Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
And bear oppression’s insolence no more.
This mournful truth is ev’ry where confess’d,
SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS’D:
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;
Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor’d,
The groom retails the favours of his lord.
But hark! th’ affrighted crowd’s tumultuous cries
Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:
Rais’d from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow’r,
Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow’r,
Aghast you start, and scarce, with aching sight,
Sustain th’ approaching fire’s tremendous light;
Swift from pursuing horrours take your way,
And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;
Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam;
For where can starving merit find a home?
In vain your mournful narrative disclose,
While all neglect, and most insult your woes.
Should heav’n’s just bolts Orgilio’s wealth confound,
And spread his flaming palace on the ground,
Swift o’er the land the dismal rumour flies,
And publick mournings pacify the skies;
The laureate tribe in venal verse relate,
How virtue wars with persecuting fate;
With well-feign’d gratitude the pension’d band
Refund the plunder of the beggar’d land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;
The price of boroughs and of souls restore;
And raise his treasures higher than before.
Now bless’d with all the baubles of the great,
The polish’d marble and the shining plate,
Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from angry heav’n another fire.
Could’st thou resign the park and play, content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There might’st thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling senator’s deserted seat;
And stretch thy prospects o’er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;
And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord:
There ev’ry bush with nature’s musick rings;
There ev’ry breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours security shall smile,
And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.
Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,
And sign your will, before you sup from home.
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps on brambles, till he kills his man;
Some frolick drunkard, reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.
Yet e’en these heroes, mischievously gay,
Lords of the street, and terrours of the way;
Flush’d, as they are, with folly, youth, and wine;
Their prudent insults to the poor confine;
Afar they mark the flambeau’s bright approach,
And shun the shining train, and golden coach.
In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close,
And hope the balmy blessings of repose;
Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,
The midnight murd’rer bursts the faithless bar;
Invades the sacred hour of silent rest,
And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.
Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,
With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.
Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band,
Whose ways and meanssupport the sinking land:
Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring,
To rig another convoy for the king.
A single gaol, in Alfred’s golden reign,
Could half the nation’s criminals contain;
Fair justice, then, without constraint ador’d,
Held high the steady scale, but sheath’d the sword ;
No spies were paid, no special juries known,
Blest age! but ah! how different from our own!
Much could I add, — but see the boat at hand,
The tide, retiring, calls me from the land:
Farewell! — When youth, and health, and fortune spent,
Thou fly’st for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
And, tir’d, like me, with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn’st succeeding times;
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
In virtue’s cause, once more, exert his rage,
Thy satire point, and animate thy page.
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES;
IN IMITATION OF
THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.
Let observation, with extensive view,
Survey mankind, from China to Peru;
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;
Then say, how hope and fear, desire and hate
O’erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate,
Where wav’ring man, betray’d by vent’rous pride
To tread the dreary paths, without a guide,
As treach’rous phantoms in the mist delude,
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good;
How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice,
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice.
How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress’d,
When vengeance listens to the fool’s request.
Fate wings with ev’ry wish th’ afflictive dart,
Each gift of nature, and each grace of art;
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows,
With fatal sweetness elocution flows,
Impeachment stops the speaker’s pow’rful breath,
And restless fire precipitates on death.
But, scarce observ’d, the knowing and the bold
Fall in the gen’ral massacre of gold;
Wide wasting pest! that rages unconfin’d,
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind;
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws,
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws;
Wealth heap’d on wealth, nor truth nor safety buys,
The dangers gather as the treasures rise.
Let hist’ry tell where rival kings command,
And dubious title shakes the madded land,
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword,
How much more safe the vassal than the lord;
Low sculks the hind beneath the rage of power,
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower,
Untouch’d his cottage, and his slumbers sound,
Though confiscation’s vultures hover round.
The needy traveller, serene and gay,
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away.
Does envy seize thee? crush th’ upbraiding joy;
Increase his riches, and his peace destroy;
Now fears, in dire vicissitude, invade,
The rustling brake alarms, and quiv’ring shade;
Nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief,
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief.
Yet still one gen’ral cry the skies assails,
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales:
Few kno
w the toiling statesman’s fear or care,
Th’ insidious rival, and the gaping heir.
Once more, Democritus, arise on earth,
With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth,
See motley life in modern trappings dress’d,
And feed with varied fools th’ eternal jest:
Thou, who could’st laugh where want enchain’d caprice,
Toil crush’d conceit, and man was of a piece;
Where wealth, unlov’d, without a mourner died;
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride;
Where ne’er was known the form of mock debate,
Or seen a new-made mayor’s unwieldy state;
Where change of fav’rites made no change of laws,
And senates heard, before they judg’d a cause;
How would’st thou shake at Britain’s modish tribe,
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe?
Attentive truth and nature to descry,
And pierce each scene with philosophick eye;
To thee were solemn toys, or empty show,
The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe:
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain,
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain.
Such was the scorn that fill’d the sage’s mind,
Renew’d at ev’ry glance on human kind;
How just that scorn, ere yet thy voice declare,
Search ev’ry state, and canvass ev’ry pray’r.
Unnumber’d suppliants crowd preferment’s gate,
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive fortune hears th’ incessant call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On ev’ry stage the foes of peace attend,
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman’s door
Pours in the morning worshipper no more;
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies,
To growing wealth the dedicator flies;
From ev’ry room descends the painted face,
That hung the bright palladium of the place;
And, smok’d in kitchens, or in auctions sold,
To better features yields the frame of gold;
For now no more we trace in ev’ry line
Heroick worth, benevolence divine:
The form, distorted, justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th’ indignant wall.
But will not Britain hear the last appeal,
Sign her foes’ doom, or guard her fav’rites’ zeal?
Through freedom’s sons no more remonstrance rings,
Degrading nobles and controling kings;
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,
And ask no questions but the price of votes;
With weekly libels and septennial ale,
Their wish is full to riot and to rail.
In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand;
To him the church, the realm their pow’rs consign,
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine;
Turn’d by his nod the stream of honour flows,
His smile alone security bestows.
Still to new heights his restless wishes tow’r,
Claim leads to claim, and pow’r advances pow’r;
Till conquest, unresisted, ceas’d to please,
And rights, submitted, left him none to seize.
At length his sov’reign frowns — the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate.
Where’er he turns, he meets a stranger’s eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
Now drops, at once, the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glitt’ring plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liv’ried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppress’d,
He seeks the refuge of monastick rest:
Grief aids disease, remember’d folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.
Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine,
Shall Wolsey’s wealth, with Wolsey’s end, be thine?
Or liv’st thou now, with safer pride content,
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent?
For, why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate,
On weak foundations raise th’ enormous weight?
Why but to sink beneath misfortune’s blow,
With louder ruin to the gulfs below?
What gave great Villiers to th’ assassin’s knife,
And fix’d disease on Harley’s closing life?
What murder’d Wentworth, and what exil’d Hyde,
By kings protected, and to kings allied?
What but their wish indulg’d in courts to shine,
And pow’r too great to keep, or to resign?
When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Through all his veins the fever of renown
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown;
O’er Bodley’s dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon’s mansion trembles o’er his head.
Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth,
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth!
Yet, should thy soul indulge the gen’rous heat
Till captive science yields her last retreat;
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty doubt resistless day;
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a letter’d heart;
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor melancholy’s phantoms haunt thy shade;
Yet hope not life, from grief or danger free,
Nor think the doom of man revers’d for thee:
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
And pause awhile from letters, to be wise;
There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol.
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,
Hear Lydiat’s life, and Galileo’s end.
Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows,
The glitt’ring eminence exempt from woes;
See, when the vulgar scape, despis’d or aw’d,
Rebellion’s vengeful talons seize on Laud.
From meaner minds though smaller fines content,
The plunder’d palace, or sequester’d rent;
Mark’d out by dang’rous parts, he meets the shock,
And fatal learning leads him to the block:
Around his tomb let art and genius weep,
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep.
The festal blazes, the triumphal show,
The ravish’d standard, and the captive foe,
The senate’s thanks, the gazette’s pompous tale,
With force resistless o’er the brave prevail.
Such bribes the rapid Greek o’er Asia whirl’d;
For such the steady Romans shook the world;
For such, in distant lands, the Britons shine,
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine;
This pow’r has praise, that virtue scarce can warm,
Till fame supplies the universal charm.
Yet reason frown
s on war’s unequal game,
Where wasted nations raise a single name;
And mortgag’d states, their grandsires’ wreaths regret.
From age to age in everlasting debt;
Wreaths which, at last, the dear-bought right convey
To rust on medals, or on stones decay.
On what foundation stands the warriour’s pride,
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O’er love, o’er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer’d lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacifick sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their pow’rs combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain;
“Think nothing gain’d,” he cries, “till nought remain,
On Moscow’s walls till Gothick standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky.”
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast,
And winter barricades the realm of frost;
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay; —
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa’s day:
The vanquish’d hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemn’d a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not chance, at length, her errour mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destin’d to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
All times their scenes of pompous woes afford,
From Persia’s tyrant to Bavaria’s lord.
In gay hostility and barb’rous pride,
With half mankind embattl’d at his side,
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey,
And starves exhausted regions in his way;
Attendant flatt’ry counts his myriads o’er,
Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more;
Fresh praise is try’d till madness fires his mind,
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind,
New pow’rs are claim’d, new pow’rs are still bestow’d,
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god;
The daring Greeks deride the martial show,
And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe;
Complete Works of Samuel Johnson Page 606