The general. A poem: Respectfully inscribed to the Right Honourable the Marquis of Granby. By the author of A trip to the moon.

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THE GENERAL.

IMMORTAL Shade! of each immortal Name!

That shines recorded in the Lists of Fame;

Not those who from hereditary Light,

With the false Glare of borrow'd Beams are bright;

But such as Merit with rich Blood combine,

Reflecting Honour on a Noble Line;

That like the Phoenix, with peculiar Grace,

Unstain'd preserve the Beauties of their Race.

If the frail Bustle of this transient State

With immaterial Spirits can have Weight,

From those Aetherial Mansions where you rest,

Star-crown'd, in Pomp of virtuous Glory blest,

Propitious come—an honest Muse inspire—

Nerve her weak Wing—lend your heroic Fire—

With your undaunted Ardour lead her on,

And teach her, Eagle-like, to view the Sun:

None but the Bird of JOVE should tempt a Flight,

That rushes on a Blaze of cloudless Light.

First, JUSTICE come with thy impartial Scale,

Lest Prejudice or Int'rest should prevail;

Take from Reflection ev'ry Power of Thought,

Ere that a single Compliment be bought;

Shield Reason's Eye with thy protecting Hand,

From the dread Influence of PACTOLIAN Sand;

Which, scatter'd by Corruption as she flies,

Pretending Patriots choaks—or dims their Eyes;

Corruption, who, as MIDAS could of old,

With magic Touch turns any Thing to Gold,

Locks up the Senses, or inverts their Power,

Melting the hardest Heart with DANAE'S Show'r.

Nor yet let pois'nous Rage her Venom spit,

Satire run mad is the Buffoon of Wit;

From whose foul Mouth no Character's secure,

That lays the Bastard Vice at any Door;

That prays or curses, wheedles or knocks down,

Urg'd by that powerful Motive—Half a Crown.

Wither such Bays—if any Bays can rise

Beneath the Influence of such churlish Skies;

Where no mild Gleams of Summer cheer the Plain,

But Storms and everlasting Winter reign;

Bays which, like Nightshade, scatter Poison round,

Infect the circling Air—profane the Ground;

Call forth Destruction from her dark Abodes,

And with fell Venom swell ten thousand Toads.

Honest may CHURCHILL be, for ought I know,

Some Lines depict him, and I wish him so:

Let him enjoy his Profit and his Praise,

In these so politic and gen'rous Days;

Let him successfully pursue his Plan,

And prey upon the tend'rest Part of Man;

Blushless, remorseless, and without Control,

Plunder th' immediate Jewel of the Soul:

Let him, Humanity thrown quite aside,

Indulge his Spleen, his Int'rest, or his Pride;

Let him in Scandal wade thro' Thick and Thin,

To praise each Out—and censure ev'ry In:

Let him, to please a Crowd of Knaves and Fools,

Paint MONARCHS, or their MINISTERS, as Tools:

Let him, still more to prostitute the MUSE,

A neighb'ring Nation by the Lump abuse:

Let him, in boundless Rage, pronounce the Lot

Of blackest Infamy to ev'ry SCOT:

Let him, like Humankind's imperial [*]Foe,

Wish to behead them at a single Blow:

Let him, if not content to rail at home,

O'er the submissive World's wide Limits roam;

Fit to engage a single Foe or Host,

Ready to fight a NABOB or a Ghost:

From Clime to Clime Malevolence transfer,

Distinguish'd—Nature's Executioner.

All this, as gracious Heav'n in Mercy sends

Plagues to perplex us for peculiar Ends,

With Patience will we bear—but let him pause—

Nor longer dare, in raging Party's Cause,

(Party, of whom it may be justly said,

Behold a Monster! without Heart or Head,

By Madness, Av'rice, Pride, and Jealousy,

Ingender'd on the Snake-lock'd Sisters three,

While Tyrant Satire waves her bloody Rod)

So oft to trifle with an awful GOD.

That GOD whose Service to become a Wit,

The Rev'rend BARD most piously hath quit;

And why? Because—Oh Reason most divine—

His narrow Income could not purchase Wine.

That GOD, who, were he cruel to this Earth,

As Men to Men for Profit are or Mirth,

With sportive Thunder would confound the whole,

Nor spare e'en mighty CHURCHILL'S Patriot Soul.

Think not, mistaken Bard, I am thy Foe,

I neither know thee, nor can wish to know:

Reflected in thy Works thy Mind I view,

And grieve to find it of a Sable Hue:

Strong Beams of Genius gild the STYGIAN Gloom,

And fancy Webs there in her finest Loom;

Expression well arrays her verbal Band,

And Judgment leads them with a Master Hand;

While JANUS-fronted Int'rest slily waves

A flaming Banner to all Party Slaves;

Whose gaudy Hieroglyphics catch the Eye,

A poor fantastic Shade of Liberty.

This Patch-work Medley, blending Right and Wrong,

An impious, moral, soothing, sneering Song,

That shows the tortur'd Muse in various State,

Now bred at Court, now fresh from Billingsgate,

May cheat the Sensible, or charm the Rude,

May steal or thunder through the Multitude.

For my poor Part, by various Passions wrought,

I praise the Numbers while I damn the Thought;

I weep to see such Flights of Golden Darts,

With deadly Poison tipp'd, to rankle Hearts;

And, while the lovely Snake-like Verse I scan,

Praise crowns the Bard—while Censure marks the Man.

What has provok'd this unknown Scribe, you'll say,

This feeble, nameless Mushroom of a Day;

This unfledg'd Rhimer to attempt a Flight,

When such a Falcon Muse appears in Sight?

What could induce the unimpassion'd Elf,

Who wishes me unfeeling as himself;

What Motives have arous'd the slumb'ring Drone,

Thus to assault me on Satiric Throne?

ME! ME! a Monosyllable of Weight,

To give a thousand grov'ling Reptiles Fate;

Can such a lifeless and insipid Thing

E'er hope to pierce me with his feeble Sting?

As well a Bee, that hunts the flow'ry Field,

Might strive to wound thro' AJAX' seven-fold Shield:

Mankind must ridicule so dull an ASS,

Who breaks his Hoof against a Front of Brass.

Some Water-drinking Sprite—for gen'rous Wine

Would make a native Blockhead brighter shine:

Wine which he sneers at in his tart Reproof,

As turning poor Divinity aloof:

With my own Weapons dares my pond'rous Rage,

A DAVID to GOLIAH on the Stage.

Well hast thou pictur'd my unequal Force,

But think that DAVID check'd the GIANT'S Course;

I own thee Proof 'gainst all Attacks of Shame,

Plung'd over Head and Ears in SHANNON'S [*]Stream;

But hast thou too with great ACHILLES try'd

The mighty Pow'r of STYX'S awful Tide?

Is there no Spot wherein to make thee feel?

Yes, CONSCIENCE will convert thee all to Heel.

To please no Patron, nor to grasp at Pelf,

Slave to no Party—I oppose myself:

Free by my Birth, still freer by my Heart,

Of injur'd Humankind I take the Part;

Boldly I stand 'gainst Passion's dang'rous Sway,

And with cool Wisdom take the Middle Way;

Yet not so cold, but, for my Country's Good,

In Danger's Onset I could spill my Blood;

Give freely my poor All to aid her Cause,

To guard her KING, and, guarding him, her LAWS.

With Generosity and Friendship fir'd,

Why may not bounteous TEMPLE be admir'd?

TEMPLE! whose Principles reflected show

The Richness, Taste, and Elegance of STOWE.

Tho' diff'ring Statesmen may explode his Aim,

Why may not DEVONSHIRE true Glory claim?

Whose steady Temper, and whose honest Heart,

Are nobly form'd to act a Patriot Part.

May we not safely honour and commend

In ROCKINGHAM a BRUNSWICK'S faithful Friend?

WENTWORTH! whose Virtues act without Controul,

Not more a Lord in Title than in Soul:

WENTWORTH! whose Noble Deeds his Mind approve;

WENTWORTH! whom Men and Liberty must Love.

Of silver-hair'd NEWCASTLE kindly sing,

A well-designing Servant of his KING,

Tho' now, perhaps, o'erpow'r'd with num'rous Years,

Unfit to bear a Nation's cumb'rous Cares.

Hating, like SWIFT, a BISHOP for his Place,

Can we no Beauties in a DRUMMOND trace?

Shall modest Truth restrain her honest Tongue,

And leave him in the undistinguish'd Throng?

A Prelate by his Virtues dignify'd,

Just without Rigour, awful without Pride;

Pious without enthusiastic Flame,

All that sheds Lustre on a sacred Name,

Shines Rev'rend YORK—compleat in ev'ry Sense,

Religion's Pride, and Boast of Eloquence.

Why should we fear to speak a SAVILE'S [*]Praise,

Whose Merits would adorn the richest Lays?

SAVILE! whom Wisdom views with doating Eye,

Patron of calm and decent Liberty:

SAVILE! to Public Good alone inclin'd,

The Friend of Britain, and of Humankind.

Would it seem Treason, or a Lack of Wit,

To hail an able Minister in PITT?

To say his Counsels gave a Nation Weight,

The Thunderbolt of Eloquence and State?

Reason cries no, Intention is the Base

On which the Pile of Praise or Shame we place.

Should we reverse the Medal, and portray

Those who prevail in Ministerial Sway,

Fit to supply with Grace their arduous Parts,

Possess'd of shining Talents, upright Hearts,

Would REASON and BRITANNIA cry out Shame,

Branding our Numbers with a venal Name?

Let us hope not—the Number is but small

That Councils guide, and cannot take in all:

This we may say beyond the Reach of Doubt,

Some Honest and some Able must be out;

Thence can we not infer, devoid of Sin,

None Honest or none Able that are in.

As does Religion, Politics afford

More than one Way to serve the Sov'reign Lord;

Poor is that Soul, in its own Notions blest,

That, chusing one strait Path, damns all the rest;

As by unerring Wisdom we are taught

That the most Perfect are not without Fault:

A noble Emulation may divide,

And Honesty be found on ev'ry Side.

Shame to black Scandal, or foul-fac'd Reproach,

Cast at a Man on Foot, or in a Coach;

The spatt'ring Bard, whatever his Pretence,

Is but a filthy Scavenger of Sense:

Great Minds with Pleasure Emulation feel,

But meagre Envy trips at Virtue's Heel.

Let us correct, but not with Whips of Steel,

Feathers more winningly instruct to feel;

One Tickling leads to each defective Part,

The other, sluicing Blood, benumbs the Heart.

Oh may the Muse, debauch'd, ne'er prove so loose

To stain herself with general Abuse;

Impartial, may she be in Honour bold,

Nor praise, nor censure, at the Chink of Gold.

Here, for myself, I boldly must declare

Against Ill-nature everlasting War:

Whether in Busy Bodies' whisp'ring Tales

The carping, mean, illiberal Fiend prevails;

Whether in Friendship's fair Pretences dress'd,

She deeply wounds the unsuspecting Breast,

Locks up from Poverty a fruitless Store

Of Triumphs in a ruthless Creditor;

Whether, a venal Weathercock of Time,

She spits her Venom or in Prose or Rhime,

From me the Serpent never shall escape,

Tho', PROTEUS-like, she hourly change her Shape.

If to immortal FAME she points the Way,

And she alone may mine with Speed decay,

May it go with me to the peaceful Grave,

My Tomb declaring to each Fool and Knave,

That Views of Profit, Pomp, or Praise of Men,

Could never warp my Heart, nor gall my Pen.

Yet wherefore should I fondly speak of FAME,

Can Lays so humble hope a lasting Name?

To Pastry-Cooks and Trunk-Makers a Prey,

My Works will feel precipitate Decay;

While mighty CHURCHILL'S stand erect on high,

FAME'S dreadful Gibbet to Futurity.

Is there no honest Path to lengthen Life?

Must a sequester'd Muse engage in Strife?

Must she cast off the Coyness of a Maid,

Or faster than a Nine-days Wonder fade?

Methinks I hear the Voice of FAME reply,

Hold, I've a darling Object in my Eye;

Let wing'd Imagination deck her Plumes,

And Virtue sacrifice her best Perfumes,

Let Honour, Conquest, Freedom, all combine

To nerve each Thought, and animate each Line;

A noble Theme shall dignify thy Lays,

And the World gladly hang on GRANBY's Praise.

Thus, Wren-like, couch'd beneath the Eagle's Wing,

Tower thou may'st aloft, and safely sing;

While far more tuneful Songsters in their Flight,

Wanting such Aid, shall sink in endless Night.

Proud of the Task, unequal to its Weight,

With glad Submission I attend my Fate.

Dread War! enthron'd upon thy sanguine Shrine,

No Touch of soft Humanity is thine:

On a rude Rock, amidst a dreary Waste,

Is thy unhospitable Temple plac'd;

Sprung from the impious Bones of murd'rous CAIN,

Gorg'd with the Carcasses of Millions slain,

Thy Temple, Desolation's Magazine,

An awful! savage! and terrific Scene!

Behold Ambition stretching blood-stain'd Hands,

Impatient at the rav'ning Portal stands;

In vain the Widow's Cries, the Orphan's Tears,

Or Nature's Groans, assault thy callous Ears.

Deaf as the Raging of a boundless Wind,

That only prostrate Ruin leaves behind;

Parent of Horrors! which still mark thy Way,

Hateful and sick'ning to the Eye of Day:

Fit only, like fell Monsters of the Wood,

To haunt in Deserts, and there proul for Blood:

Lion of Kings! let loose at their Command,

To stalk tremendous o'er each ravag'd Land.

Death, grimly frowning in nocturnal State,

Lowrs on thy Brow, Prime Minister of Fate:

Whether thou bidst him rush in liquid Streams,

(Dire Emblems of the Light'ning's sulph'rous Gleams)

Or wing'st him in the Steel's Eye-piercing Flash,

When trusty Blades in hardy Combat clash;

Whether he points the bearded Jav'lin's Blow,

Or issues from the Poison-teeming Bow;

Whether, in artificial Earthquakes borne,

While Rocks lament their flinty Entrails torn,

He bursts embattled Multitudes on high,

Piercing, with horrid Roar, the trembling Sky:

Whether, thro' mean Blockade and Famine's Sting,

The Brave are conquer'd by this fleshless King,

Th' insatiate Monster still obeys thy Call,

And, sweeping off Distinction, levels all:

Teaching this Lesson to o'er-swelling Pride,

That Dust and Humankind are near ally'd.

What! says the Miser, gloting on his Pelf,

The shining Idol! more than second Self,

Won't all my Store, my countless Thousands, save

From the cold Comforts of the icy Grave?

Shall pennyless Companions share the Ground

Where I am laid, with equal Honour crown'd?

How! cries the Hypocrite, with Saint-like Show,

Can't my Devotion check this mortal Foe?

Can't all the Splendor of my sparkling Eyes

Disarm his Cruelty, the Belle replies?

The Skeleton retorts, with hollow Tone,

Gold, Pow'r, and Beauty bend before my Throne:

One only Method can subdue my State,

Be truly good, and I'm no longer great.

Second in Pow'r Captivity appears,

Circled with galling Chains and chilling Fears;

More dreadful and more tort'rous to the Brave,

Than all the solemn Terrors of the Grave.

Sable Affliction's most affecting Goad!

Painful Existence, Misery's Abode!

Bane to each social Feeling of the Heart,

PROMETHEAN VULTURE to each vital Part!

Whether we view thee in the sunless Caves,

Where fell Inquisitors immure their Slaves;

Wolves of Religion, crown'd with hellish Flames,

Whom bleeding Pity, fill'd with Horror, names:

Whether we find thee at the lab'ring Oar,

(Sad Monuments of arbitrary Pow'r)

Or trace thee to SIBERIA'S dreary Plains,

Where painful Solitude with Exile reigns;

Exhaustless Fountain of corroding Care,

Thee next in Pow'r we find to Death and War.

Friends to the dreadful, the united Three,

Foes to calm Peace and smiling Liberty,

Behold aspiring GAULS, in dark Debate,

Framing DAEDALIAN Labyrinths of State:

Fabrics most fair, and grateful to the View,

Enter not, Honesty, without a Clue.

There vainly Oaths and Treaties plead their Cause,

The Faith of Nations, and their mutual Laws:

Gewgaws of Conscience, Rattles of the Brain,

Mere Speculation, delicate and vain.

Far other Motives GALLIC Bosoms move,

Than the Aetherial Sparks of Patriot Love;

A lawless Thirst of Universal Pow'r,

Still makes them wish, and ready to devour;

Nor heed the Means, how bloody or how dark,

So Laurels spring to deck their Grand Monarque.

Their Principles and Manners brought to View,

Behold a skipping, fawning, faithless Crew;

A Masquerade, where Characters are shown

In ev'ry outside Likeness but their own:

A Tribe of Mimes, with Feathers trimm'd, and Lace▪

Made up of Dancing, Chatter, and Grimace;

As Parrots talkative, as Peacocks vain,

Deceit and Folly's motley-colour'd Train:

Such shines the sad Majority of FRANCE,

Where Virtue's all compriz'd in—Complaisance.

Can it be strange that such a Contrast should

Still thirst for BRITISH Wealth and BRITISH Blood?

That, Slaves themselves, they, with malignant Eye,

Behold and languish for our Liberty?

That, like th' arch Fiend, to work their subtle Ends,

They wish to stab us in the Shape of Friends;

Since well they know, when open Force prevails,

Their Levity must kick up in the Scales.

Reason might well expect all this, and more,

As the sure Product of their Serpent Shore:

But for th' Imperial Eagle, brave and rude,

To stain her Glory with Ingratitude,

To aim Annoyance at the friendly KING,

Who had so lately plum'd her drooping Wing,

Staggers Credulity, bids Honour haste,

And hide his Blushes in some dreary Waste;

Since, in the Face of wond'ring Heav'n and Men,

THERESA GEORGE forgot, and DETTINGEN.

When lawless Depredations spread Alarms,

Which BRITAIN forc'd unwillingly to Arms:

When Forts were rais'd in unsuspecting Climes,

And harmless Villagers, in peaceful Times,

Like Sheep were scatter'd o'er a barren Plain,

Or by the Tribe of scalping Butchers slain:

While Wives (dead Husbands welt'ring in their View)

First serv'd the Lust of the rapacious Crew;

Then gladly sacrific'd their final Breath,

So to escape such Ministers of Death;

Who, practis'd in the savage, slaught'ring Trade,

In Cruelties refin'd their Art display'd.

When leagu'd with Savages, more virtuous far

Than those who plung'd them in the Gulph of War,

FRANCE rang'd in Blood whole Provinces along,

Horrid to tell—as merciless as strong;

Taught Ruin thro' our Colonies to roam,

She treated us with Blandishments at home;

So Steel-ribb'd Dames, [*]with most alluring Grace,

Smile Men to Death, and kill with an Embrace.

While her back Settlements defenceless lay,

To uncheck'd Conquerors an easy Prey,

AMERICA, neglected, wept in Blood,

None the Most Christian Massacre withstood.

Strange to be told, yet not more strange than right,

Maternal ENGLAND, tho' she mourn'd the Sight,

Lay totally unnerv'd, and slumber'd on,

Till Danger proudly dar'd her native Throne:

Till flush'd Monsieurs with Thousands lin'd each Coast,

Invasion, with resistless Pow'r, their Boast;

And, may it not be told an After-Age,

May such a Blot ne'er stain historic Page,

So much alarm'd the Guardians of our State,

That Foreign Aid was call'd to baffle Fate.

Oh dark Remembrance! future Glory's Foil—

Brighter to show our Ocean-bounded Isle.

The Sons of HESSE and HANOVER, tho' brave,

Could never BRITAIN'S tott'ring Freedom save;

On our own Heroes must our State rely,

Who live to guard it, or to fail and die.

Some Armaments indeed, of gallant Show,

Were order'd forth, to stop th' aspiring Foe;

Some North, some South, some East, some West were sail'd,

To what Effect?—each Expedition fail'd:

Ill plann'd, or spiritless, each warlike Scheme

Melted like Vapour, vanish'd like a Dream;

Which racks, to no Effect, the tortur'd Mind,

And, like the Mountain lab'ring, leaves a Mouse behind.

At length the Lion, roaring from his Den,

Breath'd his rough Roar, so horrible to Men;

Rais'd his huge Mane, emblaz'd his glaring Eye,

Wav'd his fell Tail, and foam'd for Liberty:

With Fangs and Claws in terrible Array,

O'er trembling Nations took his lordly Way,

To scourge, with Sov'reign Rage, each Subject Beast of Prey.

To show at large, and regularly trace,

The Flight of Fire-ey'd War from Place to Place,

Light by the Beams of his all-flaming Robe,

To traverse the four Quarters of the Globe;

To paint each Action, or to praise the Brave,

That conqu'ring fought on ev'ry Plain or Wave;

Thro' each Campaign successively to run,

Would want the Force and Fire of ADDISON:

Let me, content with more contracted View,

A single COMET'S lucid Path pursue;

To show each Article in Order set,

Would make this Piece a versify'd Gazette:

Rough GERMAN Names would jar in ev'ry Line,

Wound each nice Ear, and clog my whole Design;

I aim not therefore at minuter Rays,

But strive to give the whole collected Blaze;

Whence my dull clay-form'd Image to inspire,

PROMETHEUS-like, I'll steal celestial Fire.

Come MINDEN! made immortal by the Day,

When pride-swell'd GALLIA'S num'rous Host gave Way:

Thou glorious blood-stain'd Theatre of FAME,

Which future Ages shall with Transport name,

With thee the Aera of our Glory fix,

And wond'ring hail the conqu'ring Number SIX:

Battalions SIX! which, firm as ATLAS, stood

Against the thund'ring Rage of War's tremendous Flood,

Which durst the fiercest Shock of Fate abide,

Breast cumb'rous Waves, repel the rapid Tide,

And smile to see its Foam burst vain on ev'ry Side.

Eager to make the glorious Work complete,

Burning to catch the fav'ring Smiles of Fate,

Leading our Squadrons with impatient Fire,

With all the Spirit Glory could inspire,

With all the Zeal which Patriot Bosoms know,

Who see, and wish to rush upon the Foe,

Brave GRANBY charg'd—despising languid Rules,

War's Pedantry—that genuine Ardor cools:

By slow Precision into Practice brought,

That knows not when Occasion should be caught.

Trembling lest Merit should assume her Place,

And leave her ling'ring in the martial Chace,

Fortune, with Darts of pois'nous Envy stung,

Labour'd to blast his Laurels as they sprung;

Try'd what she could to stop his conqu'ring Way,

And dim the Lustre of that glorious Day;

In Frenzy's Rage thus Victory upbraids,

Hence, British Slave, while I protect CONTADES;

Your haughty Masters mock my courted Pow'r,

To LOUIS I devote me from this Hour.

In Part she triumph'd, but each future Field,

Taught the reluctant Sorceress to yield.

So in translucent Regions of the Sky,

When spotless Beams would strike the ravish'd Eye,

A momentary Cloud may intervene,

And fleeting Vapour dull the lucid Scene;

Which, cleaving to the Bosom of the Gale,

Leaves pure unsully'd Aether to prevail,

Celestial Gems again attract the Sight,

And sparkling shine with double Lustre bright.

Wide is our Field for Fancy's vig'rous Wing,

Fresh Images in rich Abundance spring;

Description, teeming with the crouded View,

Pants in the Chace, and labours to pursue;

While pining Flatt'ry, fill'd with envious Spleen,

And wond'ring Grief beholds the copious Scene,

Where matchless Tints in genuine Beauty blend,

That justly scorn so varnishing a Friend:

A Prospect she, reluctantly, must own

By simple Truth to most Advantage shown.

What are Elogiums on the Good and Wise?

Faint Tapers lab'ring to illume the Skies:

Revers'd, what are they to the vicious Great?

Lights to display the Rottenness of State.

We need not straining Panegyric use,

A licens'd Freedom of the Magic MUSE,

To conjure ALEXANDER from his Grave,

And mortify his Pride with one more brave:

We need not bid the mighty JULIUS come,

To see a Race of fresher Laurels bloom:

We need not, fawning, give our Theme to Sight,

More stain'd with Blood than SCANDERBEG in Fight;

Whose single Arm, in one romantic Day,

So Story says, two thousand swept away.

Is it impossible to grace Command

Without a light'ning Eye or thund'ring Hand?

True Merit needs no Foppington Display,

In Peacock Plumes of vain Hyperbole;

But, like the Gems which light INDOSTAN'S Mines,

With native Worth and matchless Radiance shines.

To warm the Passions, and to wound the Heart,

Why should we play the Scenery of Art?

Bring to astonish'd Optics from afar,

The glitt'ring, dreadful Pageantry of War?

Why wound the harrow'd Ear with harsh Alarms,

Hoarse Drums, shrill Trumpets, and the Clink of Arms?

Why wake each tender Feeling of the Mind,

To weep the self-wrought Woes of Humankind;

To swell the sullen Streams of widow'd Eyes,

To echo childless Parents' bursting Sighs?

Why show the dread Effects of rav'nous Pow'r?

Why flame the City, or subvert the Tow'r?

Why should we give a melting Reader Pain,

With Streams of Blood and Mountains of the Slain?

Why picture, what the Brave must weep to see,

Those dauntless Agents of Necessity?

Who, while each Breast with patriot Ardor glows,

For Justice fight—yet weep o'er dying Foes.

Glory!—bright Spark of an Aetherial Flame,

Humanity and thou art still the same:

Megrim'd Ambition vainly strives to ape

The Beauties of thy soul-enchanting Shape;

Yet, like the painted Prostitute, can gain

Some mad Admirers to adorn her Train;

Like her too, with the Lures of gay Deceit,

The Cormorants of Policy can cheat,

Lead to Destruction's Brink—then headlong throw

The tow'ring Fools to dreadful Depths below.

Not so thou treat'st thy votive gallant Swains,

Who court, with rough Embrace, in martial Plains;

Who on the Wings of Emulation tow'r,

Free from the paltry Views of Gain or Pow'r;

Who only shed their own or foreign Blood,

To work, by noble Means, some gen'ral Good;

Who bravely stand against oppressive Ill,

And but from Principles of saving—kill.

Faithful as chaste PENELOPE to these,

Undaunted by the War of Land or Seas,

Thy radiant Beams adorn each Hero's Head,

A GRANBY living, and a WOLFE when dead.

A WOLFE!—methinks I see the pearly Tear

Stand swelling, trembling on its chrystal Sphere;

Not so it gush'd, but in a rapid Tide,

That Day when our EPAMINONDAS died;

Like Flow'rs o'ercharg'd with Dew, you feebly bow,

And a deep Sigh remembers gallant HOWE.

More sweet than ARABY'S Perfumes must rise,

To smiling Heav'n such lovely Sacrifice;

The laurell'd Shades receive it in its Flight,

While circling Cherubs share their fond Delight.

But wherefore droop? return to BRITAIN'S Isle,

And teach thy momentary Grief to smile;

Amidst surviving Sons, securely rest

In SAUNDERS, MONCKTON, HAWKE, and GRANBY blest.

Nor these alone—but should we speak of All

Who bravely follow'd at thy arduous Call;

Should we at Length recite each sev'ral Name,

We must monopolize the List of FAME:

A List from whence, expos'd to GALLIC Eyes,

Dismay in trembling, lifeless Form must rise,

Chill their proud Monarch on his tott'ring Throne,

And, like MEDUSA'S Head, convert to Stone.

Oft have we heard of Heroes in the Field,

Whose Courage forc'd the conquer'd Foe to yield;

Gen'rals and Men adorn'd in ev'ry Sense,

Save with the virtuous Beam Benevolence:

That Beam divine! without whose cheering Ray

The darken'd Soul admits no Gleam of Day.

Where is the Merit, with rapacious Hand,

To conquer, but to desolate a Land?

To feed his Appetite without Controul,

Behold the Beast of Prey rapacious proul;

Still Instinct justifies his hostile Life,

Instinct with Reason here at mortal Strife.

Shall MAN, tho' justly rous'd to Self-Defence,

(A rational, yet oft a false Pretence)

Without a Spark of Mercy in his Heart,

Ruthless perform a more than Savage Part?

Become to Humankind a lasting Curse,

To feed his Avarice and cram his Purse?

Not mov'd by Thirst of Glory, but of Gain,

Such Martial Usurers their Rank profane;

Yet such have been, and some—Oh Pain to speak—

Who more, if possible, through Honour break—

Who farther yet the shining Pelf pursue,

And rob the honest Soldiers of their Due.

Down, Indignation—keep thy Place below,

Nor let the Tide of just Resentment flow;

Leave with one Wish such Reptiles to their Fate,

Despis'd by Honesty, however great,

That of the sordid Crew it may be told,

Like CRASSUS, they, when dead, were gorg'd with Gold.

From this offensive Prospect let us fly,

And haste to one that may delight the Eye;

Behold a Portrait of uncommon Charms,

To animate and grace the BRITISH Arms;

Behold him giving Spirit full Career,

Alike untouch'd by Cruelty or Fear;

Behold his Breast with virtuous Ardor glow,

Behold him conquer and regret the Foe;

Behold him, from the sanguine Field retir'd,

With GLORY in a milder Shape inspir'd;

No proud luxurious Bashaw in Command,

Behold him cherish with a fost'ring Hand;

Behold his honest Heart and lib'ral Purse expand.

Behold him hospitable Aid afford,

By timely Largess and obliging Word;

Behold him, with a Parent's tender Eye,

View, and each practicable Want supply;

Behold him, Idol of each grateful Heart,

Unite the Gen'ral's and Protector's Part!

While Armies know not whether to commend,

And love the Chief, the Father, or the Friend.

Nor stops his Bounty here—behold around,

Thro' all Degrees its kind Effects are found;

Tow'ring above imperfect Flesh and Blood,

It lights on all—an universal Good.

So sev'n-mouth'd NILUS, Source of Plenty, reigns

A well-tim'd Providence to thirsty Plains,

So swell his fertile Streams o'er Mother Earth,

So give they Plenty, Peace, and Gladness Birth.

This Portrait, tho' imperfect, it were Shame,

Like an ill Painter, to expose and name;

Yet should there one so ignorant appear,

So much sequester'd from the shining Sphere,

As not to know the Likeness we advance,

Of ALBION'S Glory, and the Dread of FRANCE,

To him in Words the HERO we unfold,

Such GRANBY is, and POMPEY was of old.

Thrice happy BRITAIN! Empress of the Main,

May Ages bless thee with a BRUNSWIC'S Reign;

A BRUNSWIC worthy his illustrious Race,

Of virtuous Royalty the Pride and Grace;

KING of his People's Hearts!—to Vice a Rod,

The undissembling Servant of his GOD;

Not more with Fame and public Virtue fir'd,

Than with domestic Harmony inspir'd.

Mark! Grandeur, mark! and imitate the Plan,

That dignifies the Monarch by the Man.

A BRUNSWIC form'd, as Envy's Self must own,

To fix and dignify his native Throne;

A BRUNSWIC on whose Glory-beaming Brows,

The Crown imperial double Radiance shows:

Not such destructive Beams as Flames inspire,

And wildly set the groaning World on Fire;

But such mild Influence as, in temp'rate Skies,

The Sun celestial sheds on human Eyes:

A BRUNSWIC steady in his Country's Cause,

Firm Basis of our Liberty and Laws.

Well for the World doth Providence provide

Such Instruments to check Ambition's Pride,

As wait the Signal of his Royal Hand,

Ready to guard, or to revenge his Land;

And wisely Pow'r is lodg'd in such a Heart

As cannot even think a Tyrant's Part;

A Heart that owns no Merit in Success,

But as it gives extended Pow'r to bless;

That all the Pomp of Victory disdains,

Unless when breaking proud Ambition's Chains:

Then Royalty indeed may justly tow'r

Stemming the Tide of Arbitrary Pow'r.

Thus mighty GEORGE supports indulgent Sway,

While BRITONS gratefully with Pride obey.

Hear! Nations hear! nor envy while we sing,

Heav'n's choicest Blessings in a PATRIOT KING!

To all who hold BRITANNIA worth their Care,

(May those who do not ne'er her Freedom share)

This fervent Pray'r I faithfully propose,

May all the Comforts human Nature knows,

May all the Smiles of most indulgent Fate

Smooth to our KING th' Anxieties of State;

In the still Calm of a contented Soul

May silv'ring Years in long Succession roll;

And when—but why anticipate what Time

Must bring to pass in each Degree and Clime?

May all his Actions Love and Honour win,

Without all Glory, and all Peace within.

Religion's Ministers, may they be all

Attendant only upon Virtue's Call;

By Doctrine and Example mend their Flocks,

Nor trade for Livings as the Jews for Stocks:

May moral Merit make successful Way,

And with internal gain external Pay;

That, from an easy and sufficient Store,

Bless'd in themselves, they may assist the Poor;

Untouch'd with furious Zeal—(a hateful Name,

That takes Religion's Shape, and proves her Shame;

Breaks rudely thro' all hospitable Bounds,

And Christian Harmony at once confounds)

With Charity unbounded may they reach

The saving Hand to All; and Mercy preach:

Correct with Tenderness, instruct with Smiles,

While Reformation crowns their pious Toils;

Each Pastor in his own contented Sphere,

To Virtue, as a mitred DRUMMOND, dear.

May Senators, unstain'd with Int'rest, feel

Their Country's Wounds, and prove the Means to heal;

Discharge their sev'ral Trusts with Honour fit,

As bold, as quick, as uncorrupt as PITT.

Where tortur'd Law exalts her wrangling Voice,

May godlike Justice be the gen'ral Choice;

Smile where she can, yet wear becoming Frowns,

Nor bend her Pow'r to supplicating Crowns:

May Right, at least, associate with the Fee,

And free-born Juries stand for Liberty;

May Eloquence and Equity unite,

As now in PRATT, to shield us and delight.

To guard imperfect Nature from Decay,

May all thy Sons, HIPPOCRATES, display

Knowledge Medicinal—and only give

The Means to make declining Patients live:

Not drain the Purse with multiplying Ills,

With fruitless Boluses and needless Pills;

But try, with learned Honesty, to save,

And cheat, like DEALTRY, the expecting Grave.

May Commerce ever sail thro' fav'ring Skies,

Free from th' Incumbrance of Monopolies;

Ne'er may her Sons, insatiate after Gold,

War's Crimson Banner hastily unfold;

Yet if again (as, Oh, too sure, I fear,

While faithless and insidious Foes are near)

Her hostile Blast should hurricane our Isle,

And all our present golden Hopes beguile;

If fire-breath'd Até should successful prove,

And hungry Vultures chace the peaceful Dove,

May Resolution BRITISH Councils wait,

May Probity and Wisdom guide the State

Where Ministers preside—nor factious Spleen,

Incumb'ring clog the complicate Machine.

Yet wish we not, with HERMES' slumb'rous Wand,

To close such ARGUS Eyes as watch the Land;

No, may they ever, for BRITANNIA'S Sake,

Keep clearly independently awake.

When to War's flinty Couch, from Beds of Down,

Our Heroes haste for Honour's deathless Crown,

May Zeal unshaken brace each martial Heart,

Well to perform the executive Part;

Still may a HAWKE be found to sweep the Main,

A GRANBY to adorn th' embattled Plain.

FINIS.

Notes

*
Caligula.
↵

*
A River in Ireland, whose Water is said to bless those dipp'd in it with invincible Assurance.
↵

*
Sir GEORGE.
↵

*
This Distich alludes to the Mode of Punishment in some Countries, where an Iron Machine is dress'd up in the Form of a beautiful Woman with stretch'd out Arms, within whose Reach the Criminal being placed, he is immediately crush'd to Death.
↵

THE GENERAL.

[Price Half a Crown.]

Speedily will be published, The SECOND VOLUME of A TRIP to the MOON.

THE GENERAL. A POEM.

Respectfully inscribed to the Right Honourable the Marquis of GRANBY.

By the AUTHOR of A TRIP to the MOON.

—nequeo monstrare, et sentio tantum. JUV.

'Tis what I feel, yet strive in vain to show.

LONDON: Printed for W. NICOLL, and W. BRISTOW, in St. Paul's Church-Yard; and C. ETHERINGTON, in York. MDCCLXIV.

Information about this book

Title statement

The general. A poem: Respectfully inscribed to the Right Honourable the Marquis of Granby. By the author of A trip to the moon.

Gentleman, Francis, 1728-1784.

Publication

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University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3322

ID [isbn10]

1106003217

ID [isbn13]

9781106003218

ID [TCP]

K000791.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3324700636

ID [ECGR]

0101403800

Availability

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Source

— The general. A poem: Respectfully inscribed to the Right Honourable the Marquis of Granby. By the author of A trip to the moon., Gentleman, Francis, 1728-1784.. [4],36p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for W. Nicoll, and W. Bristow; and C. Etherington, in York,. 1764.. [The author of A trip to the moon = Francis Gentleman.] [With the price on the half-title; a variant has the half-title without the price.] [Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN1306.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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