Bythe RIGHT HON. HERVEY REDMOND, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, Of Castle Morres, of the Kingdom of Ireland, &c. &c.
I.Awake, Hibernian lyre, awake,To harmony thy strings attune,Otachetheir trembling tongue tospakeThe glories of the fourth of June.Auspicious morn!When George was bornTo grace (by deputy) our Irish throne,North, south,aiste, west,Of Kings the best,Sure now he’s _a_quall’d by himself alone;Throughout the astonish’d globe so loud his fame shall ring,The d_i_f themselves shallharethe strains the dumb shall sing.
II.Sons of Fadruig[1], strain your throats,In your native Irish lays,Swe_a_ter than the scre_a_ch owl’s notes,Howl aloud your sov’reign’s praise,Quick to his hallow’d fane be ledA milk-white BULL, on soft potatoes fed:His curling horns and ample neckLet wreaths of verdant shamrock deck,And perfum’d flames, torachethe sky,Let fuel from our bogs supply,Whilst we to George’s health,a’en till the bowl runs o’erRichstramesof usquebaugh and sparkling whiskey pour.
III.Of d_i_thless fame immortal heirs,A brave and patriotic band,Mark where Ierne’s Volunt_a_res,Array’d in bright disorder stand.The Lawyer’s corps, red fac’d with black,Here drive the martial merchants back;Here Sligo’s bold brigade advance,There Lim’rick legions sound their drum;Here Gallway’s gallant squadrons prance,And Cork Invincibles are overcome!The Union firm of Coleraine,Are scatter’d o’er the warlike plain,While Tipperary infantry pursuesThe Clognikelty horse, and Ballyshannon blues.Full fifty thousand men we shewAll in our Irish manufactures clad,Wh_a_ling, manœuv’ring to and fro,And marching up and down like mad.In fr_a_dom’s holy cause they bellow, rant, and rave,And scorn thems_i_lves to know what they thems_i_lves would have!Ah! should renowned Brunswick chuse,(The warlike monarch loves reviews)To see th_a_se h_a_roes in our Ph_a_nix fight,Once more, amidst a wond’ring crowd,The enraptur’d prince might cry aloud,“Oh! Amherst, what a h_i_venly sight[2]!”The loyal crowd with shouts should r_i_nd the skies,Toharetheir sov’reign make a sp_aa_ch so wise!
IV.Th_a_se were the bands, ’mid tempests foul,Who taught their master, somewhat loth,To grant (Lord love his lib’ral soul!)Commerce and constitution both.Now p_a_ce restor’d,This gracious lordWouldtachethem, as the scriptures say,Atlaiste, that ifThe Lord doth give,The Lord doth likewise take away.Fr_a_dom like this who _i_ver saw?We will, henceforth, for _i_ver more,Be after making _i_v’ry law,Great Britain shall have made before[3].
V.Hence, loath’d Monopoly,Of Av’rice foul, and Navigation bred,In the drear gloomOf British Custom-house Long-room,’Mongst cockets, clearances, and bonds unholy,Hide thy detested head.But come, thou goddess fair and free,Hibernian reciprocity!(Whichmanes, if right I take the plan,Or _i_lse the tr_a_ity d_i_vil burn!To get from England all we can;And give her nothing in return!)Thee, JENKY, skill’d in courtly lore,To theswatelipp’d William bore,He Chatham’s son (in George’s reignSuch mixture was not held a stain),Of garish day-light’s eye afraid,Through the postern-gate convey’d;In close and midnight cabinet,Oft the secret lovers met.Haste thee, nymph, and quick bring o’erCommerce, from Britannia’s shore;Manufactures, arts, and skill,Such as may our pockets fill.And, with thy left hand, gain by stealth,Half our sister’s envied wealth,Till our island shall becomeTrade’s compl_a_te imporium[4].Th_a_se joys, if reciprocity can give,Goddess with thee h_i_nceforth let Paddy live!
VI.Next to great George be peerless Billy sung:—Hark! hespakes!his mouth his opes!Phrases, periods, figures, tropes,Stramefrom his mellifluous tongue—Oh! had he crown’d his humble suppliant’s hopes?And given him near his much-lov’d Pitt,Beyond the limits of the bar to sit,How with his praises had St. Stephen’s rung!Though Pompey boast not all his patron’s pow’rs,Yet oft have kind Hibernia’s PeersTo r_a_de his sp_aa_ches lent their ears:So in the Senate, had his tongue, for hours.Foremost, amid the youthful yelping pack,That crow and cackle at the Premier’s back,A flow of Irish rhetoric let loose,Beneath theChickenscarce, and far above theGoose.
[1] Ancient Irish name given to St. Patrick.
[2] The celebrated speech of a Great Personage, on reviewing the camp at Cox-heath, in the year 1779, when a French invasion was apprehended; the report of which animating apostrophe is supposed to have struck such terror into the breasts of our enemies, as to have been the true occasion of their relinquishing the design.
[3] Vide the Fourth Proposition.
[4] Vide Mr. Orde’s speech.
ByEDWARD LORD THURLOW, Lord High Chancellor of Great-Britain.
I.Damnation seize ye all,Who puff, who thrum, who bawl and squall!Fir’d with ambitious hopes in vain,The wreath, that blooms for other brows to gain;Is THURLOW yet so little known?—By G—d I swore, while GEORGE shall reign,The seals, in spite of changes, to retain,Nor quit the Woolsack till he quits the Throne!And now, the Bays for life to wear,Once more, with mightier oaths, by G—d I swear!Bend my black brows that keep the Peers in awe,Shake my full-bottom wig, and give the nod of law.
II.What [1] tho’ more sluggish than a toad,Squat in the bottom of a well,I too, my gracious Sov’reign’s worth to tell,Will rouse my torpid genius to an Ode!The toad a jewel in his head contains—Prove we the rich production of my brains!Nor will I court, with humble plea,Th’AonianMaids to inspire my wit:One mortal girl is worth theNineto me;—The prudes ofPindusI resign toPitt.His be the classic art, which I despise:—THURLOW on Nature, and himself relies.
III.’Tis mineto keep the conscience of the King;To me, each secret of his heart is shown:Who then, like me, shall hope to singVirtues, to all but me, unknown?Say who, like me, shall win beliefTo tales of his paternal grief,When civil rage with slaughter dy’dThe plains beyond th’ Atlantic tide?Who can, like me, his joy attest,Though little joy his looks confest,When Peace, atConway’s call restor’d,Bade kindred nations sheathe the sword?How pleas’d he gave his people’s wishes way,And turn’d outNorth, whenNorthrefus’d to stay!How in their sorrows sharing too, unseen,ForRockinghamhe mourn’d, atWindsorwith the Queen!
IV.His bounty, too, be mine to praise,Myself th’ example of my lays,ATellerin reversion I;And unimpair’d I vindicate my place,The chosen subject of peculiar grace,Hallow’d from hands ofBurke’s economy:For [2] so his royal word my Sovereign gave;And sacred here I found thatwordalone,When not his Grandsire’sPatent, and his own,ToCardiff, and toSondes, their posts could save.Nor should this chastity be here unsung,That chastity, above his glory dear;[3]ButHerveyfrowning, pulls my ear,Such praise, she swears, were satire from my tongue.
V.Fir’d at her voice, I grow prophane,A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!To THURLOW’s lyre more daring notes belong.Now tremble every rebel soul!While on the foes of George I rollThe deep-ton’d execrations of my song.In vain my brother’s piety, more meek,Would preach my kindling fury to repose;LikeBalaam’s ass, were he inspir’d to speak,’Twere vain! resolved I go to curse my Prince’s foes.
VI.“Begin! Begin!” fierceHerveycries,See! theWhigs, how they rise!What petitions present!Howteizeandtorment!D—mn their bloods, s—mn their hearts, d—mn their eyes.Behold yon sober bandEach his notes in his hand;The witnesses they, whom I brow-beat in vain;Unconfus’d they remain.Oh! d—mn their bloods again;Give the curses dueTo the factious crew!Lo!Wedgewoodtoo waves his [4]Pitt-potson high!Lo! he points, where the bottom’s yet dry,Thevisage immaculatebear;BeWedgewoodd—mn’d, and double d—mn’d his ware.D—mnFox, and d—mnNorth;D—mnPortland’s mild worth;D—mnDevonthe good,Double d—mn all his name;D—mnFitzwilliam’s blood,Heir ofRockingham’s fame;D—mnSheridan’s wit,The terror ofPitt;D—mnLoughb’rough, my plague—wou’d hisbagpipewere split!D—mnDerby’s long scroll,Fill’d with names to the brims:D—mn his limbs, d—mn his soul,D—mn his soul, d—mn his limbs!WithStormont’s curs’d din,Hark!Carlislechimes in;D—mnthem; d—mn all their partners of their sin;D—mn them, beyond what mortal tongue can tell;Confound, sink, plunge them all to deepest, blackest Hell!
[1] This simile of myself I made the other day, coming out of Westminster Abbey. LordUxbridgeheard it. I think, however, that I have improved it here, by the turn which follows.
[2] I cannot here with-hold my particular acknowledgments to my virtuous young friend, Mr. Pitt, for the noble manner in which he contended, on the subject of my reversion, that the most religious observance must be paid to theRoyal promise. As I am personally the more obliged to him, as in the case of theAuditors of the Imprestthe other day, he did not think it necessary to shew any regard whatever to aRoyal Patent.
[3] I originally wrote this line,ButHerveyfrowning, as she hears, &c.It was altered as it now standsj by my d—mn’d Bishop of a brother,for the sake of an allusion toVirgil.———CynthiusauremVelit, et admonuit.
[4] I am told, that a scoundrel of a Potter, one Mr.Wedgewood, is making 10,000 vile utensils, with a figure of Mr. Pitt in the bottom; round the head is to be a motto, We will spit, On Mr.Pitt, Andother suchd—mn’d ryhmes, suited to the uses of the different vessels.
The Notes (except those wherein Latin is concerned) byJOHN ROBINSON,Esq.
RECITATIVE,by Double Voices.[1]Hail to the LYAR! whose all-persuasive strain,Wak’d by the master-touch of art,And prompted by th’ inventive brain,[2]Winds its sly way into the easy heart.
SOLO.[3]Hark! do I hear the golden tone?—Responsive now! and now alone!Or does my fancy rove?Reason-born Conviction, hence![4]And phrenzy-rapt be ev’ry sense,With theUntruthI love.Propitious Fiction aid the song;Poet and Priest to thee belong.
SEMI-CHORUS.[5]By thee inspir’d, ere yet the tongue was glib,The cradled infant lisp’d the nurs’ry fib;Thy vot’ry in maturer youth,Pleas’d, he renounc’d the name of truth;And often dar’d the specious to defy,Proud of th’ expansive, bold, uncover’d lie.
AIR.Propitious FICTION, hear!And smile, as erst thy father smil’dUpon his first-born child,Thy sister dear;When the nether shades among,[6]Sin from his forehead sprung.
FULL CHORUS.Grand deluder! arch impostor!CountervailingOrdeandFoster!Renoun’d Divine!The palm is thine:Be thy name or sung orhist,Alone it stands—CONSPICUOUS FABULIST!
RECITATIVEfor the celebrated Female Singer from Manchester.Symphony of Flutes—pianissimo.
Now in cotton robe array’d,Poor Manufacture, tax-lamenting maid,Thy story heard by her devoted wheel,Each busy-sounding spindle hush’d—
FUGUE.Now, dreading Irish rape,Quick shifting voice and shape—
DEEP BASS,from Birmingham.With visage hard, and furnace flush’d,And black-hair’d chest, and nerve of steel,The sex-chang’d listner stoodIn surly pensive mood.
AIR,accompanied with double Bassoons, &c.While the promise-maker spokeThe anvil miss’d the wonted stroke;In air suspended hammers hung,WhilePitt’s own frauds came mended from that tongue.
AIR.Sooth’d with the sound the Priest grew vain,And all his tales told o’er again,And added hundreds more;By turns to this, or that, or both,He gave the sanction of an oath,And then the whole forswore.“Truth,” he sung, “was toil and trouble,Honour but an empty bubble”—Glo’ster’s aged—Londondying—Poor, too poor, is simple lying!If the lawn be worth thy wearing,Win, oh! win it, by thy swearing!
FULL CHORUS REPEATED.Grand deluder! arch-impostor, &c.[7]
RECITATIVEaccompanied.Enough the parents praise—see of DeceitThe fairer progeny ascends!Evasion, nymph of agile feet,With half-veil’d face;Profession, whispering accents sweetAnd many a kindredFraudattends;Mutely dealing courtly wiles,Fav’ring nods, and hope-fraught smiles,A fond, amusive, tutelary race,That guard the home-pledg’d faith of Kings—Or flitting, light, on paper wings;Speed Eastern guile across this earthly ball,And waft it back fromWindsortoBengal.But chiefly thee I woo, of changeful eye,In courts y’cleptDuplicity!Thy fond looks on mine imprinting,Vulgar mortals call it squinting—Baby, of Art and Int’rest bred, }Whom, stealing to the back-stairs head }in fondling arms—with cautious tread, }[8]Wrinkle-twinkleJenkybore,To the baize-lin’d closet door.
AIR.Sweet nymph, that liv’st unseenWithin that lov’d recess—Save when the Closet Councils press,And junto’s speak the thing they mean;Tell me, ever-busy power,Where shall I trace thee in that vacant hour?Art thou content, in the sequester’d grove,To play with hearts and vows of love!Or emulous of prouder sway,Dost thou to list’ning Senates take thy way?Thy presence let me still enjoy,WithRose, and the lie-loving boy.
AIR.[9]No rogue that goesIs like thatRose,Or scatters such deceit:Come to my breast—There ever restAssociate counterfeit!
LOUD SYMPHONY.But lo! what throngs of rival bards!More lofty themes! more bright rewards!See Sal’sbury, a new Apollo sit!Pattern and arbiter of wit!The laureate wreathe hangs graceful from his wand;Begin! he cries, and waves his whiter hand.’TisGeorge’s natal day—Parnassian Pegassus away—Grant me the more glorious steedOf royalBrunswickbreed[10]——I kneel, I kneel;And at his snowy heel,Pindarick homage vow;—He neighs; he bounds; I mount, I fly—The air-drawn crosier in my eye,The visionary mitre on my brow—Spirit of hierarchy exalt thy rhyme,And dedicate to George the lie sublime.
AIRfor a Bishop.[11]Hither, brethren, incense bring,To the mitre-giving king;Praise him for his first donations; }Praise him for his blest translations, }Benefices, dispensations. }By the powers of a crown;By the many made for one;By a monarch’s awful distance,Rights divine, and non-resistance,Honour, triumph, glory give—Praise him in his might!Praise him in his height!The mighty, mighty height of his prerogative!
RECITATIVEby an Archbishop.Orchestras, of thousands strong,With Zadoc’s zeal each note prolong—Prepare!Prepare!Batesgives the animating nod—Sudden they strike—unnumber’d stringsVibrate to the best of Kings—Eunuchs, Stentors, double basses,Lab’ring lungs, inflated faces,Bellows working,Elbows jerking,Scraping, beating,Roaring, Sweating.Thro’ the old Gothic roofs be the chorus rebounded,’Till Echo is deafen’d, and thunder dumb-founded:And now another pause—and now another nod—All proclaim a present God![12]Bishops and Lords of the Bedchamber,George submissive Britain sways;HeavyHanover obeys.Proud Ierne’s volunteers,Abject Commons, prostrate Peers—All proclaim a present God—(On the necks of all he trod)A present God!A present God!Hallelujah!
[1] Hail to the LYAR!] It was suggested to me, that my friend the Doctor had here followed the example of Voltaire, in deviating from common orthography.—Lyar, instead ofLyre, he conceives to be a reading of peculiar elegance in the present instance, as it puts the reader in suspence between an inanimate and a living instrument. However, for my own part, I am rather of opinion, that this seeming mis-spelling arose from the Doctor’s following the same well-known circumspection which he exercised in the case of Mr. Wedgewood, and declining to give his Odeunder his hand; preferring to repeat it to Mr. Delpini’s Amanuensis, who very probably may have committed that, and similar errors in orthography.
[2] Winds its sly way, &c.] A line taken in great part from Milton.The whole passage (which it may not be unpleasing to recall tothe recollection of the reader) has been closely imitated bymy friend Prettyman, in a former work.“I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,And well-placed words of glozing courtesy,Baited with reasons not unplausible,Wind me into the easy-hearted man,And hug him into snares.” COMUS.
[3] Golden tone, &c.] The epithet may seem at first more proper for the instrument, but it applies here with great propriety to the sound. In the strictest-sense, what is golden sound but the sound of gold? and what could arise more naturally in the writer’s mind upon the present occasion?
[4] Phrenzy-rapt, &c.] Auditis? An me ludit amabilis Insania?——
[5] By thee inspir’d, &c.] In the first manuscript:“While yet a cradled child, he conquer’d shame,And lisp’d in fables, for the fables came.” See POPE.
[6] Sin from his forehead sprung.]“A goddess armedOut of thy head I sprung.”See MILTON’s Birth of Sin.
[7] The quick transition of persons must have struck the reader in the first part of this Ode, and it will be observable throughout: Now Poet, now Muse, now Chorus; then Spinner, Blacksmith, &c. &c. The Doctor, skips from point to point over Parnassus, with a nimbleness that no modern imitator of Pindar ever equalled.—Catch him, even under a momentary shape, who can. I was always an admirer of tergiversation (and as my flatterers might say), no bad practitioner; but it remained for my friend to shew the sublimity to which the figure lam alluding to (I do not know the learned name of it) might be carried.
[8] Wrinkle-twinkle, &c.] It must have been already observed by the sagacious reader, that our author can coin an epithet as well as a fable. Wrinkles are as frequently produced by the motion of the part as by the advance of age. The head of the distinguished personage here described, though in the prime of his faculties, he had more exercise in every sense than any head in the world. Whether he means any illusion to the worship of the rising sun, and imitates the Persian priests, whose grand act of devotion is to turn round; or whether he merely thinks that the working of the head in circles will give analogous effect to the species of argument in which he excels, we must remain in the dark; but certain it is, that whenever he reasons in public, thecapitaland wonderful part of the frame I am alluding to, is continually revolving upon its axis: and his eyes, as if dazzled with rays that dart on him exclusively, twinkle in their orbs at the rate of sixty twinks to one revolution. I trust I have given a rational account, and not far-fetched, both of the wrinkle and twinkle in this ingenious compound.
[9] No rogue that goes, &c.] The candid reader will put no improper interpretation on the word rogue. Pretty rogue, dear rogue, &c. are terms of endearment to one sex; pleasant rogue, witty rogue, apply as familiar compliments to the other: Indeedfacetious rogueis the common table appellation of this gentleman in Downing-street.
[10] It will be observed by the attentive reader, that the thought of mounting the Hanoverian Horse, as a Pegasus, has been employed by Mr. Dundas, in his Ode preserved in this collection. It is true, the Doctor has taken the reins out of his hands, as it was time somebody should do. But I hereby forewarn the vulgar Critic, from the poor joke of making the Doctor a horse-stealer.
[11] Hither, brethren, &c.] When this Ode is performed in Westminster Abbey (as doubtless it will be) this Air is designed for the Reverend, or rather the Right Reverend Author. The numerous bench (for there will hardly be more than three absentees) who will begin to chaunt the subsequent chorus from their box at the right hand of his most sacred Majesty, will have fine effect both on the ear and eye.
[12] Lords of the bed-chamber, &c.] Candour obliges us to confess, that this designation of the performers, and in truth the following stanza, did not stand in the original copy, delivered into the Lord Chamberlain’s Office. Indeed, Signor Delpini had his doubts as to the legality of admitting it, notwithstanding Mr. Rose’s testimony, that it was actually andbona fidecomposed with the rest of the Ode, and had only accidentally fallen into the same drawer of Mr. Pitt’s bureau in which he had lately mislaid Mr. Gibbins’s note. Mr. Banks’s testimony was also solicited to the same effect; but he had left off vouching for the present session. Mr. Pepper Arden, indeed, with the most intrepid liberality, engaged to find authority for it in the statutes at large; on which Signor Delpini, with his usual terseness of repartee, instantly exclaimed, Ha! ha! ha! However, the difficulty was at length obviated by an observation of the noble Lord who presided, that in the case of the King versus Arkinson, the House of Lords had established the right: of judges to amend a record, as Mr. Quarme had informed his Lordship immediately after his having voted for that decision.Here end Mr. Robinson’s notes.“A present God, Heavy Hanover, Abject Commons,” &c. The imitation will be obvious to the classical reader, ———Præsens divus habebitur Augustus, _ab_jectis Britannis, Imperio,gravibusquePersis. HOR. All the editors of Horace have hitherto read _ad_jectis Britannis. Our author, as sound a critic as a divine,suo periculo, makes the alteration of a single letter, and thereby gives a new and peculiar force to the application of the passage.——N.B.Abject, in the author’s understanding of the word, means that precise degree of submission due from a free people to monarchy. It is further worthy remark, that Horace wrote the Ode alluded to; before Britain was subjected to absolute sway; and consequently the passage was meant as a prophetic compliment to Augustus. Those who do not think that Britain is yet sufficientlyabject, will regard the imitation in the same light. We shall close this subject by observing, how much better GRAVIBUS applies in the imitation than in the original; and how well the untruth of Ierne’s volunteers joining in the deification, exemplifies the dedicatory address of the lie SUBLIME!
By theMARQUIS OF GRAHAM.
I.Help! help! I say, Apollo!To you I call, to you I hollo;My Muse would fain bring forth;God of Midwives come alongBring into light my little song,See how its parent labours with the birth;My brain! my brain!What horrid pain;Come, now prithee come, I say: }Nay, if you won’t, then stay away— }Without thy help, I’ve sung full many a lay. }
II.To lighter themes let other bards resort;My verse shall tell the glories of the Court.Behold the Pensioners, a martial band;Dreadful, with rusty battle-axe in hand—Quarterly and daily waiters,A lustier troop, ye brave Beefeaters,Sweepers, Marshals, Wardrobe brushers,Patrician, and Plebeian ushers;Ye too, who watch in inner rooms;Ye Lords, ye Gentlemen, and Grooms;Oh! careful guard your royal Master’s slumber,Lest factious flies his sacred face incumber.But ah! how weak my song!Crouds still on crouds impetuous rush along,I see, I see, the motly group appear,Thurlow in front, and Chandos in the rear;Each takes the path his various genius guides—O’er Cabinetsthis, andthato’er Cooks presides!
III.Hail! too, ye beds, where, when his labour closes,With ponderous limbs great CINCINNATUS doses!Oh! say what fate the Arcadian King betidesWhen playful Mab his wandering fancy guides,Perhaps he views his HOWARD’s witMake SHERIDAN submissive sit;Perhaps o’er foes he conquest reaps:Perhaps some ditch he dauntless leaps;Now shears his people, now his mutton;Now makes a Peer, and now a button.Now mightier themes demand his care;HASTINGS for assistance flies;Bulses glittering skim the air;Hands unstretch’d would grasp the prize,But no diamond they find there;For awak’d, by amorous pat,Good lack! his gentle CHARLOTTE cries,What would your Majesty be at?The endearing question kindles fierce desire,And all the monarch owns the lover’s fire;The pious King fulfils the heav’nly plan,And little annual BRUNSWICKS speak the mighty man!
IV.At Pimlico an ancient structure stands,Where Sheffield erst, but Brunswick now commands;Crown’d with a weathercock that points at will,To every part but Constitution-hill—Hence Brunswick, peeping at the windows,Each star-light night,Looks with delight,And sees unseen,And tells the Queen,What each who passes out or in, does,Hence too, when eas’d of Faction’s dread,With joys surveys,The cattle graze,At half a crown a head—Views the canal’s transparent flood,Now fill’d with water, now with mud;Where various seasons, various charms create,Dogs in the summer swim, and boys in winter skait.
V.Oh! for the pencil of a Claud Lorrain,Apelles, Austin, Sayer, or Luke the saint—What glowing scenes;—but ah! the grant were vain,I know not how to paint——Hail! Royal Park! what various charms are thine—Thy patent lamps pale Cynthia’s rays outshine—Thy limes and elms with grace majestic grow,All in a row;Thy Mall’s smooth walk, and sacred road beside,Where Treasury Lords by Royal Mandate ride.Hark! the merry fife and drum:Hark! of beaus the busy hum;While in the gloom of evening shade,Gay wood-nymphs ply their wanton trade;Ah! nymphs too kind, each vain pursuit give o’er—If Death should call—you then can walk no more!See the children rang’d on benches;See the pretty nursery wenches;The cows, secur’d by halters, stand,Courting the ruddy milk-maid’s hand.Ill-fated cows, when all your milk they’ve ta’en,At Smithfield sold, you’ll fatten’d be and slain.—
VI.Muse, raise thine eyes and quick behold,The Treasury-office fill’d with gold;Where Elliot, Pitt, and I, each day }The tedious moments pass away, }In business now, and now in play—— }The gay Horse-guards, whose clock of mighty fame,Directs the dinner of each careful dame,Where soldiers with red coats equipp’d,Are sometimes march’d, and sometimes whipp’d.Let them not doubt——’Twas heav’n’s eternal planThat perfect bliss should ne’er be known to man.Thus Ministers, are in—are out,Turn and turn about——Even Pitt himself may lose his place, }Or thou, Delpini, sovereign of grimace, }Thou, too, by some false step, may’st meet disgrace. }
VII.Ye feather’d choristers, your voices tune,’Tis now, or near the fourth of June;All nature smiles—the day of Brunswick’s birthDestroy’d the iron-age, and made an heav’n on earth.Men and beasts his name repeating,Courtiers talking, calves a-bleating;Horses neighing,Asses braying,Sheep, hogs, and geese, with tuneful voices sing,All praise their King,George the Third, the Great, the Good.France and Spain his anger rue;Americans, he conquer’d you,Or would have done it if he cou’d.And ’midst the general loyal note,Shall not hisgoslingtune his throat;Then let me join the jocund hand,Crown’d with laurel let me stand;My grateful voice shall their’s as far exceed,As the two-legg’d excels the base four-footed breed.
MY LORD, Being informed from undoubted authority, that the learnedPierot, whom your Lordship has thought proper to nominate to the dignity of your Assessor, knows no language but his own, it seemed to me probable he might not understandIrish.—Now as I recollect my last Ode to have proceeded on the orthography of that kingdom, I thought his entire ignorance of the tongue might perhaps be some hindrance to his judgment, upon its merit. On account of this unhappy ignorance, therefore, on the part of the worthyBuffo, of any language butItalian, I have taken the liberty to present your Lordship and him with a second Ode, written inEnglish; which I hope he will find no difficulty in understanding, and which certainly has the better chance of being perfectly correct in the true English idiom, as it has been very carefully revised and altered by my worthy friend, Mr.Henry Dundas. I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s devoted servant, MOUNTMORRES.
* * * * *
By theRT. HON. HARVEY REDMOND MORRES, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND, &c.
I.Ye gentle Nymphs, who rule the Song,Who strayThessaliangroves among,With forms so bright and airy;Whether you piercePierianshades, }Or, less refin’d, adorn the glades, }And wanton with the lusty blades }Of fruitfulTipperary;Whether you sip Aonias’ wave,Or in thy stream, fairLiffy, lave;Whether you taste ambrosial food;Or thinkpotatoesquite as good,Oh, listen to anIrishPeer,Who has woo’d your sex for many a year.
II.Gold!—thou bright benignant pow’r!Parent of the jocund hour,Say, how my breast has heav’d with many a storm,When thee I worship’d in afemaleform!Thou, whose high and potent skill,Turns things and persons at thy will!Thou, whose omnipotent decree,Mighty as Fate’s eternal rule,Can make a wise man of a fool,And grace e’en loath’d deformity:Can straitness give to her that’s crook’d,AndGreciangrace to nose that’s hook’d;Can smooth the mount onLaura’s back,And wit supply to those that lack:Say, and take pity on my woes,Record my throbs, recount my throes;How oft I sigh’d,How oft I dy’d:How oft dismiss’d,How seldom kiss’d;How oft, fairPhyllida, when thee I woo’dWith cautious foresight all thy charms I view’d.O’er many a sod,How oft I trod,To count thy acres o’er;Or spent my time,For marle or lime,With anxious zeal to bore[1]!HowCupidthen all great and powerful sate,Perch’d on the vantage of a rich estate;When, for his darts, he us’d fair spreading trees,Ah!whocou’d fail that shot with shafts like these!
III.Oh, sad example of capricious Fate!SueIrishmenin vain!DoesPompey’s self, the proud, the great,Fail e’en a maid to gain?What boots my form so tall and slim,My legs so stout—my beard so grim?Why have IAlexander’s bend?Emblem of conquest never gain’d!A nose so long—a back so strait—A chairman’s mien—a chairman’s gait?Why wasted ink to make orations?Design’d to teach unlist’ning nations!Why have I view’d th’ ideal clock[2],Or mourn’d the visionary hour?Griev’d to behold with well-bred shock,The fancy’d pointer vergeto four?Then with a bow, proceed to beg,A general pardon on my leg—“Lament that to an hour so late,”“’Twas mine to urge the grave debate!”“Or mourn the rest, untimely broken!”All this to say—all this to do,In form so native, neat, and new,In speechintendedto be spoken!—But fruitless all, for neither here or there,Myleghas yet obtain’d meplace, orfair!
IV.Pompeysthere are of every shape and size:Some are the Great, y-clep’d, and some the Little,Some with their deeds that fill the wond’ring skies,And some on ladies’ laps that eat their vittle!’TisMorres’ boast—’tisMorres’ pride,To be to both ally’d!That of all variousPompeys, heForms one completeepitome!Prepar’d alike fierce Faction’s host to fight,Or, thankful, stoopofficial crumbsto bite—No equal to himself on earth to own;Or watch, with anxious eye, onTreasury-bone!As Rome’s fam’d chief, imperious, stiff, and proud;Fawning as curs, when supplicating food!In him their several virtues all reside,The peerless Puppy, and of Peers the pride!
V.Say, CriticBuffo, will not powers like these,E’en thy refin’d fastidious judgment please?A commonbuttto all mankind,’Tis my hard lot to be;O let me then some justice find,And give the BUTT to me!Then dearest DE’L,Thy praise I’ll tell,And withunprostitutedpen.InWarton’s pure and modest strain,Unwarp’d by Hope—unmov’d by Gain,I’ll call the “best of husbands,” and “most chaste of men!”Then from my pristine labours I’ll relax:Then will I lay the Tree unto the [3]Axe!Of all my former grief—Resign the bus’ness of the anxious chace,And for past failures, and for past disgrace,Here find a snug relief!The vain pursuit of female game give o’er,And, hound ofFortune, scour the town no more!
[1] When Lord Mountmorres went down into the country, some years ago; to pay his addresses to a lady of large fortune, whose name we forbear to mention, his Lordship took up his abode for several days in a small public-house in the neighbourhood of her residence, and employed his time in making all proper enquiries, and prudent observation upon the nature, extent, and value of her property:—he was seen measuring the trees with his eye, and was at last found in the act of boring for marle; when being roughly interrogated by one of the ladie’s servants, to avoid chastisement he confessed his name, and delivered his amorous credentials. The amour terminated as ten thousand others of the noble Lord’s have done!
[2] An allusion is here made to a speech published by the noble Lord, which, as the title-page imports, wasintendedto have been spoken; in which his Lordship, towards the conclusion, gravely remarks:—“Having, Sir, so long encroached upon the patience of the House, and observing by the clock that the hour has become so excessively late, nothing remains for me but to return my sincere thanks to you, Sir, and the other gentlemen of this House, for the particular civility; and extreme attention, with which I have been heard:— the interesting nature of the occasion has betrayed me into a much greater length than I had any idea originally of running into; and if the casual warmthof the momenthas led me into the least personal indelicacy towards any man alive, I am very ready to beg pardon of him and this House, Sir, for having so done.”
[3] This line is literally transcribed from a speech of LordMountmorre’s, when Candidate some years ago for the Representation of the City of Westminster.
IRREGULAR ODE,FOR THEKING’S BIRTH-DAY,BySIR GEORGE HOWARD, K. B.
CHORUS.Re mi fa sol,Tol de rol lol.
I.My Muse, for George prepare the splendid song,Oh may it float on Schwellenburgen’s voice!Let Maids of Honour sing it all day long,That Hoggaden’s fair ears may hear it, and rejoice.
II.What subject first shall claim thy courtly strains?Wilt thou begin from Windsor’s sacred brow,Where erst, with pride and pow’r elate,The Tudors sate in sullen state,While Rebel Freedom, forc’d at length to bow,Retir’d reluctant from her fav’rite plains?Ah! while in each insulting tower you traceThe features of that tyrant race,How wilt thou joy to view the alter’d scene!The Giant Castle quits his threat’ning mien;The levell’d ditch no more its jaws discloses, }But o’er its mouth, to feast our eyes and noses, }Brunswick hath planted pinks and roses; }Hath spread smooth gravel walks, and a small bowling green!
III.Mighty Sov’reign! Mighty Master!George is content with lath and plaister!At his own palace-gate,In a poor porter’s lodge, by Chambers plann’d,See him with Jenky, hand in hand,In serious mood,Talking! talking! talking! talking!Talking of affairs of state,All for his country’s good!Oh! Europe’s pride! Britannia’s hope!To view his turnips and potatoes,Down his fair Kitchen-garden’s slopeThe victor monarch walks like Cincinnatus.See, heavenly Muse! I vow to God’Twas thus the laurel’d hero trod—Sweet rural joys! delights without compare!Pleasure shines in his eyes, }While George with surprize, }Sees his cabbages rise, }And his ’sparagus wave in the air!
IV.But hark! I hear the sound of coaches,The Levee’s hour approaches—Haste, ye Postillions! o’er the turnpike road;Back to St. James’s bear your royal load!’Tis done—his smoaking wheels scarce touch’d the ground—By the Old Magpye and the New, }By Colnbrook, Hounslow, Brentford, Kew, }Half choak’d with dust the monarch flew, }And now, behold, he’s landed safe and sound.—Hail to the blest who tread this hallow’d ground!Ye firm, invincible beefeaters, }Warriors, who love their fellow-creatures, }I hail your military features! }Ye gentle, maids of honour, in stiff hoops,Buried alive up to your necks,Who chaste as Phœnixes in coops,Know not the danger that await your sex!Ye Lords, empower’d by fortune or desert,Each in his turn to change your sovereign’s shirt!Ye Country Gentlemen, ye City May’rs,Ye Pages of the King’s back-stairs,Who in these precincts joy to wait—Ye courtly wands, so white and small,And you, great pillars of the State,Who at Stephen’s slumber, or debate,Hail to you all!!!
CHORUS.Hail to you all!!!
V.Now, heavenly Muse, thy choicest song prepare:Let loftier strains the glorious subject suit:Lo! hand in hand, advance th’ enamour’d pair,This Chatham’s son, and that the drudge of Bute;Proud of their mutual love,Like Nisus and Euryalus they move,To Glory’s steepest heights together tend,Each careless for himself, each anxious for his friend!Hail! associate Politicians!Hail! sublime Arithmeticians!Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish Propositions!Sooner our gracious KingFrom heel to heel shall cease to swing;Sooner that brilliant eye shall leave its socket;Sooner that hand desert the breeches pocket,Than constant George consent his friends to quit,And break his plighted faith to Jenkinson and Pitt!
CHORUS.Hail! most prudent Politicians!Hail! correct Arithmeticians!Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish propositions!
VI.Oh! deep unfathomable Pitt!To thee Ierne owes her happiest days!Wait a bit,And all her sons shall loudly sing thy praise!Ierne, happy, happy Maid!Mistress of the Poplin trade!Old Europa’s fav’rite daughter,Whom first emerging from the water,In days of yore,Europa bore,To the celestial Bull!Behold thy vows are heard, behold thy joys are full!Thy fav’rite Resolutions greet,They’re not much changed, there’s no deceit!Pray be convinc’d, they’re still the true ones,Though sprung from thy prolific head,Each resolution hath begotten new ones,And like their sires, all Irish born and bred!Then haste, Ierne, haste to sing,God save great George! God save the King!May thy sons’ sons to him their voices tune,And each revolving year bring back the fourth of June!
Agreeably to the request of the Right Reverend Author, the following Ode is admitted into this collection; and I think it but justice to declare, that I have diligently scanned it on my fingers; and, after repeated trials, to the best of my knowledge, believe the Metre to be of the Iambic kind, containing three, four, five, and six feet in one line, with the occasional addition of the hypercatalectic syllable at stated periods. I am, therefore, of opinion, that the composition is certainly verse; though I would not wish to pronounce too confidently. For further information I shall print his Grace’s letter.
SIR JOHN, As I understand you are publishing an authentic Edition of the Probationary Odes. I call upon you to do me the justice of inserting the enclosed. It was rejected on the Scrutiny by Signor Delpini, for reasons which must have been suggested by the malevolence of some rival. The reasons were, 1st, That the Ode was nothing but prose, written in an odd manner; and, 2dly, That the Metre, if there be any, as well as many of the thoughts, are stolen from a little Poem, in a Collection called the UNION. To a man, blest with an ear so delicate as your’s, Sir John, I think it unnecessary to say any thing on the first charge; and as to the second, (would you believe it?) the Poem from which I am accused of stealing is my own! Surely an Author has a right to make free with his own ideas, especially when, if they were ever known, they have long since been forgotten by his readers. You are not to learn, Sir John, thatde non apparentibus & non existentibus eadem est ratio:and nothing but the active spirit of literary jealousy, could have dragged forth my former Ode from the obscurity, in which it has long slept, to the disgrace of all good taste in the present age. However, that you and the public may see, how little I have really taken, and how much I have opened the thoughts, and improved the language of that little, I send youmy imitations of myself, as well as some few explanatory notes, necessary to elucidate my classical and historical allusions.
I am, SIR JOHN,With every wish for your success,Your most obedient humble servant,WILLIAM YORK.
* * * * *
By DR. W. MARKHAM,Lord Archbishop of York, Primate of England, and Lord High Almonerto his Majesty, formerly Preceptor to the Princes, Head Master ofWestminster School, &c. &c. &c.
STROPHE I.The priestly mind what virtue so approves,And testifies the pure prelatic spirit,As loyal gratitude?More to my King, than to my God, I owe;God and my father made me man,Yet not without my mother’s added aid;But George, without, or God, or man,With grace endow’, and hallow’d me Archbishop.
ANTISTROPHE I.In Trojan PRIAM’s court a laurel grew;So VIRGIL sings. But I will sing the laurel,Which at St. JAMES’s blooms.O may I bend my brows from that blest tree,Not flourishing in native green,Refreshed with dews from AGANIPPE’s spring:But, [1]like the precious plant of DIS,Glitt’ring with gold, with royal sack irriguous.
EPODE I.So shall my aukward gratitude,With fond presumption to the Laureat’s dutyAttune my rugged numbers blank.Little I reck the meed of such a song;Yet will I stretch aloof,And tell of Tory principles,The right Divine of Kings;And Power Supreme that brooks not bold contention:Till all the zeal monarchialThat fired the Preacher, in the Bard shall blaze,And what my Sermons were, my Odes once more shall be.
STROPHE II.[2]Good PRICE, to Kings and me a foe no more,By LANSDOWN won, shall pay with friendly censureHis past hostility.Nor shall not He assist, my pupil once,Of stature small, but doughty tongue,Bold ABINGDON, whose rhetoric unrestrain’d,Rashes, more lyrically wild,[3]Than GREENE’s mad lays, when he out-pindar’d PINDAR.
ANTISTROPHE II.With him too, EFFINGHAM his aid shall join,[4] Who, erst by GORDON led, with bonfires usher’dHis Sov’reign’s natal month.Secure in such allies, to princely themes,To HENRY’s and to EDWARD’s young.Dear names, I’ll meditate the faithful song;How oft beneath my birch severe,Like EFFINGHAM and ABINGDON, they tingled:
EPODE II.Or to the YOUTH IMMACULATEAscending thence, I’ll sing the strain celestial,By PITT, to bless our isle restor’d.Trimplenty,not luxuriantas of old,Peace, laurel-crown’d no more;[5] Justice, that smites by scores, unmov’d;And her of verdant locks,Commerce, like Harlequin, in motley vesture,[6]Whose magic sword with sudden sleight,Wav’d o’er the HIBERNIAN treaty, turns to bonds,The dreams of airy wealth, that play’d round PATRICK’s[7] eyes.
STROPHE III.But lo! yon bark, that rich with India spoils,O’er the wide-swilling ocean rides triumphant,Oh! to BRITANNIA’s shoreIn safety waft, ye winds, the precious freight!’Tis HASTINGS; of the prostrate EASTDespotic arbiter; whose [8] bounty gaveMy MARKHAM’s delegated ruleTo riot in the plunder of BENARES.
ANTISTROPHE III.How yet affrighted GANGES, oft distain’dWith GENTOO carnage, quakes thro’ all his branches!Soon may I greet the morn,When, HASTINGS screen’d, DUNDAS and GEORGE’s name.Thro’ BISHOPTHORP’s[9] glad roofs shall sound,Familiar in domestic merriment;Or in thy chosen PLACE, ST. JAMES,Be carol’d loud amid th’ applauding IMHOFFS!
EPODE III.When wealthy Innocence, pursuedBy Factious Envy, courts a Monarch’s succour,Mean gifts of vulgar cost, alikeDishonour him, who gives, and him, who takes.Not thus shall HASTINGS sav’d,Thee, BRUNSWICK, and himself disgrace.[10]O may thy blooming Heir,In virtues equal, be like thee prolific!Till a new race of little GUELPS,Beneath the rod of future MARKHAMS train’d,Lisp on their Grandsire’s knee his mitred Laureat’s lays.
[1] See Virgil’s Æneid, b. vi.
[2] During the Administration of Lord SHELBURNE, I was told by a friend of mine, that Dr. PRICE took occasion, in his presence, to declare the most lively abhorrence of the damnable heresies, which he had formerly advanced against theJure divinodoctrines, contained in some of my Sermons.
[3] See a translation of PINDAR, by EDWARD BURNABY GKEENE.
[4] This alludes wholly to a private anecdote, and in no degree to certain malicious reports of the noble Earl’s conduct during the riots of June, 1780.
[5] The present Ministry have twice gratified the public, with the awfully sublime spectacle of twenty hanged at one time.
[6] These three lines, I must confess, have been interpolated since the introduction of the fourth Proposition in the newIrishResolutions. They arose, however, quite naturally out of my preceding personification of commerce.
[7] I have taken the liberty of employingPatrickin the same sense asPaddy, to personify the people ofIreland. The latter name was too colloquial for the dignity of my blank verse.
[8] One of the many frivolous charges brought against Mr. Hastings by factious men, is the removal of a Mr. FOWKE, contrary to the orders of the Directors, that he might make room for his own appointment of my so to the Residentship of BENARES. I have ever thought it my duty to support the late Governor-General, both at Leadenhall and in the House of Peers, against all such vexatious accusations.
[9] As many of my Competitors have complained of Signer Delpini’s ignorance, I cannot help remarking here, that he did not know BISHOPTHORP to be the name of my palace, in Yorkshire; he did not know Mr. Hastings’s house to be in St. James’s-place; he did not know Mrs. Hastings to have two sons by MynheerImhoff, her former husband, still living. And what is more shameful than all in a Critical Assessor, he had never heard of the poetical figure, by which I elegantly say,thy place, St. James’s,instead ofSt. James’s-place.
[10] Signor Delpini wanted to strike out all that follows, because truly it had no connection with the rest. The transition, like some others in this and my former Ode to Arthur Onslow, Esq. may be too fine for vulgar apprehensions, but it is therefore the more Pindaric.
StropheI.This goodly frame what virtue so approves,And testifies the pure ætherial spirit,As mild benevolence?My Ode to Arthur Onslow, Esq.
EpodeI.How shall my aukward gratitude,And the presumption of untutor’d dutyAttune thy numbers all too rude?Little he recks the meed of such a song;Yet will I stretch aloof, &c.Ibid.
AntistropheII.To HENRYS and to EDWARDS old,Dread names, I’ll meditate the faithful song, &c.Ibid.
EpodeII. Justice with steady brow,Trimplenty,Laureatpeace, andgreen-hair’dcommerce, In flowing robe ofthousand hues, &c. On this imitation of myself, I cannot help remarking, how happily I have now applied some of these epithets, which, it must be confessed, had not half the propriety before.
StropheIII.Or trace her navy, where in towering prideO’er the wide-swelling waste it rolls avengeful.Ibid.
AntistropheIII.How headlong Rhone and Ebro, erst distain’dWith Moorish carnage, quakes thro’ all her branches!Soon shall I greet the morn,When, Europe saved, BRITAIN and GEORGE’s nameShall soon o’er FLANDRIA’s level field,Familiar in domestic merriment;Or by the jolly marinerBe carol’d loud adown the echoing Danube.Ibid.
EpodeIII.O may your rising hope,Well-principled in every virtue, bloom,’Till a fresh-springing flock implore,With infant hands, a Grandsire’s powerful prayer,Or round your honour’d couch their pratling sports pursue.