A collection of poems on various subjects including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte] |
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INVOCATION;
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 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
181
INVOCATION;
OR, CLIO SUPPLANTED.
TO MISS NUGENT, THE LATE HONOURABLE MRS. ROCHFORT.
Come, Madam Clio! no resistance,
Come quickly, lend your best assistance;
Since many with no better claim on't
Assume, I find, and vaunt the name on't.
Come, lowly bending down before ye,
As custom wills it, I implore ye;
Come, shed your choicest influences
Profusely o'er my scatter'd senses,
And smile propitious on your poet,
Who feels perfection and would show it:
Poet?—ah! no; that proud addition
Had found no place in my petition;
But, that in rhyme a little scanted,
'Twas an auxiliary wanted;
Then seeing, Clio! help's so needful,
I prithee of my prayers be heedful;
And since, like fancy-mongers noted,
That might by dozens here be quoted,
Staunch pious christians, laurels courting,
Instead of church, your fanes resorting,
Since then, I say, in imitation
Of wits attach'd to invocation,
I pay thee homage in the proem,
Inspire, as thou wert wont, my poem.
Tho' after all their solemn straining,
And sweet inanity of meaning,
With many a pompous nothing blended,
Their cause, I ween, but little mended;
Yet, I'll be judg'd by Dan Apollo,
If you assist I'll beat them hollow.
This, as they list, they may deride as
A sample for the ear of Midas;
We might in turn, to quit their kindness,
Enchafe their spleen and show their blindness;
For, to retort on their heroics,
They'd prove no greater wits than stoics:
My rhymes I deem not tho' so clever,
To live, 'tis a long time, for ever,
Like some, who, for charade or rebus,
Claim their descent from Father Phoebus;
But if that Phoebus ne'er existed,
Meseems they have a little miss'd it.
Then, Clio! 'tis not to be wonder'd
That I expect of years some hundred;
There are my notions who have flouted;
But your good will I never doubted,
And yet your aid I don't much care for;
Now, with your leave, I'll tell you wherefore.
Come quickly, lend your best assistance;
Since many with no better claim on't
Assume, I find, and vaunt the name on't.
Come, lowly bending down before ye,
As custom wills it, I implore ye;
Come, shed your choicest influences
Profusely o'er my scatter'd senses,
And smile propitious on your poet,
Who feels perfection and would show it:
Poet?—ah! no; that proud addition
Had found no place in my petition;
But, that in rhyme a little scanted,
'Twas an auxiliary wanted;
Then seeing, Clio! help's so needful,
I prithee of my prayers be heedful;
And since, like fancy-mongers noted,
That might by dozens here be quoted,
182
Instead of church, your fanes resorting,
Since then, I say, in imitation
Of wits attach'd to invocation,
I pay thee homage in the proem,
Inspire, as thou wert wont, my poem.
Tho' after all their solemn straining,
And sweet inanity of meaning,
With many a pompous nothing blended,
Their cause, I ween, but little mended;
Yet, I'll be judg'd by Dan Apollo,
If you assist I'll beat them hollow.
This, as they list, they may deride as
A sample for the ear of Midas;
We might in turn, to quit their kindness,
Enchafe their spleen and show their blindness;
For, to retort on their heroics,
They'd prove no greater wits than stoics:
My rhymes I deem not tho' so clever,
To live, 'tis a long time, for ever,
Like some, who, for charade or rebus,
Claim their descent from Father Phoebus;
But if that Phoebus ne'er existed,
Meseems they have a little miss'd it.
Then, Clio! 'tis not to be wonder'd
That I expect of years some hundred;
183
But your good will I never doubted,
And yet your aid I don't much care for;
Now, with your leave, I'll tell you wherefore.
It is my pride, some say, my failing,
To cherish candour and plain dealing,
And, prompting generous emulation,
Desert to honour more than station:
Your votaries, Clio! bouncing fellows,
Most mickle strange romances tell us;
Mad blades, whose trade confess'd is fiction,
And forging names to grace their diction;
Yet, after all your influence boasted,
I no where find you e'er were toasted;
Nor e'er did your whole choir inherit
A tythe of Fanny's sterling merit,
And if a muse I needs must fly to,
What fairer name could I apply to?
None other will I, madam Clio!—
But why that pert invidious heigho?
Hope you to match her? range your forces,
Ransack your stores, try all resources,
Allusions, similies and fable,
And vouch the finest things your able;
Convene your goddesses and graces
Renown'd for shapes, extoll'd for faces;
Your Hebe, Juno and Minerva,
With all the Olympical Caterva;
Diana, Venus, Ceres, Flora,
And that Chef-d'Oeuvre clep'd Pandora;
Then look on Fanny, you'll allow her,
As none but must, superior power;
In every movement, limb and feature,
A blameless, unaffected creature,
With every mental gift to charm us,
And not a single thought to harm us.
An angel! no; though not a jot less,
Pure flesh and blood, refin'd and spotless!
To cherish candour and plain dealing,
And, prompting generous emulation,
Desert to honour more than station:
Your votaries, Clio! bouncing fellows,
Most mickle strange romances tell us;
Mad blades, whose trade confess'd is fiction,
And forging names to grace their diction;
Yet, after all your influence boasted,
I no where find you e'er were toasted;
Nor e'er did your whole choir inherit
A tythe of Fanny's sterling merit,
And if a muse I needs must fly to,
What fairer name could I apply to?
None other will I, madam Clio!—
But why that pert invidious heigho?
Hope you to match her? range your forces,
Ransack your stores, try all resources,
Allusions, similies and fable,
And vouch the finest things your able;
Convene your goddesses and graces
Renown'd for shapes, extoll'd for faces;
184
With all the Olympical Caterva;
Diana, Venus, Ceres, Flora,
And that Chef-d'Oeuvre clep'd Pandora;
Then look on Fanny, you'll allow her,
As none but must, superior power;
In every movement, limb and feature,
A blameless, unaffected creature,
With every mental gift to charm us,
And not a single thought to harm us.
An angel! no; though not a jot less,
Pure flesh and blood, refin'd and spotless!
Roses and lilies all adorning,
Each nymph be sure outshines the morning!
And not a scribbler but's a dreaming
Of deaths, from fair one's optics streaming!
All idle rants of purblind fancy,
Trump'd up when nothing else they can say;
But those whom nature moves and justice,
In phrase direct and plain their trust is.
Thus, truth to speak, as bound in duty,
Fanny's the quintessence of beauty.
Each nymph be sure outshines the morning!
And not a scribbler but's a dreaming
Of deaths, from fair one's optics streaming!
All idle rants of purblind fancy,
Trump'd up when nothing else they can say;
But those whom nature moves and justice,
In phrase direct and plain their trust is.
Thus, truth to speak, as bound in duty,
Fanny's the quintessence of beauty.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |