Classic Poem

Loaded, my Lord, with Cares of State;
Press'd by the Wealthy and the Great;
Fatigu'd for George and Britain 's Good;
Crown'd with Success, tho' much withstood:
Post-pone your Toil: Deign to peruse
The little Levities, a Muse,
Not over-gay, at present sends,
To make You smile, and please Your Friends.
'Tis no New Thing for Bards, with Letters,
In Metre, to address their Betters,
Without being thought Unbred or Rude:
Verse must be very bad t' intrude.
This was the constant Trade of Horace ,
And others (whom you've read) before us.

But stop, adventurous Muse, thy Flight;
Consider well, before you write.
Important are his Lordship's Hours;
Not Vuide and Humorous, like yours:
The Fate of Empires is His Care;
A Glorious Peace! or Lawful War!

Besides you must not write in Haste;
His Judgment's good; refin'd his Taste.
Politest Learning; brightest Wit;
Whatever with Applause, is Writ;
(Whether recorded be the Lore
In Ancient Archives dusty Store;
Or, whether to the Height are brought
Sciences by Modern Thought)
These are His Favourites; and, of Course,
His Conversations can't be worse.

Think I, these Thoughts are Just and True;
A Letter from Kinsale won't do:
Cloudy's the Climate, Poor the Land;
Verse thrives not on the barren Sand:
Forc'd! too from Town; nay, banish'd quite;
It is impossible to write!

But, if I write, what shall I say?
An Irish Tale! — — — Once on a Day , &c.
No, No! Be wise, sink, for this Time,
Thy Love for S UNDERLAND and Rhime.
What is't to Him, that at Kinsale
Our Claret 's bad, and Worse our Ale?
Or, that our Rum and Brandy 's Good,
As e'er was tipp'd, or fir'd Mens Blood?
And that there is no cheaper Thing
Sold in this Town? — — God bless the King!

It must for certain, be amiss,
To send such trifling Stuff as this:
To tell him, That the Folk in Town,
For want of War, are quite undone;
That they have no Estates in Lands;
And that their Time hangs on their Hands:
How Haddock snarls at Griffy Beven ;
How Jerry laughs from Six t' Eleven;
How most Men live at Six and Seven.
In short, The Humours of this Town,
In Piccadilly will not down:
Neither the Billingsgate of Scilly ;
Nor the dry Jokes of Bowler Billy .
And if I steer Killalla -Course,
That Journal will be worse and worse.

Think then I must, before I write:
And so bethinking what t' indite;
I found, in this corrected Age,
Our Diction Chaste, and Just our Rage;
I found the Wits were strictly taught
Propriety of Stile and Thought:
And straight on choicest Modern Rhime,
Imploy'd my curious, well-spent Time!
For, truly, of the Classick-kind ,
Little in our Old Bards, I find,

To A DDISON I first apply'd;
Poet, and Orator beside!
Much his Great Name to Justness owes:
When highest swell'd, he ne'er o'erflows;
And when the dangerous Deep he shuns,
Tho' Low, yet Clear and Sweet he runs:
Cool Judgment tempers Hottest Fire:
Art guides, what Genius does inspire.

While Garth , with Labour, strives to please,
P OPE versifies with perfect Ease:
While P OPE , in Female Softness, shines,
Garth languishes in Manlier Lines.
Both have their Beauties; Both excell
In Thinking, and in Writing well.

P HILIP'S I've read: He's Pure, he's Terse;
Sound is his Sense, and smooth his Verse.
Ah! would he court the Groves again;
And charm, anew, th' admiring Swain!
Again, frequent the Muses Throng,
And finish Thule 's Heav'nly Song!

I've read too (not without Delight)
What T ICKELL , and what W ELSTED write;
Nature's own Beauties they pursue;
Their Stile Correct, their Manner New,

This when I'd done, with strictest Care,
I stopt my own vain, fond Career;
And said, None, but the First-rate Wit,
To sing my S PENCER can be fit:
The Noble Blood let such Men show,
Which, thro' His Purple Veins, does flow;
Those Honours, which He does inherit;
Or Those, which GEORGE bestows on Merit.
How (good as Guardian Angels are)
He reconcil'd the ROYAL PAIR !
How Faction sick, nay, dead's become,
While He administers at Home!
And, How all Europe 's more at Peace,
Than, ever yet, in Former Days!

Yes! certainly, it must be so:
For these High Themes, my Rhime's too Low.
I cannot, must not, on them dwell:
For though, in Metre, I might tell,
(And Metre good) how I withdraw
To Ireland , there to go to Law;
Yet, surely, this will ne'er suffice
To sing the Statesman Learn'd and Wise;
Nor make my Verse swell, to the End,
With GEORGE 's Favourite and Friend:
And so I'm in a bad Condition! — — —
Well: Since I can't Rhime, I'll Petition.
My L ORD then, that I may conclude,
(For, being Tedious, is being Rude)
Make me (to fill my earnest Wish up)
An English Dean, or Irish Bishop,

And Your Petitioner will Ever Pray .