 | Poetical sketches |  |
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THE NORTH SHORE.
POETS and Painters still have vied
In sketching Scarbro's southern side;
Attracted by the sunny glow,
The fort above, the port below,
It's cliff, it's spa, it's four-in-hand
Light flying o'er the yellow strand—
And all the lovely, all the gay,
Which form it's long et cætera.
In sketching Scarbro's southern side;
Attracted by the sunny glow,
The fort above, the port below,
It's cliff, it's spa, it's four-in-hand
Light flying o'er the yellow strand—
And all the lovely, all the gay,
Which form it's long et cætera.
Like insect-motes in summer air
Gaily we flutter here and there;
Light on each flower in radiance drest,
Which to the day-star spreads it's breast;
In quest of kindred triflers stray,
And buz our little hour away:
But ever with due caution flee
Thy sunless crags, Adversity!
Yet painters there might well discern
Nature magnificently stern;
And poets ethically trace
Apt lessons for an erring race—
For, on the mountain's frowning side,
Oft does sublimity reside:
Within life's melancholy cell
The gentler virtues often dwell;
And many a gem of moral lore
Is strew'd upon her rugged shore.
Gaily we flutter here and there;
Light on each flower in radiance drest,
Which to the day-star spreads it's breast;
In quest of kindred triflers stray,
And buz our little hour away:
But ever with due caution flee
Thy sunless crags, Adversity!
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Nature magnificently stern;
And poets ethically trace
Apt lessons for an erring race—
For, on the mountain's frowning side,
Oft does sublimity reside:
Within life's melancholy cell
The gentler virtues often dwell;
And many a gem of moral lore
Is strew'd upon her rugged shore.
Not for such precious gatherings there
Does restless Tottergait repair:
Enough he thought his early youth
Had hunted academic truth,
Where Euclid taught him to define
Precisely straight from crooked line ;
When he his flinching hand and cue
From birch and ferula withdrew—
O deem not thou unfriendly those
Or to Greek verse, or Latin prose:
Flogging of laziness the doom is,
Ignaviam pœna premit comes;
And genius oft will sleep or swerve,
Till birch explore the hidden nerve
Where school-boy's agony is born:
Then bright and vigorous as the morn,
When Phœbus mounts and streaks the east,
He rushes from inglorious rest;
And on careering pinion whirl'd,
Streams light on an adoring world.
Does restless Tottergait repair:
Enough he thought his early youth
Had hunted academic truth,
Where Euclid taught him to define
Precisely straight from crooked line ;
When he his flinching hand and cue
From birch and ferula withdrew—
O deem not thou unfriendly those
Or to Greek verse, or Latin prose:
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Ignaviam pœna premit comes;
And genius oft will sleep or swerve,
Till birch explore the hidden nerve
Where school-boy's agony is born:
Then bright and vigorous as the morn,
When Phœbus mounts and streaks the east,
He rushes from inglorious rest;
And on careering pinion whirl'd,
Streams light on an adoring world.
But Tottergait, alert and bold,
Like him the crane-neck'd chief of old,
With laurels whose bald pate to hide
Full six score human myriads died,
On Latian or on foreign plains—
Thinks nothing done while aught remains ;
And hence, by him their Cæsar led,
The northern shore his party tread.
Like him the crane-neck'd chief of old,
With laurels whose bald pate to hide
Full six score human myriads died,
On Latian or on foreign plains—
Thinks nothing done while aught remains ;
And hence, by him their Cæsar led,
The northern shore his party tread.
Here sought I to protract my verse,
The toilsome march I might rehearse—
Long Room Street straight, and Newbrough broad;
And Queen Street fair, so lies the road;
And, stretching far as eye can see,
The everlasting Ropery!
The toilsome march I might rehearse—
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And Queen Street fair, so lies the road;
And, stretching far as eye can see,
The everlasting Ropery!
Then might I minutes five or six,
Their foot upon the isthmus fix:
(The twin-sea'd drawbridge heaving still,
Blow the light wind which way it will)
Ere down the steep and rough descent
Their steps, precipitate, are bent.
Ella, there is no cause for fear—
At least, Avernus yawns not here:
For thitherward the slope was facile,
Or Virgil represents the place ill.
Yet, ere thy light foot totters down,
With bird's eye glance survey the town;
And, as thou view'st it's narrow space,
Think what keen throbs it's bounds embrace:
How many a brow with gladness shines,
How many a heart in silence pines,
Contrasted with the billows' roar
Aye surging on yon dreary shore!
Their foot upon the isthmus fix:
(The twin-sea'd drawbridge heaving still,
Blow the light wind which way it will)
Ere down the steep and rough descent
Their steps, precipitate, are bent.
Ella, there is no cause for fear—
At least, Avernus yawns not here:
For thitherward the slope was facile,
Or Virgil represents the place ill.
Yet, ere thy light foot totters down,
With bird's eye glance survey the town;
And, as thou view'st it's narrow space,
Think what keen throbs it's bounds embrace:
How many a brow with gladness shines,
How many a heart in silence pines,
Contrasted with the billows' roar
Aye surging on yon dreary shore!
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Think too, where opens at thy feet
That hideous chasm, the seas might meet—
As some have dreamt—were human art
Summon'd to execute her part!
But feebler arm than his, who rent
Huge Athos from it's continent,
Might scarcely hope with ductile tide
The ocean's whelming mass to guide;
Or bid the wave it's sweep forego,
And in contracted channel flow.
That hideous chasm, the seas might meet—
As some have dreamt—were human art
Summon'd to execute her part!
But feebler arm than his, who rent
Huge Athos from it's continent,
Might scarcely hope with ductile tide
The ocean's whelming mass to guide;
Or bid the wave it's sweep forego,
And in contracted channel flow.
These ponderings burthen not the brain
Of him, who leads the lovely train:
Yet think he must, on that lone strand
Where shipless sea and houseless land,
With features congruously rude,
Share the sad reign of solitude.
Scarce e'en a shell or pebble there
Rewards the solitary strayer,
Though all unrivall'd in the chace
The melancholy beach he trace,
And leave no stone unturn'd, no labour
Spare, to outvie his south-shore neighbour.
Of him, who leads the lovely train:
Yet think he must, on that lone strand
Where shipless sea and houseless land,
With features congruously rude,
Share the sad reign of solitude.
Scarce e'en a shell or pebble there
Rewards the solitary strayer,
Though all unrivall'd in the chace
The melancholy beach he trace,
And leave no stone unturn'd, no labour
Spare, to outvie his south-shore neighbour.
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Not Selkirk more disconsolate
On green Fernandez' margin sate,
His eyes around th' horizon veering
With hope of distant speck appearing,
To animate the lifeless scene
And give him back the sight of men,
Than Tottergait his glance aghast
Across the watery desert cast.
In vain, he turn'd himself about:
Life, on all sides, seem'd ‘quite shut out!’
Wither'd by Winter's early breath,
That stunted grass announces death;
The sea-weed, in vast ruin piled,
Speaks tempest's triumphs wide and wild;
Scatter'd around yon lonely tree,
The leaves proclaim mortality:
The very Castle seems to say,
‘Strong as I was, I've had my day.’
“Turn we then southward, girls, our feet,
“I love the human face to meet.
“—Ha! sure yon object seems to move:
“The surge has given some crag a shove;
“And see, it strangely rolls this way—
“We shall be crush'd if long we stay:
“Haste, daughters—Ocean's music wild
(And at his own quaint thought he smil'd)
“Is that, which moved rocks of old;
“And hence in metaphor we're told
“Of Orpheus' and Amphion's shell,
“And his whom dolphins loved so well,
“That o'er the stormy main they bore
“Him safely to his native shore.”
On green Fernandez' margin sate,
His eyes around th' horizon veering
With hope of distant speck appearing,
To animate the lifeless scene
And give him back the sight of men,
Than Tottergait his glance aghast
Across the watery desert cast.
In vain, he turn'd himself about:
Life, on all sides, seem'd ‘quite shut out!’
Wither'd by Winter's early breath,
That stunted grass announces death;
The sea-weed, in vast ruin piled,
Speaks tempest's triumphs wide and wild;
Scatter'd around yon lonely tree,
The leaves proclaim mortality:
The very Castle seems to say,
‘Strong as I was, I've had my day.’
“Turn we then southward, girls, our feet,
“I love the human face to meet.
“—Ha! sure yon object seems to move:
“The surge has given some crag a shove;
“And see, it strangely rolls this way—
“We shall be crush'd if long we stay:
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(And at his own quaint thought he smil'd)
“Is that, which moved rocks of old;
“And hence in metaphor we're told
“Of Orpheus' and Amphion's shell,
“And his whom dolphins loved so well,
“That o'er the stormy main they bore
“Him safely to his native shore.”
Lo! from his cheek the smile is gone,
And forward fast he hurries on.
More clearly to his vision shown
A horse, it's gentle rider thrown,
Scared by the boist'rous billows, flies—
And hark! that gentle rider's cries!
No more the solitude he mourns:
His youthful chivalry returns;
And, with the speed he used to know
Full half a century ago,
He springs—forgetful of his years!
Whom would not move a lady's tears?
More potent they than charmed juice
In age youth's vigour to infuse;
And, with the magic drops imbued,
Re-sinew e'en decrepitude.
And forward fast he hurries on.
More clearly to his vision shown
A horse, it's gentle rider thrown,
Scared by the boist'rous billows, flies—
And hark! that gentle rider's cries!
No more the solitude he mourns:
His youthful chivalry returns;
And, with the speed he used to know
Full half a century ago,
He springs—forgetful of his years!
Whom would not move a lady's tears?
More potent they than charmed juice
In age youth's vigour to infuse;
And, with the magic drops imbued,
Re-sinew e'en decrepitude.
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The fallen fair one on her steed
Re-seated, homeward they proceed:
And, as King Lewis with his train
March'd up the hill, and down again;
So Tottergait with converse toil,
Tired of old Ocean's loud turmoil,
His having march'd down to the main,
Prepares to march them up again!
With straining steps the cliff they climb,
And with their ramble ends the rhyme.
Re-seated, homeward they proceed:
And, as King Lewis with his train
March'd up the hill, and down again;
So Tottergait with converse toil,
Tired of old Ocean's loud turmoil,
His having march'd down to the main,
Prepares to march them up again!
With straining steps the cliff they climb,
And with their ramble ends the rhyme.
W.
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THE WARM BATH.
BATHS and the nymph I sing, who waits,
Assiduous Touter ! at the gates;
Anxious with cards, her name that bear,
To catch th' arriving traveller;
Lest nimbler claimants step between,
To recommend their own machine.
She patient, with her pockets full,
Sits all day opposite the Bull:
Happy, that lords her tickets took—
Too happy might she duck a duke!
Assiduous Touter ! at the gates;
Anxious with cards, her name that bear,
To catch th' arriving traveller;
Lest nimbler claimants step between,
To recommend their own machine.
She patient, with her pockets full,
Sits all day opposite the Bull:
Happy, that lords her tickets took—
Too happy might she duck a duke!
‘But of Dame Ducker why this stir?
‘Another bard will sing of her:
‘And, if your depth you wish to show
‘By learned Tract de Balneo,
‘Long since Andrea Baccio
‘Told us, in his huge tome de Thermis,
‘What a cold bath—and what a warm is:
‘For who would venture on lavation,
‘Without such previous information?
‘You've read, no doubt, and well could state his
‘De Tepidis, de Temperatis;
‘What Buxtons were in Latium found,
‘To bless the medicated ground;
‘What Harrogates for taste and smell—
‘As nose and palate both can tell ;
‘Chalybeate, leaden, golden springs;
‘The latter—what delightful things!
‘In this bank-paper token age,
‘Had we such, they'd be all the rage;
‘And ministers, with such Pactolus,
‘No more with rags and lead cajole us!
‘Of Titus next perhaps you'd tell,
‘Who dipp'd, as he did all things, well;
‘On Dioclesian's baths dissert,
‘Vast lakes to scour imperial dirt:
‘(As if our English loyalty
‘Could e'er surmise a prince might be,
‘Great as he is by art and nature,
‘At bottom but a dirty creature,
‘And from his elevated seat
‘More water ask'd to make him sweet!)
‘Then, fast as muse's wing can strain,
‘Hurry your readers o'er to Spain:
‘And bid them at th' Alhambra stare,
‘Though Salamanca still is there;
‘And Wellington his banner waves,
‘By tyrants only fear'd and slaves.
‘Another bard will sing of her:
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‘By learned Tract de Balneo,
‘Long since Andrea Baccio
‘Told us, in his huge tome de Thermis,
‘What a cold bath—and what a warm is:
‘For who would venture on lavation,
‘Without such previous information?
‘You've read, no doubt, and well could state his
‘De Tepidis, de Temperatis;
‘What Buxtons were in Latium found,
‘To bless the medicated ground;
‘What Harrogates for taste and smell—
‘As nose and palate both can tell ;
‘Chalybeate, leaden, golden springs;
‘The latter—what delightful things!
‘In this bank-paper token age,
‘Had we such, they'd be all the rage;
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‘No more with rags and lead cajole us!
‘Of Titus next perhaps you'd tell,
‘Who dipp'd, as he did all things, well;
‘On Dioclesian's baths dissert,
‘Vast lakes to scour imperial dirt:
‘(As if our English loyalty
‘Could e'er surmise a prince might be,
‘Great as he is by art and nature,
‘At bottom but a dirty creature,
‘And from his elevated seat
‘More water ask'd to make him sweet!)
‘Then, fast as muse's wing can strain,
‘Hurry your readers o'er to Spain:
‘And bid them at th' Alhambra stare,
‘Though Salamanca still is there;
‘And Wellington his banner waves,
‘By tyrants only fear'd and slaves.
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‘Toledo's turrets, black and white,
‘Look lovely, in the pale moon light;
‘And were the magic pencil mine,
‘To sketch and fill the fair design,
‘Bid here the dome's huge convex bend,
‘There castles frown and spires ascend;
‘Above, the mountain rear it's brow,
‘The valley's plenty laugh below;
‘I'd trace a scene should quickly call
‘You, lingering from the ruin'd hall
‘Where old Abderrahman reposed,
‘When sleep his Moorish eye-lids closed;
‘And make you deem—so rich the view—
‘What you have read of Eden true!
‘To Scott alone such pencil's given,
‘Dipt in the rainbow hues of heaven:
‘He only might permitted be
‘(Such the true poet's witchery)
‘If call'd on English baths to rhyme,
‘Bravely neglecting space and time,
‘With Rome's sad wrecks to mock our sense,
‘Or Saracen magnificence;
‘And whirl the veriest torpedo
‘Now to Grenada, now Toledo!
‘Befits not one of humbler wing,
‘Aught but the theme assign'd to sing.’
‘Look lovely, in the pale moon light;
‘And were the magic pencil mine,
‘To sketch and fill the fair design,
‘Bid here the dome's huge convex bend,
‘There castles frown and spires ascend;
‘Above, the mountain rear it's brow,
‘The valley's plenty laugh below;
‘I'd trace a scene should quickly call
‘You, lingering from the ruin'd hall
‘Where old Abderrahman reposed,
‘When sleep his Moorish eye-lids closed;
‘And make you deem—so rich the view—
‘What you have read of Eden true!
‘To Scott alone such pencil's given,
‘Dipt in the rainbow hues of heaven:
‘He only might permitted be
‘(Such the true poet's witchery)
‘If call'd on English baths to rhyme,
‘Bravely neglecting space and time,
‘With Rome's sad wrecks to mock our sense,
‘Or Saracen magnificence;
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‘Now to Grenada, now Toledo!
‘Befits not one of humbler wing,
‘Aught but the theme assign'd to sing.’
On theme, so limited, 'tis hard
For gifted or ungifted bard,
Standing on one leg or a pair,
To bring two hundred lines to bear .
Had I been summon'd to describe
In lengthen'd strain th' amphibious tribe,
Half nereids they, half flesh and blood,
Though most at home when in the flood;
I would have framed fit invocation,
To herald my versification—
For gifted or ungifted bard,
Standing on one leg or a pair,
To bring two hundred lines to bear .
Had I been summon'd to describe
In lengthen'd strain th' amphibious tribe,
Half nereids they, half flesh and blood,
Though most at home when in the flood;
I would have framed fit invocation,
To herald my versification—
“O come, Hygeia, wrapt in mantle blue,
“Thy cheek besprent with spray, the billows' dew!
“Traverse thy yellow sands with ancle bare,
“Arms more than rosy red, and dripping hair;
“And all thy temples' portals flinging wide,
“Which tower (like fanes Venetian) o'er the tide,
“Give to thy morning worshippers to lave,
“With pure ablution, in the cleansing wave!
“But ah! too like the fount of Salmacis ,
“Goddess, thy cleansing wave at Scarbro' is;
“Where in gross union male and female blend,
“Thy rites too social for the pure t'attend.”
“Thy cheek besprent with spray, the billows' dew!
“Traverse thy yellow sands with ancle bare,
“Arms more than rosy red, and dripping hair;
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“Which tower (like fanes Venetian) o'er the tide,
“Give to thy morning worshippers to lave,
“With pure ablution, in the cleansing wave!
“But ah! too like the fount of Salmacis ,
“Goddess, thy cleansing wave at Scarbro' is;
“Where in gross union male and female blend,
“Thy rites too social for the pure t'attend.”
These, and a thousand distichs more,
I could have penn'd upon the shore:
To Amphitrite sung a sonnet,
Or mermaid, as without a bonnet
She fingers o'er her sea-green locks,
And makes her toilet 'mid the rocks:
No more with comb and glass they dress
At Exmouth, or at Inverness ;
But listeners showery sounds surprise
Of wild Æolian melodies!
I could have penn'd upon the shore:
To Amphitrite sung a sonnet,
Or mermaid, as without a bonnet
She fingers o'er her sea-green locks,
And makes her toilet 'mid the rocks:
No more with comb and glass they dress
At Exmouth, or at Inverness ;
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Of wild Æolian melodies!
Nay, had it been a shower-bath, some
Jove issued demi-god might come,
At my fond call, in gremium ;
And that poor soil fecundify
With fruits and flowers, that never die.
But a mere warm bath—there's the rub—
What god would patronise a tub;
An artificial stream unlock,
A boiler tend, or turn a cock?
Without more preface then, or proem,
Headlong I plunge into—my poem.
Jove issued demi-god might come,
At my fond call, in gremium ;
And that poor soil fecundify
With fruits and flowers, that never die.
But a mere warm bath—there's the rub—
What god would patronise a tub;
An artificial stream unlock,
A boiler tend, or turn a cock?
Without more preface then, or proem,
Headlong I plunge into—my poem.
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Who that ethereal lustre may express,
That genuine grace, that simple loveliness,
Which, though with Phidian marbles it might vie,
Shrinks all abash'd e'en from it's own pure eye;
Shuts out th' intruding god of day, and dreads
The very woven forms on which it treads?
That genuine grace, that simple loveliness,
Which, though with Phidian marbles it might vie,
Shrinks all abash'd e'en from it's own pure eye;
Shuts out th' intruding god of day, and dreads
The very woven forms on which it treads?
O modesty! how amiably breaks
The sudden flush, warm mantling o'er thy cheeks;
When, centre of the crowded circle's gaze,
Thou feel'st th' approving voice of honest praise!
In vain, disrobed by Fashion's harlot hand,
Bold Beauty flutters shameless o'er the land;
Now here now there, a meteor mischief, flies
Illusive flickering 'neath the midnight skies:
With pale alarm we note th' ill-omen'd form,
And deem it portent of a hastening storm.
Not Helen only set a realm on blaze;
Through woman's wiles all human strength decays:
By female magic lull'd, the mightiest sleep,
And o'er their spell-bound sovereign nations weep.
The sudden flush, warm mantling o'er thy cheeks;
When, centre of the crowded circle's gaze,
Thou feel'st th' approving voice of honest praise!
In vain, disrobed by Fashion's harlot hand,
Bold Beauty flutters shameless o'er the land;
Now here now there, a meteor mischief, flies
Illusive flickering 'neath the midnight skies:
With pale alarm we note th' ill-omen'd form,
And deem it portent of a hastening storm.
Not Helen only set a realm on blaze;
Through woman's wiles all human strength decays:
By female magic lull'd, the mightiest sleep,
And o'er their spell-bound sovereign nations weep.
And can no cure for this bright bane be found?
No moral styptic check this bleeding wound?
And shall not man, by sad experience wise,
Shun the fair ruin flaring in his eyes?
No moral styptic check this bleeding wound?
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Shun the fair ruin flaring in his eyes?
O! how might woman rule with blameless sway;
How might our race improve, as they obey:
Would but the light deluder cease to move
By Fashion's influence fashion's fools to love!
Untainted by the Bacchanal's hot breath,
Ungarlanded, except by Virtue's wreath:
Would she but cease for fops to spread the lure,
And seek the pure in heart, herself as pure;
As Ella, or as Laura, maid or wife,
The grace of this—the guide to future life!
But, what from Helen's foul amour can rise,
Save Troy's red flames ascending to the skies!
How might our race improve, as they obey:
Would but the light deluder cease to move
By Fashion's influence fashion's fools to love!
Untainted by the Bacchanal's hot breath,
Ungarlanded, except by Virtue's wreath:
Would she but cease for fops to spread the lure,
And seek the pure in heart, herself as pure;
As Ella, or as Laura, maid or wife,
The grace of this—the guide to future life!
But, what from Helen's foul amour can rise,
Save Troy's red flames ascending to the skies!
Turn we, my muse, where Ella, simple maid,
Sits pale with cold and shivering at a shade;
Or shudders through some crevice to descry—
Crevice before unmark'd, a curious eye!
Move no light clouds across the curtain'd glass,
But stamp a human peeper as they pass.
Even fancied sounds her timid ear appal;
A step draws near—she catches at a shawl.
Thrice did'st thou entering, Ella, bar the door:
Thrice lock, to “make assurance doubly sure.”
Thine idle terrors then, dear girl, restrain,
Phantasmagoric etchings of the brain:
Those flitting forms are imaged by thy fear—
No peeping Tom of Coventry is near;
And, if such Tom of Scarbro' there should be,
He'd instantly be sent to Coventry.
O, if not the good angel of thy fate,
Trust her—the faithful guardian at the gate.
Sits pale with cold and shivering at a shade;
Or shudders through some crevice to descry—
Crevice before unmark'd, a curious eye!
Move no light clouds across the curtain'd glass,
But stamp a human peeper as they pass.
Even fancied sounds her timid ear appal;
A step draws near—she catches at a shawl.
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Thrice lock, to “make assurance doubly sure.”
Thine idle terrors then, dear girl, restrain,
Phantasmagoric etchings of the brain:
Those flitting forms are imaged by thy fear—
No peeping Tom of Coventry is near;
And, if such Tom of Scarbro' there should be,
He'd instantly be sent to Coventry.
O, if not the good angel of thy fate,
Trust her—the faithful guardian at the gate.
Had but such caution mark'd poor Lady Scrub,
Ere, cynic-like, she stept into her tub;
Had she but shot one bolt—why did she not?
The proverb says, ‘Fools bolts are quickly shot—’
She ne'er from Captain Pepys had shrunk appall'd,
Ne'er fruitlessly for distant Jenny squall'd;
Ne'er toil'd in vain her embonpoint to hide,
Perversely buoyant, by the vessel's side!
“Ah why,” the muse expostulating cries,
“Are ladies careless, or have captains eyes?”
Ere, cynic-like, she stept into her tub;
Had she but shot one bolt—why did she not?
The proverb says, ‘Fools bolts are quickly shot—’
She ne'er from Captain Pepys had shrunk appall'd,
Ne'er fruitlessly for distant Jenny squall'd;
Ne'er toil'd in vain her embonpoint to hide,
Perversely buoyant, by the vessel's side!
“Ah why,” the muse expostulating cries,
“Are ladies careless, or have captains eyes?”
Here leave we Ella half an hour,
To float like some fair lotus flower,
Which on the Nile's broad surface swims,
And dips by turns it's flexile limbs;
Diffusing, in it's lily pride,
A holy halo o'er the tide—
That half hour's space elapsed, to be
Venus Anadyomene.
To float like some fair lotus flower,
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And dips by turns it's flexile limbs;
Diffusing, in it's lily pride,
A holy halo o'er the tide—
That half hour's space elapsed, to be
Venus Anadyomene.
W.
A name, appropriated to the canvassers on each new arrival; possibly from the French, tout, as they lose nothing—at least, for want of asking.
Baccius, in the work above-quoted, in which the writer has occasionally dipped, has a chapter expressly—De Aquis sapore et odore abominabilibus. Of these, from his detailed account, there seems to have been no lack in the ancient world; and, as defined by the author (quæ a sulphuris natura ac diversarum invicem terrarum permistione resultant) they appear to have been true Harrogate.
On the Thermæ, both of Titus and Dioclesian, see Baccius, VII. 3.—Of the latter, which with their accompaniments appear to have employed in the building 40,000 Christians, a very full account is given, under the quaint idea of their several parts corresponding with the proportions of the human body, in the sixth chapter.
Cui non audita est obscænæ Salmacis undæ!
Ovid Met. Unde sit infamis, quare male fortibus undis
Salmacis, &c.
Id.
Ovid Met. Unde sit infamis, quare male fortibus undis
Salmacis, &c.
Id.
Consult Col. G---, of the N--- Militia; whose horse, by direction I suppose of his patron Neptune, threw his presumptuous rider into the sea.
From Inverness we have heard more than enough of mermaids. Mr. Toupin, from Exmouth, has still more recently described the singular tones of one seen last August near the Bar of that place, which were not inaptly compared by one of the party to the mild melodies of the Æolian harp, combined with a sound similar to that made by a stream of water falling gently on the leaves of a tree. Monthly Mag. Nov. 1812.—p. 345.
85
THE CORNELIAN PARTY.
Sæpè ex socero meo audivi, cùm is diceret socerum
suum Lælium semper ferè cum Scipione solitum rusticari,
eosque incredibiliter repuerascere esse solitos,
cùm rus ex urbe tanquam è vinculis evolavissent.
Non audeo dicere de talibus viris, sed tamen ita
solet narrare Scævola, conchas eos et umbilicos ad
Caietam et ad Laurentum legere consuêsse, et ad
omnem animi remissionem ludumque descendere.
(Cic. de Oratore, II. 6.)
In fair Jamaica, it is said
(I but refer to what I've read)
Of land-crabs oft you meet a host
Impatient hurrying to the coast,
Soon as the season for migration
Warns them to quit their inland station .
86
For what, each summer, shows at home?
The violet crab, of Jamaica, performs a fatiguing march of some months' continuance, from the mountains to the sea-side. Paley's Nat. Theol. XVIII.
Paronomastically rise,
Ere yet the dog-star shoots his fire,
Prayers on all sides assail the 'Squire
From craving wife and coaxing daughters;
“Your hunting o'er, your hounds in quarters,
“And ere the moors demand your gun,
“Full two months interval to run—
“Oh! as you promised, Scarbro' show us,
“In the old coach you well can stow us:
“Yourself included, we're but seven,
“Betty, as eighth, keeps both sides even.
“Do, pray Sir, without and or if,
“Take a month's lodging on the Cliff.”
Thus importuned, what can he do?
He loves his wife, and daughters too;
And, though himself had rather stay
T'inspect, or even make, his hay;
Though he abominates the stir
And stench of crowded theatre,
87
That ventilates his native vale:
Though balls annoy where sylphids meet,
To ply untired their nimble feet,
Here figuring in, there crossing over—
The reason why, he can't discover:
Though on a ten yards' terrace he
Scarcely finds room to bend his knee,
Or on a scanty mile of beach
His favourite hunter's legs can stretch;
Yet will he go! With glad surprise
They read the answer in his eyes;
And all the toilette ammunition
Is instant put in requisition.
The village semstress, summon'd straight,
Attends the critical debate—
Hears caps, and cloaks, and gowns discust,
Sees treasures rummaged from their dust—
Flounce, stomacher and furbelow,
Would arch an antiquary's brow,
And prove (whate'er be now the passion),
Eve has not always led the fashion.
88
Which no domestic care alloys,
Far from the petty jangling war
Of housemaid, and of housekeeper!
Throned on thy cliffs, how proudly thou
Survey'st the varied scene below:
In curve exact thy mansions bending,
And to the watery marge descending:
Upon that marge, in modest state,
Hygeia throwing wide her gate ,
(A better Cytherea she,
Risen newly from the ambient sea)
To indigent infirmity:
Thy temple, castle, double mole,
Port, spa, and circling round the whole,
Of beauty and of strength the zone,
The ocean's azure girdle thrown!
Thy pleasures ever charm the young,
The morning stroll—stroll all day long:
89
To see, to conquer, and to live;
And vidi, vici, vixi, plain
Records the bright and brief campaign.
The Warm Sea Bathing Infirmary, where the poor, who cannot even afford three tokens and a half per bath, are invited to go.—quadrante lavatum. Hon.
With water to dilute their port,
Walk off the aches which riding gave,
And tip the go-by to the grave—
That only port they still would pass,
As Time's their only hated glass:—
For Scarbro' parsons quit their church,
For Scarbro' schoolmasters their birch;
And York and Lancaster agree
To sip their amicable tea.
No more indeed, the mortal fight
Is waged by roses red and white,
But on th' arena now appear,
Embattled, Bell and Lancaster.
Fiercely th' inglorious conflict rages,
Where pages are opposed by pages;
90
Maintain the theologic war,
While black and white the bearings blot
Upon each angry chieftain's coat,
O! might the muse one question blab,
To combatant in black and drab!
Pardon and ponder the inquiry—
Cœlestibus tantœne iræ?
Impatient to enjoy the whole,
Which Scarbro' affluently supplies—
Water, and air, and exercise—
Old Tottergait, from breakfast hearty,
To ‘round the Nab’ invites his party.
Yet will he not the eye-spout pass
Untried, nor miss chalybeate glass,
As near the Spa his daughters stay,
And chide his hazardous delay:
“O, see! the tide already flows,
“And will too surely interpose
“To bar, perhaps, our safe return
“Across yon rough and craggy bourn,
“Unless we instant hasten on—
“Pray, pray, papa, let us be gone.”
91
Up, in both cases, to the chin—
Water, as Tottergait is told,
Will make him vigorous, though old:
It can't, indeed, renew his mettle;
That only would Medea's kettle—
A precious hot-bath long destroy'd,
Or who with age would be annoy'd?
But it can brace without, within,
The steel his chest, the salt his skin:
Suppress Madeira's rising fume, or
Sooth by diluting acrid humour;
And stimulate alternately,
Pure Nature's genuine Eau de vie.
“Mistake not, that I pupil am,”
Quoth Tottergait, “of Doctor Lambe,
“Who makes his water drop by drop
“In chemist's or in druggist's shop;
“As if in Paradise a still
“Were Adam's earliest utensil,
“And in some guilty moment quaft,
“His death, of running stream a draft!
92
“I love the sparkle of the glass:
“Cath'rine, the lines!—by heart she knows 'em—
“Sent hither, when my lovely blossom,
“With languor struck, her head reclined,
“And Edmund grieved that Ella pined;—
“This eye-spout blinds one for a time,
“Or I myself would read the rhyme.”
HYMN TO SCARBOROUGH SPA.
“O Fount of Health! O sparkling Spring!
“Thou, who the languid nerve can'st string,
“And bid upon the cheek of snow
“It's long-forgotten roses blow!
“To taste the pure pellucid wave,
“Fresh issuing from thy steeled cave,
“Comes one, who were it mine to heal,
“Nor care nor pain should ever feel.
“Thou, who the languid nerve can'st string,
“And bid upon the cheek of snow
“It's long-forgotten roses blow!
“To taste the pure pellucid wave,
“Fresh issuing from thy steeled cave,
“Comes one, who were it mine to heal,
“Nor care nor pain should ever feel.
“O to thy cool sequester'd haunt
“Receive thy loveliest visitant!
“Deserve at length thine ancient fame,
“Pour all thy vigour through her frame;
“Th' elastic step of youth restore,
“To climb the mountain as of yore;
“And as in brightness, so in force,
“Like Phœbus let her run her course.
“Receive thy loveliest visitant!
93
“Pour all thy vigour through her frame;
“Th' elastic step of youth restore,
“To climb the mountain as of yore;
“And as in brightness, so in force,
“Like Phœbus let her run her course.
“Then shall thy praises Edmund sing,
“And o'er thy urn strew offering,
“Cull'd at the fragrant morning hour
“In Flora's fairest sweetest bow'r;
“That thus to him, through thee, 'tis given
“To hope on earth a lengthen'd heaven!”
Then quoting, with pedantic hem,
“And o'er thy urn strew offering,
“Cull'd at the fragrant morning hour
“In Flora's fairest sweetest bow'r;
“That thus to him, through thee, 'tis given
“To hope on earth a lengthen'd heaven!”
Old Pindar's temperate apophthegm
(Ασιστον μεν υδωρ) he gulps down
A second tumbler Βαθυκολπον,
And, with unusual vigour mann'd,
Ploughs unfatigued the sinking strand.
At last Cornelian-Bay they tread,
With all it's myriad treasures spread;
94
A new Golconda above ground!
And now they struggle through the shingle,
Here group'd round some bright prize, there single:
“Look what an onyx, Sir, is mine,
“Enough to make a quaker pine;
“Though they nor brooch nor bracelet wear,
“Necklace nor pendant at the ear!
“Take it, dear Kate,” fond Ella said,
“And bear it, polish'd, on your head:
“The giver, all ungloss'd by art,
“Wear still, beloved, in your heart.”
Onward the guiltless Mammons travel,
With eyes fix'd on the glittering gravel;
Nor e'er to distant cape by chance,
Or castle, turn th' admiring glance,
Or frowning cliff, or verdant plain,
Or white sail glistening on the main:
Vain Nature's contest with the maggot,
For what in Nature's like—an agate?
Nay, if they joy the day is fine—
'Tis but because the pebbles shine;
95
As swallowing up the sparkling bed.
Tides only ebb those beds t'uncover,
And flow, they think, to roll them over;
As mightiest rivers Brindley calls
Mere pap to feed his young canals.
Fear not, dear girls, the sage profound,
With rake and hammer peering round
For granite blocks and veined shells,
In which the hermit Murex dwells;
Fucus or Alga non-descript,
From it's firm base by tempests stript—
Your paltry triumphs he despises,
Bent upon rarer, richer prizes:
No tiny basket carries he,
To mock his massy industry:
No bag like that of smallest size,
Which holds our own infirmities;
But wallet huge—or blue, or crimson—
Like that we crowd our neighbours sins in;
Fossils in this (as he supposes)
He stores, which would perplex e'en Moses,
96
A new cosmogony to indite:
For he can trace their rude formation
To periods long before creation;
And prove, by arguments in plenty,
Nil esse quod non fuit ante!
—Peace to such vain geologists,
With such I enter not the lists.
But Laura now appears in view:
Such faultless figure Guido drew,
When in her softest happiest guise,
He sketched ‘our Lady’ of the skies:
That lady's frame such soul inspired—
By love attuned, by grace attired!
Her ye may fear: for not a beam
From roughest agate casts it's gleam;
No vein so fine, no speck so small,
But her quick glance descries them all—
‘Fear!’ the rash phrase, my muse, disprove:
For who can fear, whom all must love?
And now, unconscious of their stay,
They homeward plod their weary way:
97
To intercept the destined course!
The rock they climb, whose foot before
They pass'd, nor heard the surges roar:
Above the rocks the waves aspire,
Each than it's predecessor higher;
A little moment's space recoil,
Then with redoubled fury boil.
Not closer to her crag Andromed
Clung, shuddering at the roar her foe made,
Than Ella now to her's, with fears
Tenacious, limpet-like adheres.
Above she views the jutting steep;
Below she hears the roaring deep:
No beau, as Perseus, hovers near
To bid her bosom be of cheer,
And ere she feel the bellowing shock,
Bear her in safety from the rock.
Meanwhile, to Kate's affrighted eyes
Bellina's ghost appears to rise;
Bellina, in her maiden bloom
Sent by a ruffian to the tomb.
98
Swells with her shriek the sea-bird's cry;
And seems in hollow tone to say,
“Thou soon shalt join my kindred clay.”
Oh! to Bellina's doom severe
Be struck one chord, be shed one tear.
The Letter D (for death, like the Greek Θ) long marked the stone, upon which Miss Bell's head rested when her corpse was discovered, blooming as in a quiet sleep. It has since been removed, perhaps by tempests.
‘Glowing with health, in early beauty's prime.
‘Link'd with the youth she loved and trusted most,
‘Nor meditating she nor fearing crime,
‘Bellina treads the solitary coast.
‘Link'd with the youth she loved and trusted most,
‘Nor meditating she nor fearing crime,
‘Bellina treads the solitary coast.
‘O'er the broad surface of th' unruffled deep
‘The midnight moon her silver radiance throws;
‘In stillest calm old Ocean's billows sleep,
‘Great Nature's self is lull'd into repose.
‘The midnight moon her silver radiance throws;
‘In stillest calm old Ocean's billows sleep,
‘Great Nature's self is lull'd into repose.
99
‘Ah! little reeks Bellina, in that breast
‘She deems love's throne, what horrid passions wake!
‘Too soon by deeds the demon stands confest,
‘Her limbs too soon with force, with terror shake.
‘She deems love's throne, what horrid passions wake!
‘Too soon by deeds the demon stands confest,
‘Her limbs too soon with force, with terror shake.
‘But heaven which oft, it's secret mercies such,
‘Inflicts in kindness the mysterious blow,
‘Withdrew her from the coarse polluter's touch,
‘And bade her leave her unstain'd corse below.
‘Inflicts in kindness the mysterious blow,
‘Withdrew her from the coarse polluter's touch,
‘And bade her leave her unstain'd corse below.
‘Where traces the spring-flood it's utmost bound—
‘Why should the muse the foul detail relate?
‘There even in death unfaded, was she found;
‘And many an eye still weeps Bellina's fate.’
Turn we where other sufferers lie—
‘Why should the muse the foul detail relate?
‘There even in death unfaded, was she found;
‘And many an eye still weeps Bellina's fate.’
Alas that maids so fair should die!
O sickening moment of alarm!
A sea of foam, a heaven of storm!
Billow and cloud commixt half way,
Torrent direct, collateral spray!
100
To scan the perils round her spread,
Specking with white the lurid sky
She marks the screaming sea-birds fly;
And deems each note, amid the gloom,
Augurial of her hastening doom.
“Too plain the sense thy cries convey—
“‘I scent with joy my plenteous prey;
“‘Upon yon flinty altar piled,
“‘View my pale victims—sire and child;
“‘And ere to-morrow's sun arise,
“‘Shall feast upon the sacrifice!’—
“Oh, come not near with dirge so dread—
“Spare us, at least, until we're dead!”
And see! she gives her hoarded heap,
Vain offering! to the angry deep:
Agate transparent, curious moss,
Destined for future brooch or cross,
Cornelian, quartz—promiscuous tost,
Are in the greedy billow lost.
As when with Indian gems, and bales,
Home-bound, the stately vessel sails,
101
Reflected from the glass below;
Sooth'd by his precious weight, awhile
Old Ocean wears a treacherous smile:
And now each giddy fair on board
To England, as she dreams, restored,
Of balls and dress and fashions prates,
Conquests to come anticipates;
Sees peers contest th' adjoining seat,
Hears princes sighing at her feet:
When—Oh! what means that crashing shock?
The ship has struck a hidden rock!
Sudden, as through the yawning side
Rushes the black impetuous tide,
From their shrunk minds the waves efface
Of fashions, balls, and dress the blaze;
And sweep with one dread dash away
At once the plunderer and the prey.
Oh Ella sweet, how throbs thine heart!
How to thy cheek the blushes start,
As eager plunging through the wave,
Thy Edmund hastes—to die, or save!
102
(Cold though it seem'd) thy breast of snow:
As conscious, 'midst it's direst fear,
Life saved by him were doubly dear!
Blest recompence for past alarms,
He folds thee in his straining arms:
No longer doom'd repulse to meet,
Feels thy fond heart's responsive beat:
Encounters still thy melting glance,
Hangs on thy speaking countenance;
And thanks the storm that chased his doubt,
And wrung the tardy secret out.
The rest, his tenderest effort o'er,
He bears in safety to the shore.
Draggled and slow, the Spa they pass:
But Tottergait declines his glass—
Of water he has had enough,
In language medical—quant. suff.;
And exercise he finds may be
Ta'en to excess: air only he,
No longer anxious to unite 'em,
Would still enjoy ad infinitum.
103
As they descended gay and sprightly:
Edmund his arm to Ella lends,
And the Cornelian party ends.
W.
169
THE BALL ROOM.
EPISTLE FROM ------, ESQ. TO ------.
TO some 'tis the beauty of watering-places,
That you meet at each turn with such swarms of new faces;
The oval, the circular, oblong, and square,
Delighted alike to be stared at and stare:
From Dora, be-gemm'd and be-equipaged o'er,
Three riders behind, three postillions before,
To Laura, whose brightness beams warm on the poor.
That you meet at each turn with such swarms of new faces;
The oval, the circular, oblong, and square,
Delighted alike to be stared at and stare:
From Dora, be-gemm'd and be-equipaged o'er,
Three riders behind, three postillions before,
To Laura, whose brightness beams warm on the poor.
Nor less in variety characters crowd—
The selfish, the generous, the pert, and the proud:
From Dora, who if e'er she dole out her bounty,
Records the rare deed for the theme of the county,
To Laura on wretchedness showering delight,
Whose left hand ne'er knows what is done by her right.
The selfish, the generous, the pert, and the proud:
From Dora, who if e'er she dole out her bounty,
Records the rare deed for the theme of the county,
To Laura on wretchedness showering delight,
Whose left hand ne'er knows what is done by her right.
170
But most at elections such medleys are found,
Collected to gaze from the district around.
When our friend Sheriff Courtly discoursed of elections,
And sneeringly triumphed in patriot rejections,
(For Courtly already holds offices twain,
And another he modestly hopes to obtain)
Told what speeches were made when no rival opposed,
And how chairing and dining with dancing were closed;
I heard his long story with envy and tears—
For a poet, whom seldom such revelry cheers,
May venially stuff himself once in seven years.
But united—procession, and dinner, and ball—
Only think—'twas my luck to come in for them all.
Collected to gaze from the district around.
When our friend Sheriff Courtly discoursed of elections,
And sneeringly triumphed in patriot rejections,
(For Courtly already holds offices twain,
And another he modestly hopes to obtain)
Told what speeches were made when no rival opposed,
And how chairing and dining with dancing were closed;
I heard his long story with envy and tears—
For a poet, whom seldom such revelry cheers,
May venially stuff himself once in seven years.
But united—procession, and dinner, and ball—
Only think—'twas my luck to come in for them all.
And first in due order, and stately progression,
From the town-hall advanceth the tardy procession;
The banners in front streaming wide to the wind,
And the members unhatted and smirking behind:
Snuffy handkerchiefs shaken in token of love,
And such sneezing below! and such squeezing above!
While in mockery of freedom and popular choice,
Their throats bawl the loudest, whose tongues have no voice.
From the town-hall advanceth the tardy procession;
The banners in front streaming wide to the wind,
And the members unhatted and smirking behind:
Snuffy handkerchiefs shaken in token of love,
And such sneezing below! and such squeezing above!
171
Their throats bawl the loudest, whose tongues have no voice.
All this you're expecting, of course, I should write;
But, alas! a sharp shower drench'd the pageant in spite.
And lo! reeling on with occasional cheer,
The flag-bearers in the far distance appear:
Who have shrewdly resolved, with potations of gin,
To ward a wet outside—by wetting the in.
The banners all stream too—but 'tis with the rain;
And the members low crouch—'tis for shelter—in vain.
In vain the blue heaven they essay to descry:
Not Sir Francis himself could frown worse than the sky.
But non omnia possumus omnes, say all;
They'd their sun-shine, before they came out of the hall;
And not even places and pensions can keep 'em
From the nubila (dismal inversion!) post Phœbum.
But, alas! a sharp shower drench'd the pageant in spite.
And lo! reeling on with occasional cheer,
The flag-bearers in the far distance appear:
Who have shrewdly resolved, with potations of gin,
To ward a wet outside—by wetting the in.
The banners all stream too—but 'tis with the rain;
And the members low crouch—'tis for shelter—in vain.
In vain the blue heaven they essay to descry:
Not Sir Francis himself could frown worse than the sky.
But non omnia possumus omnes, say all;
They'd their sun-shine, before they came out of the hall;
And not even places and pensions can keep 'em
From the nubila (dismal inversion!) post Phœbum.
172
And now for the dinner—but vain were the toil
(Even Anstey himself the vast effort would foil)
To record how each voter, by innocent wiles,
Near the top seeks a station for salmon—and smiles!
Oh! the becks and the nods to behold o'er the sherry,
Bandied shuttlecock-like, would a cynic make merry;
While scramblingly thrown from the great to the small,
Some courtesy lights, in it's turn, upon all.
(Even Anstey himself the vast effort would foil)
To record how each voter, by innocent wiles,
Near the top seeks a station for salmon—and smiles!
Oh! the becks and the nods to behold o'er the sherry,
Bandied shuttlecock-like, would a cynic make merry;
While scramblingly thrown from the great to the small,
Some courtesy lights, in it's turn, upon all.
'Twould disgust you, perhaps, the mere gorging to hear;
And therefore the lengthen'd detail I forbear:
One title defines it; for who not remembers
Old Menenius' tale of ‘The belly and Members?’
And therefore the lengthen'd detail I forbear:
One title defines it; for who not remembers
Old Menenius' tale of ‘The belly and Members?’
But ere to the Ball-room in clusters they throng,
The worshipful Bailiff shall give you a song.
Perhaps you will wonder, in running it o'er,
When I tell you the table it set in a roar:
But each line from his lips approbation still draws—
Even these, when he sung them, were heard with applause.
The worshipful Bailiff shall give you a song.
Perhaps you will wonder, in running it o'er,
When I tell you the table it set in a roar:
But each line from his lips approbation still draws—
Even these, when he sung them, were heard with applause.
173
SONG.
HARK! Freedom, Britannia, and George give the word!
From millions the shout of rejoicing is heard:
With revelry grandeur's proud palaces reel,
And poverty's huts the glad sympathy feel.
O give then, with me, to enjoyment the hour,
And while to our King deep libations we pour,
From millions the shout of rejoicing is heard:
With revelry grandeur's proud palaces reel,
And poverty's huts the glad sympathy feel.
O give then, with me, to enjoyment the hour,
And while to our King deep libations we pour,
Let each loyal bosom with transport rebound,
And God save the King!
Long live the King!
And God bless the King!
Be re-echoed around.
And God save the King!
Long live the King!
And God bless the King!
Be re-echoed around.
In yellow meanders through regions of slaves
His tribute the Tiber conveys to the waves;
O'er Holland is fasten'd stern Tyranny's chain,
And the hoof of Invasion has trampled on Spain:
In dust the fierce eagle of Germany lies—
But England's red banner still streams to the skies.
His tribute the Tiber conveys to the waves;
O'er Holland is fasten'd stern Tyranny's chain,
And the hoof of Invasion has trampled on Spain:
In dust the fierce eagle of Germany lies—
But England's red banner still streams to the skies.
Let each loyal bosom, &c.
174
Then push round the bowl, fill each glass to the brim,
To love's bumpers a truce—now we're thinking of him,
Who while France's broad flag is o'er Europe unfurl'd,
Stands firm, stands alone, in the gap of the world:
Who long in that gap Britain's champion has stood,
The boast of the brave and the pride of the good.
Let each loyal bosom, &c.
To love's bumpers a truce—now we're thinking of him,
Who while France's broad flag is o'er Europe unfurl'd,
Stands firm, stands alone, in the gap of the world:
Who long in that gap Britain's champion has stood,
The boast of the brave and the pride of the good.
Let each loyal bosom, &c.
And now, with light chaussée, dear capering goddess,
Terpsichore, come without corset or boddice,
Neck-handkerchief, petticoat, tucker, or shawl,
Like a modern fine lady equipp'd for a ball.
Then note me that gentleman carelessly bowing
In those “vile pantaloons, which he fancies look knowing;”
And doom him in penance unpartner'd to prance,
Or with one of those naked old figures to dance.
Poor straight-forward I, who to hop ne'er presume,
Still the shortest way choose from the top of the room:
But for others, let beaux still appear in their best,
And belles be at least more than verbally drest;
Not thus in profusion their persons display,
Apparell'd like Eve in her birth-night array.
How little, sweet innocent creatures! they know
What to Fancy's illusions the handsomest owe;
Or themselves they would instantly hasten to screen,
Till the face and the foot were the whole that was seen.
And let none but the young in these gambols engage,
They suit not the limbs or the languor of age.
'Tis a ghastly deception when skeletons frisk,
Clap the hands, nod the head, and affect to be brisk;
And reminds one of scenes by Dan Holbein erst shown,
In a dance where the jiggers by Death are led down.
Terpsichore, come without corset or boddice,
Neck-handkerchief, petticoat, tucker, or shawl,
Like a modern fine lady equipp'd for a ball.
Then note me that gentleman carelessly bowing
In those “vile pantaloons, which he fancies look knowing;”
And doom him in penance unpartner'd to prance,
Or with one of those naked old figures to dance.
Poor straight-forward I, who to hop ne'er presume,
Still the shortest way choose from the top of the room:
175
And belles be at least more than verbally drest;
Not thus in profusion their persons display,
Apparell'd like Eve in her birth-night array.
How little, sweet innocent creatures! they know
What to Fancy's illusions the handsomest owe;
Or themselves they would instantly hasten to screen,
Till the face and the foot were the whole that was seen.
And let none but the young in these gambols engage,
They suit not the limbs or the languor of age.
'Tis a ghastly deception when skeletons frisk,
Clap the hands, nod the head, and affect to be brisk;
And reminds one of scenes by Dan Holbein erst shown,
In a dance where the jiggers by Death are led down.
So old Tottergait thought not. Of life such his care is,
He resolves to enjoy helitus puellaris;
Convinc'd by Hermippus's arguments long,
That ‘the life of the old is the breath of the young.’
So he joins the gay throng of the Graces and Loves,
Where his Ella scarce touches the floor as she moves,
By her Edmund attended, whose joy-lighted eye
Courts the envy of all who stand up or stand by.
Her sire, less elastic, with toil hobbles down,
His heel out of skill, and his ear out of tune:
Yet still his heart dances; so naturalists tell ye,
When the tortoise is lodged in an alderman's belly,
(There torpid till roused by some medical potion)
It's heart, unembowell'd, still flutters with motion—
But the fiddles have stopp'd, and the wax-lights expire,
With the music the Muse thinks it fit to retire,
Her knees drop the curtsey, her fingers the lyre.
He resolves to enjoy helitus puellaris;
Convinc'd by Hermippus's arguments long,
That ‘the life of the old is the breath of the young.’
176
Where his Ella scarce touches the floor as she moves,
By her Edmund attended, whose joy-lighted eye
Courts the envy of all who stand up or stand by.
Her sire, less elastic, with toil hobbles down,
His heel out of skill, and his ear out of tune:
Yet still his heart dances; so naturalists tell ye,
When the tortoise is lodged in an alderman's belly,
(There torpid till roused by some medical potion)
It's heart, unembowell'd, still flutters with motion—
But the fiddles have stopp'd, and the wax-lights expire,
With the music the Muse thinks it fit to retire,
Her knees drop the curtsey, her fingers the lyre.
W.
215
FINIS.
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