To the Right Honourable
JOHN
Earl of
Radnor.

Per varios casus per tot discrimina rerum
Tendimus ---

Virgil

This Essay was wrote soon after the late Earthquake happened, as alluded to, Page 2. It has gone through several Editions. The Author imputes no Merit to the Performance as a Poem; perhaps its being wrote ad Hominem, is its greatest; few or none being so happy, as to be totally exempt from the Evils of Life; the Design of the Author being to recommend to the Great, Beneficence-and to the Unhappy, the bearing the Ills of Life with Decency.
Where Thames profuse, and lavish of his Charms,
In winding Progress, softly glides along;
So softly glides, he lingering seems to stay,
Full fond his favourite Twickenham to embrace;
Beneath the Shade, imbower'd as I lay,
The awful Gloom inspir'd the solemn Song,
Distress the Theme, and Radnor deigns to hear.
Aid me, Melpomene! thou pensive Maid,
But not of plunder'd Provinces to sing;
Nor the dread Horrors of the imbattled Plain,
When fierce Bellona pours her Thunders round,
And all is Ruin-Desolation all-
Nor the tremendous Horrors of Distress,
That roar in Tempest, and Confusion dire,
Extending wide o'er all the troubled Deep;
Nor that Distress so late conspicuous seen,
In the pale Face of those who greatly fear'd
The Earth's Concussion, nor would trust their God;
But vainly thought the Purpose of his Will,
T'evade by dastard Flight-ah! how in vain
Omnipotence to fly?-not these the Cause;
It is domestic Woe that now compells,
The sympathetic Muse to paint the Ravage
Private Distress makes on the Sons of Men;
That fell Distress which robb'd me of my Friend,
The gay, the good, benevolent Alphonso,
Who from the splendent Height of Affluence fell,
To Penury's drear Abyss-stupendious Shock!
Dread Separation!-so th'afflicted Soul,
Struggling to quit the cumberous Load of Flesh,
Would wing its Passage to the Realms of Light.
The well-fill'd Table now no more attracts
The jocund Eye, nor smiling Plenty now
O'er the rich Feast presides; but meagre Want,
With harpy Talon, drives her from the Board:
Nor does the joyous Bowl now sparkling glow,
Flush'd with rich Juice of Grape nectareous,
But pale, depriv'd of all the rosy Hue,
Its Loss bevails in Tears of limpid Streams;
Nor Song, nor Dance, nor Music's soothing Voice,
Is heard-alas! They fly the windflaw'd Roof,
And leave poor Melancholy here alone;
For here she dwells, here counts the snailpac'd Hours,
Whose drauling Course protract a wearied Life;
With Head reclin'd upon her shrivell'd Hand,
But ill supported by her beating Knee,
She sits biting her Nails-her beamless Eye
Sans Motion fixt, or on the Ground, or Wall,
Or lonely Hearth-where her sick Fancy broods,
O'er Fears immense, and sees all Hell arise.
These Ills preponderate, and o'erpoise the Man,
Yet rich Content would bring the Balance ev'n.
But then to lose the Quintessence of Life,
Shut out from Commerce of the social Kind,
Where sprightly Wit, and Elegance of Manners,
Raise high the Fancy, and refine the Soul;
(For sure he's more than Man, or somewhat less,
Who takes no Pleasure in Society)
Or driven to Solitude, or forc'd to bear
The noisy Jargon of Plebeian Tongues,
Converse indelicate! avert it Heav'n!
Ah! who can tell the agonizing Pain,
Which pierceth to the Heart when in our Walk
Fortuitous, we meet a former Friend;
Conscious of Poverty, the down-cast Eye
Would fain the Meeting shun;-but not so oft
As insolent Contempt avoids our Path,
Fleering with Eye askance-ah! dire Reverse;
It was not thus, when happier Fortunes smil'd,
And circling Friends re-eccho'd our Applause;
When the glad Welcome hail'd the obsequious Guest,
And the full Goblet crown'd the genial Day.
Oh! 'tis a Task requires his utmost Art,
To stem the Torrent of Adversity;
To work the Vessel thro' a Sea of Woes,
And bravely head her against proud Disdain.
This must be done-nay more-he must submit
His every Action to be canvass'd o'er,
The Ridicule of every low Buffoon:
What tho' his Eloquence should far exceed
The Ciceronian Stile, should Judgment sound,
Persuasion clear on every Accent hang,
Yet he's not heard, but pass'd unheeded by,
And every Fool can comment on his Words:
What boots it him? that kindly Nature gave,
What Science has improv'd, a Soul full-fraught
With noblest Purposes, and grand Designs;
Yet is he still depress'd-his Views confin'd,
Each rising Act by Disappointment cramp'd;
While keen Reflection preys upon the Sense,
Yet laudable Ambition prompts him on;
But ah! in vain his tow'ring Thoughts repuls'd,
A thousand Schemes distract his tortur'd Brain,
A thousand Passions agitate the Soul,
And all the Man is Chaos and Misrule.
See! black Despondence, with her gloomy Train
Of grisly Horrors hovers o'er the Soul,
Distraction, Frenzy, seizing the sick Heart,
Consign her over to the Fiend Despair,
Which often ends in Dereliction dire,
And sad Distrust of Providential Care;
Prompting to Suicide-inevitable!
Had not thy Goodness, O! all-wise Creator!
Hedg'd in our Being, and so fenc'd it round,
With Love of Life, Self-Preservation strong,
We dare not leap the Boundaries prescrib'd;
Else would weak Man, oppress'd by Woes, rush out
Of Life more oft; for who can tell the Pangs
Of bashful Merit struggling with Distress;
Whose Education generous as his Mind,
Can't brook Servility, or stoop to ask
Mean Pittance from the Hand of Charity:
Not so the Beggar, who without a Blush,
With clamorous Bawl can roar his Wants aloud,
Which not reliev'd he tauntingly returns,
In muttering Curses on the unbounteous Hand;
These, happy in the sordid Dregs of Life,
But little know what real Anguish means.
Ye lordly Worldlings, who now rowl at Ease
To City Feast, or Midnight Masquerade,
How dare ye let the Worthy be depress'd,
And thus confess the Impudence of Wealth?
Cannot ye read this Picture of Distress?
Must it be heighten'd; Must the Look confus'd
And the Grief clouded Eye still speak in vain?
Not so-the truly Great-who glad improve
Each Hint, each Intimation, that their Breast,
Or social Talk suggests both to prevent,
And to assist Distress-to whom kind Heaven
Hath given the Will, largely to dispense,
As largely they possess, whose Eye extends
Even beyond the Circle of Acquaintance,
Joy'd to find Merit in its lone Retreat,
To deal Benevolence diffusive round,
Unbounded-Imitators of their God!
How great to grapple with Adversity,
To wrest the Sceptre from her Iron Hand,
And dash in Pieces her imbitter'd Cup!
Thou Hydra-headed Monster! arduous Task!
More than Herculean Labour it requires
To cope with such a Foe;-how few enjoy
Fit Prowess to engage in equal Fight!
But he whose stubborn Virtue baffles her,
Without the Aid of mean, or servile Arts;
Nor has Recourse to Violence, or Fraud;
And scorns to seek Relief fallacious,
From the intoxicating purple Draught,
A far more glorious Victory has gain'd,
Than Philip's Son or Cæsar e'er could boast.
But 'gainst this Foe what Arms shall we take up?
Shall we in close Attrenchment wait the Assaults?
Or greatly dare her to the open Field?
Shall we with Horace ridicule her Power,
Deride her Force, and laugh her into Shame?
Well might he laugh, when great Augustus smil'd,
And the World's Master own'd him for his Friend:
Warm in the Beams of the Augustan Court,
Th'icy Pangs of Poverty ne'er reach'd him;
It was Mæcenas generous and benign,
Who animated all, and gave new Life,
Else had his Wit in languid Numbers flow'd,
And his unmeaning Satire known no Sting.
Shall we with Seneca, in formal, grave,
Collected Maxims of the pedant Schools,
Summon our boasted Reason to our Aid,
And open War declare? but let us scorn
To take the least Advantage of the Foe-
No-when she presseth sore, with heaviest Woes,
Let us engage her then on equal Terms;
Not when we are immers'd in Wealth immense,
Sufficient Price for mighty Provinces.
Away, ye Babblers of the Stoic Race,
Wise, solemn Fools! Nature is Nature still,
Whate'er your vaunted Apathy and Pride,
Rank Pride and Vanity of Heart, would boast,
Oft prov'd too weak-recoils upon itself,
And gives our Nature the opprobrious Lie.
Great Julius tasted oft desponding Fear,
And wavering doubted ev'n to trust his Gods;
Brutus, in whom the Elements were mix'd
So nice, that to be great and good were one,
Could not survive Philippi's fatal Shock;
Ev'n Cato's rigid Virtue bow'd-a Proof
That mere Philosophy's no equal Match:
Pardon, great Shades! your Virtues I revere,
But ye were Men, and Men cannot but feel.
Oh! let not those, whose Cup's but lightly dash'd-
Who never yet drank deep of dire Distress,
Define the Bitter of the nauseous Draught-
Let not the Hale, who never felt Disease,
Mock at the Sick-too happy far, Health blest,
To judge aright, and draw Conclusions just.
Necessity, like Death, who levels all,
Would share the Empire with our mortal Foe,
Adding new Conquests to his grim Colleague;
Still gaily glutting his voracious Maw,
Too oft the Greatest and the Best his Prey:
Sad Truth! enough to terrify the Soul,
And make her curse the Privilege of Thought.
No more-Adieu! ye solitary Shades,
Engendering Phantoms buzzing all around,
Thick as a Cloud of Gnats on Summer Eve;
Let sprightlier Scenes divert the gloomy Thought,
And brighten Fancy with the gay Delight:
Hail! Radnor's ever-grateful still Retreat,
Where Art and Nature mutually combine,
(Filling the Mind with pleasing Resveries)
To banish Grief, and anxious Care beguile:
Whilst Poetry's gay Sister here enrob'd,
With various Colours of the rosy Morn,
In Draughts diversify'd, suspends the Mind,
Sweetly perplex'd in Approbation-See!
The embattled Heroes live along the Wall,
Wake the Attention, and provoke the Soul
To Deeds of hardy Valour, worthy Fame;
There the droll Piece in grotesque Figure, plays
Upon the Sense, excites the smerking Laugh,
While moodie Melancholy steals away;
Here the cool Grott, and there the cooler Stream,
Whose gentle Current flows clear, deep, serene,
Emblem of Radnor's philosophic Mind-
Enough, my Muse, nor too adventurous soar-
Radnor! tis thine to please, or to instruct,
To form the Manners, or to mend the Heart.