The History of the Life and Adventures of Mr. Duncan Campell

That very day the youth design'd – must court,
He does – she struck with rapture and delight.
Bespeaks her fancy – strongly – dreams at night.
The yielding fair, the ravish'd youth obtains,
A maid she passes – so his child's free gains,
He has the pleasure, yet is sav'd the pains.
Thus when priest's wench – to cure the growing evil
Poor St. John Baptist must forerun the devil.

But if the ladies fall, at fall of leaf,
Or in the winter – still there's fresh relief;
Let her lace close four months, and if she can,
St. Agnes[7 - See Mr. Campbell's Dedication.] heals the breach and brings the man.
Thus a lewd priest to vapour'd virgins cants,
And into pimps reverts his vestal saints.

O! dire effects of mask'd impiety!
And shall they, Christian muse! have aids from thee;
Wilt thou, like witty heathens, lewdly given,
To a Gehenna metamorphose Heaven?
Wilt thou? – O no – forbid th' unhallow'd song,
Such profanations to Rome's bard belong.
Let one, who gods and goddesses adores,
Paint them like rakes and bullies, bawds, and whores.

Our genii, Campbell, shall be all divine,
Shall high o'er theirs as much distinguish'd shine,
As o'er such priests or chiromancers, thine.
Thine, which does future time's events command
To leap to sight, and in thy presence stand;
Thine, whose eyes glowing with a gifted ray,
New roads of life o'er wisdom's Alps survey,
And guide benighted travellers to day.
Let me, for once, a daring prophet be,
Mark from this hour – and poetry thoul't see
Date a new era from thy book and thee;
Thy book, where, thro' the stories, thou hast laid,
All moral wisdom's to the mind convey'd;
And thus far prophecies each page, that all
Must rise by virtues, or by vices fall.

Poets shall blush to see their wit outdone,
Resume their reason and assert its throne,
Shall fables still for virtue's sake commend;
And wit the means, shall wisdom make its end.

Who hopes to please, shall strive to please by pains,
Shall gaining fame, earn hard whate'er he gains
And Denham's morals join to Denham's strains.
Here paint the Thames[8 - See Cooper's Hill.] 'when running to the sea
Like mortal life to meet eternity.'
There show both kings and subjects 'one excess,
Makes both, by striving, to be greater, less.'
Shall climb and sweat, and falling, climb up still,
Before he gains the height of Cooper's Hill.

In Windsor Forest, if some trifling grace
Gives, at first blush, the whole a pleasing face,
'Tis wit, 'tis true; but then 'tis common-place.
The landscape-writer branches out a wood,
Then digging hard for't finds a silver flood.
Here paints the woodcock quiv'ring in the air,
And there, the bounding stag and quaking hare.
Describes the pheasant's scarlet-circled eye,
And next the slaught'ring gun that makes him die.
From common epithets that fame derives,
By which his most uncommon merit lives.
'Tis true! if finest notes alone could show,
(Tun'd justly high or regularly low,)
That we should fame to these mere vocals give,
Pope more, than we can offer, should receive.
For, when some gliding river is his theme,
His lines run smoother than the smoothest stream;
Not so when thro' the trees fierce Boreas blows,
The period blust'ring with the tempest grows.
But what fools periods read for periods' sake?
Such chimes improve not heads, but make 'em ache;
Tho' strict in cadence on the numbers rub,
Their frothy substance is whip-syllabub;
With most seraphic emptiness they roll,
Sound without sense, and body without soul.

Not such the bards that give you just applause,
Each, from intrinsic worth, thy praises draws,
Morals, in ev'ry page, where'er they look,
They find divinely scatter'd thro' thy book:
They find thee studious with praiseworthy strife,
To smooth the future roads of human life,
To help the weak, and to confirm the strong,
Make our griefs vanish, and our bliss prolong,
With Phineus' equal find thy large desert,
And in thy praise would equal Milton's art.

Some fools, we know, in spite of nature born,
Would make thee theirs, as they are mankind's scorn,
For still 'tis one of truth's unerring rules,
No sage can rise without a host of fools.
Coxcombs, by whose eternal din o'ercome,
The wise in just revenge, might wish them dumb,
Say on the world your dumbness you impose,