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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| IX. | ODE IX. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
197
ODE IX.
How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see!
So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly;
And gambol in the royal eye!
And, if expectant of some high employ,
How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!
So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly;
And gambol in the royal eye!
And, if expectant of some high employ,
How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!
How rich the incense to the royal nose!
How liquidly the oil of flatt'ry flows!
But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,
How alter'd instantly the courtier clan!
How faint, how pale, how woe-begone, and wan!
How liquidly the oil of flatt'ry flows!
But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,
How alter'd instantly the courtier clan!
How faint, how pale, how woe-begone, and wan!
Thus Corydon, betroth'd to Delia's charms,
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:
In madd'ning fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow
In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,
And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:
In madd'ning fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow
In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,
And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.
Night too entrances—Slumber brings the dream—
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;
Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:
But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,
Sad, chapfall'n, lo, he hangs himself, or drowns.
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;
Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:
But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,
Sad, chapfall'n, lo, he hangs himself, or drowns.
Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile:
Strive not to make your sov'reign frown—but smile:
Sublime are royal nods—most precious things—
Then, to be whistled to by kings!
Strive not to make your sov'reign frown—but smile:
Sublime are royal nods—most precious things—
Then, to be whistled to by kings!
To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder,
Becoming thus the royal arm-upholder,
A heart of very stone must glad!
Oh, would some king so far himself demean,
As on my shoulder but for once to lean,
Th' excess of joy would nearly make me mad:
How on the honour'd garment I should doat—
And think a glory blaz'd around the coat!
Becoming thus the royal arm-upholder,
198
Oh, would some king so far himself demean,
As on my shoulder but for once to lean,
Th' excess of joy would nearly make me mad:
How on the honour'd garment I should doat—
And think a glory blaz'd around the coat!
Blest, I should make this coat my coat of arms,
In fancy glitt'ring with a thousand charms;
And show my children's children o'er and o'er:
‘Here, babies,’ I should say, ‘with awe behold
This coat worth fifty times its weight in gold:
This very, very coat, your grandsire wore!
In fancy glitt'ring with a thousand charms;
And show my children's children o'er and o'er:
‘Here, babies,’ I should say, ‘with awe behold
This coat worth fifty times its weight in gold:
This very, very coat, your grandsire wore!
‘Here,’—pointing to the shoulder—I should say,
‘Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay’—
Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter;
As—‘Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what?
What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?
Hæ hæ? what, what's the price of country butter?’
‘Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay’—
Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter;
As—‘Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what?
What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?
Hæ hæ? what, what's the price of country butter?’
Then should I, strutting, give myself an air,
And deem my house adorn'd with immortality:
Thus should I make the children, calf-like, stare,
And fancy grandfather a man of quality:
And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note,
The muse would sing an ode upon the coat.
And deem my house adorn'd with immortality:
Thus should I make the children, calf-like, stare,
And fancy grandfather a man of quality:
And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note,
The muse would sing an ode upon the coat.
Poor lost America, high honours missing,
Knows nought of smile and nod, and sweet hand-kissing;
Knows nought of golden promises of kings;
Knows nought of coronets, and stars, and strings:
In solitude the lovely rebel sighs;
But vainly drops the penitential tear—
Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries,
We suffer not her wail to wound our ear:
For food we bid her hopeless children prowl,
And with the savage of the desert howl.
Knows nought of smile and nod, and sweet hand-kissing;
Knows nought of golden promises of kings;
Knows nought of coronets, and stars, and strings:
In solitude the lovely rebel sighs;
But vainly drops the penitential tear—
Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries,
We suffer not her wail to wound our ear:
For food we bid her hopeless children prowl,
And with the savage of the desert howl.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |