Patriotism, a Mock-heroic

'Twas Night; the Voice of Jollity was hush'd, Doz'd all her Vot'ries, reasonably flush'd; Song, Argument, Invention, Laughter, Jest, Wit, Bawdry, Criticism, sunk to rest: Scandal had empty'd all his Tub on BUTE, Abuse of Royalty itself was mute. Sleep in his pleasing Bands had all things ty'd, All but the Eyes of disappointed PRIDE. She lay revolving in her anxious mind, How Resignation had too much resign'd; That Places were dispens'd as others will'd, Made vacant some, and Vacancies were fill'd; New Statesmen at the Helm usurp'd her Trade, And glibly sail'd the Ship without her Aid. Seeking Repose from Side to Side she flings, No Change of Posture Pause of Anguish brings. Each grinding Thought Alleviation scorns, And sharpens all the Goose-down into Thorns.

Forth from the loathed Bed in haste she flew, And round her weary'd Limbs her Vestments threw. Enwrought with Gold, in Lelac Purple dy'd, The Velvet cas'd her endless Length of Side. Two calveless Bags of Silk then stretch'd to see If they could reach from Heel to distant Knee. Next Splay-foot Shoes she to her Insteps girt, Shoes which disdain'd, yet still were doom'd to Dirt; Her Thigh sustain'd a Sword unknown to War, And beam'd upon her Breast a Silver Star, Whose Rays with magic Influence could warm Almost to Consequence the languid Form.

Accoutred thus, forth of her Doors she went, And her dark Visit was to FACTION bent; Resolv'd, like Heav'n-rejected Saul, to try What Counsel t'other Party might supply. Onward she strides, impatient of Delay, Flound'ring thro' ev'ry Kennel in her Way; Save that at Charing-cross she slack'd her Tread, And thought she saw poor Charles without his Head. Re-hast'ning on thro' the long Strand she came, Then pass'd the Temple, and ador'd its Name; Now reach'd St. Paul's, and bless'd the Lord that there Tho' He was prais'd, 'twas with unwilling Pray'r. Next in a grateful Rapture stretch'd to Bow, And heard th' unmuffled Tongue of Night strike Two. Acknowledging the Omen, she advanc'd, While sudden Vigour thro' each Sinew danc'd.

High on a hundred Columns, whose dead Weight Presses the rustic Base in aukward State, Where hardly they sustain, their Shafts unbent, The Load of Cornice, and of Pediment Which rough with Sculpture in strong Emblem clad, Tells us, That Riches make a City mad; The pond'rous Mansion-house of FACTION stands, Rais'd by o'er-reaching Heads and griping Hands.

Before the Gate, a Giant fierce and fell, Stalk'd Opposition, dreadful Centinel! And Who goes there, he cry'd, yourself explain; A Friend, she said, to Denmark, not the Dane. Her well-known Voice he recollected strait, Quick every Bolt shoots backward on the Gate, Bolts to endure which never own'd the Pow'r, But only made to serve the present Hour, And yet the very best, for Strength and Size, The Blacksmith's Place and Pension could devise.

Of canker'd Brass and rusty Ir'n each Door, Stood massive, spirtled thick with human Gore, Which Popularity for ever draws From Fools, in Patriot-Rebellion's Cause. Open they burst, with desperate Recoil, The jarring Hinges scream for want of Oil, Loud and discordant, as when Civil Rage Incites two kindred Armies to engage. Near Aylesbury first caught the horrid Sound, And echo'd all its Terrors with rebound, Concord at distant Stowe perceiv'd the Yell, While down her ill-adapted Vizor fell; Extremest Exeter rock'd to the Noise, And aided its hoarse Thunder with her Voice: At once her Cyders sour, and all around Her Apple-blossoms strew the blushing Ground.

And now, where yawn'd the Portal rude and vast, To FACTION'S Residence the Goddess past. Close to the Door, in the first Vestibule, Sat Clamour, Riot, Insult, and Misrule, Stern Menace, Licence grown to dang'rous size, Reproach, and an Insinitude of Lyes.

A thousand Voices bellow through the Room, A thousand Echoes clatter 'gainst the Dome; Copious, but unconnected Eloquence, Words of fierce Import, but of little Sense; Not meant to mean, and therefore to appear More irritative to the vulgar Ear. There might be heard, 'midst other piercing Cries, Liberty! Property! and no Excise! Of Magna Charta the more dreadful Roar; Prerogative, and arbitrary Pow'r—: There Habeas-corpus howl'd, from Jail broke loose, Slav'ry, and Privilege, and wooden Shoes— Corruption, Favourites, and no Address— And uncontroul'd the Licence of the Press: Sounds that all Sense of Order could erase, But get the Man, who breaks thro' all, a Place.

Stun'd with the deaf'ning Peal she pass'd along, (Yet passing would caress the friendly Throng) Thro' vast Saloons which spoke May'r-royal State, Rich without Taste, and without Grandeur, great. Yet here the Chissel and the Pencil strove Best to record the Objects of Mob-love. Tribunes, and Ephori, and Demagogues, By Men call'd Patriots, but by Gods plain Rogues; Such as, provided they themselves grew great, Had no Objection to subvert a State. Nor wanted here each dirty, dreadful Job, That Faction perpetrates to please the Mob. To please the Mob, here mighty Strafford bled, And Laud laid down his venerable head. To please the Mob, Byng stains the blushing Deep, And Blakeney earns a Peerage in his Sleep. To please the Mob, our Fleets their Canvas strain, And Expeditions hide the wond'ring Main, The Main more wond'ring wafts us back, alas! Thin'd from the Wars of Rochfort and St. Cas: What matter? since Defeat our Joy inspires, And Cassel lost can light a thousand Fires. By having pleas'd the Mob, here Cromwell stood, And shew'd how private thrives by public Good; And might have shewn us Gulls, if Gulls could see, That Slav'ry tracks th' Abuse of Liberty. Confess'd at length the Patriot-Tyrant reign'd, And snapt that Freedom Charles had only strain'd. Hampden was here, in his Eidolon here, A would-be Tutor to the Royal Heir, But he himself dwells in the Fields of Fame, Wedded to Liberty's immortal Name. And here in Tints more recent might be view'd, Instructive Picture of Court Gratitude! How round their Sov'reign his great Servants stand, While fierce Rebellion gores the bleeding Land; Faith, Honour, Duty, Loyalty, the Laws, Urge them, no doubt, to perish in his Cause? No, but to serve with Granville they refuse; So great a Crime in Monarchs 'tis, to chuse! A hundred other equal Deeds appear, Nay, half the English History was here. While, over all the rest, conspicuous shines Old Sarah's Legacy in Golden Lines.

Around in less Compartments were bestow'd Of underling Incendiaries a Crowd, Such as employ'd the Pulpit or the Press, T' enforce the Doctrines of Licentiousness; Here Party canoniz'd such Denizens, Whose Ears had paid the Forfeit of their Pens; And while in all her glaring Daub she paints, Villains grow Heroes, Scoundrels turn to Saints.

Our Goddess midst the rest herself descry'd, Mix'd with the Leaders of the other Side; "And, ah! she said, the very Walls can trace, "How often we change Principles for Place."