 | Poems |  |
157
Mrs. INCHBALD.
To mangle poor Decency's breathless remains;
To rob gentle Reason of all her domains;
To give the last blow to expiring Propriety;
To feed a base town with still baser variety—
See delicate Inchbald assume the foul quill;
And satirize Wisdom, by pleasing her will!
Tho' unskill'd in the true fabrication of tenses,
She tickles our weakness, and talks to the senses;
For Venus is titt'ring, and Priapus smiles,
As the Queen of Voluptuousness Nature beguiles;
She canters her steed thro' Parnassian lanes,
Till the blood from her heart has half madden'd her brains:
Then, seizing the standish, writes quaint and uncommon;
As the rake mounts aloft, on—the dregs of the woman.
Contemptuously treating the feminine duties,
Her breast lacks the cambric to cover its beauties.
With the pages of Sappho her cranium she dresses,
While her smock goes unwash'd, and abandon'd her tresses.
If she caught approbation, she car'd not a jot,
If the plaudits deriv'd from a scholar or sot;
The cause, she imagin'd, was blanch'd by the end;
And, to flatter an ideot, neglected—a friend.
Thus her mind, like clear amber, condens'd by stagnation,
Exhibits the dirt it imbib'd in formation:
Like ungender'd abortions, her plays have annoy'd;
Which are born, see the light, and, when seen, are destroy'd.
To rob gentle Reason of all her domains;
To give the last blow to expiring Propriety;
To feed a base town with still baser variety—
See delicate Inchbald assume the foul quill;
And satirize Wisdom, by pleasing her will!
Tho' unskill'd in the true fabrication of tenses,
She tickles our weakness, and talks to the senses;
For Venus is titt'ring, and Priapus smiles,
As the Queen of Voluptuousness Nature beguiles;
She canters her steed thro' Parnassian lanes,
Till the blood from her heart has half madden'd her brains:
Then, seizing the standish, writes quaint and uncommon;
As the rake mounts aloft, on—the dregs of the woman.
Contemptuously treating the feminine duties,
Her breast lacks the cambric to cover its beauties.
158
While her smock goes unwash'd, and abandon'd her tresses.
If she caught approbation, she car'd not a jot,
If the plaudits deriv'd from a scholar or sot;
The cause, she imagin'd, was blanch'd by the end;
And, to flatter an ideot, neglected—a friend.
Thus her mind, like clear amber, condens'd by stagnation,
Exhibits the dirt it imbib'd in formation:
Like ungender'd abortions, her plays have annoy'd;
Which are born, see the light, and, when seen, are destroy'd.
To effect the sublime, by an artifice new,
And bring all its majesty forward to view,
She purloin'd the stool on which Kemble had writ,
The choicest morceaus of his Jesuit wit;
A stool far more blest than the harps of old Snowden,
Or the tripod of Delphos, or goblet of Woden.
Uprais'd on its bosom that simpering child,
Self-complacent created young grins, that half smild:
And penn'd wond'rous odes, and astonishing lays,
As have pos'd all discernment, and beggar'd all praise.
When clos'd in Douay's sacred cells, the meek youth,
Receiv'd the behest of all blessings—but Truth.
High-mounted on that the fair scribbler sits,
To watch as her pulses give strength to her wits;
Like the Pythian priestess, she feels new sensations,
That mount from her seat in divine exhalations:
Then laughs, cries and blots, plunges, ponders and writes,
Faints, screams and looks wild, reconceives and indites;
As Kemble administers truth to the sinner,
'Till his eye-balls grow dim, and the god stirs within her:
And bring all its majesty forward to view,
She purloin'd the stool on which Kemble had writ,
The choicest morceaus of his Jesuit wit;
A stool far more blest than the harps of old Snowden,
Or the tripod of Delphos, or goblet of Woden.
159
Self-complacent created young grins, that half smild:
And penn'd wond'rous odes, and astonishing lays,
As have pos'd all discernment, and beggar'd all praise.
When clos'd in Douay's sacred cells, the meek youth,
Receiv'd the behest of all blessings—but Truth.
High-mounted on that the fair scribbler sits,
To watch as her pulses give strength to her wits;
Like the Pythian priestess, she feels new sensations,
That mount from her seat in divine exhalations:
Then laughs, cries and blots, plunges, ponders and writes,
Faints, screams and looks wild, reconceives and indites;
As Kemble administers truth to the sinner,
'Till his eye-balls grow dim, and the god stirs within her:
From the itch to be witty what miseries flow,
When the toil of the brain but establishes woe!
Hence Bedlam's drear jaws have been cramm'd to satiety,
Hence maniacs have risen to frighten Propriety;
Hence orthodox ideots perplex our best senses,
Hence Priestley with pride vague opinions dispenses;
And Cumberland's pleas'd that his muse, tho' in years,
Should annual conceive, tho' each brat's born in tears:
Thus Harlots feel happy when pregnant suspected,
Tho' they know the base fruit will be scoff'd and neglected.
But Cowley and Inchbald more mad than their neighbours,
With God and the Devil besprinkle their labours;
Sure the traits of the mind must be oddly directed,
When their bawdry destroys what their morals effected.
When the toil of the brain but establishes woe!
160
Hence maniacs have risen to frighten Propriety;
Hence orthodox ideots perplex our best senses,
Hence Priestley with pride vague opinions dispenses;
And Cumberland's pleas'd that his muse, tho' in years,
Should annual conceive, tho' each brat's born in tears:
Thus Harlots feel happy when pregnant suspected,
Tho' they know the base fruit will be scoff'd and neglected.
But Cowley and Inchbald more mad than their neighbours,
With God and the Devil besprinkle their labours;
Sure the traits of the mind must be oddly directed,
When their bawdry destroys what their morals effected.
But writing and wisdom set each at defiance,
And journey no longer in peace and alliance:
Thus Walpole told Chatterton, speaking of skill,
When the half-famish'd bard rov'd to Strawberry Hill:
Talk to me, man of genius! why, zounds, 'tis all stuff,
Go write when you're rich, and the thing's well enough:
Will Genius protect you from Want's fell decree?
Then leave bleak Parnassus to Hayley and me;
Books charm by their dress tho' the language is vapoury,
As fools blaze at court by the aid of their drapery.
And journey no longer in peace and alliance:
Thus Walpole told Chatterton, speaking of skill,
When the half-famish'd bard rov'd to Strawberry Hill:
161
Go write when you're rich, and the thing's well enough:
Will Genius protect you from Want's fell decree?
Then leave bleak Parnassus to Hayley and me;
Books charm by their dress tho' the language is vapoury,
As fools blaze at court by the aid of their drapery.
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