Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Tho' legends inform us that walls have oft spoke,
This vile faithless age treat the tale as a joke:
But in that they are wrong, as hereafter you'll see:
For e'en houses converse, when their minds disagree.
To evince what I say, I will give a relation
Of a speech, by the way, of a kind exhortation.
The Nymph of the Garden, with feeling and pain,
Thus warn'd the grey strumpet of old Drury-Lane.

To give good advice, is not always well taken,
Tho' it tends in its spirit, to save a friend's bacon:
Half aw'd by a maxim, so wise and so weighty,
I thrice had resolv'd to forego this intreaty;
But Nature impels me, I cannot resist her,
To snatch from perdition a weak minded sister;
Whose honor is sullied by counsellors scurvy,
Who've turn'd her poor cranium almost topsy-turvy.

Like the cloak of Saint Martin, they've cut her in pieces,
For self-preservation's their favourite thesis:
No evils more serious have sicklied her uses,
Since pliable Fleetwood smil'd Lord of the Muses:
By the fatal effects of mal-administration,
In the last fell campaign they half undid their nation;

Then Folly and Madness rose up to confound 'em,
And the props of their happiness fell all around 'em;
A woe-begone queen call'd for gin to support her,
And chiefs mourn'd the fall of the state—over porter;
And Linley the pensive, Calliope's hero,
Oft fiddled on ruins, like Rome's bloody Nero.

Poor Drury, 'tis piteous that Reason e'er left her,
See Ford damns the forceps, to catch a mock sceptre:

In vain lovely Dian implores from the skies,
Become not, my varlet, the tyrant of flies;
I know the vile Helicon hussies have stung ye,
But I'll send the demon of discord among ye;
To people the world is a more honor'd part.
Then forsake not, my son, the obstetric art;
Get your brains wash'd by Hawkins, and stop up its crannies,
And give to mankind Lady Gigs and Lord Fannies.
But deaf to her plaints, the egregious king
Quits the medical paths to become—a great thing;
Ambition has grappled the hooks of his soul,
And bent all his talents, to own her controul.
Like Ammon's fam'd son he exerts his high sway,
For with ease he creates forty kings in a day;
The posts of vast import bestows on his cousins,
And heroes and lordlings, can make them by dozens;
Thus regally rob'd, becomes haughty and vain,
And frowns on the Divan in Old Warwick-lane.
Not Augustus himself, tho' his chief and his master,
Could elevate ideots more gladly or faster.

Like Charles the imperial, enfeebled and hoary,
Great Garrick retir'd, o'er laden with glory:
He had run round the circle of Honour's career,
And knew ev'ry blessing which feeling makes dear;
But his vanity sated, his wishes were o'er,
For his hope grew diseas'd, and his joys were no more.
Like the young Macedonian, he wept when he knew,
That no graces of art were now left to subdue;
And that spirit which long was subservient to Fame,
Retreated within, and corroded his frame;
Where with Nature's base particles entering in strife,
It subjected his wisdom, and fed on his life.

Your faculties weaken'd, you think it a crime
To shew in your person the inroads of Time;
But, like a French dowager, vanity-tainted,
Your wrinkles are hid, and your cheeks are be-painted;
And tho' labouring Art throws a veil over Truth,
You still want in mein all the graces of youth;
Yet, alas! on that point we could never agree;
You should leave all those airs—to young beauties like me.

But to give my intent and my action a joint,
We will drop idle tattling, and come to the point.

As you know I abhor both the lies and detractors,
I'll give you my thoughts on your Authors and Actors;
With a critical rod I'll enforce each vain youth,
Unsandall'd, to walk o'er the ploughshares of Truth:
If his worth is innate, and his merits are real,
Unwounded he'll pass thro' the flaming ordeal.
—A dramatic author can now bid defiance
To learning, to genius, to taste, and to science;
Helter-skelter, ding-dong, thro' thick and thro' thin,
They heed not the means, so the prize they can win.
'Twas reserv'd as a type of this frenzy-fraught age,
That such Grub-street endeavours should rise on the stage:
But patrons of Merit, alas! are no more,
And the choir of Parnassus the tidings deplore.
Apollo now ceases the song to inspire,
And tuneless, and silent, reposes his lyre:
As Sorrow the pearls from their eye-lids distil,
The sweet nymphs of Helicon mourn round their hill.

Amid the half taught, illegitimate race,
Charles Dibdin comes forward with bronze-burnish'd face;
Unletter'd, ill-manner'd, presuming and loud,
To push his bold front in the rhyme-weaving croud;
His career has been mark'd like a mere April day,
Where storms, rain, and sunshine, by turns hold the sway:
Now he groans with despair at the scourges of Heav'n;
Now he laughs o'er the wages his follies have giv'n;
Blaspheming this month, amid filth in a garret;
In the next, gorging high, on his carp, cod, and claret,
Like the bird of the east, by his weakness misled,
He'll with pride shew his breech—so the fool hides his head.
The thing mounts to alt' in his passionate fires,
His brains are piano, and bass his desires.

With abortions of Reason he once strove to scrawl,
And baptis'd the vile spectacle—Liberty-Hall.
—May shame brand the man who such nonsense protected,
When Genius implor'd him, and Wit lay neglected:
But fidler with fidler will huddle together,
Like bugs in a blanket, that sleep in cold weather.

It is true, I have authors enough of my own,
Who hang round my skirts like base slaves round a throne:
To my Coz Common Sense, I once ventur'd to shew 'em,
And tho' strange to declare—yet the Nymph did not know 'em.
But what can I do? if I fasten my doors,
They steal to the hatch, and creep in—on all-fours.
They know my weak side to be mark'd with urbanity,
'Tis there they assail me, and tax my humanity.
Friend Dives protects this, for he's shirtless and poor;
And my Lord pleads for that, or, what's worse—my Lord's whore.
Alas! must they perish, tho' dunces and liars,
Who beg an existence like mendicant friars?

I remember poor Merit, that ill-fated youth
Was the offspring of Wisdom, and nurtur'd by Truth;

As patient he sail'd down life's varying stream,
He felt not the warmth of the Sun's genial beam:
Like a flow'ret on Nature's great desart he lay,
Which the weeds that surrounded had hid from his ray;
Its fragrance unknown, none the loss will deplore,
For he droop'd in the vale, and was thought of no more;

Chill Penury's hand drew the child from the womb,
Attended his being, and wept o'er his tomb.
Full oft he attempted to call upon Fame,
But the children of Vice had extinguish'd his claim:
Indignant they drove the meek youth from the throng,
Suppress'd his ambition, and fetter'd his song.—

For rancorous Authorlings sink to Reviewers,
As channels neglected become common sewers:
Hence Folly to high estimation is rais'd,
Hence Sternes were bespatter'd, and Burneys be-prais'd:
They lacerate Wit from their cowardly stations,
And grub for a weed, in—a bed of carnations.
Like the envious pangs of an impotent man,
They can't sin themselves, and they hate all that can;
But deal out their wreaths to the suppliant things,
As honors are shower'd by puppet-shew kings;
And the errors of Dulness, from sympathy smother,
As one vile attorney will plead for another.

Yet his page will be hallow'd on future inspection,
Who laugh'd at their edicts, and scorn'd their protection;
For Time shall their basis of arrogance sever,
And Burneys will perish, and Sternes live for ever!

But enough, my dear sister, we've sung of that sect;
The Bad you encourage, the Good you neglect;
Your despots with evil have crowded their hour,
And fetter'd their slaves, but to manifest power;
They protect but the Grubs of their own vile creation,
And darken at will the bright mind's emanation;
For Folly woo'd Taste, the lewd minx, till he won her,
And Ribaldry treads on the ashes of Honor.
—Let us turn to a better starr'd body of men,
Who've no cause to envy the sons of the pen,
The Actors—who feel not the pangs of starvation,
Nor e'er dread the curse of an earthly damnation.