Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

'Tis said, all nature moves on wheels,
And every world the impulse feels;
The purple tide, on wheels unseen,
Glides thro' the animal machine;
On wheels of state great kingdoms move,
And imitate the orbs above;
State-lotterys thus are wheel'd about,
Where fools put in—and knaves draw out;
The cart-wheel round its axis rolls,
As stars revolve about their poles;
And thus the lofty Muses song,
In humble Barrow rolls along.
Oh! how the bard's bright fame shall rise,
That in a Wheel-Barrow mounts the skys!

388

Ambitious poet! tell us why
You stoop so low—to rise so high?
The lofty Muse sublime, shou'd dare
Ride in her chariot thro' the air,
Elijah like, as 'tis related,
In flying coach to heaven translated.
Sure Pegasus is grown a jade,
To be thus slovenly convey'd:
Yet Blackmore was condemn'd to Styx.
Tho' wont to ride in coach and six.

Our poet, sure, cou'd have no pride,
In such a Phaeton to ride.
Can this vile vehicle be fit
To carry poetry and wit?
This rumbling implement, design'd
For uses of ignobler kind;
To carry rubbish, loam, or lime,
Now groans beneath a load of rhime;
Yet partly its old use retains,
To bear the rubbish of the brains;
And as it bears the poet's song,
With its own music wheels along.
Oh! how the anxious bard wou'd rue,
If thus the verse shou'd rumble too.

I doubt it bodes some fatal spell,
To mount in such low vehicle.

389

In carts as malefactors hie,
At Tyburn's tragic tree to die:
To see your tomes in Barrow vile
Convey'd,—wou'd make a Cynic smile:
And shou'd they share an equal fate,
How short would be the muse's date?
But 'twou'd be most infernal sentence,
For Bards to die without repentance:
Yet thus you'd mount toward the sky,
Aloft in air suspended high.

This Barrow now shall wheel no more,
In dirty errands, as before:
Shall that machine which bore the bays,
And truckl'd with immortal lays,
Be doom'd to labour in highways?
To carry fruit, or lumber fit,
Which bore the golden fruit of wit?
It wou'd, thus prostituted, mourn,
To the old drudgery to return.
Triumphal chariots still by charter
Repose in pomp forever after.
'Tis said the famous Bucentaur,
Which once the Doge of Venice bore,
For such high service does remain
In state—and seldom sail again;
And thus the Barrow shall be blest,
And rot in everlasting rest.

390

Chariots, which won th' Olympic race,
Of other chariots still took place:
So shall all other Barrows bow,
And truckle to this Barrow now.

By sage astronomers we're told,
In fabulous history of old,
That fam'd Auriga by translation,
Became a radiant constallation.
Then who this Barrow can deny
An equal honour in the sky?
There for such merit to remain,
Immortal made, like Charles's Wain:
On this base earth no more to drag on,
No Wheel-Barrow, but now a Waggon.

The celestial Waggoner, or Carter, a Constellation, consisting of 14 Stars. The Inventor of the Waggon was said to be translated to Heaven by Jupiter.