 | Modern Manners, a poem |  |
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MODERN MANNERS.
CANTO I.
In these enlightened times, when critic elves
Attack each wit, less barb'rous than themselves:
With pens, deep drench'd in Satire's thickest ink,
Condemn, before they condescend to think!
Who arm'd in paper panoply, stalk forth,
The calm assassins of poetic worth!
Who bid the Muse conceal her radiant face,
With Baviad's, blushing for their Bard's disgrace,
Who, with the poisons of the “grey goose quill,”
Large reams of paper,—with small nonsense fill;
Or with their pompous nothings cloy the town,
By flatt'ring fools,—and running Genius down.
Attack each wit, less barb'rous than themselves:
With pens, deep drench'd in Satire's thickest ink,
Condemn, before they condescend to think!
Who arm'd in paper panoply, stalk forth,
The calm assassins of poetic worth!
Who bid the Muse conceal her radiant face,
With Baviad's, blushing for their Bard's disgrace,
Who, with the poisons of the “grey goose quill,”
Large reams of paper,—with small nonsense fill;
Or with their pompous nothings cloy the town,
By flatt'ring fools,—and running Genius down.
Ye solemn potentates! whose secret trade
Befits the sullen solitude of shade!
Ye self-nam'd monarchs of the laurel'd crown,
Props of the press, and tutors of the town!
Who in your cobweb'd attics toil for bread,
While lesser dunces are on dainties fed!
Who ride poor Pegasus like any hack,
Like monkeys mounted on a camel's back;
Who chill with cold disdain th'Aonian maids,
And stain the letter'd world,—with pasquinades.
Who rail at scribblers, yet remorsely steal
From every starving scribe,—a scanty meal!
Who spare nor age or sex, nor friend or foe,
But deal on all alike, the recreant blow.
Who batten on the pasture you abuse,
And while ye slander, pilfer from the Muse.
Think not, because each meek and timid wight
Shrinks from your touch, and dwindles in your sight,
That Men of Genius dread your feeble sway,—
The Lion trembles not when Asses bray!
Befits the sullen solitude of shade!
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Props of the press, and tutors of the town!
Who in your cobweb'd attics toil for bread,
While lesser dunces are on dainties fed!
Who ride poor Pegasus like any hack,
Like monkeys mounted on a camel's back;
Who chill with cold disdain th'Aonian maids,
And stain the letter'd world,—with pasquinades.
Who rail at scribblers, yet remorsely steal
From every starving scribe,—a scanty meal!
Who spare nor age or sex, nor friend or foe,
But deal on all alike, the recreant blow.
Who batten on the pasture you abuse,
And while ye slander, pilfer from the Muse.
Think not, because each meek and timid wight
Shrinks from your touch, and dwindles in your sight,
That Men of Genius dread your feeble sway,—
The Lion trembles not when Asses bray!
Ye giants gaunt, of Lilliputian birth,
Laborious libellers of letter'd worth!
Who with waste paper cram the gaping town,
And sell whole years of toil,—for half a crown!
Who stock the pastry-cooks with sweetest rhymes,
Whose puffs, and trifles, cloy the sick'ning times;
Who slander Juvenal with useless lies,
To cover custards, and conceal mince pies!
Or if, perchance in some more envied shape,
One blotted sheet barbarian hands escape,
What valiant Virgil, on the critic throne,
Would claim the dirty foolscap for his own?
Laborious libellers of letter'd worth!
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And sell whole years of toil,—for half a crown!
Who stock the pastry-cooks with sweetest rhymes,
Whose puffs, and trifles, cloy the sick'ning times;
Who slander Juvenal with useless lies,
To cover custards, and conceal mince pies!
Or if, perchance in some more envied shape,
One blotted sheet barbarian hands escape,
What valiant Virgil, on the critic throne,
Would claim the dirty foolscap for his own?
O, if transcendent Genius did but know,
What deathless wreaths, 'midst critic nettles grow:
What blooming bays, 'midst vapid poppies thrive,
How Envy's poisons—keep the Muse alive;
How many a med'cine, springs from many a weed,
How dullest sland'rers, make the wisest read.—
Each son of Phoebus would invite their strains,
And thank the lab'ring reptiles for their pains.
What deathless wreaths, 'midst critic nettles grow:
What blooming bays, 'midst vapid poppies thrive,
How Envy's poisons—keep the Muse alive;
How many a med'cine, springs from many a weed,
How dullest sland'rers, make the wisest read.—
Each son of Phoebus would invite their strains,
And thank the lab'ring reptiles for their pains.
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Though dunce with dunce,—a phalanx should unite,
One man of sense, puts all the troop to flight.
When angry scribblers wordy war begin,
Keep but your temper, and you're sure to win.
Like mists, that perish at the sight of day,
They'll scatter o'er the earth, and fade away.
Like morning dew, they glitter for an hour,
Dim every leaf—and sadden every flower;
'Till Sol consigns them to their native dirt,
To renovate the root they could not hurt.
One man of sense, puts all the troop to flight.
When angry scribblers wordy war begin,
Keep but your temper, and you're sure to win.
Like mists, that perish at the sight of day,
They'll scatter o'er the earth, and fade away.
Like morning dew, they glitter for an hour,
Dim every leaf—and sadden every flower;
'Till Sol consigns them to their native dirt,
To renovate the root they could not hurt.
When Pope his Dunciad wrote, (for Pope was wise,
And knew, that honey catches greedy flies,)
His lines, Medusa-like, so sweetly shone,
That every leaden head was turned to stone!
The cunning poet, triumph'd o'er their shame,
And on their senseless noddles built his fame!
Though legions every day, his pen subdu'd,
Each morn beheld, unfledg'd, a gaping brood:
Like bees, around the Bard, the wretched things
Buzz'd in his ears, and threaten'd with their stings;
In restless myriads hover'd o'er his lays,
As atoms glitter in the Sun's proud blaze!
The Poet smil'd to see the harmless host,
In seas of ink, despis'd, unpitied,—lost,
Sinking unknown, unheeded by the Nine,
Each head a plummet—for each feeble line.
And knew, that honey catches greedy flies,)
His lines, Medusa-like, so sweetly shone,
That every leaden head was turned to stone!
The cunning poet, triumph'd o'er their shame,
And on their senseless noddles built his fame!
Though legions every day, his pen subdu'd,
Each morn beheld, unfledg'd, a gaping brood:
Like bees, around the Bard, the wretched things
Buzz'd in his ears, and threaten'd with their stings;
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As atoms glitter in the Sun's proud blaze!
The Poet smil'd to see the harmless host,
In seas of ink, despis'd, unpitied,—lost,
Sinking unknown, unheeded by the Nine,
Each head a plummet—for each feeble line.
If, to destroy, they had but known the way,
They had admir'd—and not abus'd the lay;
Flatt'ry, in ev'ry shape is fraught with ill,
But a fool's flatt'ry never fails to kill:
About the Muse the sunny mischief flies,
While, like a rose,—she blushes till she dies!
Let spleen and envy fret and fume in vain,
Abuse gives pinions to the loftiest strain.
As wind extinguishes a feeble flame,
The breath of folly smothers sinking fame;
As gentlest breezes aid resistless fires,
So critic blasts the soaring theme inspires.
'Tis Wisdom's proudest pleasure to commend
What solemn idiots cannot comprehend!
Wisdom, with penetrating eye, surveys
Each cause for censure, and each claim for praise;
Divides the good from bad;—the right from wrong;
The sons of Genius from the vulgar throng;
O'erlooks each venial fault;—each charm commends;
And human skill, with human frailty blends;
But of all plagues, with which mankind are curs'd,
A pedant snarler surely is the worst:
Impatient to condemn,—but never pleas'd,
A self-tormentor,—by each brother teaz'd.
They had admir'd—and not abus'd the lay;
Flatt'ry, in ev'ry shape is fraught with ill,
But a fool's flatt'ry never fails to kill:
About the Muse the sunny mischief flies,
While, like a rose,—she blushes till she dies!
Let spleen and envy fret and fume in vain,
Abuse gives pinions to the loftiest strain.
As wind extinguishes a feeble flame,
The breath of folly smothers sinking fame;
As gentlest breezes aid resistless fires,
So critic blasts the soaring theme inspires.
'Tis Wisdom's proudest pleasure to commend
What solemn idiots cannot comprehend!
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Each cause for censure, and each claim for praise;
Divides the good from bad;—the right from wrong;
The sons of Genius from the vulgar throng;
O'erlooks each venial fault;—each charm commends;
And human skill, with human frailty blends;
But of all plagues, with which mankind are curs'd,
A pedant snarler surely is the worst:
Impatient to condemn,—but never pleas'd,
A self-tormentor,—by each brother teaz'd.
When Genius gains applause, each fool's amaz'd,
For only dunces are by dunces prais'd:
Congenial souls by sympathy unite,
And dullest minds in dullest themes delight;
Why should the Muse her soaring pinions try,
When owls and geese usurp her native sky?
When lords lay by their coronets for bays,
And trifling poets thrive by trifling praise:
When the poor Muses, dragg'd from their abodes,
Are hash'd, and fritter'd,—into Patent Odes!
When every quack in rhymes,—(like those in pills,)
Vends sugar'd nostrums for all courtly ills:
And, with each brother mountebank, essays
Which poison proves the sweetest,—drugs or praise.
For only dunces are by dunces prais'd:
Congenial souls by sympathy unite,
And dullest minds in dullest themes delight;
Why should the Muse her soaring pinions try,
When owls and geese usurp her native sky?
When lords lay by their coronets for bays,
And trifling poets thrive by trifling praise:
When the poor Muses, dragg'd from their abodes,
Are hash'd, and fritter'd,—into Patent Odes!
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Vends sugar'd nostrums for all courtly ills:
And, with each brother mountebank, essays
Which poison proves the sweetest,—drugs or praise.
When Scandal deals her deadly arrows round,
'Tis ill-judg'd pity that inflames her wound.
Full many a flippant Miss, with simp'ring look,
Well read in every learned—Modern Book!
Whose taste each vulgar precept can disdain;
Who learns each moral lesson,—taught by Lane!
Who weeps with Werter, and with Charlotte mourns,
With Ovid blushes,—and with Sappho burns!
Reluctant opes her eyes, 'twixt twelve and one,
To skim “the World,” and criticise “the Sun!”
And when she sees her darling friend abus'd,
Is half enrag'd,—yet more than half amus'd,
Orders her coach, and with impatience flies,
To tell, each pitying soul,—the barbarous lies!
'Tis ill-judg'd pity that inflames her wound.
Full many a flippant Miss, with simp'ring look,
Well read in every learned—Modern Book!
Whose taste each vulgar precept can disdain;
Who learns each moral lesson,—taught by Lane!
Who weeps with Werter, and with Charlotte mourns,
With Ovid blushes,—and with Sappho burns!
Reluctant opes her eyes, 'twixt twelve and one,
To skim “the World,” and criticise “the Sun!”
And when she sees her darling friend abus'd,
Is half enrag'd,—yet more than half amus'd,
Orders her coach, and with impatience flies,
To tell, each pitying soul,—the barbarous lies!
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Some men will praise the wise, the brave commend;
But gossip Scandal always finds a friend!
Yet let reflection tell the busy jade,
That popularity will sometimes fade:
Fashion who made her, can again unmake;
The fondest lovers,—will their loves forsake!
Mountains have mov'd, as learned trav'llers say,
And lordly Eagles,—stoop'd to geese for prey:
If miracles are not believ'd,—what use,
Have modern readers,—for the page of Bruce?
If wonders are not probable, why look
For information, in the lines of Cook?
Or with Munchausen fly from pole to pole,
Though comets intervene, and cataracts roll!
But gossip Scandal always finds a friend!
Yet let reflection tell the busy jade,
That popularity will sometimes fade:
Fashion who made her, can again unmake;
The fondest lovers,—will their loves forsake!
Mountains have mov'd, as learned trav'llers say,
And lordly Eagles,—stoop'd to geese for prey:
If miracles are not believ'd,—what use,
Have modern readers,—for the page of Bruce?
If wonders are not probable, why look
For information, in the lines of Cook?
Or with Munchausen fly from pole to pole,
Though comets intervene, and cataracts roll!
Time out of mind, the maxim is confess'd,
That every eye can tell what pleases best;
That many men have many minds 'tis known,
Each forming beauty's model by his own;
What to an Ethiop seems divine! would prove,
To Europe's sons, an antidote to love!
Fashion would shudd'ring turn from Nature's child,
The shaggy offspring of the desart wild;
Yet in the savage breast a flame may glow,
More pure,—than modern feeling deigns to know!
Some men the graces of fifteen adore;
While others fondly doat on forty-four;
Matrons have charms; experience too they boast,
The skilful pilot hovers near the coast;
While the unpractis'd sailor, rashly brave,
Strikes on the rock;—and sinks beneath the wave.
That every eye can tell what pleases best;
That many men have many minds 'tis known,
Each forming beauty's model by his own;
What to an Ethiop seems divine! would prove,
To Europe's sons, an antidote to love!
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The shaggy offspring of the desart wild;
Yet in the savage breast a flame may glow,
More pure,—than modern feeling deigns to know!
Some men the graces of fifteen adore;
While others fondly doat on forty-four;
Matrons have charms; experience too they boast,
The skilful pilot hovers near the coast;
While the unpractis'd sailor, rashly brave,
Strikes on the rock;—and sinks beneath the wave.
Where pompous Dullness holds her crowded court,
And fools, and knaves, and parasites resort,
Go, gentle Muse; with eye impartial view
The many-visag'd monsters varying hue;
The hydra-headed Sorc'ress, so renown'd,
By venal hands with tinsel garlands crown'd;
Exulting Fashion! from whose Gorgon eye
Affrighted Nature meditates to fly!
See on her airy throne the goddess sits,
Her altar fann'd by self-created wits;
Her handmaid, Prodigality, behold,
With cautious care the daily gifts unfold;
Here the last off'ring of a spendthrift heir;
A widow's mite,—of sacred honour,—there!
Here the soft blushes of a modern bride;
There a fond husband's hopes,—a father's pride!
Double entendres from a timid maid,
A patriot's speech;—a tradesman's bill unpaid!
Next from the precious hoard the damsel draws
Seditious pamphlets, and new-fangled laws;
Neat epigrams, and laureat odes, right fit,
To prove that learning serves in place of wit;
Where Pye, with classic knowledge richly stor'd,
Proves a mere tartlet at the Muse's board!
A rebus next each studious eye invites;
Baviads, and ballads from barbarian wights;
Who with huge scythe, and desolating hand,
Sweep truth and genius from their native land;
While each his scroll of solemn nonsense brings,
To fix the fate of kingdoms, and of kings!
While in tremendous tones the tiny elves
Harangue the multitude,—to please themselves;
Where many a pension'd slave, with sage oration,
Recites his given task—to save the nation!
While Erskine's eloquence essays in vain,
To prove that wond'rous pleasure,—springs from Paine!
And fools, and knaves, and parasites resort,
Go, gentle Muse; with eye impartial view
The many-visag'd monsters varying hue;
The hydra-headed Sorc'ress, so renown'd,
By venal hands with tinsel garlands crown'd;
Exulting Fashion! from whose Gorgon eye
Affrighted Nature meditates to fly!
See on her airy throne the goddess sits,
Her altar fann'd by self-created wits;
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With cautious care the daily gifts unfold;
Here the last off'ring of a spendthrift heir;
A widow's mite,—of sacred honour,—there!
Here the soft blushes of a modern bride;
There a fond husband's hopes,—a father's pride!
Double entendres from a timid maid,
A patriot's speech;—a tradesman's bill unpaid!
Next from the precious hoard the damsel draws
Seditious pamphlets, and new-fangled laws;
Neat epigrams, and laureat odes, right fit,
To prove that learning serves in place of wit;
Where Pye, with classic knowledge richly stor'd,
Proves a mere tartlet at the Muse's board!
A rebus next each studious eye invites;
Baviads, and ballads from barbarian wights;
Who with huge scythe, and desolating hand,
Sweep truth and genius from their native land;
While each his scroll of solemn nonsense brings,
To fix the fate of kingdoms, and of kings!
While in tremendous tones the tiny elves
Harangue the multitude,—to please themselves;
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Recites his given task—to save the nation!
While Erskine's eloquence essays in vain,
To prove that wond'rous pleasure,—springs from Paine!
There in blue stocking dignity divine,
The blooming daughters of the virgin Nine!
Not like the wither'd witches in Macbeth,
Who fill the murd'rous cauldron “pale as death;”
But with enchanting smiles, and harmless glee,
Dissect the laurel wreath, and sip their tea;
Who compliment in prose, and court in rhymes,
The purest censors of the purest times!
The fair distributers of taste and fame,
Who kindly flatter,—where they dare not blame!
The blooming daughters of the virgin Nine!
Not like the wither'd witches in Macbeth,
Who fill the murd'rous cauldron “pale as death;”
But with enchanting smiles, and harmless glee,
Dissect the laurel wreath, and sip their tea;
Who compliment in prose, and court in rhymes,
The purest censors of the purest times!
The fair distributers of taste and fame,
Who kindly flatter,—where they dare not blame!
Let me not close the tributary line,
Nor hold from beauty all her claims divine!
Fashion can form perfections where she will;
For Fashion is a nymph of wond'rous skill!
'Twas fashion made Du T--- a Gallic toast;
That hail'd tall R---d Britain's proudest boast;
Gave widow'd St---p---n---n a birth-day robe,
And spread the fame of F---st---r o'er the globe!
Fashion sent Blanchard in a huge balloon,
To view the vast volcanos of the moon;
Fashion, with partial eye, can fondly gloat
On learned pigs, or T---p---m's scanty coat!
Fashion, in dancing dogs and bears delights,
On fiddling Viscounts, titled parasites!
Or might adopt, by her all-pow'rful laws,
Th'Arabian Savage, or the monstrous Craws!
Who knows, since fashion can dispense the bays,
What deathless honours may adorn these lays?
Or if, like Pindar, I would spin my strains,
Perchance a pension might reward my pains:
Facetious Pindar! son of whim and wit,
The pride of Poetry, the scourge of Pitt!
A foe to prejudice, a friend to kings;
For Pindar sometimes plays with sacred things;
Can make a fly immortal by his lays,
Or crown the lighter head of W---t with bays,
And paint, to prove that nothings have a name,
A L---'s virtues and a B---s---ll's fame.
Nor hold from beauty all her claims divine!
Fashion can form perfections where she will;
For Fashion is a nymph of wond'rous skill!
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That hail'd tall R---d Britain's proudest boast;
Gave widow'd St---p---n---n a birth-day robe,
And spread the fame of F---st---r o'er the globe!
Fashion sent Blanchard in a huge balloon,
To view the vast volcanos of the moon;
Fashion, with partial eye, can fondly gloat
On learned pigs, or T---p---m's scanty coat!
Fashion, in dancing dogs and bears delights,
On fiddling Viscounts, titled parasites!
Or might adopt, by her all-pow'rful laws,
Th'Arabian Savage, or the monstrous Craws!
Who knows, since fashion can dispense the bays,
What deathless honours may adorn these lays?
Or if, like Pindar, I would spin my strains,
Perchance a pension might reward my pains:
Facetious Pindar! son of whim and wit,
The pride of Poetry, the scourge of Pitt!
A foe to prejudice, a friend to kings;
For Pindar sometimes plays with sacred things;
Can make a fly immortal by his lays,
Or crown the lighter head of W---t with bays,
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A L---'s virtues and a B---s---ll's fame.
Fashion! thou busy, empty, restless thing,
For ever pleas'd, yet ever on the wing;
Prepost'rous arbitress! whose laws despise
The vapid precepts of the good and wise;
Who scorns the fairest daughter of the earth,
Divine Simplicity! of humble birth;
Who carols with the lark her matin song,
The woodlands wild, and desart caves among;
Who never knows the fearful guilty night,
But greets, without a blush, returning light.
Simplicity, who quaffs the mountain breeze,
Nor knows the ills of luxury and ease;
The rending pangs that riot in the breast,
With all Golconda's starry mischiefs drest,
With burning rubies, blushing to be borne
On caitiff bosoms, which their rays adorn:
So poisons lurk beneath the flow'ry brake;
So shining beauties decorate the Snake.
For ever pleas'd, yet ever on the wing;
Prepost'rous arbitress! whose laws despise
The vapid precepts of the good and wise;
Who scorns the fairest daughter of the earth,
Divine Simplicity! of humble birth;
Who carols with the lark her matin song,
The woodlands wild, and desart caves among;
Who never knows the fearful guilty night,
But greets, without a blush, returning light.
Simplicity, who quaffs the mountain breeze,
Nor knows the ills of luxury and ease;
The rending pangs that riot in the breast,
With all Golconda's starry mischiefs drest,
With burning rubies, blushing to be borne
On caitiff bosoms, which their rays adorn:
So poisons lurk beneath the flow'ry brake;
So shining beauties decorate the Snake.
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Fashion, who turns from Nature's simple throng,
And pines for pantomime, and sighs for song;
Who smiles when Shakspeare's sacred shade recedes,
For giants, tournaments, and milk-white steeds:
Whose finer taste, and nicer eye delights
In gilded banners, borne by gilded knights:
Who gives five shillings with reluctant air,
To save a child of Genius from despair;
Yet sees with joy the splendid night advance,
When Millard claims five guineas for a dance,
Or Hilligsberg, the airy queen of capers,
The peerless paragon of public papers,
Who pays for puffs and paragraphs, to prove
How much she's honour'd with the people's love!
How sure his grace of Q---, every night,
Attends fop's alley like an errant knight!
How on a sea of bliss his soul is tost,
Or burns impetuous, 'midst an age of frost!
Or from the gall'ry, built so wond'rous high,
See's every killing charm—with half an eye!
Who, when the scene of extacy is o'er,
Rolls down to Richmond in a chaise and four,
To sup with Gallic belles of every station,
The rabble refuse of a ruin'd nation!
And pines for pantomime, and sighs for song;
Who smiles when Shakspeare's sacred shade recedes,
For giants, tournaments, and milk-white steeds:
Whose finer taste, and nicer eye delights
In gilded banners, borne by gilded knights:
Who gives five shillings with reluctant air,
To save a child of Genius from despair;
Yet sees with joy the splendid night advance,
When Millard claims five guineas for a dance,
Or Hilligsberg, the airy queen of capers,
The peerless paragon of public papers,
Who pays for puffs and paragraphs, to prove
How much she's honour'd with the people's love!
How sure his grace of Q---, every night,
Attends fop's alley like an errant knight!
How on a sea of bliss his soul is tost,
Or burns impetuous, 'midst an age of frost!
Or from the gall'ry, built so wond'rous high,
See's every killing charm—with half an eye!
Who, when the scene of extacy is o'er,
Rolls down to Richmond in a chaise and four,
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The rabble refuse of a ruin'd nation!
O, Fashion! delegate of taste and wit,
Oft do I see thee triumph in the pit;
When Hobart's critic fan, attention draws,
The airy signal of ill-judged applause!
When pale-faced misses sigh from side-box rows,
And painted matrons nod to painted beaux:
Where the lank lord, incircled in the throng,
Shews his white teeth, and hums a fav'rite song;
Who, spite of season, crowds it to the play,
Wrapp'd in six waistcoats—in the month of May;
Who, just at noon, has strength to rise from bed,
With empty pocket—and more empty head;
Who, scarce recover'd from the courtly dance,
Sees with disgust the vulgar day advance:
Anticipates the wax-illumin'd night,
Cassino's charms, and Faro's proud delight!
Who hates the broad intolerable sun,
That points his door to every gaping dun;
Who saunters all the morn, and reads the news,
'Midst clouds of odours and Olympian dews;
Till three o'clock proclaims the time to meet
On the throng'd pavement of St. James's street;
Where various shops on various follies thrive,
“Beaux, banish beaux—and coaches, coaches drive:”
While to Hyde-park this titled tribe are flocking,
To walk in boots—or ride in silken stocking.
Oft do I see thee triumph in the pit;
When Hobart's critic fan, attention draws,
The airy signal of ill-judged applause!
