Book II

Her Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,And with a kiss recalls her fleeting breath,To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,A lighted taper, touch'd, restores the fire:She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the sight:Her father's death she bore, despis'd her own,But now she must, she will, have leave to groan:Ah! Guilford, she began, and would have spoke;But sobs rush'd in, and ev'ry accent broke:Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.So the youth lost his image in the well,When tears upon the yielding surface fell.The scatter'd features slid into decay,And spreading circles drove his face away.To touch the soft affections, and controlThe manly temper of the bravest soul,What with afflicted beauty can compare,And drops of love distilling from the fair?It melts us down; our pains delight bestow;And we with fondness languish o'er our woe.This Guilford prov'd; and, with excess of pain,And pleasure too, did to his bosom strainThe weeping fair: sunk deep in soft desire,Indulg'd his love, and nurs'd the raging fire:Then tore himself away; and, standing wide,As fearing a relapse of fondness, cried,With ill-dissembled grief; "My life, forbear!You wound your Guilford with each cruel tear:Did you not chide my grief? repress your own;Nor want compassion for yourself alone:Have you beheld, how, from the distant main,The thronging waves roll on, a num'rous train,And foam, and bellow, till they reach the shore;There burst their noisy pride, and are no more?Thus the successive flows of human race,Chas'd by the coming, the preceding, chase;They sound, and swell, their haughty heads they rear;Then fall, and flatten, break, and disappear.Life is a forfeit we must shortly pay;And where's the mighty lucre of a day?Why should you mourn my fate? 'tis most unkind;Your own you bore with an unshaken mind:And which, can you imagine, was the dartThat drank most blood, sunk deepest in my heart?I cannot live without you; and my doomI meet with joy, to share one common tomb.--And are again your tears profusely spilt!Oh! then, my kindness blackens to my guilt;It foils itself, if it recall your pain;--Life of my life, I beg you to refrain!The load which fate imposes, you increase;And help Maria to destroy my peace."But, oh! against himself his labour turn'd;The more he comforted, the more she mourn'd:Compassion swells our grief; words soft and kindBut soothe our weakness, and dissolve the mind:Her sorrow flow'd in streams; nor hers alone,While that he blam'd, he yielded to his own.Where are the smiles she wore, when she, so late,Hail'd him great partner of the regal state;When orient gems around her temples blaz'd,And bending nations on the glory gaz'd?'Tis now the queen's command, they both retreat,To weep with dignity, and mourn in state:She forms the decent misery with joy,And loads with pomp the wretch she would destroy.A spacious hall is hung with black; all lightShut out, and noon-day darken'd into night.From the mid-roof a lamp depends on high,Like a dim crescent in a clouded sky:It sheds a quiv'ring melancholy gloom,Which only shows the darkness of the room.A shining axe is on the table laid;A dreadful sight! and glitters through the shade.In this sad scene the lovers are confin'd;A scene of terrors, to a guilty mind!A scene, that would have damp'd with rising cares,And quite extinguish'd every love but theirs.What can they do? They fix their mournful eyes----Then Guilford, thus abruptly; "I despiseAn empire lost; I fling away the crown;Numbers have laid that bright delusion down;But where's the Charles, or Dioclesian where,Could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair?Oh! to dwell ever on thy lip! to standIn full possession of thy snowy hand!And, thro' th' unclouded crystal of thine eye,The heavenly treasures of thy mind to spy!Till rapture reason happily destroys,And my soul wanders through immortal joys!Give me the world, and ask me, where's my bliss?I clasp thee to my breast, and answer, this.And shall the grave"--He groans, and can no more;But all her charms in silence traces o'er;Her lip, her cheek, and eye, to wonder wrought;And, wond'ring, sees, in sad presaging thought,From that fair neck, that world of beauty fall,And roll along the dust, a ghastly ball!Oh! let those tremble, who are greatly bless'd!For who, but Guilford, could be thus distress'd?Come hither, all you happy, all you great,From flowery meadows, and from rooms of state;Nor think I call, your pleasures to destroy,But to refine, and to exalt your joy:Weep not; but, smiling, fix your ardent careOn nobler titles than the brave or fair.Was ever such a mournful, moving sight?See, if you can, by that dull, trembling light:Now they embrace; and, mix'd with bitter woe,Like Isis and her Thames, one stream they flow:Now they start wide; fix'd in benumbing care,They stiffen into statues of despair:Now, tenderly severe, and fiercely kind,They rush at once; they fling their cares behind,And clasp, as if to death; new vows repeat;And, quite wrapp'd up in love, forget their fate.A short delusion! for the raging painReturns; and their poor hearts must bleed again.Meantime, the queen new cruelty decreed;But, ill content that they should only bleed,A priest is sent; who, with insidious art,Instills his poison into Suffolk's heart;And Guilford drank it: banging on the breast,He from his childhood was with Rome possest.When now the ministers of death draw nigh,And in her dearest lord she first must die,The subtle priest, who long had watch'd to findThe most unguarded passes of her mind,Bespoke her thus: "Grieve not; 'tis in your powerYour lord to rescue from this fatal hour."Her bosom pants; she draws her breath with pain;A sudden horror thrills through every vein;Life seems suspended, on his words intent;And her soul trembles for the great event.The priest proceeds: "Embrace the faith of Rome,And ward your own, your lord's, and father's doom."Ye blessed spirits! now your charge sustain;The past was ease; now first she suffers pain.Must she pronounce her father's death? must sheBid Guilford bleed?--It must not, cannot, be.It cannot be! But 'tis the Christian's praise,Above impossibilities to raiseThe weakness of our nature; and derideOf vain philosophy the boasted pride.What though our feeble sinews scarce impartA moment's swiftness to the feather'd dart;Though tainted air our vig'rous youth can break,And a chill blast the hardy warrior shake,Yet are we strong: hear the loud tempest roarFrom east to west, and call us weak no more;The lightning's unresisted force proclaimsOur might; and thunders raise our humble names;'Tis our Jehovah fills the heavens; as longAs he shall reign Almighty, we are strong:We, by devotion, borrow from his throne;And almost make Omnipotence our own:We force the gates of heaven, by fervent prayer;And call forth triumph out of man's despair.Our lovely mourner, kneeling, lifts her eyesAnd bleeding heart, in silence, to the skies,Devoutly sad--then, bright'ning, like the day,When sudden winds sweep scatter'd clouds away,Shining in majesty, till now unknown,And breathing life and spirit scarce her own;She, rising, speaks: "If these the terms----"Here, Guilford, cruel Guilford, (barb'rous man!Is this thy love?) as swift as lightning ran;O'erwhelm'd her with tempestuous sorrow fraught,And stifled, in its birth, the mighty thought;Then bursting fresh into a flood of tears,Fierce, resolute, delirious with his fears;His fears for her alone: he beat his breast,And thus the fervour of his soul exprest:"Oh! let thy thought o'er our past converse rove,And show one moment uninflam'd with love!Oh! if thy kindness can no longer last,In pity to thyself, forget the past!Else wilt thou never, void of shame and fear,Pronounce his doom, whom thou hast held so dear:Thou who hast took me to thy arms, and sworeEmpires were vile, and fate could give no more:That to continue, was its utmost power,And make the future like the present hour.Now call a ruffian; bid his cruel swordLay wide the bosom of thy worthless lord;Transfix his heart (since you its love disclaim),And stain his honour with a traitor's name.This might perhaps be borne without remorse;But sure a father's pangs will have their force!Shall his good age, so near its journey's end,Through cruel torment to the grave descend?His shallow blood all issue at a wound,Wash a slave's feet, and smoke upon the ground?But he to you has ever been severe;Then take your vengeance"--Suffolk now drew near;Bending beneath the burden of his care;His robes neglected, and his head was bare;Decrepid winter, in the yearly ring,Thus slowly creeps, to meet the blooming spring:Downward he cast a melancholy look;Thrice turn'd, to hide his grief; then faintly spoke:"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,That axe can only rob me of a day;For thee, my soul's desire! I can't refrain;And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?When you shall know a mother's tender name,My heart's distress no longer will you blame."At this, afar his bursting groans were heard;The tears ran trickling down his silver beard:He snatch'd her hand, which to his lips he prest,And bid her plant a dagger in his breast;Then, sinking, call'd her piety unjust,And soil'd his hoary temples in the dust.Hard-hearted men! will you no mercy know?Has the queen brib'd you to distress her foe?O weak deserters to misfortune's part,By false affection thus to pierce her heart!When she had soar'd, to let your arrows fly,And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky!And can her virtue, springing from the ground,Her flight recover, and disdain the wound,When cleaving love, and human interest, bindThe broken force of her aspiring mind;As round the gen'rous eagle, which in vainExerts her strength, the serpent wreaths his train,Her struggling wings entangles, curling pliesHis pois'nous tail, and stings her as she flies!While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she feels,And with its force her resolution reels;Large doors, unfolding with a mournful sound,To view discover, welt'ring on the ground,Three headless trunks, of those whose arms maintain'd,And in her wars immortal glory gain'd:The lifted axe assur'd her ready doom,And silent mourners sadden'd all the room.Shall I proceed; or here break off my tale;Nor truths, to stagger human faith, reveal?She met this utmost malice of her fateWith Christian dignity, and pious state:The beating storm's propitious rage she blest,And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast:Her lord and father, for a moment's space,She strictly folded in her soft embrace!Then thus she spoke, while angels heard on high,And sudden gladness smil'd along the sky:"Your over fondness has not mov'd my hate;I am well pleas'd you make my death so great;I joy I cannot save you; and have giv'nTwo lives, much dearer than my own, to heaven,If so the queen decrees:(4)--But I have causeTo hope my blood will satisfy the laws;And there is mercy still, for you, in store:With me the bitterness of death is o'er.He shot his sting in that farewell embrace;And all, that is to come, is joy and peace.Then let mistaken sorrow be supprest,Nor seem to envy my approaching rest."Then, turning to the ministers of fate,She, smiling, says, "My victory complete:And tell your queen, I thank her for the blow,And grieve my gratitude I cannot show:A poor return I leave in England's crown,For everlasting pleasure, and renown:Her guilt alone allays this happy hour;Her guilt,--the only vengeance in her power."Not Rome, untouch'd with sorrow, heard her fate;And fierce Maria pitied her too late.

My verse is satire; Dorset, lend your ear,And patronize a muse you cannot fear.To poets sacred is a Dorset's name:Their wonted passport through the gates of fame:It bribes the partial reader into praise,And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays:The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,And gives applause to Blackmore, or to me.But you decline the mistress we pursue;Others are fond of fame, but fame of you.Instructive satire, true to virtue's cause!Thou shining supplement of public laws!When flatter'd crimes of a licentious ageReproach our silence, and demand our rage;When purchas'd follies, from each distant land,Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand;When the law shows her teeth, but dares not bite,And south sea treasures are not brought to light;When churchmen scripture for the classics quit,Polite apostates from God's grace to wit;When men grow great from their revenue spent,And fly from bailiffs into parliament;When dying sinners, to blot out their score,Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;To chafe our spleen, when themes like these increase,Shall panegyric reign, and censure cease?Shall poesy, like law, turn wrong to right,And dedications wash an Æthiop white,Set up each senseless wretch for nature's boast,On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post?Shall fun'ral eloquence her colours spread,And scatter roses on the wealthy dead?Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,And satirize with nothing--but their praise?Why slumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,Nor hears that virtue, which he loves, complain?Donne, Dorset, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,And guilt's chief foe, in Addison, is fled;Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels, fairly won,Sits smiling at the goal, while others run,He will not write; and (more provoking still!)Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.Doubly distrest, what author shall we findDiscreetly daring, and severely kind,The courtly(6) Roman's shining path to tread,And sharply smile prevailing folly dead?Will no superior genius snatch the quill,And save me, on the brink, from writing ill?Tho' vain the strife, I'll strive my voice to raise,What will not men attempt for sacred praise?The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art,Reigns, more or less, and glows, in ev'ry heart:The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;The modest shun it, but to make it sure.O'er globes, and sceptres, now on thrones it swells;Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells:'Tis tory, whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,Harangues in senates, squeaks in masquerades.Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretenceThere, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;Nor ends with life; but nods in sable plumes,Adorns our hearse, and flatters on our tombs.What is not proud? The pimp is proud to seeSo many like himself in high degree:The whore is proud her beauties are the dreadOf peevish virtue, and the marriage-bed;And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims bornTo slaughter, glories in his gilded horn.Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,And come back much more guilty than they went:One way they look, another way they steer,Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;And when their sins they set sincerely down,They'll find that their religion has been one.Others with wishful eyes on glory look,When they have got their picture tow'rds a book;Or pompous title, like a gaudy sign,Meant to betray dull sots to wretched wine.If at his title T---- had dropt his quill,T---- might have pass'd for a great genius still.But T----, alas! (excuse him, if you can)Is now a scribbler, who was once a man.Imperious some a classic fame demand,For heaping up, with a laborious hand,A waggon-load of meanings for one word,While A's deposed, and B with pomp restor'd.Some, for renown, on scraps of learning dote,And think they grow immortal as they quote.To patch-work learn'd quotations are allied;Both strive to make our poverty our pride.On glass how witty is a noble peer!Did ever diamond cost a man so dear?Polite diseases make some idiots vain,Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.Of folly, vice, disease, men proud we see;And (stranger still!) of blockheads' flattery;Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean,By spitting on your face, to make it clean.Nor is't enough all hearts are swoln with pride,Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.What can she not perform? The love of fameMade bold Alphonsus his Creator blame:Empedocles hurl'd down the burning steep:And (stronger still!) made Alexander weep.Nay, it holds Delia from a second bed,Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been dead.This passion with a pimple have I seenRetard a cause, and give a judge the spleen.By this inspir'd (O ne'er to be forgot!)Some lords have learn'd to spell, and some to knot.It makes Globose a speaker in the house;He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.It makes dear self on well-bred tongues prevail,And I the little hero of each tale.Sick with the love of fame, what throngs pour in,Unpeople court, and leave the senate thin!My glowing subject seems but just begun,And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.Aid me, great Homer! with thy epic rules,To take a catalogue of British fools.Satire! had I thy Dorset's force divine,A knave or fool should perish in each line;Tho' for the first all Westminster should plead,And for the last, all Gresham intercede.Begin. Who first the catalogue shall grace?To quality belongs the highest place.My lord comes forward; forward let him come!Ye vulgar! at your peril, give him room:He stands for fame on his forefathers' feet,By heraldry prov'd valiant or discreet.With what a decent pride he throws his eyesAbove the man by three descents less wise!If virtues at his noble hands you crave,You bid him raise his fathers from the grave.Men should press forward in fame's glorious chase;Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.Let high birth triumph! What can be more great?Nothing--but merit in a low estate.To virtue's humblest son let none preferVice, though descended from the conqueror.Shall men, like figures, pass for high, or base,Slight, or important, only by their place?Titles are marks of honest men, and wise;The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.Dorset, let those who proudly boast their line,Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.Vain as false greatness is, the muse must ownWe want not fools to buy that Bristol stone;Mean sons of earth, who, on a south-sea tideOf full success, swarm into wealth and pride;Knock with a purse of gold at Anstis' gate,And beg to be descended from the great.When men of infamy to grandeur soar,They light a torch to show their shame the more.Those governments which curb not evils, cause!And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.Belus with solid glory will be crown'd;He buys no phantom, no vain empty sound;But builds himself a name; and, to be great,Sinks in a quarry an immense estate!In cost and grandeur, Chandos he'll outdo;And Burlington, thy taste is not so true.The pile is finish'd! ev'ry toil is past;And full perfection is arriv'd at last;When, lo! my lord to some small corner runs,And leaves state-rooms to strangers and to duns.The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay,Provides a home from which to run away.In Britain, what is many a lordly seat,But a discharge in full for an estate?In smaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;Not domes, but antique statues, are his flame:Not Fountaine's self more Parian charms has known,Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.The bailiffs come (rude men profanely bold!)And bid him turn his Venus into gold."No, sirs," he cries; "I'll sooner rot in jail;Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"Such heads might make their very busto's laugh:His daughter starves; but(7) Cleopatra's safe.Men, overloaded with a large estate,May spill their treasure in a nice conceit:The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis sadTo say you're curious, when we swear you're mad.By your revenue measure your expense;And to your funds and acres join your sense.No man is bless'd by accident or guess;True wisdom is the price of happiness:Yet few without long discipline are sage;And our youth only lays up sighs for age.But how, my muse, canst thou resist so longThe bright temptation of the courtly throng,Thy most inviting theme? The court affordsMuch food for satire;--it abounds in lords."What lords are those saluting with a grin?"One is just out, and one as lately in."How comes it then to pass we see presideOn both their brows an equal share of pride?"Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.As in its home it triumphs in high place,And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravish'd sight:Some lords it bids resign; and turn their wands,Like Moses', into serpents in their hands.These sink, as divers, for renown; and boast,With pride inverted, of their honours lost.But against reason sure 'tis equal sin,To boast of merely being out, or in.What numbers here, through odd ambition, striveTo seem the most transported things alive!As if by joy, desert was understood;And all the fortunate were wise and good.Hence aching bosoms wear a visage gay,And stifled groans frequent the ball and play.Completely drest by(8) Monteuil, and grimace,They take their birth-day suit, and public face:Their smiles are only part of what they wear,Put off at night, with Lady B----'s hair.What bodily fatigue is half so bad?With anxious care they labour to be glad.What numbers, here, would into fame advance,Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance;The tavern! park! assembly! mask! and play!Those dear destroyers of the tedious day!That wheel of fops! that saunter of the town!Call it diversion, and the pill goes down.Fools grin on fools, and, stoic-like, support,Without one sigh, the pleasures of a court.Courts can give nothing, to the wise and good,But scorn of pomp, and love of solitude.High stations tumult, but not bliss, create:None think the great unhappy, but the great:Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a sting,Which makes a swain as wretched as a king.I envy none their pageantry and show;I envy none the gilding of their woe.Give me, indulgent gods! with mind serene,And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene;No splendid poverty, no smiling care,No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there:There pleasing objects useful thought suggest;The sense is ravish'd, and the soul is blest;On every thorn delightful wisdom grows;In every rill a sweet instruction flows.But some, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,In spite of sacred leisure, blockheads still;Nor shoots up folly to a nobler bloomIn her own native soil, the drawing-room.The squire is proud to see his coursers strain,Or well-breath'd beagles sweep along the plain.Say, dear Hippolitus, (whose drink is ale,Whose erudition is a Christmas tale,Whose mistress is saluted with a smack,And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the back,)When thy sleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,Is that thy praise? Let Ringwood's fame alone;Just Ringwood leaves each animal his own;Nor envies, when a gipsy you commit,And shake the clumsy bench with country wit;When you the dullest of dull things have said,And then ask pardon for the jest you made.Here breathe, my muse! and then thy task renew:Ten thousand fools unsung are still in view.Fewer lay-atheists made by church debates;Fewer great beggars fam'd for large estates;Ladies, whose love is constant as the wind;Cits, who prefer a guinea to mankind;Fewer grave lords to Scrope discreetly bend;And fewer shocks a statesman gives his friend.Is there a man of an eternal vein,Who lulls the town in winter with his strain,At Bath, in summer, chants the reigning lass,And sweetly whistles, as the waters pass?Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup,That runs for ages without winding up?Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame?Such, and such only, might exhaust my theme:Nor would these heroes of the task be glad;For who can write so fast as men run mad?