BY DR JOHN WOLCOT, (Olim PETER PINDAR, Esq.)
RETURNING with the blush of shame For England's darken'd sun of fame, How sadly will this tale in history sound ? "Forced like poor prisoners to submit, Sublime ambassadors and suite
Penn'd like poor cattle that are driven to pound!
Forced at Tunkoo to pass a night,
Without one candle's glimmering light;
Squeez'd in a dreary dungeon cheek by jowl;
Without a chair, without a bed
To rest the weary, sleepy head;
Resembling prisoners in the old Black Hole!
Watch'd as they wander'd through the land,
(Quang Tagin, leader of the band,)
Just like a pack of hounds, towards Pekin ;
Yin-Tagin, a sharp overseer,
Deputed to bring up the rear,
Marching in quality of whipper-in."
An empty purse-a string of stones-
What gifts from the great throne of thrones !
Fie, Kia King! how shabbily this looks!
Our Prince, in loftiness of soul,
Will bid them in the kennel roll,
Or fling them to his chimney-sweeps or cooks!
Had our ambassadors, indeed,
Vouchsafed on floors to knock the head, (A crouch they scorn'd, the nose sublimely bearing,) Courtiers had said-" Our ample ship
Has made a pretty trading trip,
And for a paltry sprat obtain'd a herring."
Pall-Mall will howl, poor Windsor mourn,
Dreaming of presents in return,
Loading th' Alceste as deep as she could swim;
So cramm'd with treasures of the East,
From stem to stern with bag and chest,
The straddling tars could scarcely wag a limb.
Thou never didst vouchsafe, perhaps,
To cast thine eye sublime on maps;
And therefore, fancying thyself all-mighty,
Hast treated us with pompous scorn-
Beneath thy notice, beggars born,
No better than the folks of Otaheite !
Know, should old England's genius frown,
Her thunder soon would shake thy crown,
Reduce thee from an eagle to a wren,
Thine high imperial pride to gall,
Force thee to leap the Chinese wall,
To feed on horse with Tartar tribes again.
Insulted by a Chinese crew,
Thou knowest what one ship dared do,
Which, blazing, seem'd to emulate Algiers;
Which, for Old England's glory fired,
Blew, with a patriot rage inspired,
Walls, guns, and lanterns, all about their ears.
Reflect, what Britons can perform;
Of France, who faced the hostile storm, (France that on realms had fix'd her tiger pats): Then chain'd, his ruthless rage to mock,
Napoleon to a barren rock
By all deserted but his neighbour rats.
'Tis now full time to close th' Epistle; Thy pride may bid the Bard go whistle, Though thank'd by monarchs for his flattering lays: Kings are ambitious of my song;
But mark, thou successor of Kien Long,
First mend thy manners, ere thou gain'st my praise.
(Singing without.)
OH! what will become of me?
Oh! what will I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,-
Nobody coming to woo!
Now, ladies! is our poet's usage fair,
To baulk us thus, and laugh at our despair?
To let the world in me an arrant flirt see,
Who pops the question as she bobs a curtsey.
Could he not catch in his satiric net
Our kindred animal, a male coquet?
Are they so scarce? Pray, ladies, look around.
Scarce? Bless 'em, no-I'm sure they here abound.
Oh! ye tremendous host of lady-killers!
Ye oglers, whisperers, waltzers, and quadrillers!
Who, doubtless, think our sighs and sad mishaps,
So many feathers in your coxcomb
You think I am blind perhaps-that may be true-
But I've my quizzing-glass as well as you.
There enters one, would any heart entice;
Dear youth! who make your conquest at half-price.
Fluttering the benches through each neighbouring box,
Then, lolling, trim his hyacinthian locks.
Wo'nt you, sir, take Miss Beckey off the shelf?
Oh no! You're wedded to your own sweet self.
And you, ye fair, how perilous your cases,
Who meet their fierce assault of lobby graces.
Yet hear these sounds each ray of hope bedimming-
"A d-n'd good house-but very few fine women!"
Nay, some like pictures, shifted for a light,
Are seen through half the town in one short night,
O'er their fond victims glance, and disappear,
Rob some poor poet of his listeners here,
Then at the opera, crowding the last cranny,
Obscure Mozart, and rival Don Giovanni.
Soon they may scorn us for a novel fury,
And Talma's pic-nics desolate old Drury.
Speed ye, sweet souls!-my tongue I now must guard,
To beg a word for Player, and for Bard.
We live, you say, in a degenerate age;
We toil, you cry, for a degenerate stage.-
Adieu, ye bards! whose wit for ages thrives,
Ye Garricks-Barrys-Abingdons, and Clives!
Our Poet, for himself, the charge will own,
And mourns, with Comedy, her vacant throne.
Yet while unfriended, she must needs give place
To each adventurous alien from her race,
Let critics grant some share of their applause,
To a weak struggler in the good old cause.
The happier skill of happier days to learn,
Let me too hope-degenerate in my turn,
Yet proud, while you with generous eye implore me,
To do but half my mother did before me.
LORD PATRICK from his home lies far,
And the death-bird screams over old Dunbar :
His hound has forgotten his native land;
His war-horse stoops to another hand;
No traveller treads that lonely way,
Save the palmer from Cheviot's mountains grey.
And that pale musing wand'rer sighs,
With blighted cheek, and hollow eyes.
As on his pilgrim-staff reposed
He leans beside the church-yard bound,
Gazing on many a mossy mound,
O'er gentle hearts for ever closed,
He loves upon that turf to rest,
Yet there is in his lonely breast
No relic of love-hallow'd days,
Such as in sweet remembrance stays,
Like summer flow'rs that softly breathe,
Though time has shrunk the rosy wreath.
The fountain of his joy is dried,
And the rich channel it supplied
Is now a chasm dark and deep,
Where weeds and baleful serpents creep.
A mourner sits in the roofless aisle
Of old Dunbar's forsaken pile;
Where, stretch'd upon his shield of pride,
A warrior's form lies sanctified;
With upraised palms together prest,
Signing his hope of holy rest.
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