The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose Now First Collected with a Prefatory Memoir by his Nephews W. E. and Sir Bartle Frere |
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The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose | ||
CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE ANTI-JACOBIN.
IMITATION. INSCRIPTION
FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE PRENTICE-CIDE, WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.
Here Brownrigg linger'd. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
She whipp'd two female 'prentices to death,
And hid them in the coal-hole. For her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog
The little Spartans; such as erst chastised
Our Milton, when at college. For this act
Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come,
When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd!
IMITATION. SAPPHICS.
THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER.
Friend of Humanity.Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order—
Bleak blows the blast;—your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches!
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day “Knives and
“Scissars to grind O!”
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the 'squire? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?
Covetous parson, for his tythes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.”
Knife-grinder.
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
—Stocks for a vagrant.
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.”
Friend of Humanity.
“I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first—
Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance—
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,
Spiritless outcast!
[Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]
LA SAINTE GUILLOTINE.
A NEW SONG.
I.
See the genius of Gallic invasion advance!
Old ocean shall waft her, unruffled by storm,
While our shores are all lined with the Friends of Reform.
With meek-eyed Sedition, the daughter of Paine;
While her sportive Poissardes with light footsteps are seen
To dance in a ring round the gay Guillotine.
II.
Hark! my boys, to the sound of the Jacobin drums!
See Corruption, Prescription, and Privilege fly,
Pierced through by the glance of her blood-darting eye.
In soft accents shall lisp the Republican creed,
And with tri-colour'd fillets and cravats of green,
Shall crowd round the altar of Saint Guillotine.
III.
The vile Aristocracy's doom is at hand!
Not a seat shall be left in a House that we know,
But for Earl Buonaparte and Baron Moreau.
Buonaparte himself shall approve the elected;
And the Speaker shall march with majestical mien,
And make his three bows to the grave Guillotine.
IV.
But the Jacobin choice is for Five Heads or none.
By Directories only can Liberty thrive;
Then down with the One, boys! and up with the Five!
When their heads are thrust out at the National Casement!
When the National Razor has shaved them quite clean,
What a handsome oblation to Saint Guillotine!
THE SOLDIER'S FRIEND.
DACTYLICS.
I am the soldier's friend—here are some books for you;
Nice clever books by Tom Paine, the philanthropist.
Go to the barracks, and give all the soldiers some.
Tell them the sailors are all in a mutiny.
Freedom's volcanic explosion prepares itself,
Despots shall bow to the fasces of liberty.
Reason, philosophy, “fiddledum, diddledum,”
Peace and fraternity, higgledy, piggledy,
Higgledy, piggledy, “fiddledum, diddledum.”
SONG.
That demon of hell,
And of Barras, his brother Director;
Of the canting Lepaux,
And that scoundrel Moreau,
Who betray'd his old friend and protector.
For their own private ends,
Would subvert our religion and throne?—
Do you doubt of their skill
To change laws at their will?—
You shall hear how they treated their own.
In a little blue book,
At the code of their famed legislation,
That with truth they might say,
In the space of one day
They had broke every law of the nation.
Is “the press shall be free!”
The next is “the trial by jury:”
Then, “the people's free choice;”
Then, “the members' free voice”—
When Rewbell exclaim'd in a fury—
For infringing them all—
We'll seize on each printer and member:
No period so fit
For a desperate hit,
As our old bloody month of September.
Which wants our correction,
And name our own creatures instead.
When once we've our will,
No blood we will spill,
(Let Carnot be knock'd on the head).
Our victims alive,
And as soon as on board we have got 'em,
Since we destine the ship
For no more than one trip,
We can just make a hole in the bottom.
On the true Rights of Man,
Thou England's our foe,
An army shall go
To improve her corrupt Constitution.
A fine proclamation,
With offers of friendship so warm:
Who can give Buonaparté
A welcome so hearty
As the friends of a thorough reform?”
THE PROGRESS OF MAN.
A DIDACTIC POEM, IN FORTY CANTOS, WITH NOTES CRITICAL AND EXPLANATORY: CHIEFLY OF A PHILOSOPHICAL TENDENCY. DEDICATED TO R. P. KNIGHT, ESQ.
CANTO FIRST.
Contents.—The Subject proposed.—Doubts and Waverings.—Queries not to be answered.—Formation of the stupendous Whole.—Cosmogony; or the Creation of the World:—the Devil—Man—Various classes of Being:— Animated Beings—Birds—Fish—Beasts—the Influence of the Sexual Appetite—on Tigers—on Whales—on Crimpt Cod—on Perch—on Shrimps— on Oysters.—Various Stations assigned to different Animals:—Birds—Bears —Mackerel.—Bears remarkable for their fur—Mackerel cried on a Sunday— Birds do not graze—nor Fishes fly—nor beasts live in the Water.—Plants equally contented with their lot:—Potatoes—Cabbage—Lettuce—Leeks— Cucumbers.—Man only discontented—born a Savage; not choosing to continue so, becomes polished—resigns his Liberty—Priest-craft—King-craft— Tyranny of Laws and Institutions.—Savage life—description thereof:—The Savage free—roaming Woods—feeds on Hips and Haws—Animal Food—first notion of it from seeing a Tiger tearing his prey—wonders if it is good— resolves to try—makes a Bow and Arrow—kills a Pig or two—resolves to roast a part of them—lights a fire—Apostrophe to fires—Spits and Jacks not yet invented.—Digression.—Corinth—Sheffield.—Love, the most natural desire after Food.—Savage Courtship.—Concubinage recommended.—Satirical Reflections on Parents and Children—Husbands and Wives—against collateral Consanguinity.—Freedom the only Morality, &c. &c. &c.
Stretch'd forth its arm at Nature's natal hour,
Composed this mighty Whole with plastic skill,
Wielding the jarring elements at will?
Or whether sprung from Chaos' mingling storm,
The mass of matter started into form?
Or Chance o'er earth's green lap spontaneous fling
The fruits of autumn and the flowers of spring?
Whether material substance unrefined,
Owns the strong impulse of instinctive mind,
Which to one centre points diverging lines,
Confounds, refracts, invig'rates, and combines?
Whether the joys of earth, the hopes of heaven,
By man to God, or God to man, were given?
If virtue leads to bliss, or vice to woe?
Who rules above? or who reside below?”
Vain questions all—shall man presume to know?
On all these points, and points obscure as these,
Think they who will,—and think whate'er they please!
Mark the grim savage scoop his light canoe;
With anxious fondness feed her cawing young.—
Mark the fell leopard through the desert prowl,
Fish prey on fish, and fowl regale on fowl;—
How Lybian tigers' chawdrons Love assails,
And warms, midst seas of ice, the melting whales;—
Cools the crimpt cod, fierce pangs to perch imparts,
Shrinks shrivell'd shrimps, but opens oysters' hearts;
Then say, how all these things together tend
To one great truth, prime object, and good end?
Some lot, some part, some station is assign'd.
The feather'd race with pinions skim the air—
Not so the mackerel, and still less the bear:
This roams the wood, carniv'rous, for his prey!
That with soft roe pursues his watery way:
This slain by hunters, yields his shaggy hide;
That, caught by fishers, is on Sundays cried.—
Moves unambitious through the circling year;
Nor e'er forgets the fortunes of his race,
Nor pines to quit, or strives to change, his place.
Ah! who has seen the mailed lobster rise,
Clap his broad wings, and soaring claim the skies?
When did the owl, descending from her bow'r
Crop, 'midst the fleecy flocks, the tender flow'r;
In the salt wave, and fish-like strive to swim?
Uncostly cabbage springs from cabbage seed;
Lettuce to lettuce, leeks to leeks succeed;
Nor e'er did cooling cucumbers presume
To flow'r like myrtle, or like violets bloom.
—Man only,—rash, refined, presumptuous man,
Starts from his rank, and mars creation's plan.
Born the free heir of nature's wide domain,
To art's strict limits bounds his narrow'd reign;
Resigns his native rights for meaner things,
For faith and fetters—laws, and priests, and kings.
Keeps the smooth tenour of his guiltless life;
Restrain'd by none, save Nature's lenient laws,
Quaffs the clear stream, and feeds on hips and haws.
Light to his daily sports behold him rise!
The bloodless banquet health and strength supplies.
Bloodless not long—one morn he haps to stray
Through the lone wood—and close beside the way,
See the gaunt tiger tear his trembling prey;
Beneath whose gory fangs a leveret bleeds,
Or pig—such pig as fertile China breeds.
Rolls his broad eyes, and clasps his lifted hands!
Then restless roams—and loathes his wonted food;
Shuns the salubrious stream, and thirsts for blood.
New arts, new arms, his wayward wants require.
From the tough yew a slender branch he tears,
With self-taught skill the twisted grass prepares;
Th' unfashion'd bow, with labouring efforts bends
In circling form, and joins th' unwilling ends.
Next some tall reed he seeks—with sharp-edged stone
Shapes the fell dart, and points with whiten'd bone.
Then forth he fares—around in careless play,
Kids, pigs, and lambkins unsuspecting stray.
With grim delight he views the sportive band,
Intent on blood, and lifts his murderous hand,
Twangs the bent bow—resounds the fateful dart
Swift-wing'd, and trembles in a porker's heart.
Thy back's stiff bristles, or thy curly tail?
Ah! what avail those eyes so small and round,
Long pendent ears, and snout that loves the ground?
From thy spilt blood shall spring unnumber'd crimes.
Soon shall the slaught'rous arms that wrought thy woe,
Improved by malice, deal a deadlier blow;
When social man shall pant for nobler game,
And 'gainst his fellow man the vengeful weapon aim.
As wrathful hate, or wild ambition fires,
Urged by the statesman's craft, the tyrant's rage,
Embattled nations endless wars shall wage,
Vast seas of blood the ravaged field shall stain,
And millions perish—that a king may reign!
Each rising want invention quick supplies.
To roast his victuals is man's next desire,
So two dry sticks he rubs, and lights a fire;
Hail, fire, &c. &c.
CANTO TWENTY-THIRD.
CONTENTS.
On Marriage.—Marriage being indissoluble the cause of its being so often unhappy.—Nature's laws not consulted in this point.—Civilized nations mistaken.—Otaheite: Happiness of the natives thereof—visited by Captain Cook, in his Majesty's ship Endeavour—Character of Captain Cook.—Address to Circumnavigation.—Description of His Majesty's Ship Endeavour—Mast, rigging, sea sickness, prow, poop, mess-room, surgeon's mate—History of one.—Episode concerning naval chirurgery.—Catching a Thunny Fish.— Arrival at Otaheite—cast anchor—land—Natives astonished.—Love—Liberty —Moral—Natural—Religious—Contrasted with European manners.— Strictness—Licence—Doctor's Commons.—Dissolubility of Marriage recommended—Illustrated by a game at Cards—Whist—Cribbage—Partners changed—Why not the same in Marriage?—Illustrated by a River.—Love free.—Priests, Kings.—German Drama.—Kotzebue's “Housekeeper Reformed”—to be translated.—Moral employments of Housekeeping described. —Hottentots sit and stare at each other—Query, why?—Address to the Hottentots.—History of the Cape of Good Hope.—Resumé of the Arguments against Marriage.—Conclusion.
EXTRACT.
Dear happy seats of Liberty and Ease!
Hail! whose green coasts the peaceful ocean laves,
Incessant washing with its watery waves!
Delicious islands! to whose envied shore
Thee, gallant Cook! the ship Endeavour bore.
And light-wing'd loves, and blameless pleasures reign:
There, when two souls congenial ties unite,
No hireling Bonzes chant the mystic rite;
Free every thought, each action unconfined,
And light those fetters which no rivets bind.
And flow'rs and shrubs and odorous herbs among,
Each shepherd clasp'd, with undisguised delight,
His yielding fair one,—in the Captain's sight;
Each yielding fair, as chance or fancy led,
Preferr'd new lovers to her sylvan bed.
Europe's cold laws, and colder customs bind—
O! learn, what Nature's genial laws decree—
What Otaheite is, let Britain be!
The partners changing, but the sport the same.
Else would the gamester's anxious ardour cool,
Dull every deal, and stagnant every pool.
Yet must one Man, with one unceasing Wife,
Play the long rubber of connubial life.
Yes! human laws, and laws esteem'd divine,
The generous passion straighten and confine;
And, as a stream, when art constrains its course,
Pours its fierce torrent with augmented force,
So, Passion narrow'd to one channel small,
Unlike the former, does not flow at all.
For Love then only flaps his purple wings,
When uncontroll'd by priestcraft or by kings.
Choke youth's fair flow'rs, and feelings turn to crimes:
And people every walk of polish'd life
With that two-headed monster, Man and Wife.
Which from the general practice seem to swerve;
Such as presented to Germania's view,
A Kotzebue's bold emphatic pencil drew:
Such as, translated in some future age,
Shall add new glories to the British stage;
—While the moved audience sit in dumb despair,
“Like Hottentots, and at each other stare.”
In matron weeds a Housekeeper appears.
The jingling keys her comely girdle deck—
Her 'kerchief colour'd, and her apron check.
Can that be Adelaide, that “soul of whim,”
Reform'd in practice, and in manner prim?
—On household cares intent, with many a sigh
She turns the pancake, and she moulds the pie;
Melts into sauces rich the savoury ham:
From the crush'd berry strains the lucid jam;
Bids brandied cherries, by infusion slow,
Imbibe new flavour, and their own forego,
Sole cordial of her heart, sole solace of her woe!
While still, responsive to each mournful moan,
The saucepan simmers in a softer tone.
THE LOVES OF THE TRIANGLES.
A MATHEMATICAL AND PHILOSOPHICAL POEM.
ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST CANTO.
Warning to the profane not to approach—Nymphs and Deities of Mathematical Mythology—Cyclois of a pensive disposition—Pendulums, the contrary, playful—and why?—Sentimental Union of the Naiads and Hydrostatics—Marriage of Euclid and Algebra.—Pulley the emblem of Mechanics—Optics of a licentious disposition—distinguished by her telescope and green spectacles.—Hyde Park Gate on a Sunday morning—Cockneys—Coaches—Didactic Poetry—Nonsensia—Love delights in Angles or Corners—Theory of Fluxions explained—Trochais, the Nymph of the Wheel—Smoke-Jack described—Personification of elementary or culinary Fire—Little Jack Horner—Story of Cinderella—Rectangle, a Magician, educated by Plato and Menecmus—in love with Three Curves at the same time—served by Gins, or Genii—transforms himself
CANTO I.
The Muses' haunts, ye sons of War and Trade!
Nor you, ye legion fiends of Church and Law,
Pollute these pages with unhallow'd paw!
Debased, corrupted, grovelling, and confined,
No Definitions touch your senseless mind;
To you no Postulates prefer their claim,
No ardent Axioms your dull souls inflame;
For you, no Tangents touch, no Angles meet,
No Circles join in osculation sweet!
Your wandering curves; ye Conchoids extend;
Let playful Pendules quick vibration feel,
While silent Cyclois rests upon her wheel;
Let Hydrostatics, simpering as they go,
Lead the light Naiads on fantastic toe;
Let shrill Acoustics tune the tiny lyre;
With Euclid sage fair Algebra conspire;
The obedient pulley strong Mechanics ply,
And wanton Optics roll the melting eye!
The flaunting drapery, and the languid leer;
Fair sylphish forms—who, tall, erect, and slim,
Dart the keen glance, and stretch the length of limb;
To viewless harpings weave the meanless dance,
Wave the gay wreath, and titter as they prance.
Mounts the thick dust, the coaches crowd along,
Presses round Grosvenor Gate th'impatient throng;
White-muslined misses and mammas are seen,
Link'd with gay cockneys, glittering o'er the green:
The rising breeze unnumber'd charms displays,
And the tight ancle strikes th' astonished gaze.
Divine Nonsensia, all thy soul infuse;
The charms of Secants and of Tangents tell,
How Loves and Graces in an Angle dwell;
How slow progressive Points protract the Line,
As pendent spiders spin the filmy twine;
How lengthen'd Lines, impetuous sweeping round,
Spread the wide Plane, and mark its circling bound;
How Planes, their substance with their motion grown,
Form the huge Cube, the Cylinder, the Cone.
The fair Trochais from the corner bends!
Her coal-black eyes upturn'd, incessant mark
The eddying smoke, quick flame, and volant spark;
Dart her quick ken, where flashing in between,
Her much-loved Smoke-Jack glimmers thro' the scene;
Mark how his various parts together tend,
Point to one purpose,—in one object end;
The spiral grooves in smooth meanders flow,
Drags the long chain, the polish'd axles glow,
While slowly circumvolves the piece of beef below:
The conscious fire with bickering radiance burns,
Eyes the rich joint, and roasts it as it turns.
Cull'd the dark plum from out his Christmas pie,
And cried, in self-applause—“How good a boy am I.”
Fair Cinderella, pass'd the wintry night,
In the lone chimney's darksome nook immured,
Her form disfigured, and her charms obscured.
Sudden her godmother appears in sight,
Lifts the charm'd rod, and chants the mystic rite;
The chanted rite the maid attentive hears,
And feels new ear-rings deck her listening ears;
While 'midst her towering tresses, aptly set,
Shines bright, with quivering glance, the smart aigrette;
Brocaded silks the splendid dress complete,
And the Glass Slipper grasps her fairy feet.
Six cock-tail'd mice transport her to the ball,
And livery'd lizards wait upon her call.
The sly Rectangle's too licentious love!
For three bright nymphs, &c. &c.
(Continued.)
The sly Rectangle's too licentious love!
For three bright nymphs the wily wizard burns;—
Three bright-eyed nymphs requite his flame by turns.
Strange force of magic skill! combined of yore
With Plato's science and Menecmus' lore.
In Afric's schools, amid those sultry sands
High on its base where Pompey's pillar stands,
This learnt the Seer; and learnt, alas! too well,
Each scribbled talisman, and smoky spell:
What mutter'd charms, what soul-subduing arts,
Fell Zatanai to his sons imparts.
Writhe your scorch'd limbs on sulphur's azure-wave
Or, shivering, yell amidst eternal snows,
Where cloud-capp'd Caf protrudes his granite toes;
(Bound by his will, Judæa's fabled king,
Lord of Aladdin's lamp and mystic ring.)
Gins! ye remember!—for your toil convey'd
Whate'er of drugs the powerful charm could aid;
Air, earth, and sea ye search'd, and where below
Flame embryo lavas, young volcanoes glow,—
Gins! ye beheld appall'd th' enchanter's hand
Wave in dark, air th' Hypothenusal wand;
Saw him the mystic Circle trace, and wheel
With head erect, and far-extended heel;
Self-whirl'd, in quick gyrations eddying fly:
Till done the potent spell—behold him grown
Fair Venus' emblem—the Phœnician Cone.
The kindling passions of the rival Curves.
Her timid arms, with virgin blush, unfold!
Though, on one focus fix'd, her eyes betray
A heart that glows with love's resistless sway,
Though, climbing oft, she strive with bolder grace
Round his tall neck to clasp her fond embrace,
Still ere she reach it, from his polish'd side
Her trembling hands in devious Tangents glide.
The blue-eyed wanton plays her changeful part;
Quick as her conjugated axes move
Through every posture of luxurious love,
Her sportive limbs with easiest grace expand;
Her charms unveil'd provoke the lover's hand:
Unveil'd, except in many a filmy ray,
Where light Asymptotes o'er her bosom play,
Nor touch her glowing skin, nor intercept the day.
More lasting bliss, securer joys are thine.
Though to each fair his treacherous wish may stray,
Though each, in turn, may seize a transient sway,
'Tis thine with mild coercion to restrain,
Twine round his struggling heart, and bind with endless chain.
Where Taste with Rapine saunters hand in hand;
Where, nursed in seats of innocence and bliss,
Reform greets Terror with fraternal kiss;
Where mild Philosophy first taught to scan
The wrongs of Providence, and rights of Man;
Where Memory broods o'er Freedom's earlier scene,
The Lantern bright, and brighter Guillotine;
Three gentle swains evolve their longing arms,
And woo the young Republic's virgin charms;
And though proud Barras with the fair succeed,
Though not in vain th' Attorney Rewbell plead,
Oft doth th' impartial nymph their love forego,
To clasp thy crooked shoulders, blest Lepaux!
Th̄ree Sister Witches hail'd the appall'd Macbeth.
Strain the dun warp, and weave the murky woof;
Till deadly Atropos with fatal shears
Slits the thin promise of th' expected years,
While 'midst the dungeon's gloom or battle's din,
Ambition's victims perish, as they spin.
Bow with deft homage to Cythera's Queen;
Her polish'd arms with pearly bracelets deck,
Part her light locks, and bare her ivory neck;
Round her fair form ethereal odours throw,
And teach th' unconscious zephyrs where to blow;
Floats the thin gauze, and glittering as they play,
The bright folds flutter in phlogistic day.
Heaved the loud sigh, and pour'd the glistering tear:
His daughters Three, save one alone, conspire
(Rich in his gifts) to spurn their generous sire;
Bid the rude storm his hoary tresses drench,
Stint the spare meal, the hundred knights retrench;
Mock his mad sorrow, and with alter'd mien
Renounce the daughter, and assert the queen.
A father's griefs his feeble frame convulse,
Rack his white head, and fire his feverous pulse;
Till kind Cordelia soothes his soul to rest,
And folds the parent-monarch to her breast.
Vex'd with dull megrim, or vertigo light;
Pleased round the fair Three dawdling doctors stand,
Wave the white wig, and stretch the asking hand,
State the grave doubt, the nauseous draught decree,
And all receive, though none deserve, a fee.
So down thy hill, romantic Ashbourn, glides
The Derby dilly, carrying Three Insides.
One in each corner sits, and lolls at ease,
With folded arms, propt back, and outstretch'd knees;
While the press'd Bodkin, punch'd and squeezed to death,
Sweats in the mid-most place, and scolds, and pants for breath.
Isosceles! that rebel heart to tame!
In vain coy Mathesis thy presence flies:
Still turn her fond hallucinating eyes;
Thrills with Galvanic fires each tortuous nerve,
Throb her blue veins, and dies her cold reserve.
—Yet strives the fair, till in the giant's breast
She sees the mutual passion flame confess'd:
Where'er he moves, she sees his tall limbs trace
Again she doubts him: but produced at will,
She sees th' external Angles equal still.
Or love, or chance, at night's auspicious hour,
While to the Asses'-Bridge entranced you stray'd,
Led to the Asses'-Bridge the enamour'd maid?—
The Asses'-Bridge, for ages doom'd to hear
The deafening surge assault his wooden ear,
With joy repeats sweet sounds of mutual bliss,
The soft susurrant sigh, and gently-murmuring kiss.
Indignant Thames, and part his angry tide,
There oft—returning from those green retreats,
Where fair Vauxhallia decks her sylvan seats;—
Where each spruce nymph, from city compters free,
Sips the froth'd syllabub, or fragrant tea;
While with sliced ham, scraped beef, and burnt champagne,
Her 'prentice lover soothes his amorous pain;
There oft, in well-trimm'd wherry, glide along
Smart beaux and giggling belles, a glittering throng:
Smells the tarr'd rope—with undulation fine
Flaps the loose sail—the silken awnings shine;
“Shoot we the bridge!” the venturous boatmen cry;
“Shoot we the bridge!” the exulting fare reply.
—Down the steep fall the headlong waters go,
Curls the white foam, the breakers roar below.
The veering helm the dexterous steersman stops,
Shifts the thin oars, the fluttering canvas drops;
Darts at the central arch, nor heeds the gulf beneath.
—Full 'gainst the pier the unsteady timbers knock,
The thin planks, starting, own the impetuous shock;
The shifted oar, dropp'd sail, and steadied helm,
With angry surge the closing waters whelm—
—Laughs the glad Thames, and clasps each fair one's charms,
That screams and scrambles in his oozy arms.
—Drench'd each thin garb, and clogg'd each struggling limb,
Far o'er the stream the Cocknies sink or swim;
While each badged boatman, clinging to his oar,
Bounds o'er the buoyant wave, and climbs the applauding shore.
Young Freedom gazed on Lodi's blood-stain'd Bridge;
Saw, in thick throngs, conflicting armies rush,
Ranks close on ranks, and squadrons squadrons crush;
Burst in bright radiance through the battle's storm,
Waved her broad hands, display'd her awful form;
Bade at her feet regenerate nations bow,
And twined the wreath round Buonaparte's brow.
—Quick with new lights, fresh hopes, and alter'd zeal,
The slaves of despots dropp'd the softened steel:
Exulting Victory crown'd her favourite child,
And freed Liguria clapp'd her hands, and smiled.
The warrior-sage, with gratulation sweet:
Eager to grasp the wreath of naval fame,
The Great Republic plans the Floating Frame!
—O'er the huge frame gigantic Terror stalks,
And counts with joy the close-compacted balks:
Of young-eyed Massacres the Cherub crew,
Round their grim chief the mimic task pursue;
Drive the long bolt, or fix the stubborn cramp,
Lash the reluctant beam, the cable splice,
Join the firm dove-tail with adjustment nice,
Through yawning fissures urge the willing wedge,
Or give the smoothing adze a sharper edge.
—Or group'd in fairy bands, with playful care,
The unconscious bullet to the furnace bear,
Or gaily tittering, tip the match with fire,
Prime the big mortar, bid the shell aspire;
Applaud, with tiny hands, and laughing eyes,
And watch the bright destruction as it flies.
The windmill waves his woven wings in air;
Swells the proud sail, the exulting streamers fly,
Their nimble fins unnumber'd paddles ply:
—Ye soft airs breathe, ye gentle billows waft,
And, fraught with Freedom, bear the expected Raft!
Perch'd on her back, behold the Patriot train,
Muir, Ashley, Barlow, Buonaparte, Paine!
While Rowan's hand directs the blood-empurpled rein.
Check the rude surge, and chase the hovering storm;
Shield from contusive rocks her timber limbs,
And guide the sweet Enthusiast as she swims;
And foreign footsteps press the yielding sand:
—The Communes spread, the gay Departments smile,
Fair Freedom's Plant o'ershades the laughing isle:
Fired with new hopes, the exulting peasant sees
The Gallic streamer woo the British breeze;
While, pleased to watch its undulating charms,
The smiling infant spreads his little arms.
Where the tall Guillotine is raised for Pitt:
To the poised plank tie fast the monster's back,
Close the nice slider, ope the expectant sack;
Then twitch, with fairy hands, the frolic pin—
Down falls the impatient axe with deafening din;
The liberated head rolls off below,
And simpering Freedom hails the happy blow!
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JEAN BON ST. ANDRE.
I
All in the town of Tunis,In Africa the torrid,
On a Frenchman of rank
Was play'd such a prank,
As Lepaux must think quite horrid.
II
No story half so shocking,By kitchen-fire or laundry,
Was ever heard tell,—
As that which befel
The great Jean Bon St. Andre.
III
Poor John was a gallant Captain,In battles much delighting;
He fled full soon
On the first of June—
But he bade the rest keep fighting.
IV
To Paris then returning,And recover'd from his panic,
He translated the plan
Of “Paine's Rights of Man”
Into language Mauritanic.
V
He went to teach at Tunis—Where as Consul he was settled—
Amongst other things,
“That the people are kings!”
Whereat the Dey was nettled.
VI
The Moors being rather stupid,And in temper somewhat mulish,
Understood not a word
Of the doctrine they heard,
And thought the Consul foolish.
VII
He form'd a Club of Brothers,And moved some resolutions—
“Ho! ho! (says the Dey),
“So this is the way
“That the French make Revolutions.”
VIII
The Dey then gave his ordersIn Arabic and Persian—
“Let no more be said—
“But bring me his head!—
“These Clubs are my aversion.”
IX
The Consul quoted Wicquefort,And Puffendorf and Grotius;
And proved from Vattel
Exceedingly well,
Such a deed would be quite atrocious.
X
'Twould have moved a Christian's bowelsTo hear the doubts he stated;—
But the Moors they did
As they were bid,
And strangled him while he prated.
XI
His head with a sharp-edged sabreThey sever'd from his shoulders,
And stuck it on high,
Where it caught the eye,
To the wonder of all beholders.
XII
This sure is a doleful storyAs e'er you heard or read of;—
If at Tunis you prate
Of matters of state,
Anon they cut your head off!
XIII
But we hear the French DirectorsHave thought the point so knotty;
That the Dey having shown
He dislikes Jean Bon,
They have sent him Bernadotte.
THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.
PROLOGUE.
With Civil Discord and with Regal crimes,
Have stain'd these boards; while Shakespeare's pen has shown
Thoughts, manners, men, to modern days unknown.
Too long have Rome and Athens been the rage;
And classic Buskins soil'd a British stage.
His plot has borrow'd from the German schools;
The German schools—where no dull maxims bind
The bold expansion of th' electric mind.
Fix'd to no period, circled by no space,
He leaps the flaming bounds of time and place:
With gentle Robbers stocks his gloomy caves;
Tells how bad Ministers are shocking things,
And reigning Dukes are just like tyrant Kings;
How to two swains one nymph her vows may give,
And how two damsels with one lover live!
Delicious scenes!—such scenes our bard displays,
Which, crown'd with German, sue for British, praise.
With hempen rein the slumbering post-boy goads;
Slow is the slumbering post-boy, who proceeds
Through deep sands floundering, on these tardy steeds;
More slow, more tedious, from his husky throat
Twangs through the twisted horn the struggling note.
Germania's plays with eyes unjaundiced view!
View and approve!—though in each passage fine
The faint Translation mock the genuine line,
Though the nice ear the erring sight belie,
For U twice dotted is pronounced like I;
Warm from the breast, and glowing to the heart!
Builds his fond hope! Do you his genius guard!
A British audience damn'd a German play!
SONG.
BY ROGERO.
I
Whene'er with haggard eyes I viewThis dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen,—
—niversity of Gottingen.
II
Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
III
Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flewHer neat post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish'd at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
IV
This faded form! this pallid hue!This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many—they were few
When first I entered at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
V
There first for thee my passion grew,Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu—
—tor, law professor at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
VI
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doom'd to starve on water gru—
—el, never shall I see the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[Hist! hist! nor let the airs that blow]
RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.
Casimere.From night's cold lungs our purpose know!
Puddingfield.
Let Silence, mother of the dumb,
Beefington.
Press on each lip her palsied thumb!
Waiter.
That loves to haunt the tranquil inn—
Grenadier.
And Conscience start, when she shall view,
Troubadour.
The mighty deed we mean to do!
GENERAL CHORUS
—Con spirito.Then friendship swear, ye faithful bands,
Swear to save a shackled hero!
See where yon abbey frowning stands!
Rescue, rescue, brave Rogero!
Casimere.
Thrall'd in a monkish tyrant's fetters
Shall great Rogero hopeless lie?
Young Pot.
In my pocket I have letters,
Saying, “Help me, or I die!”
TRANSLATION OF A LETTER (IN ORIENTAL CHARACTERS) FROM BOBBA-DARA-ADUL-PHOOLA, DRAGOMAN TO THE EXPEDITION, TO NEEK-AWL-ARETCHID-KOOEEZ, SECRETARY TO THE TUNISIAN EMBASSY.
Dear Neek-awl,
To date these few lines from the captain's own table.
Mr. Truman himself, of his proper suggestion,
Has in favour of science decided the question;
So we walk the main-deck, and are mess'd with the captain,
I leave you to judge of the joy we are wrapt in.
And we sail'd before day to escape the embargo.
There was Shuckborough, the wonderful mathematician;
And Darwin, the poet, the sage, and physician;
There was Beddoes, and Bruin, and Godwin whose trust is,
He may part with his work on Political Justice
To some Iman or Bonze, or Judaical Rabbin;
So with huge quarto volumes he piles up the cabin.
There was great Dr. Parr, whom we style Bellendenus,
The Doctor and I have a hammock between us—
Tho' 'tis rather unpleasant thus crowding together,
On account of the motion and heat of the weather;
Two souls in one berth we might easily cram,
But Sir John will insist on a place for his ram.
Though the Doctor, I find, is determined to think
'Tis the animal's hide that occasions the stink;
In spite of th' experienced opinion of Truman,
Who contends that the scent is exclusively human.
But Beddoes and Darwin engage to repair
This slight inconvenience with oxygene air.
On which I long doubted; my doubt's at an end.
To Arabia the stony, Sabæa the gummy,
To the land where each man that you meet is a mummy;
To the mouths of the Nile, to the banks of Araxes,
To the Red and the Yellow, the White and the Black seas,
With telescopes, globes, and a quadrant and sextant,
And the works of all authors whose writings are extant;
With surveys and plans, topographical maps,
Theodolites, watches, spring-guns and steel-traps,
Phials, crucibles, air-pumps, electric machinery,
And pencils for painting the natives and scenery.
In short, we are sent to oppose all we know,
To the knowledge and mischievous arts of the foe,
Who, though placing in arms a well-grounded reliance,
Go to war with a flying artillery of science.
With a view to replenish the national treasure.
First, the true Rights of Man they will preach in all places,
But chief (when 'tis found) in the Egyptian Oasis:
And this doctrine, 'tis hoped, in a very few weeks
Will persuade the wild Arabs to murder their Sheiks,
And, to aid the Great Nation's beneficent plans,
Plunder pyramids, catacombs, towns, caravans,
Then enlist under Arcole's gallant commander,
Who will conquer the world like his model Iskander.
His army each day growing bolder and finer,
With the Turcoman tribes he subdues Asia Minor,
Beats Paul and his Scythians, his journey pursues
'Cross the Indus, with tribes of Armenians and Jews,
And Bucharians, and Affghans, and Persians, and Tartars,—
Chokes the wretched Mogul in his grandmother's garters,
And will hang him to dry in the Luxembourg hall,
'Midst the plunder of Carthage and spoils of Bengal.
That, savant to savant, our cargo will beat 'em.
Our plan of proceeding I'll presently tell;—
But soft—I am call'd—I must bid you farewell;
For, it seems, that they duck them on crossing the Line.
NEW MORALITY.
To animate the weak, unite the wise;
To trace the deep infection that pervades
The crowded town, and taints the rural shades;
To mark how wide extends the mighty waste
O'er the fair realms of Science, Learning, Taste;
And chase the varying falsehood as it flies;
The long arrears of ridicule to pay,
To drag reluctant dulness back to-day;
Much yet remains.—To you these themes belong,
Ye favour'd sons of virtue and of song!
Barren of folly, and devoid of crimes?
Could rouse the warmth of Pope's satiric rage:
The doting miser, and the lavish heir,
The follies and the foibles of the fair,
Sir Job, Sir Balaam, and old Euclio's thrift,
And Sappho's diamonds with her dirty shift,
Blunt, Charteris, Hopkins—meaner subjects fired
The keen-eyed Poet, while the Muse inspired
Her ardent child—entwining, as he sate,
His laurell'd chaplet with the thorns of hate.
Her shrine deserted, and extinct its fire?
No pious hand to feed the sacred flame,
No raptured soul a poet's charge to claim?
Shall trace the promise of thy playful page;—
“The hand which brush'd a swarm of fools away,
Should rouse to grasp a more reluctant prey!”—
Think then, will pleaded indolence excuse
The tame secession of thy languid Muse?
Sleep the keen shafts of satire and of song?
Oh! come, with taste and virtue at thy side,
With ardent zeal inflamed, and patriot pride;
With keen poetic glance direct the blow,
And empty all thy quiver on the foe:—
The poisonous hydra lies, and pierced with many a wound.
For law, for morals, for the public weal,
Pours down impetuous on thy country's foes
The stream of verse, and many-languaged prose;
Thou too!—though oft thy ill-advised dislike,
The guiltless head with random censure strike,—
Though quaint allusions, vague and undefined,
Play faintly round the ear, but mock the mind;—
Through the mix'd mass yet truth and learning shine,
And manly vigour stamps the nervous line;
And patriot rage the generous verse inspires,
And wakes and points the desultory fires!
What bashful genius, in some rural cell,
As year to year, and day succeeds to day,
In joyless leisure wastes his life away?
In him the flame of early fancy shone;
His genuine worth his old companions own;
In childhood and in youth their chief confess'd,
His master's pride, his pattern to the rest.
Now, far aloof retiring from the strife
Of busy talents, and of active life,
As from the loop-holes of retreat he views
Our stage, verse, pamphlets, politics, and news,
He loathes the world,—or, with reflection sad,
Concludes it irrecoverably mad;
Of taste, of learning, morals, all bereft,
No hope, no prospect to redeem it left.
Sink in th' oblivious pool of indolence!
Must wit be found alone on falsehood's side,
Unknown to truth, to virtue unallied?
Wield in her cause thy long-neglected arms:
Of lofty satire pour th' indignant strain,
Leagued with her friends, and ardent to maintain
'Gainst Learning's, Virtue's, Truth's, Religion's foes,
A kingdom's safety, and the world's repose.
Insults that brave, and crimes that 'scape the law;
Yet may the specious bastard brood, which claim
A spurious homage under Virtue's name,
Sprung from a parent nurse of thousand crimes,
The New Philosophy of modern times,—
Yet, these may rouse thee!—With unsparing hand,
Oh, lash the vile impostures from the land!
The orphan's tears, and wipes the widow's eyes;
Not she, who, sainted Charity her guide,
Of British bounty pours the annual tide:—
But French Philanthropy;—whose boundless mind
Glows with the general love of all mankind;—
Philanthropy,—beneath whose baneful sway
Each patriot passion sinks, and dies away.
Condorcet, filtered through the dregs of Paine,
Each pedant prig disowns a Briton's part,
And plucks the name of England from his heart.
Th' aspiring thought, and cramp th' expansive soul?
Shall one half-peopled Island's rocky round
A love, that glows for all creation, bound?
And social charities contract the plan
Framed for thy freedom, universal man!
No—through th' extended globe his feelings run
As broad and general as th' unbounded sun!
No narrow bigot he;—his reason'd view
Thy interests, England, ranks with thine, Peru!
But heaves for Turkey's woes th' impartial sigh;
A steady patriot of the world alone,
The friend of every country—but his own.
Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare.
Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sigh
Dwells on her lips; the tear-drop gems her eye.
Sweet Sensibility, that dwells enshrined
In the fine foldings of the feeling mind;
With delicate Mimosa's sense endued,
That shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;
Or, like the pimpernel, whose prescient flower,
Shuts her soft leaves at evening's chilly hour.
Sweet child of sickly Fancy!—her of yore
From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;
And, while midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shunn'd the haunts of man,
Taught her o'er each lone vale and Alpine steep
To lisp the stories of his wrongs, and weep;
Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in the brooks that babbled by;
Taught her to mete by rule her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and delicately wrong;
For the crush'd beetle first,—the widow'd dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;
Next for poor suff'ring guilt; and last of all,
For parents, friends, a king and country's fall.
With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,
Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower;
O'er a dead jack-ass pour the pearly shower;
But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood,
Choked up with slain; of Lyons drenched in blood;
Of crimes that blot the age, the world, with shame,
Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with Freedom's name;
Trampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,
Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn;
Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn
In friendless exile,—of the wise and good
Staining the daily scaffold with their blood;
Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,
The rage of madness with hell's lusts combined,—
Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,
They hear—and hope that all is for the best.
Justice! here, Satire, strike! 'twere sin to spare!
Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,
The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,
Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,
With scrupulous quirks, and disquisition nice:
But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,
Th' avenging angel of regenerate France,
Who visits ancient sins on modern times,
And punishes the Pope for Cæsar's crimes.
Such is the liberal Justice which presides
In these our days, and modern patriots guides;
Justice, whose blood-stain'd book one sole decree,
One statute fills—“the People shall be Free!”
Free by what means?—by folly, madness, guilt,
By boundless rapines, blood in oceans spilt;
By confiscation, in whose sweeping toils
The poor man's pittance with the rich man's spoils,
Mix'd in one common mass, are swept away,
To glut the short-lived tyrant of the day:
By laws, religion, morals, all o'erthrown,
—Rouse then, ye sovereign people, claim your own—
The wealth that starves you, and the power that grinds!
—So Justice bids.—'Twas her enlighten'd doom,
Louis, thy head devoted to the tomb—
'Twas Justice claim'd, in that accursed hour,
The fatal forfeit of too lenient power.
Mourn for the Man we may;—but for the King,—
Freedom, oh! Freedom's such a charming thing!
A well-known voice that murmurs in my ear,—
The voice of Candour.—Hail! most solemn sage,
Thou drivelling virtue of this moral age,
Candour, which softens party's headlong rage.
Candour,—which spares its foes; nor e'er descends
With bigot zeal to combat for its friends.
Candour,—which loves in see-saw strain to tell
Of acting foolishly, but meaning well;
Too nice to praise by wholesale, or to blame,
Convinced that all men's motives are the same;
And finds, with keen discriminating sight,
Black's not so black;—nor white so very white.
“But then, Pitt's words, you'll own, were rather strong.
“Great men will have their foibles; 'twas just so
“With Fox and Pitt full forty years ago!
“So Walpole, Pulteney—factions in all times
“Have had their follies, ministers their crimes.”
Bold I can meet—perhaps may turn his blow;
But of all plagues, good Heav'n, thy wrath can send,
Save, save, oh! save me from the Candid Friend!
“What then?—shall Candour these good men proscribe?
“No! ere we join the loud-accusing throng,
“Prove,—not the facts,—but, that they thought them wrong.
“In sober thought his country's weal might plan:
“And, though his deep-laid Treason sapp'd the throne,
“Might act from taste in morals, all his own.”
Shut their dull eyes against the blaze of day—
Priestley's a Saint, and Stone a Patriot still;
And La Fayette a Hero, if they will.
Whose principles are fix'd, whose views defined:
Who, sick of modern cant, discredits quite
All taste in morals, innate sense of right,
And Nature's impulse, all uncheck'd by art,
And feelings fine, that float about the heart.
Content, for good men's guidance, bad men's awe,
On moral truth to rest, and Gospel law;
Who owns, when Traitors feel th' avenging rod,
Just retribution, and the hand of God—
Who hears the groans through Olmutz' roofs that ring,
Of him who chained and who betray'd his king—
Hears unappall'd—though Freedom's zealots preach—
Unmoved, unsoften'd by Fitzpatrick's speech.
That speech on which the melting Commons hung,
“While truths divine came mended from his tongue;”
How loving husband clings to duteous wife,—
How pure Religion soothes the ills of life,—
How Popish ladies trust their pious fears
And naughty actions in their chaplain's ears.
Half novel and half sermon, on it flow'd;
With pious zeal the Opposition glow'd;
And as o'er each the soft infection crept,
Sigh'd as he whined, and as he whimper'd, wept;
E'en Curwen dropt a sentimental tear,
And stout St. Andrew yelp'd a softer “Hear!”
Our colder servile spirits would attain,
How do we ape thee, France! but, bungling still,
Disgrace the pattern by our want of skill.
The borrow'd step our awkward gait reveals:
As clumsy Courtney mars the verse he steals.
Thy arts, thy tastes, thy morals, for our own,
But to thy worthies render homage due,
Their “hair-breadth scapes” with anxious interest view;
Statesmen and heroines whom this age adores,
Though plainer times would call them rogues and whores.
Tempering with amorous fire his virtuous rage.
Form'd for all tasks, his various talents see—
The luscious novel, the severe decree—
Then mark him welt'ring in his nasty sty,
Bare his lewd transports to the public eye—
Not his the love in silent groves that strays,
Quits the rude world, and shuns the vulgar gaze.
In Lodoiska's full possession blest,
One craving void still aches within his breast—
Plunged in the filth and fondness of her arms,
Not to himself alone he stints her charms—
Clasp'd in each other's foul embrace they lie,
But know no joy, unless the world stands by.
The fool of vanity, for her alone
He lives, loves, writes, and dies but to be known.
His widow'd mourner flies to poison's aid,
Eager to join her Louvet's parted shade
In those bright realms where sainted lovers stray—
But harsh emetics tear that hope away.
Yet hapless Louvet! where thy bones are laid,
The easy nymphs shall consecrate the shade.
There, in the laughing morn of genial spring,
Unwedded pairs shall tender couplets sing;
Eringoes o'er the hallow'd spot shall bloom,
And flies of Spain buzz softly round the tomb.
Roland the just, with ribands in his shoes—
And Roland's spouse, who paints with chaste delight
The doubtful conflict of her nuptial night;—
Her virgin charms what fierce attacks assail'd,
And how the rigid Minister prevail'd.
Guide of the world, preferment's golden queen,
Neckar's fair daughter,—Stael the Epicene!
Bright o'er whose flaming cheek and purple nose
The bloom of young desire unceasing glows!
Fain would the Muse—but ah! she dares no more,
A mournful voice from lone Guyana's shore,
Sad Quatremer—the bold presumption checks,
Forbid to question thy ambiguous sex.
Rewbell's brute rage, and Merlin's subtle soul—
Raised by thy hands, and fashion'd to thy will,
Thy power, thy guiding influence, governs still,
Where at the blood-stain'd board assiduous plies,
The lame artificer of fraud and lies;
He with the mitred head and cloven heel—
Doom'd the coarse edge of Rewbell's jests to feel;
To stand the playful buffet, and to hear
The frequent ink-stand whizzing past his ear;
“The limping priest so deft at his new ministry.”
The Directorial Lama, Sovereign Priest,—
Lepaux:—whom atheists worship;—at whose nod
Bow their meek heads—the men without a God.
Fresh from the shores of subjugated Nile,
Shall Buonaparte's victor fleet protect
The genuine Theo-philanthropic sect,—
The sect of Marat, Mirabeau, Voltaire,—
Led by their Pontiff, good La Reveillère.
Rejoiced our Clubs shall greet him, and install
The holy Hunchback in thy dome, St. Paul!
While countless votaries thronging in his train,
Wave their red caps, and hymn this jocund strain:
“Couriers and Stars, Sedition's evening host,
Thou Morning Chronicle and Morning Post,
Whether ye make the Rights of Man your theme,
Your country libel, and your God blaspheme,
Or dirt on private worth and virtue throw,
Still blasphemous or blackguard, praise Lepaux.
In sweet accord of harmony and love,
Coleridge and Southey, Lloyd, and Lambe and Co.
Tune all your mystic harps to praise Lepaux!
Give praises to his name with tongue and pen!
And for your pains get pelted, praise Lepaux!
And your cropp'd heads in sign of worship wave!
Paine, Williams, Godwin, Holcroft, praise Lepáux!
Hugest of living things that sleep and swim;
Thou, in whose nose, by Burke's gigantic hand,
The hook was fixed to drag thee to the land,
With ---, ---, and --- in thy train.
And --- wallowing in the yeasty main,—
Still as ye snort, and puff, and spout, and blow,
In puffing, and in spouting, praise Lepaux!”
Of force despairing, aim a deadlier blow;
Thy peace, thy strength, with devilish wiles assail,
And when her arms are vain, by arts prevail.
True, thou art rich, art powerful!—thro' thine Isle
Industrious skill, contented labour, smile—
Far seas are studded with thy countless sails—
What wind but wafts them, and what shore but hails?
True, thou art brave—o'er all the busy land
In patriot ranks embattled myriads stand!
Thy foes behold with impotent amaze,
And drop the lifted weapon as they gaze.
If subtlest poison, circling at thy heart,
Spite of thy courage, of thy pow'r, and wealth,
Mine the sound fabric of thy vital health?
Waves its broad arms, and spreads its leafy pride,
Shades the green earth, and tow'ring to the skies
Its conscious strength, the tempest's wrath defies:
The fowls of Heaven its ample branches share,
To its cool shade the panting herds repair—
The limpid current works its noiseless way—
The fibres loosen, and the roots decay;
Prostrate the mighty ruin lies; and all
That shared its shelter, perish in its fall.
Laid bare foul Anarchy's gigantic plan,
Prompt to incredulous hearers to disclose
The guilt of France, and Europe's world of woes—
Thou, on whose name far distant times shall gaze,
The mighty sea-mark of those troubled days,
O large of soul, of genius unconfined,
Born to delight, instruct, and mend mankind—
Burke! in whose breast a Roman ardour glow'd:
Whose copious tongue with Grecian richness flow'd;
Well hast thou found (if such thy country's doom)
A timely refuge in the sheltering tomb!
Where eastern kings in pomp of death are laid,
The perfumed lamp with unextinguish'd light
Flames through the vault, and cheers the gloom of night:
So, mighty Burke! in thy sepulchral urn,
To Fancy's view, the lamp of Truth shall burn.
Thither late times shall turn their reverent eyes,
Led by thy light, and by thy wisdom wise.
No light thy wisdom yields, thy wit no joy.
Peace to their heavy heads, and callous hearts,
Peace—such as sloth, as ignorance imparts!
Pleased may they live to plan their country's good,
And crop with calm content their flow'ry food!
The labouring theme to Reason's utmost verge,
Still anxious wonder watch'd thy daring flight!
While vulgar souls, with mean malignant stare,
Gazed up, the triumph of thy fall to share!
Poor triumph! which for oft extorted praise,
To Envy still too daring Genius pays.
T' abash bold Vice, and laugh pert Folly down!
So should the Muse in Humour's happiest vein,
Frame with light verse the metaphoric strain,
With apt allusions from the rural trade,
Tell of what wood young Jacobins are made;
How the skill'd gardener grafts with nicest rule
The slip of coxcomb on the stock of fool—
Forth in bright blossom bursts the tender sprig,
A thing to wonder at, perhaps a Whig:
Should tell, how wise each new-fledged pedant prates
Of weightiest matters, grave distractions states—
How rules of policy, and public good,
In Saxon times were rightly understood;
That kings are proper, may be useful things,
But then, some gentlemen object to kings;
How in all times the minister's to blame;
How British liberty's an empty name;
Till each fair burgh, numerically free,
Shall choose its members by the Rule of Three.
Proclaim the crimes by God and Nature loathed.
Which—when fell poison revels in the veins—
The poison fell, that frantic Gallia drains
From the curst fruit of Freedom's blasted tree—
Blot the fair records of Humanity.
Her damning choice,—the chalice or the sword,
To drink or die;—Oh fraud! Oh specious lie!
Delusive choice! for if they drink, they die.
Firm were our strength, our peace and freedom sure.
“Be they not back'd by those that should be ours,”
High on his rock shall Britain's Genius stand,
Scatter the crowded hosts, and vindicate the land.
To ancient morals, ancient manners true,
Guard we the manlier virtues, such as nerved
Our fathers' breasts, and this proud Isle preserv'd
For many a rugged age—and scorn the while,
(Her arms we fear not), Gallia's specious wiles,
The soft seductions, the refinements nice,
Of gay morality, and easy vice—
So shall we brave the storm—our 'stablish'd pow'r
Thy refuge, Europe, in some happier hour.
But French in heart—though victory crown our brow,
Low at our feet though prostrate nations bow,
Wealth gild our cities, commerce crowd our shore,
London may shine, but England is no more.
The Works of John Hookham Frere In Verse and Prose | ||