See Arnold, with his Pye,* agree,
And Skeffington, (immortal three!)

The Drama's rights to seize;
See Op'ras, Farces, all the rage,
And Kemble banish'd from the Stage,
For how can genius charm an age,
Which Shakespeare fails to please?

Britannia! bless thy lucky star,

That gives thee Clifford for the Bar,
Sly Lancaster to teach,

And "All the Talents," All! to fool,

Dance, drink, game-any thing—but rule!
And Huntingdon to preach.

My mind, as in a glass, surveys
The glories of your future days,

To me, my Prince! display'd;
Ye years, your happy circles run!
Enough-the promis'd task is done,
And Phoebus is obey'd.

The Prior Claim," a comedy (?) written conjointly by Messrs. Pye (the Laureat) and Arnold.

ODE XIX. BOOK II.

TO DOCTOR BUSBY.

"Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus."

I SAW (nor disbelieve my strain,)
High, in a Box at Drury Lane,
In consequential trim,

A little pert translating Prig,
Extend his hands, and shake his wig,
Most ludicrously grim.

With gestures strange, and accent loud,
He lectur'd to the gaping crowd,
About the Drama's laws;

While now and then, in noisy fit,
Some long-ear'd brethren in the Pit,
Who thought the Doctor still a wit,
Stood up, and bray'd applause.

In vain he spoke-the Gallery Gods,
From their celestial high abodes,

Sent forth a dismal yell;

Nor louder scream, nor hoarser cough, Were heard, when Pluto gallop'd off

With Proserpine to hell.

I hear, in varied cadence still,

The frequent hiss, the whistle shrill,
The loud discordant bray;

I see the spouting Pedant stand

Unmov'd, his Prologue in his hand,
Amid the wild affray.

Hail, Busby, hail! eccentric Wight!
The feats of that tumultuous night
Unfading laurels yield;

When boldly thou withstood'st the brunt,
A coat of mail, thy brazen front,
And impudence thy shield.

Lucretius calls thee from the shades,
In hollow voice he thus upbraids-
"For vanity, or bribe,

How durst thou murder my sublime,
Thou wicked son of prose and rhyme!
And bid the town subscribe?

"Think'st thou my philosophic Muse, To teach the lessons of the stews

Was e'er design'd by fate,

To charm the ears of modern jilts,
Or, Caitiff! plac'd by thee on stilts
To strut in empty state?

N

66

By nature form'd for low debate, To rhyme, to fiddle, and to prate,

Impertinence thy crest;

O! surely thou wert born to shine
A Petit-maître of the Nine,

Apollo's scorn and jest.

"Since 'twas ordain'd by angry fate

That, Dunce! thou should'st my works translate, (With common sense at strife :)

What now remains to blast my fame,
And brand with infamy my name,
But Bowles to write my Life?

"If thou would'st wound me deeper still,
Let Thomas Tegg, with desp'rate quill,
Arch rogue! supply the notes;
And Master George, thy hopeful son,
The flatt'rer play, as thou hast done,
And dedicate to Coates."

ODE XIV. BOOK III.

ON THE RETURN OF THE PRINCE REGENT TO BRIGHTON.

"Herculis ritu modo dictus, ô plebs."

HARK! the merry bugles sound
Ev'ry heart to lighten;

Beat the drums, His Highness comes,
The Prince returns to Brighton!

Now for Fêtes and Routs a score,
Prom'nades, Balls, Outridings;
Bloomfield in a chaise and four,
Proclaims the joyful tidings.

Crowds of gazers walk the Steyne,
Prim Mammas and Misses;
Such were seen, when Greece again
Beheld her lost Ulysses:

Doctor T-* a motion makes

Let ev'ry beau and belle come,

* Dr. Tierney.