Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies including The Chessiad, a Mock-Heroic, in Five Cantos; and The Wreath of Love, in Four Cantos. By C. Dibdin, the Younger |
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| 2. | CANTO SECOND. |
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 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
128
CANTO SECOND.
The gods, or demons, of gaming and chance assembled in council—Their names, characters, and powers—The war proclaimed by Niger canvassed—Hazard, the chief demon, declares his rage against Niger for omitting to pay him homage, and menaces him with his fulminated vengeance—Faro, remonstrating, incurs the indignation of Hazard, who threatens to hurl him down to earth, parodying Jupiter—Pope Joan pacifies Hazard, and convinces him that the chessic feuds will redound to his honour—The gods and goddesses obtain permission of Hazard to mingle in the battle, and to confound the presumption of Niger—Joan fills Hazard's golden cup, but not with nectar: he drinks, and the rest of the demons partake of their favourite drams—A round game is called, and Hazard tricks them all to gratify his spleen.
High o'er Charybdis and fell Scylla sat
The gods and goddesses of chance, in chat;
On a huge mount, by noxious clouds enclosed
Which Stygian vapours, dense as dire, composed.
There sat the gambler's gods, in gameful glee;
Such their Olympus, call'd a Rookery.
There sat they, watching where their vot'ries sly
Met to perform their rites: to cog the die,
To pack the cards, to thumb the devil's books,
And offer pigeons by their priests, the rooks.
High o'er the rest, most baneful to mankind,
Sat hungry Hazard; like the north-east wind,
Blighting Hope's flow'rs: below him, next in power,
Faro, E O, and Rouge et Noire; who cower
O'er fools and madmen, leading them astray,
And, having clutch'd, devouring all their prey.
There, with four hands, sat Whist; precise and mum,
Though fam'd for tricks, and odd tricks, too; next come
Thy claims, Piquette—from France the demon springs,
And, as her altar's priests, boast fourteen kings;
As many priestesses, in queens, she owns;
And fourteen knaves attend her various thrones.
But bless'd the king, if any fame report,
Who musters only fourteen knaves at court.
There Ombre, once by fashion's dames ador'd;
But now her altars are more starv'd than stor'd.
Quadrille, too: much her worship has decreas'd,
Spadille her augur, Basto is her priest.
Cribbage, whose altars votive pegs devour:
Who most can crib propitiates best the power.
There too, all-fours; by antiquated dame
Addressed; both high and low assert her fame;
A Jack her flamen, and her off'ring Game.
There Put, in tap-rooms his mean altar stands,
His greasy altar, serv'd with unwash'd hands;
Ace at his orgies leads, the deuce they play,
And burn their off'rings in a butcher's tray.
There sat dull Loo; a sordid pow'r, who rules
With sway unlimited; invoked by Pools;
His high priest Pam upon the margin stands,
“Loo! Loo!” he cries, and spreads his grasping hands;
Each pool he drags, the sacred fish to get,
And for his god “all's fish that comes to net.”
Pope Joan was there; not she of Rome the hope,
Who bless'd the conclave with a little pope;
Worship'd on winter nights; a pope her priest,
And fish and farthings her round altar feast.
Commerce, a demi-god, who but survives
(He eviternal) four precarious lives.
There Speculation, barter's God; and more,
Whose natures known, 'twere needless to explore.
The gods and goddesses of chance, in chat;
On a huge mount, by noxious clouds enclosed
Which Stygian vapours, dense as dire, composed.
129
Such their Olympus, call'd a Rookery.
There sat they, watching where their vot'ries sly
Met to perform their rites: to cog the die,
To pack the cards, to thumb the devil's books,
And offer pigeons by their priests, the rooks.
High o'er the rest, most baneful to mankind,
Sat hungry Hazard; like the north-east wind,
Blighting Hope's flow'rs: below him, next in power,
Faro, E O, and Rouge et Noire; who cower
O'er fools and madmen, leading them astray,
And, having clutch'd, devouring all their prey.
There, with four hands, sat Whist; precise and mum,
Though fam'd for tricks, and odd tricks, too; next come
Thy claims, Piquette—from France the demon springs,
And, as her altar's priests, boast fourteen kings;
As many priestesses, in queens, she owns;
And fourteen knaves attend her various thrones.
130
Who musters only fourteen knaves at court.
There Ombre, once by fashion's dames ador'd;
But now her altars are more starv'd than stor'd.
Quadrille, too: much her worship has decreas'd,
Spadille her augur, Basto is her priest.
Cribbage, whose altars votive pegs devour:
Who most can crib propitiates best the power.
There too, all-fours; by antiquated dame
Addressed; both high and low assert her fame;
A Jack her flamen, and her off'ring Game.
There Put, in tap-rooms his mean altar stands,
His greasy altar, serv'd with unwash'd hands;
Ace at his orgies leads, the deuce they play,
And burn their off'rings in a butcher's tray.
There sat dull Loo; a sordid pow'r, who rules
With sway unlimited; invoked by Pools;
His high priest Pam upon the margin stands,
“Loo! Loo!” he cries, and spreads his grasping hands;
Each pool he drags, the sacred fish to get,
And for his god “all's fish that comes to net.”
131
Who bless'd the conclave with a little pope;
Worship'd on winter nights; a pope her priest,
And fish and farthings her round altar feast.
Commerce, a demi-god, who but survives
(He eviternal) four precarious lives.
There Speculation, barter's God; and more,
Whose natures known, 'twere needless to explore.
All sat in council, when high Hazard saw
Niger prepare th' insatiate blade to draw;
Niger, the king who o'er black chess-men sway'd,
Who homage ne'er at Hazard's altar paid;
For chess-men, black or white, no creed advance
That owns dependence on the powers of chance.
On Niger Hazard fix'd his eager eye,
Lower'd his black brow, and look'd—tremendously!
“We hear,” he cried, “ye partners of our pow'r,
Big words from Niger of the sable tow'r;
Warfare he threatens on the white-rob'd king;
He, to our altars who'll no tribute bring,
Or ask our aid, or deprecate our rage;
Yet he, by us unsanction'd, dares engage:
For this I'll all his sable pow'rs confound;
His queen shall fall, his chieftains bite the ground;
His pawns be all beyond redemption cross'd,
Like real pawns, when duplicates are lost.
Not that the white king I regard, for he
No more than Niger off'ring brings to me,
But that not Blanc, but Niger, draws the sword,
Of us regardless, gaming's sov'reign lord.
Sixes and sevens shall confound his care,
No seven his main, and by size ace I swear”—
He paus'd, and shook his matted locks, that hurl'd
Mildew and pestilence throughout the world;
Charybdis' waves with tenfold fury swell,
And murd'rous Scylla howls within her hell;
The gods of gaming stood by awe engross'd,
When Faro rose, and with him all his host.
Niger prepare th' insatiate blade to draw;
Niger, the king who o'er black chess-men sway'd,
Who homage ne'er at Hazard's altar paid;
For chess-men, black or white, no creed advance
That owns dependence on the powers of chance.
On Niger Hazard fix'd his eager eye,
Lower'd his black brow, and look'd—tremendously!
“We hear,” he cried, “ye partners of our pow'r,
Big words from Niger of the sable tow'r;
132
He, to our altars who'll no tribute bring,
Or ask our aid, or deprecate our rage;
Yet he, by us unsanction'd, dares engage:
For this I'll all his sable pow'rs confound;
His queen shall fall, his chieftains bite the ground;
His pawns be all beyond redemption cross'd,
Like real pawns, when duplicates are lost.
Not that the white king I regard, for he
No more than Niger off'ring brings to me,
But that not Blanc, but Niger, draws the sword,
Of us regardless, gaming's sov'reign lord.
Sixes and sevens shall confound his care,
No seven his main, and by size ace I swear”—
He paus'd, and shook his matted locks, that hurl'd
Mildew and pestilence throughout the world;
Charybdis' waves with tenfold fury swell,
And murd'rous Scylla howls within her hell;
The gods of gaming stood by awe engross'd,
When Faro rose, and with him all his host.
133
“Father of all our pow'rs, why vent thy spite
On those too mean for thy resistless might?
Let them contend, and, though no previous pray'r
To thee was sent, the puny rebels spare;
About their sacrifice no more make fuss;
Their slaughter'd ranks are hecatombs to us.”
The awful Hazard no controlment brooks,
And dire the fury that inflam'd his looks,
When the great father of the swindling pow'rs
Exclaim'd, “Who dares dispute a word like ours?
What are ye all to us compar'd, mean Gods?
Between us calculate the mighty odds;
Ye, near whose altars no high spirit steps,
Your vot'ries dowagers and demireps,
And things of nothing, who but little boast;
Vent'ring mean hundreds, or each hundred's ghost—
And who is mighty Faro and his host?
Princes and dukes at my broad altars stand,
The pride, the boast, the glory of the land;
Who at one off'ring more enrich my shrine,
Faro, with more than hundreds paid at thine;
Who stake estates, unbounded! ay, and more,
Double and treble it thrice three times o'er;
Have stak'd whole provinces; had stak'd the world
Could they have grasp'd it, and in ruin hurl'd;
And when they 've offer'd all they have, and more,
My altar's crimson'd with their self-shed gore;
Honour, fame, friendship, ev'ry sacred tie,
Life and salvation stak'd upon the die;
The doubtful die, whose craving nought can sate,
Whose issue's famine and whose cast is fate.
And you, you, Faro, to dispute my will!
Persist not, fool, or fury takes its fill:
This thundering dice-box, at thy impious head
Hurl'd, shall transfix thee where no gamesters tread;
No gamesters there, with rankling pangs you pine,
Scotch'd of your rites and all your vot'ries mine.
Let down our dreadful ever rattling box,
Which holds what reason, faith, and feeling, shocks;
Strive all of gaming or of swindling birth
To frame than that a greater curse to earth,
Ye strive in vain: if I but stretch this hand,
I heave destruction o'er the fated land;
I fix the box upon the table's height,
And the vast stake lies forfeit in my sight;
For such I reign, unbounded, and will be;
And such are gamesters and their gods to me.”
He ceas'd; and had the baneful dice-box hurl'd,
As pagan Jove his bolts of thunder whirl'd,
Full at rash Faro's head, who duck'd with fear,
As schoolboy ducks, when threatening fist is near;
But beauteous Joan, the gentle pope, up came,
Intriguing Hebe to the god of game;
Pope Joan arose, and, soothing as the south,
With coaxing kisses stopp'd his arm, and mouth;
Her hand beneath his matted beard she plac'd,
And, bending low, his huge knock-knees embrac'd;
“Father, and first of all our race,” she cried,
(And smil'd insidiously) “let rage subside;
None will—none mean—none dare—thy greatness lower;
Advice we offer, but presume no more.”
His look was soften'd; and, in pout, he said,
“Go on—we listen;” then reclin'd his head.
She, smiling, thus, “For those your wrath who raise,
The chessic race, I scorn to plead, or praise;
But since on Chance they never must depend,
To thee, by fate, commission'd not to bend,
Forego your anger; and, since they disown
Your pow'r, still make the triumph all your own.
The pow'rs now present, when the fight flames high,
In various forms will to the battle fly;
Assume each leader's form when from his place,
And urge the ranks with ardour to embrace
Each desperate 'venture, to their own disgrace.
So shall their feuds, confounded, soothe your hate,
And slaughter'd heroes shall your vengeance sate;
While the proud king whom adverse pow'rs subdue
Shall mourn his host a sacrifice to you!”
She ceas'd—awhile in sulky thought he mus'd,
Assent then nodded and th' affront excus'd.
The Gods, resolv'd to mingle in the fray,
Like Homer's gods in Troy's disastrous day,
Requir'd his leave; he granted it, just so
As proud men favours on their pimps bestow.
But now, his irritated mind to soothe,
(For still his brow the tyrant could not smooth),
Joan, his dear Hebe, fill'd the golden cup
With—what I know not, but he drank it up.
Such drams as each preferr'd were order'd in;
“And now,” cried Joan, “a round game let's begin.”
Their pockets by his art soon Hazard eas'd,
The pow'rs were pilfer'd and his wrath appeas'd.
On those too mean for thy resistless might?
Let them contend, and, though no previous pray'r
To thee was sent, the puny rebels spare;
About their sacrifice no more make fuss;
Their slaughter'd ranks are hecatombs to us.”
The awful Hazard no controlment brooks,
And dire the fury that inflam'd his looks,
When the great father of the swindling pow'rs
Exclaim'd, “Who dares dispute a word like ours?
What are ye all to us compar'd, mean Gods?
Between us calculate the mighty odds;
Ye, near whose altars no high spirit steps,
Your vot'ries dowagers and demireps,
And things of nothing, who but little boast;
Vent'ring mean hundreds, or each hundred's ghost—
And who is mighty Faro and his host?
Princes and dukes at my broad altars stand,
The pride, the boast, the glory of the land;
Who at one off'ring more enrich my shrine,
Faro, with more than hundreds paid at thine;
134
Double and treble it thrice three times o'er;
Have stak'd whole provinces; had stak'd the world
Could they have grasp'd it, and in ruin hurl'd;
And when they 've offer'd all they have, and more,
My altar's crimson'd with their self-shed gore;
Honour, fame, friendship, ev'ry sacred tie,
Life and salvation stak'd upon the die;
The doubtful die, whose craving nought can sate,
Whose issue's famine and whose cast is fate.
And you, you, Faro, to dispute my will!
Persist not, fool, or fury takes its fill:
This thundering dice-box, at thy impious head
Hurl'd, shall transfix thee where no gamesters tread;
No gamesters there, with rankling pangs you pine,
Scotch'd of your rites and all your vot'ries mine.
Let down our dreadful ever rattling box,
Which holds what reason, faith, and feeling, shocks;
Strive all of gaming or of swindling birth
To frame than that a greater curse to earth,
135
I heave destruction o'er the fated land;
I fix the box upon the table's height,
And the vast stake lies forfeit in my sight;
For such I reign, unbounded, and will be;
And such are gamesters and their gods to me.”
He ceas'd; and had the baneful dice-box hurl'd,
As pagan Jove his bolts of thunder whirl'd,
Full at rash Faro's head, who duck'd with fear,
As schoolboy ducks, when threatening fist is near;
But beauteous Joan, the gentle pope, up came,
Intriguing Hebe to the god of game;
Pope Joan arose, and, soothing as the south,
With coaxing kisses stopp'd his arm, and mouth;
Her hand beneath his matted beard she plac'd,
And, bending low, his huge knock-knees embrac'd;
“Father, and first of all our race,” she cried,
(And smil'd insidiously) “let rage subside;
None will—none mean—none dare—thy greatness lower;
Advice we offer, but presume no more.”
136
“Go on—we listen;” then reclin'd his head.
She, smiling, thus, “For those your wrath who raise,
The chessic race, I scorn to plead, or praise;
But since on Chance they never must depend,
To thee, by fate, commission'd not to bend,
Forego your anger; and, since they disown
Your pow'r, still make the triumph all your own.
The pow'rs now present, when the fight flames high,
In various forms will to the battle fly;
Assume each leader's form when from his place,
And urge the ranks with ardour to embrace
Each desperate 'venture, to their own disgrace.
So shall their feuds, confounded, soothe your hate,
And slaughter'd heroes shall your vengeance sate;
While the proud king whom adverse pow'rs subdue
Shall mourn his host a sacrifice to you!”
She ceas'd—awhile in sulky thought he mus'd,
Assent then nodded and th' affront excus'd.
The Gods, resolv'd to mingle in the fray,
Like Homer's gods in Troy's disastrous day,
137
As proud men favours on their pimps bestow.
But now, his irritated mind to soothe,
(For still his brow the tyrant could not smooth),
Joan, his dear Hebe, fill'd the golden cup
With—what I know not, but he drank it up.
Such drams as each preferr'd were order'd in;
“And now,” cried Joan, “a round game let's begin.”
Their pockets by his art soon Hazard eas'd,
The pow'rs were pilfer'd and his wrath appeas'd.
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