THE MIGHTY MOTHER, and her son who brings | |
| The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings, | |
| I sing. Say you, her instruments the great! | |
| Call’d to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; | |
| You by whose care, in vain decried and curst, | 5 |
| Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; | |
| Say how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, | |
| And pour’d her Spirit, o’er the land and deep. | |
| In eldest time, ere mortals writ or read, | |
| Ere Pallas issued from the Thund’rer’s head, | 10 |
| Dulness o’er all possess’d her ancient right, | |
| Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night: | |
| Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, | |
| Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave; | |
| Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, | 15 |
| She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind. | |
| Still her old empire to restore she tries, | |
| For, born a Goddess, Dulness never dies. | |
| O thou! whatever title please thine ear, | |
| Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver! | 20 |
| Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, | |
| Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair, | |
| Or praise the Court, or magnify Mankind, | |
| Or thy griev’d country’s copper chains unbind; | |
| From thy Bœotia tho’ her power retires, | 25 |
| Mourn not, my Swift! at aught our realm requires. | |
| Here pleas’d behold her mighty wings outspread | |
| To hatch a new Saturnian age of Lead. | |
| Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, | |
| And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, | 30 |
| Where o’er the gates, by his famed father’s hand, | |
| Great Cibber’s brazen, brainless brothers stand; | |
| One cell there is, conceal’d from vulgar eye, | |
| The cave of Poverty and Poetry: | |
| Keen hollow winds howl thro’ the bleak recess, | 35 |
| Emblem of Music caus’d by Emptiness: | |
| Hence bards, like Proteus long in vain tied down, | |
| Escape in monsters, and amaze the town; | |
| Hence Miscellanies spring, the weekly boast | |
| Of Curll’s chaste press, and Lintot’s rubric post; | 40 |
| Hence hymning Tyburn’s elegiac lines; | |
| Hence Journals, Medleys, Merceries, Magazines; | |
| Sepulchral Lies, our holy walls to grace, | |
| And new-year Odes, and all the Grub-street race. | |
| In clouded majesty here Dulness shone, | 45 |
| Four guardian Virtues, round, support her throne: | |
| Fierce champion Fortitude, that knows no fears | |
| Of hisses, blows, or want, or loss of ears: | |
| Calm Temperance, whose blessings those partake, | |
| Who hunger and who thirst for scribbling sake: | 50 |
| Prudence, whose glass presents th’ approaching jail: | |
| Poetic Justice, with her lifted scale, | |
| Where, in nice balance, truth with gold she weighs, | |
| And solid pudding against empty praise. | |
| Here she beholds the Chaos dark and deep, | 55 |
| Where nameless somethings in their causes sleep, | |
| Till genial Jacob, or a warm third day, | |
| Call forth each mass, a Poem or a Play: | |
| How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, | |
| How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry, | 60 |
| Maggots, half-form’d, in rhyme exactly meet, | |
| And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. | |
| Here one poor word a hundred clenches makes, | |
| And ductile Dulness new meanders takes; | |
| There motley images her fancy strike, | 65 |
| Figures ill pair’d, and Similes unlike. | |
| She sees a Mob of Metaphors advance, | |
| Pleas’d with the madness of the mazy dance; | |
| How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; | |
| How Farce and Epic get a jumbled race; | 70 |
| How Time himself stands still at her command, | |
| Realms shift their place, and Ocean turns to land. | |
| Here gay description Egypt glads with showers, | |
| Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers; | |
| Glitt’ring with ice here hoary hills are seen, | 75 |
| There painted valleys of eternal green; | |
| In cold December fragrant chaplets blow, | |
| And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow. | |
| All these, and more, the cloud-compelling Queen | |
| Beholds thro’ fogs that magnify the scene. | 80 |
| She, tinsel’d o’er in robes of varying hues, | |
