The Tineum Containing Estianomy, or The Art of Stirring a Fire: The Icead, A Mock-Heroic Poem: An Imitation of Horace, Ep. I. lib. I. Epigrams: A Fragment, &c. By C. V. Le Grice |
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Nec, si quid olim lusit—
Delevit ætas.
Hor. Ode 8. lib. 4.
Delevit ætas.
Hor. Ode 8. lib. 4.
You laugh—'tis well.
Cowper.
23
DEDICATION.
TO THAT Man, who is ever willing to be pleased, “he knows not why, and cares not wherefore.”
24
THE ICEAD.
Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid.
Surgit amari aliquid.
When Phœbus, verging on th'Antarctic line,
Rolls his red flame from this our British clime
Far distant; when Winter scours high Heaven,
On ebon wing, and from his cavern'd cheek
Blows many a blast of coldest puff; and when
Stern Frost, upon whose shoulders stiffly strait
The hair spreads froz'n in many an icicle,
Sits open mouth'd, to bite of heedless men
The fingers (for some more cunning mortals
At fire of coals oft make his meat too hot
For him to bite); when Nature's face low'rs dull
With thick'ning cloud, and looks nasty, dismal,
As the face of boy with nose unwiped;
When all is sad;—not so the minds of men,
For sport they meditate. On the bosom
Of the lake, frequent they meet. There quick hies
The truant, with sick frame too weak for school;
And there the man who leaves no chearful home,
Because no chearful home he has to leave;
And there the buck, who knows not why he came;
There he who follows Whitfield, he, who Wesley;
The Swedenborgite there, and there the Jew.
On scate of iron keel upborne they ride;
Of iron dug from Sweden's entrails, or
From those of Russia, or Toledo.
With furious speed some hasten to outstrip
The breath of Boreas; some, with wond'rous poise
Self-balanc'd, in airy curve float easy
On their way; nor knew the Gordian knot
A fold so complex as their paths entwine.
The scrap'd edge loudly sounds, but louder still
The cry of those, who delicacies vend
Of mutton-pies, and nuts, and cakes, and gin.
But chief the call of gingerbread most hot
Breaks the dense atmosphere, and foolish men
(Tho' luxury, more powerful than the sword,
Which strews th'ensanguin'd plain with many a corse,
More powerful than the breath of Pestilence
Sends millions yearly to the court of death)
Check the swift scate, and eager catch the sound.
Rolls his red flame from this our British clime
Far distant; when Winter scours high Heaven,
On ebon wing, and from his cavern'd cheek
Blows many a blast of coldest puff; and when
Stern Frost, upon whose shoulders stiffly strait
The hair spreads froz'n in many an icicle,
Sits open mouth'd, to bite of heedless men
The fingers (for some more cunning mortals
At fire of coals oft make his meat too hot
For him to bite); when Nature's face low'rs dull
With thick'ning cloud, and looks nasty, dismal,
As the face of boy with nose unwiped;
When all is sad;—not so the minds of men,
For sport they meditate. On the bosom
25
The truant, with sick frame too weak for school;
And there the man who leaves no chearful home,
Because no chearful home he has to leave;
And there the buck, who knows not why he came;
There he who follows Whitfield, he, who Wesley;
The Swedenborgite there, and there the Jew.
On scate of iron keel upborne they ride;
Of iron dug from Sweden's entrails, or
From those of Russia, or Toledo.
With furious speed some hasten to outstrip
The breath of Boreas; some, with wond'rous poise
Self-balanc'd, in airy curve float easy
On their way; nor knew the Gordian knot
A fold so complex as their paths entwine.
The scrap'd edge loudly sounds, but louder still
The cry of those, who delicacies vend
Of mutton-pies, and nuts, and cakes, and gin.
But chief the call of gingerbread most hot
Breaks the dense atmosphere, and foolish men
(Tho' luxury, more powerful than the sword,
26
More powerful than the breath of Pestilence
Sends millions yearly to the court of death)
Check the swift scate, and eager catch the sound.
'Twas noon; and round a vender of this food
A crowd was met; and happiness was there.
Happy the man who now regal'd first serv'd!
And happy he, who arm'd with halfpence stood
Mix'd with no mass from Cyclopean forge
Of Birmingham! The unpenc'd wight pass'd on.
Here all was mirth. When, lo! sudden, and loud
(Ne'er did the voice of Jove more dreadful sound),
A crack was heard. None stopp'd to look aghast,
But fled wide-circling. Whether the Naiads
Mistook the cakes as offerings at their shrine,
And hungry wish'd to snap them up, my Muse
Sings not; but quick into the lake they fell,
Slice coursing slice; while he, poor man of spice!
While he, his head scarce lifted o'er the flood,
With tears, quick freezing as they fell, counted
Each half-p'worth: and now, struggling to emerge,
For aid he calls; but what can now avail
His eloquence? All stand aloof. 'Tis not
The cry of gingerbread.
A crowd was met; and happiness was there.
Happy the man who now regal'd first serv'd!
And happy he, who arm'd with halfpence stood
Mix'd with no mass from Cyclopean forge
Of Birmingham! The unpenc'd wight pass'd on.
Here all was mirth. When, lo! sudden, and loud
(Ne'er did the voice of Jove more dreadful sound),
A crack was heard. None stopp'd to look aghast,
But fled wide-circling. Whether the Naiads
Mistook the cakes as offerings at their shrine,
And hungry wish'd to snap them up, my Muse
Sings not; but quick into the lake they fell,
Slice coursing slice; while he, poor man of spice!
While he, his head scarce lifted o'er the flood,
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Each half-p'worth: and now, struggling to emerge,
For aid he calls; but what can now avail
His eloquence? All stand aloof. 'Tis not
The cry of gingerbread.
29
IMITATION OF HORACE.
My honest and my good friend Will,
Who know'st my Muse has worn her quill
With verses bad, for which that rudis,
Whose name unclassically crude is,
Has often crossed my back at school,
Why wish me now to play the fool?
Mendoza after many a heating
Fears, least the last should prove a beating:
Besides, a veteran friend has chid me,
And whispering in my ear has bid me,
“Beware of Pegasus: if you please,
“Mount:—but you're sure to break his knees.”
Rhymes, verses then, and all such things
I leave to drolls, and Chinese Kings.
Who know'st my Muse has worn her quill
With verses bad, for which that rudis,
Whose name unclassically crude is,
Has often crossed my back at school,
Why wish me now to play the fool?
Mendoza after many a heating
Fears, least the last should prove a beating:
Besides, a veteran friend has chid me,
And whispering in my ear has bid me,
“Beware of Pegasus: if you please,
“Mount:—but you're sure to break his knees.”
Rhymes, verses then, and all such things
I leave to drolls, and Chinese Kings.
All that is serious and good
Is now my literary food:
And stores I'm hoarding every day,
In case they're drawn upon in May.
Perhaps you'll ask “quo duce utor”?
And who's my Mathematic Tutor?
Agnipedes. At 10 o'clock
My knuckles at his out-door knock.
Is now my literary food:
And stores I'm hoarding every day,
In case they're drawn upon in May.
Perhaps you'll ask “quo duce utor”?
And who's my Mathematic Tutor?
Agnipedes. At 10 o'clock
My knuckles at his out-door knock.
30
Still my attendance is not such
But that at Politics I touch;
And thrice a week Lloyd's Evening Post
Conveys me news from t'other coast,
Of what the Sans-culottes are doing
In all the happiness of ruin.
And now and then I take a trip
As Horace wont to Aristip,
(Thy follower, O Epicure)
To ------ near Petty Curie.
But that at Politics I touch;
And thrice a week Lloyd's Evening Post
Conveys me news from t'other coast,
Of what the Sans-culottes are doing
In all the happiness of ruin.
And now and then I take a trip
As Horace wont to Aristip,
(Thy follower, O Epicure)
To ------ near Petty Curie.
But as to lover sad bewailing,
While up and down the street he's trailing;
And all most piteously complaining,
While it most piteously is raining,
The night seems long; so each hour drags on,
While the poor Freshman funks and fags on,
Till that dread day, when every sizar,
With golden gowns for honours tries, Sir.
For this day, (as there's no refusing,)
The Elements I'm hard perusing.
What, tho' this road I ever travel,
And never should o'ertake a T---!
Yet now and then by way of vomit,
I take a little Trigonomet-
ry, and bring my heated brain
To plane and level thoughts again.
Of angles, secants, tangents, sines
Such various powers of various lines
In magic Ludlam may be had,
As make mad sound, and sound men mad.
Into this Astrologic book
Magicians very soon shall look:
Each ass then, when his fate appears,
Shall hear his doom and drop his ears.
While up and down the street he's trailing;
And all most piteously complaining,
While it most piteously is raining,
The night seems long; so each hour drags on,
While the poor Freshman funks and fags on,
Till that dread day, when every sizar,
With golden gowns for honours tries, Sir.
For this day, (as there's no refusing,)
The Elements I'm hard perusing.
What, tho' this road I ever travel,
And never should o'ertake a T---!
Yet now and then by way of vomit,
I take a little Trigonomet-
ry, and bring my heated brain
To plane and level thoughts again.
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Such various powers of various lines
In magic Ludlam may be had,
As make mad sound, and sound men mad.
Into this Astrologic book
Magicians very soon shall look:
Each ass then, when his fate appears,
Shall hear his doom and drop his ears.
A Proverb, not less true than old,
Says, “small-change ever yields to gold;”
“Merit to both.” Whoe'er you meet
From Trompington to Andrew's Street
Will cry, I grant the man has νους:
But, pray, who values this a louse?
He's plenty too of Greek and Latin:
What then?—His breeches are not sattin.
He's mighty good, and mighty steady:
Granted, my friend; but where's his Ready?
His merit's great.—I'm sure you lie, Sir,
I tell you he is but a Sizar.
Let him, who'd have his merits known,
With golden trappings deck his gown!
Then every one shall view his lace,
And see he's clever by—his face.
Says, “small-change ever yields to gold;”
“Merit to both.” Whoe'er you meet
From Trompington to Andrew's Street
Will cry, I grant the man has νους:
But, pray, who values this a louse?
He's plenty too of Greek and Latin:
What then?—His breeches are not sattin.
He's mighty good, and mighty steady:
Granted, my friend; but where's his Ready?
His merit's great.—I'm sure you lie, Sir,
I tell you he is but a Sizar.
Let him, who'd have his merits known,
With golden trappings deck his gown!
Then every one shall view his lace,
And see he's clever by—his face.
32
The little boys at school will say
“The cleverest shall rule the play;”
“T'have robbed no orchard, done no evil,”
“Like brazen wall, will keep the devil”
“From ent'ring in.”—Come, come to College,
Ye silly boys, and mend your knowledge!
“The cleverest shall rule the play;”
“T'have robbed no orchard, done no evil,”
“Like brazen wall, will keep the devil”
“From ent'ring in.”—Come, come to College,
Ye silly boys, and mend your knowledge!
Tis common talk to say that you,
My friend, should act as others do,
Who live within the self-same wall,
And eat within the self-same hall.
My friend, should act as others do,
Who live within the self-same wall,
And eat within the self-same hall.
To such I answer, “Cast you eye on
“The Fable of the Fox and Lion.
“Full many of our bucks so stout
“Break into jail, but none break out.”
This will o'wisp of night and day
Who'd follow to be led astray?
Fashion; whose various change of names
The hydra-headed phasm proclaims.
Now She's the tip, the stare, the gaze,
And now the thing, the flame, the blaze.
Now She's the whip, and takes a jig
With Billy Whip-cord in a gig:
And now again She's all the flog,
And sports a nag to Gog-magog:
And now She's grown the very kick,
And down stairs helps to throw a Tick.
Now with some spark She'll take a cutter,
And sail down Cam's smooth-flowing gutter,
And there full gallantly glide on,
Till landed safe at Chesterton:
Where sporting billiards, bowls and tea,
Cries Fashion, “Who so great as We?”
Another up to Town she takes,
And there right joyously he rakes;
In ruin's high road posts smack dash on;
Because—Gadzooks! it is the Fashion.
See one who sports a good warm house,
And eke a comfortable spouse,
Says, Life has nothing that could please him,—
A fellowship perhaps might ease him.—
The Fellow, swears upon his life
He'll wed—a fashionable wife.
“The Fable of the Fox and Lion.
“Full many of our bucks so stout
“Break into jail, but none break out.”
This will o'wisp of night and day
Who'd follow to be led astray?
Fashion; whose various change of names
The hydra-headed phasm proclaims.
Now She's the tip, the stare, the gaze,
And now the thing, the flame, the blaze.
Now She's the whip, and takes a jig
With Billy Whip-cord in a gig:
And now again She's all the flog,
And sports a nag to Gog-magog:
And now She's grown the very kick,
And down stairs helps to throw a Tick.
33
And sail down Cam's smooth-flowing gutter,
And there full gallantly glide on,
Till landed safe at Chesterton:
Where sporting billiards, bowls and tea,
Cries Fashion, “Who so great as We?”
Another up to Town she takes,
And there right joyously he rakes;
In ruin's high road posts smack dash on;
Because—Gadzooks! it is the Fashion.
See one who sports a good warm house,
And eke a comfortable spouse,
Says, Life has nothing that could please him,—
A fellowship perhaps might ease him.—
The Fellow, swears upon his life
He'll wed—a fashionable wife.
Laugh on, my friend; both poor and rich
Have got the fashionable itch.
We Sizars sport our nag and boat,
Our every day and sunday coat,
Give sizings of delicious gammon
Of bacon or of pickled salmon;
And sit in magisterial state
To quaff our morning chocolate,
Tasting, like Lillyputian kings,
The luxury of little things.
Have got the fashionable itch.
We Sizars sport our nag and boat,
Our every day and sunday coat,
Give sizings of delicious gammon
Of bacon or of pickled salmon;
And sit in magisterial state
To quaff our morning chocolate,
Tasting, like Lillyputian kings,
The luxury of little things.
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If half en queue and half a crop
Into your presence I should pop,
If half the rags of half my gown
Their brother raglings should disown,
You'd smile:—then lustily you'd laugh
To see me every thing by half;
Half gambling, jockying, raking, drinking,
And halving every thing but—thinking.
Into your presence I should pop,
If half the rags of half my gown
Their brother raglings should disown,
You'd smile:—then lustily you'd laugh
To see me every thing by half;
Half gambling, jockying, raking, drinking,
And halving every thing but—thinking.
Beam forth in thy auspicious light!
Thou Son of Cambridge, Good and Fair!
(All else I value not a hair)
Thou'rt all majestic to a tittle
With nothing mortal, but thy—spittle!
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EPIGRAMS, &c.
37
On a Preacher who was very fond of exhibiting his white hand in the pulpit.
Earth shook, Heaven trembled at the Lord's command,Our Preacher said, and—waved his lily hand.
On seeing the initials of a notorious lawyer's name cut deep into his tombstone.
Initials just! for well you shew,How deep he was Who lies below.
On hearing that the French had melted down their images to purchase artillery.
Says a Rev. Priest to his less Rev. friend,Where at length will the crimes of these French villains end,
38
And convert into damnable engines of Hell?
Prithee why, quoth his friend, are you so much surprized,
That Saints had their desert and were all—canonized.
EXTEMPORE On a Gentleman more famous for the multiplicity of cloaths in which he always appeared dressed, than for his abilities.
Some place their wardrobe on a wooden shelf;But wooden W--- on his wooden self.
On hearing a Gentleman who squinted, assert that the prophecies were to be understood in a double sense.
A double sense no wonder ------ spies;The fault's not in his brain but in his eyes.
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On hearing that a certain Gentleman hid himself in a hollow tree in order to discover and apprehend the amorous parties of the neighbourhood.
Fair damsel, who may through the woodLike Daphne chance to be pursued,
Be sure ne'er turn into a tree;
For there your follower you'll see.
On a Gentleman who was remarkable for bowing his head down in a musing posture, whenever his comprehension failed him.
Antæus sinking to the earthSupply of strength obtains;
So Marcus downward bends his head
In hopes to find his brains.
IMPROMPTU To Miss S--- on seeing her neck adorned with a golden chain.
In mercy sure you wear that chainInforming each admiring swain,
That if he dares to look above,
Bound he'll be in chains of Love.
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FOR A CATCH.
A roaring JackWas Hynes O'Hack,
As e'er a one in seven;
For when Death stopped his throttle,
And took away his bottle,
He scraped his skull,
And fill'd it full
To drink on his road to Heaven.
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Amoto quæramus seria ludo.
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EMMA TO EDWARD.
How long will you Edward delay
To restore to your Emma her peace?
For alas! as each hour glides away
Her disgrace and her sorrows increase!
Oh! haste, or a pledge of our love
Will the shame of it's parent declare;
Ah! soon the sad tale will it prove;
Ah! soon in my misery share.
To restore to your Emma her peace?
For alas! as each hour glides away
Her disgrace and her sorrows increase!
Oh! haste, or a pledge of our love
Will the shame of it's parent declare;
Ah! soon the sad tale will it prove;
Ah! soon in my misery share.
Your passion could brook no delay,
Till your poor Emma's heart you had won;
You esteemed every moment a day,
Till you saw your poor Emma undone.
Oh! haste to dispel the sad fear,
Which you gave my bosom to know!
Be as speedy to wipe off the tear
As you once were to cause it to flow!
Till your poor Emma's heart you had won;
You esteemed every moment a day,
Till you saw your poor Emma undone.
Oh! haste to dispel the sad fear,
Which you gave my bosom to know!
Be as speedy to wipe off the tear
As you once were to cause it to flow!
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TO SOPHIA.
'Twas not thy sparkling eyes,
That float in liquid love;
Nor yet thy form that vies
With her's, who won the prize,
That did my passion move:
Nor wealth;—for from thy lowly shed
On her golden pinions
To her fav'rite minions
Fortune far away has fled.
That float in liquid love;
Nor yet thy form that vies
With her's, who won the prize,
That did my passion move:
Nor wealth;—for from thy lowly shed
On her golden pinions
To her fav'rite minions
Fortune far away has fled.
But when with piteous sighs
Was told a tale of woe,
I marked thy tearful eyes,
I saw thy bosom rise
To ease the labouring throe.
Nor I can boast or wealth or power;
But in my tender breast
Does gentle Pity rest:
—Then mutual is the dower.
Was told a tale of woe,
I marked thy tearful eyes,
I saw thy bosom rise
To ease the labouring throe.
Nor I can boast or wealth or power;
But in my tender breast
Does gentle Pity rest:
—Then mutual is the dower.
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On seeing Mrs. Siddons the first time, and then in the Character of Isabella.
Pity! my breast ne'er knew thee for it's own,Nor Sympathy, dear parent of the sigh!
Tho' oft the tear fell trickling from my eye,
A moment vanished,—and the scene was gone:
A cold Promethean form!—Till Siddons' spell
Waked every feeling from it's icy cell.
The Mourner came—and Pity was my own.
O! I did hear each accent of her woe;
Grief rushed on grief, till all my senses flown
Forgot to ease the torrent in a throe;
My soul had fled it's nook, and in my eye
Suspended hung in tearful extasy.
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SONNET To a Gentleman, who presented the Author with a Violin.
O! Harmony, sweet minstrel of the spheres,Who know'st to raise the rapturous glow,
Or wake the tenderest tear of woe,
Come, dear companion of my future years!
Oft in sorrow's saddest hour
The softest magic of thy power,
Shall sooth my troubled breast to peace,
Till the hushed storm shall seem to cease;
Oft, when the tumults of my joy run high,
Shall lull my melted soul in extasy.
—While still, O L------n, still shall Memory
Uprear her listening head, and, as they float,
Still catch the cadence of each thrilling note
Thinking it sounds of Gratitude and Thee.
47
A FRAGMENT.
[Thro' the stained windows of the gloomy arch]
Thro' the stained windows of the gloomy arch
The moon's pale beam reflects a varied ray;
Across the long cold aile with sounding wing
The midnight Storm was passing on its way.
The moon's pale beam reflects a varied ray;
Across the long cold aile with sounding wing
The midnight Storm was passing on its way.
Her fearful step no listening echo heard,
Her breath suspended on her bosom hung,
Big swelled the tear that trembled in her eye,
And her clasped hands in agony she wrung.
Her breath suspended on her bosom hung,
Big swelled the tear that trembled in her eye,
And her clasped hands in agony she wrung.
A lamp's small blaze beneath a mouldering nich
Chaced the dank vapours of the vault away;
And the faint sickly gleam, which round it spread,
Shewed where the relics of her Edward lay.
Chaced the dank vapours of the vault away;
And the faint sickly gleam, which round it spread,
Shewed where the relics of her Edward lay.
The large helm glittered to the lamp's dull light;
Her babe affrighted hid it's little head;
At the cold tomb in holy awe She knelt— [OMITTED]
Her babe affrighted hid it's little head;
At the cold tomb in holy awe She knelt— [OMITTED]
Cætera desunt.
FINIS.
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