The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poet commenceth with a most pertinent, but puzzling question, which seemeth to sink him into a most sublime quandary—Sweareth a dreadful oath that he must procure a Muse, and, at length, discerneth a very suitable one—The Invocation, ejaculated in a style peculiar to himself—Apostrophizeth, and curiously enquireth the origin of such animosity between Sir Pindar and Sir Giffard— Pathetically lamenteth the evil effects of a mistake, and unravelleth the mysterious cause, à principio, of Sir Pindar's rage—Describeth the appearance of a strange monster which exhibiteth itself monthly—Displayeth the bardnivorous appetite of this ferocious animal, and, after much heroical circumlocution, concludeth the first canto with a most eloquent eulogy, and the apotheosis of Thomas Dutton, A.M., and of Anthony Pasquin, Esquire.

Cedite Romani Scriptores, cedite Graii!
Nescio quid majus nascitur Iliade.
Vet. Poet. Frag. Retire, ye Wards, ye stout Mendoza's, yield.
Behold two boxing bards usurp the field!

------Tantane cælestibus iræ?
Virg. Can gentle spirits, nurs'd on milk of roses,
Descend into the fist, and batter noses?

Where 'mid the tuneful spinsters can I find
One nymph to pugilistic charms inclin'd?
Has ever muse, unmindful of her state,
In Pindar's fountain wash'd a broken pate?
Or grave Melpomene, in contest high,
Discharg'd her blue-rag at Thalia's eye?

While Bacchus held the bottle, and the Sun
Delay'd his patent coach to smoke the fun?
Yet, though unskill'd to batter or to bruise,
By all the gods! I must invoke a muse:
For ne'er, in garret perch'd, may warbling wit
Presume that useful lady to omit,
Till lawyers curse their clients, quacks their fees,
Till taylors kick their cucumbers and peas,
Till nobles pay their debts like vulgar men,
Till droops the British flag, and “Chaos comes again.”

Haste then, sweet nymph! and with thee bring along
The mute admirers of thy tragic song:
Whether thou hymn'st some youth of talents rare,
Ordain'd by Fate to dance on “desert air;”
Or to the echoing alleys soft complain
(By pill incurable) of am'rous pain;
Thou! whom a virgin of High Holborn bore,
Erst, to a piper from Irene's shore,
What time St. Giles, with all its splendor crown'd,
Terrific, aw'd the vassal realm around;
Whether at Billingsgate, propitious seat!
Where eloquence and mild conviction meet,
Thy “goddess-like demeanour” I survey,
Another naked Venus from the sea;

Or find thee some gay tap-room bow'r within,
Ambrosial bow'r! all redolent of gin,
Oh! come, dear Impudence!—discreetly pass
The next libation of thy fav'rite glass;
Come, and in all thy native graces drest,
Recline inebriate on my raptur'd breast;
Strong as thy bev'rage be the kindling fire,
Numbers, sonorous numbers I require,
Worthy thy mother, and harmonious sire!
Whose pipe Orphean savage myriads led,
While stones, high-bounding, jigg'd upon his head;
Lur'd from their hovels cognoscenti-hogs,
Quick-capering kittens, and slow-dancing dogs;
Or bad sage asses musically bray:
Such virtue in his charmful bladder lay.

Say then (for thou the dread event must know),
What anger levell'd the immortal blow?
What against Giffard urg'd Sir Pindar's rage,
Or arm'd Sir Giffard against Pindar's age?
Uuequal match'd, a dubious doom they prove;
Blameful alike,—but such the will of Jove!
What direful deeds from trifling causes spring?
A bastinado'd bard, or exil'd king:

What fell effects from wayward errors flow?
A numscull shatter'd, or a nation's woe.
Here, (but the nicer epic rule denies
That quaint old-fashion'd trick to moralize),
Could I through many a pensive page deplore,
And sighing, dip my raven-quill in gore;
Tell, through mistake, and heedless of a check,
How fine Phaeton broke his comely neck;
Tell, through mistake, how minions of high place
In eight years slaughter drench'd the human race;
Tell, through mistake, for Merry-Andrew fit,
How each poor playwright deems himself a wit;
Tell, through mistake, and mindful of third night,
How Mimes, instead of acting, dare to write.
Scribblers erroneous other dolts forsake,
And libel their dull selves—the worst mistake:
For from a mere mistake, perversely wrong,
Rises this lofty argument of song.

Long had Sir Pindar, of unrivall'd might,
To Momus' birchen chaplet prov'd his right;
Long had his satire prob'd each pompous sin,
And stripp'd each rhiming Marsyas to the skin;

But lo! all slovenly his uncouth lay,
His powers so nervous dwindle to decay;
No more by sense approv'd, or folly fear'd,
The nauseous dregs of driv'ling age appear'd:
Scarce one bright spark illum'd a dreary line,
Mirth doz'd, and Malice caught the lucky sign;
Yet Candour pitied still, with liberal mind,
The tuneful Belisarius, old and blind.

Hast thou not heard the undisputed fame
Of these great sheets that note an author's name?
Hast thou not kenn'd those furious beasts of prey
That hunt lank poets in the face of day,
And rav'nous on their fleshless members feed?
Not fiercer Afric or Hyrcania breed.
Oh! hast thou not, in shaggy vesture blue,
Beheld that monthly monster, a Review;
Wont every garret, horrible, to scour,
Bloodier than bum, aye seeking to devour?
A hungry tyger of this horrid crew
(To the rank scen of carrion ever true)
“Upturn'd into the air his nostril wide,”
And from afar the drooping minstrel spied;

Forth from his lair loud thunder'd critic law,
Then clapp'd on Peter his tremendous paw.
Whole pamphlets, in his ireful mood, he tore,
Fresh-bleeding sonnets strew the letter'd floor;
Meek eclogues murmur, strangled in the birth;
Lampoons inflammatory load the hearth;
Sad elegies their swan-like requiem breathe;
Pert epigrams, still lively, smile in death;
Soft am'rous odes their “balmy fragrance,” shed,
And heap the desk with mountains of the dead.
Hence stern debate, hence anger, ferret-ey'd,
Wolvish dissension hence, and leopard pride;
Hence bull-dog battle, monkey malice hence,
The mule's deep sullens, and the ass's sense;
On every side wild blaz'd the wrathful soul,
And either ink-stand bled at every hole.

Say whence this curst mistake, bland goddess say?
A name, a little name provok'd the fray;
(Oh! that the vile critique was never seen,
For, oh! that such a name had never been!)
For Peter, at some blund'ring dæmon's call,
Delug'd on innocence his missile gall;
(Here innocent, at least, could he restrain
Such odious hints as his own manhood stain),

Levell'd at wight unknown his angry squirt,
And mad, at random flung about his dirt;
Fool! not to know two dunces might be found,
Of title similar, on English ground;
Luxuriant ground! amid whose golden corn
Tall poppies lift the brow, and nod in scorn.
Nor here was bounded the destructive pest,
New fires inflame the brawny poet's breast,
Confederate papers feed them to a blaze,
And mirrors pour forth their reflecting rays;
At length the censor's mighty self combines,
And all the wond'rous worth of Dutton shines!

Oh, thou! infallible, with learned air,
To yawn and grumble from the critic chair,
Smote by the glance of whose majestic eye,
The daily grubs of literature die;
Whether thou deign'st, with condescension mild,
To point the path of each theatric child;
Or, gently physic'd by a golden pill,
Squeeze the smooth flatt'ry from thine oily quill;
Though reason may revolt, and satire rail,
Great Dennis' greater son, dread Dutton, hail!

And thou, compatriot of a name so dear,
Whatever title suit thine only ear,
Williams, or Pasquin (that too clumsy veil
Doth ill thy splendid ignorance conceal),
Whose pompous style, and sentiment so weak,
Ape Punch's lofty strut and tiny squeak,
Thy diction on dry rubbish deep manure,
Hail! partners of the palpable obscure;
Rightful heirlooms of dark oblivion's vale,
Licens'd proprietors of libel, hail!
Not yours the blushes, beautiful, that break
Conviction's dawn on Virtue's varying cheek:
Yours, Swiss-like, av'rice of the highest price,
As ready to defend as combat vice;
Yours, empty Arrogance, no bound that knows;
Yours, Envy's blight, that blasts the fairest rose;
And yours, unconscious of the worst disgrace,
A dauntless intrepidity of face.
Thrice happy both! if e'er my humble rhime
May reach the optics of remoter time,
Congenial spirits, clam'rous in your praise,
Shall own that fools were rife in George's days;
Your volumes, thumb'd by infants yet unborn,
Rare wooden prints, expressive, shall adorn;

To a dead wall magnific Thespis cling,
And Zoroaster dangle from a string;
While bloods and drunken bullies bilk a score;
While loyal coblers at elections roar;
While cits delight in tawdry pantomime;
While ladies deem crim. con. a venial crime;
While doctors love a cane and flowing wig;
While boxers hate a dun, and Jews a pig;
While painted beauties ply in Drury-lane,
So long your virtue, fame, and honour, shall remain.

Dios d'eteleieto bowlè!

—Omerou Ilias.

Phœbus went further with poor Marsyas, for he stripped off the skin itself. A tender-hearted deity!

Quale portentum neque militaris
Daunia in latis alit esculetis;
Nec Jubæ tellus generat, leonum
Arida nutrix.

Hor.

Felix! se nunquam amenta fuissent.

Me duce damnosas homines compascita curas.

Ovid.

Whether old John Dennis, were he living, would be pleased with the relationship, is rather a critical query.

Fortunati ambo, si quid mea carmina possint, &c.

Virg.