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Si te forte mese gravis uret sarcina charts,
Hor. Lib. I. Epist. 13.
A.' You told me, I remember, “Glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt; The deeds, that men admire as half-divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.” Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel, that the very lightning spares; Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust.
B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war: And never meant the rule should be applied To him, that fights with justice on his side.
Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Reward his mem’ry, dear to ev'ry muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honour's field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause, "T'is to the virtues of such men, man owes His portion in the good that Heav’n bestows,
The diadem, with mighty projects hin’d,
To catch renown by ruining mankind,
Is worth, with all its gold and glittring store,
Just what the toy will sell for, and no more.
Oh! bright occasions of dispensing good,
How seldom us’d, how little understood !
To pour in Virtue's lap her just reward;
Keep Vice restrain'd behind a double guard;
To quell the faction that affronts the throne,
By silent magnanimity alone;
To nurse with tender care the thriving arts,
Watch ev'ry beam Philosophy imparts;
To give Religion her unbridled scope,
Nor judge by statute a believer's hope;
With close fidelity and love unfeign'd,
To keep the matrimonial bond unstain'd;
Covetous only of a virtuous praise ;
His life a lesson to the land he sways;
To touch the sword with conscientious awe,
Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw;
To sheath it in the peace-restoring close,
With joy beyond what victory bestows;-
Blest country, where these kingly glories shine!
Blest England, if this happiness be thine !
A. Guard what you say; the patriotic tribe Will sneer and charge you with a bribe.-B. A bribe? The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, To lure me to the baseness of a lie: And, of all lies (be that one poet's boast), The lie that flatters I abhor the most. Those arts be theirs, who hate his gentle reign; But he that loves him has no need to feign.
A. Your smooth eulogium to one crown address’d, Seems to imply a censure on the rest.
B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, Ask’d, when in hell, to see the royal jail; Approv'd their method in all other things; “But where, good sir, do you confine your kings ?”
“There” said his guide--" the group is full in view." “ Indred!” replied the don--" there are but few.” His black interpreter the charge disdain'd“Few, fellow ?--there are all that ever reign'd.” Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike The guilty and not guilty both alike. I grant the sarcasm is too severe, And we can readily refute it here; While Alfred's name, the father of his age, And the Sixth Edward's, grace th’ historic page.
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, overaw'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,
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 struck 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,
E'en 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;
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 galleries with the works of art well grac'd,
To hear it callid extravagance and waste;
If these attendants, and if such as these,
Must follow royalty, then welcome ease;
However humble and confin'd the sphere,
the state that has not these to fear.
A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have
On situations that they never felt,
Start up sagacious, covered with the dust
Of dreaminą, study, and pedantic rust,