The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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| XII. | ODE XII. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE XII.
Lo! majesty admireth yon fair Dome
;
And deemeth that he is admired again!
The king is wedded to it—'tis his home—
He watches it—and loves it, ev'n to pain:
And yet this lofty dome is heard to say,
‘Poh! poh! p*x take your love—away! away!’
And deemeth that he is admired again!
The king is wedded to it—'tis his home—
He watches it—and loves it, ev'n to pain:
And yet this lofty dome is heard to say,
‘Poh! poh! p*x take your love—away! away!’
To this, with energy I answer—‘Shame!’
Such bad behaviour puts me in a flame:
This is unseemly, nay, ungrateful carriage,
And brings to mind a little Ode to Marriage.
Such bad behaviour puts me in a flame:
This is unseemly, nay, ungrateful carriage,
And brings to mind a little Ode to Marriage.
ODE TO HYMEN;
OR, THE HECTIC.
GOD of ten million charming things,
Of whom our Milton so divinely sings,
Once dove-tail'd to a devil of a wife—
Hymen, how comes it that I am so slighted?
Why with thy myst'ries am I not delighted,
Which I have tried to peep on half my life?
Of whom our Milton so divinely sings,
Once dove-tail'd to a devil of a wife—
Hymen, how comes it that I am so slighted?
Why with thy myst'ries am I not delighted,
Which I have tried to peep on half my life?
God of the down-clad chains, dispel the mist—
O put me speedily upon thy list!
A civil list, like that of kings, I'm told,
Bringing in swelling bags of glorious gold!
What have I done to lose thy good opinion?
Against thee was I ever known to rail;
And say (abusing thus thy sweet dominion),
‘Curse me! if this boy's trap shall catch my tail?’
No! no!—I praise thy knot with bellowing breath,
Which, like Jack Ketch's, seldom slips till death.
O put me speedily upon thy list!
A civil list, like that of kings, I'm told,
Bringing in swelling bags of glorious gold!
202
Against thee was I ever known to rail;
And say (abusing thus thy sweet dominion),
‘Curse me! if this boy's trap shall catch my tail?’
No! no!—I praise thy knot with bellowing breath,
Which, like Jack Ketch's, seldom slips till death.
Lo! 'midst the hollow-sounding vault of night,
Deep coughing by the taper's lonely light,
The hopeless Hectic rolls his eye-balls, sighing;
‘Sleep on,’ he cries, and drops the tend'rest tear;
Then kisses his wife's cherub cheek so dear:
‘Blest be thy slumbers, love! though I am dying:
Ah! whilst thou sleepest with the sweetest breath,
I pump for life, the putrid well of death!
I feel of Fate's hard hand th' oppressive pow'r;
I count the iron tongue of ev'ry hour,
That seems in Fancy's startled ear to say—
Soon must thou wander from thy wife away.’
Deep coughing by the taper's lonely light,
The hopeless Hectic rolls his eye-balls, sighing;
‘Sleep on,’ he cries, and drops the tend'rest tear;
Then kisses his wife's cherub cheek so dear:
‘Blest be thy slumbers, love! though I am dying:
Ah! whilst thou sleepest with the sweetest breath,
I pump for life, the putrid well of death!
I feel of Fate's hard hand th' oppressive pow'r;
I count the iron tongue of ev'ry hour,
That seems in Fancy's startled ear to say—
Soon must thou wander from thy wife away.’
‘Dread sound! too solemn for the soul to bear,
Murm'ring deep melancholy on my ear:
And sullen—ling'ring, as if loth to part,
And ease the terrors of my fainting heart.
Yet, though I pant for life, sleep thou, my dove,
For well thy constancy deserves my love.’
Murm'ring deep melancholy on my ear:
And sullen—ling'ring, as if loth to part,
And ease the terrors of my fainting heart.
Yet, though I pant for life, sleep thou, my dove,
For well thy constancy deserves my love.’
And, lo! all young and beauteous, by his side,
His soft, fresh-blooming, incense-breathing bride,
Whose cheek the dream of rapt'rous kisses warms,
Anticipates her spouse's wish so good;
Feels love's wild ardours tingling through her blood,
And pants amidst a second husband's arms;
Now opes her eyes, and turning round her head,
‘Wonders the filthy fellow is not dead!’
His soft, fresh-blooming, incense-breathing bride,
Whose cheek the dream of rapt'rous kisses warms,
Anticipates her spouse's wish so good;
Feels love's wild ardours tingling through her blood,
And pants amidst a second husband's arms;
Now opes her eyes, and turning round her head,
‘Wonders the filthy fellow is not dead!’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |