The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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ONE EPISTLE to Mr. A. POPE,
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
186
ONE EPISTLE to Mr. A. POPE,
Occasioned by Two Epistles lately published.
“Spiteful he is not, though he writ a Satire,
“For still there goes some Thinking to Ill-nature.”
Dryden.
“For still there goes some Thinking to Ill-nature.”
Dryden.
189
IF noble Buckingham, in metre known,
With strains has grac'd thee, humble as thy own;
Who Gildon's dullness did for thine discard,
A better Critick, for as bad a Bard!
Not unregarded let this tribute be,
Though humble, just; well-bred, though paid to thee.
With strains has grac'd thee, humble as thy own;
Who Gildon's dullness did for thine discard,
A better Critick, for as bad a Bard!
Not unregarded let this tribute be,
Though humble, just; well-bred, though paid to thee.
Parnassian groves, and Twick'nam fountains, say,
What homage to the Bard shall Britain pay?
The Bard! that first, from Dryden's thrice-glean'd page,
Cull'd his low efforts to poetic rage;
Nor pillag'd only that unrival'd strain,
But rak'd for couplets Chapman and Duck-Lane,
Has sweat each century's rubbish to explore,
And plunder'd every dunce that writ before,
Catching half lines, till the tun'd verse went round,
Complete, in smooth dull unity of sound;
Who, stealing human, scorn'd celestial fire,
And strung to Smithfield airs the Hebrew lyre;
Who taught declining Wycherley to doze
O'er wire-drawn sense, that tinkled in the close,
To lovely F---r impious and obscene,
To mud-born Naiads faithfully unclean;
Whose raptur'd nonsense, with prophetic skill,
First taught that Ombre, which fore-ran Quadrille;
Who from the skies, propitious to the fair,
Brought down Cæcilia, and sent Cloris there,
Censur'd by Wake, by Atterbury blest,
Prais'd Swift in earnest, and sung Heaven in jest,
Here mov'd by whim, and there by envy stung,
Would flatter Chartres, or would libel Young,
By Fenton left, by Reverend Linguists hated,
Now learns to read the Greek he once translated.
What homage to the Bard shall Britain pay?
The Bard! that first, from Dryden's thrice-glean'd page,
Cull'd his low efforts to poetic rage;
190
But rak'd for couplets Chapman and Duck-Lane,
Has sweat each century's rubbish to explore,
And plunder'd every dunce that writ before,
Catching half lines, till the tun'd verse went round,
Complete, in smooth dull unity of sound;
Who, stealing human, scorn'd celestial fire,
And strung to Smithfield airs the Hebrew lyre;
Who taught declining Wycherley to doze
O'er wire-drawn sense, that tinkled in the close,
To lovely F---r impious and obscene,
To mud-born Naiads faithfully unclean;
Whose raptur'd nonsense, with prophetic skill,
First taught that Ombre, which fore-ran Quadrille;
Who from the skies, propitious to the fair,
Brought down Cæcilia, and sent Cloris there,
Censur'd by Wake, by Atterbury blest,
Prais'd Swift in earnest, and sung Heaven in jest,
Here mov'd by whim, and there by envy stung,
Would flatter Chartres, or would libel Young,
By Fenton left, by Reverend Linguists hated,
Now learns to read the Greek he once translated.
Oh say, to him what trophies shall be rais'd,
That unprovok'd will strike, and fawn unprais'd!
Each favourite toast who marks, or rising wit,
To sketch a satire that in time may fit;
Still hopes your sun-set, while he views your noon,
And still broods o'er the closely-kept lampoon;
The lurking presents o'er the tomb he paid,
And thus aton'd our British Virgil's shade,
A mushroom satire in his life conceal'd,
Since chang'd to libel, and in print reveal'd;
Who lets not Beauty base detraction 'scape,
And mocks Deformity with Æsop's shape;
Who Cato's Muse with faithless sneers bely'd,
The prologue father'd, and the play decry'd,
On Hoadly's learned page dull-sporting trod,
Betray'd his patrons, and lampoon'd his God;
Translator, Editor, could far out-go
In Homer Ogleby, in Shakespeare Rowe.
Oh! how burlesqued, great Dryden, is thy strain,
When little Alexander slays the slain!
That unprovok'd will strike, and fawn unprais'd!
191
To sketch a satire that in time may fit;
Still hopes your sun-set, while he views your noon,
And still broods o'er the closely-kept lampoon;
The lurking presents o'er the tomb he paid,
And thus aton'd our British Virgil's shade,
A mushroom satire in his life conceal'd,
Since chang'd to libel, and in print reveal'd;
Who lets not Beauty base detraction 'scape,
And mocks Deformity with Æsop's shape;
Who Cato's Muse with faithless sneers bely'd,
The prologue father'd, and the play decry'd,
On Hoadly's learned page dull-sporting trod,
Betray'd his patrons, and lampoon'd his God;
Translator, Editor, could far out-go
In Homer Ogleby, in Shakespeare Rowe.
Oh! how burlesqued, great Dryden, is thy strain,
When little Alexander slays the slain!
On, mighty Rhimer, haste new palms to seize,
Thy little, envious, angry genius teaze;
Let thy weak wilful head, unrein'd by art,
Obey the dictates of thy flattering heart;
Divide a busy, fretful life between
Smut, libel, sing-song, vanity, and spleen;
With long-brew'd malice warm thy languid page,
And urge delirious nonsense into rage;
Let bawdy emblems, now, thy hours beguile;
Now, fustian epic, aping Virgil's style;
To Virgil like, to Indian clay as delf,
Or Pulteney, drawn by Jervas, to herself:
Rheams heap'd on rheams, incessant, may'st thou blot,
A lively, trifling, pert, one knows not what!
Form thy light measures, nimbler than the wind,
Whilst heavy lingering sense is left behind;
With all thy might pursue, and all thy will,
That unabating thirst, to scribble still,
Giv'n at thy birth! the Poetaster's gust,
False and unsated as the Eunuch's lust!
Thy little, envious, angry genius teaze;
Let thy weak wilful head, unrein'd by art,
Obey the dictates of thy flattering heart;
Divide a busy, fretful life between
Smut, libel, sing-song, vanity, and spleen;
With long-brew'd malice warm thy languid page,
And urge delirious nonsense into rage;
Let bawdy emblems, now, thy hours beguile;
Now, fustian epic, aping Virgil's style;
To Virgil like, to Indian clay as delf,
Or Pulteney, drawn by Jervas, to herself:
Rheams heap'd on rheams, incessant, may'st thou blot,
A lively, trifling, pert, one knows not what!
192
Whilst heavy lingering sense is left behind;
With all thy might pursue, and all thy will,
That unabating thirst, to scribble still,
Giv'n at thy birth! the Poetaster's gust,
False and unsated as the Eunuch's lust!
Illustrious Fops, meantime, o'er-rate thy lays,
And blooming Critics, as they spell thee, praise:
Blest Coupleter! by blooming Critics read,
At toilets ogled, and with sweetmeats fed:
See, lisping toilets grace thy Dunciad's cause,
And scream their witty Scavenger's applause,
While powder'd wits and lac'd cabals rehearse
Thy bawdy cento, and thy bead-roll verse;
Gay, bugled statesmen on thy side debate,
And libel'd blockheads court thee, though they hate. [OMITTED]
Fools of all kinds their suffrages impart,
The fools of Nature, and the fools of Art.
And blooming Critics, as they spell thee, praise:
Blest Coupleter! by blooming Critics read,
At toilets ogled, and with sweetmeats fed:
See, lisping toilets grace thy Dunciad's cause,
And scream their witty Scavenger's applause,
While powder'd wits and lac'd cabals rehearse
Thy bawdy cento, and thy bead-roll verse;
Gay, bugled statesmen on thy side debate,
And libel'd blockheads court thee, though they hate. [OMITTED]
Fools of all kinds their suffrages impart,
The fools of Nature, and the fools of Art.
These in thy threadbare farce shall beauties show,
Shall praise thy ribald mirth, and maudlin woe;
Praise ev'n thy imitating Chaucer's tales,
And call that merry Temple, Fame's Versailles:
Thy shepherd song with rapture they shall see,
Which rivals Philips, as Banks rivals Lee;
Thy Guernsey and Barbados wreath shall own,
Where D'Urfey ne'er was read, nor Settle known;
That wreath, that name, which through both worlds is gone,
Which Doctor Young applauds, and Prester John.
Shall praise thy ribald mirth, and maudlin woe;
Praise ev'n thy imitating Chaucer's tales,
And call that merry Temple, Fame's Versailles:
Thy shepherd song with rapture they shall see,
Which rivals Philips, as Banks rivals Lee;
Thy Guernsey and Barbados wreath shall own,
Where D'Urfey ne'er was read, nor Settle known;
That wreath, that name, which through both worlds is gone,
Which Doctor Young applauds, and Prester John.
193
Lo! as Anchises to the Goddess-born,
So I the Worthies that thy page adorn
Point out to thee.—See here [OMITTED]
The Prelate! next, exil'd by cruel Fates,
Who plagues all Churches, and confounds all States;
With treasons past perplex'd, and present cares;
A fop in rhime, and bungler in affairs. [OMITTED]
And here! a groupe of brother Quill-men see,
Co-witlings all, and Demi-bards like thee;
Such whom the Muse shall pass with just disdain,
Nor add one trophy to thy motley train:
But Quack Arbuthnot shall oblivion blot,
That puzzling, plodding, prating, pedant Scot,
The grating scribbler! whose untun'd essays
Mix the Scotch thistle with the English bays,
By either Phœbus pre-ordain'd to ill,
The hand prescribing, or the flattering quill,
Who doubly plagues, and boasts two arts to kill!
So I the Worthies that thy page adorn
Point out to thee.—See here [OMITTED]
The Prelate! next, exil'd by cruel Fates,
Who plagues all Churches, and confounds all States;
With treasons past perplex'd, and present cares;
A fop in rhime, and bungler in affairs. [OMITTED]
And here! a groupe of brother Quill-men see,
Co-witlings all, and Demi-bards like thee;
Such whom the Muse shall pass with just disdain,
Nor add one trophy to thy motley train:
But Quack Arbuthnot shall oblivion blot,
That puzzling, plodding, prating, pedant Scot,
The grating scribbler! whose untun'd essays
Mix the Scotch thistle with the English bays,
By either Phœbus pre-ordain'd to ill,
The hand prescribing, or the flattering quill,
Who doubly plagues, and boasts two arts to kill!
'Midst this vain tribe, that aid thy setting ray,
The Muse shall view, but spare, ill-fated Gay:
Poor Gay, who loses most when most he wins,
And gives his foes his fame, and bears their sins;
Who, more by fortune than by nature curs'd,
Yields his best pieces, and must own thy worst.
The Muse shall view, but spare, ill-fated Gay:
Poor Gay, who loses most when most he wins,
And gives his foes his fame, and bears their sins;
Who, more by fortune than by nature curs'd,
Yields his best pieces, and must own thy worst.
Thus propp'd, thy head with Grub-street Zephyrs tainted,
By Rich recorded, and by Jervas painted;
Jervas! who so refin'd a rake is reckon'd,
He breaks all Sinai's laws except the second:
Thus prais'd, thus drawn, t'extend thy projects try,
Leave the blue languish, and the crimson sigh;
Leave the gay epithets that beauty crown,
White Whitylinda, and Brownissa brown;
Forget awhile Belinda and the Sun:
Forget the fights of stand, and flights of run:
No more let Ombre's play inspire thy vein,
Nor strow with captive Kings the velvet plain;
Omit awhile the silver peal to ring,
Nor talk dulcissant, nor mellifluous sing,
Nor hang suspended, nor adherent cling.
But haste to mount immortal Envy's throne,
To crush all merit that disputes thy own;
For thou wert born to damp each rising name,
And hang, like mildews, on the growth of fame;
Fame's fairest blossoms let thy rancour blast,
Bane of the modern laurel, like the past;
While stupid riot stands in humour's place,
And bestial filth, humanity's disgrace,
Low lewdness, unexcited by desire,
And all great Wilmot's vice, without his fire.
By Rich recorded, and by Jervas painted;
194
He breaks all Sinai's laws except the second:
Thus prais'd, thus drawn, t'extend thy projects try,
Leave the blue languish, and the crimson sigh;
Leave the gay epithets that beauty crown,
White Whitylinda, and Brownissa brown;
Forget awhile Belinda and the Sun:
Forget the fights of stand, and flights of run:
No more let Ombre's play inspire thy vein,
Nor strow with captive Kings the velvet plain;
Omit awhile the silver peal to ring,
Nor talk dulcissant, nor mellifluous sing,
Nor hang suspended, nor adherent cling.
195
To crush all merit that disputes thy own;
For thou wert born to damp each rising name,
And hang, like mildews, on the growth of fame;
Fame's fairest blossoms let thy rancour blast,
Bane of the modern laurel, like the past;
While stupid riot stands in humour's place,
And bestial filth, humanity's disgrace,
Low lewdness, unexcited by desire,
And all great Wilmot's vice, without his fire.
At length, when banish'd Pallas shall withdraw,
And Wit's made treason by the Popian law;
When minor dunces cease, at length, their strife,
And own thy patent to be dull for life;
By tricks sustain'd, in Poet-craft compleat,
Retire triumphant to thy Twickenham seat;
That seat! the work of half-paid drudging Broome,
And call'd, by joking Tritons, Homer's tomb:
There to stale, stol'n, stum crambo bid adieu,
And sneer the fops that thought thy crambo new;
There, like the Grecian chief, on whom thy song
Has well reveng'd unhappy Priam's wrong,
Waste, in thy hidden cave, the festive day,
With mock Machaon, and Patroclus Gay.
Sleep, sleep in peace the works for Wapping born!
No more thy cuckoo note shall wake the morn;
In ease, and avarice, and aukward state,
The fool of fortune, shalt thou hail thy fate;
Slumbering in quiet o'er lampoons half writ,
Which, ripe in malice, only wait for wit.
And Wit's made treason by the Popian law;
When minor dunces cease, at length, their strife,
And own thy patent to be dull for life;
By tricks sustain'd, in Poet-craft compleat,
Retire triumphant to thy Twickenham seat;
That seat! the work of half-paid drudging Broome,
And call'd, by joking Tritons, Homer's tomb:
There to stale, stol'n, stum crambo bid adieu,
And sneer the fops that thought thy crambo new;
There, like the Grecian chief, on whom thy song
Has well reveng'd unhappy Priam's wrong,
Waste, in thy hidden cave, the festive day,
With mock Machaon, and Patroclus Gay.
Sleep, sleep in peace the works for Wapping born!
No more thy cuckoo note shall wake the morn;
196
The fool of fortune, shalt thou hail thy fate;
Slumbering in quiet o'er lampoons half writ,
Which, ripe in malice, only wait for wit.
So when Vanessa yielded up her charms,
The blest Cadenus languish'd in her arms;
High, on a peg, his unbrush'd beaver hung,
His vest unbutton'd, and his God unsung;
Raptur'd he lies; Deans, Authors, are forgot,
Wood's Copper Pence, and Atterbury's Plot;
For her he quits the tithes of Patrick's fields,
And all the Levite to the Lover yields.
The blest Cadenus languish'd in her arms;
High, on a peg, his unbrush'd beaver hung,
His vest unbutton'd, and his God unsung;
Raptur'd he lies; Deans, Authors, are forgot,
Wood's Copper Pence, and Atterbury's Plot;
For her he quits the tithes of Patrick's fields,
And all the Levite to the Lover yields.
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |