The Works of Thomas Love Peacock :: :: University of Virginia Library

151

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

153

LETTER TO HIS MOTHER 14 FEBRUARY 1795

Dear Mother, I attempt to write you a letter
In verse, tho' in prose, I could do it much better:
The Muse, this cold weather sleeps up at Parnassus,
And leaves us, poor poets, as stupid as asses:
She'll tarry still longer, if she has a warm chamber,
A store of old Massic, Ambrosia, and Amber.
Dear Mother, don't laugh, you may think she is tipsy,
And I, if a poet, must drink like a gipsy:
Suppose, I should borrow, the horse of Jack Stenton;
A finer ridden beast, no Muse ever went on;
Pegasus's fleet wings, perhaps, are now frozen;
I'll send her old Stenton's, I know, I've well chosen;
Be it frost, be it thaw, the horse can well canter;
The sight of the beast, cannot help, to enchant her.
All the boys at our school, are well, tho', yet, many
Are suffer'd at home, to suck eggs with their Granny.
“To-morrow” says daddy, “you must go my dear Billy,
To Englefield House; do not cry, you are silly.”
Says the Mother, all dress'd in silk, and in sattin;
“Don't cram the poor boy, with your Greek, and your Latin;

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I'll have him a little longer, before mine own eyes;
To nurse him, and feed him, with tarts, and minc'd pies;
We'll send him to school, when the weather is warmer:
Come, kiss me, my pretty, my sweet little charmer.”
But now I must banish all fun, and all folly;
So doleful's the news, I am going to tell ye:
Poor Wade! my schoolfellow, lies low in the gravel;
One month ere fifteen, put an end to his travel:
Harmless, and mild, and remark'd for goodnature:
The cause of his death, was his overgrown stature:
His epitaph I wrote, as inserted below;
What tribute more friendly, could I on him bestow.
The bard craves one shilling, of his own dear Mother;
And if you think proper, add to it another.

EPITAPH

Here lies interr'd, in silent shade,
The frail remains of Hamlet Wade;
A youth more prom'sing, ne'er took breath;
But ere fifteen, laid cold in death.
Ye young! ye old! and ye of middle age!
Act well your part, for quit the stage
Of mortal life one day you must;
And like him moulder into dust.

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LETTER TO ROBERT WALROND 25 SEPTEMBER 1795

Dear Cousin,

While distant from your native land,
Among the Dons a ruffian band,
Forget not him, your little friend
Who promis'd you some lines to send.
That friendship, which to you I bore
Ere you had left Britannia's shore,
Still gathers strength, nor can decay,
Though marble rocks should wear away.

With pleasure Cousin I can tell,
That all my friends around are well;
I would transfer some little news,
Could I prevail upon my muse.

My Uncle's ship did meet a foe,
Which instantly she brought in tow,
Whose value, very soon he found,
Was nearly thirty thousand pound!
One third I think, should be his share—
A wealthy Uncle I declare!
To touch the cash his finger itches,
I dread 'twill stop in other clutches.

I hope a moment you can spare,
To let me know how well you fare;
How you like the Spanish nation,
Men and Women, and their fashion:
Say are they handsome stout and tall,

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Or are they meagre thin and small:
Thus send me ev'ry kind of news
'Twill give me pleasure to peruse!

Need I inform my Cousin dear,
How much I long to see him here;
On British ground, of yore an Isle
Which Freedom favor'd with a smile;
Forsake Madrid, soon leave proud Spain,
Then homewards cross the azure main;
Calm when you sail may Neptune keep
The surgy billows of the deep.
Ah! should old Davi ope his jaw
And lodge you in his hungry maw;
Sorrow pale would fill my breast,
To lose my friend would lose my rest.
Let not Æolus vex the waves,
Lock'd be the winds in roaring caves.
Smooth be the sea from shore to shore,
Your voyage safe and speedy o'er.
How glad your English friends will be,
On your return, your face to see;
And I how happy when you call,
At Chertsey, and at Gogmoor Hall.
I am your Servant and your friend,
Adieu—farewell, my verses end.

The name given to his Grandfather's Cottage.

157

ANSWER TO THE QUESTION “Is History or Biography the more improving Study?”

With bright examples the young mind to fire,
And Emulation's gen'rous flame inspire,
Biography her modest page displays,
And follows one alone thro' life's uncertain ways.
'Tis hers, alike, with faithful pen t' impart
The virtues, or the failings, of his heart;
She tells of all the talents he possesst,
She makes us Virtue love, or Vice detest;
She makes our hearts espouse the former's cause,
And 'twixt the two a glowing contrast draws.
Thus does Biography: but Hist'ry too
Oft holds out bright examples to the view,
And to abhorrence oft, in colours bright,
Brings Vice's black deformity to light.
But more than this: Time's wasting hand she braves,
And former days from dark Oblivion saves;
She can recal full many a long past age,
Can fill with great events th' instructive page;
Can “deeds of days of other years” unfold,
And tell the actions of “the times of old”;
Can make, in pleasing characters, appear,
What now we are, and our forefathers were.

She oft, in glowing accents, tells how War
“Yokes the red dragons of his iron car,”

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When, with his train of mis'ries at his hand,
He comes to waste and desolate the land,
Then, as she shifts the gloomy scene with ease,
She tells the blessings of returning Peace.

Without her aid, how many a mighty name
Would now be totally unknown to Fame!
E'en Philip's son, who once so bravely fought,
The Prince of Vict'ries, would be quite forgot!
Titus' good deeds were in Oblivion thrown,
And Cæsar's great ones now no longer known!

Hail then to thee, fair Hist'ry! 'tis for thee
To wear the golden crown of Victory!
Like as the morning star, with humble ray,
Throws a faint glimmer at the dawn of day,
Soon as the sun begins his beams to shed,
He shrinks away to nought, and hides his head:
'Tis thus Biography, whose humble pace
Pursues one only through life's eager race;
Before bright Hist'ry's open, daring ray,
She dwindles into nought, and shrinks away!
Hail then to thee, fair Hist'ry! 'tis for thee
To wear the golden crown of Victory!

EPIGRAMS

[Says John Bull, “tho' to aid this vile War I am loth]

Says John Bull, “tho' to aid this vile War I am loth,
They say 'tis my int'rest and principle both;
But of all I was worth by some fellows bereft
I have got neither Int'rest nor Principal left.”

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His Country, some would make't appear,
To every Englishman is dear,—
All to this truth must surely give in,
For 'tis indeed too dear to live in.

LIBERTY

PART OF A LETTER TO A FRIEND

There was a time when Freedom's seraph smile
With heav'nly radiance, bless'd this prosp'rous Isle,
When Peace and Plenty led their joyful band
And pour'd down bliss and pleasure on the land,
When Truth and Justice in the realm were found,
And British bosoms dwelt on British ground.

There was a time (but ah! that time is fled)
When crown'd with honors Virtue rais'd her head:
When, never failing rev'rence to inspire,
Was heard the manly voice of Patriot fire:
Heard now no more—no more is Virtue found
With joy regarded and with glory crown'd:
He who but prays to Heav'n the realm to save,
Receives from power—a dungeon and a grave.

Long, long alas! “to gath'ring ills a prey”
Has British Freedom mourn'd her quick decay!
Long, long alas! the iron hand of power
Has aim'd its fury at her rock-built Tower,
That Tow'r which, led by Truth's and Justice' fires,
Rais'd to her blest domain our fame-crown'd sires

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And piece by piece, has hurl'd its ruins wide
To the black gulph of Tyranny and Pride!
Who shall restore, (just Heav'n!) her hallow'd reign
And rear the sacred edifice again?
Who shall to Virtue Liberty restore,
And give us all the rights we held before?
Alas, our fire is with that Freedom fled,
In whose dear cause our great forefathers bled.
This was the land where, dear to age and youth,
Reign'd Virtue, Freedom, Innocence, and Truth,
Where Britons saw, whoe'er in pow'r appear'd,
Their rights respected and their laws revered!

This is the land where War's destructive train
With blood-stain'd sceptre hold their iron reign,
Where Persecution's ever hated sway
Stamps with black mis'ry each revolving day,
Where, while all ties of Justice are contemn'd,
To be suspected is to be condemn'd,
Where Innocence in dreary dungeons thrown
Is left unpitied and unheard to groan,
And where sweet Liberty's unfeeling foes
Exult and riot in a Nation's woes.

O ye, who whilst sweet Concord's flag is furled,
Let War's red Demons loose upon the World!
Ye, who have sent full many a Hero brave
An early victim to a distant grave!
By whom [confin'd] in many a dreary cell,
Truth, Virtue, Justice, bid the world farewell!
Yet know, that Heaven which rules above the sky,
Views all your actions with impartial eye,

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The Widow's pray'rs that Heaven with pity hears
And beams compassion on the Orphan's tears,
Yes, and that Heaven to which all pow'r belongs,
That Heav'n which pities can avenge their wrongs.

PEACE

When War's infernal banners wide unfurl'd
Pour'd their dark wreaths throughout the bleeding world,
When o'er the field of death his Harpies flew,
And bath'd in blood, a wild insatiate crew,
Then, from the groaning Earth reluctant driv'n,
Thou fledst, sweet Peace, to seek thy native Heav'n!
But now, once more, with thy propitious hand
Thou pour'st down pleasure on this gladd'ning land,
Once more thou com'st, a “rising beam of light,”
And Want's pale cheek smiles feebly at the sight.

Welcome, thrice welcome! to our sea-girt shore!
O may Britannia mourn thy loss no more!
At thy approach may Want and Sorrow fly,
And heart-felt gladness beam from ev'ry eye,
May ev'ry British breast with rapture burn,
And joyful thousands hail thy bless'd return.

Celestial Peace! to angels ever given,
Who dwell'st serene in yon empyreal Heaven,
Where countless Suns their dazzling orbs display
And shed around an everlasting day!

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Now when thou com'st to chace dark Sorrow's shade
And heal the wounds War's iron hand has made,
May Liberty and Plenty join thy train
And smile on Albion's chalky cliffs again!

Benignant Power! may thy long-wish'd-for smile
Preserve from further woes this suffering Isle,
May gentle Concord dwell in ev'ry breast,
And Party-Prejudice be lull'd to rest,
And all the angry storms of faction cease
In the sweet sunshine of returning Peace!

THE MAN OF FASHION

A Chap whose modish pucker'd shoulders
Create a laugh in all beholders,
Whose full-stuff'd Cape may well be said
To look more knowing than his head;
With Boots rais'd far above his knee,
And toes as square as square can be;—
One who in gaming takes delight,
Was last night cheated—cheats to-night,
Who'll seldom lend but often borrow,
A fool to-day—a knave to-morrow,—
To grace a Gala only fit,
Much better stock'd with cash than wit,
In Folly's temple early bred,
With a full purse and empty head,
Well skill'd in drinking, flirting, dashing,—
Such is a modern Man of Fashion.

163

LETTER TO HIS GRANDMOTHER 16 JULY 1801

Dear Grandmother,

From this town where Pride, Fashion, and Business rule,
Where mingle the honest, the knave and the fool,
Where Vice with success far too often is crown'd,
And Virtue as often is penniless found,
Where the devil with riches his votaries blesses,
Where forestallers live by the people's distresses,
Where flourish knaves, pickpockets, beggars and peers,
Where much-courted Folly her asses-head rears,
Where ladies (but this you will scarcely believe)
Go naked,—just like our great-grandmother Eve;
(For the sweet reign of Modesty seems to be quite gone,
And each dashing young belle goes about in her night-gown)
Where juggling and cheating are well understood,
And where meet the extremes both of bad and of good—
From this town now to write you I take up my pen,
And, after long silence, address you again.

Here Fashion exerts her all-powerful sway,
And oftentimes leads the most cautious astray;
An instance of which you full plainly may see
In the case of the dashing Sir Peter Bohea.

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Though Sir Peter denies it, 'tis known very well,
He was both born and bred within sound of Bowbell;
At twelve years of age so improv'd his friends found him
To a worshipful grocer apprentice they bound him,
And, to use his own words, “no one up to him comes
In selling the Cockneys two-penn'orth of plumbs!”
—“Two-pence farthing's the sum, mem, can take nothing off it.
If we take off the farthing we lose all our profit!”

When out of his time, this experienc'd young elf
Thought proper to set up in bus'ness himself,
And all things before him he valiantly carried,
Till he very unluckily chose to be married.

His deary's fam'd dad, one as proud as a lord,
Was a great tallow-chandler in Candlewick ward,
Who had brought up his daughter by method and rule,
To spend like a princess, and act like a fool!
He determin'd the charmer should blaze with great spirit,
And that nought should extinguish the flame of her merit,
And, thinking 'twould only be doing his duty,
Resolv'd he would nourish the wick of her beauty,
For he said 'twas unjust and ungen'rous to crush light,
And she never should gleam like a “damn'd farthing rush-light!”

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On the cymbals, those instruments now grown so dashing,
She could play like a black, or a lady of fashion;
And surely no beggar-girl ever was seen,
That could strike with such grace on the sweet tambourine!
At Change-alley hops she could charmingly dance,
She could manage the skipping-rope, read a romance;
To set off her charms she made ev'ry endeavour,
And in this one respect she was “cursedly clever.”
On the heart of poor Peter she seiz'd in a trice,
For he thought her far sweeter than sugar or spice!
He courted the lady with wonderful glee,
And soon of Miss Wick he made Mrs. Bohea!

He continued however to thrive in his trade,
And in a few months was an Alderman made;
Our newly-made Alderman soon was appointed
To present an address to the great Lord's Anointed;
And his loyal behaviour was there well requited,
He gave the address; then knelt down, and was—knighted!!!
By this time Sir Peter had realis'd clear
The moderate sum of three thousand a year!
His lady began her old friends to despise,
And look'd on the Cockneys with scorn in her eyes;
She teas'd poor Sir Peter without the least pity,
No longer to stay in the villainous city;
She declar'd she should always be sadly distrest,
Unless he would figure away in the West,

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And now poor Sir Peter his shop has forsaken,
And in sweet Grosvenor Square a fine mansion has taken;
He's no longer the grocer so frugal and steady,
Who once with such care sav'd and hoarded the ready;
He now never looks on the bills he's to pay,
But only on bills of the op'ra or play;
Each ev'ning is spent in some gala or rout,
And when creditors call—he is sure to be out.
As far as “Gad's curse” or “Gad demme” can go,
He can swear like a thief—I beg pardon, a beau;
Indeed, he appears quite a different man,
And is spending his money as fast as he can,
He shines like a star in the scenes of high life,
And all for the sake of his “dear, pretty wife”;
Whilst, his love to repay, his affectionate spouse
Has fix'd two neat horns on his elegant brows!
Of this life-loving knight we may certainly say,
Like a true dashing hero he “figures away”
But he'll soon be unable “to make both ends meet”
And then he must “figure away”—in the Fleet!

LETTER TO HIS GRANDFATHER 11 AUGUST 1801

Dear Grandfather,

I have long been in hopes once more Chertsey to view,
Which at present, indeed, we can't very well do;

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Therefore, being this morning a little at leisure,
I take up the pen to address you with pleasure.

When of late Spanish batt'ries a vict'ry obtain'd,
Which the French proudly boasted their squadron had gain'd,
They spread over France a most wonderful story,
Declaring their Navy was “cover'd with glory!”
“To the Temple of Fame they should quickly advance,
Through the valorous deeds of the sailors of France!”
But when gallant Saumarez once more drew nigh,
These laurel-crown'd heroes thought proper to fly
They spread all their canvass (magnanimous elves!)
To let the poor Dons fight it out by themselves!
And like true Gallic tars, to whom fear was a stranger,
They—fled from their friends at the moment of danger!
“Vhat! fight de Jack Tar vhen no batt'ries are near,
Dey vould send us avay vid de flea in our ear!”—

How mad and how vain is their boasting opinion,
They could wrest from old England her naval dominion!
The standards of Britain o'er Ocean unfurl'd,
At once the dismay and delight of the world,
Of the darlings of Neptune the triumphs proclaim,
And fill Gallia's proud thousands with terror and shame.
There is one thing indeed, it has always been held,
In which British sailors by French are excell'd;
Their skill in this instance their valorous fleet
Never fail to display when our squadrons they meet;

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And Justice must surely compell us to say,
They are far our superiors in—running away!!!
This art the Great Nation takes so much delight in,
Their vessels seem built more for sailing than fighting;
And amongst their fam'd heroes 'tis always confest,
Those ships which fly fastest are reckon'd the best!

In old women and nurses alarm to occasion,
They have started again the old bug-bear Invasion;
But the folly of this our brave Nelson has shewn,
By his glorious attack on the port of Boulogne:
Invade us, indeed! All their threats are in vain
Whilst the sons of Britannia are Kings of the Main:
From these soup-maigre boasters we've little to dread,
Whilst our tars by such heroes as Nelson are led;
Whilst those truly-brave tars scorn from Frenchmen to fly,
And nobly determine to conquer or die!

THE STORM

The patt'ring rain in torrents pour'd,
The echoing thunder loudly roar'd
And shook the vaulted sky,
The lightning flash'd with vivid glare,
And Danger mid the lurid air
Sate darkly thron'd on high.

Secure within his humble cell,
Where Contemplation lov'd to dwell

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An Hermit view'd the storm;
He mark'd the Whirlwind's eddying course
And saw with tears its wasteful force
The face of day deform.

On fiery pinions through the sky
He saw the blue-fork'd lightning fly,
And spread destruction round;
He saw the lofty tree o'erthrown
And, all its former beauty flown,
Lie with'ring on the ground.

“Thus 'tis with Man,” the Hermit cried,
“Thus tower his hopes in youthful pride,
And thus his wishes soar;
But ere he gain the wish'd for Goal
Misfortune's tempests round him roll,
He falls—to rise no more!”

The storm was past, the sky was clear'd:
Bright in the West the Sun appear'd
And pour'd his golden ray.
The flowers with sparkling rain-drops crown'd
Diffus'd unusual fragrance round
To bless the closing day.

“How all is chang'd,” the Hermit cries
Whilst pleasure glitters in his eyes,
“How beautiful the scene!
The fields at morn were parch'd and dry
But now beneath the evening sky
Display luxuriant green.

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“And hence I learn, tho' Sorrow's storm
Awhile our prospects may deform
And hold its dread career,
Yet pleasure's Sun returns at last
And by the sense of dangers past
Is render'd doubly dear.”

FROM THE REVELATIONS

A FRAGMENT

“Arise! arise, to thee 'tis given
To view the wonders of the Skies:
The dark mysterious ways of Heaven
Are open to thine eyes:
Thrice-favor'd Mortal, rise!
By mystic signs th' eternal God
To thee his fix'd intents displays:
Behold the woes his chast'ning rod
Prepares for future days.”

Thus on the lov'd disciple's ears
Sweet as the music of the spheres
Inspiring sounds from lips celestial fell:
Heaven's brazen doors wide open flew:
He turned those bright abodes to view
Where Saints and Angels dwell.
With awe his eyes the Prophet rais'd
To where Almighty glory blaz'd,
Where cloth'd in never-dying lustre shone
The pure ethereal fire, the sapphire-burning throne!

Cetera desunt.

171

ON THE DEATH OF SIR RALPH ABERCROMBY

Lamented Chief! whom cruel Fate
Has doom'd to fall in foreign climes,
Bright Glory's shining Angels wait
To give thy name to distant times.

Each British heart, each noble mind,
Shall mourn o'er thy untimely bier,
And Gratitude and Pity kind
Shall drop the tributary tear!

No more thy courage shall inspire
Admiring bands with martial heat;
Thine eyes have lost their kindling fire,
Thy valiant heart has ceas'd to beat!

But future times shall sound thy praise,
When crown'd with Fame thy name appears;
When Hist'ry's splendid page displays
“The deeds of days of other years!”

172

THE ALARMISTS

PART OF A LETTER TO A FRIEND

The Alarmists are all in a great consternation
Concerning old England's most sad situation;
Their woful lamentings they daily increase
And rail at this “shameful, iniquitous, Peace”;
In Clubs and in parties they often assemble
To drink, to harangue, to lament and to tremble.

Now let us suppose, on some mighty affair
A Club had convened, it is no matter where,
And consider what now I'm about to relate
A faithful report of their learned debate.

The discussion to open in language most clear
With a smirk, and a grin, rose a fam'd Auctioneer:
“Hem, hem, Mr. Chairman, I fear we have got
In this new-fangled Peace a most villainous lot;
Tho' so much 'tis approv'd both in country and town,
I fear that the Nation will soon be knock'd down;
No concern for our wrongs are the Ministry showing,
And we all are a going! a going! a going!!!”

Next rose a stout Cobler with visage demure:
“This Peace, sir, d'ye see me, I cannot endure.
The wax of my heart melts away at the story;
I fear we are come to the end of our glory.

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Our national goodness is tapp'd on the heel,
And we soon, very soon shall French pegging awls feel.
The Leather of England will soon be in holes,
And we cannot last long, poor unfortunate soles.

Thus ended the polish'd and erudite railer,
And after him rose a magnanimous Tailor:
The ninth part of a man, from his dignified station,
Amaz'd the whole club, with this flaming oration:
“Whatever the friends of this Peace may declare,
They have worn all their arguments perfectly bare;
With ready cut promises sweeter than honey
They have nipp'd off our honor and cabbaged our money;
The Peace they've patched up, is they say worth a treasure;
But I say they have taken a very bad measure.
The shreds of their power, I speak it with wrath,
Have reduc'd to a shred all the kingdom's best cloth.
Altho' they're as sharp as a needle for wit,
I don't value their speeches the crack of a nit.
I'm quite in a pucker, my choler is great,
Since the threads of our fortune are clipp'd off by fate.”

“I could duck them all well,” said a Poulterer so spruce,
“Surely treatment so foul, none would bear but a goose!”

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An Oilman rose next: “Sir, I say on my verity
From the flask is ooz'd out all the oil of prosperity.
Tho' I love not with power to quarrel and stickle
I think we are all in a terrible pickle.”

“Zounds!” bawl'd a stout Cook, “In a pickle indeed!
In a pickle from which we shall never be freed!
Here's a very fine mess; smoke my wig, Mr. Chairman,
That there Bony part is a devilish rare man!
We must soon go to pot, spite of all we can do;
When I think of his sauce, I am quite in a stew;
This is no time to trifle; I quake like a jelly;
Mounseer will soon stow our roast beef in his belly.
Our sop of a Premier has suck'd up our treasures,
I'm not such a cake as to puff off his measures;
The sweets of his Peace we poor Devils shall taste
When Frenchmen come over our country to baste.
John Bull once was fat, once he lived upon clover,
But he's now overdone and completely done over;
He's roasted, he's dish'd—Zounds! I broil with vexation!
Not one drop of gravy is left in the Nation.
A very fine Peace have our Ministers plann'd,
We must starve whilst they feed on the fat of the land!
Of the good they have done they may constantly speak,
But, curse me, 'tis nothing but bubble and squeak!”

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“Time, my friends,” said the Chairman, “forbids me to push on
To any great length, this important discussion.
In a fortnight's time hence to this point we'll return,
But at present I think 'twill be best to adjourn.
'Tis prov'd that our Ministers plans are pursuing
Which only can end in confusion and ruin;
That in all their vile minds no good principle rules;
That one half are knaves and the other half fools;
That for England's misfortunes they care not a feather—
So, my friends, let us all be unhappy together!”

PARAPHRASE FROM THE SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER OF ISAIAH

Woe to thy numbers fierce and rude,
Thou madly rushing multitude,
Loud as the Tempest which o'er Ocean raves!
Woe to the Nations proud and strong
Which pour tumultuously along,
As rolls the foaming stream its long resounding waves!
As the noise of mighty seas,
As the loudly eddying breeze,
Shall gath'ring nations rush, a powerful band;
But Israel's God, in burning wrath unfurl'd
Shall stretch to sweep them from the World
His thunder-grasping hand.

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As, when adverse winds engage,
Far and wide the chaff is blown,
As, before the whirlwind's rage,
Flies the rolling thistle down,
So, at the avenging nod
Of a great Eternal God,
Shall fly, to endless ruin driven
Th' oppressors of the weak—the enemies of Heav'n.

THE COMPARISON

As Jove t'other day was in nectar regaling,
When Juno for once put a stop to her railing
Of Hermes he asked, having grown rather mellow,
“What d'ye think of Lucretia, my comical fellow?”
“Is't the Roman Lucretia,” quoth Hermes, “you mean,
Or Lucretia, the beauty of Shacklewell Green?”
“Why, I mean her of old,” answer'd Jove with an oath,
“But prythee let's hear what you think of them both.”
“Lucretia of Rome,” Hermes quickly replied,
“Had plenty of beauty and plenty of pride;
I would not be thought at her virtues to scoff,
Yet I think she did wrong when she kill'd herself off.
But the modern Lucretia, to say't is my duty,
Has twice as much virtue and twice as much beauty,

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And may safely defy envy's venemous railings,
As with all the first's charms she has none of her failings.”
“Indeed,” cried the Thunderer, “a creature so charming
Must cause in the envious sensations alarming;
She's a toast for immortals, 'tis plain to be seen,
So here's to the beauty of Shacklewell Green!”

178

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP DOG CALL'D LADY

Oh could I wake the sounding Lyre
To dithyrambic strains sublime;
Or would the gentle Muse inspire
One single spark of Pindar's fire,
To aid my feeble rhyme:

Then, Lady, then thy praise to tell
Would I full many a stanza fill,
Long on thy talents would I dwell,
Thy charming bark, thy piteous yell
Most musically shrill!

Though to record thy humble fate
No pompous monument arise,
Yet on thy lowly dust shall wait
(Denied how often to the great)
A tear from beauty's eyes!

Poor Lady! To thy humble urn
Far better strains than these are due;
None surely can thy memory spurn;
If beauty for thy loss can mourn
The Muse must mourn thee too.

179

TO MRS. SEWELL

ON READING HER POEMS

Of old, when Freedom's sacred fire
Bless'd Grecia's favor'd clime,
The infant Muse first tuned the lyre,
And rais'd her voice sublime.
Then taught by Fancy, Nature's child
In numbers regularly wild,
The nodding woods and rocks among,
The Lesbian nymph oppress'd with care
Pour'd all her sorrows to the air,
In unaffected song.

But when the Muse on Latian plains
Diffus'd her gen'rous fire,
No female woke to deathless strains
The many sounding lyre;—
How far more bless'd the British fair!
With them the Muse delights to share
Her softest smile, her brightest flame;
She loves their artless lays to trace,
And in the most exalted place
Enrolls her Sewell's name.

For not the boast of earthly power,
The pomp of earthly joy,
The transient blessings of an hour,
Thy nobler lyre employ;

180

To teach fair Virtue's spotless laws,
To aid Religion's sacred cause
To thee the glorious task was given;
The strain of triumph to prolong,
And swell the rapture-breathing song
Which lifts the mind to Heaven!

IMITATED FROM OSSIAN

(BARRATHAN)

The shades of night are gath'ring fast,
And coldly blows the ev'ning blast;
Unshelter'd on the rocky shore
I sit, whilst foaming billows roar
Around in wild commotion;

But colder is my fate severe
For ever doom'd to linger here,
Doom'd here to waste my morn of life
And mark your never-ending strife,
Blue tumbling waves of ocean!

Not always by the roaring wave,
Where sullen blasts are yelling,
Not always in the dreary cave
Was Nina-thoma's dwelling.
Once in the echoing hall of Kings
Oft as the shades of ev'ning fell
I struck my Harp's responsive strings
And bade the song of pleasure swell.

181

Then, Uthal, with insidious art,
Then didst thou gain my Virgin heart,
For thee Torthoma's halls I fled,
With thee each happy day I led
Unthinking of to-morrow:
What love was e'er more true than mine?
False as thou art, it still is thine;
Then wherefore leave me here to pine
In never-ceasing sorrow?

REBUS

Take three-quarters of fortune connected with chance
And one-half of a sprightly agreeable dance,
To these add two-thirds of what serves to restrain,
And a General who brings twenty-five in his train;
In all three united at once may be seen
The glory of Rome and of Shacklewell Green.

ON A LAP DOG OF MISS --- NAM'D QUISI

(SIGNIFIES IN CHINESE, SON OF THE DEVIL)

Of little crop-ear'd Pug to write
In lofty notes heroic,
Might sure the patience put to flight
Of pleasure-hating stoic.

182

But since ------ gives command,
'Tis nothing more than duty;
What youthful bard could e'er withstand
The sacred will of beauty?

Oh wondrous Quisi! Who can see
And seeing, not admire?
Rightly to praise a Dog like thee
Demands a Pindar's Lyre.
“Son of the Devil,” enchanting Qui,
Should I extol thee to the sky
Pray where would be the wonder?
Much greater puppies than thyself
Have oft by many a rhyming elf
Been sung in notes of thunder.

Though some to all thy beauties blind
Thy praise may take no share in,
I'll call thee loveliest of thy kind
And charming past comparing.
Yes! all who call thee “ugly beast”
More blind than any stone are;
Thou hast reflected charms at least
Thanks to thy lovely owner.
How to the Sunflower's gaudy leaves
Is so much brightness given?
Reflected splendor it receives,
Drawn from the Sun of Heaven.

E'en so L---'s smiles divine
On whatsoe'er they deign to shine,
Than morning rays more tender,

183

Reflected beauty can bestow—
Thence all thy charms, Oh Quisi, flow—
'Tis hers to make e'en darkness glow
With Heaven's meridian splendor.

“WITH TRUEST REPENTANCE”

With truest repentance, sincerest submission,
On my knees I present this most humble petition
Entreating that you will a pardon confer.
Then let not your frowns a poor Devil dispirit
Who owns that he scarcely a pardon can merit
For presumptuously thinking an Angel could err.

PADDY'S LAMENTATION

Sweet Molly O'Bog! Oh! my shoul's dearest treasure,
Now you're gone, my dear joy, I shall never know pleasure.
Your loss, my dear Molly, long, long shall I cry for;
Then, arrah! my Jewel, ah! what did ye die for?

Oh! my beautiful Molly, so wild and so frisky!
You had plenty of beef, and potatoes and whiskey!
You had all you could wish and nothing to cry for;
Then, arrah! my Jewel, ah! what did you die for?

184

Ah! why did you die now and leave me behind here?
Your equal, sweet Molly, I never shall find here!
Such another dear creature in vain should I try for:
Then, arrah! my Jewel, ah! what did you die for?

ACROSTIC

[Long to her name I've struck the Lyre]

Long to her name I've struck the Lyre;
Unblest, alas! with Pindar's fire,
Can my weak muse one stanza raise
Rightly transcendent charms to praise?
Endowed with ev'ry grace refin'd
That decks the person or the mind,
In vain the Muse might strive to swell
A song that half her praise should tell.

Oh! blest with graces rarely found
Like morning rays her smiles around
Delight and life can shower;
Her every charm might win a heart,
And when combin'd they aim the dart
Must gain unbounded power.

185

ON THE FIRST LEAF OF THE BOOK OF THE AUTHOR'S POEMS WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO L.O.

A youth, who by the sacred fount
On fam'd Parnassus' ancient Mount
Pass'd his unprofitable hours
In gathering weeds instead of flowers,
Lays, at the feet of wit and beauty,
This humble offering of his duty.
Oh! then with smiles his nothings cherish!
Without them they are sure to perish:
Thy smile can make e'en darkness glow,
Can e'en on Quisi charms bestow,
And may, perhaps, to strains like these
Impart some little power to please.

GLEE

Quickly pass the social glass,
Hence with idle sorrow!
No delay—enjoy to-day,
Think not of to-morrow!
Life at best is but a span,
Let us taste it whilst we can;
Let us still with smiles confess,
All our aim is happiness!

186

Childish fears, and sighs and tears
Still to us are strangers;
Why destroy the bud of joy
With ideal dangers?
Let the song of pleasure swell;
Care with us shall never dwell;
Let us still with smiles confess
All our aim is happiness!

TO A FRIEND AT GUERNSEY

Again a few dull lines I send,
To greet my absent silent friend—
Tho' seldom with unworthy rhyme
I thus intrude upon your time,
I take these means to prove it true
I ever shall remember you,
Tho' with regret I plainly see
That you have quite forgotten me.

What can this strange neglect betoken?
Will your long silence ne'er be broken?
And must I daily hope in vain
To trace your characters again?
Now in the name of all that's kind
Can you no leisure minute find,
Just half a line or so to pop in,
If nothing more than “This comes hopping”?

187

'Tis now the time when Turkies bleed,
And children play, and cocknies feed;
Therefore in rhyme it stands to reason,
I ought, as usual at this Season,
My wishes for your health expressing
To send you o'er the Bellman's blessing:
Thro' all the coming year, my friend,
May mirth and joy your steps attend!
May you a merry Christmas share
Untroubled by old sulky Care,
And banish far his Demons murky,
With Aldermanic pie and Turkey!

No longer shall my Muse intrude,
My time is short, I must conclude;
More of this scrawl is not required,
For, I'm in haste—and you are tired.
Farewell—and prythee if you can, Sir,
Let me have something like an Answer.
So till your welcome hand I see,
“Adieu! Adieu! remember me!”

TO MATILDA

The wind howls around and the swift rain is pouring,
The storm beaten billows tumultuously roll;
But though fiercely the tempests of winter are roaring,
More fierce is the tempest that wars in my soul!

188

Though duty commands it, love mocks the endeavour,
To forget thee, Matilda! to leave thee for ever!
The bonds of affection can int'rest dissever,
Or prudence the noblest of passions controul?

Dear, dear to the sailor, long toss'd on the ocean,
Again his lov'd home, friends and country to see;
To me, long the slave of each ardent emotion,
More dear is the transport of gazing on thee.
Though pride may the beauties of nature be scorning,
The peasant with joy hails the breath of the morning,
Sweet to him are the smiles Spring's dominion adorning,
But the smiles of Matilda are sweeter to me.

And must we then part to be no more united?
And must I, Matilda, each hope then resign,
Each hope which my too sanguine fancy delighted,
When I thought that thy heart beat responsive to mine?
Farewell! thou dear source of my pain and my pleasure!
May thy joys, like thy virtues be still without measure!
But where shall I meet with so matchless a treasure;
Oh! where find a heart I could value like thine?

189

THE MONKS OF ST. MARK

'Tis midnight: the sky is with clouds overcast;
The forest-trees bend in the loud-rushing blast;
The rain strongly beats on these time-hallow'd spires;
The lightning pours swiftly its blue-pointed fires;
Triumphant the tempest-fiend rides in the dark,
And howls round the old abbey-walls of St. Mark!

The thunder, whose roaring the trav'ller appals,
Seems as if with the ground it would level the walls:
But in vain pours the storm-king this horrible rout;
The uproar within drowns the uproar without;
For the friars, with Bacchus, not Satan, to grapple,
The refect'ry have met in, instead of the chapel.

'Stead of singing Te Deums, on ground-pressing knees,
They were piously bawling songs, catches, and glees:
Or, all speakers, no hearers, unceasing, untir'd,
Each stoutly held forth, by the spirit inspir'd,
Till the Abbot, who only the flock could controul,
Exclaim'd: “Augustine! pr'ythee push round the bowl!”

The good brother obey'd; but, oh direful mishap!
Threw its scalding contents in Jeronimo's lap!
And o'er his bare feet as the boiling tide stream'd,
Poor Augustine fretted, Jeronimo scream'd,

190

While Pedro protested, it vex'd him infernally,
To see such good beverage taken “externally!”

The Abbot, Francisco, then feelingly said:
“Let that poor wounded devil be carried to bed:
And let Augustine, who, I boldly advance,
Is the whole and sole cause of this fatal mischance,
If e'er to forgiveness he dare to aspire,
Now bear to his cell the unfortunate friar.”

He rose to obey, than a snail rather quicker,
But, finding his strength much diminish'd by liquor,
Declar'd, with a hiccup, he scarcely could stand,
And begged brother Pedro to lend him a hand.
Brother Pedro consented, but all was not right,
Till Nicholas offer'd to carry a light.

By the head and the feet then their victim they held,
Who with pain and with fear most tremendously yell'd;
And with one little lamp that scarce shone through the gloom,
In path curvilinear march'd out of the room,
And, unheeding the sound of the rain and the blast,
Through the long dismal corridor fearlessly pass'd.

From the right to the left, from the left to the right,
Brother Nicholas reel'd, inconsiderate wight!
For not seeing the stairs to the hall-floor that led,
Instead of his heels he soon stood on his head:
He rolls to the bottom, the lamp-flame expires,
And darkness envelopes the wondering friars!

191

He squall'd, for the burning oil pour'd on his hand;
Bewilder'd did Pedro and Augustine stand:
Then loud roar'd the thunder, and Pedro, in dread,
Abandon'd his hold of Jeronimo's head,
And prone on the floor fell this son of the cowl,
And howl'd, deeply-smarting, a terrible howl!

Poor Augustine's bosom with terror was cold,
On finding his burthen thus slide from his hold:
Then, cautiously stealing, and groping around,
He felt himself suddenly struck to the ground;
Yells, groans, and strange noises, were heard in the dark,
And, trembling and sweating, he pray'd to St. Mark!

Meanwhile, the good Abbot was boosing about;
When, a little alarm'd by the tumult without,
Occasion'd by poor Brother Nich'las's fall
From the corridor-stairs to the floor of the hall,
Like a true jolly friend of good orderly laws,
He serpentin'd out to discover the cause.

Bewilder'd by liquor, by haste, and by fright,
He forgot that he stood in great need of a light;
When hiccuping, reeling, and curving along,
And humming a stave of a jolly old song,
He receiv'd a rude shock from an object unseen,
For he came in full contact with Saint Augustine!

By Jeronimo's carcase tripp'd up unawares,
He was instantly hurl'd down the corridor-stairs;

192

Brother Nicholas there, from the floor cold and damp,
Was rising with what yet remain'd of his lamp;
And, the worthy superior's good supper to spoil,
Regal'd his strange guest with a mouthful of oil!

Thence sprung the dire tumult, which, rising so near,
Had fill'd Augustine with confusion and fear:
But the sons of St. Mark, now appearing with tapers,
At once put an end to his pray'rs and his vapors;
They reel'd back to their bowls, laugh'd at care and foul weather,
And were shortly all under the table together.

“WHEN HOPE HER WARM TINTS ON THE FUTURE SHALL CAST”

When Hope her warm tints on the future shall cast,
And Memory illumine the days that are past,
May their mystical colours, by fancy combined,
Be as bright as thy thoughts, and as pure as thy mind.
May Hope's fairy radiance in clouds never set,
Nor Memory look dark with the mists of regret;
For thee may their visions unchangeable shine,
And prove a more brilliant reality thine.

193

TO MRS. DE ST. CROIX

ON HER RECOVERY

When wintry storms, with envious pow'r,
The glorious orb of day o'ercast;
When black and deep the snow-clouds low'r,
And coldly blows th' ungenial blast;

The feather'd race, no longer gay,
Who joy'd in summer's glowing reign,
Sit drooping on the leafless spray,
And mourn the desolated plain.

But when, at spring's celestial call,
Subsides the elemental strife,
When drifting snows no longer fall,
And nature kindles into life,

Each little tenant of the grove
Makes hill and dale with song resound,
And pleasure, gratitude, and love,
From thousand echoes ring around.

And thus, when thou wast doom'd to pain,
On sickness' cheerless couch reclin'd,
Love, duty, friendship, sigh'd in vain,
And at thy transient loss repin'd.

But grief and pain no more assail,
And all with smiles thy steps attend;
With renovated bliss they hail
Their guide, their parent, and their friend.

194

LETTER TO HARRY SEDGWICK 26 DECEMBER 1805

Your friendly verse was quite a treat
To me who love the short and sweet;
Alike of rhyme and wit observant
It vastly pleas'd your humble servant.
The bellman now his blessing sends
To all his customers and friends,
In dismal sonnets nightly crying
Because the poor old year is dying;
And shall not I, a brother poet,
Who prize true friendship when I know it,
The bellman's bright example follow,
That tuneful offering of Apollo?
While he a merry Christmas wishes
To all the friends of pans and dishes
(Announcing with portentous face
Destruction to the Turkey race)
My feeble muse her voice prolongs,
And joins with his sublimer songs
To thank in accents kind and free
The few, few friends that care for me,
In rhyme to friends alone addressed,
And you among the first and best.

195

TIME

Passan vostri trionfi e vostre pompe;
Passan le signorie, passano i regni.—
Cosi 'l tempo trionfa i nomi e'l mondo.
Petrarca.

Whence is the stream of Time? What source supplies
Its everlasting flow? What gifted hand
Shall raise the veil by dark Oblivion spread,
And trace it to its spring? What searching eye
Shall pierce the mists that veil its onward course,
And read the future destinies of man?
The past is dimly seen: the coming hour
Is dark, inscrutable to human sight:
The present is our own; but, while we speak,
We cease from its possession, and resign
The stage we tread on, to another race,
As vain, and gay, and mortal as ourselves.
And why should man be vain? He breathes to-day,
To-morrow he is not: the labored stone
Preserves awhile the name of him that was:
Time strikes the marble column to the ground,
And sinks in dust the sculptured monument.
Yet man is vain, and, with exulting thought,
Rears the proud dome and spacious colonnade,
Plants the wide forest, bids the garden bloom
Where frowned the desert, excavates the earth,
And, gathering up the treasures of her springs,
Rolls the full stream through flow'r-enamelled banks,

196

Where once the heather struck its roots in sand.
With joy he hails, with transitory joy,
His new creations: his insatiate pride
Exults in splendor which he calls his own.
As if possessions could be called our own,
Which, in a point of ever-varying time,
By force, by fraud, by purchase, or by death,
Will change their lords, and pass to other hands.
Then since to none perpetual use is given,
And heir to heir, as wave to wave, succeeds,
How vain the pride of wealth! how vain the boast
Of fields, plantations, parks, and palaces,
If Death invades alike, with ruthless arm,
The peasant's cottage, and the regal tower,
Unawed by pomp, inflexible by gold!

Death comes to all. His cold and sapless hand
Waves o'er the world, and beckons us away.
Who shall resist the summons? Child of earth!
While yet the blood runs dancing through thy veins,
Impelled by joy and youth's meridian heat,
'Twere wise, at times, to change the crowded haunts
Of human splendor, for the woodland realms
Of solitude, and mark, with heedful ear,
The hollow voice of the autumnal wind,
That warns thee of thy own mortality.

Death comes to all. Not earth's collected wealth,
Golcondian diamonds and Peruvian gold,
Can gain from him the respite of an hour.
He wrests his treasure from the miser's grasp,

197

Dims the pale rose on beauty's fading cheek,
Tears the proud diadem from kingly brows,
And breaks the warrior's adamantine shield.

Man yields to Death; and man's sublimest works
Must yield at length to Time. The proud one thinks
Of life's uncertain tenure, and laments
His transitory greatness. While he boasts
His noble blood, from ancient kings derived,
And views with careless and disdainful eye
The humble and the poor, he shrinks in vain
From anxious thoughts, that teach his sickening heart,
That he is like the beings he contemns,
The creature of an hour; that when a few,
Few years have past, that little spot of earth,
That dark and narrow bed, which all must press,
Will level all distinction. Then he bids
The marble structure rise, to guard awhile,
A little while, his fading memory.
Thou lord of thousands! Time is lord of thee:
Thy wealth, thy glory, and thy name, are his.
Art may protract the blow, but cannot bar
His certain course, nor shield his destined prey.
The wind and rain assail thy sumptuous domes:
They sink, and are forgotten. All that is
Must one day cease to be. The chiefs and kings,
That awe the nations with their pomp and power,
Shall slumber with the chiefs and kings of old:
And Time shall leave no monumental stone,
To tell the spot of their eternal rest.

198

THE VIGILS OF FANCY

NO. I

The wind is high, and mortals sleep;
And through the woods, resounding deep,
The wasting winds of Autumn sweep,
While waves remurmur hollowly.

Beside this lake's sequester'd shore,
Where foam-crown'd billows heave and roar,
And pines, that shelter'd bards of yore,
Wave their primeval canopy,

At midnight hour I rove alone,
And think on days for ever flown,
When not a trace of care was known,
To break my soul's serenity.

To me, when day's loud cares are past,
And coldly blows th' autumnal blast,
And yellow leaves around are cast
In melancholy revelry,

While Cynthia rolls through fields of blue,
'Tis sweet these fading groves to view,
With ev'ry rich and varied hue
Of foliage smiling solemnly.

Matur'd by Time's revolving wing,
These fading groves more beauties bring
Than all the budding flow'rs of Spring,
Or Summer's glowing pageantry.

199

All hail! ye breezes wild and drear,
That peal the death song of the year,
And with the waters thund'ring near
Combine in awful harmony!

Methinks, as round your murmurs sail,
I hear a spirit in the gale,
That seems to whisper many a tale
Of dark and ancient mystery.

Ye bards, that in these sacred shades,
These tufted woods, and sloping glades,
Awoke, to charm the sylvan maids,
Your soul-entrancing minstrelsy!

Say, do your spirits yet delight
To rove, beneath the starry night,
Along this water's margin bright,
Or mid the woodland scenery,

And strike, to notes of tender fire,
With viewless hands the shadowy lyre,
Till all the wand'ring winds respire
A more than mortal symphony?

Come, Fancy, come, romantic maid!
No more in rainbow vest array'd,
But robed to suit the sacred shade
Of midnight's deep sublimity.

By thee inspir'd, I seem to hold
High converse with the good and bold,
Who fought and fell, in days of old,
To guard their country's liberty.

200

Roused from Oblivion's mould'ring urn,
The chiefs of ancient times return;
Again the battle seems to burn,
And rings the sounding panoply!

And while the war-storm rages loud,
In yonder darkly rolling cloud
Their forms departed minstrels shroud,
And wake the hymns of victory.

Far hence all earthly thoughts be hurl'd!
Thy regions, Fancy, shine unfurl'd,
Amid the visionary world
I lose the sad reality.

Led by thy magic pow'r sublime,
From shore to shore, from clime to clime,
Uncheck'd by distance or by time,
My steps shall wander rapidly.

Thy pow'r can all the past restore,
Bid present ills afflict no more,
And teach the spirit to explore
The volume of futurity.

MIDNIGHT

Oh, clear are thy waters, thou beautiful stream!
And sweet is the sound of thy flowing;
And bright are thy banks in the silver moon-beam,
While the zephyrs of midnight are blowing.

201

The hawthorn is blooming thy channel along,
And breezes are waving the willow,
And no sound of life but the nightingale's song
Floats over thy murmuring billow.

Oh sweet scene of solitude! dearer to me
Than the city's fantastical splendor!
From the haunts of the crowd I have hasten'd to thee,
Nor sigh for the joys I surrender.

From the noise of the throng, from the mirth of the dance,
What solace can misery borrow?
Can riot the care-wounded bosom entrance,
Or still the pulsations of sorrow?

‘I DUG, BENEATH THE CYPRESS SHADE”

I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.

I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
Around the sepulchre of love.

Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.

202

REMEMBER ME

E tu, chi sa se mai
Ti sovverrai di me?
Metastasio.

And what are Hope's enchanting dreams,
That melt, like morning mists, away?
And what are Fancy's golden beams,
That glow with transitory day?
While adverse stars my steps impel,
To climes remote, my love, from thee,
Will that dear breast with pity swell,
And wilt thou still remember me?

Alas! I hoped, from Britain's shore
My wayward feet would never rove:
I hoped to share my little store,
With thee, my first, my only love!
No more those hopes my breast elate:
No more thy lovely form I see:
But thou wilt mourn thy wanderer's fate,
And thou wilt still remember me.

When twilight-shades the world o'erhung,
Oft hast thou loved with me to stray,
While Philomela sweetly sung
The dirge of the departing day.
But when our cherished meads and bowers
Thy solitary haunts shall be,
Oh! then recall those blissful hours;
Oh! then, my love, remember me!

203

When Spring shall bid the forest live,
And clothe the hills and vales with green;
Or Summer's ripening hand shall give
New beauties to the sylvan scene;
Reflect, that thus my prospects smiled,
Till changed by Fortune's stern decree:
And wintry storms, severe and wild,
Shall bid thee still remember me.

For wintry storms have overcast
And blighted all my hopes of joy:
Vain joys of life, so quickly past!
Vain hopes, that clouds so soon destroy!
Around us cares and dangers grow:
Between us rolls the restless sea:
Yet this one thought shall sooth my woe,
That thou wilt still remember me.

And when, thy natal shades among,
While noon-tide rays their fervors shower,
The poet's sadly-pleasing song
Shall charm thy melancholy hour;
When Zephyr, rustling in the grove,
Sighs feebly through the spreading tree,
Think 'tis the whispering voice of love,
And pity, and remember me!

Remember me, when morning's call
Shall bid thee leave thy lonely bed:
Remember me, when evening-fall
Shall tinge the skies with blushing red:

204

Remember me, when midnight sleep
Shall set excursive Fancy free;
And should'st thou wake, and wake to weep,
Still, in thy tears, remember me.

Farewell, my love! the paths of truth,
The paths of happiness pursue:
But ever mindful of the youth,
Who loved thee with a flame so true.
And though to thy transcendent form
Admiring courts should bow the knee,
Still be thy breast with pity warm,
Still, still, my love, remember me!

ROMANCE

Death! the mourner's surest aid!
Mark my sad devotion:
Hear a lost, forsaken maid,
Mourn with wild emotion!
I my griefs unpitied pour
To the winds that round me roar,
On the billow-beaten shore
Of the lonely ocean.

Where the sea's extremest line
Seems with ether blended,
Still I see the white sails shine
To the breeze extended.

205

False one! still I mark thy sail
Spread to catch the favoring gale,
Soon shall storms thy bark assail,
And thy crimes be ended!

By the mighty tempests tost,
Death-flames round thee burning,
On a bleak and desert coast,
Whence is no returning;—
Thou o'er all thy friends shalt weep,
Buried in th' unpitying deep;
Thou thy watch of woe shalt keep,
Vainly, deeply, mourning.

Unattended shalt thou rove,
O'er the mountain dreary,
Through the haunted, pathless grove,
Through the desert eerie:
Unassuaged thy tears shall flow;
None shall sooth or share thy woe,
When thy blood runs cold and slow,
And thy limbs are weary!

Far from haunts of humankind,
Vengeful Heaven impelling,
Thou thy dying bed shalt find,
Where cold blasts are yelling.
None shall hear thee, none shall save,
In thy monumental cave,
None shall weep, where tempests rave
Round thy narrow dwelling!

206

ADDRESS SPOKEN BY LIEUTENANT LASCELLES,

PREVIOUS TO THE COMEDY OF JOHN BULL, OR AN ENGLISHMAN'S FIRESIDE;

PERFORMED BY THE OFFICERS OF H.M.S. VENERABLE

Good friends! kind spectators! and countrymen brave!
Who guard Britons' rights on the foam-crested wave!
Our endeavors to-night your attention require
To a tale of John Bull and his family fire.
John Bull is a compound of firmness and wildness
Blending courage with feeling, and spirit with mildness;
To those who embrace him he gives a good greeting;
To those who insult him he gives a good beating;
And proves that John Bull, wheresoever he goes,
Has a hand for his friends and a fist for his foes.
Again for our scenes we those ensigns display,
Which triumph'd with Duncan on Camperdown's day:
And should the proud foe, on the wide-rolling main,
Bid the Ven'rable wave them in battle again,
Victorious again o'er the deep she shall ride,
And bring one trophy more to John Bull's fireside.

207

ADDRESS WRITTEN BY MR. PEACOCK AND SPOKEN BY LT. HAVERFIELD

Friends! Countrymen! judges! who, ranged in your stations,
Look with critical eye on our stage decorations—
Attend to a manager's humble petition,
Who your favor demands for this night's exhibition.
We dazzle your eyes with no changes of scenery,
Triumphal processions, or magic machinery;
No thunderstorm rattles, no witch intervenes;
A flag is our curtain, and flags are our scenes.
Those flags long the storm and the battle have braved,
Those flags in the breezes of triumph oft waved,
When the Ven'rable, ever illustrious in story,
On Camperdown's billows bore Duncan to glory!
And now, if your fancy such influence carries,
As to place you with us in the centre of Paris,
Your amusement perhaps this reflection may sweeten,
That you laugh at those fops you so often have beaten.

208

OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF WILD OATS,

FOR THE INTENDED PERFORMANCE OF THAT COMEDY BY THE OFFICERS OF H.M.S. VENERABLE

O'er wintry wastes while blasts ungenial freeze,
And clouds and darkness veil the raging seas,
What magic pow'r can Nature's gloom controul,
And charm the hours that linger as they roll?
Mirth, social Mirth, that sportive trips along,
With cheerful jest and care-consuming song:
Her playful arts the frowns of Fortune chace,
With pleasure deck stern Winter's wrinkled face,
Wake the light laugh, the mutual smile inspire,
And gild with joy John Bull's domestic fire.
At her command again our stage we rear,
To greet the friends we oft have welcomed here;
And now Wild Oats on this fair field we sow,
Where Duncan bade immortal laurels grow.
Kind friends! brave countrymen! who guard in fight
Britannia's glory and her sov'reign's right!
Oh may you still, as o'er the deep you ride,
Conquest your crown, and Liberty your guide,
Mid wars and storms that noblest harvest raise,
Your grateful country's everlasting praise.

209

EPILOGUE

Though grave were our judges, their office, 'tis certain,
Was dissolved and annulled by the fall of the curtain;
Unless your warm plaudits command repetition,
And affix your great seal to their lasting commission.
From the bench of their judgment now humbly descending,
From your higher tribunal their sentence attending,
Oh! if justly they judge, discompose not their gravity!
Let them still reward virtue, and punish depravity:
And let not your keen and impartial discernment
Pronounce on their court sine die adjournment.
From our more modern courts a wise practice to borrow,
Whose word is to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow,
To avoid all the dangers of precipitation,
May we move that this cause have rē-cōnsideration?

Alas! our poor bard fears his chance is precarious,
So numerous his judges, with fancies so various!

When the long-besieged turrets of Ilion were burning,
And the storm-beaten Greeks in confusion returning,
Meneläus, whom fate had long tost like a feather,
Was in Pharos detained by the force of bad weather,

210

Where his comrades, for want of more delicate dishes,
Were forced to subsist on the raw little fishes.
The nymph Halosydne, old Proteus's daughter,
Who heard him lament by the side of the water,
Assured him, his fortunes would never be better,
Unless his bold cunning old Proteus could fetter.
It called forth the whole of his skill and his vigor,
To bind the wild god of the changeable figure:
For he danced, flounced, and bounded, in ceaseless mutation,
And filled Meneläus with strange consternation;
Now a bubble, a doctor, a cabbage, a tailor,
A jackall, a courtier, a lion, a sailor;
Now a lord, all perfume, protestation, and paper;
Now a talkative patriot, that vanished in vapor.
In his own shape at last, he addressed him adagio,
And wished him fair breezes, and buono viaggio.

Now taste is a Proteus, you critics well know it,
And to bind him oft baffles the strength of a poet.
Here smiling, there frowning, here blighting, there blooming,
I see him at once all his figures assuming.
Then well may the prospect of failure dismay us,
For our author feels sure, he is no Meneläus.
Yet since strenuous his aim, in reflection to render
A ray of our ancient theatrical splendor,
On his humble attempt be such fortune attendant,
As to-night o'er this Proteus to gain the ascendant,
That the gales of your favor, with generous commotion,
May waft his glad bark through the critical ocean!

211

THE ART OF THE MODERN DRAMA

Let trick and mirth nonsensically loud
Catch the perched rabble in its greasy cloud,
Whirled o'er the stage while humorous tables fly
And witty punch-bowls strike the canvas sky.
Let canting patriots prove their lungs are good
And oft be heard though seldom understood;
Confound in chaos all terrestrial things,
Pugs, lovers, horses, charioteers and kings:
The bellowing pit shall hail thy rash endeavour,
And stage-box Jacky say: “Gad's curse, that's clever!”

FAREWELL TO MEIRION

Meirion, farewell! thy sylvan shades,
Thy mossy rocks and bright cascades,
Thy tangled glens and dingles wild,
Might well detain the Muses' child.
But can the son of science find,
In thy fair realm, one kindred mind,
One soul sublime, by feeling taught,
To wake the genuine pulse of thought,
One heart by nature formed to prove
True friendship and unvarying love?
No—Bacchus reels through all thy fields,
Her brand fanatic frenzy wields,

212

And ignorance with falsehood dwells,
And folly shakes her jingling bells.
Meirion, farewell—and ne'er again
My steps shall press thy mountain reign,
Nor long on thee my memory rest,
Fair as thou art—unloved, unblessed.
And ne'er may parting stranger's hand
Wave a fond blessing on thy land,
Long as disgusted virtue flies
From folly, drunkenness, and lies;
Long as insulted science shuns
The steps of thy degraded sons;
Long as the northern tempest roars
Round their inhospitable doors.

NECESSITY

Εγω και δια Μουσας. Euripides: Alcestis.

Strophe

My steps have pressed the flowers,
That to the Muses' bowers
The eternal dews of Helicon have given:
And trod the mountain height,
Where Science, young and bright,
Scans with poetic gaze the midnight-heaven;
Yet have I found no power to vie
With thine, severe Necessity!
No counteracting spell sublime,
By Orpheus, breathed in elder time,

213

The tablets of initiate Thrace contain:
No drug imbued with strength divine,
To sons of Æsculapian line,
By pitying Phœbus taught, to soothe the stings of pain.

Antistrophe

Thee, goddess, thee alone
None seek with suppliant moan:
No votive wreaths thine iron altars dress:
Immutably severe,
The song thou dost not hear,
That speaks the plaint of mortal wretchedness.
Oh, may I ne'er more keenly feel
Thy power, that breaks the strength of steel,
With whose dread course concordant still
Jove executes his sovereign will:
Vain were his might, unseconded by thee.
Regret or shame thou canst not know;
Nor pity for terrestrial woe
Can check thy onward course, or change thy stern decree.

Epode

And thou, in patience bear thy doom,
Beneath her heaviest bonds opprest:
Tears cannot burst the marble tomb,
Where e'en the sons of gods must rest.
In life, in death, most loved, most blest,
Was she for whom our fruitless tears are shed;
And round her cold sepulchral bed,

214

Unlike the tombs of the promiscuous dead,
Wreaths of eternal fame shall spread,
By matchless virtue merited.
There oft the traveller from his path shall turn,
To grace with holy rites her funeral urn,
And muse beneath the lonely cypress shade,
That waves, in silent gloom, where her remains are laid.

YOUTH AND AGE

Α νεοτης μοι φιλον: αχθος δε το γηρας, κ. τ. λ. Euripides: Hercules Furens.

To me the hours of youth are dear,
In transient light that flow:
But age is heavy, cold, and drear,
As winter's rocks of snow.
Already on my brows I feel
His grasp of ice and fangs of steel,
Dimming the visual radiance pale,
That soon eternal night shall veil.
Oh! not for all the gold that flings,
Through domes of oriental kings,
Its mingled splendour, falsely bright,
Would I resign youth's lovelier light.
For whether wealth its path illume,
Or toil and poverty depress,
The days of youth are days of bloom,
And health, and hope, and loveliness.
Oh! were the ruthless demon, Age,
Involved by Jove's tempestuous rage,

215

And fast and far to ruin driven,
Beyond the flaming bounds of heaven,
Or whelmed where arctic winter broods
O'er Ocean's frozen solitudes,
So never more to haunt again
The cities and the homes of men.

Yet, were the gods the friends of worth,
Of justice, and of truth,
The virtuous and the wise on earth
Should find a second youth.
Then would true glory shine unfurled,
A light to guide and guard the world,
If, not in vain with time at strife,
The good twice ran the race of life,
While vice, to one brief course confined,
Should wake no more to curse mankind.
Experience then might rightly trace
The lines that part the good and base,
As sailors read the stars of night,
Where shoreless billows murmuring roll,
And guide by their unerring light
The vessel to its distant goal.
But, since no signs from Jove declare
That earthly virtue claims his care;
Since folly, vice, and falsehood prove
As many marks of heavenly love;
The life of man in darkness flies;
The thirst of truth and wisdom dies;
And love and beauty bow the knee
To gold's supreme divinity.

216

PHÆDRA AND NURSE.

Ω κακα θνητων στυγεραι τε νοσοι. Euripides: Hippolytus.

Nurse
Oh ills of life! relentless train
Of sickness, tears, and wasting pain!
Where shall I turn? what succour claim
To warm with health thy failing frame?
Thy couch, by which so long we mourn,
Forth from the palace doors is borne:
Turn on these scenes thy languid sight,
That breathe of life, and smile in light.
But now thy every wish was given
To draw the ethereal breeze of heaven:
Soon will thy fancy's wandering train
Recall the chamber's gloom again.
Charmless all present objects seem:
The absent fill thy feverish dream:
Thy half-formed thoughts new thoughts destroy,
Nor leave one transient pause of joy.
Yet better feel the sharpest pains,
That rend the nerves and scorch the veins,
Than the long watch of misery prove
By the sick couch of those we love.
In the worst pangs to sickness known
Corporeal sufferance reigns alone;
The double pangs our vigils share
Of manual toil and mental care.

217

The days of man in misery flow:
No rest from toils and tears we know:
The happier slumbers of the tomb
Are wrapped in clouds, and veiled in gloom.
And hence our abject spirits shrink
From pressing that oblivious brink,
Still fondly lingering to survey
The radiance of terrestrial day,
Through fear that fate's unpitying breath
May burst the deep repose of death,
And ignorance of those paths of dread
Which no returning step may tread.
We trace the mystic legends old
That many a dreaming bard has told,
And hear, half-doubting, half-deceived,
The songs our simpler sires believed.

Phædra
Give me your hands. My strength has fled.
Uplift my frame. Support my head.
Unclasp the bands that bind my hair,
A weight I have not power to bear,
And let my loosened tresses flow
Freely on all the winds that blow.

Nurse
My child, let hope thy bosom warm:
Convulse not thus thy sickly form:
Thy mind let tranquil virtue steel
To bear the ills that all must feel,
Since human wisdom shuns in vain
The sad necessity of pain.

218

Phædra
Oh place me in some flowery glade,
Beneath the poplar's murmuring shade,
Where many a dewy fountain flings
The treasures of its crystal springs:
There let me draw, in transient rest,
A draught to cool my burning breast.

Nurse
Alas! what words are these, my child?
Oh breathe not strains so sadly wild,
That seem with phrensy's tints imbued,
Before the listening multitude.

Phædra
Oh! bear me to those heights divine,
Where wild winds bend the mountain-pine,
Where to the dog's melodious cry
The rocks and caverned glens reply.
By heaven, I long to grasp the spear,
Hang on the track of flying deer,
Shout to the dogs, as fast we sweep
Tumultuous down the sylvan steep,
And hurl along the tainted air
The javelin from my streaming hair.

Nurse
Alas! what may these visions be?
What are the dogs and woods to thee?
Why is it thus thy fancy roves
To lonely springs and cypress groves,

219

When here the hanging rock distills
Its everlasting crystal rills?

Phædra
Goddess of Limna's sandy bounds,
Where many a courser's hoof resounds!
Would I were on thy field of fame,
Conspicuous in the equestrian game.

Nurse
Still from thy lips such strains depart,
As thrill with pain my aged heart.
Now on the mountain-heights afar
You long to urge the sylvan war;
Now on the billow-bordering sand
To guide the rein with desperate hand.
What gifted mind's mysterious skill
Shall say whence springs thy secret ill?
For sure some god's malignant sway
Turns thee from reason's paths away.

Phædra
Where has my darkened fancy strayed?
What has my rash delirium said?
How lost, alas! how fallen am I
Beneath some adverse deity!
Nurse, veil my head. The dream is past.
My mournful eyes on earth I cast:
The thoughts I breathed my memory rend,
And tears of grief and shame descend.

220

Sad is the change when reason's light
Bursts on the waste of mental night.
Severe the pangs of phrensy's hour:
But, when we feel its scorpion power,
Oh might the illusion never fly!
For 'twere some blessing so to die,
Ere yet returning sense could shew
The dire reality of woe.

Nurse
I veil thee.. When shall death so spread
His veil around my weary head?
Truths, oft by sages sought in vain,
Long life and sad experience gain.
Let not the children of mankind
Affection's bonds too closely bind,
But let the heart unshackled prove
The links of dissoluble love.
Loose be those links, and lightly held;
With ease compressed, with ease repelled;
More tender ties the health destroy,
And bring long grief for transient joy.
Ill may one feeble spirit bear,
When double feelings claim its care,
The pangs that in the heart concur,
Such pangs, as now I feel for her.
For love, like riches, in excess,
Has more the power to curse than bless:
And wisdom turns from passion's strife,
To seek the golden mean of life.

221

CHORAL ODE TO LOVE.

Ερως Ερως ο κατ' ομματων. Euripides: Hippolytus.

Strophe I

Oh Love! oh Love! whose shafts of fire
Invade the soul with sweet surprise,
Through the soft dews of young desire
Trembling in beauty's azure eyes!
Condemn not me the pangs to share
Thy too impassioned votaries bear,
That on the mind their stamp impress
Indelible and measureless.
For not the sun's descending dart,
Nor yet the lightning-brand of Jove,
Fall like the shaft that strikes the heart,
Thrown by the mightier hand of love.

Antistrophe I

Oh! vainly, where, by Letrian plains,
Tow'rd Dian's dome Alphëus bends,
And from Apollo's Pythian fanes,
The steam of hecatombs ascends:
While not to love our altars blaze:
To love, whose tyrant power arrays
Against mankind each form of woe
That hopeless anguish bleeds to know:
To love, who keeps the golden key,
That, when more favored lips implore,

222

Unlocks the sacred mystery
Of youthful beauty's bridal door.

Strophe II

Alas! round love's despotic power
Their brands what forms of terror wave!
The Œchalian maid, in evil hour,
Venus to great Alcides gave.
As yet in passion's lore unread,
Unconscious of connubial ties,
She saw around her bridal bed
Her native city's flames arise.
Ah hapless maid! mid kindred gore
Whose nuptial torch the Furies bore:
To him consigned, an ill-starred bride,
By whom her sire and brethren died.

Antistrophe II

Oh towers of Thebes! oh sacred flow
Of mystic Dirce's fountain-tides!
Say, in what shapes of fear and woe
Love through his victim's bosom glides!
She, who to heaven's imperial sire
The care-dispelling Bacchus bore,
Mid thunder and celestial fire
Embraced, and slept to wake no more.
Too powerful love, inspiring still
The dangerous wish, the frantic will,
Bears, like the bee's mellifluous wing,
A transient sweet, a lasting sting.

223

CONNUBIAL EQUALITY

Η σοφος, η σοφος ην. Æschylus: Prometheus.

Oh! wise was he, the first who taught
This lesson of observant thought,
That equal fates alone may dress
The bowers of nuptial happiness;
That never, where ancestral pride
Inflames, or affluence rolls its tide,
Should love's ill-omened bonds entwine
The offspring of an humbler line.

224

CHORAL ODE ON THE EVILS OF LIFE

Οστις του πλεονος μερους. Sophocles: Œdipus at Colonos.

Alas! that thirst of wealth and power
Should pass the bounds by wisdom laid,
And shun Contentment's mountain-bower,
To chase a false and fleeting shade!

225

The torrid orb of summer shrouds
Its head in darker, stormier clouds,
Than quenched its vernal glow:
And streams, that meet the expanding sea,
Resign the peace and purity,
That marked their infant flow.

Go, seek what joys, serene and deep,
The paths of wealth and power supply!
The eyes no balmy slumbers steep,
The lips own no satiety,
Till, where unpitying Pluto dwells,
And where the turbid Styx impels
Its circling waves along,
The pale ghost treads the flowerless shore,
And hears the unblest sisters pour
Their loveless, lyreless song.

Man's happiest lot is not to be:
And, when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.
From wisdom far, and peace, and truth,
Imprudence leads the steps of youth,
Where ceaseless evils spring:
Toil, frantic passion, deadly strife,
Revenge, and murder's secret knife,
And envy's scorpion sting.

Age comes—unloved, unsocial age,—
Exposed to fate's severest shock,

226

As to the ocean-tempest's rage
The bleak and billow-beaten rock.
There ills on ills commingling press:
Morose, unjoying helplessness,
And pain, and slow disease:
As, when the storm of winter raves,
The wild winds rush from all their caves
To swell the northern seas.

228

“OH BLEST ARE THEY, AND THEY ALONE”

Oh blest are they, and they alone,
To fame to wealth to power unknown;
Whose lives in one perpetual tenor glide,
Nor feel one influence of malignant fate:

229

For when the gods on mortals frown
They pour no single vengeance down,
But scatter ruin vast and wide
On all the race they hate.
Then ill on ill succeeding still,
With unrelaxing fury pours,
As wave on wave the breakers rave
Tumultuous on the wreck-strown shores,
When northern tempests sweep
The wild and wintry deep,
Uprending from its depths the sable sand,
Which blackening eddies whirl,
And crested surges hurl
Against the rocky bulwarks of the land,
While to the tumult, deepening round,
The repercussive caves resound.

LAW OF NECESSITY

In solitary pride,
By Dirce's murmuring side,
The giant oak has stretched its ample shade,
And waved its tresses of imperial might;
Now low in dust its blackened boughs are laid,
Its dark root withers in the depth of night.
Nor hoarded gold, nor pomp of martial power
Can check necessity's supreme control,
That cleaves unerringly the rock-built tower,
And whelms the flying bark where shoreless oceans roll.

230

AL MIO PRIMIERO AMORE

To many a shrine my steps have strayed,
Ne'er from their earliest fetters free:
And I have sighed to many a maid,
Though I have never loved but thee.

Youth's visioned scenes, too bright to last,
Have vanished to return no more:
Yet memory loves to trace the past,
Which only memory can restore.

The confidence, no heart has felt
But when with first illusions warm,
The hope, on one alone that dwelt,
The thought, that knew no second form,—

All these were ours: and can it be
That their return may charm us yet?
Can aught remain to thee and me,
Beyond remembrance and regret?

For now thy sweetest smiles appear
Like shades of joys for ever flown,
As music in an exile's ear
Recalls the strains his home has known.

No more can bloom the faded flower:
No more the extinguished fire can burn:
Nor hope nor fancy's mightiest power
Can burst young love's sepulchral urn.

231

LINES TO A FAVOURITE LAUREL

IN THE GARDEN AT ANKERWYKE COTTAGE

How changed this lonely scene! the rank weed chokes
The garden flowers: the thistle's towering growth
Waves o'er the untrodden paths: the rose that breathed
Diffusive fragrance from its christening bed,
Scarce by a single bud denotes the spot
Where glowed its countless bloom: the woodbine droops
And trails along the ground, and wreathes no more
Around the light verandah's pillared shade
The tendrils of its sweetness: the green shrubs,
That made even winter gay, have felt themselves
The power of change, and mournful is the sound
Of evening's twilight gale, that shrilly sweeps
Their brown and sapless leaves.

But thou remain'st
Unaltered save in beauty: thou alone,
Amid neglect and desolation, spread'st
The rich luxuriance of thy foliage still,
More rich and more luxuriant now, than when,
Mid all the gay parterre, I called thee first
My favourite laurel: and 'tis something yet,
Even in this world where Ahrimanes reigns
To think that thou, my favourite, hast been left

232

Unharmed amid the inclemency of time,
While all around thee withered.

Lovely tree!
There is a solemn aspect in thy shade,
A mystic whisper in the evening gale,
That murmurs through thy boughs; it breathes of peace,
Of rest, to one, who, having trodden long
The thorny paths of this malignant world,
Full fain would make the moss that tufts thy root
The pillow of his slumber.

Many a bard,
Beneath some favourite tree, oak, beech, or pine,
Has by the pensive music of the breeze,
Been soothed to transient rest: but thou canst shed
A mightier spell: the murmur of thy leaves
Is full of meaning; and their influence,
Accessible to resolution, yields
No evanescent balm, but pours at once
Through all the sufferer's frame, the sweetest sleep
The weary pilgrim of the earth can know:
The long, oblivious, everlasting sleep
Of that last night on which no morn shall rise.

233

PROLOGUE TO MR. TOBIN'S COMEDY OF THE GUARDIANS, PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, NOVEMBER, 1816

Spoken by Mr. ---

Beyond the hopes and fears of earlier days,
The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
Is he, the bard, on whose untimely tomb,
Your favour bade the Thespian laurel bloom;
Though late the meed that crowned his minstrel strain,
It has not died, and was not given in vain.
If now our hopes one more memorial rear,
To blend with those that live unwithering here;
If on that tomb where genius sleeps in night,
One flower expands to bloom in lingering light,
Flower of a stem which no returning spring
Shall clothe anew with buds and blossoming;
Oh! yet again the votive wreath allow
To grace his name which cannot bind his brow;
And, while our tale the scenic maze pursues,
Still prove kind Guardians to his orphan muse.

234

EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE GUARDIANS

Spoken by Mr. Harley in the character of Hint

At home, abroad, in gossip, or in print,
Who has not felt the magic power of Hint?
Say, lovely maid, what earthly power can move
That gentle bosom like a hint of love?
Say, thou spruce beau, oppressed with loads of raiment,
What half so shocking as a hint for payment?
A hint of need, drawn forth with sad concessions,
Stops the full flow of friendship's loud professions:
A hint of Hyde Park Ring from testy humours,
Stops Hint itself, when most agog for rumours.

Where'er I go, beaux, belles of all degrees,
Come buzzing round me like a swarm of bees:
My crafty hook of sly insinuation
I bait with hints, and fish for information.
“What news, dear Hint? it does us good to see
Your pleasant face: we're dying with ennui.”
“Me! bless you! I know nothing.” “You're so sly;
You've something in your head:” “Indeed not I.
'Tis true, at Lady Rook's, just now I heard
A whisper pass. . . . I don't believe a word
A certain lady is not over blameless,
Touching a certain lord that shall be nameless.”
“Who? who? pray tell.” “Excuse me.” “Nay, you shall.”

235

(In different voices)
“You mean my Lady Plume and Lord Fal-lal,”
“Lord Smirk and Mrs. Sparkle,” “Lady Simple,
And young Lord Froth,” “Lord Whip and Mrs. Dimple.” (In an Irish accent)

“D'ye mean my wife, sir? give me leave to mention
There's no ill meaning in Lord Sly's attention:
Sir, there's my card: command me: I'll attend,
And talk the matter over with a friend.”
“Dear Major! no such thing: you're right in scorning
Such idle tales: I wish you a good-morning.”
Away I speed: from lounge to lounge I run,
With five tales loaded where I fished for one;
And, entre nous, take care the town shall know,
The Major's wife is not quite comme il faut.

But Hyde Park Ring my cunning shuns in vain,
If by your frowns I die in Drury Lane.
If die I must, think not I'll tamely fall:
Pit, boxes, gallery, thus I challenge all.
Ye critics near me, and ye gods afar!
Fair maid, spruce beau, plump cit, and jovial tar!
Come one and all, roused by my valorous greeting,
To-morrow night to give bold Hint the meeting:
Bring all your friends—a host—I'll fit them nicely,
Place—Drury Lane—time, half-past-six precisely.

236

“FROM TEN TO ELEVEN”

From ten to eleven, ate a breakfast for seven:
From eleven to noon, to begin 'twas too soon;
From twelve to one, asked, “What's to be done?”
From one to two, found nothing to do;
From two to three began to foresee
That from three to four would be a damned bore.

A BILL FOR THE BETTER PROMOTION OF OPPRESSION ON THE SABBATH DAY

Forasmuch as the Canter's and Fanatic's Lord
Sayeth peace and joy are by me abhorred;
And would fill each Sunday with gloom and pain
For all too poor his regard to obtain;
And forasmuch as the laws heretofore
Have not sufficiently squeezed the poor;
Be it therefore enacted by Commons, King
And Lords, a crime for any thing
To be done on the Sabbath by any rank
Excepting the rich. No beer may be drank,
Food eaten, rest taken, away from home,
And each House shall a Sunday prison become;
And spies and jailers must carefully see,
Under severest penalty,

237

None stirs but to conventicle,
Thrice a day at toll of bell.
And each sickly cit who dare engage
His place by steamer, fly or stage,
With owner thereof shall by this said bill,
Be punished with fine, imprisonment or treadmill.
But nothing herein is designed to discourage
Priest, noble or squire from the use of his carriage.
No ship shall move however it blow,
The Devil a bit shall said ship go
Whether the winds will let it or no;
And, as winds and weather we cannot imprison,
Owners, Captain and sailors we therefore shall seize on,
And whereas oxen, lambs and sheep
About the roads and lanes will creep,
And cocks and hens and ducks and geese
Will not on Sunday hold their peace,
Be it enacted that foresaid beasts,
If not belonging to gentry or priests,
Be caught and whipped and pounded on Sunday,
And sold to pay expences on Monday.
The drunkard, who paid five shillings before,
Shall now pay twenty shillings more,
And mine host, if on Sabbath he dare unloose
A bolt, shall be fined and his license lose.
All oranges, cakes & lollypop
Shall be seized; & every open shop
Shall be fined a pound an hour till it stop.
Till nine the milkman may ply his trade,
For pious breakfasts must be made

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At the risk of his soul. And the Bakers at last,
When the poor man's dinner is clearly past,
Must set to work, the godly scorning
Stale rolls and bread on a Monday morning.
That Justices may have less to do,
'Tis enacted they may convict on view,
And shall, if they think the course more drastic,
Transfer to Courts Ecclesiastic.
All informers shall pass scot free,
However false their averments may be;
And witnesses who have no mind
To convict shall be imprisoned and fined.
And whereas from this act's operation
Are exempted the following ranks in this nation:
The rich man's servants; they cannot be spared
(In spite of the Scripture) from working hard;
Milkmen in the morning; at evening the bakers,
With Constables, Doctors, thieves, parsons, toll-takers;
And parties for music, gambling or dinners
Are hereby exempt, when the rich are the sinners;
For no party whatever has aught to fear
From said act who has more than £500 a year.

239

MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK

Long night succeeds thy little day;
Oh blighted blossom! can it be,
That this grey stone, and grassy clay,
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee?

The half-form'd speech of artless thought,
That spoke a mind beyond thy years;
The song, the dance, by nature taught;
The sunny smiles, the transient tears;

The symmetry of face and form,
The eye with light and life replete;
The little heart so fondly warm,
The voice so musically sweet;

These, lost to hope, in memory yet
Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling,
Shadowing, with long and vain regret,
The too fair promise of thy spring.

241

TRANSLATION OF AN INSCRIPTION PLACED UNDER THE FIRST STONE OF THE LONDON-UNIVERSITY

By the favor of God, the great builder of earth,
(Which favor we hope may be found of some worth,)
This stone, in the ground with due mystery laid,
By a Prince of the Masons' original trade,
A Prince whom the provident bounty of God
Expressly cut out for a Knight of the hod,
Midst citizens, noisy with hand and with voice,
Who, we clearly foresee, will be there to rejoice,
Begins, at length, somehow, at some time or other,
A good job for this town, and each lecturing brother,
And makes record more lasting than pencil or pen
Of us twenty five most illustrious men,
Including our builder, who stands in his place
As just one of us, in the Nominative Case.

242

“OH NOSE OF WAX! TRUE SYMBOL OF THE MIND”

Oh nose of wax! true symbol of the mind
Which fate and fortune mould in all mankind
(Even as the hand moulds thee) to foul or fair:—
Thee good John Bull for his device shall bear,
While Sawney Scot the ductile mass shall mould,
Bestowing paper and receiving gold.
Thy image, shrined in studious state severe,
Shall grace the pile which Brougham and Campbell rear:
Thy name to those scholastic bowers shall pass,
And rival Oxford's ancient nose of brass.

TOUCHANDGO

Hoho! hoho! pray who can show
Whither has fled great Touchandgo?
He's gone off in a chaise and pair,
And not a man on earth knows where.

In his own chariot off he ran,
And there was not a turnpike man,
'Twixt London and the Western Channel,
Could see his arms upon the pannel.

Some say he took the road to Bristol,
Equipped with sixpence and a pistol;

243

Some say with gold he's well apparelled,
And blunderbusses double-barrelled:

Others affirm, he strove to pop
His brains out in my uncle's shop,
And, missing fire, set off to Milford,
With lots of sovereigns which he pilfered:

Some say he beat about all Sunday,
I' th' wind's eye, off the Isle of Lundy,
Showered on the Pilots gold, like manna,
And then was shipped off for Savannah.

Others aver he still doth dwell
Deep in a fishing-vessel's well,
And there, chin-deep, in Milford Haven,
Takes cold, and croaks like any raven;

They add, his Assignees' Attorney
Has waited on Sir Richard Birnie,
With a request that Mr. Bishop
Him, from said fishing-smack, may fish up.

Some say a fleet has just weighed anchor,
To chace the flying Clerk and Banker,
With picked men, guns and carronades,
To take, or sink, or burn the blades.

Well done! Britannia rules the waves!
A fleet to catch one brace of knaves!
Thus paper-coinage sets in motion
All England and the Atlantic Ocean.

244

Now, hark! away, ye Bow-street runners;
Whistle, ye boatswains—swear, ye gunners;
Spread all your canvas, seamen loyal,
Gib, studd'n sail, and top-gallant-royal.

Jack Tar has found a worthy foe
To chace in mighty Touchandgo—
Who'll back the “Victory” 'gainst the “Funny?”
Huzza! St. George and Paper-money!

A SPEECH IN EMBRYO

My Lords, as I'm a man veracious,
I had a word or two to say
Which were exceedingly sagacious;
But, I protest, they've flown away.

'Tis sure the greatest of all hardships,
And proves some spell is round me spread,
That barely looking at your Lordships
Drives all ideas from my head.

My ‘winged words,’ in regions airy,
Just now are hovering out of reach;
I'll catch my stray vocabulary,
And then, my Lords, I'll make a speech.

245

“WHEN JOHN OF ZISCA WENT TO KINGDOM COME”

When John of Zisca went to Kingdom come
He left his skin to make his Church a drum,
To sound a rub-a-dub for Reformation,
To beat a general muster to Salvation.

So Winchelsea, who soon will be no more,
Between two fires, Guy Fawkes and Scarlet Whore,
To Bigots of all ages and Conditions
Shall leave his noble Sheep-skin for Petitions.

THE LEGEND OF MANOR HALL

Old Farmer Wall, of Manor Hall,
To market drove his wain:
Along the road it went well stowed
With sacks of golden grain.

His station he took, but in vain did he look
For a customer all the morn;
Though the farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off all their corn.

Then home he went, sore discontent,
And many an oath he swore,
And he kicked up rows with his children and spouse,
When they met him at the door.

Next market-day, he drove away
To the town his loaded wain:

246

The farmers all, save Farmer Wall,
They sold off their grain.

No bidder he found, and he stood astound
At the close of the market-day,
When the market was done, and the chapmen were gone
Each man his several way.

He stalked by his load along the road;
His face with wrath was red:
His arms he tossed, like a goodman crossed
In seeking his daily bread.

His face was red, and fierce was his tread,
And with lusty voice cried he:
“My corn I'll sell to the devil of hell,
If he'll my chapman be.”

These words he spoke just under an oak
Seven hundred winters old;
And he straight was aware of a man sitting there
On the roots and grassy mould.

The roots rose high o'er the green-sward dry,
And the grass around was green,
Save just the space of the stranger's place,
Where it seemed as fire had been.

All scorched was the spot, as gipsy-pot
Had swung and bubbled there:
The grass was marred, the roots were charred,
And the ivy stems were bare.

247

The stranger up-sprung: to the farmer he flung
A loud and friendly hail,
And he said, “I see well, thou hast corn to sell,
And I'll buy it on the nail.”

The twain in a trice agreed on the price;
The stranger his earnest paid,
And with horses and wain to come for the grain
His own appointment made.

The farmer cracked his whip, and tracked
His way right merrily on:
He struck up a song, as he trudged along,
For joy that his job was done.

His children fair he danced in the air;
His heart with joy was big;
He kissed his wife; he seized a knife,
He slew a sucking pig.

The faggots burned, the porkling turned
And crackled before the fire;
And an odour arose, that was sweet in the nose
Of a passing ghostly friar.

He tirled at the pin, he entered in,
He sate down at the board;
The pig he blessed, when he saw it well dressed,
And the humming ale out-poured.

The friar laughed, the friar quaffed,
He chirped like a bird in May;
The farmer told how his corn he had sold
As he journeyed home that day.

248

The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed,
He changed from red to pale:
“Oh, hapless elf! 'tis the fiend himself
To whom thou hast made thy sale!”

The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught;
He crossed himself amain:
“Oh, slave of pelf! 'tis the devil himself
To whom thou hast sold thy grain!

And sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away,
With the corn which thou hast sold,
If thou let him pay o'er one tester more
Than thy settled price in gold.”

The farmer gave vent to a loud lament,
The wife to a long outcry;
Their relish for pig and ale was flown;
The friar alone picked every bone,
And drained the flagon dry.

The friar was gone: the morning dawn
Appeared, and the stranger's wain
Came to the hour, with six-horse power,
To fetch the purchased grain.

The horses were black: on their dewy track
Light steam from the ground up-curled;
Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke,
And their tails like torches whirled.

More dark and grim, in face and limb,
Seemed the stranger than before,

249

As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain,
Drew up to the farmer's door.

On the stranger's face was a sly grimace,
As he seized the sacks of grain;
And, one by one, till left were none,
He tossed them on the wain.

And slily he leered, as his hand up-reared
A purse of costly mould,
Where, bright and fresh, through a silver mesh,
Shone forth the glistering gold.

The farmer held out his right hand stout,
And drew it back with dread;
For in fancy he heard each warning word
The supping friar had said.

His eye was set on the silver net;
His thoughts were in fearful strife;
When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait
Was snatched by his loving wife.

And, swift as thought, the stranger caught
The farmer his waist around,
And at once the twain and the loaded wain
Sank through the rifted ground.

The gable-end wall of Manor Hall
Fell in ruins on the place:
That stone-heap old the tale has told
To each succeeding race.

250

The wife gave a cry that rent the sky
At her goodman's downward flight:
But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast
To see that all was right.

'Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman grey,
And the gold was good and true;
Which made her declare, that “his dealings were fair,
To give the devil his due.”

She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall,
From her fond embraces riven:
But she won the vows of a younger spouse
With the gold which the fiend had given.

Now, farmers, beware what oaths you swear
When you cannot sell your corn;
Lest, to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh,
With hidden tail and horn.

And, with good heed, the moral a-read,
Which is of this tale the pith,
If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell,
You may sell yourself therewith.

And if by mishap you fall in the trap,—
Would you bring the fiend to shame,
Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes,
Lock up your frugal dame.

251

THE NEW YEAR

LINES ON GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S ILLUSTRATION OF JANUARY, IN THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1838

A great philosopher art thou, George Cruikshank,
In thy unmatched grotesqueness! Antic dance,
Wine, mirth, and music, welcome thy New Year,
Who makes her entry as a radiant child,
With smiling face, in holiday apparel,
Bearing a cornucopiæ, crowned and clustered
With all the elements of festal joy:
All smiles and promises. But looking closely
Upon that smiling face, 'tis but a mask;
Fitted so well, it almost seems a face;
But still a mask. What features lurk beneath,
The rolling months will show. Thy Old Year passes,—
Danced out in mockery by the festive band,—
A faded form, with thin and pallid face,
In spectral weeds; her mask upon the ground,
Her Amalthæa's horn reversed, and emptied
Of all good things,—not even hope remaining.
Such will the New Year be: that smiling mask
Will fall; to some how soon: to many later:
At last to all! The same transparent shade
Of wasted means and broken promises
Will make its exit: and another Year
Will enter masked and smiling, and be welcomed
With minstrelsy and revelry, as this is.

252

NEWARK ABBEY

AUGUST, 1842 WITH A REMINISCENCE OF AUGUST, 1807

I gaze, where August's sunbeam falls
Along these gray and lonely walls,
Till in its light absorbed appears
The lapse of five-and-thirty years.

If change there be, I trace it not
In all this consecrated spot:
No new imprint of Ruin's march
On roofless wall and frameless arch:
The hills, the woods, the fields, the stream,
Are basking in the self-same beam:
The fall, that turns the unseen mill,
As then it murmured, murmurs still:
It seems, as if in one were cast
The present and the imaged past,
Spanning, as with a bridge sublime,
That awful lapse of human time,
That gulph, unfathomably spread
Between the living and the dead.

For all too well my spirit feels
The only change this scene reveals:
The sunbeams play, the breezes stir,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard by her,
Who, on that long-past August day,
First saw with me these ruins gray.

253

Whatever span the Fates allow,
Ere I shall be as she is now,
Still in my bosom's inmost cell
Shall that deep-treasured memory dwell:
That, more than language can express,
Pure miracle of loveliness,
Whose voice so sweet, whose eyes so bright,
Were my soul's music, and its light,
In those blest days, when life was new,
And hope was false, but love was true.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF JULIA

LORD BROUGHTON'S ELDEST DAUGHTER, 1849

Accept, bright spirit, reft in life's best bloom,
This votive wreath to thy untimely tomb.
Formed to adorn all scenes, and charm in all,
The fire-side circle, and the courtly hall;
Thy friends to gladden, and thy home to bless;—
Fair form thou hadst, and grace, and graciousness;
A mind that sought, a tongue that spoke, the truth,
And thought mature beneath the smiles of youth.
Dear, dear young friend! ingenuous, cordial heart!
And can it be, that thou shouldst first depart?
That age should sorrow o'er thy youthful shrine?
It owns more near, more sacred griefs than mine;
Yet, midst the many who thy loss deplore,
Few loved thee better, and few mourn thee more.

254

A GOODLYE BALLADE OF LITTLE JOHN

SHEWINGE HOW HE RAYSED A DYVELL, AND HOW HE COULDE NOTTE LAYE HYMME

Fytte the First

Little John he sat in a lordly hall,
Mid spoils of the Church of old:
And he saw a shadowing on the wall,
That made his blood run cold.

He saw the dawn of a coming day,
Dim-glimmering through the gloom:
He saw the coronet pass away
From the ancient halls where it then held sway,
And the mitre its place resume.

He saw, the while, through the holy pile
The incense vapour spread;
He saw the poor, at the Abbey door,
Receiving their daily bread.

He saw on the wall the shadows cast
Of sacred sisters three:
He blessed them not, as they flitted past:
But above them all he hated the last,
For that was Charitie.

Now down from its shelf a book he bore,
And characters he drew,
And a spell he muttered o'er and o'er,

255

Till before him cleft was the marble floor,
And a murky fiend came through.

“Now take thee a torch in thy red right hand,”
Little John to the fiend he saith:
“And let it serve as a signal brand,
To raise the rabble, throughout the land,
Against the Catholic Faith.”

Straight through the porch, with brandished torch,
The fiend went joyously out:
And a posse of parsons, established by law,
Sprang up, when the lurid flame they saw,
To head the rabble rout.

And braw Scots Presbyters nimbly sped
In the train of the muckle black de'il;
And, as the wild infection spread,
The Protestant Hydra's every head
Sent forth a yell of zeal.

And pell-mell went all forms of dissent,
Each beating its scriptural drum;
Wesleyans and Whitfieldites followed as friends,
And whatever in 'onian and 'arian ends,
Et omne quod exit in hum.

And in bonfires burned ten thousand Guys,
With caricatures of the pious and wise,
Mid shouts of goblin glee,
And such a clamour rent the skies,
That all buried lunatics seemed to rise,
And hold a Jubilee.

256

Fytte the Second

The devil gave the rabble scope
And they left him not in the lurch:
But they went beyond the summoner's hope;
For they quickly got tired of bawling “No Pope!”
And bellowed, “No State Church!”

“Ho!” quoth Little John, “this must not be:
The devil leads all amiss:
He works for himself, and not for me:
And straightway back I'll bid him flee
To the bottomless abyss.”

Again he took down his book from the wall,
And pondered words of might:
He muttered a speech, and he scribbled a scrawl:
But the only answer to his call
Was a glimpse, at the uttermost end of the hall,
Of the devil taking a sight.

And louder and louder grew the clang
As the rabble raged without:
The door was beaten with many a bang;
And the vaulted roof re-echoing rang
To the tumult and the shout.

The fiendish shade, on the wall portrayed,
Threw somersaults fast and free,
And flourished his tail like a brandished flail,
As busy as if it were blowing a gale,
And his task were on the sea.

257

And up he toss't his huge pitchfork,
As visioned shrines uprose;
And right and left he went to work,
Till full over Durham, and Oxford, and York,
He stood with a menacing pose.

The rabble roar was hushed awhile,
As the hurricane rests in its sweep;
And all throughout the ample pile
Reigned silence dread and deep.

Then a thrilling voice cried: “Little John,
A little spell will do,
When there is mischief to be done,
To raise me up and set me on;
For I, of my own free will, am won
To carry such spiritings through.

“But when I am riding the tempest's wing,
And towers and spires have blazed,
'Tis no small conjuror's art to sing,
Or say, a spell to check the swing
Of the demons he has raised.”

IN REMEMBRANCE OF FORTY-FOUR YEARS AGO

The convolvulus twines round the stems of its bower,
And spreads its young blossoms to morning's first ray:
But the noon has scarce past, when it folds up its flower,
Which opens no more to the splendour of day.
So twine round the heart, in the light of life's morning,
Love's coils of green promise and bright purple bloom:
The noontide goes by, and the colours, adorning
Its unfulfilled dreamings, are wrapt up in gloom.
But press the fresh flower, while its charms are yet glowing,
Its colour and form through long years will remain:
And treasured in memory, thus love is still showing
The outlines of hope, which else blossomed in vain.

261

“THE BRIEFEST PART OF LIFE'S UNCERTAIN DAY”

The briefest part of life's uncertain day,
Youth's lovely blossom, hastes to swift decay:
While love, wine, song, enhance our gayest mood,
Old Age creeps on, nor thought, nor understood.

LETTER TO LORD BROUGHTON

Old friend, whose rhymes so kindly mix
Thoughts grave and gay with seventy-six,
I hope it may to you be given
To do the same at seventy-seven;
Whence your still living friends may date
A new good wish for seventy-eight;
And thence again extend the line,
Until it passes seventy-nine;
And yet again, and yet again,
While health and cheerfulness remain.
Long be they yours, for, blest with these,
Life's latest years have power to please,
And round them spread the genial glow
Which sunset casts on Alpine snow.

262

“INSTEAD OF SITTING WRAPPED UP IN FLANNEL”

Instead of sitting wrapped up in flannel
With rheumatism in every joint,
I wish I was in the English Channel,
Just going round the Lizard Point,
All southward bound, with the seas before me,
I should not care whether smooth or rough,
For then no visitors would call to bore me,
Of whose “good-mornings” I have had enough.

CASTLES IN THE AIR

My thoughts by night are often filled
With visions false as fair:
For in the past alone I build
My castles in the air.

I dwell not now on what may be:
Night shadows o'er the scene:
But still my fancy wanders free
Through that which might have been.