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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| ADVICE TO THE FUTURE LAUREAT,
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
141
ADVICE TO THE FUTURE LAUREAT,
AN ODE.
Nil nimium studeo, Cæsar, tibi velle placere;
Nec scire utrum sis albus an ater homo.
CATULLUS. So little, Cæsar's humour claims my care,
I know not if the man be black or fair.
Nec scire utrum sis albus an ater homo.
CATULLUS. So little, Cæsar's humour claims my care,
I know not if the man be black or fair.
142
THE ARGUMENT.
The Poet expresseth wonderful Curiosity for knowing the future Laureat—reporteth the Candidates for the sublime Office of Poetical Trumpeter—recommendeth to his Muse the Praises of Economy, Poultry, Cow-Pens, Pigs, Dunghills, &c.—adviseth the Mention of his present Money-loving Majesty of Naples; also of the great people of Germany.—Peter gently criticiseth poor Thomas, and uttereth strange Things of Courts—he exclaimeth suddenly, and boasteth of his Purity—he returneth sweetly to the unknown Laureat, asketh him pertinent Questions, and informeth him what a Laureat should resemble.
PART II.
The Poet feeleth a most uncommon Metamorphose —breaketh into out a kind of Poetical Delirium—talketh of Court-reformation, the Arts and Sciences; and seemeth to continue mad to the End of the Chapter.
143
Who shall resume St. James's fife,
And call ideal virtues into life?
On tiptoe gaping, lo, I stand,
To see the future laureat of the land!
And call ideal virtues into life?
On tiptoe gaping, lo, I stand,
To see the future laureat of the land!
Dread rivals, splashing through the dirty road,
With thund'ring specimens of ode,
The lyric bundles on each poet's back,
Intent to gain the stipend and the sack,
See Mason, Hayley, to the palace scamper,
Like porters sweating underneath a hamper!
And see the hacks of Nichols' Magazine
Rush, loyal, to berhime a king and queen;
And see, full speed, to get the tuneful job,
The bellman's heart, with hopes of vict'ry, throb.
With thund'ring specimens of ode,
The lyric bundles on each poet's back,
Intent to gain the stipend and the sack,
See Mason, Hayley, to the palace scamper,
Like porters sweating underneath a hamper!
And see the hacks of Nichols' Magazine
Rush, loyal, to berhime a king and queen;
And see, full speed, to get the tuneful job,
The bellman's heart, with hopes of vict'ry, throb.
O thou, whate'er thy name, thy trade, thy art,
Who from obscurity art doom'd to start,
Call'd, by the royal mandate, to proclaim,
To distant realms a monarch's feeble fame—
For fame of kings, like cripples in the gout,
Demands a crutch to move about—
Who from obscurity art doom'd to start,
Call'd, by the royal mandate, to proclaim,
To distant realms a monarch's feeble fame—
For fame of kings, like cripples in the gout,
Demands a crutch to move about—
Whoe'er thou art, that winn'st the envied prize,
O, if for royal smile thy bosom sighs,
Of pig-economy exalt the praise;—
O flatter sheep and bullocks in thy lays!
To saving wisdom boldly strike the strings,
And justify the grazier-trade in kings.
Descant on ducks, and geese, and cocks, and hens,
Hay-stacks, and dairies, cow-houses, and pens;
Descant on dung-hills, ev'ry sort of kine;
And in the pretty article of swine.
O, if for royal smile thy bosom sighs,
Of pig-economy exalt the praise;—
O flatter sheep and bullocks in thy lays!
To saving wisdom boldly strike the strings,
And justify the grazier-trade in kings.
144
Hay-stacks, and dairies, cow-houses, and pens;
Descant on dung-hills, ev'ry sort of kine;
And in the pretty article of swine.
Inform us, without loss, to twig
The stomach of a feeding calf, or cow;
And tell us, economic, how
To steal a dinner from a fatt'ning pig;
And, bard, to make us still more blest, declare
How hogs and bullocks may grow fat on air.
The stomach of a feeding calf, or cow;
And tell us, economic, how
To steal a dinner from a fatt'ning pig;
And, bard, to make us still more blest, declare
How hogs and bullocks may grow fat on air.
Sing how the king of Naples sells his fish,
And from his stomach cribs the daintiest dish;
Sing, to his subjects how he sells his game,
So fierce for dying rich the monarch's flame:
And from his stomach cribs the daintiest dish;
Sing, to his subjects how he sells his game,
So fierce for dying rich the monarch's flame:
Sing of th' economy of German quality;
Emp'rors, electors, dead to hospitality;
Margraves, and miserable dukes,
Who squeeze their subjects, and who starve their cooks:—
Such be the burthen of thy birth-day song,
And, lo, our court will listen all day long.
Emp'rors, electors, dead to hospitality;
Margraves, and miserable dukes,
Who squeeze their subjects, and who starve their cooks:—
Such be the burthen of thy birth-day song,
And, lo, our court will listen all day long.
Tom prov'd unequal to the laureat's place;
He warbled with an attic grace:
The language was not understood at court,
Where bow and curt'sy, grin and shrug, resort;
Sorrow for sickness, joy for health, so civil;
And love, that wish'd each other to the devil!
He warbled with an attic grace:
The language was not understood at court,
Where bow and curt'sy, grin and shrug, resort;
Sorrow for sickness, joy for health, so civil;
And love, that wish'd each other to the devil!
Tom was a scholar—luckless wight!
Lodg'd with old manners in a musty college;
He knew not that a palace hated knowledge,
And deem'd it pedantry to spell and write.
Tom heard of royal libraries, indeed,
And, weakly, fancied that the books were read;
Lodg'd with old manners in a musty college;
He knew not that a palace hated knowledge,
And deem'd it pedantry to spell and write.
Tom heard of royal libraries, indeed,
And, weakly, fancied that the books were read;
He knew not that an author's sense
Was, at a palace, not worth finding;
That what to notice gave a book pretence,
Was solely paper, print, and binding?
Was, at a palace, not worth finding;
That what to notice gave a book pretence,
Was solely paper, print, and binding?
145
Some folks had never known, with all their wit,
Old Pindar's name, nor occupation,
Had not I started forth—a lucky hit,
And prov'd myself the Theban bard's relation.
Old Pindar's name, nor occupation,
Had not I started forth—a lucky hit,
And prov'd myself the Theban bard's relation.
The names of Drummond, Boldero, and Hoare,
Though strangers to Apollo's tuneful ear,
Are discords that the palace-folks adore,
Sweet as sincerity, as honour dear!
Though strangers to Apollo's tuneful ear,
Are discords that the palace-folks adore,
Sweet as sincerity, as honour dear!
The name of Homer, none are found to know
So much the banker soars beyond the poet;
For courts prefer, so classically weak,
A guinea's music to the noise of Greek:
Menin aeide thea, empty sounds,
How mean to—‘Pay the bearer fifty pounds!’
So much the banker soars beyond the poet;
For courts prefer, so classically weak,
A guinea's music to the noise of Greek:
Menin aeide thea, empty sounds,
How mean to—‘Pay the bearer fifty pounds!’
Angels, and ministers of grace, what's here?
See suppliant Sal'sb'ry to the bard appear!
He sighs—upon his knuckles he is down!—
His lordship begs I'll take the poet's crown.
See suppliant Sal'sb'ry to the bard appear!
He sighs—upon his knuckles he is down!—
His lordship begs I'll take the poet's crown.
Avaunt, my lord!—Solicitation, fly!
I'll not be zany to a king, not I:
I'll be no monarch's humble thrush,
To whistle from the laurel bush;
Or, rather, a tame owl, to hoot
Whene'er it shall my masters suit.
I'll not be zany to a king, not I:
I'll be no monarch's humble thrush,
To whistle from the laurel bush;
Or, rather, a tame owl, to hoot
Whene'er it shall my masters suit.
I have no flatt'ries cut and dried—no varnish
For royal qualities, so apt to tarnish,
Expos'd a little to the biting air:
I've got a soul, and so no lies to spare;—
Besides, too proud to sing for hire,
I scorn to touch a venal lyre.
For royal qualities, so apt to tarnish,
Expos'd a little to the biting air:
I've got a soul, and so no lies to spare;—
Besides, too proud to sing for hire,
I scorn to touch a venal lyre.
Avaunt, ye sceptred vulgar—purpled, ermin'd!
The muse shall make no mummies, I'm determin'd.
World, call her prostitute, bawd, dirty b---,
If meanly once she deals in spice and pitch;
And saves a carcase, by its lyric balm,
So putrid, which the very worms must damn.
The muse shall make no mummies, I'm determin'd.
World, call her prostitute, bawd, dirty b---,
If meanly once she deals in spice and pitch;
And saves a carcase, by its lyric balm,
So putrid, which the very worms must damn.
146
II. PART II.
Oh, were I monarch of this mighty isle!
By verse unvarnish'd should my merits smile;
The nobler virtues dare themselves display,
And need no pedestal to show away:
Each from herself her own importance draws,
And scorns a chattering poet's mock applause.
By verse unvarnish'd should my merits smile;
The nobler virtues dare themselves display,
And need no pedestal to show away:
Each from herself her own importance draws,
And scorns a chattering poet's mock applause.
Oblig'd not to one poet's rhime,
Important, down the stream of time,
Proud let me sail, or not at all;
Too proud for verse to take in tow my name,
Just like the Victory , or Fame ,
That, by its painter, drags the gig or yawl.
Important, down the stream of time,
Proud let me sail, or not at all;
Too proud for verse to take in tow my name,
Just like the Victory , or Fame ,
That, by its painter, drags the gig or yawl.
Prepar'd for ev'ry insult, servile train,
To take a kicking, and to fawn again!
To take a kicking, and to fawn again!
Off, Pitt and Grenville!—you are not yet men—
Go, children, to your leading-strings agen,
Make not a hobby-horse of this fair isle:—
Yet, were no danger in the childish sway,
A kingdom might permit a baby's play,
And at its weaknesses indulge a smile.
Off, then!—once more upon your letters look—
Go, find of politics the lost horn-book.
Off with Excise, your imp, with lengthen'd claws,
And fangs deep-rooted in his hydra-jaws;
That monster, damping Freedom's sacred joys;
Fed by your hands, ye pair of foolish boys!
My soul, to Freedom wedded, Freedom loves;
Then blast me, lightnings, when, so coldly cruel,
I to pomatum sacrifice the jewel,
Rouge, pigtail, and a pair of gloves.
Go, children, to your leading-strings agen,
Make not a hobby-horse of this fair isle:—
Yet, were no danger in the childish sway,
A kingdom might permit a baby's play,
And at its weaknesses indulge a smile.
Off, then!—once more upon your letters look—
Go, find of politics the lost horn-book.
147
And fangs deep-rooted in his hydra-jaws;
That monster, damping Freedom's sacred joys;
Fed by your hands, ye pair of foolish boys!
My soul, to Freedom wedded, Freedom loves;
Then blast me, lightnings, when, so coldly cruel,
I to pomatum sacrifice the jewel,
Rouge, pigtail, and a pair of gloves.
Off, J---! some dæmon did create thee:
Oh, form'd to fawn, to kneel, to lie, to flatter!
‘Perdition catch my soul, but I do hate thee!
And when I hate thee not,’ I war with Nature.
Such reptiles dare not 'midst my radiance sport—
Curs'd be such snakes that crawl about a court.
Oh, form'd to fawn, to kneel, to lie, to flatter!
‘Perdition catch my soul, but I do hate thee!
And when I hate thee not,’ I war with Nature.
Such reptiles dare not 'midst my radiance sport—
Curs'd be such snakes that crawl about a court.
Disgrace not, simp'ring sycophants, my throne!—
E---, and pigmy V---t, be gone!
Br---, thou stinkest!—weasel, polecat, fly!
Thy manners shock, thy form offends my eye.
As for thy principles—they're gone long since—
Lost when a poor deserter from thy Prince.
E---, and pigmy V---t, be gone!
Br---, thou stinkest!—weasel, polecat, fly!
Thy manners shock, thy form offends my eye.
As for thy principles—they're gone long since—
Lost when a poor deserter from thy Prince.
------, avaunt!—thou'rt cowardly and mean;
Thy soul is sable, and thy hands unclean.—
Yet to minutiæ to descend, what need?
Enough, that thou art one of Charles's breed.
Thy soul is sable, and thy hands unclean.—
Yet to minutiæ to descend, what need?
Enough, that thou art one of Charles's breed.
Out with that Sal'sbury!—Dundas, avaunt!
Off, water-gruel Westmoreland, and Leeds!
You, verily, are not the men I want—
My bounty no such folly feeds.
Off, water-gruel Westmoreland, and Leeds!
You, verily, are not the men I want—
My bounty no such folly feeds.
Off, Harcourt! who wouldst starve my kine,
Or make them, poor lean devils, dine
On vile horse-chesnuts—'tis a cursed meal—
Instead of turnips, corn, and hay:
Thou shalt not, by this avaricious way,
Into my royal favour steal.
Or make them, poor lean devils, dine
On vile horse-chesnuts—'tis a cursed meal—
Instead of turnips, corn, and hay:
Thou shalt not, by this avaricious way,
Into my royal favour steal.
Off, Uxbridge!—Leeds, too, once more get along!
You shall not be lord-presidents of song;
You throw poor St. Cecilia into fits:
You've ears, but verily they do not hear,
Just as you've tongues that cannot speak, I fear;
And brains that want their complement of wits.
You shall not be lord-presidents of song;
148
You've ears, but verily they do not hear,
Just as you've tongues that cannot speak, I fear;
And brains that want their complement of wits.
Off, Walsingham!—thou putt'st me in a sweat:
I hate a jack-in-office martinet—
For ever something most important brewing,
For ever busy, busy, nothing doing.
I hate a jack-in-office martinet—
For ever something most important brewing,
For ever busy, busy, nothing doing.
Thou plague of post-office, the teaser, fretter;
Informing clerks the way to seal a letter;
Who, full of wisdom, hold'st thyself the broom,
Instructing Susan how to sweep the room;
The letter-man, to hold his bag;
The mail-guard (sunk in ignorance forlorn!)
To load his blunderbuss, and blow his horn;
Off, off!—of consequence thou rag!
Go to the fields, and gain a nation's thanks—
Catch grasshoppers and butterflies for Banks.
Informing clerks the way to seal a letter;
Who, full of wisdom, hold'st thyself the broom,
Instructing Susan how to sweep the room;
The letter-man, to hold his bag;
The mail-guard (sunk in ignorance forlorn!)
To load his blunderbuss, and blow his horn;
Off, off!—of consequence thou rag!
Go to the fields, and gain a nation's thanks—
Catch grasshoppers and butterflies for Banks.
I want not fellows that can only prate;
I want no whirligigs of state—
No jack-a-lanterns, imitating fire,
Skipping, and leading men into the mire.
I want no whirligigs of state—
No jack-a-lanterns, imitating fire,
Skipping, and leading men into the mire.
Thou servile copyist, West, begone!
With nought worth saving of thy own;
Phillis and Chloe, dancing dogs,
Pinetti, and the fortune-telling hogs,
Toymen and conj'rors, from my presence fly!
I have no children to amuse—not I.
With nought worth saving of thy own;
Phillis and Chloe, dancing dogs,
Pinetti, and the fortune-telling hogs,
Toymen and conj'rors, from my presence fly!
I have no children to amuse—not I.
Off, Sw---g! thou lean, old, wicked cat;
Restless and spitting, biting, mewing, mean,
Thou shalt not in my chimney-corner squat,
Thou shalt not, haridan, be queen:
Off, to thy country, by the map forgot,
Where tyranny and famine curse the spot.
Restless and spitting, biting, mewing, mean,
Thou shalt not in my chimney-corner squat,
Thou shalt not, haridan, be queen:
Off, to thy country, by the map forgot,
Where tyranny and famine curse the spot.
Yet empty first thy bags of plunder'd gain,
Wages of vile political pollution;
Then vanish, thou old fistula! a drain
Enervating our glorious constitution!
Wages of vile political pollution;
Then vanish, thou old fistula! a drain
Enervating our glorious constitution!
149
Off, H---gs' wife!—thy di'monds bode no good;
They shall not taint us—lo, they smell of blood!
They shall not taint us—lo, they smell of blood!
Off, off, old G---'s spawn!—now E---'s fury,
In manners coarser than the dames of Drury!
O form'd for ugliness itself a foil!
Sprung from the church, the world might well suppose
Thy blood with some few drops of meekness flows—
No, vitriol!—not one particle of oil!
In manners coarser than the dames of Drury!
O form'd for ugliness itself a foil!
Sprung from the church, the world might well suppose
Thy blood with some few drops of meekness flows—
No, vitriol!—not one particle of oil!
I'll have no laureat—sacred be the ode;
Unsullied let its torrent roll!
Few merits mine, the muse's wing to load;
Small grace of form, and no sublime of soul:
And yet, whate'er the merits that are mine,
By verse unvarnish'd shall they shine.
Unsullied let its torrent roll!
Few merits mine, the muse's wing to load;
Small grace of form, and no sublime of soul:
And yet, whate'er the merits that are mine,
By verse unvarnish'd shall they shine.
The real virtues dare themselves display,
And need no pedestal to show away:
Each from herself her own importance draws,
And scorns a chatt'ring poet's mock applause.
And need no pedestal to show away:
Each from herself her own importance draws,
And scorns a chatt'ring poet's mock applause.
Have niggard Nature, and my stars, unkind,
Of sense and virtues stript my desert mind;
My name let Silence, with her veil, invade,
And cold Oblivion pour th' eternal shade.
Of sense and virtues stript my desert mind;
My name let Silence, with her veil, invade,
And cold Oblivion pour th' eternal shade.
Oblig'd not to an author's rhime,
Important, down the stream of time,
O let me sail, or not at all;
Too proud for bards to take in tow my name,
Just like the Victory, or Fame,
That drag along the jollyboat or yawl.
Important, down the stream of time,
O let me sail, or not at all;
Too proud for bards to take in tow my name,
Just like the Victory, or Fame,
That drag along the jollyboat or yawl.
Away, the little sniv'ling spirit—
Away the hate of rising merit—
Thy heav'n-ward wing, aspiring genius, wave;
I will not, lev'ling with a jaundic'd eye,
The secret blunderbuss let fly,
To give thee, O thou royal bird! a grave.
Away the hate of rising merit—
Thy heav'n-ward wing, aspiring genius, wave;
I will not, lev'ling with a jaundic'd eye,
The secret blunderbuss let fly,
To give thee, O thou royal bird! a grave.
I'll have no poet-persecution—no!
Proud of its liberty, the verse shall flow;
The mouth of Pegasus shall feel no curb:
If, idly wanton, poets tax me wrong,
Their's is the infamy, for their's the song—
Such blasts shall ne'er my soul's deep calm disturb.
