The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

A sage, whose name I don't at present know
(And 'tis no mighty matter, I confess),
Says, if he wish'd to curse his bitterest foe,
How would he do it?—curse him with success.

‘Curse me,’ cries every one who reads my book,
‘If I don't wish that formidable evil:
On me, let Fortune ever smiling look,
I'll run the risk of going to the Devil.’

I fear I'm one of those, and wish to meet
Dame Fortune always smiling—in my pow'r;
Adversity one can't with pleasure greet—
Too much a cross old maid—so very sour.

T'enjoy Life's comforts be my lucky lot:
Some let me have, dear Life, however small—
‘A mouse’ (the proverb tells us) ‘in the pot
Is always better than no meat at all.’

Few are the treasures that Parnassus yields,
Its hills and dales, of very little price,
Abounding more in rocks than golden fields;
And less in sheep and cows, than rats and mice.

The streams of Helicon are deem'd divine,
Yet quench not thirst of bards like British ale;
Envy must own its founts are vastly fine,
Yet poets oft prefer the tubs of Thrale.

302

Poets are ever treading upon stars,
Sublimely walking arm in arm with gods,
Neglecting thus all sublunary cares—
Good solid beef for shadows, songs, and odes.

Mild is the mien of Merit—ah! how meek—
All diffidence, she looks with downcast eye—
A blush, a crimson blush o'erspreads her cheek—
And fear of censure gives her soul a sigh.

From tumult, far she loves to wander—far—
A simple, pensive, silent, thoughtful maid,
All lonely shining, like the evening star
That sparkles on the solitary shade.

She pants not for the splendor of a name,
To praise, to flatt'ry, wishing to be deaf;
Trembling, she steals herself away from Fame,—
A blushing strawb'rry hid beneath a leaf.

Sweet though her song, she hopes not to be heard:
In groves, the melting softness shuns the light—
In secret warbling, like the tuneful bird
That, shaded, charms the list'ning ear of night.

How timidly she tapp'd at Grandeur's door!
Afraid to wound the ear with slightest pain—
Where Gruff the porter bade her, with a roar,
Go to the Devil with her canting strain.

There, Folly rushes with his dirty boots,
Tattoos, and nearly thunders down the dwelling,
Loaded from Drummond's, Mordecai's, or Coutts',
Hark! like his hounds—tempestuous, howling, yelling.

Lo, Gruff, his hand for ever on the watch,
With many a piece of silver has been crown'd—
Proud, a round oath, or friendly damn to catch,
‘Hopes that his honour's well,’ and bows to ground.

303

‘Where dwells this blushful beauty of our isle?’
Exclaims the world—‘this Merit, let us see,’
That world (an unbelieving Jew) will smile,
When I inform him, that she dwells with me.

Yes, let me own I've nurs'd the infant Hope;
Expecting presents from the Lord's anointed—
‘Bless'd is the man who nought expects,’ says Pope,
For, lo, that man shall not be disappointed.

305

ELEGY TO THE KING.

The Poet informs his Majesty of a Rumour of great things having been done for him at Court, and of his awkward Situation in Consequence of that Rumour arising from the teazing Visits of Friends and Creditors; and supplicates his Majesty's gracious Attention to the Subject, and to relieve his Anxiety.

O King! the wondrous changes in the state
Engage these curious eyes of mine, to see
If Madam Fortune means to change my fate;
That is, if ministers have thought of me.

Soon as the post arrives, I seize the papers;
As much for place my appetite is whetted—
In vain! and then I fall into the vapours,
And think it hard my name is not gazetted.

306

Friends have pour'd in—‘Ah! Peter, my old boy!
The old jade Fortune has been kind at last—
Joy! joy!—Pindaricus—we give thee joy—
Well, well, the loaves and fishes come at last.’

In vain I tell them, that 'tis no such thing,
And represent it as an idle rumour:—
‘Poh! Peter, thou art joking, our good king
Forgives a jest, and loves a bit of humour.’

‘Sirs! what d'ye mean? I've nought, upon my soul’—
‘What! not a hint? no message? ah! no letter?
Soon shall we hear thy coach's thunder roll—
Credat Judæus! Peter, we know better!’

The mad ex-courtiers cry, ‘thou old black sheep,
Thy rhiming sins will never be forgiv'n:
In peace in this world ne'er expect to sleep;
Nay more, expect not to make peace with Heav'n!’

Bonfires have also blaz'd, lit up by people,
Whose patience, almost lost, for years has tarried;
The bells too, nearly cracking the old steeple,
Pealing as though the poet were just married.

The marrow-bones and cleavers have been here,
To pay a compliment upon my pension:
‘Ah! butchers,’ I have whisper'd in their ear,
‘Fudge! downright fudge! mere humbug—sheer invention.’

The cook too, with his petit soupé bills,
For some dear Lais, fond of pretty picking;
Who, fair as Hebe, just like Hebe fills,
So fond of oyster sauce and a broild chicken.

The pot-boy soon, and tailor too, I fear,
Will pay their court: the barber too, the prig,
I make no doubt, will presently appear,
Inquiring how I lik'd my last new wig.

And, ah! the cobbler too has sought my room,
To compliment the poet and his muse,
Quite dissipated all his former gloom,
With smiles presenting ‘a small bill for shoes.’

307

The little robins, seldom seen before,
Seem twittering gratulation to the poet;
Wagtails and sparrows too, surround my door,
Chirp pleasure, and the cocks in concert crow it.

Ev'n from its hole, beside my straw-stuff'd bed,
A poor starv'd mouse, who hears these sounds of Babel,
Pokes forth, with seeming joy, his little head,
To spy if any thing is on the table!

‘Poor mouse,’ I sigh, ‘thy face must still be lean,
Like mine, since nothing has been done for me:
How canst thou, though thy appetite be keen,
Expect that something should be done for thee’

Thus has this diabolical report,
Plung'd your poor poet in a sea of trouble;
Thus have the fancied honours of the court,
Deceiv'd and got me in a horrid hobble.

Dread sir, your bard's ambition soars not high,
To take Pitt's place, or join the privy-council;
But yet a warbling goldfinch, such as I,
Might peck some hemp-seed—taste a little groundsel.

Yes, sire, this mortifies and makes me sad,
Pleas'd should I be to meet your high commands;
Beyond a doubt I should be vastly glad,
To join the royal circles, and kiss hands.

Then, sir, permit the bard t'approach the throne,
To ask if this intelligence be true;
The world proclaims it with the firmest tone,
Yet none can tell his fortune sir, like you.

308

ELEGY TO THE SAME.

The Poet remarks the Change of Sentiments in favour of three principal Patriots, Fox, Sheridan, and Burdett, &c.—The Poet being one of the Sheep, in the List of the proscribed, wishes his Fleece to be whitened by the Sunshine of a Court-smile, but apprehends that fortunate Epocha to be at some Distance—He hints to his Majesty that he has no Disinclination to accept of something handsome; relates a mortifying Circumstance in the Life of poor Maynard, a French Poet, and mentions the Want of Hospitality in some of the Gentlemen of the Palace.

O look at Sheridan, Burdett, and Fox,
Such terrors once—such bugbears to the crown;
Lo, nothing now in either patriot shocks!
The palace marks their forms without a frown!

Pages and maids of honour, at their names,
No longer pale and trembling keep aloof!
Demons no more—their mouths emit no flame—
No tails they wear—nor carry horns and hoofs.

‘Heav'ns! Mister Fox is quite a charming man,
So placid, and so generous in his nature;
And then agen for Mister Sheridan,
So lively, clever, Lord! so great a creature.

309

‘So sensible, indeed—so full of wit,
So pleasant, so good-humour'd, sober, mellow;
Lord; without meat a fortnight one could sit,
To hear him talk—he's such a pleasant fellow.

‘Full of his fun, and always something new,
O heav'ns! a nightingale to Pitt the croaker;
One, easy, as we say, as an old shoe,
The other, stiff and formal as a poker.

‘Then there's Sir Francis! how polite a man,
So worthy, and his character so fair is,
Pays all his debts! uncommon!—a black swan!—
Oons! down with Cold-bath Fields, and down with Aris.

‘So handsome, and so neat as a new pin!
So like a gentleman in every feature!
Lord! what a shame Mainwaring should come in,
A shabby, nasty, black and ugly creature!

‘There—Pitt has kick'd the bucket—what a rout!
He made the people many an empty dish;
Our party were unwilling to cry out,
But no one, to be sure, cries “Stinking fish.”

He's dead—and heav'n go with him, where he goes;
Poor bees! he robb'd our hives of all the honey!
Hard are his taxes, God Almighty knows!
Like so much dung, he shovell'd off our money!

Yes, Fox and Sheridan, and poor Burdett,
Sore frighten'd all the pages, maids, and dames;
Put all the cooks and scullions in a sweat!
Wolves in their forms, and poison in their names!

Poor sheep, by Pitt call'd black, throughout our isle;
Poor lambs, that wander'd bleating to and fro,
Now, in the sunshine of the royal smile,
Behold their fleeces are as white as snow!

Oh! would my wool but turn a little white;
I too am black, and doom'd to bleat and hunger:
‘No!’ cries my ruling star, ‘thou still must bite
The barren rock, and wait a little longer.’

310

My liege, there are some very pretty places
That I could fill, at least that would fill me;
One whisper to their lordships or their graces,
Would do—I think we should not disagree.

‘Who first an oyster eat’ was a bold dog,
So said King Charles, whom hunger seldom vext.
But he (say I) who ventured on a hog,
Must think of dining on the Devil next!

Ah! sharp is hunger—for to feast on air
Must make the stomach look confounded blue;
I grant those things are formidable fare—
What will not teeth t'oblige the stomach do?

A poet of great poverty and fame,
Maynard, address'd old Richlieu on a day;—
‘My lord, I'm sunk in years, and blind and lame,
Ere long the debt of nature doom'd to pay:

‘Soon as I gain the Elysian Fields, the king,
Our late good monarch, whom we all must love,
Will say, “Monsieur Maynard, what news d'ye bring,
What are my subjects doing, pray, above?”

‘Then will I mention the great things I see;
Report your deeds, that dazzle ev'ry eye:
Now should he ask, sir, what you did for me,
What to the king, my lord, must I reply?

‘Reply!’ cried Richlieu, to him, ‘answer nought.’
Oh! what an answer to so great a poet!
Thus to disgrace the cardinal was brought,
And Hist'ry's blushing page will ever show it.

Dread sir, your palace gate I often pass,
Kneel at your door at times, and scent your meat;
But neither cook nor page comes out, alas!
And kindly crieth, ‘Peter, rise and eat.’

311

ELEGY TO THE SAME.

He moralizes on Virtue and Money; mentions the Neglect of celebrated Authors; and triumphs in the Idea of the Honours he should receive from Napoleon, could he be conveyed to Paris, and gives a noble Speech of the Emperor on the Occasion—The Poet concludes with dropping another Hint to his Majesty about Merit and Places, which last he very probably will discover to be purely Utopian.

‘What's virtue, without fortune to support it?’
Says Horace—‘viler than the vilest weed.’
What genius, grant sublime, yet who will court it?
The world inquires not who can write or read.

But he who gives a splendid ball or rout,
Like Thelluson, a breakfast or a dinner;
Him, him, the world endeavours to find out;
Makes wits of fools, and sanctifies a sinner!

The gentle Ovid, whom the graces love,
Charm'd with his plaintive lyre the hills of Thrace:
No tears could melt, no supplication move;
The exile pin'd, and perish'd in disgrace.

Yet all the world—one universal cry,
Condemns the rancour of the emp'ror's soul;
That frown'd, unmov'd by Pity's melting sigh,
The abject slave of Passion's proud control.

312

Old Homer: that sublime, immortal name!
Poor bard! sung ballads thro' the streets of Greece,
To save himself from famine—what a shame;
And sold them for one half-penny apiece!

Our Milton too, with equal spirit fir'd,
No patron found, his talents to requite:
And, pining, from a barb'rous world retir'd,
Sunk darkling, like the tuneful bird of night.

The plaintive Otway perish'd through hard need,
While rhiming Dulness batten'd at her ease;
And Dryden, on ambrosia form'd to feed,
Just like a rat, has din'd on bread and cheese!

Much did King Charles our Butler's works admire,
Read them and quoted them from morn to night;
Yet saw the bard in penury expire,
Whose wit had yielded him so much delight.

And you, my liege, if Fame the truth report,
In reading verses oft employ your leisure;
And often, from the tumults of a court,
Read certain odes too, with uncommon pleasure.

Eternal scandal to this barb'rous age:
In piteous penury Savedra pin'd;
In piteous penury lay poor Le Sage;
Oh! what a stinging satire on mankind.

Yet let one action of the day shine forth,—
(And Candour loves to dwell upon my tongue),
Thurlow could see a Cowper's modest worth,
And crown with fair reward his moral song.

Dame Fortune never asks me what I wish,
Tho' bold my flights, that raise the eyes of kings;
They ne'er exclaim, ‘thou wondrous flying fish
‘Amidst our seas of claret wet thy wings.’

O would the angel to my room repair,
Who rais'd good Habakkuk, and lift my crown
(No matter by the wig or by the hair),
And then in Paris gently set me down;

313

Soon at my lodgings would arrive a card,
From him, whose deeds a world with wonder fill;
‘The emp'ror's compliments—requests the bard
Would eat his mutton with him en famille.’

Then as the bottle jovially we push,
The Gallic Alexander roars with spirit,
‘Great Monsieur Peter, I shall beat the bush,
For some nice place to crown your matchless merit.’

Then will he say to Monsieur Talleyrand,
‘I honour genius, and of bard the name;
So take this charming poet by the hand,
And cover yon ungrateful isle with shame.’

Behold me then on Fortune's wheel, in short,
High fix'd, a seeming hero of romance!
Kiss'd by the ladies of Napoleon's court,
And visited by all the wits of France!

Such is the picture Fancy loves to paint;
A scene, perhaps, that sober Wisdom scorns.
Sick is my soul! with disappointment faint,—
‘Curs'd cows,’ reports the proverb, ‘have short horns.’

Tell not in Gath nor Askelon such things,
And furnish Scandal's tongue with defamation;
No! let her never cry, ‘the best of kings
‘Neglected the best poet of his nation.’

Pleas'd, on his tombstone, couldst thou read these words?
‘Here lies the bard of humour, wit, and whim,
Who, though he sweetly smil'd on earth's great lords,
Did ne'er bestow a single smile on him.’

314

ELEGY TO LORD GRENVILLE.

The Poet accuses the Delusions of Hope, who had promised him a Number of good Things; sings with much Pathos of the Treasury, and a Stranger called Money; and concludes with a handsome Compliment to Lord Grenville, hoping for the Honour of his lordship's Acquaintance.

Hope whisper'd that my market would be made,
If one day Pitt should go upon his travels;
Lo! Pitt is off, yet Fortune lags, a jade,—
This, please your lordship, the poor poet gravels.

Hope whisper'd me that Calumny's black breath
Would cease, and that the howling imp would die;
Yet, in the winds I hear the fiend of death,—
This steals a sorrow from your poet's eye.

Hope flatter'd—but her pleasure is to cheat,
She loves to chouse the feeble-sighted mole;
Her mansion forms the idiot's last retreat,
Her glittering beams the moonshine of the soul.

O Grenville! who hast felt the furious storm,
And bellowing thunders of the gloomy main;
Trac'd too with boldness, Danger's giant form,
In port, at anchor, thou art snug again.

While now, amid thy fleet, with tow'ring pride,
Safe moor'd, secure from rocks, and winds, and fog;
Admit my little cutter along side,
And ask its master to a glass of grog.

315

The Treasury's golden door to many a man
Opes wide! ah! shut on me, the bright abode;
These shoes have tramp'd from Beersheba to Dan,
Nor found a small brass farthing on the road.

A guinea's lovely face I never see,
Though strong my passion, wishing to be billing;
Ev'n little sixpence prudish is to me,
And coyer too her elder sister, shilling.

With thee the beggar is no longer poor,
The blackest sinner whitewash'd soon and sainted,
Regeneration then within thy door;
Oh! what a pity, we are not acquainted!

316

ELEGY TO LORD H. PETTY.

The Poet addresseth Lord H. Petty on those important Objects called Meat and Drink; disclaims the Vanities of Ambition, his highest being to sing in a snug Corner and eat.

O Petty! of whose talents, virtues—Fame
Is with a trumpet pleas'd to talk a deal;
O listen if thou lov'st a poet's name,
To what concerns a poet much—a meal.

To me has Nature bountifully giv'n
A handsome stomach and discerning palate:
Forgetting to complete my earthly heav'n,
To put a little something in my wallet.

I wish not to be minister—not I;
I put not up my prayers for Petty's place;
Nor Fox, nor Sheridan produce a sigh;
To Ireland goes unenvied Bedford's Grace.

Too often Fortune, on her cloud-capp'd tow'r,
Shall place a gentleman, and then, uncivil,
Shall bid the thunder roar, and torrents pour,
And wash and blow his honours to the D*v*l.

Survey gude Melville and his gude friend Trotter,
Who drove the world before them in high glee!
Amphibious Melville! yes, a kind of otter,
That liv'd on flesh and fish by land and sea.

Be somewhat mine, but far from bustling men,
In stillness be the gentle poet blest!
In secret solitude a humble wren,
To hop and peck, and twitter near my nest.

317

Form'd with œconomy, in Wisdom's school,
What government may give I will not squander;
And imitate the Prodigal, the fool,
Eat grains in hog-sties, and a vagrant wander.

The gay Hilario liv'd in style—in state;
A palace for his mansion—din'd with dukes;
Enjoy'd his carpets, sofas, pictures, plate,
Dogs, horses, music, mistresses, and cooks.

Pale Envy mark'd with wishful eye the scene—
How long? ah! soon did Fortune turn her back,
Revok'd her smiles, and show'd an alter'd mien,
Refusing farthings where she gave a lack.

Behold him meagre, wan, in mean attire,
Doom'd ever, in a prison's cell, to pine;
Now cooking, at a little hungry fire,
A pound of tainted mutton on a twine!

Much should I like to see a joint of meat,
Instead of one poor solitary chop;
Afford my friends, at times, a little treat,
The fiddler call, and give their heels a hop.

My mansion too, I would enlarge, I own,
Increase my tables, knives and forks, and pottery;
Now this, my lord, could easily be done,
Would Fortune ask me to attend the lottery.

One word from Petty makes the goddess kind,
Which thus a pretty little place secures:
My lord, though to my merits always blind,
Her eyes were open'd to discover yours.

318

ELEGY TO LORD SIDMOUTH.

The Poet exhibits a Sort of Claim on Lord Sidmouth's Attentions, founded on the various and dangerous Battles he fought in Support of his Administration: he freely acknowledges his Smile on his Lordship's prudery, that resisted with so much Violence the Bribe of the silly unthinking Manufacturer.—He gives a pathetic History of the Tinman's declining Health, his Swan-like Soliloquy before his Death, his Epitaph; and makes up all Matters with Lord Sidmouth by a small Sarcasm on his own Muse, and a handsome Compliment to the noble Lord.

O Sidmouth! alias Addington, on high,
I mark thee basking in the royal smile,
Where honours thick as hops, and pensions lie,
That spread a lustre o'er our happy isle.

So high in favour, and so near the throne,
Say, canst thou not, by ways and means, contrive
To gratify a harmless, humming drone
With some small honey from the court's huge hive?

Oft have I dwelt with pleasure on thy name,
And fought thy battles in the wars of wit;
And oft, the tuneful stentor of thy fame,
I took thy part against the Janus Pitt.

319

Now charg'd with ode, the muse with much renown,
Has fir'd from newspapers a deadly gun,
Knock'd many an imp of opposition down,
Now with a red-hot satire, now a pun.

Such are the services perform'd with spirit;
Then ponder on the labours of the muse;
Think of a something to reward her merit—
The dame would thank thee for a pair of shoes.

Hark! hark! I hear the voice of hundreds cry,
‘Thy muse has covered him with ridicule;’
This allegation let me not deny;
But Sidmouth should have smil'd upon the fool.

Muse, on the Tinman let us drop a tear,
And breathe a gentle sigh upon his fate;
Who took to heart his destiny severe,
And never after made a spoon or plate.

Ne'er solder'd stew-pan, sauce-pan, or a kettle:
Made not extinguisher, nor pair of snuffers;
In short, ne'er meddled with one bit of metal—
So much a wounded delicacy suffers!

'Lone in his parlour, just behind his shop,
Poor man! in solitude he sat and sigh'd;
Tears from his eyes, like peas, were seen to drop,
When thus, in sorrow sunk, the tinman cried:—

‘Farewell my dripping-pans, tin-jacks, farewell!
Skimmers, and syringes, and toasting-forks,
Tin pint and shaving-pot, and scallop-shell,
Farewell my shop, with all its shining works!

‘Farewell my hopes that whisper'd a fur gown,
That to the windows brings all Plymouth faces;
No may'r! in glory to parade the town,
Before my aldermen,—behind my maces.

‘Since Newgate held me, I am lost, forlorn;
My strength decays, in speech I daily falter,
Hourly I wish I never had been born,
For every thing around me smells of halter!’

320

Thus mourn'd the man of tin, and spoke no more:
I saw him carried to the churchyard's gloom;
I sought his grave at evening's stilly hour,
And sympathising—thus inscrib'd his tomb:

‘Here lies a tinman, who to wisdom lost,
Tried hard to bribe a minister of state;
Who knew not, when a man obtains a post,
That all the virtues on his worship wait.

‘Poor man! he knew not that the great were good,
Inflexible, in honour vastly nice;
That virtue ever mingled with high blood;
That lofty lords, like cobblers, have their price.’

Yes, Sidmouth, though thy talents I admir'd,
And lov'd thy virtues, thou couldst not escape;
By laughing subjects is the muse inspir'd,
And mine's a little saucy, grinning ape.

And where is all the mighty harm, I wonder!
What is it all, when all is said and done?
The bard, to kill a midge-fly, pours a thunder,
And spares no blemish, though 'tis in the sun.

321

ELEGY TO LORD ERSKINE.

The Poet addresses a just Eulogium to the Lord Chancellor—He thinks that he has taken now and then a poetical Liberty with a certain Peer of the Realm; also with the modest and disinterested Mr. George Rose—recites a Speech of the exalted Earl of Liverpool; and complains of the false Opinions of the World, concerning him.

O Erskine! on whose head, whose blameless head,
The muse of eloquence has plac'd her crown;
Where Malice has her venom vainly shed,
And Envy, the foul fiend, has fix'd her frown.

Such is thine honour's fairness, a pure snow;
And such thy talents as must charm a nation:
Blest change! the cygnet for the croaking crow,
Long-wish'd amends for one late elevation.

Though far from courts, a culprit in disgrace,
In dreary solitude my merits shine;
Though near a throne, I dare not show my face,
I'm glad to see the monarch smile on thine.

I think I've call'd Lord C*****a f***,
And were I king, that lord should be displac'd;
Heav'ns! can the liver of a saint be cool,
When such on Fortune's pinnacle are plac'd?

I own I never could expect George Rose,
Wishing him captain's clerk or purser still;
Not roll in treasure, which God only knows,
An ocean roaring from a creeping rill.

322

‘Hoot!’ cries old Liverpool, ‘ye rhiming rogue,
Ye mun na laugh at people of high station;
Ye that have neither stocking, shoe, nor brogue,
Yur lugs should suffer for yer defamation.

‘Ye thenk becaze yer head has some wee brain,
And thenk becaze that ye can speel yer letters;
That ye may show'r your squebs as theck as rain,
And take domn'd leeberties wee all yer betters.’

Rave on! no trophies I to Dullness raise,
Too proud, though poor, to call foul weather fair,
Proclaim a dirty cloud the solar blaze,
And substance yield to castles in the air.

Full oft I laugh (to burst with rage is vain)
To see what false ideas mortals form;
A cloud of darkness drear they paint my brain,
With thunder, lightning stuff'd, and floods and storm.

