much more our concern, 145
And quite a scandal not to learn;
Which is the happier or the wiser,
A man of merit, or a miser?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth or our own ends? 150
What good, or better, we may call,
And what the very best of all?
Our friend Dan Prior told (you know)
A tale extremely à-propos:
Name a town life, and in a trice 155
He had a story of two mice.
Once on a time (so runs the Fable)
A Country Mouse right hospitable,
Received a Town Mouse at his board,
Just as a farmer might a Lord. 160
A frugal mouse, upon the whole,
Yet lov’d his friend, and had a soul;
Knew what was handsome, and would do ‘t,
On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.
He brought him bacon (nothing lean), 165
Pudding that might have pleas’d a Dean;
Alexander Pope - Delphi Poets Series Page 47
