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 |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
|
|
|
|
|
A JEREMI-AD, ADDRESSED TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ. OF THE TREASURY. |
|
|
|
|
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
149
A JEREMI-AD, ADDRESSED TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ. OF THE TREASURY.
Where is the power of Peter?—where the quills
That from the porcupine at Folly flew?
Where, where his cannon that in thunder kills?
The sword of Satire that its thousands slew?
That from the porcupine at Folly flew?
Where, where his cannon that in thunder kills?
The sword of Satire that its thousands slew?
The voice that, like the rams'-horns, levell'd walls,
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.
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.
What fine large shot was mine for high-crown'd heads!
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!
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!
No more I smile at Buc---am's fair house,
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.
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.
Now Madam Schwellenberg her ass may straddle,
And Jack may fly before a poking pin;
The lady, frighten'd, tumble from her saddle,
And show her lovely legs without a grin.
And Jack may fly before a poking pin;
The lady, frighten'd, tumble from her saddle,
And show her lovely legs without a grin.
The bard who bullied Quality with song,
Must to the iron times his genius suit;
The bard, in energy divinely strong—
The bard, whose voice was thunder, must be mute.
Must to the iron times his genius suit;
The bard, in energy divinely strong—
The bard, whose voice was thunder, must be mute.
150
In vain I gnash my teeth—my hour is o'er;
The statesman triumphs!—all my cunning foils!
He careth not five farthings for my roar,
But mocks the lion struggling in his toils!
The statesman triumphs!—all my cunning foils!
He careth not five farthings for my roar,
But mocks the lion struggling in his toils!
A hopeful cedar near th' Aonian fount,
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!
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!
Struck (not illumin'd) by their anger's flame,
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!
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!
Who, who could fancy such disgrace, alas!
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!
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!
Since Pitt and Grenville, daring dreadful things,
Full of their magnanimities, agree
That Peter shall not laugh at queens and kings,
Permit me, gentle George, to laugh at thee.
Full of their magnanimities, agree
That Peter shall not laugh at queens and kings,
Permit me, gentle George, to laugh at thee.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |