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THE CONFERENCE.

THIS Poem was published by our Author in November 1763, soon after his elopement with Miss Carr had become a general topic of indignant remark. He in it labours to separate the effects of his private from those of his public conduct, and in the bitterness of his soul contrasts the devious path of the one with the invariable rectitude of the other. At this period of time it is of little importance to inquire into the infirmities of his nature, and, while the precepts of the most rigid virtue, patriotism, and morality are inculcated in his satires, unnecessary to dwell upon the imperfections of their author. To have been deceived in common with Lord Temple and Mr. Pitt, by the assumed patriotism of Wilkes, is scarcely to be imputed to him as a crime, and he did not live to witness the second period of the seditious efforts, and the final tergiversation of that artful demagogue. No exertions were omitted to obtain even the neutrality of Churchill, but pensions and preferments were in vain offered to one whose soul rose superior to all the sordid views of interest, and aspired to the praises of posterity by a steady adherence to the principles of public virtue. Excepting his fatal delusion with regard to Wilkes, Churchill may be instanced as one of the few Poets who have not prostituted their pens by the most fulsome flattery to wealth and power. The adulation which a Young, a Thomson, and a Gray, lavished upon a Walpole, a Doddington, and a Grafton, reflects disgrace upon the Poet, while it can confer no solid fame upon the patron.

At a time when the Bard as well as his adventurous friend becoming more than ordinarily the subject of public attention might expect to suffer more than a due degree of censure for any recent indiscretion, it was not ill-judged in Churchill to submit to bear his portion of the expression of public opinion now loudly directed against the immoralities of himself and Wilkes, and by fairly anticipating greatly to obviate the force of what his enemies might have to urge against him.

THE CONFERENCE.

GRACE said in form, which sceptics must agree,
When they are told that grace was said by me;
The servants gone, to break the scurvy jest
On the proud landlord, and his threadbare guest;
The King gone round, my Lady too withdrawn,
My Lord, in usual taste, began to yawn,
And, lolling backward in his elbow-chair,
With an insipid kind of stupid stare,
Picking his teeth, twirling his seals about―
Churchill, you have a poem coming out:
You've my best wishes; but I really fear
Your Muse, in general, is too severe;
Her spirit seems her interest to oppose,

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[foes.

And where she makes one friend makes twenty

C. Your Lordship's fears are just; I feel their

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force,

But only feel it as a thing of course.
The man whose hardy spirit shall engage
To lash the vices of a guilty age,

At his first setting forward ought to know
That every rogue he meets must be his foe;
That the rude breath of satire will provoke
Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke

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But shall the partial rage of selfish men
From stubborn justice wrench the righteous pen?
Or shall I not my settled course pursue,
Because my foes are foes to virtue too? [schools,

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L. What is this boasted Virtue taught in And idly drawn from antiquated rules? What is her use? point out one wholesome end: Will she hurt foes, or can she make a friend? When from long fasts fierce appetites arise, Can this same Virtue stifle Nature's cries? Can she the pittance of a meal afford, Or bid thee welcome to one great man's board? When northern winds the rough December arm With frost and snow, can Virtue keep thee warm? Canst thou dismiss the hard unfeeling dun Barely by saying, thou art Virtue's son? Or by base blundering statesmen sent to jail, Will Mansfield take this Virtue for thy bail? Believe it not, the name is in disgrace; Virtue and Temple now are out of place.

Quit then this meteor, whose delusive ray

From wealth and honour leads thee far astray.

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True virtue means, let Reason use her eyes, 45
Nothing with fools, and interest with the wise.
Wouldst thou be great, her patronage disclaim,
Nor madly triumph in so mean a name:
Let nobler wreaths thy happy brows adorn,
And leave to Virtue poverty and scorn.

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Let Prudence be thy guide; who doth not know How seldom Prudence can with Virtue go?

To be successful try thy utmost force,
And virtue follows as a thing of course.

Hirco, who knows not Hirco? stains the bed Of that kind master who first gave him bread; Scatters the seeds of discord through the land, Breaks every public, every private band; Beholds with joy a trusting friend undone ; Betrays a brother, and would cheat a son: What mortal in his senses can endure The name of Hirco? for the wretch is poor! "Let him hang, drown, starve, on a dunghill rot, By all detested live, and die forgot;

Let him, a poor return, in every breath

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Feel all death's pains, yet be whole years in death," Is now the general cry we all pursue ;

Let fortune change, and Prudence changes too; Supple and pliant, a new system feels,

Throws up her cap, and spaniels at his heels, 70 Long live great Hirco, cries, by interest taught, And let his foes, though I prove one, be nought. C. Peace to such men, if such men can have

peace,

Let their possessions, let their state, increase;
Let their base services in courts strike root,
And in the season bring forth golden fruit,
I envy not; let those who have the will,
And, with so little spirit, so much skill,

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With such vile instruments their fortunes carve; Rogues may grow fat, an honest man dares

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L. These stale conceits thrown off, let us ad

vance

For once to real life, and quit romance.
Starve! pretty talking! but I fain would view
That man, that honest man, would do it too. 84
Hence to yon mountain which outbraves the sky,
And dart from pole to pole thy strengthen'd eye,
Through all that space you shall not view one man,
Not one, who dares to act on such a plan.
Cowards in calms will say what in a storm
The brave will tremble at, and not perform.
Thine be the proof, and, spite of all you've said,
You'd give your honour for a crust of bread.

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C. What proof might do, what hunger might effect,

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What famish'd Nature, looking with neglect
On all she once held dear, what fear, at strife
With fainting virtue for the means of life,
Might make this coward flesh, in love with breath,
Shuddering at pain, and shrinking back from

death,

In treason to my soul, descend to bear,

Trusting to fate, I neither know nor care.

Once, at this hour those wounds afresh I feel, Which nor prosperity nor time can heal,

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Those wounds, which, fate severely hath decreed, Mention'd or thought of, must for ever bleed; Those wounds, which humbled all that pride of

man,

Which brings such mighty aid to virtue's plan;

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