HAIL, Resignation! hail ambiguous dame,
Thou Parthian archer in the fight of fame!
When thou hast drawn the mystic veil between,
'Tis the poor minister's concluding scene:
Sheltered beneath thy pinions he withdraws,
And tells us his integrity's the cause.
Sneaking to solitude, he rails at state,
And rather would be virtuous than be great;
Laments the impotence of those who guide,
And wishes public clamours may subside.
But while such rogues as North or Sandwich steer,
Our grievances will never disappear.
Hail, Resignation! 'tis from thee we trace
The various villanies of power and place;
When rascals, once but infamy and rags,
Rich with a nation's ruin, swell their bags,
Purchase a title and a royal smile,
And pay to be distinguishably vile;
When big with self-importancef thus they shine,
Contented with their gleanings they resign.
• Copied from a poem in Chatterton's hand-writing in the British Museum.
↑ A pen has been drawn through these words in the MS.
When ministers, unable to preside,
The tott'ring vehicle no longer guide,
The powerful Thane prepares to kick his grace
From all his glorious dignities of place;
But still the honour of the action's thine,
And Grafton's tender conscience can resign.
Lament not, Grafton, that thy hasty fall
Turns out a public happiness to all;
Still by your emptiness of look appear
The ruins of a man who used to steer;
Still wear that insignificance of face,
Which dignifies you more than power or place.
Whilst now the Constitution tott'ring stands,
And needs the firm support of able hands,
Your grace stood foremost in the glorious cause
To shake the very basis of our laws;
But thanks to Camden, and a noble few,
They stemm'd Oppression's tide, and conquer'd you.
How can your prudence be completely praised
In flying from the storm yourself had raised?
When the black clouds of discord veil'd the sky,
'Twas more than prudence in your grace to fly,
For had the thunders burst upon your head
Soon had you mingled with the headless dead;
Not Bute, though here the deputy of fate,
Could save so vile a minister of state.
Oft as the Carlton Sybil prophesied
How long each minister of state should guide,
And from the dark recesses of her cell,
When Bute was absent, would to Stuart tell
The secret fates of senators and peers,
What lord's exalted but to lose his ears,
What future plans the junto have design'd,
What writers* are with Rockingham combin'd,
Who should accept a privy seal or rod,
Who's lord-lieutenant of the land of Nod,
What pension'd nobleman should hold his post,
What poor dependant scored without his host,
What patriot big with popular applause
Should join the ministry and prop the cause;
With many secrets of a like import
The daily tittle-tattle of a court,
By common fame retail'd as office news
In coffee-houses, taverns, cellars, stews;
Oft from her secret casket would she draw
A knotty plan to undermine the law;
But though the council sat upon the scheme,
Time has discovered that 'tis all a dream;
Long had she known the date of Grafton's power,
And in her tablet mark'd his flying hour;
Rumour reports a message from her cell
Arrived but just three hours before he fell.
[Whether writers' or wretches' is uncertain, the MS. being obscure. ED.]
Well knew the subtle minister of state
Her knowledge in the mysteries of fate,
And catching every pension he could find,
Obey'd the fatal summons and resign'd.
Far in the north, amidst whose dreary hills
None hear the pleasant murm'ring sound of rills,
Where no soft gale in dying raptures blows
Or ought which bears the look of verdure grows,
Save where the north wind cuts the solemn yew,
And russet rushes drink the noxious dew.
Dank exhalations drawn from stagnant moors-
The morning dress of Caledonia's shores.
Upon a bleak and solitary plain,
Expos'd to every storm of wind and rain,
A humble cottage rear'd its lowly head,
Its roof with matted reeds and rushes spread;
The walls were osiers daub'd with slimy clay,
One narrow entrance open'd to the day;
Here liv'd a Laird, the ruler of his clan,
Whose fame through every northern mountain ran; Great was his learning, for he long had been
A student at the town of Aberdeen,
Professor of all languages at once,
To him some reckoned Chappellow* a dunce,
With happy fluency he learn'd to speak
Syriac or Latin, Arabic or Greek.
* [Professor of Arabic in the University of Cambridge from 1720 to 1768; eminent for his intimate acquaintance with the Oriental languages. ED.]
Not any tongue in which Oxonians sing
When they rejoice, or blubber with the king,
To him appear'd unknown: with sapient look
He taught the highland meaning of each crook.
But often when to pastimes he inclin'd,
To give some relaxation to his mind,
He laid his books aside; forgot to read,
To hunt wild goslings down the river Tweed,
To chase a starving weasel from her bed
And wear the spoil triumphant on his head.
'Tis true his rent-roll just maintain'd his state,
But some, in spite of poverty, are great.
Though famine sunk her impress on his face,
Still you might there his haughty temper trace,
Descended from a catalogue of kings
Whose warlike arts Mac Pherson sweetly sings,
He bore the majesty of monarchs past,
Like a tall pine rent with the winter's blast,
Whose spreading trunk and withered branches show How glorious once the lordly tree might grow.
Of all the warring passions in his breast
Ambition still presided o'er the rest;
This is the spur which actuates us all,
The visionary height whence thousands fall,
The author's hobby-horse, the soldier's steed
Which aids him in each military deed,
The lady's dresser, looking-glass and paint,
The warm devotion of the seeming saint.
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