The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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| FAREWELL ODES, FOR MDCCLXXXVI. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
93
FAREWELL ODES, FOR MDCCLXXXVI.
------ Ridentem dicere verum
Quid vetat?
HORAT.
Quid vetat?
HORAT.
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ODE I.
Peter talketh of resigning the Laureatship—The Works of the Artists give God Thanks upon the Occasion—He prophesieth the Triumph of the Artists on his Resignation—The Artists also prophesy to Peter's disadvantage—Peter's last Comforts, should their Prophecy be fulfilled.
Peter, like fam'd Christina, queen of Sweden,
Who thought a wicked court was not an Eden,
This year resigns the laurel crown for ever!
What all the fam'd Academicians wish;
No more on painted fowl, and flesh, and fish,
He shows the world his carving skill so clever:
Brass, iron, woodwork, stone, in peace shall rest—
‘Thank God!’ exclaim the works of Mr. West:
Who thought a wicked court was not an Eden,
This year resigns the laurel crown for ever!
What all the fam'd Academicians wish;
No more on painted fowl, and flesh, and fish,
He shows the world his carving skill so clever:
Brass, iron, woodwork, stone, in peace shall rest—
‘Thank God!’ exclaim the works of Mr. West:
‘Thank God?’ the works of Loutherbourg exclaim—
For guns of critics, no ignoble game—
‘No longer now afraid of rhiming praters,
Shall we be christen'd tea-boards, varnish'd waiters:
No verse shall swear that ours are paste-board rocks,
Our trees brass wigs and mops our fleecy flocks.
Thank Heav'n!’ exclaims Rigaud, with sparkling eyes—
‘Then shall my pictures in importance rise,
And fill each gaping mouth and eye with wonder:’
Monsieur Rigaud,
It may be so,
To think thy stars have made so strange a blunder,
That bred to paint the genius of a glazier:
That spoil'd, to make a dauber—a good brazier:
None but thy partial tongue (believe my lays)
Can dare stand forth the herald of thy praise:
Could Fame applaud, whose voice my verse reveres,
Justice should break her trump about her ears.
For guns of critics, no ignoble game—
‘No longer now afraid of rhiming praters,
Shall we be christen'd tea-boards, varnish'd waiters:
No verse shall swear that ours are paste-board rocks,
Our trees brass wigs and mops our fleecy flocks.
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‘Then shall my pictures in importance rise,
And fill each gaping mouth and eye with wonder:’
Monsieur Rigaud,
It may be so,
To think thy stars have made so strange a blunder,
That bred to paint the genius of a glazier:
That spoil'd, to make a dauber—a good brazier:
None but thy partial tongue (believe my lays)
Can dare stand forth the herald of thy praise:
Could Fame applaud, whose voice my verse reveres,
Justice should break her trump about her ears.
‘Thank Heav'n!’ cries Mr. Garvy; and ‘Thank God!’
Cries Mr. Copley, ‘that this man of ode,
No more, Barbarian-like, shall o'er us ride:
No more like beads, in nasty order strung,
And round the waist of this wild Mohawk hung,
Shall Academic scalps indulge his pride.
Cries Mr. Copley, ‘that this man of ode,
No more, Barbarian-like, shall o'er us ride:
No more like beads, in nasty order strung,
And round the waist of this wild Mohawk hung,
Shall Academic scalps indulge his pride.
‘No more hung up in this dread fellow's rhime,
Which he most impudently calls sublime,
Shall we, poor inoffensive souls,
Appear just like so many moles,
Trapp'd in an orchard, garden, or a field;
Which mole-catchers suspend on trees,
To show their titles to their fees,
Like doctors, paid too often for the kill'd.’
Which he most impudently calls sublime,
Shall we, poor inoffensive souls,
Appear just like so many moles,
Trapp'd in an orchard, garden, or a field;
Which mole-catchers suspend on trees,
To show their titles to their fees,
Like doctors, paid too often for the kill'd.’
Pleas'd that no more my verses shall annoy,
Glad that my blister odes shall cease their stinging;
Each wooden figure's mouth expands with joy—
Hark! how they all break forth in singing!
Glad that my blister odes shall cease their stinging;
Each wooden figure's mouth expands with joy—
Hark! how they all break forth in singing!
In boastful sounds the grinning artists cry,
‘Lo! Peter's hour of insolence is o'er:
His muse is dead—his lyric pump is dry—
His odes, like stinking fish, not worth a groat a score:
Art thou then weak, like us, thou snarling sniv'ller?
Art thou like one of us, thou lyric driv'ller?
‘Lo! Peter's hour of insolence is o'er:
His muse is dead—his lyric pump is dry—
His odes, like stinking fish, not worth a groat a score:
Art thou then weak, like us, thou snarling sniv'ller?
Art thou like one of us, thou lyric driv'ller?
97
Our kings and queens in glory now shall lie,
Each unmolested, sleeping in his frame;
Our ponds, our lakes, our oceans, earth and sky,
No longer scouted, shall be put to shame:
No poet's rage shall root our stumps and stumplings,
And swear our clouds are flying apple-dumplings:
Fame shall proclaim how well our plum-trees bud,
And sound the merits of our marle and mud.
Each unmolested, sleeping in his frame;
Our ponds, our lakes, our oceans, earth and sky,
No longer scouted, shall be put to shame:
No poet's rage shall root our stumps and stumplings,
And swear our clouds are flying apple-dumplings:
Fame shall proclaim how well our plum-trees bud,
And sound the merits of our marle and mud.
Our oaks, and brushwood, and our lofty elms,
No jingling tyrant's wicked rage o'erwhelms,
Now this vile feller is laid low:
In peace shall our stone-hedges sleep,
Our huts, our barns, our pigs and sheep,
And wild fowl, from the eagle to the crow.
No jingling tyrant's wicked rage o'erwhelms,
Now this vile feller is laid low:
In peace shall our stone-hedges sleep,
Our huts, our barns, our pigs and sheep,
And wild fowl, from the eagle to the crow.
They who shall see this Peter in the street,
With fearless eye his front shall meet,
And cry—‘Is this the man of keen remark?
Is this the wight?’ shall be their taunting speech;
‘A dog! who dar'd to snap each artist's breech,
And bite Academicians like a shark?
With fearless eye his front shall meet,
And cry—‘Is this the man of keen remark?
Is this the wight?’ shall be their taunting speech;
‘A dog! who dar'd to snap each artist's breech,
And bite Academicians like a shark?
He whose broad cleaver chopp'd the sons of paint;
Crush'd, like a marrow-bone, each lovely saint;
Spar'd not the very clothes about their backs:
The little duck-wing'd cherubims abus'd
That could not more inhumanly be us'd,
Poor lambkins! had they fall'n amongst the blacks?
He, once so furious, soon shall want relief,
Stak'd through the body like a paltry thief.
Crush'd, like a marrow-bone, each lovely saint;
Spar'd not the very clothes about their backs:
The little duck-wing'd cherubims abus'd
That could not more inhumanly be us'd,
Poor lambkins! had they fall'n amongst the blacks?
He, once so furious, soon shall want relief,
Stak'd through the body like a paltry thief.
‘How art thou fall'n, O Cherokee!’ they cry;
‘How art thou fall'n!’ the joyful roofs resound;
‘Hell, shall thy body for a rogue, surround,
And there, for ever roasting, mayst thou lie:
Like Dives mayst thou stretch in fires along,
Refus'd one drop of drink to cool thy tongue.’
‘How art thou fall'n!’ the joyful roofs resound;
‘Hell, shall thy body for a rogue, surround,
And there, for ever roasting, mayst thou lie:
Like Dives mayst thou stretch in fires along,
Refus'd one drop of drink to cool thy tongue.’
Ye goodly gentlemen repress your yell:
Your hearty wishes for my health restrain;
For if our works can put us into h*ll,
Kind sirs! we certainly shall meet again:
Nay, what is worse, I really don't know whether
We must not lodge in the same room together.
Your hearty wishes for my health restrain;
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Kind sirs! we certainly shall meet again:
Nay, what is worse, I really don't know whether
We must not lodge in the same room together.
ODE II.
Peter floggeth the Academicians and Dinner—Pitieth the Prince of Wales—Duke of Orleans, Duke Fitzjames, Count Lauzun, Lords Caermarthen and Besborough, &c.—and praiseth Mr. Weltjie—Exculpateth the President—Condemneth Sir W. Chambers and the Committee for their bad Management—Peter talketh of visiting the French King and the Duke of Orleans.
Whene'er academicians run astray,
Such should the moral Peter's song reclaim—
Of paint, this ode shall nothing sing or say,
My eagle satire darts at diff'rent game—
Against decorum I abhor a sinner;
And therefore lash the academic dinner.
Such should the moral Peter's song reclaim—
Of paint, this ode shall nothing sing or say,
My eagle satire darts at diff'rent game—
Against decorum I abhor a sinner;
And therefore lash the academic dinner.
Th' Academy, though marvellously poor,
Can once a year afford to eat:
By means of kind donations at the door,
The members made a comfortable treat:
Like gipsies in a barn around their king,
That annual meet, to munch, and dance, and sing.
Can once a year afford to eat:
By means of kind donations at the door,
The members made a comfortable treat:
Like gipsies in a barn around their king,
That annual meet, to munch, and dance, and sing.
A feast was made of flesh, fish, tarts, creams, jellies,
To suit the various qualities of bellies:
Mine grumbl'd to be ask'd, and be delighted;
But wicked Peter's paunch was not invited.
To suit the various qualities of bellies:
Mine grumbl'd to be ask'd, and be delighted;
But wicked Peter's paunch was not invited.
Yet though no message waited on the bard,
With compliments from academic names;
The Prince of Wales received a civil card,
His Grace of Orleans too, and Duke Fitzjames;
Count de Lauzun, and Count Conflan,
A near relation to the man,
In whose poor sides old Hawke once fix'd his claws,
Were welcom'd by the academic lords,
Either by writing or by words,
To come and try the vigour of their jaws.
With compliments from academic names;
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His Grace of Orleans too, and Duke Fitzjames;
Count de Lauzun, and Count Conflan,
A near relation to the man,
In whose poor sides old Hawke once fix'd his claws,
Were welcom'd by the academic lords,
Either by writing or by words,
To come and try the vigour of their jaws.
Unfortunately for the modest Dukes,
The nimble artists, all with greyhound looks,
Fell on the meat with teeth prodigious able:
Seiz'd, of the Synagogue, the highest places,
And left the poor forlorn, their Gallic Graces,
To nibble at the bottom of the table.
The nimble artists, all with greyhound looks,
Fell on the meat with teeth prodigious able:
Seiz'd, of the Synagogue, the highest places,
And left the poor forlorn, their Gallic Graces,
To nibble at the bottom of the table.
There sat, too, my good Lord Caermarthen,
As one of the canaille, not worth a farthing!
But what can titles, virtues, at a feast,
Where glory waits upon the greatest beast?
As one of the canaille, not worth a farthing!
But what can titles, virtues, at a feast,
Where glory waits upon the greatest beast?
To see a stone-cutter and mason
High mounted o'er those men of quality,
By no means can our annals blazon
For feats of courtly hospitality.
I've heard, however, one or two were tanners:
Granted—it doth not much improve their manners.
High mounted o'er those men of quality,
By no means can our annals blazon
For feats of courtly hospitality.
I've heard, however, one or two were tanners:
Granted—it doth not much improve their manners.
They probably, in answer, may declare,
They thought the feast just like a hunt;
In which, as soon as ever starts the hare,
Each Nimrod tries to be first in upon't:
The greatest, he, amidst the howling fuss,
Who first can triumph o'er poor dying puss.
They thought the feast just like a hunt;
In which, as soon as ever starts the hare,
Each Nimrod tries to be first in upon't:
The greatest, he, amidst the howling fuss,
Who first can triumph o'er poor dying puss.
Peters
most justly rais'd his eyes with wonder,
And wanted decently to give them grace;
But bent on ven'son and on turbot plunder,
A clattering peal of knives and forks took place:
Spoons, plates, and dishes, rattling round the table,
Produc'd a new edition of old Babel.
And wanted decently to give them grace;
But bent on ven'son and on turbot plunder,
A clattering peal of knives and forks took place:
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Produc'd a new edition of old Babel.
They had no stomach o'er a grace to nod;
Nor time enough to offer thanks to God:
That might be done, they wisely knew,
When they had nothing else to do.
Nor time enough to offer thanks to God:
That might be done, they wisely knew,
When they had nothing else to do.
His Highness
entering rather somewhat late,
Could scarcely find a knife, or fork, or plate:
But not a single maiden dish,
Poor gentleman! of flesh or fish!
Most wofully the pastry had been paw'd,
And trembling jellies barbarously claw'd:
In short, my gentle readers to amaze,
His Highness pick'd the bones of the R. A.'s.
Could scarcely find a knife, or fork, or plate:
But not a single maiden dish,
Poor gentleman! of flesh or fish!
Most wofully the pastry had been paw'd,
And trembling jellies barbarously claw'd:
In short, my gentle readers to amaze,
His Highness pick'd the bones of the R. A.'s.
O Weltjie
, had thy lofty form been there,
And seen thy Prince so serv'd with scrap and slop,
Thou surely wouldst have brought him better fare—
A warm beef steak, perchance, or mutton chop.
And seen thy Prince so serv'd with scrap and slop,
Thou surely wouldst have brought him better fare—
A warm beef steak, perchance, or mutton chop.
Thou wouldst have said, De Prence of Wales, by Got,
Do too mush honour to be at der feast;
Vere he can't heb von beet of meat dat's hot,
But treated vid de bones just like a beast.
De Prence, he vas too great to sit and eat
De bones and leafings of de meat;
And munsh vat dirty low-lif'd rogues refuse,
By Got! not fit to wipe de Prence's shoes!’
Do too mush honour to be at der feast;
Vere he can't heb von beet of meat dat's hot,
But treated vid de bones just like a beast.
De Prence, he vas too great to sit and eat
De bones and leafings of de meat;
And munsh vat dirty low-lif'd rogues refuse,
By Got! not fit to wipe de Prence's shoes!’
Great Besborough's Earl too came off second best;
His murmuring stomach had not half a feast;
And therefore it was natural to mutter:
To rectify the fault, with joyless looks,
His lordship bore his belly off to Brookes,
Who fill'd the grumbler up with bread and butter.
His murmuring stomach had not half a feast;
And therefore it was natural to mutter:
To rectify the fault, with joyless looks,
His lordship bore his belly off to Brookes,
Who fill'd the grumbler up with bread and butter.
Sirs! those manœuvres were extremely coarse—
This really was the essence of ill-breeding:
Not for your souls could you have treated worse
Bum-bailiffs, by this dog-like mode of feeding.
Grant, you eclips'd a pack of hounds, with glee
Pursuing, in full cry, the fainting game—
Surpass'd them too, in gobbling down the prey:
Still great R. A.'s., I tell you 'twas a shame:
This really was the essence of ill-breeding:
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Bum-bailiffs, by this dog-like mode of feeding.
Grant, you eclips'd a pack of hounds, with glee
Pursuing, in full cry, the fainting game—
Surpass'd them too, in gobbling down the prey:
Still great R. A.'s., I tell you 'twas a shame:
Grant, each of you the wondrous man excell'd,
Who beat a butcher's dog in eating tripe;
And that each paunch with guttling was so swell'd,
Not one bit more could pass your swallow-pipe:
Who beat a butcher's dog in eating tripe;
And that each paunch with guttling was so swell'd,
Not one bit more could pass your swallow-pipe:
Grant, that you dar'd such stuffing feats display,
That not a soul of you could walk away:
Still, 'midst the triumphs of your gobbling fame,
I tell you, great R. A.'s, it was a shame.
That not a soul of you could walk away:
Still, 'midst the triumphs of your gobbling fame,
I tell you, great R. A.'s, it was a shame.
Grant, you were greas'd up to the nose, and eyes,
Your cheeks all shining like a lantern's horn,
With tearing hams and fowls, and giblet pies,
And ducks, and geese, and pigeons newly born:
Though great, in your opinion, be your fame,
I tell you, great R. A.'s, it was a shame.
Your cheeks all shining like a lantern's horn,
With tearing hams and fowls, and giblet pies,
And ducks, and geese, and pigeons newly born:
Though great, in your opinion, be your fame,
I tell you, great R. A.'s, it was a shame.
This, let me own—the candour-loving muse
Most willingly Sir Joshua can excuse,
Who tries the nation's glory to increase;
Whose genius rare is very seldom nodding,
But deep, on painting subjects, plodding,
To rival Italy and Greece.
Most willingly Sir Joshua can excuse,
Who tries the nation's glory to increase;
Whose genius rare is very seldom nodding,
But deep, on painting subjects, plodding,
To rival Italy and Greece.
But pray, Sir William
what have you to say?
No such impediment lies in your way;
Genius can't hurt your etiquette attention;
And Messieurs Tyler, Wilton, and Rigaud,
Have you a genius to impede you?—No!
Nor many a one besides that I could mention.
No such impediment lies in your way;
Genius can't hurt your etiquette attention;
And Messieurs Tyler, Wilton, and Rigaud,
Have you a genius to impede you?—No!
Nor many a one besides that I could mention.
This year (God willing) I shall visit France,
And taste of Lewis, Grand Monarque! the prog:
His Grace of Orleans, so kind, perchance,
May ask me to his house to pick a frog:
And yet, what right have I to visit there,
Who see a prince so vilely treated here?
And taste of Lewis, Grand Monarque! the prog:
102
May ask me to his house to pick a frog:
And yet, what right have I to visit there,
Who see a prince so vilely treated here?
Ye Royal Artists, at your future feasts,
I fear you'll make their Graces downright Daniels,
And as the Prophet din'd amongst wild beasts,
The dukes will join your pointers and your spaniels.
I fear you'll make their Graces downright Daniels,
And as the Prophet din'd amongst wild beasts,
The dukes will join your pointers and your spaniels.
ODE III.
Peter administereth sage Advice to mercenary Artists, and telleth a most delectable Story of a Country Bumpkin and a Peripatetic Razorseller.
Forbear, my friends, to sacrifice your fame
To sordid gain, unless that you are starving:
I own that hunger will indulgence claim
For hard stone heads, and landscape carving,
In order to make haste to sell and eat;
For there is certainly a charm in meat:
And in rebellious tones will stomachs speak,
That have not tasted victuals for a week.
To sordid gain, unless that you are starving:
I own that hunger will indulgence claim
For hard stone heads, and landscape carving,
In order to make haste to sell and eat;
For there is certainly a charm in meat:
And in rebellious tones will stomachs speak,
That have not tasted victuals for a week.
But yet there are a mercenary crew,
Who value fame no more than an old shoe;
Provided for their daubs they get a sale;
Just like the man—but stay—I'll tell the tale.
Who value fame no more than an old shoe;
Provided for their daubs they get a sale;
Just like the man—but stay—I'll tell the tale.
A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
As ev'ry man wou'd buy, with cash and sense.
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
As ev'ry man wou'd buy, with cash and sense.
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A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
‘This rascal stole the razors, I suppose:
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
‘This rascal stole the razors, I suppose:
‘No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave:
It sartinly will be a monstrous prize:’
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Provided that the razors shave:
It sartinly will be a monstrous prize:’
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he try'd—
All were impostors—‘Ah,’ Hodge sigh'd!
‘I wish my eighteen pence within my purse.’
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he try'd—
All were impostors—‘Ah,’ Hodge sigh'd!
‘I wish my eighteen pence within my purse.’
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winc'd and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er:
He cut, and dug, and winc'd and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er:
His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
Razors! a damn'd confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!’
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
Razors! a damn'd confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!’
Hodge sought the fellow—found him, and begun—
‘P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're, a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave.’
‘P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
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To cry up razors that can't shave.’
‘Friend,’ quoth the razor-man, ‘I am no knave:
As for the razors you have bought
Upon my soul I never thought
That they wou'd shave.’
‘Not think they'd shave!’ quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
‘What were they made for then, you dog?’ he cries:
‘Made!’ quoth the fellow, with a smile,—‘to sell.’
As for the razors you have bought
Upon my soul I never thought
That they wou'd shave.’
‘Not think they'd shave!’ quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
‘What were they made for then, you dog?’ he cries:
‘Made!’ quoth the fellow, with a smile,—‘to sell.’
ODE IV.
Peter observeth the Lex Talionis.
West tells the world, that Peter cannot rhime—
Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint;
West swears, I've not an atom of sublime—
I swear, he hath no notion of a saint:
Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint;
West swears, I've not an atom of sublime—
I swear, he hath no notion of a saint:
And that his cross-wing'd cherubims are fowls,
Baptiz'd by naturalists, owls:
Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers:
His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.
Baptiz'd by naturalists, owls:
Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers:
His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.
The Holy Scripture says, ‘All flesh is grass;’
With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass;
Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own
Is often of the choicest Portland stone.
I've said too, that this artist's faces
Ne'er paid a visit to the graces:
With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass;
Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own
Is often of the choicest Portland stone.
I've said too, that this artist's faces
Ne'er paid a visit to the graces:
That on expression he could never brag:
Yet for this article hath he been studying;
But in it never could surpass a pudding—
No, gentle reader, nor a pudding bag.
Yet for this article hath he been studying;
But in it never could surpass a pudding—
No, gentle reader, nor a pudding bag.
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I dare not say, that Mr. West
Cannot sound criticism impart:
I'm told the man with technicals is blest;
That he can talk a deal upon the art:
Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it—
‘About it, goddess, and about it!’
Cannot sound criticism impart:
I'm told the man with technicals is blest;
That he can talk a deal upon the art:
Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it—
‘About it, goddess, and about it!’
Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise—
And let my justice the fair laud afford:
For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways;
Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword:
The beauties of the art his converse shews:
His canvass almost ev'ry thing that's bad!
Thus, at th' Academy, we must suppose,
A man more useful, never could be had:
Who in himself, a host, so much can do;
Who is both precept and example too!
And let my justice the fair laud afford:
For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways;
Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword:
The beauties of the art his converse shews:
His canvass almost ev'ry thing that's bad!
Thus, at th' Academy, we must suppose,
A man more useful, never could be had:
Who in himself, a host, so much can do;
Who is both precept and example too!
ODE V.
Great Advice is given to Gentlemen Authors—To Mr. Webb and Mr. H. Walpole particularly—Peter taketh the Part of Lady Lucan—Showeth wonderful knowledge in the Art of Painting—Administereth Oil of Fool, vulgarly called Praise, to the Squire of Strawberry Hill.
Astronomers should treat of stars and comets,
Physicians of the bark and vomits:
Of apoplexies, those light troops of death,
That use no ceremony with our breath;
Ague and dropsy, jaundice and catarrh,
The grim-look tyrant's heavy horse of war.
Physicians of the bark and vomits:
Of apoplexies, those light troops of death,
That use no ceremony with our breath;
Ague and dropsy, jaundice and catarrh,
The grim-look tyrant's heavy horse of war.
Farriers should write on farcys and the glanders:
Bug-doctors only upon bed-disorders:
Farmers on land, pigs, cattle, geese and ganders:
Nightmen alone, on aromatic odours:
The artists should on painting solely write:
Like David, then they may ‘good things indite.’
But when the mob of gentlemen
Break on their province and take up the pen,
The Lord have mercy on the art!
I'm sure their goose-quills can no light impart.
This verse be thine, 'Squire Webb —it is thy due:
Pray, Mr. Horace Walpole, what think you?
Bug-doctors only upon bed-disorders:
Farmers on land, pigs, cattle, geese and ganders:
Nightmen alone, on aromatic odours:
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Like David, then they may ‘good things indite.’
But when the mob of gentlemen
Break on their province and take up the pen,
The Lord have mercy on the art!
I'm sure their goose-quills can no light impart.
This verse be thine, 'Squire Webb —it is thy due:
Pray, Mr. Horace Walpole, what think you?
Horace, thou art a man of taste and sense,
Then don't, of folly, be at such expense:
Do not to Lady Lucan pay such court—
Her wisdom surely will not thank thee for't—
Ah! don't endeavour thus to dupe her,
By swearing that she equals Cooper.
Then don't, of folly, be at such expense:
Do not to Lady Lucan pay such court—
Her wisdom surely will not thank thee for't—
Ah! don't endeavour thus to dupe her,
By swearing that she equals Cooper.
So gross the flattery, it seems to show
That verily thou dost not know
The pow'rs requir'd for copying a picture,
And those for copying Dame Nature:
Alas! a much more arduous matter!
So don't expose thyself, but mind my stricture.
That verily thou dost not know
The pow'rs requir'd for copying a picture,
And those for copying Dame Nature:
Alas! a much more arduous matter!
So don't expose thyself, but mind my stricture.
Thou'lt say it was mere compliment;
That nothing else was thy intent,
Although it might disgrace a boy at school:
I grant the fact, and think that no man
Says or writes sillier things to woman;
But still 'tis making each of you a fool.
That nothing else was thy intent,
Although it might disgrace a boy at school:
I grant the fact, and think that no man
Says or writes sillier things to woman;
But still 'tis making each of you a fool.
Yet, Horace, think not that I write
Through spite:
Think not I read thy works with jealous pain:
Lord! no, thou art a favourite with me:
I think thee one of us, un bel esprit—
By heav'ns! I like the windmill of thy brain:
It is a pretty and ingenious mill:
Long may it grind on Strawb'rry Hill.
Through spite:
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Lord! no, thou art a favourite with me:
I think thee one of us, un bel esprit—
By heav'ns! I like the windmill of thy brain:
It is a pretty and ingenious mill:
Long may it grind on Strawb'rry Hill.
ODE VI.
Peter still continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep Reflection—He telleth a miraculous Story.
There is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labour cannot to perfection bring:
Therefore however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise:
Which labour cannot to perfection bring:
Therefore however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise:
A fool on something great at times may stumble,
And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, for ever, your wise men may fumble,
And never be a whit the wiser.
And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, for ever, your wise men may fumble,
And never be a whit the wiser.
Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in't,
Never to be superior to a hint—
The genius of each man, with keenness view—
A spark from this, or t'other caught,
May kindle, quick as thought,
A glorious bonfire up in you.
Never to be superior to a hint—
The genius of each man, with keenness view—
A spark from this, or t'other caught,
May kindle, quick as thought,
A glorious bonfire up in you.
A question of you, let me beg—
Of fam'd Columbus and his egg,
Pray, have you heard? ‘Yes.’—O, then, if you please
I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.
Of fam'd Columbus and his egg,
Pray, have you heard? ‘Yes.’—O, then, if you please
I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.
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THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
A TRUE STORY.
A brace of sinners, for no good,
Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.
Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,
Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel:
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel:
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:
A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,
Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,
Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:
But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;
The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:
But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;
The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon—peccavi cried—
Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit, with saints above, to live for ever.
Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,
Made fit, with saints above, to live for ever.
In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way—
Hobbling with out-stretch'd bum and bending knees;
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
He met his brother rogue about half way—
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Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
‘How now,’ the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim, broke,
‘You lazy lubber!’
‘Ods curse it,’ cried the other, ‘'tis no joke—
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as any blubber.
‘You lazy lubber!’
‘Ods curse it,’ cried the other, ‘'tis no joke—
My feet, once hard as any rock,
Are now as soft as any blubber.
‘Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear—
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.
‘But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain:
What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for your toes
Whilst I, just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
How 'tis that you are not in pain:
What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for your toes
Whilst I, just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
‘How is't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry, as if that nought had happen'd, burn ye!’
‘Why,’ cried the other, grinning, ‘you must know,
That just before I ventur'd on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas.’
Merry, as if that nought had happen'd, burn ye!’
‘Why,’ cried the other, grinning, ‘you must know,
That just before I ventur'd on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,
I took the liberty to boil my peas.’
ODE VII.
Peter grinneth.
Young men, be cautious of each critic word,
That blasphemous may much offence afford—
I mean, that wounds an ancient master's fame:
At Titian, Guido, Julio, Veronese,
Your length'ning phiz let admiration seize,
And throw up both your eyes at Raphael's name.
That blasphemous may much offence afford—
I mean, that wounds an ancient master's fame:
At Titian, Guido, Julio, Veronese,
Your length'ning phiz let admiration seize,
And throw up both your eyes at Raphael's name.
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Ev'n by a print-shop should you chance to pass,
Revere the effigy inside a glass:
Just as with papists the religious care is,
In churches, lanes, to bend their marrow-bones
To bees-wax saints, bon-dieux of stones,
And beech, and deal, or wainscot Virgin Marys.
Revere the effigy inside a glass:
Just as with papists the religious care is,
In churches, lanes, to bend their marrow-bones
To bees-wax saints, bon-dieux of stones,
And beech, and deal, or wainscot Virgin Marys.
Whate'er their errors, they no more remain;
For time, like fuller's earth, takes out each stain:
Nay more—on faults, that modern works would tarnish,
Time spreads a sacred coat of varnish.
For time, like fuller's earth, takes out each stain:
Nay more—on faults, that modern works would tarnish,
Time spreads a sacred coat of varnish.
Spare not on brother artists' backs the lash;
Put a good wire in't—let it slash;
Since ev'ry stroke with int'rest is repaid:
For though you cannot kill the man outright,
Yet by this effort of your rival spite,
Fifty to one, you spoil his trade.
His ruins may be feathers for your nest—
The maxim's not amiss—probatum est.
Put a good wire in't—let it slash;
Since ev'ry stroke with int'rest is repaid:
For though you cannot kill the man outright,
Yet by this effort of your rival spite,
Fifty to one, you spoil his trade.
His ruins may be feathers for your nest—
The maxim's not amiss—probatum est.
ODE VIII.
The Poet inquireth into the State of the Exhibition—Lasheth Father Time for making great Geniuses, and destroying them—Praiseth Reynolds—Fancieth a very curious Dialogue between King Alexander and the Deer, the Subject of Mr. West's Picture—Turneth to Mr. West's Resurrection.
Well, Muse! what is there in the Exhibition?
How thrive the beauties of the graphic art?
Whose racing genius seems in best condition
For Glory's plate to start?
Say, what sly rogues old Fame cajole?
Speak,—who hath brib'd her trumpet, or who stole?
For much is prais'd that ought in fires to mourn—
Nay, what would ev'n disgrace a fire to burn.
How thrive the beauties of the graphic art?
Whose racing genius seems in best condition
For Glory's plate to start?
Say, what sly rogues old Fame cajole?
Speak,—who hath brib'd her trumpet, or who stole?
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Nay, what would ev'n disgrace a fire to burn.
What artist boasts a work sublime,
That mocks the teeth of raging Time?
Old fool! who after he hath form'd with pains,
A genius rare,
To make folks stare,
Knocks out his brains:
Like children, dolls creating with high brags;
Then tearing all their handy works to rags.
That mocks the teeth of raging Time?
Old fool! who after he hath form'd with pains,
A genius rare,
To make folks stare,
Knocks out his brains:
Like children, dolls creating with high brags;
Then tearing all their handy works to rags.
Lo! Reynolds shines with undiminish'd ray!
Keeps, like the bird of Jove, his distant way—
Yet simple portrait strikes too oft our eyes,
Whilst hist'ry, anxious for his pencil, sighs.
Keeps, like the bird of Jove, his distant way—
Yet simple portrait strikes too oft our eyes,
Whilst hist'ry, anxious for his pencil, sighs.
We don't desire to see on canvass live
The copy of a jowl of lead;
When for th' original we wou'd not give
A small pin's head.
The copy of a jowl of lead;
When for th' original we wou'd not give
A small pin's head.
This year, of picture, Mr. West
Is quite a Patagonian maker—
He knows that bulk is not a jest;
So gives us painting by the acre:
Is quite a Patagonian maker—
He knows that bulk is not a jest;
So gives us painting by the acre:
But, ah! this artist's brush can never brag
Upon King Alexander and the stag:
For as they play'd at loggerheads a rubber;
We surely ought to see a handsome battle
Between the monarch and the piece of cattle;
Whereas each keeps his distance, like a lubber.
Upon King Alexander and the stag:
For as they play'd at loggerheads a rubber;
We surely ought to see a handsome battle
Between the monarch and the piece of cattle;
Whereas each keeps his distance, like a lubber.
His Majesty upon his breech laid low,
Seems preaching to his horned foe;
Observing what a very wicked thing
To hurt the sacred person of a king:
And seems, about the business, to entreat him
To march, for fear the hounds should eat him.
Seems preaching to his horned foe;
Observing what a very wicked thing
To hurt the sacred person of a king:
And seems, about the business, to entreat him
To march, for fear the hounds should eat him.
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The stag appears to say in plaintive note,
‘I own, King Alexander, my offence:
True! I've not show'd my loyalty, nor sense;
So bid your huntsman come and cut my throat.’
‘I own, King Alexander, my offence:
True! I've not show'd my loyalty, nor sense;
So bid your huntsman come and cut my throat.’
The cavalry, adorn'd with fair stone bodies,
Seem on the dialogue, with wonder, staring;
And on their flinty backs a set of noddies,
Not one brass farthing for their master caring.
Seem on the dialogue, with wonder, staring;
And on their flinty backs a set of noddies,
Not one brass farthing for their master caring.
Behold! one fellow lifts his mighty spear,
To save the owner of the Scottish crown;
Which, harmless hanging o'er the gaping deer,
Seems in no mighty hurry to come down.
To save the owner of the Scottish crown;
Which, harmless hanging o'er the gaping deer,
Seems in no mighty hurry to come down.
Another on a Pegasus comes flying!
His phiz his errand much belying;
For if he means to baste the beast so cruel,
God knows, 'tis with a face of water-gruel.
His phiz his errand much belying;
For if he means to baste the beast so cruel,
God knows, 'tis with a face of water-gruel.
So then, sweet Muse, the picture boasts no merit—
As flat as dish-water, or dead small-beer—
Or (what the mark is tolerably near)
As heads of aldermen devoid of spirit.
As flat as dish-water, or dead small-beer—
Or (what the mark is tolerably near)
As heads of aldermen devoid of spirit.
Well then! turn round—view t'other side the room,
And see his Saviour mounting from the tomb:
Is this piece too with painting sins so cramm'd,
Born to increase the number of the damn'd!
And see his Saviour mounting from the tomb:
Is this piece too with painting sins so cramm'd,
Born to increase the number of the damn'd!
My sentiments by no means I refuse—
Was our Redeemer like that wretched thing,
I should not wonder that the cunning Jews
Scorn'd to acknowledge him for king.
Was our Redeemer like that wretched thing,
I should not wonder that the cunning Jews
Scorn'd to acknowledge him for king.
113
ODE IX.
Peter moralizeth, and giveth good Advice.
Envy and Jealousy, that pair of devils
Stuff'd like Pandora's box with wondrous evils,
I hate, abhor, abominate, detest,
Like Circe turning man into a beast.
Stuff'd like Pandora's box with wondrous evils,
I hate, abhor, abominate, detest,
Like Circe turning man into a beast.
Beneath their cankering breath no bud can blow;
Their black'ning pow'r resembles smut in corn,
Which kills the rising ears, that should adorn,
And bid the vales with golden plenty glow.
Their black'ning pow'r resembles smut in corn,
Which kills the rising ears, that should adorn,
And bid the vales with golden plenty glow.
Yet fierce, in yonder dome
, each demon reigns;
Their poison swells too many an artist's veins,
Draws from each lab'ring heart the fearful sigh,
And casts a sullen gloom on ev'ry eye.
Their poison swells too many an artist's veins,
Draws from each lab'ring heart the fearful sigh,
And casts a sullen gloom on ev'ry eye.
Brushmen! accept the counsel Peter sends,
Who scorns th' acquaintance of this brace of fiends:
Should any with uncommon talents tow'r;
To any is superior science giv'n—
O, let the weaker feel their happy pow'r,
Like plants that triumph in the dews of heav'n.
Who scorns th' acquaintance of this brace of fiends:
Should any with uncommon talents tow'r;
To any is superior science giv'n—
O, let the weaker feel their happy pow'r,
Like plants that triumph in the dews of heav'n.
Be pleas'd, like Reynolds, to direct the blind;
Who aids the feeble falt'ring feet of youth;
Unfolds the ample volume of his mind,
With genius stor'd and nature's simple truth:
Who aids the feeble falt'ring feet of youth;
Unfolds the ample volume of his mind,
With genius stor'd and nature's simple truth:
Who, though a sun, resembles not his brother,
Whose beams so full of jealousy, conspire,
Whene'er admitted to the room, to smother
The humble kitchen, or the parlour fire.
Whose beams so full of jealousy, conspire,
Whene'er admitted to the room, to smother
The humble kitchen, or the parlour fire.
114
ODE X.
Peter speaketh figuratively—Accommodateth himself to vulgar Readers—Lasheth Pretenders to Fame—Concludeth merrily.
A modest love of praise I do not blame—
But I abhor a rape on mistress Fame—
Although the lady is exceeding chaste,
Young forward bullies seize her round the waist,
But I abhor a rape on mistress Fame—
Although the lady is exceeding chaste,
Young forward bullies seize her round the waist,
Swear, nolens volens, that she shall be kiss'd;
And, though she vows she does not like 'em,
Nay threatens for their impudence to strike 'em,
The saucy varlets still persist.
And, though she vows she does not like 'em,
Nay threatens for their impudence to strike 'em,
The saucy varlets still persist.
Reader!—of images here's no confusion—
Thou therefore understand'st the bard's allusion;
But possibly thou hast a thickish head:
And therefore no vast quantities of brain—
Why then, my precious pig of lead,
'Tis necessary to explain.
Thou therefore understand'st the bard's allusion;
But possibly thou hast a thickish head:
And therefore no vast quantities of brain—
Why then, my precious pig of lead,
'Tis necessary to explain.
Some artists, if I so may call 'em,
So ignorant (the foul fiend maul 'em)
Mere driv'lers in the charming art;
Are vastly fond of being prais'd;
Wish to the stars, like Blanchard , to be rais'd:
And rais'd they should be, reader—from a cart.
So ignorant (the foul fiend maul 'em)
Mere driv'lers in the charming art;
Are vastly fond of being prais'd;
Wish to the stars, like Blanchard , to be rais'd:
And rais'd they should be, reader—from a cart.
If disappointed in some Stentor's tongue,
Upon themselves they pour forth prose or song,
Or buy it in some venal paper,
And then heroically vapour.
Upon themselves they pour forth prose or song,
Or buy it in some venal paper,
And then heroically vapour.
What prigs to immortality aspire,
Who stick their trash around the room!—
Trash meriting a very diff'rent doom—
I mean the warmer regions of the fire!
Who stick their trash around the room!—
Trash meriting a very diff'rent doom—
I mean the warmer regions of the fire!
115
Heav'n knows, that I am anger'd to the soul,
To find some blockheads of their works so vain—
So proud to see them hanging, cheek by jowl,
With his , whose pow'rs the art's high fame sustain.
To find some blockheads of their works so vain—
So proud to see them hanging, cheek by jowl,
With his , whose pow'rs the art's high fame sustain.
To wondrous merit their pretension,
On such vicinity-suspension,
Brings to my mind a not unpleasant story,
Which, gentle readers, let me lay before ye.
On such vicinity-suspension,
Brings to my mind a not unpleasant story,
Which, gentle readers, let me lay before ye.
A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet
The British Roscius in the street,
Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags—
The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace—
‘Good sir, I do not recollect your face,’
Quoth Garrick—‘No!’ replied the man of rags;
The British Roscius in the street,
Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags—
The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace—
‘Good sir, I do not recollect your face,’
Quoth Garrick—‘No!’ replied the man of rags;
‘The boards of Drury you and I have trod
Full many a time together, I am sure—’
‘When?’ with an oath, cried Garrick—‘for by G---
I never saw that face of yours before!—
What characters, I pray,
Did you and I together play?’
Full many a time together, I am sure—’
‘When?’ with an oath, cried Garrick—‘for by G---
I never saw that face of yours before!—
What characters, I pray,
Did you and I together play?’
‘Lord!’ quoth the fellow, ‘think not that I mock—
When you play'd Hamlet, sir,—I play'd the cock .’
When you play'd Hamlet, sir,—I play'd the cock .’
116
ODE XI.
Peter talketh sensibly and knowingly—recommendeth it to Artists to prefer Pictures for their Merit—Discovereth musical Knowledge, and showeth that he not only hath kept Company with Fid-lers, but Fiddle-makers—He satirizeth the Pseudo-cognoscenti—Praiseth his ingenious Neighbour Sir Joshua.
Be not impos'd on by a name;
But bid your eye the picture's merit trace:
Poussin at times in outline may be lame,
And Guido's angels destitute of grace.
But bid your eye the picture's merit trace:
Poussin at times in outline may be lame,
And Guido's angels destitute of grace.
Yet, lo! a picture of some famous school,
A warranted old daub of reputation,
Where charming painting's almost ev'ry rule
Hath suffer'd almost every violation;
Hath oft been gaz'd at by devouring eyes,
Where nature, banish'd from the picture, sighs.
A warranted old daub of reputation,
Where charming painting's almost ev'ry rule
Hath suffer'd almost every violation;
Hath oft been gaz'd at by devouring eyes,
Where nature, banish'd from the picture, sighs.
So some old duchess, as a badger grey,
Her snags by Time, sure dentist, snatch'd away,
With long, lank, flannel cheeks,
Where Age in ev'ry wrinkled feature,
Unto the poor weak shaking creature,
Of death unwelcome tidings speaks,
Draws from the gaping mob the envying look,
Because her owner chanc'd to be a duke.
Her snags by Time, sure dentist, snatch'd away,
With long, lank, flannel cheeks,
Where Age in ev'ry wrinkled feature,
Unto the poor weak shaking creature,
Of death unwelcome tidings speaks,
Draws from the gaping mob the envying look,
Because her owner chanc'd to be a duke.
How many pasteboard rocks and iron seas,
How many torrents wild of still stone water,
How many brooms and broomsticks meant for trees,
Because the fancied labours of Salvator ,
Whose pencil too most grossly may have blunder'd,
Have brought the blest possessor many a hundred.
How many torrents wild of still stone water,
How many brooms and broomsticks meant for trees,
Because the fancied labours of Salvator ,
117
Have brought the blest possessor many a hundred.
Thus prove a crowd a Stainer
or Amati
,
No matter for the fiddle's sound;
The fortunate possessor shall not bate ye
A doit of fifty, nay a hundred, pound;
And though what's vulgarly baptiz'd a rep,
Shall in a hundred pounds be deem'd dog-cheap.
No matter for the fiddle's sound;
The fortunate possessor shall not bate ye
A doit of fifty, nay a hundred, pound;
And though what's vulgarly baptiz'd a rep,
Shall in a hundred pounds be deem'd dog-cheap.
It tickles one excessively to hear
Wise prating pedants the old masters praise:
Damning by wholesale, with sarcastic sneer,
The luckless works of modern days;
Making at living wights such fatal pushes,
As if not good enough to wipe their brushes:
Wise prating pedants the old masters praise:
Damning by wholesale, with sarcastic sneer,
The luckless works of modern days;
Making at living wights such fatal pushes,
As if not good enough to wipe their brushes:
And yet on each wise cognoscenté ass,
Who shall for hours on paint and sculpture din ye,
A person with facility may pass
Rigaud for Raphael—Bacon for Bernini:
Or, little as an oven to Vesuvius,
Will Tyler for Palladio or Vitruvius!
Who shall for hours on paint and sculpture din ye,
A person with facility may pass
Rigaud for Raphael—Bacon for Bernini:
Or, little as an oven to Vesuvius,
Will Tyler for Palladio or Vitruvius!
One wou'd imagine by the mad'ning fools,
Who talk of nothing but the ancient schools,
And vilify the works of modern brains,
They think poor mother Nature's art is fled,
That now she cannot make a head,
Who took with old Italian pates such pains;
Nay, to a driv'ller turn'd, her power so sunk is,
Tame soul! that nothing now she makes, but monkeys:
Who talk of nothing but the ancient schools,
And vilify the works of modern brains,
They think poor mother Nature's art is fled,
That now she cannot make a head,
Who took with old Italian pates such pains;
Nay, to a driv'ller turn'd, her power so sunk is,
Tame soul! that nothing now she makes, but monkeys:
‘Look at your fav'rite Reynolds,’ is their strain,—
‘Allow'd by all, the first in Europe's eye:
One atom of repute can Reynolds gain,
When Titian, Rubens, and Vandyke are nigh?
Can Reynolds live near Raphael's matchless line?’
Yes, blinkards! and with lustre shine!
‘Allow'd by all, the first in Europe's eye:
One atom of repute can Reynolds gain,
When Titian, Rubens, and Vandyke are nigh?
Can Reynolds live near Raphael's matchless line?’
Yes, blinkards! and with lustre shine!
118
ODE XII.
Peter increaseth in Wisdom, and adviseth wisely—Seemeth angry at the Illiberality of Nature in the Affair of his good Acquaintance, the Lord High Chancellor of England and Mr. Pepper Arden—Peter treateth his Readers with Love-Verses of past Times.
Copy not nature's forms too closely,
Whene'er she treats your sitter grossly:
For when she gives deformity for grace,
Pray show a little mercy to the face.
Indeed 'twould be but charity to flatter
Some dreadful works of seeming drunken nature:
Whene'er she treats your sitter grossly:
For when she gives deformity for grace,
Pray show a little mercy to the face.
Indeed 'twould be but charity to flatter
Some dreadful works of seeming drunken nature:
As for example, let us now suppose
Thurlow's black scowl, and Pepper Arden's nose:
But when your pencil's powers are bid to trace
The smiles of Devonshire—Duncannon's grace—
To bid the blush of beauteous Campbell rise,
And wake the radiance of Augusta's eyes
(Gad! Muse, thou art beginning to grow loyal),
And paint the graces of the Princess Royal,
Try all your art—and when your toils are done,
You show a flimsy meteor for a sun.
Thurlow's black scowl, and Pepper Arden's nose:
But when your pencil's powers are bid to trace
The smiles of Devonshire—Duncannon's grace—
To bid the blush of beauteous Campbell rise,
And wake the radiance of Augusta's eyes
(Gad! Muse, thou art beginning to grow loyal),
And paint the graces of the Princess Royal,
Try all your art—and when your toils are done,
You show a flimsy meteor for a sun.
Or should your skill attempt her face and air,
Who fir'd my heart and fix'd my roving eye—
The loves, who robb'd a world to make her fair,
Would quickly triumph, and your art defy.
Who fir'd my heart and fix'd my roving eye—
The loves, who robb'd a world to make her fair,
Would quickly triumph, and your art defy.
Sweet nymph!—But, reader, take the song,
Which Cynthia's charms alone inspir'd;
That left of yore the poet's tongue,
When love his raptur'd fancy fir'd.
Which Cynthia's charms alone inspir'd;
That left of yore the poet's tongue,
When love his raptur'd fancy fir'd.
119
SONG.
From her, alas! whose smile was love,
I wander to some lonely cell:
My sighs too weak the maid to move,
I bid the flatterer, Hope, farewell.
I wander to some lonely cell:
My sighs too weak the maid to move,
I bid the flatterer, Hope, farewell.
Be all her siren arts forgot,
That fill'd my bosom with alarms:
Ah! let her crime—a little spot,
Be lost amidst her blaze of charms.
That fill'd my bosom with alarms:
Ah! let her crime—a little spot,
Be lost amidst her blaze of charms.
As on I wander slow, my sighs
At ev'ry step for Cynthia mourn:
My anxious heart within me dies,
And sinking, whispers, ‘Oh, return!’
At ev'ry step for Cynthia mourn:
My anxious heart within me dies,
And sinking, whispers, ‘Oh, return!’
Deluded heart! thy folly know—
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame—
By absence thou shalt lose thy woe,
And only flutter at her name.
Readers. I own the song of love is sweet,
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame—
By absence thou shalt lose thy woe,
And only flutter at her name.
Most pleasing to the soul of gentle Peter:
Your eyes then with another let me treat,
O gentle sirs, and in the same sweet metre.
SONG TO DELIA.
Say, lonely maid, with down-cast eye—
O Delia, say, with cheek so pale;
What gives thy heart the length'ned sigh,
That tells the world a mournful tale?
O Delia, say, with cheek so pale;
What gives thy heart the length'ned sigh,
That tells the world a mournful tale?
Thy tears, that thus each other chase,
Bespeak a bosom swell'd with woe:
Thy sighs, a storm that wrecks thy peace,
Which souls like thine should never know.
Bespeak a bosom swell'd with woe:
Thy sighs, a storm that wrecks thy peace,
Which souls like thine should never know.
120
O tell me doth some favour'd youth,
With virtue tir'd, thy beauty slight;
And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip and bosom of delight?
With virtue tir'd, thy beauty slight;
And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip and bosom of delight?
Perhaps, to nymphs of other shades
He feigns the soft impassion'd tear,
With songs their easy faith invades,
That treach'rous won thy witless ear.
He feigns the soft impassion'd tear,
With songs their easy faith invades,
That treach'rous won thy witless ear.
Let not those maids thy envy move,
For whom his heart may seem to pine—
That heart can ne'er be blest by love,
Whose guilt could force a pang from thine.
For whom his heart may seem to pine—
That heart can ne'er be blest by love,
Whose guilt could force a pang from thine.
ODE XIII.
Pious Peter acknowledgeth great obligations to the Reverend Mr. Martyn Luther—Yet lamenteth the Effects of this Parson's Reformation on Painting.
We protestants owe much to Martyn Luther,
Who found to heav'n a shorter way and smoother;
And shall not soon repay the obligation:
Martyn against the papists got the laugh,
Who, as the butchers bleed and bang a calf
To whiteness—bled and bang'd unto salvation:
Who found to heav'n a shorter way and smoother;
And shall not soon repay the obligation:
Martyn against the papists got the laugh,
Who, as the butchers bleed and bang a calf
To whiteness—bled and bang'd unto salvation:
As if such drubbings could expel their sins:
As if that Pow'r, whose works with awe we view,
Grac'd all our backs with sets of comely skins,
Then order'd us to beat them black and blue.
Well then! we must confess for certain,
That much we owe to brother Martyn,
Who altered for the better our religion—
Yet by it glorious painting much did lose—
Was pluck'd, poor goddess! like a goose,
Or, for the rhime's sake like a pigeon.
As if that Pow'r, whose works with awe we view,
Grac'd all our backs with sets of comely skins,
Then order'd us to beat them black and blue.
Well then! we must confess for certain,
That much we owe to brother Martyn,
Who altered for the better our religion—
Yet by it glorious painting much did lose—
Was pluck'd, poor goddess! like a goose,
Or, for the rhime's sake like a pigeon.
121
Mad at the whore of Babylon and bull;
Down from the churches men began to pull
Pictures that long had held a lofty station—
Pictures of saints of pious reputation,
For curing by a miracle the ills
That now so stubborn yield not to devotions,
But unto blisters, bolusses, and potions,
That make such handsome ‘pothecaries’ bills.
Down from the churches men began to pull
Pictures that long had held a lofty station—
Pictures of saints of pious reputation,
For curing by a miracle the ills
That now so stubborn yield not to devotions,
But unto blisters, bolusses, and potions,
That make such handsome ‘pothecaries’ bills.
Down tumbled Anthony who preach'd to sprats—
And he who held discourses with a hog ,
That grunting after him so us'd to jog,
Came down by favour of long sticks and bats.
And he who held discourses with a hog ,
That grunting after him so us'd to jog,
Came down by favour of long sticks and bats.
The saints who grin'd on spits like ven'son roasting,
Broiling on gridir'ns—baking in an oven;
Or on a fork like cheese of Cheshire toasting,
Or kick'd to death by Satan's hoof so cloven;
All humbled to the ground were forc'd to fall—
Spits, forks, and gridir'ns, ovens, dev'l and all.
Broiling on gridir'ns—baking in an oven;
Or on a fork like cheese of Cheshire toasting,
Or kick'd to death by Satan's hoof so cloven;
All humbled to the ground were forc'd to fall—
Spits, forks, and gridir'ns, ovens, dev'l and all.
Ev'n saints of poor old England's breeding,
In marvels many foreign ones exceeding,
Our hot reformers did as roughly handle:
In troth, poor harmless souls! they met no quarter
But down were tumbled miracle and martyr,
Put up in lots, and sold by inch of candle.
In marvels many foreign ones exceeding,
Our hot reformers did as roughly handle:
In troth, poor harmless souls! they met no quarter
But down were tumbled miracle and martyr,
Put up in lots, and sold by inch of candle.
Had we been papists—Lord! we still had seen
Devils and devils' mates, young pimping liars,
Tempting the blushing nuns of frail fifteen,
With gangs of ogling, rosy, wanton friars:
Which nuns so pure no love-speech could cajole—
Who starv'd the body to preserve the soul.
Devils and devils' mates, young pimping liars,
Tempting the blushing nuns of frail fifteen,
With gangs of ogling, rosy, wanton friars:
Which nuns so pure no love-speech could cajole—
Who starv'd the body to preserve the soul.
Then had we seen St. Dennis with his head
Fresh in his hand, and with affection kissing;
As if the nob, that from his shoulders fled
By knife or broad-sword, never had been missing:
Then had we seen, upon their friendly coating,
Saints on the waves, like gulls and widgeons, floating.
Fresh in his hand, and with affection kissing;
As if the nob, that from his shoulders fled
By knife or broad-sword, never had been missing:
Then had we seen, upon their friendly coating,
Saints on the waves, like gulls and widgeons, floating.
122
I've seen a saint on board a ship,
To whom for a fair wind the papists pray,
Well flogg'd from stem to stern by birch and whip,
Poor wooden fellow! twenty times a day:
To whom for a fair wind the papists pray,
Well flogg'd from stem to stern by birch and whip,
Poor wooden fellow! twenty times a day:
Pull'd by the nose, and kick'd—call'd lubber, owl,
To make him turn a wind to fair from foul!
And often this hath brought a prosp'rous gale,
When pray'rs and curses have been found to fail.
To make him turn a wind to fair from foul!
And often this hath brought a prosp'rous gale,
When pray'rs and curses have been found to fail.
This, had we papists been, had grac'd our churches,
Saints, seamen, nose-pulling, kicks, whips, and birches.
Saints, seamen, nose-pulling, kicks, whips, and birches.
ODE XIV.
Peter attacketh the Exotic R. A.'s
Ye royal sirs! before I bid adieu,—
Let me inform you, some deserve my praise:
But trust me, gentle 'squires, ye are but few
Whose names would not disgrace my lays:
You'll say, with grinning sharp sarcastic face,
‘We must be bad indeed, if that's the case’—
Why, if the truth I must declare,
So, gentle 'squires, you really are.
Let me inform you, some deserve my praise:
But trust me, gentle 'squires, ye are but few
Whose names would not disgrace my lays:
You'll say, with grinning sharp sarcastic face,
‘We must be bad indeed, if that's the case’—
Why, if the truth I must declare,
So, gentle 'squires, you really are.
I'm greatly pleas'd, I must allow,
To see the foreigners beat hollow;
Who stole into that dome the Lord knows how:
I hope to God no more will follow:
Who, curs'd with a poor sniv'ling spirit,
Were never known to vote for merit—
To see the foreigners beat hollow;
Who stole into that dome the Lord knows how:
I hope to God no more will follow:
Who, curs'd with a poor sniv'ling spirit,
Were never known to vote for merit—
Poor narrow-minded imps,
Hanging together just like shrimps.
I own (so little they have merited)
That from yon noble dome,
Made almost an Italian and French home,
I long to see the vermin ferreted.
Hanging together just like shrimps.
I own (so little they have merited)
That from yon noble dome,
Made almost an Italian and French home,
I long to see the vermin ferreted.
123
Yet where's the house, however watch'd by cats,
That can get rid of all its rats?
Or, if a prettier simile may please,
Where is the bed that has no fleas?
Or if a prettier still—what London rugs
Have not at times been visited by bugs?
That can get rid of all its rats?
Or, if a prettier simile may please,
Where is the bed that has no fleas?
Or if a prettier still—what London rugs
Have not at times been visited by bugs?
ODE XV.
Peter taketh leave—Displayeth wonderful Learning—Seemeth sorry to part with his Readers—Administereth Crumbs of Comfort.
My dearest readers! 'tis with grief I tell,
That now, for ever, I must bid farewell!—
Glad if an ode of mine with grins can treat ye, Valete:
And if you like the lyric Peter's oddity; Plaudite.
Rich as a Jew am I in Latian lore—
So, classic readers, take a sentence more:
Pulchrum est monstrari digito et dicier hic est!
Says Juvenal, who lov'd a bit of fame—
In English—ah! 'tis sweet amongst the thickest
To be found out, and pointed at, by name.
To hear the shrinking great exclaim, ‘that's Peter,
Who makes much immortality by metre,
Who nobly dares indulge the tuneful whim,
And cares no more for Kings than Kings for him!’
That now, for ever, I must bid farewell!—
Glad if an ode of mine with grins can treat ye, Valete:
And if you like the lyric Peter's oddity; Plaudite.
Rich as a Jew am I in Latian lore—
So, classic readers, take a sentence more:
Pulchrum est monstrari digito et dicier hic est!
Says Juvenal, who lov'd a bit of fame—
In English—ah! 'tis sweet amongst the thickest
To be found out, and pointed at, by name.
To hear the shrinking great exclaim, ‘that's Peter,
Who makes much immortality by metre,
Who nobly dares indulge the tuneful whim,
And cares no more for Kings than Kings for him!’
Yet one word more, before we part—
Should any take it grievously to heart,
Look melancholy, pale, and wan, and thin,
Like a poor pullet that hath eat a pin,
Put on a poor desponding face and pine,
Because that Peter the divine
Should any take it grievously to heart,
Look melancholy, pale, and wan, and thin,
Like a poor pullet that hath eat a pin,
Put on a poor desponding face and pine,
Because that Peter the divine
124
Resolves to give up painting odes:—
By all the rhiming goddesses and gods,
I here upon a poet's word protest,
That if it is the world's request
That I again in lyrics should appear,
Lo! rather than be guilty of the sin
Of losing George the Third one subject's skin,
My lyric bagpipe shall be tun'd next year.
By all the rhiming goddesses and gods,
I here upon a poet's word protest,
That if it is the world's request
That I again in lyrics should appear,
Lo! rather than be guilty of the sin
Of losing George the Third one subject's skin,
My lyric bagpipe shall be tun'd next year.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |