The peripatetic or, Sketches of the heart, of nature and society; In a series of politico-sentimental journals, in verse and prose, of the eccentric excursions of Sylvanus Theophrastus; Supposed to be written by himself [by John Thelwall] |
 | [I]. |
 | II. |
PHILAUTIACCHA;
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| III. |
 | The peripatetic |  |
56
PHILAUTIACCHA;
OR THE VOLUPTUARY: A RHAPSODY.
How lost to every sense of joy
The wretch who courts the lonely sigh!
Who flies from Pleasure's cheerful dome
To rocks and shades of pensive gloom,
And musing through the mould'ring pile—
The castle's wreck, or Gothic isle—
Converses, with mysterious dread,
With troops of “visionary dead,”
And counts, in his bewilder'd mind,
The various woes of humankind!
Who, dreaming fool! condemn'd to bear
A portion of each wretch's care,
Will pine for every stranger's woe,
And weep when others' sorrows flow;
If anguish rend a neighbour's soul,
Will dash with gall his sprightly bowl,
And sniv'ling to his closet fly
If Envy nip a brother's joy!
Oh! may I never, never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
But ever shall my vows be paid
To thee, thou blest indifferent maid!
The wretch who courts the lonely sigh!
Who flies from Pleasure's cheerful dome
To rocks and shades of pensive gloom,
And musing through the mould'ring pile—
The castle's wreck, or Gothic isle—
Converses, with mysterious dread,
With troops of “visionary dead,”
And counts, in his bewilder'd mind,
The various woes of humankind!
Who, dreaming fool! condemn'd to bear
A portion of each wretch's care,
Will pine for every stranger's woe,
And weep when others' sorrows flow;
If anguish rend a neighbour's soul,
Will dash with gall his sprightly bowl,
And sniv'ling to his closet fly
If Envy nip a brother's joy!
Oh! may I never, never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
But ever shall my vows be paid
To thee, thou blest indifferent maid!
57
Who view'st alike, with careless eyes,
Another's sorrows, or his joys;
Intent to seize, with eager hand,
Whatever bliss thy stars command:—
Bliss which, to be admitted true,
The touch must feel, the sense must view;
And which, like vital breath, 'tis known
To be enjoy'd must be our own.
Another's sorrows, or his joys;
Intent to seize, with eager hand,
Whatever bliss thy stars command:—
Bliss which, to be admitted true,
The touch must feel, the sense must view;
And which, like vital breath, 'tis known
To be enjoy'd must be our own.
Thee, damsel, wanton, sleek, and gay!
Blithe Bacchus got one festive day,
When, reeling, he the vineyard sought,
And 'neath the mantling tendrils thought,
Defended from the sultry ray,
To doze the tippling fumes away.
There it was his chance to see
The sordid dame Misanthropy:
A louring, selfish, sullen wight,
Who scowling flies from human sight,
Nor ever heav'd the social sigh,
Nor knew participated joy.
Her he seiz'd, in dalliance rude,
And to his will by force subdued;
And hence from her unwilling womb
Didst thou, blithe motley damsel, come—
Who know'st around thy brow to twine
With clusters of thy father's vine
The myrtle spray of Paphos grove
And rosy wreath he wont to love,
Till all thy mother's sullen hue,
And sordid front retire from view,
And thronging votaries hail thy fame,
Adorn'd with Pleasure's hallow'd name:
But they, the pow'rs who rule on high,
And, stooping from their ambient sky,
Read at will the secret heart,
And view thy mother's sager part.
Combining in thy motley frame
With all thy father's wanton flame,—
As sportive, sensual, loose as he,
And selfish, to the full, as she!—
To paint in one descriptive name
Each adverse parent's partial claim,
In sage debate awhile confer,
And call thee Philautiaccha!
Blithe Bacchus got one festive day,
When, reeling, he the vineyard sought,
And 'neath the mantling tendrils thought,
Defended from the sultry ray,
To doze the tippling fumes away.
There it was his chance to see
The sordid dame Misanthropy:
A louring, selfish, sullen wight,
Who scowling flies from human sight,
Nor ever heav'd the social sigh,
Nor knew participated joy.
Her he seiz'd, in dalliance rude,
And to his will by force subdued;
And hence from her unwilling womb
Didst thou, blithe motley damsel, come—
Who know'st around thy brow to twine
With clusters of thy father's vine
The myrtle spray of Paphos grove
And rosy wreath he wont to love,
Till all thy mother's sullen hue,
And sordid front retire from view,
And thronging votaries hail thy fame,
Adorn'd with Pleasure's hallow'd name:
But they, the pow'rs who rule on high,
And, stooping from their ambient sky,
58
And view thy mother's sager part.
Combining in thy motley frame
With all thy father's wanton flame,—
As sportive, sensual, loose as he,
And selfish, to the full, as she!—
To paint in one descriptive name
Each adverse parent's partial claim,
In sage debate awhile confer,
And call thee Philautiaccha!
Come, sportive, wanton, brisk, along,
With flowing bowl and antic song,
And banquets gay, and feasting high,
And laughter loud, and thoughtless joy.
Come, revel high without controul!—
Why should reflection damp the soul?—
While, unrestrained, I riot free
In all the pomp of luxury,
What is't to me that at the door
A thousand wretches, starv'd and poor,
With dismal moan, and plaintive cry,
And shivering limbs, all naked lie?
Wherefore should I unhappy be
That others are in misery?
Do Monarchs, or their tools of state,
Their wild ambition e'er abate,
Or quit one barren tract of land,
Whose subjugation Pride had plann'd,
Because the ruthless edge of war,
To spread their mighty names afar,
Must mow in heaps the base-born crowd,
And leave the peasant's low abode,
While Desolation stalks around,
A prostrate ruin on the ground—
While widows, orphans, houseless rove
With piteous plaint the heart to move,
The palsied hand of Want to spread
To passing crowds, in vain, for bread?
Will they the haughty scheme forego
For fear the general groan of woe
Resounding thro' the subject land
Should learn to curse the scepter'd hand?
No: keep but sheath'd the rebel sword,
The wanton night, the wasteful board,
Unawed by Conscience, they enjoy,
And give new mandates to destroy;
And shall not, patron of my song!
Their great example sway the throng
Who to thy hallow'd fane resort
With festive Joy and reeling Sport?
With flowing bowl and antic song,
And banquets gay, and feasting high,
And laughter loud, and thoughtless joy.
Come, revel high without controul!—
Why should reflection damp the soul?—
While, unrestrained, I riot free
In all the pomp of luxury,
What is't to me that at the door
A thousand wretches, starv'd and poor,
With dismal moan, and plaintive cry,
And shivering limbs, all naked lie?
Wherefore should I unhappy be
That others are in misery?
Do Monarchs, or their tools of state,
Their wild ambition e'er abate,
Or quit one barren tract of land,
Whose subjugation Pride had plann'd,
Because the ruthless edge of war,
To spread their mighty names afar,
Must mow in heaps the base-born crowd,
And leave the peasant's low abode,
59
A prostrate ruin on the ground—
While widows, orphans, houseless rove
With piteous plaint the heart to move,
The palsied hand of Want to spread
To passing crowds, in vain, for bread?
Will they the haughty scheme forego
For fear the general groan of woe
Resounding thro' the subject land
Should learn to curse the scepter'd hand?
No: keep but sheath'd the rebel sword,
The wanton night, the wasteful board,
Unawed by Conscience, they enjoy,
And give new mandates to destroy;
And shall not, patron of my song!
Their great example sway the throng
Who to thy hallow'd fane resort
With festive Joy and reeling Sport?
Here, higher fill the sprightly bowl,
Shall I the plenteous draught controul,
Or stint the measure of my bliss,
(Ye feeling sniv'lers, tell me this!)
That others may the bliss enjoy
My more propitious stars supply?
No: may I never never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accursed with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
Shall I the plenteous draught controul,
Or stint the measure of my bliss,
(Ye feeling sniv'lers, tell me this!)
That others may the bliss enjoy
My more propitious stars supply?
No: may I never never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accursed with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
When now the noisy banquet tires,
Let Beauty kindle fierce desires.
Then, while tumultuous joy alarms,
I'll languish in some fair one's arms.
—Oh! give me, with assiduous art,
To triumph o'er the female heart!
Lo, Chloe's eye provokes my flame;
My heart does Fanny's beauty claim;
The rose that tinges Sylvia's cheek,
Fair Flavia's ivory polish'd neck,
Bright Celia's graceful panting breast,
With charming shape gay Phebe blest,
All, all alike, my bosom fire,
All, all enkindle fierce desire;
And all—might I my wish obtain!—
Shall ease my heart's delightful pain.
Or if by my desires I'm led
Some lovely loathing fair to wed,
With golden views I'll win her sire
To yield her up to my desire;
I'll riot in the unwilling joy,
And force the bliss she would deny;
While some fond favour'd youth shall tear
With frenzy his dishevelled hair;
Or, in the desperate rage of woe,
Dismiss his soul to shades below.
What is't to me if she should pine,
Her silly heart to grief resign,
Waste the long day in sullen sighs,
And meet my wish with streaming eyes?
The mellow touch of feeble woe
A softer languor may bestow;
And I alike by turns can hail
The flaunting rose, or lily pale!
Then let her pine—with grief expire—
So I obtain my heart's desire.
I am no dull, no constant fool:
She'll live at least till I grow cool.
Let Beauty kindle fierce desires.
Then, while tumultuous joy alarms,
I'll languish in some fair one's arms.
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To triumph o'er the female heart!
Lo, Chloe's eye provokes my flame;
My heart does Fanny's beauty claim;
The rose that tinges Sylvia's cheek,
Fair Flavia's ivory polish'd neck,
Bright Celia's graceful panting breast,
With charming shape gay Phebe blest,
All, all alike, my bosom fire,
All, all enkindle fierce desire;
And all—might I my wish obtain!—
Shall ease my heart's delightful pain.
Or if by my desires I'm led
Some lovely loathing fair to wed,
With golden views I'll win her sire
To yield her up to my desire;
I'll riot in the unwilling joy,
And force the bliss she would deny;
While some fond favour'd youth shall tear
With frenzy his dishevelled hair;
Or, in the desperate rage of woe,
Dismiss his soul to shades below.
What is't to me if she should pine,
Her silly heart to grief resign,
Waste the long day in sullen sighs,
And meet my wish with streaming eyes?
The mellow touch of feeble woe
A softer languor may bestow;
And I alike by turns can hail
The flaunting rose, or lily pale!
Then let her pine—with grief expire—
So I obtain my heart's desire.
I am no dull, no constant fool:
She'll live at least till I grow cool.
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When glutted grows the amorous fire
(For beauty's brightest charms will tire)
I'll leave my couch at early dawn,
And follow blithe the echoing horn.
See, see the steeds impatient stand,
And paw, with restless hoof, the land:
They snort, curvet, and loudly neigh,
Impatient of the dull delay.
We mount. Uncoupled are the hounds.
See, they trace the bushy grounds.
They snuff the gale. They start the hare:
And mingled clamours rend the air.
The deep-mouth'd hounds, with eager cry,
Pursue the scent, and yelping fly.
We shouting follow in the rear,
Devoid of ev'ry coward fear;
The hedge we jump, the gate we leap,
And over ditch and streamlet skip.—
Behold, behold, our comrade falls,
And loud for our assistance calls;
Aloud with anguish he complains
Of broken limbs, and raging pains.
Yo hoy, my boys! the game pursue;
Behold, behold the hare in view!
Shall we the glorious sport forego
To weep at our companion's woe?
Tantwivy, boys! pursue, pursue,
Behold, the game is full in view.
See, she takes the foaming tide;
Pursu'd, she gains the distant side.
Our steeds refuse the curbing rein,
And in the torrent plunge amain.
Now closely cling, the saddle keep,
Or else ye sound the troubled deep.
And see, the bold adventrous fair
Who would our manly pastimes share;—
She falls! she falls! aloud she cries,
The splashing waves around her rise.
Tantwivy, boys! the hare's in view,
The well-breath'd beagles close pursue.
Ya hoa! my lads! away, away.—
The eager sport forbids delay.—
(For beauty's brightest charms will tire)
I'll leave my couch at early dawn,
And follow blithe the echoing horn.
See, see the steeds impatient stand,
And paw, with restless hoof, the land:
They snort, curvet, and loudly neigh,
Impatient of the dull delay.
We mount. Uncoupled are the hounds.
See, they trace the bushy grounds.
They snuff the gale. They start the hare:
And mingled clamours rend the air.
The deep-mouth'd hounds, with eager cry,
Pursue the scent, and yelping fly.
We shouting follow in the rear,
Devoid of ev'ry coward fear;
The hedge we jump, the gate we leap,
And over ditch and streamlet skip.—
Behold, behold, our comrade falls,
And loud for our assistance calls;
Aloud with anguish he complains
Of broken limbs, and raging pains.
Yo hoy, my boys! the game pursue;
Behold, behold the hare in view!
Shall we the glorious sport forego
To weep at our companion's woe?
Tantwivy, boys! pursue, pursue,
Behold, the game is full in view.
See, she takes the foaming tide;
Pursu'd, she gains the distant side.
Our steeds refuse the curbing rein,
And in the torrent plunge amain.
62
Or else ye sound the troubled deep.
And see, the bold adventrous fair
Who would our manly pastimes share;—
She falls! she falls! aloud she cries,
The splashing waves around her rise.
Tantwivy, boys! the hare's in view,
The well-breath'd beagles close pursue.
Ya hoa! my lads! away, away.—
The eager sport forbids delay.—
Now o'er the fields of ripen'd corn
In swift pursuit we're eager borne,
The bended ears, where'er we fly,
Trampled on earth, our steeds destroy:
With curses loud the farmer views,
And fretting, with his eye pursues.
Why let him fret, and chase, and fume,
'Tis nought to me, as I presume.
In swift pursuit we're eager borne,
The bended ears, where'er we fly,
Trampled on earth, our steeds destroy:
With curses loud the farmer views,
And fretting, with his eye pursues.
Why let him fret, and chase, and fume,
'Tis nought to me, as I presume.
Ya hoigh! my comrades! how he stands
And rears to heav'n his clasping hands!—
“Why halloo, farmer! do you pray
In open air at middle day?”
He feels—he feels the biting jest,
And beats with frantic rage his breast.
'Tis true, what thus our hoofs destroy
Might some poor famish'd wretch supply;
Might give a meal to those who till'd
But seldom taste the plenteous field.
But why should thoughts like these assail?
Pursue—pursue the tainted gale!
We do but chace our lawful game:
And Royal George would do the same:
That best of Kings! whose gracious care
The World's four distant corners share;
While all an equal cause must own
To bless him for the good he'as done!!!
And rears to heav'n his clasping hands!—
“Why halloo, farmer! do you pray
In open air at middle day?”
He feels—he feels the biting jest,
And beats with frantic rage his breast.
'Tis true, what thus our hoofs destroy
Might some poor famish'd wretch supply;
Might give a meal to those who till'd
But seldom taste the plenteous field.
But why should thoughts like these assail?
Pursue—pursue the tainted gale!
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And Royal George would do the same:
That best of Kings! whose gracious care
The World's four distant corners share;
While all an equal cause must own
To bless him for the good he'as done!!!
See, see, the hounds have seiz'd the hare,
And fierce her mangled haunches tear.
Now, huntsmen, do not spare the whip:
Beat, beat them off! The ready lip
Then to the mellow horn apply,
And swell the loud triumphant joy,
Till woods, and echoing hills reply.
And fierce her mangled haunches tear.
Now, huntsmen, do not spare the whip:
Beat, beat them off! The ready lip
Then to the mellow horn apply,
And swell the loud triumphant joy,
Till woods, and echoing hills reply.
I well remember on a day
To have heard a squeamish sniv'ler say,
“How cruel 'tis, for sport that we
Should give these creatures misery!
Poor puss! poor harmless puss!” he said,
And hung in dole his oafish head.
“What joy can any thinking mind
From all thy fears and tortures find?”
Oh! would to Jove the sniv'lling dunce
Were to a hare transform'd at once,
That we might chace him now to death!
Why have such milksops vital breath?
To have heard a squeamish sniv'ler say,
“How cruel 'tis, for sport that we
Should give these creatures misery!
Poor puss! poor harmless puss!” he said,
And hung in dole his oafish head.
“What joy can any thinking mind
From all thy fears and tortures find?”
Oh! would to Jove the sniv'lling dunce
Were to a hare transform'd at once,
That we might chace him now to death!
Why have such milksops vital breath?
Oh! may I never, never be,
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
Thou squeamish dame! accurst with thee,
Tormenting Sensibility!
Thus done the chace, new visions rise,
Bath'd in the bowl's capacious joys,
Of choral mirth, and reeling song,
And jokes that Laughter's reign prolong,
Till Slumber, wrapt in antic fumes,
At length her wonted reign assumes.
Bath'd in the bowl's capacious joys,
64
And jokes that Laughter's reign prolong,
Till Slumber, wrapt in antic fumes,
At length her wonted reign assumes.
Thus let me walk gay Pleasure's rounds,
With wine, with women, horses, hounds,
And whate'er else can transport give;
For only while we're gay we live.
Let tender Pity sway the woman's mind
While I the sweets of sensual Rapture find!
With wine, with women, horses, hounds,
And whate'er else can transport give;
For only while we're gay we live.
Let tender Pity sway the woman's mind
While I the sweets of sensual Rapture find!
| The peripatetic | |