Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse Consisting of the Epistolary Correspondence of Many Distinguished Characters. With Notes and Illustrations. By the Rev. R. Polwhele |
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MISCELLANEOUS VERSE; SERIOUS AND LUDICROUS. |
Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | ||
MISCELLANEOUS VERSE; SERIOUS AND LUDICROUS.
THE FOURTH OF MARCH.
1813.
Soft azure skies, and gilded showers;
The blaze of lights, the deepening shade,
Tints that flush the cloud and fade;
Now the young wheat's transient gleam,
Where sunfits, chasing shadows, stream;
Now in quick effulgence seen,
On yonder slope its sparkling green;
And, sprinkled o'er the mossy mould,
Crocuses, like drops of gold;
And the lent-lily's paler yellow
Where flowers the asp and water-willow;
And the polyanthus, fair
Its hues, as bath'd in summer air;
And the white violets, that just peep,
And, shelter'd by the rosemary, sleep;
Bursting lilacs, and beneath
Currant-buds, that freshly breathe
The first spring-scent, light gooseberry leaves
With which the obtrusive ivy weaves
Its verdure dark—this day, tho' late
Cut off, to meet a cruel fate—
And, full of leaf, the hedge-row rose;
On this south wall the peach-bloom pale,
Where huddles many a clustering snail;
And round the trunk of yon hoar tree,
Here and there, a humming bee
That wanders to the sunny nook,
Or seeks, hard by, the glittering brook;
The black-bird's trill, and every lay
That warbling wild love, dies away;
And on each ash and elm's gray crest,
Cawing rooks, that frame the nest
Anew, or with parental care
Their cradles worn by time repair;
And lambs that o'er the meadow, brisk,
Tug at the teat, and run and frisk;
These, this moment, meet my eyes,
Or my charmed ear surprise—
Sounds that melt, and sights that seem
To wave o'er winter like a dream.
The moon shall fill her silver horn,
Clear as now we hail the rays
Where evening's crimson vest decays;
Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March!
In blackness shroud the etherial arch,
Sweep those dewy meads serene,
And rifle all this garden-scene;
Yet, if bloom the vermeil peach,
Tawny-leav'd we mark the beech!
Yes! but yester-morn, were driven
Veiling the refulgent heaven,
What numerous starlings down the waste
As when howl'd the embattled blast!
Then, shall we not, my Mary! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
Scar'd by winds and rushing rain,
Will Spring visit us again?
This amber stream shall dimpling glide,
And again so softly steal
Thro' floral tufts, to yonder dale?
May not, where icebolts cease to beat,
The young shoots droop in summer-heat;
Scantier creep the languid rill,
And the vocal bowers be still?
Bliss so fugitive, so coy;
Muse on each colour's opening glow,
Trace the blossoms as they blow;
Listen to the choral grove,
And drink the soul of life and love;
Shall we not, my Mary! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
This, and the six following poems, are from “Floral Offerings,” of which a few copies only were printed, in honour of the Royal Horticultural Society of Cornwall; whose first meeting was held at Truro, on the 29th of June, 1832.
THE SNOWDROPS.
1829.
Which specious fashion links with taste,
Whilst from this long-forsaken nook
Starts many a dream of pleasure past?
I bid the sheltering hedge lie low,
'Tis but to give an ampler scope
To that dark wind, our dreaded foe.
Or Boreas howl or grimly sleep;
A tenderer feeling shall arrest
The leveller's unrelenting sweep.
Of all its blooms so rudely shorn,
Where oft we wooed the fragrant hour
At evening close or break of morn;
Nestled or sung, no longer shy;
Nor heeded our protected wren
The jealous redbreast rustling nigh;
And, midst its briars above, blue bells
And honeysuckles loved to breathe
Pure incense from their dulcet cells:
Shook from the sprays a glittering shower
Of icicles, the spot we trac'd
To spy out the first infant flower.
(Sure, 'tis illusion mocks my sight!)
Shall my dim eyes again discern—
Type of her soul—their virgin white?
(To pensive memory, oh! how dear)
Once clustering—cradled amid snows,
Sweet heralds of the purpling year!
Of fond affection kindly given,
To bring back my departed days.
Or lingering still, or dropt from Heaven?
The pearls of Ormuz—would I take!
And lo! the pleading eye they lift!
“Preserve us for a sister's sake!”
Its every cadence treasur'd here—
Her hymns that bade my heart rejoice—
Her every smile—her every tear—
When sinking in the arms of death—
By all the sighs which o'er her grave
Were heav'd, as pale I gasp'd for breath;
In realms, where sorrow hath no lot,
Her everlasting love, I swear
That I will shield this sacred spot
With Faith aspiring to the skies,
And holy Peace—the “cherubim”
To guard my little Paradise!
A deceased sister and myself had pleasure in a little garden which from long desertion was overgrown with briars and brambles, and ground-ivy. But our hedgerow nook retained its peculiar feature, after the lapse of more than sixty years. The snowdrop was here our favourite flower. That the trace of a snowdrop, however, or of any other flower was here discoverable, I could not conceive. Yet here I found a tuft of snowdrops in January 1829.
I had considered the above as merely an effusion of fancy and feeling;—not at all aware, that snowdrops could have existed so long in the ground—upwards of sixty years, till in the Journal of a Naturalist I read the following: “The snowdrop remains the only memorial of man and his labours, a melancholy flower; reminding us of some deserted dwelling, a family gone, a hearth that smokes no more!”
RURAL SCENERY.
Mingled with the morning light,
Sweet May! I saw thy orient blush!
And lo! that crimson flush
O'er wave and rock and cavern riv'n,
These dimwood shades which fragrance breathe
Fresh as they kiss the sod beneath,
The daisied mead, its glittering dews,
A bliss so pure effuse,
I cry—It is almost a Heaven!
Sycamores, that soon shall spread
Their broader leaves; and richly brown,
Yon oak's aspiring crown;
The vigorous chesnut that hath thriven
Sustain'd by my assiduous care,
Waving its hyacinths in air;
And kindling far down yonder combe,
The blaze of apple-bloom—
Oh! doth not this resemble Heaven?
Soars the lark, nor dreads the kite;
With hawthorn deck'd see Susan's pail:
And now the wheels I hail,
Crashing and crazed, which Hodge had striven
To disengage where deep the wain
Had sunk amidst the hollow lane.—
Now bleating o'er the barley-blade
The lambs that lawless stray'd—
These rural sights and sounds are Heaven
Whilst I view your blameless joys,
This little fellow, who the cuckoo
Now mimics—its blithe echo—
Now up he starts, his brother jostling,
And wild pursues the yellow gosling,
Now laughs, and mimics with a bound
The colt that wantons round—
Say, is not this a little Heaven?
How he eyes their glowing blue;
Then stares with wonder, leaps with pleasure,
As azure light on azure
Mounts up, tho' by no zephyr driven!
They are, my boy! gay butterflies,
That woo the Cornflowers ere they rise,
Then seem to mock their loves below,
And flutter, to and fro!—
To note thy sweet surprise, is Heaven!
Feeds his finch and warbling throstle;
Tends his tame hare, and fits his hooks
For trout in hazy brooks!
O may I hope to be forgiven
If with my scampering boys I rove
In search of nests thro' glen or grove,
And traverse thorny brakes and bushes,
Or banks o'ergrown by rushes—
If still I deem such pleasures—Heaven!
Yet, through all the conscious shade,
A warning whisper seems to say
From every trembling spray:
“Remember! thou art sixty-seven!
Tho' scenes so fair thy fancy please,
Yet can'st thou trust thy feeble knees?
To thee shall May's sweet morn restore
Its balms—perhaps no more!
Thou must not deem such pleasures—Heaven.”
THE HORTICULTURAL BARD.
The glenwood streams they come—
From him who wooes the quiet groves,
And all that sweetens home.
The sear leaves down the glade,
I bid the germs of purpling spring
Foreshow my summer-shade.
I mark full many a flower,
Scattering new colours, every day—
Fresh incense, every hour.
With clemătis a screen,
Thy faery pencil, modest Eve,
Shall trace my garden scene.
Hath May's first morning vied,
Its vest as orient tinctures flush
In all its floral pride.
As with the sunbeams play;
And lo! its fitful flame pursues
The fainting, lingering ray.
And skims the lily-white;
And from the yellow blaze emits
A keen, yet quivering light.
Thou lov'st to lift thy head,
My evening-friend! so calm, so chaste,
Sweet primrose of the shade!
The silent glow-worm steal,
And, one clear drop of lustre blue,
Hang on thy petals pale.
To twilight cool unclose!
So may I give, with all its sighs,
This bosom to repose.
To others I impart
The pleasures from reflection won,
To cheer the social heart.
The cottage-folk confine;
They cull their cresses from the brook,
They tend their rosemarine.
And quits the toilsome field,
While, now thrice blest, his orchard trees
The day's last splendours gild.
Vouchsafes the cordial smile;
Her herbary she had water'd well,
And pick'd her chamomile.
Or stuff'd with tasteful chives,
He thanks—with more than words can speak,
Be sure—the best of wives!
The son—the duteous wife,
All, not inemulous, aspire
To such a noiseless life.
We pass to fruitful grange,
Where riches spring from “mother earth,”
And herds o'er valleys range.
Whom Heaven and Nature bless;
If they but knew—still simple swains—
Knew their own happiness;
Secure from guilty cares,
From youth if to a green old age
The homebred joys were theirs!
O'erbrows the village thatch,
Rejoicing in your wealth and power,
Go lift the poor man's latch:
E'en he may good dispense,
If patient labour shut our want;
If—a kind Providence.
Where worldly passions brood)
That we assign the fairest palm
To Peace and Gratitude!
The following flowers have been observed to emit flashes, more or less vivid, in this order:
1. The Marigold (Calendula Officinalis).2. The Garden Nasturtium (Tropœolum majus).
3. The Orange Lily (Lilium bulbiferum).
4. The African Marigold (Tagetes patula et erecta).
And the Sunflower (Helianthus annuus) emits phosphoric light.
See Darwin's Bot. Gar. Part II. pp. 184, 185.“In some quiet country parsonage (said the divine Hooker) may I see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat my own bread in peace and privacy.” —See a Letter of Hooker to Archbishop Whitgift.
THE OLD CORYCIAN HORTICULTURIST.
(A competition pleasant)
I offer to your imitation
The old Corycian peasant.
Where flows the black Galesus;
And bade its banks his garden nourish,
Far happier than a Crœsus!
Beneath his native hill, he
Planted, outvying all around,
The vervain and white lily.
I'll grant thee thy request—hem—
His apples were the first and richest;
His rose, the rose of Pæstum.
He rear'd the polyanthus,
And e'en amidst the winter's frost,
Would shear the soft acanthus.
(You may cry out “O lud!”)
He had—believe me, if you please—
A pear for every bud.
I'm certain you will grant—
The loftiest elms in rain or thunder,
This peasant could transplant;
And planes that stretch'd their branches
To shelter, as they touch'd their pipe,
The rustics on their haunches.
In ancient horticulture:
“No!” (cries the widow, full of spleen;
And cowering like a vulture)—
And mourns no more her Trunnion)
“Goils! I have got a glorious prize
For my potatoe-onion!”
Solicitor, physician,
Can teach us how—or wise or witty,
To beat the old Corycian!
THE LONGING LADY.
Where all of one mind with no politics grapple,
I am sure, we had fruits fit for every condition,
From the cucumber up to the princely pine-apple.
We stoop not, ye Critics! your favour to curry;
But while flirt the misses, and bounces the matron,
O Hellas! our Flora may rival thy Furry!
By swarthy plebeians, and men of high quality,
I look'd all around, and a lesson I read—
In every big cabbage or neap, “a morality.”
Was adjudg'd, and to pinks, and to flow'r after flow'r;
And to bunches of grapes, but I could not be calm,
In ripeness tho' luscious—alas! they were sour!
(I confess it with shame!) I was prompted to thieve:
For me the temptation was almost too much,
In frailty, I fear, a true daughter of Eve!
THE FLORA BALL.
But I have heard (perhaps 'tis false)
Ye fondly welcom'd, yester night,
My lovely girls! The Phallic Waltz.
Your mounting spirits, nor marr your glee;
I would not quench the festal lamp,—
Far be such rigour—far from me!
That youth and innocence inspire:
For you the muse has dulcet treasures;
The melodies of lute and lyre.
The glances arch from eyes of sloe;
The blush that soothes the lover's anguish;
The flaxen hair's luxuriant flow;
In many a sigh sincere, be mine
To consecrate the rosy wreathes
That bloom o'er Hymen's gifted shrine.
O'er life that dear delicious spell
Which they alone can ever know
Who sigh'd so oft, and loved so well.
(And yet I think the rumour false),
Nor deem me scrupulous or precise—
Abjure, dear girls! abjure the Walz.
Mrs. Butler (Fanny Kemble), who in her late publication has thrown more light on America than any former traveller, promised Dr. ------ never “to walz again, except with a woman or her brother.” The Walz, under all its modifications, is no other than the Phallic Dance; which a truly modest woman would blush even to name. It was the very dance even of the courtezans of Corinth—the strumpets of Babylon—the harlots of Jerusalem. —[see Ezekiel.] I have heard of a lady, who flung down Fanny Kemble's book in disdain, because poor Fanny had “wished somebody at the devil.” Qu? Has this lady objected to the walz?
A FRAGMENT.
—Its keys, to pain or pleasure;
The wires unseen
Without an effort won,
Give back a corresponding measure;
Thus from the secret bosom—from within—
Spontaneous modulations rise
Which seem to symphonize
With present joys or griefs, and tell
What shall befall from what befell;
Which speak of bliss to come,
Or antedate our doom!
That vibrate or to joy or woe!
I feel the chord that brings
The future to my sense: its whisperings show
Responsive to the present and the past,
How my horoscope is cast!
And ah! what intimations fill
My soul with sad presentiments of ill?
The music of the nerve of mournful tone
Dies not away unanswer'd,—nor alone
Is by the sorrower heard;
But from a nerve conceal'd
I hear, in thrilling unison,
The voice of things yet unreveal'd!
O as I heave the sigh
Soften my actual grief;
It calls forth others from the trembling chord
That runs into futurity—
Others which all unbidden part
From this harmonicon—my heart!
THE RILL LOST IN A THICKET.
By brambles screen'd and deep in fern:
Its long-loved music meets my ear—
Its lapse can straining eye discern?
The brisk career of youth and me;
And seems to murmur—“what hath been,
“Ah never—never more shall be!”
The dancing of a gladsome day,
As thus, though it be seen no more,
Its distant echo dies away!
A friend, objecting to the second line, when I presented him with these versions:—
In coppice deep, where darkness broods:
Its lulling music meets my ear—
My eye its lingering lapse eludes.”
The o'er-hanging copse its canopy:
Its plaintive music meets my ear—
Its lapse eludes my straining eye.”
He preferred this to the other two.
Yet “by brambles screened,” &c. &c. is the exact description of a little stream which used to glitter to the morning sun, but of which, overgrown as it now is by brambles, furze and fern, not a glimpse is to be seen.
A GOOD CONSCIENCE.
O grant me, Lord! that sweet repose,Which from approving Conscience flows;
A Conscience spotless from offence,
Which gives us, with the enlighten'd sense
Of charity to all mankind,
To serve Thee with a quiet mind;
Which shall for aye our moments bless
As pain we lull, and soothe distress,
And of each act, whate'er it be,
Ascribes the merit all to Thee!
Oh! it is Conscience, clear and calm,
For every trouble hath a balm;
And, whilst “the wicked stalk abroad,”
Resigns us to “the peace of God.”
'Tis like the blaze, that lights the walls
Of hamlets or of loftier halls—
The genial blaze, though round were gloom,
That brightens up our tranquil home:
Without, the dreary winds may roar;
The cheerful hearth but charms the more!
To Dr. DARWIN.
“While Sargent flings around his curious eyes,Winding through many a subterranean maze;
And, as he bids entrancing forms arise,
With wizard light the mineral kingdoms blaze;
Behold! amidst the vegetable bloom,
O Darwin! thy ambrosial rivers flow;
And suns more pure the fragrant earth illume,
As all the vivid plants with passion glow.
Yes! wheresoe'er with life creation teems,
I trace thy spirit thro' the kindling whole;
Of Science, isles emerge and oceans roll,
And Nature, in primordial beauty, seems
Inspir'd by thee to breathe a renovated Soul!
The following Sonnet was about the same time addressed to Cowper; who cordially united with Darwin and Hayley in expressing sentiments complimentary to “the Muse of Devon,” and honoured me with a correspondence highly flattering.
To COWPER.
“Cowper! to thee the Muse of Devon bearsA rustic offering. On the green-hill tops,
And in the tufted combes, beside the brooks,
She gather'd many a floret; and, retir'd
Fast by a Druid's chasmed rock that frown'd
O'er the dark waters of impetuous Teign,
She wove this various garland in the light
Of the pale moon; as in dim rounds discern'd
(Where open'd, far within, a pendent wood)
The tripping Feri twinkled. Such the wreath
She consecrates to thee! And, tho' its hues
Be oft too glaring to thy purer eye,
Perchance the primrose and the vi'let, there
May lurk, in modest tints, not unperceiv'd!”
To J. W. CROKER, Esq.
O thou, whose talents over scutchion'd birth,A splendour, to adorn thy lineage, shed—
(Though Devon calls thy hoary fathers forth,
High-helm'd, and glories in transmitted worth)
Thou, from whose patriot flame by honour fed,
Scared Faction shrinks, and hides its viperous head,
Nor less to thee the Muse her tribute brings,
For that thy fancy, midst the effulgent sphere
Of poesy, unfolds her genial wings—
For that thy heart is conscious to the tear
That trembling starts to taste and feeling dear!
Whilst to proud notes, to swell the pomp of Kings,
Echoeing o'er vale and hill, thy “Talavera” rings!
SONNETS To a person threatening to shoot the wood pigeons at Polwhele.
I.
[The days are come, when querulous old age]
The days are come, when querulous old ageMourning its past delights, you little deem
How trivial are the things its heart engage,
And bid it, like the illusion of a dream,
Grasp at a fleeting image well nigh gone!
I always prized the feather'd tribe. Their note,
Their plumes, I hail'd in glens recluse and lone.
But in the haunts of all that “pour the throat,”
The gurgling Wooddove have I valued most;
And oft, as scarce a care my bosom cross'd,
Myself unnoticed, I have mark'd with glee
The neck's blue glossiness, the purple breast;
And, in the hollow of my grandsire's tree,
Espied with eager eye the simple nest.
II.
[Down to the depth of that umbrageous dell]
Down to the depth of that umbrageous dellI cannot now descend with feeble knees:
Yet may I catch the sounds I loved so well:
And the wild melodies that wont to please
My ear, yet linger like a fairy spell.
I cannot for the nest with curious glance
But with emotions that renew the boy
Each summer eve, when all around is still,
The plaintive cooings yet my soul entrance!
Then menace not with murderous aim, to kill
The innocuous inmates of my tranquil groves,
That in deep mellow murmurs tell their loves—
As the last echoes of my youthful joy.
A CORNISH INCIDENT.
Where screamed the sea-gull and the heronA body was wash'd in at Piran:
Squire Ned stole slily down to see
What peradventure it might be;
When, lo! a female hand struck Neddy—
Besure, thought he, a handsome lady!
As with a brilliance strange it shone,
He look'd around; and all alone
Was charm'd by many a precious stone;
Nor did he for a moment linger,
To scrape acqaintance with a finger;
Tho,' tugging at each tempting ring,
He cried: “By jingo, how they cling!
What's best to do?—'tis mighty puzzling!
Still will I try—tho' dead, she's dazzling!
Diamond and emerald, ruby, sapphire—
“They'll buy me many a fine fat yaffer!”
And muttering: “'Tis so rare a morsel—
So dainty—I dont wish the corse ill—
A luxury of so great a price!”
Our hero mouth'd, and nothing nice,
Bit off the finger in a trice:
And now from tinner fast on tinner
Squire Ned slunk back, a conscious sinner,
Inter arenosa loca—
Then whoop'd—“saw—saw ye not a phoca?”
The seal was welcome to the body.
Yet seal was never seen, 'twas said;
And hence they named him “phoca Ned!”
But Ned had made a lucky hit,
And chuckled over the tit-bit.
Not many generations have passed away, since the Cornish country squires have had no objection to share in the rich wrecks that blessed their lucky shores.
What is here commemorated, was a real incident. Squire Ned was a progenitor of one of the most ancient families in Cornwall. In his days a country squire had just “larning” enough to know, that “phoca was Latin” for a seal; whilst he used the provincialisms of the lowest farmers—whit for white— “yaffer” for heifer.
TO A LADY,
in whose garden an adder, at the foot of an apple-tree, prevented the fruit from being stolen.
A dragon, in fables of old, was the wardenOf Hesperithusa's delectable garden—
(Anticlimax indeed—at the foot of the ladder!)
You tell us, your pippins are watch'd by an adder!
A LESSON
for caution, in the presence of children.
Take care not to say, if you'd not have it told,
To what party yourself you addict;
When a babe is your echo—not quite three years old,
“He's a radical, and must be kickt!”
This is literally a fact. A gentleman said of another—“He is a radical, and deserves to be kicked,” in the presence of his little boy, not quite three years old. Several months after, the radical called at the gentleman's house, when the child immediately as he entered the parlour, ran to him and kicked him. “How is this?” cried the father—“What's the matter?” “Why you said you know—he's a radical, and must be kicked.” The gentleman did not recollect that he ever said it. But this clever little fellow, I dare say, was probably right.
THE DEAN; OR SNUFF-COURTSHIP.
Descending in a golden shower,Great Jove came down to Danae's tower.
Our Dean, who deals in other stuff,
Carries his point by showers of snuff;
And though, in sooth, low people trust,
As they make love, to yellow dust,
And think not, to supply the lack O!
Of gold, by pinches of tobacco;
And from the tasteful test would flinch,
If put thus nicely to the pinch;
Yet, with such pretty playful knocks
Our worthy Dean did rap his box,
And cast about him with such grace,
And such a pleasant “power of face,”
An odour to outvie the rose,
From particles that miss'd his nose,
That soon in palpable reality
He proved its titillating quality.
In short he felt, attach'd to Nation,
The fine effect of titillation.
So Celia, as it seems, was pleas'd!—
And “love inspiring Cupid sneez'd!”
This was an impromptu on a worthy Dean, who won a fair lady by his graceful manœuvres in taking snuff.
Hogg succeeded Cardew, and Dr. Ryall, Hogg, as master of Truro Grammar School.
In master Busby, WestminsterA sovereign did revere:
Thus, master Ryall, I aver
Is half a Busby here!
You ask me how? Then put it to the trial—
And lo! just half a sovereign in a rial!
We all recollect the anecdote of Busby, at Westminster, asserting the sovereign, even in the Royal presence.
A rial, an old gold coin, its value half a sovereign; which this moment reminds me of parson Patten, the facetious curate of Whitstable; to whom, in extreme distress, Archbishop Secker sent, I think, 20 angels. “Tell the Primate (said he) that now I own him to be a man of God—for I have seen his angels.” The angel was likewise a gold coin worth ten shillings or half a sovereign.
Lan-deu-wednac—the black and white church; consisting of whitish granite and dark-coloured serpentine alternately disposed —a sort of chequerwork. It is surprising that our etymologists should have been all puzzled about the meaning of the word— so obvious on a view of the building. This, however, was the case. Old Sandys of the Lizard was “weary with conjectures.”
LANDEUWEDNAC.
The Church and Tower—unde derivatur?
Often, to put us to the rackConjecture makes a rout;
But, from this Church, here white, there black,
The very stones cry out:
“You know what's deu and widnac too;
“My name then, if you crave it,
I'll tell you, without more ado,
In black and white you have it.”
We all recollect the anecdote of Busby, at Westminster, asserting the sovereign, even in the Royal presence.
BEDLAM BROKE LOOSE.
(Each urchin fat as any fed lamb)
The insulting tribe play, prank on prank,
And grinning at old age or rank,
Hurl pebbles round, and smash out windows;
Not so the little harmless Hindoos
Tho' Heathen boys, nor squall nor squeak:
But windows they have none to break.
That Hades should be read for hell!
A second, scarcely kept in check,
Sang all about Melchisedeck;
Another laughing in his sleeve,
Told us how frail was mother Eve.
Stoned, t' other day, a poor blind man;
And, a fit sacrifice for Tophet,
Reckless, they would have stoned the Prophet.
To curb such wicked wit, I know,
I wish them all at Jericho;
Where, so convenient is the place,
Full soon, if not extinct the race,
Elisha's bears, with welcome close,
Of freaks would give them a strong dose!
And, they would own, a bear's embrace,
Bidding them up their shoulders shrug,
Is close as any Cornish hug!
DIE OF THE DOCTOR.
“The Doctor! the Doctor!” he made such a rout,But now he's clean gone, all is coming about;
The pulse in each patient, too quick or too slow,
The moan of despondence, the visage of woe—
Where are they?—Say, where is the tic doloureux?
'Twas his ominous phiz of dire import that shock'd her!—
And well nigh my daughter had “died of the Doctor!”
THE DOCTOR TURNED PATIENT.
Must erelong put my pocket to the trial.
Ponderous the package I've just sent away—
O what a sum (thinks I) the deuce to pay!
To an enormous size swell out your bill;
Long suffering, (but I fancy on the fret),
You whisper not a word about my debt.
Thus in new attitudes it seems we're stationed—
You are not now my Doctor, but my Patient!
BEERSHOPS.
Whether Beershops encourage or not inebriety,Of opinions, it seems, there has been a variety.
But, unless he would fly in the face of an Act,
(The product, too true, of the crazy or crackt)
An honester subject the deeper he drinks;
And a sot tho' he be, who can fancy the blame is his,
Required by the law “to be drunk on the premises?”
“Honestum,” as applied to Bacchus. And of our Bacchanals here we may well say:
“Complentur vallesque cavæ, saltusque profundi.”—Geor. II. 391.
On the board over the Beershop, is the Beer, or are the Drinkers of beer, directed by the Act of Parliament “to be drunk on the premises?” —Qu.?
THE SONNET OUT OF JOINT.
An old Bard of Truro was making a bustle,
In hot agitation exclaiming: “Fie on it!
The blunder hath spoil'd the effect of my sonnet:
The Devil had come with a proof, very sly—
Said the Bard to the Devil—“You 've put out my Eye!”
With a grin on his countenance rather uncivil.
“'Tis not cast away—though perhaps on the brink;
At a slip Sir! so slight, may we hope you will wink?
I cannot but say that it seems all awry—
And well may we call it a cast of the Eye.”
If you wish, in a twinkling we'll make you upsighted!
And, bless me! it seems after all to belong
To a “multitude”—yea to the deuce of a throng!
So, whate'er from above or below it espy,
Old Argus, to this, scarcely had a cat's eye.”
And your pert repartees, you deserve many stripes!”
And he bluster'd yet more in a fume, till at last
The Devil himself, like his types, was downcast:
And from flagellation, exceedingly shy,
Sneak'd away, on the Bard as he cast a sheep's-eye.
To me and my race reputation is dear;
I tell you—(the Devil look'd shrewd and asquint)
'Tis of moment to me, tho' you see nothing in't.
Provoking!”—when whisper'd a Wag who stood by,
“Hold your tongue—no more nonsense—'tis all in my eye!”
THE SONNET.
Dunstanville!—Is it not the funeral knellThat seems to gather visionary glooms,
Deepening the shadows of the nodding plumes
O'er “down and dale,” to where thy Fathers rest?
Again—again I hear its solemn swell,
Sad monitor of frail mortality!
O in that stillness—in that sudden pause
“Without a breath”—O is there not the applause
To shame the shouts of millions!
I hail, in all that countless multitude, [every eye]
Set on thy Coronet—in sooth to say:
“Number'd on earth amongst the great and good,
Be thine, in blessing others only blest,
The incorruptible Crown, through Heaven's eternal day!”
The above sonnet was so printed. See the ninth line, in which “every eye” occurred instead of the preceding line. It is literally a fact, that the printer's devil brought me a proof, with this dislocation, but disregarded my correction.
STATUES IN VOGUE.
Of brass were rear'd in former ages.
Pisander had, “in glory great,”
A brazen statue from the State;
And brass, in proof of wit to charm us,
The semblance stood of Epicharmus.
We thus would celebrate a cow;
And, whether it were lead or brass,
Thus too, would memorize an ass.
Homage, like this, no doubt, our Lander
Deserves as well as old Pisander;
And, thro' all Danmon, every anvil
Would music make for Lord Dunstanville;
Tho' we assert, without a query,
His fame will live, perennius ære.
To hear the clamours for a statue
Blazoning the Patriot, whose pretence
To honour, was sheer impudence:—
Of brass indeed—and with good reason
Aptly to represent him—brazen!
A cow near Truro, that produced three pounds of butter every day for some months, the farmers said, at a late Agricultural Meeting, was “worthy of a statue!”
ON AN IMPUDENT BULL OF O'CONNELL.
It would, perhaps, with horror fill us,To see thee perish like Perillus.
The sentence I would fain annul—
Yet hast thou made a brazen Bull.
KARNBRE.
—A Fragment.
Apeing the Antiquary, with strange airsAnother “a round tow'r” proposes!
I am on tiptoe to break squares
With such a Rounder; or to pull the noses
Of those who, rattling in contempt their purses,
Give me the credit due—for making verses!
So said a man of rank, but a Rad. ------ Borlase is very fanciful in his description of Karnbre. I have seen so many rock basins in Devon and Cornwall, evidently not artificial—in similar situations with those on Karnbre—that I cannot but protest against all that Borlase has conjectured on the subject. That sublime moonlight picture of Stonehenge, which I had in memory, but could no where find—and in search of which I have repeatedly sent my literary correspondents, I danced almost for joy on discovering, as quoted by Borlase from “West's Inst. of the Garter”—
------ those stupendous monumentsThat oft amaze the wandering traveller,
By the pale moon discern'd on Sarum's plain.
Borlase's Antiqu. p. 113.
West's Poem perhaps may be found in Dodsley's Collection of Poems, which I have not seen for many years.
EPITAPH ON TWO FAITHFUL DOGS,
Cæsar and Nelson. 1835.
Buried beneath Napoleon's willows,Here rest two very faithful fellows.
High names they nobly bore, or else on
Cæsar, they “made a lie,” and Nelson!
If ask'd of each—why stole he on
The relics of Napoleon—
I answer, that to rival Bony,
They flush'd a cock or chased a coney;
Both in pursuit of licens'd game.
Sure was their scent, and just their aim.
And I am certain that our Cæsar
To puff up Vanity, or ease her,
Ne'er wrote a Commentary-tattle,
To tell us all about a battle;
And that our Nelson, not for booty,
Did (more than every man) his duty.
My two late housedogs lie buried near the spot where my son planted a slip or two which he had plucked from Buonaparte's willow at St. Helena.
This resembles one of the epitaphs in Theocritus—“the sweet Sicilian Bard”—“done into English” by me 55 years ago. My translation was asleep, I believe. But a kind Critic in Fraser's admirable Magazine has just awakened it from its slumbers. He thought, too, I was lost in the delirium of old age stealing from life.—Alas! it is far otherwise!
ON HEARING AN ASS BRAY.
THE SURE SIGN OF A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER.
Thus an Ass in the political hemisphere:—
Heard ye a hoot across the heather?It augurs ill; nor deem it strange
That in the times, as in the weather,
We thus forbode an ominous change:
The braying Ass portends a storm.
This was one of the corporation squibs played off from time to time during the tortures of disfranchisement.
THE DEFUNCT CORPORATION.
Oct. 9, 1835.
(It squeak'd)—the glorious days! All bone and muscle
Am I; who once with such a bulky bustle
Amidst the million stalk'd—a mighty Burgess!
My voice of thunder beating Boanerges!
When marshall'd in array we loved to go,
Like four-and-twenty fiddlers in a row!”
Eyeing asquint the consequential mace;
That puff'd, tho' limping from a gouty twinge,
With all the flatulence of silk and fringe!”
But ‘fuimus’ we were—we once were ‘Troes’!
Long since our thumb-rings had portentous cracks;
But now our gowns are stript from off our backs!”
To mark in twilight Consultation grouped
Those whom we honour, though with laughing eyes,
Not on the “bridge of asses” but “of sighs!”
When all the Corporation shall be clay.
'Tis then around each honourable grave
Some emblematic plant may wind or wave.
Here, o'er this stone shall creep the clasping hops;
There speckled foxgloves shall unclose their cups!
By splendour, turns to court the rising sun.
No more aspire to kiss the steeple—vane;
Yet shall yon elm, whose trunk had once increas'd
(The fine effect of many a venison-feast)
To such a vast circumference, that our Rector
Thence oft deduced a moralizing lecture,
No more o'er half the graves its branches fling,
But sympathize in death with Church and King:
Yet the tall poplar, (erst with fatness fed)
As shrivel up its roots and droops its head,
Shall in the poor defunct set sadly forth,
How hath declin'd the Borough's festal worth;
And the sick Alder in consumption show,
Meet type! its meagre Alder-man below!
In proof of the bodily hugeness of the Emperor Maximius the Elder, his thumb is recorded to have been so large, as to bear upon it his Queen's right hand bracelet for a ring. [Hist. Aug. Scriptores, 606. Capitolinus.]
We know an Alderman's thumb-ring to have been an object familiar to the eyes of Shakspeare. [Arch. III. 390, Sir Jos. Ayloffe, and Shakspeare's Part I. of Henry IV. Act II. Scene IV.] “When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's talon in the waist: I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring.”
An Alderman's thumb-ring is mentioned by Brome, in the Antipodes, 1640; again in the Northern Cap, 1632; again in Wit in a Constable, 1640. See Johnson and Steevens's Edit. 1793, Vol. VIII. 463.
Light gold, and crack'd within the ring.[Ben. Jons. Magn. Lady.]
Flawed in such a manner as to diminish its value. Here we are reminded of the days of Bamber Gascoigne; when a cloud seemed to hang over the Borough. But it was soon dissipated.
We laugh at their awkward situation, whilst we lament the annihilation of their official dignity. The Borough of Truro has been always considered as the most respectable of all the corporations in the Western Counties. Not an instance of any peculation— of any wanton expenditure of the public money—of any abuse of power, has occurred, I believe, in the history of our Municipal Government. The dissolution, therefore, of the political existence of a corporate body, who, following the steps of their predecessors, well merit the gratitude of “faithful Cornwall,” (for their influence in Cornwall is of no mean account) must be the subject of regret and indignation with all who wish well to old England. With respect to the sepulchral emblems, the playfulness of the Muse must be taken as it was meant—mere jocularity. No human being is faultless. But I cannot charge any individual in the present groupe with the slightest deviation from all that is just and fair and honourable among men.
NOT DEAD BUT DYING.
“Yet,” (cried a voice that issued, I declareIf not from the Town-steward, from the Mayor)
“We'll put, as well-nigh finish'd is our course,
A recent Act of Parliament in force.
Ere yet (he foam'd and flash'd as passion work'd—
So brown-stout foams and flashes when uncork'd)
Ere yet (he cough'd and spat with short quick breath
And seem'd to dart the lightning before death)—
Hints with a sneer, ‘not dead, but soon to die.’)—
Against the race canine we set our faces,
In spite of inuendoes or grimaces;
And (sure a deed to grace the civic wreath)
We'll hang up every dog that shews his teeth!
Say not to tortering Power it gives no help,
To drown a mongrel or dispatch a whelp;
But hold your tongues; nor thus with shrugs on shrugs,
Suggest that you are now akin to dogs.
Quick, constables! scent out and shoot the terriers!
And wreak your rage on lapdogs, spaniels, harriers;
Nor shake, afraid to stop—afraid to fly
From shaggy fierceness or the bloodshot eye!”
The first Recorder, under Elizabeth's charter, bearing date 1589, was Robert Trencreeke of Treworgan, whose daughter Catherine married Degory son of John Polwhele, M.P. for the county of Cornwall. By this marriage, Treworgan became the property of the Polwhele family.
The last Recorder we venerate in the Earl of Falmouth (“Not dead, but dying.”) Among the capital Burgesses we find names of high respectability. Avery [1689]; Ennys, Foote, Polwhele, [1722]; Hussey, Mander, Coster, Thomas, Lemon, [1731]; Vivian, Conon, Macormick, Rosewarne, Cardew, Pellew, Boscawen, Russell, Luxmore, Hoblyn, Daubuz, Carlyon, &c. &c.
John Foote, the first Townclerk in the list before me [1676] held office twenty-six years. Gregor, Hussey, and Mander were likewise Townclerks.
The first operation under the new Act, &c. for improving the Borough, was a public notice, (in which as a justice, &c. I was desired to join the Mayor) that “all dogs suffered to go at large through the streets would be destroyed.” It was reported that the constables, &c. had slighted our order. But this was not a fact. A great number of dogs were seized, &c.
Before his death, which Pallas was to give.
Chapman's Homer, Il. xv. p. 213.
Ray inserts it as a proverb,—“It's a lightning before death.”
Would cast upon our consequence a slur:
We, who eftsoon shall hold the sovereign sway—
Shall big Tenpounders tremble and obey?”
Ere, each abandoning his proper shape,
He and his myrmidons, not more imbruted,
Were on a sudden into dogs transmuted!
Himself transform'd, perceiv'd a sprouting horn,
And felt his branching honours, and with dread
Stamp'd his slim legs, and shook his antler'd head!
A dog-killer on the Continent was appointed to kill dogs in the hot months.—“Would take you now in the habit of a dog-killer in this month of August.”—Ben. Jonson, Bart. Fair.
Bloodhounds and beagles at his haunches hung;
And, flesh'd in carnage, had attack'd his throat,
But for a most arresting shrilling note!
In selling plaice and pikes a Jackass busy,
Was struck (since man or ass a hubbub strikes)
And in a panic flung down all his pikes!
Prick'd up his brother asses their long ears,
And bray'd outrageous as to rend the spheres!
The obstreperous hooting thrill'd all Lemon-street,
Pierc'd Donkey-bridge, and linger'd o'er the Leet,
And swam back tremulous from Tregolls, and won
An echo more distinct from Alverton.
From creaking casements poked out many a head—
Gray gossips (who besure had heard an ass—
Not so uproarious) wonder'd what it was!
Smart milliners, who well nigh lost their wits,
Or fluttering fell into hysteric fits;
And 'prentic'd girls (whom lovesick sighs bewitch,
Skim the light gauze and flit from stitch to stitch),
Who dream, as stealthy twilight shuts their shops,
Of assignations in Bosvigo-copse;
Rous'd from their soothing reveries, look'd round,
And “thought a Damon sobb'd in every sound.”
The wings as of the wind—so fled Actæon!
O'er half the town his horned Worship flew!
------ Ea turba cupidine prædæ
Per rupes, scopulosque adituque carentia saxa,
Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla feruntur!
And on three Radicals in fury stamp'd—
Base grovellers, who lay floundering; in the lurch
Left, where he erst was throned, St. Mary's Church,
Now as he gain'd the Castle's topmost height;
And now descending smoked down Goody-Lane,
And whirling smash'd out windows, pane on pane.
One little moment cheer'd: “Avaunt, avaunt!”
He would have cried, and toss'd his beaming front,
And over Daubuz-moors with rapid strides
Shook the sick sweat-drops from his dappled sides.
Yet nearer, hot upon his Worship's breech,—
He would have cried, but had no power of speech:
“Full soon will you deplore this dire disaster!
“Ah! cruel! can you massacre your master?”
When he laid sprawling, by one desperate blow,
Agriolos—and next Hylactor low.
The “big-round tears” roll down his “innocent nose:”
But pitiless are all the factious folks—
To such “the big round tears” are only jokes!
And Pterilas and Thoas, either flank,
And fierce Theridamas, besmear'd with gore,
His quivering windpipe all asunder tore;
And “mercy! mercy!” with imploring eye
In vain he craved, and laid him down to die;
And, (what of stags, wherever born or bred,
Or e'en of Mayors is very seldom said)
Heaved his last death-groan—on a Featherbed!
One of the boundaries of the Borough. The Mayor and Corporation perambulating the Borough, halt at Featherbed in Kenwyn, and perform certain ceremonies.
Oct. 1835.
“GOING—GOING—GONE!”
“The snarling dog—his teeth are drawn:
Now, let him try with all his might;
He still may growl, but cannot bite.”
All would insult the old sick Lion.
No sooner was this thought or said,
Than flew the intelligence—“He 's dead.”
Here then (as not a cur that greets
His feverish Phillis in the streets;
Or Selima, that caterwawls
To mingle in the midnight brawls;
Or harlot that, for love or chink,
Cooes, hovering round a kidliwink;
Or rompish Miss, that, willy-nilly,
Draws after her a Locke or Lilly,
By moonshine seen to kiss and squeeze,—
Enough indeed to raise the breeze;
Or, having in his brain a twist,
Horsedoctor, or ventriloquist,
Of weightier matter for the lack,
But sets a going the town-clack.)—
Here—in presuming is it vanity
That, (gossips!) amid such inanity—
Poor humble I—may take my turn,
And nine days at oblivion spurn?
I mean—if dragg'd, another Hector,
Nine times from theatre to lecture,
From brilliant ball to public breakfast,
Nine times—till left alone to stick fast—
May serve, in buskin, sock or sandal,
To feed the appetite for scandal,—
And victim to a girl's vagary,
Per ora virum volitare?
From cocoa, if not spermaceti,
Blazoning her quarterly grand gala—
But doom'd on vulgar nights to tallow,
(E'en to a rushlight's gleam or twinkle)
Grim dowager! see madam Winkel.
Prompt on her neighbours to pass sentence,
On kith or kin or no acquaintance,
Suppose her (the big room hath scope)
Set down at Whist, All-fours, and Pope—
Perchance Back-gammon, Chess, Picquet,
(Or any game on which to bet)
Cribbage and Loo, and eke Quadrille:
Not that the dame herself could fill,
(Know, I adopt the Homeric phrase)
The tables “spreading” in my lays,
All peradventure, their “green” baize!
Or rather I'm not such an oaf, as
To dream, that she at once ten sofas,—
Ten Ottomans (say more or less)
Could with her own sweet bottom press.
“Have you not heard, it chill'd my blood,”
Squall'd one of the stale sisterhood,
“Old Fudge died suddenly at five?
“I've miss'd the deal, as I'm alive!
“They say his sister's in the dumps!
“But my good friend, pray, what are trumps?
“I wish that tongue of yours a blister—
“I'm told, his wife is sore and sick!”
“Sir! can we help it?—the odd trick!
“I care not who may bounce or blubber;
“Certain it is—we win the rubber!”
Mute for a moment sat my Lord.
“No doubt the man had my regards:”
(As slowly he dealt out the cards—)
“Though rumour tells a different story,
“He was a most determin'd Tory.
“Flatter'd and menaced, pommell'd, pincht,
“By friends and foes—he never flinch'd!
“Would that—but now 'tis all the same!”
“My Lord (quoth Cecil) mind the game.”
“Spite of the O'Connells or O'Connors
I bless my stars—we're four by honours.”
The Pope-Joan prattlers—Dick look'd queer,
Nell titter'd—Jane—she shed—a tear!
One only, who was seldom quiet,
Whose tongue from morn to night ran riot,
(That little member,—which—so fell—
So foul—is set on fire of hell)
One only (it seems) almost throttled
By syllables too closely bottled,
And with the feeling of a spasm,
From jabbering to supply the chasm,
Where her throat rued the hysteric globe—
(While whizz'd and rattled, lobe on lobe,
With respiration hard her lungs)
Thus to the very tongue of tongues
(Oh! school her in the school of Molly!)
“Lor! how did I enjoy the joke;
“(My sins, you know, I never cloak)
“When whirl'd about and tottering, plump
“I well nigh flung him on his rump,
“Where he was kicking the flag-stones—
“No wonder, had I crack'd his bones!
“Aye! flung him! Lor! 'twas such a sputter!
“Almost downright into the gutter!
“They tell me I delight in jostling—
“Especially in parson-hustling!
“'Twas not, indeed, with much decorum,
“I elbow'd one of the high quorum,
“In whom, right worshipful, my trust is—
“In front of his own court of justice!
“So that I fear'd a mittimus;
“Or that dread thing (so vast a fuss
“Is made about it)—the treadmill—
“Perhaps—the stocks, or what you will!
“Well! let the parson rest, dear Dick!
“The pavement he no more can kick!”
—“Stop, stop—nor heedless thus go on!
“For shame—where are we? Where is Joan?”
(Who studied Hoyle, though hot from Pascal)
As Alice snivell'd, frown'd or smirk'd,
His cards incontinently jerk'd;
And his dear person knock'd about,
And muttering, made a mighty rout.
“The dowager appears to slight us,
“And I—a martyr to St. Vitus—”
“Pray have you heard the news?” cried Alice,
(I fear 'twas with a spice of malice)
“This morning—never to come back
“Off went the justice!” “High, low, Jack!”
Kith or kin.
Mark with what meed vile vices are rewarded—Through envy I must lose both kith and kin.
Mirror for Magist. p. 291.
In Camden's Remains I find kiffe—probably a corruption of kith. Forsaking father and mother, kiffe and kinne, p. 214. [Edit. 1623.]
This, if supposed to allude to the scriptural “spreading like a green bay tree,” may imply something more. Of the gambler it may be said, he was spreading—he was fluorishing”—but lo! he was gone! I sought him, and his place could no where be found.”
I knew a lady at Exeter, who under the influence of animal magnetism, cried out: “O I shall shed—I shall shed!”—This is a provincial word—it does not mean to shed tears.
I allude to the tale of “Molly the Scold,” to whom was prescribed a cup of cold water, which, when she found her choler rising, she was to sip till she had sipped it all up.
Where two virginities intent
On pawns, nor less on rooks, yet listen'd:
Their eyes with indignation glisten'd!
The cards were so distinctly shuffled;
Afar off, in their genial nook,
They started from the devil's book—
Demurest of the tabby kind;
One, neither sitting nor reclin'd,
The other clad in garb subfusc,
Stiff as her steel or whalebone busk,
In tracts and trash the arch-arbitress,
Quaint in the corner, snug at chess.
Cried Edith—“That old drivelling fool,
He wrote against the Sunday school,
If not against the Bell, I'm sure—
Who could such petulance endure?
Then rail'd at Methodism, God wot!
And penn'd a song against a sot.”
“Oh!—I have lost the game!” scream'd Kate,
“Sad interruption—No—checkmate!”
Thus if they simper, scoff, or smile,
They give free current to their bile,
Till all, to close the clack confusion,
“Come to this sorrowful conclusion—
Yet “sorrowful”—without a sigh!
Curl'd was the lip with irony;
And frolic lit the twinkling eye.—
By learning and her sons forsaken,
They saw, as my poor frame was shaken,
Of disappointment many a token,
Announcing that I died heart-broken!—
In prose or in poetic fiction,
Have I complain'd of dereliction?
Full well I knew, nor nourish'd spleen.
I knew (still cheerful and lighthearted)
The weak are by the world deserted:
I knew that some, however civil,
Devoutly wish'd me to the devil.
Shy from my glance if Dennis stole,
I pitied him with all my soul:
His mean evasions to detect
I stoop'd not, but walk'd more erect!
Believe, or not believe my words,
I ne'er had much concern with Lords.
In youth, in age, with all my strength,
I've ever kept them at arm's length.
Yet, while reformers wreak their wrath on
The high possessor of Tregothnan,
Yet in Boscawen I hail the merit
Of ancient worth and patriot spirit;
And joy to hear each Cornish anvil
Ring for a statue to Dunstanville!
Ne'er did I hint I could not brook
The strange indifference to Tooke,
To whom we owe in quarto—folio—
Of taste and science such an olio!
I ne'er pronounc'd in phrase judicial
Benhaddads knowledge superficial—
I do not mean to offer any apology for those who devote themselves to cards. But I denounce not cards altogether: far from it. Much less do I object to music, vocal or instrumental— though neither psalms nor hymns. There are one or two (my opinion of whose good sense would have precluded the suspicion of such Puritanism) who object to a simple, innocent song—as profane. Heaven help them!
(Wild ass's colts) I caught a glimpse,
And saw of discipline the abuse—
All Bedlam seeming to break loose;
I to the sex (and oft I've said it)
Conceded not a grain of credit,
Yet seldom have I sent the ladies,
With their brats, “howling down to Hades!”
Vain human kind! How few have friends!
Who acts, but for his private ends?
Search in your study every book
Where wisdom speaks, from shelf to shelf—
Your best deeds centre in yourself:
The social passion Fancy paints
Alike in sinners and in saints,
Whilst in the moralist's account
Conceal'd from sight, but paramount,
Their motives we, alas! resolve,
Into that abject thing self-love,
Which o'er the bosom gently stealing
Too oft absorbs all other feeling,
Confess'd by few, but mourn'd by many,
In rebus quantum est inane!
And I have proved, in prose and metre,
This truth—Hoc sola mors fatetur.
Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | ||