That Dalston sometimes has been known
To publish her words as his own.
Minerva read, and every God
Approved-Jove gave the critic nod:
Apollo and the sacred Nine
Were charmed, and smiled at every line;
And Mars, who little understood,
Swore, damn him if it was not good!
Venus alone sat all the while
Silent, nor deigned a single smile.
All were surprised: some thought her stupid:
Not so her confident squire Cupid;
For well the little rogue discerned
At what his mother was concerned,
Yet not a word the urchin said,
But hid in Hebe's lap his head.
At length the rising choler broke
From Venus' lips,-and thus she spoke.
"That poetry so crammed with wit,
Minerva, should your palate hit,
I wonder not, nor that some prudes
(For such there are above the clouds)
Should wish the prize of beauty torn
From her they view with envious scorn.
Me poets never please but when
Justice and truth direct their pen.
This Dalston-formerly I've known him;
Henceforth for ever I disown him;
For Homer's wit shall I despise
In him who writes with Homer's eyes.
A poem on the fairest fair
At Bath, and Betty's name not there!
Hath not this poet seen those glances
In which my wicked urchin dances?
Nor that dear dimple where he treats
Himself with all Arabia's sweets;
In whose soft down while he reposes,
In vain the lilies bloom, or roses,
To tempt him from a sweeter bed
Of fairer white or livelier red?
Hath he not seen, when some kind gale
Has blown aside the cambric veil,
That seat of paradise, where Jove
Might pamper his almighty love?
Our milky way less fair does show :
There summer's seen 'twixt hills of snow.
From her loved voice, whene'er she speaks,
What softness in each accent breaks!
And, when her dimpled smiles arise,
What sweetness sparkles in her eyes!
Can I then bear," enraged she said,
"Slights offered to my favourite maid,—
The nymph whom I decreed to be
The representative of me?"
The Goddess ceased-the Gods all bowed,
Nor one the wicked bard avowed,
Who, while in beauty's praise he writ,
Dared Beauty's Goddess to omit:
For now their godships recollected
'Twas Venus' self he had neglected,
Who in her visits to this place
Had still worn Betty Dalston's face.
AN EPISTLE TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.
WHILE at the helm of State you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride ;
While foreign Courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those counsels that they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is you cannot doubt
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers and such folks, tell us
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be is to be great,
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I!
The family that dines the latest
Is in our street esteemed the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
'Fore him who never dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know,
Hath been admired by friend and foe;
But can your earthly domes compare
With all my castles-in the air?
We're often taught, it doth behove us
To think those greater who're above us ;
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story,
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.
Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted:
This, too, doth in my favour speak;
Your levee is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,—
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
Nor in the manner of attendance
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance.
Familiar you to admiration
May be approached by all the nation;
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you're offended,
The fault is easily amended;
For I'll come down, with wondrous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
I'm not ambitious; little matters
Will serve us great but humble creatures.
Suppose a secretary o' this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
Admiral, general, judge, or bishop:
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation,
Tuscan and French are in my head,
Latin I write, and Greek-I read.
If you should ask what pleases best-
To get the most, and do the least ;
What fittest for?-you know, I'm sure,
I'm fittest for-a sinecure.
LORD LYTTELTON (GEORGE LYTTELTON).
[George, son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton, Bart., was born in 1709, and died in 1773. In Parliament he acted as a member of the liberal opposition against Sir Robert Walpole, and became secretary to the Prince of Wales. He was afterwards in office as a Lord of the Treasury, and later as Chancellor of the Exchequer. On the dissolution, in 1759, of the ministry with which he acted, he was raised to the peerage. He wrote Dialogues of the Dead, and various other works; and as a poet is known chiefly by his monody on the death of his wife his first wife, to whom he was tenderly attached. A second marriage proved unfortunate].
TO MISS LUCY FORTESCUE,1
ON HER PLEADING WANT OF TIME.
ON Thames's bank, a gentle youth
For Lucy sighed with matchless truth,
Even when he sighed in rhyme;
The lovely maid his flame returned,
And would with equal warmth have burned,
But that she had not time.
1 The lady whom Lyttelton afterwards married as his first wife.
Oft he repaired with eager feet
In secret shades this fair to meet
Beneath the accustomed lime;
She would have fondly met him there,
And healed with love each tender care,
But that she had not time.
"It was not thus, inconstant maid,
You acted once" (the shepherd said),
"When love was in its prime."
She grieved to hear him thus complain,
And would have writ to ease his pain,
But that she had not time.
"How can you act so cold a part?
No crime of mine has changed your heart,
If love be not a crime.
We soon must part for months, for years'
She would have answered with her tears,
But that she had not time.
[Born in 1709, died in 1751. He was apprenticed to a weaver; but, having broken an arm, was obliged to leave this employment, and then set up a bookstall in Spitalfields. He next became a journeyman to a bookseller, and started a Weaver's Miscellany, which was successful, and launched him on a thriving career of authorship. A Life of Christ, often reprinted, was one of his works; also a Critical Review of the Life of Oliver Cromwell. Our specimen refers no doubt to the tribulations which Bancks used to endure from wind and cold, while in charge of his book-stall].
BLOW, Boreas, foe to human kind!
Blow, blustering, freezing, piercing wind!
Blow, that thy force I may rehearse,
While all my thoughts congeal to verse!
Blow, and the strongest proofs dispense
To every doubtful reader's sense!
But chiefly chill the critic's nose
Who dares the truths I sing oppose!
Where'er old hoary Winter's feared,
There thou with trembling art revered :
In thee the dreaded power remains
By which the snowy monarch reigns.
The leaves that beautified the trees,
And waved before a softer breeze,
Torn off by thee, are scattered round,
To wither on the rusty ground.
Where rapid rivers used to flow,
To glass the silent waters grow:
The mighty Volga feels thy force,
And Dwina stagnates in his course.
Even oozy Thames submits to thee;
Thames, like the neighbouring valleys, free!
Augusta's sons, in sportive mood,
Oft tread the surface of his flood.
To the proud Czar's terrific fleet,
Which half the nations fear to meet,
Thou dost thy strict injunctions give,
Nor can it stir without thy leave.
Thy presence on Britannia's plains
To chimney-corner drives her swains :
There thy severity they shun;
And thither I would gladly run!
But I (so Jove and Fate command)
Exposed to all thy rage must stand :
Condemned thy tyranny to bear,
Unpitied, half the tedious year!
Though close begirt with garments three,
Not garments can defend from thee;
Thy penetrating force will find
Or hole before, or slit behind.
In vain my hands my bosom hides;
In vain I shield them by my sides;
In vain exhale the warmer air
Which my too feeble lungs prepare.
In vain upon the distant tiles
The God of day indulgent smiles.
His influence I should never know,
But for the drops of melted snow.
The melted snow beneath my feet
Still makes thy empire more complete.
My aged shoes, not water-proof,
Admit those droppings of the roof.
Full in my face is always driven,
By thee, whate'er descends from heaven,
Or snow, or rain, or sleet, or hail ;
Nor can the pent-house aught avail !
But hold! I feel my senses clog :
Down drops my Fancy, like a log:
Like thickening streams my numbers run,
And slowly drag the meaning on.
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