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The Birth-day

with a few strictures on the Times; a poem, in three cantos. With The Preface and Notes of an Edition to be published in the Year 1782. By a farmer [i.e. Francis Douglas]

Douglas, F. (1710?-1790?)

II.

III.

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THE BIRTH-DAY:

IN THREE CANTOS.

CANTO I.

Invocation—Birth of the Prince—Visionary Representation, emblematic of his future reign—Idea of a pseudo Patriot—Party-spirit exemplified.

Hence peevish Care, and sullen Gloom,
And ever-musing Melancholy.
Come, smiling Mirth, in native bloom;
And distant be the noise of Folly.

Muse, tune the lyre, prepare the song,
To-day a future King is born;
Come, Echoe, every note prolong,
That marks the happy—happy—morn.

While Frederick drops the tear of joy,
To see the Royal Infant smile,
Augusta, placid, views her Boy,
And hails him King of Britain's Isle.

“Hope of Britons,” said the Sire,
“Prop of Brunswick's antient line,
“Live! to glorious deeds aspire,
“Every bliss on earth be thine!

“Auspicious on thy natal hour,
“Peace and Plenty joyous smile,
“Liberty, celestial power,
“Hails thee native of her Isle.

“Live, my Son, with her to reign,
“As a rock the tempest braves,
“Britain scorns the tyrant's chain,
“Britons never will be slaves.”

Hark! the thund'ring cannons roar!
Fly the news from shore to shore;
Now the jocund bells strike in;
Now the festive rites begin.
See, unfurled in the skie,
Britain's dreaded banner fly;
As the Phoenix, from her urn,
Britain's happy days return.
See, in yonder opening gleam,
Justice with her scales and beam.
See, a hoary Sire appears ,
Part unroll'd his scroll of years;
While the hours around him play,
Ever joyous, ever gay.
See, a heaven descended pair,
(Virtue and her friends their care,)
Truth and Candor, drive a rout,
Never to return, thrust out.

Murder, with her reeking blade;
Treason, from her lurking shade;

Rapine, callous, bold and fierce;
Foul Adultery! stain of verse;
Prying lying Party-spirit;
Bloated Envy, blind to Merit;
Faction, with her gibes and tales;
Folly, in her hood and bells;
Limping Lust, and meagre Mammon;
Luxury, with her jowl and gammon;
Ten good fellows, in a row,
Roaring, drinking as they go;
“Jolly Bacchus, thou art king!
“Io pean! form the ring,
“Men were born to drink and sing.
“Let the sparkling glass o'erflow,
“Time's a-going—let it go.”
Whigs and Tories, fiercely frowning,
Snarling, charging, and disowning;
A group of High and Low Church Hectors,
Stock-jobbers, Waddling-ducks, Directors;
Oppression, with her iron rod,
And Priests who seldom think of God;

Smooth Court-encomiasts, grave Detectors;
The bulwarks of the State, Projectors;
Pimps, Scriv'ners, circumcis'd in ear;
And gambling Patriots, close the rear.

A Patriot! 'tis a sounding name,
The foremost on the list of Fame;
'Tis said, no minister can bribe him,
Describe him, honest Muse, describe him.
“He is, whate'er you please to make him;
“For arguments there are that shake 'im;
“(Forbid it, Calumny should mention,
“A place, a title, or a pension!)
“A creature of such various humours,
“That Rock could ne'er discuss his tumors;
“Still in the front of those who study
“To find or make court-waters muddy;
“Still hunting after little stories,
“As whilom did the Whigs and Tories;
“Retailing them with front of brass,
“And whoso doubts them is an ass;

“Or worse, a ministerial tool,
“For knave's a harder word than fool;
“He boasts the virtues of a Roman,
“Yet holds an honest man uncommon;
“Though reason'd down, seen through, out-voted,
“And turn'd against him all he quoted,
“Our plodding hero nothing shocks;
“(If I mistake, correct me, ------.)
“With an unbounded flow of words,
“Sharp-edg'd, as Don Ferara's swords,
“He hacks and slashes at the bench,
“As Ajax, when he storm'd the trench.

“Now, in the rear, he marks their motions,
“And minutes down their late promotions;
“With Nota Benes, Hows and Whys,
“And where each favourite's interest lies.
“Some have a sister, some a borrough,
“And others may have horns to-morrow;
“Some very poor, and therefore needy,
“And others blustering, bold and greedy.

“Some hope a regiment some a ribbon;
“And some have merit, witness Gibbon.

“Now one by one he tries their strength,
“And some lays sprawling at their length;
“Some, smart, return him blows for blows;
“Some loudly call for Ayes and Noes:
“The pygmy champions take the field,
“And heroes, six feet high, must yield.”

Ah! in the direful war of tongues,
What waste of time, of breath, of lungs!
How many thirsty souls would die,
Had Bacchus not a temple nigh?
How many weary eyes would close,
But for the wondrous power of prose?
Verse yield the palm! when B---ke harrangues,
Attention on each period hangs;
Tho' Judgment reprobates a part,
Truth loves a generous honest heart.

If B---r---e thunders in your ear,
Or for a veteran drops a tear,
In Candor's equal ballance weigh,
What sterling Common Sense may say.

Some hold that tongues were only meant,
In aid of honours by descent;
To scare the birds that pick the corn,
Or roar, with bucks, “The early horn.”
To sing the Syren song of Folly,
Or gibe with serious things and holy.
Doff, doff your caps, ye new creations,
Ye lesser B---s know your stations!
Ronsaro, wiser than his teachers,
Is up to plead the cause of leachers.
Wise, witty, every thing but vain,
He spies a hag in Lambeth-lane,
With open mouth, gives chase, and cries,
“Holloa the witch!”—The culprit flies;
Craves the protection of his G---ce,
Who smiles to see the wild-goose chase.

“Why, good my L**d, so wondrous witty?
“Reformer-general of the city,
“A place of great account”—“What then?”
“Awaits you: do I now speak plain?”
“Why faith, my L**d, I scorn a place,
“But if I can oblige your G**ce,
“But just command me.” “Well, you can,
“Consider only you're a man.”
“A man, my L**d, nay more, a ****,
“Who holds his honour very dear.”
“Then think, with candor of another:
“This worthy matron is your mother;
“She nurs'd you in your tender years,
“And on your front her mark appears.”
“Her mark! a freeman, nobly born,
“Church, Colleges, and Schools I scorn.”
“But not the place.” “Yes, ere the Sunday,
“Shall be a jota more than Monday.”
“'Tis more already. Sundry Acts—
“What need to condescend on facts?

“Say, shall we reverence the Laws?
“Or, nobly wild in Freedom's cause,
“Exclaim with Bardolph, from the stocks,
“I scorn your chains, your bolts, and locks;
“An Englishman I am, and demme,
“If Acts of Parliament shall tame me.”

Sick of the Patriot's worst disease,
To see a Minister at ease,
Frontino oft had singled out,
Primero, from the venal rout;
With dignity he dealt his blows,
And scorn'd to fight with meaner foes.
Of ready wit and fluent tongue,
(Which rather somewhat loosely hung)
Not over modest, nor too bold,
He knew the golden mean to hold.
But, ah! on one unlucky day,
Decorum left him on the way.
“Adieu,” he said, “I feel the lighter,
“Now have at all but crown and mitre!”—

The axle smokes, the pavement rings,
And keen Impatience claps her wings.
Now seated; from his threat'ning eye,
Contractors, Placemen, trembling fly;
Primero only durst abide it;
(If aught he fear'd, he well could hide it.)
Now bursts the storm, the Forum rings,
And Memory opens all her springs;
Unnumber'd evils done, or plotted,
She in her table-book had noted;
Solacing to the State, in labor,
As to the dying fife and tabor.

Provok'd, that nothing could provoke,
Frontino sigh'd and inly spoke;
“This coolness who the devil can bear!
“Swell Rhetorick, thunder in his ear!
“Touch every string that shakes the soul,
“Or he or I must lose the vole.
“Towers, axes, scaffolds, lend your aid,
“And let the long arrear be paid.

“Impeachment, rise! in all thy rage,
“And drive the caitiff off the stage.”
This to himself; the rest aloud,
Preambl'd with his Country's good.
“Shall this insidious sly Sejanus
“Divide the loaves tam multos annos;
“Ad libitum extend his taxes,
“And we move glibly round his axis;
“Corruption's muffl'd hand the while,
“Supplying store of rancid oil?
“Thus Ralpho, rosy sleek and fair,
“Well mounted on his daple mare,
“Enjoys the pleasures of the road,
“While dull pack-horses drag the load.
“Sic nos—Be firm, my Friends, be wise,
“Your trade declines, your taxes rise;
“From John-a-Groat's to Cornwall Point,
“All things are strangely out of joint.
“O Cives! Patres! heu, sic mores!
“Shall gallant Whigs give place to Tories?

“Friends! Citizens! awake to Fame!
“Is Public Virtue but a name?
“What wonders have our fathers done?
“What glorious battles fought and won?
“And shall their sons give up the field,
“While they have tongues and swords to wield?
“Give place to those who heretofore,
“Durst scarce come farther than the door;
“Who, if they hop'd a tidesman's place,
“Paid court a twelvemonth to his Grace.
“O fatal day to Britain's glory,
“When Whigs shall truckle to a Tory.
“Shall thus our suffering country groan,
“And we, her saviors, stand alone?
“O where is public virtue flown!”

Then with the fire of twenty Hectors,
He calls for axes, rods, and Lictors.
But ah! in these degenerate days,
How cold the sacred love of praise!

The Lictors, deaf to Honour's call,
Can hear an angry Tribune bawl;
Unmov'd can hear; nor care a tester,
If they but eat, who shall be master.

Repeaters, drawn from fifty fobs,
Announce a patience less than Job's;
Some plan a race, and some a meeting,
Where all agree, in what's good eating.
Sir Fopling gently twirls his cane,
And mourns the nymphs his face has slain;
While Auster over-leaps the ditches,
To storm the fox with dogs and bitches.

Primero, calmly bears the shock,
Nor beats his head against a rock;
He knows the strongest lungs must fail,
And, till exhausted, lets them rail.
Attack'd, in great Thersites stile,
The man has even dar'd to smile.

Sedate, as Mansfield on the Bench,
He neither scolds the Dutch nor French;
Can even the saints of Boston mention,
And hear them oil'd with great attention,
Nod o'er his panegyrist's flumm'ry,
Yet drop a tear to brave Montgom'ry;
Divide the rebel from the man,
And grant him all that virtue can.

Tho' not an epicure in meats,
(As well it may be seen) he eats:
Thus great Sir Robert, heretofore,
Was bluff and jolly at threescore;
Thus honest Pelham grac'd his vest:
Of men and ministers the best.
Forbid that meagre skin and bone,
Should stand Palladium of the throne!
He drinks; but business never lingers;
He keeps no op'ra girls, nor singers.
So fond of peace, that all his life,
He never quarrel'd with his wife;

Their names unknown at Doctors Commons,
As Luxury to the antient Romans.
No surly porter at his gate,
Dares make the humble suppliant wait;
The wrong'd may of their wrongs complain,
And Justice never sues in vain.

All this Detraction sees, with pain,
Yet labours hard her point to gain;
For, from the Medway to the Forth,
The burthen of her song is N---th .

Is there a fop aware of fighting?
Or hackney scribe that would be writing?
N---th screens the one, and fees the other,
So sure as kitten sucks its mother.
Does a Contractor clear a plum?
Who doubts but he divides the sum?
Does an Exciseman wrong a dealer?
Or Clerk, in office, bilk his taylor?
All claim the ministerial wing;
All flows from the corrupted spring.

Thus, vivid, to the mental eye,
The Muse brings distant objects nigh.
Thus, to her meanest votary kind,
With aspect mild, she spake her mind.

“Tho' Britain boasts a Prince her own,
“Before that Prince ascends the throne,
“Eight thousand suns shall set and rise,
“And many a wrestler yield the prize.
“Saint Stephen's Hall be thrice recruited,
“And Patriots, now ador'd, be hooted.
“The bloom on Celia's cheek shall fade;
“And many a virgin die a maid.
“Some, (which in antient times was worse,)
“Shall live the relicts of Divorce;
“Shall live the scorn and jest of all,
“From Hyde-park Corner to Whitehall.

“These names, (for some are yet no more)
“Succeeding those that went before,
“Shall bounce their little while, and then,
“Another race shall seize the rein.
“From age to age the lust of power,
“Supplies of Patriots shall insure;
“And every Minister, by place,
“Be void of goodness and of grace.”

Time.

A noted Quack-Doctor.

A celebrated Spanish sword-maker.

Probably the Author may have had in his eye, Frederick North, Esq; commonly called Lord North, whom we find at the head of the Treasury, for many years, in the reign of George the Third. He is said to have been a man of so happy a disposition that the attacks of Party-spirit never gave him a moment's pain. Well acquainted with the various forms she assumed, he could never be surprized. If, with a serious brow, she threatened vengeance, he neither changed colour, nor lost his temper. If, in lighter strain, she sported with his conduct and character, his defence was in her own stile. When her abuse became personal, he turned it aside so gently, and with so much good humour, that the hag became at last ashamed, and only snarled at his underlings. As a man, he had no enemies; though he had many as a minister; as indeed all ministers must have. Were it not for the damage which the Public would sustain, we could wish that some of those Gentlemen who think it so easy a matter to manage the great machine of Government, had a few months trial of it, when it would probably appear, that they are as fit for it as Phaeton was to guide the Chariot of the Sun. As the Author pays a higher compliment to Mr Pelham, who had been long dead, than any he has paid to Lord North, who may have been alive when he wrote, it clears him from the remotest suspicion of Flattery. True it is, those in power are generally flattered; but it is no less true, that an honest man will express his real sentiments, even of a minister. Add to this, that our Farmer was in his grand climacteric when he writ the Poem, and being totally unknown to Courts and Ministers, had nothing to hope.

CANTO II.

Anticipated View of a Military Commander,—and of a Marine Patriot—Virtues of the Muse's Rod.

Thrice wav'd the Muse her magic wand,
(A charm which nothing can withstand,)
When lo, debarking from the main,
In order mov'd a motely train.

Prickt on a bloodless lance was born,
A tawdry ribbon, stain'd and torn;
Fit emblem of a future hero,
The very counter-part of Nero:
Like him, to be in youth belov'd,
And by the judging few approv'd.

Like him, to rise to chief command,
(Heav'n's rod to scourge a guilty land.)
Like him, tho' not in purple array'd,
The patron of the fidling trade.
Like him, on Dissipation's lap,
To take his noon and evening nap.
Like him, asleep in Circe's arms,
To slight Bellona's rougher charms;
Like him, the execration, scorn,
Of all hereafter to be born.

“Fall Rome! I gloriously offend!
“Ye curling flames to heav'n ascend.
“Thus Ilium fell, and Homer sung,
“When every muse had tipt his tongue.”
So spake the miscreant; but our hero,
Not just so fond of fame as Nero;
Wish'd no proud city to be burn'd,
Lest on himself the flames had turn'd.
He suck'd his suffering country's blood,
And check'd her laurels in the bud;

Restrain'd the ardor of her sons,
As Brenus of his Gauls and Huns;
Till the last talent should be weigh'd,
Then fight who will, his game was play'd.

Depicted par la main de Guilame,
And wrote below, “for great Sir—,”
A leering harlot bears a shield,
Lutes and guittars take up the field;
Around it, Cupids, smiling Loves,
And Venus twittering with her doves;
A group of laughter-loving dames,
Reflecting Phoebus' radiant beams;
While Pan, the master of the song,
And jolly Bacchus, reel along.
Pikes, halberts, powder-pluffs, attend it,
With labels on their breasts appended,
Expressive of their mind and manners;
While traul behind, Britannia's banners.
“Avaunt the nauseous stench of war!—
“Come, Venus, take us in thy car;

“The hecatombs we vow'd are paid,
“See, on thy sacred altar laid,
“Fans, ribbons, scented gloves, and laces,
“Pomatum, locks, and tweezer-cases.
“Come, goddess! come, the fleeting hour,
“Is all the brave have in their power.
“What's Fame? a breath beyond the grave;
“Where sleep the hero and the slave.
“What's Love of Country? mere pretence;
“Where shall we be a cent'ry hence?
“Or basking in th' Elysian fields,
“Or scouring Pluto's rusty shields.
“What's Liberty? a mode of thinking,
“Of writing, speaking, wh---r---g, drinking;
“Abridg'd, in one or all we grumble;
“Indulg'd, are courteous, meek and humble.
“What's Honour? stoutly to defend
“Whatever means promote your end.
“Of Human Wishes what's the sum?
“A wh---re, a chariot and a plum.

“Come, Pleasure! smile on beau and belle,
“And then the virtous fools may rail.”

Again she wav'd the rod of power,
And now from Cynthia's noontide bower,
We overlook the liquid plain,
Where Avarice has her thousands slain;
And see, with crouded sail, advance,
A fleet, in port, the dread of France;
But mild and gentle on the seas,
As setting sun, or western breeze.
The flags were out, the pendants flying,
But not a man in dread of dying.
An action, as it were, had been,
When who were who was clearly seen.
Now ceas'd the thunders of the deep,
Some play at cards, and others sleep;
Some earnest urge, I know not what,
And others answer this or that.

Then thus the chief. “I'll hear no more!
“Return we to our native shore.
“What! lose my ships? offend my friends,
“And counteract their gracious ends?
“I hope the thanks of wives and spouses,
“And warm applause of both the ------.
“Hoa! you to windward back your sails,
“What demon in the fleet prevails!—
“Shall any dare to chase, till I,
“Have giv'n the signals when and why?
“You, Boas'n! dem you! haul the sheet,
“Let others fight; I'll save the fleet.”

Here rest we, till an evening song
A while the festive rites prolong;
Or shall we, on this joyous day,
Attempt an intermediate lay?
Our theme the Muse's magic rod,
Apollo, deign thy gracious nod!
Respected shades! we sing of you,
Who well its powers and virtues knew.

When the loud tempest whirls abroad,
If Shakespeare gently waves the rod,
The winds are still, the turgid wave
Sinks peaceful to its watry grave.
But if he lifts his arm on high,
(Tho' not a speck obscures the skie)
Forth rush the Boreal powers aghast,
And bursts the hoarse tremendous blast:
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
And Ocean heaves on all her shores.

It drew the monsters from the deep,
Or made the eye of Murder weep;
It smooth'd the wrinkl'd brow of Age,
Or sooth'd the stern oppressor's rage;
It call'd the wayward sisters forth,
In all the horrors of the North;
And shook the traitor's soul, Macbeth,
When in the environs of Death;
It fir'd Othello's sickly brain,
While weeping Virtue sued in vain;

It rag'd in ill-requited Lear,
Till Satan, shudd'ring, dropt a tear.
When with the Comic Muse he sported,
And bucks, and knaves, and fools dehorted,
The Cynic would have tried in vain
His tick'ld muscles to restrain.
He begg'd the rod so oft, the Muse
Said, “Take it, favourite Child, and use,
“Call forth ideal forms at will,
“And give them semblance power and skill;
“Plague me no more; the rod is yours,
“Till creeping age exhaust your powers;
“And, if your brother Ben should want it,
“With my permission, freely grant it.”

Thrice wav'd, it brought to Milton's eye,
The past transactions of the skie.
Chaos, terrific form! it rear'd,
Ere time or sun had yet appear'd;
With awful darkness girt his throne,
Silence his sad compeer alone.

Now works the plastic Power of Love,
The waves are still, the zephyrs move,
Astonish'd Chaos plung'd below,
And Harmony began to flow.
Uprose a world: the solar fire,
(Bright emblem of its heav'nly Sire!)
Dispell'd the darkness; Earth and Air,
And Water smil'd; for God was there.
At last the Sire, to crown the whole,
A body form'd, and breath'd a soul;
He rested from his work of days,
And glad Creation hymn'd his praise.
Responsive to the Muse's call,
The wars which shook th' etherial hall,
Assume their pristine dreadful form,
When angels prodigies perform,
And Satan, vainly, dares defy,
The Sovereign Ruler of the skie.

If Butler sings, beware your fides;
The Muse a testy courser rides;

A group of raggamuffins round her,
Are apt to make her kick or founder.
Tinkers, reformers of the state,
And gapers for the Church's plate;
Sweet singers, Muggletonians, grumblers,
Rope-dancers, chimney-sweeps, and tumblers.
The Muse, with nice discerning eye,
Their views and tempers could descry;
And to the laughter-lover's pleasure,
Has paid their dues, in weight and measure.
Ah, Butler! dire reproach of Charles,
Whose gracious father pension'd Quarles.

To Dryden, born in evil days,
When Wit and Virtue were at odds,
She gave in charge to smooth her lays,
And clear her rough and craggy roads.

“Be great, my Son,” she said, “and claim,
“To be in Britain's Isle commander;

“But if thou wouldst aspire to fame,
“Go twine a wreath for Alexander.

“Know, that a Poet shall succeed,
“(Not to thy laurel, but thy merit,)
“To clear my soil of every weed,
“And write with Roman force and spirit.

“Homer shall listen to his song,
“(For he shall sing of Kings and Heroes,)
“Nor grieve to have been dead so long,
“To live again in brighter aeras.

“To thee the Mantuan Bard shall owe it,
“That Britain knows him as a Poet;
“But Pope, in Horace' courtly stile
“Shall mark the manners of the Isle;
“In moral satire shall excel,
“All that before had written well.
“Yet shall a nest of hornets sting him,
“Till in Oblivion's gulph he fling 'em.”

To Addison, (a favourite son,)
In accent sweet, the Muse begun,
“While others bustle for the bays,
“Be modest worth thy highest praise.
“Go see the world, enlarge thy mind,
“And be the friend of human kind.
“When I inspire the soaring lay,
“Sing thou of Bleinheim's glorious day;
“Or bring a Roman on the stage;
“Too good for the Augustan age,
“Who with his Brutus, wish'd to see,
“His country virtuous, great and free.
“With wit and humour charm the age,
“And laugh to silence party rage;
“Respected live, lamented die,
“And take thy station in the skie.”

The friendly inoffensive Gay,
Well with the Muse's Rod could play:
Write pretty Fables for the Duke,
Or Courts and Ministers rebuke;

Could slyly peep behind the screen,
Tho' many a strong bar'd door between.
In Don Mackheath and Madam Polly,
Could laugh at Impudence and Folly;
Could nod with Justice, on the bench,
Or weep with Peasecod, and his wench;
Could mimic every comic elf,
And even be the jest himself:
He “sold his sheep for loops and buttons,”
Resolv'd to pipe no more to muttons;
But, ah! for courtly life unfit,
(The man was modest, tho' a wit,)
He could not lie, and would not flatter,
Nor call that wine he knew but water.
“Child, said the Muse, 'tis all in vain,
“Courts will be courts, and men be men;
“Or be what others are, or know,
“Preferment's wind will never blow.”
“What others are! give up with Pope?
“And all my hopes in Queens'bry drop?”

“Then fly—Retirement chides thy stay;
“Thy friend shall meet thee on the way,
“And joyous hail thee, “Welcome, Gay!
“Welcome, my Friend, to Twick'nam's grot,
“And, thanks to Heav'n! without a blot.
“Escap'd a Court's seducing charms,
“Welcome to Friendship's longing arms!
“Here let us calmly pass our days,
“And mortify the lust of praise;
“Here smile to see the world so wise,
“To barter Peace, for Butterflies.
“Here Competence shall spread the board,
“Oeconomy shall be our steward;
“And Homer sober port afford.
“The Dean shall send us many a song,
“And good Arbuthnot life prolong.
“And should you long for courts and levees,
“The Muse shall lead you to a crevice,
“Where you may see them all unseen,
“And feast your eyes with King and Queen.”

“No; there, my Friend, you're fairly out;
“In such a motely ravel'd rout,
“We neither see the King nor Queen,
“But only those who stand between;
“Are they our friends? Our work is done.
“Our enemies? We may be gone.
“Had smiles and gracious nods been sterling,
“Gay, long ere now, had rode in Berlin.
“But peace to courts! they suit not me,
“Who, born a Freeman, would be free.”

She wav'd her rod; a Priest arose,
In youth to sing “The Love of Fame,”
Mature, to foil an host of foes,
And glow with an immortal flame.

“Astonish'd Vice shall, trembling, hear,
“The Song of Night her thoughts reveal;
“And loudly, in Lorenzo's ear,
“Shall Conscience ring her startling peal.

“Religion claims him all her own,
“Where'er his poignant lays are sung,
“The batter'd Infidel shall frown,
“And Virtue triumph in her Young.”

Thomson, in softly pleasing strain,
Sued for its aid, nor fued in vain.
Description joyful claps her wings,
And on the storm aloft she springs;
Now dives the mine, or sweeps the lawn,
Or rises with the early dawn.
“The hours unbar the gates of light,”
Up fly the noxious damps of night;
Million's of opening flowers appear,
And Nature's songsters charm the ear.
Now on a cloud, sublime, she rides,
Far, far below her, earth and tides;
Now daring soars above the skies,
As far as human thought can rise.
O early lost! sincerely mourn'd,
By Friendship's hand thy dust inurn'd—

But Littleton shall spread thy fame:
Alike your pursuits, and your flame.

To Meditation's lonely walk,
Deep musing, oft would Gray retire,
With streams, and woods, and mountains talk,
Or pensive, touch the warbling lyre.

Fair Science, in the pride of Spring,
The retrospective Muse espies,
And grateful, saints the holy King,
Who bade her sacred temples rise.

In tender wailing accent sings,
Days, that alas, return no more!
While yet unfledg'd her infant wings,
To Folly's regions durst not soar.

When smiling Innocence and Peace,
Walk'd arm in arm along the green,

And rising hope, and heart-felt ease,
Reflected joy on every scene.

Gone, ah for ever gone, that spring!
Now giddy Passion takes the rein,
Around a thousand Syrens sing,
And Reason claims her right in vain.

Sly Disappointment lurks the while,
With sad Repentance in her rear,
And now upsprings the latent toil,
And ruthless Harpies inly tear.

In the bleak, wither'd vale of years,
Sore bends the hoary head of Age;
A busy, bustling race appears,
And pain and sorrow yield the stage.

But hark! in Pindar's lofty strain,
Correctly wild the numbers flow;

“Rage, tyrant Power, but rage in vain,
“The righteous gods shall bring thee low.”

When Cambria's Bard infuriate flings
The flaming bolt at Edward's head,
As whizzing in the air it wings,
Sore shakes the soul with awful dread!

In wrath, he strikes the trembling lyre,
The tear of grief begins to flow,
But slaughter'd chiefs enflame his ire,
And dreadful is the song of woe!

Adjoining to the sacred bower,
Where Pride, unblushing, hangs her crest,
He oft enjoy'd the pensive hour,
“For there the weary are at rest.”

Now from th' unpolish'd slab would learn,
What rustic Vanity could spell,

How Thomas erst his bread did earn,
And who the dame he lov'd so well.

What children dear to him she bore,
And where they liv'd, and when they dy'd;
They liv'd and dy'd: it said no more,
Or else the simple stone had ly'd.

Now on the sculptur'd tomb he reads
What modest truth would blush to tell,
The names, the titles, warlike deeds,
Of heroes who in battle fell.

But ah, forgot th' unnumber'd throng,
Who nobly fought, and bravely dy'd!
Too low to claim the Poet's song,
Nor to the great were they ally'd.

Yet in the grateful Briton's heart,
They have a tomb shall ne'er decay,

For fathers shall to sons impart,
The impress of their honour'd clay.

To man he pays the kindred sigh;
A long funereal train appear;
Aloft the pendant streamers fly,
And slow and solemn moves the bier.

In silent grief, the hopeful heir
Laments th' indulgent parent gone;
While many a heart-felt sigh and tear
The generous master's death bemoan.

'Tis over.—Dust, consign'd to dust,
Return the sable pensive train;
O breath! delusive prop of trust,
And human pursuits all how vain!

Dear to the Muse was Nature's child!
She strung his sweetly pleasing lyre;
Harmonious, picturesque and mild
His verse, yet glow'd with heav'nly fire.

Whate'er could elevate the soul,
Or sooth the pangs of human woe,
He ardent sought from pole to pole,
And painted with unfading glow.

In Mason's boldly daring strain,
The Grecian Muse illumes the age,
Correct, as Judgment held the pen,
Sublimely chaste, as Plutarch's page.

Upstarts a venerable Sire,
Ap Einion , Bard of high renown;
He hears his own melodious lyre,
And cries, “My son, I yield the crown.”

When Beattie, in the guise of Er'mite,
Implor'd her aid to write his Hermit,
“Go on, my son,” she said, “nor fear,
“I'll lead thy hand and tune thine ear.

“Sweet as th' Arabian zephyr blows,
“And modest as the blushing rose,
“Fair Piety shall chaunt the song,
“And Harmony the notes prolong.
“Pale Doubt shall brighten into Joy,
“And dark Distrust no more annoy;
“Hope, heav'n-descended, close her eye,
“Exulting that she's now to die;
“And Charity, on seraph's wing,
“Up from the bed of Death shall spring. .

“When shy Retirement silent past,
“Who was it lifted up her veil?
“When good Eliza breath'd her last,
“Who fram'd the soul-composing tale?

“When Hope, in vivid colours, drew
“Her ramparts, which repel the storm,

“Who questions whether I or you,
“Gave the ideal vision form?

“Who, in the council of the Hares,
“Gave Puss the powers of thought and speech?
“Who holds them either yours, or theirs,
“Mistakes a Horace for a Creech.
“Then boast not thou the aid of Nine,
“The Minstrel, every page is mine.”

To Whitehead if I must do right,
No doubt, his Birth-Day Odes have merit,
He, ere in duty bound, could write
With elegance, and eke with spirit.

But drop him, Muse—I hate the man
Sincerely be he saint or sinner,
Who quaffs his cordial cup of sack,
While I drink water at my dinner.

“Hate him! recal the ugly phrase,
“Did even a Shadwell wear the bays,

“What right have you to sip his nectar,
“A Curate you, and he a rector?”
Faith, none at all—I sue for mercy,
Which never Douglas did, nor Percy.

Alluding to the fine Poem on a distant Prospect of Eton College.

Alluding to his Pindaric Odes, chiefly to the admirable one entituled “The Bard.”

Howel ap Einion Lygliw, a celebrated Welsh bard, an excellent specimen of whose poetry, we have in Mr. Pennant's Tour in Wales, p. 281. I envy the man who can read the original.

Though this Poem consists but of forty-eight lines, it has always been esteemed a master-piece in its kind. The melodious flow of the numbers; the delicacy of the sentiment; the Hermit's humble and ingenuous confession, in the last stanza but one; his fervent address to the Supreme Being, and the glow of immortality which immediately succeeds, have a most agreeable effect upon the mind.

CANTO III.

Britannia introduced—Her Address to Britons—She foretels the American War, and points out its consequences—Americans assume the military character —France and Spain support them—Address to Peace.

Britannia, joyous, seiz'd her shield,
To shade her future King from harm;
Determin'd still to keep the field,
Should France and Spain against him arm.

Then thus, in accent mild, she spoke;
“This truth is firm, as Fate's decree,
“Accustom'd to her easy yoke,
“The sons of Liberty are free.

“Disjoin'd, and dash'd by Faction's wave,
“Your hopes shall in the dust be laid;
“But firm, united, bold and brave,
“The gods your righteous cause shall aid.

“In vain shall states combin'd oppose
“Your Prince, the favourite of the skies,
“Who, greatly victor o'er his foes,
“From glory shall to glory rise.

“Beneath his mild and gentle sway,
“The arts and sciences shall smile,
“While servile nations sadly say,
“O happy! happy, Britain's Isle!”

“Yet gathering in the western skie,
“The congregated vapours roll,
“The storm shall burst, the lightning fly,
“The thunder roar, from pole to pole.

“Beyond the broad Atlantic wave,
“(I see it, in the womb of Time.)

“Shall bold Rebellion fume and rave,
“And Faction shall applaud her crime.

“Bellona, scourge of human kind,
“Shall drench the soil with blood and gore,
“(When mad Ambition fires the mind,
“Rebellion seems a crime no more.)

“While meek ey'd Pity drops a tear,
“O'er hapless youths untimely slain,
“Havock shall smite in front and rear,
“And Mercy beat her breast in vain!

“The sire of Discord, pleas'd to see
“His daughter deal her deadly blows,
“Shall cry, “My child, be worthy me!
“And glut the plain with friends and foes;”

“While deeply sigh the gracious powers,
“Charg'd with the virtous and the just;
“To strow their thorny paths with flow'rs,
“Or sooth them on their bed of dust.

“Th' appointed line of duty run,
“And active virtue, try'd by fire,
“To what besides beneath the sun,
“Can great and generous souls aspire?

“O blind to truth! who when they fall,
“Arraign the Sov'reign of the skies;
“Are time and trash their hope, their all?
“A Falkland only falls to rise.

“Deep sighs and hollow groans announce,
“A mother, in the world alone;
“Ten hopeful children had she once,
“Now slain her last surviving son.

“The tearful widow inly sighs,
“While smiling infants play around,
“To see their face, or meet their eyes
“Averse—In both the father's found.

“The blooming maid shall mourn the day
“That stretch'd her lover on the plain,

“A torpid, lifeless lump of clay,
“Alas! he lies among the slain!

“In loose attire and sportive mood,
“Eliza trips along the lawn;
“Eliza, late so wise and good,
“Feels not the ray of heav'n withdrawn!

“Philander to her heart was dear,
“Another moon had seen them one,
“This fatal morn arriv'd the bier,
“On which his mangl'd corse was thrown!

“Adown the furrow'd cheek of Age,
“The briny tear shall copious flow,
“Till Time fold down the last sad page,
“And shade it from a world of woe.

“Enough.—To lighter scenes I turn,
“Where Folly leads the world astray;
“Where souls, for trash, ignobly burn,
“And Riot forms her wild array.

“He who erewhile made war on woods,
“Or drain'd the bogs and deep savannas,
“Shall rank with heroes, bucks, and bloods,
“And W---r---n shall sing hosannas.

“Clerks, planters, priests, a motely crew,
“Shall meet, and be yclep'd the Congress;
“Marquies and Abbies, en la lieu,
“Shall teach them to assume la bonne grace.

“Jack Presbyter, who hates a cross,
“And surplice, as he hates the devil,
“Shall shift his ground, like Solway Moss,
“And to the Pope himself be civil.

“Boston shall burn the Book of Martyrs,
“And Philadelphia cock her hat;
“Quebec, in peace, enjoy her charters,
“And Rome and Calvin friendly chat.

“Then Gaul, forgetful of the arm,
“That recently had check'd her pride,
“With dire invasions shall alarm,
“While safe in port her navies ride.

“Shall screen your foes, adopt their quarrels,
“And fawn on traitors she abhors;
“While Amsterdam shall lend them barrels,
“To pack the herrings on their shores.

“Iberia, too, solemnly slow,
“Again the dupe of French finese,
“Shall join to strike the fatal blow,
“Again shall share the coup de grace.

“Still sighing for her rock, Gibralter,
“(What verse can bear the horrid sound!)
“Shall sell a horse to buy a halter,
“And stake a million 'gainst a pound.

“The sage of France shall, gracious, send 'em
“A hundred thousand cher ami's,

“His fleets and armies shall defend 'em,
“Till he be sov'reign of the seas.

“And then, just as the dev'l would have it,
“Their faithful “great and good ally,”
“Shall shew, as was remark'd by David,
“That faith in Princes is a lie.”

“Wise, steady, persevering, just,
“Your Sov'reign shall at last prevail,
“And subjects, prostrate in the dust,
“Implore the rights from which they fell.”

Come, smiling Peace! celestial maid!
And still the horrid din of war;
Come, we implore thy friendly aid,
Our guardian, guide, and polar star.

O come! with Commerce in thy train,
And Ceres, then the poor shall sing;
Faction shall, growling, bite her chain,
And all revere a patriot King.

A large morass, near the Solway Frith, which, in that age, moved some considerable distance from its former scite.

THE END.