The Lion, flaming, bears the solar power;
The Virgin faints beneath the sultry shower.
Now the just Ballance weighs his equal force,
The slimy Serpent swelters in his course;
The sabled Archer clouds his languid face;
The Goat, with tempests, urges on his race;
Now in the water his faint beams appear,
And the cold Fishes end the circling year.
Beyond our globe the sanguine Mars displays
A strong reflection of primœval rays;
Next belted Jupiter far distant gleams,
Scarcely enlight'ned with the solar beams;
With four unfix'd receptacles of light,.
He tours majestic thro' the spacious height:
But farther yet the tardy Saturn lags,
And five attendant luminaries drags;
Investing with a double ring his pace,
He circles thro' immensity of space.
These are thy wond'rous works, first source of good! Now more admir'd in being understood.
Of warring senators, and battles dire,
Of quails uneaten, Muse awake the lyre,
Where C-pb-ll's chimneys overlook the square,
And N-t-n's future prospects hang in air;
Where counseller's dispute, and cockers match,
And Caledodian earls in concert scratch;
A group of heroes, occupied the round,
Long in the rolls of infamy renown'd.
Circling the table all in silence sat,
Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat;
Now picking ortolans, and chicken slain,
To form the whimsies of an à-la-reine:
Now storming castles of the newest taste,
And granting articles to forts of paste;
Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer;
Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer.
The god of cabinets and senates saw
His sons, like asses, to one centre draw.
Inflated Discord heard, and left her cell,
With all the horrors of her native hell:
She, on the soaring wings of genius fled,
And wav'd the pen of Junius round her head.
Beneath the table, veil'd from sight, she sprung,
And sat astride on noisy Twitcher's tongue:
Twitcher, superior to the venal pack
Of Bloomsbury's notorious monarch, Jack:
Twitcher, a rotten branch of mighty stock,
Whose interest winds his conscience as his clock:
Whose attributes detestable have long
Been evident, and infamous in song.
A toast's demanded; Madoc swift arose,
Pactolian gravy trickling down his clothes:
His sanguine fork a murder'd pigeon prest,
His knife with deep incision sought the breast.
Upon his lips the quivering accents hung,
And too much expedition chain'd his tongue.
When thus he sputter'd: "All the glasses fill,
And toast the great Pendragon of the hill:
Mab-Uther Owein, a long train of kings,
From whom the royal blood of Madoc springs.
Madoc, undoubtedly of Arthur's race,
You see the mighty monarch in his face:
Madoc, in bagnios and in courts ador'd,
Demands this proper homage of the board."
"Monarchs!" said Twitcher, setting down his beer:
His muscles wreathing a contemptuous sneer:
"Monarchs! Of mole-hills, oyster-beds, a rock;
These are the grafters of your royal stock :
My pony Scrub can sires more valiant trace"
The mangled pigeon thunders on his face;
His op'ning mouth the melted butter fills,
And dropping from his nose and chin distils.
Furious he started, rage his bosom warms;
Loud as his lordship's morning dun he storms.
"Thou vulgar imitator of the great,
Grown wanton with the excrements of state:
This to thy head notorious Twitcher sends."
His shadow body to the table bends:
His straining arm uprears a loin of veal,
In these degenerate days, for three a meal:
In antient times, as various writers say,
An alderman or priest, eat three a day.
With godlike strength, the grinning Twitcher plies,
His stretching muscles and the mountain flies.
Swift, as a cloud that shadows o'er the plain,
It flew and scatter'd drops of oily rain.
In opposition to extended knives,
On royal Madoc's spreading chest it drives:
Senseless he falls upon the sandy ground,
Prest with the steamy load that ooz'd around.
And now Confusion spread her ghastly plume,
And Faction separates the noisy room,
Balluntun, exercis'd in every vice
That opens to a courtier's paradise,
With D-s-n trammel'd, scruples not to draw
Injustice up the rocky hill of law:
From whose humanity the laurels sprung,
Which will in George's-Fields be ever young.
The vile Balluntun, starting from his chair,
To Fortune thus address'd his private prayer:
"Goddess of fate's rotundity, assist
With thought-wing'd victory my untry'd fist:
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