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HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
W, Pople, Printer, 6?, Chancery Lane. 
 
Horace in £ontron : 
 
 CONSISTING OP 
 
 IMITATIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST TWO BOOKS OF 
 
 THE ODES OF HORACE, 
 
 BY THE AUTHORS OF 
 
 REJECTED ADDRESSES, 
 
 OR THE 
 
 NEW THEATRUM POETARUM 
 
 jfoutt^ tuition. 
 
 LONDON: . . 
 
 PRINTED FOR GALE AND FENNER, 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1815. 
 
*>* 
 
 
 Gift. 
 
 W. ma&er 
 
 7 S f 06 
 
 W. Flint, Printer, Old Bailey, London. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 X he following Imitations of the Odes of 
 Horace were originally written without any 
 regard to regularity of succession. Many of 
 them made their first appearance in a month- 
 ly publication, and the Odes best calculated 
 
 to illustrate tlie tOpiC Of the day wore, from 
 
 time to time, pressed into the service* They 
 are now classed and drilled afresh: new 
 troops, drafted from the Roman battalion, 
 have raised them to their proper complement, 
 and Horace in London is in readiness to 
 take the field. 
 
 The reader will not fail to discover one 
 inconvenience to which the desultory mode 
 of warfare adopted by these Iambic maraud- 
 ers, on their first enrollment, subjects them 
 
VI 
 
 when serving in their present disciplined ar* 
 ray. Events are recorded without any regard 
 to chronological succession. Thus the se- 
 cond O. P. War is deprecated in the ode 
 u navis referent" before the commemoratioi 
 of the first, in the ode, " Motum ex Metello 
 eomule civicum" with a few other anachro- 
 nisms of equal moment. But inasmuch as 
 light poetry and grave history do not often 
 boast the same readers, and as the authors did 
 not undertake to present to the public a poet- 
 ical Annual Register, it is to be hoped the ob- 
 jection will net be held fatal. In ttieir present 
 inroad on Parnassus, it will be found that 
 xncy have prudently abstained from its more 
 elevated regions ; they entertain the same 
 opinion of the Roman Bard, in his higher 
 flights, that he entertained of the Theban, 
 and if the merit of familiar gaiety be awarded 
 to them, they will have won all that they as- 
 pired to gain. 
 
 Had the Authors of Rejected Addresses 
 listened to the voice of Prudence, they would 
 
vn 
 
 have sat silent under the laurels they recently 
 purloined from the brows of their betters, 
 rather than have proved by advancing in pro* 
 pria persona into the Parnassian lists, how 
 much easier a task it is to ridicule good poetry, 
 than to write it. In thus throwing clown the 
 gauntlet, they may doubtless be complimented 
 on their valour ; but valour is composed of 
 two parts. " The worser half," surnamed fool 
 hardiness, w?s the property of the lean Knight 
 of La Mancha ; " the best part of valour, dis- 
 cretion" was emblazoned on the shield of the 
 huge Knight of Eastcheap, and his cautious 
 quaker-like followers, from that good day to 
 the present, have thriven and grown as fat 
 upon it as himself. Which of the two halves 
 falls to the lot of the Imitators of Horace, is 
 too obvious to require mentioning. The fact 
 seems to be, that the God of Song has insti- 
 gated the authors of Rejected Addresses to 
 the present publication, as an amende honorable 
 for the liberties they lately took with his per- 
 sonal property; stealing laurel being an of- 
 
via 
 
 fence as contrary to the poetical statute in 
 that case made and provided, as it is dero- 
 gatory to the privilege, and against the peace 
 of our Lord Apollo, his crown and dignity. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Pag* 
 Introductory Dialogue . . • 1 
 
 Book I. Ode 1, To John Bull Esq. . .15 
 
 Ode II, Hurly Burly! . . IS 
 
 Ode III, The Baronet's Yacht . . 23 
 
 Ode IV, Brighton . . .26 
 
 Ode V, The Jilt . . .29 
 
 Ode VI, Walter Scott • . 32 
 
 Ode VII, The Ousted Treasurer . 34 
 
 Ode VIII, To Huntington, the Preacher . 37 
 Ode IX, Winter __. . . 40 
 
 Ode X, Tributary Stanzas to Grimaldi the 
 
 Clown . . 42 
 
 Ode XI, Fortune Telling. To Laura . 44 
 
 Ode XII, To Emanuel Swedenborg , 46 
 
 Ode XIII, The Jealous Lover . . 55 
 
 Ode XIV, To Mr. Kemble, Exhorting him 
 to give up the Tier of Private 
 Boxes , . . 5T 
 
 Ode XV, The Parthenon. On the Dilapi- 
 dation of the Temple of Mi- 
 nerva at Athens . , 59 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Book I. Ode XVI, The Edinburgh Reviewers . 63 
 
 Ode XVII, The Welsh Cottage. To Laura 65 
 Ode XVIII, Merry and Wise. To Lord 
 
 Wellington • . 68 
 
 Ode XIX, Pleasing Petulance . . 70 
 Ode XX, The Bard's Banquet. To George 
 
 Colman the Younger • 27 
 
 Ode XXII, The Bailiff . . 74 
 
 OdeXXIlI, Cupid's Invitation . 76 
 
 Ode XXIV, Home Tooke's Epitaph , 78 
 
 Ode XXV, My Godwin! . . 80 
 
 Ode XXVI, The Straw Bonnet . . 83 
 
 Ode XXVI I, The Bumper Toast . 85 
 
 Ode XXVIII, Lucretius and Dr. Busby . 87 
 
 Ode XXIX, The Termagant. To Lucy . 90 
 Odo XXX, Private Boxes. Written during 
 
 the first O. P. War . 92 
 
 Ode XXXI, To Apollo , . 94 
 
 Ode XXXII, To the Comic Muse . 96 
 
 Ode XXXIII, Cross Purposes • . 98 
 
 Ode XXXIV, Ccelebs in Search of a Wife 100 
 
 Ode XXXV, To Fortune . 102 
 
 Ode XXXVI, The Gaol Delivery . 106 
 Ode XXXVI 1, Lob's Pound. The Poet re- 
 joiceth in the return of 
 Tranquillity, after the Im- 
 prisonment of Sir Francis 
 
 Burdett in the Tower . 109 
 
Fag* 
 
 Book I. Ode XXXVIII, The Bill of Fare . 112 
 
 Book II. Ode I, The First O. P. War. To Mr. Kemble 114 
 
 Ode II, To the Wanstead Lucullus . 117 
 Ode III, Philosophic Enjoyment, To H. R. 
 
 Esq. . * . I ID 
 
 Ode IV, The Actress » • 122 
 
 Ode V, The Unfledged Muse . , 125 
 
 Ode VI, The Classic Villa . . 127 
 
 Ode VII, An old Acquaintance m 130 
 
 Ode VIII, To Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke . 133 
 
 Ode IX, The Young Widow . . 13Q 
 Ode X, To Romeo, on his late Fall from his 
 
 Curricle . . .139 
 
 Ode XI, The Quidnunc . . 141 
 
 Ode XII, Miss Puff. To Horace in Rome 144 
 
 Ode XIII, The Stock Jobber's Lament . 147 
 Ode XIV, To any Great Man . .150 
 
 Ode XV, New Buildings . # 153 
 
 Ode XVI, Wit on the Wing . . 156 
 
 Ode XVII, Penny Wise and Pound Foolish 161 
 
 Ode XVI II, The Unanswerable Query 164 
 
 Ode XIX, Cobbett . . 161 
 
 Ode XX, The Lyrical Lackey • . 17* 
 
HORACE IN LONDON- 
 
 introductory DIALOGUE. 
 
 SCENE, — The Ivory Gate on the Confines of 
 the Shades. 
 
 Horace, Author. 
 
 Horace. Friend^ I have a favour to ask of you. 
 
 Author. If the granting it redound to my ad- 
 vantage, I have too mu<?h generosity to refuse 
 compliance : name it. 
 
 Horace. I dislike Francis's Translation of my 
 Odes. 
 
 Author. I hate Duncombe's. 
 
 Horace. And I think Boscawen's might b* 
 improved. Will you undertake a new version ? 
 
 Author. Upon what terms ? 
 
2 HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
 Horace. The prospect, if successful, of univer- 
 sal applause. The Reviews will dub you head 
 rhymer of a rhyming age ; an engraver may 
 scratch a kit-cat likeness of you to scare the foot 
 passengers in Pall Mall ; and you will be tolerably 
 sure of a niche among the Martyrs of Pindus in 
 Poet's Corner. " Exegi Monumentum, &c." What 
 think you of that ? 
 
 Author. Tempting offers, I confess. 
 
 Horace. You agree, then. 
 
 Author. No. 
 
 Horace. No ! Quare non ? 
 
 Author. For two reasons. 
 
 Horace. Name them. 
 
 Authoi\ Your demerits and my own. 
 
 Horace. My demerits! ha, ha, hah! you and I 
 are the last people whose demerits can gratify the 
 malice of the critics. * 
 
 Author. Why so I 
 
 Horace. Because you have written so little as 
 to be beneath their notice, while I have written 
 so much as to be above their envy. If Quintus! 
 Horatius Flaccus, the friend of Augustus, and the 
 favourite of the Muses, may be so bold as to 
 question one* whose propensity to fish in troubled 
 
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. 3 
 
 waters ought to condemn him to a large goblet of 
 Sadak's waters of oblivion, may I beg you to elu- 
 cidate the expression of — " your demerits and my 
 own," 
 
 Author. Certainly ; and first of the last, namely, 
 myself 
 
 Horace. I am all attention— proceed. 
 
 Author. To translate your Odes with propriety- 
 would require almost as much talent as to write 
 them. If, indeed, the blue-coated youth in Guild- 
 hall, who must laugh in his sleeve, notwithstanding 
 the tightness of it, at the thoughts of the revolu- 
 tions he effects, should dub me lord of twenty 
 thousand pounds, my friends would convince me 
 that I possessed abilities more than equal to the 
 task. At present they give me credit for little 
 money, and of course for little wit. 
 
 Horace. They are right : of what use is the one, 
 in your commercial clime, unless it procure the 
 other ? 
 
 Author. Besides, who in his senses would write 
 what nobody reads ? How many farthings do the 
 good folks of London care about Vitellius, and 
 Crassus, and Maecenas ; Lydia, Thaliarchus, and 
 Mount Soracte ? Every one of them a mere caput 
 b 2 
 
4 HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
 mortuum, believe me ; and as to the groves of the 
 ancients, they have all become hollow trees for 
 pedant owls to roost in. 
 
 Horace. Envy, by the Gods! My w r orks have 
 delighted all ages. 
 
 Author. Life, saj s Shakespeare, consists of sevi n 
 ages ; and you are apt to be discarded after the 
 second. I remember you of old, when 1 was 
 
 " Creeping like snail unwillingly to school," 
 and in revenge for the many prosodial stripes 
 your confounded " — Maecenas atavis edite regibus" 
 brought upon me, I made a solemn vow to cast 
 you into the Ocean in mum Delphini, at my very 
 first trip to Margate. In keeping my oath I lost 
 my Horace, and have washed my hands of you 
 ev er since. 
 
 Horace. You do me and yourself injustice. Do 
 not jest at the expence of truth. Pray what book 
 is this ? " Quinti Iloratii Flacci Opera ," as I live ! 
 Oh, flattering eulogium ! 
 
 Author. Not altogether so flattering, for this j 
 naturally leads me to the other head of my dis- 
 course : your demerits, 
 
 Horace. Aye, now you'll be puzzled. " Non 
 ego paucis oflendar maculis." 
 
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. 5 
 
 Author. The quotation is from yourself : if yon 
 are wise keep it to yourself. Let us open your 
 book, and pitch upon an ode at a venture, as sail- 
 ors dip for salt pork. 
 
 Horace. Sortes Horatianoe ! agreed. 
 
 Author. What have we here? " Integer vita* 
 seek risque purus." Aye, this ode has been much 
 admired by the shoal of learned ignoramuses who 
 can find nothing bad in a man's book when he's 
 dead, and nothing good when he's alive; and yet 
 in my opinion it is little better than downright 
 nonsense. 
 
 Horace. Oh monstrous ! how, pray? 
 
 Author. You set out at your full speed, like a 
 Sunday apprentice on a hack horse, with a pranc- 
 ing moral precept, that a virtuous man needs no 
 other armour than conscious integrity. This is a 
 sentiment of which Addison, Hervey, Hugh Kelly, 
 or Mr. Drake himself need not have been ashamed : 
 and if put into the mouth of a Drury Lane actor, 
 accompanied by a fierce look, a thump on the left 
 breast, and a semi-circular strut, in the long in- 
 terval between green curtain and foot lights, would 
 gain the happy votary of Thespis three rounds of 
 applause. Thus far in safety : but halt ! your Pega- 
 
6 HORACE IN EONDOK. 
 
 sus is come to a turnpike. The next thing is an 
 illustration of this sublime and noTel position. 
 
 Horace. Very well, Sir 5 pray go on. 
 
 Author. One naturally expects the example to 
 be Cato or Brutus, Wilkes, Burdett, Gale Jones, or 
 some such immaculate Patriot ; but how are our ex. 
 pectations gratified ? You proceed to say, that while 
 you were singing the praises of Miss Lalage, (a 
 lady, I presume, whose beauty was even greater 
 than her modesty,) you met a wolf, who took to his 
 heels at the sight of you. Pray, most doughty 
 sir, of what was he afraid ? Not of your valour, 
 if he had heard of your " Relicta non bene per- 
 mula." Your moral qualities, putting Madam 
 Lalage out of the question, were not perceptible 
 to the eyes of a wolf, and you admit that your 
 person was unprotected by any weapon. 
 
 Horace. Excellent ! this would be provoking to 
 any but an Epicure converted to Stoicism. Pray 
 finish your exhortation. 
 
 Author. Your conclusion is worthy your precept 
 and illustration ; namely, that in whatever part of 
 the globe you may chance to be placed, you will 
 persist in singing the praises of the aforesaid La. 
 lage, although her only merit seems to have been 
 
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. 7 
 
 that of keeping the wolf from the door, A most 
 desirable quality, I admit, in the mistress of a Grub 
 Street poet, but of little use to the well fed favorite 
 of Augustus. 
 1 Horace. Ha, ha, hah ! You see I bear your ill- 
 natured critique with the most perfect good hu- 
 mour ; but zounds ! sir, do you mean to assert — ? 
 ' Author. No — I am only pointing out the incon- 
 . sistency of your own assertions, particularly when 
 ! you prove your good humour by a " zounds ! sir." 
 Horace. Well, well, it's natural to forget one's 
 a Stoic, when the least thing happens to provoke 
 one. To let you into a secret, that ode was writ- 
 ten at three distinct periods : the first part in a 
 , lucid interval of temperance : the second when I 
 j was half seas over in a cask of Falernian, and the 
 third when I was solus cum sola with the Goddess 
 of my Idolatry. 
 
 Author. Be it so : we will now do what I have 
 threatened to do half my life — turn over a new leaf. 
 t Horace. Agreed, here's something solemn. 
 ,* c Parcus deorum cultor et infrequens." 
 
 Author. In this ode you tell us that you had hi- 
 therto been a very wicked fellow, snapping your 
 fingers at Jupiter, and never visiting his temples 
 
8 HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
 except in a shower of rain ; in short, a complete 
 Roman Bunyan ; but that you had lately seen your 
 errors, and were enrolled in the regiment of the 
 true Faith. Bravo ! Pegasus at full speed again. 
 Now comes the reason of this miraculous conver- 
 sion. " I was overtaken," you say, a by a ter- 
 rible storm of thunder and lightening, and Jupiter 
 is so powerful he can do what he pleases.' ' In- 
 deed ! a wonderful event, and a wonderful disco- 
 very! I cannot help quoting in your teeth the 
 words of your best modern imitator. 
 
 What woeful stuff this madrigal would be 
 In some starved hackney sonnetteer — or me; 
 But let a lord once own the happy lines, 
 How the wit brightens, how the sense refines J 
 Before his sacred name flies every fault, 
 And each exalted stanza teems with thought. 
 
 Horace. Upon my word, sir, I have been accus- 
 tomed to 
 
 Author, Less truth and more complaisance. I 
 know it ; but as long as I possess eyes of my own, 
 I will not borrow a pair of pedant spectacles front 
 any University in the Universe, Then again yon 
 
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. 9 
 
 i 
 . are always cramming that confounded Falernian 
 
 down the throats of your readers. Continually hob 
 
 and nobbing. " Nunc est bibendum — Quo me Bac- 
 
 che rapis ?" at every page : and telling us that if we 
 
 . would be favorites of Venus we must sacrifice to 
 
 , Bacchus : a position of which the very porter in 
 
 Macbeth has sober sense enough to prove the fal- 
 
 . sity. 
 
 Horace. Very pretty, sir, very pretty indeed ! 
 but I see your aim, sir. You suspect me to be 
 one of the genus irritabile. 
 
 Author. No I don't : — I am certain of it, I have 
 therefore pleasure in bearing testimony to the ex- 
 cellence of your Satires and Epistles. There you 
 are unrivalled. 
 
 Horace. My dear sir, I did not mean to dispute 
 your judgment in every thing. You think my 
 Satires and Epistles ■ 
 
 Author. As much above my present praise, as 
 they are foreign to my present purpose. It is your 
 odts of which we are now treating. A verbal 
 translation of them I will not attempt. 
 
 Horace. Then I may take my departure to the 
 Elysian Fields. Son of Maia, order round my 
 large ! 
 
10 HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
 Author. Stop, a thought has struck me. What say 
 you to a work entitled" HORACE IN LONDON/" 
 consisting of parodies and imitations of your odes ? 
 Converting the Amphitheatre into Drury Lane, 
 Maecenas into Lord Such a one, the Palatine Mount 
 into Tower Hill, and in short, writing as I suppose 
 you would have written, had you lived in these 
 times, and in the metropolis of Great Britain. 
 
 Horace. An excellent thought ! It will insure 
 me an increase of readers. A man milliner will 
 enter Hyde Park who would fly from the Campus 
 Martius, and a citizen may be enticed up Highgate 
 Hill, who would turn with disdain from Mount 
 Soracte, because there is no ordinary on Sunday 
 on the top of it. 
 
 Author. Such is my plan. As long as you are 
 pointed and witty, I shall feed my Pegasus at 
 the same manger. When you flat, prosaic, and 
 insipid, (which, under favor, you sometimes are, 
 especially at your conclusions, where you ought to 
 be most epigrammatic, witness your u Animumque 
 reddas" — u Immeritamque vestem" — " Mercurius- 
 que, &c. &c") I shall take the liberty of starting 
 from the course, and being as pointed and poetical 
 as I please. 
 
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. H 
 
 Horace. Rather say as you can. 
 
 Author, Good Agreed. And I moreover 
 
 give you fair notice, that as I shall have lame meta- 
 phors enough of my own to answer for, I will 
 not be accountable for yours. 
 
 Horace. Mine ! Where will you find them ? 
 
 Author. Not at the first dip, perhaps, but cer- 
 tainly without any very tedious search,— voyons ! — 
 ! Book I, Ode 27. What have we here ? 
 
 Quanta laboras in Charybdi ! 
 Digne, puer, melioreflamma. 
 
 An intermixture of fire and water, which in mo- 
 ' dern days would create more than one sort of hiss. 
 Horace. That I confess was an oversight. 
 Author. I wish all your commentators had done 
 } the same ; they would have saved themselves anb 
 us a world of fatigue ; but what commentator 
 would not rather set a thousand modern readers to 
 n sleep, than acknowledge one Homeric nod in an 
 1 ancient writer ? 
 
 Horace. I will pardon all your impertinence if you 
 will but cease your criticisms, and give a specimen 
 of your performance. 
 
12 HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
 Author. On those conditions you may turn im- 
 mediately to the next page. Now then thou peer- 
 less poet, thou real Roman pearl, not to be adul- 
 terated by all the vinegar in critical Christendom, 
 u let's to't like French Falconers," or rather, like 
 English tilters, — London is the scene of our poeti- 
 cal tournament. Be thou the Achilles of the Lists, 
 the Patroclus I ; and if perchance 1 hurl a spear 
 sharp enough to provoke the retort courteous, do 
 thou bestride me, and balancing thy shield of half 
 a ton troy weight over my head, swear that the 
 offence proceeded from the original Latin. 
 
 Horace. Which you will publish of course, 
 
 Author. Not 1 indeed. 
 
 Horace. Not publish my Latin ! 
 
 Author. No, I tell you. — Scholars will always 
 possess the means of immediate reference to the 
 original, and the unlearned will not think my page 
 the more lively for being encumbered with a dead 
 language. 
 
 Horace. Not publish my Latin ! ! 
 
 Author. No, I repeat, except the first line. 
 
 Horace. If that be the case, I have only to utter 
 this parting prophecy. The moment the dark 
 chambers of your brain cease to be enlightened by 
 
INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE. 13 
 
 the presence of my Roman lamp, good night to all 
 your brilliant hopes; and though I shall march back 
 to Elysium with all the slow dignity of the last of 
 the Romans, trust me, I shall go off much quicker 
 than — the first of your editions. 
 
 [Exeunt severally.] 
 
BOOK I. ODE I. 
 
 To John Bullf Esq. 
 
 Maecenas atavis edite regibus. 
 
 . 1 ■ ■ 
 
 Dread Sir ! half human, half divine, 
 Descended from a lengthend line 
 
 Of heroes famed in story — 
 Of Ocean undisputed lord ; 
 Of Europe and her recreant horde 
 
 The " riddle, jest, and glory." 
 
 What various sports attract your sons ! 
 Some to Hyde Park escape from duns, 
 
 In curricle or tandem : 
 In dusty clouds envelop'd quite, 
 Like Jove, who from Olympus height, 
 
 Hurls thunderbolts at random. 
 
16 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 One draws his gold from Lombard Street, 
 Amongst the Lords to buy a seat, 
 
 The Lord knows why or wherefore : 
 Another, (give him rural sports,) 
 And crouded cities, splendid courts. 
 
 He not a jot will care for. 
 
 The merchant, baulk'd by Boreas, vents 
 His idle anger, and laments 
 
 Some luckless speculation : 
 Of ease, and Clapham Common talks, 
 But soon on Gresham's murmuring walks 
 
 Resumes his daily station. 
 
 This makes the jolly God his theme, 
 In claret drowns Aurora's beam, 
 
 And riots with the friskers : 
 That a dragoon, delights in arms, 
 And thoughtless of Mamma's alarms, 
 
 Sports high-heel'd boots and whiskers. 
 
ODE I. JOHN BULL. \l 
 
 The hunter quits his bed at five, 
 The fox or timorous deer to drive 
 
 Down precipices horrid, 
 And carries home, returning late, 
 A trophy for his amorous mate, 
 
 The antlers on his forehead ! 
 
 M 
 
 e toil and ease alternate share, 
 Books, and the converse of the fair, 
 
 (To see is to adore 'em ;) 
 With these and London for my home, 
 1 envy not the joys of Rome, 
 The Circus or the Forum ! 
 
 If you, great Sir, will deign to vote 
 For Horace, in his London coat, 
 
 Nor check my classic fury ; 
 Huge Magog of the lyric train, 
 ill mount to kiss the Muses twain, 
 
 Who face the Gods of Drury. 
 
18 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE II. 
 
 HURLY BURLY. 
 
 Jam satis terrisnivis, atque dirat. 
 
 Enough ! the dog has had his day 5 
 
 The cat has mew'd her hour : 
 Th> imprison'd Gale is blown away, 
 
 Burdett has fled the Tower. 
 The nation fear'd those scenes of woe, 
 So fatal thirty years ago, 
 
 When dreading neither axe nor rope, 
 An outward Christian, inward Jew, 
 Fierce Gordon led th' enthusiast crew 
 
 To persecute the Pope. 
 

 ODE I. HURLY BURLY. 19 
 
 Oh fatal and disastrous year ! 
 
 When oyster vending dames 
 Made London's train bands disappear, 
 
 And wrapp'd her walls in flames : 
 The chimney sweep assail'd the shop, 
 The 'prentice clim'd the chimney top, 
 
 Impunity made cowards bold : 
 While Plutus in his last retreat, 
 Stood trembling in Threadneedle Street^ 
 
 And hugg'd his bags of gold. 
 
 We too have seen, like Ocean's flood, 
 
 By howling tempests driven, 
 The mob assail the troops with mud, 
 
 And menace old St. Stephen. 
 Again they rage, the bird is flown; 
 Sir Francis aw'd by Whitbread's frown, 
 
 To father Thames commits his fate : 
 In secret the uxorious tide 
 Safe bears him to the Surrey side, 
 
 To join his anxious mate. 
 
20 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 From street to street Bellona runs, 
 
 In dark blue ribbons clad : 
 To hear the tale, our sober sons 
 
 Will think their fathers mad. 
 What power can awe the impending Gaul, 
 What psalm ayert Britannia's fall, 
 
 What sacred tabbies stop the evil ? 
 Has Southed?, in her straw built cell, 
 No talisman ? no mutter'd spell, 
 
 To drive away the Devil ? 
 
 Ah no ! for still from south to north, 
 
 Confusion rules the gale ! 
 Come then 5 at folly's call roll forth, 
 
 Ye tubs to faction's whale. 
 Come, Romeo's car, Polito's apes, 
 Come, Hawke, thou peer of many capes. 
 
 Pearl-button 'd and drab-coated spark ! 
 And thou, the dame of wicked wit, 
 Round whom the infant hoaxes flit, 
 
 Come, mighty Mistress Clarke. 
 
ODE 1L HURLY BURLY. 21 
 
 And thou ? great saint, at humour's call, 
 
 Joy of the rabble, come ! 
 Whose praise the Smithfield muses bawl, 
 
 With rattle, horn, and drum. 
 When Saturnalian sports draw near, 
 Three days in each revolving year, 
 
 Tis thine to lead the frolic hours : 
 Heed not, dread Sir, thy loss of skin, 
 Thy jocund revelry and din 
 
 Have made us jump from ours. 
 
 Come, too, Mendoza, foe to ham, 
 
 Whose fame no bruise can sully ! 
 Come, wary Crib, Batavian Sam, 
 
 And last, not least, come Gully. 
 Assuming the dictator's seat, 
 Late to thy Plough in Carey Street, 
 
 Return to end thy halcyon days : 
 Long may'st thou rally, hit, and stop, 
 And may no envious Newgate-drop 
 
 Put out thy glory's blaze. 
 
22 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 While amateurs for fame, athirst, 
 
 Entwine with ardent vows 
 The laurel wreath at Moulsey Hurst ^ 
 
 Around thy batter'd brows, 
 If any sheriff dare to wield 
 His wand to clear th* embattled field, 
 
 Stand forth, and down the gauntlet fling ; 
 With frequent fists the intruder check, 
 Or grasp his chain-encircled neck, 
 
 And Jib him from the ring. 
 
23 
 
 ODE III. 
 
 THE BARONETS YACHT, 
 
 Sic te Diva potens Cypri. 
 
 -Dear Venus, quit Idalia's lawn, 
 
 In Cyprian car by turtles drawn ? 
 
 At Neptune's sea-green footstool fawn, 
 
 And make him, willy nilly^ 
 Sweet oil upon the waters pour, 
 And thus the venturous Yacht restore, 
 That carried off from ThaneVs shore, 
 
 My soul's best half— Sir Billy. 
 
 He surely view'd in looking glass, 
 A nose of copper, cheek of brass, 
 Who thus in feeble yacht could pass 
 Within the range of cannons ; 
 
24? HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I 
 
 When hostile squadrons heat the hoof, 
 And citizens won't keep aloof, 
 Hat, boot, and stocking water-proof, 
 I reckon sine qua nons. 
 
 That hardy mortal knows not fear, 
 Who ventures out from Ramsgate Pier 9 
 And as the Gallic cliffs draw near, 
 
 With careless eyes looks at em — 
 But bolder he himself who coops 
 In his own little bark, nor stoops 
 To heed the quizzing of the troops, 
 
 Led by the Earl of Chatham. 
 
 In rain shall Neptune's prudent tide 
 Old Kent from Picardy divide, 
 Sir William's boat in painted pride 
 
 Unites the coasts again. 
 He undulates on Ocean's swell, 
 Like her who rules Idalia's dell, 
 Drawn by a turtle in a shell* 
 
 Triumphant o'er the main # 
 
 * This marine delicacy was said to be suspended to the 
 prow of the Yacht. 
 
ODE III. THE BARONETS YACHT. 25 
 
 What wonders all the papers fill ! 
 With rockets now the foe we kill, 
 We burrow under High gate Hill, 
 
 Each day outdoes the other : 
 See through Pall Mall each lovely lass 
 By night illuminated pass, 
 While Winsor lights, with flame of gas, 
 
 Home to King's Place — his mother. 
 
 In parachute, by way of change, 
 With Garner in in air we range, 
 Surpassing all the wonders strange 
 
 That e'er Munchausen told us. 
 Great Jupiter, for mercy's sake, 
 Me to a cooler planet take. 
 For at this rate we soon shall make 
 
 The world too hot to hold us ! 
 
26 HORACE IK LONDON. BOOK I 
 
 ODE IV. 
 
 BRIGHTON. 
 
 Solvitur acris h) ems grata vice veris. 
 
 JN ow fruitful autumn lifts his sunburnt head, 
 The slighted Park few cambric muslins whiten, 
 
 The dry machines revisit Ocean's bed, 
 
 And Horace quits awhile the town for Brighton 
 
 The cit foregoes his box at Turnham Green, 
 To pick up health and shells with Amphitrite^ 
 
 Pleasure's frail daughters trip along the Steyne, 
 Led by the dame the Greeks call Aphrodite. 
 
 Phoebus, the tanner, plies his fiery trade, 
 The graceful nymphs ascend Judea's, ponies, 
 
 Scale the west cliff, or visit the parade, | [ 
 
 While poor papa in town a patient drone is. 
 
ODE IV. BRIGHTON. 27 
 
 Loose trowsers snatch the wreath from pantaloons ; 
 
 Nankeen of late were worn the sultry weather in 5 
 But now, (so will the Prince's light dragoons,) 
 
 White jean have triumph'd o'er their Indian bre- 
 thren. 
 
 Here with choice food earth smiles and ocean yawns* 
 Intent alike to please the London glutton ; 
 
 This, for our breakfast proffers shrimps and prawns, 
 That, for our dinner, South -down lamb and mutton. 
 
 Vet here, as elsewhere, death impartial reigns, 
 
 Visits alike the cot and the Pavilion^ 
 And for a bribe with equal scorn disdains 
 1 My half a crown, and Baring'* $ half a million* 
 
 Alas ! how short the span of human pride ! 
 Time flies, and hope's romantic schemes, are undone; 
 Cosweller's coach, that carries four inside, 
 Waits to take back the unwilling bard to London. 
 
 ife circulating novelists, adieu ! 
 
 Long envious cords my black portmanteau tighten; 
 Billiards, begone ! avaunt, illegal loo ! 
 
 Farewell old Ocean's bauble, glittering Brighton. 
 c & 
 
 
28 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Long shalt thou laugh thine enemies to scorn, 
 Proud as Phoenicia, queen of watering places ! 
 
 Boys yet unbreech'd, and virgins yet unborn, 
 On thy bleak downs shall tan their blooming faces. 
 
 i 
 
29 
 
 ODE V. 
 
 THE JILT. 
 
 Quis multa gracilis te puer in ros&. 
 
 Say, Lucy, what enamour'd spark 
 Now sports thee through the gazing Park 
 
 In new barouche or tandem ; 
 And, as infatuation leads. 
 Permits his reason and his steeds 
 
 To run their course at random ? 
 
 Fond youth, those braids of ebon hair, 
 Which to a face already fair 
 
 Impart a lustre fairer ; 
 Those locks which now invite to love, 
 Soon unconfin'd and false shall prove 3 
 
 And changeful as the wearer. 
 
30 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I 
 
 Unpractised in a woman's guile, 
 
 Thou think'st, perchance, her halcyon smile 
 
 Portends unruffled quiet : 
 That, ever charming, fond and mild, 
 No wanton thrughts, no passions wild, 
 
 Within her soul can riot. 
 
 Alas ! how often shalt thou mourn, 
 (If nymphs like her, so soon forsworn, 
 
 Be worth a moment's trouble,) 
 How quickly own, with sad surprise ? 
 The paradise that bless'd thine eyes 
 
 Was painted on a bubble. 
 
 In her accommodating creed 
 A lord will always supersede 
 
 A commoner's embraces : 
 His lordship's loye contents the fair. 
 Until enabled to ensnare 
 
 A nobler prize-~his Grace' ! 
 
ODE V. THE JILT. 31 
 
 Unhappy are the youths who gaze, 
 Who feel her beauty's maddening blaze, 
 
 And trust to what she utters ! 
 For me, by sad experience wise, 
 At rosy cheeks or sparkling eyes, 
 
 My heart no longer flutters. 
 
 Chamber'd in Albany, I view 
 On every side a jovial crew 
 
 Of Benedictine neighbours, 
 I sip my coffee, read the news, 
 I own no mistress but the muse, 
 
 And she repays my labours. 
 
 And should some brat her love bespeak, 
 (Though illegitimate and weak 
 
 As these unpolish'd verses ;) 
 A father's joys shall still be mine, 
 Without the fear of parish fine, 
 
 Bills, beadles, quacks, or nurses. 
 
52 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE VI. 
 
 WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Scriberis Vario fortis, et host, urn. 
 
 O Chivalry, thy gallant reign, 
 In prancing epic-ballad strain. 
 
 Let Walter Scott indite ; 
 Chaunting the deeds inspired by thee, 
 When red-cross knights armM cap-a pee, 
 Rode at the ring full gallantly, 
 
 Or triumphed in the fight. 
 
 For me, I strive not, by my fay, 
 To imitate the Minstrel's Lay, 
 Tracing the Palmer on his way, 
 
 Through Scottish bourn and brake : 
 Unform'd for hero's deeds, I shun 
 The strain of lordly Marmion y 
 
 Or Lady of the Lake* 
 
ODE VI. WALTER SCOTT. 33 
 
 My modest muse, unskill'd in flights 
 Of Caledonia's border knights, 
 In peaceful unpresuming verse 
 Forbears their glories to rehearse. 
 Who can describe with honours due 
 Of northern clans the endless crew, 
 
 Creating endless war ? 
 Unnumbered Macs, of accent rude. 
 The Gordon^ Horns, and Huntley brood, 
 Graemes, Fosters^ Fenwzcks, who pursued 
 
 The amorous Lochinvar ? 
 
 Whether or not I feel love's pain, 
 
 I love the light accustom'd strain. 
 
 I sing no feast in hall so gay, 
 
 Save that upon my Lord Mayor's Day ; 
 
 Record no arrow's fatal flight, 
 
 Save Cupid's, feather'd with delight, 
 
 And shoot alone my bloodless darts, 
 
 From beauty's eyes to lover's hearts, 
 
 c 5 
 
34 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE VII. 
 
 THE OUSTED TREASURER. 
 
 To Harry ■ Esq. 
 
 Laudabunt alii claram Rhodon. 
 
 Oome talk of Betterton and Booth, 
 And some above all praise, forsooth, 
 
 Extol their idol Garrick ; 
 Otheis will other names rehearse, , 
 And celebrate their praise in verse, 
 
 Familiar or Pindaric. 
 
 With me not Barrymore's small note, 
 Nor Betty's gently whispering throat, 
 
 Nor Righi's manly quaver, 
 Nor Munden's freedom from grimace, 
 Nor Dignum's bold expressive face. 
 
 Are half so much in favour, 
 
ODE VII, THE OUSTED TREASURER. 35 
 
 As jovial Cooke, whose thirsty soul 
 Quaffs inspiration from the bowl 
 
 Whene'er his spirits falter : 
 His grief and joy, his love and ire ? 
 Are born of Bacchus, and their fire 
 
 Is stolen from his altar. 
 
 So, Harry, whether doom'd to roam 
 In banner'd camps, or lounge at home 
 
 In Twickenham's shady bowers, 
 Drink, and corroding cares resign, 
 Drink, and illume with sparkling wine 
 
 Life's dark and stormy houFS. 
 
 From Somerset's beloved house, 
 Where happy treasurers carouse, 
 
 When Bardolph was ejected, 
 His nose with purple blossoms crown'd, 
 'Tis said he call'd his friends around, 
 
 And thus their grief corrected. 
 
36 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Ob, ousted elves ! companions boon ! 
 May Fortune's wbeel revolving soon, 
 
 Prove kinder than our master : 
 Let us but stick together still, 
 With Sherry's luck and Sherry's skill, 
 
 We yet may brave disaster. 
 
 For know, ray friends, the Prince has sworn, 
 Although these sinecures be torn 
 
 Away from our pretensions, 
 That in some dear uncertain hour, 
 A future Somerset shall shower 
 
 On us its posts and pensions. 
 
 Ye whose stout hearts would ne'er submit 
 To all the eloquence of Pitt, 
 
 Fired with the love of places, 
 Drink deep, and banish care and woe* 
 To-morrow we are doom'd to know 
 
 Short commons and long faces. 
 
37 
 
 ODE VIII. 
 
 To HUNTINGTON, the Preacher. 
 
 Lydia die per omnes, 
 
 By those locks so lank and sable, 
 Which adown thy shoulders hang, 
 
 By thy phiz right lamentable, 
 And thy humming nasal twang ; 
 
 Huntington, thou queer fanatic, 
 Tell me why thy love and grace, 
 
 Thus invade my servant's attic, 
 To unfit him for his place. 
 
 For the new light ever pining, 
 
 Thomas groans, and hums and ha's ; 
 
 But alas ! the light is shining, 
 Only through his lanthorn jaws. 
 
38 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 May-pole pranks and fiddle scrapers 
 In his eye sight change their hue ; 
 
 Lowering Athanasian vapours, 
 Cloud his brain with devils blue. 
 
 From his fellows far asunder, 
 
 Tom enjoys his morning stave : 
 Works are but a heathen blunder ; 
 
 Faith alone has power to save. 
 
 From young Hal the tavern waiter, 
 Oft the boxing prize he'd carry ; 
 
 Now the pious gladiator 
 
 Wrestles only with Old Harry. 
 
 Potent once at quoits and cricket, 
 
 Head erect and heart elate, 
 Now, alas ! he heeds no wicket 
 
 Save John Bunyan's wicket gate. 
 
 As some clown in listing season, 
 Blinds himself to shun the ranks ; 
 
 Tom, because he blinds his reason, 
 Thinks to play his pious pranks. , 
 
ODE VIII. TO HUNTINGTON. 39 
 
 But, if such his holy rage is, 
 
 Let it be its own reward ; 
 I'll no longer pay his wages ; 
 
 Me he serves not, but the Lord* 
 
40 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOR! I. 
 
 ODE IX. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Vides, ut aha stet nive candidum. 
 
 &EE Richmond is clad in a mantle of snow ; 
 
 The woods that o'ershadow'd the hill, 
 Now bend with their load, while the river below, 
 In musical murmurs forgetting to flow, 
 
 Stands mournfully frozen and still. 
 
 Who cares for the winter ! my sun-beams shall 
 shine 
 
 Serene from a register store ; 
 With two or three jolly companions to dine. 
 And two or three bottles of generous wine 5 
 
 The rest I relinquish to Jore. 
 

 ODE IX. WINTER. 41 
 
 The oak bows its head in the hurricane's swell, 
 
 Condemn' d in its glory to fall : 
 The marigold dies unperceivM in the dell, 
 Unable alike to retard or impel, 
 The crisis assign'd to us all. 
 
 Then banish to-morrow, its hopes and its fears ; 
 
 To-day is the prize we have won : 
 Ere surly old age in its wrinkles appears, 
 With laughter and love, in your juvenile years 
 
 Make sure of the days as they run. . 
 
 The park and the playhouse my presence shall greet, 
 
 The opera yield its delight ; 
 Catalani may charm me, but ten times more sweet, 
 The musical voice of Laurette when we meet 
 
 In tete-ti-tete concert at night. . 
 
 False looks of denial in vain would she fling, 
 
 In vain to some corner be gone ; 
 And if in our kisses I snatch oil her ring, 
 It is, to my fancy, a much better thing 
 
 Than a kiss after putting one on ! 
 
42 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE X. 
 
 TRIBUTARY STANZAS to GRIMALDI 
 THE CLOWN. 
 
 Mercuri facunde, nepos Atlantii. 
 
 Jc 1 acetious mime ! thou enemy of gloom, 
 Grandson of Momus, blithe and debonnair, 
 
 Who, aping Pan, with an inverted broom, 
 
 Can'st brush the cobwebs from the brows of care. 
 
 Our gallery Gods immortalize thy song ; 
 
 Thy Newgate thefts impart ecstatic pleasure ; 
 Thou bid'st a Jew's harp charm a Christian throng, 
 
 A Gothic salt-box teem with attic treasure. 
 
 When harlequin ? entangled in thy clue, 
 By magic seeks to dissipate the strife, 
 
 Thy furtive fingers snatch his faulchion too ; 
 The luckless wizzard loses wand and wife. 
 
ODE X. TO GRIMALDI. 43 
 
 The fabled egg from thee Qbtains its gold ; 
 
 Thou sett'st the mind from critic bondage loose, 
 Where male and female cacklers, young and old, 
 it Birds of a feather, hail the sacred Goose. 
 
 Even pious souls, from Buny art's durance free, 
 At Sadlers Wells applaud thy agile wit, 
 
 Forget old Care while they remember thee, 
 
 "Laugh the heart's laugh," and haunt the jovial pit. 
 
 Long may'st thou guard the prize thy humour won, 
 Long hold thy court in pantomimic state, 
 
 And to the equipoise of English fun, 
 
 Exalt the lowly, and bring down the great. 
 
44 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XI. 
 
 FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 To Laura. 
 
 Tu nc qusesieris scire (nefas) quem mi hi, quem tibi. 
 
 Dear girl, from cabalistic lore, 
 Seek not your fortunes to explore, 
 
 Or find your destin'd lover : 
 Nor horoscopes, nor starry skies. 
 Nor flattering gypsey prophecies, 
 
 Can e'er your fate discover. 
 
 To Fortune's dreaded power resigned, 
 Endure with philosophic mind, 
 Her favour or her malice : 
 Regardless of your future doom, 
 Of present life enjoy the bloom, 
 
 And quaff from Pleasure's chalice. 
 
I ODE XI. FORTUNE TELLING. 
 
 To-day the sunny hours dance by, 
 Dispensing roses as they fly : 
 
 O snatch them ! for to.morrow, 
 Assaii'd by tempests, drooping^ dead, 
 Perchance their flowers may only shed, 
 
 The dewy tears of sorrow. 
 
 Time flies — Death threatens to destroy — 
 The wise condense life's scatter'd joy 
 
 Within a narrow measure : 
 Then, Laura, bring the sparkling bowl, 
 And let us yield the raptur'd soul, 
 
 To laughter, love, and pleasure. 
 
 45 
 
4.6 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XII. 
 
 To Emanuel Swedenlorg* 
 
 Quern virum, aut heroa, lyra Tel acri. 
 
 hhat mortal or immortal wight, 
 Man, daemon, demigod, or sprite, 
 
 My harp, shall break thy slumbers ? 
 Whom Echo o'er Bceotia's hill, 
 And Aganippe's shady rill, 
 
 Shall chaunt in sportive numbers ? 
 
 Mine be the strain that Orpheus pour'd, 
 When Hell's grim monarch he implor\J 
 
 Euridice to render : 
 And listening Pluto spar'd his life, 
 But nearly gave him back his wife, 
 
 To punish the offender. 
 
ODE XII. EMANUEL SWEDENBORG. 47 
 
 If songs could bid the dead arise, 
 Whom should I sooner eulogize, 
 
 Than Swedenborg the pious ? 
 To whom the mystic world was shown^ 
 Of spirits that to us unknown, 
 
 Are ever skipping nigh us* 
 
 None can surpass this ghostly seer, 
 Who smoak'd his pipe, or quaff'd his beer 
 
 Above with his protectors ; 
 None equal, second none to him, 
 Who pour'd upon our optics dim 
 
 A cataract of spectres. 
 
 Next Lewis, Terror's child, shall come,. 
 With Mother Bunch's Fee-fa-fum ! 
 
 In goblin tales to revel — 
 The maid who dragg'd the Monk to hell, 
 The bleeding Nun that ran pell-mell 
 
 With Raymond to the deviU 
 
48 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Successive now my subject boasts, 
 The noted Hammersmith twin ghosts, 
 
 Who rivall'd one another ; 
 One born to frighten rustics — one 
 To perish by a rustic's gun, 
 
 Who took him for his brother*. 
 
 Soon as he fell, the tumult o'er, 
 
 The gloom was clear'd, their fears bo more, 
 
 The gossip tales were ended ; 
 And he that frighten'd all around, 
 (So will'd the Fates) upon the ground 
 
 Innocuous lay extended. 
 
 * A Hammersmith wag some time ago dressed himself as 
 a ghost, and was very successful in frightening the watchmen, 
 and other old women, until he was obliged to realize his own 
 disguise in a very unexpected manner. A wiseacre in the 
 neighbourhood, forgetting that if it were a real ghost he would 
 be only throwing away his powder, if a sham one his life, wa$ 
 infatuated enough to fire at and kill the unfortunate spectre, 
 for which he was capitally indicted, and we believe condemn- 
 ed to death, but afterwards pardoned. 
 
ODE XII. EMANiJEL SWEBENBOR&. 49 
 
 Whe shall the mighty theme prolong 2 
 O Clio, patroness of song, 
 
 Say, what successor fit is ? 
 Whether Giles Scroggins next should come* 
 Miss Bailey, or old Gaffer Thumb, 
 
 Who sang their own sad ditties. 
 
 To louder Pseans swell the chord, 
 Worthy the Bird-beholding Loud, 
 
 So prodigal of fable ; 
 Who told us of the hunter sprite, 
 That flogg'd itself the live-long night, 
 
 Then gallopp'd from the stable*. 
 
 An uncomb'd girl surpass'd the peei^ 
 Who, child of poverty severe, 
 
 In garret dark resided ; 
 She gave to life the Cock Lane Ghost, 
 A nation's eyes and ears engrossed. 
 
 And Johnson's skill derided. 
 
 
 •* See the Letters attributed to Lord Lyttleton. 
 D 
 
60 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I, 
 
 Old Scratch (if parsons tell us true,) 
 With her found board and lodging too, 
 
 And help'd her pranks to hide well $ 
 'Till magistrates and bishops drove 
 This modern Joan to shine above 
 
 The minor cheats of Bridewell. 
 
 © Swedenbokg, the guardian friend 
 Of ghostly wights, our prayers attend. 
 
 And prosper C6lton's glory* ; 
 Exalted let his genius shine, 
 Second, great seer, alone to thine 
 
 In spiritual story. 
 
 * Our readers cannot have altogether forgotten the Samp- 
 ford ghost, whose spirituality the Rev. Mr. Colton offered 
 to prove ?by a wager, having previously received the depo- 
 sitions of Messrs. Chave, Dodge, Moon, and Miss Sally, 
 who were sworn upon a Greek Testament. The Taunton 
 Courier commented with a good deal of sarcastic pleasantry 
 upon the evidence adduced; but the unearthly visitor was 
 not to be exorcised by newspaper criticisms, and redoubled 
 his formidable trrampings and bumpings. His comical freaks 
 liave lately produced very tragical consequences; the Exeter 
 
ODE XII. EMANUEL SWEDENBORG. 51 
 
 Whether the Sampford Ghost to seek, 
 He bids the rustics swear in Greek, 
 
 Chave's servant, wife, and Talley 
 Or whether in the dead of night, 
 The doors and windows fasten'd tigkt. 
 
 He goes to dodge with Sally. 
 
 Jailor, a man remarkable for strength and courage, volun- 
 teered to discover the juggle, and to pass a night in the 
 haunted chamber. Armed with a sword and bible, and 
 illuminated by two large mould candles, (three to the pound,) 
 he took his station, when at the " very witching time of 
 flight," the sword was violently wrenched from his hand, 
 and the spectre served out to bim a specimen of Molyneux's 
 right and left hits that would not have disgraced the sable 
 hero himself. All this while the assailant was invisible, and 
 f l the steel'd jailor, seldom the friend of man," was stiil less 
 the friend of goblins^ he was carried home in a sort of stupor, 
 , and expired a few days after. — Upon another occasion, 
 when the knockings under the floor were very loud and 
 lively, an incredulous rustic took up one of the boards, and 
 stood between the rafters, when the sounds instantly ceased ; 
 -" O, ho !" quoth he, " have I found you out? I always said 
 it was a lame story." — But his triumph was short; he was 
 } «aluted with such a thump on the sole of the foot, that he had 
 ,a lame story of his own to carry home to his family, and the 
 d2 
 
52 . HOKACE IN LONDON. BOOK T. 
 
 
 E'en Mr. Moon no light could shed, 
 To tell who 'twas that shook the bed. 
 
 And carried such a farce on,— 
 A ghost no doubt it was, for no man 
 Would thump and kick a silly woman. 
 
 To fright a sillier parson. 
 
 knockings increased, as if resolved to eclipse the 'noise of 
 Don Quixote's fulling mills. It is not long since an honest 
 neighbour called on Mr. C. to laugh at his credulity, and rea- 
 son him, If possible, out of what he 'called his nervous delu- 
 sions, when lo'J in the midst of their conversation a heavy 
 step was heard descending the stairs; " That is the ghost's 
 step,'* said Mr. C. drawing his chair close to his visitor. 
 Thump ! thump ! thump ! The door opens, footsteps are 
 heard loud as of the ghost in Don Juan, though nought is 
 "visible; they seem to pass between the chairs, though touch- 
 ing each otlier ; the scpptic and his friend are unmolested, but 
 the object of this iin welcome "visit is soon manifested. Sally, 
 or Molly, was at the side-board ; they hear blows and screams, 
 and hen wthey had courage to approach the poor girl they 
 found she had been piteously belaboured about the shoulders, 
 after which usual exercise of his spleen, perhaps to create an 
 appetite, the hobgoblin " started like a guilty thing," and 
 lied. 
 
 
€>DE XII. EMANUEL SWEDENBORG 53 
 
 O Swedenborg, thy fame is lost 7 
 Colto^ has verified hrs ghost. 
 
 By wagering a guinea : 
 In vengeance thou thy wig shall shake, 
 And make the Taunton Courier quake 
 For proving him a ninny*. 
 
 The female sex engrosses the chief share of his pugilistic 
 devoirs, for which he has satisfactorily accounted in replying 
 to questions solemnly put to him both in Greek and Hebrew, 
 (which he has at his finger's ends) by divulging that he was 
 murdered by his sister, and will continue to persecute the 
 sex until the offender is brought to condign punishment. 
 Men he never molests, unless in self defence, and wpon an 
 invasion of his territory. Man-traps have been set in the 
 room for the purpose of catching his ghostly leg, and rat* 
 traps have been lavishly distributed over the bed, in the hope 
 of snapping his spiritual fingers; but he snaps his fingers at 
 his enemies, and understands trap too well to be caught by 
 any human contrivance hkherto discovered. When rat-traps 
 fail, exorcising can hardly be expected to succeed, and he 
 likes his present quarters too well to. wish to be billeted upon 
 the Red Sea. 
 
 Thus stands the case at present; the ghost has baffled every 
 attempt at an ejectment,, and will probably continue to 
 
54 HORACE IN LONDON* BOOK I. 
 
 frighten the men and belabour the women till he wear out 
 his kuckles. Mr, Colton has recently been to London, to 
 require the aid of the ecclesiastical police, and has offered: 
 to frank down to Sampford any adventurer who will enter 
 the lists with this airy bruiser, and fib him out of the ring. 
 But this is idle; if fibbing would do he would have vanished 
 long since* 
 
55 
 
 ODE XIII. 
 THE JEALOUS LOVER. 
 
 Cum tti, Lydia, Telephi, 
 
 When those eyes, in azure splendour^ 
 
 Sparkle at a rival's fame ; 
 When those lips, in accents tender^ 
 
 Breathe a hated rival's name ; 
 
 Roused to scorn, or sunk in sadness, 
 Passion rules without controul, 
 
 Gloomy rage and jealous madness, 
 Gnaw my heart and fire my soul. 
 
 Tears that fall in copious showers. 
 Inward fires too plainly speak ; 
 
 Reason mourns her faded powers, 
 Blushes tinge my conscious cheek. 
 
56 HORACE' IN LONDON. BOOK K 
 
 When in dreams thy beauty's brightness 
 
 Seems to aid my rival's bliss, 
 And his Up thy bosom's whiteness 
 
 Seems to sully with a kiss ; 
 
 u Hold," I cry in passion's fever, 
 fi Flames like his are born of wine ; 
 
 * c Spurn the insolent deceiver, 
 
 u Crush his hopes, and nourish min*» 
 
 il Loosely he thy soul despises, 
 Ci Aiming but thy charms to win ; 
 
 is He the glittering casket prizes, 
 " I adore the gem within/' 
 
 Lawless love's a wand' ring vapour, 
 
 Meteor of a heated brain ; 
 Happy they who Cupid's taper 
 
 Light at sacred Hymen's fane. 
 
 Ever joyous, never sated, 
 
 As through life their course they steep, 
 Heavenly bliss is antedated — 
 
 Mutual love can find it here. 
 
57 
 ODE XIV. 
 
 To Mr. KEMBLE. 
 
 Exhorting him to give up the tier of Private 
 Boxes* 
 
 navis, referent in mare te novf. 
 
 O Kemble, again you are tost on the seas & 
 For mercy's sake what are you doing ? 
 
 Return into harbour, assuage the ()• P's* 
 This tempest may end in your ruin* 
 
 Your seams are uncaulk'd, and your mainmast is split; 
 
 Your sailors are all in commotion ; 
 The storm, of last winter still howls in the pit r 
 
 And vexes the bosx>m of ocean* 
 
 *Tis all to no purpose the gods to assail, 
 
 They will not afford you a cable ; 
 Dame Fashion, who tempted you out in the gale^ 
 
 May tow yoti to land if she's able*. 
 
 © 5 
 
6H HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Melpomene launched you a gallant first rate, 
 She seems at your danger to shudder ; 
 
 Then give up your gingerbread cabin of state, 
 And prudently look to your rudder. 
 
 'Tis matter of lasting importance to me, 
 
 Again ia smooth water to find you ; 
 For certain I am, if you founder at sea, 
 
 You'll not leave your equal behind you. 
 
59 
 
 ODE XV. 
 
 THE PARTHENON. 
 
 On the Dilapidation of the temple of Minerva 
 at Athens* 
 
 Pastor quum traheret per freta navibus. 
 
 As Elgin o'er the violated wave, 
 Spoird Parthenon, thy marble glories bore, 
 While modern Greeks, alas ! too weak to save, 
 With silent tears his sacrilege deplore, 
 Waked from the 'dust the demigods of yore, 
 With kings and chiefs their spectred forms uprear, 
 Start from their sepulchres to throng the shore, 
 And as they view the ravager's career, 
 Point to the bounding bark, and poise the shadowy 
 spear. 
 
60 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 On speeds the vessel with her guilty prize, 
 
 Till sudden calms arrest her stately sweep ; 
 
 Hush'd is the expanse of ocean, earth and skies, 
 
 And a new Firmament appears to sleep 
 
 In the smooth mirror of the azure deep. 
 
 When lo ! the wave with sudden splendour glows, 
 
 And while the crew a breathless silence keep, 
 
 Pallas, upstarting from her long repose, 
 
 Frowns on the startled Scot, and prophesies his woes. 
 
 " Ruthless destroyer ! luckless was the hour 
 When Athens' Sculptures at thy feet were hurl'd ; 
 Trophies revered, which hitherto had power 
 To win the homage of an awe-struck world ! 
 Goth, Vandal, Moslem, had their flags unfurl'd 
 Around my still unviolated Fane, 
 Two thousand summers had with dews impearl'd 
 Its marble heights nor left a mouldering stain; 
 Twas thine to ruin all that all had spared in vain* 
 
ODE XV. THE PARTHENON-. 6l 
 
 u The Grecian Deities already rush 
 
 To smite th' iusulter of their native seat ; 
 
 Venus for ever bars the modest blush. 
 
 Love's chaste alarms and its endearments sweet. 
 
 Mars shall deny the hero's patriot heat, 
 
 Nor can thy ravish'd trophies yield relief ; 
 
 The household Gods shall frown on thy retreat, 
 
 And when thou seek'st to drown reflection's grief, 
 
 Bacchus shall interdict oblivion's respite brief. 
 
 il Lo ! Ocean's King engulphs thy victim bark*, 
 Snatching the relics of his earthly reign 
 To deck his coral palaces, and hark ! 
 The sea-nymphs sound their shells as they regain 
 The shipwreck'd trophies of their monarch's fane. 
 So shouldst thou perish with thy guilty freight 3 
 But that thy life shall be thy greatest bane, 
 And Athens' Gods, by thy forewarning fate, 
 Shall stay th' unhallow'd hand uprear d to violate. 
 
 * One of Lord Elgin's vessels was wrecked in the Archipe- 
 lago, 
 
62 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 iC All who behold my mutilated pile 
 Shall brand its ravager with classic rage, 
 And soon a titled bard from Britain's Isle, 
 Thy country's praise and suffrage shall engage, 
 And fire with Athens' wrongs an angry age*. 
 Poets unborn shall sing thy impious fame, 
 And Time, from history's eternal page 
 Expunging Alaric's and Omars name, 
 Shall giye to thine alone preeminence of shame.'' 3 
 
 • See Lord Byron's Childe Harold. 
 
63 
 
 ODE XVI. 
 
 The EDINBURGH REVIEWERS. 
 
 O Matre pulcra filia pulchrior. 
 
 O rigorous sons of a clime more severe. 
 
 If Horace in London offend, 
 Unbought let him perish, unread disappear, 
 
 But ah ! do not hasten his end. 
 
 Not whisker'd Geramb who veracity braves, 
 
 In boasting of princely delights, 
 Not Rowland, when thumping the cushion he 
 raves, 
 
 Of Beelzebub's capering sprites, 
 
 Are mad as the martyr inviting the whips 
 
 Of Poesy's merciless reign, 
 Who like Mrs. Brownrigg her 'prentices strips, 
 
 Then kills them with famine and pain. 
 
- 
 64 HORACE IN LONDON". BOOK I. 
 
 'Tis said, when* the box of Pandora flew ape, 
 
 A treasure was found underneath : 
 It seem'd to the vulgar a figure of Hope, 
 To poets a laureat wreath. 
 
 *Twas this ignis fatuus tempting to roam, 
 That lighted poor Burns to his fate ; 
 
 That bade him abandon his plough and his home. 
 To starve amid cities and state. 
 
 Me, too, has the lyrical fallacy fir'd 
 
 To soar upon Horace's wing, 
 But to fall in the deep, like the boy who aspir'd 
 
 With Daedalus upwards to spring. 
 
 Repentant, henceforth, I will write like a dunce* 
 
 In. prose all the rest of my life, 
 ICyou, dread dissectors, will spare me this oace 
 
 The smart of your critical knife. 
 
65 
 
 ODE XVII. 
 
 THE WELCH COTTAGE. 
 To Laura. 
 
 Velox amaenum saepe Lucre tilem. 
 
 X he wood-nymphs crown'd with vernal flow'rs, 
 Who roam through Tempe's classic bow'rs 
 
 And sport in gambols antic ; 
 [f e'er they quit their native vales, 
 May find around my cot in Wales 
 
 A region more romantic. 
 
 Green pastures girt with pendant rock. 
 Along whose steep my snowy flock 
 
 Adventurously wanders ; 
 Impending shrubs and flowers that gleam, 
 Reflected in the chrystal stream, 
 
 Which through the scene meanders % 
 
66 HORACE IN LONDON. 
 
 In sylvan beauty charm the eyes, 
 While no ungracious sounds arise 
 
 Of misery or anger ; 
 The song of birds, the insect's hum r 
 Are never broken by the drum, 
 
 Or trumpet's brazen clangor. 
 
 If sleeping echo starts to mark 
 The matin carols of the lark, 
 
 Or sounds of early labour ; 
 Again she seeks her calm retreat, 
 Till evening calls her to repeat 
 
 The shepherd's pipe and tabor. 
 
 Whene'er T woo the muse Serene, 
 Her magic smile illumes the scene. 
 
 And brighter tints discloses. 
 But e'en the muse's chaplet fades, 
 Unless the hand of Cupid braids 
 
 Her myrtle with his roses. 
 
 Haste then, my Laura, to my bower, 
 And let us give the fleeting hour 
 To plenty, love, and pleasure : 
 
ODE XVII. Till; WELCH COTTAGE, 67 
 
 Where wanton boughs an arbour wreathe 
 I to thy melting harp will breathe 
 My amatory measure. 
 
 Let not the town your soul enthral, 
 The crowded rout and midnight ball. 
 
 Those penalties of fashion : 
 If nature still have power to please, 
 Oh ! hither fly to health and ease, 
 
 And crown a poet*s passion. 
 
 No jealous fears shall curb your mind, 
 Here shall no spirit be confined 
 
 By prejudiced opinion. 
 My Laura here a Queen shall be, 
 From all control and bondage free, 
 
 Save Cupid's soft dominion. 
 
68 HORACE IN L; NDON. BOOK 1. 
 
 ODE XVIIL 
 
 MERRY AND WISE* 
 
 To Lord Wellington. 
 
 Nullam, Vare, sacra vite prius severis arborero* 
 
 O lft not your tumbrils in Portugal's vallies 
 Empurple the dust with the blood of the vine, 
 
 But spare it that we in convivial sallies, 
 
 May bumper your prowess in goblets of wine. 
 
 Embolden'd by Bacchus we vault o'er the rav'lin, 
 Or snatch, rosy Venus, thy Paphian prize, 
 
 Now led by t\\e gleam of the Gaul's flashing jav'lin, 
 And now by the blaze of voluptuous eyes. 
 
 But though the god's banner unfurling its flushes, 
 With crimson suffuses his votaries' cheeks, 
 
 O let us not tinge them with penitent blushes, 
 By arrogant insulta or perilous freaks* 
 
>E XVIII. MERRY AND WISE* 69 
 
 nvited by Theseus in good humour'd clatter, 
 The Ceataurs assembled, half man and half beast; 
 
 flow quickly the former was lost in the latter, 
 When lewd inebriety darken'd the feast ! 
 
 Reflect that the laws of punctilio are cruel, 
 And oft to the flash of ungovern'd excess, 
 
 Succeeds the chill awe of the death-dealing duel, 
 The flash of the pistol — the pang of distress ! 
 
 No 3 care-killing god, though I revel in gladness, 
 
 And brim the gay goblet with sparkling champagne, 
 ¥l\ not stain your altar with victims of madness, 
 Nor sacrifice reason to lengthen your reign* 
 
70 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I 
 
 ODE XIX. 
 PLEASING PETULANCE. 
 
 Mater sseva Cupidiiram. 
 
 Dame Venus, who lives but to vex, 
 
 And Bacchus, the dealer in wine, 
 Unite with the love of the sex, 
 
 To harass this poor head of mine. 
 Sweet Ellen's the cause of my woe — 
 
 Tis madness her charms to behold ; 
 Her bosom's as white as the snow, 
 
 And the heart it enshrines is as cold. 
 
 Her petulant frowns have more grace 
 Than others to smiles can impart ; 
 
 The roses that bloom in her face 
 
 Have planted their thorns in my heart. 
 
9DE XIX, PLEASING PETULANCE. 71 
 
 Fair Venus, who sprang from the sea # 
 Despising the haunts of renown, 
 
 Leaves Brighton, to frolic with me, 
 And spend the whole winter in town, 
 
 I sang of the heroes of Spain, 
 
 Who fight in the Parthian mode ; 
 The goddess grew sick at my strain, 
 
 And handed to Vulcan my ode : 
 ** Forbear," she exclaim'd, u silly elf, 
 
 " With haughty Bellona to rove, 
 *' Leave Spain to take care of herself— 
 
 " Thy so^g is of Ellen and love." 
 
 Come, Love, bring the graces along, 
 
 That Ellen may melt at my woes ; 
 
 Let fluent Rousseau gild my tongue, 
 
 And Chesterfield turn out my toes. 
 Ah no ! I must wield other arms, 
 
 Sweet Ellen, to reign in thy heart ; 
 When Love owes to Nature his charms, 
 How vaia are the lessons of art ! 
 
7S HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK 
 
 ODE XX. 
 
 THE BARD'S BANQUET, 
 
 T@ George Colman the Younger. 
 
 1 
 
 Vile potabis modicis Sabinum. 
 
 Accept, comic mortal, this poor Imitation ; 
 
 Its birth was propitious, tho* humble its claim 
 'Twas penn'd when the theatre's loud acclamation 
 
 Established for ever your title to fame. 
 
 ; 
 
 When London re-echoes the praises of Colman, 
 Snail I by my harp in despondency sit ? 
 
 Jfo Horace in London shall not be the sole man 
 
 Withholding his tribute from genius and wit. 
 
 Then come to my banquet ; 'tis lowly, I know it, 
 And no pungent relish the appetite lures : 
 
 For what can a dull inexperienced poet 
 Produce that will tickle a palate like yours i 
 
ODE XX. THE BARD'S BANQUET. 73 
 
 But as to my guests, they shall feast upon treasures 
 i Sufficient to charm the most epicure elf; 
 My long bill of fare is a budget of pleasures, 
 Comprised in one exquisite item — yourself. 
 
74 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK L. 
 
 ODE XXII. 
 
 THE BAILIFF. 
 
 Integer vitae, scclerisque purus* 
 
 J he pauper poet, pure in zeal, 
 Who aims the Muse's crown to steal, 
 Need steal no crown of baser sort, 
 To buy a goose or pay for port. 
 He needs not Fortune's poison'd source, 
 
 Nor guard the House of Commons yieldSj 
 Whether by Newgate lie his course, 
 
 The Fleet, King's Bench, or Cold Bath Fields* 
 For I, whom late, impransus^ walking, 
 
 The Muse beyond the verge had led, 
 Beheld a huge bumbailiff stalking, 
 
 Who star'd, but touch'd me not, and fled S 
 A bailiff, black and big like him, 
 So scowling, desperate, and grim, 
 
ODE XXII. THE BAILIFF. 7£ 
 
 No lock-up house, the gloomy den 
 Of all the tribe shall breed again. 
 Place me beyond the verge afar, 
 Where alleys blind the light debar, 
 Or bid me fascinated lie 
 Beneath the creeping catchpole's eye ; 
 Place me where spunging houses round 
 Attest that bail is never found ; 
 Where poets starve who write for bread, 
 And writs are more than poems read ; 
 Still will I quaff the Muse's spring, 
 
 In reason's spite a rhyming sinner, 
 I'll sometimes for a supper sing, 
 
 And sometimes whistle for a dinner* 
 
 e8 
 
76 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXIII. 
 
 CUPID'S INVITATION. 
 
 Vitas hinnuleo me si milts, Chloe. 
 
 As the poet doom'd to linger, 
 Phillips, in thy shop's retreat, 
 
 Cash for copyright to finger, 
 
 Eyes with dread the neighbouring Fleet, 
 
 Turns with idle terror pale, if 
 Busy crpuds his speed molest, 
 
 Thinks each passenger a bailiff, 
 Erery jostle an arrest ; 
 
 Thus, dear Chloe, thus you fly me ; 
 
 Prithee bid these fears adieu : — 
 How ungenerous to deny me 
 
 What I ne'er denied to you. 
 
ODE xxiii. cupid's invitation, 77 
 
 I'm no ruthless Blue Beard, daily 
 
 Killing wives, again to wed ; 
 I'm no giant Mrs. Bayley*, 
 
 Grinding bones to make my bread. 
 
 Cupid proffers now love-tetters, 
 
 Cull the roses of his spring, 
 And of age for Hymen's fetters, 
 
 Quit your mother's apron-string. 
 
 * A personage well known to all strait-laced ladies of 
 Fashion. 
 
78 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK f. 
 
 ODE XXIV. 
 HORNE TOOKE's EPITAPH. 
 
 Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus. 
 
 W hat strain shall soothe thy shade, departed Tooke I 
 What topic ^lad Reform's heart-broken throng ? 
 
 Muse of dead Hammond, muse of dead Sir Brook, 
 Pour the full tide of elegiac song. 
 
 Beneath a garden's mould (O spot uncouth !) 
 Death in perpetual slumber rocks the sage, 
 
 Saviour of syntax, speaker of home truth, 
 Pride, shame, and martyr of a thankless age. 
 
 Gale Jones and Jones Burdett deplor'd his fall. 
 But thine, dear knight, is sorrow's heaviest shower; 
 
 Who now shall tinge thy scatter'd ink with gall ? 
 Who prompt thy studies in a second Tower ? 
 
ODE XXIV. HORNE TOOKE's EPITAPH, 79 
 
 Of Phoebus' son thou ne'er hast learn'd the tricks, 
 Whose potent drug the dead from death retrieves; 
 
 Thy seer, close guarded on the shores of Styx, 
 Swells the black cattle of the God of Thieves. 
 
 'Tis hard — but watching for the human soul. 
 Troops of blue devils hover o'er the globe ; 
 
 Trick them, and quaff from resignation's bowl 
 What Job's kind hearted friends prescrib'd to Job. 
 
80 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXV. 
 
 MY GODWIN! 
 
 Parcius junctas quatiunt fenestras. 
 
 Our Temple youth, a lawless train, 
 Blockading Johnson's window pane, 
 No longer laud thy solemn strain, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 Chaucer's a mighty tedious elf, 
 Fleetwood lives only for himself, 
 And Caleb Williams loves the shelf, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 
 No longer cry the sprites unblest,' 
 u Awake ! arise ! stand forth confess'd l" 
 For fallen, fallen is thy crest, 
 My Godwin ! 
 
ODE XXV. MY GODWIN ! 81 
 
 Thy muse for meretricious feats, 
 Does quarto penance now in sheets, 
 Or cloathing parcels roams the streets, 
 My Godwin ! 
 
 Thy flame at Luna's lamp thou lightest, 
 Blank is the verse that thou indit'st, 
 Thy play is damn'd, yet still thou writ'st, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 And still to wield the grey goose quill, 
 When Phoebus sinks, to feel no chill, 
 cc With me is to be lovely still," 
 
 My Godwin! 
 
 Thy winged steed (a bit of blood) 
 
 Bore thee like Trunnion through the flood, 
 
 To leave thee sprawling in the mud, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 But carries now, with martial trot, 
 In glittering armour, Walter Scott, 
 A poet he — which thou art not, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 
 * 5 
 
*2 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Nay, nay, forbear these jealous wails, 
 Tho' he's upborne on fashion's gales, 
 Thy heavy bark attendant sails, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 Fate each by different streams conveys, 
 His skiff in Aganippe plays, 
 And thine in Lethe's whirlpool strays, 
 
 My Godwin ! 
 
 
83 
 
 ODE XXVI. 
 
 The STRAW BONNET. 
 
 Musis amicus, tristitiam et metus* 
 
 Beloved by the Nine, Heave care till to-morrow, 
 And cull pleasure's roses while yet in their bloom; 
 
 The winds that blow round me shall dissipate sorrow, 
 And drive the blue devils to Pharoah's red tomb. 
 
 Thy Emperor, Gaul, may astonish the nations, 
 While Neptune forbids him to Britain to roam, 
 
 He's free to sow discord in German plantations, 
 Then marry, the better to reap it at home. 
 
 Ye Muses, who bathe in clear fountains, and dwell in 
 The regions of rhyme with Apollo above, 
 
 Oh ! aid me to sing of my favourite Ellen, 
 And warble in chorus the accents of love. 
 
84 HORACE IN LONDON* BOt)K I. 
 
 Come, weave me a chaplet to deck her straw bonnet, 
 Tho' small the applause that your labour secures ; 
 
 For sure, if there's faith in my sight or my sonnet^ 
 Her roses and lilies are brighter than your's. 
 
65 
 
 ODE XXVII. 
 
 THE BUMPER TOAST. 
 
 Natisin usum 1 srtitiae scyphig. 
 
 Away with dull politics ! prythee let's talk 
 Of something to set all the club in a titter 
 
 The aim of convivial meetings we baulk, 
 
 When thus we our sweetest enjoyments embitter* 
 
 Fill, fill up a bumper, be merry and wise, 
 
 And check these dissentions before they too far 
 
 Say, Colonel, what pretty girl's arrowy eyes 
 
 Have chosen your heart for their amorous target ? 
 
 Refuse ! then the bottle no farther shall pass : 
 Nay, hang it, this chilling reserve is a folly, 
 
 I'm sure 'tis no cherry cheek'd nursery lass, 
 No three per cent, dowdy, no demirep Dolly. 
 
86 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Come, whisper ; my ear is as safe as the Bank, 
 Where all that goes in is for ever impounded. 
 
 What, Lucy ! adzooks ! then your prize is a blank ; 
 With imps in blue jackets for life you're sur- 
 rounded. 
 
 Mrs. Clarke's costly freaks she will presently beat, 
 And if you don't quit the extravagant wench, 
 
 You'll soon quit the Army to starve in the Fleet, 
 Or change your own seat for his Majesty's Bench. 
 
87 
 
 ODE XXVIII. 
 
 LUCRETIUS JND DR. BUSBY. 
 
 Te maris et terrae numeroque carentis arenaa* 
 
 cc Lucretius, tho' thy numbers could embrace" 
 (Thus Busby spoke) " the secret plans of Fate, 
 
 Lay bare the haunts of matter, form, and space, 
 And all creation in thy song create ; 
 
 O'er thy dead stanzas now Arachne weaves 
 Her web to hide thee from a buzzing crowd ; 
 
 Dishonourable dust o'erspreads thy leaves, 
 And Hermes wraps thee in oblivion's shroud." 
 
 To whom Lucretius — " fugitive and fleet, 
 Religion's dogmas yield to age's tooth ; 
 
 Like the loose sand beneath Achilles' feet, 
 They shift or crumble at the touch of truth* 
 
88 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Each mystic zealot heavenward points the way, 
 Heaven mocks alike the artist and the art : 
 
 Where is thy solar system, Tycho Brahe ? 
 
 Where now thy eddying vortices, Des Cartes ? 
 
 Some, dreaming seers, with angels converse hold, 
 Some, teiz'd by Satan, Faith's palladium guard. 
 
 Paine, Priestley, sleep in transatlantic mould, 
 And Godwin slumbers in Saint Paul's Churchyard, 
 
 One night o'ershadows systems old and new. 
 
 Death to one fatal ferry all consigns, 
 And not a head amid the sapient crew, 
 
 But whispers, tete-a-tete, with Proserpine's; 
 
 Me, too, death summons to my kindred soil, 
 Philosophy's new lamp outdazzles mine : 
 
 Outdazzles ! no, dipp'd in thy midnight oil 
 My glimmering taper yet again may shine. 
 
 Arouse thee, rhymster, bid thy boy rehearse, 
 And, whilst around thy drowsy audience nod, 
 
 Lest the pale urchin mar thy laboured verse, 
 Wield o'er his trembling head thy grandsire's rod. 
 
ODE XXVIII. LUCRETIUS, &C. 89 
 
 So may Apollo in Queen Ann Street West 
 
 Full o'er thy muse his warbling choir uncage, 
 
 Names fill thy index, Plutus fills thy chest, 
 And dedication smooth thy hot-press'd page. 
 
 Hah ! doubt'st thou, recreant ? does thy lazy wit 
 To snatch my verse from Lethe's pit refuse ? 
 
 Then may new Drury's widely yawning pit 
 O'er whelm thy urchin, and engulph thy muse* 
 
 That threat prevails— thou sweep'st thy classic 
 chords ; 
 
 Laud wfe the Gods ! Lucretius now is free ; 
 Come affluent commoners, come pursy lords, 
 
 Down with your a^st, to shake the dust from me." 
 
90 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I 
 
 The TERMJGJNT. 
 
 To Lucy. 
 
 Icci beatis nunc Arabum invides. 
 
 y •'"*' . * . ' " * ' " "** 
 
 Ah, Lucy, how changed are my prospects in life, 
 Since first you awaken 'd love's flame ! 
 
 So humble a bride, such a petulant wife, , 
 Gadzooks ! I scarce think you the same. 
 
 That badge which the husband's -ascendance secures, 
 (The poor sans culottes never wore 'em) 
 
 You arrogate now as prescriptively yours, 
 In spite of all sense and decorum. 
 
 No longer your smile like a sunbeam appears* 
 
 But clouds your fair visage deform, 
 Which quickly find vent in a deluge of tears^ 
 
 Or burst into thunder and storm. 
 
ODE XXIX. THE TERMAGANT. 91 
 
 ! who will now question that Venus's dove, 
 Transform'd to a vulture, may feed 
 
 On the sensitive heart of the victim of love, 
 Condemn'd in close fetters to bleed ; 
 
 Since you whom so lately an angel I thought, 
 
 Now acting the termagant's part, 
 Exult o'er the fetters which wedlock has wrought, 
 
 And tear without mercy my heart. 
 
 Your temper is changed from serene to perverse, 
 Your tongue from endearment to clatter : 
 
 1 took you for better, as well as for worse, 
 
 But find you are wholly the latter. 
 
92 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK !• 
 
 ODE XXX. 
 
 PRIVATE BOXES. 
 Written during thejirst 0. P. war. 
 
 O Venus, regina Cnidi Paphique. 
 
 O Venus, Queen of Drury Lane ! 
 
 Soft partizan of amorous doxies, 
 O'er tall Soho no longer reign, 
 
 But patronize our Private Boxes. 
 
 Let Cupid, ardent chaperon, 
 
 To Hart Street light the London graces, 
 As loose of manners as of zone, 
 
 With bosoms bare, and brazen faces. 
 
 Bring with thee, dame, a tempting show 
 Of girls fantastic, gay, and jolly ; 
 
 Age without thee is sapient woe, 
 And with thee youth is joyous folly. 
 
ODE XXX. PRIVATE BOXES. £3 
 
 i i 
 
 Bring, too, the footpad demigod, 
 
 Who once outwitted wise Apollo ; 
 
 O'er paths by truant Venus trod, 
 
 Sly Mercury is sure to follow. 
 
94 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXXI. 
 
 TO APOLLO. 
 
 Quid dedicatum poscit Apollinem. 
 
 What asks the bard who first invades 
 With votive verse Apollo's shrine, 
 
 And lulls with midnight serenades 
 Thee, male duenna of the Nine ? 
 
 Not ven'son, darling of the church, 
 Mutton will serve his turn as well ; 
 
 Nor costly turtle dress'd by Birch — 
 He spurns the fat to sound the shell. 
 
 Fearing to trust to dubious stocks^ 
 He ne'er invests his money there, 
 
 And views with scorn the London Dock$ % 
 Perch'd on bis castle in the air. 
 
ODE XXXI. TO APOLLO. 97 
 
 Ye sunburnt peasantry of Gaul, 
 
 Go prune yonr vines for Norfolk's lord; 
 
 His jovial table welcomes all, 
 
 And laughing plenty crowns the board. 
 
 Favourite of Bacchus ! see him lay 
 His comrades senseless on the floor, 
 
 And then march soberly away, 
 
 With bottles three, ay, sometimes four. 
 
 My skill in wines is quickly said, 
 I drink them but to make me merry ; 
 
 Claret and Port alike are red, 
 
 Champagne is white, and so is sherry. 
 
 Grant me, ye powers, a middle state, 
 Remote from poverty and wealth ; 
 
 Above the poor, below the great, 
 A body and a mind in health* 
 
 And when old Time upon this head 
 His snowy bounty shall impart, 
 
 Oh grant that he may never spread 
 Its freezing influence to my heart. 
 
96 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXXII. 
 
 To the COMIC MUSE. 
 
 Poscimus, si quid vactii sub umbra. 
 
 i 
 
 Sweet Muse ! beneath Apollo's ray, 
 
 If ever I, your charms adoring, 
 Begot a jocund roundelay, 
 
 The noisy gods thought worth encoring — 
 
 Come now, and with your archest smile 
 Inspire, sweet maid, a comic ditty, 
 
 Something in Colman's humorous style, 
 And just about one third as witty. 
 
 By either sister lov'd, caress'd, 
 
 He, gay deceiver, picks and chuses : 
 
 To serve two masters is no jest, 
 
 But he contrives to serve two muses. 
 
ODE XXXIT. THE COMIC MUSE. 97 
 
 Now he pourtrays the man of pelf, 
 
 Unmov'd by Yarico's disaster ; 
 And now the Latin - quoting elf, 
 
 Still cringing to the wealthiest master. 
 
 To Afric's sultry plain convey'd, 
 
 To paint the ardent Moor's distresses, 
 
 He toys with Sutta, dingy maid, 
 With eyes as sable as her tresses. 
 
 From grave to gay he loves to fly, 
 
 Whilst I with you alone would tarry ; 
 
 A constant Colonel Standard I, 
 And he a volatile Sir Harry. 
 
 O pride of Phoebus ! heavenly fair ! 
 
 Rare visitant at great men's tables, 
 Whose smiles can make old fashion'd Care 
 
 Doff, for a while, his suit of sables, 
 
 Enroll me on your jovial staff, 
 Sworn foe to sentimental sadness, 
 
 And I will live to love and laugh, 
 
 And wake the lyre to you and gladness. 
 
98 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK 
 
 
 ODE XXXIII. 
 
 CROSS PURPOSES. 
 
 Albi, ne doleas plus niruio, memor. 
 
 jiis folly yourself and your readers to vex, 
 With verses as feeble and bald as old Q. ; 
 Your Fanny but echoes the creed of her sex, 
 Preferring a younger Adonis to you. 
 
 Amanda, the mild, follows Ned through the Park, 
 From Kensington Gardens to Cumberland Gate ? 
 
 Yet Ned, an ungrateful and volatile spark. 
 Adores a virago, and truckles to Kate. 
 
 But sooner the shark from West Indian seas 
 Shall swim in a bowl, and by children be fed, 
 
 Than Kitty, as rampant as Pope's Eloise, 
 Surrender the mistress, and marry with Ned. 
 
ODE XXXIII. CROSS PURPOSES. 99 
 
 So wills Madam Venus : she's ever delighted 
 To join young and old in one wearisome yoke, 
 
 Then tortures the bosom with flames unrequited, 
 And thinks our misfortunes an excellent joke. 
 
 Why cannot I love pretty Susan, or Polly, 
 Or gentle Nannette, or dear sensitive Jane ? 
 
 The answer, alas ! but exposes my folly — 
 I court lovely Ellen, and court her in vain. 
 
 I'd give all I'm worth to be able to hate her ; 
 
 She smiles, and I picture consent in her eye, 
 When, cold and deceitful as ice to a skaiter, 
 
 She tempts me to pleasure, but leaves me to die. 
 
 r 2 
 
100 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXXIV. 
 
 CCELEBS IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. 
 
 Pare us Deorum cultor et infrequens. 
 
 Jnveigled by Hume from the Temple of Truth, 
 From Piety's sheepfold a stray lamb, 
 
 I laugh'd and I sang, a mere reprobate youth, 
 As seldom at church as Sir Balaam. 
 
 But now through a crack in my worldly wise head 
 
 A ray of new light sheds a blaze, 
 And back, with the speed of a zealot, I tread 
 
 The wide metaphysical maze. 
 
 Of late through the Strand as I saunter'd away, 
 
 A CHrricle gave me new life, 
 For oh ! in that curricle, spruce as the day, 
 
 Sate Ccelebs in search of a Wife 1 
 
0DEXXX1V. CCELEBS. 101 
 
 Majestic as thunder he roli'd through the air. 
 
 His horses were rapidly driven ; 
 I gaz'd like the pilgrim in Vanity Fair, 
 
 When Faithful was snatch'd into Heaven. 
 
 Loud beliowM the monsters in Pidcock's abys$, 
 Old vagabond Thames caught the sound, 
 
 It shook the Adelphi ? it scar'd gloomy Dis, 
 And Styx swore an oath underground. 
 
 The puritan rises, philosophy falls, 
 
 When touch'd by his harlequin rod ; 
 The cooler and prelate from separate stalls, 
 
 Chaunt hymns to the young demigod. 
 
 The beardless reformer leaves London behind^ 
 He wanders o'er woodland and common, 
 
 And dives into depths theolegic to find 
 That darkest of swans — a white woman. 
 
 The Pilgrim of Bunyan felt wiser alarms— 
 His darling at home could nat bind him ; 
 
 'Twas Death and the Devil when lock'd in her arra«, 
 'Twas Heaven— -when he left her behind him. 
 
102 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXXV. 
 
 To Fortune. 
 
 O Diva, gratilm quae regis Aotium. 
 
 Goddess ! by grateful gulls ador'd, 
 Whose wand can make a clown a lord. 
 
 And lords to coachmen humble : 
 Whose Midas touch our gold supplies, 
 Then bids our wealth in paper rise, 
 
 Rise ? zounds ! J should say tumble I 
 
 Thee barking Fire Assurance baits ; 
 With face as brazen as her plates 
 
 She in thy lobby lingers : 
 But fire, alas I to smoak will turn, 
 And sharers, though no houses burn, 
 
 Are sure to burn their fingers. 
 
ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE. 103 
 
 In troubled water others fish, 
 
 Locks, docks, canals, their utmost wish ; 
 
 They're welcome if they love it : 
 They who on water money lend, 
 Can seldom manage, in the end, 
 
 To keep their heads above it. 
 
 Who sinks in earth but sinks in cash; 
 ? Tis to make nothing but a smash, 
 
 Do nothing, but undoing : 
 New T bridges halt amid the flood, 
 New roads desert us in the mud, 
 
 And turn out " roads to rain." 
 
 The knavish crew, in bubbles skill'd, 
 Next, high in air their castles build ; 
 
 But air, too, mocks their trouble : 
 Balloons to earth too quickly slope, 
 And Winsor's Gas, like Windsor's Soap^ 
 
 When blown, appears a bubble. 
 
104 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK Is 
 
 Oh Fortune ! in thy giddy march 
 
 Kick down (and welcome) Highgate Arch, 
 
 But be content with one ill, 
 When from the gallery ruin nods, 
 Oh ! whisper silence to the gods, 
 
 And spare the Muses Tunnel* ! 
 
 Grim bankruptcy thy path besets, 
 With one great seal and three gazettes 
 
 Suspended from her shoulders : 
 Diggers and miners swell her train, 
 Who having bored the earth in vain, 
 
 Now bore the poor share-holders. 
 
 While vulgar dupes compell d to pay, 
 Decoy'd too far to fly away, 
 
 Are caught and pluck'd like tame ducks, 
 Their pools of fancied wealth are lakes 
 Wherein their cash makes ducks and drakes, 
 
 Till they themseves are lame ducks. 
 
 * This alludes to a ridiculous Farce, called Highgate 
 Tunnbl, which met with undeserved favor at (he time of its 
 appearance, and is now deservedly forgotten. 
 
ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE. 105 
 
 Farces like those to send adrift, 
 Blind Goddess^ give my farce a lift. 
 
 And bid me touch the Spanish : 
 Too weak to brave the critics* scorn, 
 So shall it serve the weak to warn, 
 
 And quack impostors banish. 
 
 Too long from Ketch's halter freed, 
 At our expence, each black-legg'd steed 
 
 Has fatten'd with his brother : 
 Gorged with their asinine repast, 
 May they, like Duncan's stud, at last 
 
 Spare us, and eat each other. 
 
 * $ 
 
106 HORACE IN LONDON. £OOK I. 
 
 ODE XXXVI. 
 
 THE GAOL DELWERY. 
 
 Et thure et fidibus juvat. 
 
 Scrape the fiddles, rub the glasses ; 
 
 Jove bestow'd, to sweeten life, 
 Claret, music, dice, and lasses ; 
 
 Fill about, and banish strife. 
 Find some fool who apes his betters, 
 
 Bid him cook a tavern treat • 
 Blithest of insolvent debtors, 
 
 Florio issues from the Fleet, 
 
 JMark with what a merry mazzard, 
 Nightly poaching where they list, 
 
 Elbow-shaking sons of hazard 
 Shake his honorable fist. 
 
ODE XXXVI. THE GAOL DELIVERY, 107 
 
 But his brother, gay and jolly, 
 
 Simpers with sincerest glee: 
 Sons of the same mother. Folly, 
 
 Who can wonder they agree ? 
 
 Tap we now our heels in dancing 
 
 Tipsily along the floor : 
 When the burgundy's advancing, 
 
 Heel taps shall exist no more. 
 Thornton, aid us in our waltzing ; 
 
 Aid us, Bacchus, in our reels : 
 If we stumble, why the fault's in 
 
 Polish'd floors and brazen heels. 
 
 Bring burnt toast and pepper' d devils, 
 
 Dry provocatives to drink ; 
 Smile, Aurora, on our revels, 
 
 Fill the bowl, boys, to the brink. 
 In a jovial hob and nob let 
 
 Kitty with the youth contend, 
 Quaff, like Amnion's son, the goblet :— ■ 
 
 Joy te our unprison'd friend I 
 
108 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Kilty on each rival brother 
 
 Turns in turn her leering eye, 
 Dubious whether this or t'other 
 
 Best deserves her tender sigh. 
 Should Old Nick hereafter waver, 
 
 To decide, like Kitty, loth, 
 Horace, as a special favor, 
 
 To his care surrenders— both. 
 
109 
 
 ODE XXXV1L 
 
 LOB'S POUND. 
 
 The Poet rejoiceth in the return of tranquillity, 
 after the imprisonment of Sir Francis Burdett 
 in the Tower. 
 
 Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero. 
 
 u Now broach ye a pipe of the best Malvoisie," 
 
 Tis sold at the Marmion tavern ; 
 Come, feast upon turtle, and sing a Scotch glee > 
 And dance round the table in grand jubilee, 
 Like so many hags in a cavern. 
 
 >Tis wrong to draw corks in the midst of a row. 
 Old Port is the devil when shaken ; 
 
 The caption was novel, I needs must allow ; 
 
 An Englishman's house was his castle till now,. 
 But castles are now and then taken. 
 
110 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 Sir Francis had sipp'd Popularity's dram — 
 Such drunkards will never be quiet ; 
 
 He said, " Mr. Serjeant, your warrant's a sham ; 
 
 Upheld by the rabble I'll stay where I am." 
 So London was all in a riot. 
 
 But soon Mr. Serjeant surmounted the basement, 
 
 Which only made John Bull the gladder ; 
 For back he was push'd, to his utter amazement, 
 The baronet smil'd when he saw from the casement 
 His enemies mounting a ladder. 
 
 At length all the constables broke in below ; 
 
 Quoth Gibbs, " It is legal, depend ont." 
 Thus riding in chace of a Doe or a Roe, 
 The flying bumbaiUfF cries " yoix ! tally ho /" 
 
 And seizes the luckless defendant. 
 
 Sir Francis, determin'd the question to try, 
 
 Was quietly reading law latin ; 
 Not able, and therefore not willing to fly, 
 He saw all the Parliament forces draw nigh, 
 
 As firm as the chair that he sat in. 
 
ode xxxvn. lob's pound. Ill 
 
 His lady was by, and she play'd on her lute, 
 
 And sung " Will you come to the bower?" 
 The Serjeant at Arms^ who was hitherto mute, 
 Advanced and exclaim'd, like an ill-natur'd brute, 
 " Sir Knight, will you come to the Tower?" 
 
 He mounted the carriage, by numbers oppress'd, 
 
 But first, with a dubious intention, 
 Like Queen Cleopatra, he secretly press'd 
 Two serpents, in tender adieu, to his breast, 
 Whose names I had rather not mention. 
 
 >Tis thus other Wimbledon heroes attain 
 
 The summit of posthumous fame ; 
 They dodge their pursuers through alley and lane, 
 But when they discover resistance is vain, 
 They kick up a dust and die game. 
 
112 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I. 
 
 ODE XXXVIII. 
 
 THE BILL OF FARE. 
 
 Pereicos odi puer apparatus. 
 
 Here, Waiter, I'll dine in this box ; 
 
 I've look'd at your long bill of fare 
 A Pythagorean it shocks 
 
 To view all the rarities there, 
 
 I'm not overburthen'd with cash, 
 Roast beef is the dinner for me ; 
 
 Then why should I eat calipash^ 
 Or why should I eat calipee ? 
 
 Your trifle's no trifle, I ween, 
 To customers prudent as I am ; 
 
 Your peas in December are green, 
 I*ut I'm not so green as to buy 'em. 
 
ODE XXXVIII. THE BILL OF FARE. 113 
 
 With ven'son I seldom am fed — 
 
 Go bring me the sirloin, you ninny ; 
 
 Who dines at a guinea a head 
 
 Will ne'er by his head get a guinea. 
 
114 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II, 
 
 BOOK II. ODE I. 
 
 THE FIRST O. P. WAR. 
 
 To Mr. Kemble. 
 
 JVfotum ex Metello consule civicttnu 
 
 \V hen civil commotion beleaguers the thane, 
 
 When tempests assail aged Lear, 
 When the ghost of old Hamlet amazes the Daiie, 
 In Richard the cruel, or Hotspur the vain, 
 O when shall your equal appear ? 
 
 The wreath of applause what philosopher scorns ? 
 
 'Tis a wreath of the sweetest moss roses ; 
 But when it the brow of an actor adorns, 
 The public will mix a few good-natur'd thorns, 
 
 To tickle his ears when he dozes. 
 
- 
 
 EI. THE FIRST O. P. WAR, 115 
 
 Awhile to your theatre now bid adieu ; 
 
 Fly, fly from the tumult and riot ; 
 Attempt not your truncheon and staff to renew, 
 But give them to Town sen n, to help to subdue 
 
 The foes to new prices and quiet. 
 
 For hark ! what a discord of bugles and bells, 
 What whistling, and springing of rattles ! 
 What screaming, and groaning, and hissing, and yells, 
 Till mad-headed Mammon his victims impels 
 To scuffle, row, riot, and battles. 
 
 And now from the barracks of Bow Street, alack ! 
 
 A band under Townsend and Sayers 
 Wave high their gilt staves, while the dull sounding 
 
 thwack 
 Falls frequent and thick on the enemies' back, 
 Or visits their pate with a merry-ton'd crack, 
 
 In aid of King John and the Players. 
 
 The Billingsgate muses, indignant to find 
 
 Catalani and fiddlers from Paris 
 i Usurping their place, in revenge have combin'd 
 To kick up this dust in the popular mindj 
 
 So fatal to Kemble and Harris. 
 
116 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II, 
 
 What surly brown bear has not gladly receiv'd 
 The misers who old prices stick to ? 
 
 At Bow-Street what knight is not sorely aggrieved ? 
 
 Where Christians are cross'd, Unbelie ve rs believ'd — 
 Oh story u mirabile dictu V 
 
 To mix in this warfare, regardless of fear, 
 What 'prentice or clerk is unwilling ? 
 From Smithfield and Wapping what heroes appear, 
 Who fight, I acknowledge, for all they hold dear, 
 When the object of war's the last shilling. 
 
 What fists of defiance the pugilists wield 1 
 
 What Jews have not had bloody noses ? 
 What victim of law, who to Mainwaring yields, 
 But gladly for ever would quit Cold Bath Fields 
 To fight here i4 pro arjs et focis" ? 
 
 But gently, my muse, hush your angry ton- d lyre ; 
 
 From rows so disgraceful remove ; 
 And seated at home by your own parlour fire, 
 Let Beauty and Bacchus your numbers inspire 
 
 To melody, laughter, and love. 
 
117 
 
 ODE II. . 
 
 To the Wanstead Lucidlus. 
 
 Kullus argento color est avaris. 
 
 If we don't make manure of our money, 
 And spread it that others may thrive, 
 
 Tis useless as ungather'd honey 
 Neglected to rot in the hive. - 
 
 Fame, trampling on ribbons and garters. 
 And scoffing at guineas as dross. 
 
 Lifts o'er the rich reprobate Chartres. 
 The poor penefactor of Ross, 
 
 To govern your mental diseases 
 Is boasting a far wider way, 
 
 Than if you could double your leases, 
 And Blenheim to Wanstead convey. 
 
118 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II* 
 
 With dropsical fevers unhealthy, 
 Our drinking increases our thirst ; 
 
 E'en such is the fate of the wealthy, 
 By quenchless cupidity curs'd. 
 
 The mob on the ninth of November, 
 Who shout at the Mayor and his mare, 
 
 Suppose him the happiest member, 
 Of Fortune's gay liveried race. 
 
 Such fancies can never inveigle 
 Men cast in philosophy's mould ; 
 
 They, stern as the sun.daring eagle, 
 Gaze firm and undazzled on gold. 
 
119 
 
 ODE III. 
 
 PHILOSOPHIC ENJOYMENT. 
 
 JEqwim memento rebus in arduis. 
 
 To 1L R. Esq. 
 
 When Fortune, fickle jade's unkind. 
 Preserve the philosophic mind, 
 
 That dignifies it's bearer ; 
 And when the goddess opes her hand, 
 Receive the purse, but scorn the band 
 
 That blinds its subject wearer. 
 
 Whether condemn' d by fate's decree, 
 To toil in town, and learn, like me, 
 
 Economy from Rumford ; 
 Or bless'd in all that you desire, 
 Living, as now, a jovial squire^ 
 
 In luxury and comfort* 
 
12.0 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 In Windsor's green romantic glades, 
 The a Monarch's and the Muses" shades^ 
 
 By silver Thames reclining, 
 Unfetter'd now your mind may soar. 
 On Aganippe's hallow'd shore, 
 
 The muse's wreath entwining. 
 
 Quaff, while you may, your choicest wine, 
 Let beauty and the muse combine 
 
 To crown your classic leisure ; 
 Snatch what the fickle fates supply, 
 Enjoy the roses 'ere they die, 
 
 And give a loose to pleasure. 
 
 Death pays no deference to name, 
 Peasant or Prince 'tis all the same ; 
 
 Unsparing king of terror, 
 His warrant cannot be delay 'd, 
 Nor his proceedings quash 'd or stay'd 
 
 By any writ of error. 
 
ODE III. PHILOSOPHIC ENJOYMENT. 121 
 
 Your heir, perchance, when you're removed, 
 Improving on what you improved, 
 
 To give his taste expansion, 
 May fell your groves, implant the lawn, 
 And with a newer grace adorn 
 
 Your metamorphos'd mansion. 
 
 Grim Cerberus at random snaps ; 
 Life is a stage laid out in traps, 
 
 A pantomimic vision ; 
 Some live to see the curtain drop. 
 And down some prematurely pop, 
 
 Like Banquo's apparition. 
 
12$ HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 ODE IV. 
 
 THE JCTRESS. 
 
 Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori* 
 
 An Actuess ! well, I own 'tis true, 
 But why should that your love subdue, 
 
 Or bid you blush for Polly ? 
 When all within is sense and worth, 
 To care for modes of life, or birth, 
 
 Is arrant pride and folly* 
 
 A Polly, in a former age, 
 Resigo'd the Captain, and the stage, 
 
 To shine as Bolton's Duchess. 
 Derby and Craven since have shown 
 That virtue builds herself a throne, 
 
 Ennobling whom she touches. 
 
ODE IV. * THE ACTRESS. 123 
 
 In each new pantomime that's hatched, 
 The Columbine is quickly snatch'd 
 
 To wed some wealthy suitor : 
 >Tis " all for love, the world well lost"— 
 What pupil calculates the cost, 
 
 When passion is the tutor ? 
 
 Why, all the world's a stage, and we, 
 Its pantomimic pageantry, 
 
 Change places and conditions ; 
 Fortune's the magic Harlequin, 
 Whose touch diffuses o'er the scene 
 
 Fantastic transpositions. 
 
 Your Polly in her veins may bear 
 
 The blood, perchance, of London's Mayor, 
 
 Who smote the King's reviler ; 
 Whose mace a monarch's life secures, 
 But slays an ancestor of yours, 
 
 In knocking down Wat Tyler. 
 
 g % 
 
124 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 She who is artless, chaste, refin'd, 
 Disinterested, pure in mind, 
 
 Unsoil'd with vices leaven, 
 Has that nobility within, 
 Which kings can neither give nor win ; 
 
 Her patent is from heaven. 
 
 Discard your doubts — your suit prefer ; 
 You dignify yourself, not her, 
 
 By honourable passion : 
 And if your noble friends should stare, 
 Go, bid them show a happier pair 
 
 Among the fools of fashion. 
 
125 
 
 ODE V. 
 
 THE UNFLEDGED MUSE. 
 
 -Nou.uin subacta ferre jugum valet. 
 
 Your Muse is too young for the trade ? 
 
 Forbear the poor soul to caress : 
 The tender, the delicate maid 
 
 Will die by the weight of the press. 
 
 Still let her on Pegasus stray, 
 But pace, in a canter at most, 
 
 The meads of La Belle Assemblee, 
 The Ladies' Museum and Post,. 
 
 To critical batteries blind, 
 How many a volunteer muse, 
 
 Her magazines leaving behind, 
 Has met with her death in reviews. 
 
1S() HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Then weigh well the pros and the cons, 
 Shew nought of the goose but it's quill ; 
 
 Get tribute from critical dons, 
 
 And then touch the Spanish at will. 
 
 Then gallop, or canter, or trot, 
 
 Your muse will the labour endure ; 
 
 Fight cap-a-pied heroes with Scott, 
 Woo sensitWe beauty with Moore. 
 
 Then rhyming, or prosing, or soft, 
 
 Or rugged, your thoughts you may blab^ 
 
 Write egotist essaj s with Loft, 
 
 Or workhouse heroics with Crabbe. 
 
 While booksellers kindle your urn, 
 
 And puff your funereal fires, 
 Your flame shall continue to burn 
 
 Long after your fuel expires. 
 
127 
 
 ODE VI. 
 
 THE CLASSIC VILLA. 
 
 Septimi, Gades aditure mecam. 
 
 Muse, at whose gate I've oft times knocks, 
 In fancy's dream thy charms caressing ; 
 
 Whose maid my dignity has shock'd 
 
 As oft, by answering, Sir, she's dressing. 
 
 O'er my last lay thy gold dust shake, 
 
 A guinea for each line I spin is 
 The lowest farthing I can take ; 
 
 The whole will cost three thousand guineas, 
 
 Thus let me write from youth to age, 
 And when the critics dub me Crassus 9 
 
 With a low bow I'll quit the stage, 
 And sport a villa near Parnassus. 
 
128 HORACE IX LONDON. BOOK IF. 
 
 Safe from adversity's attacks, 
 
 There let me quaff from Phoebus' chalice, 
 In a snug house, like trusty Mac's, 
 
 Adjoining to my sovereign's palace. 
 
 But if the envious fates refuse. 
 
 And dub my tuneful swan a raven, 
 
 Pack thy portmanteau, injur'd muse, 
 And seek with me Britannia's haven. 
 
 A lane near Crrpplegate extends, 
 
 Grub Street 'tis call'd, the London Pindus, 
 
 Where, but that Bards are seldom friends, 
 
 Bards might shake hands from adverse window*. 
 
 There Thyrsis tunes his oaten reed, 
 
 (Nought oaten else to make him merry), 
 
 There grave Virginia smokes her weed, 
 And Juniper distils his berry. 
 
 All loftier tenants I discard, 
 
 I soar to catch Apollo's favour ; 
 The attic floor shall prop the bard, 
 
 And attic salt his porridge savour. 
 
ODE VI. THE CLASSIC VILLA. 129 
 
 And when the poet's goal I reach, 
 
 With body lean and tunic 9habby, 
 Chaunt, widow'd muse, my dying speech. 
 
 And shroud my ashes in the abbey. 
 
 & 
 
130 HOHACE IN tONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 ODE VII. 
 AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 O saepe mecum tempus in ultimum. 
 
 Oh ! whence are you come, 
 
 My crony, my chum, 
 In boyhood's bright sun-shiney weather ? 
 
 What shock of the spheres, 
 
 After so many years, 
 Has thrown us again both together ? 
 
 How oft you and I 
 
 Have drank ourselres dry, 
 Till mounting high over our heads, 
 
 Morn enter'd the casement. 
 
 And stared with amazemen^ 
 To find us not yet in our beds. 
 
ODE VIL AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 131 
 
 One night at the British, 
 
 We grew rather skittish, 
 And sallied out fighting the rabble ; 
 
 But the guardians of night, 
 
 Put our valour to flight, 
 And I lost my hat in the squabble. 
 
 Fair cloud-cover'd Venus, 
 
 Intruding between us, 
 Me carried away from the battle ; 
 
 While you left at large, 
 
 Return'd to the charge, 
 And bore off a lanthorn and rattle. 
 
 >Tis six— come and dine, 
 
 And over our wine 
 Well talk of our juvenile laurels ! 
 
 What boys we were then ! 
 
 But now we are men, 
 And seldom engage in street quarrels. 
 
 At twelve let us sup^ 
 We'll not keep it up 
 All night, like your rake-helly ranters J 
 
132 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II, 
 
 At three, or half after, 
 The goddess of laughter, 
 Shall bear off the empty decanters* 
 
 We'll talk of our gambols, 
 
 Our riots and rambles, 
 Till Phoebus looks out of his garret ; 
 
 Two bottles in one, 
 
 Are excellent fun, 
 So, waiter — a magnum of claret* 
 
 
133 
 
 ODE VIII. 
 
 To Mrs. MJRYJWNE CLARKE, 
 
 UUa si juris tibi pejerati. 
 
 Jr, furious as your seeming fibs. 
 Fate aided by Sir Vicary Gibbs, 
 
 On thee, frail fair one, pouncing, 
 Had pared one nail or drawn one tooth, 
 While tooth and nail you fought for truth, 
 
 I might have thought you bouncing. 
 
 But now, the grand inquiry o'er, 
 You blaze upon us more and more, 
 
 For public life grown fitter— 
 To Westbourne Place all parties go— 
 At lovers' perjuries, we know, 
 
 Gieat Jove himself will titter. 
 
134 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Whether a widow or a wife, 
 
 Who cares ? admit your private life 
 
 Than Erebus were fouler • * 
 The public is indifferent quite, 
 Whether upon a given night, 
 
 You slept with me or Dowler. 
 
 Psha ! Venus laughs at tricks like these £ 
 Her nymphs, whatever their degrees, 
 
 Will cheat when they are able. 
 Yes, when commissions are the bait, 
 E'en Dulwich hermits emulate 
 
 The Santon in the fable. 
 
 New lovers swell your list ; the old 
 Still make their suit, all potent gold 
 
 Unwilling to abandon : 
 Revolving time may view again, 
 Bowing obsequious in your train, 
 
 Some future Captain Sandon. 
 
 Mothers by you their daughters warn, 
 And bid the tittering hussies scorn 
 Your scandalous behaving. 
 
ODE VIII. TO MRS. CLARKE. 135 
 
 The prudent, parsimonious sire, 
 Trembles to see his son admire 
 Your mezzotint engraving. 
 
 The blushing bride your name reviles, 
 And in your fascinating wiles 
 
 Anticipates disaster. 
 The Cit who keeps a Clarke like you, 
 His Saturnalian fate will rue, 
 
 And find the Clerk the master. 
 
136 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 ODE IX. 
 
 THE YOUNG WIDOW. 
 
 Non semper imbres nubidus hispidos* 
 
 jN ot for ever bleak November, 
 Chills the gayly dancing hours ; 
 
 Rolling time, dear girl, remember, 
 Decks the bright parterre with flowers. 
 
 Ice the Serpentine may cover, 
 
 Oaks their leafless boughs display 5 
 
 What care I ? the winter over, 
 Soon shall follow laughing May. 
 
 Why shouldst thou all joy denying^ 
 Still in tears thy 'kerchief steep ? 
 
 Pale Aurora hears thy sighing, 
 Setting Phcebus sees thee weep. 
 
ODE IX, THE YOUNG WIDOW. 137 
 
 Clad in bombazeen and cam'let, 
 Gertrude wept a monarch dead : 
 
 See her soon, forgetting Hamlet, 
 Take his brother to her bed. 
 
 Dido torn from poor Sichaeus, 
 
 Thus repining sought relief: 
 " Anna ! don't you think iEneas 
 
 " Might contrive to heal my grief ? w 
 
 Thy good man in sleep reposes ; 
 
 Soon thou wilt another choose : 
 Widow's weeds ail turn to roses, 
 
 When a comely suitor woes. 
 
 Give the hours to joyous greeting, 
 
 Vulgar sorrows far above ; 
 Youth and beauty, O how fleeting 1 
 
 O how fleeting, woman's love I 
 
 Let us sing the song you relish, 
 Who at Brighton bear the bell, 
 
 Walking Barclay, racing Mellish, 
 Fun, and vive la bagatelle ! 
 
138 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Tears from Pluto's dark dominion 
 Cannot now thy husband keep ; 
 
 If they could, 'tis my opinion 
 
 Those bright eyes would cease to weep ! 
 
139 
 
 ODE X. 
 
 TO ROMEO, 
 
 On his late Fall from his Curricle* 
 
 Recti us vives, Licini, neque altum. 
 
 Sound, Romeo, sound a wise retreat, 
 For though the town's applause is sweety 
 
 It's hiss is dire and horrid : 
 Nor when you give the boards the slip. 
 And change the truncheon for the whip, 
 
 Pave Pall Mall with your forehead. 
 
 Philosophy nor wastes nor spares, 
 Starves not to benefit his heirs, 
 
 Nor spends his all in riot ; 
 Dines not at nine a Duke to meet, 
 Nor dives at one, in Dyot Street, 
 
 For Ordinary diet. 
 
140 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK IT. 
 
 Whert ice encrusts the slippery bank, 
 The tallest fall with heaviest spank, 
 
 (The bard who writes has felt it,) 
 The bolt that strikes thy dome, Saint Paul, 
 Sweeps o'er the cobler in his stall, 
 
 And leaves his wax unmelted. 
 
 When caution's doublet cloaks the breast, 
 We fear the worst, we hope the best ; 
 
 Last Wednesday seem'd a dry day, 
 But Jove pour'd down a waterfall 
 That spoilt our party to Vauxhall ; 
 
 What then : — We went on Friday ! 
 
 Would you Contentment's bower approach^ 
 Walk, or when clou ly, call a coach ; 
 
 V ben Sirius rages, boat it ; 
 When quizz< rs roast you, silent sit ; 
 And when admirers hail your wit* 
 
 Suspect Joe Miller wrote it. 
 
141 
 
 ODE XI. 
 
 The QUIDNUNC. 
 
 Quid belicosus Cantaber et Scythes. 
 
 Cease, cease, gloomy mortal, to trouble your 
 brain, 
 
 With Spain and her heroes to liberty true ; 
 Napoleon must cut off an arm of the main, 
 
 Ere he, or his arms, can give trouble to you. 
 
 Our youth, like a rainbow, soon loses its charms. 
 And with it life's flattering colours are gone ; 
 
 Soft sleep, love, and pleasure, are scared from our 
 arms, 
 As age on his crutches comes tottering on. 
 
142 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 The spring and its roses soon bend to the blast, 
 The moon fades away, leaving darkness behind; 
 
 Since nature will change, why should misery last, 
 Or care and his legions bedevil our mind ? 
 
 Dear Hal, if thou lov'st me, (as Falstaff would say) 
 Let carking old care be invaulted below ; 
 
 And if he will rise when you wish to be gay, 
 
 Bid him bring you a bottle of Chateau-Margaud* 
 
 Then let him, when Bacchus and pleasure combine 
 To banish the woes of this whirligig world 5 
 
 Like Clarence obtain his quietus in wine ; 
 Within the Red Sea, let his spirit be hurl'd. 
 
 The drinkers of water are drunkards, not we, 
 Ariston men Udor's an adage for swine ; 
 
 For man's like a beast tippling water, and he 
 Must be drunk as a beast who refuses his wine. 
 
 Let Laura, the lovely enchantress, appear, 
 
 And breathe to her harp the effusions of Moore : 
 
 Enjoying these transports, oh, what should we fear, 
 While wit can exalt us, or beauty allure ? 
 
,ODE XI. THE QUIDNUNC. 143 
 
 Then cease, my dear Quidnunc, to groan at the news i 
 Nor mourn o'er the records of national sorrow * 
 
 But if you must study, oh study to lose, 
 In this day's enjoyment the thought of to-morrow* 
 
144 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK IT. 
 
 ODE XII. 
 
 MISS PUFF. 
 
 To Horace in Rome* 
 
 Nolis louga fer« bella Numantia?. 
 
 Immortal Flaccus, on my soul, 
 Well might you think it passing droll. 
 
 Were I to start the rival of your glory ; 
 Ape in my odes your playful verse, 
 Affect your satire, keen and terse, 
 
 Or grace with kings and chiefs my classic story ! 
 
 You, mighty minstrel, are at home 
 C haunting the civil wars of Rome, 
 The praises of Augustus or Maecenas : 
 
ODE XII. MISS PUFF. 145 
 
 My humble Muse in London tells, 
 Of civil wars 'twixt beaus and belles, 
 Or burns for thee, Miss Puff, the City Venus. 
 
 That eye I sing, whose ambush-play 
 
 Kills while it looks another way, 
 That voice so true to false and vulgar grammar, 
 
 That breast I know not where to find, 
 
 That graceful curvature behind, 
 That wealth her father conquer'd with his ham- 
 mer. 
 
 When at my Lord Mayor's ball she dines^ 
 In gold and carving how she shines, 
 
 Or like an Ignis Fatuus cuts her capers \ 
 Ah me ! in vain I look and sigh, 
 Some fool will own that gooseberry eye, 
 
 And make her gold a nostrum for the vapours. 
 
 Tho' now in Laurence-Pountney.Lane, 
 The cruel Syren holds her reign, 
 Unseen, unnoticd, through her spatter'd case- 
 ment- 
 
 H 
 
146 
 
 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Soon blazing forth in Russell Square, 
 The gilded monster shall be there, 
 A fruitful theme of laughter aud amazement. 
 
147 
 
 ODE XIII. 
 
 The STOCK JOBBER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Ille et nefasto te posttit die. 
 
 \J fatal Omnium, wicked was his noddle , 
 Who first created (omen of ill luck) 
 
 Thee 5 doom'd to make thy holder almost waddle, 
 And turn a green Goose, to a limping Duck. 
 
 Napoleon, who with me has play'd the Devil 9 
 Has doubtless acted it with many more, 
 
 In midnight massacres disposed to revel, 
 Or poison soldiers upon Jaffa's shore. 
 
 All other crimes I could forgive thee, Boney, 
 But this exceeds the blackest in degree ; 
 
 'Tis murderous sacrilege to take my money, 
 For money is both life and soul to me. 
 
 f h.S- 
 
148 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II- 
 
 We cannot all of us be always winners. 
 
 Bulls will hold on when markets mock their art ; 
 
 And disappointed Bears, tho' cunning sinners, 
 Sometimes hold off, when prices upward start. 
 
 Fortune takes one behind her on a pillion ; 
 
 Another, whom to-day she tumbles down, 
 To morrow she may bless with half a million, 
 
 And leave the first with scarcely half a crown. 
 
 There future Ducks who in hot water dabble, 
 Chatter of leagues and wars in sounds confused : 
 
 Others of Long Annuities will gabble, 
 
 Or prate of my appropriate Fund— —Reduced. 
 
 But what a sudden truce to their debating, 
 
 When the commissioners are served with stock ! 
 
 Then Bulls and Bears, no more each other baiting, 
 Round a new pivot clamorously flock. 
 
 Three-headed Cerberus stands mute with wonder, 
 To find his roar excell'd by human tongues, 
 
 With lifted hands, all bellowing like thunder, 
 A fleet of fingers in a storm of lungs. 
 
ODE XIII. STOCK JOBBER'S LAMENT. 149 
 
 Rise from the shades, old Orpheus, with thy fiddle, 
 To quell this row among the biped cattle. 
 
 Bid Bulls with dancing Bears lead down the middle. 
 So shall their tongues and heels in concert rattle. 
 
150 HORACE IN LOXDON. BOOK II. 
 
 ODE XIV. 
 
 To any Great Man. 
 
 Eheut fugaces, Posthume, Posthmne, 
 
 * 
 
 Ah me ! on his wide- waving pinions* 
 Time carries us on day by day, 
 
 And downwards to Pluto's dominions 
 We mortals are posting away. 
 
 Jfot Huntington, cleans'd from his errors, 
 And dubb'd by diploma S. S. 
 
 Has yet taught the monarch of terrors 
 To dine on one mouthful the less. 
 
 Sage Solomon's Gilead potion 
 No chronic disease can assuage ; 
 
 O Go-wlnnd) how vain is thy lotion. 
 To wash out the wrinkles of age ! 
 
•DE XIV. TO ANY GREAT MAN. 151 
 
 Whole hecatombs vainly we proffer 
 
 To hell's unappeasable chief, 
 Old Iron-cheek laughs at the offer, 
 
 And swallows down us and our beef t 
 
 We all in one pinnace are rowing, 
 The haven we seek is the grave ; 
 
 The Stygian waters are flowing, 
 Alike for the monarch and slave. 
 
 We shun the rude billows of Ocean, 
 We shrink from the wind and the rain ? 
 
 We fly from the battle's commotion, 
 And dodge the grim Serjeant in vain. 
 
 The bourn we have all such a dread of 
 We quickly must visit below, 
 
 And talk with the heroes we read of 
 In Littleton^ Lucian y and Rowe. 
 
 Good bye to your farm and your stables, 
 Farewell to your liveried train; 
 
 Your well-jointur'd widow in sables, 
 Shall mourn like the twice mated Dane* 
 
152 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 That nodding plantation to-morrow 
 For some other owner shall bloom, 
 
 The yew tree alone in mute sorrow 
 Shall sullenly wave o'er your tomb. 
 
 This house, when it boasts a new dweller, 
 Shall bid thrifty prudence farewell ; 
 
 Your son, with the keys of the cellar, 
 Shall tinkle your funeral knell. 
 
 Your claret shall flow like a river, 
 Your old bottled port, set adrift, 
 
 Shall drown every thought of the giver 
 In frolicksome love of the gift. 
 
153 
 
 ODE XV. 
 
 NEW BUILDINGS: 
 
 Jam pauca aratro jugera regia. 
 
 Saint George's Fields are fields no more, 
 The trowel supersedes the plough, 
 
 Huge inundated swamps of yore, 
 Are changed to civic villas now. 
 
 The builder's plank, the mason's hod, 
 Wide, and more wide extending still, 
 
 Usurp the violated sod, 
 
 From Lambeth Marsh to Balaam Hill. 
 
 Pert poplars, yew trees, water tubs, 
 No more at Clapham meet the eye, 
 
 But velvet lawns, Acacian shrubs, 
 With perfume greet the passer by„ . 
 
154 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Thy carpets, Persia, deck our floors, 
 Chintz curtains shade the polish'd pane* 
 
 Virandas guard the darken'd doors, 
 
 Where dunning Phoebus knocks in vain« 
 
 Not thus acquir'd was Gresham's hoard, 
 Who founded London's mart of trade ) 
 
 Not such thy life, Grimalkin's lord, 
 Who Bow's recalling peal obey'd. 
 
 In Mark or Mincing Lane confiu'd, 
 In cheerful toil they pass'd the hours ; 
 
 ? Twas theirs to leave their wealth behind, 
 To lavish, while we live, is ours. 
 
 They gave no treats to thankless kings ; 
 
 Many their gains, their wants were few; 
 They built no house with spacious wings, 
 
 To give their riches pinions too. 
 
 Yet sometimes leaving in the lurch 
 
 Sons, to luxurious folly prone, 
 Their funds rebuilt the parish church— 
 
 Oh ! pious waste, to us unknown. 
 
ODE XV. NEW BUILDINGS. 155 
 
 We from our circle never roam, 
 Nor ape our sires' eccentric sins ; 
 
 Our charity begins at home, 
 
 And mostly ends where it begins. 
 
156 HORACE IN LONDON, BOOK IF. 
 
 ODE XVI. 
 
 WIT ON THE WING. 
 
 To George Colman the Younger. 
 
 Otium Divos rogat in pa tend. 
 
 1 he youth, from his indentures freed, 
 Who mounts astride the winged steed. 
 
 The muses' hunt to follow ; 
 With terror eyes the yawning pit, 
 And for a modicum of wit 
 
 Petitions great Apollo. 
 
 For wit the quarto-building wight 
 Inrokes the Gods ; the jilt in spite 
 
 Eludes the man of letters. 
 Wit thro' the wire-wore margin glides, 
 And all the gilded pomp derides 
 
 Of red morocco fetters. 
 
 flj*- 
 
ODE XVI. WIT ON THE WING* 157 
 
 Vain is the smart port-folio set, 
 The costly inkstand, black as jet, 
 
 The desk of polish'd level ; 
 The well-shorn pens to use at will :— 
 "Tis no great task to cut a quill — 
 
 To cut a joke's the devil! 
 
 Happy, for rural business fit. 
 Who merely tills his mother wit, 
 
 In humble life he settles; 
 Unskilled in repartee to shine, 
 He ne'er exclaims, " descend, ye nine V p 
 
 But when he plays at skittles,, 
 
 They who neglect their proper home 
 To dig for ore in Greece or Rome, 
 
 Are poor Quixotic Vandals; 
 'Twas well enough in needy Goths, 
 But why should we, like foolish moths, 
 
 Buzz round the Roman candles if 
 
158 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Care swarms in rivers, roads, and bogs, 
 It's plagues spring up like Pharaoh's frogs, 
 
 Too numerous to bury ; 
 It roams through London streets at large, 
 And now bestrides a Lord Mayor's barge, 
 
 And now a Yauxhall wherry. 
 
 ^ The man who no vertigo feels, 
 When borne aloft on Fortune's wheels, 
 
 But at their motion titters ; 
 Pitying the sons of care and strife, 
 Enjoys the present sweets of life, 
 Nor heeds its future bitters. 
 
 Poor Tobin died, alas ! too soon, 
 Ere with chaste ray his Honey Moon 
 
 Had shone to glad the nation : 
 Others, I will not mention who, 
 For many a year may (entre nous) 
 
 Outlive their own damnation. 
 
0DE XVI, WIT ON THE WING. 159 
 
 Who creep in prose, or soar in rhyme, 
 Alike must bow the knee to Time, 
 
 From Massinger to Murphy ; 
 And all who flit on Lethe's brink, 
 Too weak to swim, alas ! must sink, 
 
 From Davenant to Durfey. 
 
 Your rival muses, like two wives, 
 Assail your pate, and while each strives 
 
 To win you to her quarrel, 
 Like Garrick painted by Sir Jos, 
 You stand between them, at a loss 
 
 On which to weave the laurel. 
 
 My Muse is of the ostrich sort, 
 Her eggs of fortune's gale the sport, 
 
 She in the sand conceals 'em : 
 By no intrusive wanderer found, 
 'Till watchman Phoebus walks his round. 
 
 And with his lamp reveals 'em. 
 
160 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 But should the god's far-darting ray 
 Destroy her fragile web to-day, 
 
 She'll spin again to morrow ; 
 These trifles ne'er her mind annoy, 
 Who never knew a parent's joy, 
 
 Ne'er felt a parent's sorrow, 
 
161 
 
 ODE XVII. 
 
 PENNY WISE AND POUND 
 FOOLISH. 
 
 Cur me querelis exanimas tuis. 
 
 Why plague me to death with your sighs ? 
 
 Why mope you thus froward and mulish? 
 Your Brother, your friend Pennywise 
 
 Will never survive his Poundfoolish. 
 
 You lose in adventure your gold, 
 
 Whilst I half commissions am rich in ; 
 
 I freeze in the parlour with cold, 
 
 You waste all the coals in the kitchen. 
 
 So firm our affection, so true, 
 
 So constant, or losing or winning, 
 he blow that demolishes you 
 Will set all my farthings a spinning. 
 
162 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II, 
 
 How complex the purse we have spun ! 
 
 If e'er Liberality sever 
 The close twisted thread of the one, 
 
 The other is ruin'd for ever. 
 
 If fever assail me, for thee 
 
 Dog cheap with the evil I'll wrestle ; 
 
 111 spurn Doctor Bailey to fee 
 
 Some second rate knight of the pestle. 
 
 Our mother, high wages to save, 
 
 Engaged for a nurse a cheap dawdle, 
 
 Who hurried her off to the grave, 
 By giving her gruel for cawdle. 
 
 When O. P.s set up a hubbub, 
 
 We did not each other as foes treat, 
 I pack'd off the beefeater's club, 
 
 And you rais'd the pillars in Bow Street. 
 
 Last week I bespoke me a hearse, 
 
 Self Interest whisper'd — Self murder ; 
 
 But Avarice lurk'd in my purse, 
 And, lucky escape ! overheard her. 
 
ODE XVII. PENNY WISE, &C. 
 
 163 
 
 Our bed is a second-hand tent; 
 
 Away with the cushions of comfort ! 
 Do you daub the house with cement, 
 
 And I'll burn a coal to Count Rumford. 
 
164 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK TI. 
 
 ODE XVIII. 
 THE UNANSWERABLE QUERY. 
 
 Non ebur, neque aureum. 
 
 cage elephant, thou'rt safe— I hold 
 No ivory, save one tooth-pick case, 
 
 My paper boasts no edge of gold • 
 My stationer is Henri/ Hase* 
 
 My stucco is of Gallic grey, 
 My cornices from gilt are free ; 
 
 My pillars spurn the gaudy sway 
 Of antichristian porphyry. 
 
 I boast no heaps of sordid gain, 
 
 No plunder'd heirs my fraud bemoan ; 
 
 I bear no golden fleece from Spain, 
 To patch a Joseph of my own. 
 
ODE XVIII. UNANSWERABLEQUERW l65 
 
 Yet honour and the liberal arts 
 
 To Fashion's dome my steps invite ; 
 
 And when the God of Day departs, 
 I kiss the Muse by Dian's light. 
 
 Through life's low vale I take my way, 
 
 From wealthy friends no wealth I borrow, 
 
 Content to see the passing day 
 
 So used as not to mar the morrow. 
 
 Whilst Avarice counts his bags of gold, 
 And Mammon's dome salutes the sight, 
 
 New moons succeed the waning old, 
 Day urges day with ceaseless flight. 
 
 See towering o'er Threadneedle Street 
 
 A mausoleum, rais'd by Soane, 
 Where dutiful directors meet, 
 
 Thy loss, dead bullion, to bemoan. 
 
 The mansion swells behind, before, 
 Old Lothbury laments in vain : 
 
 The saint who lost his skin of yore, 
 Now mourns the loss of half his lane. 
 
166 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK I T. 
 
 Oh ! say what means this deafening din, 
 A thousand Babel voices shout ; 
 
 Bears leagued with bulls rush roaring in, 
 And limping lame ducks waddle out. 
 
 Hence speculation upward springs, 
 Nor heeds the law that rules the bal^ 
 
 Who mounts aloft on paper wings, 
 But mounts, like Icarus, to fall. 
 
 Earth labours with a motley freight, 
 From Gallia's king to Afric's slave; 
 
 But in the end impartial fate 
 Bestows on all an equal grave. 
 
 To bear poor souls to Pluto's tribe, 
 One doit is Charon's modest gain,-** 
 
 Ten thousand pounds will never bribe 
 The rogue to row us back again ! 
 
 In earth our splendour to enshrine, 
 
 Like sightless moles, we downward toil ; 
 
 For this, pale Avarice digs the mine, 
 And ruddy Labour ploughs the soil. 
 
ODE XVIII. UNANSWERABLE QUERY. 167 
 
 Ye who in mausoleums lie, 
 
 Where now is all your golden store ? 
 
 Where now— but, if you won't reply, 
 'Twere waste of words to ask you more. 
 
168 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 ODE XIX. 
 
 COB BELT. 
 
 Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus. 
 
 Where halts the Richmond coach to bait, 
 With ears erect and mouths dilate, 
 
 (Believe it future ages) 
 I saw the Naiads quit the Thames, 
 Fishers their nets, and boys their games, 
 
 To dive in Cobbett's pages. 
 
 Cobbett, huzza ! I burn ! I rave ! 
 Laws, locks, and Lincoln gaol I brave ; 
 
 Spare, Anarch lov'd yet dreaded, 
 The bard who hails you tumult's god, 
 And lauds your pen, like Hermes' rod, 
 
 Gall-tipp'd and serpent-headed. 
 
ODE XIX. COBBETT. 169 
 
 With yours, his own, and Home Tooke's tongues. 
 The Baronet's exhaustless lungs, 
 
 The dog of hell out warble : 
 While you his Gorgon vipers wield, 
 Back on your master turn the shield, 
 
 And change his heart to marble. 
 
 The cat 0' nine tails you abuse, 
 And billingsgate each classic muse ; 
 
 Henceforth another cue get : 
 The assailant now the Nine assail, 
 Each muse contributing a tail, 
 
 To whip you into Newgate. 
 
 When Jacobins, in reason's trance, 
 Ruled, mob on mob, devoted France, 
 
 Reacting on reaction ; 
 You baffled, tooth and nail for law, 
 ind hid, beneath the lion's paw, 
 The cloven foot of faction. 
 
1/0 HORACE IN JLONDO^. BOOK II- 
 
 Hail, Botley Bifrons ! sinuous eel! 
 How shall the Muse your course reveal ? 
 
 In what Pindarics word it? 
 Round like a weathercock you flit, 
 As interest veers, now pulling Pitt, 
 
 And now inflating Burdett. 
 
 E'en Windham, chivalrous no more, 
 In your hot water dipp'd his oar, 
 
 And let your torrent turn him ; 
 He bymn'd your worth, your virtues sung, 
 And lick'd, with metaphysic tongue, 
 
 The foot ordain d to spurn him. 
 
171 
 
 ODE XX. 
 
 THE LYRICAL LACKEY. 
 
 Non usitata nec tenui ferar. 
 
 Stand clear ! and let a poet fly : 
 
 On this wing lyric, 
 
 7 hat satyric, 
 I'll mount, like Garnerin, the sky, 
 
 Nor mope in Grub Strf et garret \ 
 Though lowly born, I'll fear discard, 
 
 My polish'd odes 
 
 To gay abodes 
 Shall bowl me, like a merry bard, 
 To sing and tipple claret. 
 
172 HORACE IN LONDON. BOOK II. 
 
 Enroll'd among the black leg race, 
 A milk-white swan, 
 No longer man, 
 Aloft my airy course I trace, 
 
 And mount o'er London city — 
 On wings of foolscap, wire-wove, glaz'd^ 
 Thro' margin wide, 
 Serene I glide, 
 Whilst long-ear'd citizens amazed, 
 Cry " bravo" at my ditty. 
 
 Trotting thro' Pindus' flow'ry path. 
 
 In waltzes, reels, 
 
 111 shake my heels, 
 111 dip at Brighton, sip at Bath, 
 And doff my suit of sables- 
 Tall Tully of a Spouting Club, 
 
 III mimic Pitt 
 
 In all but wit, 
 And cut the Biogenic tub, 
 For Alexandrine tables. 
 
0I)E XX. THE LYRICAL LACKEY. 173 
 
 Tho' all the while my proper self 
 
 Is snug at home, 
 
 My pen shall roam 
 A modish tour in quest of pelf, 
 And scorning critic cavils, 
 I'll visit Egypt, Florence, Greece, 
 
 And then return, 
 
 Thro* Basle and Berne, 
 The London Booksellers to fleece, 
 And sell John Bull my travels. 
 
 Of epics, I'll compose a, few / 
 
 The vile reviews, 
 
 I'll ne'er peruse ; 
 I'll edit bards I never knew : 
 
 I'll snap at all commissions : 
 Like Harlequin, tho' far more plump j 
 
 My tricks I'll play, 
 
 Then hey ! away ! 
 Bounce at a single leap, I'll jump 
 Thro' half a score editions ! 
 
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