And now from the barracks of Bow-street, good lack!
A band under Townsend and Sayers, [thwack
Wave high their gilt staffs, while the dull sounding
Falls frequent and thick on the enemies' back,
Or visits their pate with a merry-ton'd crack,
In aid of King John and the players,
The Billinsgate Muses indignant to find
Catalani, and fiddlers from Paris,
Usurping their place, in revenge have combin'd,
To kick up this dust in the popular mind,
So fatal to Kemble and Harris.
What surly Brown Bear has not gladly receiv'd
The misers who old prices stick to?
At Bow-street what knight is not sorely aggriev'd
Where Christians are cross'd, unbelievers believ'd,
O story mirabile dictu.
To mix in this warfare, regardless of fear,
What 'prentice or clerk is unwilling;
From Smithfield and Wapping what heroes appear,
Who fight, I acknowledge, for all they hold dear,
When the object of war's the last shilling?
What fists of defiance the pugilists wield;
What Jews have not had bloody noses?
What victim of law, who to Mainwaring yields,
But gladly forever would leave Cold-Bath Fields,
To fight here pro ARIS et focis?
But gently, my Muse; hush your angry-ton'd lyre,
From rows so disgraceful remove,
And seated at home by your own parlour fire,
Let beauty and claret your numbers inspire
To melody, laughter, and love.
Ne sit ancilla tibi amor pudori, &c.
AN ACTRESS! well, I own 'tis true,
But why should that your love subdue,
Or bid you blush for Polly?
When all within is sense and worth,
To care for modes of life, or birth,
Is arrant pride and folly.
A Polly, in a former age,
Resign'd the Captain, and the Stage,
To shine as Bolton's Duchess :
Derby and Craven since have shown,
That virtue builds herself a throne,
Ennobling whom she touches.
In each new pantomime that's hatch'd,
The Columbine is quickly snatch'd,
To wed some wealthy suitor :
"Tis-All for Love, the World's well lost,
Who calculates the care or cost,
When Passion is the tutor.
Why, All the World's a Stage, and we
Its pantomimic pageantry,
Change places and conditions:
Fortune's the magic Harlequin,
Whose touch diffuses o'er the scene,
Fantastic transpositions.
Your Polly in her veins may bear
The blood, perchance, of London's Mayor,
Who smote the King's reviler:
Whose mace a monarch's life secures,
But slays an ancestor of yours,
In knocking down Wut Tyler.
She, who is artless, chaste, refin'd,
Disinterested, pure in mind,
Unsoil'd with vice's leaven,
Has that nobility within,
Which Kings can neither give nor win,
Her patent is from Heaven.
Discard your doubts--your suit prefer,
You dignify yourself not her,
By honourable passion:
And, if your noble friends should stare,
Go, bid them shew a happier pair,
Among the fools of Fashion.
ON SOME ELEGIES ON A LAP DOG.
Poor dog, whom Rival Poets strive
To celebrate in plaintive strains;
If thou hadst howl'd so when alivé,
Thou hadst been beaten for thy pains,
BOOK I. EPIST. XVIII. VERSE XCVI. to the End.
BY THE LATE REV. GILBERT WAKEFIELD.
'MIDST all thy cares, some hours of respite find,
With stores of science to enrich thy mind;
Her votaries ask, those votaries only know,
How clear and calm the stream of life must flow;
Lest fears and fruitless hopes destroy thy rest,
Or craving passions rankle in thy breast;
Ask them, if learning virtue's robe impart,
Or nature weave the tissue in our heart;
What boundaries, ask, care's wide excursions end;
What lore will make thee to thyself a friend ?
If that pure bliss, compos'd affections know,
In the rank soil of wealth and grandeur grow;
Or in the still sequester'd vale alone,
Where winds the path unnotic'd and unknown. Sooth'd by the waves, that cool Mandela's swain, 'Midst the full glories of my rural reign;
Say, friend! what thoughts engage my bosom there?
What the fond project, and the secret prayer?
Without one wish to make my substance more,
Tho' time impair the pittance of my store,
E'en thus my future days, if Heaven should give
Those future days, I to myself will live.
May year by year of food its portion find,
And books, the nobler banquet of the mind;
Lest my loose purpose, sway'd by fortune's power,
Float on the balance of each wavering hour!
For life, and life's support, to Jove I pray;
Those his high will, or grants, or takes away.
Those if he give, myself supplies the rest,
Curb'd passions, fix'd resolve, and tranquil breast.
Dorchester Gaol, July 13, 1800.
From Lord Melcombe (Doddington) to Dr. Young, written not long before his Lordship's death.
KIND companion of my youth,
Lov'd for genius, worth and truth,
Take what friendship can impart,
Tribute of a feeling heart,
Take the Muse's latest spark,
Ere we drop into the dark.
He who parts and virtue gave,
Bade thee look beyond the grave.
Genius soars, and virtue guides
Where the love of God presides.
There's a gulf 'twixt us and God;
Let the gloomy gulf be trod;
Why stand shivering on the shore,
Why not boldly venture o'er?
Where unerring virtue guides,
Let us brave the winds and tides;
Safe, through seas of doubts and fears,
Rides the bark which virtue steers.
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