The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

The poet introduceth himself with a stare—Groweth so witty that Tom Brown was a mule to him—Saluteth the Pope magnificently—Hinteth at the huge rabble-rout of writers—Lasheth them severely—Addresseth both sides of the gutter with admirable politeness—Swearing—Contention—Hanging— Scribbling—Goose—Bacon—Falleth foul of the unfortunate authors who have written on the Catholic question—Cutteth them up nicely—Minceth and maketh a Christmas pye of them—Forsweareth ingratitude—Describeth the commotion of the coffee-house critics—Shoals of similes to the end of the chapter—Jack Presbyter's shrewd doubts—Unwilling to have the Catholics saved—Meekly possesseth his gentle, and humane turn of temper—Appeareth to wax rather impertinent—Avoweth his own praises again—Satan handed in with the witch of Endor—Classically elegant allusion—More egotism—Stickleth for freedom and equality—Pagan tenets

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—Laudeth any man who adoreth the great Creator—Groweth warm in defence of the Catholics—Scalpeth Ierne about her indolence in protecting genius—Cursory dialogue between the Poet and his Muse—Starteth with new vigour to the gaol—Inditeth at the same time an ode to Miss Toleration, who is born to bear the load of every man, and concludeth with a sigh to the Catholic peasantry of Ireland.

PRŒMIUM.

Marv'ling, with most becoming stare, I view'd
Of blue-bound quartos, what a motley brood,
Red-hot, and flaming from the devil's hand,
As o'er the window's glassy arches, peering,
Keen as a cat, I pored a-pamphleteering,
And spied such heaps, that with emphatic eye,
Loud did I cry,
“Good lack! have Stockdale, Hatchard, time to stand
In such rare attitudes, so striking fine?”
I gaz'd upon the bibliopolist's gay shrine,
With such anxiety—as would amaze ye,
Like one stark crazy.

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Crazy, that word my judgment spurns,
With loftier simile my bosom burns.
So have I seen in Gill'ry's shop,
Hector, of Priam's house the prop;
Hector, (as Homer says) so famed for grinning,
With one hand, Styanax's bottom pinning,
And th' other, stretch'd in agony of prayers,
As if to beckon Jove down stairs.

The influence of religion, catches
All folk, like cur-dogs, by the breeches;
All brothers of the quill in prose sublime,
Without or reason, write, or rhime;
In civet, the pope's magnific toe,
Ne'er kick'd up such a dust before,
Nor did that venerable beau,
Suffer his rosy cherubim to snore,
But bade the itch of authorship to bite 'em
Ad infinitum.

Then, shall not I in bold poetic fury,
Outface this venerable jury,
And say, “My noble, and approv'd good masters,”
When mother-church is sick,
Even I, in the nick,
Can patch the good old dame with plasters;

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Therefore, in pompous sounding lay,
I dash away.

EPISTLE.

Messieurs!

Whether to relics you may choose to kneel,
To ribbon-rags, and bits of broken steel,
Or, Luther's honest schemes of diet studying,
On Friday, feast with carnal beef and pudding;
Or, whether of a mongrel-race,
You twang full sermons through the nose
In this same disputary case;
To all I offer up my lyric does,
Nor care, so patriotic my proceeding,
Which party's ribs are left a-bleeding.

The Catholics, I own (who cut such capers
Upon the forehead and the breast,)

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Have thrown all other sects into the vapours,
And rous'd the whole vexatious nest;
Who swear most furiously, the scoundrel Romans,
Shall sit outside the House of Commons.
Per contra, the fierce Romans swear,
To pull taxation by the ear,
Knock pride, like rotten flounder, on the stones,
And break emancipation's bones;
Yes, they will be fry'd, bak'd, and roasted,
Ere privilege, the darling claim they lose,
Purchase the blessed boon, whatever cost it,
Or hang, cum totis viris, in their shoes;
And really, if they break their chains asunder,
I would advise the gentlemen to thunder.

Poor fellows! many a scribbler strips his muse,
Videlicet, a goose;
With all the rage of criticism taken,
To bang their consecrated bacon.
Furious they fling their venom'd foam about,
And take St. Peter by the snout.
Their periods all, like Addison's, so short,
Their florid dialect like Burke's;
Their sense as strong as fifty Turks,
Their wit as sharp and bright as knives and forks:
Give me, indeed, a world of sport;

302

I scorn to speak ill words of any body,
Of asses ev'n—Ingratum odi.

Gaping, like oysters, at low tide,
The politicians prate about this matter,
And raise, with truly Aristarchal pride,
Heav'n's! what a clatter!
The coffee lingers at each statesman's lip,
And fluent wisdom butters every sip.
The horns that blew down (bubble-like) old Jericho,
Making the stagg'ring battlements to pound
Their dying habitants upon the ground,
Without any quarter;
Lying, like carrots in a smoking harrico,
Or composition-bolus in a mortar,
Were but mere bagpipes to the mighty lungs,
That swell of Mistress Fame, the thousand tongues.

See, in yon box, how close the critics sit,
Meanwhile, the froth-crown'd goblet briskly moves,
Light bounce (quicksilver all) the squibs of wit,
That fit the subject like a pair of gloves;
The Catholics they hunt as noblest game,
And talk, and tipple into fame,
Till the gruff waiter (an unwelcome guest!)
Presumes the jovial triflers to infest.

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Loud as the post-horn's echoing shout,
The Protestants not quite devout,
With cautious care, forsooth, exclaim,
“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,”
Which in the English, Sirs, is quite the same,
As much as, “Martin shall repent his
Entering on leagues with Master Peter,”
Nothing than this construction comes completer.

Jack Presbyter is ready to run wild,
Nay, March-hare mad, at this presumption,
Trembles, least legislature is beguil'd,
And marvels at the ninny-hammer's gumption;
(Gumption, a word which doth not vary,
Though not in Johnson's Dictionary.)
He fumes, to think those papists should be saved,
And power of his strong locks entirely shaved!

Now I, a timid, gentle sort of wight,
My pigeon-heart, as alabaster-white,

304

Would wish to see,
In each degree,
The offspring of one kingdom greatly free:
Which wish has brought into my mind,
An ode so simple, gen'rous, and refin'd;
An ode, which kindling up like tinder,
Breathes the celestial fire of Pindar,
And wonld not (reader, 'tis no trope!)
Disgrace the pen of Dryden, Gray, or Pope.

ODE TO TOLERATION.

Mild nymph, with calm unalter'd eye,
Rais'd in soft rapture to the sky,
And loosely folded arms;
Glowing with holy love, I view
Thy rosy cheek's ambrosial hue;
Thy bosom's tranquil charms;
Glowing, I wooe thee to my pilgrim seat,
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.

Thou canst the voice of party hear,
With undisturb'd and candid car,
Nor turn the angry frown;
Appease the harpy fangs of law,
And make the peasant's wholesome straw,
More soft than bolted down;

305

Yes, thou canst render all complete,
Nymph, ever lovely, ever sweet.

By true religion's sacred side,
Constant you tread, with glorious pride,
To hush the rapid storm;
Thy starry presence gilds the gloom,
Thy fragrance bathes the rose's bloom,
And gives creation form;
Spring flings her flow'rs beneath thy feet,
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.

O! thou canst check the turbid mind,
Spread pure affection through mankind
Savage and fell no more;
Thy tongue, with words, 'bove mortal speech,
The high decrees of heav'n can teach,
And pity's tender lore;
Blest 'bove the haughty, 'bove the great
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.

Descend from thy illustrious car
Of sapphire light, that beams afar,
In brilliant pomp, descend;
So shall I smile on human race,
My trust in each man's bosom place,
And think each man my friend;

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Glowing, I wooe thee to my pilgrim seat,
Nymph! ever lovely, ever sweet.

End of the Ode.

EPISTLE continued.

Is this not pretty, gentles, eh!
Quite in the taking way?
Sublime and beautiful, and soft, and tender,
Enough to melt the rugged witch of Endor:
Like snuff, to pinch Sir Satan by the nose,
And match the music of the warbling crows.

So, in the gentle radiance of the night,
Lov'd Philomel her plaintive dirges pours,
Saddens the pale-eyed moon-beam's sombre light,
And tunes to pity's nerve the lonely hours;
Meanwhile, low breezes creep the leaves among,
And stilly whispers break her solitary song.

Is that not pretty too? methinks I rise,
In ev'ry line more tow'ring to the skies;
My eagle-pinion sails the heights of air,
And leaves the mead below to dullness and despair.

307

Freedom I love, and Freedom strikes the lyre;
Freedom, the Attic chord, divinely touches;
Freedom, of poesy the manly sire,
Who, could he get vile slav'ry in his clutches,
Would give the dæmon such a Cornish hug,
And crack his sides, as topers crack a jug.

Yes, I would have Equality through all,
'Tis fair Equality that rules the ball;
In golden balance hangs the orbs of light,
And bids the 'tendant glories beam so bright;
In ardent equipoise aloft they stand,
And bless Equality's almighty hand.

Disunion, fiercer than the tempest's wing,
Scatters destruction o'er the trembling globe,
Rude rends sweet concord's floating robe,
And blights the pallid cheek of infant spring;
Disunion rises from the cell of death,
To kill the cordial smile, and blast the festal wreath.

Religion may be won by various courses,
People have worshipp'd sheep and horses;
Onions, were fav'rite gods of the Egyptians,
As Monsieur Pliny tells in grave descriptions;
Howe'er, to those I would not be so civil,
As to trot headlong to the devil,

308

Because, though they were great some years ago,
Perchance, their tents, this year, are pitch'd below.

But he who kneels to Him, whose mighty call
Shook Sinai's top, in thunder, and in flame,
Whose right hand clasps this universal all;
And is through ev'ry land th' eternal same;
Though modes may differ, he's as free
To gain his utmost wish, as me!

Say, am I judge? can I condemn? accuse?
The rights of brotherhood abuse,
Forbid his blooming hopes of life to rise,
And crush the fruitful stem before his eyes?
No, the same common good is made for each,
And left within the best deserver's reach.

May not a Catholic as well preside
At honor's helm, as him who mocks his pray'r?

309

Teem not his veins with full as rich a tide?
Feels not his breast as soft a load of care?
Is he not equal? then, whose impious hand
Shall drive from virtue's post the loyal band!

Who fights our battles? who protects our coast,—
And is their gen'rous labour lost?
And must their meritorious actions die?
O'er which desponding justice heaves a sigh!

Through danger's ruin, lo! the heroes rush,
Nor mind a being in the awful crush;
Content their country's force to save,
By their own early grave!

But cease, my song; the tears of honest rage,
In agony, bedew my spotless page.
No mitigation of your bondage crave,
For mis'ry is the portion of the brave!

Embolden'd by the sublime wish of protecting those they regard and love, of handing down the blessings of liberty to their children, and lastly, of exalting themselves above the level of servitude, they have determined again to petition their equals for the rights of life, and the rewards of patience, under a sway little less than despotic.

There are many Protestants, distinguished by their rank and virtues, who view the Catholics as brethren, and willingly would emancipate them from their present state of subjection; notwithstanding the holy prejudice which has recently been displayed by the white-stoled zealots, who dread the least innovation on their unmerited wealth and influence.

They have long seen, without murmuring, those who are oppressors, climb to the highest offices of the state, while they are universally despised, and neglected. Scorn itself is attended with loss of fortune. They are refused any department in the commonwealth! For what cause? Is it because they are loyal in their sufferings, and willing to assist without their hire? Is it because they are hindered from polishing their genius by the force of proper education? Is it because they defend that which they do not possess?— Who will reply? It cannot be that they are treated as vassals for following, with veneration, the mode of worship their forefathers, and those whose memory they held dear, followed. Who can say they are wrong, or who attest themselves right?—Another tribunal shall judge that matter.

311

TO THE CATHOLICS OF IRELAND.

Weep, sons of hapless Erin, weep,
Your chains in tears of anguish steep,
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie,
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!

Lo! where the famish'd peasant lies,
No more with freedom flash his eyes,
No more the smiling pleasures steal
From heav'n, to bless his temp'rate meal;
Ev'n hospitality, no more
Courts the tir'd stranger to the door.

Indignant, wisdom flies the land,
Where folly plants her venal band;
Gay humour drops the beamy dart,
All pow'rless on corruption's heart;
And, veil'd in shame's most sullen hues,
Fair honour follows with the Muse!

Sweet country, shall I never hear
Best music to the patriot's ear;

310

The ploughman carol, as he wakes
The small lark from the russet brakes;
Or twilight, as it creeps along,
Made lovely by his ev'ning song!

For, ah! without the lab'rer's toil,
(So much despis'd, the courtier's spoil!)
Without the soft arts that refine
The soul, and knit in bonds divine,
The vacant boast, the armed train,
Or all that tyrants grant—are vain!

Bleeds not my filial breast, and flow
No tributes to my country's woe?
Yes, while these streaming sluices view
Heav'n's light, shall pity fill anew;
But little can such grief avail!
Can tears a tyrant's heart assail?
Thy foes shall see, with equal fire,
I wield the sword, or sweep the lyre.

So, mid the brown wood's leafy vault,
While echoing wilds his anguish caught,
The minstrel mourn'd—beneath the shade
Of barren boughs, for slav'ry made,
Juverna heard, and, as she sigh'd,
Quick turn'd, the blushful cheek to hide.

312

The speeding sail, that oft, of yore,
Commercial wealth, and plenty bore;
Droops in the gale—some British god
Has barr'd the ocean's open road,
In wild inviolable jest,
Says Thou be wretched, I am blest!

Weep, sons of hapless Erin, weep,
Your chains in tears of anguish steep;
And as you bend the streaming eye,
Where pale and plunder'd brethren lie;
On Albion's head no blessings breathe,
She's ting'd with blood the victor wreath!