A Satire

Long have I sat on this disast'rous shore,And, sighing, sought to gain a passage o'erTo Europe's towns, where, as our travellers say,Poets may flourish, or, perhaps they may;But such abuse has from your coarse pen fellI think I may defer my voyage as well;Why should I far in search of honour roam,And dunces leave to triumph here at home?Great Jove in wrath a spark of genius gave.And bade me drink the mad Pierian wave,Hence came these rhimes, with truth ascrib'd to me,That swell thy little soul to jealousy:If thus, tormented at these flighty lays,You strive to blast what ne'er was meant for praise,How will you bear the more exalted rhime,By labour polish'd, and matur'd by time?Devoted madman! what inspir'd thy rage,Who bade thy foolish muse with me engage?Against a wind-mill would'st thou try thy might,Against a giant would a pigmy fight?What could thy slanderous pen with malice armTo injure him, who never did thee harm?Have I from thee been urgent to attainThe mean ideas of thy barren brain?Have I been seen in borrowed clothes to shine,And, when detected, swear by Jove they're mine?O miscreant, hostile to thine own repose,From thy own envy thy destruction flows!Bless'd be our western world--its scenes conspireTo raise a poet's fancy and his fire,Lo, blue-topt mountains to the skies ascend!Lo, shady forests to the breezes bend!See mighty streams meandering to the main!See lambs and lambkins sport on every plain!The spotted herds in flowery meadows see!But what, ungenerous wretch, are these to thee?--You find no charms in all that nature yields,Then leave to me the grottoes and the fields:I interfere not with your vast design--Pursue your studies, and I'll follow mine,Pursue, well pleas'd, your theologic schemes,Attend professors, and correct your themes,Still some dull nonsense, low-bred wit invent,Or prove from scripture what it never meant,Or far through law, that land of scoundrels, stray,And truth disguise through all your mazy way;Wealth you may gain, your clients you may squeeze,And by long cheating, learn to live at ease;If but in Wood or Littleton well read,The devil shall help you to your daily bread.O waft me far, ye muses of the west--Give me your green bowers and soft seats of rest--Thrice happy in those dear retreats to findA safe retirement from all human kind.Though dire misfortunes every step attend,The muse, still social, still remains a friend--In solitude her converse gives delight,With gay poetic dreams she cheers the night,She aids me, shields me, bears me on her wings,In spite of growling whelps, to high, exalted things,Beyond the miscreants that my peace molest,Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.Hail, great Mac Swiggen! foe to honest fame,Patron of dunces, and thyself the same,You dream of conquest--tell me, how, or whence?Act like a man and combat me with sense--This evil have I known, and known but once,Thus to be gall'd and slander'd by a dunce,Saw rage and weakness join their dastard planTo crush the shadow, not attack the man.What swarms of vermin from the sultry southLike frogs surround thy pestilential mouth--Clad in the garb of sacred sanctity,What madness prompts thee to invent a lie?Thou base defender of a wretched crew,Thy tongue let loose on those you never knew,The human spirit with the brutal join'd,The imps of Orcus in thy breast combin'd,The genius barren, and the wicked heart,Prepar'd to take each trifling scoundrel's part,The turn'd up nose, the monkey's foolish face,The scorn of reason, and your sire's disgrace--Assist me, gods, to drive this dog of rhimeBack to the torments of his native clime,Where dullness mingles with her native earth,And rhimes, not worth the pang that gave them birth!Where did he learn to write or talk with men?--A senseless blockhead, with a scribbling pen--In vile acrostics thou may'st please the fair,Not less than with thy looks and powder'd hair,But strive no more with rhime to daunt thy foes,Or, by the flame that in my bosom glows,The muse on thee shall her worst fury spend,And hemp, or water, thy vile being end.Aspers'd like me, who would not grieve and rage!Who would not burn, Mac Swiggen to engage?Him and his friends, a mean, designing race,I, singly I, must combat face to face--Alone I stand to meet the foul-mouth'd train,Assisted by no poets of the plain,Whose timerous Muses cannot swell their themeBeyond a meadow or a purling stream.--Were not my breast impervious to despair,And did not Clio reign unrivall'd there,I must expire beneath the ungenerous host,And dullness triumph o'er a poet lost.Rage gives me wings, and fearless prompts me onTo conquer brutes the world should blush to own;No peace, no quarter to such imps I lend,Death and perdition on each line I send;Bring all the wittlings that your host supplies,A cloud of nonsense and a storm of lies--Your kitchen wit--Mac Swiggen's loud applause,That wretched rhymer with his lanthorn jaws--His deep-set eyes forever on the wink,His soul extracted from the public sink--All such as he, to my confusion call--And tho' ten myriads--I despise them all.Come on, Mac Swiggen, come--your muse is willing,Your prose is merry, but your verse is killing--Come on, attack me with that whining prose,Your beard is red, and swine-like is your nose,Like burning brush your bristly head of hair,The ugliest image of a Greenland bear--Come on--attack me with your choicest rhimes,Sound void of sense betrays the unmeaning chimes--Come, league your forces; all your wit combine,Your wit not equal to the bold design--The heaviest arms the Muse can give, I wield,To stretch Mac Swiggen floundering on the field,'Swiggen, who, aided by some spurious Muse,But bellows nonsense, and but writes abuse,'Swiggen, immortal and unfading grown,But by no deeds or merits of his own.--So, when some hateful monster sees the day,In spirits we preserve it from decay,But for what end, it is not hard to guess--Not for its value, but its ugliness.Now, by the winds which shake thy rubric mop,(That nest of witches, or that barber's shop)Mac Swiggen, hear--Be wise in times to come,A dunce by nature, bid thy muse be dumb,Lest you, devoted to the infernal skies,Descend, like Lucifer, no more to rise.--Sick of all feuds, to Reason I appealFrom wars of paper, and from wars of steel,Let others here their hopes and wishes end,I to the sea with weary steps descend,Quit the mean conquest that such swine might yield,And leave Mac Swiggen to enjoy the field--In distant isles some happier scene I'll choose,And court in softer shades the unwilling Muse,Thrice happy there, through peaceful plains to rove,Or the cool verdure of the orange grove,Safe from the miscreants that my peace molest,Miscreants, with dullness and with rage opprest.