Fashion
O NATURE , parent goddess! at thy shrine,
Prone to the earth, the Muse, in humble song,
Thy aid implores: Nor will she wing her flight,
Till thou, bright form! in thy effulgence pure
Deign'st to look down upon her lowly state,
And shed thy pow'rful influence benign.
Come then, regardless of vain Fashion's fools,
Of all those vile enormities of shape
That crowd the world, and with thee bring
Wisdom in sober contemplation clad,
To lash those bold usurpers from the stage.
On that bless'd spot where the Parisian dome
To fools the stealing hand of Time displays,
F ashion her empire holds, a goddess great!
View her amidst the Millenarian train
On a resplendent throne, exalted high,
Strangely diversified with gewgaw forms.
Her busy hand glides pleasureably o'er
The darling novelties, the trinkets rare
That greet the sight of the admiring dames,
Those dear-bought treasures o'er their native isle
Contagious spread, infect the wholesome air
That cherish'd vigour in Britannia's sons.
Near this proud seat of Fashion's antic form
A sphere revolves, on whose bright orb behold
The circulating mode of changeful dress,
Which, like the image of the sun himself,
Glories in coursing thro' the diverse signs
Which blazon in the zodiac of heav'n.
Around her throne coquets and petits beaux
Unnumber'd shine, and with each other vie
In nameless ornaments and gaudy plumes.
O worthy emulation! to excel
In trifles such as these: how truly great!
Unworthy of the peevish blubb'ring boy,
Crush'd in his childhood by the fondling nurse,
Who, for some fav'rite bubble, frets and pines.
Amongst the proud attendants of this shrine,
The wealthy, young, and gay Clarinda draws
From poorer objects, the astonish'd eye:
Her looks, her dress, and her affected mien
Doom her enthusiast keen in Fashion's train:
White as the cover'd Alps, or wintry face
Of snowy Lapland, her toupee uprear'd,
Exhibits to the view a cumb'rous mass
Of curls high nodding o'er her polish'd brow;
From which redundant flows the Brussels lace
With pendant ribbons too of various dye,
Where all the colours in th' ethereal bow
Unite, and blend, and tantalize the sight.
Nature! to thee alone, not Fashion's pomp
Does Beauty owe her all-commanding eye.
From the green bosom of the watry main,
Array'd by thee, majestic Venus rose,
With waving ringlets carelessly diffus'd
Floating luxurious o'er the restless surge.
What Rubens, then, with his enliv'ning hand,
Could paint the bright vermilion of her cheek,
Pure as the roseate portal of the east,
That opens to receive the chearing ray
Of Phaebus beaming from the orient sky?
For sterling Beauty needs no faint essays,
Or colourings of art, to gild her more:
She is all perfect. And, if Beauty fail,
Where are those ornaments, those rich attires
Which can reflect a lustre on that face,
Where she with light innate disdains to shine?
Britons, beware of Fashion's luring wiles:
On either hand, chief guardians of her pow'r,
And sole dictators of her fickle voice,
Folly and dull Effeminacy reign;
Whose blackest magic and unhallow'd spells
The Roman ardour check'd; their strength decay'd,
And all their glory scatter'd to the winds.
Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of Fate
Seems ready to decree thy after-fall.
By pride, by luxury, what fated ills
Unheeded have approached thy mortal frame!
How many foreign weeds their heads have rear'd
In thy fair garden? Hasten, ere their strength
And baneful vegetation taint the soil,
To root out rank disease, which soon must spread,
If no bless'd antidote will purge away
Fashion's proud minions from our sea-girt isle.
Prone to the earth, the Muse, in humble song,
Thy aid implores: Nor will she wing her flight,
Till thou, bright form! in thy effulgence pure
Deign'st to look down upon her lowly state,
And shed thy pow'rful influence benign.
Come then, regardless of vain Fashion's fools,
Of all those vile enormities of shape
That crowd the world, and with thee bring
Wisdom in sober contemplation clad,
To lash those bold usurpers from the stage.
On that bless'd spot where the Parisian dome
To fools the stealing hand of Time displays,
F ashion her empire holds, a goddess great!
View her amidst the Millenarian train
On a resplendent throne, exalted high,
Strangely diversified with gewgaw forms.
Her busy hand glides pleasureably o'er
The darling novelties, the trinkets rare
That greet the sight of the admiring dames,
Those dear-bought treasures o'er their native isle
Contagious spread, infect the wholesome air
That cherish'd vigour in Britannia's sons.
Near this proud seat of Fashion's antic form
A sphere revolves, on whose bright orb behold
The circulating mode of changeful dress,
Which, like the image of the sun himself,
Glories in coursing thro' the diverse signs
Which blazon in the zodiac of heav'n.
Around her throne coquets and petits beaux
Unnumber'd shine, and with each other vie
In nameless ornaments and gaudy plumes.
O worthy emulation! to excel
In trifles such as these: how truly great!
Unworthy of the peevish blubb'ring boy,
Crush'd in his childhood by the fondling nurse,
Who, for some fav'rite bubble, frets and pines.
Amongst the proud attendants of this shrine,
The wealthy, young, and gay Clarinda draws
From poorer objects, the astonish'd eye:
Her looks, her dress, and her affected mien
Doom her enthusiast keen in Fashion's train:
White as the cover'd Alps, or wintry face
Of snowy Lapland, her toupee uprear'd,
Exhibits to the view a cumb'rous mass
Of curls high nodding o'er her polish'd brow;
From which redundant flows the Brussels lace
With pendant ribbons too of various dye,
Where all the colours in th' ethereal bow
Unite, and blend, and tantalize the sight.
Nature! to thee alone, not Fashion's pomp
Does Beauty owe her all-commanding eye.
From the green bosom of the watry main,
Array'd by thee, majestic Venus rose,
With waving ringlets carelessly diffus'd
Floating luxurious o'er the restless surge.
What Rubens, then, with his enliv'ning hand,
Could paint the bright vermilion of her cheek,
Pure as the roseate portal of the east,
That opens to receive the chearing ray
Of Phaebus beaming from the orient sky?
For sterling Beauty needs no faint essays,
Or colourings of art, to gild her more:
She is all perfect. And, if Beauty fail,
Where are those ornaments, those rich attires
Which can reflect a lustre on that face,
Where she with light innate disdains to shine?
Britons, beware of Fashion's luring wiles:
On either hand, chief guardians of her pow'r,
And sole dictators of her fickle voice,
Folly and dull Effeminacy reign;
Whose blackest magic and unhallow'd spells
The Roman ardour check'd; their strength decay'd,
And all their glory scatter'd to the winds.
Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of Fate
Seems ready to decree thy after-fall.
By pride, by luxury, what fated ills
Unheeded have approached thy mortal frame!
How many foreign weeds their heads have rear'd
In thy fair garden? Hasten, ere their strength
And baneful vegetation taint the soil,
To root out rank disease, which soon must spread,
If no bless'd antidote will purge away
Fashion's proud minions from our sea-girt isle.
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