Chapter 46

"By turns a slattern or a belle."—p.232.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old:With modesty her cheeks are dyed;Humility displaces pride;For tawdry finery is seenA person ever neatly clean;No more presuming on her sway,She learns good-nature every day;Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack

The rest of life with anxious Jack,

Perceiving others fairly flown,

Attempted pleasing him alone.

Jack soon was dazzled to behold

Her present face surpass the old:

With modesty her cheeks are dyed;

Humility displaces pride;

For tawdry finery is seen

A person ever neatly clean;

No more presuming on her sway,

She learns good-nature every day;

Serenely gay, and strict in duty,

Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

THE GIFT.TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,Dear mercenary beauty,What annual offering shall I makeExpressive of my duty?My heart, a victim to thine eyes,Should I at once deliver,Say, would the angry fair one prizeThe gift, who slights the giver?A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,My rivals give—and let 'em;If gems or gold impart a joy,I'll give them—when I get 'em.I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,Or rose-bud more in fashion:Such short-lived off'rings but discloseA transitory passion.I'll give thee something yet unpaid,Not less sincere than civil,—I'll give thee—ah! too charming maid!—I'll give thee—to the Devil.

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,Dear mercenary beauty,What annual offering shall I makeExpressive of my duty?

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual offering shall I make

Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,Should I at once deliver,Say, would the angry fair one prizeThe gift, who slights the giver?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair one prize

The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,My rivals give—and let 'em;If gems or gold impart a joy,I'll give them—when I get 'em.

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give—and let 'em;

If gems or gold impart a joy,

I'll give them—when I get 'em.

I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,Or rose-bud more in fashion:Such short-lived off'rings but discloseA transitory passion.

I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion:

Such short-lived off'rings but disclose

A transitory passion.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,Not less sincere than civil,—I'll give thee—ah! too charming maid!—I'll give thee—to the Devil.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil,—

I'll give thee—ah! too charming maid!—

I'll give thee—to the Devil.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS,SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESSTHE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.ADVERTISEMENT.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

(The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.)

OVERTURE.—A solemn Dirge.Air.—Trio.Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,And waken every note of woe!When truth and virtue reach the skies,'Tis ours to weep the want below.CHORUS.When truth and virtue, &c.MAN SPEAKER.

OVERTURE.—A solemn Dirge.

Air.—Trio.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,And waken every note of woe!When truth and virtue reach the skies,'Tis ours to weep the want below.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe!

When truth and virtue reach the skies,

'Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

The praise attending pomp and power,The incense given to Kings,Are but the trappings of an hour—Mere transitory things:The base bestow them; but the good agreeTo spurn the venal gifts as flattery.But when to pomp and power are join'dAn equal dignity of mind;When titles are the smallest claim;When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,But aid the power of doing good;Then all their trophies last—and flattery turns to fame.Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!E'en now reproach and faction mourn,And, wondering how their rage was born,Request to be forgiven!Alas! they never had thy hate;Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,Thy towering mind self-centred stood,Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,A thousand gifts would fortune send;In vain, to drive thee from the right,A thousand sorrows urged thy end:Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,And purchased strength from its increasing load.Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

The praise attending pomp and power,

The incense given to Kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour—

Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim;

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good;

Then all their trophies last—and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!

E'en now reproach and faction mourn,

And, wondering how their rage was born,

Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate;

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,

Thy towering mind self-centred stood,

Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.

In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,

A thousand gifts would fortune send;

In vain, to drive thee from the right,

A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,

And purchased strength from its increasing load.

Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,

Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

SONG.—BY A MAN.Virtue, on herself relying,Every passion hush'd to rest,Loses every pain of dying,In the hopes of being blest.Every added pang she suffers,Some increasing good bestows.And every shock that malice offers,Only rocks her to repose.WOMAN SPEAKER.Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate—Death, with its formidable band,Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,Determined took their stand.Nor did the cruel ravagers designTo finish all their efforts at a blow;But, mischievously slow,They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.With unavailing grief,Despairing of relief,Her weeping children roundBeheld each hourDeath's growing power,And trembled as he frown'd.As helpless friends who view from shoreThe labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

SONG.—BY A MAN.

Virtue, on herself relying,Every passion hush'd to rest,Loses every pain of dying,In the hopes of being blest.

Virtue, on herself relying,

Every passion hush'd to rest,

Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers,Some increasing good bestows.And every shock that malice offers,Only rocks her to repose.

Every added pang she suffers,

Some increasing good bestows.

And every shock that malice offers,

Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate—Death, with its formidable band,Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,Determined took their stand.Nor did the cruel ravagers designTo finish all their efforts at a blow;But, mischievously slow,They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.With unavailing grief,Despairing of relief,Her weeping children roundBeheld each hourDeath's growing power,And trembled as he frown'd.As helpless friends who view from shoreThe labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate—

Death, with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,

Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.

With unavailing grief,

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore

The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

"As helpless friends who view from shoreThe labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar."—p.236.

While winds and waves their wishes cross,—They stood, while hope and comfort fail,Not to assist, but to bewailThe inevitable loss.Relentless tyrant, at thy callHow do the good, the virtuous fall!Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.SONG.—BY A MAN.When vice my dart and scythe supply,How great a king of terrors I!If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!Fall, round me fall, ye little things,Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!If virtue fail her counsel sage,Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!MAN SPEAKER.

While winds and waves their wishes cross,—

They stood, while hope and comfort fail,

Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,

But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG.—BY A MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,How great a king of terrors I!If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

When vice my dart and scythe supply,

How great a king of terrors I!

If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,

Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!If virtue fail her counsel sage,Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,

Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!

If virtue fail her counsel sage,

Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,As a safe inn, where weary travellers,When they have journey'd through a world of cares,May put off life and be at rest for ever.Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:The preparation is the executioner.Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,And is a terror only at a distance;For as the line of life conducts me onTo Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always openTo take us in when we have drain'd the cupOf life, or worn our days to wretchedness.In that secure, serene retreat,Where, all the humble, all the great,Promiscuously recline;Where, wildly huddled to the eye,The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,May every bliss be thine.And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,May cherubs welcome their expected guest,May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,May blissful, endless peace be thine above!

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,

Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;

Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,

As a safe inn, where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd through a world of cares,

May put off life and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,

And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.

'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open

To take us in when we have drain'd the cup

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat,

Where, all the humble, all the great,

Promiscuously recline;

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,

May every bliss be thine.

And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,

Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,

May cherubs welcome their expected guest,

May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;

May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,

May blissful, endless peace be thine above!

SONG.—BY A WOMAN.Lovely, lasting Peace, below,Comforter of ev'ry woe,Heav'nly born, and bred on high,To crown the favourites of the sky;Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;This world itself, if thou art here,Is once again with Eden blest,And man contains it in his breast.WOMAN SPEAKER.

SONG.—BY A WOMAN.

Lovely, lasting Peace, below,Comforter of ev'ry woe,Heav'nly born, and bred on high,To crown the favourites of the sky;

Lovely, lasting Peace, below,

Comforter of ev'ry woe,

Heav'nly born, and bred on high,

To crown the favourites of the sky;

Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;This world itself, if thou art here,Is once again with Eden blest,And man contains it in his breast.

Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;

This world itself, if thou art here,

Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;Celestial-like her bounty fell,Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell:Want pass'd for merit at her door,Unseen the modest were supplied,Her constant pity fed the poor,—Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,And art exhausts profusion round,The tribute of a tear be mine,A simple song, a sigh profound.There Faith shall come a pilgrim grey,To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;And calm Religion shall repair,To dwell a weeping hermit there.Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agreeTo blend their virtues while they think of thee.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,

Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;

Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell:

Want pass'd for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,

Her constant pity fed the poor,—

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,

And art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come a pilgrim grey,

To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;

And calm Religion shall repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree

To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

Air.—Chorus.Let us—let all the world agree,To profit by resembling thee.

Air.—Chorus.

Let us—let all the world agree,To profit by resembling thee.

Let us—let all the world agree,

To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

OVERTURE.—Pastorale.

MAN SPEAKER.

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent streamReflects new glories on his breast,Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;Where sculptured elegance and native graceUnite to stamp the beauties of the place;While, sweetly blending, still are seen,The wavy lawn, the sloping green;While novelty, with cautious cunning,Through every maze of fancy running,From China borrows aid to deck the scene:—There, sorrowing by the rivers glassy bed,Forlorn a rural band complain'd,All whom Augusta's bounty fed,All whom her clemency sustain'd.The good old sire, unconscious of decay,The modest matron, clad in homespun grey,The military boy, the orphan'd maid,The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd,—These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,And as they view the towers of Kew,Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream

Reflects new glories on his breast,

Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,

He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;

Where sculptured elegance and native grace

Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;

While, sweetly blending, still are seen,

The wavy lawn, the sloping green;

While novelty, with cautious cunning,

Through every maze of fancy running,

From China borrows aid to deck the scene:—

There, sorrowing by the rivers glassy bed,

Forlorn a rural band complain'd,

All whom Augusta's bounty fed,

All whom her clemency sustain'd.

The good old sire, unconscious of decay,

The modest matron, clad in homespun grey,

The military boy, the orphan'd maid,

The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd,—

These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,

And as they view the towers of Kew,

Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

CHORUS.Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,Let all your echoes now deplore,That she who form'd your beauties is no more.MAN SPEAKER.

CHORUS.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,Let all your echoes now deplore,That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,

Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,

Let all your echoes now deplore,

That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

MAN SPEAKER.

First of the train the patient rustic came,Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,Bending at once with sorrow and with age,With many a tear, and many a sigh between:"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread,Or how shall age support its feeble fire?No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,Nor can my strength perform what they require;Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,A sleek and idle race is all their care.My noble mistress thought not so:Her bounty, like the morning dew,Unseen, though constant, used to flow,And, as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

First of the train the patient rustic came,

Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,

Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

With many a tear, and many a sigh between:

"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread,

Or how shall age support its feeble fire?

No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require;

Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,

A sleek and idle race is all their care.

My noble mistress thought not so:

Her bounty, like the morning dew,

Unseen, though constant, used to flow,

And, as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

"In decent dress, and coarsely clean,The pious matron next was seen."—p.241.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In decent dress, and coarsely clean,The pious matron next was seen,Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,By use and daily meditation worn;That decent dress, this holy guide,Augusta's care had well supplied."And, ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,"What now remains for me?Oh! where shall weeping want repairTo ask for charity!Too late in life for me to ask,And shame prevents the deed,And tardy, tardy are the timesTo succour, should I need.But all my wants, before I spoke,Were to my Mistress known;She still relieved, nor sought my praise,Contented with her own.But every day her name I'll bless,My morning prayer, my evening song;I'll praise her while my life shall last,A life that cannot last me long."SONG.—BY A WOMAN.Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,My morning and my evening song,And when in death my vows shall cease,My children shall the note prolong.MAN SPEAKER.The hardy veteran after struck the sight,Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,In nought entire—except his heart;Mute for awhile, and sullenly distress'd,At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:—"Wild is the whirlwind rollingO'er Afric's sandy plain,And wild the tempest howlingAlong the billow'd main;But every danger felt beforeThe raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,Less dreadful struck me with dismayThan what I feel this fatal day.Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,And lay my body where my limbs were lost."SONG.—BY A MAN.Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,To do thy memory right;For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,Again they snatch the gleamy steel,And wish the avenging fight.WOMAN SPEAKER.In innocence and youth complaining,Next appear'd a lovely maid;Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,Kindly came in beauty's aid;Every grace that grief dispenses,Every glance that warms the soul,In sweet succession charms the senses,While pity harmonized the whole."The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say,"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn:I'll not wear a garland—Augusta's away,I'll not wear a garland until she return;But, alas! that return I never shall see:The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,There promised a lover to come—but, ah me!'Twas Death—'twas the death of my mistress that came.But ever, for ever, her image shall last,I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

In decent dress, and coarsely clean,

The pious matron next was seen,

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,

By use and daily meditation worn;

That decent dress, this holy guide,

Augusta's care had well supplied.

"And, ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,"What now remains for me?Oh! where shall weeping want repairTo ask for charity!Too late in life for me to ask,And shame prevents the deed,And tardy, tardy are the timesTo succour, should I need.But all my wants, before I spoke,Were to my Mistress known;She still relieved, nor sought my praise,Contented with her own.But every day her name I'll bless,My morning prayer, my evening song;I'll praise her while my life shall last,A life that cannot last me long."

"And, ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,

"What now remains for me?

Oh! where shall weeping want repair

To ask for charity!

Too late in life for me to ask,

And shame prevents the deed,

And tardy, tardy are the times

To succour, should I need.

But all my wants, before I spoke,

Were to my Mistress known;

She still relieved, nor sought my praise,

Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,

My morning prayer, my evening song;

I'll praise her while my life shall last,

A life that cannot last me long."

SONG.—BY A WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,My morning and my evening song,And when in death my vows shall cease,My children shall the note prolong.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,

My morning and my evening song,

And when in death my vows shall cease,

My children shall the note prolong.

MAN SPEAKER.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,In nought entire—except his heart;Mute for awhile, and sullenly distress'd,At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:—"Wild is the whirlwind rollingO'er Afric's sandy plain,And wild the tempest howlingAlong the billow'd main;But every danger felt beforeThe raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,Less dreadful struck me with dismayThan what I feel this fatal day.Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,

Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,

Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,

In nought entire—except his heart;

Mute for awhile, and sullenly distress'd,

At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:—

"Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain,

And wild the tempest howling

Along the billow'd main;

But every danger felt before

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,

Less dreadful struck me with dismay

Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,

Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;

I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,

And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

SONG.—BY A MAN.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,To do thy memory right;For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,Again they snatch the gleamy steel,And wish the avenging fight.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,

Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,

To do thy memory right;

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,

Again they snatch the gleamy steel,

And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In innocence and youth complaining,Next appear'd a lovely maid;Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,Kindly came in beauty's aid;Every grace that grief dispenses,Every glance that warms the soul,In sweet succession charms the senses,While pity harmonized the whole."The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say,"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn:I'll not wear a garland—Augusta's away,I'll not wear a garland until she return;But, alas! that return I never shall see:The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,There promised a lover to come—but, ah me!'Twas Death—'twas the death of my mistress that came.But ever, for ever, her image shall last,I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

In innocence and youth complaining,

Next appear'd a lovely maid;

Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,

Kindly came in beauty's aid;

Every grace that grief dispenses,

Every glance that warms the soul,

In sweet succession charms the senses,

While pity harmonized the whole.

"The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say,

"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn:

I'll not wear a garland—Augusta's away,

I'll not wear a garland until she return;

But, alas! that return I never shall see:

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,

There promised a lover to come—but, ah me!

'Twas Death—'twas the death of my mistress that came.

But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;

On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

SONG—BY A WOMAN.Pastorale.With garlands of beauty the Queen of the MayNo more will her crook or her temples adorn;For who'd wear a garland when she is away,When she is removed and shall never return?On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.CHORUS.On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,The tears of her country shall water her tomb.

SONG—BY A WOMAN.

Pastorale.

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the MayNo more will her crook or her temples adorn;For who'd wear a garland when she is away,When she is removed and shall never return?

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May

No more will her crook or her temples adorn;

For who'd wear a garland when she is away,

When she is removed and shall never return?

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,

We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

CHORUS.

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,The tears of her country shall water her tomb.

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,

We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,

The tears of her country shall water her tomb.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

Logicians have but ill definedAs rational the human mind:Reason, they say, belongs to man;But let them prove it if they can.Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,By ratiocinations specious,Have strove to prove with great precision,With definition and division,Homo est ratione præditum;But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;And must in spite of them maintainThat man and all his ways are vain;And that this boasted lord of natureIs both a weak and erring creature;That instinct is a surer guideThan reason, boasting mortals' pride;And that brute beasts are far before 'em—Deus est anima brutorum.Who ever knew an honest bruteAt law his neighbour prosecute?Bring action for assault and battery?Or friends beguile with lies and flattery?O'er plains they ramble unconfined;No politics disturb their mind;They eat their meals and take their sport,Nor know who's in or out at court:They never to the levee goTo treat as dearest friend a foe;They never importune his Grace,Nor ever cringe to men in place;Nor undertake a dirty job;Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;[27]Fraught with invective they ne'er goTo folks at Paternoster Row:No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,No pickpockets or poetasters,

Logicians have but ill defined

As rational the human mind:

Reason, they say, belongs to man;

But let them prove it if they can.

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,

With definition and division,

Homo est ratione præditum;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;

And must in spite of them maintain

That man and all his ways are vain;

And that this boasted lord of nature

Is both a weak and erring creature;

That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;

And that brute beasts are far before 'em—

Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbour prosecute?

Bring action for assault and battery?

Or friends beguile with lies and flattery?

O'er plains they ramble unconfined;

No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals and take their sport,

Nor know who's in or out at court:

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend a foe;

They never importune his Grace,

Nor ever cringe to men in place;

Nor undertake a dirty job;

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;[27]

Fraught with invective they ne'er go

To folks at Paternoster Row:

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,

No pickpockets or poetasters,

27. Sir Robert Walpole.

"Brutes never meet in bloody fray,Nor cut each other's throats for pay."—p.245.

Are known to honest quadrupeds:No single brute his fellow leads.Brutes never meet in bloody fray,Nor cut each other's throats for pay.Of beasts, it is confess'd, the apeComes nearest us in human shape:Like man, he imitates each fashion,And malice is his ruling passion:But both in malice and grimacesA courtier any ape surpasses.Behold him humbly cringing waitUpon the minister of state;View him soon after to inferiorsAping the conduct of superiors:He promises with equal air,And to perform takes equal care.He in his turn finds imitators;At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,Their master's manners still contract,And footmen lords and dukes can act.Thus at the court, both great and smallBehave alike, for all ape all.

Are known to honest quadrupeds:

No single brute his fellow leads.

Brutes never meet in bloody fray,

Nor cut each other's throats for pay.

Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape

Comes nearest us in human shape:

Like man, he imitates each fashion,

And malice is his ruling passion:

But both in malice and grimaces

A courtier any ape surpasses.

Behold him humbly cringing wait

Upon the minister of state;

View him soon after to inferiors

Aping the conduct of superiors:

He promises with equal air,

And to perform takes equal care.

He in his turn finds imitators;

At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,

Their master's manners still contract,

And footmen lords and dukes can act.

Thus at the court, both great and small

Behave alike, for all ape all.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,Invites each passing stranger that can pay;Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug.A window, patched with paper, lent a rayThat dimly show'd the state in which he lay:The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;The royal Game of Goose was there in view,And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place;And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face.The morn was cold; he views with keen desireThe rusty grate unconscious of a fire:With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,

Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane;

There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,

The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug.

A window, patched with paper, lent a ray

That dimly show'd the state in which he lay:

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;

The royal Game of Goose was there in view,

And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;

The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place;

And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face.

The morn was cold; he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,

And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

AN EPILOGUE,INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

There is a place—so Ariosto sings—A treasury for lost and missing things;Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,And they who lose their senses, there may find them.But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?The Moon, says he;—but I affirm, the Stage—At least, in many things, I think I seeHis lunar and our mimic world agree:Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down;Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,And sure the folks of both are lunatics.But in this parallel my best pretence is,That mortals visit both to find their senses:To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.Hither the affected city dame advancing,Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,Quits theballet, and calls forNancy Dawson.The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor'd—As "Dam'me, Sir!" and, "Sir, I wear a sword!"Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating,Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.Here come the sons of scandal and of news,But find no sense—for they had none to lose.Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;Has he not seen how you your favour placeOn sentimental queens and lords in lace?Without a star, a coronet, or garter,How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?No high-life scenes, no sentiment:—the creatureStill stoops among the low to copy nature.Yes, he's far gone:—and yet some pity fix,The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.

There is a place—so Ariosto sings—

A treasury for lost and missing things;

Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,

And they who lose their senses, there may find them.

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?

The Moon, says he;—but I affirm, the Stage—

At least, in many things, I think I see

His lunar and our mimic world agree:

Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,

We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down;

Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,

And sure the folks of both are lunatics.

But in this parallel my best pretence is,

That mortals visit both to find their senses:

To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,

Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.

The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,

Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.

Hither the affected city dame advancing,

Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,

Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,

Quits theballet, and calls forNancy Dawson.

The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,

Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,

Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,

Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.

The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor'd—

As "Dam'me, Sir!" and, "Sir, I wear a sword!"

Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating,

Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.

Here come the sons of scandal and of news,

But find no sense—for they had none to lose.

Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,

Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;

Has he not seen how you your favour place

On sentimental queens and lords in lace?

Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?

No high-life scenes, no sentiment:—the creature

Still stoops among the low to copy nature.

Yes, he's far gone:—and yet some pity fix,

The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ.SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK, IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,

A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK, IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons exploreThe distant climate, and the savage shore;When wise astronomers to India steer,And quit for Venus many a brighter here;While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;Our bard into the general spirit enters,And fits his little frigate for adventures.With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,To make an observation on the shore.Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lostThis seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:Upper Gallery.There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em—[Pit.Here trees of stately size—and billing turtles in 'em—[Balconies.Here ill-conditioned oranges abound—[Stage.And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground.[Tasting them.The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!O, there the people are—best keep my distance;Our Captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;Our ship's well-stored;—in yonder creek we've laid her,His Honour is no mercenary trader.This is his first adventure; lend him aid,And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,Equally fit for gallantry and war.What! no reply to promises so ample?I'd best step back—and order up a sample.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore

The distant climate, and the savage shore;

When wise astronomers to India steer,

And quit for Venus many a brighter here;

While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,

Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;

Our bard into the general spirit enters,

And fits his little frigate for adventures.

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,

He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;

Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost

This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.

Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:

Upper Gallery.

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em—

[Pit.

Here trees of stately size—and billing turtles in 'em—

[Balconies.

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound—

[Stage.

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground.

[Tasting them.

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:

I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!

O, there the people are—best keep my distance;

Our Captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;

Our ship's well-stored;—in yonder creek we've laid her,

His Honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back—and order up a sample.

Victorian London Street view.

ELEGY.ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

ELEGY.

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song,And if you find it wondrous short—It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a manOf whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ran—Whene'er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he hadTo comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad—When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain some private ends,Went mad, and bit the man!Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.The wound it seem'd both sore and sadTo every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show'd the rogues they lied:The man recover'd of the bite—The dog it was that died.

Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song,And if you find it wondrous short—It cannot hold you long.

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short—

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a manOf whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ran—Whene'er he went to pray.

In Islington there was a man

Of whom the world might say,

That still a godly race he ran—

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he hadTo comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad—When he put on his clothes.

A kind and gentle heart he had

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad—

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain some private ends,Went mad, and bit the man!

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man!

Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sadTo every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,That show'd the rogues they lied:The man recover'd of the bite—The dog it was that died.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied:

The man recover'd of the bite—

The dog it was that died.

EPILOGUE.TO THE COMEDY OF "THE SISTERS."

EPILOGUE.

TO THE COMEDY OF "THE SISTERS."

What? five long acts—and all to make us wiser!Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.Had she consulted me, she should have madeHer moral play a speaking masquerade;Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rageHave emptied all the green-room on the stage.My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking,Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,What if I give a masquerade?—I will.But how? ay, there's the rub!pausingI've got my cue:The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.To Boxes, Bit, and Gallery.Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses!False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em:There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once moreTo raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;These in their turn, with appetites as keen,Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.Thus 'tis with all—their chief and constant careIs to seem every thing—but what they are.Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion;Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade,Looking, as who should say, dam' me! who's afraid?Mimicking.Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am,You'll find his lionship a very lamb.Yon politician, famous in debate,Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,And seems, to every gazer, all in white,If with a bribe his candour you attack,He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in black!Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?If I proceed, our bard will be undone!Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

What? five long acts—and all to make us wiser!

Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.

Had she consulted me, she should have made

Her moral play a speaking masquerade;

Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage

Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.

My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking,

Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.

Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,

What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub!pausingI've got my cue:

The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you.

To Boxes, Bit, and Gallery.

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses!False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em:There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once moreTo raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;These in their turn, with appetites as keen,Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.Thus 'tis with all—their chief and constant careIs to seem every thing—but what they are.Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion;Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade,Looking, as who should say, dam' me! who's afraid?

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses!

False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,

Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em:

There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more

To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;

These in their turn, with appetites as keen,

Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,

Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;

The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,

And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.

Thus 'tis with all—their chief and constant care

Is to seem every thing—but what they are.

Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,

Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion;

Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade,

Looking, as who should say, dam' me! who's afraid?

Mimicking.

Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am,You'll find his lionship a very lamb.Yon politician, famous in debate,Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,And seems, to every gazer, all in white,If with a bribe his candour you attack,He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in black!Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?If I proceed, our bard will be undone!Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am,

You'll find his lionship a very lamb.

Yon politician, famous in debate,

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;

Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume,

He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.

Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,

And seems, to every gazer, all in white,

If with a bribe his candour you attack,

He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in black!

Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone!

Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:

Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

PROLOGUE,WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHTWHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.

PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT

WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.

What! no way left to shun th'inglorious stage,And save from infamy my sinking age!Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,What in the name of dotage drives me here?A time there was, when glory was my guide,Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,With honest thrift I held my honour dear:But this vile hour disperses all my store,And all my hoard of honour is no more;For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.Here then at once I welcome every shame,And cancel at threescore a life of fame:No more my titles shall my children tell;The old buffoon will fit my name as well:This day beyond its term my fate extends,For life is ended when our honour ends.

What! no way left to shun th'inglorious stage,

And save from infamy my sinking age!

Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,

What in the name of dotage drives me here?

A time there was, when glory was my guide,

Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;

Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,

With honest thrift I held my honour dear:

But this vile hour disperses all my store,

And all my hoard of honour is no more;

For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,

Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;

Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,

Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.

Here then at once I welcome every shame,

And cancel at threescore a life of fame:

No more my titles shall my children tell;

The old buffoon will fit my name as well:

This day beyond its term my fate extends,

For life is ended when our honour ends.

STANZAS.

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear:Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes;Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.

Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear:Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear:

Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes;Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes;

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

Man Sitting at a table writing.

A NEW SIMILE.IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

A NEW SIMILE.

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

Long had I sought in vain to findA likeness for the scribbling kind—The modern scribbling kind, who writeIn wit, and sense, and nature's spite—Till reading—I forget what day on,A chapter out of Tooke's "Pantheon,"I think I met with something thereTo suit my purpose to a hair.But let us not proceed too furious,—First please to turn to god Mercurius:You'll find him pictur'd at full lengthIn book the second, page the tenth:The stress of all my proofs on him I lay;And now proceed we to our simile.Imprimis, pray observe his hat:Wings upon either side—mark that.Well! what is it from thence we gather?Why, these denote a brain of feather.A brain of feather? very right,With wit that's flighty, learning light;Such as to modern bard's decreed:A just comparison—proceed.In the next place, his feet peruse:Wings grow again from both his shoes;Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,And waft his godship through the air:And here my simile unites;For in a modern poet's flights,I'm sure it may be justly said,His feet are useful as his head.Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,By classic authors termed Caduceus,And highly famed for several uses:To wit,—most wond'rously endued,No poppy-water half so good;For let folks only get a touch,Its soporific virtue's such,Though ne'er so much awake before,That quickly they begin to snore;Add, too, what certain writers tell,With this he drives men's souls to hell.Now to apply, begin we then:—His wand's a modern author's pen;The serpents round about it twinedDenote him of the reptile kind,Denote the rage with which he writes,His frothy slaver, venom'd bites:An equal semblance still to keep,Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;This difference only,—as the godDrove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,Instead of others, damns himself.And here my simile almost tript;Yet grant a word by way of postscript.Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;Well! what of that? out with it.—Stealing;In which all modern bards agree,Being each as great a thief as he.But even this deity's existenceShall lend my simile assistance:Our modern bards! why, what a poxAre they—but senseless stones and blocks?

Long had I sought in vain to find

A likeness for the scribbling kind—

The modern scribbling kind, who write

In wit, and sense, and nature's spite—

Till reading—I forget what day on,

A chapter out of Tooke's "Pantheon,"

I think I met with something there

To suit my purpose to a hair.

But let us not proceed too furious,—

First please to turn to god Mercurius:

You'll find him pictur'd at full length

In book the second, page the tenth:

The stress of all my proofs on him I lay;

And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat:

Wings upon either side—mark that.

Well! what is it from thence we gather?

Why, these denote a brain of feather.

A brain of feather? very right,

With wit that's flighty, learning light;

Such as to modern bard's decreed:

A just comparison—proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse:

Wings grow again from both his shoes;

Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,

And waft his godship through the air:

And here my simile unites;

For in a modern poet's flights,

I'm sure it may be justly said,

His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,

Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,

By classic authors termed Caduceus,

And highly famed for several uses:

To wit,—most wond'rously endued,

No poppy-water half so good;

For let folks only get a touch,

Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,

That quickly they begin to snore;

Add, too, what certain writers tell,

With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:—

His wand's a modern author's pen;

The serpents round about it twined

Denote him of the reptile kind,

Denote the rage with which he writes,

His frothy slaver, venom'd bites:

An equal semblance still to keep,

Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;

This difference only,—as the god

Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,

With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,

Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript;

Yet grant a word by way of postscript.

Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;

Well! what of that? out with it.—Stealing;

In which all modern bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he.

But even this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance:

Our modern bards! why, what a pox

Are they—but senseless stones and blocks?

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.Needless to him the tribute we bestow,The transitory breath of fame below:More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,While converts thank their poet in the skies.

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.

What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;

And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.

Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,

While converts thank their poet in the skies.

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