DEMETRIUS.Cease this wild roar of savage exultation;Advance, and perish in the frantick boast.
ASPASIA.Forbear, Demetrius, 'tis Aspasia calls thee;Thy love, Aspasia, calls; restrain thy sword;Nor rush on useless wounds, with idle courage.
DEMETRIUS.What now remains?
ASPASIA.It now remains to fly!
DEMETRIUS.Shall, then, the savage live, to boast his insult;Tell, how Demetrius shunn'd his single hand,And stole his life and mistress from his sabre?
ABDALLA.Infatuate loiterer, has fate, in vain,Unclasp'd his iron gripe to set thee free?Still dost thou flutter in the jaws of death;Snar'd with thy fears, and maz'd in stupefaction?
DEMETRIUS.Forgive, my fair; 'tis life, 'tis nature calls:Now, traitor, feel the fear that chills my hand.
ASPASIA.'Tis madness to provoke superfluous danger,And cowardice to dread the boast of folly.
ABDALLA.Fly, wretch, while yet my pity grants thee flight;The pow'r of Turkey waits upon my call.Leave but this maid, resign a hopeless claim,And drag away thy life, in scorn and safety,Thy life, too mean a prey to lure Abdalla.
DEMETRIUS.Once more I dare thy sword; behold the prize,Behold, I quit her to the chance of battle.[QuittingAspasia.
ABDALLA.Well may'st thou call thy master to the combat,And try the hazard, that hast nought to stake;Alike my death or thine is gain to thee;But soon thou shalt repent: another momentShall throw th' attending janizaries round thee.[Exit, hastily, Abdalla.
IRENE.Abdalla fails; now, fortune, all is mine. [Aside.Haste, Murza, to the palace, let the sultan[To one of her attendantDespatch his guards to stop the flying traitors,While I protract their stay. Be swift and faithful.[ExitMurza.This lucky stratagem shall charm the sultan, [Aside.Secure his confidence, and fix his love.
DEMETRIUS.Behold a boaster's worth! Now snatch, my fair,The happy moment; hasten to the shore,Ere he return with thousands at his side.
ASPASIA.In vain I listen to th' inviting callOf freedom and of love; my trembling joints,Relax'd with fear, refuse to bear me forward.Depart, Demetrius, lest my fate involve thee;Forsake a wretch abandon'd to despair,To share the miseries herself has caus'd.
DEMETRIUS.Let us not struggle with th' eternal will,Nor languish o'er irreparable ruins;Come, haste and live—Thy innocence and truthShall bless our wand'rings, and propitiate heav'n.
IRENE.Press not her flight, while yet her feeble nervesRefuse their office, and uncertain lifeStill labours with imaginary woe;Here let me tend her with officious care,Watch each unquiet flutter of the breast,And joy to feel the vital warmth return,To see the cloud forsake her kindling cheek,And hail the rosy dawn of rising health.
ASPASIA.Oh! rather, scornful of flagitious greatness,Resolve to share our dangers and our toils,Companion of our flight, illustrious exile,Leave slav'ry, guilt, and infamy behind.
IRENE.My soul attends thy voice, and banish'd virtueStrives to regain her empire of the mind:Assist her efforts with thy strong persuasion;Sure, 'tis the happy hour ordain'd above,When vanquish'd vice shall tyrannise no more.
DEMETRIUS.Remember, peace and anguish are before thee,And honour and reproach, and heav'n and hell.
ASPASIA.Content with freedom, and precarious greatness.
DEMETRIUS.Now make thy choice, while yet the pow'r of choiceKind heav'n affords thee, and inviting mercyHolds out her hand to lead thee back to truth.
IRENE.Stay—in this dubious twilight of conviction,The gleams of reason, and the clouds of passion,Irradiate and obscure my breast, by turns:Stay but a moment, and prevailing truthWill spread resistless light upon my soul.
DEMETRIUS.But, since none knows the danger of a moment,And heav'n forbids to lavish life away,Let kind compulsion terminate the contest.[Seizing her hand.Ye christian captives, follow me to freedom:A galley waits us, and the winds invite.
IRENE.Whence is this violence?
DEMETRIUS.Your calmer thoughtWill teach a gentler term.
IRENE.Forbear this rudeness,And learn the rev'rence due to Turkey's queen:Fly, slaves, and call the sultan to my rescue.
DEMETRIUS.Farewell, unhappy maid; may every joyBe thine, that wealth can give, or guilt receive!
ASPASIA. nd when, contemptuous of imperial pow'r, Disease shall chase the phantoms of ambition, May penitence attend thy mournful bed, And wing thy latest pray'r to pitying heav'n! [ExeuntDem. Asp.with part of the attendants.
[IRENEwalks at a distance from her attendants.]
After a pause.Against the head, which innocence secures,Insidious malice aims her darts in vain,Turn'd backwards by the pow'rful breath of heav'n.Perhaps, e'en now the lovers, unpursu'd,Bound o'er the sparkling waves. Go, happy bark,Thy sacred freight shall still the raging main.To guide thy passage shall th' aerial spiritsFill all the starry lamps with double blaze;Th' applauding sky shall pour forth all its beams,To grace the triumph of victorious virtue;While I, not yet familiar to my crimes,Recoil from thought, and shudder at myself.How am I chang'd! How lately did IreneFly from the busy pleasures of her sex,Well pleas'd to search the treasures of remembrance,And live her guiltless moments o'er anew!Come, let us seek new pleasures in the palace,[To her attendants, going off.Till soft fatigue invite us to repose.
[EnterMUSTAPHA,meeting and stopping her.]
MUSTAPHA.Fair falsehood, stay.
IRENE.What dream of sudden powerHas taught my slave the language of command?Henceforth, be wise, nor hope a second pardon.
MUSTAPHA.Who calls for pardon from a wretch condemn'd?
IRENE.Thy look, thy speech, thy action, all is wildness—Who charges guilt, on me?
MUSTAPHA.Who charges guilt!Ask of thy heart; attend the voice of conscience—Who charges guilt! lay by this proud resentmentThat fires thy cheek, and elevates thy mien,Nor thus usurp the dignity of virtue.Review this day.
IRENE.Whate'er thy accusation,The sultan is my judge.
MUSTAPHA.That hope is past;Hard was the strife of justice and of love;But now 'tis o'er, and justice has prevail'd.Know'st thou not Cali? know'st thou not Demetrius?
IRENE.Bold slave, I know them both—I know them traitors.
MUSTAPHA.Perfidious!—yes—too well thou know'st them traitors.
IRENE.Their treason throws no stain upon Irene.This day has prov'd my fondness for the sultan;He knew Irene's truth.
MUSTAPHA.The sultan knows it;He knows, how near apostasy to treason—But 'tis not mine to judge—I scorn and leave thee.I go, lest vengeance urge my hand to blood,To blood too mean to stain a soldier's sabre.[ExitMustapha.
IRENE,to her attendants.Go, blust'ring slave—He has not heard of Murza.That dext'rous message frees me from suspicion.
EnterHASAN, CARAZA,with mutes, who throw the black robe uponIRENE,and sign to her attendants to withdraw.
HASAN.Forgive, fair excellence, th' unwilling tongue,The tongue, that, forc'd by strong necessity,Bids beauty, such as thine, prepare to die.
IRENE.What wild mistake is this! Take hence, with speed,Your robe of mourning, and your dogs of death.Quick from my sight, you inauspicious monsters;Nor dare, henceforth, to shock Irene's walks.
HASAN.Alas! they come commanded by the sultan,Th' unpitying ministers of Turkish justice,Nor dare to spare the life his frown condemns.
IRENE.Are these the rapid thunderbolts of war,That pour with sudden violence on kingdoms,And spread their flames, resistless, o'er the world?What sleepy charms benumb these active heroes,Depress their spirits, and retard their speed?Beyond the fear of ling'ring punishment,Aspasia now, within her lover's arms,Securely sleeps, and, in delightful dreams,Smiles at the threat'nings of defeated rage.
CARAZA.We come, bright virgin, though relenting natureShrinks at the hated task, for thy destruction.When summon'd by the sultan's clam'rous fury,We ask'd, with tim'rous tongue, th' offender's name,He struck his tortur'd breast, and roar'd, Irene!We started at the sound, again inquir'd;Again his thund'ring voice return'd, Irene!
IRENE.Whence is this rage; what barb'rous tongue has wrong'd me?What fraud misleads him? or what crimes incense?
HASAN.Expiring Cali nam'd Irene's chamber,The place appointed for his master's death.
IRENE.Irene's chamber! From my faithful bosomFar be the thought—But hear my protestation.
CARAZA.'Tis ours, alas! to punish, not to judge,Not call'd to try the cause, we heard the sentence,Ordain'd the mournful messengers of death.
IRENE.Some ill designing statesman's base intrigue!Some cruel stratagem of jealous beauty!Perhaps, yourselves the villains that defame me:—Now haste to murder, ere returning thoughtRecall th' extorted doom.—It must be so:Confess your crime, or lead me to the sultan;There dauntless truth shall blast the vile accuser;Then shall you feel, what language cannot utter,Each piercing torture, ev'ry change of pain,That vengeance can invent, or pow'r inflict.[EnterAbdalla:he stops short and listens.
ABDALLA,aside.All is not lost, Abdalla; see the queen,See the last witness of thy guilt and fear,Enrob'd in death—Despatch her, and be great.
CARAZA.Unhappy fair! compassion calls upon meTo check this torrent of imperious rage:While unavailing anger crowds thy tongueWith idle threats and fruitless exclamation,The fraudful moments ply their silent wings,And steal thy life away. Death's horrid angelAlready shakes his bloody sabre o'er thee.The raging sultan burns, till our return,Curses the dull delays of ling'ring mercy,And thinks his fatal mandates ill obey'd.
ABDALLA.Is then your sov'reign's life so cheaply rated,That thus you parley with detected treason?Should she prevail to gain the sultan's presence,Soon might her tears engage a lover's credit;Perhaps, her malice might transfer the charge;Perhaps, her pois'nous tongue might blast Abdalla.
IRENE.O! let me but be heard, nor fear from meOr flights of pow'r, or projects of ambition.My hopes, my wishes, terminate in life,A little life, for grief, and for repentance.
ABDALLA.I mark'd her wily messenger afar,And saw him sculking in the closest walks:I guess'd her dark designs, and warn'd the sultan,And bring her former sentence new-confirmed.
HASAN.Then call it not our cruelty, nor crime;Deem us not deaf to woe, nor blind to beauty,That, thus constrain'd, we speed the stroke of death.[Beckons the mutes.
IRENE.O, name not death! Distraction and amazement,Horrour and agony are in that sound!Let me but live, heap woes on woes upon me;Hide me with murd'rers in the dungeon's gloom;Send me to wander on some pathless shore,Let shame and hooting infamy pursue me,Let slav'ry harass, and let hunger gripe.
CARAZA.Could we reverse the sentence of the sultan,Our bleeding bosoms plead Irene's cause.But cries and tears are vain; prepare, with patience,To meet that fate, we can delay no longer.[The mutes, at the sign, lay hold of her.
ABDALLA.Despatch, ye ling'ring slaves; or nimbler hands,Quick at my call, shall execute your charge;Despatch, and learn a fitter time for pity.
IRENE.Grant me one hour. O! grant me but a moment,And bounteous heav'n repay the mighty mercy,With peaceful death, and happiness eternal.
CARAZA.The pray'r I cannot grant—I dare not hear.Short be thy pains. [Signs again to the mutes.
IRENE.Unutterable anguish!Guilt and despair, pale spectres! grin around me,And stun me with the yellings of damnation!O, hear my pray'rs! accept, all-pitying heav'n,These tears, these pangs, these last remains of life;Nor let the crimes of this detested dayBe charg'd upon my soul. O, mercy! mercy![Mutes force her out.
ABDALLA,aside.Safe in her death, and in Demetrius' flight,Abdalla, bid thy troubled breast be calm.Now shalt thou shine, the darling of the sultan,The plot all Cali's, the detection thine.
HASANtoCARAZA.Does not thy bosom (for I know thee tender,A stranger to th' oppressor's savage joy,)Melt at Irene's fate, and share her woes?
CARAZA.Her piercing cries yet fill the loaded air,Dwell on my ear, and sadden all my soul.But let us try to clear our clouded brows,And tell the horrid tale with cheerful face;The stormy sultan rages at our stay.
ABDALLA.Frame your report with circumspective art:Inflame her crimes, exalt your own obedience;But let no thoughtless hint involve Abdalla.
CARAZA.What need of caution to report the fateOf her, the sultan's voice condemn'd to die?Or why should he, whose violence of dutyHas serv'd his prince so well, demand our silence?
ABDALLA.Perhaps, my zeal, too fierce, betray'd my prudence;Perhaps, my warmth exceeded my commission;Perhaps—I will not stoop to plead my cause,Or argue with the slave that sav'd Demetrius.
CARAZA.From his escape learn thou the pow'r of virtue;Nor hope his fortune, while thou want'st his worth.
HASAN.The sultan comes, still gloomy, still enraged.
MAHOMET.Where's this fair traitress? Where's this smiling mischief,Whom neither vows could fix, nor favours bind?
HASAN.Thine orders, mighty sultan, are perform'd,And all Irene now is breathless clay.
MAHOMET.Your hasty zeal defrauds the claim of justice,And disappointed vengeance burns in vain.I came to heighten tortures by reproach,And add new terrours to the face of death.Was this the maid, whose love I bought with empire?True, she was fair; the smile of innocencePlay'd on her cheek—So shone the first apostate—Irene's chamber! Did not roaring Cali,Just as the rack forc'd out his struggling soul,Name for the scene of death, Irene's chamber?
MUSTAPHA.His breath prolong'd, but to detect her treason,Then, in short sighs, forsook his broken frame.
MAHOMET.Decreed to perish in Irene's chamber!There had she lull'd me with endearing falsehoods,Clasp'd in her arms, or slumb'ring on her breast,And bar'd my bosom to the ruffian's dagger.
MURZA.Forgive, great sultan, that, by fate prevented,I bring a tardy message from Irene.
MAHOMET.Some artful wile of counterfeited love!Some soft decoy to lure me to destruction!And thou, the curs'd accomplice of her treason,Declare thy message, and expect thy doom.
MURZA.The queen requested, that a chosen troopMight intercept the traitor Greek, Demetrius,Then ling'ring with his captive mistress here.
MUSTAPHA.The Greek, Demetrius! whom th' expiring bassaDeclar'd the chief associate of his guilt!
MAHOMET.A chosen troop—to intercept—Demetrius—The queen requested—Wretch, repeat the message;And, if one varied accent prove thy falsehood,Or but one moment's pause betray confusion,Those trembling limbs—Speak out, thou shiv'ring traitor.
MURZA.The queen requested—
MAHOMET. Who? the dead Irene?Was she then guiltless! Has my thoughtless rageDestroy'd the fairest workmanship of heav'n!Doom'd her to death, unpity'd and unheard,Amidst her kind solicitudes for me!Ye slaves of cruelty, ye tools of rage,[ToHasanandCaraza.Ye blind, officious ministers of folly,Could not her charms repress your zeal for murder?Could not her pray'rs, her innocence, her tears,Suspend the dreadful sentence for an hour?One hour had freed me from the fatal errour!One hour had say'd me from despair and madness.
CARAZA.Your fierce impatience forc'd us from your presence,Urg'd us to speed, and bade us banish pity,Nor trust our passions with her fatal charms.
MAHOMET.What hadst thou lost, by slighting those commands?Thy life, perhaps—Were but Irene spar'd,Well, if a thousand lives like thine had perish'd;Such beauty, sweetness, love, were cheaply boughtWith half the grov'ling slaves that load the globe.
MUSTAPHA.Great is thy woe! But think, illustrious sultan,Such ills are sent for souls, like thine, to conquer.Shake off this weight of unavailing grief,Rush to the war, display thy dreadful banners,And lead thy troops, victorious, round the world.
MAHOMET.Robb'd of the maid, with whom I wish'd to triumph,No more I burn for fame, or for dominion;Success and conquest now are empty sounds,Remorse and anguish seize on all my breast;Those groves, whose shades embower'd the dear Irene,Heard her last cries, and fann'd her dying beauties,Shall hide me from the tasteless world for ever.[Mahometgoes back, and returns.Yet, ere I quit the sceptre of dominion,Let one just act conclude the hateful day—Hew down, ye guards, those vassals of destruction,[Pointing toHasanandCaraza.Those hounds of blood, that catch the hint to kill,Bear off, with eager haste, th' unfinished sentence,And speed the stroke, lest mercy should o'ertake them.
CARAZA.Then hear, great Mahomet, the voice of truth.
MAHOMET.Hear! shall I hear thee! didst thou hear Irene?
CARAZA.Hear but a moment.
MAHOMET.Hadst thou heard a moment,Thou might'st have liv'd, for thou hadst spar'd Irene.
CARAZA.I heard her, pitied her, and wish'd to save her.
MAHOMET.And wish'd—be still thy fate to wish in vain.
CARAZA.I heard, and soften'd, till Abdalla broughtHer final doom, and hurried her destruction.
MAHOMET.Abdalla brought her doom! Abdalla brought it!The wretch, whose guilt, declar'd by tortur'd Cali,My rage and grief had hid from my remembrance:Abdalla brought her doom!
HASAN.Abdalla brought it,While yet she begg'd to plead her cause before thee.
MAHOMET.O, seize me, madness—Did she call on me!I feel, I see the ruffian's barb'rous rage.He seiz'd her melting in the fond appeal,And stopp'd the heav'nly voice that call'd on me.My spirits fail; awhile support me, vengeance—Be just, ye slaves; and, to be just, be cruel;Contrive new racks, imbitter ev'ry pang,Inflict whatever treason can deserve,Which murder'd innocence that call'd on me.[ExitMahomet; Abdallais dragged off.
MUSTAPHAtoMURZA.What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee,Thou sluggish idler, dilatory slave!Behold the model of consummate beauty,Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect.
MURZA.Such was the will of heav'n—A band of Greeks,That mark'd my course, suspicious of my purpose,Rush'd out and seiz'd me, thoughtless and unarm'd,Breathless, amaz'd, and on the guarded beachDetain'd me, till Demetrius set me free.
MUSTAPHA.So sure the fall of greatness, rais'd on crimes!So fix'd the justice of all conscious heav'n!When haughty guilt exults with impious joy,Mistake shall blast, or accident destroy;Weak man, with erring rage, may throw the dart,But heav'n shall guide it to the guilty heart.
Marry a Turk! a haughty, tyrant king!Who thinks us women born to dress and singTo please his fancy! see no other man!Let him persuade me to it—if he can;Besides, he has fifty wives; and who can bearTo have the fiftieth part, her paltry share?
'Tis true, the fellow's handsome, straight, and tall,But how the devil should he please us all!My swain is little—true—but, be it known,My pride's to have that little all my own.Men will be ever to their errours blind,Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind.I swear this eastern pageantry is nonsense,And for one man—one wife's enough in conscience.
In vain proud man usurps what's woman's due;For us, alone, they honour's paths pursue:Inspir'd by us, they glory's heights ascend;Woman the source, the object, and the end.Though wealth, and pow'r, and glory, they receive,These are all trifles to what we can give.For us the statesman labours, hero fights,Bears toilsome days, and wakes long tedious nights;And, when blest peace has silenc'd war's alarms;Receives his full reward in beauty's arms.
Acted at Drury lane theatre, for the benefit of Milton's granddaughter[a].
Ye patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame,Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name;Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring rhymes,Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times;Immortal patrons of succeeding days,Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wageWith close malevolence, or publick rage;Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,Behold this theatre, and grieve no more.This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell,That never Britain can in vain excel;The slighted arts futurity shall trust,And rising ages hasten to be just.At length, our mighty bard's victorious laysFill the loud voice of universal praise;And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,Yields to renown the centuries to come;With ardent haste each candidate of fame,Ambitious, catches at his tow'ring name;He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestowThose pageant honours, which he scorn'd below;While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,Or trace his form on circulating gold.Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,And want hung threat'ning o'er her slow decay,What, though she shine with no Miltonian fire,No fav'ring muse her morning dreams inspire;Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;Her's the mild merits of domestick life,The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.Thus, grac'd with humble virtue's native charms,Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,While tutelary nations guard her cell.Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave!'Tis yours to crown desert—beyond the grave.
[a] See Life of Milton.
Prest by the load of life, the weary mindSurveys the gen'ral toil of human kind;With cool submission joins the lab'ring train,And social sorrow loses half its pain:Our anxious bard, without complaint, may shareThis bustling season's epidemick care;Like Caesar's pilot, dignify'd by fate,Tost in one common storm with all the great;Distrest alike the statesman and the wit,When one a borough courts, and one the pit.The busy candidates for pow'r and fameHave hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same;Disabled both to combat or to fly,Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage,As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale,For that blest year, when all that vote may rail;Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss."This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,"Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote.""This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries,"Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies."The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe;The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold,He feels no want of ill persuading gold;But, confident of praise, if praise be due,Trusts, without fear, to merit and to you.
PROLOGUETO THE COMEDY OF A WORK TO THE WISE[a]SPOKEN BY MR. HULL.
This night presents a play, which publick rage,Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage[b].From zeal or malice, now, no more we dread,For English vengeance wars not with the dead.A gen'rous foe regards, with pitying eye,The man whom fate has laid, where all must lie.To wit, reviving from its author's dust,Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just.For no renew'd hostilities invadeTh' oblivious grave's inviolable shade.Let one great payment ev'ry claim appease;And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please;To please by scenes, unconscious of offence,By harmless merriment, or useful sense.Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays,Approve it only—'tis too late to praise.If want of skill, or want of care appear,Forbear to hiss—the poet cannot hear.By all, like him, must praise and blame be found,At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound.Yet, then, shall calm reflection bless the night,When lib'ral pity dignify'd delight;When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame,And mirth was bounty with an humbler name.
[a] Performed at Covent garden theatre in 1777, for the benefit of Mrs. Kelly, widow of Hugh Kelly, esq. (the author of the play,) and her children.
[b] Upon the first representation of this play, 1770, a party assembledto damn it, and succeeded.
Stern winter now, by spring repress'd,Forbears the long-continued strife;And nature, on her naked breast,Delights to catch the gales of life.Now o'er the rural kingdom rovesSoft pleasure with the laughing train,Love warbles in the vocal groves,And vegetation plants the plain.Unhappy! whom to beds of pain,Arthritick[a] tyranny consigns;Whom smiling nature courts in vain,Though rapture sings, and beauty shines.Yet though my limbs disease invades,Her wings imagination tries,And bears me to the peaceful shades,Where—s humble turrets rise;Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight,Nor from the pleasing groves depart,Where first great nature charm'd my sight,Where wisdom first inform'd my heart.Here let me through the vales pursueA guide—a father—and a friend,Once more great nature's works renew,Once more on wisdom's voice attend.From false caresses, causeless strife,Wild hope, vain fear, alike remov'd,Here let me learn the use of life,When best enjoy'd—when most improv'd.Teach me, thou venerable bower,Cool meditation's quiet seat,The gen'rous scorn of venal power,The silent grandeur of retreat.When pride, by guilt, to greatness climbs,Or raging factions rush to war,Here let me learn to shun the crimes,I can't prevent, and will not share.But, lest I fall by subtler foes,Bright wisdom, teach me Curio's art,The swelling passions to compose,And quell the rebels of the heart.
[a] The author being ill of the gout.
O Phoebus! down the western sky,Far hence diffuse thy burning ray,Thy light to distant worlds supply,And wake them to the cares of day.Come, gentle eve, the friend of care,Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night!Refresh me with a cooling air,And cheer me with a lambent light:Lay me, where o'er the verdant groundHer living carpet nature spreads;Where the green bow'r, with roses crown'd,In show'rs its fragrant foliage sheds;Improve the peaceful hour with wine;Let musick die along the grove;Around the bowl let myrtles twine,And ev'ry strain be tun'd to love.Come, Stella, queen of all my heart!Come, born to fill its vast desires!Thy looks perpetual joys impart,Thy voice perpetual love inspires.Whilst, all my wish and thine complete,By turns we languish and we burn,Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,Our murmurs—murmuring brooks return,Let me, when nature calls to rest,And blushing skies the morn foretell,Sink on the down of Stella's breast,And bid the waking world farewell.
Alas! with swift and silent pace,Impatient time rolls on the year;The seasons change, and nature's faceNow sweetly smiles, now frowns severe,'Twas spring, 'twas summer, all was gay,Now autumn bends a cloudy brow;The flow'rs of spring are swept away,And summer-fruits desert the bough.The verdant leaves, that play'd on high,And wanton'd on the western breeze,Now, trod in dust, neglected lie,As Boreas strips the bending trees.The fields, that way'd with golden grain,As russet heaths, are wild and bare;Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain,Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there.No more, while through the midnight shade,Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,As Progne pours the melting lay.From this capricious clime she soars,Oh! would some god but wings supply!To where each morn the spring restores,Companion of her flight I'd fly.Vain wish! me fate compels to bearThe downward season's iron reign;Compels to breathe polluted air,And shiver on a blasted plain.What bliss to life can autumn yield,If glooms, and show'rs, and storms prevail,And Ceres flies the naked field,And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail?Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,To cheer me in the dark'ning hour!The grape remains! the friend of wit,In love, and mirth, of mighty pow'r.Haste—press the clusters, fill the bowl;Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:This gives the sunshine of the soul,This god of health, and verse, and day.Still—still the jocund strain shall flow,The pulse with vig'rous rapture beat;My Stella with new charms shall glow,And ev'ry bliss in wine shall meet.
No more tire morn, with tepid rays,Unfolds the flow'r of various hue;Noon spreads no more the genial blaze,Nor gentle eve distils the dew.The ling'ring hours prolong the night,Usurping darkness shares the day;Her mists restrain the force of light,And Phoebus holds a doubtful sway.By gloomy twilight, half reveal'd,With sighs we view the hoary hill,The leafless wood, the naked field,The snow-topp'd cot, the frozen rill.No musick warbles through the grove,No vivid colours paint the plain;No more, with devious steps, I roveThrough verdant paths, now sought in vain.Aloud the driving tempest roars,Congeal'd, impetuous show'rs descend;Haste, close the window, bar the doors,Fate leaves me Stella, and a friend.In nature's aid, let art supplyWith light and heat my little sphere;Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high,Light up a constellation here.Let musick sound the voice of joy,Or mirth repeat the jocund tale;Let love his wanton wiles employ,And o'er the season wine prevail.Yet time life's dreary winter brings,When mirth's gay tale shall please no moreNor musick charm—though Stella sings;Nor love, nor wine, the spring restore.Catch, then, Oh! catch the transient hour,Improve each moment as it flies;Life's a short summer—man a flow'r:He dies—alas! how soon he dies!
Behold, my fair, where'er we rove,What dreary prospects round us rise;The naked hill, the leafless grove,The hoary ground, the frowning skies!Nor only through the wasted plain,Stern winter! is thy force confess'd;Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,I feel thy pow'r usurp my breast.Enliv'ning hope, and fond desire,Resign the heart to spleen and care;Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,And rapture saddens to despair.In groundless hope, and causeless fear,Unhappy man! behold thy doom;Still changing with the changeful year,The slave of sunshine and of gloom.Tir'd with vain joys, and false alarms,With mental and corporeal strife,Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,And screen me from the ills of life[a].
[a] Andhideme from thesightof life. 1st edition.
TO MISS ****ON HER GIVING THE AUTHOR A GOLD AND SILK NETWORK PURSE OF HER OWNWEAVING[a].
Though gold and silk their charms uniteTo make thy curious web delight,In vain the varied work would shine,If wrought by any hand but thine;Thy hand, that knows the subtler artTo weave those nets that catch the heart.
Spread out by me, the roving coinThy nets may catch, but not confine;Nor can I hope thy silken chainThe glitt'ring vagrants shall restrain.Why, Stella, was it then decreed,The heart, once caught, should ne'er be freed?
[a] Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
TO MISS ****ON HER PLAYING UPON THE HARPSICHORD, IN A ROOM HUNG WITH FLOWER-PIECESOF HER OWN PAINTING[a].
When Stella strikes the tuneful string,In scenes of imitated spring,Where beauty lavishes her pow'rsOn beds of never-fading flow'rs,And pleasure propagates aroundEach charm of modulated sound;Ah! think not, in the dang'rous hour,The nymph fictitious as the flow'r;But shun, rash youth, the gay alcove,Nor tempt the snares of wily love.When charms thus press on ev'ry sense,What thought of flight, or of defence?Deceitful hope, and vain desire,For ever flutter o'er her lyre,Delighting, as the youth draws nigh,To point the glances of her eye,And forming, with unerring art,New chains to hold the captive heart.But on those regions of delightMight truth intrude with daring flight,Could Stella, sprightly, fair, and young,One moment hear the moral song,Instruction, with her flowers, might spring,And wisdom warble from her string.Mark, when from thousand mingled diesThou seest one pleasing form arise,How active light, and thoughtful shadeIn greater scenes each other aid;Mark, when the different notes agreeIn friendly contrariety,How passion's well-accorded strifeGives all the harmony of life;Thy pictures shall thy conduct frame,Consistent still, though not the same;Thy musick teach the nobler art,To tune the regulated heart.
[a] Printed among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
Ev'ning now from purple wingsSheds the grateful gifts she brings;Brilliant drops bedeck the mead,Cooling breezes shake the reed;Shake the reed, and curl the stream,Silver'd o'er with Cynthia's beam;Near the checquer'd, lonely grove,Hears, and keeps thy secrets, love.Stella, thither let us stray,Lightly o'er the dewy way.Phoebus drives his burning carHence, my lovely Stella, far;In his stead, the queen of nightRound us pours a lambent light;Light, that seems but just to showBreasts that beat, and cheeks that glow.Let us now, in whisper'd joy,Ev'ning's silent hours employ;Silence best, and conscious shades,Please the hearts that love invades;Other pleasures give them pain,Lovers all but love disdain.
Whether Stella's eyes are foundFix'd on earth, or glancing round,If her face with pleasure glow,If she sigh at others' woe,If her easy air expressConscious worth, or soft distress,Stella's eyes, and air, and face,Charm with undiminish'd grace.If on her we see display'dPendent gems, and rich brocade;If her chints with less expenseFlows in easy negligence;Still she lights the conscious flame,Still her charms appear the same;If she strikes the vocal strings,If she's silent, speaks, or sings,If she sit, or if she move,Still we love, and still approve.Vain the casual, transient glance,Which alone can please by chance;Beauty, which depends on art,Changing with the changing heart,Which demands the toilet's aid,Pendent gems and rich brocade.I those charms alone can prize,Which from constant nature rise,Which nor circumstance, nor dress,E'er can make, or more, or less.
No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,With av'rice, painful vigils keep;Still unenjoy'd the present store,Still endless sighs are breath'd for more.Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize,Which not all India's treasure buys!To purchase heav'n has gold the power?Can gold remove the mortal hour?In life, can love be bought with gold?Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?No—all that's worth a wish—a thought,Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought.Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,Let nobler views engage thy mind.With science tread the wondrous way,Or learn the muses' moral lay;In social hours indulge thy soul,Where mirth and temp'rance mix the bowl;To virtuous love resign thy breast,And be, by blessing beauty—blest.Thus taste the feast, by nature spread,Ere youth, and all its joys are fled;Come, taste with me the balm of life,Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.I boast whate'er for man was meant,In health, and Stella, and content;And scorn! oh! let that scorn be thine!Mere things of clay that dig the mine.
When lately Stella's form display'dThe beauties of the gay brocade,The nymphs, who found their pow'r decline,Proclaim'd her not so fair as fine."Fate! snatch away the bright disguise,And let the goddess trust her eyes."Thus blindly pray'd the fretful fair,And fate malicious heard the pray'r;But, brighten'd by the sable dress,As virtue rises in distress,Since Stella still extends her reign,Ah! how shall envy sooth her pain?Th' adoring youth and envious fair,Henceforth, shall form one common prayer:And love and hate, alike, imploreThe skies—"That Stella mourn no more."
Not the soft sighs of vernal gales,The fragrance of the flow'ry vales,The murmurs of the crystal rill,The vocal grove, the verdant hill;Not all their charms, though all unite,Can touch my bosom with delight.
Not all the gems on India's shore,Not all Peru's unbounded store,Not all the power, nor all the fame,That heroes, kings, or poets claim;Nor knowledge, which the learn'd approve;To form one wish my soul can move.
Yet nature's charms allure my eyes,And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize;Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,Nor seek I nature's charms in vain;In lovely Stella all combine;And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.
VERSES,WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN, TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIGOF MYRTLE [a].
What hopes, what terrours, does thy gift create!Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate!The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,Consign'd by Venus to Melissa's hand)Not less capricious than a reigning fair,Oft favours, oft rejects, a lover's pray'r.In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain.The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,Th' unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads.Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart.Soon must this bough, as you shall fix its doom,Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.
[a] These verses were first printed in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1768, p. 439, but were written many years earlier. Elegant as they are, Dr. Johnson assured me, they were composed in the short space of five minutes.—N.
TO LADY FIREBRACE[a].AT BURY ASSIZES.
At length, must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,So long renown'd in B—n's deathless strain?Thy charms, at least, fair Firebrace, might inspireSome zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre;For, such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a muse and grace.
[a] This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, esq. ofIpswich, and relict of Philip Evers, esq. of that town. She becamethe second wife of sir Cordell Firebrace, the last baronet of thatname, to whom she brought a fortune of 25,000 pounds, July 26, 1737.Being again left a widow, in 1759, she was a third time married,April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, esq. uncle to the late duke ofArgyle, and died July 3, 1782.
Ye nymphs, whom starry rays invest,By flatt'ring poets given;Who shine, by lavish lovers drest,In all the pomp of heaven;
Engross not all the beams on high,Which gild a lover's lays;But, as your sister of the sky,Let Lyce share the praise.
Her silver locks display the moon,Her brows a cloudy show,Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are seen,And show'rs from either flow.
Her teeth the night with darkness dies,She's starr'd with pimples o'er;Her tongue, like nimble lightning, plies,And can with thunder roar.
But some Zelinda, while I sing,Denies my Lyce shines;And all the pens of Cupid's wingAttack my gentle lines.
Yet, spite of fair Zelinda's eye,And all her bards express,My Lyce makes as good a sky,And I but flatter less.
ON THE DEATH OFMR. ROBERT LEVET[a],A PRACTISER IN PHYSICK.
Condemn'd to hope's delusive mine,As on we toil, from day to day,By sudden blasts, or slow decline,Our social comforts drop away.
Well try'd, through many a varying year,See Levet to the grave descend,Officious, innocent, sincere,Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;Nor, letter'd arrogance, denyThy praise to merit unrefined.
When fainting nature call'd for aid,And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow,His vig'rous remedy display'dThe pow'r of art, without the show.
In mis'ry's darkest cavern known,His useful care was ever nigh,Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,And lonely want retir'd to die.
No summons, mock'd by chill delay,No petty gain, disdain'd by pride;The modest wants of ev'ry dayThe toil of ev'ry day supply'd.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,Nor made a pause, nor left a void;And sure the eternal master foundThe single talent well-employ'd.
The busy day—the peaceful night,Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;His frame was firm—his pow'rs were bright,Though now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then, with no fiery throbbing pain,No cold gradations of decay,Death broke, at once, the vital chain,And freed his soul the nearest way.
[a] These stanzas, to adopt the words of Dr. Drake, "are warm from the heart; and this is the only poem, from the pen of Johnson, that has been bathed with tears." Levet was Johnson's constant and attentive companion, for near forty years; he was a practitioner in physic, among the lower class of people, in London. Humanity, rather than desire of gain, seems to have actuated this single hearted and amiable being; and never were the virtues of charity recorded in more touching strains. "I am acquainted," says Dr. Drake, "with nothing superior to them in the productions of the moral muse." See Drake's Literary Life of Johnson; and Boswell, i. ii. iii. iv.—ED.
EPITAPH ON CLAUDE PHILLIPS,AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN[a].
Phillips! whose touch harmonious could removeThe pangs of guilty pow'r, and hapless love,Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more,Find here that calm thou gay'st so oft before;Sleep, undisturb'd, within this peaceful shrine,Till angels wake thee, with a note like thine.
[a] These lines are among Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies: they are, nevertheless, recognised as Johnson's, in a memorandum of his handwriting, and were probably written at her request. This Phillips was a fiddler, who travelled up and down Wales, and was much celebrated for his skill. The above epitaph, according to Mr. Boswell, won the applause of lord Kames, prejudiced against Johnson as he was. It was published in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies, and was, at first, ascribed to Garrick, from its appearing with the signature G.—Garrick, however, related, that they were composed, almost impromptu, by Johnson, on hearing some lines on the subject, by Dr. Wilkes, which he disapproved. See Boswell, i. 126, where is, likewise, preserved an epigram, by Johnson, on Colley Cibber and George the second, whose illiberal treatment of artists and learned men was a constant theme of his execration. As it has not yet been inserted among Johnson's works, we will present it to the readers of the present edition, in this note.
EPITAPHIUM[a]INTHOMAM HANMER, BARONETTUM.
Honorabilis admodum THOMAS HANMER,Baronnettus,
Augustus still survives in Maro's strain,And Spenser's verse prolongs Eliza's reign;Great George's acts let tuneful Gibber sing;For nature formed the poet for the king.
Wilhelmi Hanmer armigeri, e Peregrina HenriciNorthDe Mildenhall, in Com. Suffolciae, baronetti sororeet haerede,Filius;Johannis Hanmer de Hanmer baronettiHaeres patruelisAntiquo gentis suae et titulo et patrimonio successit.Duas uxores sortitus est;Alteram Isabellam, honore a patre derivato, deArlington comitissam,Deinde celsissimi principis, ducis de Grafton, viduamdotariam:Alteram Elizabetham, Thomae Foulkes de Barton, inCom. Suff. armigeriFiliam et haeredem.Inter humanitatis studia feliciter enutritus,Omnes liberalium artium disciplinas avide arripuit,Quas morum suavitate baud leviter ornavit,Postquam excessit ex ephebis,Continuo inter populares suos fama eminens,Et comitatus sui legatus ad parliamentum missus,Ad ardua regni negotia, per annos prope triginta,se accinxit:Cumque, apud illos amplissimorum virorum ordines,Solent nihil temere effutire,Sed probe perpensa diserte expromere,Orator gravis et pressus,Non minus integritatis quam eloquentiae laudecommendatus,Aeque omnium, utcunque inter se alioqui dissidentium,Aures atque arrimos attraxit.Annoque demum M.DCC.XIII. regnante Anna,Felicissimae florentissimaeque memoriae regina,Ad prolocutoris cathedram,Communi senatus universi voce, designatus est:Quod munus,Cum nullo tempore non difficile,Tum illo certe, negotiisEt variis, et lubricis, et implicatis, difficillimum,Cum dignitate sustinuit.Honores alios, et omnia quae sibi in lucrum cederentmunera,Sedulo detrectavit,Ut rei totus inserviret publicae;Justi rectique tenax,Et fide in patriam incorrupta notus.Ubi omnibus, quae virum civemque bonum decent,officiis satisfecisset,Paulatim se a publicis consiliis in otium recipiens,Inter literarum amoenitates,Inter ante-actae vitae baud insuaves recordationes,Inter amicorum convictus et amplexus,Honorifice consenuit;Et bonis omnibus, quibus charissimus vixit,Desideratissimus obiit.Hie, juxta cineres avi, suos condi voluit, et curavitGulielmus Bunbury B'ttus, nepos et haeres.
PARAPHRASE OF THE ABOVE EPITAPH.BY DR. JOHNSON (b).
Thou, who survey'st these walls with curious eye,Pause at the tomb, where Hanmer's ashes lie;His various worth, through vary'd life, attend,And learn his virtues, while thou mourn'st his end.His force of genius burn'd, in early youth,With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;His learning, join'd with each endearing art,Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart.Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid,His country call'd him from the studious shade;In life's first bloom his publick toils began,At once commenc'd the senator and man.In bus'ness dext'rous, weighty in debate,Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;In ev'ry speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,In ev'ry act refulgent virtue glow'd:Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife,To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,Who hail'd him speaker, with united voice.Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,When Hanmer fill'd the chair—and Anne the throne!Then, when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate,When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,The moderator firmly mild appear'd—Beheld with love—with veneration heard.This task perform'd—he sought no gainful post,Nor wish'd to glitter, at his country's cost:Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye,With temp'rate zeal and wise anxiety;Nor e'er from virtue's paths was lur'd aside,To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure, or of pride.Her gifts despis'd, corruption blush'd, and fled,And fame pursu'd him, where conviction led.Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest,With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd;To letter'd ease retir'd, and honest mirth,To rural grandeur and domestick worth;Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.Calm conscience, then, his former life survey'd,And recollected toils endear'd the shade,Till nature call'd him to the gen'ral doom,And virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.
[a] At Hanmer church, in Flintshire.[b] This paraphrase is inserted in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. TheLatin is there said to be written by Dr. Freind. Of the person whosememory it celebrates, a copious account may be seen in the appendixto the supplement to the Biographia Britannica.
TO MISS HICKMAN[a],PLAYING ON THE SPINET.
Bright Stella, form'd for universal reign,Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,Aw'd into love our conquer'd hearts obey,And yield reluctant to despotick sway:But, when your musick sooths the raging pain,We bid propitious heav'n prolong your reign,We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,Ambition's fury fir'd the Grecian king:Unbounded projects lab'ring in his mind,He pants for room, in one poor world confin'd.Thus wak'd to rage, by musick's dreadful pow'r,He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.Had Stella's gentle touches mov'd the lyre,Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire;No more delighted with destructive war,Ambitious only now to please the fair,Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.
[a] These lines, which have been communicated by Dr. Turton, son to Mrs.Turton, the lady to whom they are addressed by her maiden name ofHickman, must have been written, at least, as early as 1734, as thatwas the year of her marriage: at how much earlier a period of Dr.Johnson's life they might have been written, is not known.
"Go to the ant, thou sluggard[a]."
Turn on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes,Observe her labours, sluggard, and be wise:No stern command, no monitory voice,Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice;Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,To snatch the blessings of the plenteous day;When fruitful summer loads the teeming plain,She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy pow'rs;While artful shades thy downy couch inclose,And soft solicitation courts repose?Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,Year chases year with unremitted flight,Till want now following, fraudulent and slow,Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe.
[a] First printed in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies.
The snow, dissolv'd, no more is seen,The fields and woods, behold! are green;The changing year renews the plain,The rivers know their banks again;The sprightly nymph and naked graceThe mazy dance together trace;The changing year's successive planProclaims mortality to man;Rough winter's blasts to spring give way,Spring yields to summer's sov'reign ray;Then summer sinks in autumn's reign,And winter chills the world again;Her losses soon the moon supplies,But wretched man, when once he liesWhere Priam and his sons are laid,Is nought but ashes and a shade.Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,Will toss us in a morning more?What with your friend you nobly share,At least you rescue from your heir.Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,When Minos once has fixed your doom,Or eloquence, or splendid birth,Or virtue, shall restore to earth.Hippolytus, unjustly slain,Diana calls to life in vain;Nor can the might of Theseus rendThe chains of hell that hold his friend.Nov. 1784.
The following translations, parodies, and burlesque verses, most of them extempore, are taken from Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, published by Mrs. Piozzi.
Lovely courier of the sky,Whence and whither dost thou fly?Scatt'ring, as thy pinions play,Liquid fragrance all the way:Is it business? is it love?Tell me, tell me, gentle dove.Soft Anacreon's vows I bear,Vows to Myrtale the fair;Grac'd with all that charms the heart,Blushing nature, smiling art.Venus, courted by an ode,On the bard her dove bestow'd:Vested with a master's right,Now Anacreon rules my flight;His the letters that you see,Weighty charge, consign'd to me:Think not yet my service hard,Joyless task without reward;Smiling at my master's gates,Freedom my return awaits;But the lib'ral grant in vainTempts me to be wild again.Can a prudent dove declineBlissful bondage such as mine?Over hills and fields to roam,Fortune's guest without a home;Under leaves to hide one's headSlightly shelter'd, coarsely fed:Now my better lot bestowsSweet repast and soft repose;Now the gen'rous bowl I sip,As it leaves Anacreon's lip:Void of care, and free from dread,From his fingers snatch his bread;Then, with luscious plenty gay,Round his chamber dance and play;Or from wine, as courage springs,O'er his face extend my wings;And when feast and frolick tire,Drop asleep upon his lyre.This is all, be quick and go,More than all thou canst not know;Let me now my pinions ply,I have chatter'd like a pie.
Wheresor'er I turn my view,All is strange, yet nothing new;Endless labour all along,Endless labour to be wrong;Phrase that time hath flung away,Uncouth words in disarray,Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet,Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.
Err shall they not, who resolute exploreTimes gloomy backward with judicious eyes;And, scanning right the practices of yore,Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.
They to the dome, where smoke, with curling play,Announc'd the dinner to the regions round,Summon'd the singer blithe, and harper gay,And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound.
The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill,By quiv'ring string or modulated wind;Trumpet or lyre—to their harsh bosoms chillAdmission ne'er had sought, or could not find.
Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun,Her baleful eyes where sorrow rolls around;Where gloom-enamour'd mischief loves to dwell,And murder, all blood-bolter'd, schemes the wound.
When cates luxuriant pile the spacious dish,And purple nectar glads the festive hour;The guest, without a want, without a wish,Can yield no room to musick's soothing pow'r.
TRANSLATIONFROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES, V. 196[a]
The rites deriv'd from ancient days,With thoughtless reverence we praise;The rites that taught us to combineThe joys of musick and of wine,And bade the feast, and song, and bowlO'erfill the saturated soul:But ne'er the flute or lyre appliedTo cheer despair, or soften pride;Nor call'd them to the gloomy cellsWhere want repines and vengeance swells;Where hate sits musing to betray,And murder meditates his prey.To dens of guilt and shades of care,Ye sons of melody repair,Nor deign the festive dome to cloyWith superfluities of joy.Ah! little needs the minstrel's powerTo speed the light convivial hour.The board, with varied plenty crown'd,May spare the luxuries of sound[b].
[a] The classical reader will, doubtless, be pleased to see the exquisite original in immediate comparison with this translation; we, therefore, subjoin it, and also Dr. J. Warton's imitation of the same passage.
[Greek:]skaious de legon kouden ti sophoustous prosthe brotous, ouk an amartoisoitines umnous epi men thaliais,epi d'eilapinais kai para deipnoiseuronto biou terpnas akoasstugious de broton oudeis pulaseureto mousae kai poluchordoisodais pauein, exon thanatoideinai te tuchai sphallonsi domouskaitoi tade men kerdos akeisthaimolpaisi brotous ina d'endeipnoidaites ti mataen teinousi boanto paron gar echei terpsin aph autondaitos plaeroma brotaoisinMEDEA, 193—206. ED. PORS
Queen of every moving measure,Sweetest source of purest pleasure,Music! why thy pow'rs employOnly for the sons of joy;Only for the smiling guests,At natal or at nuptial feasts?Rather thy lenient numbers pourOn those, whom secret griefs devour,Bid be still the throbbing heartsOf those whom death or absence parts,And, with some softly whisper'd air,Sooth the brow of dumb despair.
[b] This translation was written by Johnson for his friend Dr. Burney, and was inserted, as the work of "a learned friend," in that gentleman's History of Musick, vol. ii. p. 340. It has always been ascribed to Johnson; but, to put the matter beyond a doubt, Mr. Malone ascertained the fact by applying to Dr. Burney himself. J. B.
Glassy water, glassy water,Down whose current, clear and strong,Chiefs confused in mutual slaughter,Moor and Christian roll along.
Hermit hoar, in solemn cellWearing out life's ev'ning grey,Strike thy bosom, sage, and tellWhat is bliss, and which the way.
Thus I spoke, and speaking sigh'd,Scarce repress'd the starting tear,When the hoary sage reply'd,Come, my lad, and drink some beer.