Читать книгу Poetical Works - Charles Churchill - Страница 11

Nos patriam fugimus.—VIRGIL.

When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly

From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,

The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,

Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;

His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire

Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;

Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views,

And fain would speak, but can't—without a Muse.

So to the sacred mount he takes his way,

Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, 10

His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,

To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims,

In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,

The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.

Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,

In rustic weeds—a cook-maid now no more—

Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies—

Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.

From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale

Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. 20

The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,

Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.

Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,

And the full chorus dies a-down the stream:

The streams, with music freighted, as they pass

Present the fair Lardella with a glass;

And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,

Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.

But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,

These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; 30

Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe,

Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law;

Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,

And founds his merit on our servile fears;

Then we discard the workings of the heart,

And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;

Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;

Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown:

Then Ostentation marches to our aid,

And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; 40

Beneath their care behold the work refine,

Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line;

Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear

The robes of ancients with a modern air;

Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced,

And passes current with the stamp of taste.

Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er,

And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;

Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam,

Easy and free as if they were at home; 50

Nymphs, naïads, nereïds, dryads, satyrs, fauns,

Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;

Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome,

More fair revive in England's meads to bloom;

Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn,

And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;

Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise,

And new creations strike our wondering eyes.

For bards like these, who neither sing nor say,

Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, 60

Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,

Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe;

Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays,

And mars one couplet in their happy lays,

As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,

And ask the meaning of her coming there:

For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[97] bring,

Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing;

In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze,

And Gisbal[98] kindly rock them to repose; 70

My Lord——, to letters as to faith most true—

At once their patron and example too—

Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,

Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[99]

Curious in grief (for real grief, we know,

Is curious to dress up the tale of woe),

From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat

Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat.

Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,

No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; 80

Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,

Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;

Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,

By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads;

Who often, but without success, have pray'd

For apt Alliteration's artful aid;

Who would, but cannot, with a master's skill,

Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:

Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit

For pacing poesy, and ambling wit, 90

Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place

Amongst the lowest of her favour'd race.

Thou, Nature, art my goddess—to thy law

Myself I dedicate! Hence, slavish awe!

Which bends to fashion, and obeys the rules

Imposed at first, and since observed by fools;

Hence those vile tricks which mar fair Nature's hue,

And bring the sober matron forth to view,

With all that artificial tawdry glare

Which virtue scorns, and none but strumpets wear! 100

Sick of those pomps, those vanities, that waste

Of toil, which critics now mistake for taste;

Of false refinements sick, and labour'd ease,

Which art, too thinly veil'd, forbids to please;

By Nature's charms (inglorious truth!) subdued,

However plain her dress, and 'haviour rude,

To northern climes my happier course I steer,

Climes where the goddess reigns throughout the year;

Where, undisturb'd by Art's rebellious plan,

She rules the loyal laird, and faithful clan. 110

To that rare soil, where virtues clustering grow,

What mighty blessings doth not England owe!

What waggon-loads of courage, wealth, and sense,

Doth each revolving day import from thence?

To us she gives, disinterested friend!

Faith without fraud, and Stuarts[100] without end.

When we prosperity's rich trappings wear,

Come not her generous sons and take a share?

And if, by some disastrous turn of fate,

Change should ensue, and ruin seize the state, 120

Shall we not find, safe in that hallow'd ground,

Such refuge as the holy martyr[101] found?

Nor less our debt in science, though denied

By the weak slaves of prejudice and pride.

Thence came the Ramsays,[102] names of worthy note,

Of whom one paints, as well as t'other wrote;

Thence, Home,[103] disbanded from the sons of prayer

For loving plays, though no dull Dean[104] was there;

Thence issued forth, at great Macpherson's[105] call,

That old, new, epic pastoral, Fingal; 130

Thence Malloch,[106] friend alike to Church and State,

Of Christ and Liberty, by grateful Fate

Raised to rewards, which, in a pious reign,

All daring infidels should seek in vain;

Thence simple bards, by simple prudence taught,

To this wise town by simple patrons brought,

In simple manner utter simple lays,

And take, with simple pensions, simple praise.

Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream,

Where all the little Loves and Graces dream; 140

Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep,

And seem themselves to own the power of sleep;

Where on the surface lead, like feathers, swims;

There let me bathe my yet unhallow'd limbs,

As once a Syrian bathed in Jordan's flood—

Wash off my native stains, correct that blood

Which mutinies at call of English pride,

And, deaf to prudence, rolls a patriot tide.

From solemn thought which overhangs the brow

Of patriot care, when things are—God knows how; 150

From nice trim points, where Honour, slave to Rule,

In compliment to Folly, plays the fool;

From those gay scenes, where Mirth exalts his power,

And easy Humour wings the laughing hour;

From those soft better moments, when desire

Beats high, and all the world of man's on fire;

When mutual ardours of the melting fair

More than repay us for whole years of care,

At Friendship's summons will my Wilkes retreat,

And see, once seen before, that ancient seat, 160

That ancient seat, where majesty display'd

Her ensigns, long before the world was made!

Mean narrow maxims, which enslave mankind,

Ne'er from its bias warp thy settled mind:

Not duped by party, nor opinion's slave,

Those faculties which bounteous nature gave,

Thy honest spirit into practice brings,

Nor courts the smile, nor dreads the frown of kings.

Let rude licentious Englishmen comply

With tumult's voice, and curse—they know not why; 170

Unwilling to condemn, thy soul disdains

To wear vile faction's arbitrary chains,

And strictly weighs, in apprehension clear,

Things as they are, and not as they appear.

With thee good humour tempers lively wit;

Enthroned with Judgment, Candour loves to sit;

And nature gave thee, open to distress,

A heart to pity, and a hand to bless.

Oft have I heard thee mourn the wretched lot

Of the poor, mean, despised, insulted Scot, 180

Who, might calm reason credit idle tales,

By rancour forged where prejudice prevails,

Or starves at home, or practises, through fear

Of starving, arts which damn all conscience here.

When scribblers, to the charge by interest led,

The fierce North Briton[107] foaming at their head,

Pour forth invectives, deaf to Candour's call,

And, injured by one alien, rail at all;

On northern Pisgah when they take their stand,

To mark the weakness of that Holy Land, 190

With needless truths their libels to adorn,

And hang a nation up to public scorn,

Thy generous soul condemns the frantic rage,

And hates the faithful, but ill-natured page.

The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride;

True is the charge, nor by themselves denied.

Are they not, then, in strictest reason clear,

Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?

If, by low supple arts successful grown,

They sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; 200

If, mean in want, and insolent in power,

They only fawn'd more surely to devour,

Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm,

And e'en the Muse for public safety arm?

But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway,

And follow where true honour points the way,

If they revere the hand by which they're fed,

And bless the donors for their daily bread,

Or, by vast debts of higher import bound,

Are always humble, always grateful found: 210

If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,

Become discreetly all things to all men,

That all men may become all things to them,

Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn.

Into our places, states, and beds they creep;

They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep.

Once—be the hour accursed, accursed the place!—

I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.

Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid,

By specious arts unwarily betray'd, 220

Madly I leagued against that sacred earth,

Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:

But shall I meanly error's path pursue,

When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue?

Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?

To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin.

Backward I tread the paths I trod before,

And calm reflection hates what passion swore.

Converted, (blessed are the souls which know

Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, 230

Whether to reason, who now rules my breast,

Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[108]

Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim

To raise new trophies to the Scottish name;

To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?)

E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore;

To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes,

In fullest tide roll down to latest times.

Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine,

An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine, 240

Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain

Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane?

Should he from toils of government retire,

And for a moment fan the poet's fire;

Should he, of sciences the moral friend,

Each curious, each important search suspend,

Leave unassisted Hill[109] of herbs to tell,

And all the wonders of a cockleshell;

Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,

Would not the Home[110] step forth and gain the prize? 250

Or if this wreath of honour might adorn

The humble brows of one in England born,

Presumptuous still thy daring must appear;

Vain all thy towering hopes whilst I am here.

Thus spake a form, by silken smile and tone,

Dull and unvaried, for the Laureate[111] known,

Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest son,

In every party found, and yet of none.

This airy substance, this substantial shade,

Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd. 260

From themes too lofty for a bard so mean,

Discretion beckons to an humbler scene;

The restless fever of ambition laid,

Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade.

Now be the Muse disrobed of all her pride,

Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied.

And if plain nature pours a simple strain,

Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain—

Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all,

Whom English infidels Macpherson call—270

Then round my head shall Honour's ensigns wave,

And pensions mark me for a willing slave.

Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springs

From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings—

Shepherds, of Scottish lineage, born and bred

On the same bleak and barren mountain's head;

By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks

To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;

Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist,

The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, 280

Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;

Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes;

Where, from their youth inured to winter-skies,

Dress and her vain refinements they despise.

Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown,

With freckles spotted, flamed the golden down,

With meikle art could on the bagpipes play,

E'en from the rising to the setting day;

Sawney as long without remorse could bawl

Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal: 290

Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,

The Highland lass forgot her want of food;

And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,

Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen;

Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green:

The plague of locusts they secure defy,

For in three hours a grasshopper must die:

No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,

But the cameleon, who can feast on air. 300

No birds, except as birds of passage, flew;

No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo:

No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,

Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here:

Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran,

Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan:

No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose,[112]

Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows;

By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades

Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 310

One, and but one poor solitary cave,

Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;

That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)

Shelter at once for man and beast supplied.

There snares without, entangling briars spread,

And thistles, arm'd against the invader's head,

Stood in close ranks, all entrance to oppose;

Thistles now held more precious than the rose.

All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan,

Were formed to loathe and to be loathed by man, 320

Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite,

Deadly to touch, and hateful to the sight;

Creatures which, when admitted in the ark,

Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark,

Found place within: marking her noisome road

With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad;

There webs were spread of more than common size,

And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies;

In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;

Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall: 330

The cave around with hissing serpents rung;

On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;

And Famine, by her children always known,

As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.

Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,

And summer shrunk beneath a wintry blast—

A native blast, which, arm'd with hail and rain,

Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,

The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep,

Of which those shepherds every day take keep, 340 Sickly crept on, and, with complainings rude, On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.