Miscellanies (1785) :: :: University of Virginia Library

iii

II. VOLUME II.

PRIZE POEMS,

WRITTEN FOR THE VASE AT BATH-EASTON VILLA.

STANZAS, FROM MISS SEWARD'S MONODY ON THE DEATH OF LADY MILLAR.

Benignant Laura! to the Muses dear,
Thy virtuous mind with bright amibition glow'd,
To tune the lyre, the votive shrine to rear,
By Science hallow'd in their fair abode;
From sterling wit to clear each base alloy,
And fill with purest fires the crystal lamp of Joy.

Wide thro' the murky shades by Malice shed
To shroud its blossoms, and its foliage blight,
With rising strength thy verdant altar spread,
And bards of loftiest spirit join'd its rite;
And with their oaken, and their laurel crown
Inwove thy myrtle buds, fair wreathe of fair Renown!

Tho' all unknown to Fame its artless reed,
My trembling hand, at thy kind bidding, tried
To crop the blossoms of the uncultur'd mead,
The primrose pale, the briar's blushing pride,
And on thy vase with true devotions laid
The tributary flow'rs—too soon, alas! to fade.

Safe thro' thy gentle ordeal's lambent flame,
My Muse, aspiring dar'd the fiercer blaze,
Which Judgment lights before the hill of Fame,
With calm determin'd hand and searching gaze;
But for thy lib'ral praise, with awful dread,
Far from those burning bars my trembling feet had fled.

Clad in the fine Asbestos light attire,
By Elegance inwove with nicest care,
Of pow'r to pass unhurt the public fire,
Where critic Wit bids all his beacons glare,
The sprightly Winford, at her Laura's fane,
Pass'd thro' its milder flames, amid th' applauding train.

The Nymph of Dronfield there with snowy hand,
To gay Thalia swept the silver wires;
The frolic Muse attends her soft command,
And the free strain with many a charm inspires;
Long be it hers in lettered scenes to please,
By quick Invention's fire, and Nature's graceful ease.

Dear to the parent-source from whence I drew
The spark of life, and all that life endears,
Time honour'd Graves! with duteous joy I view
Thy hollies blushing thro' the snow of years;
Their wintry colours the chaste shrine adorn,
Vivid as genius blends in Life's exulting morn.

Triumphant youth fann'd the poetic flame
Of noble Fielding, whose energic soul
So early wing'd him up the steeps of Fame,
And gain'd, e'er manhood's dawn, the distant goal;
Still in his lays the wounded breast shall find
A charm, that sooths to rest each Vulture of the mind.

From Woodland scenes, in Stamford's flow'ry vale,
With Learning, Peace, and Virtue fond to dwell,
And ring his wild harp to the passing gale,
While Dryden's spirit hovers o'er the shell,
Invention led her musing son among
Sweet Laura's delphic shades, that crown'd his mystic song.

And graceful Jerningham, benignly brought
His gentle Muse, of Bigot-Rage the foe;
And skill'd to blend the force of reasoning Thought
With Sensibility's enamour'd glow;
Skill'd o'er frail Love to draw the sacred veil,
Whose mournful texture floats on Fancy's boyant gale.

There tender Whalley struck his silver lyre
To Love and Nature struck—as mingled flows
With elegiac sweetness epic fire,
In the soft story of his Edwy's woes;
Its beauteous page shall prompt, thro' distant years,
The thrill of generous joy, the tide of pitying tears.

Near him a Bard, of many a fair design,
On the crown'd Vase the varied treasure pil'd,
And Oh! let moral Truth, and Fancy join,
To grace sweet Sympathy's poetic Child!
That his rich chaplet with that verse may vie,
Which throws the roseat ray on Nature's social tie!

Anstey himself would join the sportive band,
Anstey, enlivener of the serious earth!
At the light waving of whose magic wand,
New fountains rose, and flow with endless mirth;
Pouring on Fancy's soul a glow as warm,
As Bath's rich springs impart to Health's reviving form.

Immortal Truth, for his salubrious song,
Pluck'd the unfading laurel from her fane;
Since oft' amid the laugh of Momus's throng,
Wisdom has gravely smil'd, and prais'd the strain;
Pleas'd to behold the Fools of Fashion hit
By new, unrival'd shafts of Ridicule and Wit.

Bright glows the list of many an honour'd name,
Whom Taste in Laura's votive throng surveys,
While Hayley flashes in a type of flame,
Trac'd by a sun-beam the broad letters blaze!
Rapt Britain reads the long-recorded fire,
Claps her triumphant hands, and bids her realms admire!

The above is an exact drawing, engraved from the Tuscular Vase wherein the poems were deposited.

Lady Millar.

The Reviewers.

See Miss Winford's elegant Poem The Hobby Horse, printed in the fourth volume of Poetical Amusements at Bath Easton.

See Miss Rogers's Invocation to the Comic Muse, fourth volume of Poetical Amusements.

Rev. Mr. Graves, of Claverton, author of the Spiritual Quixotte, Enphrosyne, Columella, &c. and the well-known friend of Mr. Shenstone.

Alluding to the Chorus ex Prometheo, presented to the Vase by the Hon. Charles Fielding, then of Harrow School. See fourth volume of Poetical Amusements.

Rev. Mr. Butt, Rector of Stamford in Worcestershire. His Verses on the Pythagorean System had a wreath. See fourth volume of Poetical Amusements.

Mr. Jerningham, though a Roman Catholic, has ably combated monastic enthusiasm, in his ingenious Poem, The Nun.

See Mr. Jerningham's Funeral of Aribert.

Rev. Mr. Whalley of Langford Court, near Bristol, author of that interesting Love Poem, Edwy and Edilda—ingenious as a Poet, and incomparable as a Man.

Author of Sympathy, Emma Corbett, &c. &c. &c.

Author of The New Bath Guide.

See Essay on History—Epic Poetry—Triumphs of Temper, &c. &c.

THE SHADOWS OF SHAKESPEARE:

A MONODY, IN IRREGULAR VERSE, Occasioned by the DEATH of Mr. GARRICK.

I.

Soon as the breath of Rumour blew
This solemn theme into the general ear,
To holy Solitude I flew,
And bade the Muse her sympathy prepare!

There closeted with Thought,
The brain its shapeless travail wrought!
The season to the subject solemnly did suit:
Day's dazzling orb was wholly down:
Pale Cynthia sat upon her silver throne;
Th' obtrusions of the light were clos'd
It seem'd, as Silence self repos'd,
For with the Air, the Earth and all her sons were mute:
All but the wretched, who, like me,
The gentle vigils kept of sympathy.
With cordial awe I liailed the shading night,
And kiss'd her dusky-robe which muffled thus the night.

II.

Base busy world, begone, begone, I said,
To mighty Garrick yield the serious mind,
This awful Now be sacred to the dead,
And turn the cautious key on human kind.

III.

The dead—ah, me!—what dead?—Here it began
The florid Poet felt himself a Man.

And is he dead, whose wonder-working art
So often tone, and touch'd, and tun'd the heart?
Whose piercing eye intelligence could give,
And bid long-buried beings look and live?
Whose voice enrich'd the verse his Shakespeare writ,
And gave to every word its weight of wit;
No sentence blemish'd, marr'd no golden line,
But polish'd, as he drew it from the mine;
Whose tongue grew wanton in his Shakespeare's cause,
And gave to crowded Theatres their laws;
Whose powerful accents, soften'd or sublime,
Free from all frippery, false pause, false chime,
Chain'd, as to th' attracting centre, every ear;
And, all commanding, sway'd the smile and tear:
Is it to Him the Muse must pay
Her tributary lay?
For him, must aching Memory pour the strain,
Must she her honour'd Garrick's loss complain?

IV.

The heart was hurt—It could no more—
Along each finer nerve swift shot the misery,
Even Nature shed her pensive shower;
The mighty Mother wept, alas! with me:

Th' imperial Goddess mourn'd her own decay,
(Mix'd universal with our human clay)
And wish'd she could a second birth bestow
On this her Representative below.
But, ah! it might not be,
So the rich debt was paid, to poor Humanity.

V.

Then in the sable stole of woe,
All conscious of the blow,
Pale her cheek, her eye declining,
Half obedient, half repining;
Her visage mark'd by many a tear,
(Pour'd from the crystal source of grief sincere)
In awful state,
Unfortunate and great,
Melpomene came on,
Afflicted for her Son,
And thrice, methought, the Bowl she lifted high,
And thrice she threw on Heaven the pity-moving eye;

Then, like the statue of Despair,
Stood fix'd—her dagger pois'd in air.

VI.

Now 'twas Thalia first conceiv'd a pain,
'Twas now she echo'd back her sister's sighs again;
The jest, the laugh, the look, were o'er,
Her cunning was no more;
The comic mirth, the comic pride,
Her wit, her whim, with Garrick dy'd;
Disdainful then the mask she flung
To vacant air—and thus forlorn she sung:
And ah! away with random rhyme,
Tinsel ill-suited to the time;
Away with leisure's coxcomb line,
The couplet quaint, the stanza fine;
Far from our verse be now the pun, the point,
The period measur'd joint by joint;
Th' elaborate trade of poesy forbear—
O rather paint the workings of despair;
Scorn the vain edging sable Verse assumes,
And let dark Elegy pass on, in all her pompous plumes.

The honour of the Dead in view,
A juster path will we pursue;
Shakespeare himself, who best our state can feel,
Shall the sad tale in his own language tell.

VII.

Th' inspiring Goddess, mortals Fancy name,
With all her magic arm'd, now near me came
Her waving wand, deep midnight deeper made,
With her I went—to where our Garrick laid.
Cynthia lent a feeble ray,
To light us on our way!
Fancy with printless footsteps trod,
As if advancing towards a God!
Methought we easy entrance found,
And the drear Abbey walk'd around.
How fearful thus, ye Heavens! to tread,
The dampsome vaults which close the dead!

VIII.

But soft—
As at the foot of mighty Shakespeare's tomb

I kneel—sudden along the fretted ailes
Innumerous shady forms, by the pale moon's
Imperfect beam beheld,—in various guise—
(Each in the habit worn in days of Nature)
Appear, and pour their potent spells upon me!
Aw'd by a sight so strange, aloft I stood,
And wist not what to do:—the figures mov'd!
On near approach I knew them for the Train
Of Shakespeare: Then in procession sad,
Strait, one by one, his hallow'd homage paid
O'er Garrick's grave all bending.

IX.

Ariel first,
(Not sight-deceiving, as her custom was,
When in the bowels of the earth she div'd;
“Or mounted on the sharp wind of the North,
“Or on the curling clouds, or sunny ray,
“Nor like a spirit at ease”) but with step
Deliberate—She, and her fellow-ministers,
(“Brimful of sorrow and dismay”) stood mute,
Then gaz'd upon the grave—then sunk in sighs.

X.

Prospero,
The great magician, next—(whose high command
“Wak'd sleepers in their graves, and let them forth”)
Beheld the vanishing instrument of's art,
And spake—

“Have ye, which are but air,
“A touch, a feeling of our loss extreme;
“And shall not I, one of his kind, be kindlier?
“Our revel then is done; and this our Actor
“Is now no more! Lost is the book of Conjuration:—
“He regulated all our mystic charms:—He's dead!
“The cloud-capt tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
“The solemn temples, the great globe itself;
“Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
“And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
“Leave not a wreck behind.”

XI.

He said, and paus'd.
The weir'd Sisters then, hag-born and horrid,

Mutter'd their melancholy homage hoarse;
Cold distillations of distress extreme
Fell down the furrows of each wint'ry cheek:
Thrice pac'd they piteous round the hallow'd earth,
Acknowledging their Lord. To Garrick's grave
Bow'd every swarthy She.—To end their rites,
Imagination's owl flapp'd her fell wing,
And, wailing, shriek'd as 'cross the dome she flew:
Sudden, the whirring wizards disappear,
And horse themselves upon the viewless winds.

XII.

The gentle Romeo was the third which came;
And oh! he said,—“Turn back dull Earth—ah, me!
“Can I go forward when my friend is here?
“It is even so—Then I defy you stars!
“Romeo shall never more be Romeo now
“His occupation's gone.”—

XIII.