Proud of its liberty, the verse shall flow;
150
If, idly wanton, poets tax me wrong,
Their's is the infamy, for their's the song—
Such blasts shall ne'er my soul's deep calm disturb.
But should fair truth to satire lend an edge,
Bid with more force descend her thund'ring sledge,
My justice dares not break that poet's pipe;
And, like a school-boy, to the tiger's den,
Who wanton flings a cat, a cock, or hen,
I will not give him to Macdonald's gripe.
Bid with more force descend her thund'ring sledge,
My justice dares not break that poet's pipe;
And, like a school-boy, to the tiger's den,
Who wanton flings a cat, a cock, or hen,
I will not give him to Macdonald's gripe.
Wise let me hush of prejudice the storm,
Disarm him for the future, and reform:—
Yes; 'stead of giving him a law-jobation,
Revenge the blow by reformation.
Disarm him for the future, and reform:—
Yes; 'stead of giving him a law-jobation,
Revenge the blow by reformation.
To Teos, which of yore was reckon'd far,
Hipparchus really sent a man of war,
To bring Anacreon, honied bard, to court;
So Plato says, a man of good report.
Hipparchus really sent a man of war,
To bring Anacreon, honied bard, to court;
So Plato says, a man of good report.
How diff'rent monarchs of the present day!
From modern kings each bee like minstrel sculks,
Whose love would clap the bard on board the hulks,
Or send him out to warble at Thieves' Bay .
From modern kings each bee like minstrel sculks,
Whose love would clap the bard on board the hulks,
Or send him out to warble at Thieves' Bay .
Come, Science, and the Arts, around me bloom—
Thrice-welcome, half my empire claim—
The eye of genius shall not wear a gloom,
Nor Boydell dash my cheek with shame.
Thrice-welcome, half my empire claim—
The eye of genius shall not wear a gloom,
Nor Boydell dash my cheek with shame.
Historians, poets, painters, ev'ry merit,
Shall feel king Peter's fost'ring spirit.
Shall feel king Peter's fost'ring spirit.
Yes, men of genius, be my equals, free—
Imperious consequence you shall not feel;
For show collected, just to bend the knee,
And grace, like slaves of yore, a chariot-wheel.
Imperious consequence you shall not feel;
For show collected, just to bend the knee,
And grace, like slaves of yore, a chariot-wheel.
151
Avaunt, the parasitic dedication,
A trap to catch my smile, deceive the nation,
And make the wide-mouth'd million bless my name:
A trap to catch my smile, deceive the nation,
And make the wide-mouth'd million bless my name:
Ah! let my deeds alone, instead of lies,
Proclaim me open, gen'rous, good, and wise—
Those manly heralds of a virtuous fame.
Proclaim me open, gen'rous, good, and wise—
Those manly heralds of a virtuous fame.
Here, from your hovels, sons of Science, come:
Oh, haste! and call King Peter's house your home:
Your huts, your solitary mountains, quit,
And make my court a galaxy of wit.
Oh, haste! and call King Peter's house your home:
Your huts, your solitary mountains, quit,
And make my court a galaxy of wit.
Come, Virtue, though a dungeon hide thy face
(For to thy lot too oft misfortune falls),
Whose angel-form, from jails can blot disgrace,
And cast a sacred splendour o'er the walls.
(For to thy lot too oft misfortune falls),
Whose angel-form, from jails can blot disgrace,
And cast a sacred splendour o'er the walls.
Thus shall our moments glide on golden wings;
Thus will we triumph with expanded hearts;
At times be merry upon thrifty kings,
And smile at majesty that starves the arts.
Ambitious, if with wisdom thus we wed;
A farthing shall not blush to bear our head!
Thus will we triumph with expanded hearts;
At times be merry upon thrifty kings,
And smile at majesty that starves the arts.
Ambitious, if with wisdom thus we wed;
A farthing shall not blush to bear our head!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |