The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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EPISTLE TO A FALLING MINISTER. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
487
EPISTLE TO A FALLING MINISTER.
Blind to an artful boy's insidious wiles,
Why rests the genius of the Queen of Isles?—
Whilst Liberty in irons sounds th' alarm,
Why hangs suspense on Virtue's coward arm?—
Whilst Tyranny prepares her jails and thongs,
Why sleeps the sword of Justice o'er our wrongs?—
Oh! meanly founding on a father's fame,
To Britain's highest seat a daring claim;
Oh! if thy face one blush could ever boast,
And that lorn sign of virtue be not lost;
Now on thy visage let the stranger burn,
And glow for deeds that bid an empire mourn.
Why rests the genius of the Queen of Isles?—
Whilst Liberty in irons sounds th' alarm,
Why hangs suspense on Virtue's coward arm?—
Whilst Tyranny prepares her jails and thongs,
Why sleeps the sword of Justice o'er our wrongs?—
Oh! meanly founding on a father's fame,
To Britain's highest seat a daring claim;
Oh! if thy face one blush could ever boast,
And that lorn sign of virtue be not lost;
Now on thy visage let the stranger burn,
And glow for deeds that bid an empire mourn.
Drawn from a garret by the royal sire,
Warm'd like the viper by his friendly fire,
What hath thy gratitude sublimely done?—
Fix'd, like the snake, thy fang upon the son!
Warm'd like the viper by his friendly fire,
What hath thy gratitude sublimely done?—
Fix'd, like the snake, thy fang upon the son!
Yes—thou most gen'rous youth, thy hostile art
Hath lodg'd a pois'nous shaft in Britain's heart!
Thy arm hath dragg'd the column to the ground,
The sacred wonder of the realms around!
To make snug, comfortable habitations
For thee and all thy pitiful relations.
Barbarian-like—how like those sons of spoil,
Whose impious hands on hallow'd structures toil—
Base throng, that through Palmyra's temple digs,
To form a lodging for themselves and pigs!
Hath lodg'd a pois'nous shaft in Britain's heart!
Thy arm hath dragg'd the column to the ground,
The sacred wonder of the realms around!
488
For thee and all thy pitiful relations.
Barbarian-like—how like those sons of spoil,
Whose impious hands on hallow'd structures toil—
Base throng, that through Palmyra's temple digs,
To form a lodging for themselves and pigs!
Oh! if ambition prompts thy soaring soul
To live the theme of future times with R*lle;
Thrice happy youth, like his shall shine thy name,
Who gave th' Ephesian wonder to the flame!
To live the theme of future times with R*lle;
Thrice happy youth, like his shall shine thy name,
Who gave th' Ephesian wonder to the flame!
Sick at the name of R--- (to thee though dear),
The name abhorr'd by Honour's shrinking ear,
I draw reluctant from thy venal throng,
And give it mention, though it blasts my song.
The name abhorr'd by Honour's shrinking ear,
I draw reluctant from thy venal throng,
And give it mention, though it blasts my song.
How cou'dst thou bid that R*lle, despis'd by all,
On helpless beauty like a mastiff fall;
Then meanly to correct the brute pretend,
And claim the merit of the fair one's friend ?
On helpless beauty like a mastiff fall;
Then meanly to correct the brute pretend,
And claim the merit of the fair one's friend ?
Art thou the youth on whom the virtues smile?
The boasted saviour of our sinking isle?
O'er such, Oblivion, be thy wing display'd!
Oh! waft them from the gibbet to thy shade!
The boasted saviour of our sinking isle?
O'er such, Oblivion, be thy wing display'd!
Oh! waft them from the gibbet to thy shade!
Yet what expect from thee, whose icy breast,
A stranger to their charm, the Loves detest?—
Thee, o'er whose heart their fascinating pow'r
Ne'er knew the triumph of one soft'ned hour?
To give thy flinty soul the tender sigh,
Vain is the radiance of the brightest eye!
In vain for thee of beauty blooms the rose:
In vain the swelling bosom spreads its snows—
A Joseph thou, against the sex to strive—
Dead to those charms that keep the world alive!
A stranger to their charm, the Loves detest?—
Thee, o'er whose heart their fascinating pow'r
Ne'er knew the triumph of one soft'ned hour?
To give thy flinty soul the tender sigh,
Vain is the radiance of the brightest eye!
In vain for thee of beauty blooms the rose:
In vain the swelling bosom spreads its snows—
489
Dead to those charms that keep the world alive!
In vain thy malice pours its frothy tide—
In vain the virtues of thy prince to hide—
Thou and thy imps, to dim his rising ray,
Urge clouds on clouds to thwart the golden day!
Mad toil!—I see his orb superior pass,
That smiles triumphant on the sable mass.
In vain the virtues of thy prince to hide—
Thou and thy imps, to dim his rising ray,
Urge clouds on clouds to thwart the golden day!
Mad toil!—I see his orb superior pass,
That smiles triumphant on the sable mass.
O ---! a sister kingdom damns thy deeds,
And pities hapless Britain as she bleeds.
Hibernia scorns each meanly treach'rous art
Hatch'd by the base r*b---n of thy heart,
That crawls an aspic bloated black with fate,
To pour a dire contagion through the state.
She, with an honest voice, her prince approves,
And nobly trusts the virtues that she loves;
Detests a hangman's unremitting toil,
To break upon the wheel a happy isle;
Who yet to push the guilt and folly further,
Suborns addresses to applaud the murther!
Who but must laugh to see thy boasted friends,
On whose poor rotten trunks thy all depends!
See Bute's mean parasite, thy spaniel, creep,
Whose Argus' eyes of av'rice never sleep;
A close state leech, who, sticking to the nation,
As adders deaf to Honour's execration,
Sucks from its throat the blood by night, by day,
Nor till the state expires will drop away.
And pities hapless Britain as she bleeds.
Hibernia scorns each meanly treach'rous art
Hatch'd by the base r*b---n of thy heart,
That crawls an aspic bloated black with fate,
To pour a dire contagion through the state.
She, with an honest voice, her prince approves,
And nobly trusts the virtues that she loves;
Detests a hangman's unremitting toil,
To break upon the wheel a happy isle;
Who yet to push the guilt and folly further,
Suborns addresses to applaud the murther!
Who but must laugh to see thy boasted friends,
On whose poor rotten trunks thy all depends!
See Bute's mean parasite, thy spaniel, creep,
Whose Argus' eyes of av'rice never sleep;
A close state leech, who, sticking to the nation,
As adders deaf to Honour's execration,
Sucks from its throat the blood by night, by day,
Nor till the state expires will drop away.
Yet see another fiend, with scowling eye,
Who draws from Nature's soul her deepest sigh;
Asham'd her hand should usher into light
What fate should whelm with everlasting night!
Lost by his arts, behold the beauteous maid ,
Whom Innocence herself could ne'er upbraid,
Sunk a pale victim to the gaping tomb,
Whilst all but he with grief survey'd her doom;
Whose heart disdain'd to feel—whose eye severe,
Compassion never melted with a tear!
Who draws from Nature's soul her deepest sigh;
Asham'd her hand should usher into light
What fate should whelm with everlasting night!
Lost by his arts, behold the beauteous maid ,
Whom Innocence herself could ne'er upbraid,
490
Whilst all but he with grief survey'd her doom;
Whose heart disdain'd to feel—whose eye severe,
Compassion never melted with a tear!
Yet left in silence to himself alone,
Aghast he heaves the conscience-wounded groan!
At ev'ry sound how horror heaves the sigh!
How dangers thicken on his straining eye!
He sees her phantom, form'd by treach'rous love,
Droop in the grot, and pine amid the grove:
He marks her mien of woe, her cheek so pale,
And trembles at her shrieks that pierce the gale!
At night's deep noon what fears his soul invade!
How wild he starts amidst the spectr'd shade!
And dreading ev'ry hopeless hour the last,
He hears the call of Death in ev'ry blast!
Such are thy colleagues , O thou patriot boy!
Whose heads and hearts thy virtues dare employ;
Who, crouching at thy heels, like bloodhounds wait
To fasten on the vitals of the state!
Such are the miscreants who would rule the realm!
Such the black pirates that would seize the helm!
Aghast he heaves the conscience-wounded groan!
At ev'ry sound how horror heaves the sigh!
How dangers thicken on his straining eye!
He sees her phantom, form'd by treach'rous love,
Droop in the grot, and pine amid the grove:
He marks her mien of woe, her cheek so pale,
And trembles at her shrieks that pierce the gale!
At night's deep noon what fears his soul invade!
How wild he starts amidst the spectr'd shade!
And dreading ev'ry hopeless hour the last,
He hears the call of Death in ev'ry blast!
Such are thy colleagues , O thou patriot boy!
Whose heads and hearts thy virtues dare employ;
Who, crouching at thy heels, like bloodhounds wait
To fasten on the vitals of the state!
Such are the miscreants who would rule the realm!
Such the black pirates that would seize the helm!
Had not I known thee, *****, the Muse had sworn,
That, blest to see the state to atoms torn,
Hell with her host had drawn each damned plan,
And for the murder nurs'd thy dark divan.
That, blest to see the state to atoms torn,
Hell with her host had drawn each damned plan,
And for the murder nurs'd thy dark divan.
Speak—hath thy heart with mad ambition fir'd,
Like Cromwell's, hot for pow'r, to thrones aspir'd?
Then may that young, old trait'rous bosom feel
The rapid vengeance of some virtuous steel;
Or, what to bosoms not quite flint, is worse,
May Heav'n with hoary age a rebel curse—
From sweet society behold him torn,
Condemn'd, like Cain, to walk the world forlorn.
Like Cromwell's, hot for pow'r, to thrones aspir'd?
Then may that young, old trait'rous bosom feel
The rapid vengeance of some virtuous steel;
Or, what to bosoms not quite flint, is worse,
May Heav'n with hoary age a rebel curse—
491
Condemn'd, like Cain, to walk the world forlorn.
Thus rous'd to anger for my country's wrong,
The Muse for vengeance panting pour'd her song—
But, ah! in vain I wish'd the blessing mine,
To plant a scorpion's sting in ev'ry line.
The Muse for vengeance panting pour'd her song—
But, ah! in vain I wish'd the blessing mine,
To plant a scorpion's sting in ev'ry line.
Now Prudence gently pull'd the poet's ear,
And thus the daughter of the blue-ey'd maid ,
In flatt'ry's soothing sounds, divinely said,
‘O Peter! eldest born of Phœbus, hear—
Whose verse could ravish kings, relax the claw
Of that gaunt, hungry savage christen'd law—
Indeed thou wantest worldly wisdom, Peter,
To mix a little oft'ner with thy metre—
Lo! if thine eye Dame Fortune's smile pursues,
To oily adulation prompt the Muse.
And thus the daughter of the blue-ey'd maid ,
In flatt'ry's soothing sounds, divinely said,
‘O Peter! eldest born of Phœbus, hear—
Whose verse could ravish kings, relax the claw
Of that gaunt, hungry savage christen'd law—
Indeed thou wantest worldly wisdom, Peter,
To mix a little oft'ner with thy metre—
Lo! if thine eye Dame Fortune's smile pursues,
To oily adulation prompt the Muse.
Give for the future all thy rhimes to praise;
Strike to the glorious Pitt thy sounding lyre—
Thy head may then be crown'd with Warton's bays,
And mutton twirl with spirit at the fire.’
Strike to the glorious Pitt thy sounding lyre—
Thy head may then be crown'd with Warton's bays,
And mutton twirl with spirit at the fire.’
‘Prudence,’ quoth I, ‘indeed—indeed I can't—
Don't ask me to turn rogue and sycophant!’
Don't ask me to turn rogue and sycophant!’
Now with a smile, first cousin to a grin,
Dame Prudence answer'd, bridling up her chin—
Dame Prudence answer'd, bridling up her chin—
‘Sweet, harmless, pretty, conscientious pigeon!
Ah! Peter, well I ween thou art not rich—
Know that thou'lt die like beggars in a ditch—
Know, too, that hunger is of no religion.
Ah! Peter, well I ween thou art not rich—
Know that thou'lt die like beggars in a ditch—
Know, too, that hunger is of no religion.
Sit down and make a Horace imitation,
Like Pope, and let the stanza glow
With praise of Messieurs Pitt and Co.,
The present worthy rulers of the nation.’
With purs'd-up, puritanic mouth so prim,
Thus spoke Dame Prudence to the bard of whim;
Who, with politeness seldom running o'er,
For inspiration scratch'd his tuneful sconce,
To please Dame Oracle, for once—
A dame, some say, he never saw before.
Like Pope, and let the stanza glow
With praise of Messieurs Pitt and Co.,
The present worthy rulers of the nation.’
492
Thus spoke Dame Prudence to the bard of whim;
Who, with politeness seldom running o'er,
For inspiration scratch'd his tuneful sconce,
To please Dame Oracle, for once—
A dame, some say, he never saw before.
A most wanton and illiberal attack made by this man on Mrs. F---h---t in the House of Commons, exceeds all precedent.
The melancholy circumstance alluded to here, the family of Dr. Lynch, of Canterbury, can best explain.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |