Then from my pristine labours I'll relax: _Then will I lay the Tree unto the [3]Axe!_ Of all my former grief-- Resign the bus'ness of the anxious chace, And for past failures, and for past disgrace, Here find a snug relief!

The vain pursuit of female game give o'er, And, hound of _Fortune_, scour the town no more!

[1] When Lord Mountmorres went down into the country, some years ago; to pay his addresses to a lady of large fortune, whose name we forbear to mention, his Lordship took up his abode for several days in a small public-house in the neighbourhood of her residence, and employed his time in making all proper enquiries, and prudent observation upon the nature, extent, and value of her property:--he was seen measuring the trees with his eye, and was at last found in the act of boring for marle; when being roughly interrogated by one of the ladie's servants, to avoid chastis.e.m.e.nt he confessed his name, and delivered his amorous credentials. The amour terminated as ten thousand others of the n.o.ble Lord's have done!

[2] An allusion is here made to a speech published by the n.o.ble Lord, which, as the t.i.tle-page imports, was _intended_ to have been spoken; in which his Lordship, towards the conclusion, gravely remarks:--"Having, Sir, so long encroached upon the patience of the House, and observing by the clock that the hour has become so excessively late, nothing remains for me but to return my sincere thanks to you, Sir, and the other gentlemen of this House, for the particular civility; and extreme attention, with which I have been heard:-- the interesting nature of the occasion has betrayed me into a much greater length than I had any idea originally of running into; and if the casual warmth _of the moment_ has led me into the least personal indelicacy towards any man alive, I am very ready to beg pardon of him and this House, Sir, for having so done."

[3] This line is literally transcribed from a speech of Lord _Mountmorre_'s, when Candidate some years ago for the Representation of the City of Westminster.

_NUMBER XX._

IRREGULAR ODE, FOR THE KING'S BIRTH-DAY, _By_ SIR GEORGE HOWARD, K. B.

CHORUS.

Re mi fa sol, Tol de rol lol.

I.

My Muse, for George prepare the splendid song, Oh may it float on Schwellenburgen's voice!

Let Maids of Honour sing it all day long, That Hoggaden's fair ears may hear it, and rejoice.

II.

What subject first shall claim thy courtly strains?

Wilt thou begin from Windsor's sacred brow, Where erst, with pride and pow'r elate, The Tudors sate in sullen state, While Rebel Freedom, forc'd at length to bow, Retir'd reluctant from her fav'rite plains?

Ah! while in each insulting tower you trace The features of that tyrant race, How wilt thou joy to view the alter'd scene!

The Giant Castle quits his threat'ning mien; The levell'd ditch no more its jaws discloses, } But o'er its mouth, to feast our eyes and noses, } Brunswick hath planted pinks and roses; } Hath spread smooth gravel walks, and a small bowling green!

III.

Mighty Sov'reign! Mighty Master!

George is content with lath and plaister!

At his own palace-gate, In a poor porter's lodge, by Chambers plann'd, See him with Jenky, hand in hand, In serious mood, Talking! talking! talking! talking!

Talking of affairs of state, All for his country's good!

Oh! Europe's pride! Britannia's hope!

To view his turnips and potatoes, Down his fair Kitchen-garden's slope The victor monarch walks like Cincinnatus.

See, heavenly Muse! I vow to G.o.d 'Twas thus the laurel'd hero trod-- Sweet rural joys! delights without compare!

Pleasure shines in his eyes, } While George with surprize, } Sees his cabbages rise, } And his 'sparagus wave in the air!

IV.

But hark! I hear the sound of coaches, The Levee's hour approaches-- Haste, ye Postillions! o'er the turnpike road; Back to St. James's bear your royal load!

'Tis done--his smoaking wheels scarce touch'd the ground-- By the Old Magpye and the New, } By Colnbrook, Hounslow, Brentford, Kew, } Half choak'd with dust the monarch flew, } And now, behold, he's landed safe and sound.-- Hail to the blest who tread this hallow'd ground!

Ye firm, invincible beefeaters, } Warriors, who love their fellow-creatures, } I hail your military features! } Ye gentle, maids of honour, in stiff hoops, Buried alive up to your necks, Who chaste as Phnixes in coops, Know not the danger that await your s.e.x!

Ye Lords, empower'd by fortune or desert, Each in his turn to change your sovereign's shirt!

Ye Country Gentlemen, ye City May'rs, Ye Pages of the King's back-stairs, Who in these precincts joy to wait-- Ye courtly wands, so white and small, And you, great pillars of the State, Who at Stephen's slumber, or debate, Hail to you all!!!

CHORUS.

Hail to you all!!!

V.

Now, heavenly Muse, thy choicest song prepare: Let loftier strains the glorious subject suit: Lo! hand in hand, advance th' enamour'd pair, This Chatham's son, and that the drudge of Bute; Proud of their mutual love, Like Nisus and Euryalus they move, To Glory's steepest heights together tend, Each careless for himself, each anxious for his friend!

Hail! a.s.sociate Politicians!

Hail! sublime Arithmeticians!

Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish Propositions!

Sooner our gracious King From heel to heel shall cease to swing; Sooner that brilliant eye shall leave its socket; Sooner that hand desert the breeches pocket, Than constant George consent his friends to quit, And break his plighted faith to Jenkinson and Pitt!

CHORUS.

Hail! most prudent Politicians!

Hail! correct Arithmeticians!

Hail! vast exhaustless source of Irish propositions!

VI.

Oh! deep unfathomable Pitt!

To thee Ierne owes her happiest days!

Wait a bit, And all her sons shall loudly sing thy praise!

Ierne, happy, happy Maid!

Mistress of the Poplin trade!

Old Europa's fav'rite daughter, Whom first emerging from the water, In days of yore, Europa bore, To the celestial Bull!

Behold thy vows are heard, behold thy joys are full!

Thy fav'rite Resolutions greet, They're not much changed, there's no deceit!

Pray be convinc'd, they're still the true ones, Though sprung from thy prolific head, Each resolution hath begotten new ones, And like their sires, all Irish born and bred!

Then haste, Ierne, haste to sing, G.o.d save great George! G.o.d save the King!

May thy sons' sons to him their voices tune, And each revolving year bring back the fourth of June!

_NUMBER XXI._

ADDRESS.

Agreeably to the request of the Right Reverend Author, the following Ode is admitted into this collection; and I think it but justice to declare, that I have diligently scanned it on my fingers; and, after repeated trials, to the best of my knowledge, believe the Metre to be of the Iambic kind, containing three, four, five, and six feet in one line, with the occasional addition of the hypercatalectic syllable at stated periods. I am, therefore, of opinion, that the composition is certainly verse; though I would not wish to p.r.o.nounce too confidently. For further information I shall print his Grace's letter.

TO SIR JOHN HAWKINS, BART.

SIR JOHN, As I understand you are publishing an authentic Edition of the Probationary Odes. I call upon you to do me the justice of inserting the enclosed. It was rejected on the Scrutiny by Signor Delpini, for reasons which must have been suggested by the malevolence of some rival. The reasons were, 1st, That the Ode was nothing but prose, written in an odd manner; and, 2dly, That the Metre, if there be any, as well as many of the thoughts, are stolen from a little Poem, in a Collection called the UNION. To a man, blest with an ear so delicate as your's, Sir John, I think it unnecessary to say any thing on the first charge; and as to the second, (would you believe it?) the Poem from which I am accused of stealing is my own! Surely an Author has a right to make free with his own ideas, especially when, if they were ever known, they have long since been forgotten by his readers. You are not to learn, Sir John, that _de non apparentibus & non existentibus eadem est ratio:_ and nothing but the active spirit of literary jealousy, could have dragged forth my former Ode from the obscurity, in which it has long slept, to the disgrace of all good taste in the present age. However, that you and the public may see, how little I have really taken, and how much I have opened the thoughts, and improved the language of that little, I send you _my imitations of myself_, as well as some few explanatory notes, necessary to elucidate my cla.s.sical and historical allusions.

I am, SIR JOHN, With every wish for your success, Your most obedient humble servant, WILLIAM YORK.

PINDARIC ODE,

By DR. W. MARKHAM, Lord Archbishop of York, Primate of England, and Lord High Almoner to his Majesty, formerly Preceptor to the Princes, Head Master of Westminster School, &c. &c. &c.

STROPHE I.

The priestly mind what virtue so approves, And testifies the pure prelatic spirit, As loyal grat.i.tude?

More to my King, than to my G.o.d, I owe; G.o.d and my father made me man, Yet not without my mother's added aid; But George, without, or G.o.d, or man, With grace endow', and hallow'd me Archbishop.