Living Characters; or, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Eighty-seven

How most superb Eblana's now become! I see in miniature imperial Rome; Majestic piles magnificently grand, Of late adorn the great increasing land; How much of opulence our people learn'd, Since patriotic Swift this isle adorn'd.

We, who for virtue were so high extoll'd, Have now Astrea's tender heart appall'd, How few there are who well deserve her praise, In these flagitious and degenerate days: Th' ideas of grandeur and preposterous arts, Shame on our people, fill their plotting hearts.

Here there are some who with alluring charms, Entice the blooming virgins to their arms, And after they have serv'd their lustful turn, Forsake them, and their lamentation scorn: And others have with costly pomp essay'd, To join in wedlock with some wealthy maid, Before the rites of marriage they were civil, The dowry got they pitch'd them to the devil. Satyric Goddess, passionate and rash, Let not the worthy feel thy galling lash, To latent characters direct thy storm, And shew the rascal in his foulest form, They who on Pomp's unworthy couch now lie, Bring from recesses to the public eye.

See powder'd Edward with the chatt'ring tongue, Outvie in dress th' illustrious Oberon. His parents fam'd are all the country o'er; For one's a rogue, t'other's a rank whore; And tho' th' imperious puppy's void of parts, Behold him sovereign of the female hearts. The wealthy prizes gain'd by British arms, When rebel nations fill'd us with alarms, Made Edward's purse, and 'mid Arabia's scents, And pompous finery's tawdry ornaments, He spends the hours, Ambara's rich perfumes, Raise grateful odours thro' his dressing rooms. Edward, thou'lt be the virtuous boast of fame, When scents procure Vespasian's high esteem; Tho' female eyes, thy graceful form admire, Sense hates thee lost to Virtue's radiant fire.

Next Robert thou—hush muse—Contention cease, "And vile attorneys make a useless race," Their civil robberies, and unnumber'd crimes, Make these Domitian, not Augustan times: 'Tis they pretend in a contentious cause, To shew thee justice by the British laws; "I'll serve thee, Sir;" they serve to gain their ends: And whilst they're stripping thee they'll be thy friends.

Each Robert cries, Such stuff, zounds! who can bear it; When the cap fits thee, Reader, thou may'st wear it.

Battus long since had seventy summers seen, And were so great a miser now in being? Tho' two round thousand lie upon the board, He labours still t' increase the glitt'ring hoard, And shou'd the imploring beggar meet his eye, There's nill for nill, he'll hastily reply.

O, squint-ey'd Vanity, to reason blind! Grand indicator of the menial mind! Thou sovereign ruler of the vulgar born; Who gain'st thy followers only wisdom's scorn, Thy hand thro' flow'ry paths has led our youth, And brought them from the thorny ways of truth, Prime source of foppery, if right I see, Prim affectation nurtur'd was by thee.

Servile Bellario, see how proud he goes, With James and Gerrard the near-sighted beaus, How soft he lisps, and, Sir, did e'er you pass 'Till gay Bellario view'd you thro' his glass?

Th' apprentice Stultus, Lord! how great a mack; See three enormous capes hang down his back, The princely gait, the graceful turn of toe, The dangling roses on the fine form'd shoe, Make you and me, who cloth'd are in plain rags, When e'er we meet great Stultus, leave the flags. Rash Muse, no more our indignation move, Die, die ye vot'ries of prepost'rous love.

O Goddess, fly the vicious motley crew, And some immortal character now shew, Some truly great, and nobly generous mind, In which the feeling virtues all are join'd: Methinks I hear thee, Goddess, loudly cry, In the serene of fair Hibernia's sky:

"See generous Scott, who to the dungeon drear Descended with benevolence's tear, Th' illustrious man, whom in our blissful bow'r; We term THE PATRON OF THE HAPLESS POOR: The sons of misery, who in dark abodes, Felt the hard lashes of Confinement's rods: Bless his bright name, to life restor'd again, Free'd from Oppression's absolute domain."

The Goddess ceas'd, swift as the light-wing'd hour, Sublime she flew to her aetherial bower.