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] | ||
ODE.
And thee, O white-rob'd Truth, I've rev'renc'd long—
I'm fond too of that flashy varlet Wit,
Who skims earth, sea, heav'n, hell, existence o'er,
To put the merry table in a roar,
And shake the sides with laugh-convulsing fit.
To her we owe a charming little story.
WILLIAM PENN, NATHAN, AND THE BAILIFF; A TALE.
It is a story of fam'd William Penn,
By bailiffs oft beset, without effect,
Like numbers of our lords and gentlemen—
The folks who came with writs, or ‘How d'ye do?’
Possessing, too, a penetrating eye,
Friends from his foes the quaker quickly knew.
Though not disguis'd to our friend Will,
Came, to Will's shoulder compliments to pay,
Conceal'd, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill.
Drest like a gentleman from top to toe,
Expecting quick admittance, to be sure—
But no!
Unto the window gravely stalk'd, not ran—
‘Master at home?’ the bailiff sweetly said—
‘Thou canst not speak to him,’ replied the man.
‘Nay,’ snuffled Nathan, ‘let it not thus strike thee;
Know, verily, that William Penn
Hath seen thee, but he doth not like thee.’
TO A FLY,
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipp'd soul—
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
For ever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflam'd,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snipp'd thy thread—
By heav'ns, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother,
And kicking, lo, again thou mov'st another!
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
And finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands;
Much as to say, ‘I'm glad I'm here again’—
And well mayst thou rejoice—'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt—
Now turnest—on the table making rings;
Now crawlihg, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
Now flutt'ring nectar from thy silken wings
And poking out thy small, long legs behind:
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me—farewell, Fly!
And rapture to thy family afford—
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream;
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm—
Whilst Punch, the grinning merry imp of sin—
Invites th' unwary wand'rer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
ELEGY TO THE FLEAS OF TENERIFFE.
Whose bones, perchaunce, may ache as well as ours,
O let us rest in peace the weary head,
This night—the first we ventur'd to your bow'rs.
Ye turn at once to brown, the lily's white;
Ye stab us also, like so many pins—
Sleep swears he can't come near us whilst ye bite.
Broad flashes on the imps, for blood that itch—
In vain we brush the busy hosts away;
Fearless on other parts their thousands pitch.
‘Eat hearty, fleas—they're some outlandish men—
Fat stuff—no Spaniards all so lean and dry—
Such charming ven'son ne'er may come agen.’
With nibbled hands, and eke with nibbled faces,
Just like two turkey-eggs, we speckled rise,
Scorn'd by the Loves, and mock'd by all the Graces.
How will the beauteous Catherina stare!
‘Away, ye nasty Britons—foh! away,’
In sounds of horror will exclaim the fair.
What though we swear 'twere all Mackerrick's fleas?
Disgusted will the virgins turn the head;
No more we kiss their fingers on our knees.
No more they listen to our panting prose;
No more beneath their window shall we stand,
And serenade their beauties to repose.
The love-inspir'd fandango warms no more!
The laugh, the nod, the whisper, will offend;
The leer, the squint, the squeezes, all be o'er.
Ye daring light troops of that roving race,
Know ye the strangers whom with blood ye stain?
Know ye the voyagers ye thus disgrace?
A Briton born, that dauntless deals in death;
Who to the Western Ind proceeds to kill,
And, probably, of thousands stop the breath:
Shall bid with wonder all Parnassus start;
A bard, whose converse monarchs shall admire,
And, happy, learn his lofty odes by heart
A youth who kindles with a father's flame;
Boscawen call'd, who fought a kingdom's wars,
And gave to Immortality a name.
Such is our British quality, O fleas!—
Then spare our tender skins this one, one night—
To-morrow eat Mackerrick, if ye please
ODE TO MESSIEURS TOWNSEND, MACMANUS, AND JEALOUS, The Thief-takers, and Attendants on Majesty.
The present unnatural and fatal Enmity towards those best Creatures in the World, Kings and Queens, putting our most august Couple more on their Guard against evil Machinations, by selecting Mr. Townsend, Mr. Mackmanus, and Mr. Jealous, the most accomplished Thief-takers upon Earth, to watch over them as a Garde de Corps; such an important Circumstance, so illuminative of the historical Page, could not escape the Eagle Eye of the Lyric Bard, who, in consequence, has addressed an Ode of Praise and Admonition to the three aforesaid Gentlemen.
And Justice Cart's slow-moving tail,
Accept the bard's sincere congratulation—
Ye glorious imps, of thief-suppressing spirit,
Elected, for your most heroic merit,
The guardians of the rulers of the nation.
