THE PRINCESS OF WALES MADAM, to all your censures I submit, By your commands and inclination sway'd, "Aid me, bright Phoebus! aid, ye sacred Nine! Exalt my genius, and my verse refine. My strains with Carolina's name I grace, The lovely parent of our royal race. Breathe soft, ye winds! ye waves, in silence sleep! Let prosperous breezes wanton o'er the deep, Swell the white sails, and with the streamers play, To waft her gently o'er the watery way." Here I to Neptune form'd a pompous prayer, To rein the winds, and guard the royal fair; Bid the blue Tritons sound their twisted shells, And call the Nereïds from their pearly cells. Thus my warm zeal had drawn the Muse along, Yet knew no method to conduct her song: I then resolv'd some model to pursue, Perus'd French critics, and began anew. Long open panegyric drags at best, And praise is only praise when well address'd. Straight Horace for some lucky ode I sought : And all along I trac'd him thought by thought. This new performance to a friend I show'd: "For shame!" says he; "what, imitate an ode! I'd rather ballads write, and Grub-street lays, Than pillage Cæsar for my patron's praise: One common fate all imitators share, To save mince-pies, and cap the grocer's ware. Ladies! to you I next inscrib'd my lay, Beauty and wit were sure by Nature join'd, And charms are emanations of the mind; The soul, transpiercing through the shining frame, Forms all the graces of the princely dame: Benevolence her conversation guides, Smiles on her cheek, and in her eye resides. Such harmony upon her tongue is found, As softens English to Italian sound: Yet in those sounds such sentiments appear, "From her form all your characters of life, Thus far I'd gone: propitious rising gales Now bid the sailor hoist the swelling sails. Fair Carolina lands; the cannons roar; White Albion's cliffs resound from shore to shore. Behold the bright original appear, All praise is faint when Carolina's near. Thus to the nation's joy, but poet's cost, The princess came, and my new plan was lost. Since all my schemes were baulk'd, (my last I left the Muses, to frequent the court: [resort) Pensive each night from room to room I walk'd, To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd; Inquir'd what news, or such a lady's name, And did the next day, and the next, the same. Places, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly Gazette mention'd Gay. I ask'd a friend what method to pursue; He cry'd, "I want a place as well as you." Another ask'd me, why I had not writ; "A poet owes his fortune to his wit.” Straight I reply'd, "With what a courtly grace Flows easy verse from him, that has a place! Had Virgil ne'er at court improv'd his strains, He still had sung of flocks and homely swains; And, had not Horace sweet preferment found, The Roman lyre had never learnt to sound." Once ladies fair in homely guise I sung, And with their names wild woods and mountains O teach me now to strike a softer strain! [rung. The court retines the language of the plain. "You must," cries one, 66 the ministry rehearse, And with each patriot's name prolong your verse,' But sure this truth to poets should be known, That praising all alike, is praising none. Another told me, if I wish'd success, To some distinguish'd lord I must address; Still every one I met in this agreed, That writing was my method to succeed; But now preferments so possess'd my brain, That scarce I could produce a single strain Indeed, I sometimes hammer'd out a line, "Methinks I see some bard, whose heavenly rage Shall rise in song, and warm a future age, Look back through time, and, wrapt in wonder, The glorious series of the Brunswick race. [trace "From the first George these godlike kings descend, A line which only with the world shall end. Here paus'd the sullen Muse; in haste I dress'd, EPISTLE II. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF BURLINGTON. A JOURNEY TO EXETER. WHILE you, my lord, bid stately piles ascend, Or in your Chiswick bowers enjoy your friend; Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach, The purple vine, blue plum, and blushing peach; I journey far.-You knew fat bards might tire, And, mounted, sent ine forth your trusty squire. "Twas on the day when city-dames repair To take their weekly dose of Hyde-park air; When forth we trot: no carts the road infest, For still on Sundays country horses rest. Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen; Thro' Hammersinith jog on to Turnham-green. That Turnham-green, which dainty pigeons fed, But feeds no more: for Solomon is dead. Three dusty miles reach Brentford's tedious town, For dirty streets and white-legg'd chickens known. Thence, o'er wide shrubby heaths and furrow'd lanes, [Staines. We come where Thames divides the meads of We ferry'd o'er; for late the winter's flood Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood. Prepar'd for war, now Bagshot-heath we cross, Where broken gamesters oft repair their loss. At Hartley-row the foaming bit we prest, While the fat landlord welcom'd every guest. Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown'd, Our host extoll'd his wine at every round; Relates the justices late meeting there, How many bottles drank, and what their cheer; A man once famous for breeding pigeons. What lords had been his guests in days of yore, And prais'd their wisdom much, their drinking Let travellers the morning-vigils keep: [more. The Morning rose, but we lay fast asleep. Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry Sun, And Popham-lane was scarce in sight by one: The straggling village harbour'd thieves of old, 'Twas here the stage-coach'd lass resign'd her gold; That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns, And sent her home a belle to country towns. But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood: Here unown'd infants find their daily food; For, should the maiden-mother nurse her son, Twould spoil her match when her good name is Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore, Nor fail'd her breast to suckle nineteen more. Be just, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear: Be virgins still in town, but mothers here. Sutton we pass, and leave her spacious down, And with the setting Sun reach Stockbridge towa O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides, And the red dainty trout our knife divides. Sad melancholy every visage wears; What! no election come in seven long years! Of all our race of mayors, shall Snow alone! Be by sir Richard's dedication known? Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float, Nor coblers feast three years upon one vote. Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded plain, Where the cloak'd shepherd guides his fleecy train. Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire The proud cathedral, and the lofty spirs? What sempstress has not prov'd thy scissars good? From hence first came th' intriguing riding-hood. Amid three boarding-schools well stock'd with misses2, Shall three knight-errants starve for want of kisses? Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o'erlooks, Border'd by meads, and wash'd by silver brooks. Sir Richard Steele, member for Stockbridge, wrote a treatise, called The Importance of Dunkirk considered, and dedicated it to Mr. John Snow, bailiff of Stockbridge. Gay-Dr. Swift wrote a humorous treatise in answer to it, called The Importance of the Guardian considered, in a second letter to the bailiff of Stockbridge, 1713. N. 2 There are three boarding-schools in this town Gay. Here sleep my two companions eyes supprest, Their painful postures, and their eyeless face; The distant prospects tire the travelling eye. We clizab'd the hills, when starry Night arose, Our eye through Honiton's fair valley roves. Now swelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load road; When (O blest sight!) a friendly sign we spy'd, [eyes, Might in gold letters swing on ale-house signs. Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays, And Tuttle-fields record his simple lays; Where rhymes like these might lure the nurses' While gaping infants squawl for farthing pies: "Treat here, ye shepherds blithe, your damsels sweet, For pies and cheesecakes are for damsels meet." "This is the man, this the Nassovian, whom ! Blackmore's Prince Arthur, book v. EPISTLE III. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ. 1717. PULTENEY, methinks you blame my breach of What! cannot Paris one poor page afford? [word; Yes, I can sagely, when the times are past, Laugh at those follies which I strove to taste, And each amusement, which we shar'd, review, Pleas'd with mere talking, since I talk to you. But how shall I describe, in humble prose, Their balls, assemblies, operas, and beaux? [aid, "In prose 299 oh, no, the Muse must you cry: And leave Parnassus for the Tuilleries' shade: Shall he (who late Britannia's city trod, And led the draggled Muse, with pattens shod, Through dirty lanes, and alleys' doubtful ways) Refuse to write, when Paris asks his lays!" Well then, I'll try. Descend, ye beauteous Nine, In all the colours of the rainbow shine, Let sparkling stars your neck and ear adorn, Lay on the blushes of the crimson Morn; So may ye balls and gay assemblies grace, And at the opera claim the foremost place. Travellers should ever fit expression choose, Nor with low phrase the lofty theme abuse. When they describe the state of eastern lords, Pomp and magnificence should swell their words; And when they paint the serpent's scaly pride, Their lines should hiss, their numbers smoothly But they, unmindful of poetic rules, [slide; Describe alike Mockaws and Great Moguls. Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning satire, Dress forth in simple style the Petit-maitre : "In Paris, there's a race of animals (I've seen them at their operas and balls): They stand erect, they dance whene'er they walk, Monkeys in action, perroquets in talk; They're crown'd with feathers, like the cockatoo, And, like camelions, daily change their hue; From patches justly plac'd they borrow graces, And with vermilion lacquer o'er their faces. This custom, as we visibly discern, They, by frequenting ladies' toilettes, learn." Thus might the traveller easy truth impart. Into the subject let me nobly start. How happy lives the man, how sure to charm, Whose knot embroider'd flutters down his arm! On him the ladies cast the yielding glance, Sigh in his songs, and languish in his dance : While wretched is the wit, contemn'd forlorn, Whose gummy hat no scarlet plumes adorn; No broider'd flowers his worsted ankle grace, Nor cane emboss'd with gold directs his pace; No lady's favour on his sword is hung; What though Apollo dictate from his tongue, His wit is spiritless and void of grace, Who wants th' assurance of brocade and lace. While the gay fop genteelly talks of weather, The fair in raptures doat upon his feather; Like a court-lady though he write and spell, His minuet-step was fashion'd by Marcell'; He dresses, fences. What avails to know? For women choose their men, like silks, for show L'A famous dancing-master. |