THE AUTHOR.

THE AUTHOR . ACCURS'D the man , whom fate ordains , in spite , And cruel parents teach , to Read and Write ! What need of letters ? Wherefore should we spell ? Why write our names ? A mark will do as well . Much are the precious hours of youth mispent , In climbing Learning's rugged steep ascent ; When to the top the bold advent'rer's got , He reigns , vain monarch , o'er a barren spot , Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below , FOLLY and VICE to rank luxuriance grow ; Honours and wealth pour in on ev'ry side , And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide . O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste , To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste , To bear the slavish drudgery of schools , And tamely stoop to ev'ry pedant's rules , For seven long years debarr'd of lib'ral ease , To plod in college trammels to degrees , Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan , Sleep over books , and leave mankind unknown , To praise each senior blockhead's thread-bare tale , And laugh till reason blush , and spirits fail , Manhood with vile submission to disgrace , And cap the fool , whose merit is his Place ; VICE CHANCELLORS , whose knowledge is but small , And CHANCELLORS , who nothing know at all , Ill-brook'd the gen'rous Spirit , in those days When Learning was the certain road to praise , When Nobles , with a love of Science bless'd , Approv'd in others what themselves possess'd . But Now , when DULLNESS rears aloft her throne , When LORDLY Vassals her wide Empire own , When Wit , seduc'd by Envy , starts aside , And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride , What Now should tempt us , by false hopes misled , Learning's unfashionable paths to tread ; To bear those labours , which our Fathers bore That Crown with-held , which They in triumph wore ? When with much pains this boasted Learning's got , 'Tis an affront to those who have it not . In some it causes hate , in others fear , Instructs our Foes to rail , our Friends to sneer . With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool , Forgets the little which he learn'd at School ; The Elder Brother , to vast fortunes born , Looks on all Science with an Eye of Scorn ; Dependent Breth'ren the same features wear , And younger Sons are stupid as the Heir . In Senates , at the Bar , in Church and State , Genius is vile , and Learning out of date . Is this — O Death to think ! is this the Land Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand , Where Heroes , Parent-like , the Poet view'd ? — By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd ; Where Poets , true to Honour , tun'd their lays , And by their Patrons sanctify'd their praise ? Is this the Land , where , on our SPENCER'S tongue , Enamour'd of his voice , Description hung ; Where JOHNSON rigid gravity beguil'd , Whilst Reason thro' her Critic fences smil'd ; Where NATURE list'ning stood , whilst SHAKESPEAR play'd , And wonder'd at the Work herself had made ? Is this the Land , where , mindful of her charge And Office high , fair Freedom walk'd at large ; Where , finding in our Laws a sure defence , She mock'd at all restraints , but those of Sense ; Where , health and honour trooping by her side , She spread her sacred empire far and wide ; Pointed the Way , Affliction to beguile , And bade the Face of Sorrow wear a smile , Bade those , who dare obey the gen'rous call , Enjoy her blessings , which GOD meant for all ? Is this the Land , where , in some Tyrant's reign , When a weak , wicked Ministerial train , The tools of pow'r , the slaves of int'rest , plann'd Their Country's ruin , and with bribes unman'd Those wretches , who , ordain'd in Freedom's cause , Gave up our liberties , and sold our laws ; When Pow'r was taught by Meanness where to go , Nor dar'd to love the Virtue of a foe ; When , like a lep'rous plague , from the foul head To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread , Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd , And Virtue , from her broad base shaken , fear'd The scourge of Vice ; when , impotent and vain , Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slav'ry's chain ; Is this the Land , where , in those worst of times , The hardy Poet rais'd his honest rimes To dread rebuke , and bade controulment speak In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek , Bade Pow'r turn pale , kept mighty rogues in awe , And made them fear the Muse , who fear'd not Law ? How do I laugh , when men of narrow souls , Whom folly guides , and prejudice controuls ; Who , one dull drowsy track of business trod , Worship their Mammon , and neglect their God ; Who , breathing by one musty set of rules , Dote from the birth , and are by system fools ; Who , form'd to dullness from their very youth , Lies of the day prefer to Gospel truth , Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews , And lay out all their stock of faith in news : How do I laugh , when Creatures , form'd like these , Whom Reason scorns , and I should blush to please , Rail at all lib'ral arts , deem verse a crime , And hold not Truth , as Truth , if told in rime ? How do I laugh , when PUBLIUS , hoary grown In zeal for SCOTLAND'S wellfare , and his own , By slow degrees , and course of office , drawn In mood and figure at the helm to yawn , Too mean ( the worst of curses Heav'n can send ) To have a foe , too proud to have a friend , Erring by form , which Blockheads sacred hold , Ne'er making new faults , and ne'er mending old , Rebukes my Spirit , bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness chuse ; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains , Nor dare to traffick in ambitious strains ; Bids her , indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought Ode , or Sonnet pertly trim , Along the Church-way path complain with GRAY , Or dance with MASON on the first of May ? " All sacred is the name and pow'r of Kings , " All States and Statesmen are those mighty Things " Which , howsoe'er they out of course may roll , " Were never made for Poets to controul . " Peace , Peace thou Dotard , nor thus vilely deem Of Sacred Numbers , and their pow'r blaspheme ; I tell thee , Wretch , search all Creation round , In Earth , in Heav'n , no Subject can be found ( Our God alone except ) above whose weight The Poet cannot rise , and hold his State . The blessed Saints above in numbers speak The praise of God , tho' there all praise is weak ; In Numbers here below the Bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the Villain's reach ; Shall tear his lab'ring lungs , strain his hoarse throat , And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note , Should an afflicted Country , aw'd by men Of slavish principles , demand his pen . This is a great , a glorious point of view , Fit for an English Poet to pursue , Undaunted to pursue , tho' , in return , His writings by the common Hangman burn . How do I laugh , when men , by fortune plac'd Above their Betters , and by rank disgrac'd , Who found their pride on titles which they stain , And , mean themselves , are of their Fathers vain , Who would a bill of privilege prefer , And treat a Poet , like a Creditor , The gen'rous ardour of the Muse condemn , And curse the storm they know must break on them ? " What , shall a reptile Bard , a wretch unknown , " Without one badge of merit , but his own , " Great Nobles lash , and Lords , like common men , " Smart from the vengeance of a Scribbler's pen ? " What's in this name of Lord , that we should fear To bring their vices to the public ear ? Flows not the honest blood of humble swains Quick as the tide which swells a Monarch's veins ? Monarchs , who wealth and titles can bestow , Cannot make Virtues in succession flow . Would'st Thou , Proud Man , be safely plac'd above The censure of the Muse , deserve her Love , Act as thy Birth demands , as Nobles ought ; Look back , and by thy worthy Father taught , Who earn'd those Honours , Thou wert born to wear , Follow his steps , and be his Virtue's heir . But if , regardless of the road to Fame , You start aside , and tread the paths of shame . If such thy life , that should thy Sire arise , The sight of such a Son would blast his eyes , Would make him curse the hour which gave Thee birth , Would drive him , shudd'ring , from the face of earth Once more , with shame and sorrow , 'mongst the dead In endless night to hide his rev'rend head ; If such thy life , tho' Kings had made thee more Than ever King a scoundrel made before , Nay , to allow thy pride a deeper spring , Tho' God in vengeance had made Thee a King , Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight , The Muse should drag thee trembling to the light , Probe thy foul wounds , and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air . Gods ! with what pride I see the titled slave , Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave , Aiming at ease , and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart ! How do I laugh , when , with affected air , ( Scarce able thro' despite to keep his chair , Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks , And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his cheeks ) He talks of Conscience , which good men secures From all those evil moments guilt endures , And seems to laugh at those , who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard . " SATIRE , whilst envy and ill-humour sway " The mind of man , must always make her way , " Nor to a bosom , with discretion fraught , " Is all her malice worth a single thought . " The Wise have not the will , nor Fools the pow'r " To stop her headstrong course ; within the hour , " Left to herself , she dies ; opposing Strife , " Gives her fresh vigour , and prolongs her life . " All things her prey , and ev'ry man her aim , " I can no patent for exemption claim , " Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart " Which plays around , but cannot wound my heart : " Tho' pointed at myself , be SATIRE free ; " To Her 'tis pleasure , and no pain to Me . " Dissembling Wretch ! hence to the Stoic school , And there amongst thy breth'ren play the fool , There , unrebuk'd , these wild , vain doctrines preach ; Lives there a Man , whom SATIRE cannot reach ? Lives there a Man , who calmly can stand by , And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye ? When SATIRE flies abroad on Falshood's wing , Short is her life indeed , and dull her sting ; But when to Truth allied , the wound she gives Sinks deep , and to remotest ages lives . When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot , And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot , Still shalt Thou live , recorded for thy crimes , Live in her page , and stink to after-times . Hast Thou no feeling yet ? Come , throw off pride , And own those passions which Thou shalt not hide . S— , who , from the moment of his birth , Made human Nature a reproach on earth , Who never dar'd , nor wish'd behind to stay , When Folly , Vice , and Meanness led the way , Would blush , should he be told , by Truth and Wit , Those actions , which he blush'd not to commit ; Men the most infamous are fond of fame , And those who fear not guilt , yet start at shame . But whither runs my zeal , whose rapid force , Turning the brain , bears Reason from her course , Carries me back to times , when Poets , bless'd With courage , grac'd the Science they profess'd ; When They , in Honour rooted , firmly stood The bad to punish , and reward the good ; When , to a flame by Public Virtue wrought , The foes of Feedom They to justice brought , And dar'd expose those slaves , who dar'd support A Tyrant plan , and call'd themselves a Court . Ah ! What are Poets now ? as slavish those Who deal in Verse , as those who deal in Prose . Is there an Author , search the Kingdom round , In whom true worth , and real Spirit's found ? The Slaves of Booksellers , or ( doom'd by Fate To baser chains ) vile pensioners of State ; Some , dead to shame , and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns , for slav'ry roar aloud , Others , half-palsied only , mutes become , And what makes SMOLLET write , makes JOHNSON dumb . Why turns you villain pale ? why bends his eye Inward , abash'd , when MURPHY passes by ? Dost Thou sage MURPHY for a blockhead take , Who wages war with vice for Virtue's sake ? No , No — like other Worldlings , you will find He shifts his sails , and catches ev'ry wind . His soul the shock of int'rest can't endure , Give him a pension then , and sin secure . With laurell'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows adorn , Bid Virtue crouch , bid Vice exalt her horn , Bid Cowards thrive , put honesty to flight , MURPHY shall prove , or try to prove it right . Try , thou State-Juggler , ev'ry paltry art , Ransack the inmost closet of my heart , Swear Thou'rt my Friend ; by that base oath make way Into my breast , and flatter to betray ; Or , if those tricks are vain , if wholesome doubt Detects the fraud , and points the Villain out , Bribe those who daily at my board are fed , And make them take my life who eat my bread ; On Authors for defence , for praise depend ; Pay him but well , and MURPHY is thy friend . He , He shall ready stand with venal rimes To varnish guilt , and consecrate thy crimes , To make corruption in false colours shine , And damn his own good name , to rescue thine . But , if thy niggard hands their gifts with-hold , And Vice no longer rains down show'rs of gold , Expect no mercy ; facts , well grounded , teach , MURPHY , if not rewarded , will impeach . What tho' each man of nice and juster thought , Shunning his steps , decrees , by Honour taught , He ne'er can be a Friend , who stoops so low To be the base betrayer of a foe ; What tho' , with thine together link'd , his name Must be with thine transmitted down to shame , To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown , Rather than not blast thine , he'll blast his own . To ope the fountain , whence Sedition springs , To slander Government , and libel Kings , With Freedom's name to serve a present hour , Tho' born , and bred to arbitrary pow'r , To talk of WILLIAMS with insidious art , Whilst a vile STUART'S lurking in his heart , And , whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome head , Flatt'ring the living , to abuse the dead , Where is SHEBBEARE ? O , let not foul reproach , Travelling thither in a City-Coach , The Pill'ry dare to name ; the whole intent Of that Parade was Fame , not Punishment , And that old , staunch Whig BEARDMORE standing by , Can in full Court give that report the lye . With rude unnat'ral jargon to support , Half Scotch , half English , a declining Court , To make most glaring contraries unite , And prove , beyond dispute , that black is white , To make firm Honour tamely league with shame , Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name , To prove that Chains and Freedom are but one , That to be sav'd must mean to be undone , Is there not GUTHRIE ? Who , like him , can call All Opposites to proof , and conquer all ? He calls forth living waters from the rock ; He calls forth children from the barren stock ; He , far beyond the springs of Nature led , Makes Women bring forth after they are dead ; He , on a curious , new , and happy plan , In Wedlock's sacred bands joins Man to Man ; And , to complete the whole , most strange , but true , By some rare magic , makes them fruitful too , Whilst from their loins , in the due course of years , Flows the rich blood of GUTHRIE's English Peers . Dost Thou contrive some blacker deed of shame , Something which Nature shudders but to name , Something which makes the Soul of man retreat , And the life-blood run backward to her seat ? Dost Thou contrive , for some base private end , Some selfish view , to hang a trusting friend , To lure him on , e'en to his parting breath , And promise life , to work him surer death ? Grown old in villainy , and dead to grace , Hell in his heart , and TYBURNE in his face ; Behold , a Parson at thy Elbow stands , Low'ring damnation , and with open hands Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward ; The Atheist Chaplain of an Atheist Lord . Bred to the Church , and for the gown decreed , 'Ere it was known that I should learn to read ; Tho' that was nothing , for my Friends , who knew What mighty Dullness of itself could do , Never design'd me for a working Priest , But hop'd , I should have been a DEAN at least ; Condemn'd ( like many more , and worthier men , To whom I pledge the service of my pen ) , Condemn'd ( whilst proud , and pamper'd Sons of Lawn , Cramm'd to the throat , in lazy plenty yawn ) In pomp of rev'rend begg'ry to appear , To pray , and starve on forty pounds a year ; My Friends , who never felt the galling load , Lament that I forsook the Packhorse road , Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears In throwing off that gown , which FRANCIS wears . What Creature's that , so very pert and prim ; So very full of foppery , and whim ; So gentle , yet so brisk ; so wond'rous sweet , So fit to prattle at a Lady's feet , Who looks , as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod , And by his Garb appears a man of God ? Trust not to looks , nor credit outward show ; The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd Beau ; That's an Informer ; what avails the name ? Suffice it that the wretch from SODOM came . His tongue is deadly — from his presence run , Unless thy rage would wish to be undone . No ties can hold him , no affection bind , And Fear alone restrains his coward mind ; Free him from that , no Monster is so fell , Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in hell . His silken smiles , his hypocritic air , His meek demeanour , plausible and fair , Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way , And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey . Attend his Church — his plan of doctrine view — The Preacher is a Christian , dull but true ; But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er , That plan of doctrine's never thought of more ; CHRIST is laid by neglected on the shelf , And the vile Priest is Gospel to himself . By CLELAND tutor'd , and with BLACOW bred , ( BLACOW , whom by a brave resentment led , OXFORD , if OXFORD had not sunk in same , Ere this , had damn'd to everlasting shame ) Their steps he follows , and their crimes partakes , To Virtue lost , to Vice alone he wakes , Most lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes , And , whilst he rails at blasphemy , blasphemes . Are these the Arts , which Policy supplies ? Are these the steps , by which grave Churchmen rise ? Forbid it , Heav'n ; or , should it turn out so , Let Me , and Mine , continue mean and low . Such be their Arts , whom Interest controuls ; KIDGELL and I have free and honest souls . We scorn Preferment which is gain'd by Sin , And will , tho' poor without , have peace within . THE END .