 | An heroic epistle to the noble author of the Duchess of Devonshire's cow |  |
“REMEMBER HEBE's COW.”
A Noble Author.
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AN HEROIC EPISTLE, &c.
“Knight of the verdant String and Northern Star!
“Dubb'd The Poetic Champion of the Fair!
“Though chang'd thy Pegasus for Hebe's Cow,
“And Heliconian streams for Wintry snow;
“Thee I attend! Nor will my wayward Muse,
“Capricious Maid! the chilling task refuse,
“With thee 'mid panegyric flow'rs to stray,
“Found on the wild Heath's cold and barren way.
“There will we try, by Panegyric's aid,
“To crop the scentless leaf and scanty blade;
“Then call on Charity, celestial Dame,
“Upon the votive pyre to breathe a flame,
“That we may offer up the festive vow,
“And quaff your Hebe's name in liquid snow.
“Then shall my chilly Muse adorn the Fair,
“In strains as barren as your Lordship's are;
“While you, once more, her praises shall rehearse
“In all the imbecillity of Verse;
“And the Satiric Muse shall tear her bays,
“To find her blame less hurtful than your praise.
“Hebe shall hail the Guardian of her Fame,
“And Fêtes-Chateaux shall celebrate your name.”
“Dubb'd The Poetic Champion of the Fair!
“Though chang'd thy Pegasus for Hebe's Cow,
“And Heliconian streams for Wintry snow;
“Thee I attend! Nor will my wayward Muse,
“Capricious Maid! the chilling task refuse,
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“Found on the wild Heath's cold and barren way.
“There will we try, by Panegyric's aid,
“To crop the scentless leaf and scanty blade;
“Then call on Charity, celestial Dame,
“Upon the votive pyre to breathe a flame,
“That we may offer up the festive vow,
“And quaff your Hebe's name in liquid snow.
“Then shall my chilly Muse adorn the Fair,
“In strains as barren as your Lordship's are;
“While you, once more, her praises shall rehearse
“In all the imbecillity of Verse;
“And the Satiric Muse shall tear her bays,
“To find her blame less hurtful than your praise.
“Hebe shall hail the Guardian of her Fame,
“And Fêtes-Chateaux shall celebrate your name.”
Thus did I sing, and thus did I intend;
But cool Reflection prov'd a timely friend!
For since, my Lord, at Reason's awful bar
You plac'd Devonia's Duchess, 'mid the war
Of jarring tongues; since Satire's two-edg'd sword,
That smites alike the Peasant and the Lord,
By Genius whetted, threats its angry blow ;
—I tremble at the vengeance of the Foe—
While my starv'd Muse from your lorn Heath retires:
To her own chearful, animating fires;
Where Truth with fuel feeds the sober flame,
And Justice lights the blazing torch of Fame;
Where Satire forges the sharp-pointed dart,
That strikes its barb into the hardest heart;
And Virtue trims her lamp, whose ardent ray,
By Heaven imparted, never will decay.
There Reason did the wayward Truant own,
And for her idle wand'rings to atone,
Bade her to your unwise Appeal reply ,
Made for the sake of tender Charity.
With pleasure I obey the dread command,
And now the Advocate of Reason stand.
'Tis she that does my honest strain prolong,
And turns my mirthful to a serious song.
But cool Reflection prov'd a timely friend!
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You plac'd Devonia's Duchess, 'mid the war
Of jarring tongues; since Satire's two-edg'd sword,
That smites alike the Peasant and the Lord,
By Genius whetted, threats its angry blow ;
—I tremble at the vengeance of the Foe—
While my starv'd Muse from your lorn Heath retires:
To her own chearful, animating fires;
Where Truth with fuel feeds the sober flame,
And Justice lights the blazing torch of Fame;
Where Satire forges the sharp-pointed dart,
That strikes its barb into the hardest heart;
And Virtue trims her lamp, whose ardent ray,
By Heaven imparted, never will decay.
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And for her idle wand'rings to atone,
Bade her to your unwise Appeal reply ,
Made for the sake of tender Charity.
With pleasure I obey the dread command,
And now the Advocate of Reason stand.
'Tis she that does my honest strain prolong,
And turns my mirthful to a serious song.
How few, alas! in these degenerate days,
Can claim the tribute of an honest praise!
But fewer still, who have the art to give
The well-earn'd meed the Worthy should receive.
But you, my noble Bard! are all parade;
Your subject barren, and your Muse a jade.
You cannot weave the web, with fingers nice,
That shews the Virtue, but conceals the Vice:
No, my poor Lord, you cannot boast the skill,
To mark the acting from the judging ill.
In your description all the faults appear,
Nor does one virtue find its image there.
—Light Frolic's Court, Life's fair unclouded Dawn,
And Flowers that grow on Dissipation's Lawn;
Reflection's Counsels, Folly's babbling Quire,
Greville and Carter, and the tuneful Lyre;
A barren Heath, a Duchess and a Cow,
The smiling Hebe, and the falling Snow—
In the full blaze of Panegyric shine,
And give their tinsel to th'embroider'd line .
Can claim the tribute of an honest praise!
But fewer still, who have the art to give
The well-earn'd meed the Worthy should receive.
But you, my noble Bard! are all parade;
Your subject barren, and your Muse a jade.
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That shews the Virtue, but conceals the Vice:
No, my poor Lord, you cannot boast the skill,
To mark the acting from the judging ill.
In your description all the faults appear,
Nor does one virtue find its image there.
—Light Frolic's Court, Life's fair unclouded Dawn,
And Flowers that grow on Dissipation's Lawn;
Reflection's Counsels, Folly's babbling Quire,
Greville and Carter, and the tuneful Lyre;
A barren Heath, a Duchess and a Cow,
The smiling Hebe, and the falling Snow—
In the full blaze of Panegyric shine,
And give their tinsel to th'embroider'd line .
Well-pleas'd the Muse attends her charming theme,
Nor thinks of what you write—but what you mean.
No Beldam she, not old in Vice's school;
She's but a frolic, lively, giddy Fool ;
Thus sings your sober Song:—Oh fye for shame,
To throw such scandal round a Lady's name!
For well you know the weakness of your plea:
—Such Fools are Beldams in epitome;
And ere a few more fleeting years are gone,
Your Hebe may become an H---ton.
Nor thinks of what you write—but what you mean.
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She's but a frolic, lively, giddy Fool ;
Thus sings your sober Song:—Oh fye for shame,
To throw such scandal round a Lady's name!
For well you know the weakness of your plea:
—Such Fools are Beldams in epitome;
And ere a few more fleeting years are gone,
Your Hebe may become an H---ton.
Oh tell me, you who with the Fair-one stray
In Dissipation's soft, enchanting way ,
What flowers delight the eye, what sweets exhale
To load with odours the enraptur'd gale ?
Is there what can one real joy impart,
Or add one generous impulse to the heart?
Is there one duty learn'd that decks the Wife?
Do the sweet charities of human life
Bloom 'mid the scene where you conduct the Fair?
And does she hope to find protection there?
—'Tis vain! The Muse will trace her o'er the lawn,
And cast its clouds o'er her unclouded dawn;
Will keep Reflection steady to its post—
Reflection, seldom found, and quickly lost—
That yet has only hover'd o'er the Fair,
Just touch'd her heart, but never enter'd there .
E'en while she sits and wakes the tuneful lyre,
To aid the noise of Folly's babbling Quire ,
Satire, unmov'd by any tinkling sound,
Shall aim the shaft, and give the wholesome wound.
In Dissipation's soft, enchanting way ,
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To load with odours the enraptur'd gale ?
Is there what can one real joy impart,
Or add one generous impulse to the heart?
Is there one duty learn'd that decks the Wife?
Do the sweet charities of human life
Bloom 'mid the scene where you conduct the Fair?
And does she hope to find protection there?
—'Tis vain! The Muse will trace her o'er the lawn,
And cast its clouds o'er her unclouded dawn;
Will keep Reflection steady to its post—
Reflection, seldom found, and quickly lost—
That yet has only hover'd o'er the Fair,
Just touch'd her heart, but never enter'd there .
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To aid the noise of Folly's babbling Quire ,
Satire, unmov'd by any tinkling sound,
Shall aim the shaft, and give the wholesome wound.
How well you paint impoverish'd Virtue's fate,
Once cherish'd, now neglected by the Great !
To gloomy Night how fair your Morn succeeds,
Bright with the rays of charitable deeds !
How sweet are Hebe's smiles, to all a Friend!
To the Brute race her tender cares extend !
And Hebe boasts a huge, unrival'd store
To ease the wretched, and relieve the poor.
But she conceals her alms, nor tells aloud
Her deeds of Mercy to the splendid Croud;
With Christian privacy dispenses good
Amid the dreary, barren solitude;
And where she gives the alms or the reward,
Is known but to herself—and to her Bard.
Once cherish'd, now neglected by the Great !
To gloomy Night how fair your Morn succeeds,
Bright with the rays of charitable deeds !
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To the Brute race her tender cares extend !
And Hebe boasts a huge, unrival'd store
To ease the wretched, and relieve the poor.
But she conceals her alms, nor tells aloud
Her deeds of Mercy to the splendid Croud;
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Amid the dreary, barren solitude;
And where she gives the alms or the reward,
Is known but to herself—and to her Bard.
Hail noble Rhimester! your unbought renown
Flows from th'impannel'd Jury of the Town!
Your frolic Hebe shall bestow the smile
Which blest the half-starv'd Beast—to pay your toil;
While on the barren Common, where the Cow
Pick'd up it's scanty food—your Laurels grow.
—With these contented, never more aspire
To wake applauses from your sullen Lyre;
Ne'er wander more in the Poetic Maze,
Nor hurt your Friends with a mistaken praise.
Th'ill-fated Duchess all compassion draws,
Wounded alike by censure and applause;
Whose worth your niggard Muse can scarce supply
With one capricious Act of Charity.
Flows from th'impannel'd Jury of the Town!
Your frolic Hebe shall bestow the smile
Which blest the half-starv'd Beast—to pay your toil;
While on the barren Common, where the Cow
Pick'd up it's scanty food—your Laurels grow.
—With these contented, never more aspire
To wake applauses from your sullen Lyre;
Ne'er wander more in the Poetic Maze,
Nor hurt your Friends with a mistaken praise.
Th'ill-fated Duchess all compassion draws,
Wounded alike by censure and applause;
Whose worth your niggard Muse can scarce supply
With one capricious Act of Charity.
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Ye Muses, if you e'er the Dame inspire
To spin Charades, and hang them on her Lyre;
If e'er ye did the noble Vot'ry own—
Oh! give her better Bards—or give her none.
To spin Charades, and hang them on her Lyre;
If e'er ye did the noble Vot'ry own—
Oh! give her better Bards—or give her none.
FINIS.
See a Poem entitled The Duchess of Devonshire's Cow.
While Devon's Duchess stands at Reason's Bar,And bears th'invectives of the wordy war;
While, arm'd by Genius, a satiric Muse
Comes into court impatient to accuse, &c.
Thou Great Judge, Reason check awhile that frown!
And you, th'impannel'd jury, call'd the Town,
Mark well the Fair, who now before you stands,
And dares to hope acquittal at your hands.
And you, th'impannel'd jury, call'd the Town,
Mark well the Fair, who now before you stands,
And dares to hope acquittal at your hands.
This is the Knight of the Thistle's receipt for a panegyrical Poem; and the articles of it actually form the component parts of his own.
'Tis not a Beldam who, with gaudy sails,
Glides down the stream of Vice with urging gales;
'Tis Hebe circled by light Frolic's court,—
Glides down the stream of Vice with urging gales;
'Tis Hebe circled by light Frolic's court,—
Twin'd arm in arm, with young inventive Sport.
By young inventive Sport, does the noble Lord mean the Duke of Devonshire or himself?
As the bright Morn succeeds to gloomy Night,
So on her mournful hours gleam'd Comfort's light.
See joy the Mourner's heavy eye-lid lift;
That joy, ye Censurers, is Hebe's gift.
So on her mournful hours gleam'd Comfort's light.
See joy the Mourner's heavy eye-lid lift;
That joy, ye Censurers, is Hebe's gift.
Once on a barren Common's rude domain,
Where chilling Poverty had fix'd her reign,
A meagre Cow, by famine half subdued,
Sought, 'mid the falling snow, its scanty food;
Touch'd at the scene, the Nymph address'd her Page:
(While thoughts of pity all her mind engage)
On that lean Suff'rer this my gift bestow,
To soothe her hunger, and relieve her woe.
That is (bright Hebe with a smile rejoin'd),
Of yon poor Suff'rer the poor owner find;
For by that animal's distressful state,
I guess the colour of the Master's fate.
Where chilling Poverty had fix'd her reign,
A meagre Cow, by famine half subdued,
Sought, 'mid the falling snow, its scanty food;
Touch'd at the scene, the Nymph address'd her Page:
(While thoughts of pity all her mind engage)
On that lean Suff'rer this my gift bestow,
To soothe her hunger, and relieve her woe.
That is (bright Hebe with a smile rejoin'd),
Of yon poor Suff'rer the poor owner find;
For by that animal's distressful state,
I guess the colour of the Master's fate.
| An heroic epistle to the noble author of the Duchess of Devonshire's cow | |