EXPOSTULATION;
OR, AN ADDRESS TO MISS HANNAH MORE.
Miss Hannah has no eagle wing to flee,
Whom thus thine adulation would befool:
Alas! a poor ephemeron is she;
A humming native of a British pool.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Miss HANNAH MORE having, with unmerited
severity, nay, illiberality, attacked the poor
poets en masse, alias in a lump, in the following
terms, viz. ‘The poets again, who, to do them justice,
are always ready to lend a helping hand when
any mischief is to be done;’ I have, unlike Miss
Hannah, preserved a Christian spirit on the occasion,
a spirit whiich she every-where so fervently recommends,
and meekly made my complaint in poetical
expostulation, hoping that she will, with the usual
assistance of her good friends the clergy, vouchsafe
me an answer, in some measure to justify the
slander, or expunge it in the next edition of what
are called her Strictures on Female Education
.
P. P.
ARGUMENT.
The Poet begs to be informed of the Cause of Miss
Hannah's Wrath—he praiseth the Mildness of
the Poets—he putteth sly and shrewd Questions
to Miss Hannah—Peter complaineth of Miss
Hannah's general Sarcasm on himself and brother
Bards—Peter puffeth himself—boasteth of
the royal Attention to his Works—also of one of
the Princesses, all the Favourites of Peter, whom
Peter admireth and laudeth—also of Miss Tryon,
late Maid of Honour, and the present Maids
of Honour—likewise of the immortal Kotsciusko
—Peter, with his accustomed Liberality,
exhibiteth the Reverse of the Medal, describing
the unfavourable Opinion entertained of him
by the Blue-Stocking Club—he giveth the Anathema
of a little old Man in Petticoats, called
Urganda, an important Membress of the Society,
and much attended to in the Debates—
Dame Urganda calleth upon Miss Hannah to
be the little David of the Club, and slay Goliah
Peter—Peter cannot account for Miss Hannah's
Attack on the Poets—He maketh Miss Hannah
a grand Offer of composing a glorious Panegyric
on her splendid Genius, the very Instant
Miss Hannah informs him where it is to be
found.
Say, angry Hannah, on a gentle throng,
Why boils thus o'er the caldron of thine ire?
A dove-like offspring are the sons of song,
A cherub race the children of the lyre.
Poets were ever deem'd a sacred band,
Abounding with much virtue, meekness, grace;
Indeed a peaceful treasure to the land,
The robin redbreasts of the human race.
Oh! has no bard to Hannah pour'd an air;
With Hannah's beauty bid no stanza glow:
Her cheeks' warm roses, and her flaxen hair,
The lip of purple, and the neck of snow.
Oh! hast thou past through life without a rhime?
No sweet acrostic on thy liquid name?
No rebus, no conundrum's happy chime,
Proclaiming graces, and a hopeless flame?
Tell me, did no fond lover ever write
A decent distich on his fav'rite maid?
Not to his dear Lucretia once endite?
For sonneteering is the lover's trade.
Somewhat has wounded thee, 'tis very plain!
Revenge, I fear, lies rankling in thy heart;
Then say thy cause of anger and disdain—
Why on poor Poets hast thou been so tart?
Much for the poet's character I feel—
And me a poet, majesty will own:
Nay, nay, my glory why should I conceal?
My works, morocco-gilt, are near the throne.
The charming princesses who court the Nine,
Whom Taste delighted proudly leads along—
These, with a smile, have read my early line,
And with their names shall grace my latest song.
Miss Tyron, maid of honour to the queen,
In rich Morocco bid my works be bound:
Beneath the pillows of the rest, I ween,
The works of Peter Pindar may be found.
Me Kotsciusco deems a bard divine!
My works illum'd his dungeon
of affright:
'Twas there the hero read my lyric line,
Yea, read my lucubrations with delight.
To me the hero rich Falernian sent,
To sooth the horrors of our gloomy weather;
To him in Leicester-Fields with joy I went,
For bards and heroes pair like doves together.
Yet let me say, be done fair Justice too,
Some damn in toto my poor thoughts and style;
The toothless gums of half the grave Bas-bleu,
Watering, and wondering, how the world can smile.
Urganda, with more beard than female grace,
If old Urganda has not learnt to shave,
Makes, at my name, most horrible grimace,
Screaming, ‘I'd buy a rope to hang the knave.’
‘My dearest, sweetest, panegyrist, More,
Pray, pray oblige me with your flippant pen;
Lord; you have so much wit—yes, such a store!
Pray, Hannah, cut us up this worst of men.
‘Oh, cut the fellow into mince-meat, pray!
Whene'er I hear his name, I'm in a stew;
He's worse than Johnson, ten times, let me say,
Who gave himself such airs on the Bas-bleu.
‘O Lord! O Lord! what is Parnassus now?
A dismal, barren, melancholy waste;
Brambles, and weeds, and briars on the brow;
No fruit—no fruit to gratify the taste.
‘In short, this once great celebrated hill
Exhibits only children at the nipple;
A hospital, indeed, that idiots fill,
And every sort of lame and hopping cripple.
‘On you, our little David, mind, we call,
To knock this vile Goliah on the head;
Down with him!—like a bullock let him fall;
Down with him!—Lord! I long to see him dead!
‘Then, then, the horrid monster grins no more;
Then at our club the owl no longer hoots:
Thus shall our club the glorious deed adore.’—
Thus spoke the little proud old puss in boots!
But now to thee, fair Hannah to return,
For much I long thy fury's cause to know;
Nought have I done to bid thine anger burn;
My ink can never blot the vest of snow.
Lo! to do justice—with a liberal spirit,
I'm now on tip-toe, to begin my lays!
Hint to the poet but thy various merit,
I'll make Parnassus thunder with thy praise.
