No. XXII.
April 9, 1798.
April 9, 1798.
April 9, 1798.
April 9, 1798.
Sir,—I saw, with strong approbation, your specimen of ancient Sapphic measure in English, which I think far surpasses all that Abraham Fraunce, Richard Stanyhurst, or Sir Philip Sidney himself, have produced in that style—I mean, of course, your sublime and beautifulKnife-Grinder, of which it is not too high an encomium to say, that it even rivals the efforts of the fine-eared democratic poet, Mr. Southey. But you seem not to be aware, that we have a genuine Sapphic measure belonging to our own language, of which I now send you a short specimen.
I am a hearty Jacobin,Who own no God, and dread no sin,Ready to dash through thick and thinFor freedom:And when the teachers of Chalk-FarmGave Ministers so much alarm,And preach’d that kings did only harm,I fee’d ’em.ByBedford’scut I’ve trimm’d my locks,And coal-black is my knowledge-box,Callous to all, except hard knocksOf thumpers;My eye a noble fierceness boasts,My voice as hollow as a ghost’s,My throat oft washed by factious toastsIn bumpers.Whatever is in France, is right;Terror and blood are my delight;Parties with us do not exciteEnough rage.Our boasted laws I hate and curse,Bad from the first, by age grown worse,I pant and sigh for univers-[187]al suffrage.Wakefield[188]I love—adoreHorne Tooke,With pride onJones[189]andThelwall[190]look,And hope that they, by hook or crook,Will prosper.But they deserve the worst of ills,And all th’ abuse of all our quills,Who form’d of strong andgagging Bills[191]A cross pair.Extinct since then each speaker’s fire,And silent ev’ry daring lyre,[192]Dum-founded they whom I would hireTo lecture.Tied up, alas! is ev’ry tongueOn which, conviction nightly hung,[193]AndThelwalllooks, though yet but young,A spectre.[194]B. O. B.
I am a hearty Jacobin,Who own no God, and dread no sin,Ready to dash through thick and thinFor freedom:And when the teachers of Chalk-FarmGave Ministers so much alarm,And preach’d that kings did only harm,I fee’d ’em.ByBedford’scut I’ve trimm’d my locks,And coal-black is my knowledge-box,Callous to all, except hard knocksOf thumpers;My eye a noble fierceness boasts,My voice as hollow as a ghost’s,My throat oft washed by factious toastsIn bumpers.Whatever is in France, is right;Terror and blood are my delight;Parties with us do not exciteEnough rage.Our boasted laws I hate and curse,Bad from the first, by age grown worse,I pant and sigh for univers-[187]al suffrage.Wakefield[188]I love—adoreHorne Tooke,With pride onJones[189]andThelwall[190]look,And hope that they, by hook or crook,Will prosper.But they deserve the worst of ills,And all th’ abuse of all our quills,Who form’d of strong andgagging Bills[191]A cross pair.Extinct since then each speaker’s fire,And silent ev’ry daring lyre,[192]Dum-founded they whom I would hireTo lecture.Tied up, alas! is ev’ry tongueOn which, conviction nightly hung,[193]AndThelwalllooks, though yet but young,A spectre.[194]B. O. B.
I am a hearty Jacobin,Who own no God, and dread no sin,Ready to dash through thick and thinFor freedom:
I am a hearty Jacobin,
Who own no God, and dread no sin,
Ready to dash through thick and thin
For freedom:
And when the teachers of Chalk-FarmGave Ministers so much alarm,And preach’d that kings did only harm,I fee’d ’em.
And when the teachers of Chalk-Farm
Gave Ministers so much alarm,
And preach’d that kings did only harm,
I fee’d ’em.
ByBedford’scut I’ve trimm’d my locks,And coal-black is my knowledge-box,Callous to all, except hard knocksOf thumpers;
ByBedford’scut I’ve trimm’d my locks,
And coal-black is my knowledge-box,
Callous to all, except hard knocks
Of thumpers;
My eye a noble fierceness boasts,My voice as hollow as a ghost’s,My throat oft washed by factious toastsIn bumpers.
My eye a noble fierceness boasts,
My voice as hollow as a ghost’s,
My throat oft washed by factious toasts
In bumpers.
Whatever is in France, is right;Terror and blood are my delight;Parties with us do not exciteEnough rage.
Whatever is in France, is right;
Terror and blood are my delight;
Parties with us do not excite
Enough rage.
Our boasted laws I hate and curse,Bad from the first, by age grown worse,I pant and sigh for univers-[187]al suffrage.
Our boasted laws I hate and curse,
Bad from the first, by age grown worse,
I pant and sigh for univers-[187]
al suffrage.
Wakefield[188]I love—adoreHorne Tooke,With pride onJones[189]andThelwall[190]look,And hope that they, by hook or crook,Will prosper.
Wakefield[188]I love—adoreHorne Tooke,
With pride onJones[189]andThelwall[190]look,
And hope that they, by hook or crook,
Will prosper.
But they deserve the worst of ills,And all th’ abuse of all our quills,Who form’d of strong andgagging Bills[191]A cross pair.
But they deserve the worst of ills,
And all th’ abuse of all our quills,
Who form’d of strong andgagging Bills[191]
A cross pair.
Extinct since then each speaker’s fire,And silent ev’ry daring lyre,[192]Dum-founded they whom I would hireTo lecture.
Extinct since then each speaker’s fire,
And silent ev’ry daring lyre,[192]
Dum-founded they whom I would hire
To lecture.
Tied up, alas! is ev’ry tongueOn which, conviction nightly hung,[193]AndThelwalllooks, though yet but young,A spectre.[194]B. O. B.
Tied up, alas! is ev’ry tongue
On which, conviction nightly hung,[193]
AndThelwalllooks, though yet but young,
A spectre.[194]
B. O. B.