THE DREAM. TO S r. Charles Duncomb.  
By R. GOLD, A Schoolmaster in a Village of North-Wiltshire.  
LONDON, Printed for A. Baldwin in Warwick-Lane. M.DCC   

The Dream.  

ON my hard Fate as late I pondering lay,  
Spent and bowed down beneath the Toils of Day,  
By weary Nature to repose constrained  
I slept at last, and thus in Sleep complained.  
Ah Wretch! to this unhappy Clime confined.  
Lost to my Friends, and cut from human kind;  
A Clime where gentle Zephyrs never blow,  
Where frozen Gods keep Court in Ice and Snow.  
The rigid Winter's here come early on,  
With August brought, and scarce with April gone.  
In other places Nature looks but bare,  
Some marks of Spring continue all the Year;  
But every Winter stripped her naked here.   

The Miry Glebe imprisons Man and Beast,  
And there must come a Drowth to be released.  
No Converse does the tedious Hours beguile,  
But Love and Friendship fly this barbarous Soil.  
None here for aught but Mammon will repair,  
And Life has no cessation from its Care.  
Even Honesty itself is banished hence,  
And Ignorance sets up for Innocence.  
The Natives are such Brutes, so homely bred,  
They're of a piece with that on which they tread;  
Strangers to Virtue, to all liberal Arts;  
Their Oxen and their Swine have all their Hearts,  
Creatures of equal Intellectual Parts.  
Among each other endless Feuds they sow,  
And Malice lays Manure to make 'em grow.  
In Courts and Senates let them strive and jar,  
Wrangle in Cities, clamour at the Bar.  
But this is strange even in this abject Life,  
Where Matter fails, to find an equal Strife.  
No mutual Trust between 'em e'er presides;  
And Knav'ry follows, when 'tis Interest guides.  
Thus Slander, Strife, and Spite triumphant reign,  
Among these Clumsy Blockheads of the Plain.   

How vain are all the Tales the Ancients told  
Of a self-teeming Glebe, and of an Age of Gold?  
Of flowery Shades where Peace supinely reigns?  
Of faultless Nymphs, and of the faithful Swains?  
'Tis all Idea— but by Fancy wrought,  
The idle Roving of a wand'ring Thought.  
Even Cowley, who a Rural Life had long  
Adored, and made it Deathless in his Song;  
When to the Fields he for that Blessing came,  
Found all their boasted Innocence a Name;  
And Chertsea stands (to contradict his Rhimes)  
Blamed in his Prose to all succeeding times.   

What Path can here derided Virtue take?  
What Music can the sighing Muses make?  
Without Converse they lose their Force and Fire,  
And Reason back does to its Spring retire.  
The long remove from Mirth, from Wit and Arts,  
Sets us beneath our very natural Parts.  
If we're nor rising, we go down the Hill,  
For Knowledge knows no mean of standing still.  
The brightened Armour glitters to the Sun,  
But only using keeps the Polish on.   

Thus doomed to Dulness, here I buried lie;  
O low, obscure, inglorious Destiny!  
My Youth has vainly, idly took its flight,  
Unknown to Profit, Learning, and Delight.  
Deprived of all that can improve or please,  
I live in Deserts, yet deprived of Ease:  
Whilst envious Fortune here my Head employs  
In barren Labour, and eternal Noise.  
Deprived of London, then too little prized,  
Before I knew the Blessing I despised.  
For towns, like Tallies, Man for Man does fit,  
And Wit does keenest whet itself on Wit.  
Oh Noble City! but too late I mourn  
My Fortune, banished never to return.  
I would not have it thought, my Wish intends  
Great Matters— No, free from ambitious Ends:  
Only a Human Fate my Hope invites,  
And Innocence, in which my Soul delights.  
None better could than I contented live,  
With little, or from little, more would give.  
But here I live not, in this Brutal Den  
Banished from Town, from Manners, and from Men.   

'Twas here methought a Glorious Form appeared,  
Yet Awful, as a Goddess long revered.  
Her Monumental Tower the Skies outbraved,  
And on her Front was fair AUGUSTA graved.  
And why, said she, dost thou thus sighing lie?  
Why all despondence, yet relief so nigh?  
He that does set so many Captives free,  
He will, her must, he shall deliver Thee.   

So bright a Form, Words of such pleasing sound,  
Oppress with Pleasure, and with Joy confound.  
The Glorious Shape perciev'd my deep Amaze,  
I would have spoke, but I could only gaze.   

knowst thou not Me? what Country is there found,  
What Nation where my Name is not renowned?  
Let Vulgar Names, said she, resign to Fate,  
I can already boast of more than Mortal Date:  
This Privilege the British Glory gives,  
I'm only then to die, when nothing lives.  
Quite from the rising to the setting Sun,  
As vast a round as his, my Fame has run.  
Let it be either Traffic, Peace or War,  
What City sends her Naval towers so far?  
Who o'er the Ocean so triumphant rides?  
What Shores are watered with such wealthy Tides?  
Beneath my Feet my Thames for ever flows,  
And for my Profit never takes repose.  
But shifting Tides to Sea, from Sea to Land,  
Do our own Stores, and all the World's command:  
While on her Billows to my Hand she brings  
The Noblest, Richest, and Remotest things.  
Tho round my Walls you scarce perceive a Vine,  
Yet half the Vintage of the Year is mine,  
And every Lombard Shop an Indian Mine.  
What other Town does there so nobly stand  
For Soil, for Health, for Pleasure and Command?  
What City does beside, so Lordly rise?  
And sit so near a Neighbour to the Skies?  
Who less fears War? and when a War does cease,  
Who Richlier does adorn the Arts of Peace?  
What Shoals of People pour through every Street!  
In passing on, what Miriads must you meet!  
How gay, how richly clad, where e'er you come!  
What gallant Youths, and Beauties in their Bloom!  
Not brighter shyves by night the Milky Way,   

Than in my Streets the Charming Sex by Day.  
Who sooner can than I such Sums produce,  
For self-Magnificence, or Public Use?  
Who can her Hand, for Wealth, extend so far,  
And with such ready Loans defray a War?  
Loans that to Lewis gave such loud Alarms,  
He liked the Sound, worse than the Clank of Arms.  
He saw in War the Nerves of War increase,  
He saw, advised, and strait consents to Peace.  
But herein most I pride; this Wealth, these Powers,  
No Mercenary Troops defend, no Towers  
Rise up in my Defence, my Safety's found  
Within myself; no Ditches here surround  
My Walls; my Thames flows freely in her Bed,  
To no forced Channels like a Captive led.  
FREEDOM in all, in every part appears,  
Choice gives the Sway in all succeeding Years.  
Amongst ourselves we raise the Good, the Wise,  
Virtue and Labour make the Chosen rise.  
Kings of some Empires want our Wealth, our Power;  
A Duncomb lends a Million in an Hour.  
Our Wealth the Spanish Indies does uphold,  
And from our Iron Mines we send them Gold.  
Yet Kings receive but what the People give;  
They make him Rich, and yet in plenty live.  
They name the Sum, and we forestall the Day;  
Others less quick to take, than We to pay.  
AUGUSTA this great Blessing gives, that she  
Makes all her Sons not only Rich, but Free.   

Thou knowst me now, believe what I impart,  
I've named the Man shall raise thy drooping Heart.  
Stay then no longer thus lamenting here,  
But hope a milder Heaven, and kinder Air,  
The rising of thy better Stars are near.  
Once were thy Shades even with his Presence blest,  
When Thee, even Thee, he singled from the rest;  
And kindly smiling on thy Rural Lays,  
Crowned them at once both with Reward and Praise.  
'Tis He I mean, who does our Captives free  
From more than an Egyptian Slavery:  
'Tis He, that shall at last provide for Thee.  
'Tis He that everlasting Honour gains  
By Nobly striking off my Debtors Chains.  
Husbands He to their Wives again does give;  
He heard their Dying Cries, and bids'em live.  
So Mighty Paul, and Silas, when they were  
Imprisoned, prayed, and found the Angel there:  
The Shackles broke, the Doors all open flew;  
But Duncomb's Angel stoops not to so few.  
At every Prison, at every Jail does call,  
And, like an Act of Grace, he manumits them all.   

'Twas here she paused, smiling with such a Grace▪  
No Furrow seen, no Wrinkle in her Face.  
The Awful Dread, which first my Senses struck,  
Dissolved to Pleasure by her Charming Look.  
Let Cheating Priests use little Arts to fright,  
But why should Poets their false Fictions write?  
Clad in a Stygian Vest, with scattered Locks,  
The Raving Priestess Heavenly Power invokes.  
Black Fumes arise, and from the trembling Ground,  
Sad Murmurs, breaking through the Temple, sound:  
And Flames from the unkindled Altars rise,  
As raised by Magic Songs, with horrid Cries.  
Such the Contrivances by Priests of old,  
When Pious Stories to the Crowd they told.  
Thus Hell and Horror to the Gods they join,  
And make them Terrible, to be Divine.  
Poets no more let Verse and Truth dispute,  
Nor Human Crimes to Deities impute.  
Let Tyrants choose to govern Men by Fear,  
The Gods are gentle, but Mankind severe.  
Not so AUGUSTA:  
For She, the Glorious Genius of our Isle,  
Softened her Godhead with a Human Smile.  
I found the Heavenly Vision gave Consent;  
So Poor a Bard might give his Passion vent.   

Encouraged thus, I gently raised my Voice:  
Say, Goddess, how our Sh'riff became the Choice  
Of crowding Throngs, who echoing his Name,  
Did him their Darling Magistrate proclaim.  
Say, Goddess, how does he become your Theme,  
That Name so lately injured in Extreme?  
An Envious Race I know his Ruin sought,  
Declare then how the mighty Change was wrought.  
Th' Effect must spring from some Stupendous Cause,  
Where Fair AUGUSTA gives such vast Applause.   

As Stormy Nights and dark Eclipses may  
Set greater Value on succeeding Day:  
So Malice raging without Rule or Form,  
Exalted him, and raised him by the Storm.  
Easie, and Rich, in Innocence secure,  
He would not bend with little Arts, procure  
Success to Projects hatched against the State,  
Nor help th' Exchequer Cheat, but met his Fate,  
Braving the Faction, and their utmost Hate.  
Unseasonable Virtue out of time,  
Was Duncomb's Fault, and that his only Crime.  
He knowing well the narrow self-Design,  
Shunning base Profit, did his Place resign.  
But this the bold Projectors could not bear,  
He must be guilty, that themselves may share,  
With double Joy, the Vengeance and the Prize,  
Two thirds their Avarice could scarce suffice.  
Through thick and thin the Furious Leaders drive,  
Set raging out, and like a Storm arrive.  
These ruin'd, fall, and others prostrate yield,  
And wide Destruction covers all the Field.  
Orphans lament, the desolate Widow weeps,  
Thousands undone, and yet the Nation sleeps.   

Here human Malice might itself display,  
And many dark Designs expose to Day.  
Here painted to the Life, the haughty Crew  
Might in true Colours be exposed to View.  
But I forbear, nor shall their Rage inspire  
A Heavenly Breast with like ill-natured Fire.  
Let this suffice, expect the happy Day,  
When all the Birds of Night and those of Prey  
Shall to the Deserts fly, to make the Virtuous way.  
It is enough I disappoint their Aim,  
Secure the Guiltless in their Wealth and Fame,  
And fix in Honour Duncomb's injured Name.  
Such is the Temper of an English Soul,  
It yields to Softness, but abhors Control.  
The frighted World all armed in his Defence,  
Who either had good Nature or good Sense.  
Tired with their Spite, and all their Hopes overpast  
To ruin him, they left the Chase at last,  
But sullenly, just as the Bear withdraws,  
The Lamb redeemed, that filled his griping Paws.  
By the known Laws he did himself acquit,  
Rescued by Heaven from Malice, and from Wit,  
From Bribes, and Power, from the devouring Jaw  
Of high Oppression, to take place as Law.  
The City sensible, what Men conspire  
Against his Innocence, they soon took Fire;  
Touched with his Sufferings, knowing his Desert,  
All with one Voice, Unanimous in Heart,  
My Sons advance him to the Shrieval Name,  
Where now he honours That, and gives the Nation Fame.   

Our Royal Master by this time was come,  
As late with Laurel, crowned with Olive Home.  
Never of all our Martial Kings, from Heaven  
To Britain has there yet a Prince been given,  
Who sooner did in Camps arrive at Fame,  
Or past more Dangers to a Deathless Name.  
Nor did the shining Chase of Glory cease,  
Till he had crowned his Martial Toils with Peace.  
The Hero's Heat drives no cool Thought away,  
His People long for Peace, without Delay  
He gloriously procures the wished for Day.  
Plenty and Safety, with their Brooding Wings  
Extended wide, produce all useful things;  
In Peace the Ploughman reaps, in Peace the Poet sings:  
To happy England had not Fate decreed,  
That from that Glorious Pair none should succeed,  
So much th' expecting World seemed to require,  
From Mary's Virtue, and from Nassau's Fire.  
Nature, deficient to so great a Task,  
Would nothing give, when we too much did ask.  
We were ungrateful for the present Store,  
Worthless of what we had, yet craving more.  
Those who from Tyranny redeem the Land,  
In Fame's large Temple shall for ever stand.  
Greater than they, whose Conquest Trophies rear,  
Such the Camilli, such the Decii were:  
Whose Names in Story are more Sacred far  
Than theirs, who happy in Invasive War,  
Brought Western Gold, and Eastern Spices home;  
These were admired, but those beloved in Rome.   

This Glorious King returning to our Isle,  
Received th' intended Martyr with a Smile;  
Pleased to bestow on injured Innocence  
Favours, which leave to Malice no Pretence.  
Whom the King honours, and the People choose,  
To such a one who can Applause refuse,  
Fit for the Praises of the chastest Muse?  
Let then his unjust Sufferings be repaid  
By Praises due; for since my Walls were laid,  
Never a Subject more befriended Trade.  
Who in his Office ever raised so high  
AUGUSTA's Name for Hospitality?  
What Table through the Nation does afford  
So vast a Plenty as his Shrieval Board?  
Who for all sorts so fitly does prepare?  
The Great, the Poor, are equally his Care;  
And Wit and Virtue still are welcome there.  
Mean while the sparkling Wines around him move;  
Th' Inspiring Nectar which the Muse's love.  
Who e'er the City's Interest studied more,  
Or better Laws proposed to feed the Poor?  
Nor does he, splitting on the Common Shelf;  
Propose to others, what he shuns himself.  
To give by Driblets (which is chief done)  
Is but to keep the Needy starving on.  
He lays out his Relief at nobler Rates,  
His Doles a Market, and his Gifts, Estates.   

I here had answered, but the Dame withdrew,  
And with her Sleep retired, and left me too;  
But left th' Impression deep upon my Mind  
Of Duncomb honoured, and Augusta kind.   

Forgive me, Sir, if thus oppressed with Spleen,  
I treat you with this Visionary Scene:  
Nor let the Muses lose me your Esteem,  
Since they petition only but in Dream:  
In Dreams they live, and chief Dreams regard,  
But most they err, when dreaming of Reward.  
But though my Sleep dissents, I waking near  
Upon that Subject, shall offend your Ear.  
These Melancholy Vapours bred at sight  
Of Winter, with the Spring will take their flight,  
When opening Sweets, and universal Green,  
Produce a Gay Inimitable Scene:  
Tho now with Rains, and blighting Blasts we strive,  
That Glorious Season will again revive.  
The Tuneful Choir through every Field and Grove,  
Will then renew their Music, and their Love.  
With them th' Exulting Muse her Voice shall raise;  
And waking then, I'll sing my Patron's Praise.   
FINIS.