Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear
He gropes his breeches with a Monarch's air.
For arts like these preferr'd, admir'd, caress'd,
They first invade your table, then your breast;
Explore your secrets with insidious art,
Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;
Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay,
Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

All crimes are safe but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues,

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By numbers here from shame or censure free,

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This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse.

The sober trader at a tatter'd cloak

Wakes from his dream, and labors for a joke;

With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,

And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.

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Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;

Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,

Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.
Has Heaven reserv'd, in pity to the poor,

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No pathless waste, or undiscover'd shore?
No secret island in the boundless main?
No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain?
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
And bear Oppression's insolence no more.
This mournful truth is ev'rywhere confess'd,
SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D:

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But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold:
Where won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd,
The groom retails the favors of his lord.

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But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries
Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:
Rais'd from some pleasing dream of wealth and pow'r,
Some pompous palace, or some blissful bow'r,
Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight

185

Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light;
Swift from pursuing horrors take your way,
And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;
Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam,

190

For where can starving merit find a home?
In vain your mournful narrative disclose,
While all neglect, and most insult your woes.
Should Heav'n's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,

And spread his flaming palace on the ground,
Swift o'er the land the dismal rumor flies,

And public mournings pacify the skies;
The laureat tribe in venal verse relate,
How virtue wars with persecuting fate;
With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;
The price of boroughs and of souls restore,
And raise his treasures higher than before:
Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,
The polish'd marble and the shining plate,
Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from angry Heav'n another fire.

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Could'st thou resign the park and play content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,

210

Some hireling senator's deserted seat;

And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,

For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;

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There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,

Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;

And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,

Despise the dainties of a venal lord:

There ev'ry bush with Nature's music rings,
There ev'ry breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours security shall smile,
And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.
Prepare for death if here at night you roam,
And sign your will before you sup from home.
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.
Yet ev'n these heroes, mischievously gay,
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;

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Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine;
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,
And shun the shining train, and golden coach.

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In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close, And hope the balmy blessings of repose;

Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,

The midnight murd'rer bursts the faithless bar;
Invades the sacred hour of silent rest,

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And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,
With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.
Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band,

Whose ways and means support the sinking land:

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Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring,
To rig another convoy for the king.

A single gaol, in ALFRED's golden reign,

Could half the nation's criminals contain;

Fair justice, then, without constraint ador'd,

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Held high the steady scale, but sheath'd the sword;

No spies were paid, no special juries known,

Blest age! but, ah, how diff'rent from our own!

Much could I add, but see the boat at hand,

The tide retiring calls me from the land:

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Farewell!-When youth, and health, and fortune spent
Thou fly'st for refuge to the Wilds of Kent;
And, tir'd like me with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times;
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
In virtue's cause once more exert his rage,
Thy satire point, and animate thy page.

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PERFATORY NOTE ON VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES

The Vanity of Human Wishes was written and published when Johnson was thirty-nine. In the ten years since London he had continued writing for the Gentleman's Magazine, but his contributions diminished in number as his independent writings increased. Among these is the Life of Savage, one of his most brilliant performances. He had also finished his unsuccessful tragedy Irene, had begun the Dictionary, had written up two volumes of Parliamentary Debates from the notes of hired listeners, and had struck off a great number of reviews, translations, brief biographies, and ephemeral essays.

By this time he acquired some reputation. His tragedy was soon presented by Garrick, and the publication of The Vanity of Human Wishes, a month before the performance, helped to win for it the fairly respectful hearing which the London public granted it.

The poem was written at Hampstead, a place now consecrated by many literary associations. Johnson told Steevens: 'I wrote the first seventy lines in the course of one morning. The whole was composed before I threw a single couplet on paper' (Johnsonian Miscellanies 2. 313), and he afterwards recalled writing a hundred lines of it in one day. He sold the poem for fifteen guineas.

Garrick used to say: 'When Johnson lived with the Herveys, and saw a good deal of what was passing in life, he wrote his London, which is lively and easy. When he became more retired he gave us his Vanity of Human Wishes, which is as hard as Greek. Had he gone on to imitate another satire, it would have been as hard as Hebrew.' Nevertheless he had expected to imitate other satires of Juvenal, for he had them all in his head.'

At a glance The Vanity of Human Wishes is seen to possess more weight and solemn dignity than London. It

is a more serious performance. It contains more of Johnson himself, and less of Juvenal. To be sure he has followed the order of topics in his original-desire of power, of eloquence, of military glory, of long life, of beautybut these are not the main topics of his criticism. The poem is deeply tinged with his constitutional melancholy, brooding upon the vicissitude of things and the futility of endeavor. It deplores blind and passionate devotion to the achievement of any one aim. It denounces such evils of his time as corruption in public and private life, pretense, sycophancy, hardness of heart, prostitution of literature to mere gain, and the neglect of merit; against such abuses he contended for the rest of his life.