Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
 |
|
|
EPISTLE to MERCUTIO.
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
 | Poems |  |
EPISTLE to MERCUTIO.
July, 1791.
While you, my friend, in London's giddy town,
With jest and song each grave reflection drown,
Flirt with gay belles, besiege fantastic wenches
Who fire Love's glances from their band-box trenches,
Whence, while their banners wave, they dauntless wield
The various arms of Love's triumphant field—
The high-plum'd helm that each fierce bosom awes,
And all the sacred panoply of gauze:
While cares like these your youthful heart detain
Far from the peaceful shade and rustic plain;
Me here, remov'd from scenes of bustling noise,
The town's lewd follies, and its sickly joys,
The Muse perchance, perchance some stronger power
Attracts to loiter in the rural bower.
With jest and song each grave reflection drown,
Flirt with gay belles, besiege fantastic wenches
Who fire Love's glances from their band-box trenches,
Whence, while their banners wave, they dauntless wield
The various arms of Love's triumphant field—
111
And all the sacred panoply of gauze:
While cares like these your youthful heart detain
Far from the peaceful shade and rustic plain;
Me here, remov'd from scenes of bustling noise,
The town's lewd follies, and its sickly joys,
The Muse perchance, perchance some stronger power
Attracts to loiter in the rural bower.
Yet, truth to say, on Catmose' cheerful plains
No pensive gloom, no sombrous silence reigns;
No solemn saws of philosophic pride,
That bid the feelings of the heart subside!
'Tis transport all: the height of festive joy:
And jocund hours on wings of rapture fly.
Here (Iö Hymen!) Love triumphant dwells
With Jest and Glee, and sound of merry bells:
Mirth rules supreme o'er every friendly breast,
And yields reluctant e'en the dues of rest.
And yet, to hail fair Friendship's hallow'd pow'r,
From joys like these I steal a silent hour,
To thee, my lov'd Mercutio! to impart
The new sensations of a social heart:
—But let us here to preface bid adieu,
While I my journey's simple tale pursue.
No pensive gloom, no sombrous silence reigns;
No solemn saws of philosophic pride,
That bid the feelings of the heart subside!
'Tis transport all: the height of festive joy:
And jocund hours on wings of rapture fly.
Here (Iö Hymen!) Love triumphant dwells
With Jest and Glee, and sound of merry bells:
Mirth rules supreme o'er every friendly breast,
And yields reluctant e'en the dues of rest.
And yet, to hail fair Friendship's hallow'd pow'r,
From joys like these I steal a silent hour,
To thee, my lov'd Mercutio! to impart
The new sensations of a social heart:
—But let us here to preface bid adieu,
While I my journey's simple tale pursue.
Releas'd, at length, from Duty's iron chain,
Whose painful links the happier wish restrain,
Full light of heart sets forth the man of rhime,
For cheerful Catmose, Joy's triumphant clime—
Dear Land of Promise! for whose blissful groves
(Haunts of the Virtues! Muses! Graces! Loves!)
Long had I languish'd, thro' my drooping frame
While fond Impatience lanch'd the youthful flame!
And now, no more by angry Fate delay'd,
Eager I fly to clasp the blooming maid.
Tho Stamford's coach the Jewish sabbath kept,
And man and beast in pious malice slept,
My ardent soul disdain'd the feeble bar.
Winds thwart in vain when Love's the pilot star!
Up Highgate-hill, o'er Barnet's fatal heath,
Where factious Warwick breath'd his latest breath;
And hence to Hatfield, once of high renown
For royal domes and heaths of barren brown,
Thro' rain unwet, thro' dangerous roads serene,
With limbs unwearied, and with cheerful mien,
On foot I thrid. The turtle, from the glade,
Trills the sad note that echoes thro' the shade,
While glow-worms oft their amorous fires display,
To light the wandering lover on his way:
Like Hero's torch, that, thro' the midnight hour,
Blaz'd, long-expecting, from the sea-beat tower,
When bold Leander the impetuous tide
Stemm'd with fond arm,—and in the conflict died.
Ah, gentle worm! may no such fate assail
Thy vagrant bridegroom, to the ruthless gale
Who now, perhaps, his little wing displays,
With eye fast anchor'd on thy silver rays.
Swift to thy virgin bosom may the breeze
Bear him secure, and all thy terrors ease.
Whose painful links the happier wish restrain,
Full light of heart sets forth the man of rhime,
For cheerful Catmose, Joy's triumphant clime—
Dear Land of Promise! for whose blissful groves
(Haunts of the Virtues! Muses! Graces! Loves!)
112
While fond Impatience lanch'd the youthful flame!
And now, no more by angry Fate delay'd,
Eager I fly to clasp the blooming maid.
Tho Stamford's coach the Jewish sabbath kept,
And man and beast in pious malice slept,
My ardent soul disdain'd the feeble bar.
Winds thwart in vain when Love's the pilot star!
Up Highgate-hill, o'er Barnet's fatal heath,
Where factious Warwick breath'd his latest breath;
And hence to Hatfield, once of high renown
For royal domes and heaths of barren brown,
Thro' rain unwet, thro' dangerous roads serene,
With limbs unwearied, and with cheerful mien,
On foot I thrid. The turtle, from the glade,
Trills the sad note that echoes thro' the shade,
While glow-worms oft their amorous fires display,
To light the wandering lover on his way:
Like Hero's torch, that, thro' the midnight hour,
Blaz'd, long-expecting, from the sea-beat tower,
When bold Leander the impetuous tide
Stemm'd with fond arm,—and in the conflict died.
Ah, gentle worm! may no such fate assail
Thy vagrant bridegroom, to the ruthless gale
Who now, perhaps, his little wing displays,
With eye fast anchor'd on thy silver rays.
Swift to thy virgin bosom may the breeze
Bear him secure, and all thy terrors ease.
When now, at length, each cheerful hope was flown,
And round, full oft, the anxious eye was thrown,
Intent to seek (by angry Spleen opprest)
Some neighbouring Inn, for hospitable rest—
(Tho, these approach'd—impatient of delay—
I still pursu'd my solitary way!)
Advancing sounds my drooping spirits cheer,
And the loud lash rings music in my ear.
And lo! a coach, with steeds of fiery breed,
Thro Stamford bound towards the banks of Tweed.
No room within, I cheerly mount the roof,
Against the rain, by love, not cloathing, proof:
For, like a modern friend, so Fate decreed!
My good surtout lurk'd in the hour of need
Secure at home, together folded warm,
And left me fenceless to the pelting storm.
But short the storm: and now, with jocund lay
And vacant laughter we deceive the way,
While our stout guard, well soak'd with gin and ale,
Roar'd at my “Paddy Bull,” and “Sheering Tale;”
Then smoak'd his pipe, laid down his threat'ning gun,
And, while the steeds o'er darkling wild heaths run,
Flat on his belly, o'er the coaches eaves,
Snor'd out amain—to fright away the thieves.
And round, full oft, the anxious eye was thrown,
113
Some neighbouring Inn, for hospitable rest—
(Tho, these approach'd—impatient of delay—
I still pursu'd my solitary way!)
Advancing sounds my drooping spirits cheer,
And the loud lash rings music in my ear.
And lo! a coach, with steeds of fiery breed,
Thro Stamford bound towards the banks of Tweed.
No room within, I cheerly mount the roof,
Against the rain, by love, not cloathing, proof:
For, like a modern friend, so Fate decreed!
My good surtout lurk'd in the hour of need
Secure at home, together folded warm,
And left me fenceless to the pelting storm.
But short the storm: and now, with jocund lay
And vacant laughter we deceive the way,
While our stout guard, well soak'd with gin and ale,
Roar'd at my “Paddy Bull,” and “Sheering Tale;”
Then smoak'd his pipe, laid down his threat'ning gun,
And, while the steeds o'er darkling wild heaths run,
Flat on his belly, o'er the coaches eaves,
Snor'd out amain—to fright away the thieves.
But see!—What comet, with disastrous glare,
Thwarts the thick gloom, and frights the midnight air?
What flame infernal, by demoniac breath
Fann'd, on the confines of the lurid heath—
While haggard phantoms, with discordant yell,
Throng round, malign, to brew the fatal spell?
Such, to the fancy vers'd in Tales of Old,
Might seem the spectres whom we now behold:
But, truth to say, nor comet's hideous glare,
Nor flame infernal frights the midnight air;
Nor hags, nor demons, with discordant yell,
Dance round the cauldron o'er the direful spell;
But vagrant Gipsies, on the forest's bound,
Squat round their fire loquacious on the ground.
Thwarts the thick gloom, and frights the midnight air?
What flame infernal, by demoniac breath
Fann'd, on the confines of the lurid heath—
While haggard phantoms, with discordant yell,
Throng round, malign, to brew the fatal spell?
Such, to the fancy vers'd in Tales of Old,
Might seem the spectres whom we now behold:
114
Nor flame infernal frights the midnight air;
Nor hags, nor demons, with discordant yell,
Dance round the cauldron o'er the direful spell;
But vagrant Gipsies, on the forest's bound,
Squat round their fire loquacious on the ground.
Poor harmless vagrants!—harmless when compar'd
With those whom crouds adore, and courts reward—
The price of fell ambition, and the meed
Of each oppressive, every ruthless deed:
Of cities sack'd, of empires overthrown,
And struggling millions doom'd in chains to groan.—
Poor harmless vagrants! whom the reeking knife,
Red with the midnight wanderer's ravish'd life,
Ne'er yet reproach'd; nor crimes of savage die,
That the sweet flumbers of the night defy:
Whose utmost want ne'er owns the stern appeal
To threaten'd fury, or the brandish'd steel:
Still rove secure; and may no beadle's thong
Remorseless drive your wandering groups along!
But still to ye may wood and heath supply
The darling boon of savage Liberty!—
Oft, harmless vagrants! as I lonely stray,
May your rude groups adorn the woody way;
And round your kettles, pendant o'er the fire,
The ruddy smoak and cheerful flame aspire,
While, loitering near, beneath the hawthorn shade,
The tawny lover wooes the willing maid.
With those whom crouds adore, and courts reward—
The price of fell ambition, and the meed
Of each oppressive, every ruthless deed:
Of cities sack'd, of empires overthrown,
And struggling millions doom'd in chains to groan.—
Poor harmless vagrants! whom the reeking knife,
Red with the midnight wanderer's ravish'd life,
Ne'er yet reproach'd; nor crimes of savage die,
That the sweet flumbers of the night defy:
Whose utmost want ne'er owns the stern appeal
To threaten'd fury, or the brandish'd steel:
Still rove secure; and may no beadle's thong
Remorseless drive your wandering groups along!
But still to ye may wood and heath supply
The darling boon of savage Liberty!—
Oft, harmless vagrants! as I lonely stray,
May your rude groups adorn the woody way;
And round your kettles, pendant o'er the fire,
The ruddy smoak and cheerful flame aspire,
While, loitering near, beneath the hawthorn shade,
The tawny lover wooes the willing maid.
Light wakes the Morn, in vail of fleecy clouds,
Whose meek disguise her glowing beauties shrouds:
The lark in air, the linnet on the spray,
All seem to hail me, gratulous, and gay;
The silver Ouze, as clear it winds along,
Murmurs, responsive to the cheerful song,
While its brisk tenants, as they sportive glide,
Leap from the stream, and shew the glossy side.
Thus pleas'd with all that Nature's stores display,
Auspicious omens cheer me on the way;
Till now, at length, in Stamford's ancient town,
Whose gates and spires four neighbouring counties own,
I light; nor idly linger to survey
Her ancient piles, or Wiland's wandering way;
But mount the steed, and fly before the gale,
With eager hopes, to Catmose' fertile vale.
Whose meek disguise her glowing beauties shrouds:
115
All seem to hail me, gratulous, and gay;
The silver Ouze, as clear it winds along,
Murmurs, responsive to the cheerful song,
While its brisk tenants, as they sportive glide,
Leap from the stream, and shew the glossy side.
Thus pleas'd with all that Nature's stores display,
Auspicious omens cheer me on the way;
Till now, at length, in Stamford's ancient town,
Whose gates and spires four neighbouring counties own,
I light; nor idly linger to survey
Her ancient piles, or Wiland's wandering way;
But mount the steed, and fly before the gale,
With eager hopes, to Catmose' fertile vale.
But here the joys that wait what tongue can tell?
What tender transports in my bosom swell!
Nature's best boons my throbbing heart divide—
The tender mother, and the virgin bride.
Oh! thou canst never guess—canst ne'er conceive
What rapturous charms in love-warm'd Beauty live,
When the soft heart, unknown to practis'd guile,
Speaks in the tear, and sparkles in the smile.—
When the long-sever'd maid, whom passion warms,
With joy commutual, rushes to your arms,
Drops the fond head upon your throbbing breast,
And yields to feelings not to be supprest.
'Tis not the thrilling touch of sensual joys
(Which Nature's boon to lowest brutes supplies,)
The couch of Love—the extatic fond embrace
(Tho these from Virtue snatch a higher grace)
That wake (whate'er the vulgar mind may deem)
The richest transports of their pure esteem,
Whose flames, that glow from intellectual fire,
Give soul to Sense, and defecate Desire.
No: their best joys from nobler sources spring—
Joys saints might taste, and raptur'd seraphs sing:
Soul join'd with soul, the sympathizing mind,
Truth undefil'd—and feelings all refin'd;
One spirit guiding—by one will inform'd—
And two fond bosoms by one essence warm'd.
What tender transports in my bosom swell!
Nature's best boons my throbbing heart divide—
The tender mother, and the virgin bride.
Oh! thou canst never guess—canst ne'er conceive
What rapturous charms in love-warm'd Beauty live,
When the soft heart, unknown to practis'd guile,
Speaks in the tear, and sparkles in the smile.—
When the long-sever'd maid, whom passion warms,
With joy commutual, rushes to your arms,
Drops the fond head upon your throbbing breast,
And yields to feelings not to be supprest.
'Tis not the thrilling touch of sensual joys
(Which Nature's boon to lowest brutes supplies,)
The couch of Love—the extatic fond embrace
(Tho these from Virtue snatch a higher grace)
116
The richest transports of their pure esteem,
Whose flames, that glow from intellectual fire,
Give soul to Sense, and defecate Desire.
No: their best joys from nobler sources spring—
Joys saints might taste, and raptur'd seraphs sing:
Soul join'd with soul, the sympathizing mind,
Truth undefil'd—and feelings all refin'd;
One spirit guiding—by one will inform'd—
And two fond bosoms by one essence warm'd.
| Poems | |