LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUSPIECESPART OF A PROLOGUE WRITTEN ANDSPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUSA ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CAESAR FORCEDUPON THE STAGEPRESERVED BYMACROBIUS.WHAT! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage,And save from infamy my sinking age!Scarce half alive, oppress’d with many a year,What in the name of dotage drives me here?A time there was, when glory was my guide, 5Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;Unaw’d by pow’r, and unappall’d by fear,With honest thrift I held my honour dear;But this vile hour disperses all my store,And all my hoard of honour is no more. 10For ah! too partial to my life’s decline,Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please.Here then at once, I welcome every shame, 15And cancel at threescore a life of fame;No more my titles shall my children tell,The old buffoon will fit my name as well;This day beyond its term my fate extends,For life is ended when our honour ends. 20ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND WITH LIGHTNING(Imitated from the Spanish.)SURE ’twas by Providence design’d,Rather in pity, than in hate,That he should be, like Cupid, blind,To save him from Narcissus’ fate.THE GIFTTO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, CONVENT GARDENSAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,Dear mercenary beauty,What annual offering shall I make,Expressive of my duty?My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 5Should I at once deliver,Say, would the angry fair one prizeThe gift, who slights the giver?A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,My rivals give—and let ’em; 10If gems, or gold, impart a joy,I’ll give them—when I get ’em.I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose,Or rose-bud more in fashion;Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose 15A transitory passion.I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,Not less sincere, than civil:I’ll give thee—Ah! too charming maid,I’ll give thee—To the devil. 30THE LOGICIANS REFUTEDIN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFTLOGICIANS have but ill defin’dAs rational, the human kind;Reason, they say, belongs to man,But let them prove it if they can.Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius, 5By ratiocinations specious,Have strove to prove with great precision,With definition and division,Homo est ratione praeditum,—But for my soul I cannot credit ’em; 10And must in spite of them maintain,That man and all his ways are vain;And that this boasted lord of natureIs both a weak and erring creature;That instinct is a surer guide 15Than reason-boasting mortals’ pride;And that brute beasts are far before ’em,Deus est anima brutorum.Who ever knew an honest bruteAt law his neighbour prosecute, 20Bring action for assault and battery,Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,No politics disturb their mind;They eat their meals, and take their sport, 25Nor know who’s in or out at court;They never to the levee goTo treat as dearest friend, a foe;They never importune his grace,Nor ever cringe to men in place; 30Nor undertake a dirty job,Nor draw the quill to write for B——b.Fraught with invective they ne’er goTo folks at Pater-Noster-Row;No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 35No pick-pockets, or poetasters,Are known to honest quadrupeds;No single brute his fellow leads.Brutes never meet in bloody fray,Nor cut each others’ throats, for pay. 40Of beasts, it is confess’d, the apeComes nearest us in human shape;Like man he imitates each fashion,And malice is his ruling passion;But both in malice and grimaces 45A courtier any ape surpasses.Behold him humbly cringing waitUpon a minister of state;View him soon after to inferiors,Aping the conduct of superiors; 50He promises with equal air,And to perform takes equal care.He in his turn finds imitators;At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,Their master’s manners still contract, 55And footmen, lords and dukes can act.Thus at the court both great an smallBehave alike—for all ape all.A SONNETWEEPING, murmuring, complaining,Lost to every gay delight;MYRA, too sincere for feigning,Fears th’ approaching bridal night.Yet, why impair thy bright perfection? 5Or dim thy beauty with a tear?Had MYRA followed my direction,She long had wanted cause of fear.STANZASON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATHOF GENERAL WOLFEAMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 5Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow,Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: 10Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead—Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX,MRS. MARY BLAIZEGOOD people all, with one accord,Lament for Madam BLAIZE,Who never wanted a good word—From those who spoke her praise.The needy seldom pass’d her door, 5And always found her kind;She freely lent to all the poor,—Who left a pledge behind.She strove the neighbourhood to please,With manners wond’rous winning, 10And never follow’d wicked ways,—Unless when she was sinning.At church, in silks and satins new,With hoop of monstrous size,She never slumber’d in her pew,— 15But when she shut her eyes.Her love was sought, I do aver,By twenty beaux and more;The king himself has follow’d her,—When she has walk’d before.20But now her wealth and finery fled,Her hangers-on cut short all;The doctors found, when she was dead,—Her last disorder mortal.Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 25For Kent-street well may say,That had she liv’d a twelve-month more,—She had not died to-day.DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BEDCHAMBERWHERE the Red Lion flaring o’er the way,Invites each passing stranger that can pay;Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 5The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,That dimly show’d the state in which he lay;The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: 10The royal game of goose was there in view,And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,And brave prince William show’d his lamp-black face:The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 15The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,And five crack’d teacups dress’d the chimney board;A nightcap deck’d his brows instead of bay,A cap by night—a stocking all the day! 20ON SEEING MRS. ** PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF ****FOR you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.The heartfelt power of every charm divine,Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?See how she moves along with every grace, 5While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,Ye gods! what transport e’er compared to this.As when in Paphian groves the Queen of LoveWith fond complaint addressed the listening Jove, 10’Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,And felt her charms, without disguise, within.OF THE DEATH OF THE LEFT HON. ***YE Muses, pour the pitying tearFor Pollio snatch’d away;O! had he liv’d another year!