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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
Pindar, Peter (1738-1819)

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VOL. I.
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VOL. II.
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SUBJECTS FOR PAINTERS.
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EXPOSTULATORY ODES TO A GREAT DUKE AND A LITTLE LORD.
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A BENEVOLENT EPISTLE TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ALIAS MASTER JOHN NICHOLS, PRINTER, Common-Councilman of Farringdon Ward, And Censor General of Literature:
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A ROWLAND FOR AN OLIVER, OR A POETICAL ANSWER TO THE BENEVOLENT EPISTLE OF MR. PETER PINDAR.
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ADVICE TO THE FUTURE LAUREAT,
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COMPLIMENTARY EPISTLE TO JAMES BRUCE, ESQ. The Abyssinian Traveller.
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THE RIGHTS OF KINGS,
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ODES TO MR. PAINE, AUTHOR OF ‘RIGHTS OF MAN;’
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THE REMONSTRANCE; TO WHICH IS ADDED AN ODE TO MY ASS ALSO THE MAGPIE AND ROBIN, A TALE; AN APOLOGY FOR KINGS; AND AN ADDRESS TO MY PAMPHLET.
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MORE MONEY!
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ODES OF IMPORTANCE, &c.
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THE TEARS OF ST. MARGARET;
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A PAIR OF LYRIC EPISTLES TO LORD MACARTNEY AND HIS SHIP.
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ODES TO KIEN LONG, The present Emperor of China;
  
TO THE EMPEROR OF CHINA.
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ODES TO KIEN LONG.
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[subsection]
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ODE.
  
TO A FLY,
  
ELEGY TO THE FLEAS OF TENERIFFE.
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ODE TO MESSIEURS TOWNSEND, MACMANUS, AND JEALOUS, The Thief-takers, and Attendants on Majesty.
  
ODE TO CÆLIA.
  
AN ODE TO A PRETTY MILLINER.
  
A MORAL AFTER-THOUGHT ON THE ABOVE.
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A LYRIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON.
  
EPIGRAM,
  
TO CHLOE.
  
ON A NEW-MADE LORD.
  
TO MY CANDLE.
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A POETICAL, SERIOUS, AND POSSIBLY IMPERTINENT, EPISTLE TO THE POPE.
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PATHETIC ODES.
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VOL. III.
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VOL. IV.

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49

ELEGY I.

He despairs of obtaining the Smiles of his Mistress.

What are the thunders of the ruthless wind?
And what the billows that tumultuous roll?
Calms to the raging tempest of my mind,—
Rills to the restless surges of my soul.
Intent to please, I vainly urge my toil;
No hopes, alas! the virgin's looks impart:
O tell me, Julia, what can win thy smile?
O speak, and heave the mountain from my heart.
What can I do to win a cruel maid?
The front of Danger willing would I brave:
No coward terror can this heart invade,
Whose chiefest glory is to be thy slave
50

Fate holds no horror while I please my fair;
Then, Julia, bid me my fond passion prove:
All, all thy rigour can command I dare,
But lose thine image, and forget to love.
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