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] |  |
215
ODE TO MR. PAINE.
O paine! thy vast endeavour I admire!
How brave the hope to set a realm on fire!
Ambition smiling prais'd thy giant wish:
Compar'd to thee, the man to gain a name,
Who to Diana's temple put the flame,
A simple minnow to the prince of fish.
How brave the hope to set a realm on fire!
Ambition smiling prais'd thy giant wish:
Compar'd to thee, the man to gain a name,
Who to Diana's temple put the flame,
A simple minnow to the prince of fish.
Say, didst thou fear that Britain was too blest,
Of peace thou most delicious pest?
How shameful that this pin's head of an isle,
Whilst half the globe in grief, should wear a smile!
How dares the wren amidst his hedges sing,
Whilst eagles droop the beak, and flag the wing?
Of peace thou most delicious pest?
How shameful that this pin's head of an isle,
Whilst half the globe in grief, should wear a smile!
How dares the wren amidst his hedges sing,
Whilst eagles droop the beak, and flag the wing?
O must the scythe of Desolation sleep,
So keen for carnage, stay its mighty sweep,
And Havock on his hunter drop his lash;
Spurr'd, arm'd, and ripe to storm with groans the sky,
To chase an empire, and enjoy the cry,
The cry of millions—what a glorious crash!
So keen for carnage, stay its mighty sweep,
And Havock on his hunter drop his lash;
Spurr'd, arm'd, and ripe to storm with groans the sky,
To chase an empire, and enjoy the cry,
The cry of millions—what a glorious crash!
What pity thy combustibles were bad!
How Death had grinn'd delight, and Hell been glad,
To see our liberties o'erturning;
And War, whose expectation tiptoe stood,
Ready for hills of slain, and seas of blood,
Who drops his death's head flag, and puts on mourning!
How Death had grinn'd delight, and Hell been glad,
To see our liberties o'erturning;
And War, whose expectation tiptoe stood,
Ready for hills of slain, and seas of blood,
Who drops his death's head flag, and puts on mourning!
216
Why, cur-like, didst thou sneak away, nay fly?
Dread'st thou of anger'd Justice the sharp eye?
Return, and bring Mesdames Poissardes along:
And lo, with Friendship's squeeze and fire to meet 'em,
And oaths of ev'ry hue to greet 'em,
The sisterhood of Billingsgate shall throng.
Dread'st thou of anger'd Justice the sharp eye?
Return, and bring Mesdames Poissardes along:
And lo, with Friendship's squeeze and fire to meet 'em,
And oaths of ev'ry hue to greet 'em,
The sisterhood of Billingsgate shall throng.
The jails may open all their dreary cells,
Where horror brooding on damnation dwells,
And vomit forth their grisly bands;
Surrounded by this squalid host,
Paine shall their leader be, and boast;
Paine, Gordon, and Rebellion, shall shake hands.
Where horror brooding on damnation dwells,
And vomit forth their grisly bands;
Surrounded by this squalid host,
Paine shall their leader be, and boast;
Paine, Gordon, and Rebellion, shall shake hands.
Importance, in a nut-shell hide thy head!
I deem'd myself a dare-devil in rhime,
To whisper to a king of modern time,
And try to strike a royal foible dead;
Whilst dauntless thou, of treason mak'st no bones,
But strik'st at kings themselves upon their thrones!
I deem'd myself a dare-devil in rhime,
To whisper to a king of modern time,
And try to strike a royal foible dead;
Whilst dauntless thou, of treason mak'st no bones,
But strik'st at kings themselves upon their thrones!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |