WILKES.
Bless'd be the beef-fed guard, whose vigorous twist
Wrench'd the rais'd weapon from the murderer's fist, 40
Him Lords in waiting shall with awe behold
In red tremendous, and hirsute in gold.
On him, great monarch, let thy bounty shine,
What meed can match a life so dear as thine?
Well was that bounty measured, all must own, 45
That gave him half of what he saved—a crown.
Bless'd the dull edge, for treason's views unfit,
Harmless as SYDNEY's rage, or BEARCROFT's wit.
Blush, clumsy patriots, for degenerate zeal,
WILKES had not guided thus the faithless steel! 50
Round your sad mistress flock, ye maids elect,
Whose charms severe your chastity protect;
Scar'd by whose glance, despairing love descries,
That virtue steals no triumph from your eyes.
Round your bold master flock, ye mitred hive, 55
With anathems on Whigs his soul revive!
Saints! whom the sight of human blood appals,
Save when to please the Royal will it falls.
He breathes! he lives! the vestal choir advance,
Each takes a bishop, and leads up the dance, 60
Nor dreads to break her long respected vow,
For chaste—ah strange to tell!—are bishops now:
Saturnian times return!—the age of truth,
And—long foretold—is come the virgin youth.
Now sage professors, for their learning's curse, 65
Die of their duty in remorseless verse:
Now sentimental Aldermen expire
In prose half flaming with the Muse's fire;
Their's—while rich dainties swim on every plate—
Their's the glad toil to feast for Britain's fate; 70
Nor mean the gift the Royal grace affords,
All shall be knights—but those that shall be lords.
Fountain of Honour, that art never dry,
Touch'd with whose drops of grace no thief can die,
Still with new titles soak the delug'd land, 75
Still may we all be safe from KETCH's menac'd hand!
JENKINSON.
Oh wond'rous man, with a more wond'rous Muse!
O'er my lank limbs thy strains a sleep diffuse,
Sweet as when PITT with words, disdaining end,
Toils to explain, yet scorns to comprehend. 80
Ah! whither had we fled, had that foul day
Torn him untimely from our arms away?
What ills had mark'd the age, had that dire thrust
Pierc' his soft heart, and bow'd his bob to dust?
Gods! to my labouring sight what phantoms rise! 85
Here Juries triumph, and there droops Excise!
Fierce from defeat, and with collected might,
The low-born Commons claim the people's right:
And mad for freedom, vainly deem their own,
Their eye presumptuous dares to scan the throne. 90
See—in the general wreck that smothers all,
Just ripe for justice—see my HASTINGS fall.
Lo, the dear Major meets a rude repulse,
Though blazing in each hand he bears a BULSE?
Nor Ministers attend, nor Kings relent, 95
Though rich Nabobs so splendidly repent.
See EDEN's faith expos'd to sale again,
Who takes his plate, and learns his French in vain.
See countless eggs for us obscure the sky,
Each blanket trembles, and each pump is dry. 100
Far from good things DUNDAS is sent to roam,
Ah!—worse than banish'd—doom'd to live at home.
Hence dire illusions! dismal scenes away—
Again he cries, "What, what!" and all is gay.
Come, BRUNSWICK, come, great king of loaves and fishes,
Be bounteous still to grant us all our wishes! 106
Twice every year with BEAUFOY as we dine,
Pour'd to the brim—eternal George—be thine
Two foaming cups of his nectareous juice,
Which—new to gods—no mortal vines produce. 110
To us shall BRUDENELL sing his choicest airs,
And capering MULGRAVE ape the grace of bears;
A grand thanksgiving pious YORK compose,
In all the proud parade of pulpit prose;
For sure Omniscience will delight to hear, 115
Thou 'scapest a danger, that was never near.
While ductile PITT thy whisper'd wish obeys,
While dupes believe whate'er the Doctor says,
While panting to be tax'd, the famish'd poor
Grow to their chains, and only beg for more; 120
While fortunate in ill, thy servants find
No snares too slight to catch the vulgar mind:
Fix'd as the doom, thy power shall still remain,
And thou, wise King, as uncontroul'd shall reign.
WILKES.
Thanks, Jenky, thanks, for ever could'st thou sing, 125
For ever could I sit and hear thee praise the King.
Then take this book, which with a Patriot's pride,
Once to his sacred warrant I deny'd,
Fond though he was of reading all I wrote:
No gift can better suit thy tuneful throat. 130
JENKINSON.
And thou this Scottish pipe, which JAMIE's breath
Inspir'd when living, and bequeath'd in death,
From lips unhallow'd I've prcserv'd it long:
Take the just tribute of thy loyal song. 134
IMITATIONS.
Ver. 59. Ergo alacris sylvas et cetera rura voluptas.
Panaque pastoresque tenet, Dryadasque puellas.
Ver. 61. Nec lupus insidias pecori, &c.
Ver. 63. Jam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna.
Ver. 78. Tale tuum carmen nobis, divine Poeta,
Quale sopor sessis in gramine.
Ver. 106. Sis bonus; O! felixque tuis—
Ver. 107. Pocula bina novo spumantia lacte quot—annis
Craterasque duo statuam tibi.
Ver. 109. Vina novum fundum calathis Arvisia nectar.
Ver. 114. Cantabunt mihi Damætas et Lictius Ægon.
Saltantes Satyros imitabitur Alphæsibæus.
Ver. 121. Dum juga montis aper, &c.
Semper honos, nomenque tuum, laudesque manebunt.
Ver. 130. At tu sume pedurn, quod cum me sæpe rogaret
Non tulit Antigenes, et erat turn dignus amari.
Ver. 134. Est mihi—
Fistula, Damætas dono mini quam dedit olim,
Et dixit moriens, "Te nunc, habet ista secundum."
ECL. II.
NOTES.
Ver. 46. half—a crown!—Literally so.
Ver. 63, 64. It is rearkable that these are the only lines which our Poet has imitated from the IVth Eclogue (or the Pollio) of Virgil. Perhaps the direct and obvious application of that whole Eclogue appeared to our author to be an undertaking too easy for the exercise of his superior talents; or perhaps he felt himself too well anticipated by a similar imitation of Pope's Messiah, which was inserted some time since in one of the public papers. If the author will favour us with a corrected copy, adapted rather to the Pollio than the Messiah, we shall be happy to give it a place in our subsequent editions, of which we doubt not the good taste of the town will demand as many as of the rest of our celebrated bard's immortal compositions.
Ver. 119. The public alarm expressed upon the event which is the subject of this Pastoral, was certainly a very proper token of affection to a Monarch, every action of whose reign denotes him to be the father of his people. Whether it has sufficiently subsided to admit of a calm enquiry into facts, is a matter of some doubt, as the addresses were not finished in some late Gazettes. If ever that time should arrive, the world will be very well pleased to hear that the miserable woman whom the Privy Council have judiciously confined in Bedlam for her life, never even aimed a blow at his August Person.
Ver. 127. This Book, &c. Essay on Woman.
Ver. 130. No gift can better suit thy——throat. The ungrateful people of England, we have too much reason to fear, may be of a different opinion.
* * * * *
The following is a very close Translation of VIRGIL's SILENUS; so close indeed that many Readers may be surprised at such a Deviation from our Authur's usual Mode of imitating the Ancients. But we are to consider that VIRGIL is revered by his Countrymen, not only as a Poet, but likewise as a Prophet and Magician; and our incomparable Translator, who was not ignorant of this Circumstance, was convinced, that VIRGIL in his SILENUS had really and bonâ fide meant to allude to the Wonders of the present Reign, and consequently that it became his Duty to adhere most strictly to his Original, and to convey the true Meaning of this hitherto inexplicable Eclogue.
Mine was the Muse, that from a Norman scroll
First rais'd to Fame the barbarous worth of ROLLE,
And dar'd on DEVON's hero to dispense
The gifts of Language, Poetry, and Sense.
In proud Pindarics next my skill I try'd, 5
But SALISB'RY wav'd his wand and check'd my pride:
"Write English, friend (he cry'd), be plain and flatter,
Nor thus confound your compliment and satire.
Even I, a critic by the King's command,
Find these here odes damn'd hard to understand." 10
Now then, O deathless theme of WARTON's Muse,
Oh great in War! oh glorious at Reviews!
While many a rival anxious for the bays;
Pursues thy virtues with relentless praise;
While at thy levee smiling crowds appear, 15
Blest that thy birth-day happens once a year:
Like good SIR CECIL, I to woods retire,
And write plain eclogues o'er my parlour fire.
Yet still for thee my loyal verse shall flow,
Still, shou'd it please, to thee its charms shall owe; 20
And well I ween, to each succeeding age,
Thy name shall guard and consecrate my page.
Begin, my Muse!—As WILBERFORCE and BANKS
Late in the Lobby play'd their usual pranks,
Within a water-closet's niche immur'd 25
(Oh that the treacherous door was unsecur'd),
His wig awry, his papers on the ground,
Drunk, and asleep, CHARLES JENKINSON they found.
Transported at the sight (for oft of late
At PITT's assembled on affairs of state, 30
They both had press'd him, but could ne'er prevail,
To sing a merry song or tell a tale)
In rush'd th' advent'rous youths:—they seize, they bind,
Make fast his legs, and tie his hands behind,
Then scream for help; and instant to their aid 35
POMONA flies, POMONA, lovely maid;
Or maid, or goddess, sent us from above,
To bless young Senators with fruit and love.
Then thus the sage—"Why these unseemly bands?
"Untie my legs, dear boys, and loose my hands; 40
The promis'd tale be yours: a tale to you;
To fair POMONA different gifts are due."
Now all things haste to hear the master talk:
Here Fawns and Satyrs from the Bird-cage-walk,
Here Centaur KENYON, and the Sylvan sage, 45
Whom BOWOOD guards to rule a purer age,
Here T———W, B———T, H———N appear,
With many a minor savage in their rear,
Panting for treasons, riots, gibbets, blocks,
To strangle NORTH, to scalp and eat CHARLES FOX. 50
There H———'s sober band in silence wait,
Inur'd to sleep, and patient of debate;
Firm in their ranks, each rooted to his chair
They sit, and wave their wooden heads in air.
Less mute the rocks while tuneful Phoebus sung, 55
Less sage the critic brutes round Orpheus hung;
For true and pleasant were the tales he told,
His theme great GEORGE's age, the age of gold.
Ere GEORGE appear'd a Briton bora and bred,
One general Chaos all the land o'erspread 60
There lurking seeds of adverse factions lay,
Which warm'd and nurtur'd by his dawning ray,
Sprang into life. Then first began to thrive
The tender shoots of young Prerogative;
Then spread luxuriant, when unclouded shone 65
The full meridian splendour of the throne.
Yet was the Court a solitary waste;
Twelve lords alone the Royal chamber grac'd!
When BUTE, the good DEUCALION of the reign,
To gracious BRUNSWICK pray'd, nor pray'd in vain. 70
For straight (oh goodness of the royal mind!)
Eight blocks, to dust and rubbish long confin'd,
Now wak'd by mandate from their trance of years,
Grew living creatures—just like other Peers.
Nor here his kindness ends—From wild debate 75
And factious rage he guards his infant state.
Resolv'd alone his empire's toils to bear,
"Be all men dull!" he cry'd, and dull they were.
Then sense was treason:—then with bloody claw
Exulting soar'd the vultures of the law: 80
Then ruffians robb'd by ministerial writ,
And GRENVILLE plunder'd reams of useless wit,
While mobs got drunk 'till learning should revive,
And loudly bawl'd for WILKES and forty-five.
Next to WILL PITT he past, so sage, so young, 85
So cas'd with wisdom, and so arm'd with tongue
His breast with every royal virtue full,
Yet, strange to tell, the minion of JOHN BULL.
Prepost'rous passion! say, what fiend possest,
Misguided youth, what phrenzy fir'd thy breast? 90
'Tis true, in senates, many a hopeful lad
Has rav'd in metaphor, and run stark mad;
His friend, the heir-apparent of MONTROSE,
Feels for his beak, and starts to find a nose;
Yet at these times preserve the little share 95
Of sense and thought intrusted to their care;
While thou with ceaseless folly, endless labour,
Now coaxing JOHN, now flirting with his neighbour,
Hast seen thy lover from his bonds set free,
Damning the shop-tax, and himself, and thee. 100
Now good MACPHERSON, whose prolific muse
Begets false tongues, false heroes, and false news,
Now frame new lies, now scrutinize thy brain,
And bring th' inconstant to these arms again!
Next of the Yankeys' fraud the master told, 105
And GRENVILLE's fondness for Hesperian gold;
And GRENVILLE's friends, conspicuous from afar,
In mossy down incas'd, and bitter tar.
SIR CECIL next adorn'd the pompous song,
Led by his CÆLIA through th' admiring throng, 110
All CÆLIA's sisters hail'd the prince of bards,
Reforming sailors bow'd, and patriot guards:
While thus SIR JOSEPH (his stupendious head
Crown'd with green-groc'ry, and with flow'rs o'erspread)
From the high hustings spoke—"This pipe be thine, 115
This pipe, the fav'rite present of the Nine,
On which WILL WHITEHEAD play'd those powerful airs,
Which to ST. JAMES's drew reluctant May'rs,
And forc'd stiff-jointed Aldermen to bend;
Sing thou on this thy SAL'SBURY, sing thy friend; 120
Long may he live in thy protecting strains,
And HATFIELD vie with TEMPE's fabled plains!"
Why should I tell th' election's horrid tale,
That scene of libels, riots, blood, and ale?
There of SAM HOUSE the horrid form appeared; 125
Round his white apron howling monsters reared
Their angry clubs; mid broken heads they polled;
And HOOD's best sailors in the kennel rolled;
Ah! why MAHON's disastrous fate record?
Alas! how fear can change the fiercest lord! 130
See the sad sequel of the grocers' treat—
Behold him darting up St. James's-street,
Pelted, and scar'd by BROOKE's hellish sprites,
And vainly fluttering round the door of WHITE's!
All this, and more he told, and every word 135
With silent awe th' attentive striplings heard,
When, bursting on their ear, stern PEARSON's note
Proclaim'd the question put, and called them forth to vote.
IMITATIONS.
Ver. 1. Prima Syracosio dignita est ludere versu,
Nostra nee erubuit sylvas habitare Thalia.
Cum canerem regis et prælia, Cynthius aurem
Vellit, et admonuit, &c. &c.
Ver. 11. Nunc ego (namque super tibi, erunt, qui dicere laudes
Vare, tuus cupiant, et tristia condere bella)
Sylvestrem tenui meditabor arundine musam.
Ver. 18. ————-Si quis tamen hæc quoque, siquis
Captus amore leget, te nostræ, Vare, myricæ
Te nemus omne canet, &c.
Ver. 23. ————-Chromis et Mnasylus in autro
Silenum pueri somno videre jacentem.
Ver. 29. Aggressi, nam sæpe senex spe carminis ambo
Luserat, injiciunt ex ipsis vincula sertis.
Ver. 35. Addit se sociam timidisque supervenit Ægle,
Ægle Naiadum pulcherrima.
Ver. 39. —————Quid vincula nectitis? inquit,
Solvite me pueri——
Carmina quæ vultis cognoscite, carmina vobis;
Huic aliud mercedis erit.
Ver. 43. Tum vero in numerurn faunosque ferasque videres,
Ludere, tum rigidas motare cacumina quercus.
Ver. 55. Nec tantum Phoebo gaudet Parnassia rupes,
Nec tantum Rhodope miratur et Ismarus Orphea.
Ver. 57. Namque canebat, uti magnum per inane coacta,
Semina terrarumque animæque marisque fuissent,
Et liquidi simul ignis: Ut his exordia primis
Omnia, et ipse tener mundi concreverit orbis.
Ver. 62. Incipiant sylvæ cum primum surgere———
Jamque novum ut terræ stupeant lucescere solem.
Ver. 68. —————————————Cumque
Rara per ignotos errant animalia montes.
Ver. 69. Hinc lapides Pyrrhæ jactos—————
Ver. 78. ——————Saturnia regna.
Ver. 81. Caucaseasque refert volucres:
Ver. 82. ——————Furtumque Promethei.
Ver. 84 ——————Hylan nautæ quo fonte relictum,
Clamassent ut littus Hyla, Hyla, omne sonaret.
Ver. 88. Pasaphaen nivei solatur amore juvenci.
Ver. 89. Ah virgo infelix quæ te dementia cepit?
Ver. 93. Prætides implerunt falsis mugitibus agros.
Ver. 96. Et sæpe in lævi quæsissent cornua fronte,
At non, &c.
Ver. 99. Ille latus niveum, &c.
Ver. 101. ———Claudite nymphæ
Dictææ nymphæ, nemorum jam claudite saltus,
Si quâ forte ferant oculis sese obvia nostris,
Errabunda bovis vestigia.
Ver. 106. Tum canit Hesperidurn miratam mala puellant.
Ver. 108. Tum Phaetontiadas musco circumdat amaræ
Corticis, atque solo proceras erigit.
Ver. 109. Tum canit errantem———Gallum,
Aonas in montes ut duxerit una sororum,
Utque viro Phoebi chorus assurrexerit omnis;
Ut Linus hæc illi divino carmine pastor
Floribus, atque apio crines ornatus amaro,
Dixerit; hos tibi dant calamos, en accipe, musæ,
Ascræo quos ante seni, quibus ille solebat
Cantando rigidas deducere montibus ornos, &c. &c. &c.
Ver. 127. Quid loquar—Scyllum quam fama secuta est
Candida succinctam latrantibus inguina monstris
————————————gurgite in alto
Ah timidos nautas canibus lacerasse marinis.
Ver. 132. Aut ut mutatos Terei norraverit artus:
Quas illi Philomela dapes; quæ dona paravit,
Quo corsû deserta petiverit, & quibus ante
Infelix sua tecta supervolitæ erit alis.
NOTES. Ver. 42. To fair Pomana, &c.] We are sorry to inform our readers, that the promise which Mr. Jenkinson here intimates in favour of the lady was, we fear, but the promise of a courtier. Truth obliges us to declare, that having taken some pains to enquire into the facts, we were assured by the lady herself, that she never received any other gift, present, or compliment what-ever from Mr. Jenkinson.
Ver. 68. Our Poet, for so careful a student of the Court Calendar, as he must certainly be, is a little inaccurate here. The Lords of the Bed-chamber were in truth thirteen, and seven only were added. The numbers in the text were probably preserved as more euphonius.
Ver. 101. Good Macpherson, &c.] This Ingenious gentleman, who first signalized himself by a bombast translation of poems which never existed, is now said occasionally to indulge his native genius for fiction in paragraphs of poetical prose for some of our daily papers.
Ver. 106. Hesperian gold.] The American revenue, which the late Mr. Grenville was to have raised by his celebrated Stamp Act. Mr. Jankinson, who was himself the author of that act, here delicately touches an the true origin of the American war; a measure in which, however unseccussful, we doubt not, he will ever be ready to glory.
Ver. 110. SIR. CECIL's poems to Cælia are well known; and we are persuaded will live to preserve the fame of his talents, when his admirable letter to the Scottish reformers, and his pamphlet on the Westminster Election, shall be forgotten.
* * * * *
——————————————miserabile Carmen
Integrat, & mæstis latè loca questibus implet.—VIRGIL.
Jekyll, the wag of law, the scribblers pride,
Calne to the senate sent—when TOWNSHEND died.
So LANSDOWNE will'd:—the old hoarse rook at rest,
A jackdaw phoenix chatters from his nest.
Statesman and lawyer now, with clashing cares, 5
Th' important youth roams thro' the Temple squares;
Yet stays his step, where, with congenial play,
The well-known fountain babbles day by day:
The little fountain:—whose restricted course,
In low faint Essays owns its shallow sourse. 10
There, to the tinkling jet he tun'd his tongue,
While LANSDOWNE's fame, and LANSDOWNE's fall, he sung.
"Where were our friends, when the remorseless crew
Of felon whigs—great LANSDOWNE's pow'r o'erthrew?
For neither then, within St. Stephen's wall 15
Obedient WESTCOTE hail'd the Treasury-call;
Nor treachery then had branded EDEN's fame,
Or taught mankind the miscreant MINCHIN's name,
Joyful no more (tho' TOMMY spoke so long)
Was high-born HOWARD's cry, or POWNEY's prattling tongue. 20
Vain was thy roar, MAHON!—tho' loud and deep;
Not our own GILBERT could be rous'd from sleep.
No bargain yet the tribe of PHIPPS had made:
LANSDOWNE! you sought in vain ev'n MULGRAVE's aid;
MULGRAVE—at whose harsh scream in wild surprise, 25
The speechless Speaker lifts his drowsy eyes.
Ah! hapless day! still as thy hours return,
Let Jesuits, Jews, and sad Dissenters mourn!
Each quack and sympathizing juggler groan,
While bankrupt brokers echo moan for moan. 30
Oh! much-lov'd peer!—my patron!—model!—friend!
How does thy alter'd state my bosom rend.
Alas! the ways of courts are strange and dark!
PITT scarce would make thee now-a Treasury-clerk!"
Stung with the maddening thought, his griefs, his fears 35
Dissolve the plaintiff councellor in tears.
"How oft," he cries, "has wretched LANSDOWNE said;
Curs'd be the toilsome hours by statesmen led!
Oh! had kind heaven ordain'd my humbler fate
A country gentleman's—of small estate— 40
With Price and Priestly in some distant grove,
Blest I had led the lowly life I love.
Thou, Price, had deign'd to calculate my flocks!
Thou, Priestley! sav'd them from the lightning shocks!
Unknown the storms and tempests of the state—— 45
Unfelt the mean ambition to be great;
In Bowood's shade had passed my peaceful days,
Far from the town and its delusive ways;
The crystal brook my beverage—and my food
Hips, carnels, haws, and berries of the wood." 50
"Blest peer! eternal wreaths adorn thy brow!
Thou CINCINNATU's of the British plough!
But rouse again thy talents and thy zeal!
Thy Sovereign, sure, must wish thee Privy-seal.
Or, what if from the seals thou art debarr'd? 55
CHANDOS, at least, he might for thee discard.
Come, LANSDOWNE! come—thy life no more thy own,
Oh! brave again the smoke and noise of town:
For Britain's sake, the weight of greatness bear,
And suffer honours thou art doom'd to wear." 60
To thee her Princes, lo! where India sends!
All BENFIELD's here—and there all HASTINGS' friends;
MACPHERSON—WRAXALL—SULLIVAN—behold!
CALL—BARWELL—MIDDLETON—with heaps of gold!
Rajahs—Nabobs—from Oude—Tanjore—Arcot— 65
And see!—(nor oh! disdain him!)—MAJOR SCOTT.
Ah! give the Major but one gracious nod:
Ev'n PITT himself once deign'd to court the squad.
"Oh! be it theirs, with more than patriot heat,
To snatch their virtues from their lov'd retreat: 70
Drag thee reluctant to the haunts of men,
And make the minister—Oh! God!—but when!"
Thus mourn'd the youth—'till, sunk in pensive grief,
He woo'd his handkerchief for soft relief.
In either pocket either hand he threw; 75
When, lo!—from each, a precious tablet flew.
This—his sage patron's wond'rous speech on trade:
This—his own book of sarcasms ready made.
Tremendous book!—thou motley magazine
Of stale severities, and pilfer'd spleen! 80
O! rich in ill!—within thy leaves entwin'd,
What glittering adders lurk to sting the mind.
Satire's Museum!—with SIR ASHTON's lore,
The naturalist of malice eyes thy store:
Ranging, with fell Virtû, his poisonous tribes 85
Of embryo sneers, and anamalcule gibes.
Here insect puns their feeble wings expand
To speed, in little flights, their lord's command:
There, in their paper chrysalis, he sees
Specks of bon mots, and eggs of repartees. 90
In modern spirits ancient wit he steeps;
If not its gloss, the reptile's venom keeps:
Thy quaintness' DUNNING! but without thy sense:
And just enough of B———t, for offence.
On these lov'd leaves a transient glance he threw: 95
But weighter themes his anxious thoughts pursue.
Deep senatorial pomp intent to reach,
With ardent eyes he hangs o'er LANSDOWNE's speech.
Then, loud the youth proclaims the enchanting words
That charm'd the "noble natures" of the lords, 100
"Lost and obscured in Bowood's humble bow'r,
No party tool—no candidate for pow'r—
I come, my lords! an hermit from my cell,
A few blunt truths in my plain style to tell.
Highly I praise your late commercial plan; 105
Kingdoms should all unite—like man and man.
The French love peace—ambition they detest;
But Cherburg's frightful works deny me rest.
With joy I see new wealth for Britain shipp'd,
Lisbon's a froward child and should be whipp'd. 110
Yet Portugal'_s our old and best ally,
And Gallic faith is but a slender tie,
My lords! the_ manufacturer's a fool;
The clothier, too, knows nothing about wool;
Their interests still demand syr constant care; 115
Their griefs are mine—their fears are my despair.
My lords! my soul is big with dire alarms;
Turks, Germans, Russians, Prussians, all in arms!
A noble Pole (I'm proud to call him friend!)
Tells me of things I cannot comprehend. 120
Your lordship's hairs would stand on end to hear
My last dispatches from the Grand Vizier.
The fears of Dantzick-merchants can't be told;
Accounts from Cracow make my blood run cold.
The state of Portsmouth_, and of_ Plymouth Docks, 125
Your Trade—your Taxes—Army—Navy—Stocks—
All haunt me in my dreams; and, when I rise,
The bank of England scares my open eyes.
I see—I know some dreadful storm is brewing;
Arm all your coasts—your navy is your ruin. 130
I say it still; but (let me be believed)
In this your lordships have been much deceiv'd.
A noble Duke affirms, I like his plan:
I never did, my lords!—I never can—
Shame on the slanderous breath! which dares instill 135
That I, who now condemn, advis'd the ill.
Plain words, thank Heav'n! are always understood:
I could approve, I said—but not I wou'd.
Anxious to make the noble Duke content, }
My view was just to seem to give consent, 140 }
While all the world might see that nothing less was meant." }
While JEKYLL thus, the rich exhaustless store
Of LANSDOWNE's rhetoric ponders o'er and o'er;
And, wrapt in happier dreams of future days,
His patron's triumphs in his own surveys; 145
Admiring barristers in crouds resort
From Figtree—Brick—Hare—Pump—and Garden court.
Anxious they gaze—and watch with silent awe
The motley son of politics and law.
Meanwhile, with softest smiles and courteous bows, 150
He, graceful bending, greets their ardent vows.
"Thanks, generous friends," he cries, "kind Templers, thanks!
Tho' now, with LANSDOWNE's band your JEKYLL ranks,
Think not, he wholly quits black-letter cares;
Still—still the lawyer with the statesman shares." 155
But, see! the shades of night o'erspread the skies!
Thick fogs and vapours from the Thames arise.
Far different hopes our separate toils inspire:
To parchment you, and precedent retire.
With deeper bronze your darkest looks imbrown, 160
Adjust your brows for the demurring frown:
Brood o'er the fierce rebutters of the bar,
And brave the issue of the gowned war.
Me, all unpractis'd in the bashful mood,
Strange, novice thoughts, and alien cares delude. 165
Yes, modest Eloquence! ev'n I must court
For once, with mimic vows, thy coy support;
Oh! would'st thou lend the semblance of my charms!
Feign'd agitations, and assum'd alarms!
'Twere all I'd ask:—but for one day alone 170
To ape thy downcast look—my suppliant tone:
To pause—and bow with hesitating grace—
Here try to faulter—there a word misplace:
Long-banish'd blushes this pale cheek to teach,
And act the miseries of a maiden speech. 175
Having, in the year seventeen hundred and seventy-six, put forth A HISTORY OF MUSIC, in five volumes quarto (which buy), notwithstanding my then avocations as Justice of the Peace for the county of Middlesex and city and liberty of Westminster; I, Sir John Hawkins, of Queen-square, Westminster, Knight, do now, being still of sound health and understanding, esteem it my bounden duty to step forward as Editor and Revisor of THE PROBATIONARY ODES. My grand reason for undertaking so arduous a task is this: I do from my soul believe that Lyric Poetry is the own, if not twin sister of Music; wherefore, as I had before gathered together every thing that any way relates to the one, with what consistency could I forbear to collate the best effusions of the other?—I should premise, that in volume the first of my quarto history, chap. i. page 7, I lay it down as a principle never to be departed from, that, "The Lyre is the prototype of the fidicinal species." And accordingly I have therein discussed at large, both the origin, and various improvements of the Lyre, from the Tortoise-shell scooped and strung by Mercury on the banks of the Nile, to the Testudo, exquisitely polished by Terpander, and exhibited to the Ægyptian Priests. I have added also many choice engravings of the various antique Lyres, viz. the Lyre of Goats-horns, the Lyre of Bullshorns, the Lyre of Shells, and the Lyre of both Shells and Horns compounded; from all which, I flatter myself, I have indubitably proved the Lyre to be very far superior to the shank bone of a crane, or any other Pike, Fistula, or Calamus, either of Orpheus's or Linus's invention; ay, or even the best of those pulsatile instruments, commonly known by the denomination of the drum.
Forasmuch, therefore, as all this was finally proved and established by my History of Music, I say, I hold it now no alien task to somewhat turn my thoughts to the late divines specimens of Lyric Minstrelsy. For although I may be deemed the legal guardian of MUSIC alone, and consequently not in strictness bound to any farther duty than that of her immediate Wardship (see Burn's Justice, article Guardian), yet surely, in equity and liberal feeling, I cannot but think myself very forcibly incited to extend this tutelage to her next of kin; in which degree I hold every individual follower of THE LYRIC MUSE, but more especially all such part of them, as have devoted, or do devote their strains to the celebration of those best of themes, the reigning King and the current year; or in other words, of all Citharistæ Regis, Versificators Coronæ, Court Poets, or as we now term them, Poets Laureats.—Pausanias tells us, that it pleased the God of Poets himself, by an express oracle, to order the inhabitants of Delphi to set apart for Pindar one half of the first fruit offerings brought by the religious to his shrine, and to allow him a place in his temple, where, in an iron chair, he was used to sit and sing his hymns in honour of that God. Would to heaven that the Bench of Bishops would, in some degree, adopt this excellent idea!—or at least that the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, and the other Managers of the Abbey Music Meetings, would in future allot the occasional vacancies of Madame Mara's seat in the Cathedral Orchestra, for the reception of the reigning Laureat, during the performance of that favourite constitutional ballad, "May the King live for ever!" It must be owned, however, that the Laureatship is already a very kingly settlement; one hundred a year, together with a tierce of Canary, or a butt of sack, are surely most princely endowments, for the honour of literature and the advancement of poetical genius. And hence (thank God and the King for it!) there scarcely ever has been wanting some great and good man both willing and able to supply so important a charge.—At one time we find that great immortal genius, Mr. Thomas Shadwell (better known by the names of Og and Mac Flecknoe), chanting the prerogative praises of that blessed æra.—At a nearer period, we observe the whole force of Colley Cibber's genius devoted to the labours of the same reputable employment.—And finally, in the example of a Whitehead's Muse, expatiating on the virtues of our gracious Sovereign, have we not beheld the best of Poets, in the best of Verses, doing ample justice to the best of Kings!—The fire of Lyric Poesy, the rapid lightening of modern Pindarics, were equally required to record the Virtues of the Stuarts, or to immortalize the Talents of a Brunswick.—On either theme there was ample subject for the boldest flights of inventive genius, the full scope for the most daring powers of poetical creation; from the free, unfettered strain of liberty in honour of Charles the First, to the kindred Genius and congenial Talents that immortalize the Wisdom and the Worth of George the Third.—But on no occasion has the ardour for prerogative panegyrics so conspicuously flamed forth, as on the late election for succeeding to Mr. Whitehead's honours. To account for this unparalleled struggle, let us recollect, that the ridiculous reforms of the late Parliament having cut off many gentlemanly offices, it was a necessary consequence that the few which were spared, became objects of rather more emulation than usual. Besides, there is a decency and regularity in producing at fixed and certain periods of the year, the same settled quantity of metre on the same unalterable subjects, which cannot fail to give a particular attraction to the Office of the Laureatship, at a crisis like the present.—It is admitted, that we are now in possession of much sounder judgment, and more regulated taste, than our ancestors had any idea of; and hence, does it not immediately follow, that the occupancy of a poetical office, which, from its uniformity of subject and limitation of duty, precludes all hasty extravagance of style, as well as any plurality of efforts, is sure to be a more pleasing object than ever to gentlemen of regular habits and a becoming degree of literary indolence? Is it not evident too, that in compositions of this kind, all fermentation of thought is certain in a very short time to subside and settle into mild and gentle composition—till at length the possessors of this grave and orderly office prepare their stipulated return of metre, by as proportionate and gradual exertions, as many other classes of industrious tenants provide for the due payment of their particular rents? Surely it is not too much to say, that the business of Laureat to his Majesty is, under such provision, to the full as ingenious, reputable, and regular a trade, as that of Almanack Maker to the Stationer's Company. The contest therefore for so excellent an office, having been warmer in the late instance than at any preceding period, is perfectly to be accounted for; especially too at a time, when, from nobler causes, the Soul of Genius may reasonably be supposed to kindle into uncommon enthusiasm, at a train of new and unexampled prodigies. In an age of Reform; beneath the mild sway of a British Augustus; under the Ministry of a pure immaculate youth; the Temple of Janus shut; the Trade of Otaheite open; not an angry American to be heard of, except the Lottery Loyalists; the fine Arts in full Glory; Sir William Chambers the Royal Architect; Lord Sydney a Cabinet Minister!—What a golden æra!—From this auspicious moment, Peers, Bishops, Baronets, Methodists, Members of Parliament, Chaplains, all genuine Beaux Esprits, all legitimate heirs of Parnassus, rush forward, with unfeigned ardour, to delight the world by the united efforts of liberal genius and constitutional loyalty.—The illustrious candidates assemble—the wisest of Earls sits as Judge—the archest of Buffos becomes his assessor—the Odes are read—the election is determined—how justly is not for us to decide. To the great Tribunal of the public the whole of this important contest is now submitted.—Every document that can illustrate, every testimony that tends to support the respective merits of the Probationers, is impartially communicated to the world of letters.—Even the Editor of such a collection may hope for some reversionary fame from the humble, but not inglorious task, of collecting the scattered rays of Genius.—At the eve of a long laborious life, devoted to a sister Muse (vide my History, printed for T. Payne and Son, at the Mews-Gate), possibly it may not wholly appear an irregular vanity, if I sometimes have entertained a hope, that my tomb may not want the sympathetic record of Poetry—I avow my motive.—
It is with this expectation I appear as an Editor on the present occasion.—The Authors whose compositions I collect for public notice are twenty-three. The odds of survivorship, according to Doctor Price are, that thirteen of these will outlive me, myself being in class III. of his ingenious tables.—Surely, therefore, it is no mark of that sanguine disposition which my enemies have been pleased to ascribe to me, if I deem it possible that some one of the same thirteen will requite my protection of their harmonious effusions with a strain of elegiac gratitude, saying, possibly (pardon me, ye Survivors that may be, for presuming to hint the thought to minds so richly fraught as yours are) saying, I say,
Here lies Sir John Hawkins,
Without his shoes or stockings![1]
[1] Said Survivors are not bound to said Rhime, if not agreeable.
[The Following excellent observations on the LYRIC STYLE, have been kindly communicated to the EDITOR by the REV. THOMAS WARTON.—They appear to have been taken almost verbatim from several of the former works of that ingenious author; but chiefly from his late edition of Milten's Minora. We sincerely hope, therefore, that they may serve the double purpose of enriching the present collection, and of attracting the public attention to that very critical work from which they are principally extracted.]
{ODE Molpe} Carmen, Cantus, Cantilena, Chanson, Canzone, all signify what, Anglicè, we denominate ODE—Among the Greeks, Pindar; among the Latins, Horace; with the Italians, Petrarch; with the French, Boileau; are the principes hujusce scientiæ—Tom Killegrew took the lead in English Lyrics; and, indeed, till our own Mason, was nearly unrivalled—Josephus Miller too hath penned something of the Odaic, inter his Opera Minora. My grandfather had a M.S. Ode on a Gilliflower, the which, as our family had it, was an esquisse of Gammer Gurton's; and I myself have seen various Cantilenes of Stephen Duck's of a pure relish—Of Shadwell, time hath little impaired the fame—Colley's Bays rust cankereth not—Dr. Casaubon measures the Strophe by Anapæsts—In the Polyglott, the epitrotus primus is the metrimensura.—I venture to recommend "Waly, waly, up the Bank," as no bad model of the pure Trochaic—There is also a little simple strain, commencing "Saw ye my father, saw ye my mother;" which to my fancy, gives an excellent ratio of hendecasyllables.—Dr. Warton indeed prefers the Adonic, as incomparably the neatest, ay, and the newest {molpes metrhon}——A notion too has prevailed, that the Black Joke, or {Melamphyllai Daphnai} is not the "Cosa deta in prosa mai, ne in rima;" whereas the Deva Cestrensis, or Chevy Chase, according to Dr. Joseph Warton, is the exemplar of
Trip and go,
Heave and hoe,
Up and down,
To and fro.
Vide Nashe's Summer's Last Will and Testament, 1600.
I observe that Ravishment is a favourite word with Milton, Paradise Lost, B. V. 46. Again, B. IX. 541. Again, Com. V. 245.—Spenser has it also in Astrophel. st. 7.—Whereof I earnestly recommend early rising to all minor Poets, as far better than sleeping to concoct surfeits. Vid. Apology for Smectymnuus.—For the listening to Throstles or Thrushes, awaking the lustless Sun, is an unreproved or innocent pastime: As also are cranks, by which I understood cross purposes. Vid. my Milton, 41.—"Filling a wife with a daughter fair," is not an unclassical notion (vid. my Milton, 39), if, according to Sir Richard Brathwaite, "She had a dimpled chin, made for love to lodge within" (vid. my Milton, 41). "While the cock," vid. the same, 44.—Indeed, "My mother said I could be no lad, till I was twentye," is a passage I notice in my Milton with a view to this; which see; and therein also of a shepherdess, "taking the tale."—'Twere well likewise if Bards learned the Rebeck, or Rebible, being a species of Fiddle; for it solaceth the fatigued spirit much; though to say the truth, we have it; 'tis present death for Fiddlers to tune their Rebecks, or Rebibles, before the great Turk's grace. However, Middteton's Game of Chess is good for a Poet to peruse, having quaint phrases fitting to be married to immortal verse. JOSHUA POOLE, of Clare-hall, I also recommend as an apt guide for an alumnus of the Muse.—Joshua edited a choice Parnassus, 1657, in the which I find many "delicious, mellow hangings" of poesy.—He is undoubtedly a "sonorous dactylist"—and to him I add Mr. Jenner, Proctor of the Commons, and Commissary of St. Paul's, who is a gentleman of indefatigable politeness in opening the Archives of a Chapter-house for the delectation of a sound critic. Tottell's Songs and Sonnets of uncertain Auctoures is likewise a butful, or plenteous work. I conclude with assuring the Public, that my brother remembers to have heard my father tell his (i.e. my brother's) first wife's second cousin, that he, once, at Magdalen College, Oxford, had it explained to him, that the famous passage "His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff," has no sort of reference to verbal criticism and stale quotations.
[According to the old and laudable usage of Editors, we shall now present our Readers with the judgments of the learned concerning our Poets.—These Testimonies, if they proceed from critical pens, cannot fail to have due influence on all impartial observers. They pass an author from one end of the kingdom to the other, as rapidly as the pauper Certificates of Magistracy.—Indeed, it were much to be wished, that as we have no State Licenser of Poetry, it might at least be made penal, to put forth rhymes without previously producing a certain number of sureties for their goodness and utility; which precaution, if assisted with a few other regulations, such as requiring all Practitioners in Verse to take out a License, in the manner of many other Dealers in Spirits, &c. could not fail to introduce good order among this class of authors, and also to bring in a handsome sum towards the aid of the public revenue.—Happy indeed will be those Bards, who are supplied with as reputable vouchers as those which are here subjoined.]
Testimonies of Sir JOSEPH MAWBEY's good Parts for Poetry.
"Sir JOSEPH, with the gentlest sympathy, begged me to contrive that he should meet Lactilla, in her morning walk, towards the Hot-Wells. I took the proper measures for this tête-à-tête between my two naturals, as I call this uneducated couple.—It succeeded beyond my utmost hopes.—For the first ten minutes they exchanged a world of simple observations on the different species of the brute creation, to which each had most obligations.—Lactilla praised her Cows—Sir Joseph his Hogs.—An artless eclogue, my dear madam, but warm from the heart.—At last the Muse took her turn on the tapis of simple dialogue.—In an instant both kindled into all the fervors—the delightful fervors, that are better imagined than described.—Suffice it to relate the sequel—Lactilla pocketed a generous half-crown, and Sir Joseph was inchanted! Heavens! what would this amiable Baronet have been, with the education of a curate?"
Miss Hannah More's Letter to the Duchess of Chandos.
* * * * *
By JONAS HANWAY, Esq.
"In short, these poor children who are employed in sweeping our chimnies, are not treated half so well as so many black Pigs—nor, indeed, a hundredth part so well, where the latter have the good fortune to belong to a benevolent master, such as Sir Joseph MAWBEY—a man who, notwithstanding he is a bright Magistrate, a diligent Voter in Parliament, and a chaste husband, is nevertheless author of not a few fancies in the poetical way."
Thoughts on our savage Treatment of Chimney-sweepers.
* * * * *
Testimonies in Favour of Sir CECIL WRAY, Bart.
ALCANDER, thou'rt a God, more than a God!
Thou'rt pride of all the Gods—thou mount'st by woes—
Hell squeaks, Eurus and Auster shake the skies—
Yet shall thy barge dance through the hissing wave,
And on the foaming billows float to heaven!
Epistle to Sir Cecil Wray, under the
Character of Alcander.
[1] Author of 58 Tragedies, only one of which, to the disgrace of our Theatres, has yet appeared.
* * * * *
By MRS. GEORGE ANNE BELLAMY.
"I was sitting one evening (as indeed I was wont to do when out of cash) astride the ballustrade of Westminster-bridge, with my favourite little dog under my arm. I had that day parted with my diamond windmill.—Life was never very dear to me—but a thousand thoughts then rushed into my heart, to jump this world, and spring into eternity.—I determined that my faithful Pompey should bear me company.—I pressed him close, and actually stretched out, fully resolved to plunge into the stream; when, luckily (ought I to call it so?) that charming fellow (for such he then was), Sir Cecil WRAY, catching hold of Pompey's tail, pulled him back, and with him pulled back me.—In a moment I found myself in a clean hackney-coach, drawn by grey horses, with a remarkable civil coachman, fainting in my Cecil's arms; and though I then lost a little diamond pin, yet (contrary to what I hear has been asserted) I NEVER prosecuted that gallant Baronet; who, in less than a fortnight after, with his usual wit and genius, dispatched me the following extempore poem:
While you prepar'd, dear Anne, on Styx to sail—
Lo! one dog sav'd you by another's tail.
To which, in little more than a month, I penned, and sent the following reply:
You pinch'd my dog, 'tis true, and check'd my sail—
But then my pin—ah, there you squeezed my tail.
Ninth volume of Mrs. George Anne Bellamy's Apology,
now preparing for the press.
* * * * *
Testimony of the great Parts of CONSTANTINE, LORD MULGRAVE, and his Brethren.
"Among those who will vote for continuing the old established number of our Session Justices, may I not count on the tribe of Phipps.—they love good places; and I know Mulgrave is a bit of a poet as well as myself; for I dined in company once, where he dined that very day twelvemonth. My excellent wife, who is a true Montgomery, and whom I like now as well as I did twenty years ago, adores the man who felt for the maternal pangs of a whelpless bear. For my own part, however, there is no action I more constantly ridicule, than his Lordship's preposterous pity for those very sufferings which he himself occasioned, by ordering his sailors to shoot the young bears.——But though I laugh at him, how handsome will it be if he votes against Dundas to oblige me. My disliking him and his family is no reason for his disliking me—on the contrary, if he opposes us, is it not probable that that great young man, whom I sincerely adore, may say, in his own lofty language, "Mulgrave, Mulgrave, don't vex the Scotch!—don't provoke 'em! God damn your ugly head!—if we don't crouch to Bute, we shall all be turned out; God eternally damn you for a stupid boar! I know we shall! Pardon me, great Sir, for presuming to forge the omnipotent bolts of your Incomparable thunder."
Appendix to Mr. Baswell's Pamphlet on the Scotch Judges.
* * * * *
Testimony of NATHANIEL WILLIAM WRAXALL, Esq. his great Merit.
"Since I put forth my last volume, I have read the excellent Ode of Mr. Wraxall, and was pleased to find that bold apostrophe in his delicious lyric,
"Hail, Ouran Outangs! Hail, Anthropophagi!"
"My principles are now pretty universally known; but on this occasion I will repeat them succinctly. I believe, from the bottom of my soul, that all mankind are absolute Ouran Outangs. That the feudal tenures are the great cause of our not retaining the perfect appearance of Ourans—That human beings originally moved on all fours—That we had better move in the same way again—That there has been giants ninety feet high—That such giants ought to have moved on all fours—That we all continue to be Ouran Outangs still—some more so, some less—but that Nathaniel William WRAXALL, Esq. is the truest Ouran Outang in Great Britain, and therefore ought immediately to take to all fours, and especially to make all his motions in Parliament in that way."
Postscript to Lard Monboddo's Ancient Metaphysics.
* * * * *
Testimony of the Great Powers for Poesy, innate in MICHAEL ANGELO TAYLOR, Esq.
I shall myself compose Mr. Taylor's Ode——His merit I admire——his origin I have traced.—He is descended from Mr. John Taylor, the famous Water Poet, who with good natural talents, never proceeded farther in education than his accidence.—John Taylor was born in Gloucestershire.—I find that he was bound apprentice to a Waterman—but in process of time kept a public house in Phoenix-alley, Long-acre[1]. Read John's modest recital of his humble culture—
"I must confess I do want eloquence,
And never scarce did learn my Accidence;
For having got from Possum to Posset,
I there was gravell'd, nor could farther get."
John wrote fourscore books, but died in 1654. Here you have John's
Epitaph—
"Here lies the Water Poet, honest John,
Who rowed on the streams of Helicon;
Where, having many rocks and dangers past,
He at the haven of heav'n arrived at last."
There is a print of John, holding an oar in one hand, and an empty purse in the other.—Motto—Et habeo, meaning the oar—Et careo, meaning the cash.—It is too bold a venture to predict a close analogy 'twixt John and Michael—Sure am I,
If Michael goeth on, as Michael hath begun,
Michael will equal be to famous Taylor John.
I shall publish both the Taylor's works, with the score of Michael's
Ode, some short time hence, in as thin a quarto as my Handel's
Commemoration, price one guinea in boards, with a view of John's
house in Phoenix-alley, and Sir Robert's carriage, as Sheriff of
London and Middlesex.
[1] This anecdote was majestically inserted in my manuscript copy of Handel's Commemoration, by that Great Personage to whose judgment I submitted it. (I take every occasion of shewing the insertion as a good puff.—I wish, however, the same hand had subscribed for the book..) I did not publish any of the said alterations in that work, reserving some of them for my edition of The Tayloria.
* * * * *
Testimony for PEPPER ARDEN, Esq.—In Answer to a Case for the Opinion of GEORGE HARDINGE, Esq. Attorney General to her Majesty.
I have perused this Ode, and find it containeth eight hundred and forty-seven WORDS—two thousand one hundred and four SYLLABLES—four thousand three hundred and forty-four LETTERS[1].—It is, therefore, my opinion, that said Ode is a good and complete title to all those fees, honours, perquisites, emoluments, and gratuities, usually annexed, adjunct to, and dependant on, the office of Poet Laureat, late in the occupation of William Whitehead, Esq. defunct.
[1] See the learned Gentleman's arithmetical Speech on the Westminster Scrutiny.
* * * * *
Testimony in Favour of Sir RICHARD HILL, Bart.
To the EDITOR of the PUBLIC ADVERTISER.
MR. PRINTER, I call upon all the Privy Council, Charles Jenkinson, Mr. Bond, and the Lord Mayor of London, to protect my person from the Popish Spies set over me by the Cabinet of William Pitt.—On Thursday ult. having read the Ode of my friend, Sir Richard, in a print amicable to my Protestant Brethren, and approving it, I accordingly visited that pious Baronet, who, if called on, will verify the same.—I then told Sir Richard what I now repeat, that George the Third ought to send away all Papist Ambassadors.——I joined Sir Richard, Lady Hill, and her cousin, in an excellent hymn, turned from the 1st of Matthew, by Sir Richard.—I hereby recommend it to the eighty Societies of Protestants in Glasgow, knowing it to be sound orthodox truth; for that purpose, Mr. Woodfall, I now entrust it to your special care, conjuring you to print it, as you hope to be saved.
Salmon begat Booz—
Booz begat Obed—
Obed begat Jesse, so as
Jesse begat David.
And I am, Sir,
Your humble Servant,
GEO. GORDON.
* * * * *
Testimony in Favour of MAJOR JOHN SCOTT's Poetical Talents.
WARREN HASTINGS, Esq.
In an Extract from a private Letter to a Great Personage.
"I trust, therefore, that the rough diamonds will meet with your favourable construction. They will be delivered by my excellent friend, Major John Scott, who, in obedience to my orders, has taken a seat in Parliament, and published sundry tracts on my integrity. I can venture to recommend him as an impenetrable arguer, no man's propositions flowing in a more deleterious stream; no man's expressions so little hanging on the thread of opinion.—He has it in command to compose the best and most magnificent Ode on your Majesty's birthday.
"What can I say more?"
(In the Balloon of James Sadler, Pastry-Cook to the said University) on Friday the 20th of May, 1785, for the purpose of composing a sublime ODE in honour of his Majesty's Birth-day; attested before JOHN WEYLAND, Esq. one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace for the County of Oxford.[1]
It was in obedience to the advice of my brother, Dr. Joseph Warton, that I came to a determination, on the fifth of May ult. to compose my first Birth-day Ode, at the elevation of one mile above the earth, in the Balloon of my ingenious friend, Mr. James Sadler, of this city. Accordingly, having agreed for the same, at a very moderate rate per hour (I paying all charges of inflating, and standing to repairs), at nine in the morning, on Friday, the 28th of said month, I repaired to Christ-church meadow, with my ballast, provisions, cat, speaking trumpet, and other necessaries.—It was my first design to have invited Dr. Joseph to have ascended with me; but apprehending the malicious construction that might follow on this, as if, forsooth, my intended ode was to be a joint production, I e'en made up my mind to mount alone.—My provisions principally consisted of a small pot of stewed prunes, and half of a plain diet-bread cake, both prepared, and kindly presented to me, by the same ingenious hand which had fabricated the Balloon. I had also a small subsidiary stock, viz. a loaf of Sandwiches, three bottles of old ale, a pint of brandy, a sallad ready mixed, a roll of collared eel, a cold goose, six damson tartlets, a few china oranges, and a roasted pig of the Chinese breed; together with a small light barometer, and a proper store of writing utensils; but no note, memorandum, nor loose hint of any kind, so help me God!——My ascension was majestic, to an uncommon degree of tardiness. I was soon constrained, therefore, to lighten my Balloon, by throwing out some part of my ballast, which consisted of my own History of Poetry, my late edition of Milton's Minora, my Miscellaneous Verses, Odes, Sonnets, Elegies, Inscriptions, Monodies, and Complaints; my Observations on Spencer, the King's last Speech, and Lord Montmorres's pamphlet on the Irish Resolutions. On throwing out his Lordship's Essay, the Balloon sprang up surprisingly; but the weight of my provisions still retarding the elevation, I was fain to part with both volumes of my Spencer, and all of my last edition of Poems, except those that are marked with an asterisk, as never before printed: which very quickly accelerated my ascension. I now found the barometer had fallen four inches and six lines, in eight minutes.—In less than eleven minutes after I had ascended very considerably indeed, the barometer having then fallen near seventeen inches; and presently after I entered a thick black cloud, which I have since found rendered me wholly obscured to all observation. In this situation. I lost no time to begin my Ode; and, accordingly, in the course of twenty-five minutes, I produced the very lines which now commence it. The judicious critic will notice, that absence of the plain and trite style which mark the passage I refer to; nor am I so uncandid to deny the powerful efficacy of mist, darkness, and obscurity, on the sublime and mysterious topics I there touch on—It cannot fail also to strike the intelligent observer, that the expression so much commented on, of "No echoing car," was obviously suggested by that very car in which I myself was then seated—Finding, however, that, together with the increased density of the overshadowing cloud, the coldness also was proportionally increased, so as at one time to freeze my ink completely over for near twenty minutes, I thought it prudent, by means of opening the valve at the vortex of my Balloon, to emit part of the ascending power. This occasioned a proportioned descent very speedily: but I must not overlook a phænomenon which had previously occurred.——It was this: on a sudden the nibs of all my pens (and I took up forty-eight, in compliment to the number of my Sovereign's years) as if attracted by the polar power, pointed upwards, each pen erecting itself perpendicular, and resting on the point of its feather: I found also, to my no small surprize, that during the whole of this period, every one of my letters was actually cut topsy-turvy-wise; which I the rather mention, to account for any appearance of a correspondent inversion in the course of my ideas at that period.
On getting nearer the earth, the appearances I have described altogether ceased, and I instantly penned the second division of my Ode; I mean that which states his most excellent Majesty to be the patron of the fine arts. But here (for which I am totally at a loss to account) I found myself descending so very rapidly, that even after I had thrown out not only two volumes of my History of Poetry, but also a considerable portion of my pig, I struck, nevertheless, with such violence on the weather-cock of a church, that unless I had immediately parted with the remainder of my ballast, excepting only his Majesty's Speech, one pen, the paper of my Ode, and a small ink-bottle, I must infallibly have been a-ground. Fortunately, by so rapid a discharge, I procured a quick re-ascension; when immediately, though much pinched with the cold, the mercury having suddenly fallen twenty-two inches, I set about my concluding stanza, viz. that which treats of his Majesty's most excellent chastity. And here I lay my claim to the indulgence of the critics to that part of my ode; for what with the shock I had received in striking on the weather-cock, and the effect of the prunes which I had now nearly exhausted, on a sudden I found myself very much disordered indeed. Candour required my just touching on this circumstance; but delicacy must veil the particulars in eternal oblivion. At length, having completed the great object of my ascent, I now re-opened the valve, and descended with great rapidity. They only who have travelled in Balloons, can imagine the sincere joy of my heart, at perceiving Dr. Joseph cantering up a turnip-field, near Kidlington Common, where I landed exactly at a quarter after two o'clock; having, from my first elevation, completed the period of five hours and fifteen minutes; four of which, with the fraction of ten seconds, were entirely devoted to my Ode.—Dr. Joseph quite hugged me in his arms, and kindly lent me a second wig (my own being thrown over at the time of my striking), which, with his usual precaution, he had brought in his pocket, in case of accidents. I take this occasion also to pay my thanks to Thomas Gore, Esq. for some excellent milk-punch, which he directed his butler to furnish me with most opportunely; and which I then thought the most solacing beverage I ever had regaled withal. Dr Joseph and myself reached Oxford in the Dilly by five in the evening, the populace most handsomely taking off the horses for something more than the last half mile, in honour of the first Literary Areonaut of these kingdoms—
As witness my hand this 22d of May, 1785, THOMAS WARTON.
County of Oxford to wit, 22nd of May, 1785.
This is to certify, to all whom it may concern, That the aforesaid
Thomas and Joseph Warton came before me, one of his Majesty's
Justices of the Peace for the said county, and did solemnly make
oath to the truth of the above case.
His
Sworn before me, JOHN + WEYLAND.
Mark.
[1] It cannot fail to attract the Reader's particular attention to this very curious piece, to inform him, that Signor Delpini's decision, in favour of Mr. Warton, was chiefly grounded on the new and extraordinary style of writing herein attested.