IN CONCLUSION.

[250]Sir Humphrey’s two daughters.

[251]The exterior masonry.

The merry charmers, with their brazen tongues,Make efforts to chime forth their favourite songs,—Till the bold ringers are inform’d—that nowThey must await until the nuptial vowIs sanction’d by the law. Now every eyeIs bent towards the road, where they espySir Humphrey’s carriage coming up the “green;”And hail the occupants, who are therein:Then, close behind, another coach appears;The villagers send forth unbounded cheers;—They doff their neckerchiefs, and aught besideSpontaneously to greet the beauteous Bride:Sir Edward follows, with two handsome “greys,”Outvieing in stature old Sir Humphrey’s “bays.”

The merry charmers, with their brazen tongues,

Make efforts to chime forth their favourite songs,—

Till the bold ringers are inform’d—that now

They must await until the nuptial vow

Is sanction’d by the law. Now every eye

Is bent towards the road, where they espy

Sir Humphrey’s carriage coming up the “green;”

And hail the occupants, who are therein:

Then, close behind, another coach appears;

The villagers send forth unbounded cheers;—

They doff their neckerchiefs, and aught beside

Spontaneously to greet the beauteous Bride:

Sir Edward follows, with two handsome “greys,”

Outvieing in stature old Sir Humphrey’s “bays.”

The sacred pile is reach’d; its chancel trod;Around the altar, all in sight of GodAre reverently kneeling * * * Then they rise,And one, there is, had need to wipe her eyes;—This is that gentle one, who’s made a wife;—Now Lady Mountjoy, for her mortal life!* * * * *The ceremony’s o’er; the bells peal out;The villagers, again, raise high a shout.Beneath a tree ’n the centre of the “green,”A fiddle, flute, and a bass-violin,Surrounded by a motley group, are playingThat well-adapted tune—“Haste to the wedding.”Lord Arnold beckon’d to the “master man;”[252]Whose hurry overturn’d the liquor-can!His great misfortune soon is set aright,By something pleasing to the fiddler’s sight;For which he bowed: but, quickly turning ’round,He tripp’d, and, falling sideways on the ground,Smash’d in the “belly” of his instrument;The wondering crowd burst out in merriment:Himself, unhurt, beheld the mischief done,And swore, with vengeance, on the “evil-one.”(This self-conceited Jullien of the band,Remember’d long the name of Hollybrand.)

The sacred pile is reach’d; its chancel trod;

Around the altar, all in sight of God

Are reverently kneeling * * * Then they rise,

And one, there is, had need to wipe her eyes;—

This is that gentle one, who’s made a wife;—

Now Lady Mountjoy, for her mortal life!

* * * * *

The ceremony’s o’er; the bells peal out;The villagers, again, raise high a shout.Beneath a tree ’n the centre of the “green,”A fiddle, flute, and a bass-violin,Surrounded by a motley group, are playingThat well-adapted tune—“Haste to the wedding.”Lord Arnold beckon’d to the “master man;”[252]Whose hurry overturn’d the liquor-can!His great misfortune soon is set aright,By something pleasing to the fiddler’s sight;For which he bowed: but, quickly turning ’round,He tripp’d, and, falling sideways on the ground,Smash’d in the “belly” of his instrument;The wondering crowd burst out in merriment:Himself, unhurt, beheld the mischief done,And swore, with vengeance, on the “evil-one.”(This self-conceited Jullien of the band,Remember’d long the name of Hollybrand.)

The ceremony’s o’er; the bells peal out;

The villagers, again, raise high a shout.

Beneath a tree ’n the centre of the “green,”

A fiddle, flute, and a bass-violin,

Surrounded by a motley group, are playing

That well-adapted tune—“Haste to the wedding.”

Lord Arnold beckon’d to the “master man;”[252]

Whose hurry overturn’d the liquor-can!

His great misfortune soon is set aright,

By something pleasing to the fiddler’s sight;

For which he bowed: but, quickly turning ’round,

He tripp’d, and, falling sideways on the ground,

Smash’d in the “belly” of his instrument;

The wondering crowd burst out in merriment:

Himself, unhurt, beheld the mischief done,

And swore, with vengeance, on the “evil-one.”

(This self-conceited Jullien of the band,

Remember’d long the name of Hollybrand.)

[252]The leader of the band.

Now, undesirous to prolong the tale—By repetition what at RuttendellWas being enacted to commemorateTh’ event, I’ll beg the reader back to Rollingate;There, ’neath the portico, sweet flowers were laidPromiscuously, to bear the lightsome treadOf that pure virgin’s unstain’d wax-like form,As yet a stranger to the inherent storm.Lord Arnold had decreed that, on this day,His labourers, servants, and his tenantry,Should be partakers of the marriage-feast;So ’round the stately doorway, there each guest,(Of course—not one, but wore their very best,)Full fifty, stood in regular marshall’d keep,Cheering, most lustily, her ladyship,As she alighted from the stately chaise,And, like a fairy, trod the crimson baize,—Which, on the doorsteps, had been placed with careIn the hour’s absence of the nuptial pair.

Now, undesirous to prolong the tale—

By repetition what at Ruttendell

Was being enacted to commemorate

Th’ event, I’ll beg the reader back to Rollingate;

There, ’neath the portico, sweet flowers were laid

Promiscuously, to bear the lightsome tread

Of that pure virgin’s unstain’d wax-like form,

As yet a stranger to the inherent storm.

Lord Arnold had decreed that, on this day,

His labourers, servants, and his tenantry,

Should be partakers of the marriage-feast;

So ’round the stately doorway, there each guest,

(Of course—not one, but wore their very best,)

Full fifty, stood in regular marshall’d keep,

Cheering, most lustily, her ladyship,

As she alighted from the stately chaise,

And, like a fairy, trod the crimson baize,—

Which, on the doorsteps, had been placed with care

In the hour’s absence of the nuptial pair.

The banquet-board is spread in bounteous style,And every face around it bears a smile;With fruit and flowers the hall is well perfumed;The bridal-cake’s dealt out; the goblet’s toomed,And all is harmony: joy’s dominant:Within, the very walls seem resonant—As with the echoings of gay scenes of yore,But none had ever equall’d this before.From noon, until the solemn midnight-hour,Heaven vouchsafed one unabated show’rOf mirthfulness, of prudent revelry,Of one enchanting scene of gaiety;Such as will be historical.

The banquet-board is spread in bounteous style,

And every face around it bears a smile;

With fruit and flowers the hall is well perfumed;

The bridal-cake’s dealt out; the goblet’s toomed,

And all is harmony: joy’s dominant:

Within, the very walls seem resonant—

As with the echoings of gay scenes of yore,

But none had ever equall’d this before.

From noon, until the solemn midnight-hour,

Heaven vouchsafed one unabated show’r

Of mirthfulness, of prudent revelry,

Of one enchanting scene of gaiety;

Such as will be historical.

Then gracious Somnus, with his nightly spell,(Beneath whose mystic beams great monarchs bend,)Proclaim’d—the festival was at an end:The good old god, who ever-timely wise,Trod on the tender covering of their eyes;And bade them pay due homage unto night:But there was one, (the god dimm’d not his sight,)Whose breast was blazing with that nuptial flame,Which strives to ancestralize a family name;His sweet companion, buckling for the deed,Encourag’d him t’advance: her love obey’d:Fair Bapta,[253]charitably, drew her veil,And bade the loving warriors doff their mail,—’Twas done!—they waver’d, for the shock was great,The conflict ceas’d. Concordia,[254]reign’d in state.* * * * *And when another summer-time had flown,(For God had bless’d the mould wherein ’twas sown,)The gladsome father, named his own, his own....* * * * *“Virtue rewarded:”—be ye all discreet;For love, without discretion, courts defeat.

Then gracious Somnus, with his nightly spell,

(Beneath whose mystic beams great monarchs bend,)

Proclaim’d—the festival was at an end:

The good old god, who ever-timely wise,

Trod on the tender covering of their eyes;

And bade them pay due homage unto night:

But there was one, (the god dimm’d not his sight,)

Whose breast was blazing with that nuptial flame,

Which strives to ancestralize a family name;

His sweet companion, buckling for the deed,

Encourag’d him t’advance: her love obey’d:

Fair Bapta,[253]charitably, drew her veil,

And bade the loving warriors doff their mail,—

’Twas done!—they waver’d, for the shock was great,

The conflict ceas’d. Concordia,[254]reign’d in state.

* * * * *

And when another summer-time had flown,(For God had bless’d the mould wherein ’twas sown,)The gladsome father, named his own, his own....

And when another summer-time had flown,

(For God had bless’d the mould wherein ’twas sown,)

The gladsome father, named his own, his own....

* * * * *

“Virtue rewarded:”—be ye all discreet;For love, without discretion, courts defeat.

“Virtue rewarded:”—be ye all discreet;

For love, without discretion, courts defeat.

[253]Bapta, the goddess of shame.

[254]Concordia, the goddess of peace.

A Word for Gifford.

A word for Gifford,[255]ere I close my book;For only recently I had a look—As chance would have it[256]—at his wondrous pile,And then for joy each couplet drew a smile;But what beside?—regret I had not seenBefore th’ effusions of his fraughtful pen.* * * * *A word for Gifford, (“last, but not the least,”)—Whose rare productions[257]were the surest testOf his bright mind; then why do I attemptPanegyric, (and gain, perhaps, contemptFor my poor self,) when such as Byron write—Expressive of their pleasure and delight—In praise of him? ’Tis—that I can’t withholdMy little instrument, which seems so boldAs to presume to dictate to my muse—“It is a duty! therefore daren’t refuse.”* * * * *Gifford—the meek, the mighty, honour’d dead!I blame my breast that I no sooner readThose noble pages,—each itself a roll,Confirmatory of thy copious soul.—Great “Baviad,” “Mæviad,” arrows of satire,(Than none but epicures can fail t’admire)Which spread destruction, and set earth[258]on fire,—And to oblivion hurl’d, like rats and mice,Those who then dared to pamper forth their vice,And made a trade by trafficking in rhyme,—Display’d their trash, and hawk’d it as sublime!* * * * *Proud is thy name, O Gifford!—but not IAm equal to the task to laudifySo great a critic both of gods and men,Who pounced upon them with thy able pen,—Thus set them in the rank where each could boastOf laurels won, or grieve of fortunes lost!No, no, dear Gifford,—mine is not the task(And though thou’rt gone—forgiveness I must ask)To laud so great, so good[259]a man as thou! * * *Pardon me, friends, and pray accept—my bow.

A word for Gifford,[255]ere I close my book;

For only recently I had a look—

As chance would have it[256]—at his wondrous pile,

And then for joy each couplet drew a smile;

But what beside?—regret I had not seen

Before th’ effusions of his fraughtful pen.

* * * * *

A word for Gifford, (“last, but not the least,”)—Whose rare productions[257]were the surest testOf his bright mind; then why do I attemptPanegyric, (and gain, perhaps, contemptFor my poor self,) when such as Byron write—Expressive of their pleasure and delight—In praise of him? ’Tis—that I can’t withholdMy little instrument, which seems so boldAs to presume to dictate to my muse—“It is a duty! therefore daren’t refuse.”

A word for Gifford, (“last, but not the least,”)—

Whose rare productions[257]were the surest test

Of his bright mind; then why do I attempt

Panegyric, (and gain, perhaps, contempt

For my poor self,) when such as Byron write—

Expressive of their pleasure and delight—

In praise of him? ’Tis—that I can’t withhold

My little instrument, which seems so bold

As to presume to dictate to my muse—

“It is a duty! therefore daren’t refuse.”

* * * * *

Gifford—the meek, the mighty, honour’d dead!I blame my breast that I no sooner readThose noble pages,—each itself a roll,Confirmatory of thy copious soul.—Great “Baviad,” “Mæviad,” arrows of satire,(Than none but epicures can fail t’admire)Which spread destruction, and set earth[258]on fire,—And to oblivion hurl’d, like rats and mice,Those who then dared to pamper forth their vice,And made a trade by trafficking in rhyme,—Display’d their trash, and hawk’d it as sublime!

Gifford—the meek, the mighty, honour’d dead!

I blame my breast that I no sooner read

Those noble pages,—each itself a roll,

Confirmatory of thy copious soul.—

Great “Baviad,” “Mæviad,” arrows of satire,

(Than none but epicures can fail t’admire)

Which spread destruction, and set earth[258]on fire,—

And to oblivion hurl’d, like rats and mice,

Those who then dared to pamper forth their vice,

And made a trade by trafficking in rhyme,—

Display’d their trash, and hawk’d it as sublime!

* * * * *

Proud is thy name, O Gifford!—but not IAm equal to the task to laudifySo great a critic both of gods and men,Who pounced upon them with thy able pen,—Thus set them in the rank where each could boastOf laurels won, or grieve of fortunes lost!No, no, dear Gifford,—mine is not the task(And though thou’rt gone—forgiveness I must ask)To laud so great, so good[259]a man as thou! * * *Pardon me, friends, and pray accept—my bow.

Proud is thy name, O Gifford!—but not I

Am equal to the task to laudify

So great a critic both of gods and men,

Who pounced upon them with thy able pen,—

Thus set them in the rank where each could boast

Of laurels won, or grieve of fortunes lost!

No, no, dear Gifford,—mine is not the task

(And though thou’rt gone—forgiveness I must ask)

To laud so great, so good[259]a man as thou! * * *

Pardon me, friends, and pray accept—my bow.

[255]William Gifford was born at Ashburton, April, 1756, and, as may be inferred from the fact of his being interred at Westminster Abbey, attained a celebrity of no common order.

[256]This may appear singular, and unpardonable, but the Author (of this little work) is obliged to confess that it was only within a few days prior to the publication of these poems he, by accident, (having purchased a small volume in the Strand, London,) for the first time had the pleasure of perusing a portion of the works of this great man.

[257]His satirical poems,—the “Baviad,” and “Mæviad,” and his translation of “Juvenal.”

[258]Those professing poets of the age, whom Gifford lashed with his peculiar wit and humour.

[259]His munificence to the poor of his native town, in the form of an annual gift, will for ever revive the sacredness of his memory, thus:—Mr Gifford bequeathed property sufficient in value to realise the annual sum of £60 a-year; £50 of which is equally divided among twenty poor persons of both sexes, and £10 is distributed in bread to other poor persons on Christmas Eve.

THE END.

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