FITZGIG's TRIUMPH

'Twas at the rabble rout, when Mima won Thro' Fizgig Fizgig's son! Below in aukward state The blust'ring ruffian fate On his audacious throne; His noisy peers were plac'd around, Their brows with malice and with rapine frown'd, So footpads in the dark are found! The blarneying Burky by his side, In impudence and ignorance ally'd, With brazen front was seen in riot's pride, Shameless, shameless, shameless pair, Well do your heads your hearts declare! Our Garrick's voice on high A while the rout confounds, He runs with rapid skill thro' elocution's bounds: The lofty sounds ascend the sky, And in the sons of poetry Celestial joys inspire! From Shakespeare's self the lore he caught, From him the glowing pow'r possest, Who gaz'd on nature's charms with eager ardour fraught, And to her pliant form with warmth resistless prest, (Ecstatic warmth, by which his lays Have been deriv'd to modern days!) Then, while he sought her lovely breast, While round her yielding waste he curl'd, He stamp'd an image of himself—a Garrick for the world. The sons of taste admire the lofty sound; A present Shakespeare—hark! they shout around, A present Shakespeare—hark! the vaulted roofs rebound. With dubious fears The General hears, Assumes the rod, The critic nod, And shakes his Midas' ears.

Thalia's beauties then the mighty master drew, Thalia, ever fair and ever new. " See the pleasing nymph advance," " Breathe the flute, and lead the dance." Flush'd with bewitching grace, She shews her lovely face. While the prevailing verse he strives to raise, And bids descriptive pow'r grow lavish in her praise.

Thalia, ever fair and young, Mirthsome joys did first ordain; Thalia's blessings are a treasure, Never-sating stream of pleasure, Which she pours from charmed cup, O'er souls, "who've ta'en their freedom up." Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, To souls, "who've ta'en their freedom up." Wex'd at the sound, the General's pride wax'd low, Too weak to ward off Reason's blow; Yet thrice he drown'd fair Justice' voice, yet thrice he bawl'd YES, or NO!

The master saw the madness rise, His swelling cheeks, his envious eyes, And, while he heav'n and earth defy'd, His ready hand he chang'd, and try'd to check his pride. He chose the mournful muse, Soft pity to infuse; He sung Melpomene divine, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from her high estate, Dethron'd by Pantomime! Deserted in her utmost need By those her sacred labours fed, On the bare stage distrest she lies, With not a friend to bid her rise.

With downcast looks the joyless Gen'ral sate, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various merits of the stage, And now and then a groan he stole, And shouts began to rage. BEARD, sweet musician, then essay'd The pow'r of harmony to prove, To poetry a kindred aid, With pity melting as with love!

Softly sweet in Lydian measures, He try'd to sooth his soul to pleasures: Jars, he sung, are toil and trouble, Faction a misleading bubble, Path to discontent and frenzy, Fighting still, and still destroying, Tho' the stage be worth thy envy, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Let thy friendly fears advise thee, Think my Lord Chief Justice spies thee!

Fitzgig, unable to conceal his pain, Gaz'd on the man, Who check'd his plan, And groan'd and hiss'd, and groan'd and hiss'd, Groan'd and hiss'd, and groan'd again. At length with fear and shame at once opprest, Away the Gen'ral slunk, and left the rest.

Lo! now the russians roar amain, A louder yet, and yet a louder strain, Break his bands of shame asunder, Recall him with a rattling peal of thunder! Hark! hark! at the clattering sound, Burky rears up his head, And cries, "Is he fled?" And amaz'd he stares round— Revenge! Revenge! then Burky cries, Lo! the plunderers rise! See the sconces they tear, How they clash in the air, And the rapine that glares in their eyes!

Behold a dirty band, Each a club in his hand, Those are hireling slaves, who to eating are strangers, Who obey the command, Tho' shock'd at the dangers;

Give the vengeance due To the blust'ring crew, Behold how they toss up the benches on high, (O Fitzgig, return, and our victory spy!) How they break the orchestral abodes, How the instruments shatter by loads! The ruffians applaud with a furious joy, And a buck seiz'd a candle with zeal to destroy. Burky led the way, To guide them to their prey, And, like another Ganymede, reduc'd another Troy.

Not long ago Ere bouncing braggarts dealt the blow, While blockheads yet were mute, Our Garrick to the feeling mind could suit His various art, each passion could inspire, Could kindle manly rage, or melt with soft desire.

At last enormous Fitzgig came, Inspirer of the robber's claim, The strange enthusiast impositions gives; Quenching the fire of magic sounds, Adds length and strength to mimic bounds, With impudence, and pride, and arts unknown to thieves.

Let judgment then resign the prize, And mourn her mangled crown; She rais'd a Shakespeare to the skies, He threw a Garrick down. The plund'rers rend the roof with loud applause So Merit lost, and Riot won the cause.