Attempted only on the crown a rape,
Pale Horror rais'd her hands, and roll'd her eyes—
But should some knave, with fingers most unclean,
Attempt to steal away our king and queen,
How would the empire in disorder rise!
Who, if they lose their sov'reign, never thrive.
In silence, on the royal sleepy eye,
And, giving to his sacrilege a loose,
Bear off the mighty monarch on his back,
Just as sly Reynard, in his night attack,
Bears from the farmer's yard a gentle goose.
We cannot such a precious couple spare—
O, cat-like, guard the door against Tom Paine!
Tom Paine's an artful and rebellious dog,
Swears that a sacred throne is but a log,
And monarchs too expensive to maintain.
I know they very badly sleep at night—
Tom Paine's indeed a most terrific word;
A name of fear, that sounds in ev'ry wind,
A goblin damn'd, that haunts the royal mind;
Of Damocles, the hair-suspended sword.
Why by a paltry subject be distrest?
Is there no poison for Tom Paine?—alas!
Is there no halter for this knave of knaves?
Audacious fellow! lo, the crown he braves,
And calls the kingdom a poor burden'd ass.
And bids him lift, a regicide, his heels.
Who, to escape each wicked varlet,
Fix'd on the brave Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous,
Delightful company, delicious fellows,
To point out, ev'ry minute, who is who!
Rascals with ill-looking designing faces,
Where treason, murder, and sedition dwell;
To give the life of ev'ry Newgate wretch;
To say who next the fatal cord shall stretch—
The sweet historians of the pensive cell.
How pleas'd, a thief or highwayman to hunt!
Blest as Cornwallis Tippoo to pursue;
Blest as old Purs'ram Bhow, and Hurry Punt!
How nimbly you pursue him!—with what soul
Track him from haunt to haunt, to mercy deaf,
And drag at last the felon from his hole!
How beats her heart! what lightnings fill her eyes!
To seize him, lo, her twinkling fingers spread,
And stop his travels through the realm of bed.
Now sudden falls in thunder on his rump—
She misses—off hops bloodsucker again:
The nymph with wild alacrity pursues;
Now loses sight of him, and now gets views,
Whilst all her trembling nerves with ardour strain.
Poor sighing Susan quits th' important chase:—
Once more resolv'd, she brightens up her wits,
And, furious, to her lovely fingers spits—
Thrice happy thought! yet, not to flatter,
'Tis not the cleanliest trick in nature.
Who, winking, fancieth Susan cannot see;
The culprit crusheth; and thus falls the flea!
The princes all have had their education!
What pounds on Gottingen were thrown away!
How had ye moraliz'd their youngling hearts!
How had ye giv'n an insight of the arts,
So necessary, sirs, for sov'reign sway!
She teacheth most extraordinary things;
She keepeth subjects in their proper sphere;
She brings that fool, the million, tame to hand,
To dance, to kneel, to prostrate at command—
A kingdom is a monarch's dancing bear.
By means of this same humble capering beast,
What royal showmen fill their fobs, and feast.
A subject's murmur is beneath their care:
When well accustomed to the busy thong,
Flogging's a matter of mere sport—a song.
‘You cruel b---h (a man was heard to say)
To serve poor creatures in that horrid way!’
‘Lord, sir,’ quoth Betty, turning on her heel,
‘The eels are us'd to it!’—so saying,
And humming ça ira, continued flaying.
Time shall not eat the mountain of your fame;
For thus myself your epitaph shall write,
And dare the vile old stone-eater to bite.
THE EPITAPH.
‘Here lie three crimps of death, knock'd down by Fate;Of justice the staunch blood-hounds too, so keen;
Who chok'd the little plund'rers of the state,
And, glorious, sav'd a mighty king and queen.’
With jealousy their glorious bosoms burn,
To find by you, dread sirs, usurp'd their places:
‘What! not the regiments of Death be trusted!
By thief-takers, O Jesu! to be ousted!
Thief-catchers gardes de corps unto their graces!’
Who, with their swords and guns, may go to bed.
Your tales of house-breakers, those nightly curses;
Of heroes of the heath, Saint Giles's boys;
Hist'ries of pocket-handkerchiefs and purses.
Stories surpassing those of Robin Hood.
Of changeful Major Semple, charming too!
Delicious story through each hulk prevails,
Full of instruction, pleasant, sage, and new.
Which through your mouths to gaping monarchs go;
And frequently the royal gaze, ye greet
With curious instruments, for robbing mete.
With whom the purses oft in silence stray?
Who would not on the tools with rapture look,
That from post-chaises snap the trunks away?
A curious speculation, worthy thrones.
The great of Windsor shall such mirth disdain—
In days of yore, dull days, insipid things
Kings trusted only to a people's love—
But modern times in politics improve,
And Bow-street runners are the shields of kings.
ODE TO CÆLIA.
Love in thy smiles, and Juno in thy air:
Yet, Cælia, if with gods I may be free,
I think that Jove commits a sort of sin,
By stripping all the Graces to the skin,
Merely to make a nonpareille of thee.
Most spider-like, the hearts of mortals seizing;
And what too maketh me confounded sour,
Thou knowest what I wish to hide,
Which rather mortifies my pride,
That I'm a simple fly, and in thy pow'r.
She meant thee to support the cause of love;
To keep alive a beautiful creation—
Thy graces hoarded, girl, thou must be told,
Are really like the sordid miser's gold,
Worthless, for want of circulation.
Another pretty guinea will produce;
And thus, O peerless girl, thy beauty
May bring thee cent. per cent. within the year;
That is, another beauty may appear,
If properly it minds its duty.
It seems a dark and intricate affair;
Thou wantest a good, able, sound adviser—
Well, then, my dear, at once agree,
As chamber-counsel to take me;
I know none better qualified, nor wiser.
AN ODE TO A PRETTY MILLINER.
For Love's sake stay those pretty tripping feet,
Join'd to an ancle, form'd all hearts to steal—
That ancle to the neatest leg united,
Perhaps—with which I should be much delighted
For men by little matters guess a deal—
But, dearest damsel, what can make them mine?
Heav'n rests upon those heaving hills of snow;
The fascinating dimple in thy chin;
In short, thy charms without, and charms within,
Speak, are they purchasable?—aye, or no?
Let me not burst in ignorance, fair maid—
Why showest thou, O peerless nymph, surprise?
I am no wolf to eat thee—why afraid?
Could gold once give thee to my eager arms,
Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;
Those would I pour pell-mell into thy lap,
With thee to wake to love, and then to nap,
Then wake again—again to sleep depart.
To snatch, with riot wild, thy burning kiss;
A kiss!—a thousand kisses let me add—
Ten thousand from thy unexhausted mint,
And then ten thousand of my own imprint—
Speak, tempting Syren, to a swain stark mad.
And spreads upon thy breast of purest snows!
'Sdeath! what a cuckoo, what a rogue am I!
That knave, thy bandbox, wak'd my lawless fires,
Bade me suspect what Chastity reveres:—
What will wipe out th' affront, O virgin, speak,
That flush'd the rose of virtue on thy cheek,
Chill'd thy young heart, and dash'd thine eye with tears?
O yield thy beauties to some swain kind-hearted,
Whose soul congenial shall with thine unite,
And Love allow no respite from delight.
A MORAL AFTER-THOUGHT ON THE ABOVE.
The Pleasures sport around thy simple cell;
The song of Nature melts from grove to grove;
Perpetual sunshine sits upon thy vale;
Content and ruddy Health thy hamlet hail,
And Echo waits upon the voice of Love.
The spectred heath, and Danger's cavern'd road;
The shuffling monster treads with panting breath;
The cloud-wrapp'd storm insulting roars around,
Fear pales him at the thunder's awful sound,
He stares with horror on the flash of death.
And bids her pour her deepest night;
Her clouds impenetrable bring,
And hide him with her raven wing!
Nor gape, nor ponder which to choose—
O Innocence, this instant I'm thy slave—
What but the greatest fool would be a knave?
A LYRIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON.
I give thee joy of Gabia's fate—
More broken pans, more gods, more mugs,
More snivel bottles, jordens, and old jugs,
More saucepans, lamps, and candlesticks, and kettles,
In short, all sorts of culinary metals!
Something shall rise to be ador'd—
Search the old bedsteads and the rugs;
Such things are sacred—if, by chance,
Amidst the wood, thine eye should glance
On a nice pair of antique bugs;
And let us Britons breed the Roman race!
Would much Daines Barrington amuse;
Old mats, old dish-clouts, dripping-pans, and spits,
Would prove delectable to other wits;
Gods' legs, and legs of old joint stools,
Would ravish all our antiquarian schools.
Would charm the knight of Soho-square:
A headless flea would be a pretty thing,
To make the knight of wonders stare.
Or Nero's fiddle, 'mid the flames of Rome,
That gave so exquisite a jig,
Believe me, would be well worth sending home.
Thy lucky lucky eyes by chance behold,
Send it to our good k*** and gracious q****:
No matter what th' inscription—if there's none,
'Tis all one!
Plain gold will please, as well as work'd, I ween—
Much will the present their great eyes regale,
Let it but cut a figure in the scale.
And catch th' inhabitants and goods all napping,
And then a thousand years the ruin shade,
What fortunes would be quickly made!
What rare musæums from the rubbish rise,
Wapping antiquities to glad the eyes!
