Jekyll, the wag of law, the scribblers pride,
Calne to the senate sent—when TOWNSHEND died.
So LANSDOWNE will’d:—the old hoarse rook at rest,
A jackdaw phœnix chatters from his nest.
Statesman and lawyer now, with clashing cares, 5
Th’ important youth roams thro’ the Temple squares;
Yet stays his step, where, with congenial play,
The well-known fountain babbles day by day:
The little fountain:—whose restricted course,
In low faint Essays owns its shallow sourse. 10
There, to the tinkling jet he tun’d his tongue,
While LANSDOWNE’s fame, and LANSDOWNE’s fall, he sung.
“Where were our friends, when the remorseless crew
Of felon whigs—great LANSDOWNE’s pow’r o’erthrew?
For neither then, within St. Stephen’s wall 15
Obedient WESTCOTE hail’d the Treasury-call;
Nor treachery then had branded EDEN’s fame,
Or taught mankind the miscreant MINCHIN’s name,
Joyful no more (tho’ TOMMY spoke so long)
Was high-born HOWARD’s cry, or POWNEY’s prattling tongue. 20
Vain was thy roar, MAHON!—tho’ loud and deep;
Not our own GILBERT could be rous’d from sleep.
No bargain yet the tribe of PHIPPS had made:
LANSDOWNE! you sought in vain ev’n MULGRAVE’s aid;
MULGRAVE—at whose harsh scream in wild surprise, 25
The speechless Speaker lifts his drowsy eyes.
Ah! hapless day! still as thy hours return,
Let Jesuits, Jews, and sad Dissenters mourn!
Each quack and sympathizing juggler groan,
While bankrupt brokers echo moan for moan. 30
Oh! much-lov’d peer!—my patron!—model!—friend!
How does thy alter’d state my bosom rend.
Alas! the ways of courts are strange and dark!
PITT scarce would make thee now-a Treasury-clerk!”
Stung with the maddening thought, his griefs, his fears 35
Dissolve the plaintiff councellor in tears.
“How oft,” he cries, “has wretched LANSDOWNE said;
Curs’d be the toilsome hours by statesmen led!
Oh! had kind heaven ordain’d my humbler fate
A country gentleman’s—of small estate— 40
With Price and Priestly in some distant grove,
Blest I had led the lowly life I love.
Thou, Price, had deign’d to calculate my flocks!
Thou, Priestley! sav’d them from the lightning shocks!
Unknown the storms and tempests of the state—— 45
Unfelt the mean ambition to be great;
In Bowood’s shade had passed my peaceful days,
Far from the town and its delusive ways;
The crystal brook my beverage—and my food
Hips, carnels, haws, and berries of the wood.” 50
“Blest peer! eternal wreaths adorn thy brow!
Thou CINCINNATU’s of the British plough!
But rouse again thy talents and thy zeal!
Thy Sovereign, sure, must wish thee Privy-seal.
Or, what if from the seals thou art debarr’d? 55
CHANDOS, at least, he might for thee discard.
Come, LANSDOWNE! come—thy life no more thy own,
Oh! brave again the smoke and noise of town:
For Britain’s sake, the weight of greatness bear,
And suffer honours thou art doom’d to wear.” 60
To thee her Princes, lo! where India sends!
All BENFIELD’s here—and there all HASTINGS’ friends;
MACPHERSON—WRAXALL—SULLIVAN—behold!
CALL—BARWELL—MIDDLETON—with heaps of gold!
Rajahs—Nabobs—from Oude—Tanjore—Arcot— 65
And see!—(nor oh! disdain him!)—MAJOR SCOTT.
Ah! give the Major but one gracious nod:
Ev’n PITT himself once deign’d to court the squad.
“Oh! be it theirs, with more than patriot heat,
To snatch their virtues from their lov’d retreat: 70
Drag thee reluctant to the haunts of men,
And make the minister—Oh! God!—but when!”
Thus mourn’d the youth—’till, sunk in pensive grief,
He woo’d his handkerchief for soft relief.
In either pocket either hand he threw; 75
When, lo!—from each, a precious tablet flew.
This—his sage patron’s wond’rous speech on trade:
This—his own book of sarcasms ready made.
Tremendous book!—thou motley magazine
Of stale severities, and pilfer’d spleen! 80
O! rich in ill!—within thy leaves entwin’d,
What glittering adders lurk to sting the mind.
Satire’s Museum!—with SIR ASHTON’s lore,
The naturalist of malice eyes thy store:
Ranging, with fell Virtû, his poisonous tribes 85
Of embryo sneers, and anamalcule gibes.
Here insect puns their feeble wings expand
To speed, in little flights, their lord’s command:
There, in their paper chrysalis, he sees
Specks of bon mots, and eggs of repartees. 90
In modern spirits ancient wit he steeps;
If not its gloss, the reptile’s venom keeps:
Thy quaintness’ DUNNING! but without thy sense:
And just enough of B———t, for offence.
On these lov’d leaves a transient glance he threw: 95
But weighter themes his anxious thoughts pursue.
Deep senatorial pomp intent to reach,
With ardent eyes he hangs o’er LANSDOWNE’s speech.
Then, loud the youth proclaims the enchanting words
That charm’d the “noble natures” of the lords, 100
“Lost and obscured in Bowood’s humble bow’r,
No party tool—no candidate for pow’r—
I come, my lords! an hermit from my cell,
A few blunt truths in my plain style to tell.
Highly I praise your late commercial plan; 105
Kingdoms should all unite—like man and man.
The French love peace—ambition they detest;
But Cherburg’s frightful works deny me rest.
With joy I see new wealth for Britain shipp’d,
Lisbon’s a froward child and should be whipp’d. 110
Yet Portugal’_s our old and best ally,
And Gallic faith is but a slender tie,
My lords! the_ manufacturer’s a fool;
The clothier, too, knows nothing about wool;
Their interests still demand syr constant care; 115
Their griefs are mine—their fears are my despair.
My lords! my soul is big with dire alarms;
Turks, Germans, Russians, Prussians, all in arms!
A noble Pole (I’m proud to call him friend!)
Tells me of things I cannot comprehend. 120
Your lordship’s hairs would stand on end to hear
My last dispatches from the Grand Vizier.
The fears of Dantzick-merchants can’t be told;
Accounts from Cracow make my blood run cold.
The state of Portsmouth_, and of_ Plymouth Docks, 125
Your Trade—your Taxes—Army—Navy—Stocks—
All haunt me in my dreams; and, when I rise,
The bank of England scares my open eyes.
I see—I know some dreadful storm is brewing;
Arm all your coasts—your navy is your ruin. 130
I say it still; but (let me be believed)
In this your lordships have been much deceiv’d.
A noble Duke affirms, I like his plan:
I never did, my lords!—I never can—
Shame on the slanderous breath! which dares instill 135
That I, who now condemn, advis’d the ill.
Plain words, thank Heav’n! are always understood:
I could approve, I said—but not I wou’d.
Anxious to make the noble Duke content, }
My view was just to seem to give consent, 140 }
While all the world might see that nothing less was meant.” }
While JEKYLL thus, the rich exhaustless store
Of LANSDOWNE’s rhetoric ponders o’er and o’er;
And, wrapt in happier dreams of future days,
His patron’s triumphs in his own surveys; 145
Admiring barristers in crouds resort
From Figtree—Brick—Hare—Pump—and Garden court.
Anxious they gaze—and watch with silent awe
The motley son of politics and law.
Meanwhile, with softest smiles and courteous bows, 150
He, graceful bending, greets their ardent vows.
“Thanks, generous friends,” he cries, “kind Templers, thanks!
Tho’ now, with LANSDOWNE’s band your JEKYLL ranks,
Think not, he wholly quits black-letter cares;
Still—still the lawyer with the statesman shares.” 155
But, see! the shades of night o’erspread the skies!
Thick fogs and vapours from the Thames arise.
Far different hopes our separate toils inspire:
To parchment you, and precedent retire.
With deeper bronze your darkest looks imbrown, 160
Adjust your brows for the demurring frown:
Brood o’er the fierce rebutters of the bar,
And brave the issue of the gowned war.
Me, all unpractis’d in the bashful mood,
Strange, novice thoughts, and alien cares delude. 165
Yes, modest Eloquence! ev’n I must court
For once, with mimic vows, thy coy support;
Oh! would’st thou lend the semblance of my charms!
Feign’d agitations, and assum’d alarms!
’Twere all I’d ask:—but for one day alone 170
To ape thy downcast look—my suppliant tone:
To pause—and bow with hesitating grace—
Here try to faulter—there a word misplace:
Long-banish’d blushes this pale cheek to teach,
And act the miseries of a maiden speech. 175
PROBATIONARY ODES FOR THE LAUREATSHIP: WITH A PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE, BY SIR JOHN HAWKINS, KNT.
PRELIMINARY DISCOURSE, BY THE EDITOR.
Having, in the year seventeen hundred and seventy-six, put forth A HISTORY OF MUSIC, in five volumes quarto (which buy), notwithstanding my then avocations as Justice of the Peace for the county of Middlesex and city and liberty of Westminster; I, Sir John Hawkins, of Queen-square, Westminster, Knight, do now, being still of sound health and understanding, esteem it my bounden duty to step forward as Editor and Revisor of THE PROBATIONARY ODES. My grand reason for undertaking so arduous a task is this: I do from my soul believe that Lyric Poetry is the own, if not twin sister of Music; wherefore, as I had before gathered together every thing that any way relates to the one, with what consistency could I forbear to collate the best effusions of the other?—I should premise, that in volume the first of my quarto history, chap. i. page 7, I lay it down as a principle never to be departed from, that, “The Lyre is the prototype of the fidicinal species.” And accordingly I have therein discussed at large, both the origin, and various improvements of the Lyre, from the Tortoise-shell scooped and strung by Mercury on the banks of the Nile, to the Testudo, exquisitely polished by Terpander, and exhibited to the Ægyptian Priests. I have added also many choice engravings of the various antique Lyres, viz. the Lyre of Goats-horns, the Lyre of Bullshorns, the Lyre of Shells, and the Lyre of both Shells and Horns compounded; from all which, I flatter myself, I have indubitably proved the Lyre to be very far superior to the shank bone of a crane, or any other Pike, Fistula, or Calamus, either of Orpheus’s or Linus’s invention; ay, or even the best of those pulsatile instruments, commonly known by the denomination of the drum.
Forasmuch, therefore, as all this was finally proved and established by my History of Music, I say, I hold it now no alien task to somewhat turn my thoughts to the late divines specimens of Lyric Minstrelsy. For although I may be deemed the legal guardian of MUSIC alone, and consequently not in strictness bound to any farther duty than that of her immediate Wardship (see Burn’s Justice, article Guardian), yet surely, in equity and liberal feeling, I cannot but think myself very forcibly incited to extend this tutelage to her next of kin; in which degree I hold every individual follower of THE LYRIC MUSE, but more especially all such part of them, as have devoted, or do devote their strains to the celebration of those best of themes, the reigning King and the current year; or in other words, of all Citharistæ Regis, Versificators Coronæ, Court Poets, or as we now term them, Poets Laureats.—Pausanias tells us, that it pleased the God of Poets himself, by an express oracle, to order the inhabitants of Delphi to set apart for Pindar one half of the first fruit offerings brought by the religious to his shrine, and to allow him a place in his temple, where, in an iron chair, he was used to sit and sing his hymns in honour of that God. Would to heaven that the Bench of Bishops would, in some degree, adopt this excellent idea!—or at least that the Dean and Chapter of Westminster, and the other Managers of the Abbey Music Meetings, would in future allot the occasional vacancies of Madame Mara’s seat in the Cathedral Orchestra, for the reception of the reigning Laureat, during the performance of that favourite constitutional ballad, “May the King live for ever!” It must be owned, however, that the Laureatship is already a very kingly settlement; one hundred a year, together with a tierce of Canary, or a butt of sack, are surely most princely endowments, for the honour of literature and the advancement of poetical genius. And hence (thank God and the King for it!) there scarcely ever has been wanting some great and good man both willing and able to supply so important a charge.—At one time we find that great immortal genius, Mr. Thomas Shadwell (better known by the names of Og and Mac Flecknoe), chanting the prerogative praises of that blessed æra.—At a nearer period, we observe the whole force of Colley Cibber’s genius devoted to the labours of the same reputable employment.—And finally, in the example of a Whitehead’s Muse, expatiating on the virtues of our gracious Sovereign, have we not beheld the best of Poets, in the best of Verses, doing ample justice to the best of Kings!—The fire of Lyric Poesy, the rapid lightening of modern Pindarics, were equally required to record the Virtues of the Stuarts, or to immortalize the Talents of a Brunswick.—On either theme there was ample subject for the boldest flights of inventive genius, the full scope for the most daring powers of poetical creation; from the free, unfettered strain of liberty in honour of Charles the First, to the kindred Genius and congenial Talents that immortalize the Wisdom and the Worth of George the Third.—But on no occasion has the ardour for prerogative panegyrics so conspicuously flamed forth, as on the late election for succeeding to Mr. Whitehead’s honours. To account for this unparalleled struggle, let us recollect, that the ridiculous reforms of the late Parliament having cut off many gentlemanly offices, it was a necessary consequence that the few which were spared, became objects of rather more emulation than usual. Besides, there is a decency and regularity in producing at fixed and certain periods of the year, the same settled quantity of metre on the same unalterable subjects, which cannot fail to give a particular attraction to the Office of the Laureatship, at a crisis like the present.—It is admitted, that we are now in possession of much sounder judgment, and more regulated taste, than our ancestors had any idea of; and hence, does it not immediately follow, that the occupancy of a poetical office, which, from its uniformity of subject and limitation of duty, precludes all hasty extravagance of style, as well as any plurality of efforts, is sure to be a more pleasing object than ever to gentlemen of regular habits and a becoming degree of literary indolence? Is it not evident too, that in compositions of this kind, all fermentation of thought is certain in a very short time to subside and settle into mild and gentle composition—till at length the possessors of this grave and orderly office prepare their stipulated return of metre, by as proportionate and gradual exertions, as many other classes of industrious tenants provide for the due payment of their particular rents? Surely it is not too much to say, that the business of Laureat to his Majesty is, under such provision, to the full as ingenious, reputable, and regular a trade, as that of Almanack Maker to the Stationer’s Company. The contest therefore for so excellent an office, having been warmer in the late instance than at any preceding period, is perfectly to be accounted for; especially too at a time, when, from nobler causes, the Soul of Genius may reasonably be supposed to kindle into uncommon enthusiasm, at a train of new and unexampled prodigies. In an age of Reform; beneath the mild sway of a British Augustus; under the Ministry of a pure immaculate youth; the Temple of Janus shut; the Trade of Otaheite open; not an angry American to be heard of, except the Lottery Loyalists; the fine Arts in full Glory; Sir William Chambers the Royal Architect; Lord Sydney a Cabinet Minister!—What a golden æra!—From this auspicious moment, Peers, Bishops, Baronets, Methodists, Members of Parliament, Chaplains, all genuine Beaux Esprits, all legitimate heirs of Parnassus, rush forward, with unfeigned ardour, to delight the world by the united efforts of liberal genius and constitutional loyalty.—The illustrious candidates assemble—the wisest of Earls sits as Judge—the archest of Buffos becomes his assessor—the Odes are read—the election is determined—how justly is not for us to decide. To the great Tribunal of the public the whole of this important contest is now submitted.—Every document that can illustrate, every testimony that tends to support the respective merits of the Probationers, is impartially communicated to the world of letters.—Even the Editor of such a collection may hope for some reversionary fame from the humble, but not inglorious task, of collecting the scattered rays of Genius.—At the eve of a long laborious life, devoted to a sister Muse (vide my History, printed for T. Payne and Son, at the Mews-Gate), possibly it may not wholly appear an irregular vanity, if I sometimes have entertained a hope, that my tomb may not want the sympathetic record of Poetry—I avow my motive.—
It is with this expectation I appear as an Editor on the present occasion.—The Authors whose compositions I collect for public notice are twenty-three. The odds of survivorship, according to Doctor Price are, that thirteen of these will outlive me, myself being in class III. of his ingenious tables.—Surely, therefore, it is no mark of that sanguine disposition which my enemies have been pleased to ascribe to me, if I deem it possible that some one of the same thirteen will requite my protection of their harmonious effusions with a strain of elegiac gratitude, saying, possibly (pardon me, ye Survivors that may be, for presuming to hint the thought to minds so richly fraught as yours are) saying, I say,
Here lies Sir John Hawkins,
Without his shoes or stockings![1]
[1] Said Survivors are not bound to said Rhime, if not agreeable.
[The Following excellent observations on the LYRIC STYLE, have been kindly communicated to the EDITOR by the REV. THOMAS WARTON.—They appear to have been taken almost verbatim from several of the former works of that ingenious author; but chiefly from his late edition of Milten’s Minora. We sincerely hope, therefore, that they may serve the double purpose of enriching the present collection, and of attracting the public attention to that very critical work from which they are principally extracted.]