Bufo, begone! with Thee may Faction's fire...

Bufo, begone! with Thee may Faction's fire,

That hatch'd thy salamander-fame, expire.

Fame, dirty idol of the brainless crowd,

What half-made moon-calf can mistake for good!

Since shar'd by knaves of high and low degree;

Cromwell, and Catiline; Guido Faux, and Thee.

By nature uninspir'd, untaught by art;

With not one thought that breathes the feeling heart,

With not one offering vow'd to Virtue's shrine,

With not one pure unprostituted line;

Alike debauch'd in body, soul, and lays;——

For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise,

For ribaldry, for libels, lewdness, lies,

For blasphemy of all the Good and Wise;

Coarse virulence in coarser doggerel writ,

Which bawling blackguards spell'd, and took for wit;

For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'erthrown;—

Lo, Bufo shines the minion of renown!

Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire,

And magic Spenser's wildly-warbling lyre?

The land that owns th’ omnipotence of song,

When Shakspeare whirls the throbbing heart along?

The land where Pope, with energy divine,

In fine strong blaze bade wit and fancy shine;

Whose verse, by Truth in Virtue's triumph borne,

Gave knaves to infamy, and fools to scorn;

Yet pure in manners, and in thought refin'd,

Whose life and lays adorn'd and blest mankind?

Is this the land where Gray's unlabour'd art

Soothes, melts, alarms, and ravishes the heart;

While the lone wanderer's sweet complainings flow

In simple majesty of manly woe;

Or while, sublime, on eagle-pinion driven,

He soars Pindaric heights, and sails the waste of heaven?

Is this the land, o'er Shenstone's recent urn

Where all the Loves and gentler Graces mourn?

And where, to crown the hoary bard of night,

The Muses and the Virtues all unite?

Is this the land where Akenside displays

The bold yet temperate flame of ancient days?

Like the rapt Sage,in genius as in theme,

Whose hallow'd strain renown'd Ilissus’ stream;

Or him, th’ indignant Bard,whose patriot ire,

Sublime in vengeance, smote the dreadful lyre;

For truth, for liberty, for virtue warm,

Whose mighty song unnerv'd a tyrant's arm,

Hush'd the rude roar of discord, rage, and lust,

And spurn'd licentious demagogues to dust.

Is this the queen of realms! the glorious isle,

Britannia, blest in Heaven's indulgent smile!

Guardian of truth, and patroness of art,

Nurse of th’ undaunted soul, and generous heart!

Where, from a base unthankful world exil'd,

Freedom exults to roam the careless wild;

Where taste to science every charm supplies,

And genius soars unbounded to the skies!

And shall a Bufo's most polluted name

Stain her bright tablet of untainted fame!

Shall his disgraceful name with theirs be join'd,

Who wish'd and wrought the welfare of their kind!

His name accurst, who, leagued with and hell,

Labour'd to rouse, with rude and murderous yell,

Discord the fiend, to toss rebellion's brand,

To whelm in rage and woe a guiltless land;

To frustrate wisdom's, virtue's noblest plan,

And triumph in the miseries of man.

Drivelling and dull, when crawls the reptile Muse,

Swoln from the sty, and rankling from the stews,

With envy, spleen, and pestilence replete,

And gorged with dust she lick'd from treason's feet;

Who once, like Satan, rais'd to heaven her sight,

But tuned abhorrent from the hated light:——

O'er such a Muse shall wreaths of glory bloom!

No —— shame and execration be her doom.

Hard-fated Bufo! could not dulness save

Thy soul from sin, from infamy thy grave!

Blackmore and Quarles, those blockheads of renown,

Lavish'd their ink, but never harm'd the town:

Though this, thy brother in discordant song,

Harass'd the ear, and cramp'd the labouring tongue;

And that, like thee, taught staggering prose to stand,

And limp on stilts of rhyme around the land.

Harmless they doz'd a scribbling life away,

And yawning nations own'd th’ innoxious lay:

But from thy graceless, rude, and beastly brain

What fury breath'd th’ incendiary strain?

Did hate to vice exasperate thy style?

No —— Bufo match'd the vilest of the vile.

Yet blazon'd was his verse with Virtue's name ——

Thus prudes look down to hide their want of shame;

Thus hypocrites to truth, and fools to sense,

And fops to taste, have sometimes made pretence:

Thus thieves and gamesters swear by honour's laws:

Thus pension-hunters bawl their Country's cause:

Thus furious Teague for moderation rav'd,

And own'd his soul to liberty enslav'd.

Nor yet, though thousand Cits admire thy rage,

Though less of fool than felon marks thy page;

Nor yet, though here and there one lonely spark

Of wit half brightens through th’ involving dark,

To show the gloom more hideous for the foil,

But not repay the drudging reader's toil;

( For who for one poor pearl of clouded ray

Through Alpine dunghills delves his desperate way? )

Did genius to thy verse such bane impart?

No.‘ Twas the demon of thy venom'd heart,

( Thy heart with rancour's quintessence endued )

And the blind zeal of a misjudging crowd.

Thus from rank soil a poison'd mushroom sprung,

Nursling obscene of mildew and of dung;

By heaven design'd on its own native spot

Harmless t’ enlarge its bloated bulk, and rot.

But gluttony th’ abortive nuisance saw;

It rous'd his ravenous undiscerning maw:

Gulp'd down the tasteless throat, the mess abhorr'd

Shot fiery influence round the maddening board.

O had thy verse been impotent as dull,

Nor spoke the rancorous heart, but lumpish scull;

Had mobs distinguish'd, they who howl'd thy fame,

The icicle from the pure diamond's flame,

From fancy's soul thy gross imbruted sense,

From dauntless truth thy shameless insolence,

From elegance confusion's monstrous mass,

And from the lion's spoils the skulking ass,

From rapture's strain the drawling doggerel line,

From warbling seraphim the gruntling swine:——

With gluttons, dunces, rakes, thy name had slept,

Nor o'er her sullied fame Britannia wept;

Nor had the Muse, with honest zeal possess'd,

T’ avenge her country by thy name disgrac'd,

Rais'd this bold strain for virtue, truth, mankind,

And thy fell shade to infamy resign'd.

When frailty leads astray the soul sincere,

Let Mercy shed the soft and manly tear,

When to the grave descends the sensual sot,

Unnam'd, unnotic'd, let his carrion rot.

When paltry rogues, by stealth, deceit, or force,

Hazard their necks, ambitious of your purse;

For such the hangman wreathes his trusty gin,

And let the gallows expiate their sin.

But when a Ruffian, whose portentous crimes

Like plagues and earthquakes terrify the times,

Triumphs through life, from legal judgment free,

For hell may hatch what law could ne'er foresee;

Sacred from vengeance shall his memory rest?——

Judas though dead, though damn'd, we still detest.