IMITATIONS OF HORACE. ODE XV. BOOK IV. TO THE PRINCE REGENT. "Phœbus volentem prælia loqui.” WITH martial heat I seiz'd the Lyre, When Phoebus whisper'd with a frown- "To fill the soul with fond alarms, Shall better far thy muse become, Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum; To match one Ode of thine. "Let other bards, in martial verse The deeds of Wellington rehearse :- Do thou, my friend, Horatius Flaccus, A chief, who if he once attack us, 66 Thy Prince demands his meed of praise, Attend-and thou shalt gain the Bays, (The hungry Poet's pray'r,) For which harmonious Cibber burn'd, Which haughty Gray indignant spurn'd, And Dryden blush'd to wear." Obedient then, I strike the Lyre- Come, chaste Matilda! thou whose muse, any Adorns the Morning Post. I never swept the tuneful string Or what is more-create 'em : With lighter strains my friends I treat, Or Scandalum Magnatum. Then, please your Highness, tell my muse A chief, invincible in arms A lover, fond of beauty's charms— To do what many bards have done, And call you one-and-twenty. Hail, mighty Prince! illustrious youth! O listen to the voice of truth, A voice to Monarchs strange; Your bright example mends the taste, Augustan days are come, we hope, And Milton keeps the rear; Sir Richard lives in Cottle's strains, And Spenser's Muse, where fancy reigns, Is distanc'd by a Peer. See Arnold, with his Pye,* agree, The Drama's rights to seize; See Op'ras, Farces, all the rage, Britannia! bless thy lucky star, That gives thee Clifford for the Bar, 66 And All the Talents," All! to fool, Dance, drink, game-any thing-but rule! And Huntingdon to preach. My mind, as in a glass, surveys To me, my Prince! display'd; * "The Prior Claim," a comedy (?) written conjointly by Messrs. Pye (the Laureat) and Arnold. ODE XIX. BOOK II. TO DOCTOR BUSBY. "Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus." I SAW (nor disbelieve my strain,) A little pert translating Prig, With gestures strange, and accent loud, While now and then, in noisy fit, Stood In vain he spoke-the Gallery Gods, Sent forth a dismal yell; Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough, Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off With Proserpine to hell. |