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 |
 | I. |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
157
COMPLIMENTARY EPISTLE TO JAMES BRUCE, ESQ. The Abyssinian Traveller.
------Non fabula mendax.
Wonders!—Wonders!!—Wonders!!!
Wonders!—Wonders!!—Wonders!!!
159
A COMPLIMENTARY EPISTLE.
Sweet is the tale, however strange its air,
That bids the public eye astonied stare!
Sweet is the tale, howe'er uncouth its shape,
That makes the world's wide mouth with wonder gape!
Behold our infancies in tales delight,
That bolt like hedgehog quills the hair upright.
Of ghosts how pleas'd is ev'ry child to hear!
To such is Jack the Giant-killer dear!
Dread monsters, issuing from the flame or flood,
Charm, though with horror cloth'd they chill the blood!
What makes a tale so sleepy, languid, dull?
Things as they happen'd—not of marvel full.
What gives a zest, and keeps alive attention;
A tale that wears the visage of invention:
A tale of lions, spectres, shipwreck, thunder;
A wonder, or first cousin to a wonder.
Mysterious conduct! yet 'tis Nature's plan
To sow with wonder's seeds the soul of man,
That ev'ry where in sweet profusion rise,
And sprout luxuriant through the mouth and eyes.
That bids the public eye astonied stare!
Sweet is the tale, howe'er uncouth its shape,
That makes the world's wide mouth with wonder gape!
Behold our infancies in tales delight,
That bolt like hedgehog quills the hair upright.
Of ghosts how pleas'd is ev'ry child to hear!
To such is Jack the Giant-killer dear!
Dread monsters, issuing from the flame or flood,
Charm, though with horror cloth'd they chill the blood!
What makes a tale so sleepy, languid, dull?
Things as they happen'd—not of marvel full.
What gives a zest, and keeps alive attention;
A tale that wears the visage of invention:
A tale of lions, spectres, shipwreck, thunder;
A wonder, or first cousin to a wonder.
Mysterious conduct! yet 'tis Nature's plan
To sow with wonder's seeds the soul of man,
That ev'ry where in sweet profusion rise,
And sprout luxuriant through the mouth and eyes.
160
What to the vasty deep Sir Joseph
gave,
As of the world, the sport of wind and wave?
What bade the knight, amid those scenes remote,
Sleep with Queen Oborea in the boat?
What, unconfounded, leap to Newton's chair?
What, but to make a world with wonder stare?
What bids a king on Wimbledon, Blackheath,
So oft rejoice the regiments of death;
While Britain's mightier bulwark slighted lies,
And vainly groaning for its Cæsar sighs?
What, with the vulgar pigs of Ascot taken,
Devour on Ascot Heath his annual bacon?
What bade that great, great, man, a goodly sight,
Watch his wife's di'mond petticoat all night;
And what that wife of great, great, great renown,
Make her own caps, and darn a thread-bare gown?
What bade the charming Lady Mary fly
Marchesi's squeeze, for Pacchierotti's sigh?
What Master Edgecumbe deal in rhiming ware?
What but to put all Cawsand in a stare?
Sweet child of verse, who, with importance big,
Pleas'd its own self, and eterniz'd a pig ;
Whilst, mad an equal weight of praise to share,
Old Mount plays Punchinello to a hair.
What makes a girl the shops for novels rove?
The sweet impossibilities of love?
Quixotic deeds to catch the flying fair;
To pant at dangers, and at marvels stare.
What prompteth Chloe, conscious of the charms
That crowd the souls of swains with wild alarms,
To give the swelling bosom's milk-white skin
A veil of gauze so marvelously thin?
What but a kind intention of the fair
To treat the eyes of shepherds with a stare?
Behold! Religion's self, celestial dame,
Founds on the rock of miracle her fame:
A sacred building, that defies decay,
That sin's wild waves can never wash away!
What made John Rolle (except for Exon's stare)
Drill-serjeant to the aldermen and may'r?
E'er from the hall he led his chosen bands,
To view the king of nations, and kiss hands?
How rarely man the haunts of wisdom seeks,
Pleas'd with the life of cabbages and leeks!
Though form'd to plough the soil, divinely strong,
'Tis famine goads him, like an ox, along:
But Bruce, on curiosity's wild wings,
Darts, hawk-like, where the game of marvel springs,
Let envy kindle with the blush of shame,
That dares to call thee, Bruce, a thief of fame.
Pleas'd to thy wonder's vortex to be drawn,
A thousand volumes could not make me yawn:
And (O accept a salutary hint)—
The world will read as fast as thou canst print.
As of the world, the sport of wind and wave?
What bade the knight, amid those scenes remote,
Sleep with Queen Oborea in the boat?
What, unconfounded, leap to Newton's chair?
What, but to make a world with wonder stare?
What bids a king on Wimbledon, Blackheath,
So oft rejoice the regiments of death;
While Britain's mightier bulwark slighted lies,
And vainly groaning for its Cæsar sighs?
What, with the vulgar pigs of Ascot taken,
Devour on Ascot Heath his annual bacon?
What bade that great, great, man, a goodly sight,
Watch his wife's di'mond petticoat all night;
And what that wife of great, great, great renown,
Make her own caps, and darn a thread-bare gown?
What bade the charming Lady Mary fly
Marchesi's squeeze, for Pacchierotti's sigh?
What Master Edgecumbe deal in rhiming ware?
What but to put all Cawsand in a stare?
Sweet child of verse, who, with importance big,
Pleas'd its own self, and eterniz'd a pig ;
161
Old Mount plays Punchinello to a hair.
What makes a girl the shops for novels rove?
The sweet impossibilities of love?
Quixotic deeds to catch the flying fair;
To pant at dangers, and at marvels stare.
What prompteth Chloe, conscious of the charms
That crowd the souls of swains with wild alarms,
To give the swelling bosom's milk-white skin
A veil of gauze so marvelously thin?
What but a kind intention of the fair
To treat the eyes of shepherds with a stare?
Behold! Religion's self, celestial dame,
Founds on the rock of miracle her fame:
A sacred building, that defies decay,
That sin's wild waves can never wash away!
What made John Rolle (except for Exon's stare)
Drill-serjeant to the aldermen and may'r?
162
To view the king of nations, and kiss hands?
How rarely man the haunts of wisdom seeks,
Pleas'd with the life of cabbages and leeks!
Though form'd to plough the soil, divinely strong,
'Tis famine goads him, like an ox, along:
But Bruce, on curiosity's wild wings,
Darts, hawk-like, where the game of marvel springs,
Let envy kindle with the blush of shame,
That dares to call thee, Bruce, a thief of fame.
Pleas'd to thy wonder's vortex to be drawn,
A thousand volumes could not make me yawn:
And (O accept a salutary hint)—
The world will read as fast as thou canst print.
Curs'd by the goose's and the critic's quill,
What tortures tear us, and what horrors thrill!
Thus that small imp, a tooth a simple bone,
Can make fair ladies and great heroes groan;
Tear hopeless virgins from their happy dream,
And bid for doctors 'stead of sweethearts scream:
In tears the tender tossing infant steep,
And from its eyelids brush the dews of sleep;
Where with a cheek in cherub blushes drest,
It seeks, with fruitless cries, its vanish'd rest.
Far diff'rent, Thou, erect in conscious pride,
Colossal dar'st the critic host bestride;
Like yelping coward curs canst make them skip,
And tremble at the thunder of thy whip.
What tortures tear us, and what horrors thrill!
Thus that small imp, a tooth a simple bone,
Can make fair ladies and great heroes groan;
Tear hopeless virgins from their happy dream,
And bid for doctors 'stead of sweethearts scream:
In tears the tender tossing infant steep,
And from its eyelids brush the dews of sleep;
Where with a cheek in cherub blushes drest,
It seeks, with fruitless cries, its vanish'd rest.
Far diff'rent, Thou, erect in conscious pride,
Colossal dar'st the critic host bestride;
Like yelping coward curs canst make them skip,
And tremble at the thunder of thy whip.
How hard that thou, a busy working bee,
Shouldst range from flow'r to flow'r, from tree to tree;
Fly loaded home from shrubs of richest prime,
Egyptian, Nubian, Abyssinian thyme,
And plund'ring drones upon thine honey thrive,
Who never gave an atom to the hive!
Huge whale of marvel-hunters, further say,
And glad the present and the future day;
Speak! did no angel, proud to intervene,
Bear thee, like Habbakuk, from scene to scene?
Shouldst range from flow'r to flow'r, from tree to tree;
Fly loaded home from shrubs of richest prime,
Egyptian, Nubian, Abyssinian thyme,
And plund'ring drones upon thine honey thrive,
Who never gave an atom to the hive!
163
And glad the present and the future day;
Speak! did no angel, proud to intervene,
Bear thee, like Habbakuk, from scene to scene?
Lo! moon-ey'd Wonder opes her lap to thee:
How niggardly, alas! to luckless me!
Where'er through trackless woods thy luckier way,
Marvels, like dew-drops, beams on every spray,
Blest man! whate'er thou wishest to behold,
Nature as strongly wishes to unfold;
Of all her wardrobe offers every rag,
Of which thy skill hath form'd a conj'ror's bag.
Thy deeds are giants, covering ours with shame!
Poor wasted pigmies! skeletons of fame!
To thee how kindly hath thy genius giv'n
The massy keys of yonder star-clad Heav'n;
With leave, whene'er thou wishest to unlock it,
To put a few eclipses in thy pocket!
Nature where'er thou tread'st, exalts her form;
The whisp'ring zephyr swells a howling storm;
Where pebbles lay, and riv'lets purl'd before,
Huge promontories rise, and oceans roar.
Thrice envy'd man (if truth each volume sings),
Thy life how happy! hand and glove with kings!
A simple swain, a stranger to a throne,
I ne'er sat down with kings to pick a bone!
For smiles I gap'd not, crouch'd not for assistance;
But paid my salutations at a distance:
Yet live, O kings, to see a distant date,
Because I've got a pretty good estate;
A comely spot near Helicon, that thrives;
A leasehold though, that hangs upon your lives;
Set to George Kearsley, at a moderate rent;
Enough for me, poor swain, it brings content.
Where Heav'n to place a crown upon my head,
So meek, so modest I should faint with dread:
And like some honest bishop, with a sigh,
‘Pity my greatness, lord!’ would be my cry.
Poets, like spiders, now-a-days must spin,
Ev'n from themselves, the threads of life so thin.
Nought pleaseth now the rulers of great nations,
But books of wonders, and sweet dedications.
Kings, like the mountains of the moon, indeed,
Proud of their stature, lift a lofty head;
Heads, like the mountains also, cold and raw,
That, ice-envelop'd, seldom feel a thaw.
O may the worst of ills, my soul betide,
For me if ever lovesick lady died!
If fatal darts from these two eyes of mine,
Play'd havoc with fair ladies hearts, like thine:
No, no! I ever a hard bargain drove,
And purchas'd ev'ry atom of my love.
O Bruce, I own, all candour, that I look
With envy, downright envy, on thy book,
A book like Psalmanazar's, form'd to last,
That gives th' historic eye a sweet repast;
A book like Mandeville's, that yields delight,
And puts poor probability to flight;
A book that e'en Pontopidan would own;
A book most humbly offer'd to the throne;
A book, how happy, which the king of isles
Admires (says rumour), and receiv'd with smiles!
How niggardly, alas! to luckless me!
Where'er through trackless woods thy luckier way,
Marvels, like dew-drops, beams on every spray,
Blest man! whate'er thou wishest to behold,
Nature as strongly wishes to unfold;
Of all her wardrobe offers every rag,
Of which thy skill hath form'd a conj'ror's bag.
Thy deeds are giants, covering ours with shame!
Poor wasted pigmies! skeletons of fame!
To thee how kindly hath thy genius giv'n
The massy keys of yonder star-clad Heav'n;
With leave, whene'er thou wishest to unlock it,
To put a few eclipses in thy pocket!
Nature where'er thou tread'st, exalts her form;
The whisp'ring zephyr swells a howling storm;
Where pebbles lay, and riv'lets purl'd before,
Huge promontories rise, and oceans roar.
Thrice envy'd man (if truth each volume sings),
Thy life how happy! hand and glove with kings!
A simple swain, a stranger to a throne,
I ne'er sat down with kings to pick a bone!
For smiles I gap'd not, crouch'd not for assistance;
But paid my salutations at a distance:
Yet live, O kings, to see a distant date,
Because I've got a pretty good estate;
A comely spot near Helicon, that thrives;
A leasehold though, that hangs upon your lives;
Set to George Kearsley, at a moderate rent;
Enough for me, poor swain, it brings content.
Where Heav'n to place a crown upon my head,
So meek, so modest I should faint with dread:
And like some honest bishop, with a sigh,
‘Pity my greatness, lord!’ would be my cry.
164
Ev'n from themselves, the threads of life so thin.
Nought pleaseth now the rulers of great nations,
But books of wonders, and sweet dedications.
Kings, like the mountains of the moon, indeed,
Proud of their stature, lift a lofty head;
Heads, like the mountains also, cold and raw,
That, ice-envelop'd, seldom feel a thaw.
O may the worst of ills, my soul betide,
For me if ever lovesick lady died!
If fatal darts from these two eyes of mine,
Play'd havoc with fair ladies hearts, like thine:
No, no! I ever a hard bargain drove,
And purchas'd ev'ry atom of my love.
O Bruce, I own, all candour, that I look
With envy, downright envy, on thy book,
A book like Psalmanazar's, form'd to last,
That gives th' historic eye a sweet repast;
A book like Mandeville's, that yields delight,
And puts poor probability to flight;
A book that e'en Pontopidan would own;
A book most humbly offer'd to the throne;
A book, how happy, which the king of isles
Admires (says rumour), and receiv'd with smiles!
The fool, with equal gape, astonish'd sees,
Through Wonder's glasses, elephants and fleas;
But thou, in Wonder's school long bred, full grown,
Art pleas'd indeed with elephants alone:
Hadst thou been God, an insult to thy sight,
Thy majesty had scorn'd to make a mite.
Know, where th' Atlantic holds th' unwieldy whale,
My heart has panted at the monster's tail:
Had Bruce been there, th' invincible, the brave,
How had he dash'd at once beneath the wave!
Bold with his dirk the mighty fish pursu'd,
And stain'd whole leagues of ocean with his blood;
Then rising glorious from the great attack,
Grac'd with the wat'ry tyrant on his back!
Through Wonder's glasses, elephants and fleas;
But thou, in Wonder's school long bred, full grown,
Art pleas'd indeed with elephants alone:
Hadst thou been God, an insult to thy sight,
Thy majesty had scorn'd to make a mite.
Know, where th' Atlantic holds th' unwieldy whale,
My heart has panted at the monster's tail:
Had Bruce been there, th' invincible, the brave,
How had he dash'd at once beneath the wave!
Bold with his dirk the mighty fish pursu'd,
And stain'd whole leagues of ocean with his blood;
Then rising glorious from the great attack,
Grac'd with the wat'ry tyrant on his back!
165
'Mid those fair isles
, the happy isles of old,
Plains that the ghosts of kings and chiefs patrol'd,
These eyes have seen; but, let me truth confess,
No royal spectre came, these eyes to bless:
To no one chieftain-phantom too, I vow,
With rev'rence, did I ever make my bow:
Gone to make room, poor ghosts, so fate inclines,
For gangs of lazy Spaniards and their vines.
But had thy foot, illustrious trav'ler, trod,
Like me the precincts of th' Elysian sod;
Full of inquiry, easy, unconfounded,
By spectres hadst thou quickly been surrounded;
Then had we heard thy book of wonder boast,
How Bruce the brave shook hands with ev'ry ghost!
In vain did I phænomena pursue,
For Wonder waits upon the chosen few.
Whate'er I saw requir'd no witch's storm—
Slight deeds, that Nature could with ease perform!
Audacious, to purloin my flesh and fish,
No golden eagles hopp'd into my fish.
Nor crocodiles, by love of knowledge led,
To mark my figure, left their oozy bed;
Nor loaded camels, to provoke my stare,
Sublimely whirl'd, like straws, amid the air;
Nor, happy in a stomach form'd of steel,
On roaring lions have I made a meal.
Unequal mine with lions' bones to cope;
Thy jaws can only on such viands ope.
O hadst thou trod, like me, the happy isle,
Whose mountain treats all mountains with a smile:
Bold hadst thou climb'd th' ascent, an easy matter,
And, nobly daring, sous'd into the crater;
Then out agen hadst vaulted with a hop,
Quick as a sweeper from a chimney-top.
O had thy curious eye beheld, like mine,
The isle which glads the heart with richest wine!
Beneath its vines, with common clusters crown'd,
At eve my wand'ring steps a passage found,
Where rose the hut, and neither rich nor poor,
The wife and husband, seated at the door,
Touch'd, when the labours of the day were done,
The wire of music to the setting sun;
Where, blest, a tender offspring, rang'd around,
Join'd their small voices to the silver sound
But had thine eye this simple scene explor'd,
The man at once had sprung a sceptred lord;
Princes and princesses the bearns had been;
The hut a palace, and the wife a queen;
Their golden harps had ravish'd thy two ears,
And beggar'd all the music of the spheres;
So kind is nature always pleas'd to be,
When visited by favourites, like thee!
Strange! thou hast seen the land, that, to its shame,
Ne'er heard our good ---'s virtues, nor his name!
I've only seen those regions, let me say,
Where his great virtues never found their way.
Plains that the ghosts of kings and chiefs patrol'd,
These eyes have seen; but, let me truth confess,
No royal spectre came, these eyes to bless:
To no one chieftain-phantom too, I vow,
With rev'rence, did I ever make my bow:
Gone to make room, poor ghosts, so fate inclines,
For gangs of lazy Spaniards and their vines.
But had thy foot, illustrious trav'ler, trod,
Like me the precincts of th' Elysian sod;
Full of inquiry, easy, unconfounded,
By spectres hadst thou quickly been surrounded;
Then had we heard thy book of wonder boast,
How Bruce the brave shook hands with ev'ry ghost!
In vain did I phænomena pursue,
For Wonder waits upon the chosen few.
Whate'er I saw requir'd no witch's storm—
Slight deeds, that Nature could with ease perform!
Audacious, to purloin my flesh and fish,
No golden eagles hopp'd into my fish.
Nor crocodiles, by love of knowledge led,
To mark my figure, left their oozy bed;
Nor loaded camels, to provoke my stare,
Sublimely whirl'd, like straws, amid the air;
Nor, happy in a stomach form'd of steel,
On roaring lions have I made a meal.
Unequal mine with lions' bones to cope;
Thy jaws can only on such viands ope.
O hadst thou trod, like me, the happy isle,
Whose mountain treats all mountains with a smile:
Bold hadst thou climb'd th' ascent, an easy matter,
And, nobly daring, sous'd into the crater;
Then out agen hadst vaulted with a hop,
Quick as a sweeper from a chimney-top.
O had thy curious eye beheld, like mine,
The isle which glads the heart with richest wine!
166
At eve my wand'ring steps a passage found,
Where rose the hut, and neither rich nor poor,
The wife and husband, seated at the door,
Touch'd, when the labours of the day were done,
The wire of music to the setting sun;
Where, blest, a tender offspring, rang'd around,
Join'd their small voices to the silver sound
But had thine eye this simple scene explor'd,
The man at once had sprung a sceptred lord;
Princes and princesses the bearns had been;
The hut a palace, and the wife a queen;
Their golden harps had ravish'd thy two ears,
And beggar'd all the music of the spheres;
So kind is nature always pleas'd to be,
When visited by favourites, like thee!
Strange! thou hast seen the land, that, to its shame,
Ne'er heard our good ---'s virtues, nor his name!
I've only seen those regions, let me say,
Where his great virtues never found their way.
Alas! I never met with royal scenes!
No vomits gave to Abyssinian queens!
Drew not from royal arms the purple tide,
Nor scotch'd with fleams, a sceptred lady's hide;
Nor, in anatomy so very stout,
Ventur'd to turn a princess inside out;
Nor blushing, stripp'd me to the very skin,
To give a royal blackamoor a grin.
I never saw (with ignorance I own)
Mule-mounted monarchs, seek th' imperial throne;
Which mule the carpet spoil'd—a dirty beast!
First stal'd; then—What?—Oblivion cloud the rest.
I saw no king, whose subjects form'd a riot,
And, imp-like, howl'd around him for his quiet.
Nor have I been where men (what loss, alas!)
Kill half a cow, and turn the rest to grass.
Where'er, great trav'ler, thou art pleas'd to tread,
The teeming skies rain wonders on thy head:
No common birth to greet thine eye appears,
But sacred labours of a thousand years.
Where'er the Nile shall pour the smallest sluice,
The rills shall curl into the name of Bruce.
And, lo! a universe his praise shall utter,
Who, first of mortals, found the parent gutter;
And, let me add, of gutters too the queen,
Without whose womb the Nile had never been.
Thus many a man, whose deeds have made a pother,
Has had a scurvy father or a mother.
O form'd in art and science to surpass;
To whom e'en valour is an arrant ass;
O Bruce, most surely travel's eldest son;
Tell prithee, all that thou hast seen and done!
I fear thou hidest half thy feats, unkind!
A thousand wonders, ah! remain behind!
Where is the chariot-wheel with Pharaoh's name,
Fish'd from the old Red Sea to swell thy fame?
Where the horse-shoe with Pharaoh's arms, and found
Where wicked Pharaoh and his host were drown'd?
Where of that stone a slice, and fresh account,
Giv'n by the Lord to Moses on the Mount?
And where a slice of that stone's elder brother,
That, broken, forc'd th' All-Wise t'engrave another?
Where of the cradle too, a sacred rush?
Where a true charcoal of the burning bush?
And O the jewel, curious gem, disclose,
That dangled from the Queen of Sheba's nose,
When, with hard questions, and two roguish eyes,
She rode to puzzle Solomon the Wise?
Sagacious terrier in discovery's mine,
Shall Nature form no more a nose like thine?
No more display'd the pearls of wonder beam,
When thou, great man, art past the Stygian stream?
To Afric wilt thou never, Bruce return?
Howl, Britain? Europe, Abyssinia mourn!
Droop shall Discovery's wing, her bosom sigh,
And marvel meet no more the ravish'd eye;
Nature outstep her modesty no more;
Her cataracts of wonder cease to roar,
Forc'd to a common channel to subside,
And pour no longer an astounding tide?
O bid not yet thy lucky labours cease;
Still let the land of wonder feel increase:
Thy loads of dung, delightful ordure, yield,
And blossom with fertility the field:
Gates, hedges mend, that ignorance pull'd down,
And bring in triumph back each kidnapp'd town.
Though envy damns thy volumes of surprise,
Blest I devour them with unsated eyes!
What though sour Johnson cry'd, with cynic sneer,
‘I deem'd at first, indeed, Bruce had been there:
But soon the eye of keen investigation,
Prov'd all the fellow's tale a fabrication:’
But who, alas! on Johnson's word relies,
Who saw the too kind north with jaundic'd eyes;
Who rode to Hawthornden's fair scene by night,
For fear a Scottish tree might wound his sight;
And, bent from decent candour to depart,
Allow'd a Scotchman neither head nor heart?
Grant fiction half thy volumes of surprise,
High in the scale of merit shalt thou rise:
Still to Fame's temple dost thou boast pretension;
For thine the rara avis of invention?
And, lo! amidst thy work of lab'ring years,
A dignity of egotism appears;
A style that classic authors should pursue;
A style that peerless Katerfelto knew!
Thou dear man-mountain of discovery, run;
Again attempt an Abyssinian sun!
Yes, go; a second journey, Bruce, pursue;
More volumes of rich hist'ry bring to view.
O run, ere Time the spectred tombs invade,
And seize the crumbling wonders from the shade;
Crowd with fair columns, struck by Time, thy page,
And snatch the falling grandeur from his rage:
Give that old Time a vomit too, and draw
More of Egyptian marvels from his maw;
Bid him disgorge (by moderns call'd a hum),
Scratch'd by ten thousand trav'lers, Memnon's bum;
And, what all rarities must needs surpass,
The tail, the curious tail, of Balaam's ass.
Say, what should stop, O Bruce, thy grand career;
Or Fame the fav'rite, and no child of fear?
Danger's huge form, so dread to vulgar eyes,
Pants at thy presence, and a coward flies.
Where other trav'lers, fraught with terror, roam,
Lo! Bruce in wonder-land is quite at home;
The same cool eye on Nature's forms looks down;
Lions and rats, the courtier and the clown.
Whate'er thine action, wonder crowds the tale;
It smells of Brobdignag—it boasts a scale!
Fond of the lofty, Bruce no pigmy loves—
Who likes a pigmy, that a giant moves?
Again—what pigmy, with a form of lath,
Lost in his shadow, likes the man of Gath?
The bowerly hostess, for a cart-horse fit,
Scorns Daphne's reed-like shape, and calls her chit;
Whilst on the rough robustious lump of nature,
Contemptuous Daphne whispers, ‘What a creature!’
Pity! pursuits like thine should feel a pause,
More than half-smother'd by fair Fame's applause!
I see thee safe return'd from Marvel's mine,
Whose gems in ev'ry rock so precious shine;
Proud of the product of a world unknown,
Unloading all thy treasure at the throne;
While courtiers cry aloud with one accord,
‘Most marv'lous is the reign of George the Third!’
How like the butchers' boys we sometimes meet,
Stuck round with bladders, in a London street:
In full-blown majesty who move, and drop,
The bloated burden in an oilman's shop;
Whilst country bumpkins, gazing at the door,
Cry they ‘ne'er zeed zo vine a zight bevore.’
No vomits gave to Abyssinian queens!
Drew not from royal arms the purple tide,
Nor scotch'd with fleams, a sceptred lady's hide;
Nor, in anatomy so very stout,
Ventur'd to turn a princess inside out;
Nor blushing, stripp'd me to the very skin,
To give a royal blackamoor a grin.
I never saw (with ignorance I own)
Mule-mounted monarchs, seek th' imperial throne;
Which mule the carpet spoil'd—a dirty beast!
First stal'd; then—What?—Oblivion cloud the rest.
I saw no king, whose subjects form'd a riot,
And, imp-like, howl'd around him for his quiet.
Nor have I been where men (what loss, alas!)
Kill half a cow, and turn the rest to grass.
Where'er, great trav'ler, thou art pleas'd to tread,
The teeming skies rain wonders on thy head:
167
But sacred labours of a thousand years.
Where'er the Nile shall pour the smallest sluice,
The rills shall curl into the name of Bruce.
And, lo! a universe his praise shall utter,
Who, first of mortals, found the parent gutter;
And, let me add, of gutters too the queen,
Without whose womb the Nile had never been.
Thus many a man, whose deeds have made a pother,
Has had a scurvy father or a mother.
O form'd in art and science to surpass;
To whom e'en valour is an arrant ass;
O Bruce, most surely travel's eldest son;
Tell prithee, all that thou hast seen and done!
I fear thou hidest half thy feats, unkind!
A thousand wonders, ah! remain behind!
Where is the chariot-wheel with Pharaoh's name,
Fish'd from the old Red Sea to swell thy fame?
Where the horse-shoe with Pharaoh's arms, and found
Where wicked Pharaoh and his host were drown'd?
Where of that stone a slice, and fresh account,
Giv'n by the Lord to Moses on the Mount?
And where a slice of that stone's elder brother,
That, broken, forc'd th' All-Wise t'engrave another?
Where of the cradle too, a sacred rush?
Where a true charcoal of the burning bush?
And O the jewel, curious gem, disclose,
That dangled from the Queen of Sheba's nose,
When, with hard questions, and two roguish eyes,
She rode to puzzle Solomon the Wise?
Sagacious terrier in discovery's mine,
Shall Nature form no more a nose like thine?
