In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.—Painted by J.P. Davis.
Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locksFix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box,Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for everIn all the charms consenting Gods could give her—Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every graceWhich makes man play the madman for a face!But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it,The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket;And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyesThe bridegroom claims it—and—behold the prize!First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured,From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured,Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods,Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods;Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast,And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pass'd.Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood,Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood.It was not then, that from the coffer's lidHope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid;He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sentBut mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument,And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her,Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then—forgave her!
Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way,I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.But who is she, that from the mountain's headComes gaily on, cheering the child of earth?The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread,And Nature smiles with renovated mirth?'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring,And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound:She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring,And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice,Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice!
Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleamDiscern'd, the statue of distress;Weeping beside the willow'd streamThat laves the woodland wilderness?
Why talks he to the idle air?Why, listless, at his length reclined,Heaves he the groan of deep despair,Responsive of the midnight wind?
Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why?—Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:—Of what disorder did, she die?—Lord, sir! of none—she ran away.
Thou art indeed a lovely flower,And I, just like the fleeting hour,Which few will heed on folly's brink,So rarely deigns the world to think.Yet, ere I go, child of my heart—One faithful offering I'll impartTo thee—thy parents' sole delight:To me—an angel, pure as light.Sent on this earth to cheer and bless,Like sunbeam in a wilderness,With fascination's form and face,And all the charms that please and grace.A guileless heart, a lovely mind,A temper ardent, yet refined,And in the early dawn of youth,Taught to love honour, faith, and truth.
Ah! these—when all the transient joysOf idle life, when all its toysShall fade like mist before the sun,Yet, ere thy little day is done,Shall give that calm, that true delight,Which gilds the darkling hues of night,The sunset of a well spent day,A glorious immortality!
Author of "The Angel of the World," "Sebastian," &c.
By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth,(While loud without the blast of winter sung),Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth,Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among,Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spreadTheir painted wings, and sport their little day;Anon, by beckoning recollection ledTo the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE,Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriekOf midnight Murder from its turrets bleak,And to her horrent eye came passing onPhantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone,When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey,As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung,And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay!
Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul,Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul,Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport,And tread light measures in her elfin court;Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone,Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne:Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell,Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell;In regal halls, where pleasure wings the nightWith pomp and music, revelry and light,Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes,In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies—Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim,To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, himWho kneels entranced in agony of prayer,His fellow victims torpid with despair,Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eyeGlows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die!
Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings,Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings:At once the Patriot and the Poet glows,And full the mingling inspiration flows:—Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowersTo trifle light with Life's uncounted hours—To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from farEntwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star!
Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine,In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine,For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!
For, not the tear that matchless courage claims,To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,Alone is thine—o'er thy adored remainsEach virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.
Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,To speak the merits of thy honour'd name;But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame?
Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal,When wild storms gather round thy country's sun;Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel,Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hastwon!
Dear P——, while Painters, Poets, Sages,Inscribe this volume's votive pagesWith partial friendship: why inviteThe tribute of a luckless wightUnknown—by wisdom or by witIndulged with no certificate?
Perchance, as in a diademGlittering with many a radiant gem,Some mean metallic foil is placedJudicious, by the hand of taste;You seek, amidst the sons of fame,To set an undistinguish'd name?If so—that name is freely lent,A pebble to your gems—T. GENT.
Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'erWe call that elf, seen every where,Half frolicsome, halfennuyeuse,Had chanced a country walk to choose;When sudden, sweet and bright as May,Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.—
"Upon my word," exclaims the boy,"A lucky hit! this pretty toyTo pass an hour, with vapours haunted,Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted;I do not so far condescendAs serious mischief to intend,But just to show my powers of pleasingIn flattery,badinage, and teasing;But should she, for young girls, poor things!Are tender as yon insect's wings—Should she mistake me, and grow fond,Why, I'll grow serious—and abscond."
First, not abruptly to confound her,With glance and smile he hovers round her:Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau,Begins to press her gentle elbow;Then plays at once, familiar walking,His whole artillery of talking:—Like a young fawn the blushing maidTrips on, half pleased and half afraid—And while she palpitates and listens,Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens,He shows her all his pretty things,His bow and quiver, dart, and wings;Now, proud in power, he sees her eyesDilate with beautiful surprise;But most, though fraught with perturbation.His weapons claim her admiration,And with an archness most bewitching(Her naive simplicity enriching),She wonders where a maid might buy than,And begs to be allow'd to try them.
With secret scorn, but smiling bland,He yields them to her curious hand,When, instant, twang! the arrow flew,So just her aim, it pierced him through,Right through his heart, the luckless lad!(A heart, to do him right, he had);All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish,Through many an hour to pine and languish,And what made all his pangs more bitter,Off flew the damsel in a titter.Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree,Cries out, "you've always laughed at me—Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir!'Tis not so safe to laugh at her."
Presented to Mrs. D—— T——.
Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead,The gentlest solace of the tears we shed,Is, to surviving excellence to turn,And honour there those merits that we mourn.
The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strewWith votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You;But living worth forbids th' applausive lay.Therefore, repressing all respect, would say,She proffers silently her simple strain;If you approve—she has not toil'd in vain!
When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,And bursting thunders roll their awful din;While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot,Oh! what serenity remains within!For there contentment, health, and peace, abide,And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above;Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride,And lisping innocence, and filial love.To such a scene let proud Ambition turn,Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe;Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mournThe mild enjoyments it can never know;Then shall he feel the littleness of state,And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great.
Southey! high placed on the contested throneOf modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown,Sues that her tears may consecrate the strainsPour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains!While touch'd to transport, Taste's responding toneMakes the rapt poet's ecstasies thine own;Ah! think that he, whose hand supremely skill'd,The heart's fine chords with deep vibration thrill'd,In stagnant silence and petrific gloom,Unconscious sleeps, the tenant of the tomb!Extinct that spirit, whose strong-bidding drewFrom Fancy's confines Wonder's wild-eyed crew,Which bade Despair's terrific phantoms passLike Macbeth's monarchs in the mystic glass.Before the youthful bard's impassion'd eye,Like him, led on, to triumph and to die;Like him, by mighty magic compass'd round,And seeking sceptres on enchanted ground.Such spells invest, such blear illusion waitsThe trav'ller bound for Fame's receding gates,Delusive splendours gild the proud abode,But lurking demons haunt th' alluring road;There gaunt-eyed Want asserts her iron reign,There, as in vengeance of the world's disdain,This half-flesh'd hag midst Wit's bright blossoms stalks,And, breathing winter, withers where she walks;Though there, long outlaw'd, desp'rate with disgrace,Invidious Dulness wields the critic mace,And sworn in hate, exerts his ruffian mightWhere'er young genius meditates his flight.Erewhile, when WHITE, by this fell fiend oppress'd,Felt Hope's fine fervours languish in his breast,When shrunk with scorn, and trembling to aspire,He dropp'd desponding his insulted lyre.Alert in zeal, with art benigh endued,SOUTHEY! thy hand his blasted strength renew'd,And lured him on, his labours scarce begun,To win those laurels which thyself had won.In vain! though vivified with pristine force,O'er learning's realms he shot with meteor course;To worth relentless, Fate's despotic frownScowl'd in the bright perspective of renown:Timeless he falls, in Death's pale triumph led.And his first laurels shade his grassy bed.So sinks the Muse's offspring, doom'd to try,Like a caged eagle panting tow'rds the sky,A foil'd ascent, while adverse fortune flingsHer strong link'd meshes o'er his flutt'ring wings,Sinks, while exalted Ignorance supine,Unheeded slumbers like the pamper'd swine;Obsequious slaves in his voluptuous bowersYoung pleasures warble, while the dancing HoursIn sickly sweetness languishingly move,Like new-waked virgins flush'd with dreams of love—Him, when by Death's dark angel swept awayFrom sloth's embrace, in premature decay,Surviving friends, donation'd into grief,Shall mourn with anguish audible and brief,And pander-bards ring round in goodly chimeHis liberal heart, high wit, and soul sublime;But Flattery's frauds impartial Time disowns,Funereal pomp, and adulative tones;Slow where she moves through monumental aisles,With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles,While Falsehood, shrined above th' emblazon'd palls,Shames sanctity from consecrated walls:She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes,Some lonely grave, where rude the grass-tufts rise;Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell'd lines,There slumbers CHATTERTON—here WHITE reclines!But nobler triumphs WHITE'S probation claimsThan ever blazon'd Wit's recorded names;For Virtue's sons, to bliss immortal born,Tower to their native heaven, and view with scornThe vain distinction of the trophied sod,'Tis theirs to gain distinction with their God!
"Murder will out:"—and so will truth sometimes;For once I'll prove it in a dozen lines.—
At one of those parties where Julia's sweet faceAdded interest to beauty, and archness to grace,Where many fine folks met; and one very great,Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate;Like a damper he came to put good humour out,And it chanced that, as Julia's pet-bird flew about.It presumptuously 'lit on this mighty man's head;When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said,"Naughty bird! I must cage you for being so rude,On Lord———head, oh! how dare you intrude?""Let it rest," replied Julia, with an exquisite grace,"Don't frighten it off—for it likes asoft place!"
Written and left on her Table during her absence—Bathing.
