The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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[Again th' Academy I greet] |
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
393
[Again th' Academy I greet]
The Bard, after a long Absence, saluteth the Royal Academy.—He singeth in a Strain of high Panegyric of himself—yet acknowledging the malevolent Depredations of Time on his Person.
Again th' Academy I greet,
Once more, my graphic friends, we meet—
Shake hands—Ah! why the greeting hand withdraw?
Lo! by your looks ye seem to say—
‘Avaunt, thou vagabond—away—
We'd sooner take the Devil by the paw!’
Once more, my graphic friends, we meet—
Shake hands—Ah! why the greeting hand withdraw?
Lo! by your looks ye seem to say—
‘Avaunt, thou vagabond—away—
We'd sooner take the Devil by the paw!’
Well, well! once more the bard appears;
He sings, in spite of rolling years:
Time has not stol'n one atom of his fire;
The Muse, unconscious of decay,
Still pours the proud Pindaric lay,
Still strikes with equal energy the lyre.
He sings, in spite of rolling years:
Time has not stol'n one atom of his fire;
The Muse, unconscious of decay,
Still pours the proud Pindaric lay,
Still strikes with equal energy the lyre.
Now cries the critic of my rhime,
‘How dar'st thou dream of the sublime,
And fancy that it e'er inspir'd thy odes?
‘How dar'st thou take a Pindar's name,
To steal into the dome of Fame,
And place thy Momus by the side of Gods?’—
‘How dar'st thou dream of the sublime,
And fancy that it e'er inspir'd thy odes?
‘How dar'st thou take a Pindar's name,
To steal into the dome of Fame,
And place thy Momus by the side of Gods?’—
394
I own that Time, to my surprise,
Has done some mischief to my eyes,
And done that mischief much against my will:
But as the bulfinch, beyond doubt,
Sings better when his eyes are out,
Why not the songster of th' Aonian Hill?
Has done some mischief to my eyes,
And done that mischief much against my will:
But as the bulfinch, beyond doubt,
Sings better when his eyes are out,
Why not the songster of th' Aonian Hill?
Time too has chosen to efface
The fine Apollo form and grace,
And somewhat bent to earth my lofty head;
And though the knave has touch'd my hand,
The goose-quill yet it can command,
And o'er the snow the feather'd giant lead.
The fine Apollo form and grace,
And somewhat bent to earth my lofty head;
And though the knave has touch'd my hand,
The goose-quill yet it can command,
And o'er the snow the feather'd giant lead.
Time has made free too with my features,
Those pretty inoffensive creatures,
That never yet were cruel to the fair;
Spoil'd my poor lip and dimple sleek,
Run his hard ploughshare o'er my cheek,
And stol'n the blushing roses that were there.
Those pretty inoffensive creatures,
That never yet were cruel to the fair;
Spoil'd my poor lip and dimple sleek,
Run his hard ploughshare o'er my cheek,
And stol'n the blushing roses that were there.
Time too, I own, my mouth has enter'd;
To steal some pearl, the rogue has ventur'd,
And giv'n a lisping to my tuneful tongue;—
But, thank the Muses for their care,
And Phœbus—of his tricks aware—
Safe is my brain—the fount of flowing song.
To steal some pearl, the rogue has ventur'd,
And giv'n a lisping to my tuneful tongue;—
But, thank the Muses for their care,
And Phœbus—of his tricks aware—
Safe is my brain—the fount of flowing song.
Th' academicians would rejoice
If Time had also stol'n my voice;—
But while that voice exists, by heav'ns, I'll sing!—
But mind me, while I pour my lays,
To justice I my altar raise,
Too virtuous to profane the Muses' spring.
If Time had also stol'n my voice;—
But while that voice exists, by heav'ns, I'll sing!—
But mind me, while I pour my lays,
To justice I my altar raise,
Too virtuous to profane the Muses' spring.
It certainly must be confest,
I come a most unwelcome guest,
'Mid sheaves of corn a sort of wicked weovil:—
As for R. A.'s I briefly tell 'em,
Fiat justitia ruat cœlum,
Although they sooner would behold the devil.
I come a most unwelcome guest,
'Mid sheaves of corn a sort of wicked weovil:—
As for R. A.'s I briefly tell 'em,
Fiat justitia ruat cœlum,
Although they sooner would behold the devil.
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||