No more display'd the pearls of wonder beam,
When thou, great man, art past the Stygian stream?
To Afric wilt thou never, Bruce return?
Howl, Britain? Europe, Abyssinia mourn!
Droop shall Discovery's wing, her bosom sigh,
And marvel meet no more the ravish'd eye;
Nature outstep her modesty no more;
Her cataracts of wonder cease to roar,
168
And pour no longer an astounding tide?
O bid not yet thy lucky labours cease;
Still let the land of wonder feel increase:
Thy loads of dung, delightful ordure, yield,
And blossom with fertility the field:
Gates, hedges mend, that ignorance pull'd down,
And bring in triumph back each kidnapp'd town.
Though envy damns thy volumes of surprise,
Blest I devour them with unsated eyes!
What though sour Johnson cry'd, with cynic sneer,
‘I deem'd at first, indeed, Bruce had been there:
But soon the eye of keen investigation,
Prov'd all the fellow's tale a fabrication:’
But who, alas! on Johnson's word relies,
Who saw the too kind north with jaundic'd eyes;
Who rode to Hawthornden's fair scene by night,
For fear a Scottish tree might wound his sight;
And, bent from decent candour to depart,
Allow'd a Scotchman neither head nor heart?
Grant fiction half thy volumes of surprise,
High in the scale of merit shalt thou rise:
Still to Fame's temple dost thou boast pretension;
For thine the rara avis of invention?
And, lo! amidst thy work of lab'ring years,
A dignity of egotism appears;
A style that classic authors should pursue;
A style that peerless Katerfelto knew!
Thou dear man-mountain of discovery, run;
Again attempt an Abyssinian sun!
Yes, go; a second journey, Bruce, pursue;
More volumes of rich hist'ry bring to view.
O run, ere Time the spectred tombs invade,
And seize the crumbling wonders from the shade;
Crowd with fair columns, struck by Time, thy page,
And snatch the falling grandeur from his rage:
Give that old Time a vomit too, and draw
More of Egyptian marvels from his maw;
169
Scratch'd by ten thousand trav'lers, Memnon's bum;
And, what all rarities must needs surpass,
The tail, the curious tail, of Balaam's ass.
Say, what should stop, O Bruce, thy grand career;
Or Fame the fav'rite, and no child of fear?
Danger's huge form, so dread to vulgar eyes,
Pants at thy presence, and a coward flies.
Where other trav'lers, fraught with terror, roam,
Lo! Bruce in wonder-land is quite at home;
The same cool eye on Nature's forms looks down;
Lions and rats, the courtier and the clown.
Whate'er thine action, wonder crowds the tale;
It smells of Brobdignag—it boasts a scale!
Fond of the lofty, Bruce no pigmy loves—
Who likes a pigmy, that a giant moves?
Again—what pigmy, with a form of lath,
Lost in his shadow, likes the man of Gath?
The bowerly hostess, for a cart-horse fit,
Scorns Daphne's reed-like shape, and calls her chit;
Whilst on the rough robustious lump of nature,
Contemptuous Daphne whispers, ‘What a creature!’
Pity! pursuits like thine should feel a pause,
More than half-smother'd by fair Fame's applause!
I see thee safe return'd from Marvel's mine,
Whose gems in ev'ry rock so precious shine;
Proud of the product of a world unknown,
Unloading all thy treasure at the throne;
While courtiers cry aloud with one accord,
‘Most marv'lous is the reign of George the Third!’
How like the butchers' boys we sometimes meet,
Stuck round with bladders, in a London street:
In full-blown majesty who move, and drop,
The bloated burden in an oilman's shop;
Whilst country bumpkins, gazing at the door,
Cry they ‘ne'er zeed zo vine a zight bevore.’
I see old Nile, the king of floods, arise,
Shake hands, and welcome thee with happy eyes;
Otters and alligators in his train,
Made by thy five immortal volumes vain;
Weasels and polecats, sheregrigs, carrion-crows,
Seen and smelt only by thine eyes and nose.
‘Son of the arts, and cousin of a king,
Loud as a kettle drum whose actions ring,’
Exclaims the king of floods, ‘thy books I've read,
‘And for thy birth-place, envy brother Tweed.’
O Bruce, by Fame for ever to be sung;
Job's war-horse fierce, thy neck with thunder hung:
When envious Death shall put thee in his stable,
Snipp'd life's fine thread, that should have been a cable;
Lo! to thy mem'ry shall the marble swell,
Mausoleum huge, and all thy actions tell!
Here, in fair sculpture, the recording stones
Shall give thee glorious, cracking lions' bones;
There, which the squeamish souls of Britain shocks,
Rich steaks devouring from the living ox:
Here, staring on thee from the realm of water,
Full many a virtuoso alligator;
There, Bruce informing queens, in naked pride,
The feel and colour of a Scotsman's hide:
Here of the genealogy a tree,
Branching from Solomon's wise trunk to thee;
There, with a valour nought could dare withstand,
Bruce fighting an hyæna hand to hand;
Which dread hyæna (what a beast uncouth!)
Fought with a pound of candles in his mouth:
Here temples bursting glorious on the view,
Which hist'ry, though a gossip, never knew;
There columns starting from the earth and flood,
Just like the razor-fish from sand and mud:
Here a wise monarch, with voracious looks,
Receiving all thy drawings and thy books;
Whilst Fame behind him all so solemn sings
The lib'ral spirit of the best of kings.
Shake hands, and welcome thee with happy eyes;
170
Made by thy five immortal volumes vain;
Weasels and polecats, sheregrigs, carrion-crows,
Seen and smelt only by thine eyes and nose.
‘Son of the arts, and cousin of a king,
Loud as a kettle drum whose actions ring,’
Exclaims the king of floods, ‘thy books I've read,
‘And for thy birth-place, envy brother Tweed.’
O Bruce, by Fame for ever to be sung;
Job's war-horse fierce, thy neck with thunder hung:
When envious Death shall put thee in his stable,
Snipp'd life's fine thread, that should have been a cable;
Lo! to thy mem'ry shall the marble swell,
Mausoleum huge, and all thy actions tell!
Here, in fair sculpture, the recording stones
Shall give thee glorious, cracking lions' bones;
There, which the squeamish souls of Britain shocks,
Rich steaks devouring from the living ox:
Here, staring on thee from the realm of water,
Full many a virtuoso alligator;
There, Bruce informing queens, in naked pride,
The feel and colour of a Scotsman's hide:
Here of the genealogy a tree,
Branching from Solomon's wise trunk to thee;
There, with a valour nought could dare withstand,
Bruce fighting an hyæna hand to hand;
Which dread hyæna (what a beast uncouth!)
Fought with a pound of candles in his mouth:
Here temples bursting glorious on the view,
Which hist'ry, though a gossip, never knew;
There columns starting from the earth and flood,
Just like the razor-fish from sand and mud:
Here a wise monarch, with voracious looks,
Receiving all thy drawings and thy books;
Whilst Fame behind him all so solemn sings
The lib'ral spirit of the best of kings.
Mau says, O Bruce, that thou wert hardly us'd;
That our great king at first thy book refus'd;
Indeed look'd grimly 'midst his courtier crew,
Who, gentle courtiers! all look'd grimly too!
Thus when in black the lofty sky looks down,
The sympathizing sea reflects a frown;
Vale, cattle, reptile, insect, man and maid,
All mope, and seem to sorrow in the shade.
That our great king at first thy book refus'd;
171
Who, gentle courtiers! all look'd grimly too!
Thus when in black the lofty sky looks down,
The sympathizing sea reflects a frown;
Vale, cattle, reptile, insect, man and maid,
All mope, and seem to sorrow in the shade.
Steep is th' ascent, and narrow is the road,
Ah me! that leads to Fame's divine abode:
Yet thick (through lanes, like pilgrimaging rats,
Unaw'd by mortals, and unscar'd by cats)
What crawling hosts attempt her sacred fane,
And dizzy, drunk-like, tumble back again;
Fast as the swains, whose arms the damsels fill,
Embrace of elegance down Greenwich hill;
Whilst thou, Briareus like, with dauntless air,
Resolv'd to ravish Fame, immortal fair,
Just like our London bullies with the w---
Hast scal'd the cloud-capt height, and forc'd her doors!
O form'd the trav'lers of the east to scare,
Although thy pow'rs are mighty, learn to spare:
Dog should not prey on dog, the proverb says:
Allow then brother-trav'lers crumbs of praise;
Like thee, let others reap applause, and rise
By daring visits to Egyptian skies:
But calmly, lo! thou canst not see them pass;
‘This is a rogue or fool, and that's an ass.’
Thus on a tree, whene'er the weather's fine,
Jack Ketch, the spider, weaves the fatal line;
Beneath a leaf he hides with watchful eye,
Now darts, and roping hangs the trav'ling fly.
Again, most tiresome, let me say, Go, go,
Proceed, and all about it let us know:
Led safely by thine enterprising star,
Hyænas shall not with thy journey war:
Uneat by tigers, dare the forest's gloom,
To bid the barren field of knowledge bloom:
Wave o'er new pyramids thine eagle wings;
And, hound-like, scent fresh tombs of ancient kings,
Which time had buried with the mighty dead,
And cold oblivion swallow'd in her shade;
And mind ('tis History's province to surprise)
That tales are sweetest, that sound most like lies.
Ah me! that leads to Fame's divine abode:
Yet thick (through lanes, like pilgrimaging rats,
Unaw'd by mortals, and unscar'd by cats)
What crawling hosts attempt her sacred fane,
And dizzy, drunk-like, tumble back again;
Fast as the swains, whose arms the damsels fill,
Embrace of elegance down Greenwich hill;
Whilst thou, Briareus like, with dauntless air,
Resolv'd to ravish Fame, immortal fair,
Just like our London bullies with the w---
Hast scal'd the cloud-capt height, and forc'd her doors!
O form'd the trav'lers of the east to scare,
Although thy pow'rs are mighty, learn to spare:
Dog should not prey on dog, the proverb says:
Allow then brother-trav'lers crumbs of praise;
Like thee, let others reap applause, and rise
By daring visits to Egyptian skies:
But calmly, lo! thou canst not see them pass;
‘This is a rogue or fool, and that's an ass.’
Thus on a tree, whene'er the weather's fine,
Jack Ketch, the spider, weaves the fatal line;
Beneath a leaf he hides with watchful eye,
Now darts, and roping hangs the trav'ling fly.
Again, most tiresome, let me say, Go, go,
Proceed, and all about it let us know:
Led safely by thine enterprising star,
Hyænas shall not with thy journey war:
Uneat by tigers, dare the forest's gloom,
To bid the barren field of knowledge bloom:
Wave o'er new pyramids thine eagle wings;
And, hound-like, scent fresh tombs of ancient kings,
172
And cold oblivion swallow'd in her shade;
And mind ('tis History's province to surprise)
That tales are sweetest, that sound most like lies.
Constantly, yea, with annual constancy, do their august majesties devour the fine fat bacon of Ascot at the time of the races, and, after deeply loading their royal stomachs with this savoury meat, in grateful return load Ascot and the bacon with royal approbation.
This pig, Cupid, who many years ago fell in love with the earl, has a monument erected to his memory, with an inscription on it by Lord Valletort, the earl's son.—It is said, that his majesty, when at Mount Edgecumbe, happening to be gravely pondering near his grave, the queen, who was at some distance, asked him, what he was looking at so seriously. His majesty, with a great deal of humour, immediately replied, ‘The family vault, Charly; family vault, family vault.’
Mr. John Rolle's dread of a failure in the etiquette of presentment to his majesty when at Exeter, prevailed on him to take a deal of trouble with gentlemen who were to be introduced at the levee: but, in spite of all his intellectual powers, which, like his corporeal, are of more than ordinary texture, much disorder happened; indeed the best of kings was three or four times nearly overturned. Many were the gentleman that Mr. Rolle was forced to place himself behind, to pull down properly on their knees; and many were the gentlemen he was obliged to run after, and make face to the right about, who uncourteously, though unwittingly, in quitting the presence, had turned their unpolished tails on majesty.
ODE TO JAMES BRUCE, ESQ.
O Bruce, for this his short and sweet epistle,
Thou biddest p'rhaps the gentle bard ‘go whistle;’
Or somewhat worse, perchaunce, that rhimes to knight;
That is to say, knights of the blade,
One time so busy in the dubbing trade,
That, like to silver, it was shoulder'd bright.
Thou biddest p'rhaps the gentle bard ‘go whistle;’
Or somewhat worse, perchaunce, that rhimes to knight;
That is to say, knights of the blade,
One time so busy in the dubbing trade,
That, like to silver, it was shoulder'd bright.
Pity by hungry critics thou shouldst fall,
So clever, and so form'd to please us all!
So clever, and so form'd to please us all!
Again!—by royal favour all-surrounded,
A balm so rich, like cloves and nutmegs pounded!
Thus the bag fox, (how cruelly, alack!)
Turn'd out with turpentine upon his back,
Amidst the war of hounds and hunters flies;
Shows sport; but, luckless, by his fragrance dies!
Safe from the fury of the critic hounds,
O Bruce, thou treadest Abyssinian grounds;
Nor can our British noses hunt thy foil:
Indeed, thou need'st not dread th' event;
Surrounding clouds destroy the scent,
And mock their most sagacious toil:
Yes, in thy darkness thou shalt leave the dogs;
For hares, the hunters say, run best in fogs.
A balm so rich, like cloves and nutmegs pounded!
Thus the bag fox, (how cruelly, alack!)
Turn'd out with turpentine upon his back,
Amidst the war of hounds and hunters flies;
Shows sport; but, luckless, by his fragrance dies!
173
O Bruce, thou treadest Abyssinian grounds;
Nor can our British noses hunt thy foil:
Indeed, thou need'st not dread th' event;
Surrounding clouds destroy the scent,
And mock their most sagacious toil:
Yes, in thy darkness thou shalt leave the dogs;
For hares, the hunters say, run best in fogs.
Of thee and me, two great physicians,
How diff'rent are the dispositions!
Thy soul delights in wonder, pomp, and bustle;
Mine in th' unmarvellous and placid scene,
Plain as the hut of our good king and queen;—
I imitate the stationary muscle.
How diff'rent are the dispositions!
Thy soul delights in wonder, pomp, and bustle;
Mine in th' unmarvellous and placid scene,
Plain as the hut of our good king and queen;—
I imitate the stationary muscle.
Yet, boldly thou, O Bruce, again proceed;
Of wonder ope the fountain head;
Deluge the land with Abyssinian ware;
Whilst I, a simple son of peace,
The world of bagatelle increase,
By love-sick sonnets to the fair.
Of wonder ope the fountain head;
Deluge the land with Abyssinian ware;
Whilst I, a simple son of peace,
The world of bagatelle increase,
By love-sick sonnets to the fair.
Now to Sir Joseph, now a duke, now wren,
Now robin red-breast, dedicate the pen;
Now glow-worm, child of shade and light, not flame;
To whom, of wicked wits the tuneful art,
So very apt, indeed, from truth to start,
Compares the nightly street-meand'ring dame.
Now robin red-breast, dedicate the pen;
Now glow-worm, child of shade and light, not flame;
To whom, of wicked wits the tuneful art,
So very apt, indeed, from truth to start,
Compares the nightly street-meand'ring dame.
Mild insect, harmless as myself, I ween:
Thou little planet of the rural scene,
When summer warms the valleys with her rays,
Accept a trifling sonnet to thy praise.
Thou little planet of the rural scene,
When summer warms the valleys with her rays,
Accept a trifling sonnet to thy praise.
174
ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM.
Bright stranger, welcome to my field,
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, O nightly be thy splendor giv'n;
Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with lib'ral hand,
With ev'ry sweetest dew of Heav'n!
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, O nightly be thy splendor giv'n;
Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with lib'ral hand,
With ev'ry sweetest dew of Heav'n!
Say, dost shou kindly light the fairy train,
Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight shade.
Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,
Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine,
And chase the horrors of the midnight shade.
Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bow'r,
And with barbarian beak thy life devour:
Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky,
O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat;
Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee 'midst the humming myriads die!
And with barbarian beak thy life devour:
Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky,
O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat;
Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee 'midst the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect world, what leaves delight?
Of such these willing hands a bow'r shall form,
To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Of such these willing hands a bow'r shall form,
To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Sweet child of stillness, 'midst the awful calm
Of pausing Nature thou art pleas'd to dwell;
In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,
And shed through life a lustre round thy cell.
Of pausing Nature thou art pleas'd to dwell;
In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,
And shed through life a lustre round thy cell.
How diff'rent man, the imp of noise and strife,
Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life!
Blest when the passions wild the soul invade!
How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease;
To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace,
And shine in solitude and shade!
Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life!
Blest when the passions wild the soul invade!
How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease;
To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace,
And shine in solitude and shade!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |