An Epistle from the Reverend William M---n to the Right Hon. William Pitt Chancellor of the Exchequer; Petitioning for the vacant Laureateship [by Richard Polwhele] |
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 | An Epistle from the Reverend William M---n to the Right Hon. William Pitt |  |
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The inverted Commas in this and the following Pages mark my Quotations from my own Works. A Precaution I thought it necessary to take, to preclude the Charge of Sui-Plagiarism.
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EPISTLE, &c.
Son of that awful Peer, whom Britain plac'd
To reign proud Master of the Subject Waste,
Hear, Son of Chatham (if perchance thine Ears
Drink other Homage than of new-made Peers)
O whether fervid in Ierne's Cause,
Or fir'd with Images of Indian Laws—
Or whether (by thy Foes misdeem'd lukewarm)
Rising, the mighty Fountain of Reform,
Thou roll'st, full many an Hour, o'er all the Throng
The wide-o'erwhelming Torrent of thy Tongue—
O hear a Bard, by no wild Wishes sway'd,
The pensive Bard of “A---n's secret Shade,”
Who, crown'd with no fair Meed, drags Life along,
The Jest of Fools, that parodied his Song;
And Butt of pilf'ring Booksellers, that cite,
Yet not unpunish'd! from his Copy-Right.
To reign proud Master of the Subject Waste,
Hear, Son of Chatham (if perchance thine Ears
Drink other Homage than of new-made Peers)
O whether fervid in Ierne's Cause,
Or fir'd with Images of Indian Laws—
Or whether (by thy Foes misdeem'd lukewarm)
Rising, the mighty Fountain of Reform,
Thou roll'st, full many an Hour, o'er all the Throng
The wide-o'erwhelming Torrent of thy Tongue—
O hear a Bard, by no wild Wishes sway'd,
The pensive Bard of “A---n's secret Shade,”
Who, crown'd with no fair Meed, drags Life along,
The Jest of Fools, that parodied his Song;
And Butt of pilf'ring Booksellers, that cite,
Yet not unpunish'd! from his Copy-Right.
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But ah! I never knew, like some, to fawn—
Like some, now strutting in the Prelate's Lawn;
Not that I envy their proud Pageantry,
For I, like Balguy, would have scorn'd a See;
Content, while Harpies tear Britannia's Breast,
“While cringing Bishops bow and bless the Feast,”
Here, in these Shades, to woo the favoring Nine,
“'Midst huddling Brooks, and Torrent-falls divine.”
Yet oft, when Memory to sad Thought pourtrays
The Picture of irrevocable Days,
Where Hurd and D'Arcy bore so lov'd a Part,
The fond Admirers of my tuneful Art,—
Alas! full oft I feel the rising Sigh,
When Hurd, who once could flatter, now looks shy;
And still—still more embitter'd my Distress,
To lose my once-warm Patron, Holdernesse!
Oh that my Gray were still alive to raise
The pealing Anthem of his M---n's Praise;
For long we chanted, true to Friendship's Cause,
Responses of reciprocal Applause.
And tho' I covet (with few Years to live)
No Pleasures, that the Pomp of Life can give—
And “for the World's Applause,” ingenuous Boy!
“My Years mature have learnt to slight the Toy”—
Ah, Truth yet owns, my Heart's quick Pulses beat
To share the dear Caresses of the Great!
Like some, now strutting in the Prelate's Lawn;
Not that I envy their proud Pageantry,
For I, like Balguy, would have scorn'd a See;
Content, while Harpies tear Britannia's Breast,
“While cringing Bishops bow and bless the Feast,”
Here, in these Shades, to woo the favoring Nine,
“'Midst huddling Brooks, and Torrent-falls divine.”
Yet oft, when Memory to sad Thought pourtrays
The Picture of irrevocable Days,
Where Hurd and D'Arcy bore so lov'd a Part,
The fond Admirers of my tuneful Art,—
Alas! full oft I feel the rising Sigh,
When Hurd, who once could flatter, now looks shy;
And still—still more embitter'd my Distress,
To lose my once-warm Patron, Holdernesse!
Oh that my Gray were still alive to raise
The pealing Anthem of his M---n's Praise;
For long we chanted, true to Friendship's Cause,
Responses of reciprocal Applause.
And tho' I covet (with few Years to live)
No Pleasures, that the Pomp of Life can give—
And “for the World's Applause,” ingenuous Boy!
“My Years mature have learnt to slight the Toy”—
Ah, Truth yet owns, my Heart's quick Pulses beat
To share the dear Caresses of the Great!
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But why thus preface? Can I fear, my Muse,
To ope, no vain Petitioner, thy Views—
Blest as thou wert, thy richest Rhymes to sing
To the deep Murmurs of the plausive String,
And mid the Transport of thy Sybil Fit
Purchase, for D'Arcy's Frowns, the Smiles of Pitt?
To ope, no vain Petitioner, thy Views—
Blest as thou wert, thy richest Rhymes to sing
To the deep Murmurs of the plausive String,
And mid the Transport of thy Sybil Fit
Purchase, for D'Arcy's Frowns, the Smiles of Pitt?
Come then, my Muse, and e'en aspire to fill
The brightest Station of the Aonian Hill—
Come, with the high Distinction flush'd, presume
To light anew the Laureate's blasted Bloom,
And, in the Splendor of the regal Rays,
Weave the fair Wreath, and consecrate the Bays!
The brightest Station of the Aonian Hill—
Come, with the high Distinction flush'd, presume
To light anew the Laureate's blasted Bloom,
And, in the Splendor of the regal Rays,
Weave the fair Wreath, and consecrate the Bays!
And sure, if ever happiest Genius glow'd
Thro' the rich Structure of a Birth-day Ode,
Or, midst the congregated Storm of Fate,
Pictur'd, by Fancy fir'd, Britannia great—
Or, softly-soothing to a Monarch's Ear,
Hail'd the first Glories of the new-born Year,
For five long Lustres changing still the Note,
In all the fine Varieties of Thought—
That Genius shall illume my every Line,
And all those fine Varieties be mine!
Witness my Ode of true Pindaric Strain,
That sings or says, “'Tis May's Meridian Reign;”
And “proud, O Pitt, to celebrate thy Spring,
“Sighs, that no Daisies blow, no Cuckows sing!”
Thus then, how easy on the Fourth of June,
To deprecate the feverish Flame of Noon,
While the cool Metaphor so softly plays,
Caught from “the First of April,” thro' the Blaze!
Thro' the rich Structure of a Birth-day Ode,
Or, midst the congregated Storm of Fate,
Pictur'd, by Fancy fir'd, Britannia great—
Or, softly-soothing to a Monarch's Ear,
Hail'd the first Glories of the new-born Year,
For five long Lustres changing still the Note,
In all the fine Varieties of Thought—
That Genius shall illume my every Line,
And all those fine Varieties be mine!
Witness my Ode of true Pindaric Strain,
That sings or says, “'Tis May's Meridian Reign;”
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“Sighs, that no Daisies blow, no Cuckows sing!”
Thus then, how easy on the Fourth of June,
To deprecate the feverish Flame of Noon,
While the cool Metaphor so softly plays,
Caught from “the First of April,” thro' the Blaze!
And oh! if smiling on thy Poet's Prayer
Thou stick the Laureate-Bayleaves in his Hair,
To sound thy Name my Odes shall never fail,
Or at the Head, the Middle or the Tail;
And bid “thy Father's Heaven-wove Robe” embrace
Thy Members—whether in or out of Place;
Whilst o'er thy Sinking Fund, “by Seraphs roll'd,”
He rains æthereal Chink—from “Clouds of Gold.”
Yes!—tho' thou fail to pay a Nation's Debt,
Thy Presence shall adorn the Cabinet,
And glow, while Brother-Brains feel leaden Night
New-moulded to a Minister of — Light!
Thou stick the Laureate-Bayleaves in his Hair,
To sound thy Name my Odes shall never fail,
Or at the Head, the Middle or the Tail;
And bid “thy Father's Heaven-wove Robe” embrace
Thy Members—whether in or out of Place;
Whilst o'er thy Sinking Fund, “by Seraphs roll'd,”
He rains æthereal Chink—from “Clouds of Gold.”
Yes!—tho' thou fail to pay a Nation's Debt,
Thy Presence shall adorn the Cabinet,
And glow, while Brother-Brains feel leaden Night
New-moulded to a Minister of — Light!
And e'en shou'd Destiny, too cruel, doom
Thy Cheeks, still rosy with Youth's vernal Bloom,
Pale, in Ierne's billowy Gulph to die,
Stiff thy cold Limbs, and quench'd thy lightning Eye—
Yet shall thy Spirit from the Waves arise
A guardian Angel in Ierne's Eyes!
And oft as that thrice-hallow'd Eve returns,
When Horror in the sunk Heart chills and burns,
Oft o'er the fatal Channel shall thy Shade
Swim, with St. Patrick's Ghost—without a Head!
Thy Cheeks, still rosy with Youth's vernal Bloom,
Pale, in Ierne's billowy Gulph to die,
Stiff thy cold Limbs, and quench'd thy lightning Eye—
Yet shall thy Spirit from the Waves arise
A guardian Angel in Ierne's Eyes!
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When Horror in the sunk Heart chills and burns,
Oft o'er the fatal Channel shall thy Shade
Swim, with St. Patrick's Ghost—without a Head!
But long such Images may Heaven avert,
And not a Hair in all that Head be hurt!
Long may my Verse (as far as Verse can reach)
Murmur—the faithful Echo of thy Speech!
Bid lost America frown o'er our Coast,
And still repeat—America is lost!
Paint, “of the Party of Humanity,”
Her Slain, a Mountain—and their Blood, a Sea;
From “Garden” Groves, at venal Senates rail,
And oft, as North declaims, revive the Tale!
And not a Hair in all that Head be hurt!
Long may my Verse (as far as Verse can reach)
Murmur—the faithful Echo of thy Speech!
Bid lost America frown o'er our Coast,
And still repeat—America is lost!
Paint, “of the Party of Humanity,”
Her Slain, a Mountain—and their Blood, a Sea;
From “Garden” Groves, at venal Senates rail,
And oft, as North declaims, revive the Tale!
Tell then thy S*v*****n (shou'd he chance incline
To bid the Laureate's Luxury be mine,
Assur'd with Horace, that no Bard shou'd lack
The sweet Enjoyment of a Butt of Sack)
Tell him—that if I soar not like a Pindar,
May Lightning blast my Pinions to a Cinder.—
Tell him—that, every Blush of New-Year's Day,
My Muse shall more than Whitehead's Worth display;
And soaring far superior to the Themes
Of War-worn Armies, or a Nation's Dreams,
Triumph, as oft she pictures to his View
“That Work to wonder at”— imperial Kew!
Tell him—her Heart shall glory, thro' her Lays
Associate of his Hunts, to trace the Maze!
Tell him, in fine, his Favors to repay
Her Zeal shall tear Macgregor's Mask away,
And crush the Monster, who could dare asperse
Scenes, that shall flourish in my living Verse;
While Genius hastes to hang with fadeless Flowers
“Thy Throne, O Albion, and thy Laureate Bowers!”
To bid the Laureate's Luxury be mine,
Assur'd with Horace, that no Bard shou'd lack
The sweet Enjoyment of a Butt of Sack)
Tell him—that if I soar not like a Pindar,
May Lightning blast my Pinions to a Cinder.—
Tell him—that, every Blush of New-Year's Day,
My Muse shall more than Whitehead's Worth display;
And soaring far superior to the Themes
Of War-worn Armies, or a Nation's Dreams,
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“That Work to wonder at”— imperial Kew!
Tell him—her Heart shall glory, thro' her Lays
Associate of his Hunts, to trace the Maze!
Tell him, in fine, his Favors to repay
Her Zeal shall tear Macgregor's Mask away,
And crush the Monster, who could dare asperse
Scenes, that shall flourish in my living Verse;
While Genius hastes to hang with fadeless Flowers
“Thy Throne, O Albion, and thy Laureate Bowers!”
FINIS.
| An Epistle from the Reverend William M---n to the Right Hon. William Pitt | |