If not so quite (as they relate thee) blind, "Thousands and millions, sir, are pompous sounds For poets, seldom conversant in pounds."— Should it turn out its thousands more or less, What shall I do with such a monstrous prize? This, without question, has your hand confest; This, without flatt'ry, warms a willing breast: So much good nature shown with so much ease; Bestow your sums, dame Fortune, where you That kind of satisfaction which I feel [please; Comes not within the compass of your wheel; No prize can heighten the unpurchas'd grace, Nor blanks the grateful sentiments efface. They cannot reconcile to serious thought Zeuxis the new, they argue, takes a pride If one objected to a maiden hoof; Why, 'tis an animal;"---was all his proof: If to an animal with human head; "O! 'tis a beauteous woman;"-Zeuxis said. "What! auimal and woman both at once?" Yes, that's essential to the whole, ye dunce." His primary and secondary sense, Like mare and maid, support his fond pretence: From joining spot he skips to each extreme; Or strides to both, and guards the motley scheme; Solving, with like centauriformal ease, Law, prophets, gospel, quoted as you please. Thus both went on, long labour'd volumes thro' Now what must fair impartial readers do? THE CENTAUR FABULOUS1. ZEUXIS of old a female Centaur drew, To show his art; and then expos'd to view: The human half, with so exact a care, Was join'd to limbs of a Thessalian mare, That seeing from a different point the piece, Some prais'd the maid and some the mare of Greece. Like to this Centaur, by his own relation, Is doctor Warburton's Divine Legation: Which superficial writers on each hand, Christians and deists did not understand; Because they both observ'd, from partial views, Th' incorporated church and state of Jews. Th' ingenious artist took the pains to draw, And the religious, perfectly combin'd; Without the doctrine of a future state?- The delicate poignancy of the wit with which this allegorical piece is enlivened, will be obvious to the reader who is acquainted with the writings of the celebrated author of the Divine Legation; and therefore any extracts to illustrate the pithets and allusions which refer to them in the following verses, would only serve to swell the notes into a tedious prolixity: however one quotation is annexed in order to justify a charge, which might be suspected of exaggeration by those who are strangers to the learned writer's manuer of treating his opponents. THOUGHTS ON THE CONSTITUTION OF HUMAN NATURE, AS REPRESENTED IN THE SYSTEMS OF MODERN STRONG passions draw, like horses that are strong, But was it made for nothing else-beside No seated mind that claims the moving pew, The grand contrivance why so well equip 2 Who has not signalised himself against the Divine Legation? Bigots, Hutchinsonians, methodists, answerers, free-thinkers, and fanatics, have in their turns been all up in arms against it. The scene was opened by a false zealot, and at present seems likely to be closed by a Behmenist. A natural and easy progress from folly to madSee the dedication prefixed to the 1st v. cf the 2d part of the D. L. ness. They who are loud in human reason's praise, And celebrate the drivers of our days, Seem to suppose by their continual bawl, That passions, reason, and machine, is all; To them the windows are drawn up, and clear Nothing that does not outwardly appear. Matter and motion, and superior man By head and shoulders, form their reas'ning plan; With new ideas, none of them innate, When these adepts are got upon a box, Away they gallop thro' the gazing flocks; Trappings admir'd, and the high mettl'd brute, And reason balancing its either foot; While seeing eyes discern at their approach, Fulness of skill, and emptiness of coach. Tis very well that lively passions draw, That sober reason keeps them all in awe; The one to run, the other to control, And drive directly to the destin'd goal: [gin; "What goal?"-Ay, there the question should beWhat spirit drives the willing mind within? Sense, reason, passions, and the like are still One self-same man, whose action is his will; Whose will, if right, will soon renounce the pride Of an own reason for an only guide; ON THE PATRON OF ENGLAND, IN A LETTER TO LORD WILLOUGHBY, PRESIDENT OF THE ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY. Now, my lord, I would ask of the learn'd and laborious, If Ge-orgious ben't a mistake for Gregorious? In names so like letter'd it would be no wonder If hasty transcribers had made such a blunder; And mistake in the names, by a slip of their pen, May perhaps have occasion'd inistake in the men. That this has been made, to omit all the rest, Let a champion of yours, your own Selden, attest; See his books upon titles of honour-that quarter Where he treats of St. George, and the knights of the garter. There he quotes from Froissart, how at first on Of a lady's blue garter, blue order began [the plan In one thousand three hundred and forty and four, But the name of the saint in Froissart is Gregore; So the chronical writer or printed or wrote [note: For George, without doubt, says the marginal Be it there a mistake-but, my lord, I'm afraid That the same, vice versa, was anciently made. For tho' much has been said by the great antiquarian Of an orthodox George-Cappadocian-and "How the soldier first came to be patron of old, His reign he had guess'd to have been the first. time, [rhyme, But for old Saxon prose and for old English Which mention a George, a great martyr and [want; saint, WILL Some night when you m t upon ancient record, I know what our songs and our stories advance, That St. George is for England, St. Denys for France; But the French, tho' uncertain what Denys it was, Ail own he converted and taught 'em their mass; And most other nations, I fancy, remount To a saint whom they chose upon some such account, But I never could learn, that for any like notion, The English made choice of a knight Cappadocian. Their conversion was owing (event one would hope Worth remembring at least) to a saint and a pope, The name in French, Latin, and Saxon, 'tis hinted, [ed; Some three or four times is mis-writ or mis-printHrenders it George-but allowing the hint, And the justice of change both in writing and print, Some George, by like errour (it adds to the doubt) In the old Saxon custom of crowning our kings, The Virgin-St. Peter-and one other saint; Whose connection with England is also exprest; And yields in this case such a probable test, That a patron suppos'd, we may fairly agree, Such a saint is the person whoever it be. Now with Mary, and Peter, when monarchs were crown'd, There is only a Sanctus Gregorious found; While Scotland, and Ireland, and France and Spain claims A St. Andrew, St. Patrick, St. Denys, St. James, Both apostle and patron-for saint so unknown Why should England reject an apostle her own? This, my lord, is the matter-the plain simple rhymes [times: Lay no fault, you perceive, upon protestant I impute the mistake, if it should be one, solely To the pontiffs saccecding, who christen'd wars holy, To monarchs, who, madding around their round tables, Prefer'd to conversion their fighting and fables: When soldiers were many, good Christians but few, St. George was advanc'd to St. Gregory's due. One may be mistaken-and therefore would beg That a Willis, a Stukely, an Ames, or a Pegge, To search this one que-tion, and settle I hope, How rare the case, tho' common the pretence, Makes the slight-witted reader think so too: THE PASSIVE PARTICIPLE'S PETITION, URBAN, or Sylvan, or whatever name Till just of late, good English has thought fit 1 never could be driven, but, in spite Passive I am, and would be, and implore Since this attack upon me has began, You'll see such work as never has been sav; Then let the preter and imperfect tense THE BEAU AND THE BEDLAMITE. A PATIENT in Bedlam that did pretty well, A beauish young spark with a sword by his side; When he saw him advance on the gallery ground, The Bedlamite ran, and survey'd him all round; While a waiter supprest the young captain's alarm, With "You need not to fear, sir, he'll do you no harm." At the last he broke out-" Aye, a very fine show? May I ask him one question?"-"What's that?" said the beau. THE noblest object in the works of art, A spot that adds new charms to pretty faces, THE ANSWER. PAUCIS, friend Aphanus, abhinc diebus, At his request I sought for ancient city Tho' pleas'd with pleasing, when he can do so, Altho' it seem'd to ask when it appear'd, No great Herculean labour to be clear'd; So many different wits at work, no doubt The city's name would quickly be found out; But, notwithstanding variorum lecture, The name lay snug without the least detecture. You stand entitl'd hereupon to laugh At hapless genius in your friend Diaph. But in excuse for what he must confess, Nor meu, nor even ladies here could guess; To variorum seen, or variarum, No more of ancient city than old Sarum. One thing bowever rose from this occasion, It put an end to fears of French invasion; And wits, quite frighten'd out of dames and men, When rebus came, came into 'em again :' Tho' little skill'd to judge of either matter, Yet the more pleasing puzzle was the latter. You'll think I'm thinking, upon second thought, That too' we mist of city that was sought, We might have told you somewhat of the guesses Of luckless neighbours and of neighbouresses; So let us try to give you just an item: For it would take a volume to recite 'em. "I can't divine," said Chloe," for my part, "Nor I," said Phillis, "what the man can mean "Peace," said a third, of I forget what sex, "Has well known signal that may well perplex; It should be olive-branch, to be well known, But rebus, unconfin'd to that alone, May mean abundance, plenty, riches, trade,Who knows the signal that is here display'd?" Thus they went on-but, tho' I stir its embers, It is not much that memory remembers: Two ladies had a long disputing match, Whether charm-adding spot was mole or patch; While none would venture to decide the voleOne had a patch and t'other had a mole. So wife's ambition' made a parted school; Some said to please her husband-some to rule.On this moot point too rebus would create, As you may guess, a pretty smart debate; Till one propos'd to end it thus, with ease; "The only way to rule him-is to please." Hold! I forgot-One said, a parson's dues Was the same thing with rhyming badge of Jews,' And tithe was it but corn, or pig, or goose; What earth or animals of earth produce, From calf and lamb, to turnip and potatoe, Might be the word—which he had nought to say to. Made for excuse, you see, upon the whole And make the meant one tedious to divine: For first, with due submission to my betters, What ancient city could have eighteen letters? Or more?-for, in the latter times, the clue From some suspicions of a bite, we guess It should contain, should this same jeu de mots, Clean-pointed turn, short, fair, and a-propos; Wit without straining; neatness without starch; Hinted, tho' hid; and decent, tho' 't is arch; No vile idea should disgrace a rebus Sic dicunt Musæ, sic edicit Phœbus. This, Aphanus, tho' short of satisfaction, Is what account occurs of the transaction, Impertinent enough but you'll excuse What your own postscript half enjoin'd the Muse: She, when she took the sudden task upon her, Believe me, did it to oblige your honour. THOUGHTS ON RHYME AND BLANK WHAT a deal of impertinent stuff, at this time, But to caution young bards, if in danger to waste Here are two special terms which the sophisters To be sauce for the rest, to wit, fetters, and jingle; And, because a weak writer may chance to expose Very ill-chosen words to such phrases as those, The unthinking reflecters sit down to their rote, And pronounce against rhyme th' undistinguishing Sole original this, in the petulant school, [vote: Of its idle objections to metre, and rule. For to what other fetters are verses confin'd, Whether made up of blank, or of metrical kind? If a man has not taste for poetical lines, Can't he let them alone; and say what he designs, Upon some other points, in his unfetter'd way; And contemn, if he will, all numerical lay? But the fashion, forsooth, must affect the sublime, The grand, the pathetic, and rail against rhyme. Blank verse is the thing-tho', whoever tries Will find of its fetters à plentiful growth; [both, Many chains to be needful to measure his ground, And keep the sublime within requisite bound: If a laudable product in rhyme should, perhaps, Extort an applause from these exquisite chaps, They express it so shily, for fear of a fetter"Had the rhyme been neglected, it would have been better."— And so they begin with their jingle (or rattle, 'As some of them call it) the delicate battle; "The sense must be cramp'd," they cry out, "to be sure, By the nature of rhyme, and be render'd obscure:" As if blank, by its grandeur, and magnifi'd pause, Was secure in its freedom from any such flaws; Tho' so apt, in bad hands, to give readers offence, By the rattling of sound, and the darkness of sense. All the arguments form'd, as they prose it along, And twist them and twine, against metrical song, Presuppose the poor maker to be but a dunce; For, if that be not true, they all vanish at once: If it be, what advantage has blank in the case, From counting bad verses by unit, or brace? Nothing else can result from the critical rout, But, a blockhead 's a blockhead, with rhyme, or without. It came, as they tell us, from ignorant Moors, And by growth of fine taste will be turn'd out o' doors: Two insipid conceits, at a venture entwin'd, more, Will then certainly come-not a moment before. Till then it will reign, and while, here and there Blank verse, like an aloe, rears up its head; But stuffing their heads, in these classical days, To the praise of old metre it quitted the stage, In abhorrence of tragical ranting and rage; Which with heights, and with depths of distresses enrich'd, [witch'd; Verse and prose, art and nature, and morais beAll the native agreements of language disgrac'd, That theatrical pomp might intoxicate taste; Still retaining poor blank, in its fetters held fast, To bemoan its hard fate in romantic bombast. 'T is the subject, in fine, in the matter of song, That makes a blank verse, or a rhyme to be wrong: If unjust, or improper, unchaste or prophane, It disgraces alike all poetical strain: |