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To name his works, he would but cite a few,
OG. “Wat Tyler,” — "Rhymes on Blenheim,”
SHADWELL, THE DRAMATIST. “Waterloo."
Now stop your noses, readers, all and some, He had written praises of a regicide ;
For here's a tun of midnight work to come. He had written praises of all kings whatever ; Og, from a treason-tavern rolling home He had written for republics far and wide, Round as a globe, and liquored every chink,
And then against them bitterer than ever ; Goodly and great he sails behind his link : For pantisocracy he once had cried
With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og, Aloud, a scheme less moral than 't was clever ; For every inch that is not fool is rogue ; Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin,
A monstrous mass of foul, corrupted matter, Had turned his coat, - and would have turned As all the devils had spewed to make the batter. his skin.
The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull, He had sung against all battles, and again
With this prophetic blessing, — “Be thou dull; In their high praise and glory ; he had called Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight Reviewing “the ungentle craft," and then
Fit for thy bulk; do anything but write : Become as base a critic as e'er crawled,
Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men; Fed, paid, and pampered by the very men
A strong nativity - but for the pen ! By whom his museand morals had been mauled;
Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, He had written much blank verse, and blanker Still thou mayst live, avoiding pen and ink":
I see, I see, 't is counsel given in vain, prose, And more of both than anybody knows.
For treason botched in rhyme will be thy bane ; BYRON.
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck, 'Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck ;
Why should thy metre good King David blast ? SPORUS, – LORD HERVEY. A psalm of his will surely be thy last.
A double noose thou on thy neck dost pull LET Sporus tremble. — A. What ? that thing to die for faction is a common evil,
PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES.
For writing treason and for writing dull. of silk,
But to be hanged for nonsense is the devil. Sporus, that mere white curd of asses' milk ?
JOHN DRYDEN. Satire of sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE. This painted child of dirt that stinks and stings ; Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land, Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
Where rolls between us the eternal sea, In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand, Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall, As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call, Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
Across the wavy waste between us stretched, And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched ; Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, And though I have not seen the shadow sketched, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Thus I remark prophetic on the picture. Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies ;
I His wit all seesaw, between that and this.
guess the features :- in a line to paint Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint. And he himself one vile antithesis.
Not one of those self-constituted saints, Amphibious thing ! that, acting either part,
Quacks not physicians — in the cure of souls, The trifling head, or the corrupted heart,
Censors who sniff out moral taints,
And call the devil over his own coals,
Those pseudo Privy-Councillors of God,
Who write down judgments with a pen hard. A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest ;
nibbed ; Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust,
Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed,
But endless flames, to scorch them like flax,
Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbed | Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs,
And driven to church as to the parish pound.
I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, Exists, I know, in my fictitious face.
I view that grovelling idea as one There wants a certain cast about the eye;
Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A certain lifting of the nose's tip;
A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle. A certain curling of the nether lip,
On such a vital topic sure 't is odd In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky;
How much a man can differ from his neighbor; In brief, it is an aspect deleterious,
One wishes worship freely given to God, A face decidedly not serious,
Another wants to make it statute-labor, A face profane, that would not do at all
The broad distinction in a line to draw, To make a face at Exeter Hall,
As means to lead us to the skies above, That Hall where bigots rant and cant and pray,
Sir Andrew and his love of law,
And I, – the Saviour with his law of love.
Like the magnetic needle to the Pole ;
But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth ;
Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowl. And dote upon a jest
edge “Within the limits of becoming mirth";
Fresh from St. Andrew's college, No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Should nail the conscious needle to the north? Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious,
I do confess that I abhor and shrink Nor study in my sanctum supercilious
From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.
That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink for grace, — repent each sinful act,
The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly, — Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible;
My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy, And love my neighbor far too well, in fact,
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord To call and twit him with a godly tract
The Lord of Hosts with an exclusive lord That's turned by application to a libel.
Of this world's aristocracy. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven,
It will not own a notion so unholy All creeds I view with toleration thorough.
As thinking that the rich by easy trips And have a horror of regarding heaven
May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly As anybody's rotten borough.
Must work their passage, as they do in ships. I've no ambition to enact the spy
One place there is, - beneath the burial-sod,
Where all mankind are equalized by death;
Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul,
He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just, I do not hash the Gospel in my books,
Who metes to every pinch of human dust And thus upon the public mind intrude it,
One even measure of immortal hope, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks,
He who can stand within that holy door, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.
With soul un bowed by that pure spirit-level, On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk ;
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,
Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil I
The humble records of my life to search, ”T is not so plain as the old Hill of Howth,
I have not herded with mere pagan beasts ; A man has got his belly full of meat
But sometimes I have “sat at good men's feasts," Because he talks with victuals in his mouth! And I have been “where bells have knolled to
church." I honestly confess that I would hinder
Dear bells ! how sweet the sounds of village bells The Scottish member's legislative rigs,
When on the undulating air they swim ! That spiritual Pindar,
Now loud as welcomes ! faint, now, as farewells !
And trembling all about the breezy dells,
Gifted with noble tendency to climb, As fluttered by the wings of cherubim.
Yet weak at the same time, Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, And, lost to sight, the ecstatic lark above That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings ; Sings, like a soul beatified, of love,
And as the climate and the soil may grant,
For me, – through heathen ignorance perchance, Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple ;
Not having knelt in Palestine, – I feel The Temple is a good, a holy place,
None of that griffinish excess of zeal But quacking only gives it an ill savor,
Some travellers would blaze with here in France. While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, And bring religion's self into disfavor !
Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker
Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play,
If their “offence be rank," should mine be rancor!
Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop And, passing by the customary hassock, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop Kneel down remote upon the simple sod,
So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine ? And sue in forma pauperis to God. As for the rest, intolerant to none,
The images, 't is true, are strangely dressed, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear,
With gauds and toys extremely out of season ; Even the poor pagan's homage to the sun
The carving nothing of the very best, I would not harshly scorn, lest even there
The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason, I spurned some elements of Christian prayer,
Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason, An aim, though erring, at a world ayont,
Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect Acknowledgment of good, -of man's futility,
One truly Catholic, one common form,
At which unchecked A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed
All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm. That very thing so many Christians want,
Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss, I have not sought, 't is true, the Holy Land,
One bright and balmy morning, as I went As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother,
From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, The Bible in one hand,
If hard by the wayside I found a cross,
That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot, And my own commonplace-book in the other ;
While Nature of herself, as if to trace
The emblem's use, had trailed around its base
The blue significant Forget-Me-Not? Which gets the narrower by going farther !
Methought, the claims of Charity to urge
More forcibly along with Faith and Hope, Worthless are all such pilgrimages — very !
The pious choice had pitched upon the verge If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive
Of a delicious slope, The human heats and rancor to revive
Giving the eye much variegated scope ! That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury.
"Look round,” it whispered, on that prospect A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on,
rare, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion,
Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue ; Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh and fair, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke,
But” (how the simple legend pierced me through :) At crippled Papistry to butt and poke,
“PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX." Exactly as a skittish Scottish buli Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloke. With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells,
Religion lives, and feels herself at home;
To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells
Ring Sabbath knells ;
Is chant of clerk ;
An organ breathes in every grove;
And the full heart 's a Psalter,
to an ass.
But only on a formal visit dwells
on his tail ! As for the humble breed retained by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan,
He bows, he bridles,
He wheels, he sidles,
“Look here," he cries, (to give him words,)
“ Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds!”. Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,
“Look here, thou vile predestined sinner,
Doomed to be roasted for a dinner,
Look at my crown of glory!
ope heaven's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches; But put the wicked, naked, barelegged poor
In parish stocks, instead of breeches.
Once on a time a certain English lass
Of asinine new milk,
Ann ! She can't get over it! she never can!' When, lo ! to prove each prophet was a ninny, The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.
To aggravate the case,
Of milk, or even chalk-and-water.
werty springlike day, Bad time for hasses, though ! good lack! good
lack ! Jenny be dead, miss, but I’ze brought ye
Jack, He does n't give no milk, – but he can bray."
Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blind
ness ; But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness?