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