The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

A President, in butterflies profound,
Of whom all insectmongers sing the praises,
Went on a day to catch this game renown'd,
On vi'lets, dunghills, nettletops and daisies!
But first (so pious is Sir Joseph's nature)
He thus address'd the butterfly's Creator.

THE VIRTUOSO's PRAYER.

‘O thou whose wisdom plann'd the skies,
And form'd the wings of butterflies,
Attend my humble pray'r!
Like Egypt, as in days of yore,
Let earth with flies be cover'd o'er,
And darken'd all the air.

This, Lord, wou'd be the best of news—
Then might thy servant pick and choose
From such a glorious heap:
Forth to the world I'd boldly rush,
Put all Museums to the blush,
And hold them all dog cheap.

476

Pharaoh had not one grain of taste—
The flies on him were thrown to waste,
Nay, met with strong objection;
But had thy servant, Lord, been there,
I should have made, or much I err,
A wonderful collection!

O Lord! if not my mem'ry fails,
Thou once didst rain on people quails—
Again the world surprise;
And 'stead of such a trifling bird,
Rain on thy servant Joseph, Lord,
Show'rs of rare butterflies!

Since monsters are my great delight,
With monsters charm thy servant's sight,
Turn feathers into hair:
Make legs where legs were never seen,
And eyes, no bigger than a pin,
As broad as saucers stare.

The reptiles that are born with claws,
O! let thy power supply with paws,
Adorn'd with human nails;
In value more to make them rise,
Transplant from all their heads, their eyes,
And place them in their tails.

And if thou wisely wouldst contrive
To make me butterflies alive,
To fly without a head;
To skim the hedges and the fields,
Nay, eat the meat thy bouuty yields,
Such wonders were indeed!

Blagden should puff them at our meeting;
Members would press around me greeting;
The Journals swell with thanks;
And more to magnify their fame,
Those headless flies should have a name
My name—Sir Joseph Banks!’

477

Thus having finish'd, forth Sir Joseph hies,
Hope in his heart, and eagles in his eyes!
Just like a pointer, quart'ring well his ground,
He nimbly trots the field around!
At length, to bless his hunting ambulation,
Up rose a native of the flutt'ring nation.
Broad star'd Sir Joseph as if struck by thunder
(For much, indeed, are eyes enlarg'd by wonder),
When from a dab of dung, or some such thing,
An Emp'ror of Morocco rear'd his wing!

Not Archimedes, 'tis my firm belief,
More blest, cried ‘eureka, I've nabb'd the thief;’
Nor hunters, when a hare, to shun foul play,
Steals from his seat so sly, cry ‘Stole away;’
Nor stale old nymphs, by raging virtue sway'd,
Roar on a frail one, ‘Kill the wicked jade;’
Than roar'd Sir Joseph on the verdant sod,
‘Morocco's Emp'ror, by the living God!’

Not with more joy, nor rapture-speaking look,
The little gamesome Piccadilly duke
Eyes a nice tit, fresh launch'd upon the town;
Nor with more pleasure Cupid's trusty crimp,
By mouths of vulgar people nam'd a pimp,
Stares on his virtuous fee, a crown;

Nor King's-Place nymphs, on greenhorns in their pow'r;
Who (shameless rascals, wanting not a wife)
Hire love, like hackney-coaches, by the hour,
Damning the love so true that lasts for life;
Nor wither'd Windsor on the simple maid,
From scenes of rural innocence betray'd;
Forc'd to dispose of Nature's sweetest charms;
Doom'd for a meal to sink a beauteous wreck;
To lend to man she loathes, her lip, her neck,
And, weeping, act the wanton in his arms;
Than did the hero of my song,
Survey the emp'ror as he mov'd along.

478

Not with more glee a hen-peck'd husband spies
Death shutting up his wife's two cat-like eyes,
Accustom'd on him oft and fierce to roll;
Just like a galley slave, poor fellow, treated,
Or those poor English at Calcutta sweated;
Stuff'd in the old Black Hole:

And yet, a neater simile to use,
Not with more true delight a lover views
The blushing orient leading on the day
That gives a blooming partner to his arms,
In virtues rich, and rich in youthful charms,
To bid the hours with rapture glide away:

Sad anxious swain, who now in bed, now out,
Toss'd like the sea with thund'ring thoughts about
Cursing with hearty pray'rs the lingering night;
Now trying hard to sleep away the time;
Now staring on the dark, like bards for rhime,
To catch the smallest glimpse of light.

Afraid that Phœbus means foul play,
And bent to spite him, lie a-bed all day:

And, bonâ fide, not of rapture fuller,
Thurlow, the seal and royal conscience keeper,
Sees his prime fav'rite, Mr. Justice Buller,
High thron'd in Chancery, grieve the poor Sir Pepper,
Than did the president so keen espy
The butterfly!

Lightly with winnowing wing amid the land,
His Moorish majesty in circles flew!
With sturdy striding legs and outstretch'd hand,
The virtuoso did his prey pursue.

He strikes—he misses—strikes again—he grins,
And sees in thought the monarch fix'd with pins;
Sees him on paper giving up the ghost,
Nail'd like a hawk or martyr to a post.

Oft fell Sir Joseph on the slipp'ry plain,
Like patriot Eden—fell to rise again;

479

The emp'ror smiling, sported on before;
Like Phœbus coursing Daphne was the chace,
But not so was the meaning of the race,
Sir Joseph ran to kill, not kiss the Moor;

To hold him pris'ner in a glass for show,
Like Tamerlane (redoubtable his rage),
Who kept poor Bajazet, his vanquish'd foe,
Just like an owl or magpie in a cage.

Again to earth Sir Joseph fell so flat,
Flat as the flattest of the flounder race!
Down with Sir Joseph dropp'd his three-cock'd hat,
Most nobly sharing in his friend's disgrace.
Again he springs, with hope and ardour pale,
And blowing like the fish baptiz'd a whale;
Darting his arms now here, now there, so wild,
With all the eager raptures of a child,
Who with broad anxious eye a bauble views,
And, capering legs and hands, the toy pursues.

A countryman, who, from a lane,
Had mark'd Sir Joseph, running, tumbling, sweating,
Stretching his hands and arms, like one insane,
And with those arms the air around him beating,
To no particular opinion leaning,
Of such manœuvring could not guess the meaning.

At length the President, all foam and muck,
Quite out of breath, and out of luck,
Pursued the flying monarch to the place,
Where stood this countryman, with marv'ling face.

Now through the hedge, exactly like a horse,
Wild plung'd the President with all his force,
His brow in sweat, his soul in perturbation;
Mindless of trees, and bushes, and the brambles,
Head over heels into the lane he scrambles,
Where Hob stood lost in wide-mouth'd speculation!

‘Speak,’ roar'd the President, ‘this instant—say,
Hast seen, hast seen, my lad, this way

480

The Emp'ror of Morocco pass?’—
Hob to the insect-hunter nought replied,
But shook his head, and sympathizing sigh'd, ‘Alas!
Poor gentleman, I'm sorry for ye;
And pity much your upper story!’

Lo! down the lane alert the emp'ror flew,
And struck once more Sir Joseph's hawk-like view;
And now he mounted o'er a garden wall!
In rush'd Sir Joseph at the garden door,
Knock'd down the gard'ner—what could man do more?
And left him as he chose to rise or sprawl.

O'er peerless hyacinths our hero rush'd;
Through tulips and anemonies he push'd,
Breaking a hundred necks at ev'ry spring:
On bright carnations, blushing on their banks,
With desp'rate hoof he trod, and mow'd down ranks,
Such vast ambition urg'd to seize the king!

Bell glasses, all so thick, were tumbled o'er,
And, lo! the cries, so shrill, of many a score,
A sad and fatal stroke proclaim'd;
The scarecrow all so red, was overturn'd;
His vanish'd hat, and wig, and head, he mourn'd,
And much, indeed, the man of straw was maim'd!

Just guardian of the sacred spot,
With face so fierce, and pointed gun,
Who threaten'd all the birds with shot;
To kill of sparrows ev'ry mother's son:
Fierce as those scarlet ministers of fate,
The warlike guardians of St. James's gate!

Yet not content with feats like these,
He tumbled o'er a hive of bees;
Out rush'd the host, and wonder'd from their souls,
What dev'l dar'd dash their house about their polls.

481

Like Louis , whose fierce heart was such,
As made him like a football kick the Dutch!

But soon the small, heroic, injur'd nation
Descry'd the author of their obligation;
And, to repay it, round him rush'd the swarm;
Prodigious was the buz about his ears!
With all their venom did they push their spears,
But, lo! they work'd him not one grain of harm!

Yet did no god nor godling intervene,
By way of screen!

The happy head their pointed spears defied,
Strong, like old Homer's shields, in tough bull hide,
And brass well temper'd, to support the shock!—
The bees their disappointed vengeance mourn'd,
And from their fierce attack, fatigu'd, return'd,
Believing they had storm'd a barber's block.

What was thought death and tortures by the clan,
Was only tickling the great man!
Thus round big Ajax rag'd the Trojan host,
Who might as well, indeed, have drubb'd a post.

The gard'ner now for just revenge up sprung,
O'erwhelm'd with wonderment and dung,
And fiercely in his turn pursu'd the knight!
From bed to bed, full tilt the champions rac'd,
This chas'd the knight, the knight the emp'ror chas'd,
Who scal'd the walls, alas! and vanish'd out of sight:
To find the empress, p'rhaps, and tell her grace
The merry hist'ry of the chase.

At length the gard'ner, swell'd with rage and dolour,
O'ertaking, grasps Sir Joseph by the collar,
And blest with fav'rite oaths, abundance show'rs:

482

‘Villain,’ he cry'd, ‘beyond example!
Just like a cart-horse on my beds to trample,
More than your soul is worth, to kill my flow'rs!
See how your two vile hoofs have made a wreck—
Look, rascal, at each beauty's broken neck!’—

Mindless of humbled flow'rs, so freely kill'd,
Although superior to his soul declar'd,
And vegetable blood profusely spill'd,
Superior, too, to all reward;
Mindless of all the gard'ner's plaintive strains,
The emp'rors form monopoliz'd his brains.

At length he spoke, in sad despairing tones,
‘Gone! by the God that made me!—D*mn his bones!
O Lord! no disappointment mine surpasses;—
Poh! what are paltry flowers and broken glasses,
A tumbled scarecrow, bees, the idle whim?—
Zounds! what a set of miscreants to him!

‘Gone is my soul's desire, for ever gone!’—
‘Who's gone?’ the gard'ner straight reply'd—
‘The emp'ror, sir,’ with tears, Sir Joseph cry'd—
‘The emp'ror of Morocco—thought my own!
To unknown fields behold the monarch fly!—
Zounds! not to catch him, what an ass was I!’

His eyes the gard'ner, full of horror, stretch'd,
And then a groan, a monstrous groan, he fetch'd,
Contemplating around his ruin'd wares;
And now he let Sir Joseph's collar go;
And now he bray'd aloud with bitterest woe,
‘Mad! madder than the maddest of March hares!

A p*x confound the fellow's Bedlam rigs!
Oh! he hath done the work of fifty pigs!
The devil take his keeper, a damn'd goose,
For letting his wild beast get loose!’

483

But now the gard'ner, terrified, began
To think himself too near a man
In so Peg-Nicholson a situation;
And happy from a madman to escape,
He left him without bow, or nod, or scrape,
Like Jeremiah 'midst his lamentation.

Such is the tale—if readers sigh for more,
Sir Joseph's wallet holdeth many a score.

Louis XIV