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] |  |
437
ODE TO A POOR SOLDIER OF TILBURY FORT.
The Poet pronounceth the very great Shyness subsisting between Merit and Money.—Merit's Connexion with Poverty, and the Consequence. Attack on Fortune.—Address to the poor Soldier. He pitieth the poor Soldier's pitiable Fate, viz. his ragged Coat, hungry Stomach, and Want of Fire.—His Companions on the Mud. —Peter smileth at the Hubbub made on Account of a Shot-hole in the little Coat of a great Prince, a Remnant of Glory that may probably add another Ray to the Lustre of St. Paul's.—Peter most pathetically inquireth for his Grace—proclaimeth him to be at Brighton, most heroically engaged.—The different Amusements of his Grace at Brighton, awake and asleep.—Crumbs of Consolation to the poor Soldier.
Merit and Money very seldom meet;
Form'd for each other, they should oftener greet;
Indeed much oftener should be seen together:
But Money, vastly shy, doth keep aloof;
Thus Poverty and Merit beat the hoof,
Expos'd, poor souls, to every kind of weather.
Form'd for each other, they should oftener greet;
Indeed much oftener should be seen together:
But Money, vastly shy, doth keep aloof;
Thus Poverty and Merit beat the hoof,
Expos'd, poor souls, to every kind of weather.
438
Thus as a greyhound is meek Merit lean,
So slammakin, untidy, ragged, mean,
Her garments all so shabby and unpinn'd:
But look at Folly's fat Dutch lubber child;
How on the tawdry cub has Fortune smil'd
When with contempt the goddess should have grinn'd!
So slammakin, untidy, ragged, mean,
Her garments all so shabby and unpinn'd:
But look at Folly's fat Dutch lubber child;
How on the tawdry cub has Fortune smil'd
When with contempt the goddess should have grinn'd!
So much for preamble; and now for thee,
Whose state forlorn his Grace could never see.
Whose state forlorn his Grace could never see.
Poor Soldier, after many a dire campaign,
Drawn mangled from the gory hills of slain,
Perhaps the soul of Belisarius thine;
Why with a tatter'd coat along the shore,
Where Ocean seems to heave a pitying roar,
Why do I see thee thus neglected pine?
Drawn mangled from the gory hills of slain,
Perhaps the soul of Belisarius thine;
Why with a tatter'd coat along the shore,
Where Ocean seems to heave a pitying roar,
Why do I see thee thus neglected pine?
Poor wretch! along the sands condemn'd to go,
And join a hungry dog, or famish'd cat,
A pig, a gull, a cormorant, a crow,
In quest of crabs, a muscle, or a sprat!
And join a hungry dog, or famish'd cat,
A pig, a gull, a cormorant, a crow,
In quest of crabs, a muscle, or a sprat!
Now, at Night's awful, pale, and silent noon,
Along the beach I see thee lonely creep,
Beneath the passing solitary moon,
A spectre stealing 'mid the world of sleep.
Along the beach I see thee lonely creep,
Beneath the passing solitary moon,
A spectre stealing 'mid the world of sleep.
Griev'd at thy channell'd cheek, and hoary hair,
And quiv'ring lip, I mark thy famish'd form,
And hollow jellied orbs that dimly stare,
Thou piteous pensioner upon the storm.
The muse's handkerchief shall wipe thine eye,
And bring sweet Hope to sooth the mournful sigh.
And quiv'ring lip, I mark thy famish'd form,
And hollow jellied orbs that dimly stare,
Thou piteous pensioner upon the storm.
The muse's handkerchief shall wipe thine eye,
And bring sweet Hope to sooth the mournful sigh.
Deserted hero! what! condemn'd to pick,
With wither'd, palsy'd, shaking, wounded hand,
Of wrecks, alas! the melancholy stick,
Thrown by the howling tempest on the strand?
With wither'd, palsy'd, shaking, wounded hand,
Of wrecks, alas! the melancholy stick,
Thrown by the howling tempest on the strand?
Glean'd with the very hand that grasp'd the sword,
To guard the throne of Britain's sacred lord!
While Cowardice at home from danger shrinks,
And on an empire's vitals eats and drinks.
To guard the throne of Britain's sacred lord!
439
And on an empire's vitals eats and drinks.
Heav'ns! let a spent and rambling shot
Touch but a prince's hat or coat,
Expanded are the hundred mouths of Fame;
Whilst braver thousands (but untitled wretches),
Swept by the sword, shall drop like paltry vetches,
Their sate unpitied, and unheard their name!
Touch but a prince's hat or coat,
Expanded are the hundred mouths of Fame;
Whilst braver thousands (but untitled wretches),
Swept by the sword, shall drop like paltry vetches,
Their sate unpitied, and unheard their name!
Poor soldier! is that stick to make a fire,
To warm thyself, and wife, and children dear?
Where is the goodly duke—of coals the 'squire,
Whose heart hath melted oft at Mis'ry's tear?
