University of Virginia Library

Now let September and October come,
Twin months of slaughter. Persecution starts,
And ere the dewy day be half awake
Begins her bloody work. The fields are throng'd
With licens'd murderers, who slay for sport.
So when the jealous Herod gave the word,
The cruel ruffian thirsted for the blood
Of helpless innocents. And so the sword,
Another Herod reigning, was let loose
To spill the blood of sleeping Huguenots.
Alcanor joins them not. He envies none
The pleasures of the field, and much admires
To hear the squabble and the loud harangue,
And all for game; to see the British soul
So puny grown, it quarrels for a feather.
'Tis a mean wretch, and scarce deserves to live,
Who cannot find amusements void of pain.

O undeserving parent, who neglects
To train the infant boy to deeds humane.
See how his sports, his pastimes, dearest child,
Are all to be indulg'd, whether he choose
To whip his nurse, to lash the sleeping puppy,
Or pinch the tail of unoffending puss.
Go, catch the surly beetle, and suspend
The harmless pris'ner by the wing or tail,
To make the booby laugh. But if so loud
His well-deserv'd rebuke, the timid child
Stands off alarm'd, then let him see thee crush
The thing he fears. Or give it liberty,
Not unconstrain'd, as heav'n bestow'd it. No,
Set the gall'd pris'ner free, but lock his chain
Full-fast about him. Bid him to the field,
But pluck no arrow from his side. He's gone,
And feels that liberty is wondrous sweet,
Though the crook'd pin fast fix'd, and trailing thread,
Admit no remedy. A while he lives—
His thread clings fast—he famishes, and dies.
Go, Tom, a ladder bring, and reach the nest,
'Tis but a chirping sparrow's, and 'twill serve
To pacify the boy. What if the dam
In patient expectation sit, and hope
Another day shall all her cares reward,
And bring to light her helpless progeny?
Forth from her high maternal office dragg'd
With rude indignity, behold she comes
A joyful victim to the callous boy.
He with delight her ruffled plumes surveys,
Seizes her nest, and the dear charge purloins;
Then with a frantic laugh down drops the eggs,
And blindfold hops to crush them as he goes.
Ah! hapless bird, yet happy still, if this
Be all the pain thy cruel foe intends.
Nothing avail'd thy labour of an age
To weave the genial nest, with many a root
And many a straw far-fetch'd? 'Twas all in vain.
Half-starv'd Grimalkin claims thee for his prey,
And in his cruel paw fast-clutch'd devours
Relentless. Or the boy aware, himself
Cuts short existence, and allots to puss
Only the sever'd head. Hard-hearted lout,
Steel'd executioner, behold the blood
Of parent and of offspring. Burn with shame;
For thou hast done a deed which Heav'n abhors.
Let the wise parent laugh, to see how well
His looby boy has learn'd to be humane.
Let him applaud the bloody deed, and spare
The well-earn'd rod. In thee, great state,
Eternal glory of the Gentile world,
Just Athens, had the beardless youth perfum'd
A deed so villainous, the public arm
Had the mean wretch chastis'd, till it had wak'd
A soul humane and sensible of wrong.
Behold and mark the sturdy fool, at length
Grown up to man, (if such he may be deem'd,
Possessing nothing human but the shape,)
What are his sports? and how delights the dunce
From morn to night to spend the live-long day?
“Can the swarth Ethiopian change his skin?”
Or can the leopard at his will be white,
And lay his spots aside? From morn to eve
See how he toils with generous intent
To be the murd'rer of the tim'rous hare,
To win the brush of Reynard nobly skill'd,
To vex the badger; or with cruel joy
Stoops o'er the cock-pit, eager to behold
The dying struggles of poor Chanticleer.
'Twas nature taught the gen'rous bird to fight,
And drive the bold intruder from his roost,
In care for thee, mean wretch, who hast supply'd
The weapon nature kindly had refus'd,
Or made to strike in vain. Now mark his gait,
When morning hardly dawns, and from the hutch
He lets the full-ear'd pointer loose to range.
Well arm'd is he, within with morning dram,
Without with old surtout, thick shoes, and hose
Of leather, button'd to the buckskin'd knee.
So forth he fares, brave knight; but first he primes
And crams his musket, then suspends his pouch,
His powder-horn, and whip with whistle tipt,
On his broad shoulders. Let me not forget,
What he might well forget, th' important bag,
To be ere long (for so he thinks) well lin'd
With pheasant, partridge, snipe, or tardy quail.
So mounts the popping Hudibras or stile
Or crackling hedge, or leaps the muddy ditch,
His armour clatt'ring as he goes. I see
Where he has swept the silver dew away
Across the pasture. Now he climbs the gate,
And heys his dog to run the stubble round,
While he stands still, or scarcely moves a pace.
So have I seen the hasty minute-hand
Run round and round, while th' other idly stood,
Or seem'd to stand, and with commanding tone
Bray'd loud to instigate his race again.
Take heed, take heed. With nose infallible
The silent pointer winds toward the game.
Now motionless he stands, one foot lift up,
His nostril wide distended, and his tail
Unwagg'd. Now speed, thou hero of the gun,
And when the sudden covey springs, let fly
And miss them all. O I rejoice to see
When our amusements are so innocent
They give no pain at all. But spare the whip,
And if the wary covey spring too soon,
Let Sancho still be safe; and let not rage
Prompt thee to stamp upon his guiltless neck
Till the blood issue from his lips and nose:
Much less let fly upon the faithful cur
The volley fate has spar'd, for he is staunch,
And true to thee as thou art false to him.

O thoughtless world, that will not be at pains
To cultivate humanity in youth.
'Tis hence we laugh at woe, and ev'ry day
Unpitying hear the cries of half a world
Vex'd with the galling scourge of slavery.
My eye is cast on Britain's western isles,
And I behold a patient slave grown faint
Under the lash. Inhuman dog, forbear:
The man who now lies bleeding at thy feet
Was once a monarch. To the bloody field
He led a num'rous tribe, attach'd by deeds
Of pure affection to their leader. He
No laws of mutiny had fram'd, nor fear'd
To see desertion thin his peopled ranks.
Bravely he fought, and hardly would submit,
Surviving only he. Then first he knew
What 'twas to faint, when looking for his friends
He saw them dead and bleeding at his side.
Nor had he then let fall his well-strung bow,
And shook the poison'd quiver from his side,
Were there one arrow left, or still surviv'd
He for whose life and happiness he fought,
His only son. Him reeking in his blood
The hapless monarch saw, and could no more.
Then spare him yet. What if he left his task,
And sought the friendly shade to vent his grief
Yet recent. True, he slept, and at an hour
When industry was busy. 'Twas the call
Of sympathizing nature, that would pour
One balm at least upon his countless wounds.
Poor soul, he slept, and fancy to his mind
Restor'd again the days he once had seen.
Forth from his hut he went, his only son
And wife (now more than widow) by his side.
He tipt his arrow, strung his bow, and shot.
The stricken bird was her's, and her's the deer.
Laden with these, his choicest gifts, he sought
His humble palace once again; there sat
And ate his plain and temperate repast,
And the too-fleeting hours beguil'd with talk
Of twenty thousand dangerous escapes
From cruel tiger, or more cruel man.
And was this little happiness too much?
The sword of justice surely will unsheath,
Nor fall in vain upon these guilty isles.
Cross not again the proud Atlantic wave,
With hellish purpose to enslave the free,
Or load the pris'ner with eternal chains,
For he is Man as thou art. Not for thee,
And only thee, did God's creative Word
Call into being this vast work, the world.
Nor yet for thee that Word incarnate shed
His precious blood. Go, cruel tyrant, go,
Reign in the forests of thy native isle,
And let the prowling savage reign in his.
Let him enjoy the little bliss he owns,
Or give him more. Make not his little less,
For Adam was his sire, and Adam thine;
And he shall share redemption too with thee,
With thee, and me, and all this Gentile world,
If we deserve to rank in brotherhood
With one we wrong so much. Content were he
To tread the burning desert, feel the sun
Dart his fierce rays direct upon his head,
And earn the little plenty his wild state
Affords, with hunter's toil. Content were he
To be an humble pensioner at best
Of the grim lion; but the cursed hand
Of brutal avarice that peace destroys,
That little peace which the brave lion spares.

September half elaps'd, the day returns,
Remember'd oft with awful reverence
And pious love of thee, All-seeing Power,
Who follow'st virtue wheresoe'er she roves,
Her shield and buckler. On the sunny down
Eliza stray'd. Ah! why alone? 'Twas so
The tempter vanquish'd Eve; 'twas so she fell.
She stray'd and mus'd, she pluck'd a flow'r and sung.
She knew no fear, accustom'd oft to range
The pleasant hill, and deeming none less good,
Less honest than herself. But such the world,
We cannot find the place, howe'er remote
From public notice, which escapes the search
Of prying lust. A fierce Hibernian whelp,
Strong as the tiger, subtle as the fox,
Saw and was pleas'd. No bar to him his vow
Made at the altar, to be constant still
To her he wedded there. In his false heart
He fed adult'rous hope, he couch'd and slunk,
And with a leer the solitary down
Survey'd, far as the jealous eye can reach.
So Satan lurk'd, and joy'd to find alone
Ingenious Eve; and he his proem tun'd
With flattery and lies, and so didst thou.
Into the heart of Eve his words made way:
Eliza heard not thine. For she had mark'd
And knew her tempter; she had well observ'd,
Unknown to thee, thy often-practis'd wiles.
What wonder then thy eulogy was vain?
Thy large account of honour and of wealth
Mov'd only her derision, nor could win
One smile, one kiss, one look of approbation.
Here had thy passion ceas'd, thou might'st at least
Have challeng'd honour with the fiend of Hell.
But foil'd, and still repuls'd, thy hungry soul
Had baser means to dare. Her reason proof,
Thy next resource unmanly violence.
What guilty marks left not thy greedy hand
Upon the fair one's arm? so mighty thou
To combat virtue, to assail a maid
No match for thee but in so good a cause.
Yet hadst thou vanquish'd, but a pow'r unseen
Approv'd her efforts, and resisted thine.
What saw'st thou, coward, to be put to flight
Swift as the hostile arrow? Mark my words.
The man of noble purpose nothing daunts,
No, not a falling world. He were compos'd
And stedfast as a rock, though floods of fire
The world and all its fellows swept away,
And he beheld a universe in flames.
Then was the mighty foil'd, the cunning caught:
And yet he blushes not. Accus'd, he starts,
Protests his innocence, appeals to justice,
Unlocks the copious fountain of his eye,
And who can say it is not strange and piteous?
Yet why decays his honour, spite of tears,
Of protestations and appeals, of threats,
And public insolence? Ah me! I fear
Eliza may forgive thee, but in vain;
And though insulted Justice slumber here,
She will arraign thee at the bar of Heaven,
And, spite of Charity, the wrong repay.

Now comes the happy morning long desir'd
By rural lads and lasses. Light appears.
The swain is ready in his Sunday frock,
And calls on Nell to trip it to the fair.
The village bells are up, and jangling loud
Proclaim the holiday. The clam'rous drum
Calls to the puppet-show. The groaning horn
And twanging trumpet speak the sale begun,
Of articles most rare and cheap. Dogs bark,
Boys shout, and the grave Doctor mounts sublime
His crowded scaffold, struts, and makes a speech,
Maintains the virtue of his salve for corns,
His worm-cake and his pills, puffs his known art,
And shews his kettle, silver knives and forks,
Ladle and cream-pot, and, to crown the bait,
The splendid tankard. Andrew grins, and courts
The gaping multitude, till Tom and Sue
And Abigail and Ned their shoulders shrug.
And laugh and whisper, and resolve to sport
The solitary shilling. Simple swains
And silly maids, you laugh, but Andrew wins:
And what for you but sorrow and remorse,
Or box of salve to plaister disappointment?
Unless the smart of folly may be sooth'd
By Andrew's cheerful pranks, the dancing girl,
And frolic tumbler. Now the street is fill'd
With stalls and booths for gingerbread and beer,
Rear'd by enchantment, finish'd in a trice.
Amusements here for children old and young;
For little master's pence, a coach, a drum,
A horse, a wife, a trumpet; dolls for miss,
Fans, cups and saucers, kettles, maids and churns.
For idle school-boys Punchinello rants,
The juggler shuffles, and the artful dame
Extends her lucky-bag. For infants tall,
Of twenty years and upwards, rueful games,
To whirl the horse-shoe, bowl at the nine pins,
Game at the dial-plate, drink beer and gin,
Vapour and swear, cudgel, get drunk and fight.
Then comes the ass-race. Let not wisdom frown,
If the grave clerk look on, and now and then
Bestow a smile; for we may see, Alcanor,
In this untoward race the ways of life.
Are we not asses all? We start and run,
And eagerly we press to pass the goal,
And all to win a bauble, a lac'd hat.
Was not great Wolsey such? He ran the race,
And won the hat. What ranting politician,
What prating lawyer, what ambitious clerk,
But is an ass that gallops for a hat?
For what do Princes strive, but golden hats?
For diadems, whose bare and scanty brims
Will hardly keep the sun-beam from their eyes.
For what do Poets strive? a leafy hat,
Without or crown or brim, which hardly screens
The empty noddle from the fist of scorn,
Much less repels the critic's thund'ring arm.
And here and there intoxication too
Concludes the race. Who wins the hat, gets drunk.
Who wins a laurel, mitre, cap, or crown,
Is drunk as he. So Alexander fell,
So Haman, Cæsar, Spenser, Wolsey, James.

Now chilly ev'ning, in her grey coat clad,
Advances from the east, and puts to flight
The rear of day, girt with a zone of stars.
The busy fair is ended. The rank booth
Expels its beastly habitant the mob,
And Andrew's laughable conceit is hush'd.
Home reels the drunken clown, or stays to fight,
Nothing the cause, yet honour much concern'd.
Confusion reigns, uproar and loud misrule;
Distinctions cease, and still the oath, the scream,
The shout, the hoot, disturb the midnight ear
Of sober Cloe gone to bed betimes.