The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
91
ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-SIX;
A SATIRE; IN TWO DIALOGUES.
Singula de nobis anni prædantur euntes
Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum,
Tendunt extorquere poëmata—quid faciam vis?
HORACE, ARS POET.
Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum,
Tendunt extorquere poëmata—quid faciam vis?
HORACE, ARS POET.
Pitt claps his paws on something ev'ry day;
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?
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?
93
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!
94
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;
95
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.—
96
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!
97
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?
98
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.
99
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.
100
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
101
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!
102
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!
103
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;
104
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?
105
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.
106
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:
107
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.
108
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.
109
'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?
110
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.
111
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!
112
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),
113
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |