"Thy verse, but ah! my powers are vain,
To tell the wonders of thy brain
Where mists of dullness sit;
Cimmerian darkness round thy head,
It's sable mantle long hath spread,
To veil thy wooden wit.
"Thy satire, mystic type of lead,
Keen as a dart without a head,
And vigorous as age;
'Twould almost make a mill-stone cry
To have thy muse its enemy,
When cloathed in her rage.
"Thy bold, heroic numbers swell,
As lofty as the deepest well
Where noxious vapours rise;
Thy song as sweet as Bellman's note,
When spun through Mitchell's[a] brazen throat,
Or midnight Watchmen's cries.
"Thy eyes, the index of the soul,
With mad, poetic fury roll,
In eager search of fame;
Thy face, ye gods! ah! what a face!
Thy air, thy port, thy quaint grimmace,
Add honor to thy name.
"When, late, sleep's Goddess, clos'd my eyes,
And dreams in sweet gradation rise,
Soul-soothing guests of night,
Methought the cloud-invelop'd Queen
Display'd her dull, somnific mien,
In majesty and might.
"Thick, opiate dews she did dispense,
Whilst poppies, foes to wit and sense,
Hung pendant from her head;
Safe in her hand, by love, impell'd.
Great Fr—n—u's sacred form she held,
Impress'd on genuine lead.
"With blinking, am'rous, rush-light eyes
She view'd her blest Saturnine prize,
As conscious of his worth;
Then smooth'd the wrinkles of her frown,
And shook her poppy-teeming crown,
With unaffected mirth.
"'Go on (she cry'd), with fervent zeal,
Thou glory of that common-weal,
Where dullness bears the sway!
E'en L—e to thee shall yield the chair,
His rhimes shall vanish into air,
Before thy duller lay.
"'Corcoran,[c] long ago, hath fled,
And roving Jem,[d] 'tis said, is dead,
Those foes to common sense;
Now Fr—n—u thou, their son and heir.
More stupid than a stupid mare,
Steps forth in my defence.
"'Thee shall no wisdom e'er molest,
No wit shall perforate thy breast,
Nor humour shew her face;
Thy drowsy verse shall prove a balm,
Specific as the hundredth psalm,
When W—ch—r sings base.