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"The Wretch is indigent and poor, / Who brooding sits o'er his ill-gotten Store; / Trembling with Guilt, and haunted by his Sin, / He feels the rigid Judge within"

— Somervile, William (1675-1742)

Author

Somervile, William (1675-1742)

Work Title

An Imitation of the Ninth Ode of the Fourth Book of Horace.

Place of Publication

London

Publisher

Printed for Bernard Lintot

Date

1727

Metaphor

"The Wretch is indigent and poor, / Who brooding sits o'er his ill-gotten Store; / Trembling with Guilt, and haunted by his Sin, / He feels the rigid Judge within"

Metaphor in Context

Virtue conceal'd obscurely dies,
Lost in the mean Disguise
Of abject Sloth, depress'd, unknown.
Rough in its native Bed the unwrought Diamond lies,
Till Chance, or Art, reveal its Worth,
And call its latent Glories forth;
But when its radiant Charms are view'd,
Becomes the Idol of the Croud,
And adds new Lustre to the Monarch's Crown.
What British Harp can lie unstrung,
When Stanhope's Fame demands a Song?
Upwards, ye Muses, take your wanton Flight,
Tune ev'ry Lyre to Stanhope's Praise,
Exert your most triumphant Lays,
Nor suffer such Heroick Deeds to sink in endless Night.
The golden Tagus shall forget to flow,
And Ebro leave its Channel dry,
E'er Stanhope's Name to Time shall bow,
And lost in dark Oblivion lie.
Where shall the Muse begin her airy Flight?
Where first direct her dubious Way?
Lost in Variety of Light,
And dazled in Excess of Day.
Wisdom, and Valour, Probity, and Truth,
At once upon the labouring Fancy throng,
The Conduct of old Age, the Fire of Youth,
United in one Breast perplex the Poet's Song.
Those Virtues which dispers'd and rare
The Gods too thriftily bestow'd,
And scatter'd to amuse the Croud,
When former Heroes were their Care,
T'exert at once their Pow'r divine
In thee, Brave Chief, collected shine.
So from each lovely blooming Face
Th' ambitious Artist stole a Grace,
When in one finish'd Piece he strove
To paint th' all-glorious Queen of Love.
Thy provident unbiass'd Mind
Knowing in Arts of Peace, and War,
With indefatigable Care,
Labours the Good of Human Kind:
Erect in Dangers, modest in Success,
Corruption's everlasting Bane,
Where injur'd Merit finds Redress,
And worthless Villains wait in vain.
Tho' fawning Knaves besiege thy Gate,
And court the honest Man they hate;
Thy steady Virtue charges through,
Alike unerring to subdue,
As when on Almanara's Plain the scatter'd Squadrons flew.
Vain are th' Attacks of Force or Art,
Where Cæsar's Arm defends a Cato's Heart.
Oh! could thy gen'rous Soul dispense
Through this unrighteous Age its sacred Influence;
Could the base Crowd from thy Example learn
To trample on their impious Gifts with Scorn,
With Shame confounded to behold
A Nation for a Trifle sold,
Dejected Senates should no more
Their Champion's Absence mourn,
Contending Boroughs should thy Name return;
Thy bold Philippicks should restore
Britannia's Wealth, and Pow'r and Fame,
Nor Liberty be deem'd an empty Name,
While Tyrants trembled on a foreign Shore.
No swelling Titles, Pomp, and State,
The Trappings of a Magistrate,
Can dignify a Slave, or make a Traytor great.
For, careless of external Show,
Sage Nature dictates whom t'obey,
And we the ready Homage pay,
Which to superior Gifts we owe.
Merit like thine repuls'd an Empire gains,
And Virtue, tho' neglected, reigns.
The Wretch is indigent and poor,
Who brooding sits o'er his ill-gotten Store;
Trembling with Guilt, and haunted by his Sin,
He feels the rigid Judge within.
But they alone are bless'd, who wisely know
T'enjoy the little which the Gods bestow,
Proud of their glorious Wants, disdain
To barter Honesty for Gain;
No other Ill but Shame they fear,
And scorn to purchase Life too dear:
Profusely lavish of their Blood,
For their dear Friends or Country's Good,
If Britain conquer, can rejoice in Death,
And in triumphant Shouts resign their Breath.