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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A SECOND SOLEMN, SENTIMENTAL, AND REPROBATING, EPISTLE TO MRS. CLARKE. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
441
A SECOND SOLEMN, SENTIMENTAL, AND REPROBATING, EPISTLE TO MRS. CLARKE.
443
No longer now the Duke excites our wonder,
'Midst ‘gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder ;’
Amidst his hosts, no more with rapture dwells
On Congreve's rockets, and on Shrapnell's shells;
But quits, with scornful mein, the field of Mars,
And to Sir David's genius leaves the wars.
Now in dull Windsor-rides the Youth is seen;
Now, in dull walks to Frogmore with the Queen;
At Oatlands now, where pigs and poultry charm,
Like Cincinnatus in his Sabine farm;
Now o'er a lonely dish in Stable Yard,
Without a Friend, and (strange!) without a card.
Now, as the humour is disposed to vary,
O'er melancholy tea with Mistress Cary;
For invitation-dinners soon grow slack,
When Fortune on a Favourite turns her back:
Now, at tame Whist, with Lady Charlotte Finch,
Who feels of sharp Economy the pinch;
With other superannuated Souls,
Who mourn, through winter drear, the loss of coals .
'Midst ‘gun, drum, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder ;’
Amidst his hosts, no more with rapture dwells
On Congreve's rockets, and on Shrapnell's shells;
But quits, with scornful mein, the field of Mars,
And to Sir David's genius leaves the wars.
Now in dull Windsor-rides the Youth is seen;
Now, in dull walks to Frogmore with the Queen;
At Oatlands now, where pigs and poultry charm,
Like Cincinnatus in his Sabine farm;
Now o'er a lonely dish in Stable Yard,
Without a Friend, and (strange!) without a card.
Now, as the humour is disposed to vary,
O'er melancholy tea with Mistress Cary;
For invitation-dinners soon grow slack,
When Fortune on a Favourite turns her back:
Now, at tame Whist, with Lady Charlotte Finch,
Who feels of sharp Economy the pinch;
444
Who mourn, through winter drear, the loss of coals .
How, few, of this our Money-scraping Isle,
Whom Fortune favours, have deserv'd her smile!
How few like Bosville, even of lofty quality,
Expand the noble doors of hospitality;
To sacred Friendship free libations pour,
And give an age's pleasure to an hour;
Yet, o'er the glass, can hear the Beggar's cry,
And steal the tear from Misery's melting eye;
Contemning gold, as splendid dross at best,
That sleeping loads the half-starv'd Miser's chest!
Give some all Mexico, they still are poor:
Pour down their throats her Gulf, they pant for more.
Whom Fortune favours, have deserv'd her smile!
How few like Bosville, even of lofty quality,
Expand the noble doors of hospitality;
To sacred Friendship free libations pour,
And give an age's pleasure to an hour;
Yet, o'er the glass, can hear the Beggar's cry,
And steal the tear from Misery's melting eye;
Contemning gold, as splendid dross at best,
That sleeping loads the half-starv'd Miser's chest!
Give some all Mexico, they still are poor:
Pour down their throats her Gulf, they pant for more.
Enchantress, listen to the tale I tell.
The men who venison to his Highness sell,
Nay, ev'n poor pepper, vinegar, and mustard,
Crumpets, and Yorkshire-cakes, and cream, and custard,
To Heav'n their eyes of disappointment turning,
Make a long face, and put their doors in mourning.
The fierce Hussar, his soul inflam'd with ire,
In sorrow, flings his whiskers in the fire.
The turban'd Blacks no more their pomp display;
But cast their cymbals, in their wrath, away.
From all the ranks are heard the plaintive hums,
And melancholy damps the muffled drums.
The high Ambassador, with so much glee
Who parted from his boots and shoes for thee,
No more to Court-preferment turns his views,
But turns reluctant to his boots and shoes;
Hums o'r his lapstone tunes of doleful grace,
Less with Morocco pleas'd than Gloucester Place.
The men who venison to his Highness sell,
Nay, ev'n poor pepper, vinegar, and mustard,
Crumpets, and Yorkshire-cakes, and cream, and custard,
To Heav'n their eyes of disappointment turning,
Make a long face, and put their doors in mourning.
The fierce Hussar, his soul inflam'd with ire,
In sorrow, flings his whiskers in the fire.
The turban'd Blacks no more their pomp display;
But cast their cymbals, in their wrath, away.
From all the ranks are heard the plaintive hums,
And melancholy damps the muffled drums.
The high Ambassador, with so much glee
Who parted from his boots and shoes for thee,
445
But turns reluctant to his boots and shoes;
Hums o'r his lapstone tunes of doleful grace,
Less with Morocco pleas'd than Gloucester Place.
Such is thy pow'r; yet let me not conceal,
But draw from dark futurity the veil.
The hour, the splendid hour, is on the wing,
When in proud triumph Wimbledon shall ring,
Blackheath again shall lift her drooping head,
And shouts of triumph fill the Park parade.
Yes; shall the Hero to his rank return,
While Hate shall foam in vain, and Envy burn;
And, spite of thy poor fabricated story,
Reblaze the Sun of Military Glory.
'Tis but a passing cloud obscures his ray;
At most, the darkness of a short-liv'd day.
The Bird of Jove, by an unlucky ball,
May lose some feathers of his wings, and fall;
Awhile may feed on snails, and hop the ground;
Till Time renews his plumes, and cures his wound:
Then, with new vigour imp'd, he mounts the wind,
And leaves the groveling grubs of earth behind;
Sublimely soars, scarce conscious of the blow,
And darts disdain upon the world below.
But draw from dark futurity the veil.
The hour, the splendid hour, is on the wing,
When in proud triumph Wimbledon shall ring,
Blackheath again shall lift her drooping head,
And shouts of triumph fill the Park parade.
Yes; shall the Hero to his rank return,
While Hate shall foam in vain, and Envy burn;
And, spite of thy poor fabricated story,
Reblaze the Sun of Military Glory.
'Tis but a passing cloud obscures his ray;
At most, the darkness of a short-liv'd day.
The Bird of Jove, by an unlucky ball,
May lose some feathers of his wings, and fall;
Awhile may feed on snails, and hop the ground;
Till Time renews his plumes, and cures his wound:
Then, with new vigour imp'd, he mounts the wind,
And leaves the groveling grubs of earth behind;
Sublimely soars, scarce conscious of the blow,
And darts disdain upon the world below.
He comes, the Hero comes, in all his might;
And, cloth'd with terror, puts his foes to flight.
Thus, once I saw a Country Bull at ring,
Break, in his rage, the rope, with sudden spring:
Cobblers and Butchers, Taylors, fall or fly;
While hats, caps, wigs, and aprons mount the sky;
Sport of the winds, o'er trees and chimneys borne,
That prov'd the prowess of his head and horn.
And, cloth'd with terror, puts his foes to flight.
Thus, once I saw a Country Bull at ring,
Break, in his rage, the rope, with sudden spring:
Cobblers and Butchers, Taylors, fall or fly;
While hats, caps, wigs, and aprons mount the sky;
Sport of the winds, o'er trees and chimneys borne,
That prov'd the prowess of his head and horn.
446
Enchantress, yes, (for oracles I tell;)
The Youth shall rise, and mock thy every spell;
Stamp with eternal infamy thy name,
Mock thy dark wiles, and cover thee with shame.
Then heed the ticklish humours of the times:
Though Justice loiter, she may catch thy crimes.
In spite of those two fascinating eyes,
The Youth in awful Majesty may rise;
Lift his bold arm, that ev'n the Thunder dreads,
And tear perhaps thy tender Form to shreds.—
Thus have I seen with moralizing look,
Cabbage and turnip-tops obstruct a brook:
By calm degrees, up swells the crystal flood,
Superior rising, not to be withstood;
It bursts the boundary, with furious sweep,
And whelming drowns the garbage in the deep.
The Youth shall rise, and mock thy every spell;
Stamp with eternal infamy thy name,
Mock thy dark wiles, and cover thee with shame.
Then heed the ticklish humours of the times:
Though Justice loiter, she may catch thy crimes.
In spite of those two fascinating eyes,
The Youth in awful Majesty may rise;
Lift his bold arm, that ev'n the Thunder dreads,
And tear perhaps thy tender Form to shreds.—
Thus have I seen with moralizing look,
Cabbage and turnip-tops obstruct a brook:
By calm degrees, up swells the crystal flood,
Superior rising, not to be withstood;
It bursts the boundary, with furious sweep,
And whelming drowns the garbage in the deep.
Perhaps thine heart creates a reformation!
A tub for whales, in Wisdom's contemplation.
What madness centres in that word ‘reform!’
Who would destroy a garden for a worm?
Who, but a Bedlamite, would fire his house,
To wreak his vengeance on a pilfering mouse?
To use an humble simile, as pat;
Beat in his scull, to crush a teazing gnat?
A tub for whales, in Wisdom's contemplation.
What madness centres in that word ‘reform!’
Who would destroy a garden for a worm?
Who, but a Bedlamite, would fire his house,
To wreak his vengeance on a pilfering mouse?
To use an humble simile, as pat;
Beat in his scull, to crush a teazing gnat?
Why banish charming Bribery from the Nation,
Which gives that blessing Gold a circulation;
Bids the bells ring; with spirits fires the Votes;
Buys for their Wives new caps, and gowns, and coats;
Gives consequence to Butchers, Taylors, Tanners;
Finds for their Daughters Music and Court-manners;
Inspires their hearts, to scorn with noble pride
The clumsy cleaver, goose, and horrid hide;
To nought but titled Lovers yield an ear,
As Joans and Nans have won full many a Peer?—
What beauteous Insects from corruption spring;
Leave humble dirt, and sport the gilded wing!
What Flowers of vivid hue, and rich perfume,
To stable-litter owe their balm and bloom!
If this my subject then I fairly handle;
Be Counties, Boroughs, sold by inch of Candle.
Which gives that blessing Gold a circulation;
Bids the bells ring; with spirits fires the Votes;
Buys for their Wives new caps, and gowns, and coats;
Gives consequence to Butchers, Taylors, Tanners;
Finds for their Daughters Music and Court-manners;
Inspires their hearts, to scorn with noble pride
The clumsy cleaver, goose, and horrid hide;
To nought but titled Lovers yield an ear,
As Joans and Nans have won full many a Peer?—
What beauteous Insects from corruption spring;
Leave humble dirt, and sport the gilded wing!
447
To stable-litter owe their balm and bloom!
If this my subject then I fairly handle;
Be Counties, Boroughs, sold by inch of Candle.
Grant that a few Commissions may be sold:
Lo, mighty Marlborough gave up fame for gold!
Grant that the Hero may, for once be wrong;
Why sound his error with a trumpet-tongue?
Take from Sir Joseph's book a leaf or two ;
Great Man, who makes his annual tour to Kew;
With Christie's elocution puffs the Rams,
With metaphoric splendour gilds the Dams:
Hides rotten feet beneath the flowers of fame,
And sends with credit off the blind and lame.
Lo, mighty Marlborough gave up fame for gold!
Grant that the Hero may, for once be wrong;
Why sound his error with a trumpet-tongue?
Take from Sir Joseph's book a leaf or two ;
Great Man, who makes his annual tour to Kew;
With Christie's elocution puffs the Rams,
With metaphoric splendour gilds the Dams:
Hides rotten feet beneath the flowers of fame,
And sends with credit off the blind and lame.
Be censure silent on the Soldier's Fund:
What is it?—a mere rill, at most a pond;
How trifling, to the Treasury's boundless ocean!—
Cheese-paring Windham, how d'ye like my notion?
Let Ridicule enjoy, with hearty laugh,
Commission'd boys, and striplings on the Staff:
Ere long, may babes our Army List adorn;
And, what may more astonish, babes unborn.
Napoleon dares not seize our goods and chattels;
We trust our safety to the God of Battles:
Yet let me say, (nor will it be denied),
Dame Fortune rarely joins the weakest side.
What is it?—a mere rill, at most a pond;
How trifling, to the Treasury's boundless ocean!—
Cheese-paring Windham, how d'ye like my notion?
Let Ridicule enjoy, with hearty laugh,
Commission'd boys, and striplings on the Staff:
Ere long, may babes our Army List adorn;
And, what may more astonish, babes unborn.
Napoleon dares not seize our goods and chattels;
We trust our safety to the God of Battles:
Yet let me say, (nor will it be denied),
Dame Fortune rarely joins the weakest side.
Fair Sinner, ere I close shese solemn Rhymes,
Receive a little comment on the times.
Fanaticism, a tyrant, rules the hour:
As Locusts thick, her Imps of frenzy pour;
O'er Nature's smile diffuse a spectred gloom;
And blast, with canker'd breath, her cheerful bloom:
Saints who the Lord on sacred Sunday seek,
And hand and glove with Satan pass the week;
Who sigh for Heaven, yet God in Mammon see,
And pick a pocket on the suppliant knee;
One eye to God, lamenting moral evil;
The other, winking down upon the Devil:
One voice to Heaven, ‘To good my heart incline;’
And one in whispers, ‘Satan, I am thine:’
Maim busts and statues that display the nude,
Yet clasp, in secret dalliance, flesh and blood;
Load with anathemas the Comic Muse,
And lead a wanton Laïs to the stews;
Preach Heav'n-born Charity towards the Poor,
And Dog-like bark the Beggar from the door;
Preach sweet benevolence, and hang a Cat
Whose famish'd stomach takes a simple sprat;
Preach patience, and, with phrase too bad to utter,
Knock down the Cook because she oils the butter:
Fools who pretend Heaven's wondrous scheme to scan,
And impious make th' Almighty less than man.
Receive a little comment on the times.
Fanaticism, a tyrant, rules the hour:
As Locusts thick, her Imps of frenzy pour;
448
And blast, with canker'd breath, her cheerful bloom:
Saints who the Lord on sacred Sunday seek,
And hand and glove with Satan pass the week;
Who sigh for Heaven, yet God in Mammon see,
And pick a pocket on the suppliant knee;
One eye to God, lamenting moral evil;
The other, winking down upon the Devil:
One voice to Heaven, ‘To good my heart incline;’
And one in whispers, ‘Satan, I am thine:’
Maim busts and statues that display the nude,
Yet clasp, in secret dalliance, flesh and blood;
Load with anathemas the Comic Muse,
And lead a wanton Laïs to the stews;
Preach Heav'n-born Charity towards the Poor,
And Dog-like bark the Beggar from the door;
Preach sweet benevolence, and hang a Cat
Whose famish'd stomach takes a simple sprat;
Preach patience, and, with phrase too bad to utter,
Knock down the Cook because she oils the butter:
Fools who pretend Heaven's wondrous scheme to scan,
And impious make th' Almighty less than man.
Such is the modern apostolic race,
Reform'd, regenerated rogues of grace .
The rage of those apostles thou wilt rue:
Those Gospel Bloodhounds will thy paths pursue;
And hunt thee to the bed of lawless blisses,
Perhaps to Wardle yielding balmy kisses.
Perchance with other Dukes thou may'st be tripping:
Dread then a sheet, a Bridewell, or a whipping;
For limbs like thine (if true be Rumour's tale)
Suit bonds of Venus better than a jail.
Yes, those apostles will thy wanderings watch;
And, should their art thy vagrant beauty catch,
In vain Repentance pours her doleful yell;
For Mercy knows not where the Impostors dwell.
Like David, with whose works we're well acquainted,
Our modern Saints declare they have repented;
And, since the vigour of their youth is lost,
And catch and glee have yielded up the ghost,
‘Be joyful in the Lord’ is on their tongue,
‘And come before his presence with a song.’
The man whose soul the blacker vices taint,
Now, for Heaven's glory, makes a damn'd good Saint:
Thus Heads of Whitings, graced with modest light,
Stink first, and then illuminate the night.
Such are the saints that bless our ears and eyes:
Speak, Wilberforce, if I am forging lies.
Reform'd, regenerated rogues of grace .
449
Those Gospel Bloodhounds will thy paths pursue;
And hunt thee to the bed of lawless blisses,
Perhaps to Wardle yielding balmy kisses.
Perchance with other Dukes thou may'st be tripping:
Dread then a sheet, a Bridewell, or a whipping;
For limbs like thine (if true be Rumour's tale)
Suit bonds of Venus better than a jail.
Yes, those apostles will thy wanderings watch;
And, should their art thy vagrant beauty catch,
In vain Repentance pours her doleful yell;
For Mercy knows not where the Impostors dwell.
Like David, with whose works we're well acquainted,
Our modern Saints declare they have repented;
And, since the vigour of their youth is lost,
And catch and glee have yielded up the ghost,
450
‘And come before his presence with a song.’
The man whose soul the blacker vices taint,
Now, for Heaven's glory, makes a damn'd good Saint:
Thus Heads of Whitings, graced with modest light,
Stink first, and then illuminate the night.
Such are the saints that bless our ears and eyes:
Speak, Wilberforce, if I am forging lies.
Here ends my Satire.—Should my Sovereign smile,
Admire my loyalty, applaud my style;
And, knowing well a Poet's empty dishes,
Say thus, ‘Let Peter share our Loaves and Fishes;’
By Heavens, in honour of his high commands,
I'll steal a coat, or borrow, to kiss hands:
For, unlike Bishops , 'tis my firm intention
To cry out, ‘Yes, my Liege,’ for Place or Pension.
Admire my loyalty, applaud my style;
And, knowing well a Poet's empty dishes,
Say thus, ‘Let Peter share our Loaves and Fishes;’
By Heavens, in honour of his high commands,
I'll steal a coat, or borrow, to kiss hands:
For, unlike Bishops , 'tis my firm intention
To cry out, ‘Yes, my Liege,’ for Place or Pension.
Coals, that important article of domestic felicity and convenience, have been for some time withdrawn from the Palace of St. James's on account of the scantiness of the Royal Finance; and the poor Pensioners obliged to send their Beef and Mutton to a Bakehouse.
Morocco ambassador, was a punning appellation given by Mistress Clarke, perfectly tranquille before the great and awful Tribunal of the Nation, to Mister Tom Taylor, shoemaker in Bondstreet, and a favourite missionary of both parties.
Sir Joseph Banks annually volunteers his services as grand puffer, or barker, at Ram-fair, held near the Pagoda, at Kew; from whence he sets off to Windsor, with the profits of the sale, for the benefit of his Royal Master.
New apostles are hourly multiplying. They are even rising from the Navy and Army, where one could not have expected an existence. At Camden Town, adjoining to the Metropolis, a set of New Apostles of a very humble sphere indeed have made their appearance: one Page, minister and chimney-sweep; one Francis, minister and cobbler; one Graham, minister and a lame beggar; and one Blackburn, better known by the name of Tommy the Goose, a horse-whipper of carpets, and clerk to the aforesaid most respectable Interpreters of the Gospel, and maestro di Capello (alias Proprietor) of a room called Camden Town Chapel, who lets out his ash chairs, joint stools, and crickets, to the children of the holy seed, drawing, like Saint Hill, Saint Huntington, Saint Frey, Saint Medley, and other celebrated Saints, a most comfortable subsistence from the pockets of Ignorance and Credulity. Saint Frey has lately undertaken the arduous, yet lucrative, labour of converting Jews to Christianity. Strongly suspecting the purity of the motive for this Herculean labour, the Poet has expressed his sentiments in the subsequent lines:—
Religions form a thriving trade;
Nice tools, by knaves for Mammon made.
Saint Frey, with Christian-like exertion,
Well fills his fob by Jew-conversion:
Place more emolument in view,
Saint Frey becomes a sterling Jew;
Unblushing, feels the World's derision;
Sells Christ, and suffers circumcision.
Nice tools, by knaves for Mammon made.
Saint Frey, with Christian-like exertion,
Well fills his fob by Jew-conversion:
Place more emolument in view,
Saint Frey becomes a sterling Jew;
Unblushing, feels the World's derision;
Sells Christ, and suffers circumcision.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |