 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
172
IMITATIONS OF HORACE.
ODE XV. BOOK IV.
TO THE PRINCE REGENT.
“Phœbus volentem prælia loqui.”
With martial heat I seiz'd the Lyre,
To sing of wars and conflicts dire,
And valiant heroes slain;
When Phœbus whisper'd with a frown—
“O ne'er, to please a foolish town,
Attempt the battle-strain.
To sing of wars and conflicts dire,
And valiant heroes slain;
When Phœbus whisper'd with a frown—
“O ne'er, to please a foolish town,
Attempt the battle-strain.
“To fill the soul with fond alarms,
To sing the pow'r of beauty's charms,
The joys of love and wine,
Shall better far thy muse become,
Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum;
For not a strain can Croker thrum,
To match one Ode of thine.
To sing the pow'r of beauty's charms,
The joys of love and wine,
Shall better far thy muse become,
Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum;
For not a strain can Croker thrum,
To match one Ode of thine.
173
“Let other bards, in martial verse
The deeds of Wellington rehearse:—
In numbers light and gay
Do thou, my friend, Horatius Flaccus,
Record the victories of Bacchus,
A chief, who if he once attack us,
Is sure to win the day.
The deeds of Wellington rehearse:—
In numbers light and gay
Do thou, my friend, Horatius Flaccus,
Record the victories of Bacchus,
A chief, who if he once attack us,
Is sure to win the day.
“Thy Prince demands his meed of praise,
Attend—and thou shalt gain the Bays,
(The hungry Poet's pray'r,)
For which harmonious Cibber burn'd,
Which haughty Gray indignant spurn'd,
And Dryden blush'd to wear.”
Attend—and thou shalt gain the Bays,
(The hungry Poet's pray'r,)
For which harmonious Cibber burn'd,
Which haughty Gray indignant spurn'd,
And Dryden blush'd to wear.”
Obedient then, I strike the Lyre—
Come, Busby, and my song inspire,
And all ye rhyming host!
Come, chaste Matilda! thou whose muse,
In any sudden dearth of news,
Adorns the Morning Post.
Come, Busby, and my song inspire,
And all ye rhyming host!
Come, chaste Matilda! thou whose muse,
In any sudden dearth of news,
Adorns the Morning Post.
I never swept the tuneful string
To laud the virtues of a King,
Or what is more—create 'em:
With lighter strains my friends I treat,
A pun, a tale, a quaint conceit,
Or Scandalum Magnatum.
To laud the virtues of a King,
Or what is more—create 'em:
With lighter strains my friends I treat,
A pun, a tale, a quaint conceit,
Or Scandalum Magnatum.
174
Then, please your Highness, tell my muse
What sort of character you choose,
Wise, tender, or heroic?
A chief, invincible in arms—
A lover, fond of beauty's charms—
A statesman, or a stoic?
What sort of character you choose,
Wise, tender, or heroic?
A chief, invincible in arms—
A lover, fond of beauty's charms—
A statesman, or a stoic?
To do what many bards have done,
Suppose I blend them all in one!
With compliments in plenty;
And paint you am'rous, wise, and brave,
Chaste, philosophical, and grave,
And call you one-and-twenty.
Suppose I blend them all in one!
With compliments in plenty;
And paint you am'rous, wise, and brave,
Chaste, philosophical, and grave,
And call you one-and-twenty.
Hail, mighty Prince! illustrious youth!
O listen to the voice of truth,
A voice to Monarchs strange;
Your bright example mends the taste,
Bear witness, many a slender waist
From Charing Cross to 'Change!
O listen to the voice of truth,
A voice to Monarchs strange;
Your bright example mends the taste,
Bear witness, many a slender waist
From Charing Cross to 'Change!
Augustan days are come, we hope,
For Doctor Busby rivals Pope,
And Milton keeps the rear;
Sir Richard lives in Cottle's strains,
And Spenser's Muse, where fancy reigns,
Is distanc'd by a Peer.
For Doctor Busby rivals Pope,
And Milton keeps the rear;
Sir Richard lives in Cottle's strains,
And Spenser's Muse, where fancy reigns,
Is distanc'd by a Peer.
175
See Arnold, with his Pye, agree,
And Skeffington, (immortal three!)
The Drama's rights to seize;
See Op'ras, Farces, all the rage,
And Kemble banish'd from the Stage,
For how can genius charm an age,
Which Shakespeare fails to please?
And Skeffington, (immortal three!)
The Drama's rights to seize;
See Op'ras, Farces, all the rage,
And Kemble banish'd from the Stage,
For how can genius charm an age,
Which Shakespeare fails to please?
Britannia! bless thy lucky star,
That gives thee Clifford for the Bar,
Sly Lancaster to teach,
And “All the Talents,” All! to fool,
Dance, drink, game—any thing—but rule!
And Huntingdon to preach.
That gives thee Clifford for the Bar,
Sly Lancaster to teach,
And “All the Talents,” All! to fool,
Dance, drink, game—any thing—but rule!
And Huntingdon to preach.
My mind, as in a glass, surveys
The glories of your future days,
To me, my Prince! display'd;
Ye years, your happy circles run!
Enough—the promis'd task is done,
And Phœbus is obey'd.
The glories of your future days,
To me, my Prince! display'd;
Ye years, your happy circles run!
Enough—the promis'd task is done,
And Phœbus is obey'd.
176
ODE XIX. BOOK II.
TO DOCTOR BUSBY.
“Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus.”
I saw (nor disbelieve my strain,)
High, in a Box at Drury Lane,
In consequential trim,
A little pert translating Prig,
Extend his hands, and shake his wig,
Most ludicrously grim.
High, in a Box at Drury Lane,
In consequential trim,
A little pert translating Prig,
Extend his hands, and shake his wig,
Most ludicrously grim.
With gestures strange, and accent loud,
He lectur'd to the gaping crowd,
About the Drama's laws;
While now and then, in noisy fit,
Some long-ear'd brethren in the Pit,
Who thought the Doctor still a wit,
Stood up, and bray'd applause.
He lectur'd to the gaping crowd,
About the Drama's laws;
While now and then, in noisy fit,
Some long-ear'd brethren in the Pit,
Who thought the Doctor still a wit,
Stood up, and bray'd applause.
In vain he spoke—the Gallery Gods,
From their celestial high abodes,
Sent forth a dismal yell;
Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough,
Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off
With Proserpine to hell.
From their celestial high abodes,
Sent forth a dismal yell;
Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough,
Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off
With Proserpine to hell.
177
I hear, in varied cadence still,
The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill,
The loud discordant bray;
I see the spouting Pedant stand
Unmov'd,—his Prologue in his hand,
Amid the wild affray.
The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill,
The loud discordant bray;
I see the spouting Pedant stand
Unmov'd,—his Prologue in his hand,
Amid the wild affray.
Hail, Busby, hail! eccentric Wight!
The feats of that tumultuous night
Unfading laurels yield;
When boldly thou withstood'st the brunt,
A coat of mail, thy brazen front,
And impudence thy shield.
The feats of that tumultuous night
Unfading laurels yield;
When boldly thou withstood'st the brunt,
A coat of mail, thy brazen front,
And impudence thy shield.
Lucretius calls thee from the shades,
In hollow voice he thus upbraids—
“For vanity, or bribe,
How durst thou murder my sublime,
Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme!
And bid the town subscribe?
In hollow voice he thus upbraids—
“For vanity, or bribe,
How durst thou murder my sublime,
Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme!
And bid the town subscribe?
“Think'st thou my philosophic Muse,
To teach the lessons of the stews
Was e'er design'd by fate,
To charm the ears of modern jilts,
Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts
To strut in empty state?
To teach the lessons of the stews
Was e'er design'd by fate,
To charm the ears of modern jilts,
Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts
To strut in empty state?
178
“By nature form'd for low debate,
To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate,
Impertinence thy crest;
O! surely thou wert born to shine
A Petit-maître of the Nine,
Apollo's scorn and jest.
To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate,
Impertinence thy crest;
O! surely thou wert born to shine
A Petit-maître of the Nine,
Apollo's scorn and jest.
“Since 'twas ordain'd by angry fate
That, Dunce! thou should'st my works translate,
(With common sense at strife:)
What now remains to blast my fame,
And brand with infamy my name,
But Bowles to write my Life?
That, Dunce! thou should'st my works translate,
(With common sense at strife:)
What now remains to blast my fame,
And brand with infamy my name,
But Bowles to write my Life?
“If thou would'st wound me deeper still,
Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill,
Arch rogue! supply the notes;
And Master George, thy hopeful son,
The flatt'rer play, as thou hast done,
And dedicate to Coates.”
Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill,
Arch rogue! supply the notes;
And Master George, thy hopeful son,
The flatt'rer play, as thou hast done,
And dedicate to Coates.”
179
ODE XIV. BOOK III.
ON THE RETURN OF THE PRINCE REGENT TO BRIGHTON.
“Herculis ritu modo dictus, ô plebs.”
Hark! the merry bugles sound
Ev'ry heart to lighten;
Beat the drums, His Highness comes,
The Prince returns to Brighton!
Ev'ry heart to lighten;
Beat the drums, His Highness comes,
The Prince returns to Brighton!
Now for Fêtes and Routs a score,
Prom'nades, Balls, Outridings;
Bloomfield in a chaise and four,
Proclaims the joyful tidings.
Prom'nades, Balls, Outridings;
Bloomfield in a chaise and four,
Proclaims the joyful tidings.
Crowds of gazers walk the Steyne,
Prim Mammas and Misses;
Such were seen, when Greece again
Beheld her lost Ulysses:
Prim Mammas and Misses;
Such were seen, when Greece again
Beheld her lost Ulysses:
Doctor T--- a motion makes—
Let ev'ry beau and belle come,
And join his pranks, a vote of thanks
To bid His Highness welcome!
Let ev'ry beau and belle come,
180
To bid His Highness welcome!
Pierce a cask of gen'rous wine,
Claret, Port, or Sherry;
Drink his health in bumpers nine,
'Fore George, we will be merry!
Claret, Port, or Sherry;
Drink his health in bumpers nine,
'Fore George, we will be merry!
Bacchus gay shall rule the day,
Unless our rev'rend Vicar,
A rosy Put, has pierc'd the butt,
And drank up all the liquor.
Unless our rev'rend Vicar,
A rosy Put, has pierc'd the butt,
And drank up all the liquor.
Call Fitzherbert, ancient fair!
From her Cytherean border,
Bid the Sybil bind her hair,
And put her charms in order:
From her Cytherean border,
Bid the Sybil bind her hair,
And put her charms in order:
Jersey to the feast invite,
For such a painted beldam
At fifty-six, on this side Styx,
We surely see but seldom.
For such a painted beldam
At fifty-six, on this side Styx,
We surely see but seldom.
Margate, boast thy lofty pier,
Thy cliff, and castle, Dover;
Bath, thy fashionable cheer,
And many a Bond-Street rover!
Thy cliff, and castle, Dover;
Bath, thy fashionable cheer,
And many a Bond-Street rover!
181
Brighton, highly-favour'd spot!
Shall still outshine the million;
Happy since she boasts a Prince,
To grace her long pavilion.
Shall still outshine the million;
Happy since she boasts a Prince,
To grace her long pavilion.
Arthur, valor's fav'rite son,
Bold, intrepid, brave, he
Cudgels Frenchmen till they run,
And makes them cry “peccavi!”
Bold, intrepid, brave, he
Cudgels Frenchmen till they run,
And makes them cry “peccavi!”
Col'nel Bloomfield, stout and tall,
(Was e'er a hero prouder?)
Though his head escape the ball,
It does not miss the powder.
(Was e'er a hero prouder?)
Though his head escape the ball,
It does not miss the powder.
May old age, a tyrant fell!
That fills the bones with dryness,
Vanquish'd by some magic spell,
Politely pass your Highness.
That fills the bones with dryness,
Vanquish'd by some magic spell,
Politely pass your Highness.
Long may Britain own your sway;
While we, of merry sort all,
Shall wish our Prince as Horace gay,
And, like his strains, immortal.
While we, of merry sort all,
Shall wish our Prince as Horace gay,
And, like his strains, immortal.
182
EPODE II.
IN PRAISE OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
“Beatus ille qui procul negotiis.”
Happy he, who free from care
Breathes the sweets of country air,
Far from town, where traffic drives,
Noisy brats, and scolding wives.
Breathes the sweets of country air,
Far from town, where traffic drives,
Noisy brats, and scolding wives.
Anxious thoughts, and worldly schemes
Ne'er disturb his pleasing dreams;
War for him has no alarms,
When ambition calls to arms.
Ne'er disturb his pleasing dreams;
War for him has no alarms,
When ambition calls to arms.
Honest, he abjures the Law;
Splendid Courts he never saw;
Courts, where Placemen, night and day,
Flatter first, and then betray.
Splendid Courts he never saw;
Courts, where Placemen, night and day,
Flatter first, and then betray.
If, to cheat the ling'ring time,
Goddess Mirth provoke a rhyme,
Full of wit it smoothly runs,
Quaint conceits, and merry puns.
Goddess Mirth provoke a rhyme,
Full of wit it smoothly runs,
Quaint conceits, and merry puns.
183
Formal pedants, bred at schools,
Boast of Aristotle's rules;
Such, let cringing bards obey,
Servile wits, who write for pay.
Boast of Aristotle's rules;
Such, let cringing bards obey,
Servile wits, who write for pay.
Nought restrains his Muse of whim,
Critics dull may rail for him;
Still he rhymes, and writes it down,
Let them smile, or let them frown.
Critics dull may rail for him;
Still he rhymes, and writes it down,
Let them smile, or let them frown.
If the bounteous Gods afford
Some kind wife to spread his board,
See him blest with, day and night,
Converse sweet and chaste delight.
Some kind wife to spread his board,
See him blest with, day and night,
Converse sweet and chaste delight.
Would you once his mind bewitch—
Give him wealth, and make him rich:
Keep him to his low degree,
Kings are not so blest as he.
Give him wealth, and make him rich:
Keep him to his low degree,
Kings are not so blest as he.
184
ODE XX. BOOK I.
A POET'S INVITATION.
“Vile potabis modicis Sabinum.”
If you come to dine with me,
Dainties must not be your care;
Harmless pleasure, social glee,
And the Poet's frugal fare;
Dainties must not be your care;
Harmless pleasure, social glee,
And the Poet's frugal fare;
These I give—and should my Lord
Me to visit humbly deign,
Port is all I can afford,
He must bring the bright Champaigne!
Me to visit humbly deign,
Port is all I can afford,
He must bring the bright Champaigne!
Cool beneath a spreading vine,
Jovial Horace, thirsty chap, he
Quaff'd his rich Falernian wine,
With Mæcenus snug and happy—
Jovial Horace, thirsty chap, he
Quaff'd his rich Falernian wine,
With Mæcenus snug and happy—
We, in lodgings near the skies,
Of Apollo humbler scions,
Banquet amidst London Cries,
And the bray of Kent-Street Lions.
Of Apollo humbler scions,
Banquet amidst London Cries,
And the bray of Kent-Street Lions.
185
ODE XV. BOOK III.
TO A FADED BEAUTY.
“Uxor pauperis Ibyci.”
Dear Chloris, at an age like thine
To dance, coquet, and dress so fine,
And ape such youthful airs,
Might shock a taste not over nice,
So prithee take a friend's advice,
Repent, and say thy pray'rs.
To dance, coquet, and dress so fine,
And ape such youthful airs,
Might shock a taste not over nice,
So prithee take a friend's advice,
Repent, and say thy pray'rs.
Give o'er thy light fantastic tricks,
For coquetry at fifty-six,
Credulity disarms!
Forswear the company of beaux,
Nor thus to ridicule expose
The winter of thy charms.
For coquetry at fifty-six,
Credulity disarms!
Forswear the company of beaux,
Nor thus to ridicule expose
The winter of thy charms.
No beauty thou hast left to boast,
Though twenty years a reigning toast,
By coxcombs pledg'd aloud;
Retreat in time, give others room,
No nostrum can restore thy bloom;
Haste, Chloris! nor defraud the tomb,
Death courts thee for a shroud.
Though twenty years a reigning toast,
By coxcombs pledg'd aloud;
Retreat in time, give others room,
186
Haste, Chloris! nor defraud the tomb,
Death courts thee for a shroud.
What sprightly Phœbe, frank and free,
So well becomes, sits ill on thee,
Thou folly's doting tool;
Leave off thy pert affected prate,
Thy childish lisp, thy mincing gait,
And blush that vanity, so late,
Should make thee play the fool.
So well becomes, sits ill on thee,
Thou folly's doting tool;
Leave off thy pert affected prate,
Thy childish lisp, thy mincing gait,
And blush that vanity, so late,
Should make thee play the fool.
Ah! roll no more the leering eye
At ev'ry fop that flutters by,
Thy ogling days are past:
And mark the moral of my strain,
That beauty, though she proudly reign,
Must be dethron'd at last.
At ev'ry fop that flutters by,
Thy ogling days are past:
And mark the moral of my strain,
That beauty, though she proudly reign,
Must be dethron'd at last.
| The Modern Dunciad | |