AN HEROIC POSTSCRIPT TO THE PUBLIC.
[]1I THAT of late, Sir William's Bard, and Squire,
March'd with his helm and buckler on my lyre,
(What time the Knight prick'd forth in ill-ſtarr'd haſte,
2Comptroller General of the works of taſte,)
[6] Now to the Public tune my grateful lays,
Warm'd with the ſun-ſhine of the Public praiſe;
Warm'd too with mem'ry of that golden time,
When Almon gave me reaſon for my rhyme;
—glittering orbs, and, what endear'd them more,
Each glittering orb the ſacred features bore
Of George the good, the gracious, and the great,
Unfil'd, unſweated, all of ſterling weight;
Or, were they not, they paſs'd with current eaſe,
Good ſeemings then were good realities:
No Senate had convey'd, by ſmuggling art,
3Pow'r to the mob to play Cadogan's part;
Now, thro' the land, that impious pow'r prevails,
All weigh their Sov'reign in their private ſcales,
[7] 4And find him wanting: all ſave me alone,
For, ſad to ſay! my glittering orbs are gone.
But ill beſeems a Poet to repent,
Lightly they came, and full as lightly went.
Peace to their manes! may they never feel
Some keen Scotch banker's unrelenting ſteel;
While I again the Muſe's ſickle bring
To cut down Dunces, whereſoe'er they ſpring,
Bind in poetic ſheaves the plenteous crop,
And ſtack my full-ear'd load in Almon's ſhop.
For now, my Muſe, thy fame is fixt as fate,
Tremble ye Fools I ſcorn, ye Knaves I hate;
I know the vigour of thy eagle wings,
I know thy ſtrains can pierce the ear of Kings.
[8] Did China's monarch here in Britain doze,
5And was, like weſtern Kings, a King of Proſe,
Thy ſong could cure his Aſiatic ſpleen,
And make him wiſh to ſee and to be ſeen;
6That ſolemn vein of irony ſo fine,
Which, e'en Reviewers own, adorns thy line,
[9] Would make him ſoon againſt his greatneſs ſin,
Deſert his ſofa, mount his palanquin,
And poſt where'er the Goddeſs led the way,
Perchance to proud Spithead's imperial bay;
7There ſhould he ſee, as other folks have ſeen,
That ſhips have anchors, and that ſeas are green,
Should own the tackling trim, the ſtreamers fine,
With Sandwich prattle, and with Bradſhaw dine,
And then ſail back, amid the cannon's roar,
As ſafe, as ſage, as when he left the ſhore.
Such is thy pow'r, O Goddeſs of the ſong,
Come then and guide my careleſs pen along;
[10] Yet keep it in the bounds of ſenſe and verſe,
8Nor, like Mac-Homer, make me gabble Erſe.
No, let the flow of theſe ſpontaneous rhymes
So truly touch the temper of the times,
That he who runs may read; while well he knows
I write in metre, what he thinks in proſe;
So ſhall my ſong, undiſciplin'd by art,
Find a ſure patron in each Engliſh heart.
If this it's fate, let all the frippery things
Be-plac'd, be-penſion'd, and be-ſtarr'd by Kings,
9Frown on the page, and with faſtidious eye,
Like old young Fannius, call it blaſphemy.
[11] Let theſe prefer a levee's harmleſs talk,
Be aſk'd how often, and how far they walk,
Proud of a ſingle word, nor hope for more,
Tho' Jenkinſon is bleſt with many a ſcore:
For other ears my honeſt number ſound,
With other praiſe thoſe numbers ſhall be crown'd,
Praiſe that ſhall ſpread, no pow'r can make it leſs,
While Britain boaſts the bulwark of her preſs.
Yes, ſons of freedom! yes, to whom I pay,
Warm from the heart, this tributary lay;
[12] That lay ſhall live, tho' Court and Grub-ſtreet ſigh,
Your young Marcellus was not born to die.
The Muſe ſhall nurſe him up to man's eſtate,
10And break the black aſperity of fate—
Admit him then your candidate for fame,
Pleas'd if in your review he read his name,
Tho' not with Maſon and with Goldſmith put,
Yet cheek by jowl with Garrick, Colman, Foote;
But if with higher Bards that name you range,
His modeſty muſt think your judgment ſtrange—
[13] So when o'er Crane-Court's philoſophic Gods,
The Jove-like majeſty of Pringle nods,
If e'er he chance to wake on Newton's chair,
He "wonders how the devil he came there."
Whate'er his fame or fate, on this depend;
He is, and means to be his country's friend.
'Tis but to try his ſtrength that now he ſports
With Chineſe gardens, and with Chineſe courts:
But if that country claim a graver ſtrain,
If real danger threat fair Freedom's reign,
If hireling P**rs, in proſtitution bold,
Sell her as cheaply as themſelves they ſold;
Or they, who honour'd by the People's choice,
Againſt that People lift their rebel voice,
And, baſely crouching for their paltry pay,
Vote the beſt birthright of her ſons away,
[14] Permit a nation's in-born wealth to fly
In mean, unkingly prodigality;
Nor, e'er they give, aſk how the ſums were ſpent,
So quickly ſquander'd, tho' ſo lately lent—
If this they dare; the thunder of his ſong,
Rolling in deep-ton'd energy along,
Shall ſtrike, with Truth's dread bolt, each miſcreant's name,
Who, dead to duty, ſenſeleſs e'en to ſhame
Betray'd his country. Yes, ye faithleſs crew,
His Muſe's vengeance ſhall your crimes purſue,
Stretch you on ſatire's rack, and bid you lie
Fit garbage for the hell-hound, Infamy.
FINIS.