"When lo! from the regions of air &."
ADVERTISEMENT
THE little Poem now presented to the Public, was intended for publication immediately after the appearance of the “Peacock at Home,” but from various causes, was laid aside till now. In the opinion of the Publisher, however, it is so nearly allied in point of merit to that celebrated Trifle, that he is induced, although at this late period, to print it with a few appropriate embellishments.
THE PEACOCK, &c
YE votaries of Fashion, who have it to boast,
That your names to posterity will not be lost;
That the last Morning Chronicle due honor paid
To the still-blooming Dowager’s gay Masquerade;
That the Minister’s Dinner has blaz’d in the Times,
That the Countess’s Gala has jingled in rhymes;
Oh! tell me, who would not endeavour to please,
And exert ev’ry nerve, for rewards such as these?
It was early in Spring—but no matter what year,
That the Peacock, delighting in noise, and good cheer,
Determin’d, for dear notoriety’s sake,
A dash in the whirlpool of Fashion to make.
A Concert and Ball, their attractions united,
To which the Beau-Monde were politely invited.
Away they all flew, it was heavenly weather,
And soon at the Peacock’s arriv’d, in full feather.
The scene was enchanting! for taste so refin’d
Had never appear’d with such splendor combin’d.
The Dance was all gaiety, frolic, and glee;
The Music transporting! the Supper exquis!
The Beaux were all prime, and the flow’r of the nation,
The Belles were all style, beauty, grace, fascination:
Good humour presided, where pleasure was law,
And the guests, more or less, all came off with eclat.
But, alas! Time has wings; and tho’ still vastly clever,
We cannot make Balls last for ever and ever,
When day was seen breaking, the company parted;
And none, I am told, ever went lighter hearted.
“I knew,” cried Sir Argus, “my Gala would shine:
Oh! charming distinction, Oh! pleasure divine.
Yes! I too shall see myself figure away
In the records of fashion, the buz of the day;
And the world shall admire, in ages to come,
The brilliant display of the Peacock at Home.”
Two months had now pass’d, and Sir Argus, one morning,
Was ruffling his plumes, and his person adorning,
A Pigeon appear’d, and his neck gently bending,
Presented a Billet; then silently bow’d,
And, spreading his wings, was soon lost in a cloud.
Sir Argus, astonish’d, in haste now uncloses
The paper, perfum’d with fresh Otto of Roses.
“In fortune’s dear name,” he exclaims, “what is this
‘The Peacock at Home!’ Oh! superlative bliss!
My feelings, prophetic, the honor foretold;
Yes! The Peacock at Home shall be printed in gold:
How just the description! what grace, and what spirit!
Aye—this is indeed a production of merit.”
Be it known, that the great Biped Lords of Creation,
Of every class, and in every station,
All secretly cherish, what all yet disclaim,
That feeling, which we curiosity name.
Now our Peacock imperial, tho’ too proud to own,
That the fav’rite of Juno had ever been prone
To a weakness, he always had wish’d to believe
Was exclusively felt by the Daughters of Eve,
Yet died with impatience to know who had written
The elegant verses, with which he was smitten.
His thoughts were all now on discovery bent,
And, in haste, for the Parrot he instantly sent:
Who shortly arriv’d, overjoy’d beyond measure,
And, strutting, demanded Sir Argus’s pleasure?
"The Peacock, with vanity fully inflated."
Erected his plumes, and the triumph related;
Then quiv’ring his wings, and expanding his breast,
The listening Parrot in these words address’d:—
“My friend, I acknowledge the Poem divine,
And that genius and wit breathe thro’ every line;
But it is not enough that to Fame we devote it,
You, the Herald of Ton, must inform me who wrote it.”
The Parrot, who now was expiring to speak,
Twirl’d his ebony tongue, and then op’ning his beak,
In a tone of importance, without hesitation,
Directly began a high-sounding oration.
“Sir Argus, no mortal could e’er have desir’d,
More exquisite verses than those you’ve inspir’d.
The Muse has for you, indeed, tried all her art,
And with envy, no doubt, has fill’d many a heart:
I wonder not, then, you are anxious to know
From whose pen these strains of sweet harmony flow.
’Tis true, I have chanc’d in my wanderings to meet
With some secrets; and such anecdotes cou’d repeat!
However, no matter; I give you my word,
That who wrote this fine Poem, I never yet heard;
But it much wou’d delight me the truth to discover,
Altho’ I shou’d fly for it all the world over:
What say you, Sir Argus, the fact to insure,
Suppose we were both to set out on a tour?”
“Agreed! my good Sir; far as England extends,
Then together we’ll travel, and visit our friends:
Endeavour to find out the name of our Poet,
And e’er we return, ten to one but we know it.”
A tempting repast they now hastily shar’d,
Of grain and dried cherries, already prepar’d:
Then