Classic Poem

Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.

An ancient sage, when death approach'd his bed,
Consign'd to Pluto his devoted head;
And, that no fiend might hiss, or prove uncivil,
With vows and pray'rs he fairly brib'd the Devil:
Yet neither vows nor pray'rs, nor rich oblation,
Cou'd always save the sinner — from damnation:
Thus authors, tottering on the brink of fate,
The critick's rage with prologues deprecate;
Yet oft the trembling bard implores in vain,
The wit profess'd, turns out a dunce in grain:
No plea can then avert the dreadful sentence,
He must be damn'd — in spite of all repentance.
Here justice seems from her straight line to vary,
No guilt attends a fact involuntary;
This maxim the whole cruel charge destroys,
No Poet sure was ever dull — by choice.
So pleads our Culprit in his own defence,
You cannot prove his dullness is — prepense.
He means to please — He owns no other view;
And now presents ye with — a Sea-ragout.
A dish — howe'er you relish his endeavours,
Replete with a variety of flavours:
A stout Hibernian, and ferocious Scot,
Together boil in our inchanted pot;
To taint these viands with the true fumet,
He shreds a musty, vain, French — martinet.
This stale ingredient might our porridge marr
Without some acid juice of English tar.
To rouse the appetite the drum shall rattle,
And the desert shall be a bloodless battle.
What heart will fail to glow, what eye to brighten,
When Britain's wrath arrous'd begins to lighten!
Her thunders roll — her fearless sons advance,
And her red ensigns wave o'er the pale flow'rs of France.
Such game our fathers play'd in days of yore,
When Edward's banners' fann'd the Gallick shore;
When Howard's arm Eliza's vengeance hurl'd,
And Drake diffus'd her fame around the world:
Still shall that God-like flame your bosoms fire,
The gen'rous son shall emulate the fire;
Her ancient splendor England shall maintain,
O'er distant realms extend her genial reign,
And rise — th' unrival'd empress of the main.