The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead ::

The Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions of Paul Whitehead

With Explanatory Notes on his Writings, and His life written by Captain Edward Thompson. With a Head of the Author, From a Painting by Mr. Gainsborough

Whitehead, Paul (1710-1774)

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THE STATE DUNCES;

MANNERS;

THE GYMNASIAD, OR BOXING-MATCH;

II.

III.

AN EPISTLE TO DOCTOR THOMPSON.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

SONG, Addressed to the Ladies.

A NEW OCCASIONAL SONG

THE BUTTERFLY AND BEE.

VERSES,

CUPID BAFFLED.

VERSES

EXTEMPORE on hearing of Mr. Pope's Death.

DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

TO DR. SCHOMBERG, Of BATH.

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THE STATE DUNCES;

A SATIRE.

Inscribed to Mr. POPE.
Written in 1733.

I from my soul sincerely hate
Both K*** and M******rs of State.

Swift.

While cringing crouds at faithless Levees wait,
Fond to be Fools of Fame, or Slaves of State;
And others, studious to increase their store,
Plough the rough Ocean for Peruvian ore;
How blest thy fate, whom calmer hours attend,
Peace thy companion, Fame thy faithful friend!
While in thy Twick'nham bow'rs, devoid of care,
You feast the fancy, and enchant the ear;
Thames gently rolls her silver tide along,
And the charm'd Naiads listen to thy song.

Here peaceful pass the gentle hours away,
While tuneful Science measures out the day!
Here, happy Bard, as various fancies lead,
You paint the blooming Maid, or flow'ry Mead!
Sound the rough clangor of tumultuous War,
Or sing the ravish'd tendrils of the Fair!
Now melting move the tender tear to flow,
And wake our sighs with Eloisa's woe.
But chief, to Dullness ever foe decreed,
The Apes of Science with thy satire bleed;
Peers, Poets, Pandars, mingle in the throng,
Smart with thy touch, and tremble at thy song.

Yet vain, O Pope! is all thy sharpest rage,
Still starv'ling Dunces persecute the age;
Faithful to folly, or enrag'd with spite,
Still tasteless Timons build, and Tibbalds write;

Still Welstead tunes his Beer-inspired lays,
And Ralph, in metre, holds forth Stanhope's praise:
Ah! hapless victim to the Poet's flame,
While his eulogiums crucify thy fame.

Shall embrio Wits thy studious hours engage,
Live in thy labours, and prophane thy page;
While Virtue, ever-lov'd, demands thy lays,
And claims the tuneful tribute of thy praise?
Can Pope be silent, and not grateful lend
One strain to sing the Patriot, and the Friend,

Who, nobly anxious in his Country's cause,
Maintains her Honours, and defends her Laws?
Could I, my Bard, but equal numbers raise,
Then would I sing—for, oh! I burst to praise—
Sing how a Pult'ney charms the list'ning throng,
While Senates hang enraptur'd on his tongue;
With Tully's fire how each oration glows,
In Tully's music how each period flows;
Instruct each babe to lisp the Patriot's name,
Who in each bosom breathes a Roman flame.

So, when the Genius of the Roman age
Stemm'd the strong torrent of tyrannic rage,
In Freedom's cause each glowing breast he warm'd,
And, like a Pult'ney, then a Brutus charm'd.

How blest, while we a British Brutus see,
And all the Roman stands confest in Thee!
Equal thy worth, but equal were thy doom,
To save Britannia, as he rescu'd Rome:

He from a Tarquin snatch'd the destin'd prey;
Britannia still laments a Walpole's sway.

Arise, my tuneful Bard, nor thus in vain
Let thy Britannia, whom thou lov'st, complain:
If Thou in moanful lays relate her woe,
Each heart shall bleed, each eye with pity flow:
If to revenge you swell the sounding strain,
Revenge and fury fire each British Swain:
Obsequious to thy verse each breast shall move,
Or burn with rage, or soften into love.

O let Britannia be her Poet's care!
And lash the Spoiler, while you save the Fair.
Lo! where he stands, amidst the servile Crew;
Nor blushes stain his cheek with crimson hue,
While dire corruption all around he spreads,
And ev'ry ductile conscience captive leads:
Brib'd by his boons, behold the venal band
Worship the Idol they could once command!

So Britain's now, as Judah's Sons before,
First raise a golden calf, and then adore.

Let dull Parnassian Sons of Rhime no more
Provoke thy satire, and employ thy pow'r;
New objects rise to share an equal fate,
The big, rich, mighty, Dunces of the State.
Shall Ralph, Cooke, Welstead, then engross thy rage,
While Courts afford a Hervey, York, or Gage?
Dullness no more roosts only near the sky,
But Senates, Drawing-rooms, with Garrets vye;
Plump Peers, and breadless Bards, alike are dull;
St. James's and Rag-fair club Fool for Fool.

Amidst the mighty Dull, behold how great
An Appius swells the Tibbald of the State!
Long had he strove to spread his lawless sway
O'er Britain's Sons, and force them to obey;
But, blasted all his blooming hopes, he flies
To vent his woe, and mourn his lost Excise.

Pensive he sat, and sigh'd, while round him lay
Loads of dull lumber, all inspir'd by Pay:
Here, puny pamphlets, spun from Prelates' brains;
There, the smooth jingle of Cook's lighter strains:
Here, Walsingham's soft lulling Opiates spread;
There, gloomy Osborn's Quintessence of Lead:
With these the Statesman strove to ease his care,
To sooth his sorrows, and divert despair:
But long his grief Sleep's gentle aid denies;
At length a slumb'rous Briton clos'd his eyes.

Yet vain the healing balm of downy rest,
To chase his woe, or ease his lab'ring breast:
Now frightful forms rise hideous to his view,
More, Strafford, Laud, and all the headless crew;
Daggers and halters boding Terror breeds,
And here a Dudley swings, there Villiers bleeds.

Now Goddess Dullness, watchful o'er his fate,
And ever anxious for her Child of State,

From couch of down slow rais'd her drowsy head,
Forsook her slumbers, and to Appius sped.

Awake, my Son, awake, the Goddess cries,
Nor longer mourn thy darling lost Excise;
(Here the sad sound unseal'd the Statesman's eyes)
Why slumbers thus my Son, opprest with care?
While Dullness rules, say, shall her Sons despair?
O'er all I spread my universal sway;
Kings, Prelates, Peers, and Rulers, all obey:
Lo! in the Church my mighty pow'r I shew,
In Pulpit preach, and slumber in the Pew:
The Bench and Bar alike my influence owns;
Here prate my Magpies, and there doze my Drones.
In the grave Dons, how formal is my mien,
Who rule the Gallipots of Warwick-Lane!
At Court behold me strut in purple pride,
At Hockley roar, and in Crane-Court preside.
But chief in Thee my mighty pow'r is seen;
'Tis I inspire thy mind, and fill thy mien;

On Thee, my Child, my duller blessings shed,
And pour my opium o'er thy fav'rite head;
Rais'd thee a Ruler of Britannia's fate,
And led thee blund'ring to the Helm of State.

Here bow'd the Statesman low, and thus addrest:
O Goddess, sole inspirer of my breast!
To gall the British neck with Gallic chain,
Long have I strove, but long have strove in vain;
While Caleb, rebel to thy sacred pow'r,
Unveils those eyes which thou hast curtain'd o'er;
Makes Britain's Sons my dark designs foresee,
Blast all my schemes, and struggle to be free.
O, had my Projects met a milder fate,
How had I reign'd a Basha of the State!
How o'er Britannia spread imperial sway!
How taught each free-born Briton to obey!
No smiling Freedom then had chear'd her Swains,
But Asia's deserts vy'd with Albion's plains:

Turks, Vandals, Britain! then compar'd with thee,
Had hugg'd their chains, and joy'd that they were free;
While wond'ring Nations all around had seen
Me rise a Great Mogul, or Mazarin:
Then had I taught Britannia to adore,
Then led her captive to my lawless pow'r.
Methinks, I view her now no more appear
First in the train, and Fairest 'midst the Fair:
Joyless I see the lovely mourner lie,
Nor glow her cheek, nor sparkle now her eye;
Faded each grace, no smiling feature warm;
Torn all her tresses, blighted ev'ry charm:
Nor teeming Plenty now each valley crowns;
Slaves are her Sons, and tradeless all her Towns.
For this, behold yon peaceful Army fed;
For this, on Senates see my bounty shed;
For this, what wonders, Goddess, have I wrought!
How bully'd, begg'd, how treated, and how fought!

What wand'ring maze of error blunder'd thro',
And how repair'd old blunders still by new!
Hence the long train of never-ending jars,
Of warful Peaces, and of peaceful Wars,
Each mystic Treaty of the mighty store,
Which to explain, demands ten Treaties more:
Hence scarecrow Navies, floating Raree-shows;
And hence Iberia's pride, and Britain's woes.
These wond'rous works, O Goddess! have I done,
Works ever worthy Dullness' fav'rite Son.

Lo! on thy Sons alone my favours show'r;
None share my bounty that disdain thy pow'r:
Yon Feathers, Ribbons, Titles light as air,
Behold, Thy choicest Children only share:
Each views the pageant with admiring eyes,
And fondly grasps the visionary prize;
Now proudly spreads his Leading-string of State,
And thinks—to be a wretch, is to be great.

But turn, O Goddess! turn thine eyes, and view
The darling Leaders of thy gloomy Crew.

Full open-mouth'd Newcastle there behold,
Aping a Tully, swell into a scold,
Grievous to mortal ear.—As at the place
Where loud-tongu'd Virgins vend the scaly race,
Harsh peals of vocal thunder fill the skies,
And stunning sounds in hideous discord rise;
So, when He tries the wond'rous pow'r of noise,
Each hapless ear's a victim to his voice.
How blest, O Cheselden! whose art can mend
Those ears Newcastle was ordain'd to rend.

See Harrington secure in silence sit;
No empty words betray his want of wit:
If sense in hiding solly is express'd,
O Harrington! thy wisdom stands confess'd.

To Dullness' sacred cause for ever true,
Thy darling Caledonian, Goddess, view;
The pride and glory of thy Scotia's plains,
And faithful Leader of her venal Swains:
Loaded he moves beneath a servile weight,
The dull laborious Packhorse of the State;
Drudges thro' tracks of infamy for Pay,
And hackneys out his conscience by the day:
Yonder behold the busy peerless Peer,
With aspect meagre and important air;
His form how Gothic, and his looks how sage!
He seems the living Plato of the age.
Blest form! in which alone thy merit's seen,
Since all thy wisdom centers in thy mien!

Here Egmont, Albemarle, (for Senates fit)
And W******by the Wise, in Council sit:
Here Looby G****n, Gr****m ever dull,
By birth a Senator, by fate a Fool.

While these, Britannia, watchful o'er thy State,
Maintain thine Honours, and direct thy Fate,
How shall admiring Nations round adore,
Behold thy Greatness, tremble at thy Pow'r;
New Shebas come, invited by thy Fame,
Revere thy Wisdom, and extol thy Name!

Lo! to yon Bench now, Goddess, turn thine eye
And view thy Sons in solemn dullness rise;
All doating, wrinkled, grave, and gloomy, see
Each form confess thy dull Divinity;
True to thy cause behold each trencher'd Sage
Increas'd in folly as advanc'd in age:
Here Ch***r, learn'd in mystic prophecy,
Confuting Collins, makes each Prophet lye:
Poor Woolston by thy Smallbrook there assail'd;
Gaols sure convinc'd him, tho' the Prelate fail'd.

But chief Pastorius, ever grave and dull,
Devoid of sense, of zeal divinely full,

Retails his Squibs of Science o'er the town,
While Charges, Past'rals, thro' each street resound;
These teach a heav'nly Jesus to obey,
While those maintain an earthly Appius' sway.
Thy Gospel truth, Pastorius, crost we see,
While God and Mammon's serv'd at once by Thee.

Who would not trim, speak, vote, or conscience pawn,
To lord it o'er a See, and swell in Lawn?
If arts like those, O S*******k, honours claim,
Than Thee none merits more the Prelate's name:
Wond'ring behold him faithful to his Fee,
Prove Parliaments dependent to be free;
In Senates blunder, flounder, and dispute,
For ever reas'ning, never to confute.
Since Courts for this their fated gifts decree,
Say, what is Reputation to a See?

Lo! o'er yon flood H**e casts his low'ring eyes,
And wishful sees the rev'rend turrets rise.
While Lambeth opens to thy longing view,
Hapless! the Mitre ne'er can bind thy brow:
Tho' Courts should deign the gift, how wond'rous hard
By thy own doctrines still to be debarr'd!
For, if from Change such mighty evil springs,
Translations sure, O H**e! are sinful things.

These Rulers see, and nameless numbers more,
O Goddess, of thy train the choicest store,
Who Ignorance in Gravity entrench,
And grace alike the Pulpit and the Bench.

Full plac'd and pension'd, see! H*r**o stands;
Begrim'd his face, unpurify'd his hands:
To Decency he scorns all nice pretence,
And reigns firm foe to Cleanliness and Sense.

How did H*r***o Britain's cause advance!
How shine the Sloven and Buffoon of France!
In Senates now, how scold, how rave, how roar,
Of Treaties run the tedious train-trow o'er!
How blunder out whate'er should be conceal'd,
And how keep secret what should be reveal'd!
True Child of Dullness! see him, Goddess, claim
Pow'r next myself, as next in Birth and Fame.

Silence! ye Senates, while enribbon'd Younge
Pours forth melodious Nothings from his tongue!
How sweet the accents play around the ear,
Form'd of smooth periods, and of well-tun'd air!
Leave, gentle Younge, the Senate's dry debate,
Nor labour 'midst the Labyrinths of State;
Suit thy soft Genius to more tender themes,
And sing of cooling shades, and purling streams;

With modern Sing-song murder ancient Plays,
Or warble in sweet Ode a Brunswick's praise:
So shall thy strains in purer Dullness flow,
And laurels wither on a Cibber's brow.
Say, can the Statesman wield the Poet's quill,
And quit the Senate for Parnassus' Hill?
Since there no venal vote a Pension shares,
Nor wants Apollo Lords Commissioners.

There W******* and P*******, Goddess, view,
Firm in thy cause, and to thy Appius true!
Lo! from their labours what reward betides!
One pays my Army, one my Navy guides.

To dance, dress, sing, and serenade the Fair,
“Conduct a Finger, or reclaim a Hair,”
O'er baleful Tea with females taught to blame,
And spread a slander o'er a Virgin's fame;
Form'd for these softer arts shall Hervey strain
With stubborn Politics his tender brain!
For Ministers laborious pamphlets write,
In Senates prattle, and with Patriots fight!
Thy fond Ambition, pretty Youth, give o'er,
Preside at Balls, old Fashions lost restore;
So shall each Toilette in thy cause engage,
And H***ey shine a P*******re of the age.

Behold a Star emblazon C****n's coat!
Not that the Knight has Merit, but a Vote.
And here, O Goddess, num'rous Wrongheads trace,
Lur'd by a Pension, Ribband, or a Place.

To murder Science, and my cause defend,
Now shoals of Grub-street Garretteers descend;
From Schools and Desks the writing insects crawl,
Unlade their Dullness, and for Appius bawl.

Lo! to thy darling Osborne turn thine eyes,
See him o'er Politics superior rise;
While Caleb feels the venom of his quill,
And wond'ring Ministers reward his skill:
Unlearn'd in Logic, yet he writes by rule,
And proves himself in Syllogism—a Fool;
Now flies obedient, war with Sense to wage,
And drags th' idea thro' the painful page:
Unread, unanswer'd, still he writes again,
Still spins the endless cobweb of his brain;
Charm'd with each line, reviewing what he writ,
Blesses his stars, and wonders at his wit.

Nor less, O Walsingham, thy Worth appears!
Alike in merit, tho' unlike in years:

Ill-fated Youth! what stars malignant shed
Their baneful influence o'er thy brainless head,
Doom'd to be ever writing, never read!
For bread to libel Liberty and Sense,
And damn thy Patron weekly with defence.
Drench'd in the sable flood, O hadst thou still
O'er skins of parchment drove thy venal quill,
At Temple Ale-house told an idle tale,
And pawn'd thy credit for a mug of ale;
Unknown to Appius then had been thy name,
Unlac'd thy coat, unsacrific'd his fame;
Nor vast unvended reams would Peele deplore,
As victims destin'd to the common-shore.

As Dunce to Dunce in endless numbers breed,
So to Concanen see a Ralph succeed;
A tiny Witling of these writing days,
Full-fam'd for tuneless Rhimes, and short-liv'd Plays.

Write on, my luckless Bard, still unasham'd,
Tho' burnt thy Journals, and thy Drama's damn'd;
'Tis Bread inspires thy Politics and Lays,
Not thirst of immortality or praise.

These, Goddess, view, the choicest of the train,
While yet unnumber'd Dunces still remain;
Deans, Critics, Lawyers, Bards, a motley crew,
To Dullness faithful, as to Appius true.

Enough, the Goddess cries, Enough I've seen;
While these support, secure my Son shall reign;
Still shalt thou blund'ring rule Britannia's fate,
Still Grub-street hail Thee Minister of State.

THE END.

MANNERS;

A SATIRE.

Written in 1738.

Paulus vel Cossus vel Drusus moribus esto.
Juvenal.

“Well—of all plagues which make Mankind their sport,
“Guard me, ye Heav'ns! from that worst plague—a Court.
“'Midst the mad Mansions of Moor-fields, I'd be
“A straw-crown'd Monarch, in mock majesty,
“Rather than Sovereign rule Britannia's fate,
“Curs'd with the Follies and the Farce of State.
“Rather in Newgate Walls, O! let me dwell,
“A doleful Tenant of the darkling Cell,
“Than swell, in Palaces, the mighty store
“Of Fortune's Fools, and Parasites of Pow'r.
“Than Crowns, Ye Gods! be any state my doom,
“Or any dungeon, but—a Drawing-Room.

“Thrice happy Patriot! whom no Courts debase,
“No Titles lessen, and no Stars disgrace.
“Still nod the Plumage o'er the brainless head;
“Still o'er the faithless heart the Ribband spread.
“Such toys may serve to signalize the Tool,
“To gild the Knave, or garnish out the Fool;
“While You, with Roman virtue arm'd, disdain
“The tinsel trappings and the glitt'ring chain:
“Fond of your Freedom spurn the venal Fee,
“And prove He's only Great—who dares be Free.

Thus sung Philemon in his calm retreat,
Too wise for pow'r, too virtuous to be great.

But whence this rage at Courts? reply'd his Grace,
Say, is the mighty crime, to be in Place?
Is that the deadly sin, mark'd out by Heav'n,
For which no mortal e'er can be forgiv'n?
Must All, All suffer, who in Courts engage,
Down from Lord Steward, to the puny Page?

Can Courts and Places be such sinful things,
The sacred gifts and palaces of Kings?

A Place may claim our rev'rence, Sir, I own;
But then the Man its dignity must crown:
'Tis not the Truncheon, or the Ermine's pride,
Can screen the Coward, or the Knave can hide.
Let Stair and *** head our Arms and Law,
The Judge and Gen'ral must be view'd with awe:
The Villain then would shudder at the Bar;
And Spain grow humble at the sound of War.

What Courts are sacred, when I tell your Grace,
Manners alone must sanctify the place?

Hence only each its proper name receives;
Haywood's a brothel; White's a den of thieves:
Bring whores and thieves to Court, you change the scene,
St. James's turns the brothel, and the den.

Who would the Courtly Chapel holy call,
Tho' the whole Bench should consecrate the wall?
While the trim Chaplain, conscious of a See,
Cries out, “My King, I have no God but Thee;”
Lifts to the Royal Seat the asking eye,
And pays to George the tribute of the sky;
Proves sin alone from humble roofs must spring,
Nor can one earthly failing stain a King.

Bishops and Kings may consecrate, 'tis true;
Manners alone claim homage as their due.

Without, the Court and Church are both prophane,
Whatever Prelate preach, or Monarch reign;
Religion's rostrum Virtue's scaffold grows,
And Crowns and Mitres are mere raree-shows.

In vain, behold yon rev'rend turrets rise,
And Sarum's sacred spire salute the skies!
If the lawn'd Levite's earthly vote be sold,
And God's free gift retail'd for Mammon gold;
No rev'rence can the proud Cathedral claim,
But Henley's shop, and Sherlock's, are the same.

Whence have St. Stephen's walls so hallow'd been?
Whence? From the virtue of his Sons within.
But should some guileful Serpent, void of grace,
Glide in its bounds, and poison all the place;
Should e'er the sacred voice be set to sale,
And o'er the heart the Golden Fruit prevail;
The place is alter'd, Sir; nor think it strange
To see the Senate sink into a Change.

Or Court, or Church, or Senate-house, or Hall,
Manners alone beam dignity on all.
Without their influence, Palaces are cells;
Crane-Court, a magazine of Cockle-shells;
The solemn Bench no bosom strikes with awe,
But Westminster's a warehouse of the Law.

These honest truths, my Lord, deny you can;
Since all allow that ‘Manners make the Man.’
Hence only glories to the Great belong,
Or Peers must mingle with the peasant throng.

Tho' strung with Ribbands, yet behold his Grace
Shines but a Lacquey in a higher place!
Strip the gay Liv'ry from the Courtier's back,
What marks the diff'rence 'twixt My Lord and Jack?
The same mean, supple, mercenary Knave,
The Tool of Power, and of State the Slave:

Alike the vassal heart in each prevails,
And all his Lordship boasts is larger vales.

Wealth, Manors, Titles, may descend, 'tis true;
But ev'ry Heir must Merit's claim renew.

Who blushes not to see a C**** Heir
Turn slave to sound, and languish for a Play'r?
What piping, fidling, squeaking, quav'ring, bawling!
What sing-song riot, and what eunuch-squawling!
C****, thy worth all Italy shall own,
A Statesman fit, where Nero fill'd the throne.

See poor Lævinus, anxious for renown,
Through the long gallery trace his lineage down,
And claim each Hero's visage for his own.

What tho' in each the self-same features shine,
Unless some lineal virtue marks the line,
In vain, alas! He boasts his Grandsire's name,
Or hopes to borrow lustre from his fame.
Who but must smile, to see the tim'rous Peer
Point 'mong his race our bulwark in the war?
Or in sad English tell how Senates hung
On the sweet music of his Father's tongue?
Unconscious, tho' his Sires were wise and brave,
Their virtues only find in him a grave.

Not so with Stanhope; see by him sustain'd
Each hoary honour which his Sires had gain'd.
To him the virtues of his race appear
The precious portion of five hundred year;
Descended down, by him to be enjoy'd,
Yet holds the talent lost, if unemploy'd.

From hence behold his gen'rous ardour rise,
To swell the sacred stream with fresh supplies:
Abroad, the Guardian of his Country's cause;
At home, a Tully to defend her Laws.
Senates with awe the patriot sounds imbibe,
And bold Corruption almost drops the bribe.
Thus added worth to worth, and grace to grace,
He beams new glories back upon his race.

Ask ye, What's Honour? I'll the truth impart.
Know, honour, then, is Honesty of Heart.
To the sweet scenes of social Stow repair,
And search the Master's breast,—You'll find it there.
Too proud to grace the Sycophant or Slave,
It only harbours with the Wise and Brave;
Ungain'd by Titles, Places, Wealth, or Birth:
Learn this, and learn to blush, ye Sons of Earth!

Blush to behold this Ray of Nature made
The victim of a Ribband, or Cockade.

Ask the proud Peer, What's Honour? he displays
A purchas'd Patent, or the Herald's blaze;
Or, if the Royal Smile his hopes has blest,
Points to the glitt'ring Glory on his Breast:
Yet, if beneath no real virtue reign,
On the gay coat the Star is but a stain:
For I could whisper in his Lordship's ear,
Worth only beams true radiance on the Star.

Hence see the Garter'd Glory dart its rays,
And shine round E*** with redoubled blaze:
Ask ye from whence this flood of lustre's seen?
Why E*** whispers, votes, and saw Turin.

Long Milo reign'd the Minion of Renown;
Loud his eulogiums echo'd thro' the Town:

Where'er he went, still crouds around him throng,
And hail'd the Patriot as he pass'd along.
See the lost Peer, unhonour'd now by all,
Steal through the street, or skulk along the Mall;
Applauding sounds no more salute his ear,
But the loud Pæan's sunk into a sneer.
Whence, you'll enquire, could spring a change so sad?
Why, the poor man ran military mad;
By this mistaken maxim still misled,
That Men of Honour must be cloth'd in Red.
My Grandsire wore it, Milo cries—'tis good:
But know, the Grandsire stain'd it red with blood.
First 'midst the deathful dangers of the field,
He shone his Country's guardian, and its shield;
Taught Danube's stream with Gallic gore to flow;
Hence bloom'd the Laurel on the Grandsire's brow:
But shall the Son expect the wreath to wear,
For the mock triumphs of an Hyde-Park War?

Sooner shall Bunhill, Blenheim's glories claim,
Or Billers rival brave Eugene in fame;
Sooner a like reward their labours crown,
Who storm a Dunghill, and who sack a Town.

Mark our bright Youths, how gallant and how gay,
Fresh plum'd and powder'd in Review Array.
Unspoil'd each feature by the martial scar,
Lo! A***** assumes the God of War:
Yet vain, while prompt to arms by plume and pay,
He claims the Soldier's Name from Soldier's Play.
This truth, my Warrior, treasure in thy breast,
A standing Soldier is a standing jest.
When bloody battles dwindle to Reviews,
Armies must then descend to Puppet-shews;
Where the lac'd Log may strut the Soldier's part,
Bedeck'd with feather, tho' unarm'd with heart.

There are who say, “You lash the sins of men!
“Leave, leave to Pope the poignance of the pen;

“Hope not the bays shall wreath around thy head;
“Fannius may write, but Flaccus will be read.”
Shall only One have privilege to blame?
What then, are vice and folly Royal Game?
Must all be Poachers who attempt to kill?
All, but the mighty Sovereign of the Quill?
Shall Pope, alone, the plenteous harvest have,
And I not glean one straggling Fool, or Knave?
Praise, 'tis allow'd, is free to all mankind;
Say, why should honest Satire be confin'd?
Tho', like th' immortal Bard's, my feeble dart
Stains not its feather in the culprit heart;
Yet know, the smallest insect of the wing
The horse may teaze, or elephant can sting:
Ev'n I, by chance, some lucky darts may show'r,
And gall some great Leviathans of Pow'r.

I name not W****e; You the reason guess;
Mark yon fell Harpy hov'ring o'er the Press.

Secure the Muse may sport with names of Kings;
But Ministers, my Friend, are dang'rous things.
Who would have P****n answer what he writ;
Or Special Juries, judges of his wit?

Pope writes unhurt—but know, 'tis diff'rent quite
To beard the lion, and to crush the mite.
Safe may he dash the Statesman in each line;
Those dread his satire, who dare punish mine.

Turn, turn your satire then, you cry, to praise.
Why, praise is satire, in these sinful days.
Say, should I make a Patriot of Sir Bill,
Or swear that G****'s Duke has wit at will;
From the gull'd Knight could I expect a place,
Or hope to lye a dinner from his Grace,
Tho' a reward be graciously bestow'd
On the soft satire of each Birth-day Ode?

The good and bad alike with praise are blest;
Yet those who merit most, still want it least:
But conscious Vice still courts the chearing ray,
While Virtue shines, nor asks the glare of day.
Need I to any, Pult'ney's worth declare?
Or tell Him Carteret charms, who has an ear?
Or, Pitt, can thy example be unknown,
While each fond Father marks it to his Son?

I cannot truckle to a Slave in State,
And praise a Blockhead's wit, because he's great:
Down, down, ye hungry Garretteers, descend,
Call W****e Burleigh, call him Britain's Friend;
Behold the genial ray of Gold appear,
And rouze, ye swarms of Grub-street and Rag-fair.

See with what zeal yon tiny Insect burns,
And follows Queens from palaces to urns:
Tho' cruel Death has clos'd the Royal ear,
The flatt'ring Fly still buzzes round the bier:
But what avails, since Queens no longer live?
Why, Kings can read, and Kings, you know, may give.
A Mitre may repay his heav'nly Crown,
And, while he decks her brow, adorn his own.

Let Laureat Cibber Birth-day Sonnets sing,
Or Fanny crawl, an Ear-wig on the King:
While one is void of wit, and one of grace,
Why should I envy either Song or Place?
I could not flatter, the rich Butt to gain;
Nor sink a Slave, to rise V**e C*****n.

Perish my verse! whene'er one venal line
Bedaubs a Duke, or makes a King divine.

First bid me swear, he's sound who has the plague,
Or Horace rivals Stanhope at the Hague.
What, shall I turn a Pandar to the Throne,
And list with B**ll to roar for Half-a-crown?
Sooner T**r***l shall with Tully vie,
Or W**n***n in Senate scorn a ***;
Sooner Iberia tremble for her fate
From M****h's Arms, or Ab***n's Debate.

Tho' fawning Flatt'ry ne'er shall taint my lays,
Yet know, when Virtue calls, I burst to praise.
Behold yon Temple rais'd by Cobham's hand,
Sacred to Worthies of his native land:
Ages were ransack'd for the Wise and Great,
Till Barnard came, and made the groupe complete.

Be Barnard there—enliven'd by the voice,
Each Busto bow'd, and sanctify'd the choice.

Pointless all Satire in these iron times;
Too faint are colours, and too feeble rhimes.
Rise then, gay Fancy, future glories bring,
And stretch o'er happier days thy healing wing.

Rapt into thought, lo! I Britannia see
Rising superior o'er the subject Sea;
View her gay pendents spread their silken wings,
Big with the fate of Empires, and of Kings:
The tow'ring Barks dance lightly o'er the main,
And roll their thunder thro' the realms of Spain.
Peace, violated Maid, they ask no more,
But waft her back triumphant to our shore;
While buxom Plenty, laughing in her train,
Glads ev'ry heart, and crowns the Warrior's pain.

On, Fancy, on! still stretch the pleasing scene,
And bring fair Freedom with her golden reign;
Chear'd by whose beams ev'n meagre Want can smile,
And the poor Peasant whistle 'midst his toil.

Such days, what Briton wishes not to see?
And such each Briton, FRED'RICK, hopes from Thee.

THE END.

THE GYMNASIAD, OR BOXING-MATCH;

A very Short, but very Curious EPIC POEM.

WITH THE PROLEGOMENA of SCRIBLERUS TERTIUS, AND NOTES VARIORUM.

------ Nos hæc novimus esse nihil.
Mart.

TO THE MOST PUISSANT and INVINCIBLE Mr. JOHN BROUGHTON.

BOOK I.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK.

THE Invocation, the Proposition, the Night before the Battle described; the Morning opens, and discovers the Multitude hasting to the place of Action; their various Professions, Dignities, &c. illustrated; the Spectators being seated, the youthful Combatants are first introduced; their manner of Fighting displayed; to these succeed the Champions of a higher degree; their superior Abilities marked, some of the most eminent particularly celebrated; mean while, the principal Heroes are represented sitting, and ruminating on the approaching Combat, when the Herald summons them to the Lists.

Sing, sing, O Muse, the dire contested Fray,
And bloody honours of that dreadful day,
When Phaëton's bold Son (tremendous name)
Dar'd Neptune's Offspring to the Lists of Fame,

What Fury fraught Thee with Ambition's fire,
Ambition, equal foe to Son and Sire?
One, hapless fell by Jove's æthereal arms,
And One, the Triton's mighty pow'r disarms.

Now all lay hush'd within the folds of night,
And saw in painted dreams th' important fight;
While hopes and fears alternate turn the scales,
And now this Hero, and now that prevails;
Blows and imaginary blood survey,
Then waking, watch the slow approach of day;
When, lo! Aurora in her saffron vest
Darts a glad ray, and gilds the ruddy East.

Forth issuing now all ardent seek the place
Sacred to Fame, and the Athletic race.
As from their Hive the clust'ring Squadrons pour
O'er fragrant meads, to sip the vernal flow'r;
So from each Inn the legal Swarms impel,
Of banded Seers, and Pupils of the Quill.
Senates and Shambles pour forth all their store,
Mindful of mutton, and of laws no more;

E'en money-bills, uncourtly, now must wait,
And the fat lamb has one more day to bleat.
The Highway Knight now draws his pistol's load,
Rests his saint steed, and this day franks the road.
Bailiffs, in crouds, neglect the dormant writ,
And give another Sunday to the Wit:
He too would hie, but, ah! his fortunes frown;
Alas! the fatal passport's—Half-a-crown.
Shoals press on shoals, from palace and from cell;
Lords yield the Court, and Butchers Clerkenwell.

St. Giles's natives, never known to fail,
All who have haply 'scap'd th' obdurate jail;
There many a martial Son of Tott'nham lies,
Bound in Deveilian bands, a sacrifice
To angry Justice, nor must view the prize.

Assembled myriads croud the circling seats,
High for the Combat every bosom beats,
Each bosom partial for its Hero bold,
Partial thro' Friendship—or depending Gold.

But first, the infant Progeny of Mars
Join in the lists, and wage their pigmy wars;
Train'd to the manual fight, and bruiseful toil,
The stop defensive, and gymnastic foil,
With nimble fists their early prowess show,
And mark the future Hero in each blow.

To these, the hardy iron race succeed,
All Sons of Hockley and fierce Brick-street breed:
Mature in valour, and inur'd to blood,
Dauntless each foe in form terrific stood;
Their callous bodies, frequent in the fray,
Mock'd the fell stroke, nor to its force gave way.

'Mongst these Gloverius, not the last in fame,
And he whose Clog delights the beauteous Dame;
Nor least thy praise, whose artificial Light,
In Dian's absence, gilds the clouds of night.

While these the Combat's direful arts display,
And share the bloody fortunes of the day,
Each Hero sat, revolving in his soul
The various means that might his foe controul;
Conquest and Glory each proud bosom warms,
When, lo! the Herald summons them to arms.

BOOK II.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.

STEPHENSON enters the Lists; a description of his Figure; an encomium on his Abilities, with respect to the character of Coachman. Broughton advances; his reverend Form described; his superior skill in the management of the Lighter and Wherry display'd; his triumph of the Badge celebrated; his Speech; his former Victories recounted; the preparation for the Combat, and the horror of the Spectators.

First, to the Fight, advanc'd the Charioteer:
High hopes of glory on his brow appear;
Terror vindictive flashes from his eye,
(To one the Fates the visual ray deny);
Fierce glow'd his looks, which spoke his inward rage;
He leaps the bar, and bounds upon the stage.
The roofs re-eccho with exulting cries,
And all behold him with admiring eyes.
Ill-fated Youth! what rash desires could warm
Thy manly heart, to dare the Triton's arm?
Ah! too unequal to these martial deeds,
Tho' none more skill'd to rule the foaming Steeds.

The Coursers, still obedient to thy rein,
Now urge their flight, or now their flight restrain.
Had mighty Diomed provok'd the Race,
Thou far had'st left the Grecian in disgrace.
Where-e'er you drove, each Inn confess'd your sway,
Maids brought the dram, and Ostlers flew with hay.
But know, tho' skill'd to guide the rapid Car,
None wages like thy foe the Manual War.

Now Neptune's Offspring dreadfully serene,
Of size gigantic, and tremendous mien,
Steps forth, and 'midst the fated Lists appears;
Rev'rend his form, but yet not worn with years.
To him none equal, in his youthful day,
With feather'd Oar to skim the liquid way;

Or thro' those streights whose waters stun the car,
The loaded Lighter's bulky weight to steer.
Soon as the Ring their ancient Warrior view'd,
Joy fill'd their hearts, and thund'ring shouts ensu'd;
Loud as when o'er Thamesis' gentle flood,
Superior with the Triton Youths he row'd;
While far a-head his winged Wherry flew,
Touch'd the glad shore, and claim'd the Badge its due.

