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

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.

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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;

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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.’