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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II. |
III. | VOL. III. |
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
III. VOL. III.
CELEBRATION;
OR, THE ACADEMIC PROCESSION TO ST. JAMES'S.
AN ODE.
West at the head, and Wilton at the tail!
CONTENTS.
Peter, after the Manner of Parsons, prayeth for good Weather.—He beggeth Morning to smile on the Meat and Drink, and the cavalcading Members of the Royal Academy.—Peter upbraideth Mister Wilton for guzzling Porter with low People below, when he should be above, amongst the Antiques.—The Cavalcade described.—It arriveth at St. James's.—The Members tremble.—They appear before their Sovereign.—They fall on their Faces.—They get up again.—The President receives the Honour of Knighthood.—He feeleth himself metamorphosed into a sublimer Creature. A most original, beautiful, and striking Comparison between Mister West's new State and that of a Butterfly.—Peter wondereth at the great Power of a Sword and a Word, and wisheth they could improve the literary Abilities of Mr. West. —The Members kiss hands; who, Peter thinketh, would gladly kiss any other Part than no Part of Majesty.
Let rude December be the gentle May;
Chain'd be the tempests, and well bung'd the rain;
Nor let a fog his sullen twilight spread,
As lately dark'ning bade us think the head
Of some high-titled man was cleft in twain.
And smile on roast, and boil'd, and bak'd, and fry'd,
And grill'd, and devil'd, gums of Genius greeting;
Smile too upon the academic men,
Respectables indeed! who, nine in ten,
Well as of painting, know the art of eating.
That glorious through the Strand shall move along,
And at St. James's give th' address of honey;
Full of rich loyalty and candied praise,
For royal favours that a world amaze!
Viz. pictures, statues, drawings, books, and money.
West at the head, and Wilton at the tail.
No, let not Wilton in the band appear;
Wilton, who, lazy beer-admiring master,
For Whitbread, quits his pupils and their plaster;
Deserts, for common serving-men, the room,
And hobs or nobs with ladies of the broom:
To Belvidere Apollo's head and grace;
O fie! 'midst vulgar porter-pots regaling;
Who leav'st great Hercules for poor grey John ,
And, what must shock the feelings of a stone,
The youthful Venus for old Mother Maling .
Slow moves the tribe of Benjamin along,
While Fame before them with her trumpet flies;
Whilst on their heads, from bulks and chimney-tops
As thick as herrings or as thick as hops,
Wild Admiration casts her countless eyes.
And now a very sudden palpitation
Amid the fibres of their hearts they feel!
And now of royalty th' electric shock,
Just as a man upon the black-brow'd rock
Has oft experienc'd from the numbing eel .
In goodly order and in goodly pairs;
Now at the hall of audience they arrive;
Now 'midst the blaze of majesty they fall
Prone on their faces, like affrighted Paul,
Half dead, alas! poor saint! and half alive.
And now they get upon their ends again!—
Behold grave Benjamin th' address present!
Now on his knees (his soul's first wish!) delighted,
Behold once-quaker Benjamin be-knighted,
Amidst a moon-ey'd host of wonderment!
‘Arise Sir Benjamin!’ the sovereign says—
Happy, the knight ariseth at the word,
And feels himself o'erwhelm'd with glory's rays.
His heart sublime, a richer torrent pours;
He looks contemptuous on the mob below,
And, swelling, now a pyramid he tow'rs.
With lords behold him talk—with ladies chat
Of sceptres, snuff, rebellions, and all that.
That crawl'd at first the earth, to man's surprise,
Bursts forth with splendor—what an angel form!
And mounts on glittering wings of gold the skies;
Talks to this mealy lord, and now that fair,
So happy mingling with the tribes of air!
Ah! lodgeth such huge magic in a word?
Good heav'ns! what pity for th' unletter'd knight,
They cannot teach to speak and read and write!
How blest the hand of majesty to greet!
For which, miles high would thousands gladly jump:
And would but sacred majesty permit,
Such really is Ambition's raging fit,
(Unlike Rabelais the rogue ) they'd kiss the rump!
Now majesty's good health they drink and eat!
Now, maudlin majesty's good health disgorge!
Now on poor kingless France they run their rigs!
Now mad for majesty they burn their wigs!
Now, loyal, fry their watches for King George!
This farce was actually performed during the late reign, in the full form of loyalty, by the mayor and aldermen of a certain corporation in a western county.
HAIR POWDER;
A PLAINTIVE EPISTLE TO MR. PITT.
And, Herod-like, not little children spare;
Say (for methinks the land has much to dread)
How long in safety may we wear the head?
CHAPTER OF CONTENTS.
A sublime Exordium, containing a great Compliment
to Mr. Pitt.—The Poet sagely adviseth the
Minister—observeth to him the Effect of Time on
the Heads of Beaux and old Maids.—The hard
Fate of poor carotty-polled Phillis.—Lubin's
and Hodge's Disappointment, by Means of this
cruel Tax.—A great and œconomical Judge's
Mortification; and Exultation of his Fur-clad
Brother at the Tax on Hair Powder.—A melancholy
Picture of the Hair-dressers and Barbers.
The Poet's eye (as Shakespeare sayeth), ‘in a
fine phrensy rolling,’ beholdeth the Chase of a
powdered Poll; the Capture; the Redemption;
and Punishment of the Informers in London—
also Poll-chases in the Country, illustrated by
an apt Simile.—Peter exclaimeth at the Minister,
and compareth him to a hard-hearted Fellow
that lived upon Executions.—Peter praiseth
Mr. Pitt's Powers of Oratory.—He attacketh the
Pride of the Minister; wishing him to take a
To slake the golden thirst of kings and queens;
To gorge the cavern of each greedy chest
With all the wonders of the bleeding east;
To lull with opiate draughts a kingdom's groans,
Patch ragged crowns, and cobble crazy thrones;
The modest bard, for five short minutes, bear;
Nor may the Muse's wisdom wound thine ear!
Drags her last penny forth, and fears starvation;
Whose voice is loud, and daily waxing louder;
List to the serious sound, and damn the powder.
To thee, responsible for ev'ry blunder,
Her mildest murmurs should be claps of thunder.
Wide-grinning at the beau beyond his prime;
And many a maid, beyond life's blooming day,
Whose curls his wonted malice turn'd to grey!
Pines pennyless, and blushes for her locks!
Refus'd to fly to powder's friendly aid,
She bids them seek in caps the secret shade;
Phillis must hide the redd'ning shame, or shave!
At thee she flings her curses, Pitt, and cries—
At thee she darts the lightnings of her eyes;
And thinks that Love ne'er warm'd him who could vex,
With wanton strokes of cruelty, the sex.
Poor Lubin shook the dredge box o'er his hair;
Hodge dipp'd his caxon 'mid the sack of flour:
But now they execrate the arm of pow'r;
Lubin no longer dares the dredge-box shake,
Nor Hodge to dip his caxon in the sack.
The saving judge has felt a stunning blow:
His hawk-œconomy won't thank thee for't,
Which stops his pretty nipperkin of port .
Not so Judge Blood, who glories in deceit;
His life one murder, and his soul a cheat—
He loves a law, and hugs the man who made it,
To hang a culprit and himself evade it.
A melancholy, mute, and mournful band;
And barbers eke, who lift the crape-clad pole,
And round and round their eyes of horror roll;
Who told their sorrows 'mid the moony light.
But see! each hopeless wight with fury foams;
His curling-irons breaks, and snaps his combs;
Ah! doom'd to shut their mouths as well as shops;
For dead is custom, 'mid the world of crops .
I see th' informer polls of powder chase!
On this, on that, a footman, maid of mop,
Fierce as the tiger from his ambush, pop;
Now if his cruel clutches, sharp and strong,
To Bow-street drag his powder'd prey along:
And now I see the mob in mercy's cause,
Redeem the victim from his savage paws;
And now the tyrant to a horse-pond draw,
To quench the red-hot thunder-bolt of law.
Amidst our villages, in fancy's eye,
I see informers chase, and culprits fly—
Rude pikes so hungry, putting to the rout,
Voracious darting, a poor host of trout.
‘Your money, sirs—remove the mask, or pay,’
Is now thy language to a groaning nation!
Pitt, Pitt, thou hast no bowels of compassion.
How mean (for money such thy boundless rage)
Thus to expose the cruel pow'r of age!
Much like the man art thou, and hard as he,
Who let his scaffold out at Tyburn tree;
Where, as the great and pious Doctor Dodd
Gave by a rope his sinful soul to God,
Thus on his boards aloft, amid the crowd,
Th' unfeeling wretch of wretches bawl'd aloud,
‘Up, up—who mounts here?—all alive, and kicking.’
But Truth should bear it company, I trow—
Hypocrisy, the knave, to keep his place,
Too often borrows Virtue's honest face.
The tow'ring column often rais'd a rat.
Though toss'd aloft by stone-blind Fortune's pow'r,
Awake thy mem'ry to thy humbler hour:
Though now a kite—ah! once a bat, how small!
Flick'ring around for flies in yonder hall !
But, drunk with honours, ‘No,’ thou criest, ‘no;
I thank thee, but I cannot look so low.’
Thus a poor country boy to India goes;
A small portmanteau all the wealth he knows;
Arrives, with awkward legs and arm and mien;
But, ere a twelvemonth pass, how chang'd the scene!
He mounts his elephant, treats, wh---s, gets drunk,
And, ah! forgets his friend the little trunk.
Lo, generous m---y prepar'd to grant.
Hark to a voice divine!—‘Pitt, Pitt, hæ, Pitt;
‘No more, no more for taxes whet thy wit;
I'll pay, I'll pay the soldier and the tar—
My millions, Pitt, shall pay the glorious war;
I'll give sheep, lamb, ram, turkey, duck, boar, sow,
Goose, gosling, cock, hen, heifer, bull, calf, cow;
And, Pitt, hæ, hæ at Smithfield Pitt, I shine—
Mine's the best beef—yes, mine—what, what?—yes, mine:
I'll empty every guinea-chest, and sack;
Yes, yes, the people ought to have it back:
Yes, yes, I'll give my all, my all away;
Yes, yes, I know, I know the hounds are howling—
God, Pitt, I don't, I don't much like their growling:
Hæ, hæ, growl, growl—what, what? things don't go right;
Why quickly, quickly, Pitt, the dogs may bite—
That would be bad, bad, bad,—a sad mishap—
Hæ, Pitt—hæ, hæ? I should not like a snap.’
Where truth and speed and oratory shine.
‘I geef my chewells to de peepel's sighs—
All tings from Mistress Hastings as I gote;
I geef de fine pig di'mond of Arcote ;
Iss, dat vich Rhumbold geef, I geef again,
Rader dan see de peeples suffer pain.
De emp'ror presents, Lord! I vil not tush,
Although de duty coss so very mush .
I turn off Mister Wyat , dat I sal;
And geef up Frogmore—Iss, I geef up all;
Geef up mine di'mond stomacher indeed;
All, all, mush rader dan de peepels bleed:
Iss, iss, I geef up all, shust like de k---,
For bankrup nation be quite deflish ting.
Vat signifies de millions in our purses,
If money do profoke de peepels curses?
Mine Gote! half loaf be better dan no bread.
Peety to make de Englis peepels groan;
So goote as poote de prences 'pon de trone;
Who soon, mine Gote! may take it in der brain,
Vat dey poote up, dey may pull down again.’
Beware!—thou stand'st on danger's giddy brink:
Know, that a single grain, or half grain more,
May turn the balance, man, and heave thee o'er:
And shouldst thou tumble down the rock of fate,
No seas of tears will wail thy shorten'd date.
Go, copy the good pair whom all adore,
Who spurn the proud , and hug the humble poor.
That beggars and insults a generous nation;
Too from my soul the avarice I hate,
That, thirsty, squeezes like a spunge the state:
Wishing from trees (so keen the gold it grapples)
To shake down guineas just like pears and apples.
And wish a mob's wild arm the sword of pow'r:
No! let a Titus, let an Alfred rule;
Who sighs not for a king, I deem a fool.
Like those were Europe's monarchs! in thy ear,
What from a people had such forms to fear?
Safe 'mid the ardour of a realm's embrace!
Kings never fall but by their own disgrace.
I murmur not at kings, if good for aught;
I only quarrel when they're good for nought.
Granted—I never worship stocks nor stones;
Nor look I for wise emp'rors, nor wise kings—
'Tis expectation's madness—Quixote things.
The man to titles, and to riches born,
Amid the world of science, how forlorn!
To speak to think, unable, mark his air!
Heav'ns! what an idiot gape, and idiot stare?
Though lord of millions, gilt with titles o'er—
A statue 'midst a library!—no more!
He deems the butterflies of folly, treasure;
And shuns chaste Wisdom, for the strumpet Pleasure.
'Tis true, gay Pleasure courts us to the joy,
While Wisdom to her swains is always coy.
The brain must labour, or it proves the sport
Of Wisdom's circle, though it charm a court.
Seek we corporeal strength? the mine, the plough,
Of strong examples, furnish us enow.
Search we the spot which mental power contains?
Go where man gets his living by his brains.
Had Charles first popp'd into the world I ween,
That world a very diff'rent Charles had seen.
‘What had Charles been?’ is ask'd with wonder—even
That good, fat, honest, sleepy fellow—Stephen
Such doves, such harmless doves as now we feed;
Not eagles, screaming with insatiate maw,
Wild in our hearts to plunge the beak and claw?
And yet too oft, to damn the coward age,
Our isle has trembled at a tyrant's rage.
Thus 'mid the smiles of Nature's fair domain,
Where blooming Health and Plenty lead their train;
Where, rob'd with verdure, wind the rills along,
And ev'ry vale resounds with cheerful song;
See o'er th' Elysian scene, with lofty head,
The blood-stain'd gibbet dash the soul with dread!
Too oft for England's welfare periods flow:
A truce to all such metaphoric breath:
So soft, they drop into our ears with death.
How like the snows, wide-ermining the air,
So gently sinking, kissing, all so fair;
Falling on simple sheep, and soon, alas!
O'erwhelming, killing, with the courteous mass.
Thy busy fingers have forc'd milk enow:
Though frequent rushing the lank teats to teaze,
How patiently the beast has borne thy squeeze!
Just shak'd her head, and wincing whisk'd her tail,
When oft thou fill'dst a puncheon for a pail:
But now she bushing roars, and makes a pudder,
Afraid thy harden'd hands may steal her udder.
Think on America, our cow of yore,
Which oft the hand with Job-like patience bore;
Who, pinch'd, and yet denied a lock of hay,
Kick'd the hard milkman off, and march'd away.
In vain he try'd by ev'ry art to catch her;
To wound, to hamstring, nay, knock down, dispatch her;
Mocking the fruitless rage of rogues and fools.
Why from thy tax exempt a royal skull?
Why free each creeping thing about a court?
The grumbling nation will not thank thee for't.
Let Hawk'sb'ry frown, and bull-face Brudenell roar;
They well may club, to ease the nation's score:
Their purse-strings, nay, let all thy colleagues draw,
Disgorging a poor guinea from each maw.
Let Queensb'ry nobly pinch his Cyprian sinnings,
And stately Cumberland her faro winnings;
Let Madam S---g make up wry faces,
Something should come in troth from sales of places.
Say, what the tax thy brain will next provide?
Alas! why not attack the human hide?
Lord, Lord! how much it must the nation aid!
Folks may be scalp'd with safety—why not flay'd?
'Tis verily a shame—a crying sin,
The world should bear about a useless skin;
What's worse, that skins should in the grave be laid,
So beautiful an article of trade.
Think of the spatterdashes, boots and shoes;
And think thou of the millions people use:
Such, form'd from human hides, would brave the weather,
And save such quantities of foreign leather.
And rival all the cows and calves of Spain.
Ask'st thou what other use our hides could boast?
Books may be bound, my friend—the letter'd host:
Cases of conscience, Buller's skin should bind;
Good folios upon mercy to mankind:
Glo'ster's, a book on wedlock's sweet tranquillity;
His sister Cumberland's, upon humility:
Brudenell's, on beauty, witty conversation,
On manners, music, ratiocination:
Hawk'sb'ry, on fair, disinterested deeds:
Essays on manliness, the skin of Leeds:
Richmond's on courage; modesty, Dundas's;
State-sycophants, a volume upon asses:
The ---'s, on elocution, hay and hogs,
Corn, politics, tithes, civil-list, and logs:
The ---'s, on di'monds, pearls, and custom-dues,
Old gowns, old petticoats, old hose, old shoes;
Good nature, state-extravagancy-lopping,
Pins, mantua-makers, milliners, and shopping:
To close th' illustrious list, and sounding line,
On delegates, reform, and powder, thine.
At Wimbledon arose the golden dream;
Where thou, and honest Rumbold-hunting Harry,
Project, and re-project, and oft miscarry?
Two graziers, cheap'ning hogs to fill your styes;
Two spiders, weaving lines for simple flies.
Rich spot! whence millions take their easy wing,
To bribe an emp'ror, and refresh a king ;
Where, blest, ye bumper it in England's cause,
Belch Opposition's fall, and hiccup laws;
With equal spirit, where each work succeeds,
A bottle now, and now a nation bleeds.
The spring-tide of thy fortune ebbs apace.
When reputation sickens, toil is vain—
No nostrum gives the bloom of health again!
No more (so grateful to the sense) a rose,
It drops, a putrid carcass, to the crows.
I mark the pompous column of thy fame,
Fast crumbling to the dust from whence it came;
And see thy thund'ring day in silence close,
While Wisdom triumphs o'er the pale repose.
Too much thou courtest Danger's dizzy height;
The treach'rous sands may sink beneath thy feet—
Thy kite, that reeling, shifting, mounts the storm,
May force Heav'n's flash upon thy feeble form!
Think not I wish with Satire's blade to play,
And, charm'd with man's disgraces, selfish say,
‘Let folly root in ministers and kings—
While rank and thick like aconite it springs,
Delighted on the precious load I look,
And hail a harvest for the muse's hook.’
Let Mercy melt the mill-stone of thy heart .
And change a kingdom's curses for a smile!
Yet, if resolv'd to worry wigs and hair,
And, Herod-like, not little children spare,
Say (for methinks the land has much to dread)
How long in safety may we wear the head?
Enough our necks have bow'd beneath the yoke;
Enough our sides have felt the goad and stroke;
Then cease to make, by further irritation,
Our patience the sole rock of thy salvation.
Poor Public Credit founder'd!—lame, quite lame—
Rapacity too oft extends her jaw,
Fresh whets her fang, and points her iron claw!
The arm of Vengeance drops not lightly down;
Not quite a feather on a culprit's crown—
Profusion vilely foster'd—Honour dead;
Resentment's eye looks dangerously red.
Believe me, Pitt, not yet is thine the realm,
Not thine the ship, because thou hold'st the helm:
Such is the voice of Truth!—perhaps it wounds—
Friend to thyself and England, heed the sounds;
Sounds to alarm—and let not, though severe,
The breath of Folly brush them from thine ear.
Vain is rough bluster—vainly dar'st thou say,
‘Poh! danger ! I have met its trying day’—
For, ah! too often, boastful of his wars,
Rank Cowardice assumes the mien of Mars.
Beholds a tempest in the distant sky;
Dull though thy tympanum, her nicer ear
Catches a thunder-growl from yonder sphere;
A cloud of vengeance, black with mortal doom;
But dares not name the melancholy form,
Whom Guilt has mark'd the victim of the storm.
The meagre spectre, on a S---'s eyes,
And should the groan of Britain's bleeding wound
Press on the shrinking ear—a killing sound;
Be whistles blown, and bells of children rung;
The fav'rite little farthing rush-light sung;
Let dancing-dogs, delighting, form their ball,
Whips crash, and grinding hurdy-gurdies squall;
While crown'd with chimney-sweepers on their way,
In deep-ton'd unisons the asses bray;
Such as at Frogmore , form'd to please a pair,
The true sublime of monarchs, a Dutch fair!
And as again, on Frogmore's happy green,
More shows shall gladden our good king and queen ;
Suppose Dundas and thou (a princely sport)
Play some farce character to charm the court,
And boldly run the gauntlope through a mob,
That execrates, that damns the powder job;
Where barbers, hair-dressers, perfumers, throng,
To hoot and hustle as ye course along;
Dash with their powder-bags your brains about,
With many a kick, and scoff, and grunt, and shout;
Each face with tallow and with dripping smear;
And with hot pincers tweak each nose and ear!
Lo! should it miss the royal approbation,
I'll answer for the plaudit of the nation.
With treason, treason, fill a royal ear.
Are pleasant, taking, nay, instructive things:
Yet some there are, who relish not the sport,
That flutter in the sunshine of a court;
Who, fearful song might mar their high ambition,
Loose the gaunt dogs of state, and bawl ‘Sedition!’
Such is the laudable moderation of this second Sir John Cutler, or Mr. Elwes, that he allows himself and lady at and after dinner no more than this little measure of wine! A fine example for the sons of dissipation! It has been supposed that the œconomical Judge has surpassed the famous miracle of the loaves and fishes, by making one bottle of wine serve for double the number of souls, or rather bodies, that have come with open mouths to Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. I do not think they have gone away so well satisfied.
Such is the univeral disgust at the powder-tax, that many thousands of the male sex have already sacrificed their favourite curls, to disappoint the rapacity of a minister.
Here I must candidly condemn a part of the people, whose cause, in the affair of hair-powder, I am so pathetically pleading. ‘Such (says the Windsor Chronicle) was the unparalleled effrontery of the inhabitants of Brentford, during the late unexampled frost, when they should have thought of nothing but dying, that those very people, not worth a groat, starving, shivering, and in rags, dared to proceed in a body, amidst the dead silence of the night, with their unhallowed feet, into the sacred gardens of Richmond and Kew; where they wickedly, inhumanly, and feloniously, cut down and maimed a number of trees, many of which they had the impudence to carry away to their own scrub chimneys, to warm their own vile bones, because, forsooth, certain great people happened fortunately to be in possession of enormous quantities of wood, during the great scarcity, and chose not to give it away in idle charity, nor sell it at the then current price, which had every probability of mounting higher: as though they had not an equal right to turn a penny in an honest way, with any coal-shed man in the village of Brentford. But behold how they behaved on this insulting, provoking, stealing, and trying occasion! So far from advertising handsome rewards for discovering the rogues, and bringing them to justice; such was their clemency, that they ordered the affair to be hushed up, and buried in perpetual oblivion!!!’
The famous diamond, so infamously obtained by Mr. R.; constituting a curious piece of Asiatic history.
I am really afraid to touch upon this ticklish topic. The late procession of imperial presents from the India-House to ------ was attended by a dirty Custom-House-officer; but for what reason the L--- of the T--- can best explain. It has been rumoured, and believed, that a small order from a certain quarter can overpower an act of Parliament; which, if true, maketh a second edition of little David knocking down the great Giant of Gath.
Notwithstanding her m---'s immense property, in one thing and another, she possesses the most œconomical circumspection: witness the following pretty tale.— A Miss J*n*r, of Gloucestershire, with her mother, viewing the Palace of St. James's, and entering her M---'s dressing-room, where a cushion full of pins lay on her toilette, the young lady expressed a strong desire for having one of the q---'s pins to carry into the country, and was reaching out her hand to take one; when the attendant, struck with a sudden horror, caught her arm, and told her it was impossible to be granted, as her M--- would certainly find it out.— ‘D'ye think I might change a pin?’ sighed the young lady, with anxiety. ‘Miss,’ replied the attendant, after some consideration, ‘it is probable her M--- may not find that out, but I'll run the risk.’
As one of the great supporters of morality, for such every muse should be, I have several times had it in contemplation to give this dame a public rap on the knuckles for certain parsimony to some of the poor disbanded and faithful servants of her household, after the death of her simple duke. The tale however is too full of matter for a solitary note, and may, some time or other, give importance to an ode.
His most honourable majesty, our late good and firm ally, the King of Prussia, like the gentlemen of the bar, requires very often a refresher before his cannon can plead.
To avoid an ambiguity here (for I have been questioned about it), I mean the sweet-smelling rose of the fields, not Mr. George Rose, of the Treasury.
I principally allude in this place to the political character of this statesman, which is rather marked with severity. As for the domestic, it possesses some traits belonging to the Jolly God. Even Parliament last year saw him enter the walls of St. Stephen, arm in arm with his dear colleague and constant companion honest Harry Dundas; both fortunately conducted to the Treasury Bench without a fall, by the boozing reeling deity, where ‘Palinurus nodded at the helm.’
At the Old Bailey lately, in the affair of Mr. Horne Tooke, on the subject of delegation, when Mr. Memory Middleton was beat hollow by the prime minister.
FROGMORE FETE;
AN ODE FOR MUSIC , For the first of April, vulgarly called All Fools Day.
‘In various things (says Virgil) folks delight;’
And so it really is in our great nation!
In meanness, avarice, some—revenge and spite,
Dutch fairs, mock charities, and ostentation.
With Britain's gold, uprear'd by Britain's queen;
To charm a court, a princess turn'd her head;
At length deliver'd was her lovely brain,
And, lo! on Frogmore's happy happy plain,
Wonders on wonders soon were brought to bed.
Staring with most enormous state,
The family of Orange by their side;
With all the pretty offspring round,
That struck the mob with awe profound;
Sweet state, untainted by one grain of pride!
Carpmeal, and courtly Chesterfield, were there;
Macmanus, star-clad Sal'sb'ry, Townsend, Jealous,
The guards of England's sovereigns—furious fellows:
With combs, puffs, powder-bags, their temples bound;
In golden letters, Guinea pigs, around.
‘Kings love mean company,’ quoth Edmund Burke—
Making indeed with royal taste short work:
But thus kings honour and exalt the low!
How like the god that gives the golden day;
Who through a little hole can dart his ray,
And bid the dungeon with his radiance glow;
Nay, from its filth too, bid a vapour rise ,
And make it a gay cloud amid the skies!
To whom a puppet-show is dear—
Too small decorum on a certain debt,
Repell'd the pair from royal sport,
Whose want of manners put the court,
Like sour small beer, indeed, upon the fret.
Broad hints, though giv'n, by no means could succeed;
Nought could prevail, alas! nor tears, nor sighs!
The zephyr, that scarce moves the lily's head,
As soon might lift Old Ocean from his bed,
And dash his wild of waters to the skies.
While bustling Frogmore triumph'd in her fair.
Ascending on a public stage,
The tuneful wonder of the age,
Hight Incledon, began with bows to sing.
Of millions, millions, sent afar,
To aid of falling monarchy the cause;
When, lo! the lofty great all smil'd applause.
In melting melody he sung aloud,
Skins of those mighty men, by bullets bor'd,
Worth thirty pounds a-piece to their high lord,
For whose great glory and defence they died.
Money well is worth the winning—
Fighting still, and still destroying;
Hide-money is worth enjoying:
Cutting, killing, drowning, starving;
Soldiers' skins are well worth carving.
A la Chinoise, that brought such crowds to stare;
And bear the trumpery of the booths away :
And then to charity he pour'd the strain—
How folk a deal by charity may gain,
And thus, with int'rest fair, themselves repay!
From whose deep heads the scheme so cunning came.
The embassy across the main,
Of poor Macartney, and sad Staunton, knight;
Forc'd, forc'd to enter, cheek by jowl,
With hogs, dogs, jack-asses, Jehol—
The sad procession!—a tumultuous sight!
Amidst the dusty hurlyburly sweating—
Ah embassy! to which we may compare
A drove of oxen sent to Smithfield fair.
Thrice to the earth their heads they duck'd;
And thrice did they with blushes rise,
With not a friend to close their eyes .
So well supported by the B---k race!
And now he sang of more and worse disgrace;
Sang how the emp'ror show'd an angry face;
Swearing the bold advent'rers should be ty'd
To a cart's tail,
Should they dare fail
To leave the city in two days, poor clan!
When off they mov'd all mournful, beast and man.
For pity dwells with q--- and k--- and peer.
‘Of the pretty smuggling trade!
Court and cobbler this pursues:
Smuggling, juggling,
Juggling, smuggling,
Never mind the custom-dues.’
For smuggling cannot courtly folk defile:
Courts may smuggle what they please —
Mob alone, exchequers seize.
That caught the sovereign's wild and raptur'd gaze;
Which, oh! when open'd, a sad story told!
Displaying pot-hooks! not a bulse's blaze.
Paltry, stupid, jingling things:
Wisdom never goes to court.
On all the jingle of th' old driv'ler's box!’
The court, the chorus join'd,
And fill'd the wond'ring wind;
And taxes, taxes, through the garden rung.
Taxes are a monarch's treasure :
‘Sweet the pleasure,
Rich the treasure;’
Monarchs love a guinea's chink.
That suck'd a nation like a spunge—
And now to Dissipation's madding train,
Who in distress a people plunge;
A people that from ruin scarce can 'scape—
And now the wide-mouth'd court began to gape.
When a subject fails to please.
Sunk by the wicked sans-culottes so low;
Dealing poor Despotism so dire a blow!
When, mark! the melting audience almost swoon'd!
‘Who is to pay performers that compose
This charming Fete of Frogmore?’ were the words:
And rolling eyes,
The court heard syllables, that stabb'd like swords;
How! how! what, what? stuff, Incledon, stuff, stuff.’
‘We pay! no, no! mine Gote, we haf more wit.’—
‘Go, go to Parliament—ask Pitt, ask Pitt.’
A jack-ass in the next degree ;
When soon appear'd the emblematic brutes,
With chimney-sweepers on their backs,
That kick'd, and spur'd, and lash'd their hacks—
And well with such tame fools the treatment suits.
'Mid the haycocks they scamper'd, and knock'd down the lasses—
Girls squall'd, the court laugh'd, and the jack-asses bray'd
At the sight of the legs by the tumble display'd.
Musicians and racers, tune-grinders and dancers;
Shaking all by the hand , who, in compliment clever,
Roar'd aloud, ‘Kings and queens, fun and Frogmore for ever!!!’
The reader will, at the first glance, perceive a resemblance between my ode, and the celebrated ode for St. Cecilia's Day by Dryden, and know perhaps to which he must yield the preference. In spite of all the praises bestowed on Alexander's Feast, I dare pronounce it, a downright drunken Bartholomew-Fair scene; the poetry too, not superior to the subject: whereas the Frogmore Gala was of the order of sublimity; and as for the merits of my muse on the glorious occasion (though indeed I could say a great deal in her favour) my good old friend, the public, must decide.
DRYDEN.
To the ignorant in punctuation, this passage may seem degrading; as though the poet meant Messrs. Carpmeal, Macmanus, Townsend, and Jealous, as a part of the peers; whereas no such idea was intended. I nevertheless entertain a high respect for those gentlemen, as very useful members of society; yet cannot place them so high—it is so astonishing a leap from Bow-street.
Witness Lord H---y, Lord A---d, Mr. G. R*se, Mrs. H---, &c. whose origins may be traced (as Mr. Burke emphatically expressed himself on a particular occasion) ‘to the swinish multitude.’
Not a single card of invitation was sent from Windsor or Carletonhouse. Violent were the r---l displeasures in the beginning; but the poet, in the true spirit of Christianity, hopes that he shall not be able to say, like the Liturgy, ‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.’
Honour but an empty bubble;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying:
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O think it worth enjoying.’
DRYDEN.
Booths were formed, and filled with the trinkets of the Windsor shops; purchased by somebody or other of the inhabitants of Windsor at prime cost, and sold at Frogmore at about one thousand pounds per cent. Large quantities were retailed on the occasion: for who could withstand the temptation of carrying off a bit of majesty, which would crown the possessor with eternal glory, and support a charity?
With not a friend to close his eyes.’
DRYDEN.
To this degrading ceremony of prostration before his Chinese majesty, it is said, our embassy submitted. But how could it be helped? Every thing, to be sure, that could be devised for the honour and glory of Great Britain, was attempted by Ambassador and Co.; but beggars must not be choosers.
Lady H---rn---sse and her private card-parties know more of this matter than the poet. The sly nocturnal visits of a certain great lady's sedan-chair from the ------ are notorious.
A present, containing a scrap of complimentary rhime, manufactured by Kien Long himself, in answer to the Latin letter sent by the King of Great Britain (but not of his own composition) to the Emperor of China. Poor Sir George Staunton was made overseer of the Latinity; but as the knight had long forgotten his propriæ quæ maribus, the literary vigour of a German was employed for the occasion. Are our universities still in disgrace? Will nothing but Gottingen go down? In the sacred name of Literature, what have our princes imported from thence to astonish, that could not have been given by Cambridge and Oxford?
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure,’ &c.
DRYDEN.
What a poetical and sublime compliment to the military of that day!
His m---y was verily the happiest gentleman in the world, and (si licet parvis componere magna) was as merry as a grig, vowing repetitions of the gala; but by what fatality it has not happened, not even the sagacity of the poet is able to discover.
THE ROYAL TOUR, AND WEYMOUTH AMUSEMENTS;
A Solemn and Reprimanding EPISTLE TO THE LAUREAT.
PITT's FLIGHT TO WIMBLEDON, AN ODE. —AN ODE TO THE FRENCH.—ODE TO THE CHARITY-MILL IN WINDSOR-PARK. —A HINT TO A POOR DEMOCRAT.—ODE TO THE QUEEN's ELEPHANT.—THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY; AN ELEGY.
Cæsaris invicti res dicere.
HORACE.
Berhime his route, and Weymouth wonders sing:
Saddle thy Pegasus at once—ride post:
Lo, ere thou start'st, a thousand things are lost.
TO J. PYE, ESQ.
SIR,
I allow you virtues, I allow you literary talents; but I will not subscribe to your indolence: one little solitary annual ode is not sufficient for a great king. Whatever things are done, whatever things are said, nay, whatever things are conceived by mighty potentates, are treasure for the page of history. Blush, my friend, that a volunteer bard should run off with the merit of recording the wonderful actions and sapient sayings of royalty! As soon as the Mill of Charity was erected in Windsor Park,
Lo! at the deed, the muse caught fire,And swell'd, with praise, the sacred lyre,
Sweet lass! she could not for her soul sit still.
Imagination, on the watch,
Op'd, for the swelling flood, the hatch;
And, lo! to work, alertly, went her mill.
As soon as the royal journey to Weymouth was announced, the same loyal muse
Turn'd her brain's pockets inside out,For poetry, to praise the rout.
No sooner was the noble elephant from Arcot presented to our beloved queen, and most œconomically
Sung how he trudg'd, poor beast, to Peckham fair,
And Saint Bartholomew's, to help defray
His sad expenses on the wat'ry way.
No sooner was a boat ordered by the omnipotent, all-feeling, all-honest, all-delicate, all-constitutional lords of the ------ on board Captain Orack's ship, the Phœnix (even before she came to her moorings) for the other presents (fortunately without stomachs!) from the same knowing nabob to her most excellent m---y, not to Mr. Pitt, and his Grace of Portland (for ministers are ciphers now-a-days), but lo, the muse,
Attentive ever to great princes,To muslins tun'd her harp, and chintzes;
And prophesy'd of ev'ry shawl,
That Schw---g would sell them all.
A circumstance that actually took place; making we presume, a decent return—the original cost, in India, exceeding ten thousand pounds!!!
In future, then, my friend Pye,
Let no man say I hate our kings and queens,Princes and drawing-rooms and levee-scenes;
Despise the bows and curtsies, whisper'd talk:
I love the mumm'ry from my very soul:
Daily I spread its fame from pole to pole—
What glorious quarry for the muse's hawk!
Ask if the man whose heart the chase adores,
Wishes annihilation to wild boars,
‘Long live wild boars and wolves! God bless their eyes!’
May kings exist—and trifle pig with kings!
The muse desireth not more precious things—
Such sweet mock-grandeur!—so sublimely garish?
Let's have no Washingtons: did such appear,
The muse and I had ev'ry thing to fear—
Soon forc'd to ask a pittance of the parish.
Such want no praise—in native virtue strong:
'Tis folly, folly, feeds the poet's song.
THE ROYAL TOUR,
OR WEYMOUTH AMUSEMENTS.
PROËMIUM.
Dundas and Pitt have both turn'd pale;
Yet courtiers cry aloud its want of merit.
Courtiers have try'd with all their spite
To sink it in Oblivion's night—
My friend, the Public, keeps it up with spirit.
Attack the sun, and quarrel too aloud;
Spit, thunder, lighten, frighten the two poles,
Blocking up ev'ry avenue for peeping;
On this side now, and now on that side creeping;
A sort of dirty malkin stopping holes!
Insists upon a view, and shows an eye;
Just as a manager, when some sad play
Is taken ill, and very like to die,
All hissing, clatt'ring, howling out damnation.
Swearing they shall not peep on distant times;
But violent indeed will be the tussel;
I deem myself, indeed, a tuneful whale:
She swears I'm not upon so large a scale;
Rather a wrinkle, limpet, paltry muscle,
Meaning my loyalty, perchance, to kings.
The public seems to like my brats,
Begot, indeed, with little pain—
Whether it turbot gives, or sprats,
Behold another to maintain!
Thus, then, I cast it on that sea the town:
If true, it swims; if spurious, let it drown.
My ingenious poem so called; not Mr. Pitt's ingenious tax on that subject, which, we are well informed, succeeds as miserably in produce, as reputation.
And, gathering, lo, the King of Glory covers!
The royal hubbub fills both eye and ear,
And wide-mouth'd wonder marks the wild career.
How like his golden brother of the sky,
When nature thunders, and the storm is high;
Now in, now out of clouds, behind, before,
Who rolls amid the elemental roar.
Heav'ns! with what ardour thro' the lanes he drives,
The country trembling for its tenants' lives!
Squat on his speckled haunches gapes the toad,
And frogs affrighted hop along the road;
The hares astonish'd to their terrors yield,
Cock their long ears, and scud from field to field;
The owl, loud hooting, from his ivy rushes;
And sparrows, chatt'ring, flutter from the bushes:
Old women (call'd ‘a pack of blinking b---s),’
Dash'd by the thund'ring light-horse into ditches,
Scrambling and howling, with post---rs pointed,
Sad picture! plump against the Lord's Anointed.
Dogs bark, pigs grunt, the flying turkeys gobble;
Fowls cackle; screaming geese, with stretch'd wing, hobble;
Dire death his horses' hoofs to ducklings deal,
And goslings gape beneath the burning wheel!
With all his winds, east, west, and south, and north;
Flutter the leaves of trees, with woful fright,
Shook by his rage, and bullied by his might!
Straws from the lanes dispers'd, and whirl'd in air,
The blustering wonders of his mouth declare.
Heav'd from their deep foundations, with dread sound
Barns and old houses thunder to the ground,
And bowing oaks, in ages rooted strong,
Roar through their branches as he sweeps along!
George breakfasts on the road, gulps tea, bolts toast;
Jokes with the waiter, witty with the host;
Runs to the garden with his morning dues;
Makes mouths at Cloacina's; reads the news.
Now mad for fruit, he scours the garden round;
Knocks every apple that he spies, to ground;
Loads ev'ry royal pocket, seeks his chaise;
Plumps in, and fills the village with amaze!
Pursue him, Pye—pursue him with an ode:
And yet a pastoral might better please;
That talks of sheep, and hay, and beans and peas;
Of trees cut down , that Richmond's lawn adorn,
To gain the pittance of a peck of corn.
He reaches Weymouth—treads the Esplanade—
Hark, hark, the jingling bells! the cannonade!
Drums beat, the hurdigurdies grind the air;
Dogs, cats, old women, all upon the stare:
All Weymouth gapes with wonder—hark! huzzas!
The roaring welcome of a thousand jaws!
O Pye, shalt thou, Apollo's fav'rite son,
In loyalty by Peter be outdone?
How oft I bear thy master on my back,
Without one thimbleful of cheering sack;
Oft wett'st thy whistle with the muse's wine!
O haste where prostrate courtiers monarchs greet,
Like cats that seek the sunshine of the street;
Where Chesterfield, the lively spaniel, springs,
Runs, leaps, and makes rare merriment for kings;
Where sharp Macmanus, and sly Jealous, tread,
To guard from treach'ry's blow the royal head ;
Where Nunn and Barber , silent as the mouse,
Steal, nightly, certain goods to Glo'ster House.
O say, shall Cæsar in rare presents thrive;
Buy cheaper, too, than any man alive;
Go cheaper in excursions on the water,
And laureat Pye know nothing of the matter!
Acts that should bid his poet's bosom flame,
And make his spendthrift subjects blush with shame!
What tho' Tom Warton laugh'd at kings and queens,
And, grinning, ey'd them just as state machines;
Much better pleas'd (so sick of royal life)
To celebrate 'Squire Punch and Punch's wife?
I grant thee deep in Attic, Latian lore;
Yet learn the province of the muse of yore:
The bards of ancient times (so hist'ry sings)
Eat, drank, and danc'd, and slept with mighty kings,
And deem'd their deeds ennobled by a song.
‘What, hæ, Pitt, hæ—what, Pitt, hæ, more disgrace?’
‘Ah, sire, bad news! a second dire defeat!
Vendee undone, and all the Chouans beat!’
‘Hæ, hæ, what, what?—beat, beat?—what, beat agen?
Well, well, more money—raise more men, more men.
But mind, Pitt, hæ—mind, huddle up the news;
Coin something, and the growling land amuse:
Make all the sans-culottes to Paris caper,
And Rose shall print the vict'ry in his paper.
Let's hear no more, no more of Cornish tales—
I sha'n't refund a guinea, Pitt, to Wales:
I can't afford it, no—I can't afford:
Wales cost a deal in pocket-cash and board.
Well, Pitt, go back, go back again—b'ye, b'ye:
Keep London still—no matter how they carp—
Well, well, go back, and bid Dundas look sharp.
Must not lose France—no, France must wear a crown:
If France won't swallow, ram a monarch down.
Some crowns are scarce worth sixpences—hæ, Pitt?’—
The premier smil'd, and left the royal wit.
How, how went sheep a score?—how corn and hay?’
Corn very soon will be as dear as spice.’
Hæ, hæ, will wheat be sixpence, Frost, a grain?’
That Windsor would be pull'd about our ears.’
You, you talk politics! oho, oho!
D'ye think, hæ, hæ, that I'm afraid of that?
What, what are soldiers good for, but obey?
Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous, hæ, hæ, hæ?
Pull Windsor down? hæ, what?—a pretty job!
Windsor be pull'd to pieces by the mob!
Talk, talk of farming—that's your fort, d'ye see;
And, mind, mind, politics belong to me.
Go back, go back, and watch the Windsor chaps;
Count all the poultry: set, set well the traps.
Going to market, Stacie?—dear, dear, dear!
I get all my provision by the mail—
Hæ, money plenty, Stacie? don't fear jail.
Rooms, rooms all full? hæ, hæ, no beds to spare?
What, what! give trav'lers, hæ, good fare, good fare?
Good sign, good sign, to have no empty beds!
Shows, shows that people like to see crown'd heads.’
To majesty announcing oil and corn;
Turnips and cabbages, and soap and candles;
And, lo, each article great Cæsar handles!
Bread, cheese, salt, catchup, vinegar, and mustard,
Small beer, and bacon, apple-pie, and custard:
All, all, from Windsor greets his frugal grace,
For Weymouth is a d*mn'd expensive place.
Presents his poem to the best of kings.
And wonders Sal'sb'ry should become a wit.
He stops the drover—bargain is begun.
He feels their ribs and rumps—he shakes his head—
‘Poor, drover, poor—poor, very poor indeed.’
Cæsar and drover haggle—diff'rence split—
How much?—a shilling! what a royal hit!
A load of hay in sight! great Cæsar flies—
Smells—shakes his head—‘Bad hay—sour hay’—he buys.
‘Smell, Courtown—smell—good bargain—lucky load;
Smell, Courtown—sweeter hay was never mow'd.’
A herd of swine goes by!—‘Whose hogs are these?
Hæ, farmer, hæ?’—‘Yours, measter, if you pleaze.’
‘Poor, farmer, poor—lean, lousy, very poor—
Sell, sell, hæ, sell?’—‘Iss, measter, to be zure:
My pigs were made for zale, but what o'that?
Yow caall mun lean; now, zur, I caall mun vat—
Measter, I baant a starling—can't be cort;
You think, agosh, to ha the pigs vor nort.’
Lo! Cæsar buys the pigs—he slily winks—
‘Hæ Gwinn, the fellow is not caught, he thinks—
Fool, not to know the bargain I have got!
Hæ, Gwinn, nice bargain—lucky, lucky lot!’
Enter the dancing dogs! they take their stations;
They bow, they curtsy to the lord of nations;
They dance, they skip, they charm the k--- of fun,
While courtiers see themselves almost outdone.
Joining the hunts of hares with hunts of fleas .
What holds his hand? a box of butterflies,
Grubs, nests, and eggs of humming-birds, to please;
Noots, tadpoles, brains of beetles, stings of bees.
The noble president without a bib on,
To sport the glories of his blushing ribbon!
A shoal of fish! the men their nets unfold;
Surround the scaly fry—they drag to land:
Cæsar and Co. rush down upon the sand;
The fishes leap about—Gods! what a clatter!
Cæsar, delighted, jumps into the water—
He marvels at the fish with fins and scales—
He plunges at them—seizes heads and tails;
Enjoys the draught—he capers—laughs aloud,
And shows his captives to the gaping crowd.
He orders them to Glo'ster Lodge—they go:
But are the fishermen rewarded?—No!!!
He flies to know what 'tis—he longs to look.
‘What's in your hand, my lady? let me know.’
‘A book, an't please your m---y.’—‘Oho!
Book's a good thing—good thing—I like a book.
Very good thing, my lady—let me look—
War of America! my lady, hæ?
Bad thing, my lady!—fling, fling that away.’
On crutches borne—an object of despair:
His squalid beard, pale cheek, and haggard eye,
Though silent, pour for help a piercing cry.
‘A man, my liege, whom kindness never knew.’
‘I know it, sir—which forces me to beg.
I've nine poor children, sir, besides a wife—
God bless them! the sole comforts of my life.’
No, no, no wonder that you cannot thrive.
Shame, shame, to fill your hut with such a train!
Shame to get brats for others to maintain !
Get, get a wooden leg, or one of cork:
Wood's cheapest—yes, get wood, and go to work.
But mind, mind, sailor—hæ, hæ, hæ,—hear, hear—
Don't go to Windsor, mind, and cut one there:
That's dangerous, dangerous—there I place my traps;
Fine things, fine things, for legs of thieving chaps:
Best traps, my traps—take care—they bite, they bite,
And sometimes catch a dozen legs a night.’
And cut from other people's trees a stump!
How vastly like our kind Archbishop M---e ,
Who, hating beggar tribes at Lambeth door,
Of meaner parsons bids them ask relief—
There, carry their coarse jugs for broth and beef!
De workhouse always geefs de poor enough.
Why make bout dirty leg sush wondrous fuss?—
And den, what impudence for beg of us!
In Strelitz, O mine Gote! de beggar skip:
Dere, for a sharity, we geefs a whip.
Money make subshects impudent, I'm sure—
Respect be always where de peepel's poor.’
Hard fighting for my country and my king.’
Hæ! lucky fellow, that you were not drill'd:
Some lose their heads, and many men are kill'd.
Your parish? where's your parish? hæ—where, where?’
Hæ, sailor, hæ, can you make leather breeches?
These come from Manchester—there, there I got 'em!’
On which great Cæsar smacks his buckskin bottom.
‘Must not encourage vagrants—no, no, no—
Must not make laws, my lad, and break 'em too.
Where, where's your parish, hæ? and where's your pass?
Well, make haste home—I've got, I've got no brass.
To ease the q---'s sweet bottom and her corn;
For corns are apt ev'n majesty to bite,
As well as on poor toes to vend their spite.
Dames of the bed-chamber, a goodly row!
Mob passing by, of majesty so fond,
Dipping, like ducks, their noddles in a pond.
How would this sight of Strelitz charm the soul?
A lofty land, although a spider hole!
Pollution taints the air with such a crew!
Dare ye approach? full soon ye meet resistance;
Imhoff's pure wife shall shove you at a distance:
The east's proud empress, who, with di'mond wand,
Can visit the first lady of the land;
Nay, more, the chronicles of truth aver,
Can make the land's first lady visit her!
Greets Mistress Imhoff with an ell-wide smile;
Bids her partake the radiance of a crown,
And, on the seat of Innocence, sit down.
Lo, down she sits! the mob, all envying, views,
As Mistress Imhoff whispers Indian news.
The Stadtholder! he joins Queen Charlotte—bump
Falls on the seat of royalty, his rump!
Peace to his spirit! he begins to doze!
He snores! heav'ns bless the trumpet of his nose!
So great is folly, that the world mayhap
Shall, grinning, point at Hoogen Moogen's nap.
Princes of Europe, pray exclaim not ‘shame!’
Go, for mankind's repose, and do the same.
Deep laden, like a camel, or a barge.
What's all beneath her petticoats?—Shawls, chintz—
Why should the muse, indeed, the matter mince?
Muslins the richest, of the fertile east.
Lo, back she moves again, to be undrest!
At Glo'ster-Lodge, upon the bed she squats,
To drop the lumber, shawls, and broider'd brats;
Where England's happy ------ her steps pursues,
Attends the labour, and turns accoucheuse.
Together laugh, together too they walk:
And marle that children talk as well as kings.
He catches up a score of books, and reads—
Learns nothing—sudden quits the book-abode—
Orders his horse, and scours the Dorset road.
He's in again; he boards the barge—sets sail—
Jokes with the sailors, and enjoys the gale:
Descants on winds and waves—the land regains,
And gives the tars just nothing for their pains!
For, what a bore that kings their slaves should pay!
Sufficient is the honour of the day!
Rushes intrepid in—along to knees!—
Old Neptune, jealous of his world, looks big—
And blust'ring Boreas blows away his wig.
Such wonders whelping on the land and deep!
So nobly form'd to deck th' historic page,
Astonish man, and swell the muse's rage!
In courts observe, and follow to the shade;
And mean, God willing, since thou wilt not write,
To give each word and action to the light;
With daily deeds my voice sublimely raise,
And sound wise speeches into distant days.
In spite of low Democracy, the brute,
Kings shall at length regain their lost repute.
The poor sunk falcon, robb'd of ev'ry plume,
That snaps the ground, and mourns his humble doom,
With powerful pinion soon from earth shall rise,
Mix with the solar blaze, and sweep the skies.
Who deems the breed too precious to be lost.
And since Augustus deign'd with bards to dine,
And, blest with bards, Mecænas drank his wine;
May cease to class the bards with vulgar things,
And of the tuneful tribe think somewhat higher,
Than Newgate's bellman, or a country crier !
Should this rare æra rise, and Brunswick's grace
Revive the drooping glory of his race;
How happy at St. James's, my friend Pye,
At Buckingham and Windsor, thou and I,
To see fair Genius re-assume her reign;
Dulness and Avarice expell'd the scene;
The fat'ning bards their laurell'd fronts display,
And proudly triumph over hogs and hay!
To follow monarchs wheresoe'er they fly:
When, from the lofty pinnacle of thrones,
They sink, to tread, with vulgar folks, the stones;
To Weymouth waves, and sands, and shops repair;
Dash country Joans with dread, and bumpkins scare:
In laugh, and hop, and skip, and jump, and jest,
For ever trifling, and for ever blest.
How like the rustic boy, the simple thing,
Who only wish'd to be a mighty king
(So meanly modest was his pray'r to Fate),
To eat fat pork, and ride upon a gate!
Great has been the massacre among the sturdy oaks, to make room for the courtier-like pliability of the corn-stalk, that brings mere grist to the royal mill.
Be it recollected with horror, that a stone was flung at our beloved sovereign in St. James's Park, about two or three years past, endangering his life; yet an impudent rhimer thought otherwise; who, on the occasion, had the audacity to write the following epigram:
From a flint so unwittingly thrown:
I think very diff'rent—with thousands indeed,
'Twas a lucky escape for the stone.
Two tradesmen, who repair constantly from London to Weymouth, when royalty deigns to visit the spot.
This mail-coach costs the public at least fifty pounds every day of the week (Sundays not excepted) during the king's residence at Weymouth—It is really a sutler's cart.
This high lord is really a high poet. His journey to Weymouth, which I was horribly afraid would have forestalled mine with the public, will make its appearance soon, and, I am informed, will be enriched, like my works, O marvelling reader! most elegantly bound at this time, and in the library, at Buckingham-house, with royal annotation.
The earl has won the royal smile, and is made a lord of the bed-chamber; but as capricious inconstancy is a prominent feature in the Brunswick family, a royal frown may be at no great distance.
It is reported, but we hope falsely, that our metropolitan, as well as Mrs. M---e, are really tired with the number of poor creatures who, three times a week, have, from time immemorial, claimed the charitable donation of broth and meat from Lambeth Palace. It is moreover added, that a strong application has been made for the removal of this nuisance, but hitherto without success.
Never were the Αοιδοι, alias poets, in more disesteem than at the court of the Brunswicks. Homer, singing of such as were the greatest favourites of ancient monarchs mentions Ιητηρα Κακων, Τεκτονα, Δουρων, and Μαντιν, i.e. a doctor, a house carpenter, and a conjuror. These our beloved S---n, following this classical example of antiquity, has noticed and recommended: Doctor Willis, to parliament; Sir William Chambers, to the comptrollership of the board of works; and Signor Pinetti, to the patronage of all the conjurors of the metropolis.
MR. PITT'S FLIGHT TO WIMBLEDON.
And thou art off—for Wimbledon, I ween,
To hide thee there for all thy courtly sins,
So complaisant indeed to king and queen!
Pour'd in thick vollies from the anger'd mob:
How the rude pebbles sought thy vanish'd bones!
And cry'd aloud, ‘Where is the fellow's knob?’
But disappointed, on the carpet spread,
They griev'd they could not rattle round thy head.
In secrecy wilt thou possess;
Or else another secret nameless place—
A sweet asylum from the rage
Of such as desp'rate battle wage
With men who plunge the nation in disgrace.
Undoubtedly it made thee stare!
Indeed I think that thou wert right,
To ask the friendship of a flight.
Alas! when Danger his stern form reveals,
There's really wisdom in a pair of heels!
To plead, O Pitt, thy awkward cause,
I'll be thy counsel, man, to bring thee off:
Not save thy reputation—no—
That's an Herculean work, I trow;
Thy name must bear, indeed, th' eternal scoff.
Where Cloacina keeps her silent seat,
And let me lead thee to the people's eye:
Kneel down before them—own thy heavy guilt,
For meanness and king-flatt'ry—treasure spilt,
And other sins too glaring to deny.
‘Alas! by mad Ambition bit,
And grinding Hunger, too, I needs must say;
Where fickle Fortune loves to sport,
I sought the region of the court;
But Conscience damns, alas! the idle day.
But never meant to keep my word:
Our bellowing frighten'd the great man and woman;
With patriot threats we forc'd our way,
And, while 'twas sunshine, made our hay,
A trick with statesmen by no means uncommon.
And, gull'd, with pleasure saw me rise;
Though soon, too soon, ye mock'd the royal choice;
Too soon I read in ev'ry face
The hist'ry of a sad disgrace,
Heard execration load the gen'ral voice.
Soon ebb'd of Fame, alas! th' inconstant tide:
Yet held I places, in the people's spite;
Agreed, amongst my other sins,
For cursed Hanoverian skins;
Agreed for Gallic despotism to fight:
Agreed to pay th' apothecary's bill,
And load, with your good grist, the royal mill.
That subjects were rank rascals to complain;
Who, silent, ought to bear the galling chain;
And swore rebellion lurk'd in ev'ry groan.
The finest, fattest beeves the land adorn;
The fairest sheep in Windsor fields are seen:
Increase on ev'ry acre smiles,
The richest 'mid the queen of isles:—
All these belonging to our K. and Q.
I dare not say the people squeak,
And sullen look, and threat, and swear, and cry,
'Tis a vile shame the realm should starve:
Why should not we have fowls to carve,
Although he is, forsooth, so wondrous high?
We put him there—we gave him all his money—
'Tis hard the bees that made should want the honey.’
Whom Brav'ry scorns, and beauteous Science shuns;
Whom seeming idiotism and madness rules;
The veriest laughing-stock of veriest fools.
H---y no more shall drain the hectic state,
And suck, the leach, the empire to her fate.
The fur-clad rogue, renown'd for stealing sheep .
And, meanly crouching, made a royal pother:
I now think princes very so-so things;
The one half cheats, and arrant fools the other.
I'll cram no despots down the throat of France.
Not to suspect, and look that Prussian through:
Yet to Hypocrisy I went to school;
But, hang the fellow, ‘he was Yorkshire too.’
Cry'd, venal parliaments are cursed things:
But when in place—Don't, don't provoke the storm;
Why alter, why displease the best of kings?
Such is the creed of all the courtier train;
Rocks of your hopes—the imps that ye maintain.
From all the dainty under-world of fish,
So tyrants, at a most ungodly rate,
For human dishes daily, hourly, prowl;
And, as the weazel sucks the eggs of fowl,
They, greedy, suck that larger egg, the state.
Nor mistress, christen'd k--- and q---;
Who, whilst their plunder'd subjects starve,
Are, 'midst their hoarded millions, seen.
By G--- that people shall not be devour'd!’
Which yet our bastinado'd backs retain;
Gen'rous, we'll wipe out thy old score of sins,
And yield thee suff'rance to begin again.
A pardon shall be thine—our anger o'er.
Heed not the wrath of kings—the nation made 'em—
The people put on board their backs their honours;
And should kings forfeit their esteem, the donors
Can (if I err not) in a trice unlade 'em.
Although so lately one of us poor crowd;
Crawling, by mean degrees, to thine high station:
Thou canst not well remember thy old rags,
Or thou hadst been more sparing of thy brags;
Insulting thus a much too generous nation.
Blest with a barrow, first begins to bawl;
Where Plenty, ah! exalteth not her horn—
Potatoes the poor barrow's little all!
And Fortune's fav'ring smile, the lad can buy
A basket!—nay, two baskets for his barrow;
To which he hangs the baskets with much pride,
With endive, cellery, and greens beside—
Yes, with much pride, that warms his inmost marrow—
With all the gaping energy of song,
Proudly he rolls his whole estate along!
And now sublime he rises to a cart,
But not without a jackass, let me say:
A jack is harness'd—on the cart he mounts—
Looks round—elate, his cabbages he counts,
And triumphs in his partner's Brudenell-bray.
To bid his orb in loftier regions roll,
Pines, nect'rines, plums, and apricots, and peaches,
Behold! his laudable ambition reaches;
And now the jack-ass and the cart disdains.
Bringing to mind his late and humble sphere:
Archbishop-like, he tow'rs within his stall—
Looks on the barrow, cart, and basket crew,
With all the consequence of man, askew,
And, for a pack of beggars damns them all.
Whether this notorious and lofty limb of the law will be hanged or not, even the prophetic powers of the Muse cannot foretell; but that a score of stolen sheep, which the owners swore to, were in this fellow's pens, exhibited for sale at a country fair, is a fact that admits of no contradiction. Many bets are pending; and the odds, as well as the hopes of the country, are on the rope.
ODE TO THE FRENCH.
Say, did ye not equip their backs with wings,
Yet cruelly cut off their heads for flying?
Alas! so lately did ye kings adore!
Now 'tis a wolf, a lion, a wild boar—
A hypocrite, a thing of theft and lying.
Yet quarrel with his appetite and claws;
Or grumble at the tiger's ravenous bite,
Yet give the savage such a pair of jaws!
Let Common Sense, then, rouse you from your dreams.
Grandeur, I own, seems much increas'd in size;
Much gaudier too her dress to mortal eyes.
Enough to make a grave old Tom cat smile,
Must ev'ry thing, forsooth, in style enjoy;
And if to Margate doctors bid them go,
By sea, to purify from head to toe,
Turn up their dainty noses at a hoy.
Loaded with beasts of all kind—Noah's ark!’—
When Captain Noah put his wife on board,
With all his other live stock, they had sworn
To go together boldly to the Lord;
That is to say, be drown'd!—bid life adieu,
Sooner than sail with such a stinking crew.
Not all by pride are tainted, the vile vice—
No! witness our good k--- and our good q---,
Lord love 'em!—our most humble q--- and k---
Can, gracious, stoop to any little thing,
However humble, not however mean.
I've seen them bolt fat bacon at the races;
On Ascot course, devour such loads of ham,
And wash it down, so dainty, with a dram!
That roasted royal dinners by a string,
And turn'd the royal rapier to a spit:
Though full of magnanimity, could stoop
To boil, in their grand helmets, beef and soup,
And eat from thence, so great their saving wit!
Grand soul! he came in very humble style—
Cut no huge figure—made no mighty flash:
Two shirts belong'd unto the princely lad;
'Twas all the linen treasure that he had,
Which poor old Mother Davies us'd to wash;
Who strikes with rev'rent awe the Eton clan.
The lad in linen was so wondrous short,
I've made 'n wait until I clean'd the grime,
To make 'n, like a Christian, go to court.
Hath seen his honour's linen hang to dry;
But soon, indeed, t'increase his little store,
His sister, madam, made a couple more.’
When no absurdity Belief could shock;
When gossip Prejudice put in her oar,
To scull the simple mind on Error's rock.
That beef and mutton was too coarse a fare;
And that their bodies were so finely soul'd,
They breath'd a fluid beyond vulgar air.
Entering a dog's and cat's, and monkey's nose,
Inflated a queen's lungs, so great a woman;
Or king's, whom such rare particles compose.
Yes! 'tis confess'd that Folly rul'd mankind—
'Twas once the same with me the bard, I find.
Deem'd kings young God-almighties—form'd for sway;
The universe, fee simple—all their own:
Though now I think the people claim a right
To somewhat rather larger than a mite;
Nay, that we should ev'n halve it with the throne.
Kings turn, like Midas, all they touch to gold—
Witness Lord Hawk'sb'ry, turn'd, by royal love,
From Jenkinson, a clod of meanest mould.’
Witness the once poor Rose, though now a lord,
Great at the Treas'ry's honourable board.
To me a fog was once important—why?
Immortal Cæsar cloth'd the fog with glory!
How, in the name of wonder—read the story.
The name of this young Strelitz man or prince is absolutely forgotten; but he is, or was, full brother to our most gracious queen.
CÆSAR AND THE FOG.
Got early from his bed to smell his hay,
And see if all his fowls were safe and sound;
And likewise see what traps had legs and feet
Belonging unto men who wish'd to treat
Their chaps with chicken, on forbidden ground.
Scraping, and, mandarin-like, nodding, ploughing
With nose of rev'rence sweet, the humble grass.—
‘Hæ, gen'ral, hæ? what news, what news in town?’
‘None, sire.’—‘None, gen'ral?—Gen'ral, hæ, none, none?’
‘Nothing indeed, O king, is come to pass.’
Hæ, hæ?’ cry'd Cæsar, all for news agog.
‘Nothing, my liege—no, nothing I may say,
Excepting upon Hounslow, sir, a fog.’
Or small fog, gen'ral?’—‘Large, an't please your sire.’
Yes, yes, yes—large fog, that I much admire.’
Of cannon, bullets, swords, and wounds, and scars:
When, in the middle of the fight, the king
Sudden exclaim'd—‘Fog upon Hounslow, hæ?
‘Large fog too, gen'ral?—well, go on, on, pray—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’
Where muskets, muskets—guns, great guns engage,
Red'ning with blood the field, and stream, and bog;
When rushing from the murd'rous scene of glory,
The monarch sudden marr'd the gen'ral's story—
‘Fog upon Hounslow, gen'ral—large, large fog?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carpenter unto the king—
‘Strange! very strange!—extr'ordinary thing!’
With much politeness, and much sweat and pain.
‘Thank God! thank God!’ he whisper'd to himself;
‘Curse me, if ever I find fogs again!’
Because I worshipp'd kings; and though I cease
King-adoration, kings shall share my praise,
Although the gape of Wonder may decrease.
But now a deal diminish'd is the blaze.
Wanting a little snuffing now and then;
Harb'ring a thief that plays a dangerous game;
Which if we did not watch, and strait pursue,
The fat is in the fire! and then adieu
That grease so rich, the parent of the flame.
The house, at times, is burnt about our ears.
And calmly to the sov'reign's will submit;
And not, as ye have done, on madness border:
Nay, list to me, for oracles I tell—
Kings for the people may do very well,
Like candles and their thieves, when kept in order.
ODE TO THE MILL,
Erected in Windsor Park, for grinding Corn at a cheap Rate for the Poor.
Ready to sacrifice his royal blood—
Yes, for the poor, each precious drop to spill:
And now behold the corn is grinding down;
Such is the glorious bounty of the crown!
And, lo, in Windsor Park a stately mill!
Oh, for the poor of Windsor fill the sails!
Egham and Staines—not Brentford, that vile place
Whose wicked imps, in royalty's despite,
Rush'd to the royal gardens at deep night,
And foully murder'd half the Dryad race.
Or soon the charity will cease to flow:
Ships to Old Thames are pouring in with corn,
While Madam Ceres whets her scythe and hook:
I hear the clanking sound in every nook;
The reaper's song already cheers the morn.
And that the famish'd poor would have a treat:
And now, behold, they fatten on the flour!
Vile Chronicle, I know what thou wilt say—
‘Why do not monarchs give the flour away?
Why not a part of hoarded millions pour?’
The blacker 'tis, the wholesomer for man.
‘Why will not monarchs give their beef away,
While famine's face stares forth from ev'ry door?
How, with an easy heart, can monarchs keep
Such droves of cattle, and such flocks of sheep,
While Hunger gnaws the vitals of the poor?’
Nor heed what envious, jealous people say,
‘Why,’ cries the mob, ‘bejewell'd shines the q---,
While Poverty appears with sallow mien?
All know the millions—'twas from us they came:
To shine while thus we suffer, is a shame.’
The fav'rite spot of our most gracious k---?
And shall no guineas, O ye fools, go o'er,
Where all our princes drank at Wisdom's spring?
Well knows the monarch what a bushel cost.
That gave this nation a most gracious q---?
And, O ye rogues, in hist'ry shall we read,
That guineas never were in Strelitz seen?
Inform me, fools, what jewels can go there,
To match the goodly jewel sent us here?
Till kind Amelia sent her thousands o'er?
At once lank Poverty forsook the house,
And, 'stead of straw, a carpet grac'd the floor.
Not British, but to foreign k---s, I trust;
Who of the simple poor the faces grind,
Just as thou grindest ev'ry grain to dust.
O grind away!—for better late than never .
This most astonishing charity soon expired. The children of Famine poured in too plentifully upon the royal munificence; which very soon must have reduced majesty to the same most pitiable situation!
A HINT TO A POOR DEMOCRAT.
'Tis unpolite—though possibly no lie:
The speech too blights Preferment's opening bud.
Make monarchs and Dame Wisdom near relations,
And all the Virtues too—such kin-creations
May work thy temporalities much good.
And let each earthy action scent of Heav'n.
Because kings have so much to give away.—
Steps to preferment are compos'd of flatt'ries:
So easily ye scale her lofty walls,
Just as ye mount the summit of St. Paul's—
But truths!—aye, what are truths?—oh! fatal batt'ries!
That of Ambition hang the lofty hopes.
Truths should be only spoken of the Devil;
Though that's ungrateful too, and eke uncivil.
‘Taken strange liberties with k--- and q---?
Laugh'd at Idolatry who hugs a throne?
Well! grant my want of rev'rence for a crown;
Equal to him is Fortune's smile and frown,
Whose modest teeth can deign to pick a bone.
Of Moderation! boast the mother's features,
And mother's chaste simplicity, the dove;
With great good glee, the valley's lucid rill,
And batten on the berries of the grove.
What makes them so?—clean straw to form a nest!
So slight a thing their happiness composes!
What dialogue! how arch they squint about!
Now bury their sweet heads—now pull them out,
And toss the wisps so white upon their noses.
Mirth and contentment from a simple straw.
Pant for the ortolan and wines of France;
Unblest, if ven'son turn not on thy spit;
Unblest, if turtle smoke not on thy board.
Go then, and flatter Britain's mighty lord,
Kneel to Dundas, and prostrate fall to Pitt.
ODE TO THE ELEPHANT,
Just arrived from Bengal, as a Present from the Nabob of Arcot to her Majesty.
And mayst as well, methinks, go back again!
Thy meat and passage give our court the spleen:
Dear, very dear, is now all sort of meat;
And all such luckless presents as can eat
Have found no favour yet with k--- or q---.
Or pearl, or ruby, how the royal eyes
Had idoliz'd thee! gloried to behold!
Rather too bulky for a broche, I fear,
Or pin, or pretty pendant for the ear—
But then thou wouldst have been cut up and sold.
Since nought but flesh and blood! then munching grass,
And what is most insufferable, corn;
Such sad expenses never can be borne.
Whose plaints have made the royal eyes run o'er,
Live on their gracious bounty ev'ry day:
For them their Graces ope their golden bags;
To good warm broad-cloth change their dirty rags,
And round their hovel cast a royal ray.
The Great Mogul perhaps of eastern groves.
Thy stomach form'd on such a monstrous scale!
Ev'n Strelitz people, who in eating shine,
Not quite like thee with heavy loads regale.
Wide are their mouths, and sack-like are their maws.
While meat and drink are such expensive things;
Pull out thy stomach, cut away thy snout,
And try, poor fellow, try to live without.
THE SORROWS OF SUNDAY:
AN ELEGY.
Receiv'd the lusty youth with golden hair,
Rejoicing in his race, to run, to fly;
As Scripture says, ‘a bridegroom débonnaire;’
And wander'd sad on Kensington's fair green:
Down in a chair she sunk with all her woes,
And touch'd, with tenderest sympathy, the scene.
‘Sir William Dolben, cruel man,’ quoth she;
‘And Mister Wilberforce, for shame! for shame!
To spoil my little weekly jubilee.
Enjoying harmless talk, and sport, and jest;
To see them smiling, and so trimly drest.
Which showeth that Omnipotence was tir'd;
As Moses, in old times; was pleas'd to say,
(And Moses was most certainly inspir'd);
‘At brother Rowland's let him knock his knees,
Pray, sweat, and groan; of this damn'd world be sick;
Of mangy morals crack the lice and fleas;
Scrub, with the soap and sand of grace, the soul;
Give Unbelief, the wretch, a rat's-bane dose;
And stop, with malkins of rich faith, each hole:
Kill with sharp prayers, each offspring of the Devil;
Give to black Blasphemy, a Cornish hug;
And box, with bats of grace, the ears of Evil.’
And Marian, to the spit's and kettle's art;
Ah! shall not they desert the house's gloom,
Breathe the fresh air one moment, and look smart?
With love's soft stories, wing the happy hour;
Drop in his dear embraces from the stile,
And share his kisses in the shady bow'r?
Lovers are liars—Love's a damned trade;
Kissing is damnable—to Hell they go—
The Devil's claws await the rogue and jade.
There let them go to wash their sins away:
Smite their poor sinful craws, and howl, and pray.’
But toil six days beneath the galling load,
Poor souls! and then, the seventh be forc'd to go
And box the Devil, in Blackfriar's Road !
Heav'n takes no pleasure in perpetual sobbing;
Consenting freely, that my fav'rite day
May have her tea and rolls, and hob and nobbing.
And wisheth not his blisses to blockade:
'Gainst tea and coffee ne'er did he protest,
Enjoy'd, in gardens, by the men of trade.
Chalk-Farm, where Primrose-Hill puts forth her smile;
And Don Saltero's, where much wonder dwells,
Expelling work-day's matrimonial bile.
Ah! why not make her path a pleasant track?
‘No!’ cries the Pulpit Terrorist (how mad!)
‘No! let the world be one huge hedgehog's back.
Too soon would smile amid the sacred walls;
Venus, in tabernacles, make her bed;
And Paphos find herself amid Saint Paul's.
Who, wilful, into ditches leads the blind:
Makes, of her canting art, a thriving trade,
And fattens on the follies of mankind!
Denying hackney-coachmen ev'n their beer;
Yet, lo! their butchers knock, with flesh repast;
With turbots, lo! the fishmongers appear!
The bakers knock, with custards, tarts, and pies;
Confectioners, with rare ice creams and jellies;
The fruiterer, lo, with richest pine supplies!
In public call indulgence a d*mn'd evil;
Order their simple flocks to walk with God,
And ride themselves an airing with the Devil.
THE CONVENTION BILL;
AN ODE.
Favete linguis.
HOR. I hate the mob—Avaunt the vulgar throng!
Be padlocks plac'd on ev'ry Briton's tongue.
PITT'S TRANSLATION.
TO THE READER.
GENTLE READER,
The insufferable licentiousness of the present age, with regard to political opinion, demands an immediate redress. As a freedom of discussion may be the loss of a minister's place; that minister is in the right to make use of his most virtuous majority, to bring in a bill
For binding to the peace the tongue and pen,So hostile to the peace of courtier men,
who, as Pope says of his friend Addison,
—‘damn for arts that caus'd themselves to rise.’Messieurs Pitt and Dundas were not pot valiant when they stumbled on this Convention Act, whatever the world may think. The jolly god, it is said. was for once forced to give place to the goddess yclept Prudence, who has totally presided over this bill, which wisely orders that a dozen men, like a dozen bottles of wine, shall not pass from house to house without a permit. Convinced of the necessity and
Tries from his pow'r to heave Dundas;
And tongue that, with its crushing wit,
Treads like an elephant, on Pitt,
By Slander urg'd, whose breath of flame
Melts the fair column of a name.
THE CONVENTION BILL; ODE TO MR. PITT.
The thunder-bearing bird of British metre!’
Says Fame, from truth not often known to wander:
To thee Job's war-horse from Parnassus, Pitt,
A gentle beast, I kneeling take the bit,
Like tam'd Bucephalus to Alexander;
A horse to other riders so uncivil;
Who rear'd, and plung'd, and kick'd them to the Devil.
Near Mother Red-cap brews the dangerous storm,
Assembling such a formidable rout;
Loud threat'ning, too, O Pitt! in evil hour
To blow thee, like the gossamer, from pow'r;
'Tis time, full time, methinks, to look about.
To curb of liberty this upstart crew:
Our eyes are, hawk-like, on the sharpen'd gaze.
Pronounce how many men shall meet together,
To canvass our political foul weather,
And shake their heads, in hopes of better days.
How many wilt thou suffer in a clan,
To groan their grievance, whisper woful tale,
Where the small tap-room pours its gin and ale?
Eke in a glass of gin the knave lies snug!
Who drinks, in rank rebellion dips his nose!
I like not healths! too oft they carry treason:
Then let us cut at once the rascal's weasand,
That dares to drink ‘a rope to freedom's foes!’
Hot-beads of treason upon treason rise,
Save Rose's—guiltless of all wit-pollution!
But, if sheer heaviness can aid a cause,
George's two brats shall pound the people's jaws,
As logs and lead do wondrous execution.
And wondrous danger hides within a wink;
Much in a shrug, and much in lifted eyes;
But, if a groan escape, a monarch dies.
He lov'd two poets, Virgil call'd, and Horace,
He issued proclamation, where, quoth he,
‘Let no one poet, upon pain of death
(And, Lord! how dangerous that same loss of breath!)
‘Dare, if he values life, to mention me.’
Ev'n cats and puppies reverenc'd Cæsar's name!
And no one take his name in vain, but Pye.
Who, at a Mandarin, in corners cow'r,
Dropping to earth the eye with awe-clad head;
While others yield themselves to panting flight,
Not vent'ring to turn back the fearful sight,
Lest a huge blunderbuss should strike them dead!
Haste, haste, the times to tremble thus at thee!
At eve, shall solemn curfews sound the knell;
And men, like babes, be forc'd to bed away,
Soon as they hear the monitory bell?
Ah! may the monarch by the mob be eye'd?
And, if allow'd the blessing of a view,
Whether with half an eye, one eye, or two?
To ogle through a spying-glass the king?
And will not Reeve's scouts to Justice run,
And swear the spying-glass a monstrous gun?
Like Dame Godiva, George may travel on,
When, lo, of curiosity a head,
A peeping Tom, may from a window poke;
Then let the bullet or the sabre's stroke
Dismiss the saucy peeper to the dead.
Ah, let his company no more be bunting!
A sweep may bear a very dangerous brush;
Butchers may pull a cleaver from the frock;
Barbers may launch at majesty a block,
Or bason dart, or pike-like pole may push;
And cobblers launch their lap-stones at their king;
Join majesty, and whoop, and bound, and horn!
Forget not thou an order to the may'r,
When in the tub the royal life embarks,
To read the riot-act to shrimps and sharks!
Your sins in sack-cloth and in ashes mourn:
Without a sigh, to ministers submit—
Ye are but children yet, so mend your ways;
Sing to the lord (th' Exchequer's lord!) with praise;
And go to school, good boys, to Goody Pitt.
Britons dare speak, and, when oppress'd, complain;
To man the little privilege is giv'n:
And, should a miscreant curb it (dead to shame),
May Albion's genius tear the villain's frame,
And fling it piece-meal to the fowls of Heav'n!’
The ghost of Alfred bids a rogue beware.
Mr. George Rose, of the Treasury, is the proprietor of two newspapers, misnomered the True Briton and Sun: the first, pleasantly fabulous; and the last, never emitting a single ray. They are intended, however, as two brazen pillars of our happy constitution, acquainting the world with every motion of majesty. George is really a character, and should be brought a little more forward on the political canvass. To continue the metaphor, this treasury gentleman has been kept too far in the back ground. A history of his life, parentage, and education, would prove a bonne bouche for the public.
ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-SIX;
A SATIRE; IN TWO DIALOGUES.
Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum,
Tendunt extorquere poëmata—quid faciam vis?
HORACE, ARS POET.
A hiss at royalty—a poor old play;
Meetings near Mother Redcap's (harmless things!),
Jokes on court-mummery, smiles at queens and kings;
Ere long, he leaps on Peter's dove-like strains;
And should the Muse be ravish'd, what remains?
DIALOGUE I.
PETER.Ah, Tom! from Alma Mater?
TOM.
Just imported,
Fortune a jade, and ev'ry guinea sported.
PETER.
What! no rich father then has slipp'd his wind,
And left a hogshead of bank-notes behind?
No good Aunt Grizzle, kind enough to die,
Left a long purse to sooth the mournful sigh,
And purchase Pleasure's pretty recreations?
TOM.
I meet with no such kindness from relations!
P*x on't, it now appears their cruel plan
To live as long and happy as they can;
To make their sons in slavery watch and pray,
Till time and disappointment turn them gray!
True, Tom—when lively lads arrive at age
Dull fathers should be hustled off the stage,
And mothers (hiss'd to Heav'n to find employ)
Yield up their jointures to oblige their boy.
Sons with less ceremony us'd to treat 'em—
Tied them to trees, for wolves to come and eat 'em:
Are parents old, with any thing to give?
'Tis really sin and impudence to live:
Gold should change hands—not sleep amid the chest:
Ye gods, for guineas what inglorious rest!
Gold on Newmarket's panting steed should fly,
And briskly circle with the rattling die.
TOM.
Friendship: where art? in books and on the tongue;
Who mak'st, like love, a very pretty song:
Too much a stranger to the heart, I ween!
Like angels, prais'd, admir'd—but seldom seen!
Besides myself, no comforter have I!
No hopes from parents, and no friend to die.
Sweet friendship ev'n for animals I love—
A dog, a cat, a monkey, parrot, dove;
With Alexander's spirit charm'd, of course,
Who built a town in honour of his horse.
PETER.
Now for the meaning of thy wild-goose chase:
What project, Tom? a pension, or a place?
TOM.
Full of my mighty self, from college down
I rush, to blaze a comet on the town!
To tear from Slavery's neck the galling chain,
And raise a nabob-fortune by my brain;
A Nimrod! leaving not a beast alive!
Tremble thou Richmond, Hawk'sb'ry, and thou Pitt
Too tremble, at the falchion of my wit.
Tremble thou Portland, Malmsb'ry, Rose, Dundas!
Stripp'd be the lion's hide, that holds an ass.
Roll my deep thunder round that Reeves's head,
Dark form! that stalking strikes a world with dread:
All eye, all ear, at midnight's guardless hour,
To seize a subject for the jail or Tow'r.
Arm'd with the lightning's pointed fire, my pen,,
Brand thou the daring fronts of shameless men;
Drag thou, my arm, black Guilt to open day!—
Such are my projects!—how d'ye like them, pray?
PETER.
Nobly resolv'd! a pious resolution,
Would Fortune kindly crown the execution.
But Pitt despis'd the execrating noise
Of men and women—hooting girls and boys!
Smil'd at the rude salutes of stones and mire
That discompos'd his curls and gay attire;
And fated, had he fall'n, his gang to cross,
Pitt knew a simple life no public loss;
Knew that a name but mock'd a vengeful stone,
Whose ghost-like popularity was gone;
And knew, his flow'rs of speech and breadth of soul
The state might find in many a dirty hole.
Safe 'mid the windings of his brazen tow'r,
Too well a minister discerns his pow'r;
With high contempt he bids their fury flow,
And mocks the pop-guns of the world below:
So deep in fat Corruption's soil his roots,
The public blast but lops some wanton shoots;
The bullying trunk, whose members brave the skies,
Firm in its hell-clad strength, the storm defies.
TOM.
I'll pour a broadside into courts.—
Forbear.
Court-folly charms, of all, the eye and ear:
Sink it, and Satire mourns his useless dart;
While Ridicule, a bankrupt, breaks his heart.
TOM.
I'll spread my sentiments of kings and queens;
Truth guides my pen, and Truth the poet screens.
PETER.
Oh! what an inexperienc'd thing is youth!
How very little knowest thou of Truth!
Truth for a very dangerous dame believe!
Too often, Tom, the fairest forms deceive:
Mid Winter's shiv'ring scene the simple hare
Finds in the purest snow a fatal snare:
Forth as she scuds, to feed at early day,
The treach'rous softness tells her winding way:
Where'er it feels her feet, the fair betrayer,
Informs the treach'rous poacher where to slay her.
The muse that tells plain truth, with edge-tools sports:
Go, deal in fiction, man, and flatter courts.
TOM.
Nor shall the pompous lawn my lash escape,
That swelling lords it over simple crape:
Whales of the church, before my vengeance fly—
Devouring, mangling the poor helpless fry:
Priests! how unlike your healing, humble master!
He, Gilead's balm; but you—a blister-plaster!
Out with state-cancers! caustic, come, and knife—
I'll gain Fame's plaudit, though I lose my life.
PETER.
Sweet is her song—divine, like Banti's breath;
Yet dear's the ballad, Tom, whose note is death!
Perchance I venture on the hope-forlorn!
Yet, he who Honour courts, must Danger scorn!
PETER.
Thus, when a breach is made in some fair town,
The volunteers, agog to gain renown,
Beg hard to enter first, to fall with glory,
And give Posterity a beauteous story;
While wiser some, averse to making mould,
Would rather tell the tale, than have it told.
TOM.
I'll pierce of Wimbledon the midnight scene,
Where taxes spring, and Riot's orgies reign;
Expose the two Dictators to the isle—
PETER.
The world has mark'd them, and the couple smile.
TOM.
What! is there not a blush?—a little glow,
To stain their marble countenances?
PETER.
No!
The minister who bears a blushing face,
Poor Molly! is not fitted for his place.
With dog-like impudence, and dog-like stare,
To wonder, all the while he lays the snare,
‘That gentlemen suspect a harmless plan;’
Such is the minister, and such the man,
To dupe the state, and carry all before him!—
TOM.
So, then, my bull of satire cannot gore him?
At ev'ry push the man would only laugh,
And prove thy bellowing bull, a whining calf.
Rose, spite of ridicule, enjoys his place,
And grins at such as damn the want of grace;
While Wyndham, unabash'd, his heart unlocks,
And calmly meets the front of injur'd Fox.
One monosyllable, whose name is Aye,
Weighs more than all a hundred bards can say:
One daring member of a rotten borough
Is found of late, to poor Old England's sorrow,
Full strong to give fair Freedom her death-wound,
And hurl her heav'n-clad column to the ground.
Merit may walk to grass, or munch the thistle:
For Pitt, the Virtues all may e'vn go whistle.
Worth, like the worm beneath the cold hard stone,
Crawls forth, and courts the sunshine of a throne:
But, lo, its rays on diff'rent reptiles fall,
That wriggling, clinging, lick the foot of Baal.
TOM.
Portland shall feel my scourge—
PETER.
Why so, poor man?
His grace is much the best of all the clan.
Though dup'd to join with knaves his luckless doom,
'Mid rooks, a pigeon with unsullied plume:
His colleagues, when compar'd to him!—a day
Of wolf-like Winter, and the lamb-like May;
The lane's coarse pebble, and Golconda's stone;
The Medicean Venus, and a Joan.
His and their hearts are opposition things;
Diff'rent as dove-like saints, and vulture kings;
Cynthia, the world's delight, and Lady Mary;
Fam'd Belisarius, and old Bamfylde Cary.
Die then the embassy that shames the land.
PETER.
Lord! Tom, the French have kill'd it to thy hand;
Then rein thy fury—spare thy idle breath—
TOM.
I'll fabricate the poetry of Death.
O'er many a neck my scimitar shall flame,
And Havoc's corses form my road to fame;
On Satire's burning coals this villain fries,
And roasted that with skewers in his eyes:
I'll match the knaves with tortures of all sorts,
And make a charming little hell for courts.
PETER.
Heavn's! Tom, be cooler; take advice—
TOM.
I won't—
‘Wilful will do't'—my soul is fix'd upon't,
Ah, Peter, you're a courtier.
PETER.
No such thing:
I never drank at Adulation's spring.
TOM.
No! Peter never dealt in praise!
PETER.
I have.
There is a time ere any man's a knave—
Some start in youth, some sin at bald fourscore;
But known—the voice of Fame is heard no more.
Virtue's pure robe with dirt I scorn to load,
Or offer incense to embalm a toad.
Has pleas'd a mistress oft—and oft a song:
Yet for no baseness I invok'd the Nine—
A lovely subject, and a harmless line.
Let talents, virtues, meet my happy eyes;
I ask not, truly, from what soil they rise.
If 'mid the lorn cold vale of Want they spring,
The muse shall hen-like spread her fost'ring wing;
Or Grandeur's sun-clad mountain, to their glory,
My verse (though scarce believ'd) shall tell the story:
Give me the riches, and I'll find the soul
To lead poor pining Merit from her hole.
Friend to the arts, where George's millions mine,
What heav'nly maid in poverty should pine?
For lab'ring Genius, palaces should rise;
Not for court-sycophants, the carrion-flies:
These would I flap—and change at once the scene;
To Taste, the Attic nymph, restore her reign;
With Raphaels, Titians, the glad world renew,
And lead a second Angelo to view;
Bid, for our Board of Works, Palladios spring,
And cast a ray of glory round a king.
And, were I king! I solemnly protest,
That hardware-man, that brazier, Mister West,
No more should copper poor old Windsor's walls;
Nor Bacon's lifeless lumber load Saint Paul's.
Then should yon nick-nam'd dome (alas! how poor
In real merit!) shut its sacred door
Whose sole pretensions are—what? Folly's smiles.
Yet, is there one, whose bags with wealth run o'er,
Who loves the arts, and loves to see them poor;
Proud of a lying, cringing dedication,
That dubs him the Mæcenas of the nation?
Lo, there are authors to proclaim his spirit,
And swear it ever in pursuit of merit.
TOM.
Curs'd be the period, whether verse or prose,
That round a worthless head a glory throws—
Yields Merit's meed to tinsel stars and strings,
And soul to Mis'ry, though it dwelt with kings.
Makes Av'rice generous—the poor idiot wise—
And lifts the fool of fortune to the skies.
PETER.
Yet are there knaves in these unblushing days,
To fabricate the lying song of praise!
What's strange—the flatter'd fools, so dead to shame,
Strut in stol'n plumes, and boast th' imputed fame.
Tell Knight he beats, in rural scenes, the world;
Nought for the falsehood at your head is hurl'd!
His palsied hand like Milton's sweeps the lyre:
Not Flatt'ry's self can too much fame allow;
For, lo, to Phœbus self he scorns to bow.
Swear Taste a poor lost sheep before he came;
At once he hears Messiah in his name:
He sees the poor fall'n creature Taste restor'd;
And, proud of vict'ry, feels himself the Lord!
Say Wisdom languish'd in barbaric gloom;
He sees his Genius the wild waste illume.
PETER.
Thus, when a night of shade involves the pole,
And clouds on clouds in murky masses roll;
Sol through the darkness bids his radiance flow,
And robes with golden light the world below!
TOM.
Call Mason, Shakespeare; Mister Hayley, Pope;
Their jaws with sudden inspiration ope;
With fancied immortality they shine,
And all Parnassus thunders through their line:
No more the Muses their lost fav'rites mourn;
In Mason's, Hayley's page again they burn!
Tell Banks he fills with honour Newton's chair,
The weed-and-bird's-nest-hunter will not stare!
Aloud with Newton's fancied pow'rs he brays,
And struts with Newton down to distant days!
Raptur'd he marks a breadth of light and shade;
His copper turns to flesh of loveliest hue,
And ev'ry cherub-sweetness charms his view.
Or grant him Raphael's line and Raphael's grace,
He will not fling his brushes in your face:
Pronounce like matchless Claude's his landscape clear,
He sees the brightest clouds, the purest sphere;
Surveys Dame Nature's forms with thrilling blood,
And counts a thousand leagues along the mud.
Inform that witch—of ugliness the queen,
Old Sycorax, she beats in mind and mien
Fair Oxford; how the wrinkled bag will smile,
And stretch her approbation-mouth a mile!
Call Porteus gen'rous , Porteus will not cry,
With hands uplifted, ‘Jesu, what a lie!’
No! on his lip a smile approving springs,
Sweet as the simper when be bows to kings.
Praise Strelitz, Schwellenberg will scream, ‘Mine Gote,
England haf noting clevers as dat spote;
Dere be de palace!—peepels of high bert,
An bestest princes dat's in all de ert.’
Praise Bru---ll's brain—what farce! the man receives it!
Swear that his head is human—he believes it:
Swear B*ll*r honours the huge wig and gown,
By heav'ns, the fellow will not knock you down;
Deny sincerity to be his due.
Praise Hawkesb'ry for his sweet ingenuous heart,
The man has not the decency to start:
Call Grenville humble—will you shock the peer?
No, no! he listens with unwounded ear:
Chatham, in naval matters, brisk and deep;
He drops the tortoise, and forgets his sleep.
Tell Pitt, the people love him—Pitt will smile,
And deem himself the fav'rite of the isle:
Swear modesty no stranger to Dundas,
Hal feels the virtue on his front of brass.
PETER.
Thus, should Sir Isaac (meanness to promote)
Form for some upstart wretch a handsome coat;
Lo, from the Conquest, lists of sires appear,
And all the puddle of his blood runs clear.
Two statues intended to adorn St. Paul's cathedral, and challenge the universe for sculpture. They are said to be meant for Howard and Johnson. Much money has been given for digging the two miserable objects out of the stone, and they have been put up: when will the poor exposed figures, for the honour of our national taste, and their own credit, be taken down? —Risum teneatis, amici?
How the Academy came to be baptized royal, I cannot conceive; as not a spangle of royal munificence ever threw a ray around its walls. Had it not been for the annual shillings of the charitable public, it must have died of famine long ago.
A gentleman who scrambled to Parnassus as he crept into the borough of Ludlow; and who, obtaining the alms of charity from a reviewer, informs the world that it is the free and unsolicited donation of Fame. A gentleman who fancies his poor cracked post-horn to be the trump of heroic poetry; and, ashamed of being a contemptible mute amidst his brethren of St. Stephen's, turns a roaring bully amongst the Muses. Possessed of a school-boy power of mouthing a few Greek polysyllables, who most ridiculously deems himself an Aristarchus; and who, childishly arrogating to himself the character of a legislator of taste in landscape-scenery, has received a severe and merited castigation, from men of real abilities, for his presumption.
Her majesty's own bishop, the œconomical Bishop of London; who, on his exaltation, sent circular letters to the clergy of his diocese, commanding them to inform him of the state of morality, religion, and the churches; at the same time, however, requesting, that the answers might not weigh more than one ounce. Poor morality, poor religion, poor churches! What! not worth the postage of a letter?
DIALOGUE II.
TOM.O! for the soul of Leo, to inspire
Our future kings with Glory's genuine fire!
Then would the happy painter, and the bard,
Of simple merit reap the rare reward!
Then would the varied field of letters bloom,
Smile on the eye, and yield the heav'ns perfume.
PETER.
Poor field! at present much like Hounslow Heath ,
Whose chief production is the wood of Death.
TOM.
How is fair Art, and Science, in disgrace!
What patron meets them with a smiling face?
See, like a shadow, Genius, limping, poor,
In supplication at a great man's door!—
And see with insolence his lacquey treat him;
And were he fat enough, the dog would eat him.
O Taste, O Reason, to our isle return!
Behold our great for littlenesses burn!
Charm'd with his wit, and tricks, and nose, and hunch,
Not long ago, Lord Plymouth purchas'd Punch:
And very soon, I ween, some titled ninny,
Some moon-ey'd fool, will buy the Fantoccini.
Th' alarming voice of war must not be heard—
There are no French to pull us by the beard—
Invasions! nonsense—What the pow'r of France;
What discord, murder, so the puppets dance?
TOM.
This reddens my rough vengeance—fans my flame,
And goads my Satire's hawk to seek its game.
Yes! yes! I stand resolv'd upon the matter—
Fry is the word, and brimstone be my batter!
PETER.
Gods! what a furious Saracen art thou!
But what says Pitt? will Pitt thy rage allow?
Believe me, Tom, the blunderbuss of law
Makes a long shot—an engine form'd to awe—
By this has many a bird of Satire bled—
Be prudent, therefore, and revere the leud.
Think of thy banish'd namesake!
TOM.
What! Tom Paine?
I like the man—should boast to hold his train:
Tom Paine speaks boldly out; and so I dare
Strike at court slaves, nor sex nor order spare;
Spread o'er my quarry Vice, my eagle wings,
Nor dread the conflict, though oppos'd by kings!
PETER.
Lo, that rich hour of Liberty gone by!
Grenville's and Pitt's bold acts thy rage defy:
A hiss at royalty, a poor old play ,
Meetings near Mother Redcap's (harmless things!),
Jokes on court-mummery, smiles at queens and kings:
Ere long he leaps on Peter's dove-like strains;
And should the muse be ravish'd, what remains?
Behold the court, of hist'ry grown so sore,
I scarce dare mention—apple-dumpling more,
Or Madam Schwellenberg and ambling jack ,
For fear the palace might be on my back;
And that's a heavy-load, the world will own,
Enough to make the mighty Atlas groan:
Nor Whitbread's brewhouse, nor poor Mother Jones,
Nor hunting parsons, if I prize my bones;
Louse, Brick-kiln, Gard'ners, Mutton, Mouse-trap, Tour;
Such mention will not ministers endure:
Though ministers, as blushing hist'ry shows,
Dar'd pull a goodly monarch by the nose;
Spat in his face, and threaten'd to dethrone him;
Roar'd out ‘Reform,’ and forc'd themselves upon him:
Drunk with successes, seiz'd the old state thunder,
When uproar wild began, and nation-plunder.
The ‘state's in danger,’ louder howl'd the storm,
Gagg'd ev'ry raven-mouth that croak'd ‘reform.’
Thus then it happens (save good Master Reeves),
The purest patriots may be pick'd from thieves.
For ever sacred be the acts of kings,
The founts of worship, honour, stars and strings!
Ev'n such as Virtue damns, the gentle muse
(So chang'd her nature?) shall not once abuse:
Peace to the ghost of Nero, great good man,
Beneath whose blade no blood in rivers ran!
Whose heart in Mercy's tender mould was made!
Peace to Domitian's—peace to Richard's shade!
TOM.
Who is this lord high-paramount, this Pitt?
What are his mighty acts, his wisdom, wit?
What his huge feats, with all his wondrous brags?
The nation stripp'd, fair Liberty in rags,
With scarce a shift, gown, stocking, garter, sandal;
Put up at Garraway's by inch of candle.
A booby who for vict'ries madly gapes,
And idly lab'ring brings us into scrapes;
Then bids us get ourselves, with phiz devout,
And fear and trembling, pray'r, and starving, out!
Thus, with an insolence a name that lacks,
He flings his own d*mn'd sins upon our backs.
Poor England! to destruction he has brought it;
Then cries with idiot wonder, ‘Who'd have thought it!’
Away with fasts that gormandise and quaff,
And give ev'n sly Hypocrisy a laugh!
Who will with lying impudence declare,
Nought fills his mouth upon that day, but air?
What saints the stomach's pinches will endure?
None!—save their pious majesties, I'm sure.
But grant we fast—are fasts of aught avail?
Behold the poor with fasting lean and pale;
And still the French, in lucky war employ'd,
Unlike Sennach'rib's host, are not destroy'd.
PETER.
But, Tom, 'tis gentry that must Heav'n implore;
G*d never listens to the ragged poor.
'Tis gentry only that must starve and pray.
Yet at their dread petition Heav'n will start,
Nor, cruel, run a Frenchman through the heart,
T'oblige a foolish Briton who shall cry,
I'm fasting, Lord; so let thy vengeance fly:
So far am I a quaker, I must own,
And dare not thus address th' eternal throne.
Heav'n is most merciful—inclin'd to spare,
And scorns to kill a neighbour for a pray'r.
Indeed, whate'er the bishops may pretend,
In fast and pray'r we seldom find a friend:
Fasts will not wet French powder; nor will words
Of pious imprecation blunt French swords:
Nor sighs of saints avert the flying ball:
The pope must run from Rome, and Mantua fall.
TOM.
How at each solemn phiz the Dev'l must grin!
All sanctity without, and fraud within!
But pray'rs before a bishop, and a haunch;
Alas! he quits not, for the soul, the paunch:
Meat must be watch'd, and roasted in its prime;
Pray'rs for the Lord keep cold for any time.
PETER.
Thus, on a Sunday, pious Parson Moss ,
Afraid a tiger-appetite to cross,
Left out good pray'rs, and stopp'd the organ's tongue,
That groaning meditated heav'nly song:
For, lo, too soon (to disappoint the Lord)
The judges' ven'son smoak'd upon the board!
Who can resist, when appetite feels bold?
And what divine would eat his ven'son cold?
Well, since we must have this same idle day,
Shut up the shops, look dismal, starve, and pray;
O give the Litany this supplication,
‘Lord, kick two scoundrels from administration!’
PETER.
Fie, fie, Tom—really you are too severe.
TOM.
Who with a velvet lash would flog a bear?
PETER.
Come, come—some merit must to Pitt belong—
TOM.
I grant him perseverance—grant him tongue.
With words I own the fellow well supplied,
Bombast, and phrases ready cut and dried;
A formal, scowling, wisdom-aping face;
An awkward gesture, an affected grace:
Cavil and flimsy logic, to surprise,
And raise the whites of country members' eyes.’
When dead, what leaves this Pitt to light mankind?
Not the dim lustre of a snail, behind!
Grant from his dust the world one ray may pick;
What is't?—the glimmer of a rotten stick!
What has Pitt done for subject or for prince?
PETER.
Good heav'ns, I've said it, scarce a minute since!
Of screech-owl Satire, Pitt has shorn the wings,
That hooting hover'd round the thrones of kings;
Where, from the rising to the setting ray,
Now soothing Flatt'ry pours the lark-like ray;
Where simp'ring courtiers buz with praiseful tongue,
Like gnats that hum to parting suns the song.
Pitt fights our just and necessary war;
Improves our taxes, what would he have more?
And sets an honest spy at ev'ry door.
TOM.
For shame!—by ridicule you ward each stroke,
And make the ruin of the state a joke;
Who from Dame Justice snatch'd the bloodhound—?
'Tis Pitt compassionates, 'tis Pitt reprieves:
Caught in the trap, the dark informer roar'd,
Till Pitt the wretch to liberty restor'd.
PETER.
Thus, if we may compare great things with small,
When Doctor Johnson lodg'd at Kettle Hall,
His philosophic consequence to shock,
Fate bade him put on Mistress Thompson's smock;
Wedg'd in the smock (a lion in the toil),
He roar'd, and kick'd, and sweated—huge turmoil!
Till Mistress Thompson let the savage out.
TOM.
Misplac'd indeed is all your ridicule,
That means to thwart my plans by calling fool.
PETER.
Thus, when the president of frogs and flies,
And weeds and birds'-nests, wish'd in pomp to rise,
And fill (himself) a throne sublime and fair,
And give his hammer'd arm a Jove-like air;
Th' uncourtly Doctor, hostile to the scheme,
Gave a loud horse-laugh, and dissolv'd the dream!
TOM.
Still with more irony?—But I'll go on—
Who with calm spirit sees the realm undone?
Who from the noble haunches of the state
Cuts fine fat slices for his dainty plate,
And bids the people on the offals feed?
This fellow Pitt!
PETER.
—A crying sin indeed!
Thus saw I once a cuckoo in a cage,
And thrush, a very purser of the age!
Boil'd beef, and cabbage, had the pair for dinner;
When, lo, the thrush (a knowing purser-sinner),
Sans cérémonie gobbled it himself:
But when a stump of cabbage!—chang'd his note,
He ramm'd it down the gaping cuckoo's throat.
TOM.
Behold the barracks, and our lot deplore;
Ere long a damn'd dragoon at ev'ry door!
Then, lo, fair Freedom dead, who holds his hate,
Forc'd by a fascination to her fate!
PETER.
Thus when the wily snake, beneath a tree,
Darts his red eyes upon his feather'd prey;
Poor bird! no more he swells the song of love,
Waves the wild wing, and glides from grove to grove:
With panting heart he tries to shun the foe;
But, looking on the steady fiend below,
In chains of fatal fascination bound,
Captive he hops around him and around;
Till nearer, nearer drawn, with hopeless cries,
He drops upon the poison'd fang, and dies.
TOM.
So, then, you laugh at hopes of reformation?
PETER.
Pitt finds a tame old hack in our good nation;
Safe, through the dirt, and ev'ry dangerous road,
The beast consents to bear his galling load;
And, spite of all that we can sing or say,
Fools will be fools, and ministers—betray.
The comparison of the present barren field of literature to the field of gibbets is new, apposite, and ingenious. Literature now is as dangerous as murder. Let Reeves be the interpreter, and every line of every pamphlet, verse or prose, shall, by this gentleman's sagacious commentary, smell of treason as strongly as the whisper of an anti-Pittite proclaims rebellion.—The editor.
Venice Preserved; condemned by authority to oblivion, on account of the numerous and violent plaudits bestowed on passages that seemed direct sarcasms on our present rulers.
The ass on which the great mistress of the robes was wont to take her airings, for health, through the royal gardens, which furnished much misfortune and amusement.
When Johnson lodged at Kettle Hall, in the University of Oxford, at a Mr. Thompson's, a cabinet-maker; the maid, by an unfortunate mistake, brought him one day a chemise of Mrs. Thompson's to put on, instead of his own shirt. Contemplating on nothing but Ramblers and Idlers, and colossal Dictionaries, he shoved his arms and head and shoulders into the lady's linen before he discovered his error. ‘Who has cut off the sleeves of my shirt? who has cut off the sleeves of my shirt?’ exclaimed the enraged and hampered moralist, with Stentorian vociferation, dancing and tugging and foaming for freedom.—This roar brought up poor trembling Mrs. Thompson, who, with the most consummate delicacy, shutting her two chaste eyes, slipped her hand into the room, and delivered her giant guest from his enchanted castle.
It is an incontrovertible fact that Sir Joseph Banks proposed the plan of a throne for himself, and benches for foreign princes and ambassadors beneath him, whose heads might be on the same plane with the most noble president's ten toes. Dr. Horsley, the present bishop of Rochester, by a well-timed ridicule, put an end to the vision of vanity.
LIBERTY'S LAST SQUEAK;
CONTAINING AN ELEGIAC BALLAD,
AN ODE TO AN INFORMER—AN ODE TO JURYMEN—AND CRUMBS OF COMFORT FOR THE GRAND INFORMER.
To Windsor, to Richmond, and Kew;
Farewel to the tale of the Louse!
Mother Red-cap, and Monarchs, adieu!
LIBERTY'S LAST SQUEAK;
AN ELEGIAC BALLAD.
To part with such friends I am loath;
But Pitt, in majorities strong,
Voweth horrible vengeance on both.
Apple-dumpling, and smuggling so sweet;
Like their stomachs your wit shall be keen,
Hogs, hay, and fat bullocks, and wheat.
Mother Schwellenberg, bulses, and shawls;
Nor at levees and drawing-rooms sport,
Where man the poor sycophant crawls.
In the rope of your satire shall swing;
For, behold, there is death in the joke
That squinteth at queen or at king.
Courts smile at th' intended decree;
Thus the reign of poor ridicule ends,
And follies, like shawls, will go free.
With her scourges Oppression will rise,
Since satire's a damnable sin,
And a sin to be virtuous and wise.
And wherefore not laugh at a------?
A laugh is a laudable thing,
When people are silly and mean.
When we paid the old quack for his cure,
When we pray'd at Peg Nicholson's knife,
The k---laughed at us, to be sure.
Dundas, Pitt, and Jenky, and Rose,
Yes, Satire gets into a scrape,
If she takes the four R---s by the nose.
No more run on topers a rig,
Since Pitt gets as drunk as Dundas,
And Dundas gets as drunk as a pig.
Yes, 'twere dangerous to hazard your sneers;
And mock the sweet mercy of courts,
That return'd him his forfeited ears.
To Windsor, and Richmond, and Kew;
Farewel to the tale of the Louse!
Mother Red-cap, and Monarchs adieu!
(And muzzled indeed we shall be!)
Say Pitt (for I'm grievously puzzled),
May we venture a horse-laugh at thee?
ODE TO AN INFORMER.
Help, help of government the bold endeavour;
So lately through a deep consumption rubbing,
Prerogative's upon his legs again!
He wields his knotty club with might and main,
For long the land has needed a sound drubbing!
Hunt with his hounds the shops for prints and verse
And find the likenesses of men on high—
Make of the booksellers and bards a hash—
Smell rank rebellion in a star or dash,
And bid the sneering culprit hang or fly.
Skim-milk, or corn, or man-traps, cocks, and hens,
Or Frogmore Fête, or charities, or bulse,
The turnkey soon shall feel the culprit's pulse.
Or calls Dame Schwellenberg a smuggling b---,
Or swears hypocrisy has dwelt in courts,
Blasphemes, speaks treason, and with edge tools sports.
Where Pitt, the Punch of Showman Harry, steals
To learn state-tricks, behold the vengeful sword
O'ertaking soon the swiftest pair of heels!
Must think upon the stock's ignoble holes.
(And many an itching tongue can scarce refrain),
Nay, Tom, a common Christian name for cats,
Must die; and lo, the Hanoverian rats
Already lose the Hanoverian name.
Make out his mittimus, and let him die:
Strike me that bulfinch on the jaw,
That dares to warble ca ira.
God save the king, the world must sing or say;
God save the king, the ballad of the day!
Our cats, from roof to roof, of Cæsar squall;
The beetles buz with loyalty along—
The very owl ‘God save the king!’ shall learn;
And barn, at midnight, hoot to brother barn;
And bat shall shriek to bat th' inspiring song.
Who talk about the hardships of the poor?
Off with the villains to their iron cages,
Where whip-arm'd Justice guards the gloomy door.
Let subjects, if they dare it, cast a slur?
All that a palace holdeth smells of God:
A page's call is glory to our ears:
A cook's salute a load of honour bears;
Nay, honour dwelleth in a scullion's nod.
And hang their hearts, like butchers meat, on tenters;
Fellows that fain would be court gospel-makers:
Impale the goat-fac'd, unbelieving Jews;
And then the knife of Justice to amuse,
Cut out the tongues of all the groaning quakers!
When pow'r, the giant, muzzled tongue and pen;
Saw what the soul was thinking, through the eye,
And crush'd it for a treasonable sigh!
Pull out the wide-mouth'd strumpet's lawless tongue!
Off with the wonted crown that decks her head,
And place the proper fool's-cap in its stead.
SECOND ODE TO AN INFORMER.
The great Poet inviteth a great Informer to great Wickedness!
See Night her grisly spectres pour!
The clock proclaims her at her highest noon;
Lone silence shall our work befriend,
Her shoes of cygnet down shall lend;
The cloud's black mantle muffle the pale moon.
‘So thick the pris'ners my dark dwelling crowd,
I cannot put a pin between the knaves;
‘And glutted too, am I, and I, and I.’
The Tow'r and echoing jails around reply—
‘And I, and I,’ each loaded compter raves.
‘I'm tir'd, I'm tir'd—can squeeze no more.’
The gibbet, surfeited with death, shall groan!
And, shuddering, lo, at human woes,
The tomb its pond'rous jaws shall close,
While Pity's fruitless tear embalms the stone.
And help in Murder's cause our panting breath!
For, lo! to Murder with his reeking blade,
The beam of morning seems the gloom of death.
Our longing hands shall scatter woes,
And Fear shall whiten ev'ry haggard face.
Sly to the pillow will we creep,
Dash with rude arm the bonds of sleep,
And drag a husband from a wife's embrace.
Our hearts, two rugged rocks, the sound defy.
Reeling, the Lord knows where, a little drunk,
Perhaps to slumber with a fav'rite punk:
The rascal mutters Freedom and Tom Paine.
On this poor midnight stroller let us fall:
Drag him before the justice and his wig,
And swear to treason that he did not bawl.
Who call the under-world of man,
An assish, mulish, packhorse clan,
Shreds of mortality, with scornful eye.
Their pleasant prose, and tale-recording rhimes:
Kings were God's images—rever'd the throne:
Submission then, indeed, with eye-balls low'ring,
And suppliant hands and pray'r, and forehead cow'ring,
Spoke treason, if she call'd her soul her own.
Believes that monarchs can be rogues and fools.
Virtues are transferable, just like stock,
With title-pass, that dignifies a block.
Bids carrion drop its stench, and breathe perfume—
To palaces converts the meanest house,
And with an eagle's pinion, mounts the mouse.
With such a spirit as no curb can tame:
His chest, like Job's wild horse, with thunder hung,
With mouth of bleeding foam, and eye of flame.
And cover mountains with the crimson tide.
Shall rouse to crush the democratic spirit,
And at the pris'ners shake their lion-manes;
And Curtis, now Lord-May'r, now not so small,
Shall fill with culprits soon th' Egyptian hall,
From hedges, ditches, alleys, courts, and lanes.
Pronounce quick fate, and thin a miscreant land;
Thus lucky thriving, make, in blood campaigns,
A nabob's fortune, by her ropes and chains!
ODE TO JURYMEN.
That I, great Peter, one day come before ye,
To answer to the man of wig, for ode,
Full of sublimity, and pleasant story.
Dundas, and Richmond, Hawk'sb'ry, Portland, Pitt,
May wish to cut the nib of Peter's pen,
And, cruel, draw the holders of his wit.
To clap the gentle poet in a cage!
And should a grimly judge for death harangue,
Don't let the poet of the people hang.
Though some will swear I've snapp'd them by the heels;
A puppy's pinch, that's all, I don't deny;
But Lord! how sensibly a great man feels!
A little joke on lofty earls and lords;
Smiles at the splendid homage of court scenes,
The modes, the manners, sentiments, and words:
A joke upon the shave of cooks at court,
Charms the fair muse, and eke the world delights;
A pretty piece of inoffensive sport.
There lurks no lever to o'erturn the state,
And hurl the queen of nations to her fate.
Dark lanterns, blunderbusses, masks, and matches;
Few words my simple furniture unfold;
A bed, a stool, a rusty coat in patches.
Nor mirrors, ogling Vanity to please;
Spaniels, nor lap-dogs, with their furs so fine:
Alas! my little livestock are—my fleas!
But thus I've pray'd—‘Her life may Albion keep!
Curs'd be the treach'rous fiends, who, at the helm,
Would sink the vessel in the gaping deep!
And he who dares to shake her, vengeance meet,
No matter what his grandeur—let him groan,
And Hell's best brimstone the black miscreant sweat!
Turn pliable, and join the busy Reeves—
State jackall hunting through the midnight air,
Like Bow-street blood-hounds in pursuit of thieves!
Fierce, like the Libyan savage from his den;
Their glorious pow'rs, at once, may juries feel,
And still sublimer, feel that they are men!
And, by example, fire the soldier souls;
To invalids afford more frequent fleece,
And bless the veterans with meat and coals!
With guns of leather much old Death surprise;
Delight the tyrant with his dread campaigns,
And send his pale dominions vast supplies.
In mercy's balm may B---'s heart be rich—
Feel for a sheep-stealer a little love;
Whose fur-clad paws alike for mutton itch!
So very apt to sink in a decline:
Whom Doctor Pitt with med'cines can assist—
A great physician, whose prescriptions shine!
With wonted charity themselves comport;
And Lady Truth approach the royal ears,
And Lady Wisdom be receiv'd at court!
'Mid royal smile, their sunshine, waxing strong;
Or roaring laughter must be kept alive,
And Peter's Clio never want a song.
And eke may all the arts be lov'd by him:
And when his money from the purse departs,
Not play at ducks and drakes on waves of whim,
Let not œconomy cry ‘Fie upon her!’
But may she give a pillow-case and sheet
To each poor slavish shiv'ring maid of honour!
A pittance to the helpless pining poor;
Who, millions owning, still with watchful eyes,
Hawks at fresh bags of gold, and screams for more.
Just like a paper kite that wants a tail;
Now dipping, rising, wild at random led,
Up, down, here, there, the sport of ev'ry gale.
Nay put a little fat about their bones;
And dash their lawn-sleev'd riders on the stones!
Chase not the curate from their grand abode;
But gravely think of heav'n as well as prate,
And give a leg of mutton to their God!’
Of treasures that to mortals will be given;
Yet sooner trust (as though they thought it poor)
The bank of England than the bank of heav'n!
Seeming to place dependence on its word;
Yet on sky-credit look so very blue,
As though 'twere dang'rous lending to the Lord
To Pitt, Dundas, and Jenkinson, I bow,
That spotless Trinity of courtly pow'r!
A democratic raven, turn'd court throstle!
A persecuting Paul, a meek apostle!
The foulest weed, the valley's fairest flow'r!
CRUMBS OF COMFORT FOR THE GRAND INFORMER.
What! thou a pris'ner in our hard state trap,
The roaring lion of administration!
Then Sheridan has nabb'd the beast at last;
Lock'd, in the iron gin of Justice, fast:
Fun for men, women, children of the nation!
Saint Stephen's members might be shorn away,
And injure not the body—what a dream!
Nay, that our lords may feel alike the blade—
Those precious limbs, so shelt'ring with cool shade,
From Despotism's intolerable beam;
Lopp'd off, without an injury to trunk!
Say, great Informer, wert thou mad or drunk!
A joke upon a great man and his wife
Forms all my sin, though courtiers foam around:
I, with my pretty brazen pin and small,
Just scratch'd the pretty flow'ry capital;
But thou wouldst drag the column to the ground!
And giant Wyndham, too, his humble slave,
Sees thee with grief the tenant of the gin:
But London views thee with a scornful smile—
Hears with much glee thy howl, and marks thy toil,
And looks with triumph on thy suffering skin.
The simple flies, at midnight's silent hour,
Wheeling, with hunger keen, from street to street?
Is this the mousing owl, that darkling stole
In quest of harmless victims from his hole;
The bird obscene, whom now our mock'ries meet?
The eves dropper, with damned prying eyes,
Who hunts th' unwary for the fangs of state!
Is this the justice, of most foul report,
Who, proud to please the minions of a c---,
Unsated (a staunch blood-hound), pants for fate?
Curs'd by the beauteous wanderers of the night,
Whose soul in Mis'ry's moan a music hears,
And toad-like, feeds its poison on her tears?
To whips and jails, each son of Freedom dooms;
Whose life (misnomer'd life) is death, rank death;
Putridity—the noisome stench of tombs?’
In language coarse!—not good enough for thieves!
Yet, man, despair not—Courts can set thee free—
And courts are known to pity r--- like thee.
AN ODE TO THE LIVERY OF LONDON,
ON THEIR Petition to his Majesty, for kicking out his worthy Ministers.
HOR.
I. [PART I.]
Thus to St. James's rudely pushing,
To force the king to turn out Pitt, poor youth!
The open Jenkinson, the blushful Rose;
Dundas, too, on whom Heav'n bestows
Cart-loads of modesty and truth!
Their graces will do no such things.
And who are you, in impudence so strong?
Know ye the rev'rence due to thrones?
Down, knaves, upon your marrow-bones,
As princes never yet were in the wrong.
As Crispin makes a shoe, I ween;
And think, like humble shoes, too, ye may wear 'em:
Ye feel, by this time, I suppose,
That those same shoes can gall your toes,
And find your corns not much inclin'd to bear 'em:
Declareth, there's a time for ev'ry thing—
Methinks he might have left out impudence:
That liverymen, compos'd of common clay,
Should boast to sovereigns their superior sense;
Inform them that the ministers tell lies,
Are raggamuffins, wicked, and unwise?
Such things are said as I can scarcely bear:
With insolence the people tax poor Pitt;
Now this is cruel!—'tis the poor man's nature,
As natural as for fish to cleave the water,
Monkeys to grin, dogs howl, and cats to spit.
Fling on the blood, then, all the culpability;
Since 'tis well known to all, that Pitt and pride
Are dove-tail'd—join as close as bones and hide!
For ignorance and base ingratitude,
And meanness; but 'tis cruel thus to slash—
The man had never any education—
The poorest tag-rag of the Scottish Nation;
Born in a stye, and, hog-like, fed on wash.
'Midst gentlefolks and nobles, queens and kings!
Like pine apples, whom soil the richest suits;
For pine apples ne'er grow on cold, raw clay,
But fat manure, amid the solar ray,
That darts its golden influence to their roots.
‘Sire, we resolve to have our way;
And be it known,
We'll have no levee-tricks, indeed,
And our petition we will read;
And you shall hear it on the throne!
So pray your majesty get mounted.’
Which proves ye know not how your bread is butter'd.
So far I'll take the part of princes—
Monstrous! they have been scandalously treated;
Basted by saucy verse and prose—
God knows,
Dear souls! like bears by ruffian bull-dogs baited!
Poor Artois, not inclin'd to stay,
From France, like some hard-hunted badger, hast'neth;
Now billetted upon the Scots;
Sad fates! yea, most unpleasant lots!
But whom the Lord doth love, behold he chast'neth!
Yet mis'ry breeds an ugly savour;
She smells of musty rags, and dirt, and nits—
I won't say bugs, and itch, and lice,
Wishing for ever to be nice,
As nicety a well-bred Muse befits:
That mis'ry's often the weak child of folly.
Their hearts compos'd of such nice ductile matter,
Turning like potter's clay to any forms!
But for their subjects!—heav'ns! their hearts are rock;
Their manners, borrow'd from the pig-stye, shock;
Their shapes, rank Calibans; their voices, storms!
And, like the cheese, of milk the simple child,
Too often suffer a confounded squeeze
From subjects by equality defil'd;
Who look with rapture on their grinning graces,
Enjoying their sad torments and wry faces.
No, verily, my wisdom can't determine,
Why subjects should become a pack of hounds,
And hunt their sovereign lords like stinking vermin;
For no one needs (I'm very sure) be told,
Their souls are cast in Nature's sweetest mould.
Choke not the nation's chick, nor suck its eggs!
Pleas'd with whate'er is giv'n (such gentle natures),
Each prince with so much sweetness bows and begs!
No, never kite-like on a subject souses,
And, sweeping, carries off his lands and houses!
Forgotten, ah! in this degenerate age:
Subjects from fair decorum widely wander!
Now ev'ry tradesman lifts his dirty nose;
His teeth each working, poor mechanic shows,
And cries, ‘What's sauce for goose is sauce for gander!’
Are lofty thrones converted to joint-stools!
C--- christen'd fool's-caps—sceptres turn'd to sticks;
A ------ smile proclaim'd an idiot grin;
A ------ a jack-ass in a lion's skin;
Courts, puppet-shows; and rev'rence, monkey-tricks!
That shame the dignity of man.
That would not from his office kick poor Rose,
And on his honest earnings lay his pats;
Eke on Dundas's, Jenkinson's, poor souls!
And eke from humble Richmond tear his coals,
A king's black present to his blacker brats .
Our lord mayor's wooden leg about his back!
Wisdom in gothic gloom benighted—
The world turn'd fairly upside down,
I fear me, never to be righted.
The Lord have mercy on the people's manners!
Then, sirs, no more your wanton venom spit
At kings and queens, and worthy Mister Pitt:
Should the ship founder in this blowing weather,
Like friends and neighbours, let us sink together.
II. PART II.
Made of their subjects a mere joke:
Ev'n in the happy days of good Queen Bet,
Mum was in parliament the word—
Her very frown, a flaming sword;
And ev'ry menace put it in a sweat!
Th' ambassador—a saucy knave!
In Latin, too, to make the fellow wonder—
The man was frighten'd at her voice,
And could not then have had his choice;
He rather would have fac'd a clap of thunder.
And often would her highness swear
On bishops, sacred men! enough to shock ye.
‘Do this!’ her majesty would say—
‘Do that!—God's blood! I'll have my way!
Quick, quick; or, d---n me, parsons, I'll unfrock ye!’
‘Good gentlemen, I must agree
That ye are proper judges of the weather,
And judges, too, of the highways,
Hares, pheasants, partridges, and jays;
And eke the art of tanning leather.
But, as for sovereigns, and dominion,
'Tis too sublime for your opinion.’
To this Semiramis of lofty rule,
Your majesty must knock off Cecil's head,
And hang up Essex for a beast and fool:
So, ma'am, dismiss them, and oblige the nation:’—
Of this great queen?
‘Ye knaves, who do more mischief than the sword!
You vomits, glyster-pipes—the dev'l confound ye!
What to such madness, raggamuffins, urges?
Murderers! I'll make you swallow your own purges!
In your own mortars, rascals, will I pound ye!
And serve you like the three Jew boys, ye knaves,
Shadrach, and Meshech, and Abednego:
Browner than all your loaves, shall be your skins:
Then let us see, if, for your saucy sins,
Your God will deign to take ye out or no.
For fear I pluck ye, as ye pluck your goose.
And, Master Skinner, calm your upstart pride—
On Marsyas think your flaming rage to cool,
Who, wrestling with his betters, like a fool,
Lost, in his struggle for the prize, his hide!
And Master Pipemaker, don't be a prig,
And let that clay of yours be quite so stiff;
Nor in your prowess try to smoke a queen,
For fear her majesty's sharp wrath be seen,
And send you to the devil on a whiff.
Mind, if one more complaint ye bring,
By G---, ye dangle like a pack of rats,
All in a string!’
Bridling and tossing in contempt her head;
And thus the queen, with equal fury blest,
Had smartly rapp'd the knuckles of the rest.
Wiping the sweat that gemm'd her precious face,
Had said, ‘God's-blood, my lords, a fine discourse!
Those fellows talk to me—the small-beer dregs!
They teach, forsooth, their grannum to suck eggs!
They'll find the old grey mare the better horse.’
Than that same furious Amazon, Queen Bess?
‘We must not move her grace's ire—
Lord, bless us! should we once complain,
The fat will all be in the fire!
Low to her feet, like spaniels, we must crawl,
Or, lo! she'll play the devil with us all!’
‘Out with the rascal!—what a bore
To keep a fellow that undoes the realm!
A great land-lubber! he, he, steer
The foundering ship from danger clear!
Pretending puppy! he, he guide the helm?’
Ye stuff'd his mouth with figs and spice,
To show your love for him and all his schemes;
Drench'd him with treacle, till besmear'd
Like Aaron's patriarchal beard,
From whence the oil of gladness flow'd in streams.
And now you are for kicking, hanging, drowning!
So different now, indeed, your carriage,
It puts me much in mind of marriage.
Now sun, now cloud; now mist, now clear;
Now music, now a stunning clap of thunder;
Now perfect ease, now spiteful strife,
So much like matrimonial life!
Pray read the pretty little story under;
A tale well known:
'Tis John and Joan.
JOHN AND JOAN,
A TALE.
Though mix'd, at times, with cock and hen-like sparrings:
But calms are very pleasant after gales,
And dove-like peace much sweeter after warrings:
But folks may find it, if they choose to read—
‘That marriage is too sweet without some sour—
Variety oft recommends a flow'r.
Then life is nicely turbulent and placid.
Lord, what a thing! a very fright!
No, let some darkness be display'd;
And learn to balance well with shade.’
Now parted, and now made a child:
Now tepid show'rs of love, now chilling snows;
Much like the seasons of the year;
Or like a brook, now thick now clear;
Now scarce a rill, and now a torrent flows.
About a little small-beer barrel,
Without John's knowledge slily tapp'd by Joan;
For Joan, t'oblige her old friend Hodge,
Thought asking leave of John was fudge;
And so she wisely left the leave alone.
It happ'd that John and Joan had not two beds
To rest their angry, frowning brace of heads;
To rest their gentle jaws upon.
‘With all my spirit, John,’ replied the wife:
A board was plac'd, according to their plan:
Thus ended this barrier at once the strife.
Calm as a clock, nor once wink'd over—
Calm as a clock, too, let me say,
Joan never squinted on her lover.
Like two still mice, devoid of care,
In philosophic silence sought repose;
On the fifth morn, it chanc'd to please
John's nose to sneeze—
‘God bless you, dear!’ quoth Joan at John's loud nose.
And, popping o'er the hedge, his head—
‘Joan, did you say it from your heart?’
‘Yes, John, I did, indeed, indeed!’
‘You did?’—‘Yes, John, upon my word’—
‘Zounds, Joan, then take away the board!’
Love will beam forth, that ev'ry love surpasses;
The grocers be themselves, sweet-temper'd men,
And souse him in a hogshead of molasses.
Thus will Contention take away the bone,
And you and Pitt kiss friends, like John and Joan.
AN ODE TO SIR JOSEPH BANKS,
ON THE Report of his Elevation to the important Dignity of a Privy Counsellor.
He becomes honours as a sow does a saddle.
PROVERBS.
Inventive newspapers, I can't believe ye!
Impossible! ye certainly are fibbing!
Sir Joseph dubb'd a counsellor of state!
'Tis laughing at too high a rate;
Lord! what a joke! ye certainly are squibbing!
And shown such wondrous want of wit,
Ye think that any fable will go down.
Now, pray be careful, sirs, of what you print;
There's danger—yes, indeed, there's danger in't—
Woe to the wight that ridicules a crown!
A monarch wanteth sharp instructors:
Then pray speak truth, ye men of news,
And do not thus the world amuse:
It is not—cannot—must not be!
And wants no talk on butterflies,
On eggs and bird-nests, newts and weeds:
He wants a man to talk on wars,
On dread invasions, wounds, and scars,
On stumps, and carcasses, and heads.
And with a net his captive hamper,
Sir Joseph is expert, and must delight;
But, as for politics!—O Heav'n!
The board must very hard be driv'n,
To choose a swearing tadpole knight!
Sir Joseph's very bitterest foe
Must certainly allow him peerless merit;
Where, on a wag-tail, and tom-tit,
He shines, and sometimes on a nit,
Displaying pow'rs few gentlemen inherit.
Subduing ev'ry thing he darts his eye on;
Rather, I ween, an intellectual flea,
Hopping on Science's broad bony back,
Poking its pert proboscis of attack,
Drawing a drop of blood, and fancying it a sea!
(And marv'lous things oft come to pass),
Should he be dubb'd a king's adviser;
'Twill be so wonderful a change—
So very, very, very strange!
What's stranger still, the council won't be wiser!
Then privy counsellor in spite
If, for the last, he hands has kiss'd;
There's not a reptile on his list
E'er knew a stranger transmutation.
To take so dignified a place?
But probably the knight will say, the elf,
‘Why should not I, as well as some of those
Who this same wondrous board compose?
There are not wiser fellows than myself.’
That's true.—
Sir Joseph on a beetle's brain,
A fly, a toad, a tadpole's tail:
While Pitt is on the emperor's loan,
For Britain's jaws so hard a bone,
Sir Joseph's on a weed and snail!
And turns, poor man! his hopeless eyes
On what may lift us from the bog;
The knight his head for flea-traps rakes,
Or louse-traps, or deep-studying makes
A pair of breeches for a frog .
Shall weep o'er England's groans and troubles,
Ordering great guns to make the Frenchmen caper;
Of reptiles will the knight be dreaming,
And instruments for insects scheming,
To stretch their little limbs on paper.
All for the good of our great state,
A moth should flutter, would the man sit quiet?
Forgetting state affairs, the knight
Would seize his hat with wild delight,
And, chasing, make the most infernal riot:
O'erturning benches, statesmen, ev'ry thing,
To make a pris'ner of the mealy wing!
A simple story;
An Æsop's tale, by way of illustration,
Proving Sir Joseph's awkward elevation.
(For cats like Christians said their pray'rs of yore),
That he would make her a young lady fair;
And how, of rattling thunder the great God
Consented to it with his usual nod,
And made her pretty too as she could stare.
When in her deary's loving arms lock'd tight,
She heard behind the bed a rat;
Sudden from his embrace she gave a spring,
Forgetting love, and kiss, and ev'ry thing,
To catch the vermin like a cat:
And how, to punish her, with huge disdain,
The angry god made miss a cat again.
Forget his partiality and love;
And as Jove justly serv'd the cat, to shame her;
So, from a counsellor, the king of men
May make the knight a grub-hunter agen,
And bid him mind his butterflies and hammer.
Since the foregoing Ode was given to the printer, it is too true that the newspapers were in the right. The knight is bonâ fide dubbed a privy counsellor. Ridicule enjoys a second feast on the occasion. Her first treat was his elevation to the chair of the immortal Newton.
Sir Joseph must not complain at his being so frequently the subject of a poetical laugh; Folly is the natural and fair game of Satire. To wreak his revenge on the Muse, by condemning her to silence, let him cease to play the fool. Amotâ causâ, tollitur effectus—I beg the knight's pardon, for I recollect that he has forgotten all his Latin, and retains his native vulgar tongue only.
Notwithstanding a thousand experiments in favour of pointed conductors, the knight and co. will not allow the ingenious Franklin, the father of electricity, to be in the right with respect to the superiority of points to nobs: too obstinate (and perhaps too ignorant) to be convinced, and too haughty to yield.
See the works of Bonnet and Spalanzani, a pair of frog-tailors, who employed a great deal of time and ingenuity in cutting out taffety breeches for the males of the little croaking nation, during their amours, in order to establish some beautiful and delicate facts relative to impregnation.
My bookseller assuring me, with a most solemn countenance, that the public expect more for their half-crown than was provided: in imitation of our most compliable Administration, I have yielded to their hungry wishes, and cooked up a pretty dish of bubble and squeak.
The composition is elegiac, that is to say, full of complaint and tenderness; and I have moreover baptized it a Jeremi-ad, on account of a tender and sublime resemblance between my song and the songs of the prophet. The birth of my Jeremi-ad immediately succeeded Pitt's and Grenville's two celebrated Bills of Terror.
It pathetically lamenteth the fallen state of one of our most admired poets, videlicet, myself! and is addressed to Mr. George Rose, of the treasury, a pains-taking man, of low extraction, pitiful talents, and of no education; but who, finding, in his journey from Scotland to England, a couple of ladders, very much like those employed by Messieurs Pitt, Dundas, Jenkinson, and Co. called impudence and perseverance, ascended, like the aforesaid bold gentlemen, to nearly the same plane of elevation; showing thereby the little or no importance of merit and modesty towards the attainment of fortune and honours.
A JEREMI-AD, ADDRESSED TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ. OF THE TREASURY.
That from the porcupine at Folly flew?
Where, where his cannon that in thunder kills?
The sword of Satire that its thousands slew?
Has lost its fury—to a whisper dies!
The look of Pitt the poet's tongue appals!
‘Curs'd be the bard!’ the politician cries.
Those glorious pheasants! noble cocks and hens!
But now of smaller size I cast my leads,
Forc'd (what a paltry mark!) to fire at wrens!
Nor sharpen, for a king and queen, my wit;
No more indulge my humour with a louse,
Content with humbler game, to crack a nit.
And Jack may fly before a poking pin;
The lady, frighten'd, tumble from her saddle,
And show her lovely legs without a grin.
Must to the iron times his genius suit;
The bard, in energy divinely strong—
The bard, whose voice was thunder, must be mute.
The statesman triumphs!—all my cunning foils!
He careth not five farthings for my roar,
But mocks the lion struggling in his toils!
I push'd my daring top into the skies;
Grac'd with my large, luxuriant limbs the mount,
And drew the wonder of a million eyes!
Amid the work of terror, shook my form!
Low to the earth, my head with rev'rence came,
And own'd the passing genius of the storm!
Heav'ns! what a change!—a mighty change prevails!
The second king of Babylon at grass!
Satire's archangel fall'n to feed on snails!
Full of their magnanimities, agree
That Peter shall not laugh at queens and kings,
Permit me, gentle George, to laugh at thee.
A COMMISERATING EPISTLE TO JAMES LOWTHER, EARL OF LONSDALE AND LOWTHER, Lord Lieut. and Cust. Rot. of the Counties of Cumberland and Westmorland.
De scelere, et fidei violatæ crimine? Sed nec
Tam tenuis census tibi contigit, ut mediocris
Jacturæ te mergat onus; nec rara videmus
Quæ pateris; casus multis hic cognitus, ac jam
Tritus, et è medio Fortunæ ductus acervo.
JUVENAL.
Of this d*mn'd verdict at Carlisle to-day?
Faith, simply this—‘A flea-bite, and that's all—
A loss that will not swallow Lowther-Hall:
A trick of Fortune that we often find:
A trick that plainly proves the goddess blind.’
THE ARGUMENT.
The noble Earl, as naturally in Pursuit of his
Coal as a Sportsman of his Hare or Fox, happening
in a Coal-chase to undermine a parcel
of Houses belonging to the Lord-knows-who, of
Whitehaven (no Votes perhaps for a Borough
or a County), but particularly of a Mr. Littledale
—what does this insolent Littledale, but
complain!—Nay, not contented with Complaint,
he insists upon it that his Lordship has
no Right to pull down his House about his Ears
—nay, what is still worse, the Fellow brings an
Action, absolutely brings an Action against his
Lordship—nay, what is still more horrible, the
Knave gets a Verdict in his favour—and, what
is more atrocious still, the Villains of the Town
and Neighbourhood illuminate their Houses, as
if for the Birth-nights of our beloved King
and Queen, and exhibit equal Symptoms of Joy.
—Notwithstanding this saucy Opposition to
their great Superior; notwithstanding the
wicked Action; notwithstanding the vile and
unnatural Verdict; notwithstanding the triumphant
Illumination and brazen-faced Delight
High threat'ning, hect'ring, bullying, kicking, swearing—
What! thou, the brazen bully that bestrode
Triumphant navies and the roaring flood,
Yield to the anger of a tiny town,
Who oft hath frighten'd counties with a frown!
A set of smutty colliers mock thy pow'r!
A hogstye lord it o'er a lofty tow'r!
A few blind mice, in little league ally'd,
Ye gods! o'erturn a pyramid of pride!
And shake this Lonsdale, who his birth belies.
Shock'd at his weakness, History turns pale,
And madly tears the leaf that holds the tale.
Look through the desert of five hundred years!
Lo, not a Lowther virtue once appears.
Then why to Fame's fair volume madly rush,
And give thy poor old ancestors a blush?
Ah, do not so unfashionably dote,
And stitch one spangle on an old black coat.
A farthing candle midst a world of shade.
But grant a solitary deed—achieve it—
Pray, who the devil, Lonsdale, will believe it?
Thus will the nation with one voice exclaim—
‘A Lowther do an act of virtuous fame!
When from a Lowther did a scyon shoot,
A Lowther trunk not rotten at the root?
Expect much sooner, nonpareils from crabs,
Honour from thieves, and decency from drabs.
Horace declares (a bard whom all approve)
The vulture never breeds the tender dove.’
And snap, like mites, a million at a meal.
High o'er the rills that course the pebbled bed!
With what humility those rills salute,
And trembling wind around his rugged root;
Like busy slaves, their little stock afford,
And creeping, kissing, feed their frowning lord!
Mark, too, around that oak's majestic pride,
The pismires crawling up his channell'd side;
And mark his shelt'ring limbs, support of fowl,
The wren, the hawk, the cuckoo, and the owl.
Say, Lonsdale, canst thou not resemblance see,
Resemblance strong between that oak and thee?
Why be a willow, then, and meanly bend?
Why bid the Lowther blood in Lonsdale end?
And op'd to Pity's cry its iron gate?
Or is that heart, which soar'd o'er man, sublime,
Struck by the palsying hand of envious Time?
Despise that thing call'd Meekness—'tis a sniv'ler.
With pious sentiments, forsooth, who glows,
And kisses the vile hand that deals her blows.
Spurn at Forgiveness, that ev'n fears to chide,
And keep again the company of Pride.
Scowls high contempt on all th' untitled race:
Go herd with Leeds, in native pride so stable,
Who scorns to let his mother sit at table:
Herd with the dame of Blenheim , of hard lot,
Whose pride lies poison'd by the lovely Scot;
Mad that the Marlb'rough blood, where honour reigns,
Should join the puddle of a Sawney's veins:
Herd with the lofty 'squire of Strawb'ry Hill,
Whom genealogies with rev'rence fill;
Who on no threads of value puts
That are not fairly spun from William's guts.
How great in Horace thus to rev'rence birth;
Himself a well-known clod of common earth?
With dæmons once thy spirit dar'd engage,
Spat on the mob that Freedom's ensigns bore,
Smil'd at his storm, and mock'd his thunder-roar;
Fac'd keen Contempt, and Murder's sanguine eye,
And horsewhipp'd whining Mercy to her sky.
How art thou sunk! how wither'd!—Lost, I fear,
Where is the Lowther spirit—tell me where?
Speak, can the ghost of Conscience haunt thy mind?
Hear'st thou the call of Death in ev'ry wind?—
Lo, Resolution to thy terror turns,
And o'er the skeleton of Manhood mourns!
Go, Wonder, to Earth's utmost limits fly,
And, say, if aught like this e'er stretch'd thine eye.
Forge, forge anew Oppression's galling chain;
And bid with gags the mouth of Freedom grin.
Bid the dark Furies all thy bosom steel,
And Cumberland afresh thine anger feel:
Yes, yes, of Cumberland the comet, blaze,
And, crab-like, roast her rascals with thy rays.
Stretch o'er the shrinking towns thine arm of pow'r,
And, hydra-like, their croaking frogs devour.
Show that thy breath, like Envy's, baleful blows:
A canker be, that kills the lovely rose.
Prove how a rising country can be curst,
And bid with spleen old Nero's spectre burst.
That happy fatten'd on the fertile land;
Forc'd Cain-like off, where Famine sucks her nails,
To starve, or hunt the wall and hedge for snails.—
And to a beggar's rag, a malkin sink?
What! shall the vulture-wing, that scour'd the sky,
Sneak to a bat's, that shuns the public eye?
Jove's bird (the thunder from his talons torn)
Turn owl, to cry, ‘Tee-whit’ in some old barn?
What! I, through Opposition's surly surge
Who boldly dar'd so oft a passage urge,
Cry out at last, ‘Help, help’—to fear a slave,
Pale, panting, puking; spent beneath the wave?
Shall Resolution that defied a world,
Oppos'd by pigmies, from his height be hurl'd?
Those pigmies o'er the huge man mountain straddle,
Or, laughing, rock the giant in a cradle?
No, low-bred villains—nought my pow'r controls;
I'll hunt you all like vermin through your holes;
Out, root and branch—men, women, dogs and cats;
Run children from the ruins just like rats:
Writhe into earth, like worms, and fear my frown;
For, d*mn me, all your houses shall come down.
Wretches, your heads are in the lion's jaws;
Off with them—Lonsdale dares defy the laws.
So, scythe of Desolation, sweep the scene.’
And nobly emulate thy sires of old.
For speech like this (too weak the voice of Fame)
The mouths of cannon shall convey thy name—
Such threat'ned deeds of hostile, godlike ire,
Should travel only on the wings of fire.
No, be a grinding-stone its rugged guest.
Why should a virtue, man, thy mind bewitch;
Lo, Generosity was never rich.
What! woo the Virtues!—of the world the sport—
Nay, worse, who dare not show their nose at court!
To look contemptuous on the world below;
To bid that world bow down, admire, adore,
And grind the sallow faces of the poor.
A Nimrod, lo! a lofty lord of earth!—
Yet why should hares, and partridges, and grouse,
Alone be ravish'd from the farmer's house?—
Go, Lonsdale, get an act to raise thy fame,
And make the farmers' wives and daughters game.
This soft, forbearing, lamb-like, dove-like spirit?
I saw sharp Vengeance tip-toe-in thine eyes:—
How comes it that the threat'ning spirit dies?
When tyrants bid in chains the million mourn;
When slaves, to grandeur crouch amid the dust,
And Havoc roams, to please the ruling lust;
When Pride as calmly from the shoulder plucks
The heads of vassals as the heads of ducks.
Again let pow'r her rod of iron raise.
That, running riot, on their huntsman fly!
How are the sacred robes of Greatness rent!
Kings and nobility fall'n cent. per cent!
From general riches what misfortunes flow.
Wealth for delicious slavery spoils a nation—
Adieu at once to gods and adoration.
Crouch, flatter, tremble?—Keep the rascals poor.
Tyrannic, would you wish to cut and carve 'em?
Their backs are at your service—only starve 'em?
Give them but money, quick uprise the knaves,
Forgetting in a moment they are slaves.
Lost to the meanness of their former station,
The scornful upstarts damn their occupation.
Lo, the proud blacksmith, late a slave to coal,
To honours turns his elevated soul!
The cross-legg'd tailor, lo, forgets his peers;
Kicks his old goose, the knave, and breaks his shears!
The show-man scorns poor Punch, his late support,
And straw-stuff'd ladies of th' Arcadian court;
This quits his camel—that, his conj'ring hogs;
And kings no more can dance with dancing-dogs .
Grant wealth—No more the humble cobbler cow'rs;
But boldly deems his blood as rich as ours,
And blasphemously thinks th' Almighty's plan
Ordain'd no diff'rence between man and man.
Such is the sad effect of wealth—rank pride—
Thus, mount a beggar, how the rogue will ride.
Then 'mid thy neighbours let her not be seen.
And tempts divine Oppression from her den.
What folly, then, to let thine host repose,
To suffer Cumberland to lift the nose!—
Down with their hosts, and horsewhip them like dogs!
Styes be their beds, their food the food of hogs.
Keep famish'd, sons and daughters, fathers, mothers;
Nor let them beat in trade their grinning brothers;
Iberian monkeys, that to business bred,
Well pleas'd, for maravedes hunt the head.
And bid a second scene of horrors rise.
By Britons led, did Famine's spectre train
Pour devastation on the fair domain.
What humble victims sunk beneath the strife!
What thousands, tott'ring, snatch'd at parting life!
Nought could, alas! their suppliant hands avail:
In vain each feature told a starving tale;
On those rich heaps that rose beneath their care,
Their eye-balls fast'ning in a deadly glare.
There hadst thou seen the sallow babe distrest,
Hard clinging to a dying mother's breast;
Beating that breast with little, peevish cry,
Its plumpness wither'd, and its fountain dry:
Such was the scene, whilst ev'ry night, to sup,
The jackalls left their woods, to eat them up.
Soft, puling, as the girl at boarding-school,
That alms upon the begging wretch bestows,
And learns to sorrow at the tale of woes.
Brutes, insects boast it—elephants and flies.
The horse would rather the blood-spur should gore him,
Than let a fellow-trav'ler pace before him:
A brother, with what jealousy he hears!
Unblest, attention how he tries to raise;
Paws for a gentle pat, and whines for praise!
The great unceasingly the small devour.
Lo, by the spider weav'd the silken line,
A giddy wand'rer strikes the waving net;
Hitch'd his poor pinions, hitch'd his harmless feet:
Quick from his cave, that hid his watchful head,
The nimble tyrant scours along the thread;
Whips from the store-room of his guts a string,
And binds his captive's vainly-buzzing wing;
Remorseless deals the bite of death; and then
The Cacus drags the victim to his den.
Sweeps the blue vault, and wheels with watchful flight;
A son of rapine, and untaught to spare,
The feather'd Nimrod roams the wild of air;
At length his searching eyes with joy explore
A hen and chicken near a farmer's door:
Sudden the tyrant quits th' aërial steep;
Down from his sphere he pours with lightning sweep,
Each iron talon fills with callow food,
And carries off in triumph half the brood.
In vain the parent flutters, capers, cries,
And kens her captive children up the skies;
And, lo! in vain the cursing farmer runs,
To send the leaden vengeance from his guns:
Safe seeks the rogue some solitary stone,
To tear the trembling flesh, and grind each bone.
See, sly below, the alligator creep:
Whate'er he seizes, yield's to Fate's dread laws,
Crush'd in his hard inexorable jaws.
And do not in a tittle lag behind 'em.
Be thou the tyrant kite, that scours the skies;
Be thou the hard-mouth'd subtle alligator,
Th' inexorable monarch of the water.
On all th' inferior hosts of sea regale!
The shark, the grampus—how before their eye
Th' affrighted under-world of fishes fly!
The region of inferior mortals scour?
For thee, then, was all Cumberland design'd,
The whale, the shark, the grampus of mankind!
Lo, at thy foot, the people whine and pray—
But kick them, Lonsdale—'tis the Lowther way:
Tread on each neck, and deem it but a beast,
And emulate the tyrants of the east.
Perchance thou fearest to be d*mn'd, or so?
On that, thou shouldst have ponder'd long ago.
Look at thy boroughs—not one vote alone
Can give a candidate the mob-rais'd throne.
Thus to the shrine of virtue must be giv'n
More than one deed, to seat the soul in heav'n.
Deem otherwise—it were too mad by half—
Lord! how would shoe-makers and angels laugh!
Heed not her men—'tis plain they all despise thee.
For ask thyself, ‘Amid this smutty nation,
What have I done to merit approbation?’
List!—from one bosom canst thou hear her sigh?
Nought like a tear, and nought resembling moan!
Knee and mouth penitence, indeed, alone.
With voices louder than the common crier's,
I hear their hearts abuse their tongues for liars!
Their noses never caught thy kitchen's smell;
For meat is apt opinion to improve,
And stomachs form a turnpike-gate to love.
I bid thee spread thy terrors o'er the plain.
Hang o'er those sparrows with o'ershadowing pride,
And bid them trembling in their thatches hide:
O wake thy plagues, and break the shameful truce:
Unmuzzle Vengeance—let the blood-hound loose,
To bid Humanity, pale fool, adieu,
And flesh his hunger on the coal-black crew.
Thus shall the Lowther name again be great,
Men tremble at the sound, and children sweat;
High o'er thy walls, to prove a host, one slave,
The lordly flag of Tyranny shall wave:
Thus at thy fect shall dumb Obedience fall,
And H*ll, in lustre, yield to Lowther Hall.
Poor Mistress Anguish has been refused, in form, the honour of a knife and fork near her most exalted daughter. ‘Nimium ne crede colori:’ the duke is by no means so soft a man as he looks.
Lady Susan Stuart, equal in good qualities, beauty, and accomplishments, to any of the Spencers, is presumed, by her union with her son, the Marquis of Blandford, absolutely to have defiled the family.
It is an undeniable fact, that a certain great king (it is said, for the diversion of his children only) held out the skirts of his coat, and danced a minuet on Windsor Terrace, some years since, with one of the canine figurantes.
PINDARIANA;
OR, PETER'S PORTFOLIO.
CONTAINING TALE, FABLE, TRANSLATION, ODE, ELEGY, EPIGRAM, SONG, PASTORAL, LETTERS. With Extracts from TRAGEDY, COMEDY, OPERA, &c.
HOR.
And yet it only wins the ear:
Verses should win the heart too—dulcia sunto:
Such verses sure success command:
The game is in the poet's hand—
Spadillio, and Mannillio, Basto, Punto.
TO THE PUBLIC.
READER,
Pleasant and numerous are the volumes in ana; viz. Scaligeriana, Thuana, Huetiana, enagiana, Chævreana, Carpenteriana, &c. to which I have added, for thine amusement, Pindariana. May the spirits of Chaucer, of Shakespeare, of Cervantes, of Rabelais, of Sterne, of Fontaine, of Tibullus, of Horace, of Martial, of Theocritus, and my great old cousin of Thebes, have entered my Portfolio, and animated my leaves
Ah! may no eye wax dim upon my page;The lid, all heavy-laded, dully closing;
The drooping head, as though from palsied age,
Reclining lumpish on the breast, and dozing;
While from th' ungrasping hand, tremendous sound,
The poor forgotten volume greets the ground!
May no fastidious critic be able to say of my lucubrations what the blaspheming Dr. Johnson, with his oracular and growling pomposity, asserted of the sublime Ossian—‘that as good a thing might be
Produce one melancholy, damning yawn.
O let me feel the muse's warmth divine!
Perdition seize a soporific line!
Ne'er may the leaden lumber load my brain!
Avaunt the sleepy verse! confound the song
That dragging, heavy, snail-like, crawls along!
Oblivion, bid thy mud o'erwhelm the strain!
I hate it, as old Snuffle I abhor;
The parson who, with one unvarying tone,
Sets all the jaded audience in a snore—
Such the strong opiate of his drowsy drone.
Nor, O ye pow'rs of poesy, be mine
The roaring, blust'ring, mad, and bullying line,
As though the muses all were lying-in
Of some wild Calibanish, mountain form;
An earthquake, or volcano, or a storm,
So huge the sound, so horrible the din.
Nor let me prove so pompously obscure—
A mode of writing, I detest, abjure;
With stiff inversions the poor sense to screen
From ev'ry aching brain, and poring eye,
And in a rage to make the reader cry,
‘Why, what the devil can the booby mean?
Thus too with epithets to cannonade us,
As if the beast were vomiting a gradus!’
Let me not act the goose, screaming and waddling,
Poking his silly head, in mudpools paddling:
No!—with a lofty pinion let me rise;
Face with an eagle wing the solar beam,
Drink with undazzled gaze th' effulgent stream,
And with the rush of whirlwinds sweep the skies;
Thence, in an instant be the humble wren,
Twitt'ring his love-notes sweet to Mistress Hen.
The Proteus power be mine, to take each shape;
Skip like a Will-o'-whisp—be here, be there—
Now the grave moralist, and now an ape.
Now roar the savage of the Libyan shade,
Where horror listens to the shrieking ghost;
Now Pompey in Belinda's bosom laid,
Or whining, pawing for a piece of toast.
Now roll the monarch of the stormy deep,
The floundering terror of the finny race;
Now the slim eel, of ponds so lucid, creep;
Now leap a salmon, and now glide a plaice.
Thrice happy change of soul-delighting song!
This were my talent, blest would Peter be!
But who, alas! is thus divinely strong?
Shakespeare, that envied pow'r I mark in thee.
Let me inform thee, reader, that no order will be observed with respect to the various pieces. Thou wilt receive them as they leap from the portfolio; so that there will subsist as little connexion between one and another, as between Lady Mary and the Graces, Lord Th---w and the Lord's Prayer, Signor Marchesi and creation, Sir Joseph Banks and philosophy, Sir William Hamilton and the secrets of Mount Vesuvius, Judge K. and a whole bottle of port, Judge B. and reprieve.
Various will be the subjects of the muse. Ode, Elegy, Fable, Tale, Ballad, Epigram, &c. a version, at times, of parts of the venerable classics, whose spirit has been but feebly transfused through our modern languages, will be given;
Are chang'd to paltry broomsticks, by translation:
Their pyramids, a little village spire;
Their skies, blue paper; their ear-rending thunder,
With lightnings darting danger, blazing wonder,
A poor coal coffin bouncing from the fire;
Their cities, emmets' nests—a spider's hole!
Their mountains, what?—the mansion of the mole.
Too oft the roses of th' Athenian vale
Resign their blushes for a deadly pale;
An Attic sun converted in a trice
To a dull torpid cake of shiv'ring ice!
A rill, their oceans that no longer roar;
Their storms, a wind's small whistle through a door;
The sun-clad eagle, a weak flick'ring bat;
And Afric's royal brute, a squeaking rat.
The tender passion will make a prominent figure on the canvass; and why not, as it is one of the most prominent features of Nature? Who is there that has not sacrificed to the amorous goddess?
When dew-clad Evening's modest blushes fade,And Nature sinks amid the deep'ning shade,
And Labour pauses on the fainting light:
When beetles hum, and bats in circles skim,
When hills and hamlets, trees and tow'rs, grow dim,
And Silence steals upon the gloom of night;
With joy I tread the secret grove,
To meet the idol of my love.
What a monster, who never felt the soft emotion!
Ah! whence art thou, of wealth the slave?
Go, seek the haunted gloom, the grave;
Whose eye, on money taught to roll,
Admits not beauty to the soul:
For thou wert born an imp of care.
But who art thou, with anxious eye,
With panting hope, and melting sigh,
Who biddest tempting gold depart,
And only woo'st the virgin's heart?
Go thou where Beauty holds her throne;
For bliss was form'd for thee alone.
Next to the contemner of the charming sex, is the savage who abuses it. Poor Marian! sweet is thy song of sorrow!
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song;
Adieu the dance at closing day,
And, ah! the happy morn of May.
And wove the garland for my hair!
How oft for Marian cull'd the bow'r,
And fill'd my lap with ev'ry flow'r!
But from my brow the chaplet tear;
The crook he gave, in pieces break,
And rend his ribbons from my neck.
And carv'd on ev'ry oak my name!
Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree
Is all that will remember me.
Rich fragments of the Tragic and Comic Muse, not forgetting the muse of ballad, yclept Opera, will occasionally
Reader, thou shalt have more than all this. Thou shalt be presented with some of the Travels of the bard, who, like the hero of the Odyssey, mores hominum multorum videt et urbes. But expect no wonders, as I am neither a Mandeville, a Psalmanazar, nor an Abyssinian Bruce. Unfortunately I have met with no ‘Anthropophagi, and men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.’
How many numbers I shall offer thee, is a mystery even to myself.—Should we not be eaten up by the threatening and hungry sans-culottes; by the blessing of Apollo and the Nine Ladies, a handsome volume or two may be produced; and to give thee my sentiment on the sans-culottes subject, I really think we shall not be devoured.
The happy natives shall for ever smile,
While by thy rage the kingdoms bleed around;
Safe as the chirping birds amid the oak,
That bids defiance to the tempest's stroke,
And keeps with stern sublimity his ground.
ADIEU.
PROLOGUE.
TO THE CRITICS.
And faintly Sol the world illumes;
Weak wand'rer, skirting pale the southern sky,
Yet squinting on the old blue road,
In summer with such splendor trod,
Now far, alas! above his wat'ry eye.
Behold the man of rhimes appear!
Much like the woodcock—bird too often bit;
When out are dogs, and sportsmen dire,
To try to fit him for the fire;
Doom'd soon to turn, poor fellow, on the spit!
With bleeding breast, crush'd legs, and broken wings,
And scatter'd plumes a cloud, and hanging head,
Down falls the emigrant, a lump of lead;
Soon seiz'd by Tray, expecting much applause,
Who, wriggling, brings the pris'ner in his jaws.
Most venerable greybeards, with poor me!
Condemn'd, for want of poetry and wit,
To turn perchance upon your piercing spit;
Hoping, moreover, they won't be the last:
And, sirs, whatever fate you may allot me,
Thanks, thanks, that hitherto you have not shot me.
So much to the liberal critics;—what shall I say to the illiberal?
Rake, if you please, the kennel of your brains,And pour forth all the loaded head contains;
I shall not suffer by it, I am sure!—
Nay, my poetic plants will better thrive;
Exalt their heads and smile—be all alive;
As mud is very excellent manure.
Brother authors, attend unto the wisdom of Peter. Are the cries of the malevolent and envious against you? Be silent, and let your works fight their own battle. Are they good for nothing? Let them die. Possess they merit? They need not be afraid.—Bid your minds then sit calmly on their thrones, amidst the hurly burly of critical attacks.
Go take a lesson from the glorious sun,Who, when the elements together run
In wild confusion—earth and wind and water,
Looks on the tumult down without dismay,
Nay, bright and smiling—seeming thus to say,
‘Lord! bustling gentlefolk, pray what's the matter?’
HYMN TO THE GUILLOTINE.
So busy chops the threads of life,
And frees from cumb'rous clay the spirit;
Ah! why alone shall Gallia feel
The beauties of thy pond'rous steel?
Why must not Britain mark thy merit?
And lo, a squalid band appear,
With sallow cheek and hollow eye!
Unwilling, lo, the neck they bend;
Yet, through thy pow'r, their terrors end,
And with their heads the sorrows fly!
To Britons show thy blushing face,
And bless rebellion's life-tir'd train!—
Joy to my soul! she's on her way,
Led by her dearest friends, Dismay,
Death, and the Devil, and Tom Paine!
Be deaf, O man, to the insinuations of pride. It is the poisonous weed of the heart, that suffers not a flower of beauty or fragrance to bloom near it.
Boast not of the antiquity of thy line: for, to thy mortification, be it known, that the family of the hogs was created before thee.
Then, Pride, be sparing of thy saucy spittle;
The wheel of Fortune is for ever turning;
Joy's birthday-suit may soon be chang'd to mourning!
Nimrods become the victims of the chace.
Why look contemptuous on a fellow-creature,
Because it is a monkey or a pig?
They too have qualities, or I'm mistaken:
What man excels a hog in making bacon?
What mortals, like a monkey, dance a jig?
Ingenious rogue! who twists his tail, and swings?
Dare we despise, because they cannot preach,
Forsooth, ungifted with the pow'rs of speech?
That were a joke indeed to make a song:
Ah me! what numbers of the human race
Most fortunately had escap'd disgrace,
Had Heav'n forgot to give their mouths a tongue!
Resolv'd, the fool, to keep her distant way.
THE PROUD OLD MAID.
Whose charms had felt a heavy cannonade
From Time's strong batt'ry—to whose lofty nose
A rotten reputation was a rose,
Liv'd in a country town—there spit her spite,
And dwelt on scandal's stories with delight.
In genealogies, an epicure;
From that of splendor, to the most obscure.
An appellation always carrying fame,
As ev'ry Howard kins with Norfolk's duke;
Moreover, ev'ry Campbell of our Isle,
Cobbler, or chimney-sweeper, claims Argyle;
And eke to Queensb'ry doth a Douglas look;
Not to be wash'd away by Noah's flood.
When conversation ask'd for no such kin;
Cousin of Norfolk, then untimely came;
Nay, by the head and shoulders was lugg'd in.
From cards returning by a lantern's light;
The lantern by her servant Betty held,
Who walk'd before this dame, to show the way;
When thus it happen'd, sadly let me say,
Such is th' unhappiness of blinking Eld—
And therefore wanted cleaning and repair;
Against some head, her poking head she popp'd—
Dash'd with confusion, suddenly she stopp'd,
Drew back, and bent for once her rusty knee—
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said she:
‘Tell me, who was the gentleman I met;
‘Whose face I bounc'd so hard against with mine?’
Bet could not for her soul the laugh resist—
A gentleman!—a jack-ass, ma'am, you kiss'd;
I hope you found Jack's kisses very fine.’
‘An ass!—Lord! Betty, I shall die with shame!
Give me a knife—I'll run and cut his throat.
Betty, don't say a word on't—that, alas!
I curtsied, and ask'd pardon of an ass!
EARLY PROPENSITIES.
How early, genius shows itself at times!Thus Pope, the pride of poets, lisp'd in rhimes;
And thus the great Sir Joseph (strange to utter!
To whom each insect-eater is a fool)
Did, when a very little boy at school,
Munch spiders spread upon his bread and butter!
Sir Joseph Banks, the president of the Royal Society, and who has often declared this rare fact of himself, and who is so improved in power as to be able to devour an alligator.
INVITATION TO CYNTHIA.
Though tyrant Winter shade the scene;
The leafless grove has felt his gale,
And ev'ry warbler mourns his reign.
Thy voice the linnet's song supplies:
Or what the cloud to me, who find
Eternal sunshine in thy eyes?
KISSES.
Hawser.Dear Susan, one kind kiss before we part.
Susan.
Not the thousandth part of one, Mr. Lieutenant, I assure you. Keep your distance, pray, kind sir. Kisses indeeed! I wonder what fool first invented the nonsense?
Hawser.
Nonsense!—sense, Susan! rapture, Susan!
SONG.
Not a pleasure in nature is missing:
May his soul be in Heav'n, he deserv'd it, I'm sure,
Who was first the inventor of kissing.
Whose discovery will ne'er be surpast:
Well, since the sweet game with creation began,
To the end of the world may it last!
THE OLD SHEPHERD'S DOG.[_]
I do not love a cat—his disposition is mean and
suspicious. A friendship of years is cancelled
in a moment by an accidental tread on his tail or
foot. He instantly spits, raises his rump, twirls his
tail of malignity, and shuns you; turning back, as
he goes off, a staring vindictive face, full of horrid
oaths and unforgiveness; seeming to say, ‘Perdition
catch you! I hate you for ever.’ But the dog is my
delight:—tread on his tail or foot, he expresses, for
a moment, the uneasiness of his feelings; but in a
moment the complaint is ended. He runs around
you; jumps up against you; seems to declare his
sorrow for complaining, as it was not intentionally
done; nay, to make himself the aggressor; and begs,
by whinings and lickings, that master will think of
it no more. Many a time, when Ranger, wishing
for a little sport, has run to the gun, smelt to it,
then wriggling his tail, and, with eyes full of the
most expressive fire, leaped up against me, whining
and begging, have I, against my inclination, indulged
him with a scamper through the woods or in
the field: for many a time he has left a warm nest,
among the snows of winter, to start pleasure for
me. Thus is there a moral obligation between a
man and a dog.
I do not love a cat—his disposition is mean and suspicious. A friendship of years is cancelled in a moment by an accidental tread on his tail or foot. He instantly spits, raises his rump, twirls his tail of malignity, and shuns you; turning back, as he goes off, a staring vindictive face, full of horrid oaths and unforgiveness; seeming to say, ‘Perdition catch you! I hate you for ever.’ But the dog is my delight:—tread on his tail or foot, he expresses, for a moment, the uneasiness of his feelings; but in a moment the complaint is ended. He runs around you; jumps up against you; seems to declare his sorrow for complaining, as it was not intentionally done; nay, to make himself the aggressor; and begs, by whinings and lickings, that master will think of it no more. Many a time, when Ranger, wishing for a little sport, has run to the gun, smelt to it, then wriggling his tail, and, with eyes full of the most expressive fire, leaped up against me, whining and begging, have I, against my inclination, indulged him with a scamper through the woods or in the field: for many a time he has left a warm nest, among the snows of winter, to start pleasure for me. Thus is there a moral obligation between a man and a dog.
His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue:
Yet where'er Corin went, he was follow'd by Tray;
Thus happy through life did they hobble along.
For a nap in the sun—'midst his slumbers so sweet,
His faithful companion crawl'd constantly nigh,
Plac'd his head on his lap, or lay down at his feet.
And torrents descended, and cold was the wind,
If Corin went forth 'mid the tempests and rain,
Tray scorn'd to be left in the chimney behind.
For vain, against Death, is the stoutest endeavour—
To lick Corin's hand he rear'd up his weak head,
Then fell back, clos'd his eyes, and, ah! clos'd them for ever.
Who oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would bend;
And, when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain,
‘O bury me, neighbours, beside my old friend!’
JENNY'S COMPLAINT.[_]
Notwithstanding the general contempt of
poor Sternhold and Hopkins, of psalm-inditing
memory, I do not deem them beneath the dignity
of some imitation. I fear that too many a poet
of the present day is affected (if I may coin an expression)
with a phusi-phobia, or a dread of nature
and simplicity; and, if I may judge from the
difficulty of comprehending their meaning, they
fancy Obscurity to be the genuine parent of the
Sublime. In the following ballad I have endeavoured
to steer between the two, assuming a little
liberty with historical truth respecting Jenny and
the celebrated auld Robin.
Notwithstanding the general contempt of poor Sternhold and Hopkins, of psalm-inditing memory, I do not deem them beneath the dignity of some imitation. I fear that too many a poet of the present day is affected (if I may coin an expression) with a phusi-phobia, or a dread of nature and simplicity; and, if I may judge from the difficulty of comprehending their meaning, they fancy Obscurity to be the genuine parent of the Sublime. In the following ballad I have endeavoured to steer between the two, assuming a little liberty with historical truth respecting Jenny and the celebrated auld Robin.
And all the world seem'd dead;
When, pond'ring on poor Robin Gray,
I went with sighs to bed.
The moon, that wand'rer pale,
In at my window peep'd and shin'd
So faint against the wall.
And sigh'd ‘Ah! well-a-day!’
For then I dwelt on my dear love,
My buried Robin Gray.
All dreary and forlorn,
My hair did drink the briny tears
That down my cheek did mourn.
The moon's pale face o'ercast;
The window shook, and horror howl'd,
Amid the hollow blast.
Their lofty heads bent low,
And 'midst their mighty branches roar'd,
As if they scorn'd to bow.
The storm went rushing on,
Scattering their limbs and leaves so thick,
As heedless what was done.
And terrified the night,
And lightnings, with a dangerous blaze,
Made all the darkness bright.
Did sink with no dismay,
Since often it had wish'd to die
For dear auld Robin Gray.
All aged, pale, and wan;
And, by his visage, I could spy
He was my lost auld man.
As harmless as a dove;
And though he had two hollow eyes,
They look'd with tend'rest love.
Full many a drop of woe:
So from the cave or rugged rock
The pearly waters flow.
To clasp him round the waist;
But nought of his poor spectre drear
My longing arms embrac'd.
Thy arms would clasp me in;
For spirits, such as thou behold'st,
Have neither bones nor skin.’
All hurried with surprise;
And, eager to devour each look,
My soul rush'd through my eyes.
That press'd so often mine;
But twas in vain—'twas nought but air,
Which made my heart to pine.
As made of flesh and blood:
But God knows best what should be done,
And God is very good.
‘In this thy present state?’
He smil'd like angels then, and said,
‘God well hath chang'd my fate.
And peace shall dwell with thee;
And when just Heaven shall call thee hence,
With Robin thou shalt be.’
And rais'd each wetted eye;
Then glided off, and, as he went,
I heard the kindest sigh.
‘Soul of my soul, adieu!
My bosom throbs to leave this world,
And thy dear flight pursue.
Ah! stay awhile,’ I said—
‘As Jemmy is come home from sea,
May I with Jemmy wed?’
But off his ghost did go;
Which made me wonder—but perhaps
His ghost had answer'd, ‘No.’
Whilst we in love did live,
Deserve more streams from these sad eyes,
Than they have drops to give.
Did wear a dismal gloom;
And all who did the burying see,
With eyes so red went home.
I thought was sweetest fame;
And when I die, God grant my bier
Be sprinkled with the same!
Did pour their little sighs,
And on the coffin near the grave
They strain'd their wat'ry eyes.
His corpse at length was giv'n,
They look'd towards each other's eyes,
And sigh'd, ‘He's goue to Heaven.’
And lisp'd his name with praise,
Till all the little wights did wish
To be auld Robin Grays.
ODE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
And long, say I indeed, may love endure!
Yet now and then to Prudence should it look—
Yes, take a little leaf from Wisdom's book.
Mourn the pierc'd heart, and lay them down to die;
Just like expiring swans, with tuneful breath,
Sweet rhiming in the agonies of death.
And pour their little groaning souls on paper:
Love should not come till Time removes the bib;
Misses should learn to walk before they caper.
It does not always furnish happy hours,
The novelty sets people's souls a longing—
What thousands to their ruin thus are thronging!
Indeed we see the evil in all nations.
It keeps the world alive, it is confess'd;
So far, indeed, I like the pleasing charm—
Yet, yet, through Love, what thousands are distress'd!
And lo, I seek nought else—for nought is missing:
Let me for ever dwell on Chloe's lip;
On Chloe's bosom let me only lie;
There pour in sweetest ecstasy the sigh,
And, like the bee, the honey'd treasure sip.
Chloe is all I want, and all I wish!’
‘Sweet are of Love the sighs, and dear the flames!
Love smiles away the dark'ning clouds of life:
Love feels no rains, nor storms, nor pinching cold:
Love wants not fire nor candle, meat, clothes, gold:
All bliss is center'd in that one word—wife.’
THE OWL AND PARROT.
Sighing and hooting in his lonely hole—
A parrot the dear object of his wishes,
Who in her cage enjoy'd the loaves and fishes,
Washing and lodging—full enough, I think.
His oaths, his squeezes, kisses, sighs, prevail:
Poll cannot bear, poor heart, to hear him grieve;
So opes her cage, without a ‘By your leave;’
Are married, go to bed with raptur'd faces,
Rich words, and so forth—usual in such cases.
Love, kissing, cooing, billing, all their meat:
At length they both felt hungry—‘What's for dinner?
Pray what have we to eat, my dear?’ quoth Poll.—
‘Nothing! by all my wisdom,’ answer'd Owl;
I never thought of that, as I'm a sinner;
What say'st thou, deary, to a dish of rats?’
Eat them yourself, or give them to the cats,’
Whines the poor bride, now bursting into tears.—
‘Well, Polly, would you rather dine on mouse?
I'll catch a few, if any in the house;
Thou shalt not starve, love, so dispel thy fears.’
Don't tell me of such dirty vermin—don't:
O that within my cage I had but tarried!’
‘Polly,’ quoth Owl, ‘I'm sorry, I declare,
So delicate, you relish not our fare—
You should have thought of that before you married.’
To Frenchmen—sans-culottes-men. Ah! how? why?
Cameleons—but, ah! changing for the worse:
Poor ignorants, scarce knowing what they want;
Bart'ring too often blessings for a curse.
So strong within them is of change the leaven:
A Frenchman's flutt'ring soul would feel ennui
Ev'n midst the blessed constancy of Heaven!
AN ANACREONTIC.
TO A KISS.
Inform me, O delicious kiss,
Why thou so suddenly art gone?
Lost in the moment thou art won?
On Delia's lip, with raptur'd eye,
On Delia's blushing lip I see
A thousand full as sweet as thee.
A TRANSLATION
Of the preceding Imperial Panegyric on Tea.
And yet it gives the eye delight;
It likewise has a charming smell:
The pines, too, are a pretty fruit,
That much indeed my palate suit,
And much in flavour, too, excel.
For such a thing is found with ease,
That has three legs—and therefore shows
Its ancient services;—then fill
With water, and, what's best, the rill,
The lucid rill, from melted snows.
The water fit to boil a fish,
Or turn the blackest lobster red;
Pour then the water on the tea,
Then drink it, and 'twill drive, d'ye see,
All the blue devils from your head.
I steal away, to drown my cares,
For which I take of tea a cup;
And then I snap the rich fochu,
Fine to the taste, and to the view;
And then again the tea I sup.
Now of the ancients, with amaze,
I think—and also with delight;
The best and frugallest of men,
Who liv'd on pine from morn to night.
And then I drink:
Then I crack nuts, and eat the kernels too;
Then think on that great gard'ner, great Linfou.
To that great prince, yclept Tchao-tcheou;—
Then upon You-tchouan I ponder:
Thus do I sit, and eat, and drink, and wonder.
Surrounded by all sorts of trees;
Now tasting this rich fruit, now that so fine:
I mark the second quaffing the rich water;
But, knowing very little of the matter,
Thank Heav'n his vulgar taste was never mine.
Sounding aloud, ‘Go to bed, Tom!’
Good me! how pleasant is the starry night!
Lo, on each dish, and silver spoon,
And plate, and porringer, the moon
Peeps through my tent with friendly light.
My stomach, too, so easy grown!
And now I'll take a nap—thus ends my song,
Compos'd by me (a humble bard) Kien Long.
ODE TO COFFEE.
In the Manner of Kien Long.
When from the Eastern Ind, not West;
Nought richer is, I think, than thee:—
Into a roaster, with my hand,
I put thee, and then o'er thee stand,
And then I catch thy smell with glee.
And, when turn'd brown, I take thee out,
And then I put thee in a mill;
And, when to powder thou art crush'd,
Into a tin pot thou art push'd,
To feel the boiling smoking rill.
The fragrant fluid sweetly flows;
And now I put the lily cream,
And sugar too, the best of brown;
And, happy, now I gulp thee down
Keeping my nose upon the steam.
And now on virtuous Edmund Burke,
Who calmly let Sir Thomas 'scape:
And then unto myself I say,
‘Is Honour dead? ah, well-a-day!’
And then my mouth begins to gape.
And now at his rare merit wonder,
In flies and tadpoles deep;
I hear the drowsy Blagdon read,
And then I fall asleep.
Sir Joseph's right hand, and secretary to the Royal Society; who has very often read the very respectable meetings of the Royal Society to slumber.
ODE.
[When Flatt'ry sings, Age opes his eyes so clear]
And claps so brisk the trumpet to his ear,
So wondrously inspir'd he lists, and sees!
When Flatt'ry sings, pale Colic's pains are off;
Consumption pants not, but forgets his cough;
And Asthma's loaded lungs forbear to wheeze.
Flatt'ry's a talisman to drive the devils.
As warbling dieth Philomela's song;
So on the ear of man, with rich delight,
The lulling music flows from Flatt'ry's tongue.
Who says, with truth, ‘Poh! Flatt'ry! I abhor it.’—
'Tis a non-descript—by Sir Joseph bred—
A Soho monster, born without a head.
With picklock keys to open ev'ry heart.
No one! 'tis such a most successful batt'ry.
No head, however thick, resists its shot;
Yet each pretends to mock it!—what a sot!
SUSAN AND THE SPIDER.
High on the gilded cornice a proud rider,
And, wanton, swinging by his silken rope;
‘I'll teach thee to spin cobwebs round the room;
You're now upon some murder, I presume—
I'll bless thee—if I don't, say I'm no pope.’
Determin'd on a fatal push,
To bring the rope-dancer to ground,
And all his schemes of death confound.
Slipp'd down, and, staring Susan in the face,
‘Fie, Susan! lurks there murder in that heart?
O barb'rous, lovely Susan! I'm amaz'd!
O can that form, on which so oft I've gaz'd,
Possess of cruelty the slightest part?
On which I've peep'd with wonder many a night,
Nay, with these fingers touch'd too, let me say,
Contain a heart of cruelty?—no, no!
That bosom, which exceeds the new-fall'n snow,
All softness, sweetness, one eternal May.’
‘How, Impudence! repeat those words again:
Come, come, confess with honesty—speak, speak,
Say, did you really crawl upon my neck?’
I saw thee sleeping by the taper's light;
Thy cheek, so blushful, and thy breast so white:
I could not stand it, and so down I slid.’
‘Yes, Susan! Nature's is a pow'rful law.’
‘Arn't you for ever busy with that claw,
Killing poor unoffending little flies,
Merely to satisfy your nasty maw?’
Don't you on pretty little pigeons cram?
Don't you on harmless fishes often dine?’
‘That's very true,’ quoth Susan, ‘true indeed;
Lord! with what eloquence these spiders plead!
This little rascal beats a grave divine.
But a sly spider that seduc'd poor Eve.
I did not make myself, you know too well:
Could I have made myself, I had been you,
And kill'd with envy ev'ry beauteous belle.’
Well! go about thy business—go along;
All animals indeed their food must get:
And hear me—shouldst thou look, with longing eyes,
At any time on young, fat, luscious flies,
I'll drive the little rascals to thy net.
I think a spider, now, a comely creature!
VERSES TO A WHITE SATIN PETTICOAT,
Belonging to Miss Molly M---, But spoiled by the Author's inadvertent Stupidity, in throwing on it a Cup of Coffee.
How shall the poet for his crime atone?
So lately blest as thou, I'm sore afraid
I have no recompense to offer!—none!
Then from this moment do not dare complain:
Nay, more—the nymph surveys thee with a sigh—
Then boast!—the envy thou, of ev'ry swain.
THE TINKER, AND MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
A TALE.
As Providence ne'er makes a thing in vain.
On Fortune's various tricks a constant thinker,
Pass'd in some village near a miller's door;
The miller's daughter peeping o'er the hatch,
Deform'd, and monstrous ugly, to be sure.
Just like a frighten'd horse, or murd'rer carted,
Up gazing at the gibbet and the rope:
Turning his brain about, in a brown study
(For, as I've said, his brain was not so muddy),
‘'Sbud! (quoth the tinker) I have now some hope;
And then began to rub his hands, and dance.
Embrac'd and squeez'd Miss Grist, and thus began:
‘My dear, my soul, my angel, sweet Miss Grist,
Now may I never mend a kettle more,
If ever I saw one like you before!’
Then, ‘nothing loth,’ like Eve, the nymph he kiss'd.
Thought opportunity should not be miss'd;
Knowing that prudery oft lets slip a joy:
Thus was Miss Grist too prudent to be coy.
To flout a swain, when offers are but scarce.
‘Keep off, you smutty fellow—don't be rude;
I'm meat for your superiors, tinker.’—No,
Indeed she treated not the tinker so.
Suffer'd her tinker lover to imprint
Sweet kisses on her lip, and squeeze her hand,
Hug her, and say the softest things unto her,
And in love's plain and pretty language woo her,
Without a frown, or ev'n a reprimand.
And, when the tinker chose, to church be led.
Who at his noisy mill so busy plied,
Grinding, and taking handsome toll of corn,
Sometimes indeed too handsome to be borne.
Forth from his cloud of flour the miller came:
‘Nice weather, Master Miller—charming day—
God's very kind’—the miller said the same.
At this same business I am come about:
'Tis this then—know, I love your daughter Bess:—
There, Master Miller!—now the riddle's out.
I likes your daughter Bess, and she likes me.’
‘Thou dost not mean to marriage to persuade her;
Ugly as is the dev'l I needs must think her,
Though, to be sure, 'tis said, 'twas me that made her.
But, tinker, what hath now possess'd thy mind?
Thou'rt the first offer she has met, by Gad—
But tell me, tinker, art thou drunk, or mad?’
‘But Bet's the maid I wish to make my bride;
No girl in these two eyes doth Bet excel.’
‘Why, fool,’ the miller said, ‘Bet hath a hump!
And then her nose!—the nose of my old pump.’
‘I know it,’ quoth the tinker, ‘know it well.’
Her mouth as wide as that of my Tom cat;
And then she squints a thousand ways at once—
Her waist, a corkscrew; and her hair how red!
A downright bunch of carrots on her head—
Why what the dev'l is got into thy sconce?’
‘But, Lord! what's that to you, if fine, I think her?
And therefore sure I am that thou must banter!’
‘Miller!’ reply'd the tinker, ‘right! for know,
'Tis for that very thing, a show, I want her.’
MELANCHOLY.
HERMIONE.A sighing solitary form I roam;
A tear on Nature's universal smile!
Thou genius of my natal hour, whose hand
Pierces my moments with the thorns of woe,
When will the measure of my grief be full?
When will the silent asp of hopeless love
Withdraw his fang of torment from my heart?
How lately joy was mine!—but where is joy,
That cheerful pour'd a sunshine o'er my soul?
Gone! like the last, last sun, to sink in night,
Nature's last night, and gild a morn no more!
Enter CAMILLA.
My lov'd Hermione, I heard thy sigh,
And left my sleep to soften thy affliction.
Why killest thou that gentle frame with weeping?
Sorrowing, thou seemest to delight in woe,
And feed existence upon sighs and tears.
HERMIONE.
Camilla, the dread silence of the hour
Suits but too well the colour of my soul.
And happy dreams to sooth the peaceful breast,
Pours on my wakeful eye, far diff'rent guests;
The foulest, darkest demons of despair.
Lorn, at the midnight hour, when all is hush'd,
I wander restless; sadly now I sit,
My brimfull eyes for hours both motionless,
Swimming with woe, towards the passing moon,
Who on me, as she lonely glides along,
Casts a pale beam of melancholy light,
That seems a ray of pity on my fate.
THE DRUID HYMN TO THE SUN.
O sacred fount of life to all!Before thy glorious beam we fall,
And strike with raptur'd hand the lyre;
To thee we lift our wond'ring eyes;
To thee the hymn of morn shall rise,
And bless thy mounting orb of fire.
Chorus.
Beams that illume and glad the world below.
No smile her Æthiop cheek adorn'd;
Pale Night had spread her spectred reign,
And death-like Horror rul'd the scene.
Chorus.
All hail the beams that night destroy,And wake an opening world to joy!
That chase the spectres to their tomb.
TO CHLOE.
There goes my last, my poor last shilling:
Vile Fortune bids us part!
Yet, Chloe, this my bosom charms,
That, when thou'rt in another's arms,
I still possess thy heart.
And possibly may blush with shame
At this her freak with me:
But should she smile again, and offer,
Well fill'd with gold, an ample coffer,
I'll send the key to thee.
THE BLIND BEGGAR.
A willing balm thy wounded heart shall find;
And lo, thy guiding dog my care implores!
O haste, and shelter from th' unfeeling wind.
And humbly sue for piteous alms my ear;
Yet disappointed go with lifted eyes,
And on my threshold leave th' upbraiding tear?
Bend not to me, because I mourn distress;
I am thy debtor—much to thee I owe;
For learn—the greatest blessing is to bless.
And quiv'ring lip to fancy seem to say,
‘A more than common beggar we bespeak;
A form that once has known a happier day.’
And press'd by weight of years, thy palsied head,
Though silent, speak with tongues that must be heard,
Nay, must command, if virtue be not dead.
Shall give the village-lads the soften'd soul,
To aid the victims of life's frequent storm,
And smooth the surges that around them roll;
And teach, that virtue may from misery spring!
Flame like the lightning from the frowning cloud,
That spreads on Nature's smile its raven wing.
That nobly scorns to hide the useless store;
But looks around for objects of distress,
And triumphs in a sorrow for the poor!
Ah, what an envied bliss doth Heaven bestow!
To raise pale Merit in her hopeless hour,
And lead Despondence from the tomb of Woe!
And, hov'ring round me, vainly court my care;
While I possess the life-preserving grain,
Welcome ye chirping tribe to peck your share.
And hear while summer spreads her golden store;
Heed not the plaintive voice that charm'd before!
Strews with some flow'rs the road of life for me,
Ah! can humanity desert my mind?
Shall I not soften the rude flint for thee?
And warring elements, to warmth and peace;
Nay, thy companion too shall comfort know,
Who shiv'ring shakes away the icy fleece.
Now on his master turns his gladden'd eyes;
Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate,
Licks his lov'd hand, and then beneath him lies.
A hermit there, exalt to Heav'n thy praise;
There shall the village children show their love,
And hear from thee the tales of other days.
Charm thee with orisons to opening day;
And there the red-breast, on the leafless thorn,
At eve shall sooth thee with a simple lay.
Thy friends around shall watch thy closing eyes;
With tears, behold thy gentle spirit go,
And wish to join its passage to the skies.
ANACREONTIC SONG.
TO MY LUTE.
Let us seek the lov'd cot of the fair;
There soften her sleep with thy sound,
And banish each phantom of care.
And be sooth'd, nay, be pleas'd with thy song;
Alas! she may pity the swain,
And fancy his sorrows too long.
What a joy, what a rapture were mine!
Then for ever thy fame would I speak—
O my lute, what a triumph were thine!
And sweetly my wishes impart;
Say, the swain who adores her, is near;
Say, thy sounds are the sighs of his heart.
A PASTORAL SONG.
That smiling with happiness flew!
Ye verdures and blushes of May,
Ye songs of the linnet, adieu!
In anguish I move from the fair:
Which Fortune has doom'd to despair?
Of rapture, departed the breath!
So gloomy the grove and the bow'r,
I tread the pale valley of death.
At the breeze which her beauty has fann'd;
And I envy the bird on the thorn,
Who sits watching the crumbs from her hand.
Who calls her from slumber, so blest;
Nay, I envy the nightingale's note,
The Syren who sings her to rest.
One look! the last comfort!) be mine—
O pleasure, and Delia, farewel!
Now, sorrow, I ever am thine.
GOOD FRIDAY.
Ambitious much 'mid modern saints to shine,
On a Good Friday evening took an airing:—
Not far had he proceeded, ere a sound
Did the two ears of this good priest astound;
Such as loud laughs, commix'd with some small swearing.
With such a staring, rolling, phrensied eye;
Where, lo! a band of rural swains were blest:—
Too proud to join the crew, he wav'd his hand,
Beck'ning to this unholy playful band—
Forth came a boy, obedient to the priest.
On this most solemn day of all the year?’
‘Playing to skittles,’ said the simple lad:
‘Playing at skittles!—Devils, are ye mad?
‘For what?’—‘A jack-ass, sir,’ the boy replies—
‘A Jack-ass!’ roars the priest, with wolf-like eyes:
Tell them this instant, that they'll all be damn'd.’
Then off he set, th' important news to carry;
To warn them what dread torments would ensue:
But suddenly the scamp'ring lad turn'd round,
And thus, with much simplicity of sound,
‘Sir Harry, must the Jack-ass be damn'd too?’
ODE TO A PRETTY BAR-MAID.
And roses that would tempt a saint to sin,
Daily to thee so constant I return;
Whose smile improves the coffee's ev'ry drop,
Gives tenderness to ev'ry steak and chop,
And bids our pockets at expenses spurn.
Shall on that lovely bosom fix his dwelling?
Perhaps the waiter, of himself so full!
With thee he means the coffee-house to quit;
Open a tavern, and become a cit,
And proudly keep the head of the Black Bull.
Together mingled their poetic rage;
Here Prior, Pope, and Addison, and Steele;
Here Parnell, Swift, and Bolingbroke, and Gay,
Pour'd their keen prose, and tun'd the merry lay,
Gave the fair toast, and made a hearty meal.
The wits their epigrams so happy, penn'd,
And bade in madrigals a Chloe shine;
A Mira, a Belinda, and a Phillis,
Who boasted roses possibly, and lilies,
Such as now deck that cheek and breast of thine.
Give me another, and another steak,
A kingdom for another steak, but giv'n
By thy fair hand, that shames the snow of Heaven.
And let thy luscious lip embalm the glass—
Touch it, and spread a charm around the brim:
Health to thy beauties, Nancy, and may Time
Ne'er meddle with thy present healthful prime,
Thy ringlets spoil, and eyes of di'monds dim.
Youth nimbly turns him round, with wanton leer;
Nay, wrinkled Age himself, with locks so white,
Findeth within a kind of bastard fire,
Whose mouth, poor cripple, watering with desire,
Opes toothless on thy beauties in delight.
He feels himself a pair of ages younger!
Are doom'd, for life, to circle those bright charms,
And to that bosom give brave girls and boys?
That lucky lot, alas! will ne'er be mine—
A gaze, a squeeze, perchance a kiss divine,
Must form the bounds, O Nancy, of my joys.
So kind, thy poet's moments to beguile,
Thou wishest to bestow!—in Love's name give 'em;
And, thankful, on my knees will I receive 'em.
ANACREONTIC.
SONG.
Seize his hammer, and cut off his hands:
To the bottle, dear bottle, I'll stick like a rock,
And obey only Pleasure's commands.
Waiter, bring us more wine—what a whim!
Say, that Time, his old master, for topers was made,
And not jolly topers for him.
ODE TO A HEDGE-SPARROW,
NURSING A YOUNG CUCKOO.
Thou art a fool, upon my word:
Now on the bush, and now upon the ground;
Now hov'ring o'er my head, and saying
Such bitter things—now begging, praying,
Poor wretch, surveying me so sharp all round
Where all thy dearest wishes rest.
As soon as dewy morning paints the sky;
Now twitt'ring near the nest such strains of joy,
Proclaiming to the world a hopeful boy!
Immense thy pride—thy ecstasy how wild!
Yet not one trait of thee doth he display:
Indeed thou never didst beget the youth;
And more—to tell thee an unpleasant truth,
His father will be here the first of May.
A little gamesome knight we know,
Who fosters children—loves them to distraction;
Shows them about from morn to night,
Drinking such draughts of rich delight
From ev'ry feature—so much satisfaction!
Own nose, own dimple, in each pretty dear!—
But who's the real parent?—Am'rous John,
Good-natur'd fellow, made them ev'ry one.
TO ANACREON.
And with thee bring thy sweet old lyre;
To praise the first of British maids,
Whose charms will set thy soul on fire.
Of justice must thy heart despair;
Which suited very well thy day,
That saw no damsel half so fair.
THE CAPTIVE QUEEN.
Fair promise of a happy day;
But, luckless, ere it reach'd its noon,
The fiend of darkness dimm'd the ray.
And distant nations pour thy praise;
While, raptur'd, on thy form divine
The eyes of Love and Wonder gaze?
Must yield to sighs that mourn in vain;
And Pity, come with sweetest lute,
To sooth thy sorrows with her strain.
Must charm no more the dangerous hour;
The warning voice of ravens, hear,
That croak thy doom on yonder tow'r.
Where Murder's triumph cleaves the sky;
Where heaves with death the groaning scene,
And dungeons loud for vengeance cry?
And thine to latest time shall bloom—
The blow that sinks that beauteous frame
Gives all the virtues to the tomb.
ANACREONTIC.
Because a kiss or two I took?
Those luscious lips might thousands grant—
Rich rogues that never feel the want.
So little in a kiss I see,
A hundred thou mayst take from me.
Thou hat'st to give, though running o'er;
I scorn to cause the slightest pain,
So pr'ythee take them back again;
Nay, with good int'rest be it done—
Thou'rt welcome to take ten for one.
TO TIME.
To give, then take a grace away;
The damsel from her charms to sever,
So pleas'd to keep them all for ever.
And says, ‘O Time, receive my darts;’
Her beauties are a lawful prize—
Then take the lightnings of her eyes.
And root the lilies from her neck;
Her dimples seize, her smile, her air,
And with them make a thousand fair.
ODE TO JEALOUSY.
Seizes on ev'ry whisper—whose owl's eye,
When Night's dark mantle wraps the silent sphere,
Stares watchful of each form that passeth by!
Dissension-breeder, from thy very birth?
How much more of the serpent than the dove!
I cannot guess thine errand to this world—
By thee is Nature topsy-turvy hurl'd!
And nearly ruin'd the soft land of Love!
And say, ‘Pray how d'ye do, my dearest ma'am?’
Behold, a tempest swells the husband's mind,
Who gives my sweet civility a d*mn:
For, lo, thy wickedness at once adorns
His trembling temples with a brace of horns.
Adieu, alas! the pleasures of the fair!
Farewel, of Benedick, the wedded bliss!
When, hark! the keen reproach!—the lady's sigh!
Dead the fond squeeze, and mute the chirping kiss!
‘Open his letters—pick his pockets, ma'am—
Somewhat will be discover'd, never fear;
Something to dash the monster's cheek with shame.
Nor let your eyes a single moment stray:
He catches a lewd squint, if yours are blinkers:
Make him look straight on, forward to the stage;
And, on refusal, tell him, in a rage,
You'll give him, coach-horse like, a pair of winkers.’
ANACREONTIC.
On others bid thy beauty shine:
Beyond the hopes of this sad heart,
I view that peerless form, to pine.
'Tis mine of Sylvia to complain;
Made a poor pris'ner while I gaze,
I feel in ev'ry smile a chain.
ODE TO THE LADIES OF ENGLAND.
Peter more than suspecteth, that a few Passages of his Works have given Offence to his fair Countrywomen. —Peter's Contrition thereat, and violent Resolution.
Could I once write what you would blush to read;
But that same poet clepped Jean Fontaine
Was verily the taste and admiration
Of all the ladies of the Gallic nation,
Quoted and toasted o'er and o'er again.
Who, when to nymphs of other realms compar'd
(And lo, on numbers have these eye-balls star'd),
Are, as rich Burgundy to dead small beer!
Protested—seeming too to shut his door;
Pronouncing all obscenity absurd—
That ribaldry was folly—nothing more:
Yet Master Pope, who Decency so flatters,
Plumps boldly into certain wicked matters.
At gluttony a man should never bark,
On dainties, who is pleas'd his mouth to ope,
And guttling swallow plates-full like a shark.
Says things that cover Modesty with shame:
I must confess I never saw nineteen
Pour such an Ætna forth of am'rous flame.
Too oft the lines give Modesty a shock:
Warm inuendos bid her blushes rise:
Yes, often I've heard Modesty declare
‘That many a line indeed has made her stare;
She knew not where to look—where fix her eyes.’
Held language horrid for our chaster day.
What lady-mouth would yield the bard a smile?
No!—frowns would fill their faces in its stead.
And yet, ye dames so chaste, those tales are read—
I see no lips with blushing anger ope,
And cry, ‘I loath the nasty leaves of Pope.’
Who read with fear my songs of darts amd flames;
Speak—is not Pope an idol 'mid your books;
Does not Saint Patrick's Dean, so void of grace,
Among your leathern fav'rites show his face,
Whose many a leaf should only lodge with cooks?
Knock not the mem'ries of those poets down,
It striketh me indeed with huge surprise,
That Peter's purer line should feel a frown.
I with a twig of Pindus scarcely struck her:
They stripp'd her naked—I just clasp'd her waist,
And delicately only touch'd her tucker.
Who will not read my rhimes—mistrusting harm?
Let not my volumes on the nymph intrude,
And ring to Chastity the wild alarm;
Make in her pretty panting heart a riot,
Demanding months to bring it back its quiet.
Holding of Love's choice spice a little,
Might be indulg'd to warm Dame Nature's kettle,
But not to bid it boil tempestuous over.
Love warms his inside like a pot of ale;
Thaws his cold heart, and makes it beat so cheery!
His eyes, that, owl-like, wink'd upon the day,
Burst open with a keen and twinkling ray,
And, lo! he hugs and kisses his old deary.
And woe to mortals who are foes to Love!
As long as this our system holds together,
Love will stand brush, against all wind and weather.
Refuse to read my rhimes on darts and flames,
And other pretty little trifling things,
The fount from which such nat'ral rapture springs;
To you in future must belong:
Yes, yes, for you the bard shall form the strain—
And then, who knows? it may be so, I wot,
The dames may cry, ‘Those islanders have got,
Ye gods! an absolute Fontaine.
Lord! let his wild imagination flow—
Banish the Loves!—O what a Gothic sweep!
The world at once, so dull, would fall asleep!’
Ev'n now would I ask pardon on my knees:
If aught I've sinn'd, the stanza must not live—
Bring me the knife—I'll cut the wanton page,
Which puts my lovely readers in a rage:
But hark! they cry, ‘Barbarian, we forgive.’
What goodness, kindness, reigns in female natures!
TO CYNTHIA.
What danger lurks in those bright eyes!Lo, by their fire thy poet dies:
Yet bravely let me meet my doom—
And since to thee I owe my death,
I beg thee, with my parting breath,
To let thy bosom be my tomb.
ANACREONTIC.
Upon the radiance of thy charms?
And, vent'ring nearer to their rays,
How dar'd I clasp thee in my arms?
Which thy sweet pity will deplore:
Then, Cynthia, take the kiss again,
Or let me take ten thousand more.
THE LADY'S LAP DOG AND THE COACHMAN.
Was vastly delicate in all her frame;
Could put down nought at last, but nice tid-bits:
Nay oft, with much solicitation too,
Her mistress was oblig'd to kiss and woo,
For fear poor tender Chloe might have fits.
So round, a foot-ball quite, and fair her fleece.
And sleep o'er Chloe's eye-lids did prevail;
'Twas very very difficult to say
Which was her head indeed, and which her tail.
Did sullenness and sickness show;
So heavy leaving off her wanton capers;
Gap'd, stretch'd, and lethargy she likewise show'd,
Was sick at stomach (may I dare say sp*w'd?)
And seem'd, poor dog, afflicted with the vapours.
Hugg'd her, and kiss'd her, full of sad alarms,
Fearing her poor dear little soul would die:
Chloe was all stupidity and lumpish;
Scarce lick'd her hand—so sullen and so mumpish,
Nor scarcely rais'd the white of either eye.
Quite lost her appetite—she has no will
To move, or say, poor soul, a single thing:
Jehu, what can the matter be—d'ye know?’
‘I think, my lady, I could cure Miss Chlo.’—
‘Dear Jehu, what delicious news you bring!
And from her spirits drive this ugly gloom,
And get her pretty appetite again.’
‘O good my lady, never, never fear;
I understand her case—'tis very clear;
By Heav'n's assistance, I sha'nt work in vain.’
Who, looking back all wistful, felt no itch
To go with Jehu—still he bears her on:—
Arriv'd, kind Jehu offers her a bone.
In vain—'tis shut—she lays her on the floor,
And whines—gets up, all restless—looks about;
Watches the door so sly, and cocks her ears;
So pleas'd and nimble at each sound she hears,
In hopes (vain hopes, alas!) of getting out.
Bounce from her gaoler, through a pane of glass,
And, by a leap, no more in prison groan;
But, fearing she might spoil her pretty chops,
Nay, break her neck by chamber-window hops,
Chloe most wisely lets the leap alone.
‘Chloe, do you love liver?’ Jehu said—
‘The devil take,’ she seem'd to say, ‘the giver:’
So hurt the dog appear'd—then turn'd her head.
To-morrow I shall ask you the same question.’
The morrow (ah! a sulky morrow) came:
Chloe scarce slept a single wink all night:
Whining and groaning, longing much to bite;
Calling in vain upon my lady's name.
No, thank ye, Jehu.’—‘Leave it, pretty Chlo.’
Miss Chloe crawl'd about the room, so sad,
Sulky and disappointed, angry, mad;
Now moaning, now upon her rump so dumb,
At times, around on barb'rous Jehu squinting;
Such looks! not much good will to Jehu, hinting.
‘Chloe, how stands your stomach? how d'ye feel?
‘Jehu, I will not eat?’—Jehu goes out—
What does Miss Chloe?—With a nimble pace,
Runs to the liver, without saying grace,
Gobbling away, with appetite so stout;
And, not half satisfy'd, she lick'd the dish!
Takes civilly a slice of musty bread;
Rejects from Jehu's hand no kind of food;
Glad on a rind of Cheshire to be fed.
And, triumphing, his little patient shows;
Not once discovering the coarse mode of cure—
Jehu had lost his place then to be sure.
Half crazy, hugging, kissing her—so blest
To see her fav'rite Chloe's chang'd condition:
‘Thank ye, good Jehu—Heav'ns, what skill is in ye!’
Then into Jehu's hand she slips a guinea,
And Jehu's thought a very fine physician.
ODE TO THE POET DELILLE.
Peter kindly congratulateth his Brother Poet on his lucky Deliverance from a Dungeon, and asketh him Questions concerning his poetical Feelings—Whether he meaneth to exalt Convention, and debase poor Britain?—Peter adviseth the contrary, and telleth the Poet unpleasant Truths, with a witty Comparison.—Peter painteth, with the Pencil of a great Master, the Portrait of a Frenchman, in which, Impudence, Insolence, Ignorance, and savage Cruelty, form the predominant Features.
Imprison'd, much (I guess) against thy will,
By that unfeeling tyrant Roberspierre:
Set free from this same death-encircled vault
By one (I fear me!) not without a fault;
In short—I mean as great a rogue, Barrere.
The guillotine's high flood must damp thy fire:
The axe, which falls upon its prey in thunder,
Must bid thee touch with trembling hand the lyre.
Yes, on the muse's bells thou must be ringing;
Thou wilt indulge the fascinating chime,
Deaf to the oracle that cries ‘Don't rhime.’
Swear Britain soon beneath its might must cow'r,
Just like the wren beneath the eagle's wing?
Say, no such thing.
We Britons, I protest, have no such fears:
France, to be sure, is huge—our island little—
Yet spare upon our heads th' insulting spittle.
Are little folks of resolution;
And when upon their prey they fall,
Do a vast deal of execution.
Have found the lubbers of the largest size.
On the world's map:
Astonish'd on his view to see advance
Regions like France!
Deems the wide universe within his hole.
'Tis pity undeceive the popinjay.
Barbarian, savage, all the world beside;
It is his narrow nature—cease then blame:
In Afric I have seen on trees the apes
Mocking at man, with grins and antic shapes,
Who of our species thought the very same.
Then pr'ythee take from me a little pill;
Perhaps 'tis somewhat bitter—never mind it:
It cureth puppyism—I hope thou'lt find it.
Thy fame is then upon the hope forlorn;
Doom'd not far distant ages to explore:
Learn to despise thy Country—'tis a fool,
Cruel, and of Hypocrisy's dark school,
Tyrannic, savage, rotten at the core.
But Vice should ever meet his fair reward:
Yes, let me drag the monster from his den—
This trifling ode perchance may rouse thy gall;
If angry, bid thy rage on Justice fall,
The goodly goddess who now guides my pen.
