University of Virginia Library

For London's rich city, two Staffordshire swains,
Hight Johnson, hight Garrick, forsaking their plains,
Reach'd Shakespeare's own Stratford, where flows by his tomb
An Avon, as proudly as Tiber by Rome.
Now Garrick, (sweet imp too of Nature was he,)
Would climb and would eat from his Mulberry-tree;
Yet as Johnson, less frolic, was taller, was older,
He reach'd the first boughs by the help of his shoulder;
Where, shelter'd from famine, from bailiffs, and weather,
Bards, critics, and players sat crowded together;
Who devour'd in their reach, all the fruit they could meet,
The good, bad, indifferent, the bitter and sweet:
But Garrick climb'd high to a plentiful crop,
Then, heavens! what vagaries he play'd on the top!
How, now on the loose twigs, and now on the tight,
He stood on his head, and then bolted upright!
All features, all shapes, and all passions he tried;
He danc'd, and he strutted, he laugh'd and he cried,
He presented his face, and he show'd his backside!
The noble, the vulgar, flock'd round him to see
What feats he perform'd in the Mulberry-tree:
He repeated the pastime, then open'd to speak,
But Johnson below mutter'd strophes of Greek,
While Garrick proclaim'd—such a plant never grew,
So foster'd by sun-shine, by soil, and by dew.
The palm-trees of Delos, Phœnicia's sweet grove,
The oaks of Dodona, tho' hallow'd by Jove,
With all that antiquity shows to surpass us,
Compar'd to this tree, were mere shrubs of Parnassus.
Not the beeches of Mantua, where Tityrus was laid,
Not all Vallombrosa produc'd such a shade,
That the myrtles of France, like the birch of the schools,
Were fit only for rods to whip Genius to rules;
That to Stratford's old Mulberry, fairest and best,
The Cedars of Eden must bow their proud crest:
Then the fruit—like the loaf in the Tub's pleasant Tale,
That was fish, flesh, and custard, good claret, and ale—
It compriz'd every flavour, was all, and was each,
Was grape, and was pine-apple, nectarine and peach;
Nay he swore, and his audience believ'd what he told,
That under his touch it grew apples of gold.—
Now he paus'd!—then recounted its virtues again—
'Twas a wood for all use, bottom, top, bark, and grain:
It would saw into seats for an audience in full pits,
Into benches for judges, episcopal pulpits;
Into chairs for philosophers, thrones too for kings,
Serve the highest of purposes, lowest of things;
Make brooms to mount Witches, make May-poles for May-days,
And boxes, and ink-stands, for wits and the ladies.—

His speech pleas'd the vulgar, it pleas'd their superiors,
By Johnson stopt short,—who his mighty posteriors
Applied to the trunk—like a Sampson, his haunches
Shook the roots, shook the summit, shook stem, and shook branches!
All was tremor and shock!—now descended in showers
Wither'd leaves, wither'd limbs, blighted fruits, blighted flowers!
The fragments drew critics, bards, players along,
Who held by weak branches, and let go the strong;
E'en Garrick had dropt with a bough that was rotten,
But he leapt to a sound, and the slip was forgotten.

Now the plant's close recesses lay open to day,
While Johnson exclaim'd, stalking stately away,
Here's rubbish enough, till my homeward return,
For children to gather, old women to burn;
Not practis'd to labour, my sides are too sore,
Till another fit season, to shake you down more.
What future materials for pruning, and cropping,
And cleaning, and gleaning, and lopping and topping!
Yet mistake me not, rabble! this tree's a good tree,
Does honour, dame Nature, to Britain and thee;
And the fruit on the top,—take its merits in brief,
Makes a noble desert, where the dinner's roastbeef!