Classic Poem

C HILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day,
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love,
The Season's pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted pow'r;
Then blame not, Critics, if thus late we bring
A Winter's Drama, — but reproach — the Spring.
What prudent Cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?
Hors'd in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer Spark
Atchieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New-road, and dash through Grosvenor-gate;
Anxious — yet timorous too — his steed to show,
The hack'd Bucephalus of Rotten-row!
Careless he seems, yet, vigilantly sly,
Woos the stray glance of ladies passing by,
While his off heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide,
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains,
The vulgar verdure of her walks remains!
Where white-rob'd Misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted Beaux — " How do? How do? "
With generous questions that no answer wait —
" How vastly full! A'n't you come vastly late?
I'n't it quite charming? When do you leave town?
A'n't you quite tir'd? Pray can we set you down? "
These suburb pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;
But if this plea's denied, in our excuse
Another still remains you can't refuse;
It is a lady writes — and hark! — a noble Muse!
But see a Critic starting from his bench —
" A noble Author? " — Yes, Sir, but the Play's not French:
Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall,
For we, you know, must follow Fashion's call,
And true it is, things lately were en train
To woo the Gallic Muse at Drury Lane;
Not to import a troop of foreign elves,
But treat you with French actors — in ourselves:
A friend we had, who vowed he'd make us speak
Pure flippant French — by contract — in a week.
Told us 'twas time to study what was good,
Polish, and leave off being understood;
That crouded audiences we thus might bring
To Monsieur Parsons, and Chevalier King:
Or should the vulgar grumble now and then,
The Prompter might translate — for country gentlemen.
Straight all subscribed — Kings, Gods, Mutes, Singer, Actor, —
A Flanders figure-dancer our contractor.
But here, I grieve to own, tho't be to you,
He acted — e'en as most contractors do;
Sold what he never dealt in, and th' amount
Being first discharged, submitted his account:
And what th' event? Their industry was such,
Dodd spoke good Flemish, Bannister bad Dutch.
Then the rogue told us, with insulting ease,
So it was foreign, it was sure to please:
Beaux, wits, applaud, as fashion should command,
And Misses laugh — to seem to understand —
So from each clime our clime may something gain;
Manhood from Rome, and sprightliness from Spain;
Some Russian Roscius next delight the age,
And a Dutch Heinel skate along the stage.
Exotic fopperies, hail whose flatt'ring smile
Supplants the sterner virtues of our isle!
Thus, while with Chinese firs and Indian pines
Our nurseries swarm, the British oak declines:
Yet, vain our Muse's fear — no foreign laws
We dread, while native beauty pleads our cause:
While you're to judge, whose smiles are honours higher
Than verse should gain, but where those eyes inspire.
But if the men presume your pow'r to awe,
Retort their churlish senatorial law;
This is your house, — and move — the gentlemen withdraw:
Then they may vote, with envy never ceasing,
Your influence has increas'd, and is increasing;
But there, I trust, the resolution's finish'd;
Sure none will say — it ought to be diminish'd.