ODES TO KIEN LONG.

ODE I.

Peter complimenteth Kien Long on his poetical Talent, and condemneth the Want of literary Taste in western Kings.

DEAR Emperor, Prince of Poets, noble Bard,
Thy brother Peter sendeth thee a card,

To say thou art an honour to the times:
Yes, Peter telleth thee, that for a King,
Indeed a most extraordinary thing,

Thou really makest very charming Rhymes.

Witness thy Moukden*, which we all admire;
Witness thy pretty little Ode to Tea,
Composed when sipping by thy Tartar fire;
Witness thy many a Madrigal and Glee.

Believe me, venerable, good Kien Long,
Vast is my pleasure that the Muse's Song

• A favourite City of the Emperor.

Divinely soundeth through thy Tartar groves;

Still greater, that the first of Eastern Kings

Should praise in Rhyme the Tartar vales and springs, And pay a tuneful tribute to the Loves.

Yet how it hurts my Classic soul to find

Some Western Kings to Poetry unkind!—

What though they want the skill to make a riddle, Charade, or rebus, or conundrum? Still

Those Kings might show towards them some good will,
And nobly patronize Apollo's Fiddle.

But no: the note is, "How go Sheep a score?
What, what's the price of Bullocks? how sells Lamb?

I want a Boar, a Boar, I want a Boar;

I want a Bull, a Bull; I want a Ram."—
Whereas it should be this: "I want a Bard,
To cover him with honour and reward."

Kings deem, ah me! a grunting Herd of Swine
Companions sweeter than the tuneful Nine:
Preferring to Fame's Dome a Hog-sty's mire;
The Roar of Oxen, to Apollo's Lyre.

"Lord! is it possible?" I hear thee groan.
Kien Long, 'tis true as thou art on thy Throne.
For souls like thine, 'tis natural to doubt it:
Macartney can inform thee all about it.

ODE II.

More Compliments to the Emperor-A Dissertation on Thrones, and Kings and Queens-A very proper Attack on the French Revolutionists - The Fate of poor Religion, prophesied -also, of his Holiness the Pope-More Lamentations on degraded Royalty.

THOU art a second Atlas, great Kien Long;
Supporting half th' unwieldy Globe, so strong:

But, Lord! what pigmy souls to Empire rise!
Unconscious of its glorious frame, they sleep:
Now just like Mice from Pyramids that peep;
Thinking a hole's a hole, where'er it lies.

Fortune has too much power in this same world.
Things are too often topsy-turvy hurl'd;

A Bug condemn'd to fly, that scarce can crawl;
A Maggot taken from his little Nut

(There by the great All-wise most wisely put),

To grovel 'midst the grandeur of Saint Paul!

Unluckily, most Thrones are placed so high,
That Kings can scarce their loving Subjects spy,

VOL. III.

L

Hopping beneath them like so many Crows; Which Subjects have in France been taking Great liberties in ladder-making,

To get up nearer to the Royal nose.

Thus Wrens ere long their pigmy powers will try;
And, turning to the clouds their little eye,
Aim to arrest, by frequent daring flights,
Their elder brothers of the skies, the Kites.

And yet I hate a Fool upon a Throne :

We have been happy hitherto, thank God. How Boys would burst with laughter, every one, Were monkey Schoolmasters to hold the rod!

Yet much more mischief follows royal Fools,
As Realms are on a larger scale than Schools.
Th' Americans provide against all this;
Which certain gentlefolk take much amiss.

And then again, the wires of glorious Kings,

In generosity, and such-like things,

And temper mild, who well themselves demean,

Are for the Subject a rare happy matter:
And let me say indeed, who scorn to flatter,

We Britons are most lucky in a Queen.