But he is gone, and mem’ry hopes in vain
To find his likeness at the bar again.
His vice remains; but none are left behind
To serve as models of his noble mind.
With him in worth forensic knowledge fell,
And Genius drooping bade the court farewell.
Whom shall discernment now, alas! select
T’ illumine Truth, and Falsehood’s form detect—
T’ argue still, in luckless Reason’s spite,
That white is black, and black a shade of white?
Where all are nearly equal, small the choice,
Save in the windpipe, or the louder voice.
Shake all the host together in a hat,
And take them singly forth, whose name is that?
Hart[33] sallies forth—but why was he put there?
His judgeship merges all the barrister.
Long may he live that dignity to keep,
And slumber now, as once he lull’d to sleep.
His name half serves my numbers to compose,
And turn dull poetry to duller prose.
Still might his long experience fit the place,
That Copley’s sense without can never grace.
Of head acute and clear next Sugden see;[34]
Apt at a jest, and quick in repartee.
Cool when assail’d, he often shuns a snare,
And leaves his fierce opponent writhing there.
In recollection strong, he bears a store
Of points determin’d by the Court before;
Brings to his aid each well decided case,
And fastens Reason on its proper base.
Whatee’r the side for which he pleads, be sure—
If best exertions can success secure.
Steadfast of heart no insult will he brook,—
The haughty gesture, or disdainful look.
With manly pride he speaks in open day
Whatever truth or duty bids him say.
Still must the muse with honesty avow,
Too much conceit at times will swell his brow.
“The Book on Powers” often will he cite
As something more than mortal’s pen could write,
Wherein the Authors notions are to stand
For acts of legislation thro’ the land,
And all, that wiser men have thought or said,
Yield to the phantasies of Sugden’s head.
Nor this his only fault, as Sussex shew’d,
When on Sir Godfrey all their votes bestow’d,
Turn’d from the would-be statesman with disgust,
And left him humbled to the very dust;
While some gay wag, who at his pride was nettled,
Wrote on his back these words “Perused and settled.”
Yes, at the moment, while that country’s sword
Is girding round it’s half-elected lord,
While zealous friends are calling for the car
To grace the triumph of the fightless war;—
Hark! from afar the rival chariots roll,
And breathless Webster hurries to the poll;—
Delighted yeomen own his juster claim,
And vanquish’d Sugden sneaks away in shame.
So falls, in mounting to some ruddy peach,
A snail, before the tempting prize he reach.
So shrinks an urchin with half broken limb
From some tall tree he tried in vain to climb.—
But see again the royal edict sent
To summon deputies for parliament.
The fox once caught will ever fear the trap,
And scalded children dread a like mishap.
Why gleans not Sugden from experience? he
Again must seek that fatal rank, M. P.
Fool-hardy mortal, try thy wings before
Ambition tempt thee ’mid the clouds to soar.
E’en rotten Boroughs from their notice thrust
The man whose principles they cannot trust,
And treat with scorn the hope of richer pay,
Lest he, who promises, should first betray.
Not that thy conduct should such censure fix,—
But why from others choose thy politics?
For public duties, public care demands
An upright conscience, and unshackled hands;
No groveling passions should the bosom rule,—
A baffled placeman, or a courtier’s tool.
’Tis true that Virtue oft with gold relents;
But be sincere to your constituents.
If Whig, be Whig; if Tory, Tory be,—
And season bribes with due consistency.
Thus in St. Stephen may you gain a seat,
And laugh with Webster at your first defeat—
Thus may you hope from Copley’s hand to wrench
The seals, and mount the woolsack, or the bench.
Whate’er befall, the muse thy worth allows,
And turns with laurel to adorn thy brows.
Rich hues of green pervade throughout the wreathe,
But scarce can hide some wither’d leaves beneath.
E’en so thy merit with its better part
May serve to cloak the frailties of thine heart.
Another name? ’tis thine impetuous Horne[35]
With fiery temper, and with looks of scorn.
But little read, or else of feeble brain,
That can but little at a time contain.
Prolix of speech, but coarse and unrefin’d,—
Thou hast no symptom of the cultur’d mind.
Thy words, like waters roaring down a rock,
Astonish all, whose nerves can bear the shock;
Both rise in mists, and end at last in foam,
Thus savage nature feels with thee at home!
Far, far from me be eloquence so grand;
I like to hear, and hearing understand,
Not race thy tongue thro’ all it’s barren track,
But stop my ears, for fear the drum should crack.
Come, gentle Shadwell,[36] in thy modest mein
Good sense, good humour are united seen,—
Good sense well temper’d by reflection sage,
That crowns the promise of thine early age;—
Good humour, fraught with many a harmless joke,
Which studied insult only can provoke.
Nought can the muse for censure find in thee,—
Tho’ less than perfect, from great errors free.
Be this thy meed for future times to scan,
A trusty counsel, and an honest man!—
But who now creeps along with pallid cheek
And hollow eyes that disappointment speak?—
’Tis he, Fonblanque,[37] whose dawning years foretold
Of talent cast in Nature’s choicest mould,—
A germ, that ripen’d into fruit with care
Rich product worthy of its seed might bear.
Alas! chill Penury with sharpen’d dart
Drank up the vital current of his heart;
Repress’d his Genius in its vernal growth,
And left him struggling with the gripe of sloth.
The fees, that now his air built hopes repay,
Scarce from his door starvation keep away.
O lucky Park,[38] in pompous visage drest,
How did thy merit earn that ermine vest?
If for the book, that falsely bears thy name,
Did not Fonblanque at least deserve the same?
Go, fine a county for its creaking gate,
Hang fifty culprits, lest thy dinner wait!
Make mouths at sheriffs, and the bar commit,
Or when abused, with Christian patience sit.
Heavens! must desert for blighted prospects pine,
And honour light on ignorance like thine?—
Must folly to the bench exalted be?
And Wisdom buried in obscurity?
No more; let Park his childish course pursue,
And poor Fonblanque the cud of anguish chew.
Be mine the choice, if fortune so would rule,
The starving scholar,—not the titled fool!
Now with attention let each lip be seal’d,
To hear thy playful speech, sagacious Heald.[39]
While mirth and laughter on thy steps attend,
The gravest audience must perforce unbend.
Of lazy turn, thy facts are seldom true,
Or widely varied from their proper hue;
Not by design, to make a stronger base
For disquisition—but unknown thy case.
Tho’ oft corrected, still thou hast the knack
To send each weapon of derision back;
To scorn the sneer, that others’ lips would close,
And hurl it doubly pointed on thy foes.
If just thy statement, then the case is right;
If false, it shines in more perspicuous light.
Thy ready tongue so shifts the point along,
That, come what will, thou never can’st be wrong.
Conviction bends with half persuaded ear,
And sad opponents quake in hopeless fear.
’Tis said, of riches thou art far from nude,
And that the law for pastime is pursued;—
If so, retain thy briefs, but spurn the gold,
For which thy better service must be sold.
For conscience’ sake each fee should be returned.—
Ill can’st thou keep what is so idly earned!
Hah! art thou deaf? then try the Thespian plank,
And play to gaping crowds the mountebank!
The muse indignant spurns thee from a place,
Where theft is infamy, and sloth disgrace.
Now Treslove comes—a man, whose plodding ways
Shew nought for censure, and no more for praise.
He speaks sometimes with more than common fire,
But little feeling can his words inspire;
No bright distinction ever can he reach
While calm indifference listens to his speech.
The road to fame he slowly trots along,
Now first, now last amid the vulgar throng;
Like some hot steed, who gains perhaps the start,
But perfect bottom having not at heart,
He drops at last, however urged his pace,
And scarce can save his distance in the race.