You all agree, I make no doubt, Elijah's mantle is worn out.
The bird of Jove shall toil no more
To teach the humble wren to soar.
Your tragic heroes shall not rant,
Nor shepherds use poetic cant.
Simplicity alone can grace
The manners of the rural race.
Theocritus and Philips be
Your guides to true simplicity.
When Damon's soul shall take its flight,
Though poets have the second sight,
They shall not see a trail of light.
Nor shall the vapours upwards rise,
Nor a new star adorn the skies:
For who can hope to place one there,
As glorious as Belinda's hair?
Yet, if his name you'd eternize,
And must exalt him to the skies;
Without a star this may be done:
So Tickell mourn'd his Addison.
If Anna's happy reign you praise,
Pray, not a word of halcyon days:
Nor let my votaries show their skill
In aping lines from Cooper's Hill;
For know I cannot bear to hear
The mimicry of deep, yet clear.
Whene'er my viceroy is address'd,
Against the phenix I protest.
When poets soar in youthful strains,
No Phaeton to hold the reins.
When you describe a lovely girl,
No lips of coral, teeth of pearl.
Cupid shall ne'er mistake another,
However beauteous, for his mother;
Nor shall his darts at random fly
From magazine in Celia's eye.
With woman compounds I am cloy'd,
Which only pleas'd in Biddy Floyd.*
For foreign aid what need they roam,
Whom fate has amply blest at home?
Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand,
Has form'd a model for your land,
Whom jove endow'd with every grace;
The glory of the Granard race;
Now destin'd by the powers divine
The blessing of another line.
Then, would you paint a matchless dame,
Whom you'd consign to endless fame?
Invoke not Cytherea's aid,
Nor borrow from the blue-ey'd maid;
Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take qualities from Donegal.
THE RUN UPON THE BANKERS. 1720.
THE bold encroachers on the deep,
Gain by degrees huge tracts of land,
Till Neptune, with one general sweep,
Turns all again to barren strand.
The multitude's capricious pranks,
Are said to represent the seas;
Which, breaking bankers and the banks,
Resume their own whene'er they please.
*" Then call'd the happy composition Floyd." See p. 65 N.
Money, the life-blood of the nation,
Corrupts and stagnates in the veins,
Unless a proper circulation,
Its motion and its heat maintains.
Because 'tis lordly not to pay,
Quakers and aldermen in state,
Like peers, have levees every day
Of duns attending at their gate.
We want our money on the nail;
The banker's ruin'd if he pays:
They seem to act an ancient tale;
The birds are met to strip the jays.
Riches, the wisest monarch sings,
"Make pinions for themselves to fly;" They fly like bats on parchment wings, And geese their silver plumes supply.
No money left for squandering heirs!
Bills turn the lenders into debtors:
The wish of Nero now is theirs,
"That they had never known their letters."
Conceive the works of midnight hags,
Tormenting fools behind their backs:
Thus bankers, o'er their bills and bags,
Sit squeezing images of wax.
Conceive the whole enchantment broke;
The witches left in open air,
With power no more than other folk,
Expos'd with all their magic ware.
So powerful are a banker's bills,
Where creditors demand their due; They break up counters, doors and tills, And leave the empty chests in view. Thus when an earthquake lets in light Upon the god of gold and Hell, Unable to endure the sight,
He hides within his darkest cell.
As when a conjurer takes a lease
From Satan for a term of years,
The tenant's in a dismal case,
Whene'er the bloody bond appears.
A baited banker thus desponds,
From his own hand foresees his fall;
They have his soul, who have his bonds;
'Tis like the writing on the wall.
How will the caitiff wretch be scar'd,
When first he finds himself awake
At the last trumpet, unprepar'd,
And all his grand account to make!
For in that universal call,
Few bankers will to heaven be mounters;
"Ye shops, upon us fall!
"Conceal and cover us, ye counters!"
When other hands the scales shall hold,
And they, in men's and angels' sight
Produc'd with all their bills and gold,
Weigh'd in the balance, and found light!"
THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IRISH FEAST.
TRANSLATED ALMOST LITERALLY OUT
OF THE ORIGINAL IRISH.
O'ROURK'S noble fare
Will ne'er be forgot,
By those who were there,
Or those who were not.
His revels to keep,
We sup and we dine
On seven score sheep,
Fat bullocks, and swine.
Usquebaugh to our feast
In pails was brought up,
A hundred at least,
And a madder * our cup.
O there is the sport!
We rise with the light
In disorderly sort,
From snoring all night.
O how was I trick'd!
My pipe it was broke,
My pocket was pick'd,
I lost my new cloak.
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