The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!
They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bellIt booms along the upland—oh! it haunts me like a knell;He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!
They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.
He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand hepressed,By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!
He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?
I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.
You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!
Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!Another board of oysters, ladye mine!To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.These mute inglorious Miltons are divine;And as I here in slippered ease recline,Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill,I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.A nobler inspiration fires my brain,Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink,I snatch the pot again and yet again,And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink,Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!This makes strong hearts—strong heads attest its charm—This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!
But these remarks are neither here nor there.Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey's dead!They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,And drain the annual butt—and oh, what headMore fit with laurel to be garlandedThan this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?
I know a grace is seated on my brow,Like young Apollo's with his golden beams;There should Apollo's bays be budding now:And in my flashing eyes the radiance beamsThat marks the poet in his waking dreams.When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.
They throng around me now, those things of air,That from my fancy took their being's stamp:There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp,Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.
Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram wonThe gentle ear of pensive Madeline!How love and murder hand in hand may run,Cemented by philosophy serene,And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!
Yes, I am he, who on the novel shedObscure philosophy's enchanting light!Until the public, wildered as they read,Believed they saw that which was not in sight—Of course 'twas not for me to set them right;For in my nether heart convinced I am,Philosophy's as good as any other bam.
Novels three-volumed I shall write no more—Somehow or other now they will not sell;And to invent new passions is a bore—I find the Magazines pay quite as well.Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.
Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed,Battered and broken are their early lyres.Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires.But these are things would suit me to the letter,For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.
A fice for your small poetic ravers,Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers,"Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?"No! Even now, my glance prophetic seesMy own high brow girt with the bays about.What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!
Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;He has dropp'd—that star of honor—on the field of his renown!Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink,Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freelyflow'd,I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet,By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet,Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock;I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon,Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum,Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grewdumb;But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more—Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd—let the rest of us beware!We shall leave him, as we found him—lying where his manhood fell,'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare,Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air.Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas,Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst ofhis,Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!
ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:
Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness!Dost thou remember, when with stately prance,Our heads went crosswise in the country dance;How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm,Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wiseAt the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing,Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dareDescribe the swaling of a jaunty air;And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel,You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille.That smiling voice, although it made me start,Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart;And, picking at my flowers, I said with freeAnd usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"
Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear,I heard the music burning in my ear,And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis.So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,And took his place against us with his dame,I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunkFrom the stern survey of the soldier-monk,Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk;But threading through the figure, first in rule,I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars,Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars—Not young Apollo, beamily array'dIn tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade—Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong,As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng!How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of loveOn thy trim velvet doublet laced above;The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of blackSo lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back.So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!
But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm(The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm),We pass'd to the great refreshment hall,Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits smallLay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burnAround the margin of the negus urn;When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice,And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice,Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble,But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble.A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain,The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne,The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor,Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!
Guards! who at Smolensko fled—No—I beg your pardon—bled!For my Uncle blood you've shed,Do the same for me.
Now's the day and now's the hour,Heads to split and streets to scour;Strike for rank, promotion, power,Sawg, and eau de vie.
Who's afraid a child to kill?Who respects a shopman's till?Who would pay a tailor's bill?Let him turn and flee.
Who would burst a goldsmith's door,Shoot a dun, or sack a store?Let him arm, and go before—That is, follow me!
See the mob, to madness riled,Up the barricades have piled;In among them, man and child,Unrelentingly!
Shoot the men! there's scarcely oneIn a dozen's got a gun:Stop them, if they try to run,With artillery!
Shoot the boys! each one may growInto—of the state—a foe(Meaning by the state, you know,My supremacy!)
Shoot the girls and women old!Those may bear us traitors bold—These may be inclined to scoldOur severity.
Sweep the streets of all who mayRashly venture in the way,Warning for a future daySatisfactory.
Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice,We, the nation's darling choice,Calling on them to rejoice,Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.
On Paris, when the sun was low,The gay "Comique" made goodly show,Habitues crowding every rowTo hear Limnandier's opera.
But Paris showed another sight,When, mustering in the dead of night,Her masters stood, at morning light,The crack shasseurs of Africa
By servants in my pay betrayed,Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,Wrote that a circumstance delayedHis marriage rite and revelry.
Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven;Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),Was seized bold Lamoriciere.
But louder rose the voice of woeWhen soldiers sacked each cit's depot,And tearing down a helpless foe,Flashed Magnan's red artillery.
More, more arrests! Changarnier braveIs dragged to prison like a knave:No time allowed the swell to shave,Or use the least perfumery.
'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son(Perchance her spouse's too) has wonThe imperial crown. The French are done,Chawed up most incontestably.
Few, few shall write, and none shall meet;Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet;And every serf beneath my feetShall hail the soldier's Emperor.
As the youthful Paris pressesHelen to his ivory breast,Sporting with her golden tresses,Close and ever closer pressed.
He said: "So let me quaff the nectar,Which thy lips of ruby yield;Glory I can leave to Hector,Gathered in the tented field.
"Let me ever gaze upon thee,Look into thine eyes so deep;With a daring hand I won thee,With a faithful heart I'll keep.
"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,Who was ever like to thee?Jove would lay aside his thunder,So he might be blest like me.
"How mine eyes so fondly lingerOn thy soft and pearly skin;Scan each round and rosy finger,Drinking draughts of beauty in!
"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest!Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom!Whence the rosy hue thou wearest,Breathing round thee rich perfume?"
Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,Clasped her fondly to his side,Gazed on her with look enchanted,While his Helen thus replied:
"Be no discord, love, between us,If I not the secret tell!'Twas a gift I had of Venus,—Venus who hath loved me well.
"And she told me as she gave it,'Let not e'er the charm be known,O'er thy person freely lave it,Only when thou art alone.'
"'Tis inclosed in yonder casket—Here behold its golden key;But its name—love, do not ask it,Tell't I may not, e'en to thee!"
Long with vow and kiss he plied her,Still the secret did she keep,Till at length he sank beside her,Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.
Soon was Helen laid in slumber,When her Paris, rising slow,Did his fair neck disencumberFrom her rounded arms of snow;
Then her heedless fingers oping,Takes the key and steals away,To the ebon table groping,Where the wondrous casket lay;
Eagerly the lid uncloses,Sees within it, laid aslope,Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses,Cakes of his Transparent Soap!
Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving,Gently glides the razor o'er his chin,Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,And with nasal whine he pitches in,Church Extension hints,Till the monarch squints,Snicks his chin, and swears—a deadly sin!
"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!From my dressing table get thee gone!Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster?There again! That cut was to the bone!Get ye from my sight;I'll believe you're rightWhen my razor cuts the sharping hone!"
Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;But the Augur, eager for his fees,Answered—"Try it, your Imperial Highness,Press a little harder, if you please.There! the deed is done!"Through the solid stoneWent the steel as glibly as through cheese.
So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,Who suspected some celestial aid:But he wronged the blameless Gods; for hearken!Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid,With his searching eyeDid the priest espyRODGER'S name engraved upon the blade.
I saw the curl of his waving lash,And the glance of his knowing eye,And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,As his steed went thundering by.
And he may ride in the rattling gig,Or flourish the Stanhope gay,And dream that he looks exceeding bigTo the people that walk in the way;
But he shall think, when the night is still,On the stable-boy's gathering numbers,And the ghost of many a veteran billShall hover around his slumbers;
The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,And constables cluster around him,And he shall creep from the wood-hole deepWhere their specter eyes have found him!
Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,And bid your steed go faster;He does not know as he scrambles along,That he has a fool for his master;
And hurry away on your lonely ride,Nor deign from the mire to save me;I will paddle it stoutly at your sideWith the tandem that nature gave me!
Day hath put on his jacket, and aroundHis burning bosom buttoned it with stars.Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,That is like padding to earth's meager ribs,And hold communion with the things about me.Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid,That binds the skirt of night's descending robe!The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,Do make a music like to rustling satin,As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.
Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?It is, it is that deeply injured flower,Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee,Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as brightAs these, thy puny brethren; and thy breathSweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,And growing portly in his sober garments.
Is that a swan that rides upon the water?O no, it is that other gentle bird,Which is the patron of our noble calling.I well remember, in my early years,When these young hands first closed upon a gooseI have a scar upon my thimble finger,Which chronicles the hour of young ambitionMy father was a tailor, and his father,And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;They had an ancient goose,—it was an heir-loomFrom some remoter tailor of our race.It happened I did see it on a timeWhen none was near, and I did deal with it,And it did burn me,—oh, most fearfully!
It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,And leap elastic from the level counter,Leaving the petty grievances of earth,The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,And all the needles that do wound the spirit,For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feelWith all around me;—I can hail the flowersThat sprig earth's mantle,—and yon quiet bird,That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,Where Nature stows away her loveliness.But this unnatural posture of my legsCramps my extended calves, and I must goWhere I can coil them in their wonted fashion.
DAN PHAETHON—so the histories run—Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN;Or rather of PHOEBUS—but as to his mother,Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,Some going for one, and some for another!For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA!
Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begunTo elevate funds and depreciate fun,Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN;"Running, they say,Trips every day(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way).And lighted up with a famous arrayOf lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay."With never a fare, and nothing to pay!
Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father,To grant him a favor, and this the rather,Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,That he wasn't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy!Intending, the rascally son of a gun,To darken the brow of the son of the SUN!"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!""Then by my head,"The youngster said,"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!—For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!""Nay, PHAETHON, don't—I beg you won't—Just stop a moment and think upon't!You're quite too young," continued the sage,"To tend a coach at your tender age!Besides, you see,'T will really beYour first appearance on any stage!Desist, my child,The cattle are wild,And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,'Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled'—They're not the fellows to draw it mild!Desist, I say,You'll rue the day—So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!"But the youth was proud,And swore aloud,'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd—He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed!In vain the boy was cautioned at large,He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,And vowed that any young fellow of force,Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorryHe had given his word in such a hurry,But having sworn by the Styx, no doubtHe was in for it now, and couldn't back out.
So calling Phaethon up in a trice,He gave the youth a bit of advice:—"'Parce stimulis, utere loris!'(A "stage direction," of which the core is,Don't use the whip—they're ticklish things—But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,'Medio tutissimus ibis'(As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,Who was going to quod between two watchmen!)So mind your eye, and spare your goad,Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"
Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place,Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,Fast as coursers running a race,Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!Of whip and shout there was no lack,"Crack—whack—Whack—crack"Resounded along the horses' back!—Frightened beneath the stinging lash,Cutting their flanks in many a gash,On—on they sped as swift as a flash,Through thick and thin away they dash,(Such rapid driving is always rash!)When all at once, with a dreadful crash,The whole "establishment" went to smash!And Phaethon, he,As all agree,Off the coach was suddenly hurled,Into a puddle, and out of the world!
Don't rashly take to dangerous courses—Nor set it down in your table of forces,That any one man equals any four horses!Don't swear by the Styx!—It's one of Old Nick'sDiabolical tricksTo get people into a regular "fix,"And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!
Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I seeThe humble school-house of my A, B, C,Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire,Waited in ranks the wished command to fire,Then all together, when the signal came,Discharged their A-B ABS against the dame,Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm,Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm,And, to our wonder, could detect at onceWho flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.
There young Devotion learned to climb with easeThe gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees,And he was most commended and admiredWho soonest to the topmost twig perspired;Each name was called as many various waysAs pleased the reader's ear on different days,So that the weather, or the ferule's stings,Colds in the head, or fifty other things,Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a weekTo guttural Pequot or resounding Greek,The vibrant accent skipping here and thereJust as it pleased invention or despair;No controversial Hebraist was the Dame;With or without the points pleased her the same.If any tyro found a name too tough,And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough;She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing,And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.
Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap,Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap;From books degraded, there I sat at ease,A drone, the envy of compulsory bees.
What is't Fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly,Or take an Epigram so fearfully,As't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter?The world must know your greatness is my debtor.IMPRIMIS, Grand, you owe me for a jestI lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast.ITEM, a tale or two some fortnight after,That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter.ITEM, the Babylonian song you sing;ITEM, a fair Greek poesy for a ring,With which a learned madam you bely.ITEM, a charm surrounding fearfullyYour partie-per-pale picture, one half drawnIn solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn.ITEM, a gulling impress for you, at tilt.ITEM, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt.ITEM, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock.ITEM, an epitaph on my lord's cock,In most vile verses, and cost me more pain,Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein.Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true,For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.
Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest,Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jestThyself into fresh brawls; when call'd upon,Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off of one;So in short time, thou art in arrearage grownSome hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none;Nor need'st thou; for those few, by oath released,Make good what thou dar'st in all the rest.Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right,He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.
When men a dangerous disease did 'scape,Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape;Let me give two, that doubly am got free;From my disease's danger, and from thee.
Filter, the most may admire thee, though not I;And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why?For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fitAll brains, at times of triumph, should run wit;For then our water-conduits do run wine;But that's put in, thou'lt say.Why, so is thine.
ON BANKS THE USURER.Banks feels no lameness of his knotty gout,His moneys travel for him in and out,And though the soundest legs go every day,He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.
No cause, nor client fat, will Cheveril leese,But as they come, on both sides he takes fees,And pleaseth both; for while he melts his greaseFor this; that wins, for whom he holds his peace.
Opinion governs all mankind,Like the blind's leading of the blind;For he that has no eyes in 's head,Must be by a dog glad to be led;And no beasts have so little in 'emAs that inhuman brute, Opinion."Tis an infectious pestilence,The tokens upon wit and sense,That with a venomous contagionInvades the sick imagination:And, when it seizes any part,It strikes the poison to the heart."This men of one another catch,By contact, as the humors match.And nothing's so perverse in natureAs a profound opiniator.
Critics are like a kind of flies, that breedIn wild fig-trees, and when they're grown up, feedUpon the raw fruit of the nobler kind,And, by their nibbling on the outward rind,Open the pores, and make way for the sunTo ripen it sooner than he would have done.
Hypocrisy will serve as wellTo propagate a church, as zeal;As persecution and promotionDo equally advance devotion:So round white stones will serve, they pay,As well as eggs to make hens lay.
All wit and fancy, like a diamond,The more exact and curious 'tis ground,Is forced for every carat to abate,As much in value as it wants in weight.
A godly man, that has served out his timeIn holiness, may set up any crime;As scholars, when they've taken their degreesMay set up any faculty they please.
Why should not piety be made,As well as equity, a trade,And men get money by devotion,As well as making of a motion?B' allow'd to pray upon conditions,As well as suitors in petitions?And in a congregation pray,No less than Chancery, for pay?
All sorts of vot'ries, that professTo bind themselves apprenticesTo Heaven, abjure, with solemn vows,Not Cut and Long-tail, but a SpouseAs the worst of all impedimentsTo hinder their devout intents.
It is not poetry that makes men poor;For few do write that were not so before;And those that have writ best, had they been rich.Had ne'er been clapp'd with a poetic itch;Had loved their ease too well to take the painsTo undergo that drudgery of brains;But, being for all other trades unfit,Only t' avoid being idle, set up wit.
They that do write in authors' praises,And freely give their friends their voicesAre not confined to what is true;That's not to give, but pay a due:For praise, that's due, does give no moreTo worth, than what it had before;But to commend without desert,Requires a mastery of art,That sets a gloss on what's amiss,And writes what should be, not what is.
All the politics of the greatAre like the cunning of a cheat,That lets his false dice freely run,And trusts them to themselves alone,But never lets a true one stir,Without some fingering trick or slur;And, when the gamester doubts his play,Conveys his false dice safe away,And leaves the true ones in the lurchT' endure the torture of the search.
There needs no other charm, nor conjurerTo raise infernal spirits up, but fear;That makes men pull their horns in, like a snailThat's both a pris'ner to itself, and jail;Draws more fantastic shapes, than in the grainsOf knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains;When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls,Are only in the insides of their skulls.
The law can take a purse in open courtWhile it condemns a less delinquent for't.
Who can deserve, for breaking of the laws,A greater penance than an honest cause.
All those that do but rob and steal enough,Are punishment and court-of-justice proof,And need not fear, nor be concerned a strawIn all the idle bugbears of the law;But confidently rob the gallows too,As well as other sufferers, of their due.
In the Church of Rome to go to shriftIs but to put the soul on a clean shift.
All smatterers are more brisk and pertThan those that understand an art;As little sparkles shine more brightThan glowing coals, that give them light.
As he that makes his mark is understoodTo write his name, and 'tis in law as good,So he, that can not write one word of senseBelieves he has as legal a pretenseTo scribble what he does not understand,As idiots have a title to their land.
Opinionators naturally differFrom other men; as wooden legs are stifferThan those of pliant joints, to yield and bow,Which way soever they're design'd to go.
Were Tully now alive, he'd be to seekIn all our Latin terms of art and Greek;Would never understand one word of senseThe most irrefragable schoolman means:As if the Schools design'd their terms of art,Not to advance a science, but to divert;As Hocus Pocus conjures to amuseThe rabble from observing what he does.
As 'tis a greater mystery in the artOf painting, to foreshorten any part,Than draw it out; so 'tis in books the chiefOf all perfections to be plain and brief.
As in all great and crowded fairsMonsters and puppet-play are wares,Which in the less will not go off,Because they have not money enough;So men in princes' courts will passThat will not in another place.
All the inventions that the world contains,Were not by reason first found out, nor brains,But pass for theirs who had the luck to lightUpon them by mistake or oversight.
Logicians used to clap a proposition,As justices do criminals, in prison,And, in as learn'd authentic nonsense, writThe names of all their moods and figures fit;For a logician's one that has been brokeTo ride and pace his reason by the book;And by their rules, and precepts, and examples,To put his wits into a kind of trammels.
Those get the least that take the greatest pains,But most of all i' th' drudgery of the brains,A natural sign of weakness, as an antIs more laborious than an elephant;And children are more busy at their play,Than those that wiseliest pass their time away.
The jolly members of a toping club,Like pipestaves, are but hoop'd into a tub;And in a close confederacy link,For nothing else but only to hold drink.
A country that draws fifty feet of water,In which men live as in the hold of Nature;And when the sea does in upon them break,And drown a province, does but spring a leak;That always ply the pump, and never thinkThey can be safe, but at the rate they stink;That live as if they had been run a-ground,And, when they die, are cast away and drown'd;That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and preyUpon the goods all nations' fleets convey;And, when their merchants are blown up and cracked,Whole towns are cast away and wrecked;That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes,And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes:A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd,In which they do not live, but go a-board.
The souls of women are so small,That some believe they've none at all;Or if they have, like cripples, stillThey've but one faculty, the will;The other two are quite laid byTo make up one great tyranny;And though their passions have most pow'r,They are, like Turks, but slaves the moreTo th' abs'lute will, that with a breathHas sovereign pow'r of life and death,And, as its little int'rests move,Can turn 'em all to hate or love;For nothing, in a moment, turnTo frantic love, disdain, and scorn;And make that love degenerateT' as great extremity of hate;And hate again, and scorn, and piques,To flames, and raptures, and love-tricks.
Were men so dull they could not seeThat Lyce painted; should they flee,Like simple birds, into a net,So grossly woven, and ill set,Her own teeth would undo the knot,And let all go that she had got.Those teeth fair Lyce must not show,If she would bite: her lovers, thoughLike birds they stoop at seeming grapes,Are dis-abus'd, when first she gapes:The rotten bones discover'd there,Show 'tis a painted sepulcher.
Design, or chance, makes others wive;But nature did this match contrive:EVE might as well have ADAM fled,As she denied her little bedTo him, for whom heav'n seem'd to frame,And measure out, this only dame.Thrice happy is that humble pair,Beneath the level of all care!Over whose heads those arrows flyOf sad distrust, and jealousy:Secured in as high extreme,As if the world held none but them.To him the fairest nymphs do showLike moving mountains, topp'd with snow:And ev'ry man a POLYPHEMEDoes to his GALATEA seem;None may presume her faith to prove;He proffers death that proffers love.Ah CHLORIS! that kind nature thusFrom all the world had sever'd us:Creating for ourselves us two,As love has me for only you!
Dear Thomas, didst thou never popThy head into a tin-man's shop?There, Thomas, didst thou never see('Tis but by way of simile)A squirrel spend his little rage,In jumping round a rolling cage?The cage, as either side turn'd up,Striking a ring of bells a-top?—Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,The foolish creature thinks he climbs:But here or there, turn wood or wire,He never gets two inches higher.So fares it with those merry blades,That frisk it under Pindus' shades.In noble songs, and lofty odes,They tread on stars, and talk with gods;Still dancing in an airy round,Still pleased with their own verses' sound;Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,Always aspiring, always low.
Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol,(A Fly upon the chariot poleCries out), what Blue-bottle aliveDid ever with such fury drive?Tell Belzebub, great father, tell(Says t' other, perch'd upon the wheel),Did ever any mortal FlyRaise such a cloud of dust as I?My judgment turn'd the whole debate:My valor sav'd the sinking state.So talk two idle buzzing things;Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings.But let the truth to light be brought;This neither spoke, nor t' other fought:No merit in their own behavior:Both rais'd, but by their party's favor.
How old may Phillis be, you ask,Whose beauty thus all hearts engages?To answer is no easy task:For she has really two ages.
Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays,Her patches, paint, and jewels on;All day let envy view her face,And Phillis is but twenty-one.
Paint, patches, jewels laid aside,At night astronomers agree,The evening has the day belied;And Phillis is some forty-three.
Vain the concern which you express,That uncall'd Alard will possessYour house and coach, both day and night,And that Macbeth was haunted lessBy Banquo's restless sprite.
With fifteen thousand pounds a-year,Do you complain, you can not bearAn ill, you may so soon retrieve?Good Alard, faith, is modesterBy much, than you believe.
Lend him but fifty louis-d'or;And you shall never see him more:Take the advice; probatum est.Why do the gods indulge our store,But to secure our rest?
Meek Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay,As you value your peace, make the best of your way.Though at present arrested by death's caitiff paw,If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law.And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found,That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,That you without right on his premises tread,On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.
What a frail thing is beauty! says baron Le Cras,Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass:And scarcely had he spoke it,When she more confus'd as more angry she grew,By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true:She dropt the eye, and broke it.
Full oft doth Mat. with Topaz dine,Eateth baked meats, drinketh Greek wine;But Topaz his own werke rehearseth;And Mat. mote praise what Topaz verseth.Now sure as priest did e'er shrive sinner,Full hardly earneth Mat. his dinner.
When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,And full of champagne as an egg's full of meat,He waked in the boat; and to Charon he said,He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead.Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon replied:You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.
Lysander talks extremely well;On any subject let him dwell,His tropes and figures will content yeHe should possess to all degreesThe art of talk; he practicesFull fourteen hours in four-and-twenty
Written on his admission to the Kit-Cat Club, in compliance with the rule that every new member should name his toast, and write a verse in her praise.
While haughty Gallia's dames, that spreadO'er their pale cheeks an artful red,Beheld this beauteous stranger there,In nature's charms divinely fair;Confusion in their looks they showed,And with unborrowed blushes glowed.
While in the dark on thy soft hand I hung,And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue,What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured!But when the candle entered I was cured.
In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow,Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow;Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee,There is no living with thee, nor without thee.
Thy beard and head are of a different dye:Short of one foot, distorted in an eye:With all these tokens of a knave complete,Should'st thou be honest, thou 'rt a dev'lish cheat.
So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song,As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along;But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride.That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.
You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come:Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.
Sir, I admit your general rule,That every poet is a fool,But you yourself may serve to show it,That every fool is not a poet.
An ass's hoof alone can holdThat poisonous juice, which kills by cold.Methought when I this poem read,No vessel but an ass's headSuch frigid fustian could contain;I mean the head without the brain.The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts,Went down like stupefying draughts;I found my head begin to swim,A numbness crept through every limb.In haste, with imprecations dire,I threw the volume in the fire;When (who could think?) though cold as ice,It burnt to ashes in a trice.How could I more enhance its fame?Though born in snow, it died in flame.
TO A LADY,On hearing her praise her husband.
You always are making a god of your spouse;But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows;Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due,And you adore him because he adores you.Your argument's weak, and so you will find,For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.
As Thomas was cudgel'd one day by his wife,He took to his heels and fled for his life:Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble,And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble;Then ventured to give him some sober advice-But Tom is a person of honor so nice,Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning,That he sent to all three a challenge next morning.Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life;Went home, and was cudgeled again by his wife.
The sage, who said he should be proudOf windows in his breast,Because he ne'er a thought allow'dThat might not be confest;His window scrawled by every rake,His breast again would cover,And fairly bid the devil takeThe diamond and the lover.
ON SEEING THE BUSTS OP NEWTON, LOCKE, AND OTHERS,Placed by Queen Caroline in Richmond Hermitage.
Louis the living learned fed,And raised the scientific head;Our frugal queen, to save her meat,Exalts the heads that cannot eat.
Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry,The Church has vapors; there's no danger nigh.In those we love not, we no danger see,And were they hang'd, there would no danger be.But we must silent be, amid our fears,And not believe our senses, but the Peers.So ravishers that know no sense of shame,First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.
Carthy, you say, writes well—his genius true,You pawn your word for him—he'll vouch for you.So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail,To cheat the world, become each other's bail.
Beneath this verdant hillock lies,Demar, the wealthy and the wise.His heirs, that he might safely rest,Have put his carcass in a chest,The very chest in which, they say,His other self, his money lay.And, if his heirs continue kindTo that dear self he left behind,I dare believe, that four in fiveWill think his better half alive.
When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreatTo form some Beauty by a new receipt,Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene,Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene:From which ingredients first the dext'rous boyPick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy.The Graces from the court did next provideBreeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:These Venus cleans from every spurious grainOf nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain.Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd;Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD.
Venus one day, as story goes,But for what reason no man knows,In sullen mood and grave deport,Trudged it away to Jove's high court;And there his Godship did entreat,To look out for his best receipt:And make a monster strange and odd,Abhorr'd by man and every god.Jove, ever kind to all the fair,Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer,Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he tookA neatly bound and well-gilt book;Sure sign that nothing enter'd there,But what was very choice and rare.Scarce had he turn'd a page or two—It might be more, for aught I know;But, be the matter more or less,'Mong friends 't will break no squares, I guess.Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he,Here's one will fit you to a T.But, as the writing doth prescribe,'Tis fit the ingredients we provide.Away he went, and search'd the stews,And every street about the Mews;Diseases, impudence, and lies,Are found and brought him in a triceFrom Hackney then he did provide,A clumsy air and awkward pride;From lady's toilet next he broughtNoise, scandal, and malicious thought.These Jove put in an old close-stool,And with them mix'd the vain, the fool.
But now came on his greatest care,Of what he should his paste prepare;For common clay or finer moldWas much too good, such stuff to holdAt last he wisely thought on mud;So raised it up, and call'd it—CLUDD.With this, the lady well content,Low curtsey'd, and away she went.
All folks who pretend to religion and grace,Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:But if HELL may by logical rules be definedThe place of the damn'd—I'll tell you my mind.Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound,Most certainly there is HELL to be found:Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves;Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves;Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires;Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars;Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station;Dama'd time-serving priests all over the nation;And into the bargain I'll readily give youDamn'd ignorant prelates, and councillors privy.Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd,For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd:And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.How happy for us that it is not at home!
With a world of thought oppress'd,I sunk from reverie to rest.A horrid vision seized my head,I saw the graves give up their dead!Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies,And thunder roars and lightning flies;Amazed, confused, its fate unknown,The world stands trembling at his throne!While each pale sinner hung his head,Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said:"Offending race of human kind,By nature, reason, learning, blind;You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside;And you, who never fell from pride:You who in different sects were shamm'd,And come to see each other damn'd;(So some folk told you, but they knewNo more of Jove's designs than you);—The world's mad business now is o'er,And I resent these pranks no more.—I to such blockheads set my wit!I damn such fools!—Go, go, you're bit."
"A slave to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats,In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats;While smiling Nature, in her best attire,Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire.Can he, who knows that real good should pleaseBarter for gold his liberty and ease?"This Paulus preach'd:—When, entering at the door,Upon his board the client pours the ore:He grasps the shining gifts, pores o'er the cause,Forgets the sun, and dozes o'er the laws.