But 'tis by way of wit and joke,
To laugh, or as the phrase is, smoke.

Yet there are those, who're fond of wit,
Although they never us'd it yet,
Who wits and witlings entertain;
Of taste, virtù, and judgment vain,
And dinner, grace, and grace-cup done,
Expect a wond'rous deal of fun:

"Yes-be at bottom-don't you know him?
That's he that wrote the last new poem.

His humour's exquisitely high,
You'll hear him open by and by."

The man in print and conversation
Have often very small relation;

And he, whose humour hits the town,
When copied fairly, and set down,
In public company may pass,
For little better than an ass.
Perhaps the fault is on his side,
Springs it from modesty, or pride,
Those qualities asham'd to own,
For which he's happy to be known;
Or that his nature's strange and shy,
And diffident, he knows not why;
Or from a prudent kind of fear,
As knowing that the world's severe,
He would not suffer to escape
Familiar wit in easy shape:

Lest gaping fools, and vile repeaters,

Should catch her up, and spoil her features,
And, for the child's unlucky maim,
The faultless parent come to shame.

Well, but methinks I hear you say,

"Write then, my friend!"-Write what?" a play.

The theatres are open yet,
The market for all sterling wit;

Try the strong efforts of your pen,
And draw the characters of men;
Or bid the bursting tear to flow,
Obedient to the fabled woe;
With Tragedy's severest art,
Anatomise the human heart,
And, that you may be understood,
Bid Nature speak, as Nature show'd."

That talent, George, though yet untried,
Perhaps my genius has denied;
While you, my friend, are sure to please
With all the pow'rs of comic ease.

Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of wishes, full of fears.

One might by pleasant thoughts be led,
To lose a trifling maiden-head;
But 't is a terrible vexation
To give up with it reputation.
And he, who has with plays to do,
Has got the devil to go through.
Critics have reason for their rules,
I dread the censure of your fools.
For tell me, and consult your pride,
(Set Garrick for a while aside)

How could you, George, with patience bear,
The critic prosing in the play'r?

Some of that calling have 1 known,

Who held no judgment like their own;
And yet their reasons fairly scan,
And separate the wheat and bran;
You'd be ainaz'd indeed to find,
What little wheat is left behind.

For, after all their mighty rout,

Of chatt'ring round and round about;
'Tis but a kind of clock-work talking,
Like crossing on the stage, and walking.
The form of this tribunal past,
The play receiv'd, the parts all cast,
Each actor has his own objections,
Each character, new imperfections:

The man's is drawn too coarse and rough,
The lady's has not smut enough.

It wants a touch of Cibber's ease,

A higher kind of talk to please;
Such as your titled folks would choose,
And lords and ladyships might use,
Which style, who ver would succeed in,
Must have small wit, and much good breeding.
If this is dialogue-ma foi,

Sweet sir, say I, pardonnez moi !

As long as life and business last,
The actors have their several cast,
A walk where each his talent shows,
Queens, nurses, tyrants, lovers, beaux;
Suppose you've found a girl of merit,
Would show your part in all its spirit,
Take the whole meaning in the scope,
Some little lively thing, like Pope',
You rob some others of a feather,
They've worn for thirty years together.

But grant the cast is as you like,
To actors which you think will strike.
To morrow then-(but as you know
I've ne'er a comedy to show,
Let me a while in conversation,
Make free with yours for application)
The arrow's flight can't be prevented-
To morrow then, will be presented
The Jealous Wife! To morrow? Right.
How do you sleep, my friend, to night?
Have you no pit-pat hopes and fears,
Roast-beef, and catcalls in your ears?
Mabb's wheels across your temples creep,
You toss and tumble in your sleep,
And cry aloud, with rage and spleen,
"That fellow murders all my scene."

To morrow comes. I know your merit,
And see the piece's fire and spirit;
Yet friendship's zeal is ever hearty,
And dreads the efforts of a party.

The coach below, the clock gone five,
Now to the theatre we drive:
Peeping the curtain's eyelet through,
Behold the house in dreadful view!
Observe how close the critics sit,
And not one bonnet in the pit.

With horrour hear the galleries ring,

Nosy! Black Joke! God save the King!"
Sticks clatter, catcalls scream, "Encore!"
Cocks crow, pit hisses, galleries roar:
E'en" Cha' some oranges," is found
This night to have a dreadful sound:
"Till, decent sables on his back,
(Your prologuisers all wear black)
The prologue comes; and, if its mine,
Its very good, and very fine:

If not, I take a pinch of snuff,

And wonder where you got such stuff.
That done, a-gape the critics sit,
Expectant of the comic wit.

Miss Pope, still an actress of genuine merit. C

The fiddlers play again pell-mell:
-But hist!-the prompter rings his bell.
-"Down there! hats off!"-the curtain draws!
What follows is the just applause.

TWO ODES1.

ΦΩΝΑΝΤΑ ΣΥΝΕΤΟΙΣΙΝ. ΕΣ

ΔΕ ΤΟ ΠΑΝ, ΕΡΜΗΝΕΩΝ

XATIZEI.

ODE I.

DAUGHTER of Chaos and old Night,

Cimmerian Muse, all hail!

That wrapt in never-twinkling gloom canst write,
And shadowest meaning with thy dusky veil!
What poet sings, and strikes the strings?
It was the mighty Theban spoke,

He from the ever-living lyre
With magic hand elicits fire.

Heard ye the din of modern rhimers bray?
It was cool M-n, or warm G―y,
Involv'd in tenfold smoke.

The shallow fop in antic vest,

Tir'd of the beaten road,

Proud to be singly drest,

Changes, with every changing moon, the mode. Say, shall not then the Heav'n-born Muses too Variety pursue?

Shall not applauding critics hail the vogue? Whether the Muse the style of Cambria's sons, Or the rude gabble of the Huns,

Or the broader dialect

Of Caledonia she affect,

Or take, Hibernia, thy still ranker brogue?

On this terrestrial ball

The tyrant, Fashion, governs all.
She, fickle goddess, whom, in days of yore,
The ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Unto an antic fool, hight Andrew, bore:

Long she paid him with disdain,
And long his pangs in silence he conceal'd:
At length, in happy hour, his love-sick pain
On thy blest calends, April, he reveal'd.
From their embraces, sprung,
Ever changing, ever ranging,
Fashion, goddess ever young.

Perch'd on the dubious height, she loves to ride,
Upon a weather-cock, astride.

Each blast that blows, around she goes,
While nodding o'er her crest,
Emblem of her magic pow'r,
The light camelion stands confest,

Changing it's hues a thousand times an hour.
And in a vest is she array'd,

Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zoneless is her waist:
But fair and beautiful, I ween,
As the cestus-cinctur'd queen,
Is with the rainbow's shadowy girdle brac'd.

'I take the liberty of inserting the two following odes, though I cannot, with strict propriety, print them as my own composition. The truth is, they were written in concert with a friend, to whose labours I am always happy to add my own: i mean the author of the Jealous Wife.

His Whitenose, he on fam'd Doncastria's plains
Resign'd his fatal breath:

In vain for life the struggling courser strains.
Ah! who can run the race with Death?
The tyrant's speed, or man or steed,
Strives all in vain to fly.

He leads the chase, he wins the race,'
We stumble, fall, and die.

Third from Whitenose springs
Pegasus with eagle wings:

Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork,
With many a bound he beats the ground,
While all the Turf with acclamation rings:
He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York:
He too Newmarket won:
There Granta's son

Seiz'd on the steed;

And thence him led, (so Fate decreed)
To where old Cam, renown'd in poet's song,
With his dark and inky waves,
Either bank in silence laves,
Winding slow his sluggish streams along.

What stripling neat, of visage sweet,
In trimmest guise array'd,
First the neighing steed assay'd?
His hand a taper switch adorns, his heel
Sparkles refulgent with elastic steel:
The whiles he wins his whiffling way,

Prancing, ambling, round and round,
By hill, and dale, and mead, and greensward gay:
Till sated with the pleasing ride,
From the lofty steed dismounting,
He lies along, enwrapt in conscious pride,
By gurgling rill, or crystal fountain.

Lo! next, a bard, secure of praise, His self-complacent countenance displays. His broad mustachios, ting'd with golden dye, Flame, like a meteor, to the troubled air: Proud his demeanor, and his eagle eye, [glar. O'er-hung with lavish lid, yet shone with glorious The grizzle grace

Of bushy peruke shadow'd o'er his face. In large wide boots, whose ponderous weight Would sink each wight of modern date, He rides, well-pleas'd: so large a pair Not Garagantua's self might wear: Not he, of nature fierce and cruel, Who, if we trust to ancient ballad, Devour'd three pilgrims in a sallad; Nor he of fame germane, hight Pantagruel.

2 The author is either mistaken in this place, or has else indulged himself in a very unwarrantable poetical licence. Whitenose was not the sire, but a son of the Godolphin Arabian. See my Calendar. Heber.

Accoutred thus, th' advent'rous youth
Seeks not the level lawn, or velvet mead,

Fast by whose side clear streams meandring
But urges on amain the fiery steed [creep;
Up Snowdon's shaggy side, or Cambrian rock un-
Where the venerable herd
[couth:

Of goats, with long and sapient beard,
And wanton kidlings their blithe revels keep.
Now up the mountain see him strain!
Now down the vale he's tost,
Now flashes on the sight again,
Now in the palpable obscure quite lost.
Man's feeble race eternal dangers wait,
With high or low, all, all is woe,
Disease, mischance, pale fear, and dubious fate.
But, o'er every peril bounding,
Ambition views not all the ills surrounding,

And, tiptoe on the mountains steep,
Reflects not on the yawning deep.

See, see, he soars! With mighty wings outspread,
And long resounding mane,
The courser quits the plain,
Aloft in air, see, see him bear
The bard, who shrouds
His lyric glory in the clouds,

Too fond to strike the stars with lofty head!
He topples headlong from the giddy height,
Deep in the Cambrian gulph immerg'd in endless
night.

O steed divine! what daring spirit
Rides thee now? though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor self-opinion,
Which elate the mighty pair,
Each of Taste the fav'rite minion,
Prancing through the desert air;
By help mechanic of equestrian block,

Yet shall he mount, with classic housings grac'd,
And, all unheedful of the critic mock,

Drive his light courser o'er the bounds of Taste.

ODE II.

TO OBLIVION.

PARENT of Ease'! Oblivion old,
Who lov'st thy dwelling-place to hold,
Where sceptred Pluto keeps his dreary sway,
Whose sullen pride the shiv'ring ghosts obey!

Thou, who delightest still to dwell
By some hoar and moss-grown cell,
At whose dank foot Cocytus joys to roll,

Or Styx' black streams, which even Jove control! Or if it suit thy better will

To choose the tinkling weeping rill, Hard by whose side the seeded poppy red Heaves high in air his sweetly curling head, While, creeping in meanders slow, Lethe's drowsy waters flow,

And hollow blasts, which never cease to sigh, Hum to each care-struck mind their lulla-lullaby! A prey no longer let me be

To that gossip Memory,

According, to Lillæus, who bestows the parental function on Oblivion.

Verba Obliviscendi regunt Genitivum. Lib. xiii. cap. 8, There is a similar passage in Busbæus.

Who waves her banners trim, and proudly flies
To spread abroad her bribble-brabble lies.
With thee, Oblivion, let me go,
For Memory's a friend to woe;
With thee, Forgetfulness, fair silent queen,
The solemn stole of Grief is never seen.
All, all is thine. Thy pow'rful sway
The throng'd poetic hosts obey:
Though in the van of Mem'ry proud t'appear,
At thy command they darken in the rear.

What though the modern tragic strain
For nine whole days protract thy reign,
Yet through the Nine, like whelps of currish kind,
Scarcely it lives, weak, impotent, and blind.
Sacred to thee the crambo rhyme,
The motley forms of pantomime:

For thee from eunuch's throat still loves to flow The soothing sadness of his warbled woe:

Each day to thee falls pamphlet clean: Each month a new-born magazine: Hear then, O goddess, hear thy vot'ry's pray'r! And, if thou deign'st to take one moment's care, Attend thy bard! who duly pays The tribute of his votive lays; Whose Muse still offers at thy sacred shrine;Thy bard, who calls thee his, and makes him O, sweet Forgetfulness, supreme [thine. Rule supine o'er ev'ry theme, O'er each sad subject, o'er each soothing strain, Of mine, O goddess, stretch thine awful reign! Nor let Mem'ry steal one note,

Which this rude hand to thee hath wrote! So shalt thou save me from the poet's shame, Though on the letter'd rubric Dodsley post my

name.

O come! with opiate poppies crown'd, Shedding slumbers soft around! [sack!O come! fat goddess, drunk with laureats See, where she sits on the benumb'd torpedo's Me, in thy dull Elysium lapt, O bless [back! With thy calm forgetfulness! And gently lull my senses all the while With placid poems in the sinking style! Whether the Herring-poet sing, Great laureat of the fishes' king, Or Lycophron prophetic rave his fill, Wrapt in the darker strains of Johnny -; Or, if he sing, whose verse affords A bevy of the choicest words,

Who meets his lady Muse by moss-grown cell, Adorn'd with epithet and tinkling bell:

These, goddess, let me still forget, With all the dearth of modern wit! So may'st thou gently o'er my youthful breast Spread, with thy welcome hand, Oblivion's friendly

vest.

THE PROGRESS OF ENVY. WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1751. АH me! unhappy state of mortal wight, Sith Envy's sure attendant upon Fame, Ne doth she rest from rancorous despight, Until she works him mickle woe and shame; Unhappy he whom Envy thus doth spoil, Ne doth she check her ever restless hate: Until she doth his reputation foil:

2

Ah! luckless imp is he, whose worth elate,

Forces him pay this heavy tax for being great.

There stood an ancient mount, yclept Parnass, (The fair domain of sacred Poesy) Which, with fresh odours ever-blooming, was Besprinkled with the dew of Castaly; [glides, Which now in soothing murmurs whisp'ring Wat'ring with genial waves the fragrant soil, Now rolls adown the mountain's steepy sides, Teaching the vales full beauteously to smile, Dame Nature's handy-work, not form'd by lab'ring toil.

The Muses fair, these peaceful shades among, With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings; The air in silence listens to the song, And Time forgets to ply his lazy wings; Pale-visag'd Care, with foul unhallow'd feet, Attempts the summit of the hill to gain, Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat; Her unavailing strength is spent in vain, Content sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain.

Oft Phœbus self left his divine abode, And here enshrouded in a shady bow'r, Regardless of his state, lay'd by the god, And own'd sweet Music's more alluring pow'r. On either side was plac'd a peerless wight, Whose merit long had fill'd the trump of Fame; This, Fancy's darling child, was Spenser hight, Who pip'd full pleasing on the banks of Tame; That no less fam'd than he, and Milton was his

name.

In these cool bow'rs they live supinely calm;
Now harmless talk, now emulously sing;
While Virtue, pouring round her sacred balm,
Makes happiness eternal as the spring.
Alternately they sung; now Spenser 'gan,
Of jousts and tournaments, and champions
strong;

Now Milton sung of disobedient man,

And Eden lost: the bards around them throng, Drawn by the wond'rous magic of their princes' song.

Not far from these, Dan Chaucer, ancient wight, A lofty seat on Mount Parnassus held, Who long had been the Muses' chief delight; His reverend locks were silver'd o'er with eld; Grave was his visage, and his habit plain; And while he sung, fair Nature he display'd, In verse albeit uncouth, and simple strain; Ne mote he well be seen, so thick the shade, Which elms and aged oaks had all around him made.

Next Shakspeare sat, irregularly great,
And in his hand a magic rod did hold,
Which visionary beings did create,
And turn the foulest dross to purest gold:
Whatever spirits rove in earth or air,
Or bad or good, obey his dread command;
To his behests these willingly repair,
Those aw'd by terrours of his magic wand,
The which not all their pow'rs united might with-
stand.

Beside the bard there stood a beauteous maid,
Whose glittering appearance dimm'd the eyen;
Her thin-wrought vesture various tints display'd,
Fancy her name, ysprong of race divine;

Her mantle wimpled1 low, her silken hair, Which loose adown her well-turn'd shoulders

stray'd,

"She made a net to catch the wanton Air," Whose love-sick breezes all around her play'd Aud seem'd in whispers soft to court the heav'nly maid.

And ever and anon she wav'd in air

A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow'r: She wav'd it round: eftsoons there did appear Spirits and witches, forms unknown before: Again she lifts her wonder-working wand; Eftsoons upon the flow'ry plain were seen The gay inhabitants of fairie land,

And blithe attendants upon Mab their queen In mystic circles danc'd along th' enchanted green.

On th' other side stood Nature, goddess fair; A matron seem'd she, and of manners staid; Beauteous her form, majestic was her air, In loose attire of purest white array'd: A potent rod she bore, whose pow'r was such, (As from her darling's works may well be shown) That often with its sou'-enchanting touch, She rais'd or joy, or caus'd the deep-felt groan, And each man's passions made subservient to her

own.

But lo! thick fogs from out the earth arise,
And murky mists the buxom air invade,
Which with contagion dire infect the skies,
And all around their baleful influence shed;
Th' infected sky, which whilom was so fair,
With thick Cimmerian darkness is o'erspread;
The Sun, which whitom shone without compare,
Muffles in pitchy veil his radiant head,

And fore the time sore-grieving seeks his wat'ry bed.

Envy, the daughter of fell Acheron,

(The flood of deadly hate and gloomy night)
Had left precipitate her Stygian throne,
And through the frighted heavens wing'd her
flight:

With careful eye each realm she did explore,
Ne mote she ought of happiness observe;
For happiness, alas! was now no more,
Sith ev'ry one from virtue's paths did swerve,
And trample on religion base designs to serve,

At length, on blest Parnassus seated high,
Their temple circled with a laurel crown,
Spenser and Milton met her scowling eye,
And turn'd her horrid grin into a frown.
Full fast unto her sister did she post,
There to unload the venom of her breast,
To tell how all her happiness was crost,
Sith others were of happiness possest:
Did never gloomy Hell send forth like ugly pest.

Within the covert of a gloomy wood,
Where fun'ral cypress star-proof branchesspread,
O'ergrown with tangling briers a cavern stood;
Fit place for melancholy dreary-head'.

'Wimpled. A word used by Spenser for hung down. The line enclosed within commas is one of Fairfax's in his translation of Tasso.

2 Dreary-head. Gloominess,

Here a deformed monster joy'd to won, Which on fell rancour ever was y bent, All from the rising to the setting sun, Her heart pursued spite with black intent, Ne could her iron mind at human woes relent.

In flowing sable stole she was yclad,
Which with her countenance did well accord;
Forth from her mouth, like one through grief
gone mad,

A frothy sea of nauseous foam was pour'd;
A ghastly grin and eyes asquint, display

The rancour which her hellish thoughts contain,
And how, when man is blest, she pines away,
Burning to turn his happiness to pain;
Malice the mouster's name, a foe to God and man.

Along the floor black loathsome toads still crawl,

Their gullets swell'd with poison's mortal bane,
Which ever and anon they spit at all
Whom hapless fortune leads too near her den;
Around her waist, in place of silken zone,
A life-devouring viper rear'd his head,
Who no distinction made 'twixt friend and foen,
But death on ev'ry side fierce brandished,
Fly, reckless mortals, fly, in vain is hardy-head3.

Impatient Envy, through th' etherial waste,
With inward venom fraught, and deadly spite,
Unto this cavern steer'd her panting haste,
Enshrouded in a darksome veil of night.
Her inmost heart burnt with impetuous ire,
And fell destruction sparkled in her look,
Her ferret eyes flash'd with revengeful fire,
Awhile contending passions utt'rance choke,

At length the fiend in furious tone her silence broke.

"Sister, arise! see how our pow'r decays, No more our empire thou and I can boast, Sith mortal man now gains immortal praise, Sith man is blest, and thou and I are lost: See in what state Parnassus' hill appears; See Phoebus' self two happy bards atween; See how the god their song attentive hears; This Spenser hight, that Milton, well I ween! Who can behold unmov'd sike heart-tormenting scene?

"Sister, arise! ne let our courage droop, Perforce we will compel these mortals own, That mortal force unto our force shall stoop; Envy and Malice then shall reign alone: Thou best has known to file thy tongue with lies, And to deceive mankind with specious bait: Like Truth accoutred, spreadest forgeries, The fountain of contention and of hate: Arise, unite with me, and be as whilom great!"

The fiend obey'd, and with impatient voice"Tremble, ye bards, within that blissful seat; Malice and Envy shall o'erthrow your joys, Nor Phoebus self shall our designs defeat. Shall we, who under friendship's feigned veil, Prompted the bold archangel to rebel; Shall we, who under show of sacred zeal, Plung'd halfthe pow'rs of Heav'n in lowest HellSuch vile disgrace of us no mortal man shall tell."

Hardy-head. Courage.

And now, more hideous rendered to the sight,
By reason of her raging cruelty,

She burnt to go, equipt in dreadful plight,
And find fit engine for her forgery.

Her eyes inflam'd did cast their rays askance,
While hellish imps prepare the monster's car,
In which she might cut through the wide ex-
pause,

And find out nations that extended far, When all was pitchy dark, ne twinkled one bright

star.

Black was her chariot, drawn by dragons dire, And each fell serpent had a double tongue, Which ever and anon spit flaming fire, The regions of the tainted air among; A lofty seat the sister-monsters bore, In deadly machinations close combin'd, Dull Folly drove with terrible uproar, And cruel Discord follow'd fast behind; God help the man 'gainst whom such caitiff foes are join'd.

Aloft in air the rattling chariot flies, While thunder harshly grates upon its wheels; Black pointed spires of smoke around them rise, The air depress'd unusual burthen feels; Detested sight! in terrible array, They spur their fiery dragons on amain, Ne mote their anger suffer cold delay, Until the wish'd-for region they obtain, And land their dingy car on Caledonian plain.

Here, eldest son of Malice, long had dwelt A wretch of all the joys of life forlorn; His fame on double falsitics was built: (Ah! worthless son, of worthless parent born!) Under the shew of semblance fair, he veil'd The black intentions of his hellish breast; And by these guileful means he more prevail'd Than had he open enmity profest; The wolf more safely wounds when in sheep's clothing drest.

Him then themselves atween they joyful place,
(Sure sign of woe when such are pleas'd, alas!)
Then measure back the air with swifter pace,
Until they reach the foot of Mount Parnass.
Hither in evil hour the monsters came,
And with their new companion did alight,
Who long had lost all sense of virtuous shame,
Beholding worth with poisonous despight;
On his success depends their impious delight.

Long burnt he sore the summit to obtain,
And spread his venom o'er the blissful seat;
Long burnt he sore, but still he burnt in vain;
Mote none come there, who come with impious
feet.

At lenth, at unawares, he out doth spit
That spite which else had to himself been bane;
The venom on the breast of Milton lit,
And spread benumbing death through every vein;
The bard of life bereft fell senseless on the plain. 1