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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CELEBRATION;
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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CELEBRATION;
OR, THE ACADEMIC PROCESSION TO ST. JAMES'S.
AN ODE.
Rare band! whom wide-mouth'd mob with shouts shall hail:
West at the head, and Wilton at the tail!
West at the head, and Wilton at the tail!
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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.
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Sol, put thee on thy best gold wig to-day;
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.
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.
Yes, yes, let Morn look down with smiling pride,
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.
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.
Smile too on the procession—grateful throng,
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.
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.
Rare band! whom wide-mouth'd Mob with shouts shall hail;
West at the head, and Wilton at the tail.
Yet let not Wilton join the glorious rear;
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:
West at the head, and Wilton at the tail.
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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:
Preferring thus black Charles's
Æthiop face
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 .
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 .
See! from yon dome, amid th' expectant throng,
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.
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 they reach the gate of Adoration!
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 .
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 .
And now they panting mount St. James's stairs,
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.
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.
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See them, like nine-pins tumbled on the plain!
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!
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!
Now on his shoulder drops the magic sword:
‘Arise Sir Benjamin!’ the sovereign says—
Happy, the knight ariseth at the word,
And feels himself o'erwhelm'd with glory's rays.
‘Arise Sir Benjamin!’ the sovereign says—
Happy, the knight ariseth at the word,
And feels himself o'erwhelm'd with glory's rays.
In bolder streams his blood begins to flow;
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.
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.
Thus from his humble shop the silken worm
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!
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! dwelleth such rare virtue in a sword?
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!
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!
And now they humbly all kiss hands so sweet;
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!
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!
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Now cloth'd with honour, see the troop retreat!
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!
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!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |