 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
THE MODERN DUNCIAD,
WITH NOTES, CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL.
1
THE MODERN DUNCIAD.
P.How anxious is the Bard, and yet how vain
His wishes:
F.
Cease this moralizing strain,
What mortal will peruse it?
P.
P'rhaps a few:—
F.
Alas! the town has something else to do,
Than read one line of all thou shalt indite,
While Byron, Wordsworth, Scott, and Croker write.
'Tis hard—but—
P.
Spare thy pity, 'tis my lot;
What some might think a grievance, hurts me not:
The bard by fashion dragg'd before the scene,
Nor wakes my envy, nor provokes my spleen.
Let venal critics puff him to the town,
And herald hawkers cry him up and down,
2
Nor court that noisy strumpet, Common Fame.
Yes, I can bear that envy, hate, and spite,
And cold contempt attend on all I write;
That Cottle's idiot, Thurlow's splay-foot line,
And Barrett's doggerel be preferr'd to mine;
No threats can sway me, no opinions bend,
I care not;—let them censure or commend.
Yet would I speak, but coward fear restrains
The rebel blood just rising in my veins;
Puts my imagination to a stand,
And makes my pen drop harmless from my hand.
F.
Why Truth, that arms the Stoic, ne'er can fail—
P.
Then fear for once give way, and Truth prevail.
When I behold in this weak driv'ling age,
Poole, Dibdin, Pocock, Hook possess the stage;
Charm gallery, box, and pit, a judging throng!
With melodrame, and pantomime, and song:
3
And Hawke drive forth a flaming charioteer;
See Coutts ape all that Queensb'ry was before,
A palsied, am'rous Strephon of fourscore!
Yes! when I hear frail Misses, grey in years,
Scream their lascivious odes, and rhyming Peers
In little sonnets, tender, dull, and soft,
Outwhine the mawkish frippery of Lofft;
Then, then I boldly rise, and dare the worst—
F.
Forbear this railing:
P.
I must speak, or burst.
4
Gave wit its point, and satire all its force;
When Pope, immortal Sat'rist! made his prey
The Herveys and the Gildons of the day;
Dragg'd into light th' abandon'd scribbling crew,
And boldly scourg'd them in the public view:
But now, so cheap is praise, there scarce remains
One fool to flatter in our courtly strains.
Had they but liv'd to witness present times,
Whatsins, what dulness had provok'd their rhymes;
Satire unaw'd would then have dar'd to speak,
Till deep conviction glow'd on H—df—t's cheek;
And Manners, brainless blockhead! stood confest
The public nuisance, and the public jest.
F.
Once more forbear—thy proper medium know:—
Degraded names! can Satire stoop so low?
When H—df—t ambles in a courtier's guise,
All know the hoary pimp, and all despise.
Does credence wait on each prepost'rous tale?
Who cares a jot when Agg, and Manners rail?
They dare vexatious suits, as well they may,
Who have nor shame, nor wherewithal to pay.
Let them enjoy in secret, dirty souls,
Their miserable bread, and peck of coals;
'Twere cowardice to drag them from their holes.
What can provoke thy Muse? scarce thrice a year
Matilda's woeful madrigals appear;
Lewis no more the tender maid affrights
With incantations, ravishments, and sprites:
Crusca, (to Gifford thanks!) is fairly fled,
And heavy Wharton sleeps among the dead;
E'en Walcott's impious blasphemies are o'er,
And Andrews' Prologues are the vogue no more.
Degraded names! can Satire stoop so low?
When H—df—t ambles in a courtier's guise,
All know the hoary pimp, and all despise.
Does credence wait on each prepost'rous tale?
Who cares a jot when Agg, and Manners rail?
5
Who have nor shame, nor wherewithal to pay.
Let them enjoy in secret, dirty souls,
Their miserable bread, and peck of coals;
'Twere cowardice to drag them from their holes.
What can provoke thy Muse? scarce thrice a year
6
Lewis no more the tender maid affrights
With incantations, ravishments, and sprites:
Crusca, (to Gifford thanks!) is fairly fled,
And heavy Wharton sleeps among the dead;
E'en Walcott's impious blasphemies are o'er,
And Andrews' Prologues are the vogue no more.
What can provoke thy Muse?—the blinded school,
Whose greatest boast was that it err'd by rule,
That philosophic horde of fools and knaves
Has fall'n—nor Paine blasphemes, nor Priestley raves.
Repentant bigots bow and kiss the rod,
And prostrate nations own the name of God.
Reason, that dang'rous pride of human kind,
For ever soaring, and for ever blind;
Prone to distrust when tardy to discern,
Too weak to compass, yet too proud to learn;
With shame reviews each ill-digested plan,
And turns with horror from “The Rights of Man.”
What can provoke thy Muse?—in silence deep
Tooke rests—but not in everlasting sleep:
Another scene awaits his trembling sight,
A gloom more awful, or a blaze more bright!
The veil is rent, the Sceptic's hateful name
Stands justly branded with contempt and shame;
The Christian Banner is again unfurl'd,
And Truth once more illumes a falling world.
Whose greatest boast was that it err'd by rule,
That philosophic horde of fools and knaves
Has fall'n—nor Paine blasphemes, nor Priestley raves.
Repentant bigots bow and kiss the rod,
And prostrate nations own the name of God.
Reason, that dang'rous pride of human kind,
For ever soaring, and for ever blind;
Prone to distrust when tardy to discern,
Too weak to compass, yet too proud to learn;
With shame reviews each ill-digested plan,
And turns with horror from “The Rights of Man.”
7
Tooke rests—but not in everlasting sleep:
Another scene awaits his trembling sight,
A gloom more awful, or a blaze more bright!
The veil is rent, the Sceptic's hateful name
Stands justly branded with contempt and shame;
The Christian Banner is again unfurl'd,
And Truth once more illumes a falling world.
P.
All this is true—but still enough remains,
Enough in conscience to provoke my strains.
See Thelwall, void of decency and sense,
Erect, God wot! a school for eloquence;
The newest style of rhetoric to teach,
And full-grown gentlemen their parts of speech:
While from his tub, Gale Jones, sedition's sprite,
Nonsense with sense confounds, and wrong with right;
Rants, bounces, capers, a fantastic show!
To scare the shilling orators below.
Prolific Pasquin plies th' eternal quill,
Fitzgerald rhymes, and Cobbett proses still;
Hoarse Clio Rickman's sonnets bay the moon,
Clio, a poet, patriot, and buffoon.
Godwin pursues his philosophic schemes,
And rapt in trance, Joanna Southcott dreams;
Jeffrey turns critic, but betrays his trust,
And hot-press'd Little breathes the soul of lust;
While chaste Minerva kindly lends her aid
To calm the scruples of each wishful maid.
Lo, mad enthusiasts, would-be saints, stand forth,
Sworn foes to god-like genius, private worth,
With furious zeal attack e'en Shakespeare's fame,
And hurl their pois'nous darts at Garrick's name;
And while they talk of Truth, of Candour rave,
Insult the dead, and violate the grave.
In Magazines vile anecdotes appear,
And deal out dirty scandal through the year;
For desp'rate libellers, when duns assail,
Dare lawsuits, whips, the pill'ry, and the jail.
This Hewson Clarke can tell, misguided youth,
What demon lur'd him from the path of truth,
With low ambition fill'd his canker'd mind,
To entertain the basest of mankind?
O! may he late for all his sins atone,
And while he gains their ears, preserve his own!
8
See Thelwall, void of decency and sense,
Erect, God wot! a school for eloquence;
The newest style of rhetoric to teach,
And full-grown gentlemen their parts of speech:
While from his tub, Gale Jones, sedition's sprite,
Nonsense with sense confounds, and wrong with right;
Rants, bounces, capers, a fantastic show!
To scare the shilling orators below.
Prolific Pasquin plies th' eternal quill,
Fitzgerald rhymes, and Cobbett proses still;
Hoarse Clio Rickman's sonnets bay the moon,
9
Godwin pursues his philosophic schemes,
And rapt in trance, Joanna Southcott dreams;
Jeffrey turns critic, but betrays his trust,
And hot-press'd Little breathes the soul of lust;
While chaste Minerva kindly lends her aid
To calm the scruples of each wishful maid.
Lo, mad enthusiasts, would-be saints, stand forth,
Sworn foes to god-like genius, private worth,
With furious zeal attack e'en Shakespeare's fame,
10
And while they talk of Truth, of Candour rave,
Insult the dead, and violate the grave.
In Magazines vile anecdotes appear,
And deal out dirty scandal through the year;
For desp'rate libellers, when duns assail,
Dare lawsuits, whips, the pill'ry, and the jail.
This Hewson Clarke can tell, misguided youth,
What demon lur'd him from the path of truth,
With low ambition fill'd his canker'd mind,
11
O! may he late for all his sins atone,
And while he gains their ears, preserve his own!
Behold yon gorgeous Sign that swings in air,
(A well-known refuge for the sons of Care,)
There meet a piebald race, who cautious creep
From garrets high, or in night cellars sleep;
The courtier bland, the opposition churl,
To taste the sweets of politics and purl.
There needy scribes, whose trade is to abuse,
Forge lies and scandal for the next day's news;
There Whig and Tory wrangle, blockheads twain,
And Vetus drops th' abortions of his brain;
There sits Britannicus and heaves a groan
For England's debts, unmindful of his own;
There party-drudges for their party scrawl,
And baser hirelings who are slaves to all;
There whines Morality, a canting monk,
There roars Reform, heroically drunk;
Stern Patriotism tries new schemes to find
To serve his country, and to cheat mankind;
There the vile Quack invents his pois'nous pill,
By royal patent privileg'd to kill;
And there the Atheist's nightly thunders roll,
That to destroy the body, this the soul.
(A well-known refuge for the sons of Care,)
There meet a piebald race, who cautious creep
From garrets high, or in night cellars sleep;
The courtier bland, the opposition churl,
To taste the sweets of politics and purl.
12
Forge lies and scandal for the next day's news;
There Whig and Tory wrangle, blockheads twain,
And Vetus drops th' abortions of his brain;
There sits Britannicus and heaves a groan
For England's debts, unmindful of his own;
There party-drudges for their party scrawl,
And baser hirelings who are slaves to all;
There whines Morality, a canting monk,
There roars Reform, heroically drunk;
Stern Patriotism tries new schemes to find
To serve his country, and to cheat mankind;
There the vile Quack invents his pois'nous pill,
By royal patent privileg'd to kill;
And there the Atheist's nightly thunders roll,
That to destroy the body, this the soul.
Hail, happy days! when all shall equal be,
And man and master shall alike go free;
This land, created by the Spencean charm,
The people's birthright, and the nation's farm!
When those who toil, and those who labor not,
Blest intercourse! partake one common lot;
When nature's nymphs enjoy true past'ral lives;
Glad, teeming mothers all—though none are wives!
And man and master shall alike go free;
This land, created by the Spencean charm,
The people's birthright, and the nation's farm!
When those who toil, and those who labor not,
Blest intercourse! partake one common lot;
When nature's nymphs enjoy true past'ral lives;
Glad, teeming mothers all—though none are wives!
13
Bright era! that shall banish all our fears,
And chain down order for a thousand years!
Treason shall walk abroad with giant stride,
And murder prowl, with rapine by his side;
Curs'd infidelity, and deep despair,
And anarchy, dire fiend! shall revel there.
Down with yon sacred altars! useless blocks!
Detested relics!—e'en vindictive Knox
Shall rise from hell's dark caves with furious joy,
And breathe again his spirit to destroy.
And chain down order for a thousand years!
Treason shall walk abroad with giant stride,
And murder prowl, with rapine by his side;
Curs'd infidelity, and deep despair,
And anarchy, dire fiend! shall revel there.
Down with yon sacred altars! useless blocks!
Detested relics!—e'en vindictive Knox
Shall rise from hell's dark caves with furious joy,
And breathe again his spirit to destroy.
Then ask no more—yet if a doubt remain,
Why thus to Satire I devote my strain;
With this reply be satisfied at once,
While Bowles exists, can Satire want a Dunce?
Bowles who hath cherish'd as a costly pearl,
The horse-play, dull obscenity of Curll;
Th' accumulated trash of Smedley's page,
For why?—to vent on Pope his puny rage.
Is it not hard, (my Friend) nay, doubly hard,
A sorry critic, and more sorry bard,
Whose jaded Pegasus, 'yclept divine,
Cries out for quarter at the fourteenth line,
Should for base lucre (Oh, how vilely won!)
Complete what Ralph and Dennis left undone?
Thus urg'd, thus prompted by the warm desire
To vindicate the genius I admire;
To add at least my humble meed of praise,
To names rever'd in Britain's brighter days;
To strip the poet of his false sublime,
(Then, Bowles, the Lord have mercy on thy rhyme!)
And shew that critics may at times appear
In praise too cold, in censure too severe;
I take my pen—when Folly met his eye,
Democritus would laugh—and so must I.
Why thus to Satire I devote my strain;
With this reply be satisfied at once,
While Bowles exists, can Satire want a Dunce?
Bowles who hath cherish'd as a costly pearl,
14
Th' accumulated trash of Smedley's page,
For why?—to vent on Pope his puny rage.
Is it not hard, (my Friend) nay, doubly hard,
A sorry critic, and more sorry bard,
Whose jaded Pegasus, 'yclept divine,
Cries out for quarter at the fourteenth line,
Should for base lucre (Oh, how vilely won!)
Complete what Ralph and Dennis left undone?
Thus urg'd, thus prompted by the warm desire
To vindicate the genius I admire;
15
To names rever'd in Britain's brighter days;
To strip the poet of his false sublime,
(Then, Bowles, the Lord have mercy on thy rhyme!)
And shew that critics may at times appear
In praise too cold, in censure too severe;
I take my pen—when Folly met his eye,
Democritus would laugh—and so must I.
Now to begin—nor distant need we roam,
Kind fate hath sent us Fools enough at home;
Our modern Poets, bounteous in th' extreme,
Rhyme on, and make waste paper by the ream.
Five thousand Lines compos'd—a modest stint!
Next Westall must design, and Bulmer print:
Then bound with care, and hot-press'd ev'ry sheet,
The wonder-working Quarto shines complete!
Behold a gaping crowd that never tire!
See Busby, worthy Son of such a Sire,
(For truth must own, when all is said and done,
The Father's pertness centres in the Son:)
Straining with all his might 'gainst mood and tense,
To make the Doctor's fustian sound like sense.
He views the audience with theatric stare,
His hands with equal motion saw the air;
His voice in dulcet cadence taught to float,
Seems the shrill pipings of an eunuch's throat:
Assembled thus, our sapient nobles sit
To hear how Busby, not Lucretius, writ.
If now and then a sentiment exprest
In language more indecent than the rest,
Strike the attentive ear;—with fond regard,
A hundred hands are rais'd to clap the Bard:
The Marchioness adores the charming man,
Fitzherbert leers, and Jersey flirts her fan;
While doting Headfort, tickled to the core,
Starts up entranc'd, and ambles at threescore.
Kind fate hath sent us Fools enough at home;
Our modern Poets, bounteous in th' extreme,
Rhyme on, and make waste paper by the ream.
Five thousand Lines compos'd—a modest stint!
Next Westall must design, and Bulmer print:
Then bound with care, and hot-press'd ev'ry sheet,
The wonder-working Quarto shines complete!
Behold a gaping crowd that never tire!
See Busby, worthy Son of such a Sire,
(For truth must own, when all is said and done,
16
Straining with all his might 'gainst mood and tense,
To make the Doctor's fustian sound like sense.
He views the audience with theatric stare,
His hands with equal motion saw the air;
His voice in dulcet cadence taught to float,
Seems the shrill pipings of an eunuch's throat:
Assembled thus, our sapient nobles sit
To hear how Busby, not Lucretius, writ.
If now and then a sentiment exprest
In language more indecent than the rest,
Strike the attentive ear;—with fond regard,
A hundred hands are rais'd to clap the Bard:
The Marchioness adores the charming man,
Fitzherbert leers, and Jersey flirts her fan;
While doting Headfort, tickled to the core,
Starts up entranc'd, and ambles at threescore.
Vain Scribbler! and is this, this all thy aim,
Art thou content with transitory fame;
Fame, that shall haunt thee living, d—n thee dead?
Thus dost thou feed our ears, thus art thou fed?
Art thou content with transitory fame;
Fame, that shall haunt thee living, d—n thee dead?
Thus dost thou feed our ears, thus art thou fed?
But what avails, if faithless to my trust,
I hide (you cry) my talent in the dust?
Why am I learn'd? Why—Stop this vaunting tone!
Is learning nothing then, till fairly known?
But still (you quick rejoin) how sweet the sound
To hear the murmur of applause go round,—
—“That's He,” (the finger pointed all the while)—
“Renown'd for wit and elegance of style;
Whom Critic Mawman puffs, whose senseless whine
Bœotian Buchan quotes, and calls divine.”
I hide (you cry) my talent in the dust?
Why am I learn'd? Why—Stop this vaunting tone!
Is learning nothing then, till fairly known?
17
To hear the murmur of applause go round,—
—“That's He,” (the finger pointed all the while)—
“Renown'd for wit and elegance of style;
Whom Critic Mawman puffs, whose senseless whine
Bœotian Buchan quotes, and calls divine.”
Come, Phillips, come, for eloquence hath pow'r,
Gale Jones his tub shall lend thee for an hour!
Whether thou warble in inflated style,
King Brian's glories in the “Emerald Isle;”
Or “Ireland's hope and England's glory” praise
In fulsome prose, more fulsome than thy Lays,
With strong mercurial pow'r, which all must dread,
Thy touch turns gold and silver into lead.
Lo, at thy name what hosts of Dunces rise!
Dulness awakes, and rubs her drowsy eyes,
With sleepy haste the poppy wreath prepares,
To crown her fav'rite bard—while wisdom stares!
Next, to complete thy triumph, even now,
The cap of liberty shall grace thy brow;
It speaks thy prowess, and thy functions tells,
Almost as truly as the Cap and Bells!
Gale Jones his tub shall lend thee for an hour!
Whether thou warble in inflated style,
King Brian's glories in the “Emerald Isle;”
18
In fulsome prose, more fulsome than thy Lays,
With strong mercurial pow'r, which all must dread,
Thy touch turns gold and silver into lead.
Lo, at thy name what hosts of Dunces rise!
Dulness awakes, and rubs her drowsy eyes,
With sleepy haste the poppy wreath prepares,
To crown her fav'rite bard—while wisdom stares!
Next, to complete thy triumph, even now,
The cap of liberty shall grace thy brow;
It speaks thy prowess, and thy functions tells,
Almost as truly as the Cap and Bells!
Stark metre-mad, the lovesick Edwin sends
Of jingling splayfoot verse, some odds and ends
To driv'lling Asperne, in whose magazine
Th' invet'rate sons of dulness vent their spleen;
Proud of the gift so graciously bestow'd,
He prints the thing which Edwin calls an ode.
How Laura smiles! What less can Laura do?
It gives her beauties that she never knew.
'Tis so pathetic! who unmov'd can read?
Melissa faintly whispers, “Sad, indeed!”
In ecstasies Lucretia dies away,
And Edwin grows immortal—for a day!
Of jingling splayfoot verse, some odds and ends
To driv'lling Asperne, in whose magazine
19
Proud of the gift so graciously bestow'd,
20
How Laura smiles! What less can Laura do?
It gives her beauties that she never knew.
'Tis so pathetic! who unmov'd can read?
Melissa faintly whispers, “Sad, indeed!”
In ecstasies Lucretia dies away,
And Edwin grows immortal—for a day!
And is not now the author truly blest,
By critics flatter'd, by the fair caress'd?
Shall not his praise by future bards be sung,
When envious death has stopp'd his tuneful tongue?
21
Shall not his praise by future bards be sung,
When envious death has stopp'd his tuneful tongue?
F.
By trade a censor, and resolv'd to sneer,
You drive the jest too far; 'tis too severe
To brand a blockhead in your angry strains,
For what he cannot help—his want of brains!
P.
Be answer'd thus—his itching after fame,
His bold obtrusive vanity I blame;
22
But the false pride that makes him covet praise.
F.
Then censure all mankind, for who is free?
The flame that warms their bosoms dwells with thee.
