The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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AN IMITATION OF THE FIRST ODE of the FIRST BOOK of HORACE. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
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AN IMITATION OF THE FIRST ODE of the FIRST BOOK of HORACE.
INSCRIBED TO THE Right Hon. PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, Earl of Chesterfield.
O thou! whose Virtues Albion's Sons can trace
Through an ennobled long descending Race,
Whose honour'd Friendship, and whose guardian Name
Open a Prospect to the Realms of Fame,
Observe the various Passions of the Mind,
That teize, delight, distract, and rule Mankind.
Through an ennobled long descending Race,
Whose honour'd Friendship, and whose guardian Name
Open a Prospect to the Realms of Fame,
Observe the various Passions of the Mind,
That teize, delight, distract, and rule Mankind.
There are—'tis strange to say it, but there are—
Who place their Glories in the rolling Car,
Who drive the flying Steeds with nicest Art,
And act the Charioteer's tyrannic Part.
Hark! Stranger, hark! the circling Scourges sound;
The Bridles jingle, and the Horses bound:
In Clouds of Dust the envelop'd Heroes fly,
Like Gods invisible to mortal Eye.
Now, now, they lash, and now, with Pride elate,
Double the Corner, pass the streighten'd Gate;
Now, short, or wide, with rapid Quickness turn;
And for the Coachman's Laurels drive and burn.
Oh! give them all the Honours they require!
Let other Heroes other Virtues fire;
Be these for matchless Skill in driving known;
And bind their Temples with a Whipcord Crown.
Who place their Glories in the rolling Car,
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And act the Charioteer's tyrannic Part.
Hark! Stranger, hark! the circling Scourges sound;
The Bridles jingle, and the Horses bound:
In Clouds of Dust the envelop'd Heroes fly,
Like Gods invisible to mortal Eye.
Now, now, they lash, and now, with Pride elate,
Double the Corner, pass the streighten'd Gate;
Now, short, or wide, with rapid Quickness turn;
And for the Coachman's Laurels drive and burn.
Oh! give them all the Honours they require!
Let other Heroes other Virtues fire;
Be these for matchless Skill in driving known;
And bind their Temples with a Whipcord Crown.
Tempt with Ambition, if you can, the Soul
Whom neither Vanity, nor Wants controul;
Shew him the azure Garter dangling high,
Or shake the taper Staff before his Eye,
Say, the Gold-Key his Pocket-Holes shall grace,
Promise the Gift of Gifts! Sir R---t's Place;
Calm, and unmov'd, the Baits he shall behold,
Despise the Ensigns, and disdain the Gold;
Safe in a Corner, humble Port he'll quaff,
And, whilst he pities Kings, at Statesmen laugh.
Whom neither Vanity, nor Wants controul;
Shew him the azure Garter dangling high,
Or shake the taper Staff before his Eye,
Say, the Gold-Key his Pocket-Holes shall grace,
Promise the Gift of Gifts! Sir R---t's Place;
Calm, and unmov'd, the Baits he shall behold,
Despise the Ensigns, and disdain the Gold;
Safe in a Corner, humble Port he'll quaff,
And, whilst he pities Kings, at Statesmen laugh.
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Or, try another, try a Man whose Rent,
In Spight of Taxes, yields him ten per Cent,
Bid him all Lands, all Purchases forego,
And deal in South-Sea Bonds.—He'll answer, No!
In Spight of Taxes, yields him ten per Cent,
Bid him all Lands, all Purchases forego,
And deal in South-Sea Bonds.—He'll answer, No!
Suppose a third, who plows his native Soil,
And shares the Landlord's Pride, and Tenant's Toil,
Is neither idly vain, nor humbly low,—
Perhaps a Justice, or who might be so;—
Shall such a Man be lur'd from Plenty's Ease,
Quit his own Hearth, and launch into the Seas!
No, not at Vernon's Call;—let others roam;
He'll fight the Spaniards, if he must, at Home.
And shares the Landlord's Pride, and Tenant's Toil,
Is neither idly vain, nor humbly low,—
Perhaps a Justice, or who might be so;—
Shall such a Man be lur'd from Plenty's Ease,
Quit his own Hearth, and launch into the Seas!
No, not at Vernon's Call;—let others roam;
He'll fight the Spaniards, if he must, at Home.
But see the Merchant trembling for his Store;
The Winds grow mighty, and the Tempests roar;
The freighted Vessel, where his Treasure lies,
Now sinks to Hell, now rises to the Skies;
Pale and aghast! his Thoughts, averse to Gain,
Seek but this once the Mercy of the Main;
Should bounteous Neptune waft the Bark to Land,
Safe from each threatening Storm, each latent Sand,
To Trade, to Avarice, he'll bid adieu,
Let him but pay his Creditors their Due;
That done, he'll seek some rural, calm Retreat,—
No painful Doubts molest a Country-Seat.
So vows the Trader, whilst immers'd in Fear;
The Bark once landed, other Scenes appear:
All rural Prospects vanish from his Mind;
Again he tempts the Seas, and trusts the Wind.
