 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
193
The METAMORPHOSIS.
A Northern Tale.
Near to where Tyne his blessings sheds,
Enriching, as he flows, the meads,
There liv'd a Monk, in days of yore,
(Northumbria's Crown when Cenulph wore)
Of life severe, and spotless fame,
Good Father Roger was his name;
This holy Monk, much giv'n to pray'r,
Was greatly follow'd by the Fair,
Who still on ev'ry slight transgression,
To Roger flew to make Confession;
Ladies in ev'ry age, we find
To Holy Men are much inclin'd:—
A truer Saint Hibernia's shore,
To grace her annals, never bore;
(Hibernia! fam'd beyond the Nile,
Of Holy Saints the holy Isle;
Nor does her present pious Race
Its Holy Ancestry disgrace)
Of form athletic, yet as mild
And harmless as a new-born child:
The good man, somehow, had the art
To ease each female tender heart;
Whate'er his penance, still content,
They, all submission, underwent.
Enriching, as he flows, the meads,
There liv'd a Monk, in days of yore,
(Northumbria's Crown when Cenulph wore)
Of life severe, and spotless fame,
Good Father Roger was his name;
This holy Monk, much giv'n to pray'r,
Was greatly follow'd by the Fair,
Who still on ev'ry slight transgression,
To Roger flew to make Confession;
Ladies in ev'ry age, we find
To Holy Men are much inclin'd:—
A truer Saint Hibernia's shore,
To grace her annals, never bore;
(Hibernia! fam'd beyond the Nile,
Of Holy Saints the holy Isle;
Nor does her present pious Race
Its Holy Ancestry disgrace)
Of form athletic, yet as mild
And harmless as a new-born child:
The good man, somehow, had the art
To ease each female tender heart;
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They, all submission, underwent.
The lovely Emma, fairest seen,
'Mong Maids of Honor to the Queen,
Seem'd chief in his good graces blest,
Emma each day her sins confest;
“Each day? Yes, Sir, each day;—the Fair
For a long reck'ning did not care:
She thought it still the safest way,
As she went on, her debts to pay;
She chose not, like your heedless folk,
To get o'er deep in Satan's book,
Lest the black bill should be too large
For a poor Maiden to discharge,
And bring Old Nick, spite of her Honor,
To lay arresting hands upon her:—
Your Maids of Honor in those days
(So legends tell us) had strange ways;
They put on queer religious airs,
Frequented church, and said their pray'rs;
At least old Writers thus record,
I own I scarce can take their word,
Considering how politer far,
Our modern Maids of Honour are:
But Satan, that ill-natur'd sprite,
Who owes your godly folks a spite,
Had manag'd matters so, that Emma
Was brought into an odd dilemma;
The Monk's instructions, (strange to tell)
Began to make the Maiden swell;
Her health was turn'd quite turvey-topsey,
She seem'd far gone in Nature's Dropsy.
'Mong Maids of Honor to the Queen,
Seem'd chief in his good graces blest,
Emma each day her sins confest;
“Each day? Yes, Sir, each day;—the Fair
For a long reck'ning did not care:
She thought it still the safest way,
As she went on, her debts to pay;
She chose not, like your heedless folk,
To get o'er deep in Satan's book,
Lest the black bill should be too large
For a poor Maiden to discharge,
And bring Old Nick, spite of her Honor,
To lay arresting hands upon her:—
Your Maids of Honor in those days
(So legends tell us) had strange ways;
They put on queer religious airs,
Frequented church, and said their pray'rs;
At least old Writers thus record,
I own I scarce can take their word,
Considering how politer far,
Our modern Maids of Honour are:
But Satan, that ill-natur'd sprite,
Who owes your godly folks a spite,
Had manag'd matters so, that Emma
Was brought into an odd dilemma;
The Monk's instructions, (strange to tell)
Began to make the Maiden swell;
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She seem'd far gone in Nature's Dropsy.
'Tis a known Axiom in the schools,
That Love's the paradise of Fools;
A paradise, in which is plac'd
A Tree, bewitching to the taste,
(The Tree of Knowledge) which produces
A fruit replete with pois'nous juices;
This tempts poor Maidens to their cost;
They pluck—and—Paradise is Lost;
No longer happiness dwells there,
'Tis all repentance—all despair.
That Love's the paradise of Fools;
A paradise, in which is plac'd
A Tree, bewitching to the taste,
(The Tree of Knowledge) which produces
A fruit replete with pois'nous juices;
This tempts poor Maidens to their cost;
They pluck—and—Paradise is Lost;
No longer happiness dwells there,
'Tis all repentance—all despair.
Poor Emma's tell-tale looks betray,
That Emma's form'd of yielding clay;
The Queen enrag'd, insists on knowing
To what this strange misfortune's owing;
Whilst Emma, almost drown'd in tears,
With penitential look declares,
(The more to fix her resolution,
Roger had promis'd absolution,
Which made her gulp the lye as free
As tho' it were a dish of tea)
“That Father Bede, who long had strove
“By thousand arts to win her love,
“As on her couch one day she slept,
“Stole in, and”—here, poor soul! she wept,
Nor more cou'd speak!—Each Maid of Honor
Disdainfully look'd down upon her;
For virtuous Dames in this agree,
No crime's like loss of Chastity;
That gone, like a struck deer they fly her,
And think it dang'rous to come nigh her.
That Emma's form'd of yielding clay;
The Queen enrag'd, insists on knowing
To what this strange misfortune's owing;
Whilst Emma, almost drown'd in tears,
With penitential look declares,
(The more to fix her resolution,
Roger had promis'd absolution,
Which made her gulp the lye as free
As tho' it were a dish of tea)
“That Father Bede, who long had strove
“By thousand arts to win her love,
“As on her couch one day she slept,
“Stole in, and”—here, poor soul! she wept,
Nor more cou'd speak!—Each Maid of Honor
Disdainfully look'd down upon her;
For virtuous Dames in this agree,
No crime's like loss of Chastity;
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And think it dang'rous to come nigh her.
“But who's this Bede,” the Reader cries,
“The butt of these same horrid lyes?”
A Secular, and one of those
Whom Monks avow'd Religion's foes;
And who, tho' hitherto unwed,
Stranger to joys of Marriage Bed,
Yet held it neither sin nor shame
For Priests to take a wedded dame;
While Monks, for self-denial fam'd,
Against such sensual crimes exclaim'd;
With holy Candle, Book, and Bell,
Damning all married Priests to Hell;
Priests, who the Papal Pow'r deny'd too,
For which Old Nick wou'd thrash their hide too.
“The butt of these same horrid lyes?”
A Secular, and one of those
Whom Monks avow'd Religion's foes;
And who, tho' hitherto unwed,
Stranger to joys of Marriage Bed,
Yet held it neither sin nor shame
For Priests to take a wedded dame;
While Monks, for self-denial fam'd,
Against such sensual crimes exclaim'd;
With holy Candle, Book, and Bell,
Damning all married Priests to Hell;
Priests, who the Papal Pow'r deny'd too,
For which Old Nick wou'd thrash their hide too.
No wonder Monks shou'd think it good
To shed so vile a sinner's blood;
If just the end which is desir'd,
No matter by what means acquir'd.
To shed so vile a sinner's blood;
If just the end which is desir'd,
No matter by what means acquir'd.
Altho' the Monks to Satan gave him,
And swore not all the Saints cou'd save him,
Yet with the body of the nation,
Bede stood aloft in reputation;
He taught the natives to explore
The sea for fish, the land for ore;
'Twas he who first the secret found
Of digging fewel from the ground.
Hence riches, trade, and many a blessing
Their children's children now possessing;
He taught them with a magic net
The luscious Salmon to beset,
With many other useful arts,
Which justly won the people's hearts.
And swore not all the Saints cou'd save him,
Yet with the body of the nation,
Bede stood aloft in reputation;
He taught the natives to explore
The sea for fish, the land for ore;
197
Of digging fewel from the ground.
Hence riches, trade, and many a blessing
Their children's children now possessing;
He taught them with a magic net
The luscious Salmon to beset,
With many other useful arts,
Which justly won the people's hearts.
But all his merit was forgot,
And hid by this unlucky blot;
A Maid of Honor to deflower!
'Twas an affront to Sov'reign power;
The Queen declar'd, “She did not know
“How far his impudence might go;
“And that she thought 'twas monstrous hard
“To take a Lady off her guard:
“Had she herself been sleeping caught,
“(She trembles at the very thought)
“Ev'n Majesty she was not sure
“In such a case wou'd be secure.”
Thus prejudic'd, to the good King
She so describ'd this Nasty Thing,
That in his justice he decreed,
The Culprit for his crimes shou'd bleed:
“What die?”—as bad—may Heav'n forefend,
And guard us all from the like End;
The blushing Muse cannot for shame,
In words direct the thing proclaim;
It was, in fine, the punishment
Heloise's Lover underwent.
And hid by this unlucky blot;
A Maid of Honor to deflower!
'Twas an affront to Sov'reign power;
The Queen declar'd, “She did not know
“How far his impudence might go;
“And that she thought 'twas monstrous hard
“To take a Lady off her guard:
“Had she herself been sleeping caught,
“(She trembles at the very thought)
“Ev'n Majesty she was not sure
“In such a case wou'd be secure.”
Thus prejudic'd, to the good King
She so describ'd this Nasty Thing,
That in his justice he decreed,
The Culprit for his crimes shou'd bleed:
“What die?”—as bad—may Heav'n forefend,
And guard us all from the like End;
The blushing Muse cannot for shame,
In words direct the thing proclaim;
It was, in fine, the punishment
Heloise's Lover underwent.
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Such was the Monarch's resolution,
The time too fix'd for execution,
The storm was loud, the waves ran high,
The charge direct—vain all reply.
The time too fix'd for execution,
The storm was loud, the waves ran high,
The charge direct—vain all reply.
Of Honor's gem altho' bereft,
Emma had still some goodness left;
'Tis true Logicians often paint
Each Woman as a Fiend or Saint;
Whereas a Man is a mix'd creature,
They say—of het'rogeneous nature;
But all those cobweb airy fancies
Are little better than romances;
For Woman, like meer Man, is still
Neither completely good or ill;
A hodge-podge, olio, or podrade,
Of many various compounds made;
A mixture form'd of cold and hot,
Of sweet and sour—in short—what not;—
Some strong ingredient, 'tis confest,
Still to the palate gives the zest;
Yet not so pow'rful, but we find
Other ingredients are combin'd.
Emma had still some goodness left;
'Tis true Logicians often paint
Each Woman as a Fiend or Saint;
Whereas a Man is a mix'd creature,
They say—of het'rogeneous nature;
But all those cobweb airy fancies
Are little better than romances;
For Woman, like meer Man, is still
Neither completely good or ill;
A hodge-podge, olio, or podrade,
Of many various compounds made;
A mixture form'd of cold and hot,
Of sweet and sour—in short—what not;—
Some strong ingredient, 'tis confest,
Still to the palate gives the zest;
Yet not so pow'rful, but we find
Other ingredients are combin'd.
There is not in all Nature's plan
So strange a paradox as Man;
Man with himself eternal jars,
And wages barb'rous civil wars:—
Now Reason—Passion now presides,
Whilst diff'rent limbs take diff'rent sides;
Against the monarch Head, we find
Beneath the girdle what's confin'd,
In bold rebellion often rises,
And the wise Sov'reign's pow'r despises;
And Amphisbœna-like, 'tis said,
We've then at either end an Head:
When that's the case, we seldom know
To which Head we shou'd homage show;
And therefore follow that of course,
Which pulls us with the greater force:
Poor Emma, when she first was sinner,
Had Amphisbœna struggling in her.
So strange a paradox as Man;
Man with himself eternal jars,
And wages barb'rous civil wars:—
Now Reason—Passion now presides,
Whilst diff'rent limbs take diff'rent sides;
Against the monarch Head, we find
Beneath the girdle what's confin'd,
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And the wise Sov'reign's pow'r despises;
And Amphisbœna-like, 'tis said,
We've then at either end an Head:
When that's the case, we seldom know
To which Head we shou'd homage show;
And therefore follow that of course,
Which pulls us with the greater force:
Poor Emma, when she first was sinner,
Had Amphisbœna struggling in her.
I know digressions often teaze,
But still they give the Writer ease;
Wherefore that Writer surely wise is,
That pelts you with each thought that rises.
But still they give the Writer ease;
Wherefore that Writer surely wise is,
That pelts you with each thought that rises.
Nor Vice nor Virtue, 'tis most plain,
In Emma bore despotic reign;
At first she put on a good face,
And told her tale with artful grace;
But Conscience soon—unmanner'd guest!
Kick'd up a dust within her breast,
And fill'd both waking thoughts and dreams
With brimstone, hell, and burning flames;
With forked prongs, by horned Fiends
Apply'd to Sinners' hinder ends;
(A frightful case!—No Lady, sure,
Such application cou'd endure)
And all that horrid apparatus
With which some say the Devil treats us,
When we to visit him think fit,
And take up lodgings in his pit.
In Emma bore despotic reign;
At first she put on a good face,
And told her tale with artful grace;
But Conscience soon—unmanner'd guest!
Kick'd up a dust within her breast,
And fill'd both waking thoughts and dreams
With brimstone, hell, and burning flames;
With forked prongs, by horned Fiends
Apply'd to Sinners' hinder ends;
(A frightful case!—No Lady, sure,
Such application cou'd endure)
And all that horrid apparatus
With which some say the Devil treats us,
200
And take up lodgings in his pit.
No wonder guilt-bred fumes like these
Shou'd pull down Madam on her knees,
To count her beads in woeful plight,
And cross herself from morn to night:—
In one of these despairing strains,
When fear quite oversets the brains,
At midnight hour when Fiends prepare
To take a Fresco in our air,
As on her marrow-bones she prest,
Weeping, and beating her white breast,
A Crow long tam'd, whose gutt'ral tone
Had oft diverted Will and John,
By Chance or Providence convey'd
To Madam's chamber, witless, stray'd,
Where snug as thief under the bed,
The bird conceal'd its negro head;
And at the juncture when the Dame
(Her thoughts brimful of fire and flame)
Address'd her Patron Saint of Wood,
Out pops the Crow, and croaking stood:
“Have mercy, Heav'n—What's this I view,
“'Tis Satan's self—'tis Satan's hue!—
“Guard me from pitchforks and from hell:”
Croak, quo' the Crow—she scream'd—she fell:
The servants fly, and on the ground,
Speechless the frighted Fair was found;
Reviv'd, she raves—“Protect and save me,
“Let not yon ugly Satan have me;
“His saucer eyes and frightful tone”—
Another croak—and down she's gone.
The servants see the droll mistake,
And quick to life their Lady wake:
She straightway calls out for a Priest,
To whom her sins are soon confest;
On Roger's wiles she throws the blame
Of all her crimes—and all her shame;
And hopes it is not yet too late
To hinder Bede's unhappy fate.
Shou'd pull down Madam on her knees,
To count her beads in woeful plight,
And cross herself from morn to night:—
In one of these despairing strains,
When fear quite oversets the brains,
At midnight hour when Fiends prepare
To take a Fresco in our air,
As on her marrow-bones she prest,
Weeping, and beating her white breast,
A Crow long tam'd, whose gutt'ral tone
Had oft diverted Will and John,
By Chance or Providence convey'd
To Madam's chamber, witless, stray'd,
Where snug as thief under the bed,
The bird conceal'd its negro head;
And at the juncture when the Dame
(Her thoughts brimful of fire and flame)
Address'd her Patron Saint of Wood,
Out pops the Crow, and croaking stood:
“Have mercy, Heav'n—What's this I view,
“'Tis Satan's self—'tis Satan's hue!—
“Guard me from pitchforks and from hell:”
Croak, quo' the Crow—she scream'd—she fell:
The servants fly, and on the ground,
Speechless the frighted Fair was found;
Reviv'd, she raves—“Protect and save me,
“Let not yon ugly Satan have me;
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Another croak—and down she's gone.
The servants see the droll mistake,
And quick to life their Lady wake:
She straightway calls out for a Priest,
To whom her sins are soon confest;
On Roger's wiles she throws the blame
Of all her crimes—and all her shame;
And hopes it is not yet too late
To hinder Bede's unhappy fate.
The Queen, of this great change inform'd,
Against the Monk now loudly storm'd;
The King in justice too decreed,
That Bede shou'd instantly be freed,
And that the compliment design'd
For Him, to Roger be assign'd.—
Against the Monk now loudly storm'd;
The King in justice too decreed,
That Bede shou'd instantly be freed,
And that the compliment design'd
For Him, to Roger be assign'd.—
No sooner order'd than 'twas done,
And—whip—his Sanctity is gone;
For after being Abelarded,
And from the court with shame discarded,
His crime appear'd so very black,
Each Dame, now scornful, turn'd her back;
For from a Confessor dissected,
No comfort, sure, can be expected.
And—whip—his Sanctity is gone;
For after being Abelarded,
And from the court with shame discarded,
His crime appear'd so very black,
Each Dame, now scornful, turn'd her back;
For from a Confessor dissected,
No comfort, sure, can be expected.
When birds fly, or when vessels sail,
They're always guided from the tail,
And Casuists say this is the case,
In gen'ral, with the human race:
The rudder lost, what follows then?—
Ruin to ships, to birds, and men.
They're always guided from the tail,
And Casuists say this is the case,
In gen'ral, with the human race:
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Ruin to ships, to birds, and men.
And now, no longer Fortune's sport,
In triumph Bede was brought to court,
Where having humbly on his knee
Due homage paid to majesty,
He then, in gratitude as bound,
To Heav'n fell prostrate on the ground,
That graciously had heard his pray'rs,
And rescu'd him from monkish snares;
Nor was his croaking Friend forgot,
A leading actor in the plot,
Who, at her Majesty's request,
Shew'd her fine shapes among the rest:
“May Heav'n's best benison,” he cries,
(With tears of raptures in his eyes)
“For ever and for ever fall
“On King, Queen, Emma—Crow—and all.”
In triumph Bede was brought to court,
Where having humbly on his knee
Due homage paid to majesty,
He then, in gratitude as bound,
To Heav'n fell prostrate on the ground,
That graciously had heard his pray'rs,
And rescu'd him from monkish snares;
Nor was his croaking Friend forgot,
A leading actor in the plot,
Who, at her Majesty's request,
Shew'd her fine shapes among the rest:
“May Heav'n's best benison,” he cries,
(With tears of raptures in his eyes)
“For ever and for ever fall
“On King, Queen, Emma—Crow—and all.”
So said; when wonderful—but hold,
'Twere necessary you were told,
That in the records of that age,
Miracles crowd in ev'ry page;
Tho' now-a-days, I know not why,
Nor Miracles or Saints we spy;—
In short—a Miracle uncommon—
Up starts the Crow—a lovely Woman;
Young, blooming, handsome, debonnair,
And what's still stranger, wond'rous Fair.
To please Pygmalion, as 'tis said,
A Marble melted to a Maid;
And surely, if a Heathen cou'd
Inspire a Stone with flesh and blood,
We need shew little admiration
At Madam Croaker's transformation.
'Twere necessary you were told,
That in the records of that age,
Miracles crowd in ev'ry page;
Tho' now-a-days, I know not why,
Nor Miracles or Saints we spy;—
In short—a Miracle uncommon—
Up starts the Crow—a lovely Woman;
Young, blooming, handsome, debonnair,
And what's still stranger, wond'rous Fair.
To please Pygmalion, as 'tis said,
A Marble melted to a Maid;
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Inspire a Stone with flesh and blood,
We need shew little admiration
At Madam Croaker's transformation.
With wonder struck, whilst all around
In silence gaz'd, a voice profound,
Melodious as a seraph Sound,
Was heard:—
“Accept, O Bede, the gift Heav'n sends,
“The best of Wives, and best of Friends;
“Of ev'ry female charm possest,
“With ev'ry social virtue blest;
“Nor yet despise her for her birth,
“What are ye all but Sons of Earth?
“That origin cannot be mean,
“Where Heav'n's immediate hand is seen;
“And that the miracle here shown,
“To future times be handed down,
“A lasting monument of favor,
“Your offspring to distinguish ever,
“A Spice of Mother's gutt'ral tone,
“To Time's remotest ages known
“By name of Burr—shall mark their tongue,
“And proudly trumpet whence they sprung;
“A rough, bold accent, free from art,
“True Emblem of an honest Heart,
“A mark by which mankind shall trace
“Your num'rous, warlike, envied Race;
“Whose Deeds, not Words, their Fame shall spread,
“And Britain's Foes their Valor dread.”
In silence gaz'd, a voice profound,
Melodious as a seraph Sound,
Was heard:—
“Accept, O Bede, the gift Heav'n sends,
“The best of Wives, and best of Friends;
“Of ev'ry female charm possest,
“With ev'ry social virtue blest;
“Nor yet despise her for her birth,
“What are ye all but Sons of Earth?
“That origin cannot be mean,
“Where Heav'n's immediate hand is seen;
“And that the miracle here shown,
“To future times be handed down,
“A lasting monument of favor,
“Your offspring to distinguish ever,
“A Spice of Mother's gutt'ral tone,
“To Time's remotest ages known
“By name of Burr—shall mark their tongue,
“And proudly trumpet whence they sprung;
“A rough, bold accent, free from art,
“True Emblem of an honest Heart,
“A mark by which mankind shall trace
“Your num'rous, warlike, envied Race;
“Whose Deeds, not Words, their Fame shall spread,
“And Britain's Foes their Valor dread.”
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The Priest with rapture Heav'n obey'd,
And wed the lovely, new-form'd Maid;
The Monarch, generous and kind,
To Bede and to his Heirs consign'd
That fertile track which Tyne surveys,
As his broad stream he proud displays;
Where Riches flow with ev'ry tide,
And Trade and Liberty preside:—
Here first he plann'd that envy'd seat,
By Industry now form'd so great,
Yclep'd Newcastle;—where the Priest
To an old age liv'd highly blest
With his Fair Spouse:—And 'tis agreed
She brought the Parson such a Breed
(Parsons, we know, are in their natures
Beyond most men, prolific creatures)
Of little Bedes—that all around
The Parson's prowess made resound.
And wed the lovely, new-form'd Maid;
The Monarch, generous and kind,
To Bede and to his Heirs consign'd
That fertile track which Tyne surveys,
As his broad stream he proud displays;
Where Riches flow with ev'ry tide,
And Trade and Liberty preside:—
Here first he plann'd that envy'd seat,
By Industry now form'd so great,
Yclep'd Newcastle;—where the Priest
To an old age liv'd highly blest
With his Fair Spouse:—And 'tis agreed
She brought the Parson such a Breed
(Parsons, we know, are in their natures
Beyond most men, prolific creatures)
Of little Bedes—that all around
The Parson's prowess made resound.
'Tis thought this same prolific pow'r
Remains among them to this hour;
A num'rous Race, who still inherit
Their Mother's Burr and Father's Merit;
And which distinguishes the Breed
Of Mother Crow and Father Bede.
Remains among them to this hour;
A num'rous Race, who still inherit
Their Mother's Burr and Father's Merit;
And which distinguishes the Breed
Of Mother Crow and Father Bede.
The Story is taken from an old Record found in a Religious House, on its Dissolution in the Reign of Henry VIII. and is now in the Possession of an eminent Antiquarian not far from Newcastle.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |