Classic Poem

Her Palace placed beneath a muddy road
And such the Influence of the dull Abode,
The Carrier's Horse above can scarsely drag his Load.
Here chose the Goddess her belov'd Retreat
Which Phoebus trys in vain to penetrate,
Adorn'd within by Shells of small expence
(Emblems of tinsel Rhime, and triffleing Sense),
Perpetual fogs enclose the sacred Cave,
The neighbouring Sinks their fragrant Odours gave.
In Contemplation here she pass'd her Hours
Closely attended by Subservient pow'rs:
Bold Prophanation with a Brazen brow,
Much to this great Ally does Dullness owe;
But still more near the Goddess you attend,
Naked Obscenity her darling Freind!
To thee for shelter all the dull still fly,
Pert double meanings even at School we try.
What Numerous writers owe their praise to thee!
No Sex, no Age, is from thy Influence free!
By thee how bright appears the senseless song,
By thee, the Book is sold, the Lines are strong,
The Heaviest poet by thy powerfull Aid
Warms the Brisk Youth, and charms the sprightly Maid.
Where breaths the Mortal has not prov'd thy force
In well bred Pun, and waiting room discourse?
Such were the cheifs adorn'd the gloomy Court,
Her Pride, her Ornament, and her Support,
Behind attended such a numerous Croud
Of Quibbles strain'd, odd Rhimes, and Laughter loud,
Such Throngs as might have made a Goddess proud.
Yet pensive thoughts lay brooding in her Breast
And Fear (the Mate of Pow'r) her mind oppress'd.
Oft she revolv'd, for oh too well she knew
What Merlin sung, and part long since prov'd true.
‘When Harry's Brows the Diadem adorn
From Reformation, Learning shall be born,
Slowly in Strength the infant shall improve
The parents glory and its Country's love,
Free from the thraldom of Monastic Rhimes,
In bright progression bless succeeding Times,
Milton free Poetry from the Monkish Chain,
And Adisson that Milton shall explain,
Point out the Beauties of each living Page,
Reform the taste of a degenerate Age,
Shew that True Wit disdains all little Art
And can at once engage, and mend the Heart,
Knows even Popular Applause to gain
Yet not malicious, Bawdy or Prophane.’
This Prophecy perplex'd her Anxious Head,
And yawning thrice thus to her Sons she said:
When such an Author does abroad appear
'Tis sure the Hour of our Destruction's near,
And public Rumour now aloud proclaims
At Universal Monarchy he aims.
What to this Hero? what shall we oppose?
A strong Confedracy of Stupid Foes!
Such Brave Allys as are by Nature fit
To stop the progress of o'reflowing Wit,
Where Envy, and where Impudence are joyn'd
To contradict the Voice of Humankind,
At Dacier's Ignorance shall gravely smile
And blame the coarseness of Spectator's style,
Shall swear that Tickell understands not Greek,
That Adison can't write, nor Walpole speak.
Fir'd by this Project, Prophanation rose:—
One Leader, Goddess, let me here propose,
In a near Realm that owns thy Gentle Sway
My darling Son now chaunts his pleasing Lay,
Trampling on Order, Decency, and Laws,
And boasts himselfe the Champion of my Cause.
Him will I bring, to teach the Callow Youth
To scorn dry Morals, laugh at sacred Truth,
All Fears of Future reckn'ings he shall quench,
And Bid them bravely drink, and boldly Wench,
By his Example much, by precept more,
He learns, 'tis wit to swear, and safe to Whore.
Mocks Newton's Schemes, and Tillotson's Discourse
And Imitates the Virtue of a Horse.
With this Design, to add to his renown,
He wears the reverend dress of Band and Gown.
The Goddess pleas'd bestow'd a gracious Grin
When thus, does fair Obscœnity begin.
My Humbler Subjects are not plac'd so high,
They Joke in Kitchins, and in Cellars ply,
Yet one I have (bred in those worthy Schools)
Admir'd by Shoals of Male and female Fools,
In ballads what I dictate he shall sing
And troops of Converts to my Banners bring.
Despise not, Glorious Goddess, my releife,
I have a Leader worthy to be cheife,
My Images are all he knows of Wit!
How Vomits look, what Quantitys are spet,
By his profession skill'd in Terms like these
His usefull writeings cannot fail to please,
Such foul Description all his poem fills,
To Stomachs nice, he saves th'expence of Squills,
Born in that Realm where Nastyness gives Joy
And scratching all the solitary hours employ.
Here——ceas'd, the Goddess smil'd, and round
Applauses issue from the deep profound,
Hoarse murmurs of Applause the Caves resound.
But who (she cry'd) where equal Merits plead,
Who can point out the Captain fit to Lead?
This Task be mine; thô hard, it seems, to find
A Soul where all these several gifts are joyn'd,
Bold in Obscœnity, prophanely dull,
With smooth unmeaning Rhime the Town shall lull,
Shall sing of Worms in great Arbuthnott's strain,
In Lewd Burlesque the Sacred Psalms prophane,
To maids of Honor bawdy Songs address
Nor need we doubt his wonderfull Success.
Long have I watch'd this Genius yet unknown,
Inspir'd his Rhime, and mark'd him for my own;
His early Youth in Superstition bred
And monkish Legends all the Books he read.
Tinctur'd by these, proceeds his Love to Rhime,
Milton he scorns, but Crambo thinks sublime,
And oh 'tis sure, (our Foes confess this truth)
The old Crambonians yeild to this Stupendous Youth,
But present want obscures the Poet's Name,
Be it my charge to talk him into fame.
My Lansdown (whose Love-songs so smoothly run,
My Darling Author, and my Favourite Son),
He shall protect the Man that I inspire,
And Windsor Forest openly admire,
And Bolingbrook with flattry Gay shall bribe
Till the charm'd Lord most nobly shall subscribe
And Hostile Adison too late shall find
'Tis easier to corrupt than Mend Mankind,
The town (which now revolts) once more Obey
And the whole Island own my pristine Sway.
She said, and slowly leaves the realms of Night,
While the Curst Phantoms bless and praise her flight.