'Tis here grave poets urge their claim, For some thin blast of tiny fame;

Here bind their temples drunk with praise,
With half a sprig of wither'd bays.

O poet, if that honour'd name
Befits such idle childish aim;
If Virgil ask thy sacred care,

If Horace charm thee, oh forbear
To spoil with sacrilegious hand,
The glories of the classic land:
Nor sow thy dowlas on the satin,
Of their pure uncorrupted Latin.
Better be native in thy verse,-
What is Fingal but genuine Erse?
Which all sublime sonorous flows,
Like Hervey's thoughts in drunken prose.
Hail Scotland, hail, to thee belong
All pow'rs, but most the pow'rs of song;
Whether the rude unpolish'd Erse
Stalk in the buckram prose or verse,
Or bonny Ramsay please thee mo',
Who sang sae sweetly aw his woe.
If aught (and say who knows so well)
The second-sighted Muse can tell,
The happy lairds shall laugh and sing,
When England's Genius droops his wing.
So shall thy soil new wealth disclose,
So thy own thistle choke the rose.

But what comes here? Methinks I see A walking university.

See how they press to cross the Tweed,
And strain their limbs with eager speed!
While Scotland, from her fertile shore,
Cries, On my sons, return no more."
Hither they haste with willing mind,
Nor cast one longing look behind;
On ten-toe carriage to salute
The king, and queen, and earl of Bute.

No more the gallant northern sous
Spout forth their strings of Latin puns;
Nor course all languages to frame
The quibble suited to their name;
As when their ancestors be-vers'd
That glorious Stuart, James the First.
But with that elocution's grace,
That oratorial flashy lace,
Which the fam'd Irish Tommy Puff,
Would sow on sentimental stuff;
Twang with a sweet pronunciation,
The flow'rs of bold imagination.
Macpherson leads the flaming van,
Laird of the new Fingalian clan;
While Jacky Home brings up the rear,
With new-got pension neat and clear
Three hundred English pounds a year.
While sister Peg, our ancient friend,
Sends Macs and Donalds without end;
To George awhile they tune their lays,
Then all their choral voices raise,
To heap their panegyric wit on

Th' illustrious chief, and our North Briton.
Hail to the thane, whose patriot skill
Can break all nations to his will;
Master of sciences and arts,
Mæcenas to all men of parts;
Whose fost'ring hand, and ready wit,
Shall find us all in places fit;

So shall thy friends no longer roam,
But change to meet a settled home.

Hail mighty thane, for Scotland born,
To fill her almost empty horn:
Hail to thy ancient glorious stem,

Not they from kings, but kings from them.

THE CIT'S COUNTRY BOX, 1757.

Vos sapere & solos aio bene vivere, quorum,
Conspicitur nitidis fundata pecunia villis. Hor.
THE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural shade,
And buckles to his one horse chair,
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While wedg'd in closely by his side,
Sits madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a stool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce past the turnpike half a mile,
How all the country seems to smile!
And as they slowly jog together,
The cit commends the road and weather;
While madam doats upon the trees,
And longs for every house she sees,
Admires its views, its situation,
And thus she opens her oration:

"What signify the loads of wealth,
Without that richest jewel, health?
Excuse the fondness of a wife,
Who doats upon your precious life!
Such ceaseless toil, such constant care,
Is more than human strength can bear.
One may observe it in your face-
Indeed, my dear, you break apace:
And nothing can your health repair,
But exercise and country air.
Sir Traffic has a house, you know,
About a mile from Cheney-Row;
He's a good man, indeed 't is true,
But not so warm, my dear, as you:
And folks are always apt to sneer—
One would not be out-done, my dear!"

Sir Traffic's name, so well apply'd,
Awak'd his brother merchant's pride;
And Thrifty, who had all his life
Paid utmost deference to his wife,
Confess'd her arguments had reason,
And by th' approaching summer season,
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks,
And purchases his country box.

Some three or four miles out of town,
(An hour's ride will bring you down,)
He fixes on his choice abode,
Not half a furlong from the road:
And so convenient does it lay,
The stages pass it ev'ry day:
And then so snug, so mighty pretty,
To have an house so near the city!
Take but your places at the Boar
You're set down at the very door.

1

Well then, suppose them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, scrubbing past, Hugging themselves in ease and clover, With all the fuss of moving over; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred! And wanton in my lady's head. "Well to be sure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground;

So sweet a distance for a ride,
And all about so countrified!

'Twould come but to a trifling price
To make it quite a Paradise;
I cannot bear those nasty rails,
Those ugly broken mouldy pales:
Suppose, my dear, instead of these,
We build a railing, all Chinese.
Although one hates to be expos'd;
'Tis dismal to be thus enclos'd;
One hardly any object sees-
I wish you'd fell those odious trees.
Objects continual passing by
Were something to amuse the eye,
But to be pent within the walls—
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house, beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While ev'ry trav'ler in amaze,
Should on our little mansion gaze,
And pointing to the choice retreat,
Cry, that's sir Thrifty's country seat."
No doubt her arguments prevail,

For madam's taste can never fail.

1

Blest age! when all men may procure
The title of a connoisseur;
When noble and ignoble herd
Are govern'd by a single word;
Though, like the royal German dames,
It bears an hundred Christian names,
As genius, fancy, judgment, goût,
Whim, caprice, je-ne-scai-quoi, virtù,
Which appellations all describe
Taste, and the modern tasteful tribe.

Now bricklay'rs, carpenters, and joiners,
With Chinese artists, and designers,
Produce their schemes of alteration,
To work this wond'rous reformation.
The useful dome, which secret stood,
Embosom'd in the yew-tree's wood,
The trav'ler with amazement sees
A temple, Gothic, or Chinese,
With many a bell, and tawdry rag on,
And crested with a sprawling dragon;
A wooden arch is bent astride
A ditch of water, four foot wide,
With angles, curves, and zigzag lines,
From Halfpenny's exact designs.
In front, a level lawn is seen,
Without a shrub upon the green,

Where taste would want its first great law,
But for the skulking, sly ha-ha,
By whose miraculous assistance,
You gain a prospect two fields distance.
And now from Hyde-Park Corner come
The gods of Athens, and of Rome.
Here squabby Cupids take their places,
With Venus, and the clumsy Graces:
Apollo there, with aim so clever,
Stretches his leaden bow for ever;
And there without the pow'r to fly,
Stands, fix'd a tip-toe, Mercury.

The villa thus completely grac'd,
All own that Thrifty has a taste;

And madam's female friends, and cousins,
With common-council-men, by dozens,
Flock every Sunday to the seat,
To stare about them, and to eat.

VOL. XV.

GENIUS, ENVY, AND TIME,

A FABLE; ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HOGARTH, ESQ. IN all professionary skill,

There never was, nor ever will

Be excellence, or exhibition,
But fools are up in opposition;

Each letter'd, grave, pedantic dunce

Wakes from his lethargy at once,

Shrugs, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes,

And, being dull, looks wond'rous wise,
With solemu hiz, and critic scowl,

The wisdom is brother owl.

Ն

Moderns! He hates the very name; Your ancients have prescriptive claim:But let a century be past,

And we have taste and wit at last;
For at that period moderns too
Just turn the corner of virtù.

But merit now has little claim

To any meed of present fame,

For 'tis not worth that gets you friends,

'Tis excellence that most offends.

If, Proteus-like, a Garrick's art,
Shows taste and skill in every part;

If, ever just to Nature's plan,

He is in all the very man,

E'en here shall Envy take her aim,

write, and

blame.
The Jealous Wife, tho' chastely writ,
With no parade of frippery wit,
Shall set a scribbling, all at once,
Both giant wit, and pigmy dunce;
While Critical Reviewers write,

Who show their teeth before they bite,
And sacrifice each reputation,
From wanton false imagination.
These observations, rather stale,
May borrow spirit from a tale.

Genius, a bustling lad of parts,
Who all things did by fits and starts,
Nothing above him or below him,
Who'd make a riot, or a poem,
From eccentricity of thought,
Not always do the thing he ought;
But was it once his own election,
Would bring all matters to perfection;
Would act, design, engrave, write, paint,
But neither, from the least constraint;
Who hated all pedantic schools,
And scorn'd the gloss of knowing fools,
That hold perfection all in all,
Yet treat it as mechanical,

And give the same sufficient rule
To make a poem, as a stool-

From the first spring-time of his youth,
Was downright worshipper of Truth;
And with a free and liberal spirit,
His courtship paid to lady Merit.

Envy, a squint-ey'd, mere old maid,
Well known among the scribbling trade;
A hag, so very, very thin,

Her bones peep'd through her bladder-skin;

Who could not for her soul abide

That folks should praise, where she must chide,. Follow'd the youth where'er he went,

To mar each good and brave intent;

Would lies, and plots, and mischief hatch,

To ruin him and spoil the match.

G

Honour she held at bold defiance, Talk'd much of faction, gang, alliance, As if the real sons of taste

Had clubb'd to lay a desert waste.

In short, wherever Genius came, You'd find this antiquated dame; Whate'er he did, where'er he went, She follow'd only to torment; Call'd Merit by a thousand names, Which decency or truth disclaims, While all her business, toil, and care, Was to depreciate, lie, compare, To pull the modest maiden down, And blast her fame to all the town.

The youth, inflam'd with conscious pride, To prince Posterity apply'd, Who gave his answer thus in rhyme, By his chief minister, old Time:

"Repine not at what pedants say,
We'll bring thee forward on the way;
If wither'd Envy strive to hurt
With lies, with impudence, and dirt,
You only pay a cominon tax
Which fool, and knave, and dunce exacts.
Be this thy comfort, this thy joy,
Thy strength is in its prime, my boy,
And ev'ry year thy vigour grows,
Impairs the credit of my foes.
Envy shall sink, and be no more
Than what her Naiads were before;
Mere excremental maggots, bred,
In poet's topsy-turvy head,
Born like a momentary fly,
To flutter, buzz about, and die.

"Yet, Genius, mark what I presage,
Who look through every distant age:
Merit shall bless thee with her charms,
Fame lift thy offspring in her arms,
And stamp eternity of grace
On all thy numerous various race.
Roubilliac, Wilton, names as high
As Phidias of antiquity,

Shall strength, expression, manner give,
And make e'en marble breathe and live;
While Sigismunda's deep distress,
Which looks the soul of wretchedness,
When 1, with slow and soft'ning pen,
Have gone o'er all the tints again,
Shall urge a bold and proper claim
To level half the ancient fame;
While future ages yet unknown
With critic air shall proudly own
Thy Hogarth first of every clime
For humour keen, or strong sublime,
And hail him from his fire and spirit,
The child of Genius and of Merit."

THE HARE AND TORTOISE. 1757.
A FABLE.

GENIUS, blest term, of meaning wide,
For sure no term so misapply'd,
How many bear thy sacred name,
That never felt a real flame!
Proud of the specious appellation,
Thus fools have christen'd inclination.

But yet suppose a genius true,
Exempli gratiâ, me or you:

Whate'er he tries with due attention,
Rarely escapes his apprehension;
Surmounting every opposition,
You'd swear he learnt by intuition.
Shou'd he rely alone on parts,
And study therefore but by starts,
Sure of success whene'er he tries,
Should he forego the means to rise?
Suppose your watch a Graham make,
Gold, if you will, for value's sake;
Its springs within in order due,
No watch, when going, goes so true;
If ne'er wound up with proper care,
What service is it in the wear?

Some genial spark of Phœbus' rays,
Perhaps within your bosom plays:
O how the purer rays aspire,
If application fans the fire!
Without it genius vainly tries,
Howe'er sometimes it seem to rise:
Nay application will prevail,
When braggart parts and genius fail:
And now to lay my proof before ye,

I here present you with a story,

In days of yore, when Time was young,
When birds convers'd as well as sung,
When use of speech was not confin'd
Merely to brutes of human kind,

A forward Hare, of swiftness vain,
The genius of the neighb'ring plain,
Wou'd oft deride the drudging crowd:
For geniuses are ever proud.

He'd boast, his flight 't were vain to follow,
For dog and horse he'd beat them hollow,
Nay, if he put forth all his strength,
Outstrip his brethren half a length.

A Tortoise heard his vain oration,
And vented thus his indignation.
"Oh Puss, it bodes thee dire disgrace,
When I defy thee to thy race.
Come, 't is a match, nay, no denial,

I lay my shell upon the trial."

'Twas done and gone, all fair, a bet, Judges prepar'd, and distance set.

The scamp'ring Hare outstript the wind,
The creeping Tortoise lagg'd behind,
And scarce had pass'd a single pole,
When Puss had almost reach'd the goal.
"Friend Tortoise," quoth the jeering Hare,
Your burthen's more than you can bear,
To help your speed, it were as well
That I should ease you of your sheil:
Jog on a little faster pr'ythee,
I'll take a nap, and then be with thee."
So said, so done, and safely sure,
For say, what conquest more secure?
Whene'er he wak'd (that's all that's in it)
He could o'ertake him in a minute.

The Tortoise heard his taunting jeer,
But still resolv'd to persevere,
Still draw'd along, as who should say,
"Ell win, like Fabius, by delay;"
On to the goal securely crept,
While Puss unknowing soundly slept.

The bets were won, the Hare awake,
When thus the victor Tortoise spake :
"Puss, tho' I own thy quicker parts,
Things are not always done by starts,
You may deride my awkward pace,
But slow and steady wins the race."

THE SATYR AND PEDLAR. 1757.

WORDS are, so Wollaston defines,
Of our ideas merely signs,
Which have a pow'r at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now dumn'd for instance-all agree,
Damn'd's the superlative degree;
Means that alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore;

Damn'd is a word can't stand alone,
Which has no meaning of its own,
But signifies or bad or good

Just as its neighbour's understood.
Examples we may find enough.

THE NIGHTINGALE, THE OWL, AND THE CUCKOO,

A FABLE; ADDRESSED TO DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
ON THE REPORT OF HIS RETIRING FROM THE
STAGE, DEC. 1760.

CRITICS, who like the scarecrows stand
Upon the poet's common land,
And with severity of sense,
Drive all imagination thence,
Say that in truth lies all sublime,
Whether you write in prose or rhyme.
And yet the truth may lose its grace,
If blurted to a person's face;
Especially if what you speak

stuff.

So fares it too with its relation,
I mean its substantive, damnation.
The wit with metaphors makes bold,
And tells you he's damnation cold;
Perhaps, that metaphor forgot,
The self-same wit's damnation hot.
And here a fable I remember—
Once in the middle of December,
When ev'ry mead in snow is lost,
And ev'ry river bound with frost,
When families get all together,
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When-pox on the descriptive rhyme-
In short it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot,
To fall into a Satyr's cot:
Shiv'ring with cold, and almost froze,
With pearly drop upon his nose,
His fingers' ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.

"Friend," quoth the Satyr, "what intends That blowing on thy fingers' ends?" "It is to warm them thus I blow, For they are froze as cold as snow. And so inclement has it been, I'm like a cake of ice within."

"Come," quoth the Satyr, "comfort, man!
I'll cheer thy inside, if I can;

You're welcome in my homely cottage
To a warm fire, and mess of pottage."
This said, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of sav'ry broth,
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As smoking on the board it stood.
But, though the very steain arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One single sip he ventur'd not,
The gruel was so wond'rous hot.
What can be done?-with gentle puff
He blows it, 'till it's cool enough.

"Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter? Still at thy blowing!" quoth the Satyr. "I blow to cool it," cries the clown, "That I may get the liquor down: For though I grant, you've made it well, You've boil'd it, sir, as hot as Hell."

Then raising high his cloven stump,
The Satyr smote him on the rump.
"Begone, thou double knave, or fool,
With the same breath to warm and cool:
Friendship with such I never hold

Who're so damn'd hot, and so damn'd cold."

For when you throw that slaver o'er him,
And tumble out your praise before him,
However just the application,

It looks a-squint at adulation.

I would be honest and sincere,
But not a flatterer, or severe.
Need I be surly, rough, uncouth,
That folks may think I love the Truth?
And she, good dame, with beauty's queen,
Was not at all times naked seen:
For every boy, with Prior, knows,
By accident she lost her clothes,
When Falshood stole them to disguise
Her misbegotten brood of lies.

Why should the prudish goddess dwell
Down at the bottom of a well,
But that she is in piteous fright,
Lest, rising up to mortal sight,

The modest world should fleer and flout her,
With not a rag of clothes about her?

Yet she might wear a proper dress
And keep her essence ne'ertheless.
So Delia's bosom still will rise,
And fascinate her lover's eyes,
Though round her ivory neck she draws
The decent shade of specious gauze.
I hear it buzz'd about the table,
"What can this lead to?"-Sirs,

A FABLE.

When birds allow'd the Eagle's sway,
Ere Eagles turn'd to fowls of prey,
His royal majesty of Air

Took Music underneath his care;
And, for his queen and court's delight,
Commanded concerts ev'ry night.
Here every bird of parts might enter,
The Nightingale was made præcentor;
Under whose care and just direction,
Merit was sure to meet protection.
The Lark, the Blackbird, and the Robin
This concert always bore a bob in:
The best performers all were in it,
The Thrush, Canary-bird, and Linnet.

But birds, alas! are apt to aim

At things, to which they've smallest claim.
The staring Owl, with hideous hoot,
Offer'd his service for a flute.

The Cuckoo needs would join the band;
"The Thrush is but a paltry hand:
And I can best supply that place,
For I've a shake, a swell, a grace."

The manager their suit preferr'd:
Both tun'd their pipes, and both were heard;

Yet each their several praises miss'd,
For both were heard, and both were hiss'd.
The Cuckoo hence, with rancour stirr'd,
(A kind of periodic bird,

Of nasty hue, and body scabby,

No would-be-play-wright haif so shabby)
Reviles, abuses, and defames,

Screams from a branch, and calls hard names,
And strikes at Nightingale or Lark,
Like Lisbon ruffians, in the dark.

The Owl harangues the gaping throng
On pow'rs, and excellence of song,
"The Blackbird's note has lost its force;
The Nightingale is downright hoarse;
The Linnet's harsh; the Robin shrill;
-The Sparrow has prodigious skill!”

At length they had what they desir'd;
The skilful Nightingale retir'd.
When Folly came, with wild Uproar,
And Harmony was heard no more.

A TALE.

VENUS, of laughter queen and love,
The greatest demirep above,
Who scorn'd restriction, hated custom,
Knew her own sex too well to trust 'em,
Proceeded on the noble plan,

At any rate, to have her man;
Look'd on decorum as mere trash,
And liv'd like *** and ***,
From Paphos, where they her revere
As much as we do Cælia here,
Or from Cythera, where her altars
Are deck'd with daggers, true-love halters,
Garters yclept, and other trophies,
Which prove that man in love an oaf is,
According to appointment, came
To see Cæcilia, tuneful dame,
Whose praise by Dryden's Ode is grown
Bright and immortal as his own;
And who hath been for many years
The chief directress of the spheres.

Thomas, who rode behind the car,
And for a flambeau held a star,
Who, in the honest way of trade,

Hath forg'd more horns, and cuckolds made,
Than Vulcan and his brawny dolts
Ever for Jove forg'd thunderbolts,
Slipt gently down, and ran before 'em,
Ringing the bell with due decorum.

But, truth to say, I cannot tell
Whether it knocker was or bell,
(This for Vertù an anecdote is,)
Which us'd to give Cæcilia notice,
When any lady of the sky
Was come to bear her company.
But this I'm sure, be which it will,
Thomas perform'd his part with skill.
Methinks I hear the reader cry—
"His part with skill? why, you or I,
Or any body else, as well

As Thomas, sure, could ring a bell,
Nor did I ever hear before
Of skill in knocking at a door."

Poor low-liv'd creature! I suppose,
Nay, and am sure, you're one of those
Who, at what door so'er they be,
Will always knock in the same key.

Thinking that bell and knocker too
Were found out nothing else to do,
But to inform the house, no doubt,
That there was somebody without,
Who, if they might such favour win,
Would rather choose to be within,

But had our servants no more sense,
Lord! what must be the consequence?
Errour would errour still pursue,
And strife and anarchy ensue,
Punctilio from her altar hurl'd,
Whence she declares unto the world
Whate'er by Fancy is decreed,
Through all her niceties must bleed,

For if there was not to be found
Some wholesome difference of sound,
But the same rap foretold th' approach
Of him who walk'd, or rode in coach,
A poor relation now and then,
Might to my lord admittance gain,
When his good lordship hop'd to see
Some rascal of his own degree;
And, what is more unhappy still,
The stupid wretch who brings a bill,
Might pass through all the motley tribe,
As free as one, who brings a bribe.

My lady too might pique her grace
With carriage stiff and formal face,
Which, she deceiv'd, had taken care
For some inferior to prepare;

Or might some wretch from Lombard-street
With greater ease and freedom meet,
Than sense of honour will admit
Between my lady and a cit.

Those evils wisely to prevent,
And root out care and discontent,
Ev'ry gay smart, who rides behind,
With rose and bag in taste refin'd,
Must music fully understand,
Have a nice ear and skilful hand;
At ev'ry turn be always found
A perfect connoisseur in sound;
Through all the gamut skilful fly,
Varying his notes, now low, now high,
According as he shifts his place;
Now hoarsely grumbling in the base,
Now turning tenor, and again
To treble raising his shrill strain;
So to declare, where'er he be,
His master's fortune and degree,
By the distinguishing address,
Which he'll upon the door express.
Thomas, whom I have nam'd before
As ringing at Cæcilia's door,
Was perfect master of this art,
And vers'd alike in ev'ry part:
So that Cæcilia knew, before
Her footman came unto the door,
And in due form had told her so,
That madam Venus was below.

The doors immediate open flew,
The goddess, without more ado,
Displaying beauty's thousand airs,
Skim'd through the hall, and trip'd up stairs.
Cæcilia met her with a smile

Of great delight, when all the while,
If her false heart could have been seen,
She wish'd she had at Cyprus been.
But ladies, skill'd in forms and arts,
Don't in their faces wear their hearts,