The Gentleman's Magazine/Volume 1/Issue 1/Poetry
Poetical Essays for JANUARY.
ODE for New-Years-Day by C. Cibber, Esq;
Recitativo.Once more the ever circling SunThro' the cœlestial signs has run,Again old Time inverts his glass,And bids the annual Season pass:5The youthful Spring shall call for birth,And glad with op'ning flow'rs the Earth:Fair Summer lead with Sheaves the Field,And golden Fruit shall Autumn yield,Each to the Winter’s want their store shall bring,10'Till warmer genial Suns recall the Spring.
Air.Ye grateful Britons bless the Year, That kindly yields increase,While plenty that might feed a War, Enjoys the guard of peace,15Your plenty to the Skies you owe, Peace is your Monarch’s care;Thus bounteous Jove and George below Divided empire share.
Recitativo.Britannia pleas’d, looks round her realms to see20Your various causes of Felicity!(To glorious War, a glorious peace succeeds;For most we triumph when the Farmer feeds)Then truly are we great when truth suppliesOur Blood, our Treasures drain’d by victories.Turn happy Briton, to the throne your Eyes, 26 And in the royal offspring see,How amply bounteous providence supplies The source of your felicity.
Air.Behold in ev'ry Face imperial Graces shineAll native to the Race of George and Caroline:31In each young Hero we admireThe blooming virtue of his sire;In each maturing fair we find,Maternal charms of softer kind.
Recitativo.35In vain thro' ages past has Phœbus roll'd,E're such a sight blest Albion could beholdThrice happy Mortals, if your state you knew,Where can the Globe so blest a nation shew?All that of you indulgent Heav'n requires,40Is loyal Hearts, to reach your own Desires.Let Faction then her self born views lay down,And Hearts united, thus address the Throne.
Air. Hail! Royal Cesar, hail! Like this may ev'ry annual Sun45 Add brighter Glories to thy Crown, 'Till Suns themselves shall fail.
Recitativo.May Heav'n thy peaceful Reign prolong,Nor let to thy great Empires wrong,Foreign or native Foes prevail. Hail, &c.
See p. 10, 11.
ODE humbly inscribed to the Poet Laureat, taken from Lon. Evening Post Jan. 7. as there said by Step. Duck, Esq.
Semel in anno ridet Apollo.
Recitativo.Accept, O Cibber, the adven'’rous lay,Which, to your honour, dares both sing and say:To you great Prince of Comedy and Song,The Tributes o' inferior Pens belong;You, who by royal favour wear the Bays,And grateful eternize our Monarch’s Praise.
Air. Let us sing to the King, All about the circling Year; Sing a floreat to the laureat, Ev'ry Season brings good cheer, Grateful Britons, thank the bard, Who by Peace does plenty guard, Such as hungry War does need, War, that does on plenty feed.
Recitativo.Phœbus with joy looks Britain round to see,The happy state of his lov’d Poetry,To Eusdes, Cibber gloriously succeeds;Wit triumphs most, when bard like farmer feeds.Then truly are we great, when he can shewThe way his own out-doings to out-do.Cast, envious Poets, on his Verse your Eyes, Behold the offspring of his brain.How his rich Genius constantly supplies The source of his poetick vein!
Air.Thro'out the whole what matchless Graces shine;Paraphonalia sparkles in each Line; Native to Cibber, we admire The style and fancy, wit and fire, In each maturing Word we find Something soft for thought design’d.
Recitativo.Complain not Sol, of fruitless ages past,Think your self blest in such a Son at last!Thrice happy Poets, if you knew your state;Britain alone can boast a Laureat.For if, like him, to Grandeur you aspire,By his Example reach your own desire.Let criticks then their self born views lay down;And Bards in chorus thus sing round the town.
Air. Hail! Matchless Colley, hail!Like this may ev'ry New Year’s DayAdd fresher Honour to the Bay, 'Till Bay itself shall fail.
Recitativo.May Heaven preserve thy Genius clear,For Christmas comes but once a Year. Give the Poet then some Ale. Ale, &c.
From Fog’s Journal, Jan. 9.
An Ode on Twelfth Day. In Imitation of an Ode on New Year's-Day.
Past Two o’Clock, and a frosty Morning.
Recitativo.Once more the Bell-man bids us wake, With Prophesy of Ale and Cake; Tells us before we sleep again, Tom shall be King, and Nancy Queen, While good Sir Knight a Knave appears, And Madam the Slut's Ensign wears. Such Kings and Queens should Colly sing, Such Worthies in his numbers ring;While both the British soil and Foreign Shores,To form the Cake, unite their grateful Stores.
Air. Ye grateful Footmen, bless the Day, That such Preferments give; Ye joyful Cook-maids drink away, While ye your Title lives. Good Ale you to the Brewer owe, The Cake’s the Baker’s care, And all above, and eke below, Combine to give good fare.
Recitativo.Tom thinks himself a real Monarch grown,And, pleas'd looks round the Kitchen as his own.While Nancy with him royal Honour shares,And on the other Maids majestick stares.The New King's Health is first, the Queen's succeed:And most he triumphs, who most freely feeds.Then all are truly great when Ale suppliesThe want of Riches and of Dignities,And the exhausted Jugg gives victories.Turn happy Will, Jack, Kate, and Doll, your eyes On yon Two Chairs, and there observeHow well the new rais’d prince the place supplies Which both, as you must own, deserve.
Air.Behold in each pleas'd face what lovely graces shine,How on their little realm they look with air benign, Such, Will, must you and Kate appear, If Fortune the ensuing Year, Convinces us she is not blind, By proving to your merit kind.
Recitativo.In vain above Three Hundred Days have pass’dBetween this joyful Twelfth Day and the last,No Scene like this has chear’d your Hearts and Eyes,Where shall we find such bliss beneath the Skies?All that Sir William and my Lady ask,Is, that when all have well perform’d their Task,With silent pace, without your Shoes you’ll treadAnd each go peaceably, tho' drunk to bed.
Air. Hail! merry Monarch, hail!Like this may ev'ry annual CakeYou merrier still and merrier make, 'Till Cakes themselves shall fail.
Recitativo.May you all long your Places keep;May no makebate amongst you creep, With Peace destroying Tale.
A HYMN to the LAUREAT,
Introduced in the Whitehall and London Evening Posts, Jan. 9. thus
Sir, By giving a Place in your Paper to the following Unfashionable Hymn you will very much oblige Sir,
your Humble servt.
Cibber, accept these feeble lays From an unskilfull muse,Who tries with artless Note, to praise What envious men abuse.
Nature and Art in thee combine; Thy Comedies excell:With Wit and Sense replete, they shine, And read politely well.
Who sees th' inconstant[1] Loveless range, But mourns Amanda’s fate?Each female Heart approves his change, And pants for such a state.
When Lady Betty[2] treads the stage, All modish prudes submit:What Foppington adorns our age, With the same Grace and Wit?
In Townley[3] see the modern Wife! How full of Vice! how blam'd!How ruin'd by the modern Life! How valu'd, when reclaim'd!
May empty Journals weekly rail; May all dull bards repine:If Wit unequall'd shou’d prevail, The Laurel's justly thine.
To the Author of the Whitehall Evening Post.
Jan. 12
SIR,
As you are an impartial Writer, I dare say you will do justice on both sides.
The Verses on the Laureat, in yours of Saturday last, have occafion'd the following reply; which I hope you will give a Place to in your next, to show that we can be quick as well as smart, upon a proper occasion. And as I think it the lowest mark of a scoundrel to make bold with any man's character in print, without subscribing the true name of the author; I therefore desire, if the Laureat is concern'd enough to ask the question, that you will tell him my name, and where I live, till then I beg leave to be known by no other than that of your servant,
Francis Fair-play.
AH! hah! Sir Coll. is that thy way, Thy own dull Praise to write?And would'st thou stand so sure a lay? No! that's too stale a bite.
Nature and art in thee combine, Thy Talents here excell:All shining brass thou dost outshine, To play the cheat so well.
Who sees thee in Iago's part, But thinks thee such a Rogue?And is not glad with all his heart, To hang so sad a Dog?
When Bays thou play'st, thy self thou art, For that by nature fit,No blackhead better suits the part, Than such a coxcomb wit,
In Wronghead too, thy brains we see, Who might do well at plough;As fit for Parliament was he, As for the Laurel thou.
Bring thy protected verse from Court, And try it on the Stage;There it will make much better sport, And set the town in rage.
There beau's, & wits, & cits, and smarts, Where hissing's not uncivilWill shew their parts to thy deserts, And send it to the devil.
But, ah in vain 'gainst thee we write, In vain thy verse we maul;Our sharpest satyr's thy delight,For [1]Blood! thou'lt stand it all!
Thunder, 'tis said, the Laurel spares, Nought but thy brow could blast it,And yet! O curst provoking Stars! Thy comfort is, thou hast it.
- ↑ Epilogue to the Non-juror.
An ODE to Sir Robert Walpole, for New-Year's Day, 1731.
I.Guardian of Britannia's glory, Life and soul of Europe's peace,Greatest name in modern story, May thy happy years increase!Brighter still thy genius shining,Richer blessings yet designing.
II.Thee, the sacred muses hailing, Dulness seat'd in slumber lies;Arts and wealth thro' thee prevailing, Faction far confounded flies;Happy prince in thee confiding:Happy people of thy guiding!
III.Viewing present, past, and future, As thou keep'st eternal watch,Janus say (for thou are neuter) Hast thou seen our Walpole's match?Phœbus in thy radiant journey,Canst than to a greater turn thee?
IV.Lucky omens, minutes smiling, All the friendly cares appear?Every discontent beguiling, Crown the Patriot's coming Year:In his perfon strongly guarded,Counsels blest, and works rewarded.
An Epitaph on Mrs. Oldfield.
Hic Juxta requiescit,Tot inter poetarum laudata nomina,ANNA OLDFIELD,Nec ipsa minore laude digna,Quippe quæ eorum operaIn scenam quoties prodivit,Illustravit semper, & nobilitavit.Nunquam ingenium idem ad partes diversissimasHabilius suit.Ita tamen ut ad singulas.Non facta, sed nata esse videretur.In tragediisFormæ splendor, oris dignitas, incessus majestasTanta vocis suavitate temperabanturUt nemo esset tam agrestis, tam durus spectator,Quin in admirarionem totus raperetur.In comedia autemTanta vis, tam venusta hilaritas, tam curiosa felicitasUt neque sufficerent spectando oculi,Neque plaudendo manus.
English'd thus.
Near this place rests the body of Anne Oldfield, amid so many celebrated Poets, herself not less deserving to be celebrated; for whene'er she trod the stage, her actions always illustrated and ennobled their compositions. Never was one Genius so adapted to the most different parts; she seem'd not made but born for each distinctly. In tragedy her noble presence, elevated speech, and majestic step, temper'd with so peculiar a sweetness of voice, never fail'd to transport the most rustic and insensible into admiration. In comedy she discover'd such a winning air, such a sprightly and becoming gayety, and so happy an address, that neither eyes were satisfied with seeing her, nor hands weary of applauding.
Another.
Fashion'd alike by nature and by art,To please, engage, and int'rest ev'ry heart:In publick life, by all who saw, approv'dIn private life, by all who knew her lov'd.
Another.
OLDFIELD lies here retir'd, undrest,The curtain drawn, her part is done; Ye that remain to act your best,Must also make your exit soon; How happy then, if worthy praise, Ye can such lasting plaudits raise!
Another.
EXITAnna Oldfield;Valete & plaudite.
Another.
Hic jacet Anna Oldfield. Jam mea preacta est,Mox vestra agetur fabula.Vos valete & plaudite.
Mrs. B-rb-r, to Mrs. C--s-r, at Bath.
WHen lately you invited me, With Carteret I din'd;And in return, most gen'rously To Onslow I resign'd.
On Opportunity we seize, For search the Nation round,Such Commoners and Peers as these Are rarely to be found.
Our Situation chang'd, you see How pleasure fleets away; But yesterday you envy'd me, I envy you to day.
EPIGRAM on a LADY, stung by a BEE.
To heal the wound the Bee had made upon my Delia's face,Its honey to the wound she laid, and bid me kiss the place.
Pleas'd I obey'd, and from the wound suck'd both the sweet and smart:The honey on my lips I found, the sting went thro' my heart.