Ball room votaries :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ball room votaries

or, Canterbury and its vicinity. Second Edition, with considerable alterations and additions [by Edward Quillinan]

Quillinan, Edward (1791-1851)

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Nor fame I slight, nor for her favour call,
She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all,
But if the purchase cost so dear a price
As soothing folly, or exalting vice;
Oh! of my pen must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where fortune leads the way;
Or if no basis bear my rising name,
But the fall'n ruins of another's fame—
Then teach me, heaven, to scorn the guilty bays,
Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise,
Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown,
Oh! grant an honest fame, or grant me none.

TO THE OFFICERS, WHO DO NOW, OR MAY HEREAFTER, COMPOSE THE GARRISON OF CANTERBURY, These Stanzas are inscribed by RUSTICUS.

Sturry, 4th of October, 1810.

BALL ROOM VOTARIES.

Spirit of scandal, that so long
Hast taught defamatory song
In Canterbury City;
Goddess rever'd of flippant fops,
Queen at the board of evening slops,
Teach me to paint the Tribe of Hops,
In well fermented ditty.
Full many a gentle lady bright,
And smirking beau, and warrior knight,
And clergyman devout;
Full many a belle, whose looks of light
Cheer the fond heart of youthful wight,
And many a hag their fame to blight,
I sing with courage stout.
The labours of the day had closed,
And gatherers of hops reposed,

And Dell the Dunce more deeply dozed,
His muse exhausted quite:
St. George's Street, the Donjon Keep,
Each church, where parsons go to sleep,
And snore their prayers in slumbers deep,
Were veil'd in murky night.

The pride of every Kentish hall
Was now display'd at County Ball,
And sought the merry dance:
The lustres lent their splendid light,
And dazzled on the aching sight;
But beauty gave a ray more bright,
Its own bewitching glance.

And shalt thou then, splenetic bard,
In colours only harsh and hard
The varied landscape paint?
Is there not one then in thy way
That claims a milder softer lay,
That scandal will not taint?

Yes—fate be prais'd—and more than one—
Fortune forbid there should be none
So sweet a task to give;
It is the minstrel's fondest duty,
To make the form of worth and beauty,
In softest numbers live.
Though of the group the larger half
Demands the sneer, the shrug, the laugh,
And raillery's sharpest powers:
Far dearer will the poet deem
That sweeter portion of his theme
Which he can strew with flowers.

The notes awake, and Beauty's Queen,
With brow of snow, and eye of sheen,
And placid, though majestic, mien,
Leads off the sprightly dance;
How gracefully she moves along!
How thick the sharp-heel'd warriors throng
To flutter in her glance!
Whose boast she is, whose titled bride,
None can with so much happy pride
Exultingly declare

As the bold Colonel of the Bays,
Whose temper and whose heart to praise
No tongue can speak too fair.
Mark you that warrior of the Bays,
Who treads with her the dance's maze,
With lab'ring limb so staunch?
When I again those features trace,
I think it is a chubby slice
Of So**rs' noble branch.
I saw him once, when public weal
Had lur'd such patriot crowds to Deal,
To view full many a parting keel,
That sought the Flushing war;
The thirst for glory fir'd his eye,
So bold he look'd, so fierce, so high,
Before him Moore or Wellesley
Had shrunk a lessen'd star.

But soon to stay at home they tell
To junior captains' lot it fell;—
How sunk his heart's ambitious swell
To hear the chilling story!
Prone on the beach the warrior lay,
His bags and baggage round him stay;

Mercy of Heaven! I may not say
How furiously he curs'd the day
That robb'd his hopes of glory!
Indignant Britain too well knows
What dire disgrace, and deadly woes,
Her valiant legions share;
How many a heart of honour dies
'Neath Walcheren's detested skies—
No laurels reap'd—but what surprise?
Bold So**rs was not there—

But look we to the happier dance,
Where still with matchless elegance
The lady shines aloft;
And still she reigns superior there,
Not one amidst the group more fair,
More dignified, yet soft.
Yet why does charming P**r*t turn,
With eyes that would, but can't be stern,
Towards this beauteous dame?
Say can a breast so pure, so fair,
Harbour a thought of envy there,
And nurse so harsh a flame?

Comparisons are odious things;
I would not for the smile of kings
Attempt to draw one here;
No, lady, no—for all allow
If she is fair, that so art thou,
Then why that look austere?
Bewitching woman! didst thou know
How heavenly sweet thy beauties glow,
When tenderness has built her nest
Upon the snow-drops of thy breast;
When pure philanthropy inspires
Thine eye beams bright, though modest, fires;
Ah! never, never, wouldst thou stoop
With jaundic'd eye to view the group,
To lessen others' charms divine,
Which thou mightst think diminish'd thine.

What knight of chivalry is there,
With golden cross upon his breast?
Stern and forbidding is his air,
And broad and manly is his chest—
From his dark eye, and iron cheek,
Genius and pride together speak;

Yet none that knew him not could tell
That sentiment and softness dwell
Within a casket, whose outside
Shews so much haughtiness and pride.
The furrows on his brow that sink
Are not the marks of age I think,
But poring over dusty volumes
Of noble births, and titled columns,
Debating, puzzling, fuming, fretting,
To shew his great grandsire's begetting;
Seeking in legendary lore
Who the proud name of Ch***os bore,
And who's the right to bear it now;
This, this, has mark'd with care his brow.
But softer hours at times have stole
The various workings of his soul;
Who can De Clifford's tale peruse
Not soften'd by his plaintive muse?
Sure 'tis as sweet a tale of woe
As e'er from feeling heart could flow.
Proud Bard! tho' breasts of vulgar mould
Thy sweetest verse romantic hold,
And ridicule, with soul of steel,
The sentiment they cannot feel,

Still shall that verse superior shine,
The brightest star in B*****s' line;
Thy soft impassion'd wild notes still
Through ev'ry soul of feeling thrill.

Sir Eg****n, although thy name,
Weigh'd of itself, but light I deem;
Joined with thy genius' lofty claim,
It ever must impress esteem:
That lady too thine arm supports,
Thy beauteous, mild, engaging bride,
Her Noble mind would shine in courts,
Without one noble claim beside.
The offspring of thy earliest love,
That blooms this various crowd above,
She also merits warmer praise
Than any lay of mine can raise.
Yet little, envious, slandering tribe,
With churlish snarl, and venom'd gibe,
That strive, by painting others black,
To keep your own demerits back,
Turn here, and view a gentler form,
That ne'er was shook by envy's storm.
Would you be worthy to be lov'd,
By youth admir'd, by age approv'd?

Turn ye, repentant fair ones, here—
Like her be amiably sincere.

But who comes here, with hat so square,
Waving in hand so debonnaire?
Field marshal of the claret forces,
Knight of the order of champaign!
For want of drink the poet hoarse is,
Or he would sing in worthier strain,
How hospitality's gay face,
On which the Kentish hop-poles frown,
Cherish'd with gentlemanly grace,
Presides with thee on Harbledown.
When in a spot where wealthy knaves,
To all will shut their sneaking doors,
Scarce give themselves what nature craves,
And hug, and count their gilded stores:
If in such soil, where jovial Cheer
Was left to droop, forlorn and drear,
A liberal noble mind appear,
And take the orphan boy;
Make him his own adopted treasure,
Recal his fading looks of pleasure,
And, filling up the juicy measure,
Awake his notes of joy;

If such a one, so gay, so brave,
Bath'd in rich wine's luxuriant wave,
Amid the throng should stand,
How proudly must he tread the soil,
Where creeping misers are the foil,
To his benignant hand.

But mark where polish'd and polite,
With form so slim, and head so bright,
Advances Member B***r,
To that divine, who enters now
With awful pace, and solemn brow,
So like an undertaker.
My beau accosts him hoarse and gruff,
With voice familiarly rough;
“How do you, Jack, my hearty stuff.”
—The parson frowns tremendous—
“Sir, sir!” indignant he replies—
Pride and resentment fire his eyes—
“I am Sir John—Sir John!” he cries,
Sir John! oh, heaven defend us!
Jack! an appellative uncouth
To give a baronet in truth,
And, in canonicals, no wonder
He breathes anathema and thunder

Against the tongues unbless'd and black
That dare to call Sir John a Jack.
And truly, in his name's defence,
He ever shews his native sense—
Long shall that memorable day
Recorded be in Kentish lay,
When to a party came the priest,
In all humility, to feast.
I*gl*s, the tomb-stone bard, was there,
With pious life-restoring air;
I*gl*s, the Doctor of dead men,
Whose verse recals their breath again!
'Ere yet to fight the pudding fight,
The Bible-warriors prove their might,
The Host, with grave religious face,
Requests the Doctor to say grace.
Grace hurried o'er, with wondrous ease
They clear the board of ducks and peas,
And venison, and fricasees.
Each shews his ample skill to wield
The knife and fork o'er smoking field.
Amidst the group, one, only one,
Inactive sat—it was Sir John—

For him the mutton bled in vain,
The peas were gather'd, ducks were slain;
In vain for him, to grace the cheer
A poacher had destroyed a deer;
The haunch by him unheeded lies,
Unnoticed are the tarts and pies;
Strange was it to behold indeed
Sir John of M*st*le off his feed.
No merry jest his smile excites,
No wine his gloomy soul delights;
Writhes in his breast some secret dart,
Something lays heavy at his heart.
His brow assumes its darkest hue,
A mixture deep of black and blue:
Restless and fidgetting he sits,
You'd think Sir John had lost his wits—
These fiery looks of wrath were shar'd
Between the Host and pious Bard;
I know not which he frown'd on most,
'Twas now the Doctor, now the Host.
The dinner done, that host once more
A most religious aspect wore;
And once again, with solemn face,
Rising, the Doctor mutter'd grace.

The storm that hovers in the air,
And broods awhile in silence there,
But lingers to collect its strength,
And falls with double rage at length.
Ev'n so the storm his heart had nurst,
From the proud parson's bosom burst;
The strings of self-restraint let loose,
He thus resented the abuse:
“Was it for this that to your door,
A coach, with milk-white horses four,
A Baronet from M*st*le bore?
Was it precedence might be given
To one who in a gig is driven?
Shall Doctor I*gl*s say the grace
Before Sir John of M*st*le's face?
By Chartham living I declare
'Tis too much for Sir John to bear.”
He gnash'd his teeth, he said his say,
He snatch'd his pinch, and stalk'd away.
So humbly does this placid priest,
Thus deem his worth of all the least;
'Tis amiable indeed—
Oh, would you had my hero heard
With meekest voice, and mildest word,
Expound the christian creed.

In Chartham parish, proud his height,
As in Cathedral, Jesse White.

Sorry am I my wayward lay
Should come in ridicule's array,
To any whom the heavens ordain
The priestly office to sustain:
But deem not hence that I design
Contempt to those of cleric vest.
My soul reveres the meek Divine.
That priest is sacred to my breast,
Who, like an An*r*ws, can inspire
The fervid glow of holy fire;
That pastor whose impressive tongue,
By Piety herself was strung:
So sweetly tuned to comforts sound,
It breathes the air of heav'n around;
The sinner listens with surprise,
Repentance soft'ning in his eyes;
He wonders virtue's figure chaste
He had not long ago embrac'd,
And how loose vice his heart had wean'd,
So hideous now appears the fiend.
Yonder you see his daughter fair,
The freedom of whose flowing hair,

Is bound in simple Grecian taste,
On either side the forehead placed.
The muse has utter'd all it could:
She's worthy of a sire so good.

I would proceed, but cannot pass
For this immense unwieldly mass
That barricades the way;
I thought some Cyclop grac'd the ball,
So bulky is he, and so tall;
As easy could I move a wall,
So near him I must stay.
This baronet is true John Bull,
As ever stuff'd his carcase full
With venison and turtle;
For him no literary meat
Can e'er present a grateful treat;
He loves, I hardly need repeat,
The melon more than myrtle.
In boxing, and in wrestling well,
None can the baronet excel,
If conquest be the proof;
As sure as e'er he tempts the fight,
So surely, daunted at his might,
Each peasant stands aloof.

Who has not seen him cast a fall
With rough George Nugent huge and tall;
Yet ever throw him down?
But wherefore by the sinewy hind
So quickly was the palm resign'd—
He keeps superior strength confin'd—
He fears his landlord's frown.
In manly cricket's noble game,
For hours, with an unerring aim,
He'll ply the ball about;
It is almost surpassing creed—
Unless they dare not risk indeed
To bowl their master out.
A gallant huntsman too is he
As Somerville had wish'd to see;
With horn and jacket, cap-a-pee,
The sylvan warrior rides with glee,
Where ditch nor gate impede him.
And then indeed he'll gallop round,
With sense and caution most profound;
It were not fit that on the ground,
Sprawling in mud, he should be found,
So timely prudence speed him!

Oft, in a morning veil'd with fogs,
Surrounded by his peerless dogs,
He'll sally to the chase;
Awaken'd by the merry sound,
That echoes from the horn and hound,
Full many a jolly squire around
Forth hastens to the place
They've found—the timid panting hare
Flies o'er the country light as air,
While hounds and huntsmen follow.
Now view, halloo, the hare's in view,
How anxiously the throng pursue,
With shoutings deep and hollow.
But see, e'en now the hounds turn back,
The horn recals the eager pack;
It is Sir John's delightful knack
To disappoint the crowd;
With sulky pace the dogs return,
With fruitless rage the horsemen burn—
Sir Johnny laughs aloud.

At last this fleshy colonade,
His form sufficiently display'd,
Thinks proper to remove;

And now I see a matchless pair,
As heaven's own angels bright and fair;
But, ah! how many a wreck'd heart there
Has felt the pangs of love.
How many, lured by smiling eyes,
In aiming at the beauteous prize,
Have wrought their own undoing.
Ah! lovely Syrens, dang'rous sweets,
For whom whatever bosom beats
But beats for certain ruin.
Then listen, lover, and beware,
Of tempting matchless beauty's snare.
Ah! fly before it be too late,
The light that lures thee to thy fate;
And as thou dread'st despair's wild storm,
Approach not H---d's lovely form.

But see, where still array'd in grief,
Yon widow strives a smile to borrow;
Time may have sooth'd, with kind relief,
But, oh! it has not chas'd her sorrow.
For her no more the Harp of Joy
Now vibrates on her wrung heart's strings;
And hope has ceas'd with her to toy,
And waft her wildly on his wings.

The scene of fond connubial pleasure
Recals her soul's lamented treasure;
The hero, whom the call of arms
Tore from her anguish'd bosom's charms.
Ah! lovely mourner, dry those tears,
And hush that sweet breast's plaintive sigh,
Thy soldier's fate his name endears,
For 'tis the soldier's trade to die.
His lot it was in battle-field
Nobly his valiant heart to yield;
Then cheer thee, for his honor'd name
Adorns the register of fame;
The warrior's sweetest, proudest wreath,
Buds ever on the soil of death.

Mark too on C*tl*ffe's pensive cheeks
How tenderly affliction speaks!
Her features are so sweetly sad,
Her looks with such expression clad;
Such sorrowing softness clouds her face,
Mingled with resignation's grace;
That you had thought 'twas pity's self
Lamenting o'er some favour'd elf.

That pensive cheek, that sadden'd air,
A gallant brother's fate declare,
And still her eyes from pleasure turn
To drop a tear in Talbot's urn.
Or now and then that lingering tear,
Arrested in its soft career
If any seem to mark her woe
Stops trembling, as asham'd to flow.
For Feeling loves unmark'd to pine,
And secret bend at Sorrow's shrine:
And oft in Beauty's melting eye,
Should any witness chance be nigh;
The doubtful timid quivering tear,
In hesitating anxious fear,
Will sadly hang in soft suspense
From eye that gleams with tender sense:
Affliction's pearly drop will stay,
As if afraid to kiss its way
Adown the cheek of damask rose,
On which the blush of Feeling glows.
But, fair one, hast thou then forgot
What incense breathes to warrior's lot?
For him in battle struggle slain
England shall raise a hallow'd fane—

Ah think how bold the laurels wave
That flourish o'er a soldier's grave!
The morning that impearls a tear
On each green leaf around his bier,
On ev'ry drop of weeping dew
Imprints a glittering sun-ray too—
Then, C*tl*ffe! let thy features sad
In mingled sentiments be clad;
And let a bright exulting smile
Each melancholy tear beguile;
For Glory sits on Talbot's tomb,
And weeps in triumph o'er his doom.

But who is she, that beauteous Fair,
Of truly mild and gentle air?
Expression's self is centered there,
In modesty enshrin'd;
Like the chaste sober vested night,
Lum'd by its lamp of pensive light,
Her cheeks so pale, her eyes so bright,
So soft, serene, refin'd.
Her hair is black as raven's plume,
Her brow is white as lily's bloom;

Her eye-brows dark, strange contrast bear
With the soft hue her features wear.
Her eyes are like the sparkling jet
In snowy alabaster set:
They shed a modest trembling light,
That beams most pensive and most bright.
Her lips, where blushing fragrance blows,
Seem to have pilfer'd every rose
With which fond nature meant to deck
The paler beauties of her cheek.
Full many a cheek of roseate hue
Has met my fond admiring view,
And I have thought 'twas sweet, 'twas fair,
To see the roses flaunting there;
But by the light, whose beamings dance
From yonder world's serene expanse,
I would not, for the heaven's range,
That pale and touching look exchange
For ev'ry sweet and lovely rose
That on the cheek of beauty blows.
Sure she is Beauty's dearest child,
So fair she is, so sweet, so mild.

So have I seen, on Lusian earth,
Some cloister'd nymph of beauteous birth,

Who had consign'd her youthful bloom
To holy convent's sacred gloom.
A glance just caught from grated cell
Her interesting air would tell;
Array'd in sables chaste and holy,
Most beautiful, most melancholy.
And I have sighed that maid so fair
Should be immur'd for ever there;
And I have wish'd, with impious soul,
The lovely nun from heaven were stole.

But oh 'twere needless sure to tell
For whom I lift the voice of song,
There is but one such note could swell,
But one to whom such strains belong.

And yet you know not why her name
Should wake within me sorrow's thrill;
'Tis strange that when I'd paint her fame,
I choose the saddest colours still.

And stranger yet it is, you'll say,
That such a strain should come from one
To whom her thought could never stray,
On whom her eye-beam never shone.

From one whose heart shall never more
Be warm'd by Beauty's fragrant breath;
Whose hopes all fled life's dreary shore
When his Eliza sunk in death.

She was the fairest fondest girl
That ever heav'd affection's sigh,
Or e'er betray'd the weeping pearl
Starting from warm Compassion's eye.
Then wonder not the minstrel's lays
So fondly speak Eliza's praise;
And think it then no longer strange
Affliction o'er that page should range,
Where he describes a form, an air,
So like what his Eliza's were.

Now mark we in the brilliant Ball
Those sister nymphs, so fair and tall;
Em---a, with golden locks that flow
O'er brow and neck of dazzling snow;
And M---y, whose engaging face
Abounds with many an angel grace;
With beauty and colloquial charm,
Venus could none more sweetly arm,

To please and entertain you;
Yet I would say 'twas pity sure,
If nymph so fair were not secure
From Canterbury mania.
Now, by St. Dunstan, I could weep,
To think that slander's snake should creep
In bosom so enchanting;
But no—I'm sure the gen'rous mind,
The jewel of a soul refin'd,
This cannot here be wanting.
You see that handsome lovelorn swain,
Who late on Talavera's plain
Has borne the British arms:
I will not now his flame declare
But thus I'll say: a nymph more fair
Not nature in her fondest care
E'er robed in magic charms.
So sweetly modest is the maid,
I wonder not the raptur'd youth
Should offer vows at Venus' shade,
And warmly tell of love and truth.
From Beauty's path 'twere hard to cull
A flower more strictly beautiful;

And then her chaste, though fertile mind,
Is as her matchless form refin'd.

But, youth, thou hast a rival knight,
And know a warrior bold is he;
Of Local Corps, a captain bright,
Of figure tall, and high degree.
His mother's darling, pretty pet!
Because he'll whine, and pout, and fret,
And always have his way:
And then in love, a knight more true
It were impossible to view;
He smirks, and smiles, and simpers too—
So gallant and so gay.
Unto her heart he has laid siege,
And means to be her lover liege,
And win her in a trice;
Then, hero, mark what I have told,
Beware of knight so sweet, so bold,
Beware of Captain R***.

Now tell me, muse, and tell me true,
What bloated lump is that I view?

His selfish look, and eyebrow dark
Declare him to be Doctor Shark.
A veteran convicted sinner
As e'er sat down to parson's dinner.
It were not fit for me to tell
What fortune to a priest befel,
Nor were it seemly to explain
Who woo'd the sweet nymph Bess Bolaine,
And kneeling low at fortune's wheel,
Pray'd her to heaven with fervent zeal;
And when at last she took her flight,
Seiz'd on the parted widow's mite;
I shall not name the crafty spark,
I shall not say 'twas Doctor Shark.

And mark we next that figure strange,
A Wild-man he who loves to range
In woods of castled Ch---l---m,
Protect his fish from rude encroachers,
And guard his game from artful poachers,
Who constant strive to kill 'em.
But ah, how futile and how vain!
The fairest doe in his domain
Has fallen with all his care;

A M**sh*m Buck; with furious horn,
Met this devoted doe one morn.
And spent his fury there.
But where is she whose angel beauty,
Though wedded, stole your love and duty,
And every bosom's sigh bereft,
Though guileless, reckless of the theft;
Ah! youths, in vain you look around,
No more the beauteous nymph is found;
No more she'll dance in Kentish hall—
No more adorn the jealous Ball;
Her sullen lord deserted Kent,
And with him the fair flow'ret went:
And youths no more, with tremors dear,
The voice enraptur'd shall he hear
That flow'd so sweetly from the lips
Of beautiful S---p---a Ph---.
As fair and sweet a form was she
As e'er in mortal mould could be;
But gloom and pride her husband sour'd,
And ever on his brow there lour'd
Ill-temper's shade, so strong, so dark,
Pity had wept his air to mark.

She look'd a chaste and lovely rose,
Blooming amid Siberian snows:
Sweet blossom! grafted on a crab,
Thy fate must nature's feelings stab.
Yon doctor (I---gl---s is his name ),
Well known in fair poetic fame,
A resurrection man;
Not only his parsonic head,
Content is to inter the dead;
But when the spark of life is fled
Restore it too he can.
For Lazarus arose (you know it)
A third time through this pious poet;
And verily I do suppose
The poet fell when he arose,
O'ercome with large libations, quaff'd
From Bacchus' muse-inspiring draught;

For surely none but Bacchus' fire
So bold a poem could inspire:
For bold it must be to dispense,
Like his, with measure, rhyme, and sense;
But to attend to sense and measure
Was much beyond the doctor's leisure.
But shall I bid the muse adieu,
And shall I drop the pen of praise,
And not her smiling favour sue
A humble eulogy to raise;
(For humble only may it be
When comes the workmanship from me).
To one of unassuming gait,
Demeanour modest and sedate,
With talent bless'd, with beauty deck'd,
Created to command respect:
What though, secluded by her choice,
You hear not at the ball her voice;
What though, above a common pride,
She strives in solitude to hide
The lustre of a soul whose shine
Still eminently beams benign:
Shall I for this her form forget,
And shrink from virtue's noble debt?

No! Ch*nd**r, no, the verse were vile
That would not warm to virtue's smile:
And if a heart of gentlest birth,
Of unsophisticated worth;
And if a disposition sweet,
With sensibility replete;
And if a mind with goodness fraught,
And fill'd with pure ingenuous thought:
Ch*nd**r, if qualities like these
Be worthy of a bard's acclaim,
'Twill ev'ry ball-room votary please
To hear me speak an A*st*n's name.

And if we beauty prize and wit,
It were injustice to omit
The charming F**te's engaging face,
The sister S*m*nds' happy grace.
Each lovely Co*p*r's speaking glance,
And Br*nf**ld's beauteous elegance
Demand the warmest lays—
(Better, sweet Br*nf**ld the omission,
For trifling is my poor addition
To universal praise.)

And if blind folly wants a name,
Yonder's St. Margaret's widow'd dame;
She who yet strives to nurse a flame
Too young for her embrace;
And who with paints and patches quacks
Her features to fill up the cracks
Of a once beauteous face.

But vain for me to strive it were,
To sing of ev'ry fop and fair
These motley scenes present:
R*shb***k, B**h, S*tt*n, spendid three!
With greater feeling far than me,
Can sing the fools of Kent.

And, but that Margate bids me nurse
My remnant of prosaic verse
To fill its idle hour;
I would have nam'd a lengthen'd list
Of virgins old who ne'er were kiss'd,
And who, infuriate at the taste
That left their charms unpluck'd to waste,
Now strive to shed their blighting mist
On every youthful flower.

Pity, indeed, their various merit
No future offspring shall inherit,
Their former charms to tell;
Dames of old Dian's gloomy fane,
Where damsels worship in their wane,
'Tis meet I say farewel!

The Votaries of the Ball Room will, I am sure, have no objection to my drawing up the curtain and introducing to them their neighbours of the Isle of Thanet.

Since writing this, I have heard this man is dead. With the dead I war not.—He was the prince of Canterbury poets! Peace to his ashes.

If there were any so irreligious as to be capable of receiving amusement from a burlesque of Holy Writ, they would not fail to peruse “Lazarus, a poem by Dr. I*gl*s.”

BALL ROOM VOTARIES; OR, THE ISLE OF THANET.

Margate! where Momus holds his summer reign,
Thy ample Ball-room now demands my strain;
Beauty shall be my muse, with angel smile—
Beauty, that blooms so fair in Thanet's Isle:
Thy sister, Ramsgate, too her nymphs shall bring,
And, join'd with thine, adorn the lays I sing;
And Broadstairs, also, help to shew us here
The toss of quality and high-bred sneer:
Yes, these, with all their airs, shall hear my call,
Be vulgar once, and grace a Margate Ball.

‘Margate!’ you cry, ‘to Garner then we'll go,
For he'll assuredly the author know;
And if he knows, as certainly will tell,
To please and to oblige he loves so well.’

'Tis true, fair nymphs, you're most completely right,
Than Garner none oblige with more delight:
And so attentive is he too, to all,
He ever strives your wishes to forestall;
Yet be convinced, to save enquiry's task,
Like you he knows not, and 'twere vain to ask;
Though, if he did, I hold his sense so great,
A secret he'd disdain to violate.

Will titled ladies breathe resentment forth,
If I commence with A*sl*ys well-known worth?
Title precedence claims in polish'd clime,
Yet merit sure may jingle first in rhyme—
And truly none can boast of fairer mind,
More delicate, accomplish'd, and refin'd;
With truth adorn'd, with native genius deck'd,
Of just conception, and of thought correct:

Their purse is open to the poor distress'd,
As to the tale of woe each feeling breast;
Worth such as this deserves the poet's praise—
Worth such as this exalts the humblest lays.
You see where, watch'd by many a fair one's glance,
Le Bas there stands, the monarch of the dance;
(Le Bas, whose mild and equitable sway
For twenty years has rul'd the circle gay):
Know you that aged figure by his side?
It is Sir Horace, Margate's earliest pride—
Friendship and kindness blending in his face,
With easy manners and familiar grace;
Quick to forgive, reluctant to offend,
To all, except himself, a true and faithful friend.
You notice W*ll**ms and his lady there,
A gay, a sociable, and happy pair:
Her easy manner to Le Bas displayed,
And willingness to lend her active aid;
Whene'er the forms of Margate etiquette
Required him to give a minuet,

Have shewn a kind and condescending heart,
Anxious to please and all it could impart.

Observe in earnest converse at the top,
Sir John and W****n, the attorney fop;
Sir John, the hero in my former lays,
Whose mark'd humility so won my praise;
And W****n, in himself who ne'er found flaw,
A fine festidious city limb of law.
To him Sir John, of brow and feature stern,
Thus vents the feelings in his breast that burn:
“The Ball-Room Votaries—you've seen the thing?
That vile attempt the good and great to sting;
And, as you know, it prostitutes my name—
From proud Sir John to Jack descends my fame.
Shall then Sir John to vulgar Jack thus sink?
Is't not a libel, W****n; what d'ye think?
The plea of ign'rance cannot screen the line;
You know invariably Sir John I sign.
'Twould bear an action, would it not, my friend?
To which your talents bright their aid might lend;

If so, the honour of my name I'd save,
Detect, no doubt, and prosecute the knave;
Perhaps confine for life the wanton wag,
So perish all that laugh at Sir John F***.”

A deeper shade o'erspreads the churchman's eyes,
While thus the consequential prig replies:—

“My fame, Sir John, exceeds description's bounds,
Through all the city alleys it resounds;
From Temple-Bar to fragrant Fish-Street-Hill,
Unnumber'd citizens attest my skill.
Had you some city matter wanted solv'd,
In maze however intricate involv'd,
Or any case, indeed, had wish'd disclos'd,
Except the very one you have propos'd,
My talents, which so justly bright you find,
Had brought conviction to your doubtful mind;
But 'tis not in my practice, I confess,
To settle points affecting the Noblesse:
Yet, as a simile the truth may trace,
And throw some light on this perplexing case;
Thus much I can inform you, that from town,
When the Lord Mayor comes to Margate down,

'Twould work astonishment, and make me stare
To hear his lordship nick-named Mister Mayor.”

See Proteus J*rv*s hastily advance,
An actor, captain, master of the dance;
Exact in circumstances, nice in dates,
Yet apt to prose in all that he relates.
But let me not the foibles bring in view
Of one whose virtues bear such noble hue;
Whose candid mind would never stoop to please,
By cringing, creeping flatt'ry, Margate's curst disease;
Whose tongue, untrained to adulation's guile,
Breathes for his friends no ready incense vile;
And whose combined humanity and skill
Claim the warm tribute of encomium still.

That prompt humanity superior shone,
That gen'rous skill a Coote's applauses won,
When Britain's martial host to Ostend sail'd,
And medical assistance so much fail'd;
'Twas then (the impulse of his heart obey'd)
J*rv*s stepp'd forth and volunteer'd his aid,

Forsook the comforts all of social joy,
And left a sure and lucrative employ,
To share the perils and relieve the pain
Of wounded warriors on a foreign plain—
There would his constant, anxious efforts save
Full many a hero sinking to the grave:
There, watchful at the fainting soldier's side,
Renew the springs of life's retreating tide,
Assist pale nature's struggle against death;
With nicest art retain the fleeting breath,
And send the warrior, from disease restor'd,
Once more to bathe in hostile blood his sword.

The Gazette of 1797 records the medical services of this gentleman:

View D*ck*ns now, with duck-like step approach,
As fond of talk as F*st*r of his coach:
Late as I marked her seeking out the poor,
With waddling pace, from humble door to door,
Methought 'twas charity had led her there,
And from my soul I blest her gen'rous care;
Little I thought the gabbling niggard came,
Avarice her guide, economy her aim—
To buy at cheapest rate their little store,
She sought those lowly stalls and sought no more.

See now advance the modest well-bred D*r*ng,
Free of her sex's envious odious sneering.
And pious Br**ne her footsteps hither bend,
Dark scandal's foe, the poor one's steady friend;
While at her side the gentle S*wk*ns goes,
Prais'd, lov'd, caress'd by every one she knows;
(Or if there be a female loves her not,
Sure envy's shades that female's bosom blot).
How sweet, how pleasing is it to pourtray,
A pair like this in virtue's white array,
Each line of mild benevolence to trace,
And each soft feature on compassion's face:
Now, by my soul, though in poetic field
The arms of ridicule I strive to wield;
Though pleas'd I took what satire's hand conferr'd,
Nettles to sting of fools and knaves a herd,
Far more congenial for my fav'rite lays
Bloom the fair flowers that deck the path of praise.

Ye who, with heavy and malignant curse,
So oft have honour'd my offending verse,
Stung to the heart to find your portraits there,
Depicted in their native province fair;

Would ye be deck'd in verse with just renown,
Go, tread the steps of S*wk*ns and of Br**ne.

With bashful mien see C**b advancing now,
A youth whose modest merits all allow;
That shy reserve and unassuming air,
His innate value and his sense declare;
Of nature amiable, of manners mild,
In want of confidence a very child:
But so much diffidence his worth conceals,
And much too low his place in life he feels;
Loves from his proper level to retreat,
And fix his station in a humbler seat,
Amidst associates of inferior birth,
Who know not how to estimate that worth.
Ah! sure 'tis pity that so fair a soul,
Misplac'd timidity should thus controul;
On the rich soil where towering elm should grow
The lowly primrose and the violet blow;
Where the proud oak his lordly branch should spread
The simple cowslip finds its humble bed.

Now mark the low disgusting contrast seen
In H****m's mind, contemptible and mean;

In every way inferior to the youth
Whose mild acquirements I have penn'd with truth;
A weed unseemly from the dirt that sprung,
And still a stranger to his mother tongue:
Yet pert, loquacious, impudent, and free,
The fop of folly to the last degree:
Oppressive, proud, and pitiless, to each
Whom poverty has placed within his reach,
'Tis fortune only gives him the pretence;
His dullest cow-boy equals him in sense—
Yet this man apes the fashionable school,
A monkey mimic of each strutting fool;
A mark of pity for the class he'd scorn,
Of ridicule for those superior born.

Such is the man selected to advance
By the dull hand of undiscerning chance;
Blind blundering fate has given to his arms
A wife adorn'd with woman's brightest charms;
Of mind as fair as poet's chastest thought,
With every soft acquirement richly fraught.
Would that he'd learn by her superior lights
How much contempt pert ignorance excites:

Would he'd discover from so bright a star
What silly objects self-plum'd dunces are;
Be taught to prize his own sweet person less—
His mass of hack'd impertinence repress;
In conscious dulness all pretensions sink,
And thus into his native nothing shrink.

But who from yonder card-room now comes forth?
A miller!—aye, and one of real worth:
Kind in his actions, in his dealings just,
Of fraud incapable, as of distrust;
No friend forgets, no poor companion leaves,
No evil deed e'er does, or one believes—
Yet P*lch*r here will be the last to know
His is the portrait I would wish to shew.
Next, just behind, 'tis C*w*l that you see,
A yeoman in its proudest sense is he;
A liberal candid man, yet modest too,
I love to praise where so much praise is due:
I know not a more unaffected mind,
A heart more generous 'twere hard to find.

Would 'twere the fashion of dame Fortune's freak,
Her favourites in true desert to seek—
To judge how each in opulence would live,
And wealth proportion'd to their spirit give;
Retrench from such as hoard their heaps of gold,
Not to impart the treasure but behold:
And upon those her juster favours pour
Whose hearts are form'd to promulgate the store;
A W**lf*t then had met her utmost scorn,
And C*w*l liv'd in wealth as he was born.

Methinks that lady somewhere else I've seen;
Yes, it is Sl***r by her step and mien;
Oft have I mark'd her, pacing Margate's sand,
With her fine children, one in either hand;
Ever awake to the maternal call,
For it deserting theatre and ball.
Sl***r! for this thy merits I proclaim,
Whilst thou shalt blush to find it written fame.

What little lively laughing sylph is that?
It is the Creole, amiable D*l Pr*tte—
Her form aerial sliding swift along
The mazy ring, and through the jocund throng,

So just her movements to the music beat,
Each note appears an echo to her feet.

But where is B*ys, whose high elastic bound
Would dart so nimbly on this fairy ground;
Whose steps of light'ning with surprise we trac'd
Uniting so much harmony and taste?
Where's Laura Ch****n? she whose sloe-black eyes
Shot light more radiant than the summer skies;
Whose sweet, obliging, and good-humour'd mien
So much increas'd the beauty of the scene—
Alas! far other objects now employ
These late so lively votaries of joy;
And Pity weeps their tender bosoms torn
For relatives that now yon heaven adorn.

Poor Laura Ch****n! cruel was the shock—
Soft blossom riven from its parent stock!
Fair bud! disconsolate, and drench'd in woe,
I may not bid thy griefs forget to flow!
The tear a daughter sheds o'er parent's doom
Is the best ornament that decks his tomb,
The dew that makes his virtues round his gravestone bloom.

Poor Laura Ch****n! sunk with real grief,
She and her sister strove to tend relief.
The streets, the libraries, the ball, the green,
In these the drooping pair were never seen;
In silent dread, in agoniz'd suspense,
They'd wait the hour that bore their father hence.
A parent pious, tender, good, and fond,
Well may the fair and filial maids despond;
Well may the tear adown their soft cheeks pace,
And the sweet smile that there exulted chase.

There stands the man, of keen expressive air,
The soul of genius firmly seated there,
Whom to have nam'd my friend, I would have thought
The kindest favour Fortune lately brought;
If it had been her will for me to bend
That cynic genius to a social friend.
Those features, pale with literary toil,
Have hung assiduous o'er the midnight oil.
Learning for him unlock'd his splendid store,
And Education gave him all her lore,
Gave him, though yet in life's just ripen'd prime,
By various ways the steep of fame to climb:

So that e'en stern reviewers can't resist
Th'Historian, Critic, moral Essayist.
But wherefore thus should I, the humblest bard,
Proclaim what all have done, the praise of C**d?

Upon his arm reclines his graceful wife,
A proper partner for his studious life;
Whose mind, enrich'd with talent and with taste,
With virtue strengthen'd, and with softness grac'd,
Mingles its lustre with his stronger light,
As thus the Pleiades their beams unite.

But where is Fl**ch*r with her artless glance,
Whose foot was ever lightest in the dance;
Whose easy form so graceful sprung aloft,
Whose air was sweetest, and whose smile most soft?
The nymph has left the Fair of Thanet's Isle,
With other suns to blend her cheering smile.
Her's was a field of variegated taste,
The voice enchanting, and the pencil chaste:
Her's was a mind to captivate the heart,
Where fruits of science mix'd with flowers of art,
And gay good-nature still attemper'd ev'ry part.

‘Conversing with the charming Lady H***s,
In whom good sense and elegance prevails;
What gentlemanly form is yonder seen?’

'Tis stately high-born B*rke**y that you mean—
Unlike his taciturn and modest friend
The Worcester Baronet, he cannot bend.

“No, you mistake,” a wond'ring reader cries,
“'Tis like him, but I can't believe my eyes;
For oft I've mark'd that self-same figure well
In wanton dalliance with some Nurs'ry Belle;
Some pretty damsel of the serving group,
Whom to address a B*rke**y would not stoop;
So gay, gallant, agreeable and free,
You surely err, it could not B*rke**y be.”

But whence proceeds that distant bustle now?
A Ramsgate party entering I vow!

The wedded consort of a Prince's bed,
The gen'rous S*ss*x enters at their head;
That chaste, that honour'd and majestic dame,
Who at heav'n's gate her lofty right may claim;
That widow'd wife whom tyrant law deprives
Of spousal love, although her spouse survives;

That tender mother who delights to trace
In her dear pledge the lines of princely grace,
Hang in soft fondness o'er her only joy,
And dwell in rapture on her Royal boy.

Much treasur'd scion of a noble tree!
Her hopes, her fears, are all awake for thee!
For thee alone her cup of bliss tastes pure,
And the cup sweetens as thy years mature.

And thou, the guardian of a darling trust!
Wouldst thou be firm, and in affection just,
And wouldst thou see thy manly offspring rise
The proudest object of admiring eyes,
Seek a wise man his talents to expand,
And till with labour'd care the fertile land;
With erudition feed his youthful mind,
And let his genius be in taste enshrin'd.
The fond attentions of maternal help
Must nurse with gen'rous food the Lion's whelp;
So shall her right be royal not in vain,
And strength adorn the youthful Lion's mane.

Let not false kindness, with destructive blight,
Enfeeble talent till exhausted quite;

Lop the vain branches of the sapling root,
'Twill stronger grow, and more luxuriant shoot;
And give at length a thick and grateful shade,
Where thou shalt sit beneath, thy glorious care repaid.

The avenue to royalty is barr'd
By hand that knows not blame, though harsh and hard,
By the cold hand of stern despotic law,
Which even monarchs contemplate with awe:
Then let him follow the enchantress Fame
Through other paths, and wreath with her's his name.
Let him the bold and beauteous form pursue
Through learning's maze, and study be his clue.

And if the youth the arms of war would wield,
Let him rush forward to th'embattled field,
Embrace her offer'd charms on glory's plain,
And lead through laurel land the warrior train;
But give him first the gorgeous mental fare
The fruit of finish'd education's care,
His soul to arm, his valour to prepare.

So shall his sword like lightning dart along,
With ev'n more skill than now he smacks the thong.
Or if the senate's pride seduce his soul,
Pursue the object, nor the will controul;
Make him an orator—of what avail
Are great ideas if expression fail?
Teach argument attention's ear to please,
Blend force with wit, and dignity with ease;
The voice of reas'ning must call forth his fire,
Or quickly will the patriot spark expire;
Oh nurse that embryo spark within his breast,
And it shall one day blazon forth confess'd;
So shall thine offspring in the senate shine,
And add a lustre to the Brunswick line;
So shall he better hold the state's strong reins,
Than now his little chariot's he retains,
And thou, enraptur'd, shalt exclaim with truth,
'Twas I, his mother, train'd the royal youth:
While Britons hail him with deserv'd applause,
Noble and worthy of the royal cause;

And shout that mother's praise, that guardian's wit,
That form'd of princely mould a second Pitt.

Lamented Pitt! whose mind shone forth awhile
The star, the glory of Britannia's isle—
Who long presiding at the nation's helm,
When ruin threaten'd all to overwhelm,
Still struggled with the tempest's threat'ning force,
Unconquer'd struggled, and maintain'd thy course,
Saw empires round thee to confusion hurl'd,
Yet sav'd thy country mid the shipwreck'd world.

How soon, alas! thy labours past forgot,
Neglected, left to moulder and to rot;
To all thy wants in life no notice paid,
In death reviled thy venerable shade;
Unnoticed by the public and the throne,
And all they gave thee was a sculptur'd stone:
Ev'n this was envied, scarcely held thy due
By that ephemeral parsimonious crew,
Whose little malice would thy plans oppose,
Their country injure, and support thy foes;

By that litigious contumacious throng,
Who always bray'd the minister was wrong;
Unless he'd yield to their fantastic schemes,
A Fox's ravings, and a Windham's dreams.

And oh! shall it be said to Britons' shame,
Sunk in the tomb they still insult thy name!
But envy's rage his virtues shall defy,
The fame of Pitt was never doom'd to die.
No, long as upright patriots' breasts shall glow
With country's love and England have a foe;
Long as around the British Isle shall roar
Vast ocean's billows, and protect her shore;
Long as the planets in their orbs shall run,
So long shall last thy fame, O Chatham's son.

See where Miss O****w enters with a sneer;
“Lord! what a motly prospect have we here!
A bow!—that Doctor as I live to view—
And only an assistant surgeon too!
That odious man, so pleasant whom I thought,
Until I heard he was not worth a groat:
Well, well, I here will still keep up the farce,
Partners perhaps may happen to be scarce;

But if in London we should ever meet,
I'll surely cut him in St. James's Street.”
C******n, her fair companion, turns away,
And laughs at folly which she cannot stay.
Her matron sister is the Lady Hyde,
The self-created Queen of Ramsgate pride.
Lady Louisa too I next descry,
Mirth and good-humour sparkling in her eye.
Lady Virginia's form I there recal,
But sure I miss her little lawyer Paul,
Next comes the T*w**ly, supper-giving dame,
The would-be lady of a pompous name;
Her prudent liberality we know,
Her art to keep her cash, yet make a show;
Here half a chicken in a large dish lies;
One slice of tongue encounters there your eyes;
(Her own she thinks perhaps sufficient quite,
And may, for aught I know, be shrewdly right)
A tartlet here, perhaps a jelly there;
None dares to eat, 'twould so disgrace her fare.

You stare at yonder antiquated hag,
That smirks and smiles at every handsome wag;

I know her well—and her advancing age
Perchance had sav'd her from satiric page,
Had there been nought but venial faults to scan,
For venial faults are seen in every man;
But when a str**p*t, harden'd in her trade,
Whose ev'ry spark of youthful fire's decay'd,
Still shews Adultress written on her front,
And, buoy'd by rank, audacious stands the brunt,
Virtue and chastity alike implore
Each honest pen that stubborn heart to gore.

Yet turn we now from her disgusting leer
To see the sprightly Bl*k**ys drawing near;
Than whom, to grace my biographic lay,
More pleasing forms I never can pourtray:
With all the elegance of fashion deck'd,
Nature still waits that fashion to direct;
Good-breeding there displays the power of art,
Simplicity preserves the goodness of their heart:
Each has its sway, and eulogy is lost,
To prize their wit, or love its manner most.

What beau is that who flutters o'er the room,
As insects buzz around a honey-comb?
A matchless adept he appears to be
In smiling, bowing, and presenting tea;

Whisp'ring warm homage to a half-pleased miss,
And painting love in all its dying bliss.
Sons of Machaon, he belongs to you,
Though far the gayest of your tribe 'tis true:
Then who's surpris'd when Ramsgate nymphs are ill,
With such a charmer to present a pill?
The pretty fellow! and so good a heart!
He's rich, and his relations share a part;
For instance, when the dear delightful youth
Thinks that his coat begins to look uncouth,
He'll send it to his poor and aged s---,
And bid him wear it as his best attire.
Oh! to resound such merit, for a mouth
Of melody like thine, sweet Captain S****!
The dulcet sounds of whose harmonious throat
None so admire as him who croaks the note,
As him, who a militia ensign once,
Is now a captain dubb'd by his own tuneful sconce.

You see yon fair, attracting general gaze,
Whom Venus bids me paint in living lays;
Alas, to copy nature's proudest work,
To paint the cheek where countless beauties lurk,

Describe the locks that veil, and kiss that face,
Like a fair mead that shading woods embrace;
The lips to shew, where love his arrow dips,
The smile that wantons on those lovely lips.
The neck, by lily-handed Venus dress'd,
That curves and rises to the swelling breast;
To do all this—and in a verse express
An angel's figure in an earthly dress;
To bid Amelia's form in song to live,
And with that form her soul's soft trait to give;
How weak is art! from mimic skill exempt,
Nature steps forth, and frowns on the attempt:
The pencil drops, the hand in tremor falls,
And nature's frown the vain design recals.

You there perceive the pale Octavian sit;
He seems abstracted in a pensive fit.
Amid these scenes, that warm each lighter soul,
No soft sensations o'er his senses roll.
How chang'd are all those late gay features now!
Why does despondence thus o'ershade his brow?
Can you, ye soft affections, not disclose
From whence, from whom, the source of grief arose?

Ye fond effusions of the tender mind,
By honour cherish'd, and by love refin'd,
Can ye reveal what sadd'ning cause inspires,
Winds round his heart, and chills its warmest fires?
Bear it, blest hope, convey it on your wings,
And tell Amelia whence his sorrow springs;
Bid her dispel that sorrow, chase those fears,
Which wring his soul, and even force his tears:
Tell her his bosom, where her image reigns,
Though to repeat his vows the youth disdains;
Supports in agonizing thought, aside,
A doubtful struggle between love and pride:
Bid her to soar those pretty airs above,
And yield her softened soul to mutual love.

Oh, woman! would'st thou know the secret charm,
From which no spell the mind of man can arm?
Let thine eye beam with modesty's soft fear,
And yet be moisten'd by affection's tear;
Let thy cheek glow with innocence so white,
That heaven itself be jealous of the sight,
Yet still permit a tender conscious blush
That glow to soften, and that cheek to flush.

But see accomplish'd S--- there appears,
Whose friendship was the charm of earlier years;
Whose gentler manners first my notice caught,
And first refin'd my giddy youthful thought:
And, as once more I view her, absent long,
What scenes of former joy on memory throng!
Of joy awaken'd on that much-loved spot,
Where first we met, and ne'er to be forgot;
'Ere I went forth to meet the world's rough cares,
Its hopes delusive, and its real fears,
To brave its frowns, detect its treach'rous smiles,
And walk secure amidst its latent guiles;
Check passion's impulse, fly each charm of sense,
And strive to keep unblemish'd pristine innocence.

And oft since duty's call, far far remov'd
The bard from those whom he rever'd and lov'd.
Oft, S---, have I grateful called to mind,
That anxious care, those admonitions kind;
Which warmth appeased, restrain'd aspiring pride,
And caus'd each rising tumult to subside;

Which taught me how to steer, nor taught in vain,
My little bark through life's tempestuous main,
From shipwreck how the batter'd vessel save,
Defy the winds, and stem the adverse wave;
The pilot's duty skilfully perform,
Surmount each peril, and outride each storm.
And though between us roll the boundless sea,
My thoughts K---*---*---* still shall turn to thee;
Where youth was treated with parental care,
Where first I flutter'd in poetic air,
Where first the rules of science I was taught,
Where first my soul the inspiration caught.

But as remembrance these reflections wakes,
The muse of satire from her limits breaks,
Forgets that fools demand her weapon keen,
And dwells in fondness o'er the milder scene.

Yet 'tis no matter, for my task is o'er,
The clock strikes twelve, and they must dance no more:
For see, Le Bas the wonted signal makes,
And, like my song, the ball abruptly breaks.

Mute is all harmony, and each retires,
To live in dreams that Morpheus inspires:
My lady B--- to wield her vengeful arms
Gainst those who dar'd to slight her painted charms;
The Lady Bet her proud descent to blab,
A perfect honourable Miss Mac Tab,
Whisper her title with becoming grace,
And beg a guinea with a modest face:
Kill'em his own sweet person to approve,
And score each simper to a proof of love:
Ogle to count how many a whining fool
This night was pierc'd by glance she learn'd at school:
And I, my pen in Lethe's stream to steep,
To act my readers part and soundly sleep.

THE END.