 | Bath: its beauties, and amusements |  |
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[BATH: ITS BEAUTIES, AND AMUSEMENTS.]
O thou, who erst from Baïa's smoaking plain,
Didst to these rocks transfer thy healing reign!
Lord of each stagnant and sulphureous ditch,
Great foe to vegetation and the itch!
Assist my song, inspire my votive lays,
For Bath demands, and Bath deserves my praise!
Bath! the divine Hygeia's favour'd child,
Where Pigs were once, and Princes now are boil'd;
Where Arts and Elegance have fix'd their seat,
And Graces ply—like Chairmen—in the street;
Where free from ling'ring Education's plan,
By which the Brute is polish'd into Man,
We learn a shorter and more pleasing road,
And grow (like beef) by stewing—Alamode.
'Tis here alone that Architecture frames
Such solid buildings, with such sounding names:
A Circus, that three ranks of columns boasts,—
Three ranks of columns, like three rows of posts;
Where none to dang'rous merit make pretence,
Or seek a painful, sad pre-eminence.
No kind pilaster at that giddy height
Dispels our terrors or relieves our sight,
Because we're told ('tho' different the name)
That massive and majestic are the same.
Not thus the Crescent towers thro' the air,
The proud Iönic reigns unrival'd there;
Her pedestals are eas'd of half their trouble,
Like gen'rous steeds, unfit to carry double.
But then that Square—within whose center rail'd
Lies Taste upon an obelisk impal'd;
Mark, how from servile squeamish order free,
The different buildings sweetly disagree;
This boasts a richer, that an humbler grace,
Like courtiers in, and courtiers out of place.
Didst to these rocks transfer thy healing reign!
Lord of each stagnant and sulphureous ditch,
Great foe to vegetation and the itch!
Assist my song, inspire my votive lays,
For Bath demands, and Bath deserves my praise!
Bath! the divine Hygeia's favour'd child,
Where Pigs were once, and Princes now are boil'd;
Where Arts and Elegance have fix'd their seat,
And Graces ply—like Chairmen—in the street;
Where free from ling'ring Education's plan,
By which the Brute is polish'd into Man,
We learn a shorter and more pleasing road,
And grow (like beef) by stewing—Alamode.
'Tis here alone that Architecture frames
Such solid buildings, with such sounding names:
A Circus, that three ranks of columns boasts,—
Three ranks of columns, like three rows of posts;
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Or seek a painful, sad pre-eminence.
No kind pilaster at that giddy height
Dispels our terrors or relieves our sight,
Because we're told ('tho' different the name)
That massive and majestic are the same.
Not thus the Crescent towers thro' the air,
The proud Iönic reigns unrival'd there;
Her pedestals are eas'd of half their trouble,
Like gen'rous steeds, unfit to carry double.
But then that Square—within whose center rail'd
Lies Taste upon an obelisk impal'd;
Mark, how from servile squeamish order free,
The different buildings sweetly disagree;
This boasts a richer, that an humbler grace,
Like courtiers in, and courtiers out of place.
But while the Muse thro' lifeless rubbish strays,
Say, can no living wonders claim her lays?
What names, what titles might she not rehearse!—
'Twould almost make a chronicle in verse.
What Peers last night were melted drop by drop,
To shew how well Right-Honourables hop,
(While, thinly scatter'd, poor plebeians stare,
And wonder how the devil they came there.)
What Nabobs, rich in ev'ry thing but sense,
Display'd their haughty dull magnificence;
What Beaux, whom heav'n had sent us for our sins,
To teach us graces, and to kick our shins;
What cloud-capt Belles—But shall the honest Muse
Accept that task which Envy would refuse?
Shall she 'gainst Heav'n exert her impious skill?—
For, tho' conceal'd by clouds, 'tis Heaven still.
Say, can no living wonders claim her lays?
What names, what titles might she not rehearse!—
'Twould almost make a chronicle in verse.
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To shew how well Right-Honourables hop,
(While, thinly scatter'd, poor plebeians stare,
And wonder how the devil they came there.)
What Nabobs, rich in ev'ry thing but sense,
Display'd their haughty dull magnificence;
What Beaux, whom heav'n had sent us for our sins,
To teach us graces, and to kick our shins;
What cloud-capt Belles—But shall the honest Muse
Accept that task which Envy would refuse?
Shall she 'gainst Heav'n exert her impious skill?—
For, tho' conceal'd by clouds, 'tis Heaven still.
To You, ye snarling, scribbling, sceptic crew,
Who in Perfection's self some flaw can view;
You, who unmov'd on Julia's self can gaze,
“While o'er her cheek the soft smile trembling plays; ”
Whom, nor the piercing glance of conscious sense,
Nor the meek eye of anxious diffidence,
To something like humanity can move—
Whom Gods might fear, and Devils cannot love—
To You, th'unmanly censure I resign;—
To love, to pity, to protect, be mine.
Who in Perfection's self some flaw can view;
You, who unmov'd on Julia's self can gaze,
“While o'er her cheek the soft smile trembling plays; ”
Whom, nor the piercing glance of conscious sense,
Nor the meek eye of anxious diffidence,
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Whom Gods might fear, and Devils cannot love—
To You, th'unmanly censure I resign;—
To love, to pity, to protect, be mine.
But soft—behold, new game appears in view—
Observe that busy, fluttering, noisy crew!
They're all Apollo's sons, from top to bottom—
Tho' poor Apollo wonders where he got 'em!
See how they hurry to that hallow'd shrine—
That sacred seat of Sappho and the Nine;
Where, plac'd on quarries of the purest stone,
The red brick shines unrival'd and alone:
Bless us!—what toil, what cost has been bestow'd,
To give that prospect—of the London road!
Our admiration knows not where to fix—
Here a cascade, and there a coach and six!
Within, a mystic Vase with laurel crown'd—
Hence, ye profane!—'tis consecrated ground!
Here Sappho's hands the last sad rites dispense
To mangled poetry, and murder'd sense;
Here jests are heard, “at which e'en Juno smil'd,
“When crack'd by Jove magnificently mild; ”
Jests, so sublimely void of sense and thought,
Poor simple mortals cannot find them out;
Rhimes,—like Scotch cousins,—in such order plac'd,
The first scarce claims acquaintance with the last!
Observe that busy, fluttering, noisy crew!
They're all Apollo's sons, from top to bottom—
Tho' poor Apollo wonders where he got 'em!
See how they hurry to that hallow'd shrine—
That sacred seat of Sappho and the Nine;
Where, plac'd on quarries of the purest stone,
The red brick shines unrival'd and alone:
Bless us!—what toil, what cost has been bestow'd,
To give that prospect—of the London road!
Our admiration knows not where to fix—
Here a cascade, and there a coach and six!
Within, a mystic Vase with laurel crown'd—
Hence, ye profane!—'tis consecrated ground!
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To mangled poetry, and murder'd sense;
Here jests are heard, “at which e'en Juno smil'd,
“When crack'd by Jove magnificently mild; ”
Jests, so sublimely void of sense and thought,
Poor simple mortals cannot find them out;
Rhimes,—like Scotch cousins,—in such order plac'd,
The first scarce claims acquaintance with the last!
But see, at length, the cold, dull scene to chear,
Kind Nature bids her Jerningham appear.
See on that bed of sickness and despair,
Eliza's form, and Yorick's alter'd air;
The last tear glistens in his sleepless eye,
While on his lip hangs quivering the cold sigh!
At ev'ry pang our tears unbidden flow,
'Till the heart sickens at the pictur'd woe.
But now 'tis past—the dream is done away,
And banish'd Dullness reassumes her sway.
Go then, my Muse! to Her direct thy lays,—
Be dull, be noisy, and expect the bays.
No more shall Merit strive that prize to win,
“She was a stranger, and was taken in. ”
Go—with McPherson in Teutonic soar,
With Mallet whine, with blust'ring Kenrick roar;
Retale like Cumberland the Holy Writ,
And bid the Ten Commandments pass for Wit.
Should all Parnassus 'gainst thy efforts join,
Vain were the force of Phœbus and the Nine;
E'en Sappho's self before thy pow'r shall bend,
And crown thy nonsense—tho' she can't commend.
Kind Nature bids her Jerningham appear.
See on that bed of sickness and despair,
Eliza's form, and Yorick's alter'd air;
The last tear glistens in his sleepless eye,
While on his lip hangs quivering the cold sigh!
At ev'ry pang our tears unbidden flow,
'Till the heart sickens at the pictur'd woe.
But now 'tis past—the dream is done away,
And banish'd Dullness reassumes her sway.
8
Be dull, be noisy, and expect the bays.
No more shall Merit strive that prize to win,
“She was a stranger, and was taken in. ”
Go—with McPherson in Teutonic soar,
With Mallet whine, with blust'ring Kenrick roar;
Retale like Cumberland the Holy Writ,
And bid the Ten Commandments pass for Wit.
Should all Parnassus 'gainst thy efforts join,
Vain were the force of Phœbus and the Nine;
E'en Sappho's self before thy pow'r shall bend,
And crown thy nonsense—tho' she can't commend.
FINIS.
| Bath: its beauties, and amusements | |