Chapter XIV: Part II (2)

Begin, my lord, in early youth,
To suffer, nay, encourage truth:
And blame me not for disrespect,
If I the flatterer's style reject;
With that, by menial tongues supplied,
You're daily cocker'd up in pride.
The tree's distinguished by the fruit,
Be virtue then your sole pursuit;
Set your great ancestors in view,
Like them deserve the title too;
_10
Like them ignoble actions scorn:
Let virtue prove you greatly born.
Though with less plate their sideboard shone,
Their conscience always was their own;
They ne'er at levees meanly fawned,
Nor was their honour yearly pawned;
Their hands, by no corruption stained,
The ministerial bribe disdained;
They served the crown with loyal zeal;
Yet, jealous of the public weal,
_20
They stood the bulwark of our laws,
And wore at heart their country's cause;
By neither place or pension bought,
They spoke and voted as they thought.
Thus did your sires adorn their seat;
And such alone are truly great.
If you the paths of learning slight,
You're but a dunce in stronger light;
In foremost rank the coward placed,
Is more conspicuously disgraced.
_30
If you to serve a paltry end,
To knavish jobs can condescend,
We pay you the contempt that's due;
In that you have precedence too.
Whence had you this illustrious name?
From virtue and unblemished fame.
By birth the name alone descends;
Your honour on yourself depends:
Think not your coronet can hide
Assuming ignorance and pride.
_40
Learning by study must be won,
'Twas ne'er entailed from son to son.
Superior worth your rank requires;
For that mankind reveres your sires;
If you degenerate from your race,
Their merits heighten your disgrace.
A carrier, every night and morn,
Would see his horses eat their corn:
This sunk the hostler's vails, 'tis true;
But then his horses had their due.
_50
Were we so cautious in all cases,
Small gain would rise from greater places.
The manger now had all its measure;
He heard the grinding teeth with pleasure;
When all at once confusion rung;
They snorted, jostled, bit, and flung:
A pack-horse turned his head aside,
Foaming, his eye-balls swelled with pride.
'Good gods!' says he, 'how hard's my lot!
Is then my high descent forgot?
_60
Reduced to drudgery and disgrace,
(A life unworthy of my race,)
Must I too bear the vile attacks
Of rugged scrubs, and vulgar hacks?
See scurvy Roan, that brute ill-bred,
Dares from the manger thrust my head!
Shall I, who boast a noble line,
On offals of these creatures dine?
Kicked by old Ball! so mean a foe!
My honour suffers by the blow.
_70
Newmarket speaks my grandsire's fame,
All jockies still revere his name:
There yearly are his triumphs told,
There all his massy plates enrolled.
Whene'er led forth upon the plain,
You saw him with a livery train;
Returning too with laurels crowned,
You heard the drums and trumpets sound.
Let it then, sir, be understood,
Respect's my due; for I have blood.'
_80
'Vain-glorious fool!' the carrier cried,
'Respect was never paid to pride.
Know, 'twas thy giddy wilful heart
Reduced thee to this slavish part.
Did not thy headstrong youth disdain
To learn the conduct of the rein?
Thus coxcombs, blind to real merit,
In vicious frolics fancy spirit.
What is't to me by whom begot?
Thou restive, pert, conceited sot.
_90
Your sires I reverence; 'tis their due:
But, worthless fool, what's that to you?
Ask all the carriers on the road,
They'll say thy keeping's ill bestowed.
Then vaunt no more thy noble race,
That neither mends thy strength or pace.
What profits me thy boast of blood?
An ass hath more intrinsic good.
By outward show let's not be cheated;
An ass should like an ass be treated.'
_100

* * * * *

FABLE XII.

PAN AND FORTUNE.

TO A YOUNG HEIR.

Soon as your father's death was known,
(As if the estate had been their own)
The gamesters outwardly express'd
The decent joy within your breast.
So lavish in your praise they grew,
As spoke their certain hopes in you.
One counts your income of the year,
How much in ready money clear.
'No house,' says he, 'is more complete;
The garden's elegant and great.
_10
How fine the park around it lies!
The timber's of a noble size!
Then count his jewels and his plate.
Besides, 'tis no entailed estate.
If cash run low, his lands in fee
Are, or for sale, or mortgage free.'
Thus they, before you threw the main,
Seem to anticipate their gain.
Would you, when thieves were known abroad,
Bring forth your treasures in the road?
_20
Would not the fool abet the stealth,
Who rashly thus exposed his wealth?
Yet this you do, whene'er you play
Among the gentlemen of prey.
Could fools to keep their own contrive,
On what, on whom could gamesters thrive?
Is it in charity you game,
To save your worthy gang from shame?
Unless you furnished daily bread,
Which way could idleness be fed?
_30
Could these professors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risks for prey,
And strip the traveller on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'scape the noose from year to year.
Consider, ere you make the bet,
That sum might cross your tailor's debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
Is not your honour too at stake?
_40
Must you not by mean lies evade
To-morrow's duns from every trade?
By promises so often paid,
Is yet your tailor's bill defrayed?
Must you not pitifully fawn,
To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?
This must be done. In debts of play
Your honour suffers no delay:
And not this year's and next year's rent
The sons of rapine can content.
_50
Look round. The wrecks of play behold,
Estates dismembered, mortgaged, sold!
Their owners, not to jails confined,
Show equal poverty of mind.
Some, who the spoil of knaves were made,
Too late attempt to learn their trade.
Some, for the folly of one hour,
Become the dirty tools of power,
And, with the mercenary list,
Upon court-charity subsist.
_60
You'll find at last this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves pursue.
The forest (a whole century's shade)
Must be one wasteful ruin made.
No mercy's shewn to age or kind;
The general massacre is signed.
The park too shares the dreadful fate,
For duns grow louder at the gate,
Stern clowns, obedient to the squire,
(What will not barbarous hands for hire?)
_70
With brawny arms repeat the stroke.
Fallen are the elm and reverend oak.
Through the long wood loud axes sound,
And echo groans with every wound.
To see the desolation spread,
Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head:
His bosom now with fury burns:
Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns.
Cards, too, in peevish passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds are borne.
_80
'To snails inveterate hate I bear,
Who spoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I detest,
The blooming spring's voracious pest;
The locust too, whose ravenous band
Spreads sudden famine o'er the land.
But what are these? The dice's throw
At once hath laid a forest low.
The cards are dealt, the bet is made,
And the wide park hath lost its shade.
_90
Thus is my kingdom's pride defaced,
And all its ancient glories waste.
All this,' he cries, 'is Fortune's doing:
'Tis thus she meditates my ruin.
By Fortune, that false, fickle jade,
More havoc in one hour is made,
Than all the hungry insect race,
Combined, can in an age deface.'
Fortune, by chance, who near him pass'd,
O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.
_100
'Why, Pan,' says she, 'what's all this rant?
'Tis every country-bubble's cant;
Am I the patroness of vice?
Is't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the shuffling art reveal, 105
To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all the employments men pursue,
I mind the least what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct trust:
_110
I blame the fool, for what can I,
When ninety-nine my power defy?
These trust alone their fingers' ends,
And not one stake on me depends.
Whene'er the gaming board is set,
Two classes of mankind are met:
But if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a gross error, held in schools,
That Fortune always favours fools.
_120
In play it never bears dispute;
That doctrine these felled oaks confute.
Then why to me such rancour show?
'Tis folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me his late estate he won,
But he by folly was undone.'

* * * * *

FABLE XIII.

PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.

Of all the burdens man must bear,
Time seems most galling and severe:
Beneath this grievous load oppressed,
We daily meet some friend distressed.
'What can one do? I rose at nine.
'Tis full six hours before we dine:
Six hours! no earthly thing to do!
Would I had dozed in bed till two.'
A pamphlet is before him spread,
And almost half a page is read;
_10
Tired with the study of the day,
The fluttering sheets are tossed away.
He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and stretches in his chair.
'Not twenty, by the minute hand!
Good gods:' says he, 'my watch must stand!
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more,
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rise too late.'
_20
To make the minutes faster run,
Then too his tiresome self to shun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, some scraps he reads.
Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.
_30
Says Tom, 'Since all men must confess,
That time lies heavy more or less;
Why should it be so hard to get
Till two, a party at piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintry nights are borne:
Does not quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away.'
_40
'My case,' says Will, 'then must be hard
By want of skill from play debarred.
Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependence wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands!
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed shower
The park had whiled away an hour.
At Court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two;
_50
It fully answers my design,
When I have picked up friends to dine,
The tavern makes our burden light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten! Unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done,
But some assembly is begun;
_60
Loit'ring from room to room I stray;
Converse, but nothing hear or say:
Quite tired, from fair to fair I roam.
So soon: I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-paced night,
Again my tavern-friends invite:
Here too our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy sleep retards the glass.'
Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's case their own.
_70
Consider, friends, no hour rolls on,
But something of your grief is gone.
Were you to schemes of business bred,
Did you the paths of learning tread.
Your hours, your days, would fly too fast;
You'd then regret the minute past,
Time's fugitive and light as wind!
'Tis indolence that clogs your mind!
That load from off your spirits shake;
You'll own and grieve for your mistake;
_80
A while your thoughtless spleen suspend,
Then read, and (if you can) attend.
As Plutus, to divert his care,
Walked forth one morn to take the air,
Cupid o'ertook his strutting pace,
Each stared upon the stranger's face,
Till recollection set them right;
For each knew t'other but by sight.
After some complimental talk,
Time met them, bowed, and joined their walk.
_90
Their chat on various subjects ran,
But most, what each had done for man.
Plutus assumes a haughty air,
Just like our purse-proud fellows here.
'Let kings,' says he, 'let cobblers tell,
Whose gifts among mankind excel.
Consider Courts: what draws their train?
Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?
That statesman hath the strongest hold,
Whose tool of politics is gold.
_100
By that, in former reigns, 'tis said,
The knave in power hath senates led.
By that alone he swayed debates,
Enriched himself and beggared states.
Forego your boast. You must conclude,
That's most esteemed that's most pursued.
Think too, in what a woful plight
That wretch must live whose pocket's light.
Are not his hours by want depress'd?
Penurious care corrodes his breast.
_110
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His solitary day descends.'
'You might,' says Cupid, 'doubt my parts,
My knowledge too in human hearts,
Should I the power of gold dispute,
Which great examples might confute.
I know, when nothing else prevails,
Persuasive money seldom fails;
That beauty too (like other wares)
Its price, as well as conscience, bears.
_120
Then marriage (as of late profess'd)
Is but a money-job at best.
Consent, compliance may be sold:
But love's beyond the price of gold.
Smugglers there are, who by retail,
Expose what they call love, to sale,
Such bargains are an arrant cheat:
You purchase flattery and deceit.
Those who true love have ever tried,
(The common cares of life supplied,)
_130
No wants endure, no wishes make,
But every real joy partake,
All comfort on themselves depends;
They want nor power, nor wealth, nor friends.
Love then hath every bliss in store:
'Tis friendship, and 'tis something more.
Each other every wish they give,
Not to know love, is not to live.'
'Or love, or money,' Time replied,
'Were men the question to decide,
_140
Would bear the prize: on both intent,
My boon's neglected or misspent.
'Tis I who measure vital space,
And deal out years to human race.
Though little prized, and seldom sought,
Without me love and gold are nought.
How does the miser time employ?
Did I e'er see him life enjoy?
By me forsook, the hoards he won,
Are scattered by his lavish son.
_150
By me all useful arts are gained;
Wealth, learning, wisdom is attained.
Who then would think (since such, my power)
That e'er I knew an idle hour?
So subtle and so swift I fly,
Love's not more fugitive than I.
Who hath not heard coquettes complain
Of days, months, years, misspent in vain?
For time misused they pine and waste,
And love's sweet pleasures never taste.
_160
Those who direct their time aright,
If love or wealth their hopes excite,
In each pursuit fit hours employed,
And both by Time have been enjoyed.
How heedless then are mortals grown!
How little is their interest known?
In every view they ought to mind me;
For when once lost they never find me.'
He spoke. The gods no more contest,
And his superior gift confess'd;
_170
That time when (truly understood)
Is the most precious earthly good.

* * * * *

FABLE XIV.

THE OWL, THE SWAN, THE COCK, THE SPIDER, THE
ASS, AND THE FARMER.

TO A MOTHER.

Conversing with your sprightly boys,
Your eyes have spoke the mother's joys.
With what delight I've heard you quote
Their sayings in imperfect note!
I grant, in body and in mind,
Nature appears profusely kind.
Trust not to that. Act you your part;
Imprint just morals on their heart,
Impartially their talents scan:
Just education forms the man.
_10
Perhaps (their genius yet unknown)
Each lot of life's already thrown;
That this shall plead, the next shall fight,
The last assert the church's right.
I censure not the fond intent;
But how precarious is the event!
By talents misapplied and cross'd,
Consider, all your sons are lost.
One day (the tale's by Martial penned)
A father thus addressed his friend:
_20
'To train my boy, and call forth sense,
You know I've stuck at no expense;
I've tried him in the several arts,
(The lad no doubt hath latent parts,)
Yet trying all, he nothing knows;
But, crab-like, rather backward goes.
Teach me what yet remains undone;
'Tis your advice shall fix my son.'
'Sir,' says the friend, 'I've weighed the matter;
Excuse me, for I scorn to flatter:
_30
Make him (nor think his genius checked)
A herald or an architect.'
Perhaps (as commonly 'tis known)
He heard the advice, and took his own.
The boy wants wit; he's sent to school,
Where learning but improves the fool:
The college next must give him parts,
And cram him with the liberal arts.
Whether he blunders at the bar,
Or owes his infamy to war;
_40
Or if by licence or degree
The sexton shares the doctor's fee:
Or from the pulpit by the hour
He weekly floods of nonsense pour;
We find (the intent of nature foiled)
A tailor or a butcher spoiled.
Thus ministers have royal boons
Conferred on blockheads and buffoons:
In spite of nature, merit, wit,
Their friends for every post were fit.
_50
But now let every Muse confess
That merit finds its due success.
The examples of our days regard;
Where's virtue seen without reward?
Distinguished and in place you find
Desert and worth of every kind.
Survey the reverend bench, and see,
Religion, learning, piety:
The patron, ere he recommends,
Sees his own image in his friends.
_60
Is honesty disgraced and poor?
What is't to us what was before?
We all of times corrupt have heard,
When paltry minions were preferred;
When all great offices by dozens,
Were filled by brothers, sons, and cousins.
What matter ignorance and pride?
The man was happily allied.
Provided that his clerk was good,
What though he nothing understood?
_70
In church and state, the sorry race
Grew more conspicuous fools in place.
Such heads, as then a treaty made,
Had bungled in the cobbler's trade.
Consider, patrons, that such elves,
Expose your folly with themselves.
'Tis yours, as 'tis the parent's care,
To fix each genius in its sphere.
Your partial hand can wealth dispense,
But never give a blockhead sense.
_80
An owl of magisterial air,
Of solemn voice, of brow austere,
Assumed the pride of human race,
And bore his wisdom in his face;
Not to depreciate learned eyes,
I've seen a pedant look as wise.
Within a barn, from noise retired,
He scorned the world, himself admired;
And, like an ancient sage, concealed
The follies public life revealed.
_90
Philosophers of old, he read,
Their country's youth to science bred,
Their manners formed for every station,
And destined each his occupation.
When Xenophon, by numbers braved,
Retreated, and a people saved,
That laurel was not all his own;
The plant by Socrates was sown;
To Aristotle's greater name
The Macedonian[10] owed his fame.
_100
The Athenian bird, with pride replete,
Their talents equalled in conceit;
And, copying the Socratic rule,
Set up for master of a school.
Dogmatic jargon learnt by heart,
Trite sentences, hard terms of art,
To vulgar ears seemed so profound,
They fancied learning in the sound.
The school had fame: the crowded place
With pupils swarmed of every race.
_110
With these the swan's maternal care
Had sent her scarce-fledged cygnet heir:
The hen (though fond and loath to part)
Here lodged the darling of her heart:
The spider, of mechanic kind,
Aspired to science more refined:
The ass learnt metaphors and tropes,
But most on music fixed his hopes.
The pupils now advanced in age,
Were called to tread life's busy stage.
_120
And to the master 'twas submitted,
That each might to his part be fitted.
'The swan,' says he, 'in arms shall shine:
The soldier's glorious toil be thine.
The cock shall mighty wealth attain:
Go, seek it on the stormy main.
The Court shall be the spider's sphere:
Power, fortune, shall reward him there.
In music's art the ass's fame
Shall emulate Corelli's[1] name.
_130
Each took the part that he advised,
And all were equally despised;
A farmer, at his folly moved,
The dull preceptor thus reproved:
'Blockhead,' says he, 'by what you've done,
One would have thought 'em each your son:
For parents, to their offspring blind,
Consult, nor parts, nor turn of mind;
But even in infancy decree
What this, what t'other son should be.
_140
Had you with judgment weighed the case,
Their genius thus had fixed their place:
The swan had learnt the sailor's art;
The cock had played the soldier's part;
The spider in the weaver's trade
With credit had a fortune made;
But for the fool, in every class
The blockhead had appeared an ass.'

* * * * *

FABLE XV.

THE COOK-MAID, THE TURNSPIT, AND THE OX.

TO A POOR MAN.

Consider man in every sphere,
Then tell me is your lot severe?
'Tis murmur, discontent, distrust,
That makes you wretched. God is just.
I grant, that hunger must be fed,
That toil too earns thy daily bread.
What then? Thy wants are seen and known,
But every mortal feels his own.
We're born a restless, needy crew:
Show me the happier man than you.
_10
Adam, though blest above his kind,
For want of social woman pined,
Eve's wants the subtle serpent saw,
Her fickle taste transgressed the law:
Thus fell our sires; and their disgrace
The curse entailed on human race.
When Philip's son, by glory led,
Had o'er the globe his empire spread;
When altars to his name were dressed,
That he was man, his tears confessed.
_20
The hopes of avarice are check'd:
The proud man always wants respect.
What various wants on power attend!
Ambition never gains its end.
Who hath not heard the rich complain
Of surfeits and corporeal pain?
He, barred from every use of wealth,
Envies the ploughman's strength and health.
Another in a beauteous wife
Finds all the miseries of life:
_30
Domestic jars and jealous fear
Embitter all his days with care.
This wants an heir, the line is lost:
Why was that vain entail engross'd?
Canst thou discern another's mind?
Why is't you envy? Envy's blind.
Tell Envy, when she would annoy,
That thousands want what you enjoy.
'The dinner must be dished at one.
Where's this vexatious turnspit gone?
_40
Unless the skulking cur is caught,
The sirloin's spoiled, and I'm in fault.'
Thus said: (for sure you'll think it fit
That I the cook-maid's oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,
Her cooler kitchen Nan forsook.
The broomstick o'er her head she waves;
She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves.
The sneaking cur before her flies:
She whistles, calls; fair speech she tries.
_50
These nought avail. Her choler burns;
The fist and cudgel threat by turns;
With hasty stride she presses near;
He slinks aloof, and howls with fear.
'Was ever cur so cursed!' he cried,
'What star did at my birth preside?
Am I for life by compact bound
To tread the wheel's eternal round?
Inglorious task! Of all our race
No slave is half so mean and base.
_60
Had fate a kinder lot assigned,
And formed me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employed,
Had indolence and ease enjoyed;
And, like a gentleman, caress'd,
Had been the lady's favourite guest.
Or were I sprung from spaniel line,
Was his sagacious nostril mine,
By me, their never-erring guide,
From wood and plain their feasts supplied
_70
Knights, squires, attendant on my pace,
Had shared the pleasures of the chase.
Endued with native strength and fire,
Why called I not the lion sire?
A lion! such mean views I scorn.
Why was I not of woman born?
Who dares with reason's power contend?
On man we brutal slaves depend:
To him all creatures tribute pays,
And luxury employs his days.'
_80
An ox by chance o'erheard his moan,
And thus rebuked the lazy drone:
'Dare you at partial fate repine?
How kind's your lot compared with mine!
Decreed to toil, the barbarous knife
Hath severed me from social life;
Urged by the stimulating goad,
I drag the cumbrous waggon's load:
'Tis mine to tame the stubborn plain,
Break the stiff soil, and house the grain;
_90
Yet I without a murmur bear
The various labours of the year.
But then consider, that one day,
(Perhaps the hour's not far away,)
You, by the duties of your post,
Shall turn the spit when I'm the roast:
And for reward shall share the feast;
I mean, shall pick my bones at least.'
''Till now,' the astonished cur replies,
'I looked on all with envious eyes.
_100
How false we judge by what appears!
All creatures feel their several cares.
If thus yon mighty beast complains,
Perhaps man knows superior pains.
Let envy then no more torment:
Think on the ox, and learn content.'
Thus said: close following at her heel,
With cheerful heart he mounts the wheel.

FABLE XVI.

THE RAVENS, THE SEXTON, AND THE EARTH-WORM.

TO LAURA.

Laura, methinks you're over nice.
True, flattery is a shocking vice;
Yet sure, whene'er the praise is just,
One may commend without disgust.
Am I a privilege denied,
Indulged by every tongue beside?
How singular are all your ways!
A woman, and averse to praise!
If 'tis offence such truths to tell,
Why do your merits thus excel?
_10
Since then I dare not speak my mind,
A truth conspicuous to mankind;
Though in full lustre every grace
Distinguish your celestial face:
Though beauties of inferior ray
(Like stars before the orb of day)
Turn pale and fade: I check my lays,
Admiring what I dare not praise.
If you the tribute due disdain,
The Muse's mortifying strain
_20
Shall like a woman in mere spite,
Set beauty in a moral light.
Though such revenge might shock the ear
Of many a celebrated fair;
I mean that superficial race
Whose thoughts ne'er reach beyond their face;
What's that to you? I but displease
Such ever-girlish ears as these.
Virtue can brook the thoughts of age,
That lasts the same through every stage.
_30
Though you by time must suffer more
Than ever woman lost before;
To age is such indifference shown,
As if your face were not your own.
Were you by Antoninus[1] taught?
Or is it native strength of thought,
That thus, without concern or fright,
You view yourself by reason's light?
Those eyes of so divine a ray,
What are they? Mouldering, mortal clay.
_40
Those features, cast in heavenly mould,
Shall, like my coarser earth, grow old;
Like common grass, the fairest flower
Must feel the hoary season's power.
How weak, how vain is human pride!
Dares man upon himself confide?
The wretch who glories in his gain,
Amasses heaps on heaps in vain.
Why lose we life in anxious cares,
To lay in hoards for future years?
_50
Can those (when tortured by disease)
Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease?
Can those prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?
What's beauty? Call ye that your own?
A flower that fades as soon as blown.
What's man in all his boast of sway?
Perhaps the tyrant of a day.
Alike the laws of life take place
Through every branch of human race,
_60
The monarch of long regal line
Was raised from dust as frail as mine.
Can he pour health into his veins,
Or cool the fever's restless pains?
Can he (worn down in Nature's course)
New-brace his feeble nerves with force?
Can he (how vain is mortal power!)
Stretch life beyond the destined hour?
Consider, man; weigh well thy frame;
The king, the beggar is the same.
_70
Dust forms us all. Each breathes his day,
Then sinks into his native clay.
Beneath a venerable yew,
That in the lonely church-yard grew,
Two ravens sat. In solemn croak
Thus one his hungry friend bespoke:
'Methinks I scent some rich repast;
The savour strengthens with the blast;
Snuff then, the promised feast inhale;
I taste the carcase in the gale;
_80
Near yonder trees, the farmer's steed,
From toil and daily drudgery freed,
Hath groaned his last. A dainty treat!
To birds of taste delicious meat.'
A sexton, busy at his trade,
To hear their chat suspends his spade.
Death struck him with no further thought,
Than merely as the fees he brought.
'Was ever two such blundering fowls,
In brains and manners less than owls!
_90
Blockheads,' says he, 'learn more respect;
Know ye on whom ye thus reflect?
In this same grave (who does me right,
Must own the work is strong and tight)
The squire that yon fair hall possessed,
Tonight shall lay his bones at rest.
Whence could the gross mistake proceed?
The squire was somewhat fat indeed.
What then? The meanest bird of prey
Such want of sense could ne'er betray;
_100
For sure some difference must be found
(Suppose the smelling organ sound)
In carcases (say what we can)
Or where's the dignity of man?'
With due respect to human race,
The ravens undertook the case.
In such similitude of scent,
Man ne'er eould think reflections meant.
As epicures extol a treat,
And seem their savoury words to eat,
_110
They praised dead horse, luxurious food,
The venison of the prescient brood.
The sexton's indignation moved,
The mean comparison reproved;
The undiscerning palate blamed,
Which two-legged carrion thus defamed.
Reproachful speech from either side
The want of argument supplied:
They rail, revile: as often ends
The contest of disputing friends.
_120
'Hold,' says the fowl; 'since human pride
With confutation ne'er complied,
Let's state the case, and then refer
The knotty point: for taste may err.'
As thus he spoke, from out the mould
An earth-worm, huge of size, unrolled
His monstrous length. They straight agree
To choose him as their referee.
So to the experience of his jaws,
Each states the merits of his cause.
_130
He paused, and with a solemn tone,
Thus made his sage opinion known:
'On carcases of every kind
This maw hath elegantly dined;
Provoked by luxury or need,
On beast, on fowl, on man, I feed;
Such small distinctions in the savour,
By turns I choose the fancied flavour,
Yet I must own (that human beast)
A glutton is the rankest feast.
_140
Man, cease this boast; for human pride
Hath various tracts to range beside.
The prince who kept the world in awe,
The judge whose dictate fixed the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levelled. Death confounds them all.
Then think not that we reptiles share
Such cates, such elegance of fair:
The only true and real good
Of man was never vermin's food.
_150
'Tis seated in the immortal mind;
Virtue distinguishes mankind,
And that (as yet ne'er harboured here)
Mounts with his soul we know not where.
So, good man sexton, since the case
Appears with such a dubious face,
To neither I the cause determine,
For different tastes please different vermin.'

END OF GAY'S FABLES.

SONGS.

SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN.

1

All in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eye'd Susan came aboard.
Oh! where shall I my true-love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew.

2

William, who high upon the yard
Rock'd with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below;
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.

3

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

4

O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear;
We only part to meet again.
Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.

5

Believe not what the landmen say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind.
They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

6

If to fair India's coast we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white.
Thus every beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

7

Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

8

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread;
No longer must she stay aboard:
They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head.
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land:
Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand.

* * * * *

A BALLAD,

FROM THE WHAT-D'YE-CALL-IT.

1

'Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind;
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclined.
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She casts a wistful look;
Her head was crown'd with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.

2

Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days.
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

3

The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair:
But what's the loss of treasure,
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.

4

How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep.

5

All melancholy lying,
Thus wail'd she for her dear;
Repaid each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When o'er the white wave stooping,
His floating corpse she spied;
Then, like a lily drooping,
She bow'd her head, and died.

END OF GAY'S SONGS.

Footnotes:

[Footnote 1: Second son of George II.; born in 1721; he was five years old at the date of the publication of the 'Fables,' which were written for his instruction. He is 'Culloden' Cumberland.]

[Footnote 2: 'Siam,' a country famous for elephants.]

[Footnote 3: 'Gresham Hall,' originally the house of Sir Thomas Gresham in Winchester. It was converted by his will into a college, no remains of which now exist.]

[Footnote 4: 'Curl,' a famous publisher to Grub Street.]

[Footnote 5: Garth's Dispensary.]

[Footnote 6: 'Porta:' a native of Naples, famous for skill in the occult sciences. He wrote a book on Physiognomy, seeking to trace in the human face resemblances to animals, and to infer similar correspondences in mind.]

[Footnote 7: '----When impious men bear sway,
The post of honour is a private station.'-ADDISON.]

[Footnote 8: 'Antiochus': See Plutarch.]

[Footnote 9: Barrow.]

[Footnote 10: 'The Macedonian:' Alexander the Great.]

[Footnote 11: 'Corelli:' Arcangelo, the greatest fiddler, till Paganini, that has appeared. He was born in the territory of Bologna, in 1653, and died in 1713.]

[Footnote 12: 'Antoninus:' Marcus, one of the few emperors who have been also philosophers.]

THE

LIFE OF WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.

* * * * *

There is a chapter in an old history of Iceland which has often moved merriment. The title of it is, "Concerning Snakes in Iceland," and the contents are, "Snakes in Iceland there are none." We suspect, when our "Life of William Somerville" is ended, not a few will find in it a parallel for that comprehensive chapter, although we strenuously maintain that the fault of an insipid and uninteresting life is not always to be charged on the biographer.

In "Sartor Resartus" our readers remember an epitaph, somewhat coarse, although disguised in good dog-Latin, upon a country squire, and his sayings and doings in this world. We have not a copy of that work at hand, and cannot quote the epitaph, nor would we, though we could, since even the dog-Latin is too plain and perspicuous for many readers. We recommend those, however, who choose to turn it up; and they will find in it (with the exception of the writing of "the Chase") the full history of William Somerville, of whom we know little, but that he was born, that he hunted, ate, drank, and died.

He was born in 1682; but in what month, or on what day, we are not informed. His estate was in Warwickshire, its name Edston, and he had inherited it from a long line of ancestors. His family prided itself upon being the first family in the county. He himself boasts of having been born on the banks of Avon, which has thus at least produced two poets, of somewhat different calibre indeed--the one a deer-stealer, and the other a fox-hunter--Shakspeare and Somerville. Somerville was educated at Winchester School, and was afterwards elected fellow of New College. From his studies--of his success in which we know nothing--he returned to his native county, and there, says Johnson, "was distinguished as a poet, a gentleman, and a skilful and useful justice of the peace;"--we may add, as a jovial companion and a daring fox-hunter. His estate brought him in about £1500 a-year, but his extravagance brought him into pecuniary distresses, which weighed upon his mind, plunged him into intemperate habits, and hurried him away in his 60th year. Shenstone, who knew him well, thus mourns aver his departure in one of his letters:--"Our old friend Somerville is dead; I did not imagine I could have been so sorry as I find myself on this occasion. _Sublatum quoerimus_, I can now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age and to distressed circumstances. The last of these considerations wrings my very soul to think on; for a man of high spirit, conscious of having (at least in one production) generally pleased the world, to be plagued and threatened by wretches that are low in every sense; to be forced to drink himself into pains of the body in order to get rid of the pains of the mind, is a misery."

Somerville died July 19, 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley-on-Arden. His estate went to Lord Somerville in Scotland, but his mother, who lived to a great age, had a jointure of £600. He describes himself, in verses addressed to Allan Ramsay, as

"A squire, well-born and six feet high."

He seems, from the affection and sympathy discovered for him by Shenstone, to have possessed the virtues as well as the vices of the squirearchy of that age; their frankness, sociality, and heart, as well as their improvidence and tendency to excess; and may altogether be called a sublimated Squire Western.

As to his poetry, much of it is beneath criticism. His "Fables," "Tales," "Hobbinol, or Rural Games," &c., have all in them poetical lines, but cannot, as a whole, be called poetry. He wrote some verses, entitled "Address to Addison," on the latter purchasing an estate in Warwickshire (he gave his Countess £4000 in exchange for it). In this there are two lines which Dr Johnson highly commends, saying "They are written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise; they exhibit one of those happy strokes that are seldom attained."--Here is this bepraised couplet:--

"When panting virtue her last efforts made,
You brought your Clio to the virgin's aid."

Clio, of course, refers to Addison's signatures in the "Spectator," consisting of the four letters composing the name of the Muse of History, used in alternation. We cannot coincide in Johnson's encomium. The allusion is, we think, at once indecent and obscure; and what, after all, does it say, but that Addison's papers aided the struggling cause of virtue?

In the same verses we find a fulsome and ridiculous preference of Addison to Shakspeare!

"In heaven he sings, on earth your Muse supplies
The important loss, and heals our weeping eyes;
Correctly great, she melts each flinty heart,
With EQUAL GENIUS, but SUPERIOR ART."

Surely the force of falsehood and flattery can go no further.

It is a pleasure to turn from these small and shallow things to the "Chase," which, if not a great poem, is founded on a most poetical subject, and which, here and there, sparkles into fine fancy. Dr Johnson truly remarks, that Somerville "set a good example to men of his own class, by devoting a part of his time to elegant knowledge, and has shewn, by the subjects which his poetry has adorned, that it is practicable to be at once a skilful sportsman and a man of letters." But besides this purpose to be the poet--and hitherto he has been almost the sole poet of the squirearchy, as considered apart from the aristocracy--Somerville has the merit of being inspired by a genuine love for the subject. He writes directly from the testimony of his own eyes, and the impulses of his own heart. He has obviously had the mould of his poem suggested by Thomson's "Seasons," but it is the mould only; the thoughts and feelings which are poured into it are his own. He loves the giddy ride over stock and stone, hedge and petty precipice; the invigoration which the keen breath of autumn or winter, like that of a sturdy veteran, gives the animal spirits; the animated aspect of the "assembled jockeyship of half a province;" the wild music of hounds, and horns, and hollas, vieing with each other in mirth and loudness; the breathless interest of the start; the emulous pant of the coursers; the excitement of the moment when the fox appears; the sweeping tumult of the pursuit; the dreamlike rapidity with which five-barred gates are cleared, the yellow or naked woods are passed, and the stubble-ridges "swallowed up in the fierceness and rage" of the rushing steeds; the indifference of those engaged in the headlong sport to the danger or even the death of their companions; the lengthening and deepening howl of the hounds as they near their prey; the fierce silence of the dying victim; and the fiercer shout of victory which announces to the echoes that the brush is won, and the glorious (or inglorious) day's work is over;--all this Somerville loves, and has painted with considerable power. In the course of the poem, he sings also of the mysteries of the dog-kennel--pursues the blood-hound on his track of death--describes a stag-hunt in Windsor Forest--paints the fearful phenomena of canine madness--hunts the hare in a joyous spirit--and goes down after the otter into its watery recesses, and watches its divings and devious motions as with the eyes of a sea-eagle. And, besides, (here also imitating Thomson,) he is led away from the comparatively tame "Chase" of England to the more dangerous and more inspiring sports of other lands, where "the huntsmen are up in Arabia," in pursuit of the wolf, where the bear is bayed amidst forests dark as itself, where the leopard is snared by its own image in a mirror, where the lion falls roaring into the prepared pit, and where the "Chase" is pursued on a large scale by assembled princes amidst the jungles of India.

We doubt not, however, that, were a genuine poet of this age taking up the "Chase" as a subject for song, and availing himself of the accounts of recent travellers, themselves often true poets, such as Lloyd, Livingstone, Cumming Bruce, and Charles Boner, (see the admirable "Chamois Hunting in Bavaria" of the latter,) he would produce a strain incomparably higher than Somerville's. Wilson, at least, as we know from his "Christopher in his Sporting Jacket," and many other articles in _Maga_, was qualified, in part by nature and in part by extensive experience, to have written such a poem. Indeed, one sentence of his is superior to anything in the "Chase." Speaking of the charge of the cruelty of chasing such an insignificant animal as a fox, he says, "What though it be but a smallish, reddish-brown, sharp-nosed animal, with pricked-up ears, and passionately fond of poultry, that they pursue? After the first tallyho, reynard is rarely seen till he is run in upon--once, perhaps, in the whole run, skirting a wood, or crossing a common. It is an _idea that is pursued_ on a whirlwind of horses, to a storm of canine music, worthy both of the largest lion that ever leaped among a band of Moors sleeping at midnight by an extinguished fire on the African sands." We do not answer for the humanity of this description, but it certainly seems to us to exhaust the subject of the chase, alike in its philosophy and its poetry.[1]

SOMERVILLE'S CHASE.

* * * * *