The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Peter declareth that he liketh literary Emulation amongst the Sex, but contendeth for fair Play —that is to say, People should publish their own Works—Peter knoweth Miss Hannah's havage, knoweth all her Points, and pronounceth her unqualified for a first-rate Racer, whatever her powers among the Ponies—Peter elucidateth the Frauds in Literature by a Smock-Race—Peter turneth to the Bishop, and asketh a shrewd Question—He solemnly calleth on the Bishop's Attention, and sayeth oracular Things!—Peter supplicateth the Bishop to think charitably of his rhiming Intentions—he dreadeth the fatal Effects of his Flattery of Miss Hannah; making her hold up her Nose in Contempt of the under-World, knowing none but Quality—Peter asserteth such Flattery to be a Sin, as it stirreth up Pride, which every body knows ruined the Devil—Peter citeth a proverb taken from Hell— he again beggeth the Bishop to think well of his Intentions—proclaimeth his Love for Bishops, perhaps equal to that of the unbeneficed Clergy —Peter draweth a Parallel between Bishops of old, and Bishops of the present Day—a terrible Portrait of the old School!—a most engaging one of the new—Peter piously concludeth with a Prayer for Bishops.

450

I like a rivalship in art, I own—
Yes, let there be a spur to emulation:
But let fair Justice sit upon her throne,
And keep a little decent regulation.

Lo, for the laurel prize Miss Hannah starts!
But Nature, to Miss Hannah's heels unkind,
The hopes of honour and of glory thwarts!
Left is Miss Hannah's far, yes, far behind.

Miss Hannah's heels are greasy, let me say;
Miss Hannah's joints are very stiff indeed:
Her form is rather fitted for the dray,
Than on Newmarket turf to show a speed.

Some years ago, I saw a female race;
The prize a shift—a Holland shift, I ween:
Ten damsels, nearly all in naked grace,
Rush'd for the precious prize along the green.

Sylvia, a charming lass (who, if an air
And face had been permitted to contend,
Had carried all before her), luckless fair!
Was to her sister racers forc'd to bend.

When Orson mounted on a goodly mule,
Whose love for Sylvia to her cause inclin'd him,
In spite, ye gods, of ev'ry racing rule,
Whipp'd up the damsel on the beast behind him.

Then off he gallop'd, pass'd each panting maid,
Who mark'd the cheat with disappointed eyes;
Soon brought her in, unblushing at his aid,
And for his fav'rite boldly claim'd the prize.

O say, has nought been very like it, here?
Did no kind swain his hand to Hannah yield—
No bishop's hand to help a heavy rear,
And bear the nymph triumphant o'er the field?

List to the oracles I now advance—
A man stark blind should never races run;

451

A cripple never should pretend to dance;
A head of wax should never court the sun.

Then bid Miss Hannah More her pen confine:
Repress the vainly rhiming, prosing rage,
That makes us sinful damn the nerveless line,
Un-Job-like curse the pen'ry of the page.

Good Porteus, think not Envy prompts my strain;
'Tis Pity, Pity bids me verse compose,
Thy flattery's fumes must turn the virgin's brain,
So fierce its incense burns beneath her nose.

Oh, hadst thou crawl'd a curate, let me say,
Harmless thy flatt'ry then had spent its breath;
Just whisper'd to the world, and died away,
Like thy own sermons, and dead lines on Death.

Miss Hannah's head is now among the clouds,
Borne by the necromantic art of praise!
The nymph from vulgar eyes her glory shrouds,
To mix with high-ton'd quality her rays.

To them, Miss Hannah, strutting forth so fine,
In all thy gaudy flow'rs superbly drest,
Must raise a smile on graver mouths than mine;
Such seeming mock'ry—such a solemn jest!

An oracle behold Miss Hannah grown!
Each child of title lisps Miss Hannah's name;
A bishop's plaudit sanctifies a Joan:—
What better passport to the house of Fame?

Thus then, O man of God, thy flattery sins:
For thou hast conjur'd up the woman's vanity—
Bestow'd false consequence on heads of pins,
And giv'n (O blush!) a substance to inanity.

Thus then thy praises of Miss Hannah's head
To Pride, that pitfall of old Satan, win her!
Porteus there is a proverb thou shouldst read,
‘When flatt'rers meet, the Devil goes to dinner.’

452

Deem not, good Porteus, that in this my song
I mean to harrow up thy humble mind,
And stay that voice in London known so long;
For balm and softness an Etesian wind.

My love for bishops is proverbial grown:
Sweet is the race, and so Miss Hannah says:
Where'er I wander, lo! I make it known!
How different from the tribes of distant days!

Long were a bishop's tusks in times of yore,
His gaping gullet flam'd the track of Hell:
Loud as the Libyan lion's was his roar,
His frowns like lightning, blasting where they fell.

Then Persecution rais'd her iron crow,
And saw, with doating eye, her power display'd;
Enjoy'd the flying brains at ev'ry blow,
And bless'd the knives and hooks with which she flay'd.

Grill'd, roasted, carbonaded, fricaseed,
Men, women, children, for the slightest things;
Burnt, strangled, glorying in the horrid deed;
Nay, starv'd and flogg'd God's great vicegerents, kings!

But things are chang'd—assume a different tone,
The teeth of bishops are a gentle set;
Content, if nought is near, to pick a bone;
So little pamper'd with delicious meat.

How sweet the smile, when bishop, bishop greets!
How flow the honey'd streams of salutation,
Ev'n in the middle of our London streets:
Rich lessons of good-will to all the nation!

No scorn now frowneth from a bishop's eye,
No sounds of anger from his lips escape;
Save on a curate's importuning sigh,
Save on the penury of ragged crape.

453

Now God preserve the bishops, every skin,
To blaze like beacons to the darken'd nations;
To roast old Satan, knock down Gammer Sin,
And for a pack of rascals hang the passions.

Thus ends my song, perhaps, a child of Fame.—
And now, for Justice' sake, let me petition:
Should Fortune chance to give thy charge a name,
Omit Miss Hannah's in the next edition.