 | The Modern Dunciad |  |
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MISCELLANEOUS.
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“THE NEW VIEW OF SOCIETY.”
OR, MR. OWEN AT NEW LANARK.
A NEW BALLAD.
“News! neighbours, news!”
—Old Song.
—Old Song.
I, Robert Owen,
For certainty knowing
Political systems are rotten,
Have, with infinite pains,
Been confounding my brains,
With economy, logic, and cotton.
For certainty knowing
Political systems are rotten,
Have, with infinite pains,
Been confounding my brains,
With economy, logic, and cotton.
That man's a machine,
Will be presently seen,
When I've fully develop'd each measure;
And my system requires,
That I move the wires,
That the puppet may dance at my pleasure.
Will be presently seen,
When I've fully develop'd each measure;
And my system requires,
That I move the wires,
That the puppet may dance at my pleasure.
Like Noah in his ark,
I am king of Lanark!
My subjects due deference pay me;
You'll find in the sequel,
They're perfectly equal;—
That's equally bound to obey me!
I am king of Lanark!
My subjects due deference pay me;
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They're perfectly equal;—
That's equally bound to obey me!
The wise of all ages,
Philosophers, sages,
Dull rogues! must in turn go to school to me;
Aristotle and Plato
Are quite out of date O!
And Zeno himself is a fool to me.
Philosophers, sages,
Dull rogues! must in turn go to school to me;
Aristotle and Plato
Are quite out of date O!
And Zeno himself is a fool to me.
Locke, Newton, and Bacon,
I'll prove are mistaken,
Poor Malthus I'll down at a blow;
Landaff is mere chaff,
Hannah More is a bore,
And Bob and his job all the go!
I'll prove are mistaken,
Poor Malthus I'll down at a blow;
Landaff is mere chaff,
Hannah More is a bore,
And Bob and his job all the go!
The Commons and Lords
I've so bother'd with words,
That they vote me, to save time and patience,
Economist clever,
Extravagant never,
But in one simple thing—my orations!
I've so bother'd with words,
That they vote me, to save time and patience,
Economist clever,
Extravagant never,
But in one simple thing—my orations!
The faith I maintain,
Is a spice of Tom Paine,
My politics too, where's the wonder?
For argument specious,
I poach in Helvetius,
Nor Hume quite escapes from my plunder.
Is a spice of Tom Paine,
My politics too, where's the wonder?
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I poach in Helvetius,
Nor Hume quite escapes from my plunder.
Some have it, my style
Has a touch of Carlile,
(Such lies choke the rogues that invent them!)
I own there's a touch,
When I mystify much,
Of my honest old friend, Jerry Bentham!
Has a touch of Carlile,
(Such lies choke the rogues that invent them!)
I own there's a touch,
When I mystify much,
Of my honest old friend, Jerry Bentham!
I deny there's a devil,
Heav'n, or hell; good, or evil;
The doctrine of priests, I cut short all;
'Tis a farce of the schools,
That a Providence rules,
That the soul is sublime and immortal.
Heav'n, or hell; good, or evil;
The doctrine of priests, I cut short all;
'Tis a farce of the schools,
That a Providence rules,
That the soul is sublime and immortal.
That a glorified Being,
All-mighty, all-seeing,
Of infinite pow'r and dominion,
Call'd the stars into birth,
Form'd from chaos, the earth,—
I'm quite of a diff'rent opinion.
All-mighty, all-seeing,
Of infinite pow'r and dominion,
Call'd the stars into birth,
Form'd from chaos, the earth,—
I'm quite of a diff'rent opinion.
But chance, at a jerk,
Did the wonderful work,
And atoms, combining, concussing,
Toss'd, tumbled, and twirl'd
Themselves into a world,
And then in a frolic, brought us in!
Did the wonderful work,
And atoms, combining, concussing,
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Themselves into a world,
And then in a frolic, brought us in!
Where I'd have ev'ry man,
Just as long as he can,
For self, and for pelf, live and labour;
Then each mother's son,
When his dinner is done,
Walk off, and make room for his neighbour.
Just as long as he can,
For self, and for pelf, live and labour;
Then each mother's son,
When his dinner is done,
Walk off, and make room for his neighbour.
The plan I lay down,
Is to build a small town,
(Some wiseacres call it a riddle!)
In the shape of a square,
Parallelogram rare!
With an eating-house clapp'd in the middle!
Is to build a small town,
(Some wiseacres call it a riddle!)
In the shape of a square,
Parallelogram rare!
With an eating-house clapp'd in the middle!
Where intelligent cooks,
Who have studied my books,
Their novel experiments trying;
Till my favourite plan,
To a sop in the pan,
Rule the roasting, the broiling, the frying!
Who have studied my books,
Their novel experiments trying;
Till my favourite plan,
To a sop in the pan,
Rule the roasting, the broiling, the frying!
A bell in a steeple
Shall summons my people
To join the community's table;
Where Christian and Jew,
And the devil knows who!
Shall complete my edition of Babel.
Shall summons my people
To join the community's table;
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And the devil knows who!
Shall complete my edition of Babel.
As no priest 's in the place,
Let Nic's Chaplain say grace,
To quiet some scrupulous laymen;
And little Jack Gorgon,
My orator, organ!
Shall piously chuckle forth “Amen.”
Let Nic's Chaplain say grace,
To quiet some scrupulous laymen;
And little Jack Gorgon,
My orator, organ!
Shall piously chuckle forth “Amen.”
'Tis pleasant enough,
Tho' the mutton run tough,
To see how the rogues tooth and nail it!
Like flies in a shamble,
They join in the scramble,
With appetite good—what should ail it?
Tho' the mutton run tough,
To see how the rogues tooth and nail it!
Like flies in a shamble,
They join in the scramble,
With appetite good—what should ail it?
Lest brandy, or rum,
Should intoxicate some,
I banish them both, with Geneva;
Instead of blue-ruin,
We've Adam's own brewing—
A much better drink, by your leave-a!
Should intoxicate some,
I banish them both, with Geneva;
Instead of blue-ruin,
We've Adam's own brewing—
A much better drink, by your leave-a!
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As soon as my spinners
Have finish'd their dinners,
(Soup-maigre, if beef they'd the last time,)
The girls, for ten minutes,
Shall play on their spinnets;
The boys dance a hornpipe for pastime.
Have finish'd their dinners,
(Soup-maigre, if beef they'd the last time,)
The girls, for ten minutes,
Shall play on their spinnets;
The boys dance a hornpipe for pastime.
The old men and women
I'll treat with the skimming
Of some philosophical question;
Abernethy, queer chap!
Says an afternoon nap
Is an excellent thing for digestion!
I'll treat with the skimming
Of some philosophical question;
Abernethy, queer chap!
Says an afternoon nap
Is an excellent thing for digestion!
I'll tell the good folk,
That religion's a joke,
And offer my own, as a sample;—
That man is a brute,
Is beyond a dispute;
My friend, little Jack! for example.
That religion's a joke,
And offer my own, as a sample;—
That man is a brute,
Is beyond a dispute;
My friend, little Jack! for example.
That vice is a name,
And that virtue's the same,
Deserving nor censure, nor credit—
See, my “Essay,” in print,
Yet I'll give 'em the hint,
As few but myself, may have read it.
And that virtue's the same,
Deserving nor censure, nor credit—
See, my “Essay,” in print,
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As few but myself, may have read it.
Economy's this,
No advantage to miss—
Philanthropy too, is no stickler;
Its favourite dish is
The loaves and the fishes;
Taking care of itself in partic'lar!
No advantage to miss—
Philanthropy too, is no stickler;
Its favourite dish is
The loaves and the fishes;
Taking care of itself in partic'lar!
And liberty also,
At least what I call so!
Binds only mankind in my slavery—
And honesty true,
Is right worshipful too,
When a man can get nothing by knavery!
At least what I call so!
Binds only mankind in my slavery—
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Is right worshipful too,
When a man can get nothing by knavery!
Equality's crown
Is to level all down,
Who in fame or in fortune o'ercrow us;
And then, vice versa,
To grind without mercy,
The poor needy devils below us!
Is to level all down,
Who in fame or in fortune o'ercrow us;
And then, vice versa,
To grind without mercy,
The poor needy devils below us!
Liberality next,
Is the Quaker's old text—
My son, if of wisdom thou'st any,
Thou'lt always be found,
To make sure of a pound,
Before thou dost part with a penny!
Is the Quaker's old text—
My son, if of wisdom thou'st any,
Thou'lt always be found,
To make sure of a pound,
Before thou dost part with a penny!
The bosom that grieves,
And the hand that relieves,
At pity's soft impulse, is erring:
I laugh at the flat,
Who would throw out a sprat,
Unless he can pull up a herring!
And the hand that relieves,
At pity's soft impulse, is erring:
I laugh at the flat,
Who would throw out a sprat,
Unless he can pull up a herring!
Fine feeling's a hum,
And a hoax—“Homo sum,”
Mere school-boy romance, rhodomontade;
We stoics, “jam satis,”
Think advice, given gratis,
Enough for poor folks, when they want aid.
And a hoax—“Homo sum,”
Mere school-boy romance, rhodomontade;
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Think advice, given gratis,
Enough for poor folks, when they want aid.
The Owenite rule,
Is be cautious, and cool,
Indiff'rent to all things, and all men;
Your mind, in a freak,
Never venture to speak;
Truth spoke out of time, may enthral men.
Is be cautious, and cool,
Indiff'rent to all things, and all men;
Your mind, in a freak,
Never venture to speak;
Truth spoke out of time, may enthral men.
In all that you do,
Let a sinister view
Be your counsel, your guide, and director;
In all that you say,
Go the round-about way,
So ends the first part of my lecture!
Let a sinister view
Be your counsel, your guide, and director;
In all that you say,
Go the round-about way,
So ends the first part of my lecture!
I hold it imprudent,
To drive the young student
Up Learning's ascent by coercion;
Or e'en to encourage,
Beyond his pease-porridge,
The task he should learn—for diversion!
To drive the young student
Up Learning's ascent by coercion;
Or e'en to encourage,
Beyond his pease-porridge,
The task he should learn—for diversion!
My blockheads I teach,
Without birching their breech,
By a method that well may surprise one;—
For Solomon's maxim,
That pinches and whacks him,
Is certainly far from a wise one!
Without birching their breech,
By a method that well may surprise one;—
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That pinches and whacks him,
Is certainly far from a wise one!
Now here, and now there,
Like a dog in a fair!
All bustle and smoke, for the fact is,
So much I profess,
You may easily guess,
I'm quite in arrears in my practice!
Like a dog in a fair!
All bustle and smoke, for the fact is,
So much I profess,
You may easily guess,
I'm quite in arrears in my practice!
A droll, and a dreamer,
A politic schemer,
Who knows how to varnish his dross over;
A mountebank spouter,
An infidel doubter,
We now-a-days call a—philosopher!
A politic schemer,
Who knows how to varnish his dross over;
A mountebank spouter,
An infidel doubter,
We now-a-days call a—philosopher!
My son, who, in sooth,
Is a sensible youth,
A chip of th' old block, you'll suppose is;
He now and then chimes,
Quantum suff. in “The Times,”
Which the true leading journal, God knows, is!
Is a sensible youth,
A chip of th' old block, you'll suppose is;
He now and then chimes,
Quantum suff. in “The Times,”
Which the true leading journal, God knows, is!
Of fame he bids fair
To come in for his share;
(I don't know who else can, if not him;)
The cunning young shaver
Has brass in his favour!
A pretty plain proof I begot him!
To come in for his share;
(I don't know who else can, if not him;)
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Has brass in his favour!
A pretty plain proof I begot him!
I tried, verbum sat.
To illuminate Pat,
Full thrice did I lecture before him;
But Pat, who loves whiskey,
Is rarely in this key,
And cried, “Blood and 'Ouns!” not to bore him.
To illuminate Pat,
Full thrice did I lecture before him;
But Pat, who loves whiskey,
Is rarely in this key,
And cried, “Blood and 'Ouns!” not to bore him.
So I walk'd off my buff,
In high dudgeon enough—
I'm expected at Liverpool daily,
To join for a trip,
An American ship,
To civilize Jonathan—Vale!
In high dudgeon enough—
I'm expected at Liverpool daily,
To join for a trip,
An American ship,
To civilize Jonathan—Vale!
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TOM SHUTTLE.
“A LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY, MIXED FULL OF PLEASANT MIRTH.”
Tom Shuttle kept in Spital-fields a ready-furnish'd room there;
The bards of Greece and Rome, and—Brougham! illum'd him at his loom there—
He read the Penny Magazine, and talk'd of Thames and Tiber;
Of the Mechanics' Institute a regular subscriber!
He to the march of intellect, quick marching, bade defiance;
A merry cull—a miracle of poetry and science.
The bards of Greece and Rome, and—Brougham! illum'd him at his loom there—
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Of the Mechanics' Institute a regular subscriber!
He to the march of intellect, quick marching, bade defiance;
A merry cull—a miracle of poetry and science.
Miss Wilhelmina Snooks, the daughter of a stout and tall bum-
Bailiff in the bottom floor, presented Tom her Album,
To draw a head, or write a tale as tragical as Werter,
Something pretty-natural, on purpose to divert her!
Tom ow'd her one, and wrote an ode, brimful of love and sentiment;
'Twas so sublime you couldn't tell, no, what one word in twenty meant.
Bailiff in the bottom floor, presented Tom her Album,
To draw a head, or write a tale as tragical as Werter,
Something pretty-natural, on purpose to divert her!
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'Twas so sublime you couldn't tell, no, what one word in twenty meant.
Miss Snooks made caps, and furbelows, and frills for Mister Harvey,
And carried them to Ludgate Hill, safe band-box'd in a jarvey;
Now, over head and ears in love, she rants like poor Queen Dido,
And ev'ry stitch she lays aside, for one that's in her side, O!
She calls for Portia's red-hot coal, the dagger of Lucretia,
And bawls for Rosamonda's bowl of rhubarb and magnesia!
And carried them to Ludgate Hill, safe band-box'd in a jarvey;
Now, over head and ears in love, she rants like poor Queen Dido,
And ev'ry stitch she lays aside, for one that's in her side, O!
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And bawls for Rosamonda's bowl of rhubarb and magnesia!
Tom felt a sympathetic twinge, and try'd a gentle lenitive;
“Your bumps, queer file, O,” quoth Deville, “are call'd philo-progenitive!
To conquer this amativeness dewelop'd on your cranium,
With Wilhelmina go succeed, for she's your succedaneum.”
Tom tipp'd a wink, and scamper'd off like winkin, in high feather;
The parson fee'd—the wedding folks had all a feed together!
“Your bumps, queer file, O,” quoth Deville, “are call'd philo-progenitive!
To conquer this amativeness dewelop'd on your cranium,
With Wilhelmina go succeed, for she's your succedaneum.”
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The parson fee'd—the wedding folks had all a feed together!
His room with friends was over-run, his cup of bliss run over;
He took to moping—mops and brooms!—his wife took him to Dover—
The doctor recommended air, and exercise, and jaunting—
Quoth Tom, “Hang exercise and air! when, zounds! the right heir's wanting!”—
Away they tripp'd to Bagnigge Wells, to Turnham Green, and Chelsea;
Sad Wilhelmina sigh'd, “My Love I never more shall well see!”
He took to moping—mops and brooms!—his wife took him to Dover—
The doctor recommended air, and exercise, and jaunting—
Quoth Tom, “Hang exercise and air! when, zounds! the right heir's wanting!”—
Away they tripp'd to Bagnigge Wells, to Turnham Green, and Chelsea;
Sad Wilhelmina sigh'd, “My Love I never more shall well see!”
'Twas Fair time, and St. Bartlemy had got a merry touch for him;
But rattles, jews-harps, salt-boxes, horns, muffs, might be too much for him!
He quite forgot his chronic pains, among his gay old cronies;
And munch'd his supper in the pens, of mustard and polonies;
The beer bred wit and bravery, and he resolv'd to thump any
That cross'd him as he homeward reel'd, and roar'd “Whitbread and Company!”
But rattles, jews-harps, salt-boxes, horns, muffs, might be too much for him!
He quite forgot his chronic pains, among his gay old cronies;
And munch'd his supper in the pens, of mustard and polonies;
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That cross'd him as he homeward reel'd, and roar'd “Whitbread and Company!”
He reach'd his room at two o'clock, the candles in the casement,
Foretold the livers by their lights, were all in queer amazement!
Such hurry, scurry, mobbing, sobbing, down stairs, ay, and tearing up!
“Here's h-ll and Tommy now to do;” cries Tom, “my wife is flaring up!”
Ah! what a sight did he behold, how ghostily and dreadful,
When peeping through the door, he threw his peepers on the bed full.
Foretold the livers by their lights, were all in queer amazement!
Such hurry, scurry, mobbing, sobbing, down stairs, ay, and tearing up!
“Here's h-ll and Tommy now to do;” cries Tom, “my wife is flaring up!”
Ah! what a sight did he behold, how ghostily and dreadful,
When peeping through the door, he threw his peepers on the bed full.
There Wilhelmina Shuttle lay, poor lamb, as dead as mutton!
Her cheek much whiter than the gown so lily-white she'd put on;
A bodkin stuck fast in her side, a letter penn'd so neatly
In German Text! bespoke her death, and told the cause completely;
“Dear Tom, you run stark mad for joy, now try a touch of sadness;
You'll find in grief a great relief—I die, to cure your madness!”
Her cheek much whiter than the gown so lily-white she'd put on;
A bodkin stuck fast in her side, a letter penn'd so neatly
In German Text! bespoke her death, and told the cause completely;
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You'll find in grief a great relief—I die, to cure your madness!”
Tom stood aghast—“'Tis love! 'tis love! how furious, fond, and fickle hers!”
And then he wrote her dad in rhyme the full and true partic'lars;
Soon after this felo-de-se, among the prime odd fellows,
His spirits rose, he rose to sing, “Old Rose, and burn the bellows!”
He cut the loom, a stroller turn'd, and in the Tale of Mystery,
He courts Miss Tree!—and so concludes our strange, eventful Hist'ry.
And then he wrote her dad in rhyme the full and true partic'lars;
Soon after this felo-de-se, among the prime odd fellows,
His spirits rose, he rose to sing, “Old Rose, and burn the bellows!”
He cut the loom, a stroller turn'd, and in the Tale of Mystery,
He courts Miss Tree!—and so concludes our strange, eventful Hist'ry.
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SAM TWIST.
A LEGEND OF ST. BENNET-FINK.
Sam Twist was a tailor in Threadneedle-street,
His spirits were low, and his fever was high;
He lost all his gumption, by a gallopping consumption,
And though he didn't like it, he was like to die!
His spirits were low, and his fever was high;
He lost all his gumption, by a gallopping consumption,
And though he didn't like it, he was like to die!
“I dispose of, I'm so indispos'd, to my rib,
All the goods in my shop, and the money in my till;
Though oft, common case! I'd her claws in my face,
I sha'n't scratch her off, by a clause in my will!
All the goods in my shop, and the money in my till;
Though oft, common case! I'd her claws in my face,
I sha'n't scratch her off, by a clause in my will!
“My dear, I'll be dress'd like a buck, in my best,
Charon won't care a rap, if I'm wrapp'd in a shroud;
I'll march to his boat in my blue Sunday coat,
For fear Mr. Twist should be lost in the crowd!
Charon won't care a rap, if I'm wrapp'd in a shroud;
I'll march to his boat in my blue Sunday coat,
For fear Mr. Twist should be lost in the crowd!
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“And if you wed, ah me! a cher ami,
Your bed shall be haunted by dolorous tics;
My ghost shall knock as it strikes twelve o'clock,
And knock you both to spinnage, I swear by Styx!”
Your bed shall be haunted by dolorous tics;
My ghost shall knock as it strikes twelve o'clock,
And knock you both to spinnage, I swear by Styx!”
From top to toe Sam was rigg'd like a beau,
Lucy's courage screw'd up, to see him screw'd down;
“O, how my heart is beating! was there ever such a sweeting?
Except in Sweeting's Alley, where there lives Tom Brown!”
Lucy's courage screw'd up, to see him screw'd down;
“O, how my heart is beating! was there ever such a sweeting?
Except in Sweeting's Alley, where there lives Tom Brown!”
Now Tom, under favour, a good-looking shaver,
Earn'd his mutton and trimmings by the beards that he trimm'd;
His whiskers and jazey set all the women crazy,
And he clapp'd their hearts in limbo, he was so smart limb'd!
Earn'd his mutton and trimmings by the beards that he trimm'd;
His whiskers and jazey set all the women crazy,
And he clapp'd their hearts in limbo, he was so smart limb'd!
She put off her starch way, her high gait, and arch way,
They hob and nob buzz'd, till 'twas buzz'd thro' the town,
Some fine day in summer, as black did not become her,
Widow Twist, dress'd in white, would be chang'd into Brown!
They hob and nob buzz'd, till 'twas buzz'd thro' the town,
Some fine day in summer, as black did not become her,
Widow Twist, dress'd in white, would be chang'd into Brown!
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So early in May, on a sun-shiny day,
They rose bright array'd, with the rays of the sun;
The bells of Bennet-Fink, wouldn't let 'em sleep a wink;
And splic'd by a canon, they were off like a gun!
They rose bright array'd, with the rays of the sun;
The bells of Bennet-Fink, wouldn't let 'em sleep a wink;
And splic'd by a canon, they were off like a gun!
They were up on the Downs, being flush of the browns!
Then Brown, off to France took his flame, for a flare!
He bought her some natty combs, and show'd her the Catacombs,
To Père-la-Chaise the pair drove in a chaise-and-pair.
Then Brown, off to France took his flame, for a flare!
He bought her some natty combs, and show'd her the Catacombs,
To Père-la-Chaise the pair drove in a chaise-and-pair.
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'Twas rueful to view ev'ry street written “Rue,”
Ev'ry book seem'd to Tom, to be written by “Tom!”
So the lady and her barber return'd by Dover Harbour
To Threadneedle-street, which they'd been a month from!
Ev'ry book seem'd to Tom, to be written by “Tom!”
So the lady and her barber return'd by Dover Harbour
To Threadneedle-street, which they'd been a month from!
Not, tea-and-turn-out, but to dinner and rout,
They sent an invite for their neighbours to come:
To three fiddle-scrapers the company cut capers,
And the ear-piercing fife of their ears pierc'd the drum.
They sent an invite for their neighbours to come:
To three fiddle-scrapers the company cut capers,
And the ear-piercing fife of their ears pierc'd the drum.
With prime whiskey-toddy they moisten'd soul and body,
And Bishopsgate-without toasted Bishopsgate-within;
Mrs. Brown led her shaver down a dance, and through a quaver;
Merry was the dinner, and merrier was the din!
And Bishopsgate-without toasted Bishopsgate-within;
Mrs. Brown led her shaver down a dance, and through a quaver;
Merry was the dinner, and merrier was the din!
It chim'd twelve o'clock, when there came a loud knock,
As if Gog and Magog had rapp'd with their fist!
The Lane of Saint Bartholomew sent forth a dismal, hollow mew,
And in march'd Mister (or his ghost!) Sammy Twist!
As if Gog and Magog had rapp'd with their fist!
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And in march'd Mister (or his ghost!) Sammy Twist!
His mouth grinn'd so grimly, and it smok'd like a chimbley!
His nose flar'd red hot, 'twixt his eyes, like a link!
He rattled his dry bones, like a cart upon the stones!
And danc'd to the muffled bells of Saint Bennet-Fink!
His nose flar'd red hot, 'twixt his eyes, like a link!
He rattled his dry bones, like a cart upon the stones!
And danc'd to the muffled bells of Saint Bennet-Fink!
“Of Fish,” (cry'd Spirit Sammy,) “here's a pretty kettle, damme!
Cut your stick, and off to Styx; tide serves, the water's high;
A wherry's at the ferry, for a pleasant voyage, very!
And Lucifer, my Lucy fair! has other fish to fry!”
Cut your stick, and off to Styx; tide serves, the water's high;
A wherry's at the ferry, for a pleasant voyage, very!
And Lucifer, my Lucy fair! has other fish to fry!”
“'Tis high time you're below, hark! the cock begins to crow,
And fresh I scent the morning air—ere morn, I must away!”
When a loud clap of thunder made them both knock under,
And then there was old Charon, and the devil too, to pay!
And fresh I scent the morning air—ere morn, I must away!”
When a loud clap of thunder made them both knock under,
And then there was old Charon, and the devil too, to pay!
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Safe landed they were at the Hotel d'Enfèr,
To the “Devil among the Tailors!” in darkness and mist,
Danc'd nine grisly sprites in their blue coats and tights,
Each claiming, while he licks her! his wife, Widow Twist!
To the “Devil among the Tailors!” in darkness and mist,
Danc'd nine grisly sprites in their blue coats and tights,
Each claiming, while he licks her! his wife, Widow Twist!
The Old one laugh'd like a new one, and quaff'd
His goblet of goblin Elixir, or ale.
“One man” (he cry'd) “at most, is a solitary ghost,
But Twist is a Tailor!”—And so ends my tale.
His goblet of goblin Elixir, or ale.
“One man” (he cry'd) “at most, is a solitary ghost,
But Twist is a Tailor!”—And so ends my tale.
257
WOMAN.
I sing of Woman; Ladies, lend an ear,
The theme is pleasing, and the verse sincere.
If Chloe blame my monitory style,
I find a recompense in Stella's smile.
To laugh at folly let the task be mine,
Accomplish'd Stella, to reform it, thine.
The theme is pleasing, and the verse sincere.
If Chloe blame my monitory style,
I find a recompense in Stella's smile.
To laugh at folly let the task be mine,
Accomplish'd Stella, to reform it, thine.
Some to the Ladies have at once assign'd
A trifling heart, a vain, capricious mind;
'Tis too severe, their virtues may demand
A juster picture from a milder hand.
A trifling heart, a vain, capricious mind;
'Tis too severe, their virtues may demand
A juster picture from a milder hand.
Kind Heav'n form'd Woman on the social plan,
To prove a source of happiness to man;
To share alike his blessings and his woes,
From life's gay sunshine, to its dreary close.
And oft she well performs her tender part,
When sharp affliction rends the bursting heart;
When the dark tempests of misfortune low'r,
She shines with Love's re-animating pow'r.
When friendship fails, nor hope, nor succour's nigh,
She wipes the bitter tear from mis'ry's eye;
Pours consolation's healing balm the while,
And cheers the mourner's sorrows with a smile.
To prove a source of happiness to man;
To share alike his blessings and his woes,
From life's gay sunshine, to its dreary close.
And oft she well performs her tender part,
When sharp affliction rends the bursting heart;
When the dark tempests of misfortune low'r,
She shines with Love's re-animating pow'r.
When friendship fails, nor hope, nor succour's nigh,
258
Pours consolation's healing balm the while,
And cheers the mourner's sorrows with a smile.
Tho' form'd for Love, for gentle arts design'd,
Her courage argues a superior mind;
Not rashly bold, the warlike sword she draws,
To violate fond nature's sacred laws;
But for some glorious end, some godlike deed,
That Kings and Heroes had been proud to bleed!
While oft rebellious man, when ills arise,
Arraigns th' unerring judgments of the skies;
To her superior piety is giv'n,
She learns to bless the chast'ning hand of Heav'n.
Her courage argues a superior mind;
Not rashly bold, the warlike sword she draws,
To violate fond nature's sacred laws;
But for some glorious end, some godlike deed,
That Kings and Heroes had been proud to bleed!
While oft rebellious man, when ills arise,
Arraigns th' unerring judgments of the skies;
To her superior piety is giv'n,
She learns to bless the chast'ning hand of Heav'n.
In scenes domestic, scenes which most endear,
She shines resistless in her brightest sphere;
Close to her bosom prest, with fond alarms,
See infant Beauty smiles in all his charms!
Endearing sight! O may he ne'er destroy,
Thy mother's hope, thy dream of future joy;
But by his filial love fulfil thy pray'r,
And well repay thy tenderness and care.
She shines resistless in her brightest sphere;
Close to her bosom prest, with fond alarms,
See infant Beauty smiles in all his charms!
Endearing sight! O may he ne'er destroy,
Thy mother's hope, thy dream of future joy;
But by his filial love fulfil thy pray'r,
And well repay thy tenderness and care.
Fair is the morn, the gilded prospect gay,
May no dark wintry cloud obscure the day!
When Beauty, blooming like an Eastern Queen,
Forsakes the shade to grace a brighter scene.
Obsequious coxcombs ev'ry hour assail,
For her the flatt'rer weaves his artful tale,
Youth, health, and pleasure, all united, seem,
One fairy vision, one enchanting dream!
Ah! who shall then forewarn the trusting Fair
To shun the danger, and avoid the snare;
The hesitating speech, the downcast eye,
And the delicious poison of a sigh?
May no dark wintry cloud obscure the day!
When Beauty, blooming like an Eastern Queen,
259
Obsequious coxcombs ev'ry hour assail,
For her the flatt'rer weaves his artful tale,
Youth, health, and pleasure, all united, seem,
One fairy vision, one enchanting dream!
Ah! who shall then forewarn the trusting Fair
To shun the danger, and avoid the snare;
The hesitating speech, the downcast eye,
And the delicious poison of a sigh?
To please a Woman is a task indeed!
We all attempt; alas! how few succeed!
A shameful truth, that female charms are sold,
Some are with flatt'ry bought, and some with gold.
Delia, who once inspir'd the poet's page,
Soon finds a ready purchaser, in age.
Daphne, who lov'd a fool, mistaken fair!
Because he prais'd her beauty, shape, and air;
Her raptures over, her illusions past,
Longs to obey one will—that will—his last!
We all attempt; alas! how few succeed!
A shameful truth, that female charms are sold,
Some are with flatt'ry bought, and some with gold.
Delia, who once inspir'd the poet's page,
Soon finds a ready purchaser, in age.
Daphne, who lov'd a fool, mistaken fair!
Because he prais'd her beauty, shape, and air;
Her raptures over, her illusions past,
Longs to obey one will—that will—his last!
In Woman various characters we find,
No two alike in feature, or in mind.
Laura, whose spouse is sober once a week,
Ne'er felt the flush of anger warm her cheek.
Clio, whose scolding tongue affrights the house,
Screams at a beetle, trembles at a mouse.
Consid'rate Fanny, tender-hearted dame!
Will cut her linnet's wings to make him tame:
While squeamish Lady Buckram, who would think!
Can sip much more than honest topers drink.
No two alike in feature, or in mind.
Laura, whose spouse is sober once a week,
Ne'er felt the flush of anger warm her cheek.
Clio, whose scolding tongue affrights the house,
Screams at a beetle, trembles at a mouse.
260
Will cut her linnet's wings to make him tame:
While squeamish Lady Buckram, who would think!
Can sip much more than honest topers drink.
Amelia wears a smile from morn to night,
Because her teeth are regular and white.
Priscilla, ancient nymph, by fashion led,
To hide the palsy, tosses high her head.
Poor Julia makes a hearty meal by stealth,
Yet tells the world she has but sorry health!
The sturdy vulgar are exempt from pain,
'Tis only folks of quality complain!
Because her teeth are regular and white.
Priscilla, ancient nymph, by fashion led,
To hide the palsy, tosses high her head.
Poor Julia makes a hearty meal by stealth,
Yet tells the world she has but sorry health!
The sturdy vulgar are exempt from pain,
'Tis only folks of quality complain!
Say, is not Prudence more than Dian chaste?
What mortal man will suit her maiden taste?
How cold her eye, it freezes with despair!
Love, tender Love, can never enter there!
O strange reverse! beneath that artful guise,
Some wicked thoughts intrude, and mischief lies.
What mortal man will suit her maiden taste?
How cold her eye, it freezes with despair!
Love, tender Love, can never enter there!
O strange reverse! beneath that artful guise,
Some wicked thoughts intrude, and mischief lies.
Now view the contrast in Clarissa's air,
Light, easy, graceful, spruce, and debonnair!
Her laughing eye, soft smile, at once bespeak
Love warms her mind, and blushes in her cheek;
Blest with each grace that nature can impart
To captivate the eye, and charm the heart,
Clarissa weds for love—and, what is worse,
A man with brains, but then an empty purse!
Light, easy, graceful, spruce, and debonnair!
Her laughing eye, soft smile, at once bespeak
Love warms her mind, and blushes in her cheek;
Blest with each grace that nature can impart
To captivate the eye, and charm the heart,
261
A man with brains, but then an empty purse!
What sudden friendships has Lucretia made,
Eternally betraying, and betray'd!
'Tis hers to heave th' involuntary sigh,
The tear unconscious glistens in her eye,
Yet, sympathetic soul! she knows not why!
If soft Lucretia hear her friend is dead,
Her lap-dog's scalded, or her monkey's fled;
If Poll no more can charm her gentle ears
With dainty oaths, the nymph dissolves in tears!
The pity which in female hearts we prize,
Flows from no deeper channel than her eyes.
Eternally betraying, and betray'd!
'Tis hers to heave th' involuntary sigh,
The tear unconscious glistens in her eye,
Yet, sympathetic soul! she knows not why!
If soft Lucretia hear her friend is dead,
Her lap-dog's scalded, or her monkey's fled;
If Poll no more can charm her gentle ears
With dainty oaths, the nymph dissolves in tears!
The pity which in female hearts we prize,
Flows from no deeper channel than her eyes.
Stern Hecatissa gives the world her hate,
Her thoughts are fix'd upon a future state;
From morn to night, in mere religious whim,
She screams aloud her anabaptist hymn!
Mistaken fool! put off thy borrow'd part,
Learn meekness and sincerity of heart;
Heav'n counts thy vows as vain, and nothing worth,
Unless a righteous spirit give them birth.
Her thoughts are fix'd upon a future state;
From morn to night, in mere religious whim,
She screams aloud her anabaptist hymn!
Mistaken fool! put off thy borrow'd part,
Learn meekness and sincerity of heart;
Heav'n counts thy vows as vain, and nothing worth,
Unless a righteous spirit give them birth.
Behold yon captious dame, reserv'd, and sly,
Suspicion ever lurking in her eye;
The very fury of domestic strife,
Behold Corinna pale—the jealous wife!
Her spouse, good easy man! she makes a drone,
Demure he sits, his eyes are not his own!
Speaks he unguarded of another's charms?
A mistress! quick her soul is up in arms.
She raves, she sighs, the tears obedient start,
And well she plays the loud virago's part.
How long, Corinna, to conviction blind,
Wilt thou torment thyself, and all mankind,
With jealous fancies, with suppos'd neglects?
—She most deserves suspicion, who suspects.
Suspicion ever lurking in her eye;
The very fury of domestic strife,
262
Her spouse, good easy man! she makes a drone,
Demure he sits, his eyes are not his own!
Speaks he unguarded of another's charms?
A mistress! quick her soul is up in arms.
She raves, she sighs, the tears obedient start,
And well she plays the loud virago's part.
How long, Corinna, to conviction blind,
Wilt thou torment thyself, and all mankind,
With jealous fancies, with suppos'd neglects?
—She most deserves suspicion, who suspects.
Prudella, cautious nymph! behind her fan,
Gives many an artful leer at odious Man;
With paint and patches tries, a silly crime!
To hide the fearful ravages of time.
When in the Park she takes her night parade,
We ask, what spectre 'tis that haunts the shade.
She sings an air—the connoisseur that hears,
Would swear a jack were winding in his ears;
She joins the dance—the graces in a fume,
Behold the hideous sprite, and quit the room.
Gives many an artful leer at odious Man;
With paint and patches tries, a silly crime!
To hide the fearful ravages of time.
When in the Park she takes her night parade,
We ask, what spectre 'tis that haunts the shade.
She sings an air—the connoisseur that hears,
Would swear a jack were winding in his ears;
She joins the dance—the graces in a fume,
Behold the hideous sprite, and quit the room.
Chloe, whom perjur'd wits engaging call,
Is pleas'd with half mankind, and pleases all.
She goes to church on ev'ry Sabbath day,
But fashionable people never pray!
If parsons are polite, 'tis very well,
But Chloe can't endure the name of hell.
If some fond fool confess a tender smart,
She smiles encouragement, then breaks his heart.
Beware how Chloe's kindnesses beguile,
Her frown is not so fatal as her smile.
Is pleas'd with half mankind, and pleases all.
She goes to church on ev'ry Sabbath day,
But fashionable people never pray!
If parsons are polite, 'tis very well,
263
If some fond fool confess a tender smart,
She smiles encouragement, then breaks his heart.
Beware how Chloe's kindnesses beguile,
Her frown is not so fatal as her smile.
Poor Sappho, forc'd to wed against her will
The man she hates; and, more provoking still,
A thing that ev'ry woman hates alive,
A toothless, doting rogue of sixty-five!
At midnight balls, and masquerades is seen,
And fashionable routs, to cure the spleen;
Her ancient lord, a martyr to the gout,
For Sappho calls in vain—my lady's out!
Stung with the pangs of jealousy, he swears,
Sappho returns, and wonders at his airs;
To prove her faith, calls Betty, and the saints,
And if occasion suit, my lady faints.
The man she hates; and, more provoking still,
A thing that ev'ry woman hates alive,
A toothless, doting rogue of sixty-five!
At midnight balls, and masquerades is seen,
And fashionable routs, to cure the spleen;
Her ancient lord, a martyr to the gout,
For Sappho calls in vain—my lady's out!
Stung with the pangs of jealousy, he swears,
Sappho returns, and wonders at his airs;
To prove her faith, calls Betty, and the saints,
And if occasion suit, my lady faints.
But who is she, that sits with head awry,
Lank is her form, and haggard is her eye,
Her garments turn'd in many a mazy fold,
Frantic she seems and ghastly to behold?
'Tis sad Calista, who, with brandish'd quill,
Makes ghosts appear, and vampires rise, at will;
She writes for demons', not for man's applause,
And is herself the fury that she draws.
Lank is her form, and haggard is her eye,
Her garments turn'd in many a mazy fold,
Frantic she seems and ghastly to behold?
'Tis sad Calista, who, with brandish'd quill,
Makes ghosts appear, and vampires rise, at will;
She writes for demons', not for man's applause,
And is herself the fury that she draws.
264
“High life is charming, say what people will!”
Cries Mistress Fustian, hot from Holborn Hill;
“O, who would breathe this vulgar city air,
When honest folks might drive a coach and pair?
My spouse, dull soul! would rather grub the while,
Than sport a handsome house, and live in style.”
By fortune's freaks see Madam Fustian plac'd
High in the realms of elegance and taste;
A well-bred dame, she leaves her bed at noon,
Sups with the sun, and breakfasts with the moon!
At balls and concerts the presiding belle,
For who indeed can dance or sing so well?
At fashion's fane she rules the varying year,
For who will dress so gay, and pay so dear?
Ah! must I tell the sequel of the tale?
Poor Madam Fustian's purse begins to fail!
The house is sold, the servants all dismiss'd,
Her luckless husband dreads the bailiff's fist;
Such mad presumption all her friends deride,
Guests at her routs, and sharers of her pride!
And Mistress Fustian, much against her will,
Returns to breathe the air of Holborn Hill!
Cries Mistress Fustian, hot from Holborn Hill;
“O, who would breathe this vulgar city air,
When honest folks might drive a coach and pair?
My spouse, dull soul! would rather grub the while,
Than sport a handsome house, and live in style.”
By fortune's freaks see Madam Fustian plac'd
High in the realms of elegance and taste;
A well-bred dame, she leaves her bed at noon,
Sups with the sun, and breakfasts with the moon!
At balls and concerts the presiding belle,
For who indeed can dance or sing so well?
At fashion's fane she rules the varying year,
For who will dress so gay, and pay so dear?
Ah! must I tell the sequel of the tale?
Poor Madam Fustian's purse begins to fail!
The house is sold, the servants all dismiss'd,
Her luckless husband dreads the bailiff's fist;
Such mad presumption all her friends deride,
Guests at her routs, and sharers of her pride!
And Mistress Fustian, much against her will,
Returns to breathe the air of Holborn Hill!
Why sits Clarinda in her garb of woe?
Her spouse, sweet mourner! died a week ago;
Frantic with grief, she sent for Lady D—,
Implor'd her tears, and company to tea.
For six long days, a penance truly hard!
She never saw a play, nor touch'd a card;
The seventh, the woeful widow (custom pleads!)
Puts off her sorrow, and puts on her weeds.
Her spouse, sweet mourner! died a week ago;
Frantic with grief, she sent for Lady D—,
Implor'd her tears, and company to tea.
265
She never saw a play, nor touch'd a card;
The seventh, the woeful widow (custom pleads!)
Puts off her sorrow, and puts on her weeds.
My Lady Cynthia oft, of gaming sick,
Will lose her charming temper, with a trick.
Nubilia wears a patch, contriving belle!
To hide a speck; a mask would do as well.
How Flavia's face, and Flavia's picture strike;
The cause is plain, they're painted much alike!
O then shall truth the voice of satire hush?
Fair virtue's true complexion is a blush!
Will lose her charming temper, with a trick.
Nubilia wears a patch, contriving belle!
To hide a speck; a mask would do as well.
How Flavia's face, and Flavia's picture strike;
The cause is plain, they're painted much alike!
O then shall truth the voice of satire hush?
Fair virtue's true complexion is a blush!
But one I know, sweet subject of my lays,
Whose beauty still is only second praise;
In action graceful, as in sense refin'd,
The softest manners, with the chastest mind:
Uniting all that we design to please,
The charms of temper, elegance, and ease;
A fond expression, never reach'd by art,
Which speaks the glowing language of the heart!
Whose beauty still is only second praise;
In action graceful, as in sense refin'd,
The softest manners, with the chastest mind:
Uniting all that we design to please,
The charms of temper, elegance, and ease;
A fond expression, never reach'd by art,
Which speaks the glowing language of the heart!
Charms such as these, nor deem the picture rare,
Shall render beauty more divinely fair.
When man's warm passions, with resistless sway,
Bear virtue, truth, and reason far away;
One soft persuasive smile shall soon reprove,
And call him back to liberty and love.
Shall render beauty more divinely fair.
When man's warm passions, with resistless sway,
Bear virtue, truth, and reason far away;
266
And call him back to liberty and love.
Dear Stella, to my moral verse attend,
Forgive the censor, and believe the friend.
May ev'ry bliss that softens life, or cheers,
Charm thy young days, and crown thy riper years!
Fair is the prospect in life's op'ning morn,
The rose is fair, but still retains the thorn!
The world will tempt thee with alluring praise,
And Folly lead thee to her fairy maze,
But O, beware! and shun the dang'rous way,
They flatter beauty only to betray;
And still through life, in thy desire to please,
Retain thy soft simplicity and ease.
To charm by art let others vainly seek,
What art can reach the blossom on thy cheek?
And while through life's uncertain path we stray,
Hope for our guide to lead us on the way,
Say, shall the Muse thy gentle steps attend,
Pleas'd to become thy monitor and friend?
To tell thee oft how thousands are undone,
What paths to follow, and what ills to shun;
That vice, though late, shall meet severest doom,
That virtue lives and blossoms in the tomb.
Forgive the censor, and believe the friend.
May ev'ry bliss that softens life, or cheers,
Charm thy young days, and crown thy riper years!
Fair is the prospect in life's op'ning morn,
The rose is fair, but still retains the thorn!
The world will tempt thee with alluring praise,
And Folly lead thee to her fairy maze,
But O, beware! and shun the dang'rous way,
They flatter beauty only to betray;
And still through life, in thy desire to please,
Retain thy soft simplicity and ease.
To charm by art let others vainly seek,
What art can reach the blossom on thy cheek?
And while through life's uncertain path we stray,
Hope for our guide to lead us on the way,
Say, shall the Muse thy gentle steps attend,
Pleas'd to become thy monitor and friend?
To tell thee oft how thousands are undone,
What paths to follow, and what ills to shun;
That vice, though late, shall meet severest doom,
That virtue lives and blossoms in the tomb.
267
EPISTLE
TO THE PROPRIETOR OF “CUMBERLAND'S BRITISH THEATRE.”
A word in your ear, Mr. Cumberland, pray—
Not what I say myself, but what other folks say,
I think it just right to communicate—Credè!
Some bitter complaints of your editor G. D.
This confident critic bamboozles the town,
And to write himself up, he writes other folks down;
About the old authors he makes such a fuss,
Yet laughs not indeed at our farces, but Us!
Talks of Avon's sweet swan—Mr. C, who the deuce
Is Avon's sweet swan?—Does he mean Mother Goose?
A player must either be dying or dead,
To have grace in his action, or sense in his head—
One exception, I grant, may be found in the hive,
He praises Jack Harley, who's always alive!
Yet Jack, though he giggles and gallops on gaily,
Is nothing to Vale—may he never say valè!—
Then Lord, what an Egotist! quoting himself!
—Friend Cumberland, look to your profit and pelf,
And take from the dunghill hight critical, no cock
Who cannot puff Planchè, who cannot puff Pocock;
Mr. Lunn, Mr. Bunn, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Poole;
The nobs of the new march-of-intellect school.
Besides this G. D., if the people all say right,
Is not only Aristarch, Poet, but—Playwright!
Which makes him, no doubt, so confoundedly crusty,
For two of a trade—but the proverb is musty.
O blindly infatuate! thus to permit
This Midas in judgment, this coxcomb in wit,
This snarling Gambado on Pegasus skittish,
To gallop right o'er Minor Drama and British!—
Then turn to the right-about (Cumberland credè,)
Your pert egotistical editor G. D.
Or D.G. no matter which, truce to the letters—
And give the appointment to one of his betters!—
If my humble talent might try such a leap,
I'll do the thing well, and I'll do the thing cheap;
If Me you invest with the critical staff,
Why fine me a pot if I'm found in a laugh.
For Shakespeare—I know not and care not who wrote him—
So you'll guess that I'm not very likely to quote him!
And Massinger, Fletcher, and surly Old Ben,
Shall never be grac'd with a scratch of my pen,
They liv'd, scribbled, died—n'importe where, what, and when!
My Jerrold's the herald of wit and romance,
My Beaumont and Fletcher are Planchè and Dance;
What serves me for Congreve, for Cibber and all?
The wits, fits, and fancies of Mister Fitzball!
No question or quack'ry my Thackeray I wot
(What a face for a farce, what a head for a plot!)
Is worth all the Drydens and Farquhars that follow;
So dub Me your critic, and Him your Apollo!
If an author be dull—what's his dulness to me?
In liberty's land sure a fool may go free!
Mine's Dogberry's maxim, (to quote him for once)
Let him go—and thank God you are rid of a dunce.
When I hold up my rod not a stroller shall tremble,
I luckily never saw Siddons or Kemble;
Of all the old school I remember not one,
But I've seen Mr. Serle, and I've seen Mrs. Bunn.
Of acting I yield my opinion to no man—
For buskin and sock give me Cobham and Sloman.
Macarthy's a trump, but Macready's a savage,
And who would see Dowton that ever saw Davidge?
I think Mr. Elton, I think Osbaldiston,
In tragedy quite as affecting as Liston;
And Gomersal, barring he makes but a sorry beau,
I think quite as great as my friend Mr. Horrebow.
D.G. is all quibble and quiz when he writes,
And when the dog barks least, the sharper he bites—
Except when I eat, and except when I yawn,
My jaw is fast lock'd, and my teeth are all drawn.
I'm ready and willing to edit your plays,
Find you but the pewter, and I'll find the praise;
And if you can gulp only half that I give,
You may brag of your swallow as long as you live!
So natty I'll dress when you ask me to sup,
And your mutton is all I'll presume to cut up;
My prose, for your clothes; and your meat for my metre;
Your editor—ay, and egad, your head-eater!
Drop a line to A, with (what in truth, I'm!) a star—
Post paid, and the terms—to be left at the bar
Of mine host of (I lodge up three pair, with my crony)
The Panniers, and eke the Jerusalem Pony.
Not what I say myself, but what other folks say,
I think it just right to communicate—Credè!
Some bitter complaints of your editor G. D.
This confident critic bamboozles the town,
And to write himself up, he writes other folks down;
About the old authors he makes such a fuss,
Yet laughs not indeed at our farces, but Us!
Talks of Avon's sweet swan—Mr. C, who the deuce
Is Avon's sweet swan?—Does he mean Mother Goose?
A player must either be dying or dead,
To have grace in his action, or sense in his head—
One exception, I grant, may be found in the hive,
He praises Jack Harley, who's always alive!
Yet Jack, though he giggles and gallops on gaily,
Is nothing to Vale—may he never say valè!—
Then Lord, what an Egotist! quoting himself!
—Friend Cumberland, look to your profit and pelf,
268
Who cannot puff Planchè, who cannot puff Pocock;
Mr. Lunn, Mr. Bunn, Mr. Pitt, Mr. Poole;
The nobs of the new march-of-intellect school.
Besides this G. D., if the people all say right,
Is not only Aristarch, Poet, but—Playwright!
Which makes him, no doubt, so confoundedly crusty,
For two of a trade—but the proverb is musty.
269
This Midas in judgment, this coxcomb in wit,
This snarling Gambado on Pegasus skittish,
To gallop right o'er Minor Drama and British!—
Then turn to the right-about (Cumberland credè,)
Your pert egotistical editor G. D.
Or D.G. no matter which, truce to the letters—
And give the appointment to one of his betters!—
270
I'll do the thing well, and I'll do the thing cheap;
If Me you invest with the critical staff,
Why fine me a pot if I'm found in a laugh.
For Shakespeare—I know not and care not who wrote him—
So you'll guess that I'm not very likely to quote him!
And Massinger, Fletcher, and surly Old Ben,
Shall never be grac'd with a scratch of my pen,
They liv'd, scribbled, died—n'importe where, what, and when!
271
My Beaumont and Fletcher are Planchè and Dance;
What serves me for Congreve, for Cibber and all?
The wits, fits, and fancies of Mister Fitzball!
No question or quack'ry my Thackeray I wot
(What a face for a farce, what a head for a plot!)
Is worth all the Drydens and Farquhars that follow;
So dub Me your critic, and Him your Apollo!
If an author be dull—what's his dulness to me?
In liberty's land sure a fool may go free!
Mine's Dogberry's maxim, (to quote him for once)
Let him go—and thank God you are rid of a dunce.
When I hold up my rod not a stroller shall tremble,
I luckily never saw Siddons or Kemble;
Of all the old school I remember not one,
But I've seen Mr. Serle, and I've seen Mrs. Bunn.
Of acting I yield my opinion to no man—
For buskin and sock give me Cobham and Sloman.
272
And who would see Dowton that ever saw Davidge?
I think Mr. Elton, I think Osbaldiston,
In tragedy quite as affecting as Liston;
And Gomersal, barring he makes but a sorry beau,
I think quite as great as my friend Mr. Horrebow.
D.G. is all quibble and quiz when he writes,
And when the dog barks least, the sharper he bites—
Except when I eat, and except when I yawn,
My jaw is fast lock'd, and my teeth are all drawn.
I'm ready and willing to edit your plays,
Find you but the pewter, and I'll find the praise;
And if you can gulp only half that I give,
You may brag of your swallow as long as you live!
So natty I'll dress when you ask me to sup,
And your mutton is all I'll presume to cut up;
My prose, for your clothes; and your meat for my metre;
Your editor—ay, and egad, your head-eater!
Drop a line to A, with (what in truth, I'm!) a star—
Post paid, and the terms—to be left at the bar
Of mine host of (I lodge up three pair, with my crony)
The Panniers, and eke the Jerusalem Pony.
P.S. If you ask who I am, Mr. Cumberland—know
I'm one of the club held at Miller's—(not Joe!)
No G.D.—be de'ed he! no mountebank, muff;
But a little cock-bantam—Flare up! quantum suff.
273
No G.D.—be de'ed he! no mountebank, muff;
But a little cock-bantam—Flare up! quantum suff.
274
ALIBEG; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF VIRTUE.
In Tempè's vale, a calm sequester'd scene,
Whose fields were cloth'd with everlasting green;
Far from the busy world, unknown to fame,
There liv'd a youth, and Alibeg his name.
Th' admiring swains and ev'ry rural maid,
Delighted, sought his consecrated shade,
And while he warbled woods and plains among,
Apollo listen'd and approv'd the song.
Whose fields were cloth'd with everlasting green;
Far from the busy world, unknown to fame,
There liv'd a youth, and Alibeg his name.
Th' admiring swains and ev'ry rural maid,
Delighted, sought his consecrated shade,
And while he warbled woods and plains among,
Apollo listen'd and approv'd the song.
One morn great Abbas, tir'd of gay resorts,
Thro' Tempè's vale pursu'd his rural sports;
When lo, sweet music quivers thro' the shade,
As if the strain some sylvan God had play'd—
And soon the minstrel's self appears in view,
His seat, a moss-grown bank, impearl'd with dew,
Watching the rippling fountain's silver tide,
The while his flocks skipp'd round the mountain side.
Enrapt in awe the wondering monarch stood,
And then address'd the shepherd of the wood.
Thro' Tempè's vale pursu'd his rural sports;
When lo, sweet music quivers thro' the shade,
As if the strain some sylvan God had play'd—
And soon the minstrel's self appears in view,
His seat, a moss-grown bank, impearl'd with dew,
Watching the rippling fountain's silver tide,
The while his flocks skipp'd round the mountain side.
Enrapt in awe the wondering monarch stood,
And then address'd the shepherd of the wood.
“O youth celestial! whosoe'er thou art,
That with such melting airs enslav'st my heart,
Say, dost thou here descend, with heav'nly strains,
To soothe the wretch's woe, the Lover's pains;
For sure such notes as charm this mystic Bow'r,
Are play'd by some divine, superior Pow'r.”
That with such melting airs enslav'st my heart,
275
To soothe the wretch's woe, the Lover's pains;
For sure such notes as charm this mystic Bow'r,
Are play'd by some divine, superior Pow'r.”
The youth replied—“I'm one of humble swains,
Who lead their flocks o'er Tempè's blissful plains,
Of parentage obscure, a shepherd boy—
And as I tune this pipe, my only joy,
The list'ning Birds on ev'ry bloomy spray,
Will raise their notes to imitate the Lay.
Who lead their flocks o'er Tempè's blissful plains,
Of parentage obscure, a shepherd boy—
And as I tune this pipe, my only joy,
The list'ning Birds on ev'ry bloomy spray,
Will raise their notes to imitate the Lay.
The Monarch thus—“All gentle as thou art,
If grandeur once can captivate thy heart,
With me to cities and to courts repair,
How will thy worth and talents flourish there!
Let not such sweetness wither in a wild,
Emblem of virtue, nature's fairest child!
But leave these plains, and tend thy sheep no more,
And taste of pleasures unenjoy'd before.”
If grandeur once can captivate thy heart,
With me to cities and to courts repair,
How will thy worth and talents flourish there!
Let not such sweetness wither in a wild,
Emblem of virtue, nature's fairest child!
But leave these plains, and tend thy sheep no more,
And taste of pleasures unenjoy'd before.”
A crimson blush o'erspread the shepherd's cheek,
His heart exulted, tho' he fear'd to speak:
He wept in silence, while his ling'ring feet
Reluctant bore him from his lov'd retreat.
His heart exulted, tho' he fear'd to speak:
He wept in silence, while his ling'ring feet
Reluctant bore him from his lov'd retreat.
Now distant cities from afar they view'd,
Expanding wide, as onward they pursued;
All seem'd a bright and glorious vision—yet
He heav'd a parting sigh of fond regret.
Expanding wide, as onward they pursued;
276
He heav'd a parting sigh of fond regret.
To court the youth was led, in glitt'ring vest,
Each noble heart admir'd the humble guest;
His manly beauty, and superior worth,
Made all forget his lowliness of birth;
Such native sweetness, mix'd with decent pride,
Brav'd slander's sting, and envy's scorn defy'd.
Each noble heart admir'd the humble guest;
His manly beauty, and superior worth,
Made all forget his lowliness of birth;
Such native sweetness, mix'd with decent pride,
Brav'd slander's sting, and envy's scorn defy'd.
As some fair Flow'ret in a wild conceal'd,
Where no kind pasture bids its blossoms yield;
Check'd in its growth, requires a fost'ring hand
Gently to move it to some fertile land—
But when transplanted to more genial earth,
The bloom appears, and gives its beauty birth;
Urg'd by warm suns, and mild refreshing dews,
The buds burst forth in all their lively hues;
Its lovely form rewards the planter's care,
And with ambrosial fragrance fills the air.
Where no kind pasture bids its blossoms yield;
Check'd in its growth, requires a fost'ring hand
Gently to move it to some fertile land—
But when transplanted to more genial earth,
The bloom appears, and gives its beauty birth;
Urg'd by warm suns, and mild refreshing dews,
The buds burst forth in all their lively hues;
Its lovely form rewards the planter's care,
And with ambrosial fragrance fills the air.
While thus the swain enjoys his virtuous deeds,
Great Abbas dies—the sorrowing nation bleeds;—
Religion, justice, peace, a glorious train,
And gentle mercy mark'd his pious reign.
And now the Son, a youth of noble fire,
Succeeds his honor'd and lamented sire;
Like him, to prove a blessing to the State,
A Sov'reign truly wise, and truly great.
Great Abbas dies—the sorrowing nation bleeds;—
Religion, justice, peace, a glorious train,
And gentle mercy mark'd his pious reign.
And now the Son, a youth of noble fire,
Succeeds his honor'd and lamented sire;
277
A Sov'reign truly wise, and truly great.
But Envy strove to blast the shepherd's fame,
And blend with hateful infamy his name—
The Monarch heard—his rising fears prevail—
For cunning slander thus devis'd the tale.
And blend with hateful infamy his name—
The Monarch heard—his rising fears prevail—
For cunning slander thus devis'd the tale.
A place there is, unknown to public eye,
Where close conceal'd, the stolen treasures lie;
Of curious structure, where the artist's skill
Has try'd to thwart the bold intruder's will—
Oft is he seen to ope the secret door,
And look with rapture on the hidden store;
Linger, as if his soul were treasur'd there,
And fondly hoard it with a miser's care.
Where close conceal'd, the stolen treasures lie;
Of curious structure, where the artist's skill
Has try'd to thwart the bold intruder's will—
Oft is he seen to ope the secret door,
And look with rapture on the hidden store;
Linger, as if his soul were treasur'd there,
And fondly hoard it with a miser's care.
Forth went the King the hidden store to seek,
While joy and triumph flush'd the Shepherd's cheek!
The secret door is open'd to their eyes,
And all behold the long expected prize!
No precious gold, or jewels meet their sight,
'Twas humbler treasures gave the swain delight—
All they beheld—the knotty crook he bore,
The tuneful pipe, the shepherd's garb he wore
When first he met the royal Abbas' view,
And with his music charm'd the sylvan crew;
Before he felt the force of slander's tale,
And left the joys of Tempè's blissful vale!
While joy and triumph flush'd the Shepherd's cheek!
The secret door is open'd to their eyes,
And all behold the long expected prize!
No precious gold, or jewels meet their sight,
'Twas humbler treasures gave the swain delight—
All they beheld—the knotty crook he bore,
The tuneful pipe, the shepherd's garb he wore
When first he met the royal Abbas' view,
And with his music charm'd the sylvan crew;
278
And left the joys of Tempè's blissful vale!
“Take all,” he cried, “with pleasure I restore
The gifts your royal father gave before;
Such fleeting honours freely I resign,
All are your own—but these are truly mine!
Think on those days of innocence and joy,
When you beheld me first, a shepherd boy,
Rais'd by your sire, unworthy and unknown,
To form his councils, and to guard his throne.—
Then let me to my native shades repair,
And once more learn to tend my fleecy care;
Tune my neglected pipe, and wear the vest,
In which your father found me, truly blest;
Before I knew the mis'ry to be great,
The sad memorials of my happier state!
The gifts your royal father gave before;
Such fleeting honours freely I resign,
All are your own—but these are truly mine!
Think on those days of innocence and joy,
When you beheld me first, a shepherd boy,
Rais'd by your sire, unworthy and unknown,
To form his councils, and to guard his throne.—
Then let me to my native shades repair,
And once more learn to tend my fleecy care;
Tune my neglected pipe, and wear the vest,
In which your father found me, truly blest;
Before I knew the mis'ry to be great,
The sad memorials of my happier state!
Abash'd, confounded, at the artless tale
Vice stood appall'd, and slander's face grew pale;
While lynx-ey'd malice yields to virtuous fame,
And hides its head in everlasting shame.
Vice stood appall'd, and slander's face grew pale;
While lynx-ey'd malice yields to virtuous fame,
And hides its head in everlasting shame.
“O matchless worth!” th' indignant Abbas cried,
“Blush ev'ry child of supercilious pride!
See, in this youth, fair virtue's purest fire,
With which the gods immortal minds inspire!
Hence from my sight, ye persecuting race,
No more the monarch, or his realm disgrace;
Let honest men my people's freedom guard,
And modest merit meet its just reward:
Let worth once more my injur'd kingdom sway,
No more let humble virtue, vice obey;
But all be chang'd, and royal Abbas' son
Bestow the laurel where 'tis nobly won.”
“Blush ev'ry child of supercilious pride!
See, in this youth, fair virtue's purest fire,
With which the gods immortal minds inspire!
279
No more the monarch, or his realm disgrace;
Let honest men my people's freedom guard,
And modest merit meet its just reward:
Let worth once more my injur'd kingdom sway,
No more let humble virtue, vice obey;
But all be chang'd, and royal Abbas' son
Bestow the laurel where 'tis nobly won.”
The monarch rais'd, in token of his grace,
The prostrate shepherd, with a fond embrace;
While conscious guilt in silence stole away,
And virtue won the honours of the day.
The prostrate shepherd, with a fond embrace;
While conscious guilt in silence stole away,
And virtue won the honours of the day.
280
IMMORTALITY.
If aught can check the voice of unbelief,
Dispel the sceptic's doubt, and shame his sneer,
And fill the soul with reverential awe,
'Tis the dull hour of night, when nature sinks
In sleep profound, and ev'ry object leads
The mind to contemplation. Let me roam
At this impressive hour the church-yard way,
And by the moon's pale beam, attentive mark
Where wealth and poverty unheeded lie.—
That I am mortal, each surrounding grave
Speaks with a solemn voice; and that my soul
Immortal, and inform'd of heav'nly fire,
Shall know a second birth, and one day rise
In bright, unsullied beauty, radiant hope
Assures, confirms me in the pleasing thought.
Death, once the common foe of all mankind,
Is now the friend—the wise, experienc'd sage
Who, after all the pilgrim's toils and cares
In passing thro' this wilderness of woe,
Conducts him safely to a better home.
Sweet are his slumbers, peace and hope divine
Rest on his pillow, and when morning beams,
He joins with nature in the gen'ral song,
And loud Hosanna! O if joys so pure
Bud in this earthly vale, to bloom in heav'n,
To live 'tis pleasure, but 'twere bliss to die.
Dispel the sceptic's doubt, and shame his sneer,
And fill the soul with reverential awe,
'Tis the dull hour of night, when nature sinks
In sleep profound, and ev'ry object leads
The mind to contemplation. Let me roam
At this impressive hour the church-yard way,
And by the moon's pale beam, attentive mark
Where wealth and poverty unheeded lie.—
That I am mortal, each surrounding grave
Speaks with a solemn voice; and that my soul
Immortal, and inform'd of heav'nly fire,
Shall know a second birth, and one day rise
In bright, unsullied beauty, radiant hope
Assures, confirms me in the pleasing thought.
Death, once the common foe of all mankind,
Is now the friend—the wise, experienc'd sage
Who, after all the pilgrim's toils and cares
In passing thro' this wilderness of woe,
Conducts him safely to a better home.
Sweet are his slumbers, peace and hope divine
Rest on his pillow, and when morning beams,
281
And loud Hosanna! O if joys so pure
Bud in this earthly vale, to bloom in heav'n,
To live 'tis pleasure, but 'twere bliss to die.
How ill do riot and intemp'rate mirth
Befit this solemn hour, by Heav'n design'd
For holy contemplation!—For of old
Our purer ancestors would silent sit
On some high mountain, and with eye serene
Muse on the glorious majesty of Heav'n!
But now, the wretch by fraud or vengeance led,
Like the gaunt prowling wolf, that leaves his den
Intent on slaughter, points the murd'rous knife
Against a brother—deeds of darkest hue
At this defenceless, consecrated hour
Receive their birth—O Guardian of the good!
Let not thy choicest blessing, balmy sleep,
That courts the peasant's pillow, but retires
From gilded domes, and canopies of state,
Be scar'd by frightful fears, and ghastly dreams
Of dread assassins, and of midnight groans!
Chain up these wolves, nor let them roam the night
To murder, what they never can enjoy,
The heav'nly blessings of a sweet repose.
Befit this solemn hour, by Heav'n design'd
For holy contemplation!—For of old
Our purer ancestors would silent sit
On some high mountain, and with eye serene
Muse on the glorious majesty of Heav'n!
But now, the wretch by fraud or vengeance led,
Like the gaunt prowling wolf, that leaves his den
Intent on slaughter, points the murd'rous knife
Against a brother—deeds of darkest hue
At this defenceless, consecrated hour
Receive their birth—O Guardian of the good!
Let not thy choicest blessing, balmy sleep,
That courts the peasant's pillow, but retires
From gilded domes, and canopies of state,
Be scar'd by frightful fears, and ghastly dreams
Of dread assassins, and of midnight groans!
Chain up these wolves, nor let them roam the night
To murder, what they never can enjoy,
The heav'nly blessings of a sweet repose.
Let vain philosophy, upheld by pride,
Say that the soul, once parted from her clay,
Is then extinct, nor spark of heav'nly fire,
Nor ray divine, shall warm the sacred fane
Where wisdom, virtue, and religion pure,
Dwelt in celestial concord.—Whence the end
That man receiv'd his being; why endow'd
With such high pow'rs, and by his Maker form'd
In his own beauteous image, and in state
A little lower than th' angelic host?
Were there no certain hope of future bliss,
What would inspire the virtuous and the brave
To meet the face of danger without fear,
And smile on death? What makes the dying saint,
When writhing nature, agonis'd with pain,
Struggles to be reliev'd, with holy joy
View the dark silent vale he soon must pass,
Nor tremble at the sight? 'Tis the blest hope
Of Immortality that cheers the soul,
And fits her for the awful, trying hour
Of Death. Heard ye a deep and hollow groan
That breath'd despair? Mark truly whence it came.
See, on his dying bed the Atheist lies,
He, who in Life's gay pageantry and pride,
Ne'er let the thought of heav'n, the dread of hell,
Mar the light moments of his jovial day:—
But now, diseases fell, and loathsome ills
Torture his joints, and anguish fills his mind.
Where can he look for succour? Where! to heav'n?
Alas! what hope is there? A dreadful doubt
O'erwhelms his soul, his eyeballs roll in vain
To find some friend to calm his anxious fears,
And ease him of his load: no kindred friend,
Companion of his vices! dare approach
The bed of death, where ribald scorn might learn
A deep memento—Mem'ry, draw a veil
In pity o'er the rest—O God, forgive!
Say that the soul, once parted from her clay,
282
Nor ray divine, shall warm the sacred fane
Where wisdom, virtue, and religion pure,
Dwelt in celestial concord.—Whence the end
That man receiv'd his being; why endow'd
With such high pow'rs, and by his Maker form'd
In his own beauteous image, and in state
A little lower than th' angelic host?
Were there no certain hope of future bliss,
What would inspire the virtuous and the brave
To meet the face of danger without fear,
And smile on death? What makes the dying saint,
When writhing nature, agonis'd with pain,
Struggles to be reliev'd, with holy joy
View the dark silent vale he soon must pass,
Nor tremble at the sight? 'Tis the blest hope
Of Immortality that cheers the soul,
And fits her for the awful, trying hour
Of Death. Heard ye a deep and hollow groan
That breath'd despair? Mark truly whence it came.
See, on his dying bed the Atheist lies,
He, who in Life's gay pageantry and pride,
Ne'er let the thought of heav'n, the dread of hell,
Mar the light moments of his jovial day:—
But now, diseases fell, and loathsome ills
Torture his joints, and anguish fills his mind.
Where can he look for succour? Where! to heav'n?
Alas! what hope is there? A dreadful doubt
283
To find some friend to calm his anxious fears,
And ease him of his load: no kindred friend,
Companion of his vices! dare approach
The bed of death, where ribald scorn might learn
A deep memento—Mem'ry, draw a veil
In pity o'er the rest—O God, forgive!
Yes, I will trust, and triumph in the hope
Of immortality, tho' fools may jeer.
If in no future world the soul shall wake,
They never can accuse me of the cheat:—
So let me die in the delightful dream,
And sweet delusion, of a world to come.
Of immortality, tho' fools may jeer.
If in no future world the soul shall wake,
They never can accuse me of the cheat:—
So let me die in the delightful dream,
And sweet delusion, of a world to come.
'Tis midnight now: the busy world is still;
Some, rack'd with torture, wake the peaceful hour
With horrid groans, and pray for coming morn;
While some, disturb'd in mind, as conscience brings
To busy recollection, deeds of ill,
Bedew their pillow with repenting tears,
And weep till day. Remorse, and hidden guilt
Point all their sharpest arrows. Black despair
Forth from his murky cavern stalks along
With hurried stride, to where the pris'ner lies
In lonely dungeon, and the knell of death
Rings in his ears; the sleepy bird of night
Screams to the howling blast her piteous moan;
The raven claps his wing, the sullen bat
Flits thro' the air, and if report be true,
Departed spirits have appear'd to men,
And little fairies tripp'd it o'er the green,
Beneath the moonlight shade.—Ah! turn a thought
To where the sinking mariner forlorn,
Whom winds and waves o'erpow'r, struggles for breath,
To stem the boiling torrent:—vain his hope
To reach yon wish'd for shore,—another surge,
More dreadful than the last, o'erwhelms him soon.—
A mournful sight the morrow will disclose,
His lifeless body stiff'ning in the blast.
Some, rack'd with torture, wake the peaceful hour
With horrid groans, and pray for coming morn;
While some, disturb'd in mind, as conscience brings
To busy recollection, deeds of ill,
Bedew their pillow with repenting tears,
And weep till day. Remorse, and hidden guilt
Point all their sharpest arrows. Black despair
Forth from his murky cavern stalks along
With hurried stride, to where the pris'ner lies
In lonely dungeon, and the knell of death
Rings in his ears; the sleepy bird of night
284
The raven claps his wing, the sullen bat
Flits thro' the air, and if report be true,
Departed spirits have appear'd to men,
And little fairies tripp'd it o'er the green,
Beneath the moonlight shade.—Ah! turn a thought
To where the sinking mariner forlorn,
Whom winds and waves o'erpow'r, struggles for breath,
To stem the boiling torrent:—vain his hope
To reach yon wish'd for shore,—another surge,
More dreadful than the last, o'erwhelms him soon.—
A mournful sight the morrow will disclose,
His lifeless body stiff'ning in the blast.
O! what a dismal sound salutes my ears,
That rung the knell of some departed soul.
It comes from yonder tow'r, where Pontiff pride,
And bigot cruelty together hold
Their midnight orgies—'Twas Narcissa's knell!
Peace to thy gentle shade! where'er it roves,
By fairy-circled plain, or moonlight stream,
Or cloisters pale, to tell thy tale of woe!—
That rung the knell of some departed soul.
It comes from yonder tow'r, where Pontiff pride,
And bigot cruelty together hold
Their midnight orgies—'Twas Narcissa's knell!
Peace to thy gentle shade! where'er it roves,
By fairy-circled plain, or moonlight stream,
Or cloisters pale, to tell thy tale of woe!—
Religion, in her best and purest state,
Unhurt by superstition—unenthrall'd
By odious customs, cruelty, and death,
Is beautiful! the attribute of heav'n.
Meek, patient, chaste—the messenger of peace
To all who will receive; she throws new light
On what was dim before—and thro' her glass
Things which were once unheeded, please us now.
In her the Gospel's deep and solemn truths
Shine with celestial splendour; there the soul
May contemplate the themes that once inspir'd
The prophet's eloquence, the seraph's song.
Not the religion, horrible the name,
Of crafty monks, and bacchanals impure.
Unhallow'd mock'ry!—'Tis the sacred flame
That warms the heart with gratitude and love
For that Eternal Pow'r in whom we live,
That constitutes religion's sacred name—
That makes poor helpless man a friend to man,
And brings the heart to triumph in the good,
Not of itself, but all. Curs'd is the wretch
Who makes his wealth his god! no other hope
Shall cheer his dying hour—no pitying tear
Shall wash his stains away, nor mournful sigh
Welcome his soul to bliss. Unhappy man!
Thy god shall leave thee when thou need'st one most!
Unhurt by superstition—unenthrall'd
By odious customs, cruelty, and death,
285
Meek, patient, chaste—the messenger of peace
To all who will receive; she throws new light
On what was dim before—and thro' her glass
Things which were once unheeded, please us now.
In her the Gospel's deep and solemn truths
Shine with celestial splendour; there the soul
May contemplate the themes that once inspir'd
The prophet's eloquence, the seraph's song.
Not the religion, horrible the name,
Of crafty monks, and bacchanals impure.
Unhallow'd mock'ry!—'Tis the sacred flame
That warms the heart with gratitude and love
For that Eternal Pow'r in whom we live,
That constitutes religion's sacred name—
That makes poor helpless man a friend to man,
And brings the heart to triumph in the good,
Not of itself, but all. Curs'd is the wretch
Who makes his wealth his god! no other hope
Shall cheer his dying hour—no pitying tear
Shall wash his stains away, nor mournful sigh
Welcome his soul to bliss. Unhappy man!
Thy god shall leave thee when thou need'st one most!
Affliction! thou art physic to the soul,
And wholesome too—thou mak'st the patient weak,
To cool the fever of his blood—thy hand,
Oft rude and harsh by erring mortals deem'd,
Is always merciful—thou never strik'st
But where thou mean'st to raise, and chast'nest not,
But in thy tend'rest Love.—
Guilt through the world may flaunt in rich array,
And honesty in rags;—knaves may feast high,
While virtue starves:—but God, still just and good,
Has stores unknown and happiness for all—
Some have their portion here, and some in heav'n.
And wholesome too—thou mak'st the patient weak,
To cool the fever of his blood—thy hand,
286
Is always merciful—thou never strik'st
But where thou mean'st to raise, and chast'nest not,
But in thy tend'rest Love.—
Guilt through the world may flaunt in rich array,
And honesty in rags;—knaves may feast high,
While virtue starves:—but God, still just and good,
Has stores unknown and happiness for all—
Some have their portion here, and some in heav'n.
When on the bed of pain oppress'd I lay,
My trust was in the Lord, and not in vain—
His mercy was a pillow to my head,
A balsam to my heart—the shades of death
Were gather'd round me, but my soul rejoic'd
In his salvation, and my hope was sure.
My trust was in the Lord, and not in vain—
His mercy was a pillow to my head,
A balsam to my heart—the shades of death
Were gather'd round me, but my soul rejoic'd
In his salvation, and my hope was sure.
What, tho' thou sitt'st in majesty supreme
Amid the heav'n of heav'ns! and with thy rays
Giv'st glory to ten thousand burning suns
Encircling thy throne: tho' angels stand
With golden harps attun'd, and voices rais'd
In heav'nly concert, thou art still my God,
And thou wilt hear me, tho' with feeble breath
I pour the grateful song, and trembling bend
Before the holy altar of thy Grace!
O let me never prostitute the Muse,
The gift of heav'n, my solace and my pride,
To themes unworthy of her sacred fire.
But like the bird that carols in the morn
With notes of joy, and at the close of day
Pours forth a parting song and sinks to rest,
When morning rises, and when ev'ning falls,
In sunshine and in shade, be Thou my theme!
And when pale death, disarm'd of ev'ry sting,
Shall hush the fault'ring music of my lyre,
May my rejoicing spirit, freed from sin,
And ev'ry mortal stain, to Thee ascend
A pure and fit inhabitant for heav'n,
Worthy its great Creator! there to join
With angels and archangels, in the song
Of man's redemption, and of Him whose birth
Recording seraphs hail'd with hymns of joy,
Till heav'n's eternal courts responsive breath'd
Celestial music—whose sojourn below
Was mark'd with sorrow, infamy, and death.
In majesty, on God's right hand, behold
He sits the righteous judge; his bruised head
No more encircled with a crown of thorns,
But princely diadem—Glory to thee,
Fountain of light and life, for this sure hope,
That my immortal spirit shall awake
With new-born rapture from her earthly tomb,
And thro' eternal ages sing thy love
In hymns of endless joy, and endless praise.
Amid the heav'n of heav'ns! and with thy rays
Giv'st glory to ten thousand burning suns
Encircling thy throne: tho' angels stand
With golden harps attun'd, and voices rais'd
In heav'nly concert, thou art still my God,
And thou wilt hear me, tho' with feeble breath
I pour the grateful song, and trembling bend
Before the holy altar of thy Grace!
O let me never prostitute the Muse,
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To themes unworthy of her sacred fire.
But like the bird that carols in the morn
With notes of joy, and at the close of day
Pours forth a parting song and sinks to rest,
When morning rises, and when ev'ning falls,
In sunshine and in shade, be Thou my theme!
And when pale death, disarm'd of ev'ry sting,
Shall hush the fault'ring music of my lyre,
May my rejoicing spirit, freed from sin,
And ev'ry mortal stain, to Thee ascend
A pure and fit inhabitant for heav'n,
Worthy its great Creator! there to join
With angels and archangels, in the song
Of man's redemption, and of Him whose birth
Recording seraphs hail'd with hymns of joy,
Till heav'n's eternal courts responsive breath'd
Celestial music—whose sojourn below
Was mark'd with sorrow, infamy, and death.
In majesty, on God's right hand, behold
He sits the righteous judge; his bruised head
No more encircled with a crown of thorns,
But princely diadem—Glory to thee,
Fountain of light and life, for this sure hope,
That my immortal spirit shall awake
With new-born rapture from her earthly tomb,
And thro' eternal ages sing thy love
In hymns of endless joy, and endless praise.
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THE NATIVITY.
AN ODE.
O for a sound more soft and clear,
Than burst upon the ravish'd ear,
When touch'd with God's ethereal fire,
The holy Bard, in lofty lays,
Broke forth in prophecy and praise,
And bade his soul-subduing lyre
Foretell the bright events of future days!
Than burst upon the ravish'd ear,
When touch'd with God's ethereal fire,
The holy Bard, in lofty lays,
Broke forth in prophecy and praise,
And bade his soul-subduing lyre
Foretell the bright events of future days!
And Thou, who tun'd the varying strings
Of David's harp to sounds of woe,
When angels bow'd their silver wings
To hear the heav'nly numbers flow,
When I attempt immortal rhyme,
A theme so sacred, so sublime,
That bade all heav'n with hallelujahs ring;
Let holy zeal each note prolong,
And breathe thy spirit o'er the song
Of God's anointed Son, and heav'n's eternal King!
Of David's harp to sounds of woe,
When angels bow'd their silver wings
To hear the heav'nly numbers flow,
When I attempt immortal rhyme,
A theme so sacred, so sublime,
That bade all heav'n with hallelujahs ring;
Let holy zeal each note prolong,
And breathe thy spirit o'er the song
Of God's anointed Son, and heav'n's eternal King!
O Salem! what a day is thine,
Behold the Star of mercy shine,
See hope her hallow'd temple rears!
Lift up your eyes, and hail the morn,
To you a holy babe is born,
The child of promis'd years;
Music floats on ether wings,
The woods rejoice, the desart sings!
Behold the Star of mercy shine,
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Lift up your eyes, and hail the morn,
To you a holy babe is born,
The child of promis'd years;
Music floats on ether wings,
The woods rejoice, the desart sings!
Bow your heads, ye mountains high,
Assembled nations prostrate fall—
Hark! the hills exulting cry—
“He brings salvation down to all!”
Assembled nations prostrate fall—
Hark! the hills exulting cry—
“He brings salvation down to all!”
Softly sweet the echo rings—
“Glory to the King of Kings!
And peace to men be giv'n.—”
Praise him ye planets as ye roll,
Ye stars that gild yon shining Pole,
And all ye Hosts of heav'n!
“Glory to the King of Kings!
And peace to men be giv'n.—”
Praise him ye planets as ye roll,
Ye stars that gild yon shining Pole,
And all ye Hosts of heav'n!
Lo, the sound hath reach'd the skies!
Hark! what strains seraphic rise
Among the heav'nly choirs—
List'ning saints their voices raise,
Swell the chorus of his praise,
And strike their golden Lyres!
Hark! what strains seraphic rise
Among the heav'nly choirs—
List'ning saints their voices raise,
Swell the chorus of his praise,
And strike their golden Lyres!
To thee redemption's work is dear,
Thy love shall wipe the sinner's tear,
Thy hand his cruel bondage break:—
The dumb shall lift their song to thee,
The lame shall walk, the blind shall see;
Thy voice shall bid the dead awake!
Thy love shall wipe the sinner's tear,
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The dumb shall lift their song to thee,
The lame shall walk, the blind shall see;
Thy voice shall bid the dead awake!
To those of meek and lowly heart,
Thy grace shall sov'reign balm impart,
And prove the saints' eternal guide;
The fainting soul thy Shepherd's care
Shall gently lead to pastures fair,
Where Zion's crystal waters glide.
Thy grace shall sov'reign balm impart,
And prove the saints' eternal guide;
The fainting soul thy Shepherd's care
Shall gently lead to pastures fair,
Where Zion's crystal waters glide.
No more shall war, with iron reign,
His death-denouncing trumpet blow;
Heap up his mountains of the slain,
And fill the world with woe.—
His death-denouncing trumpet blow;
Heap up his mountains of the slain,
And fill the world with woe.—
But heav'nly Peace, on dove-like wing,
To all shall loud Hosannahs sing,
While heathen lands, with cheerful voice,
A Saviour's glory shall proclaim,
And learn the music of his name,
Afric, behold thy King—rejoice! rejoice!
To all shall loud Hosannahs sing,
While heathen lands, with cheerful voice,
A Saviour's glory shall proclaim,
And learn the music of his name,
Afric, behold thy King—rejoice! rejoice!
In that dread hour of mortal doom,
When Death shall final ruin spread;
And earth, from ev'ry yawning tomb
Shall render up her dead—
When Death shall final ruin spread;
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Shall render up her dead—
Thy saints, on wings of angels borne,
With joyful hymns shall hail the morn,
When, to relieve the sinner's woes,
To save his soul from guilty fears,
And wipe away repenting tears,
Prompt at the gracious call, the Star of Mercy rose.
With joyful hymns shall hail the morn,
When, to relieve the sinner's woes,
To save his soul from guilty fears,
And wipe away repenting tears,
Prompt at the gracious call, the Star of Mercy rose.
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ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
If aught can raise the drooping heart
Above the world's delight and folly,
And all sublimer thoughts impart,
'Tis heav'nly, pensive melancholy—
Above the world's delight and folly,
And all sublimer thoughts impart,
'Tis heav'nly, pensive melancholy—
How glorious 'tis, at twilight hour,
To sit and watch from yonder tow'r
The silver moon arise!
The mind expanding, bears her wings,
Above all sublunary things,
And mingles with the skies.
To sit and watch from yonder tow'r
The silver moon arise!
The mind expanding, bears her wings,
Above all sublunary things,
And mingles with the skies.
Then let me seek the solemn scene,
When all is silent and serene
Beneath the starry pole;
When pleasure's fev'rish dreams are o'er,
And busy cares disturb no more
The contemplative soul.
When all is silent and serene
Beneath the starry pole;
When pleasure's fev'rish dreams are o'er,
And busy cares disturb no more
The contemplative soul.
Or slowly pace, with musing tread,
The dreary mansions of the dead,
Where senseless marbles weep;
And saints that former ages blest,
Within their earthly caverns rest
In everlasting sleep.
The dreary mansions of the dead,
Where senseless marbles weep;
And saints that former ages blest,
Within their earthly caverns rest
In everlasting sleep.
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There melancholy loves to dwell,
And listen to the passing bell,
That speaks our mortal doom;
With pensive form, and haggard stare,
She bends, the picture of despair,
O'er Beauty's early tomb.—
And listen to the passing bell,
That speaks our mortal doom;
With pensive form, and haggard stare,
She bends, the picture of despair,
O'er Beauty's early tomb.—
She, with her sister madness, oft
On some high rock will sit aloft,
That foaming billows sweep,
And while all nature feels dismay,
With fix'd, unalter'd eye survey
The tempest, and the deep.
On some high rock will sit aloft,
That foaming billows sweep,
And while all nature feels dismay,
With fix'd, unalter'd eye survey
The tempest, and the deep.
But when in some secluded cell,
She tunes her wild, pathetic shell,
Soft Zephyrs breathe around;
The Shepherd's pipe upon the hill
Is hush'd—the vocal woods are still,
To hear the mournful sound!
She tunes her wild, pathetic shell,
Soft Zephyrs breathe around;
The Shepherd's pipe upon the hill
Is hush'd—the vocal woods are still,
To hear the mournful sound!
Hark! music strikes the list'ning ear,
In notes more thrilling, plaintive, clear,
Than e'er to man were given;
Sweet as the sounds that angels sing
When loud applauding seraphs bring
A chosen saint to heav'n.
In notes more thrilling, plaintive, clear,
Than e'er to man were given;
Sweet as the sounds that angels sing
When loud applauding seraphs bring
A chosen saint to heav'n.
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'Tis Mona's bard—with magic sweep,—
Who rais'd the spirits of the deep
In Fingal's dreary cave;
High on a mountain's tow'ring spire,
He wakes the music of his Lyre,
O'er many a warrior's grave.
Who rais'd the spirits of the deep
In Fingal's dreary cave;
High on a mountain's tow'ring spire,
He wakes the music of his Lyre,
O'er many a warrior's grave.
When wand'ring ghosts, as Legends tell,
Forsook the dismal caves of hell,
To haunt the midnight gloom;
And while the distant thunder roll'd,
Would oft to mortal ears unfold
The secrets of the tomb!
Forsook the dismal caves of hell,
To haunt the midnight gloom;
And while the distant thunder roll'd,
Would oft to mortal ears unfold
The secrets of the tomb!
Hail holy shade! whose harp divine,
O'er druid's altar, hero's shrine
Awoke in dying falls—
No more thine airy music floats
In solemn, sad, and swelling notes
Thro' Mona's desart walls.—
O'er druid's altar, hero's shrine
Awoke in dying falls—
No more thine airy music floats
In solemn, sad, and swelling notes
Thro' Mona's desart walls.—
Hail, Melancholy, Pow'r sublime!
Which naught but all-consuming time
Shall vanquish, or destroy!
When earth shall melt, and sea, and skies,
O! may thy troubled Spirit rise
To everlasting joy.
Which naught but all-consuming time
Shall vanquish, or destroy!
When earth shall melt, and sea, and skies,
O! may thy troubled Spirit rise
To everlasting joy.
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ODE. NIGHT.
The Sun with mild declining ray,
Proclaims the hour of parting day,
And thro' the dusky plain
The swain his ev'ning carol sings,
And night once more on sable wings,
Resumes her silent reign—
Proclaims the hour of parting day,
And thro' the dusky plain
The swain his ev'ning carol sings,
And night once more on sable wings,
Resumes her silent reign—
The lover mourns beneath the shade,
For broken vows, and hopes betray'd,
And friendship's cold return:
And where departed merit sleeps,
Affection her lone vigil keeps,
And bathes the laurell'd urn.
For broken vows, and hopes betray'd,
And friendship's cold return:
And where departed merit sleeps,
Affection her lone vigil keeps,
And bathes the laurell'd urn.
Now, while the thoughtless and the gay,
Life's fleeting moments pass away
In festive hall, or bow'r;
Let me, while nightly dews descend,
In silent meditation spend
The solitary hour.
Life's fleeting moments pass away
In festive hall, or bow'r;
Let me, while nightly dews descend,
In silent meditation spend
The solitary hour.
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Glory to thee, in holy hymn,
Who sitt'st amid the cherubim,
High Lord of heav'n alone!
My God, my Father, and my Friend!
With humble gratitude I bend
Before thine awful throne!
Who sitt'st amid the cherubim,
High Lord of heav'n alone!
My God, my Father, and my Friend!
With humble gratitude I bend
Before thine awful throne!
If e'er in deed, in word, or thought,
I've been by passion blindly taught
From virtue's path to steer,
O let me to thy throne repair
With humble penitence and pray'r;
Nor thou refuse to hear.
I've been by passion blindly taught
From virtue's path to steer,
O let me to thy throne repair
With humble penitence and pray'r;
Nor thou refuse to hear.
Incline my heart to wisdom's rule,
And try me in affliction's school,
And teach my erring mind
To know that pleasure, glitt'ring toy,
Yields but a transitory joy,
And leaves a sting behind.
And try me in affliction's school,
And teach my erring mind
To know that pleasure, glitt'ring toy,
Yields but a transitory joy,
And leaves a sting behind.
Tho' light'nings flash, and tempests low'r,
He shall outlive the dreadful hour
Who stands in worth secure—
Pure as the current of the rills,
Firm as the everlasting hills,
Shall virtue's self endure.
He shall outlive the dreadful hour
Who stands in worth secure—
Pure as the current of the rills,
Firm as the everlasting hills,
Shall virtue's self endure.
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And now, with earthly care opprest,
My Spirit, Father! sinks to rest,
Be thou my guardian Pow'r;
And thro' the silent reign of night,
Let sleep descend in slumbers light,
As saint's expiring hour.
My Spirit, Father! sinks to rest,
Be thou my guardian Pow'r;
And thro' the silent reign of night,
Let sleep descend in slumbers light,
As saint's expiring hour.
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AN APRIL DAY.
Dear Emma, on that infant brow
Say why does disappointment low'r?
Ah, what a silly girl art thou,
To weep to see a summer show'r!
Say why does disappointment low'r?
Ah, what a silly girl art thou,
To weep to see a summer show'r!
O, dry that unavailing tear,
The promis'd visit you shall pay;
The sky will soon again be clear,
For 'tis, my love, an April Day.
The promis'd visit you shall pay;
The sky will soon again be clear,
For 'tis, my love, an April Day.
And see, the sun's returning light
Away the transient clouds hath driv'n;
The rainbow's arch, with colours bright,
Spreads o'er the blue expanse of heav'n;
Away the transient clouds hath driv'n;
The rainbow's arch, with colours bright,
Spreads o'er the blue expanse of heav'n;
The storm is hush'd, the winds are still,
A balmy fragrance fills the air;
Nor sound is heard, save some clear rill
Meand'ring thro' the valleys fair.
A balmy fragrance fills the air;
Nor sound is heard, save some clear rill
Meand'ring thro' the valleys fair.
Those vernal show'rs that from on high
Descend, make earth more fresh and green;
Those clouds that darken all the air
Disperse, and leave it more serene:
Descend, make earth more fresh and green;
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Disperse, and leave it more serene:
And those sad tears that for a while
Down sorrow's faded cheek may roll,
Shall sparkle thro' a radiant smile,
And speak the sunshine of the soul!
Down sorrow's faded cheek may roll,
Shall sparkle thro' a radiant smile,
And speak the sunshine of the soul!
While yet thy mind is young and pure,
This sacred truth, this precept learn—
That He who bids thee all endure,
Bids sorrow fly, and hope return:
This sacred truth, this precept learn—
That He who bids thee all endure,
Bids sorrow fly, and hope return:
His chast'ning hand will never break
The heart that trusts in Him alone;
He never, never will forsake
The meanest suppliant at his throne.
The heart that trusts in Him alone;
He never, never will forsake
The meanest suppliant at his throne.
The world, that with disdainful pride
To vice gives virtue's modest due,
From thee, alas! may turn aside—
Ah, shun the fawning, flatt'ring crew!
To vice gives virtue's modest due,
From thee, alas! may turn aside—
Ah, shun the fawning, flatt'ring crew!
And blest with cheerfulness and health
With joy thy daily course to run,
Let wretches hoard their useless wealth,
And Heav'n's mysterious will be done.
With joy thy daily course to run,
Let wretches hoard their useless wealth,
And Heav'n's mysterious will be done.
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With fair Religion, woo content,
'Twill bid tempestuous passions cease;
And know, my child, the life that's spent
In pray'r and praise must end in peace:
'Twill bid tempestuous passions cease;
And know, my child, the life that's spent
In pray'r and praise must end in peace:
Its fitful dream is quickly past,
A little while we linger here;
And tho' the morn be overcast,
The ev'ning may be bright and clear.
A little while we linger here;
And tho' the morn be overcast,
The ev'ning may be bright and clear.
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DEATH.
Cease, Fool, to mourn life's little span,
And hush that impious cry,
For what an abject thing were man,
If he were ne'er to die.
And hush that impious cry,
For what an abject thing were man,
If he were ne'er to die.
Yet grant thee all thy soul's desire,
A free, immortal state;
Soon immortality would tire,
And thou would'st curse thy fate:
A free, immortal state;
Soon immortality would tire,
And thou would'st curse thy fate:
Wealth, honours, all the world can give,
And soft, luxurious ease,
The charms for which men crave to live,
Would lose their pow'r to please.
And soft, luxurious ease,
The charms for which men crave to live,
Would lose their pow'r to please.
But Death, tho' harsh to worldly ears,
To misery and to me,
Sounds like the musick of the spheres,
Celestial harmony!
To misery and to me,
Sounds like the musick of the spheres,
Celestial harmony!
It mingles in one common clay,
Th' oppressor and th' opprest;
It wipes the tears of grief away,
And gives the weary rest.
Th' oppressor and th' opprest;
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And gives the weary rest.
It bids the trembling miser part
From his ill-gotten store;
It terrifies the stoutest heart,
That never shook before.
From his ill-gotten store;
It terrifies the stoutest heart,
That never shook before.
It quite unnerves the warrior's arm,
It makes the haughty bow;
And rudely withers ev'ry charm
On beauty's heav'nly brow.
It makes the haughty bow;
And rudely withers ev'ry charm
On beauty's heav'nly brow.
Its voice unbars the prison-door,
And sets the captive free;
The slave endures the lash no more,
But springs to liberty.
And sets the captive free;
The slave endures the lash no more,
But springs to liberty.
It conquers woe, disease, and pain,
All private, publick strife;
And snaps at once the heavy chain
That binds us fast to life.
All private, publick strife;
And snaps at once the heavy chain
That binds us fast to life.
And from a sorrowing world like this,
And fortune's with'ring frown,
It leads to everlasting bliss,
To conquest and a crown.
And fortune's with'ring frown,
It leads to everlasting bliss,
To conquest and a crown.
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Then cease to mourn life's little span,
And hush that impious cry;
For what an abject thing were man,
If he were ne'er to die.
And hush that impious cry;
For what an abject thing were man,
If he were ne'er to die.
WRITTEN FOR A DYING FRIEND.
Eat the bread, and drink the wine,
Symbols pure of love divine;
Is thy soul with fears distress'd?
These shall charm them all to rest.
Symbols pure of love divine;
Is thy soul with fears distress'd?
These shall charm them all to rest.
Come, all sinful as thou art,
Bring a broken, contrite heart;
Faith in Christ thy hope, thy stay,
Then thy stains are wash'd away.
Bring a broken, contrite heart;
Faith in Christ thy hope, thy stay,
Then thy stains are wash'd away.
Lord! while low in pray'r we bend,
Let thy righteousness descend;
Holy confidence inspire,
And touch the soul with living fire.
Let thy righteousness descend;
Holy confidence inspire,
And touch the soul with living fire.
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HYMN.
Be Jehovah's name ador'd,
For abundant mercies giv'n;
Sing we praises to the Lord,
Glory to the King of Heav'n!
For abundant mercies giv'n;
Sing we praises to the Lord,
Glory to the King of Heav'n!
From his sapphire throne on high,
He hath heard a father's pray'r;
He hath heard a mother's cry,
And hath stretch'd his arm to spare!
He hath heard a father's pray'r;
He hath heard a mother's cry,
And hath stretch'd his arm to spare!
Winter, stern, relentless pow'r,
Promis'd thee an early tomb;
Spring restores with sun and show'r,
Thine, and nature's tender bloom:
Promis'd thee an early tomb;
Spring restores with sun and show'r,
Thine, and nature's tender bloom:
From thy fragile form hath driv'n
Slow-consuming, wan disease;
And hath sent, with wings from heav'n,
Health upon the morning breeze!
Slow-consuming, wan disease;
And hath sent, with wings from heav'n,
Health upon the morning breeze!
Mark the weak and palsied limb
By degrees its strength resume;
And those eyes, so sickly dim,
Quick their wonted fires illume:
By degrees its strength resume;
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Quick their wonted fires illume:
See those cheeks, with hope elate,
Own the sun's reviving rays!
Hark! that voice,—so silent late,—
Joins the grateful song of praise.
Own the sun's reviving rays!
Hark! that voice,—so silent late,—
Joins the grateful song of praise.
For thy Father's saving grace,
Humble, grateful homage pay,
In his holy dwelling place,
Hour by hour, and day by day.
Humble, grateful homage pay,
In his holy dwelling place,
Hour by hour, and day by day.
'Tis a glimpse of transports higher
Thou in happier realms shalt know;
Less than this can He require?
Less than this canst thou bestow?
Thou in happier realms shalt know;
Less than this can He require?
Less than this canst thou bestow?
Be Jehovah's name ador'd
For abundant mercies giv'n;
Sing we praises to the Lord,
Glory to the King of Heav'n!
For abundant mercies giv'n;
Sing we praises to the Lord,
Glory to the King of Heav'n!
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MORNING.
Had I a harp by angels strung,
A seraph's voice, a prophet's tongue,
My soul, to heav'n's high King,
Now, while from ev'ry dewy thorn
The merry birds salute the morn,
Should hallelujahs sing.
A seraph's voice, a prophet's tongue,
My soul, to heav'n's high King,
Now, while from ev'ry dewy thorn
The merry birds salute the morn,
Should hallelujahs sing.
But though no saint or seraph's fire
Hath touch'd my lip, or tun'd my lyre,
To animate my lays;
Do thou from thine ethereal sphere,
In tender mercy deign to hear,
And pardon while I praise.
Hath touch'd my lip, or tun'd my lyre,
To animate my lays;
Do thou from thine ethereal sphere,
In tender mercy deign to hear,
And pardon while I praise.
“Is there a God?” the sceptic cries—
Who form'd the earth, who built the skies?
By whose command divine
Do yonder circling planets run,
And that celestial orb, the sun,
In all its glory shine?
Who form'd the earth, who built the skies?
By whose command divine
Do yonder circling planets run,
And that celestial orb, the sun,
In all its glory shine?
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Who gave thee life? whose saving pow'r
Upholds thee in affliction's hour,
Nor leaves thy soul to weep?
Whose mighty voice, and sov'reign will,
Bid the tempestuous waves be still,
And calm the roaring deep?
Upholds thee in affliction's hour,
Nor leaves thy soul to weep?
Whose mighty voice, and sov'reign will,
Bid the tempestuous waves be still,
And calm the roaring deep?
Whose bounteous hand each beauty yields
That gilds the skies, and paints the fields,
And all in heav'n and earth?
Who gives the moon her silver rays,
The morning stars their brighter blaze,
That hail'd Creation's birth?
That gilds the skies, and paints the fields,
And all in heav'n and earth?
Who gives the moon her silver rays,
The morning stars their brighter blaze,
That hail'd Creation's birth?
Who, when the battle's rage begins,
And war, to scourge a nation's sins,
Assumes its giant form,
Directs the carnage from on high,
And bids the warrior stand, or fly?
The Genius of the storm!
And war, to scourge a nation's sins,
Assumes its giant form,
Directs the carnage from on high,
And bids the warrior stand, or fly?
The Genius of the storm!
Who, when upon the bed of death
The bleeding hero pants for breath
Beneath the fatal blow,
Whispers, in soothing sounds of love,
He shall enjoy, in realms above,
His glories gain'd below?
The bleeding hero pants for breath
Beneath the fatal blow,
Whispers, in soothing sounds of love,
He shall enjoy, in realms above,
His glories gain'd below?
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'Tis God! whose throne is fix'd on high,
Lord of the universe, and sky,
Whom earth and heav'n revere;
Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour,
Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r,
And crowns the varied year!
Lord of the universe, and sky,
Whom earth and heav'n revere;
Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour,
Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r,
And crowns the varied year!
Eternal truths though myst'ry veil,
When man hath chang'd his nature frail,
Those truths shall God reveal:
Earth shall to her foundations shake,
When he the book of life shall take,
And break the sacred seal.
When man hath chang'd his nature frail,
Those truths shall God reveal:
Earth shall to her foundations shake,
When he the book of life shall take,
And break the sacred seal.
A pilgrim in this world of strife,
Thy faith, my staff—thy breath, my life,—
Thy hope, and promise giv'n,—
The pow'r of sin and death destroy,
Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy;
And earth, a step to heav'n.
Thy faith, my staff—thy breath, my life,—
Thy hope, and promise giv'n,—
The pow'r of sin and death destroy,
Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy;
And earth, a step to heav'n.
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THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.
There is a debt we all must pay,
The sooner it is paid the better;
Come, tyrant Death, why this delay?
I wish not to remain thy debtor.
The sooner it is paid the better;
Come, tyrant Death, why this delay?
I wish not to remain thy debtor.
Some ask a year, a month, an hour;
Nay, some implore a moment's credit!
And though, like them, I know thy pow'r,
Come when it will, I do not dread it.
Nay, some implore a moment's credit!
And though, like them, I know thy pow'r,
Come when it will, I do not dread it.
Nor houses, lands, nor gold have I,—
Let Fortune, jade! say why, and wherefore;
Then what have I to do but die?
With nothing left on earth to care for.
Let Fortune, jade! say why, and wherefore;
Then what have I to do but die?
With nothing left on earth to care for.
Life is a feast—a strange one too!
To fare but poorly I've been able;
Yet seen enough to pall my view—
So let me now retire from table.
To fare but poorly I've been able;
Yet seen enough to pall my view—
So let me now retire from table.
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If twenty years I've still on earth
T' exist, for I'm a young beginner;
Give ten to that gay son of mirth,
And ten to yon old trembling sinner!
T' exist, for I'm a young beginner;
Give ten to that gay son of mirth,
And ten to yon old trembling sinner!
I value not this boon of life,
Its boasted joys are all a bubble:
Youth is a scene of envy, strife,
And age of av'rice, toil, and trouble.
Its boasted joys are all a bubble:
Youth is a scene of envy, strife,
And age of av'rice, toil, and trouble.
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RESIGNATION.
Say, is the struggle more severe
That ends our mortal strife,
Than watching, waiting, ling'ring here,
With a distaste for life?
That ends our mortal strife,
Than watching, waiting, ling'ring here,
With a distaste for life?
It cannot be—a moment's pain,
And lo, the dart is sped!
No more we drag affliction's chain,
The living are the dead.
And lo, the dart is sped!
No more we drag affliction's chain,
The living are the dead.
But when disease assails the mind,
When ev'ry hope 's destroy'd,
And life appears a boon unkind,
A sad, a dreary void;
When ev'ry hope 's destroy'd,
And life appears a boon unkind,
A sad, a dreary void;
When gath'ring clouds and tempests low'r,
Without a ray to cheer,
Death has not in his darkest hour
Affliction so severe.
Without a ray to cheer,
Death has not in his darkest hour
Affliction so severe.
Taste, genius, high attainments all,
For what are ye design'd?
As plagues to fill the heart with gall?
As torments for the mind?
For what are ye design'd?
As plagues to fill the heart with gall?
As torments for the mind?
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The careless world looks down with scorn
On intellectual fires;
And he indeed is most forlorn
Whom genius most inspires.
On intellectual fires;
And he indeed is most forlorn
Whom genius most inspires.
Yet mourn not vainly, suff'ring man,
At this, thy fate o'ercast;
Life, good or ill, is but a span,
Which cannot always last.
At this, thy fate o'ercast;
Life, good or ill, is but a span,
Which cannot always last.
And fondly hope, amidst thy woe,
To make the balance even;
That those whom sorrow marks below,
Are doubly blest in heaven.
To make the balance even;
That those whom sorrow marks below,
Are doubly blest in heaven.
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ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
'Tis past!—the funeral knell is rung,
The solemn requiem for the dead
Is hush'd—the dirge of death is sung!
A nation's tears have all been shed.
The solemn requiem for the dead
Is hush'd—the dirge of death is sung!
A nation's tears have all been shed.
Within the grave's sepulchral gloom
A purer spirit ne'er repos'd;
And never yet the silent tomb
Upon a richer treasure clos'd.
A purer spirit ne'er repos'd;
And never yet the silent tomb
Upon a richer treasure clos'd.
Do wealth and honours swell thy train—
Say, what are wealth and honours now?
Does fleeting beauty make thee vain—
Go gaze upon that lifeless brow!
Say, what are wealth and honours now?
Does fleeting beauty make thee vain—
Go gaze upon that lifeless brow!
Does youth, with ev'ry charm to please,
A judgment clear, a taste refin'd,
Attemper'd sweet with native ease,
Or flatt'ry's voice uplift thy mind?
A judgment clear, a taste refin'd,
Attemper'd sweet with native ease,
Or flatt'ry's voice uplift thy mind?
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Reflect on Charlotte's early doom,
And mark the triumph of the tomb!
And mark the triumph of the tomb!
But if with nobler passions fraught,
Thy soul, despising meaner things,
Aspire to dignity of thought,
A great ambition, worthy kings!
Thy soul, despising meaner things,
Aspire to dignity of thought,
A great ambition, worthy kings!
If to religion's sacred zeal
The love of liberty be join'd;
With charity, to deeply feel
The sorrows that afflict mankind—
The love of liberty be join'd;
With charity, to deeply feel
The sorrows that afflict mankind—
Rejoice! for to unspotted worth
Behold what rich rewards are giv'n;
Living, dying—peace on earth,
And Immortality in Heav'n.
Behold what rich rewards are giv'n;
Living, dying—peace on earth,
And Immortality in Heav'n.
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FRIENDSHIP.
Ah, Friendship! how oft have I try'd
To find thee, but ever in vain;
'Midst the turbulent children of pride,
And the humble delights of the plain.
To find thee, but ever in vain;
'Midst the turbulent children of pride,
And the humble delights of the plain.
And when, at thy glorified shrine
My heart hath her orisons paid;
Hope, smiling, presented thee mine,
I follow'd—but found thee a shade!
My heart hath her orisons paid;
Hope, smiling, presented thee mine,
I follow'd—but found thee a shade!
'Tis Love that awakens our fires,
While Friendship with sympathy glows;
'Tis Beauty inflames our desires,
And Friendship that softens our woes.
While Friendship with sympathy glows;
'Tis Beauty inflames our desires,
And Friendship that softens our woes.
When hope has forsaken the mind,
And nought but despair is in view,
How happy the wretch who can find
A heart that to Friendship is true!
And nought but despair is in view,
How happy the wretch who can find
A heart that to Friendship is true!
Then give me these blessings supreme,
Ye powers indulgent above,
The Friend, who shall gain my esteem,
And the fair, who shall merit my love.
Ye powers indulgent above,
The Friend, who shall gain my esteem,
And the fair, who shall merit my love.
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HOPE.
What though the shades of death descend
On her my soul holds dear;
And those that o'er her pillow bend,
May soon surround her bier—
On her my soul holds dear;
And those that o'er her pillow bend,
May soon surround her bier—
My fainting heart shall not despair,
But look beyond the grave:
Hath pitying heav'n less will to spare?
Hath God less pow'r to save?
But look beyond the grave:
Hath pitying heav'n less will to spare?
Hath God less pow'r to save?
Yet happier they, who call'd to rest,
Ere sorrow fades their bloom,
Awhile a blessing are—and blest—
Then sink into the tomb—
Ere sorrow fades their bloom,
Awhile a blessing are—and blest—
Then sink into the tomb—
For them the Spring's gay buds appear,
And Summer paints the flow'r;
They fall, ere Autumn's leaf is sear,
Or wintry tempests low'r.
And Summer paints the flow'r;
They fall, ere Autumn's leaf is sear,
Or wintry tempests low'r.
And tho' they part with fond regret,
While still the leaves are green;
How mournful they, imprison'd yet,
Who long to quit the scene.
While still the leaves are green;
How mournful they, imprison'd yet,
Who long to quit the scene.
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The broken heart may heave a sigh,
E'en while it bows to heav'n;
And if a tear bedew my eye,
That tear shall be forgiven.
E'en while it bows to heav'n;
And if a tear bedew my eye,
That tear shall be forgiven.
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THE WORN-OUT TAR.
“Navita de ventis, de taurus narrat arrator,
Enumerat miles vulnera, pastor oves.”
Enumerat miles vulnera, pastor oves.”
The ship was now in sight of land,
And crowds from shore with joy did hail her,
The happy hour was nigh at hand
When each sweet lass would see her sailor:
How gallantly she ploughs her way!
To England's shores returning back;
And ev'ry heart is light and gay,
Except the heart of honest Jack.
And crowds from shore with joy did hail her,
The happy hour was nigh at hand
When each sweet lass would see her sailor:
How gallantly she ploughs her way!
To England's shores returning back;
And ev'ry heart is light and gay,
Except the heart of honest Jack.
From hardy youth to vig'rous age,
With sturdy arm he stemm'd the wave;
And in the battle's hottest rage
He fought, the bravest midst the brave:
And many a bitter sigh he gave,
And scarce suppress'd the starting tear;
He wish'd the sea had prov'd his grave,
Some shot had clos'd his long career.
With sturdy arm he stemm'd the wave;
And in the battle's hottest rage
He fought, the bravest midst the brave:
And many a bitter sigh he gave,
And scarce suppress'd the starting tear;
He wish'd the sea had prov'd his grave,
Some shot had clos'd his long career.
For he was old, his frame was worn,
His cheek had lost its manly hue;
Unlike his glory's rising morn,
When big with hope his fancy grew:
Yet was his heart as firm and true;
In his lov'd country's cause as warm,
As when he cheer'd his gallant crew
To face the foe, or brave the storm!
His cheek had lost its manly hue;
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When big with hope his fancy grew:
Yet was his heart as firm and true;
In his lov'd country's cause as warm,
As when he cheer'd his gallant crew
To face the foe, or brave the storm!
By time, and toil, and sickness chang'd,
From friends, from home, and kindred dear,
For thirty tedious years estrang'd—
When he, long lost, shall reappear,
How will they start his voice to hear!
And bless the day he ceas'd to roam,
And fondly dry each grateful tear,
And welcome the poor wand'rer home!
From friends, from home, and kindred dear,
For thirty tedious years estrang'd—
When he, long lost, shall reappear,
How will they start his voice to hear!
And bless the day he ceas'd to roam,
And fondly dry each grateful tear,
And welcome the poor wand'rer home!
Then, while the children climb his knees,
And youth and age stand list'ning by,
He'll tell, when oft he plough'd the seas,
Winds blew, and waves ran mountains high;
And, while a tear bedews each eye,
Declare, but in a falt'ring tone,
He saw the gallant Nelson die,
And heard the hero's parting groan.
And youth and age stand list'ning by,
He'll tell, when oft he plough'd the seas,
Winds blew, and waves ran mountains high;
And, while a tear bedews each eye,
Declare, but in a falt'ring tone,
He saw the gallant Nelson die,
And heard the hero's parting groan.
How, as he gloriously expir'd,
Dread war a fiercer aspect wore;
As Britain's sons, with vengeance fir'd,
Bade all their brazen cannons roar;
Till rude Trafalgar's rocky shore,
And heaving ocean's depths profound,
Proclaim'd the conq'ring chief no more,
And echoed back the solemn sound.
Dread war a fiercer aspect wore;
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Bade all their brazen cannons roar;
Till rude Trafalgar's rocky shore,
And heaving ocean's depths profound,
Proclaim'd the conq'ring chief no more,
And echoed back the solemn sound.
How once the ship was tempest driv'n,
In Biscay's deep and treacherous Bay,
Without one blessed star from Heav'n
To light her on her lonely way;
O, then 'twas first he learn'd to pray!
And own th' Almighty's sov'reign will;
When He, whom winds and seas obey,
Stretch'd forth his arm—and all was still.
In Biscay's deep and treacherous Bay,
Without one blessed star from Heav'n
To light her on her lonely way;
O, then 'twas first he learn'd to pray!
And own th' Almighty's sov'reign will;
When He, whom winds and seas obey,
Stretch'd forth his arm—and all was still.
How, captive in a foreign land,
Far off, beneath the burning zone,
Th' abode of men, a savage band,
Who worshipp'd idols of their own:
He made the glorious Gospel known;
With reverential awe they heard,
And bow'd before Jehovah's throne,
And bless'd Salvation's sacred word.
Far off, beneath the burning zone,
Th' abode of men, a savage band,
Who worshipp'd idols of their own:
He made the glorious Gospel known;
With reverential awe they heard,
And bow'd before Jehovah's throne,
And bless'd Salvation's sacred word.
When wounded on the deck he lay,
And death stood by with terrors grim,
And eager monsters watch'd their prey,
And sea-birds sang his funeral hymn,
Death had no slavish fears for him!
Let cowards shrink at every ball—
What! if he lost his life, or limb,
His king and country claim'd it all.
And death stood by with terrors grim,
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And sea-birds sang his funeral hymn,
Death had no slavish fears for him!
Let cowards shrink at every ball—
What! if he lost his life, or limb,
His king and country claim'd it all.
Now let the wand'rer rest in peace,
And wear out life's remaining span;
Here let the bold inquirer cease
The will of Providence to scan:
Dark are the ways of God to man!
And he who bears misfortune's blast,
Shall bless each wise mysterious plan,
And anchor safe in Port at last.
And wear out life's remaining span;
Here let the bold inquirer cease
The will of Providence to scan:
Dark are the ways of God to man!
And he who bears misfortune's blast,
Shall bless each wise mysterious plan,
And anchor safe in Port at last.
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THE PILGRIM.
I am a weary Pilgrim, on my way
To the far ocean of Eternity;
Silent, forlorn, and faint of heart, I stray,
And long to pass the brink—it must not be—
He, at whose voice the vivid lightnings flee,
And the loud thunders cease, hath plac'd me here;
And sooner may yon sun desert his sphere,
Those orbs unbidden shoot their course from Heav'n,
Than I, by fell despair and madness driv'n,
Plunge headlong in that dark mysterious sea—
Let Heav'n's own mandate set the pris'ner free.
To the far ocean of Eternity;
Silent, forlorn, and faint of heart, I stray,
And long to pass the brink—it must not be—
He, at whose voice the vivid lightnings flee,
And the loud thunders cease, hath plac'd me here;
And sooner may yon sun desert his sphere,
Those orbs unbidden shoot their course from Heav'n,
Than I, by fell despair and madness driv'n,
Plunge headlong in that dark mysterious sea—
Let Heav'n's own mandate set the pris'ner free.
Has life no higher end than joys of sense,
Inglorious ease, rude mirth, and low desire?
Is hope extinct with man when summon'd hence?
Dwells there no portion of ethereal fire
In his frail image, once the bright attire
Of genius, virtue, dignity, and worth?
Tho' for a little season bound to earth,
He was ordain'd by the immortal Sire,
For everlasting worlds, communion higher
With glorious spirits, perfected by grace,
Who suff'ring, fainted not, but run their race.
Inglorious ease, rude mirth, and low desire?
Is hope extinct with man when summon'd hence?
Dwells there no portion of ethereal fire
In his frail image, once the bright attire
Of genius, virtue, dignity, and worth?
Tho' for a little season bound to earth,
He was ordain'd by the immortal Sire,
For everlasting worlds, communion higher
With glorious spirits, perfected by grace,
Who suff'ring, fainted not, but run their race.
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How grand the contemplation! how sublime
To mark yon sun mount high in golden streams!
And think the immortal soul, unchain'd by time,
Shall rise refulgent like those orient beams—
But not to set—Hence, vain perplexing dreams!
Distract with doubt the dreary sceptic's mind—
Altho' the narrow path to me assign'd
Be strew'd with briers and thorns, and toil and care;
I ask not this philosophy to bear;
Enough for me the gracious promise giv'n,
Of time on earth, eternity in heav'n!
To mark yon sun mount high in golden streams!
And think the immortal soul, unchain'd by time,
Shall rise refulgent like those orient beams—
But not to set—Hence, vain perplexing dreams!
Distract with doubt the dreary sceptic's mind—
Altho' the narrow path to me assign'd
Be strew'd with briers and thorns, and toil and care;
I ask not this philosophy to bear;
Enough for me the gracious promise giv'n,
Of time on earth, eternity in heav'n!
Yet mindful of thy goodness, I implore
Thee, my eternal Father and my Friend,
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more,
Patience and consolation thou wouldst send;
Grant me a blameless life, a peaceful end,
For bliss I may not ask this side the tomb—
Yet for thy mercy's sake, dispel the gloom
That clouds my spirit—make this shining frame,
This world of joy, prosperity, and fame,
Less dark to me, and desolate appear,
As long as 'tis thy will I linger here.
Thee, my eternal Father and my Friend,
Ere I am summon'd hence, and seen no more,
Patience and consolation thou wouldst send;
Grant me a blameless life, a peaceful end,
For bliss I may not ask this side the tomb—
Yet for thy mercy's sake, dispel the gloom
That clouds my spirit—make this shining frame,
This world of joy, prosperity, and fame,
Less dark to me, and desolate appear,
As long as 'tis thy will I linger here.
To die is painful only when we part
From those by friendship, nature, kindred dear;
These bind, with adamantine chain, the heart,
And give to death its terrors—how severe
To leave the few we lov'd and valued here,
To buffet with the world, and bear its frown!
Friend of the fatherless! look pitying down
On those I leave behind! be thou their stay,
Their guardian, guide thro' life's eventful day;
Let fate on them with milder influence shine,
Nor wound their hearts as it has wounded mine.
From those by friendship, nature, kindred dear;
These bind, with adamantine chain, the heart,
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To leave the few we lov'd and valued here,
To buffet with the world, and bear its frown!
Friend of the fatherless! look pitying down
On those I leave behind! be thou their stay,
Their guardian, guide thro' life's eventful day;
Let fate on them with milder influence shine,
Nor wound their hearts as it has wounded mine.
325
THE PENITENT.
Scene.—The Chamber of Death.ATTENDANT.—PENITENT.
Att.
And hast thou drain'd the poison'd bowl?
Speak, pallid victim of despair!
Remorse and horror shake thy soul
For hidden guilt too strong to bear—
And what a bitter groan was there!
Ah! sure thy crime is dark and deep—
If hell hath terrors, breathe a pray'r;
If heav'n hath joys, repent and weep.
Pen.
O torture not my bleeding breast,
Nor add to death a pang more keen;
On earth I sought in vain for rest,
So hasten'd to a calmer scene:
The sleep eternal how serene,
That brings oblivion to my woe!—
Att.
But there's an awful gulf between,
Which thou must pass, or sink below.
Pen.
Disciples of the Atheist creed
Exult, your victim here behold!
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Your lesson teaches to be bold!
See one who by your arts controll'd,
Hath ev'ry tie of nature riven;
Friends, fortune, fame, existence sold;
All joy on earth, all hope in heaven.
With you, ye philosophic train,
New schemes I form'd, new systems try'd,
The laws of nature to explain,
With erring reason for my guide:
I spread your doctrines far and wide,
I laugh'd to scorn creation's plan;
And God, O height of human pride!
Arraign'd before the bar of man.
New schemes I form'd, new systems try'd,
The laws of nature to explain,
With erring reason for my guide:
I spread your doctrines far and wide,
I laugh'd to scorn creation's plan;
And God, O height of human pride!
Arraign'd before the bar of man.
I flew, to quiet my alarms,
Where joy the sparkling goblet crown'd;
And wine's intoxicating charms
The cares of dull existence drown'd:
I join'd in pleasure's madd'ning round,
And though my heart consum'd the while,
Beneath a rankling, torturing wound,
My features wore a ghastly smile!
Where joy the sparkling goblet crown'd;
And wine's intoxicating charms
The cares of dull existence drown'd:
I join'd in pleasure's madd'ning round,
And though my heart consum'd the while,
Beneath a rankling, torturing wound,
My features wore a ghastly smile!
How chang'd the scene,—yon glorious sun,
That gilds creation with his rays,
Grew dark to me,—'twas mine to shun
His early rising, noon-tide blaze:
I sought the wood's untrodden ways,
And pac'd, with melanchloy tread,
The church-yard's solitary ways,
To hold communion with the dead.
That gilds creation with his rays,
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His early rising, noon-tide blaze:
I sought the wood's untrodden ways,
And pac'd, with melanchloy tread,
The church-yard's solitary ways,
To hold communion with the dead.
Hark! 'twas a whisper from the tomb:—
“Why, suff'rer, wilt thou ling'ring stay?
Doth parent earth deny thee room,
Now all thy joys are pass'd away?
Grief, disappointment, doubt, dismay,
Unhallow'd love, and rage severe,
Disturb'd us thro' life's feverish day,
But cannot break our slumber here.”
“Why, suff'rer, wilt thou ling'ring stay?
Doth parent earth deny thee room,
Now all thy joys are pass'd away?
Grief, disappointment, doubt, dismay,
Unhallow'd love, and rage severe,
Disturb'd us thro' life's feverish day,
But cannot break our slumber here.”
I've seen in heav'nly visions bright
Those seats where blessed spirits dwell;
Eternal fields of living light,
Such as no mortal tongue may tell;
And in the lowest depths of hell
I've listen'd to the hideous scream
Of angels who did once rebel—
And started from the fearful dream!
Those seats where blessed spirits dwell;
Eternal fields of living light,
Such as no mortal tongue may tell;
And in the lowest depths of hell
I've listen'd to the hideous scream
Of angels who did once rebel—
And started from the fearful dream!
Will peace ne'er charm my breast again?
I frantic cried—and breath'd a pray'r,
When darting swift across my brain
Distraction came—the fiend was there!
Then loud, in agony, despair,
I ask'd of pitying heav'n to die;
And frenzied, with my bosom bare,
Defied the bolt that thunder'd by.
I frantic cried—and breath'd a pray'r,
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Distraction came—the fiend was there!
Then loud, in agony, despair,
I ask'd of pitying heav'n to die;
And frenzied, with my bosom bare,
Defied the bolt that thunder'd by.
I've thought that in a brittle bark
They bore me o'er the boundless deep,
And plac'd me as misfortune's mark
On some lone shore, or rocky steep,
Where I have sat me down to weep,
While the loud billows foam'd below;
Doom'd one eternal watch to keep,
An immortality of woe.
They bore me o'er the boundless deep,
And plac'd me as misfortune's mark
On some lone shore, or rocky steep,
Where I have sat me down to weep,
While the loud billows foam'd below;
Doom'd one eternal watch to keep,
An immortality of woe.
Would that the soul might sleep in dust,
And with her mortal part expire—
What! shall th' Eternal prove unjust?
Vain, selfish, impotent desire!
For me suspend his dreadful ire?
For me his sword of vengeance sheathe?
My heart is wrung, my brain's on fire,
Hell opens, and I sink beneath!
Att.
And with her mortal part expire—
What! shall th' Eternal prove unjust?
Vain, selfish, impotent desire!
For me suspend his dreadful ire?
For me his sword of vengeance sheathe?
My heart is wrung, my brain's on fire,
Hell opens, and I sink beneath!
Be calm, for 'tis thy hour of death,
The conflict sad will soon be o'er—
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In ravings wild—a little more,
And thou shalt reach that unknown shore—
Seek Him whose pow'r alone can save—
Yes, while thou canst, thy sin deplore:
There's no repentance in the grave.
O listen to the Saviour's voice—
—Son of adversity, draw near,
And I will make thy heart rejoice,
And I will wipe each falling tear.
Art thou a penitent sincere?
My promise, Sinner, sets thee free.—
—Then humbly hope; thy title's clear;
The great atonement was for thee.
Pen.
—Son of adversity, draw near,
And I will make thy heart rejoice,
And I will wipe each falling tear.
Art thou a penitent sincere?
My promise, Sinner, sets thee free.—
—Then humbly hope; thy title's clear;
The great atonement was for thee.
O Thou, before whose throne I kneel,
Accept, though late, repentance deep:
Remorse hath touch'd this heart of steel,
These stubborn eyes have learn'd to weep.
Cold death-like shiv'rings o'er me creep,
Strange phantoms swim before my sight;
One pang, and then the last, long sleep;
But morn succeeds a moonless night!
Bear me above, ye heav'nly choir,
To where yon sounds celestial ring!
Hark! 'tis an angel strikes the lyre,
A sinner reconcil'd to sing!
I mount on Hope's exulting wing,
What floods of glory meet my eyes!—
Att.
To where yon sounds celestial ring!
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A sinner reconcil'd to sing!
I mount on Hope's exulting wing,
What floods of glory meet my eyes!—
—'Tis past, and death hath lost his sting:
The Soul hath reach'd her native skies.
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INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALBUM.
Haste thee hither, Sisters three,Music, Painting, Poesy!
Music, chauntress, that was born
On creation's glorious morn,
When the stars in choral hymn,
And the sweet-voic'd cherubim,
Sang the goodness and the might
That from chaos call'd the light:—
Painting, that is wont to trace
Gentleness, expression, grace,
And, with never-fading hue,
Ev'ry flow'r that drinks the dew:—
Poesy, companion meet,
Making solitude more sweet,
Rapt with some inspiring theme,
Avon! by thy silver stream—
Each from her celestial sphere
Deign awhile to linger here,
And with various pow'rs combin'd,
Charm the ear, the eye, the mind.
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TO A FLY.
Busy, bustling, buzzing Fly,
Which is happiest, you or I?
Ever roving, like the bee,
Is the merry lark more free
When to heav'n he soars and sings,
While the vocal woodland rings,
Answering from each dewy thorn
His sweet welcome to the morn?
Constant to the wedded state,
He marries in a hedge his mate—
Who shall count the num'rous fair
Of thy harems in the air?
He the Strephon of a bough,
Of ev'ry room the Juan thou!
Which is happiest, you or I?
Ever roving, like the bee,
Is the merry lark more free
When to heav'n he soars and sings,
While the vocal woodland rings,
Answering from each dewy thorn
His sweet welcome to the morn?
Constant to the wedded state,
He marries in a hedge his mate—
Who shall count the num'rous fair
Of thy harems in the air?
He the Strephon of a bough,
Of ev'ry room the Juan thou!
Little costs your slender meal,
All you eat and drink you steal!
Banqueting on ev'ry dish
Gratis, whether fowl or fish.
Round my nectar'd goblet's brim
Slow you creep with cautious limb,
Fearing lest your little feet
Get entangled with the sweet!
Round my nose on rapid wing
First you buzz, and then you sting!
Then to Celia's cheek repair,
Seek a soft asylum there,
In her auburn tresses skip,
Taste the nectar of her lip,
Bask in the sunshine of her eye,
With all th' effront'ry of a Fly!—
Which is happiest, you or I?
All you eat and drink you steal!
Banqueting on ev'ry dish
Gratis, whether fowl or fish.
Round my nectar'd goblet's brim
Slow you creep with cautious limb,
333
Get entangled with the sweet!
Round my nose on rapid wing
First you buzz, and then you sting!
Then to Celia's cheek repair,
Seek a soft asylum there,
In her auburn tresses skip,
Taste the nectar of her lip,
Bask in the sunshine of her eye,
With all th' effront'ry of a Fly!—
Which is happiest, you or I?
Child of liberty and sport,
Who shall say thy time is short?
Short indeed thy transient span
To the droning life of man;
Yet each minute is an age
In thy hist'ry's tiny page!
Spring's delightful verdant shoots,
Summer's blossoms, Autumn's fruits,
Fair and glorious to the eye,
Have no longer date, but die.
Who shall say thy time is short?
Short indeed thy transient span
To the droning life of man;
Yet each minute is an age
In thy hist'ry's tiny page!
Spring's delightful verdant shoots,
Summer's blossoms, Autumn's fruits,
Fair and glorious to the eye,
Have no longer date, but die.
May no urchin, imp of sin!
E'er transfix thee with a pin;
Spider in his web enthrall,
And wrap thee in a filmy pall;
Poison in thy cup be found,
Or thou in pleasure's draught be drown'd.
With the Autumn's roseate hours,
With the sunshine and the flow'rs,
Sportive creature of a day,
Unmolested pass away.
E'er transfix thee with a pin;
Spider in his web enthrall,
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Poison in thy cup be found,
Or thou in pleasure's draught be drown'd.
With the Autumn's roseate hours,
With the sunshine and the flow'rs,
Sportive creature of a day,
Unmolested pass away.
ON REVISITING MY FATHER'S GRAVE.
Are tears forbid?—The torrent pour'd
Down sorrow's cheek for virtue's doom,
Is surely not by heav'n abhorr'd—
'Tis soothing to the spirit's gloom—
David his Absalom deplor'd,
And Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb!
Down sorrow's cheek for virtue's doom,
Is surely not by heav'n abhorr'd—
'Tis soothing to the spirit's gloom—
David his Absalom deplor'd,
And Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb!
Yes, there's a holy balm in tears
That heals the heart as soon as shed;
Heav'n to a spot unseen for years
In mercy hath my footsteps led;
How calm the solitude appears,
How sweet the mem'ry of the dead.
That heals the heart as soon as shed;
Heav'n to a spot unseen for years
In mercy hath my footsteps led;
How calm the solitude appears,
How sweet the mem'ry of the dead.
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My Sire, ere winter's chilling frost
Thy debt was paid—the last and least—
The day I mourn'd a Father lost,
Was I enthrall'd, and thou releas'd;
Thou safe in port, I tempest-toss'd—
My cares begun, ere childhood ceas'd.
Thy debt was paid—the last and least—
The day I mourn'd a Father lost,
Was I enthrall'd, and thou releas'd;
Thou safe in port, I tempest-toss'd—
My cares begun, ere childhood ceas'd.
And how I plough'd the dang'rous sea
(My bark untravell'd o'er the deep,)
Is only known to Heav'n—and thee,
If guardian angels vigils keep
(Immortal spirits bless'd and free,)
O'er those they lov'd and left to weep.
(My bark untravell'd o'er the deep,)
Is only known to Heav'n—and thee,
If guardian angels vigils keep
(Immortal spirits bless'd and free,)
O'er those they lov'd and left to weep.
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And her who lov'd and mourn'd thee best,
In rev'rend age we weeping bear,
(Long parted) to thy place of rest—
Her hope,—faith, suff'ring, patience, pray'r—
Age, spare my brow (a wearied guest)
Nor plant thy snows and wrinkles there.
In rev'rend age we weeping bear,
(Long parted) to thy place of rest—
Her hope,—faith, suff'ring, patience, pray'r—
Age, spare my brow (a wearied guest)
Nor plant thy snows and wrinkles there.
The palsied frame, the hoary head,
The heart grown selfish, cold, and sear,
More terrors than thy grassy bed
Strike to my soul, lov'd spot! for here
My hop'd-for rest, were breath'd and shed
My latest sigh, my earliest tear.
The heart grown selfish, cold, and sear,
More terrors than thy grassy bed
Strike to my soul, lov'd spot! for here
My hop'd-for rest, were breath'd and shed
My latest sigh, my earliest tear.
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MONODY
ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.
In Dryburgh's deep romantic shade,
And ruins gray, with ivy crown'd,
A magic harp and wand are laid—
The minstrel sleeps his sleep profound:
Hush'd is the music of the glade,
The wand is broke, the spell unbound.
And ruins gray, with ivy crown'd,
A magic harp and wand are laid—
The minstrel sleeps his sleep profound:
Hush'd is the music of the glade,
The wand is broke, the spell unbound.
Ye stately turrets! arches dim!
Mourn not your ancient glories pass'd,
Though vocal once to choral hymn,
Now to the moanings of the blast!
Ye are become the shrine of him,
The noblest Druid, and the last.
Mourn not your ancient glories pass'd,
Though vocal once to choral hymn,
Now to the moanings of the blast!
Ye are become the shrine of him,
The noblest Druid, and the last.
Wit in her robe of fiction dress'd,
And fancy in her highest mood,
All that a blessing are, and bless'd—
The wise, the generous, and the good,
Shall each repair—a welcome guest,
As pilgrims to thy solitude.
And fancy in her highest mood,
All that a blessing are, and bless'd—
The wise, the generous, and the good,
Shall each repair—a welcome guest,
As pilgrims to thy solitude.
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And call it not an idle dream,
That fairy footsteps print the ground
By lonely glen, and wizard stream;
That harps unseen a requiem sound,
And spirits by the moon's pale beam,
Their watchful vigils keep around;
That fairy footsteps print the ground
By lonely glen, and wizard stream;
That harps unseen a requiem sound,
And spirits by the moon's pale beam,
Their watchful vigils keep around;
That mountain, woodland, valley green,
To the hoarse breeze responsive sigh;
And soft and gentle dews at e'en
Weep to behold the poet die;
And Scotia, genius of the scene,
Joins the lament, the funeral cry.
To the hoarse breeze responsive sigh;
And soft and gentle dews at e'en
Weep to behold the poet die;
And Scotia, genius of the scene,
Joins the lament, the funeral cry.
For he was cradled in her arms,—
She nurs'd and rear'd the wondrous child;
Her rugged, stern, romantic charms,
Her tales of yore, and legends wild,
And deeds of chivalry and arms,
In youth's gay morn his hours beguil'd.
She nurs'd and rear'd the wondrous child;
Her rugged, stern, romantic charms,
Her tales of yore, and legends wild,
And deeds of chivalry and arms,
In youth's gay morn his hours beguil'd.
And as he trod the heather bloom,
By desert cave, or mountain-steep,
Some holy altar, banner'd tomb,
Or battled tower, or donjon-keep,—
A martyr's fate, a warrior's doom,
Have bade the pilgrim pause to weep.
By desert cave, or mountain-steep,
Some holy altar, banner'd tomb,
Or battled tower, or donjon-keep,—
A martyr's fate, a warrior's doom,
Have bade the pilgrim pause to weep.
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And then he struck the ready lyre,
And sung the minstrel's parting lay;
And rapt with inspiration higher,
The feuds of Flodden's fatal day;
And bade with undiminish'd fire
The Knight of Snowdoun live for aye.
And sung the minstrel's parting lay;
And rapt with inspiration higher,
The feuds of Flodden's fatal day;
And bade with undiminish'd fire
The Knight of Snowdoun live for aye.
By guilt, despair, and madness driv'n,
A spirit rose at his command—
A fiend from hell, a saint from heav'n,—
And sparkling wit, and humour bland,
And patriot love, to him were giv'n,
For thee, fair Scotia, native land!
A spirit rose at his command—
A fiend from hell, a saint from heav'n,—
And sparkling wit, and humour bland,
And patriot love, to him were giv'n,
For thee, fair Scotia, native land!
His heart, inflexible and true,
Shone brightest in affliction's hour;
Though gentle as the morning dew,
That gems with silver drops the flower;
Heaven spares not the immortal few,
The tempest shakes the loftiest tower.
Shone brightest in affliction's hour;
Though gentle as the morning dew,
That gems with silver drops the flower;
Heaven spares not the immortal few,
The tempest shakes the loftiest tower.
Yet not alone does Scotia mourn
Her noblest son who sleeps beneath:
Assembled nations round his urn
The laurel with the cypress wreathe;
Where arctics freeze, and tropics burn,
A tear shall drop, a sigh shall breathe.
Her noblest son who sleeps beneath:
Assembled nations round his urn
The laurel with the cypress wreathe;
Where arctics freeze, and tropics burn,
A tear shall drop, a sigh shall breathe.
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And woe is me! for I have seen
The glorious pile his genius rear'd;
The hall antique, superbly sheen!
The social hearth his presence cheer'd,
The classic bow'r, poetic scene,
His virtue, wisdom, wit endear'd.
The glorious pile his genius rear'd;
The hall antique, superbly sheen!
The social hearth his presence cheer'd,
The classic bow'r, poetic scene,
His virtue, wisdom, wit endear'd.
Have mark'd his eye with dewy lid
A tear distil, a smile unfold;
Have heard his voice, that welcome bid
In token of remembrance old,
Or long delay, or absence chid—
And press'd his hand that now is cold.
A tear distil, a smile unfold;
Have heard his voice, that welcome bid
In token of remembrance old,
Or long delay, or absence chid—
And press'd his hand that now is cold.
Not mine to build the lofty verse—
Yet had I left the song unsung,
(Garland unmeet for such a hearse!
Or lay for such a tuneful tongue!)
Of deep ingratitude the curse,
My harp had broke, my lyre unstrung.
Yet had I left the song unsung,
(Garland unmeet for such a hearse!
Or lay for such a tuneful tongue!)
Of deep ingratitude the curse,
My harp had broke, my lyre unstrung.
Ye ruin'd altars! shrines o'erthrown
By sacrilegious hands of old,
Now shapeless heaps of crumbling stone—
That sacred dust, that hallow'd mould
Shall make ye still a mark, and known,
When thrones have wan'd, and ages roll'd.
By sacrilegious hands of old,
Now shapeless heaps of crumbling stone—
That sacred dust, that hallow'd mould
Shall make ye still a mark, and known,
When thrones have wan'd, and ages roll'd.
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