 | Poems |  |
77
Mr. DIGNUM.
See Dignum trip onward, as Cymon array'd,
Both apish and awkward, unlearn'd, and ill made;
The wight has each requisite fitting a clown,
Save bashfulness,—that is a sense he's ne'er known:
Did the varlet affect but to blush, he would cheat us;
For Nature imbronz'd him when scarcely a fœtus:
And the Hibernian atoms descend in his race,
Their foreheads to shield from so foul a disgrace:
With Webster or Vernon the youth could but vie ill;
For he is a vox, et præterea nihil.
Both apish and awkward, unlearn'd, and ill made;
The wight has each requisite fitting a clown,
Save bashfulness,—that is a sense he's ne'er known:
Did the varlet affect but to blush, he would cheat us;
For Nature imbronz'd him when scarcely a fœtus:
And the Hibernian atoms descend in his race,
Their foreheads to shield from so foul a disgrace:
With Webster or Vernon the youth could but vie ill;
For he is a vox, et præterea nihil.
Ye gods! what wild havock is made by Ambition!
Tho' she oft brings her slaves to a state of contrition,
She made pious Dornford, a half-witted railer;
And spoil'd, in young Dignum,—an excellent taylor.
'Tis wond'rous we find not, in Opera's van,
A singing Novitiate, who looks like a Man:—
But Grace, that to song should be ever allied,
Left the stage of the world, as her favourite died.
Tho' she oft brings her slaves to a state of contrition,
She made pious Dornford, a half-witted railer;
And spoil'd, in young Dignum,—an excellent taylor.
78
A singing Novitiate, who looks like a Man:—
But Grace, that to song should be ever allied,
Left the stage of the world, as her favourite died.
When Death seiz'd our Webster, his heaven-born wife,
Sweet Grace, (whom he wedded and cherish'd thro' life,
Whose mild hallowed influence led him along,
Ennobled his action, and breath'd thro' his song:)
Survey'd, like a Persian bride, his remains,
As the pulses of horror beat high thro' her veins;
Then frowning on Fate, who seized all she enjoy'd,
With Misery laden, herself she destroy'd:
Disdaining existence, his ashes she fir'd,
Ascended the pile, gave a sigh, and expir'd.
Sweet Grace, (whom he wedded and cherish'd thro' life,
Whose mild hallowed influence led him along,
Ennobled his action, and breath'd thro' his song:)
Survey'd, like a Persian bride, his remains,
As the pulses of horror beat high thro' her veins;
Then frowning on Fate, who seized all she enjoy'd,
With Misery laden, herself she destroy'd:
Disdaining existence, his ashes she fir'd,
Ascended the pile, gave a sigh, and expir'd.
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