Is this the queen of realms! the glorious isle, Britannia, blest in Heaven's indulgent smile! Guardian of truth, and patroness of art,
Nurse of th' undaunted soul, and generous heart!
Where, from a base, unthankful world exil'd,
Freedom exults to roam the careless wild;
Where taste to science every charm supplies,
And genius soars unbounded to the skies!
And shall a Bufo's most polluted name
Stain her bright tablet of untainted fame!
Shall his disgraceful name with theirs be join'd
Who wish'd and wrought the welfare of their kind!
His name accurst, who, leagued with
hell, Labour'd to rouse, with rude and murderous yell, Discord the fiend, to toss rebellion's brand, To whelm in rage and woe a guiltless land; To frustrate wisdom's, virtue's noblest plan, And triumph in the miseries of man.
Drivelling and dull, when crawls the reptile
Swoln from the sty, and rankling from the stews,
With envy, spleen, and pestilence replete,
And gorged with dust she lick'd from treason's feet;
Who once, like Satan, rais'd to heaven her sight,
But turn'd abhorrent from the hated light;-
O'er such a Muse shall wreaths of glory bloom?
No shame and execration be her doom!
Hard-fated Bufo! could not dulness save Thy soul from sin, from infamy thy grave! 4 [Wilkes.]
Blackmore and Quarles, those blockheads of re
Lavish'd their ink, but never harm'd the town:
Though this, thy brother in discordant song,
Harass'd the ear, and cramp'd the labouring
[stand,
And that, like thee, taught staggering prose to
And limp on stilts of rhyme around the land.
Harmless they doz'd a scribbling life away,
And yawning nations own'd th' innoxious lay:
But from thy graceless, rude, and beastly brain
What fury breath'd th' incendiary strain?
Did hate to vice exasperate thy style?
-Bufo match'd the vilest of the vile. Yet blazon'd was his verse with Virtue's name:Thus prudes look down to hide their want of shame; Thus hypocrites to truth, and fools to sense, And fops to taste, have sometimes made pretence; Thus thieves and gamesters swear by honour's laws; Thus pension-hunters bawl their Country's cause: Thus furious Teague for moderation ray'd, And own'd his soul to liberty enslav'd.
Nor yet, though thousand cits admire thy rage. Though less of fool than felon marks thy page; Nor yet, though here and there one lonely spark Of wit half brightens through th' involving dark, To show the gloom more hideous for the foil, But not repay the drudging reader's toil; (For who for one poor pearl of clouded ray Through Alpine dunghills delves his desperate way?)
Did genius to thy verse such bane impart?
No. 'Twas the demon of thy venom'd heart,
(Thy heart with rancour's quintessence endued)
And the blind zeal of a misjudging crowd.
Thus from rank soil a poison'd mushroom sprung,
Nursling obscene of mildew and of dung;
By heaven design'd on its own native spot
Harmless t'enlarge its bloated bulk, and rot.
But gluttony th' abortive nuisance saw;
It rous'd his ravenous undiscerning maw;
Gulp'd down the tasteless throat, the mess abhorr'd
Shot fiery influence round the maddening board.
O had thy verse been impotent as dull,
Nor spoke the rancorous heart, but lumpish scull;
Had mobs distinguish'd, they who howl'd thy fame,
The icicle from the pure diamond's flame,
From fancy's soul thy gross imbruted sense,
From dauntless truth thy shameless insolence,
From elegance confusion's monstrous mass,
And from the lion's spoils the skulking ass,
From rapture's strain the drawling doggerel line,
From warbling seraphim the gruntling swine ;-
With gluttons, dunces, rakes, thy name had slept.
Nor o'er her sullied fame Britannia wept ;
Nor had the Muse, with honest zeal possess'd,
T'avenge her country by thy name disgrac'd,
Rais'd this bold strain for virtue, truth, mankind,
And thy fell shade to infamy resign'd.
When frailty leads astray the soul sincere, Let Mercy shed the soft and manly tear;
When to the grave descends the sensual sot,
Unnam'd, unnotic'd, let his carrion rot;
When paltry rogues, by stealth, deceit, or force,
Hazard their necks, ambitious of your purse,
For such the hangman wreathes his trusty gin,
And let the gallows expiate their sin.
But when a ruffian, whose portentous crimes
Like plagues and earthquakes terrify the times,
Triumphs through life, from legal judgment free
(For hell may hatch what law could ne'er foresee),
Sacred from vengeance shall his memory rest?-
Judas though dead, though damn'd, we still detest.
SONG, IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE'S 'BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.'
BLOW, blow, thou vernal gale!
Thy balm will not avail
To ease my aching breast;
Though thou the billows smooth,
Thy murmurs cannot soothe
My weary soul to rest.
Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream !
Infuse the easy dream
Into the peaceful soul;
But thou canst not compose
The tumult of my woes,
Though soft thy waters roll.
Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers!
Beauties surpassing yours
My Rosalind adorn ;
Nor is the winter's blast,
That lays your glories waste,
So killing as her scorn.
Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays
That linger down the maze
Of yonder winding grove!
O let your soft control
Bend her relenting soul
To pity and to love.
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