Chapter VII: Part THE SECOND (4)

On getting nearer the earth, the appearances I have described altogether ceased, and I instantly penned the second division of my Ode; I mean that which states his most excellent Majesty to be the patron of the fine arts. But here (for which I am totally at a loss to account) I found myself descending so very rapidly, that even after I had thrown out not only two volumes of my History of Poetry, but also a considerable portion of my pig, I struck, nevertheless, with such violence on the weather-cock of a church, that unless I had immediately parted with the remainder of my ballast, excepting only his Majesty's Speech, one pen, the paper of my Ode, and a small ink-bottle, I must infallibly have been a-ground. Fortunately, by so rapid a discharge, I procured a quick re-ascension; when immediately, though much pinched with the cold, the mercury having suddenly fallen twenty-two inches, I set about my concluding stanza, viz. that which treats of his Majesty's most excellent chastity. And here I lay my claim to the indulgence of the critics to that part of my ode; for what with the shock I had received in striking on the weather-cock, and the effect of the prunes which I had now nearly exhausted, on a sudden I found myself very much disordered indeed. Candour required my just touching on this circumstance; but delicacy must veil the particulars in eternal oblivion. At length, having completed the great object of my ascent, I now re-opened the valve, and descended with great rapidity. They only who have travelled in Balloons, can imagine the sincere joy of my heart, at perceiving Dr. Joseph cantering up a turnip-field, near Kidlington Common, where I landed exactly at a quarter after two o'clock; having, from my first elevation, completed the period of five hours and fifteen minutes; four of which, with the fraction of ten seconds, were entirely devoted to my Ode.--Dr. Joseph quite hugged me in his arms, and kindly lent me a second wig (my own being thrown over at the time of my striking), which, with his usual precaution, he had brought in his pocket, in case of accidents. I take this occasion also to pay my thanks to Thomas Gore, Esq. for some excellent milk-punch, which he directed his butler to furnish me with most opportunely; and which I then thought the most solacing beverage I ever had regaled withal. Dr Joseph and myself reached Oxford in the Dilly by five in the evening, the populace most handsomely taking off the horses for something more than the last half mile, in honour of the first Literary Areonaut of these kingdoms--

_As witness my hand this 22d of May, 1785_, THOMAS WARTON.

CERTIFICATE.

_County of Oxford to wit, 22nd of May, 1785._ This is to certify, to all whom it may concern, That the aforesaid Thomas and Joseph Warton came before me, one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace for the said county, and did solemnly make oath to the truth of the above case. His Sworn before me, JOHN + WEYLAND. Mark.

[1] It cannot fail to attract the Reader's particular attention to this very curious piece, to inform him, that Signor Delpini's decision, in favour of Mr. Warton, was chiefly grounded on the new and extraordinary style of writing herein attested.

LAUREAT ELECTION.

On the demise of the late excellent Bard, William Whitehead, Esq. Poet Laureat to his Majesty, it was decidedly the opinion of his Majesty's great superintendant Minister, that the said office should be forthwith declared elective, and in future continue so; in order as well to provide the ablest successor on the present melancholy occasion, as also to secure a due preference to superior talents, upon all future vacancies: it was in consequence of this determination, that the following Public Notice issued from the Lord Chamberlain's Office, and became the immediate cause of the celebrated contest that is recorded in these pages.

* * * * *

ADVERTISEMENT. _Lord Chamberlain's Office, April 26._

In order to administer strict and impartial justice to the numerous candidates for the vacant POET LAUREATSHIP, many of whom are of illustrious birth, and high character,

Notice is hereby given, That the same form will be attended to in receiving the names of the said Candidates, which is invariably observed in registering the Court Dancers. The list to be finally closed on Friday evening next.

Each Candidate is expected to deliver in a PROBATIONARY BIRTH-DAY ODE, with his name, and also personally to appear on a future day, to recite the same before such literary judges as the Lord Chamberlain, in his wisdom, may appoint.

* * * * *

LAUREAT ELECTION.

[The following Account, though modestly stiled a _Hasty Sketch_, according to the known delicacy of the Editorial Style, is in fact _A Report_, evidently penned by the hand of a Master.]

HASTY SKETCH _of Wednesday's Business at the_ LORD CHAMBERLAIN'S OFFICE.

In consequence of the late general notice, given by public advertisement, of an _open election_ for the vacant office of _Poet Laureat_ to their Majesties, on the terms of Probationary Compositions, a considerable number of the most eminent characters in the fashionable world assembled at the _Lord Chamberlain's Office_, Stable-yard, St. James's, on Wednesday last, between the hours of twelve and two, when Mr. _Ramus_ was immediately dispatched to Lord Salisbury's, acquainting his Lordship therewith, and soliciting his attendance to receive the several candidates, and admit their respective tenders. His Lordship arriving in a short time after, the following Noblemen and Gentlemen were immediately presented to his Lordship by _John Calvert, Jun. Esq._ in quality of Secretary to the office. _James Eley, Esq._ and Mr. _Samuel Betty_, attended also as first and second Clerk, the following list of candidates was made out forthwith, and duly entered on the roll, as a preliminary record to the subsequent proceedings.

The Right Rev. Dr. William Markham, Lord Archbishop of York. The Right Hon. Edward, Lord Thurlow, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain. The Most Noble James, Marquis of Graham. The Right Hon. Harvey Redmond, Visc. Montmorres, of the kingdom of Ireland. The Right Hon. Constantine, Lord Mulgrave, ditto. The Right Hon. Henry Dundas. Sir George Howard, K.B. Sir Cecil Wray, Baronet. Sir Joseph Mawbey, ditto. Sir Richard Hill, ditto. Sir Gregory Page Turner, ditto. The Rev. William Mason, B.D. The Rev. Thomas Warton, B.D. The Rev. George Prettyman, D.D. The Rev, Joseph Warton, D.D. Pepper Arden, Esq. Attorney-General to his Majesty. Michael Angelo Taylor, Esq. M.P. James M'Pherson, Esq. ditto. Major John Scott, ditto. Nath. William Wraxhall, Esq. ditto. Mons. Le Mesurier, Membre du Parlement d'Angleterre.

The several candidates having taken their places at a table provided for the occasion, the Lord Chamberlain, in the politest manner, signified his wish that each candidate would forthwith recite some sample of his poetry as he came provided with for the occasion; at the same time most modestly confessing his own inexperience in all such matters, and intreating their acquiescence therefore in his appointment of his friend _Mr. Delpini_, of the Hay-Market Theatre, as an active and able assessor on so important an occasion. Accordingly, _Mr. Delpini_ being immediately introduced, the several candidates proceeded to recite their compositions, according to their rank and precedence in the above list--both his Lordship and his assessor attended throughout the whole of the readings with the profoundest respect, and taking no refreshment whatsoever, except some China oranges and biscuit, which were also handed about to the company by _Mr. John Secker_, Clerk of the Houshold, and _Mr. William Wise_, Groom of the Buttery.

At half after five, the readings being completed, his Lordship and _Mr. Delpini_ retired to an adjoining chamber; _Mrs. Elizabeth Dyer_, Keeper of the Butter and Egg Office, and _Mr. John Hook_, Deliverer of Greens, being admitted to the candidates with several other refreshments suitable to the fatigue of the day. Two Yeomen of the Mouth and a Turn-broacher attended likewise; and indeed every exertion was made to conduct the little occasional repast that followed with the utmost decency and convenience; the whole being at the expence of the Crown, notwithstanding every effort to the contrary on the part of _Mr. Gilbert_.

At length the awful moment arrived, when the _detur digniori_ was finally to be pronounced on the busy labours of the day--never did Lord Salisbury appear to greater advantage--never did his assessor more amusingly console the discomfitures of the failing candidates--every thing that was affable, every thing that was mollifying, was ably expressed by both the judges; but poetical ambition is not easily allayed. When the fatal _fiat_ was announced in favour of the Rev. Thomas Warton, a general gloom overspread the whole society--a still and awful silence long prevailed. At length Sir Cecil Wray started up, and emphatically pronounced _a scrutiny! a scrutiny!_--A shout of applause succeeded--in vain did the incomparable Buffo introduce his most comic gestures--in vain was his admirable leg pointed horizontally at every head in the room--a scrutiny was demanded--and a scrutiny was granted. In a word, the Lord Chamberlain declared his readiness to submit the productions of the day to the inspection of the public, reserving nevertheless to himself and his assessor, the full power of annulling or establishing the sentence already pronounced. It is in consequence of the above direction, that we shall now give the public the said PROBATIONARY VERSES, commencing with those, however, which are the production of such of the candidates as most vehemently insisted on the right of appeal, conceiving such priority to be injustice granted to the persons whose public spirit has given so lucky a turn to this poetical election. According to the above order, the first composition that we lay before the public is the following:--

_NUMBER I._

IRREGULAR ODE.

The WORDS by SIR CECIL WRAY, BART.

The SPELLING by Mr. GROJAN, _Attorney at Law._

HARK! hark!--hip! hip!--hoh! hoh!
What a mort of bards are a-singing!
Athwart--across--below----
I'm sure there's a dozen a dinging!
I hear sweet Shells, loud Harps, large Lyres--
Some, I trow, are tun'd by Squires--
Some by Priests, and some by Lords!--while Joe and I
Our _bloody hands_, hoist up, like meteors, on high!
Yes, _Joe_ and I
Are em'lous--Why?
It is because, great CÆSAR, you are clever--
Therefore we'd sing of you for ever!
Sing--sing--sing--sing
God save the King!
Smile then, CÆSAR, smile on _Wray_!
Crown at last his _poll_ with bay!----
Come, oh! bay, and with thee bring
Salary, illustrious thing!----
Laurels vain of Covent-garden,
I don't value you a farding!----
Let sack my soul cheer
For 'tis sick of small beer!
CÆSAR! CÆSAR! give it--do!
Great CÆSAR giv't all, for my Muse 'doreth you!--
Oh fairest of the Heavenly Nine,
Enchanting _Syntax_, Muse divine!
Whether on _Phoebus_' hoary head,
By blue-ey'd _Rhadamanthus_ led,
Or with young _Helicon_ you stray,
Where mad _Parnassus_ points the way;--
Goddess of _Elizium_'s hill,
Descend upon my _Pæan_'s quill.----
The light Nymph hears--no more
By _Pegasus_' meand'ring shore,
_Ambrosia_ playful boy,
Plumbs her _jene scai quoi!_----
I mount!--I mount!--
I'm half a _Lark_--I'm half an _Eagle_!
Twelve stars I count----
I see their dam-- she is a _Beagle_!
Ye Royal little ones,
I love your flesh and bones--
You are an arch, rear'd with immortal stones!
_Hibernia_ strikes his harp!
Shuttle, fly!--woof! wed! warp!
Far, far, from me and you,
In latitude North 52.--
Rebellion's hush'd,
The merchant's flush'd;--
Hail, awful _Brunswick, Saxe-Gotha_, hail!
Not _George_, but _Louis_, now shall turn his tail!
Thus, I a-far from mad debate,
Like an old wren,
With my good hen,
Or a young gander,
Am a by-stander,
To all the peacock pride, and vain regards of state!--
Yet if the laurel _prize_,
Dearer than my eyes,
Curs'd _Warton_ tries
For to surprize,
By the eternal God I'll SCRUTINIZE!

_NUMBER II._

ODE ON THE NEW YEAR,

By LORD MULGRAVE.

STROPHE.

O for a Muse of Fire,
With blazing thumbs to touch my torpid lyre!
Now in the darksome regions round the Pole,
Tigers fierce, and Lions bold,
With wild affright would see the snow-hills roll,
Their sharp teeth chattering with the cold--
But that Lions dwell not there----
Nor beast, nor Christian--none but the _White Bear!_
The White Bear howls amid the tempest's roar,
And list'ning Whales swim headlong from the shore!

ANTISTROPHE. (By _Brother_ HARRY.)

Farewel awhile, ye summer breezes!
What is the life of man?
A span!
Sometimes it thaws, sometimes it freezes,
Just as it pleases!
If Heaven decrees, fierce whirlwinds rend the air,
And then again (behold!) 'tis fair!
Thus peace and war on earth alternate reign:
Auspicious GEORGE, thy powerful word
Gives peace to France and Spain,
And sheaths the martial sword!

STROPHE II. (By _Brother_ CHARLES.)

And now gay Hope, her anchor dropping,
And blue-ey'd Peace, and black-ey'd Pleasures,
And Plenty in light cadence hopping,
Fain would dance to WHITEHEAD's measures.
But WHITEHEAD now in death reposes,
Crown'd with laurel! crown'd with roses!
Yet we, with laurel crown'd, his dirge will sing,
And thus deserve fresh laurels from the KING.

_NUMBER III._

ODE,

_By_ SIR JOSEPH MAWBEY, BART.

STROPHE.

HARK!--to yon heavenly skies,
Nature's congenial perfumes upwards rise!
From each throng'd stye
That saw my gladsome eye,
Incense, quite smoking hot, arose,
And caught my _seven sweet senses_--by the _nose_!

AIR--_accompanied by the_ LEARNED PIG.

Tell me, dear Muse, oh! tell me, pray,
Why JOEY's fancy frisks so gay;
Is it!--you slut it is--some _holy--holiday!_
[_Here Muse Whispers I,--Sir Joseph._]
Indeed!--Repeat the fragrant sound!
Push love, and loyalty around,
Through _Irish_, _Scotch_, as well as _British_ ground!

CHORUS.

For this BIG MORN
GREAT GEORGE was born!
The tidings all the Poles shall ring!
Due homage will I pay,
On this, thy native day,
GEORGE, _by the grace of God, my rightful_ KING!

AIR--_with Lutes._

Well might my dear lady say,
As lamb-like by her side I lay,
This very, very morn;
Hark! JOEY, hark!
I hear the lark,
Or else it is--the sweet _Sowgelder_'s horn!

ANTISTROPHE.

Forth, from their styes, the bristly victims lead;
A score of HOGS, flat on their backs, shall bleed.
Mind they be such on which good Gods might feast!
And that
In lily fat
They cut six inches on the ribs, at least!

DUET--_with Marrow-bones and Cleavers._

_Butcher_ and _Cook_ begin!
We'll have a royal greasy chin!
Tit bits so nice and rare--
Prepare! prepare!
Let none abstain,
Refrain!
I'll give 'em pork in plenty--cut, and come again!

RECITATIVE.

Hog! Porker! Roaster! Boar-stag! Barbicue!
Cheeks! Chines! Crow! Chitterlings! and Harselet new!
Springs! Spare-ribs! Sausages! Sous'd-lugs! and Face!
With piping-hot Pease-pudding--plenteous place!
Hands! Hocks! Hams! Haggis, with high seas'ning fill'd!
Gammons! Green Griskins! on gridirons grill'd!
Liver and Lights! from Plucks that moment drawn
Pigs' Puddings! Black and White! with Canterbury Brawn!--

TRIO.

Fall too,
Ye Royal crew!
Eat! Eat your bellies full! pray do!
At treats I never winces:--
The Queen shall say,
Once in a way,
Her maids have been well cramm'd--her young ones din'd like Princes!

FULL CHORUS--_accompanied by the whole_ HOGGERY.

For this BIG MORN
GREAT GEORGE was born!
The tidings all the Poles shall ring!
Due homage will I pay,
On this, thy native day,
GEORGE! _by the grace of God, my rightful_ KING!!!!

_NUMBER IV._

ODE,

_By_ SIR RICHARD HILL, BART.

Hail, pious Muse of saintly love,
Unmix'd, unstain'd with earthly dross!
Hail Muse of _Methodism_, above
The Royal Mews at Charing-cross!
Behold both hands I raise;
Behold both knees I bend;
Behold both eye-balls gaze!
Quick, Muse, descend, descend!
Meek Muse of _Madan_, thee my soul invokes--
Oh point my pious puns! oh sanctify my jokes!

II.

Descend, and, oh! in mem'ry keep--
There's a time to wake--a time to sleep--
A time to laugh-a time to cry!
The _Bible_ says so--so do I!--
Then broad awake, oh, come to me!
And thou my _Eastern star_ shalt be!

III.

MILLER, bard of deathless name,
MOSES, wag of merry fame;
Holy, holy, holy pair,
Harken to your vot'ry's pray'r!
Grant, that like Solomon's of old,
My faith be still in _Proverbs_ told;
Like his, let my religion be
Conundrums of divinity.
And oh! to mine, let each strong charm belong,
That breathes salacious in the _wise man_'s song;
And thou, sweet bard, for ever dear
To each impassioned love-fraught ear,
Soft, luxuriant ROCHESTER;
Descend, and ev'ry tint bestow,
That gives to phrase its ardent glow;
From thee, thy willing _Hill_ shall learn
Thoughts that melt, and words that burn:
Then smile, oh, gracious, smile on this petition!
So _Solomon_, gay _Wilmot_ join'd with thee,
Shall shew the world that such a thing can be
As, strange to tell!--_a virtuous Coalition!_

IV.

Thou too, thou dread and awful shade
Of dear departed WILL WHITEHEAD,
Look through the blue ætherial skies,
And view me with propitious eyes!
Whether thou most delight'st to loll
On _Sion_'s top, or near the _Pole_!
Bend from thy _mountains_, and remember still
The wants and wishes of a lesser _Hill_!
Then, like _Elijah_, fled to realms above,
To me, thy friend, bequeath my hallow'd cloak,
And by its virtue Richard may improve,
And in _thy habit_ preach, and pun, and joke!
_The Lord doth give--The Lord doth take away._--
Then good _Lord Sal'sbury_ attend to me--
Banish these sons of _Belial_ in dismay;
And give the praise to a true _Pharisee_:
For sure of all the _scribes_ that Israel curst,
These _scribes_ poetic are by far the worst.
To thee, my _Samson_, unto thee I call----
Exert thy _jaw_--and straight disperse them all--
So, as in former times, the _Philistines_ shall fall!
Then as 'twas th' beginning,
So to th' end 't shall be;
My Muse will ne'er leave singing
The LORD of SAL'SBURY!!!

_NUMBER V._

DUAN, IN THE TRUE OSSIAN SUBLIMITY,

_By_ MR. MACPHERSON.

Does the wind touch thee, O HARP?
Or is it some passing Ghost?
Is is thy hand,
Spirit of the departed _Scrutiny_?
Bring me the harp, pride of CHATHAM!
Snow is on thy bosom,
Maid of the modest eye!
A song shall rise!
Every soul shall depart at the sound!!!
The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!!!
I behold thee, O King!
I behold thee sitting on mist!!!
Thy form is like a watery cloud,
Singing in the deep like an oyster!!!!
Thy face is like the beams of the setting moon!
Thy eyes are of two decaying flames!
Thy nose is like the spear of ROLLO!!!
Thy ears are like three bossy shields!!!
Strangers shall rejoice at thy chin!
The ghosts of dead Tories shall hear me
In their airy hall!
The wither'd thistle shall crown my head!
Bring me the Harp,
Son of CHATHAM!
But thou, O King! give me the Laurel!

_NUMBER VI._

[Though the following _Ossianade_ does not immediately come under the description of a _Probationary Ode_, yet as it appertains to the nomination of the _Laureat_, we class it under the same head. We must at the same time compliment Mr. _Macpherson_ for his spirited address to Lord Salisbury on the subject. The following is a copy of his letter:]

MY LORD,

I take the liberty to address myself immediately to your Lordship, in vindication of my poetical character, which, I am informed, is most illiberally attacked by the Foreign Gentleman, whom your Lordship has thought proper to select as an assessor on the present scrutiny for the office of Poet Laureat to his Majesty. Signor Delpini is certainly below my notice--but I understand his objections to my _Probationary Ode_ are two;--first, its conciseness; and next, its being in _prose_. For the present, I shall wave all discussion of these frivolous remarks; begging leave, however, to solicit your Lordship's protection to the following _Supplemental Ode_, which, I hope, both from its _quantity_ and its _style_, will most effectually do away the paltry, insidious attack of an uninformed reviler, who is equally ignorant of British Poetry and of British Language.

I have the honour to be,
My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient,
and faithful servant,
J. MACPHERSON.

THE SONG OF SCRUTINA,

_By_ MR. MACPHERSON.

Hark! 'Tis the dismal sound that echoes on thy roofs, O _Cornwall_; Hail! double-face sage! Thou worthy son of the chair-borne _Fletcher_! The Great Council is met to fix the seats of the chosen Chief; their voices resound in the gloomy hall of Rufus, like the roaring winds of the cavern--Loud were the cries for _Rays_, but thy voice, O _Foxan_, rendered the walls like the torrent that gusheth from the Mountain-side. _Cornwall_ leaped from his throne and screamed--the friends of _Gwelfo_ hung their heads--How were the mighty fallen! Lift up thy face, _Dundasso_, like the brazen shield of thy chieftain! Thou art bold to confront disgrace, and shame is unknown to thy brow--but tender is the youth of thy leader; who droopeth his head like a faded lily--leave not _Pitto_ in the day of defeat, when the Chiefs of the Counties fly from him like the herd from the galled Deer.--The friends of _Pitto_ are fled. He is alone--he layeth himself down in despair, and sleep knitteth up his brow.--Soft were his dreams on the green bench--Lo! the spirit of _Jenky_ arose, pale as the mist of the morn--twisted was his long lank form--his eyes winked as he whispered to the child in the cradle. Rise, he sayeth--arise bright babe of the dark closet! the shadow of the Throne shall cover thee, like wings of a hen, sweet chicken of the Back-stair brood! Heed not the Thanes of the Counties; they have fled from thee, like Cackling Geese from the hard-bitten Fox: but will they not rally and return to the charge? Let the host of the King be numbered; they are as the sands of the barren shore.--There Is _Powno_, who followeth his mighty leader, and chaceth the stall-fed stag all day on the dusty road.--There is _Howard_, great in arms, with the beaming star on his spreading breast.--Red is the scarf that waves over his ample shoulders--Gigantic are his strides on the terrace, in pursuit of the Royal footsteps of lofty _Georgio_.

No more will I number the flitting shades of Jenky; for behold the potent spirit of the black-browed _Jacko_.--'Tis the _Ratten Robinso_, who worketh the works of darkness! Hither I come, said _Ratten_--Like the mole of the earth, deep caverns have been my resting place; the ground _Rats_ are my food.--Secret minion of the Crown, raise thy soul! Droop not at the spirit of _Foxan_. Great are thy foes in the sight of the many-tongued war.--Shake not they knees, like the leaves of the Aspen on the misty hill--the doors of the stairs in the postern are locked; the voice of thy foes is as the wind, which whistleth through the vale; it passeth away like the swift cloud of the night.

The breath of _Gwelfo_ stilleth the stormy seas.----Whilst thou breathest the breath of his nostrils, thou shalt live for ever. Firm standeth thy heel in the Hall of thy Lord. Mighty art thou in the sight of _Gwelfo_, illustrious leader of the friends of _Gwelfo_! great art thou, O lovely imp of the interior closet! O lovely Guardian of the Royal Junto!

NUMBER VII.

MR. MASON having laid aside the more noble subject for a Probationary Ode, viz. the Parliamentary Reform, upon finding that the Rev. Mr. _Wyvil_ had already made a considerable progress in it, has adopted the following.--The argument is simple and interesting, adapted either to the harp of _Pindar_, or the reed of Theocritus_,_ and as proper for the 4th of June, as any day of the year.

It is almost needless to inform the public, that the University of Oxford has earnestly longed for a visit from their Sovereign, and, in order to obtain this honour without the fatigue of forms and ceremonies, they have privately desired the Master of the Staghounds, upon turning the stag out of the cart, to set his head in as straight a line as possible, by the map, towards Oxford:--which probably, on some auspicious day, will bring the Royal Hunt to the walls of that city. This expedient, conceived in so much wisdom, as well as loyalty, makes the subject of the following,

IRREGULAR ODE,

_By_ MR. MASON.

I.
O! green-rob'd Goddess of the hallow'd shade,
Daughter of Jove, to whom of yore
Thee, lovely maid, _Latona_ bore,
Chaste virgin, Empress of the silent glade!
Where shall I woo thee?--Ere the dawn,
While still the dewy tissue of the lawn
Quivering spangles to the eye,
And fills the soul with Nature's harmony!
Or 'mid that murky grove's monastic night,
The tangling net-work of the woodbine's gloom,
Each zephyr pregnant with perfume----
Or near that delving dale, or mossy mountain's height,
When _Neptune_ struck the scientific ground.

II.
From _Attica_'s deep-heaving side,
Why did the prancing horse rebound,
Snorting, neighing all around,
With thund'ring feet and flashing eyes--
Unless to shew how near allied
Bright science is to exercise!

III.
If then the _horse_ to wisdom is a friend,
Why not the _hound_? why not the _horn_?
While low beneath the furrow sleeps the corn,
Nor yet in tawny vests delight to bend!
For Jove himself decreed,
That DIAN, with her sandal'd feet,
White ankled Goddess pure and fleet,
Should with every Dryad lead,
By jovial cry o'er distant plain,
To _England_'s Athens, _Brunswick_'s sylvan train!

IV.
_Diana_, Goddess all discerning!
_Hunting_ is a friend to learning!
If the stag, with hairy nose,
In Autumn ne'er had thought of love!
No buck with swollen throat the does
With dappled sides had tryed to move----
Ne'er had _England_'s King, I ween,
The Muse's seat, fair _Oxford_, seen.

V.
Hunting, thus, is learning's friend!
No longer, Virgin Goddess, bend
O'er _Endymion_'s roseate breast;----
No longer, vine-like, chastly twine
Round his milk-white limbs divine!----
Your brother's car rolls down the east--
The laughing hours bespeak the day!
With flowery wreaths they strew the way!
Kings of sleep! ye mortal race!
For _George_ with _Dian_ 'gins the Royal chace!

VI.
Visions of bliss, you tear my aching sight,
Spare, O spare your poet's eyes!
See every gate-way trembles with delight,
Streams of glory streak the skies:
How each College sounds,
With the cry of the hounds!
How _Peckwater_ merrily rings;
Founders, Prelates, Queens, and Kings--
All have had your hunting-day!--
From the dark tomb then break away!
Ah! see they rush to _Friar Bacon_'s tower,
Great _George_ to greet, and hail his natal hour!

VII.
_Radcliffe_ and _Wolsey_, hand in hand,
Sweet gentle shades, there take their stand
With _Pomfret_'s learned dame;
And _Bodely_ join'd by Clarendon,
With loyal zeal together run,
Just arbiters of fame!

VIII.
That fringed cloud sure this way bends--
From it a form divine descends--
_Minerva_'s self;--and in her rear
A thousand saddled steads appear!
On each she mounts a learned son,
Professor, Chancellor, or Dean;
All by hunting madness won,
All in _Dian_'s livery seen.
How they despise the tim'rous _Hare_!
Give us, they cry, the furious _Bear_!
To chase the Lion, how they long,
Th' _Rhinoceros_ tall, and _Tyger_ strong.
Hunting thus is learning's prop,
Then may hunting never drop;
And thus an hundred _Birth-Days_ more,
Shall Heav'n to _George_ afford from its capacious shore.

_NUMBER VIII._

ODE,

_By_ THE ATTORNEY-GENERAL.

I.
_Indite_, my Muse!--_indite! subpoena'd_ is thy lyre!
The praises to _record_, which _rules of Court_ require!
'Tis thou, O _Clio_! Muse divine,
And best of all the _Council_ Nine,
Must _plead_ my _cause_!--Great HATFIELD'S CECIL bids me sing------
The tallest, fittest man, to walk before the King!

II.
Of _Sal'sbury's Earls_ the First (so tells th' historic page)
'Twas Nature's will to make most wonderfully sage;
But then, as if too liberal to his mind,
She made him crook'd before, and crook'd behind[1].
'Tis not, thank Heav'n! my _Cecil_, so with thee;
Thou last of Cecils, but unlike the first;--
Thy body bears no mark'd deformity;----
The Gods _decreed_, and _judgment was revers'd!_
For veins of Science are like veins of gold!
Pure, for a time, they run;
They end as they begun--
Alas! in nothing but a heap of mould!

III.
Shall I by eloquence controul,
Or _challenge_ send to mighty ROLLE,
Whene'er on Peers he vents his gall?
Uplift my hands to pull his nose,
And twist and pinch it till it grows,
Like mine, aside, and small?
Say, by what _process_ may I once obtain
A _verdict_, Lord, not let me _sue_ in vain!
In Commons, and in _Courts_ below,
My _actions_ have been try'd;--
There _Clients_ who pay most, _you know_,
_Retain_ the strongest side!
True to these _terms_, I preach'd in politics for _Pitt_,
And _Kenyon's law_ maintain'd against his Sovereign's _writ_.
What though my father be a porpus,
He may be mov'd by _Habeas Corpus_--
Or by a _call_, whene'er the State
Or _Pitt_ requires his vote and weight--
I tender _bail_ for Bottle's _warm_ support,
Of all the plans of Ministers and Court!

IV.
And Oh! should _Mrs. Arden_ bless me with a child,
A lovely boy, as beauteous as myself and mild;
The little _Pepper_ would some caudle lack:
Then think of _Arden_'s wife,
My pretty _Plaintiff_'s life,
The best of caudle's made of best of sack!
Let thy _decree_
But favour me,
My _bills_ and _briefs_, _rebutters_ and _detainers_,
To _Archy_ I'll resign
Without a _fee_ or _fine_,
_Attachments_, _replications_, and _retainers_!
To _Juries, Bench, Exchequer, Seals_,
To _Chanc'ry Court_, and _Lords_, I'll bid adieu;
No more _demurrers_ nor _appeals_;----
My _writs of error_ shall be _judg'd_ by you.

V.
And if perchance great _Doctor Arnold_ should retire,
Fatigu'd with all the troubles of St. James's Choir;
My Odes two merits shall unite;
[2]BEARCROFT, my friend,
His aid will lend,
And set to music all I write;
Let me then, Chamberlain without a _flaw_,
For June the fourth prepare,
The praises of the King
In _legal lays_ to sing,
Until they rend the air,
And _prove_ my equal fame in _poesy_ and law!

[1] Rapin observes, that Robert Cecil, the first Earl of Salisbury, was of a great genius; and though crooked before and behind, Nature supplied that defect with noble endowments of mind.

[2] This Gentleman is a great performer upon the Piano Forte, as well as the Speaking Trumpet and Jews' Harp.

_NUMBER IX._

ODE,

_By_ NATHANIEL WILLIAM WRAXHALL, ESQ. M.P.

I.
MURRAIN seize the House of Commons!
Hoarse catarrh their windpipes shake!
Who, deaf to travell'd Learning's summons,
Rudely cough'd whene'er I spake!
_North_, nor _Fox_'s thund'ring course,
Nor e'en the Speaker, tyrant, shall have force
To save thy walls from nightly breaches,
From _Wraxhall_'s votes, from _Wraxhall_'s speeches,
_Geography_, terraqueous maid,
Descend from globes to statesmen's aid!
Again to heedless crouds unfold
Truths unheard, tho' not untold:
Come, and once more unlock this vasty world--
Nations attend! the _map_ of _Earth_'s unfurl'd!

II.
Begin the song, from where the Rhine,
The Elbe, the Danube, Weser rolls----
_Joseph_, nine circles, forty seas are thine----
Thine, twenty millions souls----
Upon a marish flat and dank
States, Six and One,
Dam the dykes, the seas embank,
Maugre the Don!
A gridiron's form the proud Escurial rears,
While South of Vincent's Cape anchovies glide:
But, ah! o'er Tagus, once auriferous tide,
A priest-rid Queen, Braganza's sceptre bears----
Hard fate! that Lisbon's Diet-drink is known
To cure each crazy _constitution_ but her own!

III.
I burn! I burn! I glow! I glow!
With antique and with modern lore!
I rush from Bosphorus to Po--
To Nilus from the Nore.
Why were thy Pyramids, O Egypt! rais'd,
But to be measur'd, and be prais'd?
Avaunt, ye Crocodiles! your threats are vain!
On Norway's seas, my soul, unshaken,
Brav'd the Sea-Snake and the Craken!
And shall I heed the River's scaly train?
Afric, I scorn thy Alligator band!
Quadrant in hand
I take my stand,
And eye thy moss-clad needle, Cleopatra grand!
O, that great Pompey's pillar were my own!
Eighty-eight feet the shaft, and all one stone!
But hail, ye lost Athenians!
Hail also, ye Armenians!
Hail once, ye Greeks, ye Romans, Carthagenians!
Twice hail, ye Turks, and thrice, ye Abyssinians!
Hail too, O Lapland, with thy squirrels airy!
Hail, Commerce-catching Tipperary!
Hail, wonder-working Magi!
Hail, Ouran-Outangs! Hail, Anthropophagi!
Hail, all ye cabinets of every state,
From poor Marino's Hill, to Catherine's Empire great!
All have their chiefs, who-speak, who write, who seem to think,
_Caermarthens, Sydneys, Rutlands_, paper, pens, and ink;

IV.
Thus, through all climes, to earth's remotest goal,
From burning Indus to the freezing Pole,
In chaises and on floats,
In dillies, and in boats;
Now on a camel's native stool;
Now on an ass, now on a mule.
Nabobs and Rajahs have I seen;
Old Bramins mild, young Arabs keen:
Tall Polygars,
Dwarf Zemindars,
Mahommed's tomb, Killarney's lake, the fane of Ammon,
With all thy Kings and Queens, ingenious Mrs. Salmon[1]:
Yet vain the majesties of wax!
Vain the cut velvet on their backs----
GEORGE, mighty GEORGE, is flesh and blood----
No head he wants of wax or wood!
His heart is good!
(As a King's should)
And every thing he says is understood!

[1] Exhibits the Wax-work, in Fleet-Street.

_NUMBER X._

ODE FOR NEW-YEAR'S-DAY,

_By_ SIR GREGORY PAGE TURNER, BART. M.P.

Lord Warden of Blackheath, and Ranger of Greenwich Hill, during the Christmas and Easter Holidays.

STROPHE.

O day of high career!
First of a month--nay more--first of a year!
A _monarch-day_, that hath indeed no peer!
Let huge _Buzaglos_ glow
In ev'ry corner of the isle,
To melt away the snow:
And like to _May_,
Be this month gay;
And with her at hop--step--jump--play,
Dance, grin, and smile:
Ye too, ye _Maids of Honour_, young and old,
Shall each be seen,
With a neat _warming_ patentiz'd _machine_!
Because, 'tis said, that _chastity_ is _cold_!

ANTISTROPHE.

But ah! no roses meet the sight;
No _yellow_ buds of _saffron_ hue,
Nor _azure_ blossoms of _pale blue_,
Nor tulips, pinks, &c. delight.
Yet on fine _tiffany_ will I
My genius try,
The spoils of _Flora_ to supply,
Or say my name's not GREGO--RY!
An _artificial_ Garland will I bring,
That _Clement Cottrell_ shall declare,
With courtly air,
Fit for a Prince--fit for a KING!

Epode.

Ye _millinery_ fair,
To me, ye Muses are;
Ye are to me _Parnassus_ MOUNT!
In you, I find an _Aganippe_ FOUNT!
I venerate your _muffs_,
I bow and kiss your _ruffs_.
Inspire me, O ye _Sisters_ of the _frill_,
And teach your votarist how to _quill_!
For oh!--'tis true indeed,
That he can scarcely read!
Teach him to _flounce_, and disregard all quippery,
As crapes and blonds, and such like frippery;
Teach him to _trim_ and _whip_ from side to side,
And _puff_ as long as puffing can be try'd.
In _crimping_ metaphor he'll dash on,
For _point_, you know, is out of fashion.
O crown with bay his tête,
_Delpini_, arbiter of fate!
Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport.
A PAGE should be a _Dangler_ at the court.

_NUMBER XI._

ODE,

_By_ MICHAEL ANGELO TAYLOR, ESQ. M. P.

Only Son of SIR ROBERT TAYLOR, Knt. and late Sheriff--also Sub-Deputy, Vice-Chairman to the Irish Committee, King's Counsel, and Welsh Judge Elect, &c, &c.

I.
Hail, all hail, thou natal day!
Hail the very half hour, I say,
On which great GEORGE was born!
Tho' scarcely fledg'd, I'll try my wing--
And tho', alas! I cannot sing,
I'll _crow_ on this illustrious morn!
Sweet bird, that chirp'st the note of folly,
So pleasantry, so drolly!--
Thee, oft the stable yards among,
I woo, and emulate thy song!
Thee, for my emblem still I choose!
Oh! with thy voice inspire a _Chicken of the Muse!_

II.
And thou, great Earl, ordain'd to sit
High arbiter of verse and wit,
Oh crown my wit with fame!
Such as it is, I prithee take it;
Or if thou can'st not find it, make it:
To me 'tis just the same.
Once a white wand, like thine, my father bore:
But now, alas! that white wand is no more!
Yet though his pow'r be fled,
Nor Bailiff wait his nod nor Gaoler;
Bright honour still adorns the head
Of my Papa, Sir _Robert Tayler!_
Ah, might that honour on his son alight!
On this auspicious day
How my little heart would glow,
If, as I bend me low,
My gracious King wou'd say,
Arise, SIR MICHAEL ANGELO!
O happiest day, that brings the happiest Knight!

III.
Thee, too, my _fluttering_ Muse invokes,
Thy guardian aid I beg.
Thou great ASSESSOR, fam'd for jokes,
For jokes of face and leg!
So may I oft thy stage-box grace,
(The first in beauty as in place)
And smile responsive to thy changeful face!
For say, renowned mimic, say,
Did e'er a merrier crowd obey
Thy laugh-provoking summons,
Than with fond glee, enraptur'd sit,
Whene'er with _undesigning wit_,
I entertain the Commons?
Lo! how I shine St. Stephen's boast!
There, first of _Chicks_, I rule the _roast_!
There I appear,
Pitt's _Chanticleer_.
The _Bantam Cock_ in opposition!
Or like a _hen_
With watchful ken,
Sit close and hatch--the Irish propositions!

IV.
Behold for this great day of pomp and pleasure,
The House adjourns, and I'm at leisure!
If _thou_ art so, come muse of sport,
With a few rhymes,
Delight the times,
And coax the Chamberlain, and charm the Court!
By Heaven she comes!--more swift than prose,
At her command, my metre flows;
Hence, ye weak warblers of the rival lays!
Avaunt, ye Wrens, ye Goslings, and ye Pies!
The _Chick of Law_ shall _win_ the prize!
The _Chick of Law_ shall _peck_ the bays!
So, when again the State deminds our care,
Fierce in my laurel'd pride, I'll take the chair!--
GILBERT, I catch thy bright invention,
With somewhat more of _sound retention[1]!_
But never, never on thy _prose_ I'll border--
_Verse_, lofty-sounding _Verse_, shall "_Call to Order!_"
Come, sacred Nine, come one and all,
Attend your fav'rite Chairman's call!
Oh! if I well have chirp'd your brood among,
Point my keen eye, and tune my brazen tongue!
And hark! with Elegiac graces,
"I beg that gentlemen may take their places!"
Didactic Muse, be thine to state,
The rules that harmonize debate!
Thine, mighty CLIO, to resound from far,
"The door! the door!--the bar! the bar!"
Stout _Pearson_ damns around at her dread word;--
"Sit down!" cries _Clementson_, and grasps his silver sword.

V.
But lo! where Pitt appears to move
Some new resolve of hard digestion!
Wake then, my Muse, thy gentler notes of love,
And in persuasive numbers, "_put the Question._"
The question's gain'd!--the Treasury-Bench rejoice!
"All hail, thou _least_ of men" (they cry), with mighty voice!
--Blest sounds! my ravish'd eye surveys
Ideal Ermine, fancied Bays!
Wrapt in St. Stephens future scenes
I sit perpetual chairman of the _Ways and Means!_
Cease, cease, ye Bricklayer crew, my sire to praise,
His mightier offspring claims immortal lays!
The father climb'd the ladder, with a hod;
The son, like _General Jackoo_, jumps alone, by God!

[1] No reflection on the organization of Mr. Gilbert's brain is intended here; but rather a pathetic reflection an the continual Diabetes of so great a Member!

_NUMBER XII._

ODE,

_By_ MAJOR JOHN SCOTT, M.P. &C. &C.

I.
Why does the loitering sun retard his wain,
When this glad hour demands a fiercer ray?
Not so he pours his fire on Delhi's plain,
To hail the Lord of Asia's natal day.
There in mute pomp and cross-legg'd state,
The _Raja Pouts_ MAHOMMED SHAH await.
There _Malabar_,
There _Bisnagar_,
There _Oude_ and proud _Bahar_, in joy confederate.

II.
Curs'd be the clime, and curs'd the laws, that lay
Insulting bonds on George's sovereign sway!
Arise, my soul, on wings of fire,
To God's anointed, tune the lyre;
Hail! George, thou all-accomplish'd King!
Just type of him who rules on high!
Hail inexhausted, boundless spring
Of sacred truth and Holy Majesty!
Grand is thy form--'bout five feet ten,
Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men!
Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad--
Thy Pages view thee, and are aw'd!
Lo! how thy white eyes roll!
Thy whiter eye-brows stare!
Honest soul!
Thou'rt witty, as thou'rt fair!

III.
North of the Drawing-room a closet stands:
The sacred nook, St James's Park commands!
Here, in sequester'd state, Great GEORGE receives
Memorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves!
Here all the force of sov'reign thought is bent,
To fix Reviews, or change a Government!
Heav'ns! how each word with joy _Caermarthen_ takes!
Gods! how the lengthen'd chin of _Sydney_ shakes!
Blessing and bless'd the sage associate see,
The proud triumphant league of incapacity.
With subtile smiles,
With innate wiles,
How do thy tricks of state, GREAT GEORGE, abound!
So in thy Hampton's mazy ground,
The path that wanders
In meanders,
Ever bending,
Never ending,
Winding runs the eternal round.
Perplex'd, involv'd, each thought bewilder'd moves;
In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves;
Contending themes the ernbarrass'd listener baulk,
Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk!

IV.
Now shall the levee's ease thy soul unbend,
Fatigu'd with Royalty's severer care!
Oh! happy few! whom brighter stars befriend,
Who catch the chat--the witty whisper share!
Methinks I hear
In accents clear,
Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear--
"What?--what?--what?
Scott!--Scott!--Scott!
Hot!--hot!--hot!
What?--what!--what?"
Oh! fancy quick! oh! judgment true!
Oh! sacred oracle of regal taste!
So hasty, and so generous too!
Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait!
Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art,
To paint the beauties of that head and heart!
That heart where all the virtues join!
That head that hangs on many a sign!

V.
Monarch of mighty _Albion_, check thy talk!
Behold the _Squad_ approach, led on by _Palk_!
_Smith, Barwelly, Cattt Vansittart_, form the band--
Lord of Brirannia!--let them kiss thy hand!--
For _sniff_[1]!--rich odours scent the sphere!
'Tis Mrs. _Hastings_' self brings up the rear!
Gods! how her diamonds flock
On each unpowdere'd lock!
On every membrane see a topaz clings!
Behold her joints are fewer than her rings!
Illustrious dame! on either ear,
The _Munny Begums_' spoils appear!
Oh! Pitt, with awe behold that precious throat,
Whose necklace teems with many a future vote!
Pregnant with _Burgage_ gems each hand she rears;
And lo! depending _questions_ gleam upon her ears!
Take her, great George, and shake her by the hand;
'Twill loose her jewels, and enrich thy land.
But oh! reserve one ring for an old stager;
The _ring_ of future marriage for her _Major_!

[1] Sniff is a new interjection for the sense of smelling.

_NUMBER XIII._

IRREGULAR ODE,

_By the_ RT. HON. HARRY DUNDAS, ESQ. Treasurer of the Navy, &c. &c. &c.

I.
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Hoot! hoot awaw!
Ye lawland Bards! who' are ye aw!
What are your sangs? What aw your lair too boot?
Vain are your thowghts the prize to win,
Sae dight your gobs, and stint your senseless din;
Hoot! hoot awaw! hoot! hoot!----
Put oot aw your Attic feires,
Burn your lutes, and brek your leyres;
A looder, and a looder note I'll strieke:----
Na watter drawghts fra' Helicon I heed,
Na will I moont your winged steed--
I'll moont the Hanoverian horse, and ride him whare I leike!--

II.
Ye lairdly fowk, wha form the courtly ring,
Coom, lend your lugs, and listen wheil I sing!
Ye canny maidens tee; wha aw the wheile,
Sa sweetly luik, sa sweetly smeile,
Coom hither aw, and round me thrang,
Wheil I tug oot my peips, and gi' ye aw a canty sang.
Weel faur his bonny bleithsome hairt!
Wha, gifted by the gods abuin,
Wi' meikle taste, and meikle airt,
Fairst garr'd his canny peipe to lilt a tune!
To the sweet whussel join'd the pleesan drane,
And made the poo'rs of music aw his ain.
On thee, on thee I caw--thou deathless spreight!
Doon frae thy thrane, abuin the lift sa breight;
Ah! smeile on me, instruct me hoo to chairm:
And, fou as is the baug beneath my arm,
Inspeire my saul, and geuide my tunesome tongue.
I feel, I feel thy poo'r divine!
Laurels! kest ye to the groond,
Aroond my heed, my country's pride I tweine--
Sa sud a Scottish baird be croon'd--
Sa sud gret GEOURGE be sung!

III.
Fra hills, wi' heathers clad, that smeilan bluim
Speite o' the northern blaist;
Ye breether bairds, descend, and hither coom!
Let ilka ilka ane his baugpipe bring,
That soonds sa sweetly, and sa weel;
Sweet soonds! that please the lugs o' sic a king;
Lugs that in music's soonds ha' mickle taste.
Then, hither haste, and bring them aw,
Baith your muckle peipes and smaw;
Now, laddies! lood blaw up your chanters;
For, luik! whare, cled in claies sa leel.
Canny _Montrose_'s son leads on the ranters.
Thoo _Laird o' Graham!_ by manie a cheil ador'd,
Who boasts his native fillabeg restor'd;
I croon thee--maister o' the spowrt!
Bid thy breechless loons advaunce,
Weind the reel, and wave the daunce;
Noo they rant, and noo they loup,
And noo they shew their brawny doup,
And weel, I wat, they please the lasses o' the court,
Sa in the guid buik are we tauld,
Befoor the halie ark,
The guid King David, in the days of auld,
Daunc'd, like a wuid thing, in his sark,
Wheil Sion's dowghters ('tis wi' sham I speak't)
Aw heedless as he strack the sacred strain,
Keck'd, and lawgh'd,
And lawgh'd, and keck'd,
And lawgh'd, and keck'd again.
Scarce could they keep their watter at the seight,
Sa micke did the King their glowran eyne delight.

IV.
Anewgh! anewgh! noo haud your haund!
And stint your spowrts awce:
Ken ye, whare clad in eastlan spoils sa brave,
O'ersheenan aw the lave;
He comes, he comes!
Aw hail! thoo Laird of pagodas and lacks!
Weel could I tell of aw thy mighty awks;
Fain wad my peipe, its loudest note,
My tongue, its wunsome poo'rs, devote,
To gratitude and thee;
To thee, the sweetest o' thy ain parfooms,
Orixa's preide sud blaze
On thee, thy gems of purest rays;
Back fra' this saund, their genuine feires sud shed,
And _Rumbold_'s Crawdle vie wuth _Hasting_'s Bed.
But heev'n betook us weil! and keep us weise!
Leike thunder, burstan at thy dreed command!
"Keep, keep thy tongue," a warlock cries,
And waves his gowden wand.

V.
Noo, laddies! gi' your baugpipes breeth again;
Blaw the loo'd, but solemn, strain:
Thus wheil I hail with heart-felt pleasure,
In mejesty sedate,
In pride elate,
The smuith cheeks Laird of aw the treasure;
Onward he stalks in froonan state;
Na fuilish smiles his broos unbend,
Na wull he bleithsome luik on aw the lasses lend.
Hail to ye, lesser Lairds! of mickle wit;
Hail to ye aw, wha in weise council sit,
Fra' _Tommy Toonsend_ up to _Wully Pitt!_
Weel faur your heeds! but noo na mair
To ye maun I the sang confeine:
To nobler fleights the muse expands her wing.
'Tis he, whose eyne and wit sa breightly sheine,
'Tis GEOURGE demands her care;
Breetons! boo down your heed, and hail your King!
See! where with Atlantean shoulder,
Amazing each beholder,
Beneath a tott'ring empire's weight.
Full six feet high he stands, and therefore--great!

VI.
Come then, aw ye POO'rs of vairse!
Gi' me great GEOURGE's glories to rehearse;
And as I chaunt his kingly awks,
The list'nan warld fra me sall lairn
Hoo swuft he rides, hoo slow he walks,
And weel he gets his Queen wi' bairn.
Give me, with all a Laureat's art to jumble,
Thoughts that soothe, and words that rumble!
Wisdom and Empire, Brunswick's Royal line;
Fame, Honour, Glory, Majesty divine!
Thus, crooned by his lib'ral hand.
Give me to lead the choral band;
Then, in high-sounding words, and grand,
Aft sail peipe swell with his princely name,
And this eternal truth proclaim:
'Tis GEOURGE, Imperial GEOURGE, who rules BRITANNIA's land!

_NUMBER XIV._

ODE,

_By_ DR. JOSEPH WARTON, In humble Imitation of BROTHER THOMAS.

O! For the breathings of the _Doric ote!_
O! for the _warblings_ of the Lesbian _lyre!_
O! for the Alcean trump's terrific note!
O! for the Theban eagle's wing of fire!
O! for each stop and string that swells th' Aonian quire!
Then should this hallow'd day in _worthy strains be sung_,
And with _due laurel wreaths_ thy cradle, Brunswick, _hung!_
But tho' uncouth my numbers flow
--From a rude reed,--
That drank the dew of Isis' lowly mead,
And _wild pipe_, fashion'd from the _embatted sedge_
Which on the _twilight edge_
Of my own Cherwell loves to grow:
The god-like theme alone
Should bear me on its _tow'ring wing_;
Bear me undaunted to the throne,
To view with fix'd and stedfast eye
--The delegated majesty
Of heav'ns dread lord, and what I see to sing.
Like heaven's dread lord, great George his voice can raise,
From babes and suckling's mouths to hymn his _perfect praise_,
_In poesy's trim rhymes_ and high _resounding phrase_.
_Hence, avaunt!_ ye savage train,
That drench the earth and dye the main
With the tides of hostle gore:
Who joy in _war's terrific charms_,
To see the steely gleam of arms,
And hear the cannon's roar;
Unknown the god-like virtue how to yield,
To Cressy's or to Blenheim's _deathful_ field;
Begone, and sate your Pagan thirst of blood;
Edward, fell homicide, awaits you there,
And Anna's hero, both unskill'd to spare
Whene'er the foe their slaught'ring sword withstood.
The pious George to _white-staled peace_ alone
His olive sceptre yields, and _palm-encircled throne_.
Or if his high degree
On the _perturbed sea_
The bloody flag unfurls;
Or o'er the embattl'd plain
Ranges the martial train;
On other heads his bolts he hurls.
Haughty subjects, _wail and weep_,
Your angry master _ploughs the deep_.
Haughty subjects, swol'n with pride,
Tremble at his _vengeful_ stride.
While the regal command
Desp'rate ye withstand,
He bares his red right hand.
As when Eloim's pow'r,
In Judah's rebel hour,
Let fall the fiery show'r
That o'er her parch'd hills desolation spread,
And heap'd her vales with mountains of the dead.
O'er Schuylkill's _cliffs the tempest roars_;
O'er Rappahanock's recreant shores;
Up the _rough rocks of Kipps's-bay_;
The huge Anspachar _wins his way_;
_Or scares the falcon_ from the _fir-cap'd side_
Of each high hill that hangs o'er Hudson's haughty tide.
Matchless victor, mighty lord!
Sheath the devouring sword!
Strong to punish, _mild to save_,
Close _the portals of the grave_,
Exert thy first prerogative,
Ah! spare thy subject's blood, and let them _live_;
Our _tributary breath_,
Hangs on thine for life or death.
Sweet is the balmy breath of orient morn,
Sweet are the horned treasures of the bee;
Sweet is the fragrance of the scented thorn,
But sweeter yet the voice of royal clemency.
He hears, and from his _wisdom's perfect day_
He sends a bright effulgent ray,
The nations _to illumine far and wide_,
And feud and discord, war and _strife, subside_.
His moral sages, _all unknown_ t'untie
The wily rage of human policy,
Their equal compasses expand,
And mete the globe with philosophic hand.
No partial love of country binds
In selfish chains the lib'ral minds,
O gentle Lansdown! ting'd with thy philanthropy,
Let other monarchs vainly boast
A lengthen'd line of conquer'd coast,
Or boundless sea of tributary flood,
Bought by as wide a sea of blood----
Brunswick, in more _saint-like guise_
Claims for his spoils a purer prize,
Content at every price to buy
A conquest o'er himself, and o'er his progeny.
His be _domestic glory's radient calm_----
His be _the sceptre wreath'd with many a palm_----
His be _the throne with peaceful emblems hung_,
And mine die laurel'd lyre, _to those mild conquests strung!_

_NUMBER XV._

PINDARIC,

_By_ the RIGHT HON. HERVEY REDMOND, LORD VISCOUNT MOUNTMORRES, Of Castle Morres, of the Kingdom of Ireland, &c. &c.

I.
Awake, Hibernian lyre, awake,
To harmony thy strings attune,
O _tache_ their trembling tongue to _spake_
The glories of the fourth of June.
Auspicious morn!
When George was born
To grace (by deputy) our Irish throne,
North, south, _aiste_, west,
Of Kings the best,
Sure now he's _a_quall'd by himself alone;
Throughout the astonish'd globe so loud his fame shall ring,
The d_i_f themselves shall _hare_ the strains the dumb shall sing.

II.
Sons of Fadruig[1], strain your throats,
In your native Irish lays,
Swe_a_ter than the scre_a_ch owl's notes,
Howl aloud your sov'reign's praise,
Quick to his hallow'd fane be led
A milk-white BULL, on soft potatoes fed:
His curling horns and ample neck
Let wreaths of verdant shamrock deck,
And perfum'd flames, to _rache_ the sky,
Let fuel from our bogs supply,
Whilst we to George's health, _a_'en till the bowl runs o'er
Rich _strames_ of usquebaugh and sparkling whiskey pour.

III.
Of d_i_thless fame immortal heirs,
A brave and patriotic band,
Mark where Ierne's Volunt_a_res,
Array'd in bright disorder stand.
The Lawyer's corps, red fac'd with black,
Here drive the martial merchants back;
Here Sligo's bold brigade advance,
There Lim'rick legions sound their drum;
Here Gallway's gallant squadrons prance,
And Cork Invincibles are overcome!
The Union firm of Coleraine,
Are scatter'd o'er the warlike plain,
While Tipperary infantry pursues
The Clognikelty horse, and Ballyshannon blues.
Full fifty thousand men we shew
All in our Irish manufactures clad,
Wh_a_ling, manoeuv'ring to and fro,
And marching up and down like mad.
In fr_a_dom's holy cause they bellow, rant, and rave,
And scorn thems_i_lves to know what they thems_i_lves would have!
Ah! should renowned Brunswick chuse,
(The warlike monarch loves reviews)
To see th_a_se h_a_roes in our Ph_a_nix fight,
Once more, amidst a wond'ring crowd,
The enraptur'd prince might cry aloud,
"Oh! Amherst, what a h_i_venly sight[2]!"
The loyal crowd with shouts should r_i_nd the skies,
To _hare_ their sov'reign make a sp_aa_ch so wise!