The Distressed Poet :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Distressed Poet

A Serio-Comic Poem, in Three Cantos. By George Keate

Keate, George (1729-1797)

[epigraph]

CANTO THE SECOND.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

CANTO THE SECOND.

Now patience guard the luckless wretch,
Compell'd his thoughts and legs to stretch,
And round each crack and covert wind,
To look for what he cannot find!
Whether it be a great estate,
Which ne'er was destin'd him by Fate;
Or what he less might choose to mention,
A good snug place, or snugger pension;
Or for some debtor should he search,
Who basely left him in the lurch,
Or one, that rogue-like shirk'd his bail,
Who kindly sav'd him from a jail.

This was in truth the Muses' case:
O'er all Apollo's haunts they pace;
Nor up, nor round the sacred Mount,
Nor even at th' inspiring fount,
His vagrant Worship could be met,
This put our Ladies in a fret.
And, Reader, should I here explain
Why all their searches prov'd in vain,
Why this great laurell'd prince of rhyme
Was out of place, and out of time,
I can't unravel well the clue,
Or bring this matter fair to view,
Unless we both together pause,
And enter deeper in the cause.
You'll have no scruple to confess
An author's licence to digress;
To travel on, without e'er stopping,
Or finding where to bait, or pop in,

Both man and horse must quickly tire,
And Poets feel relax'd their fire;
Digression, therefore, pleads this merit,
We lose less leather, gain more spirit:
It acts just like a pioneer,
To make rough smooth, th' entangled clear,
And, as you journey on your ways
Serves as a road-map in your chaise;
You better comprehend what's doing,
And mark the very line you're going.

Now should we take a little survey,
How things came thus turn'd topsy-turvy,
Why these Nine Ladies, tho' inspir'd,
Hunted about till they were tir'd,
'Twill not seem strange, if once you know
What lengths Apollo oft would go—
A very rambler from his birth,
Jigging o'er half the peopled earth;

Of his strange pranks still new proofs giving,
Changing his character and living.
Now through the Zodiac see him steer,
An enterprizing charioteer,
And now fierce Pegasus bestriding,
O'er the wide range of metre riding;
From whose example, be it spoken,
So many necks have since been broken.
At Troy Town walls this mighty God
Did not disdain to bear a hod,
A Bricklayer then—and next he'll greet us
As Cow-keeper to King Admetus
A sighing lover grown, in vain
He strives his Daphne's heart to gain,
Who calling power to aid her quarrel,
The cheated God embrac'd a laurel;
Round his unmanly temples placing
That foliage which was most disgracing.—

Of all the rake-shames in the sky,
None e'er possess'd less gallantry:
Sad Niobe, thy fatal story
Confirms this truth, and stains his glory!
What! on a Lady draw his bow!
And to her race such vengeance show!
Merely because th' incautious Dame
Had half eclips'd his mother's fame,
Outshone her at a Theban ball,
And of Latona took the wall;—
'Gainst Marsyas next, turn'd butcher hard,
He flays alive a rival bard,
Leaving that spirit to our time,
Which heats too oft the sons of Rhyme,
Who merciless dissect each other,
And skin with critic rage a brother.
First fiddle to th' Olympian Train,
What hand could raise so sweet a strain!

And on his harp, no Welchman ever
Was half so dext'rous, half so clever.—
Besides all this, as in a glass,
He saw whate'er would come to pass;
Was Prophet, Soothsayer, and Wizard,
Could look into your heart and gizzard,
Whilst from his Delphic trumpet bounc'd
Those idle omens he announc'd.

In these and fifty other parts,
The changeful God display'd his arts,
Equal in all—whate'er his will
Urg'd him to act, he play'd with skill;
To him it was indifferent quite,
Or time, or distance, day, or night,
From realm to realm convey'd as soon
As if he rode an Air-Balloon.

Amongst the numerous occupations,
Which carried him thro' different nations,
Impell'd by love, or spleen, or whim,
Fond o'er their various scenes to skim,
To Physic also he laid claim,
And the Art sanction'd with his name:
Tho' never bred at any college,
Nor from Diplomas claiming knowledge,
By much grimace, and more disguise,
The multitude esteem'd him wise.
The practice fill'd his hours of leisure,
To him 'twas frolic, change, and pleasure,
By it such scenes to him were shown,
As else he never might have known;
It taught him easily to find
What foolish tricks can gull mankind.

'Twas thus his Godship pass'd his days,
Or quite incog, or in a blaze;

His thoughts on some new project running,
To exercise his various cunning.
No wonder then the Muses went
Sometimes, as now, on a wrong scent.
No wonder that they thus, in vain,
Search'd for the Leader of their train,
Who, busied on his own affairs,
Had at this time neglected theirs;
For at the instant I am speaking,
While they their laurell'd Chief were seeking,
His Highness, by conveyance neat,
Had quitted his poetic seat,
And by a medical vagary
Induc'd his plan of life to vary,
Disguis'd, in London now sat down,
The greatest Quack in all the town,
And station'd snug on Ludgate Hill,
By Letters Patent sold his Pill,

Whose virtues could, as hand-bills swore,
Life's secret labyrinths explore,
Each lurking mischief ferret out,
And all disorders fairly rout.—
O, Reader! had we time to stop,
And lounge ten minutes in his shop,
To mark his patients' various faces,
Relating all their piteous cases,
Whilst he, with scientific smile,
Feels for their pains, their nerves, their bile,
And vows, if they'll but take his pills,
He'll free them soon from all their ills;
The scene indeed might prove inviting,
Yet the strict critic laws of writing,
Which no such sportive licence know,
Command that we straight forward go;
No deviation's here permitted,
Nor must our turnpike road be quitted,

Till on their own, or other ground,
Th' Aonian Maids once more are found:
Thanks to our stars, our point in view
Demands not a mysterious clue;
Nor needs it, to make matters clear,
Back to Parnassus that we steer,
Since these high Dames, who far outvie
All others in sagacity,
No sooner found Apollo gone,
Than they their travelling wings put on,
And posting thro' the yielding air,
Full speed to London all repair:
Arriv'd, there could not be a doubt
But they would find him quickly out;
They nos'd his Highness with the ease
That cats smell mice, or mice smell cheese,
Nor in this great bamboozled town
Was Kattafelto better known,

Or Doctor Graham's powerful bed,
Of which such wond'rous things were said;
On each dead wall of every street
His pasted folio puffs they meet,
“Descriptive of his pill's success,
“Which scores were ready to confess,
“How small their price, how great their pow'rs,
“And what the Doctor's usual hours.”

The Muses look'd at one another,
And scarce a giggling fit could smother:
Tho' they had many a time before
Seen his caprices o'er and o'er,
They ne'er conceiv'd his laurell'd head
By a tie-wig would be o'erspread,
Or that he'd quit his glorious line,
As patron to the sacred Nine,
On fair Olympus turn his back,
Once Prince of Poets, now a Quack:

But some vagary to pursue,
What will not Gods or Mortals do!

Our Ladies, it must be confess'd,
Were at this matter much distress'd;
Their pride was hurt, their own Apollo
Could such a sniv'ling business follow,
Or have for Quack'ry such an itch:
But being now just at Fleet Ditch,
'Twas neither a fit place or season
On all his foolish pranks to reason,
So Ludgate Hill they straight ascended,
And at his shop their journey ended.

Now when these fair Parnassian trippers
The Doctor found, in cap and slippers,
Smoaking his pipe, and on his table
His pot of porter, quite unable

Longer to hide their swelling ire,
Th' immortal Master of the lyre
They thus address'd—What! does Apollo
Think we can this ill treatment swallow?
Without a Chief our Mountain left,
Ourselves of patronage bereft;
Is't not enough to rouse our passion,
To find we're getting out of fashion?
Our altars, which burnt once so bright,
Casting a poor expiring light,
Whilst you, turn'd Mountebank below,
Care not above how matters go?—
Who'd e'er have dream'd the God of Verse
Could condescend to act the nurse?
Roll up vile pills, cut corns, spread blisters,
And change your pipe to pipe of glisters?
Rouse, rouse, for shame, and aid our quarrel,
Burn your tie-wig, and take your laurel;

Your native skies once more ascend,
And all this trifling nonsense end!
Whilst you are physicking the nation
We lose our power of inspiration,
As much distress'd and out of case
As ministers when out of place.
Who will invoke, or who obey
The Muses, who no longer sway?
Each writer now will take to prosing,
And all his readers take to dosing.
If Genius once is lull'd to sleep,
Who will the fine Parnassus keep,
'Twill turn to a tea-drinking Garden,
Nor you nor we be worth one farthing.

His tube Apollo now laid down,
His noble brow assum'd a frown:
Zounds, Girls, the angry God reply'd,
Who can your cursed noise abide?

In Pluto's name, say what's the matter,
What brings you here, or why this chatter?
Nine clacks at once together going,
And not a soul the reason knowing!
I plainly see with half a glance,
Your tongues have got St. Vitus' dance,
They jig so much, and make such slips,
You cannot keep them in your lips;
A pill of mine will set all right,
And you shall each take one to-night.

The Muses, fearing that Apollo
His pill might with a blister follow,
Lower'd their haughty tone.—Your pills,
Great Sir (they cry'd) can't cure our ills;
But in your pow'r, and your science,
Your Servants place most firm reliance,
Quite confident your Godship never
From us will your affection sever.

Nor wonder if both pride and spirit
From you, our Sov'reign, we inherit;
And if with too much warmth and zeal
We to that Sov'reign now appeal,
Think what just rage must be excited
In Nine young Females basely slighted.
Is't not enough that ev'ry day
Our once firm champions steal away,
And all their rapt'rous ardour close
Not in brisk verse, but stupid prose?
Sure this will vindicate our fury
Before yourself, or any jury.
Nay, with all these vexations rife,
One whom we deem'd our own for life,
One whom thro' ancient Rome we led,
And taught the dang'rous Alps to tread,
And thence his steps conducted where
Our much belov'd, much mourn'd Voltaire

In Ferney fix'd that splendid throne
Which your own voice confirm'd his own;
One too, who ween'd no Lady Muse
To aid his purpose durst refuse,
Whether he chose to move along
Plaintive, in elegiac song,
Or, sporting to some lighter measure,
Unlock'd gay Humour's comic treasure,
Hath from our standard basely flown,
And to a Rival pref'rence shown.
Can you believe? th' apostate creature
All his addresses pays to Nature!
To her his faithless arms he stretches,
Her charms adores, her movements sketches;
To her a Temple now he's raising,
Where soon her altar will be blazing,
And all her treasures sparkle round,
And the proud Dome her fame resound,

Unless our own Apollo aids
The cause of his deserted Maids,
And blasting Falshood in its birth,
Dashes this Edifice to earth.

Since (quoth the God) you've found your manners,
I may perchance defend your banners;
But ne'er will I, unless I'm tipsy,
When Jove himself is not se ipse,
Be bully'd by a female's tongue,
Tho' glib as Juno's it were hung.
I've patiently the business heard,
Which hath all this ill temper stirr'd,;
I feel your wrongs as much as you,
And we'll a just revenge pursue;
For, Girls, while you remain discreet,
Who dares slight you my wrath shall meet:
This truant, who so false a wretch is,
Shall shortly rue his prose and sketches;

We'll of his Temple soon bereave him,
Then see if Nature can relieve him;
He'll find her influence prove but vain,
And sue once more to join your train;
But 'twould not suit my laurell'd crown
With my own hand to dash it down.
Kings, when some dirty trick they try,
To dirtier ministers apply,
Who stand before them as a screen,
While they indulge their power or spleen;
Thus I'll destroy by slow degrees
Th' Apostate's pleasure and his ease,
And, better to attain this end,
I'll do it by his bosom friend;
'Twill give a keener pang besides,
If wounded where he most confides.—

When Troy was built, you recollect
I dabbled as an Architect;

A very sorry one, you'll say,
But worse since then have come in play,
And of the art I've understood
Enough, to do more harm than good;
From better heads ideas stealing,
To plan a frieze, or form a cieling:
I'll hint the means while the work's doing,
To make his Edifice a ruin;
And he shall find his schemes defeated,
Before his building is compleated.
There is beside, in this great town,
A Dame of infamous renown,
Whose great delight is to embarrass,
Torment the weak, the manly harass,
And by her dark malignant arts
Aims to disturb ingenuous hearts;
Living the plague of half the nation,
Mischief her trade, her name Vexation;

In our own scheme her aid we'll join,
And thus compleat the great design.

But now, my Girls, 'tis growing late,
St. Paul's hath long ago struck eight,
And, since we've set all matters right,
E'en take your beds with me to-night;
Being all birds of the same feather,
You may contrive to roost together.
To tramp the streets at such an hour
Would put you in each Puppy's pow'r,
Who nothing would more gladly chuse,
Than to pick up a straggling Muse.
I know this Town enough to say,
Here Folly reigns with amplest sway,
Making those kindred vices thrive
Which help to keep my shop alive.—
Nor think, soft Virgins of the lyre,
Ignoble views my schemes inspire,

If oft my radiant form I shroud,
And mix with the terrestrial crowd,
To such odd frolics I'm inclin'd,
Merely to better know mankind,
Closer to read the human race,
Which some adorn, but more disgrace.
Thus I on all their actions gaze,
And mark their little dirty ways,
Passing their lives in toil and pother,
By turns a prey to one another.
I'm truly weary of the sight,
And shortly mean to take my flight;
But first I'll make your Culprit own,
Renew'd obedience to your throne,
That future Bards, in future times,
Who dare for Prose relinquish Rhymes,
By his example may be taught,
Secession's punish'd as it ought.

This justice done, I shut my shop,
And seek with you Olympus' top,
Where I will make our old dad Jove,
And all the jolly folks above,
Shake their imperial sides with laughter,
At what I shall recount hereafter,
When I describe them to a tittle
This town, of which they know so little.
The various scenes I've here survey'd,
Conceal'd beneath this masquerade;
The characters with which it teems,
Some broad awake, some lost in dreams,
And in the midst of Arts and Science,
Oft bidding Common Sense defiance.

But this at proper time you'll know,
Let us now down to supper go,

And our convivial hour prolong,
With some good old Parnassian song;
Then, till the ruddy morn shall rise,
In peaceful slumbers close your eyes.

END OF THE SECOND CANTO.

Alluding to Poems of that name formerly written by the Author.