The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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| MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK, 1825. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
MUSICAL FESTIVAL AT YORK, 1825.
THE ORATORIO.
Genius of Music! whom, as poets say,
Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey!
Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme,
Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time!
Spirits of earth and distant worlds obey!
Lend me thine aid, while I attempt, in rhyme,
Thy grandest triumph ever heard through time!
301
Fade from my mind, ye country concerts all,
Church oratorios, and each private ball;
Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor
As the Jew's harp o'erpower'd by ocean's roar,
Compar'd with those which burst in such grand strain
As Britain's sons may never hear again!
Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old,
The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold;
The carriages through dust swift rolled along,
Bearing their inmates to the scene of song.
The good old city, deck'd in modern grace,
Smil'd as they came, and show'd a cheerful face,
But look'd with sad and sullen frowns again,
If any cloud let fall a shower of rain.
Church oratorios, and each private ball;
Your puny strains are feeble, weak, and poor
As the Jew's harp o'erpower'd by ocean's roar,
Compar'd with those which burst in such grand strain
As Britain's sons may never hear again!
Far was it known, that soon, in Ebor old,
The world's great minstrels would a gathering hold;
The carriages through dust swift rolled along,
Bearing their inmates to the scene of song.
The good old city, deck'd in modern grace,
Smil'd as they came, and show'd a cheerful face,
But look'd with sad and sullen frowns again,
If any cloud let fall a shower of rain.
Had some great bard been there, he might have seen
Hundreds of instruments, encased in green;
Or boxes, from all parts of England sent,
Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent,
All ranks of people throng to the hotel,
And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell;
And there were trunks which Europe's costumes fill,
To grace their owners in the gay quadrille;
Servants in every various colour dressed,
And on the glitt'ring harness many a crest;
Most brilliant equipages throng each street,
And, jostling, every kind of carriage meet;
Astonished thousands on the Minster gaze,
And join to give the noble structure praise:
For far beyond description is the pile—
The queen of buildings in our native isle,—
Whose grandeur and magnificence unite
To strike with awe, or fill us with delight!
How grand, when England's beauties, fair and young,
Assemble there to listen to the song,
And youth and hoary-headed age combine
To call the scene magnificently fine!
Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads,
When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads.
All flow'rs that deck the vale or crown the hill,
Were imitated there with nicest skill;
But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes
Than flow'rs and feathers of the richest dyes.
Hundreds of instruments, encased in green;
Or boxes, from all parts of England sent,
Wherein were basses, books, and viols pent,
All ranks of people throng to the hotel,
And scarcely e'er at rest the ostler's bell;
And there were trunks which Europe's costumes fill,
To grace their owners in the gay quadrille;
Servants in every various colour dressed,
And on the glitt'ring harness many a crest;
Most brilliant equipages throng each street,
And, jostling, every kind of carriage meet;
302
And join to give the noble structure praise:
For far beyond description is the pile—
The queen of buildings in our native isle,—
Whose grandeur and magnificence unite
To strike with awe, or fill us with delight!
How grand, when England's beauties, fair and young,
Assemble there to listen to the song,
And youth and hoary-headed age combine
To call the scene magnificently fine!
Like gardens in full bloom, the ladies' heads,
When Zephyr lightly on the roses treads.
All flow'rs that deck the vale or crown the hill,
Were imitated there with nicest skill;
But brighter far, the lovely ladies' eyes
Than flow'rs and feathers of the richest dyes.
The hour arriv'd—high up above the throng,
Stood the Euterpean votaries of song.
All was still as death!—a solemn awe
Pervaded all men's hearts, through what they saw!
Proud titles and distinctions were forgot,
Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot;
Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze,
Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise.
The distant organ glorious to behold,
King of all instruments, shone bright in gold;
Trombones and double basses, placed around,
Waiting the signal for majestic sound.
And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near
His own grand chorus, when it burst, to hear?
O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song,
If in imagination I am wrong!
The gorgeous splendour now I all forget,
And view the shades of great composers met—
Croft, Kent, and Purcell, kings of England's choir,
Descend to touch the chords with genial fire;
Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim,
Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn.
Stood the Euterpean votaries of song.
All was still as death!—a solemn awe
Pervaded all men's hearts, through what they saw!
Proud titles and distinctions were forgot,
Though Albion's noblest sons were on the spot;
Gay youths on beauty's charms forbore to gaze,
Eager to hear the Eternal Father's praise.
The distant organ glorious to behold,
King of all instruments, shone bright in gold;
303
Waiting the signal for majestic sound.
And was not Handel's spirit hov'ring near
His own grand chorus, when it burst, to hear?
O pardon me, ye mighty shades of song,
If in imagination I am wrong!
The gorgeous splendour now I all forget,
And view the shades of great composers met—
Croft, Kent, and Purcell, kings of England's choir,
Descend to touch the chords with genial fire;
Unseen, with Luther, on the air they skim,
Nor soar to heav'n till they have heard his hymn.
The assembled thousands, wrapp'd in silence all,
See the grand host obey their leader's call.
Within the instruments lies music's fire,
And ev'ry string is tuned within the choir;
Six hundred minds, who know each cadence sweet,
In one stupendous choral phalanx meet!
Silent they stand, until the signal's given;
And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n,
Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds,
And York's proud temple trembles with the sounds.
Those who have met the foes on foreign hills
Without a fear, now feel the shudd'ring thrills,
Which shining cuirassiers could never bring,
Nor death, though flying on the battle's wing;
But, here, the mighty strains the stoutest melt,
And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt—
Strains sweet as are the lark's, which fans the cloud,
Mix'd with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud.
Viols and voices swell the chorus forth,
And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth.
All parts so full—the mind can wish no more,
Except for deeper bass the tempest's roar.
The organ swells—what more can earth perform?
Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm!
The chorus heightens, and the organ's sound
Is in the mighty swell of voices drown'd;
And “Gloria Patri” in such strains is giv'n,
As we no more shall hear on this side heav'n.
See the grand host obey their leader's call.
Within the instruments lies music's fire,
And ev'ry string is tuned within the choir;
Six hundred minds, who know each cadence sweet,
In one stupendous choral phalanx meet!
Silent they stand, until the signal's given;
And then the chorus bursts like that of heav'n,
Tremendous, and the stoutest heart confounds,
And York's proud temple trembles with the sounds.
Those who have met the foes on foreign hills
Without a fear, now feel the shudd'ring thrills,
Which shining cuirassiers could never bring,
Nor death, though flying on the battle's wing;
304
And wake an awe they ne'er till now had felt—
Strains sweet as are the lark's, which fans the cloud,
Mix'd with the trumpet shrill, and sackbut loud.
Viols and voices swell the chorus forth,
And tones of bass might seem to spring from earth.
All parts so full—the mind can wish no more,
Except for deeper bass the tempest's roar.
The organ swells—what more can earth perform?
Its voice is loud as ocean in a storm!
The chorus heightens, and the organ's sound
Is in the mighty swell of voices drown'd;
And “Gloria Patri” in such strains is giv'n,
As we no more shall hear on this side heav'n.
O for a power that I to all could tell
The praise of those who play'd and sung so well!
First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song,
And Mori's praise should to my theme belong;
Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise,
Though my weak verse their fame no more can raise:
And, with the warmest feelings I would write
Of music's friend, the well-known genius, White.
Had I but time, each name I would put in,
Of all who play'd a choral violin—
Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain,
While these my verses last, should here remain;
Lindley, and Crouch, and Richardson, and Sharp,
Moxon, and Platt, and Bochsa, with his harp;
And those of foreign climes, all great in song,
Whose names I write not, lest I write them wrong,
And fail due praise to genius to impart—
'Tis useless—since they live in ev'ry heart.
Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duet,
Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet.
The modest Farrar scarcely durst aspire
To touch, in graceful strains, sweet “Jubal's lyre.”
“Let the bright seraphim,” sweet Stephens sung,
As though the notes from angel-voices sprung.
His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise,
That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from praise.
When Braham sung with all his power and skill,
He turned the blood of all the audience chill.
The great and noble, young, and old, and fair,
Felt the full charm of his sublimest air;
While beauteous Caradori stood alone
For warbling trills, and melody of tone.
The praise of those who play'd and sung so well!
First, Cramer's worth should grace my humble song,
And Mori's praise should to my theme belong;
Anfossi, Loder, Knyvett I would praise,
Though my weak verse their fame no more can raise:
And, with the warmest feelings I would write
Of music's friend, the well-known genius, White.
Had I but time, each name I would put in,
Of all who play'd a choral violin—
Ashley and Daniels, with their tenor strain,
While these my verses last, should here remain;
305
Moxon, and Platt, and Bochsa, with his harp;
And those of foreign climes, all great in song,
Whose names I write not, lest I write them wrong,
And fail due praise to genius to impart—
'Tis useless—since they live in ev'ry heart.
Phillips and Vaughan, with their fine duet,
Made many a lady's cheek with tear-drops wet.
The modest Farrar scarcely durst aspire
To touch, in graceful strains, sweet “Jubal's lyre.”
“Let the bright seraphim,” sweet Stephens sung,
As though the notes from angel-voices sprung.
His voice great Sapio in such strains could raise,
That the charm'd throng could scarce refrain from praise.
When Braham sung with all his power and skill,
He turned the blood of all the audience chill.
The great and noble, young, and old, and fair,
Felt the full charm of his sublimest air;
While beauteous Caradori stood alone
For warbling trills, and melody of tone.
In music's art, I have but little skill,
Yet oft I find its powers old Care can kill;
Though distant, fancy yields me some delight—
Methinks I hear the notes all touched aright,
With many a singer from a foreign land—
The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand!
As when on seas the storm begins to lower,
And the dread tempest brings forth all its power
Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore,
Where we scarce hear the white-topp'd surges roar;
But as to land the billows roll along,
Louder and louder bursts the awful song,
Until the rocky cavern on the beach
The mountain waves in dreadful fury reach;
Then we poor mortals stand in mute amaze,
And on the scene tremendous trembling gaze:
So did the finest solos of the choir
Send forth their strains, and then again retire;
The trio breaks still more distinct and clear,
And stronger tones burst forth upon the ear;
The swelling semi-chorus louder grows,
And then it dies away in graceful close.
“He is the King of Glory” next we hear,
As though deep thunder and the storm were there.
All know their parts—the chorus swells with ease
From voices louder than “the sound of seas.”
Yet oft I find its powers old Care can kill;
Though distant, fancy yields me some delight—
Methinks I hear the notes all touched aright,
306
The songs, the trios, and the chorus, grand!
As when on seas the storm begins to lower,
And the dread tempest brings forth all its power
Far distant from the calm and tranquil shore,
Where we scarce hear the white-topp'd surges roar;
But as to land the billows roll along,
Louder and louder bursts the awful song,
Until the rocky cavern on the beach
The mountain waves in dreadful fury reach;
Then we poor mortals stand in mute amaze,
And on the scene tremendous trembling gaze:
So did the finest solos of the choir
Send forth their strains, and then again retire;
The trio breaks still more distinct and clear,
And stronger tones burst forth upon the ear;
The swelling semi-chorus louder grows,
And then it dies away in graceful close.
“He is the King of Glory” next we hear,
As though deep thunder and the storm were there.
All know their parts—the chorus swells with ease
From voices louder than “the sound of seas.”
Though far-fam'd Catalina be not here,
Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear;
For shall our native poets' words give way
To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day?
To foreign pride shall British genius bend,
While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend?
No—British songs, well touched in ev'ry part,
Are those which please the best, and reach the heart:
Italian trills may loud applauses reap,
But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep.
Braham, to England's bosoms, is as dear;
For shall our native poets' words give way
To foreign lines, forgot ere ends the day?
307
While Albion's isle to Braham is a friend?
No—British songs, well touched in ev'ry part,
Are those which please the best, and reach the heart:
Italian trills may loud applauses reap,
But Braham's voice can make the stoutest weep.
Where is the tow'ring soul can comprehend
Those scenes, which never truly can be penned,
Where grandeur and sublimity appear,
To charm the eye, or to astound the ear?
When were the tones of such an organ drowned,
And far o'erpowered each instrumental sound?
When were a hundred viols played in vain?
Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain?
The chorus bursts!—it shakes the massive walls—
The human voice, like great Niag'ra's falls,
O'erpowers the double basses and trombones,
The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones.
Though Haworth's Parker strain his potent lungs,
Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues,
His thrilling accents can be heard no more
Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar.
Those scenes, which never truly can be penned,
Where grandeur and sublimity appear,
To charm the eye, or to astound the ear?
When were the tones of such an organ drowned,
And far o'erpowered each instrumental sound?
When were a hundred viols played in vain?
Or when was lost the trumpet's piercing strain?
The chorus bursts!—it shakes the massive walls—
The human voice, like great Niag'ra's falls,
O'erpowers the double basses and trombones,
The loud bass horns, and serpents' deepest tones.
Though Haworth's Parker strain his potent lungs,
Yet when at once burst forth three hundred tongues,
His thrilling accents can be heard no more
Than cry of sea-gull in the ocean's roar.
When Yorkshire's choral sons their powers unite,
Their tones astonish, and their chords delight;
Healthful and strong, their voices may defy
In strength, all singers else beneath the sky,
Yes, when they sung the song which Israel sung
On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strung,
Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain,
The chorus bursts—“The Lord shall ever reign!”
Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed
'Tween wat'ry walls, when all their foes were lost.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
Re-echoes through each vaulted arch again!
And, as the strains increase, still more and more
We seem transported to the distant shore,
Where Moses, Israel's bard, composed the song,
And ocean's waves the chorus rolled along.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
In heaven itself, must be the highest strain!
Their tones astonish, and their chords delight;
Healthful and strong, their voices may defy
In strength, all singers else beneath the sky,
308
On the sea-shore, to harps their minstrels strung,
Lost were the viols' trills, the organ's strain,
The chorus bursts—“The Lord shall ever reign!”
Grand, as when all the tribes with Moses crossed
'Tween wat'ry walls, when all their foes were lost.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
Re-echoes through each vaulted arch again!
And, as the strains increase, still more and more
We seem transported to the distant shore,
Where Moses, Israel's bard, composed the song,
And ocean's waves the chorus rolled along.
“For ever and for ever He shall reign,”
In heaven itself, must be the highest strain!
THE CONCERT.
The beams of day retire o'er western hills;
The concert room with gayest fashion fills;
The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer,
With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear.
The choral strength to-night is left behind,
While the delicious song enchants the mind.
The overture, performed in grandest style,
Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile.
Next come the songs which youthful lovers want,
In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant.
No instrument, but some great master's hand
Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band;
No fault is there, in music or in words,
For nothing added could improve the chords:
All is complete—the grand performance such,
Nothing there is too little or too much.
The concert room with gayest fashion fills;
The duke, the earl, and many a titled peer,
With fairest daughters, press the songs to hear.
The choral strength to-night is left behind,
While the delicious song enchants the mind.
The overture, performed in grandest style,
Calls forth applause, and many a beauteous smile.
Next come the songs which youthful lovers want,
In strains so rich, the coldest they enchant.
309
Brings forth its powers to swell the tuneful band;
No fault is there, in music or in words,
For nothing added could improve the chords:
All is complete—the grand performance such,
Nothing there is too little or too much.
The world's forgot, and grief and sorrow fly;
Anguish and care and melancholy die,
When music sweet thus trembles on the strings,
And lifts the mind above created things;
Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast,
Which, for some golden hours, is truly bless'd.
The double drums we now distinctly hear,
The clarionet, the horn, the hautboy clear;
The strong viola, and the serpent's tones;
The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones;
The violoncello, and the double bass;
The viols, sweetest music of the place;
And on the air the varying notes are borne,
From the soft harp, and from the deep bass horn;
Then comes the song, with soft Italian chords,
Though sweet, yet few can understand the words.
How weak, insipid, formal, and how dead,
To Braham's “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!”
Or “Rule Britannia,” which was heard before
In such like strains as England hears no more,
When Catalani sung it in such style
As made the concert room seem Britain's isle,
And all its millions met in one great throng,
To hear the grandeur of the noble song.
But let the concert be whate'er it will,
Greatly performed, with ev'ry master's skill;
Though all the parts in richest style we hear,
And solemn grandeur, they approach not near
In boldness and magnificence, to these
Which strike with wonder, or with terror freeze—
Great Handel's choruses, which shall be sung
While music lasts, or instruments are strung.
But human minds variety pursue,—
Music itself attracts the most when new;
But, when the praise of present music's pass'd,
Handel's grand choruses shall ever last.
Anguish and care and melancholy die,
When music sweet thus trembles on the strings,
And lifts the mind above created things;
Soft raptures steal into the feeling breast,
Which, for some golden hours, is truly bless'd.
The double drums we now distinctly hear,
The clarionet, the horn, the hautboy clear;
The strong viola, and the serpent's tones;
The flutes, the trumpets, and the deep trombones;
The violoncello, and the double bass;
The viols, sweetest music of the place;
And on the air the varying notes are borne,
From the soft harp, and from the deep bass horn;
Then comes the song, with soft Italian chords,
Though sweet, yet few can understand the words.
How weak, insipid, formal, and how dead,
To Braham's “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled!”
Or “Rule Britannia,” which was heard before
In such like strains as England hears no more,
310
As made the concert room seem Britain's isle,
And all its millions met in one great throng,
To hear the grandeur of the noble song.
But let the concert be whate'er it will,
Greatly performed, with ev'ry master's skill;
Though all the parts in richest style we hear,
And solemn grandeur, they approach not near
In boldness and magnificence, to these
Which strike with wonder, or with terror freeze—
Great Handel's choruses, which shall be sung
While music lasts, or instruments are strung.
But human minds variety pursue,—
Music itself attracts the most when new;
But, when the praise of present music's pass'd,
Handel's grand choruses shall ever last.
THE BALL.
The Ball Room emulates the light of day—
All there is mirth, and ev'ry one is gay;
Each instrument to finest tones is set,
For leader of quadrilles is Collinet.
So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair,
All kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there.
Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along,
Monks, robbers, and banditti swell the throng;
The Highland chieftain, in his tartan plaid,
And some like warriors of the old crusade.
Here, one a Quaker's modest dress assumes,
And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes;
Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews,
Peasants and players, in costumes out of use.
Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor,
Were worn that night, which shall be worn no more,
But hang for cent'ries like old coats of mail,
And future generations tell the tale,
How their great ancestors had danc'd with lords,
Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words;
And many a smile which in the dance was seen,
May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna Green:
For such a sly insidious imp is Love,
He haunts the ball-room, palace, and the grove;
Where peasants dance upon the festive day,
He plays his pranks unseen, and soars away.
In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind,
And wounds in parties of the most refin'd;
Spares not the innocent nor beauteous fair,
But often sends his strongest arrows there.
Many who felt his dart in fragrant bowers,
Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers;
While those they died for, feel no sorrow deep—
Their only tears are those which daisies weep.
But oh, may none who figured at this ball,
Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall;
But on this night, should any hearts be joined,
May such through life know happiness refined;
And when they with fantastic dresses part,
Beneath may each one find a virtuous heart,
In which, when worldly cares the passions try,
May love increase, till death dissolve the tie!
All there is mirth, and ev'ry one is gay;
Each instrument to finest tones is set,
For leader of quadrilles is Collinet.
So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair,
All kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there.
Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along,
Monks, robbers, and banditti swell the throng;
311
And some like warriors of the old crusade.
Here, one a Quaker's modest dress assumes,
And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes;
Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews,
Peasants and players, in costumes out of use.
Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor,
Were worn that night, which shall be worn no more,
But hang for cent'ries like old coats of mail,
And future generations tell the tale,
How their great ancestors had danc'd with lords,
Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words;
And many a smile which in the dance was seen,
May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna Green:
For such a sly insidious imp is Love,
He haunts the ball-room, palace, and the grove;
Where peasants dance upon the festive day,
He plays his pranks unseen, and soars away.
In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind,
And wounds in parties of the most refin'd;
Spares not the innocent nor beauteous fair,
But often sends his strongest arrows there.
Many who felt his dart in fragrant bowers,
Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers;
While those they died for, feel no sorrow deep—
Their only tears are those which daisies weep.
But oh, may none who figured at this ball,
Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall;
312
May such through life know happiness refined;
And when they with fantastic dresses part,
Beneath may each one find a virtuous heart,
In which, when worldly cares the passions try,
May love increase, till death dissolve the tie!
How changed old Ebor, since the Roman foe
Entered her gates, and laid her glories low!
Her warriors slain, or carried captive far,
Who knew no dance except the dance of war;
Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn,
That called them to the chase at early morn;
While this, in war-songs, raised their courage high,
They rushed to battle, not afraid to die.
Where now the ball-room is with grandeur hung,
The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung;
The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head,
While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled;
Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home,
Beating their swords against the shields of Rome;
While some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears,
And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears;
But now, no foreign foes approach her walls,
No Danish ruffians revel in her halls;
Rusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance;
Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance,
Adorn'd in fancy dresses, show their skill
To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille.
Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke,
And arms! to arms! the piercing trumpet spoke.
To arms! to arms! the rattling drums reply—
The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh.
They scarce had time to bid the fair adieu,
But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew.
The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field,
With breasts unarm'd—their valour was their shield;
And Europe's shield these warriors proved to be;
For on their helms danced fame and victory.
Entered her gates, and laid her glories low!
Her warriors slain, or carried captive far,
Who knew no dance except the dance of war;
Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn,
That called them to the chase at early morn;
While this, in war-songs, raised their courage high,
They rushed to battle, not afraid to die.
Where now the ball-room is with grandeur hung,
The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung;
The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head,
While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled;
Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home,
Beating their swords against the shields of Rome;
While some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears,
And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears;
But now, no foreign foes approach her walls,
No Danish ruffians revel in her halls;
Rusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance;
Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance,
313
To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille.
Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke,
And arms! to arms! the piercing trumpet spoke.
To arms! to arms! the rattling drums reply—
The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh.
They scarce had time to bid the fair adieu,
But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew.
The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field,
With breasts unarm'd—their valour was their shield;
And Europe's shield these warriors proved to be;
For on their helms danced fame and victory.
But what has York's grand festival to do
With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo,
Except to tell the great how bless'd they are—
Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war?
For then was many a fair, who loved the brave,
Yet knew not where to find her warrior's grave.
And ladies of the purest virtue there,
Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear.
Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet,
And hundreds show the graces of their feet;
Secure, the lords and ladies wheel around,
Still keeping time to music's sweetest sound.
Had Solomon been there, he scarce had known
Which lady in the richest splendour shone.
Old age and wisdom there sat smiling, fain,
And wished to try if they could dance again;
E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned
That such accomplishments they never learned.
With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo,
Except to tell the great how bless'd they are—
Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war?
For then was many a fair, who loved the brave,
Yet knew not where to find her warrior's grave.
And ladies of the purest virtue there,
Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear.
Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet,
And hundreds show the graces of their feet;
Secure, the lords and ladies wheel around,
Still keeping time to music's sweetest sound.
Had Solomon been there, he scarce had known
Which lady in the richest splendour shone.
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And wished to try if they could dance again;
E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned
That such accomplishments they never learned.
Now viols' notes in softest cadence die—
The dance is o'er, and the musicians dry:
For be musician's genius e'er so fine,
It always fails, except improved with wine—
Wine, which gives poetry and music wings,
Inspires with animation all the strings;
Makes each wind instrument have better tone,
And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone.
Now they repose—and what each clime affords
Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords;
And every dainty that can please the fair,
With choicest wines, is in profusion there.
Old York had ransacked every vale and hill,
To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her skill.
The far-famed band their viols, tune again,
And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain;
With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves,
And fans are waved around like poplar leaves,
In all the colours which the rainbow bears,
When weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears.
The dance is o'er, and the musicians dry:
For be musician's genius e'er so fine,
It always fails, except improved with wine—
Wine, which gives poetry and music wings,
Inspires with animation all the strings;
Makes each wind instrument have better tone,
And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone.
Now they repose—and what each clime affords
Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords;
And every dainty that can please the fair,
With choicest wines, is in profusion there.
Old York had ransacked every vale and hill,
To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her skill.
The far-famed band their viols, tune again,
And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain;
With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves,
And fans are waved around like poplar leaves,
In all the colours which the rainbow bears,
When weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears.
Had I been there, I might have sung of all
The glory and the grandeur of the ball;
But, fettered fast, far distant forced to stay,
My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way.
No muse I boast, no great poetic skill,
Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadrille;
But this I know, in humble country reels
Care cannot stick a feather on their heels;
Time wings away, while all forget his speed;
While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed.
The glory and the grandeur of the ball;
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My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way.
No muse I boast, no great poetic skill,
Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadrille;
But this I know, in humble country reels
Care cannot stick a feather on their heels;
Time wings away, while all forget his speed;
While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed.
The music bursts again!—the diamond's blaze,
And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze.
Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost,
Such lovely forms could Athens never boast;
The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced,
Had they but seen how British ladies danced;
And great Raphael should there have present been,
To keep through ages the imposing scene,
When those who tripped along no more can move
In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love.
And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze.
Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost,
Such lovely forms could Athens never boast;
The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced,
Had they but seen how British ladies danced;
And great Raphael should there have present been,
To keep through ages the imposing scene,
When those who tripped along no more can move
In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |