Woe! To The Just Occasion That Compels Poem by Christopher Anstey

PROLOGUE.

Woe! to the just occasion that compels
My verse to satire, when my soul rebels;
Must I, unskill'd her angry bolts to fling,
Or draw fell poison from th' Aonian spring,
Must I, alas! the cruel task sustain,
To seek my triumphs from another's pain?
I, who to grief the pitying tear can lend,
Or smile at folly, but would ne'er offend;

Scribble, sometimes, life's burthen to forget,
But claim no empire o'er the realms of wit;
Nor damn'd with love of fame the muse once more
Tempts me to visit the Pierian shore;
But for his sake, that dark ungenerous foe,
Who now commands th' unwilling verse to flow;
Ill--judging priest! whose comminations dire
At once my laughter, and my rage inspire;
Who vainly thinks the Christian church assigns
Exclusive rights, to critical divines,
Claims some superior priviledge to curse,
And damns alike the poet and the verse.

Yet once (he tells me) with delight he view'd
Each Roman genius in my verse renew'd;
And still shall view, if ought of pedant lore
His classic palate can regale once more;
Yes--oft' I'll wander o'er the Latian plain
To charm his ears, (if yet his ears remain)
Who long has reign'd so bold an enterpriser,
In Evening Post, and Public Advertiser,
Manners and men condemns unknown, unheard,
And books of which he never read one word:
A robber worse than Polypheme, or Cacus,
Who to the dungeon of the press can take us,
There on our mangled reputations dine,
As late, sweet reader, he regal'd on mine;
Yet wonder not; since him alike to feed
Peers, privy--counsellors and judges bleed,
Sheriffs and members, while elections last,
And aldermen afford a rich repast;
On Galen's sons he battens at his ease,
And roasted Scotchmen never fail to please;
More savage now all pity can discard,
And, worst of Cannibals, devours a bard.

Yet, O! fair sun, thou golden lamp of day,
Who from such banquets turn'st thine eyes away,
O! may this son of Pelops ne'er digest
The horrors of that dire inhuman feast;
Inspire one spark celestial to my strains,
To sweat him first, then flay him for his pains!
And be it known to all that medling scum
Of scribbling priests to whom these presents come,
Such as with wrath and Slander dare to swerve
From the mild precepts of the God they serve,
Those base dispensers both of verse and prose,
That I by kind Thalia's grace propose,
With just reply this subject to correct,
Then duly flay'd, to open and dissect,
That all may know, by viewing the deceas'd,
The parts component of a worthless priest--

Then when the muse shall analyze his clay,
Th' untutor'd child, and hoary eld shall say,
`` Is this the Guide, to whom our souls are given,
``Shall scoundrel link--boys light the way to heaven:--
``Disgrace to those whom Providence design'd,
``With virtuous lives to teach and bless mankind?''

Bring forth this self--made monarch of a day,
Who like Sicilian tyrants holds his sway,
Yet to sweet freedom's ever--soothing note,
Joins the harsh discord of his patriot throat,
Levels his wrath at all who dare control
The fierce emotions of his free--born soul:
But why at me? whom far from party rage
No furious schemes of politics engage;

From wealth, from honours, and from courts remov'd
I've kept the silent path my genius lov'd,
And pity'd those whom fortune oft' beguiles,
With flatt'ring hopes from false ambition's smiles;
Hence far from me the prostituted hour
Of adulation base on pride or pow'r,
Hence (thanks to heav'n) I ne'er was doom'd to know
What bitter streams from disappointment flow:
Oh! bane of life's sweet cup! you oft' compel
Your wretched victim in some lonely cell,
(Such as contains, I deem, that hapless bard
Who claims this instance of my just regard)
With soul that erst to insolence could cringe
To seek the means of impotent revenge;
Vile letters for vile printers to compose,
In one dull series of perpetual prose,
Or soaring on the muse's eagle wings,
Abuse alike all ministers and kings:
Peace to such scribes: from such protect my name,
Whose praise is infamy, whose censure fame:

Nor shall it e'er in future times be said,
(If e'er in future times my verse be read)
That I (tho' fame applaud me to my wrong)
Stood forth the champion of HEROIC SONG,
Or once have felt, (so heav'n direct my ways)
The conscious pang of self--condemning praise;
Tho' but with ivy deck'd, without a frown
I can behold another's laurel crown,
Unfit for me; who from the secret shade
Ne'er to the throne my humble muse convey'd,
Ne'er dar'd at majesty my jest to aim
Or sport familiar with its sacred name:

Oh no--could I the fragrant garland twine
Of sweetest flow'rs that bloom round virtue's shrine,
To grace the husband, father, and the man
Who lives and governs on the Christian plan,
Pleas'd with mild arts his empire to improve,
Blest in his dear, and virtuous consort's love,
Who 'mid the toils of state his hours employs,
On ten sweet pledges of connubial joys,
And gives to me (who equal numbers share)
A bright example of paternal care--
Then would I raise my feeble voice to sing
My good, my honour'd, and my gracious King.

REPLY TO THE Reverend Mr. ---.

And what art thou! whose unprovok'd disdain
Makes me the subject of thy rancrous strain?
With every talent that adorns at once
The pedant, coxcomb, slanderer, and dunce,
Say, could no civil, no religious broil
Employ the priest's, or politician's toil,
Could'st thou not find one object for thine hate,
One virtuous character in church or state;
No harmless virgin to provoke thy wrath
'Mongst all the fair inhabitants of Bath;
Not one poor native of the Scotian shore,
Unsung by thee, and not abus'd before,
Who wiser far than me with just disdain
Might read thy slander, and his wrath contain?
Ah! weel, right weel, he kens thy vile lampoon,
Yet aye contemns thy jibes,--thou canker'd loon,
Kind Scots! to whom thy heartiest thanks be given,
For suff'ring thee to crawl 'twixt earth and heav'n.--
Hast thou so soon forgot thy fav'rite themes,
Those gallant youths who drink sweet Liffy's streams?
They, generous souls, compassionate thy pains,
And oft' in pity to thy labouring strains,
Would fain the midwife's kind assistance use
To speed the produce of thy struggling muse,
Obstetricate as Vulcan did for Jove,
When in his head the infant Pallas strove,
And freely lend a hatchet or a cane
To ease the torments of thy costive brain;
On me at length must thou disgorge thy spleen,
Who ne'er but once thy miscreant face have seen?
On me invoke thy pestilential muse
To breathe such pois'nous vapours in the news?
Then like some dark ill--omen'd bird of night
Wing to the conscious shade thy hateful flight?
Yet tremble wheresoe'er thou screen'st thine head,
Whether to Don Saltero's thou art fled
On scraps of hungry politicians fed
Or at the Chapter wait'st some printer's call
Lurching around the regions of St. Paul,
Or rather dost thou skulk in that fam'd street
Where captive bards oft' tune their ditties sweet
To liberty, within the precincts of the Fleet;
There to reward thy daily lyes art call'd in
To eat the crusts of charitable Baldwin,
Answer to CÆSAR, REGULUS, or TOBY,
Or any other name canine you go by:
Take heed--tho' ev'ry darksome fiend of night
Defend thee from the ken of mortal sight,
Tho' cellar, or tho' garret hide thy shame,
Tho' war with me each scrib'ling dunce proclaim,
Daemons! that erst had made my nature shrink,

Memnonian tribes, black fusileers of ink
Couch'd in poetic corner all conspire
At me their crackers, and their squibs to fire,
Tho' friends, as dear to me as life, agree
'Tis base, to grapple with a foe like thee,
By heav'ns I'll drag thee forth; as erst the son
Of Jove, from Pluto's self his trophies won,
What time Eurystheus by fell Juno's ire
Compell'd the godlike hero to aspire
To deeds of matchless fame; he undismay'd
Pierc'd through the realms of everlasting shade,
Th' infernal king's prerogative to quell,
And drag the triple--headed thief from hell;
Him watchful e'en in slumbers at the door
List'ning th' arch--hell--hound heard, and straight with roar
Insufferable, shook the gates of Dis,
And made Styx shudder thro' it's deep abyss;
Nathless (like him the skilful artist's hand
Has giv'n depicted in the front to stand,)
Calm and serene amid the scorching flame,
The hero tug'd,--and out the monster came;
Conquering he smil'd, and lo! th' accursed race
Of snakes, that erst in life were scribblers base,
Dropt fangless at his feet; in foul abode
Trembling aloof th' affrighted Harpeys stood,
Base fiends! which all mythologists agree
Were printers once, and kept such dogs as thee.--

Out to the realms of light--I'll speak thy name--
Thou dy'st a victim to my injur'd fame--
Heav'ns!--when I point my vengeance at his heart,--
Soft mercy pleads--and checks my trembling dart;
Oh! what can hold such conflict in the mind,
As generous pity, with resentment join'd!

Must then, alas! my injur'd genius sleep,

And, I, like helpless child, sit down and weep?
Oh no! behold she comes with smiling air
The goddess comes, the sweet Thalia's there;
And ``ah! what tumult's this, for shame,'' she cries,
``Laugh at his insolence, his wrath despise;
``What if at thee, with critic malice stung,
``He darts the venom of his canker'd tongue,
``Heed not his taunts, while Bath's bright nymphs and swains
``Dwell on the numbers of your harmless strains:
``While Clare, the fav'rite of our tuneful choir,
``Listens the jingling of your mirthful lyre,
``While virtuous Leeds approves your midnight oyl,
``And York's great prelate condescends to smile.--

AUTHOR.
Oh! may gay health, that floats on Zephyr wing
With Moysey's art, and Bath's salubrious spring,
Give him with joy his crosier long to hold,--
And drive such vermine from the sacred fold.--

THALIA.
Can then such anger in thy bosom rise
If this poor son of Aristarchus tries
His critic rod, thine errors to chastise?

AUTHOR.
Think not sweet ruler of the comic page,
The critic's censure can provoke my rage;
Errors from frailty sprung, or small neglect
Judicious critics pardon and correct,
Nor let the bard the friendly hand accuse
That curbs the sallies of his wand'ring muse;
If e'er he chance to slumber o'er his theme,
The critic rod may rouse him from his dream,
Nor should he wake displeas'd, or censure those
Who for his welfare banish his repose:
If ought unworthy of the bard appear,
Unfit for you, or Phoebus' self to hear,
Too mean the subject in his verse to shine
(As is perhaps this groveling priest in mine
Let him with patience to the rod submit,
And unrepining bear the critic wit.

But is this sophister, this cynic base,
This last worst remnant of the Bavian race,
All unprovok'd, my conduct to reprove,
Teach me, as he directs, to sleep or move?
Tir'd with the toils my anxious life sustains
For their dear sakes, who claim my constant pains,
And still shall claim what yet of life remains:
Must I beg leave of him (who strives, I deem,
In vain to rob me of their fond esteem)
To tell with thee my inoffensive tale,
And pluck one flowret in th' Aonian vale,
One hour at whist or billiards to beguile,
And ask of him the privilege to smile?
Of him, whose callous misanthropic heart
Ne'er felt the joys which social smiles impart,
Smiles, that delight to dwell in converse sweet,
And live with decency, and jest discreet,
Where mutual foibles, slightly touch'd, give birth
To friendly contest, and well--temper'd mirth;
But ever--pining hate, that hideous pest,
Distressing all, and by itself distrest,
Stands haggard in his ghastly looks confest:
With horse--shoe mouth, and unrelenting jaws,
Which never smil'd, but at th' unrighteous cause,
Of others sorrow, or his own applause!
Heav'ns! if he ranks me 'mong the gambling crew,
The bastinado shall his wrath subdue,
Which from an injur'd and a valiant chiel,
His bones so lately were condemn'd to feel.

THALIA.
Not all the falsehood envy's self can feign
Should give th' unconscious mind one moment's pain.
Restrain thine anger--to the sland'rer's scorn
Contempt and pity are the best return:
Silence to such more torment can impart,
More fatal prove than satire's keenest dart;
Had not he found some object to revile,
This foulmouth'd priest had perish'd in his bile,
Hooper had hir'd some mongrel in his stead,
And Baldwin bilk'd him of his daily bread,
Hunger to death, in pity to mankind,
His dev'l--deserted carcase had consign'd.

Think not, I patronise the impious lay
Which base assassins in the dark convey;
The wretch who seeks to aggrandize his name
Built on the ruins of another's fame,
Shall find no friend among the virtuous nine,
Or claim protection at their sacred shrine.

Come--since this scribbler's calumny and lies
(Which still, perhaps, 'twere better to despise)
May circulate 'mongst those who know thee not
I'll give thee leave --

AUTHOR.
To take the worthless sot
Dear goddess now, and flay him on the spot.

THALIA.
'Twere better, first, a vomit to promote,
And cram his own d---d verses down his throat,
For oft' the nonsense which from verse distils
Creates a qualm like oxymel of squills;
Which makes it strange that learned men should choose
To work so much in critical reviews;
Unwholesome trade! what poison can be worse
Than vile effluvia of unmeaning verse?
But when in flat insipid strains you find
An acid quality with dulness join'd,
They're worse than cyder--lees with lead refind;
Which many a blundering and malicious elf,
Prepares for others, but must drink himself:
Such be his fate; do thou in rhyme jocose
Retort his bane; 'till many a potent dose
O'erpow'r his breath; and to the world make known
His scorpion death, from poison all his own:
Then lay your patient dead upon the floor,
As skilful doctors oft' have done before;
Exert the whole anatomizing art,
I'll play myself th' assistant surgeon's part.

AUTHOR.
O come then from thine awful courts above
Dread offspring of necessity and Jove,
Immortal Nemesis; thy pow'r divine
Nations revere, and tremble at thy shrine;
Thy brazen arm the culprit ne'er forsakes,
Thy foot with slow, yet certain pace o'ertakes:
Thou who to me so lately didst convey
The unsought fasces of the sheriff sway,
Prefer'd by men of virtue, worth, and sense
To serve my country--at my own expence,--
Once more to me a sheriff's right consign,
To claim the carcase of this foul divine:
Nor grant the wretch that benefit to know
Which antient laws on learned clerks bestow;
Such benefit for those was ne'er decreed
Who still must scribble, tho' they scarce can read.--
Come, goddess, come, thy horrid rites begin,
Tear off at once his cassock and his skin,
And grant to me, sans pity or remorse,
Freely to descant on his mangled corse:

And, O ye nine! your instruments prepare,
Some to cut up, and some, with solemn air,
To breathe wild notes of horror and despair,
Such as resounded on the Thracian plains
To Thamyris, and mock'd his heart--felt pains,
When by your potent harmony subdu'd
Him with just anger all your choir pursu'd,
Pierc'd with your quills the organs of his sight,
And sunk their orbs in everduring night:
Nor shalt thou not be there, great god of song,
Hear and redress one injur'd poet's wrong,
Come, but with look indignant and severe,
Such as in horrid picture you appear,
Biting thy lips, thy hands besmear'd with gore,

As when thou stood'st upon the Phrygian shore,
Tearing the skin o'er Marsya's bleeding ears--
The trembling satyrs round confess their fears--
Ah! Phoebus, ah! he cries, my scrannel pipe
Deserv'd not this--confound that cursed gripe--
Oh! I repent my base infernal lies,--
'Tis all too late, the angry god replies.
To envious bards let Marsya's fate be known,--
Cyllene's hollow rocks rebellow to his moan.