TRANSLATION FROM GALLUS.
At morn, if Cynthia meet my sight,'Tis sweet Aurora's blushing light;
And if at eve she cross my way,
The star of Venus darts its ray.
A SECOND ODE TO THE POET DELILLE.
Peter proposeth very important Questions, and suspecteth Monsieur Delille of an Inclination to whitewash the black Faces of Devils.—Peter giveth a sublime Description of French Liberty. —Peter putteth Delille in Mind of Nature's niggard Allowance to every Man of one head only, and of an Inconvenience arising from the Loss of it, on Account of the Difficulty of procuring another.—Peter sagely adviseth him to beware of Barrere, and think of a Return to his Dungeon. —Peter picturesquely describeth the Supports of French Liberty—foretelleth the humbled State of the mighty Reformers.—Peter objecteth not to a general Intellectual Illumination, but seemeth to think that a Frenchman's Attempt must produce only a national Conflagration; Peter thus fancying every Frenchman a mad Quixote.—Peter again kindly inviteth his Brother Bard to England, and concludeth with a flaming Trait of Barrere.
Who warble with a rope about his neck?
Who in the tiger's mouth would keep his head,
With pow'r to draw it from a place so dread?
Would mingle with the refuse of the tombs,
With legs to bear him to the fragrant day,
From reeking bones, and Horror's haunt, away?
A dark divan of devils—yes,
Full of their deeds may flow the flatt'ring rhime;
Which song may stoutly swear that ‘Athens, Rome,
Ne'er rais'd to Liberty an equal dome,
So sacred, so stupendous, so divine!’
A monstrous slaughter-house that taints the sky:
Within a day—perchance one little hour,
Thy courteous song, which sooths with sweetest sound,
Turn'd by the people's thunder—will be found,
All of a sudden, vinegar so sour!
Black Murder's orgies—the wild howl of death!
Then quit thy country—yes, disclaim thy mother:
Mind!—on thy shoulders stands one simple head;
Mind me, but one—and when that one is fled,
'Twill puzzle thee, I think, to get another.
Take Peter's counsel, man, and keep it on.
Perhaps to plunge in thy devoted heart.
The dungeon gapes perhaps to let thee in;
Opes his dark jaws, amid the spectred gloom,
For thee, a second time to raise thy moan,
Breathe the vain wish, and heave the helpless groan—
Thou'lt be well furnish'd both with time and room.
Are cannon, swords, and bayonets, and spears;
Hyænas, tigers, jackalls, wolves and bears:
Instead of adamant for a foundation,
The groaning carcasses of half the nation.
Sharp are her whips of wire, and hard her bats:
What sad humility awaits the hour
When lordly lions grind poor mice with cats!
Cracks snails with crows, and feasts with croaking frogs!
Yet this, you wondrous men must do ere long,
If Truth (who seldom fails) awaits my song.
With you I'd tear up Superstition's root,
Dark fiend! who from the sacred hand of Truth
Dares snatch her torch, and crush it under foot.
This were Dame Wisdom's act; but, let me add,
Wisdom and France are foes—for France is mad.
Go, bid with lullaby the tiger sleep;
Bind with a spider's web, the whirlwind's wing;
And with the wren's small plume, keep down the deep.
And smother its wild thunder on the skies.
'Tis vastly safer, I assure thee, here,
Since Murder is the order of the day,
And venom feeds the heart of black Barrere.
Each frighten'd dev'l at once will fly the place.
FROM ANACREON.
UPON HIMSELF.
And Love, my slave, the wine supply.
Too soon we seek the Stygian gloom:
Time flies; and, since to dust we go,
Why idly bid the incense flow,
And spill the juice upon the tomb?
And bid the rose my brows entwine,
While youth, while health the bosom warms—
Then pr'ythee, Love, delight my heart,
Ere Death dispatch his certain dart,
And bring a Chloe to my arms.
MAY DAY.
And vi'lets sweet their odour yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
For this is Nature's holiday.
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest, the plough.
While rapture swells the liquid note!
What warbles he, with merry cheer?
‘Let Love and Pleasure rule the year?
And throws a smile around his sky;
Embracing hill and vale and stream,
And warming Nature with his beam.
And kiss with Zephyr ev'ry flow'r;
Shall these our icy hearts reprove,
And tell us we are foes to Love?
PHILLIDA'S COMPLAINT.
What has estranged thy affections from me? What have I done, that I should lose thee? But thou art tired with the object that loves thee; possibly, because her sole happiness is founded on thine.
SONG.
I will watch with delight on thy rest;
I will soften thy bed on the ground,
And thy cheek shall recline on my breast.
On me, let their fury descend:
This bosom shall scorn to complain,
While it shelters the life of a friend.
To another, ah! dost thou depart?
Believe me, in time thou wilt say,
None e'er lov'd thee like Phillida's heart.
To mem'ry thou still shalt be dear:
The winds shall oft waft thee a sigh,
And the ocean convey thee a tear.
A THIRD ODE TO THE POET DELILLE.
The Lyric Bard proclaimeth the Folly of the present French.—Adviseth them not to harbour Passions degrading to Humanity.—Peter, with wonderful Fancy portrayeth Prudence and Passion. —Peter taketh the Part of the late unfortunate Monarch and his Queen, and endeth his Ode with a beautiful and apt Comparison.— The Poet then illustrateth the Actions of the French by a most apposite Tale.
Most Samson-like, ye've ruin'd a rare pile:
To see you building thus, all hands, again,
On an owl's face so grave must plant a smile.
Pity, disdain t'embalm them with thy breath:
They're sinking!—lo, if aught like life appears,
'Tis Health's stol'n rose upon the cheek of Death.
‘We'll have no more on't,’ mad ye cry'd, ‘away!
Change! change! we'll cut off the great nation's head,
And try what the huge trunk will say.’
The nation's dead!
Ye seem to stare, like disappointed men.
Where was Dame Foresight? Ah, ye silly folk!
And yet it is too serious for a joke.
What is't ye look for?—‘Lord, Dame Freedom's wanting;
Into a terrible mistake we fall—
For Tyranny's hard irons load us all!’
Indeed! ye just have found the secret out!
Ye're wiser than ye were, good folks, no doubt!
Because good Madam Prudence is not nigh:
Prudence keeps company that's vastly sober;
Prudence is mildly-breathing, smiling May,
So full of balmy blossoms, all so gay;
Passion, the mad, wide-wasting, wild October.
Winning with easy lapse its winding course;
Passion, a torrent rough, from hill to hill,
Tumbling and tearing, drowning man and horse.
So calmly gliding through the liquid glass;
Passion, a porpus—tempests at his heel,
Flound'ring amid old Ocean's thund'ring mass.
The mild hedge-regent of the dewy night;
A little moon to many an insect race,
Who by her silv'ry radiance find their way,
Nibble the fairest flow'rs, and sip and play,
Gaze on their loves, dance, ogle, and embrace.
Hopping o'er hedge and ditch, and fen and pool,
Amidst his wild and fierce and mad career,
Making himself indeed a downright fool:
A simple child of stinking mud and vapour!
Who pliable did every thing to please?
And why in league against his charming queen,
Revenge, and Madness, Malice, Envy, Spleen?
Too much of danger frequently appears;
A kind of weak and overloaded gun,
Bursting with horrid crash about our ears.
When, for a penny's worth, we lose a pound.
The monarch eat a little of the state—
But should ye therefore madly give him fate?
And blust'ring kick the world about;
It shows the folly of our natures,
For a pin's head to make a rout.
And olive, yielding oil and juice and gladness;
Who'd root up the whole tree for't? nought but swine—
'Twere idiotism, stupidity, and madness.
What sad misfortune from such folly flows.
THE KNIGHT AND THE RATS.
Like knights in general, not o'erwise, I trow—
This knight's great barn was visited by rats,
In spite of poison, gins, and owls, and cats:
Carous'd they happily from night to morn.
Nor owls, nor poison, could destroy the rats;
‘I'll nab them by a scheme, by heav'ns,’ quoth he:
So of his neighbourhood he rous'd the mob,
Farmers and farmers' boys, to do this job;
His servants too of high and low degree;
And eke the tribes of dog, by sound of horn,
To kill the rats that dar'd to taste the corn.
Ran to his kitchen for a stick of fire,
From whence intrepid to the barn he ran;
Much like the Macedonian and fair punk,
Who, at Persepolis so very drunk,
Did with their links the mighty ruin plan.
Soon from the flames rush'd forth the rats so thick;
Men, dogs, and bats, in furious war unite—
The conquer'd rats lie sprawling on the ground;
The knight, with eyes triumphant, stares around,
Surveys the carnage, and enjoys the sight.
Dismiss whole legions to th' infernal shade!
Burnt was the corn—the walls down thund'ring came;
The meaning of it was not far to learn—
When turning up those billiard-balls his eyes,
That held a pretty portion of surprise,
‘Zounds! what a blockhead! I have burnt the barn!’
AZID;
OR, THE SONG OF THE CAPTIVE NEGRO.
And heart like lead sink down wid woe;
She seem her mournful friends to hear,
And see der eye like fountain flow.
But sigh, ‘Adieu, dear Domahay.’
Me look in stream, bright gold to find;
Nor seek de field for flow'r so fair,
Wid garland Mora hair to bind.
‘Far off de fields of Domahay.’
And see a slave his Mora dear?
Come, let we seek at once de grave—
No chain, to tyrant den we fear.
‘Come, Azid, come to Domahay.’
For thee to fields for flow'r depart;
To please de idol I adore,
And give wid gold and flow'r my heart
And live in groves of Domahay.
TO CYNTHIA.
Ah, what an envious rogue is Time,Who means one day to crop thy prime!
This were a barb'rous deed, I vow—
If thus the tyrant can behave,
Lord, let us disappoint the knave,
And let me take those beauties now.
THE CRUELTY OF ÆNEAS TO QUEEN DIDO.[_]
I forgive man almost any crime sooner than
barbarous ingratitude towards charming woman.
What a brute was the pious Æneas to his mistress,
the beautiful and unfortunate Queen of Carthage!
How easily a poet of Virgil's imagination could have
given a tear to the eye, and a compassionate sigh to
the soul of his hero, at parting with a princess who
had so hospitably entertained him, and so completely
made him happy; and thus, by adding a shining,
amiable, and consistent trait to his character, have
rendered him an object of esteem instead of eternal
condemnation! But let the base action be recorded
on the pyramid of English poetry, as well as of the
Roman.
I forgive man almost any crime sooner than barbarous ingratitude towards charming woman. What a brute was the pious Æneas to his mistress, the beautiful and unfortunate Queen of Carthage! How easily a poet of Virgil's imagination could have given a tear to the eye, and a compassionate sigh to the soul of his hero, at parting with a princess who had so hospitably entertained him, and so completely made him happy; and thus, by adding a shining, amiable, and consistent trait to his character, have rendered him an object of esteem instead of eternal condemnation! But let the base action be recorded on the pyramid of English poetry, as well as of the Roman.
Most infamous towards her was his carriage;
‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘all men would act as I do—
You will not swear I ever offer'd marriage.’
Then from her eyes the tears began to roll;
And then she mov'd from him, resolv'd to die,
And make a bonfire of herself, poor soul!
Fell fast asleep, and like a bull-frog snor'd.
THE WORLD.
The man who understands it, I suppose,
May, with a modicum of sense and care,
Convert with ease each thorn into a rose.
They change life's fragrant rose into a thorn;
On ev'ry smile of sunshine, fling a cloud,
And then on cruel Fortune cry aloud.
ON GENIUS.
Dearly I like to see a genius spring,Mark his rich plumes, and eye his soaring wing;
But Death too soon arrests his eagle flight!
From the dark element, the lightnings blaze,
That breaks, and sudden shuts in pitchy night.
TO A YOUNG LADY,
With Collins's Poems.
Amid these leaves, where Collins shines,Love boasts, alas! no golden lines;
From love the bard was free:
What loss! what pity, that his eye
(To give his heart the sweetest sigh)
Beheld no nymph like thee!
SONG.
[Farewel to the fragrance of morn]
Farewel to the song of the grove—
I go from my Delia forlorn;
I go from the daughter of Love!
On the beauty by which I'm undone;
But how could I hide from their rays?
What mortal can fly from the sun?
FROM ANACREON.
ON WOMAN.
To bulls, the guarding horns assign'd,
And arm'd with hoofs the bounding steed;
Teeth to the lion's jaw she gave;
Fins to the tenant of the wave;
And cloath'd the little hare with speed.
Grant!—Beauty's fascinating air:
With this the charmer takes the field,
And bids the world to woman yield.
TO NANCY OF THE ROSE.
And all the poet's treasure see,
My garden-house, my temple-rooms?
There shall I dwell on those black eyes,
And pour my tuneful soul in sighs,
And catch thy panting breath's perfumes.
And sounds that thus with music war,
Of vulgar coachman, drayman, porter;
That I may press thy purple lip,
And Love's delicious nectar sip,
And in his prettiest language court her?
‘Lord bless us! I'm the youthful May,
And you are Autumn, sir—September;
And therefore we by no means suit.’
Dear Nancy, that's the time for fruit,
Thou surely oughtest to remember.
Love only blossoms in the spring.
FROM ANACREON.
And merry jest and laugh prepare;
Behold a blooming maid advance!
She waves the spear, with ivy bound,
And to the lute's enchanting sound,
With tempting foot, begins the dance.
A youth, whose locks luxuriant flow;
The lyre he sweeps, and sweetly sings,
Accordant to the tuneful strings.
With golden locks, the Paphian boy;
And Bacchus too, with beauteous mien;
And her, of all the Loves the queen:—
They come, in pleasures to engage,
That gild with smiles the gloom of age.
ODE.
A NEW, AND MORAL, AND SERIOUS THOUGHT.
The self-same objects strike our senses!
Thus says Sir Oracle, the man of rhimes;
And thus, to prove it, he commences:
The song of birds, and dew-bespangled thorn,
To swains whose hearts are perfectly at ease:
Sweet are the splendors of the golden ray,
To swains prepar'd to take their early way
To hill and vale, and wander where they please.
Dress'd out in irons—doom'd, ere noon, to greet
The rope and tree, that much their spirits flurry;
They see, with very, very diff'rent eyes,
The sun in all his golden robes arise,
And wish him not to travel in a hurry.
Who, lull'd to slumber, leave him in the lurch;
Whom neither manners nor religion check:
Yet, ah! most terrible would be, I wot,
That parson's solemn admonition note
To those same swains with ropes about the neck.
SONG.
[When bleeding Nature droops to die]
And begs from Heav'n th' eternal sleep,
Hard is the heart that cannot sigh,
And curs'd the eye that scorns to weep.
How sweet her sighs for human woes!
They pierce the mansions of the dead,
And sooth the spectre's pale repose.
SONG.
[O cruel maid, adieu! adieu!]
Thy loss I ever shall deplore;
A thousand griefs my path pursue,
And joy shall gild that path no more.
I view my fate with streaming eyes—
By Love forgot, by Friendship left,
By all deserted but my sighs.
MODES OF COURTSHIP.
O Love, thy temple is a crowded inn—And, ah! how various are thy ways to win!
DEVONSHIRE-HOB'S LOVE.
Vor I'm upon a coortin job—
Gadswunds! Iss leek thee, Joan;
I'd fert vor thee—Iss, that Iss wud;
Iss love thee well, as pigs love mud,
Or dogs to gna a bone.
Forsooth leek voaks that go to curt;
Voakes zay I'm perty vitty:
Lord, Joan, a man may be alive,
Ha a long puss, and kep a wive,
That ne'er zeed Lundun zitty.
Although no chitterlins to's sharts,
And lace that gentry uze;
Thee'dst vend me honest—Iss rert down,
Although thee hadsn't not got a gown,
Ner stockings vath ner shooze.
Vor zick, Iss wudd'n gee a rish;
Dant copy voakes o' town:
No, Joan, dant gee thy zel an air,
And ren and quat, just leek a hare,
And think I'll hunt thee down.
No—dant ren off, an heed away,
Leek paltridges in stubble:
No, no, the easiest means be best;
Iss can't turmoil, an looze one's rest;
Iss can't avoard the trouble.
About my houze-keppin and zo,
Bevore thee tak'st the nooze—
Why vlesh an dumplin-ev'ry day;
But az vor Zunday, le me zay,
We'll ha a gud vat gooze.
And zum days we wull broil and vry,
And zum days roast, ye slut;
An az vor zider, thee shat guzzle,
Zo much, Joan, as will tire thy muzzle,
Enow to splet thy gut.
I'll make thee a good husband, mun;
And Joan, I'll love thee dearly;
Iss waant do leek our neighbour Flail,
That huffth his wive, and kickth her tail,
And drashth her just leek barely.
Zo speak, an let the bisness eend,
And dant stand shilly shally;
But if thee wutt'n—Lord, lay't alone;
Go, hang thy zel vor me, mun, Joan,
I'll curt thy zester Mally.
TOM AND DOLLY.
A STABLE CANTATA.
RECITATIVE.
Amidst his straw, as Tom, a stable-swain,Did sweep and sigh, but swept and sigh'd in vain;
Dolly, the cook, peep'd in upon her 'squire,
And begg'd a wisp of straw to light her fire;
Tom gave the wisp, and, leaning on his broom,
Thus woo'd the squabby nymph of bacon-bloom.
AIR.
Of which my stable loud may brag,
Can boast a head like thine;
Nor has a saddle got a skin
So sleek as thy sweet cheek and chin,
Or doth so nobly shine.
Yes, Dolly, I have lost the rein,
Thou mischievous contriver:
To gall, alack! my panting heart,
I'm sure thou art resolv'd to part,
And marry Dick the driver.
Love sticks into me like a prong,
And sets my sides a bleeding:
Thou hast so curricomb'd my ribs,
That I am off my feeding.
How canst thou hear thy Thomas bray,
Nor one kind answer utter?
How canst thou see thy stable-'squire
Roast at thine eyes, like beef at fire,
Nor melt away like butter?
Thou cutt'st upon me like a plate;
As short too as a crust;
And then, with such a scornful eye,
Thy shoulders rais'd by pride so high,
All like a turkey truss'd.
Give my starv'd love a lock of hay,
For I'm in woful danger;
But if thou wilt not with me dwell,
Horses, and saddles, all farewel,
Brooms, hay-loft, bin, and manger!
RECITATIVE.
Tom having finish'd in a dismal tone,Wip'd his two dropping eyes, and gave a groan;
Then, sighing, said it was a cruel thing,
Thus like a dishclout his poor heart to wring.
The nymph, as careless of the hole (how shocking!)
In Tom's poor bleeding heart as in her stocking,
Low curtsying to her solemn, sighing swain,
Return'd, with equal sweetness fraught, the strain.
AIR.
But, Thomas, thou wilt not expire:
Like a ladle of dripping 'twill prove,
That I frequently fling on the fire.
And frightens the chimney, no doubt;
Sets the family all in amaze;
But, Thomas, it quickly goes out.
Mighty Love, he would lose all his forces;
And the musical tongue of thy dear,
Would yield to the neigh of thy horses.
This sweet passion would last all thy life;
But too many can tell, with a tear,
They have thought the same thing of a wife.
That the passions are easily cloy'd;
That the object which pleases us most,
Is the object that ne'er was enjoy'd.
In worlds where folks never want meat:
But in this, 'tis with sorrow I tell,
We are looking for somewhat to eat.
To my roasting, and boiling, and carving;
I don't like to live on a bone—
Lord! nothing's more dismal than starving.
That will bring thee thy meat ev'ry day:
A houseful of brats, and a wife!
What would they?—why take it away.
SONG.
[O Nymph! of Fortune's smiles, beware]
Nor heed the Syren's flatt'ring tongue;
She lures thee to the haunts of Care,
Where Sorrow pours a ceaseless song.
Can those the hosts of Care control?
The splendor which thine eyes behold,
Is not the sunshine of the soul.
The queen of ev'ry true delight:
Her smiles with joy shall gild thy day,
And bless the visions of the night.
SEA COURTSHIP.
SUSAN.Madam! madam! I have just received a poetical billet-doux from my furious sea-caliban; impudence and humility, resolution and weakness, hope and despair, forming the sum total. Permit me to read it.
HAWSER TO SUSAN.
To groan any more for that face;
Your behaviour hath prov'd it so plain,
That to others I give up the chase.
Very wisely resolved, Mr. Lieutenant.
You know that I'm not very rich;
Yet I'd man you as well as another,
And stick to your timbers like pitch.
Nice sticking-plaister indeed!
As your frowns and your cruelties prove—
Since I thought to have anchor'd, my dear,
In your arms, that sweet harbour of love.
Very elegant, tender, and metaphorical!
Let justice be done, by the Lord!
You're a smart little frigate, I own,
As a seaman would wish for to board.
Thank ye, Mr. Lieutenant
(curtsies).And I beg thou'lt not take it unkind,
Since your sneers have restor'd me my heart,
If I give thee a piece of my mind.
By all means, Mr. Hawser.
Which you, laughing, call'd Love's water-gruel,
Could guineas have rain'd from my eyes,
By G--- thou hadst never been cruel.
Impudent rogue!
And thy mouth cease this d*mn'd squally weather,
Let us send for old Thump-cushion out,
And swing in a hammock together.
Never, never, indeed, poor swain.
DAPHNE,
OR THE SONG OF THE SHEPHERDESS.
Cold on the eye the valley fades;
The riv'let mourns upon its way,
And spectres seem to haunt the shades.
Since Colin's love is chang'd from me.
Adieu the flow'rs that deck my hair!
Go doves, and leave your silken band,
Since Daphne is no longer fair.
The myrtle-wreath that binds my brow;
The knot of love he gave my breast,
Deep blushing for his broken vow.
From Daphne all his gifts depart;
And let me send with these a sigh,
To tell him of a broken heart.
MADRIGAL.
[Ah! say not that the bard grows old—]
For what to me are passing years?
I feel not Age's palsied cold—
To-day like yesterday appears.
What mortal is not then alive?
Thus kindling at its magic ray,
Fourscore leaps back to twenty-five.
ODE TO TWO MICE IN A TRAP.
After your dances over cheese and bacon,
And tasting ev'ry dainty in your way;
Now to my question, answer, if ye please—
Speak, did ye make the bacon or the cheese?
What sort of a defence d'ye set up, pray?
Ev'n mild Judge Buller ought to hang you up,
So full of the sweet milk of human nature!
What sort of fate, young people, should ye choose?
In purling streams your pretty mouths amuse,
Or feed the cat's fond jaws, that for ye water?
I hear ye are two lovers by your sighs:
But what avail your looks, or what avail
Your sighs so soft, or what indeed your tears,
Or what your parting agonies and fears,
Since Death must pay a visit to your jail?
And put your pretty noses through the wire;
Ay, peep away, sweet sir, and gentle miss;
No more the moon shall mark your am'rous fire
Around the loaded pantry pour the ray,
And guide your gambols with her silver day.
Now, now! you're off! it is a lucky hop.
Go, rogues—but if once more I catch you here!—
What then? what then!—why then, I strongly fear,
Ye little robbers, you'll escape again.
Beneath whose sentence scarce a felon bleeds;
Who, as the fur of foxes trims his gown,
The hand of Mercy lines his heart with down.
THE MISER AND THE DERVISE.
Affrighted, groaning, wheezing, praying, sighing,
Expecting ev'ry hour to lose his breath—
Enter a dervise—‘Holy father, say,
As life seems parting from this sinful clay,
What can preserve me from the jaws of Death?
Of lamb, and mutton, for the priest and poor;
Nay, from the Koran shouldst thou lines repeat,
Those lines may possibly thy health restore.’
Your counsel has already giv'n me ease:
Now as my sheep are all a great way off,
I'll quote our holy Koran, if you please.’
TO DELIA.
Nature has made a very idle blunder,
To give thee roses, lilies, and so forth,
Eyes, dimples, merely to excite our wonder.
Behold them spreading through the world alarms,
With not one quarter of thy ammunition;
Dark'ning the dangerous air with dreadful darts;
Transfixing lovers' livers, heads, and hearts,
Putting the beaux into a sad condition;
As though the creature were not worth thy aim.
Let loose the lightnings of thy coal-black eye;
Attack, pursue—I like the dangerous strife—
Sweet nymph, 'tis ten to one thou lay'st me low;
Yet do not kill me, my dear generous foe,
But make me pris'ner to thy arms for life.
SONG.
[Where Fortune reigns in splendid pride]
What madding thousands crowd her shrine!
With sweet Simplicity their guide,
O Love, how few resort to thine!
The sigh for other days they pour;
Some secret sorrow stings the breast,
And languor-loaded crawls each hour.
His vot'ries taste a bliss sublime,
Sigh to regain the moments past,
And wish to clip the wings of Time.
SONG.
[Good Lord! when I think of the storm]
SUSAN.What a pretty hurricane about our ears! Well thank Heaven, and out good old ship, for his holding his head so long above water, we are not got down into Davy Jone's locker.
And, old Neptune, thy horrible spleen,
That endeavour'd to make of this form
A feast for the fish at nineteen!
As well as some grief to my spark,
To have found, that, instead of his arms,
I had fill'd up the mouth of a shark.
Not a handsomer England possesses:
Shouldst thou bury these limbs in thy brine,
They will lose a whole world of caresses.
Oh, grant but one kiss from my swain;
Thou shalt drown me a thousand times over,
If ever I trust thee again.
SONG.
[From me, since Hope hath wing'd her way]
To yield to luckier swains delight,
Ah! will not Comfort lend a ray,
To gild my bosom's dreary night?
As far from Delia's form I rove,
I'll boast that once this heart was blest,
And tell the story of my love.
TO VENUS.
To Delia's beauty breath'd in vain?
Ah! why her cold and clouded eye,
That sun-like shone upon her swain?
And gav'st success to ev'ry pray'r;
When ev'ry sigh was sure to find
A sigh congenial from the fair.
At all my griefs, with grief would glow;
The nymph would lull the storm to rest,
And sooth with ev'ry charm my woe.
To Delia all thy blisses give:
In me, a single shepherd dies,
In her, behold, a thousand live!
EPITAPH.
[O thou, remov'd from this world's strife]
Whose relics here below are laid,
May Peace, who watch'd thy harmless life,
In death protect thy gentle shade!
Thy children's sighs unfeign'd ascend;
The mourner Pity drops a tear,
And Virtue weeps a vanish'd friend.
ODE TO A COUNTRY HOYDEN.
And let me ask thee, mad-cap girl, a question—
Somewhat of consequence there may be in it,
That, probably, mayn't suit thy high digestion.
To ride a nannygoat, or ass, or pig?
Or mount an ox, or ride an apple-tree,
And on the dancing limb enjoy a jig?
To plague a poor old crone, baptiz'd a witch;
To smoke her in her hovel—kill her cats,
Or lock her in, and rob her garden's peas,
Kick down the lame old granny's hive of bees,
And break her windows in, with stones and bats.
Or neighbour's hen's-nest of its eggs, or young;
Nay, steal the mother-hen to boot:
Perchance thou hasten'st, fond of vulgar joys,
To tumble on the hay-cocks with the boys,
And let them take, at will, the sweet salute.
‘Lord, then about a trifle what a fuss!
As though a body might not ride a pig,
Or our old Neddy , or an apple tree,
Just for one's health to have a little jig!
In taking a few eggs, or chicks, or hen?
The farmers can't be ruin'd by't, good Lord!
Papa says that they're all substantial men.
To snub one so, indeed, at such a rate!
I've tumbled from the trees upon the stones,
And never broke, in all my life, my bones:
See, sir, I have not one black spot about me!
'Tis cruel, then, for nothing thus to flout me.
With cousin Dick to tumble on the hay?
Just like a baby with her doll you treat one!
Marry come up! why, cousin Dick won't eat one!
And then, forsooth, what mighty harm would come,
In having bits of fun with cousin Tom?’
I readily believe thee void of guile;
My lovely girl, I think thou mean'st no harm:
But had I daughters just like thee, let loose,
I verily should think myself a goose,
To mark each colt-like lass without alarm.
So fearful that a frown would kill her child,
That not ev'n birch to kill that child is able;
And tell thy father, a fond fool, from me,
To look a little sharper after thee,
Clip thy wild tongue, and tie thee to the table.
THE GRAVE OF EURIPIDES.
AN ELEGY.
From Grecian eyes could force the pitying show'r!
Permit a stranger's sigh unfeign'd to flow—
Indulge his hand to strew the sweetest flow'r.
Who boast my birth from Albion's free domain;
Where Nature's soul, like thine, in Shakespeare mourn'd,
Where Milton's genius pour'd th' immortal strain.
Sons of those sages, heroes, bards, whose name
Gave splendor to the fair historic page,
Forgets the glory of the Grecian name.
Of Pow'r, of Ignorance, the abject slave —
Fear on his cheek, and mis'ry in his eye,
He wanders near thee, heedless of thy grave!
It pours on Albion's isle the radiant day;
There, with a noon-tide lustre may it shine,
And gild my country with unclouded ray!
With each adieu, the tear will steal away;
To think that thou the song of gods shouldst cease,
And, dying, mingle with the meanest clay.
From distant Albion will I oft return;
Crown thy cold sod with all the blooms of spring,
And envy the rich earth that holds thy urn.
SONG TO CYNTHIA.
Who breathes his ardent vows in vain,
Learns to forget the scornful maid,
And bravely breaks her galling chain.
A nymph less cruel let me find;
The world holds many a blooming dame;
An equal Chloe may be kind.’
Who feels the triumph of thine eye!
What virgin shall his fires abate,
And sooth his bosom's hopeless sigh?
Agreed with ev'ry charm to part;
And all the Virtues too declare,
They robb'd their own, to grace thy heart.
HYMN TO LOVE.
Of thee I think by day, and dream by night,
For I'm a bachelor—a good old maid!
Yet now, O Love, a pretty woman's smiles
Could make me dance at least a dozen miles,
Without a stick indeed, or horse's aid.
Such mercury thou puttest in one's heels!
Of charming woman we should find a dearth;
In beauty, what a desert there would be!
Scarce one sweet female to delight our earth.
Whose form, and face, and mind, no rival know;
Yes, thou fair maid, to that untravell'd shore,
To charm the Thunderer, wouldst be doom'd to go;
And leave, alas! thy sighing shepherd here,
Who never wants a muse when thou art near.
How canst thou hear an earthly angel mourn?
A victim to the vultures of Despair!
A witless victim to the villain's snare!
And bid the fairest form of Nature pine?
Why sufferest thou her bosom's softest sigh?
How canst thou, unreveng'd, survey the maid;
Hear her soul's grief, behold her beauty fade;
Nay, horror! the poor lamb-like victim die?
With cheek so wan and pale, and scatter'd hair;
Her gentle heart by Love's mad tempest torn!
She runs, she stops, and wildly stares around!
Now nails the eye of thought into the ground!
Now drown'd in tears, she lifts its beam forlorn;
When rains and driving clouds her face deform!
Now wearied, disappointed, to the skies
She lifts her lids of woe, and plaintive sighs,
(Soul-piercing sound!) ‘Alas, he is not here!’
Rich pearls of sorrow from their fountains stray,
And drop (too precious for the ground!) away.
She moans—now sits upon the bank and sings;
Oft breaks her dirge with lengthen'd sighs of woe,
And, pausing, mutters incoherent things.
‘Sweet flow'rs, I once was innocent like you;
The tear, alas! a stranger to these eyes—
Nor blush my cheek, nor wound my bosom knew.’
She whisp'ring tells of Colin's love the tale.
Hope to her eyes her eagle-beam imparts!
I see him pass the flood—dear Colin, dear!
Thy Julia calls thee—'tis thy Julia, stay—
Thy Julia calls thee—wherefore haste away?
Thy Julia loves thee—do not, cruel, fly;
Stay, or thy Julia's heart with grief will die—
If danger urge, that danger let me share;
Thou must not live unwatch'd by Julia's care.’
Wildly she plunges 'mid the torrent's roar—
She shrieks! her arms her fancied love embrace,
She grasps the gulf—ah! soon to grasp no more.
Breath'd is her spirit in the whelming wave!
No longer doom'd Life's bitter cup to taste,
Behold her hours of woe for ever past!
Deaf to a demon's whispers once so dear!
Cold too the bosom of the once warm maid!
The heart that swell'd with Love's delicious sighs,
Still in its silent cell of darkness lies,
And dim her eyes in Death's eternal shade.
Those orbs that sparkling bade a world adore,
Ah, doom'd to sparkle, and to stream no more!
Amidst the sorrows of a rural throng!
A sight to strike the voice of Rapture mute,
And wake the tenderest string of Pity's lute!
Sure blood-hound, trace thee in the weeping wind;
Pursue thee where the desert grins with death:
For not to man again shalt thou return—
A shrinking world thy Cain-like form shall spurn,
And, kneeling, curse thee with its keenest breath.
Afar, affrighted shall the vultures fly;
Of fiends like thee, a breathless fiend, afraid;
And lo, the frowning Genius of the gloom
Shall shun the solitude that hails thy doom,
And bid each savage seek a distant shade.
ODE.
['Tis a strange world we live in—but 'twill mend—]
As ev'ry body says, ‘the world grows wiser;’
Yet certain follies ne'er will have an end,
Of which I am a wonderful despiser.
Genius performs a work, a man should bawl,
‘To ask much for this trifle were a shame;
I know the fellow took no pains at all.
Give a good penny's-worth, good Master Bays.’
Or L**k---n, pour'd such unhallow'd sounds
On Milton's shrinking ear, with lips profane,
Who bought th' immortal work for fifteen pounds !’
Too many a fair historian, never doubt it,
Have heard a bookseller so cruel say,
‘Pray, Sir, or ‘Ma'am how long were you about it?’
Who, times of old, as well as modern, grac'd,
Couldst thou not catch a portion of their fire!
Rolls not thine eye upon their works each day?
And canst thou, from them, nothing bear away,
To lift thy hog-like soul above the mire?
To get the murd'rer of his quiet drawn;
An artist in an instant whips its out—
‘A shilling’—‘Zounds! a shilling do ye zay?’
With a long staring face replies the lout.
You knows ye wern't about it half a minute:
To gee zo much Ize cursedly unwilling—
Lord! vor a tooth but yesterday old Slop
Did drag me by the head about his shop
Three times, poor man, and only ax'd a shilling.’
SONG.
[How chang'd is my Celadon's heart!]
How alter'd each look of the swain!
Now sullen he wishes to part,
Who call'd me the pride of the plain.
Ev'ry hour that was mine to beguile!
How he griev'd if I doubted his love!
And how blest if he gain'd but a smile!
And raptur'd on me was his tongue;
Thus, Morning arose on his praise,
And Evening went down on his song.
Nor wound with reproaches his ears;
My reproof shall be only a sigh—
My complaint, but the silence of tears.
EPIGRAM.
See Clodio, happy in his own dear sense!And hark; the world cries ‘Coxcomb in th' excess;’
Now let me undertake the fop's defence—
What man could ever be content with less?
ANACREONTIC.
TO SYLVIA.
And bid me other nymphs adore?
Show me a girl but half so fair,
And I will trouble thee no more.
Since thus resolv'd to shun pursuit;
For Love will follow, like the fly,
That always seeks the fairest fruit.
LISETTA.
In the name of the great god of love, how shall I dispose of myself? Which of my swains must wear the willow?
For I'm a novice on it—
Poor Colin at a distance wooes,
And sends his soul in sonnet;
Won't stay to write for blisses;
But prints upon my mouth, the knave,
His wishes with his kisses.
And I begin to clatter;
The rogue stares gravely in my face,
And asks me what's the matter?
I shriek'd with might and main:
‘Since ye don't like them,’ pert quoth he,
‘Lord! take them back again.’
They please me much,’ I swore—
‘Oh, is it so cried he, ‘enough;
Then, Miss, you wish for more.’
All white as any fleece is!
Lubin would give me a green gown,
And rummage me to pieces.
All silence, awe, and wonder;
The other, impudence and rant,
And boist'rous as the thunder.
So bashful is my lover;
That savage bounces on my lip,
And kisses it all over.
Not wild, and bold, and teasing;
And yet, each sister nymph I meet
Thinks boldness not unpleasing.
And wickedness is in me—
Though Modesty's so sweet, I fear
That Impudence will win me.
CORIN'S PROFESSION,
OR THE SONG OF CONSTANCY.
Tho' both are in youth, yet that youth will decay,
In our journey thro' life, my dear Joan, I suppose
We shall oft meet a bramble, and sometimes a rose.
Thy sunshine of sweetness must smile it away;
And when the dull vapour shall dwell upon thine.
To chase it, the labour and triumph be mine.
For luxury's but a short road to the tomb:
Let us sigh not for grandeur, for trust me, my Joan,
The keenest of cares owes its birth to a throne.
In good time; with her blessing, my Joan may milk two:
I will till our small field, whilst thy prattle and song
Shall charm as I drive the bright ploughshare along.
And treat a good neighbour at eve with our ale;
For Joan, who would wish for self only to live?
One blessing of life, my dear girl, is to give.
Whilst thou hast a crumb, or thy Corin a grain;
Not only their songs will they pour from the grove,
But yield, by example, sweet lessons of love.
That thy May was my own, when thou showest December;
And when age to my head shall his winter impart,
The summer of love shall reside in my heart.
ODE TO UGLINESS.
Joy to my soul, thine empire falls:
No more, thou hobbling, envious crone
Thy pow'r the female world appalls.
No longer trembling for the Graces:
No more thy rude attack she fears,
On faultless forms, and fairest faces.
Nor mourn her losses, as of yore!
Defeated too thy brother Time,
The god of wrinkle, wounds no more.
Her lip preserves its purple bloom!
Her bosom heaves with Alpine snows,
And kisses breathe the rich perfume!
No longer now, as usual, greet;
And, what our grandmothers all dread,
The nose and chin no longer meet.
And, ogling, dart their am'rous fire;
Decline with graces to the grave,
And with the blush of health expire!
THE TRAVELLER AND JUPITER.
(Such is of sin the wonderful increase)
The Heav'n's Eternal Ruler—fie upon't—
Than one poor brainless justice of the peace,
Hares, acts of parliament, hounds, horses, foxes?
(And, oh! that groundless were the poet's fears!)
God by his own sad servants is worse treated,
Worse than our country gentlemen by theirs.
Sweet Mercy melts, and Charity controls.
Not Heav'n! 'tis such a villanous reflection!
When gods and goddesses were thick as hops,
Wishing, as he was beating the highways,
For somewhat dainty to amuse his chops;
‘O Jupiter, as I'm an honest man,
I'll keep my word, if thou wilt grant my pray'r;
Amidst my travels, let me something find—
Little or much, good, bad of any kind,
I vow to thee, thy godship half shall share.’
Much as to say, ‘Great Jove, my word's a law.’
A handsome bag of filberts on the ground;
At sight of which, his lips with rapture smacking,
Plump down he squats, and falls at once to cracking.
From ev'ry nut, each atom of the meat;
When gravely gathering up the shells, he cries,
‘Jove, sacred have I kept my word—for, see,
The better half indeed I leave to thee,
The shells, O mighty ruler of the skies.
Shouldst thou suspect my honour—weigh 'em!’
SONG.
[The wretch, O let me never know]
Who turns from Pity's tearful eye;
Who melts not at the dirge of woe,
But bids the soul renew its sigh!
‘The lilies of thy neck are fled,
Thine eyes their vanish'd radiance mourn,
The roses of thy cheek are dead.’
The rose and lily's sad decay;
And sorrowing wish for thee alone,
Their transient bloom a longer day.
The healthful blush of former charms;
Remember that each luckless grace,
O Colin, faded in thy arms!
ODE TO MY GOOD FRIEND THE MOST MERCIFUL JUDGE ------.
Melts, snow-like, on the victim void of hope;
Whose conscience stretches like the softest glove,
To save the sighing culprit from the rope!
To thee, in Virtue's stoutest armour, strong,
Permit thy friend and bard to pour the song.
And hang them like thy rats upon our lay,
Murd'rers that strike the cheek of Horror pale!
Whose morals give contagion to a jail.
A pigmy wretch is shown in yon huge house ;
Just as the solar microscope displays
A mite, a flea, a bug, a dirty louse.
A villain, in damnation sunk so deep;
That Vice, black Vice, shall ne'er be idle known,
But when the fur-clad monster falls asleep!
Kind Sol, who dissipates a threatening cloud,
Dark-hov'ring, wishing much his power to show,
And bid his deluge drown the world below;
Low'rs on the maiden blush of orient light,
And skulks into the charnel's murky shade;
A judge may rise, whose scowl shall curse the smile
Of Justice, who so long has blest our isle,
And strike with ruffian fist the heav'nly maid.
Whose soul delights to feed the gaping grave;
Who on the convict's pale cheek feasts his eyes;
Whose heart-felt sounds are Hope's expiring sighs.
Whose eyes on seas of blood would gladly ope;
Fresh hecatombs of carnage, ev'ry morn:
Whose ear could live on Virtue's deepest groan;
Stretch ev'n to pain, to catch her last faint moan,
Poor writhing wretch, by ev'ry torture torn?
So foul a spirit may disgrace the day.
Walks forth, ah! not to hear the turtle's tale;
But with a happy, keen, and sparkling eye,
To see the kite with fury sweep the sky;
Now in his iron talons bear along,
The lark which charm'd the season with his song?
But such a miscreant vile, may curse the earth.
Charm'd with the owl's and bat's and beetle's flight,
And sees with joy the spectred band pass by;
With rapture listens to their piteous wail,
Now follows hard to catch the mournful tale,
And sorrows when the phantoms 'scape his eye?
Was never yet, thank Heav'n! but may be born.
At midnight, 'midst the ruthless tempest's roar,
When Fate and Horror ride the thund'ring deep;
Who, for the cormorant's broad pinion sighs,
To mingle with the tumult of the skies,
And join the whirlwind's wild resistless sweep;
And triumph in the seaman's shrieking breath;
Charm'd with each mountain surge, for life that raves;
Charm'd as the arm of Fate, with cruel shock,
Heaves the huge vessel on the groaning rock,
And rends it piece-meal, 'midst a world of waves?
Sweet judge, dear dove-like—! so say I.
But may there not a dev'l like this appear?
Life deals in monsters much too oft, I fear!
O should thy beauteous bosom prove a den,
To hold and suckle such an imp of shame;
Know, to the poet though thou gavest birth,
With soul-felt ardour will I wish thy death,
Renounce thy blasted soil, and change my name.
SONG.
[Fie, fie, thou charming infidel!—listen.]
SYLVIA.Dashwood, I dislike your jokes on matrimony: you possess too much sense to treat with so much levity a state which the first philosophers hold sacred. But your jest must not be spared, though ruin be the consequence. After all your pretty professions, I am not now certain that your passion is sincere—how am I to be convinced?
DASHWOOD.
Fie, fie, thou charming infidel!—listen.
The fact, a thousand follies prove;
Yes, yes, I feel the dart!
Well! now I'm wounded, give the cure;
Thou'rt not a cruel girl, I'm sure,
So try to ease the smart.
I hear thee with emotion cry,
‘I'm sure there's nothing in't:’
‘Indeed there is, I'm sore afraid,
Nay, take the symptoms, sceptic maid,
That make it plain as print.’
My heart against my ribs keeps drumming,
As if to caper out;
Pronounce himself thy slave so sweet,
And fight for thee, so stout.
If saucy coxcombs steal a kiss,
My eyes so jealous roll:
Aside, I call the puppies names,
My heart is Ætna-like in flames,
Consuming to a coal.
I yawn, I sigh, I gape, I groan,
And writhe as if with pain:
Now on a sudden seize a book,
Just half a minute in it look,
Then fling it down again.
Nod to myself, and smile, and talk;
Now hunt for something lost;
Now sit, jump up—now stare, now wink,
On some deep problem, seem to think—
Now vacant as a post.
A half a glee, or half a catch;
Now snatch the brush, and paint;
Now fling it down, and seize the flute,
Now hum an air divine, now hoot,
To make poor Music faint.
And take a social cup of tea,
And give my heart a plaster;
I draw my watch, not over cool,
Call him a little limping fool,
And bid him travel faster.
I try to find my hat, and swear,
And wish him damn'd, and dead;
I roar, ‘What thief my hat hath stole?’
Then find it on my head.
Love's symptoms now too plain appear;
There's nobody can miss it:
Yet if these symptoms are not love,
And this the passion fail to prove,
Why, what the devil is it?
And that my head, in this wild whirl,
Could keep a little steady!
But 'tis in vain, alas! to preach;
Like drowning boys, I've lost my reach;
My sense is gone already.
Has only one to serve—viz. self;
But when he takes a wife,
A hundred masters then appear;
And what is very hard, my dear,
His slavery lasts for life.
HYMN TO ADVERSITY.
‘Sweet are the uses of adversity;’
A dame who kicketh from your rump your stool,
And, savage, showeth not one grain of mercy t'ye;
Greets with wir'd whips, and blesses with a jail.
With Pill'ry, Gibbet, Famine, in thy train,
Go knock, God bless thee, knock at others' doors:
By all my fav'rite gods of prose and rhime,
I feel not thy philosophy sublime—
Go, seek the zealot who thy stripes implores.
Snatch from a husband's happy arms a wife;
Blot from his soul each glimm'ring ray of hope;
Rack all his lovely daughters with disease;
Poison his sons, and, more thy rage to please,
Present the fainting father with a rope.
And learn thy lessons all at second hand.
I hate to see a brother mortal bleed—
I hate to hear a gentle nature groan,
And, goddess, more especially my own.
Prefers the zephyr to the howling wind;
Prefers too, such my star's unlucky blunder,
One hour's bright calm, to months of cloud and thunder.
But certés dost not know my weak condition.
Blisters, and scarifying, and spare diet,
Would set my nervous system in a riot;
Rich cordial drafts would answer best, I trow,
Made up by Messieurs Hammersly and Co.
So apt am I to make wry mouths at pain;
At disappointment much inclin'd to moan.
Whenever then, O goddess, things we see,
That with one's nature so much disagree,
Methinks 'twere better they were let alone.
And break a luckless brace of legs and arms,
Would make one look most miserably sour;
Yet are there men, who deem all these no harms.
And for their goodly comfort, crack their bones.
A broken leg and thigh and arm I get,
I am not, I confess, of that pure leaven,
To crawl out on my hands and knees, and say,
Grace-like, ‘For what I have receiv'd this day,
I humbly thank thee, O most gracious Heav'n.’
The boatswain's deep-ton'd voice and brawny arm,
O be not within leagues of Peter seen;
Thy cat-o'-nine tails cannot, cannot charm.
Thy conversations are too deep for me.
For Peter's company, I speak with shame—
A little winning wench contenteth me,
'Clep'd Fortune, a good-natur'd smiling lass,
Who constant lights my pipe, and fills my glass,
And makes my ev'ry day a jubilee.
Such is the little Syren I desire—
Thou art all gall, and she all milk and honey;
'Tis at a distance I must thee admire.
The bleak wind whistling through a coat in tatters,
The flight of fancied friends, a foe's abuses,
Are things for which my bowels do not yearn;
For rot me, madam, if I can discern
One atom of their several earthly uses.
I really think, and not his conscience hurt—
Morality may also like nice picking;
For since the great All-wise has giv'n us fowls,
Mankind were certainly a set of owls,
To dare to place damnation in a chicken.
Keep a good fire, and live upon the best;
Throw by his wheel-barrow, and keep a carriage;
Visit the op'ra, masquerade, and play;
Drink claret, Burgundy, Champagne, Tokay;
Get fifty thousand with a girl in marriage.
Methinks the soul is just in equal danger.
I'm not a subject fit for thee to flay;
To speak the truth, my nerves too nicely feel—
Go, search the motley mixture of mankind;
Some young enthusiast wild, thou soon mayst find,
Proud of thy whips, and glad to grace thy wheel.
And hard thy lessons, I can't now begin 'em—
Besides, as I have hinted just above,
I'd rather read of battles than be in 'em.
SONG TO SAPPHO.
Let sighs alone my passion tell;
With tears I quit thy arms:
Adieu each eve of pure delight;
Adieu each morn with rapture bright;
Adieu thy brighter charms!
Where Phœbus pours the golden day,
Or sleeps beneath the wave,
Thine image will my path pursue,
And ever present on my view,
Detain me still a slave.
To break, O beauteous maid, thy chain!
Yet why my fetters part?
Ev'n now thy sighs, my sighs approve;
Ev'n now thy love, returns my love,
And yields me heart for heart!
INVOCATION TO ST. CECILIA.
ON A LADY SINGING.
And listen to a British maid;
A sweeter Sappho warbles here,
Than charm'd of yore the Lesbian shade.
Alas! with Love's desponding sigh;
To Delia's beauty bows each swain,
And owns the triumph of her eye.
ON THE DEATH OF A MUSICAL FRIEND.
A PASTORAL ELEGY.
When Lycidas join'd in the song;
The chief, and the pride of the plains,
Who led all the Pleasures along!
Not a grove gave a musical sound;
The breeze seem'd a sigh of despair,
And Pity sat mute on the ground.
At the presence of Lycidas smil'd—
Health was seen through the valley to range,
And an Eden sprung up from the wild!
The linnet enliven'd the grove,
And Echo, long banish'd, sweet maid,
Return'd with her stories of love.
That so lately with sorrow was rent;
And the voice of the mourner so sad,
Was lost in the songs of Content.
And doom'd, ah! to labour no more,
Age would crawl from his cot with a smile,
And a blessing to leave at his door.
Hark! his knell, how it saddens the gale!
Joy dies, and our pastimes are flown;
Fate envies the smiles of our vale.
To the region of silence and gloom:
Sure his death must our sorrow inspire,
Since the Virtues will weep at his tomb.
APOLLO TO THE ANACREONTIC SOCIETY,
AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR.
'Tis Apollo, your friend, that sends greeting—
Of your pleasures, we gods are in love with the style,
And are mad to be down at your meeting.
That he swears at our flats and our sharps;
With the squalls of each muse he'll no longer be teas'd,
So commands me to break up their harps.
And forbid his jeux d'esprit to flow;
Thus our club is knock'd up, because we're outdone
By the mirth of you mortals below.
Let me join as the laureate your throng;
Though I cannot, like Incledon, ravish your ear,
I can give you a pretty good song.
SONG BY APOLLO.
Care, avaunt! nor our pleasures alloy;
Since Jove has giv'n passions and objects to please,
The meaning is, mortals enjoy.
Loves his bottle, girl, song, and a jest;
Has a monstrous regard for choice spirits below,
And is charm'd when his creatures are blest.
That he's lost, if he meddles with pleasure;
And thinks, too, the fellow confounded ill-bred,
To refuse when he offers the treasure.
With long phiz, and a puritan strain,
I have seen the god laugh, and in fun, from the skies,
Make up mouths at the blockhead again.
Wit, humour, and friendship attend us;
And whilst for enjoyment our passions are strong,
Let us ask not his godship to mend us.
Then to scenes of new rapture remove;
To embrace with devotion a wife or a lass,
And be blest on the bosom of love.
ODE TO A HANDSOME WIDOW.
Black! black, as tho' it never would be bright!
Sol, like a bridegroom comes, a jovial blade,
Clasps her with warmth, and lo, her darkness, light!
The dress of Cloud soon alters! for, behold,
Her gloomy sables change to pink and gold!
If I mistake not Nature, soon with thee.
And languid as the willow o'er the brook,
Exalt once more that drooping form to joy;
Too long the lute of Woe, with dying sound,
And melting lullaby thine eye hath drown'd;
The trump of Rapture should his voice employ;
The sprightly Fiddle rouse his sister Dance,
And bid thy cold heart glow with Love's romance.
Deep-swimming in the silent fount of tears;
And then thy voice so musically lorn,
Accusing Fate's too cruel, cruel shears,
Wakes all the soft emotions of my heart,
That sympathising fain would mirth impart.
Yet very poignant!—yes, though short, 'tis strong,
When first the best of husbands breathes his last:
And if his all be left them!—what a storm
Of sighs and tears their beauty to deform!
Grief seems as ever he would ride the blast.
And tears, from torrents, sink a prattling rill.
And do not drown their Cupids in the brine;
And think too on thy pretty dimpled cheek—
Think of thy flaxen hair, whose beauties flow
In broad luxuriance o'er thy breast of snow;
And think too of that soft and polish'd neck.
Think of thy lips, that kisses can impart,
So ready from their ruby beds to start!
And in the same sweet fascinating strain,
Thy polish'd bosom says, ‘I will be press'd;’
And then thy cheek, the loveliest of our isle,
Exclaims, ‘I will resume the cheerful smile,
My bloom shall make some future lover blest.’
‘We will look Christian-like—we will be curl'd;
We will not imitate a cow's strait tail:’
And then thy all-subduing taper waist,
So full of rich desires, and then so chaste,
Whist others are so marvellously frail—
‘I will be clasp'd by some smart swain, I say,
Not, like a cabbage-stalk, be flung away.’
There seems no reason for eternal sighing:
Owl-like, a little let me mope and mourn,
But not be ever swelling, groaning, dying.’
‘Give me,’ a finger cries, ‘another ring.’
Oh! canst thou hear it on such wishes dwell,
And not indulge it with the bagatelle?
Who, really grown rebellious, pant for arms;
Give way then to the roving mutineers—
And shouldst thou say ‘Lord! who will take 'em in?’
Trust me, I'll entertain 'em, ev'ry skin—
My bosom's open to the pretty dears.
ODE.
[Ah! this our world's a world of sad mishaps]
Peter descanteth on the Precariousness of Life, wisheth to be at his own Disposal, and showeth no Objection to an emendation of Nature.
Beset with Death's uncomfortable traps!
Hard squeez'd we sometimes get away to groan:
Now half the body's in the spiteful gin,
And now the unlucky tail, to make us grin,
So that we dare not call our souls our own.
Jove!—give me the fee simple of my soul;
Around this system let me range at ease,
To stay, or quit it, whensoe'r I please.
Strange! that existence should to trifles yield!
Behold that promising Herculean boy:
A zephyr on his infant cradle blows;
Lo! out at once Life's little candle goes,
The flame too of a parent's hope and joy.
Kill, in the acorn's kind protecting cell,
The small oak-embryo, that had mock'd the storm,
And smil'd upon the sulphur'd flash of hell;
Had push'd its roots where Earth's deep centre lies,
And with its tow'ring branches brav'd the skies.
A world of wounds, I fear, without a cure!
Dame Nature seems a sad unnat'ral mother:
Groan out his last, and ever close his eye,
To treat with life and rosy health another.
Where'er the foot or eye of man can range,
This munching, mad, devouring system reigns!
O could our mortal palate feed on roses,
As on their dainty essence, feed our noses,
This world were then a pleasurable scene.
Look at a simple act that yields delight—
The ploughman toiling thro' his fallow'd ground:
Happy he turns the glebe for vegetation—
Yet in this act how many a harmless nation
Of worms, poor reptiles, feel the grinding wound!
Whilst rooks, and crows, and magpies, hop behind,
Alert and greedy, gobbling all they find!
I wish 'twere mended.
OSGAR'S PRAYER.[_]
Elfrid, the beautiful daughter of Osgar, was a
captive among the Druids, and designed as a
sacrifice to the gods. Amidst a storm of thunder
and lightning, he goes to the Druid mountain, in
order to procure, by his supplications, and an offer
of his own life upon the altar, his daughter's liberty.
OSGAR.Elfrid, the beautiful daughter of Osgar, was a captive among the Druids, and designed as a sacrifice to the gods. Amidst a storm of thunder and lightning, he goes to the Druid mountain, in order to procure, by his supplications, and an offer of his own life upon the altar, his daughter's liberty.
Cease your rude thunders on the wretch who dies;
Poor is the triumph o'er desponding age,
Whose energy is only in his sighs!
Ye mark two languid eyes, that weep and pray;
Once, once, like you, high-kindling shone their beam
'Till Time, and dark Misfortune, dimm'd their ray.
Wet with the falling tears of fondest love;
For life, I hear a captive daughter mourn,
And court compassion from the Druid grove.
Grown white with grief, my tender cause should plead;
Wake a small pity on my deep despair,
And bid the Druids stay the bloody deed.
What, without Elfrid, life, poor life, endears?
Then kill me—then 'tis Mercy lulls the wail,
Of one who counts the moments by his tears.
TO THE DRUIDS.
Whose only daughter is his soul's delight!
For her a father woe-begone and wan,
With horror darkens ev'n the shade of night.
O lead your willing victim to the shrine:
Quick let me close these eyes upon the day,
That, Elfrid, light may beam for years on thine.
And thus, my daughter's prison-door unbar:
Forbear to bind with cords my wither'd hands—
To struggle, were with Elfrid's life to war.
Her sighs be balm where'er my urn is laid—
Those let her give, and I will bless my doom;
I ask no happier offering to my shade.
Speak, am I not a victim for yon sphere?
When from your holy mandates did I stray,
And drew from Virtue's wounded eye the tear?
Or view'd unaw'd the Druids ancient fire?
These rocks, these idols, I confess'd their pow'r,
And rev'rent sung their wonders to my lyre.
What injur'd spirits of my slights complain?
On Osgar mournful call'd, and call'd in vain?
'Midst the dread silence of the midnight gloom:
On moonlight mountains met the haggard host,
How wild! with all their horrors from the tomb?
Ne'er left with sorrowing downcast eye my door:
Thanks to the gods, who wealth to Osgar gave,
And taught its happy worth, to help the poor.
A sweet simplicity, unspoil'd by art:
Lo, with my Elfrid's voice, a world is lost!
All, all forsakes me but a breaking heart.
And let my sufferings her dear days prolong:
O! be these limbs along your altar laid;
O'er bleeding Osgar hymn the victim's song.
Retires from others with unwilling flight—
With joy, my spirit shall desert its clay,
And bless you Druids for the cruel rite.
Nor cheek so pale, which saves her precious breath;
A scene so sad, her gentle nature spare:
Her wounded heart, so soft, would weep to death.
As sullen, sorrowing for the loss of life:
I'll teach my languid cheek a smile to wear,
And show its triumph in the tender strife.
When cold beneath the lonely turf I lie:
The bleeding hist'ry of a parent's love,
Will often dim the crystal of her eye.
Peace to her turtle bosom to impart;
To guard from pining thought her tender bloom,
And snatch from woes o'erwhelming floods her heart.
Till Fate, commanding, seal her dove-like eye;
Then let me fondly clasp my darling maid,
And add another glory to your sky.
He said—the melting Druids heard his pray'r;
Rever'd his virtues, bade him go in peace,
And to a father's fondness gave the fair.
DELIA;
A PASTORAL ELEGY.
Lo, the bloom of our vale is no more!
Now Sorrow sits dumb in the shade,
Where Rapture oft carol'd before.
Like the summer, gave life to the swain;
For her smile was the seat of the Loves,
And her voice the sweet song of the plain!
Thy merits we all shall revere;
We shall dwell with delight on thy fame,
And think of thy loss with a tear.
Their instructress shall Innocence be;
Who their little ambition shall raise,
To resemble a fair one like thee.
Which the yew-tree surrounds with its gloom;
Thy virtue a sun shall appear,
And thy graces be flow'rs on thy tomb.
MADRIGAL.
[How sweet is every shepherd's song!]
How fair the vows that load his tongue!
His soul with every sigh expires,
His bosom flames with furious fires.
But when will Love and truth agree?
In silent ambush cease to lie;
When foxes keen with poultry play,
And from the lambkin run away;
Then may the world with wonder see,
That love and truth at last agree.
SONG, BY SYLVIA.
He droop'd and languish'd, look'd and sigh'd;
‘Good Heav'n!’ thought I, and then turn'd pale,
‘How often men for love have died!’
‘'Tis pity kill so sweet a swain!’
My heart was fill'd with wild alarms,
That bouncing, bouncing at my breast,
Cry'd, ‘Take poor Colin to your arms.’
And then my tongue began its strain,
‘'Tis pity kill so sweet a swain!’
The mutineers, in saucy bands,
And roar, ‘For shame to strike him dead,
And have a murder on your hands!’
‘Wishes, you're right,’ quoth I, ‘'tis plain—
What then? What then! I sav'd the swain.’
ODE TO THE SUN.
To whom unnumber'd millions pray,
And, kneeling, deem thee all divine;
Eternal foe of inky Night,
Who puttest all her imps to flight,
Receive the poet's grateful line.
That gilds the hill and vale and stream,
And trees and cots and rural spires;
And, happy, 'mid the valley's song,
I listen to the minstrel throng,
And, thankful, hail thy genial fires.
Care not three straws for thy bright face,
Nay, thy rich lamp with curses load;
When thou gett'st up, they go to bed;
And when the night-cap's on thy head,
They stare, and flit like owls abroad.
That thou'rt a most intruding beast;
And lo, in triumph thus they say,
‘Behold our navy, Britain's pride!
From pole to pole, our vessels glide,
And sail as safe by night as day.
Exclaim the great—‘behold, the pine
Is better warm'd by coal and tan:
Not ev'n to one exotic plant
The sun a perfect taste can grant—
Deny the stubborn fact, who can?’
Abuse thy journey up the skies;
Messieurs Postillions, Mesdames Cooks—
Content to lie a-bed all day,
They hate, alas! thy rising ray,
And curse thy all-observing looks.
The great retire from routs, their heav'n,
And break up in a horrid passion,
The tasteless world a sun might need,
But now the fool is out of fashion.
And light on other systems throw,
Vulgars! that never wax-lights handle!
Nay, while a mutton-light remains,
A sun with us no credit gains,
But yields to ev'ry farthing candle.’
THE QUEEN OF FRANCE TO HER CHILDREN,
Just before her Execution.
AN ELEGIAC BALLAD.
And with smiles meet the savage decree,
Were it only to sleep from my woe,
Since the grave holds no terrors for me.
Oh! a coward I melt at my doom;
Ye draw me to earth, and my heart
Sighs for life, and shrinks back from the tomb.
For I know not of guilt and its fears;
And when at my fate ye will sigh,
My ghost shall rejoice in your tears.
Dear babes of my bosom, adieu!
May the cloud be dispers'd by my death,
And open a sunshine for you.
TO A LADY,
Who wished not to be admired.
That people of your charms should prate;
Give me that face, that air divine,
And in exchange accept of mine.
And set a raptur'd world on fire—
You'll too be pleas'd (no longer doubt ye)
As folks won't say one word about ye.
SONG.
[Dear Phillida, do not my passion despise]
Ah! wherefore disdain all my vows and my sighs?
Can cruelty dwell with the dove?
O Phillida, think not I mean to deceive;
Whatever I tell thee, with safety believe;
For Truth is the daughter of Love.
The eye that beholds thee, at once must adore;
Nor wish from thine altar to rove:
Distrust not, I beg thee, the pow'r of thy smile;
The swain who now wooes thee, is void of all guile;
And Truth is the daughter of Love.
I would fly from thy charms, with so much I revere,
But their magic forbids me to move:
And yet, as inconstancy governs the fair,
Perhaps thou mayst smile, and thus end my despair
Hope too is the daughter of Love.
ODE ON FRENCH TASTE.
Proud of his tragic idol, Pierre Corneille,
Baptiz'd, forsooth, le Grand!
But our fop neighbours see things with strange eyes!
Alas! Sublimity ne'er left her skies,
To take a Frenchman by the hand.
A meretricious, noisy lass, I ween;
A bouncing giantess, with eyes of flame,
And such a daring and Medusa mien!
With cabbage-roses loaded, glaring, vast!
Such is the Frenchman's song-inspiring maid;
The name of this bald Brobdignag, Bombast.
So simple in her form, and speech, and paces;
So elegant her manners and her air—
A Juno dress'd by all the easy graces.
TO TIME.
AN ANACREONTIC.
And see what joys amongst us reign;
The bottle, music, girls, and rhime,
And Friendship's soul, delight the scene.
And taste the pleasures, Gods should share.
We sing of Love, and Delia's charms;
When Morning warns us to repose,
We clasp a fav'rite in our arms.
But, Time, thy minutes fly too fast:
Yet wouldst thou pass one evening here,
Thou'dst make each hour a thousand year.
SONG.
[Ye gentil 'squires, give over sighs]
To gain regard in ladies eyes,
And make them doat upon ye;
For love has long been kick'd to door,
Because the little god is poor—
Who's welcome without money?
For truly 'tis an idle dream
To woo with words of honey:
Change (if ye wish their hearts to fix)
Your hearts into a coach and six,
And coin your sighs to money!
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Who charm'st the silent list'ning plain,
A hapless pilgrim treads thy bow'r,
To hear thy solitary strain.
To me, whom Love hath doom'd to pine!
For, 'mid those sounds that plaintive flow,
I hear my sorrows mix with thine.
DINAH;
OR, MY LADY'S HOUSEKEEPER.
My lady's housekeeper—stiff, dry, and sage,
Quoting old proverbs oft, with much formality:
A pair of flannel cheeks compos'd her face;
Red were her eyes, her nose of snipe-bill race,
Which took a deal of snuff, of Scottish quality.
Resembling much the bristles on a pig:
She likewise held a handsome length of chin,
Tapering away to sharpness like a pin.
As every other tooth her mouth had fled;
Thus, when she grinn'd, they seem'd a garden-rake,
Or sheep's bones planted round a flow'ret bed.
Sleek comb'd upon a roll around her head;
Moreover comb'd up very close behind—
No wanton ringlets waving in the wind!
Of lawn so stiff, with large flow'r'd ribbon grac'd,
Yclept a knot and bridle, in a bow,
Of scarlet flaming, her long chin below.
Around her scraggy neck, with parchment skin,
Was fair and smooth, with starch precision drawn,
So that no prying eye might peep within.
No lovely swell—no more than on a cat;
For, lo! was Dinah's neck (I grieve to tell)
As any tombstone, or a flounder, flat.
Was pinn'd a Barcelona, black and tight.
Surrounded her long waist, with formal port.
Black silk, on Sundays, did her arms adorn.
The stiff stay high before, for reasons chaste;
With a broad plaited back she wore a gown,
Of stuff, of yellow oft, and oft of brown,
And oft a damask, well beflower'd with blue.
Moreover, this same damask gown, or stuff,
Had a large sleeve, and a long ruffle cuff.
Black leather shoes too, which small buckles bore,
Compos'd of shining silver, also square,
Holding a pretty antiquated air.
And tunes, at times, were most discordant heard,
Harsh grating on poor John the footman's ear;
Harsh grating on the ears of house-maids too,
Postillion eke, who curs'd her for a shrew,
And kitchen-wench, whom Mis'ry taught to swear.
Whose happier ear was sooth'd by sweeter song.
In horse-flesh, and a coach, profoundly deep;
Great friends were they!—full oft, indeed, together,
They walk'd, regardless of the wind and weather,
So pleas'd each other's happiness to study.
Turns to a pigmy, Danger's giant form—
Nought casts a dread on Friendship's steady eye:
Thus did the couple seek the darkest grove;
Where Silence, and sweet Meditation, rove;
Where Sol, intrusive, was forbid to pry.
So pious! putting people in the right;
And often in the pray'r-book would she look—
Where matrimony was much thumb'd indeed,
Because she oft'nest here God's word did read,
The sweetest page in all the blessed book.
Where chaste Susanna nearly was a wh---,
By wicked elders almost overcome:
King David's actions too did Dinah read,
A man of God's own heart—but call'd indeed,
A wicked fornicating rogue by some.
Could read the monarch's wisdom all day long—
And where's the wonder? lo, the gallant Jew,
Of mortal hearts the great queen passion knew:
Thus sung he of the sparrow and the dove,
And pour'd instruction through the voice of Love.
Who plainly show'd the way to kingdom-come.
Susan the kitchen-wench, for harmless play
With Dick the Driver—likewise harmless Dick,
Because too, Susan gave him up the bliss,
Without a scream, a faint-fit, or a kick.
My lady's maid, she watch'd him like a cat;
And if the slightest word of love she heard,
Quick in the fire indeed was all the fat—
Off were the couple trundled—man and maid—
John for a rogue, and Lucy for a jade.
Who lost, by dire mishap, her maiden fame,
At once she call'd her trollop, minx of brass,
Strumpet, and ev'ry coarse opprobrious name.
For sinful flesh—the smallest for a wh---.
Ogling and pawing with their pretty pats,
Kissing and squinting love, with frisking hops;
Fir'd at the action, what would Dinah do?
Slip down her hand, and slily take her shoe,
Then launch in thunder at their am'rous chops.
All who made love, came in for bitter words;
Poor simple souls, amidst the genial ray,
Whom simple Nature call'd to simple play;
But Dinah call'd it vile adulteration,
A wicked, impudent abomination.
By Dinah pour'd, created great surprise—
Ill, very ill, in bed, alas! she lay:
A dreadful cholic—her good lady wept,
Gave her rich cordials—to her bedside crept,
When Dinah begg'd that she would go away.
Fearful that Dinah soon would yield to fate;
And full of sorrow as my lady went,
Sighs for her maid's recovery back she sent.
He feels her pulse—is solemn, sage, and brief;
Prescribeth for the cholic—nought avails;
On Dinah, lo, the dire disorder gains;
Stronger and faster flow the cholic pains,
Fear, trembling, paleness, ev'ry soul assails.
Join'd to a length'ning face of dread and gloom.
A ghostly terror seizeth ev'ry one:
My lady hears the cry, alas! below—
She sends for Doctor Pestle—Pestle straight
Runs to my lady—‘Doctor, what's her fate?
Speak, is it death, dear doctor, yes, or no?’
A little Jehu's come to light, that's all.’
TO CHLOE.
For why should mortals court the tear?
Joy, joy should wing each moment's flight,
And Echo nought but rapture hear.
And make my life a life of love.
And lips are rich with many a kiss;
Aloud the voice of Nature cries,
‘I form'd those charms alone for bliss:
Go, nymph, learn wisdom from my dove,
And be thy life a life of love.’
THE YOUNG FLY, AND THE OLD SPIDER.
As poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees,
Phœbus got up, and made a blazing fire,
That gilded every country house and spire,
And smiling, put on his best looks so bright.
To catch a breakfast, his old waving net,
With curious art upon a spangled thorn;
At length, with gravely-squinting longing eye,
Near him espied a pretty plump young fly,
Humming her little orisons to morn.
‘Good morrow, sir,’ reply'd Miss Fly to him—
‘Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I'm about:’
‘I'm much oblig'd t'ye, sir,’ Miss Fly rejoin'd,
‘My eyes are both so very good, I find,
That I can plainly see the whole, without.’
Quoth Miss—‘prodigious fine indeed:’
‘But why so coy?’ quoth Grim, ‘that you decline
To put within my bow'r your pretty head?’
Quoth cautious Miss,
‘I fear you'd like my pretty head so well,
You'd keep it for yourself, sir—who can tell?’
And prove that all your dread is foolish, vain.’—
‘I've a sore finger, sir; nay more, I fear
You really would not let it go again.’
I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head—
Well, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet me:’
‘La, sir,’ quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue,
‘I fear our salutation would be long;
So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me.’
To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.
MADRIGAL.
[When Love and Truth together play'd]
So cheerful was the shepherd's song!
How happy, too, the rural maid!
How light the minutes wing'd along!
But Love has left the sighing vale,
And Truth no longer tells her tale.
The watchful Jealousy appear;
And pale Distrust with troubled mien,
The rolling eye, and list'ning ear!
For Love has left the sighing vale,
And Truth no longer tells her tale.
That wafted rapture on its wing?
With murmurs shall the riv'let pour,
That prattled from its crystal spring?
Yes, yes, while Love forsakes the vale,
And Truth no longer tells her tale.
TO CHLOE.
And yet ten thousand blockheads say,
‘O Pleasure, thou'rt the devil:’
While Nature bids them joy embrace,
They fling the blessing in her face;
Now this is most uncivil!
Ingratitude was never giv'n
To my good heart, I'm sure:
Would Chloe yield a thousand kisses,
Upon my knees I'd seize the blisses,
And beg a thousand more.
ODE TO A COUNTRY 'SQUIRE,
ON THE EVE OF HIS MARRIAGE.
And, O great 'squire, I know you are a hog;
Indeed so sad a brute in all your carriage,
You'll freely give your wife up for a dog.
Whose dow'r are all the virtues, and her charms.
With deep regret, I see th' unwilling fair
Dragg'd from her lover, to thy hated bed—
Sold by a cruel parent to Despair:
To captivate thy vulgar, savage heart,
And live a tyrant's slave—a servile wife!
How like the victim lamb, in ribbons drest.
Led from its vale and sport, so lately blest,
To lose its sweetly-inoffensive life!
(O could the thunder of the poet's song,
Preventing, dash thine iron cheek with shame!)
Thou'lt quarrel with her virtues, peerless beauty!
Bid her ‘like spaniels, understand her duty;’
Upbraid her with the want of wealth and name.
That through mere charity thou took'st her in;
Tell her she ‘crawls about thee like a louse,
Eternally a torment to thy skin.’
How durst, alas! thy villain tongue declare,
That, when to thee the beauteous maid was brought,
Thy offer'd hand with honour cloth'd the fair?
Know, with her beauties thou'rt too well repaid;
Ev'n by a smile, that all our envy draws:
Ah! when she yieldeth to thy lips her kiss,
And bosom yields thee (too sublime a bliss!)
The luckless virgin barters gems for straws.
She will enjoy thy cash, and love-clad look;
The turnspit-bastards, to thine eye be dear—
Thy wife, with sweetness bordering on divine,
Pale wretch! in secret solitude shall pine,
Mourn to the wind, and drop the silent tear.
Kind Heav'n resumes the gift its bounty gave—
With happy heart thou hear'st her parting sigh,
And drunken, madding, dancest o'er her grave.
And leaves thee soon for lads who clean thy stables;
Noses thee, pulls thine ears, and pounds thy pate,
And, with much justice, on thee turns the tables.
To hide thee from her rage, from room to room;
Urg'd by a ladle-full of broth or dripping,
Or by the strong persuasions of the broom.
And keep thee, mournful devil, upon thorns;
Shall take thy own postillion to her bed,
And, threat'ning, dare thee once to mention horns.
THE COMPLAINT OF MIRZA,
TO SELIMA HIS MISTRESS.
The nymph, whom every bard of Persia sings?
To find the wand'rer out, and sooth my pain,
Sweet bird of morn, to Mirza lend thy wings.
Who sullen slies where Horar's waters roll;
And scorns the surge of grief, that sinks my soul?
Retain a smile, whilst Mirza's sorrows flow?
Ah! can that heart, that every softness swells,
Forbear to heave on Mirza's songs of woe?
And, blushing, chase the cloud of Mirza's fears
Come, like the sun upon the dews of night,
And with thy radiance, smile away my tears.
HAWKING, A BALLAD
To the wolds, to the wolds, let us quickly repair;
Bold Thunder and Lightning are mad for the game,
And Death and the Devil are both in a flame.
Zounds! out with the owl—lo, he catches his eye—
Down he comes with a sweep—be unhooded each hawk;
Very soon will they both to the gentleman talk.
Ah! that was a stroke—see! he drops to the plain—
He struggles, he turns up his talons, and dies.
How he chatters, poor rogue! now he darts to the brambles:
Out again—overtaken—his spirits now flag—
Flip! he gives up the ghost—good night Mister Mag.
And darts, with what vengeance, but vainly, his beak!
Egad, he shifts well—now he feels a death-wound,
And, with Thunder and Lightning rolls tumbling to ground.
To fight o'er the bottle, the wars of the day:
And in honour, at night, of the chase and its charms,
Sink sweetly to rest, with a dove in our arms.
ODE TO HEALTH.
Peter protesteth against Physic.
Who, vagrant, playful, on the hills art seen,
E'er Sol illumines the grey world below;
Now, doe-like, skipping wild from vale to vale,
Enamour'd of the rills and fresh'ning gale,
From whose mild wing the streams of fragrance flow.
Thou wilt be ruin'd if thou com'st away—
Doctors too much like man-traps lie in wait—
That they can mend thy bloom, and sparkling eyes—
Avoid, avoid, my dear, the dangerous bait.
The instant that he dares appear,
The country's up to kill him—dog and gun!
So when thou showest, nymph, thy rosy face,
I see at once an Æsculapian chase;
And, oh! if caught, thou wilt not find it fun.
Rich immortality in his dear drop;
Another dire impostor, bawling louder,
Swears that it lodges only in his powder.
Prepar'd to put thy beauties on the rack—
But then, the regulars!—ay, what are they?
The regulars, my love, are gentlemen,
Whom very justly nine in ten,
I with an eye of no small dread survey.
And all th' irregulars who ply the trade,
Are just like men that form an army;
Whichever at you lifts his gun, alas!
Will soon convince you what must come to pass—
The shot will very comfortably warm ye.
Nor quack nor regular the mark will miss;
The art of killing they are all so pat in;
On broken English, fate by that you seek;
By this, upon the wings of mongrel Greek,
And pie-bald Latin.
To keep, like Babylon's great king, at grass,
And thou wilt find it not an idle notion:
And know that Death is never half so rife,
As when the country swarms with pill and potion.
Beware then of those potions and those pills—
Be kisses all thy physic, rose-lipp'd Health;
Kisses, my easy nostrum, ne'er are rife,
For ever pregnant, lovely nymph, with life,
And sweeter when they are enjoy'd by stealth.
Pr'ythee drop in some evening on thy swain.
TO CHLOE.
Trust me, there's nought worth living for, beside:
Nought for thine absence, Cloe, can atone,
Though Phœbus shines, and Nature pours her pride.
The brooks in sweetest murmurs purl along;
The lark's, the linnet's voices too, are sweet—
But what are these to Chloe's tuneful tongue?
But thine can yield a thousand times more blisses:
I own the fragrance of the blushing rose,
But, ah! how faint to balm of Chloe's kisses!
And now thy bridling chin of scorn I see;
And now I hear thee, so contemptuous, cry,
‘What are my kisses, saucy swain, to thee?’
Which dwelleth on thy lips so very teasing,
Would quickly change its nature were it mine,
And rapt'rous prove—superlatively pleasing!
To see the gold he gives, in circulation—
Then cease to hoard such quantities of treasure,
And be afraid to put him in a passion.
And throw amongst thy sex, 'twould be alarming;
And not a little mortify thy pride,
To meet, dear Chloe, ev'ry woman charming.
ODE.
[Th' unsteady mind is my abomination]
Peter praiseth Constancy.
I curse the whiffling and inconstant passion:
From me, dear Constancy, don't, don't depart—
I love the cooing turtle and her mate—
The Proteus Mutability I hate—
A demon when he holds the human heart;
Keeping the company of ev'ry wind.
They sit so easy—just like an old shoe:
And let us not, as though from Wisdom's schools,
Fancy our forefathers were arrant fools.
Scheming new roads to Heav'n, they wildly range;
I like an honest constancy in souls,
In spite of interest, that our race controls,
Turning, like pudding-bags, men inside out.
And that sad plague, call'd Murrain, had a battle;
When Murrain prov'd a most victorious foe—
For ram and ewe, 'Squire Bull, and Madam Cow,
And lusty Mister Bull, and Mistress Sow,
Were by this rogue in multitudes laid low.
To fill the gaping tombs of death.
Which all the farrier's skill could not assuage,
Liv'd a good priest—Father M'Shane;
Famous afar for wonder-working pray'rs;
Minding not sins one pin, though thick as hares,
Safe were the souls of the profane!
Amidst the field—where beasts of various classes,
Infected by this murrain, might appear:
His congregation follow'd, to be sure;
Bull, cow, pig, sheep, surrounded him for cure,
Yielding his masses an attentive ear.
Father M'Shane's good prayers destroy'd the evil;
Bull, cow, and sheep, so hungry, graz'd the plains,
And pigs, half famish'd, fell upon the grains.
Father M'Shane, what? laugh'd, while Satan mourn'd.
To a rich Protestant, with good intent,
To make the murrain from his cattle fly:
‘Father M'Shane,’ the farmer cry'd in scorn,
‘My cattle all were Church-of-England born,
And in that holy faith they all shall die.’
A LITTLE SKETCH OF A CERTAIN MOST MERCIFUL AND LITTLE JUDGE.
Hic niger est ------
The robes deep blushing for their master's soul;
With what solemnity he sits, the varlet!
With what sublimity his eye-balls roll!
With what a grave pomposity he blows
What has been often pull'd—his mean pug-nose!
How pleas'd in secret swells the fatal breath!
Religion-cloth'd, each sentence moves along,
While thirst for murder prompts the villain's tongue.
The very first in Roguery's hawk-ey'd school!
A knave, committing crimes of ev'ry sort;
To whom Hypocrisy's an arrant fool.
‘There's no such man,’ the world exclaims.—That's true;
But such a monster, ev'ry day we view.
SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.[_]
Is it not astonishing that the life of so great a man
as Sir Joshua Reynolds should not have been
written? A painter who possessed more of the
charming art than almost any single professor that
ever existed.
But Fame proclaimeth Mr. James Boswell to be
big with the biography of this celebrated artist, and
ready to sink into the straw!
Is it not astonishing that the life of so great a man as Sir Joshua Reynolds should not have been written? A painter who possessed more of the charming art than almost any single professor that ever existed.
But Fame proclaimeth Mr. James Boswell to be big with the biography of this celebrated artist, and ready to sink into the straw!
He drops his nether lip, and rolls his eyes;
And roars, O Bozzy, Bozzy, spare the dead!
Raise not thy biographic guillotine;
Decapitate no more with that machine,
Nor frighten Horror with a second head:
Cease, Anthropophagus, to murder sleep
There is a wonderful energy as well as sonorous sublimity in this polysyllabic expression of the ghost of our immortal moralist and lexicographer, not obvious to the minora sidera of literature. The word anthropophagus is a derivative from the Greek, signifying man-eater; and Mr. James Boswell having regaled most plentifully on the carcase of Dr. Johnson, and meaning to make as hearty a meal on the body of Sir Joshua Reynolds, furnisheth the perturbed spectre with an appellative of fortunate propriety.
Of no great man has Bozzy now to boast;
Of no rich table now can Bozzy brag:
Indeed, like faded beauties, he will say,
‘Envy must own I've had my shining day.’—
What wert thou?—an illuminated rag!
Deep sunk in mournful solitude art thou!
Amidst thy small tin-box, so drear and dark,
No courted genius casts a lucky spark!
Nothing to gild thy solitary tinder,
Save the rude flint and steel of Peter Pindar.
AN EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.
Thy worth shall live in Mem'ry's eye;
Who oft at night's pale noon shall stray,
To bathe with tears thy lonely clay.
Shall, mingling sighs, be heard to mourn;
With Genius drooping o'er thy tomb,
In sorrow for a brother's doom.
ODE ON THE CHOLERIC CHARACTER.
Peter reprehendeth Rational Creatures, for their violent Anger against Inanimates.
As holds more butter-milk than aqua-fortis!
But, Lord! how passionate are certain folk!
How like the sea, reflecting ev'ry form.
So placid!—the next instant in a storm,
Dashing against the inoffensive rock;
As though it wish'd (the lev'ler!) to bring under
Sun, moon, and stars, and tear them into tatters—
Such passions verily are serious matters.
But for those passions make a strong curb bridle.
In man resides the folly or the sin—
Not in the brass, by which his finger's spitted—
For with a small philosophy we find,
That, as a pin is not endow'd with mind,
Of malice call'd prepense, pin stands acquitted:
And thus to persecute the pin's a shame.
Many inanimates, as well as pins,
Suffer for others' fooleries and sins.
That overturns him, breaks his shins, or head:
Whose eyes should certainly have view'd the coast,
And have avoided this same post so dread;
And only damn'd his own two blinking eyes.
Hot as Chian, that is to say—
A bachelor—and therefore ev'ry need,
Was, for subsistence, forc'd to him to pray:
His gullet,
Put into a small pot—indeed too small,
A pullet.
So out they pok'd themselves, so sleek and white:
The Welchman curs'd her legs with wicked mind,
And push'd them in again, with monstrous spite
So very warm—indeed a nat'ral case,
Pok'd forth her shrinking legs again, so fair;
With seeming much uneasiness, in troth,
Objecting to her element of broth,
And wishing much to take a little air.
And highly foaming too, just like the pot.
Ran to the legs, and shov'd them in once more;
But, lo! his oaths and labour all were vain;
Out pok'd the pullet's boiling legs again;
Which put the Welchman's passions in a roar!
Mad at defeat, and with a dev'lish scowl,
He seizes with ferocity the fowl,
And, full of vengeance, whirls her out at window.
TO MISS HARRINGTON.
OF BATH.
Good Titus once was heard to say,
And sorely, sorely to repent it—
What was it made the emp'ror groan:
I'd give a good round sum, I own,
To be inform'd how 'twas he spent it.
Enter of Harrington the room,
Whom music and each grace reveres—
I'll answer for't, thou wilt not say,
‘Alas, alas, I've lost a day;’
But, ‘Gods! I've found five hundred years!’
ANACREON TO HIS LYRE.
Sent to a Lady.
And give to war the sounding strings;
But, lo! the chords rebellious prove,
And tremble with the notes of love.
In vain I change the rebel wire;
Boldly I strike to war again,
But love prevails through all the strain.
Ye kings, and sons of war, farewell;
And since the Loves the song require,
To Venus I resign the lyre.
The gay Anacreon pour'd the song,
A bard belov'd by me:
And who the Poet's harp can blame?
Perhaps old Greece could boast a dame,
With every grace like thee.
ODE.
[A man may, in the cold dim eve of life]
Peter modestly, delicately, and tenderly, pleadeth against the excessive Damages lately given for certain illegal Liberties in Love-matters.
By way of sunshine, take a pretty wife,
To warm him, as King David did of yore ;
Kiss her neat little finger, pat her cheek,
Toy with the snowy beauties of her neck—
No more!
From impudently stepping in.
Who wanteth much the birch of Cupid's school,
Expects his wife, so soft, and so divine,
To fancy ev'ry sublunary bliss
In ev'ry toying monkey-trick and kiss,
And round his neck, her arms with rapture twine;
That curls her tendrils round a rotten stick!
Is nat'ral—sad is trespass on th' estate;
For who, alas! can sit with silent ease,
And see a neighbour's pig among his peas?
Who married a poor squeal, starv'd cat, for money?
Heav'ns! what should put the judge's breech on thorns?
Where, for the wasps, alas! is madam's honey?
Gall needeth not a flapper for the flies.
That poor Adultery is just undone:
Afraid to write, or squeeze, or wink his eye,
Nay, waft the soul's soft wishes on a sigh!
Ten, twenty, thirty, forty thousand pounds,
For him to pay, who milks his neighbour's cow;
Stealing by night so slily to his grounds!
Dreadful a neighbour's honour to ensnare—
Take his dear spouse without his leave, indeed!
What! of his bosom steal the tender wife!
The pigeon to his feet, prolonging life,
Of sinking age the sweet supporting reed!
Thus roars the jealous judge, with thund'ring breath.
But let thy fav'rite Justice hold the scale:
What though we must condemn the smuggled bliss;
Ten thousand pounds are too much for a kiss.
Here is a flagrant error of the lyric bard. It was not a wife, but a pair of pretty black-eyed Hebrew lasses, whom the monarch chose for his loving companions.
THE ADDRESS OF THE FAIRIES TO THE LADIES OF R---, IN CORNWALL:
Left on the Dial-plate in the Garden.
Admir'd and lov'd by all our elfin train;
Your worth with wonder and delight we hail,
And pen, unseen, for you the tuneful strain.
When midnight rules the world with solemn sway;
While you, forgetful, sink to silent sleep,
We, blithsome, gambol 'mid the moonlight ray.
Dear is the valley where the Virtues dwell:
By such allur'd, we trip this dewy green,
Far from the sound of Riot's savage yell.
And bid with ev'ry balm your zephyrs blow;
Unceasing song shall charm the echoing hill,
And Plenty robe with bloom, the vale below.
Till for yon skies ye bid the world adieu;
And when at last ye leave these blissful bow'rs,
Your little weeping friends will wander too.
PUCK,
BLOSSOM,
MAB, &c.
TO CHARLOTTE,
On New-Year's Day.
Behold another year succeed!But, Charlotte, thou hast nought to dread,
Since Time will ever beauty spare:
Time knows what's perfect, and well knows,
'Twould take him ages to compose
Another damsel half so fair.
TO CYNTHIA.
Cynthia, I own my heart is lost,And dare confess it with a boast;
It does a credit to my sighs;
For who like thee displays a face,
Or who like thee abounds with grace,
Or sports like thee a pair of eyes?
Because I hear no sighs again,
A soft, a sweet return for mine;
Love is a rogue, who bade me gaze;
And when he saw my bosom blaze,
Refus'd to raise a spark in thine.
HYMN TO SILENCE.
Yet from the fashionable circles driv'n
To breathing zephyrs, and the limpid stream,
Whose murmurs sweetly sooth the shepherd's dream?
For thee I often sigh, but sigh in vain,
When Folly stuns me with her noisy train.
Impertinently bursts into my room;
Hallooing from the kennel's howl and mire,
And casting o'er my day, a midnight gloom.
And talks of fashions, op'ra, ball, and play;
Methinks, my ears can bear the varied din,
Which forceth thee, mute maid, to run away.
So much thy presence glads, at times, my heart—
For when I clasp the nymph, so fair and young,
And steal a sweet acquaintance with her lip,
I wish thee in the room at once to skip,
And gently take possession of her tongue.
CECILIA.
[Cecilia, as 'twas Christmas time]
Resolving on a flight sublime,
Pepar'd to pass her holidays in Heav'n:
The goddess then brush'd up her wings,
Pick'd up her trinkets, her best things.
Her harp, and songs, and pen, by Phœbus giv'n.
‘Indeed you must not, shall not go’—
‘Poh! hold thy tongue,’ the goddess cry'd, ‘thou Ninny;
Think'st thou I'll quit dear Bath, my pride,
And not an equal charm provide?
Thou stupid creature, to forget Rauzzini.’
SONG.
[Ah, Delia! I will not complain]
That another is blest in thy charms;
Yet allow me to envy the swain,
Whom Delia can take to her arms.
That of Delia I ought to despair:
Since thy virtues, dear maid, are divine,
And thy form like an angel's so fair.
Who show'd me thy form of desire;
When I caught from thy beauty a flame,
That only with life can expire.
Ah! do not one favour deny;
Though Fortune denies me thy heart,
Let thy pity accept of its sigh.
MADRIGAL.
[Sweet girl, the man's a downright fool]
That asks for constancy in love—
Variety's a charming school:
How nat'ral for the heart to rove!
And lo, thy graces, what a plenty!
Then tell me, why should one enjoy
The beauties that suffice for twenty?
AN APOLOGY FOR INCONSTANCY.
TO PHILLIS.
I know not verily, O Love;
But, to my grief, this truth I know,
That Folly leads thy dance below.’
From thy black sparklers felt the stinging dart:
In dismal crape I dress'd up many a ballad;
Mad at sour looks, I look'd for nought but smile,
Not dreaming once that vinegar and oil
Produc'd a fine effect upon a sallad.
And ev'ry day, I, Peter, am prepar'd
To catch my little Syren out of humour:
A disappointment at a ball perchance,
Not standing up the foremost in a dance,
Which forms a feast for wide-mouth'd Madam Rumour,
May give thee fidgets, put thee out of sorts—
What slighteth lady loveth such reports?
Let fall, alas! a hearty show'r of rain—
Soon will those suns (for long it cannot last)
Peep out with radiance on the world again.
When, lo! their beams will seem a great deal brighter,
My spirits also dancing ten times lighter.
At times, a disappointment is a treat.
Some scout this doctrine—Psha! the vapid asses!
Lord, drown them in a hogshead of molasses.
And grimly Thurlow thunder'd out d*mnation,
And Leeds and Hawk'sb'ry join'd their jowls together,
Brewing, like witches of Macbeth, foul weather;
Indeed the bard found something like a fright;
Indeed I trembled at gathering gloom;
But when the cloud so harmless pass'd away,
My spirits all so frolicksome and gay,
To dance their jig, had scarcely elbow-room.
And mock'd the dread that rush'd through ev'ry vein.
(Doubtless the thought the great Apollo shocks),
That verses vended by a bard divine,
Can put his sacred legs into the stocks?
Yes! and his sacred head into the pillory;
So say the law archives of Lent and Hillary.
And wish their passions always in a roar.
Ah! would those madmen wisely time employ,
They ought to be œconomists of joy.
Will tear the best machinery to pieces;
This doctrine to young masters is a potion,
A nauseous potion too to love-sick misses.
Beyond the flight of thought sublime,
I chase not blisses thus beyond all measure—
Rapture's a fiery hunter to bestride;
Indeed I wish not madman-like to ride,
But calm on that sweet filly, christen'd Pleasure.
At times, I'll give thee liberty to pout:
Such is my plan, the minutes to beguile;
Sometimes in Heav'n, my love, and sometimes out.
Variety affords a zest to life—
But, mum!—we must not say this to a wife.
HYMN TO LIFE.
I should be loath to part with thee, I own,
Dear life!
To tell the truth, I'd rather lose a wife,
Should Heav'n e'er deem me worthy of possessing
That best, that most invaluable blessing.
As one too pitiful to be enjoy'd;
But thou'rt a most delightful girl with me—
A hundred thousand pretty things are thine;
Indeed, of golden treasure thou'rt a mine,
Thy manners greatly with my heart agree.
Will make a bargain with thee not to part,
Till fate shall strike our system off its hinges:
Consenting to a little gout sometimes;
That spoils my appetite to meat and rhimes,
Those very sharp memento-mori twinges.
The things of this our world are well worth seeing,
And, let me add moreover, well worth feeling;
Then what the dev'l would people have,
These gloomy hunters of the grave,
For ever sighing, groaning, canting, kneeling?
As Horace says, uti conviva satur—
No such matter:
I'll answer for myself at least.
Life, I shall leave thee with a sighing heart;
Leave the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
With ling'ring longing looks, says Gray.
To see the handy works of God,
In sun, and moon, and starry sky;
Though last, not least, to see sweet woman's charms;
Nay more, to clasp them in our arms,
And pour the soul in love's delicious sigh,
Is well worth coming for, I'm sure,
Supposing that thou gav'st us nothing more.
And could I always call thee mine,
I would not quickly bid this world farewell:
But whether here, or long, or short my stay,
I'll keep in mind, for ev'ry day,
An old French motto, vive la bagatelle!
Each may be won with very trifling toil—
But if there be in Nature such a mule,
Who, willing with misfortune to be curst,
Should, like an idiot, madly choose the first,
In God's name let him suffer like a fool.
Presents, in my opinion, not worth thanks:
The pleasures are the twenty-thousand prizes,
Which nothing but a downright ass despises.
ODE TO ADMIRAL HOTHAM.
With all the energy of human wit,
And all the pow'rs of sacred truth beside,
Have lavish'd the wild torrent of their praise,
Deck'd thy bald head with Glory's brightest rays!
Haste from thy vessel with unwounded hide;
And mighty danger, met no mighty harm.
England, broad staring, quite upon the gape,
To meet the victor, by whose arm, Dundas
Declares what marv'lous things have come to pass!
Amid the stunning shout, and howling song;
Suppose a patriot sage should cross thy way,
And, claiming silence, ask in manly tone,
‘What for these honours, Hotham, hast thou done?’
Hotham! now what the devil wilt thou say?
TO THE BUTTERFLY.
To sip each odour, sport'st on silken wing;
I greet thy presence 'mid the golden hour,
Whilst with the birds the vales of Serdi ring.
From fragrance thus to fragrance wont to glide;
Now from the tender vi'let waft perfume;
Now fix'd upon the lily's snowy pride.
I kiss the bosom of the brightest fair!
The charms of Adel all my senses fill;
And whilst those charms I press, her love I share.
No fond endearments can return to thee—
Whilst I, belov'd, with constant rapture glow—
Sweet child of summer, come and envy me.
ODE TO THE LION SHIP OF WAR.
On her Return with the Embassy from China.
Glad is the bard to see thee, thou good ship;
Thy mournful ensign, half way down the staff,
Provokes (I fear me much) a general laugh!
A high and mighty disappointed lord!
And lo, a disappointed doughty knight,
Whose buds of hope have felt a horrid blight.
Where Britons, dog-like, learnt to crawl and bow?
Where eastern majesty, as hist'ry sings,
Looks down with smiles of scorn on western kings?
That eastern monarchs are prodigious proud;
Unlike the humble monarchs of the west—
Such kind and pliable and gentle creatures!
So placid, of their souls, and sweet, the features;
Where nought but Virtue is a welcome guest.
Expect the censer of rich adulation
To burn for ever underneath their noses:
This incense boasts a certain opiate pow'r;
Whose pleasant, stupefying, plenteous show'r,
The optics of the understanding closes;
In which kings think they hold the world's esteem
And virtues, thick as herrings, in their souls.
Thou meat, drink, clothes, and furniture of Vanity,
'Tis cruel to attack a feeble head;
Yes, cruel—likewise let me add, a shame—
Who never makest mention of its name,
Poor, easy, gaping cuckoo, when 'tis dead.
A subject form'd to bid all England mourn!
As to the palace of Jehól they rac'd,
So shabbily, so tawdrily array'd !
The natives, with horse-laughs, the tribe remarking ;
While, grunting, kicking, braying, howling, barking ,
Hogs, dogs, and asses, join'd the cavalcade!
Could from the populace obtain one clap;
Nor poor Macartney, with his star and ribbon!—
Child-like, he might as well have had a bib on!
I told ye all how things would end .
That brain was surely in a mad condition:
Say, was it Avarice, the lean old jade,
Who, though half Asia's gems her corpse illume
(Sol's radiance on a melancholy tomb),
Can join with Meanness in her dirtiest trade?
Must be the most egregious fool alive—
God mend that courtier's head, or rather trash-pot!—
Perhaps he cry'd, ‘Upon the rich Hindoo
Your glorious majesty has cast its shoe,
And China next, my liege, must be your wash-pot.’
‘I cannot but add to the obstacles which we received from the curiosity of the Chinese people, some small degree of mortification at the kind of impression our appearance seemed to make on them: for they no sooner obtained a sight of any of us, than they universally burst out into loud shouts of laughter.’ Vide Anderson's Narrative of the British Embassy to China.
Mr. Anderson supposes the clothes for the suite of the ambassador were second-hand things purchased from the servants of the French Ambassador Luzerne, or from the play-houses—perhaps from Monmouth-street.
‘We found ourselves (says Mr. Anderson) intermingled with a cohort of pigs, asses, and dogs, which broke our ranks, such as they were, and put us into irrecoverable confusion. All formality of procession, therefore, was at an end; and the ambassador's palanquin was so far advanced before us, as to make a little smart running necessary to overtake it.’
See my Epistle to Lord Macartney, in which I prophesied somewhat more than came to pass, as the embassy was bonâ fide not literally flogged; but, says Anderson, ‘we entered Pekin like paupers, we remained in it like prisoners, and we quitted it like vagrants.’
ODE TO A BUTTERFLY.
Who, happy, rov'st from flow'r to flow'r,
Now sportive winnowing 'mid th' expanse of air;
O welcome to my little field!
Each leaf of fragrance may it yield!
Yes, dwell with me, and Nature's bounty share.
And Jonas , whelm'd with dust and sweat,
Shall rudely chase thee far from my protection;
Wild-leaping ev'ry fence and ditch;
So rank the virtuoso itch,
For making a rare butterfly collection.
Amid the knight's brave breakfasts in Soho;
With rapture shown to toast-and-muffin sages:
With thee too, would the royal Journals ring;
And ev'n thy pretty mealy painted wing
Employ description sweet, for fifty pages!
A panegyric on a lump of lead—
Precisely so!
Ye gods, then, let me all my praises hear—
For verily 'tis wisdom to prefer
One grain above ground, to a pound below.
To choose the offer'd field, and dwell with me:
So busy on the flow'rs of golden hue,
And silver daisies moist with morning dew,
How innocent, how simple thy repast!
Our lips in beef and mutton's sanguine wave!
From hog, too, form the dinners of the day—
From hog, that lodg'd of yore the imps of evil !
Intrepid he who ventur'd thus to dine!
Methinks the man who dreamt of eating swine,
Must really next have thought of eating devil.
ODE ON MODERATION.
Says some one—I forget the poet;
And verily the bard was in the right.
Wild as a puppy chasing butterflies,
The world hunts Transport with keen nose and eyes:
Deceitful lass, who often proves a bite!
The purling brook, the woodbine bow'r;
The grove's, the valley's sweet and simple song;
On more than half the world are thrown away,
Whose joys must like a whirlwind pour along.
Ne'er panting for a hurricane of rapture:
Calm let me walk—not riotous and jumping:
With due decorum, let my heart
Perform a sober, quiet part,
Not at the ribs be ever bumping, bumping.
Runs off, and flings his rider in the dirt.
Love plays his gambols thro' each throbbing heart:
Squeezing and hugging, kissing on they go;
Wild, from the chaise, they poke their heads to John,
‘Make haste, dear John, drive on, drive on, drive on,
Lord! Lord! your horses are so very slow!’
The blacksmith seems an angel in their eyes.
Possession quells the tumults of the heart;
The heart with foaming bliss no more boils over!
Now leisurely into the chaise they get!
They ask no John to drive, no horse to sweat;
No eye's keen sparkle shows the burning lover;
Cælia now takes a comfortable nap:
Down on her cheeks, her locks dishevell'd flow;
Not vastly smooth, but much like locks of hay;
Her cap not much resembling Alpine snow,
Shook from her rolling wearied head away.
His hair all careless, much in hay-like trim;
As though sweet wedlock's joys had lost their zest;
As though a dull indiff'rence damn'd the whim;
With mouth half shut, that heavy seems to say,
‘The Devil take the blacksmith and the day,
Who tied me to that trollop, now my wife,
Just like a jack-ass to a post, for life!’
Also a divine, who gains a comfortable maintenance by making matrimonial chains as well as horse-shoes.
THE SONG OF DISAPPOINTMENT:
AN ELEGIAC BALLAD.
I believ'd her, though trick is her trade;
She told me that Fortune was near,
Who had always behav'd like a jade.
How 'witching the title, your Grace!—
My Lord Duke, Lady Duchess, what sound!
Big with honour, and dinner, and place.
Where his Grace so instructively chats;
Despising my garret, that stable,
My joint-stool, and my penn'orth of sprats.
And felt a huge torrent of bliss—
Then I flatter'd the duchess's face,
And whisper'd love-stories to Miss .
Heard his mouth with sound criticism ope;
That mouth most deliciously swell'd
With quotations from Dryden and Pope.
Read his prologue so sweet to his guests;
Saw wonderment stare from the crowd,
And rapture burst wild from their breasts.
Now in praise of old music a raver;
Now Handel's huge choruses hum;
Now a critic on crotchet and quaver.
At my wit heard them call out ‘encore;’
While the room with astonishment gaz'd,
Prepar'd ev'ry moment to roar.
To the bard what a terrible blow?
And gone are the smiles of her grace,
And the smiles of each Anguish al-so.
To another he sadly behav'd:
Doctor Jackson, by promises won,
Cut his curls from his pate, and was shav'd.
Sublime too, and swarthy, and big;
He was told, when a bishop, his flocks
Would expect a full bushel of wig.
As a cauliflow'r large, and as fair;
Where the barber too, blest with good thought,
Wove religion and pomp in each hair.
So form'd for concerns of the soul;
People scarce could decide on its phiz,
Which look'd wisest, the caxon or jowl.
Of clipping and wigging, I trow,
Sore balk'd was poor Con's exaltation,
But why—none with certainty know.
But people may think as they list:
Others said (with maliciousness seiz'd)
Heav'n hated the pride of the priest.
Nor at present a bishop is he;
And it also may safely be said,
That a bishop he never will be.
Who looks up like a hawk to the crown;
But, alas! our good king and good queen
Have never vouchsaf'd to look down.
Adieu to my honours like-wise;
The vision departs from my view,
And Hope, the false flatterer, flies.
Ah teeth, to good eating attach'd!
And thus have I counted my chicken,
Poor blockhead, before they were hatch'd.
Con, i. e. Consequential Jackson—a constant appellative bestowed on him at the University of Oxford.
THE ROYAL VISIT TO EXETER;
A POETICAL EPISTLE, BY JOHN PLOUGHSHARE, A Farmer of Morton Hampstead, in the County of Devon.
With doust and zweat az nutmeg brown,
The hosses all in smoke;
Huzzain, trumpetin, and dringin,
Red colours vleein, roarin, zingin;
Zo mad simm'd all the voke.
PART I.
That thee shudst hear vrom Brether Jan,
About the king wey speed:
And now I zet me down to write,
To tell thee every thing outright,
The whole that I've azeed.
Was gapin, rennin up and down,
Vath, just leek vokes bewitch'd!
Lord! how they lang'd to zee the king;
To hear un zay zom marv'lous thing!
Leek mangy dogs they itch'd!
Currantin it about the lanes,
Vokes theese way dreav'd and that;
Zom hootin, heavin, soalin, hawlin;
Zom in the mucks, and pellum sprawlin;
Leek pancakes all zo flat.
Leaping the hedges, ditches, stiles,
Gallopin, trattin, spurrin, vallin,
Hallooin, laughin, cryin, squawlin,
Vour mounted 'pon one beast.
Pok'd vorth their powls, both gert and small;
Ecod, there were a power:
Their hair zo white I'd zexpence stake,
That vrom their powls I'd fairly shake
A dezen zacks o' vlower.
Ould Time wull whitten vast anew,
The locks o'um, never fear;
Bezides, it is a burnin shame,
And making of God's gifts a game,
Considerin corn's so dear.
Make me vorgive, I can't tell how,
Thoft 'tis a serious matter:
But what wey zich have I to do?
Vor Joan and Nell, and Madge and Sue,
My mouthe must only water.
Iss could look at mun a whole day,
They look'd so vair and vresh;
Iss long'd to gee zome hearty smacks
Upon their little rosy chacks,
They seem'd zech wholsome vlesh.
With doust and zweat az nutmeg brown,
The hosses all in smoke;
Huzzain, trumpetin, and dringin,
Red colours vleeing, roarin, zingin;
So mad seem'd all the voke.
All over doust we spy'd 'Squire Rolle,
Close by the king's coach trattin:
Meaning, we giss'd, it might be zed,
‘The 'squire and king be chattin.’
Zum wey crapp'd wigs, and zum wey hair,
The royal voke to ken;
When Measter May'r, upon my word,
Pok'd to the king a gert long sword,
Which he pok'd back agen.
All zwear'd it clumzily was dood;
Yet Squirt, the peepel zay,
Brandish'd his gert horse-glysterpipe,
To make un in his lesson ripe,
That took up half a day.
Zum hollowin, and screechin zum;
Now tridg'd they to the dean's,
Becaze the bishop zent mun word,
A could not meat and drink avoord,
A hadn't got the means.
A had not got a pot nor pan,
Nor spoon, nor knive, nor vork;
That he was weak, and ould, and squeal,
And zeldom made a hearty meal,
And zeldom draed a cork.’
And zo war all the clargy clan
That with un uz'd to chatter;
Who if a ax'd mun to drink wine
To one the wother they tipp'd the sign,
And begg'd his charming water.
A could not lodge a cock nor hen,
They war so small,’ he said;
‘And as vor beds they wudn't do—
In number about one or two,
Vor zelf and Joan the maid.
'Twas stoopid to treat vokes for nort;
No, 'twas not his desire:
Prefarment, too, was at an end;
The king wud never more vor'n zend,
To lift'n one peg higher.’
Honest and just, but hoardth his pence—
Can't peart wey drink nor meat:
And then, ‘what vor?’ the peeple rail,
‘To greaze a vat old pig in the tail;
Old Weymouth of Longleat!’
And all the day in munchin spent,
And guzlin too, no doubt:
And while the gentry drink'd within,
The mob wey brandy, ale, and gin,
Got roarin drunk without.
PART II.
But zome were up bevore 'twas light;
Wey zounds the streets did ring:
‘Lord, Lord, than sose, were yow zo blest,
To zee the show among the rest?
Did you than zee the king?’
King George went vorth to zay his pray'rs;
A pure and godly sign:
And there he took his spyeglass out,
Star'd up and down, and all about,
And simm'd to zay, ‘Tis vine.’
Vor voakes were mad as hares in March
And fath it was dam quare,
To zee ould dames wey leathern chacks,
Hoisted upon the fellows' backs—
A penny for a stare.
Zo kind upon un zo to stare;
To whisper'n, and all that!
Zo pleas'd to zee her love vor'n zuch—
To watch'n leek a cat.
And look'd it round and round anuff,
And zoon beginn'd to speak:
Zo zaid, ‘Neat, neat—clean, very clean;
D'ye mop it, mop it , Measter Dean—
Mop, mop it every week?’
‘'Tis not by moppin keep'd zo clean,
What streek'th your royal eye?
Vor, zir, in all our Exter shops,
We never meet wey zich long mops;
Our mops dant reach zo high.
He did zo well his zel demean;
No man behav'd more humbler:
Spar'd no expense—bort ev'ry thing—
To please forseth the queen and king;
Vor which, they gid'n a tumbler.
The present simm'd most merty small:
And zo zed all the city:
It was too sneaken, fath and troth—
A poor groat glass between mun both!
No fath! it waz'nt vitty.
To git the names of every zoul
That wish'd King George to zee :
How jest leek soldiers they must do—
Bow down, and drap the knee.
That when King George's hand they kiss'd,
Leek vish they must be dum!
And backwards crawl leek crabs away:
Good zound advice—much as to zay,
‘Kings must not zee your b---m.’
'Squire Rolle, a speech vor to prepare,
To thank the king vor commin:
‘Lord!’ cry'd the aldermen and may'r,
‘Why, Measter Rolle, yow make us stare!
'Squire Rolle, why yow be hummin!
'Tis true a vieow good pounds we've made—
Be tolerably rich:
But thoff we've rak'd up zom vieow pence,
It deth not vollow we've the sence
To make the king a speech.
We'll warrant Hawtry zoon wull doo't—
Iss, iss, he'll do the feat:
And as the man can logic chop,
The doul's in't if he can't cook up
Zomethin that's short and zweet.’
He did zo drash about his brain,
That was not over stor'd;
But vath, outleap'd a speech at laste,
That simm'd to please King George's taste,
Speal'd right in ev'ry word.
They all march'd off, a clever dring;
And there King George a stude,
Vor all the world leek handsome Misses,
Expecting to be woo'd.
Sly winking, leek an ould grey owl,
To zee that nort went wrong;
Zo got behend, and wey a frown
He pull'd near twenty o'mun down,
And twenty droad along.
Vour hours at least by Exter clock,
It zafely might be waager'd;
Zom makin their vine rev'rence spurn'd,
The king was nearly overturn'd,
A Gosh! a was so badger'd.
Vrom neighb'ring pearts and voreign lands;
Aye! kissing 'twas anuff—
Had not the hand been tight put on,
It was zo mainly smack'd upon,
The voke had kiss'd it off.
'Bout dress amungst the men in trade,
They thort o' no zich thing;
Wey derty sharts and grizly beards,
Much leek a greazy pack o' keards,
They shuffled vore the king.
Drode his legs vore, and catch'd the hand,
And shak'd wey might and main:
‘I'm glad your majesty to zee,
And hope your majesty,’ quoth he,
‘Wull nere be maz'd again.’
‘I never heer'd of zich a thing;
What's maz'd?—what, what, my lord?’
‘Hem, hem—sir, 'tis, I do suppose,
Sir,—an old Dev'nshire word.’
And, coughing ance or twiss, he zed:
‘I'll try to vend it out;’
And then agen he hemm'd and haad,
And puzlin while his pate a claw'd
King George a tern'd about.
PART III.
And show his zelf a bit, no doubt;
Zee Guildhall, Circus, Castle:
Vor this, Lord Fosky gid'n a shove;
But virm's a rock, nort mad'n move,
Zo 'twas in vain to wrastle.
Knowin the people's longing mind,
And being pretty tall,
A stude 'pon's tiptoes, it is zed;
And, condescending, pok'd his head
Over the bishop's wall.
They plainly zeed his royal nose,
And zum his royal eyes;
And, Lord, whatever peart they zeed,
In this, they one and all agreed,
'Twas glorious, gert, and wize.
He gid (but lookin rether blue)
The Hospital a ken:
'Twas all a gid; but than quoth he,
‘I'll zomething gee, my lord, d'ye zee,
When I come here agen.’
Towards the zick, and lame, and blind;
What's thy opinion, Nan?
Zo 'tes no very gert exploit
Of our Samaritan.
Zeem words o' cuse—a pack o' trosh;
Wind, faith! net one crume better;
I leek to zee voakes dra the puss;
Parlaver is not worth a cuss;
I hate to hear voakes chetter.
Presents vall'd in as thick as hops,
Vish, vlesh, and vowl, and vruit;
'Twas who shud zay, ‘I sent the king
Zich, zich, and zich, and zich a thing:’
The vokes were mad to do't.
The king's a jolley gentleman,
The queen not very ugly!
Az vor the princesses, sweet souls,
With rosy chucks, and flaxen polls,
They angels look'd so smugly.
Zom more about the queen, I trow—
I think I've zed anuff;
What voakes in general zay is this:
‘The oman is not much amiss,
And tak'th a power o' snuff.’
That her's and all her daughters' geer
Was shellings net worth thirty;
That, Lord! they wear'd but little laces,
Their zilks mert blish to show their faces,
Ould-fashion'd, strip'd, and dirty.
To think a should a veast prepare,
Of ham, and terkie, gooze, and mustard,
Dumplin, and apple-pie, and custard,
As good az mouthe could wish.
To tell'n the aldermen, his vriends,
Wud all be glad to ze'en;
The king no notice tuke, 'tis zaid,
But, leek a pisky, laugh'd and play'd
To push pin wey the queen.
The bak'd and roast, and vry'd and boil'd;
Oh! 'twas a dismal day;
The zyder, brandy, wine and ale,
The gert gold chair to hold his tail,
Was money droad away.
The aldermen, in red fur gown,
And Mare, vore Guildhall houze,
Vurst havin had a little veeding,
Leek soldiers form'd to show their breeding,
And make their Zenday bows.
Wey faces net pleaz'd over much,
That did un much delight;
The bench keep'd bowin up and down,
Till all the hosses rumps they vound,
And king's were out o' zight.
And tails between their legs, leek curs,
Becaze they war zo zlighted;
But what was ten times worse, poor souls,
Their wives leek devils claw'd their polls,
Becaze they didn't get knighted.
POSTSCRIPT.
What zort of vokes gert people be:
What's cheny thoft, is clome;
And, zester, now I do believe,
That after this yow daan't much grieve,
Becaze yow staid at home.
And now I veel my courage cool
For zeeing royal things:
And whan my Bible next I rede,
Zo leet I worship all the breed,
I'll skep the book of Kings.
His majesty did not, as was expected, enter in full procession the large door of the Abbey; but slipped into a small private one, to the no small mortification of Messieurs Mayor, Alderman, and Cavalcade.
OUT AT LAST.
OR, THE FALLEN MINISTER.
VIRGIL.
The mighty beast in thunder falls.’
PROEMIUM.
With much sublimity of metre,
Did prophesy a minister would tumble!
To verify the poet's ode,
Behold it pleaseth man and God,
In anger, his high mightiness to humble!
Good man! but not the Man of Ross;
He's down! procumbit humi bos.
Shot near his nest (a mortal wound),
He hung and bled, with downcast look,
Before he sous'd at last to ground!
Yes! like those black birds much too long we saw
The culprit hanging by a single claw.
May now with half an eye be seen.—
Look at us!—What poor shiv'ring sheep, alack
This hooking, dragging imp has torn
The healthful, warming fleece from every back!
But woe to that poor sheep which dar'd to bleat!
To warm Dundas, Long, Wyndham, Canning, Rose,
Old Liverpool and cub, with each compeer.—
While they carousing swill'd their toast and sack,
We bit, in anguish, musty bread and black,
And writhing got the gripes from dead small-beer.
He has been tried, and tried, and tried—
The hobbling nation, still more lame,
Has now nor crutch, nor ass to ride.
‘He'll mend,’ they roar.—He mend! the mumer—
Aye, mend just like sour ale in mummer.
No longer now his bungling art befools:
Yet from the service when the man was hiss'd,
Why leave behind his budget and his tools?
The lamentations of poor Jeremiah;
Of gay Pindarics open a fresh shop,
And pour the song of triumph with Isaiah.
I imitate a man of God;
That Poet of sublimity, Isaiah!
A man of quality, of note;
Of arms possessing a rich coat;
A brother to the great King Azariah.
The Babylonian monarch with his satire!
Were I to talk so of a British king,
What were my fate? Alas! a string!
Not string, dear reader, that the shoulder decks;
But string that twines at Newgate round our necks.
ODE OF TRIUMPH.
The bull no more exalts his horn!
Thank God, the beast is put at last to pound!
And that he never may get out,
To make another cursed rout,
Forms many a hearty pray'r and wish profound.
One tear of pity?—Let me say,
There's neither dirge nor tear to-day,
Whatever there may be to-morrow.
Nay, cannons roar applause—the bells are ringing
And earth, rejoicing, breaketh into singing.
But on a dunghill, just like Job,
Scratching, surveys his melancholy plight!
No more with Hal, his chum, to booze,
And for the state's salvation snooze,
He bids the clarets and champaigns good night.
(Sounds that will pierce the ears of kings)
‘Harpoon'd art thou at last, thou flound'ring porpoise—
Thou who hast swallow'd all my rights,
Gobbling the mightiest just like mites—
Devouring like a sprat my habeas corpus.
And nearly beatedst out their brains,
For fear their wrath might kindle riot;
And, after binding them in chains,
And nearly beating out their brains,
Didst cry—‘How tame they lie, poor things! how quiet!’
In Cold-bath Fields, like hapless sheep
Whom horrid butchers mean to slay;
Where Aris with his iron rod,
The Pluto of the dark abode,
Roasted and broil'd in cook-like way,
The victims of his pow'r and pride,
And damn'd them all before they died.
Who o'er the bard didst hold thy hempen string;
Threat'ning to hang him, if, to please the town,
He dar'd to smile or wink at q--- or k---;
Or dar'd (no matter how divine the songs)
To chant of Dumplings, Sheep, or Parson Youngs;
To mention kine and corn, and Famine's groans;
Record wit royal, and crack jokes on thrones?’
‘I will be minister of state,
And swill from night to morn the nation's wine:
I will get drunk with honest Hal:
The bottle my dear constant Baal,
I'll daily kneel and hiccup at his shrine.
My drowsy brother shall be seen,
Who from his cradle never heard the lark.
I grant the man the wheels will clog,
Lazy as Ludlam's lazy dog,
That held his head against the wall to bark.
The state shall pay him for the snore.
I have my creatures and my slaves:
For any borough will I bring my man in:
The poorest wretch that crawls I'll raise,
To yield his incense-pot of praise,
From Greek-mouth'd Belgrave to lame-Latin Canning .
The nation's pocket my poor slave,
Shall open, nor dare make a pother—
Gifford, that crooked babe of grace,
And Canning too, shall be in place,
And get a pension for his mother.
And hammer to the world my worth—
With heeltaps, toe-caps, soles for worn-out fame.’
I'll hire each prostituted muse,
For mags, for newspapers, reviews;
My visage (hatchet-like, indeed!)
In shops the gaping mob shall feed—
My name on rails shall grace the king's highways;
Read ‘Pitt for ever!’ in broad-staring chalk.
And France her worthy kings shall own;
Crouch to my whip, whose lash shall bring
The daring Corsican, poor thing,
Just like a whining spaniel to my heel.’
‘The world I hate, disdain, defy;
I value neither commoner nor peer:
He who attacks me, dearly pays:
A man must have, the proverb says,
Good iron nails that scratches with a bear.’
Who sent his bears, the dev'l and all,
To fight in Britain's cause so hearty?
Art thou the man (whom nothing shames),
Who made his office clerks call names,
And fling their dirt at Bonaparte?
‘I'll damn the motion on Ferrol;
No matter whether cowardice or not:
Whatever was the crying sin,
Sir James shall sleep in a whole skin—
Hal says too, Pulteney must not go to pot.
Thank Heaven! we only know the name.
‘What ill they do, is quickly done away:
Such (so secure is ev'ry culprit's lot)
Must make strong int'rest to get hang'd or shot.’
‘At me the world shall cow'r afraid;
Old Ganges humbly at my feet shall flow;
Mogul, Nizam, and Rajah bend;
Slave-like their humble tribute send,
And learn from me their future fates to know.
Those dare not call my hard decrees unjust,
But kiss the foot that stamps them in the dust.
On petticoats her di'monds show'r,
And stomachers and caps, the courtly things,
Th' unchristian Turk his gems shall send—
His trembling tottering turban rend,
To grace the beaver'd brows of Christian kings.
Peru shall gild St. James's walls and doors;
And ravag'd Mexico emblaze the floors.’
His bleeding mouth shall sorely wince;
I value not his birth, his pride, his state:
O'er Y---k triumphant too I'll tow'r;
And Cl---ce shall not boast the pow'r
To make a gunner, or a gunner's mate.’
Now let the bard the theme pursue,
And, with an equal spirit too,
In thunder drive the muse's car along.
This gentleman was ravished from his opposition-friends on account of supposed extraordinary talents. A completer take-in of the knowing-ones was never more laughably experienced amonst the black-legs of the turf. His ‘Iter ad Meccam,’ for the university prize, exhibited such proofs of ideas and scholarship as put the poor dean of Christ-Church to the blush. The first effort was condemned to the flames, though it obtained the prize: the second was a cobbled piece of work between Mr. Canning and somebody of Christ-Church, which with difficulty passed muster.
This is a most extraordinary fellow, speculatively virtuous, and practically wicked—for ever bellowing in the cause of religion and morals, yet in the daily practice of every thing that should fix him at the cart's-tail.—To justify the above assertions, accept, reader, a small sketch of his life, and blush for the depravity of human nature! Taken from a cobbler's stall at Ashburton, a little town in Devonshire, by Mr. Cookesly, a surgeon of that place, who mistook the itch of rhime for the inspiration of the muses, he was, by a subscription of the gentlemen of the town and neighbourhood, placed at a grammar school, and afterwards sent to Exeter College.—At this college, after his daily occupations of tolling the bell, waiting at dinner, and lighting the candles, he amused himself with writing scandalous lampoons on the heads of the college, as well as other respectable characters of the university.—Noticed, however, by a clergyman, he was introduced to Earl G. who soon found an honourable employment for him, luckily for his lordship's pleasures, and fortunately congenial to the disposition of Gifford.—In a little time he tripped up the heels of his Oxford friend, ousted him from the house of G--- by lying insinuations, and publicly triumphed in his success.—His next glorious action was to send a cast-off strumpet of his l---ds*hp to the widow of his old friend Cookesly, who, for a livelihood, kept a creditable boarding-school.—She was recommended by Gifford as a modest young lady, for education, which modest young lady, in a few months, betrayed her old Cyprian propensities, and very expeditiously blasted the school: this was the subject of another triumph. To continue his progress in infamy with an equal splendour, he seduced a beautiful and innocent girl, called Mary Weeks, a native of Ashburton. Under the pretence of marrying her, a fellow with a surplice was prepared to execute this nefarious matter; the sham ceremony was performed, the poor girl was ruined; and after satiety had taken place with her infamous seducer, she was sent back to Ashburton, where she pined and died of a broken heart!!! To support the credit of his past achievements, he published a most dirty and scandalous poem, called ‘The Ashburtonaid,’ abusing all his old and respectable benefactors. Previously to the above act, he had obtained an ample subscription for a Translation of the Satires of Juvenal, which (happily for the public, and paper, and print) he never performed.—To accommodate his Mæcenas, he keeps a creature as a decoy-duck, and has actually sent her to necessitous young women of beauty and innocence, under the pretext of learning to read and write.—Such are parts of his life—Hunc tu Romane, caveto, hic niger est.—It must not, however, be forgotten, that, for his atrocious calumnies, he was lately cudgelled in one Wright's shop, a poor ignorant and painstaking bookseller in Piccadilly; and, in spite of the most solemn and tender protestations of his own head and shoulders, he with an unprecedented effrontery denied the fact; and, notwithstanding a message, informing him that he was cudgelled, most soundly cudgelled, and that he should be cudgelled again in order to oblige him, by producing a complete conviction, he had not the manners to answer the civility.
He continues in his favourite occupation of administering as jackall to the constantly watering chops of the toothless old lion. To use another figure, he is still his lordship's gamekeeper, and guards the plump little partridges (which are exceedingly numerous on all his lordship's manors) with so much laudable assiduity from poachers, that he has been amply and gratefully remunerated with an honourable annuity from government!!!
As for Mr. Gifford's rhimes, they will appears extraordinary to such readers (and they are not a few) as prefer bombast to sublimity. Bombast is the idol of the vulgar—To such, the Attic simplicity appears arrant insipidity—the vulgar eye is sooner fascinated by the stiff, staring cabbage-rose brocade of the harlot, than the modest and snowy robe of innocence. The ear of the true critic distinguishes with facility the difference between the mellifluous tones of the lyre of Apollo and the hard, ponderous sounds of the hammered lap-stone. To indulge a Greek quotation from Proclus on Plato, without offence to his pupil, the learned Lord Belgrave, Mr. William Gifford is—Ιδιωτες εν φιλοσοφοις, φιλοσοφος δε εν Ιδιωταις—which I translate thus: ‘He is a poet with poetasters, and a poetaster with poets.’ So much inequality pervades his verse, that the faculty would pronounce his muse afflicted with the rickets. Still to do him every justice, his various verses are very well for a cobbler; they must undoubtedly smell of the stall.
Quo semel est imbuta recens servabit odoremTesta diu ------
So singeth Horace, who, one would think, had peeped into futurity, aad penned the happy line for poor Crispin.
So far from originalty of thought and a luxuriance of imagery in his lines, there reigns a pitiable famine: awkward and obscure inversions, with a verbose pomposity, form the leading features of almost every couplet. Indeed, it were cruel to expect more. Sprung from a dunghill, and old before he was charitably taken from his stall, at the same time totally destitute of the poetical character, what could a few scraps of Latin and Greek do for an object whose sole powers lay within the circumscribed space of a rhime? A riddle in the Lady's Diary—an acrostic in a newspaper—an abusive stanza in the Anti-Jacobin Review, or a criticism in the British Critic (equal, perhaps, to those of poor paralytic Parson Nares, a most feeble pillar of that falling fabric, and lately sent for a maintenance to that idle and expensive toyshop of the nation, called the British Museum)— form at present his amusement. At the house of Gr---v---r he experiences a prodigality of praise. But his lordship and his ladies are better qualified for writing the history of Paphos than Parnassus.
On the appearance of this gentleman's last lying publication, which was in some measure answered by the argumentum baculinum, I entertained thoughts of a formal execution of the felon, in a solemn poetical epistle; but, on reflection, thinking him beneath the dignity of such an exhibition, I determined to hang him in a note.
For, should the muse's satire bid him die,The goddess really guillotines a fly.
Before I conclude, it may not be unacceptable to my readers to be informed that his I---dsh*p sometimes kills his own mutton—hunts without his jackall—and succeeds. Witness the following little genuine epistle:
‘DEAR G---,
‘I am in luck to-day—sprung a fine covey among a parcel of brambles. Take care of the plump little bird that bears this letter—clean her and comb her well, cut her nails close, and put her to bed.
‘G---,’POETA LOQUITUR.
Each, with a halter round her neck,
Shall sing with trembling, trembling dread;
Nay, should Apollo's song be sharp,
And on my power and glory harp,
Off goes at once the fellow's head:
That give the bards their pretty dreams;
And through the tuneful shades shall stray
My jack-asses , to graze and bray.’
No more shalt thou enjoy a haunch—
No more with Harry booze from night to morn—
The hackneymen, to thy amaze,
Shall cry, ‘My money for my chaise;
The money, sir, to pay for hay and corn!
Come, sir, I know what's what, and who is who;
I'll trust no longer—d*mn me, if I do.’
On thee he darts his eagle eyes!
‘Fool!’ cries the angry disappointed ghost:
‘Was it for this I show'd thy youth
The paths of glory, and fair truth?
Lo, by thy flagrant solly, all is lost!
Mad boy! instead of Wisdom's springs, to court
The Dozing fountain of Dundas's port.
That push'd its head into the skies;
Shook by thy damned wizard wand,
Low! low! a splendid ruin lies!
Toads for a dwelling the poor pile invade,
And shelter'd weeds of death, the fragment shade.
Blush at the partners of thy toil,
The refuse of the groaning isle!’
The Mathiases, the Giffords, the B---s, the C---s, &c. &c. Will it be credited that an administration so feeble should not have selected one tolerably literary pillar to support its imbecility? Where was Huntsman-Wyndham's judgment, when he made choice of hounds to run down opposition? Heavens bless us! Not one decent dog in the pack—neither nose nor speed—absolutely a parcel of yelping curs!
Grasp'd daringly the bolts of Jove,
Ah! forc'd his lofty perch to quit,
He dwindles to a poor tom-tit,
And skulks through humble hedges to his hole.
Informers, that, with wolf-like eyes,
Prowl'd nightly, yelling, in pursuit of food?
Is this the man, who put, alack,
Such bugs upon the nation's back,
To gnaw and suck its best, its vital blood?
Thy humble sycophants to bow,
Obey thy mandate, and applaud thy wit?
Unnotic'd thou shalt lonely ride,
Attended only by thy pride,
That never, never yet forsook a Pitt.
Unnotic'd at her Grace's rout!
Unnotic'd, down thy throat, her pastry poke:
No bumpkin, no poor country wight,
Shall, stealing near with curious sight,
Watch if thy jaw-bones wag like those of common folk!
Expose thy blunders, storm and rail,
And ope of Calumny the dirty springs;
While Anti-Jacobin Reviews
Shall cull the literary stews
For flowers to deck the counsellor of kings.
To make thee, like the snow-ball, white,
Will paint thee now as black as Hell:
No more thy voice angelic hail,
But give the horn, and hoof, and tail,
With Cerberus's frightful yell!—
Rais'd by some wizard for the nation's woe.
The mob their wanton jokes will spirt!—
Behold a sable chimney-sweep appear!
And hark! a scavenger, with eyes
Sparkling with rapture and surprise,
Exclaims—‘Ah, Master Billy, are you there?’
Then, anxious to reward thee, on they rush,
One with his broom, and t'other with his brush!
And authoresses cry aloud—
‘Villain! to wage a war with all the muses!’
And lo, the printer's devils appear!
With ink thy visage they besmear,
While each in turn indignantly abuses;
And more their pris'ner to disgrace,
They empt the pelt-pot in thy face!
Roaring, around thee as they caper,
‘Take that, my boy, for tax on paper!’
The man of leather, with delight,
Runneth his awl into thy nose,
And stirrups thee with all his might.
‘He wants much mending, d*mn my eyes!’
The punning son of Crispin cries—
‘The shoe quite rotten—yes, the whole—
Quite vanished ev'ry bit of sole.’
‘Art thou the wight, thus stretch'd along,
An enemy well known to wives and misses?
Art thou the man who dost not care
For oglings, squeezes of the fair;
Nay, makest up wry mouths at woman's kisses?’—
And baste thee worse than Peter Pindar's Odes.
‘By Jasus now, I'll twig his jowl,
For leaving us poor Christians in the lurch:
Open your jaw-bones, Master Knave—
Where be the promises ye gave,
To give a bit of shove to Mother Church?
To a good market, faith! our hogs are brought—
And so we're dead, and kill'd, and murder'd, all for naught!’
The curs in yelling concert bark.
The cats exclaim—‘Our mice with famine moan!
Not one fat mouse is to be had!’
‘Aye,’ cry the curs, ‘and what's more sad,
We cannot now obtain a well-pick'd bone!’
How art thou fall'n from the starry sphere!
Kick'd from the presence of the K. and Q.—
From burgundy, from claret, to small beer!
Which now with many a ruby glows,
Shall lose, alas! its wonted fire!
The claret-lustre shall expire!
For Poverty's pale fingers soon pick out
The blushing rubies of the richest snout.
And cry, ‘I'm glad the fellow's off!’
The tailor leaps in rapture from his board;
The cobbler throws his shoe away;
The washerwoman flings her tray;
The shoeblack drops his brush, and thanks the Lord:
To pot-houses they run with loud acclaim,
To get more joyful news from Gossip Fame.
And pointed Sheridan and Tooke
The poorest reptile of the House,
The vilest little borough louse,
Will scratch and bite the back of Billy Pitt.
From his stretch'd jaws shall pull the gag,
And vengeful to thy head shall give it wing:
Then shall he cry, with dauntless looks,
‘I'll go again amongst the cooks,
And tell more pretty tales of q--- and k---.’
My very identical and numerical self, whose innocent and improving rhimes falling some years since in the way of an irritable and offended bashaw, gave birth to an act of parliament vowing vengeance on the wight that should, by any prose or poetical anatomy, dare exhibit the inside of heads royal.
LORD AUCKLAND'S TRIUMPH;
OR, THE DEATH OF CRIM. CON. A PAIR OF PROPHETIC ODES.
TO WHICH ARE ADDED, AN ADDRESS TO HYMEN.—AN ODE ON THE PASSIONS.—ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN; OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY, A FABLE.—WITH A MOST INTERESTING POSTSCRIPT.
Thou and thine empire are undone!
Woe to the men of lawless lives,
Who wink on other people's wives!’
ARGUMENT TO ODE I.
The Bard, in the true Spirit of prophetic Poetry,
commenceth his Ode with a compliment to Wedlock
—Peter treateth the Hot-bed of Adultery
with much poetical Contempt—He prophesieth
the Fall of Crim. Con.; her Acquaintance with
the Rakes—In a sublime Strain of Insult, Peter
questioneth Crim. Con., and proclaimeth a total
Annihilation of her Rams' Horns. Peter singeth
of the wonders done by Rams' Horns at Jericho
—he giveth some History of Lord Auckland's
Family, and biddeth them beware of Difilement
—The Poet candidly accuseth himself of having
been a Votary to Pleasure, and prettily and poetically
depicteth the manner of his courtship;
illustrating with a most apt and—original comparison
—The Poet abruptly bounceth off to attack
the Princes of these Realms for not joining
the pious Efforts of Lord Auckland, to destroy
Crim. Con.—Peter complimenteth the Bench of
Bishops for their furious Abhorrence of Crim.
Con., for their intimate Knowledge of Heaven,
and for their great Humility; but not for their
great Poverty, in which Article these holy men
have always varied from their simple Predecessors,
ARGUMENT TO ODE II.
An apologetic Song for Inconstancy, by a Son of
the Devil—This Son of a Devil pronounceth
Love and a Butterfly to be similar Beings, and
encourageth the Idea—this Demon wisheth to
take the licentious French Nation for a Model,
who wish to change a Wife as often as a Shirt
—this Imp continueth to fascinate the Mind by
beautiful Poetry in Favour of the unlicensed
Passion Love—Peter reprobateth such Notions,
and prettily telleth, in Verse, a Story well known
in Prose, of a King of France, who had experienced
a Satiety on the Beauties of his Queen—
Peter triumpheth in the future Happiness of
the British Empire on the death of Crim. Con.
—Peter exhibiteth a natural Picture of Age,
exulting, amidst his Imbecilities, in the Idea of
possessing blooming virgins, smiling at the same
Time at the Horrors of Horns—Peter again,
with his wonted Candour, reverseth the Medal,
and suggesteth an Inconveniency that may arise
from the State of Crim. Con. in the character
of a rotten Rake—Peter here is truly moral, as
well as poetical. Another Rake is brought on
the Stage, who glorieth in the Advantages to be
ODE I.
The echo of the turtle dove;
Then who would turn that song to sounds of woe?
Bright are the skies, and calm the scene
Where Hymen holds his halcyon reign;
Then who would bid the howling tempests blow?
What but a ruffian would the spot invade,
To dash the beam of bliss with hellish shade?
But what's the produce?—Heaven's a wanton weed.
No buds of promise ope their bloom,
And load the zephyr with perfume!
Crim. Con. who by a touch and smile
Dar'st lure a lady from a spouse's arms;
Make her desert her babes, her kin,
To listen to the voice of sin,
That praiseth of Variety the charms;
Thy lawless reign at length is o'er,
And rams'-horns frighten man no more.
Thy dove-like billing, fluttering, cooing:
At thee, thy vile companions, ev'ry rake
Shall start with horror, curse thy name,
Fly from thy song of death with shame,
Avoid thee like the fascinating snake
That wily won the world's first madam,
And put that fatal trick on Adam.
To clap upon a husband's brow?
Auckland has broken them to pieces:
And thou shalt soon be put to death;
Unpitied, yield thy forfeit breath,
Except by wicked, wanton Misses,
And wanton youths of our wild nation,
Of prudence less possess'd than passion.
A very notable old town;
Yes, rams' horns laid the lovely city low:
Thus rams' horns also to the earth
Bring down the men of lofty birth,
And force them with humility to bow.
Look at Lord *** whom high birth adorns,
How pitiful he squints amidst his horns!
Auckland, ah! rather in the vale of years,
Thinks gentlemen should have the proper fears,
And try to ward the antlers from the head.
Of present and past times the joke;
Who, till the steed was stol'n, forbore
What fools! to shut the stable door!
And as our sex will never cease to woo,
Their charms may fire some tinder-hearted man!
A bed, a grot, a clump of trees,
Have favour'd many a lover's artful plan.
What though Lucretias? In a fatal hour,
The fam'd Lucretia fell by Tarquin's pow'r.
To some sad purlieus of Soho:
No longer there shall lofty beds of down
Expect the muffled married dame,
And blushless youth of lawless flame,
Secure from husbands and the prying town.
And joy to hear the tempest howl;
O'er Matrimony's smile to cast a cloud,
And put the modest lady in her shroud!
Such shall the muse to infamy consign,
And crush with all the thunders of her line.
Look'd on the nymph's acquaintance as a treasure;
Never pursued her once with scoff and hisses;
But caught the little hussey in my arms;
Ran o'er the pretty garden of her charms,
And pluck'd the cherries of her lips—call'd kisses.
But hugg'd her, when I met with her—and so:
For lo! a piece of velvet was my soul!
Black velvet, mind! which when the god of day
Doth visit with his all-enlivening ray,
Enjoys the radiance, and devours the whole.
Devoid of gratitude and grace;
Who, when the sun would warm and gild his head,
Flings back the blessing in his face.
But now my morals wear a sober dress.
(Indeed my tender conscience winces),
To think they try to save Crim. Con. the jade!
The bishops in a goodly row,
All wish to give a fatal blow:
Such good examples somewhat might have sway'd!
So deep in all the secrets of the skies;
So prone to teach, assist, inspire, and bless one,
From which Humility might take a lesson!
As pious but not quite so poor;
Since Fortune, to the world's surprise,
On Merit learns to ope her eyes.
Now, when a bishop for a favour sues,
Not, not in vain the plaintive turtle coos.
Ev'n I cry, ‘Shame,’ the man of rhimes!
And poets are not overstock'd with blushes.—
See! lovely Modesty is gone
From Britain, where she fix'd her throne,
And Impudence to fill her station rushes!
To set our peeping youth on fire;
Without a cap we view the fair,
The bosom heaving, heaving bare;
The hips asham'd, forsooth to wear a dicky :
It nothing leaves for Fancy's guess!
With caps and pinners, well mob'd polls;
With warming dickies, high stiff stays,
To guard the neck from grasp and gaze,
How diff'rent from our modern fair,
Whose ev'ry beauty takes the air!
Nor winds around that chilling blow:
And swing their muslin gossamer about;
Showing what Modesty should veil;
Things very proper to conceal,
For legs and knees, and so, should ne'er peep out.
King Harry, too, a very shocking sample
Of wedlock's constant, chaste, and lovely state:
And many other kings besides, indeed,
Too prone on wild variety to feed,
Have broken Matrimony's tender pate:
Do something in this wicked way,
But not so did a King of France,
Whose story seemeth quite romance.
The present Bishop of London (Dr. Porteus) I must, indeed, adduce as an exception. Wishing to turn his back on his r*y*l patroness, on a vacancy in the see of Durham, he strained every nerve to obtain the precious prize, worth nearly twenty thousand pounds a-year; the bishopric of London, worth only poor four thousands per annum, scarcely sufficient to supply the extensive circle of his charities! Good man! he was disappointed; not only disappointed too; his prayer was considered as a piece of meanness and ingratitude.—If this be not a fact, I beg his lordship's pardon.
A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY.
At Battledore and Shuttlecock.
A TRUE STORY.
With a fair lady of his court,
Was pleas'd at battledore to play,—
A very fashionable sport.
Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame,
King Louis by an odd mischance did knock
The shuttlecock,
Thrice happy rogue, upon the down of doves,
To nestle with the pretty little loves!
With an arch smile.—But what did he?
What? what to charming Modesty belongs!
Obedient to her soft command,
He rais'd it—but not with his hand!
No, marv'ling reader, but the chimney tongs.
How clever!
When shall we hear agen of such a thing?
Lord! never.
Now were our princes to be pray'd
To such an act by some fair maid,
I'll bet my life not one would mind it:
But handy, without more ado,
The youths would search the bosom through,
Although it took a day to find it!
ODE II.
‘Chloe, thou art the sweetest of sweet things:
I hate dull constancy—'tis such a bore:
It ruins Love—'tis such a piece of lumber,
Kind Venus, let it not my back encumber,
Come, Chloe, come—thy beauties I adore:
O come, and let me give thee a green gown.
From hill to vale, and stops at every flow'r;
Sucks all the honey with its little snout,
So pleas'd the rich ambrosia to devour;
Then on wild wing, away it flies again,
The sultan of the variegated plain.
For Constancy's a very dull romance—
Fit only for a poor old grunting dame;
And blind old Darby, full of ail and groan,
Forc'd to be led about by limping Joan,
Of girls the titter, and of boys the game.
All energy—his life, eternal spring;
Roams the wide world as wanton as the wind,
And scorns the fetters that would bind his wing;
Then, Chloe, learn to prize the varied kiss,
And prove of sweet inconstancy the bliss.’
Of one King Louis—of his lady tir'd;
Who dragg'd with pain the marriage clog along,
And lo, a lady of his court desir'd.
Had a colt's tooth, and lov'd another dame.
Inform'd him of the danger of his soul,
And pointed strongly to the day of doom,
And heav'n-ward his two eyes began to roll—
Much as to say, ‘O king if this way given,
Your majesty will never get to heav'n.’
‘Go to the Devil,’ the king in secret cry'd.
His heaps of quoted Scripture—sage deductions,
Order'd him partridge constantly for dinner:
No dish beside—'twas partridge ev'ry day,
From this at length the bishop turn'd away,
Grew sick, and groan'd like a repentant sinner.
Partridge and priest in short could not agree:
He now felt constancy a mawkish thing.
A proselyte with long long face he came,
Desir'd to know the pretty lady's name,
Turn'd pimp himself, and brought her to the king.
And glory crowns the Queen of Isles!
With blooming virgins of eighteen,
Panting, and coughing up an amorous sigh:
Yes, wheezing, wrinkled age shall woo,
And paw and drivel, kiss and coo,
And shake his crutches, and in triumph cry:
Fearless I wake, and fearless go to bed.
And lull my senses with a charming note:
I dare that damned rakehell a red coat
To pull a single feather from its wing.’
‘Though past my prime, my vigour lost,
And full of holes my aching bones;
Though gone my teeth, my cheeks all pale,
And foul my breath that taints the gale,
And night a witness of my groans;
Shall bring her beauty to my arms;
While happy (from dishonour safe)
My head at rams and bulls shall laugh.’
How sweet the scheme the knave proposes!
What justice too in his desires!
A carrion on a bed of roses!
‘Yes, I will mount the highest places;
The beds of virgin innocence shall shake;
I'll kiss the daughters of the Graces.
Mine empire o'er the world of kisses.
I'll graze in ev'ry neighbour's ground;
In vain my injur'd spouse shall wake and weep:
Well hamper'd by Lord Auckland's chain,
She dares not of her wrongs complain;
Her sighs must whisper, and her anger sleep.’
When wives were lent, and bought and sold,
Cato was often known to send
To this, and that, and t'other friend,
To lend his wife a little while.
What then? why lend a pretty daughter.
With as much cordiality and ease,
As though the sage had begg'd for a potatoe,
A pot of mustard, or a slice of cheese!
All gentlemen of moral lives,
Met just like horse-dealers, or Jews on 'Change,
To buy, and swop, and borrow wives.
Now from digression to return,—
Crim. Con. must die, and thousands mourn.
Attempt to milk a subject's cow:
No more John T---ds shall attack a duchess;
Who, chaste as Dian, scream'd for help,
And, struggling with the wicked whelp,
Escap'd all spotless from his savage clutches.
Nor Mister Hodges aid his tender dear,
To plant the horn upon his willing skull:
Lady Cadogans, with inviting charms,
Lure no more pamper'd parsons to her arms,
Help'd by that pretty pimp, Miss Farley Bull.
Victims of fascinating eyes,
Old prudish maids with jealous fits,
Drive virtuous wives out of their wits,
And set our envying, envying youth on fire.
When Bradshaw came to woo the noble dame;
No powder'd, towzled couch their hours to bless,
No coachman to proclaim their acts of shame:
And last of all, no catering Mister Hogg ,
To suit salacious tastes with prurient prog.
Roaring away, ‘Crim. Con. Crim. Con.!’
While Abigails from houses, with a caper,
Rush, giggling, forth, to buy the paper:
To show their ladies, happy, none will doubt it,
To wink and sneer, and prattle all about it.
Nor loftier B---r with sweet grace,
Hide in his handkerchief his face,
When evidence has been too near the thing
When did they kiss?—in garish day,
Or by the candle's conscious trembling light?
Were they in bed beneath the sheet,
Snug in embrace—both tête-à-tête?
And what were things that might appear in sight?
Such shall no more be heard in court,
Making for idle ears a sport.
With honour debts of honour pay;
And slily to some Cyprian fane repair—
Invoke of Love the saucy pow'r,
To Cupid sacrifice an hour,
And lo! return with so much ease and air,
So out of breath in quest of Mistress Snip!
No sighs to soften, and no pulse to riot;
And Chastity, in danger now no more,
Shall sleep without a lock upon her door.
A proverb older than the flood.
Cries pert Miss Fornication, with a wink;
‘Aye, kill my sister—do—and soon
I'll play young ladies such a tune,
Aye, spinster reputation soon shall sink:
I'll open necks and sharpen eyes;
I'll make their gowns and petticoats of gauze;
I'll do the business of the maids!
I'll make more routes and masquerades;
I'll sharpen Mister Satan's claws.
That cheeks shall never blush again.
Where lad with lass so sweetly grapples
Soon as the tell-tale candles are put out:
Yes, yes, the love-feasts shall increase,
And Modesty, that mincing piece,
Shall say, “Good bye t'ye,” to the groaning rout.
And for a parson choose a H---s ;
I'll ope new turnpikes to salvation,
Or I'm not christen'd Fornication.’
I think the hussey means to keep her word;
Which some may deem the songs of gods;
But hark! a second solemn voice I hear—
A second awful voice that cries,
‘Bard, bard, thine oracles are lies;
Crim. Con. has nought from Auckland's rage to fear,
That lord from morn to night, and night to morn,
Shall trembling view the visionary horn.’
The author is mistaken here. Her grace was at the time of his lordship's amorous attack, in her weeds.—The editor.
ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN;
OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY. A FABLE.
Too well I know your hearts unwilling
To hide beneath the veil a charm—
Too pleas'd a sparkling eye to roll,
And with a neck to thrill the soul
Of ev'ry swain with Love's alarm.
Its snow may melt into a tear.
Where little Cupids nectar sip,
Are very pretty lures, I own:
But, ah! if Prudence be not nigh,
Those lips, where all the Cupids lie,
May give a passage to a groan.
Flinging around her rich perfume,
Her form to public notice pushing,
Amidst the summer's golden glow,
Peep'd on a Strawberry below,
Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.
‘What's beauty that no mortal knows?
What is a charm, if never seen?
You really are a pretty creature:
Then wherefore hide each blooming feature?
Come up, and show your modest mien.’
I never did possess a pride
That wish'd to dash the public eye:
Indeed I own that I'm afraid—
I think there's safety in the shade;
Ambition causes many a sigh.’
‘See how I wanton in the wind:
I feel no danger's dread alarms:
And then observe the god of day,
How amorous with his golden ray,
To pay his visits to my charms!’
She started from her fav'rite theme—
A clown had on her fix'd his pat.
In vain she screech'd—Hob did but smile;
Rubb'd with her leaves his nose awhile,
Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.
ODE TO HYMEN.
That folks live not in unison, alas!
That all thy votaries are not always blest?
Thy pretty fane is enter'd all so billing,
So am'rous, so obliging, smiling, willing;
When lo! Love's passion sinks at once to rest!
And stupid, knowing not the reason why!
Now to the temperate, lo, his course he bends;
Now to the frigid limpeth with a groan,
And now the sweetest of all passions ends!
Born in a hut, and seldom from their downs!
Soon as the honey-moon began to shine;
‘Now, Deary (I suppose the pair in bed)
Now put thy pretty little totes to mine.’
Adieu the lover!
Instead of ‘Put thy pretty totes to mine,’
He turn'd his back, and grunted like a swine,
‘Why dost not heave away thy d*mn'd greea hocks?’
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
Whose objects never should approach their borders!
‘O lead us not into temptation!’
Is a choice pray'r, and which I much admire—
So many things are dangerous to desire!
So ripe for soul-assassination!
How fascinating each wild sense they greet!
How much we long to smell to the fair flow'r!
How long the blushing peach to pluck it,
And suck it—
To use an epicurish phrase, devour!
It does not signify to talk about it:
Yet seemed Solomon, first of wise kings,
And eke his father David, much to doubt it.
For wheresoe'er they met a pretty lass,
Snap was the word—they could not let her pass.
To press the virgin's cheek and dimpled chin,
And press her pouting lip, that dew-clad cherry!
And peep upon her neck of Alpine snow,
And pressing, panting, to her bosom grow,
Rich banquet—very—I repeat it—very!
So much of grace to me is giv'n!
Tumultuous rise—destroy their dangerous dance;
The curb of reason to your aid advance,
And souse them with her buckets of cold water.
But then they must not gallop wild to door—
Close keep them, just like hounds that long for hare;
Or muzzle them, indeed, like ferrets;
And thus suppress their wanton spirits,
That lawless wish to be as free as air.
Thank Heav'n, this wickedness can't always last)
When if a petticoat but caught my eye—
A petticoat surrounding some fair maid,
Lord bless us! how my heart's brisk fountain play'd!
Grace was abjur'd, and Prudence forc'd to fly.
And, hound-like, scamper'd in full cry to catch her.
But if not well confin'd, they play the devil.
How in its lustre, gentle, steady, tame,
So mild, such trembling modesty, so quiet!—
But let him touch your curtains, or your bed,
Who on such stuff delighteth to be fed,
Lo, in a brace of minutes, what a riot!
He pulls (for nought th' unbridled rogue reveres)
Like Samson, an old house about his ears!
NIL ADMIRARI;
OR, A SMILE AT A BISHOP: Occasioned by A Hyperbolical Eulogy on Miss Hannah More, By Dr. Porteus, In his late Charge to the Clergy.
—HOR.
Lo, Novelty shall lead the world astray,
And cast ev'n bishops wide of Wisdom's bias;
A mouse has prov'd the lion of the day;
Witness that miserable imp M*th*as.
THE ARGUMENT.
Peter prettily and poetically proclaimeth the pernicious Effects of Flattery—he solemnly addresseth Doctor Porteus, as of the celebrated School of Warburton; loading the Doctor with appropriate and complimentary Epithets— Though Peter acknowledgeth the Bishop's overmatch for the Devil and Sin, he denieth his Powers over Taste—shrewdly hinteth that a wise Father may have a foolish Son—proveth the Bishop's Want of critical Acumen, by his hyperbolical Praises of Miss Hannah More, a Rhime-and-Prose Gentlewoman, born at Bristol —Peter, having narrowly searched Miss Hannah, and tried Miss Hannah by his own Touchstone, discovereth the metallic Nature of Miss Hannah's Genius—Peter solemnly protesteth that he cannot wade twice through Miss Hannah's Works, deeming them, as Dr. Johnson would have expressed himself, Pages of puerile Vanity and intellectual Imbecility.
Ah, much too sweet for man, vain man, I fear!
Her oil of fool, too fluent, glides along,
And winding, drops with death, into his ear.
Meek, modest, generous, diffident, and humble,
'Tis said that sometimes sages play the fool;
But when they stumble, with a vengeance stumble:
Rare flint and steel, illumining the dark;
Though, like an egg, so full of faith, and grace,
Like thy great Prototype of Pryor Park;
Old Nick, and eke his dirty mother Sin,
With every sort of weapon one can name,
Ev'n from the thundering cannon to a pin;
That Sin's and Satan's hides with glory baste,
A dwarf art thou, in fields of verse and prose—
A very pigmy in the realms of taste.
The critic's laurel must thy temples shade;
A man may be descended from Apollo,
And yet a novice in the critic trade.
Yet sprung from Phœbus, but without his art:
Less fit to guide the chariot of the sun,
Than that more humble vehicle, a cart.
A mighty genius, in thy charge display'd!
Know, I have search'd the damsel o'er and o'er,
And only find Miss Hannah, a good maid.
And see no shining mark of gold appear;
No, nor one beam of silver; some small brass,
And lead and glittering mundic, in thine ear.
Or thou hadst judg'd her pow'r a scanty rill;
Which, if thou wilt believe the word of Peter,
Crawls at the bottom of th' Aonian hill.
So simply mawkish, so sublimely sad!
I own Miss Hannah's life is very good,
But then her verse and prose are very bad.
No fountain hers of bright imagination:
So little doth a genuine muse inspire,
That genius will not own her a relation.
No bonfire she—no sun's meridian blaze:—
A rush-light 'midst th' illuminating few:
A farthing rush-light, with its winking rays.
Whom thus thine adulation can befool:
Alas! a poor ephemeron is she!
A humming native of a Bristol pool.
ARGUMENT.
Peter sorely complaineth of Miss Hannah's cracked Instrument—announceth Women superior to Miss Hannah.—Miss Hannah laugheth in her Sleeve at the Bishop's Praise.—Peter thinketh that Mount Parnassus would have shed no Tears had Miss Hannah never written—he blameth the Bishop for making a Show of Miss Hannah.— Peter exhibiteth his Candour, in condemning rather the Flattery of the Bishop, than Miss Hannah's literary Imbecility.—Peter rippeth up the Blue-stocking Club, for their foolish Exhibition of Miss Hannah—he acknowledgeth the Power of Novelty, particularly with respect to a Pamphlet of one of the smaller Rats of the Queen's Closet, called Mathias—he giveth the little Animal a good Drubbing.—Peter hinteth at some of Miss Hannah's clerical Friends in the Reviews—sensibly animadverteth on the varnish-eating Power of Father Time.
So out of tune, it murders all the Nine:
She really playeth not with taste or fire:
No, Doctor Porteus, no, thou great divine!
Miss Hannah's equals, or my judgment fail:
Nay, numbers, I aver it! of whose gown
Miss Hannah is not fit to hold the tail.
Laughs in her sleeve at all thy pompous praise:
In silence wrapp'd, perceives the ass's ears,
And sits complacent while her Stentor brays.
Had Silence put a gag on Hannah's tongue—
No crape had mourn'd, upon the Muses' hill,
Nor Phœbus blubber'd for the loss of song.
Plac'd her on high, and cried, ‘Behold a wonder!’
No soul had scrutiniz'd the woman's worth;
Safe from the world her weakness and thy blunder.
A lofty pillar, but supporting what?
Why, on its head, supporting high in air
A mole, a grasshopper, a mouse, a rat.
Oblivion ready, with her shroud and spade,
To sink her with a prose and rhiming throng
In sacred silence, and eternal shade.
Ah! wherefore?—God Almighty only knows!
To gibbet her amid the blaze of day,
A piteous carcass for the critic crows,
But, ah! how many praise without pretence?
Bawl for a work with wide-extended jaws;
Of words a deluge, and a drop of sense!
I censure not Miss Hannah for sad rhimes:
God sees my heart! I only censure those
Whose flatteries damn the judgment of the times.
All righteous, cramm'd to mouth with heav'nly manna,
Ambitious of a wit among their names,
Into their magic-lantern clapp'd Miss Hannah:
The bishop's wond'ring orbs enjoy'd the sight—
‘A giantess of genius!’ Porteus cries,
Forgetting it a literary mite.
And turn ev'n bishops off from Wisdom's bias;
A mouse shall start the lion of the day—
Witness that miserable imp Mathias .
Sly, 'mid the windings of his murky hole,
Pour'd on the shrinking world his pois'nous load,
And on the sighs of Merit fed his soul.
Soon stopp'd the torrent of his wounding lust:
Justice stepp'd forth to give the fiend his fate,
And crush'd him 'midst the reptiles of the dust.
Though Hannah's verse be lame, insipid stuff;
Some sable critic, in some kind review,
Shall give the little paper-kite a puff.
To separate the living from the dead;
Clears the dark clouds of Prejudice away,
And roasts the varnish off, by Flatt'ry spread.
Smear'd o'er Miss Hannah must by Time be roasted;
The nymph in all her nakedness will blush,
And courtly Porteus, for a flatterer posted.
This poor little wretch, whose pamphlet misnomered Pursuits of Literature, but whose true appellation should have been Pursuits of Rancour, dared not acknowledge his own work.—The enormity of its falshood and impudence was quite a novelty, and in spite of its contemptible imbecility, gained the attention of the public.—This, Mathias mistook for fame: still he denied any connexion with the pamphlet—every paltry subterfuge was made use of, to escape detection. At length a few literary hounds seriously pursued him, hunted him fairly to his hole, and put the vermin to death.
ARGUMENT.
Peter fancieth that he hath put the Bishop in a Passion—he giveth his Opinion of a Book called Strictures upon Female Education, with Miss Hannah's name annexed—he subtracteth greatly from the Merit of Miss Hannah in those Volumes.—Peter Describeth Miss Hannah's Mode of manœuvring, by two apt and beautiful Comparisons, Hemp and Leather—he likeneth Miss Hannah unto a Hen, who hatcheth the Eggs of another Bird—he confesseth her exemplary Piety and Snow-like appearance, but severely reprimandeth her Uncharitableness towards the frail ones of her own Sex.—Peter praiseth his own celestial Disposition in favour of fallen Beauty—he addresseth the barbarous Part of the Female Creation: asserting that Love and an old Lady are not incompatible— he giveth the Judges a Stroke for their amorous Faces on Trials of Rape and Crim. Con. —Peter windeth up sublimely and charitably.
And thus exclaiming—‘What! Miss Hannah More
No genius! what is then her Education,
So prais'd and echoed o'er and o'er?’
Are decent things—perhaps Miss Hannah's plan:
But, trust me, they are all some parson's pictures:
These, Hannah never drew, nor colour'd, man!
Begs some young Levite spin it:—nothing loth,
He adds large quantities of flax, kind lad,
And with the mixture fabricates a cloth.
Horse-skin—and, slily, to some Crispin goes:
Crispin adds calf-skin—puts them both together,
And makes a tolerable pair of shoes.
Who sits on pheasant's egg, to kindness prone;
Hatches the birds, a pretty brood; but then,
Weak vanity, she call the chicks her own.
Her life a field of Alpine snow so white!
And what our good opinion must inspire,
With bishops she could talk from morn to night.
On each young victim of her tempting bloom!
Instead of sarcasm dropp'd a pitying tear,
And with a beam of comfort cheer'd her gloom!
I cannot curse the nymph of yielding charms:
Instead of casting the poor girl away,
Lord! I would rather clasp her in my arms!
Catch the pure drop that leaves her liquid eye:
And gently chiding the unlicens'd bliss,
Reclaim the beauteous mourner with a sigh.
Lo nature weaves it close in ev'ry cranny!
Ev'n from old women rarely it departs,
The subject sweet of many a shaking granny.
I've seen upon Crim. Con. with passion gape;
With wanton questions wag the watering beard,
Point the hot eye, and chuckle at a rape.
The opening buds of gentle May and June;
Blest to spread darkness, like the cloud of night,
That hangs a dirty malkin on the moon!
And furious charge the feeble maid of dame,
A nymph, who, cautious of the torch of Love,
Has never sing'd her honour at its flame.
ARGUMENT.
Peter declareth that he liketh literary Emulation amongst the Sex, but contendeth for fair Play —that is to say, People should publish their own Works—Peter knoweth Miss Hannah's havage, knoweth all her Points, and pronounceth her unqualified for a first-rate Racer, whatever her powers among the Ponies—Peter elucidateth the Frauds in Literature by a Smock-Race—Peter turneth to the Bishop, and asketh a shrewd Question—He solemnly calleth on the Bishop's Attention, and sayeth oracular Things!—Peter supplicateth the Bishop to think charitably of his rhiming Intentions—he dreadeth the fatal Effects of his Flattery of Miss Hannah; making her hold up her Nose in Contempt of the under-World, knowing none but Quality—Peter asserteth such Flattery to be a Sin, as it stirreth up Pride, which every body knows ruined the Devil—Peter citeth a proverb taken from Hell— he again beggeth the Bishop to think well of his Intentions—proclaimeth his Love for Bishops, perhaps equal to that of the unbeneficed Clergy —Peter draweth a Parallel between Bishops of old, and Bishops of the present Day—a terrible Portrait of the old School!—a most engaging one of the new—Peter piously concludeth with a Prayer for Bishops.
Yes, let there be a spur to emulation:
But let fair Justice sit upon her throne,
And keep a little decent regulation.
But Nature, to Miss Hannah's heels unkind,
The hopes of honour and of glory thwarts!
Left is Miss Hannah's far, yes, far behind.
Miss Hannah's joints are very stiff indeed:
Her form is rather fitted for the dray,
Than on Newmarket turf to show a speed.
The prize a shift—a Holland shift, I ween:
Ten damsels, nearly all in naked grace,
Rush'd for the precious prize along the green.
And face had been permitted to contend,
Had carried all before her), luckless fair!
Was to her sister racers forc'd to bend.
Whose love for Sylvia to her cause inclin'd him,
In spite, ye gods, of ev'ry racing rule,
Whipp'd up the damsel on the beast behind him.
Who mark'd the cheat with disappointed eyes;
Soon brought her in, unblushing at his aid,
And for his fav'rite boldly claim'd the prize.
Did no kind swain his hand to Hannah yield—
No bishop's hand to help a heavy rear,
And bear the nymph triumphant o'er the field?
A man stark blind should never races run;
A head of wax should never court the sun.
Repress the vainly rhiming, prosing rage,
That makes us sinful damn the nerveless line,
Un-Job-like curse the pen'ry of the page.
'Tis Pity, Pity bids me verse compose,
Thy flattery's fumes must turn the virgin's brain,
So fierce its incense burns beneath her nose.
Harmless thy flatt'ry then had spent its breath;
Just whisper'd to the world, and died away,
Like thy own sermons, and dead lines on Death.
Borne by the necromantic art of praise!
The nymph from vulgar eyes her glory shrouds,
To mix with high-ton'd quality her rays.
In all thy gaudy flow'rs superbly drest,
Must raise a smile on graver mouths than mine;
Such seeming mock'ry—such a solemn jest!
Each child of title lisps Miss Hannah's name;
A bishop's plaudit sanctifies a Joan:—
What better passport to the house of Fame?
For thou hast conjur'd up the woman's vanity—
Bestow'd false consequence on heads of pins,
And giv'n (O blush!) a substance to inanity.
To Pride, that pitfall of old Satan, win her!
Porteus there is a proverb thou shouldst read,
‘When flatt'rers meet, the Devil goes to dinner.’
I mean to harrow up thy humble mind,
And stay that voice in London known so long;
For balm and softness an Etesian wind.
Sweet is the race, and so Miss Hannah says:
Where'er I wander, lo! I make it known!
How different from the tribes of distant days!
His gaping gullet flam'd the track of Hell:
Loud as the Libyan lion's was his roar,
His frowns like lightning, blasting where they fell.
And saw, with doating eye, her power display'd;
Enjoy'd the flying brains at ev'ry blow,
And bless'd the knives and hooks with which she flay'd.
Men, women, children, for the slightest things;
Burnt, strangled, glorying in the horrid deed;
Nay, starv'd and flogg'd God's great vicegerents, kings!
The teeth of bishops are a gentle set;
Content, if nought is near, to pick a bone;
So little pamper'd with delicious meat.
How flow the honey'd streams of salutation,
Ev'n in the middle of our London streets:
Rich lessons of good-will to all the nation!
No sounds of anger from his lips escape;
Save on a curate's importuning sigh,
Save on the penury of ragged crape.
To blaze like beacons to the darken'd nations;
To roast old Satan, knock down Gammer Sin,
And for a pack of rascals hang the passions.
And now, for Justice' sake, let me petition:
Should Fortune chance to give thy charge a name,
Omit Miss Hannah's in the next edition.
EXPOSTULATION;
OR, AN ADDRESS TO MISS HANNAH MORE.
Whom thus thine adulation would befool:
Alas! a poor ephemeron is she;
A humming native of a British pool.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Miss HANNAH MORE having, with unmerited severity, nay, illiberality, attacked the poor poets en masse, alias in a lump, in the following terms, viz. ‘The poets again, who, to do them justice, are always ready to lend a helping hand when any mischief is to be done;’ I have, unlike Miss Hannah, preserved a Christian spirit on the occasion, a spirit whiich she every-where so fervently recommends, and meekly made my complaint in poetical expostulation, hoping that she will, with the usual assistance of her good friends the clergy, vouchsafe me an answer, in some measure to justify the slander, or expunge it in the next edition of what are called her Strictures on Female Education .
ARGUMENT.
The Poet begs to be informed of the Cause of Miss Hannah's Wrath—he praiseth the Mildness of the Poets—he putteth sly and shrewd Questions to Miss Hannah—Peter complaineth of Miss Hannah's general Sarcasm on himself and brother Bards—Peter puffeth himself—boasteth of the royal Attention to his Works—also of one of the Princesses, all the Favourites of Peter, whom Peter admireth and laudeth—also of Miss Tryon, late Maid of Honour, and the present Maids of Honour—likewise of the immortal Kotsciusko —Peter, with his accustomed Liberality, exhibiteth the Reverse of the Medal, describing the unfavourable Opinion entertained of him by the Blue-Stocking Club—he giveth the Anathema of a little old Man in Petticoats, called Urganda, an important Membress of the Society, and much attended to in the Debates— Dame Urganda calleth upon Miss Hannah to be the little David of the Club, and slay Goliah Peter—Peter cannot account for Miss Hannah's Attack on the Poets—He maketh Miss Hannah a grand Offer of composing a glorious Panegyric on her splendid Genius, the very Instant Miss Hannah informs him where it is to be found.
Why boils thus o'er the caldron of thine ire?
A dove-like offspring are the sons of song,
A cherub race the children of the lyre.
Poets were ever deem'd a sacred band,
Abounding with much virtue, meekness, grace;
Indeed a peaceful treasure to the land,
The robin redbreasts of the human race.
Oh! has no bard to Hannah pour'd an air;
With Hannah's beauty bid no stanza glow:
Her cheeks' warm roses, and her flaxen hair,
The lip of purple, and the neck of snow.
Oh! hast thou past through life without a rhime?
No sweet acrostic on thy liquid name?
No rebus, no conundrum's happy chime,
Proclaiming graces, and a hopeless flame?
Tell me, did no fond lover ever write
A decent distich on his fav'rite maid?
Not to his dear Lucretia once endite?
For sonneteering is the lover's trade.
Somewhat has wounded thee, 'tis very plain!
Revenge, I fear, lies rankling in thy heart;
Then say thy cause of anger and disdain—
Why on poor Poets hast thou been so tart?
And me a poet, majesty will own:
Nay, nay, my glory why should I conceal?
My works, morocco-gilt, are near the throne.
The charming princesses who court the Nine,
Whom Taste delighted proudly leads along—
These, with a smile, have read my early line,
And with their names shall grace my latest song.
Miss Tyron, maid of honour to the queen,
In rich Morocco bid my works be bound:
Beneath the pillows of the rest, I ween,
The works of Peter Pindar may be found.
Me Kotsciusco deems a bard divine!
My works illum'd his dungeon of affright:
'Twas there the hero read my lyric line,
Yea, read my lucubrations with delight.
To sooth the horrors of our gloomy weather;
To him in Leicester-Fields with joy I went,
For bards and heroes pair like doves together.
Yet let me say, be done fair Justice too,
Some damn in toto my poor thoughts and style;
The toothless gums of half the grave Bas-bleu,
Watering, and wondering, how the world can smile.
Urganda, with more beard than female grace,
If old Urganda has not learnt to shave,
Makes, at my name, most horrible grimace,
Screaming, ‘I'd buy a rope to hang the knave.’
‘My dearest, sweetest, panegyrist, More,
Pray, pray oblige me with your flippant pen;
Lord; you have so much wit—yes, such a store!
Pray, Hannah, cut us up this worst of men.
Whene'er I hear his name, I'm in a stew;
He's worse than Johnson, ten times, let me say,
Who gave himself such airs on the Bas-bleu.
‘O Lord! O Lord! what is Parnassus now?
A dismal, barren, melancholy waste;
Brambles, and weeds, and briars on the brow;
No fruit—no fruit to gratify the taste.
‘In short, this once great celebrated hill
Exhibits only children at the nipple;
A hospital, indeed, that idiots fill,
And every sort of lame and hopping cripple.
‘On you, our little David, mind, we call,
To knock this vile Goliah on the head;
Down with him!—like a bullock let him fall;
Down with him!—Lord! I long to see him dead!
‘Then, then, the horrid monster grins no more;
Then at our club the owl no longer hoots:
Thus shall our club the glorious deed adore.’—
Thus spoke the little proud old puss in boots!
But now to thee, fair Hannah to return,
For much I long thy fury's cause to know;
Nought have I done to bid thine anger burn;
My ink can never blot the vest of snow.
Lo! to do justice—with a liberal spirit,
I'm now on tip-toe, to begin my lays!
Hint to the poet but thy various merit,
I'll make Parnassus thunder with thy praise.
DUPLICITY;[_]
How unlike the bishops of old are our modern men
of lawn! Formerly they were all pride, hyprocrisy,
insolence, and rapacity; but behold! the present
race are mild, affable, charitable, and generous;
and though so eminently exalted above their
half-starved curates, appear to have been bred
(gentle doves) in the bosom of humility.
How unlike the bishops of old are our modern men of lawn! Formerly they were all pride, hyprocrisy, insolence, and rapacity; but behold! the present race are mild, affable, charitable, and generous; and though so eminently exalted above their half-starved curates, appear to have been bred (gentle doves) in the bosom of humility.
OR, THE BISHOP OF OLD.
(Ours are a sweeter set of saints, I trow)
Was by his sovereign sent to rule abroad:
Immediately upon the news
Of his arrival, came some Jews
To compliment the mitred man of God.
‘D'ye think I'll see that vile apostate nation?
Run, Pierrot—drive them off—run faster, faster;
Tell them they crucified my Heavenly Master.’
Devoutly whispering in the bishops's ear—
These Jews bring presents! Lord! at least a sack.’
‘Ah! ah!’ replied the bishop—less austere—
These people could know nothing of the sin—
Poor creatures! well, well, Pierrot, let 'em in.’
SIMPLICITY;
OR, THE CURATE.
One or the other every moment mutters:
This wants an eastern, that a western wind;
A third, petition for a southern, utters.
How can Heav'n suit all palates?—I don't know.
Indeed by all his flock belov'd,
Was one dry summer begg'd to pray for rain:
The parson most devoutly pray'd—
The pow'rs of pray'r were soon display'd;
Immediately a torrent drench'd the plain.
Had of his meadow not yet sav'd the hay:
Thus was his hay to health quite past restoring.
It happen'd too that Robin was from home;
But when he heard the story, in a foam
He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.
A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing!
What! pray for rain before I sav'd my hay!
I that for ever help you all I can;
Ask you to dine with me and Mrs. Jay,
Whenever we have something on the spit,
Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;
Whose bones you are so fond of picking;
And often too a cag of brandy!
You that were welcome to a treat,
To smoke and chat, and drink and eat;
Making my house so very handy!
Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick.
What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies,
With my fine field of hay before your eyes!
A numscull, that I wer'n't of this aware!—
Curse me but I had stopp'd your pretty pray'r!’
I never thought upon your field of grass.
Was not the field just underneath your nose?
This is a very pretty losing job!’—
‘Sir,’ quoth the curate, ‘know that Harry Cobb
Your brother warden join'd, to have the pray'r.’
‘Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only sport:
What doth Cobb own that any rain can hurt?’
Roar'd furious Jay as broad as he could stare.
A few old houses only, and a barn,
As that's the case, zounds, what are show'rs to him?’
Not Noah's flood could make his trumpery swim.
Why force it down in buckets on the hay?
No! I'd have stopp'd the weather for a week.’
I acted solely for the best;
I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed.
Your anger for this once restrain,
I'll never bring a drop again
Till you and all the parish are agreed.’
ODE TO THE BLUE STOCKING-CLUB.
ARGUMENT.
Peter addresseth the old literary Ladies with much poetical Solemnity—beggeth their Pardon for taking Liberties with Miss Hannah More, one of the Columns of the Blue-Stocking-Club —he hinteth to them that Miss Hannah's last Book is not Miss Hannah's.—Peter illustrateth Miss Hannah's Manœuvres by a sublime Comparison of an old Mouser and her Daughter. —Peter indulgeth himself in another apt Comparison of a Fish-theft, thinking Miss Hannah may, in a sly Way, have borrowed her last publication; and adviseth the Restoration to the Proprietor.
Who fond of being deem'd illustrious names,
Proudly o'er Mount Parnassus cast your shoes;
In grave Divan, who most sublimely sit,
Pronouncing judgment upon works of Wit,
Indeed on all the labours of the mouse!
Who charms you seldom with his metre.
Has met with many a wanton drub
From that sly Proteus clepp'd Ridicule:
Whose talent is to sneer and laugh,
To call important matters raff,
And lower Wisdom sometimes to a fool.
Because I've treated in such fashion
Miss Hannah, whom you idolize and foster:
I do assure you, solemn dames,
Miss Hannah with no merit flames,
No! she's a little bit of an impostor.
Now, she's Miss Moon—and borroweth all her light.
Deliver a dead bird, or mouse, or rat,
To her young kitten, Miss Grimalkin?
Miss catches it with raptur'd claws,
Locks it at once within her jaws,
Round with cock'd tail, and round triumphant walking;
So carefully her treasure holding, watching,
And proudly purring, ‘This is all my catching.’
Too strongly she resembles it, I fear!
As I have somewhere said before,
Starts like the country lasses for the shift;
And just like Sylvia left behind,
By rivals, much against her mind,
Who stole before them by a lucky lift.
On some kind priest's—perchance a bishop's pad!
Miss Hannah's work, so much beprais'd,
By flattery's puff so highly rais'd;
I say Miss Hannah's pretty Education-book,
Of fishing parties starts a story,
Where one shall steal another's trout or dory,
And slily pull it in on his own hook.
I beg you, for your reputation's sake,
To sift this pretty larceny of the pen!
And as ye probably may find it out,
Confront Miss Hannah—kick up some small rout—
And make her give the man his fish again.
ODE TO SOME ROBIN REDBREASTS, IN A COUNTRY CATHEDRAL.
Your ditties sooth, delight, inspire;
That wake the echoes from their deep repose;
Soft echoes dying through the dome
(As though from spirits of the tomb),
Soon as your voices sink in plaintive close!
And let it never die away.
In gratitude so simply giv'n!
Celestials smile upon your songs of praise:
For to the chaste angelic ear
The grateful voice is ever near,
But loath'd the sounds that Affectation brays;
And yet how many a voice, and pipe, and chord,
Brays to the praise and glory of the Lord!
A jail broke loose!—a pack of hounds!
No, 'tis a bishop, dean, and bawling boys!
What uproar wild! The wolves of Thrace
Howl'd to the moon with sweeter grace;
Ev'n Libya's lions make not half the noise.
A kingdom for a pair of patent ears!
Din that disturbs, affrights, astounds;
How merciful is Heav'n, to bear the bother,
And not knock one thick skull against the other!
As oft they ope the volume of their throat,
Their gullets gape not of their own accord:—
'Tis money, money only, prompts the note.
Heav'n's cherubs blush, and burning seraphs stare,
To think that bribes must purchase praise and pray'r.
Now all the ear-distracting train
Has left the dome, the cherub peace restor'd.—
How different your delighting throats!
How different all your liquid notes!
How different too your merits with the Lord!
For how can Heav'n with venal sounds be taken,
Tainted with ale and gin, and eggs and bacon?
Resume, resume the choral song,
And make atonement for the horrid cry.
Lo! in her shroud, near yonder tomb,
A gentle spectre breaks the gloom!
She listens!—lo! she listens with a sigh!
Ah! bid your airs divinely flow,
And, soothing, steal a tear from woe.
They wrap the hollow-sounding aisle,
And steal each column from the eye:
What solemn solitude around!
Here Nature's true sublime is found,
Hence Thought should travel to the sky!
At early dawn I quit my cell,
And haste a pilgrim, to these shrines again:
Simplicity will join my way,
And listen to your mingled lay,
And, list'ning, learn a lesson from your strain.
ODES TO INS AND OUTS.
Qui volet esse pius: Virtus et summa Potestas
Non coëunt.
LUCAN.
Must have no dealings with a court.
Virtue and Power—fair and foul weather,
Were never known to pig together.
[Ode I.] PROLOGUE.
Upon each other how they scowl!
Yet all politeness—wonderful good-nature—
Each tries to get the first employ,
By ev'ry engine to destroy,
Yet bows, and smiles, and still persists to flatter;
And when his rival he has sent to hell,
Kind whispers—‘Sir, I hope I see you well.’
This moment placid, smooth, a bright expanse—
The next he thunders, raises every wave,
Roars, riots, tumbles, kicks up such a dance,
Booms o'er the ship with such a shock,
And heaves her on the fatal rock!
No more his foamy billows tow'r,
But all so crouching, humble, gentle, rot 'em!
With timid motion they advance,
Seem sorry for the sad mischance,
And, winding round the wreck, they kiss its bottom.
Then thou hast curs'd it twenty times, or more,
Or didst thou ever to a cat give mustard?
If so, grimalkin scratch'd, and spit, and swore.
Ready to slay me—tear me bit by bit.—
And tell the world each various crime;
And folly too, ah, often felt and seen!
Indeed the act of many a court
Would yield the nation charming sport,
And chase the gloomy cloud of spleen;
But that this folly mingles with much harm—
Aye, there's the rub!—the rub, too, to alarm.
In spite of ministerial chains:
If a court scoundrel meet my view,
I'll laugh at penalties and pains;
Smile at the ribbands that their shoulders deck,
And wish them good tight ropes about the neck.
Ev'n should there be an imprimatur;
Sing what is what, and who is who,
And, independent, scorn to flatter.
Not only for the tongue, but brains:
The time may come when ministerial sway
Makes despotism the order of the day—
Still will I talk and write as I think fit,
Whether man John be Addington or Pitt.
ODE II. TO THE K---.
And so are all of us (of late so sad)
That you have thrown the Jonas overboard,
See! see the drowning cat! he spreads his claws!
Quickly, for God's sake, sir, chop off his paws!—
He dies, by not a single sigh deplor'd.
To Davy Jones's locker let him go,
And with old Neptune booze below—
Bad stuff though, Neptune's mawkish brine!
He'd rather touch Dundas's wine.
And made us all, poor creatures, chew hard:
We scarce can put a mouse into the pot;
And yet he leaves behind, I fear,
Something that will not touching bear,
Like powder of a post that has the rot.
And Fame each day sings louder, sir, and louder,
‘State-pillars will be made of this same powder.’
Now rotten wood, according to my nouse,
Is bad material to support a house.
What was he?—a poor wheeling, fluttering bat—
An imp of darkness—busy catching flies!
His gaping mouth a very lucky trap,
Quick seizing for his hungry maw—supplies.
He who's seduc'd must be besotted.
The sound may fright the ears of boys—
A cannon's thunder, but not shotted.
E'er saw a saucy, soaring kite
Fetch'd by a leaden messenger to ground,
Than we, when majesty thought fit,
And wisely too, to humble Pitt,
Headlong into the gulf profound,
Sunk him to hell—at least his lowest hell,
Where pride's prick'd bladder could no longer swell.
Beholds a dying fox than we
Mark'd the last struggles of poor Billy Pitt.
On every visage see a smile!
Joy triumphs through the echoing isle!
Upon his name Posterity shall spit.
To Britain's fair and wide domain,
Shall bring her throne, her sacred throne:
The voice that long has learnt to mourn,
Shall hail with rapture her return,
And change for sounds of joy the hopeless groan.
You do things with the best intent;
Distress'd when Fortune mars a patriot plan:
And know, each true-born Briton sings,
‘Health and long life to virtuous kings!
We love the master, but detest the man.’
POSTSCRIPT.
And, sire, it may be done with ease,
I'll make a bargain.—Keep out Pitt for ever,
My song shall be the song of praise;
To kings an altar will I raise,
And never tear it down—no, never, never.
And, should it please th' Almighty to take Pye,
Sire, I'm your bard—your laureat—I—yes, I!
Considering my vast reputation.
ODE III. TO LORD H---Y.
Nothing so clever, nought more mighty,
For taking from the heart ennui,
The spleen, blue devils, tædium vitæ.
Sweet also is the sweet Cremona's tongue,
Making the hours dance merrily along.
Are sounds in Parliament from thee:
Through my whole frame such torpors creep—
I stretch, gape, yawn, and fall asleep.
Think deeply, and with speech surprise:
But titles only the mad million hails!
Just like bird-fanciers, heedless of the song,
Who ask what feathers to the birds belong,
That, bashaw-like, gain glory by their tails.
Inform one, H---k'sb---y, art thou mad?
What says each honest, grinning tar?
‘O, d---n my eyes! this is too bad!’
Then flings his quid away, and raves,
‘A goose-feather upon the waves!’
'Mid the loud storm, and on the ocean's swell,
H---k'sb---y, I'll tell thee truly what thou art—
A simple cockle-shell!
Slipp'd from a stubborn rock into the sea.—
‘Ah!’ thou exclaimest, ‘who's that stubborn rock?
I wonder who that rock can be!’
Pitt! Pitt!—Lord, thou art stupid as a stock!
Since thou art mounted upon high,
On pinion wild, with dauntless eye,
Let me instruct thee with a tale.
'Tis of an owl,
A solemn fowl,
And very much conceited—much like thee:
Excuse this quaker-proneness to be free.
Nor intellect, but very, very proud,
The tenant of a little dirty hole,
Wish'd from obscurity to clear the cloud:
Yes, owl must have his sails unfurl'd,
And mount majestic on the world.
Who on his errands us'd to go.
‘Crow,’ said the Owl, upon a day,
‘I'm sick of solitude and gloom:
A bird of my deep sense and plume
Should mount amid the blaze of day.
In short, dear crow, I wish to wed,
And, mind me, take unto my bed
Miss Eaglet!’—‘Ah!’ replied the Crow,
Ready to split his sides with laughter,
‘Indeed! and are things really so?
Right, sir, to alter your condition—
O Lord! there's nothing like ambition!’
With my proposals to the bird of Jove.’
And to the Eagle's palace flies
The black ambassador from Owl;
Delivers his credentials to his grace,
With Auckland's diplomatic face,
Conceiving, like a penetrating fowl,
How politics would go above;
What answer leave the bird of Jove.
To my Lord Owl be pleas'd to go,
And tell him that I like the match:
I'm much oblig'd to him, indeed,
For honouring the Eagle breed:
I've been a good while on the watch
To throw a little lustre round my house:
Commend me to the thunderbolt of mouse.
Shall join his lordship in the straw;
Who such alliance cannot well withstand;
Happy to take him by the claw.
Bid him ascend sans cérémonie—free,
And pick his mouse to-day with me.
And quickly reach'd the house of Owl,
And told him all that he had seen and heard.
Owl instant comb'd, and wash'd his face,
Cut all his claws to such a grace,
Trimm'd all his feathers nicely—clipp'd his beard;
And rose amid the realms of light.
The sun's bright blaze of burnish'd gold
Flash'd on the owl's poor weak and watering eyes;
Just like a paper-kite, whose string
Deserting, leaves him on the wing,
To totter, dip, mount, fall again, and rise;
So shuffled Owl, lost, reeling, blind,
The sport of every gust of wind,
Till down he fell with phiz of woe,
The jest of ev'ry bird below.
How feelest thou thy flight sublime?
Thy weak eyes seem already winking.
Poor bird! I fear 'tis quickly over!
Yes, yes, already I discover
Symptoms of sinking.
The paper-kite comes down at last,
And sharply watching are we all;
And when laid flat upon the ground,
Thy paper stuff we shall surround,
And make us merry at thy fall!
Perhaps the observation stings;
Thou shouldst have ask'd, before thy flight,
Dame Wisdom for a pair of wings.
ODE IV. TO THE CHANCELLOR OF THE EXCHEQUER.
Your change on madness seems to border.
You're a good school-mistress, no doubt,
To keep the noisy brats in order.
But to be minister!—God bless ye!
Why, what the devil could possess ye?
And let some abler man come in—
Such child's play!—What are ye about?
The nation's really in a grin!
And yet it ought to cry, Heav'n knows!
So nearly going to the crows!
Go calmly out, nor make a pudder;
And don't, like Grenville, push your snout
Beneath the good old state-cow's udder.
Poor beast! she can't thy thirst supply!
Pitt's famish'd calves have suck'd her dry.
Don't be the dirty tool of Pitt:
Think on a tale—the monkey and the cat.
Chesnuts were roasting in the fire:
Jack's jaws both water'd with desire;
He begs Miss Puss to lend her pretty pat;
Then handy, as the handiest stoker,
He makes her velvet paw a poker—
And stirs away at such a rate!
He holds poor Miss Grimalkin snug,
And gets the chesnuts from the grate:
Jack grins—indulges his rogue jaws—
Puss goes in mourning for her claws.
That as to my surmise there's nothing in't:
Now, Mister Chancellor, I call no names;
But lo! the father of reform
Will take you by persuasion, or by storm,
And put your pretty fingers in the flames.
And, like an organ in the house of God,
With deep-ton'd energy, divinely strong,
That fills with holy awe the dread abode:
He wishes yours to stun Saint Stephen's sphere,
And get him some ten thousand pounds a year!
For services of high pretension;
For him who, lab'ring with the happiest pains,
Sav'd England's life by dashing out her brains!
ODE V. TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ.
With pretty treasury pickings, goes;
In humble hut, on Scotia's plains,
To feast upon his honest gains.
With teeth and claws, a hedge-hog grapples,
Yet on the heap behold him roll,
And loaded steal into his hole,
A golden pippin on each quill.—
Thus loaded, into Scotland goes
Ex-secrétaire George Hedge-hog Rose.
George didst thou happy rise from table,
As Horace says, ‘Uti conviva satur?’
I really think 'twas no such matter.
Forc'd to desert a well-cramm'd plate;
Forc'd from the trifles, and the jelly;
Forc'd from the thousand sweet nick-nackeries,
Prettily made by state-cook quackeries,
To fill each crevice of thy bloated belly—
Looking a downright football by its tumour,
I think thou gottest up in a bad humour—
Yes, George, thy stomach it is such,
It thinks it cannot have too much.
To rise with lustre from the board,
As title much the vulgar world bewitches?
Then mayst thou seek the barren heath,
Or dell, where first thou drewest breath,
And blaze the jack o'-lantern of the ditches!
And Peg, and Nan, a sav'ry set,
Have ris'n to ladyship in this kind reign:
They ride to court, obtain a smile,
Make dips and curtsies all in style,
And carry off kind nods from k--- and q---.
Now this was all old Jenky's doing,
By dint of labour and court-wooing.
Wishing to change their ragged stations,
If favour will not gain it—buy,
And hoist thy cousin Joans on high,
Upon the virtuous plunder of our wars.
As honours are as thick as fleas,
Pitching on this man's shoulder, now on that.
As Heraldry has wondrous charms,
Heard shall invent a coat of arms,
And to a tiger turn a mangy cat.
ODE VI.
What horror smote the levee mob!
Mad into street of Downing rush'd
His minions, always ready for a job:
Who bore him on their humble backs
Through dirty lanes, through thick and thin;
No matter what the object, no;
When Pitt commands—it must be so;
Whether to clothe the naked realm, or skin
The tumult on that kick-out day
Was mob-like at a house on fire;
Where friends, amid the conflagration,
With a kind thief-acceleration,
Whip off the goods they guarded by desire?
In rush'd Lord G--- to the larder,
Caught up a goose for self and wife;
Snatch'd up a turbot and a haunch:
In bounc'd Charles Long, and, with his butcher's knife,
(For in the plunder he must also join),
And cut off slices from a fat sirloin.
I must be partner in the spoils:’
Then up he caught an old jack hare,
A proper present for his toils:’
And fastens on some rich-mince pies,
As dext'rous as the rest to rifle:
Ecod! and he must something do
For mother and for sisters too,
So steals some syllabubs and trifle .
That things were going off in style?
Poor gentlewoman! she was gagg'd and bound;
Her even scales, alas! abhorr'd,
In pieces broken with her sword;
Nor were the fasces to be found.
Just like a shoal of sharks who swam in,
With maws as wide as the park gate,
To save (by eating us) from famine!
With a ministerial fortune by matrimony; with sinecures, &c. to a large amount, squeez'd from the vitals of the nation; this modest and generous youth could not afford to yield his poor mother, Mistress Hunn, alias Mistress Reddish, alias Mistress Canning, a pittance.— No! the kingdom must be saddled with five hundred pounds a pear for her support. Such is the laudable distribution of public treasure! Such are the depositaries of the national confidence; and of such we are ordered not to complain, for fear of the impotation of jacobinism!!!
ODE VII.
Thus says the Bible, the great fountain,
The sacred fountain of immortal truth.
There are who say that Billy Pitt
In this dear war has shown his wit—
Lord! what a statesman!—what a clever youth!
Keen as the keenest eagle's view,
There's nothing that he cannot do.
And claw a pyramid, you'll pull it t'ye.
To blind the people of the land:
O yes, it blinds weak women, and weak men,
Much like the sand that boys, in fun,
Fire from an engine called a gun,
To knock down a poor humming-bird, or wren.
THE DOCTORS;
A TALE.
(Like courtier-men) of getting rich,
And learning that a doctor (not a quack),
By means of a most potent pill,
Did verily and truly fill
Full many a time with gold his sack—
So set about it without more ado.
With heads as empty as the drum.
The quack puffs off his pill—none doubt him:
A bumpkin came among the rest,
And thus the man of pill addrest:
That your fine pill hath cur'd the king,
And able to do every thing,
D'ye think, zur, that 'twill make me vind my ass?
I've lost my ass, zur, zo should like to try it:
If this be your opinion, sur, I'll buy it.’
‘Yes, Master Hob, it should be tried:’
Then down Hob's gullet, cure or kill,
The grand impostor push'd the pill.
Hob paid his fee, and off he went;
And trav'lling on about an hour,
His bowels sore with pains were rent:
Such was the pill's surprising pow'r.
Hob, in a hurry left the lane:
How decent!—what can decency surpass?
And sought the grove—where Hob's two eyes,
Wide staring, saw with huge surprise
His long-ear'd servant Jack, his ass!
Ye gods! how happy was the meeting!
Hob kissing Jack, and Jack, Hob greeting.
‘Yes, yes, the pill hath done the job.’
Pill grew the subject of the village tattle:
At last it gain'd a heap of fame;
Not only good for blind and lame,
But good, too, for recovering all stray'd cattle.
Pitt's no catholicon, I fear:
Pitt is a violent cathartic,
Creating very grievous gripes
(In butcher phrase) among our tripes,
Making the stomach, head, and heart sick:
Unto a poor consumptive nation,
That wants restoratives called pounds,
To give her strength, and heal her wounds.
Pitt never yet possess'd a nostrum
For bringing all stray'd millions back again:
The guineas he sent out, we find,
Were like so many beetles blind,
Rambling the Lord knows where, like show'rs of rain,
Making the German regions smile,
Instead of Albion's famish'd isle.
THE HEDGE-HOGS;
A FABLE.
A war commenc'd with the dog-nation,
Like us, unlucky, losing each land-battle,
And trembling all for their salvation,
Agreed to furnish contribution,
With patriotic resolution,
As much as every hedge-hog could afford:
One of the tribe, no hedge-hog sutler,
An Elwes or a Sir John Cutler,
And master of a comfortable hoard,
Affected to be scarcely worth a crown,
Therefore unable to come down.
The tide could never be so low:
The messenger stepp'd in, and pry'd about:
Appearances left not a doubt—
Of wealth a vestige not a soul could see:
In full conviction then they left the door:
‘'Squire Hedge-hog certainly is very poor.’
Of our 'Squire Hedge-hog all so poor,
Full convinc'd, they pass'd along;
A hillock of fresh earth appear'd,
Seeming but very lately rear'd:
This hatch'd suspicions somewhat strong.
Where such a treasure soon was found!
Forth trots the poverty-struck 'squire,
Begging and praying beyond measure,
They would not take away his treasure:
Was sorry he had been so great a liar;
T'assist the war, and give the dogs their sate.’
But, no—it was against the laws: they found
He could not have it—no such thing,
As treasure under ground
Belong'd of right unto the king.
Now to apply this fable to 'Squire Pitt:
That thine is not a hedge-hog-case?
Believe me, thou'rt not poor in purse,
However thou mayst be in spirit:
Thine income, for the nation's curse,
Is much, I fear, beyond thy merit.
Prove to John Bull some trifling obligations,
Which Wyndham cheese-parings might call;
Which cheese-parings, if in my pow'r,
Should, in the space of half an hour,
Return to where they started, like a ball.
What had she giv'n?—I'll tell thee what—
The dame had giv'n, to please thy lofty heart,
Just half enough to feed a rat:
An animal of vicious nature,
Who, after breakfasting, and dining,
And supping in a house, and undermining,
Leaves it a prey to fire and water
(As soon as all the plunder ceases),
To tear it in a thousand pieces.
ODE VIII. TO PITT.
For they shall not be disappointed;’
But thou didst hope a grand effect—
Great sighings from the Lord's anointed.
Of terror full, to his good friend
Of Downing Street post-haste away,
Petitioning—‘Pitt, all is over,
‘The French will quickly land at Dover,
And no one to oppose and slay:
Of strength thou art a mighty tow'r:
Come, come, and all thy thunder pour;
Haste, haste, and save a sinking state!’
How had the echoes rung around!
But no such voice, alas! was ever heard!
No thunder roll'd, no tempest blew;
But easy quite as an old shoe,
Saint James's for thy loss appear'd.
Soft as a cat's, indeed, was thy retreat,
That moves down stairs upon her velvet feet.
That mayn't agree with thy digestion:
Where was the blush, the blush of shame,
When, to exalt the blind and lame,
Thou gav'st of eloquence that dainty dish?
Yet people will in answer say,
‘'Tis the world's way—
We never hear a man cry, “Stinking fish !”’
A few of his fellow-labourers in the political vineyard, that remained after his expulsion. Mr. Pitt's eulogium on those rags of his administration produced a universal smile, even from his own party.
TO PITT,
IN CONTINUATION.
'TIS whisper'd thou wert turn'd to door,Most Job-like, very, very poor.
Poor man! poor man! ah, what a pity!
Farewell to dinners in the city!
Farewell to grocers ev'ry one—
Othello's occupation's gone!
Witness the following little story.
THE SULTAN AND THE DOG.
On ev'ry dainty used to feast:
(How different from the beggar and his bone!)
Who drank, too, Burgundy, I ween;
For ev'ry thing in style was seen,
Becoming one who sat upon a throne.
So apt the wisest schemes to mar,
And change the master to the humble slave.
Fix'd on the sultan his steel claws,
Clapp'd an embargo on his jaws,
And words, hard words, instead of victuals, gave.
Coarse was his fare, the coarsest sort:
A jug of milk was sent to him for dinner:
Enter a dog, who, while the king
Was musing on some lofty thing,
Stole slily to the milk, the thievish sinner;
Forc'd in his head, and lapp'd each drop, no doubt,
But could not get his head felonious out.
The monarch, smiling, mark'd the theft,
And of his dinner though bereft,
With much good-humour thus began:
A hundred camels scarce could bear
My quantities of kitchen-ware,
And now a cur can carry it away!’
So humble, affable, and mild;
Art thou reduc'd, too, to a jug of milk,
Sweet Nature's child?
Speak—Did the famish'd wolves, alas!
Eat all the flesh of the dead ass,
And leave thee nothing but the bones?
Say, hadst thou not the face to mump
One steak, from the poor nation's rump,
To calm gaunt Famine's hollow moans?
Tax'd to the very eyes, I'm sure!
Where is the article that pays no duty?
Nought 'scapes!—not woman's fascinating beauty!
For vending roses sweet and lilies,
And love-inspiring, luscious, balmy kisses;
Although the growth of their own cheek;
Although the growth of their own neck;
Although the growth of their own lip, sweet Misses;
Are forc'd to bridewell's horrid fare,
For dealing in unlicens'd ware—
Spoil'd all their pretty hops, and skips, and glee,
Because the justice had not got his fee.
ODE IX. TO PITT AGAIN.
With pow'r, the idol of thy heart,
And, philosophic, yield to thy disgrace;
Leave Downing Street and stately rooms,
For secrecy and spectre glooms
Of solitary, poor Park Place;
As melancholy as a mole?
Black, weeping all for thy returning—
All with white handkerchiefs to catch wet sorrow:
Ah! know there are not ten who care
Five farthings were they now to hear
That thou wert in a jail to-morrow.
Yes, thou hast had a handsome swing;
Thy hide, too, like a bull-hide tough,
Has met, indeed, with many a sting,
Or dart, that must have kill'd all but the man
Whose modesty not only took our flour
(The conscientious miller of the hour),
But made its bow, too, to the bran:
Nay ready, too, upon its back,
To carry off the very sack!
Employ'd in sniggling,
A large and slippery eel,
The world seems glad to see thee wriggling.
To slip again into thy hole!
Aye, gape, and writhe, and spread thy fin,
Poor Master Fish, you won't get in.
Manag'd the state-alembic sadly,
With all thy cunning and thy pains:
The finer parts are off! in air!
Howe'er thine ignorance may stare,
And nought but caput mortuum remains.
The subject of thy fierce and ceaseless fires!
And, lo, by dint of time and resolution,
Thou hast well crucibled thy country 'squires;
Extracting heaps of gold from stocks and stones.
Where was your tutelary star?
Ye never dreamt of danger till too late.
‘A war with France! oh, that's soon o'er;
A fox-chase, fox-chase, nothing more;
Fun, fun—just coursing a poor hare, or cat.’
That this same cat is now become a bear,
Whose claws have lately held you snug,
And giv'n a cursed Cornish hug.
ODE X. TO HENRY DUNDAS, ESQ.
For a great empire, fast undoing,Something, indeed should have been brewing,
Better than brandy and strong beer:
Something was wanting, to my humble thinking,
Besides good eating and hard drinking,
To keep the leaky ship from foundering clear:
Yet 'tis well known that e'er the vessel's sunk,
The sailors commonly get drunk.
Now thou art off, I long to see,
In thine own language, ‘Wha wants me?’
It will not be at all surprising
To catch thee, Harry, advertising.
If mad to face a second storm,
Take an advertisement in form.
ADVERTISEMENT
Would very willingly engage
As butler to a minister of state,
And overlook the plate.
And not a hogshead or a bottle left;
He begs to say, he won't be fool enough
To answer for the leakage, or the theft.
An exc'llent character from his last place.
Please to direct to Mister H. Dundas,
At the old sign—the Bottle and the Glass.
A MORAL CONCLUSION.
What strange events at times take place!
Some bright with joy, some black with sorrow!
Omnium est rerum vicissitudo!
To day what wonders I and you do,
That happen not again to-morrow!
Were under-strappers to Will Pitt;
Forerunners, oft they gave their tongue
Before the great man pour'd his wit.
Instruct their mighty master when to sound:
Paul solemn listens to the tinkling noise,
Then breaks in thunder to the world around!
Pitt out of office, the broad farce is o'er;
Flung from his pedestal amid the rabble,
Deep-thundering Pitt is—poor old Goody Gabble.
Such things will be till moon and sun die,
And earth our ashes, our pale embers cover:
And really, when we sum up all,
What's life?—A blast—a little squall.—
Death's calm must come at last, and all is over—
All in our tombs in peace—not one
To read ‘Hic jacet’ on the stone!
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||