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]. |
| II. |
 | III. | VOL. III. |
 | The peripatetic |  |
III. VOL. III.
13
[Me, from my infant years, the inspiring Muse]
Me, from my infant years, the inspiring Muse
(Though by the mind's as yet unpractis'd ear
Not heard distinctly) oft would sweetly wooe,
To meditate o'er Nature's varied charms,
And from the mute instructors of the grove,
The rugged heath, or mead, or cultur'd bower
Where richest Flora blooms, or where more wild
She flings her native sweets with artless hand,
O'er brake or hedgerow, to imbibe the lore
That wakes each keen emotion's trembling glow,
And feeds the fervour of the Poet's soul.
(Though by the mind's as yet unpractis'd ear
Not heard distinctly) oft would sweetly wooe,
To meditate o'er Nature's varied charms,
And from the mute instructors of the grove,
The rugged heath, or mead, or cultur'd bower
Where richest Flora blooms, or where more wild
She flings her native sweets with artless hand,
O'er brake or hedgerow, to imbibe the lore
That wakes each keen emotion's trembling glow,
And feeds the fervour of the Poet's soul.
Even then to wander pensive and alone,
“Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine,”
Oft unperceiv'd I left the cheerful throng,
And stole, in lonely meditation wrapt,
Slow by the woodland side, at the still hour
Of pensive Evening. Or when mid-day Sol
O'er the blue concave shot his garish beams,
Plung'd in the thickest labyrinths, dark, and wild,
I shun'd the unwelcome fervour. There full oft
Upon the mossy relic have I set
Of some once tow'ring oak, whose writhing limbs
And giant trunk the woodman's sounding axe
Had fell'd in days of yore, and left behind
A hoary monument—of power to wake
The deep drawn sigh that mourns the transient date
Of Sublunary Greatness, and the fall
Of high aspiring Virtue, that would tow'r
And spread its verdant honours o'er the realm
That gave it birth;—or to the listless arm
Of mournful Meditation to afford
A meet support, what time, as Fancy prompts,
Musing intent, the pensive head reclines;—
There seated oft, with forms etherial-plum'd
I held ideal converse, or invok'd
The Genii of the woods, or call'd to mind
The winning tales of fairies, and of elves,
And wandering ghosts, and hermits, and the train
(Magii, or incubus, or fiend) that throng
The Gothic legend, which the oral Muse
(Vers'd in traditions old) had summon'd oft,
With mutter'd spell uncouth, to thrill the soul,
And with strange raptures wing the winter's night.
Or if, by chance, low murmuring on my ear,
Rush'd the lorn cadence of some fretted stream,
Winding, and babbling, to the mossy shore,
Even then I stole, the arching boughs beneath,
And traced, with silent awe, its mazy course;
Or, stretch'd at length, the visionary power
Of Fancy from her airy cell sublime
Woo'd to my infant side; in fabling thought
Heard to the plaining rill the minstrels voice
Accord the mournful tale; or o'er the brook
My head propending shed the soothing tear,
Prophetic of the hovering Woes prepar'd
To blast my rip'ning years, to nip each joy,
Each smiling promise of my vernal youth,
And bring the untimely seer:—if tears so sweet,
Of such serene enchantment! of the woes
That gloom'd my rip'ning years, that envious nipp'd
Each smiling promise of my vernal youth,
And brought the seer untimely might be deem'd
Fit harbingers; or Superstition's self
Could turn warm Nature's fine-vibrating throb
To dreams of antic Mysticism, and form
From soft sensations of the thrilling heart,
A gloomy train to throng the peopled sky.
“Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine,”
Oft unperceiv'd I left the cheerful throng,
And stole, in lonely meditation wrapt,
Slow by the woodland side, at the still hour
Of pensive Evening. Or when mid-day Sol
O'er the blue concave shot his garish beams,
Plung'd in the thickest labyrinths, dark, and wild,
I shun'd the unwelcome fervour. There full oft
Upon the mossy relic have I set
Of some once tow'ring oak, whose writhing limbs
And giant trunk the woodman's sounding axe
Had fell'd in days of yore, and left behind
A hoary monument—of power to wake
The deep drawn sigh that mourns the transient date
Of Sublunary Greatness, and the fall
14
And spread its verdant honours o'er the realm
That gave it birth;—or to the listless arm
Of mournful Meditation to afford
A meet support, what time, as Fancy prompts,
Musing intent, the pensive head reclines;—
There seated oft, with forms etherial-plum'd
I held ideal converse, or invok'd
The Genii of the woods, or call'd to mind
The winning tales of fairies, and of elves,
And wandering ghosts, and hermits, and the train
(Magii, or incubus, or fiend) that throng
The Gothic legend, which the oral Muse
(Vers'd in traditions old) had summon'd oft,
With mutter'd spell uncouth, to thrill the soul,
And with strange raptures wing the winter's night.
Or if, by chance, low murmuring on my ear,
Rush'd the lorn cadence of some fretted stream,
Winding, and babbling, to the mossy shore,
Even then I stole, the arching boughs beneath,
And traced, with silent awe, its mazy course;
Or, stretch'd at length, the visionary power
Of Fancy from her airy cell sublime
Woo'd to my infant side; in fabling thought
Heard to the plaining rill the minstrels voice
Accord the mournful tale; or o'er the brook
My head propending shed the soothing tear,
Prophetic of the hovering Woes prepar'd
To blast my rip'ning years, to nip each joy,
Each smiling promise of my vernal youth,
And bring the untimely seer:—if tears so sweet,
Of such serene enchantment! of the woes
That gloom'd my rip'ning years, that envious nipp'd
Each smiling promise of my vernal youth,
And brought the seer untimely might be deem'd
15
Could turn warm Nature's fine-vibrating throb
To dreams of antic Mysticism, and form
From soft sensations of the thrilling heart,
A gloomy train to throng the peopled sky.
O, wondrous Nature! O, mysterious law
And winning charm of rapturous Melancholy!
That, causeless, thus, can o'er the infant eye
Spread the dim soothing veil of semblant woe;
From sombrous glooms, and sounds of sullen awe,
Can call extatic Rapture, and in tears
Bathe sweeter joys than Laughter ever knew!
And winning charm of rapturous Melancholy!
That, causeless, thus, can o'er the infant eye
Spread the dim soothing veil of semblant woe;
From sombrous glooms, and sounds of sullen awe,
Can call extatic Rapture, and in tears
Bathe sweeter joys than Laughter ever knew!
40
[O, Friendship! balm of Sorrow's wound!]
O, Friendship! balm of Sorrow's wound!
Kind star that, thro' affliction's night
Shed'st the soft ray of Hope around,
To guide—to cheer the wanderer's sight!
Kind star that, thro' affliction's night
Shed'st the soft ray of Hope around,
To guide—to cheer the wanderer's sight!
O, radiance meek! that round the pole
Which props man's little world of joys,
While other planets distant roll,
A pure and constant beam supplies!—
Which props man's little world of joys,
While other planets distant roll,
A pure and constant beam supplies!—
O ne'er—tho' my eccentric feet
Thro' wilds and pathless desarts stray—
May me those envious tempests meet,
That blot from Heaven thy cheering ray!
Thro' wilds and pathless desarts stray—
May me those envious tempests meet,
That blot from Heaven thy cheering ray!
Still, tho' the thorns of anguish rend,
Perplex'd in many a devious maze,
Tho' Danger's frown her terrors lend,
And in my rear her lightnings blaze;
Perplex'd in many a devious maze,
Tho' Danger's frown her terrors lend,
And in my rear her lightnings blaze;
Let but thy mild and settled light
(Hear, power serene! thy suppliant's pray'r)
Break thro' the general gloom of night,
And I will smile, and mock despair.
(Hear, power serene! thy suppliant's pray'r)
Break thro' the general gloom of night,
And I will smile, and mock despair.
45
[But, oh! that, Hervey! to thy classic ear]
But, oh! that, Hervey! to thy classic ear
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares,
And with this burthen saddens oft the strain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
Some friendly chance these artless lines might bear!
That she, the Muse (each sordid care aloof)
Who weaves, with feeling hand, the airy woof,
From the wrought web a magic clue might lend,
Once more to guide thee to thy sorrowing friend,
Who loves thy merits, and in memory bears
Thy mirth instructive, and thy friendly cares,
And with this burthen saddens oft the strain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
For ah, what pity, since too well 'tis known
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
Along Life's road, how many a bramble grows,
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's peerless bloom,
(The grain's best virtues, and the flower's perfume—
Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should e'er be left with heedless haste behind,
Its fragrance breathe to desert gales away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Hervey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
How thin the flowers of genuine bliss are strown,
In this low vale of sorrows and of cares,
How small the harvest, and how throng'd the tares;
46
How many a nettle, for one fragrant rose,—
What pity 'tis that Friendship's peerless bloom,
(The grain's best virtues, and the flower's perfume—
Pleasure and food of every virtuous mind!)
Should e'er be left with heedless haste behind,
Its fragrance breathe to desert gales away,
Smile unadmir'd, and unenjoy'd decay!
Come, Hervey, come! nor let me more complain,
That hearts for friendship form'd, are form'd in vain.
52
THE EPIC POEM
GENIUS OF BRITAIN!—Not that power who strung
A Hampden's arm, and urg'd his patriot tongue—
Not she that warm'd a Sydney's, Russel's soul,
Corruption's tyrant progress to control—
Ere yet pretended Patriots, bought and sold,
Made public barter of their Votes, for Gold;—
Ere Freedom's Representatives, by name,
Lauded Despotic Power, unaw'd by shame;
In public Senates (fired with frantic rage,
Which not the tears of Friendship could assuage)
Blacken'd each Name that, true to Freedom's cause,
Dar'd plead for Nature's violated Laws;—
Ere yet, grown grey in Party's sordid train,
(Where who like them the clamorous throat to strain?)
Wild, driv'ling Dotards (fired with sacred hate
Of all who held what they upheld of late,)
Damn'd all the Honours which a glossing Tongue,
Practis'd in fraud, and with persuasion hung,
Still with the rotten Heart at prudent strife,
Had purchas'd with the Lie of a whole life;
Renounc'd all Principle, and bared the Heart
So long conceal'd from view with painful Art;
Threw off the Mask, so long with credit worn,
And chang'd Respect for Pity, and for Scorn;
To Bathos dived for culinary wit,
Made e'en the Stews and Billingsgate submit
With sheer scurrility, and blushing own
Their claim to mount the Shrew's contested Throne;
Thence soaring high, or thinking that they soar'd,
The realms of “Beauteous and Sublime” explor'd,
Pluck'd down the Stars, and thought those Stars too poor
(Moon-struck themselves!) to deck a Royal Whore,
Because she chanc'd the Gallic Throne to share,
To which (to Dorset thanks!) she brought an Heir.
—But why with plurals thus Mankind disgrace?
When even these Times produce but one so base.
A Hampden's arm, and urg'd his patriot tongue—
Not she that warm'd a Sydney's, Russel's soul,
Corruption's tyrant progress to control—
Ere yet pretended Patriots, bought and sold,
Made public barter of their Votes, for Gold;—
Ere Freedom's Representatives, by name,
Lauded Despotic Power, unaw'd by shame;
In public Senates (fired with frantic rage,
Which not the tears of Friendship could assuage)
Blacken'd each Name that, true to Freedom's cause,
Dar'd plead for Nature's violated Laws;—
Ere yet, grown grey in Party's sordid train,
(Where who like them the clamorous throat to strain?)
Wild, driv'ling Dotards (fired with sacred hate
Of all who held what they upheld of late,)
Damn'd all the Honours which a glossing Tongue,
Practis'd in fraud, and with persuasion hung,
Still with the rotten Heart at prudent strife,
Had purchas'd with the Lie of a whole life;
Renounc'd all Principle, and bared the Heart
So long conceal'd from view with painful Art;
Threw off the Mask, so long with credit worn,
And chang'd Respect for Pity, and for Scorn;
To Bathos dived for culinary wit,
Made e'en the Stews and Billingsgate submit
With sheer scurrility, and blushing own
Their claim to mount the Shrew's contested Throne;
Thence soaring high, or thinking that they soar'd,
The realms of “Beauteous and Sublime” explor'd,
53
(Moon-struck themselves!) to deck a Royal Whore,
Because she chanc'd the Gallic Throne to share,
To which (to Dorset thanks!) she brought an Heir.
—But why with plurals thus Mankind disgrace?
When even these Times produce but one so base.
GENIUS of BRITAIN! prompt my Epic theme—
Not thou who, nurs'd by Heliconia's stream,
Taught ONE ILLUSTRIOUS BRITISH PRINCE to feel
A noble love for Learning's sacred weal,—
To Sage and Bard that patronage supply
Which pimps and fiddlers now alone enjoy,—
And, having freed the Land from foreign Foes,
Rous'd him to purge it from the darker woes
Of savage Ignorance, and Science rear,
At once by his Example, and his Care—
Not thou who urg'd the Godlike ALFRED's soul,
(Virtue his Race, Immortal Fame his Goal!)
With reverend Sages to devote his prime,—
Ere Caterers, Boxers, Swindlers, curs'd the Clime—
Ere yet the Turf alone had charms—Ere yet
Rooking was Science, Jockeying was Wit—
For Studs ere splendid Palaces arose,—
Where Steeds and Grooms, in idle ranks, repose,
Consuming more than Gallia's haughty Lord,
Her fourteenth Louis, spent to deck that board
Where Taste and Science found a sure retreat,
And all the Wits of Europe had a Seat!—
Not thou who, nurs'd by Heliconia's stream,
Taught ONE ILLUSTRIOUS BRITISH PRINCE to feel
A noble love for Learning's sacred weal,—
To Sage and Bard that patronage supply
Which pimps and fiddlers now alone enjoy,—
And, having freed the Land from foreign Foes,
Rous'd him to purge it from the darker woes
Of savage Ignorance, and Science rear,
At once by his Example, and his Care—
Not thou who urg'd the Godlike ALFRED's soul,
(Virtue his Race, Immortal Fame his Goal!)
With reverend Sages to devote his prime,—
Ere Caterers, Boxers, Swindlers, curs'd the Clime—
Ere yet the Turf alone had charms—Ere yet
Rooking was Science, Jockeying was Wit—
For Studs ere splendid Palaces arose,—
Where Steeds and Grooms, in idle ranks, repose,
Consuming more than Gallia's haughty Lord,
Her fourteenth Louis, spent to deck that board
Where Taste and Science found a sure retreat,
And all the Wits of Europe had a Seat!—
—Not thou who taught mellifluous
Pope to sing,
Plum'd Shakespeare's, Milton's, Dryden's daring wing,
Ere whining Prat, the pink of Common Place,
Pour'd forth long nothings with so soft a grace,
Made Sentiment so languishingly creep
To the charm'd Heart, as charm'd it quite to Sleep;
Made Sympathy thro' two long Cantoes shine,
Without assistance from one feeling line,
And fair Humanity—so soft—so sweet—
Drawl thro' dull pages to the hundredth sheet;
Drew meek Morality with such a Grace,
With such a simpering, lack-a-daisey Face,
Such water-gruel Sweetness, one would swear
She “suckled Fools, and chronicled small beer.”
—Ere yet quaint Fopperies from the Italian School
Threw in forc'd Extasies each Rhyming Fool;
Bit, like the Gad Fly, Widows, Wives, and Maids,
With frantic bleat to scare the tuneful Shades,
Where self-thought Poets, deeper bit than they,
To their wild bleat return'd as wild a bray!—
Plum'd Shakespeare's, Milton's, Dryden's daring wing,
Ere whining Prat, the pink of Common Place,
Pour'd forth long nothings with so soft a grace,
54
To the charm'd Heart, as charm'd it quite to Sleep;
Made Sympathy thro' two long Cantoes shine,
Without assistance from one feeling line,
And fair Humanity—so soft—so sweet—
Drawl thro' dull pages to the hundredth sheet;
Drew meek Morality with such a Grace,
With such a simpering, lack-a-daisey Face,
Such water-gruel Sweetness, one would swear
She “suckled Fools, and chronicled small beer.”
—Ere yet quaint Fopperies from the Italian School
Threw in forc'd Extasies each Rhyming Fool;
Bit, like the Gad Fly, Widows, Wives, and Maids,
With frantic bleat to scare the tuneful Shades,
Where self-thought Poets, deeper bit than they,
To their wild bleat return'd as wild a bray!—
Ere DE LA CRUSCA, darling of the WORLD!
The random Gaze of Moon-struck-madness hurl'd
Thro' the wild “Wilderness of blooming Suns,”
And Scenes which Common Sense indignant shuns;
Where Popularity, (debauch'd, and led
By that old Bawd, hight Puffing, to his Bed,)
Brought forth a Swarm of misshaped Monsters, more
Than ever spawn'd on Nilus' antic Shore;—
Monsters, to nurture which, in happy Hour,
Dame COWLEY waken'd in the Muses Bow'r—
That Bow'r in which, strew'd by her Angel Hand
With Poppies cull'd in Morpheus happy Land—
Morpheus! inspiring God of modern Themes!
The Patron blest of Poesy and Dreams!—
That Bow'r, in which the balmy-soothing Pow'r
With partial fondness, oft, at Evening Hour,
(“Attention pillowing her reclining Head”)
The sweetest Slumbers o'er her Senses spread;
While crowded Theatres, by Fate's decree,
First clapp'd, then yawn'd, then snor'd as loud as she.
The random Gaze of Moon-struck-madness hurl'd
Thro' the wild “Wilderness of blooming Suns,”
And Scenes which Common Sense indignant shuns;
Where Popularity, (debauch'd, and led
By that old Bawd, hight Puffing, to his Bed,)
Brought forth a Swarm of misshaped Monsters, more
Than ever spawn'd on Nilus' antic Shore;—
Monsters, to nurture which, in happy Hour,
Dame COWLEY waken'd in the Muses Bow'r—
That Bow'r in which, strew'd by her Angel Hand
With Poppies cull'd in Morpheus happy Land—
Morpheus! inspiring God of modern Themes!
The Patron blest of Poesy and Dreams!—
That Bow'r, in which the balmy-soothing Pow'r
With partial fondness, oft, at Evening Hour,
(“Attention pillowing her reclining Head”)
The sweetest Slumbers o'er her Senses spread;
55
First clapp'd, then yawn'd, then snor'd as loud as she.
GENIUS of BRITAIN!—by what Title grac'd—
Fashion or Folly, Vanity or Taste—
Thou, whose high Laws, rever'd by Courtly Dames!
Cecil's hereditary Wisdom frames.—
Important Guardian of a Royal Court!
Imperial Grandeur's wisest, best support!
Whose awful Nod prescribes the Mantua's grace,
And dooms, without appeal, in Gloves and Lace,
When, Wand in Hand, on Birth-Days, he presides,
And with the BEST OF KINGS the sway divides!—
—That BEST OF KINGS, from whom what blessings flow!
Who for his People keeps a Raree-Show
Of Pictures fine, a Month each Year, or more:
But makes them drop their Shillings at the Door!—
That BEST OF KINGS, who gives his Royal Name
To every Work of Charity, or Fame;
But, liberal as he is, with Prudence blest,
Keeps the Subscription Guinea in his Chest.—
That BEST OF KINGS, who, Umpire of the Arts!
To West's coarse outline his first Smile imparts:—
West, from whose hand each Male Complexion shines
Like half-wrought Copper from our Cornish Mines;
While, smooth as wax, each female Cheek is spread,
And every Lip, with the same lifeless red!—
West, whose long Groups, in order'd Rows display'd,
(As ranks of Soldiers strut on the parade,)
At Knightly Installations, make us stare,
And ask What Corporal drill'd the noble Fair!—
West, who, not only taught to husband Time,
Maintains the loss of Space an equal Crime,
So fills—despite of ease and simple grace—
So fills each Scrap of Canvas with a Face,
Which all, lest quarrels rise for shape and air,
The self-same attitude and features share—
West, who, to Scripture rules devoutly true,
Thinks Eye for Eye, and Tooth for Tooth, are due,
And painting Pharoah, and his warlike host
O'erthrown by Moses, and in Soap Suds lost,
With vengeful Brush, for Justice, arms his Hands,
And murders Moses, as the Law commands.—
That West, who, lest the first sad Curse be vain,
Damns our fall'n Parents, o'er and o'er again;
Then, fired with Zeal, instructs his glorious SON
(By whom one Day the Sire shall be outdone)
To force grim Satan from the depths of Hell,
'Midst grinning Forms of Ridicule to dwell,
Where laughing Scorn shall more afflict his Pride
Than all the Flames for torturing Ages tried.
Fashion or Folly, Vanity or Taste—
Thou, whose high Laws, rever'd by Courtly Dames!
Cecil's hereditary Wisdom frames.—
Important Guardian of a Royal Court!
Imperial Grandeur's wisest, best support!
Whose awful Nod prescribes the Mantua's grace,
And dooms, without appeal, in Gloves and Lace,
When, Wand in Hand, on Birth-Days, he presides,
And with the BEST OF KINGS the sway divides!—
—That BEST OF KINGS, from whom what blessings flow!
Who for his People keeps a Raree-Show
Of Pictures fine, a Month each Year, or more:
But makes them drop their Shillings at the Door!—
That BEST OF KINGS, who gives his Royal Name
To every Work of Charity, or Fame;
But, liberal as he is, with Prudence blest,
Keeps the Subscription Guinea in his Chest.—
That BEST OF KINGS, who, Umpire of the Arts!
To West's coarse outline his first Smile imparts:—
West, from whose hand each Male Complexion shines
Like half-wrought Copper from our Cornish Mines;
While, smooth as wax, each female Cheek is spread,
And every Lip, with the same lifeless red!—
West, whose long Groups, in order'd Rows display'd,
(As ranks of Soldiers strut on the parade,)
At Knightly Installations, make us stare,
And ask What Corporal drill'd the noble Fair!—
West, who, not only taught to husband Time,
Maintains the loss of Space an equal Crime,
So fills—despite of ease and simple grace—
So fills each Scrap of Canvas with a Face,
56
The self-same attitude and features share—
West, who, to Scripture rules devoutly true,
Thinks Eye for Eye, and Tooth for Tooth, are due,
And painting Pharoah, and his warlike host
O'erthrown by Moses, and in Soap Suds lost,
With vengeful Brush, for Justice, arms his Hands,
And murders Moses, as the Law commands.—
That West, who, lest the first sad Curse be vain,
Damns our fall'n Parents, o'er and o'er again;
Then, fired with Zeal, instructs his glorious SON
(By whom one Day the Sire shall be outdone)
To force grim Satan from the depths of Hell,
'Midst grinning Forms of Ridicule to dwell,
Where laughing Scorn shall more afflict his Pride
Than all the Flames for torturing Ages tried.
GENIUS of BRITAIN!—That same Nymph I mean
Who teaches Tambour to our GRACIOUS QUEEN;
Whence from her Needle (wond'rous Art!) arise
Long Pomps of Silken Trees, and Worsted Skies;
Quadrupeds, non-descript, are forc'd to Fame,
Plants with new forms, and Flowers without a name:
Or, soaring higher, to the Human form,
Her steel-eyed Pencil, (exquisitely warm!)
Calls faces forth—(if those who late have seen
Laurence's Portrait of that awful Mien
For such a Fact can take a Poet's word!)
Still more unmeaning than her Royal Lord!
—Prudent Amusement for a married Dame
Whose Numerous Babes her frugal Fondness claim!
Expensive Books might shrink her little Store,
Concerts and Treats make e'en the Wealthy poor:
But she at home who o'er her Needle dreams,
Or patches Fragments up with frugal Seams,
Or works old Sattin Coats with Colours fine,
O'er no Upholsterer's hideous Bill shall pine;
Yet sees, blest Harvest of her Royal Cares!
Quilts for her Beds, and Covers for her Chairs.
Who teaches Tambour to our GRACIOUS QUEEN;
Whence from her Needle (wond'rous Art!) arise
Long Pomps of Silken Trees, and Worsted Skies;
Quadrupeds, non-descript, are forc'd to Fame,
Plants with new forms, and Flowers without a name:
Or, soaring higher, to the Human form,
Her steel-eyed Pencil, (exquisitely warm!)
Calls faces forth—(if those who late have seen
Laurence's Portrait of that awful Mien
For such a Fact can take a Poet's word!)
Still more unmeaning than her Royal Lord!
—Prudent Amusement for a married Dame
Whose Numerous Babes her frugal Fondness claim!
Expensive Books might shrink her little Store,
Concerts and Treats make e'en the Wealthy poor:
But she at home who o'er her Needle dreams,
Or patches Fragments up with frugal Seams,
57
O'er no Upholsterer's hideous Bill shall pine;
Yet sees, blest Harvest of her Royal Cares!
Quilts for her Beds, and Covers for her Chairs.
GENIUS of BRITAIN! who, with like control,
Sway GEORGE's, CHARLOTTE's, WEST's, and WARREN's Soul!—
Make MERRY's ravings, COLEMAN's stolen trash,
His Tragi-Comic-Pantomimic hash,
Pass for true Wit! assist my EPIC LAY:
For hard the Task my vent'rous Lines essay.
TYPES and the BRUSH I sing, whose friendly aid
Sway GEORGE's, CHARLOTTE's, WEST's, and WARREN's Soul!—
Make MERRY's ravings, COLEMAN's stolen trash,
His Tragi-Comic-Pantomimic hash,
Pass for true Wit! assist my EPIC LAY:
For hard the Task my vent'rous Lines essay.
Calls buried Genius forth from Learning's shade—
That shade deserted now by every wight,
Save only those who feed on what they write,—
58
On Couplets feast, and commune with the Sky!—
That Shade (if Books may justify the Creed?)
When Bishops preach'd and mighty Lords could read,
Which even Statesmen deign'd with Smiles to view;
To Rectors dear, and reverend Prebends too,
Ere yet (for then no sordid Avarice reign'd)
Mitres they found more slowly were obtain'd
By gaining Crowns in Wisdom's laurel'd List
Than losing Crowns with gracious Queen's at Whist!—
That Shade where SHAKESPEARE's memory might expire,
And MILTON string unheard his Epic Lyre,
Did not prim Editors, with timely aid,
Rear the long varnish'd Vista's quaint parade,
With gilding gay, with flaunting Picture grac'd,
To lure the coxcomb eye of modern TASTE—
That Shade which now (as FASHION bids) shall shine
Throng'd like Vauxhall—as courtly, and as fine!
59
Fancy's lov'd Region—Grud Street is its name
With Mortal Men—how call'd by Gods on high,
Small is the import, friend, to you or I—
60
In days of yore, with bold inventions teem'd;
With Giants, Spectres, and Magicians dire,
Monsters and Dragons belching Streams of Fire,
Which arm'd Heroes brav'd to Combat, drunk
With sacred Love of Piety and Punk!—
—Near this fam'd Spot, where Poems once were made,
And Founders yet assist the Poet's Trade,
For leaden Satires leaden Types supply,
And give Ideal Nonsense to the Eye—
Near this fam'd spot—nor far (for since, by Fits,
Wits will be Madmen, Madmen may be Wits,
Our prudent Ancestors, right wisely plann'd
Their dwellings in one Neighbourhood should stand,
That due assistance might at times be shar'd,
And Brothers held in Brotherly regard)—
Nor far remov'd from that same noble Pile,
A needful Structure in Britannia's Isle!
Which, till some Royal head its shelter claim,
Of Bedlam bears the low, plebeian Name,
There stands a Dome, o'er whole trim Portals shine
(Type of JOVE's guardian Care and Love divine!)
Lion and Unicorn, by Sculptor bold
Carv'd in Olympian Oak, and gay with Gold.
A Dome it is each Bard with rapture views
Who in spruce Garb would deck his lofty Muse,
Thro' sheets of Snow would each dark passage spread,
And aid his weight of Brains with weight of Lead.
There thro' the livelong Day, o'er many a Forge,
Doom'd leaden Bolts of Vengeance to disgorge,
The Literary Cyclops toil and sweat
O'er the dread Thunders of the Alphabet;
Which dealt, with well aim'd Vengeance, o'er the World,
Tyrants have bow'd, and mighty Statesmen hurl'd
61
Villains have aw'd, and made proud Vice retreat!—
Thunders which, pointed by a Monarch's hand,
Have spread Confusion thro' a peaceful Land;
With short-liv'd Awe have struck the Free-born Soul,
Compell'd the use of Reason to control,
Compell'd to deem as wicked Traitors, those
Not who concert the Treason, but expose—
For now 'tis night: no more the Cyclops sweat
O'er the dread thunders of the alphabet,
Whose dubious terrors can alike control
By turns the Tyrant's and the Patriot's soul—
O'er the dread thunders of the alphabet,
Whose dubious terrors can alike control
By turns the Tyrant's and the Patriot's soul—
Here, tier o'er tier, in many an order'd Row,
To please the Goddess, finish'd Letters glow;
Not burnish'd Silver beams a brighter Ray;
Not prim Sir Fopling more exactly gay
Glides thro' the Ball-room, fearful lest the Air
Derange a Frill, or disconcert a Hair.
—There unwrought Metal lay, heap'd pile on pile;
There drossy Refuse of the daily Toil;
There, splash'd by careless hands from out the Moulds,
Thick spangling Drops the pensive GOD beholds,
Decking with useless Pomp, each Screen, each Wall,
Furnace, and Chimney, thro' the spacious Hall.
To please the Goddess, finish'd Letters glow;
Not burnish'd Silver beams a brighter Ray;
Not prim Sir Fopling more exactly gay
Glides thro' the Ball-room, fearful lest the Air
Derange a Frill, or disconcert a Hair.
—There unwrought Metal lay, heap'd pile on pile;
There drossy Refuse of the daily Toil;
There, splash'd by careless hands from out the Moulds,
Thick spangling Drops the pensive GOD beholds,
Decking with useless Pomp, each Screen, each Wall,
Furnace, and Chimney, thro' the spacious Hall.
“Oh! woeful sight!” the sordid Spectre said,
“Oh! impious waste of dear-beloved Lead!—
“Lead which, by Alphabeta touch'd, shall own
“Him the true Master of the Chymic stone—
“Lead which well-wrought, and properly bestow'd,
“Might print a Dying Speech or Birth-Day Ode;
“GRANT's Lashes publish, and for justice call;
“Or shew why ROSE was never lash'd at all.—
“Lead from whose womb in order'd ranks shall rise
“Those letters doom'd to charm all human eyes,
“At sight of which the Dunce's Breast might glow,
“Struck with strange Passion for the CRISS CROSS-ROW!—
—“Letters, so neat! so trim! so smooth! so fair!
“Be they round O o, straight I i, or V v so square,
“Or crooked S s, or that s that swells
“High o'er the Line, like straighter k k, and l l,—
“That lofty s, which Bell, with cruel spite,
“Would damn to dark Oblivion's endless Night,
“But which, by Alphabeta's loyal Care,
“Still o'er the Ranks the lofty Crest shall bear,
“By laws of ancient usage tower on high,
“And Innovation's dangerous stride defy.”
“All things from this their real value claim.
“Oh! impious waste of dear-beloved Lead!—
62
“Him the true Master of the Chymic stone—
“Lead which well-wrought, and properly bestow'd,
“Might print a Dying Speech or Birth-Day Ode;
“GRANT's Lashes publish, and for justice call;
“Or shew why ROSE was never lash'd at all.—
“Lead from whose womb in order'd ranks shall rise
“Those letters doom'd to charm all human eyes,
“At sight of which the Dunce's Breast might glow,
“Struck with strange Passion for the CRISS CROSS-ROW!—
—“Letters, so neat! so trim! so smooth! so fair!
“Be they round O o, straight I i, or V v so square,
“Or crooked S s, or that s that swells
“High o'er the Line, like straighter k k, and l l,—
“That lofty s, which Bell, with cruel spite,
“Would damn to dark Oblivion's endless Night,
“But which, by Alphabeta's loyal Care,
“Still o'er the Ranks the lofty Crest shall bear,
“By laws of ancient usage tower on high,
“And Innovation's dangerous stride defy.”
“Truth, Honour, Justice, Valour, Conscience, Fame,—
“(Thro' every Rank, Priests, Mountebanks, and Kings,)
“Have no more worth than each the Pence it brings.
“And tho' Adepts may bounce, with Scruples nice,
“'Tis but a bubble to increase the price;
“(Save with some Fools, whom learned Pride misleads)
“A stale, stock-jobbing Trick, which no one heeds.
63
“Endures, without Remorse, his Country's Curse;
“Endures the Scourge of headlong Party Rage,
“And stands the Butt of an enquiring Age;
“Without retreating from the searching Light,
“Sees blacker Vices drag'd to public sight
“Than, had he been of poor Plebeian Race,
“Had justly doom'd him to a Rope's disgrace:—
“Unblushing bears it all—for Gold, we know,
“Outbrazening Brass, can Impudence bestow.
“For this the Lawyer proves that Black is White;
“Arnold for this upon both sides will fight,
“By both despis'd. For this the Parson preaches,
“The Doctor kills, and Burke for this impeaches,
“From Year to Year draws out the tedious suit—
“For Hastings would not fee him to be mute!—
“Nay, chief, for this (if Fame aright declare,)
“Charlotte and George delight the Crown to wear.
“Blest source of Wealth! which leaves small Cause to dread
“Their Babes (GOD bless them!) e'er should beg their Bread.”
64
“Scarce had they finish'd when—A vulgar Bard
Would tell you, by the Cock's shrill Clarion scar'd;
But we, who true Description seek alone,
Know that Cocks seldom crow in London Town;—
Unless the Poet, for the Time of Need,
Should keep one by him of Parnassian breed,
Which, fed with Barley from the bi-fork'd hill,
Stands, with arch'd Neck, to chuckle at his will.—
Scarce had they finish'd—Oh! that now, so gay,
My Muse might, thro' enamell'd Meadows, stray
By Village side, whence Ploughmen whistle blithe,
And the rude Mower whets his shining scythe,
Or Milk-Maid trips, and, while her cleanly Pails
Click at her side, the Morn with Carol hails,
Or Shepherd Lad, with barking Cur beside,
Hies to the Cot where bleat the fleecy pride!
With Vernal Beauties then my Verse should shine;
Some varied Landscape glow in every Line;
Some balmy Zephyr thro' the waving Grove,
In every Couplet, breathe the Sigh of Love;
While the shrill Lark, or Horn's inspiring sound,
Should scare the Spectres to their Haunts profound.—
But Truth would here the Lark, the Horn disclaim:
And simple Truth is all the Muse's aim.—
Scarce had they finish'd, when thro' Chiswell Street
(The MUSE's now, and ALPHABETA's Seat)
A shrill loud Voice proclaim'd the scatter'd Gloom,
And “Sweep Soot O!” resounded thro' the dome.
Would tell you, by the Cock's shrill Clarion scar'd;
But we, who true Description seek alone,
Know that Cocks seldom crow in London Town;—
Unless the Poet, for the Time of Need,
Should keep one by him of Parnassian breed,
Which, fed with Barley from the bi-fork'd hill,
Stands, with arch'd Neck, to chuckle at his will.—
Scarce had they finish'd—Oh! that now, so gay,
My Muse might, thro' enamell'd Meadows, stray
By Village side, whence Ploughmen whistle blithe,
And the rude Mower whets his shining scythe,
Or Milk-Maid trips, and, while her cleanly Pails
Click at her side, the Morn with Carol hails,
Or Shepherd Lad, with barking Cur beside,
Hies to the Cot where bleat the fleecy pride!
With Vernal Beauties then my Verse should shine;
Some varied Landscape glow in every Line;
Some balmy Zephyr thro' the waving Grove,
In every Couplet, breathe the Sigh of Love;
While the shrill Lark, or Horn's inspiring sound,
Should scare the Spectres to their Haunts profound.—
But Truth would here the Lark, the Horn disclaim:
And simple Truth is all the Muse's aim.—
Scarce had they finish'd, when thro' Chiswell Street
(The MUSE's now, and ALPHABETA's Seat)
A shrill loud Voice proclaim'd the scatter'd Gloom,
And “Sweep Soot O!” resounded thro' the dome.
The Spectres started. Straight each Shadowy Breast
The faithful Harbinger of Morn confest.
They melt to Air, as sooty, maim'd, and slow,
Pass the sad Sons of Penury and Woe!
The faithful Harbinger of Morn confest.
They melt to Air, as sooty, maim'd, and slow,
Pass the sad Sons of Penury and Woe!
65
Aurora's rush-light melted now away
Before the flambeau of the God of Day,
Whose broad unwelcome glare o'er house tops seen,
Tips Betty's casement with refulgent sheen,
And calls young Barnwell from her brawny arms,
To 'scape, unseen, thro' gutters from her charms,
Just time enough to let his master in,
Reeling to business from the tavern's din.
—Now bakers, on their dough-troughs yawn in state,
Damn the assize, and shrink the destin'd weight;
The midnight robber skulking hides his head,
And unplied trulls steal pennyless to bed;
While milk-maids haste to Islington, whose stream
Mingles with milk to furnish London cream.
—Now sprightly Billingsgate is just awake,
And the throng'd Nereids their stations take:
Sweet sound their treble pipes; each accent hung
With Classic graces of the vulgar tongue;
While Covent Garden echoes back the strain;
Where throng the pastoral nymph and rural swain
From Putney's, Battersea's, and Peckham's plain:
Those Nymphs and Swains, whose rural Eclogues sweet
Have oft made vocal Carpenter's retreat—
Who knows not Carpenter's? whose early doors
Ope with the dawn for hucksters, thieves, and whores,
Rooks who with E. O. chace the midnight gloom,
And poor gull'd Pigeons stripp'd of every plume;
While jilts, culls, bullies, mingle with the throng,
Pour the loud curse, and belch the reeling song.
To these responsive, what blithe founds arise!
Bid shops unfold, and house maids rub their eyes!
“Primroses!” “Dust O!” “Lavender!” Old clothes!”
And “Water Cresses!” banish dull repose;
“Brick Dust!” “Sweep Soot O!” on the breezes swim
And waft from street to street the matin hymn;
While, in full chorus to the jocund lay,
Carts rattle, drivers swear, and asses bray!—
Before the flambeau of the God of Day,
Whose broad unwelcome glare o'er house tops seen,
Tips Betty's casement with refulgent sheen,
And calls young Barnwell from her brawny arms,
To 'scape, unseen, thro' gutters from her charms,
Just time enough to let his master in,
Reeling to business from the tavern's din.
—Now bakers, on their dough-troughs yawn in state,
Damn the assize, and shrink the destin'd weight;
The midnight robber skulking hides his head,
And unplied trulls steal pennyless to bed;
While milk-maids haste to Islington, whose stream
Mingles with milk to furnish London cream.
—Now sprightly Billingsgate is just awake,
And the throng'd Nereids their stations take:
Sweet sound their treble pipes; each accent hung
With Classic graces of the vulgar tongue;
While Covent Garden echoes back the strain;
Where throng the pastoral nymph and rural swain
From Putney's, Battersea's, and Peckham's plain:
Those Nymphs and Swains, whose rural Eclogues sweet
Have oft made vocal Carpenter's retreat—
Who knows not Carpenter's? whose early doors
Ope with the dawn for hucksters, thieves, and whores,
Rooks who with E. O. chace the midnight gloom,
And poor gull'd Pigeons stripp'd of every plume;
While jilts, culls, bullies, mingle with the throng,
Pour the loud curse, and belch the reeling song.
To these responsive, what blithe founds arise!
Bid shops unfold, and house maids rub their eyes!
“Primroses!” “Dust O!” “Lavender!” Old clothes!”
And “Water Cresses!” banish dull repose;
“Brick Dust!” “Sweep Soot O!” on the breezes swim
And waft from street to street the matin hymn;
66
Carts rattle, drivers swear, and asses bray!—
But dead to this blithe chorus of the morn
Turns purse-proud Grandeur with an idle yawn,
Bent to renew once more, in flattering dreams,
His Dissipations or ambitious schemes.
Turns purse-proud Grandeur with an idle yawn,
Bent to renew once more, in flattering dreams,
His Dissipations or ambitious schemes.
New forest 'closures sweeten Rose's sleep,
And Smith's damn'd verdict from his memory keep.
In Pitt's bright fancy bolder hopes arise—
Unbounded sway, and general excise;
Confiding Senates, Camps of Observation,
To crush enquiry, and dragoon the nation,
Navies and armaments, at Britain's cost,
Foredoom'd to gain—of Patronage a host;—
Foredoom'd to crush, (if Heaven their purpose aid)
The impious crew who Rights of King's invade.
And Smith's damn'd verdict from his memory keep.
In Pitt's bright fancy bolder hopes arise—
Unbounded sway, and general excise;
Confiding Senates, Camps of Observation,
To crush enquiry, and dragoon the nation,
Navies and armaments, at Britain's cost,
Foredoom'd to gain—of Patronage a host;—
Foredoom'd to crush, (if Heaven their purpose aid)
The impious crew who Rights of King's invade.
For Dreams like these thrice strives Dundas in vain,
While whip-gall'd Afric clanks the lengthen'd chain,
And with fierce rage the wretch's bosom rends,
Who damn'd her cause by joining with her friends.
Thrice turns he round and sleeps; and thrice arise
Grim hedious Spectres to his haggard eyes,
Shrieking aloud “No more expect repose,
“Till slow the guilty eighteenth Century close.”
Again he turns. His country's curses swell
Thick in his ear; and while the hedious yell
Harrows his soul, the gibbet rears elate,
And burning effigies foretel his fate,
Tho' lawless magistrates wage Civil war
To save with British blood the men of straw.
Great Mammon Nimrod now, as when awake,
Creeps to his store, a fond, fond glance to take;
Laughs at an o'ertax'd people's groans, and cries,
With goat-like mouth, and idiot glaring eyes,
While, pile on pile, his seventeen millions swell,
“What—what—what—what—don't all—all things go well;”
Then, (tho' his purblind eyes, disloyal, fail
To shew the difference 'twixt the mane and tail)
Calls for his horse, and with heroic grace
Braves all the pleasing dangers of the chace.
While whip-gall'd Afric clanks the lengthen'd chain,
And with fierce rage the wretch's bosom rends,
Who damn'd her cause by joining with her friends.
Thrice turns he round and sleeps; and thrice arise
Grim hedious Spectres to his haggard eyes,
Shrieking aloud “No more expect repose,
“Till slow the guilty eighteenth Century close.”
Again he turns. His country's curses swell
Thick in his ear; and while the hedious yell
Harrows his soul, the gibbet rears elate,
And burning effigies foretel his fate,
Tho' lawless magistrates wage Civil war
To save with British blood the men of straw.
Great Mammon Nimrod now, as when awake,
Creeps to his store, a fond, fond glance to take;
Laughs at an o'ertax'd people's groans, and cries,
With goat-like mouth, and idiot glaring eyes,
67
“What—what—what—what—don't all—all things go well;”
Then, (tho' his purblind eyes, disloyal, fail
To shew the difference 'twixt the mane and tail)
Calls for his horse, and with heroic grace
Braves all the pleasing dangers of the chace.
68
Fair Hebe, blushing like a full blown Rose,
That full blown Rose, whose shape she once assum'd,
And bright on Covent Garden Hustings bloom'd,
Till Argos eyes detect the treacherous thorn,
To goad fair-Freedom's side malignant worn;
At which, abash'd, she fled the light of Day,
And hid beneath Minerva's buckler lay.—
70
Dread thundering Jove resistless beam'd on high:
His awful wig of lightest hair around
A star-gem'd diadem imperial frown'd,
In front of which bright beam'd the radiant stone,
An eastern Nabob lately call'd his own;
Till at the altar of the thundering God,
In supplication of his guardian nod,
Submiss 'twas offer'd. Jove, as Gods are us'd,
Receiv'd the offering, but the pray'r refus'd.
—Dread was his presence: in his red right hand,
Prepar'd to vindicate his high command,
He grasps those thunders Alphabeta's care
Had forg'd the terrors of his will to bear.
Now when the adverse conflict he espies.
With face of scarlet and grey rolling eyes,
Sees types on types dispers'd, dismay'd, or slain,
And Boydel raging thro' the ensanguin'd plain:
Indignant wrath and keen resentment rise,
And, What! what! what! with thick short speech, he cries;
But could no more, for choler choak'd his tongue,
And what! what! what! thro' heaven's wide concave rung.
Scar'd Moorfields shakes, clouds tremble as they roll,
Fork'd lightnings fly, big angry thunders growl,
And what! what! what! chills every victor's soul.
Scar'd Boydell flies, Woodmason's puff expires,
And e'en thy deamon, Opie, slow retires.
71
And brands of heavenly fury blaze around.
Thro' Britain's empire spreads the sacred ire,
Prints every gate-house, post, and village spire,
Whence gazing Rustics, wondering what is meant,
Read dreadful words of treason, discontent,
Sedition rumour'd, enemies to peace,
And dread commands, that Reason's voice should cease.
73
[Genius, or Muse, whate'er thou art! whose thrill]
Genius, or Muse, whate'er thou art! whose thrillPrompts to my Poor brain to stain the Poet's quill,
Makes like a ball sublime sensation roll,
And trundles nonsense round from pole to pole;
Who lov'st to throw thy wild ungovern'd gaze,
Like a fierce madman's stare a thousand ways,
Where starry Night, well-taught at Spitalfields,
Weaves a thick stuff that to no tissue yields,
And chasing Common Sense from off the globe,
Leads the meek Moon, dressed in her cleanest robe,
To ogle lustre from her chrystal eye,
And deck the heav'ns with pearly panoply:
Or whether random cast beside some stream,
Which like a dishclout washes every beam,
Thou ponder'st, philosophical, alone,
As mute, and stupid as a senseless stone,
Lull'd by nurse Sorrow's desultory groan,
74
Like the sweet screech-owl, tells its griefs by rote:
Or dost thou hasten to the lawny vale,
To lift to Bobby Merry's sawny Tale? &c.”
100
[Accurs'd remembrance of intestine rage!]
Accurs'd remembrance of intestine rage!
Lo! friend with friend, and kin with kin engage!
Then frantic Britain arts and laws forsook,
Let ploughshares rust, and broke the pastoral crook;
While harpy Discord wak'd the brazen sound,
Whose savage blast each social feeling drown'd,
And call'd her hinds, in each fierce baron's train,
To spread a bloody harvest o'er the plain;
With War's dread scythe the horrent fields to mow,
And lay the boast of human virtue low
At each stern Master's feet, whose fickle pride
Waver'd, in direful doubt, from side to side:
As interest prompts (but dimly understood)
As private pique, or daring thirst of blood,
As sordid bribes, or harlot smiles inspire,
Or spleenful Humour whets the fatal ire,
Each brutal chieftain arms, with impious joy,
And feels the dire ambition to destroy:
Thro' kindred ranks red Slaughter breaks their way,
And pomps of heraldry their crimes display.
Lo! friend with friend, and kin with kin engage!
Then frantic Britain arts and laws forsook,
Let ploughshares rust, and broke the pastoral crook;
While harpy Discord wak'd the brazen sound,
Whose savage blast each social feeling drown'd,
And call'd her hinds, in each fierce baron's train,
To spread a bloody harvest o'er the plain;
With War's dread scythe the horrent fields to mow,
And lay the boast of human virtue low
At each stern Master's feet, whose fickle pride
Waver'd, in direful doubt, from side to side:
As interest prompts (but dimly understood)
As private pique, or daring thirst of blood,
As sordid bribes, or harlot smiles inspire,
Or spleenful Humour whets the fatal ire,
101
And feels the dire ambition to destroy:
Thro' kindred ranks red Slaughter breaks their way,
And pomps of heraldry their crimes display.
See, helm on helm, and thronging shield on shield,
With proud devices darken all the field;
From sword to sword the beamy horror plays,
And from throng'd lances wasting lightnings blaze;
While high in air the threatning banners spread,
The white rose here, and there the flaunting red.
The dire alarm prophetic vultures sound,
And groaning myriads glut the purple ground;
While titled heroes hence their honours claim,
And float on vassal blood to impious fame.
With proud devices darken all the field;
From sword to sword the beamy horror plays,
And from throng'd lances wasting lightnings blaze;
While high in air the threatning banners spread,
The white rose here, and there the flaunting red.
The dire alarm prophetic vultures sound,
And groaning myriads glut the purple ground;
While titled heroes hence their honours claim,
And float on vassal blood to impious fame.
“O! thou, fond Many!” what hadst thou to do
In kindred blood the corslet to imbrue?
Ah! what avail'd the name the tyrant bore
Who trod your necks, or tax'd your hard-earn'd store?
One orphan'd babe defenceless left to sigh,
One briny tear that wash'd the widow'd eye,
If justly weigh'd, had wak'd a sharper pain
Than Edward's exile, or than Henry's chain.
But York's nor Lancaster's proud claims ye knew:
For humbler tyrants ye the falchion drew.
As herds to slaughter by their owners led,
Dumb, and unconscious of the cause, ye bled:
The titled ruffian the pretence supplied;
And as he frown'd the abject million died:
Each petty Jove, their madness to inflame,
Shouts the dread thunder of his worship'd name;
His blazon'd Ægis shakes; and thick they fall,
Till universal Darkness threatens all:—
O'er all the realm one night of Horror lowers,
And huge Destruction, unrestrain'd, devours;
With stride exulting stalks around the coast,
And snuffs the offerings of each vassal host!
In kindred blood the corslet to imbrue?
Ah! what avail'd the name the tyrant bore
Who trod your necks, or tax'd your hard-earn'd store?
One orphan'd babe defenceless left to sigh,
One briny tear that wash'd the widow'd eye,
If justly weigh'd, had wak'd a sharper pain
Than Edward's exile, or than Henry's chain.
But York's nor Lancaster's proud claims ye knew:
For humbler tyrants ye the falchion drew.
As herds to slaughter by their owners led,
Dumb, and unconscious of the cause, ye bled:
The titled ruffian the pretence supplied;
And as he frown'd the abject million died:
Each petty Jove, their madness to inflame,
Shouts the dread thunder of his worship'd name;
His blazon'd Ægis shakes; and thick they fall,
Till universal Darkness threatens all:—
O'er all the realm one night of Horror lowers,
And huge Destruction, unrestrain'd, devours;
102
And snuffs the offerings of each vassal host!
O, frantic England! prodigal of blood!
What stygian fury urg'd this impious mood—
To rend thy entrails thus?—while foreign foes
With grim delight behold thy savage woes—
See, with proud joy, thy own victorious sword
Turn'd on thy breast, with wilful fury gor'd,
While the gaunt spectre of thy Martial Fame
Fleets, like a Ghost, a wandering, empty name,
Self slain, and doom'd thro' all the desert land
To howl her guilt, and curse her frantic hand!
What stygian fury urg'd this impious mood—
To rend thy entrails thus?—while foreign foes
With grim delight behold thy savage woes—
See, with proud joy, thy own victorious sword
Turn'd on thy breast, with wilful fury gor'd,
While the gaunt spectre of thy Martial Fame
Fleets, like a Ghost, a wandering, empty name,
Self slain, and doom'd thro' all the desert land
To howl her guilt, and curse her frantic hand!
So, hapless Britain! in a later age,
I see thy sword against they Rights engage;
See thee, in mad delusion, blindly pour
Devoted armies on a foreign shore
To aid the cause of tyranny, and buy
Th'inglorious fetters freemen should destroy;
Blind to the schemes by artful statesmen plann'd!
And British Freedom falls on Gallia's strand:
Self-slain she falls in wild, misguided zeal,
And German Despots whet the fatal steel;
Then shout triumphant; to their legions call,
And hail the approaching hour of Britain's fall.
I see thy sword against they Rights engage;
See thee, in mad delusion, blindly pour
Devoted armies on a foreign shore
To aid the cause of tyranny, and buy
Th'inglorious fetters freemen should destroy;
Blind to the schemes by artful statesmen plann'd!
And British Freedom falls on Gallia's strand:
Self-slain she falls in wild, misguided zeal,
And German Despots whet the fatal steel;
Then shout triumphant; to their legions call,
And hail the approaching hour of Britain's fall.
Nor yet content might Titled Rage appear,
Nor stop at Murder in her mad career:
In bolder Crimes their feudal Pride prevail'd:
Fair Faith is slain; and Heaven itself assail'd.
See: on the sword yet stain'd with Yorkist blood,
The changing hero, in indignant mood,
Allegiance swears to York's expiring cause,
And back to life the shrinking Faction draws:
While he who late, the white rose on his crest,
Gor'd struggling Lancaster's aspiring breast,
Now stops the blood; recals the fleeting breath;
And vows to York's proud race dismay and death.
Nor stop at Murder in her mad career:
In bolder Crimes their feudal Pride prevail'd:
Fair Faith is slain; and Heaven itself assail'd.
See: on the sword yet stain'd with Yorkist blood,
The changing hero, in indignant mood,
Allegiance swears to York's expiring cause,
And back to life the shrinking Faction draws:
While he who late, the white rose on his crest,
Gor'd struggling Lancaster's aspiring breast,
103
And vows to York's proud race dismay and death.
Now, front to front, in threatning wrath, behold
Those painted targets and those helms of gold,
Erewhile whose proud devices, side by side,
Throng'd the same field, in amity allied;
And he who late o'er some half-vanquish'd friend
Rush'd the firm shield's protection to extend,
Now barb'd with vengeance wings the thirsty dart,
Or bathes his falchion in the suppliant's heart.
Those painted targets and those helms of gold,
Erewhile whose proud devices, side by side,
Throng'd the same field, in amity allied;
And he who late o'er some half-vanquish'd friend
Rush'd the firm shield's protection to extend,
Now barb'd with vengeance wings the thirsty dart,
Or bathes his falchion in the suppliant's heart.
No link of Friendship binds; no kindred tie;
And oaths in vain their feeble aid supply:
Nor pious awe, nor bond of Faith controls;
(Limbs cas'd in steel, and adamantine souls!)
Again they change, their broken leagues restore,
And seal new perjuries in new streams of gore.
Their ready slaves with blind obedience turn:
Change as they change, and as they dictate burn:
In either cause with equal zeal destroy;
Pleas'd if their Lords the savage Fame enjoy.
And oaths in vain their feeble aid supply:
Nor pious awe, nor bond of Faith controls;
(Limbs cas'd in steel, and adamantine souls!)
Again they change, their broken leagues restore,
And seal new perjuries in new streams of gore.
Their ready slaves with blind obedience turn:
Change as they change, and as they dictate burn:
In either cause with equal zeal destroy;
Pleas'd if their Lords the savage Fame enjoy.
Chief of these noble locusts, in its rage
Sent by offended Heaven to scourge the age,
Stern Warwick, proud in brutal might, appears
Hemm'd round with slaughters, devastations, fears.
His raging breath, omnipotent in ill!
Is drawn to stifle, and but flows to kill:
Tyrants to tyrants in succession rise:—
His voice creates them; and his frown destroys.
Sent by offended Heaven to scourge the age,
Stern Warwick, proud in brutal might, appears
Hemm'd round with slaughters, devastations, fears.
His raging breath, omnipotent in ill!
Is drawn to stifle, and but flows to kill:
Tyrants to tyrants in succession rise:—
His voice creates them; and his frown destroys.
Behold him now the cause of Edward own,
And lift the gaudy pageant to the throne;
That so the boy (whose vices speak his birth)
Sprung from the Imperial Spoilers of the Earth!
With England's treasures, and with England's dames
May soothe his follies, and indulge his flames—
O'erwearied Toil's extorted produce waste
In scenes of riot, and lascivious taste;—
Tear from the aged Matron's widow'd side
(Widow'd perhaps to prop his regal pride!)
The virgin treasure of her daughter's charms,
To lie polluted in imperial arms;—
Or doom the Husband, in the bloom of youth,
To mourn the pangs of unrewarded truth,
With guiltless shame his branded-forehead hide,
And mourn in widow'd sheets a living bride,
While the proud tyrant, whom his wealth sustains,
Feasts on his wrongs, and riots in his pains.
But scenes like these the milder woes display
That mark the ravages of kingly sway:
And panting Britain, worn with slaughtering toils,
Amid these humbler crimes indulgent smiles:—
Pleas'd the short ray of transient Peace to gain,
O'erlooks the princely vices in her train,
And deems it bliss nought heavier to support
Than the lewd pastimes of a wasteful court.
And lift the gaudy pageant to the throne;
That so the boy (whose vices speak his birth)
Sprung from the Imperial Spoilers of the Earth!
With England's treasures, and with England's dames
May soothe his follies, and indulge his flames—
104
In scenes of riot, and lascivious taste;—
Tear from the aged Matron's widow'd side
(Widow'd perhaps to prop his regal pride!)
The virgin treasure of her daughter's charms,
To lie polluted in imperial arms;—
Or doom the Husband, in the bloom of youth,
To mourn the pangs of unrewarded truth,
With guiltless shame his branded-forehead hide,
And mourn in widow'd sheets a living bride,
While the proud tyrant, whom his wealth sustains,
Feasts on his wrongs, and riots in his pains.
But scenes like these the milder woes display
That mark the ravages of kingly sway:
And panting Britain, worn with slaughtering toils,
Amid these humbler crimes indulgent smiles:—
Pleas'd the short ray of transient Peace to gain,
O'erlooks the princely vices in her train,
And deems it bliss nought heavier to support
Than the lewd pastimes of a wasteful court.
But, lo! in tears another Helen came:
With tears of oil to feed the dying flame,
Renew the wasting fires of Civil Rage,
And give to Slaughter's reign another age.
The British Paris feasts his wanton soul
(For what are Kings, if Reason must control!)
Fearless of injur'd Nevil's dangerous ire,
Hail's the fair sovereign of an hour's desire;
And Civil Discord lights the Nuptial Fire.
With tears of oil to feed the dying flame,
Renew the wasting fires of Civil Rage,
And give to Slaughter's reign another age.
The British Paris feasts his wanton soul
(For what are Kings, if Reason must control!)
Fearless of injur'd Nevil's dangerous ire,
Hail's the fair sovereign of an hour's desire;
And Civil Discord lights the Nuptial Fire.
Stern Warwick heard, as from the Gallic shore
His prosperous sail the plighted princess bore,
He heard: and like a thunderbolt he came,
That strikes some reverend Abbey's Gothic frame,
And while convulsive Nature rocks around
Lays it a smoking ruin on the ground,
(Its stately fanes, its pageant trophies torn
And all that distant ages vainly mourn,)
While prostrate crowds that worship in the quire,
Crush'd in the hideous shock, with unheard groans expire.
Behold, again, from Power's polluted seat,
The vain, ungrateful libertine retreat;
While monkish Henry, with his haughty queen,
(Wanton her heart, and insolent her mien!)—
This call'd from exile, that the dungeon's gloom,
Again the fickle diadem assume,
And his stern power with grateful transport hail,
Who turn'd so oft their sanguine faction pale.
His prosperous sail the plighted princess bore,
He heard: and like a thunderbolt he came,
That strikes some reverend Abbey's Gothic frame,
And while convulsive Nature rocks around
Lays it a smoking ruin on the ground,
105
And all that distant ages vainly mourn,)
While prostrate crowds that worship in the quire,
Crush'd in the hideous shock, with unheard groans expire.
Behold, again, from Power's polluted seat,
The vain, ungrateful libertine retreat;
While monkish Henry, with his haughty queen,
(Wanton her heart, and insolent her mien!)—
This call'd from exile, that the dungeon's gloom,
Again the fickle diadem assume,
And his stern power with grateful transport hail,
Who turn'd so oft their sanguine faction pale.
Poor groaning land whom equal ills betray
Beneath an idiot's or a tyrant's sway!
Thy people slaves; a proud, but powerless throne,
Propp'd by the nobles' force, and not its own;
Those nobles, lost, as all vain nobles are
To every liberal patriotic care!
Honour the exclusive name with which they grace
The pompous vices of their selfish race!
Scorning the crowd upon whose necks they ride!
Dead to each sense, but lust and giddy pride!
For them in War our wealth—our blood we show'r,—
And what War spares their Luxuries devour!—
Their gaudy crimes how long shall Britain brook,
Ere her bold offspring snap the galling Yoke?
Beneath an idiot's or a tyrant's sway!
Thy people slaves; a proud, but powerless throne,
Propp'd by the nobles' force, and not its own;
Those nobles, lost, as all vain nobles are
To every liberal patriotic care!
Honour the exclusive name with which they grace
The pompous vices of their selfish race!
Scorning the crowd upon whose necks they ride!
Dead to each sense, but lust and giddy pride!
For them in War our wealth—our blood we show'r,—
And what War spares their Luxuries devour!—
Their gaudy crimes how long shall Britain brook,
Ere her bold offspring snap the galling Yoke?
Their swords again the factious Barons draw—
“Swords and strong arms their conscience and their law!”
For faithless Edward still a host attends,
Whose interests, or whose passions are his friends.
Here, to this spot—whose guilty turf appears
Manur'd with blood and wet with orphans' tears;
And still where hovering ghosts, with boding strain,
To Fancy's ear of cruel Fate complain,
That urg'd them, for Ambition's ruthless strife,
To slight each fond regard of social life;
To leave unpropp'd a parent's hoary age,
In some proud chieftain's quarrel to engage;
For midnight marches and the din of arms,
To fly the virgin's yet untasted charms;
Or leave the widow o'er her babe to mourn,
And weep for joys that never must return!
While they (what furies human bosoms tear!)
Bled for the chains the rising race should wear.—
—Here, to this spot, the raging squadrons throng,
While kindred hate drives each fierce host along,
And banner'd omens, gleaming thro' the air,
The direful issue of the day declare.
Two raging dog-stars, scattering plagues and death,
Flame in their van, and scorch the blasted heath:
This, darting far, its coruscations sends,
And all around destroys—or foes, or friends.
With like contag on strikes the random fire,
Till all extinct the fatal flame expire:
While that, still raging with insatiate blaze,
Pours, in collected wrath, its blasting rays;
Shakes o'er the foe its red destroying hair,
That sheds infectious horror and despair;
Exhaustless flames with pestilential ire,
And floods the ensanguin'd field with one wide wasting fire.
“Swords and strong arms their conscience and their law!”
For faithless Edward still a host attends,
Whose interests, or whose passions are his friends.
Here, to this spot—whose guilty turf appears
Manur'd with blood and wet with orphans' tears;
And still where hovering ghosts, with boding strain,
To Fancy's ear of cruel Fate complain,
106
To slight each fond regard of social life;
To leave unpropp'd a parent's hoary age,
In some proud chieftain's quarrel to engage;
For midnight marches and the din of arms,
To fly the virgin's yet untasted charms;
Or leave the widow o'er her babe to mourn,
And weep for joys that never must return!
While they (what furies human bosoms tear!)
Bled for the chains the rising race should wear.—
—Here, to this spot, the raging squadrons throng,
While kindred hate drives each fierce host along,
And banner'd omens, gleaming thro' the air,
The direful issue of the day declare.
Two raging dog-stars, scattering plagues and death,
Flame in their van, and scorch the blasted heath:
This, darting far, its coruscations sends,
And all around destroys—or foes, or friends.
With like contag on strikes the random fire,
Till all extinct the fatal flame expire:
While that, still raging with insatiate blaze,
Pours, in collected wrath, its blasting rays;
Shakes o'er the foe its red destroying hair,
That sheds infectious horror and despair;
Exhaustless flames with pestilential ire,
And floods the ensanguin'd field with one wide wasting fire.
Such the dire omens through the lowering sky,
That o'er the hostile legions wave on high:
For thus, while Death shrieks out the hideous yell,
And hovering furies chaunt the direful spell,
Grim o'er their looms the fatal sisters weave,
And fiends of Havock the dire webs receive;
Then haste, and, shrieking, with portentous glare,
O'er the stern ranks the threat'ning signals bear;
Sound the loud blast; the general carnage hail;
And wait the incense of the tainted gale.
Too soon, alas! that tainted gale shall rise,
Clogg the griev'd air, and blot the weeping skies!
For, lo! they meet: wounds answering wounds they deal,
Strain the tough Yew, and drench the murd'rous steel;
Thro' kindred bands the mace—the falchion hew,
Loud strokes resound, and dying groans pursue;
Stones, spears, and darts in slaughtering tempests rain,
And helms and hauberks sheathe the ranks in vain,—
Heralds in vain the trophied targe supply,
Cleft shields and broken lances useless lie,
While roll promiscuous o'er the trampled plain,
Steeds, arms, and men—the dying and the slain.
The martial Spirit of Britannia's Isles—
(Whose brandish'd lightnings aid her patriot toils—
Whose steady hand, when Truth contends with Might,
Uplifts the ballance of eternal right;
And, when in awful panoply array'd,
Indignant Freedom claims her guardian aid,
Descends in terrors to the warrior maid;
With Heaven's own thunders aids the sacred cause,
And proud Ambition's tyrant bosom awes!)—
Shock'd with a scene where Violence and Pride
And Perjur'd Guilt alone for empire vied,
In darker folds her sea green mantle spread,
And veil'd the beaming glories of her head;
Call'd from the impious scene her bands away,
And left to warring fiends the doubtful day:
(As tho' to scourge the factious race inclin'd,
And leave a dread memorial to mankind!)
The warrior cherubin her call obey;
Their flaming falchions sheathe, their wings display,
And seek the realms of empyrean day:
Yet, lingering, oft, with backward glance, deplore
The long-protected haunts of Albion's rocky shore.
With clouded radiance, and abated fires,
Westward, meanwhile, the sickening sun retires;
Involves his brow to shun the slaughtering sight;
And Night and Chaos threat the closing fight—
When now blind Chance, not Justice, lifts the scales;
And Edward's fortune in the strife prevails;
For Warwick, bent with one decisive blow
To strike deep terror in the yielding foe,
Calls his choice band (who yet inactive lay
To watch the changing fortunes of the day)
With sudden aid his phalanx to sustain,
Inspire the drooping, and replace the slain;
When, lo! the banners flaming in the rear,
And shouts loud echoing in the startled ear,
(Thro' clouds of dust while doubtful meteors gleam)
To the gall'd ranks a hostile ambush seem.
Loud cries of vengeance speak their brave despair:
Raging they turn; as wolves their hunters tear:—
Or as the Elephant, whose giant might
Is arm'd by Nature for resistless fight,
His haughty rage by martial art increas'd,
Tramples the myriad armies of the east—
Then (gall'd with wounds, and frantic with his pain)
Turns on his friends; assails the shrinking train;
And with promiscuous carnage strews the plain.
That o'er the hostile legions wave on high:
For thus, while Death shrieks out the hideous yell,
And hovering furies chaunt the direful spell,
Grim o'er their looms the fatal sisters weave,
And fiends of Havock the dire webs receive;
Then haste, and, shrieking, with portentous glare,
O'er the stern ranks the threat'ning signals bear;
107
And wait the incense of the tainted gale.
Too soon, alas! that tainted gale shall rise,
Clogg the griev'd air, and blot the weeping skies!
For, lo! they meet: wounds answering wounds they deal,
Strain the tough Yew, and drench the murd'rous steel;
Thro' kindred bands the mace—the falchion hew,
Loud strokes resound, and dying groans pursue;
Stones, spears, and darts in slaughtering tempests rain,
And helms and hauberks sheathe the ranks in vain,—
Heralds in vain the trophied targe supply,
Cleft shields and broken lances useless lie,
While roll promiscuous o'er the trampled plain,
Steeds, arms, and men—the dying and the slain.
The martial Spirit of Britannia's Isles—
(Whose brandish'd lightnings aid her patriot toils—
Whose steady hand, when Truth contends with Might,
Uplifts the ballance of eternal right;
And, when in awful panoply array'd,
Indignant Freedom claims her guardian aid,
Descends in terrors to the warrior maid;
With Heaven's own thunders aids the sacred cause,
And proud Ambition's tyrant bosom awes!)—
Shock'd with a scene where Violence and Pride
And Perjur'd Guilt alone for empire vied,
In darker folds her sea green mantle spread,
And veil'd the beaming glories of her head;
Call'd from the impious scene her bands away,
And left to warring fiends the doubtful day:
(As tho' to scourge the factious race inclin'd,
And leave a dread memorial to mankind!)
The warrior cherubin her call obey;
Their flaming falchions sheathe, their wings display,
And seek the realms of empyrean day:
108
The long-protected haunts of Albion's rocky shore.
With clouded radiance, and abated fires,
Westward, meanwhile, the sickening sun retires;
Involves his brow to shun the slaughtering sight;
And Night and Chaos threat the closing fight—
When now blind Chance, not Justice, lifts the scales;
And Edward's fortune in the strife prevails;
For Warwick, bent with one decisive blow
To strike deep terror in the yielding foe,
Calls his choice band (who yet inactive lay
To watch the changing fortunes of the day)
With sudden aid his phalanx to sustain,
Inspire the drooping, and replace the slain;
When, lo! the banners flaming in the rear,
And shouts loud echoing in the startled ear,
(Thro' clouds of dust while doubtful meteors gleam)
To the gall'd ranks a hostile ambush seem.
Loud cries of vengeance speak their brave despair:
Raging they turn; as wolves their hunters tear:—
Or as the Elephant, whose giant might
Is arm'd by Nature for resistless fight,
His haughty rage by martial art increas'd,
Tramples the myriad armies of the east—
Then (gall'd with wounds, and frantic with his pain)
Turns on his friends; assails the shrinking train;
And with promiscuous carnage strews the plain.
So turns the tide of this disastrous day,
And their own swords the Earl's fierce squadrons slay:
Friend falls by friend, on comrades comrades charge;
And raging Devastation stalks at large—
O'er hills of slain his limbs enormous rears,
Joins the loud shout, and thunders in their ears;
Calls to their destin'd feast his vulture brood;
Whets his keen fangs, and bathes his lips with blood;
While frighted Pity, shrieking o'er the plain,
Bares her white breast, and wrings her hands in vain.
And their own swords the Earl's fierce squadrons slay:
Friend falls by friend, on comrades comrades charge;
And raging Devastation stalks at large—
O'er hills of slain his limbs enormous rears,
Joins the loud shout, and thunders in their ears;
Calls to their destin'd feast his vulture brood;
Whets his keen fangs, and bathes his lips with blood;
109
Bares her white breast, and wrings her hands in vain.
While thus the “Dogs of War,” with wild despair,
Those who “let slip” their furious havoc tear,
The bated chief, who stain'd his tusks with gore,
“And made the forests tremble with his roar,”
Among his hunters long, indignant, stands
O'er the strew'd wreck of his disorder'd bands;
This way and that the deathful fury deals,
And tenfold rage his hopeless pangs reveals;
Resolv'd, and furious, in this closing strife
To crown the savage slaughters of his life;
Till, sate-commission'd, flies the thirsting dart,
Drives thro' his breast, and quivers in his heart—
Here, on this spot, perhaps, where now I tread,
Writhing in death his mighty limbs were spread;
And while his vassals, prodigal of blood,
Pour'd on his tyrant corse the vital flood,
And kept alive the dying flame of fight
Till added deaths appeas'd his sullen sprite,
In dust and blood sob'd forth that fiery soul
Earth could not hold, and Heaven could scarce control.
Those who “let slip” their furious havoc tear,
The bated chief, who stain'd his tusks with gore,
“And made the forests tremble with his roar,”
Among his hunters long, indignant, stands
O'er the strew'd wreck of his disorder'd bands;
This way and that the deathful fury deals,
And tenfold rage his hopeless pangs reveals;
Resolv'd, and furious, in this closing strife
To crown the savage slaughters of his life;
Till, sate-commission'd, flies the thirsting dart,
Drives thro' his breast, and quivers in his heart—
Here, on this spot, perhaps, where now I tread,
Writhing in death his mighty limbs were spread;
And while his vassals, prodigal of blood,
Pour'd on his tyrant corse the vital flood,
And kept alive the dying flame of fight
Till added deaths appeas'd his sullen sprite,
In dust and blood sob'd forth that fiery soul
Earth could not hold, and Heaven could scarce control.
126
[Thee, beauteous tint! our eyes with rapture view]
Thee, beauteous tint! our eyes with rapture view;For ever common, yet for ever new!
With boundless joy pursue thy boundless shades,
And ever sicken as thy freshness fades.
Denied thy charms, how pines the drooping sprite,
(Like the fond maid forbade her lover's sight!)
What arts we try one transient glance to gain!
How wooe that transient glance with anxious pain!
Proud, and well-pleas'd with all our careful toil,
If but one window boast thy languid smile!
226
THE EPITHALAMIUM.
Sportive Lyre, whose artless strings,Brush'd by young Affection's wings,
(Nymphs and rustics list'ning round)
Whisper'd sweet the varied sound—
Sounds which only aim'd to borrow
Pathos from the youthful heart,—
Thrills of Hope, and Sighs of Sorrow—
Fleeting joy, and transient smart!—
Sportive Lyre! ah, once again—
Once again, and then no more—
Let me wake the youthful strain,
And thy playful strings explore.
227
Bolder heights my soul shall try:
Bolder objects rise in view—
Truth and godlike Liberty!:
To these my eye enamour'd turns:
For these my ardent bosom burns:
Let these alone my thoughts employ—
Truth and godlike Liberty!
Rous'd by these, my glowing soul
Pants a nobler wreath to gain;—
Pants for Glory's patriot goal,
Where the daring Virtues reign!
Pants to hear the graver Muse
Wake the loud enthusiast shell
Whose notes heroic pride infuse
And bid the soul with ardour swell:—
Noble Ardour!—virtuous Zeal!
Parent of each generous deed;
Guardian of the public weal,
For which the valiant joy to bleed.
Thoughts like these, from hence, alone,
Shall this glowing bosom own:—
Thoughts that lift the soul on high
To make its own Eternity,
And with Meonian rapture swell
The notes of Fame's immortal shell.
Meanwhile, Iö Hymen! thy triumphs I join,—
My Fancy awhile to thy ardours resign:
Those ardours which oft, when anxiety reigns,
When the nerves wildly throb, or when languid the veins,
By Stella awakened, pour balm thro' my soul,
Lull to sleep every pang, and each sorrow control,
And, chacing each passion that peace would destroy,
Restore me to harmony, softness, and joy;—
Those ardours by Nature indulgently given
To realize all that is look'd for in heaven,—
To unite us in bonds of affection and peace,
And bid the rude struggles of selfishness cease,
Till, heart link'd to heart, all the universe smile,
And Social Affection each sorrow beguile,
While Sympathy's touch shall the union sustain,
And vibrate alike thro' each link of the chain.
My Fancy awhile to thy ardours resign:
Those ardours which oft, when anxiety reigns,
When the nerves wildly throb, or when languid the veins,
By Stella awakened, pour balm thro' my soul,
Lull to sleep every pang, and each sorrow control,
And, chacing each passion that peace would destroy,
Restore me to harmony, softness, and joy;—
228
To realize all that is look'd for in heaven,—
To unite us in bonds of affection and peace,
And bid the rude struggles of selfishness cease,
Till, heart link'd to heart, all the universe smile,
And Social Affection each sorrow beguile,
While Sympathy's touch shall the union sustain,
And vibrate alike thro' each link of the chain.
Yes such, if by Nature conducted, and join'd
Not by Interest and Pride, but the tie of the mind,
Sex blended with sex from affection alone,
And Simplicity made every bosom its throne—
Such, such are the blessings from Hymen would flow,
And this wilderness turn to an Eden below:—
An Eden of Mind where each virtue should blow.
Not by Interest and Pride, but the tie of the mind,
Sex blended with sex from affection alone,
And Simplicity made every bosom its throne—
Such, such are the blessings from Hymen would flow,
And this wilderness turn to an Eden below:—
An Eden of Mind where each virtue should blow.
Then, Iö! thou Hymen that reign'st o'er the few
Who boldly the dictates of Nature pursue!
Blest power! who alone to the virtuous art known
Whose bosoms the charm of Simplicity own,
While a sordid Impostor, usurping thy name,
Of throngs of proud votaries the homage can claim—
The creatures of Fashion, of Avarice the slaves,
Whom Vanity leads, and each folly depraves.
Who boldly the dictates of Nature pursue!
Blest power! who alone to the virtuous art known
Whose bosoms the charm of Simplicity own,
While a sordid Impostor, usurping thy name,
Of throngs of proud votaries the homage can claim—
The creatures of Fashion, of Avarice the slaves,
Whom Vanity leads, and each folly depraves.
But see, what kind omens bright dawning appear,
The patriot bosom of Virtue to cheer!—
Simplicity comes, by fair Liberty led,
And Hymen—pure Hymen shall lift up his head.
Each Social Affection once more shall return,
And the altar of Truth with pure incense shall burn,
While Love, like the Phœnix, shall rise from the flame,
His laws shall restore, and his saboth proclaim;
And, wide thro' the Heaven's his broad pinions unfurl'd,
Shall shake his bright plumes, and shed peace o'er the world.
The patriot bosom of Virtue to cheer!—
Simplicity comes, by fair Liberty led,
And Hymen—pure Hymen shall lift up his head.
Each Social Affection once more shall return,
And the altar of Truth with pure incense shall burn,
While Love, like the Phœnix, shall rise from the flame,
His laws shall restore, and his saboth proclaim;
And, wide thro' the Heaven's his broad pinions unfurl'd,
Shall shake his bright plumes, and shed peace o'er the world.
FINIS.
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