The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop

... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare

Bishop, Samuel (1731-1795)

VOL. I.

VERSES ON OCCASIONAL SUBJECTS.

II.

VOL. II.

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I. VOL. I.

His Verse still lives; his Sentiment still warms;
His Lyre still warbles; and his Wit still charms.
Vol. i. p. 104.

ODES.

ODE I. ON THE KING's MARRIAGE.

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

I

Soft rose the gales, ordain'd to bear
To Albion's coast the chosen Fair,
Her Monarch's future Bride;
When, lo! the Nymph, that loves to dwell
Deep in the pearl-enamell'd cell,
Where Albis' waters glide,
High o'er the wave appear'd, and strung
Her coral lyre, and thus she sung:

II

“Go, share the glory of a Throne,
“Where Virtues, worthy of thine own,
“Congenial lustre shed:
“Go, share the transports of a breast,
“Whose cares shall give the Nations rest,
“And raise th' afflicted head:
“Shall burst th' incroaching tyrant's chain,
“And bid Ambition rage in vain.

III

“Obedient to the lot assign'd,
“Thy country gives thee to mankind,
“And turns her raptur'd eye
“(Prophetic of thy future claim)
“To every dearer, nobler name,
“To every stronger tie,
“When grateful Nations shall contend
“To hail thee, Mother, Queen, and Friend.

IV

“Just to a Patriot's generous cares,
“Indulgent to a Kingdom's prayers,
“Heaven's happiest influence shone;
“Each glory Victory's wreath bestows,
“Each radiance that from Virtue flows,
“At once adorn'd the Throne:
“The Brave, the Good, the Just, approv'd,
“And Freedom prais'd, because she lov'd.

V

“Thou, when domestic scenes of joy
“His dearer, tenderer cares employ,
“Shalt seize the favouring hour:
“Thoughts, which thy softness will suggest,
“Shall charm at once, and raise his breast,
“And Love give Virtue power:
“Some added Wreath his brow shall bind;
“Some added Good enrich mankind.

VI

“Then shall he bless thy kind concern,
“Gladly to Love and Thee return,
“And own his toils repaid;
“Shall own that Heaven for him prepar'd
“The noblest toils, the best reward;
“And trace from Thee convey'd,
“To every age, on Britain's Throne,
“Desert and Glory, like his own.”

ODE II. TO THE QUEEN ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

WRITTEN 1764.

I

From all the bliss a Queen can feel,
When a whole grateful Nation pays
(Ardent in duty, bold in zeal)
The annual tribute of it's praise,

II

The Royal Dame a moment stole—
Laid down the wreaths her people wrought,
And, wrapt in sweet suspence of soul,
Indulged a Mother's tenderest thought.

III

Where, sooth'd by Slumber's lenient hand,
Two Boys, her infant offspring lay,
Intent she took her silent stand;
And gave each rising passion way.

IV

By turns Complacence smooth'd her brow,
And Care all-anxious flush'd her cheek;
Now glow'd Remembrance; Fondness now
Inspir'd what utterance could not speak.

V

Oft Fancy prompted by concern,
To urge an half-form'd tear began;
And Hope, that made her bosom burn,
Finish'd the pearl, and down it ran.

VI

While thus she stood, and look'd, and lov'd,
And fonder still, and happier grew,
(For every look her love improv'd,
And love still sweeten'd every view,)

VII

Unseen the Cherubs hover'd near,
Whom Fate to guard her sons ordain'd;
They mark'd each joy she felt, each tear,
And thus alternate speech maintain'd:

VIII

“See” (said the Heav'n-born Form, whose care
Britannia's elder hope employ'd)
“What thoughts the Parent's bosom share,
“While Majesty is unenjoy'd.

IX

“Yet know, O Queen! 'tis but begun
“The strong sensation thou must prove;
“Each year, that waits its course to run,
“Will bring new ecstasy of love.

X

“How will the soul, that scarce sustains
“Ev'n now the dear employ to trace
“Features, where silent beauty reigns,
“Mere infant innocence and grace!

XI

“How will it throb, beneath th' excess,
“The pangs, the agony of bliss,
“When from those lips soft sounds shall press
“To greet another day like this!

XII

“How will the blood, thro' every vein
“Run thrilling to the Mother's heart;
“When she shall see her Boy maintain,
“In the Boy's sport, the Prince's part!

XIII

“How will her bosom pant, to read
“In every part some likeness caught;
“Some semblance of his Father's deed,
“Some copy of his Mother's thought!

XIV

“What will she say, when Reason's voice
“Calls the young powers of action forth,
“Prompts him to choose; and founds his choice
“On plans of dignity and worth!

XV

“How will she dread each vice she sees,
“Each gay temptation Courts display,
“The charms of pleasure, grandeur, ease,
“The snares that glitter to betray!

XVI

“What bliss will intercept her fear,
“Whene'er she sees her Hero rise,
“Tender to act, yet still severe
“To scorn, what virtue should despise!

XVII

“What genial warmth will raise her mind,
“When any purpose seems to say,
“He knows what service to mankind
“The Great must owe, the Good must pay!

XVIII

“When Echo dwells upon his name,
“And gives it to the nations round,
“How will her heart enjoy th' acclaim,
“And beat and spring to every sound!”

XIX

So said th' angelic Spirit; and ceas'd:—
And thus his Fellow-guardian cry'd:
“By all these joys, and all increas'd,
“The Mother's fondness must be try'd.

XX

“While forward, thro' each coming year,
“Maternal care her eyes shall cast,
“My younger Boy, that slumbers near,
“Will give her back again the past:

XXI

“Will show her every charm renew'd,
“Each native charm his Brother bore;
“Or with peculiar pow'rs endu'd,
“Awake a joy unfelt before.

XXII

“That while the hopes her First-born gave
“Are crown'd by every future deed;
“Her equal love may see as brave,
“As dear a progeny succeed.”

XXIII

Scarce had he spoke, when shouts and song
Claim'd in the Queen her Britain's part;
She heard—and tow'rd th' applauding throng
Turn'd all the fullness of her heart.

ODE III. ON CLASSIC DISCIPLINE.

I

Down the steep abrupt of hills
Furious foams the head-long Tide;
Thro' the mead the Rivulet trills,
Swelling slow in gentle pride.
Ruin vast, and dread dismay,
Mark the clamorous Cataract's way;
Glad increase, and bloom benign
Round the Streamlet's margin shine.

II

Youth! with stedfast eye peruse
Scenes, to lesson thee display'd!
Yes,—in these the moral Muse
Bids thee know thyself portray'd!
Thou may'st rush with headstrong force,
Wasteful like the Torrent's course;
Or resemble Rills that flow,
Blest and blessing, as they go!

III

Infant sense to all our kind,
Pure the young ideas brings;
From within the fountain mind,
Issuing at a thousand springs.
Who shall make the current stray
Smooth along the destin'd way?
Who shall, as it runs, refine?
Who?—but Classic Discipline!

IV

She, whatever fond desire,
Stubborn deed, or ruder speech,
Inexperience might inspire,
Or absurd indulgence teach,
Timely cautious shall restrain;
Bidding childhood own the rein:
She with Sport shall Labour mix;
She, excursive Fancy fix.

V

Prime support of learned lore,
Perseverance joins her train;
Pages oft turn'd o'er and o'er,
Turning o'er and o'er again!
Giving, in due forms of school,
Sound, Significance, Utterance, Rule:
While the stores of Memory grow,
Great, tho' gradual; sure, tho' slow.

VI

Patient Care, by just degrees,
Word and Image learns to class;
Couples those; discriminates these,
As in strict review they pass:
Joins, as varying features strike,
Apt to apt; and like to like:
Till in meet array advance
Concord, Method, Elegance!

VII

Time meanwhile, from day to day,
Fixes deeper Virtue's root;
Whence, in long succession gay,
Blossoms many a lively fruit:
Meek Obedience, following still,
Frank and glad, a wiser will!
Modest Candour, hearing prone,
Every judgment—save it's own!

VIII

Emulation! whose keen eye,
Forward still, and forward strains;
Nothing ever deeming high,
Where a higher hope remains!
Shame ingenuous, native, free,
Source of manly dignity!
Zeal, impartial to pursue
Right and just, and good and true!

IX

These, and every kindred Grace,
More and more perfection gain;
While Attention loves to trace
Grave Record, or lofty Strain;
Noting, how in Virtue's pride
Sages liv'd; and Heroes died!
Conscious, how in Virtue's cause,
Genius gave, and claim'd applause!

X

Thus with early culture blest,
Thus to early toil inur'd,
Infancy's expanding breast
Glows with Sense and Powers matur'd;
Whence if future efforts raise
Moral, social, civil praise;
Thine is all th' Effect—be thine
The Glory—Classic Discipline!

ODE IV. ON ELOQUENCE.

1

Auspicious influence marks th' important hour,
When conscious sympathy owns th' august controul,
Which, strong to triumph in Persuasion's power,
Alarms, arrests, impels, commands the soul.
Accordant Passions recognise it's sway;
Convinced, applaud it; or subdued, obey;
The vocal Magic quells them, as they rise;
It calls, and Reason hears; it blames, and Folly dies.

2

'Twas thus of old the Man of Athens spoke,
When valour languish'd at the crush it fear'd;
While Philip form'd for Greece th' opprobrious yoke;
Now lull'd, now brav'd, the Spirit once rever'd:
“Awake,” he cry'd, “repel the Intruder's blow!
“Distrust the subtle, meet the daring Foe!
“'Tis sloth, not Philip, that disarms your rage;
“Success will crown the war, which Honour's champions wage.”

3

Silent, awhile, the crowd attend,
Thro' gradual energies ascend,
From Shame to Hope, Revenge, Disdain:
They blush, reflect, resolve, unite;
Defy the attack; demand the fight;
And spurn th' insulting Traitor's chain:
Their throbbing breasts exalted impulse show;
And all their Sires in all their bosoms glow!

1

Yet not to rouse alone th' emasculate mind,
Or nerve the warrior's arm, does Speech display
Resistless rule:—all-various, unconfin'd,
It brings the soft sensations into day;
It gives the meliorated heart to feel
New joy from pity, and from joy new zeal;
Smooths the stern Front, which hard Resentments strain,
And bends tumultuous Will to Candour's mild domain.

2

Such was the bland effect, when Cæsar's ear
To Tully's plea devout attention gave;
And check'd, in Indignation's mid career,
The World's Proprietor stood th' Orator's slave:
“I show thee, Cæsar,” said the Sage, “I show
“A Prize, no Conquest ever could bestow:
“Thyself must give it to thyself alone,—
“'Tis Mercy's hallow'd Palm!—O make it all thine own!”

3

The mighty Master of mankind,
Lur'd by the potent spell, resign'd
Each purpose of severer thought;
Forgot the wrongs, the toils he bore;
Indulged vindictive Wrath, no more;
And was, whatever Tully taught:
When Tully urg'd the convict Suppliant's prayer,
'Twas Pride to assent; 'twas Luxury to spare!

1

Britain! for thee, each emulous Muse has wrought
Some votive Wreath, some Trophy of Renown;
Some Meed of Excellence, Sons of thine have caught,
Where'er Exertion strove for Merit's Crown:
Where then more aptly can the Power divine
Of Classic Speech with genuine vigour shine,
Than where the Virtues live, whose genial fire
Could Rights like thine assert, and Laws like thine inspire?

2

Methinks I see a land of Patriots rise
Sublime in native Eloquence! around
Th' astonish'd Nations fix their eager eyes;
And wonder, while they tremble at the sound.
They learn what labours fill the Hero's life,
What stedfast dignity, what generous strife!
What efforts best adorn him, and improve,
Justice, and bold Emprize, Benignity, and Love!

3

Rival of Deeds in annals old,
By Greek and Roman Genius told,
O justify another claim!
With all their splendid Praise in view,
Preserve their manly Eloquence too,
To grace thy more illustrious Name!
The long records of British Glory swell
With Worth, which only British Tongues can tell!

ODE V. ON DAY.

I.

Thron'd in Empyreal Glory's blaze,
Th' Omnipotent call'd forth a living Ray:
“Go speed,” he said, “thy flight benign!
“And where I draw Creation's line,
“Be thou the Torch of Day!”

II.

Proud of so high behest
Thro' God's august abode,
The obedient Beam a Sun confest,
In Orbed Splendor rode.

Upward her eye impregnate Nature cast,
And hail'd the warm Effulgence as it past:
Life glow'd more vigorous, Beauty shone more gay:
The Power, whose blest decree
Bade Life and Beauty be,
To crown all Life and Beauty gave the Day.

III.

Across the wilds, amidst the groves,
Mark where the feather'd Nation roves!
While eager Vision scarce pursues
Th' eternal change of glittering hues!
Yet vain those glittering hues, and vain
Must that eternal change remain,
Till Day, profuse of Light, illume
Each shadowy tint, and flash on every plume.

IV.

Lo where the Eagle cuts his way,
Towering athwart th' immense of sky!
No bounds his daring pinion stay;
No radiance dims his ardent eye.
Him heavenly Wisdom form'd of old,
Excess of spirit to disclose;
And taught his stedfast course to hold,
Where Day's concentrate Lustre rose.

V.

Thus he through trackless heights unwearied soars.
Glad Day meanwhile salutes the flowery train,
Where sweets exhale from thousand, thousand pores;
And lavish Vegetation clothes the plain.
Nor scorn his chearing fervors to expand
The faithful marigold's recovering bloom;
Whose closing buds a mournful progeny stand,
While eve's chill shades their sullen reign assume.

VI.

Busy din assails mine ears!
Hurried echoes round me play!
'Tis War's rude voice! her banner'd Pomp she rears,
Insolent to flaunt it in the face of Day!
Commerce! rear thy banners too!
Raise thy shout of Civic Glee!
Day will rejoice thy trophied March to view,
That blazons Patriot Reign and peaceful Polity.

VII.

Health, O Day! exults to greet thee!
Lusty Strength springs forth to meet thee!
Enterprise is fond to use thee!
Hope, midst gathering gloom, renews thee!
Science! Genius! love to trace thee,
Grac'd by thee! and skill'd to grace thee!

VIII.

At heedless ease in thy prolific Heat,
The tawny native of more Torrid Lands
Basks him luxurious:—while beneath his feet
His rampant crop, an unsought harvest stands.
To Temperate Climes vicissitude like thine
Alternate profit and delight supplies!
Care rests from toil, secure, at thy decline:
Rest plans new toils, secure to see thee rise!
Ev'n on his rock of everlasting Frost
The hard inhabitant of Greenland's shore
Buys thy brief stay, at twofold winter's cost,
And but resigns thee, to enjoy thee more!

ODE VI.

[_]

[Spoken in the Public Examination Room (called the Chapel) at Merchant-Taylors' School, erected on the site of The Manor of the Rose, a House belonging to the Duke of Buckingham in the time of Henry VIII.]

I. 1.

'Tis near three ages, since on England's Throne
Her Henry, born a suffering Land to save,
Himself a Royal Merchant-Taylor shone,
And shar'd the charter'd Name, which first he gave;
Took honour from the honours he decreed,
And rank'd a Freeman, with the Men he freed.

I. 2.

Then, on this spot, in Gothic Grandeur proud,
Her tower'd battlements a Pile could boast,
Where festive pomp receiv'd a Noble crowd,
And princely Buckingham was lord and host.
High rose the vaulted aisles, with banners gay;
Loud echo'd thro' the halls the minstrel's lay.

I. 3.

From many a window's arched height,
Transparent blazon gleam'd it's light;
Where counsel sage, and bold emprize
Inspir'd the valiant and the wise;
Or pageant masque, and revel frank,
Brought courtly dames in choral rank,
A glow of beauty to disclose,
Worthy th' illustrious roof, the Manor of the Rose.

II. 1.

Those triumphs past, another period here,
Of varied praise, but equal fame begun;
In Learning's cause a Civic Train appear:
From breast to breast the generous feelings run:
While Time a new record of glory reads;
And Classic Palm to Splendor's Plume succeeds.

II. 2.

To softer notes their lyres the Muses strung;
Right glad their suffrage, and their part to bear;
And where at Power's command of old they sung,
At Bounty's call indulged a gentler care;
Intent with truth to arm, with arts to grace,
With virtues to exalt, the rising race.

II. 3.

Soon conscious of expanding hope,
Munificence took larger scope;
Soon Isis on her verdant side,
Beheld with honourable pride,

An added group, rich culture share,
And in long series flourish fair;
Transplanted to her sweet repose,
From this scholastic spot, this Manor of the Rose.

III. 1.

'Tis Fate's peculiar charge, 'tis hallow'd ground,
Where'er Philanthropy delights to dwell:
Hence owners, like your Sires, the Mansion found;
Hence to such guardians as Yourselves, it fell.
They gave mankind what they devolv'd to You;
Your emulous zeal gives their desert it's due.

III. 2.

O! happiest omen of increasing weal!
O! firmest basis of eternal date!
When the same Dome can to the world appeal,
As salutary now, as once 'twas great:
Then, Residence august of state supreme!
Now, Public Expectation's favourite theme!

III. 3.

Still, Commerce, thy domain extend!
Reign studious Emulation's friend!—
Still, studious Emulation, twine
Some votive wreath, for friends like thine;
And when, from age to age, Renown
Transmits each bloom of Genius down,
Let her announce, that There it grows,
Where her first chaplets deck'd the Manor of the Rose!

ODE VII. ON INSTRUMENTS OF MUSIC.

IRREGULAR.

I.

Where health and high spirits awaken the morn,
And dash thro' the dews, that impearl the rough thorn,
To shouts and to cries
Shrill Echo replies;
While the Horn prompts the shout, and the shout greets the Horn.

II.

Loud across the upland ground,
Sweetly mellowing down the vale,
The changeful Bells ring jocund round,
Where Joy bestrides the gale;
Herald eager to proclaim
The Lover's bliss, or Hero's fame.

III.

Shall the Fiddle's sprightly strain,
In Pleasure's realms our feet detain,
Where Youth and Beauty in the dance
Borrow new charms from Elegance?

IV.

Or shall we stray,
Where stately thro' the public way,
Amidst the Trumpet's clangors and th' acclaim
Of civic zeal, in long procession move
Nobles and Chiefs of venerable fame;
Or haply Sovereign Majesty displays
To public view the lustre of its rays,
And proves at once, and wins, a Nation's love.

V.

Hark! how the solemn Organ calls
Attention's sober ears to hallow'd walls;

Where meek, yet warm, beneath the Temple's shade
Devotion seeks with stedfast eyes
The God, whose Glories every gloom pervade,
To whom for ever prayer is made,
And daily praises rise!

VI.

What notes in swiftest cadence running,
Thro' many a maze of varied measure,
Mingled by the master's cunning,
Give th' alarm to festive pleasure?
Cambria! 'twas thus thy Harps of old,
Each gallant heart's recess explor'd;
Announcing Feats of Chieftains bold,
To grace the hospitable board.

VII.

Mark how the Soldier's eye
Looks proud defiance! How his heart beats high

With glorious expectation! What inspires—
What fans his martial fires?
What but the power of Sound?
The clamorous Drums his anxious ardour raise,
His blood flows quicker round;
At once he hears, he feels, enjoys, obeys.

VIII.

Where gath'ring storms incessant lower,
And nigard Nature chills th' abortive grain;
From her bleak heights see Scotland pour
Blithe Lads and Lasses trim; an hardy train,
Down the crag, and o'er the lea,
Following still with hearty glee
The Bagpipes mellow minstrelsy.

IX.

Where cloudless suns with glowing dies
Tinge Italy's serener skies,

Soft, the winding lawns along,
The Lover's Lute complains;
While ling'ring Echo learns the song,
Gives it the woods, and loth to lose
One accent of th' impassion'd Muse,
Bids woods return it to the plains.

X.

Time was when, stretch'd beneath the beechen shade,
The simple Shepherd warbled his sweet lay;
Lur'd to his rustic Reed the gentle maid,
Welcom'd the morn, and caroll'd down the day.
Why do our Swains depart from ancient lore?
Why sounds no Past'ral Reed on Britain's shore?
—The Innocence, which tuned it, is no more!

ODE VIII. TO THE EARL OF LINCOLN, ON THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE's RETIREMENT.

WRITTEN IN 1762.

I

“Fly, fly from Life's too busy scene,
“To calm Repose, and joys serene,”
The pert declaimer cries:—
'Twas once, perhaps, at school his theme;
'Tis still the substance of each dream,
That fond conceit supplies:—

II

—‘Ah! vainly to the Sylvan seat,
‘To quiet, solitude, retreat,
‘Rash, restless passions lead,
‘There still the fickle heart will know
‘Some real want, or fancied woe;
‘There still the guilty bleed.’

III

To worthless Age, and thoughtless Youth,
The Muse directs this solemn truth:—
The Muse whose cheerful lay
Hails a Newcastle to the shade,
To bliss, whose solid base was laid
In Glory's early day.

IV

Whate'er the glow of anxious Zeal
For universal joy and weal,
To sweeten sense can give;
Whate'er Remembrance, cheerful, clear,
Can paint, improve, adorn, endear,
Where'er He lives, will live.

V

The good his youthful labours gain'd,
The toils his growing age sustain'd,
The praise a Nation owes,
Some generous strife, some glorious prise,
Will still to view successive rise,
And sanctify repose.

VI

Such joy, O Lincoln, Heaven prepares,
Such joy, the produce of such cares,
Awaits Newcastle's rest:
The liberal Heart, and ready Hand,
That dealt their Blessings round the Land,
Should in their turn be blest.

VII

Retirement is but new employ;
Where Virtue will again enjoy
The deeds she wrought before:
Tho' Time, on every moment's wing,
Some wreath of Pelham's Glory bring,
'Twill ne'er exhaust the store.

VIII

Perhaps, to sooth the pains of age,
That happy period will engage
His retrospective view;
When Brunswick hasted to approve,
And ever with the Sovereign's Love
The Statesman's Merit grew.

IX

Or haply, while his foot shall stray
Along the solitary way,
Fair Memory will recall
The hour when Learning's sacred voice
Hail'd him, her friend, her guide, her choice;
Her hope, her boast, her all.

X

Nor yet less glad will pass the day,
While pleas'd Reflection shall survey
Each dart, that Malice aim'd,
When Faction led forth all her train,
And still the rude, and weak, and vain
Enjoy'd the Work they blam'd.

XI

Then will the heart, that never thought
A People's Good too dearly bought,
Rejoice o'er all it gave;
Compare the purchase with the cost;
Nor think the noble Bounty lost,
That flow'd, profuse to save.

XII

Blest in himself and all around,
With every Palm of Virtue crown'd,
Thro' Pleasure sweet, sincere,
The Sage will walk to Life's decline,
And bid the past and present join,
To make the future dear.

HYMN ON THE SPRING.

While Nature, full of milder grace,
Expects the glad return of Spring;
Already see the feather'd race
Chaunt jocund on exulting wing!

The rising flowers, the budding trees,
Each airy songster's notes inspire,
Nor shall my Muse forget with these
To join the universal Choir.

Hail! Parent! God! Creator! hail!
Rich fount of life, of sense, of joy!
Thy praise, 'till this weak tongue shall fail,
For ever shall this tongue employ.

When morn dispels the shades of night,
I trace thee thro' the livelong day;
When eve succeeds retiring light,
Thy Name still animates my lay.

While taught by thy unerring skill,
Successive seasons intervene,
Earth all-obedient hears thy will,
And spreads the vegetable scene.

Thy sun, the herald of thy praise,
Fills with new life the pregnant plains,
Pours on each spot the vital rays;
Bids each be born; and born, sustains.

The brood, that crowds the wat'ry space,
The rapid streams, and trickling rills,
The insect troops, the reptile race,
The cattle on a thousand hills,

All, all confess thy tender care,
And thine Almighty Power proclaim;
Thro' earth and sea, and trackless air,
The voice of Nature is the same.

The bright assembled worlds on high,
Roll constant thro' the liquid space,
With sparkling glories gild the sky,
Where thy great hand describes their race.

The dew-bent clouds, for Thee, their Lord,
Distill the gentle kindly show'r;
Or, ready to fulfil thy word,
The fierce impetuous torrent pour.

Restrain'd by thee, the fanning gales
The thick wood's waving surface sweep,
Or, loos'd, rush head-long thro' the vales,
And plow the hoarse-resounding deep.

At thy command, in silent flakes
Congeal'd descends the fleecy snow;
Vast ice incrusts the stagnate lakes;
And streams arrested, cease to flow.

By thy Almighty Nod enlarg'd,
The awful thunder shakes the skies;
And thro' the cleft expanse discharg'd,
Sudden the forked lightning flies.

“See this, thou madly stubborn mind,
“Whom wilful error leads astray;
“Whose eye to fair experience blind,
“Amidst the circling blaze of day,

“Can see no Providence Divine,
“The wise, the wond'rous plan advance;
“No Pow'r supreme thro' Nature shine;
“No world but this; no God but chance.

“Put off the mean, the fatal pride,
“Which turns thy foot from truth's plain road,
“And own a God alone supplied
“The very pow'r to doubt a God.

“From Him, th' exhaustless source of good,
“Thy parts, thine active spirits flow;
“Thro' His kind aid is understood
“All art can teach, all man can know.

“And art thou still perversely wrong?
“Thy rash resolves can nothing move?
“Not all th' amazing proofs that throng,
“Within, around thee, and above!

“Persist! but know the day will come,
“(Besure 'twill come;—perhaps 'tis near!)
“When thou, beneath conviction dumb,
“Confus'd and conscious shalt appear:

“When thou with shame, remorse, and tears,
“Shalt open thine unwilling eyes;
“Shalt feel the truth, thy folly sneers;
“Shalt try the Pow'r, thy pride denies!”

Exalted then to perfect bliss,
O'er worlds of joy the good shall rove;
Who sought those happier worlds in this,
Thro' faith, integrity, and love.

Transporting thought!—“O God! thy grace,
“As onward dazzled reason goes,
“Bright and more bright it's beam displays;
“More glorious scenes of wonder shows!”

In vain, my Muse, thy hand essays
To tune the faintly-sounding shell;
Leave to Eternity the praise,
Which scarce Eternity can tell.

THE MAN OF TASTE:

A POEM.

[_]

IN IMITATION OF MILTON.

Hence! Phantom! weak, and vain,
Fashion! of Indolence and Folly born!
Nurs'd by Conceit and Scorn!
And cradled in the wild, distemper'd brain!
Go! Hoyden, as thou art,
A full-grown Baby! skittish! prone to range!
Chang'd, evermore to change!
Find out some high tower's pinnacle! and watch
The shifting vane to catch,
That veers with every blast, to every part!

But come! thou sober Influence,
Whom Genius bore of old to Sense!
Taste, thy Name!—Beneath a shade,
By arched oaks, embowering, made,
Sense his stand, deep-musing, took;
With fixed foot, and stedfast look,
Nature's handy-work surveying;—
Where fruit and flower the meads arraying,
Lavish of hues, that might outvie
The many-tinged rainbow's die,
Show'd heavenly pencilling!—What time
Genius, the Wood-nymph, in her prime
Of bloom and spirit past along;
Light of heart; and frank of song;
Vagrant, on a fleet Zephyr's wing,
Plundering the magazines of Spring;
Vermil tints, and perfum'd air,
Gathering here; and scattering there!

Her the thought-rapt Being espied
Glancing comely by his side;
And, with sudden passion fir'd,
Follow'd still, as She retir'd:
Soon won, with ardent vows, her mind,
And in meet Espousal join'd,
In happiest hour the Bride embrac'd!
—Hence th' auspicious Birth of Taste!

Come! decent Nymph! in ample vest;
Of seemly-suited colours drest!
Come thou, Taste! and bring with thee,
The Maiden, meek Simplicity!
Come! and give mine eye to stray,
Where thou deignest to display
Thy dœdal pow'r, such grace to teach,
As Nature loves, but cannot reach!

Let us oft our visit pay,
(In the pure matin prime of day,

E'er the high sun hath drank the dews,)
To where the Poet courts the Muse!
Him, I mean, who bows the knee,
In homage still submiss to Thee!
Whom thy steady rule hath taught
To form the Plan, and point the Thought;
To Passion all it's voice to give;
And bid the warm Description live!
Him, who ne'er in evil hour,
Mistaking strong desire for pow'r,
Couples ideas, vague and rude,
Match'd, without similitude!
Where, wedg'd in heterogeneous rank,
Tall Metaphors each other flank;
And seem in such confusion set,
As if they wonder'd how they met:
Or under an huge pile of Phrase,
Which idly-grouped Figures raise

With blank and alien Epithets,
The dull drudge Affectation sweats!

Nor let my foot the spot forbear,
Where Judgment takes the critic chair;
Commanding at her side to stand,
Candor, and Spirit, hand in hand;
Bidding mine eye some canvas trace,
Where the bold Outline's soft'ned grace,
Expression rich, and chaste Design,
With delicate Neglect combine;
Till rapt attention, fairly caught,
Fill me with all the Painter's thought!

Haply, some rising Dome shall claim
My glad observance; where the Dame
Propriety, throughout presiding,
Plan, Measure, Execution, guiding,
Blends neat Convenience with Expence,
Proportion with Magnificence:

While Attic Elegance and Ease
Help Roman Grandeur more to please;
And Roman Grandeur doth advance
The Attic Ease and Elegance!
My soul, meanwhile, with rapture ranging
O'er parts in aptest order changing,
Sees every Art of every Coast
Become my Country's gradual boast.

Or if domestic objects wake
Mine inclination; let me take
Beside the Family Hearth, my stand,
Where, Good-nature, blithe and bland,
Calls, with more than magic force,
Every Grace and Joy of course;
Speeding the buxom hours along,
With converse sweet, free jest, prompt song;
Teaching each excellence to find
The inmost bosom, where inshrin'd

Sits chaste Decorum; holding still
In bands of silk the truant Will;
While Mirth and Virtue walk at ease;
Prone to be pleas'd; and glad to please.

Sometime, wand'ring, let me meet,
Seldom found, the blissful Seat,
Where Discretion, mildly sage,
Watches o'er the rising age;
Warning still the parent's care
To snatch from Folly's gripe, his heir;
Lessoning the virgin ears of youth
In that most glorious science—Truth—
Truth of Thought;—due praise to give!
Truth of Heart;—to act and live!
Or training for the public scene,
The social consciousness serene;
Which founds (un-dup'd by popular names)
On general duties, private claims;

And general claims, where'er they rise,
By private duty's standard tries:
Convinc'd that, in dominion's scale
Whatever civil plans prevail,
The Almighty word, which form'd this ball,
Made Man for Man; and All for All.

Taste!—if with me thou deign to dwell,
Let signs like these, thy influence tell;
Mode, Whim, Expence, and awkward Pain,
Usurp thy semblance, all in vain;
Invention, with Proportion join'd,
Ardor corrected, Strength refin'd,
Announce (in spite of crude pretence)
The Child of Genius and of Sense!

THE PREACHER:

A POEM IN BLANK VERSE.

[_]

IN IMITATION OF MILTON.

Seraph of Truth! (Thou who to Imlah's son,
Micaiah, Seer of the Most High, didst shew
The lying spirit, from the Throne of God
Sent forth, to lure with language of fair hope
Ahab, death-doom'd, to Ramoth,) Oh! vouchsafe
A moment of thy lustre to mine eye,
Else dark; and guide me, inexpert and weak,
Thro' argument, to mortal phantasie
Inscrutable, save with Cœlestial Aid.

Arduous the task to fix the wilful mind
Of heedless Man! and lead intelligence
To it's prime source, the One Great Infinite,
The First, Supreme, Essential Excellence,
Glory of Glories! Majesty of Might!—
—Blest Contemplation! could the Preacher dwell
For ever on that theme!—But ah! too soon
Justice amidst th' eternal attributes
Lifts her stern front; and to reflection's glance
Unfolds a crimson Register: the Heart
Conscious recoils; and owns the dreadful record
A transcript of itself.—Where now, vile Man!
Where, Sinner! where, Pollution! is thy refuge?
The Power, the Wisdom,—and whate'er thou saw'st
In Him, the Almighty—saw'st rejoicing—now
But serves to arm with tenfold energy
Affronted Vengeance!—And th' Empyreal Brightness,
(Brightness to pure Angelic Spirits) to Thee

Gleams kindling Terrors of Omnipotence,
And flaming shafts of Wrath inevitable.

Yet e'er thou sink beneath th' incumbent weight
Of Guilt, and of Dismay, attend once more
The Preacher's call—Raise, thou appall'd, thy face
Again tow'rd Heaven's high Throne; look up; and see
Incarnate Deity, the Word, the Life,
The Word of Life, the Life of Righteousness,
The very consubstantial Son of God,
Become thy Advocate, thy Expiation,
Thy Health, thy Stay, thy Heritage for ever!

Oh! glorious Tidings! Oh supreme delight
To give these tidings to Mankind!
To point Redemption out! to pour the balm
Of Peace and Comfort on Despair! to lead
Repentant sense to Faith; and Faith to Purity,
And Purity to Zeal, and Zeal to Virtue,
And Virtue to the Christian's high pre-eminence,
His essence, his perfection—Charity!

Such purpose, so important, dignifies
The Preacher's occupation:—ill discharg'd
When Pride assumes the veil of Sanctity,
Administring thro' spiritual dominion
To lordly empire o'er the lives of men,
Such as in Rome, or farthest Paraguay,
Pontiff or Jesuit, by threats or wiles,
Bull, Relique, Legend, Sophism, Sword, or Fire,
Establish'd.—Nor doth he dishonour less
His hallow'd Calling, who for Doctrines gives
Interpretation, private, personal,
Fantastic, or unfruitful; changing thus
The Image of the Sole Immutable,
To likeness of mere Man.—Nor he, who, fir'd
By worldly objects, lucre, or th' acclaim
Of shallow multitudes, makes holy Truth
Delusion's instrument.—Nor he, who pines
Envious of excellence, and low'rs gaunt scorn,
If chance a brother's merit rise to view.

Far other signs, far other principles
Mark the true Preacher; mark his life, his judgment,
His eloquence, his converse, his affections.
Meekness, Complacence, gentle Sympathy,
Cheerful Concession, manly Perseverance,
The Dignity of Truth, the Condescension
Of ever-during Patience, and sweet Candour,
The Wish, the warm Solicitude to spread
Good-will, improvement, amity, joy, confidence,
Salvation,—these inspire him—these exalt
His thought, act, speech.—Thou also, Virgin-born
Saviour of Men! Thou also giv'st thy Spirit
To him, whom thou approvest.—Him, whose zeal
Describes Thee, as Thou art; Author and Finisher
Of Faith, Obedience, peaceful Modesty,
And Love uncircumscribed;—who, most resembling,
But teaches mortals to resemble thee
By Holiness on earth;—that, made hereafter

Immortal like thyself, they may partake
Thy purchas'd Kingdom; purchas'd by the pains
Of suffering Godhead;—and around thy seat
Clad with ethereal Radiance, resound
Thy triumphs—Sin abolish'd, Death destroy'd,
The Just made perfect, and thy Faithful-ones
Thron'd in Beatitude for Evermore!

THE FAIRY BENISON;

AN INTERLUDE.

[_]

[Designed to have been performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden, on the first night when the Prince of Wales should be present.]

WRITTEN IN 1766.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

OBERON.
PUCK.
TITANIA.
Chorus of Fairies.

SCENE I.

Enter Puck.

Thorough blast, and thorough dew,
Over field, and over town,
Along yon Crescent's glimpse I flew,
And here the Moon-beam sets me down.
By great Titania's strict command
I stole from out the Fairy-land;
“Go, Puck,” she cry'd, “Go; fly; pervade
“Cloud-curtained eve's unfolding shade,
“And wheresoe'er thou shalt espy
“The Flower of earthly Royalty,

“A Prince, the Hope of Worlds, between
“A Briton King, and German Queen,
“Say, I, Titania, bade thee there
“My warmest gratulations bear:
“Then with a thought return again,
“Ere Oberon miss thee from his train.”

A Prince, the Hope of Worlds, between
A Briton King, and German Queen,
These must I seek; till these I find,
Fleet on swift wings, and leave the breeze behind.

[Going off, he sees the King, Queen, Prince, &c. and after a pause proceeds.]

Mists! that mortal eyeballs dim;
Forms! in fluid air that swim;
Vanish from before my view!
—Ha! the glorious Vision's true!
They are the Father! Mother! Son!
—Now my part will soon be done.

[Flourish of Trumpets.]

O spight! these sounds our King's approach proclaim;
If Puck is caught, Titania bears the blame.

SCENE II.

Flat opens, and discovers Oberon and Titania descending from Fairy Land.
OBERON.
See, there, my Love, the young and princely Bud,
Whose blossoming fair Freedom doats upon! [Sees Puck.]

Hah! Puck! what makes he here?—Titania,
I fear me much, thy too officious haste
Hath play'd me false: Thou didst not send that Sprite?

TITANIA.
In sooth, my Lord, I did.

OBERON.
It was a deed,
That shames the doer.—What?—Our several laws

Ev'n like our private and connubial loves,
Made for this Prince, but one incorporate fondness;
Our present speeding held one common scope,
To greet him with our earliest. Knowing this,
Why hath Titania from her Oberon
Pilfer'd the vantage of a little hour,
So beggaring our joint purpose?—Was this well?
Indeed it was not well.

TITANIA.
Why! Wherein ill, my Lord?
True, I did share your counsels; did approve
Your coming; and with gust as high as yours,
Dwell on yon splendid scene, that to mine eyes
Presents the royal Youth, and throned Pair,
Whose fortunes and whose honors hold my love
In equal poize with yours:—Yet, Oberon,
Whene'er you urg'd me to this welcome journey,
Your talk ne'er promis'd other Benison,

Save what comports with manhood—Conscious Dignity
Of Soul; and Glory, that laborious Virtue
Must win by sufferance, and preserve by toils,
Severe as those which earn'd it: these you call'd
Imperial Distinctions: these, you said,
Must give the Son a semblance of his Father:
These dictated your destin'd gratulation.

OBERON.
So Kings should wish for those who shall be Kings.

TITANIA.
So Kings should wish!—And therein Oberon
Doth wish as should a King.—But why must Oberon
Square to his single and particular thought
The sum and standard of all princely blessedness?
—So Kings should wish! Have Queens no wishes then?
Aye—but great Oberon saith, our several cares
For this same Prince, like our connubial loves,
Made one incorporate fondness.—Be it so—

Then should our cares be voiced severally,
Like our own loves, united, but distinct.
So grow their loves, whose Son hath brought us hither.
I grant he is a boy, a manly one:
I grant he hath a Father, whom to imitate
Will ask a strain of Spirit and Benevolence,
Expectance ne'er could warrant, till the fact
Pronounc'd it possible.—What then?—Doth that
Annul my claim and proper privilege?
Hath not the boy a Mother? Yes.—And I,
A female as I am, have fram'd a wish,
May lure a mother's ear, as soon, perhaps,
As aught that scornful Oberon hath prepar'd,
Elbowing all humbler emulation.
To bear that wish I sent the very Sprite,
Whose presence moves thee so.

OBERON.
Alas! thou rash one!
Thine ill-advised cunning, like a shaft
Drawn by an eager and unpractis'd hand,
Hath over-past it's aim.—Now hear me, Lady.
Thou dost remember, when, upon a time,
We read together in the fairy court
The sacred book of mortal destiny.
There did I find th' eternal mandate written,
Which said a German fair, this very Queen,
A virgin princess then, should share and grace
The bed and sceptre of a British King,
Just new to manhood, tho' right well advanc'd
In kingly properties.—Thou dost not heed me!

TITANIA.
Most faithfully, my Lord.

OBERON.
Observing this
(For that thou knowest what part in our regard
Doth Britain's Court possess) I sped me straight
(Fraught with such fairy gifts, as best might fit
A damsel of her state, odours and charms,
That our still vagrant Elves in earth or air,
From flowers and dews extract) ev'n to the court
Where dwelt this chosen dame, and future Queen.
There, when I came, expecting to have found
A Lady busied in such tricks of fancy,
As young and blithesome beauties do delight in;
Mark me, Titania, I did see a maid,
A very maid, pleading the cause of Nations,
Expostulating with a Sovereign warrior,
To save a ravag'd country.—Canst thou think

An heart so early great, so exquisitely,
Tho' in a woman, will accept or heed,
In favour of her son, her eldest hope,
Thy gossip's talk, thy sugar'd lullaby,
Thy wish, that suits a common mother's ear?
Away! Away!

TITANIA.
'Tis well, my haughty Monarch.
Is Oberon then to learn, that the best hearts,
The most aspiring, and the bravest, cherish
Most comprehensive feelings? Little minds
Do judge of great things, like the purblind gnat,
That deems a fly, a monster. Nobler natures
Encompass universal circumstance:
And while they can create their own enjoyment,
Find pleasing occupation every where.
The maid, that had a sigh for public sorrows,
Was happy, seeking to relieve those sorrows;

And being now a mother, will indulge,
Ev'n tho' a gossip's lullaby excite it,
A mother's ecstasy.—You, Sir, have seen her
Pleading the cause of nations.—I too, Sir,
I too have seen her; I have seen her wear
The robe of Majesty; yet never so,
But that she might descend to ease and sweetness,
All royalty preserv'd. We both have listen'd,
When midst the courtly bands, like one enraptur'd,
She hath enrich'd the gales with heaven-taught harmony:
Yet dwelt such mildness on her brow the while,
Such meek complacence, as did seem to say,
She could have own'd a pleasure in approving
A milk-maid's madrigal!—We both have seen
Her consort Lord, amidst the cares of millions,
Their homage, their applause, yearn to release
A death-doom'd felon's forfeit!—surely then,

Where regal bosoms bear so bland affections,
Titania's talk as well may hope access,
As Oberon's benediction look for welcome.

OBERON.
No more, Titania:—Our contention
Doth trifle with occasion.—Thou, my Queen,
Shalt add thy wish to mine; and let our Train
In general chorus, to the passing winds,
Impart our high behests; that Elves and Fays,
Thro' all the airy regions Oberon sways,
May pay due reverence, where their Sovereign pays.

SONG with Chorus.
OBERON.
Truth! who dar'st that Light to try,
Whose splendor mocks the eagle's eye;
Honour! whose unchanging rays,
Do foil the Diamond's stedfast blaze;
Teach the Prince to earn the fame,
That sanctifies a Monarch's claim!

TITANIA.
Sweet Content! that lov'st to rest
Pillow'd on the Cygnet's breast;
Innocence! whose maiden care
Doth bleach for spring the snow-drop fair;
Smooth his way thro' all the pains,
A Monarch for Mankind sustains!

OBERON.
Justice! who with dreadful pride
Athwart the Thunder-shaft dost glide;
Mercy! whose soft dew doth glow
Serene in Heav'n's high-tinged Bow;
Teach the Prince to earn the fame,
That crowns his Briton Father's claim!

TITANIA.
Rose-hu'd Health! whose tresses shed
The fragrance lusty Morn hath spread;
Playful Mirth! that oft dost ride
Upon the Lambkin's fleece astride;

Smooth his way thro' all the pains,
His Father for Mankind sustains!

OBERON.
Virtue! to reward his cares,
Let every Palm his Father wears,
At once inspire him and adorn!

TITANIA.
Love! for him with all the store
Of virgin Charms his Mother bore,
Bedeck some Princess yet unborn!

GENERAL CHORUS.
Union! Plenty! Joy! and Peace!
With his growing Years increase!
Glory! Gratitude! and Praise!
Bless him thro' the length of Days!

THE FAIRY BENISON;

AN INTERLUDE.

[_]

[The Author intending this Interlude for representation, had begun to make such alterations, as his friends judged necessary, to adapt it for Music and Stage Effect; but abandoned his design, before it was completed. The first scene, which is all that was finished, the Editor conceives will be not thought unworthy of a place in these Volumes.]

SCENE I.

PUCK.

Fast by the extremest glimpse that streams
From yonder Crescent's quiv'ring beams,
Immerst in vapour, blast, and dew,
I've kept our Fairy troops in view:

Along the moonlight gleam they tend;
And here their destin'd course must end.

What can it mean? From eve to morn,
E'er since a certain Prince was born,
Indignant rage, that glows and swells,
On Oberon's fixed eyelid dwells:
Titania's cheek doth still appear
Impearled with an angry tear:
And ever as they meet, their ire
Sets the whole Fairy-Court on fire.

When storms in royal bosoms rise,
We courtiers are all ears and eyes:
Yet this event has foil'd my skill;
I should know more on't—and I will.

SONG.

I

When maids the new dawn of soft passion disown,
I perch on their lips, till I catch them alone;
Then, whip to their hearts in a moment I fly;
For I sink with a sob, and return with a sigh.

II

Should I who the soul of a woman can read,
Let a secret escape me, 'twere pity indeed:
Let my betters beware, how they hint what they think;
For I pass with a nod, and come back with a wink.

[Aërial Music.]

Hark! these sounds proclaim them near:—
Puck, 'tis time thou disappear:
Shrink thy soft dimensions up,
To fit the acorn's scanty cup;

In shrivel'd rind or wither'd bloom,
Occupy the grey moth's room;
Or the inmate worm expel,
From curled leaf, or scooped shell;
Find thou place, and form, and size,
To cheat fell Oberon's piercing eyes.

[Retires.]

(Cætera desunt.)

VERSES ON OCCASIONAL SUBJECTS.

[_]

[Spoken at Merchant-Taylors' School, on the Days of Public Examination.]

THE GAME OF CRICKET.

Peace, and her Arts, we sing: Her genial power
Can give the breast to pant, the thought to tower;
Tho' guiltless, not inglorious souls inspires;
And boasts less savage, not less noble fires.

Such is her sway, when Cricket calls her train,
The sons of labour to th' accustom'd plain:
With all the Hero's passion and desire
They swell, they glow, they envy, and admire:
Despair and resolution reign by turns;
Suspense torments; and emulation burns.

See in due rank dispos'd, intent they stand
In act to start!—The eye, the foot, the hand,

All active, eager, seem'd conjoin'd in one;
Tho' fix'd, yet moving; and while present, gone.

In ancient combat, from the Parthian steed,
Not more unerring flew the barbed reed,
Than flies the ball, with varied vigour play'd;
Now levell'd, whizzing o'er the springing blade,
Now toss'd, to rise more fatal from the ground,
Exact and faithful to the destin'd bound.

Yet vain it's speed, yet vain the Bowler's aim,
The wary Bat's-man watches o'er the Game;
Before his stroke the leathern circle flies;
Now wheels oblique, now mounting threats the skies.

Nor yet less vain the wary Bat's-man's blow,
If intercepted by the circling foe;
Too soon the nimble arm retorts the ball,
Or ready fingers catch it in it's fall:
Thus various art, with various fortune strives;
And with each changing chance, the sport revives.

Emblem of many-colour'd Life!—The state,
By Cricket laws, discriminates the great:
The Outer Side, who power and profits want,
Watch to surprise, and labour to surplant;
While those, who taste the sweets of present winnings,
Contend as heartily, to keep their Innings.
—On either side the whole great Game is play'd;
Untried no shift is left; unsought no aid;
Skill vies with skill; and power opposes power;
While squint-ey'd Prejudice computes the score.

In private Life, like single-handed players
We get less notches; but we meet less cares;
Full many an effort (which perhaps at court,
Would fix the doubtful issue of the sport)
Wide of the mark, or impotent to rise,
Ruins the rash, and disappoints the wise.

Yet all in public and in private, strive
To keep the ball of action still alive;
And, just to all, when each his ground has run,
Death tips the wicket,—and the Game is done.

DRUNKENNESS.

Bacchum in remotis carmina rupibus
Vidi docentem ------
------ et aures
Capripedum Satyrorum acutas.
Hor.

On lonely rocks, where Satyr Forms retire,
(So sings the Master of the Roman Lyre,)
Mad Bacchus holds his court; and boasts to spread
Wild boisterous joy, and intermitting dread.

From this short hint (my theme inspir'd the thought)
With eager wish the classic scene I sought:

100

The Muse indulgent on my purpose smil'd;
Join'd her kind hand to mine, and introduced her child.

High o'er a subject crew, that throng'd around,
In rudely regal state the God we found:
The subject crew a servile homage pay,
And bear with pride the symptoms of his sway;
The full round face, the rich falernian dye,
The doubtful feature, and th' exhausted eye.

The mystic rites begun,—“Behold a bowl,”
The Tyrant cried, “of strength to raise the soul;
“To fill, to warm, to cherish every part;
“To prompt the noble deed, and open all the heart.”

The crowd accept the gift.—Awhile they seem
To quaff new vigor from the quick'ning stream:
And still at every round, as each prefer'd,
Health, love, or friendship, was the given word:
Nor wanted aught of jest or mirthful glee,
Or jocund song, or frolic revelry.

101

But oh! how short the bliss! th' enchanting flood
Swells the strain'd veins, and boils along the blood:
Drown'd in ascending fumes, fair Sense retains
No more her influence; and Madness reigns;
Careless to save; irresolute to bear;
Rash to resolve; and insolent to dare.
In every face some fury passion glares;
Here mean distrust, with conscious baseness stares;
Here raves loud pride; there spiteful envy burns;
Here headlong joy to frantic riot turns:
And each due theme of praise, of hope, of care,
Is now distraction, and is now despair.

Quick from the mind, the subtle magic spreads
O'er all the vital frame, and every power recedes:
A mere dead weight of limbs, the feet in vain
Essay to raise, or raising to sustain;
Slow moves the tongue in many a broken sound;
And to the swimming eye each object floats around.

102

Soft sigh'd the gentle Muse; and thus addrest
Her wond'ring pupil,—“Deep within thy breast,
“O! deep, my son, this Spartan lesson store;—
“'Tis worth whole volumes of scholastic lore;
“Tho' youth intemperate give thy blood to glow,
“Tho' grief deject, tho' fortune overthrow,
“Know wine a doubtful good, a mischief sure,
“A real poison in a fancied cure,
“Which sense can never need, nor virtue can endure.”

103

THE LIBRARY.

Hail! Contemplation! grave, majestic Dame!
In thee, glad Science greets a Parent's name:
Thine is each art of speech, each rapturous strain:
The Graces lead, the Virtues fill thy train!

From all of evil, life or dreads, or knows,
It's real trifles, and it's fancied woes,
O! lead thy Votary! pensive, yet serene,
To some lone seat, thy favorite, hallow'd scene,
Where his calm breast may every power employ;
Feel self-born peace, and independent joy.

And see! the Library my steps invites;
Fraught with true profit, and with pure delights;

104

Calls to a feast, which elegance must love,
The man must relish, and the heart approve.

How awful is the Spot!—Each honour'd Name,
Each theme of modern praise, and early fame,
Bards, Statesmen, Sages, lov'd, rever'd, admir'd,
Whom Sense enlighten'd, and whom Glory fir'd,
Rise to my view, still sweet, still great, still bold,
Alive in power, and active as of old.

Yes! wasteful Time! here, here, thy rage is vain!
Away! fond Boaster!—Genius scorns thy reign.

The Poet here, whom generous transport rais'd,
Survives coeval with the worth he prais'd.
If Deeds exalted gave his breast to glow,
Or Pity bade him sympathize with Woe;
If sweetly soft he chose the Lover's part;
Or Truth to Satire urg'd his honest heart;
His Verse still lives, his Sentiment still warms,
His Lyre still warbles; and his Wit still charms.

105

Here by the past to form the rising age,
The grave Historian spreads his ample page;
Whose faithful care preserves the Hero's fame,
Or damns to infamy the Traitor's name;
Whose Records bid fair Virtue ever live;
And share immortal, in the life they give.

Here the firm Patriot, on whose winning tongue,
The snow-soft dews of mild Persuasion hung,
Who knew to lead, inspirit, and controul,
The ductile Passions; and usurp the Soul;
Still pleads, still rules; now lively, now severe;
Exalts the purpose; or commands the tear.

Here the firm friends of Science and of Man,
Who taught new Arts, or open'd Nature's Plan;
Who each improv'd, or drew from both combin'd,
Health to the Body, vigor to the Mind;
Who bade Mankind to nobler aims arise,
More good, more just, more happy, or more wise;

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Shine, deathless, as the bliss their toil procur'd;
While mem'ry pays the debt, desert ensur'd.

In such lov'd spot (if Fortune deign to smile)
Calm let me live, and every care beguile;
Hold converse with the Great of every time,
The Learn'd of every class, the Good of every clime!
There better still, as wiser grow; and there
('Tis just ambition, tho' 'tis hopeless prayer)
Still found, like them, on real worth my claim;
And catch their Merit, to partake their Fame.

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THE NURSERY.

From hopes and cares, whose serious influence leads
To more important thought, and graver deeds,
The Muse, (who seeks to lighten Life's sad load,
And strew with mingled flowers our dreary road,)
Calls you to pleasures, real, chaste, serene:—
O! spare a moment for so sweet a scene!
Calls you to trace with retrospective view,
The works your Childhood wrought, the joys it knew;
From simple breasts, when harmless passions broke;
When infant lispings, nature's language spoke;
When all the Soul unbiass'd, free, sincere,
Glow'd in each smile, and gush'd in every tear.

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See the dear spot, whose little bounds employ
The Girl's whole taste, the business of the Boy!
Her fluttering bosom, splendid trifles warm:
Each colour charms; and change renews the charm:
Mark with what ecstasy her ceaseless care
Distributes beauties here, adapts them there:
While mix'd a thousand times, a thousand ways,
Rich tinsel beams, and glassy diamonds blaze:
Embrios of future fashions, to engage
More serious studies in maturer age;
When equal cares, with equal power will reign,
Perhaps less innocent, perhaps more vain!

The Boy, meanwhile, whom other objects fire,
Fulfils in varied toils each new desire:
Now round and round the room with hasty strides,
On oaken steeds, a traveller he rides;
Laborious now, his strength to climb he tries,
To heights unknown solicitous to rise:

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Thron'd in a chair, looks down on things below,
A King in thought, in spirit, and in show.

Perhaps, if powers of different influence sway,
Mechanic works employ his busy day:
Then fondly anxious to secure an home,
He meditates intent the future dome;
Cards rear'd on cards, in gaudy rows ascend,
Till in a spire his little labours end.
But ah! how oft, ere that glad point he gain,
Will fickle fortune make those labours vain!
How oft mere accident his rage provoke,
To crush th' imperfect frame at one vindictive stroke!

Trifles like these, which breasts so pure employ,
'Tis joy to see, 'tis merit to enjoy!
Trifles like these, their purport if we scan,
Mark in the boy, the features of the man.

Watch then, ye Parents, with peculiar care,
What favorite toys engage the rising heir:

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Learn thence what Virtues, happier than the rest,
Will grace his temper most, or please it best;
On these your hopes, your schemes, your prospects raise;
By these instruct, and try; reprove, and praise:
These Sense will aid; these Reason will improve;
And what the Child has felt, the Man will love.

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THE LEADING-STRING.

Guide of my wayward steps, when young desire
Caught the first spark of Emulation's fire,
(Whose genial power, enkindling as it ran,
Rais'd Life, to Sense, to Reason, and to Man,)
Still, still my soul in memory's inmost cell,
Where images most dear, most sacred dwell,
With willing gratitude retains, reveres,
Thy faithful service to my weakest years!

Oft as my thoughts recall those early days,
Thy gentle aid demands my warmest praise;
By thee at once directed, and sustain'd,
Unhurt I rov'd, where countless dangers reign'd;

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Where else, each petty pebble had o'erthrown
An helpless wanderer, in a world unknown.

Beneath a thousand forms reflection shows
Combining perils, hardships, pains, and woes:
O! baneful influence, every moment spread
In varied terrors o'er an infant's head;
Whom still, alike unconscious, unalarm'd,
The plain invited, and the desert charm'd;
Whose heedless foot, with equal haste had trod
The fatal precipice, and flowery road:
Who fondly rash, no other object knew,
Than what each changing trifle set to view;
Tir'd of the present, fond of that which flies;
Still prone to fall, and impotent to rise.

Ev'n now I tremble at th' afflicting scene—
—Be firm my Soul!—What can this transport mean?
Hark! on mine ear some sound more awful breaks!
—'Tis no illusion!—'tis the Muse that speaks.

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“My son!” she says, “if thus, thine heart, aghast,
“Starts at the little snares thy childhood past,
“Think, think, what dangers wait thee now!—for know
“Thou art still an Infant, in a world of woe:
“Still in thy way, Vice, Vanity, Disgrace,
“Spread the broad net, that will obstruct thy race;
“Conceal the rock, that tempts with specious show
“Thy foot, to plunge thee in th' abyss below;
“Haste thee; prepare thee, for th' unequal strife,
“And take from me, the Leading-strings of Life.

“Be Virtue first thy care, thy wish, thine aim;
“Her rules thy standard, her applause thy fame:
“To her thy steps let fair Discretion lead;
“Let Truth inspire thy thought, and crown thy deed;
“Let sage Experience guide thy hand and voice;
“Be slow to choose; but constant in thy choice;
“To Mercy's dictates open all thy breast.—
“Be Good—and Heaven will teach thee to be Blest.”

114

THE CAT.

Let me beseech you, Sirs, forbear to blame—
I'm half afraid to tell my subject's name:
Men have aversions—some to this, some that;—
Does any body here dislike a Cat?—

—Pray let him speak, who hates the theme I try:
For not to mince the matter, so do I.
I've toil'd full sore for rhyme, and pump'd for sense:
One would not take such pains, to give offence.—
—Well, Gentlemen, be free;—condemn my part:—
I'll drop it for your sakes, with all my heart.
What! mute?—will no good creature take my hint?
—Then you must take my verse—that's all that's in't.

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Fain would I here relate the Honours won
By Wight of old ycleped Whittington;
How with his Cat, to distant lands he came;
And sav'd—from vermin—Realms without a name;
How London City thrice beneath his sway,
Confirm'd the presage of that happy day,
When echoing bells their greeting thus begun,
“Return, thrice Mayor! Return, O Whittington!”
—But themes like these, to loftier Bards belong;
Too weak my voice, too simple is my song:
If things of humbler import grace my lays,
Enough for me the burthen, and the praise.

Oft at the social hearth my soul has hung,
Intently anxious, on the matron's tongue,
Whose fertile fancy, by tradition led,
In every object, Fate's dark purpose read;
Much mystic lore of various use she knew;
Why coals seem coffins, and why flames burn blue.

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But ne'er did sign so firm belief procure
Not ev'n the winding-sheet was half so sure,
As when her Cat th' important omen gave;
Alike significant, if gay or grave.—
If with her tail Puss play'd, in frolic mood,
Herself pursuing, by herself pursu'd,
See! cry'd my Nurse, she bids for rain prepare;
A storm, besure, is gathering in the air:
If near the fire the kitten's back was found,
Frost was at hand, and snows hung hovering round:
Her paw prophetic, rais'd above her ear,
Foretold a visit, for some friend was near.

Nor did the Cat the Dame alone employ;
Her Cat had something to engage her Boy.
How has my bosom beat, when stolen aside,
By facts the truth of strange reports I tried;
Saw thro' deep night her eyes' relucent rays;
And taught her fur with lambent fires to blaze!

117

“Cease, Trifler, cease,” methinks I hear you say,
“From nursery legends, and from children's play:”—
—'Tis just reproof—I feel it, and obey.—

Yet let me tell you, vain as they appear,
These trifles pleas'd, when pleasure was sincere;
To joys, in age unknown, they rais'd the breast,
Form'd all it's cares, and bade those cares be blest.

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THE EYE.

To say what wond'rous skill, what happy care,
Taught the bold Eye the blaze of day to bear,
Thro' fluid space with piercing ken to pry,
To measure earth, and comprehend the sky,
Is but to tell, what every moment shows,
That Heaven no bounds in power or bounty knows,
All-mighty, when it works; All-good, when it bestows.

This homage paid, forgive the vagrant Muse
If for her theme, some lighter dress she choose;
And clothe in sportive Fancy's wanton guise,
More trivial thoughts, from humbler hints that rise.

When vulgar gentry gather to a crowd,
Some all-intent, some jostling, and all loud,

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You seek the cause, and wait for a reply;—
—'Tis ten to one they answer—“Axe my Eye.”
—You call this rude; but call it what you will;
Rude as it is, there's meaning in it still.

Clodius shall prove it:—Clodius looks you through,
Yet seems to look at every thing but you:
Is he insidious, mean, malignant, sly?
What says the vulgar maxim?—Ask his Eye.—

When pert Corinna darts from place to place,
Sinks with laborious ease, from grace to grace;
Or calls forth glance by glance, and charm by charm;
Does she design our bosoms to alarm?—
Does she conclude, that all who gaze, must die?—
Does pride inspire her purpose?—Ask her Eye.

When the great Scholar, slow, precise, and sour,
Mere human clock-work, speaks a word an hour;
Does his grave silence modesty imply?
Or is it scorn's dumb language?—Ask his Eye.

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The Flatterer swears, he lives upon your smile,
Calls himself yours, and make you his the while:—
Say, would you know, if what he speaks, he feels?—
—His Eye will tell you, what his heart conceals.

The Miser's Heir bedecks the funeral show,
With all the sad formalities of woe:
Behind the corpse himself a mourner creeps—
But is it grief, or is it joy—that weeps?
Consult his Eye;—and there it will appear,
What hopes, what pleasures,—swim in every tear.

'Twere endless work to prove, that thro' mankind,
The speaking Eye proclaims the secret mind:
Would you the Bad detect, the Good descry?
'Tis wise, 'tis virtuous toil:—examine—try—
Ask where you will—But never miss the Eye.

121

GLASS.

“What!—Glass?” methinks I hear you cry, “forbear—
“Take heed, young man; you handle brittle ware.”
—I thank you for your caution—but 'tis now too late;—
Glass is the word; and I must meet my fate.
Come what will come; at least the worst I know;
—And if I cut my fingers—be it so.

“Beauty's like Glass,” satiric bards have said:
“Credit's like Glass,” exclaims the man of trade:
“Life's Joys, all frail as Glass,” the Sage attacks:
“Like Glass,” say Wits, “a Courtier's Promise cracks.”
—But these allusions all on one side strike—
So many things like Glass! What is Glass like?

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—There, with your leave, I mean to rest my plan.—
And I say,—“Glass is like a worthy Man.”

When active flame with heat more subtle glows,
Dissolving Glass a radiant liquid flows:
So, when warm feelings touch the generous Heart,
It yields, relaxes, melts, in every part.

Glass runs consistent in the fiercest fire,
Soft, but cohesive; fluid, yet entire:
So honest Men, when human woes they weep,
Chang'd, not debas'd, one virtuous tenor keep.

Glass flies beneath th' incumbent hammer's stroke,
To glittering shivers in a moment broke;
Ev'n as the noble Mind, which force would tame,
Embraces ruin, to escape from shame.

Yet ductile Glass, by gentler methods wrought,
Assumes each semblance of the artist's thought;
Like Manly Breasts, that spurn oppressive sway,
But meet truth, reason, right, and sense, half-way.

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Glass, still respondent to the workman's care,
As every shape, can every colour bear:
Ev'n so good Men, in every turn of fate,
Can act all parts, and in all parts be great.

Pervious to every beam, transparent Glass
Gives to the eye, all objects as they pass:
So the clear Soul, when justice claims her due,
Or honour calls,—sets all within, to view.
The Diamond's piercing edge must Glass divide,
It's polish'd surface mocks all power beside:
So Spirits, which no base subservience own,
Pay homage to Superior Worth alone.

No drug, nor juice of all the acid tribe,
Can move the Tints, which Glassy Pores imbibe;
So no mean prejudice, no bribes, nor art,
Efface th' Impressions of an Upright Heart.

The Glass, that Ages after Ages use,
Nor splendor, substance, weight, nor strength, will lose;

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So fresh and fair, survives bright Virtue's praise;
No toil exhausts it, and no Time decays.

Glass, fraught with powers to earlier days unknown,
Gives Heav'n-born Harmony its sweetest tone;
So conscious Dignity, within the breast,
Tunes all to joy, or warbles all to rest.

The Fact, thus prov'd, let him disprove, who can,
—True to my text I'll end as I began—
—I say, that—“Glass is like a worthy Man!”

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THE READING-GLASS.

If I can guess your thoughts, (and let me say
We boys are shrewd observers in our way,)
You half expect a descant dull and dry,
As, “How the spectacles assist the eye;
“How grave old gentlemen their use confess;
“And purblind dowagers th' invention bless;
“How, thro' their aid, full many a sage adviser
“Trims Europe's Balance—by the Advertiser;
“How criticks by their help can words pursue
“From tome to tome; nor ever lose the view;
“How wits can annotate, compose, compile;
“And readers read, and spellers spell—the while.”

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Why really, Gentlemen, one might contrive
With such trite hints to keep you—just alive:—
But 'tis with me, as 'tis, I hope, with you;
I love a little touch at something new;
And trust me, 'tis not in my verse alone,
That novelty for nonsense must atone:—
Then take in lieu of wit—such rhymes as these;—
And as you like them, call them what you please.

There is a Book, and in that book a page,
Which holds a lesson for each state and age;
That proper lesson every man should read;—
And one good Glass is all the help he'll need:—
To keep your thoughts no longer in suspense,
Nature's the Book; the Glass is Common Sense.

O! could you see that Glass exalted ride,
Like spectacles, the Coxcomb's nose astride!
How alter'd would he seem in every feature!
How quite another! quite a better creature!

127

No more he'd lisp, and lear, and pish! and fie!
A baby-man, boy-miss—of six feet high.

In Nature's horn-book, her mere criss-cross row,
'Tis the first sentence, “Live for Use, not Show.”
Could Scholars read this, thro' the Glass of Sense,
What loads would vanish of impertinence!
Could Beauties see it, what a change would rise,
From patch and paint—to puddings, and to pies!
Could Poets learn it, what a world of wit,
That never will be read—would not be writ!
Could we all get it, tho' some toil attend on't,
'Twould make us none the worse, we may depend on't.
—Let then all those, who would for wisdom look,
Make Sense their Glass, and study Nature's Book.

128

THE MARKET.

My brother Bards, (you see them here a'row)
Fair chapmen all, and honest—as times go,
Turn'd fowl—flesh—fruit—fishmongers for the day,
Will all the Market's various parts display;
Will show, how general wants crave private pains;
By private toils, how general plenty reigns.

But don't you find, upon consideration,
That mine's a ticklish kind of situation?
My theme's the Market; yet if I should dare
To speak of this or that, or t'other ware,
Here sits a Butcher, there a Poulterer gaping,
Eyes fix'd,—ears open,—sure to catch me napping:

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These seven good men have each a separate calling;
And if I touch on one—snap—'tis forestalling.

Well, Gentlemen, I'm willing to content ye:
Keep each his part; my verse shall ne'er prevent ye:
Tho' while your themes from mine exclude me so, Sirs,
You treat me, under favour, like Engrossers.

So! Fish, Flesh, Fowl, nor Fruit, am I to mention,
And yet must sing the Market:—Now Invention!
Now all thy quaint creative power dispense;
Rhyme, reason, moral, mystic, nonsense, sense.

Have you ne'er seen an human figure stalking,
Part running, and part standing, and part walking,
With furrow'd front, and vacant eye-ball plodding,
Finger on thumb, computing, numb'ring, nodding?
He's a Projector, in the World's great Mart,
And plays—“what?”—guess—a mere Egg-merchant's part;
Like eggs, are all the schemes he seems so deep in;
They crack, when touch'd; they're addled in the keeping.

130

In modern education, (spare my freedom,)
You rather train your children up, than breed 'em:
If Master scorns to blush—“The Rogue's so smart”—
How vast his memory—if he swears by heart!
That Miss may store up knowledge in the lump,
She reads—the cards; to comprehend—a trump.
Severer lessons only form their youth,
To antiquated virtue, and dull truth;
Virtue and truth might make them wise, and able,
The point is now, to make 'em marketable;
To fit them for a Mart, where fashion tries 'em,
Where trifles set the price, and folly buys 'em.

The Market!—'twere a crime past expiation,
Not to suggest a hint on Exportation.
That store of corn, how snug the adventurers thought it,
When all on board, for foreign sale they brought it;

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And prompt to enrich a few by starving many,
Enjoy'd in hope, a swinging Market-penny!
Yet tho' that hope was baulk'd, one truth is sure,
Their loss is tenfold profit to the poor;
Since just where they embark'd, they disembark'd it,
The meal, thank Heaven, is still at the right Market.

132

DINNER.

The clock struck Four!—with solemn pace and slow,
A Bard, (Alas! that Bards should suffer so!)
Hungry and hopeless, poor and pensive stray'd
Lingering, along the Mall's deserted shade:
From Park the crowd to smoaking roofs repair;—
He feasts in Fresco, who must feast on air.

Yet, tho' stern fate substantial food deny'd,
Ideal viands fancy's power supply'd;
On bak'd, roast, boil'd (while chance the changes rung)
The Poet mus'd:—and as he mus'd, he sung.

“Waft warmly-fragrant, sweetly savory-gales,
“Waft the rich fumes, each kitchen round exhales!

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“I smell, I smell the reeking odours rise!
“I see,—but Oh! too soon the vision flies!
“Why! why! ye transient forms, this barbarous haste?
“Ah! stay! Ah! let me—let me—dream—I taste!

“Say, Virgin Muses! (Ye can well divine)
“Say who, this moment, on what danties dine!

“Now at the Merchant's board, from luscious streams
“Of soup, the quivering fat of turtles steams;
“Drest by an art, no power of verse can tell;
“Hash'd, slash'd, slic'd, spic'd, carv'd, serv'd in its own shell.

“Now beards wag all, where summon'd Counties meet,
“And rival Squires, for England's welfare—eat:
“While hams and chines inspire th' elector's choice,
“And fix the freeman's right—to sell his voice.

“The napkin now it's wonted station fills,
“Beneath the sleek Church-warden's rosy gills:
“His eye devours the turbot to the bone;
“And ere he swallows, half the haunch is gone.

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“Now from the war of words, in peace withdraw
“The coifed Counsel, learned in the law;
“O'er social chops they meet, beneath the rose;
“And club as friends, the fee that made them foes;
“To Dinner, these with ardor take their way;—
“Their clients—with what appetite they may.

“Now o'er a single chicken, tête à tête,
“Two Sweethearts coo; a turtle and his mate;
“Love all their converse, all their thought supplies,
“And ev'n the single chick neglected lies:—
“Oh! couldst thou, Cupid, but transport me there,
“What love disdains, might be the Poet's share.

“See the tithe-pig the Parson's table grace;
“Nor grudge the tribute due, ye rustic race!
“Tho' thousand tithe-pigs every day procures,
“The priest's good luck, is but the tenth of yours.

“Lo! Dolly's now the rich rump steak affords!
“Repast for Lords, and Mistresses of Lords!

135

“Yes, every street, and every house can boast
“Some private manchet, or some public host!
“Some public host, or private manchet see,
“For every hungry mortal—but for me!”

So rhym'd the Bard, with many a sigh between;
When lo! a Publisher came cross the Green!
They meet—they strike the bargain—and they bind—
The Pamphlet-monger paid, the Poet din'd;
Sold, as to Satan Witches were of yore,
To vilify the arts he lov'd before;
With harpy screamings merit to pursue;
And damn by wholesale in the next Review.

136

SUNDAY.

What thoughts, what words, what utterance should display
Devotion's feelings, when she names this Day;
I well conceive;—but know, alas! too well,
Tho' prompt my heart, how weak my tongue to tell.
When to Religious Themes we turn the strain,
To praise imperfectly, is to profane:
Forgive me then, if, conscious, I forbear
Sublimer views; and touch but what I dare:
Thine is the Sabbath, Universal Sire!
My trembling feet from holy ground retire.

Yet what I may, I will.—Tho' the bold eye
Of rash Conceit be dazzled, Zeal may try

137

At humble distance a less venturous view;
And thoughts with meekness form'd, with innocence pursue.

While then the song of Praise, and cry of Prayer,
Wing'd by glad Seraphs thro' the void of air,
From lands remote, and sea-girt isles ascends,
And earth's whole race in lowly worship bends,
Think we what joy in Heaven prevails?—How prone
To mix our gratulations with their own,
Th' Angelic Bands, that circle God's high throne?
Think we how sweet to natures so sublime
The general incense, which from many a clime,
Here Faith, here Hope, here Zeal, and here the sigh
Of penitential sorrow, wafts on high.

Nor less delight receives th' ethereal race,
When heavenly bounty, in Heaven's laws they trace;
When each new Sabbath obvious Good supplies;
And Man, ev'n while he pays, enjoys his sacrifice.

138

Consign'd to Piety, to Peace, to Rest,
Returns the hallow'd Day, which God hath blest;
From worldly cares the fervent heart retires;
The public silence calmer sense inspires;
Toil from her task withdraws; till ease restore
New strength; strength, spirit; spirit, joy once more:
So duty leads to comfort:—Thus of course
The seventh day offer'd gives the six their force.

Bland Hospitality her happiest sway
To Sunday owes:—for Sunday is her day.

Neatness, whom health with constant step attends;
And Pleasure unreprov'd, (that but unbends
The bosom, not corrupts it,) these their share
In Sunday's offices, and leisure bear.

But chief Benevolence on Sunday's hour,
Smiles doubly gracious; whether her sweet power
Expand the Preacher's breast, while to mankind
He shews the love that calls—the laws that bind—

139

The virtues that exalt us; or like rain
Distilling general, thro' the throbbing vein
It stream upon the heart, in one full tide,
And drown all purpose, all desire beside.

These blessings, Sunday, and these works we sing,
Sacred to thee! as thou to Heaven's dread King!

140

TO-MORROW—COME—NEVER!

By these arch wags (you heard 'em speak)
I'm fairly ousted from the week:
Here, as else-where, all business goes:—
My seniors and my betters chose:—
Seven poets just seven days could share;
The eighth might for himself take care—
So each seiz'd one as each thought best:—
To me, they kindly left—the rest.

But this is neither here nor there;
I suffer only neighbour's fare:

141

So 'tis; so 'twas; so 'twill be ever;
No period man from self can sever,
But that one morrow—which comes never.

You know last summer, what parade
With catches, canons, glees, was made:
Loud echo'd Ranelagh's rotunda
With Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday:
While Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday push in,
Like bobbins on a laceman's cushion;
High, low, they run the strains sonorous,
Base, treble, tenor, solo, chorus:—
But what of this? Sing, say, who will,
I stick by my own thesis still:
Altho' the day I write upon,
Be found in no week past and gone;
Tho' to the world's end you pursue it,
Yet never come the nearer to it,
I challenge Envy in it's praise;—
I say it is the Day of Days.

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To-morrow that comes never, Sirs!
Would raise the hair upon your furs;
'Tis all with miracles replete,
As any mortal egg with meat.

You, and all like you, wish, with me,
Another age of Gold to see;
In Morals, when with power benign
Spirit and innocence shall join;
In Trade, when nothing shall be gain,
But what strict Honor may explain;
In Taste, when Genius shall prevail,
And simple Nature hold the scale;
When Virtue only shall be Worth;
Truth Wit, Sense Learning—and so forth—
Why these, and stranger things than these,
One Morrow will effect with ease;

143

All will fall out, smack, smooth, and elever,
Upon—To-morrow, that comes never.

Sour Scorn perhaps may sneer this now;
And curl her nose, and arch her brow;
But let Scorn know, that I despise her;
Upon my Morrow, she'll be wiser.

What would you give me to ensure
French Faith in Treaties?—to secure
Portuguese Gratitude?—Neutrality
In Dutchmen, and Impartiality?
Why Gemmen, I'll engage to lay
A trifle, that I name the day,
On which all this will come about,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;—
A day from which 'twill hold for ever—
—To wit—the Morrow that comes never.

At that time too, in every street,
Will be, (whoever lives to see't)

144

What now we deem most rare and strange—
—Women, with minds, that never change—
—Beauties, that wish not to be seen—
—State Ministers, that want no screen—
—Great Scholars, with plain Sense and Breeding—
—Great Blockheads, that affect not Reading—
—Criticks, with Candor and Civility—
—Poets, with Money and Humility—
Ah me! such changes will obtain,
One scarce shall know the world again;
Ev'n boys like these (and to say truth,
This group holds many an hopeful youth)
In utter contrast will appear
To all, who study—Marbles, here;
Will love Greek, more than tarts and jellies;
And cram their heads, before their bellies.

Whoever thinks this Prophecy,
A bam, a banter, or a lie,

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Let him, as 'tis but just, be dumb,
'Till that same Day, I speak of, come;
—Then, if he chance to catch me napping,
If what I've mention'd do not happen,
Let him indulge his angry fit;
Call me a bite; or say I'm bit;
I freely will to all submit;—
Nor shall at an excuse endeavour,
After—To-morrow, that comes never.

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LIGHT.

“Let there be Light,” one only Voice could say,
When Nature first beheld emerging day:
But what Light is must all unknown remain,
'Till the same Voice, with equal power, again
Bid intellectual light more strongly rise,
And God's whole glory beam on human eyes.

'Tis well, mean while, (tho' Science doat in vain,)
To mark those facts, Heaven meant not to explain,
Thro' objects known to follow Reason's clue,
And where Experience leads, on Fancy's wing pursue.

When Light is nam'd, what thoughts, what eyes but stray,
To that first Orb, which makes and bounds the day?—

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Light from his Beams is all, in all, that's seen:
—'Tis the bright burnish of the woodland green:—
—'Tis the rich tint, that warms the maiden rose
To vermil blushes:—'Tis the bloom that glows
O'er all Creation's face, with glad'ning rays;
When health, joy, beauty, greet the noon-tide blaze.

Light in the mid-night hour, beneath the beam
Of Heaven's pale Regent, is the lucid gleam,
That glimmering tremulous kindles up the stream:
'Tis shade made visible, embrowning round
All space, and magnifying to confound;
Creating forms, for Fancy to extend,
Till the damp dews, from Fear's cold cheek descend.

Beneath the clouds, that black'ning as they go,
O'er Nature's face an ebon curtain throw
Prophetic of the tempest, Light at best
Is terror in transparent darkness drest,

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Save when it's flashes bursting from the skies,
Inspire new dread, and shine but to surprise.

Varied a thousand times, embodied round
With solid forms, in chains material bound,
Light in th' electric substance cavern'd lies,
'Till friction give it birth;—then eager flies
From pores unnumber'd, urging still it's way
In floating atoms, till it mix with day.

Broke on the prism, each tortur'd ray of Light
Is infinite vicissitude:—the sight
Scarce in the extreme lubricity of hues
The many-tinged Fugitive pursues,
Who each reverse of changeful colour tries,
And steals thro' gradual shades, from dies to dies.

When treasur'd mines, the rock's deep hollows hide,
And spangled minerals flame from side to side,
Or dripping dews, condens'd to crystals, glow
Athwart the roof, and stud the floor below;—

149

There Light enthron'd in all its glory burns,
While gems emit, and catch the rays by turns;
And parts reflecting parts, conspire to raise,
One total gleam, one consubstantial blaze.

Dazzled, where Splendors so intense prevail,
What wonder, if a School-Boy's optics fail!
If lost in Light, he seek his head to shroud,
And flies to silence, as a shelt'ring cloud!

150

WATER.

If right “Αριστον Υδωρ” Pindar sings,
That simple Water is the best of things,—
Would Water-Poets were the best of Bards!
But oh! that chance is not upon the cards!
Vain were th' attempt such logick to apply;
My verse would give my arguments the lie:—
Yet what I can, I will:—Not he, whose lyre
Leads on th' Aonian mount the Sister Choir,
(Tho' all th' inspiring potions he explore
From water up to nectar,) can do more.

From earth's deep womb (for earth their store supplies)
Thro' countless pores the moist effluvia rise

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Distinct below, where oozing strata shed
Drop after drop; till from their humid bed
Th' emergent vapours steam; and as they go,
Condense, incorporate, extend, and flow.
—Thanks, kind Philosophy! whose lore profound
Thus helps me bring my Water above ground!
—Henceforth to trace it little will suffice,
Obvious to common sense, and common eyes.

If in the mental calm of joy serene,
I seek, thro' Fancy's aid, the sylvan scene,
There Water meets me, by the pebbled side
Of sedgy-fringed brooks, expanding wide
In dimpled eddies:—or with murmurs shrill
Running sweet unisons, where responsive still
In cadence meet, impending aspens hail
Heaven's mildest breath, soft quivering to the gale.

Too charming visions of intense delight!
Why? whither vanish ye?—Her eagle flight

152

Fancy renews: and full athwart mine eye
Throws an enormous Cataract:—from on high
In awful stillness deepening waters glide
Ev'n to the rude rock's ridge abrupt—then slide
Ponderous, down, down, the void; and pitch below
In thunder.—Dash'd to foam, awhile they know
No certain current;—'till again combin'd,
In boiling tides along the vales they wind.

O! bear me hence, where Water's force displays
More useful energy;—where classic praise
Adorns the names of chiefs long dead, who brought
Thro' channel'd rocks concentring streams, and taught
One Aqueduct divided lands to lave,
And hostile realms to drink one common wave.

But soft—methinks some horrid sounds I hear!
What throbbing passion speaks?—'Tis fear: 'tis fear.
—Water, where yonder Spout to Heaven ascends,
Rides in tremendous triumph—Ocean bends—

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—And Ruin, raising high her baleful head,
Broods o'er the waste, the bursting Mass will spread.

Enough of wat'ry wonders:—all dismay'd
Ev'n Fancy starts, at forms herself hath made.

Let them, whom terror can inspire, pursue
Themes too terrific:—I with humble view
Retire unequal,—nor will e'er again
To Water's greater works devote my strain;
Content to praise it, when with gentle sway,
Profuse of rich increase, it winds it's way
Thro' the parch'd glebe; or fills with influence bland,
The cup of temperance, in the peasant's hand.

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FLOWERS.

I.

Unequal to my theme, with desperate feet
I sought the Muse's bower;
Anxious to see, tho' all-asham'd to meet
Some bland, inspiring Power:
When fleet along the rising gale,
The Queen, fair Fancy past;
And thro' her rainbow-tinged veil
A glance benignant cast:
Then beck'ning to a secret glade,
“Come, see,” she cry'd, “the train,
“Who own, beneath this mystic shade,
“My visionary reign!”

155

II.

Proud to obey the glad command,
I took with silent awe my stand:—
Meanwhile, in many a varying vest
Of rich expression aptly drest,
Ideal Myriads seem'd to rove
Promiscuous, thro' the cultur'd grove:
And each, as inbred impulse led,
From every flow'r-embroider'd bed
Some certain Plant, whose blossoms rose
Significantly pleasing, chose.

III.

With frank, firm look, and light tho' steady tread,
Came Courage first, and crop'd a dew-charg'd Rose;
For in the tender Rose might best be read
His very essence—Bloom that gently glows

156

Impell'd by gentle breath; prone to dispense
To all, all sweetness; yet alert to shew,
If rash invasion ruder deeds commence,
That warm resentment points a thorn below.

IV.

Retiring from the public eye,
The Maiden meek Humility
Was seen to turn with mildest grace
To heav'n her thoughts, to earth her face;
And all unconscious what fair fame
Merit like hers might well assume,
Prefer'd to every juster claim
The lowly Daisy's simple bloom.

V.

Some bawble each moment arranging,
Admiring, exploding, or changing,

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The coquette Affectation skim'd wantonly by;
On her breast a Narcissus she bore,
As if with Narcissus of yore,
For a form like her own she could languish and die.

VI.

Heedless of the scorner's joke,
Smiling at the ruffian's stroke,
Persevering Patience stood;
Conquering evil still with good;
Binding for her brow the while
Artless wreaths of Camomile;
Hardy plant, whose vigorous shoot
Springs beneath the trampler's foot.

VII.

Pure Constant Love, (whose hallow'd fires
Time still exalts, and truth inspires,

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In spite of absence, grief, or pain,)
Approv'd the faithful Marigold,
Whose leaves their saffron blaze unfold,
When first the sun asserts his reign;
Hail his glad progress thro' the day,
Close gradual with his parting ray,
Nor open, 'till he shines again.

VIII.

Superstition came telling her steps, and her beads;
Like Jack-in-a-bush hung all over with green,
Agnus-Castus by wholesale she cull'd from the meads,
And stuck with due care Holy Thistle between;
A chaplet of Monks-hood she pluck'd for her head,
And Rosemary sprigs for the graves of the dead.

159

IX.

Tiptoe o'er the level plain
Ardent Hope all panting flew,
Prompt her eager eye to strain,
Far beyond the present view:
Quick from hint to hint to stray,
She the Primrose held most dear;—
First-born of returning May;
Promise of the future year.

X.

Ill-Nature to a corner stole,
And taught her blood-shot eyes to roll,
As if she long'd to blight
Each flower of happier scent and hue;
For none she chose of all that grew,
Save poisonous Aconite.

160

XI.

Hand in hand, for they never asunder are seen,
All cheerful their features, all easy their mien,
Contentment and Innocence tript it along:
By the soft virgin Snowdrop was Innocence known,
Contentment took Hearts-ease, and call'd it her own;
Nor envied the great, nor the gay in the throng.

XII.

The throng!—just hint to wild conceit like mine!—
Why, what a wreath had I begun to twine!
—Indulgent as she was, methinks I hear
Ev'n Fancy's self now whisper in my ear,
“Quit ere 'tis tedious, quit the flowery road,
“Nor what was meant a Nosegay, make a Load.”

161

SHRUBS.

Once on this Earth of ours, for change of air,
Jove and his Wife, like any mortal pair,
Stroll'd thro' a wood:—my book records not where.

Madam, who scarce would condescend to prove,
Below the sky, more patient than above,
Brush'd, as she past, th' encumb'ring boughs aside,
With many a pout, and many a pish!—and cry'd;
“Shall cedars, Jove, and pines alone provoke
“Thy triple shaft's inevitable stroke;
“While in my way these shrubs their branches thrust?
“Is it thy scorn of them, or me, they trust?

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“For once, at least, to my request attend;
“And let thy bolts on this vile spot descend.”

The Thunderer smil'd assent:—his arm was rear'd;
When lo! Diana from the copse appear'd:
Heard angry Juno's plaint, and Jove's behest;—
And thus with homage due the vengeful Powers addrest:
“Ere yet that flaming terror quit thy hand,
“And ample ruin wing the fatal brand,
“Change, cloud-compelling King, thy stern decree;
“Relenting Juno shall approve my plea:—
“Not that to me (tho' noble were the claim)
“These shelt'ring shrubs present perpetual game;
“But that they stand with happier gifts supply'd,
“To mental power, and social skill ally'd.”

She spoke, and wav'd her spear.—An airy throng
Rose instant into form, and glanc'd along.

First, from a Laurel's shade, whose foliage bound
Her elevated brow, came Genius.—Round

163

She threw the penetrating eye, that strays
Past all existence; while a thousand ways
She sunders, joins, contracts, extends, at will,
Actual and Possible; imparting still
To thought-engender'd essence,—feature, place,
Dimension, operation, life, and grace.

With sturdy step, and arm of sinewy length,
Came Rural Industry: His cunning strength
Stript, as they rose in many a supple shoot,
The sapling Osiers from the knotted root:
Then wove for various use, with various care,
The good-wife's basket for her market-ware;
The cudgel's hilt; the wicker net, that holds
The river's straggling fry; the fence that guards the folds.

In yellow Box, Mechanic Skill display'd
Infinite versatility:—it made
The forceful skrew; it turn'd the pulley's wheel;
It bade the top in mazy circles reel;

164

It form'd the shuttle; and with happiest thought
The needful comb for Beauty's tresses wrought.

Cool Self-Defence, to prove her practice right,
Held up a Bramble's prickly stem to sight;
That winds innoxious o'er it's native ground,
But gives, when most opprest, the deepest wound.

Fair Delicacy cropt the Jasmine bower,
To crown connubial Love's endearing power;
Whose sweetly placid brow might best assume
So soft a verdure, and so pure a bloom.

From every shrub the devious thicket knows,
The Hazle, prankful Recreation chose:
Plain hint, that sport some object should pursue;
And pleasure frolic, with a nut in view.

Meanwhile the frown relax'd on Juno's face,
And mild complacence follow'd in it's place;
Diana's skill the wrathful Queen appeas'd:—
And Jove (right glad to see his consort pleas'd)

165

Returning slept upon his golden bed,
Without a curtain-lecture in his head:—
Or, if a spice of Homer's Greek will cheer ye,
Ενθα καθευδ' αναβας: παρα δε, χρυσοθρονος Ηρη.

Iliad. Lib.i. V. ult.—6II.

166

COLOURS.

At Nature's birth, Almighty Wisdom's care
Bade Light exist,—and Light was every where;
In broad effusion from the Central Beam,
With instant force the living Splendors stream.

Yet while the total emanations fall
In joint effulgence, and illumine all;
Their separate parts, on separate substance break,
And certain dies, from certain objects take:
Else were creation's scene in vain display'd;—
Uncolour'd Light is but transparent shade.

Some rays, averse to quit their native sky,
Above the star-pav'd fields of Æther fly.

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Of these the tribes, who stronger tints assume,
Flash purple glories from the seraph's plume;
While whiter bands in fleecy robes array
Th' intense serene, or strew the milky way.

Some in mid-air an humbler station choose;
There bleach the snows, and tinge exhaling dews;
Gleam in red light'nings on the world below;
In bright profusion arch the heavenly bow;
Carpet with blue the sun's meridian way;
Reflect on crimson'd clouds his setting ray;
Or on rude blasts, that Nature's face deform,
Suspend the sullen blackness of the storm.

Some pass more downward still;—content to stray,
Where earth's dense ball imbibes the beam of day.
Of these a part athwart the surface glide,
And in grey mists steam up the mountain's side.
Part o'er the foliage of the sylvan scene
Disperse the extreme vicissitudes of green;

168

Where the old oak a duskier hue partakes,
And where with every breeze the paler aspen shakes.
Part thro' the flowery realm promiscuous range,
And give th' emergent bloom eternal change;
Burnish the lily's modest leaf; unfold
The rose; and gild the flaunting marigold.
Part on our human frame by turns express
What passions warm us, and what griefs distress;
Pale on the lip of rage, and brow of pain;
Sanguine in joy's flush'd face; and blue in beauty's vein.
Part paint with wild varieties of grace
The feather'd legions, and the savage race;
Spot the gay pard; and to th' astonish'd eye,
Present the lion's yellow majesty;
Or waving swift in shadowy radiance, deck
The pheasant's flaming breast, and peacock's azure neck.
Some deeper plung'd, beneath th' enormous main,
In scaly spangles dress the wat'ry train,

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On polish'd conchs, their glitt'ring gloss bestow,
And teach adhesive corals how to glow.
Nay some (so subtle is their texture) pass
Unchang'd thro' solid earth's obdurate mass;
Pierce the recess, where mineral treasures lie,
And give each ripening ore it's genuine die;
Vary a thousand gems, a thousand ways,
And at the centre, light the diamond's blaze.

Here at the centre, let me close my rhyme;
Wisdom's first maxim is to stop in time:—
Exhaustless Colour, hint on hint inspires;
But soon, too soon! the Muse's pencil tires!

170

THE BRAMBLE.

While Wits thro' Fiction's regions ramble,—
While Bards for fame or profit scramble;—
While Pegasus can trot, or amble;—
Come what may come,—I'll sing the Bramble.

“How now!”—methinks I hear you say:—
“Why? What is Rhyme run mad to-day?”
—No, Sirs, mine's but a sudden gambol;
My Muse hung hamper'd in a Bramble.

But soft! no more of this wild stuff!
Once for a frolic is enough;—
So help us Rhyme, at future need,
As we in soberer style proceed.

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All subjects of nice disquisition,
Admit two modes of definition:
For every thing two sides has got,—
What is it?—and what is it not?

Both methods, for exactness sake,
We with our Bramble mean to take:
And by your leave, will first discuss
It's negative good parts,—as thus.—

A Bramble will not, like a Rose,
To prick your fingers, tempt your nose;
Whene'er it wounds, the fault's your own,—
Let that, and that lets you, alone.

You shut your Myrtles for a time up;
Your Jasmine wants a wall to climb up;
But Bramble, in its humbler station,
Nor weather heeds, nor situation;
No season is too wet, or dry for't,
No ditch too low, no hedge too high for't.

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Some praise, and that with reason too,
The Honeysuckle's scent and hue;
But sudden storms, or sure decay,
Sweep, with it's bloom, it's charms away:
The sturdy Bramble's coarser flower
Maintains it's post, come blast, come shower;
And when time crops it, time subdues
No charms;—for it has none to lose.

Spite of your skill, and care, and cost,
Your nobler shrubs are often lost;
But Brambles, where they once get footing,
From age to age continue shooting;
Ask no attention, nor forecasting;
Not ever-green; but ever-lasting.

Some shrubs intestine hatred cherish,
And plac'd too near each other, perish;
Bramble indulges no such whim;
All neighbours are alike to him;

173

No stump so scrubby, but he'll grace it;
No crab so sour, but he'll embrace it.

Such, and so various negative merits,
The Bramble from it's birth inherits:—
Take we it's positive virtues next;
For so at first we split our text.

The more Resentment tugs and kicks,
The closer still the Bramble sticks;
Yet gently handled, quits it's hold;
Like heroes of true British mould:
Nothing so touchy, when they're teas'd,—
No touchiness so soon appeas'd.

Full in your view, and next your hand,
The Bramble's homely berries stand:
Eat as you list,—none calls you glutton;
Forbear,—it matters not a button.
And is not, pray, this very quality
Th' essence of true Hospitality?

174

When frank simplicity and sense
Make no parade, take no offence;
Such as it is, set forth their best,
And let the welcome—add the rest.

The Bramble's shoot, tho' Fortune lay
Point-blank obstructions in it's way,
For no obstructions will give out;
Climbs up, creeps under, winds about;
Like Valour, that can suffer, die,
Do any thing,—but yield, or fly.

While Brambles hints like these can start,
Am I to blame to take their part?
No—let who will, affect to scorn 'em,
My Muse shall glory to adorn 'em;
For as Rhyme did, in my preamble,
So Reason now cries, “Bravo! Bramble!”

175

THE BEETLE.

To all things, that are, or have been, or shall be,
Of whatever materials, or form, or degree,
Belong, (if Logicians have told us no stories,)
Ten—here's a nice word for you!—ten Categories:
And to shew you at once the great depth of my knowledge,
I'll tell you what names people give them at College:
One, Substance; two, Quantity; Quality, three;
Relation makes four; five—five?—let me see—
Five, Action; six, Passion; seven, Where; and eight, When;
Then nine, Situation; and Habit, just ten:—
And this, I suppose, is the very first time,
That these same Categories, were stuck into rhyme.

176

Now if all things, to these have a title confest,
My Beetle may plead it, as well as the rest;
Nor would he his claim, (for why should he!) withhold,
Tho' the ten were augmented to ten times, tenfold.

First then as to Substance, he's body and bone,
In an hundred and fifty varieties known;
Yet all of one genus; and all of one kin;
And like other plain people, he lives in his skin.

He has Quantity too, tho' it differ in figure;
For in Europe 'tis less, in America, bigger:
But with bigger or less, I'll not trouble my head;
He's as large, as he need be,—and that's enough said.

As to Quality, he's a mere half-and-half-arian,
With one property here, and there a contrary one:
Now a reptile he creeps, now a volatile flies;
Now skulks from your sight; now comes bounce in your eyes;
He's drowsy by day; and if vigils he keep,
'Tis at night; when most animals else go to sleep:

177

If senses he has, they're imperfect at most;
He is more than half blind; and he cannot smell post;
He's stupid, and muzzy, and dull as a board;
And he hums such a base, as no snorer e'er snor'd.
Then a necklace of Beetles, so Pliny affirms,
(As I tell you my author, I speak in bold terms)
Will charm away mischief from children who bear it:—
Let who likes it, believe; who believes, let him wear it.

The extremes of his various Relations are odd:
By Egyptians of old he was held for a God;
But boys among us, in language uncivil,
Style him (saving your presence) “Coach-horse to the Devil.”

His Action and Passion, one fact will declare;
For when he comes buzzing along in mid-air,
(With so headlong a flight, and with eye-sight so dim)
If he hurts my hard head,—my hard head must hurt him.

As to Place, if in public he cannot be found,
You may meet him, half smother'd with dust under ground.

178

On the subject of Time, three short words will suffice,—
In spring he comes forth; and in winter he dies;
But die when he will, we've no reason to fear;
There'll be Beetles enough to succeed him, next year.

His whole Situation, as far as we see,
Is a sort-of-a-kind of a riddle-me-ree.
He's an I by itself I, that stands rank'd with no peers:
As nobody loves him, so nobody fears;
And it seems his chief aim, tho' he fly, or he creep,
Just to sleep out his life, and to live out his sleep.

His Habit (and please you) is ever coal-black;
And he carries two case-harden'd shells on his back,
Which cover his wings, and improve (we surmise)
The delectable music, he makes, when he flies.

And thus, in compliance with system and rules,
My theme I've defin'd, in the mode of the Schools;
If that mode be absurd, let the learned look to't;
For here ends my Logick, and ditty to boot.

179

THE PRIVATEER.

A Privateer!—and my first cruise!
I wonder who'd stand in my shoes!—
But since I'm in for't, I'll push through,
Drive right a-head, and gunnel to.
What tho' this noddle never harbour'd
A thought of larboard or of starboard,
I bring, if not a seaman's skill,
At all events a tar's good will;
If not thin breeches, a light heart;—
And mere hap-hazard is my chart.

Your Admiral ships, with white, blue, red
Broad pennons at the top-mast head,

180

Affect to hold us cheap;—and sneer.—
—“Marry come up!” quoth Privateer:—
“Who was the first that led a crew
“Of heroes privateering?—Who?—
“'Twas Captain Jason of the Argo;
“And he brought home a golden cargo;—
“Which Greece long brag'd, and Poets wrote on,
“Ere Admirals were born, or thought on.”

Your forward folk, who love to prate,
Our worth and valour under-rate;
Because adventures we commence,
Less for the honor, than the pence:—
But, if strict truth from fame we learn,
We need not drop so much astern:
Those who for glory hack and maul so,
Yet like a spell of plunder also:—
To plunder we confess affection;
If glory comes—'tis no objection.

181

They have the windward 'tis agreed,
In rank at least, if not in deed.

Four Virtues Cardinal we call;—
And Privateers-men have them all.

First Justice—for it is, you know,
Their maxim, to give blow for blow!

Next Temperance—none of mortal brood
Live more on hope—and hope's thin food!

Then Fortitude—for 'tis their duty
To stand hard knocks, ere they share booty!

Last Prudence—for they never care
How few those knocks; how large that share!

I've heard my nurse (if 'tis no crime
To quote one's nurse) say many a time;
“My child, wherever fate shall shove ye,
“Help yourself, and your friends will love ye!”
This doctrine Privateers pursue;
And make improvements on it too:—

182

Whene'er in proper time and place,
They find fit objects of their chace,
They help themselves to all comes near 'em,
To make their friends the more revere 'em!
And more than that—to make foes fear 'em,
They help themselves to all comes near 'em!

The Navy gents expect their pay,
Full when they serve; half, when they play:
But we on no such terms advance;
A kind of forlorn hope of chance:
We pocket pelf, or take dry thumps,
Just as dame Fortune turns up trumps;
With now scarce purse-room for our gains;
And now our labour for our pains.

One circumstance indeed there is,
For ever in our favour—viz:
Come fight—come flight—whate'er ensues,
They lose not—who have nought to lose.

183

Lose! did I say?—'twas most absurd!—
How could I utter such a word?—
“Win and wear all,” that can be got to,
Is every Privateer-man's motto!
And I, for my own part, avow,
(Your scholar long, your sailor now,)
I'll ne'er, if this your smiles obtain,
Speak—or ev'n think of Loss again.

184

DAY-BREAK.

To sage antiquity we bow.—
And yet sometimes, I know not how,
To eyes not classically clear,
Her maxims look a little queer.

Day-break for instance, why assign'd
So often to the female kind?
From rosy hands, in Homer's lays
Aurora sheds ethereal blaze:
And Virgil, you must all have read,
Ev'n takes her fairly out of bed;
Arms her with radiance cap-à-pè!—
Then hey for Morn!—and who but she!

185

Both Bards from life and nature drew—
Did living nature give this cue?
Kept ladies then so early hours?—
—Not, if their ladies were like ours!

Till abler heads this point discuss,
Excuse me, if I reason thus.
What's all creation's range immense?
—'Tis beauty in the largest sense.—
What happens, when we close our eyes?
—That range immense of beauty flies.—
What meets us with returning light?
—New beauty rushes on the sight.
Since beauty then, and light, increase
Together, and together cease,
More ancient wit, we may suppose,
Beauty to usher beauty chose:
That so the Power, which should display
The glories of emerging Day,

186

With Female charms might rise to view;
And serve for type, and substance too.
If this surmise seems mere dead letter,
Mend it who will!—the more the better.

When Morn first twinkles up the sky,
Terror's light troops promiscuous fly:
The Fairy spreads his filmy plume;
The Witch mounts cock-horse on her broom;
Snug to it's shroud the grim Ghost glides;
Down night's last shade the Goblin slides;
And Demons of terrific show,
From nothing form'd, to nothing go.
Has Morn, for this, specific force?
—No.—No,—'tis matter all of course.
Cause and effect in things ideal
Subsist and operate, as in real:
Ignorance breeds fears, and knowledge quells 'em;
Darkness makes monsters, light dispels 'em.

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But hold—while thus my rambling Muse
A wild-goose chase of thought pursues,
Let faithful duty bear in mind
A topic of more serious kind;
For which a moment's pause I pray.
—'Tis what the Master bade me say.—

On this dear spot he sees, with joy supreme,
In your warm zeal, a glorious Day-break beam:
Whose future heat such private worth may raise,
As public justice shall rejoice to praise.
—Flush'd with such hope, and more than proud to boast
The Trust that honours, and that binds him most,
In three short words, he sums up all his plan;
Letters exalt, as Manners make the Man.

188

Manners, and Letters, then, alike shall share
His mode of discipline, his whole of care;
Anxious thro' gradual energies to dispense
Improv'd Humanity's Orient Light—from Hence!

189

NOON.

Gentlemen of the Session round,
With reverence and respect profound,
I on the spot, before you, here,
Counsel for plaintiff Noon appear;—
For why?—Said Noon in sundry cases,
Things, matters, premises, and places,
(As pr Instructions in my brief)
Stands much aggriev'd; and craves relief.

My client, Gentlemen, refers
To clouds of evidence;—and avers
That Morn aud Afternoon combining,
Plotting, contriving, and designing,

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By covert guile, and overt act,
(Contra statut' provis' et fact')
From his undoubted claim and right,
Have partly, and would oust him quite,
Cancel all proofs of his identity,
And make him a downright non-entity;
Scarce to be found by search or trial,
Save on the surface of a dial:
For this he owns, and owns with pride,
Hurt as he is by all beside,
Spite of ill-luck, spite of ill-will,
His friend the Sun, sticks by him still.

The special damage he sustains,
Thus with submission Noon explains.

Time was (he warrants me to say)
When people rose, because 'twas Day;
Rising so soon, they drest as soon;
And all the World was gay by Noon:

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Whose presence two-fold lustre threw;
Nature's meridian, and Day's too.
Think, then, how Noon held up his head!
—But oh! that golden age is fled!
Th' intruder Morn, too near allied
To luxury, indolence, and pride,
By such encroachments has crept on,
That Noon is fairly past and gone,
And westward far, his journey takes,
Ere half the modern World awakes:
Whereby he mourns his honour lost,
His joy abridg'd, his influence crost;
And fears, among politer folk,
(Should Fashion carry on the joke)
His very name may soon be hist hence,
As much a bore, as his existence.

So close his neighbour Morning shaves!
Now mark how Afternoon behaves!—

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In palace, college, hall, of yore,
Bounce went at Noon the buttery door;
The mutton-bell the guests convok'd;
His rosy gills the chaplain strok'd;
All stomachs, and all spirits up;
They slic'd, they laugh'd; they smack'd the cup;
Then with new glee, new toils begun;
And seem'd to live two days in one.
Now, appetite at four, at five,
At six, is scarcely scarce alive;
And Afternoon usurps the place,
Which Noon once held with twice the grace.
Yet let not Afternoon presume;—
Himself may meet an equal doom;
To modish whim, perforce may yield,
And quit, ere dinner-time, the field;
Tho' past the hour, when stretch'd for rest,
Our sires were in their night-caps drest.

193

(This by the bye,)—Poor Noon meanwhile,
Scouted by taste, and ton, and style,
Scarce sees a dinner in a year,
Save where day-labourers club for beer;
Or gypsies stolen fuel store,
To cook the mess—they stole before.

Here Noon aforesaid ends his charge;
And hopes he need not now enlarge
On merits held, agreed, and known,
Time immemorial, for his own.
If haply in life's earlier day,
He gave you many an hour of play,
If e'er intenser rays he shoot,
Ripening your grain, mellowing your fruit,
If oft, in winter's dire extreme,
He treats you with a casual gleam;
And tho' oblique, and tho' opprest,
Faint as he shines, yet shines his best;

194

Hear and redress a case so hard!—
—He'll not demur from your award;
But sure of candor and support,
Rest on the Judgment of the Court.

195

THE EASY CHAIR.

Astronomers, I know not why,
At pleasure parcel out the sky;
As if the whole ethereal way
Were theirs for ever and for aye;
And all the stars the heavens unfold,
But the mere stock of their free-hold.

Beside the lion, bull, and bear,
Some ladies in their favour share;
And one, with special kindness treated,
Is in a blaze of radiance seated:
Consult your globe, you'll find her there;
Cassiope, and eke her Chair!—

196

“Is it an Easy Chair?” you'll say;
We'll settle that some future day.
'Tis doubtless (to cut short all pother)
The easiest there—for there's no other.
—No other?—Then have I, 'tis clear,
No other business with the sphere:
Quit, Muse, the polar heights, and try
What Terra-firma will supply.

On most occasions here below,
Two old opponents, Aye, and No,
Like man and wife in couples go:
Ev'n so the Easy-Chair displays
Some ground for satire, some for praise;
And tho' on neither side I'm feed,
On both sides, with your leave, I'll plead.

First then for satire!—Do you seek
For hallow'd Ignorance, gross, and sleek?—

197

Where drones, by name of Monks, repair,
To yawn out psalms, and snore out pray'r,
She mounts an Abbot's Easy-Chair.

Dame Luxury ne'er so smacks her gills,
As when a Chairman's Seat she fills;
Wallows and swallows, stuffs and stares,
And trains Church-wardens up to May'rs.

See! where poor Indolence reclines!
Lolls, tumbles, stretches, sprawls, and pines!
Life has no pain, like that she feels:
A thousand racks, a thousand wheels,
In shape of Easy-Chairs, pursue
The wretch—who knows not what to do.

But let us turn the tables here;
And see what hints for praise appear.

Imprimis then, Disease will own
An Easy Chair excels a throne.

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Give philosophical Conceit
Free leave to take the Scorner's seat:
But Wisdom will prefer, elsewhere,
Contentment, and an Easy Chair.

Ambition shakes the world sometimes,
As upward to her wish she climbs;
While every step she gains, declares
A Chair of State, a chair of cares:—
Let her, and welcome, take her choice;
Let me with simple mirth rejoice:
Mirth knows no care, except providing
An Easy Chair, to shake her side in.

The gravest moralists, one and all,
Old age a second childhood call;
For which this Easy Chair of mine,
A second cradle, I define.—
—To lull us in that last retreat
Speak, gentle Peace, thy tidings sweet!

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Each pang may Resignation sooth!
And Conscience lay our pillow smooth!
While Hope, her eye to Heav'n addrest,
Enwraps us in her friendly vest,
And rocks us to Eternal Rest!

200

THE HORSEMAN.

Neptune, in fabulous history we read,
To match Minerva's Olive, form'd the steed.
That Neptune in an Horse, his power should try,
You think it queer perhaps;—and so do I.—
One fact, I'm sure your prompt assent to get;
—That Neptune never form'd an Horseman yet.—
A tar may mount; a tar, when stow'd astride,
May navigate a nag;—no tar can ride!

But this same tale of Neptune, and his tit,
Proves grave Antiquity could fib a bit:
Of which, since now on classic ground we run,
One instance more I'll give; and only one;—

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The Centaur!—Not an urchin in the place,
But knows the story of the Centaur race;
Half brute; half human!—to himself, of course,
Each was at once the Horseman, and the Horse.
“That could not be,” methinks I hear you say:—
—Bear not too hard on antient legends, pray:
In modern times, ev'n as in times of old,
Things, which can never be, can yet be—told!

