 | Poems and Plays |  |
IV. VOL. IV
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PEACE, IGNOMINY, AND DESTRUCTION:
A POEM.
“Rompez, rompez tout pacte avec l'impieté.”
RACINE.
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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES JAMES FOX.
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Around th' enduring martyr's hallow'd shrine
Their brightest flowers the holy muses twine!
With roses blushing from the fields of war,
Their skilful hands adorn the victor's car!
And, for the candid brow of peace, they bring
The modest honours of the early spring!
But for the Peace that lifts th' imploring eye,
From whose frail breast escapes the coward's sigh,
No muse applauding one small leaf shall bring
Of all the foliage of the early spring;
But, from her bow'r, shall Ignominy rend
A branch of nightshade for her gentle friend!
Their brightest flowers the holy muses twine!
With roses blushing from the fields of war,
Their skilful hands adorn the victor's car!
And, for the candid brow of peace, they bring
The modest honours of the early spring!
But for the Peace that lifts th' imploring eye,
From whose frail breast escapes the coward's sigh,
No muse applauding one small leaf shall bring
Of all the foliage of the early spring;
But, from her bow'r, shall Ignominy rend
A branch of nightshade for her gentle friend!
These painful eyes behold an English peer
(His weak memorial sicklied o'er with fear,)
In humble attitude a suppliant stand,
To claim the friendship of a murd'rous band!
The plaintive breathings of the snow-wing'd dove
Ill suit the imperial messenger of Jove!
Who should, by long-excited vengeance driv'n,
Bear in his grasp the thunderbolt of Heav'n.
(His weak memorial sicklied o'er with fear,)
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To claim the friendship of a murd'rous band!
The plaintive breathings of the snow-wing'd dove
Ill suit the imperial messenger of Jove!
Who should, by long-excited vengeance driv'n,
Bear in his grasp the thunderbolt of Heav'n.
Oh, my lov'd country! time-ennobled realm,
Where jealous honour still has watch'd the helm;
Th' unclouded glory long to Europe known
Which clasps thy loins like a refulgent zone:
Say, will thy hand the hallow'd cestus tear,
And yield thy virtue to the tainting air?
For me—unmark'd by honours, wealth, or fame,
No swelling title blazoning round my name!—
To be a fleeting bubble of thy earth
Inflames my mounting soul with pride of birth!
Oh, sacred parent! still thyself revere;
To honour's call, to virtue's voice, be near:
Blur not the brightness of thy heav'nly cause
With one dim moment's intervening pause.
Better to fall in glory's full career,
Embracing honour on th' untimely bier;
Than weak, subdued, with agonising strife,
Waste (in the socket) the last gleams of life.
Say, if to cloathe with light the laughing skies
The God of Day were doom'd no more to rise,
Were it not better, in the pomp of pow'r,
In the rich ardour of meridian hour,
To rush abrupt from Heav'n with downward flight
A flaming chaos to the jaws of night;
Than tinge the ocean with a ling'ring ray,
Expiring in the silence of decay?
Where jealous honour still has watch'd the helm;
Th' unclouded glory long to Europe known
Which clasps thy loins like a refulgent zone:
Say, will thy hand the hallow'd cestus tear,
And yield thy virtue to the tainting air?
For me—unmark'd by honours, wealth, or fame,
No swelling title blazoning round my name!—
To be a fleeting bubble of thy earth
Inflames my mounting soul with pride of birth!
Oh, sacred parent! still thyself revere;
To honour's call, to virtue's voice, be near:
Blur not the brightness of thy heav'nly cause
With one dim moment's intervening pause.
Better to fall in glory's full career,
Embracing honour on th' untimely bier;
Than weak, subdued, with agonising strife,
Waste (in the socket) the last gleams of life.
Say, if to cloathe with light the laughing skies
The God of Day were doom'd no more to rise,
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In the rich ardour of meridian hour,
To rush abrupt from Heav'n with downward flight
A flaming chaos to the jaws of night;
Than tinge the ocean with a ling'ring ray,
Expiring in the silence of decay?
Yet think not France from nature will depart,
And chace the fiend that grapples to her heart;
That the wild tigress will forego her prey,
Couch with the kid, and with the lambkin play;
That the fond child shall stretch his little hand
To lead the lion in a flow'ry band!
These beauteous emblems of the days of old
With this mock concord no resemblance hold:
No heavy drops of mandragóra steep
The dragon's eyelids in the dews of sleep!
The gift extended by a faithless foe
Is the concealment of a lurking woe:
'Tis like the pause that Nature's storm bestows,
An awful calm—the thunder's dread repose!
And chace the fiend that grapples to her heart;
That the wild tigress will forego her prey,
Couch with the kid, and with the lambkin play;
That the fond child shall stretch his little hand
To lead the lion in a flow'ry band!
These beauteous emblems of the days of old
With this mock concord no resemblance hold:
No heavy drops of mandragóra steep
The dragon's eyelids in the dews of sleep!
The gift extended by a faithless foe
Is the concealment of a lurking woe:
'Tis like the pause that Nature's storm bestows,
An awful calm—the thunder's dread repose!
My anxious eyes solicit still in vain
Some sign that might my failing hopes sustain;
Some sacred altar, rob'd in spotless white,
Where candour's priest performs the genial rite;
Where long-tried statesmen, fraught with wisdom's lore,
Whose hair the hand of peace hath silver'd o'er,
With learned fathers sway'd by virtue's rule,
Whom peace hath tutor'd in religion's school;
Where, pensive as they walk'd, the holy breeze
Flew through the shady cloister whisp'ring peace.
For these best pledges other scenes arise—
Th' enchanter's cauldron smites my wond'ring eyes!
Behold a troop of ghastly shapes advance
In frantic mood, and form a horrid dance;
Now bending low, these haggard forms of hell
Breathe the dark pray'r, and mutter the dread spell:
And now into the turbid stream they throw
(With imprecations big with future woe)
The galling tears that flow'd from beauty's cheek,
The voice of agony and terror's shriek,
The blood that trickled from affliction's dart,
The sighs exhaling from a broken heart,
The burst of anguish—murder's piercing cry,
The screams that hurried through the midnight sky,
The famish'd infant's deep expiring groan,
The dungeon'd victim's solitary moan,
The clotted hair which desperation tore,
The milk of murder'd mothers streak'd with gore,
The plaint of innocence, the virgin's pray'r
Which the rude ravisher consign'd to air,
The hallow'd edicts by religion plann'd,
And holy wedlock's desecrated band:
Behold the infernal sorcerers unite
To close their incantation's fearful rite,
And leering cast into the vase profound,
The likeness of two skulls which once were crown'd.
Some sign that might my failing hopes sustain;
Some sacred altar, rob'd in spotless white,
Where candour's priest performs the genial rite;
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Whose hair the hand of peace hath silver'd o'er,
With learned fathers sway'd by virtue's rule,
Whom peace hath tutor'd in religion's school;
Where, pensive as they walk'd, the holy breeze
Flew through the shady cloister whisp'ring peace.
For these best pledges other scenes arise—
Th' enchanter's cauldron smites my wond'ring eyes!
Behold a troop of ghastly shapes advance
In frantic mood, and form a horrid dance;
Now bending low, these haggard forms of hell
Breathe the dark pray'r, and mutter the dread spell:
And now into the turbid stream they throw
(With imprecations big with future woe)
The galling tears that flow'd from beauty's cheek,
The voice of agony and terror's shriek,
The blood that trickled from affliction's dart,
The sighs exhaling from a broken heart,
The burst of anguish—murder's piercing cry,
The screams that hurried through the midnight sky,
The famish'd infant's deep expiring groan,
The dungeon'd victim's solitary moan,
The clotted hair which desperation tore,
The milk of murder'd mothers streak'd with gore,
The plaint of innocence, the virgin's pray'r
Which the rude ravisher consign'd to air,
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And holy wedlock's desecrated band:
Behold the infernal sorcerers unite
To close their incantation's fearful rite,
And leering cast into the vase profound,
The likeness of two skulls which once were crown'd.
Say, for these fiends, if England can descend
To weave the bond that grapples friend to friend,
Flown is the spirit of her living fame;—
And what remains?—a carcase of a name!
To weave the bond that grapples friend to friend,
Flown is the spirit of her living fame;—
And what remains?—a carcase of a name!
Cou'd I, like Dryden, wield the bolts of war,
And fling amazement from the rushing car!
Did I possess that energetic strain
Which pours the sorrows of the negro train,
Brings the heart-rending tale to Britain's ear,
And bids compassion pay her long arrear;
The arguments that flow from Wyndham's sense,
Well guarded round by reason's strongest fence;
The sacred boon by Chatham's Son possest,
The muse of eloquence that fires his breast:
The quiver richly stored with attic darts,
Which genius to his Sheridan imparts:
Th' exalting winnow'd purity of soul
With which Fitzwilliam soars beyond controul;
Who, greatly daring, with a zeal severe
Stemm'd the wild deluge of opprobrious fear;
And, on the day eternally renown'd,
Like Abdiel, was the only faithful found:—
Had I these pow'rs concenter'd in one form,
I'd pour on England the resistless storm,
To wake her soul, to rouse her mental part,
And chace her sombrous lethargy of heart.
And fling amazement from the rushing car!
Did I possess that energetic strain
Which pours the sorrows of the negro train,
Brings the heart-rending tale to Britain's ear,
And bids compassion pay her long arrear;
The arguments that flow from Wyndham's sense,
Well guarded round by reason's strongest fence;
The sacred boon by Chatham's Son possest,
The muse of eloquence that fires his breast:
The quiver richly stored with attic darts,
Which genius to his Sheridan imparts:
Th' exalting winnow'd purity of soul
With which Fitzwilliam soars beyond controul;
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Stemm'd the wild deluge of opprobrious fear;
And, on the day eternally renown'd,
Like Abdiel, was the only faithful found:—
Had I these pow'rs concenter'd in one form,
I'd pour on England the resistless storm,
To wake her soul, to rouse her mental part,
And chace her sombrous lethargy of heart.
Do some pretend that justice holds the scales
That o'er French councils honour now prevails?
Approach the dial in the dead of night,
Demand the hour by artificial light;
Then virtue seek with an enquiring eye,
Amid the system unillum'd from high.
Mark yon sad cemetery's starless gloom,
Where time shall ne'er unlock the rav'nous tomb,
Where shadowy death shall a dread vigil keep,
'Midst the still horror of eternal sleep.
There the pledg'd maiden, at th' approach of eve,
O'er the dear relics of the youth shall grieve,
While her dark creed shall urge the sting of woe,
And bid her flowing tears for ever flow:
Hope dares not whisper to her clouded eye
To send a glance to time's unfolding sky,
Where Pity weaves the amaranthine chain
To circle lovers ne'er to part again.
That o'er French councils honour now prevails?
Approach the dial in the dead of night,
Demand the hour by artificial light;
Then virtue seek with an enquiring eye,
Amid the system unillum'd from high.
Mark yon sad cemetery's starless gloom,
Where time shall ne'er unlock the rav'nous tomb,
Where shadowy death shall a dread vigil keep,
'Midst the still horror of eternal sleep.
There the pledg'd maiden, at th' approach of eve,
O'er the dear relics of the youth shall grieve,
While her dark creed shall urge the sting of woe,
And bid her flowing tears for ever flow:
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To send a glance to time's unfolding sky,
Where Pity weaves the amaranthine chain
To circle lovers ne'er to part again.
There, too, the mother, with affliction wild,
Bends o'er the grave that holds her darling child,
For ever holds—No pleasing vision cries,
“Suppress the tears that trickle from thine eyes;
“Ah! know thy child with angels soars on high
“In the bright regions of the upper sky,
“And, deck'd with wings that glitter to the ray,
“Plays on the sun-beams of eternal day.”—
Her dark'ning creed with no assuagement fraught,
Forbids her soul to grasp the cheering thought!
Bends o'er the grave that holds her darling child,
For ever holds—No pleasing vision cries,
“Suppress the tears that trickle from thine eyes;
“Ah! know thy child with angels soars on high
“In the bright regions of the upper sky,
“And, deck'd with wings that glitter to the ray,
“Plays on the sun-beams of eternal day.”—
Her dark'ning creed with no assuagement fraught,
Forbids her soul to grasp the cheering thought!
There, too, the friend his other-self shall mourn,
From his habitual sight for ever torn;
Forbid to look to that celestial shore
Whose blissful bow'rs shall friend to friend restore:
Thus the strong chain their sacrilege has riv'n
Which bound in sacred union earth and heav'n;
Made every future high reversion void;
The rights of immortality destroy'd;
Compell'd the claims of merit to be mute;
Creation's lord degraded to a brute;
And, what their hell-constructed thought design'd,
Insulted nature and dethron'd the mind.
From his habitual sight for ever torn;
Forbid to look to that celestial shore
Whose blissful bow'rs shall friend to friend restore:
Thus the strong chain their sacrilege has riv'n
Which bound in sacred union earth and heav'n;
Made every future high reversion void;
The rights of immortality destroy'd;
Compell'd the claims of merit to be mute;
Creation's lord degraded to a brute;
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Insulted nature and dethron'd the mind.
Behold where flow'rets deck the length'ning way,
The slow procession moves in bright array:
A gorgeous spectacle! ovation's car!
Press'd by no hero slaughter'd in the war,
But press'd by him who scatter'd wild alarm,
And rais'd 'gainst Virtue his destructive arm:
Who dar'd on Truth's bright shield, in evil hour,
The poison'd shafts of blasphemy to show'r;
His ardent vot'ries—a licentious crowd—
Uplift their champion, fest'ring in his shroud,
And, while the grave-worms fasten on his frame,
High honours pay to his irrev'rent name!
Pale Irreligion comes with all her train—
Her atheist choir—to act the rites profane:
She comes with all the witlings of the land,
Her grave buffoons, her academic band!
The steps of the fam'd Porch they now ascend,
And through the pillar'd aisles their march they bend.
An host of praiseful voices rends the fane,
And impious echoes multiply the strain.
But when the corse was to the vault convey'd,
Night round the temple flung her darkest shade;
With terror heav'd the sympathetic ground,
From ev'ry altar breath'd a sigh profound;
And fiends rejoic'd while angels wept around!
The slow procession moves in bright array:
A gorgeous spectacle! ovation's car!
Press'd by no hero slaughter'd in the war,
But press'd by him who scatter'd wild alarm,
And rais'd 'gainst Virtue his destructive arm:
Who dar'd on Truth's bright shield, in evil hour,
The poison'd shafts of blasphemy to show'r;
His ardent vot'ries—a licentious crowd—
Uplift their champion, fest'ring in his shroud,
And, while the grave-worms fasten on his frame,
High honours pay to his irrev'rent name!
Pale Irreligion comes with all her train—
Her atheist choir—to act the rites profane:
She comes with all the witlings of the land,
Her grave buffoons, her academic band!
The steps of the fam'd Porch they now ascend,
And through the pillar'd aisles their march they bend.
An host of praiseful voices rends the fane,
And impious echoes multiply the strain.
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Night round the temple flung her darkest shade;
With terror heav'd the sympathetic ground,
From ev'ry altar breath'd a sigh profound;
And fiends rejoic'd while angels wept around!
Time was when France preferr'd her learned name,
And wore the wreath bestow'd by classic fame:
Mark the dread change!—the cold immoral blast
Has chill'd the plants of Science as it pass'd,
Nipt the young thought just bursting from its fold,
And froze Instruction's current as it roll'd.
And wore the wreath bestow'd by classic fame:
Mark the dread change!—the cold immoral blast
Has chill'd the plants of Science as it pass'd,
Nipt the young thought just bursting from its fold,
And froze Instruction's current as it roll'd.
See Education weeping on the ground;
Her globes, her torch, her emblems scatter'd round;
Her children all are fled!—the path, that leads
To her august abode, is chok'd with weeds:
She mourns her sabbaths and her rites suppress'd;
She mourns her silent hours' ignoble rest.
Who now appears the tutoress of youth,
To cheer the darken'd mind with beams of truth?
(With those clear rays which her bright noon adorn,)
To streak and beautify her pupil's morn.
Her globes, her torch, her emblems scatter'd round;
Her children all are fled!—the path, that leads
To her august abode, is chok'd with weeds:
She mourns her sabbaths and her rites suppress'd;
She mourns her silent hours' ignoble rest.
Who now appears the tutoress of youth,
To cheer the darken'd mind with beams of truth?
(With those clear rays which her bright noon adorn,)
To streak and beautify her pupil's morn.
From the wide-yawning ground, now bursts to view
A form gigantic, and of sable hue;
'Tis Inhumanity—she comes to trace
Instruction's precepts to the rising race:
She feasts their minds—not with theatric show,
But with live scenes of dire ensanguin'd woe!
Gluts their affections with atrocious food,
With acts of wrath, and festivals of blood!
Behold her children, new to war's alarms,
At her commandment grasp their little arms!
Behold yon aged group, whose silver hair
Demands compassion and intreats to spare!
'Gainst these—whose crimes are poverty and age,
She bids her pupils act their virgin rage;
And as they now impel the death-wing'd balls,
Some benefactor, or some parent falls!
With horrors deep'ning dye so early stain'd,
In massacrous employ so early train'd,
Will they not terrify the future day
Whose rudiments of vice such proofs display?
—'Gainst these to war is virtue's best crusade:
She cries “Oh, England! hasten to my aid!
“See atheist cruelty her weapons wield!
“Lift to her blow thy consecrated shield.”
A form gigantic, and of sable hue;
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Instruction's precepts to the rising race:
She feasts their minds—not with theatric show,
But with live scenes of dire ensanguin'd woe!
Gluts their affections with atrocious food,
With acts of wrath, and festivals of blood!
Behold her children, new to war's alarms,
At her commandment grasp their little arms!
Behold yon aged group, whose silver hair
Demands compassion and intreats to spare!
'Gainst these—whose crimes are poverty and age,
She bids her pupils act their virgin rage;
And as they now impel the death-wing'd balls,
Some benefactor, or some parent falls!
With horrors deep'ning dye so early stain'd,
In massacrous employ so early train'd,
Will they not terrify the future day
Whose rudiments of vice such proofs display?
—'Gainst these to war is virtue's best crusade:
She cries “Oh, England! hasten to my aid!
“See atheist cruelty her weapons wield!
“Lift to her blow thy consecrated shield.”
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Woe to the land, which (shamefully secure)
Shrinks from the toil that wisdom bids endure,
Declines the steps of glory to retrace,
And shuns calamity to meet disgrace!—
Misfortune is the night expecting day;
Disgrace a stain that seas can't wash away.
Shrinks from the toil that wisdom bids endure,
Declines the steps of glory to retrace,
And shuns calamity to meet disgrace!—
Misfortune is the night expecting day;
Disgrace a stain that seas can't wash away.
Ev'n while my soul from indignation strong,
Pours the full torrent of reproachful song!
Weak Embassy beholds with sorrowing eye,
Her flutt'ring pray'r ascend an iron sky:
The gaudy pile which airy Hope had rais'd,
On which half-trembling Caution fondly gaz'd,
Dissolves—and like a dream that mocks the mind,
Leaves not a glimm'ring of its pomp behind:
Then seize, oh Britain! seize the pregnant hour,
'Tis Honour's treasury, 'tis Virtue's dow'r!
Thy vaunting foe misled, rejects thy claim,
Absolves thy vows, and gives thee back to fame:
Seize, seize the hour—with daring thought imprest,
Bid the chill fear-drops gath'ring on thy breast
Melt into air, like the small gems of rain
Which the rous'd lion scatters from his mane.
Yes! I adjure thee by thy days of yore;
By thine illustrious fame's untainted store;
By all the rev'rence thy great statesmen claim,
Who rais'd, on Wisdom's plan, thy wond'rous frame;
By all thy sacred bards, whose magic lays
Sound in thy porch, and dignify thy praise;
By thy benevolence—that brilliant gem
Whose lustre plays around thy diadem;
By all the charities that most endear;
By Emigrancy's meek imploring tear;
Thou'lt not reject her at her utmost need,
Nor plant thy footsteps on the broken reed:—
Yes! I adjure thee by the sainted train,
Who, heav'n-instructed, rear'd thy modest fane;
Gave to thy holy lips a purer pray'r,
Whose chaste ascension breathes celestial air.
Pours the full torrent of reproachful song!
Weak Embassy beholds with sorrowing eye,
Her flutt'ring pray'r ascend an iron sky:
The gaudy pile which airy Hope had rais'd,
On which half-trembling Caution fondly gaz'd,
Dissolves—and like a dream that mocks the mind,
Leaves not a glimm'ring of its pomp behind:
Then seize, oh Britain! seize the pregnant hour,
'Tis Honour's treasury, 'tis Virtue's dow'r!
Thy vaunting foe misled, rejects thy claim,
Absolves thy vows, and gives thee back to fame:
Seize, seize the hour—with daring thought imprest,
Bid the chill fear-drops gath'ring on thy breast
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Which the rous'd lion scatters from his mane.
Yes! I adjure thee by thy days of yore;
By thine illustrious fame's untainted store;
By all the rev'rence thy great statesmen claim,
Who rais'd, on Wisdom's plan, thy wond'rous frame;
By all thy sacred bards, whose magic lays
Sound in thy porch, and dignify thy praise;
By thy benevolence—that brilliant gem
Whose lustre plays around thy diadem;
By all the charities that most endear;
By Emigrancy's meek imploring tear;
Thou'lt not reject her at her utmost need,
Nor plant thy footsteps on the broken reed:—
Yes! I adjure thee by the sainted train,
Who, heav'n-instructed, rear'd thy modest fane;
Gave to thy holy lips a purer pray'r,
Whose chaste ascension breathes celestial air.
Thou, who hast long attain'd th' immortal goal
While choral plaudits sound from pole to pole!
The glowing sun-set of whose honour'd day
Expands the brilliance of meridian ray:
Who hast from states remov'd th' incumbent shade,
And the wide sphere of government display'd;
The distant azure of whose vague extremes
Thou hast illum'd with Truth's unerring beams:
Our houshold deity! who warns, foretells,
Points to the den where the hush'd monster dwells,
Presents our perils awfully to view,
And bids the Country to herself be true.
Oh, Sage of Beaconsfield! indulge the muse
Who the same track (thou hast adorn'd) pursues!
Who gleans thy scatt'rings, grasps the falling grain
From the full harvest of thy loaded wain!
While choral plaudits sound from pole to pole!
The glowing sun-set of whose honour'd day
Expands the brilliance of meridian ray:
Who hast from states remov'd th' incumbent shade,
And the wide sphere of government display'd;
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Thou hast illum'd with Truth's unerring beams:
Our houshold deity! who warns, foretells,
Points to the den where the hush'd monster dwells,
Presents our perils awfully to view,
And bids the Country to herself be true.
Oh, Sage of Beaconsfield! indulge the muse
Who the same track (thou hast adorn'd) pursues!
Who gleans thy scatt'rings, grasps the falling grain
From the full harvest of thy loaded wain!
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November the 12th, 1793. The Convention decreed that a spot of ground should be allotted for a burial place, with this inscription—“Death is an eternal sleep.”
A battalion of children, from ten to eleven, were organised at Rennes, who were made to shoot old men of eighty.
Alluding to the departure of Lord Malmesbury from Paris, which event took place while the New Edition of this Poem was preparing for the press.
At the close of this Poem were originally introduced some lines, which censoriously mentioned a gentleman, whose great abilities have embellished different walks of literature.
The availing myself of this opportunity of publicly acknowledging my error, respecting Mr. Knight, does not arise from the presumption, that a shaft from so feeble a hand could have excited any painful sensation in his mind; but from a view to silence the upbraidings of self-reproach.
The same motive induces me to express my regret at some lines, which alluded to an ingenious young gentleman of Lincoln's Inn, J--- J--- D---, Esq. who is hastening to eminence in his professional line.
To the Author of the Baviad no apology can certainly be due, and therefore I retain the lines which, though not immediately connected with the Poem, were generally allowed to be applicable to the person. In speaking of the peace of 1796, the following verses were inserted in the preceding Poem:
“Ere I wou'd fix th' irrevocable seal,“And legalise what time can ne'er repeal,
“I'd rather by the Nine accurs'd produce,
“The harsh crab vintage of the Baviad muse;
“Whose cynic numbers, not devoid of art,
“Spring from the workings of a bilious heart:
“Coarse, unrefin'd, inelegantly keen,
“The foul o'erflowings of self-tortur'd spleen.”
It is an observation of Mr. Pope, that as a beggar, let him be ever so destitute, has the means of keeping a cur; so the most indifferent Poet has merit sufficient to attract the notice of some bristled snarling critic. In this point of view, the Author of the Baviad may be said to be my cur!—an office I hope he will long retain.
This Poem was translated into French by the reverend Father Mendar, Member of the learned order of the Oratorians. This gentleman is now returned to his relations in France. During his residence in this country, he distinguished himself by a peculiarly persuasive and pathetic manner of preaching. His little Poems of the Solitaire des Bords de la Tamise, and Les Remercimens, are warm and elegant effusions that may be properly denominated the poetry of the heart.
But the most gratifying incident relative to this Poem is the letter I received from Mr. Burke on the occasion. As the smallest particle of a shattered diamond is valuable, so any fragment of so great a man is worthy of preservation: and under that consideration I yield to the partiality of some friends, who prompt me to annex the letter of Mr. Burke to these notes.
“Beaconsfield, 18 Dec. 1796.“MY DEAR SIR,
“You will have the goodness to excuse me in using the hand of a friend in making the acknowledgments, which are so justly due to you, on my part, for the valuable present of your Poem. The public is much concerned in this exertion of your genius, and my fame (if fame can be any object to me) gives me a concern in it. The least use I could make of my hand, would be to make it express the dictates of my heart on this occasion; but the truth is, I have been, and am, extremely ill, and there are few hours in the four-and-twenty, in which I am not obliged to pass in my bed or on my couch. “Infirmity does still neglect all office.” I assure you, however, that I read your Poem with great pleasure. The conceptions are just, the sentiments affecting, and the pictures forcible and true. I can say that I am not particular in this opinion, nor am I bribed to it by your indulgence to me, your fellow-labourer, in the same cause.—Mr. Wyndham, I understand (and he has a judgment not to be deceived or corrupted by praise) thinks of your Poem as I do.
“I have the honour to be, with the most sincere regard, dear Sir, your most obliged and most faithful servant, “Edmund Burke.”79
EPILOGUE TO THE TATLERS,
A MANUSCRIPT COMEDY OF THE LATE DR. HOADLY,
Performed at Covent Garden, for the Benefit of Mr. Holman, and spoken by Mrs. Mattocks.
The rights of women, in this cens'ring age,
Have yet not been asserted on the stage:
For one great branch of our defrauded right,
Where hangs the glowing fruit of home-delight,
I now appear, to move a new decree,
And plead the female cause without a fee.
Two scions on one plant, will not now bear
A chaste allusion to the wedded pair.
Behold! unfeeling Dissipation rends
Wide from each other the connubial friends
The travelling spray by whim's still varying lot
Is seen ingrafted on some distant spot,
While the poor widow'd sprig appears to moan
Left to the blast unpitied and alone:
But our new code forbids the youth to roam,
And calls with dove-like voice, the wanderer home;
We therefore hope our mates wo'nt think us rude,
If from our plan all grafting we exclude.
Have yet not been asserted on the stage:
For one great branch of our defrauded right,
Where hangs the glowing fruit of home-delight,
I now appear, to move a new decree,
And plead the female cause without a fee.
80
A chaste allusion to the wedded pair.
Behold! unfeeling Dissipation rends
Wide from each other the connubial friends
The travelling spray by whim's still varying lot
Is seen ingrafted on some distant spot,
While the poor widow'd sprig appears to moan
Left to the blast unpitied and alone:
But our new code forbids the youth to roam,
And calls with dove-like voice, the wanderer home;
We therefore hope our mates wo'nt think us rude,
If from our plan all grafting we exclude.
Do some now present daringly maintain,
That roguish wives oft snap the wedlock chain?
What? if the rover will not share his life
With that domestic fixture called a wife,
Should the wild truant man forsake the scene,
Must she be stil'd an abdicating quean?
If from their residence th' incumbents stray,
Can it be said the living runs away?
Then let the wives for residence contend—
To this one point let our exertions bend;
And if deserted we'll no more endure it,
But in their absence shall appoint a curate.
That roguish wives oft snap the wedlock chain?
What? if the rover will not share his life
With that domestic fixture called a wife,
Should the wild truant man forsake the scene,
Must she be stil'd an abdicating quean?
If from their residence th' incumbents stray,
Can it be said the living runs away?
81
To this one point let our exertions bend;
And if deserted we'll no more endure it,
But in their absence shall appoint a curate.
The laws of wedlock are the laws of rhyme,
A faithful couplet, in accordant chime:
If the first line should not exactly flow
In perfect symmetry with that below,
Ah! then we look for harmony in vain,
And savage Dissonance deforms the strain.
Some modern dames, indeed, have thought it sweeter
To stretch the couplet to a triplet metre;
Our code disclaims this license of the time,
Firm for one couplet and one echoing rhyme.
A faithful couplet, in accordant chime:
If the first line should not exactly flow
In perfect symmetry with that below,
Ah! then we look for harmony in vain,
And savage Dissonance deforms the strain.
Some modern dames, indeed, have thought it sweeter
To stretch the couplet to a triplet metre;
Our code disclaims this license of the time,
Firm for one couplet and one echoing rhyme.
Long time entangled in the wedded noose,
The city husband and his cackling goose,
Half-tir'd, half-pleas'd, without delight or strife,
Still, side by side, they waddle on thro' life:
This drowsy pair we hold not up to view
As a complete example to pursue:
We wish the men would rather look on high,
And note the lark that warbles to the sky.
Nature to this sweet bird alone has given,
To wake his carol at the gate of heav'n;
Yet, 'midst the pride of his extatic strain,
His faithful breast recals the humble plain,
And sinking from the splendor of the skies,
He joyous to his little mansion flies;
'Lights with gay pinion on his low-built nest,
Where all his pleasures, all his wishes rest.
The city husband and his cackling goose,
Half-tir'd, half-pleas'd, without delight or strife,
Still, side by side, they waddle on thro' life:
82
As a complete example to pursue:
We wish the men would rather look on high,
And note the lark that warbles to the sky.
Nature to this sweet bird alone has given,
To wake his carol at the gate of heav'n;
Yet, 'midst the pride of his extatic strain,
His faithful breast recals the humble plain,
And sinking from the splendor of the skies,
He joyous to his little mansion flies;
'Lights with gay pinion on his low-built nest,
Where all his pleasures, all his wishes rest.
Say, does our code, too selfishly inclin'd,
Allow no absence of the length'ning kind?
Yes! long privations we are doom'd to bear,
And for our husbands shed the lonely tear;
While for our Country's cause they plough the main,
To crush the perfidy of France and Spain!
Allow no absence of the length'ning kind?
Yes! long privations we are doom'd to bear,
And for our husbands shed the lonely tear;
While for our Country's cause they plough the main,
To crush the perfidy of France and Spain!
83
When the rude voice of battle shall be mute,
And they return from Valour's proud pursuit;
The English wife a garland shall prepare,
Breathing the perfume of the summer air.
Unlike those high, too-fashionable bays,
Which husbands wear in our degenerate days;
But gay with roses and with heart's-ease join'd—
Those emblems of the pure, delighted mind.
And they return from Valour's proud pursuit;
The English wife a garland shall prepare,
Breathing the perfume of the summer air.
Unlike those high, too-fashionable bays,
Which husbands wear in our degenerate days;
But gay with roses and with heart's-ease join'd—
Those emblems of the pure, delighted mind.
84
On seeing some beautiful Lines WRITTEN BY THE Marchioness of Stafford,
On the Death of the late Marquis.
Thus falls the stately Oak, which long had stoodThe pride, the honour, of th' extensive wood:
While the majestic form impress'd the ground,
While the dark forest breath'd a murm'ring sound!
Aurora op'd the portal of the sky,
And view'd the ruin with a mournful eye:
Then spoke—“Oh! be thou still to memory dear,”
And on the branches dropt the embalming tear.
85
LINES ON LORD CASTLE-ROSS
Having obtained Two Prize Medals at the College of Old Hall Green, Hertfordshire.
Hail to the youth! who round his honour'd name
Entwines the blushing wreath of early fame;
Who, urging onward in his first career,
Gives like the spring an earnest of the year!
Entwines the blushing wreath of early fame;
Who, urging onward in his first career,
Gives like the spring an earnest of the year!
Hail to the school, whose bright instructive ray
Pours on the opening mind a flood of day;
Whose precepts each subliming thought impart,
Refine, exalt, and dignify the heart:
Where Science, Virtue, Loyalty, reside,
To form each youth his Country's future pride.
Pours on the opening mind a flood of day;
Whose precepts each subliming thought impart,
Refine, exalt, and dignify the heart:
Where Science, Virtue, Loyalty, reside,
To form each youth his Country's future pride.
86
TO Mrs. M***,
On the Recovery of her Voice.
Hark! the lost accents touch the gladden'd ear,The voice of candour, and of mirth I hear:
Words that delight without the aid of art,
And to each breast a secret charm impart.
From darkness thus returns Aurora's ray,
Diffusing light, and all the world is gay.
87
LINES Addressed to the Horse of the Right Honourable Lady Cawdor.
Proud of thy charge, O rare distinguish'd steed!Pursue thy easy way with quick'ning speed:
Yet still observant of the prompting rein,
That guides thy airy movement o'er the plain.
Should'st thou with one false step betray thy trust,
Grace, wit, and beauty, would be laid in dust.
88
TO THE COUNT DE VERLAC,
On his Translation of the Poem, “THE FUNERAL OF ARABERT.”
Hail to the Bard! who o'er my humble theme
Hath shed a warm irradiating beam,
Who on my muse from forth his mental store,
Breathes many a grace she could not boast before.
Hath shed a warm irradiating beam,
Who on my muse from forth his mental store,
Breathes many a grace she could not boast before.
Th' ingrafted tree thus lifts her cheerful head,
And waves her branches with new honours spread:
Proud of her foliage, proud of fruit unknown,
Of fragrance, tints, and colors scarce her own.
And waves her branches with new honours spread:
Proud of her foliage, proud of fruit unknown,
Of fragrance, tints, and colors scarce her own.
89
ON THE PORTRAIT of Mrs. JERNINGHAM, BY HOPNER.
Here Art with Nature, fearful to offend,Asks only to appear as Nature's friend;
To show to Time, when Nature's gifts decay,
Th' excelling Beauty of the present day.
90
WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.
O flow'r of Chivalry! O valour's stay!O miracle of England's earlier day!
By pleasing awe, and holy musing led,
A Bard now visits thy sepulchral bed.
Ah! not the torrent of thy bright career,
Nor close thy victories and honours here:
When her red bolts Destruction's arm shall wield,
And Time to dread Eternity shall yield!
Thou from the little slumber of the tomb
Shalt start—renew'd in youth's and beauty's bloom;
And with thy virtues warring on thy side,
Sublimely borne on Air's ascending tide,
'Midst men, 'midst angels, to thy triumph giv'n,
Shall burst the radiant gates, and conquer heav'n.
91
To MISS B****Y, On her Return from Italy.
Tho' Wit's bright sun your sportful thoughts display,And on your converse darts a dazzling ray!
Yet still we praise your magic's softer pow'r,
When easy friendship smooths the social hour;
When o'er another's pain dispensing balm,
You round your bower diffuse a heart-felt calm!
Thus in your summer mind at once are seen,
Italia's sky, and Albion's soothing green.
92
LINES Addressed to the Muse.
Tell me, thou dear celestial Maid!To whom I have long homage paid,
What attribute shall I bestow,
What praises from these lips shall flow?
To hail, salute, adorn, and greet
The mistress of a proud retreat,
Where Honour of the ancient school,
Maintains its unsuspended rule;
Where Virtue wont so pure to run
Thro' many an age, from sire to son
93
THE ANSWER.
“Say not, her blushing smile to raise,
“She's Wisdom's child—'Tis vulgar praise:
“Nor say, that various talents spread
“A triple wreath around her head.
“She's Wisdom's child—'Tis vulgar praise:
“Nor say, that various talents spread
“A triple wreath around her head.
“Call Fancy to pourtray the fair,
“And Truth, to check her hand, be there:
“Now bid the limner Fancy trace,
“With pencil light, each mental grace:
“Behold! she decks the task enjoin'd,
“And paints the features of the mind!
“Delighted on the cheek to throw
“Unalter'd friendship's warmest glow;
“To form acute the list'ning ear,
“Affliction's distant sigh to hear.
“Now, as destroying half she plann'd,
“See! Fancy, with obscuring hand,
“Flings (as of too much praise afraid)
“O'er many a moral charm a shade:
“The limner, now more bold and free,
“Displays an emblematic key,
“Whose whisp'ring mysteries reveal,
“The pow'r thro' every heart to steal.”
“And Truth, to check her hand, be there:
“Now bid the limner Fancy trace,
“With pencil light, each mental grace:
“Behold! she decks the task enjoin'd,
“And paints the features of the mind!
“Delighted on the cheek to throw
“Unalter'd friendship's warmest glow;
“To form acute the list'ning ear,
“Affliction's distant sigh to hear.
94
“See! Fancy, with obscuring hand,
“Flings (as of too much praise afraid)
“O'er many a moral charm a shade:
“The limner, now more bold and free,
“Displays an emblematic key,
“Whose whisp'ring mysteries reveal,
“The pow'r thro' every heart to steal.”
95
LINES ON “THE BAVIAD:”
AND “THE PURSUITS OF LITERATURE.”
96
“That falls out often, Madam, that he that thinks himself
a master wit, is a master fool.”
BEN JONSON'S SILENT WOMAN.
97
'Tis said, that when of late the Gallic Host
With spreading sails approach'd the Cambrian coast,
An ardent Welchman—at the sight impress'd—
Swore, stamp'd, and fum'd; by rage and fear possess'd:
As nearer still advanc'd the hostile train,
Resistless fury fir'd the Welchman's brain;
And now each day he haunts the pebbly strand
The self-appointed guardian of the land:
Does any vessel his wild vision meet,
The maniac loud exclaims “The fleet! The fleet!”
With spreading sails approach'd the Cambrian coast,
An ardent Welchman—at the sight impress'd—
Swore, stamp'd, and fum'd; by rage and fear possess'd:
As nearer still advanc'd the hostile train,
Resistless fury fir'd the Welchman's brain;
98
The self-appointed guardian of the land:
Does any vessel his wild vision meet,
The maniac loud exclaims “The fleet! The fleet!”
Thus, like our Taffy, acts the Baviad Muse!
Who, with fell rage, the Cruscan Tribe pursues;
Yet to degrade all other Bards he pants,
Frets, bounces, bullies, rages, rhymes, and rants!
Does any Poet wound his jealous eyes,
The maniac “Crusca, Della Crusca!” cries.
Oft have I seen, light-tossing on the main,
A small bark, steering to Apollo's fane;
Whose pilot rear'd no meretricious sail,
To play and wanton with the flutt'ring gale:
No gold-wing'd Cupids hover'd o'er the prow,
To welcome Venus rising from below:
This undeck'd galley, innocent of pride,
Pursu'd her voyage thro' the swelling tide:
That first, that last, that only safe resource—
To Nature trusting for a happy course!
Yet then, impatient of this humble prize,
The rhyming maniac “Della Crusca!” cries.
Who, with fell rage, the Cruscan Tribe pursues;
Yet to degrade all other Bards he pants,
Frets, bounces, bullies, rages, rhymes, and rants!
Does any Poet wound his jealous eyes,
The maniac “Crusca, Della Crusca!” cries.
Oft have I seen, light-tossing on the main,
A small bark, steering to Apollo's fane;
Whose pilot rear'd no meretricious sail,
To play and wanton with the flutt'ring gale:
No gold-wing'd Cupids hover'd o'er the prow,
To welcome Venus rising from below:
This undeck'd galley, innocent of pride,
Pursu'd her voyage thro' the swelling tide:
99
To Nature trusting for a happy course!
Yet then, impatient of this humble prize,
The rhyming maniac “Della Crusca!” cries.
Say, shall this mock high priest of Censure's band
Presume to fling his Vetos o'er the land?
Did Nature call him to her holy fane?
Or Genius, with infusing hand, ordain?
Say,—does th' inspiring spirit of the sky,
Vaticination, swell his pregnant eye?
No prophet's mantle, flutt'ring thro' the air,
Fell on our Cynic as th' appointed heir:
But he inherits, from some kindred mind,
A short rough jerkin of the drugget kind.
Presume to fling his Vetos o'er the land?
Did Nature call him to her holy fane?
Or Genius, with infusing hand, ordain?
Say,—does th' inspiring spirit of the sky,
Vaticination, swell his pregnant eye?
No prophet's mantle, flutt'ring thro' the air,
Fell on our Cynic as th' appointed heir:
But he inherits, from some kindred mind,
A short rough jerkin of the drugget kind.
At first, our author his great name withdrew,
Prudish and coy to meet the public view;
Suffus'd with blushes of the virgin bride,
With soft refusal, and with modest pride;
And sweet reluctant amorous delay
Prettily shrinking from the garish day:
Now the fond witling, eager for applause,
Tears with intrepid hand th' injurious gauze;
Bursts on the town, and bids the world admire
The matchless works of Billy Giffard, 'Squire.
Prudish and coy to meet the public view;
100
With soft refusal, and with modest pride;
And sweet reluctant amorous delay
Prettily shrinking from the garish day:
Now the fond witling, eager for applause,
Tears with intrepid hand th' injurious gauze;
Bursts on the town, and bids the world admire
The matchless works of Billy Giffard, 'Squire.
If each bold Village-Hampden may withstand
The little tyrant of his little land;
May not the Muse, with equal right, maintain
The long-earn'd honours of her small domain?
Ye great departed shades! who, when on earth,
Hail'd, with benign applause, the Muse's birth;
O Chesterfield! O Chatham's sacred sire!
O Gray! thou lord of the enchanting lyre!
Beneath your fost'ring praise, a lowly muse
Smil'd, like the flow'ret fed with heav'nly dews;
And shall this flow'ret perish in her noon,
Beneath the dull-ey'd peasant's clouted shoon?
The little tyrant of his little land;
May not the Muse, with equal right, maintain
The long-earn'd honours of her small domain?
Ye great departed shades! who, when on earth,
Hail'd, with benign applause, the Muse's birth;
O Chesterfield! O Chatham's sacred sire!
O Gray! thou lord of the enchanting lyre!
Beneath your fost'ring praise, a lowly muse
Smil'd, like the flow'ret fed with heav'nly dews;
110
Beneath the dull-ey'd peasant's clouted shoon?
When Churchill enter'd on the critic war,
With thunder clothing his loud-crushing car;
Tho' party-zeal inflam'd his iron heart,
And prejudice sharp pointed ev'ry dart;
With glowing thoughts, his mind profusely teem'd;
And, on his burnish'd armour, Genius beam'd:
Meanwhile, th' illumin'd spirit, from her throne
Beheld his course, and “mark'd him for her own.”
With thunder clothing his loud-crushing car;
Tho' party-zeal inflam'd his iron heart,
And prejudice sharp pointed ev'ry dart;
With glowing thoughts, his mind profusely teem'd;
And, on his burnish'd armour, Genius beam'd:
Meanwhile, th' illumin'd spirit, from her throne
Beheld his course, and “mark'd him for her own.”
But no such honours our defamer grace—
The low-bred snarler of the mongrel race!
Ah! may no muse, whom Nature bids aspire,
Shrink, when this cens'rer boils with jaundic'd ire.
This vaticide! whom Truth and Taste discard:
This growling Zoilus! this male Poissarde!
Image of Sycobax, constrained to stoop,
By Envy's pang distorted to a hoop!
The low-bred snarler of the mongrel race!
Ah! may no muse, whom Nature bids aspire,
Shrink, when this cens'rer boils with jaundic'd ire.
This vaticide! whom Truth and Taste discard:
This growling Zoilus! this male Poissarde!
102
By Envy's pang distorted to a hoop!
Ah! may the heav'n-born Muse, still unappall'd,
Her hymns prepare in Virtue's choir install'd;
With honest pride her rightful claim assert,
And rise aloft, disdaining critic dirt.
—Thus the fair Lote-tree, in Egyptian clime,
Lifts her gay head above th' unhallow'd slime;
While, hovering o'er her form, th' inspiring pow'r
Breathes on her leaves, and wakens every flow'r!
Her hymns prepare in Virtue's choir install'd;
With honest pride her rightful claim assert,
And rise aloft, disdaining critic dirt.
—Thus the fair Lote-tree, in Egyptian clime,
Lifts her gay head above th' unhallow'd slime;
While, hovering o'er her form, th' inspiring pow'r
Breathes on her leaves, and wakens every flow'r!
103
NOW from the Baviad Muse, we turn away,
And to the other Bard direct our lay:
Who, like Guy Faux, conceal'd within his cell,
Arm'd with a sulph'rous torch allum'd in hell;
Ardent to blow, with his destructive aim,
To airy nothing, many a splendid name;
And now exulting views, thro' Fancy's eye,
Cowls, Scarfs, Lawn-sleeves, and Mitres tost on high;
Critics and Playwrights, Poetesses fair,
Divines and Lawyers, sprawling in the air!
This gaudy vision that adorns his theme,
Is but the stuff that forms a turbid dream:
He wakes, but to lament his poor device;
And is himself the fool of Paradise.
And to the other Bard direct our lay:
Who, like Guy Faux, conceal'd within his cell,
Arm'd with a sulph'rous torch allum'd in hell;
Ardent to blow, with his destructive aim,
To airy nothing, many a splendid name;
And now exulting views, thro' Fancy's eye,
Cowls, Scarfs, Lawn-sleeves, and Mitres tost on high;
Critics and Playwrights, Poetesses fair,
Divines and Lawyers, sprawling in the air!
This gaudy vision that adorns his theme,
Is but the stuff that forms a turbid dream:
He wakes, but to lament his poor device;
And is himself the fool of Paradise.
Our active zealot, hast'ning to the field,
Grasps, with profaning hand, Faith's hallow'd shield.
Such half-fac'd champions the Great Cause disdains,
Who forge malignant Persecution's chains;
Within whose bosom, cold as Alpine snow,
No heav'n is kindled, and no seraphs glow!
Grasps, with profaning hand, Faith's hallow'd shield.
104
Who forge malignant Persecution's chains;
The principle of Toleration, that brilliant in the diadem of our ecclesiastical polity, this Protestant Capuchin would sully with his contaminating breath. This philosopher, at the close of the eighteenth century, wakes the old cracked trumpet of religious alarm. The man who has the folly to assert, that the existence of some unendowed nunneries among us will endanger the established church, may as well imagine a strong wall can be thrown down by a handful of flowers.
When the Hugonots fled for refuge to this Country after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, several pamphleteers, instigated by the same spirit which inflames this Gentleman, endeavoured to disturb the reception they met with from Government. Those advocates for persecution contended, that the Hugonots entertained principles hostile to monarchy; that their dismission from France was to be imputed equally to their political as to their religious opinions: but the wisdom of Government was as deaf to their remonstrances then, as the reigning Administration is now to the clamours of such short-sighted scribblers.
Within whose bosom, cold as Alpine snow,
No heav'n is kindled, and no seraphs glow!
Behold Religion, daughter of the sky!
Soft rays of mercy beaming from her eye!
With cautious steps she shuns the bruised reed,
And sooths the heart Misfortune dooms to bleed!
Our ruffian zealot stains her heav'nly face;
Blurs ev'ry feature, cancels ev'ry grace;
Rends from the brow of the immortal Fair
Her white-rose wreath, and stamps a blister there.
Soft rays of mercy beaming from her eye!
With cautious steps she shuns the bruised reed,
And sooths the heart Misfortune dooms to bleed!
Our ruffian zealot stains her heav'nly face;
Blurs ev'ry feature, cancels ev'ry grace;
Rends from the brow of the immortal Fair
Her white-rose wreath, and stamps a blister there.
The reverend victims of Tyrannic sway
Crowd to our coast, and breathe our milder day:
An injur'd, firm, disinterested band,
Whose hallow'd footsteps sanctify our land;
On these meek martyrs of the general cause,
(Tho' haply rul'd by less enlighten'd laws)
Our holy Vandal, with resistless pow'r,
Wou'd the full storm of fierce Destruction show'r;
Yes, he would rouse Intol'rance from her sleep,
And from the saving breast of England sweep
The noblest images of God below;
Men plung'd, for Virtue's sake, in deepest woe:
But Britain scorns the persecutor's pray'r,
And his wild war-whoop scatters into air.
Crowd to our coast, and breathe our milder day:
An injur'd, firm, disinterested band,
Whose hallow'd footsteps sanctify our land;
105
(Tho' haply rul'd by less enlighten'd laws)
Our holy Vandal, with resistless pow'r,
Wou'd the full storm of fierce Destruction show'r;
Yes, he would rouse Intol'rance from her sleep,
And from the saving breast of England sweep
The noblest images of God below;
Men plung'd, for Virtue's sake, in deepest woe:
But Britain scorns the persecutor's pray'r,
And his wild war-whoop scatters into air.
As the kind Father of the human race,
Whose awful Wisdom in each path we trace,
Some soft prevailing antidote bestows
On ev'ry weed and noxious herb that grows!
So of infuriate men to check the force
Of their mad schemes, to stay th' intemperate course,
He in his mercy gave a King, whose breast
Glows and expands to innocence distress'd;
With Ministers of high enlighten'd mind,
Friends of the weak, and lovers of mankind:
And gave fam'd Oxford, whose religious hand
Extends her tribute to the suffering band.
Whose awful Wisdom in each path we trace,
Some soft prevailing antidote bestows
On ev'ry weed and noxious herb that grows!
So of infuriate men to check the force
Of their mad schemes, to stay th' intemperate course,
He in his mercy gave a King, whose breast
Glows and expands to innocence distress'd;
106
Friends of the weak, and lovers of mankind:
And gave fam'd Oxford, whose religious hand
Extends her tribute to the suffering band.
The University of Oxford, with a liberality and an expansion of sentiment that cannot be sufficiently applauded, presented to each of the French Clergy a New Testament in Latin. The book was printed in conformity to the text approved of by Urban the Eighth. This is a circumstance peculiarly delicate: it enhances the donation, and breathes, as it were, the perfume of mental charity.
See the fierce zealot, with unhallow'd rage,
Profane the shrine of our departed Sage:
That shrine, where Memory her vigil keeps!
Where Patience murmurs, and Affection weeps!
Where Friendship with an heart-felt homage bends!
Where Grief (the nation's delegate) attends!
—“Endow'd with all that Nature's pow'rs dispense,
(She cries aloud) “Thou Jove of Eloquence!
“Whose arm omnipotent, by Virtue strung,
“The daring thunderbolts of Genius flung:
“Thou Day-spring, from whence flow'd a radiant gleam,
“While democratic darkness curs'd the beam!
“Resplendent Moralist! what Honour plann'd,
“Thy warning voice diffus'd around the land:
“On thee my fond regret shall ever dwell;
“O Guardian!—Champion!—Friend!—farewell, farewell!”
Profane the shrine of our departed Sage:
The same hypocritical veil I mentioned before is made use of, with regard to Mr. Burke: under the appearance of commendation, this writer insinuates the odium he wishes to cast on that eminent personage. He approves, in a note, of the pension that was given him; which he condemns, in the Poem, as offered with a view to a bribe—
“Who calm'd the terror of Burke's claws in gold!”A little before this country had the misfortune to lose that great man, this critic expressed a wish that Mr. Burke would put an end to his literary labours, though it was universally acknowledged that the same vivid genius flamed on his later effusions which glowed in his earlier productions.
That shrine, where Memory her vigil keeps!
Where Patience murmurs, and Affection weeps!
Where Friendship with an heart-felt homage bends!
Where Grief (the nation's delegate) attends!
—“Endow'd with all that Nature's pow'rs dispense,
(She cries aloud) “Thou Jove of Eloquence!
“Whose arm omnipotent, by Virtue strung,
“The daring thunderbolts of Genius flung:
“Thou Day-spring, from whence flow'd a radiant gleam,
“While democratic darkness curs'd the beam!
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“Thy warning voice diffus'd around the land:
“On thee my fond regret shall ever dwell;
“O Guardian!—Champion!—Friend!—farewell, farewell!”
Is, then, this Cerberus at the gates of Fame,
Accurs'd and void of ev'ry honest claim?
Tho' weak to reach the awful depth on high,
And with th' undaunted eagle cleave the sky:
On the bright God of Day unblenching gaze,
Kindling his vision at the noon-tide blaze!
Yet, would he but observe (intent to please)
How Nature marries Elegance and Ease:
(For oft along his path, devoid of grace,
The splay-foot of Vulgarity we trace:)
Would he apply, ere he prepares to hit,
The patient chisel to his cumb'rous wit:
Would he, with Truth's keen-glittering sun-beam, pierce
The film of prejudice that clouds his verse!
Himself subdue! his own familiar thwart,
And tear the foul fiend Rancour from his heart:
He might become a heav'n-commission'd sage,
To mark our errors and instruct the age.
Accurs'd and void of ev'ry honest claim?
Tho' weak to reach the awful depth on high,
And with th' undaunted eagle cleave the sky:
On the bright God of Day unblenching gaze,
Kindling his vision at the noon-tide blaze!
Yet, would he but observe (intent to please)
How Nature marries Elegance and Ease:
(For oft along his path, devoid of grace,
The splay-foot of Vulgarity we trace:)
Would he apply, ere he prepares to hit,
The patient chisel to his cumb'rous wit:
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The film of prejudice that clouds his verse!
Himself subdue! his own familiar thwart,
And tear the foul fiend Rancour from his heart:
He might become a heav'n-commission'd sage,
To mark our errors and instruct the age.
So the grim rock, that hides his baneful form
Beneath the swelling of the ocean storm;
When Time, that sways the world, shall interfere,
And bid the waves pursue a new career;
—That baneful rock his lurking mansion leaves,
Full to the view a pond'rous mountain heaves:
And now, no more the mariner's dismay,
Befriends his course, and points the safer way.
Beneath the swelling of the ocean storm;
When Time, that sways the world, shall interfere,
And bid the waves pursue a new career;
—That baneful rock his lurking mansion leaves,
Full to the view a pond'rous mountain heaves:
And now, no more the mariner's dismay,
Befriends his course, and points the safer way.
No allusion has been made in the preceding Lines to the Translation of Juvenal, by the Author of the Baviad, because I have not read the Translation, and was deterred from the perusal of it, by the very learned, ingenious, and keen strictures inserted in the Critical Review; to which strictures the Author attempted a reply, and in a long, tedious, prolix pamphlet, laboriously endeavoured to vindicate his Translation,
“And wrote about it Goddess, and about it.”The Dunciad.
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LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. DUFF.
To this sad grave no common grief invites,
No stale display of sanctimonious rites;
Domestic virtues here, a drooping band,
Around the hallow'd spot despairing stand:
And here their lov'd departed mistress mourn,
From the fond youth of her affection torn:
Torn from gay life's short scene, in morning's bloom,
To feed the jaws of the relentless tomb.
No stale display of sanctimonious rites;
Domestic virtues here, a drooping band,
Around the hallow'd spot despairing stand:
And here their lov'd departed mistress mourn,
From the fond youth of her affection torn:
Torn from gay life's short scene, in morning's bloom,
To feed the jaws of the relentless tomb.
Ah! when she fell beneath Death's tyrant pow'r,
The polish'd world then lost its beauteous flow'r:
In whose blest frame were happily combin'd,
The feeling bosom, and th' illumin'd mind:
A spirit finely touch'd by Nature's hand,
Prompt to perform when Virtue gave command;
Prompt on Affliction's wound to pour relief,
And bind the bleeding artery of Grief.
The polish'd world then lost its beauteous flow'r:
In whose blest frame were happily combin'd,
The feeling bosom, and th' illumin'd mind:
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Prompt to perform when Virtue gave command;
Prompt on Affliction's wound to pour relief,
And bind the bleeding artery of Grief.
Friendship exclaim'd, while bursting tears ran o'er,
‘My prime, my stedfast favourite, is no more.’
Affection, to the bosom still more dear,
Shrunk at th' event, and dropt her warmest tear;
Religion rais'd her sacred hand on high!
And said—‘see Innocence ascend the sky!’
‘My prime, my stedfast favourite, is no more.’
Affection, to the bosom still more dear,
Shrunk at th' event, and dropt her warmest tear;
Religion rais'd her sacred hand on high!
And said—‘see Innocence ascend the sky!’
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ON THE DEATH OF Mr. PITT.
O matchless Eloquence, with Wisdom join'd!O splendid Honor of the human mind!
O sun-like Orb, which cheer'd the public eye!
At thy extinction, Nature heav'd a sigh;
She met thy birth with gifts unknown before,
And o'er thy soul diffus'd a lavish store:
Yet then those gifts from others to withhold,
With jealous hand she crush'd the heav'nly mould.
FINIS.
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