Poems and Plays by Mr. Jerningham. In Four Volumes ... The Ninth Edition |
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PEACE, IGNOMINY, AND DESTRUCTION:
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 | Poems and Plays |  |
PEACE, IGNOMINY, AND DESTRUCTION:
A POEM.
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!
(His weak memorial sicklied o'er with fear,)
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.
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,
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?
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!
Some sign that might my failing hopes sustain;
Some sacred altar, rob'd in spotless white,
Where candour's priest performs the genial rite;
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,
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.
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!
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;
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.
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:
To send a glance to time's unfolding sky,
Where Pity weaves the amaranthine chain
To circle lovers ne'er to part again.
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!
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;
Insulted nature and dethron'd the mind.
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.
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!
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.
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.
A form gigantic, and of sable hue;
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.”
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.
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
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.
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;
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!
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.” | Poems and Plays | |