IRREGULAR ODE,
By the MARQUIS OF GRAHAM.
I.
Help! help! I say, Apollo!
To you I call, to you I hollo;
My Muse would fain bring forth;
God of Midwives come along
Bring into light my little song,
See how its parent labours with the birth;
My brain! my brain!
What horrid pain;
Come, now prithee come, I say: }
Nay, if you won’t, then stay away— }
Without thy help, I’ve sung full many a lay. }
II.
To lighter themes let other bards resort;
My verse shall tell the glories of the Court.
Behold the Pensioners, a martial band;
Dreadful, with rusty battle-axe in hand—
Quarterly and daily waiters,
A lustier troop, ye brave Beefeaters,
Sweepers, Marshals, Wardrobe brushers,
Patrician, and Plebeian ushers;
Ye too, who watch in inner rooms;
Ye Lords, ye Gentlemen, and Grooms;
Oh! careful guard your royal Master’s slumber,
Lest factious flies his sacred face incumber.
But ah! how weak my song!
Crouds still on crouds impetuous rush along,
I see, I see, the motly group appear,
Thurlow in front, and Chandos in the rear;
Each takes the path his various genius guides—
O’er Cabinets this, and that o’er Cooks presides!
III.
Hail! too, ye beds, where, when his labour closes,
With ponderous limbs great CINCINNATUS doses!
Oh! say what fate the Arcadian King betides
When playful Mab his wandering fancy guides,
Perhaps he views his HOWARD’s wit
Make SHERIDAN submissive sit;
Perhaps o’er foes he conquest reaps:
Perhaps some ditch he dauntless leaps;
Now shears his people, now his mutton;
Now makes a Peer, and now a button.
Now mightier themes demand his care;
HASTINGS for assistance flies;
Bulses glittering skim the air;
Hands unstretch’d would grasp the prize,
But no diamond they find there;
For awak’d, by amorous pat,
Good lack! his gentle CHARLOTTE cries,
What would your Majesty be at?
The endearing question kindles fierce desire,
And all the monarch owns the lover’s fire;
The pious King fulfils the heav’nly plan,
And little annual BRUNSWICKS speak the mighty man!
IV.
At Pimlico an ancient structure stands,
Where Sheffield erst, but Brunswick now commands;
Crown’d with a weathercock that points at will,
To every part but Constitution-hill—
Hence Brunswick, peeping at the windows,
Each star-light night,
Looks with delight,
And sees unseen,
And tells the Queen,
What each who passes out or in, does,
Hence too, when eas’d of Faction’s dread,
With joys surveys,
The cattle graze,
At half a crown a head—
Views the canal’s transparent flood,
Now fill’d with water, now with mud;
Where various seasons, various charms create,
Dogs in the summer swim, and boys in winter skait.
V.
Oh! for the pencil of a Claud Lorrain,
Apelles, Austin, Sayer, or Luke the saint—
What glowing scenes;—but ah! the grant were vain,
I know not how to paint——
Hail! Royal Park! what various charms are thine—
Thy patent lamps pale Cynthia’s rays outshine—
Thy limes and elms with grace majestic grow,
All in a row;
Thy Mall’s smooth walk, and sacred road beside,
Where Treasury Lords by Royal Mandate ride.
Hark! the merry fife and drum:
Hark! of beaus the busy hum;
While in the gloom of evening shade,
Gay wood-nymphs ply their wanton trade;
Ah! nymphs too kind, each vain pursuit give o’er—
If Death should call—you then can walk no more!
See the children rang’d on benches;
See the pretty nursery wenches;
The cows, secur’d by halters, stand,
Courting the ruddy milk-maid’s hand.
Ill-fated cows, when all your milk they’ve ta’en,
At Smithfield sold, you’ll fatten’d be and slain.—
VI.
Muse, raise thine eyes and quick behold,
The Treasury-office fill’d with gold;
Where Elliot, Pitt, and I, each day }
The tedious moments pass away, }
In business now, and now in play—— }
The gay Horse-guards, whose clock of mighty fame,
Directs the dinner of each careful dame,
Where soldiers with red coats equipp’d,
Are sometimes march’d, and sometimes whipp’d.
Let them not doubt——
’Twas heav’n’s eternal plan
That perfect bliss should ne’er be known to man.
Thus Ministers, are in—are out,
Turn and turn about——
Even Pitt himself may lose his place, }
Or thou, Delpini, sovereign of grimace, }
Thou, too, by some false step, may’st meet disgrace. }
VII.
Ye feather’d choristers, your voices tune,
’Tis now, or near the fourth of June;
All nature smiles—the day of Brunswick’s birth
Destroy’d the iron-age, and made an heav’n on earth.
Men and beasts his name repeating,
Courtiers talking, calves a-bleating;
Horses neighing,
Asses braying,
Sheep, hogs, and geese, with tuneful voices sing,
All praise their King,
George the Third, the Great, the Good.
France and Spain his anger rue;
Americans, he conquer’d you,
Or would have done it if he cou’d.
And ’midst the general loyal note,
Shall not his gosling tune his throat;
Then let me join the jocund hand,
Crown’d with laurel let me stand;
My grateful voice shall their’s as far exceed,
As the two-legg’d excels the base four-footed breed.
NUMBER XIX.
LETTER FROM THE RT. HON. LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, TO THE EARL OF SALISBURY.
MY LORD, Being informed from undoubted authority, that the learned Pierot, whom your Lordship has thought proper to nominate to the dignity of your Assessor, knows no language but his own, it seemed to me probable he might not understand Irish.—Now as I recollect my last Ode to have proceeded on the orthography of that kingdom, I thought his entire ignorance of the tongue might perhaps be some hindrance to his judgment, upon its merit. On account of this unhappy ignorance, therefore, on the part of the worthy Buffo, of any language but Italian, I have taken the liberty to present your Lordship and him with a second Ode, written in English; which I hope he will find no difficulty in understanding, and which certainly has the better chance of being perfectly correct in the true English idiom, as it has been very carefully revised and altered by my worthy friend, Mr. Henry Dundas. I have the honour to be, My Lord, Your Lordship’s devoted servant, MOUNTMORRES.
* * * * *
ODE,
By the RT. HON. HARVEY REDMOND MORRES, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND, &c.
I.
Ye gentle Nymphs, who rule the Song,
Who stray Thessalian groves among,
With forms so bright and airy;
Whether you pierce Pierian shades, }
Or, less refin’d, adorn the glades, }
And wanton with the lusty blades }
Of fruitful Tipperary;
Whether you sip Aonias’ wave,
Or in thy stream, fair Liffy, lave;
Whether you taste ambrosial food;
Or think potatoes quite as good,
Oh, listen to an Irish Peer,
Who has woo’d your sex for many a year.
II.
Gold!—thou bright benignant pow’r!
Parent of the jocund hour,
Say, how my breast has heav’d with many a storm,
When thee I worship’d in a female form!
Thou, whose high and potent skill,
Turns things and persons at thy will!
Thou, whose omnipotent decree,
Mighty as Fate’s eternal rule,
Can make a wise man of a fool,
And grace e’en loath’d deformity:
Can straitness give to her that’s crook’d,
And Grecian grace to nose that’s hook’d;
Can smooth the mount on Laura’s back,
And wit supply to those that lack:
Say, and take pity on my woes,
Record my throbs, recount my throes;
How oft I sigh’d,
How oft I dy’d:
How oft dismiss’d,
How seldom kiss’d;
How oft, fair Phyllida, when thee I woo’d
With cautious foresight all thy charms I view’d.
O’er many a sod,
How oft I trod,
To count thy acres o’er;
Or spent my time,
For marle or lime,
With anxious zeal to bore[1]!
How Cupid then all great and powerful sate,
Perch’d on the vantage of a rich estate;
When, for his darts, he us’d fair spreading trees,
Ah! who cou’d fail that shot with shafts like these!
III.
Oh, sad example of capricious Fate!
Sue Irishmen in vain!
Does Pompey’s self, the proud, the great,
Fail e’en a maid to gain?
What boots my form so tall and slim,
My legs so stout—my beard so grim?
Why have I Alexander’s bend?
Emblem of conquest never gain’d!
A nose so long—a back so strait—
A chairman’s mien—a chairman’s gait?
Why wasted ink to make orations?
Design’d to teach unlist’ning nations!
Why have I view’d th’ ideal clock[2],
Or mourn’d the visionary hour?
Griev’d to behold with well-bred shock,
The fancy’d pointer verge to four?
Then with a bow, proceed to beg,
A general pardon on my leg—
“Lament that to an hour so late,”
“’Twas mine to urge the grave debate!”
“Or mourn the rest, untimely broken!”
All this to say—all this to do,
In form so native, neat, and new,
In speech intended to be spoken!—
But fruitless all, for neither here or there,
My leg has yet obtain’d me place, or fair!
IV.
Pompeys there are of every shape and size:
Some are the Great, y-clep’d, and some the Little,
Some with their deeds that fill the wond’ring skies,
And some on ladies’ laps that eat their vittle!
’Tis Morres’ boast—’tis Morres’ pride,
To be to both ally’d!
That of all various Pompeys, he
Forms one complete epitome!
Prepar’d alike fierce Faction’s host to fight,
Or, thankful, stoop official crumbs to bite—
No equal to himself on earth to own;
Or watch, with anxious eye, on Treasury-bone!
As Rome’s fam’d chief, imperious, stiff, and proud;
Fawning as curs, when supplicating food!
In him their several virtues all reside,
The peerless Puppy, and of Peers the pride!
V.
Say, Critic Buffo, will not powers like these,
E’en thy refin’d fastidious judgment please?
A common butt to all mankind,
’Tis my hard lot to be;
O let me then some justice find,
And give the BUTT to me!
Then dearest DE’L,
Thy praise I’ll tell,
And with unprostituted pen.
In Warton’s pure and modest strain,
Unwarp’d by Hope—unmov’d by Gain,
I’ll call the “best of husbands,” and “most chaste of men!”
Then from my pristine labours I’ll relax:
Then will I lay the Tree unto the [3]Axe!
Of all my former grief—
Resign the bus’ness of the anxious chace,
And for past failures, and for past disgrace,
Here find a snug relief!
The vain pursuit of female game give o’er,
And, hound of Fortune, scour the town no more!
[1] When Lord Mountmorres went down into the country, some years ago; to pay his addresses to a lady of large fortune, whose name we forbear to mention, his Lordship took up his abode for several days in a small public-house in the neighbourhood of her residence, and employed his time in making all proper enquiries, and prudent observation upon the nature, extent, and value of her property:—he was seen measuring the trees with his eye, and was at last found in the act of boring for marle; when being roughly interrogated by one of the ladie’s servants, to avoid chastisement he confessed his name, and delivered his amorous credentials. The amour terminated as ten thousand others of the noble Lord’s have done!
[2] An allusion is here made to a speech published by the noble Lord, which, as the title-page imports, was intended to have been spoken; in which his Lordship, towards the conclusion, gravely remarks:—“Having, Sir, so long encroached upon the patience of the House, and observing by the clock that the hour has become so excessively late, nothing remains for me but to return my sincere thanks to you, Sir, and the other gentlemen of this House, for the particular civility; and extreme attention, with which I have been heard:— the interesting nature of the occasion has betrayed me into a much greater length than I had any idea originally of running into; and if the casual warmth of the moment has led me into the least personal indelicacy towards any man alive, I am very ready to beg pardon of him and this House, Sir, for having so done.”
[3] This line is literally transcribed from a speech of Lord Mountmorre’s, when Candidate some years ago for the Representation of the City of Westminster.
NUMBER XX.
IRREGULAR ODE,
FOR THE
KING’S BIRTH-DAY,
By SIR GEORGE HOWARD, K. B.
CHORUS.
Re mi fa sol,
Tol de rol lol.
I.
My Muse, for George prepare the splendid song,
Oh may it float on Schwellenburgen’s voice!
Let Maids of Honour sing it all day long,
That Hoggaden’s fair ears may hear it, and rejoice.
II.
What subject first shall claim thy courtly strains?
Wilt thou begin from Windsor’s sacred brow,
Where erst, with pride and pow’r elate,
The Tudors sate in sullen state,
While Rebel Freedom, forc’d at length to bow,
Retir’d reluctant from her fav’rite plains?
Ah! while in each insulting tower you trace
The features of that tyrant race,
How wilt thou joy to view the alter’d scene!
The Giant Castle quits his threat’ning mien;
The levell’d ditch no more its jaws discloses, }
But o’er its mouth, to feast our eyes and noses, }
Brunswick hath planted pinks and roses; }
Hath spread smooth gravel walks, and a small bowling green!
III.
Mighty Sov’reign! Mighty Master!
George is content with lath and plaister!
At his own palace-gate,
In a poor porter’s lodge, by Chambers plann’d,
See him with Jenky, hand in hand,
In serious mood,
Talking! talking! talking! talking!
Talking of affairs of state,
All for his country’s good!
Oh! Europe’s pride! Britannia’s hope!
To view his turnips and potatoes,
Down his fair Kitchen-garden’s slope
The victor monarch walks like Cincinnatus.
See, heavenly Muse! I vow to God
’Twas thus the laurel’d hero trod—
Sweet rural joys! delights without compare!
Pleasure shines in his eyes, }
While George with surprize, }
Sees his cabbages rise, }
And his ’sparagus wave in the air!
IV.
But hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The Levee’s hour approaches—
Haste, ye Postillions! o’er the turnpike road;
Back to St. James’s bear your royal load!
’Tis done—his smoaking wheels scarce touch’d the ground—
By the Old Magpye and the New, }
By Colnbrook, Hounslow, Brentford, Kew, }
Half choak’d with dust the monarch flew, }
And now, behold, he’s landed safe and sound.—
Hail to the blest who tread this hallow’d ground!
Ye firm, invincible beefeaters, }
Warriors, who love their fellow-creatures, }
I hail your military features! }
Ye gentle, maids of honour, in stiff hoops,
Buried alive up to your necks,
Who chaste as Phœnixes in coops,
Know not the danger that await your sex!
Ye Lords, empower’d by fortune or desert,
Each in his turn to change your sovereign’s shirt!
Ye Country Gentlemen, ye City May’rs,
Ye Pages of the King’s back-stairs,
Who in these precincts joy to wait—
Ye courtly wands, so white and small,
And you, great pillars of the State,
Who at Stephen’s slumber, or debate,
Hail to you all!!!
CHORUS.
Hail to you all!!!
V.
Now, heavenly Muse, thy choicest song prepare:
Let loftier strains the glorious subject suit:
Lo! hand in hand, advance th’ enamour’d pair,
This Chatham’s son, and that the drudge of Bute;
Proud of their mutual love,
Like Nisus and Euryalus they move,
To Glory’s steepest heights together tend,
Each careless for himself, each anxious for his friend!
Hail! associate Politicians!
Hail! sublime Arithmeticians!
Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish Propositions!
Sooner our gracious King
From heel to heel shall cease to swing;
Sooner that brilliant eye shall leave its socket;
Sooner that hand desert the breeches pocket,
Than constant George consent his friends to quit,
And break his plighted faith to Jenkinson and Pitt!
CHORUS.
Hail! most prudent Politicians!
Hail! correct Arithmeticians!
Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish propositions!
VI.
Oh! deep unfathomable Pitt!
To thee Ierne owes her happiest days!
Wait a bit,
And all her sons shall loudly sing thy praise!
Ierne, happy, happy Maid!
Mistress of the Poplin trade!
Old Europa’s fav’rite daughter,
Whom first emerging from the water,
In days of yore,
Europa bore,
To the celestial Bull!
Behold thy vows are heard, behold thy joys are full!
Thy fav’rite Resolutions greet,
They’re not much changed, there’s no deceit!
Pray be convinc’d, they’re still the true ones,
Though sprung from thy prolific head,
Each resolution hath begotten new ones,
And like their sires, all Irish born and bred!
Then haste, Ierne, haste to sing,
God save great George! God save the King!
May thy sons’ sons to him their voices tune,
And each revolving year bring back the fourth of June!
NUMBER XXI.
ADDRESS.
Agreeably to the request of the Right Reverend Author, the following Ode is admitted into this collection; and I think it but justice to declare, that I have diligently scanned it on my fingers; and, after repeated trials, to the best of my knowledge, believe the Metre to be of the Iambic kind, containing three, four, five, and six feet in one line, with the occasional addition of the hypercatalectic syllable at stated periods. I am, therefore, of opinion, that the composition is certainly verse; though I would not wish to pronounce too confidently. For further information I shall print his Grace’s letter.
TO SIR JOHN HAWKINS, BART.
SIR JOHN, As I understand you are publishing an authentic Edition of the Probationary Odes. I call upon you to do me the justice of inserting the enclosed. It was rejected on the Scrutiny by Signor Delpini, for reasons which must have been suggested by the malevolence of some rival. The reasons were, 1st, That the Ode was nothing but prose, written in an odd manner; and, 2dly, That the Metre, if there be any, as well as many of the thoughts, are stolen from a little Poem, in a Collection called the UNION. To a man, blest with an ear so delicate as your’s, Sir John, I think it unnecessary to say any thing on the first charge; and as to the second, (would you believe it?) the Poem from which I am accused of stealing is my own! Surely an Author has a right to make free with his own ideas, especially when, if they were ever known, they have long since been forgotten by his readers. You are not to learn, Sir John, that de non apparentibus & non existentibus eadem est ratio: and nothing but the active spirit of literary jealousy, could have dragged forth my former Ode from the obscurity, in which it has long slept, to the disgrace of all good taste in the present age. However, that you and the public may see, how little I have really taken, and how much I have opened the thoughts, and improved the language of that little, I send you my imitations of myself, as well as some few explanatory notes, necessary to elucidate my classical and historical allusions.
I am, SIR JOHN,
With every wish for your success,
Your most obedient humble servant,
WILLIAM YORK.
* * * * *
PINDARIC ODE,
By DR. W. MARKHAM,
Lord Archbishop of York, Primate of England, and Lord High Almoner
to his Majesty, formerly Preceptor to the Princes, Head Master of
Westminster School, &c. &c. &c.
STROPHE I.
The priestly mind what virtue so approves,
And testifies the pure prelatic spirit,
As loyal gratitude?
More to my King, than to my God, I owe;
God and my father made me man,
Yet not without my mother’s added aid;
But George, without, or God, or man,
With grace endow’, and hallow’d me Archbishop.
ANTISTROPHE I.
In Trojan PRIAM’s court a laurel grew;
So VIRGIL sings. But I will sing the laurel,
Which at St. JAMES’s blooms.
O may I bend my brows from that blest tree,
Not flourishing in native green,
Refreshed with dews from AGANIPPE’s spring:
But, [1]like the precious plant of DIS,
Glitt’ring with gold, with royal sack irriguous.
EPODE I.
So shall my aukward gratitude,
With fond presumption to the Laureat’s duty
Attune my rugged numbers blank.
Little I reck the meed of such a song;
Yet will I stretch aloof,
And tell of Tory principles,
The right Divine of Kings;
And Power Supreme that brooks not bold contention:
Till all the zeal monarchial
That fired the Preacher, in the Bard shall blaze,
And what my Sermons were, my Odes once more shall be.
STROPHE II.
[2]Good PRICE, to Kings and me a foe no more,
By LANSDOWN won, shall pay with friendly censure
His past hostility.
Nor shall not He assist, my pupil once,
Of stature small, but doughty tongue,
Bold ABINGDON, whose rhetoric unrestrain’d,
Rashes, more lyrically wild,
[3]Than GREENE’s mad lays, when he out-pindar’d PINDAR.
ANTISTROPHE II.
With him too, EFFINGHAM his aid shall join,
[4] Who, erst by GORDON led, with bonfires usher’d
His Sov’reign’s natal month.
Secure in such allies, to princely themes,
To HENRY’s and to EDWARD’s young.
Dear names, I’ll meditate the faithful song;
How oft beneath my birch severe,
Like EFFINGHAM and ABINGDON, they tingled:
EPODE II.
Or to the YOUTH IMMACULATE
Ascending thence, I’ll sing the strain celestial,
By PITT, to bless our isle restor’d.
Trim plenty, not luxuriant as of old,
Peace, laurel-crown’d no more;
[5] Justice, that smites by scores, unmov’d;
And her of verdant locks,
Commerce, like Harlequin, in motley vesture,
[6]Whose magic sword with sudden sleight,
Wav’d o’er the HIBERNIAN treaty, turns to bonds,
The dreams of airy wealth, that play’d round PATRICK’s[7] eyes.
STROPHE III.
But lo! yon bark, that rich with India spoils,
O’er the wide-swilling ocean rides triumphant,
Oh! to BRITANNIA’s shore
In safety waft, ye winds, the precious freight!
’Tis HASTINGS; of the prostrate EAST
Despotic arbiter; whose [8] bounty gave
My MARKHAM’s delegated rule
To riot in the plunder of BENARES.
ANTISTROPHE III.
How yet affrighted GANGES, oft distain’d
With GENTOO carnage, quakes thro’ all his branches!
Soon may I greet the morn,
When, HASTINGS screen’d, DUNDAS and GEORGE’s name.
Thro’ BISHOPTHORP’s[9] glad roofs shall sound,
Familiar in domestic merriment;
Or in thy chosen PLACE, ST. JAMES,
Be carol’d loud amid th’ applauding IMHOFFS!
EPODE III.
When wealthy Innocence, pursued
By Factious Envy, courts a Monarch’s succour,
Mean gifts of vulgar cost, alike
Dishonour him, who gives, and him, who takes.
Not thus shall HASTINGS sav’d,
Thee, BRUNSWICK, and himself disgrace.
[10]O may thy blooming Heir,
In virtues equal, be like thee prolific!
Till a new race of little GUELPS,
Beneath the rod of future MARKHAMS train’d,
Lisp on their Grandsire’s knee his mitred Laureat’s lays.
[1] See Virgil’s Æneid, b. vi.
[2] During the Administration of Lord SHELBURNE, I was told by a friend of mine, that Dr. PRICE took occasion, in his presence, to declare the most lively abhorrence of the damnable heresies, which he had formerly advanced against the Jure divino doctrines, contained in some of my Sermons.
[3] See a translation of PINDAR, by EDWARD BURNABY GKEENE.
[4] This alludes wholly to a private anecdote, and in no degree to certain malicious reports of the noble Earl’s conduct during the riots of June, 1780.
[5] The present Ministry have twice gratified the public, with the awfully sublime spectacle of twenty hanged at one time.
[6] These three lines, I must confess, have been interpolated since the introduction of the fourth Proposition in the new Irish Resolutions. They arose, however, quite naturally out of my preceding personification of commerce.
[7] I have taken the liberty of employing Patrick in the same sense as Paddy, to personify the people of Ireland. The latter name was too colloquial for the dignity of my blank verse.
[8] One of the many frivolous charges brought against Mr. Hastings by factious men, is the removal of a Mr. FOWKE, contrary to the orders of the Directors, that he might make room for his own appointment of my so to the Residentship of BENARES. I have ever thought it my duty to support the late Governor-General, both at Leadenhall and in the House of Peers, against all such vexatious accusations.
[9] As many of my Competitors have complained of Signer Delpini’s ignorance, I cannot help remarking here, that he did not know BISHOPTHORP to be the name of my palace, in Yorkshire; he did not know Mr. Hastings’s house to be in St. James’s-place; he did not know Mrs. Hastings to have two sons by Mynheer Imhoff, her former husband, still living. And what is more shameful than all in a Critical Assessor, he had never heard of the poetical figure, by which I elegantly say, thy place, St. James’s, instead of St. James’s-place.
[10] Signor Delpini wanted to strike out all that follows, because truly it had no connection with the rest. The transition, like some others in this and my former Ode to Arthur Onslow, Esq. may be too fine for vulgar apprehensions, but it is therefore the more Pindaric.