No-the pay of the Laureat, one hundred per ann.
Is, I vow, just the sum, say ye six-pence per man,
Which the guardians of State should apportion to those
Who, by squeakings in verse, prove the merit of prose.
Would you think that e'en I-ha! ha! ha! that e'en I-
Oh! the thought on't—I'll tell you the whole by and by—
Full as soon as I-can-laughter-struck-undertake
To relate what a fool of me Warton could make!
Now I'm grave as a judge, and produce my report
To a jury, whose worth would adorn any court,
Well assured that your wisdom and justice will find
Warton's guilt, and that guilt an assault on my mind.
Let me think when it was-oh! I now well remember,
On a rainy day once, in the month of November,
I perforce, for the want of a rational book,
Deign'd to glance on the Laureat's vagaries a look ;
As I open'd, hap-hazard, the page where his verse,
With a criminal charm, is contriv'd to rehearse
E'en a suicide's worth, I am tempted to think,
That I grew so beguil❜d as to stand on the brink
To mar number one, for I caught up the knife-
When the last stanza read was the thing sav'd
Well, I then read his poem, descriptive of Spring,
Which so bright into view seem'd its beauties to bring,
That my cockneyship soon grew a past'ral zany,
And Wisdom outflew from my crack'd pericrany.
What a mercy 'twas, when she thus skipp'd from my brain
(Such a trick she play'd Jove), that she skipp'd in again!
Well, I still must read on, and he took me to view,
For his language was picture, and that picture true:
Let me think-'twas a monast'ry ruin'd by Time,
And he mingled such thoughts of devotion sublime,
my heart so bewitch'd with his musical airs,
That I pops me down plump, and for once said my pray❜rs. Why surely the man's a magician, I cry'd,
For a friar I'm grown, once a cit in Cheapside
Though a minute ago I was dandling my crook,
Sniff'd the breeze of the down, or lay stretch'd by the brook.
Then a fig for your poets and poetry too,
'Tis a strut, and a crow, and a mere doodle doo!
But I've not told you all, which a pity had been,
How this wizard, methought, metamorphos'd my mien.
If ye duly survey both my air and my dress,
Common sense ye will instant the Goddess confess,
That with reason to lackey Old Plum taking pride,
Launch'd him forth with a smirk to give law to Cheapside.
Mark my shoes, oh! how bright! mark my coat, oh! how plain!
Whilst the twitch of my face hints my passion for gain—
Surely then ye must own me so smirking, so neat,
And so far from sublime, as to count it a treat,
When inform'd that this bard, with his magical wit,
To a hero one minute converted the cit.
But the ditty perus'd, where, in tune of old days,
The poet the great Cœur de Leon displays,
'Cross the Alps in a trice, from Old England I flew,
And the Holy-Land, meteor-like, rose into view-
Though I saw it, I fear'd not fierce Saladin's air,
For my heart was all English, and Richard reign'd there.
Then the monk's shabby cowl flying fast from my head,
Lo! the plume-shaking casque glitter'd there in its stead,
And I stamp'd, and the Panim half kill'd with my look,
away went the spear that was lately the crook,
Then a chair haply lying athwart in my way,
Down I fell, gain'd my wits, nor again am a prey
To the madmen, whose chanting on times now no more,
Fills with spectres the mine where we dig for the ore,
Or, by raising the sprites of the worth which is fled,
Makes us hate living folk from the view of the dead.
'Tis now common sense, common rights, common strife,
And a new hurly-burly the bus'ness of life;
Money, money's the mark at which ev'ry one flies,
And the art to grow rich the sole art of the wise.
Then a fig for poor poets, and poetry too,
'Tis a strut, and a crow, and a mere doodle doo!
THE AULULARIA OF PLAUTUS,
ACTED AT A PUBLIC SCHOOL.
Spoken in the character of the rich old citizen, PLUM.
AND so, ye Attic polish'd people here
Are come to triumph o'er the Miser's tear,
And laugh as loud his mis'ries to behold,
As if you scorn'd the tickling touch of gold.
The Bard is still the Miser's vaunting foe;
But when I rais'd my cane, I laid him low :
For lately here, to curb their Muse-mad school,
I Plum appear'd, to prove the Bard a fool.
A Fox to libel such a grape as sour,
And curse the vintage never in his pow'r!
I brush'd the laurels from Apollo's shrine,
Made Pindus bow, and flogg'd the silly Nine,
'Spite of the flutt'rings of the little Loves,
And all the cooings of the Cyprian doves.
These pidgeon-poets, Harpies call us seers,
Who love our palms to tickle, not our ears--
And better cherish bags that stay at home,
Than vapour-gender'd sounds that go and come.
Hark! at my whistle, instant on my hand, In lieu of dove, behold a harpy stand;
I whisper in its ear-away it flies—
And plumps where'er its pointed quarry lies:
What! on the House of Lords, St. Stephen's fane?
Why, sirs, a lady holds resistance vain.
My harpy 'twas, not Cytherea's dove,
Made pouting Danae lisp assent to Jove.
Its speed is light'ning, and its eye a sight
That thro' yon wall could pierce with magic might;
Nay, pierce a mountain's mass, and bring its gems to light.
What tho' the farcing Plautus has a way
To make one, at th' expence of Lucre, gay;
And Euclio's truly pictur'd mis'ry prov'd
We sons of Plutus can be sometimes mov'd-
Yet well the purseless scribbler kept froin view
How little we are mov'd, like you, or you—
A Pitt or Fox but rant in our conceit,
Nor boast the Nine in chorus, song so sweet,
As his cockneyan woice, vhose summ'd account
Proves this year's gain above the last's amount.
This is our music, and we ask no lyre,
Save to receive in pawn its golden wire.
Gold is our god, and nought beside we prize,
But, mounting Lombard-street, far higher rise
In thought, design, and pow'r, than if we deign'd
Vault on the winged Pegasus unrein'd;
And, arm'd with school-boy's length of spur, were hurl'd,
Mad on the madded steed, o'er all the world!
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