ODE XXXVII.

FROM

ST. STEPHEN'S CHAPEL,

NOVEMBER 21.

ADDRESSED TO

THE AUTHOR OF THE MONODY.

O BARD! whene'er you rhyme again,
In blacker tints pray dip your pen,
The Muse's aid implore:

Perchance a tragic muse may stoop

To sing of that heroic

group,

On t'other side the floor.

And yet to raise their laurels higher,
Asks not the chord of your dull lyre,
Touch'd by the quill of goose;

But such a cord as oft you see

On Hounslow's plain swung o'er a tree,

And ending in a noose.

Tho' none (like TWITCHER) filch a purse,

With pirates or with thieves converse,

Nor cut a single throat;

To rob three millions at a time,
Or butcher thousands is no crime;
Hence are our fleets afloat.

With ev'ry brute of Noah's ark,
Legions of human brutes embark,
Vot'ries to sword and fire:

May half, like SACKVILLE, prove alert,
Like CORNWALL t'other half desert!
From conscience-not for hire.

Young bees forsake their native hive,
By travel-and by toils they thrive,
With ease and plenty dwell;

Say, when the parent-swarm hath flown,
Tho' rich in honey of their own,

To plunder ev'ry cell?

That this be just-hear yon Scotch gang;
Here GIBBY's and DUNDAS's twang,

The genius of starvation!

"The faulchion's edge-the cannon's thunder, Shall make America knock-under,

Or ruin either nation."

Sawney, bring up your corps of blacks,

Set oliv'd Indians on their backs,

The Russ beat out their brains! The Switzer too shall leave his Alps, With Briton's deal for British scalps, The only trade remains!

ELLIS come next-thou boar of boars, The oldest boar within these doors;

Yet INNIS 'tis agreed,

The boar fam'd Meleager slew,

Was a poor harmless boar to you,

Of Caledonia's breed.

THURLOW approach with rugged DICK, Both sly and saucy as Old Nick,

Avow

your Bedford-creed:

So void of sense-so damn'd audacious, Hotter than that of Athanasius :

A direful one indeed!

Next for a Nap-behind the clock,

While STANLEY and the Surrey Cock

Upon their legs appear.

Then pause awhile, my dear Sir GREY,

And ere you make me run away,

This for your Master's ear:

"Boreas, whose bloated blust'ring jowl, "Can urge the storm, or can controul,

"Keep not so bold a sail!

"There's scarce a man will stand the deck; "The vessel lies a perfect wreck;

"She'll founder in the gale!"

ODE XXXVIII.

ADDRESSED TO

LORD GEORGE GERMAIN,

ON

HIS APPROACHING DISSOLUTION.

My Lord, to celebrate your praise,
Your perishable fame to raise,

And brighten SACKVILLE'S name;
My flowing numbers wildly great,
Shall speak your merit-now compleat!
Resisting more than shame.

Alas! how callous to this wound,
No spark of honor to be found,

Within your canker'd heart :

Yet still to keep your nauseous breath,
Survive a sentence worse than death,
Out-plays a traitor's part!

Yes! History's remotest page,
To Britons with indignant rage,
Shall make your fame revive:
When you dissolve in crumbling dust,
And moulded clay shall form your bust,
Then SACKVILLE's name shall live.