Classic Poem

Hail , paragon of T * * ons! hail
Thou glory of the triple tail!
Which, to denote thy rank, descends
Like three avenging halter-ends.
O with what art thou mixest up
The hemlock of thy attic cup!
O with what ready hearty will
To all God's creatures, good and ill,
To wise and simple, friend and foe,
Its tranquilizing juices flow!
Sly Taffey calls thee merry prig,
And taps thy cheek and twirls thy wig:
The faithful Ketch partakes thy glee
And lights his hempspun joke from thee.
Two badger-eyes has Themis; one
Is always leering toward the throne;
The other wanders, this way, that way,
But sees the gap and leaves the gateway.
The scowl of those who snore she wears,
With the hard hand that clips and sheers;
Yet she benignly strokes thy head,
And wakes the judge to hear thee plead.
 Let him extoll, extoll who can,
So modest, so admired a man:
I stand afar, lest thou espy
My raptures with a downcast eye.
But sometime (may the day be near!)
My votive garland shalt thou wear.
Not what the Graces weave for sport
Round Cupids in the Paphian court,
Or Bacchus ever twined about
The temples of a Thracian rout,
But what upon thy natal day
Fate, while her sisters shared the lay,
Gave Nemesis to keep in store,
And chaunted . . this his gransire wore ,
And, when the father's race is run,
Shall be the guerdon of the son.
 T . . onian necks no wreath becomes
That faintly breathes or briefly blooms;
But such as raise mankind on high,
Nor leave the exalted when they die . .
No common hedge such wreathes affords,
But proud pelissed Sarmatian lords
Survey them from their castle-towers;
And cloistered virgins press their flowers,
Subdue their stems with agile hand,
And follow them afar from land:
Some for warm Lybia wing their way,
And others into Flora's bay.
Averse to forms, averse to dress,
Lover of Nature's nakedness,
To thee all wisdom and all wit,
All Pindus, is not worth the pit . .
Mortals warm-hearted and warm-pated,
Fun-fanciers unsophisticated,
Who hold it first and last of rules
That learning is the staff of fools,
Swear hearts are false where lips are dry,
And in the cup lies Honesty;
Clap who laughs hearty and talks loud,
And curse your grave and damn your proud,
And split 'em but he's heart of oak
Who flings it at your gentle-folk,
And shews 'em they are flesh and blood,
Like us, no better, if so good.
 When thou wert on thy nurse's breast,
And fears thy father's heart opprest,
Sedately wise Cecropian maid!
Here pour thy precious gifts! he said:
The Goddess heard the dubious vow,
And smear'd her olive o'er thy brow,
Sent resolute and dashing Pun,
That takes repulse and shame from none,
In readiness to scour the streets
And lift a leg at all he meets.
Thus, seated o'er the Sunian seas,
Generous ungirt Diogenes
Gave every passager his rub
From the salt-crusted cynic tub;
Thus, where some horse hath sown his oats,
The sparrows raise their cheery throats,
And, loving best the dirtiest ground,
Roll their dull feathers round and round.
 Alas I fall! O cease to frown!
The weighty subject draws me down.
Too true; I feel the feeble line
Unworthy of thy name and mine.
Yet its loose threads shall men explore,
As children shells upon the shore:
And thou shalt flourish fresh in song
When Nature's verdict stops my tongue;
When Kenyon's pattering pasteboard storm,
And Latin from the second form,
Like hail upon a summer's day,
Falls, bounces, glimmers, melts away;
When all the riches of each Scott
Go, where they ne'er went yet, to pot;
When heedless whistlers speed the plough
Across old Thurlow's whiten'd brow;
When all the costliest fur in Britain
Lies level with the wayside kitten,
And the last worm has left the jaws
That blew out life from under laws;
When gibbet-irons with rust are dumb,
Nor wave without their pendulum;
When into dust the winds have blown
What once was sinew, blood, and bone,
What, even while they fill'd with glee
Afar the house of revelry,
Breath'd murder into every breath
On Kennington and Hounslow heath,
Lent the faint lightning fresh affright
And hung with deeper gloom the night.
 These are thy works, almighty maker
Of county jobs for undertaker!
When cash and kindred clients fail,
And few will swear and none will bail,
Then the deep mist of error clears,
And Vice's odious form appears.
‘Had I discover'd it before,
Not all Peru's persuasive ore
Should have induced me to defend
A life no warnings can amend.’
At these thy words the wife declares
A something met her on the stairs:
In the church-yard a light was seen,
And a strange circle markt the green;
Then the poor husband from her chest
Rakes his worst cloaths, and wills his best.
 To thee our daily thanks are due,
Who live with no such downcast crew.
Had Cacus school'd them in his den,
Thou wouldst have proved them honest men.
 My sheep are flayed; the flayer bears
The best of names . . our vicar swears . .
And why reproach the mild divine?
He loves his flock . . his flock loves mine.
My timber stolen . . could I know
The mark I made a month ago?
My barns cleared out . . my house burnt down . .
Could the whole loss excede a crown?
Shame! are such trifles worth my cares?
I'm freed from rats and from repairs.
 A half-starved staring seagull brood
Flies every honest livelihood,
Quits fierce Malay and shrewd Chinese
And ransackt India's pearl-paved seas.
Hears, sped by thee, how talents fare,
And rises into mountain air.
Seamen are bold, but none are bolder
Than those with cat-claws on the shoulder,
Whose captain, for his gaping desk,
Has given it the picturesque,
The love of which is gone so deep
They cannot eat, they cannot sleep,
But must indulge in cooling vales,
And hang their pensive heads in Wales.
One, as the wildgoose of a nest,
Stretches his neck to guide the rest,
Picks up five hundreds with a bride
And shews her London and sea-side;
Snatches her, ere it runs too late
To pay so many a turnpike-gate,
Settles at once upon my farm,
And spreads a press-gang's dread alarm.
Box-coat and trowser dash together,
The dog-cart and the ostrich-feather,
And brass-loopt hat and broad-frog'd habit,
Most richly ermin'd o'er . . with rabbit.
The Welsh look up with wondering eyes,
And ruminate on prophecies;
The tripod and the pot-link turn,
And watch the faggots, how they burn,
Nail a worn horse-shoe on the door
Where never one was nail'd before,
Wash the white threshold-stone anew,
And rub the sleepless bed with rue,
And weary heaven with charms and vows
To guard their children and their cows.
Could not the cloth this pest foretell?
Nor the wise woman at the well?
Nor deeper seer who knew what mare
Must disappear by Radnor fair?
The thumping jumping gospel-preacher
Could not he, here too, be their teacher?
The lamb , he cries, unless ye sin ,
Extends no crook to shank you in.
Graceless as well may be the strangers,
They beard you at your very mangers.
For speeding evangelic flights
Requires some boisterous roaring nights;
Pitch on a vantage-ground like swallows,
And soar to heaven from the gallows.
With such faint hearts and such lank jowls
You cannot sin to save your souls,
While they are ready for the crisis . .
Go, do ye likewise, my advice is.
 The daring ambidexterous wench,
Whose fist no collier can unclench,
Bites what is needless off her lambs,
Pries for the riddle on the rams,
Curses and kicks them who omit
The duties that their state befit,
Pares from their feet the cankery rot,
And skims, while pit there is, the pot;
Bestows herself the savoury largess,
Mixt with cow-cabbage and crab-verjuice:
And ‘dont 'e, Thomas, I desire,
Care a crackt farding for the squire.
His lady . . I know who's her betters . .
Before she squall'd I told my letters,
For twenty loaves could knead the dough,
And lift brim-full our biggest trough.
A lady! that will never do . .
Why! she is only five feet two.’
 Now raises she her swelling chine
And prances passing five feet nine,
Jerks a cock's feather from the bag,
And freshens it with oily rag.
Now strides she to the full fireside,
With silent step and dignified,
And now relaxes into grace
And asks them how it suits her face;
Then carts it to the neighbouring town,
And trips it till the floors come down,
In many-coloured ribbons drest
And beet-dyed shoes and brimstone vest.
 But morning comes, and sundry fears
For the fee-simple of two ears,
That upon frailest tenure hung,
Dependent from a perjured tongue.
‘Thomas, she cries, I love thy mettle!
Give us a lift, lad, at the kettle.
There!’ . . and such spirit to encourage,
Souces a lardpot in his porrage.
Up darts the buoyant brightening grease
Like the fresh sun upon the seas,
And quiets with its rising glories
Those estuaries and promontories,
That never own'd another prince
Within their world's circumference;
And the proud foam and clamorous wind
To its mild empire are resign'd.
Who could imagine that beheld
How this vast region once rebel'd,
Threw up the humble, down the high,
Like turbulent democracy,
Amidst its plenty would not smile,
But hissed and grumbled all the while.
 The dame her hearty work pursues,
And hurries round the mingling juice.
‘Grub the plantation up, set fire on't,
And, if he douts it, dout the tyrant.
Hard swearing never was hard work,
And if you kill, you kill a Turk.
What! hang a fellow-creature! shall us ,
When whiff will blow him from the gallows!
Our Fred's, I warrant, is the nape
That never flincht from Tyburn tape,
Nor ever will the lucky hound
Turn tail till he is off the ground.’
 A year is past: I beg my rent:
I must mistake . . that was not meant.
I tarry on: two years elapse:
The balance may be theirs perhaps.
For insolent requests like these
Their gentle hands uproot my trees,
While those they told me hurt their grain,
I fell, their gentle hands detain;
My woods, my groves, my walks beset
With pistol, dirk, and bayonet,
Force my grey labourers to yield,
And stab the women in the field.
Of late a sort of suitor there is
Who courts a horsewhip like an heiress.
Kick him; not Midas would enrich
With surer stroke the flaccid breech;
The blow above reiterate . .
A broken head's a good estate;
Add swindler . . and behold! next minute
He's out of jail and you are in it.
The land that rears sure-footed ponies
Rears surer-footed testimonies,
And every neighbour, staunch and true,
Swears, and Got pless her , what will do.
My gentry tell unpilloried lies,
But prompt and push to perjuries;
Yet tho' you flusht them as they blundered
Thro' the rank stubble of three hundred,
Exclaim a perjury! and you libel . .
Each his own way may use his bible;
Else how is ours a freeborn nation,
Or wherefore was the Reformation?
If you demand your debts, beware,
But rob'd, cry robbers! if you dare:
You only lost a farm of late,
Stir, and you pay your whole estate:
Expose their villainies; Dick Loose
Will shudder at the gross abuse,
Free them from prison on their bail,
And pledge them in his mellowest ale.
The lathy lantern-visaged Crawle
His queries and his doubts will drawl.
He the rich blacksmith's daughter won,
And wiled him to exclude the son.
Behold him at a lady's side!
And look, how he has learnt to ride,
Who pigged with choristers and scouts,
And rode but upon roundabouts .
Unenvied for too fair report
His father sweeps the bishop's court,
And legibly enough records
Two anti-paracletic words:
The one should only be applied
To Priam's and to * * 's bride,
And those few more who growl and bite,
Or are too watchful in the night.
The other is so rude a name
It well deserves the sheet of shame,
Which his old honest rib repairs,
And scours from ironmoulds, and airs.
With brain of lead and brow of brass
Stands ready prowling Barnabas,
To whisper him of timorous look
You kiss the cover, not the book.
That Barnabas who, when he stood
Within the close o'erarching wood,
(A wood which on no forest frowns,
But tapers up in market-towns)
And stretcht his vast extent of chin
To all without, to none within,
In many breasts rais'd fierce desire
To stick it near the kitchen-fire,
In the dutch oven glittering bright
With its clear rashers red and white.
‘Ah what a burning shame, they say,
So many eggs are thrown away!’
'Tis death to puddings, cries a wench,
Between the judges and the French.
Look only there! how living rises
From war and popery and assizes!’
 The honest open-hearted Jack
Stands, fit successor, at his back.
Him pockets turn'd and watches twitcht
From jovial snoring friends enricht;
Him the shared tax from many a town,
A true copartner of the crown,
And, eased of his ill-gotten wealth,
An uncle sent to heaven by stealth.
 Attended with each bright compeer,
O T * * on, I must leave thee here,
Where, thanks and thanks again to thee!
The poor lost outcasts still are free.
Who wants a character or home,
A shirt or shilling, let him come:
Who flies his dun, or dupes his friend,
Lo! England's furthest safest end:
Who lurks from sea to thieve on shore,
Club the clipt dollar, one mate more!
No scruple checks, no conscience shocks,
Hope's at the bottom of the box.
Here all but Innocence may trust,
And all find Justice but the just.