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Sure fate of all who love to dwell
Apollo, who, to do him right, Was always perfectly polite, Chagrin'd to see his son and heir Dishonor'd by his gape and stare, Resolved to send him to Versailles, To learn a minuet of Marseilles : But Venus, who had deeper reading In all the mysteries of breeding, Observed to Phæbus, that the name Of fop and Frenchman was the same. French manners, were, she said, a thing which Those grave misguided fools, the English, Had, in despite of common sense, Mistook for manly excellence; By which their nation strangely sunk is, And half their nobles turned to monkies. She thought it better, as the case was, To send young Genius to the graces : Those sweet divinities, she said, Would form him in the myrtle shade; And teach him more, in half an hour, Than Lewis or his Pompadour.
Phoebus agreed—the graces took Their noble pupil from his book,
Allow'd him at their side to rove
Genius was charın’d—divinely placed
Thus, by the discipline of art, Genius shone out in head and heart. Form'd from his first fair bloom of youth, By Temperance and her sister Truth, He knew the scientific page Of every
clime and every age ; And learn’d with critic-skill to rein The wildness of his native vein ; That critic-skill, though cool and chaste, Refined beneath the eye of Taste ; His unforbidding mien and air, His awkward gait, his haughty stare,
And every stain that wit debases,
A MORAL ESSAY.
BY MR. CAWTHORN.
Tis said that ere fair virtue learn’d to sigh, The crest to libel, and the star to lie, The poet glow'd with all his sacred fire, And bade each virtue live along the lyre : Led humble science to the blest abode, And raised the hero till he shone a god.
Our modern bards, by some unhappy fate, Condemn'd to flatter every fool of state, Have oft, regardless of their heaven-born flame, Enthroned proud greatness in the shrine of fame; Bestow'd on vice the wreaths that virtue wove, And paid to Nero what was due to Jove.
Yet hear, ye great! whom birth and titles crown With alien worth, and glories not your own; Hear me affirm, that all the vain can show, All Anstis boasts of, and all kings bestow, All envy wishes, all ambition hails, All that supports St. James's, and Versailles,
C'an never give distinction to a knave,
In elder times, ere heralds yet enroll'd The bleeding ruby in a field of gold, Or infant language pain’d the tender ear With sess, bend, argent, chev'ron, and saltier ; 'Twas he alone the bay's bright verdure wore, Whose strength subdued the lion or the boar; Whose art from rocks could call the mellowing grain, And give the vine to laugh along the plain ; Or, tracing nature in her moral plan, Explored the savage till he found the man. For him the rustic hind, and village maid, Stripp'd the gay spring of half its bloom and shade; With annual dances graced the daisy-mead, And sung his triumphs on the oaten reed; Or, fond to think him sprung from yonder sky, Rear'd the turf fane, and bade the victim die. In Turkey, sacred as the Koran's page, These simple manners live through every age : The humblest swain, if virtue warms the man, May rise the genius of the grave Divan ; And all but Othman's race, the only proud, Fall with their sires, and mingle with the crowd.
For three campaigns Kaprouli's hand display'd
With strange good nature give his worthless son The very
laurels that his virtue won ; And with the same appellatives adorn A living hero, and a sot unborn.
Hence, without blushing, (say whate'er we can) We more regard th' escutcheon than the man; Yet, true to nature and her instincts, prize The hound or spaniel as his talent lies : Careless from what paternal blood he rose, We value Bowman only for his nose.
Say, should you see a generous steed outfly The swiftest zephyr of th' autumnal sky, Would you at once his ardent wishes kill, Give him the dogs, or chain him to a mill, Because his humbler fathers, grave and slow, Clean'd half the jakes of Houndsditch or Soho ?
In spite of all that in his grandsire shone,
I grant, my lord ! your ancestors outshine