Why should he change his Schemes? his Vows recant?
No Storm so dreadful, as the Thoughts of Want.
The Winds grow mighty, and the Tempests roar;
The freighted Vessel, where his Treasure lies,
Now sinks to Hell, now rises to the Skies;
Pale and aghast! his Thoughts, averse to Gain,
Seek but this once the Mercy of the Main;
Should bounteous Neptune waft the Bark to Land,
Safe from each threatening Storm, each latent Sand,
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Let him but pay his Creditors their Due;
That done, he'll seek some rural, calm Retreat,—
No painful Doubts molest a Country-Seat.
So vows the Trader, whilst immers'd in Fear;
The Bark once landed, other Scenes appear:
All rural Prospects vanish from his Mind;
Again he tempts the Seas, and trusts the Wind.
Why should he change his Schemes? his Vows recant?
No Storm so dreadful, as the Thoughts of Want.
Such Cares molest not Bacchanalian Hours,
When **** revels in his Midnight Bowers;
Or, stretch'd at Ease, within the rich Alcove,
The polish'd Temple, or the gloomy Grove,
Near some cool Spring, where Hermits us'd to pray,
Whose Borders kneeling Saints have worn away,
He lolls supine, 'till Fumes invade his Head,
And sneering Servants heave their Load to Bed.
When **** revels in his Midnight Bowers;
Or, stretch'd at Ease, within the rich Alcove,
The polish'd Temple, or the gloomy Grove,
Near some cool Spring, where Hermits us'd to pray,
Whose Borders kneeling Saints have worn away,
He lolls supine, 'till Fumes invade his Head,
And sneering Servants heave their Load to Bed.
Camps, and the Clarion sounding from afar,
Rouze, and delight the mighty Chiefs of War;
Where Honour calls, the undaunted Heroes run,
(Each Mother trembling for her darling Son)
Arms their Profession, Victory their Aim,
They live with Danger; or, they die with Fame.
Rouze, and delight the mighty Chiefs of War;
Where Honour calls, the undaunted Heroes run,
(Each Mother trembling for her darling Son)
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They live with Danger; or, they die with Fame.
The Sportsman, fearless of the Winter's Morn,
Obeys the Summons of his Hound and Horn;
From Love, and sweet domestic Dalliance flies,
To brave the inclement Fury of the Skies,
Through dreary Storms, with more than eager Pace,
To drive o'er Hills and Plains the savage Race.
Obeys the Summons of his Hound and Horn;
From Love, and sweet domestic Dalliance flies,
To brave the inclement Fury of the Skies,
Through dreary Storms, with more than eager Pace,
To drive o'er Hills and Plains the savage Race.
While I, if haply the consenting Muse
Melodious Sense, and charming Sounds infuse,
If sweet Euterpe deign her Aid to bring,
And Polyhymnia strike the Lesbian String,
Far from the feeble Glance of vulgar Eye,
To pleasing Shades, and cooling Grottoes fly,
Where lovely Nymphs alternately advance,
And nimble Satyrs join the mystic Dance;
Be rural Pastimes, harmless Sports my Theme,
The smiling Shepherdess, the limpid Stream:
If you, my Stanhope, who triumphant sit
The shining Pattern, and the Judge of Wit,
(Long has the verdant Ivy bloom'd around
Thy sacred Temples, and thy Judgment crown'd,
Fix'd thee supreme in Wisdom's holy Shrine,
And bid the Honours of the Gods be thine)
If you should place me with the immortal Choir
Of Bards, that whilom struck the harmonious Lyre,
With heavenly Rapture fir'd, sublime I'll rise,
And snatch the radiant Glories of the Skies.
Melodious Sense, and charming Sounds infuse,
If sweet Euterpe deign her Aid to bring,
And Polyhymnia strike the Lesbian String,
Far from the feeble Glance of vulgar Eye,
To pleasing Shades, and cooling Grottoes fly,
Where lovely Nymphs alternately advance,
And nimble Satyrs join the mystic Dance;
Be rural Pastimes, harmless Sports my Theme,
The smiling Shepherdess, the limpid Stream:
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The shining Pattern, and the Judge of Wit,
(Long has the verdant Ivy bloom'd around
Thy sacred Temples, and thy Judgment crown'd,
Fix'd thee supreme in Wisdom's holy Shrine,
And bid the Honours of the Gods be thine)
If you should place me with the immortal Choir
Of Bards, that whilom struck the harmonious Lyre,
With heavenly Rapture fir'd, sublime I'll rise,
And snatch the radiant Glories of the Skies.
------ Manet sub Jove frigido
Venator, teneræ Conjugis immemor,
Seu visa est Catulis Cerva fidelibus,
Seu rupit teretes Marsus Aper Plagas.
Venator, teneræ Conjugis immemor,
Seu visa est Catulis Cerva fidelibus,
Seu rupit teretes Marsus Aper Plagas.
| The Shamrock | |