Whilst the weak artist, to thy whims a slave,
Would bury all those pow'rs which Nature gave,
Wonid suffer blank concealment to obscure
Those rays, thy jealousy could not endure;
To feed thy vanity would rust unknown,
And to secure thy credit blast his own,
In Hogarth he was sure to find a friend;

He could not fear, and therefore might commend.
But when his spirit, rous'd by honest shame,
Shook off that lethargy, and soar'd to fame,
When, with the pride of man, resolv'd and strong,
de scorn'd those fears which did his honour wrong,
And, on himself determin'd to rely,

Brought forth his labours to the public eye,
No friend in thee, could such a rebel know;
He had desert, and Hogarth was his foe.

Souls of a tim'rous cast, of petty name
In Envy's court, not yet quite dead to shame,
May some remorse, some qualms of conscience feel,
And suffer honour to abate their zeal;
But the man truly and completely great,
Allows no rule of action but his hate;
Through ev'ry bar he bravely breaks his way,
Passion his principle, and parts his prey.
Mediums in vice and virtue speak a mind
Within the pale of temperance confin'd;
The daring spirit scorns her narrow schemes,
And, good or bad, is always in extremes.

Man's practice duly weigh'd, through ev'ry age On the same plan hath Envy form'd her rage: "Gainst those whom fortune hath our rivals made In way of science, and in way of trade, Stung with mean jealousy she arms her spite, First works, then views their ruin with delight. Our Hogarth here a grand improver shines, And nobly on the gen'ral plan refines; He like himself o'erleaps the servile bound; Worth is his mark, wherever worth is found. Should painters only his vast wrath suffice? Genius in ev'ry walk is lawful prize. 'Tis a gross insult to his o'ergrown state; His love to merit is to feel his hate.

[friend,

When Wilkes, our countryman, our common Arose, his king, his country to defend, When tools of pow'r he bar'd to public view, And from their holes the sneaking cowards drew, When Rancour found it far beyond her reach To soil his honour, and his truth impeach, What could induce thee, at a time and place, Where manly foes had blush'd to show their face, To make that effort, which must damn thy name, And sink thee deep, deep in thy grave with shame? Did virtue move thee? No, 'twas pride, rank pride, And if thou hadst not done it, thou hadst dy'd. Malice (who, disappointed of her end, Whether to work the bane of foe or friend, Preys on herself, and driven to the stake, Gives Virtue that revenge she scorns to take) Had kill'd thee, tott'ring on life's utmost verge, Had Wilkes and Liberty escap'd thy scourge, When that great charter, which our fathers bought With their best blood, was into question brought; When, big with ruin, o'er each English head Vile slav'ry hung suspended by a thread; When Liberty, all trembling and aghast, Fear'd for the future, knowing what was past; When ev'ry breast was chill'd with deep despair, Till Reason pointed out that Pratt was there; Lurking, most ruffian-like, behind a screen, So plac'd all things to see, himself unseen,

Virtue, with due contempt, saw Hogarth stand,
The murd'rous pencil in his palsied hand.
What was the cause of Liberty to him,
Or what was Honour? Let them sink or swim,
So he may gratify without control,
The mean resentments of his selfish soul.
Let Freedom perish, if, to Freedom true,
In the same ruin Wilkes may perish too.
With all the symptoms of assur'd decay,
With age and sickness pinch'd, and worn away,
Pale quiv'ring lips, lank checks, and fault'ring
tongue,

The spirits out of tune, the nerves unstrung,
Thy body shrivell'd up, thy dim eyes sunk
Within their sockets deep, thy weak hams shrunk
The body's weight unable to sustain,

The stream of life scarce trembling through the vein,
More than half-kill'd by honest truths, which fell,
Through thy own fault, from men who wish'd thee
well,

Can'st thou, e'en thus, thy thoughts to vengeance

give,

And, dead to all things else, to malice live?
Hence, dotard, to thy closet, shut thee in,
By deep repentance wash away thy sin,
From haunts of men to shame and sorrow fly,
And, on the verge of death, learn how to die.

Vain exhortation! Wash the Ethiop white,
Discharge the leopard's spots, turn day to night,
Control the course of Nature, bid the deep
Hush at thy pigmy voice her waves to sleep,
Perform things passing strange, yet own thy art
Too weak to work a change in such a heart.
That Envy which was woven in the frame
At first, will to the last remain the same.
Reason may droop, may die, but Envy's rage
Improves by time, and gathers strength from age,
Some, and not few, vain triflers with the pen,
Unread, unpractis'd in the ways of men,
Tell us that Envy, who with giant stride
Stalks through the vale of life by Virtue's side,
Retreats when she hath drawn her latest breath,
And calmly hears her praises after death.
To such observers Hogarth gives the lie;
Worth may be hears'd, but Envy cannot die;
Within the mansion of his gloomy breast,
A mansion suited well to such a guest,
Immortal, unimpair'd she rears her head,
And damns alike the living and the dead.

Oft have I known thee, Hogarth, weak and vain, Thyself the idol of thy aukward strain, Through the dull measure of a summer's day, In phrase most vile, prate long long hours away, Whilst friends with friends all gaping sit, and gaze To hear a Hogarth babble Hogarth's praise, But if athwart thee interruption came, And mention'd with respect some ancient's name, Some ancient's name, who in the days of yore The crown of Art with greatest honour wore, How have I seen thy coward cheek turn pale, And blank confusion seize thy mangled tale! How hath thy jealousy to madness grown, And deem'd his praise injurious to thy own! Then without mercy did thy wrath make way, And arts and artists all became thy prey; Then did'st thou trample on establish'd rules, And proudly levell'd all the ancient schools, Condemn'd those works, with praise through ages

grac'd,

Which you had never seen, or could not taste,

When gen'rals would their station keep,
Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep.
In matters, whether small or great,
In private families or state,
As amongst us, the holy seer
Officiously would interfere,
With pious arts and rev'rend skill
Would bend lay bigots to his will,
Would help or injure foes or friends,
Just as it serv'd his private ends.
Whether in honest way of trade,
Traps for virginity were laid,
Or if, to make their party great,
Designs were form'd against the state,
Regardless of the common weal,
By int'rest led, which they call zeal,
Into the scale was always thrown
The will of Heav'n to back their own.
England, a happy land we know,
Where follies naturally grow;
Where without culture they arise,
And tow'r above the common size;
England a fortune-telling host,

As num'rous as the stars, could boast;
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea;
Who vers'd in ev'ry modest lore,
Can a lost maidenhead restore,
Or, if their pupils rather choose it,
Can show the readiest way to lose it;
Gipsies, who ev'ry ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor;
Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell,
Who can in henroost set a spell,
Prepar'd by arts, to them best known,
To catch all feet except their own;
Who as to fortune can unlock it,
As easily as pick a pocket;
Scotchmen who, in their country's right,
Possess the gift of second-sight,

Who (when their barren heaths they quit,
Sure argument of prudent wit,
Which reputation to maintain,
They never venture back again)
By lies prophetic heap up riches,
And boast the luxury of breeches.
Amongst the rest, in former years,
Campbell, illustrious name, appears,
Great hero of futurity,

Who, blind, could ev'ry thing foresee,
Who, dumb, could ev'ry thing foretel,
Who, Fate with equity to sell,
Always dealt out the will of Heaven
According to what price was given.

Of Scottish race, in Highlands born,
Possess'd with native pride and scorn,
He hither came, by custom led,

To curse the hands which gave himn bread.
With want of truth, and want of sense,
Amply made up by impudence,
(A succedaneum, which we find

In common use with all mankind)
Caress'd and favour'd too by those,
Whose heart with patriot feelings glows;
Who foolishly, where'er dispers'd,
Still place their native country first;
(For Englishmen alone have sense
To give a stranger preference,
Whilst modest merit of their own
Is left in poverty to groan)

Campbell foretold just what he wou'd,
And left the stars to make it good;
On whom he had impress'd such awe,
His dictates current pass'd for law;
Submissive all his empire own'd:

No star durst smile, when Campbell frown'd.
This sage deceas'd, for all must die,
And Campbell's no more safe than I,
No more than I can guard the heart,
When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,
Succeeded ripe in art and years,
Another fav'rite of the spheres;
Another and another came,

Of equal skill, and equal fame;

As white each wand, as black each gown,
As long each beard, as wise each frown;
In ev'ry thing so like, you 'd swear,
Campbell himself was sitting there.
To all the happy art was known,
To tell our fortunes, make their own.
Seated in garret, for you know,
The nearer to the stars we go,

The greater we esteem his art,

Fools curious flock'd from every part.
The rich, the poor, the maid, the married,
And those who could not walk, were carried.
The butler, hanging down his head,
By chamber-maid, or cook-maid led,
Inquires, if from his friend the Moon,
He has advice of pilfer'd spoon.

The court-bred woman of condition,
(Who, to approve her disposition
As much superior as her birth
To those compos'd of common earth,
With double spirit must engage
In ev'ry folly of the age)
The honourable arts would buy,
To pack the cards, and cog a die.

The hero (who for brawn and face May claim right honourable place Amongst the chiefs of Butcher Row, Who might some thirty years ago, If we may be allow'd to guess At his employment by his dress, Put medicines off from cart or stage, The grand Toscano of the age, Or might about the countries go, High steward of a puppet-show, Steward and stewardship most meet, For all know puppets never eat ; Who would be thought (though, save the mark, That point is something in the dark) The man of honour, one like those Renown'd in story, who lov'd blows Better than victuals, and would fight, Merely for sport, from morn to night; Who treads, like Mavors firm, whose tongue

Is with the triple thunder hung;

Who cries to Fear-" Stand off-aloof”-
And talks as he were cannon-proof;
Would be deem'd ready, when you list,
With sword and pistol, stick and fist,
Careless of points, balls, bruises, knocks,
At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box,
But at the same time bears about,
Within himself, some touch of doubt,

Of prudent doubt, which hints-that fame

Is nothing but an empty name;

That life is rightly understood

By all to be a real good;

That, even in a hero's heart,
Discretion is the better part;

That this same honour may be won,
And yet no kind of danger run,

Like Drugger comes, that magic pow'rs
May ascertain his lucky hours.
For at some hours the fickle dame
Whom Fortune properly we name,
Who ne'er considers wrong or right,
When wanted most plays least in sight,
And, like a modern court-bred jilt,
Leaves her chief fav'rites in a tilt.
Some hours there are, when from the heart
Courage into some other part,

No matter wherefore, makes retreat,
And fear usurps the vacant seat;
Whence planet-struck we often find
Stuarts and Sackvilles of mankind.
Further he 'd know (and by his art
A conjuror can that impart)
Whether politer it is reckon'd
To have or not to have a second,
To drag the friends in, or alone
To make the danger all their own;
Whether repletion is not bad,
And fighters with full stomachs mad;
Whether before he seeks the plain,
It were not well to breathe a vein;
Whether a gentle salivation,
Consistently with reputation,
Might not of precious use be found,
Not to prevent indeed a wound,
But to prevent the consequence
Which oftentimes arises thence,
Those fevers, which the patient urge on
To gates of death, by help of surgeon;
Whether a wind at east or west
Is for green wounds accounted best ;
Whether (was he to choose) his mouth
Should point towards the north or south;
Whether more safely he might use,
On these occasions, pumps or shoes ;
Whether it better is to fight
By sun-shine, or by candle-light;
Or (lest a candle should appear
Too mean to shine in such a sphere,
For who would of a candle tell
To light a hero into Hell,
And lest the Sun should partial rise
To dazzle one or t' other's eyes,
Or one or t' other's brains to scorch)
Might not dame Luna hold a torch?

These points with dignity discuss'd
And gravely fix'd, a task which must
Require no little time and pains,

To make our hearts friends with our brains,
The man of war would next engage
The kind assistance of the sage,
Some previous method to direct,
Which should make these of none effect.
Could he not, from the mystic school
Of Art, produce some sacred rule,
By which a knowledge might be got,
Whether men valiant were, or not,
So he that challenges might write
Only to those who would not fight?

Or could be not some way dispense,
By help of which (without offence
To Honour, whose nice nature's such,
She scarce endures the slightest touch)

When he for want of t' other rule
Mistakes his man, and, like a fool,
With some vain fighting blade gets in,
He fairly may get out again?

Or, should some demon lay a scheme
To drive him to the last extreme,
So that he must confess his fears,
In mercy to his nose and ears,
And like a prudent recreant knight,
Rather do any thing than fight,
Could he not some expedient buy
To keep his shame from public eye?
For well he held, and men review,
Nine in ten hold the maxim too,
That Honour's like a maidenhead,
Which if in private brought to bed,
Is none the worse, but walks the town,
Ne'er lost, until the loss be known.

The parson too (for now and then
Parsons are just like other men,
And here and there a grave divine
Has passions such as your's or mine)
Burning with holy lust to know
When Fate preferment will bestow,
'Fraid of detection, not of sin,
With circumspection sneaking in
To conj'ror, as he does to whore,
Through some by-alley, or back-door,
With the same caution orthodox
Consults the stars, and gets a pox.

The citizen, in fraud grown old,
Who knows no deity but gold,
Worn out, and gasping now for breath,
A medicine wants to keep off death;
Would know, if that he cannot have,
What coins are current in the.grave;
If, when the stocks (which by his pow'r
Would rise or fall in half an hour,
For, though unthought of and unseen,
He work'd the springs behind the skreen)
By his directions came about,
And rose to par, he should sell out;
Whether he safely might, or no,
Replace it in the funds below.

By all address'd, believ'd, and paid,
Many pursu'd the thriving trade,
And, great in reputation grown,
Successive held the magic throne.
Favour'd by ev'ry darling passion,
The love of novelty and fashion,
Ambition, av'rice, lust, and pride,
Riches pour'd in on ev'ry side.
But when the prudent laws thought fit
To curb this insolence of wit;
When senates wisely had provided,
Decreed, enacted, and decided,
That no such vile and upstart elves

Should have more knowledge than themselves;
When fines and penalties were laid
To stop the progress of the trade,
And stars no longer could dispense,
With honour, further influence,
And wizards (which must be confest
Was of more force than all the rest)
No certain way to tell had got,
Which were informers, and which not;
Affrighted sages were, perforce,
Oblig'd to steer some other course.
By various ways, these sons of chance
Their fortunes labour'd to advance,