I dare not look at those dear eyes,The sun was never half so bright,There surely more of rapture liesThan ever bless'd a mortal's sight.
In thy sweet face I see impress'dTen thousand thousand charms divine,The sunbeams of thy guileless breastLike Heaven's eternal mercies shine!
Angel of love! life's endless joy,Our hope at morn, our evening prayer;The bliss above would have alloy,Unless dear————- thou wert there!
Oh! Woman—what a charm hast thouOur rebel nature thus to tame:We ever must adore and bow.While virtue guards thy holy fane!
Werthing.
His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,And those shall hail him who have died for thee!Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough,Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!
WRITTEN 2nd JULY, 1827.
Every poor QuidnuncnowcondemnsThe Tunnel underneath Old Thames,And swears, his science all forgetting,Friend Brunel's judgment wantedwhetting;'Tis thus great characters are dish'd,When they getwetterthan was wish'd,—Brunel toGravesendmeant to goUnder the water, wags say so,And under that same water putHis hopes to find a shorter cut;But when we leave the light of day.Water hath many a devious way,Which, like a naughty woman, leadsThe best of men to strange misdeeds:Had nearly, 'twas a toss-up whether,Gone to his grave and end together.How the performance went amissTheclassicalaccount is this—
The Naiads, Thames' stream that swim in,Beingcurious, just like mortalwomen,Dear souls! 'tis said, midst all their cares,They love to peep at man's affairs,And wondering at the workmen's hammers,The noise of axes, engines, rammers,Thought 'twould be well, nor meant the fun ill,To make an opening through the Tunnel,Just to see how the work went on,And then, down dash'd they, every one;When these samebellesbegan to dire,'Twas well the workmen 'scaped alive:Brunel, indeed, who knew full wellThe nature of adiving bell,Remain'd some time, nor made wry faces,Within their aqueous embraces;Nay, fierce and ungallant, adventuredTo oust them by the breach they entered.Vain man! 'twas well that he could swim,Or, certes, they had oustedhim.Speed on great projects! though we rate 'emRash, for alluvial pomatum,And under that a sandy stratum,Will offer at a little distanceAn insurmountable resistance.
How strange! to find the labour doneJust as thesandbegins torun;In general human projects drop,Just when oursandbegins tostop!
The wisest men are fools in wine,Experience makes us think:Its magic spells are so divine,We reason—yet we drink!
How short's the longest life of man,How soon its brightest laurels fade—Then, as our life is but a span,Let all its hours be joyous made.
Wine o'er the ardent restless mindEntwines its poppy chain;A solace, then, the wretched find.In fictions of the brain.
Oh! as the charmed glass we sip,We conquer care and pain:It woos like woman's dewy lip,To kiss—and come again!
This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.—It is published by MORI and LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street.
Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured,With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured,With all the catalogue of city evils,Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils!Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth,Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health:So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes,Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains.And scarce ye know, so little have ye seen,If corn be yellow, or if grass be green;Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes,With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls?In scenes where Health's bright goddess wakes the breeze,Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees:Soon would the brighten'd eye her influence speak,And her full roses flush the faded cheek.
Then, where romantic Hornsey courts the eyeWith all the charms of sylvan scenery,Let the pale sons of Diligence repair,And pause, like me, from sedentary care;Here the rich landscape spreads profusely wide,And here embowering shades the prospect hide:Each mazy walk in wild meanders moves,And infant oaks, luxuriant, grace the groves:Oaks, that by time matured, removed afar,Shall ride triumphant, 'midst the wat'ry war;Shall blast the bulwarks of Britannia's foes,And claim her empire, wide as ocean flows!O'er all the scene, mellifluous and bland,The blissful powers of harmony expand;Soft sigh the zephyrs 'mid the still retreats,And steal from Flora's lips ambrosial sweets;Their notes of love the feather'd songsters sing,And Cupid peeps behind the vest of Spring.
Ye swains! who ne'er obtain'd with all your sighsOne tender look from Chloe's sparkling eyes,In shades like these her cruelty assail,Here, whisper soft your amatory tale;The scene to sympathy the maid shall move,And smiles propitious crown your slighted love.
While the fresh air with fragrance summer fills,And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills,All jubilant the waving woods displayHer gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay!The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woodsReflected bright in artificial floods,And still, the tufts of clust'ring shrubs between,Like passing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen;Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast,And Care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd!For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems,Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams!
Though on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell,The stomach oft a different tale will tell;Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof,And put the pantry's vital strength to proof;The aërial banquets of the tuneful nineMay suit some appetites, but faith! not mine;For my coarse palate coarser food must please,Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and peas;Such food the fangs of keen disease defies,And such rare feeding Hornsey-house supplies:Nor these alone the joys that court us here,Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care,Asserts its empire in the glittering bowl,And pours Promethean vigour o'er the soul.Here, too,thatbluff John Bull, whose blood boils highAt such base wares of foreign luxury;Who scorns to revel in imported cheer,Who prides in perry, and exults in beer:On these his surly virtue shall regale,With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale.
Nor think, ye Fair! our Hornsey has deniedThe elegant repasts where you preside:Here, may the heart rejoice, expanding freeIn all the social luxury of Tea!Whose essence pure inspires such charming chat,With nods, and winks, and whispers, andall that;Here, then, while 'wrapt inspired, like Horace old,We chant convivial hymns to Bacchus bold;Or heave the incense of unconscious sighs,To catch the grace that beams from beauty's eyes;Or, in the winding wilds, sequester'd deep,Th' unwilling Muse invoking, fall asleep;Or cursing her, and her ungranted smiles,Chase butterflies along the echoing aisles:Howe'er employ'd,herebe the town forgot,Where fogs, and smoke, and jostling crowds,are not.
Oh! is there not in infant smilesA witching power, a cheering ray,A charm, that every care beguiles,And bids the weary soul be gay?There surely is—for thou hast been,Child of my heart, my peaceful dove,Gladdening life's sad and chequer'd scene,An emblem of the peace above.Now all is calm, and dark, and still,And bright the beam the moonlight throwsOn ocean wave, and gentle rill,And on thy slumbering cheek of rose.And may no care disturb that breast,Nor sorrow dim that brow serene;And may thy latest years be bless'dAs thy sweet infancy has been.
Blue eyes and jetFell out one morn,Azure cried in a pet,"Away, dark scorn!—"We are brilliant and blue"As the waves of the sea—"And as cold and untrue"And as changeable ye.
"We are born of the sky,"Of a summer night,"When the first stars lie"In a bed of blue light;"From the cloudy zone"Round the setting sun,"Like an angel's throne,"Are our glories won."
"Pretty ladies, hold,"Cupid said to the eyes—For beauties that scold"Are seldom wise;"'Tis not colour I seek"Love's fires to impart—"Give me eyes that can speak"From the depths of the heart."
I knew a being once, his peaked headWith a few lank and greasy hairs was spread;His visage blue, in length was like your ownSeen in the convex of a table-spoon.His mouth, or rather gash athwart his face,To stop at either ear had just the grace,A hideous rift: his teeth were all canine,And just like Death's (in Milton) was his grin.One shilling, and one fourteen-penny leg,(This shorter was than that, and not so big),He had; and they, when meeting at his knees,An angle formed of ninety-eight degrees.Nature, in scheming how his back to vary,A hint had taken from the dromedary:His eyes an inward, screwing vision threw,Striving each other through his nose to view.
His intellect was just one ray aboveThe idiot Cymon's ere he fell in love.At school they Taraxippus[1] called the wight;The Misses, when they met him, shriek'd with fright.But, spite of all that Nature had denied,When sudden Fortune made the cub her pride,And gave him twenty thousand pounds a-year,Then, from the pretty Misses you might hear,"His face was not the finest, and, indeed,He was a little, they must own, in-kneed;His shoulders, certainly, were rather high,But, then, he had a most expressive eye;Nor were their hearts by outward charms inclined:Give them the higher beauties of the mind!"
[Footnote 1: Greek: Taraxippus, a Grecian Deity; the god of the Hippodrome, literally, in English,horse-frightener.]
Hail! holy FAITH, on life's wide ocean toss'd,I see thee sit calm in thy beaten bark;As NOAH sat, throned in his high-borne ark,Secure and fearless while a world was lost!In vain contending storms thy head enzone,Thy bosom shrinks not from the bolt that falls:The dreadful shaft plays harmless, nor appalsThy stedfast eye, fix'd on Jehovah's throne!E'en though thou saw'st the mighty fabric nod,Of system'd worlds, thou hear'st a sacred charm,Graved on thy heart, to shelter thee from harm.And thus it speaks:—"Thou art my trust, O GOD!And thou canst bid the jarring-powers be still,Each ponderous orb, subservient to thy will!"
Of a favorite Deer-hound, belonging to SIR WALTER SCOTT, by my friend, EDWIN LANDSEER, Esq.
Who in this sketchey wonder does not traceThe fire, the spirit, and the living grace,That mark the hand of genius and of taste?Who does not recognize in such a headTruth, vigilance, fidelity, inbred,Sagacity that's human, and a wasteOf those high qualities, and virtues rare,Which poor humanity has not to spare?
