SPRING.

SPRING.Oh, how delightful to the soul of man,How like a renovating spirit comes,Fanning his cheek, the breath of infant Spring!Morning awakens in the orient skyWith purpler light, beneath a canopyOf lovely clouds, their edges tipped with gold;And from his palace, like a deity,Darting his lustrous eye from pole to pole,The glorious sun comes forth, the vernal skyTo walk rejoicing. To the bitter northRetire wild winter’s forces—cruel winds—And griping frosts—and magazines of snow—And deluging tempests. O’er the moisten’d fieldsA tender green is spread; the bladed grassShoots forth exuberant; th’ awakening trees,Thawed by the delicate atmosphere, put forthExpanding buds; while, with mellifluous throat,The warm ebullience of internal joy,The birds hymn forth a song of gratitudeTo him who sheltered, when the storms were deep,And fed them through the winter’s cheerless gloom.Beside the garden path, the crocus nowPuts forth its head to woo the genial breeze,And finds the snowdrop, hardier visitant,Already basking in the solar ray.Upon the brook the water-cresses floatMore greenly, and the bordering reeds exaltHigher their speary summits. Joyously,From stone to stone, the ouzel flits along,Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough;While on the elm-tree, overshadowing deepThe low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird sitsCheerily hymning the awakened year.Turn to the ocean—how the scene is changed.Behold the small waves melt upon the shoreWith chastened murmur! Buoyantly on highThe sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance,And turning to the sun their snowy plumes.With shrilly pipe, from headland or from cape,Emerge the line of plovers, o’er the sandsFast sweeping; while to inland marsh the hern,With undulating wing scarce visible,Far up the azure concave journies on!Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurl’d,Tardily glides along the fisher’s boat,Its shadow moving o’er the moveless tide;The bright wave flashes from the rower’s oar,Glittering in the sun, at measured intervals;And, casually borne, the fisher’s voice,Floats solemnly along the watery waste;The shepherd boy, enveloped in his plaid,On the green bank, with blooming furze o’ertopped,Listens, and answers with responsive note.

Oh, how delightful to the soul of man,How like a renovating spirit comes,Fanning his cheek, the breath of infant Spring!Morning awakens in the orient skyWith purpler light, beneath a canopyOf lovely clouds, their edges tipped with gold;And from his palace, like a deity,Darting his lustrous eye from pole to pole,The glorious sun comes forth, the vernal skyTo walk rejoicing. To the bitter northRetire wild winter’s forces—cruel winds—And griping frosts—and magazines of snow—And deluging tempests. O’er the moisten’d fieldsA tender green is spread; the bladed grassShoots forth exuberant; th’ awakening trees,Thawed by the delicate atmosphere, put forthExpanding buds; while, with mellifluous throat,The warm ebullience of internal joy,The birds hymn forth a song of gratitudeTo him who sheltered, when the storms were deep,And fed them through the winter’s cheerless gloom.Beside the garden path, the crocus nowPuts forth its head to woo the genial breeze,And finds the snowdrop, hardier visitant,Already basking in the solar ray.Upon the brook the water-cresses floatMore greenly, and the bordering reeds exaltHigher their speary summits. Joyously,From stone to stone, the ouzel flits along,Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough;While on the elm-tree, overshadowing deepThe low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird sitsCheerily hymning the awakened year.Turn to the ocean—how the scene is changed.Behold the small waves melt upon the shoreWith chastened murmur! Buoyantly on highThe sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance,And turning to the sun their snowy plumes.With shrilly pipe, from headland or from cape,Emerge the line of plovers, o’er the sandsFast sweeping; while to inland marsh the hern,With undulating wing scarce visible,Far up the azure concave journies on!Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurl’d,Tardily glides along the fisher’s boat,Its shadow moving o’er the moveless tide;The bright wave flashes from the rower’s oar,Glittering in the sun, at measured intervals;And, casually borne, the fisher’s voice,Floats solemnly along the watery waste;The shepherd boy, enveloped in his plaid,On the green bank, with blooming furze o’ertopped,Listens, and answers with responsive note.

Beside the garden path, the crocus nowPuts forth its head to woo the genial breeze,And finds the snowdrop, hardier visitant,Already basking in the solar ray.Upon the brook the water-cresses floatMore greenly, and the bordering reeds exaltHigher their speary summits. Joyously,From stone to stone, the ouzel flits along,Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough;While on the elm-tree, overshadowing deepThe low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird sitsCheerily hymning the awakened year.

Turn to the ocean—how the scene is changed.Behold the small waves melt upon the shoreWith chastened murmur! Buoyantly on highThe sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance,And turning to the sun their snowy plumes.With shrilly pipe, from headland or from cape,Emerge the line of plovers, o’er the sandsFast sweeping; while to inland marsh the hern,With undulating wing scarce visible,Far up the azure concave journies on!Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurl’d,Tardily glides along the fisher’s boat,Its shadow moving o’er the moveless tide;The bright wave flashes from the rower’s oar,Glittering in the sun, at measured intervals;And, casually borne, the fisher’s voice,Floats solemnly along the watery waste;The shepherd boy, enveloped in his plaid,On the green bank, with blooming furze o’ertopped,Listens, and answers with responsive note.

This unfortunate being, well known by the designation of “the poor poet,” was born at Soham, in Cambridgeshire, in 1748, where his father was a leather-seller, but having been unfortunate in business, and marrying a second wife, disputes and family broils arose. It was probably from this discomfort in his paternal dwelling-place, that he left home never to return. At first, and for an uncertain period, he was a maker and seller of nets and some small wares. Afterwards, he composed verses on birthdays and weddings, acrostics on names, and such like matters. Naturally mild and unassuming in his manners, he attracted the attention and sympathy of many, and by this means lived, or, rather, suffered life! That his mind was diseased there can be no doubt, for no sane being would have preferred an existence such as his. What gave the first morbid turn to his feelings is perhaps unknown. His sharp, lively, sparkling eye might have conveyed an idea that he had suffered disappointment in thetenderpassion; while, from the serious tendency of many of his compositions, it may be apprehended that religion, or false notions of religion, in his very young days, operated to increase the unhappiness that distressed his faculties. Unaided by education of any kind, he yet had attained to write, although his MSS. were scarcely intelligible to any but himself; he could spell correctly, was a very decent grammarian, and had even acquired a smattering of Latin and Greek.

From the age of sixteen to seventy years, poor Chambers travelled about the county of Suffolk, a sort of wandering bard, gaining a precarious subsistence by selling his own effusions, of which he had a number printed in cheap forms. Among the poorer people of the country, he was mostly received with a hearty welcome; they held him in great estimation as a poet, and sometimes bestowed on him a small pecuniary recompense for the ready adaptation of his poetical qualities, in the construction of verses on certain occasions suitable to their taste or wishes. Compositions of this nature were mostly suggested to him by his muse during the stillness of night, while reposing in some friendly barn or hay-loft. When so inspired, he would immediately arise and commit the effusion to paper. His memory was retentive, and, to amuse his hearers, he would repeat most of his pieces by heart.He wandered for a considerable time in the west of Suffolk, particularly at Haverhill; and Mr. John Webb, of that place, in his poem entitled “Haverhill,” thus noticeshim:—

An hapless outcast, on whose natal dayNo star propitious beam’d a kindly ray.By some malignant influence doom’d to roamThe world’s wide dreary waste, and know no home.Yet heav’n to cheer him as he pass’d along,Infus’d in life’s sour cup the sweets of song.Upon his couch of straw, or bed of hay,The poetaster tun’d theacrostic lay:On him an humble muse her favours shed,And nightly musings earn’d his daily bread.Meek, unassuming, modest shade! forgiveThis frail attempt to make thy memory live.Minstrel, adieu!—to me thy fate’s unknown;Since last I saw you, many a year has flown.Full oft has summer poured her fervid beams,And winter’s icy breath congeal’d the streams.Perhaps, lorn wretch! unfriended and aloneIn hovel vile, thou gav’st thy final groan!Clos’d the blear’d eye, ordain’d no more to weep,And sunk, unheeded sunk, in death’s long sleep!

Chambers left Haverhill, never to return to it, in the year 1790. In peregrinating the country, which he did in every change of sky, through storms, and through snow, or whatever might betide, he was often supported entirely by the spontaneous benevolence of those who witnessed his wanderings. In his verses on a snow-storm, hesays:—

This vile raiment hangs in tatters;No warm garment to defend:O’er my flesh the chill snow scatters;No snug hut!—no social friend!

About four years before his death, while sojourning in Woodbridge, sleeping in a miserable hut on the barrack ground, and daily wandering about the town, with every visible mark of misery to distress the eye, his condition became a libel upon the feelings of the inhabitants of the place; a few gentlemen determined he should no longer wander in such a state of wretchedness, offered to clothe and cleanse him, and provide a comfortable room, bed, &c. and a person to shave him and wash for him; and they threatened, if he would not comply, to take him home to where he belonged.

His aversion to a poor-house amounted to horror: he expresses somewhat to that effect in one of hispoems——

’Mongst Belial’s sons of contention and strife,To breathe out the transient remains of my life!

This dread operated in behalf of those who desired to assist him. His wretched hovel was emptied, its miserable accumulations were consigned to the flames, and he was put into a new habitation, clothed from head to foot, and so metamorphosed, that but few knew him at first sight. A bedstead and bedding, a chair, table, and necessary crockery were provided for his comfort, but the poor creature was often heard to exclaim, of the cleansing and burning, that “it was the worst day’s work he ever met with.” After a few short weeks he left this home, and a shilling a week allowed him by a gentleman, besides some weekly pence, donations from ladies in the town, for a life of wandering privation and, at times, of absolute want, until the closing scene of his weary pilgrimage. He breathed his last on the 4th of January, 1827, in an unoccupied farm-house belonging to Mr. Thurston of Stradbroke, where he had been permitted the use of two rooms. Within a few days before, he had been as well as usual, but he suddenly became ill, and had the attention of two women, neighbours, who provided him warm gruel, and a few things his situation required. Some one had given him a warm blanket, and when he died there was food in the house, with tenpence halfpenny in money, a few scraps of poetry, and a bushel of wheat which he had gleaned in the harvest. A decent coffin and shroud were provided, and he was buried in Stradbrookchurchyard.[99]

Chambers was literally one of the poor at all times; and hence his annals are short and simple. Disregard of personal appearance was natural to his poverty-stricken circumstances and melancholy disposition; for the wheel of his fortune was fixed by habit, as by a nail in a sure place, to constant indigence. Neglected in his youth, and without fixed employment, he brooded throughout life on his hopeless condition, without a friend of his own rank who could participate in his sorrows. He was a lonely man, and a wanderer, who had neither act nor part in the common ways of the world.

[99]The Ipswich Journal, January 31, 1827.

For the Table Book.

Characters—Mr. Greenfat, Mrs. Greenfat, Masters Peter and Humphrey Greenfat, Misses Theodosia and Arabella Greenfat, and Mr. John Eelskin.

Seen dispersedly in various parts of the gardens.

Master Peter.Oh my! what a sweet place! Why, the lamps are thicker than the pears in our garden, at Walworth: what a load of oil they must burn!

Miss Arabella.Mamma, is that the lady mayoress, with theostridgefeathers, and the pink satin gown?

Mrs. Greenfat.No, my love; that’s Miss Biddy Wilkins, of Gutter-lane! (To a waiter.) You rude fellow, you’ve trod on my dress, and your nasty foot has torn off one of my flounces.

Miss Theodosia.John, (to Mr. Eelskin,) how very pretty that hilluminated walk looks. Dear me! do you see the fountain? How vastly reviving this hot weather, isn’t it?

Mr. Eelskin.Ah, my beloved Theodosia! how should I notice the beauties of the scene in your company—when your eyes are brighter than the lamps, and your voice is sweeter than the music? In vain the fiddlers fiddle, and the singers sing, I can hear nothing—listen to nothing—but my adorable Theodosia!

Master Humphrey.La, papa, what’s that funny round place, with flags on the top, and ballad women and men with cocked hats inside?

Mr. Greenfat.That’s theHawkestraw.

Mrs. Greenfat.Hush, my dear; it’s vulgar to talk loud. Dosee, my love, don’t hang so on Mr. John’s arm, you’ll quite fatigue him. That’s Miss Tunstall—Miss Tunstall’s going to sing. Now, my pretty Peter, don’t talk so fast.

Miss Arabella.Does that lady sing in French, mamma?

Mrs. Greenfat.No, child, it’s asenthementalair, and they never have no meaning?

Miss Theodosia.That’s theoverthuretoFriedshots; Eelskin, do you like it?

Mr. Eelskin.On yourpianoI should. But shall I take you out of this glare of light? Would you choose a ramble in the dark walk, and a peep at the puppet-show-cosmoramas?

Mr. Greenfat.I hates this squalling. (Bell rings.) What’s that for?

Mr. Eelskin.That’s for thefant-toe-sheeni, and the balancing man.

Mr. Greenfat.Well then, let’s go and look at Mr. Fant-toe-sheeni.

Mrs. Greenfat.Oh, goodness, how I’m squeedged. Pray don’t push so, sir—I’m astonished at your rudeness, mam! You’ve trod on my corn, and lamed me for the evening!

Mr. Greenfat.Sir, how dare you suffer your wife to tread on my wife’s toes?

Master Peter.My stars, sister, he’s got abagginetteon his nose!

Mrs. Greenfat.Mr. John, will you put little Humphy on your shoulder, and show him thefant-oh-see-ne?

Master Humphrey.I can see now, mamma; there’s Punch and Judy, mamma! Oh, my! how well they do dance!

Mr. Greenfat.I can see this in the streets for nothing.

Mrs. Greenfat.Yes, Mr. Greenfat, but not in such good company!

Mr. Eelskin.This, my beautiful Theodosia, is the musical temple; it’s very elegant—only it never plays. Them paintings on the walls were painted by Mungo Parke and Hingo Jones; thearchatechtureof this room is considered very fine!

Master Peter.Oh, I’m so hot. (Bell rings.)

Mr. Eelskin.That’s for thehyder-hawlics. We’d better go into the gallery, and then the ladies won’t be in the crowd.

Mr. Greenfat.Come along then; we want to go into the gallery. A shilling a-piece, indeed! I wonder at your impudence! Why, we paid three and sixpence a head at the door.

Mr. Eelskin.Admission to the gallery ishextra.

Mr. Greenfat.Downright robbery!—I won’t pay a farthing more.

Miss Arabella.See, mamma, water and fire at once!—how droll!

Mrs. Greenfat.Pray be kind enough to take off your hat, sir; my little boy can’t see a bit. Humphy, my dear, hold fast by the railing, and then you won’t lose your place. Oh, Mr. John, how very close and sultry it is!

Mr. Greenfat.What outlandish hussey’s that, eh, John?

Mr. Eelskin.That’s the female juggler, sir.

Miss Theodosia.Are those real knives, do you think, John?

Mr. Eelskin.Oh, no doubt of it; only the edges are blunt to prevent mischief. Who’s this wild-looking man? Oh, this is the male juggler: and now we shall have a duet of juggling!

Mrs. Greenfat.Can you see, Peter?—Bella, my love, can you see? Mr. John, do you take care of Dosee? Well, IpurtestI never saw any thing half so wonderful: did you, Mr. Greenfat?

Mr. Greenfat.Never: I wonder when it will be over?

Mr. Eelskin.We’d better not go away; the ballet will begin presently, and I’m sure you’ll like the dancing, Miss, for, excepting theWestrisis, and your own sweet self, I never saw better dancing.

Miss Theodosia.Yes, I loves dancing; and at the last Cripplegate ball, the master of the ceremonies paid me several compliments.

Miss Arabella.Why do all the dancers wear plaids, mamma?

Mrs. Greenfat.Because it’s a cool dress, dear.

Mr. Greenfat.Well, if a girl of mine whisked her petticoats about in that manner, I’d have her horsewhipped.

Mr. Eelskin.Now we’ll take a stroll till the concert begins again. This is the marine cave—very natural to look at, Miss, but nothing but paint and canvass, I assure you. This is therewolvingevening war for the present; after the fire-works, it still change into his majesty, King George. Yonder’s the hermit and his cat.

Master Peter.Mamma, does that old man always sit there?

Mrs. Greenfat.I’m sure I don’t know, child; does he, Mr. Eelskin?

Mr. Greenfat.Nonsense—it’s all gammon!

Mr. Eelskin.This way, my angel; the concert has recommenced.

Miss Theodosia.Oh, that’s Charles Taylor; I likes his singing; he’s such a merry fellow: dohancorehim, John.

Mrs. Greenfat.Dosee, my dear, you’re too bold; it was a veryimpurentsong: I declare I’m quite ashamed of you!

Mr. Greenfat.Never mince matters; always speak your mind, girl.

Mr. Eelskin.The fire-works come next. Suppose we get nearer the Moorish tower, and look for good places, as Mr. G. dislikes paying for the gallery. Now you’ll not beafeard; there’ll not be the least danger, depend.

Mrs. Greenfat.Is there much smoke, Mr. John?—Do they fire many cannons?—I hates cannons—and smoke makes me cough. (Bell rings.) Run, run, my dears—Humphy, Peter, Bella, run! Mr. Greenfat, run, or we shall be too late! Eelskin and Dosee are a mile afore us! What’s thatred light?Oh, we shall all be burnt! What noise is that?—Oh, it’s the bomb in the Park!—We shall all be burnt!

Mr. Greenfat.Nonsense, woman, don’t frighten the children!

Miss Theodosia.Now you’re sure the rockets won’t fall on my new pink bonnet, nor the smoke soil myFrenchwhite dress, nor the smell of the powder frighten me into fits?—Now you’re quite sure of it, John?

Mr. Eelskin.Quite sure, my charmer: I have stood here repeatedly, and never had a hair of my head hurt. See, Blackmore is on the rope; there he goes up—up—up!—Isn’t it pretty, Miss?

Miss Theodosia.Oh, delightful!—Does he never break his neck?

Mr. Eelskin.Never—it’s insured! Now he descends. How they shoot the maroons at him! Don’t be afeard, lovee, they sha’n’t hurt you. See, Miss, how gracefully he bows to you.—Isn’t it terrific?

Miss Theodosia.Is thisall?—I thought it would last for an hour, at least. John, I’m so hungry; I hope papa means to have supper?

Master Peter.Mamma, I’m so hungry.

Master Humphrey.Papa, I’m so dry.

Miss Arabella.Mamma, I want somewhat to eat.

Mrs. Greenfat.Greenfat, my dear, we must have some refreshments.

Mr. Greenfat.Refreshments!where will you get them? All the boxes are full.—Oh, here’s one. Waiter! what, the devil, call this a dish of beef?—It don’t weigh three ounces! Bring half a gallon of stout, and plenty of bread. Can’t we have some water for the children?

Mr. Eelskin.Shouldn’t we have a littlewine, sir?—it’s more genteeler.

Mr. Greenfat.Wine, Eelskin, wine!—Bad sherry at six shillings a bottle!—Couldn’t reconcile it to my conscience.—We’ll stick to the stout.

Mrs. Greenfat.Eat, my loves.—Some more bread for Bella.—There’s a bit of fat for you, Peter.—Humphy, you shall have my crust.—Pass the stout to Dosee, Mr. John.—Don’t drink itall, my dear!

Mr. Greenfat.Past two o’clock!—Shameful!—Waiter, bring the bill. Twelve shillings and eightpence—abominable!—Charge a shilling a pot for stout—monstrous! Well, no matter; we’ll walk home. Come along.

Master Peter.Mamma, I’m so tired.

Miss Arabella.Mamma, my legs ache so.

Master Humphrey.Papa, I wish you’d carry me.

Mr. Greenfat.Come along—it will be five o’clock before we get home!

[Exeunt omnes.

TO MY TEA-KETTLE.For the Table Book.1.For many a verse inspired by tea,(A never-failing muse to me)My Kettle, let this tribute flow,Thy charms to blazon.And tell thy modest worth, althoughThy face bebrazen.2.Let others boast the madd’ning bowl,That raises but to sink the soul,Thou art the Bacchus that aloneI wish to follow:From thee I tipple Helicon,My best Apollo!3.’Tis night—my children sleep—no noiseIs heard, except thy cheerful voice;For when the wind would gain mine ear,Thou sing’st the faster—As if thou wert resolv’d to cheerThy lonely master.4.And so thou dost: those brazen lungsVent no deceit, like human tongues:That honest breath was never knownTo turn informer:And for thy feelings—all must ownThat none are warmer.5.But late, another eye and earWould mark thy form, thy music hear:Alas! how soon our pleasures fly,Returning never!That ear is deaf—that friendly eyeIs clos’d for ever!6.Be thou then, now, my friend, my guide,And humming wisdom by my side,Teach me so patiently to bearHot-water troubles,That they may end, like thine, in air,And turn to bubbles.7.Let me support misfortune’s fireUnhurt; and, when I fume with ire.Whatever friend my passion sees,And near me lingers,Let him still handle me with ease.Nor burn his fingers.8.O! may my memory, like thy front.When I am cold, endure the bruntOf vitriol envy’s keen assaults,And shine the brighter,And ev’ry rub—that makes my faultsAppear the lighter.Sam Sam’s Son.

For the Table Book.

For many a verse inspired by tea,(A never-failing muse to me)My Kettle, let this tribute flow,Thy charms to blazon.And tell thy modest worth, althoughThy face bebrazen.

Let others boast the madd’ning bowl,That raises but to sink the soul,Thou art the Bacchus that aloneI wish to follow:From thee I tipple Helicon,My best Apollo!

’Tis night—my children sleep—no noiseIs heard, except thy cheerful voice;For when the wind would gain mine ear,Thou sing’st the faster—As if thou wert resolv’d to cheerThy lonely master.

And so thou dost: those brazen lungsVent no deceit, like human tongues:That honest breath was never knownTo turn informer:And for thy feelings—all must ownThat none are warmer.

But late, another eye and earWould mark thy form, thy music hear:Alas! how soon our pleasures fly,Returning never!That ear is deaf—that friendly eyeIs clos’d for ever!

Be thou then, now, my friend, my guide,And humming wisdom by my side,Teach me so patiently to bearHot-water troubles,That they may end, like thine, in air,And turn to bubbles.

Let me support misfortune’s fireUnhurt; and, when I fume with ire.Whatever friend my passion sees,And near me lingers,Let him still handle me with ease.Nor burn his fingers.

O! may my memory, like thy front.When I am cold, endure the bruntOf vitriol envy’s keen assaults,And shine the brighter,And ev’ry rub—that makes my faultsAppear the lighter.

Sam Sam’s Son.

TO MY TEA-POT.For the Table Book.1.My Tea-pot!while thy lips pour forthFor me a stream of matchless worth,I’ll pour forth my rhymes for thee:Don Juan’s verse is gross, they say;But I will pen agrocerlay,Commencing—“Amotea.”2.Yes—let Anacreon’s votary sipHis flowing bowl with feverish lip,And breathe abominations;Some day he’ll bebowl’d outfor it—He’s brewing mischief, while I sitAnd brew myTea-pot-ations.3.After fatigue, how dear to meThe maid who suits me to a T,And makes the water bubble.From her red hand when I receiveThe evergreen, I seem to giveAt T. L. no trouble.4.I scorn the hop, disdain the malt,I hate solutions sweet and salt,Injurious I vote ’em;For tea my faithful palate yearns;Thus—though my fancy neverturns,It always istea-totum!5.Yet some assure me whilst I sip,That thou hast stain’d thy silver lipWith sad adulterations—Slow poison drawn from leaves of sloe,That quickly cause the quick to go,And join their dead relations.6.Aunt Malaprop now drinks noyeauInstead of Tea, and well I knowThat she prefers it greatly:She says, “Alas! I give up Tea,There’s been so muchadulteryAmong the grocers lately!”7.She warns me of Tea-dealers’ tricks—Those double-dealing men, who mixUnwholesome drugs withsomeTea’Tis bad to sip—and yet to giveUp sipping’s worse; we cannot live“Nec sineTea, nec cumTea.”8.Yet still, tenacious of my Tea,I think the grocers send it meQuite pure, (’tis what theycallso.)Heedless of warnings, still I get“Tea veniente die, etTea decedente,” also.Sam Sam’s Son.

For the Table Book.

My Tea-pot!while thy lips pour forthFor me a stream of matchless worth,I’ll pour forth my rhymes for thee:Don Juan’s verse is gross, they say;But I will pen agrocerlay,Commencing—“Amotea.”

Yes—let Anacreon’s votary sipHis flowing bowl with feverish lip,And breathe abominations;Some day he’ll bebowl’d outfor it—He’s brewing mischief, while I sitAnd brew myTea-pot-ations.

After fatigue, how dear to meThe maid who suits me to a T,And makes the water bubble.From her red hand when I receiveThe evergreen, I seem to giveAt T. L. no trouble.

I scorn the hop, disdain the malt,I hate solutions sweet and salt,Injurious I vote ’em;For tea my faithful palate yearns;Thus—though my fancy neverturns,It always istea-totum!

Yet some assure me whilst I sip,That thou hast stain’d thy silver lipWith sad adulterations—Slow poison drawn from leaves of sloe,That quickly cause the quick to go,And join their dead relations.

Aunt Malaprop now drinks noyeauInstead of Tea, and well I knowThat she prefers it greatly:She says, “Alas! I give up Tea,There’s been so muchadulteryAmong the grocers lately!”

She warns me of Tea-dealers’ tricks—Those double-dealing men, who mixUnwholesome drugs withsomeTea’Tis bad to sip—and yet to giveUp sipping’s worse; we cannot live“Nec sineTea, nec cumTea.”

Yet still, tenacious of my Tea,I think the grocers send it meQuite pure, (’tis what theycallso.)Heedless of warnings, still I get“Tea veniente die, etTea decedente,” also.

Sam Sam’s Son.

Stratford upon Avon Church.

From a sepia drawing, obligingly communicated by J. S. J., the reader is presented with thisviewof a church, “hallowed by being the sepulchral enclosure of the remains of the immortal Shakspeare.” It exemplifies the two distinct styles, the early pointed and that of the fourteenth century. The tower is of the first construction; the windows of the transepts possess a preeminent and profuse display of the mullions and tracery characteristic of the latterperiod.[100]

This structure is spacious and handsome, and was formerly collegiate, and dedicated to the Holy Trinity. A row of limes trained so as to form an arched avenue form an approach to the great door. A representation of a portion of this pleasant entrance is in an engraving of the church in the “Gentleman’s Magazine” for 1807.

Another opportunity will occur for relating particulars respecting the venerable edifice, and the illustrious bard, whose birth and burial at Stratford upon Avon confer on the town imperishable fame.

[100]Mr. Carter, in the Gentleman’s Magazine, 1816.

[From the “Brazen Age,” an Historical Play, by Thomas Heywood, 1613.]

Venus courts Adonis.

Venus.Why doth Adonis fly the Queen of Love,And shun this ivory girdle of my arms?To be thus scarf’d the dreadful God of WarWould give me conquer’d kingdoms. For a kiss,But half like this, I could command the SunRise ’fore his hour, to bed before his time;And, being love-sick, change his golden beams,And make his face pale as his sister Moon.Look on me, Adon, with a stedfast eye,That in these chrystal glasses I may seeMy beauty that charms Gods, makes Men amazedAnd stown’d with wonder. Doth this roseat pillowOffend my Love?With my white fingers will I clap thy cheek;Whisper a thousand pleasures in thy ear.Adonis.Madam, you are not modest. I affectThe unseen beauty that adorns the mind:This looseness makes you foul in Adon’s eye.If you will tempt me, let me in your faceRead blusfulness and fear; a modest fearWould make your cheek seem much more beautiful.Venus.———wert thou made of stone,I have heat to melt thee; I am Queen of Love.There is no practive art of dallianceOf which I am not mistress, and can use.I have kisses that can murder unkind words,And strangle hatred that the gall sends forth;Touches to raise thee, were thy spirits half dead;Words that can pour affection down thy ears.Love me! thou can’st not chuse; thou shalt not chuse.Adonis.Madam, you woo not well. Men covet notThese proffer’d pleasures, but love sweets denied.These prostituted pleasures surfeit still;Where’s fear, or doubt, men sue with best good will.Venus.Thou canst instruct the Queen of Love in love.Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand;Yet, if thou needs will force me, take my palm.I’ll frown on him: alas! my brow’s so smooth,It will not bear a wrinkle.—Hie thee henceUnto the chace, and leave me; but not yet:I’ll sleep this night upon Endymion’s bank,On which the Swain was courted by the Moon.Dare not to come; thou art in our disgrace:Yet, if thou come, I can afford thee place!

Phœbus jeers Vulcan.

Vul.Good morrow, Phœbus; what’s the news abroad?—For thou see’st all things in the world are done,Men act by day-light, or the sight of sun.Phœb.Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea,To see the tumbling seal or porpoise play.There see I merchants trading, and their sailsBig-bellied with the wind; sea fights sometimesRise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my beamsSometimes I fix my face upon the earth,With my warm fervour to give metals, trees,Herbs, plants and flowers, life. Here in gardens walkLoose Ladies with their Lovers arm in arm.Yonder the laboring Plowman drives his team.Further I may behold main battles pitcht;And whom I favour most (by the wind’s help)I can assist with my transparent rays.Here spy I cattle feeding; forests thereStored with wild beasts; here shepherds with their lasses,Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze.In cities I see trading, walking, bargaining,Buying and selling, goodness, badness, all things—And shine alike on all.Vul.Thrice happy Phœbus,That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin’d to Lemnos,Hast every day these pleasures. What news else?Phœb.No Emperor walks forth, but I see his state;Nor sports, but I his pastimes can behold.I see all coronations, funerals,Marts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows.No hunting, but I better see the chaceThan they that rouse the game. What see I not?There’s not a window, but my beams break in;No chink or cranny, but my rays pierce through;And there I see, O Vulcan, wondrous things:Things that thyself, nor any God besides,Would give belief to.And, shall I tell thee, Vulcan, ’tother dayWhat I beheld?—I saw the great God Mars—Vul.God Mars—Phœb.As I was peeping through a cranny, a-bed—Vul.Abed! with whom?—some pretty Wench, I warrant.Phœb.She was a pretty Wench.Vul.Tell me, good Phœbus,That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars;Tell me, but tell me truly, on thy life.Phœb.Not to dissemble, Vulcan, ’twas thy Wife!

The Peers of Greece go in quest of Hercules, and find him in woman’s weeds, spinning with Omphale.

Jason.Our business was to Theban Hercules.’Twas told us, he remain’d with Omphale,The Theban Queen.Telamon.Speak, which is Omphale? or which Alcides?Pollux.Lady, our purpose was to Hercules;Shew us the man.Omphale.Behold him here.Atreus.Where?Omphale.There, at his task.Jason.Alas,thisHercules!This is some base effeminate Groom, not heThat with his puissance frighted all the earth.Hercules.Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon,Atreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend?We are the man.Jason.Woman, we know thee not:We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules,That in his cradle strangled Juno’s snakes,And triumph’d in the brave Olympic games.He that the Cleonean lion slew.Th’ Erimanthian boar, the bull of Marathon.The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart.Telamon.We would see the ThebanThat Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed,And to his horses hurl’d stern DiomedTo be devoured.Pollux.That freed HesioneFrom the sea whale, and after ransack’d Troy,And with his own hand slew Laomedon.Nestor.He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell;He that Œcalia and Betricia won.Atreus.That monstrous Geryon with his three heads vanquisht,With Linus, Lichas that usurpt in Thebes,And captived there his beauteous Megara.Pollux.That Hercules by whom the Centaurs fell,Great Achelous, the Stymphalides,And the Cremona giants: where is he?Telamon.That trait’rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt.Strangled Antheus, purged Augeus’ stalls,Won the bright apples of th’ Hesperides.Jason.He that the Amazonian baldrick won;That Achelous with his club subdued,And won from him the Pride of Caledon,Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in ThebesFor absence of the noble Hercules!Atreus.To him we came; but, since he lives not here,Come, Lords; we will return these presents backUnto the constant Lady, whence they came.Hercules.Stay, Lords—Jason.’Mongst women?—Hercules.For that Theban’s sake,Whom you profess to love, and came to seek,Abide awhile; and by my love to Greece,I’ll bring before you that lost Hercules,For whom you came to enquire.Telamon.It works, it works—Hercules.How have I lost myself!Did we all this? Where is that spirit become,That was in us? no marvel, Hercules,That thou be’st strange to them, that thus disguisedArt to thyself unknown!—hence with this distaff,And base effeminate chares; hence, womanish tires;And let me once more be myself again.Your pardon, Omphale!

I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him by his wretched Mother.

My flame encreaseth still—Oh father Œneus;And you Althea, whom I would call Mother,But that my genius prompts me thou’rt unkind:And yet farewell!

What is the boasted “Forgive me, but forgive me!” of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, compared with these three little words?

C. L.

For the Table Book.

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