Your book I've read: I would that I had not!For what instruction, pleasure, have I got?Amid that artful labyrinth of doubtLong, long I wander'd, striving to get out;Your thread of sophistry, my only clue,I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through:That spider's web entangled me the more:With desperate courage onward still I went,Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent:Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er.I've been a child, who whirls himself about,Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round;Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out,He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.
Your book I've read: I would that I had not!For what instruction, pleasure, have I got?Amid that artful labyrinth of doubtLong, long I wander'd, striving to get out;Your thread of sophistry, my only clue,I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through:That spider's web entangled me the more:With desperate courage onward still I went,Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent:Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er.I've been a child, who whirls himself about,Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round;Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out,He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.
Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes;I view the youth, and feel compassion rise.He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amazeI listen,—listen, and admiring gaze.Still, as he catches inspiration's fire,Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings,That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings,He pours into the music all his soul,And governs mine with strong, but soft controul:Raptured I glow, and more and more admire.His mortal ailments I no longer see;But, of divinities my fancy dreams;Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire;And lame the powerful Deity of fire;His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems;And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.
Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes;I view the youth, and feel compassion rise.He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amazeI listen,—listen, and admiring gaze.Still, as he catches inspiration's fire,Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings,That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings,He pours into the music all his soul,And governs mine with strong, but soft controul:Raptured I glow, and more and more admire.His mortal ailments I no longer see;But, of divinities my fancy dreams;Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire;And lame the powerful Deity of fire;His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems;And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.
Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:Now, cold correctness!—I despise the name;Is that a passport through the gates of fame?Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,Onward they rush with unresisted sway,}Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away}Who would with obstacles their progress stay.}As mighty Ocean bids his waves complyWith the great luminaries of the sky,So Genius, to direct his course aright,Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.
Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:Now, cold correctness!—I despise the name;Is that a passport through the gates of fame?Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,Onward they rush with unresisted sway,}Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away}Who would with obstacles their progress stay.}As mighty Ocean bids his waves complyWith the great luminaries of the sky,So Genius, to direct his course aright,Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.
Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribedThe name of Shakspeare!—What a glorious themeFor never-ending praise! His drama's page,Like a clear mirror, to our wondering viewDisplays the living image of the world,And all the different characters of men:Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay,We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feelAll the strong sympathies of real life.To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lentHer magic wand, potent to conjure upIdeal Forms, distinctly character'd,Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane,Majestic as the canopy of heaven,Embracing all created things, a faneHis superhuman genius has upraised,To Nature consecrate? The Goddess thereFor ever dwells, and from her sanctuary,By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest,Reveals her awful mysteries to man,And with her power divine rules every heart.At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sonsOf learning, and of art! ye men, endow'dWith talent, taste! ye nobler few who feelThe genuine glow of genius! bow down allIn admiration! with deep feeling ownYour littleness, your insignificance;And with one general voice due homage payTo Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!
Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribedThe name of Shakspeare!—What a glorious themeFor never-ending praise! His drama's page,Like a clear mirror, to our wondering viewDisplays the living image of the world,And all the different characters of men:Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay,We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feelAll the strong sympathies of real life.To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lentHer magic wand, potent to conjure upIdeal Forms, distinctly character'd,Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.
The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane,Majestic as the canopy of heaven,Embracing all created things, a faneHis superhuman genius has upraised,To Nature consecrate? The Goddess thereFor ever dwells, and from her sanctuary,By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest,Reveals her awful mysteries to man,And with her power divine rules every heart.At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sonsOf learning, and of art! ye men, endow'dWith talent, taste! ye nobler few who feelThe genuine glow of genius! bow down allIn admiration! with deep feeling ownYour littleness, your insignificance;And with one general voice due homage payTo Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!
Milton!—the name of that divinest BardActs on Imagination like a charmOf holiest power;—with deep, religious aweShe hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'dThe relics that enshrined his godlike soul.O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,With what astonishment, will all the sonsOf Adam, till the end of time, peruseHis lofty, wondrous page! with what just prideWill England ever boast her Milton's name,The Poet matchless in sublimity!E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resoundThe deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,They breathe of heaven; the imaginative PowerNo longer treads the guilt-polluted world,But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air:Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour,When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wakeWith frames resuscitated, glorified:Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard,Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs,Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir,And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.
Milton!—the name of that divinest BardActs on Imagination like a charmOf holiest power;—with deep, religious aweShe hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'dThe relics that enshrined his godlike soul.
O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,With what astonishment, will all the sonsOf Adam, till the end of time, peruseHis lofty, wondrous page! with what just prideWill England ever boast her Milton's name,The Poet matchless in sublimity!E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resoundThe deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,They breathe of heaven; the imaginative PowerNo longer treads the guilt-polluted world,But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air:Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour,When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wakeWith frames resuscitated, glorified:Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard,Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs,Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir,And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.
Still, as the fleeting seasons change,From joy to joy poor mortals range,And as the year pursues its round,One pleasure's lost, another found;Time, urging on his envious course,Still drives them from their last resource.So butterflies, when children chaseThe gaudy prize with eager pace,On each fresh flower but just alight,And, ere they taste, renew their flight.Thanks to kind Fortune! I possessA constant source of happiness,And am not poorly forced to liveOn what the seasons please to give.Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole,What care I, while I quaff the bowl?In that secure, I can defyThe changeful temper of the sky.No weatherglass, or if I be,Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.
Still, as the fleeting seasons change,From joy to joy poor mortals range,And as the year pursues its round,One pleasure's lost, another found;Time, urging on his envious course,Still drives them from their last resource.So butterflies, when children chaseThe gaudy prize with eager pace,On each fresh flower but just alight,And, ere they taste, renew their flight.
Thanks to kind Fortune! I possessA constant source of happiness,And am not poorly forced to liveOn what the seasons please to give.Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole,What care I, while I quaff the bowl?In that secure, I can defyThe changeful temper of the sky.No weatherglass, or if I be,Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.
Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,While yonder Censor mounts the chair:His form erect, his stately pace,His huge, white wig, his solemn face,His scowling brows, his ken severe,His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,Some high Philosopher declare:—Hush! let us hear him from the chair:'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;How ill-beseeming sons of earth!Know ye not well the fate of man?That death is certain, life a span?That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.Since mortals must die,Since life's but a span,'Tis wisdom, say I,To live while we can,And fill up with pleasureThe poor little measure.Of fate to complainHow simple and vain!Long faces I hate;They shorten the date.My Friends! while ye may,Be jovial to-day;The things that will beNe'er wish to foresee;Or, should ye employYour thoughts on to-morrow,Let Hope sing of joy,Not Fear croak of sorrow.But see! the Sage flies, so no more.Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.
Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,While yonder Censor mounts the chair:His form erect, his stately pace,His huge, white wig, his solemn face,His scowling brows, his ken severe,His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,Some high Philosopher declare:—Hush! let us hear him from the chair:
'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;How ill-beseeming sons of earth!Know ye not well the fate of man?That death is certain, life a span?That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'
Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.Since mortals must die,Since life's but a span,'Tis wisdom, say I,To live while we can,And fill up with pleasureThe poor little measure.Of fate to complainHow simple and vain!Long faces I hate;They shorten the date.My Friends! while ye may,Be jovial to-day;The things that will beNe'er wish to foresee;Or, should ye employYour thoughts on to-morrow,Let Hope sing of joy,Not Fear croak of sorrow.But see! the Sage flies, so no more.Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.
Why must Poets, when they sing,Drink of the Castalian spring?Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;Witness many a modern strain:Poets! would ye sing with fire,Wine, not water, must inspire.Come, then, pour thy purple stream,Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.How within thy crystal frameDoes the rosy nectar flame!Not so beauteous on the vineDid the clustering rubies shine,When the potent God of dayFill'd them with his ripening ray;When with proudness and delightBacchus view'd the charming sight.Still it keeps Apollo's fires;Still the vintage-God admires.Hail sweet antidote of wo!Chiefest blessing mortals know!Nay, the mighty powers divineOwn the magic force of wine.Wearied with the world's affairs,Jove himself, to drown his cares,Bids the nectar'd goblet bear:Lo! the youthful Hebe fairPours the living draught around;—Hark! with mirth the skies resound.'Tis to wine, for aught I know,Deities their godship owe;Don't we mortals owe to wineManhood, and each spark divine?Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl,Who thy heavenly treasure stole?Not the hand that stole Jove's fireDid so happily aspire;Tell the lucky spoiler's name,Worthy never-dying fame.Since it must a secret be,Him I'll praise, in praising thee.Glory of the social treat!Source of friendly converse sweet!Source of cheerfulness and sense,Humour, wit, and eloquence,Courage and sincerity,Candour and philanthropy!Source of—O thou bounteous wine!What the good that is not thine?Were my nerves relax'd and low?Did my chill blood toil on slow?When thy spirit through me flows,How each vital function glows!Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy,Answer to the touch of joy:On the steams, that from thee rise,Time on swifter pinions flies;Fancy gilds them with her rays;Hope amid the rainbow plays.But behold! what Image brightRises heavenly to my sight!Could such wondrous charms adornVenus, when from ocean born?Say, my Julia, is it thou,Ever lovely, loveliest now?Yet, methinks, the Cyprian QueenComes herself, but takes thy mien.Goddess! I confess thy power,And to love devote the hour,Let me but, with grateful soul,Greet once more the bounteous Bowl.
Why must Poets, when they sing,Drink of the Castalian spring?Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;Witness many a modern strain:Poets! would ye sing with fire,Wine, not water, must inspire.Come, then, pour thy purple stream,Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.How within thy crystal frameDoes the rosy nectar flame!Not so beauteous on the vineDid the clustering rubies shine,When the potent God of dayFill'd them with his ripening ray;When with proudness and delightBacchus view'd the charming sight.Still it keeps Apollo's fires;Still the vintage-God admires.Hail sweet antidote of wo!Chiefest blessing mortals know!Nay, the mighty powers divineOwn the magic force of wine.Wearied with the world's affairs,Jove himself, to drown his cares,Bids the nectar'd goblet bear:Lo! the youthful Hebe fairPours the living draught around;—Hark! with mirth the skies resound.'Tis to wine, for aught I know,Deities their godship owe;Don't we mortals owe to wineManhood, and each spark divine?Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl,Who thy heavenly treasure stole?Not the hand that stole Jove's fireDid so happily aspire;Tell the lucky spoiler's name,Worthy never-dying fame.Since it must a secret be,Him I'll praise, in praising thee.Glory of the social treat!Source of friendly converse sweet!Source of cheerfulness and sense,Humour, wit, and eloquence,Courage and sincerity,Candour and philanthropy!Source of—O thou bounteous wine!What the good that is not thine?Were my nerves relax'd and low?Did my chill blood toil on slow?When thy spirit through me flows,How each vital function glows!Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy,Answer to the touch of joy:On the steams, that from thee rise,Time on swifter pinions flies;Fancy gilds them with her rays;Hope amid the rainbow plays.But behold! what Image brightRises heavenly to my sight!Could such wondrous charms adornVenus, when from ocean born?Say, my Julia, is it thou,Ever lovely, loveliest now?Yet, methinks, the Cyprian QueenComes herself, but takes thy mien.Goddess! I confess thy power,And to love devote the hour,Let me but, with grateful soul,Greet once more the bounteous Bowl.
Ere Reason rose within my breast,To enforce her sacred law,Still would some charm, in every maid,My veering passions draw.But now, to calm those gales of night,The morn her light displays;The twinkling stars no more I view,For only Venus sways:The spotless heaven of genuine loveUnveil'd I wondering see,And all that heaven, transported, claimFor Julia and for me.
Ere Reason rose within my breast,To enforce her sacred law,Still would some charm, in every maid,My veering passions draw.
But now, to calm those gales of night,The morn her light displays;The twinkling stars no more I view,For only Venus sways:
The spotless heaven of genuine loveUnveil'd I wondering see,And all that heaven, transported, claimFor Julia and for me.
Yes, I could love, could softly yieldTo passion all my willing breast,And fondly listen to the voiceThat oft invites me to be blest;That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss,Stands gazing on the form divine,So sweetly whispers to my soul,O make the heavenly Julia thine!But hush, thou fascinating voice!Hence visionary extacy!Yes, I could love, but ah! I fearShe would not deign to smile on me.
Yes, I could love, could softly yieldTo passion all my willing breast,And fondly listen to the voiceThat oft invites me to be blest;
That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss,Stands gazing on the form divine,So sweetly whispers to my soul,O make the heavenly Julia thine!
But hush, thou fascinating voice!Hence visionary extacy!Yes, I could love, but ah! I fearShe would not deign to smile on me.
Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay;See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd?See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to payTheir devotion to thee, are all waiting around?O come then, propitious to our invocation,To preside of thy rites at the solemnization.Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free,And the music of glasses that merrily ring,Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee;With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King!To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation,And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation.On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee,Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine;While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see,We greet thy munificence boundless, divine.From these we already inhale animation,Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation.As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows,We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane;Each breast with thy own godlike character glows;There truth, generosity, happiness reign.Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation;Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration.
Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay;See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd?See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to payTheir devotion to thee, are all waiting around?O come then, propitious to our invocation,To preside of thy rites at the solemnization.
Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free,And the music of glasses that merrily ring,Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee;With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King!To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation,And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation.
On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee,Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine;While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see,We greet thy munificence boundless, divine.From these we already inhale animation,Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation.
As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows,We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane;Each breast with thy own godlike character glows;There truth, generosity, happiness reign.Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation;Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration.
What majesty! what elegance and grace!The form how perfect! how divine the face!In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:—Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;I feel the presence of the Deity.
What majesty! what elegance and grace!The form how perfect! how divine the face!In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:—Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;I feel the presence of the Deity.
O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sightBehold this image of the God of light;Admire its whole, admire its every part;'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.Not with more glory in his heavenly sphereThe God appears, than in his Image here.
O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sightBehold this image of the God of light;Admire its whole, admire its every part;'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.Not with more glory in his heavenly sphereThe God appears, than in his Image here.
Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;—Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here,And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shadeThe noble homage of a patriot tear.Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain,Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd;Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main,And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame,With loud applause, to latest ages tell;Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name,Where last he conquer'd, where—alas! he fell.
Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;—Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here,And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shadeThe noble homage of a patriot tear.
Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain,Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd;Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main,And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.
His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame,With loud applause, to latest ages tell;Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name,Where last he conquer'd, where—alas! he fell.
Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread,Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead,To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame,And pay just worship to each godlike name;(If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo,And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,)Midst all the monuments that court your view,And claim the debt to buried merit due,Mark chiefly this;—on this with tearful eyesMore fondly gaze;—beneath it Howard lies!O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn;Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn;Benevolence sits weeping on his stone;Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.
Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread,Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead,To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame,And pay just worship to each godlike name;(If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo,And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,)Midst all the monuments that court your view,And claim the debt to buried merit due,Mark chiefly this;—on this with tearful eyesMore fondly gaze;—beneath it Howard lies!
O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn;Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn;Benevolence sits weeping on his stone;Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.
Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd nameCan boast more brilliant, more extensive fame.On him what various gifts did heaven confer!—Poet, historian, wit, philosopher;But ah!—peruse it, Christian, with a tear—The chief of infidels lies buried here:Lament the abuse of such rare talents given;Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven.
Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd nameCan boast more brilliant, more extensive fame.On him what various gifts did heaven confer!—Poet, historian, wit, philosopher;But ah!—peruse it, Christian, with a tear—The chief of infidels lies buried here:Lament the abuse of such rare talents given;Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven.
Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;And on his eagles Victory waited still.By battles won, by policy profound,Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:England alone, of all the nations round,His power opposed, disdaining to obey.Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;—There sunk his glory's sun;—ne'er more to rise.Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,Pause!—while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;—'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart,Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'
Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!
Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;And on his eagles Victory waited still.
By battles won, by policy profound,Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:England alone, of all the nations round,His power opposed, disdaining to obey.
Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;—There sunk his glory's sun;—ne'er more to rise.
Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,Pause!—while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;—'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart,Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'
Lo! Byron's tomb!—Here, deeply pensive, scanThe greatness,—and the littleness of man.In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.Thus human Glory ends its bright career.To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,Hurried him irresistibly alongWherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;No law could bridle his own proud self-will.O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,Byron had been—the first of human kind!
Lo! Byron's tomb!—Here, deeply pensive, scanThe greatness,—and the littleness of man.In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.Thus human Glory ends its bright career.To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,Hurried him irresistibly alongWherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;No law could bridle his own proud self-will.O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,Byron had been—the first of human kind!
What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?Crown they with happiness our mortal state?Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!—His frantic hand—O horror!—doom'd to bleed?—His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes—'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;—Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,Into the holy presence of her Sire.
What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?Crown they with happiness our mortal state?Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!—His frantic hand—O horror!—doom'd to bleed?—His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes—'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'
His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;—Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,Into the holy presence of her Sire.
Champion of justice and humanity,He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free:At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word—Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard!Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven,Thy task was done,—it was thy call to heaven!
Champion of justice and humanity,He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free:At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word—Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard!Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven,Thy task was done,—it was thy call to heaven!
Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.Mortal take heed!—in awful silence think,Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;O listen to Religion's warning cry!—'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'
Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.
Mortal take heed!—in awful silence think,Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;O listen to Religion's warning cry!—'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'
Though thou hast seen my locks are gray,Ah! do not, Julia, turn away;Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine,Disdainfully my love decline.Behold yon wreath!—how lovely showsThe snowy lily with the blushing rose!
Though thou hast seen my locks are gray,Ah! do not, Julia, turn away;Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine,Disdainfully my love decline.Behold yon wreath!—how lovely showsThe snowy lily with the blushing rose!
May European LibertyIn Moscow's flames her torch relume!And Gallic TyrannyIn Moscow's ruins find a tomb!
May European LibertyIn Moscow's flames her torch relume!And Gallic TyrannyIn Moscow's ruins find a tomb!
Locke says—the soul may slumber;—Lavater says—the soul is seenReflected in the mien;—The last assertion true,Proofs of the first we viewIn faces without number.
Locke says—the soul may slumber;—Lavater says—the soul is seenReflected in the mien;—The last assertion true,Proofs of the first we viewIn faces without number.
By faith alone, you say, not works,Man must obtain salvation;—If you are saved, the doctrine needsNo better confirmation.
By faith alone, you say, not works,Man must obtain salvation;—If you are saved, the doctrine needsNo better confirmation.
My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof,What all believe, denies;Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny,That she is wondrous wise.
My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof,What all believe, denies;Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny,That she is wondrous wise.
'The dullest ass may writeIn verse, that jingling stuff!'Indeed, Sir? have you tried?'I have.' That's proof enough.
'The dullest ass may writeIn verse, that jingling stuff!'Indeed, Sir? have you tried?'I have.' That's proof enough.
Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddleThat he excels in tragic declamation;Kemble's the favourite, and the model,That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation;Now, that the praise is just, none can deny;But the imitation gives that praise the lie:Decide, ye Critics! for 'tis hard to know,—Is he to Kemble's fame a friend or foe?
Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddleThat he excels in tragic declamation;Kemble's the favourite, and the model,That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation;Now, that the praise is just, none can deny;But the imitation gives that praise the lie:Decide, ye Critics! for 'tis hard to know,—Is he to Kemble's fame a friend or foe?
Mark! how the Rose, when Phœbus burns,Averts her blushing face;Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turnsTo meet his warm embrace:Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.
Mark! how the Rose, when Phœbus burns,Averts her blushing face;Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turnsTo meet his warm embrace:Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.
The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;But there's a deep-laid policy in it;For, did the Chancellor not—that conscience keep,It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.
The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;But there's a deep-laid policy in it;For, did the Chancellor not—that conscience keep,It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.
Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree."Pat!"—cries an Englishman—"'tis clear to me,More grateful for the union you should be;Think what an honour is to Ireland done:Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!""Murther!"—cries Pat—"he wedded her by force,And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."
Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree."Pat!"—cries an Englishman—"'tis clear to me,More grateful for the union you should be;Think what an honour is to Ireland done:Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!""Murther!"—cries Pat—"he wedded her by force,And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."
Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,For blind debate might love that darkness still,'Tis well the new experiment to try:A stronger, purer light—none can deny—Will then illume the House—light coming from on high.
Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,For blind debate might love that darkness still,'Tis well the new experiment to try:A stronger, purer light—none can deny—Will then illume the House—light coming from on high.
'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'Cried Hal,—'can play the part of Bottom.'"Play it yourself;"—retorted Ned,—"You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."
'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'Cried Hal,—'can play the part of Bottom.'"Play it yourself;"—retorted Ned,—"You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."
Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!
Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!
A quack, a mere anatomy,Wanting to buy a nag,Questions his friend, a wag,What colour it shall be:—'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'
A quack, a mere anatomy,Wanting to buy a nag,Questions his friend, a wag,What colour it shall be:—'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'
Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;—The people hail their own-elected House;On tiptoe stands the general expectation:—What the grand doings of the Administration?Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!
Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;—The people hail their own-elected House;On tiptoe stands the general expectation:—What the grand doings of the Administration?Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!
Metaphysical SagesHave writ many pages,To decide if the MindBe Spirit or Matter:—How strange! that in the pagesOf these metaphysical sagesWe so seldom can findMind, Spirit, or Matter!
Metaphysical SagesHave writ many pages,To decide if the MindBe Spirit or Matter:—How strange! that in the pagesOf these metaphysical sagesWe so seldom can findMind, Spirit, or Matter!
Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat,All flattery you despise?—Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,And I am sure he lies.
Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat,All flattery you despise?—Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,And I am sure he lies.
What a strong contrast to most modern sagesWere some philosophers of ancient ages!E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too,Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew.Now! vain pretenders such presumption show,They seem to fancy that they all things know.Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity,Would that ye knew but half as much as he!
What a strong contrast to most modern sagesWere some philosophers of ancient ages!E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too,Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew.Now! vain pretenders such presumption show,They seem to fancy that they all things know.Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity,Would that ye knew but half as much as he!
Pale is Amelia's face,And red Lavinia's nose is;The sisters ever jar:'Tis like the civil warBetween the rival roses.
Pale is Amelia's face,And red Lavinia's nose is;The sisters ever jar:'Tis like the civil warBetween the rival roses.
On that dark theme, man's genealogy,How strangely people's notions disagree!—Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can traceStrong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:—My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to findFar more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:—Sure the reflection from their looking-glassesInto their minds,—to prompt opinion—passes.Would-be philosophers have tried to scanThe pedigree of that odd creature, man.'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;(I, for my part, the compliment decline)—But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine?'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!'Is't possible?—Yet, when I look on you,—I, verily, begin to think so too.
On that dark theme, man's genealogy,How strangely people's notions disagree!—Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can traceStrong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:—My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to findFar more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:—Sure the reflection from their looking-glassesInto their minds,—to prompt opinion—passes.Would-be philosophers have tried to scanThe pedigree of that odd creature, man.'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;(I, for my part, the compliment decline)—But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine?'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!'Is't possible?—Yet, when I look on you,—I, verily, begin to think so too.
'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache—so bad!I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.'"I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had,You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."
'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache—so bad!I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.'"I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had,You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."
Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?To guard his flock against the tempter's power.—Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em:To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em:Like a devouring lion is the priest;Or—give the devil his due—you'll own, at least,He has the marks about him of the beast.
Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?To guard his flock against the tempter's power.—Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em:To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em:Like a devouring lion is the priest;Or—give the devil his due—you'll own, at least,He has the marks about him of the beast.
Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.?'It means I'm member of the Faculty.'Hum!—from your practice else one might inferIt meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.
Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.?'It means I'm member of the Faculty.'Hum!—from your practice else one might inferIt meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.
'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle,Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle.'What shall we play for?'—Edwin quickly cried;"Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied.'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.'He wins the game, and straight demands his pay."No"—'Yes'—"I wont"—'You shall'—"I wont be kiss'd:I'll pay you with a check—if you persist."
One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle,Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle.'What shall we play for?'—Edwin quickly cried;"Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied.'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.'He wins the game, and straight demands his pay."No"—'Yes'—"I wont"—'You shall'—"I wont be kiss'd:I'll pay you with a check—if you persist."
Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?To a far higher intellectual state,Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.
Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?To a far higher intellectual state,Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.
A lady had a sickly son;A skeleton but for his skin:—Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;—The mother chid him for his sin.—'Her charms were not to be withstood,Too tempting for frail flesh and blood!As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.'"That's no excuse for skin and bone."
A lady had a sickly son;A skeleton but for his skin:—Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;—The mother chid him for his sin.—'Her charms were not to be withstood,Too tempting for frail flesh and blood!As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.'"That's no excuse for skin and bone."
'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'—Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;I'd accept—but for something—the vast obligation.'But for what, pray?'—The instinct of self-preservation.
'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'—Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;I'd accept—but for something—the vast obligation.'But for what, pray?'—The instinct of self-preservation.
