Blest with a bushy wig and solemn grace,
Catcott admires him for a fossile face.
When first his farce of countenance began,
Ere the soft down had mark'd him almost man,
A solemn dulness occupied his eyes,
And the fond mother thought him wondrous wise;—
But little had she read in Nature's book,
That fools assume a philosophic look.
O Education, ever in the wrong,
To thee the curses of mankind belong;
Thou first great author of our future state,
Chief source of our religion, passions, fate:
On every atom of the Doctor's frame
Nature has stamp'd the pedant with his name;
But thou hast made him (ever wast thou blind)
A licens'd butcher of the human kind.
Mould'ring in dust the fair Lavinia lies;
Death and our Doctor clos'd her sparkling eyes.
O all ye Powers, the guardians of the world!
Where is the useless bolt of vengeance hurl'd?
Say, shall this leaden sword of plague prevail,
And kill the mighty where the mighty fail!
Let the red bolus tremble o'er his head,
And with his cordial julep strike him dead.
But to return-in this wide sea of thought,
How shall we steer our notions as we ought?
Content is happiness, as sages say—
But what's content? The trifle of a day.
Then, friend, let inclination be thy guide,
Nor be by superstition led aside.
The saint and sinner, fool and wise attain
An equal share of easiness and pain.1
NEWTON, accept the tribute of a line
From one whose humble genius honours thine.
Mysterious shall thy mazy numbers seem,
To give thee matter for a future dream.
Thy happy talents, meanings to untie,
My vacancy of meaning may supply;
1 When or how Chatterton was unfortunate enough to receive a tincture of infidelity, we are not informed. Early in the year 1769, it appears from a poem on "Happiness," addressed to Mr. Catcott, that he had drunk deeply of the poisoned spring. And in the conclusion of a letter to the same gentleman, after he left Bristol, he expresses himself, "Heaven send you the comforts of Christianity; I request them not, for I am no Christian."-DR. GREGORY.
2 The reader will remark that a considerable portion of the following Poem has already appeared in the "Kew Gardens." See ante, page 31. The circumstance has been referred to in
3 Dr. Newton, then Bishop of Bristol.
And where the Muse is witty in a dash,
Thy explanations may enforce the lash:"
How shall the line, grown servile in respect,
To North or Sandwich infamy direct?
Unless a wise elipsis intervene,
How shall I satirize the sleepy Dean? 1
Perhaps the Muse might fortunately strike
A highly finish'd picture very like,
But deans are all so lazy, dull, and fat,
None could be certain worthy Barton sat.
Come then, my Newton, leave the musty lines
Where Revelation's farthing candle shines,
In search of hidden truths let others go-
Be thou the fiddle to my puppet-show.
What are these hidden truths but secret lies,
Which from diseas'd imaginations rise?
What if our politicians should succeed
In fixing up the ministerial creed,
Who could such golden arguments refuse
Which melts and proselytes the harden'd Jews? When universal reformation bribes
With words and wealthy metaphors the tribes, To empty pews the brawny chaplain swears, Whilst none but trembling superstition hears. When ministers with sacerdotal hands
Baptize the flock in streams of golden sands, Through ev'ry town conversion wings her way, And conscience is a prostitute for pay.
1 Dr. Barton, Dean of Bristol.
Faith removes mountains, like a modern dean;
Faith can see virtues which were never seen.
Our pious ministry this sentence quote,
To prove their instrument's superior vote,
Whilst Luttrell, happy in his lordship's voice,
Bids faith persuade us 'tis the people's choice.
This mountain of objections to remove,
This knotty, rotten argument to prove,
Faith insufficient, Newton caught the pen,
And show'd by demonstration, one was ten.
What boots it if he reason'd right or no,
'Twas orthodox-the Thane would have it so.
And who shall doubts and false conclusions draw
Against the inquisitions of the law,
With jailers, chains, and pillories must plead,
And Mansfield's conscience settle right his creed.
Is Mansfield's conscience then, will Reason cry,
A standard block to dress our notions by?
Why what a blunder has the fool let fall,
That Mansfield has no conscience, none at all.
Pardon me, Freedom! this and something more
The knowing writer might have known before ;
But bred in Bristol's mercenary cell,
Compell❜d in scenes of avarice to dwell,
What gen'rous passion can refine my breast?
What besides interest has my mind possest?
And should a gabbling truth like this be told
By me instructed, here to slave for gold,
My prudent neighbours (who can read) would see
Another Savage' to be starved in me.
Faith is a pow'rful virtue ev'rywhere:
By this once Bristol drest, for Cato, Clare;
But now the blockheads grumble, Nugent's made
Lord of their choice, he being lord of trade.
They bawl'd for Clare when little in their eyes,
But cannot to the titled villain rise.
This state credulity, a bait for fools,
Employs his lordship's literary tools.
Murphy, a bishop of the chosen sect,
A ruling pastor of the lord's elect,
Keeps journals, posts, and magazines in awe,
And parcels out his daily statute law.
Would you the bard's veracity dispute?
He borrows persecution's scourge from Bute,
An excommunication satire writes,
And the slow mischief trifles till it bites.
This faith, a subject for a longer theme,
Is not the substance of a waking dream;
Though blind and dubious to behold the right,
Its optics mourn a fixed Egyptian night.
Yet things unseen are seen so very clear,
She knew fresh muster must begin the year;
She knows that North, by Bute and conscience led,
Will hold his honours till his favour's dead;
She knows that Martin, ere he can be great,
Must practise at the target of the state :
1 The unfortunate poet. Chatterton's comparison was pro phetic.
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