An Heroic Postscript to the Public Occasioned by their favourable Reception of a late heroic epistle To Sir William Chambers, Knt. &c. By the author of that epistle [i.e.William Mason]. The eighth edition |
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 | An Heroic Postscript to the Public |  |
5
AN HEROIC POSTSCRIPT TO THE PUBLIC.
I that of late
Sir William's Bard, and Squire,
March'd with his helm and buckler on my lyre,
(What time the Knight prick'd forth in ill-starr'd haste,
Comptroller General of the works of taste, )
Now to the Public tune my grateful lays,
Warm'd with the sun-shine of the Public praise;
Warm'd too with mem'ry of that golden time,
When Almon gave me reason for my rhyme;
--- glittering orbs, and, what endear'd them more,
Each glittering orb the sacred features bore
Of George the good, the gracious, and the great,
Unfil'd, unsweated, all of sterling weight;
Or, were they not, they pass'd with current ease,
Good seemings then were good realities:
No Senate had convey'd, by smuggling art,
Pow'r to the mob to play Cadogan's part ;
Now, thro' the land, that impious pow'r prevails,
All weigh their Sov'reign in their private scales,
And find him wanting
: all save me alone,
For, sad to say! my glittering orbs are gone.
But ill beseems a Poet to repent,
Lightly they came, and full as lightly went.
Peace to their manes! may they never feel
Some keen Scotch banker's unrelenting steel;
While I again the Muse's sickle bring
To cut down Dunces, wheresoe'er they spring,
Bind in poetic sheaves the plenteous crop,
And stack my full-ear'd load in Almon's shop.
For now, my Muse, thy fame is fixt as fate,
Tremble ye Fools I scorn, ye Knaves I hate;
I know the vigour of thy eagle wings,
I know thy strains can pierce the ear of Kings.
Did China's monarch here in Britain doze,
And was, like western Kings, a King of Prose ,
Thy song could cure his Asiatic spleen,
And make him wish to see and to be seen;
That solemn vein of irony so fine,
Which, e'en Reviewers own, adorns thy line,
Would make him soon against his greatness sin,
Desert his sofa, mount his palanquin,
And post where'er the Goddess led the way,
Perchance to proud Spithead's imperial bay;
There should he see , as other folks have seen,
That ships have anchors, and that seas are green,
Should own the tackling trim, the streamers fine,
With Sandwich prattle, and with Bradshaw dine,
And then sail back, amid the cannon's roar,
As safe, as sage, as when he left the shore.
March'd with his helm and buckler on my lyre,
(What time the Knight prick'd forth in ill-starr'd haste,
Comptroller General of the works of taste, )
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Warm'd with the sun-shine of the Public praise;
Warm'd too with mem'ry of that golden time,
When Almon gave me reason for my rhyme;
--- glittering orbs, and, what endear'd them more,
Each glittering orb the sacred features bore
Of George the good, the gracious, and the great,
Unfil'd, unsweated, all of sterling weight;
Or, were they not, they pass'd with current ease,
Good seemings then were good realities:
No Senate had convey'd, by smuggling art,
Pow'r to the mob to play Cadogan's part ;
Now, thro' the land, that impious pow'r prevails,
All weigh their Sov'reign in their private scales,
7
For, sad to say! my glittering orbs are gone.
But ill beseems a Poet to repent,
Lightly they came, and full as lightly went.
Peace to their manes! may they never feel
Some keen Scotch banker's unrelenting steel;
While I again the Muse's sickle bring
To cut down Dunces, wheresoe'er they spring,
Bind in poetic sheaves the plenteous crop,
And stack my full-ear'd load in Almon's shop.
For now, my Muse, thy fame is fixt as fate,
Tremble ye Fools I scorn, ye Knaves I hate;
I know the vigour of thy eagle wings,
I know thy strains can pierce the ear of Kings.
8
And was, like western Kings, a King of Prose ,
Thy song could cure his Asiatic spleen,
And make him wish to see and to be seen;
That solemn vein of irony so fine,
Which, e'en Reviewers own, adorns thy line,
9
Desert his sofa, mount his palanquin,
And post where'er the Goddess led the way,
Perchance to proud Spithead's imperial bay;
There should he see , as other folks have seen,
That ships have anchors, and that seas are green,
Should own the tackling trim, the streamers fine,
With Sandwich prattle, and with Bradshaw dine,
And then sail back, amid the cannon's roar,
As safe, as sage, as when he left the shore.
Such is thy pow'r, O Goddess of the song,
Come then and guide my careless pen along;
Yet keep it in the bounds of sense and verse,
Nor, like Mac-Homer , make me gabble Erse.
No, let the flow of these spontaneous' rhymes
So truly touch the temper of the times,
That he who runs may read; while well he knows
I write in metre, what he thinks in prose;
So shall my song, undisciplin'd by art,
Find a sure patron in each English heart.
If this it's fate, let all the frippery things
Be-plac'd, be-pension'd, and be-starr'd by Kings,
Frown on the page, and with fastidious eye,
Like old young Fannius , call it blasphemy.
Let these prefer a levee's harmless talk,
Be ask'd how often, and how far they walk,
Proud of a single word, nor hope for more,
Tho' Jenkinson is blest with many a score:
For other ears my honest numbers sound,
With other praise those numbers shall be crown'd,
Praise that shall spread, no pow'r can make it less,
While Britain boasts the bulwark of her press.
Yes, sons of freedom! yes, to whom I pay,
Warm from the heart, this tributary lay;
That lay shall live, tho' Court and Grub-street sigh,
Your young Marcellus was not born to die.
The Muse shall nurse him up to man's estate,
And break the black asperity of fate —
Admit him then your candidate for fame,
Pleas'd if in your review he read his name,
Tho' not with Mason and with Goldsmith put,
Yet cheek by jowl with Garrick, Colman, Foote;
But if with higher Bards that name you range,
His modesty must think your judgment strange—
So when o'er Crane-Court's philosophic Gods,
The Jove-like majesty of Pringle nods,
If e'er he chance to wake on Newton's chair,
He “wonders how the devil he came there.”
Come then and guide my careless pen along;
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Nor, like Mac-Homer , make me gabble Erse.
No, let the flow of these spontaneous' rhymes
So truly touch the temper of the times,
That he who runs may read; while well he knows
I write in metre, what he thinks in prose;
So shall my song, undisciplin'd by art,
Find a sure patron in each English heart.
If this it's fate, let all the frippery things
Be-plac'd, be-pension'd, and be-starr'd by Kings,
Frown on the page, and with fastidious eye,
Like old young Fannius , call it blasphemy.
11
Be ask'd how often, and how far they walk,
Proud of a single word, nor hope for more,
Tho' Jenkinson is blest with many a score:
For other ears my honest numbers sound,
With other praise those numbers shall be crown'd,
Praise that shall spread, no pow'r can make it less,
While Britain boasts the bulwark of her press.
Yes, sons of freedom! yes, to whom I pay,
Warm from the heart, this tributary lay;
12
Your young Marcellus was not born to die.
The Muse shall nurse him up to man's estate,
And break the black asperity of fate —
Admit him then your candidate for fame,
Pleas'd if in your review he read his name,
Tho' not with Mason and with Goldsmith put,
Yet cheek by jowl with Garrick, Colman, Foote;
But if with higher Bards that name you range,
His modesty must think your judgment strange—
13
The Jove-like majesty of Pringle nods,
If e'er he chance to wake on Newton's chair,
He “wonders how the devil he came there.”
Whate'er his fame or fate, on this depend;
He is, and means to be his country's friend.
'Tis but to try his strength that now he sports
With Chinese gardens, and with Chinese courts:
But if that country claim a graver strain,
If real danger threat fair Freedom's reign,
If hireling P**rs, in prostitution bold,
Sell her as cheaply as themselves they sold;
Or they, who honour'd by the People's choice,
Against that People lift their rebel voice,
And, basely crouching for their paltry pay,
Vote the best birthright of her sons away,
Permit a nation's in-born wealth to fly
In mean, unkingly prodigality;
Nor, e'er they give, ask how the sums were spent,
So quickly squander'd, tho' so lately lent—
If this they dare; the thunder of his song,
Rolling in deep-ton'd energy along,
Shall strike, with Truth's dread bolt, each miscreant's name,
Who, dead to duty, senseless e'en to shame
Betray'd his country. Yes, ye faithless crew,
His Muse's vengeance shall your crimes pursue,
Stretch you on satire's rack, and bid you lie
Fit garbage for the hell-hound, Infamy.
He is, and means to be his country's friend.
'Tis but to try his strength that now he sports
With Chinese gardens, and with Chinese courts:
But if that country claim a graver strain,
If real danger threat fair Freedom's reign,
If hireling P**rs, in prostitution bold,
Sell her as cheaply as themselves they sold;
Or they, who honour'd by the People's choice,
Against that People lift their rebel voice,
And, basely crouching for their paltry pay,
Vote the best birthright of her sons away,
14
In mean, unkingly prodigality;
Nor, e'er they give, ask how the sums were spent,
So quickly squander'd, tho' so lately lent—
If this they dare; the thunder of his song,
Rolling in deep-ton'd energy along,
Shall strike, with Truth's dread bolt, each miscreant's name,
Who, dead to duty, senseless e'en to shame
Betray'd his country. Yes, ye faithless crew,
His Muse's vengeance shall your crimes pursue,
Stretch you on satire's rack, and bid you lie
Fit garbage for the hell-hound, Infamy.
FINIS.
Kien-Long, the present Emperor of China is a poet. M. de Voltaire did him the honour to treat him as a brother above two years ago; and my late patron, Sir William Chambers, has given a fine and most intelligible prose version of an ode of his Majesty upon tea, in his postscript to his Dissertation. I am, however, vain enough to think, that the Emperor's composition would have appeared still better in my heroic verse; but Sir William forestalled it; on which account I have entirely broke with him.
“A fine vein of solemn irony runs through this piece.” See Monthly Review, under the article of the Heroic Epistle to Sir William Chambers.
A certain naval event happened just about two calendar months after the publication of the Heroic Epistle. 'Twas impossible, considering the necessary preparations, it could have been sooner. Facts are stubborn things.
| An Heroic Postscript to the Public | |