For meat, but not by wantonness of slaying: for | E'er ploughed for him. burden, but with limits of humanity;
For luxury, but not through torture: for draught, but according to the strength:
With hunger stung and wild necessity;
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.
For a dog cannot plead his own right, nor render But man, whom Nature formed of milder clay, With every kind emotion in his heart,
Nor give a soft answer unto wrath, to turn aside And taught alone to weep, while from her lap the undeserved lash; She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs, And fruits as numerous as the drops of rain Or beams that gave them birth, — shall he, fair form!
The galled ox cannot complain, nor supplicate a moment's respite;
The spent horse hideth his distress, till he panteth out his spirit at the goal;
Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on heaven, Also, in the winter of life, when worn by constant E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd, toil, And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey, If ingratitude forget his services, he cannot bring Blood-stained, deserves to bleed; but you, ye them to remembrance;
Behold, he is faint with hunger; the big tear What have ye done? ye peaceful people, what, standeth in his eye; To merit death? you who have given us milk
His skin is sore with stripes, and he tottereth In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat beneath his burden;
Against the winter's cold? And the plain ox,
His limbs are stiff with age, his sinews have lost That harmless, honest, guileless animal,
their vigor, And pain is stamped upon his face, while he Patient and ever-ready, clothes the land
wrestleth unequally with toil;
In what has he offended? he whose toil,
With all the pomp of harvest, shall he bleed,
Yet once more mutely and meekly endureth he | And struggling groan beneath the cruel hand, the crushing blow;
Even of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps,
To swell the riot of the autumnal feast,
Won by his labor?
Yea, the burning malice of the wicked is their And, at the bottom, barbarous still and rude,
own exceeding punishment.
We are restrained, indeed, but not subdued.
The Angel of Mercy stoppeth not to comfort, but The very remedy, however sure,
passeth by on the other side,
Springs from the mischief it intends to cure,
And hath no tear to shed, when a cruel man is And savage in its principle appears, damned.
FROM THE SEASONS."
ENSANGUINED man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne er drunk her
milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece; nor has the steer,
At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
Tried, as it should be, by the fruit it bears.
'Tis hard, indeed, if nothing will defend
Mankind from quarrels but their fatal end;
That now and then a hero must decease,
That the surviving world may live in peace.
Perhaps at last close scrutiny may show
The practice dastardly and mean and low;
That men engage in it compelled by force,
And fear, not courage, is its proper source;
The fear of tyrant custom, and the fear
Lest fops should censure us, and fools should sneer;
At least, to trample on our Maker's laws,
And hazard life for any or no cause,
To rush into a fixed eternal state
Out of the very flames of rage and hate,
Or send another shivering to the bar
With all the guilt of such unnatural war,
Whatever Use may urge, or Honor plead,
On Reason's verdict is a madman's deed.
Am I to set my life upon a throw
Because a bear is rude and surly? No, -
A moral, sensible, and well-bred man
Will not affront me; and no other can.
Were I empowered to regulate the lists,
They should encounter with well-loaded fists;
A Trojan combat would be something new,
Let Dares beat Entellus black and blue;
Then each might show, to his admiring friends,
In honorable bumps his rich amends,
And carry, in contusions of his skull,
A satisfactory receipt in full.
With monstrous promise they delude the mind,
And thrive on all that tortures human-kind.
Void of all honor, avaricious, rash,
The daring tribe compound their boasted trash,
Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill;
All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill;
And twenty names of cobblers turned to squires
Aid the bold language of these blushless liars.
There are among them those who cannot read,
And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed;
Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,
For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid?
With cruel avarice still they recommend
More draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end.
"I feel it not."-"Then take it every hour."
"It makes me worse." -"Why, then it shows
"I fear to die." "Let not your spirits sink, You're always safe while you believe and drink."
How strange to add, in this nefarious trade, That men of parts are dupes by dunces made : That creatures nature meant should clean our streets
Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and
No class escapes them from the poor man's pay
BUT now our Quacks are gamesters, and they The nostrum takes no trifling part away;
With craft and skill to ruin and betray;
See! those square patent bottles from the shop Now decoration to the cupboard's top;
Suppose the case surpasses human skill, There comes a quack to flatter weakness still; What greater evil can a flatterer do,
Than from himself to take the sufferer's view? To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers,
And rob a sinner of his dying hours?
Yet this they dare, and, craving to the last,
In hope's strong bondage hold their victim
fast:
For soul or body no concern have they,
All their inquiry, "Can the patient pay?
And will he swallow draughts until his dying
day?"
Observe what ills to nervous females flow,
When the heart flutters and the pulse is low;
If once induced these cordial sips to try,
All feel the ease, and few the danger fly;
For, while obtained, of drams they've all the
force,
And when denied, then drams are the resource.
Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh,
To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry?
In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigor just when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest Nature ends as she begins.
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout.
Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed
By his own son, that passes by unblessed :
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies every sparrow that he sees.
A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate.
The doctor called, declares all help too late.
"Mercy!" cries Helluo, "mercy on my soul;
Is there no hope? Alas!- then bring the jowl."
The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend,
Still tries to save the hallowed taper's end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
Then the good nurse (who, had she borne a For one puff more, and in that puff expires.
Had sought the cause that made her babe com
Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied
To set the cry, and not the cause, aside;
She gave her powerful sweet without remorse,
The sleeping cordial, she had tried its force,
Repeating oft; the infant, freed from pain,
Rejected food, but took the dose again,
Sinking to sleep, while she her joy expressed,
That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest.
Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt
Remains but quickly he will rest without.
What then our hopes? - perhaps there may
by law
Be method found these pests to curb and awe;
Yet, in this land of freedom, law is slack
With any being to commence attack :
Then let us trust to science, there are those
Who can their falsehoods and their frauds dis-
close,
"Odious! in woollen! 't would a saint provoke,"
CAIUS MARCIUS. What would you have, you
That like not peace, nor war? the one affrights you,
The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is,
To make him worthy whose offence subdues him,
And curse that justice did it. Who deserves great
Deserves your hate; and your affections are
A sick man's appetite, who desires most that
Which would increase his evil. He that depends
Upon your favors swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye!
Trust ye?
With every minute you do change a mind;
And call him noble that was now your hate,
Him vile that was your garland. What's the
matter,
That in these several places of the city
You cry against the noble senate, who,
Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else
Would feed on one another?
Adown my beard the slavers trickle;
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.
O' a' the numerous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends raked i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!
The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.
THE AUTHOR'S MISERIES.
FROM THE "prologue to THE SATIRES."
SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued I sai
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
CORIOLANUS. You common cry of curs! whose The Dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt,
As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air,—I banish you ;
And here remain with your uncertainty !
Let every feeble rumor shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! Have the power still
To banish your defenders; till at length,
Your ignorance, (which finds not, till it feels,)
Making but reservation of yourselves,
(Still your own foes,) deliver you, as most
Abated captives, to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising,
For you, the city, thus I turn my back :
There is a world elsewhere.
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All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide
They pierce my thickets, through my grot the
glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barg
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me :
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhym
Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.
Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross!
Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scraw
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls
All fly to TwIc'NAM, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped,
If foes, they write,—if friends, they read me dead
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh were want of goodness and of grace,
And to be grave exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
With honest anguish and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years.
"Nine years!" cries he who high in Drury Lane Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane Rhymes ere he wakes, andprints before Term ends Obliged by hunger, and request of friends, "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why, take it
To help me through this long disease, my life.
I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it." | The muse but served to ease some friend, not
Three things another's modest wishes bound,
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon sends to me : 66 You know his Grace,
I want a patron; ask him for a place."
Pitholeon libelled me- "But here's a letter
Informs you, sir, 't was when he knew no better.
Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine,
He'll write a journal, or he 'll turn divine."
Bless me! a packet. ""T is a stranger sues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse."
If I dislike it, "Furies, death, and rage!"
If I approve, "Commend it to the stage.'
There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,
The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fired that the house reject him, "'Sdeath, I'll
print it,
Soft were my numbers; who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wished the man a dinner, and sate still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answered, I was not in debt.
Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 't were a sin to rob them of their mite.
And shame the fools. - Your interest, sir, with Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds,
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:
"Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.".
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks."
Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
Sir, let me see your works and you no more.
Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb
through,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
The creature 's at his dirty work again,
Throned in the centre of his thin designs,
Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!
Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right,
It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent,
Alas! 't is ten times worse when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One from all Grub Street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my Letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud, "Subscribe, subscribe."
There are, who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short;
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and "Sir! you have an eye."-
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see,
All that disgraced my betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
"Just so immortal Maro held his head":
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer died three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipped me in ink, my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father disobeyed.
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds: Each wight who reads not, and but scans and
Each word-catcher that lives on syllables,
Even such small critics some regard may claim,
Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.
Pretty in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!
The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare,
But wonder how the devil they got there.
The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,
And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines
a year;
He who still wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left;
And he who now to sense, now nonsense, lean-
ing,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he whose fustian 's so sublimely bad,
It is not poetry, but prose run mad :
All these my modest satire bade translate,
And owned that nine such Poets made a Tate.
Peace to all such! but were there one whose
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ;
Blest with cach talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike;
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserved to blame or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend.
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