The Birth-day with a few strictures on the Times; a poem, in three cantos. With The Preface and Notes of an Edition to be published in the Year 1782. By a farmer [i.e. Francis Douglas] |
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| I. |
| II. | CANTO II. |
| III. |
 | The Birth-day |  |
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CANTO II.
Anticipated View of a Military Commander,—and of a Marine Patriot—Virtues of the Muse's Rod.
Thrice wav'd the Muse her magic wand,
(A charm which nothing can withstand,)
When lo, debarking from the main,
In order mov'd a motely train.
(A charm which nothing can withstand,)
When lo, debarking from the main,
In order mov'd a motely train.
Prickt on a bloodless lance was born,
A tawdry ribbon, stain'd and torn;
Fit emblem of a future hero,
The very counter-part of Nero:
Like him, to be in youth belov'd,
And by the judging few approv'd.
Like him, to rise to chief command,
(Heav'n's rod to scourge a guilty land.)
Like him, tho' not in purple array'd,
The patron of the fidling trade.
Like him, on Dissipation's lap,
To take his noon and evening nap.
Like him, asleep in Circe's arms,
To slight Bellona's rougher charms;
Like him, the execration, scorn,
Of all hereafter to be born.
A tawdry ribbon, stain'd and torn;
Fit emblem of a future hero,
The very counter-part of Nero:
Like him, to be in youth belov'd,
And by the judging few approv'd.
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(Heav'n's rod to scourge a guilty land.)
Like him, tho' not in purple array'd,
The patron of the fidling trade.
Like him, on Dissipation's lap,
To take his noon and evening nap.
Like him, asleep in Circe's arms,
To slight Bellona's rougher charms;
Like him, the execration, scorn,
Of all hereafter to be born.
“Fall Rome! I gloriously offend!
“Ye curling flames to heav'n ascend.
“Thus Ilium fell, and Homer sung,
“When every muse had tipt his tongue.”
So spake the miscreant; but our hero,
Not just so fond of fame as Nero;
Wish'd no proud city to be burn'd,
Lest on himself the flames had turn'd.
He suck'd his suffering country's blood,
And check'd her laurels in the bud;
Restrain'd the ardor of her sons,
As Brenus of his Gauls and Huns;
Till the last talent should be weigh'd,
Then fight who will, his game was play'd.
“Ye curling flames to heav'n ascend.
“Thus Ilium fell, and Homer sung,
“When every muse had tipt his tongue.”
So spake the miscreant; but our hero,
Not just so fond of fame as Nero;
Wish'd no proud city to be burn'd,
Lest on himself the flames had turn'd.
He suck'd his suffering country's blood,
And check'd her laurels in the bud;
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As Brenus of his Gauls and Huns;
Till the last talent should be weigh'd,
Then fight who will, his game was play'd.
Depicted par la main de Guilame,
And wrote below, “for great Sir—,”
A leering harlot bears a shield,
Lutes and guittars take up the field;
Around it, Cupids, smiling Loves,
And Venus twittering with her doves;
A group of laughter-loving dames,
Reflecting Phoebus' radiant beams;
While Pan, the master of the song,
And jolly Bacchus, reel along.
Pikes, halberts, powder-pluffs, attend it,
With labels on their breasts appended,
Expressive of their mind and manners;
While traul behind, Britannia's banners.
“Avaunt the nauseous stench of war!—
“Come, Venus, take us in thy car;
“The hecatombs we vow'd are paid,
“See, on thy sacred altar laid,
“Fans, ribbons, scented gloves, and laces,
“Pomatum, locks, and tweezer-cases.
“Come, goddess! come, the fleeting hour,
“Is all the brave have in their power.
“What's Fame? a breath beyond the grave;
“Where sleep the hero and the slave.
“What's Love of Country? mere pretence;
“Where shall we be a cent'ry hence?
“Or basking in th' Elysian fields,
“Or scouring Pluto's rusty shields.
“What's Liberty? a mode of thinking,
“Of writing, speaking, wh---r---g, drinking;
“Abridg'd, in one or all we grumble;
“Indulg'd, are courteous, meek and humble.
“What's Honour? stoutly to defend
“Whatever means promote your end.
“Of Human Wishes what's the sum?
“A wh---re, a chariot and a plum.
“Come, Pleasure! smile on beau and belle,
“And then the virtous fools may rail.”
And wrote below, “for great Sir—,”
A leering harlot bears a shield,
Lutes and guittars take up the field;
Around it, Cupids, smiling Loves,
And Venus twittering with her doves;
A group of laughter-loving dames,
Reflecting Phoebus' radiant beams;
While Pan, the master of the song,
And jolly Bacchus, reel along.
Pikes, halberts, powder-pluffs, attend it,
With labels on their breasts appended,
Expressive of their mind and manners;
While traul behind, Britannia's banners.
“Avaunt the nauseous stench of war!—
“Come, Venus, take us in thy car;
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“See, on thy sacred altar laid,
“Fans, ribbons, scented gloves, and laces,
“Pomatum, locks, and tweezer-cases.
“Come, goddess! come, the fleeting hour,
“Is all the brave have in their power.
“What's Fame? a breath beyond the grave;
“Where sleep the hero and the slave.
“What's Love of Country? mere pretence;
“Where shall we be a cent'ry hence?
“Or basking in th' Elysian fields,
“Or scouring Pluto's rusty shields.
“What's Liberty? a mode of thinking,
“Of writing, speaking, wh---r---g, drinking;
“Abridg'd, in one or all we grumble;
“Indulg'd, are courteous, meek and humble.
“What's Honour? stoutly to defend
“Whatever means promote your end.
“Of Human Wishes what's the sum?
“A wh---re, a chariot and a plum.
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“And then the virtous fools may rail.”
Again she wav'd the rod of power,
And now from Cynthia's noontide bower,
We overlook the liquid plain,
Where Avarice has her thousands slain;
And see, with crouded sail, advance,
A fleet, in port, the dread of France;
But mild and gentle on the seas,
As setting sun, or western breeze.
The flags were out, the pendants flying,
But not a man in dread of dying.
An action, as it were, had been,
When who were who was clearly seen.
Now ceas'd the thunders of the deep,
Some play at cards, and others sleep;
Some earnest urge, I know not what,
And others answer this or that.
Then thus the chief. “I'll hear no more!
“Return we to our native shore.
“What! lose my ships? offend my friends,
“And counteract their gracious ends?
“I hope the thanks of wives and spouses,
“And warm applause of both the ------.
“Hoa! you to windward back your sails,
“What demon in the fleet prevails!—
“Shall any dare to chase, till I,
“Have giv'n the signals when and why?
“You, Boas'n! dem you! haul the sheet,
“Let others fight; I'll save the fleet.”
And now from Cynthia's noontide bower,
We overlook the liquid plain,
Where Avarice has her thousands slain;
And see, with crouded sail, advance,
A fleet, in port, the dread of France;
But mild and gentle on the seas,
As setting sun, or western breeze.
The flags were out, the pendants flying,
But not a man in dread of dying.
An action, as it were, had been,
When who were who was clearly seen.
Now ceas'd the thunders of the deep,
Some play at cards, and others sleep;
Some earnest urge, I know not what,
And others answer this or that.
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“Return we to our native shore.
“What! lose my ships? offend my friends,
“And counteract their gracious ends?
“I hope the thanks of wives and spouses,
“And warm applause of both the ------.
“Hoa! you to windward back your sails,
“What demon in the fleet prevails!—
“Shall any dare to chase, till I,
“Have giv'n the signals when and why?
“You, Boas'n! dem you! haul the sheet,
“Let others fight; I'll save the fleet.”
Here rest we, till an evening song
A while the festive rites prolong;
Or shall we, on this joyous day,
Attempt an intermediate lay?
Our theme the Muse's magic rod,
Apollo, deign thy gracious nod!
Respected shades! we sing of you,
Who well its powers and virtues knew.
A while the festive rites prolong;
Or shall we, on this joyous day,
Attempt an intermediate lay?
Our theme the Muse's magic rod,
Apollo, deign thy gracious nod!
Respected shades! we sing of you,
Who well its powers and virtues knew.
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When the loud tempest whirls abroad,
If Shakespeare gently waves the rod,
The winds are still, the turgid wave
Sinks peaceful to its watry grave.
But if he lifts his arm on high,
(Tho' not a speck obscures the skie)
Forth rush the Boreal powers aghast,
And bursts the hoarse tremendous blast:
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
And Ocean heaves on all her shores.
If Shakespeare gently waves the rod,
The winds are still, the turgid wave
Sinks peaceful to its watry grave.
But if he lifts his arm on high,
(Tho' not a speck obscures the skie)
Forth rush the Boreal powers aghast,
And bursts the hoarse tremendous blast:
The lightning flies, the thunder roars,
And Ocean heaves on all her shores.
It drew the monsters from the deep,
Or made the eye of Murder weep;
It smooth'd the wrinkl'd brow of Age,
Or sooth'd the stern oppressor's rage;
It call'd the wayward sisters forth,
In all the horrors of the North;
And shook the traitor's soul, Macbeth,
When in the environs of Death;
It fir'd Othello's sickly brain,
While weeping Virtue sued in vain;
It rag'd in ill-requited Lear,
Till Satan, shudd'ring, dropt a tear.
When with the Comic Muse he sported,
And bucks, and knaves, and fools dehorted,
The Cynic would have tried in vain
His tick'ld muscles to restrain.
He begg'd the rod so oft, the Muse
Said, “Take it, favourite Child, and use,
“Call forth ideal forms at will,
“And give them semblance power and skill;
“Plague me no more; the rod is yours,
“Till creeping age exhaust your powers;
“And, if your brother Ben should want it,
“With my permission, freely grant it.”
Or made the eye of Murder weep;
It smooth'd the wrinkl'd brow of Age,
Or sooth'd the stern oppressor's rage;
It call'd the wayward sisters forth,
In all the horrors of the North;
And shook the traitor's soul, Macbeth,
When in the environs of Death;
It fir'd Othello's sickly brain,
While weeping Virtue sued in vain;
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Till Satan, shudd'ring, dropt a tear.
When with the Comic Muse he sported,
And bucks, and knaves, and fools dehorted,
The Cynic would have tried in vain
His tick'ld muscles to restrain.
He begg'd the rod so oft, the Muse
Said, “Take it, favourite Child, and use,
“Call forth ideal forms at will,
“And give them semblance power and skill;
“Plague me no more; the rod is yours,
“Till creeping age exhaust your powers;
“And, if your brother Ben should want it,
“With my permission, freely grant it.”
Thrice wav'd, it brought to Milton's eye,
The past transactions of the skie.
Chaos, terrific form! it rear'd,
Ere time or sun had yet appear'd;
With awful darkness girt his throne,
Silence his sad compeer alone.
Now works the plastic Power of Love,
The waves are still, the zephyrs move,
Astonish'd Chaos plung'd below,
And Harmony began to flow.
Uprose a world: the solar fire,
(Bright emblem of its heav'nly Sire!)
Dispell'd the darkness; Earth and Air,
And Water smil'd; for God was there.
At last the Sire, to crown the whole,
A body form'd, and breath'd a soul;
He rested from his work of days,
And glad Creation hymn'd his praise.
Responsive to the Muse's call,
The wars which shook th' etherial hall,
Assume their pristine dreadful form,
When angels prodigies perform,
And Satan, vainly, dares defy,
The Sovereign Ruler of the skie.
The past transactions of the skie.
Chaos, terrific form! it rear'd,
Ere time or sun had yet appear'd;
With awful darkness girt his throne,
Silence his sad compeer alone.
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The waves are still, the zephyrs move,
Astonish'd Chaos plung'd below,
And Harmony began to flow.
Uprose a world: the solar fire,
(Bright emblem of its heav'nly Sire!)
Dispell'd the darkness; Earth and Air,
And Water smil'd; for God was there.
At last the Sire, to crown the whole,
A body form'd, and breath'd a soul;
He rested from his work of days,
And glad Creation hymn'd his praise.
Responsive to the Muse's call,
The wars which shook th' etherial hall,
Assume their pristine dreadful form,
When angels prodigies perform,
And Satan, vainly, dares defy,
The Sovereign Ruler of the skie.
If Butler sings, beware your fides;
The Muse a testy courser rides;
A group of raggamuffins round her,
Are apt to make her kick or founder.
Tinkers, reformers of the state,
And gapers for the Church's plate;
Sweet singers, Muggletonians, grumblers,
Rope-dancers, chimney-sweeps, and tumblers.
The Muse, with nice discerning eye,
Their views and tempers could descry;
And to the laughter-lover's pleasure,
Has paid their dues, in weight and measure.
Ah, Butler! dire reproach of Charles,
Whose gracious father pension'd Quarles.
The Muse a testy courser rides;
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Are apt to make her kick or founder.
Tinkers, reformers of the state,
And gapers for the Church's plate;
Sweet singers, Muggletonians, grumblers,
Rope-dancers, chimney-sweeps, and tumblers.
The Muse, with nice discerning eye,
Their views and tempers could descry;
And to the laughter-lover's pleasure,
Has paid their dues, in weight and measure.
Ah, Butler! dire reproach of Charles,
Whose gracious father pension'd Quarles.
To Dryden, born in evil days,
When Wit and Virtue were at odds,
She gave in charge to smooth her lays,
And clear her rough and craggy roads.
When Wit and Virtue were at odds,
She gave in charge to smooth her lays,
And clear her rough and craggy roads.
“Be great, my Son,” she said, “and claim,
“To be in Britain's Isle commander;
“But if thou wouldst aspire to fame,
“Go twine a wreath for Alexander.
“To be in Britain's Isle commander;
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“Go twine a wreath for Alexander.
“Know, that a Poet shall succeed,
“(Not to thy laurel, but thy merit,)
“To clear my soil of every weed,
“And write with Roman force and spirit.
“(Not to thy laurel, but thy merit,)
“To clear my soil of every weed,
“And write with Roman force and spirit.
“Homer shall listen to his song,
“(For he shall sing of Kings and Heroes,)
“Nor grieve to have been dead so long,
“To live again in brighter aeras.
“(For he shall sing of Kings and Heroes,)
“Nor grieve to have been dead so long,
“To live again in brighter aeras.
“To thee the Mantuan Bard shall owe it,
“That Britain knows him as a Poet;
“But Pope, in Horace' courtly stile
“Shall mark the manners of the Isle;
“In moral satire shall excel,
“All that before had written well.
“Yet shall a nest of hornets sting him,
“Till in Oblivion's gulph he fling 'em.”
“That Britain knows him as a Poet;
“But Pope, in Horace' courtly stile
“Shall mark the manners of the Isle;
“In moral satire shall excel,
“All that before had written well.
“Yet shall a nest of hornets sting him,
“Till in Oblivion's gulph he fling 'em.”
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To Addison, (a favourite son,)
In accent sweet, the Muse begun,
“While others bustle for the bays,
“Be modest worth thy highest praise.
“Go see the world, enlarge thy mind,
“And be the friend of human kind.
“When I inspire the soaring lay,
“Sing thou of Bleinheim's glorious day;
“Or bring a Roman on the stage;
“Too good for the Augustan age,
“Who with his Brutus, wish'd to see,
“His country virtuous, great and free.
“With wit and humour charm the age,
“And laugh to silence party rage;
“Respected live, lamented die,
“And take thy station in the skie.”
In accent sweet, the Muse begun,
“While others bustle for the bays,
“Be modest worth thy highest praise.
“Go see the world, enlarge thy mind,
“And be the friend of human kind.
“When I inspire the soaring lay,
“Sing thou of Bleinheim's glorious day;
“Or bring a Roman on the stage;
“Too good for the Augustan age,
“Who with his Brutus, wish'd to see,
“His country virtuous, great and free.
“With wit and humour charm the age,
“And laugh to silence party rage;
“Respected live, lamented die,
“And take thy station in the skie.”
The friendly inoffensive Gay,
Well with the Muse's Rod could play:
Write pretty Fables for the Duke,
Or Courts and Ministers rebuke;
Could slyly peep behind the screen,
Tho' many a strong bar'd door between.
In Don Mackheath and Madam Polly,
Could laugh at Impudence and Folly;
Could nod with Justice, on the bench,
Or weep with Peasecod, and his wench;
Could mimic every comic elf,
And even be the jest himself:
He “sold his sheep for loops and buttons,”
Resolv'd to pipe no more to muttons;
But, ah! for courtly life unfit,
(The man was modest, tho' a wit,)
He could not lie, and would not flatter,
Nor call that wine he knew but water.
“Child, said the Muse, 'tis all in vain,
“Courts will be courts, and men be men;
“Or be what others are, or know,
“Preferment's wind will never blow.”
“What others are! give up with Pope?
“And all my hopes in Queens'bry drop?”
“Then fly—Retirement chides thy stay;
“Thy friend shall meet thee on the way,
“And joyous hail thee, “Welcome, Gay!
“Welcome, my Friend, to Twick'nam's grot,
“And, thanks to Heav'n! without a blot.
“Escap'd a Court's seducing charms,
“Welcome to Friendship's longing arms!
“Here let us calmly pass our days,
“And mortify the lust of praise;
“Here smile to see the world so wise,
“To barter Peace, for Butterflies.
“Here Competence shall spread the board,
“Oeconomy shall be our steward;
“And Homer sober port afford.
“The Dean shall send us many a song,
“And good Arbuthnot life prolong.
“And should you long for courts and levees,
“The Muse shall lead you to a crevice,
“Where you may see them all unseen,
“And feast your eyes with King and Queen.”
“No; there, my Friend, you're fairly out;
“In such a motely ravel'd rout,
“We neither see the King nor Queen,
“But only those who stand between;
“Are they our friends? Our work is done.
“Our enemies? We may be gone.
“Had smiles and gracious nods been sterling,
“Gay, long ere now, had rode in Berlin.
“But peace to courts! they suit not me,
“Who, born a Freeman, would be free.”
Well with the Muse's Rod could play:
Write pretty Fables for the Duke,
Or Courts and Ministers rebuke;
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Tho' many a strong bar'd door between.
In Don Mackheath and Madam Polly,
Could laugh at Impudence and Folly;
Could nod with Justice, on the bench,
Or weep with Peasecod, and his wench;
Could mimic every comic elf,
And even be the jest himself:
He “sold his sheep for loops and buttons,”
Resolv'd to pipe no more to muttons;
But, ah! for courtly life unfit,
(The man was modest, tho' a wit,)
He could not lie, and would not flatter,
Nor call that wine he knew but water.
“Child, said the Muse, 'tis all in vain,
“Courts will be courts, and men be men;
“Or be what others are, or know,
“Preferment's wind will never blow.”
“What others are! give up with Pope?
“And all my hopes in Queens'bry drop?”
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“Thy friend shall meet thee on the way,
“And joyous hail thee, “Welcome, Gay!
“Welcome, my Friend, to Twick'nam's grot,
“And, thanks to Heav'n! without a blot.
“Escap'd a Court's seducing charms,
“Welcome to Friendship's longing arms!
“Here let us calmly pass our days,
“And mortify the lust of praise;
“Here smile to see the world so wise,
“To barter Peace, for Butterflies.
“Here Competence shall spread the board,
“Oeconomy shall be our steward;
“And Homer sober port afford.
“The Dean shall send us many a song,
“And good Arbuthnot life prolong.
“And should you long for courts and levees,
“The Muse shall lead you to a crevice,
“Where you may see them all unseen,
“And feast your eyes with King and Queen.”
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“In such a motely ravel'd rout,
“We neither see the King nor Queen,
“But only those who stand between;
“Are they our friends? Our work is done.
“Our enemies? We may be gone.
“Had smiles and gracious nods been sterling,
“Gay, long ere now, had rode in Berlin.
“But peace to courts! they suit not me,
“Who, born a Freeman, would be free.”
She wav'd her rod; a Priest arose,
In youth to sing “The Love of Fame,”
Mature, to foil an host of foes,
And glow with an immortal flame.
In youth to sing “The Love of Fame,”
Mature, to foil an host of foes,
And glow with an immortal flame.
“Astonish'd Vice shall, trembling, hear,
“The Song of Night her thoughts reveal;
“And loudly, in Lorenzo's ear,
“Shall Conscience ring her startling peal.
“Religion claims him all her own,
“Where'er his poignant lays are sung,
“The batter'd Infidel shall frown,
“And Virtue triumph in her Young.”
“The Song of Night her thoughts reveal;
“And loudly, in Lorenzo's ear,
“Shall Conscience ring her startling peal.
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“Where'er his poignant lays are sung,
“The batter'd Infidel shall frown,
“And Virtue triumph in her Young.”
Thomson, in softly pleasing strain,
Sued for its aid, nor fued in vain.
Description joyful claps her wings,
And on the storm aloft she springs;
Now dives the mine, or sweeps the lawn,
Or rises with the early dawn.
“The hours unbar the gates of light,”
Up fly the noxious damps of night;
Million's of opening flowers appear,
And Nature's songsters charm the ear.
Now on a cloud, sublime, she rides,
Far, far below her, earth and tides;
Now daring soars above the skies,
As far as human thought can rise.
O early lost! sincerely mourn'd,
By Friendship's hand thy dust inurn'd—
But Littleton shall spread thy fame:
Alike your pursuits, and your flame.
Sued for its aid, nor fued in vain.
Description joyful claps her wings,
And on the storm aloft she springs;
Now dives the mine, or sweeps the lawn,
Or rises with the early dawn.
“The hours unbar the gates of light,”
Up fly the noxious damps of night;
Million's of opening flowers appear,
And Nature's songsters charm the ear.
Now on a cloud, sublime, she rides,
Far, far below her, earth and tides;
Now daring soars above the skies,
As far as human thought can rise.
O early lost! sincerely mourn'd,
By Friendship's hand thy dust inurn'd—
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Alike your pursuits, and your flame.
To Meditation's lonely walk,
Deep musing, oft would Gray retire,
With streams, and woods, and mountains talk,
Or pensive, touch the warbling lyre.
Deep musing, oft would Gray retire,
With streams, and woods, and mountains talk,
Or pensive, touch the warbling lyre.
Fair Science, in the pride of Spring,
The retrospective Muse espies,
And grateful, saints the holy King,
Who bade her sacred temples rise.
The retrospective Muse espies,
And grateful, saints the holy King,
Who bade her sacred temples rise.
In tender wailing accent sings,
Days, that alas, return no more!
While yet unfledg'd her infant wings,
To Folly's regions durst not soar.
Days, that alas, return no more!
While yet unfledg'd her infant wings,
To Folly's regions durst not soar.
When smiling Innocence and Peace,
Walk'd arm in arm along the green,
And rising hope, and heart-felt ease,
Reflected joy on every scene.
Walk'd arm in arm along the green,
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Reflected joy on every scene.
Gone, ah for ever gone, that spring!
Now giddy Passion takes the rein,
Around a thousand Syrens sing,
And Reason claims her right in vain.
Now giddy Passion takes the rein,
Around a thousand Syrens sing,
And Reason claims her right in vain.
Sly Disappointment lurks the while,
With sad Repentance in her rear,
And now upsprings the latent toil,
And ruthless Harpies inly tear.
With sad Repentance in her rear,
And now upsprings the latent toil,
And ruthless Harpies inly tear.
In the bleak, wither'd vale of years,
Sore bends the hoary head of Age;
A busy, bustling race appears,
And pain and sorrow yield the stage.
Sore bends the hoary head of Age;
A busy, bustling race appears,
And pain and sorrow yield the stage.
But hark! in Pindar's lofty strain,
Correctly wild the numbers flow;
“Rage, tyrant Power, but rage in vain,
“The righteous gods shall bring thee low.”
Correctly wild the numbers flow;
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“The righteous gods shall bring thee low.”
When Cambria's Bard infuriate flings
The flaming bolt at Edward's head,
As whizzing in the air it wings,
Sore shakes the soul with awful dread!
The flaming bolt at Edward's head,
As whizzing in the air it wings,
Sore shakes the soul with awful dread!
In wrath, he strikes the trembling lyre,
The tear of grief begins to flow,
But slaughter'd chiefs enflame his ire,
And dreadful is the song of woe!
The tear of grief begins to flow,
But slaughter'd chiefs enflame his ire,
And dreadful is the song of woe!
Adjoining to the sacred bower,
Where Pride, unblushing, hangs her crest,
He oft enjoy'd the pensive hour,
“For there the weary are at rest.”
Where Pride, unblushing, hangs her crest,
He oft enjoy'd the pensive hour,
“For there the weary are at rest.”
Now from th' unpolish'd slab would learn,
What rustic Vanity could spell,
How Thomas erst his bread did earn,
And who the dame he lov'd so well.
What rustic Vanity could spell,
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And who the dame he lov'd so well.
What children dear to him she bore,
And where they liv'd, and when they dy'd;
They liv'd and dy'd: it said no more,
Or else the simple stone had ly'd.
And where they liv'd, and when they dy'd;
They liv'd and dy'd: it said no more,
Or else the simple stone had ly'd.
Now on the sculptur'd tomb he reads
What modest truth would blush to tell,
The names, the titles, warlike deeds,
Of heroes who in battle fell.
What modest truth would blush to tell,
The names, the titles, warlike deeds,
Of heroes who in battle fell.
But ah, forgot th' unnumber'd throng,
Who nobly fought, and bravely dy'd!
Too low to claim the Poet's song,
Nor to the great were they ally'd.
Who nobly fought, and bravely dy'd!
Too low to claim the Poet's song,
Nor to the great were they ally'd.
Yet in the grateful Briton's heart,
They have a tomb shall ne'er decay,
For fathers shall to sons impart,
The impress of their honour'd clay.
They have a tomb shall ne'er decay,
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The impress of their honour'd clay.
To man he pays the kindred sigh;
A long funereal train appear;
Aloft the pendant streamers fly,
And slow and solemn moves the bier.
A long funereal train appear;
Aloft the pendant streamers fly,
And slow and solemn moves the bier.
In silent grief, the hopeful heir
Laments th' indulgent parent gone;
While many a heart-felt sigh and tear
The generous master's death bemoan.
Laments th' indulgent parent gone;
While many a heart-felt sigh and tear
The generous master's death bemoan.
'Tis over.—Dust, consign'd to dust,
Return the sable pensive train;
O breath! delusive prop of trust,
And human pursuits all how vain!
Return the sable pensive train;
O breath! delusive prop of trust,
And human pursuits all how vain!
Dear to the Muse was Nature's child!
She strung his sweetly pleasing lyre;
Harmonious, picturesque and mild
His verse, yet glow'd with heav'nly fire.
She strung his sweetly pleasing lyre;
Harmonious, picturesque and mild
His verse, yet glow'd with heav'nly fire.
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Whate'er could elevate the soul,
Or sooth the pangs of human woe,
He ardent sought from pole to pole,
And painted with unfading glow.
Or sooth the pangs of human woe,
He ardent sought from pole to pole,
And painted with unfading glow.
In Mason's boldly daring strain,
The Grecian Muse illumes the age,
Correct, as Judgment held the pen,
Sublimely chaste, as Plutarch's page.
The Grecian Muse illumes the age,
Correct, as Judgment held the pen,
Sublimely chaste, as Plutarch's page.
Upstarts a venerable Sire,
Ap Einion , Bard of high renown;
He hears his own melodious lyre,
And cries, “My son, I yield the crown.”
Ap Einion , Bard of high renown;
He hears his own melodious lyre,
And cries, “My son, I yield the crown.”
When Beattie, in the guise of Er'mite,
Implor'd her aid to write his Hermit,
“Go on, my son,” she said, “nor fear,
“I'll lead thy hand and tune thine ear.
“Sweet as th' Arabian zephyr blows,
“And modest as the blushing rose,
“Fair Piety shall chaunt the song,
“And Harmony the notes prolong.
“Pale Doubt shall brighten into Joy,
“And dark Distrust no more annoy;
“Hope, heav'n-descended, close her eye,
“Exulting that she's now to die;
“And Charity, on seraph's wing,
“Up from the bed of Death shall spring. .
Implor'd her aid to write his Hermit,
“Go on, my son,” she said, “nor fear,
“I'll lead thy hand and tune thine ear.
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“And modest as the blushing rose,
“Fair Piety shall chaunt the song,
“And Harmony the notes prolong.
“Pale Doubt shall brighten into Joy,
“And dark Distrust no more annoy;
“Hope, heav'n-descended, close her eye,
“Exulting that she's now to die;
“And Charity, on seraph's wing,
“Up from the bed of Death shall spring. .
“When shy Retirement silent past,
“Who was it lifted up her veil?
“When good Eliza breath'd her last,
“Who fram'd the soul-composing tale?
“Who was it lifted up her veil?
“When good Eliza breath'd her last,
“Who fram'd the soul-composing tale?
“When Hope, in vivid colours, drew
“Her ramparts, which repel the storm,
“Who questions whether I or you,
“Gave the ideal vision form?
“Her ramparts, which repel the storm,
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“Gave the ideal vision form?
“Who, in the council of the Hares,
“Gave Puss the powers of thought and speech?
“Who holds them either yours, or theirs,
“Mistakes a Horace for a Creech.
“Then boast not thou the aid of Nine,
“The Minstrel, every page is mine.”
“Gave Puss the powers of thought and speech?
“Who holds them either yours, or theirs,
“Mistakes a Horace for a Creech.
“Then boast not thou the aid of Nine,
“The Minstrel, every page is mine.”
To Whitehead if I must do right,
No doubt, his Birth-Day Odes have merit,
He, ere in duty bound, could write
With elegance, and eke with spirit.
No doubt, his Birth-Day Odes have merit,
He, ere in duty bound, could write
With elegance, and eke with spirit.
But drop him, Muse—I hate the man
Sincerely be he saint or sinner,
Who quaffs his cordial cup of sack,
While I drink water at my dinner.
Sincerely be he saint or sinner,
Who quaffs his cordial cup of sack,
While I drink water at my dinner.
“Hate him! recal the ugly phrase,
“Did even a Shadwell wear the bays,
“What right have you to sip his nectar,
“A Curate you, and he a rector?”
Faith, none at all—I sue for mercy,
Which never Douglas did, nor Percy.
“Did even a Shadwell wear the bays,
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“A Curate you, and he a rector?”
Faith, none at all—I sue for mercy,
Which never Douglas did, nor Percy.
Howel ap Einion Lygliw, a celebrated Welsh bard, an excellent specimen of whose poetry, we have in Mr. Pennant's Tour in Wales, p. 281. I envy the man who can read the original.
Though this Poem consists but of forty-eight lines, it has always been esteemed a master-piece in its kind. The melodious flow of the numbers; the delicacy of the sentiment; the Hermit's humble and ingenuous confession, in the last stanza but one; his fervent address to the Supreme Being, and the glow of immortality which immediately succeeds, have a most agreeable effect upon the mind.
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