Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice ;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness; and on ev'ry tongue,
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
The year, grand circle! in whose ample round
The seasons regular and fix'd are bound,
(Who, in his course repeated o'er and o'er,
Sees the same things which he had seen before;
The same stars keep their watch, and the same sun
Runs in the track where he from first hath run; 456
The same moon rules the night; tides ebb and flow,
Man is a puppet, and this world a show;
Their old dull follies old dull fools pursue,
And vice in nothing but in mode is new;
He a lord (now fair befall that pride,
He liv'd a villain, but a lord he dy'd!)
Dashwood is pious, Berkley fix'd as Fate,
Sandwich (thank Heav'n!), first Minister of State;
And, tho' by fools despis'd, by saints unbless'd,
By friends neglected, and by foes oppress'd, 466
Scorning the servile arts of each court elf,
Founded on honour, Wilkes is still himself;)
The year, encircled with the various train
Which waits and fills the glories of his reign, 470
Shall, taking up this theme, in chorus join,
And dumb to others praise be loud in mine.
Rejoice, ye happy Gothamites! rejoice;
Lift up your voice on high, a mighty voice,
The voice of gladness; and on ev'ry tongue, 475
In strains of gratitude, be praises hung,
The praises of so great and good a king;
Shall Churchill reign, and shall not Gotham sing?
Thus far in sport-nor let our critics hence,
Who sell out Monthly trash, and call it Sense, 480
Too lightly of our present labours deem,
Or judge at random of so high a theme :
High is our theme, and worthy are the men
To feel the sharpest stroke of Satire's pen;
But when kind Time a proper season brings, 485
In serious mood to treat of serious things,
Then shall they find, disdaining idle play,
That I can be as grave and dull as they.
Thus far in sport-nor let half patriots, those Who shrink from ev'ry blast of Pow'r which blows, Who, with tame Cowardice familiar grown, Would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own; Who, lest bold truths (to do sage Prudence spite, Should burst the portals of their lips by night, Tremble to trust themselves one hour in sleep) 495 Condemn our course, and hold our caution cheap; When brave Occasion bids, for some great end When Honour calls the Poet as a friend,
Then shall they find that, ev'n on Danger's brink, He dares to speak what they scarce dare to think. 500
How much mistaken are the men who think
That all who will without restraint may drink,
May largely drink, ev'n till their bowels burst,
Pleading no right but merely that of thirst,
At the pure waters of the living well
Beside whose streams the Muses love to dwell!
Verse is with them a knack, an idle toy,
A rattle gilded o'er, on which a boy
May play untaught, whilst, without art or force,
Make it but jingle, music comes of course.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains,
The daily, nightly, racking of the brains,
To range the thoughts, the matter to digest,
To cull fit phrases, and reject the rest;
To know the times when Humour on the cheek 15
Of Mirth may hold her sports; when Wit should
And when be silent; when to use the pow'rs [speak,
Of ornament, and how to place the flow'rs,
So that they neither give a tawdry glare,
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air ;
To form (which few can do, and scarcely one,
One critic in an age, can find when done),
Volume III.
To form a plan, to strike a grand outline,
To fill it up, and make the picture shine
A full and perfect piece; to make coy Rhyme 25.
Renounce her follies, and with Sense keep time;
To make proud Sense against her nature bend,
And wear the chains of Rhyme, yet call her Friend.
Some fops there are, among the scribbling tribe,
Who make it all their bus'ness to describe,
No matter whether in or out of place;
Studious of finery, and fond of lace,
Alike they trim, as coxcomb Fancy brings,
The rags of beggars and the robes of kings.
Let dull Propriety in state preside
O'er her dull children, Nature is their guide,
Wild Nature, who at random breaks the fence
Of those tame drudges Judgment, Taste, and Sense,
Nor would forgive herself the mighty crime
Of keeping terins with Person, Place, and Time. 40
Let liquid gold emblaze the sun at noon,
With borrow'd beams let silver pale the moon;
Let surges hoarse lash the resounding shore,
Let streams meander, and let torrents roar;
Let them breed up the melancholy breeze
To sigh with sighing, sob with sobbing trees ;
Let vales embroid'ry wear; let flow'rs be ting'd
With various tints: let clouds be lac'd or fring'd,
They have their wish; like idle monarch boys,
Neglecting things of weight, they sigh for toys; 50
Give them the crown, the sceptre, and the robe,
Who will may take the pow'r and rule the globe.
Others there are who, in one solemn pace,
With as much zeal as Quakers rail at lace,
Railing at needful ornament, depend
On sense to bring them to their journey's end :
They would not (Heav'n forbid!) their course delay,
Nor for a moment step out of the way,
To make the barren road those graces wear
Which Nature would, if pleas'd, have planted there,
Vain men! who blindly thwarting Nature's plan,
Ne'er find a passage to the heart of man;
Who, bred 'mongst fogs in academic land,
Scorn ev'ry thing they do not understand;
Who, destitute of humour, wit, and taste,
Let all their little knowledge run to waste,
And frustrate each good purpose, whilst they wear
The robes of Learning with a sloven's air—
Tho' solid reas'ning arms each sterling line,
Tho' Truth declares aloud," This work is mine,"70
Vice, whilst from page to page dull morals creep,
Throws by the book, and Virtue falls asleep.
Sense, mere dull, formal, Sense, in this gay Town,
Must have some vehicle to pass her down;
Nor can she for an hour insure her reign,
Unless she brings fair Pleasure in her train.
Let her from day to day, from year to year,
In all her grave solemnities appear,
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