The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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A FAMILIAR EPISTLE |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
56
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE
To J. H. Esq; near Killarney.
Written from DUBLIN, August, 1758.
Dear to my Heart, my Joy, my Pride,
My Youth's Example, and my Guide,
To whom the Muse, with artless Tongue,
Her earliest Gratulations sung;
Wak'd by whose friendly Voice, again,
She takes the long neglected Pen;
And, borne on trembling Pinions, tries
A short Excursion to the Skies:
Whether, around the festive Bowl,
To Mirth you give th'unbended Soul;
Or, from the social Scene withdraw,
Bewilder'd in the Maze of Law:
Whether, in Rockwood's Bowers reclin'd,
Fair Nature's Charms engage your Mind;
The untaught Music of the Wood,
The Murmurs of the distant Flood;
Or, begging Crowds,—with supple Knee,
Instead of qualifying Fee,
With Tale, in piteous Accent spoken,
Of Heads, or Ribs, or Fences broken—
The Morning's early Walk invade,
And haunt you to the secret Shade:
Whatever Scenes your Hours engage,
The Sports of Youth, the Saws of Age,
Th'Election-Feast, the public Strife,
Or, the mild Joys of private Life,
Quick from the busy Crowd get free;
The present Hour belongs to me:
Drive from your Mind each anxious Care,
And give the Muse Protection there;
Defend her inexperienc'd Youth
From the fell Critic's venom'd Tooth;
And, should some few indulgent Eyes
Admire her Plumage, as she flies,
Let this, her favourite Boast, be known,
That every Feather is her own.
My Youth's Example, and my Guide,
To whom the Muse, with artless Tongue,
Her earliest Gratulations sung;
Wak'd by whose friendly Voice, again,
She takes the long neglected Pen;
And, borne on trembling Pinions, tries
A short Excursion to the Skies:
Whether, around the festive Bowl,
To Mirth you give th'unbended Soul;
Or, from the social Scene withdraw,
Bewilder'd in the Maze of Law:
Whether, in Rockwood's Bowers reclin'd,
Fair Nature's Charms engage your Mind;
The untaught Music of the Wood,
The Murmurs of the distant Flood;
Or, begging Crowds,—with supple Knee,
Instead of qualifying Fee,
With Tale, in piteous Accent spoken,
Of Heads, or Ribs, or Fences broken—
57
And haunt you to the secret Shade:
Whatever Scenes your Hours engage,
The Sports of Youth, the Saws of Age,
Th'Election-Feast, the public Strife,
Or, the mild Joys of private Life,
Quick from the busy Crowd get free;
The present Hour belongs to me:
Drive from your Mind each anxious Care,
And give the Muse Protection there;
Defend her inexperienc'd Youth
From the fell Critic's venom'd Tooth;
And, should some few indulgent Eyes
Admire her Plumage, as she flies,
Let this, her favourite Boast, be known,
That every Feather is her own.
From this dull Town's unvarying Scene,
Where Smoke, and Noise, and Folly reign;
Where Virtue's hallow'd Flames expire;
And Health, and Joy, with Sighs, retire;
Where Cards infernal Vigils keep;
And Politics have “murder'd Sleep;”
Where Fogs and Mists, in black Array,
With horrid Gloom obscure the Day;
And Clouds of Dust, or Floods of Rain,
Gay Fancy's magic Power restrain;
From such a Place, O say, my Friend,
What Present can the Poet send?
No Fragrance here the Morn supplies;
No Lustre gilds the Evening Skies;
Nor verdant Field, nor Summer Flower,
Nor Music, floating through the Bower,
One pleasing Image can suggest,
Or waken Rapture in the Breast:
Instead of these, from Sleep I start,
Rouz'd by the Rattling of a Cart;
The Hoarseness of the Dirt-man's Throat,
The Chimney-Sweeper's grating Note,
With “Shoes to mend,” and “Cloaths to sell,”
In Union harsh the Concert swell;
Sounds, void of Harmony and Grace,
That fright the Muses from the Place.
Where Smoke, and Noise, and Folly reign;
Where Virtue's hallow'd Flames expire;
And Health, and Joy, with Sighs, retire;
Where Cards infernal Vigils keep;
And Politics have “murder'd Sleep;”
Where Fogs and Mists, in black Array,
With horrid Gloom obscure the Day;
And Clouds of Dust, or Floods of Rain,
Gay Fancy's magic Power restrain;
From such a Place, O say, my Friend,
What Present can the Poet send?
No Fragrance here the Morn supplies;
No Lustre gilds the Evening Skies;
Nor verdant Field, nor Summer Flower,
Nor Music, floating through the Bower,
One pleasing Image can suggest,
Or waken Rapture in the Breast:
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Rouz'd by the Rattling of a Cart;
The Hoarseness of the Dirt-man's Throat,
The Chimney-Sweeper's grating Note,
With “Shoes to mend,” and “Cloaths to sell,”
In Union harsh the Concert swell;
Sounds, void of Harmony and Grace,
That fright the Muses from the Place.
Where such Impediments unite,
You'll sure allow, 'tis hard to write;
Yet, faith, when in the rhyming Vein,
To me 'twere harder to refrain;
Write then I must, come what come may—
The powerful Impulse I obey.
The Pens in ready Order stand;
A second Sheet is near at hand;
Your Doom is past; and something cries,
“The Lord have Mercy on your Eyes!”
You'll sure allow, 'tis hard to write;
Yet, faith, when in the rhyming Vein,
To me 'twere harder to refrain;
Write then I must, come what come may—
The powerful Impulse I obey.
The Pens in ready Order stand;
A second Sheet is near at hand;
Your Doom is past; and something cries,
“The Lord have Mercy on your Eyes!”
Here, Jack, take Notice, I proclaim,
(Few Bards, I doubt, would do the same)
However elegant the Lays,
I don't insist upon your Praise:
I wish to please, you may believe;
But, though I fail, I shall not grieve;
For, when, at great Expence and Care,
I offer you my choicest Fare,
Though you may disapprove the Feast,
I gratify myself, at least.
(Few Bards, I doubt, would do the same)
However elegant the Lays,
I don't insist upon your Praise:
I wish to please, you may believe;
But, though I fail, I shall not grieve;
For, when, at great Expence and Care,
I offer you my choicest Fare,
Though you may disapprove the Feast,
I gratify myself, at least.
Sick of the Joys, and tasteless grown
To all the Follies of the Town;
Vex'd with the Scene of endless Strife,
You'll ask me—How I spend my Life?
Know then, my Friend—In Garret high,
Three Stories mounted to the Sky;
A Prior here; a Plowden there;
And Cloaths and Books on every Chair;
As Fancy leads, in various Way,
I pass the Morning of the Day.
To all the Follies of the Town;
Vex'd with the Scene of endless Strife,
You'll ask me—How I spend my Life?
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Three Stories mounted to the Sky;
A Prior here; a Plowden there;
And Cloaths and Books on every Chair;
As Fancy leads, in various Way,
I pass the Morning of the Day.
Sometimes, I view, with filial Awe,
The reverend Fathers of the Law;
(Names which the Muse can ne'er rehearse,
Nor Art can soften into Verse)
Anxious, explore the secret Cells,
Where venerable Science dwells;
Submissive, bend before her Shrine;
And dig Instruction from the Mine.
The reverend Fathers of the Law;
(Names which the Muse can ne'er rehearse,
Nor Art can soften into Verse)
Anxious, explore the secret Cells,
Where venerable Science dwells;
Submissive, bend before her Shrine;
And dig Instruction from the Mine.
Sometimes, with Sage, or Chief renown'd,
Again I tread the classic Ground;
With Tully walk; delighted rove
In Plato's Academic Grove;
Point out each Time-distinguish'd Spot,
In Freedom's Cause, where Heroes fought;
And trace each various Clime anew,
Where Rome's immortal Eagles flew;
Or, great in Arts, as well as Arms,
Old Athens scatter'd her Alarms.
Again I tread the classic Ground;
With Tully walk; delighted rove
In Plato's Academic Grove;
Point out each Time-distinguish'd Spot,
In Freedom's Cause, where Heroes fought;
And trace each various Clime anew,
Where Rome's immortal Eagles flew;
Or, great in Arts, as well as Arms,
Old Athens scatter'd her Alarms.
Sometimes, in Homer's sacred Page,
The Muse's Charms my Thoughts engage:
Now Troy's proud Citadel appears—
The Battle thunders in my Ears—
The Victors shout; and Ilion falls—
I hear—I see the nodding Walls:
Now, milder Views her Power supplies;
Elysian Scenes in Prospect rise;
Along the fair poetic Ground,
Ideal Beings start around;
And, borne aloft on Fancy's Wings,
I talk with Gods, and dine with Kings.
The Muse's Charms my Thoughts engage:
Now Troy's proud Citadel appears—
The Battle thunders in my Ears—
The Victors shout; and Ilion falls—
I hear—I see the nodding Walls:
Now, milder Views her Power supplies;
Elysian Scenes in Prospect rise;
Along the fair poetic Ground,
Ideal Beings start around;
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I talk with Gods, and dine with Kings.
When Sol his broader Face displays,
And Westward slopes his Evening Rays,
I sometimes ramble, 'till 'tis dark,
In the New-Garden, or the Park;
Chat with the Girls of Dress or Place;
Direct a Patch; admire a Lace;
And, with a well-feign'd Rapture, view
A Flounce, a Ribbon, or a Shoe;
As Whim directs, I blame, or praise;
And say—whate'er the Circle says—
‘The prettiest Hat—The finest Fan’
And—‘Barry is a charming Man!’—
And, while their Humours thus I hit,
Lord! How they wonder at my Wit!
And Westward slopes his Evening Rays,
I sometimes ramble, 'till 'tis dark,
In the New-Garden, or the Park;
Chat with the Girls of Dress or Place;
Direct a Patch; admire a Lace;
And, with a well-feign'd Rapture, view
A Flounce, a Ribbon, or a Shoe;
As Whim directs, I blame, or praise;
And say—whate'er the Circle says—
‘The prettiest Hat—The finest Fan’
And—‘Barry is a charming Man!’—
And, while their Humours thus I hit,
Lord! How they wonder at my Wit!
Or, sometimes to the Globe
I stray,
To hear the Trifle of the Day;
There learned Politicians spy,
With thread-bare Cloaks, and Wigs awry,
Assembled round, in deep Debate
On Prussia's Arms, and Britain's Fate;
Whilst one, whose Penetration goes,
At best, no farther than his Nose,
In pompous, military Strain,
Fights every Battle o'er again:
Important as a new-made Lord,
He spills his Coffee on the Board;
Thence marks Intrenchments, Posts, and Lines—
Here mounts the Breach—there springs the Mines—
And bustling, arrogant, and loud,
Thus dictates to the gaping Crowd—
“The Austrian Foot was posted there—
“The King attack'd them in the Rear—
“That Disposition I commend;
“Although it did not serve his End—
“But, all the World must own, in this,
“The Monarch acted quite amiss—
“Say what you will, I can't but blame—
“And Luxemburgh would do the same.”
Such Folks there are, my Friend; and you
Have seen the like in London too;
Who—as, no Doubt, all Patriots should—
Neglect their own, for Britain's Good;
And nobly quit domestic Things,
To model States, and counsel Kings.
To hear the Trifle of the Day;
There learned Politicians spy,
With thread-bare Cloaks, and Wigs awry,
Assembled round, in deep Debate
On Prussia's Arms, and Britain's Fate;
Whilst one, whose Penetration goes,
At best, no farther than his Nose,
In pompous, military Strain,
Fights every Battle o'er again:
Important as a new-made Lord,
He spills his Coffee on the Board;
Thence marks Intrenchments, Posts, and Lines—
Here mounts the Breach—there springs the Mines—
And bustling, arrogant, and loud,
Thus dictates to the gaping Crowd—
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“The King attack'd them in the Rear—
“That Disposition I commend;
“Although it did not serve his End—
“But, all the World must own, in this,
“The Monarch acted quite amiss—
“Say what you will, I can't but blame—
“And Luxemburgh would do the same.”
Such Folks there are, my Friend; and you
Have seen the like in London too;
Who—as, no Doubt, all Patriots should—
Neglect their own, for Britain's Good;
And nobly quit domestic Things,
To model States, and counsel Kings.
Tir'd of the Noise, the Smoke, the Men,
I leave the Coffee-House at Ten;
Retire to Rest about Eleven;
And seldom wake 'till Six, or Seven.
I leave the Coffee-House at Ten;
Retire to Rest about Eleven;
And seldom wake 'till Six, or Seven.
Some News I now would try to tell;
But Faulkner, sure, will do as well:
And, to say Truth, the Town supplies
Scarce aught that's worthy of your Eyes.
But Faulkner, sure, will do as well:
And, to say Truth, the Town supplies
Scarce aught that's worthy of your Eyes.
62
But hark!—What Shouts now pierce mine Ears?
In every Face what Joy appears?
What means that Peal? That solemn Sound?
What sudden Glory blazes round?
See, Lightening flashing from his Eyes,
Great Warren's mighty Spirit rise!
See Henry's warlike Shade advance!
See Edward raise his threatening Lance!
Frowning they come—and hark! once more
Our Thunders shake the Gallic Shore!
Starting, indignant, from his Den,
The British Lion roars again;
Destruction whelms yon falling Towers;
And Louisbourgh once more is ours!
Fir'd by the Theme, too high the Muse,
With eager Wing, her Flight pursues—
Here, then, as Modesty demands,
I leave the Task to abler Hands.
In every Face what Joy appears?
What means that Peal? That solemn Sound?
What sudden Glory blazes round?
See, Lightening flashing from his Eyes,
Great Warren's mighty Spirit rise!
See Henry's warlike Shade advance!
See Edward raise his threatening Lance!
Frowning they come—and hark! once more
Our Thunders shake the Gallic Shore!
Starting, indignant, from his Den,
The British Lion roars again;
Destruction whelms yon falling Towers;
And Louisbourgh once more is ours!
Fir'd by the Theme, too high the Muse,
With eager Wing, her Flight pursues—
Here, then, as Modesty demands,
I leave the Task to abler Hands.
You'll own, I hope—for sure 'tis true—
'Tis now my Turn to question you:
When next you write, then, prithee, say,
How roll the busy Hours away?
Which most does your Attention draw,
Hounds, Fiddles, Partridge,—or the Law?
Does Party-Zeal your Time employ,
That Foe to Peace and social Joy?
Or friendly Love, and chearful Wine,
To sprightlier Thoughts your Heart incline?
When Books fatigue, and Cares alarm,
And Sports, long known, no longer charm,
Say, do you haunt the rustic Cells,
Where Echo, sportive Dryad, dwells?
There, listening with astonish'd Ear,
Half pleas'd, and half affrighted, hear
The mimic Thunders burst around,
While the Hills tremble at the Sound?
Or, from some Cliff, whose Summit bleak
Hangs o'er the Bosom of the Lake,
Survey the Beauties of the Scene;
The russet Hill; the verdant Plain;
The Wonders of the various Ground;
And Seats, and Islands, scatter'd round?
Or, led by melancholy Gray,
To the lone Church-yard bend your Way;
And there, your listless Body thrown
Along some rude, unsculptur'd Stone,
Grieve to reflect, one common Grave
Awaits the Coward, and the Brave;
And—ne'er, alas! to rise again—
That Pitt must die, like other Men?
'Tis now my Turn to question you:
When next you write, then, prithee, say,
How roll the busy Hours away?
Which most does your Attention draw,
Hounds, Fiddles, Partridge,—or the Law?
Does Party-Zeal your Time employ,
That Foe to Peace and social Joy?
Or friendly Love, and chearful Wine,
To sprightlier Thoughts your Heart incline?
63
And Sports, long known, no longer charm,
Say, do you haunt the rustic Cells,
Where Echo, sportive Dryad, dwells?
There, listening with astonish'd Ear,
Half pleas'd, and half affrighted, hear
The mimic Thunders burst around,
While the Hills tremble at the Sound?
Or, from some Cliff, whose Summit bleak
Hangs o'er the Bosom of the Lake,
Survey the Beauties of the Scene;
The russet Hill; the verdant Plain;
The Wonders of the various Ground;
And Seats, and Islands, scatter'd round?
Or, led by melancholy Gray,
To the lone Church-yard bend your Way;
And there, your listless Body thrown
Along some rude, unsculptur'd Stone,
Grieve to reflect, one common Grave
Awaits the Coward, and the Brave;
And—ne'er, alas! to rise again—
That Pitt must die, like other Men?
O, how I long with thee to share
The rural Sports, and rural Air!
With early Hound to beat the Fields,
And try the Joys the Thicket yields!
With Books to cheat the lingering Night,
And mingle Profit with Delight!—
You ask me, when I think to go—
To tell the Truth, I do not know;
Nor is it easy to divine;
Since others' Wills must govern mine;
But this I'll venture to declare,
You'll surely see me—when I'm there.
The rural Sports, and rural Air!
With early Hound to beat the Fields,
And try the Joys the Thicket yields!
With Books to cheat the lingering Night,
And mingle Profit with Delight!—
You ask me, when I think to go—
To tell the Truth, I do not know;
Nor is it easy to divine;
Since others' Wills must govern mine;
But this I'll venture to declare,
You'll surely see me—when I'm there.
64
Here, Jack, before my Letter ends,
I should enquire for other Friends:
But that would take a Side at least;
And now—the Postman is in Haste:
If, then, I should proceed to write,
My Letter could not go To-night:
Do thou apologize; and tell,
All such as love me, I am well.—
Adieu!—If you approve the Song,
Pray let your Answer be as long.
I should enquire for other Friends:
But that would take a Side at least;
And now—the Postman is in Haste:
If, then, I should proceed to write,
My Letter could not go To-night:
Do thou apologize; and tell,
All such as love me, I am well.—
Adieu!—If you approve the Song,
Pray let your Answer be as long.
Mr. H. to whom this Epistle is addressed, after having spent about two Years at the Temple, had at this Time returned to Ireland, partly upon a Visit to his Friends in that Kingdom, and partly to attend the Election of a Representative for the County of Kerry.
One of these Coffee-House Politicians is admirably painted by our late lively and spirited Satyrist, Dr. Young.
Chremes, for airy Pensions of Renown,Devotes his Service to the State and Crown;
All Schemes he knows; and, knowing, all improves;
Though Britain's thankless, still this Patriot loves.
But Patriots differ:—Some may shed their Blood;—
He—drinks his Coffee—for the Publick Good.
| The Shamrock | |