—He had not died to-day.O! were he born to bless mankind, 5In virtuous times of yore,Heroes themselves had fallen behind!—Whene’er he went before.How sad the groves and plains appear,And sympathetic sheep; 10Even pitying hills would drop a tear!—If hills could learn to weep.His bounty in exalted strainEach bard might well display;Since none implor’d relief in vain!— 15That went reliev’d away.And hark! I hear the tuneful throngHis obsequies forbid,He still shall live, shall live as long!—As ever dead man did.20AN EPIGRAMADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTED ON INTHE ROSCIAD, A POEM, BY THE AUTHORWorried with debts and past all hopes of bail,His pen he prostitutes t’ avoid a gaol.ROSCOM.LET not thehungryBavius’ angry strokeAwake resentment, or your rage provoke;But pitying his distress, let virtue shine,And giving each your bounty,let him dine;For thus retain’d, as learned counsel can, 5Each case, however bad, he’ll new japan;And by a quick transition, plainly show’Twas no defect of yours, butpocket low,That caused hisputrid kennelto o’erflow.TO G. C. AND R. L.’TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together,’Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;This, I believe, between us great or small,You, I, he, wrote it not—’twas Churchill’s all.TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODEIN all my Enna’s beauties blest,Amidst profusion still I pine;For though she gives me up her breast,Its panting tenant is not mine.THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATIONA TALESECLUDED from domestic strife,Jack Book-worm led a college life;A fellowship at twenty-fiveMade him the happiest man alive;He drank his glass and crack’d his joke, 5And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,Could any accident impair?Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfixOur swain, arriv’d at thirty-six? 10O had the archer ne’er come downTo ravage in a country town!Or Flavia been content to stopAt triumphs in a Fleet-street shop.O had her eyes forgot to blaze! 15Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.O!——But let exclamation cease,Her presence banish’d all his peace.So with decorum all things carried;Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married. 20Need we expose to vulgar sightThe raptures of the bridal night?Need we intrude on hallow’d ground,Or draw the curtains clos’d around?Let it suffice, that each had charms; 25He clasp’d a goddess in his arms;And though she felt his usage rough,Yet in a man ’twas well enough.The honey-moon like lightning flew,The second brought its transports too. 30A third, a fourth, were not amiss,The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,Jack found his goddess made of clay;Found half the charms that deck’d her face 35Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;But still the worst remain’d behind,That very face had robb’d her mind.Skill’d in no other arts was sheBut dressing, patching, repartee; 40And, just as humour rose or fell,By turns a slattern or a belle;’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace,Half naked at a ball or race;But when at home, at board or bed, 45Five greasy nightcaps wrapp’d her head.Could so much beauty condescendTo be a dull domestic friend?Could any curtain-lectures bringTo decency so fine a thing? 50In short, by night, ’twas fits or fretting;By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.Fond to be seen, she kept a bevyOf powder’d coxcombs at her levy;The ’squire and captain took their stations, 55And twenty other near relations;Jack suck’d his pipe, and often brokeA sigh in suffocating smoke;While all their hours were pass’d betweenInsulting repartee or spleen. 60Thus as her faults each day were known,He thinks her features coarser grown;He fancies every vice she shows,Or thins her lip, or points her nose:Whenever rage or envy rise, 65How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!He knows not how, but so it is,Her face is grown a knowing phiz;And, though her fops are wond’rous civil,He thinks her ugly as the devil. 70Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,As each a different way pursues,While sullen or loquacious strife,Promis’d to hold them on for life,That dire disease, whose ruthless power 75Withers the beauty’s transient flower:Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glareLevell’d its terrors at the fair;And, rifling ev’ry youthful grace,Left but the remnant of a face. 80The glass, grown hateful to her sight,Reflected now a perfect fright:Each former art she vainly triesTo bring back lustre to her eyes.In vain she tries her paste and creams, 85To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;Her country beaux and city cousins,Lovers no more, flew off by dozens:The ’squire himself was seen to yield,And e’en the captain quit the field. 90Poor Madam, now condemn’d to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzl’d to behold 95Her present face surpass the old;With modesty her cheeks are dy’d,Humility displaces pride;For tawdry finery is seenA person ever neatly clean: 100No more presuming on her sway,She learns good-nature every day;Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.A NEW SIMILEIN THE MANNER OF SWIFTLONG had I sought in vain to findA likeness for the scribbling kind;The modern scribbling kind, who writeIn wit, and sense, and nature’s spite:Till reading, I forget what day on, 5A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon,I think I met with something there,To suit my purpose to a hair;But let us not proceed too furious,First please to turn to god Mercurius; 10You’ll find him pictur’d at full lengthIn book the second, page the tenth:The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,And now proceed we to our simile.Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 15Wings upon either side—mark that.Well! what is it from thence we gather?Why these denote a brain of feather.A brain of feather! very right,With wit that’s flighty, learning light; 20Such as to modern bard’s decreed:A just comparison,—proceed.In the next place, his feet peruse,Wings grow again from both his shoes;Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear, 25And waft his godship through the air;And here my simile unites,For in a modern poet’s flights,I’m sure it may be justly said,His feet are useful as his head. 30Lastly, vouchsafe t’observe his hand,Filled with a snake-encircl’d wand;By classic authors term’d caduceus,And highly fam’d for several uses.To wit—most wond’rously endu’d, 35No poppy water half so good;For let folks only get a touch,Its soporific virtue’s such,Though ne’er so much awake before,That quickly they begin to snore. 40Add too, what certain writers tell,With this he drives men’s souls to hell.Now to apply, begin we then;His wand’s a modern author’s pen;The serpents round about it twin’d 45Denote him of the reptile kind;Denote the rage with which he writes,His frothy slaver, venom’d bites;An equal semblance still to keep,Alike too both conduce to sleep. 50This diff’rence only, as the godDrove souls to Tart’rus with his rod,With his goosequill the scribbling elf,Instead of others, damns himself.And here my simile almost tript, 55Yet grant a word by way of postscript.Moreover, Merc’ry had a failing:Well! what of that? out with it—stealing;In which all modern bards agree,Being each as great a thief as he: 60But ev’n this deity’s existenceShall lend my simile assistance.Our modern bards! why what a poxAre they but senseless stones and blocks?[Illustration: ]EDWIN AND ANGELINA(T. Stothard)EDWIN AND ANGELINAA BALLAD‘TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,And guide my lonely way,To where yon taper cheers the valeWith hospitable ray.‘For here, forlorn and lost I tread, 5With fainting steps and slow;Where wilds immeasurably spread,Seem length’ning as I go.’‘Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries,‘To tempt the dangerous gloom; 10For yonder faithless phantom fliesTo lure thee to thy doom.‘Here to the houseless child of wantMy door is open still;And though my portion is but scant, 15I give it with good will.‘Then turn to-night, and freely shareWhate’er my cell bestows;My rushy couch, and frugal fare,My blessing and repose. 20‘No flocks that range the valley freeTo slaughter I condemn:Taught by that power that pities me,I learn to pity them.‘But from the mountain’s grassy side 25A guiltless feast I bring;A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.‘Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo;All earth-born cares are wrong: 30Man wants but little here below,Nor wants that little long.’Soft as the dew from heav’n descends,His gentle accents fell:The modest stranger lowly bends, 35And follows to the cell.Far in a wilderness obscureThe lonely mansion lay;A refuge to the neighbouring poorAnd strangers led astray. 40No stores beneath its humble thatchRequir’d a master’s care;The wicket, opening with a latch,Receiv’d the harmless pair.And now, when busy crowds retire 45To take their evening rest,The hermit trimm’d his little fire,And cheer’d his pensive guest:And spread his vegetable store,And gaily press’d, and smil’d; 50And, skill’d in legendary lore,The lingering hours beguil’d.Around in sympathetic mirthIts tricks the kitten tries;The cricket chirrups in the hearth; 55The crackling faggot flies.But nothing could a charm impartTo soothe the stranger’s woe;For grief was heavy at his heart,And tears began to flow. 60His rising cares the hermit spied,With answ’ring care oppress’d;‘And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried,‘The sorrows of thy breast?‘From better habitations spurn’d, 65Reluctant dost thou rove;Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,Or unregarded love?‘Alas! the joys that fortune bringsAre trifling, and decay; 70And those who prize the paltry things,More trifling still than they.‘And what is friendship but a name,A charm that lulls to sleep;A shade that follows wealth or fame, 75But leaves the wretch to weep?‘And love is still an emptier sound,The modern fair one’s jest:On earth unseen, or only foundTo warm the turtle’s nest. 80‘For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,And spurn the sex,’ he said:But, while he spoke, a rising blushHis love-lorn guest betray’d.Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise, 85Swift mantling to the view;Like colours o’er the morning skies,As bright, as transient too.The bashful look, the rising breast,Alternate spread alarms: 90The lovely stranger stands confess’dA maid in all her charms.‘And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,A wretch forlorn,’ she cried;‘Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 95Where heaven and you reside.‘But let a maid thy pity share,Whom love has taught to stray;Who seeks for rest, but finds despairCompanion of her way. 100‘My father liv’d beside the Tyne,A wealthy lord was he;And all his wealth was mark’d as mine,He had but only me.‘To win me from his tender arms 105Unnumber’d suitors came;Who prais’d me for imputed charms,And felt or feign’d a flame.Each hour a mercenary crowdWith richest proffers strove: 110Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,But never talk’d of love.‘In humble, simplest habit clad,No wealth nor power had he;Wisdom and worth were all he had, 115But these were all to me.‘And when beside me in the daleHe caroll’d lays of love;His breath lent fragrance to the gale,And music to the grove. 120‘The blossom opening to the day,The dews of heaven refin’d,Could nought of purity display,To emulate his mind.‘The dew, the blossom on the tree, 125With charms inconstant shine;Their charms were his, but woe to me!Their constancy was mine.‘For still I tried each fickle art,Importunate and vain: 130And while his passion touch’d my heart,I triumph’d in his pain.‘Till quite dejected with my scorn,He left me to my pride;And sought a solitude forlorn, 135In secret, where he died.‘But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,And well my life shall pay;I’ll seek the solitude he sought,And stretch me where he lay. 140‘And there forlorn, despairing, hid,I’ll lay me down and die;’Twas so for me that Edwin did,And so for him will I.’‘Forbid it, heaven!’ the hermit cried, 145And clasp’d her to his breast:The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,’Twas Edwin’s self that prest.‘Turn, Angelina, ever dear,My charmer, turn to see 150Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,Restor’d to love and thee.‘Thus let me hold thee to my heart,And ev’ry care resign;And shall we never, never part, 155My life—my all that’s mine?‘No, never from this hour to part,We’ll live and love so true;The sigh that rends thy constant heartShall break thy Edwin’s too.’ 160ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOGGood people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wond’rous short,It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a man, 5Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ran,Whene’er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes; 10The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 15And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain some private ends,Went mad and bit the man. 20Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wond’ring neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.The wound it seem’d both sore and sad 25To every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show’d the rogues they lied: 30The man recover’d of the bite,The dog it was that died.SONGFROM ‘THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD’WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,What charm can soothe her melancholy,What art can wash her guilt away?The only art her guilt to cover, 5To hide her shame from every eye,To give repentance to her lover,And wring his bosom, is—to die.EPILOGUE TO ‘THE GOOD NATUR’D MAN’As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procureTo swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still dependFor Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 5And make full many a bitter pill go down.Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out.‘An Epilogue—things can’t go on without it;It could not fail, would you but set about it.’ 10‘Young man,’ cries one—a bard laid up in clover—‘Alas, young man, my writing days are over;Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I:Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.’‘What I? dear Sir,’ the Doctor interposes 15‘What plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!No, no; I’ve other contests to maintain;To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane:Go, ask your manager.’ ‘Who, me? Your pardon;Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.’ 20Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance,Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.As some unhappy wight, at some new play,At the Pit door stands elbowing a way,While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;His simp’ring friends, with pleasure in their eyes,Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;But not a soul will budge to give him place. 30Since then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform‘To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm’—Blame where you must, be candid where you can;And be each critic theGood Natur’d Man.EPILOGUE TO ‘THE SISTER’WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.Had she consultedme, she should have madeHer moral play a speaking masquerade;Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage 5Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking;Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking.Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,What if I give a masquerade?—I will. 10But how? ay, there’s the rub! (pausing)—I’ve got my cue:The world’s a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.(To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.)——, what a group the motley scene discloses!False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside ’em, 15Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride ’em.There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once moreTo raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.These in their turn, with appetites as keen,Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen, 20Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman:The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,And tries to kill, ere she’s got power to cure.Thus ’tis with all—their chief and constant care 25Is to seem everything but what they are.Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,Who seems to have robb’d his vizor from the lion;Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,Looking as who should say, D——! who’s afraid? 30(Mimicking)Strip but his vizor off, and sure I amYou’ll find his lionship a very lamb.Yon politician, famous in debate,Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;Yet, when he deigns his real shape t’ assume, 35He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,And seems to every gazer all in white,If with a bribe his candour you attack,He bows, turns round, and whip—the man’s a black! 40Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?If I proceed, our bard will be undone!Well then a truce, since she requests it too:Do you spare her, and I’ll for once spare you.PROLOGUE TO ‘ZOBEIDE’IN these bold times, when Learning’s sons exploreThe distant climate and the savage shore;When wise Astronomers to India steer,And quit for Venus, many a brighter here;While Botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 5Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;When every bosom swells with wond’rous scenes,Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens:Our bard into the general spirit enters,And fits his little frigate for adventures: 10With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading—Yet ere he lands he ’as ordered me before,To make an observation on the shore.Where are we driven? our reck’ning sure is lost! 15This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.—— what a sultry climate am I under!Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.(Upper Gallery.)There Mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen ’em—(Pit.)Here trees of stately size—and turtles in ’em— 20(Balconies.)Here ill-condition’d oranges abound—(Stage.)And apples (takes up one and tastes it), bitter applesstrew the ground.The place is uninhabited, I fear!I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!O there the natives are—a dreadful race! 25The men have tails, the women paint the face!No doubt they’re all barbarians.—Yes, ’tis so,I’ll try to make palaver with them though;(Making signs.)’Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.Good Savages, our Captain craves assistance; 30Our ship’s well stor’d;—in yonder creek we’ve laid her;His honour is no mercenary trader;This is his first adventure; lend him aid,Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.His goods, he hopes are prime, and brought from far, 35Equally fit for gallantry and war.What! no reply to promises so ample?I’d best step back—and order up a sample.THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESSTHE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.OVERTURE—A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR—TRIO.ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,And waken every note of woe;When truth and virtue reach the skies,’Tis ours to weep the want below!CHORUS.When truth and virtue, etc. 5MAN SPEAKER.The praise attending pomp and power,The incense given to kings,Are but the trappings of an hour—Mere transitory things!The base bestow them: but the good agree 10To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.But when to pomp and power are join’dAn equal dignity of mind—When titles are the smallest claim—When wealth and rank and noble blood, 15But aid the power of doing good—Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.Bless’d spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloomShall spread and flourish from the tomb,How hast thou left mankind for heaven! 20Even now reproach and faction mourn.And, wondering how their rage was borne,Request to be forgiven.Alas! they never had thy hate:Unmov’d in conscious rectitude, 25Thy towering mind self-centred stood,Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,A thousand gifts would fortune send;In vain, to drive thee from the right, 30A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity! 35Virtue, on herself relying,Ev’ry passion hush’d to rest,Loses ev’ry pain of dyingIn the hopes of being blest.Ev’ry added pang she suffers 40Some increasing good bestows,Ev’ry shock that malice offersOnly rocks her to repose.SONG. BY A MAN—AFFETTUOSO.
WHAT! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage,And save from infamy my sinking age!Scarce half alive, oppress’d with many a year,What in the name of dotage drives me here?A time there was, when glory was my guide, 5Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;Unaw’d by pow’r, and unappall’d by fear,With honest thrift I held my honour dear;But this vile hour disperses all my store,And all my hoard of honour is no more. 10For ah! too partial to my life’s decline,Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please.Here then at once, I welcome every shame, 15And cancel at threescore a life of fame;No more my titles shall my children tell,The old buffoon will fit my name as well;This day beyond its term my fate extends,For life is ended when our honour ends. 20
(Imitated from the Spanish.)
SURE ’twas by Providence design’d,Rather in pity, than in hate,That he should be, like Cupid, blind,To save him from Narcissus’ fate.
TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, CONVENT GARDEN
SAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,Dear mercenary beauty,What annual offering shall I make,Expressive of my duty?My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 5Should I at once deliver,Say, would the angry fair one prizeThe gift, who slights the giver?A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,My rivals give—and let ’em; 10If gems, or gold, impart a joy,I’ll give them—when I get ’em.I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose,Or rose-bud more in fashion;Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose 15A transitory passion.I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,Not less sincere, than civil:I’ll give thee—Ah! too charming maid,I’ll give thee—To the devil. 30
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT
LOGICIANS have but ill defin’dAs rational, the human kind;Reason, they say, belongs to man,But let them prove it if they can.Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius, 5By ratiocinations specious,Have strove to prove with great precision,With definition and division,Homo est ratione praeditum,—But for my soul I cannot credit ’em; 10And must in spite of them maintain,That man and all his ways are vain;And that this boasted lord of natureIs both a weak and erring creature;That instinct is a surer guide 15Than reason-boasting mortals’ pride;And that brute beasts are far before ’em,Deus est anima brutorum.Who ever knew an honest bruteAt law his neighbour prosecute, 20Bring action for assault and battery,Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?O’er plains they ramble unconfin’d,No politics disturb their mind;They eat their meals, and take their sport, 25Nor know who’s in or out at court;They never to the levee goTo treat as dearest friend, a foe;They never importune his grace,Nor ever cringe to men in place; 30Nor undertake a dirty job,Nor draw the quill to write for B——b.Fraught with invective they ne’er goTo folks at Pater-Noster-Row;No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 35No pick-pockets, or poetasters,Are known to honest quadrupeds;No single brute his fellow leads.Brutes never meet in bloody fray,Nor cut each others’ throats, for pay. 40Of beasts, it is confess’d, the apeComes nearest us in human shape;Like man he imitates each fashion,And malice is his ruling passion;But both in malice and grimaces 45A courtier any ape surpasses.Behold him humbly cringing waitUpon a minister of state;View him soon after to inferiors,Aping the conduct of superiors; 50He promises with equal air,And to perform takes equal care.He in his turn finds imitators;At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,Their master’s manners still contract, 55And footmen, lords and dukes can act.Thus at the court both great an smallBehave alike—for all ape all.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,Lost to every gay delight;MYRA, too sincere for feigning,Fears th’ approaching bridal night.Yet, why impair thy bright perfection? 5Or dim thy beauty with a tear?Had MYRA followed my direction,She long had wanted cause of fear.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATHOF GENERAL WOLFE
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 5Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow,Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: 10Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead—Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!
GOOD people all, with one accord,Lament for Madam BLAIZE,Who never wanted a good word—From those who spoke her praise.The needy seldom pass’d her door, 5And always found her kind;She freely lent to all the poor,—Who left a pledge behind.She strove the neighbourhood to please,With manners wond’rous winning, 10And never follow’d wicked ways,—Unless when she was sinning.At church, in silks and satins new,With hoop of monstrous size,She never slumber’d in her pew,— 15But when she shut her eyes.Her love was sought, I do aver,By twenty beaux and more;The king himself has follow’d her,—When she has walk’d before.20But now her wealth and finery fled,Her hangers-on cut short all;The doctors found, when she was dead,—Her last disorder mortal.Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 25For Kent-street well may say,That had she liv’d a twelve-month more,—She had not died to-day.
WHERE the Red Lion flaring o’er the way,Invites each passing stranger that can pay;Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 5The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,That dimly show’d the state in which he lay;The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: 10The royal game of goose was there in view,And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,And brave prince William show’d his lamp-black face:The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 15The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,And five crack’d teacups dress’d the chimney board;A nightcap deck’d his brows instead of bay,A cap by night—a stocking all the day! 20
FOR you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.The heartfelt power of every charm divine,Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?See how she moves along with every grace, 5While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,Ye gods! what transport e’er compared to this.As when in Paphian groves the Queen of LoveWith fond complaint addressed the listening Jove, 10’Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
YE Muses, pour the pitying tearFor Pollio snatch’d away;O! had he liv’d another year!—He had not died to-day.O! were he born to bless mankind, 5In virtuous times of yore,Heroes themselves had fallen behind!—Whene’er he went before.How sad the groves and plains appear,And sympathetic sheep; 10Even pitying hills would drop a tear!—If hills could learn to weep.His bounty in exalted strainEach bard might well display;Since none implor’d relief in vain!— 15That went reliev’d away.And hark! I hear the tuneful throngHis obsequies forbid,He still shall live, shall live as long!—As ever dead man did.20
Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail,His pen he prostitutes t’ avoid a gaol.ROSCOM.
LET not thehungryBavius’ angry strokeAwake resentment, or your rage provoke;But pitying his distress, let virtue shine,And giving each your bounty,let him dine;For thus retain’d, as learned counsel can, 5Each case, however bad, he’ll new japan;And by a quick transition, plainly show’Twas no defect of yours, butpocket low,That caused hisputrid kennelto o’erflow.
’TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together,’Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;This, I believe, between us great or small,You, I, he, wrote it not—’twas Churchill’s all.
IN all my Enna’s beauties blest,Amidst profusion still I pine;For though she gives me up her breast,Its panting tenant is not mine.
SECLUDED from domestic strife,Jack Book-worm led a college life;A fellowship at twenty-fiveMade him the happiest man alive;He drank his glass and crack’d his joke, 5And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,Could any accident impair?Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfixOur swain, arriv’d at thirty-six? 10O had the archer ne’er come downTo ravage in a country town!Or Flavia been content to stopAt triumphs in a Fleet-street shop.O had her eyes forgot to blaze! 15Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.O!——But let exclamation cease,Her presence banish’d all his peace.So with decorum all things carried;Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married. 20Need we expose to vulgar sightThe raptures of the bridal night?Need we intrude on hallow’d ground,Or draw the curtains clos’d around?Let it suffice, that each had charms; 25He clasp’d a goddess in his arms;And though she felt his usage rough,Yet in a man ’twas well enough.The honey-moon like lightning flew,The second brought its transports too. 30A third, a fourth, were not amiss,The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,Jack found his goddess made of clay;Found half the charms that deck’d her face 35Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;But still the worst remain’d behind,That very face had robb’d her mind.Skill’d in no other arts was sheBut dressing, patching, repartee; 40And, just as humour rose or fell,By turns a slattern or a belle;’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace,Half naked at a ball or race;But when at home, at board or bed, 45Five greasy nightcaps wrapp’d her head.Could so much beauty condescendTo be a dull domestic friend?Could any curtain-lectures bringTo decency so fine a thing? 50In short, by night, ’twas fits or fretting;By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.Fond to be seen, she kept a bevyOf powder’d coxcombs at her levy;The ’squire and captain took their stations, 55And twenty other near relations;Jack suck’d his pipe, and often brokeA sigh in suffocating smoke;While all their hours were pass’d betweenInsulting repartee or spleen. 60Thus as her faults each day were known,He thinks her features coarser grown;He fancies every vice she shows,Or thins her lip, or points her nose:Whenever rage or envy rise, 65How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!He knows not how, but so it is,Her face is grown a knowing phiz;And, though her fops are wond’rous civil,He thinks her ugly as the devil. 70Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,As each a different way pursues,While sullen or loquacious strife,Promis’d to hold them on for life,That dire disease, whose ruthless power 75Withers the beauty’s transient flower:Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glareLevell’d its terrors at the fair;And, rifling ev’ry youthful grace,Left but the remnant of a face. 80The glass, grown hateful to her sight,Reflected now a perfect fright:Each former art she vainly triesTo bring back lustre to her eyes.In vain she tries her paste and creams, 85To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;Her country beaux and city cousins,Lovers no more, flew off by dozens:The ’squire himself was seen to yield,And e’en the captain quit the field. 90Poor Madam, now condemn’d to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzl’d to behold 95Her present face surpass the old;With modesty her cheeks are dy’d,Humility displaces pride;For tawdry finery is seenA person ever neatly clean: 100No more presuming on her sway,She learns good-nature every day;Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
LONG had I sought in vain to findA likeness for the scribbling kind;The modern scribbling kind, who writeIn wit, and sense, and nature’s spite:Till reading, I forget what day on, 5A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon,I think I met with something there,To suit my purpose to a hair;But let us not proceed too furious,First please to turn to god Mercurius; 10You’ll find him pictur’d at full lengthIn book the second, page the tenth:The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,And now proceed we to our simile.Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 15Wings upon either side—mark that.Well! what is it from thence we gather?Why these denote a brain of feather.A brain of feather! very right,With wit that’s flighty, learning light; 20Such as to modern bard’s decreed:A just comparison,—proceed.In the next place, his feet peruse,Wings grow again from both his shoes;Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear, 25And waft his godship through the air;And here my simile unites,For in a modern poet’s flights,I’m sure it may be justly said,His feet are useful as his head. 30Lastly, vouchsafe t’observe his hand,Filled with a snake-encircl’d wand;By classic authors term’d caduceus,And highly fam’d for several uses.To wit—most wond’rously endu’d, 35No poppy water half so good;For let folks only get a touch,Its soporific virtue’s such,Though ne’er so much awake before,That quickly they begin to snore. 40Add too, what certain writers tell,With this he drives men’s souls to hell.Now to apply, begin we then;His wand’s a modern author’s pen;The serpents round about it twin’d 45Denote him of the reptile kind;Denote the rage with which he writes,His frothy slaver, venom’d bites;An equal semblance still to keep,Alike too both conduce to sleep. 50This diff’rence only, as the godDrove souls to Tart’rus with his rod,With his goosequill the scribbling elf,Instead of others, damns himself.And here my simile almost tript, 55Yet grant a word by way of postscript.Moreover, Merc’ry had a failing:Well! what of that? out with it—stealing;In which all modern bards agree,Being each as great a thief as he: 60But ev’n this deity’s existenceShall lend my simile assistance.Our modern bards! why what a poxAre they but senseless stones and blocks?
[Illustration: ]EDWIN AND ANGELINA(T. Stothard)
EDWIN AND ANGELINA(T. Stothard)
‘TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,And guide my lonely way,To where yon taper cheers the valeWith hospitable ray.‘For here, forlorn and lost I tread, 5With fainting steps and slow;Where wilds immeasurably spread,Seem length’ning as I go.’‘Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries,‘To tempt the dangerous gloom; 10For yonder faithless phantom fliesTo lure thee to thy doom.‘Here to the houseless child of wantMy door is open still;And though my portion is but scant, 15I give it with good will.‘Then turn to-night, and freely shareWhate’er my cell bestows;My rushy couch, and frugal fare,My blessing and repose. 20‘No flocks that range the valley freeTo slaughter I condemn:Taught by that power that pities me,I learn to pity them.‘But from the mountain’s grassy side 25A guiltless feast I bring;A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,And water from the spring.‘Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo;All earth-born cares are wrong: 30Man wants but little here below,Nor wants that little long.’Soft as the dew from heav’n descends,His gentle accents fell:The modest stranger lowly bends, 35And follows to the cell.Far in a wilderness obscureThe lonely mansion lay;A refuge to the neighbouring poorAnd strangers led astray. 40No stores beneath its humble thatchRequir’d a master’s care;The wicket, opening with a latch,Receiv’d the harmless pair.And now, when busy crowds retire 45To take their evening rest,The hermit trimm’d his little fire,And cheer’d his pensive guest:And spread his vegetable store,And gaily press’d, and smil’d; 50And, skill’d in legendary lore,The lingering hours beguil’d.Around in sympathetic mirthIts tricks the kitten tries;The cricket chirrups in the hearth; 55The crackling faggot flies.But nothing could a charm impartTo soothe the stranger’s woe;For grief was heavy at his heart,And tears began to flow. 60His rising cares the hermit spied,With answ’ring care oppress’d;‘And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried,‘The sorrows of thy breast?‘From better habitations spurn’d, 65Reluctant dost thou rove;Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,Or unregarded love?‘Alas! the joys that fortune bringsAre trifling, and decay; 70And those who prize the paltry things,More trifling still than they.‘And what is friendship but a name,A charm that lulls to sleep;A shade that follows wealth or fame, 75But leaves the wretch to weep?‘And love is still an emptier sound,The modern fair one’s jest:On earth unseen, or only foundTo warm the turtle’s nest. 80‘For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,And spurn the sex,’ he said:But, while he spoke, a rising blushHis love-lorn guest betray’d.Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise, 85Swift mantling to the view;Like colours o’er the morning skies,As bright, as transient too.The bashful look, the rising breast,Alternate spread alarms: 90The lovely stranger stands confess’dA maid in all her charms.‘And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,A wretch forlorn,’ she cried;‘Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 95Where heaven and you reside.‘But let a maid thy pity share,Whom love has taught to stray;Who seeks for rest, but finds despairCompanion of her way. 100‘My father liv’d beside the Tyne,A wealthy lord was he;And all his wealth was mark’d as mine,He had but only me.‘To win me from his tender arms 105Unnumber’d suitors came;Who prais’d me for imputed charms,And felt or feign’d a flame.Each hour a mercenary crowdWith richest proffers strove: 110Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,But never talk’d of love.‘In humble, simplest habit clad,No wealth nor power had he;Wisdom and worth were all he had, 115But these were all to me.‘And when beside me in the daleHe caroll’d lays of love;His breath lent fragrance to the gale,And music to the grove. 120‘The blossom opening to the day,The dews of heaven refin’d,Could nought of purity display,To emulate his mind.‘The dew, the blossom on the tree, 125With charms inconstant shine;Their charms were his, but woe to me!Their constancy was mine.‘For still I tried each fickle art,Importunate and vain: 130And while his passion touch’d my heart,I triumph’d in his pain.‘Till quite dejected with my scorn,He left me to my pride;And sought a solitude forlorn, 135In secret, where he died.‘But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,And well my life shall pay;I’ll seek the solitude he sought,And stretch me where he lay. 140‘And there forlorn, despairing, hid,I’ll lay me down and die;’Twas so for me that Edwin did,And so for him will I.’‘Forbid it, heaven!’ the hermit cried, 145And clasp’d her to his breast:The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,’Twas Edwin’s self that prest.‘Turn, Angelina, ever dear,My charmer, turn to see 150Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,Restor’d to love and thee.‘Thus let me hold thee to my heart,And ev’ry care resign;And shall we never, never part, 155My life—my all that’s mine?‘No, never from this hour to part,We’ll live and love so true;The sigh that rends thy constant heartShall break thy Edwin’s too.’ 160
Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wond’rous short,It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a man, 5Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ran,Whene’er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes; 10The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 15And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain some private ends,Went mad and bit the man. 20Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wond’ring neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.The wound it seem’d both sore and sad 25To every Christian eye;And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show’d the rogues they lied: 30The man recover’d of the bite,The dog it was that died.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,What charm can soothe her melancholy,What art can wash her guilt away?The only art her guilt to cover, 5To hide her shame from every eye,To give repentance to her lover,And wring his bosom, is—to die.
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procureTo swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still dependFor Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 5And make full many a bitter pill go down.Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,And teas’d each rhyming friend to help him out.‘An Epilogue—things can’t go on without it;It could not fail, would you but set about it.’ 10‘Young man,’ cries one—a bard laid up in clover—‘Alas, young man, my writing days are over;Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I:Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.’‘What I? dear Sir,’ the Doctor interposes 15‘What plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!No, no; I’ve other contests to maintain;To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane:Go, ask your manager.’ ‘Who, me? Your pardon;Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.’ 20Our Author’s friends, thus plac’d at happy distance,Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.As some unhappy wight, at some new play,At the Pit door stands elbowing a way,While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;His simp’ring friends, with pleasure in their eyes,Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;But not a soul will budge to give him place. 30Since then, unhelp’d, our bard must now conform‘To ’bide the pelting of this pitiless storm’—Blame where you must, be candid where you can;And be each critic theGood Natur’d Man.
WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.Had she consultedme, she should have madeHer moral play a speaking masquerade;Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage 5Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking;Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking.Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,What if I give a masquerade?—I will. 10But how? ay, there’s the rub! (pausing)—I’ve got my cue:The world’s a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.(To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.)——, what a group the motley scene discloses!False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside ’em, 15Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride ’em.There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once moreTo raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.These in their turn, with appetites as keen,Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen, 20Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman:The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,And tries to kill, ere she’s got power to cure.Thus ’tis with all—their chief and constant care 25Is to seem everything but what they are.Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,Who seems to have robb’d his vizor from the lion;Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,Looking as who should say, D——! who’s afraid? 30(Mimicking)Strip but his vizor off, and sure I amYou’ll find his lionship a very lamb.Yon politician, famous in debate,Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;Yet, when he deigns his real shape t’ assume, 35He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,And seems to every gazer all in white,If with a bribe his candour you attack,He bows, turns round, and whip—the man’s a black! 40Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?If I proceed, our bard will be undone!Well then a truce, since she requests it too:Do you spare her, and I’ll for once spare you.
IN these bold times, when Learning’s sons exploreThe distant climate and the savage shore;When wise Astronomers to India steer,And quit for Venus, many a brighter here;While Botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 5Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;When every bosom swells with wond’rous scenes,Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens:Our bard into the general spirit enters,And fits his little frigate for adventures: 10With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading—Yet ere he lands he ’as ordered me before,To make an observation on the shore.Where are we driven? our reck’ning sure is lost! 15This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.—— what a sultry climate am I under!Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.(Upper Gallery.)There Mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen ’em—(Pit.)Here trees of stately size—and turtles in ’em— 20(Balconies.)Here ill-condition’d oranges abound—(Stage.)And apples (takes up one and tastes it), bitter applesstrew the ground.The place is uninhabited, I fear!I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!O there the natives are—a dreadful race! 25The men have tails, the women paint the face!No doubt they’re all barbarians.—Yes, ’tis so,I’ll try to make palaver with them though;(Making signs.)’Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.Good Savages, our Captain craves assistance; 30Our ship’s well stor’d;—in yonder creek we’ve laid her;His honour is no mercenary trader;This is his first adventure; lend him aid,Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.His goods, he hopes are prime, and brought from far, 35Equally fit for gallantry and war.What! no reply to promises so ample?I’d best step back—and order up a sample.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESSTHE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.OVERTURE—A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR—TRIO.
ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,And waken every note of woe;When truth and virtue reach the skies,’Tis ours to weep the want below!
CHORUS.
When truth and virtue, etc. 5
MAN SPEAKER.
The praise attending pomp and power,The incense given to kings,Are but the trappings of an hour—Mere transitory things!The base bestow them: but the good agree 10To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.But when to pomp and power are join’dAn equal dignity of mind—When titles are the smallest claim—When wealth and rank and noble blood, 15But aid the power of doing good—Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.Bless’d spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloomShall spread and flourish from the tomb,How hast thou left mankind for heaven! 20Even now reproach and faction mourn.And, wondering how their rage was borne,Request to be forgiven.Alas! they never had thy hate:Unmov’d in conscious rectitude, 25Thy towering mind self-centred stood,Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,A thousand gifts would fortune send;In vain, to drive thee from the right, 30A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity! 35Virtue, on herself relying,Ev’ry passion hush’d to rest,Loses ev’ry pain of dyingIn the hopes of being blest.Ev’ry added pang she suffers 40Some increasing good bestows,Ev’ry shock that malice offersOnly rocks her to repose.
SONG. BY A MAN—AFFETTUOSO.