The poems of George Huddesford ... now first collected. Including Salmagundi, Topsy-Turvy, Bubble and Squeak, and Crambe Repetita. With corrections, and original additions |
I. | VOL. I. |
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II. |
III. |
IV. |
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II. |
The poems of George Huddesford | ||
I. VOL. I.
SALMAGUNDI.
To RICHARD WYATT, Esq. ON LEAVING HIS MANSION AFTER ASCOT RACES.
Insania.
Hor. lib. iii. Carm. 4.
O'ershadowing clouds the skies invest;
Fast-falling showers deform the glade,
No cheering ray dispels the shade,
No lark's clear carol wakes the morn
That, lowering, bids my steps forlorn
Fly the lov'd roof where Friendship reigns,
Where liberal Mirth that care beguiles,
And calm Contentment's heav'nly smiles
Their heart-enlivening influence shed;
Where Time throws off his wings of lead,
And clad in purple plumage light,
Speeds swifter than the winds his flight.
Thence as my devious course I steer,
Fancy in fairy visions clear
Bids, to beguile my 'tranced eyes,
Past joys in sweet succession rise:
Refreshing Zephyr's balmy breath
Bids me inhale where Ascot Heath,
Impregnated with mild perfume,
Bares its broad bosom's purple bloom:
Gives to my view the splendid crowd,
The high-born racer neighing loud,
The manag'd steeds that, side by side,
Precede the glittering chariot's pride,
Within whose silken coverture
Some peerless Beauty sits secure,
And, fatal to the soul's repose,
Around her thrilling glances throws.
We felt, when Warton's dulcet Shell
(A choice libation at thy shrine)
Pour'd the stream of Song divine,
O Fancy! speed with me thy flight,
O'er oaks in richest verdure dight,
Whose writhed limbs of giant mould
Wave to the breeze their umbrage bold;
Bear me, embowering shades between,
Through many a glade and vista green
Whence silver streams are seen to glide,
And towering domes th' horizon hide,
To Leonard's forest-fringed Mound;
Where lavish Nature spreads around
Whate'er can captivate the sight,
Elysian lawns, and prospects bright
As visions of expiring saints,
Or scenes that Harcourt's pencil paints.
Bear me where 'midst enamell'd meads
Redundant Thames his bounty sheds,
Teeming with many a plenteous freight:
Where o'er the vale in antique state
And massy fanes of old renown.
Give me to gaze with ardent eye
On gorgeous spoils of Chivalry;
To ken aloft the radiant rows
Of banners won from Britain's foes;
Recall the glorious deeds of yore;
Shew the dark mail that Edward wore;
The falchion shew, whose thundering stroke
Cressy's pale ranks impetuous broke;
From whose fell glare unnerv'd with dread
Gallia's aspiring chieftains fled,
Or from its edge, with nobler aim,
Gather'd the meed of death and fame.
Chambers in pictur'd pomp array'd,
Peopling whose stately walls I view
The godlike forms that Raffaelle drew,
Enraptur'd see his magic hand
Wield the creative pencil-wand,
And bid th' insensate canvass live,
Glowing with many a deed divine
Achiev'd in holy Palestine.
The Passions feel its potent charm,
And round the mighty Master swarm:
The death-smote Hypocrite surveys;
Beholds his eyes convulsive roll,
And Fate arrest his sordid soul!
Where to the firmament his hands
Sublime the great Instructor rears!
While Athens rapt in wonder hears
Truth's energetic voice proclaim
Her unknown God's tremendous name!
Behold capricious Zeal adore,
The fabled Gods her fears have made!
“Those pow'rful sounds,” she cries, “I know:
“Hark! from the honied lips they flow
“Of Maia's Son!—Can Man dispense
“Activity to impotence?
“Can energy of mortal hand
“The shrunk, distorted limb expand?
“Inveterate force of ills confound,
“And bid the lame with transport bound?—
“'Tis Jove's,—the unexampled deed!
“To Jove th' Isaurian Steer shall bleed!
“To Jove the rich libations pour!
“Braid in bright wreaths each blooming flow'r,
“Swell each loud strain of festive mirth,
“To gratulate the Gods on earth!”—
To clothe with life each glowing thought,
Too soon the destinies conspire
To quench thy pencil's hallow'd fire;
Too soon the soul that warm'd thy clay
Aspir'd to realms of endless day
Sages and saints, a band divine,
Whose godlike forms (ere death withdrew
The veil that darkens mortal view)
Heav'n bade thy penetrative eye
Amid her dazzling courts descry;
Thence bade thee trace the faultless line,
Th' expressive grace, the chaste design,
The mien that love and awe inspires,
And wakes devotion's purest fires.
Thy memory, still to genius dear,
Britain's enlighten'd sons revere;
And grateful hail their Monarch's name,
Whose liberal care thy labours claim:
To heights impervious heretofore
Who bids immortal Science soar;
Far seen in venerable pride,
Whose regal seat, expanding wide
Its portals at his high behest,
Hails ev'ry Art, an honour'd guest:
Beneath whose mild, auspicious reign
The Genius old of Greece again,
Awaken'd from his deep repose,
In Reynolds' living canvass glows;
With Beauty truly blent combine:
And braids his deathless bays around
The British Raffaelle's brows renown'd.
Lo! by his daring hand pourtray'd,
The sanguinary scene display'd
Where martial peers, in glittering mail,
Unfold their pennons to the gale;
O'er Normandy's dismantled plains
Where iron-clad Contention reigns;
And Havoc waits (his tresses wet
With gore) thy nod, Plantagenet!
Wafted from Albion's Isle afar,
Where wake her sons the storm of war;
Where, ravish'd from the parent stem
To grace the Victor's diadem,
Thy Lilies, France, no more assume
The splendour of their wonted bloom;
No more with peerless lustre glow,
But soil with blood their native snow!—
The rich tints breathe a deeper gloom;
While, consecrated domes beneath
Midst hoary shrines and caves of death,
Secluded from the eye of day
She bids her pensive votary stray.
Brooding o'er monumental cells
There awe-diffusing Silence dwells,
Save when along the lofty fane
Devotion wakes her hallow'd strain,
When the vast organ's breathing frame
Echoes the voice of loud acclaim,
And the deep diapason's sound
Thunders the vaulted iles around.
From the broad window's fretted height
Streams the rich flood of mellow'd light,
That bids the pav'd expanse below
With hues of gold and crimson glow,
Reflected from the gorgeous pane,
Where Picture holds her lasting reign:
Where, in translucent glories dight,
Selestial forms arrest the sight;
The enraptur'd gazer's pow'rs control,
And bathe in ecstasy the soul.
The taper shafts ascending high
To decorate the crisped roof
Their mingling branches shoot aloof:
Where, blazon'd in projecting gold,
Flame the proud crests of Barons bold.
The spangled roof, the polish'd floor,
The speaking chrystal's various stain
Illumining the wondrous fane:
Choirs, altars, shrines, illusive fade.—
Enliv'ning Airs my sense invade:
Encircled by the young and fair,
The blithe Assembly's bliss I share;
Swift o'er the lyre's harmonious strings
His magic hand the minstrel flings;
Responsive to the sprightly sound,
The dancer's quivering feet rebound;
Diffusing wide their silver rays,
Aloft the sparkling lustres blaze;
While milder emanations flow
From love-enkindling orbs below.
Lo! Fauconberg's majestic mien
Conspicuous tow'rs above the rest:
Impurpled plumes her brows invest,
Amid whose trembling summits high
Insidious Cupids ambush'd lie.
To each enchanting Grace allied,
Here Fancy bids fair Bouverie glide,
Light as the breath of opening morn
O'er beds of unsunn'd violets born,
And win each heart, a willing prize,
Unconscious of her victories.
There Townshend threads the pleasing maze:
Ah who can unenamour'd gaze!
To fan the flame of chaste desire
There Law's ingenuous charms conspire;
Smiles that enthral the ravish'd sense,
The speaking eye's soft eloquence,
And blush, whose living roses dye
The shrine of Sensibility!
Who the sweet magic can withstand
Of powerful Nature's lavish hand
Fresh as the spring, as Hebe fair,
Where Egham sends a gentle Pair,
The Sister Lilies of her Vale,
Two sweeter blossoms ne'er the braid
Of Flora's coronet display'd.
The Measures cease—her tempting stores
Around prolific Fancy pours;
The sumptuous board, extended wide,
Her visionary viands hide:
Beauty and youth the banquet share—
Hence to the winds intrusive Care!
Rigour unbend thy brow austere!
The laughing Loves and Graces here
Comus to his festive rites
To mirth and genial cheer invites,
And the blithe ivy-crowned Guest,
Who thaws the Virgin's frozen breast
With the liquid fires that glow
Where his purple clusters grow.
Fill'd to many a favorite name,
I see the mantling nectar flame!
Latent amid th' inspiring draught
Speeds the blind God his subtle shaft,
And while the flask his votary drains
Despotic in his bosom reigns,
Th' involuntary sigh expires,
And languor steals through every vein.—
Now to the jocund dance again,
And bid the merry tabor's sound,
And harp's loud-echoing chime astound
The drowsy steeds that through dun air
Night's ebon-axled chariot bear!
With frolic measures, sport and song,
Pleasure's ecstatic reign prolong,
'Till old Tithonus' Bride renews
The lamp of morn, and heaven bestrews
With roses, such as blushing speak
Consent in Sappho's virgin-cheek:
'Till, quite extinct each glimmering star,
Hyperion mounts his radiant car,
And wakes the breathing flow'rs that blow
With richest tints of Iris' bow;
And fires old Ocean's flood, that pours
His splendours round a thousand shores.
Then home They hie, and, warm with wine,
Still, as they press the couch supine,
See fairy-visions round them float,
List the soft lyre's imperfect note,
Fair forms in faultering measures chase,
Catch from bright eyes th' ecstatic beam,
And of ideal transports dream.
Still to prolong thy blissful reign!
Frequent, to sooth my languid sense,
Thy visionary balm dispense!
Invest in varying colours bright
Each grateful scene of past delight!
Sweet dalliance let me hold with thee,
Estrang'd from Sad Reality!
Thence grave Parochial Cares expel:
Shield me from swathed Infants' scream,
And clouds of suffocating steam,
That from the Gossip's bowl exhale,
Mix'd with tobacco's potent gale!
From Undertakers' gloomy brows,
From Overseers' important bows,
From ruthless Sexton's lethal face,
And Beadles bristled o'er with lace!
Of Faded Maids, who matins haunt,
And, lowering o'er each lonely pew,
At once their sins and wrinkles rue!
My trembling ears, O Fancy, save
From Sternhold's inharmonious stave!
From the sad Brief's unpitied tale,
From Exposition trite and stale,
And many an opiate Inference!
Shield me from sounds at strife with sense!
From Pedantry of formal port,
And Consequence in cassoc short!
Shall Time's ungenial flight beguile,
Wake into joy my pensive hours,
And strew life's barren path with flow'rs.
Nor shall the kindred Muse decline
To blend her simple blooms with thine;
Blest, if the wreath by Fancy wove
Kind Friendship's partial voice approve;
Nor sigh for unsubstantial bays
If Wyatt's plaudit crown her lays.
AMATORY ODES.
ODE I.
[Let the sons of Lucre pine]
For glittering heaps of golden ore,
To swell th' accumulated store
Contemn the terrors of the mine;
Explore the caverns dark and drear
Mantled around with deadly dew;
Where congregated vapours blue,
Fir'd by the taper glimmering near,
Bid dire explosion the deep realms invade,
And earth-born light'nings gleam athwart th' infernal shade.
Let the sky-tinctur'd sapphire blaze,
The emerald shed its milder rays,
And rubies blush in circling gold:
And crested chiefs precedence yield;
Thy hand the rod of empire wield,
And wreaths of triumph grace thy brow:—
A nobler aim let my ambition own,
Be Love my empire, Lesbia's heart my throne!
Awakes old ocean's sullen wave
Let Commerce urge her busy slave;
And elevate his trembling mast
Above the billowy precipice,
To meet the forked lightning's flash;
Then down th' adventurous vessel dash,
Found'ring within the black abyss:
Or let his freight secure the surges sweep,
And of their prey defraud the monsters of the deep:
O Venus to thy happy realm
Shall waft, fair Hope direct the helm,
Love's sighs the swelling sails inspire:
To Thee, bright offspring of the wave,
I'll many an amorous vow prefer:
And blast of chill indifference save!
So to thy pow'r I'll frame the votive lay,
And moor'd in Lesbia's arms confess thy sov'reign sway.
Valour, be thy votary found:
Where crimson banners wave around
The martial clarion echoing far;
In vain gigantic Terror calls
His spectre shapes, a ghastly band:
Nor Discord hurling high his brand,
Nor Danger's horrid front, appals;
Nor Death his unrelenting soul can tame,
Or from his grasp withhold the glorious meed of Fame:
From the loud drum and neighing steed,
Thro' many a pansie-painted mead,
Where Isis' bright-hair'd naiads stray;
High o'er my head a pendant bow'r
Let the broad elm and branching pine
There Love's impassion'd song I'll pour,
And summon every wave that dances near,
Bridling his wanton speed, my Lesbia's praise to hear.
At ev'ning from some cloyster'd nook
Casts o'er the gloom a lingering look,
There let the Sage his labours ply;
And many a feat of champion bold,
And many a legendary rhime,
Snatch from the sepulchre of time;
And frequent, as the night grows old,
At fear-engender'd forms recoil aghast,
And hear unhallow'd ghosts wail in each hollow blast:
Let Ev'ning fling her welcome shade:
Then mid the dance, O beauteous Maid!
Let me thine unreluctant hand
Enraptur'd seize:—or let the lyre,
Obedient to thy soft control,
Bind in harmonious chains my soul,
And ecstasy and bliss inspire:
Enamour'd of thy touch, each trembling chord complains.
Thy smile's exhilarating pow'r,
Grateful as, mid noon's sultry hour,
The grot where trickling dews congeal:
And, in the rich grape's purple tide
When Joy and genial Pleasure swim,
Do Thou but kiss its chrystal brim,
And, to thy bard the goblet guide;
So shall my song exalt thy praise above
Hebe, who bids o'erflow the nectar'd cup of Jove,
ODE II.
[Now hath the Sun his evanescent fires]
Quench'd in the billows of the western main:
Sequester'd brakes enshroud the feathery choirs,
And shelt'ring folds th' imprison'd herds retain.
Spread thy dominion, Silence, o'er the grove!
For Lesbia sleeps:—nor cheers my pensive soul
The glance of rapture, nor the voice of love.
Their furious speed, and with dire yell invade
This nether world, whose wasteful tyranny
Pale Dryads mourn in many a ruin'd shade,
With dread alarm the haunts of peace infest;
Here breathe in soft Æolian melody
Each cadence sweet that sooths the soul to rest.
Issuing in throngs from charnel, vault, or tomb,
What time deep-shadowing clouds thy radiant sphere,
Cynthia! involve in night's meridian gloom,)
Or the gaunt felon's ruthless course control!
With monitory shriek the wretch appal,
And to compunction wake his torpid soul:
Like some rich pearl in its enamell'd shell,
Or sainted relick from profaner eyes
Secluded in the dim shrine's silver cell.
With blissful elves fantastic measures tread;
O'er her soft eyelids dews of opiate power,
Cull'd from choice blooms, in show'rs of fragrance shed:
The raven-tinctur'd robe of Night illume;
And streaming o'er your spangled crests display
The wave-enamour'd halcyon's emerald plume!
That charm the planets from their spheres sublime,
Celestial songs, that love and joy inspire,
Chaunt to their golden harps' harmonious chime!
And fairies fly the peal of chanticleer,
Let fancy still your glittering hues retain,
Still let your wild notes tremble on her ear!
Than Galatea boasted when she lav'd
In the smooth deep her coral-axled car,
And the stern heart of Neptune's Son enslav'd!
Morn sheds her radiant beam, her odorous airs,
Save when, attentive to his artless strain,
That radiant beam, those odours, Lesbia shares.
No golden meed his bounded wishes claim:
Blest if the object of his tenderest vows
Smile on his lay:—for Lesbia's smile is Fame.
ODE III.
[Fate gave with unrelenting speed to fly]
The genial hours that Love and Lesbia bless'd;
Sad, on her ear I pour'd the parting sigh,
Sad, on her hand the parting kiss impress'd.
Nor did her ear disdain the parting sigh;
Swift to her cheek the living crimson flew,
Soft pity fill'd her breast and sympathy.
With liberal sentiment, and chaste desire;
And banish cold reserve, and ruthless pride,
That bid affection's trembling flame expire.
“Bade many a vocal shade my name resound:
“And, rich in Fancy's visionary hues,
“With many a fairy wreath my tresses bound:
“Still shall her partial voice applaud thy lay,
“Bid unexpected joy thy cares beguile,
“And hope's pure radiance gild each rising day.”
Cheerless and sad I trace life's gloomy scene,
And faintly hope's far distant ray descry,
While clouds and darkness fill the void between!
Dejected views, while the black billows swell,
And from the haven that his soul desires
Remorseless winds his labouring bark repel.
What charm the fever of the mind remove?
Can Solitude, can Silence, break the chain
That's forg'd by friendship, sympathy, and love?
And seek in solitary glens repose:
O'er the dim margin of some nameless stream,
Her pendant shade where the sad willow throws.
Where mouldering shrines a death-like stillness breathe;
To all the soft anxieties of love
Insensible as those that sleep beneath.
That to intrusive Love access denies?
Say, where the hallow'd haunt whose glooms exclude
Lesbia's enchanting form from Fancy's eyes?—
O'erflow the lucid vase with roses crown'd;
Prepare the feast—and let the God of Wine
Bathe with his purple balm my amorous wound!
Pervade with genial flow my languid frame,
Till Passion's sad solicitudes subside,
Till fades, all pow'rful Love, thy fatal flame.
Thy captive, Lesbia, struggles to be free!
God of the grape, thy goblets while I drain,
Still sways my breast Love's mightier Deity!—
Pour the sweet note that sooths affliction's sigh:
Now the full chord's deep modulation swell,
Now wake the joy-inspiring symphony;
Divine Alcæus! charm'd hell's shadowy throng;
While combatants renown'd and tyrant kings
Conquer'd or bled in thine immortal song.
The pangs that tortur'd ghosts were doom'd to bear,
And lull to strange repose the serpent-crew
That hiss, Alecto, in thine iron hair?
The magic of that voice resistless prove!—
Still breathes th' enamour'd Bard his fond request
In vain—for Music is the food of Love.
Thy milder accents, Nymph belov'd, I hear:
When the sad lute complains, by fancy's aid
Thy soft expression sooths my ravish'd ear.
Warbles the soft lute's melancholy note:
But strains with richer melody replete
From Lesbia's lips on gales of fragrance float.—
The tumults that this bleeding bosom knows.
Then visit, God of Sleep, my pensive cell,
And to my soul restore its lost repose!
Bids the deep shadows of the night arise;
O'er my lone couch extends his sable rod,
And seals with opiate charm his suppliant's eyes.
Whose glance with pity's mild effulgence beams?
Dear Sov'reign of my soul, at Fancy's call
'Tis Lesbia comes to bless her Poet's dreams!
Of Paradise the fabled Houri strays!
Less fair the nymphs of Schiras' cypress bowers
That bloom in amorous Hafez' glowing lays!
Not Venus 'self with charms that rivall'd thine,
'Mid the broad shades of Ida's piny height
To beauty's meed preferr'd her claim divine!
“O'er sands of gold where liquid chrystal roves;
“Where drinks unclouded summer's genial ray
“Incense exhal'd from aromatic groves:
“Celestial forms in bright succession glide;
“Where light-rob'd nymphs th' unbending blossoms sweep,
“Or rise in radiance from the tranquil tide:
“The list'ning Fauns their antic dance refrain;
“And dulcet sounds of airy minstrelsy
“From harps unseen accompany the strain.
“Each ruder gale subsides, ambrosial showers
“Embathe the lavish blooms, and living wreaths
“Of brighter green array the magic bow'rs.
“Fires his proud torch and nerves his golden bow,
“And braids his roseate bands for Thee, my Fair!
“And bids thy breat his gentlest transports know.
“Start not, Hyperion, from thine orient goal!
“Ye blissful dreams, ye visions of delight,
“Ye dear delusions, still possess my soul!”—
The spell that sway'd my captive sense expires:
No liquid chrystal laves the fairy lawn;
No viewless minstrels wake celestial lyres;
Beneath their nectarine freight no branches bend;
No sylvan bands fantastic measures tread;
No pearl-crown'd sisters from the wave ascend:
The landscape's various grace, the genial skies
In cloudless azure dress'd elude my view;
And glowing Fancy's bright creation dies.
Still shall the Muse's living meed be thine,
While grace enchants, while gentleness endears,
While admiration bends at Beauty's shrine:
Shall realize gay Fancy's fairy dream:
For Thee, th' impassion'd tear, the lay shall flow,
Warm from my heart while flows life's crimson stream.
------ intorti capillis
Eumenidum recreantur angues.
Horat. lib. ii. Ode 13.
Schiras or Scheraz, the capital of Ancient Persia: said to derive its name from Cyrus.—The Poet Hafez, the Anacreon of the East, was entombed in this city, rich in nature's choicest luxuriance, and overshadowed with cypresses of unrivalled elevation and beauty.
ODE IV.
TO LESBIA'S LUTE.
Joy's thrilling tide and sadly pleasing woe:
Soothing the sense, yet to the soul's repose
Destructive as the nerve of Cupid's bow!
(If any mortal sounds have pow'r to tell)
Whisper how much I hope—how much I fear—
The pity I implore—the pains I feel.
Bid rapture float upon the charmed air:
Tell her, when sad th' expressive notes complain:
“So breathes thy bard the sigh of deep despair.”
When Lesbia's hands the silver chords embrace,
Could lull th' embattled elements to rest,
Bend knotted oaks, and tame a ruthless race:
His lyre to strains divine, its amorous Lord
For Thee had left Euridice unsung,
And Pluto's gloomy confines unexplor'd.
ODE V.
TO THE NAIAD OF GLYMPTON BROOK.
Whose light steps haunt this Current lone,
Where gentle Zephyr's balmy sighs,
With thy wild wave in unison,
Blend their aërial melodies;
Reveal the never-dying flame
That all my pensive soul pervades,
And teach thine echoes Lesbia's name
Ere the soft light of evening fades!
Thy trembling osier wreaths among,
And woo the Muse where none reprove
Affection's unambitious song,
Nor chide the plaint of hopeless love.
Hide me within some shadowy cave;
And, minist'ring to calm repose,
Ah softly bid thy babbling wave
Kiss the dank sedge that round it grows!
Ye timid tenants of the brook!
Thrown from my hand no viewless line,
Disguis'd by me no treacherous hook,
Bids you your little lives resign.
To sip, ye minstrels of the air!
Your downy plumage to distain
With blood no fatal tube I bear,
Nor pay with death your artless strain.
Where glow Affection's generous fires:
Soft Pity finds her mansion there,
All whom the breath of life inspires
By her own sorrows taught to spare.
Whose clear stream laves thy chrystal grot:
Within its confines let me dwell,
By all but One dear Maid forgot,
And bid a world of cares farewell.
Chequer'd with Cynthia's silver light,
What time, in Fancy's train descried,
Before my fascinated sight
Past Joy's illusive phantoms glide.
No more array'd in flattering hues
For me the buds of Pleasure bloom:
Yet deigns, at Fancy's call, the Muse
To gild Affliction's deepening gloom.
Oh may she taste each bliss supreme
That hope can paint, or love bestow;
And calm as Glym's sequester'd stream
May her life's gentle current flow!
Still with my sorrows sympathize:
So may thy banks fresh flow'rs inlay,
Thy waves in rich redundance rise,
Mild Zephyrs on thy bosom play!
My sighs shall fan thy flowery beds:
If parching rays thy channel dry,
The tears desponding Passion sheds
Shall its exhausted stream supply.
ELEGY. WRITTEN AT SEA.
The moon in full-orb'd majesty presides;
Calm are the seas, a favouring breeze transpires,
While thro' the waves the Vessel smoothly glides:
To the sought shores where Hope delusive leads;
And flattering Fancy keen regret suspends
For absent kindred, friends, and native meads:
Culls thorns, and plants them in the bleeding breast;
Sunk into gloom the mind no more explores
Hope's future dawn, and pants in vain for rest.
Thus anguish dictates the desponding strain:
“To Friendship fear presents a gloomier scene,
“The whirlwind's fury and tempestuous main.
“My dubious fate compels the generous tear,
“And ev'ry passing cloud that veils the sky
“Chills some fond anxious breast with boding fear.
“Frantic with dread she sighs, implores, she raves;
“Whilst Horror paints me, to her sickening soul,
“Dash'd on a rock, or whelm'd beneath the waves.”
O let thy mercy hear a wanderer's pray'r!
Check the wild fears connubial fondness forms,
And save the tender Mourner from despair!
Still give me faith to bear that lot resign'd:
That faith which bursts the confines of the tomb,
And, heav'n-aspiring, sooths th' afflicted mind.
PHILEMON.
AN ELEGY.
With faultering step, absorb'd in thought profound,
Philemon wends in solitude to mourn,
While Evening pours her deep'ning glooms around.
Wide spreads the tempest's desolating power;
To grief alone Philemon reckless lives,
No rolling peal he heeds, cold blast, or shower.
His trembling lips receiv'd her latest breath.
“Ah! wilt thou drop one tear on Emma's tomb?”
She cried: and clos'd each wistful eye in death.
Her clay-cold hand he grasp'd, no tears he shed,
'Till fainting nature sunk by grief oppress'd,
And ere distraction came all sense was fled.
For grief like his life-woven never dies;
And still each year's collected sorrows flow,
As drooping o'er his Emma's tomb he sighs.
WHITSUNTIDE.
WRITTEN AT WINCHESTER COLLEGE ON THE IMMEDIATE APPROACH OF THE HOLIDAYS.
Sire of shivering Poverty!
Who, as thou creep'st with chilblains lame
To the crowded charcoal flame,
With chattering teeth and ague cold,
Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold
While Thou draw'st the deep cough out:
God of Foot-ball's noisy rout,
Tumult loud and boist'rous play,
The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray.
Whitsuntide! and with thee bring
Cricket, nimble boy and light,
In slippers red and drawers white,
Ranges around his comely band,
Alert to intercept each blow,
Each motion of the wary foe.
The angle trembling in thy hand,
And mark, with penetrative eye,
Kissing the wave the frequent fly,
Where the trout, with eager spring,
Forms the many-circled ring,
And, leaping from the silver tide,
Turns to the sun his speckled side.
With rosy cheek and dripping hair,
From the sultry noon-tide beam,
Laves in Itchin's crystal-stream.
To-morrow's wish'd-for dawn shall view
Greeting the radiant star of light
With Matin Hymn and early rite:
To Thee we raise the Choral Song;
And swell with echoing minstrelsy
The strain of joy and liberty.
Thy genial reign, with heart elate
For Thee I throw my gown aside,
And hail thy coming, Whitsuntide.
A Latin song, called “Domum,” sung with instrumental accompaniment, on the day before the commencement of their Whitsuntide vacation, by the scholars of Winchester College. The words “Matin Hymn, &c.” in the preceding couplet refer to other ancient customs of that venerable seminary.
CHRISTMAS.
To sleep beneath the cooling shade!
Panting quick with sultry heat,
Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat!
Patron of the festive hearth,
Around whose social ev'ning flame
The jovial song, the winter game,
The chase renew'd in merry tale,
The season's carols never fail.
Who, tho' Winter chill the skies,
Canst catch the glow of exercise,
Following swift the foot-ball's course;
Or with unresisted force,
Shooting athwart the rapid slide.
To some high covert hark'st away;
While Sport, on lofty courser borne,
In concert winds his echoing horn
With the deeply-thund'ring hounds,
Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds,
While echo swells the doubling cry,
Shake the woods with harmony.
How does my eager bosom glow
To give the well known tally-ho!
Or shew, with cap inverted, where
Stole away the cautious hare!
Spangles o'er the silvery green,
Booted high thou lov'st to tread,
Marking, thro' the sedgy mead,
Where the creeping moor-hen lies,
Or snipes with sudden twittering rise:
Or joy'st the early walk to take
Where, thro' the pheasant-haunted brake
The eager-dashing spaniel bounds.
Clanging whip, and rowels bright,
The hunter's cap my brows to guard,
And suit of sportive green 's prepar'd:
For, since these delights are thine,
Christmas, with thy bands I join.
FREE IMITATION OF A LATIN ODE,
BY WALTER DE MAPES, ARCHDEACON OF OXFORD IN THE ELEVENTH CENTURY.
I
I'll in a tavern end my days'Midst boon companions merry,
Place at my lips a lusty flask
Replete with sparkling sherry,
That angels hov'ring round may cry,
When I lie dead as door-nail:
“Rise, genial Deacon, rise and drink
“Of the well of Life Eternal.”
II
'Tis wine the fading lamp of lifeRenews with flame celestial,
And elevates th' enraptur'd sense
Above this globe terrestrial:
Be mine the grape's pure juice, unmix'd
With any base ingredient!
Water to heretics I leave,
Sound churchmen have no need on't.
III
Crosiers for lordly priests provide,Let warriors wield the truncheon;
I ask no implements beside
A tankard and a luncheon:
Verses and odes without good cheer
I never could indite 'em,
Sure he who meager days devis'd
Is d---d ad infinitum!
IV
When I exhaust the bowl profoundAnd gen'rous liquor swallow,
Bright as the beverage I imbibe
The gen'rous numbers follow;
Your sneaking water-drinkers all
I utterly condemn 'em,
He that would write like Homer,
Must drink like Agamemnon.
V
Mysteries and prophetic truths,I never could unfold 'em
Without a flagon of good wine
And a lusty slice of cold ham;
But when my flagon I have drain'd,
And eat what's in the dish up,
Tho' I am but an Archdeacon, I
Can preach like an Archbishop.
SONG.
[To Chloe kind and Chloe fair]
With sparkling eye and flowing hair,
Tune the harp, and raise the song;
Such as to Beauty doth belong!
Such as through the listening ear,
In well according harmony,
May with the 'tranced soul agree!
In the morn more fresh her mien,
When awaken'd from repose,
Than the summer's dewy rose:
In the ev'ning brighter far
Than the ocean-bathed star.
Bids the silent hour improve,
To the ravish'd senses She
Gives joy, and bliss, and ecstasy.
THE RENOWNED HISTORY AND RARE ACHIEVEMENTS OF JOHN WILKES.
AN HEROIC BALLAD.
Persius, Sat. 1.
On parchment and on vellum,
The deeds of ancient heroes and
The chances that befel 'em;
And ballads I have heard rehears'd
By harmonists itinerant,
Who modern worthies celebrate,
Yet scarcely make a dinner on't:
Some of whom sprang from noble race,
And some were in pigstye born;
Or triple tree of Tyburn.
And sundry gallants yet unsung,
Who scarcely have their fellows,
Amendments move in parliament,
Or live by mending bellows:
But of all who were or will be sung
In solemn stave or ditty,
There's none can vie with Johnny Wilkes,
The Chamberlain of the City.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex,They chose him knight of the shire:
And he made a fool of Alderman Bull,
And call'd Parson Horne a lyar.
When he was blind and pennyless,
Descanted of the Spartan Dame
Who a cuckold made of Menelaus:
His heroes' sounding names you've heard,
Whose blood or brains were spill'd in
Which rooks their nests did build in.
Virgil Æneas sung, of yore
Approv'd a valiant soldier;
Thro' slaughter, smoke, and flame, he bore
His dad upon his shoulder:
(Else had some swaggering Grecian boy
Soon made a hole in his skin,
And spitted him in burning Troy
To roast like a pork griskin.)
Æneas hence for piety
Was fam'd, or folks belie him;
Yet Helenus was as good as he,
And chaplain to King Priam.
But why the merits do I vaunt
Of chaplain or of layman?
John Wilkes was brave as John of Gaunt,
Religious as a Bramin:
Where wit or weapon came in play
Nothing for John was too hard;
He wrote against the King all day,
And at night he fought his Steward.
And liv'd in orthodoxy;
For, when he could not pray himself,
The Monkey was his proxy.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, &c.Was both covetous and cruel;
He hoarded up his ducats, and
He dined on watergruel;
And, when Anthonio could not pay
The monies he had borrow'd,
He pull'd out his snickersnee
With imprecations horrid:
“Thy bond is forfeited,” he cried,
“The penalty, I ask it;
“I'll cut from thy bread-basket.”
But, when poor Sylva John besought
That he would but name his pay-day,
John swore that he had no such word
In his Encyclopedia:
Whereat this patient Israelite
He waxed wondrous ire:
But lo! John chous'd him of his bond,
And he burnt it in the fire.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, &c.Pull'd off and, under cover
Of breeches and a soldier's coat,
Pursued her absent lover:
Her bodkin to a pike transform'd,
She brandish'd in her right hand,
And Frenchmen's souls, thro' eyelet holes
I' their carcases, she frighten'd:
This female musqueteer her foes
As flat as flounders laid 'em;
Powder and ball serv'd her instead
Of powder and pomatum.
Paris, for love of Helena,
Kindled a fierce combustion;
Consum'd in flames the town of Troy,
And Priam's breeches fustian.
And great Alcides, son of Jove,
Maugre his strength and valour,
Became a woman's taylor:
He, who th' Augëan stables cleans'd,
A kerchief hemm'd to please her:
Antæus once he squeez'd to death,
But now became mop-squeezer:
Yet all this he endur'd for love,
And eke bore many an hard drub:
But for love of Parson Horne's lac'd coat
John—stole away his Wardrobe.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, &c.Of his victorious rabble,
His apostolic mission prov'd
With sword irrefragable;
A heaven of wine and women preach'd,
To make men more devout;
And if he fail'd to turn their brains
His Saracens beat 'em out:
Gabriel took Mahomet to heav'n
And did a mule provide him;
And thus John Wilkes to Brentford rode
With Parson Horne beside him:
There 'mongst the men of Middlesex
Renown and fame he got him,
And chosen was to mend the state,
Because 'twas old and rotten:
And Chamberlain was after made
For 's just and righteous dealings;
They wisely trusted to his charge
All their half-crowns and shillings.
For Tartar, Turk, or Saracen!
Our Chamberlain, that rascal race,
Excels beyond comparison:
Their Prophet was an arrant cheat;
John Wilkes is no impostor:
He cares no more for the Alcoran
Than for the Pater Noster.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, &c.St. George, the Capadocian,
Whose spear, like turkey-rhubarb, set
The dragon's guts in motion.
Achilles Hector did assail,
Transfix'd him with his javelin,
Then dragg'd him at his horse's tail
Round every Trojan ravelin.
Ryance his mantle lined with beards
Of kings, instead of ermine;
With 's broad-sword did determine;
But Arthur quell'd the Welchman's boast,
He kill'd him dead as door-nail,
And sent him down his cheese to toast
At Pluto's fire infernal.
Intrepid Guy of Warwick to
A giant gave defiance,
Cut off his head and made him an
Example to all giants:
A fierce dun cow came in his way,
And on the head he knock'd her;
But valorous John Wilkes, he cow'd
Sir William Beauchamp Proctor.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, &c.Liv'd in a costly palace;
He wore a crown of gold, and drank
Out of a golden chalice:
He was the cock of eastern kings
And Babylon he builded;
And his gingerbread was gilded.
In Dura's plain, this prince profane,
A golden giant set up,
So big the guildhall giants he
Could both of them have eat up!
A swinging dog, taller than Og,
The monster-king of Basan;
Colbrand and Pantagruel eke
He would have turn'd his ------ on.
Forthwith the monarch gave command
That men of every nation
Should to his idol bow the knee,
And pay him adoration:
And certain honest Israelites,
Who disobey'd his motion,
He in a fiery furnace cast,
To kindle their devotion;
To broil and spitchcock 'em like eels
It was his royal pleasure:
Yet scap'd unsear'd each Hebrew beard—
No God-a-mercy—'Nezzar!
For, furnace-proof, Shadrach and Co.
Combustibles were lost on;
With gabardine ακαυστον:
Abash'd the tyrant stood amidst
His parasites and pandars,
To see his bonfire set at nought
By a leash of Salamanders:
But when a brother of their tribe
His bond produced, and boasted
He'd be too hard for Wilkes, sly John
The Jew completely roasted.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, &c.And iron he loves dearly:
He'll pick up a gross of tenpenny nails
As cocks and hens do barley.
Powell, as some folks take small beer
To cool 'em when they 've drank hard,
Steep'd in his brandy capsicum,
Like burrage in cold tankard:
And redhot coals, instead of rolls,
Ate for his breakfast duly,
To him were soup and bouillie:
Sky-rockets, 'stead of sausages,
Ran hissing down his weasen;
Wash'd down with aqua-fortis strong,
To keep his guts from freezing.
The Dragon of Wantley churches ate,
(He us'd to come on a Sunday)
Whole congregations were to him
A dish of Salmagundi:
He gave no quarter, no not he,
To clergymen or laymen:
Crack'd ev'n the Sexton's jobberknowl,
And spoil'd him for saying amen:
He pouch'd the Prebendaries all,
Who ne'er gave him an ill word;
Snapp'd up the Dean, as snug in his stall
As a maggot in a filbert.
The Corporation worshipful
He valued not an ace,
But swallow'd the Mayor, asleep in his chair,
And pick'd his teeth with the mace.
He brows'd on monumental brass
Fix'd in the wall o' th' cloysters;
He ate, like scallop'd oysters.
He quarrell'd with the steeple clock
And ate him while he was striking;
Bell-ropes he munch'd for chitterlings,
Tho' they wer'n't so much to his liking:
Tombstones and monuments he took
For pills to cool his palate;
And cropt the church-yard yew-trees all—
They serv'd him for a sallad.
The organ that so loud did roar
Devour'd he in his frolick;
And batten'd on the bellows-blower,
For he fear'd not the wind-colick.
To 'scape his sacrilegious maw
This Dragon he gave none chance,
But swallow'd the knave that set the stave,
And felt no qualm of conscience:
Parsons were his black-puddings, and
Fat Aldermen his capons;
And his tid-bit, the collection plate
Brimful of Birmingham halfpence.
Clerks, Curates, Rectors, Bishops ate
This Dragon most uncivil;
He would have eat the Devil.
But the men of Aylesbury esteem
John Wilkes a greater rarity:
They made Him trustee for their school,
And He swallow'd up the Charity.
CHORUS.
John Wilkes he was for Middlesex,They chose him knight of the shire:
And he made a fool of Alderman Bull,
And call'd Parson Horne a liar.
A minute detail of the duel which Mr. Wilkes fought with Lord Talbot, Steward of the Household, is given in “Letters to and from Mr. Wilkes,” published in 1760.
For an account of the Monks of Medenham, and the consternation excited among the members of that irreverend order, during the celebration of their scandalous rites, by Brother Wilkes's Monkey, consult the third volume of “Chrysal,” or “The Adventures of a Guinea.” And for a particular description of Medenham Abbey, see the “Letters to Mr. Wilkes” beforementioned.
Mr. Wilkes, having been repeatedly solicited by Sylva, a Jew, to discharge a bond and other securities, which he had given him to a considerable amount, at length appointed a day and hour for that express purpose, inviting his creditor to breakfast with him at the same time. The Jew, punctual to his engagement, met with the most flattering reception, and sat down to a special dèjunè dinè most exquisitely seasoned with the wit and vivacity of his host, who unlocked his scrutoire and made a display of cash and bank notes, minutely inquiring of Sylva the amount of what he owed him, and whether he had brought with him every receipt which was requisite to exonerate his debtor from future demands. The bond and necessary papers were of course produced, and freely submitted by Sylva (whom the fascinating pleasantry of his host had thrown intirely off his guard) to Mr. Wilkes's inspection, who, availing himself of the confidence reposed in him, instantaneously committed them to the flames; and seizing the poker, which he had purposely suffered to become red hot in the fire, employed it in keeping his distracted creditor at bay till the bond, &c. &c. were consumed to ashes.
This detail is faithfully given from the statement of the unlucky sufferer himself.
The articles comprized in this clerical wardrobe, for the satisfaction of the curious reader, are subjoined, viz.
- 1 Suit of scarlet and gold, cloth.
- 1 Suit of white and silver, cloth.
- 1 Suit of blue and silver; camblet.
- 1 Suit of flowered silk.
- 1 Suit of black silk.
- 1 Black velvet surtout.
These many-coloured Canonicals which our hero, retorting a quotation of Horace upon his quondam intimate, (and, what is no less extraordinary than it is evident from his own letter, misunderstanding the passage itself) calls, the “Vestimenta pretiosa of Eutrapelus,” his reverend Correspondent, it seems, entrusted to his custody in May, 1767, and charges him with having pawned in Paris to supply his necessities in the September following. See pages 37, 39, 40, 67. of Controversial Letters of John Wilkes, Esq. &c.—Williams, Fleet-street, 1771.
SONG.
[Tho' Fortune may boast at her shrine]
That the world's adoration is paid,
No idol shall she be of mine:
No devotion I owe the blind jade:
Yet rich in affection I live,
For tell me what boon so divine
Has a world of luxuriance to give
As one smile, my dear Mary! of thine?
May the envy of sycophants move;
But who would forego, to be great,
Independance, contentment, and love?
Gems and ore do not fall to my share,
But what gem can such transport impart
As one glance of thy kindness, my Fair!
What mine 's half so rich as thy heart?
Chagrin shall ne'er furrow my brow,
To the pray'r of thy swain let the Muse,
Dear Maid! be propitious as Thou.
Then a truce with thy counsels, old Care,
Not a sigh at thy bidding I'll breathe:
For, though sombre the garb that I wear,
Yet light is my heart underneath.
A CRUST FOR A CONVEYANCER.
Which will make our episcopal Synod turn pale,
Who from these simple stanzas—if ever they read 'em—
Will find that the lawyers must soon supersede 'em.
Derry down, &c.
And Rectors take little account of their flocks,
But leave unconcern'd their lay-lambs in the lurch:—
So Conveyancers henceforth must govern the church.
With indiff'rence beheld revolutions below;
They drank nectar and feasted, nor cared half-a-crown
Though mankind, like the French, turn'd the globe upside down:
Have from things of this world their attention withdrawn,
And, intent on the next, of each church leave the care
To Curates no better than him of Q****'s square.
For—although in the pulpit as grave as a judge—
Yet folks, who his conduct have narrowly scann'd,
Say he did not put quite enough starch in his band.
That “a Parson may laugh—till he's rais'd to promotion:”
Nay a joke had been heard at a vestry to crack,
And would dabble in rhyme though his coat it was black.
Said he'd preach better doctrine than—ever he wrote:
But, what's worst, in the service, no vacuum or gap,
No pause he'd allow for—good Christians to nap.
He'd engag'd an Assistant who read to slow time:
So, should slumber, in spite of his efforts, o'ertake 'em,
No danger there was that his colleague might wake 'em.—
The parishioners rested at ease on their pillows,
Their pastors they follow'd, their puddings they ate 'em;
And so they may still—would John H******y let 'em.
Forbidding his aspect, and close is his fist;
With more coin in his pocket than brains in his head,
Yet a book he has written that nobody read:
Which no water replenish'd, and none ever shall:
Yet the drift on't was such as (to make him amends)
Fill'd his own, while it emptied the fobs of his friends.
That matters at church went so quietly on.
Thought he: these viles Curates I'll haul o'er the coals,
And jobation bestow—for the good of their souls.
Since, if one hand withholds, I with t'other bestow:
This truth I'll our church reformation make good in;
They shall taste my rebuke who ne'er tasted my pudding.
I've an high veneration for Good Mother Church:
And—unless for reproof when she needs my assistance—
To evince my respect—I still keep at a distance.
Where church-wardens and sides-men sat rang'd in array:
And so grim did he look that their conclave astounded
Thought they saw Hamlet's ghost, or Don Quixotte dismounted.
“Lest one should be wanting to make up their quorum:”
Now though this his exordium he knew was a lie,
'Twas but one of a dozen he'd got cut and dry.
Of charge and surcharge on divinity's back:
What! charge and surcharge a poor Curate—O fye on't!
But who knows?—he mistook him perhaps for his client.
“One gets on whip and spur, t'other drawls like a sot:
“One scampers away, sirs, to preach at Spring Gardens,
“And, how t'other limps after him, cares not three farthings.
“Who, with two ghostly guides, can on neither depend—
“For when one goes to heaven, by what I can find
“From my gossip's reports, he will leave you behind:
“He's so tardy that he nor you scarce will get there:
“Then—which ever you trust to—you'll all be made fools:
“Down your souls must go, dish'd 'twixt two spiritual stools.”—
“Amongst us sound churchmen who think on hereafter;
“Then so much for the Next World:—And now, sirs, the bills
“Give me leave to prefer of your Secular ills.
“When I shew how your Parsons will thin all your pews:
“The Church-wardens' receipts—they'll be not worth a tester;
“Then adieu to roast turkey at Christmas and Easter!
“What with this Jack of Styles and that other of Nokes,
“Your two black-coats I mean, whose deserts I've discuss'd
“Quite impartial:—for, faith! I don't know which is worst.
“Men, women, and children, are all in commotion,
“Girls titter, as if they were looking a farce on,
“When to publish the banns comes your galloping Parson:
“Your ailes they all cough, all your galleries groan;
“Your wives cry; “Good by t'ye.”—Your brats turn their backs,
“And old maids, stiff as buckram, their muscles relax.
“Know, to boot, the great Lord at the head of the law
“To this scandalous state of affairs is no stranger.
“'Tis not fit that He should, when the church is in danger.
“To have taken a pew was his Lordship's intention,
“And had my good Lord at Q****'s square took a pew,
“Why—perhaps you had seen there John H******y too.
“Condescended to visit your church once or twice;
“And, I'll stake all my vast Biographical fame!—
“Twice my Lord went away, sirs, as wise as he came.
“Or—Conveyancer H******y 's not to be trusted!
“And, if there you can catch him again, for your pains
“You shall take out and butter John H******y's brains.
“For he since at the Foundling applied for a seat,
“Where all things, of course, must be done with decorum;
“Since Conveyancer H******y 's one of the quorum.”
Thought his worship:—The Curate I've thrown on his back:
Since sentence against him has pass'd the Great Seal.
Glad enough to escape with old ladies to pray,
And “Deliver us”—'tis thought in his Litany cried—
“From Conveyancers, Lord, and the Devil beside!”
Of the noble Law-Lord, in respectful epistle,
To be told if his Lordship's opinion—he pray'd—
Had been by this Conveyancer truly convey'd.
To his query my Lord gave immediate attention;
And absolv'd from all censure the church of Q****'s Square:
For his Lordship—God bless us!—had never been there!!!
For a seat at the Foundling he ne'er had applied!
And to worship his Maker his Lordship's research
Was confin'd to the pale of his own parish church.—
Let the Tail of the church bless the Head of the law.
And may Providence—mending their morals and dinners—
From Conveyancing Saints guard all Clerical Sinners!
Derry down, &c.
The Life of Lord Mansfield.
“Great Mansfield fall by an attorney's hand.
“See a long law-life, in 4to. of the great Earl Mansfield, Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench, by Mr. Holliday, in a very peculiar style indeed. For the greater part, it is a bundle of reports and law pleadings strung together. It is astonishing to me that conveyancers and attorneys, who really appear not to know how to construct a single sentence without provoking a smile at some error in grammar, language, or metaphor, will think themselves qualified to deliver down to posterity the lives of great men. Luckily Mr. Holliday's zeal does not offend us in rhyme. The friendship and the verse of Pope, as well as the splendour of his own abilities, and the dignity of their high exertions, have secured an eternity of reputation to Lord Chief Justice Mansfield, which can never fall, even by Mr. Holliday's attempt.”—Pursuits of Literature, 7th edit. page 322.
The reader, who would be more fully informed on this head, will please to consult the Contributors to Mr. H's Commercial undertaking, who are well qualified to give him the proper explanation.
THE NOBLE SANS-CULOTTE.
A BALLAD, IN HONOUR OF A CERTAIN EARL WHO STYLED HIMSELF A SANS-CULOTTE CITIZEN, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS.
And noble birth forgot,
Hear Stanhope, modest Earl, proclaim
Himself a Sans-Culotte!
The vanity he teaches;
And spurns, like Citizen of France,
Both coronet and breeches.
His counsel none attend:
No pattern take his brother Peers
By Stanhope's latter end.
Their patriot bottoms bare:
Lords are no Sans-Culottes:—they veil
That part with special care.
In silk and velvet 'dight:
And, well accoutred, each assails
With taunts a naked wight.
“No breeches I retain:
“From this confession we infer
“At t'other end no brain.
“Both nether end and upper,
“May swear there's not a pin to choose
“'Twixt pericrane and crupper.”
A ministerial band,
The nakedness who scrutinize
Of Opposition land?
Like those lean kine Egyptian—
Patriots there are who breeches wear—
When paid for by Subscription.
Be scant) provided each is:
No fustian if our bottoms shew,
There's plenty in—our speeches.
Let's hear no more about 'em;
Since Stanhope, ay, and L*****dale,
Can make a shift without 'em.
Are brains and breeches fit?
Breeches to hide our shame are meant,
Brains serve to shew our wit.
Both must be misapplied
Till L*****dale has wit to shew,
And Stanhope shame to hide.—
To George the Prince of Wales;
And to all British Peers a case,
Wherein to keep their tails!
And show'r its gifts upon her;
And from each noble Sans-Culotte
Defend the Maids of Honour!
BALLAD ON THE BREAKING OF THE WATER-HEAD, NEAR WINDSOR GREAT PARK,
COMMONLY CALLED THE POND-HEAD.
As he ponder'd the task, to himself thus he said:
“Since a Head I must make, what's a head but a Noddle?
“So I think I had best take my own for a model.”
Derry down, &c.
The outside he constructed with rubbish and sand,
But brains on this Head had been quite thrown away,
Those he kept for himself, so he lined it with clay.
Bade defiance, he thought, both to water and weather,
With profound admiration must strike all beholders,
And all heads must surpass but the head on his shoulders.
Tho' the head that He made was a blockhead of brass;
And he little suspected it e'er should be said,
That himself all this while was not right in his Head.
A bank-ruptcy made, and his Head ran away;
'Twas a thick head for certain; but, had it been thicker,
No head can endure that is always in liquor.
That one Broken Head struck the country with terror;
Yet 'twas well for the folks whom this deluge surrounded
That, born to be hang'd, there were none of them drowned.
Since first it went round, with so plenteous a tide:
Yet the Miller he wish'd that our Head-maker's skill
Less water had sent and more grist to his mill.
When his meal-sacks march'd off without horses or waggon;
And to rescue himself he must fain stir his stumps:
Such an odd trick was play'd on this Miller of Trump's!
And atones for his fault with the loss of his Head:
Tho' some folks will tell you, (believe 'em who list)
Long ago had he lost it, 't would ne'er have been miss'd.
In discussing this head, to preserve a grave face;
More compassion its Maker may challenge than satire,
Since 'tis plain that he can't keep his Head above water.
His is not the first Head which has gone with the stream:
And—as for his Honour—'tis safe you may swear,
Since Butler has told us that lodges elsewhere.
Of the maxim that Two Heads are better than One;
For none e'er was so scurvily dealt with before,
By the Head that he made, and the Head that he wore.
Derry down, &c.
As quick as light'ning in the br---ch,
Just in the place where honour 's lodg'd,
As wise philosophers have judg'd,
Because a kick in that place more
Hurts Honour than deep wounds before.
Hudibras, Part ii. c. 3.
WILLIAM OF WICKHAM,
A SONG, FOR THE WICCAMICAL ANNIVERSARY, HELD AT THE CROWN AND ANCHOR TAVERN.
Capadocian George, or Saint Dennis of France;
No chronicler I am
Of Troy and King Priam,
And those crafty old Greeks who to fritters did fry 'em:
But your voices, brave boys, one and all I bespeak 'em,
In due celebration of William of Wickham.
CHORUS.
Let Wickham's brave boys, at the Crown and the Anchor,The flask never quit 'till clean out they have drank her;
And united maintain, whether sober or mellow,
That old Billy Wickham was a very fine fellow.
Of hard-hearted Phœbe, Corinna, and Chloris,
For some sempstress or starcher
That rascally archer
Call'd Cupid, has made him as mad as a March hare:
But at Wickham's brave boys should he brandish his dart,
We'll drown the blind rogue in a Winchester quart.
CHORUS.
For Wickham's brave boys, &c.Of fortified towns, and of fair-visag'd wenches,
My numbers give heed to,
And, drinking as we do,
Shut up in its scabbard his martial toledo:
For we too shed blood, yet all danger escape,
Since the blood that we shed is the blood of the grape.
CHORUS.
Let Wickham's brave boys, &c.Play the devil as usual in Westminster Hall,
Reputations bespatter,
Yet thrive and grow fatter,
While they dash wrong and right up as cookmaids do batter:
Here good fellowship reigns and, what's stranger by far,
No mischief ensues from a call to the Bar.
CHORUS.
Let Wickham's brave boys, &c.Such potions prescribes as might poison old Satan,
With blister and bolus
And draught would cajole us,
'Till snug under ground he has clapt in a hole us:
But the wise sons of Wickham his regimen slight,
They swallow no draughts but of red wine and white.
CHORUS.
Let Wickham's brave boys, &c.And hungry Sedition's republican flame
Foment, and throw chips on,
Independance their lips on,
While they incense a mob, and exist by Subscription:
Here of Liberty's Tree if for scyons they search,
They'll instead catch a tartar,—Wiccamical Birch.
CHORUS.
Let Wickham's brave boys, &c.Who prate of Jove's nectar and Helicon-porridge,
Yet, for beef-stakes and brandy,
Set each Jack-a-dandy
On a level with Frederick, or Prince Ferdinandy:
What's the sword of King Arthur, or Admiral Hosier,
To William of Wickham and his jolly old Crosier!
CHORUS.
Let Wickham's brave boys, at the Crown and the Anchor,The flask never quit 'till clean out they have drank her;
And united maintain, whether sober or mellow,
That old Billy Wickham was a very fine fellow.
THE HERMITAGE.
How blest is he who bids farewell
The world, and vain delights foregoes
For calm content, and bland repose!
Fretted arch emboss'd with gold,
Lavish sculpture's proud design,
Sooth the soul with charms like thine?
I love the roses wild that bloom
Around thy porch—I love to trace
Thy precincts, where each simple grace
Surpasses all that art hath plann'd;
Thy roof of spar, and floor of sand,
Thy whispering rill, whose current lone
The ozier flings its wreaths aslant,
And sapphire-plumed halcyons haunt:
And, stretch'd thy rushy couch along,
To listen to the blackbird's song,
Hear him his amorous pains relate
Melodious to his jetty mate.
While faintly born upon the breeze
The dove's responsive murmurs please;
And from the sheep-cote in the dell
Soft tinkling chimes the weather's bell,
Accordant to the chearful strain
Of milk-maid blithe, and whistling swain.
The beams of Day's refulgent orb,
I love to traverse, unespied,
Thy beach-clad hillock's verdant side,
O'er each dun brake and shadowy dell,
While Fancy breathes her magic spell,
Assembling all her sylvan clan,
Her dryads, fauns, and laughing Pan;
With heavenly strains to soothe mine ears,
Or conjures up äerial forms
To marshal all the fairy swarms
That quaff their acorn cups, and sing,
And frisk, and dance in sportive ring,
Tinging, where'er their tracks are seen,
The circled sward with richer green.
The deep, umbrageous avenue
Emerging oft, the groves between,
On flowery lawn, or pasture green,
Or upland, whence, to feast my sight
A thousand beauteous scenes unite;
The venerable oaks that wear
The rich robe of the waining year,
Studded with sails the river's tide,
Diffusing wealth and verdure wide;
Tall cliffs illumin'd with the gleam
Of downward Titan's glowing beam,
The fleecy tribes that seek their fold,
Empurpled clouds with skirts of gold,
And shadows lenghthening on the plain:
Till, summon'd by the curfew's sound,
While falling dews embathe the ground,
Again I seek the friendly shade
From whence my devious steps have stray'd,
Repass the lawn, and hawthorn dell,
Regain thy shelter, lowly Cell!
There spread my board with simplest fare;
Supremely blest if Cynthia share
The mellow treasures Autumn gives,
The beverage nectar-yielding hives
To crown my rural cheer impart,
And yield me in return her heart.
THE BARBER'S NUPTIALS.
Candida de Nigris.
Ovid Met.
Though blacker than the devil's horn.
An Artist resided who shav'd for a penny,
Cut hair for three-halfpence, for three-pence he bled,
And would draw, for a groat, every tooth in your head.
'Twas the same thing to him whether stocks fell or rose,
For blast and for mildew he car'd not a pin;
His crops never fail'd, for they grew on the chin.
Contented he dined on his daily potatoes;
And the pence that he earn'd by excision of bristle
Were nightly devoted to whetting his whistle.
Drank his purl upon tick at the Old Pewter Platter,
Read the news, and as deep in the secret appear'd
As if he had lather'd the Minister's beard.
And 'twixt barbers and beaux makes no discrimination;
Would not let this superlative shaver alone,
'Till he tried if his heart was as hard as his hone.
At the end of Fleet Market of fish kept a stall:
As red as her cheek no boil'd lobster was seen,
Not an eel that she sold was as soft as her skin.
In all countries and climates, hot, temperate, and cold;
Thus the heart of our Barber love scorch'd to a coal,
Tho' 'tis very well known he liv'd under the Pole.
And lied like a lawyer to move her compassion:
He should perish, he swore, did his suit not succeed,
And a barber to slay was a barbarous deed.
If valour deserv'd the regard of the fair,
That his courage was tried, tho' he scorn'd to disclose
How many brave fellows he 'd took by the nose.
The resort of each true constitutional Crop:
The Whig Club, of worth patriotic the nursery,
He gratis had shav'd on their grand anniversary.
Courage, politics, love, desperation, and lather:
But his hard-hearted Mistress, she set him at nought;
No gudgeon was she, nor so easily caught.
“Shall be fasten'd to me by the conjugal knot:
“No!—to Tyburn repair, if a noose you must tie,
“Other fish I have got, Mr. Tonsor, to fry.
“From Billingsgate beauties I've long born the bell:
“Nay, tripemen and fishmongers vie for my favour—
“Then d'ye think I'll take up with a Twopenny Shaver?
“Cheek by jowl with red herring be serv'd in one dish;
“Let sturgeon and sprats in one pickle unite,
“When I angle for husbands and barbers shall bite.”
To ply her with compliments soft as pomatum;
And took ev'ry occasion to flatter and praise her,
Till she fancied his wit was as keen as his razor.
'Gainst the Barber the Fishwife no more could hold out,
He applied the right bait, 'twas with flattery he caught her;
Without flattery a female 's a fish out of water.
Love's siege with redoubled exertion he press'd;
To maids, widows, and wives, fish, flesh, and red herring.
They set off for the church of St. Andrew in Holborn,
Where tonsors and trulls, country dicks and their cousins,
In the halter of wedlock are tied up by dozens.
The worthies at Rag Fair old caxons who barter;
Who the coverings of judges and counsellors' nobs
Cut down into majors, queus, scratches, and bobs:
And butchers with marrowbones smiting their cleavers;
Blind fidlers and bag-pipers, taylors and tylers,
Bawds, boot-catchers, bailiffs, and blackpudding-boilers.
As the Abbey ne'er witness'd, nor Tott'nham Court Road:
While Saint Andrew's brave bells did so loud and so clear ring,
You'd have given ten pounds to 've been out of their hearing.
As no Cash was forth-coming, he took it in kind:
So the Bridegroom dismantled his rev'rence's chin,
And the Bride entertain'd him with pilchards and gin.
A MORSEL FOR A MUSSULMAN:
OR, A REVELATION OF THE FUTURE STATE OF DECEASED FEMALES,
IN REFUTATION OF THE SUPPOSED MAHOMETAN DOCTRINE, ASSERTING THAT WOMEN HAVE NO SOULS, AND ARE EXCLUDED FROM PARADISE.
Tartara habent tristesque umbræ: sed amœna—
Concilia Elysiumque colo.
Virg. Æn. i. 5.
Her empyrëan splendour's ceaseless blaze,
And bids her groves of vegetable gold
To genial gales immortal blooms unfold;
From nectar'd streams where Houris, heavenly-fair,
Bathe the bright tresses of their odorous hair;
To Zeineb, loveliest of the passive train,
That 'midst the Haram's hated glooms complain,
Alzira's happy shade appearing, steals
A pause from bliss, and thus her state reveals:
“Thy sex a Soul, and bars them from the skies,
“That when the date of female worth expires,
“And sickening Nature yields her latest fires,
“When beams no more the lustre of the eye,
“And Death o'er Beauty hails his victory,
“To life by Fate recall'd, the Sex assume
“Celestial charms, and never-fading bloom;
“In roseate bowers recline, or blissful rove
“Thro' scenes of boundless joy and rapturous love;
“That there, so Heaven ordains, a blooming band
“Of youths, obsequious to each Fair's command,
“Attentive waits, and, as her fancy wills,
“Each task of duty or of love fulfills.—
“Who hopes this lot in Heav'n must here obey,
“Bow to superior worth, to sense refin'd,
“Bless the benignant sway of womankind,
“Hail the fair fabric of an hand divine,
“And own the soul that animates the shrine.—
“Or, driv'n for ever from the realms above,
“His soul in vain shall pant for heavenly love.”
SONNET. TO THE RED-BREAST.
When that the fields put on their gay attireSilent Thou sitst near brake or river's brim,
Whilst the glad Thrush sings loud from covert dim:
But when pale Winter lights the social fire,
And meads with slime are sprent, and ways with mire,
Thou charm'st us with thy soft and solemn hymn
From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim:
And now not seldom tun'st, as if for hire,
Thy thrilling pipe to Me, waiting to catch
The pittance due to thy well-warbled song.
Sweet Bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch,
Like Thee, myself have pleas'd the rustic throng;
And oft, for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch,
Full many a tale have told, and ditty long.
SONNET, WRITTEN AT A FARM.
Around my porch and lowly casement spreadThe myrtle never sear, and gadding vine,
With fragrant sweetbriar loves to intertwine;
And in my garden 's box-encircled bed
The pansie pied, the musk-rose, white and red,
The pink and tulip, and honied woodbine,
Fling odours round; the flaunting eglantine
Decks my trim fence, 'neath which, by Silence led,
The Wren hath wisely fram'd her mossy cell;
And, far from noise in courtly land so rife,
Nestles her young to rest and warbles well:
Here in this safe retreat and peaceful glen
I pass my sober moments, far from men,
Nor wishing death too soon, nor asking life.
THE PARADOX:
OR, NED FRIGHTENED OUT OF HIS WITS.
Hor. Ep. l. i. ep. 13.
Ned stagger'd from the tavern door,
And falling, in his drunken fits,
Crippled his nose and lost his wits;
But, from the kennel soon emerging,
His nose repairs by help of surgeon:
That done, the leech peeps in his brain
To find his Wits,—but peeps in vain.
“'Tis hard,” the patient cries, “to lose
“Wits not a whit the worse for use;
“Wits which I always laid aside
“For great occasions, cut and dried;”
('Tho' here the case was falsely put:
His wits were dried, himself was cut.)
“That for a century lies fallow;
“Wits never prodigally wasted;
“Like choice conserves, but rarely tasted:
“Wits husbanded, not spent at random;
“Cork'd up like cordials for my grandam:
“Wits, which, if all your wealth could buy—sir,
“You would not be a jot the wiser.”
A fellow-feeling of his case,
Yet still, to shew their wits were sound,
His boon companions throng around,
And sagely, one and all, accost him;
“Zounds, Ned! I wonder how you lost 'em!”
For miracles will never cease!
And, if Ned's loss of wits astound 'em,
Zounds!—how they'll wonder when he 's found 'em!
ADDRESS OF AN INDIAN GIRL TO AN ADDER.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1740, BY A SCHOLAR OF WINCHESTER COLLEGE.
Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake;
But let me oft thy form review,
Thy sparkling eyes, and golden hue:
From thence a chaplet shall be wove
To grace the youth I dearest love.
Shalt glide along the sunny shore,
Thy copied beauties shall be seen;
Thy vermeil red and living green
In mimic folds thou shalt display:
Stay, lovely, fearful ADDER, stay!
TO A GRASSHOPPER.
Anthol.
Who, the verdant bowers among
Where the rose of richest hue,
Crimson pink, and violet blue,
By soft breath of Zephyr fann'd,
Fling around their odours bland,
Lov'st thy small melodious lip
In the new-fall'n dew to dip:
The amaranth, and eglantine,
And all the fields produce is thine;
All her treasures, all her stores,
Nature for thy use explores:
Thee the nymphs and swains revere,
Golden Summer's harbinger!
Thee, the favourite of the Nine,
Phœbus grac'd with song divine:
Fit to dwell the Gods among,
Happiest of the Insect throng!
IMITATION FROM THE GREEK.
Anthol.
Old Elwes once espied a Mouse
In the Dry Corner of his house:
And, though he had no cause to fear,
“Curse you!” quoth he, “what do you here?”
The Mouse indignant rais'd his head,
And thus, but without passion, said:
“That had on earth another home.
“'Tis not the risk we run, not that;
“You ha'n't the heart to keep a cat.
“Then traps we know, are never set,
“And why? because you grudge the bait.
“We 're in security, I grant,
“But, safe from danger, die for want:
“Tho' I should lodge here, why fear you?
“When do you roast, or bake, or brew?
“The Mouse that trusted to your shelf
“Would soon grow leaner than Yourself:
“For never a morsel did I see
“To put to the test my honesty.
“But I disdain, Sir, to intrude
“After your speech so gross and rude;
“And think not that I make pretence,
“Upon my honour I'll go hence:
“For in the rest of all your house
“There's no fit lodging for a Mouse.”
While his relation, the late Colonel Tims, was visiting Mr. Elwes at his house at Marcham, in Berkshire, a heavy shower falling in the night, he found the rain dropping through the cieling upon his bed, on which he immediately rose and moved the bed from its place; he had, however, scarcely got into it again ere he found the same inconvenience recur and oblige him to have recourse a second time to the same experiment, which still proved ineffectual. At length, after having pushed his bed quite round the room, he gained a corner where the cieling was better secured, and there he slept till morning. When he encountered his host at breakfast, he told him what had happened.—“Aye, aye!” said the old gentlemen, seriously, “I don't mind it myself; but to those who do, that is “a nice Corner, in the rain.”—See the Life of John Elwes, Esq. page 13.
LINES ON THE LATE AMERICAN WAR.
And a sad squealing sure it made;
Kill-pig stood by with knife and steel:
“Lie quiet, can't you!—Why d'ye squeal?
“Have I not fed you with my pease,
“And now, for trifles such as these
“Will you rebel?—Brimful of victual,
“Won't you be kill'd and cur'd a little?”
To whom thus Piggy in reply:
“Think'st thou that I shall quiet lie,
“And that for pease my life I'll barter?”—
“Then Piggy, you must shew your charter;
“Shew you 're exempted more than others,
“Else go to pot like all your brothers.— [Pig struggles.
“I think I cannot hold him long.
“Help, neighbours! I can't keep him under!
“Where are ye all?—See, by your blunder,
“He's burst his cords!—A brute uncivil,
“He's gone!—I'll after.”—
CHORUS OF NEIGHBOURS.
To the devil! &c.
EXTEMPORE
ON A SNARLING AGENT OF LORD A*******'S AT WHITEHAM, NEAR OXFORD.
I am his Lordship's Dog at Whiteham,And whom he bids me bite, I bite 'em.
THE SYSTEM SHATTERED.
Hor.
See clamorous Ch****s—who tooth and nail
Administration fought—turn tail,
And sullen from the House secede
Where none his trite invective heed!
“Inaction I'll indulge,” he cries;
“The mob have too much sense to rise:
“And, in this dearth of knaves and fools,
“I cannot work without my tools:
“Nay what 'though of our club the chair I
“Adorn, as grand Whig-Luminary,
“Dispensing patriotic sunshine,
“While we exhaust the brandy puncheon;
“Yet, says the history divine,
“‘The Sun stood still;’—Then so shall mine:
“And—till its warmth Sedition's egg
“Has hatch'd—I will not stir a peg:
“Maintain my system of inaction,
“And to all effort give remission,
“Torpedo of the Opposition.”
He ended—When his chère amie
Bet A*******—sitting on his knee—
Anxious the rash resolve to check,
Threw her white arms about his neck:
“Alas, this system of inaction
“Dear Ch****s, has in thy skull a crack shewn!”—
“Zounds,” cried the patriot—while she kiss'd him—
“You baggage—you've destroy'd my system!”
EPIGRAMS.
ON A FAVOURITE DOG, WHO REGULARLY ACCOMPANIED HIS MISTRESS TO CHURCH.
'Tis held by folks of deep research,He 's a good Dog who goes to church:
As good I hold him every whit
Who stays at home and turns the spit.
For 'though good Dogs to church may go,
Yet going there don't make them so.
[While Dick to combs hostility proclaims]
While Dick to combs hostility proclaims,A neighbouring taper sets his hair in flames.—
The blaze extinct, permit us to inquire:
“Were there no lives lost, Richard, in this Fire?”
IGNOTUM OMNE PRO MAGNIFICO.
Averse to pamper'd and high-mettled steeds,His own upon chopt straw Avaro feeds:
Bred in his stable, in his paddock born,
What vast ideas they must have of Corn!
A CASE OF CONSCIENCE; SUBMITTED TO A LATE DIGNITARY OF THE CHURCH
ON HIS NARCOTIC EXPOSITION OF THE FOLLOWING TEXT
“Watch and pray, lest ye enter into temptation.”
By our Pastor perplext,
How shall we determine?—
“Watch and pray,” says the Text,
“Go to sleep,” says the Sermon.
EPIGRAM.
Some of the Bread with which the French fed their prisoners of war, having been brought to this Country, was analyzed by the direction of Lord Grenville; and found to have been made of horse-beans, together with some ingredients of a coarser quality, mixed with a certain proportion of common Sand.
France kneads her captive's crust?—
'Tis but to execute her threat:
“My foes shall bite the dust.”
IMPROMPTU,
IN ADMIRATION OF THE DOWNY LUXURIANCE FAINTLY SHADOWING THE LOWER HEMISPHERE OF AN HEAVENLY COUNTENANCE.
Saint Thomas Aquinas all angels supposesWith beards are provided as well as with noses:
Yet no text has been found to confirm what he saith,
And make it an item of orthodox faith.—
Sure to help a lame Saint o'er a stile is no sin!
“You 'll find chapter and verse, Tom, on Caroline's chin.”
A celebrated teacher of school-divinity in the universities of Italy, about the middle of the thirteenth century, commonly called the Angelical Doctor.
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF DICK, AN ACADEMICAL CAT.
—Hor. Carm. lib. i. ode 12.
Exult, ye Mice!—for Fate's abhorred shears
Of Dick's nine lives have slit the catguts nine
Henceforth he mews 'midst choirs of Cats divine!
Though nine successive lives protract their date,
E'en Cats themselves obey the call of Fate;
Whose formidable fiat sets afloat
Mortals, and mortal Cats, in Charon's boat:
Fate, who Cats, Dogs, and Doctors makes his prize
That grace Great Britain's Universities.
Of gloomy Acheron Dick travell'd post?
Say, did ye haunt the literary bower
Where Science sends her sons in stockings blue
To barter praise for soup with Montague?
Or point prepare for Boswel's anecdote,
Or songs inspire, and fit 'em to his throat?—
For not on Isis' classic shores ye stray'd,
Nor brew'd with Cherwell's wave your lemonade;
Nor assignations kept with grizzled elves,
Where learning sleeps on Bodley's groaning shelves;
Nor, where no poet glows with kindred fire,
Wept o'er your favourite Warton's silent lyre.
Of faded prudes the four-legg'd pensioners)
On the soft sofa rang'd in order due,
For eleemosynary muffin mew,
Regardless of the meed that Fame bestows,
Their tail a feather for each wind that blows;
Thee, generous Dick, the Cat-controlling powers
Ordain'd to mouse in academic bower's:
Bade thee the sacred stream of sapience sip,
And in Piërean cream thy whiskers dip!
The sable matron, from whose loins he sprung,
Who traced her high descent through ages dark
From Cats that caterwaul'd in Noah's Ark,
Stern, brindled nurse, with unremitting care,
To high achievements train'd her tabby heir;
On patriot Cats his young attention fix'd,
And many a cuff with grave instruction mix'd;
Taught the great truth, to half his race unknown:
“Cats are not kitten'd for themselves alone;
“But hold from Heav'n their delegated claws,
“Guardians of larders, liberties, and laws.”
“Slumber in bee-hive chairs, in dairies dine;
“Shun thou the shades of Cat-enfeebling ease!
“Watch o'er the weal of Rhedycinian cheese;
“The melting marble of collegiate brawn
“For heads of houses guard, and lords in lawn;
“And keep each recreant rat and mouse in awe
“That dares to shew his nose in Golgotha.
“Thy riper years and active virtue crown!—
“Say, shall not cats, fraught with ethereal fire,
“To seats of lettered eminence aspire?—
“Caligula a consul made his steed;
“What though the beast could neither write nor read,
“Yet could he talents negative display,
“And silence Opposition with his neigh.
“If Charles of Sweden swore he would depute,
“The senate to control, his old jack boot;
“If modern taste a learned Pig reveres,
“And pigs unlearn'd keep company with peers;
“If erst Rome's papal crown a gossip wore,
“Then, Dick, thou may'st become Vice-chancellor.
“To see thee stalk behind thy beadles, Dick!
“Behold, my brindled boy, with conscious pride
“O'er convocated grizzle-wigs preside!
“Hear thee, e'er I explore my latest home,
“Confer degrees in Sheldon's spacious dome!
“And at Saint Mary's venerably purr!—
“Then let me be translated to the skies,
“And close in welcome death these gooseb'ry eyes!
“Her glorious palm, unearn'd, to grace thy brows:
“By toil Herculean, and profound research,
“Expect to thrive in politics or church!
“The herd who worship at preferment's shrine
“No servile task, no sacrifice, decline;
“Courtiers for coronets their conscience pawn,
“Clerks in prunello crawl, then soar in lawn.
“See, with the riband grac'd and radiant star,
“The chief that waged the Continental war!
“Such palms diminish'd realms can yet afford
“To patriotic H**e's protracting sword!
“See Wilkes, entrusted with the City Key
“Till he made fools of all the Livery!
“See grov'ling S**** the wealth of India share:
“He taught the Hindù race to feed on air!
“Not such his toil, not such his vast reward.
“He bade the gems of science brighter shine;
“His care retriev'd each venerable name
“Reft by Oblivion from the rolls of Fame,
“And with new glory crown'd the strains sublime
“That echoed from the harps of elder time.
“'Twas his 'midst mouldering palms of chivalry,
“To braid the deathless blooms of poesy;
“On learning's gloom the rays of taste to pour,
“And gild with genuine wit the social hour;
“Affection and applause alike he shar'd;
“All lov'd the man, all venerate the bard:
“Ev'n Prejudice his fate afflicted hears,
“And letter'd Envy sheds reluctant tears.—
“Candour and wit—behold the Recompence!
“No sinecure, no venerable stall,
“He fills, o'ercanopied with crimson pall;
“No choir obsequious waits his dread commands,
“Where supple vergers pace with silver wands;
“Where soft reclines in velvet pomp supreme,
“Divinity entranc'd in mitrous dream:
“For, ah! what fellowship has wealth with wit!
“Such worth the Laurel could alone repay,
“Profan'd by Cibber, and contemn'd by Gray;
“Yet hence its wreath shall new distinction claim,
“And, though it gave not, take from Warton fame.”
Dick's breast with emulative ardour glows;
His emerald eyes with richer radiance roll,
And all the Cat awakens in his soul.
Within the tender velvet of his paw,
Though yet unbloodied, lurks each virgin claw,
Anticipated palms his hope descries,
And conquests gain'd o'er visionary mice:
Though much for milk, more for renown he mews,
And nobler objects than his tail pursues.
To sing the triumphs of his riper years!
What congregated rats his valour quell'd!
What mice descended, at each direful blow,
To nibble brimstone in the realms below!—
The victor, who his foes in furious mood
Hurl'd from the Granic to the Stygian flood;
Churchill, whose bounty fainting Frenchmen gave
Soup-meagre gratis in the Danube's wave;
Heathfield, whose red-hot vengeance Spain defied,
Blist'ring, like Spanish flies, old Neptune's hide;
Who plung'd his enemies, a whisker'd group,
In green waves twice as hot as green pease' soup,
While Fate on Calpe's summit sat and smil'd
To see the dingy Dons like lobsters boil'd,
Or by the lightning of the exploded shell
Dispatch'd to seek a cooler birth in hell—
All heroes, bloody, brave, or politic,
All, all should yield pre-eminence to Dick:
And everlasting laurels, thick as hops,
Wreath their bright foliage round his brindled chops.
Of conquerors and kings, of cats and mice,
Three centuries, unspectacled, to see,
Yet summon'd from his patriot toils away
Illustrious Dick, before his beard was grey?
Of valour, sense, or skill, how vain the boast!—
Dick seeks the shades, an undistinguish'd ghost,
And turns his tail on this terrestrial ball,
Dismiss'd without Mandamus Medical;
Sent, without purge or catapotium,
In prime of cat-hood to the catacomb;
No doctor fee'd, no regimen advis'd,
Unpill'd, unpoultic'd, unphlebotomiz'd!
Who for preferment would turn Cat in pan?
Since Clergymen and Cats one fate betides,
And worms shall eat their sermons and their hides!
Shall bless their stars that they still stink alive;
Muskcats shall feel a melancholy qualm,
And with their sweets departed Dick embalm;
Cats in each clime and latitude that dwell,
Brown, sable, sandy, grey, and tortoiseshell,
Tom, Tybert, Roger, Rutterkin, or Puss;
Cats who with wayward hags the moon control,
Unchain the winds, and bid the thunders roll;
Brave in enchanted sieves the boist'rous main,
And royal barks with adverse blasts detain;
Nay, Two-legg'd Cats, as well as Cats with four,
Shall Dick's irreparable loss deplore.
As buckram stiff, and bearded like the pard;
Calumnious Cats who circulate faux pas,
And reputation maul with murd'rous claws;
Shrill Cats whom fierce domestic brawls delight,
Cross Cats who nothing want but teeth to bite,
Starch Cats of puritanic aspect sad,
And learned Cats who talk their husbands mad;
Confounded Cats who cough, and croak, and cry,
And maudlin Cats who drink eternally;
Prim Cats of countenance and mien precise,
Yet oft'ner hankering for men than mice;
Curst Cats whom nought but castigation checks,
Penurious Cats who buy their coals by pecks,
Fastidious Cats who pine for costly cates,
And jealous Cats who catechise their mates;
Cat-prudes who, when they're ask'd the question, squall,
And ne'er give answer categorical;
Uncleanly Cats who never pare their nails,
Cat-gossips full of Canterbury tales,
Cat-grandams vex'd with asthmas and catarrhs,
And superstitious Cats who curse their stars;
Cats who their favours barter for a bribe,
And canting Cats, the worst of all the tribe!
Who at quadrille remorseless mouse for gold;
Cats of each class, craft, calling, and degree
Mourn Dick's calamitous catastrophe.
Ye sympathizing Cats, your tears suspend!
Then shed enough to float a dozen whales,
And use, for pocket-handkerchiefs, your tails!—
Dick his own sprats, like Bamber Gascoigne, dress'd:
But to the advocates of truth 'tis known,
He neither staid for grace nor gridiron.
Raw sprats he swore were worth all fish beside,
Fresh, stale, stew'd, spitchcock'd, fricasseed, or fried:
Then swallow'd down a score without remorse,
And three fat mice slew for his second course:
But, while the third his grinders dyed with gore,
Sudden those grinders clos'd—to grind no more!
And (dire to tell!) commission'd by old Nick,
A catalepsy made an end of Dick.
Where blood, to gravy turn'd, embrown'd his blade,
(That all-encountering blade which scorn'd to fear
Broil'd gizzards charg'd with Kian-gunpowder)
From rais'd crust levell'd never more to rise,
From ducks dispatch'd, and massacred minc'd pies,
From turkey-poults transfix'd, and sirloins slash'd,
From marrow-puddings maul'd, and custards quash'd,
Crimpt cod, and mutilated mackarel,
And desolation of the turtle's shell
Some Alderman of giant appetite
A surfeit sweeps to everlasting night:
Imbibing claret with his latest breath,
And brandishing his knife and fork in death,
Downward a gormandizing ghost he goes,
And bears to hell fresh fuel on his nose;
For Calipash explores the infernal scene,
And wishes Phlegethon one vast Terrene.
My soul, and turns my tears to cataracts,
Dick, premier Cat upon the catalogue
Of Cats that grace a caterwauling age,
Scar'd by Fate's cat-call quits this earthly stage;
Dire fled the arrow that laid Richard flat,
And sickening Glory saw Death shoot a Cat.
No vase thy relics rare to fame consign,
No rev'rend characters thy rank express,
Nor hail thee, Dick! D. D. nor F. R. S.
Though no funereal cypress shade thy tomb,
For thee the wreaths of Paradise shall bloom.
There, while Grimalkin's mew her Richard greets,
A thousand Cats shall purr on purple seats:
E'en now I see, descending from his throne,
Thy venerable Cat, O Whittington!
The kindred excellence of Richard hail,
And wave with joy his gratulating tail!
There shall the worthies of the whisker'd race
Elysian Mice o'er floors of sapphire chase,
Midst beds of aromatic marum stray,
Or raptur'd rove beside the Milky Way.
Whose bright eyes glisten with immortal green,
Shall smooth for tabby swains their yielding fur,
And to their amorous mews assenting purr.
There, like Alcmena's, shall Grimalkin's son
In bliss repose,—his mousing labours done,
Fate, envy, curs, time, tide, and traps defy,
And caterwaul to all eternity!
Golgotha, “the place of a scull,” a name ludicrously appropriated to the place in which the Heads of Colleges assemble.
The social porker here alluded to, is well known to have been the assiduous companion of Lord M---t Edg---'s excursions.
On the death of Cibber, the place of Poet Laureate was offered by Lord John Cavendish, at the desire of the late Duke of Devonshire, then Lord Chamberlain, to Mr. Gray, who refused to accept it. See Mason's Memoirs of the Life and Writings of Gray.
Rutterkin.—A cat of this name was cater-cousin to the great great great great great great great great great grandmother of Grimalkin; and first cat in the caterie of an old woman, who was tried for bewitching a daughter of the Countess of Rutland in the beginning of the sixteenth century.
“Moreover she confessed, that she took a cat and christened it, &c. &c. and that in the night following, the said cat was conveyed in the middest of the sea by all these witches sayling in their riddles, or cives, and so left the said cat right before the towne of Leith in Scotland. This doone, there did arise such a tempest at sea, as a greater hath not been seen, &c.”
“Againe it is confessed, that the said christened Cat was the cause of the Kinges Majestie's shippe, at his comming forthe of Denmarke, had a contrarie winde to the rest of the shippes then beeing in his companie, which thing was most straunge and true, as the Kinges Majestie acknowledgeth, for when the rest of the shippes had a fair and goode winde, then was the winde contrarie and altogether against his Majestie, &c.”
Old Pamphlet entitled, “Newes from Scotland, &c. &c. &c.” Printed in the year 1591, by William Wright.
Oraque vana movet, dentemque in dente fatigat,
Exercetque cibo delusum gutter inani,
Proque epulis tenues nequicquàm devorat auras.
Ovid. Met. lib. viii.
The poems of George Huddesford | ||