Why have I view'd th' ideal clock *,

Or mourn'd the visionary hour?
Griev'd to behold, with well-bred shock,
The fancied pointer verge to four?
Then, with a bow, proceed to beg,
A general pardon on my leg-
"Lament that to an hour so late,

"'Twas mine to urge the grave debate -" Or mourn the rest, untimely broken!” All this to say-all this to do,

In form so native, neat, and new,
In speech intended to be spoken!-
But fruitless all; for, neither here nor there,
My leg has yet obtain'd me place, or fair!

IV.

Pompeys there are of every shape and size:

Some are the Great y-clep'd, and some the Little;
Some with their deeds that fill the wond'ring skies,
And some on ladies' laps that cat their vittle!
"Tis Morres' boast-'tis Morres' pride,

To be to both allied!

* An allusion is here made to a speech published by the noble Lord, which, as the title-page imports, was intended to have been spoken; in which his Lordship, towards the conclusion, gravely remarks:-" Hav"ing, Sir, so long encroached upon the patience of the House, and ob"serving by the clock that the hour has become so excessively late, no"thing remains for me but to return my sincere thanks to you, Sir, and "the other gentlemen of this House, for the particular civility, and ex"treme attention, with which I have been heard:-the interesting na"ture of the occasion has betrayed me into a much greater length than "I had any idea originally of running into; and if the casual warmth "of the moment has led me into the least personal indelicacy towards any "man alive, I am very ready to beg pardon of him and this House, Sir, "for having so done,"

That, of all various Pompeys, he
Forms one complete epitome!

Prepar'd alike fierce Faction's host to fight,
Or, thankful, stoop official crumbs to bite-
No equal to himself on earth to own;

Or watch, with anxious eye, on Treasury-bone!
As Rome's fan'd chief, imperious, stiff, and proud;
Fawning as curs, when supplicating food!

In him their several virtues all reside,

The peerless Puppy, and of Peers the pride!

V.

Say, Critic Buffo, will not powers like these,
E'en thy refin'd fastidious judgment please?
A common butt to all mankind,

'Tis my hard lot to be ;

O let me then some justice find,
And give the BUTT to me!
Then, dearest D'EL,

Thy praise I'll tell,

And with unprostituted pen

In Warton's pure and modest strain,
Unwarp'd by Hope-unmov'd by Gain,

I'll call thee "best of husbands," and "most chaste of men!"
Then from my pristine labours I'll relax :
Then will I lay the Tree unto the Axe*!
Of all my former grief-

Resign the bus'ness of the anxious chase,
And for past failures, and for past disgrace,
Here find a snug relief!

The vain pursuit of female game give o❜er,

And, hound of Fortune, scour the town no more!

* This line is literally transcribed from a speech of Lord Mountmorres's, when Candidate some years ago for the Representation of the City of Weste minster.

My Muse, for George prepare the splendid song, O, may it float on Schwellenburgen's voice! Let Maids of Honour sing it all day long, That Hoggaden's fair ears may hear it, and rejoice,

II.

What subject first shall claim thy courtly strains?
Wilt thou begin from Windsor's sacred brow,
Where erst, with pride and pow'r elate,
The Tudors sate in sullen state,

While Rebel Freedom, forc'd at length to bow, Retir'd reluctant from her fav'rite plains?

Ah! while in each insulting tower you trace
The features of that tyrant race,

How wilt thou joy to view the alter'd scene!
The Giant Castle quits his threat'ning mjenj

The levell'd ditch no more its jaws discloses,

But o'er its mouth, to feast our eyes and noses,
Brunswick hath planted pinks and roses;

}

Hath spread smooth gravel walks, and a small bowlinggreen!

III.

Mighty Sov'reign! mighty Master!
George is content with lath and plaster!
At his own palace-gate,

In a poor porter's lodge, by Chambers plann'd,
See him with Jenky, hand in hand,
In serious mood,

Talking! talking! talking! talking!
Talking of affairs of state,

All for his country's good!

O! Europe's pride! Britannia's hope!
To view his turnips and potatoes,
Down his fair Kitchen-garden's slope

The victor monarch walks like Cincinnatus.

See, heavenly Muse! I vow to God

"T was thus the laurel'd hero trod→→→
Sweet rural joys! delights without compare!
Pleasure shines in his eyes,

While George, with surprise,
Sees his cabbages rise,

And his 'sparagus wave in the air!

IV.

But hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The Levee's hour approaches→→→

Haste, ye Postillions! o'er the turnpike road;

Back to St. James's bear your royal load!

By the Old Magpie and the New,

By Colnbrook, Hounslow, Brentford, Kew,
Half-chok'd with dust the monarch flew;

And now, behold, he's landed safe and sound.-
Hail to the blest who tread this hallow'd ground!
Ye firm, invincible beef-eaters,

Warriors, who love their fellow-creatures,
I hail your military, features!

Ye gentle maids of honour, in stiff hoops,
Buried alive up to your necks,

Who chaste as Phoenixes in coops,

}
}

Know not the dangers that await your sex!
Ye Lords, empower'd by fortune or desert,
Each in his turn to change your sovereign's shirt!
Ye Country Gentlemen, ye City May'rs,
Ye Pages of the King's back-stairs,

Who in these precincts joy to wait

Ye courtly wands, so white and small,
And you, great pillars of the State,
Who at St. Stephen's slumber, or debate,

Now, heavenly Muse, thy choicest song prepare:
Let loftier strains the glorious subject suit :
Lo! hand in hand, advance th' enamour'd pair,
This Chatham's son, and that the drudge of Bute ;