Poetical sketches :: :: University of Virginia Library

Wrangham, Francis (1769-1842)

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THE CORNELIAN PARTY.

Sæpè ex socero meo audivi, cùm is diceret socerum suum Lælium semper ferè cum Scipione solitum rusticari, eosque incredibiliter repuerascere esse solitos, cùm rus ex urbe tanquam è vinculis evolavissent. Non audeo dicere de talibus viris, sed tamen ita solet narrare Scævola, conchas eos et umbilicos ad Caietam et ad Laurentum legere consuêsse, et ad omnem animi remissionem ludumque descendere. (Cic. de Oratore, II. 6.)

In fair Jamaica, it is said
(I but refer to what I've read)
Of land-crabs oft you meet a host
Impatient hurrying to the coast,
Soon as the season for migration
Warns them to quit their inland station .

—But why to fair Jamaica roam
For what, each summer, shows at home?

The violet crab, of Jamaica, performs a fatiguing march of some months' continuance, from the mountains to the sea-side. Paley's Nat. Theol. XVIII.

In June, when May-flowers and May-flies
Paronomastically rise,
Ere yet the dog-star shoots his fire,
Prayers on all sides assail the 'Squire
From craving wife and coaxing daughters;
“Your hunting o'er, your hounds in quarters,
“And ere the moors demand your gun,
“Full two months interval to run—
“Oh! as you promised, Scarbro' show us,
“In the old coach you well can stow us:
“Yourself included, we're but seven,
“Betty, as eighth, keeps both sides even.
“Do, pray Sir, without and or if,
“Take a month's lodging on the Cliff.”
Thus importuned, what can he do?
He loves his wife, and daughters too;
And, though himself had rather stay
T'inspect, or even make, his hay;
Though he abominates the stir
And stench of crowded theatre,

Remembering well the scented gale
That ventilates his native vale:
Though balls annoy where sylphids meet,
To ply untired their nimble feet,
Here figuring in, there crossing over—
The reason why, he can't discover:
Though on a ten yards' terrace he
Scarcely finds room to bend his knee,
Or on a scanty mile of beach
His favourite hunter's legs can stretch;
Yet will he go! With glad surprise
They read the answer in his eyes;
And all the toilette ammunition
Is instant put in requisition.
The village semstress, summon'd straight,
Attends the critical debate—
Hears caps, and cloaks, and gowns discust,
Sees treasures rummaged from their dust—
Flounce, stomacher and furbelow,
Would arch an antiquary's brow,
And prove (whate'er be now the passion),
Eve has not always led the fashion.

O Scarbro'! queen of sea-side joys,
Which no domestic care alloys,
Far from the petty jangling war
Of housemaid, and of housekeeper!
Throned on thy cliffs, how proudly thou
Survey'st the varied scene below:
In curve exact thy mansions bending,
And to the watery marge descending:
Upon that marge, in modest state,
Hygeia throwing wide her gate ,
(A better Cytherea she,
Risen newly from the ambient sea)
To indigent infirmity:
Thy temple, castle, double mole,
Port, spa, and circling round the whole,
Of beauty and of strength the zone,
The ocean's azure girdle thrown!
Thy pleasures ever charm the young,
The morning stroll—stroll all day long:

Joy, triumph, health at once they give,
To see, to conquer, and to live;
And vidi, vici, vixi, plain
Records the bright and brief campaign.

The Warm Sea Bathing Infirmary, where the poor, who cannot even afford three tokens and a half per bath, are invited to go.—quadrante lavatum. Hon.

Nor hither 'Squires alone resort
With water to dilute their port,
Walk off the aches which riding gave,
And tip the go-by to the grave—
That only port they still would pass,
As Time's their only hated glass:—
For Scarbro' parsons quit their church,
For Scarbro' schoolmasters their birch;
And York and Lancaster agree
To sip their amicable tea.
No more indeed, the mortal fight
Is waged by roses red and white,
But on th' arena now appear,
Embattled, Bell and Lancaster.
Fiercely th' inglorious conflict rages,
Where pages are opposed by pages;

And press-men and compositor
Maintain the theologic war,
While black and white the bearings blot
Upon each angry chieftain's coat,
O! might the muse one question blab,
To combatant in black and drab!
Pardon and ponder the inquiry—
Cœlestibus tantœne iræ?

The reader will not fail to remark the appropriateness of a metaphor, originally founded on sand.

I named above the morning stroll:
Impatient to enjoy the whole,
Which Scarbro' affluently supplies—
Water, and air, and exercise—
Old Tottergait, from breakfast hearty,
To ‘round the Nab’ invites his party.
Yet will he not the eye-spout pass
Untried, nor miss chalybeate glass,
As near the Spa his daughters stay,
And chide his hazardous delay:
“O, see! the tide already flows,
“And will too surely interpose
“To bar, perhaps, our safe return
“Across yon rough and craggy bourn,
“Unless we instant hasten on—
“Pray, pray, papa, let us be gone.”

But water, drunk or dabbled in—
Up, in both cases, to the chin—
Water, as Tottergait is told,
Will make him vigorous, though old:
It can't, indeed, renew his mettle;
That only would Medea's kettle—
A precious hot-bath long destroy'd,
Or who with age would be annoy'd?
But it can brace without, within,
The steel his chest, the salt his skin:
Suppress Madeira's rising fume, or
Sooth by diluting acrid humour;
And stimulate alternately,
Pure Nature's genuine Eau de vie.
“Mistake not, that I pupil am,”
Quoth Tottergait, “of Doctor Lambe,
“Who makes his water drop by drop
“In chemist's or in druggist's shop;
“As if in Paradise a still
“Were Adam's earliest utensil,
“And in some guilty moment quaft,
“His death, of running stream a draft!

“Charg'd with it's vivifying gas
“I love the sparkle of the glass:
“Cath'rine, the lines!—by heart she knows 'em—
“Sent hither, when my lovely blossom,
“With languor struck, her head reclined,
“And Edmund grieved that Ella pined;—
“This eye-spout blinds one for a time,
“Or I myself would read the rhyme.”

HYMN TO SCARBOROUGH SPA.

“O Fount of Health! O sparkling Spring!
“Thou, who the languid nerve can'st string,
“And bid upon the cheek of snow
“It's long-forgotten roses blow!
“To taste the pure pellucid wave,
“Fresh issuing from thy steeled cave,
“Comes one, who were it mine to heal,
“Nor care nor pain should ever feel.

“O to thy cool sequester'd haunt
“Receive thy loveliest visitant!

“Deserve at length thine ancient fame,
“Pour all thy vigour through her frame;
“Th' elastic step of youth restore,
“To climb the mountain as of yore;
“And as in brightness, so in force,
“Like Phœbus let her run her course.

“Then shall thy praises Edmund sing,
“And o'er thy urn strew offering,
“Cull'd at the fragrant morning hour
“In Flora's fairest sweetest bow'r;
“That thus to him, through thee, 'tis given
“To hope on earth a lengthen'd heaven!”

Then quoting, with pedantic hem,
Old Pindar's temperate apophthegm
(Ασιστον μεν υδωρ) he gulps down
A second tumbler Βαθυκολπον,
And, with unusual vigour mann'd,
Ploughs unfatigued the sinking strand.
At last Cornelian-Bay they tread,
With all it's myriad treasures spread;

Gems of all kinds—red, white, square, round—
A new Golconda above ground!
And now they struggle through the shingle,
Here group'd round some bright prize, there single:
“Look what an onyx, Sir, is mine,
“Enough to make a quaker pine;
“Though they nor brooch nor bracelet wear,
“Necklace nor pendant at the ear!
“Take it, dear Kate,” fond Ella said,
“And bear it, polish'd, on your head:
“The giver, all ungloss'd by art,
“Wear still, beloved, in your heart.”
Onward the guiltless Mammons travel,
With eyes fix'd on the glittering gravel;
Nor e'er to distant cape by chance,
Or castle, turn th' admiring glance,
Or frowning cliff, or verdant plain,
Or white sail glistening on the main:
Vain Nature's contest with the maggot,
For what in Nature's like—an agate?
Nay, if they joy the day is fine—
'Tis but because the pebbles shine;

And earthquakes would but give them dread,
As swallowing up the sparkling bed.
Tides only ebb those beds t'uncover,
And flow, they think, to roll them over;
As mightiest rivers Brindley calls
Mere pap to feed his young canals.
Fear not, dear girls, the sage profound,
With rake and hammer peering round
For granite blocks and veined shells,
In which the hermit Murex dwells;
Fucus or Alga non-descript,
From it's firm base by tempests stript—
Your paltry triumphs he despises,
Bent upon rarer, richer prizes:
No tiny basket carries he,
To mock his massy industry:
No bag like that of smallest size,
Which holds our own infirmities;
But wallet huge—or blue, or crimson—
Like that we crowd our neighbours sins in;
Fossils in this (as he supposes)
He stores, which would perplex e'en Moses,

And force him, were he now to write,
A new cosmogony to indite:
For he can trace their rude formation
To periods long before creation;
And prove, by arguments in plenty,
Nil esse quod non fuit ante!
—Peace to such vain geologists,
With such I enter not the lists.
But Laura now appears in view:
Such faultless figure Guido drew,
When in her softest happiest guise,
He sketched ‘our Lady’ of the skies:
That lady's frame such soul inspired—
By love attuned, by grace attired!
Her ye may fear: for not a beam
From roughest agate casts it's gleam;
No vein so fine, no speck so small,
But her quick glance descries them all—
‘Fear!’ the rash phrase, my muse, disprove:
For who can fear, whom all must love?
And now, unconscious of their stay,
They homeward plod their weary way:

When tide and tempest join their force,
To intercept the destined course!
The rock they climb, whose foot before
They pass'd, nor heard the surges roar:
Above the rocks the waves aspire,
Each than it's predecessor higher;
A little moment's space recoil,
Then with redoubled fury boil.
Not closer to her crag Andromed
Clung, shuddering at the roar her foe made,
Than Ella now to her's, with fears
Tenacious, limpet-like adheres.
Above she views the jutting steep;
Below she hears the roaring deep:
No beau, as Perseus, hovers near
To bid her bosom be of cheer,
And ere she feel the bellowing shock,
Bear her in safety from the rock.
Meanwhile, to Kate's affrighted eyes
Bellina's ghost appears to rise;
Bellina, in her maiden bloom
Sent by a ruffian to the tomb.

Yon letter'd stone she hovers nigh,
Swells with her shriek the sea-bird's cry;
And seems in hollow tone to say,
“Thou soon shalt join my kindred clay.”
Oh! to Bellina's doom severe
Be struck one chord, be shed one tear.

The Letter D (for death, like the Greek Θ) long marked the stone, upon which Miss Bell's head rested when her corpse was discovered, blooming as in a quiet sleep. It has since been removed, perhaps by tempests.

‘Glowing with health, in early beauty's prime.
‘Link'd with the youth she loved and trusted most,
‘Nor meditating she nor fearing crime,
‘Bellina treads the solitary coast.

‘O'er the broad surface of th' unruffled deep
‘The midnight moon her silver radiance throws;
‘In stillest calm old Ocean's billows sleep,
‘Great Nature's self is lull'd into repose.

‘Ah! little reeks Bellina, in that breast
‘She deems love's throne, what horrid passions wake!
‘Too soon by deeds the demon stands confest,
‘Her limbs too soon with force, with terror shake.

‘But heaven which oft, it's secret mercies such,
‘Inflicts in kindness the mysterious blow,
‘Withdrew her from the coarse polluter's touch,
‘And bade her leave her unstain'd corse below.

‘Where traces the spring-flood it's utmost bound—
‘Why should the muse the foul detail relate?
‘There even in death unfaded, was she found;
‘And many an eye still weeps Bellina's fate.’

Turn we where other sufferers lie—
Alas that maids so fair should die!
O sickening moment of alarm!
A sea of foam, a heaven of storm!
Billow and cloud commixt half way,
Torrent direct, collateral spray!

100

While, as poor Ella lifts her head
To scan the perils round her spread,
Specking with white the lurid sky
She marks the screaming sea-birds fly;
And deems each note, amid the gloom,
Augurial of her hastening doom.
“Too plain the sense thy cries convey—
“‘I scent with joy my plenteous prey;
“‘Upon yon flinty altar piled,
“‘View my pale victims—sire and child;
“‘And ere to-morrow's sun arise,
“‘Shall feast upon the sacrifice!’—
“Oh, come not near with dirge so dread—
“Spare us, at least, until we're dead!”
And see! she gives her hoarded heap,
Vain offering! to the angry deep:
Agate transparent, curious moss,
Destined for future brooch or cross,
Cornelian, quartz—promiscuous tost,
Are in the greedy billow lost.
As when with Indian gems, and bales,
Home-bound, the stately vessel sails,

101

And cuts the main with steady prow
Reflected from the glass below;
Sooth'd by his precious weight, awhile
Old Ocean wears a treacherous smile:
And now each giddy fair on board
To England, as she dreams, restored,
Of balls and dress and fashions prates,
Conquests to come anticipates;
Sees peers contest th' adjoining seat,
Hears princes sighing at her feet:
When—Oh! what means that crashing shock?
The ship has struck a hidden rock!
Sudden, as through the yawning side
Rushes the black impetuous tide,
From their shrunk minds the waves efface
Of fashions, balls, and dress the blaze;
And sweep with one dread dash away
At once the plunderer and the prey.
Oh Ella sweet, how throbs thine heart!
How to thy cheek the blushes start,
As eager plunging through the wave,
Thy Edmund hastes—to die, or save!

102

And thrill'd not then with purest glow
(Cold though it seem'd) thy breast of snow:
As conscious, 'midst it's direst fear,
Life saved by him were doubly dear!
Blest recompence for past alarms,
He folds thee in his straining arms:
No longer doom'd repulse to meet,
Feels thy fond heart's responsive beat:
Encounters still thy melting glance,
Hangs on thy speaking countenance;
And thanks the storm that chased his doubt,
And wrung the tardy secret out.
The rest, his tenderest effort o'er,
He bears in safety to the shore.
Draggled and slow, the Spa they pass:
But Tottergait declines his glass—
Of water he has had enough,
In language medical—quant. suff.;
And exercise he finds may be
Ta'en to excess: air only he,
No longer anxious to unite 'em,
Would still enjoy ad infinitum.

103

The steps they reach, they climb—not lightly
As they descended gay and sprightly:
Edmund his arm to Ella lends,
And the Cornelian party ends.