ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Anonymous, "Ode, on his Majesty's Recovery" Public Advertiser (1 March 1790).
1759: Elizabeth Montagu
1765: William Gerard Hamilton
1766: Horace Walpole
1774: Oliver Goldsmith
1775: Rev. Joseph Sterling
1778: J. S.
1780: T. S.
1780: E. P.
1781: Sarah Emma Spencer
1782: Fanny Burney
1784: Samuel Johnson
1784: Mary Leadbeater
1788: J. Day
1789: Rev. Bryan Waller
1789: L. M.
1790: Horace Walpole
1790: Elizabeth Carter
1790: Frances Burney
1790: John Williams
1791: Anna Seward
1791: Edward Gibbon
1791: William Fernyhough
1791: Rev. William Lisle Bowles
1792: J. S.
1792: William Roscoe
1793: Rev. George Butt
1794: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
1795: Mr. Thomas Fool
1795 ca.: Thomas Sanderson
1795: B. W.
1796: One of the Multitude
1796: John Williams
1796: W. T.
1797: Rev. Percival Stockdale
1797 ca.: Thomas Clio Rickman
1797: John of Hazelgreen
1797: Charles Burney
1798: Thomas Green
1804: Dr. William Perfect
1806: Richard Cumberland
1808: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1811: Richard Cumberland
1814: James Jennings
1817: William Hazlitt
1820 ca.: Anne Grant
1822: William Cook
1830: Thomas Babington Macaulay
1832: John Taylor Esq.
1833: Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The following Ode was handed about in the polite circles last spring; some copies of it were taken; one of which by accident came into my hands, and I send it to you, that it may appear in the Political Arena, the PUBLIC ADVERTISER.
I am, Sir,
Your humble servant,
An Old Correspondent.
At length, the wild delirium o'er,
A fever racks his brain no more,
Nor Reason's mild persuasion spurns;
His pulse with temperate music flows,
And to a Nation's ardent vows,
Behold their darling King returns.
Oh! spare him, BURKE! 'twas not the nod
Of an incens'd vindictive God,
That from his throne a Tyrant HURL'D;
Debas'd him from the godlike form
Of man, a reptile, a poor worm,
The scorn, and outcast of the world.
Oh! spare him! — Tho' corrupt the times,
No sins were his, no glowing crimes,
To call down Heav'ns avenging thunder:
For sure it was no crime that you,
Good Burke, and your banditti-crew,
Were stopt from places and from plunder.
Yet, "There's the Rub!" — O had he deign'd
That your ill-omen'd rav'nous band,
Might glut your maw with Britain's blood,
Then had you smoothly filed your tongue,
And in soft accents said or sung,
Was ever Prince so wise and good?
Then had we seen St. Stephen's dome,
With flowers from Athens and from Rome,
(Rais'd in an Irish hot-bed) spread:
All cull'd with curious classic care,
If we believe that PEDANT PARR,
To weave a chaplet for his head.
But now the sad reverse we find,
While disappointment goads your mind,
No classic wreath his brow adorns;
From Billingsgate your flowers you bring,
And round the temples of your King,
You try to plant a crown of thorns.