If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mindNastiest ideas we are sure to find,Then—equal to his humour and his witSwift's delicacy we must all admit.
If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mindNastiest ideas we are sure to find,Then—equal to his humour and his witSwift's delicacy we must all admit.
That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought,To save your idle brain the toil of thought,You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,It seems almost as stupid as your own.
That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought,To save your idle brain the toil of thought,You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,It seems almost as stupid as your own.
Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:—To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use.
Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:—To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use.
Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.—What moralist can gratitude condemn?They, formerly, have done so much for him;Ought he not, now, to do his best for them?
Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.—What moralist can gratitude condemn?They, formerly, have done so much for him;Ought he not, now, to do his best for them?
Bury, for practice bold and skillDeserves to be of note;He cures by means that well might kill,—He cuts his patient's throat!
Bury, for practice bold and skillDeserves to be of note;He cures by means that well might kill,—He cuts his patient's throat!
When Satan tempts a priest to rise,'It is the call of heaven!' he cries,And mount's ambition's ladder:—To heaven's own call that bids him be,Like Christ, full of humility,He's deafer than an adder.
When Satan tempts a priest to rise,'It is the call of heaven!' he cries,And mount's ambition's ladder:—To heaven's own call that bids him be,Like Christ, full of humility,He's deafer than an adder.
Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!
Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!
Man's owl-eyed reason—Popish Priests assert—Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light;Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their bestTo keep their flocks in unillumined night.
Man's owl-eyed reason—Popish Priests assert—Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light;Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their bestTo keep their flocks in unillumined night.
'The brokers of the Stock-ExchangeAre nicknamed bears and bulls;—how strange!What reason, Sir, to call them so?'Ma'am, see their manners, you will know.
'The brokers of the Stock-ExchangeAre nicknamed bears and bulls;—how strange!What reason, Sir, to call them so?'Ma'am, see their manners, you will know.
Words upon words impetuous rush along,And tread each other's brains out as they throng.
Words upon words impetuous rush along,And tread each other's brains out as they throng.
'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'—Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries—'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.
'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'—Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries—'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.
I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me;—what then?Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?'I cannot say your poem I admire;It wants originality and fire;Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'"What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.'
I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me;—what then?Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?'I cannot say your poem I admire;It wants originality and fire;Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'"What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.'
A worthy man of ragsIntreats for charityA rogue of money-bags.'Pshaw! it at home begins.'Then serve thyself and me;For it will be no lessA cover to thy sins,Than to my nakedness.
A worthy man of ragsIntreats for charityA rogue of money-bags.'Pshaw! it at home begins.'Then serve thyself and me;For it will be no lessA cover to thy sins,Than to my nakedness.
The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprestThe ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast:'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might;I must, to-day, be laced up very tight;For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:—Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire!Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced,That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.''Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake;You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'
The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprestThe ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast:'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might;I must, to-day, be laced up very tight;For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:—Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire!Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced,That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.''Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake;You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'
In altering thus and shortening his oration,Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong;It well may fill his Lordship with vexation,When he has toil'd so hard to make it long.'I've writ an epigram;—here, read it, do.—The critics praise it highly:—what think you?'"I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.'"It may be to your taste—'tis not to mine."'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!—The point may be too fine for me to see it."'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.'"Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."
In altering thus and shortening his oration,Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong;It well may fill his Lordship with vexation,When he has toil'd so hard to make it long.'I've writ an epigram;—here, read it, do.—The critics praise it highly:—what think you?'"I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.'"It may be to your taste—'tis not to mine."'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!—The point may be too fine for me to see it."'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.'"Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."
Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit,They fain would tear the tree up by the root.Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted,But old ones can't;—'tis by all gardeners granted.'Twill die;—and when the good old tree is dead,What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?The Squire has long imagined that his sonIs deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton.They meet.—'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.—How get you on in Law? my clever boy!In practice too?—But Tom, what bills you draw!Expensive work this studying of the law!'The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:—"O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire;In chamber-practice I have much to do."—His answer—in a certain sense—is true.
Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit,They fain would tear the tree up by the root.Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted,But old ones can't;—'tis by all gardeners granted.'Twill die;—and when the good old tree is dead,What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?
The Squire has long imagined that his sonIs deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton.They meet.—'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.—How get you on in Law? my clever boy!In practice too?—But Tom, what bills you draw!Expensive work this studying of the law!'The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:—"O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire;In chamber-practice I have much to do."—His answer—in a certain sense—is true.
To move her lover, a coquetish MissBegan to sob, pretending she should faint;—Her maid restored her straight by whispering this:'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'
To move her lover, a coquetish MissBegan to sob, pretending she should faint;—Her maid restored her straight by whispering this:'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'
The labourers in the vineyard toil(So numerous are their creeds)Far less to cultivate the soil,Than break each others' heads.
The labourers in the vineyard toil(So numerous are their creeds)Far less to cultivate the soil,Than break each others' heads.
'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.I would be bound—the merest scribbler could—To write one in a minute.'No doubt you could—but then there wouldIndeed, be nothing in it.
'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.I would be bound—the merest scribbler could—To write one in a minute.'No doubt you could—but then there wouldIndeed, be nothing in it.
The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls,With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.
The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls,With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.
Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head;Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view;O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!Ye marble statues! how I envy you!
Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head;Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view;O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!Ye marble statues! how I envy you!
To hear him preach the Methodistic creed,What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed!His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens;Like heaven itself—says Fame, he thunders, lightens.I go to hear him;—Fame has made a blunder;—I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder.
To hear him preach the Methodistic creed,What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed!His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens;Like heaven itself—says Fame, he thunders, lightens.I go to hear him;—Fame has made a blunder;—I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder.
For flowery sermons Doctor DrudgeOf preachers at the top is;—If from their influence we may judge,His flowers are only poppies.
For flowery sermons Doctor DrudgeOf preachers at the top is;—If from their influence we may judge,His flowers are only poppies.
Sir! you're both fool and knave!—to Frank, Blunt cries—I know I am, Sir, Frank to Blunt replies:—Now, in self-knowledge if all knowledge lies,A fool, like Frank, must be extremely wise!
Sir! you're both fool and knave!—to Frank, Blunt cries—I know I am, Sir, Frank to Blunt replies:—Now, in self-knowledge if all knowledge lies,A fool, like Frank, must be extremely wise!
Vice is a mouse-trap, pleasure is the bait,Like mice, enticing mortals to their fate;And of this truth experience leaves no doubt;—'Tis far more easy to get in than out.Old maids their spleen on marriage vent;—The reason would you know?'Tis not, that others are made wives,But that they can't be so.
Vice is a mouse-trap, pleasure is the bait,Like mice, enticing mortals to their fate;And of this truth experience leaves no doubt;—'Tis far more easy to get in than out.
Old maids their spleen on marriage vent;—The reason would you know?'Tis not, that others are made wives,But that they can't be so.
How grave he looks! how mighty wise!—He seems Minerva's sacred bird:—He speaks! our ears refute our eyes—The cackling of a goose is heard.
How grave he looks! how mighty wise!—He seems Minerva's sacred bird:—He speaks! our ears refute our eyes—The cackling of a goose is heard.
How came that Jew, deform'd and old,To wed the youthful, fair Coquette?—Ben had a purse well-stored with gold!He caught her in't;—'twas Hymen's net!Flirtilla's teeth, well-form'd and white,Were Hymen's pincers, and could bite!When the Royal Exchange to the flames fell a prey,All the Monarchs and Queens from their niches were thrown;Lackaday! on the pavement in fragments they lay,Every one except Charley the Second alone.Strange event! O my Muse! to blind mortals belowClear this mystery which none but immortals can know."Cytherea and Momus pray'd Vulcan to spareThe blithe, amorous King:—Vulcan granted their prayer."
How came that Jew, deform'd and old,To wed the youthful, fair Coquette?—Ben had a purse well-stored with gold!He caught her in't;—'twas Hymen's net!Flirtilla's teeth, well-form'd and white,Were Hymen's pincers, and could bite!When the Royal Exchange to the flames fell a prey,All the Monarchs and Queens from their niches were thrown;Lackaday! on the pavement in fragments they lay,Every one except Charley the Second alone.Strange event! O my Muse! to blind mortals belowClear this mystery which none but immortals can know."Cytherea and Momus pray'd Vulcan to spareThe blithe, amorous King:—Vulcan granted their prayer."