The pious prophet of her fect diftils,
And her pare foul feraphic rapture fills;
Grace fhines around her with ferenest beams,
And whifp'ring W*** prompts her golden dreams.
Far other dreams my fenfual foul employ,
While conscious nature taftes unholy joy :
I view the traces of experienc'd charms,
And clafp the regimentals in my arms.
To dream laft night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye foft illufions, dear deceits arise;
Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To distant quarters 'midst the Highland fnow:
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in fmoak'd tap'ftry faded DIDO mourns;
To fome affembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel-in a parfon's gown-
I ftart- I fhriek-
O! could I on my waking brain impose,
Or but forget at least my present woes!
Forget 'em-how!-each rattling coach fuggefts
The loath'd ideas of the crowding guests.
To vifit-were to publish my disgrace ;
To meet the spleen in ev'ry other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;
And be at once their comfort and their scorn!
For once, to read with this diftemper'd brain,
Ey'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.
My MANDOLINE-what place can mufic find
Amid the difcord of my restless mind?
How shall I waste this time which flowly flies!
How lull to flumber my reluctant eyes!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,-N*** has murder'd fleep.
FAKEER (a religious well known in the East,
Not much like a parfon, ftill less like a priest)
With no canting, no fly jefuitical arts,
Field-preaching, hypocrify, learning, or parts;
By a happy refinement in mortification,
Grew the oracle, faint, and the pope of his nation.
But what did he do this efteem to acquire ?
Did he torture his head or his bofom with fire ?
Was his neck in a portable pillory cas'd?
Did he fasten a chain to his leg or his waist ?
No. His holiness rofe to this fovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.
A wealthy young Indian, approaching the shrine,
Thus in banter accosts the prophetic divine.
This tribute accept for your int'reft with FO,
Whom with torture you ferve, and whofe will you must
To your fuppliant disclose his immortal decree;
Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me.
Let me first know your merits.
To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trust :
In religion I duly observe ev'ry form :
With an heart to my country devoted and warm:
I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich
But how many nails do you run in your breech?
With fubmiffion I speak to your rev'rence's tail;
But mine has no taste for a ten-penny nail.
Well! I'll pray to our prophet and get you prefer'd;
Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.
With me in the thirtieth your feat to obtain,
You must qualify duly with hanger and pain,
With you in the thirtieth! you impudent rogue!
Can fuch wretches as you give to madness a vogue!
Though the priesthood of FO on the vulgar impofe,
By fquinting whole years at the end of their nose,
Though with cruel devices of mortification
They adore a vain idol of modern creation,
Does the God of the heav'ns fuch a fervice direct ?
Can his mercy approve a self-punishing fect?
Will his wisdom be worship'd with chains and with nails?
Or e'er look for his rites in your noses and tails ?
Come along to my house and these penances leave,
Give your belly a feast, and your breech a reprieve.
This reas'ning unhing'd each fanatical notion;
And stagger'd our faint in his chair of promotion.
At length with reluctance he rose from his feat:
And refigning his nails and his fame for retreat,
Two weeks his new life he admir'd and enjoy'd:
The third he with plenty and quiet was cloy'd.
To live undistinguish'd to him was the pain,
An existence unnotic'd he could not fuftain.
In retirement he figh'd for the fame-giving chair:
For the crowd to admire him, to rev'rence and stare:
No endearments of pleasure and ease could prevail;
He the faintship refum'd, and new larded his tail.
Our FAKEER reprefents all the vot'ries of fame;
Their ideas, their means, and their end is the fame :
The sportsman, the buck; all the heroes of vice,
With their gallantry, lewdnefs, the bottle and dice;
The poets, the critics, the metaphysicians,
The courtier, the patriot, all politicians;
The statesman begirt with th' importunate ring,
(I had almost compleated my lift with the king)
All labour alike to illuftrate my tale;
All tortur'd by choice with th' invisible nail.
To Mr. WHITEHEAD,
On his being made POET LAUREAT.
IS fo tho' we're furpriz'd to hear it :
The laurel is beftow'd on merit.
How hufh'd is ev'ry envious voice!
Confounded by so just a choice,
Tho' by prefcriptive right prepar'd
To libel the selected bard.
But as you see the statefman's fate
In this our democratic state,
Whom virtue ftrives in vain to guard
From the rude pamphlet and the card;
You'll find the demagogues of Pindus
In envy not a jot behind us :
For each Aonian politician
(Whofe element is oppofition,)
Will fhew how greatly they furpass us,
In gall and wormwood at Parnaffus.
Thus as the fame detracting fpirit
Attends on all diftinguifh'd merit,
When 'tis your turn, observe, the quarrel
Is not with you, but with the laurel.
Suppofe that laurel on your brow,
For cyprefs chang'd, funereal bough!
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