Horneck’s fierce eye, and Roome’s funereal frown.
Lo sneering Goode, half malice and half whim,
A fiend in glee, ridiculously grim.
Each cygnet sweet, of Bath and Tunbridge race, 155
Whose tuneful whistling makes the waters pass:
Each songster, riddler, ev’ry nameless name,
All crowd, who foremost shall be damn’d to Fame.
Some strain in rhyme: the Muses, on their racks,
Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks: 160
Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check,
Break Priscian’s head, and Pegasus’s neck;
Down, down they larum, with impetuous whirl,
The Pindars and the Miltons of a Curll.
‘Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 165
And makes night hideous — Answer him, ye owls!
‘Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead,
Let all give way — and Morris may be read.
Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, beer,
Tho’ stale, not ripe, tho’ thin, yet never clear; 170
So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull;
Heady, not strong; o’erflowing, tho’ not full.
Ah, Dennis! Gildon, ah! what ill-starr’d rage
Divides a friendship long confirm’d by age?
Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, 175
But fool with fool is barb’rous civil war.
Embrace, embrace, my sons! be foes no more!
Nor glad vile poets with true critics’ gore.
‘Behold yon pair, in strict embraces join’d;
How like in manners, and how like in mind! 180
Equal in wit, and equally polite
Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write;
Like are their merits, like rewards they share,
That shines a Consul, this Commissioner.’
‘But who is he, in closet close y-pent, 185
Of sober face, with learned dust besprent?
Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight,
On parchment scraps y-fed and Wormius hight.
To future ages may thy dulness last,
As thou preserv’st the dulness of the past! 190
‘There, dim in clouds, the poring scholiasts mark,
Wits, who, like owls, see only in the dark,
A lumberhouse of books in ev’ry head,
For ever reading, never to be read!
‘But, where each science lifts its modern type, 195
Hist’ry her pot, Divinity her pipe,
While proud Philosophy repines to show,
Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below,
Imbrown’d with native bronze, lo! Henley stands,
Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands. 200
How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue!
How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung!
Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain,
While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson preach in vain.
O great restorer of the good old stage, 205
Preacher at once, and Zany of thy age!
O worthy thou of Egypt’s wise abodes,
A decent priest where monkeys were the gods!
But fate with butchers placed thy priestly stall,
Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and maul; 210
And bade thee live, to crown Britannia’s praise,
In Toland’s, Tindal’s, and in Woolston’s days.
‘Yet, oh, my sons! a father’s words attend
(So may the Fates preserve the ears you lend):
‘T is yours a Bacon or a Locke to blame, 215
A Newton’s genius, or a Milton’s flame:
But, oh! with One, immortal One, dispense,
The source of Newton’s light, of Bacon’s sense.
Content, each emanation of his fires
That beams on earth, each virtue he inspires, 220
Each art he prompts, each charm he can create,
Whate’er he gives, are giv’n for you to hate.
Persist, by all divine in man unawed,
But learn, ye Dunces! not to scorn your God.’
Thus he, for then a ray of Reason stole 225
Half thro’ the solid darkness of his soul;
But soon the cloud return’d — and thus the sire:
‘See now what Dulness and her sons admire!
See what the charms that smite the simple heart,
Not touch’d by Nature, and not reach’d by art.’ 230
His never-blushing head he turn’d aside
(Not half so pleas’d when Goodman prophesied),
And look’d, and saw a sable sorcerer rise,
Swift to whose hand a winged volume flies:
All sudden, Gorgons hiss, and Dragons glare, 235
And ten-horn’d Fiends and Giants rush to war;
Hell rises, Heav’n descends, and dance on earth;
Gods, imps, and monsters, music, rage, and mirth,
A fire, a jig, a battle, and a ball,
Till one wide conflagration swallows all. 240
Thence a new world, to Nature’s laws unknown,
Breaks out refulgent, with a Heav’n its own:
Another Cynthia her new journey runs,
And other planets circle other suns.
The forests dance, the rivers upward rise, 245
Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies:
And last, to give the whole creation grace,
Lo! one vast egg produces human race.
Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought:
‘What Power (he cries), what Power these wonders wrought?’ 250
‘Son, what thou seek’st is in thee! look and find
Each monster meets his likeness in thy mind.
Yet would’st thou more? in yonder cloud behold,
Whose sarsenet skirts are edged with flamy gold,
A matchless youth! his nod these worlds controls, 255
Wings the red lightning, and the thunder rolls.
Angel of Dulness, sent to scatter round
Her magic charms o’er all unclassic ground,
Yon stars, yon suns, he rears at pleasure higher,
Illumes their light, and sets their flames on fire. 260
Immortal Rich! how calm he sits at ease,
Midst snows of paper, and fierce hail of pease!
And proud his mistress’ orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
‘But lo! to dark encounter in mid air 265
New wizards rise; I see my Cibber there!
Booth in his cloudy tabernacle shrined;
On grinning dragons thou shalt mount the wind.
Dire is the conflict, dismal is the din,
Here shouts all Drury, there all Lincoln’s-inn; 270
Contending theatres our empire raise,
Alike their labours, and alike their praise.
‘And are these wonders, Son, to thee unknown?
Unknown to thee! these wonders are thy own.
These Fate reserv’d to grace thy reign divine, 275
Foreseen by me, but ah! withheld from mine.
In Lud’s old walls tho’ long I ruled renown’d,
Far as loud Bow’s stupendous bells resound;
Tho’ my own aldermen conferr’d the bays,
To me committing their eternal praise, 280
Their full-fed heroes, their pacific mayors,
Their annual trophies, and their monthly wars;
Tho’ long my party built on me their hopes,
For writing pamphlets, and for roasting Popes;
Yet lo! in me what authors have to brag on! 285
Reduced at last to hiss in my own dragon.
Avert it, Heav’n! that thou, my Cibber, e’er
Shouldst wag a serpent-tail in Smithfield fair!
Like the vile straw that ‘s
blown about the streets,
The needy poet sticks to all he meets, 290
Coach’d, carted, trod upon, now loose, now fast,
And carried off in some dog’s tail at last.
Happier thy fortunes! like a rolling stone,
Thy giddy dulness still shall lumber on;
Safe in its heaviness, shall never stray, 295
But lick up every blockhead in the way.
Thee shall the patriot, thee the courtier taste,
And ev’ry year be duller than the last;
Till raised from booths, to theatre, to Court,
Her seat imperial Dulness shall transport. 300
Already Opera prepares the way,
The sure forerunner of her gentle sway:
Let her thy heart (next Drabs and Dice) engage,
The third mad passion of thy doting age.
Teach thou the warbling Polypheme to roar, 305
And scream thyself as none e’er scream’d before!
To aid our cause, if Heav’n thou canst not bend,
Hell thou shalt move; for Faustus is our friend:
Pluto with Cato thou for this shalt join,
And link the Mourning Bride to Proserpine, 310
Grub-street! thy fall should men and Gods conspire,
Thy stage shall stand, insure it but from fire.
Another Æschylus appears! prepare
For new abortions, all ye pregnant fair!
In flames like Semele’s, be brought to bed, 315
While opening Hell spouts wildfire at your head.
‘Now, Bavius, take the poppy from thy brow,
And place it here! here, all ye heroes, bow!
This, this is he foretold by ancient rhymes,
Th’ Augustus born to bring Saturnian times. 320
Signs foll’wing signs lead on the mighty year!
See the dull stars roll round and reappear!
See, see, our own true Phœbus wears the bays!
Our Midas sits Lord Chancellor of plays!
On poets’ tombs see Benson’s titles writ! 325
Lo! Ambrose Philips is preferr’d for wit!
See under Ripley rise a new Whitehall,
While Jones’ and Boyle’s united labours fall;
While Wren with sorrow to the grave descends,
Gay dies unpension’d with a hundred friends, 330
Hibernian politics, O Swift! thy fate,
And Pope’s, ten years to comment and translate!
‘Proceed, great days! till learning fly the shore,
Till birch shall blush with noble blood no more;
Till Thames see Eton’s sons for ever play, 335
Till Westminster’s whole year be holiday;
Till Isis’ elders reel, their pupils’ sport,
And Alma Mater lie dissolv’d in port!’
‘Enough! enough!’ the raptured monarch cries,
And thro’ the iv’ry gate the vision flies. 340
NEW DUNCIAD. BOOK IV
ARGUMENT
The poet being, in this book, to declare the Completion of the Prophecies mentioned at the end of the former, makes a new Invocation; as the greater poets are wont, when some high and worthy matter is to be sung. He shows the Goddess coming in her majesty to destroy Order and Science, and to substitute the Kingdom of the Dull upon earth: how she leads captive the Sciences, and silences the Muses; and what they be who succeed in their stead. All her children, by a wonderful attraction, are drawn about her; and bear along with them divers others, who promote her empire by connivance, weak resistance, or discouragement of Arts; such as Half-wits, tasteless Admirers, vain Pretenders, the Flatterers of Dunces, or the Patrons of them. All these crowd round her; one of them offering to approach her, is driven back by a rival, but she commends and encourages both. The first who speak in form are the Geniuses of the Schools, who assure her of their care to advance her cause by confining youth to words, and keeping them out of the way of real knowledge. Their address, and her gracious answer; with her charge to them and the Universities. The Universities appear by their proper deputies, and assure her that the same method is observed in the progress of Education. The speech of Aristarchus on this subject. They are driven off by a band of young Gentlemen returned from travel with their tutors; one of whom delivers to the Goddess, in a polite oration, an account of the whole conduct and fruits of their travels; presenting to her at the same time a young Nobleman perfectly accomplished. She receives him graciously, and endues him with the happy quality of Want of Shame. She sees loitering about her a number of indolent persons abandoning all business and duty, and dying with laziness: to these approaches the antiquary Annius, entreating her to make them Virtuosos, and assign them over to him; but Mummius, another antiquary, complaining of his fraudulent proceeding, she finds a method to reconcile their difference. Then enter a troop of people fantastically adorned, offering her strange and exotic Presents: among them, one stands forth, and demands justice on another who had deprived him of one of the greatest curiosities in Nature; but he justifies himself so well, that the Goddess gives them both her approbation. She recommends to them to find proper employment for the Indolents before mentioned, in the study of Butterflies, Shells, Birds-nests, Moss, &c., but with particular caution not to proceed beyond trifles, to any useful or extensive views of Nature, or of the Author of Nature. Against the last of these apprehensions, she is secured by a hearty address from the Minute Philosophers and Freethinkers, one of whom speaks in the name of the rest. The Youth thus instructed and principled, are delivered to her in a body, by the hands of Silenus; and then admitted to taste the cup of the Magus, her high priest, which causes a total oblivion of all Obligations, divine, civil, moral, or rational. To these her adepts she sends Priests, Attendants, and Comforters, of various kinds; confers on them Orders and Degrees; and then dismissing them with a speech, confirming to each his privileges, and telling what she expects from each, concludes with a Yawn of extraordinary virtue: the Progress and Effects whereof on all orders of men, and the Consummation of all, in the restoration of Night and Chaos, conclude the Poem.
YET, yet a moment, one dim ray of light
Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night!
Of darkness visible so much be lent,
As half to show, half veil the deep intent.
Ye Powers! Whose mysteries restor’d I sing, 5
To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing,
Suspend a while your force inertly strong,
Then take at once the Poet and the Song.
Now flamed the Dogstar’s unpropitious ray,
Smote ev’ry brain, and wither’d ev’ry bay; 10
Sick was the sun, the owl forsook his bower,
The moon-struck prophet felt the madding hour:
Then rose the seed of Chaos, and of Night,
To blot out Order, and extinguish Light,
Of dull and venal a new world to mould, 15
And bring Saturnian days of Lead and Gold.
She mounts the Throne: her head a cloud conceal’d,
In broad effulgence all below reveal’d
(‘T is thus aspiring Dulness ever shines);
Soft on her lap her Laureate Son reclines: 20
Beneath her footstool Science groans in chains,
And Wit dreads exile, penalties, and pains.
There foam’d rebellious Logic, gagg’d and bound;
There, stript, fair Rhetoric languish’d on the ground;
His blunted arms by Sophistry are borne, 25
And shameless Billingsgate her robes adorn,
Morality, by her false guardians drawn,
Chicane in furs, and Casuistry in lawn,
Gasps, as they straiten at each end the cord,
And dies when Dulness gives her Page the word. 30
Mad Mathesis alone was unconfin’d,
Too mad for mere material chains to bind,
Now to pure Space lifts her ecstatic stare,
&nbs
p; Now running round the Circle, finds it square.
But held in tenfold bonds the Muses lie, 35
Watch’d both by envy’s and by flatt’ry’s eye.
There to her heart sad Tragedy addrest
The dagger, wont to pierce the Tyrant’s breast;
But sober History restrain’d her rage,
And promis’d vengeance on a barb’rous age. 40
There sunk Thalia, nerveless, cold, and dead,
Had not her sister Satire held her head:
Nor couldst thou, Chesterfield! a tear refuse,
Thou wept’st, and with thee wept each gentle Muse.
When lo! a harlot form soft sliding by, 45
With mincing step, small voice, and languid eye:
Foreign her air, her robe’s discordant pride
In patchwork flutt’ring, and her head aside;
By singing peers upheld on either hand,
She tripp’d and laugh’d, too pretty much to stand; 50
Cast on the prostrate Nine a scornful look,
Then thus in quaint recitativo spoke:
‘O cara! cara! silence all that train!
Joy to great Chaos! let Division reign!
Chromatic tortures soon shall drive them hence, 55
Break all their nerves, and fritter all their sense:
One Trill shall harmonize joy, grief, and rage,
Wake the dull Church, and lull the ranting Stage;
To the same notes thy sons shall hum, or snore,
And all thy yawning daughters cry encore. 60
Another Phœbus, thy own Phœbus, reigns,
Joys in my jigs, and dances in my chains.
But soon, ah, soon, rebellion will commence,
If Music meanly borrows aid from Sense:
Strong in new arms, lo! giant Handel stands, 65
Like bold Briareus, with a hundred hands;
To stir, to rouse, to shake the soul he comes,
And Jove’s own thunders follow Mars’s drums.
Arrest him, Empress, or you sleep no more’ ——
She heard, and drove him to th’ Hibernian shore. 70
And now had Fame’s posterior trumpet blown,
And all the nations summon’d to the Throne:
The young, the old, who feel her inward sway,
One instinct seizes, and transports away.
None need a guide, by sure attraction led, 75
And strong impulsive gravity of head:
None want a place, for all their centre found,
Hung to the Goddess, and cohered around.
Not closer, orb in orb, conglobed are seen
The buzzing bees about their dusky queen. 80
The gath’ring number, as it moves along,
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