Horace, Ode VIII. Book IV. Imitated

Muse! were we rich in land, or stocks, We'd send Sir Fletcher a a gold box; Who lately, to the world's surprize, Advis'd his Sovereign to be wise. The zeal of cits shou'd ne'er surpass us, We'd make him speaker of Parnassus. Or could I boast the mimic eye Of b Townshend, or of Bunbury, Whose art can catch, in comic guise, "The manners living as they rise," And find it the same easy thing To c hit a Jollux or a king; I'd hangings weave, in fancy's loom, For Lady Norton's dressing room.

But d arts like these I don't pursue, Nor e does Sir Fletcher heed virtù. Enough for me in these hard times, When ev'ry thing is tax'd but rhymes, To f tag a few of these together: Tho' I am quite uncertain, whether My verse will much rejoice the knight, As g great a store as I set by't. For verse, (I'd have Sir Fletcher know it) When written by a genuine poet, Has more of meaning and intent, Than h modern acts of Parliament.

'Tis i fit and right, when heroes die, The nation should a tomb supply; Yet, not the votes of both the houses, Without th' assistance of the muses, Can give that permanence of fame That heroes from their country claim. And tell me pray, to our good King, What fame our present broils can bring, Ev'n k should the Howes (which some folks doubt) Put Washington to total rout, Unless his treasurer in an ode, Exalt the victor to a god.

A man, I know, may get a pension Without the muse's intervention? Yet what are pensions to the praise Wrapt up in l Caledonian lays? Say, Johnson! where had been m Fingal, But for Macpherson's great assistance? The chieftain had been nought at all, A non-existing non-existence. Mac, like a n poet stout and good, First o plung'd, then pluck'd him from oblivion's flood, And bad him bluster at his ease, Among the fruitful Hebrides. A p common poet can revive The man who once had been alive: But Mac revives, by magic power, The man who never liv'd before.

Such hocus-pocus tricks, I own, Belong to Gallic bards alone. My q muse would think her power enough, Could she make some folks fever-proof; Dub them immortal from their birth, And give them all their heaven on earth, Then r Doctor K—, that broad divine, With lords and dukes should ever dine; Post, prate, and preach, for years on years, And puff himself in Gazetteers. Sandwich for aye, should shine the star, Propitious to our naval war; Caulk all our vessels' t leaky sides, And in the docks work double ties. While Stormont, u grac'd with ribband green,

Keeps France from mixing in the riot, Till w Britain's lion vents his spleen,

And tears his rebel whelps in quiet.