The peripatetic or, Sketches of the heart, of nature and society; In a series of politico-sentimental journals, in verse and prose, of the eccentric excursions of Sylvanus Theophrastus; Supposed to be written by himself [by John Thelwall] |
 | [I]. |
| II. |
| III. |
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THE EPIC POEM
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 | The peripatetic |  |
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THE EPIC POEM
GENIUS OF BRITAIN!—Not that power who strung
A Hampden's arm, and urg'd his patriot tongue—
Not she that warm'd a Sydney's, Russel's soul,
Corruption's tyrant progress to control—
Ere yet pretended Patriots, bought and sold,
Made public barter of their Votes, for Gold;—
Ere Freedom's Representatives, by name,
Lauded Despotic Power, unaw'd by shame;
In public Senates (fired with frantic rage,
Which not the tears of Friendship could assuage)
Blacken'd each Name that, true to Freedom's cause,
Dar'd plead for Nature's violated Laws;—
Ere yet, grown grey in Party's sordid train,
(Where who like them the clamorous throat to strain?)
Wild, driv'ling Dotards (fired with sacred hate
Of all who held what they upheld of late,)
Damn'd all the Honours which a glossing Tongue,
Practis'd in fraud, and with persuasion hung,
Still with the rotten Heart at prudent strife,
Had purchas'd with the Lie of a whole life;
Renounc'd all Principle, and bared the Heart
So long conceal'd from view with painful Art;
Threw off the Mask, so long with credit worn,
And chang'd Respect for Pity, and for Scorn;
To Bathos dived for culinary wit,
Made e'en the Stews and Billingsgate submit
With sheer scurrility, and blushing own
Their claim to mount the Shrew's contested Throne;
Thence soaring high, or thinking that they soar'd,
The realms of “Beauteous and Sublime” explor'd,
Pluck'd down the Stars, and thought those Stars too poor
(Moon-struck themselves!) to deck a Royal Whore,
Because she chanc'd the Gallic Throne to share,
To which (to Dorset thanks!) she brought an Heir.
—But why with plurals thus Mankind disgrace?
When even these Times produce but one so base.
A Hampden's arm, and urg'd his patriot tongue—
Not she that warm'd a Sydney's, Russel's soul,
Corruption's tyrant progress to control—
Ere yet pretended Patriots, bought and sold,
Made public barter of their Votes, for Gold;—
Ere Freedom's Representatives, by name,
Lauded Despotic Power, unaw'd by shame;
In public Senates (fired with frantic rage,
Which not the tears of Friendship could assuage)
Blacken'd each Name that, true to Freedom's cause,
Dar'd plead for Nature's violated Laws;—
Ere yet, grown grey in Party's sordid train,
(Where who like them the clamorous throat to strain?)
Wild, driv'ling Dotards (fired with sacred hate
Of all who held what they upheld of late,)
Damn'd all the Honours which a glossing Tongue,
Practis'd in fraud, and with persuasion hung,
Still with the rotten Heart at prudent strife,
Had purchas'd with the Lie of a whole life;
Renounc'd all Principle, and bared the Heart
So long conceal'd from view with painful Art;
Threw off the Mask, so long with credit worn,
And chang'd Respect for Pity, and for Scorn;
To Bathos dived for culinary wit,
Made e'en the Stews and Billingsgate submit
With sheer scurrility, and blushing own
Their claim to mount the Shrew's contested Throne;
Thence soaring high, or thinking that they soar'd,
The realms of “Beauteous and Sublime” explor'd,
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(Moon-struck themselves!) to deck a Royal Whore,
Because she chanc'd the Gallic Throne to share,
To which (to Dorset thanks!) she brought an Heir.
—But why with plurals thus Mankind disgrace?
When even these Times produce but one so base.
GENIUS of BRITAIN! prompt my Epic theme—
Not thou who, nurs'd by Heliconia's stream,
Taught ONE ILLUSTRIOUS BRITISH PRINCE to feel
A noble love for Learning's sacred weal,—
To Sage and Bard that patronage supply
Which pimps and fiddlers now alone enjoy,—
And, having freed the Land from foreign Foes,
Rous'd him to purge it from the darker woes
Of savage Ignorance, and Science rear,
At once by his Example, and his Care—
Not thou who urg'd the Godlike ALFRED's soul,
(Virtue his Race, Immortal Fame his Goal!)
With reverend Sages to devote his prime,—
Ere Caterers, Boxers, Swindlers, curs'd the Clime—
Ere yet the Turf alone had charms—Ere yet
Rooking was Science, Jockeying was Wit—
For Studs ere splendid Palaces arose,—
Where Steeds and Grooms, in idle ranks, repose,
Consuming more than Gallia's haughty Lord,
Her fourteenth Louis, spent to deck that board
Where Taste and Science found a sure retreat,
And all the Wits of Europe had a Seat!—
Not thou who, nurs'd by Heliconia's stream,
Taught ONE ILLUSTRIOUS BRITISH PRINCE to feel
A noble love for Learning's sacred weal,—
To Sage and Bard that patronage supply
Which pimps and fiddlers now alone enjoy,—
And, having freed the Land from foreign Foes,
Rous'd him to purge it from the darker woes
Of savage Ignorance, and Science rear,
At once by his Example, and his Care—
Not thou who urg'd the Godlike ALFRED's soul,
(Virtue his Race, Immortal Fame his Goal!)
With reverend Sages to devote his prime,—
Ere Caterers, Boxers, Swindlers, curs'd the Clime—
Ere yet the Turf alone had charms—Ere yet
Rooking was Science, Jockeying was Wit—
For Studs ere splendid Palaces arose,—
Where Steeds and Grooms, in idle ranks, repose,
Consuming more than Gallia's haughty Lord,
Her fourteenth Louis, spent to deck that board
Where Taste and Science found a sure retreat,
And all the Wits of Europe had a Seat!—
—Not thou who taught mellifluous
Pope to sing,
Plum'd Shakespeare's, Milton's, Dryden's daring wing,
Ere whining Prat, the pink of Common Place,
Pour'd forth long nothings with so soft a grace,
Made Sentiment so languishingly creep
To the charm'd Heart, as charm'd it quite to Sleep;
Made Sympathy thro' two long Cantoes shine,
Without assistance from one feeling line,
And fair Humanity—so soft—so sweet—
Drawl thro' dull pages to the hundredth sheet;
Drew meek Morality with such a Grace,
With such a simpering, lack-a-daisey Face,
Such water-gruel Sweetness, one would swear
She “suckled Fools, and chronicled small beer.”
—Ere yet quaint Fopperies from the Italian School
Threw in forc'd Extasies each Rhyming Fool;
Bit, like the Gad Fly, Widows, Wives, and Maids,
With frantic bleat to scare the tuneful Shades,
Where self-thought Poets, deeper bit than they,
To their wild bleat return'd as wild a bray!—
Plum'd Shakespeare's, Milton's, Dryden's daring wing,
Ere whining Prat, the pink of Common Place,
Pour'd forth long nothings with so soft a grace,
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To the charm'd Heart, as charm'd it quite to Sleep;
Made Sympathy thro' two long Cantoes shine,
Without assistance from one feeling line,
And fair Humanity—so soft—so sweet—
Drawl thro' dull pages to the hundredth sheet;
Drew meek Morality with such a Grace,
With such a simpering, lack-a-daisey Face,
Such water-gruel Sweetness, one would swear
She “suckled Fools, and chronicled small beer.”
—Ere yet quaint Fopperies from the Italian School
Threw in forc'd Extasies each Rhyming Fool;
Bit, like the Gad Fly, Widows, Wives, and Maids,
With frantic bleat to scare the tuneful Shades,
Where self-thought Poets, deeper bit than they,
To their wild bleat return'd as wild a bray!—
Ere DE LA CRUSCA, darling of the WORLD!
The random Gaze of Moon-struck-madness hurl'd
Thro' the wild “Wilderness of blooming Suns,”
And Scenes which Common Sense indignant shuns;
Where Popularity, (debauch'd, and led
By that old Bawd, hight Puffing, to his Bed,)
Brought forth a Swarm of misshaped Monsters, more
Than ever spawn'd on Nilus' antic Shore;—
Monsters, to nurture which, in happy Hour,
Dame COWLEY waken'd in the Muses Bow'r—
That Bow'r in which, strew'd by her Angel Hand
With Poppies cull'd in Morpheus happy Land—
Morpheus! inspiring God of modern Themes!
The Patron blest of Poesy and Dreams!—
That Bow'r, in which the balmy-soothing Pow'r
With partial fondness, oft, at Evening Hour,
(“Attention pillowing her reclining Head”)
The sweetest Slumbers o'er her Senses spread;
While crowded Theatres, by Fate's decree,
First clapp'd, then yawn'd, then snor'd as loud as she.
The random Gaze of Moon-struck-madness hurl'd
Thro' the wild “Wilderness of blooming Suns,”
And Scenes which Common Sense indignant shuns;
Where Popularity, (debauch'd, and led
By that old Bawd, hight Puffing, to his Bed,)
Brought forth a Swarm of misshaped Monsters, more
Than ever spawn'd on Nilus' antic Shore;—
Monsters, to nurture which, in happy Hour,
Dame COWLEY waken'd in the Muses Bow'r—
That Bow'r in which, strew'd by her Angel Hand
With Poppies cull'd in Morpheus happy Land—
Morpheus! inspiring God of modern Themes!
The Patron blest of Poesy and Dreams!—
That Bow'r, in which the balmy-soothing Pow'r
With partial fondness, oft, at Evening Hour,
(“Attention pillowing her reclining Head”)
The sweetest Slumbers o'er her Senses spread;
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First clapp'd, then yawn'd, then snor'd as loud as she.
GENIUS of BRITAIN!—by what Title grac'd—
Fashion or Folly, Vanity or Taste—
Thou, whose high Laws, rever'd by Courtly Dames!
Cecil's hereditary Wisdom frames.—
Important Guardian of a Royal Court!
Imperial Grandeur's wisest, best support!
Whose awful Nod prescribes the Mantua's grace,
And dooms, without appeal, in Gloves and Lace,
When, Wand in Hand, on Birth-Days, he presides,
And with the BEST OF KINGS the sway divides!—
—That BEST OF KINGS, from whom what blessings flow!
Who for his People keeps a Raree-Show
Of Pictures fine, a Month each Year, or more:
But makes them drop their Shillings at the Door!—
That BEST OF KINGS, who gives his Royal Name
To every Work of Charity, or Fame;
But, liberal as he is, with Prudence blest,
Keeps the Subscription Guinea in his Chest.—
That BEST OF KINGS, who, Umpire of the Arts!
To West's coarse outline his first Smile imparts:—
West, from whose hand each Male Complexion shines
Like half-wrought Copper from our Cornish Mines;
While, smooth as wax, each female Cheek is spread,
And every Lip, with the same lifeless red!—
West, whose long Groups, in order'd Rows display'd,
(As ranks of Soldiers strut on the parade,)
At Knightly Installations, make us stare,
And ask What Corporal drill'd the noble Fair!—
West, who, not only taught to husband Time,
Maintains the loss of Space an equal Crime,
So fills—despite of ease and simple grace—
So fills each Scrap of Canvas with a Face,
Which all, lest quarrels rise for shape and air,
The self-same attitude and features share—
West, who, to Scripture rules devoutly true,
Thinks Eye for Eye, and Tooth for Tooth, are due,
And painting Pharoah, and his warlike host
O'erthrown by Moses, and in Soap Suds lost,
With vengeful Brush, for Justice, arms his Hands,
And murders Moses, as the Law commands.—
That West, who, lest the first sad Curse be vain,
Damns our fall'n Parents, o'er and o'er again;
Then, fired with Zeal, instructs his glorious SON
(By whom one Day the Sire shall be outdone)
To force grim Satan from the depths of Hell,
'Midst grinning Forms of Ridicule to dwell,
Where laughing Scorn shall more afflict his Pride
Than all the Flames for torturing Ages tried.
Fashion or Folly, Vanity or Taste—
Thou, whose high Laws, rever'd by Courtly Dames!
Cecil's hereditary Wisdom frames.—
Important Guardian of a Royal Court!
Imperial Grandeur's wisest, best support!
Whose awful Nod prescribes the Mantua's grace,
And dooms, without appeal, in Gloves and Lace,
When, Wand in Hand, on Birth-Days, he presides,
And with the BEST OF KINGS the sway divides!—
—That BEST OF KINGS, from whom what blessings flow!
Who for his People keeps a Raree-Show
Of Pictures fine, a Month each Year, or more:
But makes them drop their Shillings at the Door!—
That BEST OF KINGS, who gives his Royal Name
To every Work of Charity, or Fame;
But, liberal as he is, with Prudence blest,
Keeps the Subscription Guinea in his Chest.—
That BEST OF KINGS, who, Umpire of the Arts!
To West's coarse outline his first Smile imparts:—
West, from whose hand each Male Complexion shines
Like half-wrought Copper from our Cornish Mines;
While, smooth as wax, each female Cheek is spread,
And every Lip, with the same lifeless red!—
West, whose long Groups, in order'd Rows display'd,
(As ranks of Soldiers strut on the parade,)
At Knightly Installations, make us stare,
And ask What Corporal drill'd the noble Fair!—
West, who, not only taught to husband Time,
Maintains the loss of Space an equal Crime,
So fills—despite of ease and simple grace—
So fills each Scrap of Canvas with a Face,
56
The self-same attitude and features share—
West, who, to Scripture rules devoutly true,
Thinks Eye for Eye, and Tooth for Tooth, are due,
And painting Pharoah, and his warlike host
O'erthrown by Moses, and in Soap Suds lost,
With vengeful Brush, for Justice, arms his Hands,
And murders Moses, as the Law commands.—
That West, who, lest the first sad Curse be vain,
Damns our fall'n Parents, o'er and o'er again;
Then, fired with Zeal, instructs his glorious SON
(By whom one Day the Sire shall be outdone)
To force grim Satan from the depths of Hell,
'Midst grinning Forms of Ridicule to dwell,
Where laughing Scorn shall more afflict his Pride
Than all the Flames for torturing Ages tried.
GENIUS of BRITAIN!—That same Nymph I mean
Who teaches Tambour to our GRACIOUS QUEEN;
Whence from her Needle (wond'rous Art!) arise
Long Pomps of Silken Trees, and Worsted Skies;
Quadrupeds, non-descript, are forc'd to Fame,
Plants with new forms, and Flowers without a name:
Or, soaring higher, to the Human form,
Her steel-eyed Pencil, (exquisitely warm!)
Calls faces forth—(if those who late have seen
Laurence's Portrait of that awful Mien
For such a Fact can take a Poet's word!)
Still more unmeaning than her Royal Lord!
—Prudent Amusement for a married Dame
Whose Numerous Babes her frugal Fondness claim!
Expensive Books might shrink her little Store,
Concerts and Treats make e'en the Wealthy poor:
But she at home who o'er her Needle dreams,
Or patches Fragments up with frugal Seams,
Or works old Sattin Coats with Colours fine,
O'er no Upholsterer's hideous Bill shall pine;
Yet sees, blest Harvest of her Royal Cares!
Quilts for her Beds, and Covers for her Chairs.
Who teaches Tambour to our GRACIOUS QUEEN;
Whence from her Needle (wond'rous Art!) arise
Long Pomps of Silken Trees, and Worsted Skies;
Quadrupeds, non-descript, are forc'd to Fame,
Plants with new forms, and Flowers without a name:
Or, soaring higher, to the Human form,
Her steel-eyed Pencil, (exquisitely warm!)
Calls faces forth—(if those who late have seen
Laurence's Portrait of that awful Mien
For such a Fact can take a Poet's word!)
Still more unmeaning than her Royal Lord!
—Prudent Amusement for a married Dame
Whose Numerous Babes her frugal Fondness claim!
Expensive Books might shrink her little Store,
Concerts and Treats make e'en the Wealthy poor:
But she at home who o'er her Needle dreams,
Or patches Fragments up with frugal Seams,
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O'er no Upholsterer's hideous Bill shall pine;
Yet sees, blest Harvest of her Royal Cares!
Quilts for her Beds, and Covers for her Chairs.
GENIUS of BRITAIN! who, with like control,
Sway GEORGE's, CHARLOTTE's, WEST's, and WARREN's Soul!—
Make MERRY's ravings, COLEMAN's stolen trash,
His Tragi-Comic-Pantomimic hash,
Pass for true Wit! assist my EPIC LAY:
For hard the Task my vent'rous Lines essay.
TYPES and the BRUSH I sing, whose friendly aid
Sway GEORGE's, CHARLOTTE's, WEST's, and WARREN's Soul!—
Make MERRY's ravings, COLEMAN's stolen trash,
His Tragi-Comic-Pantomimic hash,
Pass for true Wit! assist my EPIC LAY:
For hard the Task my vent'rous Lines essay.
Calls buried Genius forth from Learning's shade—
That shade deserted now by every wight,
Save only those who feed on what they write,—
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On Couplets feast, and commune with the Sky!—
That Shade (if Books may justify the Creed?)
When Bishops preach'd and mighty Lords could read,
Which even Statesmen deign'd with Smiles to view;
To Rectors dear, and reverend Prebends too,
Ere yet (for then no sordid Avarice reign'd)
Mitres they found more slowly were obtain'd
By gaining Crowns in Wisdom's laurel'd List
Than losing Crowns with gracious Queen's at Whist!—
That Shade where SHAKESPEARE's memory might expire,
And MILTON string unheard his Epic Lyre,
Did not prim Editors, with timely aid,
Rear the long varnish'd Vista's quaint parade,
With gilding gay, with flaunting Picture grac'd,
To lure the coxcomb eye of modern TASTE—
That Shade which now (as FASHION bids) shall shine
Throng'd like Vauxhall—as courtly, and as fine!
59
Fancy's lov'd Region—Grud Street is its name
With Mortal Men—how call'd by Gods on high,
Small is the import, friend, to you or I—
60
In days of yore, with bold inventions teem'd;
With Giants, Spectres, and Magicians dire,
Monsters and Dragons belching Streams of Fire,
Which arm'd Heroes brav'd to Combat, drunk
With sacred Love of Piety and Punk!—
—Near this fam'd Spot, where Poems once were made,
And Founders yet assist the Poet's Trade,
For leaden Satires leaden Types supply,
And give Ideal Nonsense to the Eye—
Near this fam'd spot—nor far (for since, by Fits,
Wits will be Madmen, Madmen may be Wits,
Our prudent Ancestors, right wisely plann'd
Their dwellings in one Neighbourhood should stand,
That due assistance might at times be shar'd,
And Brothers held in Brotherly regard)—
Nor far remov'd from that same noble Pile,
A needful Structure in Britannia's Isle!
Which, till some Royal head its shelter claim,
Of Bedlam bears the low, plebeian Name,
There stands a Dome, o'er whole trim Portals shine
(Type of JOVE's guardian Care and Love divine!)
Lion and Unicorn, by Sculptor bold
Carv'd in Olympian Oak, and gay with Gold.
A Dome it is each Bard with rapture views
Who in spruce Garb would deck his lofty Muse,
Thro' sheets of Snow would each dark passage spread,
And aid his weight of Brains with weight of Lead.
There thro' the livelong Day, o'er many a Forge,
Doom'd leaden Bolts of Vengeance to disgorge,
The Literary Cyclops toil and sweat
O'er the dread Thunders of the Alphabet;
Which dealt, with well aim'd Vengeance, o'er the World,
Tyrants have bow'd, and mighty Statesmen hurl'd
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Villains have aw'd, and made proud Vice retreat!—
Thunders which, pointed by a Monarch's hand,
Have spread Confusion thro' a peaceful Land;
With short-liv'd Awe have struck the Free-born Soul,
Compell'd the use of Reason to control,
Compell'd to deem as wicked Traitors, those
Not who concert the Treason, but expose—
For now 'tis night: no more the Cyclops sweat
O'er the dread thunders of the alphabet,
Whose dubious terrors can alike control
By turns the Tyrant's and the Patriot's soul—
O'er the dread thunders of the alphabet,
Whose dubious terrors can alike control
By turns the Tyrant's and the Patriot's soul—
Here, tier o'er tier, in many an order'd Row,
To please the Goddess, finish'd Letters glow;
Not burnish'd Silver beams a brighter Ray;
Not prim Sir Fopling more exactly gay
Glides thro' the Ball-room, fearful lest the Air
Derange a Frill, or disconcert a Hair.
—There unwrought Metal lay, heap'd pile on pile;
There drossy Refuse of the daily Toil;
There, splash'd by careless hands from out the Moulds,
Thick spangling Drops the pensive GOD beholds,
Decking with useless Pomp, each Screen, each Wall,
Furnace, and Chimney, thro' the spacious Hall.
To please the Goddess, finish'd Letters glow;
Not burnish'd Silver beams a brighter Ray;
Not prim Sir Fopling more exactly gay
Glides thro' the Ball-room, fearful lest the Air
Derange a Frill, or disconcert a Hair.
—There unwrought Metal lay, heap'd pile on pile;
There drossy Refuse of the daily Toil;
There, splash'd by careless hands from out the Moulds,
Thick spangling Drops the pensive GOD beholds,
Decking with useless Pomp, each Screen, each Wall,
Furnace, and Chimney, thro' the spacious Hall.
“Oh! woeful sight!” the sordid Spectre said,
“Oh! impious waste of dear-beloved Lead!—
“Lead which, by Alphabeta touch'd, shall own
“Him the true Master of the Chymic stone—
“Lead which well-wrought, and properly bestow'd,
“Might print a Dying Speech or Birth-Day Ode;
“GRANT's Lashes publish, and for justice call;
“Or shew why ROSE was never lash'd at all.—
“Lead from whose womb in order'd ranks shall rise
“Those letters doom'd to charm all human eyes,
“At sight of which the Dunce's Breast might glow,
“Struck with strange Passion for the CRISS CROSS-ROW!—
—“Letters, so neat! so trim! so smooth! so fair!
“Be they round O o, straight I i, or V v so square,
“Or crooked S s, or that s that swells
“High o'er the Line, like straighter k k, and l l,—
“That lofty s, which Bell, with cruel spite,
“Would damn to dark Oblivion's endless Night,
“But which, by Alphabeta's loyal Care,
“Still o'er the Ranks the lofty Crest shall bear,
“By laws of ancient usage tower on high,
“And Innovation's dangerous stride defy.”
“All things from this their real value claim.
“Oh! impious waste of dear-beloved Lead!—
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“Him the true Master of the Chymic stone—
“Lead which well-wrought, and properly bestow'd,
“Might print a Dying Speech or Birth-Day Ode;
“GRANT's Lashes publish, and for justice call;
“Or shew why ROSE was never lash'd at all.—
“Lead from whose womb in order'd ranks shall rise
“Those letters doom'd to charm all human eyes,
“At sight of which the Dunce's Breast might glow,
“Struck with strange Passion for the CRISS CROSS-ROW!—
—“Letters, so neat! so trim! so smooth! so fair!
“Be they round O o, straight I i, or V v so square,
“Or crooked S s, or that s that swells
“High o'er the Line, like straighter k k, and l l,—
“That lofty s, which Bell, with cruel spite,
“Would damn to dark Oblivion's endless Night,
“But which, by Alphabeta's loyal Care,
“Still o'er the Ranks the lofty Crest shall bear,
“By laws of ancient usage tower on high,
“And Innovation's dangerous stride defy.”
“Truth, Honour, Justice, Valour, Conscience, Fame,—
“(Thro' every Rank, Priests, Mountebanks, and Kings,)
“Have no more worth than each the Pence it brings.
“And tho' Adepts may bounce, with Scruples nice,
“'Tis but a bubble to increase the price;
“(Save with some Fools, whom learned Pride misleads)
“A stale, stock-jobbing Trick, which no one heeds.
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“Endures, without Remorse, his Country's Curse;
“Endures the Scourge of headlong Party Rage,
“And stands the Butt of an enquiring Age;
“Without retreating from the searching Light,
“Sees blacker Vices drag'd to public sight
“Than, had he been of poor Plebeian Race,
“Had justly doom'd him to a Rope's disgrace:—
“Unblushing bears it all—for Gold, we know,
“Outbrazening Brass, can Impudence bestow.
“For this the Lawyer proves that Black is White;
“Arnold for this upon both sides will fight,
“By both despis'd. For this the Parson preaches,
“The Doctor kills, and Burke for this impeaches,
“From Year to Year draws out the tedious suit—
“For Hastings would not fee him to be mute!—
“Nay, chief, for this (if Fame aright declare,)
“Charlotte and George delight the Crown to wear.
“Blest source of Wealth! which leaves small Cause to dread
“Their Babes (GOD bless them!) e'er should beg their Bread.”
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“Scarce had they finish'd when—A vulgar Bard
Would tell you, by the Cock's shrill Clarion scar'd;
But we, who true Description seek alone,
Know that Cocks seldom crow in London Town;—
Unless the Poet, for the Time of Need,
Should keep one by him of Parnassian breed,
Which, fed with Barley from the bi-fork'd hill,
Stands, with arch'd Neck, to chuckle at his will.—
Scarce had they finish'd—Oh! that now, so gay,
My Muse might, thro' enamell'd Meadows, stray
By Village side, whence Ploughmen whistle blithe,
And the rude Mower whets his shining scythe,
Or Milk-Maid trips, and, while her cleanly Pails
Click at her side, the Morn with Carol hails,
Or Shepherd Lad, with barking Cur beside,
Hies to the Cot where bleat the fleecy pride!
With Vernal Beauties then my Verse should shine;
Some varied Landscape glow in every Line;
Some balmy Zephyr thro' the waving Grove,
In every Couplet, breathe the Sigh of Love;
While the shrill Lark, or Horn's inspiring sound,
Should scare the Spectres to their Haunts profound.—
But Truth would here the Lark, the Horn disclaim:
And simple Truth is all the Muse's aim.—
Scarce had they finish'd, when thro' Chiswell Street
(The MUSE's now, and ALPHABETA's Seat)
A shrill loud Voice proclaim'd the scatter'd Gloom,
And “Sweep Soot O!” resounded thro' the dome.
Would tell you, by the Cock's shrill Clarion scar'd;
But we, who true Description seek alone,
Know that Cocks seldom crow in London Town;—
Unless the Poet, for the Time of Need,
Should keep one by him of Parnassian breed,
Which, fed with Barley from the bi-fork'd hill,
Stands, with arch'd Neck, to chuckle at his will.—
Scarce had they finish'd—Oh! that now, so gay,
My Muse might, thro' enamell'd Meadows, stray
By Village side, whence Ploughmen whistle blithe,
And the rude Mower whets his shining scythe,
Or Milk-Maid trips, and, while her cleanly Pails
Click at her side, the Morn with Carol hails,
Or Shepherd Lad, with barking Cur beside,
Hies to the Cot where bleat the fleecy pride!
With Vernal Beauties then my Verse should shine;
Some varied Landscape glow in every Line;
Some balmy Zephyr thro' the waving Grove,
In every Couplet, breathe the Sigh of Love;
While the shrill Lark, or Horn's inspiring sound,
Should scare the Spectres to their Haunts profound.—
But Truth would here the Lark, the Horn disclaim:
And simple Truth is all the Muse's aim.—
Scarce had they finish'd, when thro' Chiswell Street
(The MUSE's now, and ALPHABETA's Seat)
A shrill loud Voice proclaim'd the scatter'd Gloom,
And “Sweep Soot O!” resounded thro' the dome.
The Spectres started. Straight each Shadowy Breast
The faithful Harbinger of Morn confest.
They melt to Air, as sooty, maim'd, and slow,
Pass the sad Sons of Penury and Woe!
The faithful Harbinger of Morn confest.
They melt to Air, as sooty, maim'd, and slow,
Pass the sad Sons of Penury and Woe!
65
Aurora's rush-light melted now away
Before the flambeau of the God of Day,
Whose broad unwelcome glare o'er house tops seen,
Tips Betty's casement with refulgent sheen,
And calls young Barnwell from her brawny arms,
To 'scape, unseen, thro' gutters from her charms,
Just time enough to let his master in,
Reeling to business from the tavern's din.
—Now bakers, on their dough-troughs yawn in state,
Damn the assize, and shrink the destin'd weight;
The midnight robber skulking hides his head,
And unplied trulls steal pennyless to bed;
While milk-maids haste to Islington, whose stream
Mingles with milk to furnish London cream.
—Now sprightly Billingsgate is just awake,
And the throng'd Nereids their stations take:
Sweet sound their treble pipes; each accent hung
With Classic graces of the vulgar tongue;
While Covent Garden echoes back the strain;
Where throng the pastoral nymph and rural swain
From Putney's, Battersea's, and Peckham's plain:
Those Nymphs and Swains, whose rural Eclogues sweet
Have oft made vocal Carpenter's retreat—
Who knows not Carpenter's? whose early doors
Ope with the dawn for hucksters, thieves, and whores,
Rooks who with E. O. chace the midnight gloom,
And poor gull'd Pigeons stripp'd of every plume;
While jilts, culls, bullies, mingle with the throng,
Pour the loud curse, and belch the reeling song.
To these responsive, what blithe founds arise!
Bid shops unfold, and house maids rub their eyes!
“Primroses!” “Dust O!” “Lavender!” Old clothes!”
And “Water Cresses!” banish dull repose;
“Brick Dust!” “Sweep Soot O!” on the breezes swim
And waft from street to street the matin hymn;
While, in full chorus to the jocund lay,
Carts rattle, drivers swear, and asses bray!—
Before the flambeau of the God of Day,
Whose broad unwelcome glare o'er house tops seen,
Tips Betty's casement with refulgent sheen,
And calls young Barnwell from her brawny arms,
To 'scape, unseen, thro' gutters from her charms,
Just time enough to let his master in,
Reeling to business from the tavern's din.
—Now bakers, on their dough-troughs yawn in state,
Damn the assize, and shrink the destin'd weight;
The midnight robber skulking hides his head,
And unplied trulls steal pennyless to bed;
While milk-maids haste to Islington, whose stream
Mingles with milk to furnish London cream.
—Now sprightly Billingsgate is just awake,
And the throng'd Nereids their stations take:
Sweet sound their treble pipes; each accent hung
With Classic graces of the vulgar tongue;
While Covent Garden echoes back the strain;
Where throng the pastoral nymph and rural swain
From Putney's, Battersea's, and Peckham's plain:
Those Nymphs and Swains, whose rural Eclogues sweet
Have oft made vocal Carpenter's retreat—
Who knows not Carpenter's? whose early doors
Ope with the dawn for hucksters, thieves, and whores,
Rooks who with E. O. chace the midnight gloom,
And poor gull'd Pigeons stripp'd of every plume;
While jilts, culls, bullies, mingle with the throng,
Pour the loud curse, and belch the reeling song.
To these responsive, what blithe founds arise!
Bid shops unfold, and house maids rub their eyes!
“Primroses!” “Dust O!” “Lavender!” Old clothes!”
And “Water Cresses!” banish dull repose;
“Brick Dust!” “Sweep Soot O!” on the breezes swim
And waft from street to street the matin hymn;
66
Carts rattle, drivers swear, and asses bray!—
But dead to this blithe chorus of the morn
Turns purse-proud Grandeur with an idle yawn,
Bent to renew once more, in flattering dreams,
His Dissipations or ambitious schemes.
Turns purse-proud Grandeur with an idle yawn,
Bent to renew once more, in flattering dreams,
His Dissipations or ambitious schemes.
New forest 'closures sweeten Rose's sleep,
And Smith's damn'd verdict from his memory keep.
In Pitt's bright fancy bolder hopes arise—
Unbounded sway, and general excise;
Confiding Senates, Camps of Observation,
To crush enquiry, and dragoon the nation,
Navies and armaments, at Britain's cost,
Foredoom'd to gain—of Patronage a host;—
Foredoom'd to crush, (if Heaven their purpose aid)
The impious crew who Rights of King's invade.
And Smith's damn'd verdict from his memory keep.
In Pitt's bright fancy bolder hopes arise—
Unbounded sway, and general excise;
Confiding Senates, Camps of Observation,
To crush enquiry, and dragoon the nation,
Navies and armaments, at Britain's cost,
Foredoom'd to gain—of Patronage a host;—
Foredoom'd to crush, (if Heaven their purpose aid)
The impious crew who Rights of King's invade.
For Dreams like these thrice strives Dundas in vain,
While whip-gall'd Afric clanks the lengthen'd chain,
And with fierce rage the wretch's bosom rends,
Who damn'd her cause by joining with her friends.
Thrice turns he round and sleeps; and thrice arise
Grim hedious Spectres to his haggard eyes,
Shrieking aloud “No more expect repose,
“Till slow the guilty eighteenth Century close.”
Again he turns. His country's curses swell
Thick in his ear; and while the hedious yell
Harrows his soul, the gibbet rears elate,
And burning effigies foretel his fate,
Tho' lawless magistrates wage Civil war
To save with British blood the men of straw.
Great Mammon Nimrod now, as when awake,
Creeps to his store, a fond, fond glance to take;
Laughs at an o'ertax'd people's groans, and cries,
With goat-like mouth, and idiot glaring eyes,
While, pile on pile, his seventeen millions swell,
“What—what—what—what—don't all—all things go well;”
Then, (tho' his purblind eyes, disloyal, fail
To shew the difference 'twixt the mane and tail)
Calls for his horse, and with heroic grace
Braves all the pleasing dangers of the chace.
While whip-gall'd Afric clanks the lengthen'd chain,
And with fierce rage the wretch's bosom rends,
Who damn'd her cause by joining with her friends.
Thrice turns he round and sleeps; and thrice arise
Grim hedious Spectres to his haggard eyes,
Shrieking aloud “No more expect repose,
“Till slow the guilty eighteenth Century close.”
Again he turns. His country's curses swell
Thick in his ear; and while the hedious yell
Harrows his soul, the gibbet rears elate,
And burning effigies foretel his fate,
Tho' lawless magistrates wage Civil war
To save with British blood the men of straw.
Great Mammon Nimrod now, as when awake,
Creeps to his store, a fond, fond glance to take;
Laughs at an o'ertax'd people's groans, and cries,
With goat-like mouth, and idiot glaring eyes,
67
“What—what—what—what—don't all—all things go well;”
Then, (tho' his purblind eyes, disloyal, fail
To shew the difference 'twixt the mane and tail)
Calls for his horse, and with heroic grace
Braves all the pleasing dangers of the chace.
68
Fair Hebe, blushing like a full blown Rose,
That full blown Rose, whose shape she once assum'd,
And bright on Covent Garden Hustings bloom'd,
Till Argos eyes detect the treacherous thorn,
To goad fair-Freedom's side malignant worn;
At which, abash'd, she fled the light of Day,
And hid beneath Minerva's buckler lay.—
70
Dread thundering Jove resistless beam'd on high:
His awful wig of lightest hair around
A star-gem'd diadem imperial frown'd,
In front of which bright beam'd the radiant stone,
An eastern Nabob lately call'd his own;
Till at the altar of the thundering God,
In supplication of his guardian nod,
Submiss 'twas offer'd. Jove, as Gods are us'd,
Receiv'd the offering, but the pray'r refus'd.
—Dread was his presence: in his red right hand,
Prepar'd to vindicate his high command,
He grasps those thunders Alphabeta's care
Had forg'd the terrors of his will to bear.
Now when the adverse conflict he espies.
With face of scarlet and grey rolling eyes,
Sees types on types dispers'd, dismay'd, or slain,
And Boydel raging thro' the ensanguin'd plain:
Indignant wrath and keen resentment rise,
And, What! what! what! with thick short speech, he cries;
But could no more, for choler choak'd his tongue,
And what! what! what! thro' heaven's wide concave rung.
Scar'd Moorfields shakes, clouds tremble as they roll,
Fork'd lightnings fly, big angry thunders growl,
And what! what! what! chills every victor's soul.
Scar'd Boydell flies, Woodmason's puff expires,
And e'en thy deamon, Opie, slow retires.
71
And brands of heavenly fury blaze around.
Thro' Britain's empire spreads the sacred ire,
Prints every gate-house, post, and village spire,
Whence gazing Rustics, wondering what is meant,
Read dreadful words of treason, discontent,
Sedition rumour'd, enemies to peace,
And dread commands, that Reason's voice should cease.
| The peripatetic | |