University of Virginia Library

ECLOGUE III. THE DISCARDED MINISTER.

Amicus.
Ho! Georgius, whither on thy way so fast,
From good St. Stephen's?

Georgius.
Ah! my friend; at last,
(Would I had never liv'd, this day to see,
Strange revolution for the state and me!)
His Highness, who has ow'd me long a grudge,
Exclaims, “You cringing ragamuffin, budge!
A fellow, that to serve his private ends,
Gives ev'ry place of profit to his friends!
No more I'll have a herd of Scotch petitioners,
Clerks of the crown, or Navy-board commissioners.”

Ami.
But what will now become of your colleagues,
Their ways and means, their councils, their intrigues?
What other leader will they choose?

Geo.
Heav'n knows!
I weep to think of leaving Treasurer Rose;
Methinks I hear him cry, distracted, vext,
“Forebodings tell me that my turn comes next!”
And then the honest man dissolves in tears,
To lose the place he's held for twenty years.

Ami.
And Vansittart, will royalty reject him?

Geo.
Ah! no: impassive Dulness shall protect him:
He has no dang'rous particle of sense,
But all is solid—shillings, pounds, and pence,
'Tis not in pious Nicholas to think;
Suffice it, that he uses pens and ink,
To calculate with nicety the sum
Of new imposts and taxes yet to come.

Ami.
What will they do with Ryder, let me ask?
“An oracle within an empty cask!”
He rises,—with the awful subject big,
And shakes the powder'd honours of his wig;
He speaks;—a mute attention fills the House,
The mountain is deliver'd of its mouse.

Geo.
He, p'rhaps may prove of service to the state,
In matters of small consequence and weight;
To make an act to walk the parish bounds,
And see that sleepy watchmen go their rounds;
Or, with a face most ludicrously stern,
To move—the yawning house do now adjourn.

Ami.
But hast thou (pray excuse the thing I mention,)
No small reversion, sinecure, or pension,
No secret bribe to make retirement sweet?—
Come, say how much might purchase thy retreat?

Geo.
For neither pension, sinecure, nor bribe,
Am I indebted to the courtly tribe.
Was it for this I brav'd the party-storm,
And silenc'd the loud Demon of Reform,
That fierce assail'd me with its thousand tongues,
And brazen forehead, and stentorian lungs?
Was it for this, I made a glorious stand,
And gave corruption both my heart and hand?
Ungrateful Party!—in declining age
To hiss a hoary vet'ran off the stage.

Ami.
Mourn not, my Friend, thy public life is o'er,
There's nothing left behind thee to deplore;
For what is pow'r, but trouble, care, and pain?
Hard to acquire, uneasy to retain.
O! fly from court, to nature's rural scenes,
To patient drudges leave the ways and means;
There health is borne on ev'ry breeze that blows,
There murm'ring streams shall lull thee to repose.

Geo.
What fancied scenes of happiness you trace,
Strange comfort for a statesman out of place!
Who, by no oaths political confin'd,
Dare, (mirabile dictu!) speak his mind.
Are hills, and dales, and valleys, half so gay
As bright St. James's on a Levee day?
What fierce extatic transports fill my soul,
To hear the drivers swear, the coaches roll;
The courtiers compliment, the ladies clack,
The satins rustle, and the whalebones crack!
What! shall a fallen Minister regale
On slices of brown bread, and homebrew'd ale?—
Lay his opinion open to rebuke,
And please a Boor—when he might charm a Duke?
And, O! the greatest nuisance in the land,
Shall squire and vicar shake him by the hand,
Or bellowing huntsman, follow'd by his pack,
With hearty thump salute him on the back?—
No, let me rather live to see the day,
That joins me to the politics of Grey,—
Adopt mad schemes by restless Tierney plann'd,
Or, all unnotic'd, at a Levee stand.—
Let me the words of blust'ring Fuller quote,
Or to that puppy Holland give my vote
To calculate the ex-officio fibs
Of my old worthy friend, Sir Vicary Gibbs!
Or, once for all, in winding up the sum
Of evils present, past, and yet to come,
O, let me be proclaim'd, by Hawkers loud,
Political Jack-Pudding of the crowd.

Ami.
Since you're resolv'd, I have no more to say,
But banish care and sorrow for a day;
Some disappointment cross'd the Regent's mind,
The Queen look'd grave, or Hertford prov'd unkind;
But let the worst arrive; now, pray consider,
You can but truckle to the highest bidder.