Swell'd with our late successes on the foe,
Which France and Holland wanted power to cross,
We urge an unseen fate to lay us low,
And feed their envious eyes with English loss.
Éach element his dread command obeys,
Who makes or ruins with a smile or frown; Who, as by one he did our nation raise,
So now he with another pulls us down.
Yet, London, empress of the northern clime,
By an high fate thou greatly didst expire; Great as the world's, which, at the death of Time, Must fall, and rise a nobler frame by Fire.
As when some dire usurper Heaven provides, To scourge his country with a lawless sway; His birth, perhaps, some petty village hides, And sets his cradle out of Fortune's way:
Till, fully ripe, his swelling fate breaks out,
And hurries him to mighty mischiefs on:
His prince, surpris'd at first, no ill could doubt,
And wants the power to meet it when 'tis known.
Such was the rise of this prodigious Fire,
Which in mean buildings first obscurely bred, From thence did soon to open streets aspire, And straight to palaces and temples spread.
The diligence of trades and noiseful gain,
And luxury more late, asleep were laid : All was the Night's; and in her silent reign No sound the rest of Nature did invade.
In this deep quiet, from what source unknown,
Those seeds of Fire their fatal birth disclose;
And first few scattering sparks about were blown,
Big with the flames that to our ruin rose.
Then in some close-pent room it crept along,
And, smouldering as it went, in silence fed;
Till th' infant monster, with devouring strong,
Walk'd boldly upright with exalted head.
Now like some rich or mighty murderer,
Too great for prison, which he breaks with gold;
Who fresher for new mischiefs does appear,
And dares the world to tax him with the old:
So scapes th' insulting Fire his narrow jail, And makes small outlets into open air: There the fierce winds his tender force assail, And beat him downward to his first repair.
The winds, like crafty courtezans, withheld
His flames from burning, but to blow them more:
And every fresh attempt he is repell'd
With faint denials weaker than before.
And now no longer letted of his prey,
He leaps up at it with enrag'd desire: O'erlooks the neighbours with a wide survey, And nods at every house his threatening fire.
The ghosts of traitors from the bridge descend,
With bold fanatic spectres to rejoice:
About the fire into a dance they bend,
And sing their sabbath notes with feeble voice.
Our guardian angel saw them where they sate
Above the palace of our slumbering king:
He sigh'd, abandoning his charge to Fate,
And drooping, oft look'd back upon the wing.
At length the crackling noise and dreadful blaze
Call'd up some waking lover to the sight;
And long it was ere he the rest could raise,
Whose heavy eyelids yet were full of night.
The next to danger, hot pursued by Fate,
Half-cloth'd, half-naked, hastily retire:
And frighted mothers strike their breasts too late,
For helpless infants left amidst the fire.
Their cries soon waken all the dwellers near;
Now murmuring noises rise in every street: The more remote run stumbling with their fear, And in the dark men justle as they meet.
So weary bees in little cells repose;
But if night-robbers lift the well-stor'd hive, An humming through their waxen city grows, And out upon each other's wings they drive.
Now streets grow throng'd and busy as by day: Some run for buckets to the hallow'd quire: Some cut the pipes, and some the engines play; And some more bold mount ladders to the fire.
In vain: for from the east a Belgian wind
His hostile breath through the dry rafters sent;
The flames impell'd soon left their foes behind,
And forward with a wanton fury went.
A key of fire ran all along the shore,
And lighten'd all the river with a blaze:
The waken'd tides began again to roar,
And wondering fish in shining waters gaze.
Old father Thames rais'd up his reverend head, But fear'd the fate of Simois would return: Deep in his ooze he sought his sedgy bed,
And shrunk his waters back into his urn.
The Fire, meantime, walks in a broader gross;
To either hand his wings he opens wide:
He wades the streets, and straight he reaches cross,
And plays his longing flames on th' other side.
At first they warm, then scorch, and then they take;
Now with long necks from side to side they feed:
At length grown strong their mother Fire forsake,
And a new colony of Flames succeed.
To every nobler portion of the town
The curling billows roll their restless tide: In parties now they straggle up and down, As armies unoppos'd for prey divide.
One mighty squadron with a side-wind sped, Through narrow lanes his cumber'd fire does haste, By powerful charms of gold and silver led,
The Lombard bankers and the 'Change to waste.
Another backward to the Tower would go,
And slowly eats his way against the wind: But the main body of the marching foe Against th' imperial palace is design'd.
Now day appears, and with the day the king,
Whose early care had robb'd him of his rest:
Far off the cracks of falling houses ring,
And shrieks of subjects pierce his tender breast.
Near as he draws, thick harbingers of smoke
With gloomy pillars cover all the place;
Whose little intervals of night are broke
By sparks, that drive against his sacred face.
More than his guards his sorrows made him known,
And pious tears which down his cheeks did shower:
The wretched in his grief forgot their own;
So much the pity of a king has power.
He wept the flames of what he lov'd so well,
And what so well had merited his love:
For never prince in grace did more excel,
Or royal city more in duty strove.
Nor with an idle care did he behold:
Subjects may grieve, but monarchs must redress; He cheers the fearful, and commends the bold, And makes despairers hope for good success.
Himself directs what first is to be done,
And orders all the succours which they bring: The helpful and the good about him run,
And form an army worthy such a king.
He sees the dire contagion spread so fast,
That where it seizes all relief is vain:
And therefore must unwillingly lay waste
That country, which would else the foe maintain.
So these but wait the owners' last despair,
And what 's permitted to the flames invade; Ev'n from their jaws they hungry morsels tear, And on their backs the spoils of Vulcan lade.
The days were all in this lost labour spent ;
And when the weary king gave place to night,
His beams he to his royal brother lent,
And so shone still in his reflective light.
Night came, but without darkness or repose,
A dismal picture of the general doom;
Where souls distracted when the trumpet blows,
And half unready with their bodies come.
Those who have homes, when home they do repair, To a last lodging call their wandering friends: Their short uneasy sleeps are broke with care,
To look how near their own destruction tends.
Those who have none, sit round where once it was, And with full eyes each wonted room require: Haunting the yet warm ashes of the place,
As murder'd men walk where they did expire.
Some stir up coals and watch the vestal fire,
Others in vain from sight of ruin run;
And while through burning labyrinths they retire,
With loathing eyes repeat what they would shun.
The most in fields like herded beasts lie down,
To dews obnoxious on the grassy floor;
And while their babes in sleep their sorrows drown,
Sad parents watch the remnants of their store.
While by the motion of the flames they guess What streets are burning now, and what are near, An infant waking to the paps would press,
And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear.
No thought can ease them but their sovereign's care, Whose praise th' afflicted as their comfort sing: Ev'n those, whom want might drive to just despair, Think life a blessing under such a king.
Meantime he sadly suffers in their grief,
Outweeps an hermit, and outprays a saint:
All the long night he studies their relief,
How they may be supply'd and he may want.
"O God," said he, "thou patron of my days,
Guide of my youth in exile and distress!
Who me unfriended brought'st, by wondrous ways,
The kingdom of my fathers to possess:
"Be thou my judge, with what unweary'd care I since have labour'd for my people's good; To bind the bruises of a civil war,
And stop the issues of their wasting blood.
"Thou who hast taught me to forgive the ill, And recompense as friends the good misled; If mercy be a precept of thy will,
Return that mercy on thy servant's head.
"Or if my heedless youth has step'd astray, Too soon forgetful of thy gracious hand;
On me alone thy just displeasure lay,
But take thy judgments from this mourning land.
Already labouring with a mighty fate,
She shakes the rubbish from her mounting brow, And seems to have renew'd her charter's date, Which Heaven will to the death of Time allow.
More great than human now, and more august,
Now deify'd she from her fires does rise:
Her widening streets on new foundations trust,
And opening into larger parts she flies.
Before she like some shepherdess did show,
Who sat to bathe her by a river's side;
Not answering to her fame, but rude and low,
Nor taught the beauteous arts of modern pride.
Now like a maiden queen she will behold,
From her high turrets, hourly suitors come; The East with incense, and the West with gold, Will stand like suppliants to receive her doom.
The silver Thames, her own domestic flood,
Shall bear her vessels like a sweeping train; And often wind, as of his mistress proud,
With longing eyes to meet her face again."
The wealthy Tagus, and the wealthier Rhine,
The glory of their towns no more shall boast, And Seyne, that would with Belgian rivers join, Shall find her lustre stain'd, and traffic lost.
The venturous merchant, who design'd more far,
And touches on our hospitable shore,
Charm'd with the splendour of this northern star,
Shall here unlade him, and depart no more.
Our powerful navy shall no longer meet,
The wealth of France or Holland to invade; The beauty of this town without a fleet,
From all the world shall vindicate her trade.
And while this fam'd emporium we prepare,
The British ocean shall such triumphs boast,
That those, who now disdain our trade to share,
Shall rob like pirates on our wealthy coast.
Already we have conquer'd half the war,
And the less dangerous part is left behind:
Our trouble now is but to make them dare,
And not so great to vanquish as to find.
Thus to the eastern wealth through storms we go,
'But now, the Cape once doubled, fear no more;
A constant trade-wind will securely blow,
And gently lay us on the spicy shore.
BY MR. DRY DEN, AND THE EARL OF MULGRAVE.
How dull, and how insensible a beast
Is man, who yet would lord it o'er the rest!
Philosophers and poets vainly strove
In every age the lumpish mass to move:
But those were pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightful way,
Mysterious morals gently to convey
In charming numbers; so that as men grew
Pleas'd with their poems, they grew wiser too.
Satire has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell men freely of their foulest faults;
To laugh at their vain deeds, and vainer though's.
In satire too the wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd, and scorn'd them into shame,
But of these two, the last succeeded best,
As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest.
Yet, if we may presume to blame our guides,
And censure those who censure all besides,
In other things they justly are preferr❜d:
In this alone methinks the ancients err'd;
Against the grossest follies they declaim;
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the talent of each vulgar wit:
Besides 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?
'Tis being devout at play, wise at a ball,
Or bringing wit and friendship to Whitehall.
But with sharp eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lie obscurely in the wisest mind;
That little speck which all the rest does spoil,
To wash off that would be a noble toil,
Beyond the loose-writ libels of this age,
Or the forc'd scenes of our declining stage;
Above all censure too, each little wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit;
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of such correction will have cause to boast.
In such a satire all would seek a share,
And every fool will fancy he is there.
Old story-tellers too must pine and die,
To see their antiquated wit laid by;
Like her, who miss'd her name in a lampoon,
And griev'd to find herself decay'd so soon.
No common coxcomb must be mention'd here:
Not the dull train of dancing sparks appear;
Nor fluttering officers who never fight;
Of such a wretched rabble who would write?
Much less half wits: that 's more against our
For they are fops, the other are but fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than sir Carr?
The cunning courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull knavery makes so much ado;
Till the shrewd fool, by thriving too, too fast,
Like Esop's fox becomes a prey at last.
Nor shall the royal mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too casy, to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other:
Yet sauntering Charles, between his beastly brace,
Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected humour, or a painted face.
In loyal libels we have often told him,
How one has jilted him, the other sold him:
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?
Was ever prince by two at once misled,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnley and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of busy blockheads, shall have here no place;
At council set as foils on Dorset's score,
To make that great false jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains and telling lies.
But there's no meddling with such nauseous men ;
Their very names have tir'd my lazy pen:
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose
Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse.
First, let 's behold the merriest man alive
Against his careless genius vainly strive;
Quit his dear ease, some deep design to lay,
'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Just as good company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at reason or at rule,
He turns himself the best to ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
As boys on holidays let loose to play,
Lay waggish traps for girls that pass that way;
Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress
Some silly cit in her flower'd foolish dress:
So have I mighty satisfaction found,
To see his tinsel reason on the ground:
To see the florid fool despis'd, and know it,
By some who scarce have words enough to show it:
For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker
The sinner, nay sometimes the wittiest speaker:
But 'tis prodigious so much eloquence
Should be acquired by such little sense;
For words and wit did anciently agree,
And Tully was no fool, though this man be:
At bar abusive, on the bench unable,
Show him but mirth, and bait that mirth with wit; Knave on the woolsack, fop at council-table.
That shadow of a jest shall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all mankind to be destroy'd.
So cat transform'd sat gravely and demure,
Till mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure ;
But soon the lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as oddly fly.
Reaching above our nature does no good;
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood;
As by our little Machiavel we find 1
That nimblest creature of the busy kind,
His limbs are crippled, and his body shakes;
Yet his hard mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor companion takes.
What gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see him drag his feeble legs about,
Like hounds ill-coupled? Jowler lugs him still
Through hedges, ditches, and through all that 's ill,
"Twere crime in any man but him alone
To use a body so, though 'tis one's own :
Yet this false comfort never gives him o'er,
These are the grievances of such fools as would
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless errours hurt themselves alone;
Excess of luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease:
To live dissolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Though their whole life 's but intermitting pain:
So much of surfeits, head-aches, claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between:
Well-meaning men, who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasure's sake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay
Too much of pain, we squander life away.
Thus, Dorset, purring like a thoughtful cat,
Marry'd, but wiser puss ne'er thought of that:
And first he worried her with railing rhyme,
Like Pembroke's mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish life,
A teeming widow, but a barren wife;
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar: Swell'd by contact of such a fulsome toad,
Alas! that soaring, to those few that know,
Is but a busy groveling here below,
So men in rapture think they mount the sky,
Whilst on the ground th' entranced wretches lie:
So modern fops have fancy'd they could fly.
As the new earl, with parts deserving praise,
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways,
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights;
Sriving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine notion of a busy man.
And what is that at best, but one, whose mind
Is made to tire himself and all mankind?
For Ireland he would go; faith, let him reign;
For if some odd fantastic lord would fain
Carry in trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him, but admire him too,
But is there any other beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittingly contrives?
Will any dog, that has his teeth and stones,
Refinedly leave his bitches and his bones,
To turn a wheel, and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival dogs enjoy'd?
Yet this fond man, to get a statesman's name,
Forfeits his friends, his freedom, and his fame.
Though satire, nicely writ, no humour stings
But those who merit praise in other things,
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropo's sake;
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary tongue,
For railing smoothly, and for reasoning wrong,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till Fortune, blindly kind as well as he,
Has ill restor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would use in his old sneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker times
Had fam'd for dullness in malicious rhymes.
Mulgrave had much ado to scape the snare,
Though learn'd in all those arts that cheat the fair;
For after all his vulgar marriage-mocks,
With beauty dazzled, Numps was in the stocks;
Deluded parents dry'd their weeping eyes,
To see him catch his tartar for his prize:
Th' impatient town waited the wish'd-for change,
And cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth plot made us with sorrow see,
As his estate, his person too was free:
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move;
To gold he fled from beauty and from love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
"Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and power
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.
And little Sid. for simile renown'd,
Pleasure has always sought but never found :
Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,
His are so bad, sure he ne'er thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His meat and mistresses are kept too long;
But sure we all mistake this pious man,
Who mortifies his person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for sin,
Are only rules of this odd capuchin
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