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220
No. 42. Oedipus
(Oedipus, Act I)
[Scene 1.]
Enter Oedipus attended, to the High Priest and a Train of Children & Young Men who are kneiling before an Altar placed at the Gates of the Palace.Oed.
What mean these solemn Rites, these plaintive Sounds?
This Altar rear'd before my Palace Gates?
This train of Suppliants clad in mournful Weeds
And prostrate on the Ground? My Children speak,
Unhappy Youths from royal Cadmus sprung,
Why doth the Incense fume in every Street,
And round us Groans and Lamentations rise?
I could not stay to learn from other hands
My People's Grief, a Partner in your woe
I come my self, the far-fam'd Oedipus
Your great Deliverer. But thou, good old man,
Before whose reverend Age in decent awe
These youths are silent, speak thou Holy Priest
A Monarch is your Friend, whose heart bleeds for you
And for his Thebans feels a Father's care.
221
O Oedipus whose hand the Sceptre sways
Of ancient Thebes, the Youths who lie before thee
Are helpless Heirs of many a noble House,
These aged Men devoted to the Gods,
And I the Priest of mighty Jupiter.
Our Citizens around Minerva's Shrines
Implore her aid, or near the awful Tomb
Where the dead bones of great Irmenus lie
Burn fragrant Odours, and consult their Fate
In his prophetick Flames. Thou see'st all Thebes
Lies tossing like the tempest-beaten Bark
Abandon'd to despair. The Fields are waste
From barren Autumns, and a blighted Spring,
A Murrain sweeps our Flocks and Herds away,
And our sad Matrons o'er their dead-born Babes
Lament their fruitless pain. A curse hangs o'er us
A Fire devours us, a fierce Pestilence
That secret walks unpeoples half our Tribes.
And ev'ry hour with peals of Theban Groans
Glads the grim King of Hell. We sue to Thee
Not as a God, but as the first of Men,
Belov'd of Heav'n and of the Gods inspir'd
Whose Wisdome, not untry'd in evil days,
From Sphinx the Monster sav'd th' afflicted Realm
Once our Deliverer to the Gods again
In pious supplication lift thy hands,
And draw down thence the Knowledge and the cure
Of all our Woes. Remember oh remember
A Monarch's Grandeur in his People lies,
They form his Pride in Peace, his Strength in War,
And stand the firmest Rampart round a Throne.
Oed.
Too well, my Sons, I know and mourn your woes,
If singly hard to be endur'd by You
How then by Me, who in one breast sustain
Your Griefs and mine, and feel for all the land!
Think not oh think not that your piercing Cries
Have broke my sleep, or chaced my pleasing Dreams.
All night my Eyes have swom in tears, all night
My Breast has heav'd with sorrows not my own.
What could I do? Before the morning-dawn
To great Apollo's Fane by my command
My Brother Creon went to seek the God.
Before the morning-dawn he went, and now
Methinks he laggs; my mind impatient burns
To know what Fate would have. Despise me, Thebes,
222
If I not act or suffer for thy sake,
For thy lov'd sake, whate'er the God decrees.
H. P.
With a blest voice and in a lucky hour
The King names Creon. See he comes.
Oed.
He comes.
Thou God of Wisdom, Regent of the Day,
Glad be his Tidings as his Looks are glad.
H. P.
The Lawrels twin'd around his Brows declare
His Tidings happy.
Scene 2d
Enter CreonOed.
Speak: what Answer, Creon.
Cre.
The Gods be prais'd, our woes are at an end
Remove the Cause that brings the Curses down
The guilty cause; so Heaven again shall smile
And the glad Earth her wonted face renew.
Oed.
Name then, oh name that cause that guilty Cause
Name it, and ease my lab'ring heart that pants
With hopes and fears perplext.
Cre.
Within the Palace
Shall I attend thee, Oedipus, or here
Declare and Publish it?
Oed.
To the World declare it:
Unmindful of my self, for these I mourn
These helpless men; alas why should not they
Who have the Evil, know the Comfort too!
Cre.
Thus warns the God, who bends the silver Bowe.
Within the Realms of Thebes a Monster breathes.
Detested by the Gods he taints the Air,
And poisons all the Land.
Oed.
What means to heal it?
Cre.
Forth from your Frontiers drive th' accursed thing,
Or spill in expiation Blood for Blood,
His Blood who murder'd cries to Heav'n for vengeance
And draws the rage of all the Gods upon us.
Oed.
Whose Blood? What Murder?
Cre.
Laius was our King,
E'er Thebes bestow'd the Crown on you.
Oed.
Proceed.
Cre.
The Oracle this Punishment decrees
To those who murder'd Laius.
Oed.
Where then are they?
What place conceals them? and what human skill
223
Cre.
Here, even amongst us within these Walls they live,
Who murder'd Laius: here they live unpunished:
And Thebes is wretched by her own neglect.
Oed.
Far be that fault from Me. In Corinth born
A Stranger to this luckless land I came
Long after Laius perish'd. How he fell
To me still seem'd a dark and puzzled Tale.
Ill could I ask it of his widow'd Queen,
My Wife; I spar'd Jocasta's Tears the question.
But now, ye Thebans, 'tis the Publick care,
Back let us search through ev'ry circumstance
And trace it to the sourse. Speak who can tell
When, where, and how fell Laius?
Cre.
Hence he went
For Delphi bound, and perish'd on the way.
Oed.
Return'd not any of his Train?
Cre.
They too
Fell with their Master. Only one escap'd
By flight escap'd, and he could only tell
One circumstance.
Oed.
What is that Circumstance?
Oh one small ray, one feeble glimpse of light
Oft proves sufficient to reveal a murder.
Cre.
He said the King was slain by multitudes
By Robbers slain.
Oed.
A King! and slain by Robbers!
Sure they were hir'd by Gold, and placed in ambush.
Cre.
Such was the general thought. But Ills on Ills
Plague after Plague succeeding Laius' Death
Prevented further search.
Oed.
What plagues alas,
What Ills so great to make you slight a Murder
And a King's murder too?
Cre.
The Monster Sphinx,
That like a Torrent laid our Country waste,
Allow'd not time to think of slighter woes.
For certain Ills th' uncertain were o'erlook'd
So hard to be found out.
Oed.
But, by the Gods
They shall be found, and shall be found by me.
Yes Phoebus, thy decrees shall be obey'd;
Thy Second in this pious work I come,
Whose piercing mind in Riddles not unskill'd
The Ruffian shall pursue through every maze
224
Not only for my Queen's and Kingdome's sake,
But for my own, this Labour shall be mine
Who knows but he, who dipt his hands profane
In Laius' blood, by curst ambition fir'd,
May take my Life! Revenge we then the Dead
To guard the Living. Rise, my Children, rise.
Swift let the Heralds march through every street,
And summon Thebes in all her Tribes to meet me.
No means shall pass untry'd, no hour delay'd,
And if my Soul presage aright, this Day
Shall heal our Sorrows, or shall end our Lives.
[Exit Oedipus.
H. P.
Rise then my Children, and depart in peace.
While we to great Apollo lift our Vows,
To Him and ev'ry God in Thebes ador'd,
And in the Confidence of prayer implore
His Eye to guide us, and his Arm to save.
[The Chorus, consisting of Priests advance upon the Stage.
1. Chor.
Thou Oracle divine, the voice of Jove
Pronounc'd by Phoebus from his golden Shrine
In ancient Delphi, wherefore art thou come
To poor afflicted Thebes? Speak Goddess-born
Thou Son of smiling Hope, speak un-obscured
Our future Fate. Alas! alas! my soul
With Fears distracted, in Amazement lost,
From Adoration only seeks relief.
2d. Pr.
Thee, bold Minerva, whose accomplisht Form
From Jove alone without a Mother sprung
I first invoke, with Thee the other Maid
Thy Sister Dian, whose fair Deity
Presides o'er Thebes, and fills a stately Throne
That high amid this ample City stands.
Thee too the Bender of the Silver Bow
Thee Phoebus I invoke; Appear ye Three
Appear ye kind, ye Plague-dispelling Powers.
Your help your wonted help to Thebes afford
That bends and sinks beneath a thousand Woes.
3d. Pr.
The sinking Nation faintly lifts her eye
And looks around for aid, but looks in vain.
The Earth grown weak a meagre Fruitage yields
Pin'd e'er it ripens: with false hopes beguil'd
Our pregnant Mothers die amid their Throes
Unable to bring forth: on every side
Corpse after Corpse drops down, Shade after Shade
225
To Hell's tremendous Gloome. Unhappy Babes,
Born e'er their time, all helpless on the ground
Un-pity'd by their tender Parents lie:
Their tender Parents hurry'd by despair
For refuge to the sacred Altars run,
Where the loud Hymns to great Apollo sung
Confus'd with Groans ascend.
4. Pr.
Thou blue-eyed Maid,
Minerva come: lace on thy burnisht Helme,
Before us spread thy adamantine Shield,
And couch thy pointed Spear. Drive hence the God
The cruel God, whose wide-destroying hand
Lays heaps on heaps, and thins afflicted Thebes:
Drive him reluctant to the Thracian shore,
Where rowle the Euxine's hoarse-resounding waves
Or in th' unfathom'd Ocean plunge him down
Bound in eternal Chains.
5. Pr.
Life-giving Jove!
Who frown'st amid the Lightning's dreadful blaze
Transfix him thy Thunder-bolts.
6. Pr.
Thou too
Fair God of Day! the keenest Arrow chase
Off all that in thy golden Quiver lie,
And bend thy Bowe for Thebes.
7. Pr.
Diana too,
In thy soft silver beams serene and mild,
Smile on us: all ye Gods, propitious smile.
8. Pr.
Thee Bacchus last thy Thebans sue forlorn,
Thee Bacchus of a Theban Mother born.
Hear and appear in all thy pomp confest,
Thy gold Tiara and thy Indian Vest;
Known by the Torches blazing from afar
And frantic Matrons howling round thy Carr.
That God who plagues this desolated Earth
Expell, and save the Land that gave thee birth.
End of the first Act.
[_]
[There is a blank page here in the manuscript, and only a part of the conclusion of the tragedy is continued upon a separate sheet.]
Tell, tell thy eager wish, and be obey'd.
Oed.
Then drive me instant from this Land accurst,
Where I may hear the voice of Man no more.
226
Consult we first the holy Oracles;
Nor can I order till Apollo speaks.
Oed.
Too plain already hath he spoke my doom
A Monster and a Paricide declar'd.
Cre.
Though he hath spoke, th' unsettled State requires
That we consult his sacred shrines once more.
Oed.
Vain to consult them for a Wretch like me.
Cre.
Thy fortune, Prince, well justifies that search,
A dreadful instance that the Gods speak truth.
Oed.
In pity, Creon, hear my last commands.
See Her, the Clay-cold Corpse that lies within
Lodg'd decent in some Sepulchre: to Thee
This care of thy own Family belongs.
Mean-while from Thebes, my Native Thebes I goe
That well may spare a Citizen like me.
Out-cast from hence oh let me rove alone
On the bleak Mountain's barren Precipice,
My own Cithaeron; there my wretched Sire,
While yet he liv'd, my haplesse Mother there
Ordain'd my Sepulchre. Oh thither send
And where they first commanded, let me Die.
I now perceive why safe through fields of Blood
I've pass'd and breath'd un-hurt in tainted Air,
Far greater Ills, and heavier loads of Woe
Reserv'd: sad privilege! But be it so!
Go on, ye Fates, and make your work complete.
[Tickell papers.]
227
No. 43. Caroline's Squirrel
On mortal Blis no Mortal may rely
As Kings and Heroes, Squirrels too must die.
How soon, poor Bunny, are thy pleasures fled,
The Day, that saw thee envy'd, mourns thee Dead.
What can the Nymph's Caresses now avail?
She stroak'd thy Furr and prais'd thy shadowy Tail,
On her soft Lap she lull'd thee to thy Rest;
She made thy pillow of her swelling Breast!
She cull'd with care the Choice of ev'ry Tree,
And thought the Filberts only grew for Thee!
Why woud'st thou Die? why Life & Love resign?
When thou had'st Nuts enough and Caroline?
As Death's cold damp his Heart began to chill,
And his Pulse languish'd, and his Eyes stood still,
[OMITTED]
Why are thy Gifts, fond Maid, so ill apply'd?
On Death bestow'd to Life and Love deny'd?
How blest were I, if in thy Fav'rite's stead,
So lov'd when Living, and so mourn'd when Dead.
As Kings and Heroes, Squirrels too must die.
How soon, poor Bunny, are thy pleasures fled,
The Day, that saw thee envy'd, mourns thee Dead.
What can the Nymph's Caresses now avail?
She stroak'd thy Furr and prais'd thy shadowy Tail,
On her soft Lap she lull'd thee to thy Rest;
She made thy pillow of her swelling Breast!
She cull'd with care the Choice of ev'ry Tree,
And thought the Filberts only grew for Thee!
Why woud'st thou Die? why Life & Love resign?
When thou had'st Nuts enough and Caroline?
As Death's cold damp his Heart began to chill,
And his Pulse languish'd, and his Eyes stood still,
[OMITTED]
Why are thy Gifts, fond Maid, so ill apply'd?
On Death bestow'd to Life and Love deny'd?
How blest were I, if in thy Fav'rite's stead,
So lov'd when Living, and so mourn'd when Dead.
As through the lonesome Glade in doleful Strains
All night the childless Philomel complains,
Oft round her empty Nest she fondly flies,
Robb'd by rough Swains before the Mother's Eyes,
Then on some blasted Bough renews her Lay,
Resign'd to Grief, and sings her Soul away:
So the sad Damsell wanders all alone,
And mourns her pretty Minion dead and gone;
Each once lov'd Object now renews her Rage,
The lonely Window and the widow'd Cage,
The half-crack'd Filberts scatter'd round the Floor,
And the bright Chain the patient Captive wore;
No more shall wear. By Fate's severe Decree
The Hand of Death has set the captive free
All night the childless Philomel complains,
Oft round her empty Nest she fondly flies,
Robb'd by rough Swains before the Mother's Eyes,
Then on some blasted Bough renews her Lay,
Resign'd to Grief, and sings her Soul away:
So the sad Damsell wanders all alone,
And mourns her pretty Minion dead and gone;
Each once lov'd Object now renews her Rage,
The lonely Window and the widow'd Cage,
The half-crack'd Filberts scatter'd round the Floor,
And the bright Chain the patient Captive wore;
No more shall wear. By Fate's severe Decree
The Hand of Death has set the captive free
228
Indulgent Nature form'd him fit to roame,
And gave the spacious Forest for his Home,
Twixt Earth & Skies his glorious Lot assign'd,
And made him Rival of the Feather'd kind:
Yet when ensnar'd by humane Wiles he fell,
Meek he resign'd and bore his Fortune well,
His lovely Keeper half consol'd his Woe,
And reconcil'd him to these Realms below.
He gently yielded to her sov'rain Pow'r,
And bit his Mistresse only once an hour;
So void of mischief that he us'd to break
A China-Cup but twice three times a week,
Or tore, poor Fellow! as his Fancy led,
Her spotless Sassnet, and her Mechlen Head.
Why would He die &c.
And gave the spacious Forest for his Home,
Twixt Earth & Skies his glorious Lot assign'd,
And made him Rival of the Feather'd kind:
Yet when ensnar'd by humane Wiles he fell,
Meek he resign'd and bore his Fortune well,
His lovely Keeper half consol'd his Woe,
And reconcil'd him to these Realms below.
He gently yielded to her sov'rain Pow'r,
And bit his Mistresse only once an hour;
So void of mischief that he us'd to break
A China-Cup but twice three times a week,
Or tore, poor Fellow! as his Fancy led,
Her spotless Sassnet, and her Mechlen Head.
Why would He die &c.
Thee, Bunny, thee e'en Pug thy Rival mourns,
Sighs back thy Sighs, and Groan for Groan returns:
For Thee the scarlet-bosom'd Linnet moans
In ruffled Feathers, and un-finish'd Tones:
For Thee poor Mopsy whindles round the Room,
And pretty Poll and Abigal are dumb.
Pensive She sits her knitting at a stand,
Nor shoots her Shuttle through her wither'd Hand,
Nor rails at Girls nor puzzles o'er the news,
Nor spells Receits, as sober Huswives use;
Ah! no Receit, in Kent's wise Countesse read,
No Soupes, no Sauces, can revive the Dead.
Why wou'd He Die &c.
Sighs back thy Sighs, and Groan for Groan returns:
For Thee the scarlet-bosom'd Linnet moans
In ruffled Feathers, and un-finish'd Tones:
For Thee poor Mopsy whindles round the Room,
And pretty Poll and Abigal are dumb.
Pensive She sits her knitting at a stand,
Nor shoots her Shuttle through her wither'd Hand,
Nor rails at Girls nor puzzles o'er the news,
Nor spells Receits, as sober Huswives use;
Ah! no Receit, in Kent's wise Countesse read,
No Soupes, no Sauces, can revive the Dead.
Why wou'd He Die &c.
And art thou Dead! for ever Dead and Cold!
Poor Trifler! scarce two little Summers old.
Past fourscore Years dull Aldermen survive,
And Maiden Aunts look smug at Fifty-five:
The plagues of Nature Time with pain destroys,
But fleet and momentary are her Joys.
So the curst Thistle and the Nettle rear
Their hateful Heads, and flourish through the Year,
But short the time the Virgin Snow-drop blows,
And short the Fragrance of the blushing Rose;
Their Pride, their Sweets, that with the Morn begun,
Decline and wither in the Setting Sun.
Poor Trifler! scarce two little Summers old.
Past fourscore Years dull Aldermen survive,
And Maiden Aunts look smug at Fifty-five:
The plagues of Nature Time with pain destroys,
But fleet and momentary are her Joys.
So the curst Thistle and the Nettle rear
Their hateful Heads, and flourish through the Year,
But short the time the Virgin Snow-drop blows,
And short the Fragrance of the blushing Rose;
Their Pride, their Sweets, that with the Morn begun,
Decline and wither in the Setting Sun.
Yet cease, my Fair, to mourn his shorten'd Date.
If Verse can live, and poets conquer Fate,
Far distant Ages shall record his Fame,
The lovely Fav'rite of the loveliest Dame.
Like Lesbia's Sparrow sung by Roman Knights,
Like Martial's Issa grac'd with Fun'ral Rites
He too shall last: and future Bards compare
The Squirrel's Tail with Berenice's Hair.
If Verse can live, and poets conquer Fate,
229
The lovely Fav'rite of the loveliest Dame.
Like Lesbia's Sparrow sung by Roman Knights,
Like Martial's Issa grac'd with Fun'ral Rites
He too shall last: and future Bards compare
The Squirrel's Tail with Berenice's Hair.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 44. Cleopatra the Gay
1
Cleopatra the Gay as old Storys Declareput Mark Anthony oft to the Rout Sir
that the Lover was fond and the Lady was fair
not a Modern among us dare doubt Sir
but yet I insist our own times are the best
& Musty Antiquity Scorn Sir
pray tell me could Thai's or Golden Lock Lace
compare to our Barbara Byrn Sir
2
Away with Restraint let us wantonly Roveand be what our wishes wou'd make us
we'll freely pour forth a Libation to Love
& Recruit by the Bounty of Bacchus.
Dull cynical fools with their joy cramping rules
poor Logical Lunaticks turn Sir
but they'd wisdom forget were they once Tete a Tete
Over Claret with Barbara Byrn Sir
3
Let Placemen Receive and let Patriots oppose& Raise Unforgiving disentions
a Mistresses Arms is the place I would chuse
& a Bottle and friend be my porsion
let State Tools full of Doubt be put in & pull'd out
as their Masters on either Side turn Sir
be this Maxim my Plan let me stand while I can
to my Bottle my friend & Bab Byrn Sir
4
Pedantick Schoolmen have matters Defin'dand commented on Qure Aristotle
230
is a Beauty well warm'd with a Bottle
Keep Classical Knowledge immur'd in a Collidge
Midst gownsmen & pedagouges Stern Sir
whats Physick or Staticks or Dull Mathematicks
to Claret with Barbara Byrn Sir
5
With her Arms graceful SitHark my aburn begins
Daniel Cooper or Sweet Lango Lee Sir
with Action she gilds what with Spirit She sings
& fills her fond Heroes with glee Sir
yr Italian Cantata's or HumDrum Sonata's
with Disdain for her Ballads I Scorn Sir
what's Sullivans Shake or Miss Old Mixons Squeak
to the Dooreling Notes of Bab Byrn Sir
6
Ye Sensible Socials and Knights of the Vinewho wit wine & women can Taste Sir
wou'd you Know where true Humour
& Harmony join
with joyous Bab Byrn make yr feast Sir
let Poor Lovers Prize lips legs Arms or Eyes
Such piecemeal pretensions I Scorn Sir
not a Limb shall be Lost when I mention my Toast
here's a Health to the—whole of Bab Byrn Sir
[Tickell papers.]
No. 45. From the Cock-Pit
A torn Fragment
Far other Labours now demand my Time.
Who from the Cock-pit ever writ in Rhyme?
Here while my Mind more useful Paths pursues,
No Gods I call on, and invoke no Muse;
But grown more grave, affect a diff'rent Praise,
The Style of Bus'ness and the Whitehall Phrase. [OMITTED]
Trembling I touch the Lyre, reluctant sing,
And know what Cares the tuneful Sisters bring.
My offspring in the Midnight Silence born,
Review'd with vigour on th' approaching Morn,
Oft fall unpity'd; and the work of Hours
The pen-knife mangles or the Flame devours. [OMITTED]
Thrice happy—whose prolific Brain
Three Folios teem'd without one moment's pain,
Whose un-repented Rhymes, fair Ludgate's Boast,
No Blot e'er soil'd nor friendly Pencil crost.
But one day scribbled, e'er anothers Dawn [OMITTED]
Who from the Cock-pit ever writ in Rhyme?
Here while my Mind more useful Paths pursues,
No Gods I call on, and invoke no Muse;
But grown more grave, affect a diff'rent Praise,
The Style of Bus'ness and the Whitehall Phrase. [OMITTED]
Trembling I touch the Lyre, reluctant sing,
And know what Cares the tuneful Sisters bring.
231
Review'd with vigour on th' approaching Morn,
Oft fall unpity'd; and the work of Hours
The pen-knife mangles or the Flame devours. [OMITTED]
Thrice happy—whose prolific Brain
Three Folios teem'd without one moment's pain,
Whose un-repented Rhymes, fair Ludgate's Boast,
No Blot e'er soil'd nor friendly Pencil crost.
But one day scribbled, e'er anothers Dawn [OMITTED]
[Tickell papers.]
No. 46. Prologue
In this old Hall, say Holinshead and Stowe,
Proud Wolsey din'd two hundred years ago.
The Comick Muse now rears her Cheerful head
Where Monks grew fat and rosy Abbots fed.
No bad Exchange! Whate'er the Saints can say,
Sure we are Christians full as good as They.
Proud Wolsey din'd two hundred years ago.
The Comick Muse now rears her Cheerful head
Where Monks grew fat and rosy Abbots fed.
No bad Exchange! Whate'er the Saints can say,
Sure we are Christians full as good as They.
Still to the Muses Heroes have been kind
And Kings been glorious as the Arts refind
For these young Ammon own'd his generous Flame
From these Augustus borrow'd half his Fame.
Such was their praise. Nor Thou that praise decline
Majestick Leader of the Brunswick Line.
Beneath thy Roof where Peace and Triumph reign.
Let the Lyre warble, and the Lute complain
But hence far hence, on the Sicilian Shore
Let thy Drums echoe and thy Cannons roare
And Kings been glorious as the Arts refind
For these young Ammon own'd his generous Flame
From these Augustus borrow'd half his Fame.
Such was their praise. Nor Thou that praise decline
Majestick Leader of the Brunswick Line.
Beneath thy Roof where Peace and Triumph reign.
Let the Lyre warble, and the Lute complain
But hence far hence, on the Sicilian Shore
Let thy Drums echoe and thy Cannons roare
How did thy Navy pass the Dreadful Waves
Where Scylla foames and hoarse Charybdis raves!
How did the Foe with anguish and surprize
Behold new Ætnas from the Billows rise
—When Empty Boasts the Ocean's Lord offend,
Such are the Answers British Monarchs send.
