The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison

By a vacant Preferment Apollo thought fit
To settle the Bays, and establish a Wit,
For his trusty Friend R***h, by much Merit and Grace,
Had obtain'd in Elysium the Laureat's Place;
Accordingly, to the fam'd Borders of Cam,
Descended the God, with a Goddess hight Fame,

The Figure she wore, as Dan Virgil declares
Was illumin'd with Eyes, and becluster'd with Ears,
(And Faith, as you'll find, she had of them all,
To pick one good Poet, and hear ev'ry Call,)
A Trumpet she blew, for a Trumpet she bore,
As the laudable Custom informs us of yore.
Thick as Bees, when they swarm to the tinkling Brass,
The Bards flock around her, and darken the Place;
Each Pretender, for such was Apollo's command,
Brought his Works, and conducted his Muse in his Hand:
But, good Lord! how his Godship at first was amaz'd,
To find the chaste Nine to such Numbers were rais'd?
However, to banish immodest Suspicions,
He order'd a Silence, and heard the Petitions.

B***ll first, as the Candidates jostled along,
With a Gate most affected, emerg'd from the Throng.
Apollo observ'd somewhat odd in his Look,
And, giving a Beck, thus the Goddess bespoke.
Prithee, what's that same Fellow? Some half-witted Beau?
I don't know as ever I've seen him 'till now—
Nor can I remember, I think, replies Fame,
To have heard of his Worth, or so much as his Name:
But Odds I will, lay by those Papers there brought,
'Tis the same, who the Place in the Memoirs has bought—
Say, you so, cries Apollo, and is he so vain?
Yet pshaw—'tis the only Place that he can gain.

The Bard now elate with Ambition appear'd,
Propos'd his Pretence, and desir'd to be heard;
When Apollo strait bid him his Labours produce,
And, for his Authority, bring him his Muse.
More hasty, than wisely, the Labours were shown,
But, alas, for the Muse, the sly Gipsey was flown,
For her Birth it was mortal, nor could her feign'd Power
Stand the Test of the Godhead she mimick'd before;
O'eraw'd by the Deity no longer could stay,
But like Spenser's false Florimel faded away!

De V***l in the Tumult ran bawling aloud,
And swore that he ought to be heard by the God,
And heard too he was, for the God cut him short,
And ask'd what Pretensions could draw him to Court!
What Pretension, cries he! but the Godhead replies,
Before you are witty, pray learn to be wise,

And if, as they say, you are Lunatic grown,
For I hear you converse with my Sister the Moon,
In secret Confinement, a Purge or two try,
And let your own Essay Bum-fodder supply.

Next Ch***y roll'd onward, a Bard of renown,
For Bulk and Bumbast super-eminent grown,
Of Lampoons and Pindaricks huge Bundles he brought,
But the Burthen was light, because barren of Thought,
From railing at Friends, falsly smiling he came,
Detraction his Pleasure, Ambition his Aim.
But Apollo soon knew him, notwithstanding all Art,
For your Gods at first Sight can discover the Heart.
And told him, that Pride, and inhuman Backbitings
Were the worst of all Evils,—except his own Writings;

Ay, I see, cries the God, I see your Excuse—
But hang it, that's nothing in Shape of a Muse!—
I suppose, that it's term'd by you Mortals here, Satire,
But we Gods have thought fit, to bename it Ill-nature.
Besides such a Bulk, for high Flights was ne'er made well—
And I mortally hate the Remembrance of Shadwell.

Little R***th took the Hint, and right archly declar'd,
That if Body diminutive distinguish'd the Bard,
Then his Cause it was just,—but, to humour the Joke,
With an affable Air, thus the Deity spoke;
And told him, he could not Heroics right suit,
For his Body, at full Length, was scarce more than one Foot.

Ho, W***d! cries the God, as he saw him stand by,
Come forward a little, and don't be so shy—
I know you are modest; but harkee between us,
Here, lookee this Token, 'twas sent you by Venus—
For her Ladyship told me, some few Days ago,
She came down in the Form of a Nymph that you know,
And, pleas'd with a Copy or two of your Verses,
Presents you this Myrtle—'twas wreath'd by the Graces—
Here tak't,—'tis as good as my Laureat's Place is.

H***se next he beheld with poetical Rage,
And told him, 'twas pity he was not at Age—
Nor mind, cries the God, those dull Fools, that desire to
Eclipse that bright Merit,—they ne'er can aspire to;

Just so, in a Morning, I see, as I rise
Black Fogs, and dull Vapours usurping my Skies—
But two Dramatists here, the mere Scum of the Gang,
Broke the Simile short, and began to harangue;
Four Acts of a Play, cries the one I have writ,
And had I a Plot, then the Work were compleat;
My Characters—go, cries the God, scribling Elf,
And learn first to get thee a good one thy self.

As Pattison stood unconcern'd in the Crowd,
Apollo beheld him, and call'd him aloud;
Declaring his Manners, tho' perhaps not his Wit,
His identical Self to a Nicety hit;
Alike their Employments, alike their Delight,
Both rambled all Day, and both tipled all Night;
Both us'd the same Haunts, both pursu'd the like Game,
And Laura and Thetis but differ'd in Name.

Now the Bard, without Doubt, the Reason acquir'd,
But Woman, and Fate both against him conspir'd,
For, unhappily! just as he drew up more nigh,
A pretty tight Damsel came tripping it by;
No longer the Laurel attracted his Eyes,
They were fix'd on a far more desirable Prize—
His Highness he thank'd; but resigning his Lays,
Declar'd, that a Nymph was far better than Bays.

Apollo now, tir'd with Debates and Confusion,
Was glad for to draw his Affairs to Conclusion,
And, sick at the Numbers still swarming around,
Thrice T***r he call'd, but no T***r was found:
Not here? (cries the God) oh! I guess at his Stay—
He stole a few Poems of mine t'other Day—
But, howe'er, I forgive him the cunning Device
And, since his are my Labours, be his too my Prize.

1725–6.

University of Virginia Library

A SESSION OF THE Cambridge POETS.