 | Modern Manners, a poem |  |
21
CANTO II.
Refinement! thou hast not a pang to dread,
The shaft of Satire cannot wound the dead—
Whate'er the child of Feeling may endure,
The sons of Apathy are still secure!
'Tis for the wise, and just, the poet tries
“To catch the living manners as they rise;”
And spite of all the dull and base can do,
The wise and just will own the picture true.
Resistless ridicule assails not worth,
Her shaft flies only at the slugs of earth;
As summer showers, that vivify the plain,
Sweep with their glitt'ring wings the insect train,
Who buzzing dart their venom'd stings and die,
The namless myriads of a sunny sky.
The shaft of Satire cannot wound the dead—
Whate'er the child of Feeling may endure,
The sons of Apathy are still secure!
'Tis for the wise, and just, the poet tries
“To catch the living manners as they rise;”
And spite of all the dull and base can do,
The wise and just will own the picture true.
Resistless ridicule assails not worth,
Her shaft flies only at the slugs of earth;
As summer showers, that vivify the plain,
Sweep with their glitt'ring wings the insect train,
Who buzzing dart their venom'd stings and die,
The namless myriads of a sunny sky.
22
So the more pamper'd insect creeps a while,
His fost'ring sun,—a guilty patron's smile;
His occupation slander,—and his aim,
To keep the post of infamy and shame;
For this he feeds the vices of his lord,
Waits in his hall, or cringes at his board;
Commends, in words obscure, his wit sublime,
Though the prais'd ideot scarce can read his rhyme;
With flatt'ring guile the ear of envy fills;
The worst of med'cines,—for the worst of ills.
His fost'ring sun,—a guilty patron's smile;
His occupation slander,—and his aim,
To keep the post of infamy and shame;
For this he feeds the vices of his lord,
Waits in his hall, or cringes at his board;
Commends, in words obscure, his wit sublime,
Though the prais'd ideot scarce can read his rhyme;
With flatt'ring guile the ear of envy fills;
The worst of med'cines,—for the worst of ills.
Let Genius soar to Fame's sublime abode,
While Folly's children tread the beaten road,
While listless husbands sleep 'till noon arrives
And modish lovers,—flirt with modish wives;
When modern dinners are serv'd up at nine;
And modern epicures can scarcely dine.
Ere, to assist digestion, they repair,
The raptures of a midnight chase to share!
The chase! not like the common stile of things,
Such as are made for sportsmen,—and for kings;
But where, in rows, “thrice feather'd” belles resort,
With waxen tapers to illume the sport!
Where Reynard hears, on boards, the death-wing'd hoof,
And flies to cover,—'neath a canvas roof,
Where city crops, and booted bucks repair,
To elbow, ogle, see the world,—and swear!
To beat the boxkeepers, and cry encore,
To vote that Inchbald's moral plays' a bore,
With well splash'd legs to rush into the box,
Disturb the audience, and cry,—“where's the fox?”
“This is the thing by Jove!—why this is fun,
“We'll have a row before the night is done!”
While Folly's children tread the beaten road,
While listless husbands sleep 'till noon arrives
And modish lovers,—flirt with modish wives;
When modern dinners are serv'd up at nine;
And modern epicures can scarcely dine.
Ere, to assist digestion, they repair,
The raptures of a midnight chase to share!
The chase! not like the common stile of things,
Such as are made for sportsmen,—and for kings;
23
With waxen tapers to illume the sport!
Where Reynard hears, on boards, the death-wing'd hoof,
And flies to cover,—'neath a canvas roof,
Where city crops, and booted bucks repair,
To elbow, ogle, see the world,—and swear!
To beat the boxkeepers, and cry encore,
To vote that Inchbald's moral plays' a bore,
With well splash'd legs to rush into the box,
Disturb the audience, and cry,—“where's the fox?”
“This is the thing by Jove!—why this is fun,
“We'll have a row before the night is done!”
O ye box lobby heroes!—men of shops!
Bravoes in buckskin!—Hannibals at hops!
Did ye but know what wretched things ye are,
Despis'd by men,—and laugh'd at by the fair.
You'd shrink to grubs, from grubs you'd fade away,
The short-liv'd insects,—of a short-liv'd day!
With men of might, when Truth no more prevails,
A knock-down argument—but seldom fails!
Each dame of spirit, vice versa, labours
With midnight revels,—to knock up her neighbours.
Humphries and Johnson, fill'd with British spirit,
Whose strong pretensions knock down timid merit;
(More pow'rful than the magic force that lies,
In Hanger's bludgeon, or Fi---z---t's eyes.)
Attend each spouting club throughout the town,
Not to make speeches,—but to knock ye down;
E'en Dukes will sometimes condescend to box;
And many an orator's knock'd down by Fox!
Fair ladies too, o'erwhelm'd by Faro's frown,
Knock up their Lords, till Christie knocks them down.
Bravoes in buckskin!—Hannibals at hops!
Did ye but know what wretched things ye are,
Despis'd by men,—and laugh'd at by the fair.
You'd shrink to grubs, from grubs you'd fade away,
The short-liv'd insects,—of a short-liv'd day!
24
A knock-down argument—but seldom fails!
Each dame of spirit, vice versa, labours
With midnight revels,—to knock up her neighbours.
Humphries and Johnson, fill'd with British spirit,
Whose strong pretensions knock down timid merit;
(More pow'rful than the magic force that lies,
In Hanger's bludgeon, or Fi---z---t's eyes.)
Attend each spouting club throughout the town,
Not to make speeches,—but to knock ye down;
E'en Dukes will sometimes condescend to box;
And many an orator's knock'd down by Fox!
Fair ladies too, o'erwhelm'd by Faro's frown,
Knock up their Lords, till Christie knocks them down.
Descriptive Muse! arrest thy wild career,
While pity drops the tributary tear;
That in a land where plenteous stores abound,
Where wealth exults, by prosp'rous labour crown'd;
True worth should pine in indigence alone,
Or toil for daily bread, and toil unknown!
To court the ignorant in verse and prose,
And sing in sweetest numbers,—bitt'rest woes!
In threadbare sables tremble at the gate,
Amidst the sleek appendages of state;
Or thrust in corners when their Lord appears,
Drench the lean blushing cheek with burning tears,
'Till lazy lacqueys greet the man of rhyme,
With, “Honest fellow,—call another time!!”
While pity drops the tributary tear;
That in a land where plenteous stores abound,
Where wealth exults, by prosp'rous labour crown'd;
True worth should pine in indigence alone,
Or toil for daily bread, and toil unknown!
25
And sing in sweetest numbers,—bitt'rest woes!
In threadbare sables tremble at the gate,
Amidst the sleek appendages of state;
Or thrust in corners when their Lord appears,
Drench the lean blushing cheek with burning tears,
'Till lazy lacqueys greet the man of rhyme,
With, “Honest fellow,—call another time!!”
View the proud mansion of acknowledg'd taste,
A tomb of luxury 'midst a weedy waste;
While many an Otway shares a pittance scant,
While many a Chatterton expires for want!
At one superb repast to glut the proud,
And court the praises of a sneering crowd;
A son of fashion, panting for a name,
And proud of any theme for public fame,
Bestows!—(the fact a moral lesson teaches)
A thousand guineas—for a thousand peaches!!
“Tempora mutantur!” say the thinking few!
The sons of Dissipation, cry,—“tant mieux!”
A tomb of luxury 'midst a weedy waste;
While many an Otway shares a pittance scant,
While many a Chatterton expires for want!
At one superb repast to glut the proud,
And court the praises of a sneering crowd;
A son of fashion, panting for a name,
And proud of any theme for public fame,
Bestows!—(the fact a moral lesson teaches)
A thousand guineas—for a thousand peaches!!
“Tempora mutantur!” say the thinking few!
The sons of Dissipation, cry,—“tant mieux!”
26
Yet some great souls on gain so keen are set,
They'll eat a cat to win a trifling bett!
While some, in worsted hose and shabby scratch,
Ride fifty miles to see—a boxing match!
Though few,—but to obtain some secret end,
Would cross the threshold to relieve a friend!
They'll eat a cat to win a trifling bett!
While some, in worsted hose and shabby scratch,
Ride fifty miles to see—a boxing match!
Though few,—but to obtain some secret end,
Would cross the threshold to relieve a friend!
As Pope, the prince of Satire, once pourtray'd
The morning toilette of a polish'd maid;
So may the modern wag his trophies chuse,
“Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet doux;”
Or rather, blushing, leave the bibles out,
For perfect beauties seldom are devout!
To church they never go,—because, they say,
Churches are cold,—and tender creatures they;
Yet to Hyde Park on horseback they repair,
Though all November's biting blasts are there!
The morning toilette of a polish'd maid;
So may the modern wag his trophies chuse,
“Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet doux;”
Or rather, blushing, leave the bibles out,
For perfect beauties seldom are devout!
To church they never go,—because, they say,
Churches are cold,—and tender creatures they;
Yet to Hyde Park on horseback they repair,
Though all November's biting blasts are there!
Preposterous Fashion! Imp of dangerous art,
Who bids Philanthropy forsake the heart;
Insidious monster, of infernal birth,
That leads to ruin half the tribes of earth!
Destructive reptile, of camelion pow'r,
That feeds on air, and changes with the hour,
That bids the Soldier dread unseemly scars,
And gives to Chloe's form the front of Mars!
That steals from beauty every timid grace,
And spreads the burning blush o'er Nature's face.
Fashion, that erst, our courtly dames array'd,
In many-colour'd locks and stiff brocade;
Who arm'd in whalebone petticoats were seen,
Sailing majestic,—like a walking screen!
Or like a gaudy shop, assail'd our eyes,
Hung round with shreds and flow'rs of various dyes,
That led our Heroes down a ball-room jig,
Like Monkeys,—in a wilderness of wig!
Who could have seen a Marlb'rough so bedight,
And guess'd that such a monst'rous thing could fight;
That he, whose brow immortal wreaths might bear,
Would stoop to deck his sconce with borrow'd hair.
Or like a haughty Don,—or dull Bashaw,
Shake his huge wig,—“to keep the world in awe!”
Who bids Philanthropy forsake the heart;
27
That leads to ruin half the tribes of earth!
Destructive reptile, of camelion pow'r,
That feeds on air, and changes with the hour,
That bids the Soldier dread unseemly scars,
And gives to Chloe's form the front of Mars!
That steals from beauty every timid grace,
And spreads the burning blush o'er Nature's face.
Fashion, that erst, our courtly dames array'd,
In many-colour'd locks and stiff brocade;
Who arm'd in whalebone petticoats were seen,
Sailing majestic,—like a walking screen!
Or like a gaudy shop, assail'd our eyes,
Hung round with shreds and flow'rs of various dyes,
That led our Heroes down a ball-room jig,
Like Monkeys,—in a wilderness of wig!
Who could have seen a Marlb'rough so bedight,
And guess'd that such a monst'rous thing could fight;
That he, whose brow immortal wreaths might bear,
Would stoop to deck his sconce with borrow'd hair.
Or like a haughty Don,—or dull Bashaw,
Shake his huge wig,—“to keep the world in awe!”
28
Fashion, first hatch'd in courts, in cities bred,
Now skims exulting o'er each natural head;
Of native beauty she usurps the place,
Gives youth to C---d!—to H---t grace!
Contemns the graceful tenderness that lies
In Devon's heart! and steals through Devon's eyes,
Who doats on foreign politics, and ways,
Who keeps French company, and reads French plays;
Who scarce a crotchet from a quaver knows;
Yet buys all instruments to keep as shows;
Who, though in learning's page she never looks,
Well stocks her groaning shelves with learned books;
With “Flora's Toilette” in morocco blooming;
The “Road to Ruin,”—and “the Rights of Women!”
Who, when the ****** grown prudent, learns the way
To live content on Forty pounds a day!
Cries, vulgar! wretched! what, his horses gone!
His giants, jockeys, grooms, and phaeton!
What, no more charming breakfasts, fete champetres,
Where epicures consume what folly caters;
No dinners, serv'd with elegant expence,
Where frothy flatt'ry serves for solid sense;
No racing, betting, driving, or cajoling,
No sycophantic smile each loss consoling,
No levees, liv'ries, guards, and crowded halls,
No bawling catches,—and no catching balls,
Sweet scenes! of dancing, singing, eating, drinking,
Of every rational delight,—save thinking!
Now skims exulting o'er each natural head;
Of native beauty she usurps the place,
Gives youth to C---d!—to H---t grace!
Contemns the graceful tenderness that lies
In Devon's heart! and steals through Devon's eyes,
Who doats on foreign politics, and ways,
Who keeps French company, and reads French plays;
Who scarce a crotchet from a quaver knows;
Yet buys all instruments to keep as shows;
Who, though in learning's page she never looks,
Well stocks her groaning shelves with learned books;
With “Flora's Toilette” in morocco blooming;
The “Road to Ruin,”—and “the Rights of Women!”
Who, when the ****** grown prudent, learns the way
To live content on Forty pounds a day!
Cries, vulgar! wretched! what, his horses gone!
His giants, jockeys, grooms, and phaeton!
What, no more charming breakfasts, fete champetres,
Where epicures consume what folly caters;
29
Where frothy flatt'ry serves for solid sense;
No racing, betting, driving, or cajoling,
No sycophantic smile each loss consoling,
No levees, liv'ries, guards, and crowded halls,
No bawling catches,—and no catching balls,
Sweet scenes! of dancing, singing, eating, drinking,
Of every rational delight,—save thinking!
Shall prudence and propriety supply
The vacant chair of prodigality!
Must Fashion yield at last to honest worth,
And virtue claim precedency of Birth?
Shall he, whom I have nurs'd with so much art,
Consult, at last, the feelings of his heart!
Spurn all my lessons, laugh at all my skill,
And tell the world that Fashion councils ill?
Since Conscience dares affect such winning graces,
How few of Fashion's tribe will shew their faces!
Oh direful change! 'twill spread throughout the nation,
“And modest merit Lord it over fashion!”
The vacant chair of prodigality!
Must Fashion yield at last to honest worth,
And virtue claim precedency of Birth?
Shall he, whom I have nurs'd with so much art,
Consult, at last, the feelings of his heart!
Spurn all my lessons, laugh at all my skill,
And tell the world that Fashion councils ill?
Since Conscience dares affect such winning graces,
How few of Fashion's tribe will shew their faces!
Oh direful change! 'twill spread throughout the nation,
“And modest merit Lord it over fashion!”
30
“Heavens!” cries dame taste, “what horrid times are these,
When low Economy presumes to please!
When Gothic decency pretends to rule,
And I, who banish'd her, am sent to school,
To learn how wives of old were meek and sage,
The vulgar beings of queen Bess's age;
Who rose at break of day, to sew and spin!
I swear this Reformation is a Sin;—
A monst'rous shame, so long by taste subdu'd,
To prove at last unfashionably Good!”
When low Economy presumes to please!
When Gothic decency pretends to rule,
And I, who banish'd her, am sent to school,
To learn how wives of old were meek and sage,
The vulgar beings of queen Bess's age;
Who rose at break of day, to sew and spin!
I swear this Reformation is a Sin;—
A monst'rous shame, so long by taste subdu'd,
To prove at last unfashionably Good!”
Ye beauteous Dames! the boast of modern times,
Who ape the French,—yet shudder at their crimes;
Who droop your gentle heads, and weep to see,
The dreadful havock made by Anarchy.
Who bless your native land, and bless the day,
When happy Britain own'd a Brunswick's sway:
Who by the lib'ral hand of Nature grac'd
With feeling, beauty, eloquence, and taste.
Extend your letter'd names o'er all the earth,
Fam'd as the glorious Isle that gave ye birth!
Why, when insidious France her sword unsheaths,
Twine with French poppies your immortal wreaths;
With foreign poisons kill your native bays,
And deck your Phoenix forms like Gallic jays!
Who ape the French,—yet shudder at their crimes;
Who droop your gentle heads, and weep to see,
The dreadful havock made by Anarchy.
Who bless your native land, and bless the day,
When happy Britain own'd a Brunswick's sway:
Who by the lib'ral hand of Nature grac'd
With feeling, beauty, eloquence, and taste.
31
Fam'd as the glorious Isle that gave ye birth!
Why, when insidious France her sword unsheaths,
Twine with French poppies your immortal wreaths;
With foreign poisons kill your native bays,
And deck your Phoenix forms like Gallic jays!
Why mourn a murder'd M---h's dire disgrace,
In Paris linon trimm'd with Paris lace?
Why in each trembling snowy hand appears,
French Cambrick thrice imbru'd with English tears?
Why deck your brows with flow'rs from Gallia's shore,
When Gallia's lily withers—drench'd in gore?
In Paris linon trimm'd with Paris lace?
Why in each trembling snowy hand appears,
French Cambrick thrice imbru'd with English tears?
Why deck your brows with flow'rs from Gallia's shore,
When Gallia's lily withers—drench'd in gore?
Let Rome her Heroes, Greece her Poets boast;
Transcendent Virtue guards Britannia's coast!
High on that cliff the radiant goddess stands,
Whose cloud-cap'd brow aspiring France commands;
Though the loud billows roar beneath its base,
And foaming mountains swell th'infuriate space;
She braves the vaunting banners, dy'd in blood,
That wave insulting o'er th'indignant flood,
While, with unsullied Fame, her bosom glows,
A dauntless Bulwark 'gainst an Host of Foes!
Transcendent Virtue guards Britannia's coast!
High on that cliff the radiant goddess stands,
Whose cloud-cap'd brow aspiring France commands;
Though the loud billows roar beneath its base,
And foaming mountains swell th'infuriate space;
32
That wave insulting o'er th'indignant flood,
While, with unsullied Fame, her bosom glows,
A dauntless Bulwark 'gainst an Host of Foes!
| Modern Manners, a poem | |