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

Some folks declare (to wound my dove-like nature)
I mingle too much acid with my satire;
Too prone to smile at garters, stars, and strings,
And take strange liberties with queens and kings;
Roast on my ordeal, like an inquisition,
Peer, parson, poet, pimp, academician:
While others swear, two bastards of Apollo,
The bellman and Matthias beat me hollow.

393

[Again th' Academy I greet]

The Bard, after a long Absence, saluteth the Royal Academy.—He singeth in a Strain of high Panegyric of himself—yet acknowledging the malevolent Depredations of Time on his Person.

Again th' Academy I greet,
Once more, my graphic friends, we meet—
Shake hands—Ah! why the greeting hand withdraw?
Lo! by your looks ye seem to say—
‘Avaunt, thou vagabond—away—
We'd sooner take the Devil by the paw!’

Well, well! once more the bard appears;
He sings, in spite of rolling years:
Time has not stol'n one atom of his fire;
The Muse, unconscious of decay,
Still pours the proud Pindaric lay,
Still strikes with equal energy the lyre.

Now cries the critic of my rhime,
‘How dar'st thou dream of the sublime,
And fancy that it e'er inspir'd thy odes?
‘How dar'st thou take a Pindar's name,
To steal into the dome of Fame,
And place thy Momus by the side of Gods?’—

394

I own that Time, to my surprise,
Has done some mischief to my eyes,
And done that mischief much against my will:
But as the bulfinch, beyond doubt,
Sings better when his eyes are out,
Why not the songster of th' Aonian Hill?

Time too has chosen to efface
The fine Apollo form and grace,
And somewhat bent to earth my lofty head;
And though the knave has touch'd my hand,
The goose-quill yet it can command,
And o'er the snow the feather'd giant lead.

Time has made free too with my features,
Those pretty inoffensive creatures,
That never yet were cruel to the fair;
Spoil'd my poor lip and dimple sleek,
Run his hard ploughshare o'er my cheek,
And stol'n the blushing roses that were there.

Time too, I own, my mouth has enter'd;
To steal some pearl, the rogue has ventur'd,
And giv'n a lisping to my tuneful tongue;—
But, thank the Muses for their care,
And Phœbus—of his tricks aware—
Safe is my brain—the fount of flowing song.

Th' academicians would rejoice
If Time had also stol'n my voice;—
But while that voice exists, by heav'ns, I'll sing!—
But mind me, while I pour my lays,
To justice I my altar raise,
Too virtuous to profane the Muses' spring.

It certainly must be confest,
I come a most unwelcome guest,
'Mid sheaves of corn a sort of wicked weovil:—
As for R. A.'s I briefly tell 'em,
Fiat justitia ruat cœlum,
Although they sooner would behold the devil.

395

WEST.

[Now let me turn to Mister West]

The Bard complimenteth Mr. West on his Lord Nelson—acknowledgeth his Powers in a certain Department of the Art—but biddeth him beware of the dangers of Classic Ground.

Now let me turn to Mister West:
Thy Nelson, it must be confest,
Proves that thy Muse of painting is not dead:
'Midst works of Merit be it plac'd—
The hero's form is not disgrac'd,
Which adds a leaf of laurel to thy head.

At small defects I scorn to carp—
This would be prying much too sharp—
I think this piece will help to boil thy pot:
And should it a good turbot gain,
As poets are a famish'd train,
Send the poor bard an invitation note.—

Why will not mortals be content,
And walk the road which Nature meant,
And not eternally with Genius war?—
And yet 'tis passing strange, though true,
They keep th' impossible in view,
And bid defiance to their ruling star.

The men in miniature who shine
Pant to extend their little line,
And paint the forms of goddesses and gods;
And then, like Phæton, the fool,
A puppy of Ambition's school,
Disgrac'd they tumble from the bright abodes!

396

And 'tis in Music just the same—
The tuneful nymph or tuneful dame,
That in cantabile delights the soul,
The sweet simplicity forsakes;
From octave leaps, to octave takes,
And seeks to triumph in bravura howl!

The lap-dog just as well might say—
‘I think I'll hunt the hare to-day,
And in proud triumph lead the hound or beagle!’
Or sparrow, on the chimney top,
‘I hate this life of chirp and hop,
I'll drink the solar blaze, and mount an eagle!’

West, let me as a friend advise—
From classic ground withdraw thine eyes;
Nor fancy from sublime to gather glory:—
Attempt not things beyond thy reach—
The pebble on the sandy beach,
Can ne'er expect to rise a promontory!—

497

FUSELI.

