The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE VII.
Peter's Account of wonderful Reliques in France, with the Devotion paid to them—The sensible Application to Painters and Painting, by way of Simile.
In France, some years ago—some twenty-three,
At a fam'd church, where hundreds daily jostle,
I wisely paid a priest six sols to see
The thumb of Thomas the Apostle.
At a fam'd church, where hundreds daily jostle,
I wisely paid a priest six sols to see
The thumb of Thomas the Apostle.
Gaping upon Tom's thumb, with me in wonder,
The rabble rais'd its eyes—like ducks in thunder;
Because in virtues it was vastly rich,
Had cur'd possess'd of devils, and the itch;
Work'd various wonders on a scabby pate—
Made little sucking children straight,
Though crook'd like rams' horns by the rickets;
Made people see, though blind as moles—
And made your sad, hysteric souls,
As gay as grasshoppers and crickets;
The rabble rais'd its eyes—like ducks in thunder;
Because in virtues it was vastly rich,
Had cur'd possess'd of devils, and the itch;
Work'd various wonders on a scabby pate—
Made little sucking children straight,
Though crook'd like rams' horns by the rickets;
Made people see, though blind as moles—
And made your sad, hysteric souls,
As gay as grasshoppers and crickets;
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Brought noses back again to faces,
Long stol'n by Venus and her Graces;
And eyes to fill their parent sockets,
Of which sad Love had pick'd their pockets:
And had the priest permitted, with their kisses,
The mob had smack'd this holy thumb to pieces.
Long stol'n by Venus and her Graces;
And eyes to fill their parent sockets,
Of which sad Love had pick'd their pockets:
And had the priest permitted, with their kisses,
The mob had smack'd this holy thumb to pieces.
Though, reader, 'twas not the Apostle's thumb—
But mum!—
It play'd as well of miracles the trick,
Although a painted piece of rotten stick!
But mum!—
It play'd as well of miracles the trick,
Although a painted piece of rotten stick!
For six sols more, behold! to view, was bolted
A feather of the angel Gabriel's wing!
Whether 'twas pluck'd by force, or calmly molted,
No holy legends tell, nor poets sing.
But was it Gabriel's feather, heav'nly Muses?
It was not Gabriel's feather, but a goose's!
But stay! from truth we would not wish to wander,
For, probably, the owner was a gander.
A feather of the angel Gabriel's wing!
Whether 'twas pluck'd by force, or calmly molted,
No holy legends tell, nor poets sing.
But was it Gabriel's feather, heav'nly Muses?
It was not Gabriel's feather, but a goose's!
But stay! from truth we would not wish to wander,
For, probably, the owner was a gander.
Painters! you take me right:—the Muse supposes
You make your coup-de-maître dashes,
Christen them eyes, and cheeks, and lips, and noses,
Beards, chins, and whiskers, and eye-lashes;
As like, p'rhaps, as a horse is like a plum,
Or 'foresaid stick, St. Tom th' Apostle's thumb.
You make your coup-de-maître dashes,
Christen them eyes, and cheeks, and lips, and noses,
Beards, chins, and whiskers, and eye-lashes;
As like, p'rhaps, as a horse is like a plum,
Or 'foresaid stick, St. Tom th' Apostle's thumb.
With purer eyes the British vulgar sees;
We are no crawthumpers, no devotees;
So that, whene'er your figures are mere wood,
Our eyes will never deem 'em flesh and blood.
We are no crawthumpers, no devotees;
So that, whene'er your figures are mere wood,
Our eyes will never deem 'em flesh and blood.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |