 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
196
TO Mr. MITCHELL,
Upon His Poetical Petition to the Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.
Back Scribler, to thy Caledonian Plains,
Cold as thy Genius, barren as thy Brains;
To those inhospitable Mountains shew,
A cursed Rhiming-Itch, they never knew;
Nor think to read thy Lectures here, for know,
We never take Dictators from the Plough:
Then peaceably betimes resign thy Quill,
Scotland, to British-Power, is Subject still;
Cold as thy Genius, barren as thy Brains;
To those inhospitable Mountains shew,
A cursed Rhiming-Itch, they never knew;
Nor think to read thy Lectures here, for know,
We never take Dictators from the Plough:
Then peaceably betimes resign thy Quill,
Scotland, to British-Power, is Subject still;
While Congreve with a just Politeness warms,
While easy Pope with flowing Musick charms;
While witty Swift shall every Muse adorn,
And Dennis scourge the Fools he does not scorn;
While Philips' Verse delights the list'ning Swains,
And Steele declines the Praise his Merit gains;
While Fenton's sadly-pleasing Numbers move,
And Granville kindles up a nobler Love.
While happy we these tuneful Bards can hear,
No Foreign Jargon shall debauch our Ear.
While easy Pope with flowing Musick charms;
197
And Dennis scourge the Fools he does not scorn;
While Philips' Verse delights the list'ning Swains,
And Steele declines the Praise his Merit gains;
While Fenton's sadly-pleasing Numbers move,
And Granville kindles up a nobler Love.
While happy we these tuneful Bards can hear,
No Foreign Jargon shall debauch our Ear.
Yet warm'd by British Heat, and British Lays,
Thou striv'st to turn thy Libel into Praise;
Thus Ægypt's Streams in muddy Currents run,
And ripen into Monsters by the Sun.
In vain thou'rt sanctify'd with Milton's Name,
Not even Homer should protect thy Shame;
In Pope, that mighty Greek thy Baseness knows,
And Zoilus and Homer still were Foes,
Murderers like Thee to an Asylum fly,
Not to shew Zeal, but hide their Infamy:
And with convicted Villains mayst thou go,
Guilty of Robbery, and Murder too;
For trace thy Steps, and presently we find,
The Hand that robb'd Pack's Garden of the Mind,
Murdering each Sweet, disguising it for Thine,
And making Mortal what he made Divine.
Thou striv'st to turn thy Libel into Praise;
Thus Ægypt's Streams in muddy Currents run,
And ripen into Monsters by the Sun.
In vain thou'rt sanctify'd with Milton's Name,
Not even Homer should protect thy Shame;
In Pope, that mighty Greek thy Baseness knows,
And Zoilus and Homer still were Foes,
Murderers like Thee to an Asylum fly,
Not to shew Zeal, but hide their Infamy:
198
Guilty of Robbery, and Murder too;
For trace thy Steps, and presently we find,
The Hand that robb'd Pack's Garden of the Mind,
Murdering each Sweet, disguising it for Thine,
And making Mortal what he made Divine.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |