Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips! V. Go on, Lessee! Go on, and prosper well! Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel-- Show them how thou hast long befriended them, And teach Dubois _their_ treason to condemn! Go on! addressing pits in prose and worse! Be long, be slow, be anything but terse-- Kiss to the gallery the hand that's glov'd-- Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Belov'd, Go on--and but in this reverse the thing, Walk backward with wax lights before the King-- Go on! Spring ever in thine eye! Go on! Hope's favourite child! ethereal Elliston! ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE, M.P. FOR GALWAY. I. How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jars-- The butcheries of men! The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender _Bill_! II. Thou Wilberforce of hacks! Of whites as well as blacks, Piebald and dapple gray, Chestnut and bay-- No poet's eulogy thy name adorns! But oxen, from the fens, Sheep--in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns! Thou art sung on brutal pipes! Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee, Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes! III. Hast thou not taught the drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,-- Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air! Bullocks don't wear _Oxide_ of iron! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two-- Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!-- O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts His hand against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,-- He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_! IV. Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd-- Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,-- Remember Cato! Swift was the horse's champion--not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus--would he were thrown! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things! Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!--let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse-- Look at the ancients' _Muse_! Look at their _Carmen_! V.