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1

MIRTH AND METRE.

MODESTY.

There is, the Botanists all say,
A plant that, cautious, shrinks away,
And shuns the hand's least touch;
Fearing the smallest sullying stain
That from the contact might remain:
Sweet Modesty is such:
Contamination thus her dread,
The maiden, blushing, lifts her head,
And, timorous, smiles to day;
Tenacious of her spotless fame,
Beneath th' oppressive eye of shame
She droops with sad dismay.
The diamond, though of ample worth,
When first 'tis drawn from mother Earth
Presents no charm for sight;
But when it leaves the Artist's hands,
What admiration it commands,
Array'd in all its light!
As to the diamond is its glow
Doth modesty in women show,
An equal proof of worth;
Beauty itself must cease to be
Without the charm of modesty,
'Tis that which gives it birth.
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Though drooping lies the fallen rose,
A soft, mild, tint its leaves disclose,
And delicately charm;
Thus ever-blooming Modesty
The loss of beauty will supply,
And with attraction arm.
O, cherish, then, with timorous care
Your greatest ornament, ye fair!
And prize it while ye've breath;
By that preserv'd through age's space
Beauty shall smile on every face,
And yield alone to death!

INFANCY.

A SONNET.

O Infancy! thou envy of the crowd!
For thou feel'st not the tauntings of the proud;
Exempted art from all the hopes and fears
Whence lean Solicitude but smiles in tears.
Secure from all Temptation's magic snares,
Rapt in unconsciousness, thou can'st not sin;
While all around thee, groaning with their cares,
Despairing droop, thou smil'st at peace within.
Yet I but pity thy imbecile reign;
Unconscious life is but a dream of death:
Beshrew the dastard who can covet breath,
To wear his spirit in a passive chain!
Sprung from a God, with energy be mine
Of bounteous zeal to prove my source divine!
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THE BOY AND THE BAKER.

A MODERN PINDARIC.

Once, when Monopoly had made
As bad as now the eating trade,
A Boy went to a Baker's shop,
His gnawing appetite to stop:
A loaf for two-pence there demanded,
And down a tiny loaf was handed.
The Boy survey'd it round and round,
With many a shrug, and look profound;
At length—“Why, Master,” said the wight,
“This loaf is very, very light!”
The Baker, his complaint to parry,
Replied, with look most archly dry,
While quirk conceit sat squinting on his eye—
“Light, Boy? then you've the less to carry!”
The Boy grinn'd plaudits to his joke,
And on the counter laid down rhino,
With mien, that plainly all but spoke—
“With you I'll soon be even, I know.”
Then took his loaf, and went his way;
But soon the Baker bawl'd him back—
“You've laid down but three half-pence, Jack!
And two-pence was the loaf's amount.
How's this, you cheating rascal, hey?”—
“Sir,” says the Boy, “you've less to count!”
Thus modern wits against each other fight,
In point deficient, and in substance light;
But so profuse and pond'rous are their stores,
To count or carry, strength and patience bores!
4

ELLEN;

OR, THE FAIR INSANE.

“Gentle stranger! hast thou, pray,
Seen my Bertram in thy way?
Past the hour he mark'd to meet—
Seldom Love has tardy feet.
“Would, O would the youth were here!
Yet 'twill wrong his faith, to fear;
O, he's true; vain fears, be gone!
Bertram will be here anon.
“Then we'll trip to yonder grove—
There he told me first his love;
And, when there, with kisses sweet,
He'll the charming tale repeat!
“Fifty ways his fondness show;
Braid my locks, and bind my brow:
Cull me flow'rs, or blythely play
Many a pretty roundelay.
“See this chaplet! this he wove—
Ah! how long delays my love!
Know'st thou, stranger, where he strays?
Can'st thou tell me why he stays?
“He comes not—ah! I wish in vain—
Stranger, he'll not come again!
Dead, and gone, my Bertram's laid,
Where Ellen, too, must rest her head!—
5

“Red, last night, the moon appear'd;
Twice the nightbird's scream I heard:
Thro' the grove, the nightingale
Told a sad, sad, piteous tale!
“Yes—I saw my true love there!
With no flow'rs he deck'd my hair—
Wherefore could his fondness fail?—
Told me not one tender tale.
“He ne'er gave me kisses sweet,
Nor even found kind word to greet!
But he wistful look'd, and wan;
Beckon'd me, and quick was gone!—
“Mark! the wreath he made is dead,
Ev'ry flow'ret hangs its head:
But, tho' dead, to me 'tis dear—
Stranger, tell me, why that tear?
“Is thy true love lost, like mine?
Come, I'll mingle tears with thine—
Ah! no—with grief, this long, long day,
Stranger, I've wept them all away!
“Have my sorrows giv'n thee pain?—
Soon 'twill all be well again!
Spring reblooms, tho' winter blight;
Day succeeds the longest night.
“Pitiest thou my hapless lot?—
Pity now availeth not!
Envy's arts possess'd the youth,
Ellen had betray'd his truth.
“Oh, I saw the deadly cup?
Why would Bertram drink all up!
None to leave me, was unkind—
Yet, I will not stay behind.
6

“If thou chance my knell to hear,
Stranger, kindly place my bier
Where my love—I faint—I'm spent—
Oh!—my heart—indeed, 'tis rent!
“—Hist!—heard'st thou my love cry, “Come?”
Yes! 'tis he, he calls me home!
“Haste!” he says—“I come,” she cried;
Then, wildly gazing, Ellen died!

SPLEEN.

A SONNET.

Curse on thee, Spleen! or liberate my soul,
Or I must call on Madness for relief:
Madness is bliss, compar'd with thy controul
Of nerveless yearnings, and lean, tearless Grief!
For Madness sometimes will give ear to Mirth;
Yes, I have seen him sooth'd into a smile:
But thou, O Locust! of the sickliest birth,
Gangren'st all humours with thy vapoury bile!
Not even Love—and Madness sits by Love,
And hears his tale, and sighs, and oft will weep:
While thou, worst horror of the wrath of Jove!
Would'st dash him headlong from the wildest steep!
I can no more.—Heav'n save me! lest despair
Drive my poor struggling soul to tax thy care!
7

FRIENDSHIP.

“To Friendship's existence assent I'll not lend,”
Says Tagrhyme the threadbare: “I ne'er found a friend.”
Replies Quirk, with a sneer—“Who the devil e'er thought
Of Friendship, whose word wouldn't pass for a groat?”

CHARITY.

A ROUGH SKETCH.

Your Charity's a jolly dog,
Who trudges forth, in frost or fog,
O'er brake and bramble, many a mile,
To help a lame dog o'er a stile.
Of cross or coin without regard,
Or wish for gossip Fame's good word;
But, for his deeds so void of leaven,
Whene'er he sleeps he dreams of heaven!

CHARITY.

IN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

In Virtue's plain, where many a stream doth glide,
Full richly fed, from Pleasure, fountain fair!
Doth ev'ry spring of happiness abide;
And many a fane its head exalteth there,
Where virtues dwell; of Virtue children all,
And as the parent we the offspring call.
8

There doth Contentment greet the wand'ring eye;
Unspotted Chastity, of modest mien;
And sober Temp'rance; meek Humility;
And many mo, whose titles fair, I ween,
And goodly deeds, in Virtue's page, with care,
For imitation, all enrolled are.
But, chief of all, there dwelleth Charity;
Withouten whom none Virtue's presence find;
Who else attempt them Self-security
Still intercepteth; he a power unkind!
And near the fane he skulks to seize on all
Who turn a deafen'd ear when Charity doth call.
And woe betide all whom he seizeth on!
From Virtue's plain he them conveyeth far;
Before their eyes impervious mists are thrown;
And haughty Pride conducteth them to where,
Destruction hight, a horrid pit there been;
And down they fall, and never mo are seen!
In other's good doth Charity rejoice;
Supporting hapless offspring not her own;
Prompt at the call of Misery's falt'ring voice;
And ever trying to allay the moan
Of guilty breast; by ev'ry soothing art,
Instilling hope to heal the broken heart.
If Envy ever, with base Scandal join'd,
Doth try her gen'rous actions to bewray,
She smileth pardon; conscious that her mind
To deeds unseemly never did giveway;
And then in tender pity doth she sigh,
That such there are who deal thus spitefully.
If, by a pow'r superior e'er oppress'd,
Her deadliest foe in thraldom chance to fall,
Again doth pity actuate her breast,
And his unkindness she forgetteth all;
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His sad condition causeth her much pain,
Nor doth she rest till she his freedom gain.
If when she, forc'd, contendeth with a foe—
And foes, Heaven knoweth, she hath not a few—
She him o'ercome, and all his arts o'erthrow,
Her 'vantage ne'er to farthest doth pursue;
But kindly spareth; holding it to be
A crime to crush a fallen enemy.
Ah! may ne Self-security my way
With mists too surely fatal e'er obscure;
But gentle Charity my bosom sway;
That I in Virtue's palace may secure
A fair reception; and avoid the fate
Which all her foes doth, certes, aye, await!

DEATH AND THE DOCTOR;

OR, “LIVE AND LET LIVE.”

Says Death to the Doctor, and show'd him his dart—
“I've got you at last, friend! This, this to your heart!
No more shall you cheat me—” “Cheat you, friend! which way?”—
“By saving whole thousands design'd for my prey.”—
“Me deprive you of thousands?” replied Galen's son;
“I swear, Sir, I never depriv'd you of one.
While patients can fee, 'tis my int'rest to save 'em;
But, you well know, at last, I take care you shall have 'em.
Then withdraw your curs'd dart; reconsider the case;
Let justice, at least, if not friendship, take place:
Don't envy me grass, while you riot in clover;
But, “Live, and let live, brother, all the world over.”
10

HOPE.

A SONNET A-LA-MODE.

Sweet sympathizer of the sick'ning soul!
Hope! heav'nly harbinger of halcyon health!
Fair-ey'd inflator! critical controul!
Implicit idol of or woe or wealth!
Essence of all the entity divine
Of buoyant emprize! Impulse sweet, remote,
Of pious breathing! in thy beams benign,
The more than many wavy phantoms float!
Effulgent radiance! my susceptive sight,
With more than rapt solicitude of zeal,
Pursues the sweepy circuit of thy light,
Till not one nerve its transport can conceal;
Till all thy rays concentrate in my breast,
In all the exquisite annoy of rest!

THE OLD OAK.

Mark, on yon hill, a venerable Oak
Obnoxious stand to each tempestuous stroke:
Around its trunk, with many a chasm defac'd,
Skirted with moss, by turning ivy brac'd,
The flocks stand thick, for shelter or for shade;
Alike the birds the spreading boughs invade.
I've seen, at eve, when Care relax'd his frown,
Turn'd from his forge and threw his hammer down,
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A rustic Sage beneath its covert stand;
By hinds surrounded in a list'ning band;
While he recounted to their wond'ring ears,
Its height, girth, history, and length of years.
Two generations had already past,
The third, grown hoary, now approach'd its last;
The fourth was rising; since the the manor's lord,
Plac'd it a sapling in the parted sward.
Long was he childless; but, his name to spare,
And 'twas illustrious, Heav'n had sent an heir:
The joyous parent, on the hill's broad head,
In ample heaps the festive honours spread;
All comers welcom'd; and unbounded mirth
Proclaim'd his transport, and the bantling's birth!
Then, as a long memorial of th' event,
The tree was planted; while the air was rent
With bacchant wishes for the Planter's peace,
The Child's prosperity, and Oak's increase.
He, from his grandsire, heard the whole detail;
Who, then a stripling, quaff'd his honour's ale.
He told, too, smiling, how it came to prove,
The standing chronicle of rural love;
How, on its bark, the amorous swain engrav'd,
The magic name which all his soul enslav'd!
Some traces mark'd by Time not quite subdu'd:
And, pleas'd, he prais'd the wooers and the woo'd:
Told, in what numbers these could hearts inflame;
How these were victors at the village game.
But now, alas! how ruthless Time destroys!
Gone were the partners of his early joys.
One trace he view'd, and stifled half a sigh;
I saw him turn, a gushing tear to dry;
Himself had form'd it, in a generous hour,
When sleek'd-fac'd Hope arm'd Love's delusive power.
Bright were the damsel's charms, her manners sweet;
Her tongue persuasion, but her soul deceit.
His hopes she flatter'd, and his gifts receiv'd;
Frequent his gifts, for much the youth believ'd;
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But much he gave, and much believ'd in vain;
Her hand she yielded to a richer swain.
Drooping he went; but time and youth combin'd
Repair'd his spirits, and confirm'd his mind.
But no vain beauty now his breast could move;
He shunn'd the sex, and steel'd his soul to love.
Thus all his hopes one artful woman cross'd;
Through one base woman, all his youth was lost.
No nuptial comfort sooth'd his anxious breast;
No parent's joy his yearning soul express'd;
Cheerless, he wander'd through life's dull decline;
And mourn'd “himself the last of all his line.”
Well sung the Bard—“O, be the Jilt accurs'd!
Of all the vicious, surely, she's the worst!”

MELANCHOLY.

Amid the calm, sequester'd shade,
Sad Melancholy wanders still;
Or, pensive, droops the cheerless maid
Beside the silver, purling rill:
Where Silence holds her placid sway,
Scarce interrupted by the stream;
Or e'en the sigh, that heaves its way
From nurs'd Affliction's troubled dream:
Where fall'n the sculptor's pride is seen,
The moss-rob'd pillar's worn remains;
And mould'ring Grandeur's sullen mien
Derides the skilful artist's pains:
Where, emblematick, falls the bough
Of drooping Sorrow's favour'd tree;
And warm Devotion breathes her vow,
Beneath the veil of secresy:
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Where Pity weeps o'er Folly's train,
And Mirth forgets his mad career:
Where Love dares venture to complain,
And Superstition bows to Fear:
Where rarely on the verdant way
The footstep's form appears imprest;
There, whither oft I've wish'd to stray,
Where none my musings might molest!
In pensive thought's abstracted guise,
To brood o'er Disappointment's reign;
Hope's pleasing wish to realize,
In Fancy's light, ideal train!
For Melancholy's mournful reign,
And Sensibility's soft pow'r,
Produce a pleasure, oft, from pain,
And milder make the plaintive hour.

PARNASSUS.

Parnassus hight, there is—nor tell I tales—
A mountain, high as any in North Wales:
Where standing, in climes foreign or our own,
Is known to Poets, and to them alone;
Nor will be other, while old Time shall pace on,
For ev'ry Poet is a sworn Free-mason.
On this high mountain the Nine Muses dwell,
Fair sisters all, as gossip Fame can tell.
Here are, besides ten thousand pretty things,
A magic Fountain, and a Horse with Wings.
Whene'er the waters of this stream are quaff'd,
Knowledge is giv'n, proportion'd to the draught;
Who mounts this Horse, o'er all the world may fly,
Soar to the stars, and all pursuit defy.
14

This mountain's top, in breadth some dozen miles,
Presents a scene, where Nature ever smiles.
There barebon'd Winter never yet was seen;
The lawns and meadows were unfading green:
Spring's milder sun there always sheds his beams;
Silken their verdure, chrystal are their streams.
Silks, satins, velvets, muslins, and so forth,
Compose the flow'rs: the fruits boast greater worth;
Jewels are they, most exquisite and rare,
And ivory boughs the precious burdens bear.
There birds of silver and refulgent gold,
Enamel'd o'er, most beauteous to behold,
Sing on a model novel quite, nor plann'd ill,
As Arne's fine airs, or chorusses from Handel!
Divinest odours the rapt senses greet,
Spice-crown'd Arabia breathes not half so sweet:
None here want food, so Lent eternal keep;
Night comes not here, and no one wants to sleep.
Thence Poets spring; and thence those scenes they draw,
Those tissue scenes, which no man ever saw;
Where Celia sleeps upon the downy grass;
And makes the silv'ry stream her dressing glass;
Where amorous sunbeams paint her with the rose,
And love-sick Zephyrs fan her to repose!
Thence Poets spring; no wonder, then, their knowledge
Exceeds the mysteries of either college;
No wonder, then, the Poet, in his flight,
So often soars beyond all mortal sight.
Thence are the flow'rs that form his boasted wreath;
Those lawny flow'rs, that wither with a breath;
Thence the rare fruits, with which his way is strew'd,
Pleasant for sight, but worthless all for food!
And thence, though Poets sing such strains divine,
Rarely their strains procure them means to dine.
Ah! rarely Poets may refreshment take,
And sleep will still the hungry soul forsake.
15

Ye ardent youths, who hourly sigh for fame,
Ah! covet not the Bard's too envied name:
Few are his joys, unnumber'd are his woes;
And these substantial, but ideal those.
His pleasures few, and they but gay deceits;
He starves, poor devil! amid fancied sweets.

COLIN; OR, HOPELESS LOVE.

AN ECLOGUE.

The fresh'ning dew yet whiten'd o'er the blade,
Nor long the nightbird his retreat had made;
Oft wont, e'er dawn, to tread the silent green,
With wayward step, and with dejected mien,
His flock before him restless Colin drove,
And, deeply sighing, sung of hopeless love—
“Ah, woe is me! ill-fated was the day
When love first led my heedless heart astray!
Ere that sad hour, how blithely time danc'd by!
My mind unclouded, and my spirits high!
Whistling I went, as forth my flock I led,
Tun'd my soft pipe, or carrol'd as they fed;
And, when at eve I penn'd them in the fold,
Sought the gay green, where, mingling, young and old
Strike up the dance, and healthful sports pursue,
Till warn'd of parting by the thick'ning dew:
Then home I hied me; and, my heart at ease,
Light flew my slumbers as the summer breeze—
Ah, woe is me! ill fated was the day
When love first led my heedless heart astray!
Now, when by grief tir'd out, my eyes I close,
My active mind still robs me of repose:
Cold Anna's form officious dreams display;
Again I woo, again she turns away!
16

“Ah, stay!” I cry—she triumphs in my grief:
Anguish awakes me—but to no relief;
For though unreal the sad scene I find,
True is the woe, and rooted in my mind.
Thus sleep I dread, but only wake to weep,
Exclaim at Fate, and chide the hours that creep;
Of rest impatient, ere the ling'ring dawn,
Flee my loath'd bed, and seek the vacant lawn;
While my flock's plaintive bleat, and dog's shrill bark,
Wind o'er the hills, and wake the early lark.
Ah, woe is me! ill-fated was the day
When love first led my heedless heart astray!
Fair were my flocks, bear witness every swain,
At once the pride, and envy, of the plain;
No more the envy of the plain they move—
Ill fare the flock whose shepherd pines with love!
Snow white, and smooth, their fleeces once appear'd;
Now torn by brambles, and with ooze besmear'd;
For half the day, of them regardless, I,
Wrapt in delusive thought, supinely lie;
At random, then, they wander as they please,
While prowling robbers many a victim seize;
And, ere three months have seen my soul thus cross'd,
Three fruitless ewes, and nine young lambs, I've lost.
Ah, woe is me! ill-fated was the day
When love first led my heedless heart astray!
Of all the passions which the mind e'er nurs'd,
Love most deludes us, and torments the worst:
But shall a face my ev'ry bliss destroy?
Must I be wretched, because Anna's coy?
As lovely nymphs, and far more kind, remain;
Then why, for her, thus waste my soul in vain?
Enough, disdainful beauty! have I borne
Of cold caprice, and agonizing scorn;
I'll bear no more!—Ah! oft that vow I make,
One glance from thee that boastful vow can break!
17

Ye swains, by love yet unsubdu'd, beware,
Nor madly trifle with the gilded snare:
If caught, no art your freedom can restore,
For ev'ry struggle but enthrals you more!
All other ills some peaceful respite find,
But hopeless love for ever racks the mind!
Ah, woe is me! ill-fated was the day
When love first led my heedless heart astray!”

INVOCATION

TO THE SPIRIT OF CHATTERTON.

Spirit of Rashness! whose immortal name
Strikes on the ear with charmful force of woe,
Whose Spartan mind disdain'd complaint as shame,
On whom no hope could kindly balm bestow!
Ah! deem me guiltless of the wish to hold,
To rude reflection, and unhallow'd gaze,
The awful memory of the dead, enroll'd
Victims of will, ere Fate's award of days!
If to inquire shall not to thee appear
The officious workings of an unbless'd zeal;
Where'er thou art, my invocation hear,
And, if permitted, what I ask reveal!
O, say—whose genius, like the summer sun,
From which at dawn unheeded blessings flow,
Burst nobly forth, ere manhood's dawn begun,
To shine unnotic'd, and unfelt to glow—
Say, with despair, from night stol'n grave yawn'd up,
What horrid hag, with pestilential breath,
Combin'd to drug thee such a damning cup,
And harrow Nature with thy tale of death?
18

Was it or squalid Want, who, loath'd by all,
Like treason-tainted rogue, or plague-struck loon,
Skulks by the lonely tomb, or mould'ring wall,
Mouthing her witcheries to the blinking moon?
Or Calumny, from whose dread, subtle, spell,
Nor moated tower, nor holy shrine defend:
Who blights the prospect where the happy dwell,
Confounds the noble, and the poor man's friend?
Or empty Arrogance, from Riches sprung,
Who all save that uncleanly Mammon scorns;
Treads down the suppliant, mocks the falt'ring tongue,
And plants the pallet of the wretch with thorns?
Say, did not Love too deeply pierce thine heart?
Haply, Caprice might barb the shaft he drew:
Didst thou not strive to wrench away the dart;
And, in the struggle, wrench thine heart-strings too?
Was't bold Integrity, untaught to cow'r,
And bow the knee before the lords of pride;
Who urg'd thee on, disdainful of their pow'r;
Beyond their reach to take so large a stride?
Ah, kindly say; for, lo! the hasty throng
Have stain'd thy tomb with Pride's ungracious name!
Inform the Muse, and let her happy song
Declare the tidings, and retrieve thy fame.
Once more! nor longer will I mar thy rest;
Once more—I faulter as the words proceed—
Say, may I hail thee partner of the blest,
Or perish all who self-deyoted bleed?—
A hollow accent smote my wond'ring ear,
With dread I listen'd, trembling I relate.
“O, thou, permitted from the dead to hear,
Presumptuous, pry not in the will of Fate.
19

“Why Death I sought, for thee no good contains;
Go, thou, and wisely profit by my shame:
Tho' all of obloquy my mem'ry stains,
Beyond the grave none hear the voice of fame.
“Whate'er my meed, Omnipotence is just;
In ev'ry ill be resignation thine:
Great is his mercy; yet, O son of dust!
Tempt not his vengeance, by a deed like mine!”

EASTER ANTHEM.

When Israel's Psalmist felt the fire
That Israel's God was wont inspire
Within his duteous breast,
The royal lyrist tun'd his lays,
And in the noblest themes of praise,
His gratitude express'd.
Israel in bondage, first, with grief,
He sung, and hopeless of relief;
But quickly chang'd the strain:
And, as he sung, the God ador'd;
For, lo! he sung, a land restor'd
To liberty again!
But, when he sung the boon divine,
“The throne secur'd to Judah's line,”
How on the strain he hung!
Till rapture swell'd his bosom high,
While gratitude suffus'd his eye,
And check'd his falt'ring tongue.
Such joy no selfish motive mov'd
In him, whom God so much approv'd;
For well he understood—
20

From Judah's race, with time's increase,
An Heir should rise—that Prince of Peace!
Who bought us with his blood,
If David could such joy display,
Reflecting on that glorious day
He vainly wish'd to know;
Bless'd with that day's all-saving sight,
From us what accents of delight,
What ceaseless strains should flow!
Oh! catch the lyre, and wake the string;
A bounteous God, with David, sing,
To death, for us, a prey:
And every voice in concert rise,
With grateful rapture rend the skies,
Nor let the theme decay!

EPITAPH

ON A GOLD FISH.

Its thoughtless moments quickly told,
Here lies a Fish whose scales were gold;
But the rich prize could not from death
One moment stay its fleeting breath!
Reader, on Gold then ne'er depend,
At best a weak and faithless friend!
But seek that treasure which can save
Beyond the all-devouring grave!
21

THE HEART.

Cried the beautiful Mira, “how sad is the tale!”
While the tears fill'd her heavenly orbs of bright blue,
Her head it hung pensive, her cheek it turn'd pale,
And her bosom of snow heav'd in unison true.
Such features of sympathy surely impart
That the beautiful Mira possesses an heart!
Said the elegant Anna, “'Tis worthy relief,
“'Tis our duty the woes of each other to hush;”
And subscribing her name to meek Charity's brief,
To each compliment paid her return'd a sweet blush.
Such features of Charity surely impart,
That the elegant Anna possesses an heart!
“I decline the assembly, my new dress and all,”
Said the sprightly Jeannetta, when home she had got:
Both Mira and Anna were found at the ball,
But Jeannetta was found at the poor widow's cot.
True sympathy scorns affectation and art,
'Tis the sprightly Jeannetta possesses the heart.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON EXPRESSING HER CONTEMPT OF COMMON ANTIPATHIES.

I Think, or I hope, that a maid so refin'd
As Maria, told not the true sense of her mind,
When speaking, last eve, of antipathies common,
She felt, from the delicate nature of woman;
“I'm asham'd of these whims, 'tis so like affectation;
So lady like”—here, Miss, I ground accusation;
22

Why blush, gentle maid, from such species of spirit?
Such whims in your sex are criterions of merit.
For whenever you ladies antipathies feel,
An inveterate hatred of vice you reveal;
You bear to God's creatures no wishes of harm,
But condemn Vice's emblem in each varying form;
From envy you shrink in the venom-swoln toad;
And from scandals curst croak, should a frog cross your road;
In the mouse you dread cunning, the spider, deceit;
And so forth of each noxious reptile you meet;
So you smile at the trifler express'd by the fly;
And in butterflies laugh at such coxcombs as I;
Then no more blush with shame (tho' you think it might cloud
Your credit) at what justice bids you be proud.

IRAM TO ZEMIRA.

Belov'd of Iram! to thy silver lute
These lines attune—and these to faith impute:
“How cheering Hope's benignant smile—
How radiant that of Joy!
How that can all the heart beguile,
This all the soul employ!
Yet sweeter far, beyond degree,
Are lov'd Zemira's smiles to me:
“How sweet the blush of Modesty,
And Gratitude's high glow!
What nameless charms can that supply,
What graces this bestow!
Yet sweeter far, beyond degree,
Is lov'd Zemira's bloom to me!
23

“How sweet Affection's yielding sigh,
Which can the savage soul subdue!
But yet for sweetness may not vie
My fond, my constant maid, with you!
No, sweeter far, beyond degree,
Are lov'd Zemira's smiles to me!”

ODE TO CUPID.

Thou! who of yore from beauty sprung;
Ever blooming, blythe, and young!
Brother to the sportive smiles;
Taught by Fancy, nurs'd by Hope;
With whom nor Art, with endless wiles,
Nor Strength, with coral nerves, can cope;
Ah! listen to my suppliant strain,
And let me not implore in vain!
Sweet Archer, whose celestial dart,
Bounding from the groveling heart,
Pierces only where the soul
Pity, Peace, and Faith obeys;
O, thou, whose exquisite controul,
A blissful agony conveys,
Ah! listen to my suppliant strain,
And let me not implore in vain!
Should honour e'er my heart refine,
Meet, O love! for prize of thine;
Should'st thou claim it, God of hearts!
And fate the lover's boon deny,
O'erwhelm my soul with all thy darts,
And thus entranc'd, O, let me die!
Ah, listen to my suppliant strain,
And let me not implore in vain!
24

THE LUNATIC.

Reason! beam of light divine!
Source of each celestial joy!
A moment, ah! I boast thee mine;
Involving mists no longer roll
O'er my sad benighted soul,
But all is lucid, calm, and free;
Extravagance and wild desire
No more my hurried fancy fire;
No frantic views my mind employ;
All, all, is sweet complacency!
Ah! to die in state like this
Were dearest agony of bliss!
Horror darkens all my light;
Scenes of anguish crowd my sight!
Anticipation's cruel power
Robs me of the present hour.
Must I reason then forego?
Must I sink again so low?
Hope offers me no cheering balm—
The thought deranges every calm!
O, cruel interval of light,
Thou arm'st more poignantly the coming night.
Warp not, restless fiends! my soul,
I defy your curst controui;
I'm of blood and race more high
Than all the heroes fame e'er sung
For whom the lyre of bards was strung;
Fiends avaunt! ye fire my brain!
The madd'ning flame
Pervades my frame—
I brave ye all; your power is vain—
25

My soul is tortur'd, rack'd, and torn;
On furious, rapid, whirlwinds borne;
I ride upon the fleeting clouds!
Mountains, molehills, all appear
Now, so high my course I steer
Distance each nether object shrouds!
Higher, higher, I advance,
All is fathomless expanse!
I shudder at the vast profound—
My sight is lost, my head turns round—
I'm lost! I fall! I sink! I die!

THE ROYAL CRADLE; OR,

CAMBRIA IN THE STRAW.

WRITTEN AT THE BIRTH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.

A modern mock Pindaric.

Britons, approach! a patient ear incline,
My Theme's as largely your concern as mine.
I sing not Cæsar from the field returning,
With Victory's laurels nodding on his brow;
I sing no Manlius for his country's weal
Rushing on death, alone, mid hosts of steel;
Nor Cincinnatus, with sole empire, yearning
For cottag'd peace, and his paternal plough;
Nor godlike Scipio, in youth's fullest fire,
Rigid in honour, victor of desire:
Such themes might suit Rome's ancient, heathen days,
But christian England scorns such maudlin praise!
Our continence gets fly-blown in an hour,
Just buds, but never ripens to a flower:
26

With us content is meanness; we despise
The sneak who sticks at any thing to rise;
Our Patriots, somewhat unlike those of yore,
Their Country make good bargains of, not for.
And then our Heroes, tho' we have a few;
Who fighting love, and get their share of't too;
But such electrifying names, I swear,
Of mine shall not one single reader scare.
A modern hero, all so smooth and smug,
Like pretty Poll, or little Master Pug;
The Mall or Lobby whose campaign Parade is,
Looks fierce alone to lap-dogs and to ladies;
With muslin valour, all cockade and feather,
Swoons at a sword, and trembles at the weather;
Minces the oath to swear at length would fright him;
And skips past every door with tim'rous haste,
By a grim lion for a knocker grac'd,
Fearing the monstor should—jump down and bite him.
I sing no Loan; to me it was n't lent,
Then where exists a cause for me to praise it?
What tho' the Premier did give Cent per Cent,
Perhaps a trifle more, ere he could raise it;
Why, in the name of sense, should I bewray it?
The devil is in't if I am ask'd to pay it!
I sing of no Convention Bill; not I!
Not that I suffer fear my tongue to tye;
I just act with it, as I did without it;
What business, then, have I to prate about it;
Likely as not, to prate myself to prison;
For what?—“The Nation's Benefit.”—The Nation?
You could not well have pick'd a lamer reason.
The Nation's gratitude is such, her end
Once gain'd, I'll tell you how she'd serve her friend—
I'll do it, like Dan Peter, by Quotation.
27

A FABLE OF ÆSOP.

A Fox fell in a shallow well one day,
But much too deep for him to gain the top;
A Goat, upon a journey, went that way,
And down the well his noddle chanc'd to pop,
As if his bearded worship sought to drink.
Reynard, transported, saw him at the brink—
“Ho do you do? my dearest friend!” cries Ren;
“I hav'nt seen you since—the Lord knows when!
“I am so glad, to find you've grown so fat;
“Do help me out, that we may have some chat.”—
“How,” inquires t'other, “shall I get you out?”
Rejoins the Fox—“We'll manage it, no doubt.
“Do just step down; and on your hinder rest,
“With your fore legs against the well's side prest;
“Then to your horns I up your back can climb,
“And gain the margin in a moment's time;
“Then by your horns—for strength I do not lack—
“I'll pull you after, Billy, in a crack.”
Well-pleas'd with Renny, Goaty, all so grave,
Simply stepp'd down; and Reynard, in a minute,
Popp'd from his prison; when the shabby knave,
Scarcely for laughter making shift to cry—
“God bless your charity! Good bye! Good bye!”
Skipp'd from the well, and left his dear friend in it!
Now, having, like some orators of note,
Prefac'd away so learnedly and long,
That my theme's object almost I'd forgot,
'Tis time some certainty should fix my song.
I sing a Cradle; Peter sung a Louse:
The Critics prais'd; what theme shall hence be mean?
I sing a Cradle, that contracted house,
Which ne'er encloses Envy, Hate, nor Spleen;
28

Where Avarice ne'er with apprehension quakes,
Nor proud Ambition still to anguish wakes;
Where Fraud ne'er ruminates, Remorse ne'er weeps;
But cherub Innocence, with dimpled smiles,
Reclining there, the careless hour beguiles;
And, spite of fear, the pretty Heartease sleeps.
I sing a Cradle; yet, with more propriety,
The Cradle's Charge: a charge of royal mould;
The Infant's Nurse, a damsel of thick blood;
Give to the noble Guardian counsel good;
And touch on divers things, of just variety;
Some worth, I ween full well, their weight in gold.
The Cambrian Chief, from Bruno's royal lass,
Has, in quaint phrase, receiv'd a pledge of Love;
A chubby Girl! Ye Cambrian Bards, rejoice!
Hark! how the cannon's garagantuan voice
Proclaims the birth; the merry steeples prance
With peals of information; while the mass,
Some shout, some sing, some fiddle, and some dance:
While some of joy or grief no single muscle move;
While others shrug their shoulders, scratch their rumps,
In full monotony of doleful dumps;
Snapping at all who of the matter axes;
“Why, i'n't the Princess brought-a-bed? you oaf!
“And now, when bread is fifteen-pence a loaf,
“We shall be saddled with some more damn'd taxes!”
Now many a rib in Fashion's corps enroll'd—
Such sway imperious Fashion here doth hold—
With all her soul out Hubby's eyes could claw,
Because she's not with Caroline i' the straw.
O, dapper Underwood! thou modern Slop!
Thy happy progress with green-bag parade,
Should no confounded Obadiah stop,
Thy fortune, yes, thou lucky dog! is made.
29

Who at the length of fee disdains to stick,
Will hail you, eastward, westward, southward, nor'ward—
Brush up your wig, and set your best foot forward.
A Branch has issued from great Cambria's stem,
And all St. James's is stark mad for joy;
Coach upon coach in crouds each other hem,
Well cramm'd with guests—all Carlton House a-hoy!
Wales, apropos; while all the modish nation,
Come brimful of sincere congratulation;
List to a tale 'bout compliments and money;
Told of arch Killigrew, and Charles the funny.
It happen'd Charles had set apart a day,
When all his courtiers their respects should pay;
And Killigrew was order'd to prepare
A coat for Charles upon that day to wear.
The garment made, the King confess'd 'twas grand—
“But, Kil,” says he, “I don't much understand
“The pockets of this coat! Odsfish, man! fye on't!
“Compar'd, they're like a pigmy and a giant:
“One takes compleatly half the coat; how is't;
“The other scarcely will admit my fist!”—
“Sire,” said the wag, “the great one, by your leave,
“Is meant to hold professions you'll receive!”
“The least,” says Charles, “but where of that's the “sense?”—
“That, please your Ma jesty, will hold the pence.”
To Cambrius, lo! an Heiress!—Dashwood, thou,
So Cambrius wills, the nursling must attend;
Relief to all its little cravings lend;
Sing it with lullabies full meet to slumber;
And manage little matters without number;
All which, I trow, to order you know how.
But, noble Nurse, reflect! your charge is great;
Its weal or woe much interests the state:
30

Then mind, dear Dashwood, how you rock the cradle;
Don't rock it once too little—if you do,
Caprice, and spleen, and sickness, will ensue:
If once too much, its brains, you know, will addle.
Then, with a prudence vigilant as keen,
Bless the sweet bantling by a golden mean.
You know our food the humours will affect;
Be careful, then, the purest to collect.
Enquire those mothers eminent for deeds
Of various virtue, and endearing mood;
Save those her mother owns (that soul exceeds
Humanity endow'd with every good)
A little milk from these—if suckling—crave;
The boon with pleasure, daily, they'll bestow;
These, with the mother's mingled, boil; and throw
The scum away; no single atom save:
That scum's ill qualities, from each express'd;
For wicked particles alloy the best!
With this pure beverage mix unleaven'd bread,
Made from fresh wheat, sown in the newest moon,
By some blest Agent of Benevolence, to shed
Relief on Poverty with ample boon;
And sheer'd by Industry's most happy band,
While larks sing sweetest in the morning's youth;
The loaf well-kneaded by the lovely hand
Of some sweet maid of most unblemish'd truth.
Be this her viands—Dashwood! this is food,
Could Angels eat, would do e'en Angels good!
Of swathing, dressing, Lady, and the rest,
You own more knowledge far than I can teach you;
But I have more remaining of behest;
Then pay it good attention, I beseech you.
Attend my subject's spirit, well as letter;
Nor think yourself aggrieved, or degraded,
Because by me with useful counsel aided—
“Two Heads, you know, than one were always better.”
31

In early morn; that's by and bye, when Time
Has knit her nerves to face the honest Air,
Who treats no kindlier the Prince than Peasant;
Except, when Eolus, who makes forge bellows,
Should be abroad, or any of his fellows;
Who rudely off your cap or hat will tear;
Or blunt Aquarius, who waters roads and streets—
And splashes every living soul he meets—
Or, in plain terms, as we would say in prose,
Sweet Lady, when it rudely rains or blows,
But when the sun-beams make the morning pleasant;
Take her abroad; neglect would be a crime;
'Till brace her so as wholly to dispel
The seeds in which that quality disease,
Ennui by fine French Dictionary Drapers,
But by vile English Boors call'd Wapers,
That long-legg'd Polypus delights to dwell.
At early morn; but not the morn of Quality.
The Peasant's latest noon; when home he hies,
Already having toil'd a short day's length,
To eat the bread of chearfulness and strength;
When half-unwholesome Quality just rise,
With eyes of owl, complexion like a candle,
To drink their chocolate with spleen and scandal.
I mean, fair Lady, morning in reality,
When rosy Health the milk maid trips along,
As light of heart as foot, trolling her song,
Of merriment and peace; e'en long before,
The yawning shopman ope's his master's door,
The publick, in plebeian phrase, to gammon,
By tricks of trade, of the unrighteous Mammon.
Thy charge, fair Lady, by and bye, will talk,
And teach her then to say her pray'rs;
Her parents may; but 'tis not in the walk,
I ween, of Lords and Ladies to say theirs.
And when she grows up big, if you attend her,
Tell her, if you can do't and not offend her—
32

We may'nt tell truth at all times to great Folk—
That Princes and Princesses, Queens and Kings,
Do sometimes die, as well as meanest things;
That some have thought the Bible not a joke;
That if it i'n't; the great as well as small,
Who do not treat it in a manner civil,
Perhaps, may stand some little chance to fall;
Into that German's claws, yclep'd the Devil!
Inform her Modesty makes young maids pretty,
And tints their faces with the loveliest bloom;
That sweet Goodnature is the best perfume;
And that 'tis better to be good than witty;
For wit in women's oft a dangerous dowry,
A stream of venom, with a margin flowery.
Teach her to speak the Truth; a shame 'tis crying,
Your noble Folk such dabsters are at lying;
Tell her a Proverb too, that alway hack'd is,
By great Folk sometimes tho' not put in practice,
That “Honesty, in fallacy's despite,
“Of soundest logic is the limb most right.”
Tell her Religion is a comely sort
Of kindly chearful-hearted Dame, good Nurse!
That she scarce ever had “a friend at Court;”
And if she had, 'twould not be much the worse;
And say that Fashion is a motley fool,
And of her votaries that few are better!
That Mrs. Reason has for dress a rule,
Which if she likes to see the dame will let her.
A plain old woman 'tis lives out of town;
And ne'er was known to play at cards on Sunday;
Nor dance, nor sing, nor fiddle, and so on;
And thinks that out of seven, on one day,
There i'n't much wickedness in going to worship;
And that there's odds 'twixt Protestant and Pagan;
Tho' modern pious Christians, troth to say,
Seem to think not; they adoration pay,
Led on by many a learn'd and noble Curship,
Alternately to David's God and Dagon.
33

Tell her—But, hold! less trouble to be taking,
I'll give you, Lady, such a pretty tale!
To shew it her I'm sure you will not fail;
I'm sure she'll take it all in kindliest part,
And if she likes it, get it off by heart!
Should I in those days tread this vale of cares—
The thing I neither should be glad nor sorry at—
And Pye or his Successor kick the bucket;
And she be advertis'd it was my making;
Under her arm, from gratitude she'd tuck it;
And fly to Court, and with incessant prayers,
Worry the King to make me Poet Laureat!
And if he did—oh Folly! thou should'st quake;
Thy empire, Vice! I'd to the centre shake;
I'd whack those courtier imps of adulation,
Who for a sinecure would sell the Nation!
And steep in brine, my authoritative rod,
To make those Bishops own it was a biter,
Who not alone their Country, but their God—
Barter for lucre of Lawn Sleeves and Mitre!!
My pruning plan, I warrant, I'd pursue,
Till every criminal own'd who was who;
The Laureat's thunder should burst forth in tropes,
In pith and pertinence to shame the Pope's;
'Till not a vice was left to lay my lash on;
And Virtue, summon'd from her far resort,
And introduc'd by me at Court,
Wou'd of necessity become the Fashion!
But, Zeal, i'fag's! you're carrying all before you;
And I, fair Lady, had forgot my story.

A STORY.

An Eagle once, harangued his brood—
“Ye progeny, of Royal Blood,
“A Father's awful words attend;
“And with your souls his precepts blend;
34

“This world, the work of Love's own hand,
“Jove on a social compact plann'd;
“Whence he decreed all private zeal
“Should centre in the public Weal.
“Hence various orders were ordain'd;
“Just systems must be so sustain'd—
“Now each of office thus possess'd,
“Is but a Steward to the rest;
“And who of trust has greatest share,
“Indebted stands for greatest care.
“A King, supreme of elevation;
“Is but High-Steward to the Nation;
“And to ensure faith in the Throne
“The Nation make its wants their own:
“Shall not the welfare of the Nation,
“Be then a King's whole contemplation?
“Shall he not, then, if need should call,
“Chearful, for them, resign his all?
“My children, yes! a King's whole cares,
“Himself, and all his Race, are theirs.
“Then, mark! thro' life, whate'er you do,
“Keep this most piously in view;
“Kings”—Deem it, by the bye no libel
On sense, birds quoting from the Bible;
Though 'tis beneath our wise regard,
Their tastes to please mayn't be so hard;
And of their talking while agreed,
We surely may conclude they read—
“Kings my dear offspring, and their race,
“Are lights expos'd on highest place;
“From whose resplendence all should know
“The way in which they ought to go;
“Then if by fogs the guide's surrounded,
“The charge may likely be confounded.
“Before the mass then let your light
“Shine so invariably bright,
“That henceforth none may have to say,
“Thro' you they ever went astray;
35

“And in the highest ranks reflect,
“We always errors first detect.
“Ten thousand stars the thickest cloud,
“And, unobserv'd by all, may shroud;
“But 'tis the tale of every one,
“If slightest shade should veil the Sun!”

THE AGE,

A SATIRE.

ARGUMENT.

Thro' virtuous zeal, not rank ill nature,
The Muse resolves to deal in Satire;
The Bard expostulates thereon,
And much they argue pro and con;
But as the Muse asserts her sway
The Bard is fated to obey.
Folly and Vice he then invokes,
Two nabob-kind of leading folks;
He hints at Statesmen, Patriot zeal,
And feigning what we do not feel,
Holds up to praise the modern Teacher,
And talks of Goldsmith's Village Preacher:
Then when fine reas'ning he would broach,
He's interrupted by a coach;
Which makes him forth on coaches hold
And tradesmens' ways in times of old;
Then Lux'ry food for Censure yields;
Newgate, the Strand, and Cold Bath Fields
He visits next; then pops the Bard on
To Drury Lane and Covent Garden,
And there asserts the use of plays,
Where Sense and Virtue court the bays;
Next, in advice he will engage
With Misses sweet and Parents sage
36

On novel reading; then cracks jokes
On modern, high-bred married folks;
As bards are never held in fetters,
Then holds forth boldly to his betters;
Nor will the reader's patience keep
Much longer—if he's not asleep.
[_]

Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:

  • For P. read poet
  • For M. read Muse

P.
The Times, my Muse? good Heavens! you can but joke;
Think what we dare, and who we may provoke.
Lo! where, far keener than the frigid North,
The harpy spirit of Chicane's gone forth;
Leagu'd with such swarms of libel-hunting rooks,
Erskine would scarce indemnify our looks;
Then, if we must proclaim the time's good deeds,
Like Midas' rib, let's tell them to the reeds.
So, when the zephyrs o'er the marsh shall play,
Th' instructed reeds shall form a tell-tale lay;
Th' admiring world the wondrous story hear,
And we the talons of no catchpole fear.

M.
Cautions and catchpoles I alike despise;
Who brood o'er scandal may concealment prize;
Truth forms my theme; and, spite of all our blunders,
Truth is no libel in this age of wonders.

P.
But when, while Candour toils with Want incog.
Int'rest's comptroller of the decalogue,
Who so contrives it, by a talent plastick,
It fits all consciences with power elastick;
When painted Modesty disdains her veil,
And even prudent Decency turns tail;
When, scar'd by Fashion, Reason stands aloof,
And shameless Impudence out-stares Reproof;
Or, first deploring Chastity's decline,
Gravely invites him an intrigue to join!
Muse, when our labours to the world we lend,
What soul will read; or, reading, will amend?
37

And think what doughty prodigies of rhymes
Have vainly satiriz'd their venal times:
The worst to me were Florentine to tinder—
From ancient Pasquin to our Peter Pindar.
Let us then ponder, ere we lash our neighbours,
And wisely profit from their fruitless labours.

M.
What, if Paul preach'd to unbelieving Jews;
Or Moore should now to Roger and the pews;
Shall Yorick's curate Sunday's sermon wave,
Or Yorick's clerk forego the usual stave?

P.
These are by church confirm'd to sing or teach;
And Yorick's stipend prompts the works of each;
Mine no diploma, mine no hop'd rewards.—

M.
The Muse ordains, and profits not for Bards;
Else would they fatten, and ('twere needless) grow,
Which Heaven forbid! more proudly vain than now.
Like modern gentry, half on dunghills born,
Who look the essence of audacious scorn;
Deem all of virtue if with want obscene,
And Nature's carpet for their feet too mean;
Snuff up God's air, as loathing to endure
Breathing one atmosphere with aught that's poor.
But, truce to parley, which disputes my sway,
Be yours alone to listen, and obey.

P.
Nay, prove whene'er thy faithful slave denied,
Prompt at thy call, his well-worn hack to stride;
And boggle on thro' quagmire, brake, or den,
Unconscious how he should get back, or when?
Or, in plain mother-tongue, at thy behest,
Night after night, unmindful of my rest,
Have I not fagg'd at some uncouth conceit,
While number'd fingers serv'd the verse to mete;
Rack'd my dull brain for ill-according rhyme,
And sense and grammar sacrific'd to chime,
38

Toil'd with lame simile, description poor,
Unsettled inference, and point obscure;
Stole thoughts from others, pass'd 'em for my own,
But so deform'd, they never yet were known;
As gypsies clothe the innocents they steal
In rags and filth, and so the theft conceal?
Have I not—

M.
Hold! your duty done, at most,
That duty forc'd too, whence the claim to boast?
So may the chariot glory as it flies,
So the fleet arrow as it wings the skies.
But fools, vain, blind, and self-sufficient, view
Matter for praise in every thing they do.
Thus pious beldames sacred records search,
And find enjoin'd them Charity and Church:
At church they sleep—a casual sixpence spare;
Then lift their eyes, and cry—“How good we are!”
Hence, then, with trifling; and prepare thee, slave,
All that my warrant shall impose to brave;
Trace Vice and Folly to the fountain-head;
No devious track to find it shalt thou tread:
Bye-ways no longer lead to their abode;
Plain is the path, and beaten is the road;
Erected posts at every opening stand,
And letter'd notice aids the pointing hand.
Blind, if thou err'st; but, going once astray,
Each vacant booby will redeem the way.
Then, strong for Virtue, to the task with speed,
Truth by thy side, tho' restless Zeal precede;
For who confounds the wilful and the weak
Betrays the tool of Ignorance or Pique.
And know, the Bard, who Vice and Folly spares,
Because stuck round with coronets and stars,
Spurn'd by the Muse—a stigma on her fame—
From stars and coronets reward may claim.
Blest meed! just suffer'd at the proud man's board
To nurse the pamper'd humours of his lord;
39

To be, in short, the veriest reptile born,
At once his feeder's catamite and scorn.

P.
Muse, the supreme temptation I defy;
My poor ambition soars not half so high:
I'd be, tho' mean, as Virtue's champion known;
I'll spare no mortal's vices—but my own.
Arm'd for the charge, behold me then advance,
Bold, as when sage La Mancha seiz'd the lance;
And, in the calenture of tilting zeal,
At herds, and wind-mills, couch'd the rusty steel:
And, like the deadly, 'witching, weird crew—
Quake, ye profane! I'll—“do—I'll do—I'll do!”
And first, to charm us with her potent spells,
Invoke the Goddess of the Cap and Bells.

Hail, great Excentrick! idol of the crowd!
By solemn dunces, and the empty loud,
Alike ador'd; by ever-varied name,
As worships Ignorance, Impudence, or Shame:
By these, as suits best their idolatry,
Frailty, or Freedom, or Consistency.
But bigot Reason, rigid, proud, and vain,
Has dubb'd thee Folly—Fools thy motley train.
O mighty Folly! in thy pageant hall
How many a Quixote glories in his stall!
Unnumber'd orders in progression rise,
To every rank indebted for supplies:
St. Giles's spawn, St. James's courtly race;
Upward from squab Sir Jeffery to his Grace:
Poets and Senators thy fane receives,
And—blush, Religion!—cassocks and lawn-sleeves!
Hail! too, thrice hail! thou Ægeonian pow'r,
Who viest for stature with the cloud-capt tow'r!
40

Whose temple, worthy of so vast a frame,
Invests a space incredible to fame.
A million avenues th' interior shew;
With ceaseless fires a million altars glow.
A zealous priesthood there for ever wait;
A mongrel bevy, whom themselves create;
Green youth with hoary age unites to raise
The restless Censor, clamorous of praise;
And bigot females sexual grace despise,
Mad orgies yell, and slay the sacrifice.
Hail! hail! thrice hail! O Vice! in barb'rous times,
Whose grand designs were stigmatiz'd as crimes;
When nobles only, or the sons of wealth,
Dar'd boast of guilt; while poor rogues sinn'd by stealth.
But now, O glorious privilege of soul!
When kind refinement frees us from controul,
The mean their rights assert, burst off their fetters,
And boldly sin at noon-day, with their betters.
O happy Age! to all restraint unknown,
When each man's creed is really his own:
For, swift to canvas, tardy to believe,
None pins his faith upon his fellow's sleeve.
And faith, thank Fortune! courteous and refin'd,
Dwells on the tongue, nor longer checks the mind;
Mere metaphysick, serves no other end,
Than just for wits to cavil and defend.
Sceptick or Zealot, furious Whig or Tory,
In self alone, the Dutchman's god, we glory.
Mark yonder Statesman mounted on his stool,
To flatter Monarchs, and the land befool!
Behold yon Patriot, in a trimming pet,
Prompt at his country's wrongs to rave and fret!
See, front to front they stand, in dire array,
Like two fierce bull-dogs, eager for the fray:
41

Mere farce on both sides, mummery, and grimace;
That wants a peerage, and this wants a place.
Should'st thou, O Candour! with the Cynic's lamp,
Throughout St. James's spacious forum tramp;
Think'st thou the scrutiny would aught reveal
Of Statesman's truth, or Patriot's honest zeal?
Chatham, alas! to Britain's grief lies low;
And Marvel died some six-score years ago!
Albion, God rest her soul, may trust to Heav'n,
To In or Out, the wrangling vote is giv'n;
For these in strife the House their strength consume,
As once for Cæsar and for Pompey Rome.
Not mine to say that Walpole once spoke true,
“All have weak sides, and all their prices too!”
Pensions and places all unite to scout 'em,
And talk for aye “about 'em, and about 'em;”
But while with fear and zeal all sides abuse 'em,
Alas! how few, how very few, refuse 'em!
But now, my muse, this hackney'd strain give o'er,
Truce to a theme of all the tritest bore;
Who could deny that Senators did well
Suppose they should our every Charter sell,
Vote at their will, for party or for pay,
Our Fortunes, Liberties, and Lives away?
In what they purchase all may surely trade,
And theirs we are by public contract made.
For tho' at Bribery, as the Devil, we rail,
And paint him, too, with fiery horns and tail,
Should He with Satan, Probity with Paul,
At all our Houses on a canvass call,
The Devil, and welcome, on our backs might ride,
And take poor Paul and Probity beside.
Blest Age! to no mean prejudice allied,
That might infect thee with a decent pride;
42

With whom Rank oft, with scorn of noble aim,
Serves but to stamp a dignity on Shame;
Grace on Absurdity, on Whim repute;
Or flaunt the honours of a birth-day suit.
Nay, search this focus of confusion round,
And tell me where Distinction's barrier's found?
Six ells of muslin should my Lord prepare
To swathe his neck, or should he leave it bare;
His Lordship's porter bares his brawny skin,
Or ties of bow a bushel 'neath his chin.
Alike by slouch and thickset mark'd, where's room
His Grace to single from his Grace's groom?
Or, view his Lordship gambling with a horse,
In all the far-fam'd spirit of the course;
At home with ev'ry Black-leg, as with brother;
Save by the face, who knows the one from t'other?
With waist a thimble, and a mile of train,
View both my Lady, and the cook-maid, Jane!
And should her Ladyship reverse her plan,
Behold her moral in the scullion Nan!
For nights of revelry, and useless days,
Her Grace no more shall challenge all our praise;
Curs'd with the rage for genteel and polite,
See Lady Prune, and honest Mrs. Mite;
Nay, fat Dame Fillet scorns to be out-done,
Shewn to her chamber by the rising sun.
Painting once mark'd the peeress from the crowd,
Asham'd of nature, and of rank too proud:
Now take your way from Pall Mall to the Fleet,
And scarce one clean, unvarnish'd face, you'll meet;
Maids, wives, and widows, in the guilt agree,
And, Warren, sacrifice their charms to thee!
Thee, wond'rous chemist! who canst make, at will,
Wash-balls from dew-drops; and canst blooms distil;
With blooms and dews, Dame Nature's self canst pose,
And brew, like spiders, poison from the rose!
43

No longer Lords alone for oaths are fam'd,
Or brazen fronts, by nothing to be sham'd;
Debts, drinking, from consumptive, visage wan,
Riots, blaspheming, wenching, or crim-con.
Swearing, a system grown, in every place,
Of modern converse forms the leading grace;
And he who seeks for Modesty's resort,
As vainly tramps the city as the court.
Bilking a taylor, once a proof of spirit,
Is grown too common to be thought a merit!
And cits, once sober to proverbial grace,
Now push the bottle, till shame hides his face!
Say, where's the race Britannia once could boast?
A Briton's name then terrified a host—
Healthful, and strong, with fist alone to fell
The sturdy ox on which they throve so well?
Heav'ns! how the sons their manly sires disgrace,
Aches in each limb, and asthma in each face!
Save just a few, reserv'd by Fate's decree,
To shew what Britons were, and ought to be.
Mark every 'Prentice foremost in the fray,
To storm a watch-box, or to damn a play;
To lame a waiter, just to drive the farce on;
To sport a trollop, or to quiz a parson.
And where the unbred boor, now nothing's strange
When conscience plies a prostitute at change,
Who sticks to rob another of his wife;
Or sneer, with H---ft, at the God of Life?
And here let Justice in our praise declare,
For not one trait like Merit can we spare;
Though legion's self against us may appear,
Not ours the vice of superstitious fear.
With all the grand sublimity of Gaul,
Boldly the Godhead to account we call;
And if Divinity we chuse to grant him,
Make him, discreetly, just the thing we want him;
44

Shewn, for convenience, in as many shapes
As cunning Brahmins dress their idol apes.
Go on, sweet Gentles! with your sapient plan,
Still make the God subservient to the man.
In Gospel speculate, like the Jews in stock,
And only open when subscribers knock;
Put off the old, to substitute new leaven,
And shew the Quality smooth ways to heaven.
Like some good pastors in th' establish'd pale,
Who seek sound orthodoxy in sound ale;
Toast Mother Church, till Piety gets drunk,
And turns at once both heretick and punk!
Who haunt each levee for the loaves and fishes,
And change the heavenly manna for made-dishes;
Hunt, poach, and game, with ev'ry wealthy pander;
And leave their flocks—but shear them first—to wander.
While the lean Curate, pitiful and poor,
The man least chearful in the ample cure,
Jeer'd by the children for his rusty black,
Toils for ten pounds per annum, like a hack;
Feeds on the bitter herb his Rector scorns,
And finds, indeed, Heaven's road a road of thorns!
Gentles, go on! and should one man appear,
Who, “passing rich with forty pounds a year,”
Prompt at almsgiving, never sighs for more,
But when Want asks, and he has spent his store;
Who to his flock shall chastity commend,
And meekness praise, and temperance defend;
Like every teacher of the modern taste,
And, unlike them, be temperate, meek, and chaste.
If such be found—but surely such to gain,
Save in Dan Goldsmith's verse, the search were vain—
Banish him quickly, lest th' infection spread,
With all his load of weakness on his head,
45

To herd with some strange, unenlighten'd race,
With whom such actions ne'er entail disgrace;
Who, poor in spirit, and of manners rude,
Love the mean “luxury of doing good.”
There let him crawl his round, like some old wife,
And call the Hottentot-existence—Life.
Virtue the Mass thro' tinctured opticks view,
And so perversely falsifys her hue;
Refinement takes Effeminancy's shades,
And Luxury blooms, while Independence fades.
Thence with infection Warren scents the gale,
And Spangle's liveries fix him in a gaol;
Thence, proud of infamy, like peers in pay,
Stale drabs with duchesses dispute the way;
Thence fiddlers fatten, while scarr'd veterans beg,
With honour, limping on a wooden leg;
Thence spring dark spleen, rank, gout, unholy blain,
And half the revenue of Warwick Lane;
Our gaols are crouded; and, so much we pray,
Our churches haste, unheeded, to decay.
—Zounds! who comes here, at such a thund'ring pace?
The steeds all foam, the charioteer all lace!
Three lamps in front, behind two flambeaux glare,
And two huge turban'd blacks the torches bear!
Hark! the loud knocker vast importance hints;
Back flies the door, and out steps—Madam Chintz!
“What then?” cries Chintz, no little piqu'd in mind,
“Alone to Rank must splendour be confin'd?
“All, sure, may live to what the means afford;
“As well a Linen-draper, as a Lord.”
O Chintz! far be it from the Muse and me,
Who still contend man's born but to be free,
In deed, in word, or e'en in thought, to aim
The slightest effort 'gainst the glorious claim.
46

Nature and Reason in one voice conspire—
“Be his who labours to enjoy the hire;
“Who plants the fig-tree on the fruit should feed;
“Who rears the vintage, quaff the generous meed.”
No, Chintz! the Muse, disdaining to oppress,
Would only shame, or reason, from excess.
If Drugget's commerce justifies his coach,
Let him enjoy it, fearless of reproach.
But why should Drugget, if his Grace runs four,
Think one too little, and so build three more?
Where lies the honour? Flaunt it as he will,
In Splendour's spite, he's but plain Drugget still.
“It shews his wealth!” To prove that he can pay,
Need not requires to throw his wealth away.
Proud, with his Grace he would dispute the ball;
And, like his Grace, he'll soon not pay at all.
What hence determine? Scann'd by Reason's rule,
The case stands plainly—Drugget is a fool.
What but a madman is his friend Veneer,
To keep his coach, who stints his daily cheer?
And Foil, who sports his phæton and black,
Whose real wealth would scarce discharge a hack,
Candour would term a rascal; but the times,
With whom but sense and poverty are crimes,
Applaud; and all will at his treats attend,
Till in a Whereas, all his fame shall end!
Then to contempt the change shall praise convert,
And want procure him knavery's desert.
A time there was, when coaches were so rare,
That cits most envied for his coach the mayor;
That rolling Mansion House the sons of Barter
Held then as old and sacred as their charter;
While shouting 'prentices its lab'ring way,
Clogg'd up by crowds, with hope were wont survey:
Each new survey increas'd th' ambitious zest,
And with new zeal inspir'd th' industrious breast.
47

Tradesmen their shops then stuck to as their trust;
Plain were their manners, and their dealings just.
From frugal Industry their wealth they drew,
Nor road to riches by false failure knew.
No, thanks to villany! that glorious crime
Was meant to perfect our stupendous time:
When things go on with such heroic spirit,
That should our sons improve upon our merit,
As Bronze, who thrice the Bankrupt ordeal pass'd,
Grac'd with his new-built curricle the last;
Some future Bronze, upon the Bankrupt score,
Shall tend his summons in a coach and four!
Then tradesmen's sons, by no ambition led,
But just the footsteps of their sires to tread,
Thought commerce honour, prudence holy writ,
Payment good-breeding, and shrewd dealing wit;
Dress'd like good Christians, taverns ne'er went near,
And saw no plays, save Barnwell once a year;
Left pride and prostitutes to upstart Lords;
And blush'd at blasphemy, and kept their words.
Ere tradesmen's daughters, modest as the morn,
Held Nature cheap, and housewifery in scorn;
Left Glasse and Sherlock, for Romance and Hoyle;
Or by cosmeticks learnt Heaven's work to spoil;
Vapours and coquetry, and scandal priz'd;
The ton affected—by the ton despis'd;
Neglected church, to flirt it through the town,
And spurn'd discretion, like some cast-off gown.
Ere tradesmen's wives grew connoisseurs in Taste;
Thought folly dignified, and trade disgrac'd;
Took glare for grandeur, in the heat of pride,
And sense and fashion equally belied.
With cards and songs made God's good day a joke;
And, aping duchesses, their husbands broke;
48

And, aping duchesses, the good man's brow
Adorn'd with—Heav'n knows what, and Heav'n knows how!
Time was, when private coaches were so rare,
E'en gentry boasted of a hackney fare;
Now mark an equipage, two hours or more
Ere wanted call'd at ev'ry other door.
Ere wanted call'd, to catch, of weakness proud,
The vacant homage of a gaping crowd.
Britons, distrust this cavalcade of wealth;
The scarlet flush ensures not stable health;
The gayest people of the feather'd throng,
Are least esteem'd for sustenance or song,
The parterre glories in a thousand blooms;
The parterre's pride the first keen blast consumes;
The decent box around its margin seen
Braves winter's rigour in its chearful green.
And, lo! the Moon, tho' mild the light she casts,
The Sun supports her, and with Time she lasts;
While the proud meteor, with a short-liv'd glare,
Springs from foul vapours, and concludes in air.
All hail to Luxury! the boundless theme;
All hail to Luxury! of ills supreme;
All hail to Luxury! that conquer'd Rome,
And threatens Britain with a speedy doom!
High sits the Jezebel in bloated state,
As meanly insolent as proudly great;
More dire than that great sorc'ress Homer sung,
Or scarlet Babylon, from whom she sprung.
Twelve luscious Turtles, each for size a whale,
Sustain her throne upon their backs of mail;
Th' ignoble passions, with each dirty care,
In bestial forms, her various household share;
Chain'd round her courts the abject senses lie;
And her sad footstool Health and Peace supply.
49

Her premier, Fashion, who at transformatiou
Exceeds the ablest Courtier in the nation;
And the most bungling Courtier—Gay I follow—
Can beat old Proteus, aye, and ten such, hollow.
This fickle being, with the helm at play,
Stamps the implicit order of the day;
Th' intemperate Despot of our blindest awe;
Whose word is gospel, and whose look is law.
The Great, at war with principle and sense,
Witness their modes of payment and expense,
Have fealty sworn; and, by example won
The mean consent, though by consent undone.
So, when the leader of young Colin's sheep
O'er some broad slough dares meditate a leap,
Superior strength a safe descent ensures,
And off he springs, and all his aim secures:
The flock, so prompt to dangle at his tail,
All quickly follow, and as quickly fail;
Some few, perhaps, the wish'd-for margin make,
The rest drop, headlong, in the stagnant lake;
Some, with soil'd fleeces, gain at length the shore;
Some, struggling, plunge, and sink—to rise no more
Explore yon mansion, at whose ad'mant gate
A heartless Cerberus keeps eternal state;
Within whose walls Repentance vainly weeps,
And Want long Lent with many a heart-ach keeps;
Where hectick Plague infects the breath of day,
And dumb Despair with anguish wastes away;
There, where the mouldy scrap all hands invade,
Behold, what wretches Luxury has made!
Yet to that mansion, lo! what thousands swarm,
To take destruction, maniack like, by storm:
Allur'd by Splendour, and alarm'd by Pride,
The feeble hobble where the powerful stride;
And, emulative of the shameless Peer,
Bankrupt for ever with a plumb per year,
50

E'en the low menial, with romantick joy,
Barters his tiny credit for a toy!
View yonder mart; no generous commerce there
Confirms the vigour of industrious Care;
There Beauty's barter'd, Nature's rights are sold,
And Nature's curses speed the proffer'd gold.
Steel'd in the traffick, and of lewdness vain,
Without temptation, but disease in grain,
Behold what swarms besiege the busy way,
To scatter worse than pestilence for pay:
There, like the bud just opening to a rose,
In the same moment blighted that it blows,
New from the nursery, lo! an infant race,
With faltering oaths, defy the name of Grace;
Ting'd o'er with shame Obscenity pursue;
And, loathing, shudder at the wretch they woo!
Oh! wreck of loveliness, accurs'd of fame!
Grand boast of luxury, and first pride of Shame!
My Muse no farther can thy fate reveal,
Sick with such pangs as holy horrors feel;
And, while her soul with indignation burns,
To scenes less wretched, and tremendous, turns.
“Hard are the times!” exclaim a croaking band;
“Hard are the times!” re-echoes all the land.
Witness, O Drury! with thy sister bear,
What time e'er seem'd so void of want or care?
In your gay domes, where all conditions throng,
Suspicion laughs, but hints that things go wrong:
For high and low, from Criticks to the Gods,
The diamond sparkles, and the plumage nods.
There soft Voluptuousness erects her throne,
And Prudence seems the only want that's known.
For, spite of times, of taxes, and distress,
There, without end, the headlong million press.
51

Save those, and those increase, a giant train
Who Prynn and Collier's ancient creed maintain
That plays and pageants are but baits to lure
The soul that busy Satan would secure.
Dramas there are immodest and absurd,
But are all Sermons transcripts of the Word?
Shall Reason hence all Homilies devote,
Or banish Shakespeare because ------ wrote?
“A verse may reach him who a Sermon flies,”
And plays attract who books and bards despise;
And some good drama forcibly exprest,
Rousing some latent spark within the breast,
May lead to books for Reason's law to search,
And books, enlight'ning, pave the way to church,
Immortal Avon! pride of ev'ry Muse!
Whose stream the Bard with aweful rapture views;
That stream to him more sacred than the fount
Whose magic waters lave the mystic mount;
Far less inspir'd with warmth poetic he
From quaffing Helicon than quaffing thee.
Immortal Avon! thy “sweet swan” has prov'd
In Virtue's cause (by ev'ry Muse belov'd)
An abler chief, tho' zealots may deride,
Than Quixote sect'ries mad with bigot pride.
And, sure, when such the tenor of the mind
To pastime more then Piety inclin'd;
(So frail is man!) that medium of delight
Which can the social and the sage unite,
Shall claim regard—Thus, lest the sick'ning child
Refuse the potion, by indulgence spoil'd,
The subtle leech, to stem Disorder's stealth,
Sweetens the draught, and cheats it into health.
The thoughtless young, the giddy, and the gay,
Church it for form, but banquet on a play.
52

And view the large majority among
The gay, the giddy, and the thoughtless young
Then, Bards, be wary when the Muse ye woo;
One ardent aim with honest zeal pursue;
Virtue to guard, and teach us to despise
Vice as it stalks, and “folly as it flies.”
The stage has faults, and venal bards are found,
And venal preachers cumber too the ground;
The richest vineyards dangerous weeds disclose,
And sharpest thorns surround the lovely rose;
One source of ill more baneful than the stage
Infests this whimful variegated age,
A horrid poison, an insidious fire;
The monstrous birth of prostituted hire!
Romance, and Novel, and a nameless race,
Alike devoid of grammar as of grace.
Chiefly from where—hard by that lumbering fane,
Sacred to sainted Crispin and his train—
To mark the place, as with indignant pout,
Wisdom, alas! for ever stands without.
O'er tomes like these, whose quantity and sort
Might build a Babel, or corrupt a court,
Youth wastes its morn, to sacred study due,
Reads without end, and only reads to rue:
As Miss is punish'd, through her rage for plumbs,
With canker'd teeth, and ever-aching gums.
From tomes like these, for these with scenes abound
In all her walks by nature never found;
Quaintly affected faiths, and squeamish strife,
Unknown to Reason in the walks of life;
Creatures, for Nature's and for Reason's sake,
God never made, nor ever meant to make:
From tomes like these, where Love's th' eternal theme,
That love the bastard of a brain-sick dream,
Springs all that canting sentiment of Art
Which comes not near, or, touching, taints the heart;
Hence Sloth's loose languish, with the sighs of Spleen,
And Folly wed to Ruin at fifteen;
53

Sappho her fame and perjur'd Phaon mourns,
And many a temple throbs with coming horns;
Chlo, skill'd in knights from Valentine to Gaul,
Calls Job, Evangelist—and Pilate, Paul;
While Florio knows, with half his sex beside,
Better why Werter, than the Saviour, died.
O bless'd, or burthen'd, with a rising breed,
While reading, ponder—ye, who deign to read.
But, chiefly, who the female morals guard,
With candour listen, to the meanest Bard,
Know, half the train on yon parade who ply,
Near where R. A.'s for reputation vie,
By Novels erst morality were taught,
And from Romance a wild religion caught;
Learnt taste from Plays, economy from Balls,
And at St. James's to despise St. Paul's.
Then, O, be watchful! but with skill preside;
Let not the partial for the prudent guide.
Not frigid Arctos, nor the burning Line,
But where due seasons still revolve be mine.
Moments abound when youth's inconstant mind
Bears with disgust the solemn and refin'd;
When Pope and Johnson unregarded lie,
And Grub Street's welcome, if no better's by.
Then what or Novel or Romance supplies,
Fraught with the moral, sanction'd by the wise,
Proves, to tired hinds as intervals of rest,
Source of new strength, and renovated zest.
And such there are; but, in proportion'd share,
Less than if good men we with bad compare;
Then mark for choice the preference of Age,
Temperate by time, and from experience sage.
“A time for all things,” said the wisest King,
And wisest man; alike to sleep or sing;
Feast or forbear, for penitence or play;
As roll the seasons, or change night and day.
54

Youth was not meant, as sung the Bard of Care,
“To waste its sweetness on the desart air.”
Thence box and ring debarr'd were petty treason,
While here reigns Decency, and there shines Reason:
But box and ring, an occupation made,
Damn as securely as a Masquerade.
Combat with care that promptitude to dress,
Whence toys and top-knots more than health can bless;
A rage for finery, like a rage for play,
Acts as the worm that gnaws the root away.
Female or Male, a Fop's a fool, at best,
The good man's pity, and the rabble's jest;
Like gilded flies, unprofitably gay,
Or Sweep bedizen'd for the morn of May.
Dress, to be graceful, must, ye fair! be chaste;
A glare of colours is disgustful waste.
Greens, blues, reds, yellows, undigested all,
Make that stain'd trash we marble-paper call;
While one meek tint will form, by varying shade,
The loveliest portrait Nature ever made.
And, O sweet nymphs! but let it first be told,
That I no benefice, or tythings, hold;
For mention church, and priestcraft comes of course;
Hat for the head, or saddle for the horse.
Ye gentle fair! 'twould never spoil one face,
Would ye but now and then our churches grace.
'Twould seem like prudence, and be no restraint:
Church not requires the primness of a saint,
Save here and there “Amen,” or “Kingdom come;”
Who act much other than they would at home?
Each, as good lawyers oaths, the priest regards;
Sleeps, ogles, talks, and just not plays at cards.
Save a few drones, who, piously inclin'd,
Take home the Text, and leave the rest behind.
55

Yet, hold!—th' advice on second thought I rest,
And second thoughts, grey gossips say, are best;
Haply, like poverty, or small-pox scar,
Church, as to marriage, might your fortunes mar.
Prudent 'twould look; but there th' objection lies;
The sober, formal creature, we despise.
For let each wife do all that prudence can,
Or love suggest, to fix her dear, good man;
Her dear good man to other nymphs will roam,
Tir'd of his wife, and tasteless of his home.
Let her, with all the insolence of shame,
Brazen abroad a meretricious flame;
Gods! how he doats!—too fatally for peace;
Still finds his passion with her guilt increase;
And, when she's known at half the Bagnios round,
Computes his damage at ten thousand pound!
So, while God's word for common waste is sold,
Some huge lewd folio brings its weight in gold!
Patrician orders! ye, whom stars and strings
From other folks make far, far different things;
Ye, whom thick blood (I've somewhere seen the phrase)
Exempts from caution, and prefers for praise;
Who, in some climes—thank Heaven! not here—may kill
And gobble rude Plebeians up at will;
To you my Muse inscribes her modest lay;
O deign to notice what she dares to say!
But oh! most noble! fancy not my Muse
So vile your worship'd order to abuse;
Read without bile; nor, seeking for offence,
Strain every word a “libel on the sense.”
As in such sort, 'twould make the Devil vex'd,
Coblers clear Scripture at a groat per text.
A virtuous Peer, more sacred than the law,
The Muse contemplates with religious awe:
56

But rank and vice combin'd—herself 'twas said it—
She holds as cheaply as your lordships' credit.
Thick blood and thin!—lies honour in a word?
An honest Hind exceeds a knavish Lord.
Illustrious Lords! illustrious Ladies! too;
The times are bad; Reform depends on you.
You must have seen a monkey archly scan
The manners first, then imitate the man.
Perfection's hopes the mimick ape incite;
For all conclude their betters must be right.
So we, the humble, copy you, the high;
Step as you step, and where you turn we fly.
If you the rattle and the cap assume,
Ourselves as proudly on the same we plume;
And, in the zeal of impotent conceit,
We add the bells, to make the cap compleat.
If you take Reason kindly by the hand,
“Reason!” we cry, and Reason rules the land.
Is Vice your choice? we're vicious to the core;
And, if 'tis Virtue, Virtue we adore.
Virtue and Reason! these to make us blest,
I've read, have Influence far beyond the rest;
('Twas when at nurse, in book of strange old print,
And Goody wont to keep her ribbands in't.)
Yet we Plebeians doubt if it be true,
And hope we've good authority in you.
You disbelieve it, I may safely swear,
Or every action would your faith declare;
For you, appointed eye-sight to the blind,
Could never sin against the light of mind.
But, though, while hope holds every bliss in view,
With blindest zeal your footsteps we pursue;
Alas! like famish'd Tantalus we fare,
And strive and languish only to despair;
57

Nay, as if Fate sport of our yearnings made,
Our best exertions are the worst repaid.
Suppose, for once—yet think not I'd presume
To teach you, Sires! who should the Age illume—
I'd only hint, with most profound respect,
What you, at will, may sanction or reject;
For fame has said, and will the charge maintain,
Your noble pleasures, too, are mix'd with pain.
Suppose, for once, that Book's advice we try,
And see what pleasure Virtue can supply;
Enquire if Reason can one charm afford
Worthy the condescension of a Lord.
Though Fashion holds them cheap as an old song,
The wisest folks are sometimes in the wrong.
When Warwick Lane despairs of doing more,
Old wives' prescriptions often health restore.
Deign, then, ye mighty! to lead on the way,
And, for the whim, bring these awhile to play;
Encourage Candour; Decency enhance;
Prudence distinguish; Honesty advance;
Give Temperance colour; Chastity embrace;
Cede to old Hospitality his place;
Be seen at church, if but to make us stare,
And, if you can, your prayer-books read when there;
As reading prayers is fashion, now a-days—
For ten priests read to Heaven for one who prays;
Your Tradesmen's bills, some thousand reams, defray,
Nor more contract, unless you mean to pay;
Let Charity those thousands show'r abroad,
Design'd for sensuality and fraud:
Briefly, my Lords, your present modes reverse,
Then rule, a Blessing; and not rage, a Curse.
This simple scheme, great Topknots of the nation!
I hope you'll scan with due consideration;
And, O ennobled fair! ye will, I'm sure,
Discreet of manner, of intention pure;
58

Ye who ne'er Modesty's sweet blush lay by,
Its place by some damn'd pigment to supply;
Ye who ne'er game, in envious Slander's spite,
From night till morn, then sleep from morn till night;
Nor hang your husband's coronets on horn;
Nor laugh God's day, and God himself, to scorn;
Who, in the fever of salacious mood,
Ne'er do all things, save just the thing ye should;
Ye will, I'm sure, most chearfully persuade
Your Lords my plan with all their power to aid.
If not delight, 'twill novelty dispense,
And that forms Fashion's very soul and sense.
And Fashion, though of every deadly seed full,
You will acknowledge, as the “one thing needful.”
But, from experience, should the step disgust,
A full resumption of old Modes were just:
And then confirm'd, through failure of the plan,
That Vice and Folly are the best for man;
Those reverend powers would all their rights ensure,
Our homage justify, and hearts secure.
Then Shame might Decency in blanket toss,
And ply, in statu quo, at Charing Cross,
E'en at noon-day; St. Paul's a stew appear,
And bawds be canoniz'd, by way of sneer;
Bishops sing ballads to support Life's breath;
And lean Religion drink herself to death;
Proud Infidelity fair Truth enslave,
Destroy and triumph, fiddling, o'er her grave;
And Patriots, if such monsters may be found,
Be rooted out, as “cumbering up the ground.”
The Muse to Vice, of Prostitution proud,
Ring brazen Pæans thro' the drunken crowd.
Our Royal Oak, the victim of excess,
Export most apt for fopperies of dress!
Might build the navies of more sombre powers,
Too meanly sober for a taste like ours.
59

Then might old Neptune, him we've prais'd so long,
Provide a theme for other sort of song;
Spurn down Britannia from her coral throne,
And break the sceptre he has made her own.
Then, on all sides, might envious foes rush in,
Our bliss increasing by mad Rapine's din;
And, while Despair sat brooding o'er the storm,
A glorious Chaos the just climax form!
O Albion! badge of Lunacy and Pride!
By those betray'd Heav'n sent to guard and guide;
Whose Great Ones, rais'd to justify your fame,
Are first to blast it with the deeds of shame;
Whose Bards, inform'd as temperers of your mind,
Its sources poison, and its judgments blind;
Whose priests deprive you of the faith they teach,
Few but in practice damning what they preach.
O! lost to honour, and to meanness wed!
O! blind to nature, and to feeling dead!
Say, when shall Reason in thy mind take part,
Or Conscience touch thy worse than Pharaoh's heart?
O self-conceited! fragrant without fruit,
All blossom'd o'er, but canker'd at the root!
What boots refinement, thy eternal boast,
If all that makes it valuable be lost?
But know, mad boaster! that refinement's thine,
No more than Horace' deathless Muse is mine.
The senseless fair who thinks her charms too few,
Health's bloom too coarse, too dingy Nature's hue,
The aim of amel to improve her seeks,
Her bosom blanches, and retints her cheeks;
The poisonous varnish works through every vein,
Gangrenes her vitals, and infects her brain;
And, while she flaunts it with conceited zest,
She shines at once a picture and a pest.
60

Thy blazon'd charms with hers, O Specious! blend
As pure in essence, and as blest in end.
O Albion! steel'd in infamy and pride;
Whom Bards, when honest, to no end deride,
Instruct or lash; whom Priests, when truly pure,
Unheeded threaten, and unheard adjure!
Bow down thy spirit, and a fast proclaim;
Nor longer glory in thy lustful shame;
Hasten, ere vengeance thunders from the sky—
“For why, presumptuous Israel! wouldst thou die?”
 

Ægeon, or Briareus was one of the giants who warred against Jupiter: he had one hundred hands and fifty heads, with as many mouths belching out fire.

Saint Paul is here alluded to.

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