<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354710" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Candidate</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the<br>Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the<br>University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor<br>Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the University, and no<br>means were left untried by either candidate to obtain a majority. The<br>election was fixed for the th of March, when, after much<br>altercation, the votes appearing equal, a scrutiny was demanded;<br>whereupon the Vice-Chancellor adjourned the senate _sine die_. On<br>appeal to the Lord High-Chancellor, he determined in favour of the<br>Earl of Hardwicke, and a mandamus issued accordingly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enough of Actors--let them play the player,<br>And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare;<br>Garrick abroad, what motives can engage<br>To waste one couplet on a barren stage?<br>Ungrateful Garrick! when these tasty days,<br>In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise;<br>When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years,<br>Indulged in laughter, or dissolved in tears;<br>When in return for labour, time, and health,<br>The town had given some little share of wealth, <br>Couldst thou repine at being still a slave?<br>Darest thou presume to enjoy that wealth she gave?<br>Couldst thou repine at laws ordain'd by those<br>Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes?<br>Whom, too refined for honesty and trade,<br>By need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made;<br>Whom Fear made drunkards, and, by modern rules,<br>Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them fools;<br>With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime,<br>In such a manner, and at such a time, <br>To quit the stage; but men of real sense,<br>Who neither lightly give, nor take offence,<br>Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace,<br>Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place.<br>Enough of Authors--why, when scribblers fail,<br>Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale?<br>Why must they pity, why contempt express,<br>And why insult a brother in distress?<br>Let those, who boast the uncommon gift of brains<br>The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains; <br>Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom,<br>And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb.<br>Let those who without genius write, and write,<br>Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite,<br>The pen laid down, their course of folly run<br>In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.<br>Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate,<br>That Francis once endeavour'd to translate?<br>Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head,<br>Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead? <br>Why may not Langhorne, simple in his lay,<br>Effusion on effusion pour away;<br>With friendship and with fancy trifle here,<br>Or sleep in pastoral at Belvidere?<br>Sleep let them all, with Dulness on her throne,<br>Secure from any malice but their own.<br>Enough of Critics--let them, if they please,<br>Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees;<br>Wide and extensive be their infant state,<br>Their subjects many, and those subjects great, <br>Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed,<br>With fools who write, and greater fools who read.<br>What though they lay the realms of Genius waste,<br>Fetter the fancy and debauch the taste;<br>Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill,<br>Consult not how to cure, but how to kill;<br>Though by whim, envy, or resentment led,<br>They damn those authors whom they never read;<br>Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold,<br>To deal out so much praise for so much gold: <br>Though Scot with Scot, in damned close intrigues,<br>Against the commonwealth of letters leagues;<br>Uncensured let them pilot at the helm,<br>And rule in letters, as they ruled the realm:<br>Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse,<br>(Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse,<br>To do our sense and honour deep despite)<br>To credit what they say, read what they write.<br>Enough of Scotland--let her rest in peace;<br>The cause removed, effects of course should cease; <br>Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown,<br>And proudly swell'd with waters not his own,<br>Burst o'er his banks, and, by Destruction led,<br>O'er our fair England desolation spread,<br>Whilst, riding on his waves, Ambition, plumed<br>In tenfold pride, the port of Bute assumed,<br>Now that the river god, convinced, though late,<br>And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate,<br>Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides,<br>In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides? <br>Enough of States, and such like trifling things;<br>Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings;<br>Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie,<br>Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly;<br>Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontroll'd<br>By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold,<br>Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan<br>Meets with compassion only from the throne.<br>Enough of Patriots--all I ask of man<br>Is only to be honest as he can: <br>Some have deceived, and some may still deceive;<br>'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe.<br>Would those, who, by opinion placed on high,<br>Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye,<br>Maintain that honour, let me in their ear<br>Hint this essential doctrine--Persevere.<br>Should they (which Heaven forbid) to win the grace<br>Of some proud courtier, or to gain a place,<br>Their king and country sell, with endless shame<br>The avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name; <br>But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend,<br>And, proudly honest, hold out to the end,<br>Their grateful country shall their fame record,<br>And I myself descend to praise a lord.<br>Enough of Wilkes--with good and honest men<br>His actions speak much stronger than my pen,<br>And future ages shall his name adore,<br>When he can act and I can write no more.<br>England may prove ungrateful and unjust,<br>But fostering France shall ne'er betray her trust: <br>'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose,<br>To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes.<br>When the great warrior of Amilcar's race<br>Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base,<br>To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride,<br>Rome gave that fame which Carthage had denied.<br>Enough of Self--that darling luscious theme,<br>O'er which philosophers in raptures dream;<br>Of which with seeming disregard they write,<br>Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight; <br>Vain proof of folly tinctured strong with pride!<br>What man can from himself, himself divide?<br>For me,(nor dare I lie) my leading aim<br>(Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame;<br>Some little fame derived from some brave few,<br>Who, prizing Honour, prize her votaries too.<br>Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek)<br>Who know me well, what they know, freely speak,<br>So those (the greatest curse I meet below)<br>Who know me not, may not pretend to know. <br>Let none of those whom, bless'd with parts above<br>My feeble genius, still I dare to love,<br>Doing more mischief than a thousand foes,<br>Posthumous nonsense to the world expose,<br>And call it mine; for mine though never known,<br>Or which, if mine, I living blush'd to own.<br>Know all the world, no greedy heir shall find,<br>Die when I will, one couplet left behind.<br>Let none of those, whom I despise, though great,<br>Pretending friendship to give malice weight, <br>Publish my life; let no false sneaking peer,<br>(Some such there are) to win the public ear,<br>Hand me to shame with some vile anecdote.<br>Nor soul-gall'd bishop damn me with a note.<br>Let one poor sprig of bay around my head<br>Bloom whilst I live, and point me out when dead;<br>Let it (may Heaven, indulgent, grant that prayer!)<br>Be planted on my grave, nor wither there;<br>And when, on travel bound, some rhyming guest<br>Roams through the churchyard, whilst his dinner's dress'd, <br>Let it hold up this comment to his eyes--<br>'Life to the last enjoy'd, here Churchill lies;'<br>Whilst (oh, what joy that pleasing flattery gives!)<br>Reading my works, he cries--'Here Churchill lives.'<br>Enough of Satire--in less harden'd times<br>Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes.<br>I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave,<br>Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave;<br>Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms<br>From her one line, than from a world in arms. <br>When in her faithful and immortal page<br>They saw transmitted down from age to age<br>Recorded villains, and each spotted name<br>Branded with marks of everlasting shame,<br>Succeeding villains sought her as a friend,<br>And, if not really mended, feign'd to mend;<br>But in an age, when actions are allow'd<br>Which strike all honour dead, and crimes avow'd<br>Too terrible to suffer the report,<br>Avow'd and praised by men who stain a court, <br>Propp'd by the arm of Power; when Vice, high born,<br>High-bred, high-station'd, holds rebuke in scorn;<br>When she is lost to every thought of fame,<br>And, to all virtue dead, is dead to shame;<br>When Prudence a much easier task must hold<br>To make a new world, than reform the old,<br>Satire throws by her arrows on the ground,<br>And if she cannot cure, she will not wound.<br>Come, Panegyric--though the Muse disdains,<br>Founded on truth, to prostitute her strains <br>At the base instance of those men, who hold<br>No argument but power, no god but gold,<br>Yet, mindful that from Heaven she drew her birth,<br>She scorns the narrow maxims of this earth;<br>Virtuous herself, brings Virtue forth to view,<br>And loves to praise, where praise is justly due.<br>Come, Panegyric--in a former hour,<br>My soul with pleasure yielding to thy power,<br>Thy shrine I sought, I pray'd--but wanton air,<br>Before it reach'd thy ears, dispersed my prayer; <br>E'en at thy altars whilst I took my stand,<br>The pen of Truth and Honour in my hand,<br>Fate, meditating wrath 'gainst me and mine,<br>Chid my fond zeal, and thwarted my design,<br>Whilst, Hayter brought too quickly to his end,<br>I lost a subject and mankind a friend.<br>Come, Panegyric--bending at thy throne,<br>Thee and thy power my soul is proud to own<br>Be thou my kind protector, thou my guide,<br>And lead me safe through passes yet untried. <br>Broad is the road, nor difficult to find,<br>Which to the house of Satire leads mankind;<br>Narrow and unfrequented are the ways,<br>Scarce found out in an age, which lead to praise.<br>What though no theme I choose of vulgar note,<br>Nor wish to write as brother bards have wrote,<br>So mild, so meek in praising, that they seem<br>Afraid to wake their patrons from a dream;<br>What though a theme I choose, which might demand<br>The nicest touches of a master's hand; <br>Yet, if the inward workings of my soul<br>Deceive me not, I shall attain the goal,<br>And Envy shall behold, in triumph raised,<br>The poet praising, and the patron praised.<br>What patron shall I choose? Shall public voice,<br>Or private knowledge, influence my choice?<br>Shall I prefer the grand retreat of Stowe,<br>Or, seeking patriots, to friend Wildman's go?<br>'To Wildman's!' cried Discretion, (who had heard,<br>Close standing at my elbow, every word) <br>'To Wildman's! Art thou mad? Canst thou be sure<br>One moment there to have thy head secure?<br>Are they not all, (let observation tell)<br>All mark'd in characters as black as Hell,<br>In Doomsday book, by ministers set down,<br>Who style their pride the honour of the crown?<br>Make no reply--let Reason stand aloof--<br>Presumptions here must pass as solemn proof.<br>That settled faith, that love which ever springs<br>In the best subjects, for the best of kings, <br>Must not be measured now by what men think,<br>Or say, or do;--by what they eat and drink,<br>Where, and with whom, that question's to be tried,<br>And statesmen are the judges to decide;<br>No juries call'd, or, if call'd, kept in awe;<br>They, facts confess'd, in themselves vest the law.<br>Each dish at Wildman's of sedition smacks;<br>Blasphemy may be gospel at Almacks.'<br>Peace, good Discretion! peace--thy fears are vain;<br>Ne'er will I herd with Wildman's factious train; <br>Never the vengeance of the great incur,<br>Nor, without might, against the mighty stir.<br>If, from long proof, my temper you distrust,<br>Weigh my profession, to my gown be just;<br>Dost thou one parson know so void of grace<br>To pay his court to patrons out of place?<br>If still you doubt (though scarce a doubt remains)<br>Search through my alter'd heart, and try my reins;<br>There, searching, find, nor deem me now in sport,<br>A convert made by Sandwich to the court. <br>Let madmen follow error to the end,<br>I, of mistakes convinced, and proud to mend,<br>Strive to act better, being better taught,<br>Nor blush to own that change which Reason wrought:<br>For such a change as this, must Justice speak;<br>My heart was honest, but my head was weak.<br>Bigot to no one man, or set of men,<br>Without one selfish view, I drew my pen;<br>My country ask'd, or seem'd to ask, my aid,<br>Obedient to that call, I left off trade; <br>A side I chose, and on that side was strong,<br>Till time hath fairly proved me in the wrong:<br>Convinced, I change, (can any man do more?)<br>And have not greater patriots changed before?<br>Changed, I at once, (can any man do less?)<br>Without a single blush, that change confess;<br>Confess it with a manly kind of pride,<br>And quit the losing for the winning side,<br>Granting, whilst virtuous Sandwich holds the rein,<br>What Bute for ages might have sought in vain. <br>Hail, Sandwich!--nor shall Wilkes resentment show,<br>Hearing the praises of so brave a foe--<br>Hail, Sandwich!--nor, through pride, shalt thou refuse<br>The grateful tribute of so mean a Muse--<br>Sandwich, all hail!--when Bute with foreign hand,<br>Grown wanton with ambition, scourged the land;<br>When Scots, or slaves to Scotsmen, steer'd the helm;<br>When peace, inglorious peace, disgraced the realm,<br>Distrust, and general discontent prevail'd;<br>But when, (he best knows why) his spirits fail'd; <br>When, with a sudden panic struck, he fled,<br>Sneak'd out of power, and hid his recreant head;<br>When, like a Mars, (Fear order'd to retreat)<br>We saw thee nimbly vault into his seat,<br>Into the seat of power, at one bold leap,<br>A perfect connoisseur in statesmanship;<br>When, like another Machiavel, we saw<br>Thy fingers twisting, and untwisting law,<br>Straining, where godlike Reason bade, and where<br>She warranted thy mercy, pleased to spare; <br>Saw thee resolved, and fix'd (come what, come might)<br>To do thy God, thy king, thy country right;<br>All things were changed, suspense remain'd no more,<br>Certainty reign'd where Doubt had reign'd before:<br>All felt thy virtues, and all knew their use,<br>What virtues such as thine must needs produce.<br>Thy foes (for Honour ever meets with foes)<br>Too mean to praise, too fearful to oppose,<br>In sullen silence sit; thy friends (some few,<br>Who, friends to thee, are friends to Honour too) <br>Plaud thy brave bearing, and the Commonweal<br>Expects her safety from thy stubborn zeal.<br>A place amongst the rest the Muses claim,<br>And bring this freewill-offering to thy fame;<br>To prove their virtue, make thy virtues known,<br>And, holding up thy fame, secure their own.<br>From his youth upwards to the present day,<br>When vices, more than years, have mark'd him gray;<br>When riotous Excess, with wasteful hand,<br>Shakes life's frail glass, and hastes each ebbing sand, <br>Unmindful from what stock he drew his birth,<br>Untainted with one deed of real worth,<br>Lothario, holding honour at no price,<br>Folly to folly added, vice to vice,<br>Wrought sin with greediness, and sought for shame<br>With greater zeal than good men seek for fame.<br>Where (Reason left without the least defence)<br>Laughter was mirth, obscenity was sense:<br>Where Impudence made Decency submit;<br>Where noise was humour, and where whim was wit; <br>Where rude, untemper'd license had the merit<br>Of liberty, and lunacy was spirit;<br>Where the best things were ever held the worst,<br>Lothario was, with justice, always first.<br>To whip a top, to knuckle down at taw,<br>To swing upon a gate, to ride a straw,<br>To play at push-pin with dull brother peers,<br>To belch out catches in a porter's ears,<br>To reign the monarch of a midnight cell,<br>To be the gaping chairman's oracle; <br>Whilst, in most blessed union, rogue and whore<br>Clap hands, huzza, and hiccup out, 'Encore;'<br>Whilst gray Authority, who slumbers there<br>In robes of watchman's fur, gives up his chair;<br>With midnight howl to bay the affrighted moon,<br>To walk with torches through the streets at noon;<br>To force plain Nature from her usual way,<br>Each night a vigil, and a blank each day;<br>To match for speed one feather 'gainst another,<br>To make one leg run races with his brother; <br>'Gainst all the rest to take the northern wind,<br>Bute to ride first, and he to ride behind;<br>To coin newfangled wagers, and to lay 'em,<br>Laying to lose, and losing not to pay 'em;<br>Lothario, on that stock which Nature gives,<br>Without a rival stands, though March yet lives.<br>When Folly, (at that name, in duty bound,<br>Let subject myriads kneel, and kiss the ground,<br>Whilst they who, in the presence, upright stand,<br>Are held as rebels through the loyal land) <br>Queen every where, but most a queen in courts,<br>Sent forth her heralds, and proclaim'd her sports;<br>Bade fool with fool on her behalf engage,<br>And prove her right to reign from age to age,<br>Lothario, great above the common size,<br>With all engaged, and won from all the prize;<br>Her cap he wears, which from his youth he wore,<br>And every day deserves it more and more.<br>Nor in such limits rests his soul confined;<br>Folly may share but can't engross his mind; <br>Vice, bold substantial Vice, puts in her claim,<br>And stamps him perfect in the books of Shame.<br>Observe his follies well, and you would swear<br>Folly had been his first, his only care;<br>Observe his vices, you'll that oath disown,<br>And swear that he was born for vice alone.<br>Is the soft nature of some hapless maid,<br>Fond, easy, full of faith, to be betray'd?<br>Must she, to virtue lost, be lost to fame,<br>And he who wrought her guilt declare her shame? <br>Is some brave friend, who, men but little known,<br>Deems every heart as honest as his own,<br>And, free himself, in others fears no guile,<br>To be ensnared, and ruin'd with a smile?<br>Is Law to be perverted from her course?<br>Is abject fraud to league with brutal force?<br>Is Freedom to be crush'd, and every son<br>Who dares maintain her cause, to be undone?<br>Is base Corruption, creeping through the land,<br>To plan, and work her ruin, underhand, <br>With regular approaches, sure, though slow?<br>Or must she perish by a single blow?<br>Are kings, who trust to servants, and depend<br>In servants (fond, vain thought!) to find a friend,<br>To be abused, and made to draw their breath<br>In darkness thicker than the shades of death?<br>Is God's most holy name to be profaned,<br>His word rejected, and his laws arraign'd,<br>His servants scorn'd, as men who idly dream'd,<br>His service laugh'd at, and his Son blasphemed? <br>Are debauchees in morals to preside?<br>Is Faith to take an Atheist for her guide?<br>Is Science by a blockhead to be led?<br>Are States to totter on a drunkard's head?<br>To answer all these purposes, and more,<br>More black than ever villain plann'd before,<br>Search earth, search hell, the Devil cannot find<br>An agent like Lothario to his mind.<br>Is this nobility, which, sprung from kings,<br>Was meant to swell the power from whence it springs; <br>Is this the glorious produce, this the fruit,<br>Which Nature hoped for from so rich a root?<br>Were there but two, (search all the world around)<br>Were there but two such nobles to be found,<br>The very name would sink into a term<br>Of scorn, and man would rather be a worm<br>Than be a lord: but Nature, full of grace,<br>Nor meaning birth and titles to be base,<br>Made only one, and having made him, swore,<br>In mercy to mankind, to make no more: <br>Nor stopp'd she there, but, like a generous friend,<br>The ills which Error caused, she strove to mend,<br>And having brought Lothario forth to view,<br>To save her credit, brought forth Sandwich too.<br>Gods! with what joy, what honest joy of heart,<br>Blunt as I am, and void of every art,<br>Of every art which great ones in the state<br>Practise on knaves they fear, and fools they hate,<br>To titles with reluctance taught to bend,<br>Nor prone to think that virtues can descend, <br>Do I behold (a sight, alas! more rare<br>Than Honesty could wish) the noble wear<br>His father's honours, when his life makes known<br>They're his by virtue, not by birth alone;<br>When he recalls his father from the grave,<br>And pays with interest back that fame he gave:<br>Cured of her splenetic and sullen fits,<br>To such a peer my willing soul submits,<br>And to such virtue is more proud to yield<br>Than 'gainst ten titled rogues to keep the field. <br>Such, (for that truth e'en Envy shall allow)<br>Such Wyndham was, and such is Sandwich now.<br>O gentle Montague! in blessed hour<br>Didst thou start up, and climb the stairs of power;<br>England of all her fears at once was eased,<br>Nor, 'mongst her many foes, was one displeased:<br>France heard the news, and told it cousin Spain;<br>Spain heard, and told it cousin France again;<br>The Hollander relinquished his design<br>Of adding spice to spice, and mine to mine; <br>Of Indian villanies he thought no more,<br>Content to rob us on our native shore:<br>Awed by thy fame, (which winds with open mouth<br>Shall blow from east to west, from north to south)<br>The western world shall yield us her increase,<br>And her wild sons be soften'd into peace;<br>Rich eastern monarchs shall exhaust their stores,<br>And pour unbounded wealth on Albion's shores;<br>Unbounded wealth, which from those golden scenes,<br>And all acquired by honourable means, <br>Some honourable chief shall hither steer,<br>To pay our debts, and set the nation clear.<br>Nabobs themselves, allured by thy renown,<br>Shall pay due homage to the English crown;<br>Shall freely as their king our king receive--<br>Provided the Directors give them leave.<br>Union at home shall mark each rising year,<br>Nor taxes be complain'd of, though severe;<br>Envy her own destroyer shall become,<br>And Faction with her thousand mouths be dumb: <br>With the meek man thy meekness shall prevail,<br>Nor with the spirited thy spirit fail:<br>Some to thy force of reason shall submit,<br>And some be converts to thy princely wit:<br>Reverence for thee shall still a nation's cries,<br>A grand concurrence crown a grand excise;<br>And unbelievers of the first degree,<br>Who have no faith in God, have faith in thee.<br>When a strange jumble, whimsical and vain,<br>Possess'd the region of each heated brain; <br>When some were fools to censure, some to praise,<br>And all were mad, but mad in different ways;<br>When commonwealthsmen, starting at the shade<br>Which in their own wild fancy had been made,<br>Of tyrants dream'd, who wore a thorny crown,<br>And with state bloodhounds hunted Freedom down;<br>When others, struck with fancies not less vain,<br>Saw mighty kings by their own subjects slain,<br>And, in each friend of Liberty and Law,<br>With horror big, a future Cromwell saw, <br>Thy manly zeal stept forth, bade discord cease,<br>And sung each jarring atom into peace;<br>Liberty, cheer'd by thy all-cheering eye,<br>Shall, waking from her trance, live and not die;<br>And, patronised by thee, Prerogative<br>Shall, striding forth at large, not die, but live;<br>Whilst Privilege, hung betwixt earth and sky,<br>Shall not well know whether to live or die.<br>When on a rock which overhung the flood,<br>And seem'd to totter, Commerce shivering stood; <br>When Credit, building on a sandy shore,<br>Saw the sea swell, and heard the tempest roar,<br>Heard death in every blast, and in each wave<br>Or saw, or fancied that she saw her grave;<br>When Property, transferr'd from hand to band,<br>Weaken'd by change, crawl'd sickly through the land;<br>When mutual confidence was at an end,<br>And man no longer could on man depend;<br>Oppress'd with debts of more than common weight,<br>When all men fear'd a bankruptcy of state; <br>When, certain death to honour, and to trade,<br>A sponge was talk'd of as our only aid;<br>That to be saved we must be more undone,<br>And pay off all our debts, by paying none;<br>Like England's better genius, born to bless,<br>And snatch his sinking country from distress,<br>Didst thou step forth, and, without sail or oar,<br>Pilot the shatter'd vessel safe to shore:<br>Nor shalt thou quit, till, anchor'd firm and fast,<br>She rides secure, and mocks the threatening blast! <br>Born in thy house, and in thy service bred,<br>Nursed in thy arms, and at thy table fed,<br>By thy sage counsels to reflection brought,<br>Yet more by pattern than by precept taught,<br>Economy her needful aid shall join<br>To forward and complete thy grand design,<br>And, warm to save, but yet with spirit warm,<br>Shall her own conduct from thy conduct form.<br>Let friends of prodigals say what they will,<br>Spendthrifts at home, abroad are spendthrifts still. <br>In vain have sly and subtle sophists tried<br>Private from public justice to divide;<br>For credit on each other they rely,<br>They live together, and together die,<br>'Gainst all experience 'tis a rank offence,<br>High treason in the eye of Common-sense,<br>To think a statesman ever can be known<br>To pay our debts, who will not pay his own:<br>But now, though late, now may we hope to see<br>Our debts discharged, our credit fair and free, <br>Since rigid Honesty (fair fall that hour!)<br>Sits at the helm, and Sandwich is in power.<br>With what delight I view thee, wondrous man,<br>With what delight survey thy sterling plan,<br>That plan which all with wonder must behold,<br>And stamp thy age the only age of Gold.<br>Nor rest thy triumphs here--that Discord fled,<br>And sought with grief the hell where she was bred;<br>That Faction, 'gainst her nature forced to yield,<br>Saw her rude rabble scatter'd o'er the field, <br>Saw her best friends a standing jest become,<br>Her fools turn'd speakers, and her wits struck dumb;<br>That our most bitter foes (so much depends<br>On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends;<br>That our offended friends (such terror flows<br>From men of name) dare not appear our foes;<br>That Credit, gasping in the jaws of Death,<br>And ready to expire with every breath,<br>Grows stronger from disease; that thou hast saved<br>Thy drooping country; that thy name, engraved <br>On plates of brass, defies the rage of Time;<br>Than plates of brass more firm, that sacred rhyme<br>Embalms thy memory, bids thy glories live,<br>And gives thee what the Muse alone can give:--<br>These heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame,<br>With thee in common other patriots claim.<br>But, that poor sickly Science, who had laid<br>And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade,<br>By those who knew her purposely forgot,<br>And made the jest of those who knew her not: <br>Whilst Ignorance in power, and pamper'd pride,<br>'Clad like a priest, pass'd by on t'other side,'<br>Recover'd from her wretched state, at length<br>Puts on new health, and clothes herself with strength,<br>To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand<br>Which raised, and gave her to possess the land:<br>This praise, though in a court, and near a throne,<br>This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone.<br>With what fond rapture did the goddess smile,<br>What blessings did she promise to this isle, <br>What honour to herself, and length of reign,<br>Soon as she heard that thou didst not disdain<br>To be her steward; but what grief, what shame,<br>What rage, what disappointment, shook her frame,<br>When her proud children dared her will dispute,<br>When Youth was insolent, and Age was mute!<br>That young men should be fools, and some wild few,<br>To Wisdom deaf, be deaf to Interest too,<br>Moved not her wonder; but that men, grown gray<br>In search of wisdom; men who own'd the sway <br>Of Reason; men who stubbornly kept down<br>Each rising passion; men who wore the gown;<br>That they should cross her will, that they should dare<br>Against the cause of Interest to declare;<br>That they should be so abject and unwise,<br>Having no fear of loss before their eyes,<br>Nor hopes of gain; scorning the ready means<br>Of being vicars, rectors, canons, deans,<br>With all those honours which on mitres wait,<br>And mark the virtuous favourites of state; <br>That they should dare a Hardwicke to support,<br>And talk, within the hearing of a court,<br>Of that vile beggar, Conscience, who, undone,<br>And starved herself, starves every wretched son;<br>This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear<br>No more to throw away her time and care<br>On wayward sons who scorn'd her love, no more<br>To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful shore.<br>Rather than bear such insults, which disgrace<br>Her royalty of nature, birth, and place, <br>Though Dulness there unrivall'd state doth keep,<br>Would she at Winchester with Burton sleep;<br>Or, to exchange the mortifying scene<br>For something still more dull, and still more mean,<br>Rather than bear such insults, she would fly<br>Far, far beyond the search of English eye,<br>And reign amongst the Scots: to be a queen<br>Is worth ambition, though in Aberdeen.<br>Oh, stay thy flight, fair Science! what though some,<br>Some base-born children, rebels are become? <br>All are not rebels; some are duteous still,<br>Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will;<br>Thy interest is opposed by those alone<br>Who either know not, or oppose their own.<br>Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid,<br>Behold in black, the livery of their trade,<br>Marshall'd by Form, and by Discretion led,<br>A grave, grave troop, and Smith is at their head,<br>Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian ground<br>For faith in mysteries none more renown'd. <br>Next, (for the best of causes now and then<br>Must beg assistance from the worst of men)<br>Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece,<br>Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece:<br>Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust,<br>To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated lust<br>The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had sold,<br>And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold.<br>But (to wipe off such traces from the mind,<br>And make us in good humour with mankind) <br>Leading on men, who, in a college bred,<br>No woman knew, but those which made their bed;<br>Who, planted virgins on Cam's virtuous shore,<br>Continued still male virgins at threescore,<br>Comes Sumner, wise, and chaste as chaste can be,<br>With Long, as wise, and not less chaste than he.<br>Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause<br>Who, for thy sake, defying penal laws,<br>Were, to support thy honourable plan,<br>Smuggled from Jersey, and the Isle of Man? <br>Are there not Philomaths of high degree<br>Who, always dumb before, shall speak for thee?<br>Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will,<br>One of full growth, others in embryo still,<br>Who may, perhaps, in some ten years, or more,<br>Be ascertain'd that two and two make four,<br>Or may a still more happy method find,<br>And, taking one from two, leave none behind?<br>With such a mighty power on foot, to yield<br>Were death to manhood; better in the field <br>To leave our carcases, and die with fame,<br>Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame.<br>Sackvilles alone anticipate defeat,<br>And ere they dare the battle, sound retreat.<br>But if persuasions ineffectual prove,<br>If arguments are vain, nor prayers can move,<br>Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe<br>Why talk of Burton? why to Scotland go?<br>Is there not Oxford? she, with open arms,<br>Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms: <br>Shall for thy love her former loves resign,<br>And jilt the banish'd Stuarts to be thine.<br>Bow'd to the yoke, and, soon as she could read,<br>Tutor'd to get by heart the despot's creed,<br>She, of subjection proud, shall knee thy throne,<br>And have no principles but thine alone;<br>She shall thy will implicitly receive,<br>Nor act, nor speak, nor think, without thy leave.<br>Where is the glory of imperial sway<br>If subjects none but just commands obey? <br>Then, and then only, is obedience seen,<br>When by command they dare do all that's mean:<br>Hither, then, wing thy flight, here fix thy stand,<br>Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand.<br>Gods! with what joy, (for Fancy now supplies,<br>And lays the future open to my eyes)<br>Gods! with what joy I see the worthies meet,<br>And Brother Litchfield Brother Sandwich greet!<br>Blest be your greetings, blest each dear embrace;<br>Blest to yourselves, and to the human race. <br>Sickening at virtues, which she cannot reach,<br>Which seem her baser nature to impeach,<br>Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bosom hurl'd,<br>Outrageous, search the corners of the world,<br>Ransack the present times, look back to past,<br>Rip up the future, and confess at last,<br>No times, past, present, or to come, could e'er<br>Produce, and bless the world with such a pair.<br>Phillips, the good old Phillips, out of breath,<br>Escaped from Monmouth, and escaped from death, <br>Shall hail his Sandwich with that virtuous zeal,<br>That glorious ardour for the commonweal,<br>Which warm'd his loyal heart and bless'd his tongue,<br>When on his lips the cause of rebels hung;<br>Whilst Womanhood, in habit of a nun,<br>At Medenham lies, by backward monks undone;<br>A nation's reckoning, like an alehouse score,<br>Whilst Paul, the aged, chalks behind a door,<br>Compell'd to hire a foe to cast it up,<br>Dashwood shall pour, from a communion cup, <br>Libations to the goddess without eyes,<br>And hob or nob in cider and excise.<br>From those deep shades, where Vanity, unknown,<br>Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone,<br>Cursed in herself, by her own thoughts undone,<br>Where she sees all, but can be seen by none;<br>Where she, no longer mistress of the schools,<br>Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools,<br>Or hears it at a distance, in despair<br>To join the crowd, and put in for a share, <br>Twisting each thought a thousand different ways,<br>For his new friends new-modelling old praise;<br>Where frugal sense so very fine is spun,<br>It serves twelve hours, though not enough for one,<br>King shall arise, and, bursting from the dead,<br>Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head.<br>Burton (whilst awkward affectation hung<br>In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue,<br>Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads speak,<br>Ignorant of both, new Latin and new Greek, <br>Not such as was in Greece and Latium known,<br>But of a modern cut, and all his own;<br>Who threads, like beads, loose thoughts on such a string,<br>They're praise and censure; nothing, every thing;<br>Pantomime thoughts, and style so full of trick,<br>They even make a Merry Andrew sick;<br>Thoughts all so dull, so pliant in their growth,<br>They're verse, they're prose, they're neither, and they're both)<br>Shall (though by nature ever both to praise)<br>Thy curious worth set forth in curious phrase; <br>Obscurely stiff, shall press poor Sense to death,<br>Or in long periods run her out of breath;<br>Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame,<br>Adam could not have found a proper name,<br>Whilst, beating out his features to a smile,<br>He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Style.<br>Hush'd be all Nature as the land of Death;<br>Let each stream sleep, and each wind hold his breath;<br>Be the bells muffled, nor one sound of Care,<br>Pressing for audience, wake the slumbering air; <br>Browne comes--behold how cautiously he creeps--<br>How slow he walks, and yet how fast he sleeps--<br>But to thy praise in sleep he shall agree;<br>He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee.<br>Physic, her head with opiate poppies crown'd,<br>Her loins by the chaste matron Camphire bound;<br>Physic, obtaining succour from the pen<br>Of her soft son, her gentle Heberden,<br>If there are men who can thy virtue know,<br>Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe, <br>Shall, like a scholar, stop their rebel breath,<br>And in each recipe send classic death.<br>So deep in knowledge, that few lines can sound<br>And plumb the bottom of that vast profound,<br>Few grave ones with such gravity can think,<br>Or follow half so fast as he can sink;<br>With nice distinctions glossing o'er the text,<br>Obscure with meaning, and in words perplex'd,<br>With subtleties on subtleties refined,<br>Meant to divide and subdivide the mind, <br>Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe,<br>The scowling Blackstone bears the train of law.<br>Divinity, enrobed in college fur,<br>In her right hand a new Court Calendar,<br>Bound like a book of prayer, thy coming waits<br>With all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates.<br>Loyalty, fix'd on Isis' alter'd shore,<br>A stranger long, but stranger now no more,<br>Shall pitch her tabernacle, and, with eyes<br>Brimful of rapture, view her new allies; <br>Shall, with much pleasure and more wonder, view<br>Men great at court, and great at Oxford too.<br>O sacred Loyalty! accursed be those<br>Who, seeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes,<br>Who prostitute to kings thy honour'd name,<br>And soothe their passions to betray their fame;<br>Nor praised be those, to whose proud nature clings<br>Contempt of government, and hate of kings,<br>Who, willing to be free, not knowing how,<br>A strange intemperance of zeal avow, <br>And start at Loyalty, as at a word<br>Which without danger Freedom never heard.<br>Vain errors of vain men--wild both extremes,<br>And to the state not wholesome, like the dreams,<br>Children of night, of Indigestion bred,<br>Which, Reason clouded, seize and turn the head;<br>Loyalty without Freedom is a chain<br>Which men of liberal notice can't sustain;<br>And Freedom without Loyalty, a name<br>Which nothing means, or means licentious shame. <br>Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil,<br>In Oxford's stubborn and untoward soil<br>To rear this plant of union, till at length,<br>Rooted by time, and foster'd into strength,<br>Shooting aloft, all danger it defies,<br>And proudly lifts its branches to the skies;<br>Whilst, Wisdom's happy son but not her slave,<br>Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave,<br>Free from the dull impertinence of thought,<br>Beneath that shade, which thy own labours wrought <br>And fashion'd into strength, shalt thou repose,<br>Secure of liberal praise, since Isis flows,<br>True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed,<br>Nor longer, like a harlot, lust for Tweed,<br>And those old wreaths, which Oxford once dared twine<br>To grace a Stuart brow, she plants on thine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Charles+Churchill">Charles Churchill</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=354710" data-title="The Candidate de Charles Churchill" data-description="This poem was written in , on occasion of the contest between the Earls of Hardwicke and Sandwich for the High-stewardship of the University of Cambridge, vacant by the death of the Lord Chancellor Hardwicke. The spirit of party ran high in the Un..."></div> </div> </div>

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