And Miss D'Eon, those heroines, would sell!
Canning and Squires!
How would the dilettanti of the nation
Devour the prints with eyes of admiration!
And to their merits, poets strike their lyres!
Would from the proud possessor draw such brags!
Red Lions, Crowns and Magpies, George the Third;
The Cat and Gridiron, our most gracious Queen,
With rapt'rous adoration would be seen;
They would upon my word.
Such would transport the people of hereafter,
Though subjects now of merriment and laughter.
POSTSCRIPT (sub rosâ).
What pretty jordens has my friend to spare?
What gods are ripe for digging up, O knight?
What Britons, knowing in the virtú trade,
Soon as a grand discov'ry shall be made,
Are near thee, gudgeon-like, prepar'd to bite?
For which the future connoisseurs may sigh,
Is going into ground, with front sublime?
Hereafter to be worshipp'd soon as seen;
A resurrection rare, array'd in green,
A downright satire upon Time;
Who seems, a poor old fumbling fool, to dote;
Taking two thousand years to make a coat.
From whence antiques were wont to stray;
Whose parents ne'er sat eyes upon them more,
So much the little creatures lost their way?
Pity thou couldst not news of them obtain,
And send the gods and godlings back again!
From whose old corner-cupboard, or old trunk,
For who would toil, and sweat, and hoe the hill,
To find, perhaps, of knowledge a poor rill,
Who easily can buy the fountains?
That thou hast left the gods of stone and brass,
To wed a deity of flesh and blood ?
O lock the temple with thy strongest key,
For fear thy deity, a comely she,
Should one day ramble in a frolic mood.
So very volatile indeed, take wing;
If his, to wicked wand'rings can incline,
Lord! who would answer, poor old knight, for thine?
Yet should thy Grecian goddess fly the fane,
I think that we may catch her in Hedge-lane .
Sir William keeps an old antiquarian to hunt for him, who, when he stumbles on a tolerable statue, bathes him in urine, buries him, and when ripe for digging up, they proclaim a great discovery to be made, and out comes an antique for universal admiration.
Some valuable antiques, not long since, made their escape from the Royal Musæum, and travelled the Lord knows where.
He lived in the neighbourhood of Vesuvius, and furnished the knight with all his volcanic observations, which pass on the world as his own.—Nam quod emis, possis dicere jure tuum.
It is really true—the knight is married to a beautiful virgin, whom he styles his Grecian. Her attitudes are the most desirable models for young artists.
EPIGRAM,
On a Stone thrown at a very great Man, but which missed him.
Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head,From a flint so unluckily thrown—
I think very diff'rent, with thousands indeed,
'Twas a lucky escape for the stone.
TO CHLOE.
Dear Chloe, well I know the swain,Who gladly would embrace thy chain;
And who, alas! can blame him?
Affect not, Chloe, a surprise;
Look but a moment on these eyes,
Thou'lt ask me not, to name him.
ON A NEW-MADE LORD.
The carpenters of ancient Greece,Although they bought of wood a stubborn piece,
Not fit to make a block—yet, very odd!
No losers were the men of chipping trade,
Because of this same stubborn stuff they made
A damn'd good god!
Whose mind to A, B, C, can scarcely stretch,
Shall, by a monarch's all-creative word,
Become, a very decent lord.
TO MY CANDLE.
I wake amid thy friendly-watchful light,
To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep—
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark,
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,
And swells the thund'ring horrors of the deep.
Now blacken'd, and now flashing through her skies.
I own I labour for the voice of praise—
For who would sink in dull Oblivion's stream?
Who would not live in songs of distant days?
I mark, in visions of delight, the sage,
High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands sublime;
A column in the melancholy waste
(Its cities humbled, and its glories past),
Majestic, 'mid the solitude of time.
Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour—
Yes, let the tears of purest friendship show'r.
A form, that wakes my deepest sigh;
A form that feels of death the leaden sleep—
Descending to the realms of shade,
I view a pale-ey'd panting maid;
I see the Virtues o'er their fav'rite weep.
Command the envied trump of Fame,
Oblivion should Eliza spare:
A world should echo with her name.
Ah! draws thy little lustre to its end?
Yes, on thy frame, Fate too shall fix her seal—
O let me, pensive, watch thy pale decay;
How fast that frame, so tender, wears away!
How fast thy life the restless minutes steal!
Ah, falling, falling, ready to expire!
In vain thy struggles—all will soon be o'er—
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap:
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,
Faint, less'ning, quiv'ring, glimm'ring—now no more!
Thus shall the suns of science sink away,
And thus of Beauty fade the fairest flow'r—
For where's the giant who to Time shall say,
‘Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy pow'r?’
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||