Ah! more like Luna from her eastern bow'r,
That issues forth in radiant robe array'd,
Steals sadness from the solitary hour,
And gilds the horrors of the midnight shade.

Or, sweet Arcadian nymph, whose smiles adorn,
Some region that in savages delights;
Or lark, the little syren of the morn,
'Midst magpies, owls, and jays, and screaming kites.

323

ELEGY.

[Yet not alone is poetry despis'd]

The Poet sympathizes with the disgraced State of Knighthood at Windsor; and gives the Conversation that took place in St. George's Chapel at Midnight, between a Pair of noble Spectres.

Yet not alone is poetry despis'd,
The noble knighthood also feel disgraces;
At scornful Windsor, is the order priz'd?
The knights, poor fellows, blush to show their faces!

Where is the spirit of our ancient sires?
Tares flourish, where should grow the golden wheat?
Instead of glory, grovelling gain inspires:
How rarely merit and preferment meet.

Where are the noble military knights,
In Windsor's sacred stalls that ought to shine!
Men, for their country that have bled in fights,
And, glorious, cast a lustre on their line?

Alas! the men who now the honours gain,
Provoke from sober justice e'en a laugh;
Lo! by those heroes, sheep are only slain,
Geese, turkeys, rabbits, or a hog, or calf.

There was a time when Honour was in fashion;
There was a time when Glory was ador'd;
When Merit was the idol of a nation;
When Valour edg'd the fury of the sword.

Knights who ne'er kill'd a foe, except a flea,
Whom garter, mantle, waving, plumes adorn;
Poor knights of Windsor with disdain survey,
Look down upon them with the squint of scorn!

324

'Twas at the midnight hour, when walk the dead,
Saint George met Edward in the sacred fane;
When thus the saint bespoke the king—‘Ah! Ned,
Alas! poor Honour now is in her wane.’

‘Dear George, 'tis very true,’ replied the king,
‘Poor Honour is just come upon the parish;
Merit may tramp the streets, and ballads sing:
My new-made knights can boast of nothing warrish.

‘Shall Stitch, the cross-legg'd rascal, to this fane
Hop from his board and hell to be a knight;
Th' immortal glory of the order stain;
What! to the lordly lion mount a mite?

‘Shall Harry Haunch, Dick Duck, and Toby Pigtail,
Be knights, because his lordship cannot pay 'em?
Sam Sledge, Bob Boots, Ben Broadcloth, and Will Wigtail,
Because his debts are such he can't defray 'em?

‘O must Tom Turbot, Tart, and Matthew Mustard,
Enjoy the lofty honours of the stall?
And on that cream-fac'd animal, Kit Custard,
The glories of an installation fall?

‘On market days, alas! how dread the sound,
From butcher knights, a most disgraceful cry—
Beef, mutton, fourpence farthing, ma'am, a pound;
Nice pork, ma'am; veal, ma'am; pray, ma'am, what d'ye buy?’

‘Ere long the brazen barrow drab, Bet Bundle,
Shall come and bully with her bill, my lord;
Bet ceases in a trice, her wheel to trundle,
To kneel beneath the splendors of the sword.’

Now crow'd the cock, the eye of orient day,
Peep'd on the noble ghosts, each other greeting:
‘B'ye, Ned, I'll give,’ St. George was heard to say,
‘The hist'ry of my knights at our next meeting.’

325

ELEGY TO J. DONITHORNE, ESQ.

The Poet, in a Series of happy and illustrative Comparisons, bewails the Cruelty of his Fate.

Heav'ns! what a world we live in! oh! how sad!
To this thy long experience will agree—
Half fill'd with fools—be-devil'd, drunk, or mad—
How blest, dear Donithorne, were all like thee!

Patient as men upon the river's side,
Who for a dinner throw the worm or fly,
So patient I Preferment's fish have ey'd,
But cannot hook one, or to boil or fry.

Patient as hunters in an eastern wind,
Ungracious wind! for running hares unfit;
I seek Preferment's hare, but cannot find—
In perfect stillness sleeps the rusty spit!

The smiles of kings, who court the trump of fame,
No little partialities should know;
On merit, wheresoe'er it springs, the same,
Like heav'n's kind showers on ev'ry plant that flow.

Or like the sun's bright orb that beams on all,
Disdaining winds and elemental strife,
Bids on the lane's poor pool its kisses fall,
And bids it, like the ocean, teem with life.

Patient as blushing virgins of sixteen,
Whose ears have heard a lover's piteous prayer;
If those same lovers are not constant seen,
Or, faithless, mean to fly to other fair;

326

Patient as widows in their mournful weeds,
When no kind second husband comes to sigh,
Or heir, that cannot to th' estate succeed,
Because his father chooses not to die.

Patient as cats before the mouse's hole,
Winking and nurs'd with sanguine hope the while,
To nab the little animal, poor soul!
These eyes have sharply mous'd for Fortune's smile.

327

ELEGY.

[While others sink in seas of rosy wine]

The Poet complains of the unequal Distributions of Fortune; of the Countenance given by the Great to a vile Catgut-scraper and Canvass-dauber, in Preference to the sublime Bard; and concludes with a beautiful Apostrophe to his Divinity, Independence.

While others sink in seas of rosy wine,
Where rosy Pitt resign'd his housing breath;
No drowning oceans of the grape are mine—
I can't afford to put myself to death.

While others, stuffing, chok'd on dainty fare,
Like London aldermen undaunted die;
To Heav'n with turtle in their mouths repair—
I can't afford to choke myself—not I!

I cannot make a larder of my throat;
Nor of my stomach form a purple well;
Good claret by the sight alone, I note,
And judge of ven'son only by the smell.

Now on a bench I ponder in the Park,
Near some frail nymph as hungry, beauteous sinner!
And now, alone, voracious as a shark,
Dream of a feast, or count the trees for dinner.

Behold the catgut-scraper with his crowd,
Commands at will the house of hospitality,
Sits by the peer, not Lucifer more proud,
And hobs or nobs it with the man of quality.

328

And now, behold a bellowing calf knocks in,
He thunders, and no porter dares oppose—
Jokes with his lordship, fills himself to chin,
Where the poor poet dares not show his nose.

Behold the canvass-dauber, he can draw
My lady's cat's-face, or her pug, or parrot,
Shall range at large the mansion, and give law,—
But where's the modest poet?—in his garret!

Such is the bard's sad fate of modern days,
To gain Life's comforts by his art, unable—
A man despis'd! the long-ear'd beast that brays,
Finds in his manger a superior table.

O! Independence, to thy name I kneel!
Yes, with idolatry I bend the knee;
If aught of pride, aspiring pride, I feel,
Sweet nymph of freedom, 'tis to live with thee.

Then sorrow never would my heart invade;
Then let us in some rural mansion dwell;
Content will join us there, the simple maid,
And to a little heav'n convert our cell.

Content gives freshness to the fields of air,
With every sweet the breath of Zephyr fills;
Can make our common viands dainty fare,
And yield a flavour to the fountain's rills.

Thus will we pass in silent ease the day,
Each hour shall carry sunshine on its wings;
Nor envy Salisb'ry's glory at the play,
Five hours a stake behind the chair of kings.

329

ELEGY.

[Too poor am I, alas! to pay for praise]

He bewails the World's Want of Candour and Discernment in hearkening to one of the Rivington Reviewers, and paltry Paragraph Spinner, to his (the Poet's) Disadvantage.

Too poor am I, alas! to pay for praise;
I cannot visit a reviewer's shop:
And well I know how much a dinner sways!
A pot of porter and a mutton chop.

To gaunt reviewers, paragraph inditers,
Each trembling door is ever open found;
Who dares affront such formidable writers?
Snakes, whose sharp fangs inflict a mortal wound!

Puff call'd on Daub one morning—‘My dear fellow,
How much improv'd in colouring and grace!
So chaste the contour, and the tints so mellow;
Not thou, but Titian, finish'd up that face!

‘To these, are Raphael, Titian, feeble souls;
Daub, o'er the town its merits shall be spread!’
‘Dear Puff, wife waits with coffee and hot rolls,’
Puff, like a bull-dog, breakfasts on the head.

Just before dinner Puff pops in agen—
‘Daub, I must see the progress of thy art;
O, like thy glowing pencil were my pen!
'Sblood! all alive—the figure makes one start.

‘Exhibit Daub—success is sure—don't doubt it;
The charming piece will ravish all beholders—
Springs from the canvass—murders all about it!’
Thus dineth Puff upon the neck and shoulders.

330

‘Daub, what a gem! the finish I must see,
With not one flaw, with lustre so replete:’
Thus Puff upon the body drinks his tea,
And makes a supper on the hands and feet.

Yet not alone on Daub he plays his art,
The play'rs too must contribute, beg, and bow:
Or woe to Romeo's, woe to Juliet's part—
He like a lubber dies, and she a sow.

The singers too must humble, must come down,
Or, lo! the pen destroys them at a stroke:
‘Bad—shocking stuff—an insult on the town,
Crack'd, out of tune the voice, the raven's croak.’

Poor Tweedledum must also taxes pay,
Must bend to Puff, or woe to Tweedledum!
‘The fellow has no bow, no tone—he play!—
Zounds! to the dancing dogs unfit to strum.’

But Puff possesses still a wider sphere;
For Puff the advertising taylor stitches;
A scrap of Latin wins the public ear,
And gives to Puff a handsome coat and breeches.

The man of pork who wishes for a name,
Approaches with a joint, or dainty chop;
His hogs at once a laurel gain from Fame,
And, lo! all London crowds to Griskin's shop.

Has Block the barber got a son and heir,
Puff pens a paragraph as quick as thought;
‘Quite well the lady and the child appear;’
Puff joins the christ'ning, and gets shav'd for nought.

Is Crispin married? Fame must tell the town;
Puff hails th' event, informs the world the news:
Behold perfection the fair lady crown;
Puff gets his bridecake, and a pair of shoes!

Is Mistress Tripe the butcher's lady dead?
Out flames a paragraph of pretty penship;
‘Resign'd and pious tears in plenty shed,
By all that had the honour of her friendship.

331

‘She left three children to lament her fate,
And worthy Mister Tripe to join their grief:’
Rich laud!—in gratitude to Puff! the plate
Receives a handsome tribute of roast beef!

Yet more than this can Puff, ah! happy Puff;
In fate, how much superior to the bard!
Besides, this fellow calls my poems stuff;
Though form'd by labour hard, ah! very hard.

Shield sets my song, and Incledon may sing;
But if the pen of Puff shall chance to damn it,
Alas! how little will the ballad bring!
Too soon the grocer's spice and sugar cram it.

332

ELEGY TO MR. FOX.

The Poet addresses Mr. Fox and Poverty in a tender and pathetic Strain, and accuses the late Minister of a most infamous Duplicity.

O Fox! thy talents Envy's self must own—
I saw not all thine actions with a smile;
In days of yore my face confess'd a frown,
Some acts indeed disturb'd the muse's bile.

The hours of youth are light—those hours are past;
But truce!—a sweet forgiveness shall be mine;
A summer sun is sometimes overcast—
Well pleas'd, I see thee now with lustre shine.

If right I guess—if Fame reporteth true,
Who very often deals in downright fibs;
Fortune has made thee look a little blue,
And of some pounds of fat has robb'd thy ribs.

Thou then wilt pity a poor brother bard,
As courtiers call'd me, ‘an old rhiming sinner;’
Who playing, with such want of skill, my card,
I cannot get a herring for my dinner.

Amid the scramble for the loaves and fishes,
Ye gods! I fear me, I am come too late—
Such legs and noble sirloins in the dishes,
'Tis hard that I should find an empty plate.

Like Belisarius have I fought and bled,
Attack'd the tyrant Pitt with all my art;
What my reward? a bludgeon on the head,
Whips on my back, and daggers through my heart.

333

Pitt's hungry blood-hounds constant watch'd my walk,
When, like the babe, sweet innocence was I;
In coffee-houses listen'd to my talk,
And forg'd, to blast my fame, the treason'd lie.

What gave that Pitt, that patriot Pitt, his pow'r,
For which old Chatham taught his heart to hanker;
Ask R---d, Cartwright, who in evil hour,
Join'd their dark counsels at the Crown and Anchor.

To fire and sword the flaming patriot flew,
To cut down all the plants of opposition;
Plants from his own infernal seed that grew,
Nurs'd in the hothouse of his own sedition.

Rewards and statues, now the r**** requir'd
To give to immortality his name—
With d---n'd combustibles the house he fir'd,
Then sought our thanks, for putting out the flame.

Ah! Charles, amid the toil for loaves and fishes,
I see no change of colour in my fate;
Though full my heart of thee, and warm its wishes,
Not one my stomach fills, or warms my plate.

Go, for I'm pleas'd to see old Nic as soon;
Go, Poverty, and never see me more:
Who takest knife and fork, and dish and spoon,
And turn'st the sad inhabitant to door.

Thy hag-like form and melancholy tones,
Sharp nose, and pale cold cheek, and beamless eye;
And shrivell'd skin that scarcely veils thy bones,
Spreads terror o'er my soul and wakes the sigh.

'Tis said, that thou some years ago wert seen
With Rose and Jenkinson, on Scotia's plain;
Then leave, O! leave me with thy haggard mien,
And visit Rose and Jenkinson again.

334

ELEGY.

[Fond of the marvellous are mortals all!]

The Poet confesses his utter dislike of Pitt's Administration; describes his own uncommon Intrepidity, and relates an apposite Story of a Brother Bard and a rhiming King of Sicily.

Fond of the marvellous are mortals all!
And love sublimely of themselves to talk:—
From Paul's church-yard, upon the dome of Paul,
I ne'er could see a fly, nor hear him walk.

Yet some have wondrous ears and wondrous eyes!
Drake, ere he came, beheld his idol Pitt;
Beheld his angel form amid the skies,
And heard his wisdom, eloquence, and wit!

Too oft Credulity entraps the soul!
She lies in wait for Idiotism and youth—
List'neth to tales baptized rigmarol,
And makes them pass for oracles of truth.

What thousands thought, with marv'ling Master Drake,
That Billy Pitt descended from the skies—
I own I stood not staring like a stake—
Pitt blaz'd no meteor on the poet's eyes.

Yes, I detested Pitt and all his measures,
And wrote Will-ippies on administration,
For treating just like dirt the public treasures,
And forcing to the workhouse a great nation.

335

Pitt swore he'd hang me—order'd out his thieves
To seize the gentle poet by the throat!
But, lo! the poet laugh'd at Mister Reeves—
Still with Will-ippics swell'd his daily note.

‘Thy measures are all vile,’ I boldly said;
Then vow'd he horrid penalty and pain:
‘Thy measures are all bad, all bad, all bad!’
Fearless of punishment, I roar'd again.

A certain king of Sicily made verses—
Sends for the poet laureat, Mister Bays—
Bays enters, and the rhiming king rehearses—
Expecting from his poet peals of praise.

Deeming them gems from the Parnassian mines—
‘Well, how d'ye like my verses, Mister Bays?’
‘Bad lines,’quoth Bays, ‘most execrable lines;
I never heard such stuff in all my days.’

Black look'd the tyrant—but pursued his rhimes—
‘Well! now what think ye?’—‘Worse, my liege, and worse!
Don't publish them, O king! and damn the times!’
Then Bays's taste the king began to curse.

The disappointed monarch, in a rage,
Loud by his crown and by his sceptre swore,
If thus he judg'd, he'd put him in a cage,
Or chain him all his life-time to the oar.

The king read on—but, ah! in vain he read—
The same untuneful lines, the same dull sallies—
‘Speak now, Bays!’—the poor poet shook his head—
‘Worse still, and worse---oons! send me to the gallies!’

336

ELEGY TO MR. SHERIDAN.

He compliments Mr. Sheridan, confesses that he has been a Literary Reviewer, but of the most consummate Candour—he complains of the Illiberality of Mankind; condemns literary Impostures, and wonders at the Want of Discrimination in the World, which so often mistakes a trifling Capacity, with a little Schoolboy Learning, for Genius.

O Sheridan! amidst thy walks of wit,
Success has crown'd thee—ev'ry Muse has smil'd;
While Peter, thanks to dullness and to Pitt,
Finds Pindus a most melancholy wild;

Oft am I term'd a niggard of applause;
And that I do not justice to the times:
Alas! the world complains without a cause:
Display the virtue, and I'll find the rhimes.

I own I've squeez'd some miserable souls,
And made them of their folly somewhat sick;
Show'd to a grinning world their phiz, like moles
'Midst fields they ravag'd, in a cloven stick.

I own (with candour too) that I review'd—
Unstain'd like Rivington's black tribes, my tongue;
Merit, with tomahawks I ne'er pursu'd,
Spar'd hooting owls, and kill'd the birds of song.

337

I spar'd not puppies, though they bore a star;
I spar'd not blockheads, though they wore lawn sleeves;
On vile impostors rush'd my angry war,
Rogues in saints' masks, and literary thieves.

A hound, mute hound, in cold contempt they call me,
That never to fair merit gave my tongue;
With ev'ry weapon of offence they maul me,
Poor Orpheus! 'midst the Bacchanalian throng.

Much have I suffer'd, and my Lady Muse—
Bullets, like hailstones, pelting at our head—
From mud-forts fir'd, call'd Rivington's Reviews,
Ah me! incessant show'rs of brass and lead.

Where, cloth'd, well fed, warm quarters, handsome pay
Enough to put old Satan in a sweat—
Four Parsons, hir'd like Swiss, to wound and slay,
Are peeping, aiming, from the parapet.

Muse, tell their names, at whom Religion stares,
Like scavengers that labour in the kennel—
Maurice and Beloe, all-devouring Nares,
And supple, fawning, crawling Parson R---l!

O Genius! thou fair flow'r of rich perfume,
What stinking weeds have stole thy sacred name;
Display'd their tawdry colours, for thy bloom,
Till blushing Folly's self has cried out ‘shame!’

Possess'd of mem'ry, Nature's gift to fools,
Thus coxcombs read and learn the thoughts of others;
And swell'd with lexicons and grammar rules,
Scare with Greek-thunder their old aunts and mothers.

Of such I could a manufact'ry make—
With such sad things the groaning world encumber;
From town and country any orders take,
And send, at shortest notice, any number.

338

Grosses of Rennels I could quickly send,
Of cobbler Giffords, and such cobbling fellows—
Of Fus'lies, numbers, numbers, without end!
Thousands of Nares, and Maurices, and Beloes.

O Sheridan! once more to thee I turn;
Say, is there nothing that my taste would hit?
In vain I fear me for the gift I mourn;
Lo! every wit would kill a brother wit.

Thus, when two clouds of fire sublimely meet,
Immediately are heard most serious matters;
The gloomy foes in sounds of thunder greet,
And, rushing, tear each other into tatters.

339

ELEGY.

[By courts I'm call'd a dev'lish saucy fellow]

He complains of the abusive Language of the Courts, and of the Hostility of Lord Puzzle the Lawyer towards him—gives a Portrait of Old Puzzle ad vivum.

By courts I'm call'd a dev'lish saucy fellow;
The monkeys chatter, and the tigers growl!
The calves of quality, offended, bellow;
The hounds of calumny with fury howl.

Lord Puzzle wish'd, alas! with horrid jaws,
The pretty lamb of poetry to kill!
For what enormity of crime! because
I sought the Muse's mount, to taste its rill.

Most lustily indeed Old Puzzle swore,
I roam'd a demon, and would eat the state;
And that my bleatings were the lion's roar;
That Ellenborough's club should give me fate.

Perchance the muse has smil'd on poor Old Puzzle;
For poor Old Puzzle is conceited, proud:
'Tis hard indeed the Muse's mouth to muzzle,
While others at Old Puzzle laugh so loud.

I dare not Puzzle praise in verse or prose,
Puzzle, the dark'ning ink-fish of the law;
His mud of doubts around, unsparing throws,
And of a fly's foot makes a tiger's paw.

340

Yet this deciding, undeciding man,
Contriv'd that Fame should stuff him in her trumpet;
But Fame, what Pity! since the world began,
Has oft been found a fawning, lying strumpet

Heav'n keep me from Old Puzzle and his court,
Full of wig wisdom in his solemn hour;
Full of deep doubts—and ev'n of clerks the sport—
Uncertain if that two and two make four!

To mention him with Bacon, or with Hyde,
Would make poor Hist'ry sick—we won't say vomit;
Heav'ns! what a tarnish on her page of pride!
A feeble, winking rushlight, and a comet!

341

ELEGY TO NARCISSA.

He confesses the Folly of his Youth in pursuing Fortune, who never could be induced to notice him—her Daughter, however, Miss Fortune, was of easy Access, or rather too importunate, addressing him even at the Hazard of his Life. The Poet recollects past Times and Narcissa, with a sigh; and even in the Autumn of his Days, would dare whisper soft Things in her Ear would Dame Fortune with a few kind Looks prove favourable to his Wishes.

When youth was mine, I envied Fortune's store;
With envy gaz'd upon her splendid dome;
Knock'd, with assurance, at the lady's door,
And, though I saw her—‘nobody at home!’

My thoughts by day, by night my happy dreams;
To Afric's roasting climates did I roam;
I sought her mansion near the golden streams,
And knock'd (poor Peter!) ‘nobody at home!’

Still went I on, where great Columbus found her,
'Midst thunder, tempests, and the ocean's foam—
Saw on her isle a thousand slaves surround her—
Again I knock'd, but ‘nobody at home.’

‘Ungrateful dame,’ I cried, ‘not see the bard,
The Philomel of Britain's polish'd isle?
Not see the poet who has toil'd so hard,
To gain adm'ssion for a single smile?’

342

Griev'd to the soul, to London I return'd,
And set me down in Duke's Street, Portland Place;
In sackcloth and in ashes there I mourn'd,
And curs'd my star that kept me from her Grace.

Yet, though the mother I could never greet,
Her daughter wish'd to see me and my books—
Miss Fortune—oft I saw her in the street
With Bow-street runners—men of horrid looks.

The damsel swore she lov'd me and my wit!
'Twas difficult to keep the girl in check;
For, lo! near Newgate, in the reign of Pitt,
Rudely she strove to hug me round the neck.

Like Captain Potiphar's bold wife of yore,
Who seiz'd the gentle Joseph, she provok'd me;
And had I not display'd a giant's pow'r,
I verily believe the jade had chok'd me.

Yet for myself I wish'd not wealth alone—
For thee, Narcissa, was the wish, in part;
I thought thy beauties once would be my own—
And sigh'd to give thee more than my poor heart.

With thee I hop'd to live in rural ease,
Far from the tumults of the world withdrawn,
Where health would meet us with her fragrant breeze,
Lead to the hills, and join us on the lawn:

Now prune the vine, and now the various tree,
With pleasure view the blossoms of perfume,
Now in the blushing fruit (and cull'd for thee),
Behold the tempting rivals of thy bloom.

With thee to tread the dews at early day,
And meet young morning on the orient hill;
Pleas'd, as the brooks in murmurs wind away,
And learn some moral lesson from the rill.

With thee I hop'd, in Summer's golden hour,
To wander, arm in arm, the glade along;
To touch the lyre of love amid the bow'r—
And thou the blushing subject of the song.

343

When Winter ravag'd in his stormy rage,
With thee I hop'd t'enjoy the cheerful fire;
With thee converse, or read th' instructive page
Or mingle with thy sweeter voice the lyre.

Now for the tuneful tenants of the grove,
That sue for pity, strew with grain the ground;
Poor beggars, the sweet objects of thy love,
That flocking chirp their gratitude around.

With thee I wish'd to raise the tender flow'r,
And in thy presence dig the grateful soil;
With thee the nursing rill, Narcissa, pour,
And deck at last thy bosom with my toil.

And when, at midnight, through the vast of shade,
The tempest whelm'd the world with wild alarms;
Then to my bosom press a timid maid,
And lose its thunder in Narcissa's arms.

Such were my wishes! yet thou still art fair;
And I, though lost some blushes of my cheek,
By Time's rude hand, would Fortune grant my pray'r,
With Love's sweet whispers, would thy cottage seek.

