On bust or coin we mark the wreath, Forgetful of its bloody story, How many myriads writhed in death, That one might bear this type of glory. Cæsar first wore the badge, 'tis said, 'Cause his bald sconce had nothing on it, Knocking some millions on the head, To get his own a leafy bonnet. Luckily for the Laurel's name, 'Twas worn by nobler heirs of fame, With its green leaves were victors crown'd In the Olympic games for running, Who wrestled best, or gallop'd round The Circus with most speed and cunning. Apollo, crown'd with Bays, gives laws And every schoolboy knows the cause, Who ever dipp'd in Tooke's Pantheon. Daphne, like many another fair, To whom connubial ties are horrid, Fled from his arms, but left a rare Memento sprouting on his forehead. For Bays did ancient bards compete, They by the leaf were paid, not sheet, And that's the reason they surpass us. One wreath thus twines the heads about, Whose brains have brighten'd all our sconces, And those who others' brains knock'd out, 'Cause they themselves were royal dunces. Men fight in these degenerate days, For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets; And bards who borrow fire from bays, Must have them in the grate for billets. Laureats we have (for cash and sack) Of all calibres and diameters, But 'stead of poetry, alack! They give us lachrymose Hexameters. And that illustrious leaf for which Folks wrote and wrestled, sang and bluster'd, Is now boil'd down to give a rich And dainty flavour to our custard! TO THE LADIES OF ENGLAND. BEAUTIES! (for, dress'd with so much taste, All may with such a term be graced,)— Attend the friendly stanza, Which deprecates the threaten'd change And French extravaganza. What! when her sons renown have won In arts and arms, and proudly shone A pattern to the nations, Shall England's recreant daughters kneel At Gallic shrines, and stoop to steal Fantastic innovations? Domestic-simple-chaste-sedate,- Your fashions now assimilate Your virtues and your duties:— With all the dignity of Rome, The Grecian Graces find a home In England's classic Beauties. When we behold so fit a shrine, We deem its inmate all divine, And thoughts licentious bridle; But if the case be tasteless, rude, It holds some worthless idol. Let Gallia's nymphs of ardent mind, To every wild extreme inclined, In folly be consistent; Their failings let their modes express, From simpleness of soul and dress, For ever equi-distant. |