Classic Poem

To the Right H ONOURABLE

Sir ROBERT WALPOLE .

O N this last labour, this my closing strain
Smile, Walpole , or the nine inspire in vain.
To thee 'tis due; that verse how justly thine,
Where Brunswick 's glory crowns the whole design?
That glory, which thy counsels make so bright;
That glory, which on thee reflects a light.
Illustrious commerce, and but rarely known!
To give , and take a lustre from the throne.
 Nor think that thou art foreign to my theme;
The fountain is not foreign to the Stream .
How all mankind will be surpriz'd, to see
This flood of British folly charg'd on thee?
Yet, Britain , whence this caprice of thy Sons,
Which thro' their various ranks with fury runs?
The cause is plain, a cause which we must bless;
For caprice is the Daughter of success ,
(A bad effect, but from a pleasing cause!)
And gives our Rulers undesign'd applause;
Tells how their conduct bids our wealth increase,
And lulls us in the downy lap of peace .
 While I survey the blessings of our Isle,
Her arts triumphant in the Royal smile,
Her publick wounds bound up, her credit high,
Her commerce spreading sails in every sky,
The pleasing scene recalls my theme agen,
And shew the madness of ambitious men,
Who, fond of bloodshed, draw the murd'ring sword,
And burn to give mankind a single Lord.

 The Follies past are of a private kind,
Their sphere is small, their mischief is confin'd;
But daring men there are (awake, my Muse,
And raise thy verse) who bolder frenzy chuse;
Who stung by glory, rave, and bound away;
The world their Field, and human-kind their Prey.
 The Grecian chief, th' Enthusrast 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 best 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 Fame.
 When after battle I the field have seen
Spread o'er with ghastly shapes, which once were men;
A nation crusht! 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 shockt, 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 wrapt 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 he 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 every vice is to the scripture laid.
 How misers squeeze a young, voluptuous peer,
His sins to Lucifer not half so dear.
 How Verres is less qualify'd to steal
With sword and pistol, then with wax and seal.
 How lawyers' fees to such excess are run,
That clients are redrest, 'till they're undone.
 How one man's anguish is another's sport,
And even denials cost as 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 compleat
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 his Power, whom all mankind obey?
 Shot from above, by heaven's indulgence came
This generous ardor, 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,
Set 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 carcases of wit;
And in art-loving Scarborough is seen
How kind a Patron 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.
 To glorious deeds this passion fires the mind;
And closer draws the ties of humankind,
Confirms society ; since what we prize
As our chief blessing, must from others rise.

 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,
That not more like in feature, and in mien,
The God and Mortal in the comic scene.
False Julius , ambusht in this fair disguise,
Soon made the Roman liberties his prize.
 No mask in basest minds Ambition wears,
But in full light pricks up her ass's ears;
All I have sung are instances of this ,
And prove my theme unfolded not amiss.

 Ye vain! desist from your erroneous strife;
Be wise, and quit the false sublime of life.
The true ambition there alone resides,
Where justice vindicates, and wisdom guides;
Where inward dignity joins outward state,
Our purpose good, as our atchievement great;
Where publick blessings publick praise attend,
Where glory is our motive , not our end .
Wouldst thou be fam'd? have those high deeds in view
Brave men would act, tho' scandal should ensue.

 Behold a Prince! whom no swoln thoughts inflame;
No pride of thrones, no fever after fame;
But when the welfare of mankind inspires,
And death in view to dear-bought glory fires,
Proud conquest then, then regal pomps delight;
Then crowns, then triumphs sparkle in his sight;
Tumult and noise are dear, which with them bring
His people's blessings to their ardent king:
But, when those great heroic motives cease,
His swelling soul subsides to native peace;
From tedious grandeur's faded charms withdraws,
A sudden foe to splendor, and applause,
Greatly deferring his arrears of fame,
'Till men, and angels jointly shout his name,
O pride celestial! which can pride disdain;
O blest ambition! which can ne'er be vain .

 From one fam'd Alpine hill, which props the sky,
In whose deep womb unfathom'd waters lie,
Here burst the Rhone and sounding Po , there shine
In infant rills the Danube and the Rhine ;
From the rich store one fruitful urn supplies,
Whole kingdoms smile, a thousand harvests rise.

 In Brunswick such a source the Muse adores,
Which publick blessings thro' half Europe pours,
When his heart burns with such a godlike aim,
Angels and George are rivals for the Fame;
George , who in foes can soft affections raise,
And charm envenom'd Satire into praise.

 Nor human rage alone his pow'r perceives,
But the mad winds , and the tumultuous waves .
Even storms (death's fiercest ministers!) forbear,
And, in their own wild empire, learn to spare.
Thus, nature-self , supporting man 's decree,
Stiles Britain 's sovereign, sovereign of the sea .
 While sea and air , great Brunswick! shook our state,
And sported with a king's, and kingdom's fate,
Depriv'd of what she lov'd, and prest with fear,
Of ever losing what she held most dear,
How did Britannia , like Achilles , weep,
And tell her sorrows to the kindred deep?
Hang o'er the floods, and in devotion warm,
Strive, for thee, with the surge, and fight the storm?
 What felt thy Walpole , pilot of the realm?
Our Palinurus slept not at the helm,
His eye ne'er clos'd; long since inur'd to wake,
And outwatch every star, for Brunswick 's sake.
By thwarting passions tost, by cares opprest,
He found thy tempest pictur'd in his breast,
But, now , what joys that gloom of heart dispel,
No pow'rs of language—but his own, can tell;
His own, which Nature and the Graces form,
At will, to raise, or hush the civil storm.