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

air;
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,

And lisp the tale of Henry's victories; 120 If the gull'd conqueror
receives the chain,
And flattery prevails, when arms are vain?
Studious to please, and ready to submit,
The supple Gaul was born a
parasite:
Still to his interest true where'er he goes,
Wit, bravery,
worth, his lavish tongue bestows;
In every face a 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