CONTAINING A PARALLEL BETWEEN THOSE TOWNS.
THANK you, Doctor, for your prose, Wherein your wonted Friendship glows; Wherein, as usual, you condense,
Well mixed good counsel and good sense,
For most disorders that attach
To feeble mortals you 're a match, And for each great or little ill, Within the reach of draught or pill, However sharp the pain or grief, I should, from you, expect relief.
But one there is-distemper strange! A sort of irritating mange; That the Materia Medica, Clubbing the art, could ne'er allay. The Rhyming Itch is a disease Which only rhyming can appease; And when all pow'rs of med'cine fail, Sometimes a stanza may prevail;
But when the inflammation's strong, The remedy, of course, is long.
Yet, not confin'd to Spring and Fall, With me 't is constitutional;
I'm subject to it all the year,
And several fits since I've been here Have my poor Fancy much annoy'd, And kept me constantly employed. And truly, in a town like this, The malady I scarce could miss;
There's something in the air that's catching, And half my time I have been scratching: A kind of intermittent case,
Caught in this verse-creating place; Where causes of the Bard's disease Spring up with almost ev'ry breeze, Sudden, a thousand symptoms strong Break out, and then go off in song. It seizes at a ball or play,
At parties grave, and parties gay; Frolic or Folly, Fun or Spite,
Brings on the fit, and makes him write.
And though I here was struck before, I find the mischief is not o'er; The Muse is a Tarantula,
Whose bite we sing, not dance away. Indeed, I've thought-but may be out- The Poets feel a sort of gout
Peculiar to their own poor heads;
And though not chaining them to beds,
Like martyrs of the smarting toe, It often comes and goes, I know.
On my poor nerves th' effect is plain, I feel it swell in ev'ry vein; Behold, already, how it rages! But yet, I hope, a few more pages, As earnest I apply in time The soothing anodyne of rhyme- If you have patience to endure, -Will work a temporary cure.
Methinks I see in this great town A strong resemblance to your own; A strange comparison, you'll say, "Twixt one so dull and one so gay! True, Birmingham's to trade confin'd: Yet Commerce of a different kind, And somewhat in a different way, More showy, popular, and gay, The Manufacture sometimes pretty, Is carried on in this fam'd city.
Upon an old establish'd planning, We still deal here in Bath japanning: Not wrought in paper, or on tin, But a soft varnish for the skin, Prepar'd with such surprising grace, It re-creates an antient face, Fills up each wrinkle, plait and chink, And so veneers, that you would think
The polish'd mirror had more specks Than the new creature it reflects; The young old Lady then appears In all the bloom of fourscore years!
And I should notice, as we pass, That sometimes here we work in brass: This branch of trade we show by night, Like auction goods by candle-light; Expos'd in Exhibition-rooms, Where Beauty everlasting blooms; Or, if it fades, we can renew, And bring it fairer to the view; Bid Cupids, Venuses and Graces, Long after they've resign'd their places To Crowfeet, Furrows, Pits and Pimples, Revive, with all the Smiles and Dimples : Simply by using the Bath Varnish,
Which neither Time nor Chance can tarnish.
Here, too, both Art and Nature bend Mutual, their damag'd wares to mend; And often, where the latter fails, The former in the work prevails; For in her toil the Belles unite, And show their articles each night; Their undress'd Figures, Statues, Blocks, Enough to melt, or harden rocks; Enough to make e'en Lovers freeze, To see them brave the midnight breeze, To see them breast the wint'ry sky, In noble scorn of drapery!
And courting, prodigal of treats,
The "Wind, that kisses all it meets."
Were I to run the Parallel
"Twixt the dark town, wherein you dwell, And this, all rear'd of free-stone white, Comparisons would still be right! In point of Trade, you see we vie With yours in Manufactory; And sure our Mistresses of Arts Discover as good natural parts, To polish and to mend a toy, As any Artist you employ.
But, for a fascinating cram,
What are your mobs at Birmingham To those which Fashion here displays In her inextricable maze?
Here, 'tis a Herculean bout
To elbow through a well-pack'd rout: 'Tis easier to thread your mazes,
'Midst all your burnishings and blazes. And here the furnaces polite,
Kindled by day to flame at night,
Make all the Belles and pretty Fellows
Fume, fuss and blow, like BOLTON's Bellows;
And nothing, at your fam'd Soho,
Such crucibles and forges show.
Your world of Buttons and of Rings
Must yield, my Friend, to BLADUD's Springs;
And Birminghamians, to à man,
Will see we beat them at Japan.
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