Ball room votaries or, Canterbury and its vicinity. Second Edition, with considerable alterations and additions [by Edward Quillinan] |
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 | Ball room votaries |  |
Spirit of scandal, that so long
Hast taught defamatory song
In Canterbury City;
Goddess rever'd of flippant fops,
Queen at the board of evening slops,
Teach me to paint the Tribe of Hops,
In well fermented ditty.
Full many a gentle lady bright,
And smirking beau, and warrior knight,
And clergyman devout;
Full many a belle, whose looks of light
Cheer the fond heart of youthful wight,
And many a hag their fame to blight,
I sing with courage stout.
The labours of the day had closed,
And gatherers of hops reposed,
And Dell the Dunce
more deeply dozed,
His muse exhausted quite:
St. George's Street, the Donjon Keep,
Each church, where parsons go to sleep,
And snore their prayers in slumbers deep,
Were veil'd in murky night.
Hast taught defamatory song
In Canterbury City;
Goddess rever'd of flippant fops,
Queen at the board of evening slops,
Teach me to paint the Tribe of Hops,
In well fermented ditty.
Full many a gentle lady bright,
And smirking beau, and warrior knight,
And clergyman devout;
Full many a belle, whose looks of light
Cheer the fond heart of youthful wight,
And many a hag their fame to blight,
I sing with courage stout.
The labours of the day had closed,
And gatherers of hops reposed,
16
His muse exhausted quite:
St. George's Street, the Donjon Keep,
Each church, where parsons go to sleep,
And snore their prayers in slumbers deep,
Were veil'd in murky night.
The pride of every Kentish hall
Was now display'd at County Ball,
And sought the merry dance:
The lustres lent their splendid light,
And dazzled on the aching sight;
But beauty gave a ray more bright,
Its own bewitching glance.
Was now display'd at County Ball,
And sought the merry dance:
The lustres lent their splendid light,
And dazzled on the aching sight;
But beauty gave a ray more bright,
Its own bewitching glance.
And shalt thou then, splenetic bard,
In colours only harsh and hard
The varied landscape paint?
Is there not one then in thy way
That claims a milder softer lay,
That scandal will not taint?
Yes—fate be prais'd—and more than one—
Fortune forbid there should be none
So sweet a task to give;
It is the minstrel's fondest duty,
To make the form of worth and beauty,
In softest numbers live.
Though of the group the larger half
Demands the sneer, the shrug, the laugh,
And raillery's sharpest powers:
Far dearer will the poet deem
That sweeter portion of his theme
Which he can strew with flowers.
In colours only harsh and hard
The varied landscape paint?
Is there not one then in thy way
That claims a milder softer lay,
That scandal will not taint?
17
Fortune forbid there should be none
So sweet a task to give;
It is the minstrel's fondest duty,
To make the form of worth and beauty,
In softest numbers live.
Though of the group the larger half
Demands the sneer, the shrug, the laugh,
And raillery's sharpest powers:
Far dearer will the poet deem
That sweeter portion of his theme
Which he can strew with flowers.
The notes awake, and Beauty's Queen,
With brow of snow, and eye of sheen,
And placid, though majestic, mien,
Leads off the sprightly dance;
How gracefully she moves along!
How thick the sharp-heel'd warriors throng
To flutter in her glance!
Whose boast she is, whose titled bride,
None can with so much happy pride
Exultingly declare
As the bold Colonel of the Bays,
Whose temper and whose heart to praise
No tongue can speak too fair.
Mark you that warrior of the Bays,
Who treads with her the dance's maze,
With lab'ring limb so staunch?
When I again those features trace,
I think it is a chubby slice
Of So**rs' noble branch.
I saw him once, when public weal
Had lur'd such patriot crowds to Deal,
To view full many a parting keel,
That sought the Flushing war;
The thirst for glory fir'd his eye,
So bold he look'd, so fierce, so high,
Before him Moore or Wellesley
Had shrunk a lessen'd star.
With brow of snow, and eye of sheen,
And placid, though majestic, mien,
Leads off the sprightly dance;
How gracefully she moves along!
How thick the sharp-heel'd warriors throng
To flutter in her glance!
Whose boast she is, whose titled bride,
None can with so much happy pride
Exultingly declare
18
Whose temper and whose heart to praise
No tongue can speak too fair.
Mark you that warrior of the Bays,
Who treads with her the dance's maze,
With lab'ring limb so staunch?
When I again those features trace,
I think it is a chubby slice
Of So**rs' noble branch.
I saw him once, when public weal
Had lur'd such patriot crowds to Deal,
To view full many a parting keel,
That sought the Flushing war;
The thirst for glory fir'd his eye,
So bold he look'd, so fierce, so high,
Before him Moore or Wellesley
Had shrunk a lessen'd star.
But soon to stay at home they tell
To junior captains' lot it fell;—
How sunk his heart's ambitious swell
To hear the chilling story!
Prone on the beach the warrior lay,
His bags and baggage round him stay;
Mercy of Heaven! I may not say
How furiously he curs'd the day
That robb'd his hopes of glory!
Indignant Britain too well knows
What dire disgrace, and deadly woes,
Her valiant legions share;
How many a heart of honour dies
'Neath Walcheren's detested skies—
No laurels reap'd—but what surprise?
Bold So**rs was not there—
To junior captains' lot it fell;—
How sunk his heart's ambitious swell
To hear the chilling story!
Prone on the beach the warrior lay,
His bags and baggage round him stay;
19
How furiously he curs'd the day
That robb'd his hopes of glory!
Indignant Britain too well knows
What dire disgrace, and deadly woes,
Her valiant legions share;
How many a heart of honour dies
'Neath Walcheren's detested skies—
No laurels reap'd—but what surprise?
Bold So**rs was not there—
But look we to the happier dance,
Where still with matchless elegance
The lady shines aloft;
And still she reigns superior there,
Not one amidst the group more fair,
More dignified, yet soft.
Yet why does charming P**r*t turn,
With eyes that would, but can't be stern,
Towards this beauteous dame?
Say can a breast so pure, so fair,
Harbour a thought of envy there,
And nurse so harsh a flame?
Comparisons are odious things;
I would not for the smile of kings
Attempt to draw one here;
No, lady, no—for all allow
If she is fair, that so art thou,
Then why that look austere?
Bewitching woman! didst thou know
How heavenly sweet thy beauties glow,
When tenderness has built her nest
Upon the snow-drops of thy breast;
When pure philanthropy inspires
Thine eye beams bright, though modest, fires;
Ah! never, never, wouldst thou stoop
With jaundic'd eye to view the group,
To lessen others' charms divine,
Which thou mightst think diminish'd thine.
Where still with matchless elegance
The lady shines aloft;
And still she reigns superior there,
Not one amidst the group more fair,
More dignified, yet soft.
Yet why does charming P**r*t turn,
With eyes that would, but can't be stern,
Towards this beauteous dame?
Say can a breast so pure, so fair,
Harbour a thought of envy there,
And nurse so harsh a flame?
20
I would not for the smile of kings
Attempt to draw one here;
No, lady, no—for all allow
If she is fair, that so art thou,
Then why that look austere?
Bewitching woman! didst thou know
How heavenly sweet thy beauties glow,
When tenderness has built her nest
Upon the snow-drops of thy breast;
When pure philanthropy inspires
Thine eye beams bright, though modest, fires;
Ah! never, never, wouldst thou stoop
With jaundic'd eye to view the group,
To lessen others' charms divine,
Which thou mightst think diminish'd thine.
What knight of chivalry is there,
With golden cross upon his breast?
Stern and forbidding is his air,
And broad and manly is his chest—
From his dark eye, and iron cheek,
Genius and pride together speak;
Yet none that knew him not could tell
That sentiment and softness dwell
Within a casket, whose outside
Shews so much haughtiness and pride.
The furrows on his brow that sink
Are not the marks of age I think,
But poring over dusty volumes
Of noble births, and titled columns,
Debating, puzzling, fuming, fretting,
To shew his great grandsire's begetting;
Seeking in legendary lore
Who the proud name of Ch***os bore,
And who's the right to bear it now;
This, this, has mark'd with care his brow.
But softer hours at times have stole
The various workings of his soul;
Who can De Clifford's tale peruse
Not soften'd by his plaintive muse?
Sure 'tis as sweet a tale of woe
As e'er from feeling heart could flow.
Proud Bard! tho' breasts of vulgar mould
Thy sweetest verse romantic hold,
And ridicule, with soul of steel,
The sentiment they cannot feel,
Still shall that verse superior shine,
The brightest star in B*****s' line;
Thy soft impassion'd wild notes still
Through ev'ry soul of feeling thrill.
With golden cross upon his breast?
Stern and forbidding is his air,
And broad and manly is his chest—
From his dark eye, and iron cheek,
Genius and pride together speak;
21
That sentiment and softness dwell
Within a casket, whose outside
Shews so much haughtiness and pride.
The furrows on his brow that sink
Are not the marks of age I think,
But poring over dusty volumes
Of noble births, and titled columns,
Debating, puzzling, fuming, fretting,
To shew his great grandsire's begetting;
Seeking in legendary lore
Who the proud name of Ch***os bore,
And who's the right to bear it now;
This, this, has mark'd with care his brow.
But softer hours at times have stole
The various workings of his soul;
Who can De Clifford's tale peruse
Not soften'd by his plaintive muse?
Sure 'tis as sweet a tale of woe
As e'er from feeling heart could flow.
Proud Bard! tho' breasts of vulgar mould
Thy sweetest verse romantic hold,
And ridicule, with soul of steel,
The sentiment they cannot feel,
22
The brightest star in B*****s' line;
Thy soft impassion'd wild notes still
Through ev'ry soul of feeling thrill.
Sir Eg****n, although thy name,
Weigh'd of itself, but light I deem;
Joined with thy genius' lofty claim,
It ever must impress esteem:
That lady too thine arm supports,
Thy beauteous, mild, engaging bride,
Her Noble mind would shine in courts,
Without one noble claim beside.
The offspring of thy earliest love,
That blooms this various crowd above,
She also merits warmer praise
Than any lay of mine can raise.
Yet little, envious, slandering tribe,
With churlish snarl, and venom'd gibe,
That strive, by painting others black,
To keep your own demerits back,
Turn here, and view a gentler form,
That ne'er was shook by envy's storm.
Would you be worthy to be lov'd,
By youth admir'd, by age approv'd?
Turn ye, repentant fair ones, here—
Like her be amiably sincere.
Weigh'd of itself, but light I deem;
Joined with thy genius' lofty claim,
It ever must impress esteem:
That lady too thine arm supports,
Thy beauteous, mild, engaging bride,
Her Noble mind would shine in courts,
Without one noble claim beside.
The offspring of thy earliest love,
That blooms this various crowd above,
She also merits warmer praise
Than any lay of mine can raise.
Yet little, envious, slandering tribe,
With churlish snarl, and venom'd gibe,
That strive, by painting others black,
To keep your own demerits back,
Turn here, and view a gentler form,
That ne'er was shook by envy's storm.
Would you be worthy to be lov'd,
By youth admir'd, by age approv'd?
23
Like her be amiably sincere.
But who comes here, with hat so square,
Waving in hand so debonnaire?
Field marshal of the claret forces,
Knight of the order of champaign!
For want of drink the poet hoarse is,
Or he would sing in worthier strain,
How hospitality's gay face,
On which the Kentish hop-poles frown,
Cherish'd with gentlemanly grace,
Presides with thee on Harbledown.
When in a spot where wealthy knaves,
To all will shut their sneaking doors,
Scarce give themselves what nature craves,
And hug, and count their gilded stores:
If in such soil, where jovial Cheer
Was left to droop, forlorn and drear,
A liberal noble mind appear,
And take the orphan boy;
Make him his own adopted treasure,
Recal his fading looks of pleasure,
And, filling up the juicy measure,
Awake his notes of joy;
If such a one, so gay, so brave,
Bath'd in rich wine's luxuriant wave,
Amid the throng should stand,
How proudly must he tread the soil,
Where creeping misers are the foil,
To his benignant hand.
Waving in hand so debonnaire?
Field marshal of the claret forces,
Knight of the order of champaign!
For want of drink the poet hoarse is,
Or he would sing in worthier strain,
How hospitality's gay face,
On which the Kentish hop-poles frown,
Cherish'd with gentlemanly grace,
Presides with thee on Harbledown.
When in a spot where wealthy knaves,
To all will shut their sneaking doors,
Scarce give themselves what nature craves,
And hug, and count their gilded stores:
If in such soil, where jovial Cheer
Was left to droop, forlorn and drear,
A liberal noble mind appear,
And take the orphan boy;
Make him his own adopted treasure,
Recal his fading looks of pleasure,
And, filling up the juicy measure,
Awake his notes of joy;
24
Bath'd in rich wine's luxuriant wave,
Amid the throng should stand,
How proudly must he tread the soil,
Where creeping misers are the foil,
To his benignant hand.
But mark where polish'd and polite,
With form so slim, and head so bright,
Advances Member B***r,
To that divine, who enters now
With awful pace, and solemn brow,
So like an undertaker.
My beau accosts him hoarse and gruff,
With voice familiarly rough;
“How do you, Jack, my hearty stuff.”
—The parson frowns tremendous—
“Sir, sir!” indignant he replies—
Pride and resentment fire his eyes—
“I am Sir John—Sir John!” he cries,
Sir John! oh, heaven defend us!
Jack! an appellative uncouth
To give a baronet in truth,
And, in canonicals, no wonder
He breathes anathema and thunder
Against the tongues unbless'd and black
That dare to call Sir John a Jack.
And truly, in his name's defence,
He ever shews his native sense—
Long shall that memorable day
Recorded be in Kentish lay,
When to a party came the priest,
In all humility, to feast.
I*gl*s, the tomb-stone bard, was there,
With pious life-restoring air;
I*gl*s, the Doctor of dead men,
Whose verse recals their breath again!
'Ere yet to fight the pudding fight,
The Bible-warriors prove their might,
The Host, with grave religious face,
Requests the Doctor to say grace.
Grace hurried o'er, with wondrous ease
They clear the board of ducks and peas,
And venison, and fricasees.
Each shews his ample skill to wield
The knife and fork o'er smoking field.
Amidst the group, one, only one,
Inactive sat—it was Sir John—
For him the mutton bled in vain,
The peas were gather'd, ducks were slain;
In vain for him, to grace the cheer
A poacher had destroyed a deer;
The haunch by him unheeded lies,
Unnoticed are the tarts and pies;
Strange was it to behold indeed
Sir John of M*st*le off his feed.
No merry jest his smile excites,
No wine his gloomy soul delights;
Writhes in his breast some secret dart,
Something lays heavy at his heart.
His brow assumes its darkest hue,
A mixture deep of black and blue:
Restless and fidgetting he sits,
You'd think Sir John had lost his wits—
These fiery looks of wrath were shar'd
Between the Host and pious Bard;
I know not which he frown'd on most,
'Twas now the Doctor, now the Host.
The dinner done, that host once more
A most religious aspect wore;
And once again, with solemn face,
Rising, the Doctor mutter'd grace.
The storm that hovers in the air,
And broods awhile in silence there,
But lingers to collect its strength,
And falls with double rage at length.
Ev'n so the storm his heart had nurst,
From the proud parson's bosom burst;
The strings of self-restraint let loose,
He thus resented the abuse:
“Was it for this that to your door,
A coach, with milk-white horses four,
A Baronet from M*st*le bore?
Was it precedence might be given
To one who in a gig is driven?
Shall Doctor I*gl*s say the grace
Before Sir John of M*st*le's face?
By Chartham living I declare
'Tis too much for Sir John to bear.”
He gnash'd his teeth, he said his say,
He snatch'd his pinch, and stalk'd away.
So humbly does this placid priest,
Thus deem his worth of all the least;
'Tis amiable indeed—
Oh, would you had my hero heard
With meekest voice, and mildest word,
Expound the christian creed.
In Chartham parish, proud his height,
As in Cathedral, Jesse White.
With form so slim, and head so bright,
Advances Member B***r,
To that divine, who enters now
With awful pace, and solemn brow,
So like an undertaker.
My beau accosts him hoarse and gruff,
With voice familiarly rough;
“How do you, Jack, my hearty stuff.”
—The parson frowns tremendous—
“Sir, sir!” indignant he replies—
Pride and resentment fire his eyes—
“I am Sir John—Sir John!” he cries,
Sir John! oh, heaven defend us!
Jack! an appellative uncouth
To give a baronet in truth,
And, in canonicals, no wonder
He breathes anathema and thunder
25
That dare to call Sir John a Jack.
And truly, in his name's defence,
He ever shews his native sense—
Long shall that memorable day
Recorded be in Kentish lay,
When to a party came the priest,
In all humility, to feast.
I*gl*s, the tomb-stone bard, was there,
With pious life-restoring air;
I*gl*s, the Doctor of dead men,
Whose verse recals their breath again!
'Ere yet to fight the pudding fight,
The Bible-warriors prove their might,
The Host, with grave religious face,
Requests the Doctor to say grace.
Grace hurried o'er, with wondrous ease
They clear the board of ducks and peas,
And venison, and fricasees.
Each shews his ample skill to wield
The knife and fork o'er smoking field.
Amidst the group, one, only one,
Inactive sat—it was Sir John—
26
The peas were gather'd, ducks were slain;
In vain for him, to grace the cheer
A poacher had destroyed a deer;
The haunch by him unheeded lies,
Unnoticed are the tarts and pies;
Strange was it to behold indeed
Sir John of M*st*le off his feed.
No merry jest his smile excites,
No wine his gloomy soul delights;
Writhes in his breast some secret dart,
Something lays heavy at his heart.
His brow assumes its darkest hue,
A mixture deep of black and blue:
Restless and fidgetting he sits,
You'd think Sir John had lost his wits—
These fiery looks of wrath were shar'd
Between the Host and pious Bard;
I know not which he frown'd on most,
'Twas now the Doctor, now the Host.
The dinner done, that host once more
A most religious aspect wore;
And once again, with solemn face,
Rising, the Doctor mutter'd grace.
27
And broods awhile in silence there,
But lingers to collect its strength,
And falls with double rage at length.
Ev'n so the storm his heart had nurst,
From the proud parson's bosom burst;
The strings of self-restraint let loose,
He thus resented the abuse:
“Was it for this that to your door,
A coach, with milk-white horses four,
A Baronet from M*st*le bore?
Was it precedence might be given
To one who in a gig is driven?
Shall Doctor I*gl*s say the grace
Before Sir John of M*st*le's face?
By Chartham living I declare
'Tis too much for Sir John to bear.”
He gnash'd his teeth, he said his say,
He snatch'd his pinch, and stalk'd away.
So humbly does this placid priest,
Thus deem his worth of all the least;
'Tis amiable indeed—
Oh, would you had my hero heard
With meekest voice, and mildest word,
Expound the christian creed.
28
As in Cathedral, Jesse White.
Sorry am I my wayward lay
Should come in ridicule's array,
To any whom the heavens ordain
The priestly office to sustain:
But deem not hence that I design
Contempt to those of cleric vest.
My soul reveres the meek Divine.
That priest is sacred to my breast,
Who, like an An*r*ws, can inspire
The fervid glow of holy fire;
That pastor whose impressive tongue,
By Piety herself was strung:
So sweetly tuned to comforts sound,
It breathes the air of heav'n around;
The sinner listens with surprise,
Repentance soft'ning in his eyes;
He wonders virtue's figure chaste
He had not long ago embrac'd,
And how loose vice his heart had wean'd,
So hideous now appears the fiend.
Yonder you see his daughter fair,
The freedom of whose flowing hair,
Is bound in simple Grecian taste,
On either side the forehead placed.
The muse has utter'd all it could:
She's worthy of a sire so good.
Should come in ridicule's array,
To any whom the heavens ordain
The priestly office to sustain:
But deem not hence that I design
Contempt to those of cleric vest.
My soul reveres the meek Divine.
That priest is sacred to my breast,
Who, like an An*r*ws, can inspire
The fervid glow of holy fire;
That pastor whose impressive tongue,
By Piety herself was strung:
So sweetly tuned to comforts sound,
It breathes the air of heav'n around;
The sinner listens with surprise,
Repentance soft'ning in his eyes;
He wonders virtue's figure chaste
He had not long ago embrac'd,
And how loose vice his heart had wean'd,
So hideous now appears the fiend.
Yonder you see his daughter fair,
The freedom of whose flowing hair,
29
On either side the forehead placed.
The muse has utter'd all it could:
She's worthy of a sire so good.
I would proceed, but cannot pass
For this immense unwieldly mass
That barricades the way;
I thought some Cyclop grac'd the ball,
So bulky is he, and so tall;
As easy could I move a wall,
So near him I must stay.
This baronet is true John Bull,
As ever stuff'd his carcase full
With venison and turtle;
For him no literary meat
Can e'er present a grateful treat;
He loves, I hardly need repeat,
The melon more than myrtle.
In boxing, and in wrestling well,
None can the baronet excel,
If conquest be the proof;
As sure as e'er he tempts the fight,
So surely, daunted at his might,
Each peasant stands aloof.
Who has not seen him cast a fall
With rough George Nugent huge and tall;
Yet ever throw him down?
But wherefore by the sinewy hind
So quickly was the palm resign'd—
He keeps superior strength confin'd—
He fears his landlord's frown.
In manly cricket's noble game,
For hours, with an unerring aim,
He'll ply the ball about;
It is almost surpassing creed—
Unless they dare not risk indeed
To bowl their master out.
A gallant huntsman too is he
As Somerville had wish'd to see;
With horn and jacket, cap-a-pee,
The sylvan warrior rides with glee,
Where ditch nor gate impede him.
And then indeed he'll gallop round,
With sense and caution most profound;
It were not fit that on the ground,
Sprawling in mud, he should be found,
So timely prudence speed him!
Oft, in a morning veil'd with fogs,
Surrounded by his peerless dogs,
He'll sally to the chase;
Awaken'd by the merry sound,
That echoes from the horn and hound,
Full many a jolly squire around
Forth hastens to the place
They've found—the timid panting hare
Flies o'er the country light as air,
While hounds and huntsmen follow.
Now view, halloo, the hare's in view,
How anxiously the throng pursue,
With shoutings deep and hollow.
But see, e'en now the hounds turn back,
The horn recals the eager pack;
It is Sir John's delightful knack
To disappoint the crowd;
With sulky pace the dogs return,
With fruitless rage the horsemen burn—
Sir Johnny laughs aloud.
For this immense unwieldly mass
That barricades the way;
I thought some Cyclop grac'd the ball,
So bulky is he, and so tall;
As easy could I move a wall,
So near him I must stay.
This baronet is true John Bull,
As ever stuff'd his carcase full
With venison and turtle;
For him no literary meat
Can e'er present a grateful treat;
He loves, I hardly need repeat,
The melon more than myrtle.
In boxing, and in wrestling well,
None can the baronet excel,
If conquest be the proof;
As sure as e'er he tempts the fight,
So surely, daunted at his might,
Each peasant stands aloof.
30
With rough George Nugent huge and tall;
Yet ever throw him down?
But wherefore by the sinewy hind
So quickly was the palm resign'd—
He keeps superior strength confin'd—
He fears his landlord's frown.
In manly cricket's noble game,
For hours, with an unerring aim,
He'll ply the ball about;
It is almost surpassing creed—
Unless they dare not risk indeed
To bowl their master out.
A gallant huntsman too is he
As Somerville had wish'd to see;
With horn and jacket, cap-a-pee,
The sylvan warrior rides with glee,
Where ditch nor gate impede him.
And then indeed he'll gallop round,
With sense and caution most profound;
It were not fit that on the ground,
Sprawling in mud, he should be found,
So timely prudence speed him!
31
Surrounded by his peerless dogs,
He'll sally to the chase;
Awaken'd by the merry sound,
That echoes from the horn and hound,
Full many a jolly squire around
Forth hastens to the place
They've found—the timid panting hare
Flies o'er the country light as air,
While hounds and huntsmen follow.
Now view, halloo, the hare's in view,
How anxiously the throng pursue,
With shoutings deep and hollow.
But see, e'en now the hounds turn back,
The horn recals the eager pack;
It is Sir John's delightful knack
To disappoint the crowd;
With sulky pace the dogs return,
With fruitless rage the horsemen burn—
Sir Johnny laughs aloud.
At last this fleshy colonade,
His form sufficiently display'd,
Thinks proper to remove;
And now I see a matchless pair,
As heaven's own angels bright and fair;
But, ah! how many a wreck'd heart there
Has felt the pangs of love.
How many, lured by smiling eyes,
In aiming at the beauteous prize,
Have wrought their own undoing.
Ah! lovely Syrens, dang'rous sweets,
For whom whatever bosom beats
But beats for certain ruin.
Then listen, lover, and beware,
Of tempting matchless beauty's snare.
Ah! fly before it be too late,
The light that lures thee to thy fate;
And as thou dread'st despair's wild storm,
Approach not H---d's lovely form.
His form sufficiently display'd,
Thinks proper to remove;
32
As heaven's own angels bright and fair;
But, ah! how many a wreck'd heart there
Has felt the pangs of love.
How many, lured by smiling eyes,
In aiming at the beauteous prize,
Have wrought their own undoing.
Ah! lovely Syrens, dang'rous sweets,
For whom whatever bosom beats
But beats for certain ruin.
Then listen, lover, and beware,
Of tempting matchless beauty's snare.
Ah! fly before it be too late,
The light that lures thee to thy fate;
And as thou dread'st despair's wild storm,
Approach not H---d's lovely form.
But see, where still array'd in grief,
Yon widow strives a smile to borrow;
Time may have sooth'd, with kind relief,
But, oh! it has not chas'd her sorrow.
For her no more the Harp of Joy
Now vibrates on her wrung heart's strings;
And hope has ceas'd with her to toy,
And waft her wildly on his wings.
The scene of fond connubial pleasure
Recals her soul's lamented treasure;
The hero, whom the call of arms
Tore from her anguish'd bosom's charms.
Ah! lovely mourner, dry those tears,
And hush that sweet breast's plaintive sigh,
Thy soldier's fate his name endears,
For 'tis the soldier's trade to die.
His lot it was in battle-field
Nobly his valiant heart to yield;
Then cheer thee, for his honor'd name
Adorns the register of fame;
The warrior's sweetest, proudest wreath,
Buds ever on the soil of death.
Yon widow strives a smile to borrow;
Time may have sooth'd, with kind relief,
But, oh! it has not chas'd her sorrow.
For her no more the Harp of Joy
Now vibrates on her wrung heart's strings;
And hope has ceas'd with her to toy,
And waft her wildly on his wings.
33
Recals her soul's lamented treasure;
The hero, whom the call of arms
Tore from her anguish'd bosom's charms.
Ah! lovely mourner, dry those tears,
And hush that sweet breast's plaintive sigh,
Thy soldier's fate his name endears,
For 'tis the soldier's trade to die.
His lot it was in battle-field
Nobly his valiant heart to yield;
Then cheer thee, for his honor'd name
Adorns the register of fame;
The warrior's sweetest, proudest wreath,
Buds ever on the soil of death.
Mark too on C*tl*ffe's pensive cheeks
How tenderly affliction speaks!
Her features are so sweetly sad,
Her looks with such expression clad;
Such sorrowing softness clouds her face,
Mingled with resignation's grace;
That you had thought 'twas pity's self
Lamenting o'er some favour'd elf.
That pensive cheek, that sadden'd air,
A gallant brother's fate declare,
And still her eyes from pleasure turn
To drop a tear in Talbot's urn.
Or now and then that lingering tear,
Arrested in its soft career
If any seem to mark her woe
Stops trembling, as asham'd to flow.
For Feeling loves unmark'd to pine,
And secret bend at Sorrow's shrine:
And oft in Beauty's melting eye,
Should any witness chance be nigh;
The doubtful timid quivering tear,
In hesitating anxious fear,
Will sadly hang in soft suspense
From eye that gleams with tender sense:
Affliction's pearly drop will stay,
As if afraid to kiss its way
Adown the cheek of damask rose,
On which the blush of Feeling glows.
But, fair one, hast thou then forgot
What incense breathes to warrior's lot?
For him in battle struggle slain
England shall raise a hallow'd fane—
Ah think how bold the laurels wave
That flourish o'er a soldier's grave!
The morning that impearls a tear
On each green leaf around his bier,
On ev'ry drop of weeping dew
Imprints a glittering sun-ray too—
Then, C*tl*ffe! let thy features sad
In mingled sentiments be clad;
And let a bright exulting smile
Each melancholy tear beguile;
For Glory sits on Talbot's tomb,
And weeps in triumph o'er his doom.
How tenderly affliction speaks!
Her features are so sweetly sad,
Her looks with such expression clad;
Such sorrowing softness clouds her face,
Mingled with resignation's grace;
That you had thought 'twas pity's self
Lamenting o'er some favour'd elf.
34
A gallant brother's fate declare,
And still her eyes from pleasure turn
To drop a tear in Talbot's urn.
Or now and then that lingering tear,
Arrested in its soft career
If any seem to mark her woe
Stops trembling, as asham'd to flow.
For Feeling loves unmark'd to pine,
And secret bend at Sorrow's shrine:
And oft in Beauty's melting eye,
Should any witness chance be nigh;
The doubtful timid quivering tear,
In hesitating anxious fear,
Will sadly hang in soft suspense
From eye that gleams with tender sense:
Affliction's pearly drop will stay,
As if afraid to kiss its way
Adown the cheek of damask rose,
On which the blush of Feeling glows.
But, fair one, hast thou then forgot
What incense breathes to warrior's lot?
For him in battle struggle slain
England shall raise a hallow'd fane—
35
That flourish o'er a soldier's grave!
The morning that impearls a tear
On each green leaf around his bier,
On ev'ry drop of weeping dew
Imprints a glittering sun-ray too—
Then, C*tl*ffe! let thy features sad
In mingled sentiments be clad;
And let a bright exulting smile
Each melancholy tear beguile;
For Glory sits on Talbot's tomb,
And weeps in triumph o'er his doom.
But who is she, that beauteous Fair,
Of truly mild and gentle air?
Expression's self is centered there,
In modesty enshrin'd;
Like the chaste sober vested night,
Lum'd by its lamp of pensive light,
Her cheeks so pale, her eyes so bright,
So soft, serene, refin'd.
Her hair is black as raven's plume,
Her brow is white as lily's bloom;
Her eye-brows dark, strange contrast bear
With the soft hue her features wear.
Her eyes are like the sparkling jet
In snowy alabaster set:
They shed a modest trembling light,
That beams most pensive and most bright.
Her lips, where blushing fragrance blows,
Seem to have pilfer'd every rose
With which fond nature meant to deck
The paler beauties of her cheek.
Full many a cheek of roseate hue
Has met my fond admiring view,
And I have thought 'twas sweet, 'twas fair,
To see the roses flaunting there;
But by the light, whose beamings dance
From yonder world's serene expanse,
I would not, for the heaven's range,
That pale and touching look exchange
For ev'ry sweet and lovely rose
That on the cheek of beauty blows.
Sure she is Beauty's dearest child,
So fair she is, so sweet, so mild.
Of truly mild and gentle air?
Expression's self is centered there,
In modesty enshrin'd;
Like the chaste sober vested night,
Lum'd by its lamp of pensive light,
Her cheeks so pale, her eyes so bright,
So soft, serene, refin'd.
Her hair is black as raven's plume,
Her brow is white as lily's bloom;
36
With the soft hue her features wear.
Her eyes are like the sparkling jet
In snowy alabaster set:
They shed a modest trembling light,
That beams most pensive and most bright.
Her lips, where blushing fragrance blows,
Seem to have pilfer'd every rose
With which fond nature meant to deck
The paler beauties of her cheek.
Full many a cheek of roseate hue
Has met my fond admiring view,
And I have thought 'twas sweet, 'twas fair,
To see the roses flaunting there;
But by the light, whose beamings dance
From yonder world's serene expanse,
I would not, for the heaven's range,
That pale and touching look exchange
For ev'ry sweet and lovely rose
That on the cheek of beauty blows.
Sure she is Beauty's dearest child,
So fair she is, so sweet, so mild.
So have I seen, on Lusian earth,
Some cloister'd nymph of beauteous birth,
Who had consign'd her youthful bloom
To holy convent's sacred gloom.
A glance just caught from grated cell
Her interesting air would tell;
Array'd in sables chaste and holy,
Most beautiful, most melancholy.
And I have sighed that maid so fair
Should be immur'd for ever there;
And I have wish'd, with impious soul,
The lovely nun from heaven were stole.
Some cloister'd nymph of beauteous birth,
37
To holy convent's sacred gloom.
A glance just caught from grated cell
Her interesting air would tell;
Array'd in sables chaste and holy,
Most beautiful, most melancholy.
And I have sighed that maid so fair
Should be immur'd for ever there;
And I have wish'd, with impious soul,
The lovely nun from heaven were stole.
But oh 'twere needless sure to tell
For whom I lift the voice of song,
There is but one such note could swell,
But one to whom such strains belong.
For whom I lift the voice of song,
There is but one such note could swell,
But one to whom such strains belong.
And yet you know not why her name
Should wake within me sorrow's thrill;
'Tis strange that when I'd paint her fame,
I choose the saddest colours still.
Should wake within me sorrow's thrill;
'Tis strange that when I'd paint her fame,
I choose the saddest colours still.
And stranger yet it is, you'll say,
That such a strain should come from one
To whom her thought could never stray,
On whom her eye-beam never shone.
That such a strain should come from one
To whom her thought could never stray,
On whom her eye-beam never shone.
38
From one whose heart shall never more
Be warm'd by Beauty's fragrant breath;
Whose hopes all fled life's dreary shore
When his Eliza sunk in death.
Be warm'd by Beauty's fragrant breath;
Whose hopes all fled life's dreary shore
When his Eliza sunk in death.
She was the fairest fondest girl
That ever heav'd affection's sigh,
Or e'er betray'd the weeping pearl
Starting from warm Compassion's eye.
Then wonder not the minstrel's lays
So fondly speak Eliza's praise;
And think it then no longer strange
Affliction o'er that page should range,
Where he describes a form, an air,
So like what his Eliza's were.
That ever heav'd affection's sigh,
Or e'er betray'd the weeping pearl
Starting from warm Compassion's eye.
Then wonder not the minstrel's lays
So fondly speak Eliza's praise;
And think it then no longer strange
Affliction o'er that page should range,
Where he describes a form, an air,
So like what his Eliza's were.
Now mark we in the brilliant Ball
Those sister nymphs, so fair and tall;
Em---a, with golden locks that flow
O'er brow and neck of dazzling snow;
And M---y, whose engaging face
Abounds with many an angel grace;
With beauty and colloquial charm,
Venus could none more sweetly arm,
To please and entertain you;
Yet I would say 'twas pity sure,
If nymph so fair were not secure
From Canterbury mania.
Now, by St. Dunstan, I could weep,
To think that slander's snake should creep
In bosom so enchanting;
But no—I'm sure the gen'rous mind,
The jewel of a soul refin'd,
This cannot here be wanting.
You see that handsome lovelorn swain,
Who late on Talavera's plain
Has borne the British arms:
I will not now his flame declare
But thus I'll say: a nymph more fair
Not nature in her fondest care
E'er robed in magic charms.
So sweetly modest is the maid,
I wonder not the raptur'd youth
Should offer vows at Venus' shade,
And warmly tell of love and truth.
From Beauty's path 'twere hard to cull
A flower more strictly beautiful;
And then her chaste, though fertile mind,
Is as her matchless form refin'd.
Those sister nymphs, so fair and tall;
Em---a, with golden locks that flow
O'er brow and neck of dazzling snow;
And M---y, whose engaging face
Abounds with many an angel grace;
With beauty and colloquial charm,
Venus could none more sweetly arm,
39
Yet I would say 'twas pity sure,
If nymph so fair were not secure
From Canterbury mania.
Now, by St. Dunstan, I could weep,
To think that slander's snake should creep
In bosom so enchanting;
But no—I'm sure the gen'rous mind,
The jewel of a soul refin'd,
This cannot here be wanting.
You see that handsome lovelorn swain,
Who late on Talavera's plain
Has borne the British arms:
I will not now his flame declare
But thus I'll say: a nymph more fair
Not nature in her fondest care
E'er robed in magic charms.
So sweetly modest is the maid,
I wonder not the raptur'd youth
Should offer vows at Venus' shade,
And warmly tell of love and truth.
From Beauty's path 'twere hard to cull
A flower more strictly beautiful;
40
Is as her matchless form refin'd.
But, youth, thou hast a rival knight,
And know a warrior bold is he;
Of Local Corps, a captain bright,
Of figure tall, and high degree.
His mother's darling, pretty pet!
Because he'll whine, and pout, and fret,
And always have his way:
And then in love, a knight more true
It were impossible to view;
He smirks, and smiles, and simpers too—
So gallant and so gay.
Unto her heart he has laid siege,
And means to be her lover liege,
And win her in a trice;
Then, hero, mark what I have told,
Beware of knight so sweet, so bold,
Beware of Captain R***.
And know a warrior bold is he;
Of Local Corps, a captain bright,
Of figure tall, and high degree.
His mother's darling, pretty pet!
Because he'll whine, and pout, and fret,
And always have his way:
And then in love, a knight more true
It were impossible to view;
He smirks, and smiles, and simpers too—
So gallant and so gay.
Unto her heart he has laid siege,
And means to be her lover liege,
And win her in a trice;
Then, hero, mark what I have told,
Beware of knight so sweet, so bold,
Beware of Captain R***.
Now tell me, muse, and tell me true,
What bloated lump is that I view?
His selfish look, and eyebrow dark
Declare him to be Doctor Shark.
A veteran convicted sinner
As e'er sat down to parson's dinner.
It were not fit for me to tell
What fortune to a priest befel,
Nor were it seemly to explain
Who woo'd the sweet nymph Bess Bolaine,
And kneeling low at fortune's wheel,
Pray'd her to heaven with fervent zeal;
And when at last she took her flight,
Seiz'd on the parted widow's mite;
I shall not name the crafty spark,
I shall not say 'twas Doctor Shark.
What bloated lump is that I view?
41
Declare him to be Doctor Shark.
A veteran convicted sinner
As e'er sat down to parson's dinner.
It were not fit for me to tell
What fortune to a priest befel,
Nor were it seemly to explain
Who woo'd the sweet nymph Bess Bolaine,
And kneeling low at fortune's wheel,
Pray'd her to heaven with fervent zeal;
And when at last she took her flight,
Seiz'd on the parted widow's mite;
I shall not name the crafty spark,
I shall not say 'twas Doctor Shark.
And mark we next that figure strange,
A Wild-man he who loves to range
In woods of castled Ch---l---m,
Protect his fish from rude encroachers,
And guard his game from artful poachers,
Who constant strive to kill 'em.
But ah, how futile and how vain!
The fairest doe in his domain
Has fallen with all his care;
A M**sh*m Buck; with furious horn,
Met this devoted doe one morn.
And spent his fury there.
But where is she whose angel beauty,
Though wedded, stole your love and duty,
And every bosom's sigh bereft,
Though guileless, reckless of the theft;
Ah! youths, in vain you look around,
No more the beauteous nymph is found;
No more she'll dance in Kentish hall—
No more adorn the jealous Ball;
Her sullen lord deserted Kent,
And with him the fair flow'ret went:
And youths no more, with tremors dear,
The voice enraptur'd shall he hear
That flow'd so sweetly from the lips
Of beautiful S---p---a Ph---.
As fair and sweet a form was she
As e'er in mortal mould could be;
But gloom and pride her husband sour'd,
And ever on his brow there lour'd
Ill-temper's shade, so strong, so dark,
Pity had wept his air to mark.
She look'd a chaste and lovely rose,
Blooming amid Siberian snows:
Sweet blossom! grafted on a crab,
Thy fate must nature's feelings stab.
Yon doctor (I---gl---s is his name ),
Well known in fair poetic fame,
A resurrection man;
Not only his parsonic head,
Content is to inter the dead;
But when the spark of life is fled
Restore it too he can.
For Lazarus arose (you know it)
A third time through this pious poet;
And verily I do suppose
The poet fell when he arose,
O'ercome with large libations, quaff'd
From Bacchus' muse-inspiring draught;
For surely none but Bacchus' fire
So bold a poem could inspire:
For bold it must be to dispense,
Like his, with measure, rhyme, and sense;
But to attend to sense and measure
Was much beyond the doctor's leisure.
But shall I bid the muse adieu,
And shall I drop the pen of praise,
And not her smiling favour sue
A humble eulogy to raise;
(For humble only may it be
When comes the workmanship from me).
To one of unassuming gait,
Demeanour modest and sedate,
With talent bless'd, with beauty deck'd,
Created to command respect:
What though, secluded by her choice,
You hear not at the ball her voice;
What though, above a common pride,
She strives in solitude to hide
The lustre of a soul whose shine
Still eminently beams benign:
Shall I for this her form forget,
And shrink from virtue's noble debt?
No! Ch*nd**r, no, the verse were vile
That would not warm to virtue's smile:
And if a heart of gentlest birth,
Of unsophisticated worth;
And if a disposition sweet,
With sensibility replete;
And if a mind with goodness fraught,
And fill'd with pure ingenuous thought:
Ch*nd**r, if qualities like these
Be worthy of a bard's acclaim,
'Twill ev'ry ball-room votary please
To hear me speak an A*st*n's name.
A Wild-man he who loves to range
In woods of castled Ch---l---m,
Protect his fish from rude encroachers,
And guard his game from artful poachers,
Who constant strive to kill 'em.
But ah, how futile and how vain!
The fairest doe in his domain
Has fallen with all his care;
42
Met this devoted doe one morn.
And spent his fury there.
But where is she whose angel beauty,
Though wedded, stole your love and duty,
And every bosom's sigh bereft,
Though guileless, reckless of the theft;
Ah! youths, in vain you look around,
No more the beauteous nymph is found;
No more she'll dance in Kentish hall—
No more adorn the jealous Ball;
Her sullen lord deserted Kent,
And with him the fair flow'ret went:
And youths no more, with tremors dear,
The voice enraptur'd shall he hear
That flow'd so sweetly from the lips
Of beautiful S---p---a Ph---.
As fair and sweet a form was she
As e'er in mortal mould could be;
But gloom and pride her husband sour'd,
And ever on his brow there lour'd
Ill-temper's shade, so strong, so dark,
Pity had wept his air to mark.
43
Blooming amid Siberian snows:
Sweet blossom! grafted on a crab,
Thy fate must nature's feelings stab.
Yon doctor (I---gl---s is his name ),
Well known in fair poetic fame,
A resurrection man;
Not only his parsonic head,
Content is to inter the dead;
But when the spark of life is fled
Restore it too he can.
For Lazarus arose (you know it)
A third time through this pious poet;
And verily I do suppose
The poet fell when he arose,
O'ercome with large libations, quaff'd
From Bacchus' muse-inspiring draught;
44
So bold a poem could inspire:
For bold it must be to dispense,
Like his, with measure, rhyme, and sense;
But to attend to sense and measure
Was much beyond the doctor's leisure.
But shall I bid the muse adieu,
And shall I drop the pen of praise,
And not her smiling favour sue
A humble eulogy to raise;
(For humble only may it be
When comes the workmanship from me).
To one of unassuming gait,
Demeanour modest and sedate,
With talent bless'd, with beauty deck'd,
Created to command respect:
What though, secluded by her choice,
You hear not at the ball her voice;
What though, above a common pride,
She strives in solitude to hide
The lustre of a soul whose shine
Still eminently beams benign:
Shall I for this her form forget,
And shrink from virtue's noble debt?
45
That would not warm to virtue's smile:
And if a heart of gentlest birth,
Of unsophisticated worth;
And if a disposition sweet,
With sensibility replete;
And if a mind with goodness fraught,
And fill'd with pure ingenuous thought:
Ch*nd**r, if qualities like these
Be worthy of a bard's acclaim,
'Twill ev'ry ball-room votary please
To hear me speak an A*st*n's name.
And if we beauty prize and wit,
It were injustice to omit
The charming F**te's engaging face,
The sister S*m*nds' happy grace.
Each lovely Co*p*r's speaking glance,
And Br*nf**ld's beauteous elegance
Demand the warmest lays—
(Better, sweet Br*nf**ld the omission,
For trifling is my poor addition
To universal praise.)
It were injustice to omit
The charming F**te's engaging face,
The sister S*m*nds' happy grace.
Each lovely Co*p*r's speaking glance,
And Br*nf**ld's beauteous elegance
Demand the warmest lays—
(Better, sweet Br*nf**ld the omission,
For trifling is my poor addition
To universal praise.)
46
And if blind folly wants a name,
Yonder's St. Margaret's widow'd dame;
She who yet strives to nurse a flame
Too young for her embrace;
And who with paints and patches quacks
Her features to fill up the cracks
Of a once beauteous face.
Yonder's St. Margaret's widow'd dame;
She who yet strives to nurse a flame
Too young for her embrace;
And who with paints and patches quacks
Her features to fill up the cracks
Of a once beauteous face.
But vain for me to strive it were,
To sing of ev'ry fop and fair
These motley scenes present:
R*shb***k, B**h, S*tt*n, spendid three!
With greater feeling far than me,
Can sing the fools of Kent.
To sing of ev'ry fop and fair
These motley scenes present:
R*shb***k, B**h, S*tt*n, spendid three!
With greater feeling far than me,
Can sing the fools of Kent.
And, but that Margate bids me nurse
My remnant of prosaic verse
To fill its idle hour;
I would have nam'd a lengthen'd list
Of virgins old who ne'er were kiss'd,
And who, infuriate at the taste
That left their charms unpluck'd to waste,
Now strive to shed their blighting mist
On every youthful flower.
Pity, indeed, their various merit
No future offspring shall inherit,
Their former charms to tell;
Dames of old Dian's gloomy fane,
Where damsels worship in their wane,
'Tis meet I say farewel!
My remnant of prosaic verse
To fill its idle hour;
I would have nam'd a lengthen'd list
Of virgins old who ne'er were kiss'd,
And who, infuriate at the taste
That left their charms unpluck'd to waste,
Now strive to shed their blighting mist
On every youthful flower.
47
No future offspring shall inherit,
Their former charms to tell;
Dames of old Dian's gloomy fane,
Where damsels worship in their wane,
'Tis meet I say farewel!
The Votaries of the Ball Room will, I am sure,
have no objection to my drawing up the curtain
and introducing to them their neighbours of the
Isle of Thanet.
| Ball room votaries | |