The Dance of Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Dance of Life

A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson

Combe, William (1742-1823)

[epigraph]

THE NURSE'S SOLILOQUY.

[section]

The Curate's Elegy on Nurse Jenkins.

II.

CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD.

III.

CHAPTER III. BOYHOOD.

IV.

CHAPTER IV. YOUTH.

CHAPTER V. FOREIGN TOUR.

VI.

CHAPTER VI. THE RETURN.

VII.

CHAPTER VII. FASHIONABLE LIFE.

VIII.

CHAPTER VIII. THE CONCLUSION.

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The Curate's Elegy on Nurse Jenkins.

1

HOW oft, when Maladies attack us sore,
And Fever, big with heat, assails our blood;
The cooling aid of Physic we implore,
And seek the Nurse of reputation good
For aiding those in such like piteous plight,
And sitting by their Beds, the long, dark, tedious night.

2

She lives beneath the humble roof of Thatch,
Her Cot by neatness is a Palace made;
But eager Sickness oft doth lift the latch
To tell her some addition to her trade
And bid her hie to some new fall'n distress;
But little doth she feel—and, seeing more, she feels the less.

3

Changes and Chances she has many seen,
Yet Grief ne'er wets her wrinkles with a tear,
And Life's last Gasp she oft beholds I ween,
Yet she ne'er knows the sympathetic fear:
And though so oft she sees the passing doom,
She thinks not of her own, though soon her own may come.

4

Whene'er she hears the Screech-owl flap his wing;
Whene'er she listens to the Cricket's song;
She wisely tells the Fate these omens bring;
That the poor, sick man's Life will not be long:
With voice prophetic and a look of sorrow,
Forebodes his eyes will scarce behold to-morrow.

5

A Husband once she had, 'twas in her youth,
For many a fleeting year is past and gone,
Since that rude son of Labour and of Truth
Has slept in peace beneath an humble stone.
The stone yet tells to all who pass that way,
That he doth hope to rise at the great Judgement Day.

6

One child he left, a maiden passing fair,
Who, in the pride of Youth and Beauty's bloom,
Baffled the ardor of a Mother's care,
And sought the confines of the silent Tomb;
But she bequeath'd a Babe, whose infant smile
The Grandame's aching heart of Sorrow did beguile.

7

No vernal Flower that in the Garden grows,
Bloom'd half so fair and pleasing to the view,
Her cheeks did emulate the blushing rose
And o'er her neck was cast the Lily's hue:
Till the rude Sun, when she was maiden grown,
With fierce and burning ray did her fair skin embrown.

8

For she was busy in the Summer field
When the rich Harvest wav'd upon the plain:
Full well she could the crooked sickle wield,
And was the foremost of the reaping train;
And, 'mid the fervours of the sultry day,
She would her spirits cheer with many a roundelay.

9

At Evening Hour, when daily labour's o'er,
Unto her welcome home she did betide;
And to her Grann'am gave the gather'd store
Which the old Dame receiv'd with smiling pride:
The kindest greetings did the boon repay;
So that her heart forgot the labours of the day.

10

When Winter spread its mantle o'er the year,
The Matron taught her all she ought to know:
She made her wise in ev'ry household care;
How she might best assuage the sick man's woe;
Or heal, with lenient balm, the angry wound,
And told the use of Herbs that in the fields are found.

11

Much did she warn her 'gainst the treach'rous snare
Of artful Shepherd in the wiles of Love;
And oft did tell her how she must prepare
Her tender mind the arts of man to prove.
“May Gracious Heaven, when I am turn'd to clay,
“Protect my dearest Child, I do most humbly pray.”

12

Now had the Dame attained that fatal year,
Beyond whose course Man knows of nought but pain;
When Death, his certain arrow did prepare
To lay her low amidst his gloomy train:
As in her chair she sat the Dart he cast;—
She bow'd beneath the stroke, and gently breath'd her last.

13

With slow, repeating stroke, the Village bell
Conveys the solemn tidings all around:
And when the neighb'ring folk do hear the knell,
They think to see the Matron laid in ground;
And, as the custom is, with pious care,
Do sadly haste the funeral posies to prepare.

14

Those posies, emblems of Man's fleeting day,
Grew fair to sight, and grac'd the rising morn:
But e'er the Sun hath shot his parting ray,
The new-made grave their drooping charms adorn.
Thus 'tis with Life—Its beauties soon are o'er,
As a thin shade it glides,—and quickly is no more.

15

And now the pale Corse, all in sad array,
With tender care, by kindred hands is dress'd:
The mournful maid, her sad love to display,
Doth tie the white knot on the senseless breast;
And o'er the shroud the Rosemary doth cast:
Then gives the parting Kiss, and, weeping, looks her last.

16

At length interr'd, with many a solemn rite,
Beside her Husband's bones the Matron's rest:
And now the lonely Maid, in piteous plight,
All silent sits with troublous grief opprest:
And here I leave her, with my humble prayer,
That she may ever prove kind Heaven's protecting care.

Lady ---.

“Much, much I thank thee for thy song,
“Nor has attention thought it long.
“At all times, Nurse, thou hast the power
“To form an interesting hour.
“Thine is a tale that doth impart
“A pleasing anguish to the heart;
“And, though it borders on despair,
“Awakes a sense of Virtue there,
“With feelings, fruit of serious mood,
“Which are familiar to the good.
“Pity, that has a ready sigh
“For ev'ry form of misery;
“On whose fair dimpling cheek we see
“The Holy smile of Charity.

“Kindness, that wishes to relieve
“The various pains of those who grieve;
“And, if no other power is given,
“Will breathe a pious prayer to Heaven.
“—But now, no more of human woes:
“I'll take the Babe while you repose.

“Come, then, thou dear enchanting Sprite,
“Thou first-born source of new Delight!
“'Tis not mere pleasure that I feel,
“'Tis Rapture which thy smiles reveal.
“Though worlds on worlds were shower'd down
“With power to call them all my own,
“To yield, if such a change could be
“The right thy Mother has in thee,
“I would the proffer'd Barter greet,
“As dust I grind beneath my feet.
“—O come, with all thy smiling charms,
“And let me dance thee in my arms!
“Then thy blue eyes shall close in rest:—
“Thy pillow is a Mother's breast.”