Peace and good will to this fair meeting!—
I come not with hostility, but greeting—
Not eagle-like to scream, but dove-like coo it—
I come not with the sword of vengeance, rhime,
To slash, and act as journeyman to Time—
The God himself is just arriv'd to do it.
To make each feeble figure a poor corse,
I come not with the shafts of satire sporting
Then view me not like Stubbs's staring horse,
With terror on the approaching lion snorting:
I come to bid the hatchet's labour cease,
And smoke with friends the calumet of peace.
Knight of the polar star, or bear, don't start,
And like some long-ear'd creatures, bray, ‘what art?’
Sir William, shut your ell-wide mouth of terror—
I come not here, believe me, to complain
Of such as dar'd employ thy building brain,
And criticise an œconomic error
.
I come not here to call thee knave or fool,
And bid thee seek again Palladio's school;
Or copy heav'n, who form'd thy head so thick,
To give stability to stone and brick;
No—'twould be cruel now to make a rout—
The very stones already have cry'd out.
I come not here, indeed, new cracks to spy,
And call thee for the workmanship hard names;
To point which wing shall next forsake the sky,
And tumble in the Strand, or in the Thames.
Nor come I here to cover thee with shame,
For putting clever Academic men
,
Like calves or pigs, into a pen,
To see the king of England and his dame,
'Midst carts and coaches, golden horse and foot;
'Midst peopled windows, chimneys and old walls;
'Midst marrowbones and cleavers, fife and flute,
Passing in pious pilgrimage to Paul's;
Where, as the show of gingerbread went by,
The rain, as if in mockery from the sky.
Dribbled on ev'ry academic nob,
And wash'd each pigtail smart, and powder'd bob:
Wash'd many a visage, black, and brown, and fair,
Giving to each so picturesque an air;
Resembling that of drooping, rain-soak'd fowls,
Or, what's a better picture, parboil'd owls;
Whilst thou, great Jove upon Olympus aping,
Didst sit majestic, from a window gaping.
O, West! that fix'd and jealous eye forbear,
Which scowling marks the bard with doubt and fear;
Thy forms are sacred from my wrath divine;
'Twere cruel to attack such crippled creatures,
So very, very feeble in their natures,
Already gasping in a deep decline!
I seek them not with scalping thoughts, indeed,
Too great my soul to bid the figures bleed:
No—peace and happiness attend 'em;
Where'er they go, poor imps, God mend 'em.
I come not to impart to thee the crime
Of over dealing in the true sublime;
I scorn with malice thus thy fame to wound;
Nor cruel to declare, and hurt thy trade,
That too divine effects of light and shade
Were ever 'midst thy labours to be sound.
Nor swear to blast an atom of thy merit,
That elegance, expression, spirit,
Too strongly from the canvass blaze;
And damn thee thus with Raphael's praise:
Besides, against the stream I scorn to rush;
The world ne'er said, nor thought it of thy brush.
Were I to write thy epitaph, I'd say,
‘Here lies below a painter's clay,
Who work'd away most furiously for kings,
And prov'd that fire of inclination,
For pleasing the great ruler of a nation,
And fire of genius, are two different things.’
Nor come I here t'inform some men so wise,
Who shine not yet upon the R. A. list,
That limbs in spasms and crack'd and goggling eyes,
With grandeur cannot well exist.
Nay, let it be recorded in my rhime,
Convulsions cannot give the true sublime.
St. Vitus might be virtuous to romance—
Peace to the manes of that capering saint;
Yet let me tell the sons of paint,
Sublimity adorneth not his dance.
Wide saucer eyes, and dire distortion,
Will only make a good abortion.
No, landscape painters, let your gold streams sleep—
Sleep, golden skies and bulls, and golden cows,
And golden groves and vales, and golden sheep,
And golden goats, the golden grass that brouse,
Which with such golden lustre flame,
As beat the very golden frame.
Peace to the scenes of Birmingham's bright school!
Peace to the brighter scenes of Pontypool!
Aw'd I approach, ye sov'reigns of the brush,
With modesty's companion sweet, a blush,
And hesitation nat'ral to her tongue:
And eye so diffident, with beam so mild,
Like Eve's when Adam on her beauties smil'd,
And led her blushing, nothing loath, along,
To give the lady a green gown so sweet,
On beds of roses, love's delicious seat.
Yes, sober, trembling, Quaker-like, I come
To this great dome
To offer subjects to the sons of paint;
Accept the pleasant tales and hints I bring,
Of knight and lord, and commoner and king,
Sweeter than hist'ry of embowell'd saint:
Or martyr beat like Shrovetide cocks with bats,
And fir'd like turpentin'd poor roasting rats.
Inimical as dogs to pigs,
Or wind and rain to powder'd wigs,
Or mud from kennels to a milk-white stocking;
Hostile to Peter's phiz as if a pest,
Why springs the man of hist'ry, Master West,
And cries, ‘Off, off! your tales and hints are shocking;
Inventions—fabrications—lies—damn'd lies;
Kings, and the world besides, thy spite despise!
‘Sir, you're a liar, ev'ry body knows it;
Sir, every stupid stanza shows it;
Sir, you know nothing of a king and queen;
In spheres too high their orbs superior roll
By thy poor little grov'lling, mole-ey'd soul,
Thou outcast of Parnassus! to be seen.
‘Sir, they do honour to their god-like station,
The two first luminaries of the nation,
So meek, good, gen'rous, virtuous, humble, wise;
Whilst thou a savage, a great fool so fat,
Curs'd with a conscience blacker than my hat,
Art rival to that fiend the prince of lies.
‘Go, pour thy venom on my Lear
—
A whisper, Hopkins, Sternhold, in thy ear:
King Lear, to mortify thee, goes
Where majesty delights with West to prate,
Much more than ministers of state,
Where thou shalt never show thy nose!
‘Where pages fancy it a heinous crime,
Thou foul-mouth'd fellow, to repeat thy rhime;
Where ev'ry cook, it is my firm belief,
Would nobly make it a religious point,
Rather than put thy trash upon a joint,
To let the fire consuming burn the beef.
‘There's not a shopkeeper in Windsor town
That would not hang thee, shoot thee, stab thee, drown,
That doth not damn thy stuff, thy odes and tales;
That doth not think thy odes would give disease
To ev'ry thing they wrapp'd—to bread, to cheese,
Nay, give contagion to a bag of nails.
‘The very Windsor dogs and cats,
The very Windsor owls and bats,
Would howl and squall, and hoot, and shriek to meet,
Like thee a raggamuffin in the street.
‘The servant maids of Windsor from each shop,
Some pointing brooms, and some a scornful mop,
Their loyal sentiments would disembogue,
And taunting cry, “there goes a lying rogue.”
‘Behold rank impudence thy rhimes inspire;
Consummate insolence thy verse provoke!
Fool! to believe thy muse a muse of fire,—
A chimney-sweeper's drab, a muse of smoke.
‘The very bellman's rhimes possess more merit;
Nay, Nichols' magazine exceeds in spirit:
A printer's devil with conceit so drunk,
Who publishes for gentleman and trunk;
‘Who sets up author on old Bowyer's scraps;
Bowyer, whose pen recorded all the raps
That hungry authors gave to Bowyer's door,
To swell the curious literary store:
‘Who on a purblind antiquarian's back,
A founder'd, broken-winded hack,
Rides out to find old farthings, nails, and bones—
On darkest coins the brightest legend reads,
On traceless copper sees imperial heads,
And makes inscriptions older than the stones.
‘Too bids, to give his customers surprise,
A Druid altar from a pigsty rise.
Yes, Nichols, aping wisdom through his glasses,
Thee, thee Apollo's scavenger, surpasses.
‘Soon shall we see the Fleet thy carcase wring,
Mean thro' the prison grate for farthings angling,
Suspending feet of stockings by a string,
Or glove or nightcap for our bounty dangling:
‘Whilst issuing from thy mouth begrim'd with beard
(Thy pale nose poking through thy prison hole),
The hollow voice of mis'ry will be heard,
“Kind ge'mman, pity a poor hungry soul;
Have pity on a pris'ner's case so shocking—
Good lady, put a farthing in the stocking!’
‘What impudence, thus bold a face to push,
Arm'd with a winking light of paltry rush,
As if with truth's bright torch, into our room!
To dart on ignorance the fancied rays—
To bid of barbarism the empire blaze,
And kind illumine error's midnight gloom.
‘Get out, and pertly don't come troubling me;
A dog is better company than thee.’
I thank ye—much oblig'd t'ye, Master West,
For thoughts so kind, and prettily exprest
Yet won't I be refused, I won't, indeed;
You must, you shall have tale, and ode, and hint;
This memory of mine contains a mint;
And thus, in bold defiance, I proceed.
Yet mind me,—as to our bright king and queen,
Their names are sacred from the poet's spleen—
Peace to their reign! they feel no more my jokes,
Whether to Hanover they wisely roam,
Or full as wisely count their cash at home,
My satire shall not hurt the gentlefolks.
Pleas'd in a hut to broil my mutton bone,
I sigh not for the ven'son of a throne:
Nay, slavery doth not with my pride agree;
A toad eater's an imp I don't admire;
Nor royal small-talk doth my soul desire—
I've seen my sovereigns—that's enough for me.
