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 deserts 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 fanie.
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 Versus 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 e'en 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 effects survey'd, The Muse has sung, be now the cause display'd: Since so diffusive, and so wide its sway, What is this pow'r whom all mankind obey? Shot from above, by Heaven's indulgence, came This gen'rous ardour, 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,
up false gods, and wrong'd her high descent.
Ambition, hence, exerts a doubtful force,
Of blots and beauties an alternate source;
Hence Gildon rails, that raven of the pit,
Who thrives upon the carcasses of Wit,
And in art-loving Scarborough is seen
How kind a pattern Pollio might have been.
Pursuit of fame with pedants fills our schools,
And into coxcombs burnishes our fools,
Pursuit of fame makes solid learning bright,
And Newton lifts above a mortal height;
That key of Nature, by whose wit she clears
Her long, long secrets of five thousand years.
Would you then fully comprehend the whole,
Why, and in what degrees, Pride sways the soul?
(For tho' in all, not equally, she reigns)
Awake to knowledge, and attend my strains.
Ye Doctors! hear the doctrine I disclose,
As true as if 'twere writ in dullest prose;
As if a letter'd dunce had said, ""Tis right,"
And imprimatur usher'd it to light.
Ambition in the truly noble mind,
With sister Virtue is for ever join'd;
As in fam'd Lucrece, who, with equal dread,
From guilt and shame by her last conduct fled :
Her virtue long rebell❜d in firm disdain,
And the sword pointed at her heart in vain;
But when the slave was threaten'd to be laid
Dead by her side, her Love of Fame obey'd.
In meaner minds Ambition works alone,
But with such Art puts Virtue's aspect on,
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