| With self-applause her wild creation views; | |
| Sees momentary monsters rise and fall, | |
| And with her own fools-colours gilds them all. | |
| ’T was on the day when Thorold, rich and grave, | 85 |
| Like Cimon, triumph’d both on land and wave | |
| (Pomps without guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, | |
| Glad chains, warm furs, broad banners, and broad faces): | |
| Now Night descending, the proud scene was o’er, | |
| But lived in Settle’s numbers one day more. | 90 |
| Now Mayors and Shrieves all hush’d and satiate lay, | |
| Yet eat, in dreams, the custard of the day; | |
| While pensive Poets painful vigils keep, | |
| Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep. | |
| Much to the mindful Queen the feast recalls | 95 |
| What city swans once sung within the walls; | |
| Much she revolves their arts, their ancient praise, | |
| And sure succession down from Heywood’s days. | |
| She saw with joy the line immortal run, | |
| Each sire imprest and glaring in his son. | 100 |
| So watchful Bruin forms, with plastic care, | |
| Each growing lump, and brings it to a bear. | |
| She saw old Prynne in restless Daniel shine, | |
| And Eusden eke out Blackmore’s endless line; | |
| She saw slow Philips creep like Tate’s poor page, | 105 |
| And all the mighty mad in Dennis rage. | |
| In each she marks her image full exprest, | |
| But chief in Bayes’s monster-breeding breast; | |
| Bayes, form’d by nature stage and town to bless, | |
| And act, and be, a coxcomb with success; | 110 |
| Dulness with transport eyes the lively dunce, | |
| Rememb’ring she herself was Pertness once. | |
| Now (shame to Fortune!) an ill run at play | |
| Blank’d his bold visage, and a thin third day: | |
| Swearing and supperless the hero sate, | 115 |
| Blasphemed his gods the dice, and damn’d his fate; | |
| Then gnaw’d his pen, then dash’d it on the ground, | |
| Sinking from thought to thought, a vast profound! | |
| Plunged for his sense, but found no bottom there, | |
| Yet wrote and flounder’d on in mere despair. | 120 |
| Round him much Embryo, much Abortion lay, | |
| Much future Ode, and abdicated Play; | |
| Nonsense precipitate, like running lead, | |
| That slipp’d thro’ cracks and zigzags of the head; | |
| All that on folly frenzy could beget, | 125 |
| Fruits of dull heat, and Sooterkins of wit. | |
| Next o’er his books his eyes began to roll, | |
| In pleasing memory of all he stole; | |
| How here he sipp’d, how there he plunder’d snug, | |
| And suck’d all o’er like an industrious bug. | 130 |
| Here lay poor Fletcher’s half-eat scenes, and here | |
| The frippery of crucified Molière; | |
| There hapless Shakspeare, yet of Tibbald sore, | |
| Wish’d he had blotted for himself before. | |
| The rest on outside merit but presume, | 135 |
| Or serve (like other fools) to fill a room; | |
| Such with their shelves as due proportion hold, | |
| Or their fond parents dress’d in red and gold; | |
| Or where the pictures for the page atone, | |
| And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own. | 140 |
| Here swells the shelf with Ogilby the great; | |
| There, stamp’d with arms, Newcastle shines complete: | |
| Here all his suff’ring brotherhood retire, | |
| And ’scape the martyrdom of jakes and fire: | |
| A Gothic library! of Greece and Rome | 145 |
| Well purged, and worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome. | |
| But, high above, more solid Learning shone, | |
| The classics of an age that heard of none; | |
| There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side, | |
| One clasp’d in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; | 150 |
| There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, | |
| Dry bodies of Divinity appear: | |
| De Lyra there a dreadful front extends, | |
| And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends. | |
| Of these, twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, | 155 |
| Redeem’d from tapers and defrauded pies, | |
| Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise; | |
| A hecatomb of pure unsullied lays | |
| That altar crowns; a folio Commonplace | |
| Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: | 160 |
| Quartos, octavos, shape the less’ning pyre, | |
| A twisted Birth-day Ode completes the spire. | |
| Then he: ‘Great tamer of all human art! | |
| First in my care, and ever at my heart; | |
| Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, | 165 |
| With whom my Muse began, with whom shall end, | |
| E’er since Sir Fopling’s periwig was praise, | |
| To the last honours of the Butt and Bays: | |
| O thou! of bus’ness the directing soul | |
| To this our head, like bias to the bowl, | 170 |
| Which, as more pond’rous, made its aim more true, | |
| Obliquely waddling to the mark in view: | |
| Oh! ever gracious to perplex’d mankind, | |
| Still spread a healing mist before the mind; | |
| And, lest we err by Wit’s wild dancing light, | 175 |
| Secure us kindly in our native night. | |
| Or, if to Wit a coxcomb make pretence, | |
| Guard the sure barrier between that and Sense; | |
| Or quite unravel all the reas’ning thread, | |
| And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! | 180 |
| As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, | |
| And pond’rous slugs cut swiftly thro’ the sky; | |
| As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, | |
| The wheels above urged by the load below; | |
| Me Emptiness and Dulness could inspire, | 185 |
| And were my elasticity and fire. | |
| Some Dæmon stole my pen (forgive th’ offence), | |
| And once betray’d me into common sense: | |
| Else all my prose and verse were much the same; | |
| This prose on stilts, that poetry fall’n lame. | 190 |
| Did on the stage my fops appear confin’d? | |
| My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. | |
| Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? | |
| The brisk example never fail’d to move. | |
| Yet sure, had Heav’n decreed to save the state, | 195 |
| Heav’n had decreed these works a longer date. | |
| Could Troy be saved by any single hand, | |
| This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand. | |
| What can I now? my Fletcher cast aside, | |
| Take up the Bible, once my better guide? | 200 |
| Or tread the path by venturous heroes trod, | |
| This box my Thunder, this right hand my God? | |
| Or chair’d at White’s, amidst the doctors sit, | |
| Teach oaths to Gamesters, and to Nobles Wit? | |
| O bidd’st thou rather Party to embrace? | 205 |
| (A friend to party thou, and all her race; | |
| ’T is the same rope at diff’rent ends they twist; | |
| To Dulness Ridpath is as dear as Mist;) | |
| Shall I, like Curtius, desp’rate in my zeal, | |
| O’er head and ears plunge for the Commonweal? | 210 |
| Or rob Rome’s ancient geese of all their glories, | |
| And cackling save the monarchy of Tories? | |
| Hold—to the Minister I more incline; | |
| To server his cause, O Queen! is serving thine. | |
| And see! thy very Gazetteers give o’er, | 215 |
| Ev’n Ralph repents, and Henley writes no more. | |
| What then remains? Ourself. Still, still remain | |
| Cibberian forehead, and Cibberian brain; | |
| This brazen brightness to the ’Squire so dear; | |
| This polish’d hardness that reflects the Peer; | 220 |
| This arch absurd, that wit and fool delights; | |
| This mess, toss’d up of Hockley-hole and White’s; | |
| Where dukes and butchers join to wreathe my crown, | |
| At once the Bear and fiddle of the town. | |
| ‘O born in sin, and forth in folly brought! | 225 |
| Works damn’d or to be damn’d (your father’s fault)! | |
| Go, purified by flames, ascend the sky, | |
| My better and more Christian progeny! | |
| Unstain’d, untouch’d, and yet in maiden sheets, | |
| While all your smutty sisters walk the streets. | 230 |
| Ye shall not beg, like gratis-given Bland, | |
| Sent with a pass and vagrant thro’ the land; | |
| Not sail with Ward to ape-and-monkey climes, | |
| Where vile Mundungus trucks for viler rhymes; | |
| Not sulphur-tipt, emblaze an alehouse fire! | 235 |
| Not wrap up oranges to pelt your sire! | |
| O! pass more innocent, in infant state, | |
| To the mild limbo of our Father Tate: | |
| Or peaceably forgot, at once be blest | |
| In Shadwell’s bosom with eternal rest! | 240 |
| Soon to that mass of nonsense to return, | |
| Where things destroy’d are swept to things unborn.’ | |
| With that, a tear (portentous sign of grace!) | |
| Stole from the master of the sev’nfold face; | |
| And thrice he lifted high the Birthday brand, | 245 |
| And thrice he dropt it from his quiv’ring hand; | |
| Then lights the structure with averted eyes: | |
| The rolling smoke involves the sacrifice. | |
| The opening clouds disclose each work by turns, | |
| Now flames the Cid, and now Perolla burns; | 250 |
| Great Cæsar roars and hisses in the fires; | |
| King John in silence modestly expires: | |
| No merit now the dear Nonjuror claims, | |
| Molière’s old stubble in a moment flames. | |
| Tears gush’d again, as from pale Priam’s eyes, | 255 |
| When the last blaze sent Ilion to the skies. | |
| Rous’d by the light, old Dulness heav’d the head, | |
| Then snatch’d a sheet of Thulé from her bed; | |
| Sudden she flies, and whelms it o’er the pyre: | |
| Down sink the flames, and with a hiss expire. | 260 |
| Her ample presence fills up all the place; | |
| A veil of fogs dilates her awful face: | |
| Great in her charms! as when on Shrieves and Mayors | |
| She looks, and breathes herself into their airs. | |
| She bids him wait her to her sacred dome: | 265 |
| Well pleas’d he enter’d, and confess’d his home. | |
| So spirits ending their terrestrial race | |
| Ascend, and recognize their Native Place. | |
| This the Great Mother dearer held than all | |
| The clubs of Quidnuncs, or her own Guild-hall: | 270 |
| Here stood her opium, here she nursed her owls, | |
| And here she plann’d th’ imperial seat of Fools. | |
| Here to her chosen all her works she shows, | |
| Prose swell’d to verse, verse loit’ring into prose: | |
| How random thoughts now meaning chance to find, | 275 |
| Now leave all memory of sense behind: | |
| How Prologues into Prefaces decay, | |
| And these to Notes are fritter’d quite away: | |
| How index-learning turns no student pale, | |
| Yet holds the eel of science by the tail: | 280 |
| How, with less reading than makes felons scape, | |
| Less human genius than God gives an ape, | |
| Small thanks to France, and none to Rome or Greece, | |
| A past, vamp’d future, old revived, new piece, | |
| ’Twixt Plautus, Fletcher, Shakspeare, and Corneille, | 285 |
| Can make a Cibber, Tibbald, or Ozell. | |
| The Goddess then o’er his anointed head, | |
| With mystic words, the sacred opium shed. | |
| And lo! her bird (a monster of a fowl, | |
| Something betwixt a heideggre and an owl) | 290 |
| Perch’d on his crown:—‘All hail! and hail again, | |
| My son! the promised land expects thy reign. | |
| Know Eusden thirsts no more for sack or praise; | |
| He sleeps among the dull of ancient days; | |
| Safe where no critics damn, no duns molest, | 295 |
| Where wretched Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest, | |
| And high-born Howard, more majestic sire, | |
| With fool of quality completes the quire. | |
| Thou, Cibber! thou his laurel shalt support; | |
| Folly, my son, has still a Friend at Court. | 300 |
| Lift up your gates, ye princes, see him come! | |
| Sound, sound ye viols, be the cat-call dumb! | |
| Bring, bring the madding Bay, the drunken Vine, | |
| The creeping, dirty, courtly Ivy join. | |
| And thou! his Aid-de-camp, lead on my sons, | 305 |
| Light-arm’d with Points, Antitheses, and Puns. | |
| Let Bawdry, Billingsgate, my daughters dear, | |
| Support his front, and Oaths bring up the rear: | |
| And under his, and under Archer’s wing, | |
| Gaming and Grub-street skulk behind the King. | 310 |
| ‘Oh! when shall rise a monarch all our own, | |
| And I, a nursing mother, rock the throne; | |
| ’Twixt Prince and People close the curtain draw, | |
| Shade him from light, and cover him from law; | |
| Fatten the Courtier, starve the learned band, | 315 |
| And suckle Armies, and dry-nurse the land; | |
| Till Senates nod to lullabies divine, | |
| And all be sleep, as at an Ode of thine?’ | |
| She ceas’d. Then swells the Chapel-royal throat; | |
| ‘God save King Cibber!’ mounts in every note. | 320 |
| Familiar White’s, ‘God save King Colley!’ cries, | |
| ‘God save King Colley!’ Drury-lane replies. | |
| To Needham’s quick the voice triumphant rode, | |
| But pious Needham dropt the name of God; | |
| Back to the Devil the last echoes roll, | 325 |
| And ‘Coll!’ each butcher roars at Hockley-hole. | |
| So when Jove’s block descended from on high | |
| (As sings thy great forefather Ogilby), | |
| Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog, | |
| And the hoarse nation croak’d, ‘God save King Log!’ | 330 |
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