But grant that beauty were no longer thine—
Narcissa's converse would the hours beguile—
Ev'n in old age would happiness be mine;
Time leaves a treasure if he leaves thy smile.

344

ELEGY TO THE BISHOP OF LONDON.

The Poet supplicates his Brother Poet, the good Bishop of London, and one of the great Guardians of the British Museum, to dislodge the Parsons that are got into that Dwelling, thinking it more in Character for a pious Divine to attend rather to the Souls of his Parishioners, than to lousy Birds, Quadrupeds, and musty Manuscripts; and supplicates for himself the Post of a Curator.

O Porteus! hear a poet's humble pray'r;
For Porteus, thou hast been a poet too
Of yore—like me of golden trappings bare—
Like me, with scarce a stocking or a shoe.

No friends have I, alas! on Fortune's wheel;
No patron kind to help me at a pinch:
But happier thou! when wanting a good meal,
Sweet smil'd upon thee Lady Charlotte F****.

Sweet were the smiles, indeed of Lady Charlotte;
For, lo! 'twas she as all the world believes,
So good, so chaste (abhorrent of the harlot),
Who heard thy pray'r, and gave thee thy lawn sleeves.

Say, Porteus (for thou ought'st to love a poet),
Why can't I get to Montague's great house?
As well as can thy parsons, I can show it,
And keep from nits the elephant or mouse.

345

Three parsons now are keeping cock and hen:
From preying worms, the weasel and the rat;
The tribe of ostrich, and the tribe of wren—
The tribe of goose and cuckoo—tribe of gnat!

Moths in old books, and parchments too they scout,
Though great the toil! and hundreds worth a year—
This arm, I trust, can put them to the rout—
With equal fire attack their front and rear.

An't please your lordship, well I know the art
Of snatching from perdition fish and fowl—
Can bid mortality from snakes depart;
Preserve a crocodile, and stuff an owl.

As brave as Maurice, brave as parson Nares,
These hands the leathern forts of moth can storm;
And, sharp as sportsmen, foxes chase and hares:
Through all his various winding hunt the worm.

Then pray now send each parson to his parish,
Where Sin the cradle of each infant rocks;
And since with nitty tribes so wondrous warrish,
O bid them slay the maggots of their flocks!

346

ELEGY.

[Who is that form, which cometh cloth'd in light!]

The Poet is addressed by the Goddess Wisdom, who reads his Fortune, very severe and very disheartening, but nevertheless administers good Counsel.

Who is that form, which cometh cloth'd in light!
With step of speechless grace and front sublime!
Whose eye can pierce Futurity's deep night,
And view the shadowy scenes of distant Time?

Immortal Wisdom! hear her voice divine!
‘O Peter! I respect thy tuneful rage;
I quote thee oft, and many a golden line
Instructs, illumines, and adorns my page.

‘Know too my pupils all thy odes rehearse,
And dwell with constant rapture on thy name;
Yet will foul Slander's venom seek thy verse,
Pale Envy's fang too fasten on thy fame.

‘But, lo! the cedar on the hills that tow'rs
Must face the storm and meet the lightning's stroke;
The drone will buzz around the fairest flow'rs—
The caterpillar crawls on ev'ry oak.

‘The royal eagle in his airy sweep,
By rooks and crows is pester'd beyond measure;
And, lo! the mighty monarch of the deep
Too often feels the sword-fish and the thresher.

347

‘Sweet are the melodies that leave thy lyre!
Rich in invention, fancy, fire, and spirit;
Yet know, though Taste and Genius may admire,
Nor place nor pension will reward their merit!

‘High on Parnassus, thou canst claim a seat;
A sure election! yet, O man of sorrow!
If mortal-like thy mind be fix'd on meat;
Go, keep a vote-shop in a Cornish borough.’

348

ELEGY TO CYNTHIA.

He marvels at the unfair Representations of the World in regard to his Muse, and candidly avows a stronger Penchant for Praise and the tender Passion, than for Satire.

What are my dire offences, what my crimes,
That I can never, never be forgiv'n?
It seems as if all Hell was in my rhimes;
Shut on my nose each avenue to Heaven!

No rude, no savage satirist am I;
Arm'd with a sledge to knock poor Folly down,
A gentle biting blister I apply!
And with a gliding razor shave her crown.

I rush not on the world with scorpion whips—
Beneath their fury none are heard to screech;
Touch'd by my toe alone a culprit skips;
Shoe-leather application to his breech.

Yet, hark! they all are crying, ‘Murther! murther!
A Turk, a Saracen is come among us!
No massacre was ever carried further—
His weapons scalp and flea, and stab and prong us.’

How dreaded, though of courtesy the pink,
Mercy and I walk arm in arm together!
Such are the horrors at a drop of ink!
Such are the clamours at a goose's feather!

Smiles at court follies are a venial thing;
That I have laugh'd at times is very true;
Laugh'd at the lordly minions of a king,
Lord Owl, Lord Vulture, and the Lord knows who.

349

But, ah! how happier, happier far the hours
Of Love and Cynthia that indulge the dream—
Then, then her song the muse with rapture pours,
When Beauty and the Virtues are the theme.

But, Cynthia, dear variety invites—
In quest of this, the muse at times will stray;
And though thy converse and thy bloom delights,
Perpetual roses must not strew her way.

350

ELEGY TO THE BEE.

He most pathetically addresses the Bee, on the Ingratitude of the World towards him; and prophesies of himself a Fate equally cruel.

Sweet labourer! midst the summer's golden hour,
Full oft I trace thy little busy flight—
With pleasure see thee perch from flow'r to flow'r;
On violets, woodbines, roses, lilies light.

Yet what to thee is summer's golden smile?
And what to thee the flow'r-enamell'd plain?
Will gratitude reward thy daily toil?—
No! no! thou workest for reward in vain.

Not long the hive of treasure will be thine—
Rapacity will force thy little door:
Those treasures with thy life must thou resign,
A breathless victim on the fragrant store.

O base return! to lose thy precious breath—
And I, ye gods! as basely shall be serv'd;
Thou for thy treasure wilt be smok'd to death—
And I the honey'd poet shall be starv'd.

351

ELEGY TO SCOTLAND.

He drops a Tear for the supposed Death of Simplicity; but, recollecting himself, finds her alive and in good Health at the Seat of the Duke Roxburgh.

Dead is Simplicity! long dead! ah me!
Of yore, hard work'd Earl Thomas and his spouse—
Earl Thomas sweating in the field, while she
Help'd Nan the dairymaid, and milk'd her cows.

No sparkling jewels held my lady's neck fast;
No silks embrac'd her bosom and her crupper;
Beer and salt herrings form'd her simple breakfast;
Her dinner beef, and bread and cheese her supper.

Coaches were scarcely known, and if they had one,
'Twas for conveniency toward the weather—
Not gilt and varnished! no, a very sad one—
A poor alliance between wood and leather!

Then was the minstrel's harp with rapture heard;
The song of ancient days gave huge delight;
With pleasure too did wag the minstrels beard,
For Plenty courted him to drink and bite.

The poet now no longer is carest;
Sweet bird, he hops and flutters to and fro!
With ragged plumage, and without a nest,
Half starv'd, he sings in Pater-noster Row.

Of yore, our gentry held not honour cheap;
A man would hang the head that left a jail;
How like a pointer that has chok'd a sheep,
And steals off with a squint, and drops his tail.

352

The earth, with terror cloth'd, the bailiff trod!
Like Jove, th' important fellow walk'd the land;
His awful voice, the thunder of the god;
Jove's sceptre the dread tipstaff in his hand.

No more he frightens—now the man of debt,
With philosophic calmness walks the town;
No more a scarecrow, Newgate starts a sweat,
Despis'd his ruffian grasp and mock'd his frown!

Yet let the muse be candid—Fame reports
That sweet Simplicity in Scotia reigns;
That many a man of birth the minstrel courts,
With bacon feeds, and stuffs with peas and beans.

Thrice happy Scotia, blest by Ossian's birth,
And grac'd by her who every heart allures;
Invite me to that pleasant spot of earth,
And happy let me touch the lyre at Fleurs!

I heed not Johnson's sarcasms of rude thunder,
Who trod a greeting soil, yet scorn'd to thank it—
Where was the genius of the land, I wonder,
It did not toss the cynic in a blanket.

The Duchess of Roxburgh.

353

ELEGY.

[Urganda, if a favourite cat lies in]

He continues to wish that he had been so happy as to have been a Vote in a Cornish Borough; and, with Tears in his Eyes, enumerates the Pleasures and Honours he has lost.

Urganda, if a favourite cat lies in,
Invites her friends to caudle and rich cake:
But when my muse is brought to bed, no din,
No how d'ye visits my cool neighbours make!

Or is the monkey sick, he takes his bed,
Old Slop is sent for to prescribe for Pug—
Complains the muse on what shall rest her head?
What soul will send a pillow or a rug?

O had I been a vote, a borough vote!
Then Fortune would have squeez'd me by the hand;
Then would my back have worn a different coat—
Shirts, stockings, shoes, had been at my command.

Then with his lofty lordship I had din'd
With other votes, a numerous band at table;
Had drank his health, receiv'd his smiles so kind,
'Midst clattering knives and forks, and sounds of Babel.

Then had I mark'd the wonders of his face,
Gap'd at his speech and swallow'd ev'ry word;
Then had I got the promise of a place—
For promises are frequent with a lord.

354

Then had I touch'd his lordship's hand or cuff,
And measur'd him all over, inch by inch;
Mark'd how his lordship gracefully took snuff,
And possibly been honour'd with a pinch!

Then had I heard of boys the joyous yells—
To praise the Lord, the cannon's loud endeavour,
And guns of marrow-bones, and jingling bells,
Mix'd with sublime huzzas, ‘My lord for ever!’

Then with his lordship I had march'd the town,
With may'r and aldermen, a pompous band—
To enter the votes' houses up and down,
And seen him shake Tom Stirrup by the hand.

And now Ben Block the barber, now Sam Sledge,
Now Stitch the tailor, now the mason Shovel;
Old Scrape the scavenger, the woodman Wedge;
In short, each happy wight that own'd a hovel.

Then had I seen the lord and grannies greet,
Seen the old dames their mouths for kisses wipe—
Heard the loud smacks of busses, all so sweet,
And seen his lordship smoke their stumps of pipe!

Then had I seen his lordship to his chaise;
Take leave, with may'r and aldermen, in sorrow;
Hop'd weather would be fine, and good the ways,
And that he soon again would bless the borough.

No matter who the bidders—all's the same;
The man that hard for Cloacina labours,
With gold is welcome to the good old dame—
Ship-brokers, or ship-breakers, or ship-swabbers.

An old electioneering lady, known in Cornwall by the name of the Dame of the West—the fair subject of many a pleasant song.

355

ELEGY TO MR. ROWLANDSON.

The Poet wishes for the Pencil of Rowlandson to make an Exhibition of the Rivingtons' Reviewing Parsons.

Ah! Rowlandson, in vain are all my toils;
The muse's ordeal the vile priests despise;
In vain she roasts them, carbonades, and broils;
The spit and gridiron the dark band defies.

O did I boast thy pencil's happy pow'r!
Parnassus should the black impostors show;
High on a pill'ry should the culprits tow'r—
And make wry faces to the mob below.

There, while their ears sore writhe beneath the nail,
And each poor piteous priest for mercy begs,
With tune Apollo should those ears regale—
And all the Muses send them rotten eggs.

While, sad below Hypocrisy should mourn
The British Critic, dropping from her hand
Its leaden leaves, by taste and genius torn,
Old Aristarchus should survey the band.

Smiles on his cheek, and pleasure in his eye,
To see the imprison'd heads with horror stare,
‘Lo!’ (pointing with contempt) the sage will cry,
‘The foes of learning who have stol'n my chair.’

356

ELEGY TO A FRIEND.

The Poet describes his small Library, and the cheap Manner of obtaining the Lucubrations of it, the ingenious Authors of whom he speaks of with all the Reverence due to their Merits, and expresses a Hope of enlarging his Collection by the Assistance of Hucksters, Grocers, Porksellers, &c., well known Encouragers of modern Literature.

Small is the poet's library, God knows,
Small is the praise, the candid bard can utter:
Leaves of light wisdom! but in scraps it flows,
Instructing, and in fond embrace with butter.

Subscribing to a chandler's shop for cheese,
I gain the labours of celestial thought—
Sermons of Nares my eye with wonder sees,
And reads his British Critic all for nought.

But now, in higher walk t'employ his time,
Behold our Aristarchus, Parson Nares,
Steals ev'ry day an hour from prose and rhime,
To wait on snakes, stuff'd monkeys, owls and hares.

Far from his parish, and the toil of praying,
Far from the drudgery of soul-salvation,
To save old Egypt's mummies fast decaying—
The precious stink and treasure of the nation.

To save the bird's nest, butterfly and bat,
The tribe of squirrel, and the tribe of mouse;
The race of weasel, and the race of rat,
Whose glories grace of Montague the house:

357

Where Maurice too and Beloe, grave divines,
Fled from soul-slavery—what an easy fate—
Make new antiquities and new old lines,
And pension'd show the toy-shop of the state.

Yes, sir, my library is rather small—
In comes Matthias, hugging many a slop;
And Parson Rennel from the huckster's stall—
And kissing sugar from the grocer's shop.

And, lo! the labours too of Mister Knight,
Leaves fond of fish and oft with mustard taken;
Leaves that in candles also take delight,
A chop of mutton and a slice of bacon.

Soon too I'm promis'd Mister Fuseli's work,
His Shakespeare, Milton, by the man of pickles;
Discourses—also by the man of pork;
The labours of the wonderful John Nichols.

And now, embracing sugar, christ'ned brown,
Leaves from the works of Cobbler Gifford's Muse
Stepp'd from her stall, at Ashburton, to town,
Where oft she whistled to old boots and shoes.

Ere long, the huckster promises me more;
Lives of the brother Rivingtons—great men!
Great traders in the literary lore—
Encouragers of paper, ink and pen.

In Paul's Church-yard, the Bible and the Key,
This wondrous pair is always to be seen—
Somewhat the worse for wear—a little grey,
One like a saint, and one with Cæsar's mien.

Fat are the hounds of Rivingtons' known pack,
Fat on the ven'son of the nation's park—
Much like the devil's hell hounds too, and black,
And hunt, like them, their victims in the dark.

358

ELEGY.

[In days of yore, the golden days of rhime]

The Poet remarks the different Treatment of Bards of the present, and that of past Ages; and complains of not meeting as much Encouragement for his Verses as Organ Grinders, Exhibitors of Bears, Camels, dancing Dogs, and Punch.

In days of yore, the golden days of rhime,
The mighty monarch to his minstrel bow'd;
But what is now the character, sublime?
A blind old ballad singer and his crowd!

Kings too were poets—David to his lyre
Sung sweetest elegy—and David's son
Sung to the harp with all his father's fire,
And all the virgins of Judea won.

And thou, Isaiah, too didst deal in song;
Born, let me say, a gentleman, and bred
In satire, let me tell thee, rather strong,
That broke the Babylonian monarch's head.

Had I said half as bad of George the Third,
As thou of Babylon's imperious king;
My fate had been far different, take my word—
My just reward, the pill'ry or the string!

The organ-grinding girl, whose discords kill,
Is beckon'd by our dames of highest quality;
And grist she gaineth to her screaming mill—
And court'sying, thanks them for their hospitality.

359

To me no lover of the Muses cries,
‘Out with thy wallet—let us hear thy odes—
Then George's image shall delight thine eyes—
Behold a sixpence for the song of Gods.’

No nymph of quality on Peter calls;
No Lesbia fond of sparrows and the dove;
And bid me make them melting madrigals,
And say, ‘Sweet Peter, sing us songs of love!’

The man who carries punch about the street,
His scolding wife, the baker, and the devil;
With fair rewards from all spectators meet,
And to his poverty each purse is civil.

The man who leads his camel up and down,
Where sports a grinning monkey on his hump;
Dines princely, such the favour of the town,
And never mourns like me in doleful dump.

The man who leads about a dancing bear,
Or dancing dogs, good living never lack,
While I, who lead the Muses (fate severe!)
Can neither treat my belly nor my back.

The clowns of thirty pounds a year (no more)
Laugh at the sons of song, and scornful pass us;
‘One little rood of dirty land,’ they roar,
‘Is worth a thousand acres of Parnassus.’

360

ELEGY TO MR. R. GOUGH.

The Poet addresses Mr. Richard Gough, the Enfield Antiquarian, on the Subject of the Arrival of a Couple of invaluable Curiosities from Egypt, but of whose Nature our British Antiquarians seem totally ignorant. He predicts a future Batch of Invaluables for our National Museum; and concludes with a Wish that Mr. Gough would contrive to keep the three Parsons awake, who are the grand Curators of the Contents of our British Ark.

O Richard Gough! amid thy Enfield dwelling;
Now o'er a mummy's precious leg or loin,
Devoutly tasting and devoutly smelling,
Now licking an old dish and now a coin;—

O Richard! amidst locks and rusty nails,
Now blinking o'er old farthings, blue and green:
And trumpery, that every month regales
The readers of the Gemman's Magazine;—

Why keepest thou from London far away,
While various wonders of the Nile approach!
O! come and view a treasure then, and say,
‘What greets our eyes—a scorpion or cock roach?’

And haste to view another wonder, Gough,
With rapture are the virtuosi giddy—
Fam'd Alexander's coffin, or a trough
For Egypt's pigs, or Cleopatra's biddy.

To meet each marvel, Antiquarian haste,
Proclaim its quality, that none may doubt it;
With rich sagacity of smell and taste,
To London come, and tell us all about it.

361

Sir Joseph and his virtuoso friends,
Stun with their loud rejoicings, our Museum;
Archbishop, bishop to the wonder bends,
And mean, 'tis said, to order a Te Deum.

Old Nilus writes us, he will search his flood,
And send us his drown'd rarities with pleasure;
Probe ev'ry hole, and shovel up his mud,
To load our happy isle with tons of treasure.

I see, I see arrive from Egypt's lands,
Gods of old times, and godlins, green and blue;
Ribs of its ancient kings, and legs, and hands,
To ravish all the lovers of virtu.

Precious, through time, I view a vermin vile,
That crawl'd on Pharaoh's back—the very louse;
And eke the little croaker of the Nile,
The very frog that hopp'd about his house.

Fingers of Lady Potiphar of note,
Which fix'd on Joseph to her charms to bind him;
And, lo! an actual rag of that torn coat
Which, struggling, modest Joseph left behind him.

Come too, and shake the parsons from their snore ,
Or snakes, and toads, and weasels steal from sight;
The moths and butterflies will wing to door,
And owls, and bats, and eagles take their flight.

During the profound and mid-day sleep of the three divine curators of the British Museum, many of the most valuable articles in the same dormitory, taking advantage of this comfortable nap, contrived lately to make their escape; so that, if a proper person be not appointed with a flapper, to keep their eyes open, the three Levites will soon be the only remaining curiosities of Montague House.

362

ELEGY.

[Blest were the days when gold was yet unknown]

He mourns at the Discovery of Gold, as a Demon of Destruction, expresses modest Wishes, and pays a small but just Tribute of Applause to our amiable Princesses.

Blest were the days when gold was yet unknown;
The man who drew it from the secret earth,
Forc'd from its bosom an eternal groan,
And, luckless, gave a fatal demon birth.

The burning soil of Afric I have trod,
And seen the shining mischief in the sands—
Then, sighing, said, ‘Behold the world's vain God,
Our Baal, that rank idolatry commands!’

And golden Mexico these eyes have seen,
And from the splendid wonder turn'd aside,
Where Vanity extends her boundless reign,
And loads the shrines of Luxury and Pride.

I sigh not for a waggon load of gold;
For wild Ambition never fir'd my wishes;
Some modest little place I hope to hold,
And taste a morsel of the loaves and fishes.

Who court the glittering gems of Fortune's mine,
Court frequent ruin—thus upon the thorn,
The spider spins by night his silken line,
That catch, and break beneath the drops of morn.

363

I hate not courts, and all that courts contain,
A thousand beauties may to courts belong;
Lo! George's daughters have inspir'd my strain,
Sweet subjects also of some future song.

I mark not Grandeur with an envious eye;
But, when those nymphs of merit I behold,
I own I see their virtues with a sigh,
And envy them their goodness, not their gold.

A bleating lamb, for verdant hill and vale,
Alas! I wish to leave my barren rock!
A cooing dove, that tells his plaintive tale,
To build a nest amid the great state oak.

Or ev'n a spider on the cloud-capp'd tree,
I wish to weave, for wand'ring flies my net;
Nay, a poor pismire—smaller can I be?
Run on its ribs, and pick my daily meat.

I never wish'd to pull a monarch down,
Nor close in hard fraternal hugs, not I;
Th' equality I sought was, near the crown,
To hob or nob in sack, with Mister Pye.

364

ELEGY TO A FRIEND.

The Poet mentions a Part of the Furniture of his Room—grieves that he was never married—supplicates the Vengeance of Venus on the mercenary Beauty—compliments his own Merit, and makes no Doubt of an exalted Situation in the Temple of Fame.

Alas! I boast not Fortune's glittering heap,
Few are the decorations of my room—
Hung with some tapestry, indeed, but cheap,
The gratis labours of the spider's loom.

Too poor, I never could afford a wife—
Ye gods! of all misfortunes, most distressing;
My stars refused that comfort of man's life,
Deeming the prize, perhaps, too great a blessing.

For many a Phillis did I pen the song—
Knelt to her beauty, with most saint-like eyes;
In vain my verse, in vain my wooing tongue
The venal fair one wanted more than sighs.

Must beauty be an article of trade?
Like cherries must the balmy lip be sold?
The soft and swelling bosom of the maid,
Just like a rabbit's skin be giv'n for gold!

Forbid it, Venus! from the venal fair
Snatch ev'ry charm—to hay convert her locks;
Pug up her nose, and pug-like make her stare,
And pit her pimpled visage with small pox.

Red make her eyes, and turn her teeth to jet;
For balm, O! taint her breath with rotten eggs;
Corkscrew her shape, and elephant her feet—
Raise a high hump, and give two tankard legs.

365

And if she seek for public praise by song
And novel writing, sink her to the dirt—
O! be for ever out of tune her tongue,
And may the novel ev'n disgrace Dame Flirt.

Such be the punishment of nymphs who sell
(What love and love alone should bless) their charms;
Then billet doux, and sighing swains farewell,
The eye's fond dotage and the soul's alarms.

Merit and I, sad exiles, hand in hand,
Just like the children in the wood, poor worms,
Unnotic'd, crawl a most ungrateful land;
Save by sharp hunger and the howling storms!

Yet will some comfort to our souls remain!
When Time shall tear our frames—each beam and rafter—
Though here, for this world's good, we sing in vain,
Our songs with glory will be crown'd hereafter.

Why with the milder virtues was I born,
'Midst a rude world, where Vice is in her bloom!
Why with a heart, by tempests to be torn,
Lin'd with the tender cygnet's softest plume?

Amid those scenes of villany and art,
Where havoc, murder, depredation dwell—
Instead of such a softly feather'd heart—
A rugged grinding stone had done as well.

While Pope and Churchill, with envenom'd rage,
Attack the vice and folly of our isle,
No war, envenom'd, with the world I wage;
Sweet Pity sighs, or yields perhaps a smile.

The man who brings into the world a mind,
With milk of human kindness beyond measure—
Will, in himself, with small reflection, find,
He brought to this our world, a world of treasure.

366

ELEGY TO THE BAT.

The Poet addresses the Bat with much Acrimony; discovers a strong Similarity of Feature in Bat's Face and the Faces of Rivingtons' Critics—he, however, acquits Bat, but condemns their pampered literary Mohawks.

Day's golden orb has sunk beneath the skies,
And silence steals upon the world of shade:
The little playful humming host of flies,
With gambols wild, the fields of air invade.

Vile Imp of darkness! from thy dirty hole,
I see thee start in wickedness away,
Fierce as a mighty lord of the control,
With harmless insects making horrid fray.

In thine I mark the phiz of Parson Nares,
The cynic features of ill-nature fill it,
Who, when young Genius his light wing prepares,
Leaps from the shop of Rivington to kill it.

In thine too I behold the phiz of Beloe,
Poor rhiming priest, and eke the phiz of Rennell,
Sad wights, and eke that limping cobbling fellow,
Lab'rers in Defamation's filthy kennel.

For where is one of Rivingtons' Reviews,
Like eastern winds, that doth not cast a blight;
That does not try to murder ev'ry muse,
And cloud her merits with oblivious night?

367

Yet, little imp of horror, I forgive
Thy depredation on the insect host:
Thou crackest all their tiny bones to live,
And bats must eat, though lives of flies be lost.

But, lo! the cobbler and the pamper'd priest,
For luxury their scrawling pens employ;
Abuse supplies them with a monthly feast;
The palate prompts their poison to destroy.

In vain for praise is Candour heard to pray;
Beg on fair Merit smiles of commendation:
Tush! havoc is the order of the day;
Critics, like demons, thrive upon damnation.

368

ELEGY.

[The world seems tir'd (the idiot) with good things!]

The Poet condemns the present general Taste, and foretels the Return of the Ages of Barbarism.

The world seems tir'd (the idiot) with good things!
Adieu! adieu! to all that is sublime!
Disgusted Taste for flight prepares her wings,
And curses Music, Playing, Paint, and Rhime.

Barbaric ages shall again return;
The Goth and Vandal now are on the way;
Ev'n now I hear the voice of Wisdom mourn,
As darkness blots the beams of orient day.

O say, was Phœbus and each Muse asleep,
When Master Betty murder'd Shakespeare's page?
Or when Miss Mudie, by her lofty leap,
Shook off her leading-strings to lead the age?

Where was the Muse of poetry to suffer?
Pig-boys to quit their troughs to print bombast;
And tempt poor Wyndham too to be their puffer,
Who gravely tells us Thomson is surpast?

And where wert thou, O goddess of the brush?
On whom the voice of Taste in thunder calls;
That to th' Academy thou didst not rush,
And dash the daubs of Dulness from the walls.

Or where wert thou, O goddess of the fiddle?
To suffer Air to join with Goosy Gander,
Cock Robin, Horner, and High-diddle diddle;
And turn a tuneful prostituted pander.

369

O Muse of Eloquence! how canst thou bear
Poor Canning's voice, that humbly apes thine art?
Vast is the difference to the judging ear—
Heav'n's awful thunder to a brewer's cart!

And, nymph of Sculpture too, the bard demands,
How thou, with patience, with uncursing breath,
Couldst see Saint Paul, by hard unhallow'd hands,
Ston'd, ston'd, poor saint, a second time to death?

In vain I preach—in vain in scorn I smile—
In vain my pen the giant Vice assails;
Herculean labour to reclaim an isle,
Where Rapture dotes on Mother Hubbard's Tales.

370

ELEGY. THE SPEECH OF PRUDENCE.

‘Too much of freedom in thy stanza dwells,
A free-thinker and free-speaker is thy muse,’
Prim Prudence cries, who keeps a shop and sells,
With one sweet smile to Christians and to Jews.

‘Truth is a dangerous acquaintance, mind—
Struck by her voice, the world is in alarm,’
Continues Prudence, ‘go and Flattery find,
Thine idol, goddess, does a deal of harm.

‘In days of yore, when first thy song began,
How suppliant thou didst beg one laurel sprig!
So full of meek humility the man;
One little leaf to stick about his wig;

‘But soon as Fame a civil word bestow'd,
Puss show'd her tail—of daring, what display!
Out rush'd thy Pegasus upon the road,
Heels up! and kick'd down all that cross'd his way!

‘How ting'd with blushes was thy muse's morn!
Tones in the minor key, so sweet—so under;
The linnet's melting warble from the thorn,
Soon chang'd to fury, tempest, flame, and thunder.

‘Thy wanton hawk each fearful bird pursued—
How couldst thou laugh at bishops and reviewers?
Thus, in their anger, wert thou barbecued;
Their stake thy body pierc'd, thine eyes their skewers.

371

‘With lawless fury didst thou drive thy car,
O'er hill and dale, indeed without a fear—
Vainly thou deem'dst thyself a man of war:
Reviewers deem thee a poor privateer.

‘Ah! Peter thou hast made the court thy foe—
Thy persecution then can be no riddle;
It hates to caper to thy tune, I know,
And wish'd a thousand times to break thy fiddle.

‘Most dangerous is th' attempt at reformation—
Why to the people wilt thou tell their sins?
Ev'n let the boobies work their own salvation;
Why push into their consciences thy pins?

‘The bard who begs his alms from door to door,
Must never dare expose the fool or cheat;
The rhimer should remember he is poor—
Parnassus dealeth more in air than meat.

‘Dread is the satirist! a name of fear!
Beast of a thousand heads! a horrid creature!
The world's afraid to see him, or come near!
Noli me tangere in ev'ry feature!

‘How couldst thou dream of mocking courts of kings?
Of laughing at the fav'rites of a throne?
Cutting of quality, the stars and strings?
And tying, dog-like, to their tails, a bone?

‘By Reason's curb thy mouth has never bled:
Go, wear it, bear it—use will make thee able;
And if a truth must get into thy head,
Know knaves and blockheads keep the nicest table.

‘Woe to the foolish man, and fit for nought,
Who cannot shut his eyes against the light!
Woe to the man that dares to speak his thought;
And woe to him who swears not black is white.’

I own that I have suffer'd for opinion:
A liberty of thought was ever mine:
My soul abhorr'd Hypocrisy's dominion;
And scorn'd to yield for pelf a golden line.

372

Well then—since poets, though divine, must munch,
Dame Prudence, songs of praise shall store my wallet—
Here—waiter, bring me a beef-steak and punch—
Conscience, go make thy humble bow to Palate.

Stars, garters, ribbons, reds and greens and blues,
Enjoy your splendor—be with flatt'ry fed—
Ev'n Br*d---l's self shall smile upon the muse,
And find to gold and silver chang'd, his lead!

Breakfasts and dinners, routs and masquerades;
Lo! crown'd with garlands, ye shall pass along—
Apollo's self, with all th' Aonian maids,
Shall join the jovial crew with harp and song.

And weeping ladies, should a lap-dog die,
His mem'ry shall not want the tuneful shell;
And should a breathless monkey want a sigh,
The bard has praises and a sigh to sell.

373

TO BELLA.

Ah! tell me not that I am old,
And bid me quit the billing dove;
Though many years have o'er me roll'd,
My heart is still alive to love.
Then tell me not that I am old.

When Beauty's blush delights no more,
And Beauty's smile and sparkling eye;
When these no longer I adore,
Then Pity yield the bard a sigh.
I will not quarrel to be told,
Son of Apollo, thou art old.

ON THE DEATH OF A CELEBRATED MUSICIAN.

Adieu to the song of the grove!
Our Philomel warbles no more!
The loss of his carols of love,
The shepherds will ever deplore.

And sweet to the nymphs of the vale
Were his lays—what delight on the ear!
Whenever he melted the gale,
How the virgins would hasten to hear!

374

Where is Echo, so fond of his voice,
So pleas'd on each accent to dwell?
Poor Echo no more will rejoice!
But silently sleep in his cell.

Though doom'd from the world to depart,
From remembrance he cannot remove;
While tenderness reigns in the heart,
For his song was the language of love.

Though sever'd by Death from our plains,
Thou charmest no longer the sphere:
Sweet warbler! thy spirit remains,
For thy carols will live in our ear!

LINES TO LORD NELSON,

With his Lordship's Night-cap, that caught Fire on the Poet's Head at a Candle, as he was reading in Bed at Merton.

Take your night-cap again, my good lord, I desire,
For I wish not to keep it a minute;
What belongs to a Nelson, where'er there's a fire,
Is sure to be instantly in it.

375

TO CHLOE.

Ah! tell me not that I grow old,
That love but ill becomes my tongue;
Chloe, by me, thou ne'er wert told,
Sweet damsel! that thou wert too young.

A SONG.

The smile of the maid I adore,
I have sought, but have sought it in vain;
Hope, lull me with flatt'ry no more—
Fate dooms me to sigh and complain.

When she meets me, the radiance of morn
Breaks forth and enlivens my eye:
When she leaves me, I wander forlorn,
And Night's shadows descend on my sigh.

O Venus! how cruel thine art,
That bids us such beauty behold!
In thee, how unkind to impart,
To such beauty, a heart that is cold.

Why fill'd is her eye with thy fire?
Why giv'n was the voice of thy dove;
The bosom and lip of desire,
That will frown on the kisses of Love?

376

VERSES

Found in a Bower at Merton, on Lord Nelson's taking the Command of the British Fleet off Cadiz.

From Merton's pleasing shades, again
To give new wonders to the main,
The hero seeks the Gaul—
But, ah! what lost in Fancy's eye—
I see him bleed, and hear the sigh,
That mourns, ah! mourns his fall.

Yet will his genius haunt the grove,
And Britons, who their country love,
Shall here with ardour glow;
Drink inspiration from his name,
And, emulous to join his fame,
Shall pant to meet the foe.

And Beauty too will wander here,
To give to Merton's stream a tear,
And pensive mark her bow'rs:
For what, though glory charm'd his heart;
The softer graces claim'd a part,
And sooth'd his peaceful hours.

377

TO HELEN IN TOWN.

Sweet Helen! the dews of the morn
Our steps to the valley invite;
The linnet, the thrush on the thorn,
Are preparing to yield thee delight.

Then haste from the town and its noise,
Health is ready to yield thee her treasure;
Then from tumult repair to our joys,
To the region of silence and pleasure.

From our cots we will wander away,
And find out the haunt of the dove,
Where he coos to his mate on the spray,
And study sweet lessons of love.

O! then we will stray to the bow'r,
Where I'll gaze on thy beautiful features;
Thy kisses of fragrance devour,
And coo like those innocent creatures.

Ah! I fear me, I ask her in vain,
The town will detain the dear maid,
The tongues of the beaux in her train
Are rivals to stillness and shade.

Yet, what folly to think one so fair,
Would bless with her smile a poor swain,
Be sooth'd, and be won by his pray'r,
Who can rivet a world in her chain!

378

THE INCONSTANT.

The sigh of her heart was sincere,
When blushing, she whisper'd her love;
A sound, how divine, in my ear,
For her voice was the voice of the dove.

Ah! who could from Phillida fly?
Yet I sought other nymphs of the vale,
Forgot both her blush and her sigh,
Nay, forgot that I told her my tale.

In sorrow I wish'd to return,
And the tale of my passions renew;
‘False shepherd,’ she answer'd with scorn,
‘False shepherd, for ever adieu!

‘For thee, no more tears will I shed,
To Truth and sweet friendship I go;
The bird by a wound that has bled
Is happy to fly from his foe.’

ELEGY ON JESSICA.

To her grave will I follow the fair,
Nor blush her pale corse to sustain
Whose graces, alas! were her snare,
Which Prudery beheld with disdain.

Her youth was the blossom of May,
Her voice was the nightingale's tune,
Her cheek the pure crimson of day,
And her mind the mild beams of the moon.

379

So fair and unguarded a form
Drew the lightnings of danger around;
A victim she fell to the storm,
And blush'd a sweet wreck on the ground!

By the splendor of riches and pow'r,
Sweet Innocence oft is undone—
Unguarded, too, many a flow'r
Has sunk by the rays of the sun.

I saw thee when beauty was thine,
Too rich for the poet's poor arms;
When Envy confess'd it divine,
And Wonder would gaze on its charms;

I have seen thee when lovers around,
In hope of thy favour, would stand;
And in sorrow depart, when they found
Not a smile, nor a kiss from thy hand.

And saw, when no more it inspir'd,
No longer our hearts to beguile,
From thy bosom, when Rapture retir'd,
And the loves had withdrawn from thy smile.

And when conquest, alas! was no more,
I heard thee in poverty moan,
Asking alms, but in vain, at the door
Of the mansion that once was thy own.

Unwept shall poor Jessica lie,
And neglected be scorn'd on the bier?
Though hard Virtue refuse her a sigh,
Yet Pity shall give her a tear.

380

A SONG TO A COQUETTE.

Dear Phillis! thou know'st not thy charms;
That thy cheek boasts the bloom of the rose;
That thine eye by its lustre alarms;
That thy bosom surpasses the snows.

Thou know'st thou hast wit at thy will;
Yet from wit, often Prudence departs:
Thus furnish'd with weapons to kill,
Thou daily art murd'ring poor hearts.

Not safely a swain can pass by,
Thou art ready his steps to beguile;
Some lure is thrown out from thine eye,
Some lure from a song or a smile.

O learn from the minstrel of night
A lesson to govern the maid!
Though he fills every ear with delight,
He sings amid silence and shade.

LAURA, A PASTORAL SONG.

O my heart! thou so lately wert blest,
Those days I shall ever adore—
When Pleasure alone was thy guest,
But to meet thee, ah! meet thee no more.

381

How dull was the grove and the bow'r,
If the maid of thy love was not nigh!
She gave bloom, she gave life to each flow'r,
But with Laura, dear Laura, they die.

Lo! the linnets, enlivening the shade,
No longer give joy to my ear—
But their carols, how sweet, when the maid,
The pride of the valley, was near!

To the gloom, near yon fount, let me go,
Indulging of Fancy the dream;
I will listen to murmurs of woe,
And hear my sad tale in the stream.

382

A LYRIC EPISTLE TO MYSELF.

[PART I.]

Sir! you possess a deal of spirit,
A deal, indeed, of sterling merit;
Your head was cast in Nature's nicest mould—
Whatever meets your touch or view,
Is poetry at once—Peru—
You turn, like Midas, ev'ry thing to gold.

A block of marble, it is said,
Holds a fine statue, or fine head;
A very sage remark beyond a doubt:
The only difficulty lies
In bringing to our wond'ring eyes,
This very curious head or statue out!

Of fiddles too, we may declare,
Each holds a fascinating air;
But say, what cunning hand can touch this fiddle?
To bring out this enchanting sound,
You, sir, are fortunately found
In the good graces of Miss Tweedle Tweedle.

Your tuneful art at once creates!
Description on your pencil waits,
Whene'er you paint the storm or give the sigh,
The thunders of the roaring deep,
The infant's smiling harmless sleep,
The wolf's red glare, or pearl on Pity's eye.

383

Again—a canvass, sir, or board,
Holds pictures by the heart ador'd:
And, sir, such ingenuity is yours;
You work out very fine old heads,
And hills sublime, and flow'ry meads,
To last as long as picture's self endures.

Heav'ns, what a Proteus! now you rise—
A daring eagle to the skies,
Surveying princes on their thrones below,
Small as tomtits upon a twig,
Or simple robins on a sprig—
Not half th' importance of a rook or crow.

In short, scarce bigger than a mite,
So very little in the sight
Of this sublimely soaring sun-clad fowl,
As in Charles Fox's eye George Rose;
And that is small enough, God knows;
Or Eldon, under Thurlow's piercing scowl.

And now a turtle-making love—
Saying soft things to Mistress Dove,
Billing with quiv'ring wings, and coo, and song;
Now busy building a neat nest,
Discussing now, supremely blest,
The future education of their young.

So happily the heart to move,
You touch the tender lyre of Love;
Exciting now the tear, and now the smile.
I should not wonder, sir, (between us,
Under the Rose) if Madam Venus,
Presented you the freedom of her isle.

Some make you sour and supercilious,
And splenetic and atrabilious;
That is to say, an ocean of hot bile:
Now, sir, I know you are not bilious;
To coin a word, sir, rather chylous—
A silky milky fount of purest chyle.

384

Some paint you a mad bull, wild roaring,
Tossing folks on your horns, and goring;
This picture verily provokes my laugh:
You ar'n't that formidable creature,
Of milder elements your nature;
Your character resembles more the calf.

The ladies too, so frighten'd, fear ye,
They feel not courage to come near ye;
And yet you treat them with much love and ease:
I know your manners are so bland,
The sweetest ladies of the land,
May take whatever liberties they please.

Then, sir, your reverence for the sex;
You ne'er abuse them, never vex;
But so much love, so Ovid-like is giv'n:
So much, sir, for your soul I fear,
If charming woman was not there,
You would not, if 'twere offer'd, go to Heav'n.

You paint so sweetly Love's alarms;
The neat historian of their charms:
Touch with such rich luxuriance form and air.
In gratitude the sex should join,
And give you gold for ev'ry line;
Nay, make you poet laureate to the fair.

Ulysses-like, the world around,
What mines of treasure you have found;
Though not the mines that purchase in the stocks.
So polish'd, you return'd from travel;
Like a rough stone or lump of gravel,
That for the ocean leave their barren rocks.

When sickness sinks their spirits low,
And damps their animated glow,
Stops the poor lab'ring heart and flutt'ring breath;
The lightnings of your page illume,
The eye's wan melancholy gloom,
And ope its film again, though clos'd in death.

385

It is with Envy, sir, a law,
To find in every fame a flaw;
Enough, you boast for Envy's tooth, a mountain!
Pure flowing from the muses' hills,
Let Envy mud a thousand rills,
You still remain a full and beauteous fountain!

Sir, should you through the country pass,
And put up at the Horse, or Ass,
Blue Boar, or Magpie, Ram, or Goat, or Bear:
At once the people of the village,
Would leave their tools, and quit their tillage;
To take in wonders at the eye and ear!

Were Pidcock through our isle to go,
And, sir, present you for a show,
What towns, what cities, would your form amuse!
He would get money to some tune!
More, sir, than by his huge baboon,
His wondrous elephant, and kangaroos.

Fools, who would throw you into shade,
Declare no genius is display'd,
Nature, Originality, Sublime,
No ease, no humour, and no wit;
Sir, let fools say, what fools think fit;
Trust to that upright scrutineer, call'd Time.

Your rival brothers of the quill,
Are moles beneath their dirty hill;
That darksome labour, and the field destroy:
Or, just like beetles from the ground,
That rise, and hum, and buzz around;
And reeling, ev'ry traveller annoy.

Abhorrent of the spectred shade,
Your mighty mind for light was made;
You for the regions of the stars were born:
So like the lark, with liquid lay,
Impatient of the coming day;
That mounting breaks into the beams of morn.

386

You're a nice candle, let me say,
Burning with mild and steady ray;
But let a saucy moth desert his hole,
And flap the flame with wanton wing;
We hear him his own requiem sing,
Stretch'd 'midst the altar's fire, a shrivell'd coal!

Your soul is full of summer weather;
A zephyr that scarce moves a feather:
But when your vengeance wakes upon your foes,
Farewell the smiling cherub mien;
The Jove of wrath at once is seen,
Flame in your eye, and thunder on your brows.

Then, lo! the spirit of the storm,
Wild bursting forth—a giant form;
Lashing the surly billows to a roar;
That heaves old Ocean from his bed,
Bids him disgorge his swallow'd dead;
And pour his wrecks upon the foamy shore.

Sir, like a trav'ller at some stile,
That, wearied, stops to breathe awhile,
The muse one minute shall suspend her lays:
Or, like a miller's, sir, my wheel,
Fatigued, shall some small respite feel;
And so I close the flood-hatch of your praise.

387

PART II.

Seven cities of the Grecian world
Pull'd wigs, pull'd caps, foul language hurl'd;
On Homer's birth-place! proud t'exalt their horn:
Pray let us take especial care,
Not thus to kindle up a war
By not informing folks where you were born.

Cornwall and Devonshire, perhaps,
May for your birth pull wigs and caps:
Now, sir, I do not really mean to quiz ye;
Was it in Dodbrook that the light
First enter'd on your precious sight;
Or, sir, at gallant Foy, or Mevagizzy?

Sir, I believe that I can guess!
Your birth-place Dodbrook deign'd to bless;
Fam'd for white ale, and bullocks, ewes, and rams:
'Twas in this spot your genius rare
Did first inhale the vital air,
And caught the tender spirit of the lambs.

Of what religion are you, pray?
I think, sir, I have heard you say
The Quaker's, void of noise and ostentation;
And to the great, sublime, all-wise
Creator of ten thousand skies,
That Silence is the highest adoration.

388

Oh! would the great Longinus rise,
And on your labours cast his eyes,
Touch'd with what rapture would he read your rhime:
Soon would he cry, ‘O men of metre,
Hide your diminish'd heads at Peter;
Here burns the bard! here tow'rs the true sublime.

‘Here glows of Poetry the soul!
Here Fancy's boundless oceans roll:
To him, what are ye? crackers and a bomb!
Compar'd to him, ye rhiming men—
The bird of Jove! and humble wren;
The pyramids! and some poor Turkish tomb.

‘Of this rich gem of lucid nature,
Ah! could ye imitate the water;
Obtain the mantle of high mounting Pindar;
Though not up near him cheek by jowl;
Ye still might be a lump of coal,
That flames and warms with very little cinder.’

I know that flatt'ry's apt to wound;
There's rum, there's brandy in the sound;
Yet not to inebriate geniuses like you;
You, sir, are proof against this spirit;
Yet there's a proverb upon Merit;
Which, says the proverb, ‘Give the Devil his due.’

A little flatt'ry's right—I dare
Tell men of genius what they are;
A pretty stimulus to emulation:
A farthing candle merits praise;
Ev'n Canning has his tiny rays,
Though born not to illuminate a nation.

The little dew-drops on the field
Possess a splendour, though they yield
To sparkling diamonds—yet they have their hour;
They charm us with their elfin light;
At morn the nymphs and swains invite;
Adorn and feed the herbage and the flower.

389

Ah! should I pull off a wren's head,
And strike the little warbler dead,
Because like Philomel not loud and clear;
Or break Arachne's tender line,
Whose silken texture can't confine
Hyrcanian tigers, or a Russian bear?

Ah! when, sir, you resign your breath
(For verse has no effect on Death,
Ne'er melted his dull leaden ear by metre),
A thousand beauteous eyes in gloom,
Will drop their pearls upon your tomb,
Poor mourning pilgrims at the shrine of Peter.

Sir, sir, you never ought to die,
But, like Elijah, mount on high;
Not like a paltry, crawling worm expire:
A bard of your transcendent fame,
If not a chariot, sure might claim
A handsome curricle, or gig of fire.

Where are the princes of the land,
And men of rank, a chosen band?
Betting on Lewes, or on Brighton course!
Sancho, Pavilion, and 'Squire Mellish,
Have spoil'd for Pegasus all relish,
Poor Pegasus! the Muses' fav'rite horse!

Lo! liveries on the racer wait,
He eats, and drinks, and sleeps in state;
So cropp'd his ears, so comb'd his tail and mane:
While Pegasus neglected lies
Upon a dunghill, shuts his eyes,
And lean and ragged grazes through a lane.

Is't possible with all your pow'rs,
With all your poetry's fine flow'rs,
That you should gain no patronage, no pension?
'Tis strange! 'tis passing strange, indeed!
This, when Posterity shall read,
What will it say? ‘Impossible!—invention.’

390

Amid the swallowing gulf of Time
What wrecks, alas! of prose and rhime;
But, lo! this gulf shall not thy bark devour;
Lo! all sails set, I see it brave
The fury of the thundering wave,
Wind on the quarter, fourteen knots an hour.

Lord, sir! you don't know half your fame—
When dead a century, your name
Will, snow-ball-like, increase with rolling years;
Ev'n your worst song, which you may call
A common vulgar tune, that's all,
Will then be deem'd the music of the spheres.

Yet, with your mountain of high merit;
Yet, with your ocean of proof spirit,
You gain no praise, no favour from reviewers,
Who call your lucubrations stuff,
Not fit to wrap up cheese or snuff,
Scarce fit to travel through the common sewers.

Folks will inquire about your size;
Your hair or wig, your nose, your eyes;
Whether you were not taller than a steeple—
In conversation, hawk or dove;
Whether, like other men, made love;
Wore clothes, and eat, and drank like other people!

Excuse this tribute of fair praise,
Due, sir, to your immortal lays:
Sincere is this address, or ode, or letter;
Perchance your modesty may blush:
It is your failing, sir, but tush,
No man admires you more, or likes you better.