Miscellanies (1785) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Benignant Laura! to the Muses dear,
Thy virtuous mind with bright amibition glow'd,
To tune the lyre, the votive shrine to rear,
By Science hallow'd in their fair abode;
From sterling wit to clear each base alloy,
And fill with purest fires the crystal lamp of Joy.

Wide thro' the murky shades by Malice shed
To shroud its blossoms, and its foliage blight,
With rising strength thy verdant altar spread,
And bards of loftiest spirit join'd its rite;
And with their oaken, and their laurel crown
Inwove thy myrtle buds, fair wreathe of fair Renown!

Tho' all unknown to Fame its artless reed,
My trembling hand, at thy kind bidding, tried
To crop the blossoms of the uncultur'd mead,
The primrose pale, the briar's blushing pride,
And on thy vase with true devotions laid
The tributary flow'rs—too soon, alas! to fade.

Safe thro' thy gentle ordeal's lambent flame,
My Muse, aspiring dar'd the fiercer blaze,
Which Judgment lights before the hill of Fame,
With calm determin'd hand and searching gaze;
But for thy lib'ral praise, with awful dread,
Far from those burning bars my trembling feet had fled.

Clad in the fine Asbestos light attire,
By Elegance inwove with nicest care,
Of pow'r to pass unhurt the public fire,
Where critic Wit bids all his beacons glare,
The sprightly Winford, at her Laura's fane,
Pass'd thro' its milder flames, amid th' applauding train.

The Nymph of Dronfield there with snowy hand,
To gay Thalia swept the silver wires;
The frolic Muse attends her soft command,
And the free strain with many a charm inspires;
Long be it hers in lettered scenes to please,
By quick Invention's fire, and Nature's graceful ease.

Dear to the parent-source from whence I drew
The spark of life, and all that life endears,
Time honour'd Graves! with duteous joy I view
Thy hollies blushing thro' the snow of years;
Their wintry colours the chaste shrine adorn,
Vivid as genius blends in Life's exulting morn.

Triumphant youth fann'd the poetic flame
Of noble Fielding, whose energic soul
So early wing'd him up the steeps of Fame,
And gain'd, e'er manhood's dawn, the distant goal;
Still in his lays the wounded breast shall find
A charm, that sooths to rest each Vulture of the mind.

From Woodland scenes, in Stamford's flow'ry vale,
With Learning, Peace, and Virtue fond to dwell,
And ring his wild harp to the passing gale,
While Dryden's spirit hovers o'er the shell,
Invention led her musing son among
Sweet Laura's delphic shades, that crown'd his mystic song.

And graceful Jerningham, benignly brought
His gentle Muse, of Bigot-Rage the foe;
And skill'd to blend the force of reasoning Thought
With Sensibility's enamour'd glow;
Skill'd o'er frail Love to draw the sacred veil,
Whose mournful texture floats on Fancy's boyant gale.

There tender Whalley struck his silver lyre
To Love and Nature struck—as mingled flows
With elegiac sweetness epic fire,
In the soft story of his Edwy's woes;
Its beauteous page shall prompt, thro' distant years,
The thrill of generous joy, the tide of pitying tears.

Near him a Bard, of many a fair design,
On the crown'd Vase the varied treasure pil'd,
And Oh! let moral Truth, and Fancy join,
To grace sweet Sympathy's poetic Child!
That his rich chaplet with that verse may vie,
Which throws the roseat ray on Nature's social tie!

Anstey himself would join the sportive band,
Anstey, enlivener of the serious earth!
At the light waving of whose magic wand,
New fountains rose, and flow with endless mirth;
Pouring on Fancy's soul a glow as warm,
As Bath's rich springs impart to Health's reviving form.

Immortal Truth, for his salubrious song,
Pluck'd the unfading laurel from her fane;
Since oft' amid the laugh of Momus's throng,
Wisdom has gravely smil'd, and prais'd the strain;
Pleas'd to behold the Fools of Fashion hit
By new, unrival'd shafts of Ridicule and Wit.

Bright glows the list of many an honour'd name,
Whom Taste in Laura's votive throng surveys,
While Hayley flashes in a type of flame,
Trac'd by a sun-beam the broad letters blaze!
Rapt Britain reads the long-recorded fire,
Claps her triumphant hands, and bids her realms admire!

The above is an exact drawing, engraved from the Tuscular Vase wherein the poems were deposited.

Lady Millar.

The Reviewers.

See Miss Winford's elegant Poem The Hobby Horse, printed in the fourth volume of Poetical Amusements at Bath Easton.

See Miss Rogers's Invocation to the Comic Muse, fourth volume of Poetical Amusements.

Rev. Mr. Graves, of Claverton, author of the Spiritual Quixotte, Enphrosyne, Columella, &c. and the well-known friend of Mr. Shenstone.

Alluding to the Chorus ex Prometheo, presented to the Vase by the Hon. Charles Fielding, then of Harrow School. See fourth volume of Poetical Amusements.

Rev. Mr. Butt, Rector of Stamford in Worcestershire. His Verses on the Pythagorean System had a wreath. See fourth volume of Poetical Amusements.

Mr. Jerningham, though a Roman Catholic, has ably combated monastic enthusiasm, in his ingenious Poem, The Nun.

See Mr. Jerningham's Funeral of Aribert.

Rev. Mr. Whalley of Langford Court, near Bristol, author of that interesting Love Poem, Edwy and Edilda—ingenious as a Poet, and incomparable as a Man.

Author of Sympathy, Emma Corbett, &c. &c. &c.

Author of The New Bath Guide.

See Essay on History—Epic Poetry—Triumphs of Temper, &c. &c.

THE SHADOWS OF SHAKESPEARE:

A MONODY, IN IRREGULAR VERSE, Occasioned by the DEATH of Mr. GARRICK.

I.

Soon as the breath of Rumour blew
This solemn theme into the general ear,
To holy Solitude I flew,
And bade the Muse her sympathy prepare!

There closeted with Thought,
The brain its shapeless travail wrought!
The season to the subject solemnly did suit:
Day's dazzling orb was wholly down:
Pale Cynthia sat upon her silver throne;
Th' obtrusions of the light were clos'd
It seem'd, as Silence self repos'd,
For with the Air, the Earth and all her sons were mute:
All but the wretched, who, like me,
The gentle vigils kept of sympathy.
With cordial awe I liailed the shading night,
And kiss'd her dusky-robe which muffled thus the night.

II.

Base busy world, begone, begone, I said,
To mighty Garrick yield the serious mind,
This awful Now be sacred to the dead,
And turn the cautious key on human kind.

III.

The dead—ah, me!—what dead?—Here it began
The florid Poet felt himself a Man.

And is he dead, whose wonder-working art
So often tone, and touch'd, and tun'd the heart?
Whose piercing eye intelligence could give,
And bid long-buried beings look and live?
Whose voice enrich'd the verse his Shakespeare writ,
And gave to every word its weight of wit;
No sentence blemish'd, marr'd no golden line,
But polish'd, as he drew it from the mine;
Whose tongue grew wanton in his Shakespeare's cause,
And gave to crowded Theatres their laws;
Whose powerful accents, soften'd or sublime,
Free from all frippery, false pause, false chime,
Chain'd, as to th' attracting centre, every ear;
And, all commanding, sway'd the smile and tear:
Is it to Him the Muse must pay
Her tributary lay?
For him, must aching Memory pour the strain,
Must she her honour'd Garrick's loss complain?

IV.

The heart was hurt—It could no more—
Along each finer nerve swift shot the misery,
Even Nature shed her pensive shower;
The mighty Mother wept, alas! with me:

Th' imperial Goddess mourn'd her own decay,
(Mix'd universal with our human clay)
And wish'd she could a second birth bestow
On this her Representative below.
But, ah! it might not be,
So the rich debt was paid, to poor Humanity.

V.

Then in the sable stole of woe,
All conscious of the blow,
Pale her cheek, her eye declining,
Half obedient, half repining;
Her visage mark'd by many a tear,
(Pour'd from the crystal source of grief sincere)
In awful state,
Unfortunate and great,
Melpomene came on,
Afflicted for her Son,
And thrice, methought, the Bowl she lifted high,
And thrice she threw on Heaven the pity-moving eye;

Then, like the statue of Despair,
Stood fix'd—her dagger pois'd in air.

VI.

Now 'twas Thalia first conceiv'd a pain,
'Twas now she echo'd back her sister's sighs again;
The jest, the laugh, the look, were o'er,
Her cunning was no more;
The comic mirth, the comic pride,
Her wit, her whim, with Garrick dy'd;
Disdainful then the mask she flung
To vacant air—and thus forlorn she sung:
And ah! away with random rhyme,
Tinsel ill-suited to the time;
Away with leisure's coxcomb line,
The couplet quaint, the stanza fine;
Far from our verse be now the pun, the point,
The period measur'd joint by joint;
Th' elaborate trade of poesy forbear—
O rather paint the workings of despair;
Scorn the vain edging sable Verse assumes,
And let dark Elegy pass on, in all her pompous plumes.

The honour of the Dead in view,
A juster path will we pursue;
Shakespeare himself, who best our state can feel,
Shall the sad tale in his own language tell.

VII.

Th' inspiring Goddess, mortals Fancy name,
With all her magic arm'd, now near me came
Her waving wand, deep midnight deeper made,
With her I went—to where our Garrick laid.
Cynthia lent a feeble ray,
To light us on our way!
Fancy with printless footsteps trod,
As if advancing towards a God!
Methought we easy entrance found,
And the drear Abbey walk'd around.
How fearful thus, ye Heavens! to tread,
The dampsome vaults which close the dead!

VIII.

But soft—
As at the foot of mighty Shakespeare's tomb

I kneel—sudden along the fretted ailes
Innumerous shady forms, by the pale moon's
Imperfect beam beheld,—in various guise—
(Each in the habit worn in days of Nature)
Appear, and pour their potent spells upon me!
Aw'd by a sight so strange, aloft I stood,
And wist not what to do:—the figures mov'd!
On near approach I knew them for the Train
Of Shakespeare: Then in procession sad,
Strait, one by one, his hallow'd homage paid
O'er Garrick's grave all bending.

IX.

Ariel first,
(Not sight-deceiving, as her custom was,
When in the bowels of the earth she div'd;
“Or mounted on the sharp wind of the North,
“Or on the curling clouds, or sunny ray,
“Nor like a spirit at ease”) but with step
Deliberate—She, and her fellow-ministers,
(“Brimful of sorrow and dismay”) stood mute,
Then gaz'd upon the grave—then sunk in sighs.

X.

Prospero,
The great magician, next—(whose high command
“Wak'd sleepers in their graves, and let them forth”)
Beheld the vanishing instrument of's art,
And spake—

“Have ye, which are but air,
“A touch, a feeling of our loss extreme;
“And shall not I, one of his kind, be kindlier?
“Our revel then is done; and this our Actor
“Is now no more! Lost is the book of Conjuration:—
“He regulated all our mystic charms:—He's dead!
“The cloud-capt tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
“The solemn temples, the great globe itself;
“Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
“And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,
“Leave not a wreck behind.”

XI.

He said, and paus'd.
The weir'd Sisters then, hag-born and horrid,

Mutter'd their melancholy homage hoarse;
Cold distillations of distress extreme
Fell down the furrows of each wint'ry cheek:
Thrice pac'd they piteous round the hallow'd earth,
Acknowledging their Lord. To Garrick's grave
Bow'd every swarthy She.—To end their rites,
Imagination's owl flapp'd her fell wing,
And, wailing, shriek'd as 'cross the dome she flew:
Sudden, the whirring wizards disappear,
And horse themselves upon the viewless winds.

XII.

The gentle Romeo was the third which came;
And oh! he said,—“Turn back dull Earth—ah, me!
“Can I go forward when my friend is here?
“It is even so—Then I defy you stars!
“Romeo shall never more be Romeo now
“His occupation's gone.”—

XIII.

The noble Coriolanus was the fourth,
Whose very shade look'd martial—firm he strode,
And thus with Roman dignity exclaim'd,
In honour of the Dead:

“My fame like thine
“Demands an equal voice, an equal tongue:
“All eyes spoke of thee, and the bleared sights
“Were spectacled to see thee—the veil'd dames
“Commit the wave of white and damask, in
“Their nicely gauded cheeks, to th' wanton spoil
“Of Phœbus' burning kisses: such a pother,
“As if that whatsoever God had tun'd thy throat
“Were slyly crept into thy human powers,
“To give thee grace and posture. Oft, great shade!
“The dumb men throng'd to see thee, and the blind
“To hear thee speak. To thee have Nobles bended,
“As to Jove's Satue; and the Commons made
“A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts
“As ne'er were seen the like.”—The soldier pass'd.

XIV.

The fifth sad spirit that stalk'd by was Lear's,
Mad as the vext sea still; and singing oft;
Crown'd, as of old, by Shakespeare's hand; with fumiter,
With hardocks, hemlocks, nettles, cuckoo flowers,
Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow
In the sustaining corn—
At sight of Garrick's tomb his wounds again
Bleed fresh. Tottering he mov'd; his words were wild:
“You do me wrong to call me out o'th' grave!
“And yet I know thee, Man!—Heav'n has thee now!
“Thou wer't Lear's friend.—In faith I do remember.—
“Yes, we were both as stout a pair:—but why
“This truant disposition? Is the greatest man
“So poor and forked an animal in death?—
“Off, off, you lendings, come unbotton here—Poor shade!
“No more of that, no more of that.—

XV.

The figure next succeeding was the Thane's,
Languid and penitent.—His hand he wav'd
As 'twere in honour of the man, whose voice
Did blow his base design in every ear:
Malice was dead within him, and he wept;
Then striking thrice his bosom, thus he cried:
“Oh Nature! how thyself thou blazon'dst
“In this thy Son; form'd in thy prodigality
“To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
“Its very form and pressure:—when he spoke
“Each aged ear play'd truant at his tales,
“And younger hearers were quite ravish'd;
“So voluble was his discourse.—Yet, being dead,
“I am a man again!”—He rush'd along.

XVI.

The gallant Anthony then onward strode
And paus'd—as 'erst o'er Cæsar's corse:—then spake:
“Thou art the ruins of the noblest man

“That ever liv'd in the tide of Time!
“Here was an Actor—when comes such another?

Such another, however, is come—See Siddons.

XVII.

The next a female form, of Percy's line,
A race for ever noble—thus her tribute gave:

—“Thou wert the very glass
“Wherein the noblest youth did dress themselves;
“There were no legs that practis'd not thy gait;
“There were no eyes that practis'd not thy looks;
“Even those that spoke but low and tardily
“Would turn their own perfections to abuse,
“To seem like Thee: So that in speech, in gait,
“In accents, and affections of delight,
“Thou wert the mark and glass, copy and book,
“To fashion others; and on thee, as on
“My Harry and the Sun, bright Honour stuck,
“As sticks the Sun in the grey vault of Heaven.”

XVIII.

And now, the melancholy Jaques advanc'd,
And, full of matter, thus in few, exclaim'd:

“Why all the World's a stage,
“And all the Men and Women merely players:
“They have their exits and their entrances;
“And this Man, in his time, play'd many parts.
“Life! No more on't; it is a tale, told
“By an idiot, signifying nothing.”

XIX.

At last, with philosophic step,
Swift-streaming eye, and arms entwined close,
The sacred shade of his own Hamlet came:
Long time he paus'd—long time around he look'd,
Then fix'd his view upon the grave, and spoke:
“'Tis not now, seems; in verity, it is;
“Oh, what a grace was seated on that brow!
“An eye, like Mars, to threaten or command;
“A combination and a form indeed,
“Where every God did seem to set his seal,
“To give the world assurance of a Man!
“And is it come to this?—but hush, my heart!
“He was a Man, take him for all in all,
“We may not look upon his like again.”

XX.

While wrapt in wonder of these various shews
The sovereign shade of Shakespeare awful rose,
His many-colour'd wand he wav'd,
And soon the mournful train again were grav'd.
(Now was His genius even more divine,)
And all alone he stood before his Garrick's shrine.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirits, then, he said,
To me belongs th' inestimable dead;
To each 'tis given to breathe, to fall;
'Tis the fix'd lot of all that soar or crawl.
For Thee, much honour'd friend,
What glories mark'd thy end!
Applauding nations own thy fame,
And, blend their Garrick's, with their Shakespeare's name:
Together then we mount on high,
'Tis our's to triumph, 'tis the World's to sigh.

The drawing from which this engraving is taken, and that which embellishes the opening of the 4th volume, are by a very eminent pencil, and were a present to the Author of these Miscellanies.

THE SYSTEM OF PYTHAGORAS.

EXPLODED BY HIMSELF.

'Tis all a fable, Sirs, you know,
So let us take a turn below:
Elysium, on this fourth of May,
Must look prodigious green and gay;
On earth it 'gins to bud fair weather,
Let us then seek full bloom together.
Breathe but to fancy half a prayer,
Her painted plumes shall waft you there:
For wings the Goddess hath all over,
And freely lends to those who love her.
Then let all present just tack on,
A pair a-piece—the journey's done.
What, tho' the road was under-ground,
Is there a bar can fancy bound?

Lord, what a whirl! at one deep dive,
In this blest region to arrive!
Ere your repeaters could strike seven,
Ladies, I've landed you in Heav'n!
How balmy breathes the atmosphere,
A charming spring below this year;
The wreathed myrtles seem in bloom,
And shed Parnassean perfume:
These verdant trophies must be plac'd
In Paradise by souls of taste,
When like May bees they hither come,
To cull the sweets of Miller's room.
How fresh the fields, how soft the air!
I greet our safe arrival there.

Yet, let us not at random rove,
Our business lies in laurel grove;
And yonder, see it fair, unfold,
Burnish'd with variegated gold;
Or ting'd with a poetic hue,
Clearer than Heav'ns ethereal blue,

All neatly scollop'd at the end,
While rosy ripe, the branches bend
But broader, gloomier shades, you see,
Spread from each scientific tree.
Unlike the blossom'd boughs of wit,
Few are the flouncings they admit:
Their sober shadows chill the ground
With venerable verdure round.

Behold! Pythagoras appears,
The pride of nature's earlier years
Near him the heavenly harp we find,
With which each morn he sooth'd his mind
His golden verses grace his hand,
And there the Samean sages stand;
Th' Italic sect you there behold
Vers'd in the lore we now unfold.
But wherefore these in human shape?
Why not in eagle, emmet, ape?
These still are men; have hands, have feet!
Who hath the system overset?

I thought (and so good folks did you
I see you wonder as you view)
I thought the book worm's shifted soul
Might take apartments in an owl:
I thought to see Dan. Pope a swan,
After his soul had done with man;
And many a tuneful soul, in love,
Cooing soft couplets in a dove;
Huge elephants I thought to find
The lodgings of the learned mind;
Pindar's pure soul in Eagle mould,
And Gray's on the same perch of gold;
Hammond, a turtle should appear,
And Swift, in Satyr shape, be here:
Sages, turn'd moths, I hop'd to meet,
Fix'd still to literary treat;
Tuck'd snug betwixt the leaves where lie,
These grubs of old philosophy.

Thus, Pye, we thought thy doctrine ran,
Brutes were to lodge in soul of man;
And spirits gone, to take the forms
Of letter'd mites, or learned worms,

Or flit about till they could find
A body of congenial kind.
Who knows, but some of those before ye,
Firmly relying on your story,
From Miller's mansion came, with me,
Their old acquaintances to see;
Some lovelorn friend, a Philomel,
A monkey beau, a gold-finch belle.
But not one bird or beast is here,
And thou, thyself, a bearded seer.
Well; be it so. We're glad to find
Thy system but a whisk of wind;
A vapour, which was idly spread
From fume of metaphysic head.
A pretty thing, indeed, if we
Could sport thus with futurity!
If after death, we could with ease
Take any likeness that we please;
Or be compell'd to animate
Some horrid carcase which we hate;
Queer incidents would teem on earth,
From these strange laws of second birth.

Why, at that rate when plagues seem'd o'er;
When factious wife can scold no more;
When, as a woman she was dead,
'Tis but her woman form that's fled;
Thy scheme would bring her home again,
And thus redouble every pain;
Now in a cat a spouse would claw,
Or mouth and chatter in a daw;
Vain wou'dst thou starve her in the cage
In some fresh form—the jade wou'd rage,
Nay more, we all should murderers prove,
And mangle those we really love.
Hold, butcher, hold th' uplifted knife,
In yonder calf—you kill your wife;
Touch not, dear Madam, yonder dish,
Your husband's soul—is in the fish;
There swims an Alderman in gravy,
Dory! the Alderman shall save ye!
That venison, Miss, I beg you'll spare,
Your roving lover's—roasted there!
Oh! pass that brute and chuse another,
In that chaim'd ape, behold thy brother!

Strange turns would happen, friend Pythag.
If true this system of a wag.
Perhaps the babe, but newly born,
A kitten mews the following morn;
Then, if not sav'd by Miss, or Master,
Thou know'st the wawling thing's disaster;
No tabby streaks, alas! avail,
Drown'd is thy infant—in the pail!!
To hunt the hare too were a sin,
Thy sister's soul may pant within;
The very hounds who yelp and tear,
May be first cousins to the hare.
The worm, within his earthly nest,
Might diet on a parents's breast.
Beware too pastimes of the gun,
A guardian in a fox might run;
A husband in a buck might go,
His Lady, weeping, as a doe;
Stretch not the Ox upon the plain,
Pull not the Lion by the mane;
Should a King's soul be in the beast,
It is high treason at the least!

Boy, do not draw your bow and arrow,
You'll shoot a coxcomb through a sparrow;
Child, do not chace that butterfly,
A fop expires if it should die;
You'll hang a lover in your dog,
And stick a Lord Mayor in a hog.
In short, friend Pye, it will not do,
Thy transmigrations are not true!

I own it all, the Sage replies,
(Thou see'st the sacred father rise)
These sallies then of wit forbear,
And bless the cause which brought thee here:
Had I no reason while on earth,
To give th' Italic system birth?
In looking various Nature through,
Man, bird, and beast, appear'd in view;
Men play'd the part of brutes, and then
Brutes better seem'd to me than men:
The ugly soul, in alter'd shape,
Figur'd superior in an ape:
'Twas an amendment of its race,
To give a beau a monkey's face;

Better to let the dull soul pass
Into the body of an ass;
When the false friend a spaniel fawn'd,
Wise was the change, for folks were warn'd,
And whatsoe'r befel the creature,
It made no vacuum in Nature.
When I beheld the miser's heap,
And saw his sordid spirits creep
All jealous, tow'rds his cank'ring hoard,
Which not a charity afford,
I gave the wretch a juster form,
And thrust his soul into the worm!
Or when the epicure I saw
O'er-stepping Nature's modest law,
His soul I give a fitter shrine,
Associate of the gorging swine!
Yet, these are sentiments I long
Have felt to be exceeding wrong;
False was the system I confess,
Of punishment and happiness:
Nor would you find me here to-day,
Wer't not to point a nobler way:

Scarce had I gain'd the Elysian shore—
Farewell—recede—I dare no more—

He's gone, you see! what means the Seer?
And Fancy, too, doth disappear;
What! must we now unguided go,
And puzzle out these paths below?
'Twill prove, in troth, a pleasant tour!
Ah, me! what light begins to pour
From yonder skirtings of the sky;
What god-like form gains on the eye,
Awes, as it moves, each frolic sense,
Commanding love and reverence?

'Tis the blest founder of a nobler plan,
Guardian of glory and the friend of man,
No fairy land, no visionary shade,
We bow before him in the world he made;
'Tis God himself! he opes the book of light,
And lo—all other systems sink in night!
Behold the Christian banner he displays,
And infidels turn converts as they gaze,

Truth holds the golden revelation high,
While chosen cherubs fix it in the sky.
See the thick mist of ignorance is fled,
See gospel radiance rises on the dead;
In antient darkness we no longer go,
Nor wander wilder'd in the shades below!
Vain ev'ry fabled hill, and heav'nly grove,
Virtue and Vice have surer laws above.
In every Christian heart is writ their meed,
'Tis demonstration, and who will may read.

THE FAMILY OF TIME:

OR, THE APPARITIONS OF YESTERDAY, LAST NIGHT, AND TO-MORROW.

On the Subject of Procrastination.

Written in irregular Verse.

Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears the palm,
That all men are about to live:
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
Dr. Young.

The “darkness visible” of dawn
Dimly proclaims the dubious morn!
The clock goes—What?—As I'm alive,
Its moral finger points to five!
It strikes! I hear the lapse of time,
And rise to write the loitering rhime.
Another stroke! Like solemn Young,
I feel the “Angel” in its tongue;
The myrtled morning is come on,
And nothing for the Vase yet done!

But soft! on yonder side the table,
Comes the kind Muse, in suit of sable,
Solemn and slow she walks along,
Procrastinating song.
In allegoric robes profound
She sweeps the visionary ground.
Checks Wit's wild sally, and in sober rhime,
Summons the shades of hoary Time!
With her, on Fancy's plume I fly,
And see the feather'd progeny;
Hours, minutes, moments, rise to sight,
And all the lucid family of light.
And first, all humid with her tears,
Behold a deeply injur'd fair,
The ghost of Yesterday appears,
A weeping vision, thin as air.

The sick sigh from her bosom breaks,
And shivering in her shroud she stands,
Pale as the scroll within her hands,
And thus in accents, tremulous, she speaks:

“At earliest peep of orient morn,
“With fair Aurora was I born;
“I help'd Hyperion to his horse,
“And ran with Sol his radiant course;
“Twelve fleeting hours I drew my breath,
“Then sunk into the arms of Death!
“Soon as my light of life was fled,
“A sister reigned in my stead;
“Time, with his glass, stood pensive by,
“And gave me to Eternity.
“'Twas then that to the sphere of day,
““Day without night,” I bent my way;
“Th' Immortal call'd me, and I stood
“With those that fell before the flood,
“The first-born of my scythe-crown'd Sire,
“In pure and primitive attire;
“With the first sun-beam of the sky,
“And ev'ry pendent orb on high:
“With these, and all the race of light,
“Fast by the throne I stood in sight;
“My great progenitors I saw,
“And felt a reverential awe:

“The trumpet sounded—every knee
“Was bent in solemn sanctity,
“Strait YESTERDAY was call'd aloud!
“I fearful pass'd the shadowy crowd,
“Then bow'd before the heav'nly powers,
“Attended by my kindred hours.
“Unfold the scroll,” an Angel cry'd,
I op'd the page—the Angel sigh'd!
“And is that all thou can'st display,
“Unhappy shade of YESTERDAY?
“What do I see? (pale ghost!) a train
“Of follies light, of fashions vain,
“Of actions little, passions mean,
“Of dealings dark, of deeds obscene,
“Of havock, horror, lucre, lust,
“Of fractur'd faith and broken trust,
“Of villainy in dark disguise,
“Of widows groans, of orphans sighs:
“Oh, what a register is here!”
The Angel dropt an Angel's tear;
Then paus'd. Poor Yesterday withdrew.
Another ghost appear'd in view;

Dusky as Death the robe it wore,
Its air distrait, its garment tore:
“And what art thou? the Angel said,
“Speak, Stygian vision, funeral shade.
“Night is my name,” the spectre cry'd,
“At the first tinge of morn I died.
“My sable catalogue behold,
“Sacred to darkness and to gold;
“A sepulchre of sin my book,
“'Twill wound Day's “pitying eye” to look:
“Seductions, murders, wound the sight,
“Ah! did you know what pass'd last light;
“The deeds which mark the midnight hour—”
“Enough: Retire! replied the Power;
“Once more let Yesterday appear.”
She came, and dropt the conscious tear,
Then spoke: “This leaf, O Angel, read,
“I'm not without one gen'rous deed.
“On this reverse you may behold
“A nobler use of light, and gold,
“Some minutes in memorial rise,
“And of my hours some few were wise.

“Close on this corner of the leaf,
“Observe a mark like that of Grief;
“But 'twas not Grief which caus'd this tear,
“'Twas Gratitude, 'twas Joy, wept there.
“From points of time, O take my best,
“'Tis Mercy's to o'erlook the rest.”

“Nor be extreme, said Night, to mark
“All the transactions of the dark:
“Tho' the assassin sought my aid,
“And robbers lurk'd beneath my shade;
“Tho' Murder at my stillest hour
“Drew the dire blade, and blest my power;
“Tho', when in ebon spheres enthron'd,
“I saw the virtues half postpon'd,
“Saw Poverty by Wealth forgot,
“And skreen'd the knave from being caught;
“Yet in my list some graces flow:
“Permit me, Chief, th' account to show,
“Sketch'd, Seraph, in this page you trace
“Some lineaments divine of grace;

“Here, midnight prayers are written down,
“While men were with their God alone;
“At the twelfth hour, a spirit blest,
“Unmurmuring sought the realms of rest:
“Pity, a starving creature fed,
“And gave the wanderer a bed.
“About the noon of my domain,
“While slept th' insensible and vain,
“A good man broke his own repose,
“To mitigate another's woes,
“Unseen he blest my kind disguise,
“And paid me for my former sighs;
“Silent he sat beside the sickly bed,
“And sooth'd the sorrowing heart, and held the throbbing head.”
The Angel heard benign. The roseate glow
Suffus'd his cheek, and tears began to flow;
Charm'd with th' account that Night had giv'n,
Then grateful fix'd his starry eyes on Heav'n.
While thus he stood in thought profound,
A sacred silence breathing round,

Up rose a venerable Seer,
To comment on the wasting year.
“Alas! no cause for me to boast,
“I am the DAY the Roman lost;
“Some good, much ill, will always go
“To chequer every hour below.
“Some flying centuries are past,
“O Angel, since I breath'd my last;
“Like YESTERDAY's, it was my fate,
“To see the world procrastinate;
“Men vow'd To-morrow's sun should see
“A general propriety;
“To-morrow rogues were to be just,
“Thus all was universal trust;
“TO-MORROW should the miser lend,
“And without usury be a friend;
“The prude, the rake, should faithful prove,
“And live a life of mutual love.
“In short, TO-MORROW should be blest
“With all that's noblest, fairest, best.
“Indeed, TO-DAY, folks were so hurried
“By passion, pleasure, business, flurried,

“Ladies had such a world to do,
“Such waggon-loads of matter new;
“And men so press'd a different way,
“All begg'd, alas! another day,
“To carry on their usual cares,
“And sure twelve hours could break no squares;
“So high and low, and rich and poor,
“Push'd off amendment—one day more.
“Blest revolution! blessed morrow
“All hail, the fall of sin and sorrow!
“Soon as I dy'd, my sister NIGHT
“Usurp'd the sphere of former light,
“Then languish'd at th' approaching morn,
“And lo, the promis'd morrow born!
“Fresh from the ruddy East she sprung,
“Earth, seas, and air, her triumph sung,
“In sunny vestments blithe she came,
“Like me in every thing but name.
“The hist'ry of her actions spread,
“Discover'd scarce one folly dead,
“Nor scarce one rising virtue born,

“But many a promis'd fair she brought,
“With many a reforming thought;
“Men were to mend the following morn;
“This following morn then rose to view,
“Another promise broke, another made anew.
“What then can we, Time's children, say?
“But tell thy tale, pale YESTERDAY!
“Hear the sad narrative again,
“Augmenting fraud, augmenting pain.
“From first to last, throughout the nation,
“Tis all, alas! Procrastination.

Thus spake the Sage, and went his way,
And leaves to me the moral of the day.
Behold experience point the vain command,
Behold Reluctance chain the ling'ring hand.
In proof of human brevity,
Silent and swift the seasons fly:
The sun, the moon, are form'd to show
The constant flux of things below;
Ocean and Earth assist the plan,
And press their maxims upon man;

The closing night, th' unfolding day,
Denote the perils of delay.
Yet stop not here:—another line
Affords a subject more divine:
Hail'd be this theme of Miller's urn,
In which a purer flame may burn.
Upon this verdant shrine to day,
One pious offering let us lay;
Nor you, ye gayer Muses, sneer,
Tho' holiest incense we burn here.
To-day, the solemn thoughts invite,
I feel their fervor as I write;
The hours of Lent, we all agree,
Appeal to man's humility,
Increase Procrastination's blame,
And change her folly into shame.
Then, oh! by all a God inspires,
By all a Christian's graceful fires,
By all which to the soul is dear,
The holy sigh, the heav'nly tear,

Forgive the Poet, if his tuneful care
Attempts this once a sacred wreath to wear;
If on this serious day he tries his art
To win th' immortal myrtle—of THE HEART.

Recited in Lent.

TENDERNESS.

A Lover is supposed to have read the Subject of the Vase, and to exclaim as his Feelings suggest.

WRITTEN IN IRREGULAR VERSE.

Forbear! is Tenderness an Elegy?
Ah, what will sadness do with such a theme?
Say, is not love our happiness supreme?
Say, is it not the soul of Poesy?
Then bid the gentle Muse
A fair title choose;
Bid her invoke the dear Idalian boy;
Bid her invoke the tuneful Nine,
And let all sing this source of joy,
Let all confess the subject is divine!

Avaunt, the sombrous lay,
'Tis jubilee to day;
And all the Aonian maids should sing
The triumph (not the tear) till Aganippe ring:
Away! away! it is not so;
Cease! cease! that jarring song of woe!
To sprightlier measures suit the lyre,
And paint the bliss of innocent desire;
Or if the Muse must needs complain,
Soft let her touch the tender strain;
O, bid her breathe the music of the lute,
Or whispering warble of the melting flute;
In thrilling notes of lovely anguish,
Let every tone be taught to languish;
Then change, and change again, till Echo, in reply,
Leap from her chrystal cave to join the harmony.
So ran the rhapsody of fire,
Soon as young Marius saw the plaintive lyre;
Fain would he have in ev'ry line
The rose to blush, the lilly shine;
Fain would he mix the summer ray
With all the breathing balms of May;

Hebe's rich bloom, with Venus' eye,
Praise every tear, and boast of every sigh.
And stop (said he) the jarring string,
Again I bid ye strew the flowers of spring;
From themes of extasy,
Far, far, be Elegy!
Then did he vaunt the passion of his heart,
And triumph'd in the wound, and gloried in the smart.
Lead on to Mira's bower, exclaim'd the youth,
For Marius there she twines the tender flower;
First hear and reverence the voice of truth,
I said—Then thus employ'd th' instructive hour:
Is Love indeed, the drop which Heav'n
In mercy to mankind has giv'n?
Is it indeed, that cordial pow'r,
Our little being's fairest flow'r?
Which doth for ev'ry ill a recompense impart?
O stripling, ere you quite decide,
The passion turn on every side;
Count well your losses, count your gains,
Deduct your pleasures from your pains.

Haply this drop will then appear
Form'd of an agonizing tear;
Haply, the drops of bitterest woe
Do from this vaunted source more copiously flow!
Ah, see the subject meet of solemn Elegy;
If joy smile there, say doth not sorrow blend
Her pointed poisons, and her searching sigh?
Behold, fond youth, the family of pain,
All mingle mischief in fair Venus' train;
First Doubt displays her troubled air,
And near her glooms the fiend Despair:
Suspicion points th' ambiguous leer,
And Grief presents her wounding tear;
Fell Jealousy, accursed power!
Comes forward at the midnight hour,
Robs all he doats upon of breath,
Then calls on Suicide for Death!
Pale Penury is also there,
And wan Uncertainty and Care!
And ev'n the nuptial couch appears.
Oft steep'd in Sorrow's baneful tears:

Absence (the death of lovers) too,
With Disappointment, is in view;
And Expectation, lively power!
Frets often at the passing hour;
Possession's self your raptures chide,
And seats Indifference near your bride;
The warmest vows, the balmiest kiss,
Oft end, alas, my friend, in this,
Chill the chang'd lip, which glow'd before,
And bid the pulses throb no more.
The household demons too, I see,
Fit subjects for an Elegy.
For these, the world you need not roam,
Observe that little world at home;
Vexations on vexations rise,
And joy with grief decides the prize.
The fire-side frailties all are there,
In form of vapour, freak, and air;
The look of spleen, the word of strife,
The pets, the pouts, of married life;
The quick retort, the tart reply,
The saucy toss, the sulky sigh,

The female fit, the mannish pride,
The sullens shown on either side;
Th' obedient faint, the hectic dear,
Hysteric catch, convenient tear;
The wilful whine, the mutual wishes,
The petty wrangle about dishes;
The bounce which tells a quarrel nigh,
The bitten lip, th' indignant eye,
The silly flaunt, the cutting leer,
The solid slap, the sorer sneer;
The hard-slap'd door, which marks the last disdain,
Till all chez vous doth ring with rage again.
All these and many a worse distress,
With sickness, folly, wretchedness;
May grow, my friend, ev'n in your Mira's bower,
So ponder—ere you crop the attracting flower;
Ponder it well, and will then deny,
That Love, fond Love, affords full scope for Elegy?
The youth impatient heard
And listen'd to each word,

Then spake:—All this, perchance, is true,
But where's th' exceptions of the chosen few?
Dost thou involve mankind alike,
In this misfortune and dislike?
Shame on thy lyre, and on its strain,
Break, prithee break, the chords in twain!
Or learn a truer touch to know,
And do not jumble matters so;
Why, knowst thou not discordant fool,
I'm an exception to the rule?
Mira, who now expects me yonder,
Is not more mine, than Nature's wonder;
The Sun looks jealous from his throne,
And sees his lustrous eye outshone.
Doubt, she can never, for her truth
Shall bless and decorate our youth;
Suspicion she shall never know,
My own fair faith informs me so;
Secure from Jealousy's alarms,
I'll lock her ever in my arms;
And Penury she need not fear,
Behold what hands for toil are here!

Possession shall but more endear,
And I will kiss off every tear;
The warmest vows I will repeat,
Till all the pulses stronger beat;
And as for absence,—lo the sun
Declines—Adieu, dear friend, I'm gone.
Mutter, still mutter on (cold reasoner) whilst I
Hasten to Mira's bower, and laugh at Elegy.

The moral of the verse is plain,
At once the lover owns and welcomes pain;
The dear bewitching woe, we all confess,
And feel a charm in our distress;
The Petrachs and the Lauras all complain,
But love prompts every sigh, and bliss directs the strain.
The solemn Seer, and matron Muse, may school,
Each lover's an exception to the rule;
Each Marius has a Mira in the bower,
Where Hymen lights his torch, and Venus shows her power.

DELAYS ARE DANGEROUS.

Delays are dangerous—Ah, me!
Ce'st bien vrai—as you shall see.
And that example may be found,
We'll turn the subject round and round.

A time there is in woman's life,
That fixes her a maid or wife.
A ribbon'd youth with sword and sash on,
Courting that pretty flirt—Miss Fashion;
Romances thus on each lov'd feature:
“Gods! was e'er seen so sweet a creature?”
Then struck the gorget on his breast,
And warmer thus his flame express'd:
“Jove, what a brow! what bon-ton swim!
“Her shape how elegantly slim!
“What graces in that train behind!
“Each fold denotes a taste refin'd.
“Then such good breeding crowns the whole,
“In every movement there is soul.

“My angel, name the happy day;
“But let it quickly be I pray.”
‘The First of April then, (says she)
‘I yield to—your felicity.
‘You men are so importunate,
‘But wedlock's an affair of weight.’
“O my adorable, I know,
“And well he turn'd it to and fro.
“Ah, that the blessed morn were here!
“My love, my life, my soul, my dear!
The usual thumps and sighings past,
This blessed morn arrives at last.
“Well now my charming Fashion! now,
“Come, blooming come, fulfil your vow.
“Thus on his knee your Sword-knot begs.”
‘Do, pray Sir, get upon your legs.
‘To see a soldier on his knees,
‘In military times like these,
‘Is really shocking I protest!—
‘This nasty cough so breaks my rest,
‘I have not slept a wink all night—
‘Then how I look!—I'm quite a fright!

‘If I to-day were made your wife,
‘I'm positive 'twould cost my life.
‘To leave my room some risks I run—
‘Observe—I've still my night-cap on.
‘I am so ill and feel so queer—
‘Pray put it off now—there's a dear,
‘Postpone it, if you love your Fashion.”
“Postpone it, Madam! (in a passion)
“Fire, flints, and fury! what d'ye say?
“May thunders rive me if I stay!
“Plain yes, or no? I ask no more,”
‘For heav'n's sake Sukey shut that door:
‘There comes such whiffs into my neck,
‘And I'm so subject to a creek;
‘Stay but a month for Pity's sake—
‘Lord how I stretch—I'm scarce awake.’
“For ever, Madam, sleep for me,
“I'll well reward your perfidy.
“Yes, Madam, sleep I say for ever,
“No more I'll trouble you—no never!
“Delays are dangerous (he cries)
“Oh when will womankind be wise?

“Farewel, go weep the occasion past,
“You'll prove the April fool at last.”
And so she did. Her airs miscarried,
She's forty-nine, and—still unmarried.

“Since Fortune gives th' power to bless,
“In pity soften my distress!
“If a small pittance you deny,
“This day, this hour, perhaps, I die.”
A wretched suppliant thus in tears,
Press'd by the load of life and years,
To Sophron gay, his suit prefer'd,
And thus his earnest wish was heard:
‘Yes, honest man, I see you're poor,
‘And heartily your case deplore,
‘A little money you would borrow?
‘I'm busy now, but call to-morrow.’

To-morrow is a day too late,
Thus tolls the passing bell of fate;
Delays are dangerous my friend,
Or lend in time, or never lend:

No gold can bribe the moment fled;
Put up your purse—the poor man's dead.

A thing there is—ye maids beware—
Which once was young, might once be fair,
Except an ogle now and then,
Strange, her antipathy to men!
In the same house to fleer and fling,
There liv'd another ancient thing,
Brother and sister, strange to tell,
Thus led a life of ding-dong bell,
This pair of antiquated wights,
Full sadly past unspoused nights,
For ever at each other rail,
And this the burthen of the tale:

‘That's downright malice sister Bridget
‘—Aye you may fume, and fret, and fidget.
‘But long since you cou'd offers boast,
‘I, was the dear Dorinda's toast.
‘She hob'd and nob'd me by the hour,
‘Said I had eyes—and felt their power;

‘Then bumper'd me each day at dinner’—
“Lord, brother, whut a wretched sinner!
“Your day, old batchelor was over
“Ere Salprunella was my lover;
“With me he fell in love you know,
“When I receiv'd that ugly blow;
“And as he bled my snowy arm,
“Swore in each pulse he felt a charm.”
‘P'shaw! p'shaw! old maid, 'tis false as hell,
‘'Twas all a flam—you feign'd unwell,
‘To catch the doctor?—Hah! to catch?
‘At this they flounce—at this they scratch.’
“And is it, brother, come to this?
“Sweet wither'd sir”—‘Oh! blooming miss!’
“Madam 'tis well”—‘No, Ma'am 'tis ill,’—
“But I can ask the question still.”
‘Come then, it shall—it shall be married,
‘Tho' fifty years it has miscarried.’
“Ma'am, Ma'am, 'tis false”—Sir, Sir, 'tis true
‘You were most slighted’—“No Ma'am you,
“I'll leave the house”—‘Aye, prithee go,
‘The apes are waiting you below,’

“John call a coach,”—‘With all my heart.’
Slap goes the door, and thus they part.
Brother and sister hold your tongue,
Idly ye rail, for both are wrong,
Your wrinkles, and your wranglings prove
Delays are dangerous in love.

Our muse shall array the fourth instance in sattin,
And your tit-up-ing verse she can tell it most pat-in,
Oh! ye zephyrs breathe gently on fair Mr. Sleek,
For the roses—of Warren—now essence his cheek,
Those sensative roses that die at the touch,
And lose all their colour if blown on too much,
Then the lillies of Moseneau blossom beneath,
And Spence has a pension for guarding the teeth,
At one every morning he rubs the brush thro' them,
And the pretty one grins, that the ladies may view 'em;
Then he rides! Oh ye Gods!—he does ride to be sure,
While the horse seems to aid his lov'd Lord in the lure:

Each caper, each curvet, discovers his art,
And every prance, sends a prance to the heart.
But you say that the world will accuse me of satire,
Why, I know that the world is most prone to good nature;
But then I am talking of nothing you find,
For this femaleish male has no meaning nor mind,
Delays being dangerous, therefore I vote,
(Since riddle-mee-rees are scarce worth finding out)
I vote that—no hang it, I will not be cruel,
I will not provoke the dear thing to a duel:
The Perfumer for damage would sue me at law,
So the motion about to be made I withdraw;
And with perfect good humour I change this dead letter,
And leave this soft nothing for something—scarce better.
Oh heavens! what spectre hov'ring o'er
Is ent'ring now at yonder door,
Where pale Lucullus gasps for breath?
Angels and Ministers! 'tis Death!

Close he stalk'd by me yester-night
And my blood sallied at the sight.
Lucullus beg'd another day,
The bony Monarch went away;
Lucullus promis'd to repent
And begg'd a day with such intent.
Death had no sooner left the room
Than life and all its follies bloom,
The bony Monarch finds him now
Unmindful of the pious vow.
Assumes the life disposing nod
And shews the mandate of his God.
‘Yet one more hour the culprit cries,
‘As trembling on his bed he lies,
‘One little moment yet dispense?
‘It may not be—Thou'rt summon'd hence.’
“Delays are dangerous, thou fool,
“May Heav'n shew mercy on thy soul.”

Young Claudio plays a desperate hand,
What axes echo thro' the land!
And scarce a lonely tree remains
To screen the woodman from the rains,

The sorrowing oxen, as they go,
Curse thoughtless Claudio in their lowe;
And presently those oxen die,
Another handful to supply.
The poor esteem its vastly cruel,
There's not a stick to warm their gruel;
Then execrate the gambler's art,
Which opes the hand but shuts the heart;
For Claudio vends his very faggots
To bet upon a race of maggots.
His birds too mourn, the ruin'd grove,
Once vocal with the song of love.
In good Sir Careful's thrifty day,
They nested safe on ev'ry spray:
Look, says a poor defruded thrush,
Claudeo has stubb'd my nuptial bush.
See, quoth a rook upon the ground,
The duce a tree can now be found;
Each house in our aërial town
This spendthrift landlord has cut down,
The man has ruin'd all my friends,
And havock o'er each grove impends:

But dearly shall he pay the scheme,
He pluck'd us rooks, now rooks pluck him.
“Claudio, that last was a good hit,
“Rise instant rise, the table quit,
“Delays are dangerous.” ‘I go
‘Soon as I've tried another throw.’
“Delays are dangerous—stop in time.”
‘P'shaw, nonsense! damn your boring rhime,
‘You put me out.’—He rashly threw,
Lost the last guinea and withdrew,
Delays are dangerous, he said,
Then snap'd a pistol at his head.

Thus, having swirl'd the theme about
And pointed some examples out,
'Tis time to take my leave of verse—
O! for a couplet pat and terse!
By way of moral—hang it now!
When wit's most wanted none will flow:
That's so provoking, Muse, so hard,
Throws such a damp upon the bard,

'Tis really monstrous I declare—
And then a tag gives such an air.
Indeed this sudden fall of snow
Makes hobbling Pegasus move slow.
Would but the Muse—hush! hush! behold her
Lean from the Vase, and touch my shoulder;
She whispers that I talk too long,
Delays are dangerous in song;
Her sacred Counsel I attend,
And bring my poem to an end.

Written in the deep snow.

ODE TO THE SUN.

I.

God of the Vase;—bright Guardian of the Urn;
To thee with conscious gratitude we turn,
By thee, our tender garlands grow,
Our laurels shoot, our mirtles blow;
By thee our Priestess forms her bower,
Invoking still thy genial power.

II.

Thine, Phæbus, is the sparkling thought,
The radiant verse, the glowing strain;
From thee is inspiration caught,
And thine the sunshine of the brain.

III.

To thee belongs the dapled Dawn,
Noon's burnish'd beam and fervid flush;
To thee the many-colour'd Morn,
Twilight's last tinge, and Evening's parting blush.

IV.

To thee belong the tender babes of Spring,
When the first down implumes the warbler's wing;
The gorgeous Summer's rich expanse is thine,
When scarce a breeze dare touch thy burning shrine;
The various Autumn wooes thy gentler power,
And, lingring, keeps for thee the latest flower.

Trembling with age, even Winter courts thy sway,
And begs the blessing of a casual ray.
Frost too, for thee, climbs up the mountain's brow,
And bends before thee in his robe of snow.

V.

In each gradation of thy course,
From the grey moment thour't on horse,
E'en till the radiant journey's run,
And thy diurnal travel's done,
How like, O Sun, how like art thou to Man!
How like the little wretch, that plays
Its gambols in thy warming blaze
Thro' Life's contracted span!

VI.

When bursting forth from sealing night,
The infant's eye first feels the light,
Uncertain is its day;
Some human frost may haply come,
And drop it in th' oblivious tomb,
To quench its short-liv'd ray.

Thus, Phœbus, e'er thou well canst show,
The beauties beaming on thy brow,
Oft doth a gather'd gloom invade
And wrap the sunshine in the shade.

VII.

Or should kind Fate the infant spare,
And paint, like thine, the morning fair;
In æther light, it treads like thee,
And frolic youth enjoys it jubilee.
The pulses all accordant play,
The passions wanton in their May;
And the heart dances up to manhood's day.

VIII.

Intensely then it glows, it burns,
Like thee, is hot and cold, by turns,
But soon the fierce effulgence fades,
And hastens on the Evening shades;
As thine, his noon-tide vigour dies,
And the keen sun beams leave the mortal skies.
The hey-day of the heat is o'er,
And passion's storm is heard no more;

The Twilight of Existence then,
Falls fast upon the race of men;
Dim and more dim, each object meets our sight,
And our declining orb sinks at th' approach of night.
Another glimmering moment yet,
And Man's uncertain Sun is wholly set.

CARDS,

PRO AND CON.

A FRAGMENT .

The cards invite. Mortal thy verse too light,
Too frolic and fantastical appears,
Ill-sorted to our theme: far loftier lines,
Such as of old majestic Milton chose,
When he the mighty and soul-moving lyre,
Struck with a master's hand—struck like a God,

Or night-living Young, whose solemn harp
Sounded a requiem to the sheeted ghosts
Of pale Philander and of Narcissa fair;
Or that commanding Bard to whom the key
That opes the varying Seasons, Nature gave,—
Sweet Thomson—or e'en such as grac'd the lay
Of him whose Splendid Shilling, polish'd fair,
Appear'd more glittering than a one-pound-one.

Mortal attend.—What furious fatal form
Leans o'er yon chair, like some detested wretch
Sick of the sun!—See, see he grasps the blade,
And seems resolv'd to plunge it in his heart—
Awhile he stops—And is all lost, he cries,
In one deep ruin all my fortune whelm'd
By one dire blow?—Then what is life to me?
Hark, Justice calls—I hear her and obey;
Why this is well too—this is blow for blow;
He strkes, he faints, he falls, he groans, he dies.

And see another spectacle comes forth,
A female form, lean, languid, and decay'd.

Is that Clarissa? she whose vermeil cheek,
Flushing so late with all the paint of health,
Fresh as the gale of Heaven! Disastrous change,
Jaded and stript of fortune and her charms;
Behold her supplicating yonder Lord,
(Whom her ill luck enriched) for charity,
The charity of one poor hapless meal,—
Precarious boon!—the fretted victim droops,
And solitary pines her life away.

But that gay, gamesome fair one,—she whose hand
Pats the sleek face of yonder silken fool,
Yon emmet in embroidery.—Is it love
Whose shaft impierces thus? What mighty flame
Can make the female nature so unsex'd?
Asks thou what flame? the raging flame of play!
The last indulgence her fond husband gave;
—He—hapless man, sits in his lonely hut,
Trimming the frugal taper—is all flown:
Behold her sparkling creditor—kind soul

She taps his cheek, assents to all demands,
Sets virtue on a cast, and all is paid.

Good Heavens! what rustling rapid she is that,
Who with a restless air and hurried step,
Loaded with wealth, the winnings of a night,
Sweeps thro' the rooms, and cries out victory!
Still not content, the gaming fury goads;
More, more cries avarice—do not quit the board
Till all within this golden round be thine:
The nymph obeys—indignant fortune shifts,
And from the Cormorant turns her angry wheel,
The last sad guinea trembles in her hand;
To that the gorgeous watch, the costly toys,
Rings, jewels, trinkets, in confusion gay,
Seizes her lucky foe, and last of all
The picture of her Lord;—then home she hies,
Loses the haughty air, the conqueror's pride,
And like a guilty creature slinks to bed.

But soft at this departing witching hour,
Edging on midnight, who is that wild spark,

His hair dishevell'd, and his spurs in blood
Now entering on the game? with daring hand
He ventures various purses on a card;
The various purses, which so lightly came,
As lightly disappear. Stern Fortune frowns;
Enrag'd, th' adventurer starts and rushes forth,
He mounts his ready steed, swift scours the road,
And steals the fresh supply.—Justice pursues,
The game is up—the gallows ends the chace.

Perils innumerous as leaves which fall
From the decaying bough on Autumn's tide,
Abuse and use, and wretchedness and joy,
Alternate, mix'd, confounded, and convolv'd,
From Cards, those engines of amusement, flow.
From thence proceeds pale vigils, and dire dreams,
The bad big word, the bitten lip, torn nail,
The sullen look, the pout, and rude reply.
The raving blasphemy, the broken vow,
The little altercation, duel dire,
The sigh deep-searching, and the groan profound.

But turn the picture—see its fair reverse,
There view the happier History of Cards,
Thus in a lighter treasure glide along.
When the time hangs heavy on us,
Sol disdaining to shine on us,
When the wintry welkin lowers,
Or the rattling tempest pours,
When the chilly wind is blowing,
Or the drizzling wet is flowing,
What like Cards defy the weather,
Bringing neighbour friends together?
Fix them all behind the screen,
All around the verdent green,
Now good fortune sweet surprizing
Blithsome expectation rising,
Gentle hope and gentle fear,
But no baser passion near,
Soft suspense, while you are dealing,
I from you my luck concealing.
Here the conquering Heart to bring,
Which subdues your haughty King;

Now in Diamonds rich abounding,
Now your wily Knave confounding;
Then our Spades turn up the scene,
Then our Clubs knock down the Queen.
What like Cards when thus we play,
On a dark December day?
What like Cards the hand can show,
Or the arm of moving snow?
What can bid the brightness rise,
Or illume the female eyes?
What so well the cheek can flush,
Stir so quick the blooming blush?
What when Books and Booklings tire,
So can grace a friendly fire?
Whist and Commerce, Loo and Ombre,
Cheer away reflections sombre;
Then the harmless joy to view,
When I have better luck than you.
If to win the game I'm able,
Brisk I deal about the table;
When the conquering Card I hold,
Smart I throw it on the board;

Honours then you know are mine,
Yet my hand, my heart is thine;
What like Cards, when thus we play,
Help to pass dull life away?
Keep within this prudent bound,
And gayly let the deal go round.

This Poem, in its original form, opened with some Hudibrastic lines.

Phillips.