Canto II

WHEN mighty resignations come,
They're sounded loud, by beat of drum,
I speak, by trope—conceive me right,
Not drums, made use of in the fight:
But those more general alarms,
That summon kingdoms up to arms;
Again, I strike on metaphor,
These things in rhiming will occur;
Sure, as guns pop, by pulling trigger,
Pen but a verse, off goes a figure,
Altho' our greatest merits, lie,
Far from such quaint embroidery,
True 'tis, that young poetic sinners,
Who at the trade, are but beginners,
Find it extremely hard, to rein
Th' ideas of the buxom brain:
When spirits boil, and fancy rages,
Then glare and gew-gaw gild the pages:
IMAGINATION'S in her prime,
Who loves to sing, in summer-time;
And hence, the stripling poet, goes
To compliment the blooming rose,
Pours forth his genius in love,
Bedecks the garden, grot, and grove,
Scorns to see things, like other men,
But, with a sort of chymic pen,
Hies to the shepherd's fleecy sold,
And turns the greasy wool, to gold:
Hath civil sayings; for each flower,
First makes, and then describes a bower.
Meet such a bardling in your walk,
Perchance you find him, deep in talk:
Or 'neath the branches, with a book;
Or listening to a lazy brook;
For what you readers call, a bird,
Writers, have quite another word:
A plumy songster, feather'd friend,
If proper name, an a at end,
Not bullfinch, goldfinch, thrush, or chaf,
A sweeter, softer sound by half,
'Tis Philamela, tells the tale,
And not the vulgar nightingale:
'Tis not the linnet gives its note,
But Lillinetta pours her throat:
What dull folks call the beetle's flight,
Is but the messenger of night:
And when the day is gone to bed,
On Thetis' lap he lays his head;
The poet's eye can see him swim,
And tinge with gold the ocean's brim:
Then, that which mortals call the dawn,
Is open'd, by the ruddy morn:
And certain streaks of rising red
Mark where that lady's fingers spread,
Lambs, are the types of innocence;
Lilies, and snow, dispute that sense;
Nay every leaf, on every tree,
Affords the bard, a simile:
And every tender bud, that blows,
An epithet, or thought bestows.
Now, some may think—JOVE help their heads!
It is mere dust a mortal treads,
I cannot pity such, enough,
We authors, know 'tis no such stuff:
The velvet carpet, nature gives,
She offers it, and man receives;
Wish you to change the phrase again,
'Tis the green mantle of the plain;
'Tis heaven's own livery, silken sod,
And, by no means a kneaded clod:
'Tis tissue, wove by hands divine,
'Tis all that's fair, and all that's fine.

BUT to proceed—henceforth the muse,
At most, shall modest edging choose:
With her, the fairy days are o'er,
Content with sense, she dares not soar:
Leave we such freaks to youngsters green,
They're but the sportings of eighteen;
The muse, alas, Who scribbles this,
Is now no more a flaunty miss;
The fever of her fancy cool,
She rhimes, and reasons, all, by rule.

THE morning registers of fame,
Soon set the city in a flame:
A favourite player to retire,
Is worse than the alarm of fire:
The ignis fatuus of the stage,
Runs ripe, and rapid, through the age:
And though two mighty nations wait,
Upon the councils of the state;
Yet like true patriots at the heart,
We look when ROSCIUS plays a part:
Whate'er's theatrical devour,
And give to him, th' important hour.
The papers told, that he resign'd;
At this you guess the public mind:
Hang all the folks across the main,
So ROSCIUS, would but act again.
Next day, the matter was averr'd;
Certain, the patent, was transferr'd;
Song, sonnet, ditty, sought the press,
And half, the town, was in distress.
The matter, scarce abroad had flown,
Ere it arriv'd at Helicon;
Swift to the muses' laurell'd court,
A poet, went, to make report;
For poets, be it noted, go,
On such affairs, incognito:
And tho' to sceptics, it seem odd,
In point of speed, shall match a god:
They stride not, ordinary horse,
But PEGASUS, performs the course:
A beast, that traverses the air;
More fleet than your arabian mare.
Thus, poets get to Hypocrene,
Ere Sunday cits, to TURNHAM GREEN.
PHOEBUS, allows the miracle,
And so, they ride invisible.
Hence 'tis, the ponies of PARNASS,
All other quadrupedes surpass;
The reason's evident, the mead
Is consecrated, where they feed:
The best historians alledge,
There's something holy, in each hedge:
That sacred herbage blooms around,
And not a thistle in the ground:
A nettle, here and there, you find,
For steeds that are to wit inclin'd:
Even then, there's honey round the sting,
But for a weed—there's no such thing.
In vain you look for winter here,
'Tis June, rich June, throughout the year:
Hence 'tis, that all the coursers' noses,
Are perfum'd with parnassian posies;
For, as the creatures stoop to graze,
They bite—and fill the mouth with bays:
The fillies, chiefly choose to eat
The primrose, pagle, violet,
Because this sort of food, it seems,
Inspires your pretty past'ral themes:
On jemmy, gentle seet, they run,
And frisk, and frolic in the fun:
In short, the fields, are here so fine,
They prove that every blade's divine,
Such too, is their peculiar force,
A bard they make, of ass, or horse:
Certain, as wings grace Hermes' cap,
Whatever eats, and takes a nap,
Right good sufficient poets wake;
The better, if their thirst they slake
At CABALLINE, the horses fountain;
Which lies on t'other side the mountain;
Some fearful fools, too tame to blunder,
Have set these matters, far asunder,
The river in BEOTIA placing,
And PHOCIS call the spot they graze in,
But poet real, mule or man,
Despises critic's rigid plan:
And skip through kingdoms in a minute,
Think of a place—whew—pass—they're in it:
Your bards dramatical, shall run
And win the sweepstakes, from the sun;
In waving of a goose's feather,
Shall draw the distant poles together;
On wings, scarce fledg'd, with ease can fly
From CATHARINE street, to CASTALY:
Then dig the spur, add loose the rein,
Dine in the Strand, and sup in Spain.

THESE points premis'd, we will not fail,
To see who went to tell the tale.
Trust me, there was no less than seven,
Now made a vig'rous push for heaven:
DAN ROSCIUS rang'd them in a row;
And every one desired to go:
Their coursers you'll suppose were there,
Pawing, to gallop through the air:
Reader you'll note, that heaven's a phrase,
We, authors, use in different ways,
The skies above, lay constant claim,
And HELICON enjoys the name:
Nay what will startle most, I know,
We give it, to the shades below:
In short sirs, every place of rest,
Is heaven, because it suits in best;
So, whatsoever's bad or bitter,
Is hell, to make the sense compleater,
This licence, chiefly marks our charter,
So wonder not, at what comes A 'TER.
In verse like this, the bard's allow'd
A privilege, deny'd the crowd;
A letter, we ne'er mind a pin,
But cast it out, or keep it in:
Odd syllables, we cut, and clip,
And half a word, with ease o'erskip;
So, that at top we put our dashes,
The critic heeds not, such small flashes;
This right, prince BUTLER did ordain,
And SWIFT, confirm'd the act again:
DAN PRIOR, sign'd it with his hand,
A law poetic, through the land;
Since these so often par'd the line,
There's none will cavil sure, at mine:
Say, I clip oft'ner, I'm the less;
But to return—I shall digress.

THE bard, who saddled first his steed,
Was of a mixt, and mongrel breed:
His PEGASUS, scarce known to fame,
Tho' young, and mettlesome, was lame;
One that ne'er won a noble bet,
But threw the heel at all he met;
In going a dog-trot lie stumbled,
Yet snorting, restive, and ne'er humbled;
You'd think its master, was a bruiser,
I lack a rhime—Proceed—'twill do sir—
Yet was it plump, as pad of parson:
The beast might serve to bring a farce on:
Indeed he has been known to pray,
And written, almost half a play:
Nay to do justice to the steed,
'Tis certain he the news could read;
There are who say—you need not laugh,
He actually could paragraph,
The column ken'd with critic eyes,
And wrote both question, and replies;
Howe'er this be, he did not fail
To be a candidate, for the mail.

To search too nicely for the reason,
Would at this time be out of season:
But ROSCIUS, thought not fit to send
This courier, tho' esteem'd a friend:
Rumour declar'd—but she's a hag,
That ROSCIUS had long fed his nag:
And some were bold enough to swear,
This courier's beast engag'd his care,
While blooded horses left to play,
Could scarce get either corn or hay;
That many a prancer, stout and able,
Was left to swell at leg, in stable,
While this queer creature was rubb'd down,
And made a fight of, for the town.
But not to tire you with suggestion,
I haste to things beyond a question:
Altho' by taking off, a cup
Of that same water, poets sup,
And dining well, on heavenly sallads,
Might mend our author's knack at ballads;
'Tis clear, Sir ROSCIUS did not choose
To dub him postman to the MUSE.

THE second was a bard obscure,
That wanted much, a sinecure,
The master of a galloway,
Exceeding apt to run away,
That lately threw a lady down,
Then scamper'd with her thro' the town.
Quoth ROSCIUS, "It can't be, my friend
I might as well, an ANDREW send.
How am I sure, ere you get there,
You will not settle in the air;
The Tit you ride's a lovely BROWN,
But who's to, bring the message down?"

THE four next candidates, were such,
As prov'd a little, was too much,
Your men of FARCE and INTERLUDE;
Who teaze the town with trifles crude;
Who give their tiny pop-guns play,
To pelt the folly of the day:
Whom ROSCIUS artfully employs,
To keep the galleries—from noise.
When tragic heroines, in disguise,
Are now no more to cheat the eyes:
When she, who lately seem'd a brother,
In scene the next, turns out a mother:
When passions are no more at strife,
And the poor man may own his wife:
Till she puts on her woman weeds,
'Tis certain that a pause succeeds,
And, as it takes both time and pain
To make a boy, a girl again;
'Tis decent, that we use finesse,
That each fair lady, may undress;
Hence ROSCIUS, being politic,
Engages those same sons of trick;
A tribe of low dramatic hacks,
To fill the space, between the acts.
Their sense and taste, were nearly even,
But all unfit, alas, for heaven.

ON these accounts, he call'd a crony,
Who kept a very pretty poney:
A thing of fashion, brisk, and neat,
And swift of foot, altho' petite:
Well he maintain'd a poet's cause,
A stickler stout, for critic laws:
The steed, was little, but not lazy,
The rider, dapper as a daisy.
With fairy step, together, they,
Had tripp'd to PARIS for a play;
Thither, each year, the pair would prance,
To catch the comedy of FRANCE
Him, ROSCIUS, deem'd a proper hard,
To carry off the message-card:
"Then mount, dear GEORGE, said he, your steed
And pray return to me with speed."

ALTHO" our poet did not race,
He deftly, went a decent pace:
And those who take long journeys, know
Your even riders, fastest go:
Thus, tho' he did not stretch and tear;
He canter'd regularly there.
For, though a dramatist, and fleet,
His PEGASUS, ohey'd the bit.
Some bards, full cautious, and exact,
Are sway'd, by ARISTOTLE'S act,
Which doth provide, in certain cases,
Strict edicts, upon times, and places:
To break through which, without just reason,
Is call'd a literary treason:
Would you, with these same laws comply?
Then—reverence probability.
Aw'd, therefore, by the sage's plan,
Steadily went, our little man:
Arriv'd, he hail'd the sacred spring,
Dismounted, and address'd the ring:
For as it chanc'd, the ladies nine,
Were, after dinner, quaffing wine:
A basket of ambrosia by,
Remain'd, to tempt a stranger's eye;
Yet, ere he laid a finger on,
He told them, what he came upon.

"YE ever-honour'd, THREE TIMES THREE,
I COLEY GEORGE, now visit ye,
The messenger, alas, of news,
That needs must shock each gentle muse:
The facts, connected with the matter,
Will turn your nectar, all to water:
And your divine poetic lake,
An ordinary puddle make.
ROSCIUS, old Drury's mighty king,
(With pain, ye maids, I tell the tiling)
ROSCIUS, resolv'd to leave the town,
Prepares to quit the scenic crown:
Even now he flies, he's gone this hour,
Unless you interpose your power.—"
"And who the diadem shall wear?"
Cried the sad muses, with a stare;
All rose confus'd, some swore 'twas fable;
Some, spilt the nectar on the table:
Queen TRAGEDY, was in despair,
The COMIC LADY tore her hair:
It chanc'd, the GRACES were their guests,
And they began to thump their breasts:
And though, perhaps, 'twas only art,
Each fair one, acted well her part;
They topt it sir, as they had been
Six summers, training for the scene:
I'm led to judge it a deceit,
(At best a modish counterfeit)
Because tho' some amongst them had
Sufficient reason to run mad;
The poor THALIA, well might cry,
And her sad sister, sob and sigh:
Yet really all the rest might spare,
Their woful looks, and fullen air.
For those to whimper—'twas a whim,
He scarce knew them, they scarce knew him:
And wherefore could the charming GRACES,
Distort, and spoil their lovely faces?
The thing, as it appears to me,
Is, that they wept for sympathy:
For, if you criticise, you shall
Observe, that grief's electrical;
When BELVIDERA, draws the tear,
Behold—the handkerchiefs appear,
At once, a thousand noses blow,
Till the house echoes with the woe:
But mark—I don't conclude from hence,
All feel, the pathos of the sense:
Or all regard the stage, or player,
Ev'n though the lovely BARRY'S there;
For, those who truly are distrest,
Perhaps the nose shall blow, the least;
Yet, when th' infection touches one,
From box to box you see it run:
But every heart is not alike,
And one woe, cannot all folks strike:
Where fathers feel themselves a LEAR,
No doubt the misery's sincere:
But she, who bride shall be to-morrow,
Has no soul then, I ween, for sorrow;
And many a tittering fair, you find,
So little to distress inclin'd,
Ev'n SHAKESPEARE'S scenes could never melt,
Yet still, you'd swear, they really felt:
When tender people round you cry;
'Tis right to bear them company,
Before the face, the fan to pull,
And vow, 'tis passing pitiful:
The eye to rub, the head to lean,
And seem—quite soften'd by the scene.

THIS, clears the conduct of each MUSE,
Nor could the GRACES well refuse,
When MEL. and THA. heav'd sighs by dozens,
They claim'd the sympathy of cousins;
Their beauteous sisters too gave vent:
'Twas all, a decent compliment.

THE news, some thought, must be a fable,
ROSCIUS, they said, though old was able;
The courier, must mistake the thing,
They'd send an herald to the king,
And have it well confirm'd, for sure,
The tidings must be premature.
The courier said, he told the truth,
Moreover, that a tuneful youth,
Who, by a certain spanish plot,
A wond'rous rich DUENNA got,
Who for six, sing-song months together,
Had led the town, thro' wind and weather,
His tweedle-dum—and dee, to hear,
And took—the nation by the ear;
That be, the palace, now had bought,
The trappings, trimmings, and what not:
That other gentlefolks had part,
And shar'd the instruments of art:
The comic, mask, and tragic train,
The sun-shine, and the showers of rain;
The weeds the witches often danc'd in,
With colour'd coat of HARLEQUIN.
The sceptres, swords, and suits of mail,
The palace flats, the park, the jail;
The dragons, bears, and dromedaries,
And all the pantomime vagaries:
The truncheon, targe, and trumpet loud,
The paste-board crown, and canvass cloud:
The thunder-spouts, and thunder too,
With robes, of tartar, turk, and jew:
The couches, coronets, and camps,
The stars, the moon, and all the lamps:
The heroes habits, whole, and torn,
And ermine, walking dukes, have worn:
The blazing petticoats, and sacks,
Which often grac'd princesses backs:
In short, the whole machinery,
And all the trick of tragedy.

ENOUGH, enough, said POMMY, here,
I see the horrid matter clear,
It chiefly touches you and me.
It does my dear MELPOMENE,
Exclim'd poor THALY—let us fly
Direct, to feather'd MERCURY!

THIS said, the sisters, instant went
To MAIA, in the firmament:
Their golden pinions beat the wind.
the little herald, stay'd behind;
Long'd with the rest to hold converse,
But thought it right to talk in verse.
He told the fate of EPICOENE,
Yet did not give the nymphs, the SPLEEN;
A CONNOISSEUR, the bard, they found,
So, many a civil thing went round,
And after much dramatic chat,
They stuck a laurel in his hat:
Then, as the nectar 'gan to rise
(Which they get coustant from the skies;
For, from OLYMPUS, to PARNASS,
It is, with them, an easy pass)
Each lady, freely spoke her mind,
And did—what by, and by, you'll find.

READER, 'twould sacriligious look,
At the mere fag end of a book,
These sacred matters to rehearse,
Which figure, in our future verse:
When great affairs approach, we pause,
This is amongst your epic laws:
Important points demand parade,
And to grace these, we, CANTOS made.