| The Mighty Mother, and her son who brings |
| The Smithfield muses to the ear of kings, |
| I sing. Say you, her instruments the great! |
| Called to this work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate; |
| You by whose care, in vain decried and cursed, |
| Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first; |
| Say how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep, |
| And poured her spirit o’er the land and deep. |
| In eldest time, e’er mortals writ or read, |
| E’er Pallas issued from the Thunderer’s head, |
| Dulness o’er all possessed her ancient right, |
| Daughter of Chaos and eternal Night: |
| Fate in their dotage this fair idiot gave, |
| Gross as her sire, and as her mother grave, |
| Laborious, heavy, busy, bold, and blind, |
| She ruled, in native anarchy, the mind. |
| Still her old empire to restore she tries, |
| For, born a goddess, Dulness never dies. |
| O thou! whatever title please thine ear, |
| Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver! |
| Whether thou choose Cervantes’ serious air, |
| Or laugh and shake in Rabelais’ easy chair, |
| Or praise the court, or magnify mankind, |
| Or thy grieved country’s copper chains unbind; |
| From thy Boeotia though her power retires, |
| Mourn not, my SWIFT, at ought our realm acquires, |
| Here pleased behold her mighty wings out-spread |
| To hatch a new Saturnian age of lead. |
| Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, |
| And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, |
| Where o’er the gates, by his famed by father’s hand |
| Great Cibber’s
brazen, brainless brothers stand; |
| One cell there is,
concealed from vulgar eye, |
| The cave of
poverty and poetry. |
| Keen, hollow winds
howl through the bleak recess, |
| Emblem of music
caused by emptiness. |
| Hence bards, like
Proteus long in vain tied down, |
| Escape in
monsters, and amaze the town. |
| Hence miscellanies
spring, the weekly boast |
| Of Curll’s chaste
press, and Lintot’s rubric post : |
| Hence
hymning Tyburn’s elegiac lines, |
| Hence Journals,
Medleys, Merc’ries, Magazines: |
| Sepulchral lies, our holy walls to grace, |
| And new Year odes,
and all the Grub Street race. |
| In clouded majesty
here Dulness shone; |
| Four
guardian virtues, round, support her throne: |
| Fierce champion
Fortitude, that knows no fears |
| Of hisses, blows,
or want, or loss of ears: |
| Calm Temperance,
whose blessings those partake |
| Who hunger, and
who thirst for scribbling sake: |
| Prudence, whose
glass presents th’ approaching goal. |
| Poetic justice,
with her lifted scale, |
| Where, in nice
balance, truth with gold she weighs, |
| And solid pudding
against empty praise. |
| Here she beholds
the chaos dark and deep, |
| Where nameless
somethings in their causes sleep, |
| Till genial Jacob,
or a warm third day, |
| Call forth each
mass, a poem, or a play: |
| How hints, like
spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie, |
| How new-born
nonsense first is taught to cry. |
| Maggots
half-formed in rhyme exactly meet, |
| And learn to crawl
upon poetic feet. |
| Here one poor word
an hundred clenches makes, |
| And ductile
dullness new meanders takes; |
| There motley
images her fancy strike, |
| Figures ill
paired, and similes unlike. |
| She sees a mob of
metaphors advance, |
| Pleased with the
madness of the mazy dance: |
| How tragedy and
comedy embrace; |
| How farce and epic
get a jumbled race; |
| How time himself
stands still at her command, |
| Realms shift their
place, and ocean turns to land. |
