Classic Poem

I am happy, dear George, to hear you intend
Some time at Rossana this Christmas to spend;
I am pleased in my nephew to see such a spirit
To enterprise boldly I know you inherit
Yet before in so arduous a task you engage,
Tho' I know you superior to most of your age,
I think it but friendly to caution you thus
Lest, your memory failing, you come to nonplus.
Whatever you learned at school or at College
Brush up for your use at this seat of all knowledge.
For my nephew's appearance I own I must quake
When I think what a moderate figure you'll make;
When with Latin and Greek not a marvel too much,
With Italian and French and a little high Dutch
In the midst of such scholars you find yourself placed
And with questions in Hebrew and Syriac disgrac'd,
Lest staring around you, you fancy it Babel
When you hear fifteen languages spoken at table,
Or venture in English to ask for some beer
At the poor ignoramus the butler will sneer.
Not a groom but his “aes in presenti” can say
And the son of the cook in pure Latin can pray;
To the housekeeper too should you happen to speak
'Tis fifty to one she will answer in Greek;
The Ladies think these are but vulgar attainments
Thrown by to their maids with their old fashion'd raiments
On their toilets no books but Arabic you'll see,
And with native Chinese they present you your tea;
On the carpets are charts of biography spread,
And quilts geographical cover the bed;
In alembics by blow pipes with chemic perfection,
The meat is oxided by Harry's direction;
While in sallads they search for the stamens and pistils
The rice pudding cools in rhomboidal chrystals,
And the carver takes care tho' the venison he mangles
To part ev'ry portion in proper triangles.
Bread and butter is cut in forms mathematic,
And the tea urn distills with art hydrostatic;
Nay their dances are measured by just trigonometry
And they move in the radii as ordered by geometry;
Nor language nor science enough can adorn
For each a poetical genius is born;
While infants they couplets could form in a trice
And lisp in soft numbers of geese and of mice,
Not to speak of that wonderful genius from England
Who Priestley and Blair has surpassed by his single hand,
Whose talent for rhyming so copiously flows
His labour is only to speak in plain prose,
When the family, call'd by the bells' silver tine,
Assembles to supper, each offers his own,
Whether epic or tragic or comic they choose
Each worships his favorite appropriate muse
Not a person appears in the family circle
But has verses deserving bays, laurel or myrtle
Not with pencil alone is it Caroline's care
The vices to task, but the persons to spare;
For tho' on her labours the muses all smile
Yet the high polish'd satire's her favorite style
Miss Butticuz modest and timid declares
That nothing beyond a poor sonnet she dares;
But it has been whisper'd and I think that the fact is
She prepares for the press a new system of tactics:
Of the georgics an elegant version I hear
From the chymical farmer will shortly appear,
There in Mantuan strains his discoveries are sung,
Concentrated essence of gypsum and dung;
Mr. Jones too, I hear, in a poem didactical
Gives hints of politeness both courteous and practical,
Tho' as yet he has only in pastorals dealt,
And in smooth strains of sentiment sung what he felt,
Yet this fault I have heard has by critics been found
That in S's too frequent his verses abound;
Camilla indeed, as a foreigner, says
From her lips are expected no vulgar tongued lays,
But in the Mandingo, or verses Arabic,
She now and then ventures lines enigrammatic;
Then Mary sings plaintive in notes elegiac,
While her brother I'm told prefers the alcaic.
To ensure your reception, dear George, I must hope
From your pen that some little production may drop;
Some small epic poem or encyclopedia,
(For fifty large jokes, at once they will read ye)
Some treatises critical or philological,
Or at least you may show a new chart Chronological.