Wouldst thou to a yet prouder fummit raise
The foft renown of unimpaffion'd lays,
Bid the bold frenzy of BURKE's ireful page,
Lull'd in thy mol.ient rhimes, forget to rage!
With notes, whofe magic rivals Orpheus' fame,
His vigorous rhetoric's tiger-fiercenefs tame!
Their fuakes foft hiffing, let the Furies wear,
In thy meek verfe, a mild and lamb-like air!
There, let the dogs of war attune their throat,
And bark for blood, with small and puppy note!
Like Bottom, child of Shakespear's mirthful art,
Like gentle Bottom, play the lion's part!
And, left the found the ladies' hearts fhould quail,
Roar like "a fucking dove," or warbling nightingale!
If thy bold muse be bent to lend fome zeft
To ftrains that lull the flumber-loving breast,
Ambitious fill to prove, how fweetly chimes
Phrenetic zeal with calm and harmless rhimes,
A furious war let wild, polemic Rage
With all the letter'd friends of Freedom wage:
And with a fchoolboy's hand, and bigot's fire,
Strike the deep grumblings of thine angry lyre!
In lowlieft verfe, that humbly creeps along,
Nor once afpires to flight, a reptile fong;
Such groveling, fpringlefs, unexulting lines,
As court a modeft fame in magazines;
Emit a copious tide of rank abufe:
With venom arm thy wing-unfurnish'd mufe:
Give to the worm of wit the ferpent's gall,
And let it hifs, and bite, as well as crawl.
Ten thoufands deem, no quill can e'er fupply
So fweet an eloquence as calumny!
No grace, like foul reproach, adorus a page;
And party, far exceeds poetic rage!
Then be the bays, that round thy brows are worn,
A wreath of poppies mixt with prickly thorn!
As artful cooks compofe a favoury dish,
By fauce's aid, of taftelefs eggs and fish,
Strong cenfure feasons thus infipid lays,
Pricks the dull tafte, and fpurs it into praise!
Thou, in this Lent of fong, a verse prepare,
In acrids rich, of genuine flavours fpare:
With rancour's fpice, the mental palate hit,
A feaft of fcandal 'midst a fast of wit.
And (for long rhimes fatigue a coftive brain)
Of fmall dimenfion be the meagre strain;
While ampleft notes, with fwelling drapery,
Drefs the lean fong, and pluinper fize fupply:
Let Greek and Latin, proudly scatter'd there,
In learned pomp, to charm the schools, appear;
That e'en thy foes may own, in anger's fpite,
Thou hast a power to read, if not to write.
Last, as the master-stroke, to win thee fame,
In cloud and darkness veil thine awful name!
That mou, like throuded Junius, may't be fought,
Proclaim, like Junius, none fhall find thee out!
Though in all elfe unlike, with him defy,
And, by defying, draw, the curious eye!
Thus may a homely Mufe, that lufts to gain
The Public's love, with "cheeks of forry grain,"
Force fome fmall notice of her, if the try
This wily trick of letter'd coquetry.
So, void of beauty's lure, the rustic maid
Pierces, compell'd to fhifts, the thicket's shade:
And, to provoke the swains to amorous chase,
Tells them they ne'er fhall find her hiding-place.
Thus, though thy page erect no "lofty rhime,"
At least thy perfon may become fublime.
Sublimity, as critic pens have shown,
Of folemn fhadows loves to frame her throne:
What moves but laughter, when to view unveil'd,
Oft strikes with awe, or wonder, while conceal'd:
Screen'd by the wainscot, e'en a scratching moufe
May spread alarm throughout a coward houfe:
E'en flumbering, eaftern kings have pass'd for great,
Lolling, invisible, in pillow'd state:
And, thus, in thee fhall grand effect be found,
Wrapt with the majesty of mystery round.
LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.
[From COLMAN'S NIGHT-GOWN AND SLIPPERS, OF TALES INVERSE.]
HO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has feen "Lodgings to let," ftare him full in the face,
Some are good, and let dearly; while fome, 'tis well known,
Are fo dear, and fo bad, they are bett let alone.
Will Waddle, whofe temper was ftudious, and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took Single Gentlemen, only;
But Will was fo fat, he appear'd like a ton ;-
Or like two Single Gentlemen roll'd into one.
He entered his rooms; and to bed he retreated,
But, all the night long, he felt fever'd and heated;
And, though heavy to weigh, as a fcore of fat fheep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to fleep.
Next night 'twas the fame;-and the next;-and the next:
He perfpired like an ox; he was nervous, and vex'd;
Week paffed after week; till, by weekly fucceffion,
His weakly condition was paft all expreffion.
In fix months his acquaintance began much to doubt him;
For his fkin, "like a lady's loofe gown," hung about him;
He fent for a Doctor; and cried like a ninny,
"I have loft many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea."
The Doctor look'd wife :-" A flow fever," he said:
Prefcribed fudorifics, and going to bed.
"Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will," are humbugs;"
"I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs."
Will kicked out the Doctor :-but when ill indeed,
E'en difmiffing the Doctor don't always fucceed ;
So, calling his hoft,-he faid,-" Sir, do you know,
"I'm the fat Single Gentleman, fix months ago?
"Look'e, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin,
"That with honest intentions you first took me in;
"But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold-
"I've been fo damn'd hot, that I'm fure I caught cold."
Quoth the landlord, "Till now, I ne'er had a difpute;
"I've let lodgings ten years ;-I'm a Baker to boot;
"In airing your fheets, Sir, my wife is no floven,
"And your bed is immediately over my Oven."
"The Oven!!!" fays Will-fays the hoft, "Why this paffion?" "In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.
"Why fo crufty, good fir ?"" Zounds !"-cries Will, in a taking, "Who wouldn't be crufty, with half a year's baking?"
Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a fneer, "Well, I fee you've been going away half a year:"
"Friend, we can't well agree" '—" yet no quarrel"—Will faid; "For one man may die where another makes bread."
BIRTH AND COURT OF ZELOTISMUS.
[From the BATTLE OF B-NG-R, a Comic Heroic Poem.]
MONG the celeftial goddesses above,
That grace the manfion of almighty Jove,
A nymph there is, whofe province is to raise
In man's cold heart devotion's melting blaze:
For oft, too oft, forgetful of his God,
Poor earthly man betrays his native clod.
Her name is ZEALA-through the world fhe flies,
Love in her looks, and ardor in her eyes :
Nor can the icieft mortal well withstand
The glowing touch of her enchanting hand.
Yet, neither stiff, nor ftern, the gently bends
Her willing vot'ries to her purpos'd ends.
Martyrs the makes, but martyrs meek and mild;
Who ne'er revile, although they be revil'd:
In Virtue's cause, a vigor the infpires;
But never kindles Perfecution's fires.
Once on a time as this celestial Maid,
In queft of converts, through Tholofa stray'd;
There, in a Convent (horrible to tell!)
A lecherous fri'r comprefs'd her in his cell.
From this commixtion a dire dæmon came;
And ZELOTISMUS is that dæmon's name-
Rapid his growth; for his half-heav'nly birth
Gave him advantage o'er the fons of earth.
Fofter'd by popes and kings, behold him rise,
In a fhort space, to an enormous fize!
His fame by ftrolling priests is blaz'd abroad;
And men mistake him for a demi-god.
Whole nations eagerly embrace his laws;
'But, chief, Iberia's fons fupport his cause.
There temples, there to him were altars rear'd:
With human blood those altars were befmear'd:
Religion fanction'd the devouring flame,
And infants trembled at this Moloch's name.
Thus erft; but now he fees his pow'r decline:
No bloody trophies more bedeck his shrine:
No fiery fan-benitos more adorn
The Moor or Jew, condemn'd to public fcorn.
Yet, yet a week of years; the world shall fee
His throne o'erturn'd; and fair Iberia free!
Yet ftill on Tajo's banks he holds his court:
Thither the zealots of the Weft refort.
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A hooded band, th' emiffaries of Rome,
Support his empire, and furround his dome.
In the first porch of this ftupendous place,
Stands PERSECUTION, with an iron face.
In his right hand a fcorpion-fcourge he bears,
Betinged with human blood and human tears;
And in his left he grafps a brand of fire.
Ready to light the dread funereal pyre.
Cut deep in ftone, above the monster's head,
ΕΙΔΕ ΚΑΙ ΦΟΒΟΥ clearly may be read.
In the remotest part of this abode
Is the apartment of the grifly God.
There Phoebus never fhows his cheerful face;
Tapers of yellow wax fupply his place;
Such as at difmal dirges are difplay'd
To half-illuminate the half-damn'd dead.
High on a throne of rough and rufty steel,
Sedately fits the fpurious fon of Zeal.
Dame SUPERSTITION, his beloved bride,
Sits, like another Thaïs, by his fide.
Pale is her visage, peevish is her mien:
For fhe is often troubled with the spleen.
Her weeds are black; but with a copious store
Of gaudy trinkets they are tinfeil'd o'er-
Beads from Loretto, Agnus- Dei's from Rome,
And christen'd relics from a catacomb:
Croffes and medals with indulgence fraught;
And images, that miracles have wrought:
Like that which lately, at Ancona, drew
Juft adoration, from the Turk and Jew!
Behind his throne, to catch his dire commands,
His armour-bearer, FANATISMUS, stands.
Screws, racks and pulleys; fulphur, pitch and tar;
With other implements of holy war;
Lie piled around him: all in order fair,
As, in the Tow'r, our guns and pistols are.
DESCRIPTION of a COUNTRY PARSON'S GARDEN.
[From Mr. BIDLAKE'S COUNTRY PARSON, a POEM.]
GARDEN trim he owns with filver rill, That ceafelefs fports to mufic all its own; Where nodding flowrets ftooping drink their fill, And ope gay eyes, refresh'd, fantastick grown. And there the gaudy tulip's pomp is known;
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