The peripatetic or, Sketches of the heart, of nature and society; In a series of politico-sentimental journals, in verse and prose, of the eccentric excursions of Sylvanus Theophrastus; Supposed to be written by himself [by John Thelwall] |
 | [I]. |
[Nor here forgets (as cheerful we aspire] |
 | II. |
| III. |
 | The peripatetic |  |
182
[Nor here forgets (as cheerful we aspire]
Nor here forgets (as cheerful we aspire,
And see below the distant town retire)
The friendly Hermes o'er the winding way
His wings and sage caduces to display.
My gay companion, skill'd in Gothic lore,
Opes at each step his topographic store:
What scatter'd hamlets catch the distant eye,
Or hid in neighbouring thickets viewless lie,
Or, half embower'd, o'er waving woods display
The spire bright glittering in the morning ray,
Their piles of mouldering state—each founder's name,
Their scenes of ancient sport, or martial fame,
Pleas'd he recounts, while mile succeeding mile
Flits light behind, and golden prospects smile.
Chief of the scenes that thus to notice throng,
Lo! ancient Eltham claim the varied song:—
Eltham whose towers, in age's stern decay,
And smiling woods, in vernal foliage gay,
Late (fond of scenes renown'd in times of yore)
My feet eccentric wander'd to explore;
Midst ivy'd ruins, wrapt in thought, to rove,
And woo the moralizing Muse I love:
For many a change these fallen towers have view'd
O'er which the mournful fancy loves to brood!
And well their mouldering honours may display
The vain parade of Grandeur's fickle sway.
For here, o'er Gothic Splendour's fallen seat,
Where plodding cits erect the snug retreat—
Where the tame drudge of six successive days,
His Sunday's coat and rural taste displays;—
Demure to church, with wig of snow parades,
The gaze of clowns and antiquated maids;
Who now, no more of flattering beaux the care,
Hide in these shades their spleen and their despair;
With cards and prayer-books soothe their wrinkled brows,
And pour at Scandal's shrine, their frequent vows;—
Yes, here (where grinning Humour hies to seek
Her country gentleman of once a week,)
Once the proud tyrants of the groaning land
Grasp'd the stern sceptre with ensanguin'd hand;
While haughty Barons, factious, rude, and sour,
(At once the props and rivals of their pow'r!)
Throng'd round in gaudy pomp, and daily vied
In scenes of riot, insolence, and pride;
While fierce Oppression, with her iron rod,
Dogg'd at their heels, and waited at their nod.
And see below the distant town retire)
The friendly Hermes o'er the winding way
His wings and sage caduces to display.
My gay companion, skill'd in Gothic lore,
Opes at each step his topographic store:
What scatter'd hamlets catch the distant eye,
Or hid in neighbouring thickets viewless lie,
Or, half embower'd, o'er waving woods display
The spire bright glittering in the morning ray,
Their piles of mouldering state—each founder's name,
Their scenes of ancient sport, or martial fame,
Pleas'd he recounts, while mile succeeding mile
Flits light behind, and golden prospects smile.
Chief of the scenes that thus to notice throng,
Lo! ancient Eltham claim the varied song:—
Eltham whose towers, in age's stern decay,
And smiling woods, in vernal foliage gay,
Late (fond of scenes renown'd in times of yore)
My feet eccentric wander'd to explore;
Midst ivy'd ruins, wrapt in thought, to rove,
And woo the moralizing Muse I love:
For many a change these fallen towers have view'd
O'er which the mournful fancy loves to brood!
And well their mouldering honours may display
The vain parade of Grandeur's fickle sway.
For here, o'er Gothic Splendour's fallen seat,
Where plodding cits erect the snug retreat—
183
His Sunday's coat and rural taste displays;—
Demure to church, with wig of snow parades,
The gaze of clowns and antiquated maids;
Who now, no more of flattering beaux the care,
Hide in these shades their spleen and their despair;
With cards and prayer-books soothe their wrinkled brows,
And pour at Scandal's shrine, their frequent vows;—
Yes, here (where grinning Humour hies to seek
Her country gentleman of once a week,)
Once the proud tyrants of the groaning land
Grasp'd the stern sceptre with ensanguin'd hand;
While haughty Barons, factious, rude, and sour,
(At once the props and rivals of their pow'r!)
Throng'd round in gaudy pomp, and daily vied
In scenes of riot, insolence, and pride;
While fierce Oppression, with her iron rod,
Dogg'd at their heels, and waited at their nod.
Ye fallen turrets, now in fragments spread,
Or doom'd to patch the rustic's humble shed!—
Ye rocky fragments of each ruin'd pile
That guarded once the robber and his spoil!
Ye, ye could tell (might heaven a voice afford)
Full many a crime of many a savage lord,
When thirst of blood, and violence were fame,
And abject myriads trembled at a name,
Or groan'd despis'd in flavery's galling chain,
A master's boundless riot to maintain,
And bled to soothe (nor dar'd to deem unjust)
His fierce ambition, or his fiercer lust!
Nor rests the guilt, that this abhorrence calls,
Within the martial chiefs embattled walls;
For holy cheats, the pests of every clime!
Made heaven itself a partner in the crime;
With hopes of easy penance urg'd the soul
To bolder guilt, and bade the stern controul
Of aweful Conscience vanish, and the train
Of fell Remorse, that rack the wildering brain,
And call the phantom'd furies from the deep
Where Fear and Horror endless vigils keep
To haunt diseas'd Remembrance. These behold
The pious jugglers, for corrupting gold,
With drops of magic dew, and mutter'd spell,
Submissive conjure to their native cell;
In cloister'd walls while heavenly visions rise
To cheer with blissful hopes the murderer's eyes!
Or doom'd to patch the rustic's humble shed!—
Ye rocky fragments of each ruin'd pile
That guarded once the robber and his spoil!
Ye, ye could tell (might heaven a voice afford)
Full many a crime of many a savage lord,
When thirst of blood, and violence were fame,
And abject myriads trembled at a name,
Or groan'd despis'd in flavery's galling chain,
A master's boundless riot to maintain,
And bled to soothe (nor dar'd to deem unjust)
His fierce ambition, or his fiercer lust!
Nor rests the guilt, that this abhorrence calls,
Within the martial chiefs embattled walls;
184
Made heaven itself a partner in the crime;
With hopes of easy penance urg'd the soul
To bolder guilt, and bade the stern controul
Of aweful Conscience vanish, and the train
Of fell Remorse, that rack the wildering brain,
And call the phantom'd furies from the deep
Where Fear and Horror endless vigils keep
To haunt diseas'd Remembrance. These behold
The pious jugglers, for corrupting gold,
With drops of magic dew, and mutter'd spell,
Submissive conjure to their native cell;
In cloister'd walls while heavenly visions rise
To cheer with blissful hopes the murderer's eyes!
Within yon fane (to prop whose shapeless pile
What distant ages lend their pious toil—
Whose rude ill-match'd materials scarcely save
Its mouldering Tombs from one oblivious grave—
But still whose reverend arch, of Gothic frame,
To far antiquity asserts the claim.)—
Yes, there, perhaps, within yon tottering fane,
The British purple's most detested stain,
Inhuman John! a trembling suppliant stood,
His hand still palsied with a nephew's blood,
Till hireling priests the sacred unction pour,
And all his bosom's pious peace restore:
While groaning subjects, by his crimes undone,
With added burthens for his guilt atone;
And hard-wrung subsidies the boon supply
That gives him back to Innocence and Joy!
What distant ages lend their pious toil—
Whose rude ill-match'd materials scarcely save
Its mouldering Tombs from one oblivious grave—
But still whose reverend arch, of Gothic frame,
To far antiquity asserts the claim.)—
Yes, there, perhaps, within yon tottering fane,
The British purple's most detested stain,
Inhuman John! a trembling suppliant stood,
His hand still palsied with a nephew's blood,
Till hireling priests the sacred unction pour,
And all his bosom's pious peace restore:
While groaning subjects, by his crimes undone,
With added burthens for his guilt atone;
And hard-wrung subsidies the boon supply
That gives him back to Innocence and Joy!
| The peripatetic | |