Then, faithful Hound! thy happy lot is castIn pleasant places—and thy life has pass'dIn the dear service of a Master—whomThe world's concurrent voice has yielded nowThe meed of highest praise—and on whose browTh' imperishable wreath of fame shall bloom;Nor is this fate less happy than the rest,Thatheshould paint thee,who can paint thee best!
How droops the wretch whom adverse fates pursue,While sad experience, from his aching sightSweeps the fair prospects of unproved delight,Which flattering friends and flattering fancies drew.When want assails his solitary shed,When dire distraction's horrent eye-ball glares,Seen 'midst the myriad of tumultuous cares,That shower their shafts on his devoted head.Then, ere despair usurp his vanquish'd heart,Is there a power, whose influence benignCan bid his head in pillow'd peace recline,And from his breast withdraw the barbed dart?There is—sweet Hope! misfortune rests on thee—Unswerving anchor of humanity!
Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reignLeads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joysFade with the glories of the fading year;"Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,"And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sighO'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death,And wet with many a tributary tear!
Eight times has each successive season sway'dThe fruitful sceptre of our milder climeSince my loved——died! but why, ah! whyShould melancholy cloud my early years?Religion spurns earth's visionary scene,Philosophy revolts at misery's chain:Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'dFrom human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm—Shall frailty then prevail?
Oh! be it mineTo curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree;To tread the path of rectitude—that whenLife's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame,That latest breath I may in peace resign,"Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God."
O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd,To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears,To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears,And strew with amaranths his thorny road.Alas! how long has Superstition hurl'dThine altars down, thine attributes reviled,The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguiled.And spread his empire o'er the vassal world?But truth returns! she spreads resistless day;And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls—He shrinks—he trembles 'mid his inmost halls,And all his damn'd illusions melt away!The charm dissolved—immortal, fair, and free,Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity!
Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction and Industry.
Sacred, and heart-deep be the soundWhich speaks the Great Redeemer's praise,His mercies every where abound,Let all their grateful voices raise.
The friendless child, to manhood grown,Will ne'er forget your parent care;You've made each youthful heart your own,Oh! then accept our humble prayer.
For ever be that bounty praised,Which every comfort doth impart;In tears of joy the song is raisedFrom minstrels of the glowing heart.
Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power!In notes of thankfulness be given;Sure solace in affliction's hour!Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven.Hallelujah! Amen.
Great epoch in the history of bards!Important day to those who woo the nine;Better than fame are visitation-cards,And heaven on earth at a great house to dine.
O cruel memory! do not conjure upThe ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook;Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup,And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book.
For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates,And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd;"The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:"Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d——d.
D—n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves;Malicious fancy makes them so expert,They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves,And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt.
Rest, goddess, from all broils! I bless thy name,Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on!I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame,If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton.
Yet hold—ten minutes more, and I am bless'd;Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly:Soon shall I put my hunger to the test,And all the host of miseries defy.
Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first,For well-fed valour always fights the best;And though he may of over-eating burst,His life is happy, and his death is just.
To-day I dine—not on my usual fare;Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine;Not in the park upon a dish of air:But on true eatables, and rosy wine.
Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw,To teach the empty stomach how to fill,To pour red port adown the parched craw;Without that dread dessert—to pay the bill.
I'm off—methinks I smell the long-lost savour;Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet:Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour,Once in my life as much as I can eat!
Come, thou blessed day of rest!Soother of the tortured breast,Wearied souls release from toil,Life's eternal sad turmoil;How I love thy tuneful bellsWhich a welcome story tells!Bids the wanderer rest and prayOn this peaceful holy-day.All creation seems to pause—Man, uncatechized by laws,Looks to God with grateful eyes,In such blessed sympathies,All his rebel nature dies!See the monster crime hath made,Resting from his restless trade,Unfit to live, afraid to die,Hear his deep unconscious sigh,See his former horrid mien,Changed to the bright, serene,View him on his BIBLE rest,Care no longer gnaws his breast;Heaven, in mercy, let him live,Religion, such the peace you give!
Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat;Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat:Come, meek-eyed goddess, through the midnight gloom,Born of the silent awe which robes the tomb!This gothic front, this antiquated pile,The bleak wind howling through each mazy aisle;Its high gray towers, faint peeping through the shade,Shall hail thy presence, consecrated maid!Whether beneath some vaulted abbey's dome,Where ev'ry footstep sounds in every tomb;Where Superstition, from the marble stone,Gives every sound, a pilgrim-spirit's groan:Pensive thou readest by the moon's full glareThe sculptured children of Affection's tear;Or in the church-yard lone thou sitt'st to weepO'er some sad wreck, beneath the tufty heap—Perchance some victim to Seduction's spell,Who yielded, wept, and then neglected fell!
But hither come, on yon swoln arch to gaze,And view the vivid flash eruptive blare;Light those high walls with transitory gleam,Illume the air, and sparkle in the stream.Ah! look, where yonder tempest-shaken cloud,Awful and black as the chaosian shroud,Breaks, like the waves which lash the sandy shore,And speaks its mission in a feeble row.Thus Meditation hears: "Aspiring height!Of old, the splendid mansions of the great;Thy fate (tremendous) lours upon the blast,And waits to write on thy remains:—'tis past!Oft have the genii of the hoary bladeAround thy walls their hell-born demons led;Yet hast thou triumph'd o'er each monster's car,And braved the ills of pestilential war:Oft hast thou seen the circling seasons rollIn fond succession round thy native pole;Defied the hoary matron of the ring,And seen her sicken in the lap of Spring.But, ah! no more thy time-clad head shall riseTo dare the tempest, while it shakes the skies;Nor one small wreck invade the fair concave,Nor shout above its crumbling basis, Save!When rising zephyr from thy ruin bringsA world of atoms on its fairy wings."
Din horrible! as though the rebel trainHad sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again,Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell;How every cranny trembled with the yellOf frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlornWere from their kindred vaults and windings torn;Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born.Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round,And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground.From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower,In heaps confused the broken fragments pour;And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave,Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave.Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend,Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend.Again the heralds of the thunder fly,In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky!
Again the thunder its harsh menace swells,And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells!Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears;And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres,Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage,Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage.
But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge,Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge.She comes, to light the ruinated heap:But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep!
Swift through the land while Fame transported flies,And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies;Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows,With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows,In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd,Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost.Immortal NELSON! still with fond amazeThy glorious deed each British eye surveys,Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar:Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war!Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars,And bloody billows stain the hostile shores:Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves,And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves!—Graced with each attribute which Heaven suppliesTo Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise:His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride,The Hero lived, and as he lived—he died:Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave,Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave!
Sweet are the hours when roseate springWith health and joy salutes the day.When zephyr, borne on wanton wing,Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May.Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweetAs when my blue-eyed Maid I meet,And hear her soul-entrancing tale,Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.
The mellow horn's long-echoing notesStartle the morn, commingling strong;At eve, the harp's wild music floats.And ravish'd Silence drinks the song.Yet sweeter is the song of love,When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove,While listening sylphs repeat the tale,Sequester'd in the silent vale.
A parson once—and poorer heThan ever parson ought to be;Yet not so proud assomefrom College,Who fancy they alone have knowledge;Who only learn to dress and drink,And, strange to say, still seem to thinkThat no real talent's to be foundExcept within their classic ground;Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plainsCan't furnish empty skulls with brains.But for my tale—Our churchman came,And, in religion's honour'd name,Sought Cam's delightful classic borders,To be prefer'd to Holy Orders.Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn,Where living's cheap, and often whimEnlivens many a weary soul,And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl,In spite of fogs, and threatening weather,To drown both grief and gloom together:—(Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue,Soft cloud, in summer breaking throughA frowning one, and lighting itTill darkness fadeth bit by bit;And Whim to thee is near allied,And follows closely at thy side;So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that sheBy some folks is mista'en for thee;Yet I may say unto my eyes,Just whereabouts the difference lies;One's diamond quite, and, to my taste,The other is butDovey's Paste.)—He there a ready welcome foundFrom one who travell'd England round:"Sir, your obedient—quite alone?I'm truly happy you are come:Pray, sir, be seated;—business dull;—Or else this room had now been full;Orders and cash are strangers here,And every thing looks dev'lish queer;Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth;Must hope for better;—Sir, your health!"Then added, with inquiring face,"Come to take Orders in this place?"
"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest:"With that intent I came at least.""Ha! ha! I knew it very well;We business-men can others tell:Often before I've seen your face,Though memory can't recal the place—Ah! now I have it; head of mine!You travel in the button line?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, I fearSome error has arisen here;You have mista'en my trade divine,But, sir, the worldly loss is mine—I travel in a much worse line."
Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and MasterLONGHURST.—Composed by Mr. ROOKE.
We, who the wide world make our home;The barren heath our cheerful bed;Careless o'er mount and moor we roam,And never tears of sorrow shed.But merrily, O! Merrily, O!Through this world of care we go.
Love, that a palace left in tears,Flew to our houseless feast of mirth:For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers,The heaven alone that's found on earth!Then merrily, O! Merrily, O!Through this world of care we go.
Of late I saw him on his staff reclined,Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes,Without a roof to shelter from the windHis head, all hoar with many a winter's snows.All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak;The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd;A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek,Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd.For he had known full many a better day;And when the poor man at his threshold bent,He drove him not with aching heart away,But freely shared what Providence had sent.How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave,And live to want the mite his bounty gave!
Come, JENNY, let me sip the dewThat on those coral lips doth play,One kiss would every care subdue,And bid my weary soul be gay.
For surely thou wert form'd by loveTo bless the suff'rer's parting sigh;In pity then my griefs remove,And on that bosom let me die!
When Discord blew her fell alarmOn Gallia's blood-stain'd ground,When Usurpation's giant armEnslaved the nations round:The thunders of avenging HeavenTo NELSON'S chosen hand were given!By NELSON'S chosen hand were hurl'd,To rescue the devoted world!
The tyrant power, his vengeance dreadTo Egypt's shores pursued;At Trafalgar its hydra-headFor ever sunk subdued.The freedom of mankind was won!The hero's glorious task was done!When Heaven, Oppression's ensigns furl'd,Recall'd him from the rescued world.
I dare not spoil this spotless pageWith any feeble verse of mine;The Poet's fire has lost its rage,Around his lyre no myrtles twine.
The voice of fame cannot recalThose fairy days of past delight,When pleasure seem'd to welcome all,And morning hail'd a welcome night.
E'en love has lost its soothing power,Its spells no more can chain my soul;I must not venture in the bower,Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul.
And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirthI once did say, Eliza, dear!That I would tell the world thy worth,And write the living record here.
Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come,Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms,With magic rhymes the page illume,And fancy sketch her varied charms—
Which o'er the cares of home has thrownA thousand blessings, deep engraved,For every heart she makes her own,And every friend is free-enslaved.
No Inspiration o'er my penGlows with the lightning's vivid spell;My soul is sad—forgive me then,My heart's too full the tale to tell!
Yet, if the humblest poet's themeBe welcome in Eliza's name;Then, angel, give the cheering gleam,For thy approving smile is fame!
On THE DEATH OF
When stern Misfortune, monitress severe!Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams,And, chased from Man's probationary sphere,Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams.
If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will,The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown,To future fate appeals from present ill,And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne!
Shall justice thereimmutablydecide?Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore,She feels, be mercy granted or denied,'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore.
Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgivenHis final error, for his merits past;Could virtuous life, propitiating HeavenWith former deeds, extenuate the last:
Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine,Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight,Should in her bosom bid thy head recline,And waft thee onward to the realms of light.
And, oh! could human intercession plead,Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore,What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed,Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour.
Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell,Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined;Impartial, with expansive bounty fell,Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind.
Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped,While Want, with hard inexorable band,Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed,And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand.
By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd,Encountering fate with perseverance vain;The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd,Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main.
GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread,Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb;Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed,And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom.
Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end,Suspends the noblest functions of the soul;Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends,Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll.
And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind,From self's mean source the liberal current flows;While Ostentation, insolently kind,Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows.
But thy free bounty, undebased by pride,Prompt to anticipate the meek request,Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied,And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast.
Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy headBlazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright,When dark Adversity her eclipse spread,And veil'd its splendours in petrific night!
Did those, thy benefits had placed on high,Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray;Did those impatient to thy succour fly,Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay?
Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round,Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour?On keen Misfortune's agonizing woundDid foul Ingratitude her poisons pour?
If thy distress such aggravation knew,Thy first reverse could such perdition wait;Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue,And Desperation close the scene of fate.
Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire,Rose not, at Nature's interposed command,The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire,To win the weapon from thy lifted hand?
Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er,Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced,What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore,Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced?
Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate,That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless;That dreadful scene what language can relate,What words describe that exquisite distress.
The Muse recedes—in Grief's domestic sceneTh' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow:Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between;Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe.
Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austerePretends alone to point th' eternal road;Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe,All else excluded from the blest abode.
If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault,Since first thy infant years instruction drew;From youth's gradations up to manhood taughtThat faith to reverence which thy fathers knew.
In Retribution's last tremendous hour,When its pale captives, long in dust declined,The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour,When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind.
While Christian-infidels shall tremble round,Who call'd HIM Master! whom their acts denied:Imputed faith may inthydeeds be found,And thy eternal doom those deeds decide.
Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy MuseWith more than fondness loved, for thee she strungThe lyre, on which herself enraptured hung,And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse.Oft hath my childhood's tributary tearPaid homage to the sad harmonious strain,That told, alas! too true, the grief and painWhich thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear.Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe,And though no friendly hand on thee bestowThe stately marble, or emblazon'd name,To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below:Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow.Deriving vigour from the breath of fame!
Who stops the Minister of State,When hurrying to the Lords' debate?Who, spite of gravity beguiles,The solemn Bishop of his smiles?See from the window, "burly big,"The Judge pops out his awful wig,Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!—Whileboththe Sheriffs and the MayorForget the "Address"—and stop to stare—Andwho detains the Husband true,Running to Doctor Doode-Doo,To save his Wife "in greatest danger;"While e'en the Doctor keeps the strangerAnother hour from life and light,To gape at the bewitching sight.The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret,Despite his poetry and merit,Stops in his quick retreat awhile,And tries the long-forgotten smile;E'en the pursuingBumforgetsHis business, and the man of Debts;The one neglecting "Caption"—"Bail"—The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"—So wondrous are the spells that bindThe noble and ignoble mind.The Paviour halts in mid-grunt—standsWith rammer in his idle hands;And quite refined, and at his ease,Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese,The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch,To take a peep atMister Punch.
Delightful thy effects to see,Thou charm of age and infancy!The old Man clears his rheumy eye,The six months' Babe forgets to cry;No passers by—all fondly gloat,So welcome is thy cheering note,Which time nor taste has ever changed;And after every clime we've ranged,Return to thee—our childhood's joy,And, spite of age, still play the boy!
Yon pious Thing who walks by rule,Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool,And by his side the prim old MaidLooks"welcome fun" and "who's afraid."Behold, that happy ruddy face,In which there seems no vacant place,That could another joy impart,For one laugh more would break his heart.And, lo, behind! his sober Brother,Striving in vain the laugh to smother.That giggling Girl must burst outright,ForPunchhas now possess'd her quite.While She, who ran to Chemist's shopFor life or death—here finds a stop:Forgets for whom—for what—she ran,And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man!The Parish Beadle, gilded calf,Lays by his terror, joins the laugh,Permits poor souls, without offence,To sell their fruit and count their pence,And, as by humour grown insane,Allows the boys to touch his cane!Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs,Ceases to cry—and loudly laughs.See! what a wondrous powerful spellPunchholds o'er Dustman and his bell;And scolding Wife with clapper still—The Landlord quits awhile his till,While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch,Steals pence for self, and beer forPunch.Look at that window, you may traceAt every pane a laughing face.Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover,And in the story just above her,The Housemaid, with her hair in papers,All findingPuncha cure for vapours.E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France,Throws on the group an eye askance;Twirls his moustache, and seems to fearThat some gay friend may catch him here.The Widowed wretch, who only fed,On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread,Forgets her cares, and seems to smileTo see friendPunchher babe beguile.Magician of the wounded heart,Oh! there thy wonted aid impart:Long be the merryman of our Isle,And win the universal smile!
In some lone hamlet it were better farTo live unknown amid Contentment's isle,Than court the bauble of an air-blown star,Or barter honour for a prince's smile!
Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god,Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire,Where the brown presence of the blazing clodRegales the aspect of the aged sire.
There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold,Are through December's gloomy regions led;The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told,While fix'd attention dares not turn its head.
Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite,Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power,The song employs the early dim of night,Till village-curfew counts a later hour.
And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop,To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing,O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown topIs wet with kisses from the florid ring!
There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song,Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd,The lighted stick diverts the infant throng,And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around.
Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth,And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent;Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth,I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT!
Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone,The humble tribute of a friend unknown;To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim,And add to misery's scroll another name.Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laidWithin the early grave thy sorrows made.Sleep on!—his heart still holds thy image dear,Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear;Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'dThe heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd.That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave;'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive.When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,That promised health and joy for years to come,Methought the lily nature proudly gave,Would never wither in th' untimely grave.
Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hourSaw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower!Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow;Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe;Peace fled thy breast; invincible despairUsurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there.Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?And, ah! what then was left thee—but to die!Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,Or mingled solace with the pangs of death:No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven,Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n:But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.I, where the marble swells not, to rehearseThy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse.Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;Accept its offering, while it heaves—farewell!
O Sue! you certainly have beenA little raking, roguish creature,And in that face may still be seenEach laughing love's bewitching feature!
For thou hast stolen many a heart;And robb'd the sweetness of the rose;Placed on that cheek, it doth impartMore lovely tints—more fragrant blows!
Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child,Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing;Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild,And set his very soul a-thrilling!
A poet, much too poor to live,Too poor in this rich world to rove;Too poor for aught but verse to give,But not, thank God, too poor to love!
Gives thee his little doggerel lay;—Onetruth I tell, in sorrow tell it:I'm forced to give my verse away,Because, alas! I cannot sell it.
And should you with a critic's eyeProclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner,Reflect, dear girl I that such as I,Six times a-week don't get a dinner.
And want of comfort, food, and wine,Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:These wants I'll own are often mine;—Butcan't allow a want of merit.
For every stupid dog that drinksAt poet's pond, nicknamed divine;Say what he will, I know he thinksThat all he writes is wondrous fine!