The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now Night, the negro, reign'd—‘Past one o'clock,’
The drowsy watchman bawl'd—from murky vaults,
The dough-fac'd spectres crowded forth—the eye,
The sunk, the wearied eye of Toil, was clos'd:
Mute, Nature's busied voice, her brawl and hum;
While Horror, creeping on the world of gloom,
Breath'd her dark spirit through the death-like hour—
Now from her silver-fringed east the moon
Peep'd on the vast of shade—up-mounting slow,
In solemn stillness, till her lab'ring orb,
Freed from the caves of darkness, gain'd its sphere,
And mov'd in splendid solitude along.
At this blank hour of awe, amid her fane,
That caught a partial radiance on its walls
A radiance stealing on the shadowy tombs,
Illuminating death,—the pious maid,
Whose flesh did wonders in its days of bloom,
And bones work'd marvels when she smil'd no ore,
The pensive Margaretta stalk'd, and paus'd,
And paus'd and stalk'd, and stalk'd and paus'd agen;
Now nailing to the twilight floor her eye;
Now gazing on the holy windows dim;
Now motionless, and now with hurrying step

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Along the hollow-sounding aisle she pass'd;
And leaning lorn at murder'd Raleigh's tomb,
Of Silence wak'd the pale and sacred sleep,
With plaintive accent, thus ------

MARGARET's LAMENTATION.

WHY should yon old Abbey, should'ring
My poor fane with Gothic pride,
Cracking, sinking, falling, mould'ring,
On the back of Marg'ret ride?

What is that huge ruin's merit?
Only fit for housing rats.
Be her guests, with all my spirit,
Hooting owls, and horrid bats!

Why am I to be despis'd,
Why am I to be kept under;
I who once by kings was priz'd?
What's the meaning on't, I wonder?

I whose pow'r could agues charm,
Fits and tooth-aches, cramps and evils;
Satan's wicked self disarm;
Him, the great proud prince of devils.

Lo, that abbey for past years,
At each grand commemoration,
For Directors boasted peers—
Peers the glory of the nation!

Who were my directors? Lo,
Doctor Parsons, Justice Collic;
Arnold and Dupuis and Co.
What a very pretty frolic!

But 'tis said the king commanded,
And the grand Directors fell:
By the king were they disbanded?
Fame will blush the tale to tell.

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Soon I'll go (for what should hinder?)
To the first of rhiming men;
To that giant Peter Pindar—
He shall hear—and then, and then!!

Peter in his wrath shall rise,
And the scythe of verse prepare;
Lo, I see his lightning eyes!
Lo, his arm of vengeance bare!

Backs of monarchs shall he slice,
As he scorns them so sincerely—
Woman need not ask him twice;
Peter loves the ladies dearly.

Thus spoke the saint!—When Morn her blushes spread,
To Covent-garden's square she wing'd her flight,
And drew the curtains of the poet's bed,
Who fortunately slept alone that night.

To him she told her story o'er and o'er;
When Peter, rous'd by Marg'ret's sad narration,
Pull'd off his night-cap, and devoutly swore
He'd roast a certain ruler of a nation.

Saint Marg'ret thank'd the bard with sweetest smiles,
And Peter thunder'd on the King of Isles.