The Poet attacketh Mr. Fuseli for attempting sublime Subjects—also for vainly supposing he hath caught a Shred of the Mantle of Michael Angelo—He commendeth his Picture of Beaufort, but hinteth his Suspicion of its being a smuggled Affair—He wondereth that the Ghosts of Shakespeare and Milton do not leave their Tombs, to punish the Painter for the Disgrace brought upon them by the Imbecility of his Pencil.—The Poet concludeth with Advice of much Humanity.

Ah, Master Fuseli! are you here,
To whom Abuse's speech is dear;
Whose jaundic'd eye can rarely merit see!
Well, since thy penchant is a grin,
It will not be a mortal sin
To give the world a gentle grin at thee.

What dæmon put it in thy head,
To fix on Beaufort's dying bed?
Was it the rage of Criticism to rouse?—
Speak!—was it thy ambitious hope,
With Reynolds, of high fame, to cope,
And envious tear the laurel from his brows!

Fuseli, thou callest Beaufort thine—
Speak truth—is this thy own design?

398

But mum—this is a very ticklish theme—
The palsied hand, that ne'er was found
To lift a weight beyond a pound,
Will ne'er be thought to raise a weaver's beam.

Thy friends, or rather foes, declare,
Thou often dost sublimely dare,
And makest Michael Angelo thy model;
Moreover, that thou dost inherit
Large portions of that painter's spirit—
God still their tongues, or mend each crazy noddle!

They tell thee that thou art a whale,
Thy mind on Nature's noblest scale!—
The folk who flatter thus, mean arrant mockery!
They call thee a fine China jar—
But this I humbly beg to bar,
They should have said, a pipkin of brown crockery!

Now let not wicked people say,
I wander far from Truth away:—
Truth, heaven-born Truth, presides o'er ev'ry stricture:
Fuseli, indeed, I don't deny
Thou e'er hadst Michael in thine eye;
But say, thou never found'st him in thy picture.

How dares thy hand, that cannot hit
The features of a poor tom-tit,
Attempt the eagle's fury in its flight—
That cannot paint a tame tom-cat,
Or muzzle of a mouse, or rat,
Attempt the lordly lion in his might?

Oh! why in colour dip thy brush,
And, mad, upon thy ruin rush,
And yield thy back to meet the lash of Satire?
Thy blue and green flesh (let me say)
No compliment to Beauty pay—
A putrid carcase is not charming nature.

Fuseli, whose hand with Nature wars,
Inform me, what provok'd thy stars.

399

To make thee serve a 'prenticeship to Paint?—
What crimes have thy forefathers done,
That thus they should condemn the son
To bid him daub the cloth with devil and saint!

Thou really wantest not discerning—
Hast gain'd a little classic learning—
And mayest in thy proper sphere be jogging;
And as ill-nature much is thine,
A pedagogue had been thy line,
Then, like Orbilius, thou hadst shone in flogging.

There are some rooms thou callest thine ,
Replete with workmanship divine;
Of Grecian art—the connoisseurs don't doubt 'em—
Say, Fuseli, did these rare antiques
Ne'er give thee grins, and cuffs, and kicks,
For daring to inform thy boys about 'em?

Lo, from their graves, in glory laid,
Each bard, a long-lamented shade,
Shall start with horror from his sweet repose;
The ghost of Shakespeare shall arise,
And Milton, with his darken'd eyes,
To pull the daring dauber by the nose!

Thou hast a place, both nice and snug;
Good victuals, and a good warm rug—
Let not a false ambition prompt thee further:
Then bid thy cruel labours cease,
And let the canvass sleep in peace,
Nor make it cry out ‘Murther! murther! murther!

The Lord is call'd a man of war—
Beyond thy pow'rs how distant far!

400

But, shouldst thou dare attempt the form—I fear
Thy mangling hand would make sad work;
And, with the fierceness of a Turk,
Cut down the Thunderer to a privateer!

Remark.—Mr. Fuseli should expect no lenity from the rod of Criticism, after having himself uttered the following sarcasm upon a brother-artist, Opie, at a time too when he was in apparent friendship with that ingenious painter—‘Dere is dat poo-re dogue Opee—de failow can paaynt notin but teeves an morederers—an wen de dogue paaynts a teef or a morederer, he lookes in de glass.’

As keeper of the Royal Academy.

It is in Mr. Fuseli's department to superintend the young students of the Antique Academy.

401

LOUTHERBOURG.

The Poet, as formerly, findeth Fault with Mr. Loutherbourg for his volcanic Landscapes—maketh a splendid Comparison—giveth good pecuniary Advice—complimenteth him—and endeavoureth to beat him out of his Belief in the Metalleity of general Nature.

A Critic always should be just:
Illiberality's a rust,
Which dulls the edge and splendor of his knife;
There should not reign a mean hostility,
But friendship, tenderness, civility,
And Art and Criticism be man and wife.

A vulgar world delights in glare,
Adores whatever makes a stare;
The sober tints of Nature they despise:
And thus they like the pomp of Pride,
While Modesty, disdain'd, decried,
Roams some pale solitude with downcast eyes.

I bade thee, certain years ago,
In landscape no complexion show
Of warming-pan, brass candlestick, or kettle:—
My eloquence could not persuade—
As if a brazier born by trade,
We see the staring culinary metal!

The scullion, cook, and kitchen-maid,
Are vastly fond of stiff brocade,

402

With cabbage-roses deck'd—a gaudy train—
This really is a vicious taste—
And, much like theirs, is thine unchaste—
French frippery has too much engross'd thy brain

But of the stubborn world, I fear,
In vain my counsels strike the ear;
Proudly they treat those counsels with disdain—
The flint and steel of Peter's wit
Not ev'n a single spark can hit
T'illumine their dark tinder-box of brain!

There is a mineral that bright is,
By learned chemists call'd pyrites—
Mundic in Cornwall—which contains a store;
The bagmen , as they travel by,
Survey it with a raptur'd eye,
And fill their pockets with the treach'rous ore.

With Poetry 'tis just the same:
How Doctor Darwin won a name,
By glitt'ring tinsel epitheted rhime!—
Divine Simplicity was fled,
Driv'n, banish'd, dar'd not show her head,
Whose pow'rs alone support the true sublime.

Once more give ear unto a friend;
Ev'n now 'tis not too late to mend:
But if thou merely mean'st thy works to sell,
Then pour thy yellows, purples, greens,
And reds and blues, for rural scenes,
And make thy burning skies as hot as H---.

I grant thy execution neat,
And grant in little thou art great:

403

But take a hint—and not a hint improper;
Learn, Loutherbourg, to thy surprise,
That grass and water, cows and skies,
Are things which Nature never makes of copper.

Griev'd should I be to rouse thine ire;
But be not so profuse of fire,
Nor flame so furiously upon our eyes:—
Let not thy hills be quite so hot;
Where really one might boil a pot,
And roast a leg of mutton at thy skies.

Persons travelling for mercantile orders, commonly styled knights of the bag.

404

JOHN LANE.

The Bard exhibiteth Symptoms of Surprise and Pleasure at the Mary and Christ of Mr. Lane, a very young Artist—Evinceth his Preference of the sublime to the humbler Branches of the Art—and concludeth with a just Satire on himself.

What have we here! A charming picture
Bidding defiance to sharp stricture;
Ye farthing rush-lights, that around us wink,
Oh, hide each poor diminish'd head;
Of competition be afraid,
For verily with shame ye ought to shrink.

A youth whose years are just nineteen,
Who scarcely ought has done or seen,
And never yet beheld the gods of Rome—
While your small lights, as I have said,
Should hide each poor diminish'd head,
This stripling's torch illuminates the dome!

I hail thy genius—Mind thy hits—
Beyond the reach of damning wits:
To court th' historic muse, be thy ambition;
Prophetic, I aver thy line
Amid the Roman school will shine,
And not disgrace the great Carrache or Titian.

Now should our bishops drop the saint,
Revoke anathemas on paint,
And suffer saints and martyrs in St. Paul's,
Who for their good opinions died,
Boil'd, roasted, carbonaded, fried;
Thy hand should tell their story on the walls.

405

Let others search the ragged cot
For brooms, joint-stools, plate, pan, and pot—
I mean not on such genius to be bitter—
But were I free to choose a name,
I should not covet a Dutch fame,
That hunts for immortality in litter.

To move a men now, who would wish—
In paltry brooks a paltry fish—
While Nature offers him to roll a whale!—
Unmatch'd, with mighty fins to sweep
The boundless region of the deep,
And sport amid the thunders of the gale?

And this to me may be applied—
The world will cry—‘Where is thy pride,
To put thy muse on Academic Odes;—
When, if she chose it, she might sport
Amidst the grandeur of a court,
And strike the lyre to goddesses and gods?’

406

TO WILKIE.

The Poet congratulateth Mr. Wilkie (a very young Artist) on his Performances—but adviseth him to exert his Genius in a higher Sphere of the Art.

Wilkie, an honour to thy nation,
Accept the muse's admiration—
Thou giv'st to Johnson's envious tongue the lie,
Proclaiming that on Scottish ground
No plant of genius will be found—
Which, totis viribus, I dare deny.

I think thou mayst a Hogarth shine;
That wit and humour both are thine—
No common present from the Delian god:
Then try thy wing—exert thy pow'r;
Below thee leave Teniers and Brouwer,
And prove a prophet in the man of ode.

407

TO TURNER.

The Bard maketh a Bow to the Genius of Mr. Turner, and expresseth Wonder at the Absence of his Landscapes.

Turner, whatever strikes thy mind,
Is painted well, and well design'd;
Thy rural scenes our plaudit must obtain—
Though Nature (and where lies the harm?)
Has giv'n thee not a giant form,
The dame has plac'd the giant in thy brain.

Say, why are not thy landscapes here—
Landscapes where truth and taste appear;
That prove thy pencil's pow'rs, and grasp of mind?
Who nobly canst exalt thine head?
Who, like Eclipse , canst take the lead,
And leave with ease thy rivals far behind.

A celebrated race-horse.

408

TO BACON.

The Poet informeth Mr. Bacon of his Progress in the Art of Sculpture—Adviseth him to be expeditious in his Improvements, on account of the rapid Strides of an elderly Gentleman called Time—He lamenteth the Want of Patronage to Sculpture—and sigheth for the Return of Athenian Days.

Bacon, I think thou dost improve:
But, prithee, somewhat faster move:—
These works display more fire and spirit in ye:
Time flies—accelerate thy pace,
Although thou catch not in the race
Phidias, Praxiteles, or ev'n Bernini!—

Shame!—that in this our wealthy isle,
Poor Sculpture is not seen to smile;
Forc'd, nearly forc'd to beg her humble bread—
While ev'ry face-maker can feast—
Quaff with his lordship wines the best,
Whose art can scarce pourtray a poor calf's head!

Oh, when will ancient Greece revive,
Where Sculpture taught her forms to live?—
(Poor dame, in Britain, put upon the shelf)—
Where hero, demi-god, and god,
Full often, as the streets they trod,
Scarce knew th' ingenious marble from himself.

409

TO GARRARD.

The Poet uttereth very handsome Things of Mr. Garrard—and adviseth him to support his prover Dignity, and despise the academic Honours.

Garrard, thou Myron of the age,
Whose works the eye of Taste engage,
Where is thy cattle, that delight affords?—
What, none!—Now, Garrard, to be free,
More pleas'd, indeed, am I to see
A thinking bull's head than a thoughtless lord's!

Refus'd the academic crown,
Thou losest nothing of renown:—
Trust to true genius, which thou dost inherit—
Beyond the reach of Envy's breath,
The cold, the chilling blast of Death,
For ever warring with the blooms of Merit.

Th' Academy (ah! fie upon her!)
Can now confer no crown of honour;
She asks submission mean, and oaths most hearty—
She hunts not for ingenious folk—
The pencil's pow'rs are now a joke—
She only wants a tool to serve a party.

In vain thou knockest at the door;
Knock at th' Academy no more,
And to such small ambition bid adieu:—
Who on a mouse's paltry hole
Would fix the wishes of his soul,
While Fame's fair temple opens to his view?

410

TO NOLLEKENS.

The Bard singeth to the Praise of Mr. Nollekens, but condemneth him as the supposed Executioner of a certain Bishop's Sentence on the Bosom of a beautiful Greek Vestal.

With pleasure, Nollekens, I see
The muse of Sculpture wake in thee,
And Britain, who has been so long asleep—
Well!—since thy works such worth display,
Brisk, stir thy stumps, and work away,
And with the gems of Athens, Britain heap!

How could thy sacrilegious hand
Obey the bishop's dread command,
And slice the bosom of the Grecian maid?—
That Phidias' angry ghost would rise
With mealy face, and saucer eyes,
To break thy chisel—wert thou not afraid?—

Oh, where was Venus in that hour,
To snatch the vestal from thy pow'r?
An action so barbaric chills my blood!—
Now, do not, Nollekens, dissemble:
Did not thy hand with horror tremble,
And thy two eyes let fall a plenteous flood?

How did the bishop's wife behave
On this most sacrilegious shave—
Did not the lady smile upon the garble?—
She might—for ladies old and dry,
Inspir'd by Jealousy, can spy
A dreaded rival in a piece of marble!

411

TO DUBOST.

In Mistress Hope, Monsieur Dubost,
Thy genius yieldeth up the ghost;
In truth, in portrait thou art not at home:—
Why wander from thy proper sphere?
Now, had thy Damocles been here,
Thy slave had tower'd the tyrant of the dome.

A most masterly picture by this artist, and purchased by Mr. Hope.