A Monarch's Errors are forbidden Game.
A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all, By their own conduct they must stand or fall. B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays His quit-rent ode, his pepper-corn of praise; And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, Adds, as he can, his tributary mite: A subject's faults a subject may proclaim, A monarch's errors are forbidden game! Thus, free from censure, over-aw'd by fear, And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear, The fleeting forms of majesty engage Respect, while stalking o'er life's narrow stage; Then leave their crimes for history to scan, And ask with busy scorn, Was this the man?
I pity kings whom worship waits upon, Obsequious from the cradle to the throne; Before whose infant eyes the flatt'rer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows?: Whom education stiffens into state,
And death awakens from that dream too late.
The Insignificance of mere Parade.
Oh! if servility with supple knees,
Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please; If smooth dissimulation, skill'd to grace A devil's purpose with an angel's face; If smiling peeresses, and simp'ring peers Encompassing his throne a few short years; If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed, That wants no driving, and disdains the lead; If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks, Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks, Should'ring and standing as if stuck to stone, While condescending majesty looks on; If monarchy consist in such base things, Sighing, I say again, I pity kings!
To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood,
Ev'n when he labours for his country's good;
To see a band, call'd patriot, for no cause, But that they catch at popular applause, Careless of all th' anxiety he feels,
Hook disappointment on the public wheels;
The Discomforts of Royalty.
With all their flippant fluency of tongue, Most confident, when palpably most wrong; If this be kingly, then farewell for me. All kingship, and may I be poor and free! To be the table-talk of clubs up stairs, To which th' unwash'd artificer repairs, T' indulge his genius after long fatigue, By diving into cabinet intrigue; (For what kings deem a toil, as well they may, To him is relaxation and mere play): To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail, But to be rudely censur'd when they fail; To doubt the love his fav'rites may pretend, And in reality to find no friend, If he indulge a cultivated taste, His gall'ries with the works of art well grac'd, To hear it call'd extravagance and waste; If these attendants, and if such as these, Must follow royalty, then welcome ease; However humble and confin'd the sphere, Happy the state that has not these to fear.
The Muse not an Inhabitant of Cheapside.
A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have dwelt
On situations that they never felt,
Start up' sagacious, cover'd with the dust
Of dreaming study and pedantic rust,
And prate and preach about what others prove, As if the world and they were hand and glove. Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares; They have their weight to earry, subjects their's ; Poets, of all men, ever least regret
Increasing taxes and the nation's debt. Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse The mighty plan, oracular, in verse,
No bard, howe'er majestic, old or new, Should claim my fixt attention more than you. B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay To turn the course of Helicon that way; Nor would the nine consent the sacred tide Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside, Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse The leathern ears of stock-jobbers and jews.
A Briton's Scorn of arbitrary Chains.
A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme To themes more pertinent, if less sublime, When ministers and ministerial arts, Patriots, who love good places at their hearts; When admirals, extoll'd for standing still,
Or doing nothing with a deal of skill; Gen'rals who will not conquer when they may, Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay; When freedom, wounded almost to despair, Though discontent alone can find out where; When themes like these employ the poet's tongue, I hear as mute as if a syren sung.
Or, tell me, if you can, what pow'r maintains A Briton's scorn of arbitrary chains? That were a theme might animate the dead, And move the lips of poets cast in lead. B. The cause, tho' worth the search, may yet elude Conjecture and remark, however shrewd, They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim, Who seek it in his climate and his frame.
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