One instance, and but one, I said I'd bring:—
So not a word of Pegasus's wing;
Nor those light-horsemen, who the Muse revere,
From Homer, to my friend there, in the rear:—
Let bonâ-fide Horsemen come in play,
Horsemen, on Horseback, in the King's highway!

With solemn pace before the funeral show,
Death's black Horse-guards, grim Undertakers, go;
For form, each rider slow decorum keeps;
For real want, each bare-bone palfrey creeps.

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With pace as solemn, for a different fee,
The Coronation Champion, cap-à-pè,
Be-plum'd, be-spangled, and be-scarf'd all o'er,
Pricks his proud Prancer up old Rufus' floor:
No fear a foe should his defiance meet:
He keeps his honour,—if he keeps his seat.

If all too tardily these Gents have past,
There are, who ride at least as much too fast.

Thro' thick and thin see College Jockies fly,
As if a thousand duns were hue and cry!
Ask you, “why thus each nerve and sinew strain?”
They gallop forth—to gallop back again.

Beggars on horseback set, our proverbs say,
Ride all at the same rate;—and the same way:
As hard, as whip and spur, and horse-flesh speeds 'em;
As far—as one that shall be nameless, leads 'em.

Between the two extremes, might I advise,
The Horseman's as the Wise man's medium lies:

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From his first mounting to his journey's end,
Three words the Rider's grammar comprehend:
“Push not up hill—your horse's wind 'twill break:
“Scour not down hill—your own neck is at stake:
“Along the plain” (so my third precept faith)
“Spare not the slug; nor urge the free to death.”

But vain, alas! is all this sapient lore!
Horsemen, perhaps erelong, will be no more!
By Air-balloons our travellers will go;
And leave roads, turnpikes, oceans, all below.

Once in an age, thus frensy takes the lead.—
Well!—let who like it, as they like, proceed:—
But, for the love I bear my corporation,
I'll ne'er be shot up, like an exhalation;
Quit solid ground, on baseless clouds to sail;
And swing a tiffany comet's dangling tail.
To swing!—or not to swing!—perhaps to fall!
Whence?—whither?—Questions! dreadful questions all!

204

Perhaps to flutter at the tempest's will!
And soar; and starve;—worse consummation still!
No—trust me—no! I'd rather, soft and fair,
Kick up a Ten-toe Trot; and ride on Shanks's Mare.

205

TWILIGHT.

Two things there are, hard to be done.—
To tell what Twilight is,—is one.
And what's the other, think you?—What?
—Marry, to tell, what it is not.
'Tis so like Day, to call it Night,
Would hardly do one's conscience right:
'Tis so like Night, to call it Day,
Will scarce give common sense fair play:
Some genius of maturer growth,
May prove it either,—neither,—both!

Both?—Apropos!—part dull, part bright!
Too light, for dark; too dark, for light!—

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—You must have met, in many a place,
The Twilights of the human race.
The style and character they bear,
Suits this description to an hair:
And since the Family's so ample,
Pray take a few, by way of sample.

The group, let Bubble Twilight head,
A Politician born and bred;
Ways, means, men, measures, to explore,
So keen,—no owl at midnight more:
All eyes, to watch an Empire's fall,—
Yet, when plain fact and reason call,
Too blind, alas! an inch to spy
Beyond the nose, knaves lead him by.

Full brother to our Politician,
Stands Bolus Twilight, Quack Physician.
Tho' ignorance oft, in shape of cloud,
His intellectual optics shroud;

207

Should Argus' self the grave forsake,
With all his eyes, and all awake,
Not Argus could more clearly see,
If not the case,—at least the fee.

Observe the country pulpit next,
Where Hum-drum Twilight splits a text:
He wakes himself; and that, you'll say,
Is some small sign he knows 'tis day;
But sure, his congregation round,
Suppose 'tis night, and night profound,
They sleep so comfortably sound!

Where'er wrong-headed strife begins,
And boobies go to law for pins,
Th' Attorney Capias Twilight plies:
To mark where cause of action lies,
No eagle has acuter eyes;
“Commence your suit then, honest friend!”
—Bravo!—Now ask him, when 'twill end?

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The very question—blinds him quite:
No mole is half so short of sight.

Smoke Tristram Twilight, sour and sage!
Great moral-mender of the age!
Folly and vice, (and who but grants
Folly and vice are thriving plants?)
Public and private, still provide
Employment for his seeing side.—
—“His blind side?”—That he keeps alone
For vice and folly—of his own.

Ætatis anno fifty-three
The grave Priscilla Twilight see!
Virgin, and vixen!—Ne'er was face,
In which some flaw she could not trace;—
Save one:—one did uncensur'd pass:—
“And where was that found?”—In her glass.
She never could, and you may swear,
Will never find a wrinkle there!

209

Prophetic of unwelcome news,
Look where old Blister Twilight stews!
More quick to ken things dread and drear,
Than second-sighted Highland seer!
Stone blind meanwhile, to all he owes,
To every comfort Heaven bestows;
Each honest hope's enlivening flame;
Each social joy; each social claim.

Something between a scrub, and squire,
Ranks Stanza Twilight, Versifier.
Of him—but he's a brother chip;—
And, therefore, now, we'll let him slip:
Poets at Poets should not strike;
Perhaps you'd find us but too like;
Too justly class me with the tribe
Of purblind Twilights, I describe;
And make my own absurd attack,
The very rod for my own back.

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Well! Sirs!—as fate and you think fit!
Twilight is some light, all admit;
And were I worst of Twilight Bards,
There's one sure trick upon the cards;—
I can't have wholly mist my mark.
—'Tis something to be not pitch Dark.

211

IMAGINARY PERSONAGES.

The Passions once, in frolick pastime gay,
Stole Fancy's Magic-Lantern for a day;
And each, in order, it's effect essay'd,
On some new Phantom, which herself portray'd.

Fierce Anger first her hasty hand apply'd,
And sketch'd an earth-born Giant's towering pride:
Vast was his strength, and terrible his nod;
He spoke in thunder, and on storms he rode;
He mow'd down armies, and he kick'd down thrones;
And infants call him still, Raw-head-and-Bloody-Bones.

Valour, of glorious hazard only proud,
Drew Dragons hissing from the bursting cloud;

212

Sorcerers, whose spells could wrathful warriors tame;
And wedge in rifted rocks the captive dame;
Till happier Hardihead th' inchantment broke;
And magic adamant dissolv'd in smoke.

Fear's trembling pencil group'd a Goblin crew,
Ghosts clattering chains, around the church-yard yew;
Forms, without heads, that crost the midnight ways;
Heads, without limbs, where saucer eye-balls blaze,
And Shapes grotesque, down eve's grey shade that slide,
And buzzing, grinning, chattering, screaming, glide.

To her succeeded Hope; intent to trace
A friendly Wizard's comfortable face;
The reverend Merlin of a former age;
Unconquerably just, benignly sage.
Low o'er his breast a milk-white beard was spread:—
Aw'd by his wand the Powers of Mischief fled;
Till (every peril past) sure triumph grac'd
The brave; and happy wedlock crown'd the chaste.

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A scene far different wild Despair employ'd;
Furies, whose whips clash thro' the darksome void;
Demons with forks of fire, and breaths of flame,
That howl revenge, and chuckle at our shame;
Mock guilty misery's most alarming hour;
And to the rage of malice, add the power.

Mirth then display'd a jocund troop to view;
Trim Fairies, frisking on the twilight dew;
Fantastic Will-a-wisps thro' bush and brier,
That lur'd the staring clown, and sous'd him in the mire;
And fire-proof Elves, that round the caldron squat,
And burn the housewife's dumplin to the pot.

Then Superstition came, her Sprites to shew,
That make the mastiff's yell, the note of woe;
At melancholy's window flap their wings;
In concert with the dirge the raven sings;

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O'er Nature's face a veil of omens spread;
Perplex the living, and belie the dead.

Envy's shrunk finger next th' occasion caught;
And scratch'd the hideous image of her thought;
A scraggy Witch, on broom-stick hors'd for flight;
Equipp'd with all th' artillery of spite;
Mildews and blights, to blast the forward grain;
Philtres t' intoxicate the mad'ning brain;
Prayers mumbled backwards, discord to promote;
And crooked pins, to rend the sufferer's throat.

Love still remain'd—but lo! while she prepares
Her little family of Joys and Cares,
Fancy herself surpris'd the wanton train,
Reclaim'd her Lantern,—and resum'd her reign;
Seiz'd on the spot, the visionary scroll,
And then to Genius gave the motley whole.

215

Genius, sublime with taste, correct with ease,
Alternate soften'd those; and heighten'd these;
From features rude, and parts of monstrous size,
Bade mystic sense, and moral beauty rise;
Engag'd Tradition on the side of Truth;
And made the Tale of Age, the Oracle of Youth.

216

THE MAN IN THE MOON.

What brainsick noddle spun the tether,
That coupled Man and Moon together,
At present I shall not discuss:—
Suffice it, that report runs thus.

Some folks to history owe their fame:
The Man i'th' Moon has no such claim;
But tho' so well known, and so long,
Boasts no record, but one old song;
Which tells us, how he swills his claret;
And feasts on powder'd beef, and carrot.

Why then produce his silly phiz,
If this be all, he does, or is?—

217

Marry, that needs no conjurer's clue:—
Because ourselves are silly too.

Nor deem it odd, that we appear
So like a character so queer:—
Use proper patience, and you'll find,
'Tis much the same with half mankind.

His Full-moon Visage, when you trace,
'Tis bluff rotundity of face.
And what, pray, are those precious hectors,
Quacks, paragraphers, and projectors,
With pills, and puffs, and plans who cram us,
And still detected, still would bam us?
What? but plain types of his rotundity!
Bloated protuberance! void profundity!
Mere Men of Moonshine, sure enough:—
Like him, all face; like him, all bluff.

When in her orb the Moon has past,
From the first quarter, to the last,

218

The Man within her partial blaze,
His countenance in Profile displays.
But these two quarters, you'll observe,
Bend different ways th' alternate curve;
And the last face, of course reverst,
Still turns it's back upon the first:—
Mock patriots thus, in quest of places,
Turn to the great, now rumps, now faces;
And those same great, in that same strain,
Turn tails on them—to turn again.

When a New Moon the skies present us,
The Man i'th' Moon non est inventus:—
Like friends, who crowd where Fortune shines;
But vanish, as her light declines.

Some painters of peculiar taste,
An whole-length Man-i'th'-Moon have plac'd.
Firm on his pins you see him stand,
With—ev'n a lantern in his hand.

219

“Why so?”—you'll say—“What ails his sight?
“Can't he see stars without a light?”
Perhaps not—For 'tis mighty clear,
We have thousands quite as pore-blind here:—
Critics, like him, whose skill so sound,
In Virgil's verse no Genius found:—
Philosophers, who their cares employ,
To make us quarrel with our joy;
Whose eyes no objects ever please;
Who can't, in short, see wood, for trees.

Thus far plain fact suits my plain tale.
But in one thing, alas! we fail.
Our cry is all, “Balloon, Balloon!”—
As who should say, we'll scale the Moon.
But tho' the Moon herself presides
As much o'er madmen, as o'er tides,
The Man i'th' Moon is much too wise,
To quit his footing in the skies;

220

He'll ne'er attempt, nor wish, to get
Beyond the limits Nature set;
Mount wicker cars, ply canvas wings,
And put his trust in sticks and strings;
Nor, if he had 'em, use his powers,
To visit—such a World as ours.

221

GENIUS.

Three things in all her other works around,
The obvious powers of general Nature bound;
Time, Place, and Substance:—these include alone
Whatever is;—or being, can be known.
Fate has admitted in th' extensive plan,
But one exception,—and that one is Man:
Motion and life inferior forms assume,
To be; and be for ever, is his doom!

What wonder therefore, if his nobler part
Beyond mere visible existence start;
And thro' the mists, that cloud his present day,
Some Sparks of heavenly Radiance force their way!

222

Which, as with happier energy they shine,
Confess the Almighty Lord; whose care benign
Breath'd his own Spirit, thro' the embodied clod,
And bade it live—immortal with it's God.

Howe'er those Sparks on various objects fall,
One simple term will comprehend them all,
Genius!—that effort of the vigorous mind,
That leaves Time, Place, and Substance still behind:—
Genius!—whose excellence my Muse and I
(With your good leave) will by this standard try.

O'er Time it triumphs, winged with native force;
Nor Past, nor Future, circumscribe it's course.
Mark how it leads a Milton's mental eye,
Thro' the vast glories of primæval sky;—
When Time itself was yet without a name;
And Present, and Eternal, were the same!
Remember by what generous toils exprest,
It fill'd the purpose of an Alfred's breast;

223

Taught him the first firm base of power to frame;
Then look thro' Ages, for his Britain's fame:
And scorn a shorter period to foresee,
Than everlasting rule, and endless liberty!

Genius, with equal strength and equal grace,
Surmounts the limits of surrounding Place:
Thro' Fiction's fairy-land with Spencer goes;
While at each step some new Creation glows;
When all at large Imagination runs,
And fancied splendors beam from fancied suns.—
—Or aids a Newton's patient search to trace
Athwart concentring Orbs, the Comet's race;
Where, (hid by distance from each other's sight,)
Worlds beyond Worlds have lost it's devious light;
And, haply, like ourselves, their Newtons trust,
'Till the returning Blaze proves computation just.

Myriads of Forms has passive Substance caught:
But what are they to Shakespear's boundless Thought!

224

Thought!—that could local habitation feign,
For airy Nothing's animated train!
And Elves of phantom potency create,
To sport with Elements, and fashion Fate!
—Past all Substantial scope Idea stray'd,
When Pope his glittering Host of Sylphs array'd;
Fix'd a new Guard round female beauty's throne;
And peopled air with Nations of his own:—
Rosy Decorum hail'd the friendly Throng;
And every laughing Grace enjoy'd the song.

Thus Genius, Substance, Time, and Place, disdains:
And my position in full force remains.

Censure, perhaps, with critic frown, will deem,
This scale of mine too scanty for my theme:
—“Genius,” 'twill say, “excels a thousand ways;
“Time, Place, and Substance, speak not half her praise;
“Her range of flight is infinite:”—Agreed!
But infinite range of flight suits not my speed.

225

Perhaps, my list of Heroes is too short:—
But they are Heroes of Gigantic sort.—
And sure 'tis just, as well as patriot pride,
To boast—my Country all that list supply'd!

If still I stand condemn'd, there's one sure card,
I'll plead my Head! and own myself no Bard!
My faults, of course, their own excuse will bring:
—For Genius only, should of Genius sing.

226

THE BOOK.

When from our Master's hand this theme I took,
Rhyme, nolens volens, coupled it with—Cook:
And tho' the wise say, second thoughts are best,
My first, with your good leave, shall stand the test;
The Cook shall matter for the Book prepare,
And turn my Catalogue to a Bill of Fare:
Nor frown, if puns, more thick than proofs, are laid;
So our poetic Force-meat must be made.

The Folio Volume's ample bulk supplies
A literary Dish, of larger size.
—In Epic Verse, when skill and genius meet;
'Tis vast Sir-loin, an universal treat.

227

Solid, tho' savory, flows th' Historic Strain;
Like the boil'd Buttock—cut and come again.
Encyclopedias art's whole scope include;
And set before you science barbicued;
Where, as your stomach serves, your mess you measure,
And choose your Joint, and cut your slice at pleasure.
Fathers and Canonists are tough, dry food;
Mere learned Stock-fish, neither bad nor good.
Law Codes from time a musty sanction get;
As Venison takes it's flavour from fumette.
Words under words, in rows succeeding rows,
The Dictionary's column'd leaf compose;
And stand (in culinary style exprest)
Like Bacon on a larded Turkey's breast.
Long-winded Scholiasts, in th' enormous page,
Hash up the dulness of a former age;
Or the vast vase with Water-souchy fill,
And make insipid, more insipid still:

228

While Critics, that in sounder sense excel,
Like Smelts round Salmon, grace the dish they swell.

So much for Folios.—Smaller Books appear,
Tho' less substantial, yet more various cheer.
—Abridgments give an Author's works in brief;
As Cooks to Jelly stew down shins of beef.
The cloth for Turtle, hack Translators spread;
Then serve up Goose's Gibblets, or Calve's Head.
Reviews and Magazines odd scraps retail;
True Salmagundi stuff, sour, salt, fresh, stale.
Satire is pepper'd Gizzard grill'd in taste.
And what are Modern Essays, but puff-paste?
Comedy's Soup-maigre, from a French Tureen:
And Tragedy, the black -pudding of the scene.
What's Modish Eloquence?—Whipt-cream, for sooth,
Froth'd up and sugar'd, to the vulgar tooth.
State Logic's Chicken-Broth, so thin, so weak!
And Opposition Politics, Bubble-and-squeak!

229

Love-Poetry's Pap-sauce, soft, simple, sweet:
And Popular Theology, minc'd-meat.
Scribblers, from hand to mouth, who write and live,
In weekly Numbers, mental Spoon-meat give.
Alamode Collops Miscellanies club:
And Novels, sentimental Syllabub.

Not Books alone from Viands take their cue,
Even Bindings have a spice of Cookery too.
Sheets into Skin, like Sausages are thrust:
Gilding is Garnish; Pasteboard is rais'd-crust.

Some frivolous gentry of the present day,
In Alphabetic Buckles shine away:
But language needs not fashion's flimsy aid;
It's elemental base is deeper laid:
Your children living, and your grandsires dead,
Lov'd, while they thumb'd, and tasted as they read,
The Horn-book's best edition, Gingerbread.

230

Thus Books are intellectual Aliment; drest
For every appetite of every guest:—
Or, if a various reading you can swallow,
“Scripta Palati nunc, quæcunque recepit Apollo.”

Scripta, Palatinus quæcunque recepit Apollo. Horat. Ep. 3. L. I.

231

ARITHMETIC.

Arithmetic!—wags will say, upon this spot!
Cyphering at Merchant-Taylors'!—Yes—why not?
Numbers to verse it's pleasing powers prolong:
Why should not verse to numbers give a song?

Our pounds, our shillings, and our pence, indeed,
But little skill in computation need:—
Yet while so kind an audience we can boast,
At least we reckon not—without our host.

Arithmetic's scope is universal—true!
Yet local, temporary, personal too:
In proof whereof, for want of better chear,
A few short specimens now crave your ear.

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First for locality—'tis sure, tho' strange,
Arithmetic changes, even as places change.

Dangling at levees in the great-man's train,
You bow, retire; return, and bow again:
Tho' balk'd, still hope; tho' hoping, still confess
Days of suspence, are ages of distress.
State you th' account of pains so idly lost,
Scarce any recompence could quit the cost:—
But let my lord himself compute his debt,
'Tis just the very Nothing—which you get.

The gull at Arthur's, to make ruin brief,
Bets on a card—and bets against a thief:
Bets; loses; pays; goes back from whence he came,
And bilks, or bullies off, a tradesman's claim:
Deems thousands bagatelles, where gamblers meet,
And pence important, where himself can cheat.

Two opposite sides the Senate-House compose;
And each it's own distinct arithmetic shows:

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One numbers faults; the other merits quotes;
Those count mismanagements; and these count votes;
Those twenty grievances in one deplore;
And these to make us richer, tax us more.

As different place, so different time displays
Arithmetic's energy in different ways.

Before you sue, your lawyer states a sum;
Verdict, replevy, trover, all to come:
But after issue join'd, you find his skill
Had cast up nothing right—except his bill.

Sylvia in youth's high bloom, and health's high glow,
Thought every minute ten; time crept so slow:
In age, quite retrograde her reckonings run;
Five winters since, her fiftieth year begun;
Five winters hence, she'll set down fifty-one.

Favours, when Curio wants an helping hand,
Mark'd in his estimate for nothing stand:

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One rule, proportion's golden rule we call;
Curio, it seems, has two such rules—that's all.
Should Curio thrive, and you hereafter sue,
He'll rate all double—when he favours you.

Arithmetic's modes thus follow place and time:
I'll prove 'em personal too—and end my rhyme.

Numbering her griefs, see where poor Claudia lies!
O! vast amount of woe—her Jackoo dies!
Youth, beauty, wealth, in vain your gifts ye shed!
Are they a balance for a monkey dead?—
Pain, want, despair, ye claim not pity's shrug!
Can they feel sorrow, who have lost no pug?

On ruin's brink, grave Publius cries, we stand;
Follies and vices soon must sink the land:
Then spreads a black account before our view,
Of things too flagrant,—and perhaps too true:
Yet Publius never, to avert the shock,
Deducts one vice or folly, from the stock.

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But why to satire thus devote our lays?
Personal Arithmetic can sanction praise.
There are, who all it's generous compass know;
And use it's largest scale—when they bestow:
Who add new bounties, to indulge new zeal;—
With pride we tell it; for with joy we feel;
Conscious the public voice will join the strain,
While Seats like these, and Men like you, remain.

236

NATURAL PHILOSOPHY.

On this same spot, at many a festive time,
You've seen me mount a-cock-horse—on my rhyme;
Round Fancy's course, in short excursions stray;
And canter careless, over carpet-way.

But for the present day's sublimer track,
This nag of nine-pence, my poetick hack,
Nor blood, nor bone, nor foot, nor wind supplies.—
—A Pegasus must raise me—if I rise!

Suppose that Pegasus ready at my call!
Suppose him strong enough to bear you all!—
Come!—take your seats—you're safe as safe can be:—
Bravo!—'tis done!—and Hey! boys!—up go we!

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The Persian Magi, and th' Egyptian Sage,
Claim our first visit; and our longest stage.
They Nature's face, thro' Nature's veil discern'd;
And taught in symbols, what by toil they learn'd.
Motion her earliest attribute they knew;
And in a waving line it's likeness drew.
The triangle's fix'd base, and varying side,
Matter's gross weight, and changeful forms imply'd.
T' express in Space uncircumscrib'd extent
The hieroglyphick hawk his pinions lent.
Beneath the Beetle's shape they bade us see
Th' effect of solar Heat, and animal Energy.
Thus they deep sense by obvious signs disclose!
And when from Nature to her God they rose,
They mark'd his Essence by a mystic Round;
All Centre—tho' no eye it's place had found;
And All Circumference—tho' without a bound.

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So much for Eastern Lore, at learning's source!
To Grecian Schools direct we now our course.
There, with more pomp, by axioms more combin'd,
Proportion's theorems Nature's laws defin'd:
On abstract paradox all system mov'd;
Privation gave the powers, Negation prov'd.
Did secret springs contiguous parts unite?
They call'd it Sympathy—and all was right.
Did discord rise from properties unseen?
Antipathy was an universal screen.
What facts they trac'd, in splendid style they drest;
And Qualities occult still solv'd the rest.
Theory meanwhile, at every step they made,
A gradual, yet a partial light display'd:
Much, tho' not all, stood demonstration's test;
And Euclid sanction'd oft, what Aristotle guess'd.

From classic Greece to classic Italy's coast,
Is mere high road, where Pegasus travels post;

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But there, save Pliny, scarce a name remains;
Pliny, who gave more credit, than he gains:
And while to bulk immense his volume grew,
Heard every gossip's tale—and told it too!

Well, Sirs! how large a circuit we have past!
And where's the true Philosophy at last?
Where? but at home?—If ever 'tis complete,
England, old England is it's favorite seat!
There all her stores to Bacon Nature spread:
There her own laws in Newton's rules she read:
There hand in hand with Boyle she lov'd to stray;
And led, and met Experiment half way:
There, coy no more, she shews her beauties still
To speculative truth, and practic skill;
Thro' earth, air, sea, Discovery's range extends;
And only stops it—where Existence ends.

Where ends Existence?—that's a stop indeed!
And there, with your good leave, we'll stop our steed.

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Thanks for your company on this rambling jaunt!
Thanks for whate'er you do—whate'er you grant!
Nor wonder, if on every theme we try,
We catch some hint to speak our feelings by.
To boast such Friends, and boasting to rejoice,
If not Philosophy's—is Nature's voice.

241

THE FAMILY FIRE-SIDE.

“Home's Home, however homely,” Wisdom says—
And certain is the fact, tho' coarse the phrase.—
To prove it, if it need a proof at all,
Mark what a train attends the Muse's call;
And as she leads th' ideal group along,
Let your own feelings realize the song.

Clear then the stage!—No scenery we require,
Save the snug circle, round her Parlour Fire:—
And enter, marshall'd in procession fair,
Each happier Influence, that predominates there.

First Love, by friendship mellow'd into bliss,
Lights the glad glow, and sanctifies the kiss,

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When fondly welcom'd to the accustom'd seat,
In sweet complacence, Wife and Husband meet;
Look mutual pleasure, mutual purpose share,
Repose from labours, but unite in care.

Ambition—does Ambition there reside?
Yes!—when the Boy, in manly mood, astride,
Of headstrong prowess innocently vain,
Canters, the jockey of his Father's cane.
—While Emulation, in the Daughter's heart,
Bears a more mild, tho' not less powerful part;
With zeal to shine her fluttering bosom warms;
And in the romp, the future house-wife forms.

Or both, perchance, to graver sport incline,
And Art and Genius in their pastime join;
This the cramp riddle's puzzling knot invents;
That rears aloft the card-built tenements.

Think how Joy animates, intense, tho' meek,
The fading roses on their Grandame's cheek;

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When proud the frolic progeny to survey,
She feels, and owns, an interest in their play;
Adopts each wish, their wayward whims unfold;
And tells, at every call, the story ten-times told.

Good-humour'd Dignity endears, meanwhile,
The narrative Grandsire's venerable style,
If, haply, feats atchiev'd in prime of youth,
Or pristine anecdote, or historic truth,
Or maxim shrewd, or admonition bland,
Affectionate attention's ear command.

To such Society, so form'd, so blest,
Time, Thought, Remembrance, all impart a zest:
And Expectation, day by day, more bright,
Round every prospect throws increasing light;
The simplest comforts act with strongest force:
Whate'er can give them, can improve, of course.

All this is Common-Place, you'll tell me—true!
What pity 'tis not Common Fashion too!—

244

Roam as we will, plain sense, at last, will find,
'Tis only seeking—what we left behind.
—If Individual Good engage our hope,
Domestic Virtues give the largest scope;
If plans of Public Eminence we trace,
Domestic Virtues are it's surest base.—

Would great example make these truths more clear?
The greatest of examples shall appear.
—Is there a Man, whom general suffrage owns
An Honor to the Majesty of Thrones?
—Is there a Man, whom general Love's acclaim
Greets with each noblest, and each dearest name?—
He, midst the Glare of State, and Pomp of Power,
Courts the soft sympathies of the Family Hour;
Not less illustrious at his own Fire-side,
By private Merit's Sterling standard try'd,
Than, when the cares from Royal Worth that spring,
Call forth the People's Father, and the King.

245

LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

Come, Fancy! come! and bring with thee
The cottage Nymph Simplicity!
And as thou try'st thy pencil bold,
Let her, Decorum's compass hold!
While in one piece correctly sweet,
Expression and Propriety meet.

But what one piece, ye friendly Pair,
Your union's joint effect shall share?
For me, if ye vouchsafe your skill,
The canvas let a Landscape fill.

Let Nature in the foremost ground
Disperse her varied scenery round:

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Rear, gently bending to the breeze,
In casual group her loftier trees;
Whose crossing trunks bedim the glade,
Spontaneous arch of needful shade;
While from their outward foliage, gleam
The fleet tints of day's passing beam.

Let next in order due succeed
The mingled hues of vale and mead;
The road in devious windings wrought;
Now lost, and now at distance caught;
Whose broken track directs us still
To some brisk streamlet's glassy rill;
Whence lessening in progressive guise,
Long levels stretch, abrupt rocks rise;
'Till Light's last line the view compleat;
And woods, skies, plains, and mountains meet.

Let, full to sight, a thatch-clad dome
Give humble Honesty an home;

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At whose low door, with house-wife zeal,
Unconscious beauty twirls her wheel;
Whose chimney, peeping o'er the roof,
Speaks economic welcome's proof;
While unsuspecting innocence
Finds in each bush a native fence.

Let Plenty, not for shew but use,
Her numerous family introduce;
Her larger kine on slope, or dale,
That drag the plow, or fill the pail;
Her flocks, from off whose fleecy side
Comes English traffic's staple pride;
And (all of feather'd finery vain)
Her barn-door plump domestic train.

Let Labour frank, of patient glee,
Drive the stout team along the lea;
With Hope still scattering in his rear
The seedling earnest of the year;

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Or tinging, gradual, as they grow,
The lavish stores of Autumn's glow.

Let, o'er the hospitable jug,
In mutual relaxation snug,
On some rude beam's extempore seat,
The fathers of the village meet;
Discussing, amicably warm,
The politics of the field and farm.

Nor be the distant church forgot,
Whose rustic spire o'er-looks the spot:
Prompting idea to suppose
What festive sanctity it shows,
When unaffected piety pays
The tribute of appropriate praise:
Or, at the antique altar's side,
A faithful youth, and artless bride,
Their spousal troth alternate plight,
And seal love's vows with wedlock's rite.

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Here, Fancy, lay the pencil by:—
—And thou, whoe'er thou art, whose eye
O'er pictur'd life delighted strays;
If aught thou hop'st in future days
To realize a scene like this,
—Make previous Virtue earn the bliss.—

250

IRONY.

“Bottled ale” (if a popular phrase I may quote)
“Will smile in your face, while 'tis cutting your throat.”—
And Irony's trim, I presume, you'll agree,
Is as like bottled ale, as a pea's like a pea.
For it means you most harm, when it speaks you most kind;
All affection before, and all mischief behind.

When you use a blunt razor, 'tis twenty to one,
That you scarce touch your chin, till you see the blood run:
But a razor, that's keen, plays so smoothly it's part,
You perceive not the cut, 'till convinc'd by the smart;
And in matters of speech, as the learned alledge,
So keen, and so smooth, should be Irony's edge.

251

When a painter, with judgment his colours has laid,
Shade heightens the light, and light deepens the shade:
And as contrasts in picture, so contrasts in wit,
Will mutual advantage impart, and admit;
Thus in Irony's case, with reciprocal power,
Sour makes sweetness more sweet; sweet makes sourness more sour.

Your strolling cake-merchant will oftentimes put
In his basket a viand, yclep'd a game-nut;
Which seeming to promise a gingerbread treat,
By it's tempting appearance invites you to eat;
But the moment your teeth touch the treacherous frame,
Sets, with pepper's strong caustic, your mouth in a flame:
Such a game-nut in language is Irony's smile,
It's insinuating air, and it's soft soothing style;
While it's real effects, when the whole you discern,
Is like pepper to bite, like a caustic to burn.

In the marshes and moor-lands, the sportsmen employ
A renegade duck, which they call a decoy;

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Who in tone so alluring repeats his “quack, quack,”
That his brethren flock round him, duck over duck's back;
Nor perceive, 'till too far for retreating they get,
That they're thrusting their heads within sweep of a net:
So like to this treason is Irony's tale,
You can hardly say, which has the turn of the scale;
Both the very same game on credulity play;
Both are artful to please; and both please, to betray!

A bear, when an hive, in his rambles, he meets,
Sticks, without fear or wit, his rude nose in the sweets;
But finds bees can be angry, as bears can be stout;
And sneaks off, with an hundred sharp stings in his snout:—
Remember this bear; and when Irony brings
Her honied address, be aware of her stings.

But perhaps all this while 'twill be laid to my charge,
That on Irony's worst part alone, I enlarge:
'Twill be said, that on truth's side it often has stood,
And by contrasted falsehood, made virtue's cause good;

253

That a fiction may strike, where no proof would succeed;—
—I acknowledge the fact;—but lament for the need:
For sure, Irony's aid might be laid on the shelf,
Could Truth always be heard, when it speaks for itself.

254

THE VOCATIVE CASE.

Among these Cases, and the brags of each,
Mine claims no kin, but to one Part of Speech;
And ev'n that one implies no grand connection,
The least of all the Eight—the Interjection.
Nay, (to let down it's consequence still more low,)
The least of Words,—the least of Syllables—O!
—However my proud neighbours may aspire,
The Vocative Case can only suit a Crier!—
Well! I submit—and since 'tis come to this,
A Crier I will be:—O! Yes!—O! Yes!
The Men and Manners of our modern day,
Will give my little O abundant play.

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To you, ye great, then; and to you, ye small,
In vocative construction, thus I call!

O! Yes! Ye offspring of illustrious sires!
Whose lives should sanction, what your birth requires,
At higher estimates lineal honours set;
Nor sacrifice nobility—to a bet!

O! Yes! Ye dames, whom courtly splendours grace,
Consorts and dowagers of each titled race,
Thro' pleasure's restless circles while ye roam,
Think, now and then, of Duty—Nature—Home!

O! Yes! Ye politicians, who declare
The fate of nations, from an easy chair,
On social service, your address employ!
And join to earn the blessings you enjoy!

O! Yes! Ye mushrooms of Philosophy's school,
Who torture right by metaphysic rule,
Move not the base, where truth so long has stood;
But let plain sense, lead plain men, to plain good!

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O! Yes! Ye painful triflers, who explore
On a moth's wing, a spot unseen before,
Transfer your toils, your own distinctions scan;
And study manhood's worthiest object—Man!

O! Yes! Ye manufacturers of despair,
Who like curst curs, growl o'er the mess ye share,
Look round, where millions want, what you have had!
—The just are grateful—Be the grateful glad!

O! Yes! Ye fair, down fashion's stream who swim,
Ye hoyden bouncers! and ye prudes so prim!
Shine as ye may, with artless charms content;
Seem, what ye are;—and be what Nature meant!

O! Yes! Ye pigeons, who on luck rely,
Chances of cards, decisions of a die,
Think ruin lurks beneath each frantic stake!
—Amidst life's lot of miseries, your's ye make!

O! Yes! Ye subjects in a land like ours,
Enlarge your sentiments; but unite your powers!

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Freedom with virtue, zeal with sense ally'd,
No force can conquer—let no arts divide!

O! Yes! All ye, whoe'er ye are, that please
To take the Crier's word, on points like these,
Be sure, experience will reward impart;
And Wisdom find it's echo—in your Heart!

258

POETICAL CREATION.

Omnipotence had wrought!—An Universe stood
Center'd amidst the abyss—and all was good!
So will'd th' All-wise!—and there vouchsaf'd to lay
Th' eternal barriers of Creation's day:—
Then, to perpetuate the august design,
To Substance give it's laws; to Form it's line.

Yet tho' material essence know no change,
Ideal life suggested endless range.
From things that were, imagin'd Being grew,
And Genius fill'd th' out-lines Fancy drew.

Insatiate rage, gross strength, and brutal pride,
In fiction's world assum'd a Giant's stride:

259

Fate had made men, but men;—the Poet's mind
Enlarg'd the mass, to express the savage kind;
Swung from Enormous Bulk th' oppressor's blow;
And made description's Monster, Nature's Foe.

Experience trac'd, and wisdom mourn'd to trace,
Insidious vice, degrading human race;
How passion warpt it; how desire inflam'd;
How indolence soften'd; how indulgence tam'd;
To check the havoc such delusion made,
The Sage's precept, sought the Poet's aid:
With all th' allurements of licentious joy
He deck'd the Syren; beauteous, to destroy:
He cloth'd with all the terrors guilt can dread
The Furies, hovering o'er the conscious head;
In combinations formidably new,
Embodying language, to the mental view.

Such purpose, first, the moral Muse inspir'd,
Till larger scope Inventive Wit requir'd:

260

Then, Shapes Grotesque, by wanton whim array'd,
Imagination's random work betray'd;
Beast, bird, fish, man, in Fancy's frantic hours,
Gave, and receiv'd, promiscuous parts, and pow'rs:
Chimeras, Harpies, Satyrs, Tritons swarm'd;
And each new Bard, some animal medley form'd.

Yet polish'd Greece, ev'n here, avow'd applause;
Yet Homer, Nature's poet, broke her laws;
Yet Virgil's chaster sense th' infection caught;
And elegance grac'd, what inconsistence taught.
—What wonder then, if Nations less refin'd,
Figures absurd, in modes incongruous join'd;
Heard minstrels rude, o'er Indian wilds who trod,
Incorporate fifty Monsters in a God;
Tremendous Groupes of hideous Shapes adore;
And arm with Horror Him, whose Mercy they implore!
—What wonder, if traditionary rhymes,
Command th' attention of all lands and times;

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Obtrude each gossip's song, as positive proof;
Give Broomsticks wings, and cleave the Demon's hoof!
While midnight revels, imp-rid Wizards share;
And Hags turn'd cats, their noxious spells prepare!

Nor deem it strange, if while thus wild I rove,
I feel, myself, a kindred impulse move:
Methinks, poor poet as I am, ev'n I,
Should wish, for once, my scanty skill to try.
Suppose, for instance, in the self-same face,
Benevolence's smile, and Candor's grace,
The stedfast features Perseverance shows,
The warm concern, for general good that glows,
Beneath one compound Semblance should unite,
In verse;—such verse, at least, as I can write!
Suppose—“Hold! hold! young man,” Reflection cries,
“Would that be novelty here? Consult your eyes:
“The Friends, beneath whose care this Fabric rose,
“Have been for Ages, all you now suppose.”

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THE DAY-FLY.

To guess what actual properties, feelings, pow'rs,
Fill animal life, where life but fills five hours,
Were toil, if not as impious, quite as vain,
As modern mad philosophers sustain;
Who reason's light, with rash assumptions shade,
And hide their God—behind the works he made.

But why despair?—Altho' th' Emphemeral Fly
So scanty scope for positive hints supply,
Tho' what it is, description scarce can say,
Still what it seems, may prompt the abundant lay.

It seems then, palpably, where'er 'tis trac'd,
An individual, among millions plac'd;

263

A member in a free community, free;
Born to no rights, except the right to be;
Yet in the space, thro' which 'tis doom'd to go,
Still on the wing, and still alertly so;
Unharm'd and harmless, in incessant play;
By none impeded, and in no one's way!—
Say, politicians, where on earth beside,
Does independance, so complete, abide?

The Day-Fly's brief existence we suppose,
With evening to commence, with night to close;
Form'd, as it is, no rough assault to bear,
No sun's excess, no turbulence of air;
Proof of th' Omnipotent Goodness, which assign'd
The calmest period to the weakest kind!
See this! ye fools! at nature's laws who rail,
And weigh out Deity, in presumption's scale!
See this! and conscious of a truth so clear,
Say, is not moral fitness perfect here?

264

Short as the Day-Fly's vital range may seem,
'Tis, while it lasts, enjoyment in th' extreme!
Life, without peril, pain, or care, sustain'd;
Strength undiminish'd; frolic unrestrain'd!
Could we, proud Men, from our own length of years,
Expunge our wants, our sorrows, and our fears;
Folly's disgustful, sloth's insipid, hour;
All memory's bitter, all ill-humour's sour;
Whoe'er the real residue should state,
Would find that residue, a mere Day-Fly's date.

Such is humanity's regular routine.—
If madness more eccentric fill the scene;
If Guilt howe'er successful gnaw the heart;
If Conscience at her own suggestions start;
If coward Jealousy's ever-restless eyes,
Anticipate torture, while they watch surmise;
Who, but must choose, if wisdom's voice he hear,
A Day-Fly's hour, before a villain's year?

265

Wherein, you'll say, wherein, if this be true,
Does Man the pettiest animal outdo?
Or rather (measuring life by pleasure's span)
Is not the pettiest animal more than Man?
—No—trust me, No.—For him things future wait—
There is the being, which decides his fate!
'Tis his, if due attention he employ,
To make the present, innocence, if not joy:
Sure for that innocence, deathless bliss to share!—
Fly of a Day—but Immortality's Heir!

266

GRACEFUL ADDRESS.

When first o'er Eden's blissful shade
Mankind's forefather, guiltless, stray'd,
His eye sublime, his tranquil face,
His noble port, his lordly pace,
(Tho' separate symmetry they disclos'd,)
One total majesty compos'd;
Where, true to joy's complacent tone,
His mind in every movement shone.

Such once was man!—with innocence blest!
Comeliest of beings—because best!
Till from th' Almighty Presence chas'd,
Exil'd, abash'd, dismay'd, debas'd,

267

He fell—beneath his deadliest foe;
Victim of wrath; and heir of woe!

From that sad period, forms constrain'd,
Contracted sentiments, feelings feign'd,
On mere capricious arts depend;
Distorting, what they seek to mend.

Pride first, assum'd a statelier air,
It's step, a stride;—it's look, a stare;
It's smile, a favour;—from it's hand
A signal, fate;—it's nod, command.
While Grace transferr'd to grandeur's sphere,
Grew pompous, distant, stern, severe.

Next Affectation's reign appear'd;
On more extensive basis rear'd:
Savage and simple, great and small,
Her ample range included all.
The smirk, the toss, the shrug, the stalk,
Part slide, part swim, part dance, part walk;

268

The limp, the lisp, the pert, the prim;
Fashions for laws, for axioms, whim;
Each their successive changes rung;
While fair and homely, old and young,
Courtier and rustic, flirt and beau,
The high-bred, and of course, the low,
Caught some variety of grimace;
Conceit was ton; and ton was Grace!

'Twere well, if Affectation's power
Were only seen, in Folly's hour:
But Fraud, alas! too often tries
Fictitious Grace's sly disguise;
So delicate, so well-inclin'd,
So plausible, so polite, so kind,
So soft, so smooth, so friendly too,
So good, so—every-thing—but true!

Methinks, you'll tell me, here, I seem,
Entirely to reverse my theme;

269

And paint instead of real Grace,
Mere Mimicry, that usurps it's place.
—I own the fact, but meant to draw
It's contrast, with the more eclat.—
Grace is not Fraud, Conceit, or Pride.—
What is it then?—Who shall decide?
Candor, perhaps, will not repine
T' accept th' attempt, from verse like mine.

Grace, whose address the wise applaud,
Disclaims all pride, conceit, or fraud.—
'Tis elegance, which pervades the whole,
When look, voice, attitude, speak the soul:—
'Tis that propriety, which reveals
In nature's mode, what nature feels:—
'Tis sense, estrang'd from cold neglect,
From coarse excess, from rude defect:—

270

'Tis that decorum, thro' whose ease,
Truth can at once convince, and please:—
'Tis eloquent rectitude of intent,
Which makes simplicity, ornament:—
'Tis frankness, whose more cheerful vein,
Nor prompts a blush, nor gives a pain:—
'Tis that civility, which affirms
Humanity's wish, in charity's terms:—
'Tis that attraction, which can throw
Sincerity's charms o'er virtue's glow:—
'Tis meek superiority; bright,
Without obscuring humbler light:—
'Tis sympathy, whose benignant phrase
Can comfort, where it cannot praise:—
'Tis dignity, fix'd on honour's post,
Which neither gives, nor heeds a boast:—

271

'Tis wisdom, zealous, tho' serene,
Gently impressive, kindly keen:—
'Tis body, mind, deportment, style,
Free from embarrassment, as from guile:—
'Tis that, (at least, in some degree,)
Which Man, first form'd, was form'd to be!

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WIT.

Wit, only by negatives, Cowley defin'd;—
And the learned at large, appear much of his mind:—
'Tis no treason, of course, if in part I incline,
By the plan he adopted, to regulate mine;
And endeavour, (with all due respect be it spoken,)
To make my own way, thro' the ice he has broken.

Wit is not a jest, our friend Cowley avers;
And all critical truth with his doctrine concurs:
But could Cowley, in propriâ personâ, appear,
And see all that we see, or hear all that we hear;
Had he skill to interpret, or patience to heed,
All the writing we write, and the reading we read;

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He might surely conclude, and might justly declare,
That, tho' Wit be no jest, half our boasts of it, are.

'Tis not Wit, for the sake of mere cadence and chime,
To squeeze words into feet, and screw feet into rhyme!

'Tis not Wit, in a chaos of language to pile,
All the finical, flowery, finesses of style!

'Tis not Wit, thro' a series of jingle, to run
A literal goose-chase, in pursuit of a pun!

'Tis not Wit, to play off, in theatrical cant,
A jumble of thought, in a tempest of rant!
—And I need not much proof to convince you,—provide
That if this be not Wit,—we have little beside!

Here Cowley stops short:—and here I must stop too,
If I had not such friends, as yourselves in my view;
In whose candour alone I presume to confide,
While I now beat the bush on the opposite side;
And from two or three hints, which my betters forgot,
Trace what Wit ought to be—from what they say, 'tis not.

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Wit should be an effulgence, as steady as bright;
Which can prove it's own excellence, by it's own light;
Tho' delicate, pungent; tho' sudden, correct;
Whose effect aids it's glow, and whose glow, it's effect;
Which you own more substantial, the longer you note it;
And you like still the better, the oft'ner you quote it.

Wit should bring to a point, understanding's whole mass;
Like essence of sunshine, concenter'd by glass.
It should all quick conception's gradations assume.
'Tis the high health of Genius! 'Tis Fancy's full bloom!
'Tis Sense, which (like conquerors in classical song)
Leads sound and expression, in triumph along!

Wit from obvious ideas, unstudied should rise;
Should engage by conviction, not catch by surprize:
It should work on assent by propriety's springs;
And the test of it's truth, be the nature of things;
And however, from image to image, it rove,
Or unite, or disjoin them,—should always improve!

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One principle Wit should inviolate keep;
Be it's edge e'er so keen, it should never cut deep:
It degrades it's own praise, if at random it wounds;
When it goes beyond pleasing, it goes beyond bounds:
For what worthy eclat, can pre-eminence impart,
If what lifts up the head, does but lower the heart?

But perhaps, some shrew'd wag of the cynical tribe,
May bid me exemplify, what I describe;
And instead of conceited descriptions of Wit,
Let you see what it is, by producing a bit!

That, I needs must confess, is a reasonable call:—
But, alas! in this case, I have not wherewithal;
Wherefore hiding my horns, like a snail in a shell,
I'll show Wisdom for Wit—and leave off, while I'm well!

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THE ENGLISH CHARACTER.

When Horace named the Natives of our Isle,
“Savage to strangers,” was th' invidious style:
'Twas Virgil's pleasure Britain's sons to call,
“Men sever'd from the world”—and that was all.—
Martial indeed a little farther goes,
And grants our sires some genius could disclose;
For Rome, he tells us in right pompous tone,
From “barbarous British baskets, form'd her own.”

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This, in old writ, and only this we learn;
In vain of course to such records we turn:
In vain we seek for classical eclat;—
England's own portrait, English facts must draw.

So be it then.—And if you can endure,
So bold an effort of an hand so poor;
Accept this humble sketch from my rude skill,
Whose faithful outline, truth at least shall fill.

Among the splendid boasts of national fame,
Stands with proud eminence martial glory's claim;
And England's foes in many a conflict crost,
Have tried her native valour to their cost;
Have felt how sure, yet how humanely slow,
Her vengeance; how decisive is her blow;
Vigorous t' enforce the sword, she loves to sheath;
And twining victory's palm, with mercy's wreath!

Provoke an Englishman! how warm he glows!
—No longer fierce, when you no more oppose:—

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Frank to announce th' emotions of his mind!
Stern to the stubborn! to the suppliant kind!
Impetuous to insist on right and fit!
Keen to urge proofs, ingenuous to admit!
With still an arm, encroachment to withstand!
With still an heart, for every friendly hand!

Press'd by misfortune's tempests, gathering round,
An English sufferer's patience stands its ground:
Each fresh attack, some strong resolve renews:
Assault may crush it, but no force subdues.

Whatever boon an Englishman bestows,
From mere good-will, the prompt beneficence flows:
Free from all grudge, unwarpt by all controul,
His welcome, speaks the welcome of the soul!

Too oft, alas! in this our clime is seen,
Th' Hypochondriac, brooding o'er his spleen;
Yet ev'n that spleen can sympathy's call abide;
Lost to himself, he feels for all beside:—

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Shew him some harder task, some manlier aim,
Some feasible benefit, some sublimer claim,
His powers fresh impulse from despair will take,
And all the Englishman within,—awake.

Some call us contradictions; fire and phlegm;
Eager to gain, what gain'd we soon contemn;
If weakness here, sarcastic censure finds,
'Tis sure, the weakness of the noblest minds;
And only proves us to impartial eyes,
More anxious for the cause, than for the prize.

Satirists, sometimes, in English manners, sneer
Address too blunt, and sentiments too severe;
The sanguine fervor, rapid feelings vouch,
Which scorning to deceive, disdains to crouch.
—We own the charge:—we are indeed a race,
Rough of approach, and awkward at grimace;
But trial, (if you try us) will declare,
What obvious, kindred virtues centre there;—

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Exalted sense of honour! all the pride
Of conscious truth, to liberal thought ally'd!
Sincerity's purpose! honest candor's trust!
Whate'er inspires, becomes, or binds the just!

So stands amidst the waves, our country's shore;
And frowns contempt on Ocean's angry roar.
A front abrupt, her rocky cliffs present;
As if for rude resistance only meant;
But all within th' encircling steep barrier,
Luxuriant vales, and oak-crown'd hills appear;
A soil, where plenty's best varieties reign,
A kingdom, worthy real freedom's train:—
While Nature seems to adopt the favourite coast,
The Land her garden, and the Men her boast.

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THE ENGLISH SAILOR.

What cheer? what cheer? Sirs! fore and aft!
Aloft! i'th' gangways! and abaft!
For this your care to overhaul
Our trim,—we thank you, one and all.

The fortunes of an English Tar
Various, as hap and hazard are;
Yet no varieties ever damp
His spirits, or his humour cramp:
Whatever was his former lot,
Put him on board, 'tis all forgot.
He there displays, in every part,
A thoughtless, guileless, dauntless, heart:

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He's there all hero!—But, avast!
Methinks I shoot ahead too fast.
In fight, stick ever by the stuff!
But among friends, steer clear of puff!

“Put him on board,” I said—why true:—
For that's his proper point of view.

Suppose yourselves then in a Ship,
And me your Captain for this trip:—
A Ship well-mann'd, well-rigg'd, well-found;—
Her bottom clean; her timbers sound!—
Tight, tough tarpaulins, all her crew!
—Mayhap, you'd like to see a few.—
Suppose yourselves, this moment hearing
My orders for the gang's appearing;—
—“Below there!—Jackets! trowsers! checks!
—“Turn out, all hands! and man the decks!”

So please you, let us take the group,
Rang'd as they stand, from prow to poop.

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The Boatswain first.—He, you must know,
Had once a vixen wife in tow:
But death, with a side-wind, d'ye see,
Drove her adrift; and set him free.
She left, however, an embargo
Of debts, so heavy on his cargo,
It made him from his moorings steer,
To weather storms, less boisterous, here.

Alongside him, the Mate you'll mark;
A merchant's maccaroni clerk:
Crank, gunwell to, before the gale
He sped; and crowded all his sail;
'Till at an un-paid taylor's call,
The lawyers conjur'd up a squall:—
—Had then those sharks, the bailiffs, met him,
Keel-upwards they had surely set him:
But fate procur'd him, in the fuss,
Safe sea-room and a birth with us.

284

A look, pray, for a moment cast
On yon long lubber, next the mast!
He'd conn'd your learned lingo pat,—
Your Hebrew-latin,—and all that:
But when, unskill'd to stem the tide,
The hurricane of life he tried,
And beat up, right in the wind's eye,
(No log-book of experience nigh,)
He lost his helm; his main-sail tore,
And run his vessel bump ashore;
Then hove out signals of distress,
Glad to make one in any mess.

Steady!—I'm veering out, I find,
More knots an hour, than I design'd:
Wherefore, 'tis time to fall aback;
And haul up, on a closer tack:—
While all the residue, first and last,
However station'd, mess'd, or class'd,

285

The busy, buzzing, bustling crowds,
Of midship, fore-castle, and shrouds,
Who cables coil, who tacklings sling,
Who reef, who splice, who climb, who swing;
All who command, and eke who swab in
Hold, gallery, quarter-deck, or cabin,
Starboard and larboard, more or less,
In one round-robin I compress;
Each frank and free, by each to stand;
Each prompt, with each to bear a hand;
Each prone, staunch prowess to exert,
Stem, stays, and stern, alive, alert;
Each patient, watch and ward to take;
Each faithful, one reserve to make:—
“Reserve?”—you'll say!—“pray what reserve?”
—Ev'n that,—from which they never swerve:—
For tho' they scorn to hoard and heap,
The votive grog they sacred keep,

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To toast, when every week's-work ends,
King, Country, Sweethearts, Families, Friends!
While thus their generous maxims run,
To give to all—but yield to none!

Defended by such Sons, as these,
No wonder Britain awes the Seas:—
Danger, that makes the milk-sop droop,
But sets their courage cock-a-hoop;
Sinews their arms; expands their breasts:—
Then! for “Up hammocks and down chests!”
Then! for the Naval Empire's claim!
Then! for old England's Flag, and Fame!
Then! when her angry Thunders burst,
Perhaps—another June the first!

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MINOR POETRY.

Much of Parnassus, and it's heights sublime,
We read in antient writ, and modern rhyme:—
Heights, which, tho' millions in th' attempt engage,
Scarce one can reach; and hardly once an age.

Tho' all in eager multitudes contend,
Rivals for summits, which so few ascend,
Full many a station of the sacred spot,
Might amply fit less proud ambition's lot:
For numerous tracts of varied landscape fill
Th' adjacent vales, and slope along the hill.

Of these ('tis all my little skill can do)
Permit me now to sketch a bird's-eye view;

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Nor scorn (howe'er inadequate the scrap)
A school-geographer's poetic map.

In smooth extent, which rural beauties grace,
A spacious level skirts the mountain's base:
There might retire, there chant, the pastoral swains,
The Colins, and the Damons of the plains:
There in soft minstrelsy's eternal round,
Wed words to words, wherever sound meets sound;
Till each responsive spray, the meads among,
Quivers in cadence, blossoms into song.

Full to the sight, in distant prospect, towers
A grove of myrtles, twining into bowers.
There love-sick spirits manufacture sighs,
Embalm in metre, dimples, lips, and eyes:
Vows, flatteries, perjuries, Echo's haunts invade;
Hopes, fears, and jealousies breath from every shade.
By nymphs coy, kind, true, false, fair, brown, short, tall,
Some passionate madrigal be-rhymes them all.

289

Where tangling briers, in form of fence, between
Two carpet lawns, diversify the scene,
The rough, rude tribe of satirists might reside;
Cynics, who snarl, and scorners, who deride.
Avoid their gripe, ye virtuous, and ye sage!
Too oft for interest, or for spleen they rage.
'Twere well, did vice alone feel their attack!
Or truth reserve their thorns for folly's back!

Where from the turf, a gradual eminence swells,
The whifling breeze a windmill's sails impels;
There, as in hives, might swarm the sons of whim;
The crotchet-mongers of fantastic trim;
Who retail fancy's frolics, oddity's hits,
Maggots of genius! real nutshell wits!
Wags, who in masques grotesque shake humour's chin;
Pun in conundrums; or in epigrams grin!

A little farther on, from forth a cave,
Bursts an abrupt cascade's sonorous wave;

290

Whose dashing fragments might announce th' abode,
Where lofty language labours—big with ode:
Spurns vulgar comprehension's hackney'd ways;
Soars past the confines of pedestrian phrase;
Above connection, method, or design,
In muse-mad rant, eccentrically fine!

Not far from this ascent a forest lies;
Whose broad old oaks in mossy grandeur rise:—
There dwell the bards, who social aims avow,
And deck with civic wreaths the patriot brow:
Whose popular strains at once record, and raise,
The sailor's spirit, and the soldier's praise:
While conscious, “Britons never will be slaves,”
Zeal shouts from voice to voice, “Britannia rule the waves.”

More upland still, and thro' an avenue seen,
Stands a fair clump of laurels, ever green;
Where rove the guardian bards of each bright name,
Which verse and virtue consecrate to fame;

291

Names of such men, as Heaven's best signature wore;
Whose least distinction was the rank they bore:
Names, which improv'd humanity loves to hear;
Names, to integrity honourably dear;
Names, which by every test of merit known,
Truth may transcribe, even now, from Britain's Throne!

While thus, for others, separate seats I trace,
Perhaps you'll ask me, where myself I'd place;
—What place becomes me, you must judge, not I;
—What place I'd wish for, I'll confess; and why:
I'd mount, where poesy's first enthusiasts stood;
High as old Homer:—higher, if I could!—
There boast how good a work, with what good will,
Your Ancestors did here;—and You do still:—
Then every Muse to choral symphony woo,
In numbers worthy Them, and worthy You.

292

THE PROLOGUE.

A sideboard's front, when tavern guests are met,
Just before dinner comes, presents a whet;
Even so, a Prologue, ere the curtain rise,
Sharpens dramatic appetite—minds—ears—eyes!
Nay farther still the simile will fit:—
Too oft, for wholesome wine, and genuine wit,
Vintners and bards, in various balderdash,
Compel us to take down a world of trash!

But leaving similies, more or less exact,
Proceed we now to Prologues, and plain fact.

Sometimes in suppliant phrase and suit of black,
The speaker deprecates the town's attack;

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Paints the keen feelings of a timid muse;
And for an author, as a culprit, sues;
At the dread bar of popular taste, who stands,
And craves the acquittal of compassionate hands:—
Else farewell all big hopes of a third day!—
—For poets work, in the theatric way,
Like advertising quacks—No cure no pay!

With much sagacious gravity of brow,
The critic Prologue-Orator makes his bow;
Talks loud of unities, pathos, sentiment, force;
Then follows Athens; and her stage, of course;
Quotes each great model Aristotle knew:
So judg'd antiquity; and so should you:
Then makes to us the modest parallel run;
And holds a farthing-candle to the sun!

Sometimes a Prologue-Actor's tone and mien,
In tragic mood anticipate the scene;

294

Prone with sad sobs to heave the labouring chest;
Stride; start; spread arms; clasp hands; and beat the breast;
Thro' the whole etiquette of woe to pass,—
And squeeze from hard-pinch'd hat, “Oh! Ah! Alas!”

In solemn sort a Prologue oft appears,
And rattles satire's club about our ears;
Tells us our faults; and when a trifling age
Needs reformation, calls us to the stage:—
We shrug our shoulders; shake our heads; and roar
Applause!—then do—the same we did before!

Another moral Prologue-monger's scheme,
Includes more comprehensive range of theme;
In merry, mimic, caricature, presents,
Modes, maxims, politics, humours, and events;—
Hunts the fleet shades of manner, as they rise;
Now idly busy; now absurdly wise:
Meanwhile his audience—gallery, box, and pit,
Charm'd by the bells of their own folly, sit;

295

Seek some new likeness, in each arch grimace;
And find it—only in the next man's face!

Perhaps, while I enlarge on Prologues thus,
You'll think I'm sneering them, as they sneer us;
—Be that, as that may be:—Accept, meanwhile,
My own ideas, of the Prologue style.

It should be, truth in simple terms exprest;
From common sense, to common sense addrest;
Not the mere quack buffoonery of the hour,
The fop's frivolity, or the cynic's low'r;
No puppet-pranks, that barren grin provoke;
No pedant oracles; no libertine's joke;
No sombre prejudice; no bombastic brags;
Passion in stilts, or energy torn to rags;—
But chaste appeal, with nervous frankness made;
Above deception's traps, or mummery's aid;

296

Which, whether genius mourn, or laugh its fill,
Preserves the drama, Virtue's handmaid still;
And only wakes the public ear, to lays,
Which manhood may avow; and men like Britons, praise.

297

THE ODE AND THE RIDDLE.

[_]

[The Senior Boy appearing to be asleep, or to have forgotten himself, the Junior begins.]

THE RIDDLE.

While his head my friend Ode in obscurity shrowds,
Or perhaps is set out on a trip to the clouds,
With humble submission I'll take up the fiddle,
And scrape, if I can, a few bars on the Riddle.

THE ODE.

[The Senior as recollecting himself.]
What sudden voice assaults mine ear?
Comes there some minstrel of the sphere,

298

Who calls me to the lyre?
Tunes to my touch th' obedient string?
And bids me play, and bids me sing,
What all the Nine inspire?

THE RIDDLE.

No minstrel, nor muse, neighbour Ode, has appear'd:
It was me, little Riddle-me-ree, whom you heard;
Who meant nothing more, than to stand in the gap,
And keep up the ball,—while you slept out your nap.

THE ODE.

I.

From the still surface of the smooth lake's verge,
Abruptly steep the wat'ry sheet descends;
Rebounds a torrent of tremendous surge;
And in broad floods along the vale extends:—

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So spreads th' Enthusiasm o'er the Poet's soul,
When down flush'd Fancy's tide the fleet ideas roll!

II.

Full on his thought bursts Valour's hardy deed;
He sees the patriot Chief's uplifted steel;
Glories t' announce the laurell'd Victor's meed;
And stamp on Virtue's claim the Muse's seal;
Pursue Truth's triumph, sanction Honour's pride,
In struggles nobly born; and perilous chance defy'd!

III.

Or crowns the Genius, whose exertions call
The public wonder, gratitude and applause;
Intelligence, freed from slavish error's thrall;
And Science, sanctified in Humanity's cause:
Or to the shade, where suffering manhood pines,
The wreath of honest praise from Poësy's bow'r assigns!

300

IV.

Or prone to rapturous glow, where'er shine forth
Sympathies of heart, or energies of mind,
Gives and receives renown, from private worth;
Its cares benign, its sentiment refin'd:
Irregularly sublime! and bold to bring
The tributary palm, on Ardour's eagle-wing!

THE RIDDLE.

Bravo! Bravo!—methinks you have ventur'd a flight,
Where mere common sense could scarce keep you in sight:
And therefore, permit me my theme to pursue,
While you get fresh breath, and your auditors too!
Attention, strain'd up to the sharps of your key,
Will enjoy the piano of Riddle-me-ree!

I cannot, 'tis true, introduce in a set,
All the figures of fun, at a riddling bout met;

301

From the dame, whose experience, her spectacles speak,
Whose wisdom, each wrinkle that furrows her cheek;
To the tittering young romps, whose whole mischievous wish
Is to non-plus the lads, till they're mute as a fish;
And the swains, who the hearts of the hoydens to hit,
Come arm'd with two strings to their bow, love and wit:
Neither can I describe (as I wonder who cou'd)
Every look, every laugh, every droll attitude;
Their inquisitive frowns; their intelligent nods;
How vivacity frets; how stupidity plods;
How clamorous their joy, when the knot they undo!—
O! what would I give to bring all to your view!
But, as that may not be, I must hope and request,
You'll accept will, for deed,—and imagine the rest.

All the learned, however they differ elsewhere,
That example is better than precept, declare:
And to prove I myself with their doctrine agree,
In a Riddle I'll show what a Riddle should be.

302

In the form of inquiry it still must begin;
For question and riddle are cousin and kin.

What is that, which in see-saw description convey'd,
The more hints it displays, the more puzzling is made?
Which seems leading you home, while it carries you round;
And pretending to help, runs you farther aground;
A dark lantern of wit, which tho' black in the face,
Bursts point blank on your eyes, if the screen you displace;
Which the moment you see, you're surpris'd you could miss?
—Say what, but a Riddle on Riddles is this?—

What is that situation, whose limits, I trow,
Like an isthmus of land, lie between aye and no?
Whose variable atmosphere makes on the spot,
The hottest, most cool; and the coolest, most hot?
'Tis the Riddle of State, past all shadow of doubt:
And means only the odds, between in place and out.

What is that, which in prospect appears to the sight
As certain as fate; and as clear as the light?

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Draws us on step by step, thro' demurs and delays;
And at last when our hopes to their summit we raise,
While we think ourselves safe, ruins all with some flaw?
—Why this is, and please you, the Riddle of Law.

What is that, which in every direction is found?
East; west; north; and south; while a man can turn round?
What to-day it admires, will to-morrow deem strange?
And whose changes prompt only fresh reasons for change?
Which grinds judgments, styles, modes, in the mill of Virtù;
Till the new come out old, and the old come out new?
—This is Taste, to be sure;—and such taste, you must own,
Is as arrant a Riddle, as ever was known.

And now, wishing Ode well, thro' the rest of his song,
And thanking all friends for indulgence so long,
I'll play off my finalè to this Hey-down diddle;
And so ends my Ditty; and so—Exit Riddle.

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THE ODE.

I.

In milder mood the Lyric Muse
Deigns oft, her spirit to infuse;
When sprightlier themes, or softer cares,
Invoke her aid to lighter airs;
Whether tumultuous transports raise
Successful Love's devoted lays;
Or Friendship's interchange of soul
Mellows convivial freedom's bowl;
Or festive Exultation's proud acclaim
Appropriates popular joy; and echoes National Fame!

II.

Awful reverse! when Harmony's tear
Bedews departed Merit's bier!
When warm Imagination's glow
Saddens the gloom of Memory's woe!

305

And Poetry's powers can but explain,
How just its moan!—yet, ah! how vain!
More vigorous verse may round the tomb
Strew every flower of brighter bloom;
Tho' the brief brightness of the bloom, it strews,
But proves, how much! how soon! Affection had to lose!

III.

Nor yet, ev'n there, does grief, howe'er profound,
Th' exalted Ode's immense excursions bound:
From mortal frailty's universal doom
It springs:—it lifts the pregnant thought on high;
To heavenly prospects turns Devotion's eye,
And wings aspiring Hope with ampler plume:
While frankly faithful in Religion's cause,
Arm'd with her truths, and champion of her laws,
It consecrates to God, from whom it came,
Its fairest excellence, and its purest flame!