University of Virginia Library

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Pandora, a Monodrama.

Pandora passing from heaven to earth.
[A voice from the air.
PANDORA.
Ah me! who are ye?—wretched, wretched woman!

[The voice continues.
PANDORA.
What have I done?—hush, hush, a softer sound!

[Another voice from the air.

ARIADNE.

The lofty pines are torn from Pelion's steep,
And stately floating o'er the gleamy deep,
Bear to Ætæan shores and Phasis' strand
The Argive youth, a vigorous, dauntless band;
Braving the surge, and mocking every toil,
They nobly dare to snatch the golden spoil;
A favouring goddess sends the prosperous breeze,
And wafts them smoothly o'er the untried seas;
Soon as the swift keel trac'd its foamy way,
And bending oars dash'd high the glittering spray,
The wondering sea-gods rais'd their dewy brows,
And Nereids, trembling, from their caves arose;
Then first to human sight expos'd they stood,
Their lovely forms half-bending o'er the flood;
Peleus enraptur'd, gaz'd on Thetis' charms,
And clasp'd a yielding goddess in his arms.
Hail! heaven-sprung heroes, born in happiest days!
Long in my verse shall live your well-earn'd praise,
Thou, chief—Thessalia's bulwark and her pride,
To whom e'en Jove resign'd a splendid bride,
Dooming, reluctant, to thy fond embrace,
The fairest daughter of the sea-god race—
See from the east bright shoots the roseate ray,
And laughing hours lead on the nuptial day;
Nor Grecian towers, nor Tempe's shades, detain
The jocund myriads; o'er Thessalia's plain
They press, with eager joy, their chief to greet,
And pour their costly offerings at his feet;
The fields deserted give to welcome peace
The tired steer; the rattling arrows cease;
The plough-share rusts unheeded, and the oak
No longer trembles to the woodman's stroke;
Lost in delight, amid the regal domes,
The revel crowd forget their humble homes;
The gold's deep lustre, and the silvery beam
Shoot thro' the lofty halls a blended gleam;
The glistening ivory decks the throne of state;
The gorgeous table shines with massy plate;
But far above the rest, the nuptial bed
Of Tyrian dye, with splendid coverings spread:
The rich embroidery tells of heroes' deeds,
Of fierce encounters, and of virtue's meeds—
Entranc'd in woe, see Ariadne stand,
Alone, abandon'd, on the sea-dash'd strand;
Fresh from her couch, where floating dreams of night
Had spread their painted visions to her sight,
She fondly trusts that still they mock her view,
And scarce believes her misery is true;
Mean time her lover, hastening from the shore,
Skims the green waves, and plies the dripping oar;
Fix'd to the earth, she views, with streaming eyes,
The distant sail, and deeper pangs arise;
The glittering fillet of her golden hair,
Her thin-spun veil, light dancing in the air,
The slender zone, her snowy breast that binds,
Fall at her feet, the sport of eddying winds;
Nor veil, nor zone attract her fixed sight,
Deep plung'd in grief, she marks but Theseus' flight;
With him her soul still strives the waves to ride,
Cleaves to his lips, and lingers by his side.
Thrice wretched-woman! hated be the hour
When first thy lover trod the Cretan shore!
When first, self-doom'd, he fearless rush'd to save
The youth of Athens from th' untimely grave.
In Minos' glittering courts the hero stands,
A towering god amidst his vigorous bands,
Fair Ariadne sees him, sees and loves,
O'er every charm her youthful fancy roves,
Her heart drinks deep th' intoxicating fire
Of giddy passion, and of warm desire.
Fair son of Venus, dear, tormenting boy,
Who light'st, 'mid human woes, the lamp of joy;
How couldst thou, cruel, plunge so deep thy dart,
And triumph fiercely o'er a virgin heart?
Soft is the lustre of her pensive eyes,
Her labouring bosom heaves with frequent sighs,
Her hurried slumbers unknown terrors break,
And livid paleness creeps across her cheek;
But most, when Theseus braves the doubtful fight,
Her sinking spirits sicken with affright,
To every aiding god, in deep despair,
She vows her gifts, and breathes the silent prayer—
Her prayer is heard—As raging storm-winds sweep
The pine uprooted, from the rocky steep,
Dash the firm oak to earth, and rapid bear
Its twisted branches in the whirling air:
Thus, with resistless force, the youth assails
The blood-stain'd monster; now no more avails
The chilling terror of his hideous form;
He bends, he flies before the impetuous storm:
In vain he flies; the hero swift pursues,
With glowing heart th' auspicious fight renews,
With sinewy arm quick ends the glorious strife,
The monster falls, and groaning, yields his life;
Thro' the dark maze the victor tracks his way,
And the thin clue restores him to the day—
But let us turn from scenes of brighter hue,
Nor tell how swift the golden minutes flew,
Whilst Ariadne, borne to Naxos' shore,
Liv'd but to love, till that detested hour,
When the false youth forsook his blooming bride,
And broke the sacred bonds that love had tied.
From her pale lips indignant accents burst,
Whilst her heart shudder'd at the deed accurs'd;
Now with fleet step, she climbs the mountain brow,
And wistful gazes on the deep below;
Now wildly rushes 'midst the weltering surge,
And calls on Theseus from the ocean's verge;
Dash'd by the frothy waves, forlorn and faint,
Mix'd with deep sobs, she breathes the fond complaint:
“Perfidious man! for thee I left my home,
“Faithful to follow where thy steps should roam,
“For thee forsook a tender mother's arms,
“And blushing, doom'd to thee my virgin charms;
“Could no soft ties that cruel bosom move?
“No fond endearments win thy constant love?
“Was it for this thy solemn vows were sworn?
“Vows that are now become thy jest, thy scorn?
“Fondly I hop'd, to Hymen's temple led
“By sportive trains, to share thy nuptial bed—
“But every hope and every joy is dead—
“Base is thy sex, ye woo but to betray,
“Nor oaths, nor gods impede your daring way,
“Still, still ye flatter, till enjoyment cloys,
“And the false tale that won us, then destroys;
“But thou art doubly base—'t was I who spar'd
“Thy life, thy glory—what is my reward?
“For this thou leav'st me on a desert land,
“Lingering to perish, where no pious hand
“The last sad duties to my corse shall pay—
“Of wolves, of vultures I am doom'd the prey.
“Ah! did a Libyan tygress give thee birth?
“Or raging ocean cast thee upon earth?
“Whence, whence thy monster-race, that thus repays
“The gift of life? the boon of happy days?
“What if, obedient to thy sire's command,
“Thou fear'dst to lead me to thy native land,
“Thy wife confess'd; ah! why for ever leave
“Her who had follow'd as thy humblest slave?
“Her to whom every office had been dear,
“That serv'd thy wants to ease, thy life to cheer?
“But why unheeded to the wandering air
“Thus pour my woes, and breathe the fruitless prayer?
“Far o'er the swelling waves the bark is fled,
“And all around is desolate and sad;
“Denied to me the wretch's last relief,
“Unheard I mourn, unpitied sink in grief.
“Thou potent god! ah! would thy thundering hand
“Had dash'd the traitorous vessel on the strand;
“Would the deceitful youth, who veil'd by art,
“By graces veil'd the treachery of his heart,
“Had sunk unheeded in the heaving sea,
“Nor doom'd this faithful breast to misery!—
“Where shall I turn me? see, the wide-spread main
“For ever bars me from the Cretan plain,
“Or would a parent's arms receive a child,
“Lost to all shame, by kindred blood defil'd?
“No, wretch—go seek thy faithful lover's breast,
“Fall at his feet, and sue to be caress'd—
“Distracting thought!—where'er my eyes are cast,
“No hope is seen—the hour of joy is past;
“Thick o'er my heart increasing horrors roll,
“And death alone can calm my struggling soul;
“But ere these limbs shall fail in wild affright,
“Ere my dim eyes shall close in endless night,
“I hail the furies with a holy dread,
“And call down vengeance on the perjurer's head.”—
She ceas'd—in wrath th' appalling sisters rise,
Jove bows assent, and rocks the solid skies;
Earth trembles, ocean heaves, and heaven's bright flames
Quivering confirm the mandate he proclaims.

ODE TO MORNING.

ODE TO NIGHT.

EPIGRAM ON A SWALLOW BEARING A GRASSHOPPER TO HER YOUNG.

ODE TO BACCHUS.

Bacchus, ivy-waving king,
Lead me thro' the mystic ring,
Gladly catch my shouts of glee,
And songs that waken revelry!
Son of Semele, advance,
Bromius, lead me in the dance!—
On mountain-heights thou lov'st to stray,
And guide thy loudly-jocund train,
While nymphs around thee chant their lay,
Thou swell'st the shout and frolic strain;
Echo, from her quivering shell,
Rocks, o'er tufted woods that tower,
The dark-brow'd hill, the bending dell,
Scatter wide the festive roar.
O thou, with bright-leav'd ivy crown'd,
While song and gladness burst around,
Son of Semele, advance,
Bromius, lead me in the dance.

THE SONG OF DANAE.

EPIGRAM.

[Who hangs a garland on the rose?—]

Who hangs a garland on the rose?—
How idle then the 'broidered vest,
And studded fillet on thy brows,
And pearls that fade upon thy breast;
Twine not with gold thy glossy hair,
That floats, uncheck'd, in lovelier swell;
And scorn the gorgeous gem to bear,
Whose beam thy sparkling eyes excel.
Those dewy lips, that matchless grace,
No borrow'd lustre can enhance;
Trembling, thy potent charms I trace—
But sweet hope lingers in thy glance.

TO THE GRASSHOPPER.

Ever-happy child of spring,
On the summit of yon tree,
Sipping dew, thou sitt'st a king,
Chanting loud notes merrily;
Thine is all that nature yields,
All the smiling hours display;
Harmless tenant of the fields,
Safely pass thy frolic day;
Herald sure of summer skies,
Friend to man, to muses dear,
Phœbus' self to thee supplies
Sportive chirpings, shrill and clear;
Age to thee no terror bears,
Well-taught lover of the song,
Thy slender, dew-fed form no passion tears,
Thou earth-born brother of th' immortal throng!

EPIGRAM.

[Blest is the cup from which my Cynthia sips!]

Blest is the cup from which my Cynthia sips!
Thrice blest, to press the roses of her lips!
Ah! would she fervent join those lips to mine,
And drink my soul in such a kiss divine.

EPIGRAM.

[Graces must hold, though beauty first may gain]

Graces must hold, though beauty first may gain;
Without the hook, the bait but floats in vain.

ODE.

[Flush'd with bloming beauty's pride]

A WAR SONG.

TO CYNTHIA.

TO CYNTHIA.

TO CYNTHIA.

INVITATION TO ------

A FRAGMENT.

Haste to thy friend, and from the mountain brow,
High over-arching Cromer's pebbled shore,
Trace ocean's varying hues, and mark the shades
That chace each other o'er his dark-green breast
In quick succession, floating with the clouds
That cast the moving gloom; or watch the spread
Of gathering storms, that heave across the sky
Their widening night, while hollow-whistling winds
Now swell, now sink, and rolls the blacken'd sea
His hoarser surge—or heed the rippling showers
That rattle o'er the deep, while airy forms
Build on its waves the glittering bow of heaven;
And when, behind yon wood-girt hills, the sun
Has quench'd his fires, the sea-born flames shall flash,
Glide thro' the wave, and sparkle on the strand.
If these delight not, catch the purple beam
Of sun-rise, tinging wide the mist of morn,
And melting it to air—then brush along
The flowery meadow, mark its native blooms,
And glowing tints fresh-painted with the dew,
While, from their lair, the full-ey'd, stately steers
Slow-stretching rise, and scan with fixed look
Thy stranger form, and breathe their balmy steam.
Or seek the bristly corn-field, jocund there,
The low-bent mowers ply the hissing scythe
In cadence not unpleasing; with their task,
The tale, the laugh is mix'd; and bend thy steps
To yon fleet brook, amid whose shining waves
The countless shoals wheel swift, upturning oft
Their polish'd sides, and dart the flickering gleam
Of silver light—when evening slowly dims
With softest shade, the glary light of day,
When dark clouds, gold-tipp'd, cross the crimson sky,
And rear in air an awful, radiant throne
For shapes unseen, and through the reeking vale
The calm, deep flood of yellow light is pour'd,
Then pensive wander to the twilight still
Of Felbrigg's oaks, for there thy mind shall feed
On heaven-born thought—

ODE TO A FLY.

SONNET.

TO A COTTAGE.

Well pleas'd I mark thy modest, straw-crown'd roof,
The luscious woodbine that o'ertwines its brow,
And yon thick rose-buds' crimsom-tinted glow—
And fancy whispers that, tho' far aloof
From all that madding crowds so fondly prize,
Within thy humble walls I'd joy to live
In deepest calm; for I could well despise
All but the bliss which tenderest love would give.
Vain dream!—that bliss, alas! is ever dead;
No more this fond heart feels its soothing powers,
With her, the angel-traitress, far it fled,
And melancholy marks my lonely hours—
Vain then the peaceful cot—fair nature's calm
On wounds like mine can pour no healing balm.

SONNET.

TO RELIGION.

Spirit most pure, who through the darkling air
Point'st the rich sapphire of eternal day,
Long have I sighing pac'd my lonely way,
The child of woe and heart-consuming care.
O lift from earth to heaven my languid eye!
Teach me to deem alike each joy, each pain
Of mortal coil but fleeting, empty, vain;
Guide to that hope which peers above the sky.
And still should torturing memory love to tell
Of past delight, no more the tale I'll fear,
Thy smile serene shall check each rising tear,
And passion's giddy gusts no more shall swell;
My calmed soul shall spurn her dark abode,
Soaring to meet her father, friend, and God.

SONNET.

[In vain doth Grandeur, trick'd in gorgeous pall]

In vain doth Grandeur, trick'd in gorgeous pall,
Stalk stately by, and point to glittering joys;
In vain doth Mammon spread his gilded toys,
To lure a careless wight to bitter thrall;
In vain doth loudly-laughing Pleasure call
To loose delights and days of mirthful noise;
Hence, hated fiends!—me gentle Peace accoys;
Her cup is heavenly sweet, undash'd with gall;
Yblest in her, with slow and secret tread,
I wander, loitering, in the arched grove,
Fancy's gay dreams aye dancing round my head;
There jolly elves at midnight nimbly move
Their dainty feet; and shades of mighty dead
Glide pale across my path. Such scenes the muses love.

SONNET.

[Ah, wretched man! whom Fame shall tempt to leave]

Ah, wretched man! whom Fame shall tempt to leave
The soft and silent valley of Repose,
And with her deeply-stirring voice deceive
To deeds of thankless toil, and weary woes;
Ah! wretched man! who stays ne to perceive
The thorns that threat'ning gird the peerless rose;
But hopes unharm'd he may a wreath receive
Of deathless flowerets to surround his brows—
Look up!—afore the beamy towers of Fame,
What fell and ghastly fiends for ever wait;
Envy, whose baleful vipers none can tame,
And Disappointment of slow, sullen gait,
And with her eyes abash'd, heart-damping Shame;
Fly, fly to fair Repose, nor scorn so sweet a mate.

THE DYING AFRICAN.

SONNET.

[Tho' manly ardour in thy bosom glows]

Tho' manly ardour in thy bosom glows
While Freedom's banners wave on Gallia's plain,
While Freedom's clarion sounds th' inspiring strain,
And millions, starting from a base repose,
Sweep from their sickening land the oppressive woes
Of slavery's gloomy desolating reign,
And fiercely bursting from the despot's chain
Dash from the haughty throne their tyrant foes;
Amidst the tempest's howl and wild uproar
Ere yet the shatter'd nation sinks to rest,
Cast a fond look on Britain's peaceful shore
Nor chace her blessings from thy kindling breast.
Here soft affection spreads her grateful store,
And friendship calls thee where no storms molest.

SONNET, 1803.

(In a late fashionable and highly-finished style.)

TO A WEEPING WILLOW.

SONNET, 1803.

(In the present fashionable and truly simple style.)

ON MY GREAT UNCLE, JOSEPH WIGGINS, ESQ.

(Written at the age of eight and three quarters.)

TO CHAUCER.

(As if by a contemporary writer.)

Forsyth thowe beest the fyrst gode harpour wight
That sang full swotilie in lefe Englonde,
Thie galiard gle, me doth to grete delite,
And in low curtesie I kiss thie hond;
Now thie queint leys of stalwart knightes do tell,
Of gisarmes split, and haubergéons rivin,
And now of monkes ystall'd in corven cell,
And now of wincing wives to daliaunce givin;
Ronn nat to glittern in the gergon throng,
But swell thie renomie at my behest,
Certes, gode Geffray, eche shall con thie song,
And leve eche song he conneth be thie best.

ADDRESS TO A GOTHIC CHAIR,

IN THE PRIORY OF BRACONDALE LODGE, NORFOLK.

Yes, venerable chair! I surely prize
Thy massy limbs, thy broad and towering back,
Thy dark unfaded gloss, and carvings quaint,
'Bove all the seats that fickle fancy forms
Of daintier trim. The ever-creaking cane,
The light deal trick'd with many a gaudy tint,
The tottering, 'broider'd stool, and such slim toys,
Are but gay lackeys to thy majesty.
Safe in thy solid sides, I love to roll
My weary limbs—thy form of antique guise
Flings o'er my mind a mystic, soothing charm;
And then, in musing mood, I conjure up
The scenes that pass'd beside thee—oft thou'st stood
High at the festive board, amid the shouts
Of hospitable mirth—in lofty hall,
With blazons dight, and echoing to the din
Of minstrelsy and song, thy liberal lord
From heart-of-oak has cheerly push'd around
The wassail-bowl, and roar'd the welcome toasts
Of good old English loyalty. And oft,
To gentler duty doom'd, thou 'st foster'd well
The patriarch of the house, who turn'd the page
Of holy writ, and with right reverend grace,
Taught to his blooming family around
The words of endless Truth; with decent awe
They listen to the lore, except, perchance,
Some heedless prattler, youngest of the flock,
Whom the scar'd mother, by her winks and frowns,
Can scarcely chide to silence. Then, again,
The grandsire crept to rest, some blushing girl
Of slender mould, would glide into his seat,
And slily view the ample space she leaves
Unoccupied—nor is the hint disdain'd
By the bold youth that woos her; briskly rising,
He claims the vacant half, and spite of all
Her feign'd denials, nestles by her side.
In merrier sports too, ever-honour'd seat,
Thou 'st surely play'd thy part—with foil and lace,
With gems of glass, and many a checker'd wreath
Of ribbands deck'd thou 'st form'd a splendid throne
For him, the happy wight, whom chance pronounc'd
The Twelfth-night king; in thee his mimic state
He jocund held, whilst his gay court around
Mix'd in the song, the dance, and gambols wild.
But not thus fearless has thy stately form
Been always view'd—the stern-brow'd Justice there
Has held his seat; with beard of formal cut
And velvet cap terrific, well he weigh'd
The culprit's deeds of guilt; but loud reproof
Was all he oft bestow'd, which scarce conceal'd
The tide of mercy flowing in his heart.
But much, I fear, alas! no scenes like these
Have lately grac'd thee; hurl'd by scornful arm
'Midst mouldering trunks, and shreds, and portraits grim
Of Aldermen and May'rs, thy sturdy limbs
Were deeply shrouded in the garret's gloom—
Blest be the hand that dragg'd thee back to light
And wholesome air; restor'd thee to the state
Thou well may'st claim; and doom'd thee, thus secure,
To the still cell, congenial with thy form!

ON TROWSE ORGAN.

ON THE SAME.

TRANSLATION OF THE Cyclops of Euripides.

PERSONS OF THE PLAY.

• Silenus.
• Ulysses.
• The Cyclops.
• Chorus of Satyrs.

SCENE. SICILY. Caves at the foot of Mount Ætna.

[Act 1]

SILENUS.
O Bacchus! what innumerable toils
I suffer for thy sake—aye, and have suffer'd
E'en from my earliest days—I well remember
When first, by Juno madden'd, we forsook
The mountain-nymphs, thy nurses—then again,
Close by thy side, I fought the earth-born giants,
And thro' the shield of fierce Enceladon
Driving my spear, I slew him—softly—softly—
Did I not dream all this?—by Jove, not I—
'T is fact—all fact—I shew'd the spoils to Bacchus—
Now my fate's harder still—when Juno urg'd
These Tyrrhene scoundrels to attack my master,
And bear him off, I straitway sought a vessel,
Took all my children with me, put to sea,
And sail'd in quest of Bacchus—while I steer'd,
My boys here row'd—the green sea foam'd around us;
Passing by Malea, a wind sprang up,
That drove us to these rocks—the rocks of Ætna—
Here dwell the one-ey'd children of the god
Who rules the sea—a bloody, monstrous race—
Captur'd by Polypheme, for him we toil—
No more we shout our god, but guard the herds
Of this accursed Cyclops—on yon hill
My sons now watch his flock—while I am doom'd
To sweep his cave, to keep all clean within,
To wait upon him at his impious meals—
Come, I must now to work, and sweep, and scrape,
That all be neat—what's this?—my sons approach,
Driving their flocks—hark—hark,—does this resemble
The Bacchanalian shout, the choral song
Mingled with music in Althæa's hall?

SEMI-CHORUS.
Why, O flocks of noblest race,
Why, across the barren rocks,
So idly range?
There no cooling breezes play,
There no tempting herbage springs,
There no curling eddies gush—
Come to the dewy field,
Come to your master's fold—

SEMI-CHORUS.

CHORUS.
I shout the Bromian lay;
On Venus still I call,
Venus, whom oft I've sought
With Bacchus' sportive train—
O friendly god, O dearest youth,
Where is thy lonely seat?
Where dost thou, mourning, shake
Thy golden hair?
Far from thy cheering looks,
In coarsest garb I pine,
The monster's slave.—

SILENUS.
Be silent, children; haste and drive your flocks
Into the rocky caves.

CHORUS.
We will, my father,
But why so urgent?

SILENUS.
Close upon the shore
I see a Grecian galley, and its crew,
Led by their captain, seem to bend their course
This way—they're surely seeking food and water,
They bear some empty vessels—wretched strangers!
Who can they be?—alas! they cannot know
The nature of our master—little think they
That, landing on these hated shores, they come
The self-doom'd victims of the Cyclops' jaws—
Now be ye quiet, children, whilst I ask
What fate has thrown them on the shores of Sicily—

[Enter Ulysses and his Crew.]
ULYSSES.
O say, my friends, where can we find a spring
To slake our thirst? where can we purchase food
To store our vessel?—this is very strange—
Sure 't is a Bromian city—all around—
Within, without the caves, there's nought but satyrs;
I will address the oldest—Hail! old man.

SILENUS.
Hail! stranger—quickly tell me who thou art,
And whence thou comest—

ULYSSES.
Thou behold'st Ulysses.

SILENUS.
I've heard of him—he is the veriest prater—

ULYSSES.
I'm he, I say—spare your abuse, my friend,—

SILENUS.
And pray whence came you last?

ULYSSES.
I came from Troy.

SILENUS.
Had you not wit enough to find your home?

ULYSSES.
By adverse winds I'm driven to this coast.

SILENUS.
Alas! your fate and mine are much alike.

ULYSSES.
Were you then driven to this land by storms?

SILENUS.
Yes, running after thieves who stole my master.

ULYSSES.
What place is this, and who inhabit it?

SILENUS.
This isle is Sicily—this mountain, Ætna.

ULYSSES.
Where are your cities? where your lofty walls?

SILENUS.
We have no cities, and no walls but rocks.

ULYSSES.
Who then dwell here, a race of savage beasts?

SILENUS.
The Cyclops dwell here, caverns are their houses.

ULYSSES.
Have they a ruler?—what's their mode of life?

SILENUS.
They're wandering shepherds, no one heeds the other.

ULYSSES.
Do they not till the ground? What food have they?

SILENUS.
They've milk and cheese;—sometimes they feast on flesh.

ULYSSES.
Have they not here the liquor of the grape?

SILENUS.
No—not a drop—O 't is a cursed country.

ULYSSES.
And are the Cyclops very kind to guests?

SILENUS.
O very kind—they prize no flesh so highly.

ULYSSES.
What say you?—flesh of guests!—they cannot eat them?

SILENUS.
Yes but they do,—they butcher all they catch.

ULYSSES.
Where is the Cyclops? is he in his cave?

SILENUS.
No, he is hunting, with his dogs, on Ætna.

ULYSSES.
Be brisk then, my good friend—do not detain us.

SILENUS.
What should I do? I'm ready to befriend you.

ULYSSES.
Procure us food—

SILENUS.
There's nothing here but flesh—

ULYSSES.
Well, that will do—

SILENUS.
And cheese, and milk of cows—

ULYSSES.
Bring it all forth, let's look before we buy.

SILENUS.
And how much gold, then, will you give for it?

ULYSSES.
None—none at all—I'll give a draught of wine.

SILENUS.
Wine? sweetest sound!—how long since I have tasted—

ULYSSES.
Maron himself bestow'd the precious gift.

SILENUS.
Maron?—how oft I've nurs'd him in these arms.

ULYSSES.
The son of Bacchus, as you well remember.

SILENUS.
Is the wine with you, or on board your ship?

ULYSSES.
This is the skin that holds it—look, my friend—

SILENUS.
That?—why there's scarce enough to wet my gullet.

ULYSSES.
I have much more than this—

SILENUS.
O the dear fountain!
So sweet, so grateful—

ULYSSES.
Will you please to taste it?

SILENUS.
Aye, by all means,—I'll taste before I buy.

ULYSSES.
See! I have brought a cup, too, with the skin—

SILENUS.
Come, fill it, then—

ULYSSES.
Here—drink—

SILENUS.
Ah—ah—it smells well.

ULYSSES.
Then taste it, praise it not by words alone.

SILENUS.
I do—most excellent—it makes me merry;
I long to dance—ha—ha

ULYSSES.
It goes down sweetly—

SILENUS.
O I can feel it at my finger ends.

ULYSSES.
I'll give you money too—

SILENUS.
Plague on the money!
Give me but wine enough, I ask no more—

ULYSSES.
Now then, good satyr, bring the cheese, the lambs—

SILENUS.
I'll do it—what care I for master now?
For one full cup of that delicious liquor
I'd barter all the food of all the Cyclops,
And then leap headlong from the jutting rock
Into the sea—I mean, if I were drunk
I'd do all this—O, he who drinks unmov'd
Is surely mad. [OMITTED]
This cup's the cure of sorrow—how I'd drain it!—
Plague on the Cyclops!—Hark, my friend, a word with ye.

ULYSSES.
Speak to me freely, as becomes a friend.

SILENUS.
Did you take Troy?

ULYSSES.
We did.

SILENUS.
And Helen too?

ULYSSES.
And Helen—and destroyed the house of Priam.

SILENUS.
And, when you had her safe, did all your soldiers
Kiss her? she always lik'd to change her husbands;
Lur'd by a splendid dress and golden chains,
The traitress left that worthy man her lord;
O, would the race of women were extinct!
Except a few—just for my private use.
Here, great Ulysses, here is flesh, and milk,
And cheese in plenty—take it and be gone,
But leave that goodly skin instead of it.

ULYSSES.
See, see—the Cyclops—'t is all over with us—
What shall we do? where fly?

SILENUS.
Enter this cave,
And hide yourself.

ULYSSES.
What? rush into his nets?

SILENUS.
Never heed that, he cannot find you there.

ULYSSES.
No, it shall ne'er be said that I who stood
Oppos'd to thousands of the Phrygian spears,
Could fear to face one man—it shall not be;
If we must perish, let us perish bravely,
Or, if we live, our fame shall flourish with us—

SILENUS.
Pr'ythee don't loiter.

[Act 2]

CYCLOPS, ULYSSES, SILENUS, AND CHORUS.
CYCLOPS.
What means this uproar? this is not the hall
O' the revelling god—here are no drums, no cymbals—
Are my lambs safe within? do they suck well,
And frisk around the ewes? where is my cheese?
Have ye made plenty of it?—out, ye oafs!
Why don't ye speak?—this staff will cure your dumbness,
Look up—ye stand like dolts.

SILENUS.
'An please you, master,
I do look up—I see the heavens, the stars,
I think I see Orion—

CYCLOPS.
Where's my supper?

SILENUS.
'T is ready—blessings on your appetite!

CYCLOPS.
Are all my goblets fill'd with fresh-drawn milk?

SILENUS.
All full—O you may drink a sea of it.

CYCLOPS.
What milk? sheep's?—cow's?

SILENUS.
O every kind of milk,
Drink what you please, but don't gulp me down with it.

CYCLOPS.
No, no, you're safe enough—my maw would split
With such a capering fool in it as you are.
Rascal, what croud is that about my cave?
A gang of robbers?—see, they steal my cheese,
They're loaded with my lambs—what ails you?—speak,
Your eyes are swell'd—your head—

SILENUS.
Alas! good master,
I'm beaten to a jelly—woe is me!

CYCLOPS.
Who beat you, satyr?

SILENUS.
Those same rogues and thieves there—
I fought to the last—I could not save your lambs.

CYCLOPS.
Did not the scoundrels know I was a god,
Descended from the gods too?

SILENUS.
So I told them—
But still they stole your goods, and ate your cheese—
As to yourself, they said they'd tie you fast
To a long stake, and thro' that eye of yours
They'd spin your bowels—and besides all this,
They swore they'd flog you, bind you neck and heels
Together, lodge you in the hold o'the ship,
And sell you for a mason's labourer.

CYCLOPS.
Indeed! be brisk then—sharpen well my knives;
Light a huge fire—I'll cut the throats o'the dogs—
I'll eat 'em hot and hot—some I will stew—
I'm tir'd of mountain food—of stags and lions—
'T is long since I have tasted human flesh.

SILENUS.
It makes a pretty change—most wond'rous pleasant,
And very rarely do we catch a stranger.

ULYSSES.
O Cyclops! listen to thy guests awhile—
We wander'd from our ships to purchase food;
We chanc'd to find thy caves; the satyr, here,
Willingly sold us for a draught of wine
These lambs and cheese—we seiz'd on nought by force;
Now he denies all this—falsely denies it,
Merely because thou caught'st him at his tricks.

SILENUS.
I?—may'st thou perish—

ULYSSES.
If I speak not truly.

SILENUS.
I swear by Neptune, father of the Cyclops;
I swear by Triton, by Calypso fair,
By all the Nereides, by the sacred seas,
By every fish that swims—I swear, O Cyclops,
O my dear little master, yes, I swear,
I never sold him aught—if my oath's false,
May these, my dearest children, sadly perish!

CHORUS.
Stop—stop—in justice to our guests I speak—
The strangers bought the goods—if this be false,
May my dear father perish!

CYCLOPS.
Peace—ye lie—
I'd rather trust this man than Rhadamanthus—
But I would ask you, stranger, whence you came—
Where were you born?

ULYSSES.
We're Ithacans by birth;
From Troy we came, which now is lain in ashes;
Tempestuous winds have driven us on thy shores.

CYCLOPS.
So—ye are the men who took a trip to Troy,
To seize that runaway, that traitress, Helen.

ULYSSES.
We are, and much we've suffer'd in our battles.

CYCLOPS.
A precious set!—'t was well worth while to fight
Those bloody battles for a foolish woman.

ULYSSES.
Such was the will of fate—then blame not us—
But now, O son of the illustrious sea-god,
Humbly we ask thee, for we must speak plainly,
Not to destroy us—spare, O spare thy guests,
Nor glut thy stomach with an impious feast;
Reflect, O Cyclops, on the many honours
Thy father shares in Greece, think of his temples,
His sacred arbours, caves, and promontories;
Consider too the glory gain'd to Greece
By punishing the Trojans; of this glory
Thou hast thy share, tho' dwelling thus retir'd
Beneath the fire-distilling mount—O hear us!
Let soft humanity yet touch thy heart!
Scorn not th' entreaties of a suppliant stranger,
Bring forth the gifts of friendship—mighty gods!
To pierce with pointed spits our quivering limbs!
Alas! the plains of Troy have swallowed up
Far, far too many—Greece is desolate—
The widows weep their husbands; gray-hair'd parents
Lament their sons—wilt thou consume, O Cyclops,
The poor remains?—where shall we turn for pity?
Have mercy on us! think not of a banquet
So foul, so impious—O respect the gods—
Reflect how often wicked deeds have prov'd
The bane of those who wrought them.

SILENUS.
Hark ye, master,
I'll give you my advice—by all means eat
That prosing fellow, and be sure to swallow
His tongue—what a dear, pretty, prattling Cyclops
You 'll then become.

CYCLOPS.
Gain is the wise man's god,
All else is empty shew and idle boasting.
Dost think me fool enough to care what honours
Greece pays my father?—What's all that to me?
I tell thee, man, I do not even dread
The thunderbolts of Jove—for ought I know
I am as great a god as Jove himself—
I care not for him—let his thunders roar,
Let him dash down his floods—I'm safe enough—
Snug in my cave I eat, and drink, and snore;
And when the Thracian Boreas shoots his snows,
I clothe me in thick skins, I light a fire,
And laugh at frost and snow—the earth beneath me,
Whether she will or no, must throw out herbage
To feed my flocks, and those I offer only
To one most mighty god, this paunch of mine.
To eat, to drink, to care for nought beside,
This is the wise man's plan—plague on the rogues
Who gave you laws, who fix'd your rules of life;
I know no laws but these, to please myself,
To fill my belly, and to eat you all.
As to the presents that you prate about,
They sha'nt be wanting—I will share among you
Fire, and the cauldron of my stout fore-fathers;
'T is big enough for all of you—go in—
Go in, I say—and learn my mode of feasting—

ULYSSES.
Alas! alas! escap'd from Trojan spears,
From swelling surges, what a fate awaits us!
The monster's heart is harder than his rocks.
O Pallas! goddess, sprung from Jove himself,
Now, now defend us! dangers tenfold blacker
Than those we fac'd at Troy surround us here—
O thou, who sitt'st above the glittering stars,
Look down upon us, save us, Jove, O save us!

SEMI-CHORUS.
Open, O Polypheme, thy mighty jaws;
Behold prepar'd
The roast, the boil'd—
I see thy grinders tear
The hateful food, fresh seeth'd
Within the hairy skin.

SEMI-CHORUS.
O could I quit, for ever quit
These gloomy caves,
These impious feasts!
Ah cruel, bloody wretch!
Who hear'st, but hear'st unmov'd,
E'en at the sacred hearth,
The suppliant's prayer.

[Act 3]

ULYSSES, CHORUS.
ULYSSES.
O mighty Jove! within th' accursed cell
I've seen a sight which man can scarcely credit;
It is not human—

CHORUS.
Has the hated Cyclops
Devour'd your friends?—

ULYSSES.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Two have already suffer'd, and the rest,
Trembling like birds, now sculk within his cave.
I dar'd to approach the monster—waited on him,
And when I found his hunger was appeas'd,
A thought came 'cross me—strait I fill'd a cup
With potent wine, and gave it him to drink;
Take this, I said, this is the luscious juice
That Greece produces, and that Bacchus doats on;
The Cyclops, gorg'd with flesh, receiv'd the cup
And drain'd it at one draught—dear guest, cries he,
Thou giv'st me liquor worthy of my banquet!
While he still smack'd his lips, I carried to him
A second dose, for well I knew the wine
Would do its duty—strait he 'gan to sing—
Cup after cup he drain'd—I plied him well—
He's hot enough—and now, amidst my friends,
He makes the cavern echo to his shouts
And uncouth songs—I silently stole off—
Fain would I save myself, and you too, satyrs;
Say, will you quit the wretch, and sport again
I'the courts of Bacchus and the Danaides?
Your father there within approves my counsel,
But he is weak and tottering, and he clings
Close to the cup, as if he stuck by bird-lime—
Ye are both young and active—join me then,
And seek your former master, Bromius.

CHORUS.
Ah! my good man, would I might see the day
When I shall fairly 'scape the monster's clutches!
Here is no music—all is dead and joyless—
But we have no resource.

ULYSSES.
You have, my friend,
Hear but my plan—severely will I punish
This hated beast, and give you liberty.

CHORUS.
Say how? with keener joy I'd hear his groans
Than the soft tinkling of the harp of Asias.

ULYSSES.
The Cyclops, hot with wine, will long to join
His brethren at their feasts—

CHORUS.
I understand you,
And we must watch his steps—catch him alone,
And strangle him, or hurl him from the rocks.

ULYSSES.
I mean not that—our work is not so plain.

CHORUS.
How then? long, long ago we've heard, Ulysses,
The rumour of your cunning.

ULYSSES.
Thus, then, satyrs;
I will persuade him not to quit his home;
I'll tell him he'd be mad to share his wine
With any other Cyclops—here I'll fix him—
And when the potent god has laid him low,
I'll sharpen some huge stake, and fire its point,
And as the shipwright bores with whirling auger,
So will we bore, with the still-flaming shaft,
The eye of Polypheme.

CHORUS.
'T is well—'t is well.

ULYSSES.
When we've thus blinded him, yourself, your father,
And all our friends shall haste aboard my ship,
And row away most merrily.

CHORUS.
O glorious!
But say, Ulysses, will you need our aid
To twirl the stake?

ULYSSES.
Yes truly—'t will be weighty.

CHORUS.
O! I would work like fifty carts and horses,
Could I but blind the dog, and root out thoroughly
That wasp's-nest eye of his—

ULYSSES.
Be silent now—
When I command, be ready—tho' I've quitted
My friends within, and might escape alone,
Yet I should scorn to do it; we will live
Or die together.

SEMI-CHORUS.
Who first, who last shall seize
The burning brand,
And plunge its fiery point,
Within the radiant orb?

SEMI-CHORUS.
Hark, hark, I hear within
The sound of song;
The swelling notes are harsh,
The minstrel rude—
Lo! from the rocky cave,
Th' unwieldy Cyclops reels;
O haste, and join his strains.

SEMI-CHORUS.
Happy, happy, happy he
Who quaffs the luscious juice,
Happy in the purple flood
That sparkling flows around!
How sweet, on downy turf reclin'd,
To laugh the summer hours away
With her we love!
How sweet, by Bacchus fir'd, to trace
The winning graces of her form,
To mark the down-cast, beamy eye,
And catch the fragrance of her breath!

[Act 4]

CYCLOPS, ULYSSES, SILENUS, CHORUS.
CYCLOPS.
Whither, whither shall I wander,
Joyous from my rich repast?
As a deeply laden vessel,
Well I'm stor'd with food and wine.
The glowing verdure of the field,
The cooling breezes of the spring,
Entice me to forsake
The gloomy, still retreat,
To join the Cyclops' feasts.

CHORUS.
See, he comes; his shining orb,
Like a flaming pine-tree, burns;
Roseate tints have flush'd his skin,
Brighter than the hue of nymphs
Sporting in their dewy caves;
Haste, and shade his manly brow
With wreaths of flowers.

ULYSSES.
Hear me, O Cyclops, and I'll tell to you
Th' adventures of the god you love so well.

CYLOPS.
And do'st thou call this liquor, then, a god?

ULYSSES.
No doubt—the sweetest comforter of mortals.

CYCLOPS.
Truly he warms my stomach pleasantly.

ULYSSES.
O! he's the best of gods, he never harms us.

CYCLOPS.
And is he pleas'd with dwelling in a skin?

ULYSSES.
Aye, put him where you will, he's always easy.

CYCLOPS.
Surely he might have had some better clothing?

ULYSSES.
Who heeds his covering if the god be good?

CYCLOPS.
True, 't is no matter.

ULYSSES.
Do not leave us, Cyclops—
Stay where you are, and drink, and drink again.

CYCLOPS.
Shall I not give some liquor to my brethren?

ULYSSES.
No—you'll be mightier if you keep it all.

CYCLOPS.
I shall be civiller if I let them taste it.

ULYSSES.
Such drinking-bouts too often end in blood.

CYCLOPS.
O! were I doubly drunk none dares to touch me.

ULYSSES.
Still I advise you not to quit your cave.

CYCLOPS.
Poh! he's a fool who loves to drink alone.

ULYSSES.
A wise man, if he's drunk, will stay at home.

CYCLOPS.
What shall I do, Silenus?

SILENUS.
Never budge;
I see no wit in seeking other mouths.

CYCLOPS.
Well, here the grass looks fresh—

SILENUS.
'T is mighty pleasant
To booze i'the sunshine—please to sit, good master.

CYCLOPS.
Why do you place the cup behind me, rascal?

SILENUS.
Lest any one should touch it.

CYCLOPS.
Out!—I say—
You drink my liquor, rogue, behind my back;
Here, place the cup in sight—approach me, guest,
Tell me thy name—thy name?

ULYSSES.
My name is No-one.—
But say, O Cyclops, what return you'll make me
For all the kind attention I have shewn you.

CYCLOPS.
I'll eat thee last of all.

ULYSSES.
That's very handsome.

CYCLOPS.
What are you doing, scoundrel? are you drinking?

SILENUS.
No—not a drop—only my eyes are dim,
And I look'd close, to see the curious carving
Of this most goodly cup.

CYCLOPS.
Take care, take care—
Here—pour me out a cup-full—fill to the brim.

SILENUS.
And how much water shall I mix with it?

CYCLOPS.
None—none—come, bring it—

SILENUS.
Stop, I'll fetch a wreath
And place it on your head—besides 't is proper
That I, as cup-bearer, should taste the liquor.

CYCLOPS.
Plague on this trifling!

SILENUS.
Trifling? not at all,
The liquor's much too good to trifle with—
Come wipe your mouth—and then I give the cup—

CYCLOPS.
There, there, you fool, my lips and beard are clean.

SILENUS.
Now you should drink it in a proper posture,
Reclining gracefully—here—see me do it—
Thus—thus—

[Drinks.
CYCLOPS.
Hold, hold, you rascal.

SILENUS.
Dearest heart!
I've drunk it out before I was aware.

CYCLOPS.
Out, oaf!—come, guest, be thou my cup-bearer.

ULYSSES.
With all my heart—I'm us'd to such employment.

CYCLOPS.
Now fill the goblet.

ULYSSES.
Yes, I do—be quiet.

CYCLOPS.
'T is not so easy to be drunk and quiet.

ULYSSES.
Here, take the goblet—drain it at a draught—
Would he might swallow it!

CYCLOPS.
'T is well—'t is well—
O! what a charming wood the vine-tree's made of!

ULYSSES.
After your meal you cannot drink too much—
Drench yourself well—then sink to sweetest slumber,
Leave not a drop—

CYCLOPS.
How's this? my brains are swimming,
The sky and earth whirl round me—now I spy
The throne of Jove—I see the gods assembled—
What tho' the graces court me—I'll not kiss 'em.
Hence, hence, and let me sleep.

SILENUS.
Aye, go thy ways.

[Ulysses conducts the Cyclops into his cave and returns.
ULYSSES.
Now, ye brave sons of Bacchus, all is ready;
The monster sleeps, the pointed stake is flaming,
Now let's to work—be men, my friends, be men.

CHORUS.
O! we have hearts of adamant—return—
We'll quickly follow.

ULYSSES.
Vulcan, lord of Ætna,
Now do thy duty—sleep, thou son of night,
Rest heavy on the wretch—What? shall a band
So bold, so fam'd as ours, inglorious perish,
And basely crouch before the impious Cyclops?

CHORUS.
See, they grasp the monster's neck;
See, they point the fiery dart,
And plunge it deep—
Bacchus, Bacchus, fight for us!
Soon again my longing eyes
Shall view thy beauteous front,
With ivy crown'd.

[Act 5]

ULYSSES, CHORUS, CYCLOPS.
(The latter in his cave.)
ULYSSES.
Peace, peace,—by all the gods, I pray you, silence;
Breathe not a word, nor cough, nor wink your eye,
Lest ye may rouze the Cyclops from his slumber.

CHORUS.
There—there—we hold our breath—

ULYSSES.
Come in, I say,
And help to do the deed.

CHORUS.
We cannot stir.

ULYSSES.
Are ye all lame?

CHORUS.
I rather think we are;
Our legs shake under us—

ULYSSES.
Ye seem convuls'd.

CHORUS.
'T is very strange—I'm sure we cannot help you,
But we can sing an Orphic ode—

ULYSSES.
O cowards!
Well—be it so—I and my brave companions
Will do without you; sing some cheering ditty.

CHORUS.
How base is fear—the truly brave
Snatch the deathless wreath of fame;
Shouting crouds their steps attend.
Warriors, raise the sinewy arm;
Deeper, deeper plunge your fires;
Warriors, work the deed of wrath,
Laugh to scorn the monster's groans,
And stain, with impious blood,
The massy shaft.

CYCLOPS,
from within.
Alas! alas! I'm blinded, scorch'd, and pierc'd.

CHORUS.
O! sing that strain again!

CYCLOPS.
Alas! alas!
I perish, I am blinded—do not think
The dogs will 'scape me yet—here, by this entrance,
I'll stand, and close it with my arms. Alas!

CHORUS.
Cyclops, what means this clamour? hast thou reel'd
Into the fire?

CYCLOPS.
No-one, I say, has pierc'd me.

CHORUS.
Then No-one is to blame.

CYCLOPS.
No-one has blinded me.

CHORUS.
Then thou canst see.

CYCLOPS.
Would thou could'st see no better!

CHORUS.
And how did No-one blind thee?

CYCLOPS.
Out, thou scoffer!
Where is that No-one?

CHORUS.
He is no where, Cyclops.

CYCLOPS.
That cursed guest, I tell thee, has destroyed me;
He gave me drink that burnt my flesh—where is he?
Where are my other guests? have they escaped?
Or are they in my cave?

CHORUS.
They're in thy cave.

CYCLOPS.
Where—where?

CHORUS.
They're close beneath the rock, thou hast them.

CYCLOPS.
Alas! I've split my skull against this ridge.

CHORUS.
And now thou'lt lose them.

CYCLOPS.
Tell me where they are—

CHORUS.
There—there—

CYCLOPS.
I cannot catch them.

CHORUS.
There again,
More to the left.

CYCLOPS.
Alas! alas! thou mock'st me.

CHORUS.
Now I'll speak truly, Cyclops; they're before thee.

ULYSSES.
Yes, monster, far enough from thee; and know,
Ulysses leads them hence.

CYCLOPS.
What? hast thou chang'd
Thy name then, and procur'd a new one?

ULYSSES.
No—I keep that my father gave to me—
I tell thee that I glory in thy sufferings;
I should have blush'd, when Troy was spoken of,
Had I not punish'd thy detested crime.
And now I quit thee—soon my ship shall bear me
To my much long'd-for country.

CYCLOPS.
Never, never,
I'll follow to the sea—tear up a rock,
And hurl it on thy vessel—

CHORUS.
We shall join
Ulysses' crew, and seek our jovial god.

CHORUS.
Bear me, O! Bacchus, to thy sunny hills,
Where twisted tendrils bend
Beneath the clustering grape!
With ready hand I'll press
The purple spoil,
And drain the fragrant stream.

Specimen of Guy of Warwick.

AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY-FOUR CANTOS.

Jack the Giant-killer.

A FRAGMENT.

A FRAGMENT

FROM A COMEDY OF EUBULUS.

O Jove most honour'd, if I e'er speak ill
Of women, may I perish!—what?—of women?
Why they're the best of all thy precious gifts.
Let's grant Medea bad—Penelope
Was sure a none-such—then, perhaps, you'll tell me
That Clytemnestra was a sorry jade;
Go to!—I'll stop your prating with—Alcestis—
Phædra you'll urge was wicked—well, I know it,
But then 'gainst her I bring you—let me see—
'Gainst her I bring—whom?—whom?—Alas! alas!
How soon my stock of virtuous dames is spent,
While a long list of bad ones still remains.

EPIGRAM.

[Hunger, perhaps, might cure your love]

Hunger, perhaps, might cure your love,
Or time your passion greatly alter;
If both should unsuccessful prove,
I strongly recommend a halter.

EPIGRAM.

[_]

(In part from the Greek.)

ON SOME MICE.

[Hence—hence—away! I'm much mistaken]

Hence—hence—away! I'm much mistaken
If here you'll smell or cheese, or bacon;
Mark my spare form, my pallid looks,
And pry about, I've nought but books;
If, my good friends, you wish to dine,
You'll seek some richer house than mine,
For sure you're mice of more discerning
Than here to live, like me, on learning.

IN POETAM QUENDAM AMATORIUM

TRANSLATION BY THE AUTHOR.

Why paint with glowing tints the burning kiss,
The thrills of passion, all the lover's bliss?
Youth needs not fancy's aid to wake desires,
Warm in the vigor of his native fires;
While age shall sorrowing view the rapturous scene,
And deeper sigh for joys that once have been.

THE CONSTANT LOVER.

(In the manner of Sir J. Suckling.)

THE JILTED LOVER.

TO CHLOE TOO COLD.

I hate those eyes that look askance
Whene'er I gaze with soft desire;
O! check that chill, repelling glance,
Nor cast cold water on my fire;
Still tho' I sue, and sigh, and languish,
Eager to win one favouring smile,
Unmov'd you view my piercing anguish,
And seem quite weary all the while,
Give me the girl whose glowing heart
Speaks kindly in her beamy eyes;
Blest if her looks a joy impart,
She shares my transports as they rise;
But should I win your cold consent,
Alas! I ne'er shall win it soon,
I fear at church you'd still repent,
Or freeze me in the honey-moon.

TO CHLOE TOO WARM.

I hate those eyes that gloat on mine,
And watch my every thought and motion;
'T is I must seek love's wreath to twine,
Of being courted I've no notion;
The fruit's too mellow for my taste
That falls before the tree is shaken;
Why, foolish gudgeon, why such haste?
Before I bait my hook 't is taken;
Give me the girl who'd well be woo'd;
Give me to melt a heart of stone;
Unless the game be long pursu'd,
I take no pride in 't when 't is won;
With doating fondness, looks so jealous,
Chloe would prove a pleasant thing;
Espous'd, no doubt her love so zealous,
Would tie me to her apron string.

THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MISS D.

ON RETURNING TO HER, THROUGH DR. S., A PUZZLE OF BEADS.

Pray, lady fair, for what ill deeds
Am I thus doom'd to tell my beads?
To fix the glittering baubles right,
I labour morning, noon, and night;
I twist them round and round again,
But all my twirlings are in vain,
For, whether I unloose or bind them,
Still where they should not be, I find them.
Surely some dark and awful spell
Within the slender knot must dwell,
And witching fingers twin'd a noose,
Which none but conjurors can unloose.
And yet 't is hard that I, who read
The works of venerable Bede,
That I, who bit by ancient lore,
O'er musty bead-rolls daily pore,
And live in bonds of friendship true,
With many a good old beadsman too;
'T is hard that I, when fairly pitted,
By these small beads should be outwitted.
Yet so it is—I here confess it,
As to the charm I ne'er shall guess it;
Finding, alas! 't is vain to try,
To loosen bonds that ladies tie.
No more I'll sorrowing rack my brain,
But send the mischief back again,
For why thus sadder grow and sadder,
'Bout three blue beads in one blue bladder.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. RACHEL HUNTER,

ON HER LOSS OF A PAIR OF SLIPPERS.

LINES ON THORPE GROVE.

Hark! 't is the closing crash! the ruffian axe
Has ceas'd its toil—with its last, hated, blow,
A shriek arose, and from his lov'd domain
The lingering genius of the grove is fled.
'T is ruin all—no lonely pine-tree waves
On yonder brow, not e'en a blasted stem
Swart, sear, and riven, points the hill that rose
In tufted verdure; on its deep-scarr'd side
The shiver'd trunk, the withering branch is spread,
In careless desolation. We might deem
The fierce invader's bands had won the shore
Of fair Icenia, and had mark'd their course
By wrath destructive. Sweetly-soothing shades
Ye shall not sink unsung, ye still shall live
To memory dear, when cold the ruthless hand
That bow'd you to the dust. In fancy's eye
Ye oft would seem a holy fragment spar'd
Of that deep wood, which, antique legends tell,
Once fring'd the steep of Mosswold, and inwrapp'd,
In its dark bosom, him, the sainted youth,
From whose carv'd choir the chanted mass would float
Now loud, now low, along the arched path,
And guide the stranger pilgrim to his shrine.
And oft, again, methought your western verge
Had skirted Surrey's bowers, who erst would start
At break of dawn, from wild and feverish dreams,
Would wander, heart-struck, through your chilly dews,
And mingle with the mournful woodlark's song
His plaintive love-lays, only heedless heard
By Geraldine, his dear and matchless theme.
Th' illusion's fled—but not from me alone
Is harmless pleasure wrested by your fall.
The boy, from thraldom 'scaped, would hither haste
With bounding step, and mount, with lightsome heart,
The mossy slope, and while he careful cull'd
The suckling wild, or seiz'd the linnet's nest,
Or climb'd your towering stems, would thoughtless drink
Freshness, and health, and spirit from your breeze.
The lover too would lead from prying eyes,
Along your secret glen, his mistress coy;
Her blush was veiled by the circling gloom,
And safe concealment chas'd the fear that clos'd
Those lips, which long'd to tell the softest tale.
Here the pale student, who had patient por'd
O'er lore profound, would slowly stalk at close
Of twilight gray, what time the thrush's note
Rang shrill; and still his busy thoughts would turn
To the high lessons and nice subtilties
With which his brain was fraught, till Nature's charms
Won him, reluctant, from his crabbed dream
To pensive peace; now on his glancing eye
The star of eve arises, through the trees
Twinkling by starts—and deeper darkness now
Creeps o'er the sky, and all the sparkling host
In quick succession catch his learned gaze.
But to the son of song far dearer still
Your calm and dim retreat; at midnight damp,
When the white moon-beam slanted thro' your breaks,
He'd sit entranc'd beneath the loftiest pine,
And listen to the wind, that fitful swell'd
Amid its restless boughs, and then, perchance,
The dying cadence of the bird of night
Steals on his ear, till the rich flow of song,
In linked melody, is loudly pour'd.
Or harsher was the hour; the thicken'd clouds
Roll'd the loud thunder—Sudden burst the glare
Of lightnings livid, wavy—quick succeeds
A blacker night—and now the grove assumes
A sacred horror, such as erst appall'd
The druid in his woods, who shuddering bent
Before his Gods, and fear'd his potent prayer
Might force, embodied, on his quivering sight,
The awful, frowning Spirit of the shade.
Such the pure pleasures which thou once hast given;
And e'en the hasty traveller shall mourn
Your fallen pride, and miss the spot, where, pleas'd,
His eye had rested; mid the wide-spread scene,
Where Wensome glides along his sedgy meads,
Bounded by sloping hills, with wood embrown'd,
Yon bleak, bare ridge shall mock the scornful arm
That robb'd it of its honours—yes, fair grove,
For thee the sigh shall rise, while feeling glows,
While taste inspires, and rural beauty charms.

EPITAPH

[Here rest the bones of Ho and Hi]

Here rest the bones of Ho and Hi,
Whose fate was sad yet risible,
Being hang'd because they did not spy
Th' eclipse that was invisible.
Heigh ho! 't is said a love of drink
Occasion'd all their trouble,
But this is hardly true, I think,
For drunken folks see double.

ON THE MANAGERS OF THE GATE-HOUSE CONCERT IN NORWICH,

TAKING MONEY FOR ADMISSION TO IT, WITH THE VIEW OF RAISING A FUND FOR BUILDING A CONCERT-ROOM.

Amphion, as old stories tell,
Wall'd a huge city tight and well,
By gently strumming on his shell,
With now and then a crash;
Cannot your louder tweedle-dum
Raise from its base a single room?
Must you, ere bricks and mortar come,
Exchange your notes for cash?

LINES TO MISS S. ------

At the Illumination in Norwich, on 16th June, 1814.

Louisa haste, above, beneath,
The festive garland twine;
Not Flora's hand could bend the wreath,
More skilfully than thine.
And when at close of lingering day,
Their blaze the tapers pour;
O! seat thee midst those garlands gay,
Thyself the fairest flower.

LINES ADDRESSED TO HUDSON GURNEY, Esq.

ON HIS GIVING ME A LEARNED LITTLE WORK, WRITTEN BY HIMSELF, BOUND IN RED LEATHER.

Accept my best thanks for the little red book,
With delight and amaze on the pages I look;
And, if I can prevent it, it ne'er shall be said,
That the little red book was a book little read.