AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING POEM..
ELL-now, I think, we shall be wiser,
Cries Grub, who reads the Advertiser,
Here's Truth in Rhyme-a glorious treat!'
It furely muft abufe the great;
Perhaps the king; without difpute
"Twill fall moft devilifh hard on Bute.
Thrice he reviews his parting fhilling,
At laft refolves, though much unwilling,
To break all rules imbib'd in youth,
And give it up for Rhyme and Truth:
He reads - he frowns-Why, what's the matter? ·
Damn it-here's neither fenfe, nor fatyr-
Here take it, boy, there's nothing in't:
Such fellows!
Blame not, good cit, the poet's rhymes,
The fault's not his, but in the times:
The times, in which a monarch reigns,
Form'd to make happy Britain's plains ;
To ftop in their destructive course,
Domeftic frenzy, foreign force,
To bid war, faction, party ceafe,
And bless the weary'd world with peace.
U 3
The times in which is feen, ftrange fight!
A court both virtuous and polite,
Where merit beft can recommend
And fcience finds a conftant friend.
How then fhould fatyr dare to fport,
With fuch a king, and fuch a court,
While Truth looks on with rigid eye,
And tells her, every, line 's a lye?
Upon reading fome Verfes, written by a young Lady at a Boarding-School. September 1760.
POLLO lately fent to know,
If he had any fous below;
For, by the trafh he long has feen
In male and female Magazine,
A hundred quires not worth a groat,
The race must be extinct, he thought.
His messenger to court repairs ;
Walks foftly with the croud up ftairs:
But when he had his errand told,
The courtiers fneer'd, both young and old.
Auguftus knit his royal brow,
And bade him let Apollo know it,
That from his infancy till now,
He lov'd nor poetry nor poet.
His next adventure was the Park,
When it grew fashionably dark :
There beauties, boobies, ftrumpets, rakes,
Talk'd much of commerce, whift, and stakes;
Who tips the wink, who drops the card :
But not one word of Verfe or Bard.
The stage, Apollo's old domain,
Where his true fons were wont to reign,
His courier now paft frowning by:
Ye modern Durfeys, tell us why..
Slow, to the city laft he went :
There, all was profe, of cent per cent.
There, alley-omnium, script, and bonus,
(Latin, for which a Mufe would stone us,
Yet honeft Gideon's claffic ftile)
Made our poor Nuncio ftare and fimile.
And now the clock had ftruck eleven:
The meffenger must back to heaven;
But, just as he his wings had ty’d,
Look'd up Queen-Square, the North-eaft fide.
A blooming creature there he found,
With pen and ink, and books around,
Alone, and writing by a taper:
He read unfeen, then ftole her paper.
It much amus'd him on his way;
And reaching heaven by break of day,
He fhew'd Apollo what he stole.
The god perus'd, and lik'd the whole :
Then, calling for his pocket-book,
Some right celeftial vellum took;
And what he with a fun-beam there
Writ down, the Mufe thus copies fair:
"If I no men my fons muft call,
"Here's one fair daughter worth them all :-
"Mark then the facred words that follow,
«Sophia's mine”—so sign'd.
VER SE S
WRITTEN FOR, AND GIVEN IN PRINT TO, A BEGGAR.
Behold me, where I shivering stand;
Bid gentle Pity stretch her hand
To want and age, disease and pain,
That all in one fad object reign.
Still feeling bad, ftill fearing worse,
Existence is to me a curfe:
Yet, how to close this weary eye?
By my own hand I dare not die:
And death, the friend of human woes,
Who brings the laft and found repofe;
Death does at dreadful distance keep,
And leaves one wretch to wake and weep!
APOLLO'S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TO CHARLES STANHOPE..
Written in 1757•·
APOLLO, from the fouthern sky,
O'er London lately glanc'd his eye. .
Juft fuch a glance our courtiers throw
At fuitors whom they fhun to know:
Or have you mark'd th' averted mien,
The cheft erect, the freezing look,
Of Bumbo, when a bard is feen
Charg'd with his dedication-book?
But gods are never in the wrong;
What then difpleas'd the power of fong?
The cafe was this: Where noble arts
Once flourish'd, as our fathers tell us,
He now can find, for men of parts,.
None but rich blockheads and mere fellows
Since drums and dice and diffipation
Have chac'd all tafte from all the nation.
For is there, now, one table spread,
Where fenfe and science may be fed ?
Where, with a finile on every face,
Invited Merit takes his place?
|