Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious:
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'll find him pictured at full length
In book the second, page the tenth :
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bards decreed.
A just comparison,-proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air:
And here my simile unites,
For, in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses.
To wit, most wondrously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For, let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore :
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then :
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined,
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep.
This difference only as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns 1 himself.
And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
Damns,' &c.: imitated by Byron in his lines on Rogers.
AN ELEGY1 ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
1 GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.
2 In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.
3 A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
4 And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
5 This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
'An Elegy:' see 'Vicar of Wakefield,' chap. xvii.
6 Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
7 The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
8 But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF
SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."
1 Ан me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me ;.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
2 But I will rally and combat the ruiner :
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
Song:' preserved by Boswell.
STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
1 AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
2 0 Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think even conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, While thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
3 Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
1 WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
2 The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom-is, to die.
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