Where Scylla foames and hoarse Charybdis raves!
How did the Foe with anguish and surprize
Behold new Ætnas from the Billows rise
—When Empty Boasts the Ocean's Lord offend,
Such are the Answers British Monarchs send.
Exploits like these adorn'd Eliza's Reign:
That good old Maid took care to sweep the Main
From the blest hour She saw th' Armada blaze,
Came Peace and Wealth and Albions golden Days;
With Strains of Triumph the glad Island rang,
A Spenser carol'd and a Sidney sang;
At home She Smild, abroad She sent her Rage,
Drake sailed the Sea and Shakespear graced the Stage
That good old Maid took care to sweep the Main
232
Came Peace and Wealth and Albions golden Days;
With Strains of Triumph the glad Island rang,
A Spenser carol'd and a Sidney sang;
At home She Smild, abroad She sent her Rage,
Drake sailed the Sea and Shakespear graced the Stage
So may the brave Plantagents return,
A Drake arise and new Armada's burn.
[OMITTED]ful King the Nations bind
M[OMITTED] and settle half Mankind
Then may the grateful Britons seek repose,
And taste [OMITTED]ked the peace himself bestows.
A Drake arise and new Armada's burn.
[OMITTED]ful King the Nations bind
M[OMITTED] and settle half Mankind
Then may the grateful Britons seek repose,
And taste [OMITTED]ked the peace himself bestows.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 47. Cupid's Shaft
1
Through the smooth Fringe of shining Jett,The Edging round your Eye-lid set,
His Bow the hidden Archer drew,
And shot your destin'd Captive through.
2
Stung to the Soul, in vain he rovesTo Courts of Kings from silent Groves,
In vain He mingles with the Throng:
He bears th' invenom'd Shaft along.
3
Should he to Britain bid adieu,Still would Your fatal Form pursue,
Climb up the Vessel's painted Side,
Or with the winged Courser ride.
4
Whether your Slave shall drag his ChainAcross the rough Hibernian Main,
Or his unalter'd Breast shall beat
In far Hesperia's sultry Heat.
233
5
Though foreign Nymphs may tempt his Eyes,Still shall Your conqu'ring Image rise,
And teach to praise or slight the Fair
As they Your lov'd Resemblance bear.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 48. Platonick Love
Not for thy rosie bloom, alone,
Or snowie neck, I die,
Thy melting voice, thy tender smile,
Or love-persuading eye.
Or snowie neck, I die,
Thy melting voice, thy tender smile,
Or love-persuading eye.
Oft have I gaz'd, unhurt, on Pride
Lodg'd in a mould divine;
Oft listen'd, safe, when Folly flow'd
From lips as sweet as thine.
Lodg'd in a mould divine;
Oft listen'd, safe, when Folly flow'd
From lips as sweet as thine.
The Soul, o're all thy frame diffus'd,
Paints every feature fair,
As Angels tinge their forms, at will,
When limb'd in lucid air.
Paints every feature fair,
As Angels tinge their forms, at will,
When limb'd in lucid air.
Bright-beaming through thy shape appears
The heavenly guest enshrin'd;
'Tis virtue, sure, to kiss the case,
That holds so fair a mind.
The heavenly guest enshrin'd;
'Tis virtue, sure, to kiss the case,
That holds so fair a mind.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 49. For England's Injured Church and Law
[_]
[Addressed to Philip Duke of Wharton, who started the True Briton, a bi-weekly newspaper, on 3 June 1723]
For England's injur'd Church and Law,
Great Duke, the Patriot's Pen you draw,
Our wasted Wealth, our impious Age,
Your un-polluted Hand engage
To snatch the wreaths that Gaylard crown'd,
And Smedley's awful temples bound.
Great Duke, the Patriot's Pen you draw,
Our wasted Wealth, our impious Age,
Your un-polluted Hand engage
To snatch the wreaths that Gaylard crown'd,
And Smedley's awful temples bound.
234
Arm'd with pat parallels you come,
And mottoes quaint from Greece & Rome,
To prove that Peers should never vary,
Nor Leges Anglice mutari.
Your Maximes old, your standing Jests,
The Flowers of Journals and Protests,
Shall Bounties force from Walpole's hand,
Or Parker's Seal, or Pelham's wand.
And mottoes quaint from Greece & Rome,
To prove that Peers should never vary,
Nor Leges Anglice mutari.
Your Maximes old, your standing Jests,
The Flowers of Journals and Protests,
Shall Bounties force from Walpole's hand,
Or Parker's Seal, or Pelham's wand.
What Culprit's Widow shrill and sweet
Hawks your True Briton through the Street?
What 'Prentice shares your generous toil,
Besmear'd with Ink, and strong of oil,
Taught young, beneath his Fathers Roof
To spell his words, and point his Proof,
Taught young to stand his Author's cause,
And thrid the Loop-holes of the Laws?
Hawks your True Briton through the Street?
What 'Prentice shares your generous toil,
Besmear'd with Ink, and strong of oil,
Taught young, beneath his Fathers Roof
To spell his words, and point his Proof,
Taught young to stand his Author's cause,
And thrid the Loop-holes of the Laws?
What man is sure but Time may see
Old Whiston in a smart Toupé
Sacheverell to the Lawn prefer'd,
Or sweet Jack Hervey wear a beard,
The Whigs from Rome invite a King,
Or Thames run backward to his spring:
Old Whiston in a smart Toupé
Sacheverell to the Lawn prefer'd,
Or sweet Jack Hervey wear a beard,
The Whigs from Rome invite a King,
Or Thames run backward to his spring:
When you Great Duke, of parts so rare,
The Darling of the Gay and Fair,
Oh shame! oh worst of all your Barters!
Leave off your Viper-Broth and Chartres
(Fashion'd by him for greater Evils)
To herd with Booksellers and Devils?
The Darling of the Gay and Fair,
Oh shame! oh worst of all your Barters!
Leave off your Viper-Broth and Chartres
(Fashion'd by him for greater Evils)
To herd with Booksellers and Devils?
[Tickell papers.]
No. 50. To Chloe
Tell, whilst I gaze on Chloe, tell,
What power my voice restrains,
Why fears and doubts my bosom swell,
And shiver through my veins.
What power my voice restrains,
Why fears and doubts my bosom swell,
And shiver through my veins.
Nymphs less-desir'd my lips have learn'd
Like other swains, to praise;
For, where the Heart is unconcern'd,
The Fancy freely plays.
Like other swains, to praise;
For, where the Heart is unconcern'd,
The Fancy freely plays.
235
But Love, that dreads to meet her frown,
In vain at Language tries,
A fearful Child, by stammering known,
Stolen looks, and downcast eyes.
In vain at Language tries,
A fearful Child, by stammering known,
Stolen looks, and downcast eyes.
The wary Maid, who cold of heart,
Such tokens disbelieves,
Must think that Awe and Fear are Art,
And Innocence deceives.
Such tokens disbelieves,
Must think that Awe and Fear are Art,
And Innocence deceives.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 51. The Cradled Briton
The cradled Briton, for the seas design'd
Thrives on the waves, and hardens in the wind,
Down from the Mast his childhood smiling spies
The level ocean into mountains rise,
He reads, an early book, the heavenly frame,
And lisps each Constellation by it's name.
Thus master of the stars that o're him glow
He portions out the watry waste below.
Thrives on the waves, and hardens in the wind,
Down from the Mast his childhood smiling spies
The level ocean into mountains rise,
He reads, an early book, the heavenly frame,
And lisps each Constellation by it's name.
Thus master of the stars that o're him glow
He portions out the watry waste below.
No. 52. From the Last Isle
A Fragment
From the last Isle, along whose shore extends
The waste Atlantick, and where Europe ends,
On whose wild plains, to ancient fame unknown,
Nor Roman Arms, nor Grecian Science shone.
The waste Atlantick, and where Europe ends,
On whose wild plains, to ancient fame unknown,
Nor Roman Arms, nor Grecian Science shone.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 53. Welcome to Prince Frederick
A torn fragment
The Muse's Task be this, with gentle art
To tune the temper, and to sooth the Heart,
The swelling Tides of Glory to assuage,
And suit her offerings to thy growing Age
In vain the Vulgar Great, to Titles born,
Scorn'd by the Muses, Scorn repay with Scorn;
In vain the dull of head, and cold of heart,
As Banes to Business damp each graceful Art: [OMITTED]
Long live the Third of Brunswick's royal line,
Long live the poet's prince [OMITTED] and Thine
Like him when young, among the Muses rove
And trust the Thunder to the arm of Jove.
Nor blame as rudely bold the Learned Band,
Long cheer'd by Kings in polish'd Britain's land.
Sydney & Raleigh grac'd with deathless rays
Elizas reign in Albion's golden days:
Who boasts not more of Bacon, near the Throne
Or, Charles, thy Hyde, or George, thy Addison?
Old Saxon Alfred felt the pleasing fire
Nor Lion-hearted Richard scorn'd the Lyre,
The tuneful Hero oft on Judah's land
To the sweet strings apply'd his martial hand [OMITTED]
Amidst the welcomes of thy Royal race,
Thy Mother's smiles, they Father's fond embrace,
The Senates homage, and the Land's acclaim
A heart which joys the raptur'd Muse inflame
Bold to retouch the Lute forgot so long
And hail the Darling of our future Song.
At length Britannia round her Monarch's throne
Sees his whole House, and boasts it all her own.
To tune the temper, and to sooth the Heart,
The swelling Tides of Glory to assuage,
And suit her offerings to thy growing Age
236
Scorn'd by the Muses, Scorn repay with Scorn;
In vain the dull of head, and cold of heart,
As Banes to Business damp each graceful Art: [OMITTED]
Long live the Third of Brunswick's royal line,
Long live the poet's prince [OMITTED] and Thine
Like him when young, among the Muses rove
And trust the Thunder to the arm of Jove.
Nor blame as rudely bold the Learned Band,
Long cheer'd by Kings in polish'd Britain's land.
Sydney & Raleigh grac'd with deathless rays
Elizas reign in Albion's golden days:
Who boasts not more of Bacon, near the Throne
Or, Charles, thy Hyde, or George, thy Addison?
Old Saxon Alfred felt the pleasing fire
Nor Lion-hearted Richard scorn'd the Lyre,
The tuneful Hero oft on Judah's land
To the sweet strings apply'd his martial hand [OMITTED]
Amidst the welcomes of thy Royal race,
Thy Mother's smiles, they Father's fond embrace,
The Senates homage, and the Land's acclaim
A heart which joys the raptur'd Muse inflame
Bold to retouch the Lute forgot so long
And hail the Darling of our future Song.
At length Britannia round her Monarch's throne
Sees his whole House, and boasts it all her own.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 54. Happy the Land
[_]
“The following is a copy of the unfinished Poem alluded to in the Letter [Swift to Tickell, 20th July 1731.] A few of the lines in it were afterwards transposed into another Poem published by Mr. T.---ll & addressed to a Lady on her Marriage.” [Note by Thomas Tickell, Letter Book, No. 2.]
Happy the land, when Nobles plac'd on high
In Arts and Virtues with plebeians vie,
Their Fathers' honours who like Rivals view,
Nor boast old titles, till they merit new.
By fame, not fortune, led, in posts to shine,
They take them trembling, but with pride resign.
His course through clouds achiev'd, the patriot mind
Slow-setting leaves a track of light behind:
Silent and sole he stands amid the grove
An awfull figure, like Dodona's Jove;
From him the anxious nations ask their doom,
Priz'd in his lustre, worship'd in his gloom.
In Arts and Virtues with plebeians vie,
237
Nor boast old titles, till they merit new.
By fame, not fortune, led, in posts to shine,
They take them trembling, but with pride resign.
His course through clouds achiev'd, the patriot mind
Slow-setting leaves a track of light behind:
Silent and sole he stands amid the grove
An awfull figure, like Dodona's Jove;
From him the anxious nations ask their doom,
Priz'd in his lustre, worship'd in his gloom.
Not so thy Lords, o France, degenerate race
Of Freemen towering o'er a court's disgrace,
Whose dangerous virtue, by strong chains secur'd,
The dungeon swallow'd, or the fort immur'd.
Their sons, offending, meet a meaner fate;
Driven home in exile from the palace-gate,
Their hapless fall, wives, kinsmen, friends, deplore,
Dead to the Court, and bondmen now no more.
Pensive and sad see large-soul'd Condé roves
Like a fallen angel through Chantilli's groves!
In Bussi's lawns see Rabutin, by turns,
Weeps, sings, and rages, menaces, and mourns;
Round his paternal hills his flocks are fed,
His vineyards redden, and his forests spread,
His day the chase, his night gay balls employ,
The gliding damsel, and the warbling boy,
And wit, life's life. Beneath unsully'd skies
Free to his range all fair Burgundia lies:
The interdicted Court still haunts his head,
His mid-day dream, the vision of his bed;
Sick of the rural bower, his sovereign's grace
The Exile covets, and the Favorite's place;
The Favorite covets, sick of slippery power,
The Exile's freedom, and the rural bower.
Of Freemen towering o'er a court's disgrace,
Whose dangerous virtue, by strong chains secur'd,
The dungeon swallow'd, or the fort immur'd.
Their sons, offending, meet a meaner fate;
Driven home in exile from the palace-gate,
Their hapless fall, wives, kinsmen, friends, deplore,
Dead to the Court, and bondmen now no more.
Pensive and sad see large-soul'd Condé roves
Like a fallen angel through Chantilli's groves!
In Bussi's lawns see Rabutin, by turns,
Weeps, sings, and rages, menaces, and mourns;
Round his paternal hills his flocks are fed,
His vineyards redden, and his forests spread,
His day the chase, his night gay balls employ,
The gliding damsel, and the warbling boy,
And wit, life's life. Beneath unsully'd skies
Free to his range all fair Burgundia lies:
The interdicted Court still haunts his head,
His mid-day dream, the vision of his bed;
Sick of the rural bower, his sovereign's grace
The Exile covets, and the Favorite's place;
The Favorite covets, sick of slippery power,
The Exile's freedom, and the rural bower.
Scorn'd be the man, all dazzling in his state,
Beneath my envy, and not worth my hate,
Who proud to govern, not too proud to crave,
O'er others lording, knows himself a slave,
And, poorly swell'd with secondary sway,
Still fear'd, and fearing, trembles life away.
The joys that Equals best with Equals share,
The mutual Secret, the divided Care.
He never tastes. Ill-plac'd his peers above,
Too Great for friendship, and too Rich for love,
He views his purchas'd Levee with alarms,
And Beauty lies un-trusted in his arms.
Though Safety whispering warn him to retreat,
Though Freedom beckon to the sylvan seat,
From the safe harbour to the faithless Main
The Syren Grandeur sings him back again.
Short are thy splendours and thy service hard,
And what, great Goddess, giv'st thou in reward!
Impartial Nature fram'd with like desires
Affected Courtiers, and voracious Squires;
To mortal man, of small or great expenses,
She gave One stomach, and but just Five senses;
With this plain rule their appetites to still,
The full to empty, and the empty fill.
Beneath my envy, and not worth my hate,
Who proud to govern, not too proud to crave,
O'er others lording, knows himself a slave,
And, poorly swell'd with secondary sway,
Still fear'd, and fearing, trembles life away.
The joys that Equals best with Equals share,
The mutual Secret, the divided Care.
238
Too Great for friendship, and too Rich for love,
He views his purchas'd Levee with alarms,
And Beauty lies un-trusted in his arms.
Though Safety whispering warn him to retreat,
Though Freedom beckon to the sylvan seat,
From the safe harbour to the faithless Main
The Syren Grandeur sings him back again.
Short are thy splendours and thy service hard,
And what, great Goddess, giv'st thou in reward!
Impartial Nature fram'd with like desires
Affected Courtiers, and voracious Squires;
To mortal man, of small or great expenses,
She gave One stomach, and but just Five senses;
With this plain rule their appetites to still,
The full to empty, and the empty fill.
But we, as all sorrows were too few,
Acquire strange wants, that nature never knew.
In grief behold the envy'd statesman drownd!
His Title ends not in a graceful Sound.
From his soft couch the midnight slumbers flie!
He wants a Ribon of a nobler Die.
From goblets high-emboss'd his wine must glide;
Round his Clos'd sight the gorgeous curtains slide;
On his heap'd board th' inverted seasons rise;
And Three Untasted courses glut his Eyes.
For this are Friendship's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of Conscience and the bonds of Blood,
This, Wisdom, thy reward for every pain,
And this, gay Glory, all thy mighty gain.
And yet just Curse on Man's aspiring kind
Prone to Ambition, to Example Blind
Our Childrens Children shall our Steps pursue
And the same Errors be for ever new.
Grant him possest of all he covets most,
The Banker's vision, and the Herald's boast;
Compare we then the future with the past,
And judge if this can stand, or that can last.
Acquire strange wants, that nature never knew.
In grief behold the envy'd statesman drownd!
His Title ends not in a graceful Sound.
From his soft couch the midnight slumbers flie!
He wants a Ribon of a nobler Die.
From goblets high-emboss'd his wine must glide;
Round his Clos'd sight the gorgeous curtains slide;
On his heap'd board th' inverted seasons rise;
And Three Untasted courses glut his Eyes.
For this are Friendship's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of Conscience and the bonds of Blood,
This, Wisdom, thy reward for every pain,
And this, gay Glory, all thy mighty gain.
And yet just Curse on Man's aspiring kind
Prone to Ambition, to Example Blind
Our Childrens Children shall our Steps pursue
And the same Errors be for ever new.
Grant him possest of all he covets most,
The Banker's vision, and the Herald's boast;
Compare we then the future with the past,
And judge if this can stand, or that can last.
In pomp beyond compare thy throne, Peru,
Thy swarming Towns, our fathers' grandsires knew;
Thy ruines now in vain the eye explores,
Thrice ten degrees, along the lonely shores.
Where are thy Tribes, that with the world begun?
Where now thy Ynca's, lineal from the Sun?
Where shall their Heir, their high-born Heir, be found?
He pants, perhaps a Hireling under ground,
The Brother of the Stars ne'er sees them shine,
For life a Beggar in the golden mine.
Thy swarming Towns, our fathers' grandsires knew;
Thy ruines now in vain the eye explores,
Thrice ten degrees, along the lonely shores.
239
Where now thy Ynca's, lineal from the Sun?
Where shall their Heir, their high-born Heir, be found?
He pants, perhaps a Hireling under ground,
The Brother of the Stars ne'er sees them shine,
For life a Beggar in the golden mine.
From that new world, ah why? to curse the old
The Spaniard first brought pestilence and gold,
A shining mischief, by some wanton power
Bestow'd on mortals in an evil hour.
Ten thousand fathom hid from human sight,
The sad Peruvian heaves it up to light:
O'er Europe spread, the source of every wrong,
It reigns despotick, but it reigns not long:
Across the Ganges sent, but sent in vain,
The Indian Omrah buries it again.
Thus Earth's insatiate sons shall still be poor;
She, ever ransack'd ever keeps her store,
And mocks alike, resuming what she gave,
The Eastern Visir, and the Western Slave.
The Spaniard first brought pestilence and gold,
A shining mischief, by some wanton power
Bestow'd on mortals in an evil hour.
Ten thousand fathom hid from human sight,
The sad Peruvian heaves it up to light:
O'er Europe spread, the source of every wrong,
It reigns despotick, but it reigns not long:
Across the Ganges sent, but sent in vain,
The Indian Omrah buries it again.
Thus Earth's insatiate sons shall still be poor;
She, ever ransack'd ever keeps her store,
And mocks alike, resuming what she gave,
The Eastern Visir, and the Western Slave.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 55. Yes Belvidera
Yes! Belvidera, your Disdain
Gives my back my heart to me
As first your Favour wound my chain
Your Rigour sets me free
Gives my back my heart to me
As first your Favour wound my chain
Your Rigour sets me free
No joy, that once my soul beguil'd,
My memory shall wound,
Nor will I think how sweet you smil'd,
But how severe you Frown'd.
My memory shall wound,
Nor will I think how sweet you smil'd,
But how severe you Frown'd.
Your cruel look, your scornful air
My fancy shall possess,
And as I paint you still less fair,
I'll learn to love you less.
My fancy shall possess,
And as I paint you still less fair,
I'll learn to love you less.
240
My Waxen heart, when near the Flame,
Yields to th' imprinted mould,
But know, forgetful faithless Dame,
It hardens in the Cold.
Yields to th' imprinted mould,
But know, forgetful faithless Dame,
It hardens in the Cold.
[Tickell papers.]
No. 56. To the Duke of Devonshire
The Petition of John Ward
In Terms most humble presents to your Grace
His very small Fortune and very hard case;
That oft disappointed on none he depends
But is left to the world without Merit, or Friends.
Unacquainted with Parties unknown to the Great,
Unaccustomed to Toil yet the Pastime of Fate,
Forsaken of all, all Methods he tries,
If ought may avail, to make himself rise
Yet ventures with Modesty so near your Throne
In Talk a meer Stranger, by Sight scarcely known
Whose only Estate is exalted so high,
Dull Mortals despise it, as plac'd in the Sky,
For Wits, let their Fame be as great as they will
Are the Offspring of Sloth and Poverty still,
Ennur'd to no Trade, and brought up to no Art,
Not help'd by Relations, nor crown'd with Desert,
To Mankind in vain I might sue for Redress,
None know my Occasions, and few Men will guess.
In State most desponding, by the Light of a Taper,
With Thoughts dull and dark as my Wax, or my Paper,
Yet still most submissive, I come to your Grace,
In Accents most modest to beg some small Place.
Some pretty neat Portion in th' Army, or State,
For Life not too small, nor for Virtue too great.
That blest with such easy and competent Wealth,
I might drink once a Day your Lordship's good health,
And put in so even, sufficient a way,
I should scorn to flatter for Love, or for Pay.
Oh! might I once get a Subsistence so fair,
I'd write no more Rhimes, nor build Tow'rs in the Air,
The Faults of my Youth, and my Life I'd reclaim,
Nor, knowing more Guilt, wou'd be curst with more Shame,
I'd sit down in quiet, in no false Man trust,
In all my Thoughts, calm, in all Actions, just,
The Slanders of Hate and of Pride I'd defy,
No Mortal, my Lord, wou'd be more blest than I
Ev'n pleas'd with the Hope, I already prepare
To dispel my sad Gloom, & to banish my Care,—
Oh! might I behold that most fortunate Day,
Your Grace's most thankful, for ever shou'd pray.
His very small Fortune and very hard case;
That oft disappointed on none he depends
But is left to the world without Merit, or Friends.
Unacquainted with Parties unknown to the Great,
Unaccustomed to Toil yet the Pastime of Fate,
Forsaken of all, all Methods he tries,
If ought may avail, to make himself rise
Yet ventures with Modesty so near your Throne
In Talk a meer Stranger, by Sight scarcely known
Whose only Estate is exalted so high,
Dull Mortals despise it, as plac'd in the Sky,
For Wits, let their Fame be as great as they will
Are the Offspring of Sloth and Poverty still,
Ennur'd to no Trade, and brought up to no Art,
Not help'd by Relations, nor crown'd with Desert,
To Mankind in vain I might sue for Redress,
None know my Occasions, and few Men will guess.
In State most desponding, by the Light of a Taper,
With Thoughts dull and dark as my Wax, or my Paper,
Yet still most submissive, I come to your Grace,
In Accents most modest to beg some small Place.
Some pretty neat Portion in th' Army, or State,
For Life not too small, nor for Virtue too great.
That blest with such easy and competent Wealth,
I might drink once a Day your Lordship's good health,
And put in so even, sufficient a way,
I should scorn to flatter for Love, or for Pay.
Oh! might I once get a Subsistence so fair,
I'd write no more Rhimes, nor build Tow'rs in the Air,
The Faults of my Youth, and my Life I'd reclaim,
Nor, knowing more Guilt, wou'd be curst with more Shame,
I'd sit down in quiet, in no false Man trust,
In all my Thoughts, calm, in all Actions, just,
241
No Mortal, my Lord, wou'd be more blest than I
Ev'n pleas'd with the Hope, I already prepare
To dispel my sad Gloom, & to banish my Care,—
Oh! might I behold that most fortunate Day,
Your Grace's most thankful, for ever shou'd pray.
John Ward.
[Tickell papers.]
| Poems (1931) | |