The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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LOUTHERBOURG. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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.
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.
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!
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,
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
Are vastly fond of stiff brocade,
402
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!
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.
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.
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---.
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:
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.
And grant in little thou art great:
403
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.
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |