Poems

by George Crabbe

E quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures,
Hi narrata ferunt aliò; mensuráque ficti
Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor:
Illìc credulitas, illìc temerarius error,
Vanáque lætitia est, consternatique timores,
Seditióque repens, dubióque auctore susurri.
Ovid. Metamorph. Lib. 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 choose,
Neglect awaits the Song, and chills the Muse;
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 enthron’d 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;
Let us, with generous scorn, the Taste deride,
And sing our Rivals with a Rival’s Pride.
Ye gentle Poets, who so oft complain
That foul Neglect is all your Labours gain;
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 thro’ 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-liv’d 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 retir’d, thro’ half the Sabbath-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[12],
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;
Inspir’d by these, with clamorous zeal they cry,
And thro’ the Town their Dreams and Omens fly:
So the Sibylline[13] Leaves were blown about,
Disjointed scraps of Fate involv’d 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,
Some sturdy Patriots, 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.
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;
Pleas’d 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 declin’d;
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, pleas’d 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,
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,
Breeds the Whig-farmer and the Tory-swain;
Brooks’ and St. Alban’s boasts not, but instead,
Stares the Red Ram, and swings the Rodney’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,
These pois’nous Springs from Learning’s Fountain 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,
Prais’d thro’ their Day, and but that Day their Date;
Their careless Authors only strive to join
As many Words, as make an even Line[14];
As many Lines, as fill a Row complete;
As many Rows, as furnish up a Sheet:
From side to side, with ready Types they run,
The Measure’s ended, and the Work is done;
Oh, born with Ease, how envy’d and how blest!
Your Fate to-day and your to-morrow’s Rest.
To you all Readers turn, and they can look
Pleas’d on a Paper, who abhor a Book;
Those who ne’er deign’d their Bible to peruse,
Would think it hard to be deny’d their News;
Sinners and Saints, the wisest with the weak,
Here mingle Tastes and one Amusement seek:
This, like the Public Inn, provides a Treat,
Where each promiscuous Guest sits down to eat;
And such this mental Food, as we may call,
Something to all Men and to some Men all.