So fond of all it reads and writes,
So waggish when the maggot bites ;
Such spleen, such wickedness, and whim;
It must be woman, and a brim.
But then the learning and the Latin!
The ends of Horace come so pat in,
And, wanting wit, it makes such shift,
To fill up gaps with Pope and Swift,
As cunning house-wives bait their traps,
And take their game with bits and scraps;
For playhouse criticks, keen as mice,
Are ever greedy, ever nice;
And rank abuse, like toasted cheese,
Will catch as many as you please;
In short, 'tis easily discerning,
By here and there a patch of learning,
The creature's male-say all we can,
It must be something like a man—
What, like a man, from day to shrink,
And seek revenge with pen and ink?
On mischief bent, his name conceal,
And like a toad in secret steal,
There swell with venom inward pent,
Till out he climbs to give it vent.
Hate, join'd with fear, will shun the light,
But hate and manhood fairly fight-
'Tis manhood's mark to face the foe,
And not in ambush give the blow;
The savage thus less man than beast,
Upon his foe will fall and feast,
From bush, or hole, his arrows send,
To wound his prey, then tear and rend;
For fear and hatred in conjunction,
Make wretches that feel no compunction.
With colours flying, beat of drum,
Unlike to this, see Churchill come.
And not like Hercules he stands,
Unmask'd his face, but aim'd his hands;
Alike prepared to write or drub!
This holds a pen, and that, a club!
A club! which nerves like his can wield,
And form'd a wit like his to shield.
"Mine is the Rosciad, mine, he cries;
Who says 'tis not, I say, he lies.
To falsehood and to fear a stranger,
Not one shall fear my fame or danger;
Let those who write with fear or shame,
Those Craftmen scribblers, hide their name!
My name is Churchill !".. Thus he spoke,
And thrice he waved his knotted oak:
That done, he paused.... prepared the blow, Impartial bard! for friend and foe.
If such are manhoods' feats and plan,
Poor X, Y, Z, will prove no man;
Nor male? nor female?.... then on oath
We safely may pronounce it both.
What! of that wriggling, fribbling race,
The curse of nature, and disgrace?
That mixture base, with fiends set sorth,
To taint and villify all worth-
Whose rancour knows no bounds, nor measure,
Fools every passion, tastes no pleasure;
The want of power, all peace destroying,
For ever wishing, ne'er enjoying—
So smiling, smirking, soft in feature,
You'd swear it was the gentle creature-
But touch its pride, the lady-fellow,
From sickly pale, turns deadly yellow-
Male, female, vanish-fiends appear-
And all is malice, rage, and fear!
"An Ode upon dedicating a Building, and erecting a Statue to Shakspeare; at Stratford upon Avon."
To what blest Genius of the isle
Shall Gratitude her tribute pay,
Decree the festive day,
Erect the Statue, and devote the Pile?
Do not your sympathetick hearts accord,
To own the "bosom's lord?"
"Tis he! 'tis he! that demi-god!
Who Avon's flowery margin trod,
While sportive Fancy round him flew,
Where Nature led him by the hand,
Instructed him in all she knew,
And gave him absolute command!
'Tis he! 'tis he!
"The God of our idolatry!"
To him the song, the edifice we raise,
He merits all our wonder, all our praise!
Yetere impatient joy break forth,
In sounds that lift the soul from earth;
And to our spell-bound minds impart
Some faint idea of his magick art;
Let awful silence still the air!
From the dark cloud, the hidden light
Burst ten-fold bright!
Prepare! prepare! prepare!
Now swell at once the choral song,
Roll the full tide of harmony along
Let Rapture sweep the trembling strings,
And Fame expanding all her wings,
With all her trumpet-tongues proclaim
The loved, revered, immortal name!
Shakspeare! Shakspeare! Shakspeare!
Let the enchanting sonnd
From Avon's shores rebound;
Thro' the air
The precious freight the envious nations round!
SWELL the choral song,
Roll the tide of harmony along,
Let Rapture sweep the strings,
Fame expand her wings,
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