Poems

by George Crabbe

Next, in what rare Production shall we trace,
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 Commons, 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 opprest,
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 “Moneys wanted,” and “Estates on Sale;”
While some with equal Minds to all attend,
Pleas’d with each Part and griev’d to find an End.

So charm the News; but we, who, far from Town,
Wait till the Post-man 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,
Nor feast the Body while the Mind must fast.
A master Passion is the Love of News,
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.

Now sing, my Muse, what various Parts compose
These rival Sheets of Politicks 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 injur’d Husband mourns his faithless Bride;
No Duel dooms the fiery Youth to bleed;
But thro’ 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 seduc’d, 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 Allies.

When lo! the advertising Tribe succeed,
Pay to be read, yet find but few will read;
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;
Pleas’d 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 try’d, 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.

Such Help the Stage affords; a larger Space,
Is fill’d by Puffs and all the Puffing Race.
Physic had once alone the lofty Style,
The well-known Boast, that ceas’d to raise a smile:
Now all the Province of that Tribe invade,
And we abound in Quacks of every Trade.

The simple Barber, once an honest Name,
Cervantes founded, Fielding rais’d his Fame:
Barber no more; a gay Perfumer comes,
On whose soft Cheek his own Cosmetic blooms;
Here he appears, each simple Mind to move,
And advertises Beauty, Grace, and Love.—
“Come, faded Belles, who would your Youth renew,
And learn the Wonders of Olympian Dew;
Restore the Roses that begin to faint,
Nor think celestial Washes, vulgar Paint:
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 confin’d to them,
The Muse impartial must her Sons condemn:
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 Barber’s Boys, who would to Trade advance,
Wish us to call them, smart Frisseurs 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 expos’d 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 grey-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 know’st not with what anxious heart
He longs his best-lov’d 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.