THE GOLDEN AGE,
A POETICAL EPISTLE.
[]BOAST of proud Shropſhire, Oxford's laſting ſhame,
Whom none but Coxcombs ſcorn, but Fools defame,
Eternal war with dulneſs born to wage,
Thou Paracelſus of this wondrous age;
BEDDOES, the philoſophic Chymiſt's Guide,
The Bigot's Scourge, of Democrats the Pride;
Accept this lay; and to thy Brother, Friend,
Or name more dear, a Sans Culotte attend,
While in Rhyme's Galligaſkins I encloſe
The broad poſteriors of thy brawny proſe,
[4] And ſing, by thee inſpir'd, in tuneful ſtrain,
The bleſt return of Saturn's golden reign!
Oh had I, ſilly ſwain, the force and fire
Of ſome, whom Frenchmen's bloody deeds inſpire;
Could I, aſcending on the wing of ſound,
Pleas'd with the grand, the lofty and profound,
Riſe above mortal ken in rapturous glow,
Leaving poor purſy Senſe to pant below;
Could I, for ever ſtudious to refine,
Prank with my pearly phraſe each pretty line,
Or like an empty Bottle, deep immers'd,
Whence Bubbles after Bubbles buſtling burſt,
Amus'd to view my noiſy nothings ſwell,
In the ſweet vanity of thought excel;
Now burſting o'er the bounds of vulgar Rhyme,
Gracefully great and terribly ſublime;
Trolling in full-toned melody along
With all the clattering clang of modern ſong;
I'd hail the progreſs of thoſe bliſsful days,
When fair Philoſophy's meridian rays
[5] Shall brighten Nature's face, ſhall drive the Moles
Of blinking Error to their ſecret holes,
Diſperſe the darkneſs of primaeval Night,
And bid a new Creation riſe to light!
Proceed, great days! and bring, oh! bring to view
Things ſtrange to tell! Incredible, but true!
Behold, behold, the Golden Age appears:
Skip, ſkip, ye Mountains! Foreſts lend your Ears!
See red-capt Liberty from heaven deſcend,
And real Prodigies her ſteps attend!
* No more immers'd in many a foreign dye
Shall Britiſh wool be taught to bluſh and lie;
But all our paſtures glow with purple Rams,
With ſcarlet Lambkins, and their yellow Dams!
† No more the lazy Ox ſhall gormandize,
And ſwell with fattening graſs his monſtrous ſize;
[6] No more trot round and round the groaning field,
But tons of Beef our loaded Thickets yield!
The patient Dairy-Maid no more ſhall learn
With tedious toil to whirl the frothy Churn;
[7] But from the Hedges ſhall her Dairy fill,
As pounds of Butter in big drops diſtil!
The ſottiſh Jews, who in a God believ'd,
And ſometimes bleſſings, oftener plagues receiv'd,
Shouted a Miracle, when on the ground
Their boaſted bread the greedy grumblers found:
By no dry cruſts ſhall Infidels be fed,
Our ſoil producing Butter to our Bread!
See reverend Thames, who God of Rivers reigns,
And winds meand'ring through our richeſt plains,
To treat the Cits, that many a ſixpence give
Once in a week like Gentlemen to live,
Reſign his majeſty of mud, and ſtream
O'er ſtrawberry beds in deluges of Cream!
See Tallow Candles tip the modeſt Thorn,
Candles of Wax the prouder Elm adorn!
See the dull Clown ſurvey with ſtupid ſtare
Where Leaves once grew, now periwigs of Hair!
While fluids, which a wondrous change betray,
Ooze from the vernal bud, the ſummer ſpray,
Differing from animals alone in name,
(As Botaniſts already half exclaim).
[8] See plants, ſuſceptible of joy and woe,
Feel all we feel, and know whate'er we know!
View them like us inclin'd to watch or ſleep,
Like us to ſmile, and, ah! like us to weep!
Like us behold them glow with warm deſire,
And catch from Beauty's glance celeſtial fire!
Then, oh! ye fair, if through the ſhady grove
Muſing on abſent Lovers you ſhould rove,
And there with tempting ſtep all heedleſs bruſh
Too near ſome wanton metamorphos'd Buſh,
Or only hear perchance the weſtern breeze
Steal murmuring through the animated Trees,
Beware, beware, leſt to your coſt you find
The Buſhes dangerous, dangerous too the Wind,
Leſt, ah! too late with ſhame and grief you feel
What your fictitious Pads would ill conceal!
While Plants turn Animals, Man, happy Man,
* To ages ſhall extend Life's lengthen'd ſpan.
[9] Bane to our bliſs, no more the wrinkled face
Beauty's bewitching circles ſhall diſgrace;
But ſee the reigning Toaſt half kind, half coy,
Her Rivals' envy, and her Lover's Joy,
Skill'd to allure, to charm us, and beguile,
In all the bloom of Eighty ſit and ſmile!
Thus ſhall each Belle a lovely L'ENCLOS prove,
Drive Boys of future Cent'ries mad with love;
The Marriage Table its degrees extend,
And to our great, great Grandmother aſcend.
Poor POPE, who griev'd "that Life could ſcarce ſupply
"More than to look about him, and to die,"
Had he but flouriſh'd in theſe Halcyon days,
Might long have bid Life's little Candle blaze,
Have grown ſtrait, handſome, briſk and debonnair,
The Muſes' favourite, favourite of the Fair!
[10] Happy the Poet's lot, who can prolong,
Till time ſhall be no more, his deathleſs ſong;
And live himſelf to ſee his ſwelling name
Roll, like a Snowball, gathering all its fame!
Happy, thrice happy he, who at his will
Can drink of Life's ſweet cup his conſtant fill;
* Who, if exceſs of Oxygene create
Symptoms, which lean Conſumption indicate,
A ſure ſpecific can procure with eaſe,
Rich Cream and Butter from his herd of Trees:
Or if he find exceſs of † Hydrogene
His body load with fat, his mind with ſpleen,
True health and vigour to reſtore, can take
From ſome regenerate Oak a ſavoury ſteak,
[11] Sliced off the ſlaughter'd Monſter's quondam ſtump,
Converted now into a real Rump,
And, bleſt with an accommodating maw,
Devour the luſcious bit, red, recent, raw!
Now riſe, my Muſe, and, warm with rapture, dart
From Men to Manners, "Fancy to the Heart."
Tranſporting ſight! to view the Sons of Pride
Their little heads with ſhame and ſorrow hide,
Ranks and Diſtinctions ceaſe, all reeking lie
In the mean muck of low Equality!
Favourites of freedom, Sons of friſky France,
Who never learnt like Britiſh Bears to dance,
And, while their Premier's humdrum Bagpipes ſound,
Led by the noſe, jog growling round and round;
But more like Monkeys, airy, light, and gay,
Pleas'd on your Maſter's head to ſkip and play;
Ye pious Atheiſts, Moraliſts, who deem
The Chriſtian's Heaven and Hell an idle Dream,
Delighted to deride all vulgar fears
Of Beelzebub's black Claws, cropt Tail, and Ears,
[12] With manly Scorn and Dignity to tread
On proſtrate Superſtition's hoary head;
Who, foes to Power Deſpotic, dare defy
The King of Kings, that Bugbear of the ſky;
Dreading for preſent crimes no future rod,
Self-praiſe your worſhip, Vanity your God:
Oh how my Eyes with tears ecſtatic fill,
What new felt tranſports through my boſom thrill,
When I behold you with gigantic blow
The pigmy pride of Royalty lay low,
With pikes and guns this moral dogma teach—
Virtue conſiſts in nudity of Breech!
Soon ſhall we view no more the glittering Things
Beſtarr'd, begarter'd, and befool'd by Kings;
The pretty Twinklers that ſo ſweetly ſhone,
And deem'd their lovely luſtre all their own!
No more the Deſpot view, whoſe mighty nods
Shook nature, and proclaim'd him God of Gods;
Drunk with applauſe who rais'd his rolling Eyes,
And ſeem'd, whene'er he mov'd, to tread the ſkies!
[13] Deſpis'd, deteſted, all ſhall wing their flight,
And ſink, no more to riſe, in endleſs night!
Arm'd with a briſtled End and glittering Awl,
Behold a minor Monarch in his Stall!
No circling Gold his royal brow ſurrounds,
A Yard of Room his ſphere of Action bounds;
His ſole ambition and his prime purſuit,
With ſkill a Shoe to patch, to ſtitch a Boot!
Nor deem his fate ſevere! The time may come
When many a pious King in Chriſtendom,
Daſh'd from his throne, and made Dame Fortune's Fool,
Shall envy little Capet's cobbling ſtool!
Mark with the Peer and Prince the * canting Prieſt,
Forbidden on his Country's fat to feaſt, *
[14] While peace looks down ſweet ſmiling on the ſwains,
And untax'd Plenty crowns the fruitful plains!
No more that lazy Lubbard ſhall we pay,
With phiz ſo farcical to preach and pray;
No more behold that Harpy of the land
Lay on our largeſt ſheaves his greedy hand;
With Bigotry's black banner wide unfurl'd,
Fright into Gothic Ignorance the world:
But Truth and Light ſhall come, with hoſtile rage,
"To drive the holy Vandal off the ſtage."
See Tythes expire, and ancient Slavery fail;
Proud Superſtition turn her vanquiſh'd tail;
No zealous Miniſter the Church befriend,
But all her ſorceries with the Beldame end:
[15] Lo! Babylon is fallen! That myſtic —
That Sink of Wickedneſs, is now no more!
Great Babylon is fallen! Shout, ſhout, ye Meads!
And, oh! ye Corn-fields, wave your happy heads!
Ye lovely Lambkins, ſtrain your feeble voice,
And with your Dams in loudeſt Baas rejoice!
Calves, join your notes to ſwell the gladdening ſound!
Cows, let your lowings from the ſkies rebound!
Prolific Ducks, quack mid the mighty noiſe!
Hens, more prolific, cackle out your joys!
And ye, oh! Swine, lift up your little Eyes,
With rapture riot round your rotten Styes!
Stretch your triumphant throats, and ſtrive to make
The frighten'd welkin with your Gruntings ſhake!
FINIS.