Like thee they lived, each dream of Hope to mock,

Upon their wits-but with a larger stock.

No, if for food thy unambitious pray'r, With supple acts to supple minds repair; Learn of the base, in soft grimace to deal, And deck thee with the livery genteel; Or trim the wherry, or the flail invite, Draw teeth, or any viler thing but write. Writers, whom once th' astonish'd vulgar saw, Give nations language, and great cities law; Whom gods, they said—and surely godsinspired,

Whom emp'rors honour'd, and the world

admired

Now common grown, they awe mankind no more,

But vassals are, who judges were before;
Blockheads on wits their little talents waste,
As files gnaw metal that they cannot taste:
Though still some good, the trial may produce,
To shape the useful to a nobler use.
Some few of these, a statue and a stone
Has Fame decreed-but deals out bread to none.
Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's curse,
Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse:
Members by bribes, and ministers by lies,
Gamesters by luck, by courage soldiers rise:
Beaux by the outside of their heads may win,
And wily sergeants by the craft within:

Who but the race, by Fancy's demon led, Starve by the means they use to gain their bread ?

Oft have I read, and, reading, mourn'd the
fate

Of garret-bard, and his unpitied mate;
Of children stinted in their daily meal!—
The joke of wealthier wits, who could not feel;
Portentous spoke that pity in my breast!
And pleaded self-who ever pleads the best:
No! thank my stars, my misery 's all my

own,

To friends-to family-to foes unknown: Who hates my verse, and damns the mean design,

Shall wound no peace-shall grieve no heart but mine.

One trial past, let sober Reason speak: Here shall we rest, or shall we further seek? Rest here, if our relenting stars ordain

A placid harbour from the stormy main :
Or, that denied, the fond remembrance weep,
And sink, forgotten, in the mighty deep.

And now farewell, the drooping Muse exclaims.

She lothly leaves thee to the shock of war, And, fondly dwelling on her princely tar, Wishes the noblest good her Harry's share, Without her misery and without her care. For, ah! unknown to thee, a rueful train, Her hapless children, sigh, and sigh in vain; A numerous band, denied the boon to die, Half-starved, half-fed by fits of charity. Unknown to thee! and yet, perhaps, thy ear Has chanced each sad, amusing tale to hear, How some, like Budgell, madly sank for ease; How some, like Savage, sicken'd by degrees; How a pale crew, like helpless Otway, shed The proud big tear on song-extorted bread; Or knew, like Goldsmith, some would stoop to choose

Contempt, and for the mortar quit the Muse. One of this train-and of these wretches

one

Slaves to the Muses, and to Misery sonNow prays the Father of all Fates to shed, On Henry, laurels; on his poet, bread!

Unhappy art! decreed thine owner's
curse;

Vile diagnostic of consumptive purse;
Still shall thy fatal force my soul perplex,
And every friend, and every brother vex!
Each fond companion!--No, I thank my
God!

There rests my torment-there is hung the rod.

To friend, to fame, to family unknown,
Sour disappointments frown on me alone.
Who hates my song, and damns the poor de-
sign,

Shall wound no peace-shall grieve no heart but mine!

Pardon, sweet Prince! the thoughts that

will intrude,

For want is absent, and dejection rude.
Methinks I hear, amid the shouts of Fame,
Each jolly victor hail my Henry's name;
And, Heaven forbid that, in that jovial day,
One British bard should grieve when all are
gay.

No! let him find his country has redress,
And bid adieu to every fond distress;
Or, touch'd too near, from joyful scenes
retire,

Scorn to complain, and with one sigh expire!

DRIFTING [1780]

LIKE some poor bark on the rough ocean tost,
My rudder broken, and my compass lost,
My sails the coarsest, and too thin to last,
Pelted by rains, and bare to many a blast,
My anchor, Hope, scarce fix'd enough to stay
Where the strong current Grief sweeps all
away,

I sail along, unknowing how to steer,
Where quicksands lie and frowning rocks

appear.

Life's ocean teems with foes to my frail bark,
The rapid sword-fish, and the rav'ning shark,
Where torpid things crawl forth in splendid
shell,

And knaves and fools and sycophants live well.
What have I left in such tempestuous sea?
No Tritons shield, no Naiads shelter me!
A gloomy Muse, in Mira's absence, hears
My plaintive prayer, and sheds consoling
tears-

Some fairer prospect, though at distance, brings,

Soothes me with song, and flatters as she sings.

TO THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF SHELBURNE

[1780]

AH! SHELBURNE, blest with all that 's good or great,

T' adorn a rich, or save a sinking state,
If public Ills engross not all thy care,
Let private Woe assail a patriot's ear,
Pity confined, but not less warm, impart,
And unresisted win thy noble heart:
Nor deem I rob thy soul of Britain's share,
Because I hope to have some interest there;
Still wilt thou shine on all a fostering sun,
Though with more fav'ring beams enlight❜n-
ing one,-

As Heaven will oft make some more amply blest,

Yet still in general bounty feeds the rest.
Oh hear the Virtue thou reverest plead;
She'll swell thy breast, and there applaud the

deed.

She bids thy thoughts one hour from greatness stray,

And leads thee on to fame a shorter way;

WHY, true, thou say'st the fools at Court denied,

Growl vengeance, and then take the other side:

The unfed flatterer borrows satire's power,
As sweets unshelter'd run to vapid sour.
But thou, the counsel to my closest thought,
Beheld'st it ne'er in fulsome stanzas wrought.
The Muse I court ne'er fawn'd on venal souls,
Whom suppliants angle, and poor praise con-
trols;

She, yet unskill'd in all but fancy's dream,
Sang to the woods, and Mira was her theme.
But when she sees a titled nothing stand
The ready cipher of a trembling land,—
Not of that simple kind that placed alone
Are useless, harmless things, and threaten

none,

But those which, join'd to figures, well express A strengthen'd tribe that amplify distress, Grow in proportion to their number great, And help each other in the ranks of state ;When this and more the pensive Muses see, They leave the vales and willing nymphs to thee;

To Court on wings of agile anger speed, And paint to freedom's sons each guileful deed.

Hence rascals teach the virtues they detest, And fright base action from sin's wavering breast;

woe,

And unadorn'd, my heart-felt murmurs flow, Yet time shall be when this thine humbled friend

Shall to more lofty heights his notes extend.
A Man-for other title were too poor-
Such as 'twere almost virtue to adore,
He shall the ill that loads my heart exhale,
As the sun vapours from the dew-press'd vale;
Himself uninjuring shall new warmth infuse,
And call to blossom every want-nipp'd Muse.
Then shall my grateful strains his ear rejoice,
His name harmonious thrill'd on Mira's voice;
Round the reviving bays new sweets shall
spring,

And SHELBURNE's fame through laughing valleys ring.

arts,

Her sting may haply pierce more timid hearts. Some, though they wish it, are not steel'd enough,

Nor is each would-be villain conscience-proof.

TO HIS POEMS.

YE idler things, that soothed my hours of

care,

Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where ?

To mad Moorfields, or sober Chancery Lane, On dirty stalls I see your hopes expire, Vex'd by the grin of your unheeded sire, Who half reluctant has his care resign'd, Like a teased parent, and is rashly kind.

Yet rush not all, but let some scout go forth, View the strange land, and tell us of its worth; And should he there barbarian usage meet, The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat.

And thou, the first of thy eccentric race, A forward imp, go, search the dangerous place, Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard,

Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard;
Hope not unhurt the golden spoil to seize,
The Muses yield, as the Hesperides ;
Who bribes the guardian, all his labour's
done, 暑

For every maid is willing to be won.

Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand, And beg our passage through the fairy land: Beg more to search for sweets each blooming field,

To snatch the tints that beam on Fancy's bow;

And feel the fires on Genius' wings that glow; Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,

Soothe without fear, and without trembling hope.

TO THE READER

THE following Poem being itself of an introductory nature, its author supposes it can require but little preface.

It is published with a view of obtaining the opinion of the candid and judicious reader, on the merits of the writer, as a poet; very few, he apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently impartial to decide for themselves.

It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthly Review, as to critics of acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has afforded the writer of the Epistle a reason for directing it to them in particular, and, he presumes, will yield to others a just and sufficient plea for the preference.

Familiar with disappointment; he shall not be much surprised to find he has mistaken his talent. However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, he promises to his readers some entertainment, and is assured, that however little in the ensuing Poem is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits contempt.

TO THE AUTHORS OF THE
'MONTHLY REVIEW'

THE pious pilot, whom the Gods provide, Through the rough seas the shatter'd bark to guide,

Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep, Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep;

But, whilst with nicest skill he steers his way, The guardian Tritons hear their favourite

pray.

Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral

dome,

The God relents, and shuts each gulfy tomb.
Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer,
I dread the storm, that ever rattles here,

yield;

Has felt the Muse's soft, but strong control,