The Battiad :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Battiad

[by Moses Mendez]

Mendez, Moses

[section]

THE BATTIAD.

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THE BATTIAD.

CANTO the First.

Awake, my Muse, whate'er thy Name may be,
Or sprung from heav'nly seed, or low degree,
Whether thou equal'st Garth's majestic rage,
Or crawl'st, like Blackmore, thro' the drowsy Page,
Much it imports the Bus'ness to explain
That shook the puny state of Warwick-Lane;
Then, thrice-invok'd, expand thy raven's wing,
Vast is the task, for thou hast much to sing.

Great Rock, to thee I dedicate my lays;
Tho' no Degree thy equal merit raise,
Yet shall your skill to latest times indure,
Like Graduates oft you kill, like them you sometimes cure.

'Twas now the day when Fellows, Fellows meet,
To talk of weighty matters, then to eat;
Mean while the Patient, from his tyrant free,
Inhales fresh health, and lives without a Fee.

First BATTUS came, deep-read in worldly art,
Whose tongue ne'er knew the secrets of his heart;
In mischief mighty, tho' but mean of size,
And, like the Tempter, ever in disguise.

See him with aspect grave, and gentle tread,
By slow degrees, approach the sickly bed:
Then at his Club behold him alter'd soon,
The solemn Doctor turns a low Buffoon:
And he, who lately in a learned freak
Poach'd ev'ry Lexicon, and publish'd Greek,
Still madly emulous of vulgar Praise,
From Punch's forehead wrings the dirty bays.

But who is that whose gogling Eye-balls scowl,
Like the full Orbs of the Cecropian fowl?
Hail, POCUS, Hail!—Ye Midwives, sound his fame!
Ye Nurses, sing in Lullabies his Name!
'Tis his to ease from pangs the lab'ring wife,
And tug the little Offspring into life.

As blind Tiresias, on a luckless day,
Lost his first Sex, as antient Poets say;
So purring POCUS, once scarce known to fame,
Of an unskilful Leach, a Matron grave became.

Him Granta saw, and bade her learned Vest
Bind his broad Shoulders, and embrace his Chest;
Yet never quaff'd he of her sacred stream,
No Muse inspiring waits his morning dream.
The Scarlet Robe its heavy Wearer mocks;
So sits a Racer's Saddle on an Ox.

As he pass'd by, a num'rous tribe succeeds,
Thick as in standing corn the purple weeds;
Names you could hardly think did e'er exist,
But that you see them in the College List.

Slow-footed Ad**ms hobbled in the throng,
And D**d, a Giant Spectre, slouch'd along;
Then Br**n march'd onward, deep in physic leer,
And chatt'ring Ch**n*y wriggled in the rear.

Each Æsculapian Sage assumes his seat,
When BATTUS thus forestalls the promis'd treat.

“Ere yet we on the choicest viands dine,
“Ere the deep glass be dy'd with gen'rous wine,
“Think, think my friends, what mischiefs threat our State,
“Now Ruin perches on our College-gate;
“There Graduate Schomberg for his answer stands,
“Examin'd thrice, his ent'rance loud demands:

“But by yon Pile, where on the chissel'd stone
“The well-wrought Madman seems to live and groan,
“Where on clean straw, sequester'd in {their Cells},
“The Patriot, Sage, and Bard immortal dwells,
“I swear, my soul detests the hated league,
“And Hell, if Heav'n should fail, shall second my Intrigue.

“Sooner shall rivers to their springs return,
“Or Warwick-Lane at sickly seasons mourn;
“Sooner shall roses bloom upon the main,
“Fish sport in woods, nay I turn Whig again;
“Than Schomberg in our College find a place:
“This interdicting hand shall crush his race;

“What tho' he claim admittance as his right,
“The pow'r of numbers makes a raven white.

“Our Alma-Mater shall in vain protest,
“'Tis mine to make her bow her haughty crest;
“Down, down with Cam and Isis rev'rend schools,
“Shall we proceed on dull exploded rules?
“Now welcome those on Leman's banks who feed,
“The fat Batavian, and the Sons of Tweed;
“These in full swarms shall all our College fill,
“And claim an equal privilege to kill;
“While I superior to the rest shall sit,
“A Lect'rer, Mimic, Editor, and Wit.

“Nor ask what cause inflames my stubborn hate,
“My settled purpose is as fix'd as Fate;
“Reject our Claimant, nor his threat'nings fear,
“OURSELF thro' Law's wild maze will guide you clear
“'Till ev'ry Court my deep address shall own;
“What!—are your BATTUS' arts so little known?”

He said, and paus'd; the Midwife rear'd his size,
Rolling from side to side his Ox-like eyes;
And while the scarlet Heroes he address'd,
Thick eructations half his speech suppress'd.

“By Ædepol, my BATTUS, here I swear,
“I undismay'd with thee will greatly dare,

“With thee I'll misinterpret, meanings strain,
“Or wade thro' miry roads of deep chicane.
“As Hounds together in one couple ty'd,
“As Pope and Devil sitting side by side,
“As Mountebank and quaint Jack-Pudding join,
“So ever mix thy friendly name with mine.

“Nor think I've idly slept, you know my trade
“Is Nature's dark recesses to invade;
“Thro' alleys groping, lo! I set to view
“The affidavit of an half-starv'd Jew;
“And did not I my critic skill display?
“See my epistle upon O and A.

“Man, haughty Man, indebted to the Brutes,
“Assumes that name which best his nature suits;
“Heroes are Lions in an human shape,
“A Fox the Statesman, and the Beau an Ape;
“Then, to reward the yearnings of my soul,
“Salute your Midwife by the name of Mole.

“Nor think I'll ever from your banners fly,
“I Schomberg hate, nor know the reason why:
“Perhaps too oft his busy Sire I meet,
“That cursed chariot rolls thro' ev'ry street;

“Perhaps—I know not what inflames my rage,
“But youthful ardor thaws my frozen age;
“Sleepless I lye, I foam, I toss, I rave,
“Mad as the Priestess in Apollo's cave.

“Let Heberden his views by truth direct,
“Let Reeve oppose, an obstinate Elect;
“Let Leatherland be stubborn to his trust,
“Faint-hearted wretch, who dares not be unjust;
“Ourselves sit here above the dread of law,
“Each pow'rful Fellow is a grim Bashaw;
“Tho' when from hence he drives his painted wain,
“He shrinks into his Nothingness again.

“Then hear your POCUS, my Associates dear,
“Drive Schomberg hence, nor yield to idle fear.
“So Child's and Batson's shall your triumphs tell,
“And ev'ry Parish toll her Passing-Bell.
“Then, gentle Brethren, give your kind assent.”
He ceas'd, the Rabble roar'd, “content, content.”

Loud was the din—Thus prouling out for food
The cackling mother leads the waddling brood;
If ought disturb them, all together cry,
And the hoarse clangor echoes thro' the sky;
Goose answers goose with dissonance of voice,
And Sarum's steeples catch the grating noise.

The End of the First Canto.

The epithet swift-footed given to Achilles, who was famous for slaying Mankind, is, by being reversed, a most high compliment on the Learned Gentleman to whom it is applied.

The Editor is in doubt with himself whether it should not be Wig; for Battus is as apt to turn his wig for the entertainment of his company, as his coat for his own private emolument.

An epithet that so much exalted the beauty of Homer's Juno, must no doubt pass an high compliment on the grace of feature of our incomparable Midwife.

It was the custom of the Roman Ladies to swear by Castor, as the Men did by Hercules. And asseveration by the Temple of Pollux was made use of by both sexes, and therefore aptly put in the mouth of the Midwife.

Pocus, by his great skill in the occult sciences, found out a Jew in a certain corner of the town, and got him to make an affidavit that Schomberg was born abroad; which was true in fact, for he never saw England 'till he was two or three years old; and, in consequence of not being a native, was incapable of being admitted Fellow, at least this was the joint opinion of Battus and Pocus.

While Schomberg was carrying on his bill of Naturalization, an anonymous letter was written to the Sp---r of the H---e of C---mm---ns, purporting that Schomberg intended to impose upon the Par---t, for whereas he of late spelt his name with an O, he, or his father, used formerly to write it with an A. The Midwife is, for many reasons, suspected to be the author of this letter, for, among others, two witnesses are ready to depose upon oath that he can write.

CANTO the Second.

O thou, great Chief of Physic and Grimace,
Thou modern Janus with a double Face!
Tho' long detain'd, behold me once again;
Unbid, your Poet mingles in your Train.
From when the Lark salutes the rising Ray,
'Till the fell Owl at Evening scours for Prey,
I'll pay the Tribute to thy Worth sublime
In all the vast Varieties of Rhyme:
Nor think to make your Harlequin Escapes;
Know, I will hunt you thro' your Proteus' Shapes;
Whig, Jack, or Tory, change to what you will,
Believe me, BATTUS, I will hold you still.

When Art, oppress'd, gives way to Pique or Gain,
Where are the Chiefs that shou'd her Cause sustain?
Where slumbers MEAD, when Truth and Justice calls?
Like them, he flies the hated C**ll**ge Walls.
Rise from thy Trance, thou venerable Sage,
Avenge the Wrong'd, and dignify thy Age;

So shall my Muse, tho' little us'd to soar,
Add to thy Wreaths one humble Laurel more.
But see—the Banquet smoaks upon the Board;
How hard the Task its Honours to record!
Else might a Bard, well-vers'd in Eating Phrase,
His Numbers polish, swell his dainty Lays;
'Till the huge M**k**y shou'd commend each Line,
Lick his thick Lips, and cry, “'tis all divine.”

Yet not unsung must be the Forest's Pride;
An hundred Knives are bury'd in his Side;
The gashing Blades descending Crimson streaks,
Gaunt Terror whitens ev'ry Sage's Cheeks:
In Sign of Wrath, their wrinkl'd Brows they draw,
And mutter feebly, “oh! 'tis raw, 'tis raw.”

All for a While is silent as the Tomb,
Save the hoarse Rumbling of Dame POCUS' Womb.

Now shift the Scene, to Bacchus raise the Song;
Curious in Drinking is the Scarlet Throng.
The Toasts are nam'd, and round they quickly pass;
Champaign's rich Grape bounds sparkling o'er the Glass;
In deeper Tints Burgundian Nectar glows,
Rival of Beauty's Cheek, and Summer's Rose:
From Breast to Breast unusual Pleasure runs,
And Comus hollows to his laughing Sons:
Each told his Tale, and won th'approving Smile,
When to the rest thus spoke the Man of Guile.

“Behold, my Friends, what this right Hand contains,
“See this dear Offspring of my fertile Brains;
“A new LYCURGUS in your BATTUS find,
“A little CZAR! 'tis mine to mend Mankind;
“Nor think I idly float on Thames's Wave,
“From Poachers Hands the scaly Herd to save;
“Think not in Bow'rs fast by her Silver Spring
“I rust in Ease, and lyrick Measures sing:
“No, Brethren, no; this Volume you behold
“(Dear as to Misers Bosoms treasur'd Gold)
“Teems with deep Plots, built up on Counsels sage:
“This little Quarto's worth the Sybil's Page.

“Who pulls the Blossom from the vernal Shoot,
“Shall ne'er in Autumn taste the ripen'd Fruit.
“Secrets too soon divulg'd are render'd vain,
“As Pieces over-charg'd recoil again;
“Else to such Friends, I'd ev'ry Thought disclose,
“And hold at nought the MEAD's and the MONRO's.”

He ceas'd and bow'd; around the Bottles pass,
And the gay Doctors bumper ev'ry Glass,
Save BATTUS' self, who ever shunn'd to taste
The genial Liquor at the rich Repast.
Designing Gamesters thus, intent on Prey,
Set on the heedless Rook, but never play.

The Midwife slung his Wig, grew wond'rous wife,
And the Grape's Dew came drizzling thro' his Eyes,

His sallow Face impurpl'd o'er with Wine
Look'd Mother Red-cap on a Country Sign:
And thus he mumbl'd in his BATTUS' Ear;

“Thy Views I reach not, yet I shake with Fear;
“For from a Friend endu'd with second Sight,
“And prompted by the Visions of the Night,
“These Accents broke”—“‘I feel my Breast on fire
“‘And utter Truths: Retire, Profane, retire,
“‘See mighty Legions rushing to the War,
“‘Their burnish'd Armour glitters from afar;
“‘And now their floating Banners they unfold,
“‘The Names of CAM and ISIS glare in Gold:
“‘Our nerveless Squadrons from their Fury run,
“‘So Birds of Night avoid the piercing Sun;
“‘While BATTUS, POCUS, by their Friends forlorn,
“‘Contention's Twins, are doom'd to endless Scorn;
“‘Maids, Wives, and Children, hoot them ev'ry where,
“‘And Ballads sing the disappointed Pair;
“‘Ev'n Farthing Pictures shew, in Postures quaint,
“‘Th'affected Patriot, and obstetric Saint.’”

Sly BATTUS sneer'd, and turn'd his Head aside,
Then, whisp'ring to LUCINA's Priest, replied;

“The Village Lad is rough and free from Art,
“The Courtier easy, and the 'Prentice smart.
“We draw from Friends the Colour of our Life;
“And thou, Companion to each teeming Wife,

“Must from the Sex the soft Infection bear,
“Of dreading Danger when no Peril's near.
“Think not my Hopes are built on idle Schemes,
“I deal, my Friend, in no Prophetic Dreams:
“But in a certain Place there dwells a Wight,
“Perhaps a Doctor, and perhaps a Knight;
“Who, taught by Prudence, deep from View retires,
“Skulks 'twixt the Scenes, and pulls your Punch's Wires.

Thus BATTUS, cautious not too much to say,
For shallow Praters ev'ry Scheme betray.
The nicest Workmen handle different Tools,
And Politicians want both Knaves and Fools;
The Wise like biting Faulchions we may use,
Blockheads like Cudgels serve to bang and bruise.

So, when the Thirst of Fame the Chieftain calls,
To set his Legions round be-leaguer'd Walls;
Small Use, or none, the martial Pike affords,
And Bullets there are wanted more than Swords.

Shall I relate how some, with Aspect wise,
Talk'd for whole Hours of Moths and Butterflies?
How some their Ardour for Virtù profess,
And clasp mild Dulness, in fair Learning's Dress;
Who purchase Coins if there be Rust enough,
Where hood-wink'd Knowledge plays at Blindman's-buff?
Or shall I tell how BATTUS debonnair,
Skrew'd up his Face, and frisk'd from Chair to Chair?

Not wanton Pug was ever seen so gay,
So full of Mischief, and so full of Play.

“This Night, he cry'd, in Jollity maintain!
“To-morrow Business shall resume the Rein;
“Exhaust the Bottle, drain the mantling Bowl,
“Till the Legs totter, and the Eye-balls roll;
“Such gen'rous Juice shall ev'ry Thought refine,
“Make the Grave sportful, and the Blockhead shine.”

More had he said, but Somnus wav'd his Rod,
And ev'ry Sage confess'd the drowsy God;
With lengthen'd Faces yawning they retreat,
Sated with Converse, and Excess of Meat.
On to the Door the slow Procession past;
Dame POCUS waddl'd first, and BATTUS bounded last.

Thus, when pale Cynthia gilds the placid Sphere,
The Fowls to Wisdom and to Dulness dear
On nimble Wing thro' Air's vast Region fly,
Hoot in Disport, and gambol thro' the Sky:
But, when the Delian Virgin blunts her Horn,
And Lucifer awakes the rosy Morn,
The fateful Birds avoid the blazing Ray,
And pass in grave Stupidity the Day.

A While farewel, ye Seers of Warwick-Lane;
Soon I propose to visit you again,
On ev'ry Shrine new Trophies shall be hung
To Thee, great Master of the double Tongue.

The End of the Second Canto.