THE

LOGICIANS REFUTED.

[In imitation of Dean Swift.]

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind:
Reason, they say, belongs to man;
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove, with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione præditum;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em,
And must, in spite of them, maintain,
That man, and all his ways, are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Ie both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court.
They never to the levee go,

To treat as dearest friend a foe:
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.
Fraught with invective they ne'er go,
To folks at Paternoster row:

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pick-pockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly, cringing wit
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He, in his turn, finds imitators:
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes, can act.
Thus, at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite.
'Till reading, I forgot what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed.
A just comparison,-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air
And here my simile unites,
For, in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses.
To wit, most wondrously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For, let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only: as the god
Drove soul to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing:

Well! what of that? out with it-Stealing;

In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But e'en this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance.

Our modern bards! why, what a pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets,
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied;

'The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay?
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham-
paign,

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug.
A window patch'd with paper lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay.
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread,
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave prince William show'd his lamp-black

face.

EPITAPH

ON

DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

Sir,

* A LETTER.

I SEND you 'a small production of the late Dr. Goldsmith, which has never been published, and which might perhaps have been totally lost, had I not secured it. He intended it as a song in the character of Miss Hardcastle, in his admirable comedy of She Stoops to Conquer,' but it was left out, as Mrs. Bulkley, who played the part, did not sing. He sung it himself, in private companies, very agreeably. The tune is a pretty Irish air, called The Humours of Balamagairy,' to which he told me he found it very difficult to adapt words but he has succeeded very happily in these few lines. As I could sing the tune, and was fond of them, he was so good as to give me them, about ding him adieu for that season, little apprehending a year ago, just as I was leaving London, and bidthat it was a last farewell. I preserve this little relic, in his own hand-writing, with an affectionate

care.

I am Sir,

Your humble servant,

JAMES BOSWELL.

ЕРІТАРН

ON

EDWARD PURDON.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLOKY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-

From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks or satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew,-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty heaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her,-
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found when she was dead,-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That, had she lived a twelvemonth more,She had not died to-day.

A SONNET.

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Mira, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Mira follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity-college, Dublin; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

FROM THE

ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY

SONG. 1

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way:

And still as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter day.

SONG.

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,

To former joys, recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain!

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo;

And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

A

PROLOGUE,

Written and spoken by the

POET LABERIUS,

A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

Preserved by Macrobius.⋆

WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half-alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside.
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift, I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
'The old buffoon' will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

This translation was first printed in one of our Author's earliest works, "The Present State of Learning in Europe,' 12mo. 1759.

COME, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hartford, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,

Which thy own season paints; when nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.

And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless; so that scarce
The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulfed
To shake the sounding marsh; or, from the shore,
The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,
And sing their wild notes to the listening waste.
At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,
And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more
Th' expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold;
But, full of life and vivifying soul,

Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads them

thin,

[plough

Fleecy and white o'er all-surrounding heaven.
Forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous, th' impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well-used
Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.
There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe.
While thro' the neighb'ring fields the sower stalks,
With measured step; and liberal throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground:

The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.

Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious man
Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!
Ye softening dews, ye tender showers descend!
And temper all, thou world-reviving sun,
Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live
In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,
Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear:
Such themes as these the rural Maro sung
To wide imperial Rome, in the full height
Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined.
In ancient times, the sacred plough employ'd
The kings and awful fathers of mankind:"

And some, with whom corapared your insect tribes
Are but the beings of a summer's day,
Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm
Of mighty war; then, with victorious hand,
Disdaining little delicacies, seized

The plough, and greatly independent lived.
Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough;
And o'er your hills, and long-withdrawing vales,
Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun,
Luxuriant and unbounded! As the sea
Far through his azure turbulent domain

Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores
Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports;
So with superior boon may your rich soil,
Exuberant, nature's better blessings pour
O'er every land, the naked nations clothe,
And be th' exhaustless granary of a world!

Nor only through the lenient air this change,
Delicious, breathes: the penetrative sun,
His force deep-darting to the dark retreat
Of vegetation, sets the steaming power
At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth,
In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green!
Thou smiling nature's universal robe!
United light and shade! where the sight dwells
With growing strength, and ever-new delight.

From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill, Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs, And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye. The hawthorn whitens, and the juicy groves Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees, Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd, In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales; Where the deer rustle through the twining brake, And the birds sing conceal'd. At once array'd In all the colours of the flushing year, By nature's swift and secret-working hand, The garden glows, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance; while the promised fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze Of sweet-briar hedges I pursue my walk; Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, And see the country far diffused around,

[drops

One boundless blush, one white empurpled shower
Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye
Hurries from joy to joy; and, hid beneath
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

If brush'd from Russian wilds a cutting gale
Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings
The clammy mildew; or dry-blowing, breathe
Untimely frost; before whose baleful blast
The full-blown Spring through all her foliage

shrinks

Joyless and dead, a wide dejected waste.
For oft, engender'd by the hazy north,
Myriads on myriads, insect armies warp
Keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat,
Through buds and bark, into the blacken'd core
Their eager way. A feeble race! yet oft
The sacred sons of vengeance; on whose course
Corrosive famine waits, and kills the year.
To check this plague, the skilful farmer chaff
And blazing straw before his orchard burns;
Till, all involved in smoke, the latent foe
From every cranny suffocated falls;
Or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust
Of pepper, fatal to the frosty tribe:

Or, when the envenom'd leaf begins to curl,
With sprinkled water drowns them in their nest
Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill,
The little trooping birds unwisely scares.

Be patient, swains: these cruel-seeming winds Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep repress'd Those deepening clouds on clouds surcharged with

rain

That, o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,

A

In endless train, would quench the summer blaze, And, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd year.

The north-east spends his rage: he now shut up
Within his iron cave, th' effusive south
Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven
Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.
At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,
Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees,
In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails
Along the loaded sky; and mingling deep,
Sits on th' horizon round a settled gloom:
Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed,
Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,
And full of every hope and every joy;

The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze
Into a perfect calm; that not a breath
Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,
Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves
Of aspin tall. Th' uncuriing floods diffused
In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse
Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all,
And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks
Drop the dry sprig, and, mute imploring, eye
The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense,
The plumy people streak their wings with oil,
To throw the lucid moisture trickling off;
And wait th' approaching sign to strike, at once,
Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales,
And forests, seem, impatient, to demand
The promised sweetness. Man superior walks
Amid the glad creation, musing praise,
And looking lively gratitude. At last,
The clouds consign their treasures to the fields;
And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool
Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow
In large effusion o'er the freshen'd world.
The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard,
By such as wander through the forest-walks,
Beneath th' umbrageous multitude of leaves.
But who can hold the shade, while heaven descends
In universal bounty, shedding herbs,
And fruits, and flowers, on nature's ample lap?
Swift fancy fired anticipates their growth;
And, while the milky nutriment distils,
Beholds the kindling country colour round.

Thus all day long the full-distended clouds
Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth
Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;
Till, in the western sky, the downward sun
Looks out effulgent, from amid the flush
Of broken clouds, gay shifting to his beam.
The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes
Th'illumined mountain; through the forest streams,
Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,
Far smoking o'er th' interminable plain,
In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.
Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs
around

Full swell the woods; their every music wakes,
Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks
Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills,
And hollow lows responsive from the vales,
Whence, blending all, the sweeten'd zephyr springs.
Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
Shoots up immense, and every hue unfolds,
In fair proportion running from the red,

To where the violet fades into the sky.
Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds
Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism;
And, to the sage instructed eye, unfold
The various twine of light, by thee disclosed
From the white mingling maze, Not so the boy :
He, wondering, views the bright enchantment bend,
Delightful, o'er the radiant fields, and runs
To catch the falling glory; but amazed
Beholds th' amusive arch before him fly,
Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds,
A soften'd shade, and saturated earth
Awaits the morning beam, to give to light,
Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes,
The balmy treasures of the former day.

Then spring the living herbs, profusely wild,
O'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power
Of botanist to number up their tribes:
Whether he steals along the lonely dale,
In silent search; or through the forest, rank
With what the dull incurious weeds account,
Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain-rock,
Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow.
With such a liberal hand has nature flung
Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,

Innumerous mix'd them with the nursing mould, The moistening current, and prolific rain.

But who their virtues can declare? who pierce, With vision pure, into these secret stores Of health, and life, and joy? the food of man, While yet he lived in innocence, and told A length of golden years, unflesh'd in blood; A stranger to the savage arts of life, Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease; The lord, and not the tyrant, of the world,

[race

[sport,

The first fresh dawn then waked the gladden'd Of uncorrupted man, nor blush'd to see The sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam. For their light slumbers gently fumed away; And up they rose as vigorous as the sun, Or to the culture of the willing glebe, Or to the cheerful tendence of the flock. Meantime the song went round; and dance and Wisdom, and friendly talk, successive, stole Their hours away. While in the rosy vale Love breathed his infant sighs from anguish free, And full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain, That, inly thrilling, but exalts it more. Nor yet injurious act, nor surly deed, Was known among those happy sons of heaven; For reason and benevolence were law. Harmonious nature too look'd smiling on. Clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales, And balmy spirit all. The youthful sun Shot his best rays; and still the gracious clouds Dropp'd fatness down; as o'er the swelling mead The herds and flocks, commixing, play'd secure. This when, emergent from the gloomy wood, The glaring lion saw, his horrid heart Was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy, For music held the whole in perfect peace: Soft sigh'd the flute: the tender voice was heard, Warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round Applied their quire; and winds and waters flow'd In consonance. Such were those prime of days.

But now those white unblemish'd manners,
The fabling poets took their golden age, [whence
Are found no more amid these iron times,
These dregs of life! Now the distemper'd mind
Has lost that concord of harmonious powers,
Which forms the soul of happiness; and all
Is off the poise within; the passions all
Have burst their bounds; and reason, half-extinct
Or impotent, or else approving, sees

The foul disorder. Senseless and deform'd,
Convulsive anger storms at large; or, pale
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
Base envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loosens every power.
Even love itself is bitterness of souf,
A pensive anguish, pining at the heart;
Or, sunk to sordid interests, feels no more
That noble wish, that never-cloy'd desire,
Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone
To bless the dearer object of its flame.
Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief,
Of life impatient, into madness swells,
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.
These, and a thousand mix'd emotions more,
From ever-changing views of good and ill
Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind

With endless storm; whence, deeply-rankling, grows

The partial thought, a listless unconcern,
Cold and averting from our neighbour's good;
Then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles,
Coward deceit, and ruffian violence:

At last, extinct each social feeling, fell
And joyless inhumanity pervades
And petrifies the heart. Nature, disturb'd,
Is deem'd vindictive, to have changed her course.
Hence, in old dusky time, a deluge came;
When the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd
The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,
With universal burst, into the gulf;
And o'er the high-piled hills of fractured earth
Wide dash'd the waves in undulation vast;
Till, from the centre to the streaming clouds,
A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.

The seasons since have, with severer sway,
Oppress'd a broken world: the Winter keen
Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot
His pestilential heats. Great Spring, before,
Green'd all the year, and fruits and blossoms blush'd
In social sweetness on the self-same bough.
Pure was the temperate air: an even calm