University of Virginia Library

THE POEMS OF CUTHBERT SHAW

ODES ON THE FOUR SEASONS

Winter

FRAGMENT FROM “THE FOUR CANDLES”

Thus from the village where aloof
A cottage rears its humble roof,
Of dirt and clay compos'd, a shrine,
To gentle goddess Cloacine;
Close by its side devoted stands,
There placed by careful Clodpole's hands,
Lest the first storm, that frowns on day,
Should blow the tottering pile away.

SONGS OF DAMON AND EMMA

Song.

[Whene'er to gentle Emma's praise]

Emma to Damon,

on finding his addresses not favoured by her friends, on account of his want of fortune.

The Author being in company with Emma,

and having no opportunity of expressing certain doubts he had conceived of her sincerity, conveys to her the following lines, as a device to know the sentiments of her heart.

Are all my flattering hopes at once betray'd,
And cold and faithless grown my nut-brown maid;
Have I so long indulg'd the pleasing smart,
And worn thy grateful image next my heart,
And must I thus at once all hopes resign,
When fix'd as fate, I fondly thought thee mine?
Then go, irresolute, and dare to prove,
To please proud friends, a rebel to thy love.
Perhaps, too long accustom'd to obtain,
My flattering view was ever false and vain!
Perhaps my Emma's lips, well skill'd in art,
Late breath'd a language foreign to her heart!
Perhaps the muse profanely does thee wrong,
Weak my suspicions, and unjust my song!
Whichever is the cause, the truth proclaim,
And to that sentence here affix thy name;
So shall we both be rescu'd from the fear
Which thou must have to tell, and I to hear.
If thou art false,—the muse shall vengeance take,
And blast the faithless sex for Emma's sake;
If true—my wounds thy gentle voice shall heal,
And own me punish'd by the pangs I feel.
But O! without disguise pronounce my fate,
Bless me with love, or curse me with thy hate!
Hearts soft as mine indifference cannot bear;
Perfect my hopes, or plunge me in despair.

To Emma,

doubting the Author's sincerity.

An invitation to Emma,

after marriage, to live in the country.

Come, my dear girl, let's seek the peaceful vale,
Where honour, truth, and innocence prevail;
Let's fly this cursed town—a nest of slaves—
Where fortune smiles not but on fools and knaves,
Who merit claim proportion'd to their gold,
And truth, and innocence, are sold;
An humble competence we have in store,
Mere food and raiment—Kings can have no more!
A glorious patriarchal life we'll lead,
See the fruits ripen, and the lambkins feed:
Frequent observe the labours of the spade,
And joy to see each yearly toil repaid;
In some sequester'd spot a bower shall stand,
The fav'rite task of thy lov'd Damon's hand,
Where the sweet woodbine clasps the curling vine,
Emblem of faithful love like yours and mine!
Here will we sit when evening shades prevail,
And hear the night bird tell its plaintive tale,
Till nature's voice shall summon us away,
To gather spirits for the approaching day;
Then on thy breast I'll lay my weary head,
A pillow softer than a monarch's bed.

AN EVENING ADDRESS TO A NIGHTINGALE

Sweet bird! that, kindly perching near,
Pour'st thy plaints melodious in mine ear,
Not, like base worldlings, tutor'd to forego
The melancholy haunts of woe,
Thanks for thy sorrow-soothing strain:—
For surely thou hast known to prove,
Like me, the pangs of hapless love,
Else why so feelingly complain,
And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove?
Say, dost thou mourn thy ravish'd mate
That oft enamour'd on thy strains has hung?
Or has the cruel hand of fate
Bereft thee of thy darling young?
Alas! for both I weep—
In all the pride of youthful charms,
A beauteous bride torn from my circling arms!
A lovely babe that should have liv'd to bless,
And fill my doting eyes with frequent tears,
At once the source of rapture and distress,
The flattering prop of my declining years!
In vain from death to rescue I essay'd,
By every art that science could devise;
Alas! it languish'd for a mother's aid,
And wing'd its flight to see her in the skies:—
Then O! our comforts be the same
At evening's peaceful hour,
To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame,
And breathe our sorrows in this lonely bower.
But why, alas! to thee complain!
To thee—unconscious of my pain!
Soon shalt thou cease to mourn thy lot severe,
And hail the dawning of a happier year:
The genial warmth of joy-renewing spring
Again shall plume thy shatter'd wing;
Again thy little heart shall transport prove,
Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy love:
But O for me in vain may seasons roll,
Nought can dry up the fountain of my tears,
Deploring still the comfort of my soul,
I count my sorrows by increasing years.
Tell me, thou syren hope, deceiver, say,
Where is the promis'd period of my woes?
Full three long lingering years have roll'd away,
And yet I weep, a stranger to repose:
O what delusion did thy tongue employ!
“That Emma's fatal pledge of love,
Her last bequest—with all a mother's care,
The bitterness of sorrow should remove,
Soften the horrors of despair,
And cheer a heart long lost to joy!”
How oft, when fondling in mine arms,
Gazing enraptur'd on its angel face,
My soul the maze of fate would vainly trace,
And burn with all a father's fond alarms!
And O what flattering scenes had fancy feigned!
How did I rave of blessings yet in store!
Till every aching sense was sweetly pain'd,
And my full heart could bear, nor tongue could utter more.
“Just Heaven,” I cried, with recent hopes elate,
“Yet I will live—will live, though Emma's dead—
So long bow'd down beneath the storms of fate,
Yet will I raise my woe-dejected head!
My little Emma, now my all,
Will want a father's care,
Her looks, her wants my rash resolves recall,
And for her sake the ills of life I'll bear:
And oft together we'll complain—
Complaint, the only bliss my soul can know,
From me my child shall learn the mournful strain,
And prattle tales of woe;
And O! in that auspicious hour,
When fate resigns her persecuting powers
With duteous zeal her hand shall close,
No more to weep—my sorrow-streaming eyes,
When death gives misery repose,
And opens a glorious passage to the skies.”
Vain thought! it must not be—She too is dead—
The flattering scene is o'er,—
My hopes for ever—ever fled—
And vengeance can no more.—
Crush'd by misfortune—blasted by disease—
And none—none left to bear a friendly part!
To meditate my welfare, health, or ease,
Or sooth the anguish of an aching heart!
Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome death,
With lenient hand (O! falsely deem'd severe)
Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up every tear:
Perhaps, obsequious to my will,
But, ah! from my affections far remov'd!
The last sad office strangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been belov'd;
As if, unconscious of poetic fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre;
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
Nor my heart melted at another's grief.
Yet—while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form th'impassion'd strain,
In piteous accents shall the muse complain,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:
For O how grateful to a wounded heart
The tale of misery to impart!
From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow,
And raise esteem upon the base of woe!
Even he, the noblest of the tuneful throng,
Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear,
Shall catch the soft contagion of my song,
And pay my pensive muse the tribute of a tear.

FRAGMENTS FROM “CORRUPTION”

I.

Lines from the Dedicatory Address to Earl Temple:

“For me, long lost to all the world holds dear,
No hopes can flatter, and no suns can cheer;
Sickness and sorrow, with united rage,
In early youth have wreak'd the ills of age:
This all my wish—(since earthly joys are flown)
To sigh unseen—to live and die alone.”

II.

In England, Shaw sees nothing but.

III.

Other lines:

To break the tenor of this sad repose,
Say what could rouse me but my country's woes?
But thus to see vice stalk in open day,
With shameless front, and universal sway!
To view proud villains drive the gilded car,
Deck'd with the spoils and ravages of war!
Whose ill-got wealth shifted from hand to hand,
With vice and want have delug'd all the land;
'Tis satire's only to avenge the cause,
On those that 'scape from Tyburn and the laws;
Drag forth each knave conspicuous and confest,
And hang them high—as scare-crows for the rest!
Let this grand object claim my every care,
And chase the sullen demon of despair,
(When passion fires us for the common weal,
For private griefs 'twere infamous to feel)
Till my full heart, disburden'd of its freight,
No more shall swell and heave beneath the weight;
This duteous tribute to my country paid,
Welcome pale sorrow and the silent shade!
From glory's standard yet should all retire,
And none be found to fan the generous fire;
No patriot soul to justify the song,
And urge its precepts on the slumbering throng;
In vain to virtue have I form'd the strain,
An angel's tongue might plead her cause in vain.
Some lone retreat I'll seek unknown to fame,
Nor hear the very echo of their shame;
Conscience shall pay me for the world's regret,
And Heav'n approve what mortals dare reject.

IV.

Another passage:

The sun-burnt vet'ran from ill fated wars
Victorious comes—with poverty and fears,
Flies to his long forsaken home, to find
The dear, dear pledges he had left behind:
But ah! his wife, all grace, and beauty fled,
Scarce owns the once-lov'd partner of her bed;
Th'affrighted children stare, and shift their ground,
Nor read their sire through many a glorious wound:
The big tear starting, as he tries to tell
How his lov'd friends, and fellow-soldiers fell;
“On Minden's plains, how smoke obscur'd the day,
How heaps on heaps, in slaughter'd thousands lay;
Till Mars no more the horrid carnage stood,
And neighbouring streams ran purple with their blood.
Yet blest, tho' many a widow'd fair must moan,
While freedom sits securely on her throne!
Content let's bear our little private woes,
While she maintains her empire in repose.
But ah, should slaves abuse a monarch's ear,
(A monarch so belov'd, so justly dear
To ev'ry virtuous breast) should slaves accurst
Beneath the shade at home in plenty nurst,
Whilst we half starv'd, have bled at ev'ry vein,
Should slaves like these ill-boding favour gain!
By these our wounds, our services forgot,
Should base dismission be the vet'ran's lot!
Condemn'd like Oglethorpe, to prove forlorn,
Each toil repaid with indigence and scorn!
Now left with years and injuries t'engage,
The Belisarius of a thankless age!
Yet this I'd bear—but ah! should freedom feel
Their hellish pow'r, and from the centre reel,
Weak—tott'ring on her throne—but hold, refrain—
Lest dire distraction seize the madding brain!
Too raving fancy, urge not thus a thought,
Far worse than death, with all his horrors fraught!
How shall I curse the malice of my stars,
Safe 'mid the perils of destructive wars
To guard my harass'd life—that I should foil
The various ills of hunger, thirst, and toil;
And when I hop'd to reap the hard-earn'd bliss,
To blast my eye-sight with a shock like this!”
Thus the brave chief—his wife with tear-swoln eyes
Hangs on his hand, and answers with her sighs;
The children, list'ning to the mournful tale,
Till nature's feelings o'er their fears prevail,
Wishful draw near, and bolder by degrees,
Twine round his neck, and gambol on his knees.

THE SNOW-BALL

A Cantata

THE REQUEST

A Song

THE POWER OF WOMAN, EXEMPLIFIED IN LORD B---

Undone by woman, faithful records tell,
What heroes perish'd, and what monarchs fell;
From fame, from fortune, and from glory hurl'd,
Charles lost a crown, and Antony the world,
B*te, B*te, alone by female influence reigns,
And holds a nation and their—in chains.