An Essay on History: Epistle the Second

AS eager Fossilists with ardour pore
On the flat margin of the pebbled shore,
Hoping some curious Shell, or Coral-root,
May pay the labours of their long pursuit;
And yield their hand the pleasure to display
Nature's neglected Gems in nice array:
So, GIBBON! toils the mind, whose labour wades
Thro' the dull Chronicle's monastic shades,
To pick from that drear coast, with learned care,
New shells of Knowledge, thinly scatter'd there;
Who patient hears, while cloister'd Dullness tells
The lying legend of her murky cells;
Or strangely mingles, in her phrase uncouth,
Disgusting Lies with unimportant Truth:
How Bishops give (each tort'ring Fiend o'ercome)
Life to the faint, and language to the dumb:
How sainted Kings renounce, with holy dread,
The chaste endearments of their marriage-bed:
How Nuns, entranc'd, to joys celestial mount,
Made drunk with rapture from a sacred fount:
How cunning Priests their dying Lord cajole,
And take his riches to ensure his soul:
While he endows them, in his pious will,
With those dear gifts, the Meadow, and the Mill,
They wisely chronicle his Spirit's health,
And give him Virtue in return for Wealth.
So Hist'ry sinks, by Hypocrites deprest,
In the coarse habit of the cloister drest;
While her weak Sons that noxious air imbibe,
Such are the tales of their monastic tribe!
But let not Pride, with blind contempt, arraign
Each early Writer in that humble train!
No! let the Muse, a friend to every claim,
That marks the Candidate for honest fame,
Be just to patient Worth, severely sunk,
And paint the merits of the modest Monk!
Ye purer minds! who stopt, with native force,
Barbaric Ignorance's brutal course;
Who, in the field of Hist'ry, dark and waste,
Your simple path with steady patience trac'd;
Blest be your labours! and your virtues blest!
Tho' paid with insult, and with scorn opprest,
Ye rescu'd Learning's lamp from total night,
And sav'd with anxious toil the trembling light,
In the wild storm of that tempestuous time,
When Superstition cherish'd every crime;
When meaner Priests pronounc'd with falt'ring tongue,
Nor knew to read the jargon which they sung;
When Nobles, train'd like blood-hounds to destroy,
In ruthless rapine plac'd their savage joy;
And Monarchs wanted ev'n the skill to frame
The letters that compos'd their mighty name.
How strong the mind, that, try'd by ills like these,
Could write untainted with the Time's disease!
That, free from Folly's lie, and Fraud's pretence,
Could rise to simple Truth, and sober Sense!
Such minds existed in the darkest hour
Of blind Barbarity's debasing power.
If mitred TURPIN told, in wildest strain,
Of giant-feats atchiev'd by CHARLEMAIN;
Of spears, that blossom'd like the flowery thorn,
Of ROLAND's magic sword, and ivory horn,
Whose sound was wasted by an angel's wing,
In notes of anguish, to his distant king;
Yet modest AEGINHARD, with grateful care,
In purer colours, and with Nature's air,
Has drawn distinctly, in his clear record,
A juster portrait of this mighty Lord,
Whose forceful lance, against the Pagan hurl'd,
Shone the bright terror of a barbarous world.
Nor on his master does he idly shower
The priestly gifts of supernat'ral Power:
This candid Scribe of Gratitude and Truth,
Correctly paints the Patron of his youth,
Th' imperial Savage, whose unletter'd mind
Was active, strong, beneficent, and kind;
Who, tho' he lov'd the Learned to requite,
Knew not that simplest art, the art to write.
If British GEFFREY fill'd his motley page
With MERLIN's spells, and UTHER's amorous rage;
With fables from the field of Magic glean'd,
Giant and Dragon, Incubus and Fiend;
Yet Life's great drama, and the Deeds of men,
Sage Monk of Malm'sbury! engaged thy pen.
Nor vainly dost thou plead, in modest phrase,
Thy manly passion for ingenuous praise:
'Twas thine the labours of thy Sires to clear
From Fiction's harden'd spots, with toil severe;
To form, with eyes intent on public life,
Thy bolder sketches of internal strife;
And warmly celebrate, with love refin'd,
The rich endowments of thy GLO'STER's mind;
May this, thy Praise, the Monkish pen exempt
From the ungenerous blame of blind Contempt!
Tho' Truth appear to make thy works her care,
The lurking Prodigy still lingers there:
But let not censure on thy name be thrown
For errors, springing from thy age alone!
Shame on the Critic! who, with idle scorn,
Depreciates Authors, in dark periods born,
Because they want, irregularly bright,
That equal Knowledge, and that steadier Light,
Which Learning, in its wide meridian blaze,
Has haply lavish'd on his luckier days!
In all its various paths, the human Mind
Feels the first efforts of its strength confin'd;
And in the field, where History's laurels grow,
Winds its long march superlatively slow:
Like Fruit, whose taste to sweet luxuriance runs
By constant succour from autumnal suns,
This lovely Science ripens by degrees,
And late is fashion'd into graceful ease.
In those enlivening days, when Europe rose
From the long pressure of lethargic woes;
When the Provençal lyre, with roses drest,
By ardent Love's extatic fingers prest,
Wak'd into life the Genius of the West;
When Chivalry, her banners all unfurl'd
Fill'd with heroic fire the splendid world;
In high-plum'd grandeur held her gorgeous reign,
And rank'd each brilliant Virtue in her train;
When she imparted, by her magic glove,
To Honour strength, and purity to Love;
New-moulded Nature on her noblest plan,
And gave fresh sinews to the soul of man:
When the chief model of her forming hand,
Our sable EDWARD, on the Gallic strand,
Display'd that spirit which her laws bestow,
And shone the idol of his captive foe:
Unblest with Arts, th' unletter'd age could yield
No skilful hand, to paint from Glory's field
Scenes, that Humanity with pride must hear,
And Admiration honour with a tear.
Yet Courtesy, with generous Valour join'd,
Fair Twins of Chivalry! rejoic'd to find
A faithful Chronicler in plain FROISSART;
As rich in honesty as void of art.
As the young Peasant, led by spirits keen
To some great city's gay and gorgeous scene,
Returning, with increase of proud delight,
Dwells on the various splendor of the sight;
And gives his tale, tho' told in terms uncouth,
The charm of Nature, and the force of Truth,
Tho' rude engaging; such thy simple page
Seems, O FROISSART! to this enlighten'd age.
Proud of their spirit, in thy writings shewn,
Fair Faith and Honour mark thee for their own;
Tho' oft the dupe of those delusive times,
Thy Genius, foster'd with romantic rhymes,
Appears to play the legendary Bard,
And trespass on the Truth it meant to guard.
Still shall thy Name, with lasting glory, stand
High on the list of that advent'rous band,
Who, bidding History speak a modern Tongue,
From her cramp'd hand the Monkish fetters flung,
While yet depress'd in Gothic night she lay,
Nor saw th' approaching dawn of Attic day.
On the blest banks of Tiber's honoured stream
Shone the first glance of that reviving beam;
Enlighten'd Pontiffs, on the very spot
Where Science was proscrib'd, and Sense forgot;
Bade Learning start from out her mould'ring tomb,
And taught new laurels on her brow to bloom;
Their Magic voice invok'd all Arts, and all
Sprung into glory at the potent call.
As in Arabia's waste, where Horror reigns,
Gigantic tyrant of the burning plains!
The glorious bounty of some Royal mind,
By Heaven inspir'd, and friend, to human kind,
Bids the rich Structure of refreshment rise,
To chear the Traveller's despairing eyes;
Who sees with rapture the new fountains burst,
And, as he slakes his soul-subduing thirst,
Blesses the hand which all his pains beguil'd,
And rais'd an Eden in the dreary wild:
Such praises, LEO! to thy name are due,
From all, who Learning's cultur'd field review,
And to its Fountain, in thy liberal heart,
Trace the diffusive Stream of modern Art.
'Twas not thy praise to animate alone
The speaking Canvass, and the breathing Stone,
Or tides of Bounty round Parnassus roll,
To quicken Genius in the Poet's soul;
Thy Favour, like the Sun's prolific ray,
Brought the keen SCRIBE OF FLORENCE into Day;
Whose subtle Wit discharg'd a dubious shaft,
Call'd both the Friend and Foe of Kingly Craft.
Tho', in his maze of Politics perplext,
Great Names have differ'd on that doubtful text;
Here crown'd with praise, as true to Virtue's side,
There view'd with horror, as th' Assassin's guide;
High in a purer sphere, he shines afar,
And Hist'ry hails him as her Morning-star.
Nor less, O LEO! was it thine to raise
The great Historic Chief of modern days,
The solemn GUICCIARDIN, whose pen severe,
Unsway'd by favour, nor restrain'd by fear,
Mark'd in his close of life, with keen disdain,
Each fatal blemish in thy motley reign;
Who, like OLORUS' Son, of spirit chaste,
And form'd to martial toils, minutely trac'd
The woes he saw his bleeding country bear,
And wars, in which he claim'd no trivial share.
With equal wreaths let DAVILA be crown'd,
Alike in letters and in arms renown'd!
Who, from his country driv'n by dire mischance,
Plung'd in the civil broils of bleeding France,
Maintaining still, in Party's raging sea,
His judgment steady, and his spirit free;
Save when the fierce religion of his Sires
Drown'd the soft zeal Humanity inspires:
Who boldly wrote, with such a faithful hand,
The tragic story of that foreign land,
The hoary Gallic Chief, whose tranquil age
Listen'd with joy to his recording page,
Tracing the scenes familiar to his youth,
Gave his strong sanction to th' Historian's truth.
Oh Italy! tho' drench'd with civil blood,
Tho' drown'd in Bigotry's soul-quenching flood,
Historic Genius, in thy troubles nurst,
Ev'n from the darkness of the Convent burst.
Venice may boast eternal Honour, won
By the bright labours of her dauntless Son,
Whose hand the curtains of the Conclave drew,
And gave each priestly art to public view.
SARPI, blest name! from every foible clear,
Not more to Science than to Virtue dear.
Thy pen, thy life of equal praise secure!
Both wisely bold, and both sublimely pure!
That Freedom bids me on thy merits dwell,
Whose radiant form illum'd thy letter'd cell;
Who to thy hand the noblest; task assign'd,
That earth can offer to a heavenly mind:
With Reason's arms to guard invaded laws,
And guide the pen of Truth in Freedom's cause.
Too firm of heart at Danger's cry to stoop,
Nor Lucre's slave, nor vain Ambition's dupe,
Thro' length of days invariably the same,
Thy Country's liberty thy constant aim!
For this thy spirit dar'd th' Assassin's knife,
That with repeated guilt pursu'd thy life;
For this thy fervent and unweary'd care
Form'd, ev'n in death, thy patriotic prayer,
And, while his shadows on thine eye-lids hung,
"Be it immortal!" trembled on thy tongue.
But not restricted, by the partial Fates,
To the bright cluster of Italian States,
The light of Learning, and of liberal Taste,
Diffusely shone o'er Europe's Gothic waste.
On Tagus' shore, from whose admiring strand
Great GAMA fail'd, when his advent'rous hand
The flag of glorious enterprize unfurl'd,
To purchase with his toils the Eastern world,
The clear OSORIUS, in his classic phrase,
Portray'd the Heroes of those happier days,
When Lusitania, once a mighty name,
Outstripp'd each rival in the chace of Fame:
Mild and majestic, her Historian's page
Shares in the glory of her brightest age.
Iberia's Genius bids just Fame allow
An equal wreath to MARIANA's brow:
Skill'd to illuminate the distant scene,
In diction graceful, and of spirit keen,
His labour, by his country's love endear'd,
The gloomy chaos of her Story clear'd.
He first aspir'd its scatter'd parts to class,
And bring to juster form the mighty mass;
As the nice hand of Geographic art
Draws the vast globe on a contracted chart,
Where Truth uninjur'd sees, with glad surprize,
Her shape still perfect, tho' of smaller size.
Exalted Mind! who felt the People's right,
In climes, where souls are crush'd by Kingly might;
And dar'd, unaw'd before a tyrant's throne,
To make the sanctity of Freedom known!
But short, O Genius! is thy transient hour,
In the dark regions of despotic Power.
As the saint struggle of the solar beam,
When vapours intercept the golden stream,
Pouring thro' parted clouds a glancing fire,
Plays, in short triumph, on some glittering spire;
But while the eye admires the partial ray,
The pale and watery lustre melts away:
Thus gleams of literary splendor play'd,
And thus on Spain's o'erclouded realm decay'd:
While happier France, with longer glory bright,
Caught richer flashes of the flying light.
There, with the dignity of virtuous Pride,
Thro' painful scenes of public service try'd,
And keenly conscious of his Country's woes,
The liberal, spirit of THUANUS rose:
O'er Earth's wide stage a curious eye he cast,
And caught the living pageant as it past:
With patriot care most eager to advance
The rights of Nature, and the weal of France!
His language noble, as his temper clear
From Faction's rage, and Superstition's fear!
In Wealth laborious! amid Wrongs sedate!
His Virtue lovely, as his Genius great!
Ting'd with some marks, that from his climate spring,
He priz'd his Country, but ador'd his King;
Yet with a zeal from slavish awe refin'd,
Shone the clear model of a Gallic mind.
Thou friend of Science! 'twas thy signal praise,
A just memorial of her Sons to raise;
To blazon first, on Hist'ry's brighter leaf,
The laurel'd Writer with the laurel'd Chief!
But O! pure Spirit! what a fate was thine!
How Truth and Reason at thy wrongs repine!
How blame thy King, tho' rob'd in Honour's ray,
Who left thy Fame to subtle Priests a prey,
And tamely saw their murky wiles o'erwhelm
Thy works, the light of his reviving realm!
Tho' Pontiffs execrate, and Kings betray,
Let not this fate your generous warmth allay,
Ye kindred Worthies! who still dare to wield
Reason's keen sword, and Toleration's shield,
In climes where Persecution's iron mace
Is rais'd to massacre the human race!
The heart of Nature will your virtue feel,
And her immortal voice reward your zeal:
First in her praise her fearless champions live,
Crown'd with the noblest palms that earth can give.
Firm in this band, who to her aid advance,
And high amid th' Historic sons of France,
Delighted Nature saw, with partial care,
The lively vigour of the gay VOLTAIRE;
And fondly gave him, with ANACREON's fire,
To throw the hand of Age across the lyre:
But mute that vary'd voice, which pleas'd so long!
Th' Historian's tale is clos'd, the Poet's song!
Within the narrow tomb behold him lie,
Who fill'd so large a space in Learning's eye!
Thou Mind unweary'd! thy long toils are o'er;
Censure and Praise can touch thy ear no more:
Still let me breathe with just regret thy name,
Lament thy soibles, and thy powers proclaim!
On the wide sea of Letters 'twas thy boast
To croud each sail, and touch at every coast:
From that rich deep how often hast thou brought
The pure and precious pearls of splendid Thought!
How didst thou triumph on that subject-tide,
Till Vanity's wild gust, and stormy Pride,
Drove thy strong bark, in evil hour, to split
Upon the fatal rock of impious Wit!
But be thy failings cover'd by thy tomb!
And guardian laurels o'er thy ashes bloom!
From the long annals of the world thy art,
With chemic process, drew the richer part;
To Hist'ry gave a philosophic air,
And made the interest of mankind her care;
Pleas'd her grave brow with garlands to adorn,
And from the rose of Knowledge strip the thorn.
Thy lively Eloquence, in prose, in verse,
Still keenly bright, and elegantly terse,
Flames with bold spirit; yet is idly rash:
Thy promis'd light is oft a dazzling flash;
Thy Wisdom verges to sarcastic sport,
Satire thy joy! and ridicule thy fort!
But the gay Genius of the Gallic soil,
Shrinking from solemn tasks of serious toil,
Thro' every scene his playful air maintains,
And in the light Memoir unrival'd reigns.
Thy Wits, O France! (as e'en thy Critics own)
Support not History's majestic tone;
They, like thy Soldiers, want, in seats of length,
The persevering soul of British strength.
Hail to thee, Britain! hail! delightful land!
I spring with filial joy to reach thy strand:
And thou! blest nourisher of Souls, sublime
As e'er immortaliz'd their native clime,
Rich in Poetic, treasures, yet excuse
The trivial offering of an humble Muse,
Who pants to add, with fears by love o'ercome,
Her mite of Glory to thy countless sum!
With vary'd colours, of the richest die,
Fame's brilliant banners o'er thy Offspring fly:
In native Vigour bold, by Freedom led,
No path of Honour have they fail'd to tread:
But while they wisely plan, and bravely dare,
Their own atchievements are their latest care.
Tho' CAMDEN, rich in Learning's various store,
Sought in Tradition's mine Truth's genuine ore,
The waste of Hist'ry lay in lifeless shade,
Tho' RAWLEIGH's piercing eye that world survey'd.
Tho' mightier Names there cast a casual glance,
They seem'd to saunter round the field by chance,
Till CLARENDON arose, and in the hour
When civil Discord wak'd each mental Power,
With brave desire to reach this distant Goal,
Strain'd all the vigour of his manly soul.
Nor Truth, nor Freedom's injur'd Powers, allow
A wreath unspotted to his haughty brow:
Friendship's firm spirit still his fame exalts,
With sweet atonement for his lesser faults.
His Pomp of Phrase, his Period of a mile,
And all the maze of his bewilder'd Style,
Illum'd by Warmth of Heart, no more offend:
What cannot Taste forgive, in FALKLAND's friend?
Nor flow his praises from this single source;
One province of his art displays his force:
His Portraits boast, with features strongly like,
The soft precision of the clear VANDYKE:
Tho', like the Painter, his faint talents yield,
And sink embarrass'd in the Epic field.
Yet shall his labours long adorn our Isle,
Like the proud glories of some Gothic pile:
They, tho' constructed by a Bigot's hand,
Nor nicely finish'd, nor correctly plan'd,
With solemn Majesty, and pious Gloom,
An awful influence o'er the mind assume;
And from the alien eyes of every Sect
Attract observance, and command respect.
In following years, when thy great name, NASSAU!
Stampt the blest deed of Liberty and Law;
When clear, and guiltless of Oppression's rage,
There rose in Britain an Augustan age,
And cluster'd Wits, by emulation bright,
Diffus'd o'er ANNA's reign their mental light;
That Constellation seem'd, tho' strong its flame,
To want the splendor of Historic fame:
Yet BURNET's page may lasting glory hope,
Howe'er insulted by the spleen of POPE.
Tho' his rough Language haste and warmth denote,
With ardent Honesty of Soul he wrote;
Tho' critic censures on his work may shower,
Like Faith, his Freedom has a saving power.
Nor shalt thou want, RAPIN! thy well-earn'd praise;
The sage POLYBIUS thou of modern days!
Thy Sword, thy Pen, have both thy name endear'd;
This join'd our Arms, and that our Story clear'd:
Thy foreign hand discharg'd th' Historian's trust,
Unsway'd by Party, and to Freedom just.
To letter'd Fame we own thy fair pretence,
From patient Labour, and from candid Sense.
Yet Public Favour, ever hard to fix,
Flew from thy page, as heavy and prolix.
For soon, emerging from the Sophists' school,
With Spirit eager, yet with Judgment cool,
With subtle skill to steal upon applause,
And give false vigour to the weaker cause;
To paint a specious scene with nicest art,
Retouch the whole, and varnish every part;
Graceful in Style, in Argument acute;
Master of every trick, in keen Dispute!
With these strong powers to form a winning tale,
And hide Deceit in Moderation's veil,
High on the pinnacle of Fashion plac'd,
HUME shone the idol of Historic Taste.
Already, pierc'd by Freedom's searching rays,
The waxen fabric of his fame decays.—
Think not, keen Spirit! that these hands presume
To tear each leaf of laurel from thy tomb!
These hands! which, if a heart of human frame
Could stoop to harbour that ungenerous aim,
Would shield thy Grave, and give, with guardian care,
Each type of Eloquence to flourish there!
But Public Love commands the painful task,
From the pretended Sage to strip the mask,
When his false tongue, averse to Freedom's cause,
Profanes the spirit of her antient laws.
As Asia's soothing opiate Drugs, by stealth,
Shake every slacken'd nerve, and sap the health;
Thy Writings thus, with noxious charms refin'd,
Seeming to soothe its ills, unnerve the Mind.
While the keen cunning of thy hand pretends
To strike alone at Party's abject ends,
Our hearts more free from Faction's Weeds we feel,
But they have lost the Flower of Patriot Zeal.
Wild as thy feeble Metaphysic page,
Thy Hist'ry rambles into Sceptic rage;
Whose giddy and fantastic dreams abuse
A HAMPDEN's Virtue, and a SHAKESPEAR's Muse.
With purer Spirit, free from Party strife,
To soothe his evening hour of honour'd life,
See candid LYTTELTON at length unfold
The deeds of Liberty in days of old!
Fond of the theme, and narrative with age,
He winds the lengthen'd tale thro' many a page;
But there the beams of Patriot Virtue shine;
There Truth and Freedom sanctify the line,
And laurels, due to Civil Wisdom, shield
This noble Nestor of th' Historic field.
The living Names, who there display their power,
And give its glory to the present hour,
I pass with mute regard; in fear to fail,
Weighing their worth in a suspected scale:
Thy right, Posterity! I sacred hold,
To fix the stamp on literary Gold;
Blest! if this lighter Ore, which I prepare
For thy supreme Assay, with anxious care,
Thy current sanction unimpeach'd enjoy,
As only tinctur'd with a slight alloy!