The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Delille, the world from laugh can scarce refrain—
Most Samson-like, ye've ruin'd a rare pile:
To see you building thus, all hands, again,
On an owl's face so grave must plant a smile.

Sorrow discard thy weeds, and dry thy tears—
Pity, disdain t'embalm them with thy breath:
They're sinking!—lo, if aught like life appears,
'Tis Health's stol'n rose upon the cheek of Death.

Once happiness was yours, my friend, indeed—
‘We'll have no more on't,’ mad ye cry'd, ‘away!
Change! change! we'll cut off the great nation's head,
And try what the huge trunk will say.’

Off goes the head—
The nation's dead!

241

Well, now 'tis done—the head is off—what then?
Ye seem to stare, like disappointed men.
Where was Dame Foresight? Ah, ye silly folk!
And yet it is too serious for a joke.

Since, then, the head is off; for freedom panting,
What is't ye look for?—‘Lord, Dame Freedom's wanting;
Into a terrible mistake we fall—
For Tyranny's hard irons load us all!’
Indeed! ye just have found the secret out!
Ye're wiser than ye were, good folks, no doubt!

Alter not things when rul'd by passion—Why?
Because good Madam Prudence is not nigh:
Prudence keeps company that's vastly sober;
Prudence is mildly-breathing, smiling May,
So full of balmy blossoms, all so gay;
Passion, the mad, wide-wasting, wild October.

Prudence, a pretty, pleasing, stealing rill,
Winning with easy lapse its winding course;
Passion, a torrent rough, from hill to hill,
Tumbling and tearing, drowning man and horse.

Prudence is also a fresh-water eel,
So calmly gliding through the liquid glass;
Passion, a porpus—tempests at his heel,
Flound'ring amid old Ocean's thund'ring mass.

Prudence is that small pleasing worm of light,
The mild hedge-regent of the dewy night;
A little moon to many an insect race,
Who by her silv'ry radiance find their way,
Nibble the fairest flow'rs, and sip and play,
Gaze on their loves, dance, ogle, and embrace.

Passion's a meteor, skipping here and there;
Hopping o'er hedge and ditch, and fen and pool,
Amidst his wild and fierce and mad career,
Making himself indeed a downright fool:

242

And after all, what is this thing of caper?
A simple child of stinking mud and vapour!

Why so enrag'd against poor Louis Seize,
Who pliable did every thing to please?
And why in league against his charming queen,
Revenge, and Madness, Malice, Envy, Spleen?

Revenge's company for ever shun:
Too much of danger frequently appears;
A kind of weak and overloaded gun,
Bursting with horrid crash about our ears.

Ridiculous the triumph will be found,
When, for a penny's worth, we lose a pound.
The monarch eat a little of the state—
But should ye therefore madly give him fate?

We should not rage for trifling matters,
And blust'ring kick the world about;
It shows the folly of our natures,
For a pin's head to make a rout.

Lord! grant a little fungus on the vine
And olive, yielding oil and juice and gladness;
Who'd root up the whole tree for't? nought but swine—
'Twere idiotism, stupidity, and madness.

The following simple well-known story shows
What sad misfortune from such folly flows.