The Village and The Newspaper | Page 6

not measured by the time we live:?'Tis not an even course of threescore years, -?A life of narrow views and paltry fears,?Gray hairs and wrinkles, and the cares they bring,?That take from Death the terrors or the sting;?But 'tis the gen'rous spirit, mounting high?Above the world, that native of the sky;?The noble spirit, that, in dangers brave?Calmly looks on, or looks beyond the grave: -?Such MANNERS was, so he resign'd his breath,?If in a glorious, then a timely death.
Cease, then, that grief, and let those tears subside;?If Passion rule us, be that passion pride;?If Reason, reason bids us strive to raise?Our fallen hearts, and be like him we praise;?Or if Affection still the soul subdue,?Bring all his virtues, all his worth in view,?And let Affection find its comfort too:?For how can Grief so deeply wound the heart,?When Admiration claims so large a part?
Grief is a foe--expel him then thy soul;?Let nobler thoughts the nearer views control!?Oh! make the age to come thy better care,?See other RUTLANDS, other GRANBYS there!?And, as thy thoughts through streaming ages glide,?See other heroes die as MANNERS died:?And from their fate, thy race shall nobler grow,?As trees shoot upwards that are pruned below;?Or as old Thames, borne down with decent pride,?Sees his young streams run warbling at his side;?Though some, by art cut off, no longer run,?And some are lost beneath the summer sun -?Yet the pure stream moves on, and, as it moves,?Its power increases and its use improves;?While plenty round its spacious waves bestow,?Still it flows on, and shall for ever flow.
THE NEWSPAPER
E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures:?Hi narrata ferunt alio; mensuraque ficti?Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:?Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Error,?Vanaque Laetitia est, consternatique Timores,?Seditioque repens, dubioque auctore Susurri.
OVID, Metamorphoses
THE ARGUMENT
This not a Time favourable to Poetical Composition: and why-- Newspapers enemies to Literature, and their general Influence--Their Numbers--The Sunday Monitor--Their general Character--Their Effect upon Individuals--upon Society--in the Country--The Village Freeholder--What Kind of Composition a Newspaper is; and the Amusement it affords--Of what Parts it is chiefly composed--Articles of Intelligence: Advertisements: The Stage: Quacks: Puffing--The Correspondents to a Newspaper, political and poetical--Advice to the latter--Conclusion.
A time like this, a busy, bustling time,?Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme:?Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,?And mightier madness checks the flowing song:?Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield?Her feeble arms amid the furious field,?Where party-pens a wordy war maintain,?Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain;?And oft the foes who feel her sting, combine,?Till serious vengeance pays an idle line:?For party-poets are like wasps, who dart?Death to themselves, and to their foes but smart.
Hard then our fate: if general themes we choose,?Neglect awaits the song, and chills the Muse;?Or should we sing the subject of the day,?To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away.?More blest the bards of that poetic time,?When all found readers who could find a rhyme;?Green grew the bays on every teeming head,?And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read.?Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline;?Why reign no more the once-triumphant Nine??Alas! new charms the wavering many gain,?And rival sheets the reader's eye detain;?A daily swarm, that banish every Muse,?Come flying forth, and mortals call them NEWS:?For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie;?For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die;?Unbought, unblest, the virgin copies wait?In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.
Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our foes,?The smoothest numbers for the harshest prose;?Let us, with generous scorn, the taste deride,?And sing our rivals with a rival's pride.
Ye gentle poets, who so oft complain?That foul neglect is all your labours gain;?That pity only checks your growing spite?To erring man, and prompts you still to write;?That your choice works on humble stalls are laid,?Or vainly grace the windows of the trade;?Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm?Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm;?Think of the common cause wherein we go,?Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;?Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame,?Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our fame;?And let us join our forces to subdue?This bold assuming but successful crew.
I sing of NEWS, and all those vapid sheets?The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets;?Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly,?Damp from the press, to charm the reader's eye:?For soon as Morning dawns with roseate hue,?The HERALD of the morn arises too;?POST after POST succeeds, and, all day long,?GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throng.?When evening comes, she comes with all her train;?Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and POSTS again.?Like bats, appearing when the sun goes down,?From holes obscure and corners of the town.?Of all these triflers, all like these, I write;?Oh! like my subject could my song delight,?The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise,?And all the Alley echo to his praise.
In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring,?Like insects waking to th'