Poetical Works. Charles Churchill

sapp'd our vigour to increase their own; 200

       If, mean in want, and insolent in power,

       They only fawn'd more surely to devour,

       Roused by such wrongs, should Reason take alarm,

       And e'en the Muse for public safety arm?

       But if they own ingenuous virtue's sway,

       And follow where true honour points the way,

       If they revere the hand by which they're fed,

       And bless the donors for their daily bread,

       Or, by vast debts of higher import bound,

       Are always humble, always grateful found: 210

       If they, directed by Paul's holy pen,

       Become discreetly all things to all men,

       That all men may become all things to them,

       Envy may hate, but Justice can't condemn.

       Into our places, states, and beds they creep;

       They've sense to get, what we want sense to keep.

       Once—be the hour accursed, accursed the place!—

       I ventured to blaspheme the chosen race.

       Into those traps, which men call'd patriots laid,

       By specious arts unwarily betray'd, 220

       Madly I leagued against that sacred earth,

       Vile parricide! which gave a parent birth:

       But shall I meanly error's path pursue,

       When heavenly truth presents her friendly clue?

       Once plunged in ill, shall I go farther in?

       To make the oath, was rash: to keep it, sin.

       Backward I tread the paths I trod before,

       And calm reflection hates what passion swore.

       Converted, (blessed are the souls which know

       Those pleasures which from true conversion flow, 230

       Whether to reason, who now rules my breast,

       Or to pure faith, like Lyttelton and West),[108]

       Past crimes to expiate, be my present aim

       To raise new trophies to the Scottish name;

       To make (what can the proudest Muse do more?)

       E'en faction's sons her brighter worth adore;

       To make her glories, stamp'd with honest rhymes,

       In fullest tide roll down to latest times.

       Presumptuous wretch! and shall a Muse like thine,

       An English Muse, the meanest of the Nine, 240

       Attempt a theme like this? Can her weak strain

       Expect indulgence from the mighty Thane?

       Should he from toils of government retire,

       And for a moment fan the poet's fire;

       Should he, of sciences the moral friend,

       Each curious, each important search suspend,

       Leave unassisted Hill[109] of herbs to tell,

       And all the wonders of a cockleshell;

       Having the Lord's good grace before his eyes,

       Would not the Home[110] step forth and gain the prize? 250

       Or if this wreath of honour might adorn

       The humble brows of one in England born,

       Presumptuous still thy daring must appear;

       Vain all thy towering hopes whilst I am here.

       Thus spake a form, by silken smile and tone,

       Dull and unvaried, for the Laureate[111] known,

       Folly's chief friend, Decorum's eldest son,

       In every party found, and yet of none.

       This airy substance, this substantial shade,

       Abash'd I heard, and with respect obey'd. 260

       From themes too lofty for a bard so mean,

       Discretion beckons to an humbler scene;

       The restless fever of ambition laid,

       Calm I retire, and seek the sylvan shade.

       Now be the Muse disrobed of all her pride,

       Be all the glare of verse by truth supplied.

       And if plain nature pours a simple strain,

       Which Bute may praise, and Ossian not disdain—

       Ossian, sublimest, simplest bard of all,

       Whom English infidels Macpherson call—270

       Then round my head shall Honour's ensigns wave,

       And pensions mark me for a willing slave.

       Two boys, whose birth, beyond all question, springs

       From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings—

       Shepherds, of Scottish lineage, born and bred

       On the same bleak and barren mountain's head;

       By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks

       To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks;

       Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist,

       The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd, 280

       Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;

       Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes;

       Where, from their youth inured to winter-skies,

       Dress and her vain refinements they despise.

       Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown,

       With freckles spotted, flamed the golden down,

       With meikle art could on the bagpipes play,

       E'en from the rising to the setting day;

       Sawney as long without remorse could bawl

       Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal: 290

       Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,

       The Highland lass forgot her want of food;

       And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,

       Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast.

       Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen;

       Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green:

       The plague of locusts they secure defy,

       For in three hours a grasshopper must die:

       No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there,

       But the cameleon, who can feast on air. 300

       No birds, except as birds of passage, flew;

       No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo:

       No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,

       Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here:

       Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran,

       Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan:

       No flowers embalm'd the air, but one white rose,[112]

       Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows;

       By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades

       Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades. 310

       One, and but one poor solitary cave,

       Too sparing of her favours, nature gave;

       That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!)