The noble Coriolanus was the fourth,
Whose very shade look'd martial—firm he strode,
And thus with Roman dignity exclaim'd,
In honour of the Dead:

“My fame like thine
“Demands an equal voice, an equal tongue:
“All eyes spoke of thee, and the bleared sights
“Were spectacled to see thee—the veil'd dames
“Commit the wave of white and damask, in
“Their nicely gauded cheeks, to th' wanton spoil
“Of Phœbus' burning kisses: such a pother,
“As if that whatsoever God had tun'd thy throat
“Were slyly crept into thy human powers,
“To give thee grace and posture. Oft, great shade!
“The dumb men throng'd to see thee, and the blind
“To hear thee speak. To thee have Nobles bended,
“As to Jove's Satue; and the Commons made
“A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts
“As ne'er were seen the like.”—The soldier pass'd.

XIV.

The fifth sad spirit that stalk'd by was Lear's,
Mad as the vext sea still; and singing oft;
Crown'd, as of old, by Shakespeare's hand; with fumiter,
With hardocks, hemlocks, nettles, cuckoo flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In the sustaining corn—
At sight of Garrick's tomb his wounds again
Bleed fresh. Tottering he mov'd; his words were wild:
“You do me wrong to call me out o'th' grave!
“And yet I know thee, Man!—Heav'n has thee now!
“Thou wer't Lear's friend.—In faith I do remember.—
“Yes, we were both as stout a pair:—but why
“This truant disposition? Is the greatest man
“So poor and forked an animal in death?—
“Off, off, you lendings, come unbotton here—Poor shade!
“No more of that, no more of that.—

XV.

The figure next succeeding was the Thane's,
Languid and penitent.—His hand he wav'd
As 'twere in honour of the man, whose voice
Did blow his base design in every ear:
Malice was dead within him, and he wept;
Then striking thrice his bosom, thus he cried:
“Oh Nature! how thyself thou blazon'dst
“In this thy Son; form'd in thy prodigality
“To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
“Its very form and pressure:—when he spoke
“Each aged ear play'd truant at his tales,
“And younger hearers were quite ravish'd;
“So voluble was his discourse.—Yet, being dead,
“I am a man again!”—He rush'd along.

XVI.

The gallant Anthony then onward strode
And paus'd—as 'erst o'er Cæsar's corse:—then spake:
“Thou art the ruins of the noblest man

“That ever liv'd in the tide of Time!
“Here was an Actor—when comes such another?

Such another, however, is come—See Siddons.

XVII.

The next a female form, of Percy's line,
A race for ever noble—thus her tribute gave:

—“Thou wert the very glass
“Wherein the noblest youth did dress themselves;
“There were no legs that practis'd not thy gait;
“There were no eyes that practis'd not thy looks;
“Even those that spoke but low and tardily
“Would turn their own perfections to abuse,
“To seem like Thee: So that in speech, in gait,
“In accents, and affections of delight,
“Thou wert the mark and glass, copy and book,
“To fashion others; and on thee, as on
“My Harry and the Sun, bright Honour stuck,
“As sticks the Sun in the grey vault of Heaven.”

XVIII.

And now, the melancholy Jaques advanc'd,
And, full of matter, thus in few, exclaim'd:

“Why all the World's a stage,
“And all the Men and Women merely players:
“They have their exits and their entrances;
“And this Man, in his time, play'd many parts.
“Life! No more on't; it is a tale, told
“By an idiot, signifying nothing.”

XIX.

At last, with philosophic step,
Swift-streaming eye, and arms entwined close,
The sacred shade of his own Hamlet came:
Long time he paus'd—long time around he look'd,
Then fix'd his view upon the grave, and spoke:
“'Tis not now, seems; in verity, it is;
“Oh, what a grace was seated on that brow!
“An eye, like Mars, to threaten or command;
“A combination and a form indeed,
“Where every God did seem to set his seal,
“To give the world assurance of a Man!
“And is it come to this?—but hush, my heart!
“He was a Man, take him for all in all,
“We may not look upon his like again.”

XX.

While wrapt in wonder of these various shews
The sovereign shade of Shakespeare awful rose,
His many-colour'd wand he wav'd,
And soon the mournful train again were grav'd.
(Now was His genius even more divine,)
And all alone he stood before his Garrick's shrine.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirits, then, he said,
To me belongs th' inestimable dead;
To each 'tis given to breathe, to fall;
'Tis the fix'd lot of all that soar or crawl.
For Thee, much honour'd friend,
What glories mark'd thy end!
Applauding nations own thy fame,
And, blend their Garrick's, with their Shakespeare's name:
Together then we mount on high,
'Tis our's to triumph, 'tis the World's to sigh.

The drawing from which this engraving is taken, and that which embellishes the opening of the 4th volume, are by a very eminent pencil, and were a present to the Author of these Miscellanies.

THE SYSTEM OF PYTHAGORAS.

EXPLODED BY HIMSELF.

'Tis all a fable, Sirs, you know,
So let us take a turn below:
Elysium, on this fourth of May,
Must look prodigious green and gay;
On earth it 'gins to bud fair weather,
Let us then seek full bloom together.
Breathe but to fancy half a prayer,
Her painted plumes shall waft you there:
For wings the Goddess hath all over,
And freely lends to those who love her.
Then let all present just tack on,
A pair a-piece—the journey's done.
What, tho' the road was under-ground,
Is there a bar can fancy bound?

Lord, what a whirl! at one deep dive,
In this blest region to arrive!
Ere your repeaters could strike seven,
Ladies, I've landed you in Heav'n!
How balmy breathes the atmosphere,
A charming spring below this year;
The wreathed myrtles seem in bloom,
And shed Parnassean perfume:
These verdant trophies must be plac'd
In Paradise by souls of taste,
When like May bees they hither come,
To cull the sweets of Miller's room.
How fresh the fields, how soft the air!
I greet our safe arrival there.

Yet, let us not at random rove,
Our business lies in laurel grove;
And yonder, see it fair, unfold,
Burnish'd with variegated gold;
Or ting'd with a poetic hue,
Clearer than Heav'ns ethereal blue,

All neatly scollop'd at the end,
While rosy ripe, the branches bend
But broader, gloomier shades, you see,
Spread from each scientific tree.
Unlike the blossom'd boughs of wit,
Few are the flouncings they admit:
Their sober shadows chill the ground
With venerable verdure round.

Behold! Pythagoras appears,
The pride of nature's earlier years
Near him the heavenly harp we find,
With which each morn he sooth'd his mind
His golden verses grace his hand,
And there the Samean sages stand;
Th' Italic sect you there behold
Vers'd in the lore we now unfold.
But wherefore these in human shape?
Why not in eagle, emmet, ape?
These still are men; have hands, have feet!
Who hath the system overset?

I thought (and so good folks did you
I see you wonder as you view)
I thought the book worm's shifted soul
Might take apartments in an owl:
I thought to see Dan. Pope a swan,
After his soul had done with man;
And many a tuneful soul, in love,
Cooing soft couplets in a dove;
Huge elephants I thought to find
The lodgings of the learned mind;
Pindar's pure soul in Eagle mould,
And Gray's on the same perch of gold;
Hammond, a turtle should appear,
And Swift, in Satyr shape, be here:
Sages, turn'd moths, I hop'd to meet,
Fix'd still to literary treat;
Tuck'd snug betwixt the leaves where lie,
These grubs of old philosophy.

Thus, Pye, we thought thy doctrine ran,
Brutes were to lodge in soul of man;
And spirits gone, to take the forms
Of letter'd mites, or learned worms,

Or flit about till they could find
A body of congenial kind.
Who knows, but some of those before ye,
Firmly relying on your story,
From Miller's mansion came, with me,
Their old acquaintances to see;
Some lovelorn friend, a Philomel,
A monkey beau, a gold-finch belle.
But not one bird or beast is here,
And thou, thyself, a bearded seer.
Well; be it so. We're glad to find
Thy system but a whisk of wind;
A vapour, which was idly spread
From fume of metaphysic head.
A pretty thing, indeed, if we
Could sport thus with futurity!
If after death, we could with ease
Take any likeness that we please;
Or be compell'd to animate
Some horrid carcase which we hate;
Queer incidents would teem on earth,
From these strange laws of second birth.

Why, at that rate when plagues seem'd o'er;
When factious wife can scold no more;
When, as a woman she was dead,
'Tis but her woman form that's fled;
Thy scheme would bring her home again,
And thus redouble every pain;
Now in a cat a spouse would claw,
Or mouth and chatter in a daw;
Vain wou'dst thou starve her in the cage
In some fresh form—the jade wou'd rage,
Nay more, we all should murderers prove,
And mangle those we really love.
Hold, butcher, hold th' uplifted knife,
In yonder calf—you kill your wife;
Touch not, dear Madam, yonder dish,
Your husband's soul—is in the fish;
There swims an Alderman in gravy,
Dory! the Alderman shall save ye!
That venison, Miss, I beg you'll spare,
Your roving lover's—roasted there!
Oh! pass that brute and chuse another,
In that chaim'd ape, behold thy brother!

Strange turns would happen, friend Pythag.
If true this system of a wag.
Perhaps the babe, but newly born,
A kitten mews the following morn;
Then, if not sav'd by Miss, or Master,
Thou know'st the wawling thing's disaster;
No tabby streaks, alas! avail,
Drown'd is thy infant—in the pail!!
To hunt the hare too were a sin,
Thy sister's soul may pant within;
The very hounds who yelp and tear,
May be first cousins to the hare.
The worm, within his earthly nest,
Might diet on a parents's breast.
Beware too pastimes of the gun,
A guardian in a fox might run;
A husband in a buck might go,
His Lady, weeping, as a doe;
Stretch not the Ox upon the plain,
Pull not the Lion by the mane;
Should a King's soul be in the beast,
It is high treason at the least!

Boy, do not draw your bow and arrow,
You'll shoot a coxcomb through a sparrow;
Child, do not chace that butterfly,
A fop expires if it should die;
You'll hang a lover in your dog,
And stick a Lord Mayor in a hog.
In short, friend Pye, it will not do,
Thy transmigrations are not true!

I own it all, the Sage replies,
(Thou see'st the sacred father rise)
These sallies then of wit forbear,
And bless the cause which brought thee here:
Had I no reason while on earth,
To give th' Italic system birth?
In looking various Nature through,
Man, bird, and beast, appear'd in view;
Men play'd the part of brutes, and then
Brutes better seem'd to me than men:
The ugly soul, in alter'd shape,
Figur'd superior in an ape:
'Twas an amendment of its race,
To give a beau a monkey's face;

Better to let the dull soul pass
Into the body of an ass;
When the false friend a spaniel fawn'd,
Wise was the change, for folks were warn'd,
And whatsoe'r befel the creature,
It made no vacuum in Nature.
When I beheld the miser's heap,
And saw his sordid spirits creep
All jealous, tow'rds his cank'ring hoard,
Which not a charity afford,
I gave the wretch a juster form,
And thrust his soul into the worm!
Or when the epicure I saw
O'er-stepping Nature's modest law,
His soul I give a fitter shrine,
Associate of the gorging swine!
Yet, these are sentiments I long
Have felt to be exceeding wrong;
False was the system I confess,
Of punishment and happiness:
Nor would you find me here to-day,
Wer't not to point a nobler way:

Scarce had I gain'd the Elysian shore—
Farewell—recede—I dare no more—

He's gone, you see! what means the Seer?
And Fancy, too, doth disappear;
What! must we now unguided go,
And puzzle out these paths below?
'Twill prove, in troth, a pleasant tour!
Ah, me! what light begins to pour
From yonder skirtings of the sky;
What god-like form gains on the eye,
Awes, as it moves, each frolic sense,
Commanding love and reverence?

'Tis the blest founder of a nobler plan,
Guardian of glory and the friend of man,
No fairy land, no visionary shade,
We bow before him in the world he made;
'Tis God himself! he opes the book of light,
And lo—all other systems sink in night!
Behold the Christian banner he displays,
And infidels turn converts as they gaze,

Truth holds the golden revelation high,
While chosen cherubs fix it in the sky.
See the thick mist of ignorance is fled,
See gospel radiance rises on the dead;
In antient darkness we no longer go,
Nor wander wilder'd in the shades below!
Vain ev'ry fabled hill, and heav'nly grove,
Virtue and Vice have surer laws above.
In every Christian heart is writ their meed,
'Tis demonstration, and who will may read.

THE FAMILY OF TIME:

OR, THE APPARITIONS OF YESTERDAY, LAST NIGHT, AND TO-MORROW.

On the Subject of Procrastination.

Written in irregular Verse.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears the palm,
That all men are about to live:
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
Dr. Young.

The “darkness visible” of dawn
Dimly proclaims the dubious morn!
The clock goes—What?—As I'm alive,
Its moral finger points to five!
It strikes! I hear the lapse of time,
And rise to write the loitering rhime.
Another stroke! Like solemn Young,
I feel the “Angel” in its tongue;
The myrtled morning is come on,
And nothing for the Vase yet done!

But soft! on yonder side the table,
Comes the kind Muse, in suit of sable,
Solemn and slow she walks along,
Procrastinating song.
In allegoric robes profound
She sweeps the visionary ground.
Checks Wit's wild sally, and in sober rhime,
Summons the shades of hoary Time!
With her, on Fancy's plume I fly,
And see the feather'd progeny;
Hours, minutes, moments, rise to sight,
And all the lucid family of light.
And first, all humid with her tears,
Behold a deeply injur'd fair,
The ghost of Yesterday appears,
A weeping vision, thin as air.

The sick sigh from her bosom breaks,
And shivering in her shroud she stands,
Pale as the scroll within her hands,
And thus in accents, tremulous, she speaks:

“At earliest peep of orient morn,
“With fair Aurora was I born;
“I help'd Hyperion to his horse,
“And ran with Sol his radiant course;
“Twelve fleeting hours I drew my breath,
“Then sunk into the arms of Death!
“Soon as my light of life was fled,
“A sister reigned in my stead;
“Time, with his glass, stood pensive by,
“And gave me to Eternity.
“'Twas then that to the sphere of day,
““Day without night,” I bent my way;
“Th' Immortal call'd me, and I stood
“With those that fell before the flood,
“The first-born of my scythe-crown'd Sire,
“In pure and primitive attire;
“With the first sun-beam of the sky,
“And ev'ry pendent orb on high:
“With these, and all the race of light,
“Fast by the throne I stood in sight;
“My great progenitors I saw,
“And felt a reverential awe:

“The trumpet sounded—every knee
“Was bent in solemn sanctity,
“Strait YESTERDAY was call'd aloud!
“I fearful pass'd the shadowy crowd,
“Then bow'd before the heav'nly powers,
“Attended by my kindred hours.
“Unfold the scroll,” an Angel cry'd,
I op'd the page—the Angel sigh'd!
“And is that all thou can'st display,
“Unhappy shade of YESTERDAY?
“What do I see? (pale ghost!) a train
“Of follies light, of fashions vain,
“Of actions little, passions mean,
“Of dealings dark, of deeds obscene,
“Of havock, horror, lucre, lust,
“Of fractur'd faith and broken trust,
“Of villainy in dark disguise,
“Of widows groans, of orphans sighs:
“Oh, what a register is here!”
The Angel dropt an Angel's tear;
Then paus'd. Poor Yesterday withdrew.
Another ghost appear'd in view;

Dusky as Death the robe it wore,
Its air distrait, its garment tore:
“And what art thou? the Angel said,
“Speak, Stygian vision, funeral shade.
“Night is my name,” the spectre cry'd,
“At the first tinge of morn I died.
“My sable catalogue behold,
“Sacred to darkness and to gold;
“A sepulchre of sin my book,
“'Twill wound Day's “pitying eye” to look:
“Seductions, murders, wound the sight,
“Ah! did you know what pass'd last light;
“The deeds which mark the midnight hour—”
“Enough: Retire! replied the Power;
“Once more let Yesterday appear.”
She came, and dropt the conscious tear,
Then spoke: “This leaf, O Angel, read,
“I'm not without one gen'rous deed.
“On this reverse you may behold
“A nobler use of light, and gold,
“Some minutes in memorial rise,
“And of my hours some few were wise.

“Close on this corner of the leaf,
“Observe a mark like that of Grief;
“But 'twas not Grief which caus'd this tear,
“'Twas Gratitude, 'twas Joy, wept there.
“From points of time, O take my best,
“'Tis Mercy's to o'erlook the rest.”

“Nor be extreme, said Night, to mark
“All the transactions of the dark:
“Tho' the assassin sought my aid,
“And robbers lurk'd beneath my shade;
“Tho' Murder at my stillest hour
“Drew the dire blade, and blest my power;
“Tho', when in ebon spheres enthron'd,
“I saw the virtues half postpon'd,
“Saw Poverty by Wealth forgot,
“And skreen'd the knave from being caught;
“Yet in my list some graces flow:
“Permit me, Chief, th' account to show,
“Sketch'd, Seraph, in this page you trace
“Some lineaments divine of grace;

“Here, midnight prayers are written down,
“While men were with their God alone;
“At the twelfth hour, a spirit blest,
“Unmurmuring sought the realms of rest:
“Pity, a starving creature fed,
“And gave the wanderer a bed.
“About the noon of my domain,
“While slept th' insensible and vain,
“A good man broke his own repose,
“To mitigate another's woes,
“Unseen he blest my kind disguise,
“And paid me for my former sighs;
“Silent he sat beside the sickly bed,
“And sooth'd the sorrowing heart, and held the throbbing head.”
The Angel heard benign. The roseate glow
Suffus'd his cheek, and tears began to flow;
Charm'd with th' account that Night had giv'n,
Then grateful fix'd his starry eyes on Heav'n.
While thus he stood in thought profound,
A sacred silence breathing round,

Up rose a venerable Seer,
To comment on the wasting year.
“Alas! no cause for me to boast,
“I am the DAY the Roman lost;
“Some good, much ill, will always go
“To chequer every hour below.
“Some flying centuries are past,
“O Angel, since I breath'd my last;
“Like YESTERDAY's, it was my fate,
“To see the world procrastinate;
“Men vow'd To-morrow's sun should see
“A general propriety;
“To-morrow rogues were to be just,
“Thus all was universal trust;
“TO-MORROW should the miser lend,
“And without usury be a friend;
“The prude, the rake, should faithful prove,
“And live a life of mutual love.
“In short, TO-MORROW should be blest
“With all that's noblest, fairest, best.
“Indeed, TO-DAY, folks were so hurried
“By passion, pleasure, business, flurried,

“Ladies had such a world to do,
“Such waggon-loads of matter new;
“And men so press'd a different way,
“All begg'd, alas! another day,
“To carry on their usual cares,
“And sure twelve hours could break no squares;
“So high and low, and rich and poor,
“Push'd off amendment—one day more.
“Blest revolution! blessed morrow
“All hail, the fall of sin and sorrow!
“Soon as I dy'd, my sister NIGHT
“Usurp'd the sphere of former light,
“Then languish'd at th' approaching morn,
“And lo, the promis'd morrow born!
“Fresh from the ruddy East she sprung,
“Earth, seas, and air, her triumph sung,
“In sunny vestments blithe she came,
“Like me in every thing but name.
“The hist'ry of her actions spread,
“Discover'd scarce one folly dead,
“Nor scarce one rising virtue born,

“But many a promis'd fair she brought,
“With many a reforming thought;
“Men were to mend the following morn;
“This following morn then rose to view,
“Another promise broke, another made anew.
“What then can we, Time's children, say?
“But tell thy tale, pale YESTERDAY!
“Hear the sad narrative again,
“Augmenting fraud, augmenting pain.
“From first to last, throughout the nation,
“Tis all, alas! Procrastination.

Thus spake the Sage, and went his way,
And leaves to me the moral of the day.
Behold experience point the vain command,
Behold Reluctance chain the ling'ring hand.
In proof of human brevity,
Silent and swift the seasons fly:
The sun, the moon, are form'd to show
The constant flux of things below;
Ocean and Earth assist the plan,
And press their maxims upon man;

The closing night, th' unfolding day,
Denote the perils of delay.
Yet stop not here:—another line
Affords a subject more divine:
Hail'd be this theme of Miller's urn,
In which a purer flame may burn.
Upon this verdant shrine to day,
One pious offering let us lay;
Nor you, ye gayer Muses, sneer,
Tho' holiest incense we burn here.
To-day, the solemn thoughts invite,
I feel their fervor as I write;
The hours of Lent, we all agree,
Appeal to man's humility,
Increase Procrastination's blame,
And change her folly into shame.
Then, oh! by all a God inspires,
By all a Christian's graceful fires,
By all which to the soul is dear,
The holy sigh, the heav'nly tear,

Forgive the Poet, if his tuneful care
Attempts this once a sacred wreath to wear;
If on this serious day he tries his art
To win th' immortal myrtle—of THE HEART.

Recited in Lent.

TENDERNESS.

A Lover is supposed to have read the Subject of the Vase, and to exclaim as his Feelings suggest.

WRITTEN IN IRREGULAR VERSE.

Forbear! is Tenderness an Elegy?
Ah, what will sadness do with such a theme?
Say, is not love our happiness supreme?
Say, is it not the soul of Poesy?
Then bid the gentle Muse
A fair title choose;
Bid her invoke the dear Idalian boy;
Bid her invoke the tuneful Nine,
And let all sing this source of joy,
Let all confess the subject is divine!

Avaunt, the sombrous lay,
'Tis jubilee to day;
And all the Aonian maids should sing
The triumph (not the tear) till Aganippe ring:
Away! away! it is not so;
Cease! cease! that jarring song of woe!
To sprightlier measures suit the lyre,
And paint the bliss of innocent desire;
Or if the Muse must needs complain,
Soft let her touch the tender strain;
O, bid her breathe the music of the lute,
Or whispering warble of the melting flute;
In thrilling notes of lovely anguish,
Let every tone be taught to languish;
Then change, and change again, till Echo, in reply,
Leap from her chrystal cave to join the harmony.
So ran the rhapsody of fire,
Soon as young Marius saw the plaintive lyre;
Fain would he have in ev'ry line
The rose to blush, the lilly shine;
Fain would he mix the summer ray
With all the breathing balms of May;

Hebe's rich bloom, with Venus' eye,
Praise every tear, and boast of every sigh.
And stop (said he) the jarring string,
Again I bid ye strew the flowers of spring;
From themes of extasy,
Far, far, be Elegy!
Then did he vaunt the passion of his heart,
And triumph'd in the wound, and gloried in the smart.
Lead on to Mira's bower, exclaim'd the youth,
For Marius there she twines the tender flower;
First hear and reverence the voice of truth,
I said—Then thus employ'd th' instructive hour:
Is Love indeed, the drop which Heav'n
In mercy to mankind has giv'n?
Is it indeed, that cordial pow'r,
Our little being's fairest flow'r?
Which doth for ev'ry ill a recompense impart?
O stripling, ere you quite decide,
The passion turn on every side;
Count well your losses, count your gains,
Deduct your pleasures from your pains.

Haply this drop will then appear
Form'd of an agonizing tear;
Haply, the drops of bitterest woe
Do from this vaunted source more copiously flow!
Ah, see the subject meet of solemn Elegy;
If joy smile there, say doth not sorrow blend
Her pointed poisons, and her searching sigh?
Behold, fond youth, the family of pain,
All mingle mischief in fair Venus' train;
First Doubt displays her troubled air,
And near her glooms the fiend Despair:
Suspicion points th' ambiguous leer,
And Grief presents her wounding tear;
Fell Jealousy, accursed power!
Comes forward at the midnight hour,
Robs all he doats upon of breath,
Then calls on Suicide for Death!
Pale Penury is also there,
And wan Uncertainty and Care!
And ev'n the nuptial couch appears.
Oft steep'd in Sorrow's baneful tears:

Absence (the death of lovers) too,
With Disappointment, is in view;
And Expectation, lively power!
Frets often at the passing hour;
Possession's self your raptures chide,
And seats Indifference near your bride;
The warmest vows, the balmiest kiss,
Oft end, alas, my friend, in this,
Chill the chang'd lip, which glow'd before,
And bid the pulses throb no more.
The household demons too, I see,
Fit subjects for an Elegy.
For these, the world you need not roam,
Observe that little world at home;
Vexations on vexations rise,
And joy with grief decides the prize.
The fire-side frailties all are there,
In form of vapour, freak, and air;
The look of spleen, the word of strife,
The pets, the pouts, of married life;
The quick retort, the tart reply,
The saucy toss, the sulky sigh,

The female fit, the mannish pride,
The sullens shown on either side;
Th' obedient faint, the hectic dear,
Hysteric catch, convenient tear;
The wilful whine, the mutual wishes,
The petty wrangle about dishes;
The bounce which tells a quarrel nigh,
The bitten lip, th' indignant eye,
The silly flaunt, the cutting leer,
The solid slap, the sorer sneer;
The hard-slap'd door, which marks the last disdain,
Till all chez vous doth ring with rage again.
All these and many a worse distress,
With sickness, folly, wretchedness;
May grow, my friend, ev'n in your Mira's bower,
So ponder—ere you crop the attracting flower;
Ponder it well, and will then deny,
That Love, fond Love, affords full scope for Elegy?
The youth impatient heard
And listen'd to each word,

Then spake:—All this, perchance, is true,
But where's th' exceptions of the chosen few?
Dost thou involve mankind alike,
In this misfortune and dislike?
Shame on thy lyre, and on its strain,
Break, prithee break, the chords in twain!
Or learn a truer touch to know,
And do not jumble matters so;
Why, knowst thou not discordant fool,
I'm an exception to the rule?
Mira, who now expects me yonder,
Is not more mine, than Nature's wonder;
The Sun looks jealous from his throne,
And sees his lustrous eye outshone.
Doubt, she can never, for her truth
Shall bless and decorate our youth;
Suspicion she shall never know,
My own fair faith informs me so;
Secure from Jealousy's alarms,
I'll lock her ever in my arms;
And Penury she need not fear,
Behold what hands for toil are here!

Possession shall but more endear,
And I will kiss off every tear;
The warmest vows I will repeat,
Till all the pulses stronger beat;
And as for absence,—lo the sun
Declines—Adieu, dear friend, I'm gone.
Mutter, still mutter on (cold reasoner) whilst I
Hasten to Mira's bower, and laugh at Elegy.

The moral of the verse is plain,
At once the lover owns and welcomes pain;
The dear bewitching woe, we all confess,
And feel a charm in our distress;
The Petrachs and the Lauras all complain,
But love prompts every sigh, and bliss directs the strain.
The solemn Seer, and matron Muse, may school,
Each lover's an exception to the rule;
Each Marius has a Mira in the bower,
Where Hymen lights his torch, and Venus shows her power.

DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS.

Delays are dangerous—Ah, me!
Ce'st bien vrai—as you shall see.
And that example may be found,
We'll turn the subject round and round.

A time there is in woman's life,
That fixes her a maid or wife.
A ribbon'd youth with sword and sash on,
Courting that pretty flirt—Miss Fashion;
Romances thus on each lov'd feature:
“Gods! was e'er seen so sweet a creature?”
Then struck the gorget on his breast,
And warmer thus his flame express'd:
“Jove, what a brow! what bon-ton swim!
“Her shape how elegantly slim!
“What graces in that train behind!
“Each fold denotes a taste refin'd.
“Then such good breeding crowns the whole,
“In every movement there is soul.

“My angel, name the happy day;
“But let it quickly be I pray.”
‘The First of April then, (says she)
‘I yield to—your felicity.
‘You men are so importunate,
‘But wedlock's an affair of weight.’
“O my adorable, I know,
“And well he turn'd it to and fro.
“Ah, that the blessed morn were here!
“My love, my life, my soul, my dear!
The usual thumps and sighings past,
This blessed morn arrives at last.
“Well now my charming Fashion! now,
“Come, blooming come, fulfil your vow.
“Thus on his knee your Sword-knot begs.”
‘Do, pray Sir, get upon your legs.
‘To see a soldier on his knees,
‘In military times like these,
‘Is really shocking I protest!—
‘This nasty cough so breaks my rest,
‘I have not slept a wink all night—
‘Then how I look!—I'm quite a fright!

‘If I to-day were made your wife,
‘I'm positive 'twould cost my life.
‘To leave my room some risks I run—
‘Observe—I've still my night-cap on.
‘I am so ill and feel so queer—
‘Pray put it off now—there's a dear,
‘Postpone it, if you love your Fashion.”
“Postpone it, Madam! (in a passion)
“Fire, flints, and fury! what d'ye say?
“May thunders rive me if I stay!
“Plain yes, or no? I ask no more,”
‘For heav'n's sake Sukey shut that door:
‘There comes such whiffs into my neck,
‘And I'm so subject to a creek;
‘Stay but a month for Pity's sake—
‘Lord how I stretch—I'm scarce awake.’
“For ever, Madam, sleep for me,
“I'll well reward your perfidy.
“Yes, Madam, sleep I say for ever,
“No more I'll trouble you—no never!
“Delays are dangerous (he cries)
“Oh when will womankind be wise?

“Farewel, go weep the occasion past,
“You'll prove the April fool at last.”
And so she did. Her airs miscarried,
She's forty-nine, and—still unmarried.

“Since Fortune gives th' power to bless,
“In pity soften my distress!
“If a small pittance you deny,
“This day, this hour, perhaps, I die.”
A wretched suppliant thus in tears,
Press'd by the load of life and years,
To Sophron gay, his suit prefer'd,
And thus his earnest wish was heard:
‘Yes, honest man, I see you're poor,
‘And heartily your case deplore,
‘A little money you would borrow?
‘I'm busy now, but call to-morrow.’

To-morrow is a day too late,
Thus tolls the passing bell of fate;
Delays are dangerous my friend,
Or lend in time, or never lend:

No gold can bribe the moment fled;
Put up your purse—the poor man's dead.

A thing there is—ye maids beware—
Which once was young, might once be fair,
Except an ogle now and then,
Strange, her antipathy to men!
In the same house to fleer and fling,
There liv'd another ancient thing,
Brother and sister, strange to tell,
Thus led a life of ding-dong bell,
This pair of antiquated wights,
Full sadly past unspoused nights,
For ever at each other rail,
And this the burthen of the tale:

‘That's downright malice sister Bridget
‘—Aye you may fume, and fret, and fidget.
‘But long since you cou'd offers boast,
‘I, was the dear Dorinda's toast.
‘She hob'd and nob'd me by the hour,
‘Said I had eyes—and felt their power;

‘Then bumper'd me each day at dinner’—
“Lord, brother, whut a wretched sinner!
“Your day, old batchelor was over
“Ere Salprunella was my lover;
“With me he fell in love you know,
“When I receiv'd that ugly blow;
“And as he bled my snowy arm,
“Swore in each pulse he felt a charm.”
‘P'shaw! p'shaw! old maid, 'tis false as hell,
‘'Twas all a flam—you feign'd unwell,
‘To catch the doctor?—Hah! to catch?
‘At this they flounce—at this they scratch.’
“And is it, brother, come to this?
“Sweet wither'd sir”—‘Oh! blooming miss!’
“Madam 'tis well”—‘No, Ma'am 'tis ill,’—
“But I can ask the question still.”
‘Come then, it shall—it shall be married,
‘Tho' fifty years it has miscarried.’
“Ma'am, Ma'am, 'tis false”—Sir, Sir, 'tis true
‘You were most slighted’—“No Ma'am you,
“I'll leave the house”—‘Aye, prithee go,
‘The apes are waiting you below,’

“John call a coach,”—‘With all my heart.’
Slap goes the door, and thus they part.
Brother and sister hold your tongue,
Idly ye rail, for both are wrong,
Your wrinkles, and your wranglings prove
Delays are dangerous in love.

Our muse shall array the fourth instance in sattin,
And your tit-up-ing verse she can tell it most pat-in,
Oh! ye zephyrs breathe gently on fair Mr. Sleek,
For the roses—of Warren—now essence his cheek,
Those sensative roses that die at the touch,
And lose all their colour if blown on too much,
Then the lillies of Moseneau blossom beneath,
And Spence has a pension for guarding the teeth,
At one every morning he rubs the brush thro' them,
And the pretty one grins, that the ladies may view 'em;
Then he rides! Oh ye Gods!—he does ride to be sure,
While the horse seems to aid his lov'd Lord in the lure:

Each caper, each curvet, discovers his art,
And every prance, sends a prance to the heart.
But you say that the world will accuse me of satire,
Why, I know that the world is most prone to good nature;
But then I am talking of nothing you find,
For this femaleish male has no meaning nor mind,
Delays being dangerous, therefore I vote,
(Since riddle-mee-rees are scarce worth finding out)
I vote that—no hang it, I will not be cruel,
I will not provoke the dear thing to a duel:
The Perfumer for damage would sue me at law,
So the motion about to be made I withdraw;
And with perfect good humour I change this dead letter,
And leave this soft nothing for something—scarce better.
Oh heavens! what spectre hov'ring o'er
Is ent'ring now at yonder door,
Where pale Lucullus gasps for breath?
Angels and Ministers! 'tis Death!

Close he stalk'd by me yester-night
And my blood sallied at the sight.
Lucullus beg'd another day,
The bony Monarch went away;
Lucullus promis'd to repent
And begg'd a day with such intent.
Death had no sooner left the room
Than life and all its follies bloom,
The bony Monarch finds him now
Unmindful of the pious vow.
Assumes the life disposing nod
And shews the mandate of his God.
‘Yet one more hour the culprit cries,
‘As trembling on his bed he lies,
‘One little moment yet dispense?
‘It may not be—Thou'rt summon'd hence.’
“Delays are dangerous, thou fool,
“May Heav'n shew mercy on thy soul.”

Young Claudio plays a desperate hand,
What axes echo thro' the land!
And scarce a lonely tree remains
To screen the woodman from the rains,

The sorrowing oxen, as they go,
Curse thoughtless Claudio in their lowe;
And presently those oxen die,
Another handful to supply.
The poor esteem its vastly cruel,
There's not a stick to warm their gruel;
Then execrate the gambler's art,
Which opes the hand but shuts the heart;
For Claudio vends his very faggots
To bet upon a race of maggots.
His birds too mourn, the ruin'd grove,
Once vocal with the song of love.
In good Sir Careful's thrifty day,
They nested safe on ev'ry spray:
Look, says a poor defruded thrush,
Claudeo has stubb'd my nuptial bush.
See, quoth a rook upon the ground,
The duce a tree can now be found;
Each house in our aërial town
This spendthrift landlord has cut down,
The man has ruin'd all my friends,
And havock o'er each grove impends:

But dearly shall he pay the scheme,
He pluck'd us rooks, now rooks pluck him.
“Claudio, that last was a good hit,
“Rise instant rise, the table quit,
“Delays are dangerous.” ‘I go
‘Soon as I've tried another throw.’
“Delays are dangerous—stop in time.”
‘P'shaw, nonsense! damn your boring rhime,
‘You put me out.’—He rashly threw,
Lost the last guinea and withdrew,
Delays are dangerous, he said,
Then snap'd a pistol at his head.

Thus, having swirl'd the theme about
And pointed some examples out,
'Tis time to take my leave of verse—
O! for a couplet pat and terse!
By way of moral—hang it now!
When wit's most wanted none will flow:
That's so provoking, Muse, so hard,
Throws such a damp upon the bard,

'Tis really monstrous I declare—
And then a tag gives such an air.
Indeed this sudden fall of snow
Makes hobbling Pegasus move slow.
Would but the Muse—hush! hush! behold her
Lean from the Vase, and touch my shoulder;
She whispers that I talk too long,
Delays are dangerous in song;
Her sacred Counsel I attend,
And bring my poem to an end.

Written in the deep snow.

ODE TO THE SUN.

I.

God of the Vase;—bright Guardian of the Urn;
To thee with conscious gratitude we turn,
By thee, our tender garlands grow,
Our laurels shoot, our mirtles blow;
By thee our Priestess forms her bower,
Invoking still thy genial power.

II.

Thine, Phæbus, is the sparkling thought,
The radiant verse, the glowing strain;
From thee is inspiration caught,
And thine the sunshine of the brain.

III.

To thee belongs the dapled Dawn,
Noon's burnish'd beam and fervid flush;
To thee the many-colour'd Morn,
Twilight's last tinge, and Evening's parting blush.

IV.

To thee belong the tender babes of Spring,
When the first down implumes the warbler's wing;
The gorgeous Summer's rich expanse is thine,
When scarce a breeze dare touch thy burning shrine;
The various Autumn wooes thy gentler power,
And, lingring, keeps for thee the latest flower.

Trembling with age, even Winter courts thy sway,
And begs the blessing of a casual ray.
Frost too, for thee, climbs up the mountain's brow,
And bends before thee in his robe of snow.

V.

In each gradation of thy course,
From the grey moment thour't on horse,
E'en till the radiant journey's run,
And thy diurnal travel's done,
How like, O Sun, how like art thou to Man!
How like the little wretch, that plays
Its gambols in thy warming blaze
Thro' Life's contracted span!

VI.

When bursting forth from sealing night,
The infant's eye first feels the light,
Uncertain is its day;
Some human frost may haply come,
And drop it in th' oblivious tomb,
To quench its short-liv'd ray.

Thus, Phœbus, e'er thou well canst show,
The beauties beaming on thy brow,
Oft doth a gather'd gloom invade
And wrap the sunshine in the shade.

VII.

Or should kind Fate the infant spare,
And paint, like thine, the morning fair;
In æther light, it treads like thee,
And frolic youth enjoys it jubilee.
The pulses all accordant play,
The passions wanton in their May;
And the heart dances up to manhood's day.

VIII.

Intensely then it glows, it burns,
Like thee, is hot and cold, by turns,
But soon the fierce effulgence fades,
And hastens on the Evening shades;
As thine, his noon-tide vigour dies,
And the keen sun beams leave the mortal skies.
The hey-day of the heat is o'er,
And passion's storm is heard no more;

The Twilight of Existence then,
Falls fast upon the race of men;
Dim and more dim, each object meets our sight,
And our declining orb sinks at th' approach of night.
Another glimmering moment yet,
And Man's uncertain Sun is wholly set.

CARDS,

PRO AND CON.

A FRAGMENT .

The cards invite. Mortal thy verse too light,
Too frolic and fantastical appears,
Ill-sorted to our theme: far loftier lines,
Such as of old majestic Milton chose,
When he the mighty and soul-moving lyre,
Struck with a master's hand—struck like a God,

Or night-living Young, whose solemn harp
Sounded a requiem to the sheeted ghosts
Of pale Philander and of Narcissa fair;
Or that commanding Bard to whom the key
That opes the varying Seasons, Nature gave,—
Sweet Thomson—or e'en such as grac'd the lay
Of him whose Splendid Shilling, polish'd fair,
Appear'd more glittering than a one-pound-one.

Mortal attend.—What furious fatal form
Leans o'er yon chair, like some detested wretch
Sick of the sun!—See, see he grasps the blade,
And seems resolv'd to plunge it in his heart—
Awhile he stops—And is all lost, he cries,
In one deep ruin all my fortune whelm'd
By one dire blow?—Then what is life to me?
Hark, Justice calls—I hear her and obey;
Why this is well too—this is blow for blow;
He strkes, he faints, he falls, he groans, he dies.

And see another spectacle comes forth,
A female form, lean, languid, and decay'd.

Is that Clarissa? she whose vermeil cheek,
Flushing so late with all the paint of health,
Fresh as the gale of Heaven! Disastrous change,
Jaded and stript of fortune and her charms;
Behold her supplicating yonder Lord,
(Whom her ill luck enriched) for charity,
The charity of one poor hapless meal,—
Precarious boon!—the fretted victim droops,
And solitary pines her life away.

But that gay, gamesome fair one,—she whose hand
Pats the sleek face of yonder silken fool,
Yon emmet in embroidery.—Is it love
Whose shaft impierces thus? What mighty flame
Can make the female nature so unsex'd?
Asks thou what flame? the raging flame of play!
The last indulgence her fond husband gave;
—He—hapless man, sits in his lonely hut,
Trimming the frugal taper—is all flown:
Behold her sparkling creditor—kind soul

She taps his cheek, assents to all demands,
Sets virtue on a cast, and all is paid.

Good Heavens! what rustling rapid she is that,
Who with a restless air and hurried step,
Loaded with wealth, the winnings of a night,
Sweeps thro' the rooms, and cries out victory!
Still not content, the gaming fury goads;
More, more cries avarice—do not quit the board
Till all within this golden round be thine:
The nymph obeys—indignant fortune shifts,
And from the Cormorant turns her angry wheel,
The last sad guinea trembles in her hand;
To that the gorgeous watch, the costly toys,
Rings, jewels, trinkets, in confusion gay,
Seizes her lucky foe, and last of all
The picture of her Lord;—then home she hies,
Loses the haughty air, the conqueror's pride,
And like a guilty creature slinks to bed.

But soft at this departing witching hour,
Edging on midnight, who is that wild spark,

His hair dishevell'd, and his spurs in blood
Now entering on the game? with daring hand
He ventures various purses on a card;
The various purses, which so lightly came,
As lightly disappear. Stern Fortune frowns;
Enrag'd, th' adventurer starts and rushes forth,
He mounts his ready steed, swift scours the road,
And steals the fresh supply.—Justice pursues,
The game is up—the gallows ends the chace.

Perils innumerous as leaves which fall
From the decaying bough on Autumn's tide,
Abuse and use, and wretchedness and joy,
Alternate, mix'd, confounded, and convolv'd,
From Cards, those engines of amusement, flow.
From thence proceeds pale vigils, and dire dreams,
The bad big word, the bitten lip, torn nail,
The sullen look, the pout, and rude reply.
The raving blasphemy, the broken vow,
The little altercation, duel dire,
The sigh deep-searching, and the groan profound.

But turn the picture—see its fair reverse,
There view the happier History of Cards,
Thus in a lighter treasure glide along.
When the time hangs heavy on us,
Sol disdaining to shine on us,
When the wintry welkin lowers,
Or the rattling tempest pours,
When the chilly wind is blowing,
Or the drizzling wet is flowing,
What like Cards defy the weather,
Bringing neighbour friends together?
Fix them all behind the screen,
All around the verdent green,
Now good fortune sweet surprizing
Blithsome expectation rising,
Gentle hope and gentle fear,
But no baser passion near,
Soft suspense, while you are dealing,
I from you my luck concealing.
Here the conquering Heart to bring,
Which subdues your haughty King;

Now in Diamonds rich abounding,
Now your wily Knave confounding;
Then our Spades turn up the scene,
Then our Clubs knock down the Queen.
What like Cards when thus we play,
On a dark December day?
What like Cards the hand can show,
Or the arm of moving snow?
What can bid the brightness rise,
Or illume the female eyes?
What so well the cheek can flush,
Stir so quick the blooming blush?
What when Books and Booklings tire,
So can grace a friendly fire?
Whist and Commerce, Loo and Ombre,
Cheer away reflections sombre;
Then the harmless joy to view,
When I have better luck than you.
If to win the game I'm able,
Brisk I deal about the table;
When the conquering Card I hold,
Smart I throw it on the board;

Honours then you know are mine,
Yet my hand, my heart is thine;
What like Cards, when thus we play,
Help to pass dull life away?
Keep within this prudent bound,
And gayly let the deal go round.

This Poem, in its original form, opened with some Hudibrastic lines.

Phillips.

THERON:

A TALE.

Far from the fostring gale and sunny ray,
Where Fortune's favourites on the downy lap
Of Luxury are lull'd, and to repose
Lur'd by the Syren song of flattering Hope,
Twice sixteen winters with the world at war
Had Theron liv'd. In each disastrous change,
Whether like humble shrubs he trod the vale,
And breath'd the balm of Solitude and Flowers,
Woo'd the pale violet, or the primrose dress'd;
Or driv'n from these, to climb the mountain's brow,
Fame, to her perilous summit call'd his step,
To seek the joys he found not in the glen,
Misfortune followed as he mov'd along;

Her sharp wind rais'd the tempest o'er his head,
And from his sorrowing heart drove the sweet sleep
That heals the soul, and medicines to its grief.

Ill-fated Theron! in thy earliest time,
When Health and Happiness, like Summer flowers,
Are rich in colour and profuse in bloom,
And blossoms cluster round Youth's vernal bower,
When like the oak, some parents kindly hand
Upon the tender plant he rears and loves,
Branches protection, and defends from harm,
Even then was Theron like the slender thorn
Upon the desolate Heath, expos'd alone,
An orphan of the Waste. No tender tear
Of friend or kindred, nourishing as dew
Bath'd the thin leaf that wither'd in his May,
And yet he died not, yet his generous soul
In native dignity withstood the storm,
That bore full hard upon his gentle youth,
And still the Poet's laurel grac'd his brow,
And Love and Fame their glossy garlands wove
To decorate his heart, and oft the sun

Bestow'd, alas! a transitory beam,
As lightning flashes while it strikes with death,
In splendid ruin to adorn his fall.

'Twas at a soothing interval of fate,
When no rude burst of passion on his soul
Pour'd the keen sense of agony or joy,
Arpasia caught his view:—much he admir'd,
Admir'd, but lov'd not, for his heart had long
Renounc'd the power that murders while it smiles.
Guarded he met her eye, tho' arm'd with fire
Bright as the flame that warms the breast of Heaven;
Guarded he heard her speak, tho' eloquence,
Wisdom, and wit, and honey'd accents flow'd
From her ripe lip the gods might wish to press;
She too, defended by the seven-fold shield
Of former disappointment, stood the shock
Of Love's full quiver in this new attack.
Cloath'd thus in mail, the fierce encounter both
Boldly essay'd, when lo! their weapons broke
Short in their hands unfaithful, while the points
Subtle and deep were striking in their hearts:

Thus both were wounded by an equal blow,
Both fought, both fell, while Love's insidious god
Look'd smiling on, and triumph'd in his power.

But ah! this strife was all in amity,
And when the contest clos'd, their hands were join'd,
Like two brave combatants whom love of arms,
And zeal to save their country, led to war,
Not conquerors but friends. Arpasia then
Disclos'd the history of her heart, and read,
Blotted by many a tear, the eventful page
Of Theron's fortunes, of the mazy woes
Which thro' the thorny labyrinth of life
From year to year his bleeding feet had trod;
How in the cradle, yet a babe, he found
No mother's hand to rock him to repose,
No mother's nurturing bosom to bestow
A softer pillow than the cygnet's down;
How Grief her palest lily in his cheek,
Killing Health's wholesome rose ere it could blow,
Sickly had set; how yet a harmless child

He roam'd a pilgrim wanderer o'er the world;
How the false friend his summer looks put on,
When Fortune's partial sun-beams play'd around,
But wore his winter features when the cloud
Fell fast and pityless, and bore to earth
The trembling Theron. In his storied woes,
Reflected strong, Arpasia saw her own;
She too her infant days pass'd with less joy
Than doth the linnet in her waving nest,
Which knows a parent's care; for no such care
Cradled Arpasia, whose sad fate too much,
Theron, resembled thine. Similitude severe!
Yet from severe similitude proceeds
The dearest sympathies and bonds of life.
And oh! Adversity, thy sacred tie
Unites thy votaries in a league more strong
Than all the golden compacts of the world
Form'd in a prosperous hour. Arpasia wept,
And Theron's tears were ready in his eye
To mix with hers, but they were April tears,
Where sun-beams temper showers.—
Two weary way-worn travellers they seem'd

By hazard met, after a toilsome round
Of sea and land, of forest and of fen,
To pause a while under the self-same shade,
Where entering on discourse they fondly tell
Their mutual tale, and much delighted find
Their wants, their wishes, and their griefs the same;
Till having rested, both together rise,
Together journey on with equal pace,
Reck not the perils of the future road,
Smile o'er the past, and swear to part no more.

The rapid passion in Arpasia's heart
Grew like the gathering flame in Theron's breast,
And former loves (if they might loves be call'd,
Which, like a gaudy feather on the stream,
O'er the fair surface idly passes on)
Died on the instant, as the taper's light
Sudden expires, when Phospher's living ray
Gems the rich zone of morn; yet, sad reverse!
Arpasia sicken'd, on the day design'd
To make her Theron happy:—At her couch

He stood, the herald of her languid eye,
To watch its motion, to proclaim its wish,
And spare the toil of speech. He fled from friends,
From Fame's full clarion, and the golden lyre,
To the lone chamber where Arpasia lay:
And oh! the soft embrace, the speechless gaze,
The tender pressure, and the silent tear;
And lovelier than the rest, the speaking smile
Of roseate health restor'd, that often paid,
With usury of joy, his guardian care!
“Begone! begone! tumultuous scenes,” he said,
As swift he bore his treasure from the din
Of city clamour to a cottage small,
Where never villager or shepherd maid
(Born to the plain, and in the vallies bred)
Their rural life with more sequester'd step,
More quiet pass'd the smooth domestic day,
Than Theron with Arpasia—
And yet 'was drear December, not a bower
(Such as romantic Love in his retreat
Desires) was blooming near:—A simple spot
Clad in its robe of winter. Yet by Fancy's power

Spring's sweetest children seem'd to deck the soil;
She bade her woodbines and her roses blow,
And call'd her fairest sun-beams from the sky
Herself created, to illume the scene,
And suckle every flower;—where Love resides,
There revels constant summer, there the trees
Assume perennial verdure, and the gale
(Tho' frozen Boreas sheds his mildew round)
Drops balm and odour from his viewless wing.

Thrice happy Theron, and thrice bless'd Arpasia!
Close to each other drawn, the mutual heart,
The mutual pleasure, and the mutual pain,
Was here unfolded; here was ratified,
Approv'd, confirm'd, and sign'd, Love's golden bond:
And his consenting eye, whose raging winds
Had tore their early hopes, appear'd at length
To bless and to support two drooping flowers,
Transplanted safe into a happier soil
Where the rude elements could vex no more.

But ah! how oft is Summer's fairest eve,
Where scarce the breathing zephyr stirs the leaf

Of rose or myrtle, by the thunder follow'd?
Even while the tender tints of setting day
Paint the horizon, and the dew descends
In silent blessing on the bathing flowers,
Broods the embowell'd mischief: loud it rolls
And rends the mournful mantle of the night.
Thus false, thus faithless, was the transient calm
That shone on Theron's and Arpasia's sky:
To the seductive world once more they went,
And at the threshold of their cot, alas!
They left Content, and Happiness, and Heav'n,

Cover'd with laurels, from the northern shore,
A blooming hero came, Arpasia's friend,
Arpasia's lover, whom the deathful din
Of constant action in the sanguine field,
And months of weary march, and years of toil,
Estrang'd not from the maid, whose soverign eye
Gilded his path to glory. Soon as peace
Sent her white doves to close the scene of blood
And bear the branching olive, swift the youth
Hasted to Albion's shore, and anxious sought
The hoarded treasure of his virgin heart.

He sought and found her on the fatal day,
She parted from her Theron; parted soon
To meet again. And tho' Arpasia ne'er
Had lov'd Sophronius (so the youth was call'd)
As women love, who give the maiden heart
In dear exchange of passion, glad she saw
A tender friend, escap'd from ruthless war
Return'd with honour to his native land,
The land he had defended: and her tears
Mix'd with her chaste embraces. Theron then
Quick hastening to Arpasia, instant saw
Rapture that weeps, and blushes that denote
The heart's strong triumph at a treasure sav'd
From the devouring war. Her heart he knew
Lodg'd in his own true bosom, yet he feared,
(Fear still is Love's attendant) that the joy
Thron'd in her eye, and from her rubied lip
Pouring the ardent welcome, might, perchance,
Nourish a dangerous softness, yet he prais'd
Her generous warmth and join'd the glowing zeal.
But when the youth, beneath the self-same roof,
With supplication strong to be receiv'd,

A chosen guest entreated, and his suit
Incautious friendship granted, who can draw
The pangs that seiz'd on Theron? Many a day
He fed in silence on his master griefs,
And bath'd his lonely pillow with his tears,
Far from Arpasia's mansion: Ev'ry friend,
Save she who cou'd administer relief,
Appear'd with comfort in their looks—while she,
(Cold as the marble that receives the drops
Of some pale mourner, at the urn which holds
The sainted ashes of the maid he lov'd)
Remain'd untouched, and while forlorn he lay
Death-sick beneath the chill of her neglect,
Sophronius was her theme. His health, his fame,
His rising fortune, and reward in arms,
Flam'd from her pen, which courted Theron's Muse,
To blazon forth his prowess in the war,
His fair deserts in peace. Yet still she talk'd
Of Friendship's early bonds, and nam'd not Love,
Nor seem'd to know the madness and despair
That rag'd in Theron's bosom, but led on

By Pity's gentle hand—for from the youth,
From change of climate, from fatigues of war,
And the heart's tender tumult, growing still,
That gently Pity claim'd, which the kind fair
(Without a thought that wrong'd the spotless faith,
Plighted to Theron) gave, with soul sincere;
Theron meanwhile believ'd it Love, fond Love enthron'd
Upon the mutual heart, and mad'ning thence,
Exclaim'd, infuriate—“Yes! they both shall fall!
“Since Pity thus can light her savage torch,
“And bind upon her altar, Love himself,
“Love in his turn, shall boast a sacrifice,
“And mark for death his victim!” Strait he rose,
'Twas the deep noon of night, he strode along,
A poignard snatch'd, and as he reach'd the dome
Of his Arpasia; soften'd at the view
From his torn heart these mournful accents broke:
“Oh had the chance been Theron's, had some maid,
“Bright as the morning star, her virgin heart
“Laid in the circle of these courted arms,

“And breath'd a passion warmer than e'er touch'd
“The breast of woman, tho' Compassion's sigh,
“The tenderest tear that ever Pity shed,
“The truest throb that ever Friendship knew
“Might plead his cause, nor these, nor death itself,
“Shou'd shake his plighted faith to false Arpasia,
“Shou'd shake his faith, ah no! by yonder heav'n
“Not the bright synod of the Gods shou'd draw
“His settled heart aside, tho' to the power
“Of heav'nly beauty, gold shou'd add a charm
“Richer than proud Golconda.” Scarce these words
Burst from his heart, e'en from the opening door
Rush'd forth, with hurrying step and troubled air,
Some one infolded in a thick disguise,
That needed scarce the darkness of the night
To mock discovery. Theron, at the view
Sudden retir'd unseen, and torpid stood
A few sad moments; then, with frantic haste
Pursued—Ah, hell-born Jealousy!

Thou child of Love,
Performing deeds more terrible than hate!
From shadows thinner than the fleeting night
That floats along the vale, or haply seems
To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest,
(Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.)
How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd
But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!
Thence hurling frighted Reason from her throne,
And with her all the charities that wait
To grace her virtuous Court! Theron soon
O'ertook whom he pursu'd, nor doubting ought,
(For Jealousy allows no pause of sense).
It was his happy rival, rais'd his hand,
In which the poignard trembled, and in rage,
To madness, struck the bosom of—Arpasia!
Yes! 'twas Arpasia's self.
The faithful mistress, from her lover's arm,
Thus met her fate utimely, for e'er word,
Cou'd utterance find, the dagger in her breast

Transfix'd she found—“And hast thou kill'd me, Love?”
—Was all she spoke, then died in his embrace.
Upon her Theron's brow pale Horror sate,
“Kill thee!” he cried—then deep into his heart
Plung'd the fell blade, with poor Arpasia's blood,
Distain'd and reeking—agoniz'd he fell
And kiss'd the wound—expiring in her arms.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES.

THE ROSE-TREE, THE GARDENER, AND THE SHRUBS.

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE With the Author's Works collected into Volumes.

A rose-tree, exquisitely fair,
With sweets embalm'd the passing air:
In vermeil tints and tender dyes,
It match'd the blush of morning skies,
And soft beneath its shade was found
A shelter for the flow'rets round;
The humblest primrose of the dale
There sought a refuge from the gale;
For vain the ruder storms oppose
What's shelter'd by this lovely Rose;
And vain shall gusts of envy blow,
Where Shrubs in soft protection grow.

100

A Gard'ner leaning on his spade
By chance this lovely Rose survey'd,
And oh! said he, how oft with toil
These hands have till'd Parnassian soil;
How oft Poetic ground I've trod,
Obedient to the Muses nod;
How long have thrown my plants about,
Till scarce I find the nurselings out!
'Tis time that all were rang'd together,
And safely fenc'd from wind and weather;
For ill they brook the public storm,
And ask some southern aspect warm.
But scatter'd thus in wild disorder,
Without the safe-guard of a border,
They seem like Briars by the road
To want a visible abode,
And stand expos'd to every thief
Who strips the Laurel of its leaf.

Now yonder Rose that looks so fair,
Ah! my poor plants that ye might share

101

Such shelter; and tho' weak ye be,
How would you thrive near yonder tree?

The gen'rous Rose-Tree bloom'd consent,
And to his task our Gard'ner went;
And tho' faint Pinks and Field Flow'rs wild
And useless Furze the wreath compil'd,
A fancy Lilac fring'd with Rhyme,
Hawthorn and variegated Thyme,
With here and there of Bays a sprig,
A Cypress bough and Myrtle twig,
Mixt with full many a weed that grows,
Where'er a mortal flow'ret blows.
Still the fair Rose-Tree smil'd benign,
As guardian goddess of the scene,
And the slight Garland which he plann'd,
Accepted from our Gard'ner's hand.

102

UPON THE CONNEXION OF THE AUTHOR

WITH TWO FRIENDS OF GREAT EMINENCE IN LITERATURE.

While ye, the planets of sublimer size,
Form your bright empire in fair Friendship's skies;
While to each others orb approaching near,
Co-heirs of light, ye rule the glowing sphere;
While darkling mortals scarce endure the rays,
And feed their famish'd tapers at your blaze,
May my faint star—just travell'd into sight—
Reflect soft lustre from your guardian light;
Full in the front of Heav'n, while ye shall shine,
Some part, less honour'd, yet in view be mine.
Remote and trembling, tho' my star must gleam,
Your Friendship lends a glory to the beam.

103

TO DOCTOR LETTSOM,

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF THE AUTHOR'S WORKS.

To thee my best Physician and my friend,
This varied garland of the Muse I send;
Her different powers to thee by right belong,
Thou “master of the poet and the song:”
Oft as I droop'd beneath the toil of thought,
Thy skilful hand the balm restoring brought;
And while thy converse sooth'd my sinking heart,
That skilful hand reliev'd the mortal part;
O take the wreathe then which thy patient wove,
O take the tribute of the Muse you love!

TO Mrs. SIDDONS's CHILDREN,

SUGGESTED BY SEEING THEM DRAWN IN THE SAME PICTURE.

How shall I bribe you, pretty creatures,
Your harmless pastimes to suspend?
Say, do you wish fair minds as features?
Then let the Poet be your friend.

104

A moment spare to read his verses,
Where fondness glows and truth appears;
Bards can't put money in your purses,
But they may save a thousand tears.

Ah! learn betimes to taste the pleasure
Domestic love alone can give;
Resolve, since Heaven allows the treasure,
A brother's, sister's life to live.

Still, Henry, as in yonder picture,
Let Sally hang upon your arm;
There of your duty see the stricture,
And let the breathing canvass warm.

And when, for this world's sounding rattles,
Or the gilt toys which Fortune sends,
Ye are dispos'd to little battles,
Look at the Picture, and be friends.

Trust me, dear ones, not a bauble,
Which this painted world can show,
Can deserve a moment's squabble,
Can deserve a moment's woe.

105

Serious pains enough, believe me,
Fall in life's uneven road;
These sufficiently will grieve ye;
Children, add not to the load.

Needless, needless, such distressing;
Sweet ones, act a wiser part;
Still yon Picture hints a blessing;
Oh! improve the Painter's art,

Sally, you, as bound in duty,
Ev'ry softer debt should pay;
Harry's strength shall guard your beauty,
He must rule, and you obey.

See the oak that crowns the meadow,
Tow'rs majestic from the ground;
See the woodbine courts its shadow,
Wreathing firm its arms around.

Next behold yon myrtle blowing,
Shelter'd by the lordly pine;
Like that pine is Harry growing;
Gentle maid, the myrtle's thine.

106

Then, my dears, your anxious mother,
Down whose cheeks the fond tears stray,
Shall bless the sister, bless the brother,
While ye kiss those tears away.

To each other oft repairing,
Fate and fortune both shall brave;
Till death your joys and sorrows sharing,
Forming that Picture in the grave.

THE OPENING OF THE NINTH BOOK OF THE HENRIADE TRANSLATED .

On the fair confines of Idalia's shore.
Where Europe ends, and Asia opes her store,
Love's ancient palace rears its rev'rend head,
Whose rich foundations were by Nature laid;

107

Whose beauteous structure, Art, her rival, grac'd
With finest touches of peculiar taste.
There, all the charming neighbourhood around,
Perpetual summer paints the smiling ground.
To wave the myrtle, and to woo the rose,
The tender South is all the gale that blows;
Sun, without cloud, exerts a fostering power,
The clime to suckle in eternal flower.
Pomona triumphs o'er her burnish'd bough,
And Terra asks no profits from the plough;
Superior Nature smiles at Mortal aid,
And spurns alike the sickle and the spade.
Spontaneous harvests glad the roving sight,
And peace and plenty urge to soft delight.
Here, once again, the times of gold appear,
And every charm, but—Innocence is here;
No jarring jargon of a world at strife
Pervades the am'rous languishments of life,
But touching airs, which harmony inspires,
Trill to the softness of a thousand lyres;
A thousand lovers tune the tender voice,
And, amiably weak, defend their choice;

108

The blest enthusiasts drown the sense of wrong
In the sweet chorus of th' impassion'd song.
Fresh wreaths of rose their fragrant fronts adorn,
From Flora's bosom pillag'd every morn;
Half-naked Graces near the Temple stand,
To add new converts to Love's happy land;
Or else repos'd on beds of rising flowers,
In touching silence try their various powers—
The care that melts, the tender breathing sigh,
The whisp'ring wish, the pleasure-moving eye,
The anxious hope, the tear that tells desire.
The smile of frolic, and the blush of fire.

The Autor when in France was introduced to M. de Voltaire, who requested he would turn into English verse a few lines of his Henriade. These verses underwritten were attempted in consequence.

THE CASKET. TO A FRIEND UNDER PAIN FROM A FEW POINTED OBSERVATIONS.

The Casket of Friendship is fair to behold,
With spangles of silver and studdings like gold,

109

The surface is fillagree'd o'er with such care,
The Graces themselves were the artists you'd swear;
So bright to the eye, and so smooth to the feel,
It glows like a mirror of well polish'd steel;
Yet nothing so brittle in nature or art,
Unless it within holds the gem of the heart;
Unless the fair jewel of truth is there hid,
And the hand of sincerity opens the lid.
Thou and I, my dear Mary, this diamond have seen,
Allow'd it is splendid, confess'd it is keen,
Its wonderful double properties often have found,
Severely to cut, and then shine on the wound;
Yet deep tho' the puncture, and potent the smart,
Too pure is the temper to fester the heart,
The balm of affection soon softens the pain,
And we wish the kind weapon to wound us again;
Yet thou, my lov'd Mary, hast little to fear,
For seldom the brilliant shall cost thee a tear!

110

'Twill oft on thy virtues transcendently shine,
And reflect from their brightness a ray more divine,
And if at thy foibles it strike now and then,
Where THOU suffer'st for one,—I shall suffer for ten!

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE

ON RECEIVING A LOCKET.

Precious gift! O may'st thou rest,
Dear associate of my breast!
Happy shall I, Clara, be,
Thus possessing part of thee!
While affection fond as fair,
Forms a chain of every hair,
A chain, which round the willing mind,
Sensibility shall bind.

111

TO MISS SAWBRIDGE.

PRESENTED WITH EMMA CORBETT, FROM THE AUTHOR.

Sweet Anna! In these mournful pages see,
All that the Muse can wish may meet in thee;
Be thou, like Emma, fam'd for tender truth,
Like Henry constant be thy favour'd youth;
Yet may thy Henry in thy Fathers cause,
Stand forth the champion of insulted laws;
Like patriot Edwards' be thy Hero's heart,
And should he fall, be thine Louisa's part;
Like Raymond, should'st thou e'er a lover find,
To hapless passion be like Emma kind;
Pity the fondness sighs alone reveal,
And gently soothe the wounds thou can'st not heal,

112

Obey, like Emma, all that faith requires,
And dare, like her, avow what Heav'n inspires;
But, ah may here the wish'd resemblance end,
And on thy fortunes happier fates attend,
Never sweet Anna, never mayst thou prove,
Her bleeding trials of unshaken love!

113

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE enchanting Copies of Verses which follow, by Mrs. Sheridan and another Lady, were deservedly admired by the public at the time of their appearance, and struck the Author of these Miscellanies so forcibly, that he soon after wrote the replies which are added to each; and as they were all re-published in most of the periodical and diurnal prints together, it is hoped the writers of the Poems, will excuse the liberty he has taken of prefixing them to the answers in this Collection.

115

MRS. SHERIDAN ON HER BROTHER'S LYRE.

“Sweet instrument of him for whom I mourn,
“Tuneful companion of my Lycid's hours!
“How liest thou neglected and forlorn,
“What skilful hand shall now call forth thy powers!

“Ah! none like his can reach those liquid notes,
“So soft, so sweet, so eloquently clear,
“To live beyond the touch, and gently float
“In dying modulations on the ear.”

116

Thus o'er my Lycid's lyre as I complain'd,
And kiss'd the strings where he was wont to play,
While yet in pensive sadness I remain'd,
Methought it sigh'd, and sighing seem'd to say,

‘Ah! me, forlorn, forsaken, now no more
Shall fame and just applause around me wait;
No power my gentle master can restore,
And I, alas! will share his hapless fate.

“Fled is that spirit, chill'd that youthful fire,
Which taught those strains with harmony replete,
And cold that hand which only can inspire
My senseless form to utter sounds so sweet.

“Those sounds melodious ne'er again shall please,
No tuneful strain from me shall ever flow;
Save o'er my trembling strings a sighing breeze,
To call one sad, soft note of tender woe.

117

“Else, ah! for ever mute let me remain,
Unstrung, untun'd, forgotten let me be;
Guard me from curious eye, and touch prophane,
And let me rest in mournful sympathy!

“One fate, with thee, dear Master, let me share
Like thee in silent darkness let me lie!
My frame without thee is not worth my care,
With thee alone it liv'd, with thee shall die!”

HER BROTHER's LYRE

TO MRS. SHERIDAN.

This said—a solemn silence breath'd around,
Cecilia wept upon her Lycid's lyre,
The pensive breeze then gave a sighing sound,
And the strings seem'd to tremble and expire.

One hollow murmur, like the dying moan,
Was heard to vibrate then, with pauses slow,
From the sad instrument, when thus the tone
Gave modulations of a softer woe.

118

“Cease, beauteous mourner! partner of my grief!
Tuneful associate of my last despair,
Thou, only thou, can'st bring this breast relief;
Thy sympathy alone can soothe my care.

“What though—ah, stroke severe! our Lycid's dead,
No more, alas! can ravish mortal ear;
What though the soul of melody is fled,
His blest attendant to th' harmonious sphere,

“Struck by Cecilia's hand I yet may live;
Her magick touch again can tune my frame;
Her cherub voice my spirit yet revive,
And sounds of heavenly sorrow grace my fame.

“But should nor dulcet song, nor music's art,
Nor social sighs, which mourn the youth we love,
Have power to heal the sister's wounded heart,
Nor to these chords forlorn a solace prove:

119

“Ah! still together let our sorrows join,
And this sad form yet boast thy gentle aid;
Lycid's companion sure should still be thine;
Still should'st thou kiss the strings where he has play'd.”

LINES,

BY A LADY, ON SEEING SOME WHITE HAIRS ON HER LOVER'S HEAD.

Thou to whose pow'r reluctantly we bend,
Foe to life's fairy dreams relentless time,
Alike the dread of lover and of friend;
Why stamp thy seal on manhood's rosy prime,
Already twining 'midst my Thyrsis' hair,
The snowy wreaths of age, the monuments of care.

120

Thro' all her forms tho' nature owns thy sway,
That boasted sway thou'lt here exert in vain
To the last beam of life's declining day;
Thyrsis shall view unmov'd thy potent reign,
Secure to please while goodness knows to charm,
Fancy and taste delight, and sense and truth inform.

Tyrant, when from that lip of crimson glow,
Swept by thy chilling wing the rose shall fly;
When thy rude scythe indents his polish'd brow,
And quench'd is all the lustre of his eye:
When ruthless age disperses ev'ry grace,
Each smile that beams from that enchanting face.

Then thro' her stores shall active mem'ry rove,
Teaching her various charms to bloom anew,
And still the raptur'd eye of hopeless love
Shall bend on Thyrsis its delighted view;
Still shall he triumph with resistless pow'r,
Still rule the conquer'd heart to life's remotest hour.

121

TIME's ANSWER.

Sweet flow thy numbers, Oh! ingrateful fair,
And tuneful error marks thy polish'd rhyme
But know tho' mine to give the silver hair,
'Twas thy own Thyrsis, beg'd the boon of time;
Thyrsis high glowing yet in manhood's hour,
Who prematurely sought an earnest of my pow'r,

Mov'd by his pray'r those wintry wreaths I wove,
Twisting my snow-drops with the rose of youth;
But still 'twas Thyrsis's gentle fraud to prove,
His Daphne's friendship, and his Daphnes truth:
“Oh! strew thy partial whitness (thus he said)
“Oh let thy snowy symbols strait invest my head!

122

“So shall I see, if chill'd by thy advance,
“She with life's summer moment's shall recede;
“So shall I see, if with youth's fleeting glance,
“From age's menace, Daphne too shall speed;
“So shall I triumph if I find the fair,
“Defy the snowy wreaths, the monuments of Care.”

Then wherefore tyrant? Fair ingrate 'tis mine,
When falls man's short-liv'd blossom of an hour
To touch affection with a bloom divine,
And proud expand truth's never-dying flower,
To lift fair constancy to seats sublime,
E'en 'bove myself, above the pow'rs of time,

Ah! then let mem'ry and the Muses know,
Thou lovely satyrist shouldst bless my reign;
My pow'rs alone could deathless charms bestow,
Which prov'd the fondness that inspir'd thy strain;
Since but for those white omens of my sway,
The world had wanted Daphne's faithful lay.

123

TO MISS C. BRACKENBURY, OF COPT-FOLD-HALL, IN ESSEX.

Invoking Fortune yet losing the Raffle.

As Fortune from her birth was blind,
We should not call the dame unkind,
When worth and beauty she forsakes,
We ought to pity her mistakes;
That ladies lose what coxcombs win,
Is more her sorrow than her sin;
And tho' she show'rs her favours down
On blockheads, who deserve her frown;
On Pride bestows a coach and six,
And plays a thousand silly tricks;
To Folly gives the prosp'ring gale,
Neglecting Wisdom in the vale;
Mounts Vice upon her golden throne,
While cottag'd Virtue weeps alone,
At random lends a title here,
Refusing ev'ry honor there.

124

Now gives the knave a lucky hit,
Plumps the dull rogue and starves the wit,
Tho' 'tis confess'd she ev'ry hour
Discovers some abuse of power;
And tho' she blunder'd yester night,
What doth it prove, but want of sight?
Poor Goddess! could she but have seen,
Her Brackenbury's ardent mein,
Th' impassion'd glow, the anxious air,
That guard the hope illumin'd fair;
O had she but the gift of eyes
None else had born away the prize!
Perhaps, in wisdom, 'tis design'd
The Goddess should continue blind;
Fortune and Love restor'd to sight,
What mischief had been done last night,
Both had resign'd their wheels and darts,
And gain'd their eyes—to lose their hearts.

125

TO THE SAME,

WITH THE FEMALE FABLES.

Fit gift for widow, maid, and wife,
Accept these rules of female life,
Where Fiction lends new charms to Truth,
Combining both, as friends to youth;
The duty of your sex behold,
By birds, and beasts, and flow'rets told,
Here insects preach like sound divines,
Each tree a tree of knowledge shines.
A lesson for the coxcomb's heart,
The flirting sparrow shall impart;
The tender turtle and the bee,
Shall murmur love and industry;
In the lamb's bleat you'll precepts find
To shun the wolves of human kind;
The generous horse will nobly show,
What with your flatterers you should do;
The glow worms of your sex how vain,
You learn from Philomela's strain;

126

The serious owl, and simple goose,
Harangue in verse for female use;
And the young lion bids you 'scape
All friendship with the human ape,
And every leaf and every bower
Unfolds a salutary power,
While all with one loud voice declare,
What women should be—what you are.

A SILFPHID's GREETING,

CARRIED BY ZEPHIR TO DR. DELACOUR, On Miss Fanny Gould's Recovery from a dangerous Illness.

From yon lucid realms of light,
Delacour to thee I write,
Zephir shall the greeting bear
Little minister of air.
Zephir, blest youth, from whose nectarious wing
Drops the soft odours of immortal spring,

127

Smooth then should the numbers be,
Worthy Zephir, worthy me,
Worthy of the healing art,
Worthy Fanny's grateful heart.
Haste then, fair Gale, to Delacour below,
Fly to the friend to whom my life I owe,
For yonder Silph, the Queen of all our band,
Thus gave, at Fanny's birth, the dread command.
Subject Silphidetta come,
Mark, Oh! mark my favourite fair,
Thine to nurse her infant bloom,
Little guardian of her star:
Subject Silphid, hear at large
All the duties of thy charge:

I.

Viewless, hov'ring o'er her pillow,
Leave her not to Elf or Gnome,
Be thy post of honour near her,
Be her tender breast thy home.

128

II.

Every Silph, and every Silphid,
Should preside o'er Fanny's birth;
For of Silphid race already
She our sister seems on earth.

III.

Guard her then high favour'd spirit,
But, Oh! if she slighted be,
Woe upon the sprite detested,
How shall Ariel punish thee!
She said, and trembling to my charge I went,
And o'er her tender frame my bosom bent;
Then as a curtain every feather drew,
And chid Favonius when too brisk he blew.
In her I saw a second self arise,
And left my sunbeam for her eyes,
I triumph'd in the allotted fair,
And Ariel smil'd upon my care.
But sickness, Fay abhorr'd, a demon born,
Struck my sweet ward in Nature's orient morn,

129

With him, on flagging pinion, Languor came,
Theirs was the crime, but mine, alas! the blame.
In vain I flew around the bed,
The Gnome decreed the nymph should die,
In vain my feathers were outspread,
In vain I heard the Silphid sigh.
With grief and rage our Queen beheld the sight,
Wept o'er the maid, and banish'd me from light,
“Then, Oh! in rage, she cried, false Silphid come,
“Eternal darkness by thy wretched doom!”

Now dusky Umbriel fix'd me in a mill,
Where but for thee I had been whirling still,
Transfix'd by needles, gor'd by corking pins,
The hapless victim of another's sins;
But hail, all hail to him who sav'd my fair,
And gave these wings the liberty of air.

Happiest Silphid now on high,
O'er my Fanny safe I fly,
On her lip again I sit,
Breathing fragrance, breathing wit,

130

Sport around her rosy cheek,
Where I fix my lodging sleek.
A brighter orb is given me in the sky
And in a richer couch of light I lie,
Silphs, Fays, and Fairies—all the host of air,
For Fanny's sake do homage to my star,
Ah! borrow'd honours—for tho' paid to me,
Friend of her life—they all belong to Thee!

But hark I hear Favonins' wings,
He from our Queen a greeting brings;
Lovely south wind!—list! he speaks,
Softly as when morning breaks:
“Descended from my native sky
“A Heav'nly messenger am I;
“Swift from fluid fields above,
“I bear a Queen's immortal love,
“Who summon'd me in yonder Heav'n,
“Where this tender charge was giv'n;
“Swift as thought, oh gentle breeze,
“Traverse air and earth and seas,
“To Delacour this greeting take,
“Fly for thy Queens, and Fanny's sake.”

131

This said a billet to my breast she tied
And bade th' obedient air divide;
On duty's rapid wing I flew,
Thro' blooming realms of other blue;
I fixed on earth, and reach'd the door,
Sacred to health, and Delacour;
The guard, Hygea, stood confess'd,
And took the billet from my breast:
“Here gentle Gale, thy task may end,
“The Doctor is my dearest friend;
“We are in partnership you know,
“And practise physic here below;
“Thy fair commission deftly done,
“Expand thy plumage to the sun,
“Or by the margin of our stream
“Breathe Southern Coolness o'er his beam;
“Or as thou fliest our hills among,
“Shed fragrance as thou mov'st along.”
The Goddess ceas'd—I blew a balmy kiss,
Then sent from Clifton's airy summit this:
Whene'er Hygea, Sir, or you
Wish a fair wind, I come—Adieu.

132

THE TWO LEECHES

TO MRS. CLUTTERBUCK.

On Chlora's temples, agoniz'd with pain,
The Doctors tried their art, but tried in vain;
Long they disputed about cold and heat,
The pang increasing whilst they fix its seat;
Some said 'twas from the teeth, some from the head,
Some counsell'd air, and some advis'd a bed:
This man of medicene shew'd a Sovereign Bill,
That gave a drop which conquer'd every ill;
Cold water one, another brandy hot,
Ten swore 'twas rheumatism, ten swore not;
Nostrums infalliable by loads she swallow'd,
But not one drop of promis'd comfort follow'd;
Drug, blister, bolus, lotion, potion, draught,
All things but ease the learned sages brought.

133

At length, unsluice rare beauties crimson tide,
Lovers of blood, two Leeches were applied;
The happy creatures, conscious of the place,
Sport round the regions of her charming face:
Now press the roses bleeding on her cheek,
Now in the lillies of her beauteous neck;
Their jelly lips luxuriously they steep,
And to the confines of her bosom creep,
There, where the whole Sorbonne might wish to rest,
They spot with blood the snow drop on her breast:
Thence to the fiery elements they rise
And madly dare the sun-beams of her eyes,
Presumptuous grown, hear those they fix at last,
But soon repent them of the rich repast.
From Chlora's cheek the fatal nectar came,
From Chlora's eyes shot forth the fatal flame;
Lovesick and blind at last they yield their breath,
Drank deep, look'd long, and tasted certain death;
Such streams, such fires unable to endure,
They fell by Chlora, yet were Chlora's cure;

134

Lovers beware, nor rashly come too nigh,
Nor hope to live where sanguine leeches die.

THE PASSION FLOWER

TO MIRA.

Behold yon charming flow'r my fair,
Mira may find a moral there!
Expanding to the orb of day,
As if enamour'd of its ray;
It lives but in the sunny glow,
And nourish'd thence the blossom's blow.

Thus, Mira, of thy kindness born,
Love seem'd a rose without a thorn
Delighted in this breast it grew,
Owing each vermeil tint to you:
My heart confess'd thy genial pow'r;
Thy smile, like sunshine to the flow'r.
But see how fades the flow'r away
With the last tinge of parting day;

135

Its glossy colour instant flies,
Extinct are all its thousand dies.

Thus, Mira, thy diminish'd pow'r,
Still bears allusion to the flow'r;
Tho' love's soft gales were in thy sighs
And all his sunshine in thine eyes,
That love withdrawn which one possessed,
And reign'd th' enthusiast of thy breast;
Farewell to all that gave it birth,
And, like the Sun, remov'd from earth;
No more I own thy beauty's pow'r,
For thou hast kill'd the Passion Flow'r.

ACREONTIC BURLESQUE.

TO MR. MURRAY.

Friend to the wish'd enlarg'd, and flowing bowl,
Thou genuine son,
Of old Anacreon,
Thus let the muse address thy social soul:
Spirit of Horace, swift attend;
Poet of jollity, descend:

136

Oh come, ye vine-crown'd pow'rs, which Comus lends
To all his nectar-quaffing friends!
Ever joyous, ever gay,
When on some potation day,
The rosy godhead takes the chair,
And drowns in seas of drink, the fiend Despair.
'Tis then the mantling cup, allays the lover's smart,
And pours a sweet oblivion on the merry heart:
Then Grief, and pining Care, and haggard Pain
Hang their dejected heads in conscious shame,
The foes of Joy have caught the sound,
And not a sigh is heard around:
Dark-brow'd Melancholy steals away,
As spectres fly the dawning day:
Low'ring Discontent is gone,
As clouds avoid the rising sun.
Then come, thou Goddess, ever free,
Offspring of humanity,
Come fair hospitality,
Thee I invoke, I kneel to thee!

137

Let fair Good nature grace thy side,
And blythsome Joy, thy blooming bride;
Enamour'd of thy Murray's name,
Thee I invoke, seraphic dame!
Oh sing, the boundless wishes of his mind
Extending wide, the bumper to mankind;
Oh sing, how all that flinches, he disdains,
How scorns the miser's muddling gains.
While foe to all that's low or mean,
Even in the tide of jollity,
Where strongly flows festivity,
Sense guides the current, and corrects the scene.
Or if, perchance, a luckless wight,
Unequal to the liquid sight,
High sprung by Mirth, should haply reel,
And topple from the head to heel:
If he should grow supremely wise,
And things dance double in his eyes,
Soon as the vanquish'd hero's down,
Murray declares he shall not drown;
But, in sad pity to his puny head,
The victor sends the conquer'd corpse to bed.

138

There, in Lethean slumbers bury'd deep,
The flushing warrior wooes the power of sleep,
Repairs his loss—wakes dry in every vein,
And loudly calls for Murray, and Champaign.
The soldier thus, in heat of wars,
Sunk by the forceful fall to ground,
Soon as recover'd from his scars,
E'er well the smart has left the wound,
Again he rages for the glorious fray,
Blazes again in arms, and wins the well-fought day.

Yon pillars mark the festive dome,
Where all the free a welcome find;
There, is the season'd head at home,
And in each glass shines out the master's mind.

Drink deep, and quaff pleasure,
No mixture, no measure;
All the lovers of wine,
Seize the goblet and join:

139

Forget in yon mansion the dull cares of life,
The Flask be your mistress, the Bottle your wife,

Yet some there are no easy entrance gain,
Slaves that disgrace his door,
Shall never enter more,
But meet the Gods magnanimous disdain,
Let not the milksop come,
But sip his tea at home;
Let not the silken fop be there,
But take with pale-fac'd Miss the air;
Unless, perchance, the sons of wine,
Full of frolic, wit, and whim,
Shall meditate some arch design,
To take the Petit-maitre in.
Then waggish Momus shakes each younthful side,
As the smug coxcomb sits in powder'd pride.
For lo the president in state,
Drenches the snowy pate:
At first the fop, with caution drinks;
The toasts go round with nods and winks:

140

Soon grows the maccaroni flush'd,
You'd swear his maiden sister blush'd;
A general hectic shakes his head,
And down he falls among th' inglorious dead.
His silver vestments sweep the various ground;
His curls, disorder'd, in the splash are drown'd;
Paint, perfumes, patches, stain the Fopling o'er;
And all the happy Table's in a roar—:

Thus, when the gilded butterfly,
Array'd in Summer's silken trim,
On pots of treacle casts its eye,
And sips the sweets upon the brim.
The honey'd coxcomb fluttering round,
Pleas'd with the taste, now ventures round,
The yielding bottom limes his feet;
No fop e'er died a death more sweet:
His mealy wings, and glossy coat,
His shining back, and downy throat,
Blacken'd and stain'd, alas, now mixes with the stream.

141

But soft a while!—methinks I hear
Friendship's note assail the ear:
Loud and sincere from joys rebound,
I hear the mingled mirth go round.
Come, then, muse, and pen, begone!
Come, Thalia, and be gay,
Meet our young Anacreon,
Ripe as June, and blythe as May:
Leave sober sadness, and the world behind,
And meet thy Murray, with a Murray's mind.

A PORTRAIT.

In the manner of Swift.

A vacant visage, bursting red;
A paralitic shake of head:
A paunch, brimful of various meats;
Impregnate with intestine heats,
Of bak'd and boil'd, all helter skelter,
Sore driv'n by stress of wind and weather.
A double range of yellow bone,
Where fat of oxen chew'd, goes down,

142

Even till it swims in that red sea
Y'Clpt the gulp of gluttony;
A hoarse, harsh voice, whose lightest sounds,
Seems from some cavern under ground,
A capon's gill, a collop'd chin,
With flesh that swells the tighten'd skin;
Bowels, which look a rood about,
As ripe to split and wamble out;
An atlas back of human brawn;
A mouth into a swines-snout drawn;
An eye that fixes in its socket
Faster than binding bars could lock it;
A squabby neck, a roomy chest;
A more than mountains monstrous breast;
Sinews—oh Herculus like thine!
God keep them from this frame of mine!
A thigh, of column'd dome the type,
A fist—save, save me from its gripe!
A wig that veils the shaven scull!
A wig of one vast Nothing full;
A bottom—Heav'n our chairs befriend!
Be ours, unlike—his latter end.

143

A LOVER'S QUARREL.

IN THE MANNER OF PRIOR.

At length the angry Chloe swore,
With Strephon she would talk no more;
At this the swain, as stout as she,
No more would angry Chloe see;
Both rose to part, then sat them down,
While now they smile, and now they frown;
On Jove they call'd to bind the oath,
While Cupid slily laught at both.
Jove ask'd the reason of the 'fray?
“Only two simpletoms at play,
“Cries Cupid, with my bow and arrows;
“Anon they'll bill like doves and sparrows,
“Your Godship knows, when lovers swear
“Th' unmeaning vows disperse in air,
“Nay, more my Lord, well you and I know,
“You break them off with Madam Juno;”

144

Jove shook his sides, and mildly said,
“Child, put the silly things to bed,
“And if they there must make a rout,
“Do you stand by—and see it out.”