To warm thyself, and wife, and children dear?
Where is the goodly duke—of coals the 'squire,
Whose heart hath melted oft at Mis'ry's tear?
And, vet'ran! is that coat thy ragged all?
Sport of the saucy winds and soaking rain!
For this has Courage fac'd the flying ball?
For this has bleeding Brav'ry press'd the plain?
Sport of the saucy winds and soaking rain!
For this has Courage fac'd the flying ball?
For this has bleeding Brav'ry press'd the plain?
Where is the man who mocks the grin of Death,
Turns Bagshot pale, and frightens Hounslow Heath?
Turns Bagshot pale, and frightens Hounslow Heath?
Far off, alas! he bleeds in Brighton wars;
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed;
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
At least his horse's ribs so glorious bleed;
Where, nobly daring danger, death, and scars,
He flies and rallies on his bounding steed.
There too his Grace may wield his happy pen,
To prove that truly great and valiant men,
In idle duels never should engage,
But nurse for dread reviews their godlike rage.
To prove that truly great and valiant men,
In idle duels never should engage,
But nurse for dread reviews their godlike rage.
Far off, the hero, in his tent reclin'd,
Where high and mighty meditations suit,
On leather, leather, turns his lofty mind,
To make a cannon of an old jack-boot!
Where high and mighty meditations suit,
On leather, leather, turns his lofty mind,
To make a cannon of an old jack-boot!
Great geniuses, how loftily they jump!
Lord! what his rapture when he deigns to ride!
To feel beneath his Grace's gracious rump,
An eighteen pounder in his horse's hide!
Lord! what his rapture when he deigns to ride!
To feel beneath his Grace's gracious rump,
An eighteen pounder in his horse's hide!
440
There too, to barracks, fir'd in Freedom's cause,
And to Mount Wyse , his lyre the hero tunes;
There too the pow'r of doating Fancy draws
The Royal George to sight by air-balloons .
And to Mount Wyse , his lyre the hero tunes;
There too the pow'r of doating Fancy draws
The Royal George to sight by air-balloons .
This, Fanc'ys pow'r most earnestly can dare—
By Fancy's pow'r the royal ship may rise,
Borne by her bladders through the fields of air,
Just like a twig, by rooks, along the skies.
By Fancy's pow'r the royal ship may rise,
Borne by her bladders through the fields of air,
Just like a twig, by rooks, along the skies.
There too, at midnight drear, the hero schemes,
'Midst hum and snore of troops, for England's good;
Explores machines of death in happy dreams,
For hills of bones, and cataracts of blood.
'Midst hum and snore of troops, for England's good;
Explores machines of death in happy dreams,
For hills of bones, and cataracts of blood.
There, like King Richard, whom the furies rend,
He bustles in his sleep, and starts, and turns;
Now grasps the sword, and now a candle end,
That, blazing like himself, beside him burns.
He bustles in his sleep, and starts, and turns;
Now grasps the sword, and now a candle end,
That, blazing like himself, beside him burns.
Thus, 'mid his tent reclin'd, the godlike man
Vast schemes in slumber spins for England's sake;
‘And, lo!’ quoth Fame, ‘his godlike Grace can plan
As wisely in his sleep as when awake.’
Vast schemes in slumber spins for England's sake;
‘And, lo!’ quoth Fame, ‘his godlike Grace can plan
As wisely in his sleep as when awake.’
When with his host, Caligula came over,
No matter where—for rhime-sake call it Dover—
What were the trophies hence to Rome he bore?
Of paltry perriwinkles just a score!
No matter where—for rhime-sake call it Dover—
What were the trophies hence to Rome he bore?
Of paltry perriwinkles just a score!
But Richmond from his Brighton wars shall bring
Life to the state, and safety to a king!
Life to the state, and safety to a king!
Blest man! from Brighton field, with laurels crown'd,
He triumphs up the town without a wound ;
From Brighton wars, that witness'd not a corse!
Most lucky, losing neither man nor horse!
He triumphs up the town without a wound ;
441
Most lucky, losing neither man nor horse!
Thus then, O soldier, distance hides his Grace;
Thus is the sun, at times, of clouds the sport:
Yet soon the glories of his lordship's face
Shall, like a comet, blaze o'er Tilb'ry fort.
Thus is the sun, at times, of clouds the sport:
Yet soon the glories of his lordship's face
Shall, like a comet, blaze o'er Tilb'ry fort.
There shall the muse thy piteous tale unfold,
Gain thee a coat, and coals, to kill the cold;
Nay, fat shall swim upon thy meagre porridge:
The sympathizing duke her tale will hear,
And drop, at sound of coat and coals, a tear—
For Richmond's bounty equals Richmond's courage.
Gain thee a coat, and coals, to kill the cold;
Nay, fat shall swim upon thy meagre porridge:
The sympathizing duke her tale will hear,
And drop, at sound of coat and coals, a tear—
For Richmond's bounty equals Richmond's courage.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |