The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton ... Fifth Edition, Corrected and Enlarged. To which are now added Inscriptionum Romanarum Delectus, and An Inaugural Speech As Camden Professor of History, never before published. Together with Memoirs of his Life and Writings; and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Richard Mant |
 | I, II. |
|
|
 |
NEWMARKET,
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton |  |
165
NEWMARKET,
A SATIRE.
(Published in 1751.)
Πουλυπονος ιππεια
Ως εμολες αιανη
Ταδε γα.
Sophocl. Elect. 508.
Ως εμολες αιανη
Ταδε γα.
Sophocl. Elect. 508.
His country's hope, when now the blooming Heir
Has lost the Parent's or the Guardian's care;
Fond to possess, yet eager to destroy,
Of each vain youth, say, what's the darling joy?
Of each rash frolic what the source and end,
His sole and first ambition what?—to spend.
Has lost the Parent's or the Guardian's care;
Fond to possess, yet eager to destroy,
Of each vain youth, say, what's the darling joy?
Of each rash frolic what the source and end,
His sole and first ambition what?—to spend.
Some 'Squires, to Gallia's cooks devoted dupes,
Whole manors melt in sauce, or drown in soups:
Another doats on fiddlers, till he sees
His hills no longer crown'd with tow'ring trees;
Convinc'd too late that modern strains can move,
Like those of ancient Greece, th' obedient grove:
In headless statues rich, and useless urns,
Marmoreo from the classic tour returns.—
But would ye learn, ye leisure-loving 'Squires,
How best ye may disgrace your prudent sires;
How soonest soar to fashionable shame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
Whole manors melt in sauce, or drown in soups:
166
His hills no longer crown'd with tow'ring trees;
Convinc'd too late that modern strains can move,
Like those of ancient Greece, th' obedient grove:
In headless statues rich, and useless urns,
Marmoreo from the classic tour returns.—
But would ye learn, ye leisure-loving 'Squires,
How best ye may disgrace your prudent sires;
How soonest soar to fashionable shame,
Be damn'd at once to ruin—and to fame;
By hands of grooms ambitious to be crown'd,
O greatly dare to tread Olympic ground!
What dreams of conquest flush'd Hilario's breast,
When the good Knight at last retir'd to rest!
Behold the Youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleasing prospect of the spacious park:
That park, where beauties undisguis'd engage,
Those beauties less the work of art than age;
In simple state where genuine nature wears
Her venerable dress of ancient years;
Where all the charms of chance with order meet
The rude, the gay, the graceful, and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
And form dark groves, which Druids might adore;
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here shoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
Here various trees compose a chequer'd scene,
Glowing in gay diversities of green:
There the full stream thro' intermingling glades
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep cascades.
Nor wants there hazle copse, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with sun or shade the bounding fawn.
When the good Knight at last retir'd to rest!
Behold the Youth with new-felt rapture mark
Each pleasing prospect of the spacious park:
That park, where beauties undisguis'd engage,
Those beauties less the work of art than age;
In simple state where genuine nature wears
Her venerable dress of ancient years;
Where all the charms of chance with order meet
The rude, the gay, the graceful, and the great.
Here aged oaks uprear their branches hoar,
167
With meeting boughs, and deepening to the view,
Here shoots the broad umbrageous avenue:
168
Glowing in gay diversities of green:
There the full stream thro' intermingling glades
Shines a broad lake, or falls in deep cascades.
Nor wants there hazle copse, or beechen lawn,
To cheer with sun or shade the bounding fawn.
And see the good old seat, whose Gothic tow'rs
Awful emerge from yonder tufted bow'rs;
Whose rafter'd hall the crowding tenants fed,
And dealt to age and want their daily bread;
Where crested Knights with peerless Damsels join'd,
At high and solemn festivals have din'd;
Presenting oft fair Virtue's shining task,
In mystic pageantries, and moral mask.
But vain all ancient praise, or boast of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt and a prosp'rous heir,
Hilario bets,—park, house, dissolve in air,
With antique armour hung, his trophied rooms
Descend to Gamesters, Prostitutes, and Grooms.
He sees his steel-clad Sires, and Mothers mild,
Who bravely shook the lance, or sweetly smil'd,
All the fair series of the whisker'd race,
Whose pictur'd forms the stately gallery grace;
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck some tavern vile, at auctions sold.
The parish wonders at the unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan, no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts arise,
And all the social scene in silence lies.
Himself, the loss politely to repair,
Turns Atheist, Fiddler, Highwayman, or Play'r:
At length, the scorn, the shame of man and God,
Is doom'd to rub the steeds that once he rode.
Awful emerge from yonder tufted bow'rs;
Whose rafter'd hall the crowding tenants fed,
And dealt to age and want their daily bread;
Where crested Knights with peerless Damsels join'd,
At high and solemn festivals have din'd;
Presenting oft fair Virtue's shining task,
169
But vain all ancient praise, or boast of birth,
Vain all the palms of old heroic worth!
At once a bankrupt and a prosp'rous heir,
Hilario bets,—park, house, dissolve in air,
With antique armour hung, his trophied rooms
Descend to Gamesters, Prostitutes, and Grooms.
He sees his steel-clad Sires, and Mothers mild,
Who bravely shook the lance, or sweetly smil'd,
All the fair series of the whisker'd race,
Whose pictur'd forms the stately gallery grace;
Debas'd, abus'd, the price of ill-got gold,
To deck some tavern vile, at auctions sold.
The parish wonders at the unopening door,
The chimnies blaze, the tables groan, no more.
Thick weeds around th' untrodden courts arise,
And all the social scene in silence lies.
Himself, the loss politely to repair,
Turns Atheist, Fiddler, Highwayman, or Play'r:
At length, the scorn, the shame of man and God,
Is doom'd to rub the steeds that once he rode.
Ye rival youths, your golden hopes how vain,
Your dreams of thousands on the listed plain!
Not more fantastic Sancho's airy course,
When madly mounted on the magic horse,
He pierc'd heav'n's opening spheres with dazzled eyes,
And seem'd to soar in visionary skies.
Nor less, I ween, precarious is the meed
Of young adventurers on the Muse's steed;
For Poets have, like you, their destin'd round,
And ours is but a race on classic ground.
Your dreams of thousands on the listed plain!
170
When madly mounted on the magic horse,
He pierc'd heav'n's opening spheres with dazzled eyes,
And seem'd to soar in visionary skies.
Nor less, I ween, precarious is the meed
Of young adventurers on the Muse's steed;
For Poets have, like you, their destin'd round,
And ours is but a race on classic ground.
Long time, the child of patrimonial ease,
Hippolitus had carv'd sirloins in peace;
Had quaff'd secure, unvex'd by toil or wife,
The mild October of a private life:
Long liv'd with calm domestic conquests crown'd,
And kill'd his game on safe paternal ground:
And, deaf to Honour's or Ambition's call,
With rural spoils adorn'd his hoary hall.
As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news,
His bosom kindles with sublimer views.
Lo there, thy triumphs, Taaffe, thy palms, Portmore!
Tempt him to stake his lands and treasur'd store.
Like a new bruiser on Broughtonic sand,
Amid the lists our Hero takes his stand;
Suck'd by the sharper, to the Peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes, that witness huge dismay;
When lo! the chance of one inglorious heat
Strips him of genial cheer and snug retreat.
How awkward now he bears disgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's last refuge, to be pert!—
The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worst,
At once with dulness and with hunger curst.
And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires?
And dwells such mighty rage in graver 'Squires?
Hippolitus had carv'd sirloins in peace;
Had quaff'd secure, unvex'd by toil or wife,
The mild October of a private life:
Long liv'd with calm domestic conquests crown'd,
And kill'd his game on safe paternal ground:
And, deaf to Honour's or Ambition's call,
With rural spoils adorn'd his hoary hall.
As bland he puff'd the pipe o'er weekly news,
His bosom kindles with sublimer views.
Lo there, thy triumphs, Taaffe, thy palms, Portmore!
Tempt him to stake his lands and treasur'd store.
171
Amid the lists our Hero takes his stand;
Suck'd by the sharper, to the Peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes, that witness huge dismay;
When lo! the chance of one inglorious heat
Strips him of genial cheer and snug retreat.
How awkward now he bears disgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's last refuge, to be pert!—
The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worst,
At once with dulness and with hunger curst.
And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires?
And dwells such mighty rage in graver 'Squires?
In all attempts, but for their country, bold,
Britain, thy conscript Counsellors behold;
(For some, perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough, from a lucky bet,)
Smit with the love of the laconic boot,
The cap, and wig succinct, the silken suit,
Mere modern Phaetons, usurp the rein,
And scour in rival race the tempting plain.
See, side by side, his Jockey and Sir John
Discuss th' important point—of six to one.
For oh! the boasted privilege how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!—
See, like a routed host, with headlong pace,
Thy members pour amid the mingling race!
All ask, what crouds the tumult could produce—
Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke loose?
Their way nor reason guides, nor caution checks,
Proud on a high-bred thing to risque their necks.—
Thy sages hear, amid th' admiring croud,
Adjudge the stakes, most eloquently loud:
With critic skill o'er dubious bets preside,
The low dispute, or kindle, or decide:
All empty wisdom, and judicious prate,
Of distanc'd horses gravely fix the fate:
And with paternal care unwearied watch
O'er the nice conduct of a daring match.
Britain, thy conscript Counsellors behold;
(For some, perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough, from a lucky bet,)
172
The cap, and wig succinct, the silken suit,
Mere modern Phaetons, usurp the rein,
And scour in rival race the tempting plain.
See, side by side, his Jockey and Sir John
Discuss th' important point—of six to one.
For oh! the boasted privilege how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!—
See, like a routed host, with headlong pace,
Thy members pour amid the mingling race!
All ask, what crouds the tumult could produce—
Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke loose?
Their way nor reason guides, nor caution checks,
Proud on a high-bred thing to risque their necks.—
Thy sages hear, amid th' admiring croud,
Adjudge the stakes, most eloquently loud:
With critic skill o'er dubious bets preside,
The low dispute, or kindle, or decide:
All empty wisdom, and judicious prate,
Of distanc'd horses gravely fix the fate:
And with paternal care unwearied watch
O'er the nice conduct of a daring match.
173
Meantime, no more the mimic patriots rise,
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wise:
No more in senates dare assert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in Freedom's cause:
Neglect the counsels of a sinking land,
And know no rostrum, but Newmarket's stand.
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wise:
No more in senates dare assert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in Freedom's cause:
Neglect the counsels of a sinking land,
And know no rostrum, but Newmarket's stand.
Is this the band of civil Chiefs design'd
On England's weal to fix the pondering mind?
Who, while their country's rights are set to sale,
Quit Europe's balance for the Jockey's scale.
O say, when least their sapient schemes are crost,
Or when a nation or a match is lost?
Who Dams and Sires with more exactness trace,
Than of their country's Kings the sacred race:
Think London journeys are the worst of ills;
Subscribe to articles, instead of bills:
Strangers to all our annalists relate,
Theirs are the memoirs of the equestrian state:
Who, lost to Albion's past and present views,
Heber, thy chronicles alone peruse.
On England's weal to fix the pondering mind?
Who, while their country's rights are set to sale,
Quit Europe's balance for the Jockey's scale.
O say, when least their sapient schemes are crost,
Or when a nation or a match is lost?
Who Dams and Sires with more exactness trace,
Than of their country's Kings the sacred race:
Think London journeys are the worst of ills;
Subscribe to articles, instead of bills:
Strangers to all our annalists relate,
Theirs are the memoirs of the equestrian state:
Who, lost to Albion's past and present views,
Heber, thy chronicles alone peruse.
Go on, brave youths, till in some future age
Whips shall become the senatorial badge;
Till England see her thronging senators
Meet all at Westminster, in boots and spurs;
See the whole House, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad:
Of bets, not taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide with equal reins a steed or state.
Whips shall become the senatorial badge;
174
Meet all at Westminster, in boots and spurs;
See the whole House, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad:
Of bets, not taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide with equal reins a steed or state.
How would a virtuous Houhnhym neigh disdain,
To see his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
Bear slavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,
Smoke thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road;
And, robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Sustain each sordid toil of servile life.
Yet oh! what rage would touch his generous mind,
To see his sons of more than human kind;
A kind, with each exalted virtue blest,
Each gentler feeling of the liberal breast,
Afford diversion to that monster base,
That meanest spawn of man's half-monkey race;
In whom pride, avarice, ignorance, conspire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo 'Squire.
To see his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
175
Smoke thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road;
And, robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Sustain each sordid toil of servile life.
Yet oh! what rage would touch his generous mind,
To see his sons of more than human kind;
A kind, with each exalted virtue blest,
Each gentler feeling of the liberal breast,
Afford diversion to that monster base,
That meanest spawn of man's half-monkey race;
In whom pride, avarice, ignorance, conspire,
That hated animal, a Yahoo 'Squire.
How are the Therons of these modern days
Chang'd from those Chiefs who toil'd for Grecian bays;
Who, fir'd with genuine glory's sacred lust,
Whirl'd the swift axle through the Pythian dust!
Theirs was the Pisan olive's blooming spray,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording lay.
What though the Grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds?
They won no bets,—but then they soar'd to Gods;
And more an Hiero's palm, a Pindar's ode,
Than all th' united plates of George bestow'd.
Chang'd from those Chiefs who toil'd for Grecian bays;
Who, fir'd with genuine glory's sacred lust,
Whirl'd the swift axle through the Pythian dust!
Theirs was the Pisan olive's blooming spray,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording lay.
What though the Grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds?
They won no bets,—but then they soar'd to Gods;
176
Than all th' united plates of George bestow'd.
Greece! how I kindle at thy magic name,
Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame.
Thy scenes sublime and awful visions rise
In ancient pride before my musing eyes.
Here Sparta's sons in mute attention hang,
While just Lycurgus pours the mild harangue;
There Xerxes' hosts, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her fated Hero's flashing spear.
Here hung with many a lyre of silver string,
The laureate alleys of Ilissus spring;
And lo, where rapt in beauty's heavenly dream
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.—
Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame.
Thy scenes sublime and awful visions rise
In ancient pride before my musing eyes.
Here Sparta's sons in mute attention hang,
While just Lycurgus pours the mild harangue;
There Xerxes' hosts, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her fated Hero's flashing spear.
Here hung with many a lyre of silver string,
The laureate alleys of Ilissus spring;
And lo, where rapt in beauty's heavenly dream
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.—
177
Yet ah! no more the land of arts and arms
Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms.
Lo! the stern Turk, with more than Vandal rage,
Has blasted all the wreaths of ancient age:
No more her groves by Fancy's feet are trod,
Each Attic grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxury's pleasing bane
Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign chain.
Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms.
Lo! the stern Turk, with more than Vandal rage,
Has blasted all the wreaths of ancient age:
No more her groves by Fancy's feet are trod,
Each Attic grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxury's pleasing bane
Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign chain.
Britannia, watch! O trim thy withering bays,
Remember thou hast rivall'd Græcia's praise,
Great Nurse of works divine! Yet oh! beware
Lest thou the fate of Greece, my country, share.
Recall thy wonted worth with conscious pride,
Thou too hast seen a Solon in a Hyde;
Hast bade thine Edwards and thine Henries rear
With Spartan fortitude the British spear;
Alike hast seen thy sons deserve the meed
Or of the moral or the martial deed.
Remember thou hast rivall'd Græcia's praise,
Great Nurse of works divine! Yet oh! beware
Lest thou the fate of Greece, my country, share.
178
Thou too hast seen a Solon in a Hyde;
Hast bade thine Edwards and thine Henries rear
With Spartan fortitude the British spear;
Alike hast seen thy sons deserve the meed
Or of the moral or the martial deed.
| The Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Warton | |