In search of fame the soldier travels far,
The smirking lawyer courts it at the bar,
Th' intrepid seaman wins it at his post,
The man of virtue—
P.
When he shuns it most!—
F.
The anxious poet claims it as his due,
And (pr'ythee speak with candour) so do you.
P.
Thus candid, I reply—if now and then
Success attend the labours of my pen,
If those who buy my works, and those who read,
Applaud—and that's a rarity indeed!
I'm not so proud, so squeamishly severe,
But honest Fame is pleasing to mine ear.
But that I write for that short-liv'd renown
Which Fashion gives the vot'ries of the town,
I cannot grant—for mark! the gift divine
Was Darwin's once, and, Busby, may be thine.
Success attend the labours of my pen,
If those who buy my works, and those who read,
Applaud—and that's a rarity indeed!
I'm not so proud, so squeamishly severe,
But honest Fame is pleasing to mine ear.
But that I write for that short-liv'd renown
Which Fashion gives the vot'ries of the town,
I cannot grant—for mark! the gift divine
Was Darwin's once, and, Busby, may be thine.
Athirst for fame, which Magazines, Reviews,
Too coy, deny the labours of his Muse;
My Lord (what will not vanity afford?)
Invites a host of Critics to his board;
Some creeping, slip-shod hirelings of the day,
Whom Colburn treats with “double pots and pay.”
“My friends,” he cries, “speak freely, tell me plain,
What say the public to my epic strain?”
Will they speak truth, too poor to be sincere?
But I may surely whisper in thine ear,
I who abhor a bribe;—then this—thy rhymes
In dulness rival past and present times;
So lame—the weary audience think they see
Old Settle's doggerel new revived by thee;
So bad—that worse will ne'er be seen again
Unless thou should'st resume thy scribbling vein.
Too coy, deny the labours of his Muse;
My Lord (what will not vanity afford?)
Invites a host of Critics to his board;
23
Whom Colburn treats with “double pots and pay.”
“My friends,” he cries, “speak freely, tell me plain,
What say the public to my epic strain?”
Will they speak truth, too poor to be sincere?
But I may surely whisper in thine ear,
I who abhor a bribe;—then this—thy rhymes
In dulness rival past and present times;
So lame—the weary audience think they see
Old Settle's doggerel new revived by thee;
So bad—that worse will ne'er be seen again
Unless thou should'st resume thy scribbling vein.
From such pursuits 'twould turn thy trifling mind,
Had'st thou but, Janus-like, a face behind;
To mark the lolling tongue, the side-long leer,
The pointed finger, the contemptuous sneer,
And all the silent mock'ries of the town
That ridicule thy title to renown:
But thou must feast on flatt'ry all thy days,
And be the dupe of ev'ry blockhead's praise.
For mark their judgment, hear their quaint reply—
—When genius rears its head shall slander die?
A brother's fame what brother bard endures?
Thus envy follows merit great as yours.
You try the epic strain—in colours true
A second Homer rises forth to view!
All hearts you captivate, all tastes you hit,
With Hammond's tenderness, and Prior's wit.
Thus flatter'd by the minions of his board,
Who struts, who swells, who scribbles like My Lord?
And soon he rises in a feverish dream
A first-rate poet—in his own esteem.
Thurlow (alas! will Thurlow never tire?)
New points his dulness, and new strings his lyre;
That lyre which rang the praises in our ears
Of “godlike” poets, and “transcendent” peers;
With quick dispatch his teeming brain unloads,
Then issue forth Acrostics, Sonnets, Odes;
Loud empty bombast, flights of false sublime,
Not prose indeed—but tortur'd prose in rhyme.
Had'st thou but, Janus-like, a face behind;
To mark the lolling tongue, the side-long leer,
The pointed finger, the contemptuous sneer,
And all the silent mock'ries of the town
That ridicule thy title to renown:
But thou must feast on flatt'ry all thy days,
And be the dupe of ev'ry blockhead's praise.
24
—When genius rears its head shall slander die?
A brother's fame what brother bard endures?
Thus envy follows merit great as yours.
You try the epic strain—in colours true
A second Homer rises forth to view!
25
With Hammond's tenderness, and Prior's wit.
Thus flatter'd by the minions of his board,
Who struts, who swells, who scribbles like My Lord?
And soon he rises in a feverish dream
A first-rate poet—in his own esteem.
26
New points his dulness, and new strings his lyre;
That lyre which rang the praises in our ears
Of “godlike” poets, and “transcendent” peers;
With quick dispatch his teeming brain unloads,
Then issue forth Acrostics, Sonnets, Odes;
Loud empty bombast, flights of false sublime,
Not prose indeed—but tortur'd prose in rhyme.
F.
Shall blood Patrician no distinction claim?
Dwell there no virtues in a noble name?
Is Title nothing? Wealth? Pray learn for once
One grain of prudence:—
P.
To respect a dunce!
Bow, flatter, dedicate, and bend the knee,
A mean dependant—this advice to me?
No, let me rather in affected drawl,
Write hymns with Collyer, idiot tales with Ball;
Turn, Commentator grave, and pore content
To find a meaning where there's nothing meant;
Than shield from censure undeserving strains,
Because, forsooth, they spring from noble brains.
Not fools alone, as mad examples strike;
This metromania reigns in all alike:
Both wit and dunce the restless muse inspires
With equal rage, though not with equal fires;
Not Byron stands acquitted of the crime,
A promise made in prose, he breaks in rhyme.
Hark! Printers' Devils say, or seem to say,
“No rest have we, Fitzgerald, night, or day;
For thee, vain man, a weary watch we keep,
Nor sleep enjoy—although thy readers sleep.
Does Southey pause, or paper-staining Scott
One moment's respite grant, a page to blot;
Thy hobbling Pegasus, a sorry hack,
Still faintly drawls to keep us on the rack.
Should e'er the fates condemn thee for thy crimes,
(For thou to sense art traitor in thy rhymes,)
For paper wasted, ink so idly spilt,
Yet kindly bid thee choose what death thou wilt;
Think, think on Clarence, he (a bold design!)
Resolv'd to perish by his favorite wine;
Thy volumes round thy neck to make thee sink,
O! let 'em drown thee in thy favorite ink!”
Bow, flatter, dedicate, and bend the knee,
A mean dependant—this advice to me?
No, let me rather in affected drawl,
Write hymns with Collyer, idiot tales with Ball;
27
To find a meaning where there's nothing meant;
Than shield from censure undeserving strains,
Because, forsooth, they spring from noble brains.
Not fools alone, as mad examples strike;
This metromania reigns in all alike:
Both wit and dunce the restless muse inspires
With equal rage, though not with equal fires;
Not Byron stands acquitted of the crime,
A promise made in prose, he breaks in rhyme.
28
“No rest have we, Fitzgerald, night, or day;
For thee, vain man, a weary watch we keep,
Nor sleep enjoy—although thy readers sleep.
Does Southey pause, or paper-staining Scott
One moment's respite grant, a page to blot;
Thy hobbling Pegasus, a sorry hack,
Still faintly drawls to keep us on the rack.
Should e'er the fates condemn thee for thy crimes,
(For thou to sense art traitor in thy rhymes,)
For paper wasted, ink so idly spilt,
Yet kindly bid thee choose what death thou wilt;
Think, think on Clarence, he (a bold design!)
Resolv'd to perish by his favorite wine;
Thy volumes round thy neck to make thee sink,
O! let 'em drown thee in thy favorite ink!”
Where old Blackfriars pours her sable sons,
A mingled tribe of Critics, Bards, and Duns,
Dwelt Phillips, an industrious, plodding wight,
And by the King's good favor dubb'd a Knight;
A bookseller was he, and, sooth to say,
Not Nichols had more authors in his pay.
At verse and prose so ready were the host,
'Twas emulation which should scribble most;
And Pratt himself would undertake an Ode
In one short ramble on the Hampstead road.
But high above the rest, distinguish'd far,
As Bard and Tourist, shone the mighty Carr!
Of scribes the chief! and once upon a time
The undisputed Lord of prose and rhyme.
Hist'ries he wrote, and etchings he would draw
Of towns and cities—that he never saw:—
And travell'd daily o'er much foreign land,
(More wondrous still!)—in Bridge Street, or the Strand.—
And hence arose, with all his boasted care,
Some odd mistakes, which made the reader stare.
Thus German dames were beauteous to the sight,
The French profoundly grave, the Dutch polite;
The Scotch sincere, and Ireland's jovial sons
Too dull by half to relish jokes and puns.
Did critics sneer at some unlucky guess?
Sir John's own bulls were—errors of the press:
And lest upon his back the rod should fall,
The Printers' Devils were to blame for all.
But soon Sir Richard found, (sagacious elf!)
The Knight lov'd money, and his works the shelf;
Whereat Sir Richard, of his bargain sick,
And heartily repenting of the trick,
Consign'd the Quartos to a different fate,
And eas'd his counter of their pond'rous weight;
To pastry-cooks dispers'd them, sheet by sheet,
By which Sir John was read in every street;
Propitiation just, by all confest,
For martyr'd truth, and history made a jest.
A mingled tribe of Critics, Bards, and Duns,
Dwelt Phillips, an industrious, plodding wight,
And by the King's good favor dubb'd a Knight;
A bookseller was he, and, sooth to say,
29
At verse and prose so ready were the host,
'Twas emulation which should scribble most;
30
In one short ramble on the Hampstead road.
But high above the rest, distinguish'd far,
As Bard and Tourist, shone the mighty Carr!
31
The undisputed Lord of prose and rhyme.
Hist'ries he wrote, and etchings he would draw
Of towns and cities—that he never saw:—
And travell'd daily o'er much foreign land,
(More wondrous still!)—in Bridge Street, or the Strand.—
And hence arose, with all his boasted care,
Some odd mistakes, which made the reader stare.
Thus German dames were beauteous to the sight,
The French profoundly grave, the Dutch polite;
The Scotch sincere, and Ireland's jovial sons
Too dull by half to relish jokes and puns.
Did critics sneer at some unlucky guess?
Sir John's own bulls were—errors of the press:
And lest upon his back the rod should fall,
The Printers' Devils were to blame for all.
But soon Sir Richard found, (sagacious elf!)
The Knight lov'd money, and his works the shelf;
Whereat Sir Richard, of his bargain sick,
And heartily repenting of the trick,
32
And eas'd his counter of their pond'rous weight;
To pastry-cooks dispers'd them, sheet by sheet,
By which Sir John was read in every street;
Propitiation just, by all confest,
For martyr'd truth, and history made a jest.
Some love a jingling rhyme with all their heart,
Where love and nonsense bear an equal part;
Like Rosa's sonnets, in themselves a host,
Rosa, the Sappho of the Morning Post;
Or Hafiz' madrigals, but rarely seen,
A heap of sounding words which nothing mean.
Where love and nonsense bear an equal part;
Like Rosa's sonnets, in themselves a host,
Rosa, the Sappho of the Morning Post;
Or Hafiz' madrigals, but rarely seen,
A heap of sounding words which nothing mean.
Some authors love in Epic strains to soar,
And swell to be what Homer was before;
Thus, Asperne's day, and Talavera's fight,
Have made some scribblers in their own despite.
Others, the dupes of an infectious rage,
Ransack the dulness of a former age;
For rare, moth-eaten parchments search the land,
And poring much, but little understand.
There mote you spy the pedant deep y-read,
In useless heaps of learned lumber dead,
Damning all modern wit as dull, absurd,
Since the bright days of Caxton and De Worde.
So, when some Virtuoso smuggles home
The mutilated blocks of Greece and Rome,
Heads, noses, arms, our curious eyes engage,
We prize their beauty much, but more their age;
Not Chantrey's art so wonderful appears,
It wants the sanction of three thousand years.
And swell to be what Homer was before;
Thus, Asperne's day, and Talavera's fight,
Have made some scribblers in their own despite.
Others, the dupes of an infectious rage,
Ransack the dulness of a former age;
For rare, moth-eaten parchments search the land,
And poring much, but little understand.
There mote you spy the pedant deep y-read,
In useless heaps of learned lumber dead,
Damning all modern wit as dull, absurd,
33
So, when some Virtuoso smuggles home
The mutilated blocks of Greece and Rome,
Heads, noses, arms, our curious eyes engage,
We prize their beauty much, but more their age;
Not Chantrey's art so wonderful appears,
It wants the sanction of three thousand years.
How oft some new-fledg'd Bardling on the wing,
Essays a puny flight, and tries to sing,
Whose trifling Muse, by folly nurtur'd long,
Ne'er soar'd above a rebus, or a song.
On frozen banks the purple violets rise,
And roses bloom beneath December skies;
For contrarieties in place and time,
Our poets think allowable in rhyme.
To doggerel verse, where sense is never found,
(An easy task) we give the charm of sound:
Thus:—“With percussive palm the door assails,
Now scrapes the gritty wall with bleeding nails,
Now running round, help! help! with shrill alarms,
Help! help! help! help! and writhes her frantic arms.
O live, my joy, my solace! sobs she wild;
Why do you gaze on me, my heav'nly child?
She sees not, hears not! Speak, in mercy move!
Here, here is milk—awake, my love, my love!!”
Essays a puny flight, and tries to sing,
Whose trifling Muse, by folly nurtur'd long,
Ne'er soar'd above a rebus, or a song.
On frozen banks the purple violets rise,
And roses bloom beneath December skies;
For contrarieties in place and time,
34
To doggerel verse, where sense is never found,
(An easy task) we give the charm of sound:
Thus:—“With percussive palm the door assails,
Now scrapes the gritty wall with bleeding nails,
Now running round, help! help! with shrill alarms,
Help! help! help! help! and writhes her frantic arms.
O live, my joy, my solace! sobs she wild;
Why do you gaze on me, my heav'nly child?
She sees not, hears not! Speak, in mercy move!
Here, here is milk—awake, my love, my love!!”
F.
All this is sorry trash, and well may claim
The rod of Satire—hear a nobler name:—
35
P.
Stop, I pray!
Nor with our would-be poets of the day,
Name One, who, hateful prejudice apart,
Has reach'd the glorious summit of his art!
Let modern poetasters rhyme their fill,
To charm an hour we've Pope and Milton still;
And solitude shall never fail to please,
While it can boast companions such as these.
Hence, all ye little bards!
F.
Restrain thy gall,
Does modern merit claim no praise at all?
36
Must Byron, Scott, and Rogers sing in vain!
P.
Think not to such, applause I would deny,
Or view their beauties with a jaundic'd eye;
I mark each nobler effort of the Lyre,
I feel a poet's warmth, and must admire.
But when you speak of that poor bauble, Fame;—
How few deserve it! Yet what numbers claim.
Or view their beauties with a jaundic'd eye;
I mark each nobler effort of the Lyre,
37
But when you speak of that poor bauble, Fame;—
How few deserve it! Yet what numbers claim.
To Southey, well combin'd, at once belong
Truth, grandeur, force, variety of song;
All that exalted genius can inspire,
A poet's rashness, with a poet's fire.
But still his faults (this candour must allow,
Spite of the courtly laurel on his brow),
Would mar the force of many a modern rhyme,
And quite obscure a genius less sublime.
Whene'er I read (nor think me too severe,)
Aught childish in his works that grates my ear,
I turn to Madoc's grand, sublimer lays,
And hate the line that speaks in his dispraise.
Truth, grandeur, force, variety of song;
All that exalted genius can inspire,
38
But still his faults (this candour must allow,
Spite of the courtly laurel on his brow),
Would mar the force of many a modern rhyme,
And quite obscure a genius less sublime.
Whene'er I read (nor think me too severe,)
Aught childish in his works that grates my ear,
I turn to Madoc's grand, sublimer lays,
And hate the line that speaks in his dispraise.
39
To Scott you'll grant some portion of renown;
The man has pleas'd—
P.
Ay, surfeited the town.—
Th' inconstant town! that, like a pert coquet,
Can smile, adore, discard, abuse, forget!
Th' inconstant town! that, like a pert coquet,
Can smile, adore, discard, abuse, forget!
Some deep romantic scene, where mould'ring time
Has mark'd each tow'r and battlement sublime;
Where barbarous mirth, revenge, and feudal rage
Shew the rude manners of a former age;
Romances, by tradition only known,
He paints with life and vigour all his own.
Has mark'd each tow'r and battlement sublime;
Where barbarous mirth, revenge, and feudal rage
Shew the rude manners of a former age;
Romances, by tradition only known,
He paints with life and vigour all his own.
The town is pleas'd when Byron will rehearse,
And finds a thousand beauties in his verse;
So fix'd his fame—that, write whate'er he will,
The patient public must admire it still:
Yes,—though bereft of half his force and fire,
They still must read, and, dozing, must admire;
While you and I, who stick to common sense,
To genius, taste, and wit, have no pretence.
Throughout the whole, we toil to understand;
Where'er we tread—'tis strange, 'tis foreign land;
Nay, half the thoughts and language of the strain
Require a glossary to make them plain.
Beauties there are, which, candour bids me own,
Atone for these—for more than these atone:—
Beauties—which e'en the coldest must admire—
Quick, high-wrought passion—true poetic fire—
Bold, energetic language—thoughts sublime—
And all the artful cadences of rhyme.
And finds a thousand beauties in his verse;
So fix'd his fame—that, write whate'er he will,
The patient public must admire it still:
Yes,—though bereft of half his force and fire,
They still must read, and, dozing, must admire;
While you and I, who stick to common sense,
To genius, taste, and wit, have no pretence.
Throughout the whole, we toil to understand;
Where'er we tread—'tis strange, 'tis foreign land;
Nay, half the thoughts and language of the strain
Require a glossary to make them plain.
Beauties there are, which, candour bids me own,
Atone for these—for more than these atone:—
40
Quick, high-wrought passion—true poetic fire—
Bold, energetic language—thoughts sublime—
And all the artful cadences of rhyme.
Nor less, for sterling genius, I admire
Rogers' pure style, and Campbell's noble fire;
Montgomery's strain to taste and feeling true,
That speaks the poet and the christian too.
Blest be the man with all that fame can give,
Who burst the Negro's chain, and bade him live;
Blest be the bard with glory's brightest meed,
Whose glowing verse immortaliz'd the deed.
Far as th' Atlantic rolls his rapid stream,
A race shall hail the poet and his theme;
And waft the sound to Guinea's distant shore,
That tells her children they are slaves no more.
Rogers' pure style, and Campbell's noble fire;
Montgomery's strain to taste and feeling true,
That speaks the poet and the christian too.
Blest be the man with all that fame can give,
Who burst the Negro's chain, and bade him live;
Blest be the bard with glory's brightest meed,
Whose glowing verse immortaliz'd the deed.
Far as th' Atlantic rolls his rapid stream,
A race shall hail the poet and his theme;
And waft the sound to Guinea's distant shore,
That tells her children they are slaves no more.
The praise we justly give to truth divine,
Who can withhold from Crabbe's unerring line?
A bard by no pedantic rules confin'd,
A rigid painter of the human mind.
And long as Nature in her simplest guise,
And virtuous sensibility we prize,
Of well-earn'd fame no poet shall enjoy
A fairer tribute than “The Farmer's Boy.”
41
A bard by no pedantic rules confin'd,
A rigid painter of the human mind.
And long as Nature in her simplest guise,
And virtuous sensibility we prize,
Of well-earn'd fame no poet shall enjoy
A fairer tribute than “The Farmer's Boy.”
42
Hail to departed worth!—see Scotland turns,
With tardy hand, to raise the tomb of Burns.
Ah, spare the fame such frail memorials give!
In his own works enshrin'd, the bard shall live.
Of humble birth, but with a taste refin'd,
An adverse fortune, with a god-like mind;
He silent bore, but keenly felt the smart,
Till bitter disappointment broke his heart.
O! when releas'd, his ardent spirit fled,
How envy smil'd, how virtue mourn'd the dead,
And Scotland's hills heard ev'ry tongue proclaim
The minstrel's glory, and his country's shame.—
Then, with the poet's fate inscribe his bust;
In life neglected—canoniz'd in dust!
With tardy hand, to raise the tomb of Burns.
Ah, spare the fame such frail memorials give!
In his own works enshrin'd, the bard shall live.
Of humble birth, but with a taste refin'd,
An adverse fortune, with a god-like mind;
He silent bore, but keenly felt the smart,
43
O! when releas'd, his ardent spirit fled,
How envy smil'd, how virtue mourn'd the dead,
And Scotland's hills heard ev'ry tongue proclaim
The minstrel's glory, and his country's shame.—
Then, with the poet's fate inscribe his bust;
In life neglected—canoniz'd in dust!
Hail to departed worth! o'er Cowper's bier
Let genius pause,—and drop her holiest tear:
To White's cold turf, a weeping pilgrim turn,
And crown with bays her Grahame's hallow'd urn:
'Twas theirs to shun the poet's flowery way,
Of them religion ask'd a nobler lay;
And well their lives its sacred influence caught,
And justified the precepts which they taught.
Religion, meek, benevolent, refin'd,
Breathes universal love to all mankind;
And acting on this principle alone,
Weeps for another's sorrows as her own.
Soft is her voice, and humble are her ways;
Warm is her heart, and fervent is her praise;
Fair deeds of virtue all her hours employ,
She chides with meekness, and forgives with joy:
Happy the soul that feels her ray divine,
(A ray which sainted Porteus beam'd in thine,)
With conscious pleasure she reviews the past,
And confident in faith, awaits her last.
Let genius pause,—and drop her holiest tear:
To White's cold turf, a weeping pilgrim turn,
And crown with bays her Grahame's hallow'd urn:
44
Of them religion ask'd a nobler lay;
And well their lives its sacred influence caught,
And justified the precepts which they taught.
Religion, meek, benevolent, refin'd,
Breathes universal love to all mankind;
And acting on this principle alone,
Weeps for another's sorrows as her own.
Soft is her voice, and humble are her ways;
Warm is her heart, and fervent is her praise;
Fair deeds of virtue all her hours employ,
She chides with meekness, and forgives with joy:
45
(A ray which sainted Porteus beam'd in thine,)
With conscious pleasure she reviews the past,
And confident in faith, awaits her last.
F.
Why, this is praise!
P.
Not greater than is due:
I can withhold applause, and give it too;
Above deceit, I scorn all venal ways;
I freely censure, and I freely praise.
If Dudley call me ranc'rous, decent knight!
When he grows wiser, I'll grow more polite;
Till then I laugh at ceremony's rules,
And still include him in my list of fools.
46
Why name you him?
P.
To bring before the town
A courtly coxcomb, though he wears a gown;
A journalist—and such a one, heav'n knows!
I will not, reader, to offend thy nose,
Rake up the dunghill of his filthy prose.
Yet he can flatter with an awkward grace;
Like some old dowager who chalks her face,
He daubs so coarsely to display the saint,
That the grey sinner stares beneath the paint.
Let Manners, just escap'd from durance vile,
Abuse, defame me, in his Grub-Street style;
In some catch-penny pamphlet, penn'd complete,
Conceiv'd, begotten, born within the Fleet:
Let Scott, the Champion, rail—with scorn I view
The worst that Dulness and her sons can do;
So, Fortune, save my character and lays
From Dudley's hireling, prostituted praise.
A courtly coxcomb, though he wears a gown;
A journalist—and such a one, heav'n knows!
I will not, reader, to offend thy nose,
Rake up the dunghill of his filthy prose.
Yet he can flatter with an awkward grace;
Like some old dowager who chalks her face,
He daubs so coarsely to display the saint,
That the grey sinner stares beneath the paint.
Let Manners, just escap'd from durance vile,
Abuse, defame me, in his Grub-Street style;
In some catch-penny pamphlet, penn'd complete,
Conceiv'd, begotten, born within the Fleet:
Let Scott, the Champion, rail—with scorn I view
The worst that Dulness and her sons can do;
So, Fortune, save my character and lays
From Dudley's hireling, prostituted praise.
When Pasquin, arm'd with libels, stalks by night,
Lest prowling bailiffs intercept his flight;
Pasquin, dull rogue! who twenty years has made
His pamphlets turn a profitable trade;
How **** dreads the vengeance of his muse,
And ***, who has no character to lose,
Quakes in his dark retreat; while you and I,
With upright confidence, his rage defy.
Unhappy Pasquin! in thy latter days
Few fear thy wrath, none barter for thy praise;
But all thy pointless darts, at random thrown,
Hurt no one's name, but only d—n thine own.
Lest prowling bailiffs intercept his flight;
47
His pamphlets turn a profitable trade;
How **** dreads the vengeance of his muse,
And ***, who has no character to lose,
Quakes in his dark retreat; while you and I,
With upright confidence, his rage defy.
Unhappy Pasquin! in thy latter days
Few fear thy wrath, none barter for thy praise;
But all thy pointless darts, at random thrown,
Hurt no one's name, but only d—n thine own.
Stands Scotland where it did? alas! no more—
Since truant Jeffrey flies his native shore:
For who among her sons, to speed their gains,
(Her sons more fam'd for brimstone, than for brains,)
Like him, retrac'd the path which Kenrick trod,
Traduc'd his country, and blasphem'd his God?
Mourn, Caledonia! let thy rocks reply;
Not leaden Sydney can his loss supply:—
Too dull, alas! to satisfy a picque;
His heart is willing, but his brain is weak:
Nor Holland's spouse, nor Holland's mantling bowl,
Can rouse from torpor his benighted soul.
Illustrious Holland! doom'd by angry fate
To rack the Muses, and reform the State;
Consistent Peer! unstain'd with courtly crimes,
Save some few venial spots, and doggerel rhymes;
His Jeffrey lost,—shall haply mount the throne,
And execrate all dulness—but his own.
Since truant Jeffrey flies his native shore:
For who among her sons, to speed their gains,
(Her sons more fam'd for brimstone, than for brains,)
Like him, retrac'd the path which Kenrick trod,
Traduc'd his country, and blasphem'd his God?
Mourn, Caledonia! let thy rocks reply;
Not leaden Sydney can his loss supply:—
Too dull, alas! to satisfy a picque;
His heart is willing, but his brain is weak:
Nor Holland's spouse, nor Holland's mantling bowl,
Can rouse from torpor his benighted soul.
Illustrious Holland! doom'd by angry fate
To rack the Muses, and reform the State;
Consistent Peer! unstain'd with courtly crimes,
Save some few venial spots, and doggerel rhymes;
48
And execrate all dulness—but his own.
What, though the grave may end the poet's care,
The spleen of Chalmers still pursues him there;
Scarce would th' ungrateful world allow him room,
Yet Chalmers tears the laurel from his tomb;
And where some frailty asks a pitying tear,
He frowns, and plays the moralist severe.
Welcome each dunce of Cibber's lively school!
But save me from the solemn, canting fool;
The heavy pedant, the laborious drone,
Full of old saws and dogmas of his own.
The spleen of Chalmers still pursues him there;
Scarce would th' ungrateful world allow him room,
Yet Chalmers tears the laurel from his tomb;
And where some frailty asks a pitying tear,
He frowns, and plays the moralist severe.
Welcome each dunce of Cibber's lively school!
But save me from the solemn, canting fool;
The heavy pedant, the laborious drone,
Full of old saws and dogmas of his own.
Be not severe, though error hath beguil'd
A son of light, the Muses' wondrous child,
Unhappy Chatterton! whom none would save,
An outcast, from the cradle to the grave.
Bright be thy place of everlasting rest!—
The all-sufficient Power who knew thee best,
Shall judge thee—to th' eternal fiat trust—
Vain is the wrath of man, since God is just!
He saw thy youth by great ambition led,
Beheld thy haggard form, unhous'd, unfed;
Watch'd o'er thy pillow, mark'd thy troubled sleep,
Heard ev'ry bitter groan, and saw thee weep,
Till thy proud spirit, from its daring height
Plung'd to the dark abyss of endless night.
A son of light, the Muses' wondrous child,
Unhappy Chatterton! whom none would save,
An outcast, from the cradle to the grave.
49
The all-sufficient Power who knew thee best,
Shall judge thee—to th' eternal fiat trust—
Vain is the wrath of man, since God is just!
He saw thy youth by great ambition led,
Beheld thy haggard form, unhous'd, unfed;
50
Heard ev'ry bitter groan, and saw thee weep,
Till thy proud spirit, from its daring height
Plung'd to the dark abyss of endless night.
F.
Some play, or farce that gallery, box, and pit
Applaud for solid sense and sterling wit,
Name;—
P.
Why, methinks no puzzling task were this:
“The Trav'llers,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Hit or Miss!”
Such scenes as Cherry, Skeffington produce,
And rivall'd but by Punch and Mother Goose.
Our modern playwrights, unambitious elves,
Trust to the actor, more than to themselves;
Some odd peculiarity they hit,
A shrug, or wink, well manag'd, pass for wit;
And Liston's idiot stare, and Oxb'ry's bray,
Have sav'd (with shame I speak it,) many a play.
Would you to rapture raise the vulgar throng,
51
A thousand tongues shall roar at Fawcett's croak,
And Munden's jaws pass current for a joke.
F.
Why slumbers Sheridan in this dull age?
Why thus a willing truant from the stage?
Views he unmov'd the sickly taste that draws
Dishonest fame, and panders for applause?
Why not revive the times that once have been,
52
And Folly, dragg'd before the public view,
Blush'd to behold her image drawn so true?
P.
Would wit and humour please the noisy crowd,
When Dibdin, Dimond, Reynolds, croak so loud?
How would the boxes storm, the galleries rage,
To see their favourites banish'd from the stage;
And call aloud, ere sense could be restor'd,
For Laurent's grin, and Ridgway's magic sword?
Heav'ns! could such scenes engage the public mind,
Did virtue, truth, or sense remain behind?
In vain we boast of Shakespeare's mighty pow'r,
For musick now must charm the vacant hour;
Otway, no more we drop a tear with thee,
For song and dance are all we hear and see;
Except when Kemble, to delight the few,
Restores immortal Shakespeare to our view.
When Dibdin, Dimond, Reynolds, croak so loud?
How would the boxes storm, the galleries rage,
53
And call aloud, ere sense could be restor'd,
For Laurent's grin, and Ridgway's magic sword?
Heav'ns! could such scenes engage the public mind,
Did virtue, truth, or sense remain behind?
In vain we boast of Shakespeare's mighty pow'r,
For musick now must charm the vacant hour;
54
For song and dance are all we hear and see;
55
Restores immortal Shakespeare to our view.
56
Rais'd with the sound, what visions fire my brain!
The Bard revives! the Actor breathes again!
Ages roll back from time's destructive doom,
The Chiefs, the Sages of imperial Rome,
With solemn port, and awe-commanding eye,
In native majesty come sweeping by.—
All passions rose—fear, horror, madness, rage,
Alternate mov'd when Siddons trod the stage;—
Then reign'd the tragick Muse, enthron'd on high,
Awe in her mien, and lightning in her eye!
Mark'd ye that solemn pause, that whisper dread,
That quick terrific start?—“To Bed, to Bed!”—
In Jaffier's frantic wife, that steadfast grief,
Which knows no intermission, no relief,
But preys upon the mind, distracts the brain,
And gives all uncontroll'd the passions reign,
Till madness, while usurping Reason's throne,
Starts at the Form she knows to be her own?—
Ye who have seen the full meridian blaze,
The glorious light of long departed days,
When justly to declare, the task was hard,
Which triumph'd most; the actor, or the bard—
Shall mourn—the voice, that mute attention draws,
The speaking eye, that fills up ev'ry pause,
Should their regard from fleeting memory claim,
And live, but by traditionary fame.
The Bard revives! the Actor breathes again!
57
The Chiefs, the Sages of imperial Rome,
58
In native majesty come sweeping by.—
59
Alternate mov'd when Siddons trod the stage;—
60
Awe in her mien, and lightning in her eye!
61
That quick terrific start?—“To Bed, to Bed!”—
62
Which knows no intermission, no relief,
63
And gives all uncontroll'd the passions reign,
Till madness, while usurping Reason's throne,
Starts at the Form she knows to be her own?—
Ye who have seen the full meridian blaze,
The glorious light of long departed days,
64
Which triumph'd most; the actor, or the bard—
Shall mourn—the voice, that mute attention draws,
The speaking eye, that fills up ev'ry pause,
Should their regard from fleeting memory claim,
And live, but by traditionary fame.
Blest be the Painter's art, by which we trace
The various wonders of the actor's face;
That brings, to nature and expression true,
Each passion, look, and gesture forth to view;
And gives that record art alone can give,
And bids to future times the semblance live.
The various wonders of the actor's face;
That brings, to nature and expression true,
Each passion, look, and gesture forth to view;
And gives that record art alone can give,
And bids to future times the semblance live.
Long time elaps'd ere Shakespeare's hand divine
Brought nature's stores to light, and bade them shine;
Ere truth the cloud of ignorance dispell'd,
Which the dark mind in willing bondage held:
Then nature, irresistible and strong,
In floods of boundless passion pour'd along,
And spurning art's pedantic, dull control,
O'erwhelm'd with magic pow'r the captive soul.
Long may Britannia feel the ardent flame,
And boast his glorious, his immortal name;
From age to age the glowing theme prolong;
And future poets emulate his song:—
Like him, sublime on daring wing to soar
To passion's boldest heights, unknown before;
And blend triumphant in the British lyre,
The Grecian softness with the Roman fire.
65
Ere truth the cloud of ignorance dispell'd,
66
Then nature, irresistible and strong,
In floods of boundless passion pour'd along,
67
O'erwhelm'd with magic pow'r the captive soul.
Long may Britannia feel the ardent flame,
And boast his glorious, his immortal name;
68
And future poets emulate his song:—
Like him, sublime on daring wing to soar
To passion's boldest heights, unknown before;
69
The Grecian softness with the Roman fire.
'Tis not enough that the rude gallery folks
Admire thy genius, and applaud thy jokes;
That clapping theatres the benches shake
Less for thy merit, than contention's sake;
Bold in thyself, uphold the Drama's laws;
Nor basely pander for a mob's applause.
To win, employ the graces of thy style,
Not the loud laugh, but the approving smile:
To Hook and Dimond leave the noisy crew,
Content to number the judicious few;
Nor let thy wit, like bards of little worth,
Offend our reason, to provoke our mirth.
Admire thy genius, and applaud thy jokes;
That clapping theatres the benches shake
Less for thy merit, than contention's sake;
Bold in thyself, uphold the Drama's laws;
Nor basely pander for a mob's applause.
To win, employ the graces of thy style,
Not the loud laugh, but the approving smile:
To Hook and Dimond leave the noisy crew,
Content to number the judicious few;
70
Offend our reason, to provoke our mirth.
Once 'twas the fashion, in an earlier day,
For two, at least one plot, to form a play;
But our sage authors frugally dispense
With plots; nay more—with nature, wit, and sense;
Through five long acts their weary audience lull,
Most cold and tasteless, most perversely dull.
For me, no blind disciple of the schools
That laugh and cry by Aristotle's rules;
I loathe the fool whose humour lies in trick,
While sentimental trumpery makes me sick;
And “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” and “Dammes!” modern wit,—
Can please me never, though they please the pit.
Yet not a cynic, nor devour'd by spleen,
I needs must smile if Colman grace the scene;
Let humour broad, with polish'd wit combine,
No faculties more risible than mine:
But shall I laugh because some antic droll
Squints in my face?—I cannot for my soul!
For two, at least one plot, to form a play;
But our sage authors frugally dispense
With plots; nay more—with nature, wit, and sense;
Through five long acts their weary audience lull,
Most cold and tasteless, most perversely dull.
For me, no blind disciple of the schools
That laugh and cry by Aristotle's rules;
I loathe the fool whose humour lies in trick,
While sentimental trumpery makes me sick;
And “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” and “Dammes!” modern wit,—
Can please me never, though they please the pit.
Yet not a cynic, nor devour'd by spleen,
I needs must smile if Colman grace the scene;
Let humour broad, with polish'd wit combine,
No faculties more risible than mine:
But shall I laugh because some antic droll
Squints in my face?—I cannot for my soul!
F.
Morton writes comedy.
P.
I'd quite forgot—
Without the aid of character or plot.
Is Morton right?—then wrong are ancient schools,
And Congreve, Farq'har, Wycherley were fools,
71
And studied nature as their surest guide.
Humour he has, I grant, but much too low,
And high-flown sentiment, and fustian woe;
To each extreme incautious Morton runs,
His pathos moves more laughter than his puns.
F.
I'll name O' Keefe.—
72
I can't be grave with him,
A rare compound of oddity and whim!
His native ease, his quaint amusing style,
And wit grotesque would make a stoic smile.
Ye who have laugh'd when Lingo trod the stage,
(Before this dull and sentimental age,)
Be grateful for the merriment he gave,
And smooth his cheerless passage to the grave.
A rare compound of oddity and whim!
His native ease, his quaint amusing style,
And wit grotesque would make a stoic smile.
Ye who have laugh'd when Lingo trod the stage,
73
Be grateful for the merriment he gave,
And smooth his cheerless passage to the grave.
74
Tread lightly here—for though no marble weeps,
'Tis sacred ground—beneath, a poet sleeps:—
Spare flatt'ry now, it cannot charm his ear,
But give the silent tribute of a tear.
Lamented Tobin!—but the muse disdains
To mark with sorrow her indignant strains,
A prouder joy might swell her glowing page,—
Thy scenes have half-redeem'd our modern stage.
In times like these, when ev'ry forward dunce
Starts up, good Lord! a dramatist at once,
Could Jonson rise—how vain were his essay,
Some nauseous wit would bear the palm away;
Yes! though perforce we hail a Jonson dead,
A living Jonson p'rhaps might beg his bread.
'Tis sacred ground—beneath, a poet sleeps:—
Spare flatt'ry now, it cannot charm his ear,
But give the silent tribute of a tear.
Lamented Tobin!—but the muse disdains
To mark with sorrow her indignant strains,
A prouder joy might swell her glowing page,—
75
In times like these, when ev'ry forward dunce
Starts up, good Lord! a dramatist at once,
Could Jonson rise—how vain were his essay,
Some nauseous wit would bear the palm away;
Yes! though perforce we hail a Jonson dead,
A living Jonson p'rhaps might beg his bread.
76
Say who's to blame?
P.
The sottish town, that pays
The fool with laughter; not the bard with praise;
That looks for, in distortion and grimace,
Nature's soft ease, and wit's enchanting grace.—
You blame my taste, if careless 'midst the roar,
When noble critics hiccup out “Encore!”
As Catalini, charming queen of sounds,
Sings a bravura—for a hundred pounds;
Or blythe Dehayes, all life and spirit, swims
Through the gay dance, and twirls his pliant limbs,
I sit unmov'd, a cold phlegmatic guest,
Nor cry “Encore!” and “Bravo!” like the rest:
Form'd in a coarser mould, untaught by art,
I love the plainer language of the heart;
No far-fetch'd song that strains the lab'ring throat,
No squeaking eunuch's soft Italian note;
No attitude obscene, 'gainst nature's plan,
Which more bespeaks the monkey than the man.
Merit, stand by—for lo! with servile leer
Some warbling Signior, elbow'd by a peer,
A supple slave, now banter'd, now caress'd,
Kick'd, laugh'd at, worshipp'd,—as my Lord thinks best!
Advances forth, obligingly polite,
To charm his friends—for fifty pounds per night.
'Tis foreign all—no native talent here
With artless, simple notes delights the ear;
But sounds that least of harmony partake,
Much lengthen'd quaver, and affected shake;
A heterogeneous mass—God help the while!
Which p'rhaps the cognoscenti christen “Style.”
Thus fool'd—and thus instructed by the tribe,
Their follies, with their pleasures, we imbibe,
Till, by degrees we grow, like them, debas'd,
Corrupt in morals, as deprav'd in taste.
This shameful truth let slighted genius tell,—
In vain in arts Britannia's sons excel,
Since Britain proves, through prejudice alone,
A friend to ev'ry genius, but her own.
77
That looks for, in distortion and grimace,
78
You blame my taste, if careless 'midst the roar,
79
As Catalini, charming queen of sounds,
80
Or blythe Dehayes, all life and spirit, swims
81
I sit unmov'd, a cold phlegmatic guest,
82
Form'd in a coarser mould, untaught by art,
83
No far-fetch'd song that strains the lab'ring throat,
84
No attitude obscene, 'gainst nature's plan,
85
Merit, stand by—for lo! with servile leer
Some warbling Signior, elbow'd by a peer,
A supple slave, now banter'd, now caress'd,
Kick'd, laugh'd at, worshipp'd,—as my Lord thinks best!
Advances forth, obligingly polite,
To charm his friends—for fifty pounds per night.
'Tis foreign all—no native talent here
With artless, simple notes delights the ear;
But sounds that least of harmony partake,
Much lengthen'd quaver, and affected shake;
A heterogeneous mass—God help the while!
Which p'rhaps the cognoscenti christen “Style.”
Thus fool'd—and thus instructed by the tribe,
Their follies, with their pleasures, we imbibe,
86
Corrupt in morals, as deprav'd in taste.
This shameful truth let slighted genius tell,—
In vain in arts Britannia's sons excel,
Since Britain proves, through prejudice alone,
A friend to ev'ry genius, but her own.
O were the good old times again restor'd!
When wine and welcome cheer'd the festive board;
When ev'ry feast excell'd the banquet past,
And each new year prov'd happier than the last.
Our Shakespeare, who, on fam'd Parnassus' mount
Sat high enthron'd, and from the sacred fount
Of Helicon drank deeply, 'till the stream
Lull'd the rapt bard to many a heav'nly dream,
Lov'd pastimes, manly sports, and rural bow'rs,
And archeries, and may-poles wreath'd with flow'rs.
High be the wassail-bowl with holly crown'd!
Quick let the carol and the cup go round!
Bring verdure from the forest and the plain,
Till Birnam-Wood do come to Dunsinane!
Far be the cant of true sectarian birth,
Whose presence is an antidote to mirth;
Hush'd be the voice that would our sports annoy,
In one loud strain of universal joy.
87
When ev'ry feast excell'd the banquet past,
88
Our Shakespeare, who, on fam'd Parnassus' mount
89
Of Helicon drank deeply, 'till the stream
90
Lov'd pastimes, manly sports, and rural bow'rs,
And archeries, and may-poles wreath'd with flow'rs.
High be the wassail-bowl with holly crown'd!
Quick let the carol and the cup go round!
Bring verdure from the forest and the plain,
Till Birnam-Wood do come to Dunsinane!
Far be the cant of true sectarian birth,
Whose presence is an antidote to mirth;
Hush'd be the voice that would our sports annoy,
In one loud strain of universal joy.
91
Let the world wag for me, while fortune sends
Old books, old wine, old customs, and old friends!
Old books, old wine, old customs, and old friends!
92
Old wine, I grant,—the bees-wing, and the crust!—
P.
Old books—
F.
Old books! Cuibono? but their dust!
You boast the ancient, I the modern lore.—
P.
Which says—just what our fathers said before;
Save their high thoughts, harmoniously express'd,
Crave audience in a party-colour'd vest,
Right gaudy, and mere tinsel at the best.
F.
Who reads the Classics now? the wits of Anne!
93
Who quotes the mighty Aristarch with awe?
Whose voice was thunder, and whose word was law.
Who wanders musing through the churchyard way,
Led by the tender muse of pensive Gray?
Or weeps at Auburn's tale? or starts to hear
The mingled chords of madness, rage, and fear,
Struck by the bard who, while his lyre he strung,
Too keenly felt One Passion that he sung?
Lost are their names, their glories but a dream,—
P.
Lost in the murky smoke of gas and steam!
To rise more glorious like refulgent day,
When time has blown those noxious clouds away!
Dear sons of fame! by fond rememb'rance ting'd—
On Thames' fair banks, and Isis' willow-fring'd,
Wand'ring, ye bade my youthful bosom glow
With harmless joy, or melt with chast'ning woe.
Since first ye taught me gen'rous love of fame,
How all is chang'd—but Ye are still the same;
My spirit lacks its fire, my head is gray,
And friends belov'd have dropp'd, and died away;
But Ye, to whom I owe the pleasing past,
My earliest friends, are faithful to the last!
Let me not live till palsied, wither'd age
Shall dim the charms of your immortal page;
Contract my soul within its narrow bound,
Where sordid love of Self is only found,
Av'rice, distrust, oblivion, peevish gloom—
Let me not live—but “give some labourer room.”
Glad to depart, yet grateful to have been,
To see what now I see, and what I've seen;
Health, friendship, books, I would not, wanting these,
The Wine of Life, with dotards dreg the lees.
To rise more glorious like refulgent day,
When time has blown those noxious clouds away!
Dear sons of fame! by fond rememb'rance ting'd—
On Thames' fair banks, and Isis' willow-fring'd,
Wand'ring, ye bade my youthful bosom glow
With harmless joy, or melt with chast'ning woe.
Since first ye taught me gen'rous love of fame,
How all is chang'd—but Ye are still the same;
My spirit lacks its fire, my head is gray,
And friends belov'd have dropp'd, and died away;
But Ye, to whom I owe the pleasing past,
My earliest friends, are faithful to the last!
Let me not live till palsied, wither'd age
Shall dim the charms of your immortal page;
Contract my soul within its narrow bound,
94
Av'rice, distrust, oblivion, peevish gloom—
Let me not live—but “give some labourer room.”
Glad to depart, yet grateful to have been,
To see what now I see, and what I've seen;
Health, friendship, books, I would not, wanting these,
The Wine of Life, with dotards dreg the lees.
How Dulness smil'd on that auspicious morn,
When high enthron'd, the butt of public scorn,
She pompous saw her sapient Arnold sit
In Drury's fane the arbiter of wit.
“My son,” the joyful mother cried, and then
Into his trembling fingers thrust a pen,
“Something thou shalt produce—no matter what,
An old romance supplies thee with a plot;
Then steal or borrow to cajole the folks,
Tom D' Urfey's madrigals, and Miller's Jokes:
All these together in confusion thrown,
Well sprinkled with some nonsense of thine own;
And some odd scraps, by Colman thrown away,
Will (Holt can answer for it,) make a play.
Long may'st thou live to prove the scourge of sense,
And nurture Folly at a large expense!
To catch each novelty, howe'er absurd;
And raise all hell, as Faustus gives the word.
Though Polito, to make the people stare,
Erect his annual booth at Smithfield Fair,
Where lions roar with wide distended jaws,
And grinning serpents hiss with vast applause;
How vain are all his efforts to outdo!—
Old Drury's stage shall boast its monsters too.
But if, with equal emulation fir'd,
Thy rival Harris hath each monster hir'd,
(A genuine son, a kindred spirit he,
And second in my love to none but thee;)
Let Raymond take some fierce Rhinoceros' shape,
And Oxb'ry be transform'd into an Ape;
Next let thy talents find their proper use,
Do thou, as best becomes thee, play the Goose;
Then all shall own, while they admire the cast,
Thou'st found thy fittest character at last!
See how my children in one cause unite,
Lo, Larpent reads! while Hook and Reynolds write;
Dull Brinsley sleeps, and should he wake again,
I fear some revolution in our reign;
But Kotzebue's bombast, fearing to expire,
Stole the last spark of his immortal fire.”
When high enthron'd, the butt of public scorn,
She pompous saw her sapient Arnold sit
In Drury's fane the arbiter of wit.
“My son,” the joyful mother cried, and then
Into his trembling fingers thrust a pen,
“Something thou shalt produce—no matter what,
An old romance supplies thee with a plot;
Then steal or borrow to cajole the folks,
Tom D' Urfey's madrigals, and Miller's Jokes:
All these together in confusion thrown,
Well sprinkled with some nonsense of thine own;
And some odd scraps, by Colman thrown away,
Will (Holt can answer for it,) make a play.
Long may'st thou live to prove the scourge of sense,
95
To catch each novelty, howe'er absurd;
And raise all hell, as Faustus gives the word.
Though Polito, to make the people stare,
Erect his annual booth at Smithfield Fair,
Where lions roar with wide distended jaws,
And grinning serpents hiss with vast applause;
How vain are all his efforts to outdo!—
Old Drury's stage shall boast its monsters too.
96
Thy rival Harris hath each monster hir'd,
(A genuine son, a kindred spirit he,
And second in my love to none but thee;)
Let Raymond take some fierce Rhinoceros' shape,
And Oxb'ry be transform'd into an Ape;
Next let thy talents find their proper use,
Do thou, as best becomes thee, play the Goose;
Then all shall own, while they admire the cast,
Thou'st found thy fittest character at last!
97
Lo, Larpent reads! while Hook and Reynolds write;
Dull Brinsley sleeps, and should he wake again,
I fear some revolution in our reign;
But Kotzebue's bombast, fearing to expire,
Stole the last spark of his immortal fire.”
98
To drain our wealth what numbers cross the main;
Fiddlers from France, and mountebanks from Spain;
From Italy a host of warbling slaves,
From Holland grave Mynheers, egregious knaves.
There Indian jugglers ply their trade for hire,
And here a Prussian lady swallows fire;
While rushing crowds assemble far and near,
What to behold?—a Cossack and his spear!
When Polito might gratify their view
With sights as ugly, and as human too.
But most to thee, O Germany! we owe
Our choicest stock of rarities below;
Counts, gamesters, princes, jostling side by side,
Thy low-born offal, and thy high-dutch pride,
All who for wit or want their country leave,
Kind, we invite; and grateful, we receive;
Thus cramm'd—impos'd on much beyond our due;
'Tis hard, methinks, to send us poets too!
Our taste is German—and our wives will say,
How pure the doctrine of a German play!
Where vice appears so innocently dress'd,
We almost fancy cuckoldom a jest;
For the frail nymph so well her crime defends,
The couple weep, embrace, and soon are friends!
Fiddlers from France, and mountebanks from Spain;
From Italy a host of warbling slaves,
From Holland grave Mynheers, egregious knaves.
There Indian jugglers ply their trade for hire,
And here a Prussian lady swallows fire;
While rushing crowds assemble far and near,
What to behold?—a Cossack and his spear!
When Polito might gratify their view
With sights as ugly, and as human too.
But most to thee, O Germany! we owe
Our choicest stock of rarities below;
Counts, gamesters, princes, jostling side by side,
Thy low-born offal, and thy high-dutch pride,
99
Kind, we invite; and grateful, we receive;
Thus cramm'd—impos'd on much beyond our due;
'Tis hard, methinks, to send us poets too!
Our taste is German—and our wives will say,
How pure the doctrine of a German play!
Where vice appears so innocently dress'd,
We almost fancy cuckoldom a jest;
For the frail nymph so well her crime defends,
The couple weep, embrace, and soon are friends!
Nor stop we here—strange farragos succeed,
(“Oh, horrible! most horrible, indeed!”)
Undaunted Ireland dares the mighty test,
Although, in raising spirits and the rest,
Lewis without a rival stands confest.
Though sprites appear obedient at his will,
Ghosts are but ghosts; and demons, demons still;
Alike in matter, and in form the same:
Hobgoblins differ only—in the name:
Yet Lewis trembles lest his fame be won,
And Mistress Radcliffe fears herself outdone.
But these are harmless, Satire must confess,
To the loose novels of Minerva's press;
Such melting tales as Meeke and Rosa tell;
For pious Lane, who knows his readers well,
Can suit all palates with their diff'rent food,
Love for the hoyden, morals for the prude!
Behold! with reams of nonsense newly born,
Th'industrious pack who scribble night and morn;
Five pounds per volume! an enormous bribe,
Enough, methinks, to tempt a hungry scribe.
First Lady Morgan, Amazonian Fair!
(Ye gods, what will not Lady Morgan dare?)
With four octavo volumes shocks the sight;
For who can read as fast as she can write?
Next fair Llewellyn, modestly indeed,
Would have us name her works, as well as read;
Which to perform, in language just and brief,
Let “bawdry” be inscrib'd on every leaf.
Matilda toils the promis'd boon to win,
And Ann of Swansea wades through thick and thin;
While Bridget Bluemantle's eternal scrawl
Makes truly more waste paper than them all.
Would you with blushes tinge the virgin cheek,
Read “Midnight Weddings,” penn'd by Mrs. Meeke:
Soft amorous stories by Honoria Scott,
Of ravishments, seductions, and what not:
Or Gunning's tales, for Gunning, to my taste,
Is sprightly, witty, any thing—but chaste:
Or “Rival Princes,” anger's latest spark,
Pride of them all, and worthy Mrs. Clarke.
(“Oh, horrible! most horrible, indeed!”)
Undaunted Ireland dares the mighty test,
Although, in raising spirits and the rest,
Lewis without a rival stands confest.
100
Ghosts are but ghosts; and demons, demons still;
Alike in matter, and in form the same:
Hobgoblins differ only—in the name:
Yet Lewis trembles lest his fame be won,
And Mistress Radcliffe fears herself outdone.
But these are harmless, Satire must confess,
To the loose novels of Minerva's press;
Such melting tales as Meeke and Rosa tell;
For pious Lane, who knows his readers well,
Can suit all palates with their diff'rent food,
Love for the hoyden, morals for the prude!
Behold! with reams of nonsense newly born,
Th'industrious pack who scribble night and morn;
Five pounds per volume! an enormous bribe,
Enough, methinks, to tempt a hungry scribe.
First Lady Morgan, Amazonian Fair!
(Ye gods, what will not Lady Morgan dare?)
101
For who can read as fast as she can write?
Next fair Llewellyn, modestly indeed,
Would have us name her works, as well as read;
Which to perform, in language just and brief,
Let “bawdry” be inscrib'd on every leaf.
Matilda toils the promis'd boon to win,
And Ann of Swansea wades through thick and thin;
While Bridget Bluemantle's eternal scrawl
Makes truly more waste paper than them all.
Would you with blushes tinge the virgin cheek,
Read “Midnight Weddings,” penn'd by Mrs. Meeke:
Soft amorous stories by Honoria Scott,
Of ravishments, seductions, and what not:
102
Is sprightly, witty, any thing—but chaste:
Or “Rival Princes,” anger's latest spark,
Pride of them all, and worthy Mrs. Clarke.
I pass in silence, authors not a few;
Cervantes Hogg, and all the Grub Street Crew:
Alas! more worthy of contempt than rage,
Their worthless names would but defile my page:
The muse shall never gibbet them on high,
Obscurely as they liv'd, so let them die.
Cervantes Hogg, and all the Grub Street Crew:
Alas! more worthy of contempt than rage,
Their worthless names would but defile my page:
The muse shall never gibbet them on high,
Obscurely as they liv'd, so let them die.
F.
'Tis pitiful—but why indulge your spleen?
Will all this harsh invective mend the scene?
Your satire is too pointed, too severe,
103
My Lord, who now and then, to serve his ends,
Invites some score of literary friends,
Will meet you at his table with an air
That plainly tells you have no bus'ness there.
“Ye Gods!” he cries, “shall I, who think sublime
Matilda's motley hash of prose and rhyme,
By one, who begs a dinner at my door,
Be school'd—and play ‘Sir Oracle’ no more?”
P.
I guess you well—henceforth no verse of mine
Shall question Rose's title to “divine;”
No more in critic gall I'll dip my quill,
104
Let piddling Gwilliam void his riff-raff stuff,
And damn'd be he that first cries “Hold, enough!”
F.
Wisely resolv'd—since this contention ends,
All Grub Street and the court shall prove your friends;
105
And Little's prurient page, to gloat on yours!
Why always Satire? choose some milder theme.
P.
—Soft! 'tis the music of yon murm'ring stream—
F.
Pshaw! the mere cant of ev'ry tuneful tongue—
P.
Then say, what scenes has nature yet unsung?
106
I tried, as life pass'd airily away;
But grief and care, the inroads time has made,
Have cast o'er all a melancholy shade.
E'en now, I hasten to my last retreat,
Soon this too anxious heart shall cease to beat;
Some filial tears be o'er my memory shed,
And those who lov'd me living, mourn me dead.
Has pitying Heaven an early fate design'd,
It still shall find me grateful and resign'd:
Well pleas'd to share, at life's eventful close,
The scorn of all whom most I wish'd my foes.
For Dryden never fear'd with manly rage
To lash the full-grown vices of the age,
But, spurning what he thought dishonest fame,
Call'd ev'ry rogue and blockhead by his name;
Thus Shadwell's dulness, Shaftsbury's baser crimes,
Are handed down to all succeeding times.
Pope (who retains pre-eminence, in spite
Of all that Weston, all that Bowles could write,)
To conquer vice the surest method found,
He aim'd with care to give the deeper wound:
And counting titles, wealth, inferior things,
To Virtue gave what he deny'd to Kings.
107
Unbrib'd, unbought, by any fool or knave;
A votary oft at Freedom's holy shrine,
Check the just warmth of her satiric line?
108
Strong in its tide, resistless in its force;
And shame the hoary pimp, the courtly tool,
The bold-fac'd villain, and the harmless fool.
109
Her sons so warlike, and her nymphs so fair,
Whose envied fame is borne on ev'ry breeze
As waves her flag majestic o'er the seas;
110
Once jealously maintain'd, and dearly priz'd,
And silently behold her court outblaze
The rank obscenity of Charles's days?
111
And grey seduction prowl from street to street;
And sins too black and horrible to name,
In her unhappy land be thought no shame?
112
Which made by holy faith the Saviour mine,
And taught me through this dark sojourn to see,
Although a wanderer, he died for me,
By daring infidels, and fools at best,
Be boldly call'd a fable and a jest?
And O! to make her infamy complete,
Shall Truth and Justice quit the judgment-seat,
And Law, her strong defence in former times,
Uphold the guilty, and defend their crimes?
113
And urge a tottering nation to its fall,
Unbridled reign, and Satire's voice be dumb?
Nor warn a guilty land of wrath to come?
I will——
F.
Fine words! lash blockheads to the bone,
But leave, my friend, pray leave the Great alone;
The sons of dulness, they were made for sport,
But spare, for prudence sake, O spare the Court!
My Lord, whose frown keeps modest Truth in awe,
114
Suspends his legal vengeance.—
P.
Let it fall;—
One smile from Virtue makes amends for all;
A Jefferies' rage can ne'er my terrors raise,
I scorn his censure, as I hate his praise.
One smile from Virtue makes amends for all;
A Jefferies' rage can ne'er my terrors raise,
I scorn his censure, as I hate his praise.
Thou (if a voice, still true to virtue's cause,
Dare give neglected honesty applause,)
Who, free from private pique, from party zeal,
Canst like a poet write, a patriot feel,
Accept my verse; relax thy brow awhile,
Nor scorn my labours for their homely style.
If now and then a happier line appear,
And sound with sweeter music in thine ear;
A brighter thought, in which thou seest combin'd
Sound judgment, fertile fancy, strength of mind;
Such as may justly claim thy meed of praise,
And call to mind the bards of former days;
'Tis all I hope—but far from me be those
Who flatter Grenville's rhyme, or Dibdin's prose;
Phlegmatic judges, who unmov'd can sit,
And Arnold's ribaldry mistake for wit;
O'er Dimond's puling scenes lament and sigh,
With Skeffington or Godwin laugh and cry;
And O! (what wonders we may live to see,)
Think, Maturin, mighty Shakespeare rivals Thee!
Let such dull loungers (if they rise so soon)
At dry rehearsals spend their time till noon;
To billiards stroll, or half asleep peruse
The vague abortions of Fitzgerald's muse;
Then at Albina's rout complete the yawn,
With her blue-stocking friends, and gape till dawn.
Dare give neglected honesty applause,)
Who, free from private pique, from party zeal,
115
Accept my verse; relax thy brow awhile,
Nor scorn my labours for their homely style.
If now and then a happier line appear,
And sound with sweeter music in thine ear;
A brighter thought, in which thou seest combin'd
Sound judgment, fertile fancy, strength of mind;
Such as may justly claim thy meed of praise,
And call to mind the bards of former days;
'Tis all I hope—but far from me be those
Who flatter Grenville's rhyme, or Dibdin's prose;
Phlegmatic judges, who unmov'd can sit,
And Arnold's ribaldry mistake for wit;
O'er Dimond's puling scenes lament and sigh,
With Skeffington or Godwin laugh and cry;
And O! (what wonders we may live to see,)
Think, Maturin, mighty Shakespeare rivals Thee!
116
At dry rehearsals spend their time till noon;
To billiards stroll, or half asleep peruse
The vague abortions of Fitzgerald's muse;
Then at Albina's rout complete the yawn,
With her blue-stocking friends, and gape till dawn.
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