Then thus indignant he accosts the Foe,
(While high Disdain sat prideful on his brow:)
Long has the laurel-wreath victorious spread
Its sacred honours round this hoary head;

The prize of conquest in each doubtful fray,
And dear reward of many a dire-fought day.
Now Youth's cold wane the vig'rous pulse has chas'd,
Froze all my blood, and ev'ry nerve unbrac'd;
Now, from these temples shall the spoils be torn,
In scornful triumph by my Foe be worn?
What then avail my various deeds in arms,
If this proud crest thy feeble force disarms?
Lost be my glories to recording Fame,
When, foil'd by Thee, the Coward blasts my name!
I, who e'er Manhood my young joints had knit,
First taught the fierce Grettonius to submit;
While, drench'd in blood, he prostrate press'd the floor,
And inly groan'd the fatal words—no more.

Allenius too, who ev'ry heart dismay'd,
Whose blows, like hail, flew rattling round the head;
Him oft the Ring beheld with weeping eyes,
Stretch'd on the ground, reluctant yield the prize.
Then fell the Swain, with whom none e'er could vie,
Where Harrow's steeple darts into the sky.
Next the bold Youth a bleeding victim lay,
Whose waving curls the Barber's art display.

You too this arm's tremendous prowess know;
Rash Man, to make this arm again thy foe!

This said—the Heroes for the Fight prepare,
Brace their big limbs, and brawny bodies bare.
The sturdy sinews all aghast behold,
And ample shoulders of Atlean mould;
Like Titan's offspring, who 'gainst Heaven strove,
So each, tho' mortal, seem'd a match for Jove.
Now round the ring a silent horror reigns,
Speechless each tongue, and bloodless all their veins;
When, lo! the Champions give the dreadful sign,
And hand in hand in friendly token join;
Those iron hands, which soon upon the foe
With giant-force must deal the deathful blow.

BOOK III.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.

A Description of the Battle; Stephenson is vanquished; the manner of his Body being carried off by his Friends; Broughton claims the Prize, and takes his final leave of the Stage.

Full in the centre now they fix in form,
Eye meeting eye, and arm oppos'd to arm;
With wily feints each other now provoke,
And cautious meditate th' impending stroke.
Th' impatient Youth, inspir'd by hopes of fame,
First sped his arm, unfaithful to its aim;
The wary Warrior, watchful of his Foe,
Bends back, and 'scapes the death-designing blow;
With erring glance it sounded by his ear,
And whizzing, spent its idle force in air.

Then quick advancing on th' unguarded head,
A dreadful show'r of thunderbolts he shed:
As when a Whirlwind, from some cavern broke,
With furious blasts assaults the monarch Oak,
This way and that its lofty top it bends,
And the fierce storm the crackling branches rends;
So wav'd the head, and now to left and right
Rebounding flies, and crash'd beneath the weight.

Like the young Lion wounded by a dart,
Whose fury kindles at the galling smart;
The Hero rouzes with redoubled rage,
Flies on his Foe, and foams upon the stage.

Now grappling, both in close contention join,
Legs lock in legs, and arms in arms entwine:
They sweat, they heave, each tugging nerve they strain;
Both, fix'd as oaks, their sturdy trunks sustain.
At length the Chief his wily art display'd,
Poiz'd on his hip the hapless Youth he laid;
Aloft in air his quiv'ring limbs he throw'd,
Then on the ground down dash'd the pond'rous load.
So some vast Ruin on a mountain's brow,
Which tott'ring hangs, and dreadful nods below,
When the fierce tempest the foundation rends,
Whirl'd thro' the air with horrid crush descends.

Bold and undaunted up the Hero rose,
Fiercer his bosom for the Combat glows;

Shame stung his manly heart, and fiery rage
New steel'd each nerve, redoubled war to wage.
Swift to revenge the dire disgrace he flies,
Again suspended on the hip he lies;
Dash'd on the ground, again had fatal fell,
Haply the barrier caught his flying heel;
There fast it hung, th' imprison'd head gave way,
And the strong arm defrauded of its prey.
Vain strove the Chief to whirl the mountain o'er;
It slipt—he headlong rattles on the floor.

Around the ring loud peals of thunder rise,
And shouts exultant eccho to the skies.

Uplifted now inanimate he seems,
Forth from his nostrils gush the purple streams;
Gasping for breath, and impotent of hand,
The Youth beheld his Rival stagg'ring stand:
But he, alas! had felt th' unnerving blow,
And gaz'd, unable to assault the Foe.
As when two Monarchs of the brindled breed
Dispute the proud dominion of the mead,
They fight, they foam, then weary'd in the fray,
Aloof retreat, and low'ring stand at bay;

So stood the Heroes, and indignant glar'd,
While grim with blood their rueful fronts were smear'd;
Till with returning strength new rage returns,
Again their arms are steel'd, again each bosom burns.

Incessant now their hollow sides they pound,
Loud on each breast the bounding bangs resound;
Their flying fists around the temples glow,
And the jaws crackle with the massy blow.
The raging Combat ev'ry eye appalls,
Strokes following strokes, and falls succeeding falls.
Now droop'd the Youth, yet, urging all his might,
With feeble arm still vindicates the Fight,
Till on the part where heav'd the panting breath,
A fatal blow impress'd the seal of death.

Down dropt the Hero, welt'ring in his gore,
And his stretch'd limbs lay quiv'ring on the floor.
So, when a Falcon skims the airy way,
Stoops from the clouds, and pounces on his prey;
Dash'd on the earth the feather'd Victim lies,
Expands its feeble wings, and, flutt'ring, dies.
His faithful Friends their dying Hero rear'd,
O'er his broad shoulders dangling hung his head;
Dragging its limbs, they bear the body forth,
Mash'd teeth and clotted blood came issuing from his mouth.

Thus then the Victor—O celestial Pow'r!
Who gave this arm to boast one triumph more;

Now grey in glory, let my labours cease,
My blood-stain'd Laurel wed the branch of Peace;
Lur'd by the lustre of the golden Prize,
No more in Combat this proud crest shall rise;
To future Heroes future deeds belong,
Be mine the theme of some immortal song.

This said—he seiz'd the prize, while round the ring,
High soar'd Applause on Acclamation's wing.

THE END.

HONOUR:

A SATIRE.

Written in 1747.

Primores populi arripuit populumque tributim;
Scilicet uni æquus virtuti atque ejus amicis.
Hor.

“Load, load the Pallet, Boy!” hark! Hogarth cries,
“Fast as I paint, fresh swarms of Fools arise!
“Groups rise on groups, and mock the Pencil's pow'r,
“To catch each new-blown folly of the hour.”

While hum'rous Hogarth paints each Folly dead,
Shall Vice triumphant rear its hydra head?
At Satire's sov'reign nod disdain to shrink?
New reams of paper, and fresh floods of ink!
On then, my Muse! Herculean labours dare,
And wage with Virtue's foes eternal war;
Range thro' the Town in search of ev'ry ill,
And cleanse th' Augean Stable with thy quill.

“But what avails the poignance of the song,
“Since all, you cry, still persevere in wrong?
“Would courtly crimes to Mulgrave's Muse submit?
“Or blush'd the Monarch tho' a Wilmot writ?
“Still pandar Peers disgrac'd the rooms of State,
“Still Cæsar's bed sustain'd a foreign weight;
“Slaves worshipp'd still the golden Calf of Pow'r,
“And Bishops, bowing, bless'd the Scarlet Whore.
“Shall then thy Verse the guilty Great reclaim,
“Tho' fraught with Dryden's heav'n-descended flame?
“Will harpy Heathcote, from his mould'ring store,
“Drag forth one chearing drachma to the poor?
“Or Harrington, unfaithful to the Seal,
“Throw in one suffrage for the Public Weal?
“Pointless all Satire, and misplac'd its aim,
“To wound the bosom, that's obdur'd to shame:
“The callous heart ne'er feels the goad within;
“Few dread the censure, who can dare the sin.

Tho' on the Culprit's cheek no blush should glow,
Still let me mark him to Mankind a foe:
Strike but the deer, however slight the wound,
It serves at least to drive him from the sound.
Shall reptile sinners frowning Justice fear,
And pageant Titles privilege the Peer?
So falls the humbler game in common fields,
While the branch'd beast the royal forest shields.
On, Satire, then! I pursue thy gen'rous plan,
And wind the vice, regardless of the Man.
Rouze, rouze! th' ennobled Herd for public sport,
And hunt them thro' the covert of a Court.

Just as the Play'r the mimic portrait draws,
All claim a right of censure or applause:
What guards the Place-man from an equal fate,
Who mounts but Actor on the Stage of State?
Subject alike to each Man's praise and blame,
Each critic voice the fiat of his fame;

Tho' to the private some respect we pay,
All public characters are public prey:
Pelham and Garrick, let the verse forbear
What sanctifies the Treasurer or Play'r.

Great in her laurel'd Sages Athens see,
Free flow'd her Satire while her Sons were free:
Then purpled guilt was dragg'd to public shame,
And each offence stood flagrant with a name;
Polluted Ermine no respect could win,
No hallow'd Lawn could sanctify a sin;
'Till tyrant Pow'r usurp'd a lawless rule:
Then sacred grew the titled Knave and Fool;
Then penal Statutes aw'd the poignant Song,
And Slaves were taught, that Kings could do no Wrong.

Guilt still is guilt, to me, in Slave or King,
Fetter'd in Cells, or garter'd in the Ring:

And yet behold how various the reward,
Wild falls a Felon, Walpole mounts a Lord!
The little Knave the Law's last tribute pays,
While Crowns around the great One's chariot blaze.
Blaze, meteors, blaze! to me is still the same
The Cart of Justice, or the Coach of Shame.

Say, what's Nobility, ye gilded Train!
Does Nature give it, or can Guilt sustain?
Blooms the form fairer, if the birth be high;
Or takes the vital stream a richer dye?
What! tho' a long Patrician line ye claim,
Are noble souls entail'd upon a name?
Anstis may ermine out the lordly earth,
Virtue's the herald that proclaims its worth.

Hence mark the radiance of a Stanhope's star,
And glow-worm glitter of thine, D***r:

Ignoble splendor! that but shines to all,
The humble badge of a Court Hospital.
Let lofty L**r wave his nodding plume,
Boast all the blushing honours of the loom,
Resplendent bondage no regard can bring,
'Tis Methuen's heart must dignify the string.

Vice levels all; however high or low;
And all the diff'rence but consists in show.
Who asks an alms, or supplicates a Place,
Alike is beggar, tho' in rags or lace:
Alike his Country's scandal and its curse,
Who vends a Vote, or who purloins a purse;
Thy Gamblers, Bridewell, and St. James's Bites,
The Rooks of Mordington's, and Sharks at White's.

“Why will you urge, Eugenio cries, your fate?
“Affords the Town no sins but sins of State?
“Perches Vice only on the Court's high hill?
“Or yields Life's vale no quarry for the quill?”

Manners, like fashions, still from Courts descend,
And what the Great begin, the Vulgar end.
If vicious then the mode, correct it here;
He saves the Peasant, who reforms the Peer.
What Hounslow Knight would stray from Honour's path,
If guided by a Brother of the Bath?

Honour's a mistress all mankind pursue;
Yet most mistake the false one for the true:
Lur'd by the trappings, dazzled by the paint,
We worship oft the Idol for the Saint.
Courted by all, by few the Fair is won;
Those lose who seek her, and those gain who shun:
Naked she flies to Merit in distress,
And leaves to Courts the garnish of her dress.

The million'd Merchant seeks her in his Gold;
In Schools the Pedant, and in Camps the Bold:

The Courtier views her, with admiring eyes,
Flutter in Ribbons, or in Titles rise:
Sir Epicene enjoys her in his Plume;
Mead, in the learned Wainscot of a Room:
By various ways all woo the modest Maid;
Yet lose the substance, grasping at the shade.

Who, smiling, sees not with what various strife
Man blindly runs the giddy maze of life?
To the same end still diff'rent means employs;
This builds a Church, a Temple That destroys;
Both anxious to obtain a deathless name,
Yet, erring, both mistake Report for Fame.

Report, tho' vulture-like the name it bear,
Drags but the carrion carcass thro' the air;
While Fame, Jove's nobler bird, superior flies,
And, soaring, mounts the mortal to the skies.

So Richard's name to distant ages borne,
Unhappy Richard still is Britain's scorn:
Be Edward's wafted on Fame's eagle wing,
Each Patriot mourns the long-departed King;
Yet thine, O Edward! shall to George's yield,
And Dettingen eclipse a Cressy's field.

Thro' Life's wild Ocean, who would safely roam,
And bring the golden fleece of Glory home,
Must, heedful, shun the barking Scylla's roar,
And fell Charybdis' all-devouring shore;
With steady helm an equal course support,
'Twixt Faction's rocks, and quicksands of a Court,
By Virtue's beacon still direct his aim,
Thro' Honour's channel, to the port of Fame.

Yet, on this sea, how all mankind are tost!
For one that's sav'd, what multitudes are lost!

100

Misguided by Ambition's treach'rous light,
Thro' want of skill, few make the harbour right.

Hence mark what wrecks of Virtue, Friendship, Fame,
For four dead letters added to a name!
Whence dwells such Syren Music in a word,
Or sounds not Brutus noble as My Lord?
Tho' crownets, Pult'ney, blazon on thy plate,
Adds the base mark one scruple to its weight?
Tho' sounds Patrician swell thy name, O Sandys!
Stretches one acre thy Plebeian Lands?
Say, the proud title meant to plume the Son,
Why gain by guilt, what Virtue might have won?
Vain shall the Son his herald honours trace,
Whose Parent Peer's but Patriot in disgrace.

Vain, on the solemn head of hoary age,
Totters the Mitre, if Ambition's rage
To mammon Pow'r the hallow'd heart incline,
And Titles only mark the Priest divine.

101

Blest race! to whom the golden age remains,
Ease without care, and plenty without pains:
For you the earth unlabour'd treasure yields,
And the rich sheaves spontaneous crown the fields;
No toilsome dews pollute the rev'rend brow,
Each holy hand unharden'd by the plough;
Still burst the sacred garners with their store,
And flails, unceasing, thunder on the floor.

O bounteous Heav'n! yet Heav'n how seldom shares
The titheful tribute of the Prelate's pray'rs!
Lost to the Stall, in Senates still they nod,
And all the Monarch steals them from the God:
Thy praises, Brunswick, every breast inspire,
The Throne their Altar, and the Court their Choir;
Here earliest incense they devoutly bring,
Here everlasting Hallelujahs sing:
Thou! only Thou! almighty to—translate,
Thou their great golden Deity of State.

102

Who seeks on Merit's stock to graft success,
In vain invokes the ray of Pow'r to bless;
The stem, too stubborn for the courtly soil,
With barren branches mocks the virtuous toil.
More pliant plants the royal regions suit,
Where Knowledge still is held forbidden fruit;
'Tis these alone the kindly nurture share,
And all Hesperia's golden treasures bear.

Let Folly still be Fortune's fondling heir,
And Science meet a step-dame in the Fair.
Let Courts, like Fortune, disinherit Sense,
And take the idiot charge from Providence.
The idiot head the cap and bells may fit,
But how disguise a Lyttelton and Pitt!

O! once-lov'd Youths! Britannia's blooming hope,
Fair Freedom's twins, and once the theme of Pope;
What wond'ring Senates on your accents hung,
Ere Flatt'ry's poison chill'd the patriot tongue!

103

Rome's sacred thunder awes no more the ear;
But Pelham smiles, who trembled once to hear.

Say, whence this change? less galling is the chain,
Tho' Walpole, Carteret, or a Pelham reign?
If Senates still the pois'nous bane imbibe;
And every palm grows callous with the bribe;
If Sev'n long Years mature the venal voice,
While Freedom mourns her long-defrauded choice;
If Justice waves o'er Fraud a lenient hand,
And the red Locust rages thro' the land.

Sunk in these bonds, to Britain what avails,
Who wields her Sword, or balances her Scales?
Veer round the compass, change to change succeed,
By every Son the Mother now must bleed:
Vain all her hosts, on foreign shores array'd,
Tho' lost by Wentworth, or preserv'd by Wade.

104

Fleets, once which spread thro' distant worlds her name!
Now ride inglorious trophies of her shame;
While fading laurels shade her drooping head,
And mark her Burleighs, Blakes, and Marlbro's dead!

Such were thy Sons, O happy Isle! of old,
In counsel prudent, and in action bold:
Now view a Pelham puzzling o'er thy fate,
Lost in the maze of a perplex'd debate;
And sage Newcastle, with fraternal skill,
Guard the nice conduct of a Nation's quill:
See Truncheons trembling in the Coward hand,
Tho' bold Rebellion half subdue the land;
While Ocean's God, indignant, wrests again
The long-deputed Trident of the Main.

105

Sleep our last Heroes in the silent tomb?
Why spring no future Worthies from the womb?
Not Nature sure, since Nature's still the same,
But Education bars the road to Fame.
Who hopes for Wisdom's crop, must till the soul,
And Virtue's early lesson should controul:
To the young breast who Valour would impart,
Must plant it by example in the heart.

Ere Britain fell to Mimic Modes a prey,
And took the foreign polish of our day,
Train'd to the Martial labours of the field,
Our Youth were taught the massy spear to wield;
In halcyon Peace, beneath whose downy wings
The Merchant smiles, and lab'ring Peasant sings,
With Civil arts to guard their Country's cause,
Direct her counsels, and defend her laws:
Hence a long race of ancient Worthies rose,
Adorn'd the land, and triumph'd o'er our foes.

106

Ye sacred Shades! who thro' th' Elysian grove,
With Rome's fam'd Chiefs, and Grecian Sages rove,
Blush to behold what arts your offspring grace!
Each fopling Heir now marks his Sire's disgrace;
An embrio breed! of such a doubtful frame,
You scarce could know the sex but by the name:
Fraught with the native follies of his home,
Torn from the nurse, the Babe of Birth must roam;
Thro' foreign climes exotic vice explore,
And cull each weed, regardless of the flow'r,
Proud of thy spoils, O Italy and France!
The soft enervate strain, and cap'ring dance:
From Sequan's streams, and winding banks of Po,
He comes, ye Gods! an all-accomplish'd Beau!
Unhumaniz'd in dress, with cheek so wan!
He mocks God's image in the Mimic Man;
Great Judge of Arts! o'er toilettes now presides,
Corrects our fashions, or an Op'ra guides;

107

From Tyrant Handel rends th' Imperial bay,
And guards the Magna Charta of—Sol-fa.

Sick of a land where Virtue dwells no more,
See Liberty prepar'd to quit our shore!
Pruning her pinions, on yon beacon'd height
The Goddess stands, and meditates her flight;
Now spreads her wings, unwilling yet to fly,
Again o'er Britain casts a pitying eye:
Loath to depart, methinks I hear her say,
“Why urge me thus, ungrateful Isle, away!
“For you, I left Achaia's happy plains,
“For you, resign'd my Romans to their chains;
“Here fondly fix'd my last lov'd favourite seat,
“And 'midst the mighty nations made Thee great:

108

“Why urge me then, ungrateful Isle, away!”
Again she, sighing, says, or seems to say.

O Stanhope! skill'd in ev'ry moving art,
That charms the ear, or captivates the heart!
Be your's the task, the Goddess to retain,
And call her Parent Virtue back again;
Improve your pow'r a sinking land to save,
And vindicate the Servant from the Slave:
O! teach the vassal Courtier how to share
The Royal favour with the Public pray'r:
Like Latium's Genius stem thy Country's doom,
And, tho' a Cæsar smile, remember Rome;
With all the Patriot dignify the Place,
And prove at least one Statesman may have grace.

THE END.

109

AN EPISTLE TO DOCTOR THOMPSON.

[_]

Published in 1751.

Sed quia mente minus validus, quam corpore toto,
Nil audire velim, nil discere, quod levet ægrum,
Fidis offendar medicis.------
Hor.

113

Why do you ask, “that in this courtly dance,
“Of In and Out, it ne'er was yet my chance,
“To bask beneath a Statesman's fost'ring smile,
“And share the plunder of the Public Spoil?”

E'er wants my table the health-chearing meal,
With Banstead Mutton crown'd, or Essex Veal?
Smokes not from Lincoln meads the stately Loin,
Or rosy Gammon of Hantonian Swine?
From Darkin's roosts the Feather'd victims bleed,
And Thames still wafts me Ocean's scaly Breed.

114

Tho' Gallia's Vines their costly juice deny,
Still Tajo's banks the jocund glass supply;
Still distant worlds nectareous treasures roll,
And either India sparkles in my bowl;
Or Devon's boughs, or Dorset's bearded fields,
To Britain's arms a British beverage yields.

Rich in these gifts, why should I wish for more?
Why barter conscience for superfluous store?
Or haunt the levee of a purse-proud Peer,
To rob poor Fielding of the Curule chair?

115

Let the lean Bard, whose belly, void of bread,
Puffs up Pierian vapours to his head,
In Birth-day Odes his flimsy fustian vent,
And torture truth into a compliment;
Wear out the knocker of a Great-Man's door,
Be Pimp and Poet, furnish Rhime or Whore;
Or fetch and carry for some foolish Lord,
To sneak—a Sitting Footman at his board.
If such the arts that captivate the Great,
Be yours, ye Bards! the sun-shine of a State;
For Place or Pension prostitute each line;
Make Gods of Kings, and Ministers divine;
Swear St. John's self could neither read nor write,
And *** out-bravoes Mars in fight;

116

Call Dorset Patriot, Willes a Legal tool,
Horace a Wit, and Dodington a Fool.
Such be your venal task; whilst, blest with ease,
'Tis mine, to scribble when, and what I please.

“Hold! what you please? (Sir D**y cries) my Friend,
“Say, must my labours never, never end?
“Still doom'd 'gainst wicked wit my pen to draw,
“Correct each Bard by critic rules of Law;
“'Twixt Guilt and Shame the legal buckler place,
“And guard each courtly Culprit from disgrace?

117

“Hard task! should future Jurymen inherit
“The City-Twelve's self-judging British spirit.”

While You, my Thompson! spite of Med'cine save,
Mark how the College peoples every Grave!
See Mead transfer Estates from Sire to Son,
And ** bar succession to a Throne!

118

See Shaw scarce leave the passing-bell a Fee,
And N**'s set the captive husband free!
Tho' widow'd Julia giggles in her weed,
Yet who arraigns the Doctor for the deed?
O'er Life and Death all absolute his will,
Right the Prescription, whether cure or kill.

Not so,—whose Practice is the Mind's disease;
His Potion must not only cure, but please:
Apply the Caustic to the callous heart,
Undone's the Doctor, if the Patient smart;
Superior Pow'rs his mental Bill controul,
And Law corrects the Physic of the Soul.

119

Shall Galen's Sons with privilege destroy,
And I not one sound Alt'rative employ,
To drive the rank distemper from within?
Or is Man's Life less precious than his Sin?

With palsied hand should Justice hold the scale,
And o'er a Judge court-complaisance prevail,
Satire's strong dose the malady requires:
I write—when, lo! the Bench indignant fires;
Each hoary head erects its Load of Hair;
Their Furs all bristle, and their Eye-balls glare;
In rage they roar, “With rev'rend Ermine sport!
“Seize! seize him, Tipstaff!—'Tis Contempt of Court.”

120

Led by the meteor of a Mitre's ray,
If Sion's Sons thro' paths unhallow'd stray,
For courtly Rites neglect each rubric Rule,
Quit all the Saint, and truckle all the Tool;
Their Maker only in the Monarch see,
Nor e'er omit, at Brunswick's name, the Knee;
To cure this loyal Lethargy of Grace,
And rouse to Heav'n again its recreant race,
Say! should the Muse, with one irrev'rend line,
Probe but the mortal part of the Divine;
'Tis Blasphemy, by ev'ry Priest decreed!
No Benefit of Clergy may I plead;
With every Cannon pointed at my head,
Alive I'm censur'd, and I'm damn'd when dead.

121

Lawyer and Priest, like Doctors, still agree;
'Tis theirs to give advice; 'tis ours, the Fee:
To them alone all earthly rule is giv'n,
Diploma'd from St. James's, and from Heav'n.

Yet ills there are, nor Bench, nor Pulpit reach;
In vain may Ryder charge, or Sherlock preach;
For Law too mighty, and too proud for Grace,
Lurk in the Star, or lord it in a Place;
Brood in the sacred circle of a Crown,
While Fashion wafts their poison thro' the Town:
Hence o'er each Village the contagion wings,
And Peasants catch the maladies of Kings.

When purpled Vice shall humble Justice awe,
And Fashion make it current, spite of Law;
What sovereign Med'cine can its course reclaim?
What, but the Poet's Panacea—Shame!

122

Thus Wit's great Esculapius once prevail'd,
And Satire triumph'd, where the Fasces fail'd:
No Consul's wreath could lurking Folly hide,
No Vestal looks secure the guilty Bride:
The poignant Verse pierc'd thro' each fair disguise,
And made Rome's Matrons modest, Statesmen wise.

Search all your Statutes, Serjeant! where's the balm
Can cure the itching of a Courtier's palm?
Where the chaste Canon, say, thou hallow'd Sage,
The Virgin's glowing wishes can assuage?
Let but the Star his longing Lordship see,
What pow'r can set the captive Conscience free?
Hang but the sparkling Pendant at her ears,
What trembling Maid the gen'rous Lover fears?

123

When lawless passion seiz'd th' Imperial Dame,
Brothels were only found, to quench the flame;
No Routs, or Balls, the kind convenience gave,
To lose her Virtue, yet her Honour save.
In Cupid's Rites, now, so improv'd our skill,
Mode finds the means, when Nature finds the will.
Each rev'rend Relict keeps a private pack,
And sturdy Stallion with Atlean back;
Where British Dames to mystic rites repair,
Nor fail to meet a lurking Clodio there;
In amorous stealths defraud the public Stews,
And rob the Drury Vestal of her dues;
Who hapless mourns her last, long-mortgag'd Gown,
While Douglass damns the Drums of Lady Brown.

124

By names celestial, mortal Females call;
Angels they are, but Angels in their fall.
One Royal Phœnix yet redeems the race,
And proves, in Britain, Beauty may have Grace.

Vain shall the Muse the various symptoms find,
When every Doctor's of a diff'rent mind.
In **'s palm, be foul Corruption found,
Each Court-empiric holds, his Grace is sound;
In Sackville's breast let Public Spirit reign,
Blisters! (they cry) the cause is in his brain;
So, Talbot's want of Place is want of Sense,
And Dashwood's stubborn Virtue, downright Insolence.

125

When ills are thus just what the Doctors please,
And the Soul's health is held the Mind's disease;
Not all thy art, O Horace! had prevail'd;
Here, all thy Roman recipes had fail'd.

Had Fate to Flaccus but our days decreed,
What Pollio would admire? what Cæsar read?
Great Maro's self had dy'd an humble swain,
And Terence sought a Lælius now in vain.
Science no more employs the Courtier's care,
No Muse's voice can charm Northumberland's ear.
The solid Vote aërial Verse outweighs,
And wins all courtly favour from the Bays;
Hence flow alone the sacred gifts of Kings,
Staves, Truncheons, Feathers, Mitres, Stars, and Strings.

Hence Cradles, see! with lisping Statesmen spawn,
And Infant limbs beswaddled in the Lawn;

126

While honest Boyle, too impotent for Place,
Sets, in meridian glory of Disgrace:
Nor all the patriot music of Malone
Can charm a Court, like Sackville, or like Stone;
Blest Twins of State! whom love and pow'r conjoin,
Like Leda's offspring, made by Jove divine;
Fix'd in Hibernia's hemisphere to rule,
And shed your influence o'er each Knave and Fool.

Whilst the sad summons of the Mortar's knell
The rival deeds of each Diploma tell;
And Death's increasing muster-rolls declare,
That Health and Thompson are no longer here;
How shall the Muse this salutation send?
What place enjoys Thee? or what happier Friend?

127

Say, if in Eastbury's majestic towers,
Or wrapt in Ashley's amarantine bowers,
By Friendship favour'd, and unaw'd by State,
You barter Science with the Wise and Great;
O'er Pelham's Politics in judgment sit,
Reform the Laws of Nations, or of Wit;
With Attic zest enrich the social bowl,
Crack joke on joke, and mingle soul with soul;
On Laughter's wanton wing now frolic sport,
Nor envy Fox the closet of a Court.

Lost in this darling luxury of Ease,
Alike regardless both of Fame and Fees,
“Let Shaw (you cry) o'er Physic sov'reign reign,
“Or W** boast his hecatombs of slain:

128

“Be mine, to stay some Friend's departing breath,
“And Child's may take the Drudgery of Death.”

Yet, Thompson! say (whose gift it is to save,
Make Sickness smile, and rescue from the grave)
Say, to what end this healing pow'r was meant?
Nor hide the talent, which by Heav'n is lent.
Tho' Envy all her hissing serpents raise,
And join with harpy Fraud to blast thy bays;
Shall wan Disease in vain demand thy skill,
While Health but waits the summons of your quill?
Shall Egypt's Plague the Virgin cheek invade,
And Beauty's wreck not win Thee to its aid?

129

O! stretch a saving hand, and let the Fair
Owe all her future triumphs to thy care;
Resume the Pen! and be Thyself, once more,
What Ratcliff, Friend, and Syd'nham were before.

Yet, when reviving Patients set you free,
Let Vaughan yield one social hour to me.
Come then, my Friend! if Friendship's name can woo,
Come! bring me all I want, that all in You.
If rural scenes have still the pow'r to please,
Flocks, vallies, hills, streams, villas, cots, and trees;
Here all in one harmonious prospect blend,
And landscapes rise, scarce Lambert's art can mend.

130

Thames, made immortal by her Denham's strains,
Meand'ring glides thro' Twick'nham's flow'ry plains;
While Royal Richmond's cloud-aspiring wood
Pours all its pendent pomp upon the flood.
By Rome's proud dames let storied Tiber flow,
And all Palladio grace the banks of Po;
Here Nature's charms in purer lustre rise,
Nor seek from wanton Art her vain supplies.

Lo! Windsor, rev'rend in a length of years,
Like Cybele, her tow'r-crown'd summit rears;
And Hampton's turrets, with majestic pride,
Reflect their glories in the passing tide:
There British Henries gave to Gallia law;
Here bloom'd the laurels of a great Nassau.
O! could these scenes one Monarch more but please,
No frozen climates, no tempestuous seas,

131

For Brunswick's weal alarming fears should bring,
Nor Britain envy meaner Courts her King.

Here Campbell's varied shades with wonder see,
Like Heav'n's own Eden, stor'd with every tree;
Each plant with plant in verdant glory vies;
High-tow'ring pines, like Titans, scale the skies;
And Lebanon's rich groves on Hounslow's deserts rise.

But chief—with awful step, O! let us stray,
Where Britain's Orpheus tun'd his sacred lay,
Whose Grove enchanted from his numbers grew,
And proves, what once was fabled, now is true.
Here oft the Bard with Arbuthnot retir'd;
Here flow'd the verse his Healing Art inspir'd:

132

Alike thy merit like thy fame should rise,
Could Friendship give, what feeble Art denies:
Tho' Pope's immortal verse the Gods refuse,
Accept this off'ring from an humbler Muse.
Weak tho' her flight, yet honest still her strain,
And what no Minister could ever gain;
Pleas'd if the grateful tribute of her song,
Thy merit, Thompson! shall one day prolong.

In marshal'd Slaves let hungry Princes trade,
And Britain's bullion bribe their venal aid;
Let brave Boscawen trophied honours gain,
And Anson wield the Trident of the Main.

133

Safe, in the harbour of my Twick'nam bower,
From all the wrecks of State, or storms of Power;
No Wreaths I court, no Subsidies I claim,
Too rich for want, too indolent for fame.
Whilst here with Vice a bloodless war I wage,
Or lash the follies of a trifling age,
Each gay-plum'd Hour, upon its downy wings,
The Hybla freight of rich Contentment brings;
Health, rosy handmaid, at my table waits,
And halcyon Peace broods watchful o'er my gates.

Here oft, on Contemplation's pinion bore,
To Heav'n I mount, and Nature's works explore;
Or, led by Reason's intellectual clue,
Thro' Error's maze, Truth's secret steps pursue;

134

View ages past in Story's mirror shown,
And make Time's mould'ring treasures all my own;
Or here the Muse now steals me from the throng,
And wraps me in th' enchantment of her song.

Thus flow, and thus for ever flow! my days,
Unaw'd by Censure, or unbrib'd by Praise;
No friend to Faction, and no dupe to Zeal;
Foe to all party, but the Public Weal.
Why then, from every venal bondage free,
Courts have no glitt'ring shackles left for me:
My reasons, Thompson! prithee ask no more;
Take them, as Oxford's Flaccus sung before.

“My ease and freedom if for aught I vend,
“Would not you cry, To Bedlam, Bedlam, Friend!
“But to speak out—shall what could ne'er engage
“My frailer youth, now captivate in age?

135

“What cares can vex, what terrors frightful be,
“To him whose shield is hoary Sixty-three?
“When life itself so little worth appears,
“That Ministers can give no hopes, or fears;
“Altho' grown grey within my humbler gate,
“I ne'er kiss'd Hands, or trod the rooms of State;
“Yet not unhonour'd have I liv'd, and blest
“With rich convenience, careless of the rest;
“What boon more grateful can the Gods bestow
“On those avow'd their favourite sons below?”

136

THE END.

137

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

139

SONG, Addressed to the Ladies.

I

Ye Belles, and ye Flirts, and ye pert little Things,
Who trip in this frolicsome round,
Prithee tell me from whence this indecency springs,
The sexes at once to confound?
What means the Cock'd Hat, and the masculine air,
With each motion design'd to perplex?
Bright eyes were intended to languish, not stare,
And softness the test of your sex,
Dear Girls,
And softness the test of your sex.

140

II

The girl, who on beauty depends for support,
May call ev'ry art to her aid;
The Bosom display'd, and the Petticoat short,
Are samples she gives of her trade:
But you, on whom Fortune indulgently smiles,
And whom Pride has preserv'd from the snare,
Should slily attack us with coyness and wiles,
Not with open and insolent air,
Brave Girls,
Not with, &c.

III

The Venus, whose statue delights all mankind,
Shrinks modestly back from the view,
And kindly shou'd seem by the artist design'd
To serve as a model for you:
Then learn with her beauties to copy her air,
Nor venture too much to reveal;
Our fancies will paint what you cover with care,
And double each charm you conceal,
Sweet Girls,
And double, &c.

141

IV

The blushes of Morn, and the mildness of May,
Are charms which no art can procure:
Oh! be but yourselves, and our homage we'll pay,
And your empire is solid and sure:
But if, Amazon-like, you attack your Gallants,
And put us in fear of our lives,
You may do very well for Sisters and Aunts,
But, believe me, you'll never be Wives,
Poor Girls,
Believe me, &c.

142

A NEW OCCASIONAL SONG

[_]

As performed by Mr. Beard in the character of a Recruiting Serjeant, at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden, in the Entertainment of The Fair.

I

In story we're told
How our Monarchs of old
O'er France spread their royal domain;
But no annals shall show
Her pride laid so low,
As when brave George the Second did reign,
Brave Boys!
As when brave, &c.

143

II

Of Roman and Greek
Let Fame no more speak;
Tho' their arms did the Old World subdue,
Through the nations around
Let her trumpet now sound,
How Britons have conquer'd the New,
Brave Boys!
How Britons have, &c.

III

East, West, North, and South,
Our cannons loud mouth
Shall the rights of our Monarch maintain;
On America's strand
Amherst limits the Land,
Boscawen gives law on the Main,
Brave Boys!
Boscawen gives, &c.

144

IV

Each fort, and each town,
We still make our own,
Cape Breton, Crown Point, Niagar;
Guardelupe, Senegal,
And Quebec's mighty fall,
Shall prove we've no equal in war,
Brave Boys!
Shall prove we've, &c.

V

Though Conflans did boast
He wou'd conquer our coast,
Our thunder soon made Monsieur mute;
Brave Hawke wing'd his way,
Then pounc'd on his prey,
And gave him an English salute,
Brave Boys!
And gave him, &c.

145

VI

At Minden you know
How we frighten'd the foe,
While homeward their army now steals,
“Though,” they cry, “British bands
“Are too hard for our hands,
“Begar! we can beat them in Heels,
Parbleu!
Begar! we, &c.

VII

Whilst our Heroes from home
For laurels thus roam,
Should the Flat-bottom'd Boats but appear,
Our Militia shall show
No wooden-shoed foe
Can with Freemen in battle compare,
Brave boys!
Can with Freemen, &c.

146

VIII

Your Fortunes and Lives,
Your Children and Wives,
To defend, 'tis the time now or never:
Then let each Volunteer
To the Drum-head repair—
King George and Old England for ever!
Brave Boys!
King George, &c.

147

SONG,

Sung by Mr. Beard in the Entertainment of Apollo and Daphne.

I

The sun from the East tips the mountains with gold;
The meadows all spangled with dew-drops behold!
Hear! the lark's early matin proclaims the new day,
And the Horn's chearful summons rebukes our delay.

CHORUS.

With the sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vye,
While jocund we follow the Hounds in full cry.

II

Let the Drudge of the Town make Riches his sport;
The Slave of the State hunt the smiles of a Court;

148

No care and ambition our pastime annoy,
But innocence still gives a zest to our joy.
With the sports, &c.

III

Mankind are all hunters in various degree;
The Priest hunts a Living—the Lawyer a Fee,
The Doctor a Patient—the Courtier a Place,
Though often, like us, he's flung-out in the chace.
With the sports, &c.

IV

The Cit hunts a Plumb—while the Soldier hunts Fame,
The Poet a Dinner—the Patriot a Name;
And the practis'd Coquette, tho' she seems to refuse,
In spite of her airs, still her Lover pursues.
With the sports, &c.

149

V

Let the Bold and the Busy hunt Glory and Wealth;
All the blessing we ask is the blessing of Health,
With Hound and with Horn thro' the woodlands to roam,
And, when tired abroad, find Contentment at home.

With the sports of the Field there's no pleasure can vye,
While jocund we follow our Hounds in full cry.

150

SONG,

Sung by Mr. Beard at the Annual Meeting of the President, Vice-Presidents, Governors, &c. of the London Hospital.

Of Trophies and Laurels I mean not to sing,
Of Prussia's brave Prince, or of Britain's good King:
Here the Poor claim my song; then the art I'll display,
How you all shall be gainers—by giving away.
Derry down.

The cruse of the widow, you very well know,
The more it was emptied, the fuller did flow:
So here with your Purse the like wonder you'll find;
The more you draw out, still—the more left behind.
Derry down.

The Prodigal here without danger may spend;
That ne'er can be lavish'd, to Heaven we lend;

151

And the Miser his purse-strings may draw without pain,
For what miser won't give—when giving is Gain?
Derry down.

The Gamester, who sits up whole days and whole nights,
To hazard his health and his fortune at White's;
Much more to advantage his Betts he may make,
Here, set what he will, he will double his Stake.
Derry down.

The Fair-one, whose heart the Four Aces controul,
Who sighs for Sans-prendre, and dreams of a Vole,
Let her here send a tithe of her gains at Quadrille,
And she'll ne'er want a friend—in victorious Spadille.
Derry down.

Let the Merchant, who trades on the perilous sea,
Come here, and insure, if from loss he'd be free;
A Policy here from all danger secures,
For safe is the Venture—which Heaven insures.
Derry down.

152

The Stock-jobber too many subscribe without fear,
In a Fund which for ever a Premium must bear;
Where the Stock must still rise, and where Scrip will prevail,
Tho' South-Sea, and India, and Omnium, should fail.
Derry down.

The Churchman likewise his advantage may draw,
And here buy a Living, in spite of the Law—
In Heaven, I mean; then, without any fear,
Let him purchase away—here's no Simony here.
Derry down.

Ye Rakes, who the joys of Hymen disclaim,
And seek, in the ruin of Virtue, a fame;
You may here boast a triumph consistent with duty,
And keep, without guilt, a Seraglio of Beauty.
Derry down.

153

If from Charity then such advantages flow,
That you still gain the more—the more you bestow;
Here's the place will afford you rich profit with ease:
When the Bason comes round—be as rich as you please.
Derry down.

Then a health to that Patron, whose grandeur and store
Yield aid and defence to the Sick and the Poor;
Who no Courtier can flatter, no Patriot can blame:
But, our President's here—or I'd tell you his name.
Derry down.

154

BALLAD.

Long, Roger in vain
Strove Cic'ley to gain,
And that Something he wanted she knew;
Yet still she reply'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.

Quoth Roger, Next Fair
I'll deck out your hair
With a Top-knot, green, yellow, or blue.
No Top-knot, pray, bring
Without the Gold-Ring,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.

155

Together one day,
When making of hay,
Pretty Cis on a haycock he threw:
His hand did intrude;
She cry'd, Don't be rude,
For—I wish I may die if I do.

But Roger still prest
Her lips and her breast,
Until kinder and kinder she grew:
A glance from her eye
He saw give the lye
To—“I wish I may die if I do.”

He knew what it meant,
Took looks for consent;
Then—a Fairing presented to view,
Which Cis so amaz'd,
She sigh'd while she gaz'd—
Oh! I surely shall die—if I do.

156

What Lovers conceal
No Muse should reveal;
You must fancy then what did ensue:
But she no more cry'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or—I wish I may die if I do.

Ah! Roger! says Cis,
A Fairing like this
Cannot fail a young Maid to subdue:
No Knot you need bring;
Ne'er mind the Gold-Ring,
For—I wish I may die if I do.

157

A FRAGMENT

I

When Bacchus, jolly God, invites
To revel in his ev'ning rites,
In vain his altars I surround,
Though with Burgundian incense crown'd:
No charm has Wine without the Lass;
'Tis Love gives relish to the Glass.

II

Whilst all around, with jocund glee,
In brimmers toast their fav'rite She;
Though ev'ry Nymph my lips proclaim,
My heart still whispers Chloe's name;
And thus with me, by am'rous stealth,
Still ev'ry glass is Chloe's health.

158

VERSES

Occasioned by Lady Pomfret's Present of some Antique Statues to Oxford, the Streets whereof were foolishly said to be paved with Jacobites.

If Oxford's Stones, as Blaco writes,
And Pitt affirms, are Jacobites,
That bid the Court defiance;
How must the danger now increase,
When Stones are come from Rome and Greece,
To form a grand alliance!

Yet, sprung from lands of Liberty,
These Stones can sure no Tories be,
Or friends to the Pretender;
And Pitt himself can ne'er devise,
That Whiggish Stones should ever rise
Against our Faith's Defender.

159

TO DR. KING.

Oft have I heard, with clam'rous note,
A yelping Cur exalt his throat
At Cynthia's silver rays;
So, with the blaze of Learning's light,
When You, O King, offend his sight,
The Spaniel Blaco bays.

160

THE BUTTERFLY AND BEE.

To FLAVIA.

See! Flavia, see! that flutt'ring Thing
Skim round yon' flower with sportive wing,
Yet ne'er its sweets explore;
While, wiser, the industrious Bee
Extracts the honey from the tree,
And hives the precious store.

So You, with coy, coquettish art,
Play wanton round your Lover's heart,
Insensible and free:
Love's balmy blessing would you try,
No longer sport a Butterfly,
But imitate the Bee.

161

VERSES,

Dropt in Mr. Garrick's Temple of Shakespeare.

While here to Shakespeare Garrick pays
His tributary thanks and praise;
Invokes the animated stone,
To make the Poet's mind his own;
That he each character may trace
With humour, dignity, and grace;
And mark, unerring mark, to men,
The rich creation of his Pen;

Preferr'd the pray'r—the marble God
Methinks I see, assenting, nod,

162

And, pointing to his laurell'd brow,
Cry—“Half this Wreath to you I owe:
“Lost to the Stage, and lost to Fame;
“Murder'd my Scenes, scarce known my Name;
“Sunk in oblivion and disgrace
“Among the common, scribbling race,
“Unnotic'd long thy Shakespeare lay,
“To Dullness, and to Time, a prey:
“But now I rise, I breathe, I live
“In You—my Representative!
“Again the Hero's breast I fire,
“Again the tender sigh inspire;
“Each side, again, with laughter shake,
“And teach the villain-heart to quake;
“All this, my Son! again I do—
“I?—No, my Son!—'Tis I, and You.

While thus the grateful Statue speaks,
A blush o'erspreads the Suppliant's cheeks—

163

“What!—Half this Wreath, Wit's mighty Chief?—
“O grant,” he cries, “one single Leaf;
“That far o'erpays his humble merit,
“Who's but the organ of thy spirit.”

Phœbus the gen'rous contest heard—
When thus the God address'd the Bard:
“Here, take this Laurel from my brow,
“On Him your mortal Wreath bestow;—
“Each matchless, each the Palm shall bear,
“In Heav'n the Bard, on Earth the Play'r.

164

CUPID BAFFLED.

Diana, hunting on a day,
Beheld where Cupid sleeping lay,
His Quiver by his head:
One of his Darts she stole away,
And one of her's did close convey
Into the other's stead.

When next the Archer through the grove,
In search of prey, did wanton rove,
Aurelia fair he 'spy'd;
Aurelia, who to Damon's pray'r
Disdain'd to lend a tender ear,
And Cupid's pow'r defy'd.

165

Soon as he ey'd the rebel Maid;
“Now know my pow'r!” enrag'd, he said;
Then levell'd at her heart:
Full to the head the shaft he drew;
But harmless to her breast it flew,
For, lo!—'twas Dian's Dart.

Exulting, then the Fair-one cry'd,
“Fond Urchin, lay your Bow aside;
“Your Quiver be unbound:
“Would you Aurelia's heart subdue,
“Thy play-thing Arrows ne'er will do;
“Bid Damon give the wound.

166

VERSES

On the Death of the truly Patriot Prince, Frederick; who died March 30, 1751, aged 43.

When Jove, late revolving the state of mankind,
'Mong Britons no traces of Virtue could find;
O'er the island, indignant, he stretch'd forth his rod;
Earth trembled, and Ocean acknowledg'd the God.

Still provok'd by our crimes, Heaven's vengeance to show,
Ammon, grasping his bolts, aim'd at Britain the blow;
But pausing—more dreadful, his wrath to evince,
Threw thunder aside, and sent Fate for the Prince.

EXTEMPORE on hearing of Mr. Pope's Death.

Pope dead! hush, hush, Report, the sland'rous lye:
Fame says he lives—Immortals never die.

167

DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.

'Twixt Death and Schomberg, t'other day,
A contest did arise;
Death swore his prize he'd bear away;
The Doctor, Death defies.

Enrag'd to hear his pow'r defy'd,
Death drew his keenest dart;
But wond'ring saw it glance aside,
And miss the vital part.

168

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. Powell, at the Opening of the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden, on Monday, Sept. 14, 1767.

As when the Merchant, to increase his store,
For dubious seas, advent'rous quits the shore;
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling sees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempests in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountain billows swells,
And ev'ry cloud a fancied storm foretells:
Thus rashly launch'd on this Theatric main,
Our All on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The Catcall's note seems thunder in our ears,
And ev'ry Hiss a hurricane appears;

169

In Journal Squibs we lightning's blast espy,
And meteors blaze in every Critic's eye.

Spite of these terrors, still some hopes we view,
Hopes, ne'er can fail us—since they're plac'd—in you.
Your Breath the gale, our voyage is secure,
And safe the venture which your Smiles insure;
Though weak his skill, th' advent'rer must succeed,
Where Candour takes th' endeavour for the deed.
For Brentford's state, two Kings could once suffice;
In our's, behold! four Kings of Brentford rise;
All smelling to one nosegay's od'rous savour,
The balmy nosegay of—the Public Favour.
From hence alone, our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our support, your will our law.
While such our Government, we hope you'll own us;
But should we ever Tyrant prove—dethrone us.

170

Like Brother Monarchs, who, to coax the nation,
Began their reign, with some fair Proclamation,
We too should talk at least—of Reformation;
Declare, that during our Imperial sway,
No Bard shall mourn his long-neglected Play;
But then the Play must have some wit, some spirit,
And We allow'd sole umpires of its merit.

For those deep Sages of the judging Pit,
Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit,
From Rome's great Theatre we'll cull the piece,
And plant, on Britain's Stage, the flow'rs of Greece.

If some there are, our British Bards can please,
Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to save, from Time's devouring womb,
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the tomb.

For you, ye Fair, who sprightlier scenes may chuse,
Where Music decks in all her airs the Muse,

171

Gay Opera shall all its charms dispense,
Yet boast no tuneful triumph over Sense;
The nobler Bard shall still assert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.

To greet their mortal brethren of our skies
Here all the Gods of Pantomine shall rise:
Yet 'midst the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our Scenes;
Scenes which were held, in good King Rich's days,
By Sages, no bad Epilogues to Plays.

If terms like these your suffrage can engage,
To fix our mimic Empire of the Stage;
Confirm our title in your fair opinions,
And croud each night to people our Dominions.

172

VERSES

On converting the Chapel to a Kitchen, at the Seat of the Lord Donnerayle, called The Grove, in Hertfordshire.

By Ovid, among other wonders, we're told
What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old;
How their Cot to a Temple was conjur'd by Jove,
So a Chapel was chang'd to a Kitchen at Grove.

The Lord of the Mansion most rightly conceiting,
His guests lov'd good pray'rs much less than good eating;
And possess'd by the Devil, as some folks will tell ye,
What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly.

The word was scarce giv'n—when down dropp'd the Clock,
And strait was seen fix'd in the form of a Jack;
And, shameful to tell! Pulpit, Benches, and Pews,
Form'd Cupboards and Shelves, for Plates, Saucepans, and Stews.

173

Pray'r-books turn'd into Platters; nor think it a fable,
A Dresser sprung out of the Communion-table;
Which, instead of the usual repast, Bread and Wine,
Is stor'd with rich Soups, and good English Sirloin.

No fire, but what pure devotion could raise,
'Till now, had been known in this Temple to blaze:
But, good Lord! how the neighbours around did admire,
When a Chimney rose up in the room of a Spire!

For a Jew many people the Master mistook,
Whose Levites were Scullions, his High-Priest a Cook;
And thought he design'd our religion to alter,
When they saw the Burnt-Offering smoke at the Altar.

The Bell's solemn sound, that was heard far and near,
And oft rouz'd the Chaplain unwilling to pray'r,
No more to good Sermons now summons the Sinner,
But blasphemous rings in—the Country to Dinner.

174

When my good Lord the Bishop had heard the strange story,
How the place was profan'd, that was built to G**'s glory;
Full of zeal he cried out, “Oh, how impious the deed,
“To cram Christians with Pudding, instead of the Creed!”

Then away to the Grove hied the Church's Protector,
Resolving to give his Lay-brother a Lecture;
But he scarce had begun, when he saw, plac'd before 'em,
A Haunch piping hot from the Sanctum Sanctorum.

“'Troth!” quoth he, “I find no great sin in the plan,
“What was useless to God—to make useful to Man:
“Besides, 'tis a true Christian duty, we read,
“The Poor and the Hungry with good things to feed.”

Then again on the walls he bestow'd Consecration,
But reserv'd the full rights of a free Visitation:
Thus, 'tis still the Lord's House—only varied the treat,
Now, there's Meat without Grace—where was Grace without Meat.

175

VERSES

On the Duke of Cumberland's Victory at Culloden, in the Year 1746.

As his worm-eaten volumes old Time tumbled o'er,
To review the great actions that happen'd of yore;
When the names of young Ammon and Cæsar he saw,
He to one oppos'd Churchill—to th' other Nassau;
Then said, with a sigh, “What! has Britain no friend?
“With these must her long race of Heroes have end?”
When strait a loud blast on her Trumpet Fame blew,
Which so long had been silent, the sound he scarce knew;
But soon in his sight the swift Goddess appear'd,
And, half out of breath, cry'd—“News, News! have you heard?—
“I yet have one Hero to add to your store,
“Brave William has conquer'd—Rebellion's no more.”
Well pleas'd, in his annals Time set down the name,
Made the record authentic,—and gave it to Fame.

176

VERSES

Inscribed on a Monument called The Tomb of Care, in the Garden of the late John Rich, Esq. at Cowley, in Middlesex; whereon three beautiful Boys are covering a funeral Urn with a Veil of Flowers.

Why, busy Boys, why thus entwine
The flowery veil around this shrine?
As if, for halcyon days like these,
The sight too solemn were to please:
Mistaken Boys, what sight's so fair—
To mortals, as the Tomb of Care?
Here let the gloomy Tyrant lie;
His urn an altar shall supply,
Sacred to Ease, and social Mirth;
For Care's decease—is Pleasure's birth.

177

THE EPITAPH

(In Letters of Brass, inserted by a female Figure representing History) on a Marble Pyramid of the Monument of JOHN, Duke of ARGYLE.

Briton, behold, if Patriot Worth be dear,
A shrine that claims thy tributary tear!
Silent that tongue admiring Senates heard,
Nerveless that arm opposing Legions fear'd!
Nor less, O Campbell! thine the pow'r to please,
And give to Grandeur all the grace of Ease.
Long, from thy life, let kindred Heroes trace
Arts which ennoble still the noblest race.—
Others may owe their future fame to Me;
I borrow immortality from Thee.

P. Whitehead.

Westminster Abbey.

178

VERSES

On the Name, P. Whitehead, subscribed to the above Inscription, being removed thence some time after the Monument was erected.

O'er the Tombs as pale Envy was hov'ring around,
The Manes of each hallow'd Hero to wound;
On Argyle's, when she saw only Truth was related
Of Him, whom alive she most mortally hated,
And finding the record adopted by Fame,
In revenge to the Poet—she gnaw'd out his name.

179

VERSES

To the Memory of Mrs. Pritchard, who died August, 1761, aged 57.

Her Comic vein had ev'ry charm to please;
'Twas Nature's dictates breath'd with Nature's ease:
E'en when her pow'rs sustain'd the Tragic load,
Full, clear, and just, th' harmonious accents flow'd;
And the big passions of her feeling heart
Burst freely forth, and sham'd the Mimic Art.
Oft on the scene, with colours not her own,
She painted vice, and taught us what to shun.
One virtuous track her real life pursu'd,
That nobler part was uniformly good;
Each duty there to such perfection wrought,
That, if the precepts fail'd, th' example taught.

Westminster Abbey.

180

VERSES

To Mr. Brooke, on the Refusal of a Licence to his Play of Gustavus Vasa.

While Athens glory'd in her free-born race,
And Science flourish'd round her fav'rite place,
The Muse unfetter'd trod the Grecian Stage;
Free were her pinions, unrestrain'd her rage:
Bold and secure she aim'd the pointed dart,
And pour'd the precept poignant to the heart,
Till dire Dominion stretch'd her lawless sway,
And Athens' sons were destin'd to obey:
Then first the Stage a Licens'd Bondage knew,
And Tyrants quash'd the scene they fear'd to view:
Fair Freedom's voice no more was heard to charm,
Or Liberty the Attic audience warm.

181

Then fled the Muse, indignant, from the shore,
Nor deign'd to dwell where Freedom was no more:
Vain then, alas! she sought Britannia's isle,
Charm'd with her voice, and cheer'd us with her smile.
If Gallic laws her gen'rous flight restrain,
And bind her captive with th' ignoble chain;
Bold and unlicens'd, in Eliza's days,
Free flow'd her numbers, flourish'd fair her bays;
O'er Britain's Stage majestic, unconfin'd,
She tun'd her Patriot lessons to mankind;
For mighty Heroes ransack'd ev'ry age,
Then beam'd them glorious in her Shakespeare's page.

Shakespeare's no more!—lost was the Poet's name
Till Thou, my friend, my genius, sprung to Fame;
Lur'd by his laurel's never-fading bloom,
You boldly snatch'd the trophy from his tomb,
Taught the declining Muse again to soar,
And to Britannia gave one Poet more.

182

Pleas'd, in thy lays we see Gustavus live;
But, O Gustavus! if thou can'st, forgive.
Britons, more savage than the tyrant Dane,
Beneath whose yoke you drew the galling chain,
Degen'rate Britons, by thy worth dismay'd,
Prophane thy glories, and proscribe thy shade.

183

SONG.

As Granville's soft numbers tune Myra's just praise,
And Chloe shines lovely in Prior's sweet lays;
So, wou'd Daphne but smile, their example I'd follow,
And, as she looks like Venus, I'd sing like Apollo:
But, alas! while no smiles from the Fair-one inspire,
How languid my strains, and how tuneless my lyre!

Go, Zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair;
In gentlest murmurs my passion commend,
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend:
For sure, O ye Winds, you may tell her my pain;
'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.

Wherever I go, or whatever I do,
Still something presents the fair Nymph to my view.

184

If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose:
But with her neither lily nor rose can compare;
Far sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair.

If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove,
The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my Love;
The nightingale too, with impertinent noise,
Pours forth her sweet strains in my Syren's sweet voice:
Thus the grove and its music her image still brings;
For, like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings.

If, forsaking the groves, I fly to the court,
Where beauty and splendor united resort,
Some glimpse of my Fair in each charmer I spy,
In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright eye;
But, alas! what wou'd Brudenel or Richmond appear?
Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but there.

185

If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain,
And dwell over Horace, or Ovid's sweet strain;
In Lydia, or Chloe, my Daphne I find;
But Chloe was courteous, and Lydia was kind:
Like Lydia, or Chloe, wou'd Daphne but prove,
Like Horace, or Ovid, I'd sing and I'd love.

TO DR. SCHOMBERG, Of BATH.

To Schomberg quoth Death, “I your Patient will have:”
To Death replied Schomberg, “My Patient I'll save.”
Then Death seiz'd his arrow, the Doctor his pen,
And each wound the one gave, t'other heal'd it again;
'Till Death swore he never had met such defiance,
Since he and the College had been in alliance.

THE END.

University of Virginia Library

THE STATE DUNCES;

A SATIRE.

MANNERS;

A SATIRE.

THE GYMNASIAD, OR BOXING-MATCH;

A very Short, but very Curious EPIC POEM.

WITH THE PROLEGOMENA of SCRIBLERUS TERTIUS, AND NOTES VARIORUM.

BOOK I.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK II.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND BOOK.

BOOK III.

THE ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.

HONOUR:

A SATIRE.

AN EPISTLE TO DOCTOR THOMPSON.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

SONG, Addressed to the Ladies.

I

II

III

IV

A NEW OCCASIONAL SONG

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

SONG,

Sung by Mr. Beard in the Entertainment of Apollo and Daphne.

I

CHORUS.

II

III

IV

V

SONG,

Sung by Mr. Beard at the Annual Meeting of the President, Vice-Presidents, Governors, &c. of the London Hospital.

BALLAD.

A FRAGMENT

I

II

VERSES

Occasioned by Lady Pomfret's Present of some Antique Statues to Oxford, the Streets whereof were foolishly said to be paved with Jacobites.

TO DR. KING.

THE BUTTERFLY AND BEE.

VERSES,

Dropt in Mr. Garrick's Temple of Shakespeare.

CUPID BAFFLED.

VERSES

On the Death of the truly Patriot Prince, Frederick; who died March 30, 1751, aged 43.

EXTEMPORE on hearing of Mr. Pope's Death.

DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. Powell, at the Opening of the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden, on Monday, Sept. 14, 1767.

VERSES

On converting the Chapel to a Kitchen, at the Seat of the Lord Donnerayle, called The Grove, in Hertfordshire.

VERSES

On the Duke of Cumberland's Victory at Culloden, in the Year 1746.

VERSES

Inscribed on a Monument called The Tomb of Care, in the Garden of the late John Rich, Esq. at Cowley, in Middlesex; whereon three beautiful Boys are covering a funeral Urn with a Veil of Flowers.

THE EPITAPH

(In Letters of Brass, inserted by a female Figure representing History) on a Marble Pyramid of the Monument of JOHN, Duke of ARGYLE.

VERSES

On the Name, P. Whitehead, subscribed to the above Inscription, being removed thence some time after the Monument was erected.

VERSES

To the Memory of Mrs. Pritchard, who died August, 1761, aged 57.

VERSES

To Mr. Brooke, on the Refusal of a Licence to his Play of Gustavus Vasa.

SONG.

TO DR. SCHOMBERG, Of BATH.