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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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
MORE LYRIC ODES TO THE ROYAL ACADEMICIANS.
ODE I.
Peter puffeth away—Displayeth his Learning— Praiseth the Reviewers—Describeth himself most pathetically—Consoleth himself—Disliketh the Road to the Temple of Fame by Means of a Pistol, Poison, or a Rope—Addresseth great Folks—Giveth the King a broad Hint— Asketh a queer Question—Maketh as queer an Apostrophe to Genius.
At times a Pindar, and Fontaine,
Casting poetic pearl (I fear) to swine!
For hang me if my last year's odes
Paid rent for lodgings near the gods,
Or put one sprat into this mouth divine.
So says Pausanias—loads of dainty meat!
And this the towns of Greece, to give, thought fit:
The best historians, one and all, declare,
With the most solemn air,
The poet might have guttled till he split.
To sooth the horrors of an empty plate,
The grave possessors of the critic throne,
Gave me, in truth, a pretty treat—
Of flattery, mind me, not of meat;
For they, poor souls, like me, are skin and bone.
I'm not like Mrs. Cosway's Hours,
Red as cock-turkeys, plump as barn-door chicken:
Merit and I are miserably off:
We both have got a most consumptive cough;
Hunger hath long our harmless bones been picking.
Are like the little children in the wood—
And soon, like them, shall lay us down and die?
May some good Christian bard, in pity strong,
Turn redbreast kind, and with the sweetest song
Bewail our hapless fate with wat'ry eye!
Some consolation this to my lean heart—
Like him, in holes too, spider-like, I mope;
And there my rev'rence may remain, alas!
The world will not discover it, the ass!
Until I scrape acquaintance with a rope.
Then each my pow'rs with adoration sees—
Nothing their kind civilities can hinder—
When, like an Otho, I am found;
Like Jacob's sons, they'll look one t'other round,
And cry, ‘Who would have thought this a young Pindar?’
Pistols and poison just the same—
And what is worse, one can't come back again—
Soon as the beauteous gem we find,
We can't display it to mankind,
Tho' won with such wry mouths and wriggling pain.
(For you have much to give away,
And much your gentle patronage I lack),
Speak, is it not a crying sin,
That Folly's guts are to his chin,
Whilst mine are slunk a mile into my back?
Ah! George (I sigh) thou hast good things with thee,
Would make me sportive as a youthful cat;
It is not that my soul so loyal
Would wish to wed the Princess Royal,
Or be archbishop—no! I'm not for that.
To wish for laureat Whitehead's place;
Whose odes Cibberian—sweet, yet very manly,
Are set with equal strength by Mr. Stanley.
There's such a number of them made;
Bum-proof to all the flogging of the schools,
No ray of knowledge could their skulls pervade?
Yet, take a peep into those fellows' breeches,
We stare like congers, to observe their riches.
Thou canst not keep a mare nor cow,
With all thy compliment of wit so frisky!
Whilst Folly, as a mill-horse blind,
Beside his compter, gold can find,
And Sundays sport a strumpet and a whisky!
A sublime picture this! the expression is truly Homerical. The fair artist hath, in the most surprising manner, communicated to canvass the old bard's idea of the brandy-fac'd hours.—See the Iliad.
ODE II.
Peter beginneth to criticise—Addresseth the British Raphael—Promiseth Mr. West great things, and like great Folks breaks his Word—Laugheth at the Figure of King Charles—Lasheth that of Oliver Cromwell; and ridiculeth the Picture of Peter and John galloping to the Sepulchre— Understandeth plain-work, and justly condemneth the Shortness of the Shirts of Mr. West's Angels—Concludeth with making that Artist a handsome Offer of an American Immortality.
Where bull-dogs, heroes, sinners, saints,
Flames, thunder, lightning, in confusion meet!—
Behold the works of Mr. West!—
That artist first shall be addrest—
His pencil with due reverence I greet—
Which from my doughty lance he found;
Methinks I hear the trembling painter bawl,
‘Why dost thou persecute me, Saul?’
Snug as a thief within a mill,
From me thou hast no cause to fear,
To panegyric will I turn my skill;
And if thy picture I am forc'd to blame,
I'll say most handsome things about the frame.
Molasses from my pen shall fall:
And yet, I fear thy gullet it is such,
Were Niagara praise, thou wouldst not frown.
Nor think the thund'ring gulf one drop too much.
A very Saracen! a glorious thing!
It shows a flaming pencil, let me tell ye—
Methinks I see the people stare,
And, anxious for his life, declare,
‘King George hath got a fireship in his belly.’
Each face unmeaning, and so flat!—
Indeed, first cousin to a piece of board—
But, Muse, we've promis'd in our lays,
To give our Yankey painter praise;
So, madam, 'tis but fair to keep your word.
And Oliver, I do protest,
And eke the witnesses of resurrection ;
Will stop a hole, keep out the wind,
And make a properer window-blind,
Than great Correggio's, us'd for horse-protection .
For table coverings, be treasures,
With butchers, form for flies most charming flappers;
And Monday mornings at the tub,
When queens of suds their linen scrub,
Make for the blue-nos'd nymphs delightful wrappers.
Thy Angels did my delicacy hurt;
Their linen so much coarseness did display:
What's worse, each had not above half a shirt.
I tell thee, cambric fine as webs of spiders,
Ought to have deck'd that brace of heavenly riders.
To something longer for each rump?
I'd buy much better at a Wapping shop,
By vulgar tongues baptiz'd a slop!
Do mind, my friend, thy hits another time,
And thou shalt cut a figure in my rhime.
Sublimely tow'ring 'midst th' Atlantic roar,
I'll waft thy praises to thy native shore ;
Where Liberty's brave sons their pœans sing,
And every scoundrel convict is a king.
Correggio's best pictures were actually made use of in the royal stables in the North, to keep the wind from the tails of the horses.
ODE III.
The Poet addresseth Mr. Gainsborough—Exhibiteth great Scripture Erudition—Condemneth Mr. Gainsborough's Plagiarism—Giveth the Artist wholesome Advice—Praiseth the Cornish Boy; and sayeth fine things to Jackson.
Who, mounted on thy painting throne,
On other brushmen look'st contemptuous down,
Like our great admirals on a gang of swabbers.
To yon dear nest of royal heads !
How each the soul of my attention pulls!
Suppose, my friend, thou giv'st the frame
A pretty little Bible name,
And call'st it Golgotha, the place of skulls?
An angel finish'd Luke's transcendent line—
Perchance that civil angel was with thee—
For let me perish if I think them thine.
The piece hath gain'd a number of deriders—
They tell thee, Genius in it had no share,
But that thou foully stol'st the curs from Snyders.
For, to be plain, there's nothing in't—
The man who scorns to do it, is a log:
An eye, an ear, a tail, a nose,
Were modesty, one might suppose;
But, z---ds! thou must not smuggle the whole dog.
That thou hast kick'd her out of door,
Who in her bounteous gifts hath been so free,
To cull such genius out for thee—
Lo! all thy efforts without her are vain!
Go find her, kiss her, and be friends again.
The Cornish Boy , in tin mines bred;
Whose native genius, like his diamonds, shone
In secret, till chance gave him to the sun?
'Tis Jackson's portrait—put the laurel on it,
Whilst to that tuneful swan I pour a sonnet.
SONNET,
TO JACKSON, OF EXETER.
Unmatch'd, to pour the soul-dissolving air
That seems poor weeping Virtue's hymn divine,
Soothing the wounded bosom of despair!
To swell the dirge, so musically lorn?
Declare, hath dove-ey'd Pity left her heaven,
And lent thy happy hand her lyre to mourn?
Love, from his Cyprian isle, prepares to fly;
He hastes to listen to thy tender strain,
And learn from thee to breathe a sweeter sigh.
ODE IV.
The great Peter, by a bold Pindaric Jump, leapeth from Sonnet to Gull-catching.
If not, I will inform thee—Take a board,
And place a fish upon it for the fools—
A sprat, or any fish by gulls ador'd:
And sometimes bid the sun good night;
Spying the glittering bait that floats below;
Sans céremonie, down they rush
(For gulls have got no manners), on they push;
And what's the pretty consequence, I trow?
They strike their gentle jobbernowls of lead
Plump on the board—then lie like boobies dead.
To make so plain an application out—
There's many a painting puppy, take my word,
Who knocks his silly head against a board—
That might have help'd the state—made a good jailor,
A nightman, or a tolerable tailor.
ODE V.
Peter discovereth more scriptural Erudition— Groweth sarcastic on the Exhibition—Giveth a wonderful Account of St. Dennis—Blusheth for the Honour of his Country—Talketh sensibly of the Duc de Chartres and the French King.
‘Ten gentlemen, the place sha'n't be untown'd—
That is, I will not burn it ev'ry board:’
The dev'l a gentleman was to be found!
But this was rather hard, since Heav'n well knew
That every fellow in it was a Jew.
Scarce are good things amid those wide abodes—
Find me ten pictures in this Exhibition,
That ought not to be d---n'd, I'll burn my Odes!
And then the world will be in fits and vapours,
Just as it was for poor Lord Mansfield's papers .
Hugg'd it, and kiss'd it—carried it a mile—
This was a pleasant miracle enough,
That maketh many an unbeliever smile.
You may believe the wondrous tale indeed!
Speak, hav'n't you said that many a picture here
Was really done by folks without a head?
That he who did that thing, had neither hands nor eyes?
The walls of this stupendous building stains?
The council's ears with pleasure I could cuff;
Mind me—I don't say, batter out their brains.
What will Duke Chartres say when he goes home
And tells King Lewis all about the room?
Our Exhibition he will liken Hell to;
Then to the Monarch, who both writes and reads
Give hand-bills of the wonderous Katterfelto.
Swearing th' Academy was all so flat,
He'd rather see the wizard and his cat.
To the irreparable loss of the public, and that great law expounder, burnt! burnt in Lord George Gordon's religious conflagration.—The newspapers howled for months over their ashes.—Ohe jam satis est.
ODE VI.
The British Peter elegantly and happily depicteth his great Cousin of Thebes—Talketh of Fame —Horsewhippeth the Painters for turning their own Trumpeters.
A hop and step and jump mode of inditing,
My great and wise relation Pindar, boasted:
Or (for I love the bard to flatter)
By jerks, like boar-pigs making water,
Whatever first came in his sconce,
Bounce, out it flew, like bottled ale, at once,
A cock, a bull, a whale, a soldier roasted.
How poacher-like we hunt the game!
No matter, for it, how we play the fool—
And yet, 'tis pleasing our own laud to hear,
And really very natural to prefer
One grain of praise to pounds of ridicule.
I mean the painters—who can't stay
To see their works by criticism display'd
And hear what others have to say;
But calling Fame a vile old lazy strumpet,
Sound their own praise from their own penny trumpet.
Where the mad Lyric muse, with pain
Hammering hard verse her skill employs,
And beats a tinman's shop in noise;
Catching wild tropes and similies,
That hop about like swarms of fleas—
We've lost Sir Joshua—Ah! that charming elf,
I'm griev'd to say, hath this year lost himself.
Wisdom and Prudence could not save
From being foully murder'd, my good friend;
Some weep to see the woful figure;
Whilst others laugh, and many snigger,
As if their mirth would never have an end.
Of poor St. George the useless armour borrow
To guard thy own poor corpse—don't be a mule—
Take it—e'en now thou'rt like a hedgehog, quill'd
(Richard, I hope in God thou art not kill'd)
By the dire shafts of merc'less ridicule.
As Shakspeare lamentably says,
That thou, in this observing city,
Thus runn'st a wh*r*ng after PRAISE:
But, Dick, the nymph, so coy, will not be caught.
In this thy wounded pride may refuge find—
Think of the sage who wanted a fine piece:
Who went, in vain, five hundred miles at least,
On Laïs, a sweet fille de joie, to feast—
The Mrs. Robinson of Greece.
And don't whole acres of good canvass spoil:
Thou'lt say, ‘Lord! many hundreds do like me.’
Lord! so have fellows robb'd—nay, further,
Hundreds of villains have committed murther;
But, Richard, are these precedents for thee?
ODE VII.
Peter groweth ironically facetious.
I've said it often, and repeat it—
She doth not understand her trade—
Artists, ne'er mind her work, I hope you'll beat it.
What are they?—Smoke, for certainty, I know;
From chimney-tops, behold! they rise,
Made by some sweating cooks below.
From hogs, and ducks, and geese, and horses' bums.
Then tell me, decency, I must request,
Who'd copy such a dev'lish nasty beast?
Broad as the main-sail of a man of war—
Your whale shall eat up ev'ry other head,
Ev'n as the sun licks up each sneaking star!
By bulky things both men and maids are taken—
Mind, too, to lay the paints like the mortar thick,
And make your picture look as red as bacon.
All folks love size; believe my rhime;
Burke says, 'tis part of the sublime.
Van Slabberchops, Van Stink, Van Swab,—
No matter, though I cannot make it out—
At calling names I never was a dab:
Holding a cheese that weigh'd a hundred pound,
Thus, like a Burgomaster, spoke with judgment vast
‘No poet like my broder step de ground:
Dat all de world must please;
For he heb vrite von book,
So big as all dis cheese!’
Make out each single bristle on his back:
Or if your meaner subject be a wig,
Let not the caxon a distinctness lack;
Else, all the lady critics will so stare,
And, angry vow, ‘'Tis not a bit like hair!’
Then every tongue commends—
For people judge not only by the eye,
But feel your merit by their finger ends:
Nay! closely nosing, o'er the picture dwell,
As if to try the goodness by the smell.
One floating scene—nothing made out—
For which he ought to be abus'd,
Whose works have been so cry'd about.
Makes a bird's beak appear at twenty mile;
With ev'ry feather of his tail and wing.
Fond of variety, a wayward child—
To blame your taste some blockheads may presume;
But mind that every one be like a broom.
Of steel and purest silver form your waters,
And make your clouds like rocks and alligators.
To gain applause—why paint her like a shilling:
Or Sol's bright orb—be sure to make him glow
Precisely like a guinea or a jo.
In short, to get your pictures prais'd and sold
Convert, like Midas, every thing to gold.
Your clouds are made of very brilliant stuff;
The blue on China mugs are now surpass'd,
Your sun-sets yield not to brick walls, nor buff.
They really look like golden-hafted knives!
Go on, my lads—leave Nature's dismal hue,
And she, ere long, will come and copy you.
ODE VIII.
The sublime Peter concludeth in a Sweat.
My odes, a little wild and rambling—
May people bite like gudgeons at my rhime!
I long to see them scrambling—
Then very soon I'll give 'em more (God willing)
But this is full sufficient for a shilling.
For such a trifle, such a heap!
Indeed I sell my goods too cheap.
With open mouth, and straining eyes;
Gaping for praise, like a young crow for meat—
‘Lord! why you have not mentioned me?’
Mention thee!
Thy impudence hath put me in a sweat—
What rage for fame attends both great and small!
Better be d**n'd, than mention'd not at all!
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||