IN Britain’s isle, no matter where, | |
| An ancient pile of building stands; | |
| The Huntingdons and Hattons there | |
| Employed the power of fairy hands. | |
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| To raise the ceilings’ fretted height, | 5 |
| Each panel in achievements clothing, | |
| Rich windows that exclude the light, | |
| And passages that lead to nothing. | |
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| Full oft within the spacious walls, | |
| When he had fifty winters o’er him, | 10 |
| My grave lord-keeper led the brawls: | |
| The seal and maces danced before him. | |
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| His bushy beard and shoe-strings green, | |
| His high-crowned hat and satin doublet, | |
| Moved the stout heart of England’s queen, | 15 |
| Though pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. | |
| |
| What, in the very first beginning, | |
| Shame of the versifying tribe! | |
| Your history whither are you spinning? | |
| Can you do nothing but describe? | 20 |
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| A house there is (and that ’s enough) | |
| From whence one fatal morning issues | |
| A brace of warriors, not in buff, | |
| But rustling in their silks and tissues. | |
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| The first came cap-a-pie from France, | 25 |
| Her conquering destiny fulfilling, | |
| Whom meaner beauties eye askance, | |
| And vainly ape her art of killing. | |
| |
| The other Amazon kind Heaven | |
| Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire; | 30 |
| But Cobham had the polish given, | |
| And tipped her arrows with good-nature. | |
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| To celebrate her eyes, her air— | |
| Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; | |
| Melissa is her nom de guerre: | 35 |
| Alas! who would not wish to please her? | |
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| With bonnet blue and capuchin, | |
| And aprons long, they hid their armor, | |
| And veiled their weapons bright and keen | |
| In pity to the country farmer. | 40 |
| |
| Fame in the shape of Mr. P—t | |
| (By this time all the parish know it) | |
| Had told that thereabouts there lurked | |
| A wicked imp they called a poet, | |
| |
| Who prowled the country far and near, | 45 |
| Bewitched the children of the peasants, | |
| Dried up the cows and lamed the deer, | |
| And sucked the eggs and killed the pheasants. | |
| |
| My lady heard their joint petition; | |
| Swore by her coronet and ermine, | 50 |
| She ’d issue out her high commission | |
| To rid the manor of such vermin. | |
| |
| The heroines undertook the task; | |
| Through lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventured, | |
| Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask, | 55 |
| But bounce into the parlor entered. | |
| |
| The trembling family they daunt, | |
| They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle. | |
| Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, | |
| And upstairs in a whirlwind rattle. | 60 |
| |
| Each hole and cupboard they explore, | |
| Each creek and cranny of his chamber, | |
| Run hurry-scurry round the floor, | |
| And o’er the bed and tester clamber; | |
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| Into the drawers and china pry, | 65 |
| Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! | |
| Under a teacup he might lie, | |
| Or creased like dog’s ears in a folio. | |
| |
| On the first marching of the troops, | |
| The muses, hopeless of his pardon, | 70 |
| Conveyed him underneath their hoops | |
| To a small closet in the garden. | |
| |
| So rumor says, (who will believe?) | |
| But that they left the door ajar, | |
| Where, safe, and laughing in his sleeve, | 75 |
| He heard the distant din of war. | |
| |
| Short was his joy; he little knew | |
| The power of magic was no fable; | |
| Out of the window whisk they flew, | |
| But left a spell upon the table. | 80 |
| |
| The words too eager to unriddle, | |
| The poet felt a strange disorder; | |
| Transparent birdlime formed the middle, | |
| And chains invisible the border. | |
| |
| So cunning was the apparatus, | 85 |
| The powerful pothooks did so move him, | |
| That will he nill he to the great house | |
| He went as if the devil drove him. | |
| |
| Yet on his way (no sign of grace, | |
| For folks in fear are apt to pray) | 90 |
| To Phœbus he preferred his case, | |
| And begged his aid that dreadful day. | |
| |
| The godhead would have backed his quarrel, | |
| But with a blush, on recollection, | |
| Owned that his quiver and his laurel | 95 |
| ’Gainst four such eyes were no protection. | |
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| The court was sat, the culprit there: | |
| Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, | |
| The Lady Janes and Jones repair, | |
| And from the gallery stand peeping; | 100 |
| |
| Such as in silence of the night | |
| Come (sweep) along some winding entry, | |
| (Styack 1 has often seen the sight), | |
| Or at the chapel door stand sentry; | |
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| In peaked hoods and mantle tarnished, | 105 |
| Sour visages enough to scare ye, | |
| High dames of honor once that garnished | |
| The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary! | |
| |
| The peeress comes: the audience stare, | |
| And doff their hats with due submission; | 110 |
| She courtesies, as she takes her chair, | |
| To all the people of condition. | |
| |
| The bard with many an artful fib | |
| Had in imagination fenced him, | |
| Disproved the arguments of Squib, 2 | 115 |
| And all that Groom 3 could urge against him. | |
| |
| But soon his rhetoric forsook him | |
| When he the solemn hall had seen; | |
| A sudden fit of ague shook him; | |
| He stood as mute as poor Macleane. 4 | 120 |
| |
| Yet something he was heard to mutter, | |
| “How in the park, beneath an old tree, | |
| (Without design to hurt the butter, | |
| Or any malice to the poultry,) | |
| |
| He once or twice had penned a sonnet, | 125 |
| Yet hoped that he might save his bacon; | |
| Numbers would give their oaths upon it, | |
| He ne’er was for a conjuror taken.” | |
| |
| The ghostly prudes, with hagged face, | |
| Already had condemned the sinner: | 130 |
| My lady rose, and with a grace— | |
| She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. | |
| |
| “Jesu Maria! Madam Bridget, | |
| Why, what can the Viscountess mean!” | |
| Cried the square hoods, in woful fidget; | 135 |
| “The times are altered quite and clean! | |
| |
| “Decorum ’s turned to mere civility! | |
| Her air and all her manners show it: | |
| Commend me to her affability! | |
| Speak to a commoner and poet!” [Here 500 stanzas are lost.] | 140 |
| |
| And so God save our noble king, | |
| And guard us from long-winded lubbers, | |
| That to eternity would sing, | |
| And keep my lady from her rubbers. | |
