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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A COMMISERATING EPISTLE TO JAMES LOWTHER, EARL OF LONSDALE AND LOWTHER, Lord Lieut. and Cust. Rot. of the Counties of Cumberland and Westmorland. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
151
A COMMISERATING EPISTLE TO JAMES LOWTHER, EARL OF LONSDALE AND LOWTHER, Lord Lieut. and Cust. Rot. of the Counties of Cumberland and Westmorland.
Quid sentire putas omnes, Calvine, recenti
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.
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.
What think'st thou, Lonsdale, that the world will say
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.’
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.’
153
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
on the occasion; how sublimely his Lordship
behaves! Though he most spiritedly suspends
his Coal-works for a Time, to show the
Power of his Vengeance; lo, he promiseth to
open them again, on Condition he has full
Liberty to undermine any Houses that may impudently
stand in the way of his Coal for the
future—What an Act of Humanity! partly
for the Benefit of himself, a poor Individual;
but principally for the Advantage of the Town
and Neighbourhood of Whitehaven! Who, besides
his Lordship, would have done this?
It is too humane—it is too great—for as it has
been observed by some celebrated Divines, that
a Man may be over-righteous, so verily may a
great Peer be over-forgiving.—Such is the
Ground of my Epistle to Lord Lonsdale—and,
for the Advantage as well as Amusement of
Posterity, I have subjoined the Letters that
passed between some of the People of Whitehaven
and his Lordship; they are Curiosities
that ought to be preserved amidst the Archives
of Submission, Generosity, and Literature.
154
161
What, Lonsdale! after all thy ranting, tearing,
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!
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!
Shades of the Lowthers, arm'd with vengeance, rise,
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.
Let not one act ten thousand acts upbraid!
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 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.
162
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.’
Learn, Lonsdale, learn Ambition's spur to feel,
And snap, like mites, a million at a meal.
And snap, like mites, a million at a meal.
See yon proud oak, whose dark'ning branches spread
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?
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?
How! has thine heart dismiss'd its lordly state,
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?
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?
Say, does Repentance wound thee?—'tis a driv'ler.
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.
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.
163
Go herd with Brudenell, who with Bardolph face
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?
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?
What, Lonsdale, melted down thy ruthless rage?—
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.
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.
Rouse! and let ‘Richard be himself again!’—
Forge, forge anew Oppression's galling chain;
Strip o'er his ears bold Opposition's skin,
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.
Forge, forge anew Oppression's galling chain;
164
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.
How pleasing to thine eyes should be the band
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.—
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.—
Thus triumph—‘Shall Dominion's ensigns sink,
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.
What though it thins my purse, it feeds my spleen;
So, scythe of Desolation, sweep the scene.’
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.
165
So, scythe of Desolation, sweep the scene.’
Such is the glowing language thou shouldst hold,
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.
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.
Shall Pity be an inmate of thy breast:
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!
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!
What gives the general wish for pow'r to glow?
To look contemptuous on the world below;
To bid that world bow down, admire, adore,
And grind the sallow faces of the poor.
To look contemptuous on the world below;
To bid that world bow down, admire, adore,
And grind the sallow faces of the poor.
Ask, to the forest-laws what man gave birth?
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.
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.
Whence on a sudden, dost thou thus inherit
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?
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?
Yet, yet I see the feudal times return,
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.
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.
Curse on the liberty of modern days!
Again let pow'r her rod of iron raise.
Hang the French dogs, a mangy, mongrel cry,
That, running riot, on their huntsman fly!
How are the sacred robes of Greatness rent!
Kings and nobility fall'n cent. per cent!
Again let pow'r her rod of iron raise.
166
That, running riot, on their huntsman fly!
How are the sacred robes of Greatness rent!
Kings and nobility fall'n cent. per cent!
Sure, Lonsdale! thou art not too weak to know
From general riches what misfortunes flow.
Wealth for delicious slavery spoils a nation—
Adieu at once to gods and adoration.
From general riches what misfortunes flow.
Wealth for delicious slavery spoils a nation—
Adieu at once to gods and adoration.
Say, would you bid the under-world adore,
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.
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.
Parent of Insolence is wealth, I ween:
Then 'mid thy neighbours let her not be seen.
'Tis Poverty that forges curbs for men,
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.
Then 'mid thy neighbours let her not be seen.
167
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.
To India's hist'ry turn thy happy eyes,
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.
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.
Humanity's a pigeon-hearted fool,
Soft, puling, as the girl at boarding-school,
That alms upon the begging wretch bestows,
And learns to sorrow at the tale of woes.
Soft, puling, as the girl at boarding-school,
That alms upon the begging wretch bestows,
And learns to sorrow at the tale of woes.
Where is ambition? Dead?—It never dies—
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:
And lo the spaniel!—when the master cheers
A brother, with what jealousy he hears!
Unblest, attention how he tries to raise;
Paws for a gentle pat, and whines for praise!
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:
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A brother, with what jealousy he hears!
Unblest, attention how he tries to raise;
Paws for a gentle pat, and whines for praise!
Eye nature through, and mark the arm of pow'r—
The great unceasingly the small devour.
The great unceasingly the small devour.
Blest on a dainty dish of flies to dine,
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.
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.
Lo, hov'ring in mid sky, the caitiff kite
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.
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.
Now on the stream's clear bosom, pr'ythee, peep;
See, sly below, the alligator creep:
Whate'er he seizes, yield's to Fate's dread laws,
Crush'd in his hard inexorable jaws.
See, sly below, the alligator creep:
Whate'er he seizes, yield's to Fate's dread laws,
Crush'd in his hard inexorable jaws.
These be thy great examples—careful mind 'em,
And do not in a tittle lag behind 'em.
Be thou the spider, that devours the flies;
Be thou the tyrant kite, that scours the skies;
Be thou the hard-mouth'd subtle alligator,
Th' inexorable monarch of the water.
And do not in a tittle lag behind 'em.
169
Be thou the tyrant kite, that scours the skies;
Be thou the hard-mouth'd subtle alligator,
Th' inexorable monarch of the water.
And lo, the lords of Ocean!—see the whale
On all th' inferior hosts of sea regale!
The shark, the grampus—how before their eye
Th' affrighted under-world of fishes fly!
On all th' inferior hosts of sea regale!
The shark, the grampus—how before their eye
Th' affrighted under-world of fishes fly!
Then why not man, endu'd with giant pow'r,
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!
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!
With abject pray'r, behold! Whitehaven plies thee—
Heed not her men—'tis plain they all despise thee.
For ask thyself, ‘Amid this smutty nation,
What have I done to merit approbation?’
Heed not her men—'tis plain they all despise thee.
For ask thyself, ‘Amid this smutty nation,
What have I done to merit approbation?’
Look!—has Contrition swell'd a single eye?
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!
For, Lord! how should they like thee? who can tell?—
Their noses never caught thy kitchen's smell;
For meat is apt opinion to improve,
And stomachs form a turnpike-gate to love.
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!
170
Their noses never caught thy kitchen's smell;
For meat is apt opinion to improve,
And stomachs form a turnpike-gate to love.
Kite of the north, again, and yet again,
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.
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |