Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett
by Samuel Johnson · English · Gutenberg #11254 · 369,401 chars · public domain (US)
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett
Author: Samuel Johnson
Thomas Gray
Thomas Parnell
T. Smollett
Editor: George Gilfillan
Release date: February 1, 2004 [eBook #11254]
Most recently updated: October 28, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11254
Credits: Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Jayam Subramanian and PG Distributed Proofreaders
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POETICAL WORKS OF JOHNSON, PARNELL, GRAY, AND SMOLLETT ***
THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
JOHNSON, PARNELL, GRAY,
AND
SMOLLETT.
With Memoirs, Critical Dissertations, and
Explanatory Notes
BY THE
REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.
EDINBURGH
M.DCCC.LV.
CONTENTS.
JOHNSON'S POEMS.
The Life of Samuel Johnson
London: a Poem in imitation of the Third Satire of Juvenal, 1738
The Vanity of Human Wishes. In imitation of the Tenth Satire of
Juvenal
PROLOGUES:--
Prologue Spoken by Mr Garrick, at the Opening of the Theatre-Royal,
Drury-Lane, 1747
Prologue Spoken by Mr Garrick before the 'Masque of Comus', acted
for the benefit of Milton's Grand-daughter
Prologue to Goldsmith's Comedy of 'The Good-Natured Man', 1769
Prologue to the Comedy of 'A Word to the Wise,' spoken by Mr Hull
ODES:--
Spring
Midsummer
Autumn
Winter
MISCELLANEOUS:--
The Winter's Walk
To Miss ***** on her giving the Author a Gold and Silk Network
Purse of her own Weaving
Epigram on George II. and Colley Cibber, Esq.
Stella in Mourning
To Stella
Verses Written at the Request of a Gentleman to whom a Lady had
given a Sprig of Myrtle
To Lady Firebrace, at Bury Assizes
To Lycè, an Elderly Lady
On the Death of Mr Robert Levett, a Practiser in Physic
Epitaph on Claude Phillips, an Itinerant Musician
Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer, Bart.
On the Death of Stephen Grey, F.R.S., the Electrician
To Miss Hickman, Playing on the Spinnet
Paraphrase of Proverbs, chap. iv. verses 6-11
Horace, Lib. iv. Ode vii. Translated
On Seeing a Bust of Mrs Montague
Anacreon, Ode Ninth
Lines Written in Ridicule of certain Poems published in 1777
Parody of a Translation from the 'Medea' of Euripides
Burlesque on the Modern Versification of Ancient Legendary Tales:
an Impromptu
Epitaph for Mr Hogarth
Translation of the Two First Stanzas of the Song 'Rio Verde,
Rio Verde', printed in Bishop Percy's 'Reliques of Ancient
English Poetry': an Impromptu
To Mrs Thrale, on her Completing her Thirty-Fifth Year: a
Impromptu
Impromptu Translation of an Air in the 'Clemenza de Tito' of
Metastasia, beginning 'Deh! se Piacermi Vuoi'
Lines Written under a Print representing Persons Skaiting
Translation of a Speech of Aquileio in the 'Adriano' of Metastasio,
beginning, 'Tu Che in Corte Invecchiasti'
Impromptu on Hearing Miss Thrale Consulting with a Friend about a
Gown and Hat she was inclined to Wear
Translation of Virgil, Pastoral I
Translation of Horace, Book i. Ode xxii.
Translation of Horace, Book ii. Ode ix.
Translation of part of the Dialogue between Hector and
Andromache.--From the Sixth Book of Homer's Iliad
To Miss * * * * on her Playing upon a Harpsichord in a Room hung
with Flower-Pieces of her own Painting
Evening: an Ode. To Stella
To the Same
To a Friend
To a Young Lady, on her Birthday
Epilogue intended to have been Spoken by a Lady who was to
personate 'The Ghost of Hermione'
The Young Author
Friendship: an Ode. Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1743
Imitation of the Style of Percy
One and Twenty
PARNELL'S POEMS.
The Life and Poetry of Thomas Parnell
Hesiod; or, the Rise of Woman
Song
Song
Song
Anacreontic
Anacreontic
A Fairy Tale, in the Ancient English Style
To Mr Pope
Health: an Eclogue
The Flies: an Eclogue
An Elegy to an Old Beauty
The Book-Worm
An Allegory on Man
An Imitation of some French Verses
A Night-Piece on Death
A Hymn to Contentment
The Hermit
GRAY'S POEMS.
The Life and Poetry of Thomas Gray
ODES:--
I. On the Spring
II. On the Death of a Favorite Cat
III. On a distant Prospect of Eton College
IV. To Adversity
V. The Progress of Poesy
VI. The Bard
VII. The Fatal Sisters
VIII. The Descent of Odin
IX. The Death of Hoel
X. The Triumph of Owen
XI. For Music
MISCELLANEOUS:--
A Long Story
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
Epitaph on Mrs Jane Clarke
Stanzas, suggested by a View of the Seat and Ruins at Kingsgate,
in Kent, 1766
Translation from Statius
Gray on himself
SMOLLETT'S POEMS.
The Life of Tobias Smollett
Advice: a Satire
Reproof: a Satire
The Tears of Scotland. Written in the year 1746
Verses on a Young Lady playing on a Harpsichord and Singing
Love Elegy, in imitation of Tibullus
Burlesque Ode
Ode to Mirth
Ode to Sleep
Ode to Leven Water
Ode to Blue-Eyed Ann
Ode to Independence
Songs
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON.
We feel considerable trepidation in beginning a life of Johnson, not
so much on account of the magnitude of the man--for in Milton, and one
or two others, we have already met his match--but on account of the
fact that the field has been so thoroughly exhausted by former
writers. It is in the shadow of Boswell, the best of all biographers,
and not in that of Johnson, that we feel ourselves at present
cowering. Yet we must try to give a rapid account of the leading
incidents in Johnson's life, as well as a short estimate of his vast,
rugged genius.
Samuel Johnson was born at Lichfield, Staffordshire, on the 18th of
September 1709, and was baptized the same day. His father was Michael
Johnson, a bookseller and stationer, and his mother, Sarah Ford.
Samuel was the first-born of the family. Nathaniel, who died in his
twenty-fifth year, was the second and the last. Johnson very early
began to manifest both his peculiar prejudices and his peculiar
powers. When a mere child, we see him in Lichfield Cathedral, perched
on his father's shoulders, gazing at Sacheverel, the famous Tory
preacher. We hear him, about the same time, roaring to his mother, who
had given him, a minute before, a collect in the Common Prayer-Book to
get by heart as his day's task,--"Mother, I can say it already!" His
first teacher, Dame Oliver, a widow, thought him, as she well might,
the best scholar she ever had. From her he passed into the hands of
one Tom Brown, an original, who once published a spelling-book, and
dedicated it "to the Universe!"--without permission, we presume. He
began to learn Latin first with a Mr Hawkins, and then with a Mr
Hunter, head-master of Lichfield,--a petty tyrant, although a good
scholar, under whom, to use Gay's language, Johnson was
"Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod."
At the age of fifteen, he was transferred to Stourbridge school, and
to the care of a Mr Wentworth, who "taught him a great deal." There
he remained twelve months, at the close of which he returned home, and
for two years lived in his father's house, in comparative idleness,
loitering in the fields, and reading much, but desultorily. In 1728,
being flattered with some promises of aid from a Shropshire gentleman,
named Corbet, which were never fulfilled, he went to Oxford, and was
entered as a commoner in Pembroke College. His father accompanied and
introduced him to Dr Adams, and to Jorden, who became his tutor,
recommending his son as a good scholar and a poet. Under Jorden's
care, however, he did little except translate Pope's "Messiah" into
Latin verse,--a task which he performed with great rapidity, and so
well, that Pope warmly commended it when he saw it printed in a
miscellany of poems. About this time, the hypochondriac affection,
which rendered Johnson's long life a long disease, began to manifest
itself. In the vacation of 1729, he was seized with the darkest
despondency, which he tried to alleviate by violent exercise and other
means, but in vain. It seems to have left him during a fit of
indignation at Dr Swinfen (a physician at Lichfield, who, struck by
the elegant Latinity of an account of his malady, which the sufferer
had put into his hands, showed it in all directions), but continued to
recur at frequent intervals till the close of his life. His malady was
undoubtedly of a maniacal cast, resembling Cowper's, but subdued by
superior strength of will--a Bucephalus, which it required all the
power of a Johnson to back and bridle. In his early days, he had been
piously inclined, but after his ninth year, fell into a state of
indifference to religion. This continued till he met, at Oxford, Law's
"Serious Call," which, he says, "overmatched" and compelled him to
consider the subject with earnestness. And whatever, in after years,
were the errors of his life, he never, from that hour, ceased to have
a solemn sense of the verities of the Christian religion.
At Oxford, he paid little attention to his regular tasks, but read, or
rather devoured, all the books he could lay his hands on, and began to
display his unrivalled conversational powers, being often seen
"lounging about the college gates, with a circle of young students
around him, whom he was entertaining with wit, keeping from their
studies, and sometimes rousing to rebellion against the college
discipline." He was, at this time, so miserably poor, that his shoes
were worn to tatters, and his feet appeared through them, to the
scandal of the Christ-Church men, when he occasionally visited their
college. Some compassionate individual laid a new pair at his door,
which he tossed away with indignation. At last,--his debts increasing,
his supplies diminishing, and his father becoming bankrupt,--he was,
in autumn 1731, compelled to leave college without a degree. In the
December of the same year his father died.
Perhaps there was not now in broad Britain a person apparently more
helpless and hopeless than this tall, half-blind, half-mad, and wholly
miserable lad, with ragged shoes, and no degree, left suddenly
fatherless in Lichfield. But he had a number of warm friends in his
native place, such as Captain Garrick, father of the actor, and
Gilbert Walmsley, Registrar of the Ecclesiastical Court, who would not
suffer him to starve outright. He had learning and genius; and he had,
moreover, under all his indolence and all his melancholy, an
indomitable resolution, which needed only to be roused to make all
obstacles melt before it. He knew that he was great and strong, and
would yet struggle into recognition. At first, however, nothing
offered save the post of usher in a school at Market-Bosworth, which
he occupied long enough to learn to loathe the occupation with all his
heart and soul, and mind and strength, but which he soon resigned, and
was again idle. He was invited next to spend some time with Mr
Hector, an early friend, who was residing in Birmingham. Here he
became acquainted with one Porter, a mercer, whose widow he afterwards
married. Here, too, he executed his first literary work,--a
translation of Lobo's "Voyage to Abyssinia," which was published in
1735, and for which he received the munificent sum of five guineas! He
had previously, without success, issued proposals for an edition of
the Latin poems of Politian; and, with a similar result, offered the
service of his pen to Edward Cave, the editor and publisher of the
_Gentleman's Magazine_, to which he afterwards became a leading
contributor.
Shortly after this, Porter dying, Johnson married the widow--a lady
more distinguished for sense, and particularly for _the_ sense to
appreciate his talents, than for personal charms, and who was twice
her husband's age. It does not seem to have been a very happy match,
although, probably, both parties loved each other better than they
imagined. He was now assisted by his wife's portion, which amounted to
£800, and opened a private academy at Echal, near Lichfield, but
obtained only three pupils,--a Mr Offely, who died early, the
celebrated David Garrick, and his brother George. At the end of a year
and a half, disgusted alike with the duties of the office, and with
his want of success in their discharge, Johnson left for London, with
David Garrick for his companion, and reached it with one letter of
introduction from Gilbert Walmsley, three acts of the tragedy of
"Irene," and (according to his fellow-traveller) threepence-halfpenny
in his pocket!
To London he had probably looked as to the great mart of genius, but
at first he met with mortifying disappointment. He made one
influential friend, however, in an officer named Henry Hervey, of whom
he said, "He was a vicious man, but very kind to me; were you to call
a dog Hervey, I shall love him." In summer he came back to Lichfield,
where he stayed three months, and finished his tragedy. He returned to
London in autumn, along with his wife, and tried, but in vain, to get
"Irene" presented on the stage. This did not happen till 1749, when
his old pupil David Garrick had become manager of Drury Lane Theatre.
In March 1738, he began to contribute to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, a
magazine he had long admired, and the original printing-place of
which--St John's Gate--he "beheld with reverence" when he first passed
it. Amidst the variety of his contributions, the most remarkable were
his "Debates in the Senate of Lilliput"--vigorous paraphrases of the
parliamentary discussions--of which Johnson finding the mere skeleton
given him by the reporters, was at the pains of clothing it with the
flesh and blood of his own powerful diction. In May of the same year
appeared his noble imitation of Juvenal, "London," which at once made
him famous. After it had been rejected by several publishers, it was
bought by Dodsley for ten guineas. It came out the same morning with
Pope's satire, entitled "1738," and excited a much greater sensation.
The buzzing question ran, "What great unknown genius can this be?" The
poem went to a second edition in a week; and Pope himself, who had
read it with pleasure, when told that its author was an obscure man
named Johnson, replied, "He will soon be _déterré_."
Famous as he had now become, he continued poor; and tired to death of
slaving for the booksellers, he applied, through the influence of Pope
and Lord Gower, to procure a degree from Dublin, that it might aid him
in his application for a school at Appleby, in Leicestershire. In
this, however, he failed, and had to persevere for many years more in
the ill-paid drudgery of authorship--meditating a translation of
"Father Paul's History," which was never executed--writing in the
_Gentleman's Magazine_ lives of Böerhaave and Father Paul, &c., &c.,
&c.--and published separately "Marmor Norfolciense," a disguised
invective against Sir Robert Walpole, the obnoxious premier of the
day. About this time he became intimate with the notorious Richard
Savage, and with him spent too many of his private hours. Both were
poor, both proud, both patriotic, both at that time lovers of
pleasure, and they became for a season inseparable; often
perambulating the streets all night, engaged now, we fear, in low
revels, and now in high talk, and sometimes determined to stand by
their country when they could stand by nothing else. Yet, if Savage
for a season corrupted Johnson, he also communicated to him much
information, and at last left himself in legacy, as one of the best
subjects to one of the greatest masters of moral anatomy. In 1744,
Johnson rolled off from his powerful pen, with as much ease as a thick
oak a thunder-shower, the sounding sentences which compose the "Life
of Savage," and which shall for ever perpetuate the memory and the
tale of that "unlucky rascal." It is a wasp preserved in the richest
amber. The whole reads like one sentence, and is generally read at one
sitting. Sir Joshua Reynolds, meeting it in a country inn, began to
read it while standing with his arm leaning on a chimney-piece, and
was not able to lay it aside till he had finished it, when he found
his arm totally benumbed. In 1745, Johnson issued proposals for a new
edition of Shakspeare, but laid them aside for a time, owing to the
great expectations entertained of the edition then promised by
Warburton.
For several years, except a few trifles in the _Gentleman's Magazine_,
and his famous "Prologue delivered at the Opening of Drury Lane
Theatre," he seems to have written nothing. But in 1745 appeared the
prospectus of his most laborious undertaking, the "English
Dictionary." This continued his principal occupation for some years,
and, as Boswell truly observes, "served to relieve his constitutional
melancholy by the steady, yet not oppressive, employment it secured
him." In its unity, too, and gigantic size, the task seemed fitted for
the powers of so strong a man; and although he says he dismissed it at
last with "frigid tranquillity," he had no doubt felt its influence
during the time to be at once that of a protecting guardian and of an
inspiring genius. In 1749, he published his "Vanity of Human Wishes,"
for which he received the sum of fifteen guineas,--a miserable
recompense for a poem which Byron pronounces "sublime," and which is
as true as it is magnificent in thought, and terse in language. In the
same year, Garrick had "Irene" acted, but it was "damned" the first
night, although it dragged on heavily for eight nights more. When the
author was asked how he felt at its ill-success, he replied, "Like the
Monument!" How different from Addison, walking restlessly, and
perspiring with anxiety behind the scenes, while the fate of "Cato"
was hanging in the balance!
In 1750 he began his "Rambler," and carried it on with only tolerable
success till 1752. The world has long ago made up its mind on the
merits and defects of this periodical, its masculine thought and
energetic diction, alternating with disguised common-place and (as he
would have said himself) "turgescent tameness"--its critical and
fictitious papers, often so rich in fancy, and felicitous in
expression, mixed with others which exhibit "bulk without spirit
vast," and are chiefly remarkable for their bold, bad innovations on
that English tongue of which the author was piling up the standard
Dictionary. Many have dwelt severely on Johnson's inequalities,
without attending to their cause; that was unquestionably the "body of
death" which hung so heavily upon his system, and rendered writing at
times a positive torment. Let his fastidious critics remember that he
never spent a single day, of which he could say that he was entirely
well, and free from pain, and that his spirits were often so
depressed, that he was more than once seen on his knees, praying God
to preserve his understanding.
A great calamity now visited his household. This was the death of his
wife. She expired on the 17th of March 1752. She had been married to
him sixteen years; and notwithstanding the difference of age, and
other causes of disagreement, he seems to have loved her with
sincerity, and to have lamented her death with deep and long-continued
sorrow. He relaxed not, however, an instant in his literary labours,
continued the preparation of his Dictionary, and contributed a few
lively and vigorous papers to the "Adventurer"--a paper, edited by Dr
Hawkesworth, a writer of some talent, who did his best to tower up to
the measure and stature of the "Rambler."
During this time Johnson was filling his house with a colony of poor
dependants,--such as Mrs Anna Williams, a soured female poetaster; and
Levet, a tenth-rate medical peripatetic, who, as well as Hodge, the
great lexicographer's cat, and Francis Barber, his black servant, now
share in his immortality,--besides becoming acquainted with such men
of eminence as Reynolds, the inimitable painter; Bennet Langton, the
amiable and excellent country-gentleman; and Beauclerk, the smart and
witty "man about town." In 1755 (exactly a hundred years ago), Johnson
chastised Lord Chesterfield for his mean, finessing conduct to him
about his Dictionary, in a letter unparalleled, unless in "Junius,"
for its noble and condensed scorn,--a scorn which "burns frore," cold
performing the effect of fire--and which reached that callous Lord,
under the sevenfold shield of his conceit and conventionalism; visited
Oxford, and was presented by acclamation with that degree of M.A.
which he had left twenty-four years before without receiving; and, in
fine, issued his Dictionary, the work of eight years, and which,
undoubtedly, is the truest monument of his talent, industry, and
general capacity, if not of the richness of his invention, or of the
strength of his genius. He had obtained for it only the sum of £1575,
which was all spent in the progress of the work; and he was compelled
again to become a contributor to the periodical press, writing
copiously and characteristically to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, the
_Universal Visitor_, and the _Literary Magazine_. In 1756, he was
arrested for a debt of £5, 18s., but was relieved by Richardson, the
novelist. In the same year he resumed his intention of an edition of
Shakspeare, of which he issued proposals, and which he promised to
finish in little more than a year, although nine years were to elapse
ere it saw the light. In 1758, he began the "Idler," which reached the
103d No., and was considered lighter and more agreeable than the
"Rambler." He has seldom written anything so powerful as his fable of
"The Vultures." In 1759, his mother died, at the age of ninety,--an
event which deeply affected him. Soon after this, and to defray the
expenses of her funeral, he wrote his brilliant tale of "Rasselas," in
the evenings of a single week,--a rare feat of readiness and rapid
power, reminding one of Byron writing the "Corsair" in a fortnight,
and of Sir Walter Scott finishing "Guy Mannering" in three weeks.
There are perhaps more invention and more fancy in "Rasselas" than in
any of his works, although a gloom, partly the shadow of his mother's
death, and partly springing from his own temperament, rests too
heavily on its pages. He received one hundred guineas for the
copyright. In 1762, the Earl of Bute, both as a reward for past
services, and as a prepayment of future, bestowed on him a pension of
£300 for life. This raised a clamour against him, which he treated
with silent contempt.
In 1763 occurred what was really a most important event in Johnson's
life,--his acquaintance with Boswell,--who attached himself to him
with a devotion reminding one more of the canine species than of man,
sacrificed to him much of his time, his feelings, his very
individuality, and became qualified to write a biography, in which
fulness, interest, minute detail, and dramatic skill have never been
equalled or approached. In 1764, Johnson founded the celebrated
"Literary Club,"--perhaps the most remarkable cluster of distinguished
men that ever existed; and in 1765 he was created LL.D. by Trinity
College, Dublin. In 1765, too, he published his "Shakspeare;" and he
became intimate with the Thrales,--the husband being a great brewer in
Southwark; the wife, a lady of literary tastes, better known as Madame
Piozzi, the author of "Anecdotes of Dr Johnson;" both distinguished
for their attachment to him. He was often domesticated in their house
for months together. In 1767 he had an interview with George III., in
the library of the Queen's house; which, because Johnson preserved his
self-possession, and talked with his usual precision and power, has
been recounted by Boswell as if it had been a conversation with an
apostle or an angel. In 1770 he did some work for his pension in a
pamphlet entitled the "False Alarm," defending the conduct of the
Ministry in the case of the Middlesex election. In 1771 he wrote
another political pamphlet, entitled "Thoughts on the late
Transactions respecting Falklands' Islands;" and five years later
appeared "Taxation no Tyranny,"--an elaborate defence of the American
war. Johnson was too dogmatic, and too fiercely passionate for a good
political writer; and these productions added nothing to his fame, and
increased the number of his enemies.
In 1773 he fulfilled his long-cherished purpose of visiting Scotland
and the Hebrides, the story of which trip he told afterwards in his
usual rotund and massive style, and which was recounted with far more
liveliness and verisimilitude by Boswell. In 1774 he lost Goldsmith,
who had long been his friend, whom he had counselled, rebuked,
assisted, loved, and laughed at, and at whose death he was deeply
grieved. In 1775, the publication of his "Tour to the Hebrides"
brought him in collision with the _perfervidum ingenium Scotorum_, and
especially with James Macpherson, to whom Johnson sent a letter which
crushed him like a catapult. Macpherson, as well as Rob Roy, was only
strong on his native heath, and off it was no match for old Sam, whose
prejudices, passions, and gigantic powers, combined to make him
altogether irresistible in a literary duel. The same year, the
University of Oxford conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Laws;
and in the close of it, he paid a visit, along with the Thrales,
to Paris.
In 1776 nothing remarkable occurred in his history, unless it were the
interview which Boswell so admirably manoeuvred to bring about between
him and Jack Wilkes. Everybody remembers how well the bear and the
monkey for the time agreed, and how both turned round to snub the
spaniel, who had been the medium of their introduction to each other.
In 1777 he was requested by the London booksellers to prefix prefaces
to the "English Poets," part of which was issued the next year, and
the rest in 1780 and 1781, as the "Lives of English Poets." This work
has generally been regarded as Johnson's masterpiece. It nowhere,
indeed, displays so much of the creative, the inventive, the poetical,
as his "Rasselas," and many of his smaller tales and fictions. Its
judgments, too, have been often and justly controverted. The book is,
undoubtedly, a storehouse of his prejudices, as well as of his wisdom.
Its treatment of Milton, the man, for instance, is insufferably
insolent, although ample justice is done to Milton, the poet of the
"Paradise Lost." Some poetasters he has overpraised, and some true but
minor poets he has thrust down too far in the scale. But the work, as
a whole, is full of inextinguishable life, and has passages verging on
the eloquence and power of genius. A piece of stern, sober, yet broad
and animated composition, rather careless in dates, and rather cursory
in many of its criticisms, it displays unequalled force of thought,
and pointed vigour of style, and when taken in connexion with the age
of the author (seventy), is altogether marvellous. Truly there were
"giants in those days," and this was a Briareus.
For the details of his later life, his conversations, growing
weakness, little journeys, unconquerable love of literature, &c., we
must refer our readers to Boswell's teeming narrative. In 1783, he had
a stroke of palsy, which deprived him for a time of speech. That
returned to him, however, but a complication of complaints, including
asthma, sciatica, and dropsy, began gradually to undermine his
powerful frame. He continued to the last to cherish the prospect of a
tour to Italy, but never accomplished his purpose. Death had all along
been his great object of dread, and its fast approaches were regarded
with unmitigated terror. "Cut deeper," he cried to the physicians who
were operating on his limbs; "cut deeper; I don't care for pain, but I
fear death." He fixed all his dying hope upon the Cross, and
recommended Clarke's Sermons as fullest on the doctrine of a
Propitiation. He spoke of the Bible and of the Sabbath with the
warmest feelings of belief and respect. At last, on the 13th day of
December 1784, in the seventy-fifth year of his age, this great, good
man, whose fears had subsided, and who had become as a little child,
fell asleep in Jesus. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, on Monday,
December 20th, and his funeral was attended by the most distinguished
men of the day.
Perhaps no literary man ever exerted, during his lifetime, the same
personal influence as Samuel Johnson. Shelley used to call Byron the
"Byronic Energy," from a sense of his exceeding power. The author of
"Rasselas" was the "Johnsonian Energy;" and the demon within him, if
not so ethereal and terrible as Byron's, was far more massive, equally
strong, and in conversation, at least, much more ready to do his work.
First-rate conversation generally springs from a desire to shine, or
from the effort of a full mind to relieve itself, or from exuberant
animal spirits, or from deep-seated misery. In Johnson it sprang from
a combination of all these causes. He went to conversation as to an
arena--his mind was richly-stored, even to overflowing--in company his
spirits uniformly rose--and yet there was always at his heart a burden
of wretchedness, seeking solace, not in silence, but in speech. Hence,
with the exception of Burke, no one ever matched him in talk; and
Burke, we imagine, although profounder in thought, more varied in
learning, and more brilliant in imagination, seldom fairly pitted
himself against Johnson. He was a younger man, and held the sage in
too much reverence to encounter him often with any deliberate and
determined purpose of contest. He frequently touched the shield of the
general challenger, not with the sharp, but with the butt-end of his
lance. He said, on one occasion, when asked why he had not talked more
in Johnson's company, "Oh! it is enough for me to have rung the
bell to him!"
In all Johnson's works you see the traces of the triumphant
conversationalist--of one who has met with few to contradict, and
scarcely one to rival him. Hence the dogmatic strength and certainty,
and hence, too, the one-sidedness and limitation of much of his
writings. He does not "allow for the wind." He seems to anticipate no
reply, and to defy all criticism. One is tempted to quote the words of
Solomon, "He that is first in his own cause seemeth just, but his
neighbour cometh and searcheth him." No such searching seems ever to
have entered into Johnson's apprehensions. His sentences roll forth
like the laws of the Medes and Persians; his praise alights with the
authoritativeness of a sun-burst on a mountain; summit; and when he
blames, he seems to add, like an ancient doomster, the words, "I
pronounce for doom." With Burke, it was very different. Accustomed to
parliamentary debate in its vicissitudes and interchange--gifted, too,
with a prophetic insight into coming objections, which "cast their
shadows before," and with an almost diseased subtlety of thinking, he
binds up his answers to opponents with every thesis he propounds; and
his paragraphs sometimes remind you of the plan of generals in great
emergencies, putting foot soldiers on the same saddles with
cavalry--they seem to _ride double_.
This is not the place, nor have we room, to dilate on Johnson's
obvious merits and faults--his straight-forward sincerity--his strong
manly sense--the masterly force with which he grasps all his
subjects--the measured fervour of his style--the precision and
vivacity of his shorter sentences--the grand swell and sonorousness of
his longer; on his frequent monotony--his _sesguipedalia verba_--the
"timorous meaning" which sometimes lurks under his "boldest words;" or
on the deep _chiaroscuro_ which discolours all his pictures of man,
nature, society, and human life. We have now only to speak of his
poetry. That is, unfortunately, small in amount, although its quality
is so excellent as to excite keen regret that he had not, as he once
intended, written many more pieces in the style of "London," and the
"Vanity of Human Wishes." In these, the model of his mere manner is
Pope, although coloured by Juvenal, his Latin original; but the matter
and spirit are intensely his own. In "London," satire seems swelling
out of itself into something stronger and statelier--it is the
apotheosis of that kind of poetry. You see in it a mind purer and
sterner than Dryden's, or Pope's, or Churchill's, or even Juvenal's;
"doing well to be angry" with a degenerate age, and a false, cowardly
country, of which he deems himself unworthy to be a citizen. If there
is rather too much of the _saeva indignatio_, which Swift speaks of as
lacerating his heart, it is a nobler and less selfish ire than his,
and the language and verse which it inspires are full of the very soul
of dignity. In the "Vanity of Human Wishes," he becomes one of those
"hunters whose game is man" (to use the language of Soame Jenyns, in
that essay on "The Origin of Evil," which Johnson, in the _Literary
Review_, so mercilessly lashed); and from assailing premiers,
parliaments, and the vices of London and England, he passes, in a very
solemn spirit, to expose the vain hopes, wishes, and efforts of
humanity at large. Parts of this poem are written more in sorrow than
in anger, and parts more in anger than in sorrow. The portraits of
Wolsey, Bacon, and Charles the Twelfth, are admirable in their
execution, and in their adaptation to the argument of the piece; and
the last paragraph, for truth and masculine energy is unsurpassed, we
believe, in the whole compass of ethical poetry. We are far from
assenting to the statement we once heard ably and elaborately
advocated, "that there had been no _strong_ poetry in Britain since
the two satires of Johnson;" and we are still further from classing
their author with the Shakspeares, Miltons, Wordsworths, and
Coleridges of song; but we are nevertheless prepared, not only for the
sake of these two satires, of his prologue, and of some other pieces
in verse, but on account of the general spirit of much of his prose,
to pronounce him potentially, if not actually, a great poet.
* * * * *
JOHNSON'S POEMS.
LONDON:
A POEM IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL, 1738.
"--Quis ineptæ
Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus ut teneat se?"
--JUVENAL.
Though grief and fondness in my breast rebel
When injured Thales[1] bids the town farewell,
Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend;
I praise the hermit, but regret the friend;
Resolved, at length, from vice and London far,
To breathe in distant fields a purer air,
And, fix'd on Cambria's solitary shore,
Give to St David one true Briton more.
For who would leave, unbribed, Hibernia's land,
Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand? 10
There none are swept by sudden fate away,
But all whom hunger spares, with age decay:
Here malice, rapine, accident, conspire,
And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay,
And here the fell attorney prowls for prey;
Here falling houses thunder on your head,
And here a female atheist talks you dead.
While Thales waits the wherry that contains
Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 20
On Thames's bank in silent thought we stood,
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood;
Struck with the seat that gave Eliza[2] birth,
We kneel and kiss the consecrated earth;
In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew,
And call Britannia's glories back to view;
Behold her cross triumphant on the main,
The guard of commerce, and the dread of Spain;
Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd,
Or English honour grew a standing jest. 30
A transient calm the happy scenes bestow,
And for a moment lull the sense of woe.
At length awaking, with contemptuous frown,
Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town.
Since worth, he cries, in these degenerate days,
Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise;
In those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain,
Since unrewarded science toils in vain;
Since hope but soothes to double my distress,
And every moment leaves my little less; 40
While yet my steady steps no staff sustains,
And life, still vigorous, revels in my veins,
Grant me, kind Heaven! to find some happier place,
Where honesty and sense are no disgrace;
Some pleasing bank, where verdant osiers play,
Some peaceful vale, with Nature's paintings gay,
Where once the harass'd Briton found repose,
And, safe in poverty, defied his foes:
Some secret cell, ye Powers indulgent! give;
Let--live here, for--has learn'd to live. 50
Here let those reign whom pensions can incite
To vote a patriot black, a courtier white;
Explain their country's dear-bought rights away,
And plead for pirates[3] in the face of day;
With slavish tenets taint our poison'd youth,
And lend a lie the confidence of truth.
Let such raise palaces, and manors buy,
Collect a tax, or farm a lottery;
With warbling eunuchs fill our silenced stage,
And lull to servitude a thoughtless age. 60
Heroes, proceed! what bounds your pride shall hold?
What check restrain your thirst of power and gold?
Behold rebellious virtue quite o'erthrown;
Behold our fame, our wealth, our lives your own!
To such the plunder of a land is given,
When public crimes inflame the wrath of Heaven.
But what, my friend, what hope remains for me,
Who start at theft, and blush at perjury,
Who scarce forbear, though Britain's court he sing,
To pluck a titled poet's borrow'd wing; 70
A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear,
And dare to slumber o'er the Gazetteer;[4]
Despise a fool in half his pension dress'd,
And strive in vain to laugh at Clodio's jest?
Others, with softer smiles, and subtler art,
Can sap the principles, or taint the heart;
With more address a lover's note convey,
Or bribe a virgin's innocence away.
Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic tongue
Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, 80
Spurn'd as a beggar, dreaded as a spy,
Live unregarded, unlamented die.
For what but social guilt the friend endears?
Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortune shares.
But thou, should tempting villany present
All Marlborough hoarded, or all Villiers spent,
Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye,
Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy--
The peaceful slumber, self-approving day,
Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. 90
The cheated nation's happy favourites see!
Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me!
London, the needy villain's general home,
The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome,
With eager thirst, by folly or by fate,
Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.
Forgive my transports on a theme like this--
I cannot bear a French metropolis.
Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day,
The land of heroes and of saints survey; 100
Nor hope the British lineaments to trace,
The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace;
But lost in thoughtless ease and empty show,
Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau;
Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away,
Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey!
All that at home no more can beg or steal,
Or like a gibbet better than a wheel;
Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court,
Their air, their dress, their politics import; 110
Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay,
On Britain's fond credulity they prey.
No gainful trade their industry can 'scape.
They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a clap:
All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows,
And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes.
Ah! what avails it that, from slavery far,
I drew the breath of life in English air;
Was early taught a Briton's right to prize,
And lisp the tale of Henry's victories; 120
If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain,
And flattery prevails, when arms are vain?
Studious to please, and ready to submit,
The supple Gaul was born a parasite:
Still to his interest true where'er he goes,
Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows;
In every face a thousand graces shine,
From every tongue flows harmony divine.
These arts in vain our rugged natives try,
Strain out, with faltering diffidence, a lie, 130
And get a kick for awkward flattery.
Besides, with justice, this discerning age
Admires their wondrous talents for the stage:
Well may they venture on the mimic's art,
Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part;
Practised their master's notions to embrace,
Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;
With every wild absurdity comply,
And view its object with another's eye;
To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 140
To pour at will the counterfeited tear;
And as their patron hints the cold or heat,
To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.
How, when competitors like these contend,
Can surly Virtue hope to fix a friend?
Slaves that with serious impudence beguile,
And lie without a blush, without a smile,
Exalt each trifle, every vice adore,
Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore,
Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 150
He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.
For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd,
They first invade your table, then your breast;
Explore your secrets with insidious art,
Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;
Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay,
Commence your lords, and govern or betray.
By numbers here from shame and censure free,
All crimes are safe, but hated poverty.
This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 160
This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse;
The sober trader, at a tatter'd cloak,
Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;
With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,
And turn the various taunt a thousand ways.
Of all the griefs that harass the distress'd,
Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;
Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart,
Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.
Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 170
No pathless waste or undiscover'd shore;
No secret island in the boundless main;
No peaceful desert yet unclaim'd by Spain?[5]
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
And bear Oppression's insolence no more.
This mournful truth is every where confess'd,
SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS'D:
But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;
Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 180
The groom retails the favours of his lord.
But hark! the affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries
Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:
Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and power,
Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower,
Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight
Sustain the approaching fire's tremendous light;
Swift from pursuing horrors take your way,
And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;
Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, 190
For where can starving merit find a home?
In vain your mournful narrative disclose,
While all neglect, and most insult your woes.
Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,
And spread his flaming palace on the ground,
Swift o'er the land the dismal rumour flies,
And public mournings pacify the skies;
The laureate tribe in venal verse relate,
How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate;
With well-feign'd gratitude the pension'd band 200
Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.
See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;
The price of boroughs and of souls restore,
And raise his treasures higher than before:
Now bless'd with all the baubles of the great,
The polish'd marble, and the shining plate,
Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,
And hopes from angry Heaven another fire.
Could'st thou resign the park and play, content, 210
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent,
There might'st thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling senator's deserted seat;
And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;
And, while thy grounds a cheap repast afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord:
There every bush with Nature's music rings, 220
There every breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours Security shall smile,
And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.
Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,
And sign your will before you sup from home.
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.
Yet e'en these heroes, mischievously gay, 230
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine;
Afar they mark the flambeaux's bright approach,
And shun the shining train, and golden coach.
In vain, these dangers past, your doors you close,
And hope the balmy blessings of repose:
Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,
The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;
Invades the sacred hour of silent rest, 240
And leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast.
Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn die,
With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.
Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band!
Whose ways and means support the sinking land,
Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring
To rig another convoy for the king.[6]
A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign,
Could half the nation's criminals contain;
Fair Justice then, without constraint adored, 250
Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the sword;
No spies were paid, no special juries known,
Blest age! but, ah! how different from our own!
Much could I add--but see the boat at hand,
The tide retiring, calls me from the land:
Farewell!--When, youth, and health, and fortune spent
Thou fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
And, tired like me with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times,
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid, 260
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
In Virtue's cause once more exert his rage,
Thy satire point, and animate thy page.
[Footnote 1: 'Thales:' supposed to refer to Savage, who intended to
retire to Wales about this time, and who accomplished his purpose
soon after.]
[Footnote 2: 'Eliza:' Queen Elizabeth.]
[Footnote 3: 'Pirates:' the piracies of the Spaniards were openly
defended in Parliament.]
[Footnote 4: 'Gazetteer:' the then ministerial paper.]
[Footnote 5: 'Unclaimed by Spain:' Spain was said then to be claiming
some of our American provinces.]
[Footnote 6: 'The king:' the nation was discontented at the visits
made by the king to Hanover.]
* * * * *
THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.
IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.
Let Observation, with extensive view,
Survey mankind from China to Peru;
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate,
O'erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate,
Where wavering man, betray'd by venturous pride,
To tread the dreary paths without a guide,
As treacherous phantoms in the mist delude,
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good; 10
How rarely Reason guides the stubborn choice,
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice;
How nations sink, by darling schemes oppress'd,
When Vengeance listens to the fool's request;
Fate wings with every wish the afflictive dart,
Each gift of Nature, and each grace of Art,
With fatal heat impetuous courage glows,
With fatal sweetness elocution flows,
Impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath,
And restless fire precipitates on death! 20
But, scarce observed, the knowing and the bold
Fall in the general massacre of gold;
Wide-wasting pest! that rages unconfined,
And crowds with crimes the records of mankind
For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws,
For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws;
Wealth heap'd on wealth, nor truth, nor safety buys,
The dangers gather as the treasures rise.
Let history tell, where rival kings command,
And dubious title shakes the madded land, 30
When statutes glean the refuse of the sword,
How much more safe the vassal than the lord:
Low skulks the hind beneath the reach of power,
And leaves the wealthy traitor in the Tower;
Untouch'd his cottage, and his slumbers sound,
Though Confiscation's vultures hover round.
The needy traveller, serene and gay,
Walks the wild heath, and sings his toil away.
Does envy seize thee? Crush the upbraiding joy,
Increase his riches, and his peace destroy-- 40
Now fears in dire vicissitude invade,
The rustling brake alarms, and quivering shade;
Nor light nor darkness brings his pain relief,
One shows the plunder, and one hides the thief.
Yet still one general cry the sky assails,
And gain and grandeur load the tainted gales;
Few know the toiling statesman's fear or care,
The insidious rival, and the gaping heir.
Once more, Democritus! arise on earth,
With cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth; 50
See motley life in modern trappings dress'd,
And feed with varied fools the eternal jest:
Thou who could'st laugh where want enchain'd caprice,
Toil crush'd conceit, and man was of a piece:
Where wealth, unloved, without a mourner died;
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride;
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate,
Or seen a new-made mayor's unwieldy state;
Where change of favourites made no change of laws,
And senates heard before they judged a cause; 60
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe,
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe!
Attentive, truth and nature to descry,
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye,
To thee were solemn toys or empty show
The robes of pleasure, and the veils of woe:
All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain,
Whose joys are causeless, or whose griefs are vain.
Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's mind,
Renew'd at every glance on human kind. 70
How just that scorn, e'er yet thy voice declare,
Search every state, and canvass every prayer.
Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's gate,
Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive Fortune hears the incessant call,
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On every stage the foes of peace attend,
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door
Pours in the morning worshipper no more; 80
For growing names the weekly scribbler lies,
To growing wealth the dedicator flies;
From every room descends the painted face,
That hung the bright Palladium of the place;
And smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold,
To better features yields the frame of gold;
For now no more we trace in every line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine:
The form distorted justifies the fall,
And detestation rids the indignant wall. 90
But will not Britain hear the last appeal,
Sign her foes' doom, or guard her favourites' zeal?
Through Freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings,
Degrading nobles, and controlling kings;
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,
And ask no questions, but the price of votes;
With weekly libels and septennial ale,
Their wish is full to riot and to rail.
In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand,
Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand! 100
To him the church, the realm, their powers consign,
Through him the rays of regal bounty shine;
Turn'd by his nod, the stream of honour flows,
His smile alone security bestows:
Still to new heights his restless wishes tower;
Claim leads to claim, and power advances power;
Till conquest unresisted ceased to please,
And rights submitted, left him none to seize.
At length his sovereign frowns--the train of state
Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate; 110
Where'er he turns, he meets a stranger's eye,
His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly;
Now drops at once the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glittering plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppress'd,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. 120
Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine,
Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end, be thine?
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content,
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent?
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of Fate,
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight?
Why but to sink beneath Misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin, to the gulphs below!
What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife,
And fix'd disease on Harley's closing life? 130
What murder'd Wentworth, and what exiled Hyde,
By kings protected, and to kings allied?
What but their wish indulged, in courts to shine,
And power too great to keep, or to resign!
When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Resistless burns the fever of renown,
Caught from the strong contagion of the gown:
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon's[1] mansion trembles o'er his head. 140
Are these thy views? Proceed, illustrious youth,
And Virtue guard thee to the throne of Truth!
Yet, should thy soul indulge the generous heat,
Till captive Science yields her last retreat;
Should Reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty Doubt resistless day;
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;
Should tempting Novelty thy cell refrain,
And Sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain; 150
Should Beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart;
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor Melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade;
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free,
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee:
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
And pause a while from learning, to be wise;
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 160
See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,
Hear Lydiat's[2] life, and Galileo's end.
Nor deem, when Learning her last prize bestows,
The glittering eminence exempt from foes;
See, when the vulgar 'scapes, despised or awed,
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud.
From meaner minds though smaller fines content,
The plunder'd palace, or sequester'd rent, 170
Mark'd out by dangerous parts he meets the shock,
And fatal Learning leads him to the block:
Around his tomb let Art and Genius weep,
But hear his death, ye blockheads! hear and sleep.
The festal blazes, the triumphal show,
The ravish'd standard, and the captive foe,
The senate's thanks, the Gazette's pompous tale,
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail.
Such bribes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirl'd;
For such the steady Romans shook the world; 180
For such in distant lands the Britons shine,
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine;
This power has praise, that virtue scarce can warm,
Till Fame supplies the universal charm.
Yet Reason frowns on War's unequal game,
Where wasted nations raise a single name,
And mortgaged 'states their grandsires' wreaths regret,
From age to age in everlasting debt;
Wreaths which at last the dear-bought right convey
To rust on medals, or on stones decay. 190
On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign; 200
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain:
'Think nothing gain'd,' he cries, 'till nought remain,
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky.'
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost;
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay;
Hide, blushing Glory! hide Pultowa's day: 210
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not Chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; 220
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
All times their scenes of pompous woe afford,
From Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord.
In gay hostility, and barbarous pride,
With half mankind embattled at his side,
Great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey,
And starves exhausted regions in his way;
Attendant Flattery counts his myriads o'er,
Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more; 230
Fresh praise is tried, till madness fires his mind,
The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind;
New powers are claim'd, new powers are still bestow'd,
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god;
The daring Greeks deride the martial show,
And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe;
The insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains,
A single skiff to speed his flight remains;
The encumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast
Through purple billows and a floating host. 240
The bold Bavarian,[3] in a luckless hour,
Tries the dread summits of Cæsarean power,
With unexpected legions bursts away,
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway:
Short sway! fair Austria spreads her mournful charms,
The Queen, the Beauty, sets the world in arms;
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise;
The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar,
With all the sons of ravage, crowd the war; 250
The baffled prince, in Honour's flattering bloom,
Of hasty greatness finds the fatal doom,
His foes' derision, and his subjects' blame,
And steals to death from anguish and from shame.
Enlarge my life with multitude of days,--
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays,
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to know
That life protracted is protracted woe.
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy: 260
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons pour,
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal flower;
With listless eyes the dotard views the store--
He views, and wonders that they please no more.
Now pall the tasteless meats and joyless wines,
And Luxury with sighs her slave resigns.
Approach, ye minstrels! try the soothing strain,
Diffuse the tuneful lenitives of pain:
No sounds, alas! would touch the impervious ear,
Though dancing mountains witness'd Orpheus near: 270
Nor lute nor lyre his feeble powers attend,
Nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend;
But everlasting dictates crowd his tongue,
Perversely grave, or positively wrong;
The still returning tale, and lingering jest,
Perplex the fawning niece and pamper'd guest;
While growing hopes scarce awe the gathering sneer,
And scarce a legacy can bribe to hear;
The watchful guests still hint the last offence,
The daughter's petulance, the son's expense, 280
Improve his heady rage with treacherous skill,
And mould his passions till they make his will.
Unnumber'd maladies his joints invade,
Lay siege to life, and press the dire blockade;
But unextinguish'd Avarice still remains,
And dreaded losses aggravate his pains;
He turns, with anxious heart and crippled hands,
His bonds of debt, and mortgages of lands;
Or views his coffers with suspicious eyes,
Unlocks his gold, and counts it till he dies. 290
But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime--
An age that melts with unperceived decay,
And glides in modest innocence away,
Whose peaceful day Benevolence endears,
Whose night congratulating Conscience cheers;
The general favourite as the general friend:
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end?
Yet e'en on this her load Misfortune flings,
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings; 300
New sorrow rises as the day returns,
A sister sickens, or a daughter mourns.
Now kindred Merit fills the sable bier,
Now lacerated Friendship claims a tear;
Year chases year, decay pursues decay,
Still drops some joy from withering life away;
New forms arise, and different views engage,
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage,
Till pitying Nature signs the last release,
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace. 310
But few there are whom hours like these await,
Who set unclouded in the gulphs of Fate.
From Lydia's monarch[4] should the search descend,
By Solon caution'd to regard his end,
In life's last scene what prodigies surprise,
Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise!
From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,
And Swift expires a driveller and a show.
The teeming mother, anxious for her race,
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face: 320
Yet Vane[5] could tell what ills from beauty spring;
And Sedley[6] cursed the form that pleased a king.
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes,
Whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise,
Whom joys with soft varieties invite,
By day the frolic, and the dance by night,
Who frown with vanity, who smile with art,
And ask the latest fashion of the heart;
What care, what rules your heedless charms shall save,
Each nymph your rival, and each youth your slave?
The rival batters, and the lover mines.
With distant voice neglected Virtue calls,
Less heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls;
Tired with contempt, she quits the slippery reign,
And Pride and Prudence take her seat in vain;
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend,
The harmless freedom and the private friend.
The guardians yield, by force superior plied--
To Interest, Prudence; and to Flattery, Pride. 340
Here Beauty falls betray'd, despised, distress'd,
And hissing Infamy proclaims the rest.
Where, then, shall Hope and Fear their objects find?
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the mercies of the skies?
Inquirer, cease! petitions yet remain,
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem Religion vain. 350
Still raise for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice;
Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer,
Implore His aid, in His decisions rest,
Secure whate'er He gives, He gives the best.
Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd; 360
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat:
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.
[Footnote 1: 'Bacon:' Friar, whose study was to fall when a wiser man
than he entered it]
[Footnote 2: 'Lydiat:' a learned divine, who spent many of his days in
prison for debt; he lived in Charles the First's time.]
[Footnote 3: 'Bavarian:' Charles Albert, who aspired to the empire of
Austria against Maria Theresa--but was baffled.]
[Footnote 4: 'Lydia's monarch:' Croesus.]
[Footnote 5: Vane: 'Lady Vane, a celebrated courtezan; her memoirs are
in 'Peregrine Pickle.']
[Footnote 6: 'Sedley:' mistress of James II.]
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR GARRICK, AT THE OPENING OF THE
THEATRE-ROYAL DRURY-LANE, 1747.
When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rose;
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new:
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain;
His powerful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,
And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast.
Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule; 10
His studious patience and laborious art,
By regular approach essay'd the heart:
Cold Approbation gave the lingering bays,
For those who durst not censure, scarce could praise;
A mortal born, he met the general doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
The wits of Charles found easier ways to fame,
Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, or Shakspeare's flame.
Themselves they studied; as they felt, they writ:
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit. 20
Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleased their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like these aspired to lasting praise,
And proudly hoped to pimp in future days.
Their cause was general, their supports were strong;
Their slaves were willing, and their reign was long:
Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd,
And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid.
Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refined,
For years the power of Tragedy declined; 30
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till Declamation roar'd, whilst Passion slept;
Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd though Nature fled.
But forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit;
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyous day,
And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her sway.
But who the coming changes can presage,
And mark the future periods of the Stage? 40
Perhaps if skill could distant times explore,
New Behns,[1] new Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;
Perhaps (for who can guess the effects of chance?)
Here Hunt[2] may box, or Mahomet[3] may dance.
Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of Taste;
With every meteor of Caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubbles of the day. 50
Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice,
The Stage but echoes back the public voice;
The drama's laws, the drama's patrons give,
For we that live to please, must please to live.
Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;
'Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence
Of rescued Nature, and reviving Sense;
To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show,
For useful Mirth and salutary Woe; 60
Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,
And Truth diffuse her radiance from Stage.
[Footnote 1: 'Behn:' Afra, a popular but obscure novelist and
play-wright.]
[Footnote 2: 'Hunt:' a famous stage-boxer.]
[Footnote 3: 'Mahomet:' a rope-dancer.]
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR GARRICK BEFORE THE 'MASQUE OF COMUS,'
ACTED FOR THE BENEFIT OF MILTON'S GRANDDAUGHTER.
Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame!
Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name,
Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering rhymes,
Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times!
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;
Let Wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close Malevolence, or Public Rage;
Let Study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. 10
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell
That never Briton can in vain excel:
The slightest arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.
At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
And baffled Spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to Renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame,
Ambitious, catches at his towering name; 20
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below.
While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold,
Unknown--unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And Want hung threatening o'er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No favouring Muse her morning dreams inspire?
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age; 30
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus graced with humble Virtue's native charms,
Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair! ye wise! ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert--beyond the grave.
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
TO GOLDSMITH'S COMEDY OF 'THE GOOD-NATURED MAN,' 1769.
Press'd by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind;
With cool submission joins the labouring train,
And social sorrow loses half its pain.
Our anxious bard without complaint may share
This bustling season's epidemic care;
Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by Fate,
Toss'd in one common storm with all the great;
Distress'd alike the statesman and the wit,
When one the borough courts, and one the pit. 10
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes just the same;
Disabled both to combat, or to fly,
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Unchecked, on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.
The offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail.
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 20
'This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,'
Says swelling Crispin, 'begg'd a cobbler's vote;'
'This night our wit,' the pert apprentice cries,
'Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies.'
The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe,
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold,
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 30
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
TO THE COMEDY OF 'A WORD TO THE WISE,' SPOKEN BY
MR HULL.
This night presents a play which public rage,
Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage;
From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye
The man whom Fate has laid--where all must lie.
To Wit, reviving from its author's dust,
Be kind, ye judges! or at least be just.
For no renew'd hostilities invade
The oblivious grave's inviolable shade. 10
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him who cannot hurt, allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful sense.
Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays,
Approve it only--'tis too late to praise.
If want of skill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss--the poet cannot hear.
By all like him must praise and blame be found,
At best a fleeting dream, or empty sound. 20
Yet then shall calm Reflection bless the night
When liberal Pity dignified delight;
When Pleasure fired her torch at Virtue's flame,
And Mirth was Bounty with an humbler name.
* * * * *
SPRING.
1 Stern Winter now, by Spring repress'd,
Forbears the long-continued strife;
And Nature, on her naked breast,
Delights to catch the gales of life.
2 Now o'er the rural kingdom roves
Soft Pleasure with her laughing train;
Love warbles in the vocal groves,
And Vegetation paints the plain.
3 Unhappy! whom to beds of pain
Arthritic tyranny consigns;
Whom smiling Nature courts in vain,
Though Rapture sings, and Beauty shines.
4 Yet though my limbs disease invades,
Her wings Imagination tries,
And bears me to the peaceful shades
Where ----'s humble turrets rise.
5 Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight,
Nor from the pleasing groves depart,
Where first great Nature charm'd my sight,
Where Wisdom first inform'd my heart.
6 Here let me through the vales pursue
A guide--a father--and a friend;
Once more great Nature's works renew,
Once more on Wisdom's voice attend.
7 From false caresses, causeless strife,
Wild hope, vain fear, alike removed,
Here let me learn the use of life,
When best enjoy'd--when most improved.
8 Teach me, thou venerable bower!
Cool Meditation's quiet seat,
The generous scorn of venal power,
The silent grandeur of retreat.
9 When pride by guilt to greatness climbs,
Or raging factions rush to war,
Here let me learn to shun the crimes
I can't prevent, and will not share.
10 But lest I fall by subtler foes,
Bright Wisdom, teach me Curio's art,
The swelling passions to compose,
And quell the rebels of the heart!
* * * * *
MIDSUMMER.
1 O Phoebus! down the western sky,
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray;
Thy light to distant worlds supply,
And wake them to the cares of day.
2 Come, gentle Eve! the friend of Care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night!
Refresh me with a cooling breeze,
And cheer me with a lambent light.
3 Lay me where, o'er the verdant ground,
Her living carpet Nature spreads;
Where the green bower, with roses crown'd,
In showers its fragrant foliage sheds.
4 Improve the peaceful hour with wine;
Let music die along the grove;
Around the bowl let myrtles twine,
And every strain be tuned to love.
5 Come, Stella, queen of all my heart!
Come, born to fill its vast desires!
Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires.
6 While, all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish and we burn,
Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs, murmuring brooks return.
7 Let me, when Nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretell,
Sink on the down of Stella's breast,
And bid the waking world farewell.
* * * * *
AUTUMN.
1 Alas! with swift and silent pace,
Impatient Time rolls on the year;
The seasons change, and Nature's face
Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe.
2 'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay;
Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;
The flowers of Spring are swept away,
And Summer fruits desert the bough.
3 The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze,
Now trod in dust neglected lie,
As Boreas strips the bending trees.
4 The fields, that waved with golden grain,
As russet heaths are wild and bare;
Not moist with dew, but drench'd in rain,
Nor Health, nor Pleasure wanders there.
5 No more, while through the midnight shade,
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,
Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Prognè[1] pours the melting lay.
6 From this capricious clime she soars,
Oh! would some god but wings supply!
To where each morn the Spring restores,
Companion of her flight, I'd fly.
7 Vain wish! me Fate compels to bear
The downward season's iron reign,
Compels to breathe polluted air,
And shiver on a blasted plain.
8 What bliss to life can Autumn yield,
If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail,
And Ceres flies the naked field,
And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail?
9 Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
To cheer me in the darkening hour?
The grape remains! the friend of wit,
In love and mirth of mighty power.
10 Haste--press the clusters, fill the bowl;
Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:
This gives the sunshine of the soul,
This god of health, and verse, and day.
11 Still, still the jocund strain shall flow,
The pulse with vigorous rapture beat;
My Stella with new charms shall glow,
And every bliss in wine shall meet.
[Footnote 1: 'Prognè:' the nightingale.]
* * * * *
EPIGRAM
ON GEORGE II. AND COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.
Augustus still survives in Maro's strain,
And Spenser's verse prolongs Eliza's reign;
Great George's acts let tuneful Cibber sing,
For Nature form'd the poet for the king.
* * * * *
STELLA IN MOURNING.
When lately Stella's form display'd
The beauties of the gay brocade,
The nymphs, who found their power decline,
Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine.
'Fate! snatch away the bright disguise,
And let the goddess trust her eyes.'
Thus blindly pray'd the fretful fair,
And Fate, malicious, heard the prayer;
But brighten'd by the sable dress,
As Virtue rises in distress,
Since Stella still extends her reign,
Ah! how shall Envy soothe her pain?
The adoring Youth and envious Fair,
Henceforth shall form one common prayer;
And Love and Hate alike implore
The skies--that Stella mourn no more.
* * * * *
TO STELLA.
1 Not the soft sighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, though all unite,
Can touch my bosom with delight.
2 Not all the gems on India's shore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store,
Not all the power, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets claim;
Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve,
To form one wish my soul can move.
3 Yet Nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor seek I Nature's charms in vain--
In lovely Stella all combine,
And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.
* * * * *
VERSES
WRITTEN AT THE BEQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A
LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE.
What hopes, what terrors, does this gift create,
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate!
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd to Venus by Melissa's hand),
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects a lover's prayer.
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain.
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
The unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads.
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart;
Soon must this sprig, as you shall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.
* * * * *
TO LADY FIREBRACE,[1]
AT BURY ASSIZES.
At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown'd in B--n's deathless strain?
Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace! might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre;
For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph! a Muse and Grace.
[Footnote 1: 'Lady Firebrace:' daughter of P. Bacon, Ipswich, married
three times--to Philip Evers, Esq., to Sir Corbell Firebrace, and to
William Campbell, uncle of the Duke of Argyle.]
* * * * *
TO LYCE,
AN ELDERLY LADY.
1 Ye Nymphs whom starry rays invest,
By flattering poets given,
Who shine, by lavish lovers dress'd,
In all the pomp of Heaven.
2 Engross not all the beams on high,
Which gild a lover's lays,
But, as your sister of the sky,
Let Lycè share the praise.
3 Her silver locks display the moon,
Her brows a cloudy show,
Striped rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And showers from either flow.
4 Her teeth the night with darkness dyes;
She's starr'd with pimples o'er;
Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar,
5 But some Zelinda, while I sing,
Denies my Lycè shines;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.
6 Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lycè makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter less.
* * * * *
ON THE DEATH OF MR ROBERT LEVETT,
A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.
1 Condemned to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
2 Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levett to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, sincere,
Of every friendless name the friend.
3 Yet still he fills Affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.
4 When fainting Nature call'd for aid,
And hovering Death prepared the blow,
His vigorous remedy display'd
The power of Art without the show.
5 In Misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh;
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.
6 No summons, mock'd by chill delay;
No petty gain, disdain'd by pride;
The modest wants of every day,
The toil of every day supplied.
7 His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd,
8 The busy day--the peaceful night,
Unfelt, unclouded, glided by;
His frame was firm--his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
9 Then with no fiery, throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.
* * * * *
EPITAPH ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS,[1]
AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN.
Phillips! whose touch harmonious could remove
The pangs of guilty power and hapless love,
Rest here; distress'd by poverty no more,
Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before;
Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.
[Footnote 1: 'Claude Phillips:' a Welsh travelling fiddler, greatly
admired.]
* * * * *
EPITAPH
ON SIR THOMAS HANMER, BART.
Thou who survey'st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at this tomb where Hanmer's ashes lie;
His various worth through varied life attend, 3
And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd every ear, and gain'd on every heart.
Thus early wise, the endanger'd realm to aid,
His country call'd him from the studious shade; 10
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenced the senator and man.
In business dexterous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd:
Suspended faction ceased from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,
Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice. 20
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,
While Hanmer fill'd the chair--and Anne the throne!
Then when dark arts obscured each fierce debate,
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The moderator firmly mild appear'd--
Beheld with love, with veneration heard.
This task perform'd--he sought no gainful post,
Nor wish'd to glitter at his country's cost;
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye,
With temperate zeal and wise anxiety; 30
Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lured aside,
To pluck the flowers of pleasure, or of pride;
Her gifts despised, Corruption blush'd and fled,
And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.
Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest,
With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd:
To letter'd ease retired, and honest mirth.
To rural grandeur, and domestic worth:
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend. 40
Calm Conscience then his former life survey'd,
And recollected toils endear'd the shade,
Till Nature call'd him to her general doom,
And Virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.
* * * * *
ON THE DEATH OF STEPHEN GREY, F.R.S.,
THE ELECTRICIAN.
Long hast thou borne the burden of the day;
Thy task is ended, venerable Grey!
No more shall Art thy dexterous hand require,
To break the sleep of elemental fire;
To rouse the power that actuates Nature's frame,
The momentaneous shock, the electric flame;
The flame which first, weak pupil to thy lore,
I saw, condemn'd, alas! to see no more.
Now, hoary sage! pursue thy happy flight;
With swifter motion, haste to purer light, 10
Where Bacon waits, with Newton and with Boyle,
To hail thy genius and applaud thy toil;
Where intuition breathes through time and space,
And mocks Experiment's successive race;
Sees tardy Science toil at Nature's laws,
And wonders how the effect obscures the cause.
Yet not to deep research or happy guess,
Is show'd the life of hope, the death of peace;
Unbless'd the man whom philosophic rage
Shall tempt to lose the Christian in the Sage: 20
Not Art, but Goodness, pour'd the sacred ray
That cheer'd the parting hours of humble Grey.
* * * * *
TO MISS HICKMAN,
PLAYING ON THE SPINNET.
Bright Stella! form'd for universal reign,
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain:
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,
And yield reluctant to despotic sway:
But when your music soothes the raging pain,
We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king: 10
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
He pants for room, in one poor world confined.
Thus waked to rage, by Music's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella's gentler touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire:
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair;
Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms. 20
* * * * *
PARAPHRASE
OF PROVERBS, CHAP. IV. VERSES 6-11.
"Go to the ant, thou sluggard!"
Turn on the prudent ant thy heedless eyes,
Observe her labours, sluggard! and be wise.
No stern command, no monitory voice
Prescribes her duties or directs her choice;
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,
To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day;
When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.
How long shall Sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigour, and unchain thy powers? 10
While artful shades thy downy couch inclose,
And soft solicitation courts repose,
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
Year chases year with unremitted flight;
Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow,
Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe.
* * * * *
HORACE,
LIB. IV. ODE VII. TRANSLATED.
The snow, dissolved, no more is seen,
The fields and woods, behold! are green.
The changing year renews the plain,
The rivers know their banks again;
The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace
The mazy dance together trace;
The changing year's successive plan
Proclaims mortality to man.
Rough Winter's blasts to Spring give way,
Spring yields to Summer's sovereign ray; 10
Then Summer sinks in Autumn's reign,
And Winter chills the world again:
Her losses soon the moon supplies,
But wretched man, when once he lies
Where Priam and his sons are laid,
Is nought but ashes, and a shade.
Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,
Will toss us in a morning more?
What with your friend you nobly share,
At least you rescue from your heir. 20
Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,
When Minos once has fix'd your doom,
Or eloquence, or splendid birth,
Or virtue, shall restore to earth.
Hippolytus, unjustly slain,
Diana calls to life in vain;
Nor can the might of Theseus rend
The chains of Hell that hold his friend.
* * * * *
ON SEEING A BUST OF MRS MONTAGUE.
Had this fair figure which this frame displays,
Adorn'd in Roman time the brightest days,
In every dome, in every sacred place,
Her statue would have breathed an added grace,
And on its basis would have been enroll'd,
'This is Minerva, cast in Virtue's mould.'
* * * * *
ANACREON, ODE NINTH.
Lovely courier of the sky!
Whence and whither dost thou fly?
Scattering, as thy pinions play,
Liquid fragrance all the way;
Is it business? is it love?
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove!
Soft Anacreon's vows I bear,
Vows to Myrtalè the fair;
Graced with all that charms the heart,
Blushing nature, smiling art. 10
Venus, courted by an ode,
On the bard her dove bestow'd:
Vested with a master's right,
Now Anacreon rules my flight;
His the letters that you see,
Weighty charge, consign'd to me:
Think not yet my service hard,
Joyless task without reward;
Smiling at my master's gates,
Freedom my return awaits; 20
But the liberal grant in vain
Tempts me to be wild again.
Can a prudent dove decline
Blissful bondage such as mine?
Over hills and fields to roam,
Fortune's guest without a home;
Under leaves to hide one's head,
Slightly shelter'd, coarsely fed:
Now my better lot bestows
Sweet repast, and soft repose: 30
Now the generous bowl I sip,
As it leaves Anacreon's lip:
Void of care and free from dread,
From his fingers snatch his bread;
Then with luscious plenty gay,
Round his chamber dance and play;
Or from wine as courage springs,
O'er his face extend my wings;
And when feast and frolic tire,
Drop asleep upon his lyre. 40
This is all, be quick and go,
More than all thou canst not know;
Let me now my pinions ply,
I have chatter'd like a pye.
* * * * *
LINES
WRITTEN IN RIDICULE OF CERTAIN POEMS PUBLISHED
IN 1777.
Wheresoe'er I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong;
Phrase that time has flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray,
Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.
* * * * *
PARODY OF A TRANSLATION
FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.
1 Err shall they not, who resolute explore
Time's gloomy backward with judicious eyes;
And, scanning right the practices of yore,
Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.
2 They to the dome where smoke with curling play
Announced the dinner to the regions round,
Summon'd the singer blithe, and harper gay,
And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound.
3 The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill,
By quivering string or modulated wind,
Trumpet or lyre--to their harsh bosoms chill,
Admission ne'er had sought, or could not find.
4 Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun,
Her baleful eyes where Sorrow rolls around;
Where gloom-enamour'd Mischief loves to dwell,
And Murder, all blood-bolter'd, schemes the wound.
5 When cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish,
And purple nectar glads the festive hour;
The guest, without a want, without a wish,
Can yield no room to music's soothing power.
* * * * *
BURLESQUE
ON THE MODERN VERSIFICATION OF ANCIENT LEGENDARY
TALES: AN IMPROMPTU.
The tender infant, meek and mild,
Fell down upon the stone;
The nurse took up the squealing child,
But still the child squeal'd on.
* * * * *
EPITAPH FOR MR HOGARTH.
The hand of him here torpid lies,
That drew the essential form of grace;
Here closed in death the attentive eyes,
That saw the manners in the face.
* * * * *
TRANSLATION
OF THE TWO FIRST STANZAS OF THE SONG 'RIO VERDE, RIO VERDE,' PRINTED
IN BISHOP PERCY'S 'RELIQUES OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY:' AN IMPROMPTU.
Glassy water, glassy water,
Down whose current, clear and strong,
Chiefs confused in mutual slaughter,
Moor and Christian, roll along.
* * * * *
TO MRS THRALE,
ON HER COMPLETING HER THIRTY-FIFTH YEAR. AN IMPROMPTU.
Oft in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
Better years than thirty-five.
Could philosophers contrive
Life to stop at thirty-five,
Time his hours should never drive
O'er the bounds of thirty-five.
High to soar, and deep to dive,
Nature gives at thirty-five; 10
Ladies, stock and tend your hive,
Trifle not at thirty-five;
For, howe'er we boast and strive,
Life declines from thirty-five;
He that ever hopes to thrive,
Must begin by thirty-five;
And all who wisely wish to wive
Must look on Thrale at thirty-five.
* * * * *
IMPROMPTU TRANSLATION
OF AN AIR IN THE 'CLEMENZA DE TITO' OF METASTASIO, BEGINNING, 'DEH! SE
PIACERMI VUOI.'
Would you hope to gain my heart,
Bid your teasing doubts depart.
He who blindly trusts will find,
Faith from every generous mind;
He who still expects deceit,
Only teaches how to cheat.
* * * * *
LINES
WRITTEN UNDER A PRINT REPRESENTING PERSONS SKAITING.
O'er crackling ice, o'er gulfs profound,
With nimble glide the skaiters play;
O'er treacherous Pleasure's flowery ground
Thus lightly skim, and haste away.
* * * * *
TRANSLATION
OF A SPEECH OF AQUILEIO IN THE 'ADRIANO' OF METASTASIO, BEGINNING, 'TU
CHE IN CORTE INVECCHIASTI.'
Grown old in courts, thou art not surely one
Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour:
Well skill'd to soothe a foe with looks of kindness,
To sink the fatal precipice before him,
And then lament his fall with seeming friendship:
Open to all, true only to thyself,
Thou know'st those arts which blast with envious praise,
Which aggravate a fault with feign'd excuses,
And drive discountenanced Virtue from the throne
That leave the blame of rigour to the prince, 10
And of his every gift usurp the merit;
That hide in seeming zeal a wicked purpose,
And only build upon each other's ruin.
* * * * *
IMPROMPTU
ON HEARING MISS THRALE CONSULTING WITH A FRIEND ABOUT A GOWN AND HAT
SHE WAS INCLINED TO WEAR.
Wear the gown, and wear the hat,
Snatch thy pleasures while they last;
Hadst thou nine lives, like a cat,
Soon those nine lives would be past.
* * * * *
TRANSLATION OF VIRGIL.
PASTORAL I.
_Mileboeus_. Now, Tityrus, you supine and careless laid,
Play on your pipe beneath yon beechen shade;
While wretched we about the world must roam,
And leave our pleasing fields, and native home;
Here at your ease you sing your amorous flame,
And the wood rings with Amaryllis' name.
_Tityrus_. Those blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd,
For I shall never think him less than god;
Oft on his altars shall my firstlings lie,
Their blood the consecrated stones shall dye: 10
He gave my flocks to graze the flowery meads,
And me to tune at ease the unequal reeds.
_Mileboeus._ My admiration only I express'd,
(No spark of envy harbours in my breast),
That when confusion o'er the country reigns,
To you alone this happy state remains.
Here I, though faint myself, must drive my goats,
Far from their ancient fields and humble cots.
This scarce I lead, who left on yonder rock
Two tender kids, the hopes of all the flock. 20
Had we not been perverse and careless grown,
This dire event by omens was foreshown;
Our trees were blasted by the thunder stroke,
And left-hand crows, from an old hollow oak,
Foretold the coming evil by their dismal croak.
* * * * *
TRANSLATION OF HORACE.
BOOK I. ODE XXII.
1 The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows,
Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:
2 Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Afric's faithless sands;
Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
3 For while, by Chlöe's image charm'd,
Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd;
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.
4 No savage more portentous stain'd
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore;
None fiercer Juba's thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.
5 Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs;
Where clouds condensed for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies:
6 Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime denied to human race;
I'll sing of Chlöe's charms divine,
Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.
* * * * *
TRANSLATION OF HORACE.
BOOK II. ODE IX.
1 Clouds do not always veil the skies,
Nor showers immerse the verdant plain;
Nor do the billows always rise,
Or storms afflict the ruffled main.
2 Nor, Valgius, on the Armenian shores
Do the chain'd waters always freeze;
Not always furious Boreas roars,
Or bends with violent force the trees.
3 But you are ever drown'd in tears,
For Mystes dead you ever mourn;
No setting Sol can ease your cares,
But finds you sad at his return.
4 The wise, experienced Grecian sage
Mourn'd not Antilochus so long;
Nor did King Priam's hoary age
So much lament his slaughter'd son.
5 Leave off, at length, these woman's sighs,
Augustus' numerous trophies sing;
Repeat that prince's victories,
To whom all nations tribute bring.
6 Niphates rolls an humbler wave,
At length the undaunted Scythian yields,
Content to live the Romans' slave,
And scarce forsakes his native fields.
* * * * *
TRANSLATION
OF PART OF THE DIALOGUE BETWEEN HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.--FROM THE SIXTH
BOOK OF HOMER'S ILIAD.
She ceased: then godlike Hector answer'd kind,
(His various plumage sporting in the wind):
That post, and all the rest, shall be my care;
But shall I then forsake the unfinish'd war?
How would the Trojans brand great Hector's name,
And one base action sully all my fame,
Acquired by wounds and battles bravely fought!
Oh! how my soul abhors so mean a thought!
Long have I learn'd to slight this fleeting breath,
And view with cheerful eyes approaching death. 10
The inexorable Sisters have decreed
That Priam's house and Priam's self shall bleed:
The day shall come, in which proud Troy shall yield,
And spread its smoking ruins o'er the field;
Yet Hecuba's, nor Priam's hoary age,
Whose blood shall quench some Grecian's thirsty rage,
Nor my brave brothers that have bit the ground,
Their souls dismiss'd through many a ghastly wound,
Can in my bosom half that grief create,
As the sad thought of your impending fate; 20
When some proud Grecian dame shall tasks impose,
Mimic your tears, and ridicule your woes:
Beneath Hyperia's waters shall you sweat,
And, fainting, scarce support the liquid weight:
Then shall some Argive loud insulting cry,
Behold the wife of Hector, guard of Troy!
Tears, at my name, shall drown those beauteous eyes,
And that fair bosom heave with rising sighs:
Before that day, by some brave hero's hand,
May I lie slain, and spurn the bloody sand! 30
* * * * *
TO MISS * * * *
ON HER PLAYING UPON A HARPSICHORD IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECES OF
HER OWN PAINTING.
When Stella strikes the tuneful string,
In scenes of imitated Spring,
Where beauty lavishes her powers
On beds of never-fading flowers,
And pleasure propagates around
Each charm of modulated sound;
Ah! think not, in the dangerous hour,
The nymph fictitious as the flower,
But shun, rash youth! the gay alcove,
Nor tempt the snares of wily love. 10
When charms thus press on every sense,
What thought of flight or of defence?
Deceitful hope or vain desire,
For ever flutter o'er her lyre,
Delighting, as the youth draws nigh,
To point the glances of her eye,
And forming, with unerring art,
New chains to hold the captive heart.
But on those regions of delight
Might truth intrude with daring flight, 20
Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,
One moment hear the moral song,
Instruction with her flowers might spring,
And wisdom warble from her string.
Mark, when, from thousand mingled dyes,
Thou seest one pleasing form arise,
How active light and thoughtful shade
In greater scenes each other aid;
Mark, when the different notes agree
In friendly contrariety, 30
How passion's well accorded strife,
Gives all the harmony of life:
Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,
Consistent still, though not the same;
Thy music teach the nobler art,
To tune the regulated heart.
* * * * *
EVENING: AN ODE.
TO STELLA.
Evening now, from purple wings,
Sheds the grateful gifts she brings;
Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,
Cooling breezes shake the reed--
Shake the reed, and curl the stream,
Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam;
Near, the chequer'd, lonely grove,
Hears, and keeps thy secrets, Love.
Stella, thither let us stray
Lightly o'er the dewy way! 10
Phoebus drives his burning car,
Hence, my lovely Stella, far;
In his stead, the Queen of Night
Round us pours a lambent light;
Light that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow;
Let us now, in whisper'd joy,
Evening's silent hours employ,
Silence best, and conscious shades,
Please the hearts that love invades; 20
Other pleasures give them pain,
Lovers all but love disdain.
* * * * *
TO THE SAME.
Whether Stella's eyes are found
Fix'd on earth, or glancing round,
If her face with pleasure glow,
If she sigh at others' woe,
If her easy air express
Conscious worth or soft distress,
Stella's eyes, and air, and face,
Charm with undiminish'd grace.
If on her we see display'd
Pendent gems, and rich brocade, 10
If her chintz with less expense
Flows in easy negligence;
Still she lights the conscious flame,
Still her charms appear the same;
If she strikes the vocal strings,
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move,
Still we love, and still approve.
Vain the casual transient glance,
Which alone can please by chance-- 20
Beauty, which depends on art,
Changing with the changing heart,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendent gems, and rich brocade.
I those charms alone can prize
Which from constant Nature rise,
Which nor circumstance, nor dress,
E'er can make, or more, or less.
* * * * *
TO A FRIEND.
No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless sighs are breathed for more.
Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase Heaven, has gold the power?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life, can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold? 10
No; all that's worth a wish--a thought,
Fair Virtue gives unbribed, unbought.
Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.
With Science tread the wondrous way,
Or learn the Muse's moral lay;
In social hours indulge thy soul,
Where Mirth and Temperance mix the bowl;
To virtuous love resign thy breast,
And be, by blessing beauty, blest. 20
Thus taste the feast by Nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come, taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife!
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, in Stella, and content;
And scorn, oh! let that scorn be thine,
Mere things of clay, that dig the mine!
* * * * *
TO A YOUNG LADY,
ON HER BIRTHDAY.
This tributary verse receive, my fair,
Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer.
May this returning day for ever find
Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind;
All pains, all cares, may favouring Heaven remove,
All but the sweet solicitudes of love!
May powerful Nature join with grateful Art,
To point each glance, and force it to the heart!
Oh then, when conquer'd crowds confess thy sway,
When even proud Wealth and prouder Wit obey, 10
My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust,
Alas! 'tis hard for beauty to be just!
Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ;
Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy:
With his own form acquaint the forward fool,
Shown in the faithful glass of Ridicule;
Teach mimic Censure her own faults to find,
No more let coquettes to themselves be blind,
So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind.
* * * * *
EPILOGUE
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY A LADY WHO WAS TO PERSONATE 'THE GHOST
OF HERMIONE.'
Ye blooming train, who give despair or joy,
Bless with a smile, or with a frown destroy;
In whose fair cheeks destructive Cupids wait,
And with unerring shafts distribute fate;
Whose snowy breasts, whose animated eyes,
Each youth admires, though each admirer dies;
Whilst you deride their pangs in barbarous play,
Unpitying see them weep, and hear them pray,
And unrelenting sport ten thousand lives away:
For you, ye fair! I quit the gloomy plains, 10
Where sable Night in all her horror reigns;
No fragrant bowers, no delightful glades,
Receive the unhappy ghosts of scornful maids.
For kind, for tender nymphs, the myrtle blooms,
And weaves her bending boughs in pleasing glooms;
Perennial roses deck each purple vale,
And scents ambrosial breathe in every gale;
Far hence are banish'd vapours, spleen, and tears,
Tea, scandal, ivory teeth, and languid airs;
No pug, nor favourite Cupid there enjoys 20
The balmy kiss for which poor Thyrsis dies;
Form'd to delight, they use no foreign arms,
No torturing whalebones pinch them into charms;
No conscious blushes there their cheeks inflame,
For those who feel no guilt can know no shame;
Unfaded still their former charms they show,
Around them pleasures wait, and joys for ever new.
But cruel virgins meet severer fates;
Expell'd and exiled from the blissful seats,
To dismal realms, and regions void of peace, 30
Where furies ever howl, and serpents hiss,
O'er the sad plains perpetual tempests sigh,
And poisonous vapours, blackening all the sky,
With livid hue the fairest face o'ercast,
And every beauty withers at the blast:
Where'er they fly, their lovers' ghosts pursue,
Inflicting all those ills which once they knew;
Vexation, fury, jealousy, despair,
Vex every eye, and every bosom tear;
Their foul deformities by all descried, 40
No maid to flatter, and no paint to hide.
Then melt, ye fair, while crowds around you sigh,
Nor let disdain sit lowering in your eye;
With pity soften every awful grace,
And beauty smile auspicious in each face
To ease their pain exert your milder power;
So shall you guiltless reign, and all mankind adore.
* * * * *
THE YOUNG AUTHOR.
When first the peasant, long inclined to roam,
Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,
Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields,
He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields:
Then dances jocund o'er the watery way,
While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play:
Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,
And future millions lift his rising soul;
In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine,
And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine. 10
Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies,
Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise;
Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore,
And vows to trust the faithless deep no more.
So the young author, panting after fame,
And the long honours of a lasting name,
Intrusts his happiness to human kind,
More false, more cruel than the seas or wind!
Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries,
For wealth or title, perishable prize; 20
While I those transitory blessings scorn,
Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.
This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late,
He flies to press, and hurries on his fate;
Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread,
And feels the unfading wreath surround his head.
Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise,
Those dreams were Settle's[1] once, and Ogilby's![2]
The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise,
To some retreat the baffled writer flies, 30
Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest,
Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest;
There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot--
Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.
[Footnote 1: 'Settle;' see Life of Dryden.]
[Footnote 2: 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.]
* * * * *
FRIENDSHIP: AN ODE.
PRINTED IN THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE, 1743.
1 Friendship, peculiar boon of Heaven,
The noble mind's delight and pride--
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world denied!
2 While love, unknown among the blest,
Parent of thousand wild desires,
The savage and the human breast
Torments alike with raging fires;
3 With bright, but oft destructive gleam,
Alike o'er all his lightnings fly;
Thy lambent glories only beam
Around the favourites of the sky.
4 Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys,
On fools and villains ne'er descend;
In vain for thee the tyrant sighs,
And hugs a flatterer for a friend.
5 Directress of the brave and just,
Oh, guide us through life's darksome way!
And let the tortures of mistrust
On selfish bosoms only prey.
6 Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow,
When souls to peaceful climes remove:
What raised our virtue here below,
Shall aid our happiness above.
* * * * *
IMITATION OF THE STYLE OF[1] * * *
1 Hermit hoar, in solemn cell
Wearing out life's evening gray,
Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell
What is bliss, and which the way.
2 Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd,
Scarce repress'd the starting tear,
When the hoary sage replied,
'Come, my lad, and drink some beer.'
* * * * *
ONE AND TWENTY.
1 Long-expected one-and-twenty,
Lingering year, at length is flown:
Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,
Great * * *, are now your own.
2 Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather,
Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
3 Call the Betsies, Kates, and Jennies,
All the names that banish care;
Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,
Show the spirit of an heir.
4 All that prey on vice and folly
Joy to see their quarry fly:
There the gamester, light and jolly;
There the lender, grave and sly.
5 Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,
Let it wander as it will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,
Bid them come and take their fill.
6 When the bonny blade carouses,
Pockets full, and spirits high--
What are acres? what are houses?
Only dirt, or wet, or dry.
7 Should the guardian friend or mother
Tell the woes of wilful waste:
Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother,
You can hang or drown at last.
[Footnote 1: Supposed to be Percy.]
* * * * *
END OF JOHNSON'S POEMS.
* * * * *
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
THOMAS PARNELL.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
ROBERT EARL OF OXFORD AND EARL MORTIMER.
Such were the notes thy once-loved poet sung,
Till Death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue.
Oh, just beheld, and lost! admired, and mourn'd!
With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd,
Blest in each science, blest in every strain,
Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear--in vain!
For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend,
Fond to forget the statesman in the friend;
For Swift and him, despised the farce of state,
The sober follies of the wise and great;
Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit,
And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims--the dead, a tear)
Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays:
Who careless, now, of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And sure if ought below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine:
A soul supreme, in each hard instance tried,
Above all pain, all anger, and all pride,
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to the silent shade:
'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Interest calls off all her sneaking train,
When all the obliged desert, and all the vain,
She waits; or, to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Even now she shades thy evening walk with bays,
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise)
Even now, observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day,
Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell that MORTIMER is he.
_September_ 25, 1721. A. POPE.
THE LIFE AND POETRY OF THOMAS PARNELL.
Parnell is the third in a trio of poetical clergymen whose names have
immediately succeeded each other in this edition. Bowles, Churchill,
and Parnell were all clergymen, and all poets; but in other respects
differed materially from each other. In Bowles, the clerical and the
poetical characters were on the whole well attuned and harmonised. In
Churchill, they came to an open rupture. In Parnell, they were neither
ruptured nor reconciled, but maintained an ambiguous relation, till
his premature death settled the moot point for ever.
The life of this poet has been written by Goldsmith, by Johnson, by
the Rev. John Mitford, and others; but, after all, very little is
known about him. Thomas Parnell was the descendant of an ancient
family, which had been settled for some hundreds of years at
Congleton, Cheshire. His father, whose name also was Thomas, took the
side of the Commonwealth, and at the Restoration went over to Ireland,
where he purchased a considerable property. This, along with his
estate in Cheshire, devolved to the poet. His father had a second son,
John, whose descendants were created baronets. The late Sir Henry
Parnell, for some years the respected member of Parliament for the
town of Dundee, where we now write, was the great-great-grandson of
the poet's father. Parnell was born in Dublin, in the year 1679. He
was sent to a school taught by one Dr Jones. Here he is said to have
distinguished himself by the readiness and retentiveness of his
memory; often performing the task allotted for days in a few hours,
and being able to repeat forty lines in any book of poems, after the
first reading. It is a proof of the prematurity of his powers, that he
entered Trinity College, Dublin, at the age of thirteen, where his
compositions attracted attention from the extent of classical lore
which they discovered. He took the degree of M.A. in 1700; and the
same year (through a dispensation on account of being under age) was
ordained deacon by the Bishop of Deny. Three years after, he was
ordained priest; and in 1705, he was made Archdeacon of Clogher, by
Sir George Ashe, bishop of that see. So soon as he received the
archdeanery, he married Miss Ann Minchin, who is described as a young
lady of great beauty, and of an amiable character, by whom he had two
sons, who died young, and a daughter, who long survived both
her parents.
Up to the triumph of the Tories, at the end of Queen Anne's reign,
Parnell appears to have been, like his father, a keen Whig. He was at
that time, however, induced, for motives which his biographers call
obscure, but which to us seem obvious enough, on the well-known
principle of the popularity of the rising sun, to change his party;
and he was hailed by the Tories as a valuable accession to their
ranks. This proves that his talents were even then known; a fact
corroborated by Johnson's statement, that while he was waiting in the
outer-room at Lord Oxford's levee, the prime minister, when told he
was there, went out, at the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's
staff in his hand, and saluted him in the most flattering manner. He
became, either before or immediately after this, intimate with Pope,
Swift, Gay, and the rest of that brilliant set, who all appear to have
loved him for his social qualities, to have admired his genius, and to
have pitied his infirmities. He was a member of the Scriblerus Club,
and contributed some trifles to their transactions. He was, at the
same time, intimate with Addison and Steele, and wrote a few papers in
the "Spectator." To Pope, he was of essential service, assisting him
in his notes to the "Iliad," being, what Pope was not, a good Greek
scholar. He wrote a life of Homer, which was prefixed to the
Translation, although stiff in style, and fabulous in statement. He
gratified Pope's malicious spirit still more by writing, under the
guise of a "Life of Zoilus," a bitter attack on Dennis--the great
object of the poet's fear and mortal abhorrence. For these and other
services, Pope rewarded him, after his usual manner, with large
offerings of that sweet and suffocating incense, by which he
delighted, now to gain his enemies, and now to gratify his friends.
With Gay, also, Parnell was intimate; and the latter, himself
independent by his fortune, is said to have bestowed on this needy and
improvident genius the price of the copyright of his works.
Parnell first visited London in 1706; and from that period till his
death, scarcely a year elapsed without his spending some time in the
metropolis. He seems to have had as intense a relish of London life as
Johnson and Boswell exhibited in the next age. So soon as he had
collected his rents, he hied to the capital, and there enjoyed himself
to the top of his bent. He jested with the Scriblerus Club. He quaffed
now and then with Lord Oxford. He varied his round of amusements by
occasional professional exhibitions in the pulpits of Southwark and
elsewhere,--made, we fear, more from a desire to display himself, than
to benefit his hearers. Still his sermons were popular; and he
entertained at one time the hope,--a hope blasted by the death of
Queen Anne,--of being preferred to a city charge. So soon as each
London furlough was expired, he returned to Ireland, jaded and
dispirited, and there took delight in nursing his melancholy; in
pining for the amusements of the metropolis; in shunning and sneering
at the society around him; and in abusing his native bogs and his
fellow-countrymen in verse. This was not manly, far less Christian
conduct. He ought to have drowned his recollections of London in
active duty, or in diligent study; and if he found society coarse or
corrupt, he should have set himself to refine and to purify it. But he
seems to have been a lazy, luxurious person--his life a round of
selfish rapture and selfish anguish,--in fact, ruined by his
independent fortune. Had he been a poorer, he had probably been a
happier man. He was not, moreover, of that self-contained cast of
character, which can live on its own resources, create its own world,
and say, "My mind to me a kingdom is."
In 1712 he lost his wife, with whom he appears to have lived as
happily as his morbid temperament and mortified feelings would permit.
This blow deepened his melancholy, and drove him, it is said, to an
excessive and habitual use of wine. In the same year we find him in
London, brought out once more under the "special patronage" of Dean
Swift, who had quite a penchant for Parnell, and who wished, through
his side, to mortify certain persons in Ireland, who did not
appreciate, he says, the Archdeacon; and who, we suspect, besides, did
not thoroughly appreciate the Dean. Swift, partly in pity for the
"poor lad," as he calls him, whom he saw to be in such imminent danger
of losing caste and character, and partly in the true patronising
spirit, introduced Parnell to Lord Bolingbroke, who received him
kindly, entertained him at dinner, and encouraged him in his poetical
studies. The Dean's patronage, however, was of little avail in this
matter to the protégé; Bolingbroke, a man of many promises, and few
performances, did nothing for him. The consequences of dissipation
began, at this time, too, to appear in Parnell's constitution; and we
find Swift saying of him, "His head is out of order, like mine, but
more constant, poor boy." It was perhaps to this period that Pope
referred, when he told Spence, "Parnell is a great follower of drams,
and strangely open and scandalous in his debaucheries." If so, his bad
habits seem to have sprung as much from disappointment and discontent
as from taste.
Yet Swift continued his friend, and it was at his instance that, in
1713, Archbishop King presented Parnell with a prebend. In 1714, his
hope of London promotion died with Queen Anne; but in 1716, the same
generous Archbishop bestowed on him the vicarage of Finglass, in the
diocese of Dublin, worth £400 a-year. This preferment, however, the
poet did not live long to enjoy,--dying at Chester, in July
1717, on his way to Ireland, aged thirty-eight years. His estates
passed to his nephew, Sir John Parnell. He had, in the course of his
life, composed a great deal of poetry; much of it, indeed, _invita_
Minerva. After his death, Pope collected the best pieces, and
published them, with a dedication to Lord Oxford. Goldsmith, in his
edition, added two or three; and other editors, a good many poems, of
which we have only inserted one, deeming the rest unworthy of his
memory. In 1788 a volume was published, entitled, "The Posthumous
Works of Dr T. Parnell, containing poems moral and divine." These,
however, attracted little attention, being mostly rubbish. Johnson
says of them, "I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired
whither they are going." It is said that the present representative of
the Parnell family preserves a mass of unpublished poems from the pen
of his relative. We trust that he will long and religiously refrain
from disturbing their MS. slumbers.
The whole tenor of Parnell's history convinces us that he was an
easy-tempered, kind-hearted, yet querulous and self-indulgent man, who
had no higher motive or object than to gratify himself. His very
ambition aspired not to very lofty altitudes. His utmost wish was to
attain a metropolitan pulpit, where he could have added the reputation
of a popular preacher to that of being the _protégé_ of Swift, and the
pet of the Scriblerus Club. The character of his poetry is in keeping
with the temperament of the man. It is slipshod, easy, and pleasing.
If the distinguishing quality of poetry be to give pleasure, then
Parnell is a poet. You never thrill under his power, but you read him
with a quiet, constant, subdued gratification. If never eminently
original, he has the art of enunciating common-places with felicity and
grace. The stories he relates are almost all old, but his manner of
telling them is new. His thoughts and images are mostly selected from
his common-place book; but he utters them with such a natural ease of
manner, that you are tempted to think them his own. He knows the
compass of his poetical powers, and never attempts anything very lofty
or arduous. His "Allegory on Man,"--pronounced by Johnson his
best,--seems rather a laborious than a fortunate effusion. His "Hymn
to Contentment" is animated, as the subject required, by a kind of
sober rapture. His "Faery Tale" is a good imitation of that old style
of composition. His "Hesiod" catches the classical tone and spirit
with considerable success. His "Flies," and "Elegy to the Old Beauty,"
are ingenious trifles. His "Nightpiece on Death" has fine touches, but
is slight for such a theme, and must not be named beside Blair's
"Grave," and Gray's "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His
translations we have, in accordance with the plan of this edition,
omitted--and, indeed, they are little loss. His "Bookworm," &c., are
adaptations from Beza and other foreign authors. By far his most
popular poem is the "Hermit." In it he tells a tale that had been told
in Arabic, French, and English, for the tenth time; and in that tenth
edition tells it so well, that the public have thanked him for it as
for an original work. Of course, the story not being Parnell's, it is
not his fault that it casts no light upon the dread problems of
Providence it professed to explain. But the incidents are recorded
with ease and liveliness; the characters are rapidly depicted, and
strikingly contrasted; and many touches of true poetry occur.
How vivid this couplet, for instance--
"Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair!"
How picturesque the following--
"A fresher green the smiling leaves display,
And, _glittering as they tremble_, cheer the day!"
The description of the unveiled angel approaches the
sublime--
"Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light."
A passage of similar brilliance occurs in "Piety, or the
Vision"--
"A sudden splendour seem'd to kindle day;
A breeze came breathing in; a sweet perfume,
_Blown from eternal gardens_, fill'd the room,
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest,
Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest."
Such passages themselves are enough to prove Parnell a
true poet.
* * * * *
PARNELL'S POEMS.
HESIOD; OR, THE RISE OF WOMAN.
What ancient times, those times we fancy wise,
Have left on long record of woman's rise,
What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
What author wrote it, how that author died,--
All these I sing. In Greece they framed the tale;
(In Greece, 'twas thought a woman might be frail);
Ye modern beauties! where the poet drew
His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you;
And warn'd by him, ye wanton pens, beware
How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair. 10
The case was Hesiod's; he the fable writ--
Some think with meaning--some, with idle wit:
Perhaps 'tis either, as the ladies please;
I waive the contest, and commence the lays.
In days of yore, no matter where or when,
'Twas ere the low creation swarm'd with men,
That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth
(Our author's song can witness), lived on earth.
He carved the turf to mould a manly frame,
And stole from Jove his animating flame. 20
The sly contrivance o'er Olympus ran,
When thus the Monarch of the Stars began:
'Oh versed in arts! whose daring thoughts aspire
To kindle clay with never-dying fire!
Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine;
The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine:
And such a gift, a vengeance so design'd,
As suits the counsel of a God to find;
A pleasing bosom cheat, a specious ill,
Which, felt, they curse, yet covet still to feel.' 30
He said, and Vulcan straight the sire commands
To temper mortar with ethereal hands;
In such a shape to mould a rising fair,
As virgin-goddesses are proud to wear;
To make her eyes with diamond-water shine,
And form her organs for a voice divine.
'Twas thus the sire ordain'd; the power obey'd;
And work'd, and wonder'd at the work he made;
The fairest, softest, sweetest frame beneath,
Now made to seem, now more than seem, to breathe. 40
As Vulcan ends, the cheerful queen of charms
Clasp'd the new-panting creature in her arms;
From that embrace a fine complexion spread,
Where mingled whiteness glow'd with softer red.
Then in a kiss she breathed her various arts,
Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts;
A mind for love, but still a changing mind;
The lisp affected, and the glance design'd;
The sweet confusing blush, the secret wink,
The gentle-swimming walk, the courteous sink, 50
The stare for strangeness fit, for scorn the frown,
For decent yielding, looks declining down,
The practised languish, where well-feign'd desire
Would own its melting in a mutual fire;
Gay smiles to comfort; April showers to move;
And all the nature, all the art, of love.
Gold-sceptred Juno next exalts the fair;
Her touch endows her with imperious air,
Self-valuing fancy, highly-crested pride,
Strong sovereign will, and some desire to chide: 60
For which an eloquence, that aims to vex,
With native tropes of anger arms the sex.
Minerva, skilful goddess, train'd the maid
To twirl the spindle by the twisting thread,
To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part,
Cross the long weft, and close the web with art:
An useful gift; but what profuse expense,
What world of fashions, took its rise from hence!
Young Hermes next, a close-contriving god,
Her brows encircled with his serpent rod; 70
Then plots, and fair excuses, fill'd her brain,
The views of breaking amorous vows for gain,
The price of favours, the designing arts
That aim at riches in contempt of hearts;
And for a comfort in the marriage life,
The little, pilfering temper of a wife.
Full on the fair his beams Apollo flung,
And fond persuasion tipp'd her easy tongue;
He gave her words, where oily flattery lays
The pleasing colours of the art of praise; 80
And wit, to scandal exquisitely prone,
Which frets another's spleen to cure its own.
Those sacred virgins whom the bards revere,
Tuned all her voice, and shed a sweetness there,
To make her sense with double charms abound,
Or make her lively nonsense please by sound.
To dress the maid, the decent Graces brought
A robe in all the dyes of beauty wrought,
And placed their boxes o'er a rich brocade
Where pictured loves on every cover play'd; 90
Then spread those implements that Vulcan's art
Had framed to merit Cytherea's heart;
The wire to curl, the close-indented comb,
To call the locks that lightly wander, home;
And chief, the mirror, where the ravish'd maid
Beholds and loves her own reflected shade.
Fair Flora lent her stores, the purpled hours
Confined her tresses with a wreath of flowers;
Within the wreath arose a radiant crown;
A veil pellucid hung depending down; 100
Back roll'd her azure veil with serpent fold,
The purfled border deck'd the flower with gold.
Her robe (which, closely by the girdle braced,
Reveal'd the beauties of a slender waist)
Flow'd to the feet; to copy Venus' air,
When Venus' statues have a robe to wear.
The new-sprung creature finish'd thus for harms,
Adjusts her habit, practises her charms,
With blushes glows, or shines with lively smiles,
Confirms her will, or recollects her wiles: 110
Then conscious of her worth, with easy pace
Glides by the glass, and, turning, views her face.
A finer flax than what they wrought before,
Through Time's deep cave the sister Fates explore,
Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave,
And thus their toil prophetic songs deceive:
'Flow from the rock, my flax! and swiftly flow,
Pursue thy thread, the spindle runs below.
A creature fond and changing, fair and vain,
The creature Woman, rises now to reign. 120
New beauty blooms, a beauty form'd to fly;
New love begins, a love produced to die;
New parts distress the troubled scenes of life,
The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife.
Men, born to labour, all with pains provide;
Women have time to sacrifice to pride:
They want the care of man, their want they know,
And dress to please with heart-alluring show,
The show prevailing, for the sway contend,
And make a servant where they meet a friend. 130
Thus in a thousand wax-erected forts
A loitering race the painful bee supports,
From sun to sun, from bank to bank he flies,
With honey loads his bag, with wax his thighs,
Fly where he will, at home the race remain,
Prune the silk dress, and murmuring eat the gain.
Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride,
Whose temper betters by the father's side;
Unlike the rest, that double human care,
Fond to relieve, or resolute to share: 140
Happy the man whom thus his stars advance!
The curse is general, but the blessing chance.'
Thus sung the Sisters, while the gods admire
Their beauteous creature, made for man, in ire;
The young Pandora she, whom all contend
To make too perfect not to gain her end:
Then bid the winds that fly to breathe the spring,
Return to bear her on a gentle wing;
With wafting airs the winds obsequious blow,
And land the shining vengeance safe below. 150
A golden coffer in her hand she bore,
(The present treacherous, but the bearer more)
'Twas fraught with pangs; for Jove ordain'd above,
That gold should aid, and pangs attend on love.
Her gay descent the man perceived afar,
Wondering he ran to catch the falling star;
But so surprised, as none but he can tell,
Who loved so quickly, and who loved so well.
O'er all his veins the wandering passion burns,
He calls her nymph, and every nymph by turns. 160
Her form to lovely Venus he prefers,
Or swears that Venus must be such as hers.
She, proud to rule, yet strangely framed to tease,
Neglects his offers while her airs she plays,
Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown,
In brisk disorder trips it up and down,
Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm,
And sits and blushes, smiles, and yields in form.
'Now take what Jove design'd, (she softly cried,)
This box thy portion, and myself thy bride:' 170
Fired with the prospect of the double charms,
He snatch'd the box, and bride, with eager arms.
Unhappy man! to whom so bright she shone,
The fatal gift, her tempting self, unknown!
The winds were silent, all the waves asleep,
And heaven was traced upon the flattering deep;
But whilst he looks, unmindful of a storm,
And thinks the water wears a stable form,
What dreadful din around his ears shall rise!
What frowns confuse his picture of the skies! 180
At first the creature Man was framed alone,
Lord of himself, and all the world his own.
For him the Nymphs in green forsook the woods,
For him the Nymphs in blue forsook the floods;
In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave;
They bore him heroes in the secret cave.
No care destroy'd, no sick disorder prey'd,
No bending age his sprightly form decay'd,
No wars were known, no females heard to rage,
And poets tell us, 'twas a golden age. 190
When woman came, those ills the box confined
Burst furious out, and poison'd all the wind,
From point to point, from pole to pole they flew,
Spread as they went, and in the progress grew:
The Nymphs, regretting, left the mortal race,
And, altering Nature, wore a sickly face:
New terms of folly rose, new states of care;
New plagues to suffer, and to please, the fair!
The days of whining, and of wild intrigues,
Commenced, or finish'd, with the breach of leagues; 200
The mean designs of well-dissembled love;
The sordid matches never join'd above;
Abroad, the labour, and at home the noise,
(Man's double sufferings for domestic joys)
The curse of jealousy; expense, and strife;
Divorce, the public brand of shameful life;
The rival's sword; the qualm that takes the fair;
Disdain for passion, passion in despair--
These, and a thousand yet unnamed, we find;
Ah, fear the thousand yet unnamed behind! 210
Thus on Parnassus tuneful Hesiod sung,
The mountain echoed, and the valley rung,
The sacred groves a fix'd attention show,
The crystal Helicon forbore to flow,
The sky grew bright, and (if his verse be true)
The Muses came to give the laurel too.
But what avail'd the verdant prize of wit,
If Love swore vengeance for the tales he writ?
Ye fair offended, hear your friend relate
What heavy judgment proved the writer's fate, 220
Though when it happen'd, no relation clears;
'Tis thought in five, or five and twenty years.
Where, dark and silent, with a twisted shade
The neighbouring woods a native arbour made,
There oft a tender pair for amorous play
Retiring, toy'd the ravish'd hours away;
A Locrian youth, the gentle Troilus he,
A fair Milesian, kind Evanthe she:
But swelling Nature, in a fatal hour,
Betray'd the secrets of the conscious bower; 230
The dire disgrace her brothers count their own,
And track her steps, to make its author known.
It chanced one evening, ('twas the lover's day)
Conceal'd in brakes the jealous kindred lay;
When Hesiod, wandering, mused along the plain,
And fix'd his seat where Love had fix'd the scene:
A strong suspicion straight possess'd their mind,
(For poets ever were a gentle kind.)
But when Evanthe near the passage stood,
Flung back a doubtful look, and shot the wood, 240
'Now take (at once they cry) thy due reward!'
And, urged with erring rage, assault the bard.
His corpse the sea received. The dolphins bore
('Twas all the gods would do) the corpse to shore.
Methinks I view the dead with pitying eyes,
And see the dreams of ancient wisdom rise;
I see the Muses round the body cry,
But hear a Cupid loudly laughing by;
He wheels his arrow with insulting hand,
And thus inscribes the moral on the sand: 250
'Here Hesiod lies: ye future bards beware
How far your moral tales incense the fair:
Unloved, unloving, 'twas his fate to bleed;
Without his quiver Cupid caused the deed:
He judged this turn of malice justly due,
And Hesiod died for joys he never knew.'
* * * * *
SONG.
1 When thy beauty appears,
In its graces and airs,
All bright as an angel new dropt from the sky;
At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,
So strangely you dazzle my eye!
2 But when without art,
Your kind thoughts you impart,
When your love runs in blushes through every vein;
When it darts from your eyes, when it pants in your heart,
Then I know you're a woman again.
3 There's a passion and pride
In our sex (she replied),
And thus (might I gratify both) I would do:
Still an angel appear to each lover beside,
But still be a woman to you.
* * * * *
SONG.
1 Thyrsis, a young and amorous swain,
Saw two, the beauties of the plain;
Who both his heart subdue:
Gay Cælia's eyes were dazzling fair,
Sabina's easy shape and air
With softer magic drew.
2 He haunts the stream, he haunts the grove,
Lives in a fond romance of love,
And seems for each to die;
Till each, a little spiteful grown,
Sabina Cælia's shape ran down,
And she Sabina's eye.
3 Their envy made the shepherd find
Those eyes, which love could only blind;
So set the lover free:
No more he haunts the grove or stream,
Or with a true-love knot and name
Engraves a wounded tree.
4 Ah, Cælia! (sly Sabina cried)
Though neither love, we're both denied;
Now, to support the sex's pride,
Let either fix the dart.
Poor girl! (says Caelia) say no more;
For should the swain but one adore,
That spite which broke his chains before,
Would break the other's heart.
* * * * *
SONG.
1 My days have been so wondrous free,
The little birds that fly
With careless ease from tree to tree,
Were but as bless'd as I.
2 Ask gliding waters, if a tear
Of mine increased their stream?
Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?
3 But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fix'd upon my thought.
4 Ye nightingales! ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove!
Ye gentle echoes! breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of lore!
5 With all of Nature, all of Art,
Assist the dear design;
Oh teach a young, unpractised heart
To make my Nancy mine.
6 The very thought of change I hate,
As much as of despair;
Nor ever covet to be great,
Unless it be for her.
7 'Tis true, the passion in my mind
Is mix'd with soft distress;
Yet while the fair I love is kind,
I cannot wish it less.
* * * * *
ANACREONTIC.
When Spring came on with fresh delight,
To cheer the soul, and charm the sight,
While easy breezes, softer rain,
And warmer suns salute the plain;
'Twas then, in yonder piny grove,
That Nature went to meet with Love.
Green was her robe, and green her wreath,
Where'er she trod, 'twas green beneath;
Where'er she turn'd, the pulses beat
With new recruits of genial heat; 10
And in her train the birds appear,
To match for all the coming year.
Raised on a bank, where daisies grew,
And violets intermix'd a blue,
She finds the boy she went to find;
A thousand pleasures wait behind,
Aside a thousand arrows lie,
But all, unfeather'd, wait to fly.
When they met, the dame and boy,
Dancing graces, idle joy, 20
Wanton smiles, and airy play,
Conspired to make the scene be gay;
Love pair'd the birds through all the grove,
And Nature bid them sing to Love,
Sitting, hopping, fluttering sing,
And pay their tribute from the wing,
To fledge the shafts that idly lie,
And, yet unfeather'd, wait to fly.
'Tis thus, when Spring renews the blood,
They meet in every trembling wood, 30
And thrice they make the plumes agree,
And every dart they mount with three,
And every dart can boast a kind,
Which suits each proper turn of mind.
From the towering eagle's plume
The generous hearts accept their doom;
Shot by the peacock's painted eye
The vain and airy lovers die:
For careful dames and frugal men,
The shafts are speckled by the hen: 40
The pies and parrots deck the darts,
When prattling wins the panting hearts:
When from the voice the passions spring,
The warbling finch affords a wing:
Together, by the sparrow stung,
Down fall the wanton and the young:
And fledged by geese the weapons fly,
When others love they know not why.
All this (as late I chanced to rove)
I learn'd in yonder waving grove. 50
And see, says Love, who call'd me near,
How much I deal with Nature here;
How both support a proper part,
She gives the feather, I the dart:
Then cease for souls averse to sigh,
If Nature cross ye, so do I;
My weapon there unfeather'd flies,
And shakes and shuffles through the skies.
But if the mutual charms I find
By which she links you, mind to mind, 60
They wing my shafts, I poise the darts,
And strike from both, through both your hearts.
* * * * *
ANACREONTIC.
1 Gay Bacchus liking Estcourt's[1] wine,
A noble meal bespoke us;
And for the guests that were to dine,
Brought Comus, Love, and Jocus.
2 The god near Cupid drew his chair,
Near Comus, Jocus placed;
For wine makes Love forget its care,
And Mirth exalts a feast.
3 The more to please the sprightly god,
Each sweet engaging Grace
Put on some clothes to come abroad,
And took a waiter's place.
4 Then Cupid named at every glass
A lady of the sky;
While Bacchus swore he'd drink the lass,
And did it bumper-high.
5 Fat Comus toss'd his brimmers o'er,
And always got the most;
Jocus took care to fill him more,
Whene'er he miss'd the toast.
6 They call'd, and drank at every touch;
He fill'd, and drank again;
And if the gods can take too much,
'Tis said they did so then.
7 Gay Bacchus little Cupid stung,
By reckoning his deceits;
And Cupid mock'd his stammering tongue,
With all his staggering gaits:
8 And Jocus droll'd on Comus' ways,
And tales without a jest;
While Comus call'd his witty plays
But waggeries at best.
9 Such talk soon set 'em all at odds;
And, had I Homer's pen,
I'd sing ye, how they drank like gods,
And how they fought like men.
10 To part the fray, the Graces fly,
Who make 'em soon agree;
Nay, had the Furies selves been nigh,
They still were three to three.
11 Bacchus appeased, raised Cupid up,
And gave him back his bow;
But kept some darts to stir the cup
Where sack and sugar flow.
12 Jocus took Comus' rosy crown,
And gaily wore the prize,
And thrice, in mirth, he push'd him down,
As thrice he strove to rise.
13 Then Cupid sought the myrtle grove,
Where Venus did recline;
And Venus close embracing Love,
They join'd to rail at wine.
14 And Comus loudly cursing wit,
Roll'd off to some retreat,
Where boon companions gravely sit
In fat unwieldy state.
15 Bacchus and Jocus, still behind,
For one fresh glass prepare;
They kiss, and are exceeding kind,
And vow to be sincere.
16 But part in time, whoever hear
This our instructive song;
For though such friendships may be dear,
They can't continue long.
[Footnote 1: 'Estcourt:' Dick, a comedian and keeper of the Bumper
Tavern--a companion of Addison, Steele, and the rest.]
* * * * *
A FAIRY TALE,
IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH STYLE.
1 In Britain's isle and Arthur's days,
When midnight Faeries danced the maze,
Lived Edwin of the green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shaped he been.
2 His mountain back mote well be said
To measure heighth against his head,
And lift itself above:
Yet spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dared to love.
3 He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Could ladies look within;
But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,
And, if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.
4 Edwin (if right I read my song)
With slighted passion paced along,
All in the moony light:
'Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive Faeries made resort
To revel out the night.
5 His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd,
'Twas late, 'twas farr, the path was lost
That reach'd the neighbour-town;
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolved, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.
6 But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
A trembling rocks the ground:
And (well I ween to count aright)
At once an hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.
7 Now sounding tongues assail his ear,
Now sounding feet approachen near,
And now the sounds increase:
And from the corner where he lay
He sees a train, profusely gay,
Come prankling o'er the place.
8 But trust me, gentles! never yet
Was dight a masquing half so neat,
Or half so rich before;
The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.
9 Now whilst he gazed, a gallant dress'd
In flaunting robes above the rest,
With awful accent cried:
What mortal of a wretched mind,
Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here presumed to hide?
10 At this the swain, whose venturous soul
No fears of magic art control,
Advanced in open sight:
Nor have I cause of dread, he said,
Who view, by no presumption led,
Your revels of the night.
11 'Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love,
Which made my steps unweeting rove
Amid the nightly dew.
'Tis well, the gallant cries again,
We Faeries never injure men
Who dare to tell us true.
12 Exalt thy love-dejected heart,
Be mine the task, or e'er we part,
To make thee grief resign;
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce;
Whilst I with Mab my partner daunce,
Be little Mable thine.
13 He spoke, and all a-sudden there
Light music floats in wanton air;
The monarch leads the queen:
The rest their Faerie partners found,
And Mable trimly tripp'd the ground
With Edwin of the green.
14 The dauncing past, the board was laid,
And siker such a feast was made
As heart and lip desire;
Withouten hands the dishes fly,
The glasses--with a wish come nigh,
And with a wish retire.
15 But now, to please the Faerie King,
Full every deal, they laugh and sing,
And antic feats devise;
Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other some transmute their shape
In Edwin's wondering eyes.
16 Till one at last that Robin bight,
(Renown'd for pinching maids by night)
Has hent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he flung,
Where by the back the youth he hung
To spraul unneath the roof.
17 From thence, Reverse my charm, he cries,
And let it fairly now suffice
The gambol has been shown.
But Oberon answers with a smile,
Content thee, Edwin, for a while,
The vantage is thine own.
18 Here ended all the phantom-play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,
And heard a cock to crow;
The whirling wind that bore the crowd
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.
19 Then screaming all at once they fly,
And all at once the tapers die,
Poor Edwin falls to floor;
Forlorn his state, and dark the place,
Was never wight in sike a case
Through all the land before.
20 But soon as Dan Apollo rose,
Full jolly creature home he goes,
He feels his back the less;
His honest tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind
Which made him want success.
21 With lusty livelyhed he talks,
He seems a-dauncing as he walks,
His story soon took wind;
And beauteous Edith sees the youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.
22 The story told, Sir Topaz moved,
The youth of Edith erst approved,
To see the revel scene:
At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.
23 As there he bides, it so befell,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall:
Up spring the tapers as before,
The Faeries bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.
24 But, certes, sorely sunk with woe
Sir Topaz sees the elfin show,
His spirits in him die:
When Oberon cries, A man is near,
A mortal passion, clèeped fear,
Hang's flagging in the sky.
25 With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents faltering aye for ruth,
Entreats them pity graunt;
For als he been a mister wight
Betray'd by wandering in the night
To tread the circled haunt.
26 Ah, losel vile! (at once they roar)
And little skill'd of Faerie lore,
Thy cause to come we know:
Now has thy kestrel courage fell;
And Faeries, since a lie you tell,
Are free to work thee woe.
27 Then Will, who bears the wispy fire,
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;
There like a tortoise in a shop
He dangled from the chamber-top,
Where whilom Edwin hung.
28 The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,
They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while,
Till all the rout retreat.
29 By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down ydrops the knight.
For never spell by Faerie laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade
Beyond the length of night.
30 Chill, dark, alone, adreed he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,
Then deem'd the dole was o'er;
But wot ye well his harder lot?
His seely back the bunch has got
Which Edwin lost afore.
31 This tale a Sybil-nurse aread;
She softly stroked my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
Thus some are born, my son, (she cries,)
With base impediments to rise,
And some are born with none.
32 But virtue can itself advaunce
To what the favourite fools of chaunce
By fortune seem'd design'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of Fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon the unworthy mind.
* * * * *
TO MR POPE.
To praise, yet still with due respect to praise,
A bard triumphant in immortal bays,
The learn'd to show, the sensible commend,
Yet still preserve the province of the friend,
What life, what vigour, must the lines require,
What music tune them, what affection fire!
Oh! might thy genius in my bosom shine,
Thou shouldst not fail of numbers worthy thine;
The brightest ancients might at once agree
To sing within my lays, and sing of thee. 10
Horace himself would own thou dost excel
In candid arts, to play the critic well.
Ovid himself might wish to sing the dame
Whom Windsor Forest sees a gliding stream;
On silver feet, with annual osier crown'd,
She runs for ever through poetic ground.
How flame the glories of Belinda's hair,
Made by thy Muse the envy of the fair!
Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess[1] wore,
Which sweet Callimachus so sung before; 20
Here courtly trifles set the world at odds,
Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for gods,
The new machines in names of ridicule,
Mock the grave frenzy of the chymic fool.
But know, ye fair, a point conceal'd with art,
The Sylphs and Gnomes are but a woman's heart:
The Graces stand in sight; a Satyr train
Peep o'er their heads, and laugh behind the scene.
In Fame's fair temple, o'er the boldest wits
Enshrined on high the sacred Virgil sits, 30
And sits in measures, such as Virgil's Muse
To place thee near him might be fond to choose.
How might he tune the alternate reed with thee,
Perhaps a Strephon thou, a Daphnis he,
While some old Damon, o'er the vulgar wise,
Thinks he deserves, and thou deserv'st the prize!
Rapt with the thought, my fancy seeks the plains,
And turns me shepherd while I hear the strains.
Indulgent nurse of every tender gale,
Parent of flowerets, old Arcadia, hail! 40
Here in the cool my limbs at ease I spread,
Here let thy poplars whisper o'er my head,
Still slide thy waters soft among the trees,
Thy aspens quiver in a breathing breeze,
Smile all thy valleys in eternal spring,
Be hush'd, ye winds! while Pope and Virgil sing.
In English lays, and all sublimely great,
Thy Homer warms with all his ancient heat;
He shines in council, thunders in the fight,
And flames with every sense of great delight. 50
Long has that poet reign'd, and long unknown,
Like monarchs sparkling on a distant throne,
In all the majesty of Greek retired,
Himself unknown, his mighty name admired;
His language failing, wrapp'd him round with night,
Thine, raised by thee, recalls the work to light.
So wealthy mines, that ages long before
Fed the large realms around with golden ore,
When choked by sinking banks, no more appear,
And shepherds only say, The mines were here: 60
Should some rich youth (if Nature warm his heart,
And all his projects stand inform'd with Art)
Here clear the caves, there ope the leading vein;
The mines, detected, flame with gold again.
How vast, how copious are thy new designs!
How every music varies in thy lines!
Still as I read, I feel my bosom beat,
And rise in raptures by another's heat.
Thus in the wood, when summer dress'd the days,
When Windsor lent us tuneful hours of ease, 70
Our ears the lark, the thrush, the turtle blest,
And Philomela sweetest o'er the rest:
The shades resound with song--oh softly tread!
While a whole season warbles round my head.
This to my friend--and when a friend inspires,
My silent harp its master's hand requires,
Shakes off the dust, and makes these rocks resound;
For fortune placed me in unfertile ground,
Far from the joys that with my soul agree,
From wit, from learning--far, oh far from thee! 80
Here moss-grown trees expand the smallest leaf,
Here half an acre's corn is half a sheaf;
Here hills with naked heads the tempest meet,
Rocks at their side, and torrents at their feet,
Or lazy lakes, unconscious of a flood,
Whose dull brown Naiads ever sleep in mud.
Yet here Content can dwell, and Learned Ease,
A friend delight me, and an author please;
Even here I sing, while Pope supplies the theme,
Show my own love, though not increase his fame. 90
[Footnote 1: 'Egypt's princess:' Cleopatra.]
* * * * *
HEALTH: AN ECLOGUE.
Now early shepherds o'er the meadow pass,
And print long footsteps in the glittering grass,
The cows neglectful of their pasture stand,
By turns obsequious to the milker's hand,
When Damon softly trode the shaven lawn,
Damon a youth from city cares withdrawn;
Long was the pleasing walk he wander'd through,
A cover'd arbour closed the distant view;
There rests the youth, and while the feather'd throng
Raise their wild music, thus contrives a song. 10
Here wafted o'er by mild Etesian air,
Thou country Goddess, beauteous Health, repair!
Here let my breast through quivering trees inhale
Thy rosy blessings with the morning gale.
What are the fields, or flowers, or all I see?
Ah! tasteless all, if not enjoy'd with thee.
Joy to my soul! I feel the Goddess nigh,
The face of Nature cheers as well as I;
O'er the flat green refreshing breezes run,
The smiling daisies blow beneath the sun, 20
The brooks run purling down with silver waves,
The planted lanes rejoice with dancing leaves,
The chirping birds from all the compass rove
To tempt the tuneful echoes of the grove:
High sunny summits, deeply shaded dales,
Thick mossy banks, and flowery winding vales,
With various prospect gratify the sight,
And scatter fix'd attention in delight.
Come, country Goddess, come! nor thou suffice,
But bring thy mountain sister, Exercise! 30
Call'd by thy lovely voice, she turns her pace,
Her winding horn proclaims the finish'd chase;
She mounts the rocks, she skims the level plain,
Dogs, hawks, and horses crowd her early train;
Her hardy face repels the tanning wind,
And lines and meshes loosely float behind.
All these as means of toil the feeble see,
But these are helps to pleasure join'd with thee.
Let Sloth lie softening till high noon in down,
Or lolling fan her in the sultry town, 40
Unnerved with rest, and turn her own disease,
Or foster others in luxurious ease:
I mount the courser, call the deep-mouth'd hounds;
The fox unkennell'd, flies to covert grounds;
I lead where stags through tangled thickets tread,
And shake the saplings with their branching head;
I make the falcons wing their airy way,
And soar to seize, or stooping strike their prey:
To snare the fish I fix the luring bait;
To wound the fowl I load the gun with fate. 50
'Tis thus through change of exercise I range,
And strength and pleasure rise from every change.
Here beauteous for all the year remain;
When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.
Oh come, thou Goddess of my rural song,
And bring thy daughter, calm Content, along!
Dame of the ruddy cheek and laughing eye,
From whose bright presence clouds of sorrow fly:
For her I mow my walks, I plait my bowers,
Clip my low hedges, and support my flowers; 60
To welcome her, this summer seat I dress'd,
And here I court her when she comes to rest;
When she from exercise to learned ease
Shall change again, and teach the change to please.
Now friends conversing my soft hours refine,
And Tully's Tusculum revives in mine:
Now to grave books I bid the mind retreat,
And such as make me rather good than great;
Or o'er the works of easy Fancy rove,
Where flutes and innocence amuse the grove: 70
The native bard that on Sicilian plains
First sung the lowly manners of the swains;
Or Maro's Muse, that in the fairest light
Paints rural prospects and the charms of sight;
These soft amusements bring Content along,
And Fancy, void of sorrow, turns to song.
Here beauteous Health for all the year remain;
When the next comes, I'll charm thee thus again.
* * * * *
THE FLIES: AN ECLOGUE.
When the river cows for coolness stand.
And sheep for breezes seek the lofty land,
A youth whom Æsop taught that every tree,
Each bird and insect, spoke as well as he,
Walk'd calmly musing in a shaded way,
Where flowering hawthorn broke the sunny ray,
And thus instructs his moral pen to draw
A scene that obvious in the field he saw.
Near a low ditch, where shallow waters meet,
Which never learn'd to glide with liquid feet, 10
Whose Naiads never prattle as they play,
But screen'd with hedges slumber out the day,
There stands a slender fern's aspiring shade,
Whose answering branches, regularly laid,
Put forth their answering boughs, and proudly rise
Three storeys upward in the nether skies.
For shelter here, to shun the noonday heat,
An airy nation of the flies retreat;
Some in soft air their silken pinions ply,
And some from bough to bough delighted fly, 20
Some rise, and circling light to perch again;
A pleasing murmur hums along the plain.
So, when a stage invites to pageant shows,
(If great and small are like) appear the beaux;
In boxes some with spruce pretension sit,
Some change from seat to seat within the pit,
Some roam the scenes, or turning cease to roam;
Preluding music fills the lofty dome.
When thus a fly (if what a fly can say
Deserves attention) raised the rural lay:
Where late Amintor made a nymph a bride, 30
Joyful I flew by young Favonia's side,
Who, mindless of the feasting, went to sip
The balmy pleasure of the shepherd's lip;
I saw the wanton where I stoop'd to sup,
And half resolved to drown me in the cup;
Till, brush'd by careless hands, she soar'd above:
Cease, beauty, cease to vex a tender love!
Thus ends the youth, the buzzing meadow rung,
And thus the rival of his music sung: 40
When suns by thousands shone in orbs of dew,
I, wafted soft, with Zephyretta flew;
Saw the clean pail, and sought the milky cheer,
While little Daphnè seized my roving dear.
Wretch that I was! I might have warn'd the dame,
Yet sate indulging as the danger came,
But the kind huntress left her free to soar:
Ah! guard, ye lovers, guard a mistress more!
Thus from the fern, whose high projecting arms,
The fleeting nation bent with dusky swarms, 50
The swains their love in easy music breathe,
When tongues and tumult stun the field beneath,
Black ants in teams come darkening all the road;
Some call to march, and some to lift the load;
They strain, they labour with incessant pains,
Press'd by the cumbrous weight of single grains.
The flies, struck silent, gaze with wonder down:
The busy burghers reach their earthy town,
Where lay the burdens of a wintry store,
And thence, unwearied, part in search of more. 60
Yet one grave sage a moment's space attends,
And the small city's loftiest point ascends,
Wipes the salt dew that trickles down his face,
And thus harangues them with the gravest grace
Ye foolish nurslings of the summer air!
These gentle tunes and whining songs forbear,
Your trees and whispering breeze, your grove and love,
Your Cupid's quiver, and his mother's dove;
Let bards to business bend their vigorous wing,
And sing but seldom, if they love to sing: 70
Else, when the flowerets of the season fail,
And this your ferny shade forsakes the vale,
Though one would save ye, not one grain of wheat
Should pay such songster's idling at my gate.
He ceased: the flies, incorrigibly vain,
Heard the mayor's speech, and fell to sing again.
* * * * *
AN ELEGY TO AN OLD BEAUTY.
In vain, poor nymph, to please our youthful sight
You sleep in cream and frontlets all the night,
Your face with patches soil, with paint repair,
Dress with gay gowns, and shade with foreign hair.
If truth in spite of manners must be told,
Why, really, fifty-five is something old.
Once you were young; or one, whose life's so long,
She might have borne my mother, tells me wrong.
And once, (since Envy's dead before you die)
The women own, you play'd a sparkling eye, 10
Taught the light foot a modish little trip,
And pouted with the prettiest purple lip.
To some new charmer are the roses fled,
Which blew, to damask all thy cheek with red;
Youth calls the graces there to fix their reign,
And airs by thousands fill their easy train.
So parting Summer bids her flowery prime
Attend the Sun to dress some foreign clime,
While withering seasons in succession, here,
Strip the gay gardens, and deform the Year. 20
But thou (since Nature bids) the world resign,
'Tis now thy daughter's daughter's time to shine.
With more address, (or such as pleases more)
She runs her female exercises o'er,
Unfurls or closes, raps or turns the fan,
And smiles, or blushes at the creature Man.
With quicker life, as gilded coaches pass,
In sideling courtesy she drops the glass.
With better strength, on visit-days she bears
To mount her fifty flights of ample stairs. 30
Her mien, her shape, her temper, eyes and tongue,
Are sure to conquer--for the rogue is young;
And all that's madly wild, or oddly gay,
We call it only pretty Fanny's way.
Let Time that makes you homely, make you sage,
The sphere of wisdom is the sphere of age.
'Tis true, when beauty dawns with early fire,
And hears the flattering tongues of soft desire,
If not from virtue, from its gravest ways
The soul with pleasing avocation strays. 40
But beauty gone, 'tis easier to be wise;
As harpers better by the loss of eyes.
Henceforth retire, reduce your roving airs,
Haunt less the plays, and more the public prayers,
Reject the Mechlin head, and gold brocade,
Go pray, in sober Norwich crape array'd.
Thy pendant diamonds let thy Fanny take,
Their trembling lustre shows how much you shake;
Or bid her wear thy necklace row'd with pearl,
You'll find your Fanny an obedient girl. 50
So, for the rest, with less incumbrance hung,
You walk through life, unmingled with the young;
And view the shade and substance as you pass
With joint endeavour trifling at the glass,
Or Folly dress'd, and rambling all her days,
To meet her counterpart, and grow by praise:
Yet still sedate yourself, and gravely plain,
You neither fret, nor envy at the vain.
'Twas thus, if man with woman we compare,
The wise Athenian cross'd a glittering fair; 60
Unmoved by tongues and sights, he walk'd the place,
Through tape, toys, tinsel, gimp, perfume, and lace;
Then bends from Mars's hill his awful eyes,
And 'What a world I never want!' he cries;
But cries unheard: for Folly will be free.
So parts the buzzing gaudy crowd, and he:
As careless he for them, as they for him;
He wrapt in wisdom, and they whirl'd by whim
* * * * *
THE BOOK-WORM.
Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day
The book-worm, ravening beast of prey!
Produced by parent Earth, at odds
(As Fame reports it) with the gods.
Him frantic Hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand authors' lives:
Through all the fields of Wit he flies;
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to serve him for a skin. 10
Observe him nearly, lest he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of Fancy go,
To tear some modern wretch below:
On every corner fix thine eye,
Or, ten to one, he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter's forced to give?
'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live! 20
From leaf to leaf, from song to song,
He draws the tadpole form along,
He mounts the gilded edge before,
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er,
He turns, he doubles, there he pass'd,
And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest servants of the Muse!
--Nay, never offer to deny,
I took thee in the act to fly-- 30
His roses nipp'd in every page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage.
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies:
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for every single deed,
Relentless Justice bids thee bleed. 40
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.
Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,
To pile a sacred altar here;
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain;
Pray take your mortal bards again.
Come, bind the victim,--there he lies,
And here between his numerous eyes 50
This venerable dust I lay,
From manuscripts just swept away.
The goblet in my hand I take
(For the libation's yet to make),
A health to poets! all their days
May they have bread, as well as praise;
Sense may they seek, and less engage
In papers fill'd with party rage.
But if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Muses! make them poor again. 60
Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I strike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar floats with red;
And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the son of Jove I stand,
This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To see what dangers threat the year: 70
Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench!
What lean translations out of French!
'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound,
S-- prints before the months go round.
But hold, before I close the scene,
The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh, had I Shadwell's[1] second bays,
Or, Tate![2] thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, 80
(That only way you please the Nine)
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey[3] do.
Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin
I hang the scales that braced it in;
I hang my studious morning gown,
And write my own inscription down.
'This trophy from the Python won,
This robe, in which the deed was done, 90
These, Parnell glorying in the feat,
Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat.
Here Ignorance and Hunger found
Large realms of wit to ravage round;
Here Ignorance and Hunger fell--
Two foes in one I sent to hell.
Ye poets, who my labours see,
Come share the triumph all with me!
Ye critics, born to vex the Muse,
Go mourn the grand ally you lose!' 100
[Footnote 1: 'Shadwell:' Dryden's rival.]
[Footnote 2: 'Tate:' Nahum. See Life of Dryden.]
[Footnote 3: 'Durfey:' the well-known wit of the time.]
* * * * *
AN ALLEGORY ON MAN.
A thoughtful being, long and spare,
Our race of mortals call him Care;
(Were Homer living, well he knew
What name the gods have call'd him too)
With fine mechanic genius wrought,
And loved to work, though no one bought.
This being, by a model bred
In Jove's eternal sable head,
Contrived a shape, empower'd to breathe,
And be the worldling here beneath. 10
The Man rose staring, like a stake,
Wondering to see himself awake!
Then look'd so wise, before he knew
The business he was made to do,
That, pleased to see with what a grace
He gravely show'd his forward face,
Jove talk'd of breeding him on high,
An under-something of the sky.
But e'er he gave the mighty nod,
Which ever binds a poet's god, 20
(For which his curls ambrosial shake,
And mother Earth's obliged to quake:)
He saw old mother Earth arise,
She stood confess'd before his eyes;
But not with what we read she wore,
A castle for a crown, before;
Nor with long streets and longer roads
Dangling behind her, like commodes:
As yet with wreaths alone she dress'd,
And trail'd a landscape-painted vest. 30
Then thrice she raised, (as Ovid said)
And thrice she bow'd her weighty head.
Her honours made, Great Jove, she cried,
This thing was fashion'd from my side;
His hands, his heart, his head are mine;
Then what hast thou to call him thine?
Nay, rather ask, the monarch said,
What boots his hand, his heart, his head?
Were what I gave removed away,
Thy parts an idle shape of clay. 40
Halves, more than halves! cried honest Care;
Your pleas would make your titles fair,
You claim the body, you the soul,
But I who join'd them, claim the whole.
Thus with the gods debate began,
On such a trivial cause as Man.
And can celestial tempers rage?
(Quoth Virgil in a later age.)
As thus they wrangled, Time came by;
(There's none that paint him such as I, 50
For what the fabling ancients sung
Makes Saturn old, when Time was young.)
As yet his winters had not shed
Their silver honours on his head;
He just had got his pinions free
From his old sire Eternity.
A serpent girdled round he wore,
The tail within the mouth before;
By which our almanacs are clear
That learned Egypt meant the year. 60
A staff he carried, where on high
A glass was fix'd to measure by,
As amber boxes made a show
For heads of canes an age ago.
His vest, for day and night, was pied,
A bending sickle arm'd his side,
And Spring's new months his train adorn;
The other Seasons were unborn.
Known by the gods, as near he draws,
They make him umpire of the cause. 70
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid,
(Where since his Hours a dial made;)
Then, leaning, heard the nice debate,
And thus pronounced the words of Fate:
Since Body from the parent Earth,
And Soul from Jove received a birth,
Return they where they first began;
But since their union makes the Man,
Till Jove and Earth shall part these two,
To Care, who join'd them, Man is due. 80
He said, and sprung with swift career
To trace a circle for the year,
Where ever since the Seasons wheel,
And tread on one another's heel.
'Tis well, said Jove, and for consent
Thundering he shook the firmament;
Our umpire Time shall have his way,
With Care I let the creature stay:
Let business vex him, avarice blind,
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, 90
Let error act, opinion speak,
And want afflict, and sickness break,
And anger burn, dejection chill,
And joy distract, and sorrow kill,
Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow,
Time draws the long destructive blow;
And wasted Man, whose quick decay,
Comes hurrying on before his day,
Shall only find, by this decree,
The Soul flies sooner back to me. 100
* * * * *
AN IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES.
Relentless Time! destroying power
Whom stone and brass obey,
Who giv'st to every flying hour
To work some new decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy secret saps prevail,
And ruin Man, a nice machine
By Nature form'd to fail.
My change arrives; the change I meet,
Before I thought it nigh. 10
My spring, my years of pleasure fleet,
And all their beauties die.
In age I search, and only find
A poor unfruitful gain,
Grave Wisdom stalking slow behind,
Oppress'd with loads of pain.
My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys inspire;
My errors cherish'd hope to smile
On newly-born desire. 20
But now experience shows the bliss,
For which I fondly sought,
Not worth the long impatient wish,
And ardour of the thought.
My youth met Fortune fair array'd;
In all her pomp she shone,
And might perhaps have well essay'd
To make her gifts my own:
But when I saw the blessings shower
On some unworthy mind, 30
I left the chase, and own'd the power
Was justly painted blind.
I pass'd the glories which adorn
The splendid courts of kings,
And while the persons moved my scorn.
I rose to scorn the things.
My manhood felt a vigorous fire,
By love increased the more;
But years with coming years conspire
To break the chains I wore. 40
In weakness safe, the sex I see
With idle lustre shine;
For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?
But hold--I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to rest,
And truths which would disturb my peace,
Are painful truths at best.
Vainly the time I have to roll
In sad reflection flies; 50
Ye fondling passions of my soul!
Ye sweet deceits! arise.
I wisely change the scene within,
To things that used to please;
In pain, philosophy is spleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.
* * * * *
A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.
By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er:
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
How deep yon azure dyes the sky,
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 10
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide!
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves. 20
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight,
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
'Time was, like thee they life possess'd,
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.'
Those graves, with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 30
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where Toil and Poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame,
Which, e'er our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away,
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half-ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 40
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;--
These (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich, or praise the great;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades,
The bursting earth unveils the shades!
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds,
They rise in visionary crowds, 50
And all with sober accent cry,
'Think, mortal, what it is to die!'
Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnal-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from among the bones: 60
'When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things:
They make, and then they dread, my stings.
Fools! if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre-form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calms, a state of ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas. 70
Why, then, thy flowing sable stoles,
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poles,
Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds,
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds,
And plumes of black, that, as they tread,
Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead?
Nor can the parted body know,
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe:
As men who long in prison dwell,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell, 80
Whene'er their suffering years are run,
Spring forth to greet the glittering sun:
Such joy, though far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence.
On earth, and in the body placed,
A few, and evil years, they waste:
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Clap the glad wing and tower away,
And mingle with the blaze of day!' 90
* * * * *
A HYMN TO CONTENTMENT.
Lovely, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human kind!
Heavenly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, oh! whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head?
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calm and ease? 10
Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Increasing Avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrined.
The bold adventurer ploughs his way,
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 20
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That Solitude's the nurse of Woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All Nature in its forms below; 30
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last for knowledge rise.
Lovely, lasting peace appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden bless'd,
And Man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceived
The branches whisper as they waved: 40
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace,
When thus she spoke:--'Go, rule thy will;
Bid thy wild passions all be still;
Know God--and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from Religion flow:
Then every Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest.'
Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat; 50
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy!
Raised as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleased and bless'd with God alone:
Then, while the gardens take my sight
With all the colours of delight;
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song: 60
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And Thee, Great Source of Nature! sing.
The sun, that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon, that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars, that gild the gloomy night;
The seas, that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood, that spreads its shady leaves;
The field, whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;-- 70
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want, and ask, the tongue of man.
Go, search among your idle dreams,
Your busy, or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this!
* * * * *
THE HERMIT.
Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well:
Remote from man, with God he pass'd the days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seem'd heaven itself, till one suggestion rose:
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway; 10
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost:
So when a smooth expanse receives impress'd
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow:
But if a stone the gentle scene divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 20
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books or swains report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew)
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before;
Then with the sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; 30
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair.
Then near approaching, 'Father, hail!' he cried,
'And hail, my Son!' the reverend sire replied;
Words follow'd words, from question answer flow'd,
And talk of various kind deceived the road.
Till each with other pleased, and loth to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart: 40
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray;
Nature in silence bid the world repose;
When near the road a stately palace rose:
There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass.
It chanced the noble master of the dome,
Still made his house the wandering stranger's home: 50
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive: the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good;
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the Zephyrs play; 60
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call;
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced,
Which the kind master forced the guests to taste.
Then pleased and thankful, from the porch they go,
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe;
His cup was vanish'd--for in secret guise
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize. 70
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear:
So seem'd the sire, when, far upon the road,
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart,
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part:
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard,
That generous actions meet a base reward. 80
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air presaged approaching rain,
And beasts to cover scud across the plain.
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat,
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat.
'Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around;
Its owner's temper, timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 90
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew;
The nimble lightning, mix'd with showers, began,
And o'er their heads loud-rolling thunder ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast,
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest)
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; 100
One frugal faggot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls:
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager[1] wine,
(Each hardly granted) served them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pondering hermit view'd,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;
And why should such, (within himself he cried,)
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? 110
But what new marks of wonder soon took place,
In every settling feature of his face,
When from his vest the young companion bore
That cup, the generous landlord own'd before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly,
The sun emerging opes an azure sky;
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: 120
The weather courts them from the poor retreat,
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travail of uncertain thought;
His partner's acts without their cause appear,
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky;
Again the wanderers want a place to lie, 130
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great:
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise, but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet,
Then bliss the mansion, and the master greet:
Their greeting fair bestow'd, with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
'Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 140
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.'
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talk'd of virtue till the time of bed,
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.
At length the world, renew'd by calm repose,
Was strong for toil, the dappled morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept, 150
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride--
Oh, strange return!--grew black, and gasp'd, and died.
Horror of horrors! what! his only son!
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done?
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part,
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.
Confused, and struck with silence at the deed,
He flies, but, trembling, fails to fly with speed.
His steps the youth pursues; the country lay 160
Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the way:
A river cross'd the path; the passage o'er
Was nice to find; the servant trode before;
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide.
Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/11254