"At length Corruption, like a gen❜ral flood,
"(So long by watchful Ministers withstood)
"Shall deluge all; and Av'rice creeping on,
Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the Sun;
"Statesman and Patriot ply alike the Stocks,
“ Peeress and Butler share alike the Box,
"And Judges job, and Bishops bite the town,
"And mighty Dukes pack cards for half a crown.
"See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms,
"And France reveng'd of ANN's and EDWARD's arms!" 'Twas no Court-badge, great Scriv'ner! fir'd thy brain, Nor lordly Luxury, nor City Gain:
No, 'twas thy righteous end, asham❜d to see
Senates degen❜rate, Patriots disagree,
And nobly wishing Party-rage to cease,
To buy both sides, and give thy Country peace.
"All this is madness," cries a sober sage:
But who, my friend, has reason in his rage
"The Ruling Passion, be it what it will,
"The Ruling Passion conquers Reason still."
Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame,
Than ev'n that Passion, if it has no Aim;
For though such motives Folly you may call,
The Folly's greater to have none at all.
"And diff'rent men directs to diff'rent ends.
Hear then the truth: ""Tis Heav'n each Passion sends,
scheme in 1720. He was also one of those who suffered most severely by the bill of pains and penalties on the said directors He was a Dissenter of a most religious deportment, and professed to be a great believer. Whether he did really credit the prophecy here mentioned is not certain, but it was constantly in this very style he declaimed against the corruption and luxury of the age, the partiality of Parliaments, and the misery of party-spirit. He was particularly eloquent against Avarice in great and noble persons, of which he had indeed lived to see many miserable examples. He died in the year 1732.
"Extremes in Nature equal good produce,
"Extremes in Man concur to gen❜ral use."
Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow?
That Pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Thro' reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain,
Builds Life on Death, on Change Duration founds,
And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the Poor;
This year a Reservoir, to keep and spare;
The next, a Fountain, spouting thro' his Heir,
In lavish streams to quench a Country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What tho' (the use of barb❜rous spits forgot)
His kitchen vy'd in coolness with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd,
With soups unbought and sallads bless'd his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
To cram the rich was prodigal expense,
And who would take the Poor from Providence?
Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall, Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Ver. 182. With soups unbought.]
-dapibus mensas onerabat inemptis.
Tenants with sighs the smokeless tow'rs survey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the sav❜d candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not so his Son, he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
(For what to shun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raise.
What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine!
Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,
His oxen perish in his Country's cause;
'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,
And Zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked seat,
The Sylvans groan-no matter-for the Fleet:
Next goes his Wool-to clothe our valiant bands,
Last, for his Country's love, he sells his Lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold Train-bands, and burns a Pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, who pays her Patriots with her Spoils?
Ver. 200. Here I found two lines in the Poet's MS.
"Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
"More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise:"
which, as they seem to be necessary to do justice to the general Cha racter going to be described, I advised him to insert in their place.
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless Country leaves him to her Laws.
The Sense to value Riches, with the Art
T'enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursu❜d,
Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude;
To balance Fortune by a just expense,
Join with Economy, Magnificence;
With Splendour, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
Oh teach us, BATHURST! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.
B. To worth or want well-weigh'd be bounty giv'n, And ease, or emulate, the care of Heav'n; (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race) Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd; As poison heals, in just proportion us'd: In heaps, like Ambergrise, a stink it lies, But well dispers'd, is incense to the skies.
P. Who starves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats ?
The Wretch that trusts them, and the Rogue that cheats.
Is there a Lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a Fiddler, Flatt'rer, or Buffoon?
After ver. 218, in the MS.
Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their Lord;
Where mad good-nature, bounty misapply'd,
In lavish Curio blaz'd a while and dy❜d;"
There Providence once more shall shift the scene,
And shewing H―y, teach the golden mean.
After ver. 226, in the MS.
The secret rare, with affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n lost, yet B-y ne'er could find;
Still miss'd by Vice, and scare by Virtue hit,
By G-'s goodness, or by S-'s wit.
Whose table, Wit, or modest Merit share,
Un-elbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or Play'r ?
Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part,
To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart?
Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,
And angels guard him in the golden Mean!
There, English Bounty yet a-while may stand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why should Lords engross ?
Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose Causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary Traveller repose?
Ver. 243. Oxford's better part,] Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford, the son of Robert, created Earl of Oxford and Earl Mortimer by Queen Aune. This nobleman died regretted by all men of letters, great numbers of whom had experienced his benefits. He left behind him one of the most noble Libraries in Europe.
Ver. 250. The Man of Ross:] The person here celebrated, who with a small Estate actually performed all these good works, and whose true name was almost lost (partly by the title of the Man of Ross given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without so much as an inscription), was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Ross in Herefordshire.
After ver. 250, in the MS.
Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who sings not hin, oh may he sing no more!
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