Un G- (alias New Hog's Norton) in Com. Hants.
WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY IN THE YEAR 1728.
To Rosalinda, now from town retir'd,
Where noblest hearts her brilliant eyes have fir'd;
Whom nightingales in favʼrite bow'rs delight,
Where sweetest flow'rs perfume the fragrant night;
Where music's charms enchant the fleeting hours,
And wit transports with all Thalia's pow'rs;
Alexis sends: Whom his hard fates remove
From the dear scenes of poetry and love,
To barren climates, less frequented plains,
Unpolish'd nymphs, and more unpolish'd swains.
In such a place how can Alexis sing?
An air ne'er beaten by the muse's wing!
In such a place what subject can appear?
What not unworthy Rosalinda's ear?
Yet if a charm in novelty there be,
Sure it will plead to Rosalind for me?
Whom courts or cities nought unknown can shew,
Still U- — G▬▬ presents a prospect new.
As the daub'd scene, that on the stage is shewn,
Where this side canvas is, and that a town;
Or as that lace which Paxton half lace calls,
That decks some beau apprentice out for balls;
Such our half house erects its mimic head,
This side an house presents, and that a shed.
Nor doth the inward furniture excel,
Nor yields it to the beauty of the shell:
Here Roman triumphs plac'd with awkward art,
A cart its horses draws, an elephant the cart,
On the house-side a garden may be seen,
Which docks and nettles keep for ever green.
Weeds on the ground, instead of flow'rs, we see,
And snails alone adorn the barren tree.
Happy for us, had Eve's this garden been;
She'd found no fruit, and therefore known no sin.
Nor meaner ornament the shed-side decks,
With hay-stacks, faggot piles, and bottle-ricks;
The horses stalls, the coach a barn contains;
For purling streams, we've puddles fill'd with rains.
What can our orchard without trees surpass?
What, but our dusty meadow without grass
I've thought (so strong with me burlesque prevails,)
This place design'd to ridicule Versailles;
Or meant, like that, art's utmost pow'r to shew,
That tells how high it reaches, this how low.
Our conversation does our palace fit,
We've ev'rything but humour, except wit.
O then, when tir'd with laughing at his strains, Give one dear sigh to poor Alexis' pains; Whose heart this scene would certainly subdue, But for the thoughts of happier days, and you; With whom one happy hour makes large amends For ev'ry care his other hours attends.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1730.
WHILE at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great.
Forbid it, Gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I.
The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
Before him who ne'er dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admir'd by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare To all my castles
We're often taught it doth behove us
To think those greater who're above us.
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you twice two story,
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.
Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted;
This too doth in my favour speak,
Your levée is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
Nor in the manner of attendance
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance.
Familiar you to admiration,
May be approach'd by all the nation:
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you're offended,
The fault is easily amended,
For I'll come down with wondrous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures. Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while;
*Where Lord Orford then lived.
Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop;
Or I can foreign treaties dish up.
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation;
Tuscan and French are in my head;
Latin I write, and Greek I▬▬▬read.
If you should ask, what pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least;
What fittest for ?- -you know, I'm sure,
I'm fittest for a-sinecure.
GREAT sir, as on each levée day
I still attend you-still you say
I'm busy now, to-morrow come;
To-morrow, sir, you're not at home,
So says your porter, and dare I
Give such a man as him the lie?
In imitation, sir, of you,
I keep a mighty levée too;
Where my attendants, to their sorrow,
Are bid to come again to-morrow.
To-morrow they return, no doubt,
And then like you, sir, I'm gone out.
So says my maid-but they, less civil,
Give maid and master to the devil;
And then with menaces depart,
Which could you hear would pierce your heart.
Good sir, or make my levée fly me,
Or lend your porter to deny me.
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