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MAC-FLECKNOE; OR, A SATIRE ON THE TRUE BLUE PROTESTANT POET, T. S.1

(1682) All human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus,

young Was called to empire, and had governed long; In prose and verse was owned, without dis

pute, Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate To settle the succession of the state; And, pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, Cried, "Tis resolved! for Nature pleads, that he Should only rule, who most resembles me. Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he, Who stands confirmed in full stupidity. The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense; Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day. Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,

25 And seems designed for thoughtless majesty; Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the

plain, And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign. Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee, Thou last great prophet of tautology! Even I, a dunce of more renown than they, Was sent before but to prepare thy way; And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget,2 came To teach the nations in thy greater name.

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My warbling lute,-the lute I whilom strung, 35
When to King John of Portugal' I sung, -
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-timed oars, before the royal barge,
Swelled with the pride of thy celestial charge; 40
And big with hymn, commander of an host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets tost.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpened thumb, from shore to

shore,
The trebles squeak for fear, the basses roar; .
About thy boat the little fishes throng, 49
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield’st thy papers in thy threshing

hand; St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not even the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology, they fell, That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore, And vowed he ne'er would act Villerius more.' Here stopt the good old sire and wept for

joy, In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, That for anointed dulness he was made.

Close to the walls which fair Augusta' bind, (The fair Augusta much to fears inclined), 65 An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight, There stood of yore, and Barbicans it hight,' A watch-tower once, but now, so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains; . . . .69 Near it a Nursery10 erects its head, Where queens are formed and future heroes

bred, Where unfledged actors learn to laugh and

cry, And little Maximingll the gods defy. Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; 80 But gentle Simkin12 just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanished minds; Pure clinches13 the suburban muse affords, And Panton14 waging harmless war with words. Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well

known, Ambitiously designed his Shadwell's throne. For ancient Decker prophesied long since,

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25 Advowson meant originally the obligation to protect a religious office or institution; hence the passage would seem to mean that hypocrisy and nonsense had come to defend and excuse bis conscience.

1 Mac-Flecknoe is a satire directed against Thomas Shadwell."T. S.," (1640-1692), a minor poet and dramatist of the Restoration. Dryden's poem. The Medal, drew from Shadwell a venomous counter attack, The Medal of John Bayes (i. e. Dryden). This Dryden answered in Mac-Plecknoe. Shadwell is represented in the poem as the son or poetic successor of Richard Flecknoe, an Irish poet, wit, and playwright, and the poem opens with the abdication of Flecknoe as absolute monarch of the kingdom of Nonsense, in favor of Shadwell.

?" This stuff appears to have been sacred to the poorer votaries of Parnassus; and it is somewbat odd that it seems to have been the dress of our poet himself in the entire stages of his fortune." Scott.

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That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense; To whom true dulness should some Psyches

owe, But worlds of Misersls from his pen should

flow; Humorists and Hypocrites, it should pro

duce,Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce.

Now empress Fame had published the reOf Shadwell's coronation through the town. Roused by report of fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, 16 and distant Watling

Street. 17 No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, But scattered limbs of mangled poets lay. Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby is there lay,102 But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way; Bilked 19 stationers for yeomen stood prepared, And Herringman' was captain of the guard. 105 The hoary prince in majesty appeared, High on a throne of his own labours reared. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. His hrows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, And lambent dulness played around his face.111 As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome, So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dulness would main

tain; And, his father's right, and realm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with

sense.
The king himself the sacred unction made,
As king by office, and as priest by trade.
In his sinister hand, instead of ball,

120 He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; “Love's kingdom" to his right he did convey, At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway; Whose righteous lore the prince had practised

young, And from whose loins recorded 21 Psychc22

sprung His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, That nodding seemed to consecrate his head. Just at the point of time, if fame not lie, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly; So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. The admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take. The sire then shook the honours of his head, And from his brows damps of oblivion shed 135 Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, Repelling from his breast the raging god;

At length burst out in this prophetic mood:-“Heavens bless my son! from Ireland let him

reign, Tofar Barbadoes on the western main; Of his dominion may no end be known, And greater than his father's be his throne; Beyond love's kingdom let him stretch his

pen!" He paused, and all the people cried, “Amen." Then thus continued he: “My son, advance 145 Still in new impudence, new ignorance. Success let others teach, learn thou from me Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry. Let Virtuosos in five years be writ, Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit. Let gentle George23 triumph tread the stage, Make Dormiant betray, and Loveit rage; Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit, And in their folly show the writer's wit; Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, 155 And justify their author's want of sense. Let them be all by thy own model made Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid, That they to future ages may be known, Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own: Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same, Allfull of thee, and differing but in name, But let no alien Sedley 24 interpose, To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose. And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst

cull, Trust nature; do not labour to be dull, But write thy best, and top; and, in each line, Sir Formal's25 oratory will be thine: Sir Formal, though unsought, attends thy quill, And does thy northern dedications26 fill. 170 Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame, By arrogating Jonson's hostile name; Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise. Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part: What share have we in nature, or in art? Where did his wit on learning fix a brand, And rail at arts he did not understand? Where made he love in Prince Nicander's 27

vein, Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble

180 When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin,

183 As thou whole Etherege dost transfuse to thine? But so transfused, as oil and waters flow, His always floats above, thine sinks below. This is thy province, this thy wondrous way, New humours to invent for each new play: This is that boasted bias of thy mind, By which one way to dulness 'tis inclined;

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strain? : ..

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Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou art but a kilderkin 28 of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic sleep.
With whate'er gall thou setst thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite;
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen iambics, but mild anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy com-

mand, Some peaceful province in Acrostic land. There thou may'st wings display, and altars

raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways; Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit, Set thy own songs, and sing them to thy lute." He said: but his last words were scarcely

heard; For Bruce29 and Longvil20 had a trap prepared And down they sent the yet declaiming bard. Sinking he left his drugget robe behind, Borne upwards by a subterranean wind. The mantle fell to the young prophet's part; With double portion of his father's art.

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To compass this the triple bond? he broke;
The pillars of the public safety shook;
And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke;
Then, seized with fear, yet still affecting fame,
Usurped a patriot's all-atoning name.
So easy still it proves in factious times,
With public zeal to cancel private crimes.
How safe is treason, and how sacred ill,
Where none can sin against the people's will,
Where crowds can wink, and no offence be

known,
Since in another's guilt they find their own? 185
Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge;
The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge.
In Israel's courts ne'er sat on Abbethdins
With more discerning eyes, or hands more

clean, Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; Swist of despatch, and easy of access. Oh! had he been content to serve the crown, With virtue only proper to the gown; Or had the rankness of the soil been freed From cockle, that oppressed the noble seed; 195 David for him his tuneful harp had strung, And heaven had wanted one immortal song. But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand, And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land. Achitophel, grown weary to possess

200 A lawsul fame, and lazy happiness, Disdained the golden fruit to gather free, And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree.

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A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S' DAY, 22ND

NOVEMBER

1687

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ACHITOPHEL(From Absalom and Achitophel, 1681) Of these the false Achitophel was first; A name to all succeeding ages curst: For close designs, and crooked counsels fit; Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; Restless, unfixed in principles and place; In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace; 155 A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy-body to decay, And o'er-informed the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity, Pleased with the danger, when the waves went

high, He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands, to boast his wit. Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide; Else, why should he, with wealth and honour

blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? Punish a body which he could not please; Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? And all to leave what with his toil he won, To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son;170 Got, while his soul did huddled notions try; And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. In friendship false, implacable in hate; Resolved to ruin, or to rule the state.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,

“Arise, ye more than dead.”
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began;
From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

The diapason closing full in man.

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II What passion cannot music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

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And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not

dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly, and so well.
What passion cannot music raise and quell?

IM
The trumpet's loud clangour

Excites us to arms,
With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.
The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum,

30 Cries, hark! the foes come: Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat.

His valiant peers were placed around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound:

(So should desert in arms be crowned.)
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming eastern bride,
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair. 15

CHORUS
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

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Sharp violins proclaim
Their jealous pangs and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,
Depth of pains, and height of passion, 40
For the fair, disdainful dame.

VI
But, oh! what art can teach,

What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wend their heavenly ways

To mend the choirs above.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touched the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love.)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god;
Sublime on radiant spires' he rode;

When he to fair Olympia pressed,

And while he sought her snowy breast;
Then, round her slender waist he curled,
And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign

of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity! they shout around;
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.

With ravished ears,
The monarch hears;
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

CHORUS
With ravished ears,
The monarch hears;
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

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III

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the blessed above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.

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ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR THE POWER OF MUSIC; AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1697

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician

sung;
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young.

The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;

Flushed with a purple grace

He shows his honest face:
Now, give the hautboys breath; he comes, he

Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;

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Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.

comes.