The First of April | Page 2

you will forgive me if I just
hint to Your Grace that Society has claims upon you, which you cannot
refuse but with dishonour to yourself, and the contempt of those who
possess the right which you refuse to grant; a contempt which they will
not fail to bestow.
Give then to Society what it requires--a great and noble example of
_female excellence_.--Discard your present Associate;--cultivate the
more solid Graces;--exalt your character by the dignity of Virtue;--and
let continual actions of Benevolence and Generosity mark those hours
which are passing hastily away, and will never return.
Should Your Grace honour the following Poem, if it may deserve that
name, with a perusal, you will, perhaps, consider me as a visionary
Character.--Be that as it may,--I am quite awake to your Honour and
Interest in the Counsels I have given you; and if your Grace should
adopt them, you will awake also.--The Visions of Folly will vanish
away;--and your eyes will open on the real prospect of wise and
honourable days.
I am, Madam, with all due respect,

Your Grace's most sincere Friend,
And humble Servant,
0. * * * *.
THE
FIRST OF APRIL.
'Twas on the Morn when _April_ doth appear,
And wets the Primrose
with its maiden tear;
'Twas on the Morn when laughing FOLLY rules,

And calls her Sons around, and dubs them Fools;
Bids them be
bold, some untry'd path explore,
And do such deeds as Fools ne'er did
before;
'Twas on that Morn, when Fancy took her stand
Beside my
couch, and, with fantastic wand,
Wav'd, from her airy cells, the Antic
Train
That play their gay delusions on the brain:
And strait,
methought, a rude impetuous Throng,
With noise and riot, hurried me
along,
To where a sumptuous Building met my eyes,
Whose gilded
turrets seem'd to dare the skies.
To every Wind it op'd an ample door,

From every Wind tumultuous thousands pour.
With these I enter'd
a stupendous Hall,
The scene of some approaching festival.
O'er the
wide portals, full in sight, were spread
Banners of yellow hue,
bestrip'd with red,
Whereon, in golden characters, were seen:
THE
ANNIVERSARY OF FOLLY'S QUEEN!
Strange motley
ornaments the Building grac'd,
With every emblem of corrupted
Taste.
No stately Column rose to meet the Dome,
No Sculpture
borrow'd from the Arts of Rome;
No well-wrought Frieze crept
graceful on the walls,
Th' _Acanthus_ weav'd no splendid Capitals;

Nor did the Attic elegance supply
One simple foliage for the judging
eye.
But, in their stead, Confusion void of Sense,
And all the pride
of false Magnificence,
Display'd an idle, vain, fantastic show,
Fit
only for the Crowd that gaz'd below.
Gay China's unsubstantial forms supply
The place of Beauty,
Strength, Simplicity.
Each varied colour, of the brightest hue,

The

green, the red, the yellow, and the blue,
In every part the dazzled eyes
behold,
Here streak'd with silver, there enrich'd with gold;
While
fancied forms upon the ceiling sprawl,
And shapeless monsters
decorate the wall.
In every scatter'd niche I look'd in vain
For Heroes famous on th'
embattled plain;
Or animated Bust, whose brow severe
Mark'd the
sage Statesman or Philosopher.
But in the place of those whose
Patriot fame
Gave glory to the Greek and Roman name,
Or Heroes
who for Freedom bravely fought,
Men without heads,--and Heads
that' never thought,
Greet my sick eye,--with all their names enroll'd

In the vain pomp of prostituted gold.
Nor had the Painter's active hand restrain'd
The all-bedaubing brush:
the walls were stain'd
With the gay colourings of capricious Art,

Wherein nor Truth nor Genius bore a part.
There _Sigismunda_'s
form again I knew,
Which FOLLY hinted, and old _Hogarth_ drew.

No sketch of REYNOLD's pencil did appear,
Science and Taste
found no admittance there;
But the vain Painter had essay'd to trace,

In rude distortion, and with strange grimace,
Each story the
Historic Pages tell,
Where FOLLY triumph'd, and where WISDOM
fell.
There the great BACON, whose sagacious eye
Pierc'd through the
gloom of dark Philosophy,
And to the World unveil'd her awful face,

Crouch'd a low, servile Courtier in disgrace.
There PULTENEY,
who the first stout bulwark stood
Of British Freedom 'gainst the
torrent flood
Of dire Corruption, having stemm'd the wave,
Shook
off the Patriot, and became the Slave.
There PITT, whose great and
comprehensive soul
No threats could frighten, no events controul;

Whose name dash'd terror on his Country's foes,
From GALLIA'S
Shores to where the GANGES flows
Through Eastern
Nations;--There he wore the chain
Of Royal Gold, and join'd the
pension'd Train.
But the Muse weeps, and drops the silent tear

O'er

the sad truths which were recorded there.
High, in the midst, a Pageant of a Throne
In the extreme of Tinsel
Splendor shone.
No Sacred Ensigns, no Imperial Chair,
Mark'd the
high worth of those who counseled there;
But, shaded by a Curtain's
vivid green,
A splendid, soft, luxuriant Couch was seen.
The
spangled Banners glitter'd all around,
And the unfolded Silver strew'd
the ground;
While the false Mirrors pain the dazzled eye
With
mingled Forms, and gay Perplexity.
Hung from the roof by many a
golden thread,
The Canopy its airy cov'ring spread,
Inwove with
plumage borrow'd from the wing }
Of India's feather'd Tribe, or those
that sing }
'Mid the green woodlands of a Western Spring. }
Before
the Throne