Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett | Page 9

thousand graces shine,?From every tongue flows harmony divine.?These arts in vain our rugged natives try,?Strain out, with faltering diffidence, a lie, 130 And get a kick for awkward flattery.
Besides, with justice, this discerning age?Admires their wondrous talents for the stage:?Well may they venture on the mimic's art,?Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part;?Practised their master's notions to embrace,?Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;?With every wild absurdity comply,?And view its object with another's eye;?To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 140 To pour at will the counterfeited tear;?And as their patron hints the cold or heat,?To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.
How, when competitors like these contend,?Can surly Virtue hope to fix a friend??Slaves that with serious impudence beguile,?And lie without a blush, without a smile,?Exalt each trifle, every vice adore,?Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore,?Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 150 He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.
For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd,?They first invade your table, then your breast;?Explore your secrets with insidious art,?Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;?Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay,?Commence your lords, and govern or betray.
By numbers here from shame and censure free,?All crimes are safe, but hated poverty.?This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 160 This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse;?The sober trader, at a tatter'd cloak,?Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;?With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,?And turn the various taunt a thousand ways.?Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd,?Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;?Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart,?Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.
Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 170 No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore;?No secret island in the boundless main;?No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain?[5]?Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,?And bear Oppression's insolence no more.?This mournful truth is every where confess'd,?SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D:?But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,?Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;?Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 180 The groom retails the favours of his lord.
But hark! the affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries?Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:?Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and power,?Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower,?Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight?Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light;?Swift from pursuing horrors take your way,?And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;?Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, 190 For where can starving merit find a home??In vain your mournful narrative disclose,?While all neglect, and most insult your woes.?Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,?And spread his flaming palace on the ground,?Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies,?And public mournings pacify the skies;?The laureate tribe in venal verse relate,?How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate;?With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band 200 Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.?See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,?And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;?The price of boroughs and of souls restore,?And raise his treasures higher than before:?Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,?The polish'd marble, and the shining plate,?Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,?And hopes from angry Heaven another fire.
Could'st thou resign the park and play, content, 210 For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent,?There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,?Some hireling senator's deserted seat;?And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,?For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;?There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,?Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;?And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,?Despise the dainties of a venal lord:?There every bush with Nature's music rings, 220 There every breeze bears health upon its wings;?On all thy hours Security shall smile,?And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.
Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,?And sign your will before you sup from home.?Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,?Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;?Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,?Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.?Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay, 230 Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;?Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine,?Their prudent insults to the poor confine;?Afar they mark the flambeaux's bright approach,?And shun the shining train, and golden coach.
In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close,?And hope the balmy blessings of repose:?Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,?The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;?Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 240 And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.
Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,?With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.?Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band!?Whose ways and means support the sinking land,?Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring?To rig another convoy for