The lamentations of Edmund the martyr A poem. By the Author of the Children of Thespis. To which is added, The creed of Saint Edmund, and the cave of despair, a fragment [by John Williams] |
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 | The lamentations of Edmund the martyr |  |
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LAMENTATIONS OF EDMUND the MARTYR.
I
“Who but must weep when Worth decays,And puny boys can tear the bays
From reverend brows like mine?
When Faction has no longer charms,
When Sophistry has lost her arms,
And Truth's yclep'd divine?
II
See fangless poor Ambition lies,Deploring with repeated sighs,
Her unavailing arts;
And Greatness, crush'd by tiny men,
Is manacl'd in Envy's den,
To feed on human hearts!
6
III
Gaunt Pride with her perfidious hand,Led me to touch the dangerous strand,
That grave of human peace;
Where Party's quicksands o'er me roll,
And deep ingulph the sinking soul,
Whose torments never cease.
IV
Sweet Peace array'd in all thy charms,Descend to these unhallow'd arms,
And ward th'impending blow;
Curs'd be the hour I ever stray'd,
And left the roseate blooming maid,
To wed a life of woe!
V
Call'd into life by Faction's bell,I wander'd from thy silent cell,
To follow devious ways;
Deluded by a golden dream,
I plung'd in wild Ambition's stream,
Mistaking noise for praise.
VI
Ere from thy placid graces torn,The beauties of the rising morn,
Could Gratitude inspire;
In the calm academic grove,
Attun'd by every social love,
I play'd the willing lyre.
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VII
Ignatius, list! great shade descend,Protect thy votary and friend,
O grant thy suppliant's pray'r!
Teach him to hoodwink human kind,
Correct the wanderings of his mind,
And snatch him from Despair.
VIII
Teach him to fritter down the laws,To catch th'effect, and spurn the cause,
If honour'd, or if evil;
Guide the direction of his feet,
Thro' all the crannies of deceit,
And league him with the Devil:
IX
Or deign, great chieftain, to inspireHis bosom with that sacred fire,
Which sanctifies our errors;
Then blythe will thy disciple sing,
When yawning hell resigns its sting,
And Fate has lost his terrors.
X
Touch'd by thy magic be his tongue,With wily periods copious hung,
To stimulate persuasion;
Then Morpheus subject to his pow'r,
Shall shed his poppies in the hour,
Whene'er he feels occasion.”
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XI
Thus sung our Edmund, hapless swain,Accompanied with pangs and pain,
With grief sublime and sorrow;
Nor did he hope a change of luck,
For op'ning Destiny's wide book,
He reads his woes to-morrow.
XII
Enrag'd the melancholy man,Thro' the wide field of misery ran,
Sequester'd and alone;
And now he starts, and now he raves,
Then dash'd in Perturbation's waves,
Continu'd thus his moan:
XIII
“Behold the sons of Mary Brooks,Their wants are known by rueful looks,
By which men's minds are reckon'd;
There S---e sunk in moody thought,
Deplores the absence of a groat,
And Devon's Duke has waken'd.
XIV
Carlisle is lost in a profound,And Derby's hogs are all in pound,
And Surry has a sire;
The lusty beast of Bushy Park,
Tho' flint cannot emit a spark,
To light th'extinguish'd fire.
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XV
And Carlo Khan adust and sad,By turns vindictive, blythe and mad,
Laments himself to see;
He braves the gods with angry hate,
And strives to turn the streams of Fate,
As Armstead drinks bohea.
XVI
The Prince, but there I can't purloin,For he, alas! hast lost his coin,
And Weltjie knows his sorrow;
Besides, King's-Place is in a din,
For Hanger tells the nymphs of sin,
He'll bring 'em cash to-morrow.
XVII
O could I take him by surprise!For now his passion beaming eyes,
With amorous toil are dizzy;
But ah! that thought must die away,
For he consumes the night and day,
To spiflicate his Fizzy.
XVIII
Why was the Rolliad's brilliant page,Writ in a paroxyism of rage,
By wits combin'd in clusters?
When Pitt with ease defeats our pains,
And sulky holds Britannia's reins,
And still his legions musters.
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XIX
We've hacknied every foul pretence,And martyr'd Wisdom, Worth and Sense,
To lead in strings the nation;
And when we made a Patriot wince,
The stroke was hurried to the P---,
To know his approbation.
XX
To perfect the elaborate book,A goosequill each defaulter took,
Intent on vice as Nero;
For every caitiff took his turn,
From sable Charles to sleek O'Beirne,
To castigate the hero.
XXI
Then who can wonder that I weep,For Pretty laughs, and Rolle can sleep
In spite of all, in quiet;
Tho' Brinsley gave the theme new points,
And strok'd the brat, and brac'd it's joints,
To raise a damned riot.
XXII
Truants to virtue now so long,In every act, in every song,
Traducing all her rules;
Enrag'd at Faction's vaunting gibes,
She spurns the hapless woe-fraught tribes,
And shuts them from her schools.
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XXIII
Full oft has Carlo wail'd the hour,That drove him from the heights of pow'r,
To callow younglings giv'n;
But tho' from Glory's heights he fell,
'Twere better be a king in hell,
Then demi-bless'd in heaven.
XXIV
But what is Pitt compar'd to me,I'd navigated Wisdom's sea,
Before I was of his age;
Tho' now my thoughts are base and low,
And sicklie'd o'er with vice and woe,
And black as Charly's visage.
XXV
Why have I studied long and deep?And like the Thane have murder'd sleep,
By midnight vigils wasted;
Why have I roam'd thro' classic glades?
And ravish'd the Piërian maids,
And all their beauties tasted?
XXVI
How many chiefs their race have run,By every day's revolving sun?
Meek Turner is no more;
The spirit of Sam House is fled,
And Price is number'd with the dead,
And Carlo Khan is poor.
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XXVII
Poor S---n can write no more,His sun is set, his day is o'er,
His wits are drain'd with weeping;
He, and his compeers mourn the times,
For Justice anger'd by their crimes,
Has put her birch a steeping.
XXVIII
F---m's earl, and goody Crewe,Are weary of the Buff and Blue,
Those ragged lads of plunder;
Full many a bill remains unpaid;
And if they were, the sons of trade,
Would marvel but with wonder!
XXIX
And Be---ck's high egregious chief,In Piccadilly's dens of grief,
Is bound by Fortune's daughter;
But Death a timely aid supplies,
And shells and spars, and butterflies,
Afford him roots and water.
XXX
When with vast toil I top the hill,Like Sisyphus my art and skill,
Protracts, alas! my pain;
The Destinies, who're all my foes,
Such matchless industry! o'erthrows,
And rolls me down again.
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XXXI
Shall Fortune frown whene'er we meet,And shut the doors of Downing Street,
When Charles and I are suing!
Enrag'd at such unnotic'd toil,
Like Samson I'll destroy the pile,
And die beneath the ruin.
XXXII
Conjoin'd we bellow'd hand in hand,To damp the credit of the land,
And labour'd hard as any;
For why should we confound our heads,
With navy bills, or whites or reds,
Who're curs'd not with a penny?
XXXIII
We rais'd up monsters in the East,To lay the plains of Asia waste,
With famine, sword and sabre;
We've bandied every friend and foe,
From Catherine to Imperial Joe,
But Fate has marr'd the labour.
XXXIV
May Heaven forgive us for the lie,For often Hastings we'd decry,
To sully Bengal's throne;
We brandish'd high the sland'rous pen,
And wanting vices for the men,
Have copy'd out our own.
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XXXV
We've forg'd th'ignominious lie,And kick'd down every moral tie,
Like Connaught-spawn'd F---g---ld;
High charg'd with venom sped the dart,
To wound the core of Honour's heart,
By essays in the Herald.
XXXVI
And Meekness with her golden dreams,And Wisdom full of patriot schemes,
Alike we've overthrown;
Polluting with malignant rhimes,
And tortur'd innocence to crimes,
To pick the Treasury bone.
XXXVII
Maugre our toil, the stocks are rais'd,In Hell's despite young Pitt is prais'd,
And Fox has got a cooler;
The nation too are all convinc'd
That Credit and Britannia winc'd,
When Charles the Black was ruler.
XXXVIII
Weak are those men, to interest blind,Who narrowing the capacious mind,
In princes put their trust;
Dicken my master's bought and sold,
And V---y eats his mutton cold,
And R---k---g---m is dust.
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XXXIX
But chiefs must slumber in the grave,Or vicious, virtuous, mad, or brave,
Who flutter'd thro' their day;
Cæsars and Catalines have fell,
Their ears have known the fatal knell,
And Edmund must be clay.
XL
Tell me the prize I have not won,What duty have I left undone,
To please my hell-born master;
Like Patriot Jack I've burnt a note,
And curs'd a king, and bilk'd a vote,
And yet must feel disaster.
XLI
Virtue, but, psha! I know her not,For she'll ne'er bless the wily knot,
Who oft her garment spit on;
For Charles and I have done our best,
To turn her dictates to a jest,
And drive her out of Britain.
XLII
With silly unappropriate meeds,The wench rewards the pious deeds
Of dolts, whose actions suit her;
Be Pitt and Hastings then her own,
For Edmund ne'er will prop her throne,
Who pays the fools in-future.
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XLIII
With all the bliss of Faith imprest,The Patriarch was truly blest,
His second world to see;
No second world can Edmund save,
For 'yond the precincts of the grave,
There is no joys for me.
XLIV
Depress'd with poverty and woe,Moll Brookes's motto I'll forego,
Her damn'd Nil desperandum;
To live, he's but an ass that strives,
When Fortune and the Devil drives,
What caitiff can withstand 'em?
XLV
For radiant Hope deludes our sight,And like a wayward northern light,
She plays about the Party;
Flitting from Carlo Khan to me,
And now with North and now with Lee,
By turns she makes us hearty.
XLVI
Condemn'd to linger still in life,With every human joy at strife,
When grief has dim'd my sight;
My hand rebels against my will,
And holds with pain the murd'rous quill,
And trembles as I write.
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XLVII
Had not the bolts of angry Fate,Shiver'd the pond'rous bark of state,
From Charley's rapid steerage,
Then halcyon had our moments been,
And Mother Windsor reign'd a queen,
And Weltjie had a peerage.
XLVIII
Accursed be the baneful hour,That sapp'd the basis of our pow'r,
When influenc'd by the moon;
The wily Charles in spleen agreed,
With North to fatten, and to feed
On broth with the same spoon.
XLIX
In such an hour old Rome expir'd,And Dian's sacred fane was fir'd,
The sport of fell Perdition;
With deep amazement Fame was hush'd,
And Wisdom star'd, and Faction blush'd,
To name the Coalition.
L
O Charley, Declamation's boy!Her favour'd darling, and her toy,
With cates thy mouth she cramm'd;
But why should I thus sing of him,
Who now is rotting limb by limb,
Politically damn'd?
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LI
Like a fell'd pine, his massy length,Stately in death, its pond'rous strength,
Thro' half the land extends;
Whose faded leaves from James's street,
Are blown to Newgate and the Fleet,
And wither mid his friends.
LII
Oh Atropos! of deadly skill,Obey thy sanguinary will,
Thou vile dogmatic wizard;
In charity destroy my frame,
Efface th'existence of my name,
And strike me thro' the gizzard.
LIII
Then gently draw my vital breath,Oh let me slumber into death,
And drop my sacred function;
For here unpity'd must I die,
No friendly Child of Jesus nigh,
To give my **** the unction.
LIV
As the proud swan in song expires,When fell disease has damp'd his fires,
To quit the illumin'd day;
Thus will I chaunt my perils o'er,
And sink upon the Stygian shore,
In elegiac lay.”
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LV
—But now a nymph—'twas so decreed,Descends the miscreant to lead,
Thro' Fortune's miry road;
Her vestment made of varying hue,
Both purple, scarlet, black and blue,
In many a curling flow'd.
LVI
Her silver car was studded o'er,Which famish'd corm'rants eager bore,
Thro' regions vast to please her;
It's sides were deck'd with many a scene,
On this was Herod's murders seen,
On that the fall of Cæsar.
LVII
Expedience was the female's name,Equally dear to Fraud and Fame,
For myriads she entices;
Her disposition meek and kind,
It veers with every tyrant's mind,
To sanctify his vices.
LVIII
She regulates the tides of trade,And sometimes has acquaintance made,
'Twixt Noble's necks and axes;
By wily means she wounds her foes,
And oft a minister o'erthrows,
Suggesting tithes and taxes.
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LIX
And thus the nymph the wight address'd,“For shame! no longer be depress'd,
And insult common sense;
But like the Swiss to interest true,
For Plutus perish or subdue,
And gather in the pence.
LX
Edmund, behold a brilliant prize,To glad thy blubb'ring tear-swoln eyes,
Lo! Hastings is come o'er;
Level thy anger at his purse,
Assail him with a Jesuit curse,
And fatten on his store!
LXI
I know your thought ere it has birth,That he's a paragon of worth,
To prop the nation's honour.
Who'd e'er the gypsey Fortune win,
And prejudic'd did thus begin,
Depend on't, never won her.
LXII
The nymph, my friend—but what a fool!Am I to settle plan or rule,
For E---d B--- to trust in?
Then drop the theme, I prythee do,
'Twere wise 'twixt R---k---g---m and you;
To me it is disgusting.
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LXIII
The world was made for men like you,The dupe of every rascal crew,
And horrid coalition;
Else we had never been debas'd,
Or Machiavel refulgent grac'd,
The pages of Tradition.
LXIV
'Tis yours to find my motley son,Not what he did—but left undone,
To fester to a crime;
For Weakness oft leaps Wisdom's fence,
And errors steal upon the sense
Creeping thro' chinks of time.
LXV
With obloquy distend thy throat;The base of fraud is too remote,
For instant contradiction;
Besides, you're flank'd with famish'd friends
Who'd turn, to answer private ends,
The word of God to fiction.
LXVI
Nor heed that thro' a course of years,He liv'd to dry the orphan's tears,
By Asia's sons caress'd;
Diffusing mercy o'er the soil,
As Albion hail'd the patriot toil,
And, blessing, he was bless'd.
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LXVII
Titus the pride of human kind,At times to excellence was blind,
Tho' dear to Heaven and Fame;
Had you existed in those days,
You'd turn'd the current of his praise,
And smote his honour'd name.
LXVIII
Go, conjure murders in your brain,And talk of Rajahs never slain,
And violated beauty;
Swear, to the rights of Britain blind,
He lov'd the glory of mankind,
And Virtue took for duty.
LXIX
Who wields the rod of state will know,He sure must combat many a foe,
Who cannot satiate all;
Wrapt in their indigested ire,
The worthless and the vain retire,
To sink their thoughts in gall.
LXX
For Calumny's envenom'd spite,Will ever wound the honour'd wight,
Responsible and great:
Why should he writhe beneath the sting?
He only shares it with his king,
Who smiles at fickle Fate.
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LXXI
Let not the credulous descry,Your feelings give your tongue the lie;
'Twould hasten thy perdition:
Guard well the crannies of the cause,
Prate of humanity and laws,
But mark the Imposition.
LXXII
Then Plutus shall be all your own;Then Infamy shall mount the throne,
And Britain's ideots see 'em;
Then Vice shall riot in the isle,
The groves of Beaconsfield shall smile,
And Knav'ry sing TE-DEUM.”
THE END.
| The lamentations of Edmund the martyr | |