The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
The Schoolmaster.
|
 | II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
168
The Schoolmaster.
HERMIPPUS, as the Story's told,
A Schoolmaster, in times of old,
Is said to have drawn out his days
As long, as Horace Walpole says,
The Countess Desmond's Annals ran—
To twice the common Age of Man
And that his Life did thus extend
Beyond what Nature might intend,
By the balsamic Breath of those
Who did his youthful School compose.
And while their Lips new health exhales,
He drove in Learning at their Tails.
Whether Ma'am Desmond did employ
The Respirations of a Boy,
Or blooming Girls, who breath'd perfume
To purify her dressing-room,
We neither know, nor shall we strive
Into those hidden powers to dive
That kept the Dame so long alive.
Nor shall we yet attempt to seek 'em
In the old Age of Doctor Greekum.
For years he now had reach'd fourscore,
And yet he was for adding more;
Nay, envied ev'ry rosy boy
Who did his learned care employ,
Whene'er his Fancy might conceive
How long the Child would have to live.
But then the Rev'rend Pedant said,
It was not that he felt afraid
Of Death, or of his future fate,
In that unknown and awful state,
Which 'twas Religion to believe
Would wait on those who cease to live;
But that he might secure his fame,
Might eternise a learned name;
As one more Lustrum
would produce
A work of such acknowledg'd use—
So full of deep, recondite knowledge,
That ev'ry School and ev'ry College
Would, both in Greek and Latin lays,
His Genius and his Learning praise.
That finish'd, he would go to bed
With joy, among the Honour'd Dead.
A Schoolmaster, in times of old,
Is said to have drawn out his days
As long, as Horace Walpole says,
The Countess Desmond's Annals ran—
To twice the common Age of Man
And that his Life did thus extend
Beyond what Nature might intend,
By the balsamic Breath of those
Who did his youthful School compose.
And while their Lips new health exhales,
He drove in Learning at their Tails.
Whether Ma'am Desmond did employ
The Respirations of a Boy,
Or blooming Girls, who breath'd perfume
To purify her dressing-room,
169
Into those hidden powers to dive
That kept the Dame so long alive.
Nor shall we yet attempt to seek 'em
In the old Age of Doctor Greekum.
For years he now had reach'd fourscore,
And yet he was for adding more;
Nay, envied ev'ry rosy boy
Who did his learned care employ,
Whene'er his Fancy might conceive
How long the Child would have to live.
But then the Rev'rend Pedant said,
It was not that he felt afraid
Of Death, or of his future fate,
In that unknown and awful state,
Which 'twas Religion to believe
Would wait on those who cease to live;
But that he might secure his fame,
Might eternise a learned name;
170
A work of such acknowledg'd use—
So full of deep, recondite knowledge,
That ev'ry School and ev'ry College
Would, both in Greek and Latin lays,
His Genius and his Learning praise.
That finish'd, he would go to bed
With joy, among the Honour'd Dead.
Such were the Doctrines of the Sage,
Whene'er he talk'd about his age;—
And such, at lengh, he had to plead,
Where mortal reas'nings ne'er succeed:
For, as he held the Sov'reign sway
Whose rod submissive Boys obey,
And look'd around him from his throne,
Whose pow'r no subject dare disown,
He, nor without emotion, saw
A Shape who did that pow'r o'erawe,
Who bade him from his seat descend,
And on his Visitor attend.
Whene'er he talk'd about his age;—
And such, at lengh, he had to plead,
Where mortal reas'nings ne'er succeed:
For, as he held the Sov'reign sway
Whose rod submissive Boys obey,
And look'd around him from his throne,
Whose pow'r no subject dare disown,
He, nor without emotion, saw
A Shape who did that pow'r o'erawe,
171
And on his Visitor attend.
I know you well, the Doctor said,
And that your will must be obey'd.
The circling hours that in their flight
Consume the day and waste the night:
The circling hours and varying year,
Convince us all is mortal here .
In Spring the Winter melts away,
The Spring is lost in Summer ray;
Then Summer dies in Autumn's reign,
And slow-pac'd Winter comes again:
Again the balmy Spring returns;
And the fierce sultry Summer burns:
The Autumn fruits again abound,
And Time thus makes its yearly round:
The Moon renews her silver light—
But when we seek the depths of night,
Where all the rich, the brave are laid,
We're only ashes and a shade.
—I know you well, and understand
To what you point your fleshless hand:
I see you mark my final hour,
And bend me to that awful power
Which tells me I must soon be laid
In the dark Tomb's eternal shade.
That I may wish to live, is true,
But not that I'm afraid of you;
My only care's to leave behind
A stock of Learning for mankind;
Which, had I some few years to live
It would be Greekum's pride to give:
But, though it is your will, I see,
To rob the world of that and me;
You might have come without intrusion,
Nor caus'd this bustle and confusion.
No warning given:—'Tis quite shocking
That you should enter without knocking,
In spite of the Horatian rule
That's taught in ev'ry Classic School.
Mors Pulsat, which, if I am pat in,
The purport of the Poet's Latin;
And which, believe me, I who quote it,
Know full as well as him who wrote it,
Means that you should some notice give,
E'er that you bid us cease to live;
That you should knock, at least, and wait,
Till some one opes th'unwilling gate .
And that your will must be obey'd.
The circling hours that in their flight
Consume the day and waste the night:
The circling hours and varying year,
Convince us all is mortal here .
In Spring the Winter melts away,
The Spring is lost in Summer ray;
Then Summer dies in Autumn's reign,
And slow-pac'd Winter comes again:
Again the balmy Spring returns;
And the fierce sultry Summer burns:
The Autumn fruits again abound,
And Time thus makes its yearly round:
The Moon renews her silver light—
But when we seek the depths of night,
172
We're only ashes and a shade.
—I know you well, and understand
To what you point your fleshless hand:
I see you mark my final hour,
And bend me to that awful power
Which tells me I must soon be laid
In the dark Tomb's eternal shade.
That I may wish to live, is true,
But not that I'm afraid of you;
My only care's to leave behind
A stock of Learning for mankind;
Which, had I some few years to live
It would be Greekum's pride to give:
But, though it is your will, I see,
To rob the world of that and me;
You might have come without intrusion,
Nor caus'd this bustle and confusion.
No warning given:—'Tis quite shocking
That you should enter without knocking,
In spite of the Horatian rule
That's taught in ev'ry Classic School.
173
The purport of the Poet's Latin;
And which, believe me, I who quote it,
Know full as well as him who wrote it,
Means that you should some notice give,
E'er that you bid us cease to live;
That you should knock, at least, and wait,
Till some one opes th'unwilling gate .
Doctor, this Dart will neither speak
In Hebrew, Latin, or in Greek;
But has a certain Language known
In ev'ry age as in our own;
Which ev'ry clime will comprehend
Until the world itself shall end.
—Now, Horace had no other warning
Than you receive this very morning;
When eighteen hundred years ago,
Of this same dart he felt the blow.
Besides, to him by Fate 'twas given,
To quit this Life at Fifty-seven;
And you, sage Sir, have reach'd Four-score,
E'er that your mortal Journey's o'er.
I ne'er but once my visit pay;—
My errand ne'er allows delay:
But Time, you know, with his bald pate,
Has long been knocking at your gate.
In Hebrew, Latin, or in Greek;
But has a certain Language known
In ev'ry age as in our own;
Which ev'ry clime will comprehend
Until the world itself shall end.
—Now, Horace had no other warning
Than you receive this very morning;
When eighteen hundred years ago,
Of this same dart he felt the blow.
174
To quit this Life at Fifty-seven;
And you, sage Sir, have reach'd Four-score,
E'er that your mortal Journey's o'er.
I ne'er but once my visit pay;—
My errand ne'er allows delay:
But Time, you know, with his bald pate,
Has long been knocking at your gate.
—But you'll at least these Urchins spare,
They are my last—my only care.—
—I'll hurt them not,—I'll only scare 'em:
So die,—and Mors est Finis rerum.
Which, for your Scholars, I'll translate—
Death strikes the Learn'd,—the Little, and the Great.
They are my last—my only care.—
—I'll hurt them not,—I'll only scare 'em:
So die,—and Mors est Finis rerum.
Which, for your Scholars, I'll translate—
Death strikes the Learn'd,—the Little, and the Great.
| The English Dance of Death | |