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Poetical Essays;

Being a
Satirical Poems,
Songs and Acrostics.

By Mrs. Frances O‘Neill.

Printed and Published for the Authoress,
by A. Young; 168 High Holborn,

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This Satire, which is now ſubmitted to the Preſs, at the ardent requeſt of the Authoreſſes intimate Friends, is not unworthy of Public Notice. It conſiſts of two Characters, drawn from real Life, and exhibits a true Picture of both, as they are now Living, in a reſpectable Family, No. 39, Great Charles Street, Berkley Square. ---Kelly is an Iriſhman, --- Sangſter a Scotchwoman.

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Poetical Essays, &c.

To Mr. Kelly, who lives in a reſpectable Family in Berkley Square.

Kelly’s Birth and Education in Ireland.

In vain dull critic, would you ſpurn me down,

And reprobate your countrymen in town;

In vain you ſtrive, for lo! I’ll write again,

And ſilence Iriſh grinders with my pen:

For one who touch’d me, ſure, had better far

Go fight with tygers, or with lions war.

What tho’ repuls’d, the Muſe returns again,

Well arm’d with ſatire in his pregnant pen;

Whoe’er reſiſts his glory laſts not long,

Who braves the power of keen ſatiric ſong,

With which, well arm’d my pen ſeverely bang,

An eagle’s talons, or a lion’s fangs;

Thus ſhall my ſatire war with old and young,

Nor let an Iriſh grinder live unſung.

Satire’s my theme, my theme without remorſe,

For I, like Toby, I’ve a hobby-horſe;

How vain, proud fool, how vain, if I begin

Thy filthy language, and thy ſtupid grin.

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The modeſt Muſe ſuch horrid vice deteſts,

At once deſpiſing both thy grins and jeſts;

’Tis mine to curb, thou vain cenſorious fool,

To curb thy fictious tongue of ridicule;

Thou Iriſh blockhead ſtill to envy prone,

And ſkill’d to expoſe all frailties but thy own;

Read, read my ſatire, and endure the ſcourge

To probe thy ſoul, thy rank offence to purge;

’Tis meet and juſt for ſuch a growling rogue,

Who ſwears ſo loud, and talks the Iriſh brogue,

Come then, O Muſe, we’ll jointly burleſque him,

His gauldy opticks, and his viſage grim;

Kelly has ſenſe, for ſure that ſenſe was ſeen,

While yet a ſilly ſtripling of ſixteen;

For oft at twilight thro’ an evening’s fog,

He found his way o’er Tiperary’s bog,

And oft at night he daſh’d thro’ thick and thin,

By many a ditch, but ſeldom tumbled in.

Gods! with what eaſe he trampled o’er the clod,

His hands ungloved, and both his feet unſhod,

Or hung half-naked o’er the ſtanding pool,

Intent to ſtudy without book or ſchool.

Once, as I heard, as rumour tells for truth,

He robb’d an orchard in the prime of youth,

And paſs’d the fence high-bounding like a frog,

Without the fear of ſpring-trap, gun or dog,

Now in the tree, his bold companions round,

He ſhook a ſhower of apples o’er the ground;

Scarce from the turf, an apron full they’d got

When lo! from far, the keeper fired a ſhot!

He heard the noiſe, and fill’d with dire ſurpriſe,

Beheld the fire with his red gauldy eyes;

Below his partners heard the dire alarm,

And fled for ſafety o’er the well-ſtock’d farm;

Now paſt the meadows, now they take the bog,

Purſued at diſtance by the man and dog;

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But ſoon they baffled their purſuers ſight,

Shelter’d beneath the friendly wings of night,

Our hero ſtill remain’d alone, and now,

Sat all hap-hazard, on the waving bow.

And now, returning from the vain purſuit,

The dog was barking, but the man was mute,

Sagacious, leaſt he ſcented in the wind,

The hapleſs wretch whom theſe had left behind;

The man alarm’d, now ſtood beneath the tree,

With his long gun, to ſee what he could ſee.

The night was warm, the ſtars now fade away,

Yet faintly ſhining at th’ approach of day;

Thro’ the dim ſhade each object ſtood confeſt,

Before the doubtful gleam had ſtreak’d the eaſt;

Kelly beheld the gun, alarm’d him more

Than all the dangers he had met before.

The tree was low, the loaded branches rock’d,

The man was near him, and the gun was cock’d,

This Kelly ſaw, and gave a horrid glare,

With ſtarting eyeballs, and with upright hair;

He could not move, and inſtant with affright,

Thro’ his old breeches dropt his rouzing ſ—e;

From leaf to leaf, the ſubſtance tumbling down,

Full on the man, it fairly top’d his crown;

But ſcatter’d in the fall; and here and there,

It clog’d his eyes, and plaiſter’d all his hair.

He drop’d his gun, and roar’d in ſad ſurpriſe,

O murder! murder! while he wip’d his eyes.

Kelly rejoiced, and with a furious bound,

He ſlip’d his hold, and leap’d upon the ground;

In vain the dog might bark, the man might call;

He paſs’d the fences, and o’er leaped the wall;

Then o’er the field with nimble feet he paſs’d,

Which none could trace becauſe he ran ſo faſt,

Thus for an hour or more nor ever lagg’d,

And as he ran his loaded Pockets wagg’d;

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Theſe every now and then he ſtop’d and damned,

Long, large and ſtrong with heaps of apples cramm’d.

And now he reach’d his home at break of day,

Where his old mother ſnored the night away,

Nor could he tell, alas! nor could he gueſs

What happen’d all his partners in diſtreſs;

Whither they fled for ſafety, what they did,

Or took ſome apples, or thoſe apples hid;

For in his fright deſcending from the tree,

He loſt all thoughts, nor could he hear or ſee,

But yet at firſt, and ſure ’twas nothing loth,

He ſhook the tree, and cramm’d his pockets both;

For then, as now, well practis’d he to grind,

Took every mean advantage he could find.

Now tired with running o’er the twilight lawn,

He ſpy’d his cottage at the peep of dawn,

’Twas thatch’d with ſtraw, the door of woven twigs,

That ſafely guards the matron and her pigs,

And ducks and hens all jointly ſlept together,

That kept them warm as wool in coldeſt weather.

Now breathleſs, pale, he enter’d at the door,

And caſt his body on the clay-cold floor,

To reſt his limbs, his mother rais’d his head,

From the long ſtraw, that form’d his rural bed;

No ’twas not ſtraw, ’twas ruſhes ſcatter’d round,

Or fragrant lougher Lougher, a kind of ruſhes or long graſs, of which they make beds in ſummer. thrown upon the ground.

She rais’d her head, and ſtill the dame kept ſtaring,

With eyes like his, all gauldy, red and blaring,

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He damned her wrinkled face, ſhe damned at him,

His gauldy opticks, and his viſage grim,

Iriſh and Engliſh he made uſe of both,

And in each language mutter’d out an oath,

Then ſeiz’d her by the heels, devoid of feeling,

While hens were cackling, and while pigs were ſqueeling,

She without cloaths, yet void of every ſtitch,

To ſeek for ſhelter in a neighb’ring ditch;

He kick’d her out, ſhe roar’d, nor did he mind her,

But damned her limbs, and ſmack’d the door behind her.

This Kelly once perform’d, and this expreſt,

The evil genius ripening in his breaſt,

Which now matur’d, even to the worſt exceſs,

He ſports with pain, and wantons with diſtreſs,

Still, ſtill more cruel, more the tyrant now,

Rais’d to a ſkip than when he drove the plough.

Canto II.

The contention of Kelly and Sangster.

Kelly, Butler, and Sangſter, Houſekeeper to a certain great family, No. 39, Great Charles- Street, Berkley-Square.—Deſcrription of Kelly —His employment in the morning—His evil diſpoſition, and how he exerts his power over whom he has authority—His contention with Mrs. Sangſter—His unlucky breaking the cup —A Sylph interpoſes.

Kelly, at nine, juſt broke from ſound repoſe,

Opes his red eyes, and picks his Iriſh noſe;

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Now in his ſhoes his ſtinking feet he cramm’d,

Unforc’d he ſwore, and unprovok’d he damned;

Juſt riſing from his bed, no creature near,

Now breakfaſt waits, the bell ſalutes his ear;

Shuffling he enters, like an awkward clown,

And hawls a chair, and inſtant pops him down;

Now grins at Sangſter, whom his words provoke,

Now ſips his tea, and cracks his filthy joke,

Studious in all fair virtue to deſpiſe,

To ſlander merit, and defame the wiſe:

Well ſkill’d in bawdy jeſt, and filthy jeers,

He dwells on both to wound the modeſt ears;

He grins contempt, and faults her every word;

That term is nonſenſe, this is moſt abſurd,

Zounds! damn the trollop, now the gabey calf

Diſtorts his face, to make the ſervants laugh;

Now ſips and craunches, now diſtends his jaws,

Shuts his red eyes, and grins his own applauſe,

Then reprobates the King, abuſes Pitt,

Heaven keep me dull if this be Iriſh wit.

And now good Sangſter, grumbling ſide by ſide,

Pours out the tea, and thus begins to chide:

O, Mr. Kelly, ceaſe, we’ve heard enough

Of filthy love, of damned confounded ſtuff;

Say to what purpoſe ſhall your tongue get looſe,

And on the world diſcharge ſuch rank abuſe;

What’s Pitt to us, or what affairs of ſtate

Diſturbs your brain? come drink your tea, and eat,

And while ſhe ſpoke, ſhe now preſents the plate.

Thus ſhe, while Kelly’s inmoſt paſſions riſe,

He gnaſh’d his teeth, and roll’d his gauldy eyes,

Reſembling more a ſatyr than a man,

In this rough tone he at length began:

Damn your Scotch tongue, damn your impertinence,

You’ve neither manners, wit, or common ſenſe,

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Go to the kitchen, ſawney, that’s your place,

There ſqueeze your diſhclout, there collect your greaſe,

And waſh your ſcurvied hands, and barrack- beaten face;

It beſt becomes you there to hold your clack,

To clean your coppers, and wind up your jack,

To ſieve the cinders in your mean attire,

To ſweep the duſt, and poke the kitchen fire,

Go ſkim your broth, your ſtew-pans ſcrape and drain,

Collect your fat, and all your fragments glean;

Your call’d the grinder, in that ſong of ſongs,

To you, not me, the foul reproach belongs,

You grind your maſter, and your bills enlarge,

Given up with double intereſt in the charge,

You cringe and bend where grinding is your guide,

But treat the wretched with contempt and pride,

Go ſcold and roar, and drink, and lean and lollop,

Crack the foul jeſt, and play the common trollop,

Studious whate’er is lovely to defame,

And jeer the envied bluſh of modeſt ſhame:

All theſe are yours, but know foul plague ’tis mine,

To wait, to change the plates, and pour the wine,

Far, far from me be that unworthy taſk,

To lie and ſlander under friendſhip’s maſk,

This is thy taſk, and never-ending theme,

To lie, to ſwear, to ſlander and defame.

Sangſter, at this, with juſt reſentment burns,

And her fluſh’d face, grew red and pale by turns,

Anger and hatred in her boſom pent,

Raged in conjunction but could find no vent;

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Then thus, at laſt, ſhe made her fury known,

In half form’d accents, and a ſtamm’ring tone:

Damn your red eyes, you noiſy grinding rogue,

Your clowniſh manners, and your Iriſh brogue,

A vain conceited block, a ſtupid fool,

An Iriſh blund’ring butt of ridicule,

Born, as we hear, on Tiperary’s bog,

Go cringe to Pocock, go you Iriſh dog,

Search England round, could we your equal find!

So prone to practice, and ſkill’d to grind,

’Tis meet and juſt your canker’d heart to bear,

And well the ſong has term’d you what you are.

She ſpoke, and Kelly’s Iriſh blood was up,

Fierce from the board he ſnatch’d a ſmoaking cup;

This from his hand, with wrath deſcending full,

Leap’d on the floor rebounding from her ſkull.

Wide o’er the dame the ſcalding deluge ſpread,

Down her fair breaſt, and o’er her doud-cap’d head,

And reach’d her hair, which ſtudious here to ſhroud,

Sangſter conceal’d beneath this flannel doud,

Becauſe ’twas grey, ſhe wiſh’d not to be ſeen,

Where time had ravag’d o’er her hair or ſkin;

For ſhe, like all her ſex, whom God forgive,

Deſpis’d old age, and yet ſtill ſhe wiſh’d to live:

This now uncov’ring, all her head was bare.

And ſhew’d the honors of her hoary hair;

She ſcream’d, he ſwore, and adding blows to blows,

Dragg’d her Scotch arms, ſhe pull’d his Iriſh noſe,

Struggling and hawling both continued long,

Both in a rage, both hardy, rough and ſtrong;

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Now to the table where they firſt had place,

Kelly dragg’d Sangſter, Sangſter ſcratch’d his face;

Kelly was mad, his heart was fill’d with ire,

He ſpit, he ſpurn’d, his red eyes flaſh’d like fire,

And juſt o’erturn’d the teaboard in his rage,

And all the teaboard’s ſhining equipage;

Now cups and ſaucers both had felt his power,

Swept to deſtruction in a ſhining ſhower,

Had not ſome Sylph, unſeen by mortal eyes,

To view the conflict, ſtooping from the ſkies,

Beheld th’ impending danger from afar,

Perch’d on the ſummit of a gilded jar,

High in a rich beauſet, whoſe ample ſpace,

Contain’d full many a jar and many a vaſe

Of curious figures, and cryſtalian frames,

That from the light reflects a thouſand gleams;

From this the Sylph with anxious thought repairs,

For Sylphs, like Ladies, love ſuch pleaſing cares,

To guard the board ſhe ſtrech’d her airy length,

Now ſpreads her pinions, now exerts her ſtrength,

To ſhove grim Kelly from the board ſhe tries,

And ſlapp’d his cheeks, and peck’d his gauldy eyes;

Now with her wings ſhe rais’d a mighty wind,

Blew back his hair, and fann’d his neck behind,

Now in his noſe her needle upright ſtood,

She jamm’d his cheek, and ſhew’d his Iriſh blood;

This needle, pilfer’d from a lady’s caſe,

She now exert’s, and maim’d his ugly face;

Meantime, in many a fragment on the floor,

Lay the bright baſon he had broke before,

A curious vaſe, indeed, of fineſt mould,

From diſtant China, edg’d with circling gold,

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This broke the ſet that old Sir George had choſen,

Completely full, in one unblemiſh’d dozen.

A ſilver teapot, too, of ſhining frame,

With ſtand and ſpoons, and ewer to hold the cream;

Plates, knives and egg-cups, tea-urn and what not,

And all the reſt whom I have now forgot;

Whate’er a teaboard or beauſet could grace,

Each bright material, and each ſhining vaſe,

All these where purchas’d by his maſter’s Sire,

And form’d the ſhining equipage intire,

At vaſt expence, but not too dearly bought,

Which Kelly us’d as if not worth a groat.

He d—’d the baſon, ſwore ’twas brittle ware,

And kick’d the ſhining ſplinters here and there.

At Sangſter now by turns, he ſwears and grins,

Now gripes her ſhoulders, and now kicks her ſhins;

Here points his malice, here exerts his ſpite,

And ſhews his grinders where he dare not bite;

Shuffling and wreſtling both continued yet,

While neither conquer’d, neither could ſubmit;

Yet ſee Miſs Sangſter tiring out at length,

No longer now reſiſts the tyrant’s ſtrength,

She loſt her center with a ſudden ſmack,

And hides the floor beneath her brawny back,

All this he ſaw, rejoic’d at what was done,

He roar’d for ſport, and clapp’d his hands for fun;

Then rais’d her up, and with a mighty ſhout,

Wide opes the door, and fairly banged her out:

Thus, freed triumphant from the dire attack,

He bang’d the ſounding portal at her back;

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Return’d to breakfaſt, now he craunch’d his prog,

Now clos’d his gauldy eyes, and ſnor’d like any hog.

Kelly’s Song, The Iriſh Grinder.

Come aid me ſome Muſe while I ſing,

Miſs Sangſter, ſhe claims your attention,

But ſhe’s far too good for a king,

Is embelliſh’d without my invention.

Let Truth then her beauty proclaim,

High praiſes her wit ſhall crown, ſir,

From the highlands of Scotland ſhe came,

And ſhe lives in ſome ſquare about town, ſir.

Come Muſe, then be quick and begin,

But firſt, you muſt tell where to find her,

Lock’d up in her room ſhe drinks gin,

With her bandy-legg’d Iriſhman’s grinder.

Gods! how ſhe preſides at her meal,

An excellent cook and a carver,

Had you been behind at her tail,

You might ſtand with delight and obſerve her.

While Patrick ſits down with an oath,

His optics red, gauldy, and blearing,

On Sangſter he fixes them both,

And ſhe anſwers reſponſively ſtaring:

To Patrick ſhe always prov’d kind,

No virgin ſure ever was kinder;

He bears all the good in her mind,

And he pays all the debt with his grinder.

If to Covent Garden ſhe ſtruts,

Good gods! how ſhe’ll gallop and caper,

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To purchaſe ſome apples and nuts,

To make her deſert up the cheaper.

For Sangſter has lucrative ſenſe,

She beats all the markets quite down, ſir,

And pockets the overplus pence,

That in time ſhe may buy a new gown, ſir;

For tho’ ſhe has wages enough,

Yet ſtill the main chance ſhe’ll be minding,

Unknown to the world ſhe takes ſnuff,

And unknown to the world ſhe keeps grinding.

Her tongue, which no modeſty guides,

Runs on like a Billingſgate fag, ſir,

She ſhakes her huge haunches, and ſtrides,

While her ſhoulders alternately wag, ſir.

She opens her mouth with ſuch force,

Her language quite moiders her ſkull, ſir,

She tramples about like a horſe,

And ſhe bellows as loud as a bull, ſir.

She ranſacks her cupboards and ſafes,

Well practis’d in turning and winding;

At others misfortunes ſhe laughs,

And her lifes whole employment is grinding.

But Patrick in buſineſs gets on,

His buſineſs is moſtly in vogue, ſir,

For grinding is now all the ton,

And in grinding he tops every rogue, ſir.

Yet Sangſter is fond of her Teague,

They ſmile as they mutually prog, ſir,

To me he’s an Egypt’s foul plague,

And to her he’s a low ſervant dog, ſir.

Now Thady dont’t yield up your cauſe,

When once in good humour you find her,

Perhaps, you may gain more applauſe,

For your bandy-legg’d Iriſhman’s grinder.

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He’s witty at beauty’s expence,

Tho’ crafty, he looks like a fool, ſir;

He tramples on virtue and ſenſe,

With burleſque and low ridicule, ſir.

But had I my will of poor Teague,

The weight of my hand he ſhould feel, ſir,

Regardleſs of fellowſhip’s league,

I’d bedaub him from noddle to heel, ſir.

I’d ſalve his red eyes with a ſmug, A ſmug in the Iriſh language.

I’d brace his bowlegs up in binders,

And teach him to grin like a pug,

When he ſhew’d all his black, rotton grinders.

To a young Gentleman with a Watch Paper.


To thee this humble off’ring croſs’d the ſeas,

Accept the off’ring, and the humble lays;

To thee the ſtranger Muſe a ſuppliant came,

Tho’ not a ſtranger to thy honour’d name,

Then let my Muſe thy approbation meet,

And lay this humble off’ring at thy feet;

Behold this little orb encompaſs’d round,

In which ſome type of Paradiſe is found,

A weak reſemblance, all thy eye can ſee,

The paper ſerpent, and the mimic tree.

How vain to imitate that great Sublime,

Who ſung Creation, and the birth of time;

Whoſe magic pen expreſſive, bold and warm,

To ſound gave ſubſtance, and to fancy form,

Who brought the vaniſh’d Paradiſe to view,

And painted all the flowery plains anew,

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Where Eve ſtill blooming in her charms appears,

Drawn from the depth of full ſix thouſand years,

Whoſe ſerpent in his native form we ſee,

The tempting fruit, and the forbidden tree;

Thoſe long deſtroy’d, yet by Milton’s pen,

Thro’ ling’ring ages ſeem to live again!

O would kind Heaven in one propitious hour,

Give me invention, and my fingers power,

That I might draw fair Eve in all her charms,

Her flowing hair, her neck, and poliſh’d arms,

Her lovely form all perfect as ſhe ſtands,

The faireſt work of her Creator’s hands,

That I might too that wiley ſerpent trace,

That type of Hell, that firſt enſlav’d our race

Could I like him, that vaſt profound unrol,

And paint the living ideas of the ſoul,

Worthy of thee this little orb ſhould ſhine,

And Milton’s Paradiſe ſhould yield to mine.

An Acroſtic for a Great Lady.

Lift up, my ſoul, O Muſe, inſpire my lays,

And join to ſing your favourite lady’s praiſe,

Deſcending here with all your charms of ſenſe,

Your brighteſt beams, and nobleſt influence.

And thou fair Anne, with genuine virtue warm,

Nature’s chief favourite, bleſt in mind and form;

Nor thou reject, or ſcorn my humble lays,

Even thou, whoſe merit claims the nobleſt praiſe.

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Bleſt in thy ſenſe, and form’d on beauty’s plan,

Art poliſh’d high, what Nature firſt began,

Replete with learning, who’d compare with you,

Not Dacier French, or Engliſh Montigue.

Amart of charms, where all thoſe virtues meet

Ripe in thy judgment, in thy language ſweet,

Deſerving praiſe, whom Heaven has given to ſhine,

In every virtue, moral and divine.

A Congratulatory Acroſtic.

Sir Francis Burdett ſhouting crouds proclaim,

Illuſtrious, glorious, ever be thy name;

Ring joy bells, ring the worthy Burdett’s fame.

For thee, thou riſing glory of our days,

Rejoic’d, I join ten thouſand in thy praiſe;

Afoe to vice, repreſſing tyrant laws,

Ne’er ſway’d by flattery, intereſt, or applauſe.

Come then, my Muſe, great Burdett’s worth proclaim,

Illuſtrious heroe, candidate for fame,

Still may’ſt thou live, new honours to acquire,

To claim all praiſes, while all hearts admire.

Be thine the taſk, to ſpurn at tyranny,

Unbind the ſlave and ſet the priſoner free,

Reward good deeds, even in a low eſtate,

Defending virtue, vice to reprobate;

Even this Mainwaring ſadly vanquiſh’d found,

Thy peerleſs fame, this one laſt action crown’d;

This generous deed thy praiſes ſhall extend,

Roll’d on with time, to time’s remoteſt end.

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A Song.

Tune, The Grinder. Written extempore.

What wonders in London we meet,

What numbers have caught this infection,

Hark, hark how they run thro’ the ſtreet,

All eager to ſee the election.

Mainwaring his proſpects are croſs’d,

His troops and his votaries routed,

The rabble huzza’d when he loſt,

And he fainted twice o’er when they ſhouted.

Suppreſs all this rage if you can,

To him you’ve elected be kinder,

Sir Francis Burdett is our man,

And Mainwaring’s a Parliament grinder.

Tally high ho! you know,

Mainwaring’s caſt out for a grinder.

All hearts his humanity won,

For him a whole nation advances,

Now hear how they ſhout as they run,

How they roar and huzza for Sir Francis.

Belov’d by the monarch and clown,

His actions have gain’d him applauſe, ſir,

By him the baſtile is put down,

And he’s zealous in his poverty’s cauſe, ſir,

He freed a poor maid in diſtreſs,

When tyranny cloſely confin’d her,

May he live all our wrongs to redreſs,

And to ſcourge an unmerciful grinder.

To Mr. C.―― Junius,

On his drawing a young Lady’s Likeneſs.

O wond’rous youth, at ſuch an early age,

Could we expect the wiſdom of a ſage!

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Could we the progreſs juſt thro’ life begun,

Expect that thou ſuch wonders could’ſt have done!

Lo! to thy hand th’ obediemt colours came,

And on the canvas rais’d the living frame;

Behold the face where nature’s ſelf inſpires

Thoſe eyes that glow, with well diſſembled fires.

Could, ſuch a youth, in ſuch perfection draw,

I gaz’d, admir’d, and doubted what I ſaw;

That plan is juſt where every grace appears,

And ſeems the finiſh’d work of art and years;

’Tis thine fair natures genuine grace to give,

Create new beings, and bid each figure live;

Beauty, frail flower, in all its gaudy prime,

That fears th’ approach of fate, or waſte of time;

Tho’ Death deſtroys, tho’ paſſing years conſume,

In ages hence ſhall in thy colours bloom;

Beauties may ſhine in painting or in buſt,

When theſe they repreſent are laid in duſt!

But thou, fair youth, to make thy merits known,

Thou need’ſt no painted face, or mimic ſtone;

In theſe the likeneſs of a form we find,

But no reſemblance of the fairer mind,

Nor art, could we her boundleſs ſtores unrol,

Can paint the living ideas of the ſoul.

Hail, then, fair youth, to whom high Heaven aſſign’d

The brighteſt genius, and the nobleſt mind;

Thy name eſtabliſh’d, ne’er ſhall yield to fate,

Who dares even nature thus to emulate.

Without the artiſts aid, or poets lays,

Thy own fair works ſhall ſpeak thy laſting praiſe.

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An Ode for Morning.

The lark began his matin lay,

To hail with notes the roſy dawn,

Freſh riſing gales ſalute the day,

And dry the dew beſpangled lawn.

With ſong reſounded every ſpray,

While far the diſtant clouds retire,

Before the radiant beams of day,

That rob’d the ſkies in floating fire;

And now to diſtance ſcatter’d round,

The riſing light her ſplendor ſhed,

Reflected radiance on the ground,

And tipt the hills with crimſon red.

Here dew-drops gliſt’ning on the thorn,

And opening roſes meet our eyes,

Before the fragrant breath of morn,

New riſen in the eaſtern ſkies.

There lofty cedars bending down,

While here the rivers gently glide,

Each ſeems to view its leafy crown

Reflected in the ſilver tide.

Sequeſter’d here from all mankind,

While yet the encreaſing day is young,

Let contemplation feed my mind,

And ſongs of praiſe employ my tongue.

For ſoon that beauteous morn decays,

Let us employ theſe moments right;

Fit emblem of our paſſing days,

Age is our even, the grave our night.

An Ode for the Evening.

On the ſun’s rays,

What mortal eye could gaze,

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Or fix’d ſuſtain his bright meridian glare,

When uncontroll’d

Emblaz’d with beamy gold,

He burns on high along his noon-tide ſphere

But now his wheels,

O’er hang the eaſtern hills,

Now his red orb collected in his fires,

Shorn of his rays,

A fainter light diſplays,

And from our view in glaring pomp retires.

Long flights of crows

Succeeding rows on rows,

In ſable throngs the twilight air divide

Now hov’ring near,

Their native woods appear,

And perch’d beneath their waving branches hide.

Now lab’ring ſwains

Return’d from ſultry plains

With limbs relax’d along the dewy ſoil,

Beneath ſome bower

Enjoy the peaceful hour,

At eaſe, forgetful of their flawed-reproduction1 wordtoil.

The beauteous moon,

Aſcending to her noon,

With ſilver light the abſent ſon ſupplies,

Her rival beams,

Oppoſe the dying gleams,

That ſtreak the porches of the weſtern ſkies.

On my Arrival in London.

Alas! not here I find content,

Tho’ all my raptur’d ſoul admires

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The ſtately town, its vaſt extent,

Its op’ning ſtreets, and ſhining ſpires.

Tho’ fraught with grandeur and with pride,

In richeſt gems, ſuperbly great,

Thro’ the broad ſtreets, on either ſide,

Ambition ſtalks in robes of ſtate:

Yet here my Muſe no friendſhip meets,

Her every ſcheme lies overthrown,

Since thro’ theſe broad expanded ſtreets,

She moves unnotic’d, and unknown;

Tho’ oft ſhe thruſts her penſive head

Amidſt the crowds’ tumultuous din,

No friendly hand extends her bread,

No pleaſing voice invites her in.

O, thou who form’d both earth and air,

And rais’d to life this ſuff’ring frame,

In pity hear my humble prayer,

And ſooth me with thy mercy’s beam.

O be that ſov’reign power my guide,

Which none can reach or comprehend,

Let every grief and pain ſubſide,

In proſpect of a happier end.

An Ode for the Morning.

Youth of the day, delightful morn,

Thy early beams diſplay’d,

On balmy wings of zephyrs borne,

With bluſhing light the world adorn,

And ſpread the every ſhade.

Before thy beam the clouds retire,

The leſs’ning ſtars decay,—

Thy glowing light, thy radiant fire,

With life the ſlumb’ring world inſpire,

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For thee combin’d the feather’d race,

A general chorus ſings,

To hail thy bright refulgent face;

While floating thro’ th’ etherial ſpace,

Far echoing muſic rings.

The leaves that ſip the ſilver dew,

The buds and op’ning flowers,

Once more their Heavenly tints renew,

Once more freſh op’ning to our view,

Shake off the pearly ſhowers.

For thee, diſplay’d the tulip’s bloom,

A vivid ſplendour ſhews,

For thee, the fragrant gales perfume

The fields, which wonted charms aſſume,

And varying ſweets diſcloſe.

O hear the lamb, in time be wiſe,

And bleſs the new-born day,

Ye heedleſs mortals hear and riſe,

While Morning paints the eaſtern ſkies,

And rules with mildeſt ſway.

An Ode to Spring.

Hail! daughter of a ſtormy fire,

Grim Winter wrapp’d in cold attire,

Reluctant yields the reign

To thy fair hand, yet leaves behind

Black remnants of tempeſtuous wind,

That ſweep the blaſted plain.

Thy influence breathes at early dawn,

Upon the dew beſpangled lawn,

And bids thy charms appear,

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And wave the deep entangled bowers.

And opes the buds, and paints the flowers,

Fair daughters of the year.

Winter now lifts no more on high,

The boreal blaſt that bars the ſky,

With hoarſe reſounding ſweep:

The melting ſnow forſakes the plains,

And torrents loos’d from icy chains,

Their wonted progreſs keep.

Thy preſence bids the clouds diſperſe,

And cheers th’ extended univerſe;

The pregnant breezes blown,

With life the ſlumb’ring buds inſpire,

While the ſun ſhews his purple fire

Along the burning zone.

Still as thou groweſt in ſtrength and grace,

The charms of Summer warm thy face,

More full thy beauties riſe,

Natur’d the modeſt primroſe blows,

While her contraſted charms oppoſe

The tulip’s vivid dyes.

For thee, thou faireſt child of Time,

Thy infant blooms and flow’ry prime,

For thee I tune my lays,

While in this far ſequeſter’d bower,

I paſs the ſolitary hour,

And give thy beauty praiſe.

Hail, Contemplation, bleſt retreat,

Thy joys alone ſupremely great,

Can teach the ſoaring mind

To reach true bliſs, and riſe ſublime,

Beyond the power of Death and Time,

And leave the world behind.

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An Ode to New-Year’s Day.

Awake, awake my ſoul to Heavenly lays,

This the firſt morning of the year I ſing,

That opes a proſpect wide to better days,

A peaceful proſpect and a happy king.

A ſov’reign’s good ſhould be a ſubject’s care,

So let it be this prevailing prayer,

Let every faithful ſubject here unite:

Let faction rage no more,

To plague the happy ſhore,

Let proud rebellion ſink to endleſs night.

Behold what ſcenes are op’ning to our view,

The wide unbounded world is all our own,

Britannia’s arms ſhall conquer and ſubdue,

Our king ſhall reign a ſov’reign power alone.

What conqueſts have we gain’d! what glorious ſpoils!

What never fading laurels for our toils!

This let my Muſe record to lateſt days,

What mighty deeds were done,

What battles fought and won,

By heirs to glory, and immortal praiſe.

Can you be ſilent, Muſe, while fame reſounds?

Launch’d from theſe ſhores, our barks of traffic roam,

Ships that have reach’d old ocean’s utmoſt bounds,

To bear the ſpoils of either India home;

Loaded with treaſure to enrich our iſle,

Where arts are nouriſh’d, where the muſes ſmile,

Where bleſſings reign, encreaſing every hour

Wide o’er the worlds vaſt round,

Britannia’s fame ſhall ſound,

The nurſe of learning, and the ſeat of power.

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Hail then bleſt morn, that leads the promis’d years,

When Time his future progreſs ſhall unroll,

Britannia’s name proud France ſhall learn to fear,

And England’s ſway ſhall ſtretch from pole to pole.

So may it be, let all recording fame,

Admire our actions, and our deeds proclaim;

To Egypt far remote, to worlds unknown,

Let future Nelſons riſe,

To bleſs the Nations eyes,

And guard the glories of the Britiſh throne.

An Acroſtic for Miſs F----- Palmer.

Miſs Palmer form’d alone to give delight,

In whom ten thouſand nameleſs charms unite;

Suppliant, my humble Muſe attempts thy praiſe,

Smile on her labours, and approve her lays.

Fair as the morn thine eyes with rays divine,

As the twin ſtars at even ſerenely ſhine;

No fabled goddeſs drawn with grace and air,

No Cyprian Venus might with thee compare,

Youth’s brighteſt pattern, virtuous, young and fair.

Polite in manners, amiable and kind,

Adorn’d with ev’ry grace in form and mind;

Learn’d in each art, in ſcience how profound,

More ſweet than love with all her beauties crown’d;

Emblem of ſome fair flower in nature’s pride,

Rob’d in her choiceſt ſpoils, in Heaven’s own tinctures dy’d.

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Go be thou firſt in every ſphere to ſhine,

While nymphs admiring ſhall with envy pine;

Go grace the aſſembly, ornament the ſtage,

And gain the applauſe at once of youth and age.

A Birthday Compliment for a young Gentleman.

For thee, O youth, in life’s encreaſing ſpring,

For thee my humble Muſe would gladly ſing,

Would gladly riſe before the golden ſun,

To hail the morn on which thy life begun.

But this the envious gods conſpir’d to hide,

And to my ears the joyful news deny’d;

Rumour was ſilent, fame miſlaid her tongue,

Or elſe this day thou had’ſt not liv’d unſung.

Know, then, this day I heard the news at noon,

The time was ſhort, I could not write ſo ſoon,

From noon till night, alas! too ſhort a time,

To pay one compliment in proſe or rhime.

Accept my prayers in theſe unpoliſh’d lays:

Heaven crown with bliſs thy future days;

May every birthday ſtill thy life extend,

With joys unnumber’d, bleſſings without end.

For the Same, on his being unfortunately drowned while he was Bathing.

For thee young man,

The accompliſh’d plan,

Of all that Nature gave,

I weep as tho’

Theſe floods of woe

Could ſave thee from the grave.

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Thy body dead,

Thy ſpirit fled,

Eternal life to ſhare,

That eſſence pure,

From death ſecure,

Survives we know not where.

To Mr. Laurence, on his inimitable Painting of Lucifer.

O thou with Heavenly ſcience warm,

Great Milton’s ſelf thou doſt excel,

Who drew the fiend in horrid form,

And gave his eyes the flames of Hell.

Some airy viſion in thy ſleep,

Has bid this hideous phantom riſe,

And ſhew’d the wonders of the deep,

Which none can ſee with mortal eyes.

Not elſe with ev’ry art replete,

With all the power of paint and rhime,

Could’ſt thou have look’d thro’ Hell’s black gate,

And paſs’d the bounds of place and time.

Now ſee him riſing from the lake,

Th’ Enormous head, and ſnaky hair,

And the blue fire that ſeems to break

From either eyes, infernal glare.

Prone on the flood extends his limbs,

Where he by wrath eternal doom’d;

Wide o’er the fiery deluge ſwims,

That burns with ſulphur unconſum’d.

And ſee, expos’d to mortal ſight,

That huge, tremendous, maſſey ſhield,

facing 30 facing C3v
An indoor scene of a man and a woman grappling with one another; an owl is perched on the woman’s shoulder, wings spread.

Struggling and hawling both continued long.

facing 31 facing C4r 31 C4r 31

Whoſe orb ſuſtain’d the ſhock of ſight,

When warring angels took the field:

And lo! the ſpear that Heaven defy’d,

And all the embattl’d holt on high,

When with almighty power he tri’d

To win the empire of the ſky.

Hail then, great artiſt, while alive,

When dead, thy fame ſhall greater grow,

This work ſhall ſtill thy race ſurvive,

A laſting wonder in Soho.

An Acroſtic.

Join all ye Muſes in a glorious cauſe,

O join to give your patron juſt applauſe;

See by his foſt’ring hand and bounteous mind,

Each Science nurtur’d, and each art refin’d;

Patron of genius thro’ his length of days,

Heaven’s happy fav’rite, crown’d with laſting praiſe.

Bleſs’d in thy learning, juſt in ev’ry ſenſe,

Art, wiſdom, virtue, grace, Benevolence,

Nurs’d in thy ſoul their brighteſt charms diſpenſe

Knowledge with all her ſtores inſpire thy mind,

Sublimely noble, generous, good and kind.

To mighty ſouls my Muſe her deep diſtreſs,

Needs not the powers of langauge to expreſs;

For real diſtreſs, to feeling minds, appears,

Without the aid of eloquence or tears.

To thee, therefore, who never ſcorn’d the poor,

Or ſpurn’d the wretched ſuff’rer from thy door,

To thee the ſtranger Muſe a ſuppliant came,

Tho’ not a ſtranger to thy honour’d name,

Nor thou diſdain to patronize her ſong,

And read theſe lines that to thyſelf belong;

32 C4v 32

In future time ſhe hopes to claim thy praiſe,

Who ſings her patron in acroſtic lays.

From Heaven deſcends, even where it firſt began,

The flame of genius to the breaſt of man.

That intellectual by Heaven conſign’d,

To illume the ſoul, and dignify the mind;

’Tis thine to boaſt this bright etherial flame,

Thus at thy natal hour thy genius came;

Bleſt in the dower, th’ almighty’s hand beſtow’d,

Strength’ning with years this genuine virtue glow’d,

Glow’d on thy breaſt, where thouſand charms conſpire,

We love thy virtue, and thy charms admire;

But, thou whom wiſdom condeſcends to guide,

Above the reach of flatt’ry or of pride;

May’ſt thou be gracious, as thou’rt great and wiſe,

And deign this humble work to patronize.

So may’ſt thou live, and be for ever bleſt,

With peace on earth, in Heaven eternal reſt.

Once I liv’d well, induſtry was my pride,

And like Minerva ſtill my work I pli’d.

With good ſucceſs, alternate now and then,

I us’d my needle, and employ’d my pen.

Now could I write, this I may well obſerve,

Even write like Otway. I’d like Otway ſtarve!

Amidſt a world of wealth, I hardly glean,

A bare ſubſiſtance for a life of pain;

Forc’d as I am my hard-earn’d bread to ſeek,

And work in public Shops from week to week,

The doors ſet wide, exposd to every eye,

To all the incle’nt air; and freezing ſky;

My hands benumb’d, my pulſe nearly ſtopp’d,

My teeth all aching, and my lips all chapp’d.

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All this I ſuffer, patiently to glean

The hard-earn d bread of indigence and pain.


Conſpir’d in thee ten thouſand charms we find,

Humanely generous, gentle, good and kind;

Aſoul with love inſpir’d, with virtue warm,

Replete with every grace in mind and form,

Like ſome fair portrait, or ſome fair deſign,

Or plan of beauty, drawn with ſkill divine;

The proſpect charms us as we trace it o’er,

The more we gaze we ſtill admire the more;

Embelliſh’d nature ſhines adorn’d by art,

And nameleſs grace enlivens every part.

Preſumptuous Muſe purſue the glorious theme,

Otrace her charms, her peerleſs worth proclaim;

Combin’d in her fair form ſee every where,

Order and grace, in high perfection fair;

Chaſte, meek and pure, refin’d in every ſenſe,

Kind without flattery, good without pretence,

Long may’ſt thou live, and long in health and peace,

Enjoy the bleſſings of thy future race;

Thoſe choiceſt treaſures given thee from on high,

Thy lovely babes, thy blooming progeny.


Great Pocock claims the tribute of my praiſe,

Enough, let ſimple truth inſpire the lays,

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On whom my Muſe depends for future fame,

Rejecting flattery in ſo fine a theme,

Give flattery ſcope on ſubjects leſs renown’d,

Even where no genuine beauties can be found.

But Pocock’s honour’d name, his glorious race,

To ſimpleſt numbers give the brighteſt grace.

Pocock whoſe name on record ſhall be found,

O’er chiefs and kings for deeds of arms renown’d

Claims high diſtinction, let my Muſe proclaim,

On ſounding wings his valour and his fame.

Come then, Britannia let thy colours fly,

Know Pocock rear’d the Engliſh ſtandard high.

Be witneſs then the laſting fame he won,

Transfer that glory down from ſire to ſon;

Bleſs George and Charlotte thro’ their length of days,

And let their children’s children heir their fame and praiſe.

An Acroſtic for John Palmer Eſq. Dead. At Miſs Palmer’s Requeſt.

My Muſe averſe to flattery or offend,

Reaſſumes her pen to pleaſe a generous friend;

And for each fault conſpicuous in the rhime,

She pleads both want of wit, and want of time.

Judgment and ſenſe thy every thought extend,

Open thy mind, and in thy boſom blend,

How calm thy front, thy preſence how ſerene,

Nor can th’ applauſe of thouſands make thee vain.

Poſſeſs’d of every art to grace the ſcene,

And charm the ſterneſt critic from his ſpleen,

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Now while I walk’d, this private wrong

Inſpir’d my ſoul with juſt diſdain,

My Muſe unpenſion’d liv’d ſo long,

And ſtill ſhe rhym’d and wrote in vain.

My awkward country ruſtic Muſe,

Who greets the world with ſmiles and thanks,

Behold ſhe for a penſion ſues,

And ſupplicates Sir Joſeph Banks.

And now my Muſe in thought ſecure,

Had built proud caſtles in the air;

Already at Sir Joſeph’s door,

She found a kind reception there.

His purſe and coin we now poſſeſs’d,

And ply’d his Grace with all our thanks,

And thus our powerful thoughts ſuggeſt,

We fairly diſh’d Sir Joſeph Banks.

The Muſe in flattering lore well ſkill’d,

The Baron’s houſe ſhe quickly found,

While ſanguine hope her mind fulfill’d,

And utmoſt expectation crown’d.

Determin’d thus ſhe loudly knocks,

While unſuſpicious of her pranks,

A ſervant waiting, ſoon unlocks

Thy ſtately door, Sir Joſeph Banks.

My humble Muſe I ſoon ſent in,

While I ſtood propp’d againſt the wall,

And oft I gave a private grin,

But never loudly laugh’d at all.

And now my Muſe ſalutes that hand,

Whoſe bounty ne’er deſerv’d our thanks,

While trembling in the hall I ſtand,

To wait thy ſmiles, Sir Joſeph Banks.

But while I ſtood, even then I rhym’d,

And view’d the ſpacions fabric round,

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And to the roof my fancy climb’d,

Almoſt a world from top to ground.

While thus amus’d, an hour I ſpent,

Till ſtanding had quite tir’d my ſhanks;

Then ſoon rememb’ring my intent,

I wiſh’d to ſee Sir Joſeph Banks.

Thus, once, when youth my boſom warm’d,

Recall’d by fancy like a dream,

I went to ſee ſome play perform’d,

Nor can I recollect its name:

In ſome high box I took my place,

Each Object fix’d my wonder th[e]re,

The people ſeem’d a pigmy race,

Like inſects hov’ring in the air!

The ladies rob’d in ſplendor gay,

I view’d, and ſqueez’d among the ranks;

Forgetting here both ſtage and play,

As I forgot Sir Joſeph Banks.

Expecting now ſome great reward

For this my daring enterpriſe,

Inſpir’d, like ſome new-titl’d lord,

Ambition rais’d me to the ſkies.

But what a fall, a direful fall!

Misfortune every proſpect blanks,

For here I found no prize at all,

Deni’d and ſpurn’d by Joſeph Banks.

For this great ſir, nor can you blame,

When next we meet you in the ſquare,

I’ll ſoon diſrobe your ugly frame,

And leave your limbs expos’d and bare.

With t—d I’ll well bedaub you o’er,

In t—d I’ll ſink your bandy ſhanks,

And every Muſe that hears you roar,

Shal jointly plague Sir Joſeph Banks.

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A Song.

To Miſs James.

Ah, thou, my lovely charming maid,

Permit theſe lines to kiſs thy hand,

Whoſe beauty has my heart betray’d,

Alone the Phœnix of the Strand.

The feather-ſhop as I’m alive,

’Tis juſt beſide the river Thames,

Unrivall’d ſhines Maria James.

Number two hundred and ſeventy five,

Lo! the bright nymyph, divinely fair,

Juſt in the pride of ſweet fifteen,

Can boaſt a form, a face and air,

Might well compare with Cypria’s queen.

Unclouded as the morning ſun,

Her eyes the rival of his beams,

Inſpir’d my ſoul, my heart is won,

And bow’d to fair Maria James.

In love’s perplexing abyſs drown’d,

To thee my humble ſuit I move,

Even thou, whoſe eyes have power to wound,

And ſoften every heart to love,

Forgive the bard who vainly warm,

Inſpir’d with high ambition, aims

To draw a portrait of thy form,

And all thy charms, Maria James.

What careleſs eye can round her move,

And with indifference own her fair,

Or, what ſtern heart, a foe to love,

Can brave the power of beauty there?

Where charms luxuriantly combine,

To ſet the admiring heart in flames,

Even ſuppliant kings, before thy ſhrine

Muſt own thy power, Maria James.

D2 40 D2v 40

When Heaven to Nature firſt gave power,

And bid her form all human kind,

Frailty and weakneſs prov’d the dower,

And bore the rule in every mind.

But now, to contradict that thought,

This nobler work diſtinction claims,

In high perfection, free from fault,

She form’d the fair Maria James.

Hear, then, my fair one, what I ſay,

Be amiable, be meek and mild,

Let ſtill good nature bear the ſway,

And to thy friend be reconcil’d:

Let inward ſpleen ne’er tye that tongue,

Whoſe every word thy worth proclaims,

Profound in learning, fair and young,

My peerleſs, ſweet Maria James.

An Elegy for a favourite Bird’s Death.

Here, in this room, where once his cage was hung,

From morn till night the little warbler ſung;

He ſooth’d my liſt’ning ear, he pleas’d my mind,

And gave us muſic when we ſlept or din’d;

Unus’d to range the wood, or ſkim the lawn,

Or mount the ſkies to meet the roſy dawn;

Unus’d to perch upon the bending briar,

He knew no bounds beyond his priſon’s wire;

Here first he breath’d his happy native air,

Fed by my hand, and nouriſh’d by my care;

Here firſt he ſung, here firſt his wings he tried

Inſhort excurſions—where he liv’d he died.

Dropt from his perch, he ſunk upon his breaſt,

In long oblivion, and eternal reſt.

41 D3r 41

Happy if we could boaſt a ſoul within

So pure, ſo ſpotleſs, and ſo free from ſin;

Who knew no guile, but thro’ his length of days,

In his own language ſung his maker’s praiſe.

A New Song, in praiſe of Miſs Elizabeth Wright.

O thou, whoſe face in charms excels

The nobleſt plan by art pourtray’d,

Where every grace in triumph dwells,

And every power of beauty ſway’d.

That face ſo form’d to captivate

The admiring gazers with delight,

Employ their tongues to celebrate

The unrivall’d beauty of Miſs Wright.

Aſſiſt ye Muſes while I trace

Thoſe peerleſs charms that’s all divine,

Furniſh’d from Heaven with boundleſs grace,

In Nature’s choiceſt treaſures ſhine;

Whoſe cheek outvies the opening roſe,

Whoſe eyes the diamond’s ſparkling light,

Whoſe breath Arabian odour blows,

Expreſſive emblem of Miſs Wright.

In ſome fair form could Heaven beſtow

Ten thouſand thouſand charms combin’d;

Yet all theſe charms are far below

The intrinſic beauty of her mind.

Did art conſpire with curious toil,

And all her ſparkling gems unite,

Each ſplendid gem would prove a foil,

Compar’d in charms to ſweet Miſs Wright.

’Tis not that face, divinely fair,

Arm’d with the attractive Cyprian fires,

D3 42 D3v 42

Nor the bright ringlets of her hair,

That moſt my raptur’d ſoul admires;

A radiant eye, a form divine,

All theſe our better judgments ſlight,

What are thoſe charms compar’d to thine,

My all accompliſh’d, ſweet Miſs Wright?

The fragrant glow that paints the morn,

At the firſt dawn of early day,

Whoſe vivid dyes the Heavens adorn,

Wide floating o’er the eaſtern way:

That morn amidſt the ſcented air,

Rob’d in her ſaffron rays of light,

Is far leſs fragrant, far leſs fair,

Than the fair fabric of Miſs Wright.

Then hear thou firſt of womankind,

And breathe compaſſion on thy ſlave;

Let tender pity fill thy mind,

And ſave thy ſuppliant from the grave.

Who fill’d my heart with love’s alarms,

For whom I languiſh day and night,

Until I claſp thy heaven of charms,

Thy peerleſs form, Eliza Wright.

A Song.

Great Homer’s name

Still lives in fame,

Who made his gods and heroes quarrel,

Who rais’d ſublime,

Survives thro’ time,

Crown’d with eternal wreaths of laurel.

He well might ſing,

Of bards the king,

He gain’d Parnaſſus’ top by climbing,

While at its base

My Muse takes place,

43 D4r 43

With humble views and ſimple rhyming,

My thoughts diſturb’d,

My pride is curb’d,

Some ſecret impulſe ſtill bewitching,

I’m thus kept down

By fortune’s frown,

Condemn’d to get my bread by ſtitching.

Born with a mind

To write inclin’d,

This all the fates conſpire to hinder;

In fame obſcure,

In coin kept poor,

Gods! how I envy Peter Pindar.

Then, O ye gods,

If Peter nods,

Let me in turn begin my rebus,

With ſpleenful ſpeed,

Let me proceed

To wake this rambling ſon of Phœbus.

Some Muſe cry’d out,

With thundering ſhout,

Forbear with diſreſpect to mention,

This fumbling bard,

Don’t diſregard,

For he enjoys the Royal penſion.

Zounds! d—n the man

I thus began,

In cockneys ſound, I’ll break his winder

I’ll rhyme and write

From morn till night,

To plague this rebus, Peter Pindar.

Well dipt in years,

He now appears,

A bloated pigmy, nothing bigger;

’Twould make you laugh;

When bent in half,

He ſhews his ugly ſtunted figure.

44 D4v 44

So ſhort and ſtrong,

He ſcours along,

Well form’d and made and ſhap’d for tumbling

He ſeems to ſtrut,

A rolling butt,

Or half made ſtem of Nature’s fumbling.

Then brown with duſt,

Like ſome old buſt,

His lips parch’d up, and dry’d like tinder;

No moiſture flows,

Even from the noſe,

Of thund’ring, blund’ring, Peter Pindar.

It happen’d once,

This roaring dunce,

With many a ſtride, and many a caper,

Walk’d down the road,

Beneath a load

Of learning’s lumber, pens and paper.

I ſaw, and ſmil’d,

He look’d ſo wild,

At evening now he takes his airing,

With viſage grim,

And optic dim,

Half clos’d in ſleep, or widely ſtaring,

While wrapt in ſong,

He mov’d along,

Not buſtling crowds his flight could hinder,

Nor noiſe nor aught,

Could reach the thought

Of ſoaring, poring, Peter Pindar.

In his Louſiad

What ſcenes we read,

And well he cites from ancient ſtory,

The morn appears,

He ſaid, with tears,

And Phœbus roſe without his glory.

45 D5r 45

How thro’ the ſkies,

Sad vapours riſe,

Far iſſuing thro’ Aurora’s portals,

To warn at Rome

Great Cato’s doom,

For gods were then concern’d for mortals.

But now no ſign,

From powers divine,

E’er threaten’d in the Palace Royal,

Tho’ every ſoul,

With hideous growl,

Appear’d repugnant and diſloyal.

While firmly bent

On his intent,

The King dooms every head for ſhaving,

Each meets his fate,

In dire debate,

The men were ſhav’d, the females raving.—

Devoid of fire,

O Muſe retire,

Retire to ſome ſequeſter’d harbour,

There chaunt thy ſtrains

To groves and plains,

Since Peter’s Muſe is turn’d a barber.

What, tho’ my Muſe

No fame purſues,

What, tho’ ſhe mourns in duſt and cinders,

’Tis beſt I ween

Than be ſo keen

As was this ſhaving Muſe of Pindar’s.

This rhyming rogue

So much in vogue,

Yet ſure he acted like a ſinner,

His Muſe is rude,

And would intrude

Even on the royal board at dinner.

46 D5v 46

Let Pindar curſe,

And think I’m worſe,

This let King George, himſelf, determine!

I talk’d of t—d,

But, on my word,

He talk’d of plates that crawl’d with vermine!

Had I been there,

By Mars I’d ſwear,

Nay, even Jove, or by Mahomet,

This crawling thing,

Alarm’d the King,

And made his Royal Conſort vomit!

Let me enlarge,

I’ll bear the charge,

And thus diſcant upon the matter;

Even York’s good Duke,

At this might puke,

To ſee it crawling o’er the platter.

My humble Muſe,

Let kings refuſe,

Expell’d from courts, ſhe’d ſweep the cinders,

’Tis better, twice,

Than chaunt of lice,

As did this louſy Muſe of Pindar’s.

Now Pitt on chine

Intends to dine,

For him a turkey, nicely roaſted,

Well hang’d in chains,

The ſpit ſuſtains,

Of this the Statesman loudly boaſted:

The time was come,

T’ expect him home,

For him his ſervants all preparing,

Had laid his cloth,

And warm’d his broth,

And thro’ the window ſtill kept ſtaring.

47 D6r 47

In angry mood,

For want of food,

They heard, from far, his worſhip chiding;

With hungry ſpeed

He rode his ſteed,

His appetite encreas’d by riding;

With haughty grin

He enter’d in,

And left his courſer in the ſtable,

Then wip’d his chops,

And down he pops,

Fix’d in a chair before the table.

Would I could taſte

This charming feaſt,

Had I been there, there’s none could hinder,

I’d clear the board,

With dainties ſtor’d,

And ſweep the crumbs to Peter Pindar.

Now where he din’d,

In ſplendour ſhin’d,

He might behold whoe’er ſtood ſerving,

The chairs were made

With gold inlaid,

Of fineſt wood, and curious carving.

The carpet ſuch,

There’s none ſo rich,

Exactly plann’d, and moſt ſurpriſing,

Of brighteſt dyes,

Like morning ſkies,

Before Aurora when ſhe’s riſing.

Each table bright,

Reflected light,

Now up, now down, the curtains ſhining,

In gracefull falls,

Adorn the walls,

With fringe of gold and crimſon lining.

48 D6v 48

Each cryſtal plate,

Superbly great,

In gilded frames, I tell no ſtory,

Seem’d as you paſs,

Like ſeas of glaſs

Reflecting keeneſt rays of glory.

The hearth was ſcrubb’d,

And neatly rubb’d,

A marble mirror, free from cinder;

A place of ſtate,

Where gods might eat,

And yet unſung by Peter Pindar.

This room was fit

For King or Pitt,

The Statesman here his cares might bury;

Here good King George

Might cram and gorge,

And here the Prince of Wales make merry.

Here Pitt ſat down,

With gape and frown,

What boots the Statesman now to grumble?

Thus well ſuppli’d,

For taſte and pride,

And well his toothleſs gums could mumble.

My Muſe ſtands there

With gape and ſtare,

Close up by Pitt, and there I leave her,

And while he dines,

I’ll pour the wines,

Of richeſt taſte, and fineſt flavour.

Juſt as he wiſh’d,

The dinner diſh’d,

Each dainty meſs he ſtill kept finding;

While his lank jaws,

In this good cauſe,

As practis’d like himſelf, kept grinding.

49 E1r 49

Now fame was loud,

And thro’ the crow’d

Proclaim’d the rumour from the palace,

Pitt heard and damned,

Yet grumbling cramm’d,

And ſwore ’twas falſe report, or malice.

Thus far my Muſe

The court purſues,

Nor fear nor power her ſong could hinder;

She dreads no ill

From ſword or quill,

Nor e’en the rage of Peter Pindar.

Then let him frown,

And ſpurn me down,

Why hand the bard, I care not for him,

A man, like him,

May ſink or ſwim,

Who never acts with juſt decorum.

I’m not afraid

Of all I’ve ſaid,

What boots the Muſe henceforth to ſlumber?

Even in the ſtreet,

The bard I’ll meet,

Nor fear to tell my name and number.

Should Pindar come,

I’ll not ſtand mum,

To ſhun my foe looks wond’rous ſilly;

Sound wind and limb,

I’ll fight like him,

Even as he fought in Piccadilly.

And ſtand the chance,

Should he advance,

Surround my door, and break my windows!

I’ll ſoon turn out,

With ſhout for ſhout!

To fight and conquer Peter Pindar!

E 50 E1v 50

Thoughts on Eternity.

Eternity! how vaſt thy tracts extend,

No line can gauge, no genius comprehend

Eternity! within whoſe vaſt profound

Our thoughts are loſt, our vain conjectures drown’d.

Ye ſons of ſcience, who thoſe paths explore,

Sum up your learning, ſcan her pages o’er;

Riſe from the earth, the etherial regions climb,

Gauge the vaſt deep, and meaſure ſpace and time,

Purſue the wand’ring planets as they roll,

And view the amazing wonders—

Converſe with ſtars, amidſt the vaſt profound;

Go tell their diſtance, or their progreſs bound.

Thro’ Nature’s optic ſeek for worlds unknown,

Eye the fix’d ſtars, and paſs the burning zone.

But, O, Eternity! thy vaſt extent

No likeneſs here, on earth, can repreſent;

No tongue can tell, no human heart can find,

No genius comprehend, no barrier bind;

Nor mind can reach, nor mortal eye can ſee

The height, the depth, of vaſt Eternity;

Search and reſearch, thy boldeſt thoughts are void,

Thy books are uſeleſs, and thy art deſtroy’d,

Deeper than ocean is thy gulph profound,

Wider than worlds thy never-ending round,

Thy length unbound, ſuffers no decay,

From thee, tho’ endleſs ages paſs’d away.

More numerous than the herbage on the plain,

Or all the drops the deepeſt ſeas contain;

When the prodigious waſte of time is o’er,

And years on years, by millions paſs before,

51 E2r 51

When theſe, and thouſands more, their courſe have run,

Thou vaſt Eternity! art ſcarce begun.

An Acroſtic.

More fair, more fragrant, than the riſing day,

Attir’d in all the ſweets of promis’d May;

Rich in the internal beauty of thy mind,

In thee ten thouſand nameleſs charms we find,

Adorn’d with every grace beyond thy kind.

Judgment and learning, ſweet enchanting lore,

And grace and virtue drawn from wiſdom’s ſtore;

Majeſtic ſweetneſs tempering in thy mind,

Enliv’ning wit, and manners more refin’d;

Severe in virtue, but in friendſhip kind.

Another. Miſs Elizabeth Humphries.

My lovely fair, ſo form’d to give delight,

In whom the charms of all thy ſex unite,

Some nobler Muſe ſhould join thy fame to raiſe,

Superior beauty claims ſuperior praiſe.

Enraptur’d now my humble Muſe appears,

Lays down this off’ring, fill’d with hopes and fears;

Inſpir’d with love, for love I’d plead or pauſe,

Zealous and ardent ſtill in beauty’s cauſe,

And if you ſmile, I aſk no more applauſe.

E2 52 E2v 52

Heaven form’d the fair with every bleſſing crown’d,

Unrivall’d beauty, joined with ſenſe profound,

Meekneſs of mind, ſublimity of thought,

Perfection’s mirror, free from every fault.

How ſweet the morn, before the ſolar ray,

Reviving blows, and dries the dews away.

In thee an emblem of that morn we find,

Excell’d by none in either form or mind,

Sublimely noble, and humanely kind.

To Virtue.

Thoughts on Mortality.

As from the ſun’s meridian beam,

Within a cool retreat,

I hung, ſuſpended, o’er the ſtream

That murmurs at my feet.

And now in many a mazy round,

It riſes to and fro,

Now murmurs o’er the flowery ground,

And waſh’d the plains below.

Now trickling down the gloomy hills,

A length’ning channel ſpread,

Contract, from far, the vagrant rills,

Within its ample bed.

Now thundering down the craggy ſteep,

The roaring torrent pours

To where a gulph’s profoundeſt deep

The foamy wave devours.

There ends its journeying, there its pride,

The daſhing waves rebound,

53 E3r 53

That hurls ſo far the impetuous tide,

Scarce moves the vaſt profound.

So to their doom even monarchs haſte,

By wild ambition fraught,

Who conquer’d realms, laid nations waſte,

In one tremenduous thought.

Yet ſee the effects of all their pride,

See chiefs of power and might,

Who fain would conquer’d realms beſtride,

Abſorb’d in endleſs night.

Virtue alone ſhall riſe ſublime,

Reſiſting, firmly brave,

The jaws of all devouring time,

And lives beyond the grave.

To the Revd Mr. John Hurdis, Profeſſor of Poetry, Oxford.

Hear thou, the praiſes which thy merits claim

Urivall’d in thy genius, and thy fame;

Reviv’d in thee what genuine grace we find,

Diſplay’d with art peculiar to thy kind;

In thy fair works what genuine graces meet,

Sound in thy judgment, in thy language ſweet.

To mighty ſouls my Muſe her deep diſtreſs,

Needs not the power of language to expreſs;

Yet could I write, this I may well obſerve,

Even write like Otway, I’d like Otway ſtarve.

Amidſt a world of wealth I hardly glean

A bare ſubſiſtance for a life of pain.

Once I had work, induſtry was my pride,

And, like Minerva, ſtill my hands I ply’d.

E3 54 E3v 54

’Twas all my joy, alternate, now and then,

To uſe my needle, and employ my pen.

This alteration makes me wond’rous ſad,

Proviſions dear, and buſineſs grown ſo bad;

That did I travel till I wore my ſhoes,

I’d find no comfort for my ſtarving Muſe.

An Ode for Lexlip.

Written at Dublin, 17891789.

O may ſome Muſe my breaſt inſpire,

The ſame who ſtrung the Heavenly lyre,

And chaunt the tuneful tongue,

Of him whoſe genuine wit confeſs’d

The flame of genius in his breaſt,

Who Windſor’s beauty ſung.

O would kind Heaven propitious ſmile,

And ſend ſome bard to bleſs our iſle,

Some bard like thee inſpir’d,

’Tis ſure to court his fav’rite Muſe,

Amidſt ten thouſand charms he’d chuſe,

In Lexlip’s ſhades retir’d.

When gloomy winter clouds the ſkies,

And bids rude bluſt’ring tempeſts riſe,

And warblers ceaſe to ſing,

And fills with froſt the pregnant gale,

Or fleecy ſnow, or rattling hail,

’Tis here eternal Spring.

Here as we view the enchanting ground,

With diff’rent proſpects varied round,

And diff’rent beauties grac’d,

55 E4r 55

There weaving woods, and riſing ſpires,

At once the wond’ring eye admires,

And here a flowery waſte,

Lo! echoing temples, green retreats,

And low-brow’d rocks, and moſſy ſeats,

Repeat each deaf’ning ſound

Of ſighing ſtorms, and heaving floods,

And whiſp’ring winds and gloomy woods,

Far echoing round and round.

Here from that beauteous riſing ſhore,

With thund’ring force and deaf’ning roar,

The impetuous torrent pours,

Prone drown the rock, with echoing ſweep,

Till far below th’ unfathom’d deep,

The roaring wave devours.

There the river’s beamy face,

In circling waves from place to place,

Reflects in ruffling forms,

The lofty trees, that ſmooth and tall,

O’erhang the daſhing waters fall,

And wave before the ſtorms.

What boundleſs ſcenes that ſtill commands,

Where yonder beauteous fabric ſtands,

That from its airy brow,

O’erlooks the proſpect, far and wide,

The ſtately town, and circling tide,

That diſtant roars below.

So when th’ immortal Thunderer ſate,

To fill the fix’d decrees of fate,

On Ida’s cloudy head;

He view’d fair Illion’s opening ſtreets,

The circling ſeas, and crowded fleets,

In one bright level ſpread.

56 E4v 56

The firſt Acroſtic.

A Deſcription of the Morning.

From the dull earth the muſty vapours fly,

And morn appears to paint the eaſtern ſky,

Night’s ſhades diſpers’d, the duſky clouds retire,

Nocturnal orbs now ſhine with fainter fire,

Yet dimly ſeen, now fade, and now expire.

Conſpir’d to hail the half enlighten’d ſphere,

Ageneral chorus riſes thro’ the air;

Reſponſive echoes anſwering to the ſound,

Repeat the murm’ring muſic round and round.

On the vaſt earth the morning breeze invades,

Leaves, flowers and trees, and dries the dewy ſhades,

Lifts the green herbs, and fans the fragrant meads.

This is my firſt name, alas! my ſex is frail,

Elſe I had never chang’d it for O’Neill.

A Song. To B- - -ty Mulloy.

Sing, ſing her praiſes ſhrill and loud,

To thee I pay my vows,

Since even a monarch might be proud

To claim her for a ſpouſe.

Her tongue exceeds a ſharp edg’d tool,

A razor, ſword or knife,

Vers’d in cenſorious ridicule,

In miſchief, lies, and ſtrife.

She’s dull and heavy as a log,

When’er ſhe moves ſhe falls,

Her body’s bloated like a frog,

And like a toad ſhe crawls.

57 E5r 57

But when ſhe tries to walk ſhe lags,

And turns her oblique toes,

Then, like a duck, ſhe marching wags,

And ſtumbles as ſhe goes.

Of ſickneſs now ſhe makes complaint,

And fain would go to bed,

Then ſhuts her eyes and ſeems to faint,

And hangs her languid head.

So I have ſeen a pamper’d cur,

With tricks his miſtreſs cheat,

So lazy grown, he could not ſtir,

So fat he could not eat.

Another. To B---ty’s Mother.

A death-ſtricken figure,

That loſt all her vigour,

While envy her boſom inſpires;

I wiſh ſhe was hung

In Hell by the tongue,

To ſhare the ſad portion of liars.

One evening at night,

I ſat without light,

My fire reduc’d to a ſpark,

All ragged and poor,

She pimp’d at my door,

And ſhe look’d like a ghoſt in the dark.

A light from next room

Diſſipated the gloom,

I look’d at her well thro’ the ſmoke,

Her ſpectre-like trunk,

All wither’d and ſhrunk,

Was wrapt in an old ſhabby cloak.

58 E5v 58

Her petticoat black,

And coarſe as a ſack,

Her viſage all ghaſtly and thin,

Like luna’s half ſkull,

E’er yet at the full,

She ſhew’d but her noſe, and her chin.

Her voice, when ſhe ſpoke,

Was the night-raven’s croak,

Pale, haggard and panting for breath,

She ſeem’d barrack-beaten,

Or ſpewed when eaten,

Or wing’d for the confines of death.

And now when her face

I could perfectly trace,

To me the foul figure was known,

Quite motionleſs ſtruck,

With this type of ill-luck,

I ſtood like an image of ſtone.

At nothing loth,

When ſhe mutter’d an oath,

I ſum’d up my courage and ſtrength,

Quite flat on the floor,

By a ſmack of my door,

She fell and extended her length.

To Mr. Biss,

On his turning Private Player.

Dear Mr. Biſs, I tell you this,

You ſpout with ſuch a grace,

That I’m in love, if you approve,

I’ll meet you face to face.

59 E6r 59

Skill’d as you are, each form to wear,

The monarch or the clown,

The ſharp revile, the mimic ſmile,

And well diſſembled frown.

The flutt’ring beau, in dreſs and ſhow,

This ſemblance you diſcover,

With grins and bows, and ſighs and vows,

You play the whining lover.

Now fierce in fight, ſome hardy knight

Beneath thy valour falls,

With equal ſkill you ſave or kill,

As each occaſion calls.

As I paſs’d by, I turn’d mine eye,

And peeping thro’ the door,

Far plac’d within, I ſaw you grin,

And heard you ſpout and roar.

Now ſtretch thy mouth from north to ſouth,

And ſhew thy teeth within,

Now ſhift thy place, and wreak thy face

In wild diſtortion’s grin.

So when of old, as Virgil told,

The ſpoils in battles won,

Of ſome huge beaſt the warrior grac’d,

To ſhew the deeds he’d done.

This wrapt him round, from top to ground,

When he the body ſkinn’d,

The head before, diſdain’d with gore,

Like thee ſeverely grinn’d!

My own Wiſh.

Would I were on ſome mountain, far remote,

Where I might round the diſtant world deſcry,

60 E6v 60

With no companion but the capering goat,

The proſpect only bounded by the ſky.

With pleaſure then I view the ſetting day,

The wide horizon, and the twilight lawn,

Wake with the lark, and join her matin lay,

When with a ſong ſhe hails the roſy dawn.

For here immerg’d in London’s noiſy ſtreets,

Where to and fro the thund’ring coaches roll,

Where contemplation’s eye no pleaſure meets,

No calm contentment ever ſooths my ſoul.

An Acroſtic.

Permit my praiſe ſucceed each glorious aim,

In thee Britannia ſees her future fame;

Thine is the merit, thine ſhould be the praiſe,

Thine be the glory down to lateſt days.


Young, Printer 168, High Holborn,