Aptly the manling's tongue, I deem, And hence the motley crowd whoe'er Bear Fashion's badge, or wish to bear, From Hockley-Hole to Rotten-Row Unite to dub Sir Philip-beau. And such is Fashion's empty fameSquire Robert loathes the very name; The rockets hiss, the bonfires blaze, The peasants gape in still amaze; The field unplough'd-the ox unyok'd, The farmer's mouth with pudding chok'd, The sexton's vest of decent brown, The village maiden's Sunday gown, In joyful union seem to say, "Squire Robert is of age to-day." The bumpkins hurry to the Bell, And clam'rous tongues in riot swell; Anger is hot-and so is liquor; They drink confusion to the Vicar- Right justly may the youthful squire These transports in his slaves inspire; At every fireside through the place He's welcome as the curate's grace; He tells his story, cracks his joke, And drinks his ale "like other folk," Fearless he risks that cranium thick At cudgelling and single-stick; And then his stud!-why! far and wide It is the county's chiefest pride! Ah! had his steed no firmer brains Than the mere thing that holds the reins, Grief soon would bid the beer to run Because the squire's mad race was done, Not less than now it froths away, Because "the squire's of age to-day." Far different pomp inspir'd of old The youthful Roman's bosom bold, Soon as a father's honored hand Gave to his grasp the casque and brand, And off the light prætexta threw, And from his neck the bulla drew, Bade him the toga's foldings scan, Go forth-and be thy country's son." Such was the hope, the barbarous joy, I'd rather see thee wield in strife A modern blockhead rise in thee. Is it a study for a Peer To breathe soft vows in lady's ear, Far nobler studies shall be thine- A heart to faith and feeling true, And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend, For Virtue's, and the poor man's friend. ** TO JULIA, PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN. JULIA, while London's fancied bliss Bids you despise a life like this, While Chiswick and its joys you leave, For hopes, that flatter to deceive, You will not scornfully refuse, (Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,) To look upon my line, and hear What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear. Four miles from Town, a neat abode A brace of globes peep out for show; |