What boots it, **, that thy princely blood
Has pour’d through time’s dark waste its glittering flood?
That the huge tree within thy banner’d hall
Spreads its luxuriant arms athwart the wall;
And with fantastic fruit profusely blooms—
Dukes, Bishops, Masters of the Horse, and Grooms?
What boot thy galleries, whose grim warrior train
Have frown’ d on time and hostile brooms in vain:
Or, blazon’d on yon monumental pile,
That signs armorial mock the herald’s toil;
Where cross-legg’d knights by broken shields repose,
Some without ears and more with half a nose?
If near that fane (where, breathing Virtue’s praise,
In marble live the Good of former days)
With ready voice, as place or passion leads,
You vote, and Nature at each artery bleeds?
If from gay rooms, where speaking pictures tell
How Douglas conquer’d and how Falkland fell,
Worn by the dice to slumber you repair,
Just when their trumpets roused the morning air?
* * * * *
Go, plunge thyself in mausoleum glooms,
‘Mid kindred ‘scutcheons and recording tombs;
The phantoms of thine ancestry pursue,
Till the long line’s first shade elude thy view:
Then let this truth sink deep into thy mind—
“The virtuous only are of noble kind.”
Be mild in manners, and in morals pure,
As Camden independent, firm as More:
Let these, before thee marching still take place
Of all the proud memorials of thy race;
Let these, or men like these, the seals precede,
And to the Law’s unsullied temple lead.
O grant me, Deity, full power to scan
Th’eternal sacrifice man owes to man;
That sacred debt, which toil through every day
And thought through every night alone can pay.
Hast thou, through life, tenaciously referr’d
To truth and justice every deed and word?
Roused all thy faculties, and bade them tend
Right to the good of all, their one sole end—
Convinced that to thy kind belongs alone,
And not to thee, what most thou call’st thine own?
Then fear not aught be wanting in thy scale:
Thou more than Percy, more than Howard, hail!
So will I deem thee, of whatever blood;
Heaven made thee noble, when it made thee good.
Illustrious gift! A Nation at thy name
Spreads all her hands, and triumphs in thy fame;
And loud huzzas, for once with unbought sound,
To the glad Thames proclaim a Patriot found.
* * * * *
The lapdog sleek, my Lady’s dearer mate,
That sleeps within her bed and feeds on plate,
Is Pompey, Caesar, or if these appear
Accents too bloodless for a modem ear,
Suwarrow, Buonaparte, Robespierre
Such the caprice of names! not such be thine,
Doom’d only by antithesis to shine.
* * * * *
For half a realm two rival Scots dispute,
And law rejoices in the endless suit.
A Samson in some Thurlow shall be found,
That law’s eternal riddle to expound.
See ardent Wolfe to bleak St. Lawrence fly,
And brave with wasted form a polar sky;
Blest, as his standards wave on Abra’m’s Height,
In victory’s lap to close his lingering sight:
Whilst thou art but the tail of * *’s line,
Ape of thy barber’s block-were barber thine:
In all, this parallel of heads is good,
Save that thine frowns in lead and his in wood!
* * * * *
Would’st thou to Wisdom’s genuine praise aspire,
That Wisdom ever backward to admire?
Like Howard, urged by energy sublime
Tempt and exhaust the rage of every clime:
Then from bright virtue’s eminence . . . .
* * * * *
Still prompt alike to teach and to defend,
Be of the infant thou, and poor, the friend:
Severely faithful to the empire’s trust,
On dubious points a witness sternly just.
Though at thy back frown terror’s threatening tribe,
And Power’s stern lictors perjury prescribe,
Unmoved behold the dungeon and the wheel;
No falsehood utter, and no truth conceal:
Nor dare the spotless spirit to survive,
And forfeit every end of life to—live.
“Erroneously we measure life by breath:
They do not truly live, who merit death.”
Though Luxury for their daily feast combine
Whate’er is rare, from Lapland to the Line;
For them though all the portals open stand
Of Health’s own temple at her Graham’s command;
And the great High Priest, baffling Death and Sin,
Earth each immortal idiot to the chin:
Ask of these wretched beings, worse than dead,
If on the couch celestial, gold can shed
The common blessings of a peasant’s bed.
* * * * *
Less deep, poor India! were the wounds that gored
Thy bosom, recent from the Mongul sword.
For not at once Oppression’s bloody goad
Drove joy and plenty from their long abode;
Or Mirth refused to wing the languid noon,
When on the rice-field beat the fierce monsoon.
The pilgrim, journeying to Benares’ towers
Fearless outspread his stores by tombs and bowers:
Nor wanted wealth the pagod’s inner pride,
That glitter’d frequent o’er the holy tide—
Shrines, where Devotion’s pious hand had wreathed
Her countless gems; and hallow’d ivory breathed.
* * * * *
—Prudence whispers that too sharp a thong
May scourge those shoulders, which though bare are strong.
Even Avarice, forced to leave the wretched soil
(For her own ends) its implements of toil,
Has learn’d to dread the vengeance lurking there
Pikes in the scythe, and musquets in the share.
* * * * *
Be it thy care, with trusty friends and trie[d],
O’er India’s patient millions to preside
No contract-thriving minion to oppress
Her meagre sons, and batten on distress;
While in gilt palanquin he sweeps the street,
With subject Nabobs crouching at his feet—
Then claim thou nearest kind with noblest line:
I own the link; thy bearings are divine.
If to remotest times thy mind aspire,
In the red field of Hastings seek thy Sire:
Through mustier annals dart thine eagle eyes,
And choose the warrior whence thy stem shall rise;
Nay soar to heavenly ancestry, and trace
Through Adam up to God thy genuine race.
But if thy fiendlike thirst of murther yell
“Whips, racks, and torture! Flog the scoundrels well!”
Till the scourge galls the beadle’s hand, though rough;
And the life-poising surgeon cries, “Enough”—
Then blasted by thyself, whate’er thy name,
Hengist nor Adam can redeem its fame:
They but inflame thy guilt, that one so bred
With bastard blood should slur the virtuous dead.
* * * * *
Close by the dome, where ** sate, to awe
The house of taxes, turnpike-roads, and law—
With six-in-hand, to make the cockneys stare
His grandson whirls; in daylight’s broadest glare
Would meet without a blush e’en Wilberforce,
And crack his whip, and whistle to his horse.
At night how changed! Him haply has array’d
Some French friseur, all prattle and pomade:
Some spruce man-milliner, of the band-box fry,
Has wing’d the bot into a butterfly.
————————————————
But whence this gall this lengthened face of woe
We were no saints at twenty, be it so
Yet happy they who in life’s [latter] scene
Need only blush for what they once have been
Who pushed by thoughtless youth to deeds of shame
‘Mid such bad daring sought a coward’s name.
I grant that not in parents’ hearts alone
A stripling’s years may for his faults atone.
So would I plead for York-but long disgrace
And Moore and Partridge stare me in the face.
Alas ’twas other cause than lack of years
That moistened Dunkirk’s sands with blood and tears
Else had Morality beheld her line
With Guards and Hulans run along the Rhine
Religion hailed her creeds by war restored
And Truth had blest the logic of his sword.
————————————————
Were such your servant Percy! (be it tried
Between ourselves! the noble laid aside)
Now would you be content with bare release
From such a desperate breaker of the peace?
Y[our] friend the country Justice scarce would fail
To give a hint of whips and the cart’s tail
Or should you even stop short of Woolwich docks
Would less suffice than Bridewell and the stocks.
But ye who make our manners laws and sense
Self-judged can with such discipline dispense
And at your will what in a groom were base
Shall stick new splendor on his gaitered grace.
The theme is fruitful nor can sorrow find
Shame of such dye but worse remains behind
—My Lord can muster (all but honour spent)
From his wife’s Faro-bank a decent rent
The glittering rabble housed to [cheat] and swear
Swindle and rob is no informer there
Or is the painted staff’s avenging host
By sixpenny sedition shops engrossed
Or rather skulking for the common weal
Round fire-side treason parties en famille
How throngs the crowd to yon theatric school
To see an English lord enact a fool
What wonder?-on my soul ‘twould split a tub
To see the arch grimace of Marquis Scrub:
Nor safe the petticoats of dames that hear
The box resound on Viscount Buffo’s ear.
But here’s a thought which well our mirth may cross
That Smithfield should sustain so vast a loss
That spite of the defrauded Kitchen’s prayers
Scrub lives a genuine Marquess above stairs.
And they who feed with this Patrician wit
Mirth that to aching ribs will not submit
Good honest souls!-if right my judgement lies
Though very happy are not very wise
Unless resolved in mercy to the law
Their legislative licence to withdraw
And on a frugal plan-without more words
But whence yon swarm that loads the [western] bridge
Crams through the arch and bellys o’er the ridge
—His Grace’s watermen in open race
Are called to try their prowess with his Grace.
Could aught but Envy now his pride rebuke?
—The cry is six to one upon the Duke.
St. Stephen’s distanced onward see him strive
Slap-dash, tail foremost, as his arms shall drive.
With shouts the assembled people rend the skies.
His Grace and his protection win the prize.
—Now Norfolk set thy heralds to their tools
Marshal forth-with a pair of Oars in gules.
—Though yet the star some hearts at court may charm,
The nobler badge shall glitter on his arm.
Enough on these inferior things
A single word on Kings and Sons of Kings
—Were Kings a free born work-a people’s choice
Would More or Henry boast the general voice?
What fool besotted as we are by names
Could pause between a Raleigh and a James?
How did Buchanan waste the Sage’s lore!
—Not virtuous Seneca on Nero more.
A leprous stain! ere half his thread was spun
Ripe for the block that might have spared his son
For never did the uxorious martyr seek
Food for sick passion in a minion’s cheek
To patient senates quibble by the hour
And prove with endless puns a monarch’s power
Or whet his kingly faculties to chase
Legions of devils through a key-hole’s space
—What arts had better claim with wrath to warm
A Pym’s brave heart or stir a Hamden’s arm.
But why for [scoundrels] rake a distant age
Or spend upon the dead the muse’s rage.
The nation’s hope shall shew the present time
As rich in folly as the past in crime
Do arts like these a royal mind evince!
Are these the studies that beseem a prince?
Wedged in with blacklegs at a boxer’s show
To shout with transport o’er a knock-down blow
‘Mid knots of grooms the council of his state
To scheme and counterscheme for purse and plate.
Thy ancient honours when shalt thou resume
Oh shame is this thy service boastful plume
Go modern Prince at Henry’s tomb proclaim
Thy rival triumphs-thy Newmarket fame
There hang thy trophies-bid the jockey’s vest
The whip the cap and spurs thy praise attest
And let that heir of Glory’s endless day
Edward the flower of chivalry! survey
(Fit token of thy reverence and love)
The boxer’s armour the dishonoured glove.
When Calais heard (while Famine and Disease
To stern Plantagenet resigned her keys)
That victims yet were wanting to assuage
A baffled Conqueror’s deeply searching rage
Six which themselves must single from a train
All brothers, long endeared by kindred pain,
Who then through rows of weeping comrades went
And self-devoted sought the monarch’s tent
Six simple burghers—To the rope that tyed
Your vassal necks how poor the garter’s pride!
Plebeian hands the [ ] mace have wrenched
From sovereigns deep in pedigree intrenched
Let grandeur tell thee whither now is flown
The brightest jewel of a George’s throne
Blush Pride to see a farmer’s wife produce
The first of genuine kings, a king for use.
—————————————
Let Bourbon spawn her scoundrels. Be my joy
[T]he embryo Franklin in the printer’s boy.
* * * * *
But grant [ ]
The bastard gave some favorite stocks of peers
Patents of Manhood for eight hundred years
Eight hundred years uncalled to other tasks
Butlers have simply broached their Lordship’s casks
My Lady ne’er approached a thing so coarse
As Tom-but when he helped her to her horse
A Norman Robber then….
Ye kings, in wisdom, sense and power, supreme,
These freaks are worse than any sick man’s dream.
To hated worth no Tyrant ere designed
Malice so subtle, vengeance so refined.
Even he who yoked the living to the dead,
Rivalled by you, hides the diminished head.
Never did Rome herself so set at naught
All plain blunt sense, all subtlety of thought.
Heavens! who sees majesty in George’s face?
Or looks at Norfolk and can dream of grace?
What has this blessed earth to do with shame?
If Excellence was ever Eden’s name?
Must honour still no Lonsdale’s tail be bound?
Then execration is an empty sound.
Is Common-sense asleep? has she no wand
From this curst Pharaoh-plague to rid the land?
Then to our bishops reverent let us fall,
Worship Mayors, Tipstaffs, Aldermen and all.
Let Ignorance o’er the monster swarms preside
Till Egypt see her ancient fame outvied.
The thundering Thurlow, Apis! shall rejoice
In rites once offered to thy bellowing voice.
Insatiate Charlotte’s tears and Charlotte’s smile
Shall ape the scaly regent of the Nile.
Bishops, of milder Spaniel breed, shall boast
The reverence by the fierce Anubis lost.
And ’tis their due:–devotion has been paid
These seven long years to Grenville’s onion head.
But whence this gall, this lengthened face of woe?
We were no saints at twenty,—be it so;
Yet happy they who in life’s later scene
Need only blush for what they once have been,
Who pushed by thoughtless youth to deeds of shame
‘Mid such bad daring sought a coward’s name.
I grant that not in parents’ hearts alone
A stripling’s years may for his faults atone,
So would I plead for York–but long disgrace
And Moore and Partridge stare me in the face.
Alas! ’twas other cause than lack of years
That moistened Dunkirk’s sands with blood and tears,
Else had Morality beheld her line
With Guards and Uhlans run along the Rhine,
Religion hailed her creeds by war restored,
And Truth had blest the logic of his sword.
Were such your servant Percy! (be it tried
Between ourselves! the noble laid aside)
Now would you be content with bare release
From such a desperate breaker of the peace?
Y[our] friend the country Justice scarce would fail
[To gi]ve a hint of whips and the cart’s tail,
Or should you even stop short of Woolwich docks
Would less suffice than Bridewell and the stocks?
But ye who make our manners, laws, and sense,
Self-judged can with such discipline dispense,
And at your will what in a groom were base
Shall stick new splendour on his gartered grace.
And let that heir of Glory’s endless day
Edward, the flower of chivalry, survey
(Fit token of thy reverence and love)
The boxer’s armour, the dishonoured Glove.
When Calais heard (while Famine and Disease
To stern Plantagenet resigned her keys)
That victims yet were wanting to assuage
A baffled conqueror’s deeply searching rage,
Six which themselves must single from a train
All brothers, long endeared by kindred pain,
Who then through rows of weeping comrades went
And self-devoted sought the monarch’s tent,
Six simple burghers–to the rope that tied
Your vassal necks how poor the garter’s pride!
Plebeian hands the [ ] mace have wrenched
From sovereigns deep in pedigree intrenched.
Let grandeur tell thee whither now is flown
The brightest jewel of a George’s throne.
Blush Pride to see a farmer’s wife produce
The first of genuine kings, a king for use;
Let Bourbon spawn her scoundrels, be my joy
The embryo Franklin in the printer’s boy.
But grant
The bastard gave some favourite stocks of peers
Patents of Manhood for eight hundred years.
Eight hundred years uncalled to other tasks
Butlers have simply broached their Lordships’ casks,
My Lady ne’er approached a thing so coarse
As Tom—but when he helped her to her horse—
A Norman Robber then, & c. & c.
Erroneously we measure life by breath;
They do not truly live who merit death.
Though Riot for their daily feast unite
Thy turtles [Wilston?] and thy Venison, Wright,
For them though all the portals open stand
Of Health’s own temple at her Graham’s command
And the great high-priest baffling Death and Sin
T’ earth each immortal idiot to the chin,
Ask of these wretched beings worse than dead
If on the couch celestial gold can shed
The coarser blessings of a Peasant’s bed.