| Here gay
description Egypt glads with showers, |
| Or gives to Zembla
fruits, to Barca flowers; |
| Glittering with
ice here hoary hills are seen, |
| There painted
valleys of eternal green, |
| In cold December
fragrant chaplets blow, |
| And heavy harvests
nod beneath the snow. |
| All these, and
more, the cloud-compelling Queen |
| Beholds through
fogs, that magnify the scene. |
| She, tinselled
o’er in robes of varying hues, |
| With self-applause
her wild creation views; |
| Sees momentary
monsters rise and fall, |
| And with her own
fools-colours gilds them all. |
| ’Twas on the day,
when * * rich and grave, |
| Like Cimon,
triumphed both on land and wave: |
| (Pomps without
guilt, of bloodless swords and maces, |
| Glad chains, warm
furs, broad banners, and broad faces) |
| Now night
descending, the proud scene was o’er, |
| But lived, in
Settle’s numbers, one day more. |
| Now mayors and
shrieves all hushed and satiate lay, |
| Yet eat, in
dreams, the custard of the day; |
| While pensive
poets painful vigils keep, |
| Sleepless
themselves, to give their readers sleep. |
| Much to the
mindful Queen the feast recalls |
| What city swans
once sung within the walls; |
| Much she revolves
their arts, their ancient praise, |
| And sure
succession down from Heywood’s days. |
| She saw, with joy,
the line immortal run, |
| Each sire
impressed and glaring in his son: |
| So watchful Bruin
forms, with plastic care, |
| Each growing lump,
and brings it to a bear. |
| She saw old Prynne
in restless Daniel shine, |
| And Eusden eke out
Blackmore’s endless line; |
| She saw slow
Philips creep like Tate’s poor page, |
| And all the mighty
mad in Dennis rage. |
| In each she marks
her image full expressed, |
| But chief in Bay’s monster-breeding breast; |
| Bays, formed by nature stage and town to bless, |
| And act, and be, a
coxcomb with success. |
| Dulness with
transport eyes the lively dunce, |
| Remembering she
herself was pertness once. |
| Now (shame to
fortune!) an ill run at play |
| Blanked his bold
visage, and a thin third day: |
| Swearing and
supperless the hero sate, |
| Blasphemed his
gods, the dice, and damned his fate. |
| Then gnawed his
pen, then dashed it on the ground, |
| Sinking from
thought to thought, a vast profound! |
| Plunged for his
sense, but found no bottom there, |
| Yet wrote and
floundered on, in mere despair. |
| Round him much
embryo, much abortion lay, |
| Much future ode,
and abdicated play; |
| Nonsense
precipitate, like running lead, |
| That slipped
through cracks and zigzags of the head; |
| All that on folly
frenzy could beget, |
| Fruits of dull heat, and
sooterkins
of wit. |
| Next, o’er his
books his eyes began to roll, |
| In pleasing memory
of all he stole, |
| How here he
sipped, how there he plundered snug |
| And sucked all
o’er, like an industrious bug. |
| Here lay poor
Fletcher’s half-eat scenes, and here |
| The frippery of
crucified Molière; |
| There hapless
Shakespeare, yet of Tibbald sore, |
| Wished he had
blotted for himself before. |
| The rest on
outside merit but presume, |
| Or serve (like
other fools) to fill a room; |
| Such with their
shelves as due proportion hold, |
| Or their fond
parents dressed in red and gold; |
| Or where the
pictures for the page atone, |
| And Quarles is
saved by beauties not his own. |
| Here swells the
shelf with Ogibly the great; |
| There, stamped
with arms, Newcastle shines complete: |
| Here all his
suffering brotherhood retire, |
| And ’scape the
martyrdom of jakes and fire: |
| A Gothic library!
Of Greece and Rome |
| Well purged, and
worthy Settle, Banks, and Broome. |
| But, high above,
more solid learning shone, |
| The classics of an
age that heard of none; |
| There Caxton
slept, with Wynkyn at his side, |
| One clasped in
wood, and one in strong cow-hide; |
| There, saved by
spice, like mummies, many a year, |
| Dry bodies of
divinity appear: |
| De Lyra there a
dreadful front extends, |
| And here the
groaning shelves Philemon bends. |
| Of these twelve
volumes, twelve of amplest size, |
| Redeemed from
tapers and defrauded pies, |
| Inspired he
seizes: these an altar raise: |
| An hetatomb of
pure, unsullied lays |
| That altar crowns:
a folio commonplace |
| Founds the whole
pile, of all his works the base: |
| Quartos, octavos,
shape the lessening pyre; |
| A twisted birthday
ode completes the spire. |
| Then he: ‘Great
tamer of all human art! |
| First in my care,
and ever at my heart; |
| Dulness! Whose
good old cause I yet defend, |
| With whom my muse
began, with whom shall end; |
| E’er since Sir
Fopling’s periwig was praise |
| To the last
honours of the butt and bays: |
| O thou! of
business the directing soul! |
| To this our head
like bias to the bowl, |
| Which, as more
ponderous, made its aim more true, |
| Obliquely waddling
to the mark in view: |
| O! ever gracias to
perplexed mankind, |
| Still spread a
healing mist before the mind; |
| And lest we err by
wit’s wild dancing light, |
| Secure us kindly
in our native night. |
| Or, if to wit a
coxcomb make pretence, |
| Guard the sure
barrier between that and sense; |
| Or quite unravel
all the reasoning thread, |
| And hang some
curious cobweb in its stead! |
| As, forced from
wind-guns, lead itself can fly, |
| And ponderous
slugs cut swiftly through the sky; |
| As clocks to
weight their nimble motion owe, |
| The wheels above
urged by the load below: |
| Me emptiness, and
Dulness could inspire, |
| And were my
elasticity, and fire. |
| Some daemon stole
my pen(forgive th’offence) |
| And once betrayed
me into common sense: |
| Else all my prose
and verse were much the same; |
| This, prose on
stilts, that, poetry fallen lame. |
| Did on the stage
my fops appear confined? |
| My life gave
ampler lessons to mankind. |
| Did the dead
letter unsuccessful prove? |
| The brisk example
never failed to move. |
| Yet sure had
heaven decreed to save the state, |
| Heaven had decreed
these works a longer date. |
| Could Troy be
saved by any single hand, |
| This grey-goose
weapon must have made her stand. |
| What can I now? my
Fletcher cast aside, |
| Take up the Bible,
once my better guide? |
| Or tread the path
by venturous heroes trod, |
| This box my
thunder, this right hand my god? |
| Or chaired at
White’s amidst the doctors sit, |
| Teach oaths to
gamesters, and to nobles wit? |
| Or bidst thou
rather party to embrace? |
| (A friend to party
thou, and all her race; |
| ’Tis the same rope
at different ends they twist; |
| To Dulness Ridpath
is as dear as Mist.) |
| Shall I, like
Curtius, desperate in my zeal, |
| O’er head and ears
plunge for the commonweal? |
| Or rob Rome’s
ancient geese of all their glories, |
| And cackling save
the monarchy of Tories? |
| Hold—to the
minister I more incline; |
| To serve his
cause, O Queen! is serving thine. |
| And see! Thy very
gazetteers give o’er, |
| Ev’n Ralph
repents, and Henley writes no more. |
| What then remains?
Ourself. Still, still remain |
| Cibberian
forehead, and Cibberian brain. |
| This brazen
brightness, to the ‘squire so dear; |
| This polished
hardness, that reflects the peer; |
| This arch absurd,
that sit and fool delights; |
| This mess, tossed
up of Hockley Hole and White’s; |
| Where dukes and
butchers join to wreathe my crown, |
| At once the bear
and fiddle of the town. |
| O born in sin, and
forth in folly brought! |
| Works damned, or
to be damned! (your father’s fault) |
| Go, purified by
flames ascend the sky, |
| My better and more
Christian progeny! |
| Unstained,
untouched, and yet in maiden sheets; |
| While all your
smutty sisters walk the streets. |
| Ye shall not beg,
like gratis-given Bland, |
| Sent with a pass,
and vagrant through the land; |
| Not sail, with
Ward, to ape-and-monkey climes, |
| Where vile
mundungus trucks for viler rhymes; |
| Not
sulphur-tipped, emblaze an alehouse fire; |
| Not wrap up
oranges, to pelt your sire! |
| O! pass more
innocent, in infant state, |
| To the mild limbo
of our father Tate: |
| Or peaceably
forgot, at once be blessed |
| In Shadwell’s
bosom with eternal rest! |
| Soon to that mass
of nonsense to return, |
| Where things
destroyed are swept to things unborn.’ |
| With that, a tear
(portentous sign of grace!) |
| Stole from the
master of the sevenfold face: |
| And thrice he
lifted high the birthday brand, |
| And thrice he
dropped it from his quivering hand; |
| Then lights the
structure, with averted eyes: |
| The rolling smokes
involve the sacrifice. |
| The opening clouds
disclose each work by turns, |
| Now flames the
Cid, and now Perolla burns; |
| Great Ceasar
roars, and hisses in the fires; |
| King John
in silence modestly expires: |
| No merit now the
dear Nonjuror claims, |
| Molière’s old
stubble in a moment flames. |
| Tears gushed
again, as from pale Priam’s eyes |
| When the last
blaze sent Ilion to the skies. |
| Roused by the
light, old Dulness heaved the head; |
| Then snatched a
sheet of Thulè from her bed, |
| Sudden she flies,
and whelms it o’er the pyre; |
| Down sink the
flames, and with a hiss expire. |
| Her ample presence
fills up all the place; |
| A veil of fogs
dilates her awful face; |
| Great in her
charms! as when on shrieves and mayors |
| She looks, and
breathes herself into their airs. |
| She bids him wait
her to her sacred dome: |
| Well pleased he
entered, and confessed his home. |
| So spirits ending
their terrestrial race, |
| Ascend, and
recognize their native place. |
| This the Great
Mother dearer held than all |
| The clubs of
quidnuncs, or her own Guildhall: |
| Here stood her
opium, here she nursed her owls, |
| And here she
planned th’ imperial seat of Fools. |
| Here to her chosen
all her works she shows; |
| Prose swelled to
verse, verse loitering into prose: |
| How random
thoughts now meaning chance to find, |
| Now leave all
memory of sense behind: |
| How prologues into
prefaces decay, |
| And these to notes
are frittered quite away: |
| How index-learning
turns no student pale, |
| Yet holds the eel
of science by the tail: |
| How, with less
reading than makes felons ’scape, |
| Less human genius
than God gives an ape, |
| Small thanks to
France, and none to Rome or Greece, |
| A past, vamped,
future, old, revived, new piece, |
| ’Twixt Plautus,
Fletcher, Shakespeare, and Corneille, |
| Can make a Cibber,
Tibbald, or Ozell. |
| The Goddess then,
o’er his anointed head, |
| With mystic words,
the sacred opium shed. |
| And lo! her bird,
(a monster of a fowl, |
| Something betwixt
a Heidegger and owl,) |
| Perched on his
crown: ‘ All hail! and hail again, |
| My son! The
promised land expects thy reign. |
| Know, Eusden
thirsts no more for sack or praise; |
| He sleeps among
the dull of ancient days; |
| Safe, where no
critics damn, no duns molest, |
| Where wretched
Withers, Ward, and Gildon rest, |
| And high-born
Howard, more majestic sire, |
| With fool of
quality completes the quire. |
| Thou Cibber! thou,
his laurel shalt support, |
| Folly, my son, has
still a friend at court. |
| Lift up your
gates, ye princes, see him come! |
| Sound, sound ye
viols, be the catcall dumb! |
| Bring, bring the
madding bay, the drunken vine; |
| The creeping,
dirty, courtly ivy join. |
| And thou! his aide
de camp, lead on my sons, |
| Light-armed with
points, antitheses, and puns. |
| Let bawdry,
Billingsgate, my daughters dear, |
| Support his front,
and oaths bring up the rear: |
| And under his, and
under Archer’s wing, |
| Gaming and Grub
Street skulk behind the king. |
| O! when shall rise
a monarch all our own, |
| And I, a
nursing-mother, rock the throne, |
| ’Twixt prince and
people close the curtain draw, |
| Shade him from
light, and cover him from law; |
| Fatten the
courtier, starve the learned band, |
| And suckle armies,
and dry-nurse the land: |
| Till senates nod
to lullabies divine, |
| And all be asleep, as at an ode of thine.’ |
| She ceased. Then swells the Chapel Royal throat: |
| ‘God save King Cibber!’ mounts in every note. |
| Familiar White’s, ‘God save king Colley!’ cries; |
| ‘God save King Colley!’ Drury Lane replies: |
| To Needham’s quick the voice triumphal rode, |
| But pious Needham dropped the name of God; |
| Back to the Devil the last echoes roll, |
| And ‘Coll!’ each butcher roars at Hockley Hole. |
| So when Jove’s block descended from on high |
| (As sings thy great forefather Ogilby) |
| Loud thunder to its bottom shook the bog, |
| And the hoarse nation croaked, ‘God save King Log!’ |
