SHALL essenc'd Coxcombs who from Toilettes come, Strut, and squeak Nonsense in the Drawing-room, Sagacious Critics of a Knot or Fan, Soft @3Sporus's,@1 faint Images of Man, All form'd of Nature's tend'rest, Porcelain Stuff, Their snowy Fingers shelter'd by the Muff, Heroes for Sonnets, but unfit for Fights, Herds of emasculated @3Sybarites,@1 Shall painted Insects, busy buzzing Things, In Armies rise and Favour gain from Kings? While wounded Veterans obscurely mourn, And @3S——r@1 sees Lawrels from his Temples torn? O courtly @3Atticus,@1 my Warmth you blame, Unconscious of the glowing Patriot's Flame: I feel, I feel, its kindling Raptures rowl, From Pleasures and from Business steal my Soul, And while it strongly in my Bosom beats, No more I rove collecting classic Sweets, Nor warlike @3Homer@1's well-fought Battles warm, Nor Fairy Forests of wild @3Spenser@1 charm; No more I weep while awful @3Tragedy@1 Like @3Sophocles@1 array'd comes stalking by, (Leading ill-fated @3Oedipus@1 the Blind, Or the lame Wretch in desert drear confin'd) Nor in mild @3Maro@1's Groves and Grotts rejoice, Nor @3Doric@1 Shepherd's sweetly simple Voice, No more convey'd by @3Pindar@1's rapid Song, I see great @3Theron@1's Car victorious whirl along, Nor crown'd with Grapes with gay @3Anacreon@1 laid Beneath a Plantane praise some beauteous Maid, But oft resounding in my trembling Ear, Methinks my Country's dying Groans I hear. Rise, Satire, rise; 'tis sinful to be mute: The Muse should whirl a Dart, not tune a Lute; Gigantic Vice, beyond huge @3Tityus'@1 Size, Enormous Growth! o'er half @3Britannia@1 lies; O let my Satire on its Vitals feast, Like the fierce Eagle on that @3Tityus'@1 Breast! Yet Oh! what Hero Folly can confound? The dull, lethargic Villain feels no Wound: Culprits, like poisonous Adders deaf, we find: In @3Biscay@1's Bay who chides the raging Wind? Such callous Hearts to no Impression yield, All-guarded with Corruption's seven-fold Shield; Unstung by Shame, and resolute in Ill; Vice is a @3Python Phæbus@1 ne'er can kill: Heedless of Satire, Sin persists to reign, As Curfews bid us leave our Fires in vain; Poets, and Setting-Dogs, one Task employs, Each @3points@1 at Knaves or Birds, but ne'er @3destroys;@1 What tho' you sweat, complain, and rail, and write, The mad, luxurious Town sins on for Spite. Could @3Boileau@1 to reform a Nation hope? A @3Sodom@1 can't be mended by a @3Pope.@1 To cleanse th' @3Augean@1 Stable tho' you toil, Still Virtue yields to @3Heidegger@1 and @3Hoyle@1; Still @3Britons@1 (Justice, Freedom, Conscience sold) Own the supreme Omnipotence of Gold. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCOIS-MARIE AROUET (DE VOLTAIRE) by EZRA POUND SONNET: 50 by GEORGE SANTAYANA FACADE: 24. AN OLD WOMAN LAMENTS IN SPRINGTIME by EDITH SITWELL SONGS AND THE POET (FOR SARA TEASDALE) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER |