Classic Poem

When Johnson sought (as Shakespear says) that bourn,
From whence, alas! no travellers return:
In humbler English, when the Doctor died,
Apollo whimper'd and the Muses cried;
Parnassus mop'd for days, in business slack,
And like a herse, the hill was hung with black.
Minerva sighing for her fav'rite son,
Pronounc'd, with lengthen'd face, the world undone:
Her owl, too, hooted in so loud a stile,
That people might have heard the bird, a mile:
Jove wip'd his eyes so red, and told his wife,
He ne'er made Johnson's equal, in his life;
And that 'twould be a long time first, if ever,
His art could form a fellow half so clever:
Venus, of all the little Loves, the dam,
With all the Graces, sobb'd for brother Sam:
Such were the heav'nly howlings for his death,
As if Dame Nature had resign'd her breath.
Nor less sonorous was the grief, I ween,
Amidst the natives of our earthly scene:
From beggars to the GREAT who hold the helm,
One Johnso-mania rag'd through all the realm!
"Who, (cried the world) can match his prose or rhime?
O'er wits of modern days, he tow'rs sublime!
An oak, wide spreading o'er the shrubs below,
That round his roots, with puny foliage, blow:
A Pyramid, amidst some barren waste,
That frowns o'er huts the sport of ev'ry blast:
A mighty Atlas, whose aspiring head,
O'er distant regions, casts an awful shade.
By kings and beggars lo! his tales are told,
And ev'ry sentence glows a grain of gold!
Blest! who his philosophic phiz can take,
Catch ev'n his weaknesses--his noddle's shake,
The lengthen'd lip of scorn, the forehead's scowl,
The low'ring eye's contempt, and bear-like growl.
In vain, the critics aim their toothless rage!
Mere sprats, that venture war with whales to wage:
Unmov'd he stands, and feels their force, no more
Than some huge rock amidst the wat'ry roar,
That calmly bears the tumults of the deep,
And howling tempests, that as well may sleep."
Strong, midst the Rambler's cronies, was the rage
To fill with his bons mots, and tales, the page:
Mere flies, that buzz'd around his setting ray,
And bore a splendor, on their wings, away:
Thus round his orb, the pigmy planets run,
And catch their little lustre from the SUN.
At length, rush'd forth two candidates for fame,
A Scotchman, one; and one a London Dame:
That, by th' emphatic Johnson, christen'd Bozzy;
This, by the Bishop's License, Dame Piozzi;
Whose widow'd name, by topers lov'd, was Thrale,
Bright in the annals of election ale:
A name, by marriage, that gave up the ghost!
In poor Pedocchio,--no! Piozzi, lost!
Each seiz'd with ardor wild, the grey goose quill:
Each sat to work the intellectual mill:
That pecks of bran so coarse, began to pour,
To one poor solitary grain of flour.
Forth rush'd to light, their books--but who should say,
Which bore the palm of anecdote away?
This, to decide, the rival wits agreed,
Before Sir John their tales and jokes to read,
And let the Knight's opinion in the strife,
Declare the prop'rest pen to write Sam's life: . . .

bozzy: At supper, rose a dialogue on witches,
When Crosbie said, there could not be such b--tch--s;
And that 'twas blasphemy to think such hags
Could stir up storms, and on their broomstick nags
Gallop along the air with wondrous pace,
And boldly fly in God Almighty's face:
But Johnson answer'd him, "There might be witches,
Nought prov'd the non existence of the b--tch--s."

madame piozzi: In Lincolnshire, a lady show'd our friend
A grotto, that she wish'd him to commend:
Quoth she, "How cool in summer this abode!"
"Yes, Madam, (answer'd Johnson) for a toad."

bozzy: As at Argyle's grand house, my hat I took,
To seek my alehouse; thus began the Duke,
"Pray, Mr. Boswell, won't you have some tea?"
To this, I made my bow, and did agree--
Then to the drawing room, we both retreated,
Where Lady Betty Hamilton was seated
Close by the Duchess, who, in deep discourse,
Took no more notice of me than a horse.
Next day myself, and Doctor Johnson took
Our hats, to go and wait upon the Duke:
Next to himself, the Duke did Johnson place,
But I, thank God, sat second to his Grace.
The place was due, most surely to my merits--
And faith, I was in very pretty spirits:
I plainly saw (my penetration such is)
I was not yet in favour with the Duchess.
Thought I, I am not disconcerted yet--
Before we part, I'll give her Grace a sweat--
Then looks of intrepidity I put on,
And ask'd her, if she'd have a plate of mutton.
This was a glorious deed must be confess'd!
I knew I was the Duke's, and not her guest!
Knowing--as I'm a man of tip-top breeding,
That great folks drink no healths whilst they are feeding;
I took my glass, and looking at her Grace,
I star'd her like a devil in the face:
And in respectful terms, as was my duty,
Said I, my Lady Duchess, I salute ye:
Most audible, indeed, was my salute,
For which some folks will say I was a brute:
But faith, it dash'd her, as I knew it wou'd,
But then I knew, that I was flesh and blood.

madame piozzi: One day, with spirits low, and sorrow fill'd,
I told him that I had a cousin kill'd:
"My dear," quoth he, "for heav'n's sake hold your canting;
Were all your cousins kill'd, they'd not be wanting:
Though Death on each of them should set his mark,
Though ev'ry one were spitted like a lark--
Roasted, and given that dog there, for a meal;
The loss of them, the world would never feel--
Trust me, dear Madame, all your dear relations,
Are nits--are nothings in the eye of nations."
Again, says I one day--"I do believe,
A good acquaintance that I have, will grieve,
To hear her friend hath lost a large estate:"
"Yes, (answer'd he) lament as much her fate,
As did your horse (I freely will allow)
To hear of the miscarriage of your cow."

bozzy: Of Doctor Johnson, having giv'n a sketch,
Permit me, Reader, of myself, to preach--
The world will certainly receive with glee,
The slightest bit of history of Me.
Think of a gentleman of ancient blood!
Prouder of title, than of being good.
A gentleman just thirty-three years old:
Married four years, and as a Tyger, bold;
Whose bowels yearn'd Great Britain's foes to tame,
And from the cannon's mouth to swallow flame;
To get his limbs by broad swords carv'd in wars
Like some old bedstead, and to boast his scars;
And proud immortal actions to atchieve,
See his hide bor'd by bullets, like a sieve.
But lo! his father, a well-judging Judge,
Forbade his son from Edinburgh to budge--
Resolv'd the French should not his b--ckside claw;
So bound his son apprentice to the law.
This gentleman had been in foreign parts,
And, like Ulysses, learnt a world of arts:
Much wisdom, his vast travels having brought him.
He was not half the fool, the people thought him--
Of prudence, this same gentleman was such,
He rather had too little, than too much.
Bright was this gentleman's imagination,
Well calculated for the highest station:
Indeed so lively, give the dev'l his due,
He ten times more would utter, than was true.
Which forc'd him frequently against his will,
Poor man! to swallow many a bitter pill--
One bitter pill among the rest, he took,
Which was to cut some scandal from his book.--
By Doctor Johnson he is well pourtray'd:
Quoth he, "Of Bozzy it may well be said,
That through the most inhospitable scene,
One never can be troubled with the spleen,
Nor ev'n the greatest difficulties chafe at,
Whilst such an animal is near, to laugh at."