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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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
95
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.
96
‘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;
98
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |