x.x.xVI. SANDYS' GHOST; OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.

This satire owed its origin to the fact that Sir Samuel Garth was about to publish a new translation of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_.

George Sandys--the old translator--died in 1643.

Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit, And pleasure about town; Read this ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin:

For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well j.a.panned avails To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night, With saucer eyes of fire, In woeful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly squire.

Rare Imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth, Like puppy tame that uses To fetch and carry, in his mouth, The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity, To rhyming and the devil?

A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without.

Now as he scratched to fetch up thought, Forth popped the sprite so thin; And from the key-hole bolted out, All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff composed most duly; The squire he dropped his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.

"Ho! Master Sam," quoth Sandys' sprite, "Write on, nor let me scare ye; Forsooth, if rhymes fall in not right, To Budgell seek, or Carey.

"I hear the beat of Jacob's drums, Poor Ovid finds no quarter!

See first the merry P---- comes[197]

In haste, without his garter.

"Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers!

Garth at St. James's, and at White's, Beats up for volunteers.

"What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom Burnett or Tom D'Urfey may, John Dunton, Steele, or anyone.

"If Justice Philips' costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses; They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses.

"Let Warwick's muse with Ashurst join, And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's: Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervas.

"Lansdowne himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady, Shall join with Frowde in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady.

"Ye ladies too draw forth your pen, I pray where can the hurt lie?

Since you have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.

"Now, Tonson, 'list thy forces all, Review them, and tell noses; For to poor Ovid shall befall A strange metamorphosis.

"A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour;"

"To what" (quoth squire) "shall Ovid change?"

Quoth Sandys: "To waste paper".

[Footnote 197: The Earl of Pembroke, probably.--_Roscoe_.]

x.x.xVII. SATIRE ON THE WHIG POETS.

This is practically the whole of Pope's famous Epistle to Arbuthnot, otherwise the _Prologue to the Satires_. The only portion I have omitted, in order to include in this collection one of the greatest of his satires, is the introductory lines, which are frequently dropped, as the poem really begins with the line wherewith it is represented as opening here.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence, While pure description held the place of sense?

Like gentle f.a.n.n.y's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream.

Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;-- I wished the man a dinner, and sat still.

Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; I never answered,--I was not in debt.

If want provoked, or madness made them print, I waged no war with Bedlam or the Mint.

Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smiled; if right, I kissed the rod.

Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.

Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel graced these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds: Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Even such small critic some regard may claim, Preserved in Milton's or in Shakespeare's name.

Pretty! in amber to observe the forms Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms!

The things, we know, are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.

Were others angry: I excused them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due.

A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess?

The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,[198]

Just writes to make his barrenness appear, And strains, from hard-bound brains, eight lines a-year; He, who still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest satire bade translate, And owned that nine such poets made a Tate.[199]

How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe!

And swear, not Addison himself was safe.

Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.

View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caused himself to rise; d.a.m.n with faint praise, a.s.sent with civil leer, And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged, And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praise:-- Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?

Who would not weep, if Atticus[200] were he?

Who though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaistered posts, with claps, in capitals?

Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad?[201]

I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded (now be-rhymed so long) No more than thou, great George! a birthday song.

I ne'er with wits or witlings pa.s.sed my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor like a puppy, daggled through the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouthed, and cried, With handkerchief and orange at my side; But sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castillan state.

Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sat full-blown Bufo, puffed by every quill;[202]

Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song.

His library (where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head), Received of wits an undistinguished race, Who first his judgment asked, and then a place: Much they extolled his pictures, much his seat, And flattered every day, and some days eat: Till grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise To some a dry rehearsal was a.s.signed, And others (harder still) he paid in kind, Dryden alone (what wonder?) came not nigh, Dryden alone escaped this judging eye: But still the great have kindness in reserve, He helped to bury whom he helped to starve.

May some choice patron bless each gray goose quill!

May every Bavias have his Bufo still!

So, when a statesman wants a day's defence, Or envy holds a whole week's war with sense, Or simple pride for flattery makes demands, May dunce by dunce be whistled off my hands!

Blest be the great! for those they take away, And those they left me; for they left me Gay; Left me to see neglected genius bloom, Neglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Of all thy blameless life the sole return My verse, and Queensbury weeping o'er thy urn!

Oh, let me live my own, and die so too!

(To live and die is all I have to do:) Maintain a poet's dignity and ease, And see what friends, and read what books I please; Above a patron, though I condescend Sometimes to call a minister my friend.

I was not born for courts or great affairs; I pay my debts, believe, and say my prayers; Can sleep without a poem in my head; Nor know, if Dennis be alive or dead.

Why am I asked what next shall see the light?

Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write?

Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save?

"I found him close with Swift"--"Indeed? no doubt,"

(Cries prating Balbus) "something will come out."