Classic Poem

A ID me, — some honest sister of the Nine,
Who ne'er paid court at Flattery's fulsome shrine,
A youth enlighten with thy keenest fires,
Who dares proclaim whate'er the Muse inspires,
By squint-ey'd Prejudice, or love inclin'd,
No partial ties shall here enslave the mind:
Though fancy sport in fiction's pleasing guise,
Truth, still conspicuous, through the veil shall rise;
No bribe or stratagem shall here take place,
Though (strange to tell!) — the subject is a Race.
Unlike the Race which fam'd Newmarket boasts,
Where pimps are peers' companions, whores their toasts,
Where jockey-nobles with groom-porters vie,
Who best can hedge a bet, or cog a die.
Nor like the Race, by ancient Homer told,
No spears for prizes, and no cups of gold:
A poets' Race, I sing — a poet's prize,
Who gold and fighting equally despise.
To all the rhyming brethren of the quill
Fame sent her heralds, to proclaim her will: —
" Since late her votaries in abusive lays
Had madly wrangled for the wreath of bays;
To quell at once this foul tumultuous heat,
The day was fix'd whereon each bard should meet.
Already had she mark'd the destin'd ground,
Where from the goal her eager sons should bound,
There, by the hope of future glory fed,
Prove by their heels the prowess of the head;
And he, who fleetest ran, and first to fame,
The chaplet and the victory should claim."
Swift spread the grateful news through all the town,
And every scribbler thought the wreath his own.
No corporal defect can now retard
The one-legg'd, short-legg'd, or consumptive bard;
Convinc'd that legs or lungs could make no odds
'Twixt man and man, where goddesses or gods
Presided judges; sure to have decreed
To dulness crutches, and to merit speed.
To view the various candidates for fame,
Booksellers, printers, and their devils came.
First Becket and De Hondt came hand in hand,
And next came Nourse and Millar, from the Strand;
Here Woodfall — there the keen-ey'd Scott appears,
And Say (oh, wonderful!) with both his ears.
Morley the meagre, with Moran the fat,
And Flexney with a favour in his hat.
Williams and Kearsley now afresh begin
To curse the cruel walls that held 'em in.
In rage around his shop poor Owen flies,
Damning the Chevalier who clos'd his eyes;
" Oh! could he see, this day, the glorious strife,
He'd grope contented all his future life." —
To Paternoster Row the tidings reach,
And forth came Johnny Coote and Dryden Leach;
Associates in each cause alike they share,
Be it to print a prayer-book or Voltaire.
Thus leagued, how sweet the friendly pence to earn,
Like gentle Rosencrantz and Guildenstern!
But Leach where Churchill came still cautious fled,
Skulk'd through the crowd, and trembled for his head.
With his whole length of body scarce a span,
Yet aping all the dignity of man,
Next Vaillant came, erect his dwarfish mien,
He perch'd on horseback, that he might be seen;
And vow'd, with worshipful grimace and din,
He'd back the peerless bard of Lincoln's Inn.
High on a hill, enthron'd in stately pride,
Appear'd the Goddess; while on either side
Stood Vice and Virtue, harbingers of Fame,
This stamps a good, and that an evil name.
On flowers thick scatter'd o'er the mossy ground,
The nymphs of Helicon reclin'd around;
Here, while each candidate his claim preferr'd,
In silent state the Goddess sat and heard.
Not far from hence, across the path to Fame,
A horrid ditch appear'd — known by the name
Of black Oblivion's gulf. In former days
Here perish'd many a poet and his lays;
Close by the margin of the sable flood
Reviewers Critical and Monthly stood
In terrible array, who dreadful frown,
And, arm'd with clubs, here knock poor authors down.
Merit, alas! with them is no pretence,
In vain the pleas of poisy or sense;
All levell'd here, though some triumphant rise,
Shake off the dirt, and seek their native skies.
But, strange! to Dulness they deny the crown,
And damn ev'n works as stupid as their own!
Oh! be this rage for massacre withstood,
Nor thus imbrue your hands in brother's blood."
Foremost, the spite of Hell upon his face,
Stood the Thersites of the Critic Race,
Tremendous Hamilton! Of giant strength,
With crab-tree staff full twice two yards in length,
Near John o'Groats' thatch'd cot its parent stood
Alone for many a mile — itself a wood;
Till Archy spied it, yet unform'd and wild,
And robb'd the mother of her tallest child.
I'll-omen'd birds beheld with dire affright
Their roost despoil'd, and sicken'd at the sight;
The ravens croak'd, pies chatter'd round his head,
In vain — he frown'd, the birds in terror fled:
Perch'd on their thistles droop'd the mournful band,
Archy stalk'd off, the crab-tree in his hand.
Close wedg'd behind, in rank and file were seen,
From Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Aberdeen,
A troop of Lairds with scraps of Latin hung,
Who came to teach John Bull his mother tongue.
Poor John! who must not judge whate'er he read,
But wait for sentence from these sons of Tweed.
Now coward Prudence, in the Muse's ear
Whispers — " How dar'st thou, novice, persevere
With headlong fury, to destruction prone,
Rouse sacred Dulness, yawning on her throne?
Thus madly bold, dread'st not the harpy's claw?
Thou, scarce a morsel for so vast a maw!
Soon shalt thou mourn thy ill-star'd numbers curst."
She scorns their malice; let them do their worst.
Where Phaebus casts not an auspicious eye,
The sickening numbers of themselves must die;
But where true genius beams conspicuous forth,
The candid few will justify its worth;
Still as it flows increasing in its course,
Till like a river, with resistless force
Rapid rolls down the torrent of applause;
Then, struck with fear, each puny wretch withdraws
Meanly disclaims the paths he lately trod;
Belies himself, and humbly licks the rod.
First enter'd in the list the laureat bard,
And thus preferr'd his suit: — — " If due reward,
Goddess ador'd! to merit thou assign,
Whose verse so smooth, whose claim so just as mine?
To thee my cause I trust; oh, lend me wings,
Show wit and sack to be consistent things,
And that he rhymes the best who rhymes for kings.
Lur'd by a sober honest thirst for fame,
Armstrong appear'd to lay his lawful claim;
Armstrong, whose Muse has taught the youth to prove
The sweet economy of health and love.
But, when he saw what spleen each bosom fir'd,
Forth from the field he modestly retir'd.
Not so repuls'd, nor overaw'd with shame,
Next Hill stood forth, a darling child of Fame;
But, as to Justice, Fame herself must bow,
The poets' bays shall never deck his brow:
Else who, like Hill, can save a sickly age;
Like him arrest the hand of death with sage?
But this the ancients never knew, or sure
They ne'er liad died while sage remain'd a cure.
Oh, matchless Hill! if aught the Muse foresee
Of things conceal'd in dark futurity,
Death's triumph by thy skill shall soon be o'er,
Hence dire disease and pain shall be no more;
'Tis thine to save whole nations from his maw,
By some new tincture of a barley-straw.
He bow'd, and spoke: — " Oh, Goddess, heavenly fair!
To thy own Hill now show a mother's care;
If I go unrewarded hence away,
What bard will court thee on a future day?
Who toils like me thy temple to unlock,
By moral essays, rhime, and water-dock?
With perseverance who like me could write
Inspector on Inspector, night by night;
Supplying still, with unexhausted head,
Till every reader slumber'd as he read?
No longer then my lawful claim delay" —
She smil'd — Hill simper'd, and went pleas'd away.
Next Dodsley spoke: — " A bookseller and bard
May sure with justice claim the first regard.
A double merit's surely his, that's wont
To make the fiddle, and then play upon't: —
But more; to prove beyond a doubt my claim,
Behold the work on which I build my fame!
Search every tragic scene of Greece and Rome,
From ancient Sophocles to modern Home;
Examine well the conduct, diction, plan,
And match, then match Cleone, if you can.
A father wretched, — husband wretched more, —
A harmless baby weltering in its gore,
Such dire distress as ne'er was seen before!
Such sad complaints and tears, and heartful throes,
Sorrows so wet and dry, such mighty woes,
Too big for utterance e'en in tragic ohs!"
Next Smollett came. What author dare resist
Historian, critic, bard, and novelist?
" To reach thy temple, honour'd Fame," he cried,
" Where, where's an avenue I have not tried?
But since the glorious present of to-day
Is meant to grace alone the poet's lay,
My claim I wave to every art beside,
And rest my plea upon the Regicide.

*****

*****

But if, to crown the labours of my Muse,
Thou, inauspicious, should'st the wreath refuse,
Whoe'er attempts it in this scribbling age
Shall feel the Scotish powers of critic-rage;
Thus spurn'd, thus disappointed of my aim,
I'll stand a bugbear in the road to Fame;
Each future minion's infant hopes undo,
And blast the budding honours of his brow."
He said — and, grown with future vengeance big,
Grimly he shook his scientific wig.
To clinch the cause, and fuel add to fire,
Behind came Hamilton, his trusty 'squire.
Awhile he paus'd, revolving the disgrace,
And gathering all the horrors of his face;
Then rais'd his head, and turning to the crowd,
Burst into bellowing terrible and loud: —
" Hear my resolve, and first by G — I swear! —
By Smollett, and his gods! whoe'er shall dare
With him this day for glorious fame to vie,
Sous'd in the bottom of the ditch shall lie;
And know, the world no other shall confess,
Whilst I have crab-tree life, or letter-press."
Scar'd at the menace, anthors fearful grew,
Poor Virtue trembled, and e'en Vice look'd blue
Next Wilkes appear'd, vain hoping the reward,
A glorious patriot, an inglorious bard,
Yet erring, shot far wide of Freedom's mark,
And rais'd a flame, in putting out a spark:
Near to the throne, with silent step he came,
To whisper in her ear his filthy claim;
But ruin to his hopes! behind stood near,
With fix'd attention and a greedy ear,
A sneaking priest, who heard, and to the crowd
Blab'd, with most grievous zeal, the tale aloud.
The peaceful Nine, whom nothing less could vex,
Flew on the vile assassin of the sex,
Disown'd all knowledge of his brutal lays,
And scratch'd all knowledge of his brutal lays,
Here Johnson comes — unbless'd with outward grace,
His rigid morals stamp'd upon his face,
While strong conceptions struggle in his brain,
(For even wit is brought to bed with pain.)
To view him, porters with their loads would rest,
And babes cling frighted to the nurses' breast:
With looks convuls'd, he roars in pompous strain,
And, like an angry lion, shakes his mane.
The Nine, with terror struck, who ne'er had seen
Aught human with so horrible a mien,
Debating, whether thy should stay or run —
Virtue steps forth, and claims him for her son.
With gentle speech she warns him now to yield,
Nor stain his glories in the doubtful field;
But, wrapt in conscious worth, content sit down,
Since Fame, resolv'd his various pleas to crown,
Though forc'd his present claim to disavow,
Had long reserv'd a chaplet for his brow.
He bows; obeys — for Time shall first expire,
Ere Johnson stay, when Virtue bids retire.
Next Murphy silence broke: — " Oh, Goddess fair!
To whom I still prefer my daily pray'r;
For whose dear sake I've scratch'd my drowsy head,
And robb'd alike the living and the dead;
Stranger to fear, have plung'd through thick and thin,
And Fleet-ditch virgins drag'd to Lincoln's-Inn;
Smile on my hopes, thy favour let me share,
And show mankind Hibernia boasts thy care."
Here stop'd he, interrupted quick by Jones,
A poet, rais'd from mortar, brick, and stones:
" Goddess," he cries, " reject his pitch-patch work,
He was a butter-seller's boy at Cork;
On me bestow the prize, on me, who came
From my dear country in pursuit of fame:
For thus advis'd Maecenas (best of men:)
" Jones, drop the trowel, and assume the pen;
The Muses thrive not in this barren soil,
Come, seek with me fair Albion's happier isle;
There shall the theatres increase thy store,
And Essex bleed to make thy purse run o'er. " —
Thus have I fondly left the mason's care,
To build imaginary tow'rs i'the' air,
Then since my golden hopes have prov'd a cheat,
Oh, give him Fame, whom Fate forbids to eat;
This, this at least, to me forlorn supply,
I'll live contented on a farthing-pie."
Next in the train advanc'd a Highland lad,
Array'd in brogues and Galedonian plaid,
Surrounded by his countrymen, while loud
The British Homer rang through all the crowd.
Then he with mickle pride and uncouth air
His bonnet doff'd, and thus prefer'd his pray'r:
" O Fame! regard me with propitious eyes,
Give me to seize this long-contested prize;
In epic lines I shine the king of verse!
From torn and tatter'd scraps of ancient Erse,
'Tis mine a perfect pile to raise, for all
Must own the wondrous structure of Fingal!"
No less a miracle, than if a Turk
A mosque should raise up of Mosaic work.
Next Mallet came; Mallet, who knows each art,
The ear to tickle, and to soothe the heart;
Who with a goose-quill, like a magic rod,
Transforms a Scotish peer into a god.
Oh! matchless Mallet, by one stroke to clear,
One lucky stroke, four hundred pounds a year!
Long round a court poor Gay dependent hung,
(And yet most trimly has the poet sung)
Twice six revolving years vain-hoping pass'd,
And unrewarded went away at last.
Again dame Prudence checks the madd'ning strain,
And thus advises, wisely, though in vain:
" Ah, Spur! enlisted in a luckless cause,
Who pelf despising, seeks for vain applause,
Thy will how stubborn, and thy wit how small,
To think a muse can ever thrive on gall!
Then timely throw thy venom'd shafts aside,
Choose out some fool, blown up with power and pride, —
Be flattery thy arrow, this thy butt,
And praise the devil for his cloven foot."
The counsel's good; — but how shall I subscribe,
Who scorn to flatter, and detest a bribe?

*****

In voice most weak, in sentiment most strong,
Like Milton, murder'd in an eunch's song;
With honesty no malice e'er could shame,
With prejudices hunger ne'er could tame;
With judgment sometimes warp'd, but oft refin'd,
Next Gleland came — the champion of mankind!
Who views, contented with his little state,
Wealth squander'd by the partial hand of fate;
And, whilst dull rogues the joys of life partake,
Lives, a great patriot — on a mutton steak!
Dreaming of genius, which he never had,
Half-wit, half-fool, half-critic, and half-mad;
Seizing, like Shirley, on the poet's lyre,
With all the rage, but not one spark of fire;
Eager for slaughter, and resolv'd to tear
From others' brows that wreath he must not wear,
Next Kenrick came; all-furious, and replete
With brandy, malice, pertness, and conceit.
Unskill'd in classic lore, through envy blind
To all that's beauteous, learned, or refin'd;
For faults alone behold the savage prowl,
With reason's offal glut his ravening soul;
Pleas'd with his prey, its inmost blood he drinks,
And mumbles, paws, and turns it — till it stinks.
Erect he stood, nor deign'd one bow to Fame,
Then bluntly thus: — " Will Kenrick is my name.
Who are these minions crowding to thy fane?
Poets! 'pshaw! scribblers, impotent and vain;
The chaplet's mine — I claim it, who inherit
Dennis's rage, and Milbourne's glorious spirit.
Struck with amazement, Fame, who ne'er had seen
A face so brazen, and so pert a mien,
Calmly replied — " Vain boaster, go thy way,
And prove more furious, and more dull than they."
Then Brown appear'd: — with such an air he mov'd,
As show'd him confident and self-approv'd.
Poor, injur'd, honour'd Pope! the bard on thee
Has clapp'd a rusty lock without a key:
Thus, when enraptur'd, we attempt to rove
Through all the sweets of the Pierian grove,
The gate, alas! is strongly barr'd: and all
That taste the sweets must climb the rugged wall.
Reverent he bow'd, and thus address'd the throne:
" One boon, oh! grant me, and the day's my own!
When the shrill trumpet calls the rival train
To scour with nimble feet the dusty plain;
Let not the dread professor, Lowth, appear,
To freeze thy votary's shivering soul with fear,
Tear the fine form, perhaps of all I've writ,
And drown me in a deluge of his wit."
Next Vaughan appear'd; he smil'd, and strok'd his chin,
And, pleas'd to think his carcass was so thin,
So moulded for the Race, while self-dubb'd worth
Beam'd from his eyes, he hemm'd — and thus held forth:
" Goddess, your slave; — 'tis true I draw the quill,
Sometimes through anger, not to show my skill;
Yet all must own, spite of the Bear's report,
There's obvious merit in my keen retort:
Though Flexney (oh! his ignorance confound!)
Sells its contents to grocers by the pound,
And, deaf to genius, and its pleas to fame,
Puts it to purposes — — unfit to name.
Then, since no profit from the Muse I draw,
You can't refuse me praise, and so your ta — !"
The goddess laugh'd: — and who could well contain,
To see such foplings skip around her fane?
Next Churchill came — his face proclaim'd a heart
That scorn'd to wear the smooth address of art,
Strongly mark'd out that firm unconquer'd soul,
Which nought on earth could bias or control.
He bow'd — when all sneer at his want of grace
And uncouth form, ill-suited for the Race;
While he contemptuous smil'd on all around,
And thus address'd her in a voice profound:
" Goddess, these gnatlings move not me at all,
I come by just decrees to stand or fall.
When first the daring bard aspires to sing,
To check the sallies of his infant wing,
Critics not only try (your pardon, Fame,
To you a stranger is the critic's name,)
But ev'ry blockhead, who pretends to write,
Would damp his vigour, and retard his flight.
Critics, oh Fame! are things compos'd between
The two ingredients, Ignorance and Spleen;
Who, like the daw, would infamously tear
The shining plumes they see another wear;
That, thus unfeather'd by these wretched elves,
All may appear as naked as themselves.
" Hard is the task in such a cause to' engage,
With fools and knaves eternal war to wage,
By fears or partial feelings unsubdued,
To hurl defiance at so vast a crowd;
To stand the teizing of their little spleen,
So oft to clear the witling-crowded scene;
From vice and folly tear the foul disguise,
And crush at once the Hydras as they rise.
Yet on I will — unaw'd by slavish fears,
Till gain'd the glorious cause, or lost my ears."
Next from the temple six poetic cubs,
With him whose humble Muse delights in shrubs,
And commentator Fawkes — let Woty tell,
Alone who sees, how much he can excel,
Who wipes all doubts from sacred texts away,
Clear as the skies upon a misty day;
Bard, critic, and divine — with upturn'd eyes
Dejected virtue to the goddess cries,
" What ways and means for raising the supplies!"
Awhile demurring who should move the pleas,
Fawkes claim'd the right, from having ta'en degrees:
" Combin'd, dear Woty, sure we ne'er can fail,
Ill speak — do thou hold up the cassock's tail."
He hemm'd — then haw'd — then bow'd, and thus began:
" Oh Fame! propitious view the friendly plan.
See Law on Gospel cast a social look,
And Moses side with Lyttelren and Coke:
Let not a partnership, unknown before,
In vain for favour and for bays implore;
But guide thy votary's feet across the plain,
While gentle Woty bears the sable train;
And crown'd with conquest, amply to reward
So mean an office in so great a bard;
Six days in seven I'll the wreath resign,
Only on Sundays be its honours mine."
Reverent he bow'd: — then Bickerstaff advanc'd
His sing-song Muse, by vast success enhanc'd;
Who, when fair Wright, destroying Reason's fence,
Inveigles our applause, in spite of sense,
With syren voice our juster rage confounds,
And clothes sweet nonsense in delusive sounds;
Pertly commends the judgment of the town,
And arrogates the merit as his own;
Talks of his taste! how well each air was hit!
While printers and their devils praise his wit;
And, wrapp'd in warm surtout of self-conceit,
Defies the critic's cold, and poet's heat.
He ey'd the rabble round, and thus began:
" Goddess! I wonder at the pride of man!
Fellows, whose accents never yet have hung
On skilful Beard's or Brent's harmonious song,
Dare here approach, who chatter like a parrot,
But hardly " know a sheep's head from a carrot; "
Whose tasteless lines ne'er grac'd a royal stage,
Nor charm'd a tuneful crotchet-loving age!
Prove then, oh Goddess! to my labours kind,
And let the sons of Dulness lag behind,
While hoity-toity, whisky-frisky, I
On ballad-wings spring forth to victory."
So sure! — but justice stops thee in thy flight,
And damns thy labours to eternal night,
Brands that success which boasts no just pretence
To genius, judgment, wit, or common sense;
But who for taste shall dare prescribe the laws,
Or stop the torrent of the mob's applause?
In thought sublim'd, next Elphinston came forth,
And thus harangu'd the goddess on his worth:
" 'Tis mine, oh Fame! full fraught with Attic lore,
Long-lost pronunciation to restore,
Of letters to reform each vile abuse,
And bring the Grecian kappa into use,
Tully once more his proper name shall know,
Restor'd its ancient sound of Kikero.
First, from my native tongue, 'tis mine to' expel
The superfluities of E and L,
To' unveil the long conceal'd recess of truth,
And teach betimes to bend the pliant youth;
To point the means of proper recreation,
And prove no " whetter equals emulation? "
In song didactic as I move to draw
The proper rules for study and for taw,
In taste for sacred writings to refine us,
And show the odds 'twixt Daniel and Longinus;
To criticise, instruct, and prove, in metre,
Tully's a perfect blockhead to St. Peter:
Deign then, oh Fame! to satisfy my lore,
Who've wrote as mortal man ne'er wrote before;
Broke through all pedant rules of mood and tense,
And nobly soar'd beyond the reach of sense.
He bow'd: — then Arne swift bolted through the throng,
Renown'd for all the various powers of song:
Sweet as the Thracian's whose melodious woe
Mov'd the stern tyrant of the shades below;
Or that, by which the faithless syren charms,
And woos the sailor, shipwreck'd in her arms:
Soft as the notes which Phaebus did employ
To raise the glories of ill-fated Troy;
Or those which banish'd Reason could recall,
And bring the Devil capering out of Saul.
But, not contented with his crotchet-praise,
Lo! he adventures for the poets bays!
No more is genius rear'd in classic schools,
But falls, like Fortune, on the heads of fools:
Dull dogmas, thunder'd from the pedant's mouth,
No more shall tire the ear-belabour'd youth;
Since bards now spring without the pains of lashing,
Like Arne and Duck, from fiddling and from thrashing.
" Oh, Fame!" he cries, " with kind attention hear
The cause why I thy candidate appear.
Ere yet the outwitted Guardian crawl'd to light,
Four smother'd brats. I doom'd to endless night:
Abash'd, lest any thing less fair should prove
Unworthy Arne and thy maternal love.
But here behold a babe, to whom belong
The double gift of eloquence and song;
Who, not like other infants born or bred,
Sprung forth, like Pallas, from its daddy's head;
On me then, Fame, oh! let thy favours fall,
And show that Tommy Arne outwits 'em all!"
Here F**s rais'd his head, though last not least,
A wanton poet, and a solemn priest;
By turns through life each character we mark,
A priest by day, a poet in the dark;
Yet each at will the Proteus can forsake,
Now politician, now commences rake,
Nay worse — (if Fame says true) panders for love,
And acts the Mercury to a lustful Jove.
Now grave he sits, and checks the' unhallow'd jest,
Whilst his sage precepts cool each amorous breast;
Now strips the priest's disguise, awakes desire,
Tells the lewd tale, and fans the dying fire:
All poz'd, despair his character to paint,
And wonder how the devil they lost the saint!
Next from the different theatres came forth
A score at least, of self-sufficient worth;
Each claims the chaplet, or protests his wrong,
A prologue this had wrote, and that a song;
Forth from the crowd a general hissing flies,
To see such triflers arrogate the prize;
But fully bent this day the Goddess came,
To hear with patience every coxcomb's claim.
Here endless groups on groups from every street,
Popes, Shakspeares, Johnsons — — in their own conceit,
With hopes elate advance, and ardour keen,
Whom not one Muse had ever heard or seen;
Who still write on, though hooted and disgrac'd,
And damn the public for their want of taste.
Oh, Vanity! whose far-extended sway
Nations confess, and potentates obey,
How vast thy reign! — Say, where, oh! where's the man
His own defects who boldly dares to scan?
Just to himself — Ev'n now, whilst I incline
To paint the votaries kneeling at thy shrine,
Whilst others' follies freely I impart,
Thy power resistless flutters round my heart,
Prompts me this common weakness to disclose,
(Myself the very coxcomb I expose.)
And, ah! too partial to my lays and me,
My kind — yet cruel friends — soon shall you see
The culprit-muse, whose idle sportive vein
No views can bias, and no fears restrain,
(Thus female thieves, though threaten'd with disgrace,
Must still be fingering dear forbidden lace,)
Dragg'd without mercy to that awful bar
Where Spleen with Genius holds eternal war;
And there, her final ruin to fulfil,
Condemn'd by butchers, pre-resolv'd to kill,
In vain her youth shall for compassion plead,
Ev'n for a syllable the wretch shall bleed;
And, spite of all the friendship you can show,
Be made a public spectacle of woe.
But hold, though sentenc'd — manners! and be
Derrick appears to move his kingly suit.
" Goddess, I come not here for fame to vie, mute —
(A master of the ceremonies I.)
Since re-enthron'd at Bath I now appear,
This day appoint me to that station here;
In nicest order I'll conduct the whole,
All riot and indecency control.
For know, this pigmy frame contains a mighty soul!
Nay, let me urge a more important claim,
'Twas I first gave the strumpets' list to fame,
Their age, size, qualities, if brown or fair,
Whose breath was sweetest, whose the brightest hair.
Display'd each various dimple, smile, and frown,
Pimp-generalissimo to all the town!
From this what vast advantages accrue!
Thus each may choose the maid of partial hue;
Know to whose bed he has the best pretensions,
And buy the Venus of his own dimensions.
" Nor yet a stranger to the tuneful Nine,
Songs, prologues, and meandering odes are mine,
Such jeux d'esprit as best becomes a king,
And gentle epigrams — without a sting.
The fam'd Domitian still before my eyes,
Who ne'er for pastime murder'd aught but flies;
Nay — let my Muse boast gentler sport than he,
Since fly or gnat was never hurt by me;
By me, though seated in monarchal state,
And, spite of Harrington, whose will is fate."
Here rais'd the little monarch on his toe,
And smil'd contempt on printers' boys below.
He spoke: — The goddess thus replied: — " My son,
'Tis time the business of the day were done;
Enjoy what thou demand'st — up yonder tree
Climb expeditious, that the crowd may see;
This flag, the signal to begin, hang out,
And quell the tumult of the rabble rout.
" But stay, methinks, while round the field I gaze,
Amid the various claimants for the bays,
One favourite bard escapes my notice — say,
My dear Melpomene, on such a day,
Why is not thy beloved Shenstone here?" —
The Muse was silent — sob'd — and dropt a tear.
And now the trumpet's sound, by Fame's command,
Proclaims the hour of starting is at hand.
Now round the goal the various heroes press,
While hope and fear alternately possess
Each anxious breast: in order here they rise,
And panting stand impatient for the prize:
Scarce can they wait till Derrick takes his place,
And waves the flag, as signal for the race.
But, lo! — a crowd upon the plain appear,
With Descaizean slow-pacing in the rear;
Mason and Thompson, Ogilvy and Hayes,
And he whose hand has pluck'd a sprig of bays
On Rhaetia's barren hills: — onward they move;
But now too late their various powers to prove,
Some future day may fair occasion yield
To weigh their several merits in the field:
For see! the bards, with expectation rife,
Stand strip'd, and ready for the glorious strife:
And monarch Derrick would attempt in vain
Their furious ardour longer to restrain.
The flag display'd, promiscuous forth they bound,
And shake with clattering feet the powder'd ground;
Equal in flight there two dispute the race,
With envious strife, and measure pace for pace.
Straight all is uproar and tumultuous din;
This tumbles down, another breaks his shin;
That swears his puffing neighbour stinks of gin.
Each jostles each, a wrangling, madding train,
While loud, " To order," Derrick calls in vain.
Stuck fast in mire here some desponding lay,
And grinning yield the glories of the day.
For, maugre all primeval bards have sung,
Steep is the road to Fame, and clog'd with dung.
Borne on the wings of hope now Murphy flies,
Vain hope! for Fate the wish'd-for boon denies;
Arriv'd where scavengers, the night before,
Had left their gleanings from the common shore,
With head retorted, as he fearful spied
The giant Churchill thundering at his side,
Sudden he tript, and, piteous to tell!
Prone in the filth the hapless poet fell.
" Distanc'd, by G — !" roars out a rustic 'squire,
He must give out, thus sous'd in dung and mire."
Lord March replies, " I'll hold you six to ten,
Spite of the t — d, he'll rise and run again."
A burst of laughter echoes all around,
While, sputtering dirt, and scrabbling from the ground,
" Cease, fools, your mirth, nor sneer at my disgrace,
This cursed bog, not Churchill, won the race;
And sure, who such disasters can foresee,
Must be a greater conjurer than me."
While Churchill, careless, triumphs in his fall,
Up to the gulf his jaded rivals crawl;
Here some the watchful harpies on the shore
Plunge in — ah! destin'd to return no more! —
While others, wondering, view them as they sink,
And, scar'd, stand quivering on the dreadful brink.
Now rous'd the hero, by the trumpet's sound,
Turns from his rueful foe, and stares around;
No bard he views behind — but all have pass'd
Him, heedless of their flight, and now the last.
Stung at the thought, with double force he springs,
Rage gives him strength, and emulation wings:
The ground regain'd — " Stand clear," he sternly said,
" Who bars my passage, horror on his head!" —
Unhappy Dapper! doom'd to meet thy fate,
Why heard'st thou not the menace ere too late?
Fir'd with disdain, he spurn'd the witling's breech,
And headlong hurl'd him in Oblivion's ditch;
Then instant bounding high with all his main,
O'erleap'd its utmost bounds, and scour'd along the plain.
Sour critics, frowning, view'd him as he fled;
Spite bit her nails, and Dulness scratch'd her head.
The gulf once pass'd, no obstacle remains,
Smooth is the path, midst flower-enamell'd plains;
Unrival'd now, with joyful speed he flies,
Performs the destin'd race, and claims the prize.
Fame gives the chaplet, while the tuneful Nine
The' acknowledg'd victor hail in notes divine.
Smollet stood grumbling by the fatal ditch;
Hill call'd the goddess whore, and Jones a bitch;
Each curs'd the partial judgment of the day,
And, greatly disappointed, sneak'd away.