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“ Phæbus volentem prælia loqui.”

With martial heat I seiz'd the Lyre,
To sing of wars and conflicts dire,

And valiant heroes slain;
When Phoebus whisper'd with a frown-
“O ne'er, to please a foolish town,

Attempt the battle-strain.

“ To fill the soul with fond alarms,
To sing the pow'r of beauty's charms,

The joys of love and wine,
Shall better far thy muse become,
Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum;
For not a strain can Croker thrum,

To match one Ode of thine.

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“Let other bards, in martial verse
The deeds of Wellington rehearse :-

In numbers light and gay
Do thou, my friend, Horatius Flaccus,
Record the victories of Bacchus,
A chief, who if he once attack us,

Is sure to win the day.

“Thy Prince demands his meed of praise, Attend—and thou shalt gain the Bays,

(The hungry Poet's pray'r,) For which harmonious Cibber burn'd, Which haughty Gray indignant spurn'd,

And Dryden blush'd to wear.”

Obedient then, I strike the Lyre-
Come, Busby, and my song inspire,

And all ye rhyming host !
Come, chaste Matilda! thou whose muse,

sudden dearth of news,
Adorns the Morning Post.


I never swept the tuneful string
To laud the virtues of a King,

Or what is more-create 'em :
With lighter strains my friends I treat,
A pun, a tale, a quaint conceit,

Or Scandalum Magnatum.

my muse

Then, please your Highness, tell
What sort of character you choose,

Wise, tender, or heroic ?
A chief, invincible in arms,
A lover, fond of beauty's charms,

A statesman, or a stoic?

To do what many bards have done,
Suppose I blend them all in one!

With compliments in plenty ;
And paint you am'rous, wise, and brave,
Chaste, philosophical, and grave,

And call you one-and-twenty.

Hail, mighty Prince ! illustrious youth !
O listen to the voice of truth,

A voice to Monarchs strange;
Your bright example mends the taste,
Bear witness, many a slender waist

From Charing Cross to 'Change!

Augustan days are come, we hope,
For Doctor Busby rivals Pope,

And Milton keeps the rear;
Sir Richard lives in Cottle's strains,
And Spenser's Muse, where fancy reigns,

Is distanc'd by a Peer.

See Arnold, with his Pye,* agree,
And Skeffington, immortal three !)

The Drama's rights to seize;
See Op'ras, Farces, all the rage,
And Kemble banish'd from the Stage,
For how can genius charm an age,

Which Shakespeare fails to please?

Britannia! bless thy lucky star,
That gives thee Clifford for the Bar,

Sly Lancaster to teach,
And “ All the Talents,” All! to fool,
Dance, drink, game--any thing --but rule!

And Huntingdon to preach.

My mind, as in a glass, surveys
The glories of your future days,

To me, my Prince ! display'd;
Ye years, your happy circles run!
Enough-the promis'd task is done,

And Phoebus is obey'd.

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“ The Prior Claim,” a comedy (?) written conjointly by Messrs. Pye (the Laureat) and Arnold.




“ Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus.”

I saw (nor disbelieve my strain,)
High, in a Box at Drury Lane,

In consequential trim,
A little pert translating Prig,
Extend his hands, and shake his wig,

Most ludicrously grim.

With gestures strange, and accent loud,
He lectur’d to the gaping crowd,

About the Drama's laws;
While now and then, in noisy fit,
Some long-ear'd brethren in the Pit,
Who thought the Doctor still a wit,

Stood up, and bray'd applause.

In vain he spoke—the Gallery Gods,
From their celestial high abodes,

Sent forth a dismal yell;
Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough,
Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off

With Proserpine to hell.

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