On the demise of the late excellent Bard, William Whitehead, Esq. Poet Laureat to his Majesty, it was decidedly the opinion of his Majesty’s great superintendant Minister, that the said office should be forthwith declared elective, and in future continue so; in order as well to provide the ablest successor on the present melancholy occasion, as also to secure a due preference to superior talents, upon all future vacancies: it was in consequence of this determination, that the following Public Notice issued from the Lord Chamberlain’s Office, and became the immediate cause of the celebrated contest that is recorded in these pages.
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ADVERTISEMENT.Lord Chamberlain’s Office, April 26.
In order to administer strict and impartial justice to the numerous candidates for the vacant POET LAUREATSHIP, many of whom are of illustrious birth, and high character,
Notice is hereby given, That the same form will be attended to in receiving the names of the said Candidates, which is invariably observed in registering the Court Dancers. The list to be finally closed on Friday evening next.
Each Candidate is expected to deliver in a PROBATIONARY BIRTH-DAY ODE, with his name, and also personally to appear on a future day, to recite the same before such literary judges as the Lord Chamberlain, in his wisdom, may appoint.
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[The following Account, though modestly stiled aHasty Sketch, according to the known delicacy of the Editorial Style, is in factA Report, evidently penned by the hand of a Master.]
HASTY SKETCHof Wednesday’s Business at theLORD CHAMBERLAIN’SOFFICE.
In consequence of the late general notice, given by public advertisement, of anopen electionfor the vacant office ofPoet Laureatto their Majesties, on the terms of Probationary Compositions, a considerable number of the most eminent characters in the fashionable world assembled at theLord Chamberlain’s Office, Stable-yard, St. James’s, on Wednesday last, between the hours of twelve and two, when Mr.Ramuswas immediately dispatched to Lord Salisbury’s, acquainting his Lordship therewith, and soliciting his attendance to receive the several candidates, and admit their respective tenders. His Lordship arriving in a short time after, the following Noblemen and Gentlemen were immediately presented to his Lordship byJohn Calvert, Jun. Esq.in quality of Secretary to the office.James Eley, Esq.and Mr.Samuel Betty, attended also as first and second Clerk, the following list of candidates was made out forthwith, and duly entered on the roll, as a preliminary record to the subsequent proceedings.
The Right Rev. Dr. William Markham, Lord Archbishop of York.The Right Hon. Edward, Lord Thurlow, Lord High Chancellor of GreatBritain.The Most Noble James, Marquis of Graham.The Right Hon. Harvey Redmond, Visc. Montmorres, of the kingdom ofIreland.The Right Hon. Constantine, Lord Mulgrave, ditto.The Right Hon. Henry Dundas.Sir George Howard, K.B.Sir Cecil Wray, Baronet.Sir Joseph Mawbey, ditto.Sir Richard Hill, ditto.Sir Gregory Page Turner, ditto.The Rev. William Mason, B.D.The Rev. Thomas Warton, B.D.The Rev. George Prettyman, D.D.The Rev, Joseph Warton, D.D.Pepper Arden, Esq. Attorney-General to his Majesty.Michael Angelo Taylor, Esq. M.P.James M‘Pherson, Esq. ditto.Major John Scott, ditto.Nath. William Wraxhall, Esq. ditto.Mons. Le Mesurier, Membre du Parlement d’Angleterre.
The several candidates having taken their places at a table provided for the occasion, the Lord Chamberlain, in the politest manner, signified his wish that each candidate would forthwith recite some sample of his poetry as he came provided with for the occasion; at the same time most modestly confessing his own inexperience in all such matters, and intreating their acquiescence therefore in his appointment of his friendMr. Delpini, of the Hay-Market Theatre, as an active and able assessor on so important an occasion. Accordingly,Mr. Delpinibeing immediately introduced, the several candidates proceeded to recite their compositions, according to their rank and precedence in the above list—both his Lordship and his assessor attended throughout the whole of the readings with the profoundest respect, and taking no refreshment whatsoever, except some China oranges and biscuit, which were also handed about to the company byMr. John Secker, Clerk of the Houshold, andMr. William Wise, Groom of the Buttery.
At half after five, the readings being completed, his Lordship andMr. Delpiniretired to an adjoining chamber;Mrs. Elizabeth Dyer, Keeper of the Butter and Egg Office, andMr. John Hook, Deliverer of Greens, being admitted to the candidates with several other refreshments suitable to the fatigue of the day. Two Yeomen of the Mouth and a Turn-broacher attended likewise; and indeed every exertion was made to conduct the little occasional repast that followed with the utmost decency and convenience; the whole being at the expence of the Crown, notwithstanding every effort to the contrary on the part ofMr. Gilbert.
At length the awful moment arrived, when thedetur dignioriwas finally to be pronounced on the busy labours of the day—never did Lord Salisbury appear to greater advantage—never did his assessor more amusingly console the discomfitures of the failing candidates—every thing that was affable, every thing that was mollifying, was ably expressed by both the judges; but poetical ambition is not easily allayed. When the fatalfiatwas announced in favour of the Rev. Thomas Warton, a general gloom overspread the whole society—a still and awful silence long prevailed. At length Sir Cecil Wray started up, and emphatically pronounceda scrutiny! a scrutiny!—A shout of applause succeeded—in vain did the incomparable Buffo introduce his most comic gestures—in vain was his admirable leg pointed horizontally at every head in the room—a scrutiny was demanded—and a scrutiny was granted. In a word, the Lord Chamberlain declared his readiness to submit the productions of the day to the inspection of the public, reserving nevertheless to himself and his assessor, the full power of annulling or establishing the sentence already pronounced. It is in consequence of the above direction, that we shall now give the public the said PROBATIONARY VERSES, commencing with those, however, which are the production of such of the candidates as most vehemently insisted on the right of appeal, conceiving such priority to be injustice granted to the persons whose public spirit has given so lucky a turn to this poetical election. According to the above order, the first composition that we lay before the public is the following:—
The WORDS by SIR CECIL WRAY, BART.
The SPELLING by Mr. GROJAN,Attorney at Law.
HARK! hark!—hip! hip!—hoh! hoh!What a mort of bards are a-singing!Athwart—across—below——I’m sure there’s a dozen a dinging!I hear sweet Shells, loud Harps, large Lyres—Some, I trow, are tun’d by Squires—Some by Priests, and some by Lords!—while Joe and IOurbloody hands, hoist up, like meteors, on high!Yes,Joeand IAre em’lous—Why?It is because, great CÆSAR, you are clever—Therefore we’d sing of you for ever!Sing—sing—sing—singGod save the King!Smile then, CÆSAR, smile onWray!Crown at last hispollwith bay!——Come, oh! bay, and with thee bringSalary, illustrious thing!——Laurels vain of Covent-garden,I don’t value you a farding!——Let sack my soul cheerFor ’tis sick of small beer!CÆSAR! CÆSAR! give it—do!Great CÆSAR giv’t all, for my Muse ’doreth you!—Oh fairest of the Heavenly Nine,EnchantingSyntax, Muse divine!Whether onPhœbus’ hoary head,By blue-ey’dRhadamanthusled,Or with youngHeliconyou stray,Where madParnassuspoints the way;—Goddess ofElizium’s hill,Descend upon myPæan’s quill.——The light Nymph hears—no moreByPegasus’ meand’ring shore,Ambrosiaplayful boy,Plumbs herjene scai quoi!——I mount!—I mount!—I’m half aLark—I’m half anEagle!Twelve stars I count——I see their dam— she is aBeagle!Ye Royal little ones,I love your flesh and bones—You are an arch, rear’d with immortal stones!Hiberniastrikes his harp!Shuttle, fly!—woof! wed! warp!Far, far, from me and you,In latitude North 52.—Rebellion’s hush’d,The merchant’s flush’d;—Hail, awfulBrunswick, Saxe-Gotha, hail!NotGeorge, butLouis, now shall turn his tail!Thus, I a-far from mad debate,Like an old wren,With my good hen,Or a young gander,Am a by-stander,To all the peacock pride, and vain regards of state!—Yet if the laurelprize,Dearer than my eyes,Curs’dWartontriesFor to surprize,By the eternal God I’ll SCRUTINIZE!
By LORD MULGRAVE.
O for a Muse of Fire,With blazing thumbs to touch my torpid lyre!Now in the darksome regions round the Pole,Tigers fierce, and Lions bold,With wild affright would see the snow-hills roll,Their sharp teeth chattering with the cold—But that Lions dwell not there——Nor beast, nor Christian—none but theWhite Bear!The White Bear howls amid the tempest’s roar,And list’ning Whales swim headlong from the shore!
ANTISTROPHE. (ByBrotherHARRY.)
Farewel awhile, ye summer breezes!What is the life of man?A span!Sometimes it thaws, sometimes it freezes,Just as it pleases!If Heaven decrees, fierce whirlwinds rend the air,And then again (behold!) ’tis fair!Thus peace and war on earth alternate reign:Auspicious GEORGE, thy powerful wordGives peace to France and Spain,And sheaths the martial sword!
STROPHE II. (ByBrotherCHARLES.)
And now gay Hope, her anchor dropping,And blue-ey’d Peace, and black-ey’d Pleasures,And Plenty in light cadence hopping,Fain would dance to WHITEHEAD’s measures.But WHITEHEAD now in death reposes,Crown’d with laurel! crown’d with roses!Yet we, with laurel crown’d, his dirge will sing,And thus deserve fresh laurels from the KING.
BySIR JOSEPH MAWBEY, BART.
HARK!—to yon heavenly skies,Nature’s congenial perfumes upwards rise!From each throng’d styeThat saw my gladsome eye,Incense, quite smoking hot, arose,And caught myseven sweet senses—by thenose!
AIR—accompanied by theLEARNED PIG.
Tell me, dear Muse, oh! tell me, pray,Why JOEY’s fancy frisks so gay;Is it!—you slut it is—someholy—holiday![Here Muse Whispers I,—Sir Joseph.]Indeed!—Repeat the fragrant sound!Push love, and loyalty around,ThroughIrish,Scotch, as well asBritishground!
For this BIG MORNGREAT GEORGE was born!The tidings all the Poles shall ring!Due homage will I pay,On this, thy native day,GEORGE,by the grace of God, my rightfulKING!
AIR—with Lutes.
Well might my dear lady say,As lamb-like by her side I lay,This very, very morn;Hark! JOEY, hark!I hear the lark,Or else it is—the sweetSowgelder’s horn!
Forth, from their styes, the bristly victims lead;A score of HOGS, flat on their backs, shall bleed.Mind they be such on which good Gods might feast!And thatIn lily fatThey cut six inches on the ribs, at least!
DUET—with Marrow-bones and Cleavers.
ButcherandCookbegin!We’ll have a royal greasy chin!Tit bits so nice and rare—Prepare! prepare!Let none abstain,Refrain!I’ll give ’em pork in plenty—cut, and come again!
Hog! Porker! Roaster! Boar-stag! Barbicue!Cheeks! Chines! Crow! Chitterlings! and Harselet new!Springs! Spare-ribs! Sausages! Sous’d-lugs! and Face!With piping-hot Pease-pudding—plenteous place!Hands! Hocks! Hams! Haggis, with high seas’ning fill’d!Gammons! Green Griskins! on gridirons grill’d!Liver and Lights! from Plucks that moment drawnPigs’ Puddings! Black and White! with Canterbury Brawn!—
Fall too,Ye Royal crew!Eat! Eat your bellies full! pray do!At treats I never winces:—The Queen shall say,Once in a way,Her maids have been well cramm’d—her young ones din’d like Princes!
FULL CHORUS—accompanied by the wholeHOGGERY.
For this BIG MORNGREAT GEORGE was born!The tidings all the Poles shall ring!Due homage will I pay,On this, thy native day,GEORGE!by the grace of God, my rightfulKING!!!!
BySIR RICHARD HILL, BART.
Hail, pious Muse of saintly love,Unmix’d, unstain’d with earthly dross!Hail Muse ofMethodism, aboveThe Royal Mews at Charing-cross!Behold both hands I raise;Behold both knees I bend;Behold both eye-balls gaze!Quick, Muse, descend, descend!Meek Muse ofMadan, thee my soul invokes—Oh point my pious puns! oh sanctify my jokes!
Descend, and, oh! in mem’ry keep—There’s a time to wake—a time to sleep—A time to laugh-a time to cry!TheBiblesays so—so do I!—Then broad awake, oh, come to me!And thou myEastern starshalt be!
MILLER, bard of deathless name,MOSES, wag of merry fame;Holy, holy, holy pair,Harken to your vot’ry’s pray’r!Grant, that like Solomon’s of old,My faith be still inProverbstold;Like his, let my religion beConundrums of divinity.And oh! to mine, let each strong charm belong,That breathes salacious in thewise man’s song;And thou, sweet bard, for ever dearTo each impassioned love-fraught ear,Soft, luxuriant ROCHESTER;Descend, and ev’ry tint bestow,That gives to phrase its ardent glow;From thee, thy willingHillshall learnThoughts that melt, and words that burn:Then smile, oh, gracious, smile on this petition!SoSolomon, gayWilmotjoin’d with thee,Shall shew the world that such a thing can beAs, strange to tell!—a virtuous Coalition!
Thou too, thou dread and awful shadeOf dear departed WILL WHITEHEAD,Look through the blue ætherial skies,And view me with propitious eyes!Whether thou most delight’st to lollOnSion’s top, or near thePole!Bend from thymountains, and remember stillThe wants and wishes of a lesserHill!Then, likeElijah, fled to realms above,To me, thy friend, bequeath my hallow’d cloak,And by its virtue Richard may improve,And inthy habitpreach, and pun, and joke!The Lord doth give—The Lord doth take away.—Then goodLord Sal’sburyattend to me—Banish these sons ofBelialin dismay;And give the praise to a truePharisee:For sure of all thescribesthat Israel curst,Thesescribespoetic are by far the worst.To thee, mySamson, unto thee I call——Exert thyjaw—and straight disperse them all—So, as in former times, thePhilistinesshall fall!Then as ’twas th’ beginning,So to th’ end ’t shall be;My Muse will ne’er leave singingThe LORD of SAL’SBURY!!!
ByMR. MACPHERSON.
Does the wind touch thee, O HARP?Or is it some passing Ghost?Is is thy hand,Spirit of the departedScrutiny?Bring me the harp, pride of CHATHAM!Snow is on thy bosom,Maid of the modest eye!A song shall rise!Every soul shall depart at the sound!!!The wither’d thistle shall crown my head!!!I behold thee, O King!I behold thee sitting on mist!!!Thy form is like a watery cloud,Singing in the deep like an oyster!!!!Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon!Thy eyes are of two decaying flames!Thy nose is like the spear of ROLLO!!!Thy ears are like three bossy shields!!!Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin!The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear meIn their airy hall!The wither’d thistle shall crown my head!Bring me the Harp,Son of CHATHAM!But thou, O King! give me the Laurel!
[Though the followingOssianadedoes not immediately come under the description of aProbationary Ode, yet as it appertains to the nomination of theLaureat, we class it under the same head. We must at the same time compliment Mr.Macphersonfor his spirited address to Lord Salisbury on the subject. The following is a copy of his letter:]
I take the liberty to address myself immediately to your Lordship, in vindication of my poetical character, which, I am informed, is most illiberally attacked by the Foreign Gentleman, whom your Lordship has thought proper to select as an assessor on the present scrutiny for the office of Poet Laureat to his Majesty. Signor Delpini is certainly below my notice—but I understand his objections to myProbationary Odeare two;—first, its conciseness; and next, its being inprose. For the present, I shall wave all discussion of these frivolous remarks; begging leave, however, to solicit your Lordship’s protection to the followingSupplemental Ode, which, I hope, both from itsquantityand itsstyle, will most effectually do away the paltry, insidious attack of an uninformed reviler, who is equally ignorant of British Poetry and of British Language.
I have the honour to be,My Lord,Your Lordship’s most obedient,and faithful servant,J. MACPHERSON.
ByMR. MACPHERSON.
Hark! ’Tis the dismal sound that echoes on thy roofs, OCornwall; Hail! double-face sage! Thou worthy son of the chair-borneFletcher! The Great Council is met to fix the seats of the chosen Chief; their voices resound in the gloomy hall of Rufus, like the roaring winds of the cavern—Loud were the cries forRays, but thy voice, OFoxan, rendered the walls like the torrent that gusheth from the Mountain-side.Cornwallleaped from his throne and screamed—the friends ofGwelfohung their heads—How were the mighty fallen! Lift up thy face,Dundasso, like the brazen shield of thy chieftain! Thou art bold to confront disgrace, and shame is unknown to thy brow—but tender is the youth of thy leader; who droopeth his head like a faded lily—leave notPittoin the day of defeat, when the Chiefs of the Counties fly from him like the herd from the galled Deer.—The friends ofPittoare fled. He is alone—he layeth himself down in despair, and sleep knitteth up his brow.—Soft were his dreams on the green bench—Lo! the spirit ofJenkyarose, pale as the mist of the morn—twisted was his long lank form—his eyes winked as he whispered to the child in the cradle. Rise, he sayeth—arise bright babe of the dark closet! the shadow of the Throne shall cover thee, like wings of a hen, sweet chicken of the Back-stair brood! Heed not the Thanes of the Counties; they have fled from thee, like Cackling Geese from the hard-bitten Fox: but will they not rally and return to the charge? Let the host of the King be numbered; they are as the sands of the barren shore.—There IsPowno, who followeth his mighty leader, and chaceth the stall-fed stag all day on the dusty road.—There isHoward, great in arms, with the beaming star on his spreading breast.—Red is the scarf that waves over his ample shoulders—Gigantic are his strides on the terrace, in pursuit of the Royal footsteps of loftyGeorgio.
No more will I number the flitting shades of Jenky; for behold the potent spirit of the black-browedJacko.—’Tis theRatten Robinso, who worketh the works of darkness! Hither I come, saidRatten—Like the mole of the earth, deep caverns have been my resting place; the groundRatsare my food.—Secret minion of the Crown, raise thy soul! Droop not at the spirit ofFoxan. Great are thy foes in the sight of the many-tongued war.—Shake not they knees, like the leaves of the Aspen on the misty hill—the doors of the stairs in the postern are locked; the voice of thy foes is as the wind, which whistleth through the vale; it passeth away like the swift cloud of the night.
The breath ofGwelfostilleth the stormy seas.——Whilst thou breathest the breath of his nostrils, thou shalt live for ever. Firm standeth thy heel in the Hall of thy Lord. Mighty art thou in the sight ofGwelfo, illustrious leader of the friends ofGwelfo! great art thou, O lovely imp of the interior closet! O lovely Guardian of the Royal Junto!
MR. MASON having laid aside the more noble subject for a Probationary Ode, viz. the Parliamentary Reform, upon finding that the Rev. Mr.Wyvilhad already made a considerable progress in it, has adopted the following.—The argument is simple and interesting, adapted either to the harp ofPindar, or the reed of Theocritus_,_ and as proper for the 4th of June, as any day of the year.
It is almost needless to inform the public, that the University of Oxford has earnestly longed for a visit from their Sovereign, and, in order to obtain this honour without the fatigue of forms and ceremonies, they have privately desired the Master of the Staghounds, upon turning the stag out of the cart, to set his head in as straight a line as possible, by the map, towards Oxford:—which probably, on some auspicious day, will bring the Royal Hunt to the walls of that city. This expedient, conceived in so much wisdom, as well as loyalty, makes the subject of the following,
ByMR. MASON.
I.O! green-rob’d Goddess of the hallow’d shade,Daughter of Jove, to whom of yoreThee, lovely maid,Latonabore,Chaste virgin, Empress of the silent glade!Where shall I woo thee?—Ere the dawn,While still the dewy tissue of the lawnQuivering spangles to the eye,And fills the soul with Nature’s harmony!Or ’mid that murky grove’s monastic night,The tangling net-work of the woodbine’s gloom,Each zephyr pregnant with perfume——Or near that delving dale, or mossy mountain’s height,WhenNeptunestruck the scientific ground.
II.FromAttica’s deep-heaving side,Why did the prancing horse rebound,Snorting, neighing all around,With thund’ring feet and flashing eyes—Unless to shew how near alliedBright science is to exercise!
III.If then thehorseto wisdom is a friend,Why not thehound? why not thehorn?While low beneath the furrow sleeps the corn,Nor yet in tawny vests delight to bend!For Jove himself decreed,That DIAN, with her sandal’d feet,White ankled Goddess pure and fleet,Should with every Dryad lead,By jovial cry o’er distant plain,ToEngland’s Athens,Brunswick’s sylvan train!
IV.Diana, Goddess all discerning!Huntingis a friend to learning!If the stag, with hairy nose,In Autumn ne’er had thought of love!No buck with swollen throat the doesWith dappled sides had tryed to move——Ne’er hadEngland’s King, I ween,The Muse’s seat, fairOxford, seen.
V.Hunting, thus, is learning’s friend!No longer, Virgin Goddess, bendO’erEndymion’s roseate breast;——No longer, vine-like, chastly twineRound his milk-white limbs divine!——Your brother’s car rolls down the east—The laughing hours bespeak the day!With flowery wreaths they strew the way!Kings of sleep! ye mortal race!ForGeorgewithDian’gins the Royal chace!
VI.Visions of bliss, you tear my aching sight,Spare, O spare your poet’s eyes!See every gate-way trembles with delight,Streams of glory streak the skies:How each College sounds,With the cry of the hounds!HowPeckwatermerrily rings;Founders, Prelates, Queens, and Kings—All have had your hunting-day!—From the dark tomb then break away!Ah! see they rush toFriar Bacon’s tower,GreatGeorgeto greet, and hail his natal hour!
VII.RadcliffeandWolsey, hand in hand,Sweet gentle shades, there take their standWithPomfret’s learned dame;AndBodelyjoin’d by Clarendon,With loyal zeal together run,Just arbiters of fame!
VIII.That fringed cloud sure this way bends—From it a form divine descends—Minerva’s self;—and in her rearA thousand saddled steads appear!On each she mounts a learned son,Professor, Chancellor, or Dean;All by hunting madness won,All inDian’s livery seen.How they despise the tim’rousHare!Give us, they cry, the furiousBear!To chase the Lion, how they long,Th’Rhinocerostall, andTygerstrong.Hunting thus is learning’s prop,Then may hunting never drop;And thus an hundredBirth-Daysmore,Shall Heav’n toGeorgeafford from its capacious shore.
ByTHE ATTORNEY-GENERAL.
I.Indite, my Muse!—indite! subpœna’dis thy lyre!The praises torecord, whichrules of Courtrequire!’Tis thou, OClio! Muse divine,And best of all theCouncilNine,Mustpleadmycause!—Great HATFIELD’S CECIL bids me sing———The tallest, fittest man, to walk before the King!
II.OfSal’sbury’s Earlsthe First (so tells th’ historic page)’Twas Nature’s will to make most wonderfully sage;But then, as if too liberal to his mind,She made him crook’d before, and crook’d behind[1].’Tis not, thank Heav’n! myCecil, so with thee;Thou last of Cecils, but unlike the first;—Thy body bears no mark’d deformity;——The Godsdecreed, andjudgment was revers’d!For veins of Science are like veins of gold!Pure, for a time, they run;They end as they begun—Alas! in nothing but a heap of mould!
III.Shall I by eloquence controul,Orchallengesend to mighty ROLLE,Whene’er on Peers he vents his gall?Uplift my hands to pull his nose,And twist and pinch it till it grows,Like mine, aside, and small?Say, by whatprocessmay I once obtainAverdict, Lord, not let mesuein vain!In Commons, and inCourtsbelow,Myactionshave been try’d;—ThereClientswho pay most,you know,Retainthe strongest side!True to theseterms, I preach’d in politics forPitt,AndKenyon’s lawmaintain’d against his Sovereign’swrit.What though my father be a porpus,He may be mov’d byHabeas Corpus—Or by acall, whene’er the StateOrPittrequires his vote and weight—I tenderbailfor Bottle’swarmsupport,Of all the plans of Ministers and Court!
IV.And Oh! shouldMrs. Ardenbless me with a child,A lovely boy, as beauteous as myself and mild;The littlePepperwould some caudle lack:Then think ofArden’s wife,My prettyPlaintiff’s life,The best of caudle’s made of best of sack!Let thydecreeBut favour me,Mybillsandbriefs,rebuttersanddetainers,ToArchyI’ll resignWithout afeeorfine,Attachments,replications, andretainers!ToJuries, Bench, Exchequer, Seals,ToChanc’ry Court, andLords, I’ll bid adieu;No moredemurrersnorappeals;——Mywrits of errorshall bejudg’dby you.
V.And if perchance greatDoctor Arnoldshould retire,Fatigu’d with all the troubles of St. James’s Choir;My Odes two merits shall unite;[2]BEARCROFT, my friend,His aid will lend,And set to music all I write;Let me then, Chamberlain without aflaw,For June the fourth prepare,The praises of the KingInlegal laysto sing,Until they rend the air,Andprovemy equal fame inpoesyand law!
[1] Rapin observes, that Robert Cecil, the first Earl of Salisbury, was of a great genius; and though crooked before and behind, Nature supplied that defect with noble endowments of mind.
[2] This Gentleman is a great performer upon the Piano Forte, as well as the Speaking Trumpet and Jews’ Harp.
ByNATHANIEL WILLIAM WRAXHALL, ESQ. M.P.
I.MURRAIN seize the House of Commons!Hoarse catarrh their windpipes shake!Who, deaf to travell’d Learning’s summons,Rudely cough’d whene’er I spake!North, norFox’s thund’ring course,Nor e’en the Speaker, tyrant, shall have forceTo save thy walls from nightly breaches,FromWraxhall’s votes, fromWraxhall’s speeches,Geography, terraqueous maid,Descend from globes to statesmen’s aid!Again to heedless crouds unfoldTruths unheard, tho’ not untold:Come, and once more unlock this vasty world—Nations attend! themapofEarth’s unfurl’d!
II.Begin the song, from where the Rhine,The Elbe, the Danube, Weser rolls——Joseph, nine circles, forty seas are thine——Thine, twenty millions souls——Upon a marish flat and dankStates, Six and One,Dam the dykes, the seas embank,Maugre the Don!A gridiron’s form the proud Escurial rears,While South of Vincent’s Cape anchovies glide:But, ah! o’er Tagus, once auriferous tide,A priest-rid Queen, Braganza’s sceptre bears——Hard fate! that Lisbon’s Diet-drink is knownTo cure each crazyconstitutionbut her own!
III.I burn! I burn! I glow! I glow!With antique and with modern lore!I rush from Bosphorus to Po—To Nilus from the Nore.Why were thy Pyramids, O Egypt! rais’d,But to be measur’d, and be prais’d?Avaunt, ye Crocodiles! your threats are vain!On Norway’s seas, my soul, unshaken,Brav’d the Sea-Snake and the Craken!And shall I heed the River’s scaly train?Afric, I scorn thy Alligator band!Quadrant in handI take my stand,And eye thy moss-clad needle, Cleopatra grand!O, that great Pompey’s pillar were my own!Eighty-eight feet the shaft, and all one stone!But hail, ye lost Athenians!Hail also, ye Armenians!Hail once, ye Greeks, ye Romans, Carthagenians!Twice hail, ye Turks, and thrice, ye Abyssinians!Hail too, O Lapland, with thy squirrels airy!Hail, Commerce-catching Tipperary!Hail, wonder-working Magi!Hail, Ouran-Outangs! Hail, Anthropophagi!Hail, all ye cabinets of every state,From poor Marino’s Hill, to Catherine’s Empire great!All have their chiefs, who-speak, who write, who seem to think,Caermarthens, Sydneys, Rutlands, paper, pens, and ink;
IV.Thus, through all climes, to earth’s remotest goal,From burning Indus to the freezing Pole,In chaises and on floats,In dillies, and in boats;Now on a camel’s native stool;Now on an ass, now on a mule.Nabobs and Rajahs have I seen;Old Bramins mild, young Arabs keen:Tall Polygars,Dwarf Zemindars,Mahommed’s tomb, Killarney’s lake, the fane of Ammon,With all thy Kings and Queens, ingenious Mrs. Salmon[1]:Yet vain the majesties of wax!Vain the cut velvet on their backs——GEORGE, mighty GEORGE, is flesh and blood——No head he wants of wax or wood!His heart is good!(As a King’s should)And every thing he says is understood!
[1] Exhibits the Wax-work, in Fleet-Street.
BySIR GREGORY PAGE TURNER, BART. M.P.
Lord Warden of Blackheath, and Ranger of Greenwich Hill, during the Christmas and Easter Holidays.
O day of high career!First of a month—nay more—first of a year!Amonarch-day, that hath indeed no peer!Let hugeBuzaglosglowIn ev’ry corner of the isle,To melt away the snow:And like toMay,Be this month gay;And with her at hop—step—jump—play,Dance, grin, and smile:Ye too, yeMaids of Honour, young and old,Shall each be seen,With a neatwarmingpatentiz’dmachine!Because, ’tis said, thatchastityiscold!
But ah! no roses meet the sight;Noyellowbuds ofsaffronhue,Norazureblossoms ofpale blue,Nor tulips, pinks, &c. delight.Yet on finetiffanywill IMy genius try,The spoils ofFlorato supply,Or say my name’s not GREGO—RY!AnartificialGarland will I bring,ThatClement Cottrellshall declare,With courtly air,Fit for a Prince—fit for a KING!
Epode.
Yemillineryfair,To me, ye Muses are;Ye are to meParnassusMOUNT!In you, I find anAganippeFOUNT!I venerate yourmuffs,I bow and kiss yourruffs.Inspire me, O yeSistersof thefrill,And teach your votarist how toquill!For oh!—’tis true indeed,That he can scarcely read!Teach him toflounce, and disregard all quippery,As crapes and blonds, and such like frippery;Teach him totrimandwhipfrom side to side,Andpuffas long as puffing can be try’d.Incrimpingmetaphor he’ll dash on,Forpoint, you know, is out of fashion.O crown with bay his tête,Delpini, arbiter of fate!Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport.A PAGE should be aDanglerat the court.
ByMICHAEL ANGELO TAYLOR, ESQ. M. P.
Only Son of SIR ROBERT TAYLOR, Knt. and late Sheriff—also Sub-Deputy,Vice-Chairman to the Irish Committee, King’s Counsel, and WelshJudge Elect, &c, &c.
I.Hail, all hail, thou natal day!Hail the very half hour, I say,On which great GEORGE was born!Tho’ scarcely fledg’d, I’ll try my wing—And tho’, alas! I cannot sing,I’llcrowon this illustrious morn!Sweet bird, that chirp’st the note of folly,So pleasantry, so drolly!—Thee, oft the stable yards among,I woo, and emulate thy song!Thee, for my emblem still I choose!Oh! with thy voice inspire aChicken of the Muse!
II.And thou, great Earl, ordain’d to sitHigh arbiter of verse and wit,Oh crown my wit with fame!Such as it is, I prithee take it;Or if thou can’st not find it, make it:To me ’tis just the same.Once a white wand, like thine, my father bore:But now, alas! that white wand is no more!Yet though his pow’r be fled,Nor Bailiff wait his nod nor Gaoler;Bright honour still adorns the headOf my Papa, SirRobert Tayler!Ah, might that honour on his son alight!On this auspicious dayHow my little heart would glow,If, as I bend me low,My gracious King wou’d say,Arise, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO!O happiest day, that brings the happiest Knight!
III.Thee, too, myflutteringMuse invokes,Thy guardian aid I beg.Thou great ASSESSOR, fam’d for jokes,For jokes of face and leg!So may I oft thy stage-box grace,(The first in beauty as in place)And smile responsive to thy changeful face!For say, renowned mimic, say,Did e’er a merrier crowd obeyThy laugh-provoking summons,Than with fond glee, enraptur’d sit,Whene’er withundesigning wit,I entertain the Commons?Lo! how I shine St. Stephen’s boast!There, first ofChicks, I rule theroast!There I appear,Pitt’sChanticleer.TheBantam Cockin opposition!Or like ahenWith watchful ken,Sit close and hatch—the Irish propositions!
IV.Behold for this great day of pomp and pleasure,The House adjourns, and I’m at leisure!Ifthouart so, come muse of sport,With a few rhymes,Delight the times,And coax the Chamberlain, and charm the Court!By Heaven she comes!—more swift than prose,At her command, my metre flows;Hence, ye weak warblers of the rival lays!Avaunt, ye Wrens, ye Goslings, and ye Pies!TheChick of Lawshallwinthe prize!TheChick of Lawshallpeckthe bays!So, when again the State deminds our care,Fierce in my laurel’d pride, I’ll take the chair!—GILBERT, I catch thy bright invention,With somewhat more ofsound retention[1]!But never, never on thyproseI’ll border—Verse, lofty-soundingVerse, shall “Call to Order!”Come, sacred Nine, come one and all,Attend your fav’rite Chairman’s call!Oh! if I well have chirp’d your brood among,Point my keen eye, and tune my brazen tongue!And hark! with Elegiac graces,“I beg that gentlemen may take their places!”Didactic Muse, be thine to state,The rules that harmonize debate!Thine, mighty CLIO, to resound from far,“The door! the door!—the bar! the bar!”StoutPearsondamns around at her dread word;—“Sit down!” criesClementson, and grasps his silver sword.
V.But lo! where Pitt appears to moveSome new resolve of hard digestion!Wake then, my Muse, thy gentler notes of love,And in persuasive numbers, “put the Question.”The question’s gain’d!—the Treasury-Bench rejoice!“All hail, thouleastof men” (they cry), with mighty voice!—Blest sounds! my ravish’d eye surveysIdeal Ermine, fancied Bays!Wrapt in St. Stephens future scenesI sit perpetual chairman of theWays and Means!Cease, cease, ye Bricklayer crew, my sire to praise,His mightier offspring claims immortal lays!The father climb’d the ladder, with a hod;The son, likeGeneral Jackoo, jumps alone, by God!
[1] No reflection on the organization of Mr. Gilbert’s brain is intended here; but rather a pathetic reflection an the continual Diabetes of so great a Member!
ByMAJOR JOHN SCOTT, M.P. &C. &C.
I.Why does the loitering sun retard his wain,When this glad hour demands a fiercer ray?Not so he pours his fire on Delhi’s plain,To hail the Lord of Asia’s natal day.There in mute pomp and cross-legg’d state,TheRaja PoutsMAHOMMED SHAH await.ThereMalabar,ThereBisnagar,ThereOudeand proudBahar, in joy confederate.
II.Curs’d be the clime, and curs’d the laws, that layInsulting bonds on George’s sovereign sway!Arise, my soul, on wings of fire,To God’s anointed, tune the lyre;Hail! George, thou all-accomplish’d King!Just type of him who rules on high!Hail inexhausted, boundless springOf sacred truth and Holy Majesty!Grand is thy form—’bout five feet ten,Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men!Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad—Thy Pages view thee, and are aw’d!Lo! how thy white eyes roll!Thy whiter eye-brows stare!Honest soul!Thou’rt witty, as thou’rt fair!
III.North of the Drawing-room a closet stands:The sacred nook, St James’s Park commands!Here, in sequester’d state, Great GEORGE receivesMemorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves!Here all the force of sov’reign thought is bent,To fix Reviews, or change a Government!Heav’ns! how each word with joyCaermarthentakes!Gods! how the lengthen’d chin ofSydneyshakes!Blessing and bless’d the sage associate see,The proud triumphant league of incapacity.With subtile smiles,With innate wiles,How do thy tricks of state, GREAT GEORGE, abound!So in thy Hampton’s mazy ground,The path that wandersIn meanders,Ever bending,Never ending,Winding runs the eternal round.Perplex’d, involv’d, each thought bewilder’d moves;In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves;Contending themes the ernbarrass’d listener baulk,Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk!
IV.Now shall the levee’s ease thy soul unbend,Fatigu’d with Royalty’s severer care!Oh! happy few! whom brighter stars befriend,Who catch the chat—the witty whisper share!Methinks I hearIn accents clear,Great Brunswick’s voice still vibrate on my ear—“What?—what?—what?Scott!—Scott!—Scott!Hot!—hot!—hot!What?—what!—what?”Oh! fancy quick! oh! judgment true!Oh! sacred oracle of regal taste!So hasty, and so generous too!Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait!Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art,To paint the beauties of that head and heart!That heart where all the virtues join!That head that hangs on many a sign!
V.Monarch of mightyAlbion, check thy talk!Behold theSquadapproach, led on byPalk!Smith, Barwelly, Cattt Vansittart, form the band—Lord of Brirannia!—let them kiss thy hand!—Forsniff[1]!—rich odours scent the sphere!’Tis Mrs.Hastings’ self brings up the rear!Gods! how her diamonds flockOn each unpowdere’d lock!On every membrane see a topaz clings!Behold her joints are fewer than her rings!Illustrious dame! on either ear,TheMunny Begums’ spoils appear!Oh! Pitt, with awe behold that precious throat,Whose necklace teems with many a future vote!Pregnant withBurgagegems each hand she rears;And lo! dependingquestionsgleam upon her ears!Take her, great George, and shake her by the hand;’Twill loose her jewels, and enrich thy land.But oh! reserve one ring for an old stager;Theringof future marriage for herMajor!
[1] Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling.
By theRT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, ESQ. Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.
I.Hoot! hoot awaw!Hoot! hoot awaw!Ye lawland Bards! who’ are ye aw!What are your sangs? What aw your lair too boot?Vain are your thowghts the prize to win,Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din;Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! hoot!——Put oot aw your Attic feires,Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres;A looder, and a looder note I’ll strieke:——Na watter drawghts fra’ Helicon I heed,Na will I moont your winged steed—I’ll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike!—
II.Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring,Coom, lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing!Ye canny maidens tee; wha aw the wheile,Sa sweetly luik, sa sweetly smeile,Coom hither aw, and round me thrang,Wheil I tug oot my peips, and gi’ ye aw a canty sang.Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!Wha, gifted by the gods abuin,Wi’ meikle taste, and meikle airt,Fairst garr’d his canny peipe to lilt a tune!To the sweet whussel join’d the pleesan drane,And made the poo’rs of music aw his ain.On thee, on thee I caw—thou deathless spreight!Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight;Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm:And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm,Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue.I feel, I feel thy poo’r divine!Laurels! kest ye to the groond,Aroond my heed, my country’s pride I tweine—Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon’d—Sa sud gret GEOURGE be sung!
III.Fra hills, wi’ heathers clad, that smeilan bluimSpeite o’ the northern blaist;Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel;Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o’ sic a king;Lugs that in music’s soonds ha’ mickle taste.Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;Now, laddies! lood blaw up your chanters;For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa leel.CannyMontrose’s son leads on the ranters.ThooLaird o’ Graham!by manie a cheil ador’d,Who boasts his native fillabeg restor’d;I croon thee—maister o’ the spowrt!Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,Weind the reel, and wave the daunce;Noo they rant, and noo they loup,And noo they shew their brawny doup,And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o’ the court,Sa in the guid buik are we tauld,Befoor the halie ark,The guid King David, in the days of auld,Daunc’d, like a wuid thing, in his sark,Wheil Sion’s dowghters (’tis wi’ sham I speak’t)Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain,Keck’d, and lawgh’d,And lawgh’d, and keck’d,And lawgh’d, and keck’d again.Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight,Sa micke did the King their glowran eyne delight.
IV.Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!And stint your spowrts awce:Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,O’ersheenan aw the lave;He comes, he comes!Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks;Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,My tongue, its wunsome poo’rs, devote,To gratitude and thee;To thee, the sweetest o’ thy ain parfooms,Orixa’s preide sud blazeOn thee, thy gems of purest rays;Back fra’ this saund, their genuine feires sud shed,AndRumbold’s Crawdle vie wuthHasting’s Bed.But heev’n betook us weil! and keep us weise!Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command!“Keep, keep thy tongue,” a warlock cries,And waves his gowden wand.
V.Noo, laddies! gi’ your baugpipes breeth again;Blaw the loo’d, but solemn, strain:Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,In mejesty sedate,In pride elate,The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;Onward he stalks in froonan state;Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit;Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,Fra’Tommy Toonsendup toWully Pitt!Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mairTo ye maun I the sang confeine:To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.’Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,’Tis GEOURGE demands her care;Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!See! where with Atlantean shoulder,Amazing each beholder,Beneath a tott’ring empire’s weight.Full six feet high he stands, and therefore—great!
VI.Come then, aw ye POO’rs of vairse!Gi’ me great GEOURGE’s glories to rehearse;And as I chaunt his kingly awks,The list’nan warld fra me sall lairnHoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks,And weel he gets his Queen wi’ bairn.Give me, with all a Laureat’s art to jumble,Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble!Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick’s Royal line;Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!Thus, crooned by his lib’ral hand.Give me to lead the choral band;Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,Aft sail peipe swell with his princely name,And this eternal truth proclaim:’Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA’s land!
ByDR. JOSEPH WARTON, In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.
O! For the breathings of theDoric ote!O! for thewarblingsof the Lesbianlyre!O! for the Alcean trump’s terrific note!O! for the Theban eagle’s wing of fire!O! for each stop and string that swells th’ Aonian quire!Then should this hallow’d day inworthy strains be sung,And withdue laurel wreathsthy cradle, Brunswick,hung!But tho’ uncouth my numbers flow—From a rude reed,—That drank the dew of Isis’ lowly mead,Andwild pipe, fashion’d from theembatted sedgeWhich on thetwilight edgeOf my own Cherwell loves to grow:The god-like theme aloneShould bear me on itstow’ring wing;Bear me undaunted to the throne,To view with fix’d and stedfast eye—The delegated majestyOf heav’ns dread lord, and what I see to sing.Like heaven’s dread lord, great George his voice can raise,From babes and suckling’s mouths to hymn hisperfect praise,In poesy’s trim rhymesand highresounding phrase.Hence, avaunt!ye savage train,That drench the earth and dye the mainWith the tides of hostle gore:Who joy inwar’s terrific charms,To see the steely gleam of arms,And hear the cannon’s roar;Unknown the god-like virtue how to yield,To Cressy’s or to Blenheim’sdeathfulfield;Begone, and sate your Pagan thirst of blood;Edward, fell homicide, awaits you there,And Anna’s hero, both unskill’d to spareWhene’er the foe their slaught’ring sword withstood.The pious George towhite-staled peacealoneHis olive sceptre yields, andpalm-encircled throne.Or if his high degreeOn theperturbed seaThe bloody flag unfurls;Or o’er the embattl’d plainRanges the martial train;On other heads his bolts he hurls.Haughty subjects,wail and weep,Your angry masterploughs the deep.Haughty subjects, swol’n with pride,Tremble at hisvengefulstride.While the regal commandDesp’rate ye withstand,He bares his red right hand.As when Eloim’s pow’r,In Judah’s rebel hour,Let fall the fiery show’rThat o’er her parch’d hills desolation spread,And heap’d her vales with mountains of the dead.O’er Schuylkill’scliffs the tempest roars;O’er Rappahanock’s recreant shores;Up therough rocks of Kipps’s-bay;The huge Anspacharwins his way;Or scares the falconfrom thefir-cap’d sideOf each high hill that hangs o’er Hudson’s haughty tide.Matchless victor, mighty lord!Sheath the devouring sword!Strong to punish,mild to save,Closethe portals of the grave,Exert thy first prerogative,Ah! spare thy subject’s blood, and let themlive;Ourtributary breath,Hangs on thine for life or death.Sweet is the balmy breath of orient morn,Sweet are the horned treasures of the bee;Sweet is the fragrance of the scented thorn,But sweeter yet the voice of royal clemency.He hears, and from hiswisdom’s perfect dayHe sends a bright effulgent ray,The nationsto illumine far and wide,And feud and discord, war andstrife, subside.His moral sages,all unknownt’untieThe wily rage of human policy,Their equal compasses expand,And mete the globe with philosophic hand.No partial love of country bindsIn selfish chains the lib’ral minds,O gentle Lansdown! ting’d with thy philanthropy,Let other monarchs vainly boastA lengthen’d line of conquer’d coast,Or boundless sea of tributary flood,Bought by as wide a sea of blood——Brunswick, in moresaint-like guiseClaims for his spoils a purer prize,Content at every price to buyA conquest o’er himself, and o’er his progeny.His bedomestic glory’s radient calm——His bethe sceptre wreath’d with many a palm——His bethe throne with peaceful emblems hung,And mine die laurel’d lyre,to those mild conquests strung!