And, in compliance with an ancient mode,
Measures his Syllables into an Ode:
Yet such the scurvy merit of his Muse,
He bows to Deans and licks his Lordship's
Then leave the wicked barren way of rhime,
Fly far from Poverty, be wise in time;
Regard the OFFICE more, Parnassus less;
Put your Religion in a decent dress:
Then may your interest in the Town advance,
Above the reach of Muses or Romance.
Beside the Town, a sober, honest Town,
Which smiles on Virtue, and gives Vice a frown,
Bids Censure brand with Infamy your name,
I, even I, must think you are to blame.
Is there a Street within this spacious place,
That boasts the happiness of one fair face,
Where conversation does not turn on you,
Blaming your wild Amours, your Morals too?
Oaths, sacred and tremendous Oaths, you swear,
Oaths that might shock a Luttrell's soul to hear:
Those very Oaths, as if a thing of Joke,
Made to betray, intended to be broke;
Whilst the too tender and believing maid
Remembers pretty ** is betray'd.
Then your Religion, Ah! beware! beware!
Altho' a Deist is no Monster here,
Yet hide your tenets, Priests are pow'rful Foes,
And Priesthood fetters Justice by the nose.
Think not the Merit of a jingling Song
Can countenance the Author's acting wrong.
Reform your Manners, and with solemn air
Hear Ct bray, and R-s squeak in
R-, a reverend Cully-Mully Puff,
Who thinks all sermons but his own are stuff;
When harping on the dull unmeaning text,
By disquisitions he's so sore perplext,
He stammers, instantaneously is drawn
A border'd Piece of Inspiration Lawn;
Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd,
Into his Pineal Gland the Vapors glide;
And now we hear the jumping Doctor roar
On subjects he dissected thrice before.
Honor the Scarlet Robe, and let the Quill
Be silent when old Isaac eats his fill.
Regard thy interest, ever love thy-self;
Rise into Notice as you rise in Pelf:
The Muses have no Credit here, and Fame
Confines itself to the Mercantile Name;
Then clip Imagination's wing, be wise,
And, great in Wealth, to real greatness rise:
Or, if you must persist to sing and dream,
Let only Panegeric be your Theme;
With pulpit Adulation tickle Cutts,
And wreath with Ivy Garlands, Tavern Butts: Find sentiment in Dampier's empty look;
Genius in Collins; harmony in Rooke:
Swear Broderip's horrid noise the tuneful Spheres;
And rescue Pindar from the songs of Shears.
Would you still further raise the fairy ground,
Praise Broughton for his Eloquence profound,
His Generosity, his Sentiment,
His active Fancy, and his thoughts on Lent.
Make North or Chatham canonize his Grace;
And beg a pension, or procure a Place."
Damn'd narrow Notions! notions which disgrace The boasted reason of the human race.
Bristol may keep her prudent Maxims still:
I scorn her prudence, and I ever will.
Since all my Vices magnified are here,
He cannot paint me worse than I appear,
When, raving in the Lunacy of Ink,
I catch the pen and publish what I think.
The general sense of this Extract seems to intimate that it consists of the supposed advice of some friend of Chatterton, who concludes his speech with apostrophes ("); when Chatterton represents himself as replying.
Every effort has been made to obtain the remainder of this Poem, but without success. The last Possessor who can be traced was the late Dr. Lort. His Executor, Dr. Hilifax, has obligingly communicated the preceding fragment, but the remainder of the Poem never came into his possession. Many lines in the Extract from Kew Gardens" will appear in the "Whore of of Babylon," but differently arranged.
Transcribed from a M.S. in Chatterton's hand writing.
Int'rest, thou universal God of Men,
Wait on the Couplet and reprove the Pen:
If aught unwelcome to thy Ears shall rise,
Hold Jails and famine to the Poet's Eyes,
Bid Satire sheath her sharp avenging Steel,
And lose a Number rather than a Meal.
Nay, prithee, Honor, do not make us mad,
When I am hungry something must be had:
Can honest consciousness of doing right
Provide a Dinner or a Bed at Night.
What tho' Astrea decks my soul in Gold,
My mortal Lumber trembles with the Cold,
Then, curst Tormentor of my Peace, be gone!
Flattery's a Cloak, and I will put
it on.
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