Blush, thou vain man! and if desire of fame,
Founded on real art, thy thoughts inflame;
To quick destruction Sigismunda give,
And let her memory die, that thine may live.
But should fond Candor, for her mercy's sake, 585
With pity view and pardon this mistake;
Or should Oblivion, to thy wish most kind,
Wipe off that stain, nor leave one trace behind,
Of arts despis'd, of artists, by thy frown
Aw'd, frem just hopes of rising worth kept down,
Of all thy meanness thro' this mortal race
Canst thou the living memory erase?
Or shall not Vengeance follow to the grave,
And give back just that measure which you gave?
With so much merit, and so much success,
595 With so much power to curse, so much to bless; Would he have been man's friend instead of foe, Hogarth had been a little god below.
Why then, like savage giants fam'd of old,
Of whom in scripture story we are told,
Dost thou in cruelty that strength employ
Which Nature meant to save, not to destroy?
Why dost thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,
Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou hast made?
Most rank ill-nature must applaud thy art;
But even candor must condemn thy heart.
For me, who warm and zealous for my friend ; In spite of railing thousands will commend:
And no less warm and zealous 'gainst my foes;
Spite of commending thousands will oppose- 610
I dare thy worst, with scorn behold thy rage;
But with an eye of pity view thy age-
Thy feeble age! in which as in a glass
We see how men to dissolution pass.
Thou wretched being! whom, on reason's plan,615
So chang'd, so lost, I cannot call a man—
What could persuade thee at this time of life,
To launch afresh into the sea of strife?
Better for thee, scarce crawling on the earth,
Almost as much a child as at thy birth;
To have resign'd in peace thy parting breath,
And sunk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.
Why would thy gray, gray hairs resentment brave,
Thus to go down with sorrow to the grave?
Now by my soul! it makes me blush to know 625
My spirits could descend to such a foe:
Whatever cause the vengeance might provoke;
It seems rank cowardice to give the stroke.
Sure 't is a curse which angry Fates impose
To mortify man's arrogance, that those
Who 're fashion'd of some better sort of clay
Much sooner than the common herd decay.
What bitter pangs must humble Genius' feel
In their last hours to view a Swift and Steele !
How must ill-boding horrors fill her breast, 653
When she beholds men mark'd above the rest
For qualities most dear, plung'd from that height,
And sunk, deep sunk, in second childhood's night!
Are men, indeed, such things? and are the best
More subject to this evil than the rest ;
To drivil out whole years of idiot breath,
And sit the monuments of living Death !
O! galling circumstance to human pride!
Abasing thought! but not to be deny'd.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, 645
Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought.
Constant attention wears the active mind,
Blots out her pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
But let not youth, to insolence ally'd,
In heat of blood, in full career of pride,
Possess'd of genius, with unhallow'd rage
Mock the infirmities of rev'rend age:
The greatest genius to his fate must bow;
Reynolds in time may be like Hogarth now *.
The painter, of course, revenged himself in caricature; but many an eye has read Churchill's Epistle which never saw Hogarth's Bruin. The last paragraph of the poem will not be forgotten when party-disputes shall cease to be remembered.
GRACE said in form, which sceptics must agree,
When they are told that grace was said by me;
'The servants gone to break the scurvy jest
On the proud landlord and his thread bare guest;
The King gone round, my Lady too withdrawn, 5
My Lord in usual taste began to yawn,
And lolling backward in his elbow-chair,
With an insipid kind of stupid stare,
Picking his teeth, twirling his seals about-
Churchill, you have a poem coming out:
You've my best wishes; but I really fear
Your Muse in general is too severe;
Her spirit seems her int'rest to oppose,
And where she makes one friend makes twenty focs.
C. Your Lordship's fears are just; I feel their force;
But only feel it as a thing of course.
The man whose hardy spirit shall engage
To lash the vices of a guilty age
At his first setting forward ought to know,
That ev'ry rogue he meets must be his foe,
That the rude breath of satire will provoke
Many who feel and more who fear the stroke:
But shall the partial rage of selfish men
From stubborn Justice wrench the righteous pen?
Or shall I not my settled course pursue,
Because my foes are foes to virtue too?
L. What is this boasted virtue taught in schools, Andidly drawn from antiquated rules? What is her use? point out one wholsome end; ́ Will she hurt foes, or can she make a friend? 130 When from long fasts fierce appetites arise, Can this same Virtue stifle Nature's cries? Can she the pittance of a meal afford;
Or bid thee welcome to one great man's board?
When northern winds the rough December arm 35
With frost and snow, can Virtue keep thee warm?
Canst thou dismiss the hard unfeeling dun,
Barely by saying thou art Virtue's son ?
Or by base blund'ring statesmen sent to jail,
Will Mansfield take this Virtue for thy bail? 40
Believe it not the name is in disgrace:
Virtue and Temple now are out of place.
Quit then this meteor, whose delusive ray
From wealth and honour leads thee far astray.
True virtue means-let Reason use her eyes, 45
Nothing with fools, and int'rest with the wise.
Would'st thou be great, her patronage disclaim,
Nor madly triumph in so mean a name ;
Let nobler wreaths thy happy brows adorn,
And leave to Virtue poverty and scorn.
Let Prudence be thy guide; who doth not know How seldom Prudence can with Virtue go?
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