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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| V. | ELEGY V. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
466
ELEGY V.
A most solemn and pathetic Address to the Muse—The Poet recounteth the Princely Honours paid to him in past Times, with a most deplorable Contrast of the present Day.
Muse, sing the reason why I was omitted:
Was it that Dame Fitzherbert prov'd my theme;
In favour once, who, flatter'd and bedittied,
Of Crowns and Sceptres dar'd indulge the dream?
Was it that Dame Fitzherbert prov'd my theme;
In favour once, who, flatter'd and bedittied,
Of Crowns and Sceptres dar'd indulge the dream?
Was it because I touch'd the string of praise
To Her whose heart ev'n Envy must revere?
Was it because I wish'd her happier days;
And from the lid of grief to steal the tear?—
To Her whose heart ev'n Envy must revere?
Was it because I wish'd her happier days;
And from the lid of grief to steal the tear?—
There was a time, a nod would bless mine eyes:
There was a time, I gain'd a gracious smile.
My nose was, like my garret, in the skies:
‘My room,’ I cried, ‘will flow with wine and oil.’
There was a time, I gain'd a gracious smile.
My nose was, like my garret, in the skies:
‘My room,’ I cried, ‘will flow with wine and oil.’
So sweet a Prince's smile, sublime his nod,
We scarce can fancy vulgar earth could mould him.
Gull'd man who gains them! he becomes a God:
Saint Paul's is scarcely large enough to hold him.
We scarce can fancy vulgar earth could mould him.
Gull'd man who gains them! he becomes a God:
Saint Paul's is scarcely large enough to hold him.
Too soon my buds of hope resign'd their bloom;
Too soon the gloom of disappointment mine
Oil, not a spoonful, flow'd into my room;
No, nor a piteous nipperkin of wine.
Too soon the gloom of disappointment mine
Oil, not a spoonful, flow'd into my room;
No, nor a piteous nipperkin of wine.
467
Ah! no; I found no meaning in the nod:
Ah! no; no meaning in the gracious smile:
In vain, with consequence the ground I trod;
Like Homer's Neptune, striding many a mile.
Ah! no; no meaning in the gracious smile:
In vain, with consequence the ground I trod;
Like Homer's Neptune, striding many a mile.
For Fortune therefore I must longer wait;
Hang on the willows my mute Harp ; and fear
That, if I hung myself, my hapless fate
Would scarcely force from Carlton-House a tear.
Hang on the willows my mute Harp ; and fear
That, if I hung myself, my hapless fate
Would scarcely force from Carlton-House a tear.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |