THE GOLDEN AGE,

A POETICAL EPISTLE.

BOAST of proud Shropshire, Oxford's lasting shame,
 Whom none but Coxcombs scorn, but Fools defame,
 Eternal war with dulness born to wage,
 Thou Paracelsus of this wondrous age;
 BEDDOES, the philosophic Chymist's Guide,
 The Bigot's Scourge, of Democrats the Pride;
 Accept this lay; and to thy Brother, Friend,
 Or name more dear, a Sans Culotte attend,
 While in Rhyme's Galligaskins I enclose
 The broad posteriors of thy brawny prose,
 And sing, by thee inspir'd, in tuneful strain,
 The blest return of Saturn's golden reign! 

Oh had I, silly swain, the force and fire
 Of some, whom Frenchmen's bloody deeds inspire;
 Could I, ascending on the wing of sound,
 Pleas'd with the grand, the lofty and profound,
 Rise above mortal ken in rapturous glow,
 Leaving poor pursy Sense to pant below;
 Could I, for ever studious to refine,
 Prank with my pearly phrase each pretty line,
 Or like an empty Bottle, deep immers'd,
 Whence Bubbles after Bubbles bustling burst,
 Amus'd to view my noisy nothings swell,
 In the sweet vanity of thought excel;
 Now bursting o'er the bounds of vulgar Rhyme,
 Gracefully great and terribly sublime;
 Trolling in full-toned melody along
 With all the clattering clang of modern song;
 I'd hail the progress of those blissful days,
 When fair Philosophy's meridian rays
 Shall brighten Nature's face, shall drive the Moles
 Of blinking Error to their secret holes,
 Disperse the darkness of primaeval Night,
 And bid a new Creation rise to light! 

Proceed, great days! and bring, oh! bring to view
 Things strange to tell! Incredible, but true! 
Behold, behold, the Golden Age appears:
 Skip, skip, ye Mountains! Forests lend your Ears! 
See red-capt Liberty from heaven descend,
 And real Prodigies her steps attend! 
No more immers'd in many a foreign dye
 Shall British wool be taught to blush and lie;
 But all our pastures glow with purple Rams,
 With scarlet Lambkins, and their yellow Dams! 
No more the lazy Ox shall gormandize,
 And swell with fattening grass his monstrous size;
 No more trot round and round the groaning field,
 But tons of Beef our loaded Thickets yield! 
The patient Dairy-Maid no more shall learn
 With tedious toil to whirl the frothy Churn;
 But from the Hedges shall her Dairy fill,
 As pounds of Butter in big drops distil! 
The sottish Jews, who in a God believ'd,
 And sometimes blessings, oftener plagues receiv'd,
 Shouted a Miracle, when on the ground
 Their boasted bread the greedy grumblers found:
 By no dry crusts shall Infidels be fed,
 Our soil producing Butter to our Bread! 
See reverend Thames, who God of Rivers reigns,
 And winds meand'ring through our richest plains,
 To treat the Cits, that many a sixpence give
 Once in a week like Gentlemen to live,
 Resign his majesty of mud, and stream
 O'er strawberry beds in deluges of Cream! 
See Tallow Candles tip the modest Thorn,
 Candles of Wax the prouder Elm adorn! 
See the dull Clown survey with stupid stare
 Where Leaves once grew, now periwigs of Hair! 
While fluids, which a wondrous change betray,
 Ooze from the vernal bud, the summer spray,
 Differing from animals alone in name,
 (As Botanists already half exclaim). 
See plants, susceptible of joy and woe,
 Feel all we feel, and know whate'er we know! 
View them like us inclin'd to watch or sleep,
 Like us to smile, and, ah! like us to weep! 
Like us behold them glow with warm desire,
 And catch from Beauty's glance celestial fire! 
Then, oh! ye fair, if through the shady grove
 Musing on absent Lovers you should rove,
 And there with tempting step all heedless brush
 Too near some wanton metamorphos'd Bush,
 Or only hear perchance the western breeze
 Steal murmuring through the animated Trees,
 Beware, beware, lest to your cost you find
 The Bushes dangerous, dangerous too the Wind,
 Lest, ah! too late with shame and grief you feel
 What your fictitious Pads would ill conceal! 

While Plants turn Animals, Man, happy Man,
 To ages shall extend Life's lengthen'd span. 
Bane to our bliss, no more the wrinkled face
 Beauty's bewitching circles shall disgrace;
 But see the reigning Toast half kind, half coy,
 Her Rivals' envy, and her Lover's Joy,
 Skill'd to allure, to charm us, and beguile,
 In all the bloom of Eighty sit and smile! 
Thus shall each Belle a lovely L'ENCLOS prove,
 Drive Boys of future Cent'ries mad with love;
 The Marriage Table its degrees extend,
 And to our great, great Grandmother ascend. 
Poor POPE, who griev'd "that Life could scarce supply
"More than to look about him, and to die, "
Had he but flourish'd in these Halcyon days,
 Might long have bid Life's little Candle blaze,
 Have grown strait, handsome, brisk and debonnair,
 The Muses' favourite, favourite of the Fair! 
Happy the Poet's lot, who can prolong,
 Till time shall be no more, his deathless song;
 And live himself to see his swelling name
 Roll, like a Snowball, gathering all its fame! 
Happy, thrice happy he, who at his will
 Can drink of Life's sweet cup his constant fill;
 Who, if excess of Oxygene create
 Symptoms, which lean Consumption indicate,
 A sure specific can procure with ease,
 Rich Cream and Butter from his herd of Trees:
 Or if he find excess of Hydrogene
 His body load with fat, his mind with spleen,
 True health and vigour to restore, can take
 From some regenerate Oak a savoury steak,
 Sliced off the slaughter'd Monster's quondam stump,
 Converted now into a real Rump,
 And, blest with an accommodating maw,
 Devour the luscious bit, red, recent, raw! 

Now rise, my Muse, and, warm with rapture, dart
 From Men to Manners, "Fancy to the Heart." 
Transporting sight! to view the Sons of Pride
 Their little heads with shame and sorrow hide,
 Ranks and Distinctions cease, all reeking lie
 In the mean muck of low Equality! 
Favourites of freedom, Sons of frisky France,
 Who never learnt like British Bears to dance,
 And, while their Premier's humdrum Bagpipes sound,
 Led by the nose, jog growling round and round;
 But more like Monkeys, airy, light, and gay,
 Pleas'd on your Master's head to skip and play;
 Ye pious Atheists, Moralists, who deem
 The Christian's Heaven and Hell an idle Dream,
 Delighted to deride all vulgar fears
 Of Beelzebub's black Claws, cropt Tail, and Ears,
 With manly Scorn and Dignity to tread
 On prostrate Superstition's hoary head;
 Who, foes to Power Despotic, dare defy
 The King of Kings, that Bugbear of the sky;
 Dreading for present crimes no future rod,
 Self-praise your worship, Vanity your God:
 Oh how my Eyes with tears ecstatic fill,
 What new felt transports through my bosom thrill,
 When I behold you with gigantic blow
 The pigmy pride of Royalty lay low,
 With pikes and guns this moral dogma teach —
 Virtue consists in nudity of Breech! 

Soon shall we view no more the glittering Things
 Bestarr'd, begarter'd, and befool'd by Kings;
 The pretty Twinklers that so sweetly shone,
 And deem'd their lovely lustre all their own! 
No more the Despot view, whose mighty nods
 Shook nature, and proclaim'd him God of Gods;
 Drunk with applause who rais'd his rolling Eyes,
 And seem'd, whene'er he mov'd, to tread the skies! 
Despis'd, detested, all shall wing their flight,
 And sink, no more to rise, in endless night! 
Arm'd with a bristled End and glittering Awl,
 Behold a minor Monarch in his Stall! 
No circling Gold his royal brow surrounds,
 A Yard of Room his sphere of Action bounds;
 His sole ambition and his prime pursuit,
 With skill a Shoe to patch, to stitch a Boot! 
Nor deem his fate severe! The time may come
 When many a pious King in Christendom,
 Dash'd from his throne, and made Dame Fortune's Fool,
 Shall envy little Capet's cobbling stool! 

Mark with the Peer and Prince the canting Priest,
 Forbidden on his Country's fat to feast,
 While peace looks down sweet smiling on the swains,
 And untax'd Plenty crowns the fruitful plains! 
No more that lazy Lubbard shall we pay,
 With phiz so farcical to preach and pray;
 No more behold that Harpy of the land
 Lay on our largest sheaves his greedy hand;
 With Bigotry's black banner wide unfurl'd,
 Fright into Gothic Ignorance the world:
 But Truth and Light shall come, with hostile rage,
 "To drive the holy Vandal off the stage." 
See Tythes expire, and ancient Slavery fail;
 Proud Superstition turn her vanquish'd tail;
 No zealous Minister the Church befriend,
 But all her sorceries with the Beldame end:
 Lo! Babylon is fallen! That mystic —
 That Sink of Wickedness, is now no more! 
Great Babylon is fallen! Shout, shout, ye Meads! 
And, oh! ye Corn-fields, wave your happy heads! 
Ye lovely Lambkins, strain your feeble voice,
 And with your Dams in loudest Baas rejoice! 
Calves, join your notes to swell the gladdening sound! 
Cows, let your lowings from the skies rebound! 
Prolific Ducks, quack mid the mighty noise! 
Hens, more prolific, cackle out your joys! 
And ye, oh! Swine, lift up your little Eyes,
 With rapture riot round your rotten Styes! 
Stretch your triumphant throats, and strive to make
 The frighten'd welkin with your Gruntings shake!