Classic Poem

A SATIRE .

Sure of all plagues with which dull prose is curst
Scandals from False Historians' spot the worst:
In guest of these the Muse shall first advance,
Bold to explore the regions of romance;
Romance call'd Hist'ry — Lo! at once she skims
The visionary world of monkish whims,
Where fallacy in legends wildly shines,
And vengeance glares from violated shrines;
Where saints perform all tricks, and startle thought
With many a miracle that ne'er was wrought;
Saints that ne'er liv'd, or such as justice paints's,
Jugglers on superstition palm'd for saints.
Here canoniz'd let creed-mongers be shown,
Red-letter'd saints, and red assassins known;
While those they martyr'd such as angels rose!
All black enroll'd among Religion's foes,
Snatch'd by sulphureous clouds, a Lye proclaims
Number'd with fiends, and plung'd in endless flames,
Hist'ry from air or deep draws many a spright,
Such as from nurse or priest might boys affright;
Or such as but o'er fev'rish slumbers fly,
And fix in melancholy Frenzy's eye.
Now meteors make enthusiast wonder stare,
And image wild portentous wars in air!
Seers fall entranc'd! some wizards lawless skill
Now whirls, now fetters, Nature's works at will!
Thus Hist'ry, by machine, mock epic seems,
Not from poetic but from monkish dreams.
The devil, who priest and sorc'rer must obey,
The sorc'rer us'd to raise, the parson lay.
When Echard wav'd his pen, the Hist'ry shows
The parson conjur'd, and the fiend uprose.
A camp at distance, and the scene a wood,
Here enter'd Noll, and there old Satan stood:
No tail his rump, his foot no hoof reveal'd;
Like a wise cuckold, with his horns conceal'd;
Not a gay serpent, glitt'ring to the eye,
But-more than serpent or than harlot sly;
For, lawyer-like, a fiend no wit can scape,
The demon stands confess'd in proper shape;
Now spreads his parchment, now is sign'd the scroll;
Thus Noll gains empire, and the devil has Noll.
Wondrous Historian! thus account for evil,
And thus for its success — 'tis all the devil.
Tho' ne'er that devil we saw, yet one we see —
One of an author sure, and — thou art he.
But dusky phantoms, Muse! no more pursue;
Now clearer objects open — yet untrue.
Awful the genuine Historian's name!
False ones — with what materials build they fame?
Fabrics of fame, by dirty means made good,
As nests of martins are compil'd of mud.
Peace be with Curll! — with him I wave all strife,
Who pens each felon's and each actor's life;
Biography that cooks the devil's martyrs,
And lards with luscious rapes the cheats of Chartres.
Materials which belief in Gazettes claim,
Loose-strung, run gingling into Hist'ry's name!
Thick as Egyptian clouds of raining flies,
As thick as worms where man corrupting lies;
As pests obscene, that haunt the ruin'd pile,
As monsters flound'ring in the muddy Nile;
Minutes, Memoirs, Views, and Reviews, appear,
Where slander darkens each recorded year.
In a past reign is feign'd some am'rous league;
Some ring or letter now reveals th' intrigue:
Queens with their minions work unseemly things,
And boys grow dukes when catamites to kings.
Does a prince die? what poisons they surmise!
No royal mortal, sure, by nature dies.
Is a prince born? what birth more base believ'd!
Or, what's more strange, his mother ne'er conceiv'd!
Thus slander popular o'er truth prevails,
And easy minds imbibe romantic tales;
Thus, stead of History, such authors raise
Mere crude wild novels of bad hints for plays.
Some usurp names — an English garreteer,
From minutes forg'd is Monsieur Mesnager
Some, while on good or ill success they stare,
Give conduct a complexion dark or fair:
Others, as little to inquiry prone,
Account for actions tho' their spring's unknown.
One statesman vices has, and virtues too,
Hence will contested character ensue.
View but the black, he's fiend; the bright but scan,
He's angel: view him all — he's still a man.
But such Historians all accuse, acquit;
No virtue these, and those no vice, admit:
For either in a friend no fault will know,
And neither own a virtue in a foe.
Where hearsay knowledge sits on public names;
And bold conjecture or extols or blames,
Spring party-libels, from whose ashes dead
A monster, misnam'd Hist'ry, lifts its head;
Contending factions crowd to hear its roar,
But when once heard it dies to noise no more:
From these no answer, no applause from those,
O'er half they simper and o'er half they doze.
So when in Senate, with egregious pate,
Perks up Sir — — — in some deep debate,
He hems, looks wise, tunes thin his lab'ring throar,
To prove black white, postpone or palm the vote:
In sly contempt some " Hear him! hear him! " cry;
Some yawn, some sneer; none second, none reply.
But dare such miscreants row rush abroad,
By blanket, cane, pump, pillory, unaw'd?
Dare they imp Falsehood thus, and plume her wings,
From present characters and recent things?
Yes: what untruths! or truths in what disguise!
What Boyers and what Oldmixons arise!
What facts from all but them and Slander screen'd?
Here meets a council, no where else conven'd;
There, from originals, come thick as spawn
Letters ne'er wrote, memorials never drawn;
To secret conference ne'er held they yoke
Treaties ne'er plann'd, and speeches never spoke.
From, Oldmixon! thy brow, too well we know,
Like sin from Satan, far and wide they go,
In vain may St. John safe in conscience sit,
In vain with truth confute, contemn with wit;
Confute, contemn, amid selected friends,
There sinks the justice, there the satire ends,
Here, tho' a cent'ry scarce such leaves unclose,
From mould and dust the slander sacred grows.
Now none reply where all despise the page;
But will dumb Scorn deceive no future age?
Then should dull periods cloud not seeming fact,
Will no fine pen th' unanswer'd lie extract?
Well-set in plan, and polish'd into style,
Fair and more fair may finish'd fraud beguile;
By ev'ry language snatch'd, by time receiv'd,
In ev'ry clime, by ev'ry age, believ'd,
How vain to virtue trust the great their name,
When such their lot for infamy or fame!