Economy, a Rhapsody, Addressed to Young Poets, Part the First

To you, ye Bards! whose lavish breast requires This monitory lay, the strains belong: Nor think some miser vents his sapient saw, Or some dull cit, unfeeling of the charms That tempt profusion, sings; while friendly Zeal, To guard from fatal ills the tribe he loves, Inspires the meanest of the Muse's train! Like you I loathe the grov'lling progeny, Whose wily arts, by creeping time matur'd, Advance them high on Pow'r's tyrannic throne, To lord it there in gorgeous uselessness, And spurn successless Worth that pines below!

See the rich churl, amid the social sons Of wine and wit regaling! hark, he joins In the free jest delighted! seems to shew A meliorated heart! he laughs, he sings. Songs of gay import, madrigals of glee, And drunken anthems, set agape the board, Like Demea, in the play, benign and mild, And pouring forth benevolence of soul, Till Micio wonder; or, in Shakespeare's line, Obstrep'rous Silence, drowning Shallow's voice, And startling Falstaff and his mad compeers.

He owns 'tis prudence, ever and anon, To smooth his careful brow, to let his purse Ope to a sixpence's diameter. He likes our ways: he owns the ways of wit Are ways of pleasance, and deserve regard. True, we are dainty good society, But what art thou? Alas! consider well, Thou bane of social pleasure, know thyself: Thy fell approach, like some invasive damp Breath'd thro' the pores of earth from Stygian caves, Destroys the lamp of mirth; the lamp which we, Its flamens, boast to guard; we know not how, But at thy sight the fading flame assumes A ghastly blue, and in a stench expires.

True, thou seem'st chang'd; all sainted, all ensky'd: The trembling tears that charge thy melting eyes Say thou art honest, and of gentle kind: But all is false! an intermitting sigh Condemns each hour, each moment giv'n to smiles, And deems those only lost thou dost not lose. Ev'n for a demi-groat this open'd soul, This boon companion, this elastic breast, Revibrates quick, and sends the tuneful tongue To lavish music on the rugged walls Of some dark dungeon. Hence, thou Caitiff! fly; Touch not my glass, nor drain my sacred bowl, Monster ingrate! beneath one common sky Why shouldst thou breathe? beneath one common roof Thou ne'er shalt harbour, nor my little boat Receive a soul with crimes to press it down. Go to thy bags, thou Recreant! hourly go, And, gazing there, bid them be wit, be mirth, Be conversation. Not a face that smiles Admit thy presence! not a soul that glows With social purport, bid, or ev'n or morn, Invest thee happy! but when life declines, May thy sure heirs stand titt'ring round thy bed, And, ush'ring in their fav'rites, burst thy locks, And fill their laps with gold, till Want and Care With joy depart, and cry, "We ask no more."

Ah! never, never may th' harmonious mind Endure the worldly! Poets, ever void Of guile, distrustless, scorn the treasur'd gold, And spurn the miser, spurn his deity. Balanc'd with friendship, in the poet's eye The rival scale of int'rest kicks the beam, Than lightning swifter. From his cavern'd store The sordid soul, with self-applause, remarks The kind propensity; remarks and smiles, And hies with impious haste to spread the snare. Him we deride, and in our comic scenes Contemn the niggard form Moliere has drawn: We loathe with justice; but, alas! the pain To bow the knee before this calf of gold, Implore his envious aid, and meet his frown!

But 'tis not Gomez, 'tis not he whose heart Is crusted o'er with dross, whose callous mind Is senseless as his gold, the slighted Muse Intensely loathes. Tis sure no equal task To pardon him who lavishes his wealth On racer, fox-hound, hawk, or spaniel, all But human merit; who with gold essays All but the noblest pleasure, to remove The wants of Genius, and its smiles enjoy.

But you, ye titled youths! whose nobler zeal Would burnish o'er your coronets with fame, Who listen pleas'd when poet tunes his lay, Permit him not in distant solitudes To pine, to languish out the fleeting hours Of active youth; then Virtue pants for praise. That season unadorn'd, the careless bard Quits your worn threshold, and, like honest Gay, Contemns the niggard boon ye time so ill. Your favours then, like trophies giv'n the tomb, Th' enfranchis'd spirit soaring not perceives, Or scorns perceiv'd, and execrates the smile Which bade his vig'rous bloom, to treach'rous hopes And servile cares a prey, expire in vain!—

Two lawless pow'rs, engag'd by mutual hate In endless war, beneath their flags enrol The vassal world: this Avarice is nam'd, That Luxury: 'tis true their partial friends Assign them softer names; usurpers both! That share by dint of arms the legal throne Of just Economy; yet both betray'd By fraudful ministers. The niggard chief List'ning to want, all faithless, and prepar'd To join each moment in his rival's train, His conduct models by the needless fears The slave inspires, while Luxury, a chief Of amplest faith, to Plenty's rule resigns His whole campaign. 'Tis Plenty's flatt'ring sounds Engross his ear; 'tis Plenty's smiling form Moves still before his eye. Discretion strives, But strives in vain, to banish from the throne The perjur'd minion: he, secure of trust, With latent malice to the hostile camp Day, night, and hour, his monarch's wealth conveys.

Ye tow'ring minds! ye sublimated souls! Who, careless of your fortunes, seal and sign, Set, let, contract, acquit, with easier mien Than fops take snuff! whose economic care Your green silk purse engrosses! easy, pleas'd, To see gold sparkle thro' the subtle folds, Lovely as when th' Hesperian fruitage smil'd Amid the verd'rous grove! who fondly hope Spontaneous harvests! harvests all the year! Who scatter wealth, as tho' the radiant crop Glitter'd on ev'ry bough; and ev'ry bough, Like that the Trojan gather'd, once avuls'd Were by a splendid successor supply'd Instant, spontaneous! listen to my lays; For 'tis not fools, whate'er proverbial phrase Have long decreed, that quit with greatest ease The treasur'd gold. Of words indeed profuse, Of gold tenacious, their torpescent soul Clenches their coin, and what electral fire Shall solve the frosty gripe, and bid it flow? 'Tis genius, fancy, that to wild expense Of health, of treasure, stimulates the soul: These with officious care and fatal art Improve the vinous flavour; these the smile Of Cloe soften; these the glare of dress Illume, the glitt'ring chariot gild anew, And add strange wisdom to the furs of Pow'r.

Alas! that he, amid the race of men, That he, who thinks of purest gold with scorn, Should with unsated appetite demand, And vainly court the pleasure it procures! When Fancy's vivid spark impels the soul To scorn quotidian scenes, to spurn the bliss Of vulgar minds, what nostrum shall compose Its fatal tension? in what lonely vale Of balmy Med'cine's various field aspires The bless'd refrigerant? Vain, ah! vain the hope Of future peace, this orgasm uncontroll'd! Impatient, hence, of all the frugal mind Requires; to eat, to drink to sleep, to fill A chest with gold, the sprightly breast demands Incessant rapture; life a tedious load Deny'd its continuity of joy. But whence obtain? philosophy requires No lavish cost; to crown its utmost pray'r Suffice the root-built cell, the simple fleece, The juicy viand, and the crystal stream. Ev'n mild Stupidity rewards her train With cheap contentment. Taste alone requires Entire profusion! Days, and nights, and hours, Thy voice, hydropic Fancy! calls aloud For costly draughts, inundant bowls of joy, Rivers of rich regalement, seas of bliss, Seas without shore! infinity of sweets!

And yet, unless sage Reason join her hand In Pleasure's purchase, pleasure is unsure: And yet, unless Economy's consent Legitimate expense, some graceless mark, Some symptom ill-conceal'd, shall, soon or late, Burst like a pimple from the vicious tide Of acid blood, proclaiming Want's disease Amidst the bloom of shew. The scanty stream, Slow-loit'ring in its channel, seems to vie With Vaga's depth; but should the sedgy pow'r, Vain-glorious, empty his penurious urn O'er the rough rock, how must his fellow streams Deride the tinklings of the boastive rill!

I not aspire to mark the dubious path That leads to wealth, to poets mark'd in vain! But ere self-flatt'ry sooth the vivid breast With dreams of fortune near allay'd to fame, Reflect how few who charm'd the list'ning ear Of satrap or of king her smiles enjoy'd! Consider well what meagre alms repay'd The great Maeonian! sire of tuneful song, And prototype of all that soar'd sublime, And left dull cares below; what griefs impell'd The modest bard of learn'd Eliza's reign To swell with tears his Mulla's parent stream, And mourn aloud the pang "to ride, to run, " To spend, to give, to want, to be undone." Why should I tell of Cowley's pensive Muse, Belov'd in vain? too copious is my theme! Which of your boasted race might hope reward Like loyal Butler, when the lib'ral Charles, The judge of wit, perus'd the sprightly page, Triumphant o'er his foes? Believe not hope, The poet's parasite; but learn alone To spare the scanty boon the Fates decree. Poet and rich! 'tis solecism extreme! 'Tis heighten'd contradiction! in his frame, In ev'ry nerve and fibre of his soul, The latent seeds and principles of want Has Nature wove, and Fate confirm'd the clue.

Nor yet despair to shun the ruder gripe Of Penury: with nice precision learn A dollar's value. Foremost in the page That marks th' expense of each revolving year Place inattention. When the lust of praise, Or honour's false idea, tempts thy soul To slight frugality, assure thine heart That danger's near. This perishable coin Is no vain ore. It is thy liberty; It fetters misers, but it must alone Enfranchise thee. The world, the cit-like world, Bids thee beware; thy little craft essay; Nor, piddling with a tea-spoon's slender form, See with soup-ladles devils gormandize.

Economy! thou good old aunt! whose mien, Furrow'd with age and care, the wise adore, The wits contemn! reserving still thy stores To cheer thy friends at last! why with the cit Or bookless churl, with each ignoble name, Each earthly nature, deign'st thou to reside? And shunning all, who by thy favours crown'd Might glad the world, to seek some vulgar mind, Inspiring pride, and selfish shapes of ill? Why with the old, infirm, and impotent, And childless, love to dwell, yet leave the breast Of youth unwarn'd, unguided, uninform'd? Of youth, to whom thy monitory voice Were doubly kind? for, sure, to youthful eyes, (How short soe'er it prove) the road of life Appears protracted; fair on either side The Loves, the Graces play, on Fortune's child Profusely smiling: well might youth essay The frugal plan, the lucrative employ, Source of their favour all the live-long day, But Fate assents not. Age alone contracts His meagre palm, to clench the tempting bane Of all his peace, the glitt'ring seeds of care!

O that the Muse's voice might pierce the ear Of gen'rous youth! for youth deserves her song. Youth is fair virtue's season, virtue then Requires the pruner's hand; the sequent stage, It barely vegetates; nor long the space Ere, robb'd of warmth, its arid trunk display Fell Winter's total reign. O lovely source Of gen'rous foibles, youth! when op'ning minds Are honest as the light, lucid as air, As fost'ring breezes kind, as linnets gay, Tender as buds, and lavish as the spring! Yet, hapless state of man! his earliest youth Cozens itself; his age defrauds mankind.

Nor deem it strange that rolling years abrade The social bias. Life's extensive page, What does it but unfold repeated proofs Of gold's omnipotence? With patriots, friends, Sick'ning beneath its ray, enervate some, And others dead, whose putrid name exhales A noisome scent, the bulky volume teems: With kinsmen, brothers, sons, moist'ning the shroud, Or honouring the grave, with specious grief Of short duration, soon in Fortune's beams Alert, and wond'ring at the tears they shed.

But who shall save, by tame prosaic strain, That glowing breast where wit with youth conspires To sweeten luxury? The fearful Muse Shall yet proceed, tho' by the faintest gleam Of hope inspir'd, to warn the train she loves.