The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge Including several pieces never before published: with an account of his life and character, by his son, George Owen Cambridge |
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| AN ELEGY
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 | The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge |  |
289
AN ELEGY
WRITTEN IN AN EMPTY ASSEMBLY-ROOM.
------ Semperque relinqui
Sola sibi ------
Virg.
Sola sibi ------
Virg.
291
With Bromwich to amuse and cheer the mind;
Amid this pomp of cost, this pride of art,
What mean these sorrows in a female heart?
Ye crouded walls, whose well enlightened round
With lovers sighs and protestations sound,
Ye pictures flatter'd by the learn'd and wise,
Ye glasses ogled by the brightest eyes,
Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which peers and ministers have prest,
How are ye chang'd! like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone—
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad—and cannot be at home.
292
The erring footman with th' unerring card.
'Twas Venus sure; for by their faithful aid
The whisp'ring lover meets the blushing maid;
From solitude they give the cheerful call
To the choice supper, or the sprightly ball;
Speed the soft summons of the gay and fair,
From distant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor Square;
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the Parade, the Senate, or the Tower.
Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily lesson, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye stand disposed in proud array,
The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glass adorn,
The dismal void with heart-felt shame we mourn;
Conscious neglect inspires a sullen gloom,
And brooding sadness fills the slighted room.
If but some happier female's card I've seen,
I swell with rage, or sicken with the spleen;
While artful pride conceals the bursting tear,
With some forced banter or affected sneer:
But now grown desp'rate, and beyond all hope,
I curse the ball, the duchess and the pope.
293
“Tax it! ye greedy ministers,” I cry.
How shall I feel, when Sol resigns his light
To this proud splendid goddess of the night!
Then, when her aukward guests in measure beat
The crouded floors, which groan beneath their feet!
What thoughts in solitude shall then possess
My tortur'd mind, or soften my distress!
Not all that envious malice can suggest
Will soothe the tumults of my raging breast.
(For envy's lost amidst the numerous train,
And hisses with her hundred snakes in vain)
Though with contempt each despicable soul
Singly I view,—I must revere the whole.
To this proud splendid goddess of the night!
Then, when her aukward guests in measure beat
The crouded floors, which groan beneath their feet!
What thoughts in solitude shall then possess
My tortur'd mind, or soften my distress!
Not all that envious malice can suggest
Will soothe the tumults of my raging breast.
(For envy's lost amidst the numerous train,
And hisses with her hundred snakes in vain)
Though with contempt each despicable soul
Singly I view,—I must revere the whole.
The methodist in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though single happy, tho' alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (she thinks not of a crowd)
And if she ever feels a vap'rish qualm,
Some Drop of Honey, or some holy balm,
The pious prophet of her sect distils,
And her pure soul seraphic rapture fills;
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring Whitf---d prompts her golden dreams.
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though single happy, tho' alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (she thinks not of a crowd)
And if she ever feels a vap'rish qualm,
Some Drop of Honey, or some holy balm,
The pious prophet of her sect distils,
And her pure soul seraphic rapture fills;
294
And whisp'ring Whitf---d prompts her golden dreams.
While conscious nature tastes unholy joy:
I view the traces of experienced charms,
And clasp the regimentals in my arms.
To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits arise:
Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To distant quarters 'midst the Highland snow,
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in smoak'd tap'stry faded Dido mourns;
To some assembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel—in a parson's gown!!
I start—I shriek—
O! could I on my waking brain impose,
Or but forget at least my present woes!
Forget 'em—how!—each rattling coach suggests
The loath'd ideas of the crouding guests.
To visit—were to publish my disgrace;
To meet the spleen in ev'ry other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;
And be at once their comfort and their scorn!
295
Ev'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.
My Mandoline—what place can music find
Amid the discord of my restless mind?
How shall I waste this time which slowly flies!
How lull to slumber my reluctant eyes!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,—NORFOLK has murder'd sleep.
| The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge | |