SHALL essenc'd Coxcombs who from Toilettes come, Strut, and squeak Nonsense in the Drawing-room, Sagacious Critics of a Knot or Fan, Soft @3Sporus's,@1 faint Images of Man, All form'd of Nature's tend'rest, Porcelain Stuff, Their snowy Fingers shelter'd by the Muff, Heroes for Sonnets, but unfit for Fights, Herds of emasculated @3Sybarites,@1 Shall painted Insects, busy buzzing Things, In Armies rise and Favour gain from Kings? While wounded Veterans obscurely mourn, And @3S——r@1 sees Lawrels from his Temples torn? O courtly @3Atticus,@1 my Warmth you blame, Unconscious of the glowing Patriot's Flame: I feel, I feel, its kindling Raptures rowl, From Pleasures and from Business steal my Soul, And while it strongly in my Bosom beats, No more I rove collecting classic Sweets, Nor warlike @3Homer@1's well-fought Battles warm, Nor Fairy Forests of wild @3Spenser@1 charm; No more I weep while awful @3Tragedy@1 Like @3Sophocles@1 array'd comes stalking by, (Leading ill-fated @3Oedipus@1 the Blind, Or the lame Wretch in desert drear confin'd) Nor in mild @3Maro@1's Groves and Grotts rejoice, Nor @3Doric@1 Shepherd's sweetly simple Voice, No more convey'd by @3Pindar@1's rapid Song, I see great @3Theron@1's Car victorious whirl along, Nor crown'd with Grapes with gay @3Anacreon@1 laid Beneath a Plantane praise some beauteous Maid, But oft resounding in my trembling Ear, Methinks my Country's dying Groans I hear. Rise, Satire, rise; 'tis sinful to be mute: The Muse should whirl a Dart, not tune a Lute; Gigantic Vice, beyond huge @3Tityus'@1 Size, Enormous Growth! o'er half @3Britannia@1 lies; O let my Satire on its Vitals feast, Like the fierce Eagle on that @3Tityus'@1 Breast! Yet Oh! what Hero Folly can confound? The dull, lethargic Villain feels no Wound: Culprits, like poisonous Adders deaf, we find: In @3Biscay@1's Bay who chides the raging Wind? Such callous Hearts to no Impression yield, All-guarded with Corruption's seven-fold Shield; Unstung by Shame, and resolute in Ill; Vice is a @3Python Phæbus@1 ne'er can kill: Heedless of Satire, Sin persists to reign, As Curfews bid us leave our Fires in vain; Poets, and Setting-Dogs, one Task employs, Each @3points@1 at Knaves or Birds, but ne'er @3destroys;@1 What tho' you sweat, complain, and rail, and write, The mad, luxurious Town sins on for Spite. Could @3Boileau@1 to reform a Nation hope? A @3Sodom@1 can't be mended by a @3Pope.@1 To cleanse th' @3Augean@1 Stable tho' you toil, Still Virtue yields to @3Heidegger@1 and @3Hoyle@1; Still @3Britons@1 (Justice, Freedom, Conscience sold) Own the supreme Omnipotence of Gold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PLOUGHMAN by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE SKELETON IN ARMOR by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PASSER MORTUUS EST by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY HIC JACET by LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON THE OLD HOKUM BUNCOMBE by ROBERT EMMET SHERWOOD THE NURSE'S STORY: THE HAND OF GLORY by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE DOOR-BELL by CHARLOTTE BECKER THE CHAMPION (SUGGESTED BY A STORY OF JACK LONDON) by BERTON BRALEY |