 | Original poems |  |
143
A POETICAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN LIONEL LOVELORN, ESQ. AND GEOFFRY GINGER, ESQ.
Whereas, so pleas'd the Powers above,
I'm fall'n desperately, in love!
TRUMBULL.
I'm fall'n desperately, in love!
TRUMBULL.
144
[_]
THE object of the following Dialogue is to “brand with scorn” all petty dealers in draggle-tailed distichs and hitching hyperboles, who jingle about “sighing swains,” and “love-lorn lasses.” But I have had neither leisure nor patience, except in a few instances, to point out the particular nonsense of the many individual “dull fools,” of that kind,
Who will persist, although “in spite
Of Nature and their stars, to write;”
but have aimed the shafts of satire, with little discrimination,
at the whole tribe of moon-struck Sonneteers, who
palm upon the publick their “thrilling ecstasies,” and “liquid
perils,” for genuine chattels of Parnassus. I would
further observe, that I had nearly finished this dialogue
before I had seen the “Baviad and Mæviad,” in which
Mr. Gifford lashes some of the same herd which are here
made the subject of satire. But although I cannot expect
to gather laurels in the path of such a writer as Mr. Gifford,
I hope I may be considered at least as a gleaner in
the field of science, and have the honour of correcting
some of the “servum pecus” who may have escaped his
animadversion.
Of Nature and their stars, to write;”
145
LET shepherds pipe romantick strains
To melting maids, on lilied plains,
The charms of rustick beauty tell,
Of romping Bess, and “rosy Nell,”
While lambs disportive gambols play,
And robins vocalize the spray—
GEOFFRY.
Till whip-poor-will repeat the song,
And mocking-bird the note prolong,
146
To moose-wood whistle, while they tell,
In strains as sad as you can think on,
In unison with bob-o-link horn
That Sally—somebody, their jewel,
Though very fair, was very cruel,—
Till blushing heifers, grazing round,
To love-lorn bulls repeat the sound.
LIONEL.
Let amateurs of wild romance,
On Shakspeare's airy night-steed prance;
Born on light wing of necromancy,
Excurse to highest realms of Fancy;
Or, led by sprightly sylph, or gnome,
O'er Spencer's fairy region roam—
GEOFFRY.
Not every crow, nor croaking raven,
Can match the tuneful swan of Avon;
Some bards, who mount, like school-boy's kite,
Are wildered in their giddy flight,
Mid cloudy labyrinths, so mazy,
Like wild-geese, lost in weather hazy.—
147
Or let your dealer in sublime,
The bard, who builds the lofty rhyme,
Towering on bold Mæonian wing,
The toils of martial heroes sing,
Till tocsin-tone of triumph swells
To pealing pean, while he dwells
On Abercrombie's deeds, or else on,
The noble feats of Admiral Nelson!—
GEOFFRY.
Or wight of eagle-ken, who notes
The murderous feats of sans culottes,
Who best can manage Death's machines,
Guns, bayonets, bombs, and guillotines.
LIONEL.
'Tis mine a nobler theme to choose,
A theme more worthy of my muse,
For Sylvia's eyes my soul inspire,
And Cupid tunes Apollo's lyre!
148
Now then for congées, cut and dried,
Adapted nice to lady's pride,
And compliments, to suit all classes,
From dutchesses to country lasses;
Indeed you choose as fine a theme
As ever gilded poet's dream;
Then strut along with courage stout,
And if you flag I'll help you out.
LIONEL.
Of Sylvia's charms enraptur'd sing!
The woodlands wild, of Sylvia ring!
Fleet echo spread the theme around,
Through all your airy realms of sound!
149
Ye calves that bleat! ye pigs that squeal!
And every creaking wagon wheel,
In hovel, barn, or out-house found,
Roar, bellow, whine, and squeak around!
LIONEL.
The charming Sylvia, fair and young,
Exceeds all lasses ever sung
In Greece, or Rome; or nymph, whose smile
Now decorates Britannia's isle.
GEOFFRY.
The girl is handsome, sure enough,
Compos'd of good substantial stuff,
In beauty's mart, compar'd with Helen,
The last would scarce be worth the seiling.
150
In Sylvia see more charms united
Than ever Solomon delighted,
When erst the royal Jew's pavilion
Was starr'd with beauties, half a million.
GEOFFRY.
Before, chagrin'd with love's inanity,
The preacher told us all was vanity!
LIONEL.
Had Sylvia been on verdant Ida—
GEOFFRY.
With naked goddesses, so tidy—
LIONEL.
Divinities at whom 'tis hinted—
GEOFFRY.
A country clown with rapture squinted—
151
Compar'd with Sylvia had been mean as—
GEOFFRY.
A cinder-wench compar'd with Venus!
LIONEL.
Had she by Anthony been seen,
The Roman would have left his queen,
And yielded, cheerfully, to please her,
The Empire of the world to Cesar.
GEOFFRY.
And Cleopatra, fair, and willing,
Her charms had render'd for—a shilling!
LIONEL.
More beauties Sylvia's mien adorn,
Than gild the canopy of morn.
When Nature paints the landscape gay,
Her pencil tipp'd with solar ray,
152
Form gay umbrellas over head.
GEOFFRY.
When Sol with Thetis takes a slight nap,
And rising, doffs his misty night-cap,
Calls for his bill, in devilish hurry,
And orders groom his horse to curry!
LIONEL.
Her ruby cheeks may vie with heaven
Emblaz'd with saphire hue of even,
Or rainbow-arch so multihued,
With gold, and purple tint imbued.
GEOFFRY.
Yea, colour'd full as high, or higher,
Than when our cook, by blazing fire,
Has made a kettle full of broth,
Then rubs her cheek, with woollen cloth!
LIONEL.
My Sylvia's eyes with rapture bright'ning,
Are like a flash of vivid lightning!
153
But that with me excites no wonder,
Because her tongue out-claps the thunder!
LIONEL.
If Sylvia's beaming eyes should roll
Their kindling rays to Arctick pole,
The pale north would her empire own,
And melting, glow a torrid zone!
GEOFFRY.
So have I seen a cat, by night,
Ray A WHOLE CATARACT OF LIGHT!
And either fiery eye-ball gleam
Stupendous floods of lucid beam;
'Till Merick gulphs of brighter rays
Than scintillate in solar blaze,
Ascend TO SO SUBLIME A PITCH!
The creature seem'd to be a witch!
LIONEL.
When Sylvia sings, the ravish'd spheres
Seem hovering round with eager ears.
154
I saw her call them down, as one
Endymion did the ravish'd moon,
And string them into beads to deck
Like robins' eggs her pearly neck!
LIONEL.
Her breath is purer than the gale,
Which fans Arabia's spicy vale.
GEOFFRY.
But not so sweet, I dare to say,
As lock of new mown clover hay.
LIONEL.
Sylvia surpasses fabled misses,
Who strove to lure the wise Ulysses,
And fascinates, without a sup,
From cruel Circe's magick cup!
GEOFFRY.
So have I seen a huge black snake,
With head protruded from a brake,
155
And fix'd his splendour-beaming eye,
Till, fascinated, by the glare,
Some plumy tenant of the air,
Now this way, and now that way hies,
To 'scape the fell enchanter's eyes;
Now near the reptile takes his station;
Now hovers round in wild gyration;
Now faint, and yet more faintly flutters,
And faint the scream of horrour utters!
But still the serpent holds his lure,
And finds his plumy prey secure!
156
Among her silly throng of lovers!
LIONEL.
Sylvia can hoary age inspire,
And bid him glow with young desire;
The dim and down cast eye relume,
And pale cheek tinge with purple bloom!
GEOFFRY.
And all the faculties entrance!
And melt the soul at half a glance!
The bursting bosom fire, like tinder!
And scorch the “hot-heart” to a cinder!!
LIONEL.
My Sylvia can, by magick smile,
The pains of fell disease beguile!
GEOFFRY.
And her caress will even rout
The direst torments of the gout!
157
Take Venus, with her turtle doves,
And all the graces, all the loves
Of mortal or immortal birth,
Who ever garnish'd heaven or earth;
Combine them in one matchless piece,
As erst Apelles did in Greece,
And Sylvia all their charms surpasses,—
GEOFFRY.
As sugar candy does molasses!
LIONEL.
Now let lorn pathos load the gale,
While lost Alsander's fate we wail.—
GEOFFRY.
While grey-wing'd horrour cowering near,
Yells murder in the tortur'd ear!
158
Presumptuous youth! why did you dare
To meet the glance of nymph so fair!—
GEOFFRY.
Who thus your heart with anguish fills,
As if 'twere stuck with hedge hog quills.
LIONEL.
With far less hazard might you gaze,
On glowing Sol's meridian blaze!
Without sage Franklin's art aspire
To tamper with celestial fire!
Or roam wild Africk's scorch'd domain,
While blasting Samiel sweeps the plain!
GEOFFRY.
Yea, injur'd more, by looking at her,
Than if you star'd at pewter platter,
159
It shines like silver dollar bright!
LIONEL.
Behold him rapt in thought profound,
His heavy eye salutes the ground:—
Pale, plodding on with solemn air,
He chides the cruel! cruel! fair!
GEOFFRY.
O dear! O dear! the case is awful,
Of grief, alas! he has his maw full!
If nothing will her hard heart alter,
His last resource must be—a halter!
LIONEL.
See now, by Fancy's dream betray'd
He seems to clasp the absent maid;
Stung with wild rapture, seeks her arms—
And rayes of hearts! darts! charms! alarms!
GEOFFRY.
Now his brain maddens! now he sips
Hogsheads of honey from her lips!
160
He has a sort of hornet's nest;
And stung therewith good lack-a-day,
He cannot eat, drink, sleep, or pray!
161
Now from his bosom bursts the sigh,
Where does the blest illusion fly?
Down his wan cheek, without control,
The tears of heart felt anguish roll!
GEOFFRY.
Now moody murmurs hear him utter,
Like child that cries for bread and butter!
Now moaning, madly mutters loud,
Like bully, horse-whipp'd, in a crowd!
LIONEL.
Well may the carking miser boast,
To navigate along the coast
Life's brittle bark, which Avarice steers,
But Love, nor Pity, never veers;
His sordid soul is with his treasure,
To care alive, but dead to pleasure:
And well may torpid stoick own
His heart is cold as frigid zone;
162
Insensate to those fond alarms,
That pleasing, but still poignant wo,
Which ever anxious lovers know,
Though all the bliss, which he can boast,
May be enjoy'd by wooden post;
And well may barber's block be vain
Of its immunity from pain;—
But tell me, Geoffry, if you please,
If thou art like to one of these,
Whether at random, or by rule,
Thou aim'st the shafts of ridicule?
GEOFFRY.
While perch'd in high ethereal garret,
A spectacle for fools to stare at,
In ditty, either wild, or stupid,
You sang of Venus, Circe, Cupid,
And dragg'd about your jaded muse,
'Mid clouds, and stars, and golden hues,
I thought it beat to keep in sight,
But not impede so bold a flight.
If now a tour you would commence,
Within the realms of common sense,
163
To condescend to be your Mentor!
LIONEL.
Perhaps it best your humour suits
To level women with the brutes,
Maintain the Turkish tenet droll,
The lovely creatures have no soul.
You have some wild whim in your pate,
Of innocence in savage state;
Become an advocate, I trow,
For frantick schemes of Jaques Rousseau.
Would you have queens to market trudge,
Depress a dutchess to a drudge,
In Beauty's empire make such ravages
That men become a set of savages?
GEOFFRY.
Not so; but never will I vex
With your impertinence the sex;
Nor utter such extravaganzas
As sublimate your swelling stanzas;
Nor, poring at the lovely creatures,
Spy solar systems in their features;
164
“My dears, I know you have no soul;
“But sweet Miss Peggy, or Miss Pol,
“Thou art a mighty pretty doll!
“And made of such weak muslin stuff,
“That nonsense suits you well enough!”—
LIONEL.
Is it your humour to degrade
Bright Hymen's court, to mart for trade?
Have pretty nymphs expos'd to sale,
And ladies vendned off by tale,
Prohibiting your Dutch-like strand,
All metaphors, as contraband;
But, in your foresaid fair, or market
When lads and lasses meet to spark it,
Bid buxom damsel lusty youth,
Deal, merely, in the naked truth,
And Mister Hodge address Miss Sue—
“If you'll love me, then I'll love you,
“For I am come to go a courting,
“Because you've got a handsome fortune.”
165
A while, my “sweetest Fancy's child,
You warble native wood-notes wild,”
As though you tenanted the bushes,
With black birds, screech owls, crows, and thrushes;
And next, with Della Cruscan flight,
You stem the cataract of light;
Attended (how supremely odd it is)
By shoals of heathen gods and goddesses;
Now you descend in vulgar style,
Below old Blackmore full a mile.
LIONEL.
But you, like some tall sachem stall,
With Satire's brandish'd tomahawk,
Perhaps, to joys of love, a stranger,
You act the part of dog in manger.
Say, would you cause by all your pother
One half our race to damn the other;
Daughters of Eve, and Adam's sons,
Turn bachelors, and Amazons;
166
Of taper nuns, and gaunt monasticks?
GEOFFRY.
Let rapt attention chain thine ear;
Hear me! and reverence what you hear,
While truths, more precious I unfold
Than splendid gems incas'd with gold.
I am not one of those, who own
The nerve of steel, the heart of stone,
But beauty's willing votary bow,
Nor blush allegiance to avow.
When angry clouds life's sun o'ercast,
Preluding rude Misfortune's blast;
When doubts perplex, when cares annoy,
And bar each avenue of joy;
When the pale victim of disease,
Which baffled art cannot appease;
Torn by affliction's sharpest thong,
Till hope has ceas'd her siren song,
Sees shrouded Horrour's spectred form,
Ride moaning in the midnight storm;
The fairer sex possess the power
To tranquillize the torturing hour,
And bid mild sympathy impart
Her cordial to the bursting heart.
To cheer with smiles the vale of woe
Is not the only power they know;
But oft it is their sweet employ
To light with love the lamp of joy.
'Tis their's, in pleasure's brightest noon,
The fibres of the heart to tune
To tones of rapture, which might even
Prelude the harmony of heaven!
Hear me! and reverence what you hear,
While truths, more precious I unfold
Than splendid gems incas'd with gold.
I am not one of those, who own
The nerve of steel, the heart of stone,
But beauty's willing votary bow,
Nor blush allegiance to avow.
When angry clouds life's sun o'ercast,
Preluding rude Misfortune's blast;
When doubts perplex, when cares annoy,
And bar each avenue of joy;
When the pale victim of disease,
Which baffled art cannot appease;
Torn by affliction's sharpest thong,
Till hope has ceas'd her siren song,
Sees shrouded Horrour's spectred form,
Ride moaning in the midnight storm;
The fairer sex possess the power
To tranquillize the torturing hour,
167
Her cordial to the bursting heart.
To cheer with smiles the vale of woe
Is not the only power they know;
But oft it is their sweet employ
To light with love the lamp of joy.
'Tis their's, in pleasure's brightest noon,
The fibres of the heart to tune
To tones of rapture, which might even
Prelude the harmony of heaven!
168
But I don't think the little witches,
By nature meant to wear the breeches,
And spread the empire of their charms,
Like Mahomet, by force of arms;
Nor will I with my system graft
The whims of Mary Wollstonecraft;
And have of course no plan in view
To form a naval rendezvous
Of petticoated sailors, jolly,
At Spithead, under Admiral Polly.—
And I confess I have my fears
They would not march like grenadiers,
With bayonet, and courage stout,
To storm a fortified redoubt.
Nor do I think that pretty maids
Would stand, in regular blockades,
But would surrender, to a man,
Although intrench'd by fam'd Vauben!
By nature meant to wear the breeches,
And spread the empire of their charms,
Like Mahomet, by force of arms;
Nor will I with my system graft
The whims of Mary Wollstonecraft;
And have of course no plan in view
To form a naval rendezvous
Of petticoated sailors, jolly,
At Spithead, under Admiral Polly.—
And I confess I have my fears
They would not march like grenadiers,
With bayonet, and courage stout,
To storm a fortified redoubt.
Nor do I think that pretty maids
Would stand, in regular blockades,
But would surrender, to a man,
Although intrench'd by fam'd Vauben!
So much for them; and now to you
I will address a word or two:—
Do not commence in love's career
With whimpering plaints about your dear;
Nor tell the world your case deplorable,
That you're despis'd by your adorable;
Nor sit on moss-grown bank and snivel,
Because Miss Sylvia is uncivil;
Nor sing to every brawling brook,
She petrifi'd you with a look;
Nor make you fair, in prose or metre,
A monstrous pretty sort of creature;
Nor sack the store-house of Dame Nature
For similes wherewith to mate her;
Nor conjure up, with deal of pains,
From vasty deep of poet's brains,
A heathenish sort of wizard battery,
To take her heart by dint of flattery.—
That Venus, Dian, and the rest.
Compar'd with her are second best.
Thus have I known a would-be poet,
Who was, alas! a man of no wit,
Whose lays with tawdry nonsense shone,
As much like your's as are your own.
He form'd a chaos every line
Of all his folly could combine;
Oft haul'd in gods, by head and shoulders,
To discipline militia soldiers,
And made the stout old bully Mars,
The captain Church of Indian wars;
The pretty musical Miss Clio
Her jewsharp tune on broad Ohio;
And little Cupid, all the tippy,
Along the banks of Mississippi,
In spite of all poetick laws
His arrows shoot at tawny squaws!
All this may do, in humorous pieces,
Where things absurd our mirth increases;
Would you describe a drunken rout,
And for expressions are put to't,
Then introduce old Mr. Bacchus,
And make his godship chyme with crackers;
But would you win the fair you love,
Such foolish trifling be above;
For if she's sense a single grain,
Your florid nonsense will be vain;
Your true sublime, and lorn pathetick,
She will abhor, like an emetick.
I will address a word or two:—
Do not commence in love's career
With whimpering plaints about your dear;
169
That you're despis'd by your adorable;
Nor sit on moss-grown bank and snivel,
Because Miss Sylvia is uncivil;
Nor sing to every brawling brook,
She petrifi'd you with a look;
Nor make you fair, in prose or metre,
A monstrous pretty sort of creature;
Nor sack the store-house of Dame Nature
For similes wherewith to mate her;
Nor conjure up, with deal of pains,
From vasty deep of poet's brains,
A heathenish sort of wizard battery,
To take her heart by dint of flattery.—
That Venus, Dian, and the rest.
Compar'd with her are second best.
Thus have I known a would-be poet,
Who was, alas! a man of no wit,
Whose lays with tawdry nonsense shone,
As much like your's as are your own.
He form'd a chaos every line
Of all his folly could combine;
170
To discipline militia soldiers,
And made the stout old bully Mars,
The captain Church of Indian wars;
The pretty musical Miss Clio
Her jewsharp tune on broad Ohio;
And little Cupid, all the tippy,
Along the banks of Mississippi,
In spite of all poetick laws
His arrows shoot at tawny squaws!
All this may do, in humorous pieces,
Where things absurd our mirth increases;
Would you describe a drunken rout,
And for expressions are put to't,
Then introduce old Mr. Bacchus,
And make his godship chyme with crackers;
But would you win the fair you love,
Such foolish trifling be above;
For if she's sense a single grain,
Your florid nonsense will be vain;
171
She will abhor, like an emetick.
But if so fortunate your case is,
That love is built on friendship's basis,
Not a mere wild and wanton fire,
But pure esteem, and chaste desire;
What time a thousand tender arts
Denote a unison of hearts,
When half express'd, half stifled sigh,
And timid glance from downcast eye
Appear expressively unique,
With crimson flush of beauty's cheek;
And all in tender tone proclaim
That hopes and wishes are the same;
Unite assenting hearts and hands,
In gentle Hymeneal bands;
Then may you fondly hope to prove
The tranquil sweets of wedded love,
While rapture crowns each passing day,
Till life and love at once decay!
That love is built on friendship's basis,
Not a mere wild and wanton fire,
But pure esteem, and chaste desire;
What time a thousand tender arts
Denote a unison of hearts,
When half express'd, half stifled sigh,
And timid glance from downcast eye
Appear expressively unique,
With crimson flush of beauty's cheek;
And all in tender tone proclaim
That hopes and wishes are the same;
Unite assenting hearts and hands,
In gentle Hymeneal bands;
Then may you fondly hope to prove
The tranquil sweets of wedded love,
While rapture crowns each passing day,
Till life and love at once decay!
Lionel attempting to chaunt a love-song, Geoffry respondeth every stanza, and taketh him off, much after the manner of a merry Andrew, at Bartholomew Fair.
“Thinking her love he never shall obtain,
“One morn he haunts the woods, and doth complain
“Of his unhappy fate, but all in vain;
“And thus fond echo answers him again,” &c.
COWLEY.
“One morn he haunts the woods, and doth complain
“Of his unhappy fate, but all in vain;
“And thus fond echo answers him again,” &c.
COWLEY.
“The fascinating power ascribed to serpents, especially to rattle-snakes, by which they are said to draw animals to them is very curious. The rattle-snake fixes its eyes upon any animal, such as a bird or squirrel: when the animal spies the snake, it skips from spray to spray, hovering and approaching nearer to the enemy; descending with distracted gestures, and cries, from the top of the loftiest trees to the mouth of the snake, who opens his jaws, and in an instant swallows the unfortunate animal.” Encyclopædia Britannica. It appears, however, from the testimony of American philosophers, that the fascinated bird or beast is only busied in acts of hostility against the fascinator. See a brief sketch of about 40 pages, in large quarto, American Philosophical Transactions, vol. iv. from p. 74 to 114.
“But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face,
“I durst no more upon them gaze,
“Than on the sun in July!”
SIR JOHN SUCKLING.
“I durst no more upon them gaze,
“Than on the sun in July!”
SIR JOHN SUCKLING.
The gentleman who wrote Little's Poems appears to have been affected in the same manner. Having sighed away a “wild hour” or two, in concert with his beloved, he complains, that
“When to my pillow rack'd I fly,“With wearied sense, and wakeful eye,
“While my brain maddens, where, oh! where
“Is that serene consoling prayer,
“Which once has harbinger'd my rest.”
The author of the “Pleasures of Hope” talks more sensibly on this subject.
“But can the noble mind for ever brood“The willing victim of a weary mood,
“On heartless cares, which squander life away
“And cloud young genius bright'ning into day;
“If hope's creative sp'rit cannot raise
“One trophy sacred to thy future days;
“Scorn the dull crowd that haunt the gloomy shrine
“Of hopeless love, to murmur and repine.”
“When on my sickly couch I lay,
“Impatient both of night and day,
“Lamenting, in unmanly strains,
“Call'd every power to ease my pains;
“Now, with a soft and silent tread,
“Unheard she moves about my bed.”
SWIFT.
“Impatient both of night and day,
“Lamenting, in unmanly strains,
“Call'd every power to ease my pains;
“Now, with a soft and silent tread,
“Unheard she moves about my bed.”
SWIFT.
| Original poems | |