  March 5, 1798. We are obliged to a learned correspondent for the following ingenious imitation of Bion.—We will not shock the eyes of our fair readers with the original Greek, but the following Argument will give them some idea of the nature of the Poem here imitated. Venus is represented as bringing to the Poet, while sleeping, her son Cupid, with a request that he would teach him Pastoral Poetry—Bion complies, and endeavours to teach him the rise and progress of that art:—Cupid laughs at his instructions, and in his turn teaches his master the Loves of Men and Gods, the Wiles of his Mother, &c.—“Pleased with his lessons,” says Bion, “I forgot what I lately taught Cupid and recollect in its stead only what Cupid taught me.” IMITATION, &c.[152] WRITTEN AT ST. ANNE’S HILL. Scarce had sleep my eyes o’erspread, Ere Alecto sought my bed; In her left hand a torch she shook, And in her right led John Horne Tooke. O thou! who well deserv’st the bays, Teach him, she cried, Sedition’s lays— She said, and left us; I, poor fool, Began the wily priest to school; Taught him how Moira sung of lights, Blown out by troops o’ stormy nights; [153]How Erskine, borne on rapture’s wings, At clubs and taverns sweetly sings Of self—while yawning Whigs attend— Self first, last, midst, and without end; [154] How Bedford piped, ill-fated Bard; [155]Half-drown’d, in empty Palace-yard; How Lansdowne, nature’s simple child, At Bowood trills his wood-notes wild—[156] How these and more (a phrenzied choir) Sweep with bold hand Confusion’s lyre, Till madding crowds around them storm “For one grand radical Reform!” Tooke stood silent for a while, Listening with sarcastic smile; Then in verse of calmest flow, Sung of treasons, deep and low, Of rapine, prisons, scaffolds, blood, Of war against the great and good; Of Venice, and of Genoa’s doom, And fall of unoffending Rome; Of monarchs from their station hurl’d, And one waste desolated world. Charm’d by the magic of his tongue, I lost the strains I lately sung, While those he taught, remain impress’d For ever on my faithful breast. DORUS. [BION. IDYLLIUM III. THE TEACHER TAUGHT. TRANSLATED BY FAWKES. As late I slumbering lay, before my sight Bright Venus rose in visions of the night: She led young Cupid; as in thought profound His modest eyes were fixed upon the ground; And thus she spoke: “To thee, dear swain, I bring My little son; instruct the boy to sing”. No more she said; but vanished into air, And left the wily pupil to my care: I,—(sure I was an idiot for my pains), Began to teach him old bucolic strains; How Pan the pipe, how Pallas formed the flute, Phoebus the lyre, and Mercury the lute: Love, to my lessons quite regardless grown, Sang lighter lays, and sonnets of his own, Th’ amours of men below, and gods above, And all the triumphs of the queen of love. I, sure the simplest of all shepherd swains, Full soon forgot my old bucolic strains; The lighter lays of Love my fancy caught, And I remembered all that Cupid taught.—Ed.]
Something like the same idea seems to have dictated the following Stanzas, which appear to be a loose imitation of the beautiful Dialogue of Horace and Lydia, and for which, though confessedly in a lower style of poetry, and conceived rather in the slang, or Brentford dialect, than in the classical Doric of the foregoing Poem, we have many thanks to return to an ingenious academical correspondent. THE NEW COALITION.[157] Fox.—When erst I coalesced with North And brought my Indian bantling forth [158]In place—I smiled at faction’s storm, Nor dreamt of radical reform. Tooke.—While yet no patriot project pushing, Content I thump’d old Brentford’s cushion, I pass’d my life so free and gaily; Not dreaming of that d——d Old Bailey. Fox.—Well! now my favourite preacher’s Nickle, [159] He keeps for Pitt a rod in pickle; His gestures fright th’ astonish’d gazers, His sarcasms cut like Packwood’s razors. Tooke.— Thelwall’s[160] my man for state alarm; I love the rebels of Chalk Farm; Rogues that no statutes can subdue, Who’d bring the French, and head them too. Fox.—A whisper in your ear, John Horne, [161] For one great end we both were born, Alike we roar, and rant, and bellow— Give us your hand, my honest fellow. Tooke.—Charles, for a shuffler long I’ve known thee: But come—for once, I’ll not disown thee; And since with patriot zeal thou burnest, With thee I’ll live—or hang in earnest. [HORACE. BOOK III., ODE IX. Horace.—Whilst I was fond, and you were kind, Nor any dearer youth, reclined On your soft bosom, sought to rest, Not Persia’s monarch was so blest. Lydia.—Whilst you adored no other face, Nor loved me in the second place, Your Lydia’s celebrated fame Outshone the Roman Ilia’s name. Horace.—Me Chloe now possesses whole; Her voice and lyre command my soul: Nor would I death itself decline, Could I redeem her life with mine. Lydia.—For me young lovely CalaÏs burns, And warmth for warmth my heart returns. Twice would I life for him resign, Could his be ransomed thus with mine. Horace.—What if the God, whose bands we broke, Again should tame us to the yoke! What if my Chloe cease to reign, And Lydia her lost power regain! Lydia.—Though Phosphor be less fair than he; Thou wilder than the raging sea; Lighter than down; yet gladly I With thee would live, with thee would die.—Ed.]
[Another version of this Ode published in the Anti-Jacobin Review, vol. 1, pp. 597–8 (the successor to the Anti-Jacobin), may perhaps not be considered out of place here. It was written by the Rev. C. E. Stewart, a constant contributor to the former journal. The Honey-Moon of Fox and Tooke. Fox.—Since Fox of his Tooke is possest, No sorrows my bosom can harass; What Director was ever so blest? I’m greater, far greater than Barras. Tooke.—If Fox to his consort is true, And this blest Coalition sincere, I’ll engage as a private with you, Nor envy thy fame, Robespierre. Fox.—You once were the worst of my foes, E’en Pitt I detested not more, When you dar’d my Election oppose, And eternal antipathy swore. Tooke.—Not to you was my hatred confin’d, Your father I styled “The Defaulter,” Drew a portrait of both, and consign’d Both father and son to the halter. Fox.—Drive these hated reflections away; For you I would gladly resign. Jockey Norfolk, big Bedford, and Grey; But they answer your purpose and mine. Tooke.—Whate’er you attempt or intend, I am yours, and will bring at your call, Binns, Gurney, Scott, Ferguson, Frend, Corresponding Society—all. Both.—Thus reconcil’d, fond, and delighted, Together we’ll ride in the storm, While Jacobin Clubs, all united, Make a radical, perfect Reform.—Ed.]
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