Poems By Mr. Polwhele. In three volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
CANTO THE FOURTH.
|
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| III. |
 | Poems |  |
113
CANTO THE FOURTH.
ARGUMENT.
1. Description of Andarton after the Death of Sir Humphrey —Neville and Ned Jerkairs joint Trustees of Allan— Miss Prue and Jenny Jerkairs superintending the Economy of Andarton-house.—2. Allan preparing for Oxford, and waiting on Squire Squintal, who sends him to the Filbert Bower—Meeting there Juliet, Squire Squintal's Daughter, and Emma her Companion—Seizing the promised Purse—Allan at Oxford.—3. Death of Neville—Exultation of Ned Jerkairs on the Occasion—Character of Squintal —of his Wife Alice—of Juliet her Daughter—of Sir Harry Hawtrap.
Yes! to the eye of grief Andarton wove
A sickly foliage thro' the sighing grove;
And each faint blossom seem'd to close in death
Its silver whiteness and its fragrant breath.
The enkindled lawn in sudden gloom grew cold,
And shivering arbours dropp'd their buds of gold;
As the Knight's oak, where vernal radiance play'd,
Wrapt its fair honours in a duskier shade.
A sickly foliage thro' the sighing grove;
And each faint blossom seem'd to close in death
Its silver whiteness and its fragrant breath.
114
And shivering arbours dropp'd their buds of gold;
As the Knight's oak, where vernal radiance play'd,
Wrapt its fair honours in a duskier shade.
Yet, as with gradual stealth the silent hours
Sunn'd the weak leaf, or dew'd the drooping flowers,
Thro' breaking shadow bade the grove resume
All its young verdure, all its recent bloom,
And e'en that oak, amidst the sylvan ring,
Wave its green branches to the laughing Spring;
Andarton clasp'd with joy its rising care;
The good Sir Humphrey's image in his heir.
Sunn'd the weak leaf, or dew'd the drooping flowers,
Thro' breaking shadow bade the grove resume
All its young verdure, all its recent bloom,
And e'en that oak, amidst the sylvan ring,
Wave its green branches to the laughing Spring;
Andarton clasp'd with joy its rising care;
The good Sir Humphrey's image in his heir.
O'er Allan, pleas'd his virtues to descry,
Delighted Neville beam'd the guardian eye;
Tho' little prompt to bend a pliant knee
To Ned the attorney nam'd a joint trustee.
Indeed, as well might chaos mix with light,
As Neville's soul with sniveling Ned's unite.
And, as Sir Humphrey's inconsistent plan
O'er all the country, raising wonder, ran,
Andarton-house two female inmates view'd
Adepts in art, and saw new mischiefs brood.
Lo, while indignant Neville purs'd his brow
And bit his lips, and scarce vouchsaf'd a bow
To those bright inmates; the complacent pair
With lowlier curtsies, and a gentler air
Hail'd his lov'd presence; bidding pleasure dart
To their sweet eyes from each exulting heart!
Yet there, tho' Neville with a hasty stride
Oft shook the room, yet lapp'd in silken pride
Tripsey with cool indifference stretch'd her jaws,
And Malkin arch'd his back, and smooth'd his paws.
Delighted Neville beam'd the guardian eye;
Tho' little prompt to bend a pliant knee
To Ned the attorney nam'd a joint trustee.
Indeed, as well might chaos mix with light,
As Neville's soul with sniveling Ned's unite.
And, as Sir Humphrey's inconsistent plan
O'er all the country, raising wonder, ran,
115
Adepts in art, and saw new mischiefs brood.
Lo, while indignant Neville purs'd his brow
And bit his lips, and scarce vouchsaf'd a bow
To those bright inmates; the complacent pair
With lowlier curtsies, and a gentler air
Hail'd his lov'd presence; bidding pleasure dart
To their sweet eyes from each exulting heart!
Yet there, tho' Neville with a hasty stride
Oft shook the room, yet lapp'd in silken pride
Tripsey with cool indifference stretch'd her jaws,
And Malkin arch'd his back, and smooth'd his paws.
Now Allan, as impatience wing'd the hours,
With a young ardour look'd to Isis' towers;
When, blending with his love the sage's lore,
Of wisdom Neville pour'd the precious store.
“With joy, my kinsman! I behold (he cried)
“In thee paternal worth, paternal pride—
“That sense of ancient honour, glowing-bright,
“Those generous passions that impel thee right,
“Those firm opinions cherisht not in vain,
“That soul which looks on dastards with disdain.
“Thy father never to the ignoble stoop'd,
“Tho' by mean characters too sadly dup'd.
“Detecting specious vice, in lofty strain
“He talk'd, and sharply satiriz'd chicane:
“But, the short effervescence o'er, he griev'd,
“And deem'd himself by passion's mist deceiv'd;
“Dismiss'd his censures as replete with gall,
“And lent, from the full heart, his hand to all.
“Hence hath he nam'd, with Neville joint trustee,
“That whimpering knave, that fawner for a fee!
“Yet, by the insidious Jerkairs undismay'd,
“Confide in Neville's firm protecting aid.
“Go then, my boy, thy steps where Isis calls,
“And heed with due regard her cloyster'd walls:
“Be, still, thyself: Truth's open path pursue;
“And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.”
Kind as the drop that pearls the roseleaf, stood
In Allan's eye the tear of gratitude.
But, as he mus'd on all the parting scene,
A softer passion seem'd to creep between,
And breathing an adieu to fancy dear
Dried in its silver sluice the generous tear.
And, tho' full soon Sir Humphrey's dying bed
A chill of terror o'er his spirit shed;
Yet a fond plea from Beauty's glance he stole,
And in the dear deception wrapt his soul!
With a young ardour look'd to Isis' towers;
When, blending with his love the sage's lore,
Of wisdom Neville pour'd the precious store.
“With joy, my kinsman! I behold (he cried)
“In thee paternal worth, paternal pride—
“That sense of ancient honour, glowing-bright,
“Those generous passions that impel thee right,
116
“That soul which looks on dastards with disdain.
“Thy father never to the ignoble stoop'd,
“Tho' by mean characters too sadly dup'd.
“Detecting specious vice, in lofty strain
“He talk'd, and sharply satiriz'd chicane:
“But, the short effervescence o'er, he griev'd,
“And deem'd himself by passion's mist deceiv'd;
“Dismiss'd his censures as replete with gall,
“And lent, from the full heart, his hand to all.
“Hence hath he nam'd, with Neville joint trustee,
“That whimpering knave, that fawner for a fee!
“Yet, by the insidious Jerkairs undismay'd,
“Confide in Neville's firm protecting aid.
“Go then, my boy, thy steps where Isis calls,
“And heed with due regard her cloyster'd walls:
“Be, still, thyself: Truth's open path pursue;
“And all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.”
Kind as the drop that pearls the roseleaf, stood
In Allan's eye the tear of gratitude.
But, as he mus'd on all the parting scene,
A softer passion seem'd to creep between,
117
Dried in its silver sluice the generous tear.
And, tho' full soon Sir Humphrey's dying bed
A chill of terror o'er his spirit shed;
Yet a fond plea from Beauty's glance he stole,
And in the dear deception wrapt his soul!
Now Squintal, who a visit had vouchsaf'd
To his lone mansion, sweated, swore, and chaf'd,
As, a pale sufferer from rheumatic pain,
He press'd his couch of down, and press'd in vain;
When, with the grin that marks a miser's joy,
And with a hasty squeeze, he hail'd the boy;
Ask'd, with his wonted enigmatic look,
‘If, in the lane, he met no nutting-crook?—
‘Held common hazels hardly worth a rush;
‘And (beating all so quaint about the bush)
‘For filberts bade him seek the garden-ground;
‘And, with a laugh averr'd, were never found
‘Nuts half so glossy, not in all the dells,
‘So ready at a touch to slip their shells.’
Obedient to the hint, the boy was there,
And in the filbert-bower surpriz'd the fair.
With roseate fingers there had Juliet wrought
A purse endued with fond impassion'd thought.
And lo, its glittering folds as full in view
She held, and oft its strings of silver drew,
From Allan's presence with the feign'd alarm
Of a fond maid she shrunk on Emma's arm,
And with a threatening glance the boy repell'd,
While all her bosom indignation swell'd;
Tho' Emma, pleading in persuasive strain,
And pleading for the lover not in vain,
Bade Juliet with a smile his pardon seal;
A smile more fickle than the veering gale.
“Well, Juliet! if the sinner thou receive,
“Some little token of thy pardon give—
“Confer, to keep for better or for worse,
“On parting Allan, the long-promis'd purse”—
When pausing, as in jest the purse he seiz'd,
While Juliet shriek'd, and Emma star'd amaz'd;
And, “Ah, capricious girl!” with quick adieu
Exclaim'd, and from the bower of beauty flew.
Yes! 'twas a promis'd purse with passion linkt,
A purse instinct with fire, with soul instinct:
For there had Juliet's bosom learn'd to glow,
To breathe in purple or in silver flow.
There, with a gradual heat had young desire
O'er the soft silk effus'd a lambent fire;
There, ardent sighs imbued the fluid gold,
And gentle wishes heav'd in every fold;
And Hope o'er all its fairy lustre shed,
Swell'd at each stitch, and danc'd from thread to thread
There jealousies had o'er the tissue skimm'd,
And each bright spangle for a moment dimm'd,
And fluttering fears had imp'd their feeble wings,
And died entangled in the trembling strings;
While, bath'd in kisses the delicious snare,
Young Love, not Plutus, lurk'd in ambush there.
To his lone mansion, sweated, swore, and chaf'd,
As, a pale sufferer from rheumatic pain,
He press'd his couch of down, and press'd in vain;
When, with the grin that marks a miser's joy,
And with a hasty squeeze, he hail'd the boy;
Ask'd, with his wonted enigmatic look,
‘If, in the lane, he met no nutting-crook?—
‘Held common hazels hardly worth a rush;
‘And (beating all so quaint about the bush)
‘For filberts bade him seek the garden-ground;
‘And, with a laugh averr'd, were never found
‘Nuts half so glossy, not in all the dells,
‘So ready at a touch to slip their shells.’
118
And in the filbert-bower surpriz'd the fair.
With roseate fingers there had Juliet wrought
A purse endued with fond impassion'd thought.
And lo, its glittering folds as full in view
She held, and oft its strings of silver drew,
From Allan's presence with the feign'd alarm
Of a fond maid she shrunk on Emma's arm,
And with a threatening glance the boy repell'd,
While all her bosom indignation swell'd;
Tho' Emma, pleading in persuasive strain,
And pleading for the lover not in vain,
Bade Juliet with a smile his pardon seal;
A smile more fickle than the veering gale.
“Well, Juliet! if the sinner thou receive,
“Some little token of thy pardon give—
“Confer, to keep for better or for worse,
“On parting Allan, the long-promis'd purse”—
When pausing, as in jest the purse he seiz'd,
While Juliet shriek'd, and Emma star'd amaz'd;
And, “Ah, capricious girl!” with quick adieu
Exclaim'd, and from the bower of beauty flew.
119
A purse instinct with fire, with soul instinct:
For there had Juliet's bosom learn'd to glow,
To breathe in purple or in silver flow.
There, with a gradual heat had young desire
O'er the soft silk effus'd a lambent fire;
There, ardent sighs imbued the fluid gold,
And gentle wishes heav'd in every fold;
And Hope o'er all its fairy lustre shed,
Swell'd at each stitch, and danc'd from thread to thread
There jealousies had o'er the tissue skimm'd,
And each bright spangle for a moment dimm'd,
And fluttering fears had imp'd their feeble wings,
And died entangled in the trembling strings;
While, bath'd in kisses the delicious snare,
Young Love, not Plutus, lurk'd in ambush there.
Tho' nurst by Cam poor Herbert's fancy runs
On Johnian problems and on Johnian puns;
Yet Neville, partial to “the mighty Tom,”
Bids him conduct his pupil to the dome
Which Wolsey rear'd—yet plann'd with ampler sweep
With walls to frown magnificently deep,
And all the pomp that gothic grandeur pours
From fretted minarets and massy towers.
There, Allan's lively genius, ill confin'd
To rules that suit the dull mechanic mind,
Scarce brook'd the task, to meet the peep of dawn,
Along the far-extending terrace drawn,
As chiming bells the hour of matins told,
And in the dim aisle deprecate the cold;
Again, his terrace-walk, returning, take,
And with his cap in hand, obeisance make
To graduate student, if, far off, he see
Some student of a cap-a-ble degree;
Mount to his spider-loft, where George so brown
May haply, midst the crazy china, crown
His dusty table, and his quivering fire
Quench'd by the o'erboiling kettle erst, expire;
For scout in vain with lungs exhausted whoop,
Then seize his slate and join the Euclid-troop,
O'er squares and circles and triangles doze,
Or tremble to the lecturer's twanging nose;
Thence with slow step his classic tutor seek,
And sweat and fume and stutter o'er the Greek;
Once more retir'd, against intruding folk
Shut with decided hand his door of oak,
Mend his silk hose, from shirt the damps expel,
Tho' barberless, yet catch the dinner-bell;
At length, with countenance reliev'd from care,
Welcome the spruce adjuster of his hair;
Amidst the hall where savory viands rise
Perhaps with mouths of hunger sympathize;
Tho' on economy young pleasure trench,
His troubles in the purple nectar drench,
Or, as his hours in sober sadness pass,
Now nod, now sip a solitary glass;
Assist, at Tom's, with capillaire, or toast,
The shrewd conjectures of the Morning Post;
“Conscious of clean band stiffly starch'd,” defy
The keenness of the pert proproctor's eye;
Thro' High-street flaunt his sleeveless gown, and stroll
Till, beating on his ears, the Tocsin toll;
To vespers damp with tardy pace repair,
But soon from chapel into genial air
Descending, hail, without a moment's halt,
The soothing influence of the kitchen vault;
On the long table stor'd with dainties, gaze,
And, lost amidst the culinary maze
Of roast or boil'd, or bak'd or potted meat,
Cull the nice morsel for his nightly treat;
To his short commons oft invite a friend;
Perhaps an hour of social comfort spend;
And, parting, in his little cabin close
Each college care, and sink to sound repose.
Yet hodiernal custom reconcil'd
To “dull mechanic rules” his genius wild;
As powers surpassing his, dispers'd the beam
That gilded the fine form of self-esteem.
But still a something which his looks betray'd,
Too plain, involv'd him in its gathering shade—
A something daily deepen'd on his brow,
Dark as the cloud that speaks a broken vow.
Perhaps, 'twas self-reproach his sorrows bred;
The conscience of affection rashly fed:
Perhaps, 'twas doubt that waver'd in suspence
Between low passion and the sacred sense
Of filial love, while rose his sire to view,
And o'er the unhallow'd flame chill shadows threw.
On Johnian problems and on Johnian puns;
Yet Neville, partial to “the mighty Tom,”
Bids him conduct his pupil to the dome
120
With walls to frown magnificently deep,
And all the pomp that gothic grandeur pours
From fretted minarets and massy towers.
There, Allan's lively genius, ill confin'd
To rules that suit the dull mechanic mind,
Scarce brook'd the task, to meet the peep of dawn,
Along the far-extending terrace drawn,
As chiming bells the hour of matins told,
And in the dim aisle deprecate the cold;
Again, his terrace-walk, returning, take,
And with his cap in hand, obeisance make
To graduate student, if, far off, he see
Some student of a cap-a-ble degree;
Mount to his spider-loft, where George so brown
May haply, midst the crazy china, crown
His dusty table, and his quivering fire
Quench'd by the o'erboiling kettle erst, expire;
For scout in vain with lungs exhausted whoop,
Then seize his slate and join the Euclid-troop,
O'er squares and circles and triangles doze,
Or tremble to the lecturer's twanging nose;
121
And sweat and fume and stutter o'er the Greek;
Once more retir'd, against intruding folk
Shut with decided hand his door of oak,
Mend his silk hose, from shirt the damps expel,
Tho' barberless, yet catch the dinner-bell;
At length, with countenance reliev'd from care,
Welcome the spruce adjuster of his hair;
Amidst the hall where savory viands rise
Perhaps with mouths of hunger sympathize;
Tho' on economy young pleasure trench,
His troubles in the purple nectar drench,
Or, as his hours in sober sadness pass,
Now nod, now sip a solitary glass;
Assist, at Tom's, with capillaire, or toast,
The shrewd conjectures of the Morning Post;
“Conscious of clean band stiffly starch'd,” defy
The keenness of the pert proproctor's eye;
Thro' High-street flaunt his sleeveless gown, and stroll
Till, beating on his ears, the Tocsin toll;
To vespers damp with tardy pace repair,
But soon from chapel into genial air
122
The soothing influence of the kitchen vault;
On the long table stor'd with dainties, gaze,
And, lost amidst the culinary maze
Of roast or boil'd, or bak'd or potted meat,
Cull the nice morsel for his nightly treat;
To his short commons oft invite a friend;
Perhaps an hour of social comfort spend;
And, parting, in his little cabin close
Each college care, and sink to sound repose.
Yet hodiernal custom reconcil'd
To “dull mechanic rules” his genius wild;
As powers surpassing his, dispers'd the beam
That gilded the fine form of self-esteem.
But still a something which his looks betray'd,
Too plain, involv'd him in its gathering shade—
A something daily deepen'd on his brow,
Dark as the cloud that speaks a broken vow.
Perhaps, 'twas self-reproach his sorrows bred;
The conscience of affection rashly fed:
Perhaps, 'twas doubt that waver'd in suspence
Between low passion and the sacred sense
123
And o'er the unhallow'd flame chill shadows threw.
Thus, as the prophet's tomb that seems to slight
The earth, yet gains not an ethereal height,
Whilst Allan hung; he met a sable seal,
A black-rimm'd sheet, to tell some direful tale;
And, as his palsied hand unclos'd the sheet,
Totter'd, afraid to look, on feeble feet—
Then caught the fatal words, “departing breath”—
And snatch'd a short relief at Neville's death.
The earth, yet gains not an ethereal height,
Whilst Allan hung; he met a sable seal,
A black-rimm'd sheet, to tell some direful tale;
And, as his palsied hand unclos'd the sheet,
Totter'd, afraid to look, on feeble feet—
Then caught the fatal words, “departing breath”—
And snatch'd a short relief at Neville's death.
Alas! how soon that glimmer of relief
From sickly fancy, was immerst in grief.
Where, Allan! now the guardian's fostering wing
Shall comfort to thy careworn bosom bring?
A Neville's rare integrity impart
Its manly vigour to thy wavering heart?
Alas! to plunge thee still in deeper woe,
Shall Scorn or harsh Unkindness aim the blow?
Shall squinting Treachery, studious to supplant
The fairest hopes of youth, thy dwelling haunt?
O say, shall Persecution, at thy gate,
Menace a dread variety of fate,
To daunt thy spirit and thy soul oppress,
Or make thee firmer by each new distress?
From sickly fancy, was immerst in grief.
Where, Allan! now the guardian's fostering wing
Shall comfort to thy careworn bosom bring?
A Neville's rare integrity impart
Its manly vigour to thy wavering heart?
Alas! to plunge thee still in deeper woe,
Shall Scorn or harsh Unkindness aim the blow?
Shall squinting Treachery, studious to supplant
The fairest hopes of youth, thy dwelling haunt?
124
Menace a dread variety of fate,
To daunt thy spirit and thy soul oppress,
Or make thee firmer by each new distress?
Soon as the sad event Ned Jerkairs heard,
He smooth'd his neckcloth and he stroak'd his beard;
And hemm'd; and musing, for a moment, sat,
And with malignant triumph seiz'd his hat;
Quick to the townclerk (now his neighbour) sped,
And glad announc'd the news of Neville dead.
“Hah! (cries old Squintal) what a five-barr'd gate?
“Ned, you remember, I foretold his fate.
“The gout”—“Well, well, whatever was the cause,
“We know, my friend, (then stretch'd his yawning jaws)
“The Andarton-messuage, and its nonsuch heir,
“Devolve at once to thy protecting care.
“I warrant it, by dint of kind advice,
“We'll teach the little swaggerer, in a trice,
“Tho' a rare nursling of the heroic brood,
“No more to bluster o'er plebeian blood.”
He smooth'd his neckcloth and he stroak'd his beard;
And hemm'd; and musing, for a moment, sat,
And with malignant triumph seiz'd his hat;
Quick to the townclerk (now his neighbour) sped,
And glad announc'd the news of Neville dead.
“Hah! (cries old Squintal) what a five-barr'd gate?
“Ned, you remember, I foretold his fate.
“The gout”—“Well, well, whatever was the cause,
“We know, my friend, (then stretch'd his yawning jaws)
“The Andarton-messuage, and its nonsuch heir,
“Devolve at once to thy protecting care.
“I warrant it, by dint of kind advice,
“We'll teach the little swaggerer, in a trice,
“Tho' a rare nursling of the heroic brood,
“No more to bluster o'er plebeian blood.”
125
Not that from root plebeian Squintal sprung,
But, to his hearers prompt to tune his tongue,
To low born Jerkairs would obeisance pay,
Echoing Ned's notions in a servile way;
And, if Sir Harry's pomp illum'd the street,
Cry down poor pedigrees as obsolete.
Tho' blending in his bile-discolour'd face
The German dullness with the French grimace.
Of the fine arts an amateur profest,
He shone the virtuoso of the West;
As round the circuit of a spacious room
He rang'd, from Bulmer's press, each gorgeous tome,
And purchas'd for his rich port folio, prints
Or etch'd, or grav'd in stroke, or aquatints;
So that his levy (all the town can tell)
Was grac'd by many a beau, and lisping belle.
While townclerk of the borough, scot and lot,
In Molfra, to secure each dubious vote,
'Twas his to bribe, and bustling, to a blaze
The election-spirit by a breakfast raise.
Late too, the colonel of a troop, he shone,
To military tactics vastly prone;
And fond his warriour-genius to display
As mock fights glitter'd to the beams of day,
Oft from his high-plum'd steed the field harangu'd,
Or fiercely rush'd where bloodless armour clang'd!
See, at his beck, young Pug the pestle quit,
While maladies or cease or intermit;
And, at the word, heigh-presto! heigh-begone,
Old Jack the grocer, start up Captain John;
And Ensign Bob, dismissing all the clerk,
His parchments pale abandon with a jerk!
Nor more the slippery brethren of the quill
O'er shrivell'd deeds, in sunless holes, sit still;
But to their recent coats attention win
As each, a sleek young serpent, casts his skin,
Kindling in burnisht glory, glides along,
And brandishes abroad his double tongue.
But, to his hearers prompt to tune his tongue,
To low born Jerkairs would obeisance pay,
Echoing Ned's notions in a servile way;
And, if Sir Harry's pomp illum'd the street,
Cry down poor pedigrees as obsolete.
Tho' blending in his bile-discolour'd face
The German dullness with the French grimace.
Of the fine arts an amateur profest,
He shone the virtuoso of the West;
As round the circuit of a spacious room
He rang'd, from Bulmer's press, each gorgeous tome,
And purchas'd for his rich port folio, prints
Or etch'd, or grav'd in stroke, or aquatints;
So that his levy (all the town can tell)
Was grac'd by many a beau, and lisping belle.
While townclerk of the borough, scot and lot,
In Molfra, to secure each dubious vote,
'Twas his to bribe, and bustling, to a blaze
The election-spirit by a breakfast raise.
Late too, the colonel of a troop, he shone,
To military tactics vastly prone;
126
As mock fights glitter'd to the beams of day,
Oft from his high-plum'd steed the field harangu'd,
Or fiercely rush'd where bloodless armour clang'd!
See, at his beck, young Pug the pestle quit,
While maladies or cease or intermit;
And, at the word, heigh-presto! heigh-begone,
Old Jack the grocer, start up Captain John;
And Ensign Bob, dismissing all the clerk,
His parchments pale abandon with a jerk!
Nor more the slippery brethren of the quill
O'er shrivell'd deeds, in sunless holes, sit still;
But to their recent coats attention win
As each, a sleek young serpent, casts his skin,
Kindling in burnisht glory, glides along,
And brandishes abroad his double tongue.
Big with the intelligence of Neville's fate
Old Squintal bounc'd into the room, where sat
His wife with face no terrors could unhinge,
His placid Alice much amus'd with fringe.
“Bless me, poor man!” in gentle tone she cried,
And with glib fingers still her shuttle plied.
Meek woman! so inur'd to self-controul,
What ills by others felt can move thy soul?
Thy smiles to all alike so prompt to lend,
Say, does thy kindred bosom boast a friend?
Say, while thy charity so kind, affects
(As inuendos touch thy tittering sex)
To disapprove each hint of blame, so nice,
Lest censure Virtue's form mistake for vice;
Say, tho' so tender of a sister's fame,
So fond to vindicate an injur'd name;
Wilt thou devote one atom of dear self-
To save the life of any mortal elf?
Old Squintal bounc'd into the room, where sat
His wife with face no terrors could unhinge,
His placid Alice much amus'd with fringe.
127
And with glib fingers still her shuttle plied.
Meek woman! so inur'd to self-controul,
What ills by others felt can move thy soul?
Thy smiles to all alike so prompt to lend,
Say, does thy kindred bosom boast a friend?
Say, while thy charity so kind, affects
(As inuendos touch thy tittering sex)
To disapprove each hint of blame, so nice,
Lest censure Virtue's form mistake for vice;
Say, tho' so tender of a sister's fame,
So fond to vindicate an injur'd name;
Wilt thou devote one atom of dear self-
To save the life of any mortal elf?
Not clad in smiles insipidly serene
Did Juliet move thro' being's dull routine.
Her sparkling animation oft entranc'd
The social circle, if a look she glanc'd:
And, as her airy spirits mounted light,
If woe drew near, she flutter'd at the sight.
If Alice pass'd a piteous object by,
Whispering—“Poor creature!” with just half a sigh;
Struck by her mother's apathy, o'erflow'd
Her eyes with tears, her cheek with blushes glow'd.
And all the vicious ready to condemn,
And, e'en of censure to protract the theme,
The little quick enthusiast wont to stare,
Oft as her mother with so mild an air,
With such a modish negligence of tone
Gloss'd o'er a crime, resolv'd to slander none.
Did Juliet move thro' being's dull routine.
Her sparkling animation oft entranc'd
The social circle, if a look she glanc'd:
And, as her airy spirits mounted light,
If woe drew near, she flutter'd at the sight.
128
Whispering—“Poor creature!” with just half a sigh;
Struck by her mother's apathy, o'erflow'd
Her eyes with tears, her cheek with blushes glow'd.
And all the vicious ready to condemn,
And, e'en of censure to protract the theme,
The little quick enthusiast wont to stare,
Oft as her mother with so mild an air,
With such a modish negligence of tone
Gloss'd o'er a crime, resolv'd to slander none.
Now, while a livelier ray from Fancy stole,
Amidst the fine emotions of her soul,
As from some recent source surcharg'd with sighs
Her bosom heav'd, and teardrops fill'd her eyes,
To her lone chamber would she oft retire;
There, at her window fix the Eolian lyre,
Wait the low warblings of the dulcet breeze
That first seem'd wasted from the wavy trees,
And with poetic transport all her own
Catch the wild note, and drink the dying tone;
Or melt with feelings only lovers know
On Otway's tender traits of female woe,
Or the poor solitary plaint assuage,
The heartsick pang by Burney's magic page;
And with light hand her elegant guitar
Attune to every soft impassion'd air,
As from her bower, for love and fancy's sake,
She hail'd the shadowy turret, the clear lake,
Or, on the floor of moss beneath her feet,
(What time cool evening bath'd in many a sweet
The sleepy bells of sinking florets clos'd)
Her eye, oblivious of the past, repos'd;
Tho' soon that purse surcharg'd with hopes and fears
Chas'd from her lids the dream, and summon'd tears.
Nor seldom the sly Alice would intrude
With stealthy footstep on her lovesick mood,
While Juliet, heedless of the observer nigh,
Still mus'd, then, starting, met her mother's eye,
Or, dropping with incautious haste her book,
Shrunk from a rigid frown, or icy look.
“Poh! poh! romantic maid!” would Alice say,
“You know, full well, I disapprove a play,
“A novel, or a tune to touch the heart.
“What! with imaginary sorrow smart?
“Amidst a world where ills too sore are rise,
“Shall griefs from fancy spring to poison life?”
In truth, as Juliet with increasing years
Still more dislik'd the face that coldness wears,
She flew from every petrifying glance,
And barter'd genuine feeling for romance.
Amidst the fine emotions of her soul,
As from some recent source surcharg'd with sighs
Her bosom heav'd, and teardrops fill'd her eyes,
To her lone chamber would she oft retire;
There, at her window fix the Eolian lyre,
Wait the low warblings of the dulcet breeze
That first seem'd wasted from the wavy trees,
And with poetic transport all her own
Catch the wild note, and drink the dying tone;
129
On Otway's tender traits of female woe,
Or the poor solitary plaint assuage,
The heartsick pang by Burney's magic page;
And with light hand her elegant guitar
Attune to every soft impassion'd air,
As from her bower, for love and fancy's sake,
She hail'd the shadowy turret, the clear lake,
Or, on the floor of moss beneath her feet,
(What time cool evening bath'd in many a sweet
The sleepy bells of sinking florets clos'd)
Her eye, oblivious of the past, repos'd;
Tho' soon that purse surcharg'd with hopes and fears
Chas'd from her lids the dream, and summon'd tears.
Nor seldom the sly Alice would intrude
With stealthy footstep on her lovesick mood,
While Juliet, heedless of the observer nigh,
Still mus'd, then, starting, met her mother's eye,
Or, dropping with incautious haste her book,
Shrunk from a rigid frown, or icy look.
“Poh! poh! romantic maid!” would Alice say,
“You know, full well, I disapprove a play,
130
“What! with imaginary sorrow smart?
“Amidst a world where ills too sore are rise,
“Shall griefs from fancy spring to poison life?”
In truth, as Juliet with increasing years
Still more dislik'd the face that coldness wears,
She flew from every petrifying glance,
And barter'd genuine feeling for romance.
Meantime, Sir Hawtrap to his highbred air,
And of his equipage the dazzling glare,
Had drawn old Squintal lost in idle gaze—
A moth, perhaps to perish in the blaze!
Ah! while the attraction was in wealth alone,
Around his rising walls, the piteous moan
From many a ruin'd cottage pierc'd the skies,
The wail of shivering eld, and infant cries.
Scarce had Treglastan its new master view'd,
Ere, strait unpillar'd at his nod, was strew'd
Its hoary mansion o'er the extensive ground,
And little cheerful cabins, scatter'd round,
(Their thatch grey mosses creeping to encrust)
Were, at his lordly mandate, laid in dust;—
Ere, with dire crash resounded in the breeze
Its venerable rows of rushing trees,
And, whether dale or hill their gloom o'erbrow'd,
All—all its scarlet oaks in terror bow'd.
Yet, as the new-rear'd fabric proudly stood,
Bare to the winds where whilom tower'd a wood,
Tho' fine pictorial art, perchance, repaid
By varied beauties the diminisht shade;
Vain was each rural charm, to chase Ennui
From the void bosom, or from conscience free
The petty tyrant who, engirt with slaves,
Still long'd, on British ground, to trample graves.
What tho' the verdure of the velvet lawn
O'er fencelorn fields with gradual softness drawn,
Shone tinctur'd to the morn, and each cascade
With all the colours of the rainbow play'd;
Yet, to his pillow nail'd at least till noon,
'Twas his to slight “dame Nature's ready boon,”
Nor rise till the sun left his southern throne,
The Andarton dinner-bell announcing—one;
When, breaking in full glory on the day,
To venal Molfra would he whisk away,
And, from his flaming phaeton superb,
Each poor pot-boiler dazzle or disturb,
O'erwhelm a curate, heedless whom he crush'd,
Or sweep, whole off, a penthouse as he rush'd;
His steeds of lightning in a second stop,
And pay due homage at each paltry shop;
With adulation raise a vacant stare
On the sleek forehead of the butcher mayor,
In gentle accents to the cobler cringe,
The joiner's frame with fine new words unhinge,
And creep into the grocer's heart with ease
As mites in secret undermine a cheese,
On tanners practise many a slippery wile,
And melt the man of tallow with a smile,
(Protesting, as he plied his fresh attacks,
Each lustrous candle sham'd the whitest wax)
And lo, to close his compliments, invite
His friends to dinner, at the approach of night.
Nor, on the townclerk, e'er an errant tool,
Pour'd he by niggard drops his oil of fool;
Oft as on Juliet with too fond desire
He look'd, resolv'd to circumvent her fire,
And, ere his infant myrtles form'd a shade,
To Cyprian pleasure lure the unpractis'd maid.
And of his equipage the dazzling glare,
Had drawn old Squintal lost in idle gaze—
A moth, perhaps to perish in the blaze!
Ah! while the attraction was in wealth alone,
Around his rising walls, the piteous moan
From many a ruin'd cottage pierc'd the skies,
The wail of shivering eld, and infant cries.
Scarce had Treglastan its new master view'd,
Ere, strait unpillar'd at his nod, was strew'd
Its hoary mansion o'er the extensive ground,
And little cheerful cabins, scatter'd round,
131
Were, at his lordly mandate, laid in dust;—
Ere, with dire crash resounded in the breeze
Its venerable rows of rushing trees,
And, whether dale or hill their gloom o'erbrow'd,
All—all its scarlet oaks in terror bow'd.
Yet, as the new-rear'd fabric proudly stood,
Bare to the winds where whilom tower'd a wood,
Tho' fine pictorial art, perchance, repaid
By varied beauties the diminisht shade;
Vain was each rural charm, to chase Ennui
From the void bosom, or from conscience free
The petty tyrant who, engirt with slaves,
Still long'd, on British ground, to trample graves.
What tho' the verdure of the velvet lawn
O'er fencelorn fields with gradual softness drawn,
Shone tinctur'd to the morn, and each cascade
With all the colours of the rainbow play'd;
Yet, to his pillow nail'd at least till noon,
'Twas his to slight “dame Nature's ready boon,”
Nor rise till the sun left his southern throne,
The Andarton dinner-bell announcing—one;
132
To venal Molfra would he whisk away,
And, from his flaming phaeton superb,
Each poor pot-boiler dazzle or disturb,
O'erwhelm a curate, heedless whom he crush'd,
Or sweep, whole off, a penthouse as he rush'd;
His steeds of lightning in a second stop,
And pay due homage at each paltry shop;
With adulation raise a vacant stare
On the sleek forehead of the butcher mayor,
In gentle accents to the cobler cringe,
The joiner's frame with fine new words unhinge,
And creep into the grocer's heart with ease
As mites in secret undermine a cheese,
On tanners practise many a slippery wile,
And melt the man of tallow with a smile,
(Protesting, as he plied his fresh attacks,
Each lustrous candle sham'd the whitest wax)
And lo, to close his compliments, invite
His friends to dinner, at the approach of night.
Nor, on the townclerk, e'er an errant tool,
Pour'd he by niggard drops his oil of fool;
133
He look'd, resolv'd to circumvent her fire,
And, ere his infant myrtles form'd a shade,
To Cyprian pleasure lure the unpractis'd maid.
END OF THE FOURTH CANTO.
| Poems | |