Axioms more popular they teach,
That to be good is to be rich!
For all the misses marry kings,
And diamonds are but common things;
While dames in history hardly get 'em,
Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em.
Oh, this is profitable learning,
Past cold Historians' dull discerning;
Who, while their annals they impart,
Expose, but seldom mend the heart.
I grant, they teach to know mankind,
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind:
But till the heart from vice is clear,
Who wants to know what passes there?
Till Hercules to cleanse was able,
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable.
Here too in high emphatic tone
The power of female worth is shown;
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Falls short of true heroic mark;
THALESTRIS was a mere home-keeper,
And swift CAMILLA but a creeper.
Here deeds of valour are as common
As song or dance to real woman;
And meekest damsels find it facile
To storm a Giant's moated castle;
Where draw-bridges all open fly
If Virgin foot approaches nigh;
And brazen gates with twenty locks,
At which an army vainly knocks,
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
At touch of Virgin's little finger.
Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges,
Which history makes the work of ages,
Are here by means of fairy power,
Achiev'd with ease in half an hour.
Tactics! they prove, there's nothing in it,
Who conquer kingdoms in a minuté:
They never hear of ten years' jars,
(For TROY's the average length of wars.)
And diplomatic form and rule
Might learn from Mother Bunch's school,
How rapidly are State intrigues
Convey'd with boots of seven long leagues.
Here farther too, our great Commanders,
Who conquer'd France, and rescued Flanders,
From Mother Bunch's Tales might hear
Some secrets worth a General's ear;
How armies need not stop to bait,
And heroes never drink or eat;
Wrapt in sublimer occupation
They scorn such vulgar renovation.
Your British Generals cannot keep
Themselves or followers half so cheap;
For men and horses, out of books,
Call, one for corn, and one for cooks;
And dull historic nags must stay
For provender of oats and hay:
While these bold Heroes wing their flight
Through twenty kingdoms in a night;
Of silvery dew they snatch a cup,
Or on a slice of moon-shine sup;
And while they fly to meet their Queen,
With half the convex world between,
Their milk-white palfreys, scorning grass,
Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass.
Then Mother Bunch's morals strike,
By praising friend and foe alike.
What virtue to the world is lost,
Because on thy ill-fated coast,
O CARTHAGE! sung alone by foes,
The sun of history never rose !
Fertile in heroes, didst thou own
The muse that makes those heroes known;
Then had the bright reverse appear'd,
And Carthaginian truth been clear'd:
On Punic faith, so long revil'd,
The wily African had smil❜d:
And possibly, not much had err'd,
If we of Roman fraud had heard.
Then leave your ROBERTSONS and BRYANTS For JOHN THE MURDERER OF GIANTS;
Since all mythology profane
Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain.
Though BRYANT, learned friend of youth,
His fable consecrates to truth;
And ROBERTSON with just applause
His finish'd portraits fairly draws.
Yet history, great RALEIGH knew,
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true;
For how the facts are we to know
Which pass'd a thousand years ago;
When he no just account could get
Of quarrel in the adjacent street?
Though from his chair the noise he heard,
The tale of each relater err'd.
But if the fact's recorded right,
The motive seldom comes in sight;
Hence, while the fairest deeds we blame,
We often crown the worst with fame.
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean,
Those who were actors in the scene;
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek,
Of his renown'd ten thousand speak;
His commentaries * read again
Who led the troops and held the
The way to conquest best he show'd
Who trod ere he prescrib'd the road.
Read him, for lofty periods fam'd,
Who CHARLES's age adorn'd and sham'd:
Read CLARENDON, unaw'd, unbrib'd,
Who rul'd th' events his pen describ'd;
Who law, and courts, and senates knew,
And saw the sources whence he drew.
Yet, lovely SALLY, be not frighten'd, Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd; Admire with me the fair alliance
Which mirth, at Maudlin, † makes with science; How humour may with learning dwell,
Go ask Papa- for he can tell.
+ Dr. HORNE was at this time President of Magdalen College, Oxford, where this little Poem was written.
Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,
For many a tender thought is due.
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