views,

Life's little cares and little pains refuse? Shall he not rather feel a double share

Merit the scorn they meet from little men.
With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,
Not wildly high, nor pitifully low;
If vice alone their honest aims oppose,

On the precarious mercy of mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous
wings:

But as, of various evils that befal
The human race, some portion goes to all;
To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd,
Who feels his consolation in his mind;
And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about
A mental charm for every care without.
E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,
Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;
And every wound the tortured bosom feels,
Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;
Some generous friend, of ample power
possess'd;

Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the distress'd;

Some breast that glows with virtues all divine; Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine.

foes?

Happy for men in every age and clime,
If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme.
Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue
Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.
Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,
The pride of wealth, the splendour of the
great,

Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,

Are visions far less happy than thy own:
Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,
Be wisely gay and innocently vain;
While serious souls are by their fears
undone,

Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun, And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show

More radiant colours in their worlds below: Then, as they break, the slaves of care

reprove,

And tell them: Such are all the toys they love.

E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures, Hi narrata ferunt alio: Mensuraque ficti Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor: Illic Credulitas, illic temerarius Error, Vanaque Lætitia est, consternatique Timores, Seditioque recens, dubioque auctore Susurri. ÖVID. Metamorph. XII.

A TIME like this, a busy, bustling time, Suits ill with writers, very ill with rhyme: Unheard we sing, when party-rage runs strong,

And mightier madness checks the flowing song: Or, should we force the peaceful Muse to wield

Her feeble arms amid the furious field, Where party-pens a wordy war maintain, Poor is her anger, and her friendship vain; And oft the foes, who feel her sting, combine, Till serious vengeance pays an idle line; For party-poets are like wasps, who dart Death to themselves, and to their foes but

smart.

Hard then our fate: if general themes we

Or should we sing the subject of the day, To-morrow's wonder puffs our praise away. More blest the bards of that poetic time, When all found readers who could find a rhyme;

Green grew the bays on every teeming head,
And Cibber was enthroned, and Settle read.
Sing, drooping Muse, the cause of thy decline;
Why reign no more the once-triumphant
Nine?

Alas! new charms the wavering many gain,
And rival sheets the reader's eye detain;
A daily swarm, that banish every Muse,
Come flying forth, and mortals call them
NEWS:

For these, unread, the noblest volumes lie;
For these, in sheets unsoil'd, the Muses die;
Unbought, unblest, the virgin copies wait
In vain for fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.
Since, then, the town forsakes us for our foes,
The smoothest numbers for the harshest
prose;

choose,

That pity only checks your growing spite To erring man, and prompts you still to write;

That your choice-works on humble stalls are laid,

Or vainly grace the windows of the trade;
Be ye my friends, if friendship e'er can warm
Those rival bosoms whom the Muses charm:
Think of the common cause, wherein we go,
Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;
Nor let one peevish chief his leader blame,
Till, crown'd with conquest, we regain our
fame;

And let us join our forces to subdue
This bold assuming but successful crew.

I sing of NEws, and all those vapid sheets The rattling hawker vends through gaping streets;

Whate'er their name, whate'er the time they fly,

Damp from the press, to charm the reader's

eye:

For, soon as morning dawns with roseate hue,
The Herald of the morn arises too;
Post after Post succeeds, and, all day long,
Gazettes and Ledgers swarm, a noisy throng.
When evening comes, she comes with all
her train

Of Ledgers, Chronicles, and Posts again, Like bats, appearing, when the sun goes down,

From holes obscure and corners of the town. Of all these triflers, all like these, I write; Oh! like my subject could my song delight, The crowd at Lloyd's one poet's name should raise,

And all the Alley echo to his praise. In shoals the hours their constant numbers bring,

Like insects waking to th' advancing spring; Which take their rise from grubs obscene that lie

In shallow pools, or thence ascend the sky:
Such are these base ephemeras, so born
To die before the next revolving morn.
Yet thus they differ: insect-tribes are lost
In the first visit of a winter's frost;
While these remain, a base but constant

breed,

Whose swarming sons their short-lived sires succeed;

No changing season makes their number less.
Nor Sunday shines a Sabbath on the press!
Then lo! the sainted Monitor is born,
Whose pious face some sacred texts adorn:
As artful sinners cloak the secret sin,
To veil with seeming grace the guile within;
So Moral Essays on his front appear,
But all is carnal business in the rear;
The fresh-coin'd lie, the secret whisper'd last,
And all the gleanings of the six days past.
With these retired, through half the Sab-
bath-day,

The London-lounger yawns his hours away:

Not so, my little flock! your preacher fly, Nor waste the time no worldly wealth can buy; But let the decent maid and sober clown Pray for these idlers of the sinful town: This day, at least, on nobler themes bestow, Nor give to Woodfall, or the world below.

But, Sunday past, what numbers flourish then,

What wond'rous labours of the press and pen! Diurnal most, some thrice each week affords, Some only once;-O avarice of words! When thousand starving minds such manna seek,

To drop the precious food but once a week. Endless it were to sing the powers of all, Their names, their numbers; how they rise and fall:

Like baneful herbs the gazer's eye they seize, Rush to the head, and poison where they please:

Like idle flies, a busy, buzzing train,
They drop their maggots in the trifler's

brain:

That genial soil receives the fruitful store, And there they grow and breed a thousand

more.

Now be their arts display'd, how first they choose

A cause and party, as the bard his muse; Inspired by these, with clamorous zeal they

cry,

And through the town their dreams and omens fly:

So the Sibylline leaves were blown about, Disjointed scraps of fate involved in doubt; So idle dreams, the journals of the night, Are right and wrong by turns, and mingle wrong with right.— Some champions for the rights that prop the crown, sworn to pull them down; Some neutral powers, with secret forces fraught, Wishing for war, but willing to be bought: While some to every side and party go, Shift every friend, and join with every foe; Like sturdy rogues in privateers they strike This side and that, the foes of both alike; A traitor-crew, who thrive in troubled times, Fear'd for their force, and courted for their crimes.

Some sturdy patriots,

Chief to the prosperous side the numbers sail,

Fickle and false, they veer with every gale; As birds that migrate from a freezing shore, In search of warmer climes, come skimming

o'er,

Some bold adventurers first prepare to try The doubtful sunshine of the distant sky; But soon the growing Summer's certain sun Wins more and more, till all at last are won:

So, on the early prospect of disgrace,
Fly in vast troops this apprehensive race;
Instinctive tribes! their failing food they
dread,

And buy, with timely change, their future

bread.

Such are our guides; how many a peaceful head,

Born to be still, have they to wrangling led! How many an honest zealot, stol'n from trade,

And factious tools of pious pastors made! With clews like these they tread the maze of state,

These oracles explore, to learn our. fate; Pleased with the guides who can so well deceive,

Who cannot lie so fast as they believe.

Oft lend I, loth, to some sage friend an

ear

(For we who will not speak are doom'd to hear),

While he, bewilder'd, tells his anxious thought, Infectious fear from tainted scribblers caught,

Or idiot hope; for each his mind assails, As Lloyd's court-light or Stockdale's gloom prevails.

Yet stand I patient while but one declaims, Or gives dull comments on the speech he maims:

But oh! ye Muses, keep your votary's feet
From tavern-haunts where politicians meet;
Where rector, doctor, and attorney pause,
First on each parish, then each public cause:
Indited roads and rates that still increase;
The murmuring poor, who will not fast in
peace;
Election-zeal and friendship, since declined;
A tax commuted, or a tithe in kind;
The Dutch and Germans kindling into strife;
Dull port and poachers vile! the serious ills
of life.

Here comes the neighbouring justice, pleased to guide

His little club, and in the chair preside.
In private business his commands prevail,
On public themes his reasoning turns the
scale;

Assenting silence soothes his happy ear,
And, in or out, his party triumphs here.

Nor here th' infectious rage for party stops,

Brookes' and St. Alban's boasts not, but,
instead,
Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rod-
ney's Head:-
Hither, with all a patriot's care, comes he
Who owns the little hut that makes him free;
Whose yearly forty shillings buy the smile
Of mightier men, and never waste the while;
Who feels his freehold's worth, and looks
elate,

A little prop and pillar of the state.
Here he delights the weekly news to con,
And mingle comments as he blunders on;
To swallow all their varying authors teach,
To spell a title and confound a speech:
Till with a muddled mind he quits the news,
And claims his nation's licence to abuse;
Then joins the cry: That all the courtly race
Are venal candidates for power and place;
Yet feels some joy, amid the general vice,
That his own vote will bring its wonted price.
These are the ills the teeming press supplies,
The pois'nous springs from learning's foun-
tain rise;

Not there the wise alone their entrance find,
Imparting useful light to mortals blind;
But, blind themselves, these erring guides
hold out

Alluring lights, to lead us far about; Screen'd by such means, here. Scandal whets her quill,

Here Slander shoots unseen, whene'er she will;

Here Fraud and Falsehood labour to deceive, And Folly' aids them both, impatient to believe.

Such, sons of Britain! are the guides ye trust;

So wise their counsel, their reports so just :Yet, though we cannot call their morals pure, Their judgment nice, or their decisions sure; Merit they have to mightier works unknown, A style, a manner, and a fate their own. We, who for longer fame with labour strive, Are pain'd to keep our sickly works alive; Studious we toil, with patient care refine, Nor let our love protect one languid line. Severe ourselves, at last our works appear, When, ah! we find our readers more severe; For after all our care and pains, how few Acquire applause, or keep it if they do!Not so these sheets, ordain'd to happier fate, Praised through their day, and but that day their date;

But flits along from palaces to shops;
Our weekly journals o'er the land abound,
And spread their plagues and influenzas round;
The village, too, the peaceful, pleasant
plain,

Such various subjects in so small a space?
As the first ship upon the waters bore
Incongruous kinds who never met before;
Or as some curious virtuoso joins,
In one small room, moths, minerals, and coins,
Birds, beasts, and fishes; nor refuses place
To serpents, toads, and all the reptile race:
So here, compress'd within a single sheet,
Great things and small, the mean and
mighty meet:

"Tis this which makes all Europe's business
known,
Yet here a private man may place his own;
And, where he reads of Lords and Com-
mons, he

May tell their honours that he sells rappee. Add next th' amusement which the motley page

Affords to either sex and every age:
Lo! where it comes before the cheerful fire,-
Damps from the press in smoky curls aspire
(As from the earth the sun exhales the dew),
Ere we can read the wonders that ensue:
Then eager every eye surveys the part,
That brings its favourite subject to the heart;
Grave politicians look for facts alone,
And gravely add conjectures of their own:
The sprightly nymph, who never broke her

rest

For tottering crowns, or mighty lands oppress'd,

Finds broils and battles, but neglects them all For songs and suits, a birth-day, or a ball: The keen warm man o'erlooks each idle tale For Money's wanted' and 'Estates on Sale' While some with equal minds to all attend, Pleased with each part and grieved to find an end.

So charm the News; but we, who, far from town, Wait till the postman brings the packet down, Once in the week, a vacant day behold, And stay for tidings, till they're three days old:

That day arrives; no welcome post appears, But the dull morn a sullen aspect wears; We meet, but ah! without our wonted smile, To talk of headaches, and complain of bile; Sullen we ponder o'er a dull repast,

Not music so commands, nor so the Muse: Give poets claret, they grow idle soon; Feed the musician, and he's out of tune; But the sick mind, of this disease possest, Flies from all cure and sickens when at rest.

compose

Now sing, my Muse, what various parts These rival sheets of politics and prose. First, from each brother's hoard a part they draw,

A mutual theft that never fear'd a law; Whate'er they gain,to each man's portion fall, And read it once, you read it through them all: For this their runners ramble day and night, To drag each lurking deed to open light; For daily bread the dirty trade they ply, Coin their fresh tales and live upon the lie: Like bees for honey, forth for news they spring,

Industrious creatures! ever on the wing; Home to their several cells they bear the store,

Cull'd of all kinds, then roam abroad for more.

No anxious virgin flies to fair Tweed-side; No injured husband mourns his faithless bride;

No duel dooms the fiery youth to bleed; But through the town transpires each vent'rous deed.

Should some fair frail-one drive her prancing pair,

Where rival peers contend to please the fair; When, with new force, she aids her conquering eyes,

And beauty decks with all that beauty buys; Quickly we learn whose heart her influence feels,

Whose acres melt before her glowing wheels. To these a thousand idle themes succeed, Deeds of all kinds and comments to each deed. Here stocks, the state-barometers, we view, That rise or fall, by causes known to few; Promotion's ladder who goes up or down; Who wed, or who seduced, amuse the town; What new-born heir has made his father blest;

What heir exults, his father now at rest; That ample list the Tyburn-herald gives, And each known knave, who still for Tyburn lives.

So grows the work, and now the printer tries

His powers no more, but leans on his allics.

When lo! the advertising tribe succeed,

And chief th' illustrious race, whose drops and pills

Have patent powers to vanquish human ills: These, with their cures, a constant aid remain, To bless the pale composer's fertile brain; Fertile it is, but still the noblest soil Requires some pause, some intervals from toil;

And they at least a certain ease obtain From Katterfelto's skill, and Graham's glowing strain.

I too must aid, and pay to see my name
Hung in these dirty avenues to fame;
Nor pay in vain, if aught the Muse has seen,
And sung, could make those avenues more
clean;

Could stop one slander ere it found its way,
And gave to public scorn its helpless prey.
By the same aid the Stage invites her friends,
And kindly tells the banquet she intends;
Thither from real life the many run,
With Siddons weep, or laugh with Abingdon;
Pleased in fictitious joy or grief, to see
The mimic passion with their own agree;
To steal a few enchanted hours away
From care, and drop the curtain on the day.
But who can steal from self that wretched
wight,

Whose darling work is tried, some fatal night?

Most wretched man! when, bane to every bliss,

He hears the serpent-critic's rising hiss; Then groans succeed: not traitors on the wheel

Can feel like him, or have such pangs to feel. Nor end they here: next day he reads his fall In every paper; critics are they all;

He sees his branded name, with wild affright, And hears again the cat-calls of the night.

Your former features, airs, and arts assume, Circassian virtues, with Circassian bloom. Come, batter'd beaux, whose locks are turn'd to gray,

And crop Discretion's lying badge away; Read where they vend these smart engaging things,

These flaxen frontlets with elastic springs;
No female eye the fair deception sees,
Not Nature's self so natural as these.—
Such are their arts, but not confined to them,
The Muse impartial must her sons condemin :
For they, degenerate! join the venal throng,
And puff a lazy Pegasus along:
More guilty these, by Nature less design'd
For little arts that suit the vulgar-kind ;-
That barbers' boys, who would to trade
advance,

Wish us to call them smart Friseurs from
France;

That he who builds a chop-house, on his door

Paints The true old original Blue Boar!
These are the arts by which a thousand live,
Where Truth may smile and Justice may
forgive:

But when, amid this rabble-rout, we find
A puffing poet to his honour blind;
Who silly drops quotations all about,
Packet or Post, and points their merit out;
Who advertises what reviewers say,
With sham editions every second day;
Who dares not trust his praises out of sight,
But hurries into fame with all his might;
Although the verse some transient praise
obtains,

Contempt is all the anxious poet gains.

Now puffs exhausted, advertisements past, Their correspondents stand exposed at last; These are a numerous tribe, to fame unknown,

Who for the public good forego their own; Who volunteers in paper-war engage, With double portion of their party's rage: Such are the Bruti, Decii, who appear Wooing the printer for admission here; Whose generous souls can condescend to pray

For leave to throw their precious time away.

Oh! cruel WOODFALL! when a patriot

draws His gray-goose-quill in his dear country's

cause,

To vex and maul a ministerial race,
Can thy stern soul refuse the champion place?
Alas! thou knowst not with what anxious
heart

He longs his best-loved labours to impart;
How he has sent them to thy brethren round,
And still the same unkind reception found:
At length indignant will he damn the state,
Turn to his trade and leave us to our fate.