When pale-faced misses sigh from side-box rows,
And painted matrons nod to painted beaux:
Where the lank lord, incircled in the throng,
Shews his white teeth, and hums a fav'rite song;
Who, spite of season, crowds it to the play,
Wrapp'd in six waistcoats—in the month of May;
Who, just at noon, has strength to rise from bed,
With empty pocket—and more empty head;
Who, scarce recover'd from the courtly dance,
Sees with disgust the vulgar day advance:
Anticipates the wax-illumin'd night,
Cassino's charms, and Faro's proud delight!
Who hates the broad intolerable sun,
That points his door to every gaping dun;
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'Midst clouds of odours and Olympian dews;
Till three o'clock proclaims the time to meet
On the throng'd pavement of St. James's street;
Where various shops on various follies thrive,
“Beaux, banish beaux—and coaches, coaches drive:”
While to Hyde-park this titled tribe are flocking,
To walk in boots—or ride in silken stocking.
At Kensington arrived, the motley race
Stride the long alleys with gigantic pace!
The tender Miss, who scarce could bear to tread
A narrow dressing-room, with carpets spread,
Now, with Herculean strength, more boldly tries
To walk four miles—for gentle exercise!
The cheek, that met the morn with blushing grace,
Enflam'd and scarlet, as an housemaid's face:
Those eyes, that twinkled at the taper's ray,
Now meet unhurt the burning glance of day!
Those locks, of late so decently confin'd,
Now fly, the sport of every wanton wind!
While poor mama is forced behind to lag,
Puffing and panting like a hunted stag:
While ** fam'd for every thing that's odd,
Shoulders his parasol, and moves a god!
He who controul'd the giddy throng long since,
Where those who doat on trifles—dubb'd him ***
Stride the long alleys with gigantic pace!
The tender Miss, who scarce could bear to tread
A narrow dressing-room, with carpets spread,
Now, with Herculean strength, more boldly tries
To walk four miles—for gentle exercise!
The cheek, that met the morn with blushing grace,
Enflam'd and scarlet, as an housemaid's face:
Those eyes, that twinkled at the taper's ray,
Now meet unhurt the burning glance of day!
Those locks, of late so decently confin'd,
Now fly, the sport of every wanton wind!
17
Puffing and panting like a hunted stag:
While ** fam'd for every thing that's odd,
Shoulders his parasol, and moves a god!
He who controul'd the giddy throng long since,
Where those who doat on trifles—dubb'd him ***
Where'er you turn, seducing fashion rules,
Beyond the pedantry of Reason's schools!
Ah! who wou'd study Greek, or toil to store
The fashion'd mind with learning's pond'rous lore?
From such a load the prudent fancy springs,
For modern heads are—very weighty things!
Shall Fashion Homer's ancient themes explore,
And leave the tragedies of H---a M---e?
Shall Fashion's pupils stoop to common sense,
Or the dull strain of Shakspeare's eloquence?
When youthful Peers, laboriously polite,
Play, for “their own amusement,” every night!
When ladies fence, and parry carte and tierce;
And Rovidino chaunts Italian verse!
When Banks delights in Butterflies and Fleas,
And Damer forms the Parian Hercules!
When pity views, expiring on the rack,
Nine virgins murder'd!—for a butt of sack!
And when their solemn dirge of death is singing;
Hears cannon firing while the bells are ringing!
When languid duchesses due homage pay,
With feather'd heads—as fair, as light as they:
When city dames, whose titles live—a year,
The last of ladies simper in the rear:
When eastern pride with virtue aims to vie,
While glitt'ring H---gs dazzles every eye:
When Ar---r blooms, in various tints array'd,
And blushing V--- smiles, a matchless maid!
When many a countess flutters down the room,
With Dovey's di'monds, and with Bailey's bloom:
When many a beau, with loyal feeling smote,
Gives half his income for—a birth-day coat:
When every son of ignorance appears,
A dull parhelion in the courtly spheres:
When many a patriot dame who wields the pen,
Wrongs her poor spouse, to prove the rights of men:
When dainty ladies strut in male attire,
And printer's devils emulate the lyre:
When peers and boxers group, a jovial band,
And blushing beauties scamper—four in hand;
Or with indignant rage and sorrow choking,
Lose their last stake—and swear 'tis curs'd provoking.
Nay some, more dashing, in the list we view,
To shew they're sans souci, prove sans six sous.
Beyond the pedantry of Reason's schools!
Ah! who wou'd study Greek, or toil to store
The fashion'd mind with learning's pond'rous lore?
From such a load the prudent fancy springs,
For modern heads are—very weighty things!
Shall Fashion Homer's ancient themes explore,
And leave the tragedies of H---a M---e?
Shall Fashion's pupils stoop to common sense,
Or the dull strain of Shakspeare's eloquence?
When youthful Peers, laboriously polite,
Play, for “their own amusement,” every night!
When ladies fence, and parry carte and tierce;
And Rovidino chaunts Italian verse!
18
And Damer forms the Parian Hercules!
When pity views, expiring on the rack,
Nine virgins murder'd!—for a butt of sack!
And when their solemn dirge of death is singing;
Hears cannon firing while the bells are ringing!
When languid duchesses due homage pay,
With feather'd heads—as fair, as light as they:
When city dames, whose titles live—a year,
The last of ladies simper in the rear:
When eastern pride with virtue aims to vie,
While glitt'ring H---gs dazzles every eye:
When Ar---r blooms, in various tints array'd,
And blushing V--- smiles, a matchless maid!
When many a countess flutters down the room,
With Dovey's di'monds, and with Bailey's bloom:
When many a beau, with loyal feeling smote,
Gives half his income for—a birth-day coat:
When every son of ignorance appears,
A dull parhelion in the courtly spheres:
When many a patriot dame who wields the pen,
Wrongs her poor spouse, to prove the rights of men:
19
And printer's devils emulate the lyre:
When peers and boxers group, a jovial band,
And blushing beauties scamper—four in hand;
Or with indignant rage and sorrow choking,
Lose their last stake—and swear 'tis curs'd provoking.
Nay some, more dashing, in the list we view,
To shew they're sans souci, prove sans six sous.
Now gentle satirist, arrest thy wing,
And give the lesser songsters time to sing:
When nightingales are mute, and midnight reigns,
The owl sails forth the minstrel of the plains:
When Phoebus sinks majestic in the west,
Pale Dian rises in her borrow'd vest:
Then, stop the progress of the Muse's steed,
And give the sons of fashion—time to read.
And give the lesser songsters time to sing:
When nightingales are mute, and midnight reigns,
The owl sails forth the minstrel of the plains:
When Phoebus sinks majestic in the west,
Pale Dian rises in her borrow'd vest:
Then, stop the progress of the Muse's steed,
And give the sons of fashion—time to read.
21
CANTO II.
Refinement! thou hast not a pang to dread,
The shaft of Satire cannot wound the dead—
Whate'er the child of Feeling may endure,
The sons of Apathy are still secure!
'Tis for the wise, and just, the poet tries
“To catch the living manners as they rise;”
And spite of all the dull and base can do,
The wise and just will own the picture true.
Resistless ridicule assails not worth,
Her shaft flies only at the slugs of earth;
As summer showers, that vivify the plain,
Sweep with their glitt'ring wings the insect train,
Who buzzing dart their venom'd stings and die,
The namless myriads of a sunny sky.
The shaft of Satire cannot wound the dead—
Whate'er the child of Feeling may endure,
The sons of Apathy are still secure!
'Tis for the wise, and just, the poet tries
“To catch the living manners as they rise;”
And spite of all the dull and base can do,
The wise and just will own the picture true.
Resistless ridicule assails not worth,
Her shaft flies only at the slugs of earth;
As summer showers, that vivify the plain,
Sweep with their glitt'ring wings the insect train,
Who buzzing dart their venom'd stings and die,
The namless myriads of a sunny sky.
22
So the more pamper'd insect creeps a while,
His fost'ring sun,—a guilty patron's smile;
His occupation slander,—and his aim,
To keep the post of infamy and shame;
For this he feeds the vices of his lord,
Waits in his hall, or cringes at his board;
Commends, in words obscure, his wit sublime,
Though the prais'd ideot scarce can read his rhyme;
With flatt'ring guile the ear of envy fills;
The worst of med'cines,—for the worst of ills.
His fost'ring sun,—a guilty patron's smile;
His occupation slander,—and his aim,
To keep the post of infamy and shame;
For this he feeds the vices of his lord,
Waits in his hall, or cringes at his board;
Commends, in words obscure, his wit sublime,
Though the prais'd ideot scarce can read his rhyme;
With flatt'ring guile the ear of envy fills;
The worst of med'cines,—for the worst of ills.
Let Genius soar to Fame's sublime abode,
While Folly's children tread the beaten road,
While listless husbands sleep 'till noon arrives
And modish lovers,—flirt with modish wives;
When modern dinners are serv'd up at nine;
And modern epicures can scarcely dine.
Ere, to assist digestion, they repair,
The raptures of a midnight chase to share!
The chase! not like the common stile of things,
Such as are made for sportsmen,—and for kings;
But where, in rows, “thrice feather'd” belles resort,
With waxen tapers to illume the sport!
Where Reynard hears, on boards, the death-wing'd hoof,
And flies to cover,—'neath a canvas roof,
Where city crops, and booted bucks repair,
To elbow, ogle, see the world,—and swear!
To beat the boxkeepers, and cry encore,
To vote that Inchbald's moral plays' a bore,
With well splash'd legs to rush into the box,
Disturb the audience, and cry,—“where's the fox?”
“This is the thing by Jove!—why this is fun,
“We'll have a row before the night is done!”
While Folly's children tread the beaten road,
While listless husbands sleep 'till noon arrives
And modish lovers,—flirt with modish wives;
When modern dinners are serv'd up at nine;
And modern epicures can scarcely dine.
Ere, to assist digestion, they repair,
The raptures of a midnight chase to share!
The chase! not like the common stile of things,
Such as are made for sportsmen,—and for kings;
23
With waxen tapers to illume the sport!
Where Reynard hears, on boards, the death-wing'd hoof,
And flies to cover,—'neath a canvas roof,
Where city crops, and booted bucks repair,
To elbow, ogle, see the world,—and swear!
To beat the boxkeepers, and cry encore,
To vote that Inchbald's moral plays' a bore,
With well splash'd legs to rush into the box,
Disturb the audience, and cry,—“where's the fox?”
“This is the thing by Jove!—why this is fun,
“We'll have a row before the night is done!”
O ye box lobby heroes!—men of shops!
Bravoes in buckskin!—Hannibals at hops!
Did ye but know what wretched things ye are,
Despis'd by men,—and laugh'd at by the fair.
You'd shrink to grubs, from grubs you'd fade away,
The short-liv'd insects,—of a short-liv'd day!
With men of might, when Truth no more prevails,
A knock-down argument—but seldom fails!
Each dame of spirit, vice versa, labours
With midnight revels,—to knock up her neighbours.
Humphries and Johnson, fill'd with British spirit,
Whose strong pretensions knock down timid merit;
(More pow'rful than the magic force that lies,
In Hanger's bludgeon, or Fi---z---t's eyes.)
Attend each spouting club throughout the town,
Not to make speeches,—but to knock ye down;
E'en Dukes will sometimes condescend to box;
And many an orator's knock'd down by Fox!
Fair ladies too, o'erwhelm'd by Faro's frown,
Knock up their Lords, till Christie knocks them down.
Bravoes in buckskin!—Hannibals at hops!
Did ye but know what wretched things ye are,
Despis'd by men,—and laugh'd at by the fair.
You'd shrink to grubs, from grubs you'd fade away,
The short-liv'd insects,—of a short-liv'd day!
24
A knock-down argument—but seldom fails!
Each dame of spirit, vice versa, labours
With midnight revels,—to knock up her neighbours.
Humphries and Johnson, fill'd with British spirit,
Whose strong pretensions knock down timid merit;
(More pow'rful than the magic force that lies,
In Hanger's bludgeon, or Fi---z---t's eyes.)
Attend each spouting club throughout the town,
Not to make speeches,—but to knock ye down;
E'en Dukes will sometimes condescend to box;
And many an orator's knock'd down by Fox!
Fair ladies too, o'erwhelm'd by Faro's frown,
Knock up their Lords, till Christie knocks them down.
Descriptive Muse! arrest thy wild career,
While pity drops the tributary tear;
That in a land where plenteous stores abound,
Where wealth exults, by prosp'rous labour crown'd;
True worth should pine in indigence alone,
Or toil for daily bread, and toil unknown!
To court the ignorant in verse and prose,
And sing in sweetest numbers,—bitt'rest woes!
In threadbare sables tremble at the gate,
Amidst the sleek appendages of state;
Or thrust in corners when their Lord appears,
Drench the lean blushing cheek with burning tears,
'Till lazy lacqueys greet the man of rhyme,
With, “Honest fellow,—call another time!!”
While pity drops the tributary tear;
That in a land where plenteous stores abound,
Where wealth exults, by prosp'rous labour crown'd;
True worth should pine in indigence alone,
Or toil for daily bread, and toil unknown!
25
And sing in sweetest numbers,—bitt'rest woes!
In threadbare sables tremble at the gate,
Amidst the sleek appendages of state;
Or thrust in corners when their Lord appears,
Drench the lean blushing cheek with burning tears,
'Till lazy lacqueys greet the man of rhyme,
With, “Honest fellow,—call another time!!”
View the proud mansion of acknowledg'd taste,
A tomb of luxury 'midst a weedy waste;
While many an Otway shares a pittance scant,
While many a Chatterton expires for want!
At one superb repast to glut the proud,
And court the praises of a sneering crowd;
A son of fashion, panting for a name,
And proud of any theme for public fame,
Bestows!—(the fact a moral lesson teaches)
A thousand guineas—for a thousand peaches!!
“Tempora mutantur!” say the thinking few!
The sons of Dissipation, cry,—“tant mieux!”
A tomb of luxury 'midst a weedy waste;
While many an Otway shares a pittance scant,
While many a Chatterton expires for want!
At one superb repast to glut the proud,
And court the praises of a sneering crowd;
A son of fashion, panting for a name,
And proud of any theme for public fame,
Bestows!—(the fact a moral lesson teaches)
A thousand guineas—for a thousand peaches!!
“Tempora mutantur!” say the thinking few!
The sons of Dissipation, cry,—“tant mieux!”
26
Yet some great souls on gain so keen are set,
They'll eat a cat to win a trifling bett!
While some, in worsted hose and shabby scratch,
Ride fifty miles to see—a boxing match!
Though few,—but to obtain some secret end,
Would cross the threshold to relieve a friend!
They'll eat a cat to win a trifling bett!
While some, in worsted hose and shabby scratch,
Ride fifty miles to see—a boxing match!
Though few,—but to obtain some secret end,
Would cross the threshold to relieve a friend!
As Pope, the prince of Satire, once pourtray'd
The morning toilette of a polish'd maid;
So may the modern wag his trophies chuse,
“Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet doux;”
Or rather, blushing, leave the bibles out,
For perfect beauties seldom are devout!
To church they never go,—because, they say,
Churches are cold,—and tender creatures they;
Yet to Hyde Park on horseback they repair,
Though all November's biting blasts are there!
The morning toilette of a polish'd maid;
So may the modern wag his trophies chuse,
“Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet doux;”
Or rather, blushing, leave the bibles out,
For perfect beauties seldom are devout!
To church they never go,—because, they say,
Churches are cold,—and tender creatures they;
Yet to Hyde Park on horseback they repair,
Though all November's biting blasts are there!
Preposterous Fashion! Imp of dangerous art,
Who bids Philanthropy forsake the heart;
Insidious monster, of infernal birth,
That leads to ruin half the tribes of earth!
Destructive reptile, of camelion pow'r,
That feeds on air, and changes with the hour,
That bids the Soldier dread unseemly scars,
And gives to Chloe's form the front of Mars!
That steals from beauty every timid grace,
And spreads the burning blush o'er Nature's face.
Fashion, that erst, our courtly dames array'd,
In many-colour'd locks and stiff brocade;
Who arm'd in whalebone petticoats were seen,
Sailing majestic,—like a walking screen!
Or like a gaudy shop, assail'd our eyes,
Hung round with shreds and flow'rs of various dyes,
That led our Heroes down a ball-room jig,
Like Monkeys,—in a wilderness of wig!
Who could have seen a Marlb'rough so bedight,
And guess'd that such a monst'rous thing could fight;
That he, whose brow immortal wreaths might bear,
Would stoop to deck his sconce with borrow'd hair.
Or like a haughty Don,—or dull Bashaw,
Shake his huge wig,—“to keep the world in awe!”
Who bids Philanthropy forsake the heart;
27
That leads to ruin half the tribes of earth!
Destructive reptile, of camelion pow'r,
That feeds on air, and changes with the hour,
That bids the Soldier dread unseemly scars,
And gives to Chloe's form the front of Mars!
That steals from beauty every timid grace,
And spreads the burning blush o'er Nature's face.
Fashion, that erst, our courtly dames array'd,
In many-colour'd locks and stiff brocade;
Who arm'd in whalebone petticoats were seen,
Sailing majestic,—like a walking screen!
Or like a gaudy shop, assail'd our eyes,
Hung round with shreds and flow'rs of various dyes,
That led our Heroes down a ball-room jig,
Like Monkeys,—in a wilderness of wig!
Who could have seen a Marlb'rough so bedight,
And guess'd that such a monst'rous thing could fight;
That he, whose brow immortal wreaths might bear,
Would stoop to deck his sconce with borrow'd hair.
Or like a haughty Don,—or dull Bashaw,
Shake his huge wig,—“to keep the world in awe!”
28
Fashion, first hatch'd in courts, in cities bred,
Now skims exulting o'er each natural head;
Of native beauty she usurps the place,
Gives youth to C---d!—to H---t grace!
Contemns the graceful tenderness that lies
In Devon's heart! and steals through Devon's eyes,
Who doats on foreign politics, and ways,
Who keeps French company, and reads French plays;
Who scarce a crotchet from a quaver knows;
Yet buys all instruments to keep as shows;
Who, though in learning's page she never looks,
Well stocks her groaning shelves with learned books;
With “Flora's Toilette” in morocco blooming;
The “Road to Ruin,”—and “the Rights of Women!”
Who, when the ****** grown prudent, learns the way
To live content on Forty pounds a day!
Cries, vulgar! wretched! what, his horses gone!
His giants, jockeys, grooms, and phaeton!
What, no more charming breakfasts, fete champetres,
Where epicures consume what folly caters;
No dinners, serv'd with elegant expence,
Where frothy flatt'ry serves for solid sense;
No racing, betting, driving, or cajoling,
No sycophantic smile each loss consoling,
No levees, liv'ries, guards, and crowded halls,
No bawling catches,—and no catching balls,
Sweet scenes! of dancing, singing, eating, drinking,
Of every rational delight,—save thinking!
Now skims exulting o'er each natural head;
Of native beauty she usurps the place,
Gives youth to C---d!—to H---t grace!
Contemns the graceful tenderness that lies
In Devon's heart! and steals through Devon's eyes,
Who doats on foreign politics, and ways,
Who keeps French company, and reads French plays;
Who scarce a crotchet from a quaver knows;
Yet buys all instruments to keep as shows;
Who, though in learning's page she never looks,
Well stocks her groaning shelves with learned books;
With “Flora's Toilette” in morocco blooming;
The “Road to Ruin,”—and “the Rights of Women!”
Who, when the ****** grown prudent, learns the way
To live content on Forty pounds a day!
Cries, vulgar! wretched! what, his horses gone!
His giants, jockeys, grooms, and phaeton!
What, no more charming breakfasts, fete champetres,
Where epicures consume what folly caters;
29
Where frothy flatt'ry serves for solid sense;
No racing, betting, driving, or cajoling,
No sycophantic smile each loss consoling,
No levees, liv'ries, guards, and crowded halls,
No bawling catches,—and no catching balls,
Sweet scenes! of dancing, singing, eating, drinking,
Of every rational delight,—save thinking!
Shall prudence and propriety supply
The vacant chair of prodigality!
Must Fashion yield at last to honest worth,
And virtue claim precedency of Birth?
Shall he, whom I have nurs'd with so much art,
Consult, at last, the feelings of his heart!
Spurn all my lessons, laugh at all my skill,
And tell the world that Fashion councils ill?
Since Conscience dares affect such winning graces,
How few of Fashion's tribe will shew their faces!
Oh direful change! 'twill spread throughout the nation,
“And modest merit Lord it over fashion!”
The vacant chair of prodigality!
Must Fashion yield at last to honest worth,
And virtue claim precedency of Birth?
Shall he, whom I have nurs'd with so much art,
Consult, at last, the feelings of his heart!
Spurn all my lessons, laugh at all my skill,
And tell the world that Fashion councils ill?
Since Conscience dares affect such winning graces,
How few of Fashion's tribe will shew their faces!
Oh direful change! 'twill spread throughout the nation,
“And modest merit Lord it over fashion!”
30
“Heavens!” cries dame taste, “what horrid times are these,
When low Economy presumes to please!
When Gothic decency pretends to rule,
And I, who banish'd her, am sent to school,
To learn how wives of old were meek and sage,
The vulgar beings of queen Bess's age;
Who rose at break of day, to sew and spin!
I swear this Reformation is a Sin;—
A monst'rous shame, so long by taste subdu'd,
To prove at last unfashionably Good!”
When low Economy presumes to please!
When Gothic decency pretends to rule,
And I, who banish'd her, am sent to school,
To learn how wives of old were meek and sage,
The vulgar beings of queen Bess's age;
Who rose at break of day, to sew and spin!
I swear this Reformation is a Sin;—
A monst'rous shame, so long by taste subdu'd,
To prove at last unfashionably Good!”
Ye beauteous Dames! the boast of modern times,
Who ape the French,—yet shudder at their crimes;
Who droop your gentle heads, and weep to see,
The dreadful havock made by Anarchy.
Who bless your native land, and bless the day,
When happy Britain own'd a Brunswick's sway:
Who by the lib'ral hand of Nature grac'd
With feeling, beauty, eloquence, and taste.
Extend your letter'd names o'er all the earth,
Fam'd as the glorious Isle that gave ye birth!
Why, when insidious France her sword unsheaths,
Twine with French poppies your immortal wreaths;
With foreign poisons kill your native bays,
And deck your Phoenix forms like Gallic jays!
Who ape the French,—yet shudder at their crimes;
Who droop your gentle heads, and weep to see,
The dreadful havock made by Anarchy.
Who bless your native land, and bless the day,
When happy Britain own'd a Brunswick's sway:
Who by the lib'ral hand of Nature grac'd
With feeling, beauty, eloquence, and taste.
31
Fam'd as the glorious Isle that gave ye birth!
Why, when insidious France her sword unsheaths,
Twine with French poppies your immortal wreaths;
With foreign poisons kill your native bays,
And deck your Phoenix forms like Gallic jays!
Why mourn a murder'd M---h's dire disgrace,
In Paris linon trimm'd with Paris lace?
Why in each trembling snowy hand appears,
French Cambrick thrice imbru'd with English tears?
Why deck your brows with flow'rs from Gallia's shore,
When Gallia's lily withers—drench'd in gore?
In Paris linon trimm'd with Paris lace?
Why in each trembling snowy hand appears,
French Cambrick thrice imbru'd with English tears?
Why deck your brows with flow'rs from Gallia's shore,
When Gallia's lily withers—drench'd in gore?
Let Rome her Heroes, Greece her Poets boast;
Transcendent Virtue guards Britannia's coast!
High on that cliff the radiant goddess stands,
Whose cloud-cap'd brow aspiring France commands;
Though the loud billows roar beneath its base,
And foaming mountains swell th'infuriate space;
She braves the vaunting banners, dy'd in blood,
That wave insulting o'er th'indignant flood,
While, with unsullied Fame, her bosom glows,
A dauntless Bulwark 'gainst an Host of Foes!
Transcendent Virtue guards Britannia's coast!
High on that cliff the radiant goddess stands,
Whose cloud-cap'd brow aspiring France commands;
Though the loud billows roar beneath its base,
And foaming mountains swell th'infuriate space;
32
That wave insulting o'er th'indignant flood,
While, with unsullied Fame, her bosom glows,
A dauntless Bulwark 'gainst an Host of Foes!
FINIS.
| Modern Manners, a poem | |