TO THE PUBLIC.

MYSTERIOUS Patron! to whose breath belong
The destinies of autocrats and artists;
Supreme alike o'er Kean and Ki-en-long;

Sole judge of Jacobins and Bonapartists;

Who, from thy viewless throne, canst bid defiance At once to country club and grand alliance!

I never said thou'rt dull of apprehension

I ne'er presumed to tax thee with caprice— But wonder at thy wisdom's vast extension,

And think thy judgments always of a piece, Whipping small rogues, and knighting wholesale robbers,

Dischartering boroughs, and upholding jobbers.

Yet there's a-float a vague and idle rumour, (Which painfully I've sometimes contradicted,) That you won't understand dry harmless humour, And see no joke but when a wound's inflicted: And that's the cause (they say) you never laugh'd Sufficiently with good friend Whistlecraft;

Nor, when you fail'd t' explore his hidden satire,

Allow'd him to shew cause upon the meritsAs if none e'er was gay from mere good nature, Nor danced or caroll'd from abundant spirits.

Howe'er it be, I write this Dedication,
Chiefly to save me from that imputation :

And, once for all, illustrious Sir, to hint,

If e'er you doubt the meaning of my strain,
It's not because there is no meaning in 't;

And therefore I must beg you'll think again.
But, just by way of clue, instead of what
Is hidden there, I'll tell you what is not.

Paris is not the Treasury, nor the Court

Of Chancery, nor the Church, nor House of Com

mons.

Those base beleaguering Blacks, of every sort,

Are neither roving Whigs, nor Irish Romans. King Scricca is not T―rn-y—tho' he hectors— The Paladins are not the Bank Directors.

Ferrau is not the Cr of the Exchequer-
Dame Stella, tho' she sings in strains so glowing,
Is not the much lamented Child of Necker,
Nor is she Lady Morgan, late Miss Owen:
And good Orlando, (tho' in want of brain,)
Is not a Manager of Drury-Lane.

July, 1819.

RICHARDETTO.

CANTO I.

I.

A WHIM has lately crept into my brain, (Which, for my soul, I can't again drive out,)

To write a story in poetic strain :

No man alive can guess what it's about. My Muse is not one of Apollo's train,

Who with their golden lyres make such a rout; But a mere simple country wench, who pleases her Fancy with warbling just as the humour seizes her.

II.

Yet tho' she's used amidst wild woods to range, To drink spring water, and on acorns feed, She likes to sing of matters high and strange, How ladies love, and heroes fight and bleed: And, if she makes you yawn by way of change,

The greatest faults in her seem small indeed, When you consider that she never read, And under elms and beeches makes her bed.

III.

Then will she oft-times sing of arms and loves; Since such exalted swains have condescended,

* Ricciardetto, c. i. st. 1-18.

Of late, to visit our Arcadian groves,
All sciences are therein comprehended.
We've orators and poets now in droves,

By whom all foreign bards are far transcended; So it's no wonder, if, in such society,

She thinks she too can warble for variety.

IV.

But I'm afraid she'll very soon betray
How sadly her geography's embrangled ;
Like a poor emmet that has gone astray

In some fresh stubble-field, with chaff entangled;

Or like that scurvy painter, who (they say)

A tall green cypress in the blue waves fangled, And afterwards, in a fine phrensy rambling, Painted huge whales among the mountains gamb'

ling.

V.

But not for this must you withhold her due,

Nor talk too much of blotting and correction; For tho' the poor thing wants a thought or two, To make a poem emulate perfection,

And though she's not well read like me or you,

In Latin, Greek, and Tuscan, a selection To make among the bards whom Heaven inspires With power to sing, and play on ivory lyres,

VI.

Yet she can sing, and dance the while for pleasure, Making right glad the hearts of such as hear her

She does not care a fig for rule or measure,

Nor censure can abash, nor praise can cheer her,

That empty meed, the poet's envied treasure,

For which so many nails are bit by the wearer, So many foreheads rapp'd, and hairs uprooted, To furnish graceful rhymes, to the action suited.

VII.

Then may you see her oft, 'mid brier and holly,
Skipping about and jumping like a flea.
I blame her not for this, nor call it folly;
Because I know right well, Dame Poesy,
(To imp her flight from loathed Melancholy,)
Herself, is arm'd with feathers, cap-à-pie;
And, quicker than an eye-glance, shot thro' laughter,
Darts here and there, and leads her audience after.

VIII.

Thus we may mark her, midst the din of arms
And blood and murder and depopulation,
All of a sudden turn to love's alarms,

And thence to things of heavenly contemplation,
The solemn temples-whose sepulchral charms
Ne'er for a moment fix her meditation,
Before she's off at sea, to count the moans
Of Ariadne, on her bed of stones.

IX.

See! see! her pipe the wench's fingers ply-
She's rather sotto voce from timidity-*

* Canta sotto voce, e non s'attenta.