—Hor. Epod. 10.
Base as they are, this rancorous royal crew[192]
Seem baser still, when they are praised by you.
By you adorned in regal garb they shine,
Sweat through your verse, and stink in every line.
True child of folly—eldest of her tribe—
How could you dream that you were worth a bribe.—
Ill-fated scribbler, with a pointless quill,
Retract the threat you dare not to fulfil:
Round your own neck the wythe or halter twine,
And be the science of a hangman thine:—[193]
Have we from you purloined one shred of wit,
Or did we imitate one line you writ?
Peace to your verse!—we do not rob the dead,
The clay-cold offspring of a brazen head.
Doctor! retire! what madness would it be
To point artillery at a mite like thee?—
Such noxious vermin clambering from their shell,
By squibs and crackers might be killed as well.
But, if you must torment the world with rhymes,
(Perhaps you came to curse us for our crimes)
In sleepy odes indulge your smoky wit,
Pindarics would your happy genius fit—
With your coarse white-wash daub some miscreant's face,
Puppies advanced, or traitors in disgrace:[194]
To gain immense renown we leave you free,
Go, scratch and scribble, uncontrouled by me:—
Haste to the realms of nonsense and despair—
The ghosts of murdered rhymes will meet you there;
Like rattling chains provoke unceasing fears,
And with eternal jinglings—stun your ears.
[190] This poem appeared in the Journal, September 4, 1782, in answer to the following, which had been published in the Gazetteer, August 31, 1782:
"Mr. Oswald: Please give the following Lines, addressed to the Foe to Malice, a Place in your useful Paper; in order to convince this great Poet (who never borrowed a Line in his Life) how easy it is to take his Battery, and turn it against himself.
A Foe to Tyrants.
"When in the Bark, the unskilful Pilot raves,
And lets her drive amidst conflicting waves;
The free-born Landsmen rous'd, complain, and cry.
What Pilot's this, on whom we can't rely?
We're wreck'd, undone, and driven on the shore,
Unless you quit the helm, and steer no more.
The Pilot, conscious of the mischief done,
Not knowing what to do, or where to run,
Lurks to his hole, astonish'd and aghast,
Dreading the moment that must be his last.
The tempest o'er—his terrors also fled,
Once more upon the deck he shews his head,
At once grown brave, he tells the people too,
He did for them, whatever man could do.
But cease thy boasting—Freemen all will think,
A Bark thus manag'd, in the deep must sink.
"A Foe to Tyrants—ne'er receiv'd a Bribe,
Nor Gold ador'd, nor stuck to Johnston's side;
With malice stupid, ev'ry line must show,
The man that's Johnston's friend is not thy foe.
What wond'rous fancy urg'd thy genius bright,
To speak of Churchill—as if thou coud'st write;
To shine in borrow'd plumes, with base design,
And to oblivion worthy men consign.
Reptiles and Dogs, and all those dreary things,
Bespeak the mind from whence such slander springs;
Dirt thou may'st throw—the dunce's last retreat,
For none but dunces will thy lines repeat.
Not Churchill's wreathes, but hick'ry withes will do,
To twine thy brows, and lace thy jacket too;
Leave thy friend R——, we've had enough of him,
For abler Pilots live the Bark to trim.
What! if a thousand Joes should wince and bawl,
One honest Jack would make amends for all."
[191] The title in the edition of 1786 was "To the Foe to Tyrants," and in 1795 "To Shylock Ap-Shenkin." Freneau translates the stanza from Horace as follows: "A dog, cowardly against wolves, yet molests strangers that have no quarrel with him—approach, whelp, and attack us, who are able to dash your teeth down your throat."
[192] "Vile as they are, this lukewarm Tory crew."—Ed. 1786.