PROËMIUM.[_]
TO THE READER.
GENTLE READER,
The foundation of the following Odes is simply
this—The President of the Royal Academy,
happy to be able to gratify our amiable monarch in
the minutest of his predilections, reported lately to
the academicians his majesty's desire, that a Mr.
Laurence might be added to the list of R. A.'s, his
majesty, from his superior knowledge in painting,
being perfectly convinced of this young artist's uncommon
abilities, and consequently fair pretensions
to the honour. Notwithstanding the royal wish, and
the wish of the President, and (under the rose!!!)
the wish of Mr. Benjamin West, the Windsor oracle
of paint, and painter of history, the R. A.'s received
the annunciation of his majesty's wish, Sir Joshua's
wish, Mr. West's wish, with the most ineffable sang
froid, not to call it by the harder name, disgust.
The annunciation happening on the night of an
election of Associates, at which Mr. Laurence ought
to have been elected an Associate (a step necessary
to the more exalted one of R. A.)—behold the obstinacy
of these royal mules!—the number of votes
in favour of Mr. Laurence amounted to just three,
and that of his opponent, Mr. Wheatley, to sixteen!!!
—Indignant and loyal reader! the lyric Muse, who
has uniformly attacked meanness, folly, impudence,
avarice, and ignorance, from her cradle, caught
fire at the above important event, and most loyally
poured forth the following Odes, replete with their
usual sublimities.
TO THE PUBLIC.
Gentles! behold a poor plain-spoken man!
Modest as Addington our Speaker,
Amidst Saint Stephen's patriotic clan,
Where Innocence so meek did ne'er look meeker;
When with much palpitation, and much dread,
He turn'd about his pretty Speaker's head,
One leg just rais'd to hop into the chair;
Just like a cat in rain amid the street,
That fears to wet her white and velvet feet,
Which for a handsome gutter-leap prepare!
‘I fear I am a most unworthy choice,’
Said Mister Speaker, with a lamb-like voice!
‘I have but one step more,’ he cried,
Keeping his head coquettishly aside.
How much like Christie, with his hammer rais'd
(Christie, a public speaker too, so prais'd),
Looking around him, simpering, smiling, bowing,
Then crying—‘Gemmen, going, going, going!’
Yes, gentles all, a modest bard, and shy,
With dove-like mien, and ground-exploring eye;
Modest as Mister Speaker at the Lords,
When lowly he did majesty beseech
T' allow his humble Commons use of words;
That is to say, a liberty of speech:
Also to have at times a tête-à-tête,
Because a confab royal is a treat;
Indeed for subjects much too rich,
As wise King James asserted of the itch:
Likewise to have the privilege of tick,
Because a bailiff is a meddling rogue,
Who, with a hand of iron, or a stick,
Stoppeth the travels of our men of vogue!
Barbarian act, that men of worship frets!
Who think of loftier things than idle debts;
Deep pond'ring ever on the nation's good,
Not on great greasy butchers, tailor knaves,
Mercers and clammy grocers—compter slaves,
Who, by their stinking sweat, procure their food.
Tradesmen! a set of vulgar swine;
Crutches for Fortune in a deep decline:
Lo what a tradesman's good for, and lo all—
A wooden buttress for a tott'ring wall!
With tears have I beheld full many a 'squire
Most brutally by bailiffs dragg'd along;
For turnpike, furniture, or house's hire,
Horse, wages, coach, or some such idle song!
Now 'squire's a title of much reputation—
Belongs to people of no—occupation;
Who cannot (in their looks we read it)
Get, for a mutton-chop, a little credit!
Poor gentlemen! how hard, alas! their fate,
To knuckle to such nuisances of state!
Gentles, to you, well pleas'd, I turn again,
Quitting my fav'rite rambling strain;
Leaving belov'd, admir'd, ador'd digression,
So practis'd by us men of ode-profession,
When we have scarcely aught to sing or say,
And sneaking fancy quits the lyric lay.
I do remember!—What?—That thus my pen
Licentious, slander'd crown-and-sceptre men!
‘Readers, one moment look me in the face;
A poet not quite destitute of grace;
And answer one not bred in Flatt'ry's schools—
Are you, or are you not, a set of fools!
Pinning your faith on Grandeur's sleeve—
Say, do you, in your consciences, believe
That m---s never can be weak nor mean;
And that a m---'s wife, yclept a ------,
May not (and why not?) be a downright slop,
Form'd of the coarsest rags of Nature's shop?
I read the answer in each visage’—‘No.’
‘O Jesu! can it be? and is it so?
Put down my book—
Give it not one contaminating look:
I stare on you with pity—nay, with pain—
Kearsley shall toss your money back again:
Get your crowns shav'd, poor souls—I wish you well—
And hear me—Bedlam has a vacant cell.’
Such were the stanzas that I wrote of yore,
When tainted by a king-deriding clan;
But now I curse those tenets o'er and o'er—
A convert quite—a sweet and alter'd man:
The sacred force of sov'reignty I feel—
To royalty's stern port I learn to kneel—
For royalties are deem'd most sacred things;
So sacred by the courtiers, that the Bible
May be inform'd against, and prov'd a libel,
For saying—‘Put no confidence in kings!’
Though this indeed may be interpolation,
As much was coin'd by Popish priests and friars;
For ah! how hard 'tis for imagination
To fancy monarchs hypocrites and liars!
