University of Virginia Library

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

and most generously returned on the nabob's hands, on account of his appetite, but the same muse

Began a tender melancholy air;
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,
Or wolves so hungry.—‘No,’ the sportsman cries—
‘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.