Poetical Works - Charles Churchill

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my friend; that World, we know,

       Which calls us guilty, cannot make us so.

       Unawed by numbers, follow Nature's plan;

       Assert the rights, or quit the name of man.

       Consider well, weigh strictly right and wrong;

       Resolve not quick, but once resolved, be strong.

       In spite of Dulness, and in spite of Wit,

       If to thyself thou canst thyself acquit, 380

       Rather stand up, assured with conscious pride,

       Alone, than err with millions on thy side.

      * * * * *

      Footnotes:

      [92] 'Night:' this poem was written to defend the irregularities imputed to the poet.

      [93] 'Abject wretch:' Thornton, who abandoned Lloyd in his distress.

      [94] 'Thankless wretch:' one Sellon, a popular clergyman, aided at first by Churchill and his set, but who betrayed and blackened them afterwards. We meet with him again in 'The Ghost' as Plausible.

      [95] 'Venal Clan:' alluding to Mr. Pitt's employing the Highland clans

       in the American war.

      [96] 'Pitt:' who retired in 1761, because the cabinet would not go to

       war with Spain.

       Table of Contents

      A SCOTS PASTORAL INSCRIBED TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ.

      Nos patriam fugimus.—VIRGIL.

      When Cupid first instructs his darts to fly

       From the sly corner of some cook-maid's eye,

       The stripling raw, just enter'd in his teens,

       Receives the wound, and wonders what it means;

       His heart, like dripping, melts, and new desire

       Within him stirs, each time she stirs the fire;

       Trembling and blushing, he the fair one views,

       And fain would speak, but can't—without a Muse.

       So to the sacred mount he takes his way,

       Prunes his young wings, and tunes his infant lay, 10

       His oaten reed to rural ditties frames,

       To flocks and rocks, to hills and rills, proclaims,

       In simplest notes, and all unpolish'd strains,

       The loves of nymphs, and eke the loves of swains.

       Clad, as your nymphs were always clad of yore,

       In rustic weeds—a cook-maid now no more—

       Beneath an aged oak Lardella lies—

       Green moss her couch, her canopy the skies.

       From aromatic shrubs the roguish gale

       Steals young perfumes and wafts them through the vale. 20

       The youth, turn'd swain, and skill'd in rustic lays,

       Fast by her side his amorous descant plays.

       Herds low, flocks bleat, pies chatter, ravens scream,

       And the full chorus dies a-down the stream:

       The streams, with music freighted, as they pass

       Present the fair Lardella with a glass;

       And Zephyr, to complete the love-sick plan,

       Waves his light wings, and serves her for a fan.

       But when maturer Judgment takes the lead,

       These childish toys on Reason's altar bleed; 30

       Form'd after some great man, whose name breeds awe,

       Whose every sentence Fashion makes a law;

       Who on mere credit his vain trophies rears,

       And founds his merit on our servile fears;

       Then we discard the workings of the heart,

       And nature's banish'd by mechanic art;

       Then, deeply read, our reading must be shown;

       Vain is that knowledge which remains unknown:

       Then Ostentation marches to our aid,

       And letter'd Pride stalks forth in full parade; 40

       Beneath their care behold the work refine,

       Pointed each sentence, polish'd every line;

       Trifles are dignified, and taught to wear

       The robes of ancients with a modern air;

       Nonsense with classic ornaments is graced,

       And passes current with the stamp of taste.

       Then the rude Theocrite is ransack'd o'er,

       And courtly Maro call'd from Mincio's shore;

       Sicilian Muses on our mountains roam,

       Easy and free as if they were at home; 50

       Nymphs, naïads, nereïds, dryads, satyrs, fauns,

       Sport in our floods, and trip it o'er our lawns;

       Flowers which once flourish'd fair in Greece and Rome,

       More fair revive in England's meads to bloom;

       Skies without cloud, exotic suns adorn,

       And roses blush, but blush without a thorn;

       Landscapes, unknown to dowdy Nature, rise,

       And new creations strike our wondering eyes.

       For bards like these, who neither sing nor say,

       Grave without thought, and without feeling gay, 60

       Whose numbers in one even tenor flow,

       Attuned to pleasure, and attuned to woe;

       Who, if plain Common-Sense her visit pays,

       And mars one couplet in their happy lays,

       As at some ghost affrighted, start and stare,

       And ask the meaning of her coming there:

       For bards like these a wreath shall Mason[97] bring,

       Lined with the softest down of Folly's wing;

       In Love's pagoda shall they ever doze,

       And Gisbal[98] kindly rock them to repose; 70

       My Lord——, to letters as to faith most true—

       At once their patron and example too—

       Shall quaintly fashion his love-labour'd dreams,

       Sigh with sad winds, and weep with weeping streams;[99]

       Curious in grief (for real grief, we know,

       Is curious to dress up the tale of woe),

       From the green umbrage of some Druid's seat

       Shall his own works, in his own way, repeat.

       Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,

       No judgment tempers when rash genius fires; 80

       Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,

       Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;

       Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,

       By prattling streams, o'er flower-empurpled meads;

       Who often, but without success, have pray'd

       For apt Alliteration's artful aid;

      

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