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SATIRE VII.

TO THE

RIGHT HON. SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.

Carmina tum melius, cum venerit IPSE, canemus.

VIRG.

On this last labour, this my closing strain,

Smile, WALPOLE! or the Nine inspire in vain :
To thee, 'tis due; that verse how justly thine,
Where BRUNSWICK's glory crowns the whole design!
That glory, which thy counsels make so bright;
That glory, which on thee reflects a light.
Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known!
To give, and take, a lustre from the throne.
Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme;
The fountain is not foreign to the stream.
How all mankind will be surpriz'd, to see
This flood of British folly charg'd on thee!
Say, Britain! whence this caprice of thy sons,
Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs?

The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless;
For caprice is the daughter of success,

(A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause!)
And gives our rulers undesign'd applause;
Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,
And lulls us in the downy lap of peace.
While I survey the blessings of our isle,
Her arts triumphant in the royal smile,
Her public wounds bound up, her credit high,
Her commerce spreading sails in every sky,
The pleasing scene recalls my theme again,
And shews the madness of ambitious men,
Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring sword,
And burn to give mankind a single lord.

The follies past are of a private kind;

Their sphere is small; their mischief is confin'd:
But daring men there are (Awake, my muse,
And raise thy verse !) who bolder frenzy chuse ;
Who stung by glory, rave, and bound away;
The world their field, and humankind their prey.
The Grecian chief, th' enthusiast of his pride,
With rage and terror stalking by his side,
Raves round the globe; he soars into a god!
Stand fast, Olympus! and sustain his nod.
The pest divine in horrid grandeur reigns,
And thrives on mankind's miseries and pains.
What slaughter'd hosts! what cities in a blaze!
What wasted countries! and what crimson seas!
With orphans tears his impious bowl o'erflows,
And cries of kingdoms lull him to repose.

And cannot thrice ten hundred years unpraise
The boist'rous boy, and blast his guilty bays?
Why want we then encomiums on the storm,
Or famine, or volcano? They perform
Their mighty deeds: they, hero-like, can slay,
And spread their ample desarts in a day.
O great alliance! O divine renown!

With dearth, and pestilence, to share the crown.
When men extol a wild destroyer's name,
Earth's Builder and Preserver they blaspheme.
One to destroy, is murder by the law;

And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe ;
To murder thousands, takes a specious name,
War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.
When, after battle, I the field have seen
Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were men;
A nation crush'd, a nation of the brave!

A realm of death! and on this side the grave!
Are there, said I, who from this sad survey,
This human chaos, carry smiles away?
How did my heart with indignation rise!
How honest nature swell'd into my eyes!
How was I shock'd to think the hero's trade
Of such materials, fame and triumph made!
How guilty these! Yet not less guilty they,
Who reach false glory by a smoother way:
Who
wrap destruction up in gentle words,

And bows, and smiles, more fatal than their swords;
Who stifle nature, and subsist on art;

Who coin the face, and petrify the heart;

All real kindness for the shew discard,

As marble polish'd, and as marble hard;

Who do for gold what Christians do thro' Grace,
"With open arms their enemies embrace:"
Who give a nod when broken hearts repine;
"The thinnest food on which a wretch can dine :"
Or, if they serve you, serve you disinclin'd,
And, in their height of kindness, are unkind.
Such courtiers were, and such again may be,
WALPOLE! when men forget to copy thee.

Here cease, my Muse! the catalogue is writ;
Nor one more candidate for fame admit,
Tho' disappointed thousands justly blame
Thy partial pen, and boast an equal claim:
Be this their comfort, fools, omitted here,
May furnish laughter for another year.
Then let CRISPINO, who was ne'er refus'd
The justice yet of being well abus'd,
With patience wait; and be content to reign
The pink of puppies in some future strain.

Some future strain, in which the Muse shall tell
How science dwindles, and how volumes swell.
How commentators each dark passage shun,
And hold their farthing candle to the sun.
How tortur'd texts to speak our sense are made,

And ev'ry vice is to the scripture laid.

How misers squeeze a young voluptuous peer; His sins to LUCIFER not half so dear.

How VERRES is less qualify'd to steal

With sword and pistol, than with wax and seal.

How lawyers' fees to such excess are run, That clients are redress'd till they're undone. How one man's anguish is another's sport; And ev'n denials cost us dear at court.

How man eternally false judgments makes, And all his joys and sorrows are mistakes.

This swarm of themes that settles on my pen,
Which I, like summer flies, shake off again,
Let others sing; to whom my weak essay
But sounds a prelude, and points out their prey:
That duty done, I hasten to complete

My own design; for TONSON's at the gate.

The love of Fame in its effect survey'd,

The Muse has sung; be now the cause display'd:
Since so diffusive, and so wide its sway,

What is this power, whom all mankind obey?
Shot from above, by heav'n's indulgence, came
This generous ardor, this unconquer'd flame,
To warm, to raise, to deify, mankind,
Still burning brightest in the noblest mind.

By large-soul'd men, for thirst of fame renown'd,

Wise laws were fram'd, and sacred arts were found;
Desire of praise first broke the patriot's rest;
And made a bulwark of the warrior's breast;
It bids ARGYLE in fields and senates shine.
What more can prove its origin divine?

But, oh! this passion planted in the soul,
On eagle's wings to mount her to the pole,
The flaming minister of virtue meant,

Set up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent.

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