The Rolliad Part 26

I.

_Indite_, my Muse!--_indite! subpna'd_ is thy lyre!

The praises to _record_, which _rules of Court_ require!

'Tis thou, O _Clio_! Muse divine, And best of all the _Council_ Nine, Must _plead_ my _cause_!--Great HATFIELD'S CECIL bids me sing------ The tallest, fittest man, to walk before the King!

II.

Of _Sal'sbury's Earls_ the First (so tells th' historic page) 'Twas Nature's will to make most wonderfully sage; But then, as if too liberal to his mind, She made him crook'd before, and crook'd behind[1].

'Tis not, thank Heav'n! my _Cecil_, so with thee; Thou last of Cecils, but unlike the first;-- Thy body bears no mark'd deformity;---- The G.o.ds _decreed_, and _judgment was revers'd!_ For veins of Science are like veins of gold!

Pure, for a time, they run; They end as they begun-- Alas! in nothing but a heap of mould!

III.

Shall I by eloquence controul, Or _challenge_ send to mighty ROLLE, Whene'er on Peers he vents his gall?

Uplift my hands to pull his nose, And twist and pinch it till it grows, Like mine, aside, and small?

Say, by what _process_ may I once obtain A _verdict_, Lord, not let me _sue_ in vain!

In Commons, and in _Courts_ below, My _actions_ have been try'd;-- There _Clients_ who pay most, _you know_, _Retain_ the strongest side!

True to these _terms_, I preach'd in politics for _Pitt_, And _Kenyon's law_ maintain'd against his Sovereign's _writ_.

What though my father be a porpus, He may be mov'd by _Habeas Corpus_-- Or by a _call_, whene'er the State Or _Pitt_ requires his vote and weight-- I tender _bail_ for Bottle's _warm_ support, Of all the plans of Ministers and Court!

IV.

And Oh! should _Mrs. Arden_ bless me with a child, A lovely boy, as beauteous as myself and mild; The little _Pepper_ would some caudle lack: Then think of _Arden_'s wife, My pretty _Plaintiff_'s life, The best of caudle's made of best of sack!

Let thy _decree_ But favour me, My _bills_ and _briefs_, _reb.u.t.ters_ and _detainers_, To _Archy_ I'll resign Without a _fee_ or _fine_, _Attachments_, _replications_, and _retainers_!

To _Juries, Bench, Exchequer, Seals_, To _Chanc'ry Court_, and _Lords_, I'll bid adieu; No more _demurrers_ nor _appeals_;---- My _writs of error_ shall be _judg'd_ by you.

V.

And if perchance great _Doctor Arnold_ should retire, Fatigu'd with all the troubles of St. James's Choir; My Odes two merits shall unite; [2]BEARCROFT, my friend, His aid will lend, And set to music all I write; Let me then, Chamberlain without a _flaw_, For June the fourth prepare, The praises of the King In _legal lays_ to sing, Until they rend the air, And _prove_ my equal fame in _poesy_ and law!

[1] Rapin observes, that Robert Cecil, the first Earl of Salisbury, was of a great genius; and though crooked before and behind, Nature supplied that defect with n.o.ble endowments of mind.

[2] This Gentleman is a great performer upon the Piano Forte, as well as the Speaking Trumpet and Jews' Harp.

_NUMBER IX._

ODE,

_By_ NATHANIEL WILLIAM WRAXHALL, ESQ. M.P.

I.

MURRAIN seize the House of Commons!

Hoa.r.s.e catarrh their windpipes shake!

Who, deaf to travell'd Learning's summons, Rudely cough'd whene'er I spake!

_North_, nor _Fox_'s thund'ring course, Nor e'en the Speaker, tyrant, shall have force To save thy walls from nightly breaches, From _Wraxhall_'s votes, from _Wraxhall_'s speeches, _Geography_, terraqueous maid, Descend from globes to statesmen's aid!

Again to heedless crouds unfold Truths unheard, tho' not untold: Come, and once more unlock this vasty world-- Nations attend! the _map_ of _Earth_'s unfurl'd!

II.

Begin the song, from where the Rhine, The Elbe, the Danube, Weser rolls---- _Joseph_, nine circles, forty seas are thine---- Thine, twenty millions souls---- Upon a marish flat and dank States, Six and One, Dam the d.y.k.es, the seas embank, Maugre the Don!

A gridiron's form the proud Escurial rears, While South of Vincent's Cape anchovies glide: But, ah! o'er Tagus, once auriferous tide, A priest-rid Queen, Braganza's sceptre bears---- Hard fate! that Lisbon's Diet-drink is known To cure each crazy _const.i.tution_ but her own!

III.

I burn! I burn! I glow! I glow!

With antique and with modern lore!

I rush from Bosphorus to Po-- To Nilus from the Nore.

Why were thy Pyramids, O Egypt! rais'd, But to be measur'd, and be prais'd?

Avaunt, ye Crocodiles! your threats are vain!

On Norway's seas, my soul, unshaken, Brav'd the Sea-Snake and the Craken!

And shall I heed the River's scaly train?

Afric, I scorn thy Alligator band!

Quadrant in hand I take my stand, And eye thy moss-clad needle, Cleopatra grand!

O, that great Pompey's pillar were my own!

Eighty-eight feet the shaft, and all one stone!

But hail, ye lost Athenians!

Hail also, ye Armenians!

Hail once, ye Greeks, ye Romans, Carthagenians!

Twice hail, ye Turks, and thrice, ye Abyssinians!

Hail too, O Lapland, with thy squirrels airy!

Hail, Commerce-catching Tipperary!

Hail, wonder-working Magi!

Hail, Ouran-Outangs! Hail, Anthropophagi!

Hail, all ye cabinets of every state, From poor Marino's Hill, to Catherine's Empire great!

All have their chiefs, who-speak, who write, who seem to think, _Caermarthens, Sydneys, Rutlands_, paper, pens, and ink;

IV.

Thus, through all climes, to earth's remotest goal, From burning Indus to the freezing Pole, In chaises and on floats, In dillies, and in boats; Now on a camel's native stool; Now on an a.s.s, now on a mule.

Nabobs and Rajahs have I seen; Old Bramins mild, young Arabs keen: Tall Polygars, Dwarf Zemindars, Mahommed's tomb, Killarney's lake, the fane of Ammon, With all thy Kings and Queens, ingenious Mrs. Salmon[1]: Yet vain the majesties of wax!

Vain the cut velvet on their backs---- GEORGE, mighty GEORGE, is flesh and blood---- No head he wants of wax or wood!

His heart is good!

(As a King's should) And every thing he says is understood!

[1] Exhibits the Wax-work, in Fleet-Street.

_NUMBER X._

ODE FOR NEW-YEAR'S-DAY,

_By_ SIR GREGORY PAGE TURNER, BART. M.P.

Lord Warden of Blackheath, and Ranger of Greenwich Hill, during the Christmas and Easter Holidays.

STROPHE.

O day of high career!

First of a month--nay more--first of a year!

A _monarch-day_, that hath indeed no peer!

Let huge _Buzaglos_ glow In ev'ry corner of the isle, To melt away the snow: And like to _May_, Be this month gay; And with her at hop--step--jump--play, Dance, grin, and smile: Ye too, ye _Maids of Honour_, young and old, Shall each be seen, With a neat _warming_ patentiz'd _machine_!