What boots it, sharpers and intriguers?
But ask, were Chartres, Oldfield, beggars ›
No, born for modern imitation,
Worthies that throve in their vocation.
Not e'en thy Horace, happy bard,
Was by the barren Muse preferr'd,
While yet a friend to freedom hearty,
An honest, but a starving party.
He pass'd for but a simple wretch,
And lov'd his bottle and a catch:
He deem'd himself no very wise-man,
Nor aim'd at better than Excise-man;
To breeding had such poor pretence,
Most thought he wanted common sense.
Not courtly Athens, though polite
As Paris, could improve the wight.
Wheree'er he pass'd, the mob was eager
To laugh at so grotesque a figure.
Yet Horace o'er the sparkling bowl,
I grant, had talents for a droll;
And hence, though sprung from dunghill earth, He pleas'd the courtiers with his mirth;
Next wisely ventur'd to renounce
His principles, and rose at once,
Rose from a bankrupt to the sum
Of human happiness-a plumb!
Then drank, and revel'd, and grew big,
Yet still an aukward dirty Pig.
Lo! then the people felt his gall,
'Twas "Sturdy beggars, damn
Mindless of others love or spite,
He car'd not, so he pleas'd the knight;
And wrote, and wrote, as was the fashion,
To praise the knight's administration.
Nay once, all worldly zeal so warm is,
He wrote in praise of standing armies.
Such arts your darling Horace grew by;
Such might have rais'd an arrant booby.
UNSKILL'D in Greek or Roman tongue,
Which words are short, and which are long,
To thee these home-spun lines I send,
Not as a scholar, but a friend.
Here I might shew from wise example,
In work elaborate and ample,
That Homer, though he wrote in Greek,
Wrote what his mother taught him speak.
Horace and Virgil's learned Latin
Was what, when boys, they us'd to prate in :
That all fam'd Bards (except the Dutch,
If ever there were any such)
Have writ the poems they excel in
In the same tongue they learn'd to spell in. To thee alone, with greatest ease,
'Tis granted in all ways to please,
And, by a gift from heaven miraculous,
All linguas are to thee vernaculous;
That Horace self had scarcely known
Thy thoughts or language from his own.
Many a lad returns from school,
A Latin, Greek, and Hebrew fool;
In arts and knowledge still a block,
Though deeply skill'd in Hic, Haec, Hoc.
Heavy they tread the up-hill way,
O'er craggy rocks and foundering clay,
Till, weary with their road, they stop
Just at the mountain's lofty top,
Still poring on the barren ground,
View not the beauteous prospect round,
Which hid behind the summit lies,
Conceal'd from low and vulgar eyes,
And which alone can amply pay
The toil and drudgery of the way;
From hence they might with transport view
All that the ancient sages knew,
What they perform'd, and what they thought; How Tully spoke, and Caesar fought :
While manners of a world unknown
Should guide their youth, and form their own: While bright examples lead to fame,
And vicious teach to fly their shame.
Yet we might spare the mighty pains
In searching ancient dark remains,
Since greater worthies rise at home,
And Britain scorns to yield to Rome.
Augustus' reign, renown'd for peace,
For learning, wit, and wealth's increase,
No more we envy, while our land
Is doubly blest from George's hand. -
Ammon's success, and Caesar's mind,
To form victorious Marlborough join'd:
Demosthenes' and Tully's fame
Must yield to Walpole's greater name;
Faction and Strife, to hear his voice,
Are dumb, and cease their jarring noise ;
Whole senates bow their yielding minds,
Like woods before the southern winds:
Free from deceit and servile art,
He speaks the dictates of his heart ;
His tongue enchants, his counsel leads;
Peace enters first, and Wealth succeeds:
His virtue's through the land confest,
While thus he sooths us to be blest.
If to new scenes we turn our view,
And learning, arts, and wit pursue,
Our land can furnish men of fame,
T'eclipse the Greek and Roman name.
Locke shall instruct and form our youth, And teach their understandings truth :
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