University of Virginia Library

DIALOGUE I.

PETER.
Ah, Tom! from Alma Mater?

TOM.
Just imported,
Fortune a jade, and ev'ry guinea sported.

PETER.
What! no rich father then has slipp'd his wind,
And left a hogshead of bank-notes behind?
No good Aunt Grizzle, kind enough to die,
Left a long purse to sooth the mournful sigh,
And purchase Pleasure's pretty recreations?

TOM.
I meet with no such kindness from relations!
P*x on't, it now appears their cruel plan
To live as long and happy as they can;
To make their sons in slavery watch and pray,
Till time and disappointment turn them gray!

PETER.
True, Tom—when lively lads arrive at age
Dull fathers should be hustled off the stage,
And mothers (hiss'd to Heav'n to find employ)
Yield up their jointures to oblige their boy.
Sons with less ceremony us'd to treat 'em—
Tied them to trees, for wolves to come and eat 'em:
Are parents old, with any thing to give?
'Tis really sin and impudence to live:
Gold should change hands—not sleep amid the chest:
Ye gods, for guineas what inglorious rest!
Gold on Newmarket's panting steed should fly,
And briskly circle with the rattling die.

TOM.
Friendship: where art? in books and on the tongue;
Who mak'st, like love, a very pretty song:
Too much a stranger to the heart, I ween!
Like angels, prais'd, admir'd—but seldom seen!
Besides myself, no comforter have I!
No hopes from parents, and no friend to die.
Sweet friendship ev'n for animals I love—
A dog, a cat, a monkey, parrot, dove;
With Alexander's spirit charm'd, of course,
Who built a town in honour of his horse.

PETER.
Now for the meaning of thy wild-goose chase:
What project, Tom? a pension, or a place?

TOM.
Full of my mighty self, from college down
I rush, to blaze a comet on the town!
To tear from Slavery's neck the galling chain,
And raise a nabob-fortune by my brain;
On skins of hungry wolves, the courtiers, thrive,
A Nimrod! leaving not a beast alive!
Tremble thou Richmond, Hawk'sb'ry, and thou Pitt
Too tremble, at the falchion of my wit.
Tremble thou Portland, Malmsb'ry, Rose, Dundas!
Stripp'd be the lion's hide, that holds an ass.
Roll my deep thunder round that Reeves's head,
Dark form! that stalking strikes a world with dread:
All eye, all ear, at midnight's guardless hour,
To seize a subject for the jail or Tow'r.
Arm'd with the lightning's pointed fire, my pen,,
Brand thou the daring fronts of shameless men;
Drag thou, my arm, black Guilt to open day!—
Such are my projects!—how d'ye like them, pray?

PETER.
Nobly resolv'd! a pious resolution,
Would Fortune kindly crown the execution.
But Pitt despis'd the execrating noise
Of men and women—hooting girls and boys!
Smil'd at the rude salutes of stones and mire
That discompos'd his curls and gay attire;
And fated, had he fall'n, his gang to cross,
Pitt knew a simple life no public loss;
Knew that a name but mock'd a vengeful stone,
Whose ghost-like popularity was gone;
And knew, his flow'rs of speech and breadth of soul
The state might find in many a dirty hole.
Safe 'mid the windings of his brazen tow'r,
Too well a minister discerns his pow'r;
With high contempt he bids their fury flow,
And mocks the pop-guns of the world below:
So deep in fat Corruption's soil his roots,
The public blast but lops some wanton shoots;
The bullying trunk, whose members brave the skies,
Firm in its hell-clad strength, the storm defies.

TOM.
I'll pour a broadside into courts.—

PETER.
Forbear.
Court-folly charms, of all, the eye and ear:
Sink it, and Satire mourns his useless dart;
While Ridicule, a bankrupt, breaks his heart.

TOM.
I'll spread my sentiments of kings and queens;
Truth guides my pen, and Truth the poet screens.

PETER.
Oh! what an inexperienc'd thing is youth!
How very little knowest thou of Truth!
Truth for a very dangerous dame believe!
Too often, Tom, the fairest forms deceive:
Mid Winter's shiv'ring scene the simple hare
Finds in the purest snow a fatal snare:
Forth as she scuds, to feed at early day,
The treach'rous softness tells her winding way:
Where'er it feels her feet, the fair betrayer,
Informs the treach'rous poacher where to slay her.
The muse that tells plain truth, with edge-tools sports:
Go, deal in fiction, man, and flatter courts.

TOM.
Nor shall the pompous lawn my lash escape,
That swelling lords it over simple crape:
Whales of the church, before my vengeance fly—
Devouring, mangling the poor helpless fry:
Priests! how unlike your healing, humble master!
He, Gilead's balm; but you—a blister-plaster!
Out with state-cancers! caustic, come, and knife—
I'll gain Fame's plaudit, though I lose my life.

PETER.
Sweet is her song—divine, like Banti's breath;
Yet dear's the ballad, Tom, whose note is death!

TOM.
Perchance I venture on the hope-forlorn!
Yet, he who Honour courts, must Danger scorn!

PETER.
Thus, when a breach is made in some fair town,
The volunteers, agog to gain renown,
Beg hard to enter first, to fall with glory,
And give Posterity a beauteous story;
While wiser some, averse to making mould,
Would rather tell the tale, than have it told.

TOM.
I'll pierce of Wimbledon the midnight scene,
Where taxes spring, and Riot's orgies reign;
Expose the two Dictators to the isle—

PETER.
The world has mark'd them, and the couple smile.

TOM.
What! is there not a blush?—a little glow,
To stain their marble countenances?

PETER.
No!
The minister who bears a blushing face,
Poor Molly! is not fitted for his place.
With dog-like impudence, and dog-like stare,
To wonder, all the while he lays the snare,
‘That gentlemen suspect a harmless plan;’
Such is the minister, and such the man,
To dupe the state, and carry all before him!—

TOM.
So, then, my bull of satire cannot gore him?

PETER.
At ev'ry push the man would only laugh,
And prove thy bellowing bull, a whining calf.
Rose, spite of ridicule, enjoys his place,
And grins at such as damn the want of grace;
While Wyndham, unabash'd, his heart unlocks,
And calmly meets the front of injur'd Fox.
One monosyllable, whose name is Aye,
Weighs more than all a hundred bards can say:
One daring member of a rotten borough
Is found of late, to poor Old England's sorrow,
Full strong to give fair Freedom her death-wound,
And hurl her heav'n-clad column to the ground.
Merit may walk to grass, or munch the thistle:
For Pitt, the Virtues all may e'vn go whistle.
Worth, like the worm beneath the cold hard stone,
Crawls forth, and courts the sunshine of a throne:
But, lo, its rays on diff'rent reptiles fall,
That wriggling, clinging, lick the foot of Baal.

TOM.
Portland shall feel my scourge—

PETER.
Why so, poor man?
His grace is much the best of all the clan.
Though dup'd to join with knaves his luckless doom,
'Mid rooks, a pigeon with unsullied plume:
His colleagues, when compar'd to him!—a day
Of wolf-like Winter, and the lamb-like May;
The lane's coarse pebble, and Golconda's stone;
The Medicean Venus, and a Joan.
His and their hearts are opposition things;
Diff'rent as dove-like saints, and vulture kings;
Cynthia, the world's delight, and Lady Mary;
Fam'd Belisarius, and old Bamfylde Cary.

TOM.
Die then the embassy that shames the land.

PETER.
Lord! Tom, the French have kill'd it to thy hand;
Then rein thy fury—spare thy idle breath—

TOM.
I'll fabricate the poetry of Death.
O'er many a neck my scimitar shall flame,
And Havoc's corses form my road to fame;
On Satire's burning coals this villain fries,
And roasted that with skewers in his eyes:
I'll match the knaves with tortures of all sorts,
And make a charming little hell for courts.

PETER.
Heavn's! Tom, be cooler; take advice—

TOM.
I won't—
‘Wilful will do't'—my soul is fix'd upon't,
Ah, Peter, you're a courtier.

PETER.
No such thing:
I never drank at Adulation's spring.

TOM.
No! Peter never dealt in praise!

PETER.
I have.
There is a time ere any man's a knave—
Some start in youth, some sin at bald fourscore;
But known—the voice of Fame is heard no more.
Virtue's pure robe with dirt I scorn to load,
Or offer incense to embalm a toad.
True, I have flatter'd—yes, my raptur'd tongue
Has pleas'd a mistress oft—and oft a song:
Yet for no baseness I invok'd the Nine—
A lovely subject, and a harmless line.
Let talents, virtues, meet my happy eyes;
I ask not, truly, from what soil they rise.
If 'mid the lorn cold vale of Want they spring,
The muse shall hen-like spread her fost'ring wing;
Or Grandeur's sun-clad mountain, to their glory,
My verse (though scarce believ'd) shall tell the story:
Give me the riches, and I'll find the soul
To lead poor pining Merit from her hole.
Friend to the arts, where George's millions mine,
What heav'nly maid in poverty should pine?
For lab'ring Genius, palaces should rise;
Not for court-sycophants, the carrion-flies:
These would I flap—and change at once the scene;
To Taste, the Attic nymph, restore her reign;
With Raphaels, Titians, the glad world renew,
And lead a second Angelo to view;
Bid, for our Board of Works, Palladios spring,
And cast a ray of glory round a king.
And, were I king! I solemnly protest,
That hardware-man, that brazier, Mister West,
No more should copper poor old Windsor's walls;
Nor Bacon's lifeless lumber load Saint Paul's.
Then should yon nick-nam'd dome (alas! how poor
In real merit!) shut its sacred door
On smugglers in the trade, whom art reviles;
Whose sole pretensions are—what? Folly's smiles.
Yet, is there one, whose bags with wealth run o'er,
Who loves the arts, and loves to see them poor;
Proud of a lying, cringing dedication,
That dubs him the Mæcenas of the nation?
Lo, there are authors to proclaim his spirit,
And swear it ever in pursuit of merit.

TOM.
Curs'd be the period, whether verse or prose,
That round a worthless head a glory throws—
Yields Merit's meed to tinsel stars and strings,
And soul to Mis'ry, though it dwelt with kings.
Makes Av'rice generous—the poor idiot wise—
And lifts the fool of fortune to the skies.

PETER.
Yet are there knaves in these unblushing days,
To fabricate the lying song of praise!
What's strange—the flatter'd fools, so dead to shame,
Strut in stol'n plumes, and boast th' imputed fame.
Tell Knight he beats, in rural scenes, the world;
Nought for the falsehood at your head is hurl'd!
Say that he feels a poet's genuine fire,
His palsied hand like Milton's sweeps the lyre:
Not Flatt'ry's self can too much fame allow;
For, lo, to Phœbus self he scorns to bow.
Swear Taste a poor lost sheep before he came;
At once he hears Messiah in his name:
He sees the poor fall'n creature Taste restor'd;
And, proud of vict'ry, feels himself the Lord!
Say Wisdom languish'd in barbaric gloom;
He sees his Genius the wild waste illume.

PETER.
Thus, when a night of shade involves the pole,
And clouds on clouds in murky masses roll;
Sol through the darkness bids his radiance flow,
And robes with golden light the world below!

TOM.
Call Mason, Shakespeare; Mister Hayley, Pope;
Their jaws with sudden inspiration ope;
With fancied immortality they shine,
And all Parnassus thunders through their line:
No more the Muses their lost fav'rites mourn;
In Mason's, Hayley's page again they burn!
Tell Banks he fills with honour Newton's chair,
The weed-and-bird's-nest-hunter will not stare!
Aloud with Newton's fancied pow'rs he brays,
And struts with Newton down to distant days!
Call West, Corregio; on his cloth display'd,
Raptur'd he marks a breadth of light and shade;
His copper turns to flesh of loveliest hue,
And ev'ry cherub-sweetness charms his view.
Or grant him Raphael's line and Raphael's grace,
He will not fling his brushes in your face:
Pronounce like matchless Claude's his landscape clear,
He sees the brightest clouds, the purest sphere;
Surveys Dame Nature's forms with thrilling blood,
And counts a thousand leagues along the mud.
Inform that witch—of ugliness the queen,
Old Sycorax, she beats in mind and mien
Fair Oxford; how the wrinkled bag will smile,
And stretch her approbation-mouth a mile!
Call Porteus gen'rous , Porteus will not cry,
With hands uplifted, ‘Jesu, what a lie!’
No! on his lip a smile approving springs,
Sweet as the simper when be bows to kings.
Praise Strelitz, Schwellenberg will scream, ‘Mine Gote,
England haf noting clevers as dat spote;
Dere be de palace!—peepels of high bert,
An bestest princes dat's in all de ert.’
Praise Bru---ll's brain—what farce! the man receives it!
Swear that his head is human—he believes it:
Swear B*ll*r honours the huge wig and gown,
By heav'ns, the fellow will not knock you down;
Nor turncoat W---m, to no party true,
Deny sincerity to be his due.
Praise Hawkesb'ry for his sweet ingenuous heart,
The man has not the decency to start:
Call Grenville humble—will you shock the peer?
No, no! he listens with unwounded ear:
Chatham, in naval matters, brisk and deep;
He drops the tortoise, and forgets his sleep.
Tell Pitt, the people love him—Pitt will smile,
And deem himself the fav'rite of the isle:
Swear modesty no stranger to Dundas,
Hal feels the virtue on his front of brass.

PETER.
Thus, should Sir Isaac (meanness to promote)
Form for some upstart wretch a handsome coat;
Lo, from the Conquest, lists of sires appear,
And all the puddle of his blood runs clear.