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Poems

By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]. Second Edition
  
  

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Mr. JOHNSTONE.
  
  
  
  
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Mr. JOHNSTONE.

See myrtle-crown'd Johnstone advancing between us,
Like the rover of Troy, or the minion of Venus;
To please and be pleas'd make up all his employment,
The cause and the end of his being's—enjoyment;

162

'Mid the fair and the beauteous his handkerchief flies,
And the fair and the beauteous contend for the prize;
'Till glutted from Love's varied banquet he rises,
And like Louis Quatorze even dainties despises.
As Fortune and Fate have peculiarly blest him,
The coxcombs all simper, the men all detest him,
And stirring the atoms of Envy's foul dregs,
Assail his proportions, and sneer at his legs;
But an Irishman's leg is not priz'd for its quickness,
But its strength and its vigour, its nerve, and its thickness:
If it holds the frame firmly, the man wins the day,
For the owners ne'er use them—in running away.
Amid all his failings this sure is the oddest,
That he seems in all character somewhat—too modest;
Rests his head on his chest, like a bawd at a burial,
And looks grave as the guard at the Spanish Escurial;
Or a half witted judge, when our follies reviling,
Tho' his heart and his will are incessantly smiling,
Draws his muscles in order, and, bridling his fury,
Looks just like a culprit when ey'd by his jury;
Then touches his forehead, to wipe off the dew
Of an ideal shame, that his front never knew.

163

Like the mermaid, whose figure's in story decided,
His frame and his melody both are divided;
The upper division of each is harmonious,
The lower discordant, ill-form'd, and erroneous;
They clash and contend like two priests for a mitre,
And discolour each other like copper and nitre.
His voice was by Nature so widely bisected,
It ne'er can be rightly by Judgment directed;
For wanting an agent, its beauties to tissue,
They teaze the possessor, but cannot join issue:
It consists of contraries, like punch but half made,
Or Rembrandt's designs of abrupt light and shade:
Like an ill-manag'd concert, without any fiddle,
Or Nobody's person, that lacks all his middle;
If they sport with each other, the junction is ill,
Their bodies may meet, but they meet without will:
Like a Jew or Bramin with Father O'Leary,
Or Gog in a dance with the Corsican fairy:
'Tis a wonderful mixture of whiskey and sack,
One half's Rubinelli, the rest—Paddy Whack.
Yet where shall we find, in these dissonant days,
An opera chief that deserves so much praise?
If he answers not every purpose of merit,
If view'd in all points, he has taste, truth, and spirit.
When we measure his worth by comparative rule,
His claims are gigantic, and shame the whole school:
As his fellow disciples, tho' poison'd with vanity,
Have nothing humane, save the husk of humanity.

164

(I except polish'd Kelly, that inmate of Science,
Who treats Competition with haughty defiance.)
Tho' Bowdens and Mahons each other succeeded,
Their lives have been short, and their death is not heeded.
Take his aggregate qualities, voice and exterior,
'Tis a thousand to one if we meet—his superior.
As his person is dignified, graceful, commanding,
And his eyes seem illum'd by a good understanding,
When Music's subdued by his Thalian powers,
His Flaherty and Foigard gladden our hours;
And his brogue no intent of Propriety sunders,
But adds a keen zest to his national blunders.