Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

To the fam'd Sons of Isis Apollo of late
Came down from the Skies in Poetical State;
His Harp and his Fiddle hung loose at his Back,
Just so as a Pedlar would carry his Pack:
And to shew that the God was to Women inclin'd,
Nine pretty, tight Damsels came tripping behind.
But what came he for? (quoth a Friend that is near)
Have Patience, Good Sr.? and in Time you shall hear.

205

You must know then, a vacant Preferment was made,
And who was to have it, but one of the Trade?
Upon this, Sr. Apollo was call'd for in Haste,
To summon the Brethren and fill up the Place;
A Summons he call'd by a long-sided Dame,
Who (if I'm not mistaken) Dan Virgil calls Fame.

Whilst Fame was a-blowing her Trumpet so loud,
To the Court there came flocking a numerous Croud,
Not half such a Tribe run to Theatre-Speeches,
Or croud at St. Mary's when C---re preaches.

Apollo began now to be in a Sweat,
And complain'd, that he almost was stifl'd with Heat;
Upon which (says a Bard, that had shoulder'd along,
As fierce as a Beef-Eater, quite thro' the Throng,)

206

One would think, Sr! that you could not well disapprove
Of the Heat, since you feel it so often above.
The God made no Answer, but turning to Fame,
Prithee! who is this Coxcomb! and what is his Name?
His Name, Sr! is V---ne; and pray, what can he do?
For to Me he seems Something quite foreign and new,
As to outward Appearance he's far from a Poet,
Or rather, I think, like a Thing, that has no Wit;
Why sure he don't think to come in for this Place,
I don't see one Promising Sign in his Face:
Oh! Sr! replies Fame, he's the best of the Clan
For singing or writing a bonny Scots Sang.
The Poetical Loon, who stood by all the while,
Presented his Lays to the God with a Smile:
The God soon return'd 'em, and told him, he thought
They might pass pretty well there, from whence they were brought,

207

But he vow'd and protested, he couldn't in Conscience
Make him a Professour, who wrote so much Nonsense.
But harkee! says he, prithee! don't be dejected,
And think you're dealt hard by, because you're rejected;
Here's a good Laurel-Staff, to make you amends,
And as you're a Stout Fellow, you know, (between Friends)
Prithee! step to yon Door, and keep out the Croud,
And you shall have for your Pains, something more than's allow'd.

Little H---e came the next, with an arrogant Face,
As thinking himself Cock-sure of the Place;
Apollo soon knew him, and check'd his Career
By asking, how he could in Conscience appear,

208

In Hopes of Succeeding as Heir to the Bays,
Who by his own Poems had got so much Praise.

Upon this, up came B---d, and laid in his Claim,
Not dreaming, that e'er he should miss of his Aim;
But Apollo protested, he thought him too Gay
For such an Employment, and bid him away,
For he shew'd his Parts best at th' Assembly and Play.

P---tt observ'd with Concern the two others rejected,
And could not forbear being sorely dejected.
The God was so took with his modest Behaviour,
That he talk'd to him much, and much in his Favour,
And told him, that such a Place he would not need
For he fanci'd, that soon he would better succeed.

The next that appear'd, was a Bard of great Fame
Who presented some Verses with Fe---y's Name

209

Oho! says Apollo, This here, I'm affraid, is,
The very same Person, that libell'd the Ladies;
'Tis the Same, you are sure, says Fame, without Doubt,
I remember the Verses when first they came out.
What a Pother and Rout the Girls made at that Time,
That their Beauty should fade so sudden in Rhime?
The Lady was angry, her Beau soon turn'd Poet,
And fir'd with Resentment, he scribbled to shew it.
Well then, says Apollo, since thus the Case stands,
I cannot, I dare not, Sr! grant your Demands;
For, I must confess, I bear so much Regard
To the Ladies, I would not prefer any Bard,
Who had injur'd the Sex (whatsoe'er be the Cause)
And besides, 'tis against the Poetical Laws.

When he was dismiss'd, J---es, a Bard of Renown,
Esteem'd a bright Genius all over the Town!

210

His Highness accosted, and hop'd he wou'd give it
To Him, who with Thanks should be glad to recieve it;
To whom with a Smile his Godship repli'd,
You'll excuse me, I hope, Sr. if once you're deni'd,
For pray, let me tell you, I never bestow it
On One, whom I know is my Equal as Poet.

As H---ds soon after was going to shew
His Credentials, the God cry'd, I very well know,
That you have neglected the Muses of late,
For Employments more serious, the Church and the State,
And He, that is too much Intent on Divinity,
I am sure, to the Muse has but little Affinity.

As thus they were talking, Apollo espi'd
A Fellow come sneaking up close to his side,
Who is This? (says the God, upon turning to Fame)
He's but of small Note, Sr! and Woodward's his Name:

211

Well Sr! says his Highness, what have you for to say?
I suppose you are come too to stand here to day;
Yes Sr! (quoth the Bard with a Cringe) by your Leave,
Very proud Sr!—I hope, your Highness will give—
When the God read his Lays, (which he lugg'd from his Pocket)
What Stuff is all this? says he, go, for a Blockhead:
You Professour! you shall; your Pretensions resign,
Thou'rt no more of a Poet, than thou art a Divine.

The next that appear'd, was One of great Fame,
A Lady of Beauty, and J---nes was her Name;
With a modest Behaviour she offer'd her Lays,
And hop'd, that Apollo, would give her the Bays;
His Highness beheld her with Pain and Surprise,
And swore by her Dimples and sparkling, bright Eyes,

212

That was it e'er granted to Females before,
There was none of 'em all, that e'er merited more;
But Women-Professours were out of Date grown,
And was now such a Thing, as never was known,
And since her Renown was Superiour to Others,
He hop'd, she'd resign it to One of her Brothers.

His Highness being tir'd and fatigu'd out at last
With the Tribes, that came flocking about him so fast,
Call'd out to One Sp---e, who was gaping about,
Ne'er dreaming of this, in the midst of the Rout,
And told him, 'twas thought most convenient and fitt,
That He should be made the Professor of Witt;
Not for stealing from Him what was none of his own,
But contriving it so, that it never was known.

213

Then his Godship declar'd, that the Critique was His:
The Trumpet was blow'd, and the Court was dismiss'd.

His Critical Essay on Pope's Odyssey.