 | Poems |  |
xix
COMMENDATORY POEMS.
To the Author of the elegant Poem of the Children of Thespis.
Banish the thought—forbear to paint the stage,
A nobler theme thy talents should engage;
Thy polish'd verses trivial subjects raise,
And wond'rous place them in the line of praise:
Names which from thee their only merit draw,
As glowing amber lifts the worthless straw.
A nobler theme thy talents should engage;
Thy polish'd verses trivial subjects raise,
And wond'rous place them in the line of praise:
Names which from thee their only merit draw,
As glowing amber lifts the worthless straw.
Leave Politicians to their mazy wiles,
The Muses court thee with their sweetest smiles:
The powers of Martial's pointed page are thine,
The strength of Juvenal's in every line:
Shut from your mind St. Stephens, and the stage,
Seize broader subjects—Castigate the Age.
Our fading virtues—fatal passions scan,
Lash the deep vice, but never name the man.
Let moral truth and social love combine,
To spin the beauties of the lengthen'd line:
With works like these assert thy doubtless claim,
To live recorded in the roll of Fame.
The Muses court thee with their sweetest smiles:
The powers of Martial's pointed page are thine,
The strength of Juvenal's in every line:
Shut from your mind St. Stephens, and the stage,
Seize broader subjects—Castigate the Age.
Our fading virtues—fatal passions scan,
Lash the deep vice, but never name the man.
Let moral truth and social love combine,
To spin the beauties of the lengthen'd line:
With works like these assert thy doubtless claim,
To live recorded in the roll of Fame.
xx
Our children's children o'er thy honour'd dust,
Shall raise the sculptur'd tomb and laurell'd bust;
Inscribe the stone with monumental woe,
While the big tears in gushing torrents flow!
“Here lies the man—methinks the verse recites—
“Whose pen reforms us, and whose page delights;
“Virtue and Wit most nobly were combin'd
“Within the mansion of his glowing mind;
“Unaw'd by menaces, by bribes unbought,
“He dare be every thing that manhood aught:
“Whene'er the wounds of Vice his pen reveals,
“Pours the soft balm, and, as he pours, he heals!
—“His volume calls—go—read with mental eye,
“'Twill teach thee how to live—and how to die!”
Shall raise the sculptur'd tomb and laurell'd bust;
Inscribe the stone with monumental woe,
While the big tears in gushing torrents flow!
“Here lies the man—methinks the verse recites—
“Whose pen reforms us, and whose page delights;
“Virtue and Wit most nobly were combin'd
“Within the mansion of his glowing mind;
“Unaw'd by menaces, by bribes unbought,
“He dare be every thing that manhood aught:
“Whene'er the wounds of Vice his pen reveals,
“Pours the soft balm, and, as he pours, he heals!
—“His volume calls—go—read with mental eye,
“'Twill teach thee how to live—and how to die!”
WEST DUDLEY DIGGES.
xxi
TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq.
Pandite nunc Helicona, Deæ, cantusque movete.
Virg.
Virg.
For thee, O Pasquin! whose satiric strain,
(Replete with attic salt, and just disdain,)
Strikes shame and terror to the guilty heart,
And, daring Folly, wounds in ev'ry part:
For thee the virgins of the choir divine,
Th' immortal goddesses, the sacred nine,
From Helicon's embow'ring heights repair,
To bless thy labours, and attend thy pray'r;
To thee, the scourge of Folly they entrust,
As Juvenal severe, as Persius just.
Astræas friends, with joy, thy justice own,
While Vice is tott'ring on her brilliant throne;
The sons of Dulness sink beneath thy force,
And Arrogance eludes thy dreaded course!
Still more admir'd than Crurchill shalt thou be,
A brighter fire than Churchill's glows in thee!
Proceed, great bard, all meaner things disdain,
And give a loose to thy satiric vein;
Lash Error, Folly, Vice, reform the Stage,
And blaze the Flaccus of the present age.
Cambridge, Feb. 10, 1789. W. WHITBY.
xxii
VERSES TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq. THE BRITISH MARTIAL.
Hail to the bard whose bold and manly lay,
Warms as it flows with a resistless sway!
With powers increasing may his genius rove
“O'er the sad ills that wait illicit love!”
Lamented Cargill! lost, but not forgot,
The feeling bard has sung thy hapless lot,
And thus recorded thy sad tale will stand
A lesson to the daughters of our land.
The child of Virtue in a distant age
Shall strike her bosom as she meets the page;
Then, sweetly smiling, through the trembling tear,
Shall own that guilt, and only guilt, can fear.
Warms as it flows with a resistless sway!
With powers increasing may his genius rove
“O'er the sad ills that wait illicit love!”
Lamented Cargill! lost, but not forgot,
The feeling bard has sung thy hapless lot,
And thus recorded thy sad tale will stand
A lesson to the daughters of our land.
The child of Virtue in a distant age
Shall strike her bosom as she meets the page;
Then, sweetly smiling, through the trembling tear,
Shall own that guilt, and only guilt, can fear.
Long may my Pasquin glow with honest rage,
Long lash the idle flutt'rers of the age:
Long may the richness of his mind expand,
At once the pride and terror of the land.
Those hearts too light to hear the private friend,
'Tis only public satire can amend:
Then still proceed, my Pasquin, rush along,
In all the thund'ring eloquence of song.
View Vice and Folly shrinking from thy lay;
View Reformation mark thy glorious way:
Thy pen, the lancet, strike at all around,
Extract the core, and Time will heal the wound:
To crush the giant villainies be thine,
View Folly redden, paler Guilt repine,
Stung by the just rebuke which marks thy nervous line.
Long lash the idle flutt'rers of the age:
Long may the richness of his mind expand,
At once the pride and terror of the land.
Those hearts too light to hear the private friend,
'Tis only public satire can amend:
Then still proceed, my Pasquin, rush along,
In all the thund'ring eloquence of song.
xxiii
View Reformation mark thy glorious way:
Thy pen, the lancet, strike at all around,
Extract the core, and Time will heal the wound:
To crush the giant villainies be thine,
View Folly redden, paler Guilt repine,
Stung by the just rebuke which marks thy nervous line.
In ev'ry age keen satire's wholesome spring
Has heal'd the wounds of prejudice's sting:
Pure is its stream, its glassy surface flows
Clear as the day, and every foible shews:
Its genial influence mental health imparts,
The richest med'cine for corrupted hearts.
Its waters clear the sickly mists away,
That, rising, check the force of Wisdom's ray;
While brighten'd Reason, beaming o'er the mind,
Exulting views each faculty refin'd.
Has heal'd the wounds of prejudice's sting:
Pure is its stream, its glassy surface flows
Clear as the day, and every foible shews:
Its genial influence mental health imparts,
The richest med'cine for corrupted hearts.
Its waters clear the sickly mists away,
That, rising, check the force of Wisdom's ray;
While brighten'd Reason, beaming o'er the mind,
Exulting views each faculty refin'd.
THOMAS BELLAMY.
xxiv
TO MY FRIEND, ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq.
On reading the first part of the Children of Thespis.
Resistless bard! by ev'ry Science own'd,Thou shalt be universally renown'd!
In Pasquin's toils we more than Churchill see;
The fire of Dryden is reviv'd in thee.
With exquisite delight, my eye explores,
Thy glowing fancy's inexhaustless stores;
Well may you tread all competition down:
Originality is all your own.
More wit, more learning, has not ravish'd men,
Since Butler's Hudibras escap'd his pen.
With wond'rous power is the texture wrought;
Each line's an epigram, each word is thought.
Go on, and dignify this sinking age;
Make Folly fly before thy gen'rous rage:
Nobly avail yourself of Phœbus smiles,
And prop the virtues of the queen of isles.
FREDERICK PILON.
Hotel D' Yorke, Paris, May 8, 1787.
xxv
ODE TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq.
Pasquin, can nought thy daring pen impede,
Or stem the venom of thy critic gall?
Shall thy effusions make whole legions bleed,
And thou sit smiling as their numbers fall?
Or stem the venom of thy critic gall?
Shall thy effusions make whole legions bleed,
And thou sit smiling as their numbers fall?
By heaven! I'll probe thee to the heart's warm core,
If Thespis hurl again his satire round,
E'en thy existence, by the gods, I've swore,
To bring, by strength samfonian, to the ground!
If Thespis hurl again his satire round,
E'en thy existence, by the gods, I've swore,
To bring, by strength samfonian, to the ground!
For know, that giants should with giants vie,
And such art thou, magnanimous and proud,
Disdaining all who give thy works the lie,
And spurning those who've threaten'd vengeance loud.
And such art thou, magnanimous and proud,
Disdaining all who give thy works the lie,
And spurning those who've threaten'd vengeance loud.
Say, shall thy haughty and indignant quill
Hurl barbed shafts, speak Reputation's death?
No! I'll annihilate thy savage will,
And stop the course of thy infectious breath!
Hurl barbed shafts, speak Reputation's death?
No! I'll annihilate thy savage will,
And stop the course of thy infectious breath!
xxvi
The fires of Ætna shall awhile be mine,
To set thy satires in a general blaze,
And from thy ashes rebuild Folly's shrine,
That ideots may upon the structure gaze.
To set thy satires in a general blaze,
And from thy ashes rebuild Folly's shrine,
That ideots may upon the structure gaze.
Imperious tyrant, doth my threats affright
Thy yet ungovern'd and undaunted soul?
Or, rather, fill thee with renew'd delight,
Such as when Paris lovely Helen stole?
Thy yet ungovern'd and undaunted soul?
Or, rather, fill thee with renew'd delight,
Such as when Paris lovely Helen stole?
Yes: far eternal warfare is thy sport,
With those who will not own thy iron sway,
For monarchs fear, and queens thy graces court,
And all the Thespian tribe thy nod obey.
With those who will not own thy iron sway,
For monarchs fear, and queens thy graces court,
And all the Thespian tribe thy nod obey.
WILLIAM UPTON.
xxvii
TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq.
Just Satyrist, thy fruitful theme pursue,Still hold the mirror up to Folly's view:
To her vain eyes each glaring fault disclose,
That she may blush such errors to expose;
But shrinking from the public gaze retire
To some rude barn, where gaping fools admire.
There let her strut, with buskin'd pride elate,
Start, stare, rave, die, in mock heroics great.
Or if in antic mood the sock she wears,
Though her broad front beneath the mask appears,
The loud applause from Ignorance she'll gain,
In all that gives sense, taste, and judgment pain,
Still, Pasquin, in the noble task engage,
Till Folly's driven from the British stage.
Yet, not to Satire is thy pen confin'd,
True Panegyric shews a generous mind,
By liberal sentiment and taste refin'd.
Where excellence broke forth with dazzling rays,
That excellence obtain'd thy glowing praise,
And modest merit with soft lustre shines,
Set to advantage in thy charming lines.
Truth will approve, and brilliant Wit admire
A work that emulation must inspire,
And envious scribblers must in vain oppose,
While only Vice and Folly are thy foes.
J. BUTLER.
| Poems | |