The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead With Explanatory Notes on his Writings, and His life written by Captain Edward Thompson. With a Head of the Author, From a Painting by Mr. Gainsborough |
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| MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. |
 | The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead |  |
137
MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.
139
SONG, Addressed to the Ladies.
I
Ye Belles, and ye Flirts, and ye pert little Things,Who trip in this frolicsome round,
Prithee tell me from whence this indecency springs,
The sexes at once to confound?
What means the Cock'd Hat, and the masculine air,
With each motion design'd to perplex?
Bright eyes were intended to languish, not stare,
And softness the test of your sex,
Dear Girls,
And softness the test of your sex.
140
II
The girl, who on beauty depends for support,May call ev'ry art to her aid;
The Bosom display'd, and the Petticoat short,
Are samples she gives of her trade:
But you, on whom Fortune indulgently smiles,
And whom Pride has preserv'd from the snare,
Should slily attack us with coyness and wiles,
Not with open and insolent air,
Brave Girls,
Not with, &c.
III
The Venus, whose statue delights all mankind,Shrinks modestly back from the view,
And kindly shou'd seem by the artist design'd
To serve as a model for you:
Then learn with her beauties to copy her air,
Nor venture too much to reveal;
Our fancies will paint what you cover with care,
And double each charm you conceal,
Sweet Girls,
And double, &c.
141
IV
The blushes of Morn, and the mildness of May,Are charms which no art can procure:
Oh! be but yourselves, and our homage we'll pay,
And your empire is solid and sure:
But if, Amazon-like, you attack your Gallants,
And put us in fear of our lives,
You may do very well for Sisters and Aunts,
But, believe me, you'll never be Wives,
Poor Girls,
Believe me, &c.
142
A NEW OCCASIONAL SONG
[_]
As performed by Mr. Beard in the character of a Recruiting Serjeant, at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden, in the Entertainment of The Fair.
I
In story we're toldHow our Monarchs of old
O'er France spread their royal domain;
But no annals shall show
Her pride laid so low,
As when brave George the Second did reign,
Brave Boys!
As when brave, &c.
143
II
Of Roman and GreekLet Fame no more speak;
Tho' their arms did the Old World subdue,
Through the nations around
Let her trumpet now sound,
How Britons have conquer'd the New,
Brave Boys!
How Britons have, &c.
III
East, West, North, and South,Our cannons loud mouth
Shall the rights of our Monarch maintain;
On America's strand
Amherst limits the Land,
Boscawen gives law on the Main,
Brave Boys!
Boscawen gives, &c.
144
IV
Each fort, and each town,We still make our own,
Cape Breton, Crown Point, Niagar;
Guardelupe, Senegal,
And Quebec's mighty fall,
Shall prove we've no equal in war,
Brave Boys!
Shall prove we've, &c.
V
Though Conflans did boastHe wou'd conquer our coast,
Our thunder soon made Monsieur mute;
Brave Hawke wing'd his way,
Then pounc'd on his prey,
And gave him an English salute,
Brave Boys!
And gave him, &c.
145
VI
At Minden you knowHow we frighten'd the foe,
While homeward their army now steals,
“Though,” they cry, “British bands
“Are too hard for our hands,
“Begar! we can beat them in Heels,
Parbleu!
Begar! we, &c.
VII
Whilst our Heroes from homeFor laurels thus roam,
Should the Flat-bottom'd Boats but appear,
Our Militia shall show
No wooden-shoed foe
Can with Freemen in battle compare,
Brave boys!
Can with Freemen, &c.
146
VIII
Your Fortunes and Lives,Your Children and Wives,
To defend, 'tis the time now or never:
Then let each Volunteer
To the Drum-head repair—
King George and Old England for ever!
Brave Boys!
King George, &c.
147
SONG,
Sung by Mr. Beard in the Entertainment of Apollo and Daphne.
I
The sun from the East tips the mountains with gold;The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold!
Hear! the lark's early matin proclaims the new day,
And the Horn's chearful summons rebukes our delay.
CHORUS.
With the sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vye,While jocund we follow the Hounds in full cry.
II
Let the Drudge of the Town make Riches his sport;The Slave of the State hunt the smiles of a Court;
148
But innocence still gives a zest to our joy.
With the sports, &c.
III
Mankind are all hunters in various degree;The Priest hunts a Living—the Lawyer a Fee,
The Doctor a Patient—the Courtier a Place,
Though often, like us, he's flung-out in the chace.
With the sports, &c.
IV
The Cit hunts a Plumb—while the Soldier hunts Fame,The Poet a Dinner—the Patriot a Name;
And the practis'd Coquette, tho' she seems to refuse,
In spite of her airs, still her Lover pursues.
With the sports, &c.
149
V
Let the Bold and the Busy hunt Glory and Wealth;All the blessing we ask is the blessing of Health,
With Hound and with Horn thro' the woodlands to roam,
And, when tired abroad, find Contentment at home.
With the sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vye,
While jocund we follow our Hounds in full cry.
While jocund we follow our Hounds in full cry.
150
SONG,
Sung by Mr. Beard at the Annual Meeting of the President, Vice-Presidents, Governors, &c. of the London Hospital.
Of Trophies and Laurels I mean not to sing,
Of Prussia's brave Prince, or of Britain's good King:
Here the Poor claim my song; then the art I'll display,
How you all shall be gainers—by giving away.
Derry down.
Of Prussia's brave Prince, or of Britain's good King:
Here the Poor claim my song; then the art I'll display,
How you all shall be gainers—by giving away.
Derry down.
The cruse of the widow, you very well know,
The more it was emptied, the fuller did flow:
So here with your Purse the like wonder you'll find;
The more you draw out, still—the more left behind.
Derry down.
The more it was emptied, the fuller did flow:
So here with your Purse the like wonder you'll find;
The more you draw out, still—the more left behind.
Derry down.
The Prodigal here without danger may spend;
That ne'er can be lavish'd, to Heaven we lend;
And the Miser his purse-strings may draw without pain,
For what miser won't give—when giving is Gain?
Derry down.
That ne'er can be lavish'd, to Heaven we lend;
151
For what miser won't give—when giving is Gain?
Derry down.
The Gamester, who sits up whole days and whole nights,
To hazard his health and his fortune at White's;
Much more to advantage his Betts he may make,
Here, set what he will, he will double his Stake.
Derry down.
To hazard his health and his fortune at White's;
Much more to advantage his Betts he may make,
Here, set what he will, he will double his Stake.
Derry down.
The Fair-one, whose heart the Four Aces controul,
Who sighs for Sans-prendre, and dreams of a Vole,
Let her here send a tithe of her gains at Quadrille,
And she'll ne'er want a friend—in victorious Spadille.
Derry down.
Who sighs for Sans-prendre, and dreams of a Vole,
Let her here send a tithe of her gains at Quadrille,
And she'll ne'er want a friend—in victorious Spadille.
Derry down.
Let the Merchant, who trades on the perilous sea,
Come here, and insure, if from loss he'd be free;
A Policy here from all danger secures,
For safe is the Venture—which Heaven insures.
Derry down.
Come here, and insure, if from loss he'd be free;
A Policy here from all danger secures,
For safe is the Venture—which Heaven insures.
Derry down.
152
The Stock-jobber too many subscribe without fear,
In a Fund which for ever a Premium must bear;
Where the Stock must still rise, and where Scrip will prevail,
Tho' South-Sea, and India, and Omnium, should fail.
Derry down.
In a Fund which for ever a Premium must bear;
Where the Stock must still rise, and where Scrip will prevail,
Tho' South-Sea, and India, and Omnium, should fail.
Derry down.
The Churchman likewise his advantage may draw,
And here buy a Living, in spite of the Law—
In Heaven, I mean; then, without any fear,
Let him purchase away—here's no Simony here.
Derry down.
And here buy a Living, in spite of the Law—
In Heaven, I mean; then, without any fear,
Let him purchase away—here's no Simony here.
Derry down.
Ye Rakes, who the joys of Hymen disclaim,
And seek, in the ruin of Virtue, a fame;
You may here boast a triumph consistent with duty,
And keep, without guilt, a Seraglio of Beauty.
Derry down.
And seek, in the ruin of Virtue, a fame;
You may here boast a triumph consistent with duty,
And keep, without guilt, a Seraglio of Beauty.
Derry down.
153
If from Charity then such advantages flow,
That you still gain the more—the more you bestow;
Here's the place will afford you rich profit with ease:
When the Bason comes round—be as rich as you please.
Derry down.
That you still gain the more—the more you bestow;
Here's the place will afford you rich profit with ease:
When the Bason comes round—be as rich as you please.
Derry down.
Then a health to that Patron, whose grandeur and store
Yield aid and defence to the Sick and the Poor;
Who no Courtier can flatter, no Patriot can blame:
But, our President's here—or I'd tell you his name.
Derry down.
Yield aid and defence to the Sick and the Poor;
Who no Courtier can flatter, no Patriot can blame:
But, our President's here—or I'd tell you his name.
Derry down.
154
BALLAD.
Long, Roger in vain
Strove Cic'ley to gain,
And that Something he wanted she knew;
Yet still she reply'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.
Strove Cic'ley to gain,
And that Something he wanted she knew;
Yet still she reply'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.
Quoth Roger, Next Fair
I'll deck out your hair
With a Top-knot, green, yellow, or blue.
No Top-knot, pray, bring
Without the Gold-Ring,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.
I'll deck out your hair
With a Top-knot, green, yellow, or blue.
No Top-knot, pray, bring
Without the Gold-Ring,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.
155
Together one day,
When making of hay,
Pretty Cis on a haycock he threw:
His hand did intrude;
She cry'd, Don't be rude,
For—I wish I may die if I do.
When making of hay,
Pretty Cis on a haycock he threw:
His hand did intrude;
She cry'd, Don't be rude,
For—I wish I may die if I do.
But Roger still prest
Her lips and her breast,
Until kinder and kinder she grew:
A glance from her eye
He saw give the lye
To—“I wish I may die if I do.”
Her lips and her breast,
Until kinder and kinder she grew:
A glance from her eye
He saw give the lye
To—“I wish I may die if I do.”
He knew what it meant,
Took looks for consent;
Then—a Fairing presented to view,
Which Cis so amaz'd,
She sigh'd while she gaz'd—
Oh! I surely shall die—if I do.
Took looks for consent;
Then—a Fairing presented to view,
Which Cis so amaz'd,
She sigh'd while she gaz'd—
Oh! I surely shall die—if I do.
156
What Lovers conceal
No Muse should reveal;
You must fancy then what did ensue:
But she no more cry'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.
No Muse should reveal;
You must fancy then what did ensue:
But she no more cry'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.
Ah! Roger! says Cis,
A Fairing like this
Cannot fail a young Maid to subdue:
No Knot you need bring;
Ne'er mind the Gold-Ring,
For—I wish I may die if I do.
A Fairing like this
Cannot fail a young Maid to subdue:
No Knot you need bring;
Ne'er mind the Gold-Ring,
For—I wish I may die if I do.
157
A FRAGMENT
I
When Bacchus, jolly God, invitesTo revel in his ev'ning rites,
In vain his altars I surround,
Though with Burgundian incense crown'd:
No charm has Wine without the Lass;
'Tis Love gives relish to the Glass.
II
Whilst all around, with jocund glee,In brimmers toast their fav'rite She;
Though ev'ry Nymph my lips proclaim,
My heart still whispers Chloe's name;
And thus with me, by am'rous stealth,
Still ev'ry glass is Chloe's health.
158
VERSES
Occasioned by Lady Pomfret's Present of some Antique Statues to Oxford, the Streets whereof were foolishly said to be paved with Jacobites.
If
Oxford's Stones, as Blaco writes,
And Pitt affirms, are Jacobites,
That bid the Court defiance;
How must the danger now increase,
When Stones are come from Rome and Greece,
To form a grand alliance!
And Pitt affirms, are Jacobites,
That bid the Court defiance;
How must the danger now increase,
When Stones are come from Rome and Greece,
To form a grand alliance!
Yet, sprung from lands of Liberty,
These Stones can sure no Tories be,
Or friends to the Pretender;
And Pitt himself can ne'er devise,
That Whiggish Stones should ever rise
Against our Faith's Defender.
These Stones can sure no Tories be,
Or friends to the Pretender;
And Pitt himself can ne'er devise,
That Whiggish Stones should ever rise
Against our Faith's Defender.
159
TO DR. KING.
Oft have I heard, with clam'rous note,A yelping Cur exalt his throat
At Cynthia's silver rays;
So, with the blaze of Learning's light,
When You, O King, offend his sight,
The Spaniel Blaco bays.
160
THE BUTTERFLY AND BEE.
To FLAVIA.
See! Flavia, see! that flutt'ring Thing
Skim round yon' flower with sportive wing,
Yet ne'er its sweets explore;
While, wiser, the industrious Bee
Extracts the honey from the tree,
And hives the precious store.
Skim round yon' flower with sportive wing,
Yet ne'er its sweets explore;
While, wiser, the industrious Bee
Extracts the honey from the tree,
And hives the precious store.
So You, with coy, coquettish art,
Play wanton round your Lover's heart,
Insensible and free:
Love's balmy blessing would you try,
No longer sport a Butterfly,
But imitate the Bee.
Play wanton round your Lover's heart,
Insensible and free:
Love's balmy blessing would you try,
No longer sport a Butterfly,
But imitate the Bee.
161
VERSES,
Dropt in Mr. Garrick's Temple of Shakespeare.
While here to Shakespeare
Garrick pays
His tributary thanks and praise;
Invokes the animated stone,
To make the Poet's mind his own;
That he each character may trace
With humour, dignity, and grace;
And mark, unerring mark, to men,
The rich creation of his Pen;
His tributary thanks and praise;
Invokes the animated stone,
To make the Poet's mind his own;
That he each character may trace
With humour, dignity, and grace;
And mark, unerring mark, to men,
The rich creation of his Pen;
Preferr'd the pray'r—the marble God
Methinks I see, assenting, nod,
And, pointing to his laurell'd brow,
Cry—“Half this Wreath to you I owe:
“Lost to the Stage, and lost to Fame;
“Murder'd my Scenes, scarce known my Name;
“Sunk in oblivion and disgrace
“Among the common, scribbling race,
“Unnotic'd long thy Shakespeare lay,
“To Dullness, and to Time, a prey:
“But now I rise, I breathe, I live
“In You—my Representative!
“Again the Hero's breast I fire,
“Again the tender sigh inspire;
“Each side, again, with laughter shake,
“And teach the villain-heart to quake;
“All this, my Son! again I do—
“I?—No, my Son!—'Tis I, and You.
Methinks I see, assenting, nod,
162
Cry—“Half this Wreath to you I owe:
“Lost to the Stage, and lost to Fame;
“Murder'd my Scenes, scarce known my Name;
“Sunk in oblivion and disgrace
“Among the common, scribbling race,
“Unnotic'd long thy Shakespeare lay,
“To Dullness, and to Time, a prey:
“But now I rise, I breathe, I live
“In You—my Representative!
“Again the Hero's breast I fire,
“Again the tender sigh inspire;
“Each side, again, with laughter shake,
“And teach the villain-heart to quake;
“All this, my Son! again I do—
“I?—No, my Son!—'Tis I, and You.
While thus the grateful Statue speaks,
A blush o'erspreads the Suppliant's cheeks—
A blush o'erspreads the Suppliant's cheeks—
163
“What!—Half this Wreath, Wit's mighty Chief?—
“O grant,” he cries, “one single Leaf;
“That far o'erpays his humble merit,
“Who's but the organ of thy spirit.”
“O grant,” he cries, “one single Leaf;
“That far o'erpays his humble merit,
“Who's but the organ of thy spirit.”
Phœbus the gen'rous contest heard—
When thus the God address'd the Bard:
“Here, take this Laurel from my brow,
“On Him your mortal Wreath bestow;—
“Each matchless, each the Palm shall bear,
“In Heav'n the Bard, on Earth the Play'r.
When thus the God address'd the Bard:
“Here, take this Laurel from my brow,
“On Him your mortal Wreath bestow;—
“Each matchless, each the Palm shall bear,
“In Heav'n the Bard, on Earth the Play'r.
164
CUPID BAFFLED.
Diana, hunting on a day,
Beheld where Cupid sleeping lay,
His Quiver by his head:
One of his Darts she stole away,
And one of her's did close convey
Into the other's stead.
Beheld where Cupid sleeping lay,
His Quiver by his head:
One of his Darts she stole away,
And one of her's did close convey
Into the other's stead.
When next the Archer through the grove,
In search of prey, did wanton rove,
Aurelia fair he 'spy'd;
Aurelia, who to Damon's pray'r
Disdain'd to lend a tender ear,
And Cupid's pow'r defy'd.
In search of prey, did wanton rove,
Aurelia fair he 'spy'd;
Aurelia, who to Damon's pray'r
Disdain'd to lend a tender ear,
And Cupid's pow'r defy'd.
165
Soon as he ey'd the rebel Maid;
“Now know my pow'r!” enrag'd, he said;
Then levell'd at her heart:
Full to the head the shaft he drew;
But harmless to her breast it flew,
For, lo!—'twas Dian's Dart.
“Now know my pow'r!” enrag'd, he said;
Then levell'd at her heart:
Full to the head the shaft he drew;
But harmless to her breast it flew,
For, lo!—'twas Dian's Dart.
Exulting, then the Fair-one cry'd,
“Fond Urchin, lay your Bow aside;
“Your Quiver be unbound:
“Would you Aurelia's heart subdue,
“Thy play-thing Arrows ne'er will do;
“Bid Damon give the wound.
“Fond Urchin, lay your Bow aside;
“Your Quiver be unbound:
“Would you Aurelia's heart subdue,
“Thy play-thing Arrows ne'er will do;
“Bid Damon give the wound.
166
VERSES
On the Death of the truly Patriot Prince, Frederick; who died March 30, 1751, aged 43.
When
Jove, late revolving the state of mankind,
'Mong Britons no traces of Virtue could find;
O'er the island, indignant, he stretch'd forth his rod;
Earth trembled, and Ocean acknowledg'd the God.
'Mong Britons no traces of Virtue could find;
O'er the island, indignant, he stretch'd forth his rod;
Earth trembled, and Ocean acknowledg'd the God.
Still provok'd by our crimes, Heaven's vengeance to show,
Ammon, grasping his bolts, aim'd at Britain the blow;
But pausing—more dreadful, his wrath to evince,
Threw thunder aside, and sent Fate for the Prince.
Ammon, grasping his bolts, aim'd at Britain the blow;
But pausing—more dreadful, his wrath to evince,
Threw thunder aside, and sent Fate for the Prince.
EXTEMPORE on hearing of Mr. Pope's Death.
Pope dead! hush, hush, Report, the sland'rous lye:Fame says he lives—Immortals never die.
167
DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.
'Twixt
Death and Schomberg, t'other day,
A contest did arise;
Death swore his prize he'd bear away;
The Doctor, Death defies.
A contest did arise;
Death swore his prize he'd bear away;
The Doctor, Death defies.
Enrag'd to hear his pow'r defy'd,
Death drew his keenest dart;
But wond'ring saw it glance aside,
And miss the vital part.
Death drew his keenest dart;
But wond'ring saw it glance aside,
And miss the vital part.
168
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. Powell, at the Opening of the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden, on Monday, Sept. 14, 1767.
As when the Merchant, to increase his store,
For dubious seas, advent'rous quits the shore;
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling sees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempests in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountain billows swells,
And ev'ry cloud a fancied storm foretells:
Thus rashly launch'd on this Theatric main,
Our All on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The Catcall's note seems thunder in our ears,
And ev'ry Hiss a hurricane appears;
In Journal Squibs we lightning's blast espy,
And meteors blaze in every Critic's eye.
For dubious seas, advent'rous quits the shore;
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling sees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempests in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountain billows swells,
And ev'ry cloud a fancied storm foretells:
Thus rashly launch'd on this Theatric main,
Our All on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The Catcall's note seems thunder in our ears,
And ev'ry Hiss a hurricane appears;
169
And meteors blaze in every Critic's eye.
Spite of these terrors, still some hopes we view,
Hopes, ne'er can fail us—since they're plac'd—in you.
Your Breath the gale, our voyage is secure,
And safe the venture which your Smiles insure;
Though weak his skill, th' advent'rer must succeed,
Where Candour takes th' endeavour for the deed.
For Brentford's state, two Kings could once suffice;
In our's, behold! four Kings of Brentford rise;
All smelling to one nosegay's od'rous savour,
The balmy nosegay of—the Public Favour.
From hence alone, our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our support, your will our law.
While such our Government, we hope you'll own us;
But should we ever Tyrant prove—dethrone us.
Hopes, ne'er can fail us—since they're plac'd—in you.
Your Breath the gale, our voyage is secure,
And safe the venture which your Smiles insure;
Though weak his skill, th' advent'rer must succeed,
Where Candour takes th' endeavour for the deed.
For Brentford's state, two Kings could once suffice;
In our's, behold! four Kings of Brentford rise;
All smelling to one nosegay's od'rous savour,
The balmy nosegay of—the Public Favour.
From hence alone, our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our support, your will our law.
While such our Government, we hope you'll own us;
But should we ever Tyrant prove—dethrone us.
170
Like Brother Monarchs, who, to coax the nation,
Began their reign, with some fair Proclamation,
We too should talk at least—of Reformation;
Declare, that during our Imperial sway,
No Bard shall mourn his long-neglected Play;
But then the Play must have some wit, some spirit,
And We allow'd sole umpires of its merit.
Began their reign, with some fair Proclamation,
We too should talk at least—of Reformation;
Declare, that during our Imperial sway,
No Bard shall mourn his long-neglected Play;
But then the Play must have some wit, some spirit,
And We allow'd sole umpires of its merit.
For those deep Sages of the judging Pit,
Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit,
From Rome's great Theatre we'll cull the piece,
And plant, on Britain's Stage, the flow'rs of Greece.
Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit,
From Rome's great Theatre we'll cull the piece,
And plant, on Britain's Stage, the flow'rs of Greece.
If some there are, our British Bards can please,
Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to save, from Time's devouring womb,
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the tomb.
Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to save, from Time's devouring womb,
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the tomb.
For you, ye Fair, who sprightlier scenes may chuse,
Where Music decks in all her airs the Muse,
Gay Opera shall all its charms dispense,
Yet boast no tuneful triumph over Sense;
The nobler Bard shall still assert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.
Where Music decks in all her airs the Muse,
171
Yet boast no tuneful triumph over Sense;
The nobler Bard shall still assert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.
To greet their mortal brethren of our skies
Here all the Gods of Pantomine shall rise:
Yet 'midst the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our Scenes;
Scenes which were held, in good King Rich's days,
By Sages, no bad Epilogues to Plays.
Here all the Gods of Pantomine shall rise:
Yet 'midst the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our Scenes;
Scenes which were held, in good King Rich's days,
By Sages, no bad Epilogues to Plays.
If terms like these your suffrage can engage,
To fix our mimic Empire of the Stage;
Confirm our title in your fair opinions,
And croud each night to people our Dominions.
To fix our mimic Empire of the Stage;
Confirm our title in your fair opinions,
And croud each night to people our Dominions.
172
VERSES
On converting the Chapel to a Kitchen, at the Seat of the Lord Donnerayle, called The Grove, in Hertfordshire.
By
Ovid, among other wonders, we're told
What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old;
How their Cot to a Temple was conjur'd by Jove,
So a Chapel was chang'd to a Kitchen at Grove.
What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old;
How their Cot to a Temple was conjur'd by Jove,
So a Chapel was chang'd to a Kitchen at Grove.
The Lord of the Mansion most rightly conceiting,
His guests lov'd good pray'rs much less than good eating;
And possess'd by the Devil, as some folks will tell ye,
What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly.
His guests lov'd good pray'rs much less than good eating;
And possess'd by the Devil, as some folks will tell ye,
What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly.
The word was scarce giv'n—when down dropp'd the Clock,
And strait was seen fix'd in the form of a Jack;
And, shameful to tell! Pulpit, Benches, and Pews,
Form'd Cupboards and Shelves, for Plates, Saucepans, and Stews.
And strait was seen fix'd in the form of a Jack;
And, shameful to tell! Pulpit, Benches, and Pews,
Form'd Cupboards and Shelves, for Plates, Saucepans, and Stews.
173
Pray'r-books turn'd into Platters; nor think it a fable,
A Dresser sprung out of the Communion-table;
Which, instead of the usual repast, Bread and Wine,
Is stor'd with rich Soups, and good English Sirloin.
A Dresser sprung out of the Communion-table;
Which, instead of the usual repast, Bread and Wine,
Is stor'd with rich Soups, and good English Sirloin.
No fire, but what pure devotion could raise,
'Till now, had been known in this Temple to blaze:
But, good Lord! how the neighbours around did admire,
When a Chimney rose up in the room of a Spire!
'Till now, had been known in this Temple to blaze:
But, good Lord! how the neighbours around did admire,
When a Chimney rose up in the room of a Spire!
For a Jew many people the Master mistook,
Whose Levites were Scullions, his High-Priest a Cook;
And thought he design'd our religion to alter,
When they saw the Burnt-Offering smoke at the Altar.
Whose Levites were Scullions, his High-Priest a Cook;
And thought he design'd our religion to alter,
When they saw the Burnt-Offering smoke at the Altar.
The Bell's solemn sound, that was heard far and near,
And oft rouz'd the Chaplain unwilling to pray'r,
No more to good Sermons now summons the Sinner,
But blasphemous rings in—the Country to Dinner.
And oft rouz'd the Chaplain unwilling to pray'r,
No more to good Sermons now summons the Sinner,
But blasphemous rings in—the Country to Dinner.
174
When my good Lord the Bishop had heard the strange story,
How the place was profan'd, that was built to G**'s glory;
Full of zeal he cried out, “Oh, how impious the deed,
“To cram Christians with Pudding, instead of the Creed!”
How the place was profan'd, that was built to G**'s glory;
Full of zeal he cried out, “Oh, how impious the deed,
“To cram Christians with Pudding, instead of the Creed!”
Then away to the Grove hied the Church's Protector,
Resolving to give his Lay-brother a Lecture;
But he scarce had begun, when he saw, plac'd before 'em,
A Haunch piping hot from the Sanctum Sanctorum.
Resolving to give his Lay-brother a Lecture;
But he scarce had begun, when he saw, plac'd before 'em,
A Haunch piping hot from the Sanctum Sanctorum.
“'Troth!” quoth he, “I find no great sin in the plan,
“What was useless to God—to make useful to Man:
“Besides, 'tis a true Christian duty, we read,
“The Poor and the Hungry with good things to feed.”
“What was useless to God—to make useful to Man:
“Besides, 'tis a true Christian duty, we read,
“The Poor and the Hungry with good things to feed.”
Then again on the walls he bestow'd Consecration,
But reserv'd the full rights of a free Visitation:
Thus, 'tis still the Lord's House—only varied the treat,
Now, there's Meat without Grace—where was Grace without Meat.
But reserv'd the full rights of a free Visitation:
Thus, 'tis still the Lord's House—only varied the treat,
Now, there's Meat without Grace—where was Grace without Meat.
175
VERSES
On the Duke of Cumberland's Victory at Culloden, in the Year 1746.
As his worm-eaten volumes old Time tumbled o'er,To review the great actions that happen'd of yore;
When the names of young Ammon and Cæsar he saw,
He to one oppos'd Churchill—to th' other Nassau;
Then said, with a sigh, “What! has Britain no friend?
“With these must her long race of Heroes have end?”
When strait a loud blast on her Trumpet Fame blew,
Which so long had been silent, the sound he scarce knew;
But soon in his sight the swift Goddess appear'd,
And, half out of breath, cry'd—“News, News! have you heard?—
“I yet have one Hero to add to your store,
“Brave William has conquer'd—Rebellion's no more.”
Well pleas'd, in his annals Time set down the name,
Made the record authentic,—and gave it to Fame.
176
VERSES
Inscribed on a Monument called The Tomb of Care, in the Garden of the late John Rich, Esq. at Cowley, in Middlesex; whereon three beautiful Boys are covering a funeral Urn with a Veil of Flowers.
Why, busy Boys, why thus entwineThe flowery veil around this shrine?
As if, for halcyon days like these,
The sight too solemn were to please:
Mistaken Boys, what sight's so fair—
To mortals, as the Tomb of Care?
Here let the gloomy Tyrant lie;
His urn an altar shall supply,
Sacred to Ease, and social Mirth;
For Care's decease—is Pleasure's birth.
177
THE EPITAPH
(In Letters of Brass, inserted by a female Figure representing History) on a Marble Pyramid of the Monument of JOHN, Duke of ARGYLE.
Briton, behold, if Patriot Worth be dear,A shrine that claims thy tributary tear!
Silent that tongue admiring Senates heard,
Nerveless that arm opposing Legions fear'd!
Nor less, O Campbell! thine the pow'r to please,
And give to Grandeur all the grace of Ease.
Long, from thy life, let kindred Heroes trace
Arts which ennoble still the noblest race.—
Others may owe their future fame to Me;
I borrow immortality from Thee.
P. Whitehead.
Westminster Abbey.
178
VERSES
On the Name, P. Whitehead, subscribed to the above Inscription, being removed thence some time after the Monument was erected.
O'er the Tombs as pale Envy was hov'ring around,The Manes of each hallow'd Hero to wound;
On Argyle's, when she saw only Truth was related
Of Him, whom alive she most mortally hated,
And finding the record adopted by Fame,
In revenge to the Poet—she gnaw'd out his name.
179
VERSES
To the Memory of Mrs. Pritchard, who died August, 1761, aged 57.
Her Comic vein had ev'ry charm to please;'Twas Nature's dictates breath'd with Nature's ease:
E'en when her pow'rs sustain'd the Tragic load,
Full, clear, and just, th' harmonious accents flow'd;
And the big passions of her feeling heart
Burst freely forth, and sham'd the Mimic Art.
Oft on the scene, with colours not her own,
She painted vice, and taught us what to shun.
One virtuous track her real life pursu'd,
That nobler part was uniformly good;
Each duty there to such perfection wrought,
That, if the precepts fail'd, th' example taught.
Westminster Abbey.
180
VERSES
To Mr. Brooke, on the Refusal of a Licence to his Play of Gustavus Vasa.
While
Athens glory'd in her free-born race,
And Science flourish'd round her fav'rite place,
The Muse unfetter'd trod the Grecian Stage;
Free were her pinions, unrestrain'd her rage:
Bold and secure she aim'd the pointed dart,
And pour'd the precept poignant to the heart,
Till dire Dominion stretch'd her lawless sway,
And Athens' sons were destin'd to obey:
Then first the Stage a Licens'd Bondage knew,
And Tyrants quash'd the scene they fear'd to view:
Fair Freedom's voice no more was heard to charm,
Or Liberty the Attic audience warm.
And Science flourish'd round her fav'rite place,
The Muse unfetter'd trod the Grecian Stage;
Free were her pinions, unrestrain'd her rage:
Bold and secure she aim'd the pointed dart,
And pour'd the precept poignant to the heart,
Till dire Dominion stretch'd her lawless sway,
And Athens' sons were destin'd to obey:
Then first the Stage a Licens'd Bondage knew,
And Tyrants quash'd the scene they fear'd to view:
Fair Freedom's voice no more was heard to charm,
Or Liberty the Attic audience warm.
181
Then fled the Muse, indignant, from the shore,
Nor deign'd to dwell where Freedom was no more:
Vain then, alas! she sought Britannia's isle,
Charm'd with her voice, and cheer'd us with her smile.
If Gallic laws her gen'rous flight restrain,
And bind her captive with th' ignoble chain;
Bold and unlicens'd, in Eliza's days,
Free flow'd her numbers, flourish'd fair her bays;
O'er Britain's Stage majestic, unconfin'd,
She tun'd her Patriot lessons to mankind;
For mighty Heroes ransack'd ev'ry age,
Then beam'd them glorious in her Shakespeare's page.
Nor deign'd to dwell where Freedom was no more:
Vain then, alas! she sought Britannia's isle,
Charm'd with her voice, and cheer'd us with her smile.
If Gallic laws her gen'rous flight restrain,
And bind her captive with th' ignoble chain;
Bold and unlicens'd, in Eliza's days,
Free flow'd her numbers, flourish'd fair her bays;
O'er Britain's Stage majestic, unconfin'd,
She tun'd her Patriot lessons to mankind;
For mighty Heroes ransack'd ev'ry age,
Then beam'd them glorious in her Shakespeare's page.
Shakespeare's no more!—lost was the Poet's name
Till Thou, my friend, my genius, sprung to Fame;
Lur'd by his laurel's never-fading bloom,
You boldly snatch'd the trophy from his tomb,
Taught the declining Muse again to soar,
And to Britannia gave one Poet more.
Till Thou, my friend, my genius, sprung to Fame;
Lur'd by his laurel's never-fading bloom,
You boldly snatch'd the trophy from his tomb,
Taught the declining Muse again to soar,
And to Britannia gave one Poet more.
182
Pleas'd, in thy lays we see Gustavus live;
But, O Gustavus! if thou can'st, forgive.
Britons, more savage than the tyrant Dane,
Beneath whose yoke you drew the galling chain,
Degen'rate Britons, by thy worth dismay'd,
Prophane thy glories, and proscribe thy shade.
But, O Gustavus! if thou can'st, forgive.
Britons, more savage than the tyrant Dane,
Beneath whose yoke you drew the galling chain,
Degen'rate Britons, by thy worth dismay'd,
Prophane thy glories, and proscribe thy shade.
183
SONG.
As Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just praise,
And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays;
So, wou'd Daphne but smile, their example I'd follow,
And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo:
But, alas! while no smiles from the Fair-one inspire,
How languid my strains, and how tuneless my lyre!
And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays;
So, wou'd Daphne but smile, their example I'd follow,
And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo:
But, alas! while no smiles from the Fair-one inspire,
How languid my strains, and how tuneless my lyre!
Go, Zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair;
In gentlest murmurs my passion commend,
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend:
For sure, O ye Winds, you may tell her my pain;
'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair;
In gentlest murmurs my passion commend,
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend:
For sure, O ye Winds, you may tell her my pain;
'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.
Wherever I go, or whatever I do,
Still something presents the fair Nymph to my view.
If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose:
But with her neither lily nor rose can compare;
Far sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair.
Still something presents the fair Nymph to my view.
184
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose:
But with her neither lily nor rose can compare;
Far sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair.
If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove,
The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my Love;
The nightingale too, with impertinent noise,
Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice:
Thus the grove and its music her image still brings;
For, like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings.
The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my Love;
The nightingale too, with impertinent noise,
Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice:
Thus the grove and its music her image still brings;
For, like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings.
If, forsaking the groves, I fly to the court,
Where beauty and splendor united resort,
Some glimpse of my Fair in each charmer I spy,
In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright eye;
But, alas! what wou'd Brudenel or Richmond appear?
Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but there.
Where beauty and splendor united resort,
Some glimpse of my Fair in each charmer I spy,
In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright eye;
But, alas! what wou'd Brudenel or Richmond appear?
Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but there.
185
If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain,
And dwell over Horace, or Ovid's sweet strain;
In Lydia, or Chloe, my Daphne I find;
But Chloe was courteous, and Lydia was kind:
Like Lydia, or Chloe, wou'd Daphne but prove,
Like Horace, or Ovid, I'd sing and I'd love.
And dwell over Horace, or Ovid's sweet strain;
In Lydia, or Chloe, my Daphne I find;
But Chloe was courteous, and Lydia was kind:
Like Lydia, or Chloe, wou'd Daphne but prove,
Like Horace, or Ovid, I'd sing and I'd love.
TO DR. SCHOMBERG, Of BATH.
To Schomberg quoth Death, “I your Patient will have:”To Death replied Schomberg, “My Patient I'll save.”
Then Death seiz'd his arrow, the Doctor his pen,
And each wound the one gave, t'other heal'd it again;
'Till Death swore he never had met such defiance,
Since he and the College had been in alliance.
THE END.
| The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead | |