Horace in London Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith] |
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| I. |
| II. | ODE II. HURLY BURLY!
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
 | II. |
 | Horace in London |  |
18
ODE II. HURLY BURLY!
Jam satis terris nivis, atque diræ.
Enough! the dog has had his day,
The cat has mew'd her hour:
Th'imprison'd Gale is blown away,
Burdett has fled the Tower.
The nation fear'd those scenes of woe,
So fatal thirty years ago,
When dreading neither axe nor rope,
An outward Christian, inward Jew,
Fierce Gordon led th'enthusiast crew
To persecute the Pope.
The cat has mew'd her hour:
Th'imprison'd Gale is blown away,
Burdett has fled the Tower.
The nation fear'd those scenes of woe,
So fatal thirty years ago,
When dreading neither axe nor rope,
An outward Christian, inward Jew,
Fierce Gordon led th'enthusiast crew
To persecute the Pope.
19
Oh fatal and disastrous year!
When oyster-vending dames,
Made London's train bands disappear,
And wrapp'd her walls in flames:
The chimney sweep assail'd the shop,
The 'prentice climb'd the chimney top,
Impunity made cowards bold:
While Plutus in his last retreat,
Stood trembling in Threadneedle Street,
And hugg'd his bags of gold.
When oyster-vending dames,
Made London's train bands disappear,
And wrapp'd her walls in flames:
The chimney sweep assail'd the shop,
The 'prentice climb'd the chimney top,
Impunity made cowards bold:
While Plutus in his last retreat,
Stood trembling in Threadneedle Street,
And hugg'd his bags of gold.
We saw the mob, like Oceans' flood,
By howling tempests driven,
Assail the King's dragoons with mud,
And menace old St. Stephen.
Again they rage, the bird is flown;
Sir Francis, aw'd by Whithread's frown,
To father Thames commits his fate:
In secret the uxorious tide,
Safe bears him to the Surrey side,
To join his anxious mate.
By howling tempests driven,
Assail the King's dragoons with mud,
And menace old St. Stephen.
Again they rage, the bird is flown;
Sir Francis, aw'd by Whithread's frown,
To father Thames commits his fate:
In secret the uxorious tide,
Safe bears him to the Surrey side,
To join his anxious mate.
20
From street to street Bellona runs,
In dark blue ribbons clad:
To hear the tale, our sober sons
Will think their fathers mad.
What power can awe the impending Gaul,
What psalm avert Britannia's fall,
What sacred tabbies stop the evil?
Has Southcott, in her straw built cell,
No talisman, no mutter'd spell,
To drive away the Devil?
In dark blue ribbons clad:
To hear the tale, our sober sons
Will think their fathers mad.
What power can awe the impending Gaul,
What psalm avert Britannia's fall,
What sacred tabbies stop the evil?
Has Southcott, in her straw built cell,
No talisman, no mutter'd spell,
To drive away the Devil?
Ah no! for still from south to north,
Sedition swells the gale!
Come then, at folly's call, roll forth,
Ye tubs to faction's whale.
Come, Winsor's lamp, Polito's apes,
Come Hawke, thou peer of many capes,
Pearl-button'd and drab-coated spark!
And thou, the dame of wicked wit,
Round whom the infant hoaxes flit,
Come, mighty Mistress Clarke.
Sedition swells the gale!
Come then, at folly's call, roll forth,
Ye tubs to faction's whale.
Come, Winsor's lamp, Polito's apes,
Come Hawke, thou peer of many capes,
Pearl-button'd and drab-coated spark!
And thou, the dame of wicked wit,
Round whom the infant hoaxes flit,
Come, mighty Mistress Clarke.
21
And thou, great saint, at humour's call,
Joy of the rabble, come!
Whose praise the Smithfield muses bawl,
With rattle, horn, and drum.
When Saturnalian sports draw near,
Three days in each revolving year,
'Tis thine to lead the frolic hours:
Heed not, dread sir, thy loss of skin,
Thy jocund revelry and din
Have made us jump from ours.
Joy of the rabble, come!
Whose praise the Smithfield muses bawl,
With rattle, horn, and drum.
When Saturnalian sports draw near,
Three days in each revolving year,
'Tis thine to lead the frolic hours:
Heed not, dread sir, thy loss of skin,
Thy jocund revelry and din
Have made us jump from ours.
Come, too, Mendoza, foe to ham,
Whose fame no bruise can sully;
Come, wary Crib, Batavian Sam,
And last, not least, come Gully.
Assuming the dictator's seat,
Late to thy Plough in Carey Street,
Return to end thy halcyon days:
Long may'st thou rally, hit, and stop,
And may no envious Newgate-drop
Put out thy glory's blaze.
Whose fame no bruise can sully;
Come, wary Crib, Batavian Sam,
And last, not least, come Gully.
Assuming the dictator's seat,
Late to thy Plough in Carey Street,
Return to end thy halcyon days:
Long may'st thou rally, hit, and stop,
And may no envious Newgate-drop
Put out thy glory's blaze.
22
While amateurs, for fame athirst,
Entwine with ardent vows
The laurel wreath at Moulsey Hurst,
Around thy batter'd brows,
If any sheriff dare to wield
His wand to clear th'embattled field,
Stand forth, and down the gauntlet fling;
With frequent fists the intruder check,
Or grasp his chain-encircled neck,
And fib him from the ring.
Entwine with ardent vows
The laurel wreath at Moulsey Hurst,
Around thy batter'd brows,
If any sheriff dare to wield
His wand to clear th'embattled field,
Stand forth, and down the gauntlet fling;
With frequent fists the intruder check,
Or grasp his chain-encircled neck,
And fib him from the ring.
| Horace in London | |