 | Poems |  |
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A MONODY.
ON THE DEATH OF PENELOPE TROTTER.
Right well have learned doctors shewn
That one grief never comes alone;
But, as the rain comes pattering down,
Stream after stream upon your crown,
So man no sooner one gripe feels,
Than t'other nips him by the heels;
Till we scarce know, tho' grieve we must,
Where to begin our tale of sorrow first.
That one grief never comes alone;
But, as the rain comes pattering down,
Stream after stream upon your crown,
So man no sooner one gripe feels,
Than t'other nips him by the heels;
Till we scarce know, tho' grieve we must,
Where to begin our tale of sorrow first.
Ah! lack and a-well-a-day!
I erst who wet poor Polly Whitehead's clay
With tears so hot, must now, alas! shed hotter;
For Death has tripp'd the heels of Peny Trotter.
I erst who wet poor Polly Whitehead's clay
With tears so hot, must now, alas! shed hotter;
For Death has tripp'd the heels of Peny Trotter.
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Nor I alone—all London, sad at heart,
Doffs the gay robe, and takes the garb of woe,
And tears, as from their springs the waters start,
From East, West, North, and South, are seen to flow.
Doffs the gay robe, and takes the garb of woe,
And tears, as from their springs the waters start,
From East, West, North, and South, are seen to flow.
For ten miles London round was Peny known,
No dame East, West, North, South, so bright in fame:
To young and old alike her love was shewn,
And all expectant stood at Peny's name.
No dame East, West, North, South, so bright in fame:
To young and old alike her love was shewn,
And all expectant stood at Peny's name.
She was not young, yet mov'd with nimble feet;
Aged she was not, though in mind a sage:
Her youth retain'd whate'er of youth is sweet,
As erst her youth what gains respect in age.
Aged she was not, though in mind a sage:
Her youth retain'd whate'er of youth is sweet,
As erst her youth what gains respect in age.
She frisk'd not, while a girl, in girlish mood,
Nor kiss'd and toy'd, as maids are wont to do;
Nor on the road e'er lingerd to be woo'd,
And knew her duty better than to woo.
Nor kiss'd and toy'd, as maids are wont to do;
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And knew her duty better than to woo.
Her errand done, she had no gossip's tale;
But would with maiden modesty retire;
And tho' perchance she took a cup of ale,
Stopt not, to slumber near the kitchen fire.
But would with maiden modesty retire;
And tho' perchance she took a cup of ale,
Stopt not, to slumber near the kitchen fire.
This bustling life for many a year she led,
True as the needle thus her duty plied;
And thousand, thousand masters droop the head,
For ne'er than Pen a trustier servant died.
True as the needle thus her duty plied;
And thousand, thousand masters droop the head,
For ne'er than Pen a trustier servant died.
Oh! calmer dear of Grief,
Sweet Melancholy, come;
What now may yield relief,
While Pen lies in the tomb?
What but thy pensive air,
Meek eye, and brow of care,
Thy liquid eye, thy melting strain,
And the light visions of thy brain,
The forms, that to thy midnight-musings throng,
And fill with unpremeditated song?
Sweet Melancholy, come;
What now may yield relief,
While Pen lies in the tomb?
What but thy pensive air,
Meek eye, and brow of care,
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And the light visions of thy brain,
The forms, that to thy midnight-musings throng,
And fill with unpremeditated song?
But how shall I relate
The wayward cruelties of fate?
How in indignant verse
Pen's hapless end rehearse?
For not, as gentle dames should die, she died,
Peaceful, upon her bed;
But while on duty bent she hied,
Behold her dead!
Her snow-white flesh by hands most cruel whipt,
Till of her very skin the maid is stript!
The wayward cruelties of fate?
How in indignant verse
Pen's hapless end rehearse?
For not, as gentle dames should die, she died,
Peaceful, upon her bed;
But while on duty bent she hied,
Behold her dead!
Her snow-white flesh by hands most cruel whipt,
Till of her very skin the maid is stript!
But who were they, what tyger men,
That laid their fangs on honest Pen?
No vulgar ruffians they,
Who prowl on the highway,
Or clap, amid your midnight rest,
The felon-pistol to your breast.
No, it was none of these,
Nor was it dire disease,
Fever, catarrh, or spasm, or cholic,
Nor any young and wanton frolic;
Nor did intemp'rance ply the venom'd cup,
—Pen there would never take above a sup,
Satan could not have made her drink it up.—
No—surer, quicker than all these,
Than pistol, dagger, or than tyger-claw,
Than foul intemp'rance, or than rank disease,
The wretch, that murder'd Pen, was—Law.
That laid their fangs on honest Pen?
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Who prowl on the highway,
Or clap, amid your midnight rest,
The felon-pistol to your breast.
No, it was none of these,
Nor was it dire disease,
Fever, catarrh, or spasm, or cholic,
Nor any young and wanton frolic;
Nor did intemp'rance ply the venom'd cup,
—Pen there would never take above a sup,
Satan could not have made her drink it up.—
No—surer, quicker than all these,
Than pistol, dagger, or than tyger-claw,
Than foul intemp'rance, or than rank disease,
The wretch, that murder'd Pen, was—Law.
Oh! Law, tho' sages are so fond to prove,
That thou in nature's bosom hast thy seat,
And that thy voice, inspiring awe and love,
Preserves the world in harmony complete;
That heav'n and earth to thee their homage pay,
That great and small alike thy care employ,
That ev'ry being gladly owns thy sway,
And hails thee mother of their peace and joy;
That thou in nature's bosom hast thy seat,
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Preserves the world in harmony complete;
That heav'n and earth to thee their homage pay,
That great and small alike thy care employ,
That ev'ry being gladly owns thy sway,
And hails thee mother of their peace and joy;
Yet art not thou too often made,
By man, that debauchee, a jade,
Quite marr'd and jarr'd in ev'ry feature,
The veriest, foulest, most discordant creature,
Whirling the world about in strife,
Bursting the dearest bonds of life;
Lumping, and thumping each rebellious elf,
A bolder rebel still thyself?—
—If, when my eyes are lock d in sleep,
Thou near me dost thy vigils keep,
Why, then I prize thee more than all my wealth,
And am content to drink thy health;
But, if thou canst embastille honest men,
And kill so good a soul as honest Pen;
Then, to be plain, I'll make no fuss about you;
Ma'am, I had rather live without you.
By man, that debauchee, a jade,
Quite marr'd and jarr'd in ev'ry feature,
The veriest, foulest, most discordant creature,
Whirling the world about in strife,
Bursting the dearest bonds of life;
Lumping, and thumping each rebellious elf,
A bolder rebel still thyself?—
—If, when my eyes are lock d in sleep,
Thou near me dost thy vigils keep,
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And am content to drink thy health;
But, if thou canst embastille honest men,
And kill so good a soul as honest Pen;
Then, to be plain, I'll make no fuss about you;
Ma'am, I had rather live without you.
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