Boy, I hate their empty shows,Persian garlands I detest,Bring not me the late-blown rose,Lingering after all the rest.Plainer myrtle pleases me,Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;Myrtle more becoming thee,Waiting with thy master's wine.
Boy, I hate their empty shows,Persian garlands I detest,Bring not me the late-blown rose,Lingering after all the rest.Plainer myrtle pleases me,Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;Myrtle more becoming thee,Waiting with thy master's wine.
Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting;Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,Where latest roses linger.Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily)Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparageThee occupied to serve me, or me drinkingBeneath my vine's cool shelter.
Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting;Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,Where latest roses linger.Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily)Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparageThee occupied to serve me, or me drinkingBeneath my vine's cool shelter.
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,So shalt thou live beyond the reachOf adverse fortune's power;Not always tempt the distant deep,Nor always timorously creepAlong the treacherous shore.He that holds fast the golden mean,And lives contentedly betweenThe little and the great,Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,Imbittering all his state.The tallest pines feel most the powerOf wintry blasts; the loftiest towerComes heaviest to the ground;The bolts that spare the mountain's sideHis cloudcapt eminence divide,And spread the ruin round.The well-inform'd philosopher,Rejoices with a wholesome fear,And hopes in spite of pain;If Winter bellow from the north,Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,And Nature laughs again.What if thine heaven be overcast,The dark appearance will not last;Expect a brighter sky.The God that strings the silver bowAwakes sometimes the muses too,And lays his arrows by.If hindrances obstruct thy way,Thy magnanimity display,And let thy strength be seen:But O! if Fortune fill thy sailWith more than a propitious gale,Take half thy canvas in.
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,So shalt thou live beyond the reachOf adverse fortune's power;Not always tempt the distant deep,Nor always timorously creepAlong the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,And lives contentedly betweenThe little and the great,Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the powerOf wintry blasts; the loftiest towerComes heaviest to the ground;The bolts that spare the mountain's sideHis cloudcapt eminence divide,And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philosopher,Rejoices with a wholesome fear,And hopes in spite of pain;If Winter bellow from the north,Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,And Nature laughs again.
What if thine heaven be overcast,The dark appearance will not last;Expect a brighter sky.The God that strings the silver bowAwakes sometimes the muses too,And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way,Thy magnanimity display,And let thy strength be seen:But O! if Fortune fill thy sailWith more than a propitious gale,Take half thy canvas in.
And is this all? Can Reason do no moreThan bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore?Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,The Christian has an art unknown to thee:He holds no parley with unmanly fears;Where Duty bids he confidently steers,Faces a thousand dangers at her call,And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.
And is this all? Can Reason do no moreThan bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore?Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,The Christian has an art unknown to thee:He holds no parley with unmanly fears;Where Duty bids he confidently steers,Faces a thousand dangers at her call,And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.
Otium Divos rogat in patenti.
Ease is the weary merchant's prayer,Who ploughs by night the Ægean flood,When neither moon nor stars appear,Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.For ease the Mede with quiver graced,For ease the Thracian hero sighs,Delightful ease all pant to taste,A blessing which no treasure buys.For neither gold can lull to rest,Nor all a Consul's guard beat offThe tumults of a troubled breast,The cares that haunt a gilded roof.Happy the man whose table showsA few clean ounces of old plate,No fear intrudes on his repose,No sordid wishes to be great.Poor short-lived things, what plans we layAh, why forsake our native home?To distant climates speed away;For self sticks close where'er we roam.Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakesThe well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed;Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes—Not the wind flies with half her speed.From anxious fears of future illGuard well the cheerful, happy now;Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,No blessing is unmix'd below.Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,And the best purple Tyre affordsThy robe magnificent displays.On me indulgent Heaven bestow'dA rural mansion, neat and small;This lyre;—and as for yonder crowd,The happiness to hate them all.
Ease is the weary merchant's prayer,Who ploughs by night the Ægean flood,When neither moon nor stars appear,Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.
For ease the Mede with quiver graced,For ease the Thracian hero sighs,Delightful ease all pant to taste,A blessing which no treasure buys.
For neither gold can lull to rest,Nor all a Consul's guard beat offThe tumults of a troubled breast,The cares that haunt a gilded roof.
Happy the man whose table showsA few clean ounces of old plate,No fear intrudes on his repose,No sordid wishes to be great.
Poor short-lived things, what plans we layAh, why forsake our native home?To distant climates speed away;For self sticks close where'er we roam.
Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakesThe well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed;Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes—Not the wind flies with half her speed.
From anxious fears of future illGuard well the cheerful, happy now;Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,No blessing is unmix'd below.
Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,And the best purple Tyre affordsThy robe magnificent displays.
On me indulgent Heaven bestow'dA rural mansion, neat and small;This lyre;—and as for yonder crowd,The happiness to hate them all.
A HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF THE AUTHOR'S JOURNEY FROM ROME TO BRUNDUSIUM.
'Twas a long journey lay before us,When I and honest Heliodorus,Who far in point of rhetoricSurpasses every living Greek,Each leaving our respective home,Together sallied forth from Rome.First at Aricia we alight,And there refresh, and pass the night,Our entertainment rather coarseThan sumptuous, but I've met with worse.Thence o'er the causeway soft and fairTo Appii Forum we repair.But as this road is well supplied(Temptation strong!) on either sideWith inns commodious, snug, and warm,We split the journey, and performIn two days' time what's often doneBy brisker travellers in one.Here, rather choosing not to supThan with bad water mix my cup,After a warm debate in spiteOf a provoking appetite,I sturdily resolved at lastTo balk it, and pronounce a fast,And in a moody humour wait,While my less dainty comrades bait.Now o'er the spangled hemisphereDiffused the starry train appear,When there arose a desperate brawl;The slaves and bargemen, one and all,Rending their throats (have mercy on us!)As if they were resolved to stun us."Steer the barge this way to the shore;I tell you we'll admit no more;Plague! will you never be content?"Thus a whole hour at least is spent,While they receive the several fares,And kick the mule into his gears.Happy, these difficulties past,Could we have fallen asleep at last!But, what with humming, croaking, biting,Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting,These tuneful natives of the lakeConspired to keep us broad awake.Besides, to make the concert full,Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull,The bargeman and a passenger,Each in his turn, essay'd an airIn honour of his absent fair.At length the passenger, opprestWith wine, left off, and snored the rest.The weary bargeman too gave o'er,And, hearing his companion snore,Seized the occasion, fix'd the barge,Turn'd out his mule to graze at large,And slept forgetful of his charge.And now the sun o'er eastern hillDiscover'd that our barge stood still;When one, whose anger vex'd him sore,With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore;Plucks up a stake, with many a thwackAssails the mule and driver's back.Then slowly moving on with pain,At ten Feronia's stream we gain,And in her pure and glassy waveOur hands and faces gladly lave.Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's heightWe reach, with stony quarries white.While here, as was agreed, we wait,Till, charged with business of the state,Mæcenas and Cocceius come,The messengers of peace from Rome.My eyes, by watery humours blearAnd sore, I with black balsam smear.At length they join us, and with themOur worthy friend Fonteius came;A man of such complete desert,Antony loved him at his heart.At Fundi we refused to bait,And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state,A prætor now, a scribe before,The purple-border'd robe he wore,His slave the smoking censer bore.Tired, at Muræna's we repose,At Formia sup at Capito's.With smiles the rising morn we greet,At Sinuessa pleased to meetWith Plotius, Varius, and the bardWhom Mantua first with wonder heard.The world no purer spirits knows;For none my heart more warmly glows.O! what embraces we bestow'd,And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd!Sure, while my sense is sound and clear,Long as I live, I shall preferA gay, good-natured, easy friendTo every blessing Heaven can send.At a small village, the next night,Near the Vulturnus we alight;Where, as employ'd on state affairs,We were supplied by the purveyors,Frankly at once, and without hire,With food for man and horse, and fire.Capua next day betimes we reach,Where Virgil and myself, who eachLabour'd with different maladies,His such a stomach, mine such eyes,As would not bear strong exercise,In drowsy mood to sleep resort;Mæcenas to the tennis-court.Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated,Above the Caudian tavern seated;His kind and hospitable boardWith choice of wholesome food was stored.Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays!To nobler themes my fancy raise!Two combatants, who scorn to yieldThe noisy, tongue-disputed field,Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claimA poet's tribute to their fame;Cicirrus of true Oscian breed,Sarmentus, who was never freed,But ran away. We don't defame him;His lady lives, and still may claim him.Thus dignified, in harder frayThese champions their keen wit display,And first Sarmentus led the way."Thy locks," quoth he, "so rough and coarse,Look like the mane of some wild horse."We laugh; Cicirrus undismay'd—"Have at you!"—cries, and shakes his head."'Tis well," Sarmentus says, "you've lostThat horn your forehead once could boast;Since, maim'd and mangled as you are,You seem to butt." A hideous scarImproved, 'tis true, with double graceThe native horrors of his face.Well, after much jocosely saidOf his grim front, so fiery red,(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'erAs usual on Campania's shore,)"Give us," he cried, "since you're so big,A sample of the Cyclop's jig!Your shanks methinks no buskins ask,Nor does your phiz require a mask."To this Cicirrus: "In returnOf you, sir, now I fain would learn,When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave,Your chains you to the Lares gave?For though a scrivener's right you claim,Your lady's title is the same.But what could make you run away,Since, pigmy as you are, each dayA single pound of bread would quiteO'erpower your puny appetite?"Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd,And many a cheerful bumper quaff'd.To Beneventum next we steer;Where our good host by over careIn roasting thrushes lean as miceHad almost fallen a sacrifice.The kitchen soon was all on fire,And to the roof the flames aspire;There might you see each man and masterStriving, amidst this sad disaster,To save the supper. Then they cameWith speed enough to quench the flame.From hence we first at distance seeThe Apulian hills, well known to me,Parch'd by the sultry western blast;And which we never should have past,Had not Trivicius by the wayReceived us at the close of day.But each was forced at entering hereTo pay the tribute of a tear,For more of smoke than fire was seen—The hearth was piled with logs so green.From hence in chaises we were carriedMiles twenty-four, and gladly tarriedAt a small town, whose name my verse(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse.Know it you may by many a sign,Water is dearer far than wine;There bread is deem'd such dainty fare,That every prudent travellerHis wallet loads with many a crust;For at Canusium you might justAs well attempt to gnaw a stoneAs think to get a morsel down:That too with scanty streams is fed;Its founder was brave Diomed.Good Varius (ah, that friends must part!)Here left us all with aching heart.At Rubi we arrived that day,Well jaded by the length of way,And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter:Next day no weather could be better;No roads so bad; we scarce could crawlAlong to fishy Barium's wall.The Egnatians next, who by the rulesOf common sense are knaves or fools,Made all our sides with laughter heave,Since we with them must needs believeThat incense in their temples burns,And without fire to ashes turns.To circumcision's bigots tellSuch tales! for me, I know full wellThat in high heaven, unmoved by care,The gods eternal quiet share:Nor can I deem their spleen the cause,While fickle Nature breaks her laws.Brundusium last we reach: and thereStop short the muse and traveller.
'Twas a long journey lay before us,When I and honest Heliodorus,Who far in point of rhetoricSurpasses every living Greek,Each leaving our respective home,Together sallied forth from Rome.First at Aricia we alight,And there refresh, and pass the night,Our entertainment rather coarseThan sumptuous, but I've met with worse.Thence o'er the causeway soft and fairTo Appii Forum we repair.But as this road is well supplied(Temptation strong!) on either sideWith inns commodious, snug, and warm,We split the journey, and performIn two days' time what's often doneBy brisker travellers in one.Here, rather choosing not to supThan with bad water mix my cup,After a warm debate in spiteOf a provoking appetite,I sturdily resolved at lastTo balk it, and pronounce a fast,And in a moody humour wait,While my less dainty comrades bait.Now o'er the spangled hemisphereDiffused the starry train appear,When there arose a desperate brawl;The slaves and bargemen, one and all,Rending their throats (have mercy on us!)As if they were resolved to stun us."Steer the barge this way to the shore;I tell you we'll admit no more;Plague! will you never be content?"Thus a whole hour at least is spent,While they receive the several fares,And kick the mule into his gears.Happy, these difficulties past,Could we have fallen asleep at last!But, what with humming, croaking, biting,Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting,These tuneful natives of the lakeConspired to keep us broad awake.Besides, to make the concert full,Two maudlin wights, exceeding dull,The bargeman and a passenger,Each in his turn, essay'd an airIn honour of his absent fair.At length the passenger, opprestWith wine, left off, and snored the rest.The weary bargeman too gave o'er,And, hearing his companion snore,Seized the occasion, fix'd the barge,Turn'd out his mule to graze at large,And slept forgetful of his charge.And now the sun o'er eastern hillDiscover'd that our barge stood still;When one, whose anger vex'd him sore,With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore;Plucks up a stake, with many a thwackAssails the mule and driver's back.Then slowly moving on with pain,At ten Feronia's stream we gain,And in her pure and glassy waveOur hands and faces gladly lave.Climbing three miles, fair Anxur's heightWe reach, with stony quarries white.While here, as was agreed, we wait,Till, charged with business of the state,Mæcenas and Cocceius come,The messengers of peace from Rome.My eyes, by watery humours blearAnd sore, I with black balsam smear.At length they join us, and with themOur worthy friend Fonteius came;A man of such complete desert,Antony loved him at his heart.At Fundi we refused to bait,And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state,A prætor now, a scribe before,The purple-border'd robe he wore,His slave the smoking censer bore.Tired, at Muræna's we repose,At Formia sup at Capito's.With smiles the rising morn we greet,At Sinuessa pleased to meetWith Plotius, Varius, and the bardWhom Mantua first with wonder heard.The world no purer spirits knows;For none my heart more warmly glows.O! what embraces we bestow'd,And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd!Sure, while my sense is sound and clear,Long as I live, I shall preferA gay, good-natured, easy friendTo every blessing Heaven can send.At a small village, the next night,Near the Vulturnus we alight;Where, as employ'd on state affairs,We were supplied by the purveyors,Frankly at once, and without hire,With food for man and horse, and fire.Capua next day betimes we reach,Where Virgil and myself, who eachLabour'd with different maladies,His such a stomach, mine such eyes,As would not bear strong exercise,In drowsy mood to sleep resort;Mæcenas to the tennis-court.Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated,Above the Caudian tavern seated;His kind and hospitable boardWith choice of wholesome food was stored.Now, O ye Nine, inspire my lays!To nobler themes my fancy raise!Two combatants, who scorn to yieldThe noisy, tongue-disputed field,Sarmentus and Cicirrus, claimA poet's tribute to their fame;Cicirrus of true Oscian breed,Sarmentus, who was never freed,But ran away. We don't defame him;His lady lives, and still may claim him.Thus dignified, in harder frayThese champions their keen wit display,And first Sarmentus led the way."Thy locks," quoth he, "so rough and coarse,Look like the mane of some wild horse."We laugh; Cicirrus undismay'd—"Have at you!"—cries, and shakes his head."'Tis well," Sarmentus says, "you've lostThat horn your forehead once could boast;Since, maim'd and mangled as you are,You seem to butt." A hideous scarImproved, 'tis true, with double graceThe native horrors of his face.Well, after much jocosely saidOf his grim front, so fiery red,(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'erAs usual on Campania's shore,)"Give us," he cried, "since you're so big,A sample of the Cyclop's jig!Your shanks methinks no buskins ask,Nor does your phiz require a mask."To this Cicirrus: "In returnOf you, sir, now I fain would learn,When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave,Your chains you to the Lares gave?For though a scrivener's right you claim,Your lady's title is the same.But what could make you run away,Since, pigmy as you are, each dayA single pound of bread would quiteO'erpower your puny appetite?"Thus joked the champions, while we laugh'd,And many a cheerful bumper quaff'd.To Beneventum next we steer;Where our good host by over careIn roasting thrushes lean as miceHad almost fallen a sacrifice.The kitchen soon was all on fire,And to the roof the flames aspire;There might you see each man and masterStriving, amidst this sad disaster,To save the supper. Then they cameWith speed enough to quench the flame.From hence we first at distance seeThe Apulian hills, well known to me,Parch'd by the sultry western blast;And which we never should have past,Had not Trivicius by the wayReceived us at the close of day.But each was forced at entering hereTo pay the tribute of a tear,For more of smoke than fire was seen—The hearth was piled with logs so green.From hence in chaises we were carriedMiles twenty-four, and gladly tarriedAt a small town, whose name my verse(So barbarous is it) can't rehearse.Know it you may by many a sign,Water is dearer far than wine;There bread is deem'd such dainty fare,That every prudent travellerHis wallet loads with many a crust;For at Canusium you might justAs well attempt to gnaw a stoneAs think to get a morsel down:That too with scanty streams is fed;Its founder was brave Diomed.Good Varius (ah, that friends must part!)Here left us all with aching heart.At Rubi we arrived that day,Well jaded by the length of way,And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter:Next day no weather could be better;No roads so bad; we scarce could crawlAlong to fishy Barium's wall.The Egnatians next, who by the rulesOf common sense are knaves or fools,Made all our sides with laughter heave,Since we with them must needs believeThat incense in their temples burns,And without fire to ashes turns.To circumcision's bigots tellSuch tales! for me, I know full wellThat in high heaven, unmoved by care,The gods eternal quiet share:Nor can I deem their spleen the cause,While fickle Nature breaks her laws.Brundusium last we reach: and thereStop short the muse and traveller.
1759.
DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 1759.
Sauntering along the street one day,On trifles musing by the way—Up steps a free familiar wight,(I scarcely knew the man by sight.)"Carlos," he cried, "your hand, my dear;Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!Pray Heaven I see you well?" "So, so;E'en well enough as times now go:The same good wishes, sir, to you."Finding he still pursued me close—"Sir, you have business I suppose.""My business, sir, is quickly done,'Tis but to make my merit known.Sir, I have read"—"O learned sir,You and your learning I revere."Then sweating with anxiety,And sadly longing to get free,Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't,Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short,Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near,And whisper'd nothing in his ear.Teased with his loose unjointed chat—"What street is this? What house is that?"O Harlow, how I envied theeThy unabash'd effrontery,Who darest a foe with freedom blame,And call a coxcomb by his name!When I return'd him answer none,Obligingly the fool ran on,"I see you're dismally distress'd,Would give the world to be released.But by your leave, Sir, I shall stillStick to your skirts, do what you will.Pray which way does your journey tend?""O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend;Across the Thames, the Lord knows where,I would not trouble you so far.""Well, I'm at leisure to attend you.""Are you?" thought I, "the Deil befriend you."No ass with double panniers rack'd,Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,E'er look'd a thousandth part so dullAs I, nor half so like a fool."Sir, I know little of myself,(Proceeds the pert conceited elf)If Gray or Mason you will deemThan me more worthy your esteem.Poems I write by foliosAs fast as other men write prose;Then I can sing so loud, so clear,That Beard cannot with me compare.In dancing too I all surpass,Not Cooke can move with such a grace."Here I made shift with much adoTo interpose a word or two.—"Have you no parents, sir, no friends,Whose welfare on your own depends?""Parents, relations, say you? No.They're all disposed of long ago."—"Happy to be no more perplex'd!My fate too threatens, I go next.Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late,Alas! to struggle with my fate!Well, I'm convinced my time is come—When young, a gipsy told my doom.The beldame shook her palsied head,As she perused my palm, and said:"Of poison, pestilence, and war,Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,You have no reason to beware.Beware the coxcomb's idle prate;Chiefly, my son, beware of that.Be sure, when you behold him, flyOut of all earshot, or you die."To Rufus' Hall we now draw nearWhere he was summoned to appear,Refute the charge the plaintiff brought,Or suffer judgment by default."For Heaven's sake, if you love me, waitOne moment! I'll be with you straight."Glad of a plausible pretence—"Sir, I must beg you to dispenseWith my attendance in the court.My legs will surely suffer for't.""Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!""Faith, sir, in law I have no skill.Besides, I have no time to spare,I must be going you know where.""Well, I protest I'm doubtful nowWhether to leave my suit or you!""Me without scruple!" I reply,"Me by all means, sir!"—"No, not I.Allons, Monsieur!" 'Twere vain, you know,To strive with a victorious foe.So I reluctantly obey,And follow where he leads the way."You and Newcastle are so close,Still hand and glove, sir—I suppose.""Newcastle, let me tell you, sir,Has not his equal every where.""Well. There indeed your fortune's made:Faith, sir, you understand your trade.Would you but give me your good word:Just introduce me to my lord,I should serve charmingly by wayOf second fiddle, as they say:What think you, sir? 'twere a good jest.'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest.""Sir, you mistake the matter far,We have no second fiddles there—Richer than I some folks may be;More learned, but it hurts not me.Friends though he has of different kind,Each has his proper place assign'd.""Strange matters these alleged by you!""Strange they may be, but they are true.""Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever,Now I long ten times more than everTo be advanced extremely nearOne of his shining character.Have but the will—there wants no more,'Tis plain enough you have the power.His easy temper (that's the worst)He knows, and is so shy at first."—"But such a cavalier as you—Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to!""Well; if I fail in my design,Sir, it shall be no fault of mine.If by the saucy servile tribeDenied, what think you of a bribe?Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow,But try my luck again to-morrow;Never attempt to visit himBut at the most convenient time;Attend him on each levee day,And there my humble duty pay—Labour, like this, our want supplies;And they must stoop who mean to rise."While thus he wittingly harangued,For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd,Campley, a friend of mine, came by—Who knew his humour more than I;We stop, salute, and—"Why so fast,Friend Carlos? Whither all this haste?"—Fired at the thought of a reprieve,I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve,Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout,Do every thing but speak plain out:While he, sad dog, from the beginningDetermined to mistake my meaning,Instead of pitying my curse,By jeering made it ten times worse."Campley, what secret (pray!) was thatYou wanted to communicate?""I recollect. But 'tis no matter.Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter.E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tellAnother time, sir, just as well."Was ever such a dismal day?Unlucky cur, he steals away,And leaves me, half bereft of life,At mercy of the butcher's knife;When sudden, shouting from afar,See his antagonist appear!The bailiff seized him quick as thought,"Ho, Mr. Scoundrel! Are you caught?Sir, you are witness to the arrest.""Ay, marry, sir, I'll do my best."The mob huzzas. Away they trudge,Culprit and all, before the judge.Meanwhile I luckily enough(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off.
Sauntering along the street one day,On trifles musing by the way—Up steps a free familiar wight,(I scarcely knew the man by sight.)"Carlos," he cried, "your hand, my dear;Gad, I rejoice to meet you here!Pray Heaven I see you well?" "So, so;E'en well enough as times now go:The same good wishes, sir, to you."Finding he still pursued me close—"Sir, you have business I suppose.""My business, sir, is quickly done,'Tis but to make my merit known.Sir, I have read"—"O learned sir,You and your learning I revere."Then sweating with anxiety,And sadly longing to get free,Gods, how I scamper'd, scuffled for't,Ran, halted, ran again, stopp'd short,Beckon'd my boy, and pull'd him near,And whisper'd nothing in his ear.Teased with his loose unjointed chat—"What street is this? What house is that?"O Harlow, how I envied theeThy unabash'd effrontery,Who darest a foe with freedom blame,And call a coxcomb by his name!When I return'd him answer none,Obligingly the fool ran on,"I see you're dismally distress'd,Would give the world to be released.But by your leave, Sir, I shall stillStick to your skirts, do what you will.Pray which way does your journey tend?""O, 'tis a tedious way, my friend;Across the Thames, the Lord knows where,I would not trouble you so far.""Well, I'm at leisure to attend you.""Are you?" thought I, "the Deil befriend you."No ass with double panniers rack'd,Oppress'd, o'erladen, broken-back'd,E'er look'd a thousandth part so dullAs I, nor half so like a fool."Sir, I know little of myself,(Proceeds the pert conceited elf)If Gray or Mason you will deemThan me more worthy your esteem.Poems I write by foliosAs fast as other men write prose;Then I can sing so loud, so clear,That Beard cannot with me compare.In dancing too I all surpass,Not Cooke can move with such a grace."Here I made shift with much adoTo interpose a word or two.—"Have you no parents, sir, no friends,Whose welfare on your own depends?""Parents, relations, say you? No.They're all disposed of long ago."—"Happy to be no more perplex'd!My fate too threatens, I go next.Despatch me, sir, 'tis now too late,Alas! to struggle with my fate!Well, I'm convinced my time is come—When young, a gipsy told my doom.The beldame shook her palsied head,As she perused my palm, and said:"Of poison, pestilence, and war,Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh,You have no reason to beware.Beware the coxcomb's idle prate;Chiefly, my son, beware of that.Be sure, when you behold him, flyOut of all earshot, or you die."To Rufus' Hall we now draw nearWhere he was summoned to appear,Refute the charge the plaintiff brought,Or suffer judgment by default."For Heaven's sake, if you love me, waitOne moment! I'll be with you straight."Glad of a plausible pretence—"Sir, I must beg you to dispenseWith my attendance in the court.My legs will surely suffer for't.""Nay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile!""Faith, sir, in law I have no skill.Besides, I have no time to spare,I must be going you know where.""Well, I protest I'm doubtful nowWhether to leave my suit or you!""Me without scruple!" I reply,"Me by all means, sir!"—"No, not I.Allons, Monsieur!" 'Twere vain, you know,To strive with a victorious foe.So I reluctantly obey,And follow where he leads the way."You and Newcastle are so close,Still hand and glove, sir—I suppose.""Newcastle, let me tell you, sir,Has not his equal every where.""Well. There indeed your fortune's made:Faith, sir, you understand your trade.Would you but give me your good word:Just introduce me to my lord,I should serve charmingly by wayOf second fiddle, as they say:What think you, sir? 'twere a good jest.'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest.""Sir, you mistake the matter far,We have no second fiddles there—Richer than I some folks may be;More learned, but it hurts not me.Friends though he has of different kind,Each has his proper place assign'd.""Strange matters these alleged by you!""Strange they may be, but they are true.""Well then, I vow, 'tis mighty clever,Now I long ten times more than everTo be advanced extremely nearOne of his shining character.Have but the will—there wants no more,'Tis plain enough you have the power.His easy temper (that's the worst)He knows, and is so shy at first."—"But such a cavalier as you—Lord, sir, you'll quickly bring him to!""Well; if I fail in my design,Sir, it shall be no fault of mine.If by the saucy servile tribeDenied, what think you of a bribe?Shut out to-day, not die with sorrow,But try my luck again to-morrow;Never attempt to visit himBut at the most convenient time;Attend him on each levee day,And there my humble duty pay—Labour, like this, our want supplies;And they must stoop who mean to rise."While thus he wittingly harangued,For which you'll guess I wish'd him hang'd,Campley, a friend of mine, came by—Who knew his humour more than I;We stop, salute, and—"Why so fast,Friend Carlos? Whither all this haste?"—Fired at the thought of a reprieve,I pinch him, pull him, twitch his sleeve,Nod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout,Do every thing but speak plain out:While he, sad dog, from the beginningDetermined to mistake my meaning,Instead of pitying my curse,By jeering made it ten times worse."Campley, what secret (pray!) was thatYou wanted to communicate?""I recollect. But 'tis no matter.Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter.E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tellAnother time, sir, just as well."Was ever such a dismal day?Unlucky cur, he steals away,And leaves me, half bereft of life,At mercy of the butcher's knife;When sudden, shouting from afar,See his antagonist appear!The bailiff seized him quick as thought,"Ho, Mr. Scoundrel! Are you caught?Sir, you are witness to the arrest.""Ay, marry, sir, I'll do my best."The mob huzzas. Away they trudge,Culprit and all, before the judge.Meanwhile I luckily enough(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off.
Pay me my price, potters! and I will sing.Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted armProtect their oven; let the cups and allThe sacred vessels blacken well, and, bakedWith good success, yield them both fair renownAnd profit, whether in the market soldOr streets, and let no strife ensue between us.But, oh ye potters! if with shameless frontYe falsify your promise, then I leaveNo mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong.Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come,And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread,Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,May neither house nor vestibule escape,May ye lament to see confusion marAnd mingle the whole labour of your hands,And may a sound fill all your oven, suchAs of a horse grinding his provender,While all your pots and flagons bounce within.Come hither, also, daughter of the sun,Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugsPoison themselves, and all that they have made!Come, also, Chiron, with thy numerous troopOf centaurs, as well those who died beneathThe club of Hercules, as who escaped,And stamp their crockery to dust; down fallTheir chimney; let them see it with their eyes,And howl to see the ruin of their art,While I rejoice; and if a potter stoopTo peep into his furnace, may the fireFlash in his face and scorch it, that all menObserve, thenceforth, equity and good faith.
Pay me my price, potters! and I will sing.Attend, O Pallas! and with lifted armProtect their oven; let the cups and allThe sacred vessels blacken well, and, bakedWith good success, yield them both fair renownAnd profit, whether in the market soldOr streets, and let no strife ensue between us.But, oh ye potters! if with shameless frontYe falsify your promise, then I leaveNo mischief uninvoked to avenge the wrong.Come, Syntrips, Smaragus, Sabactes, come,And Asbetus, nor let your direst dread,Omodamus, delay! Fire seize your house,May neither house nor vestibule escape,May ye lament to see confusion marAnd mingle the whole labour of your hands,And may a sound fill all your oven, suchAs of a horse grinding his provender,While all your pots and flagons bounce within.Come hither, also, daughter of the sun,Circe the sorceress, and with thy drugsPoison themselves, and all that they have made!Come, also, Chiron, with thy numerous troopOf centaurs, as well those who died beneathThe club of Hercules, as who escaped,And stamp their crockery to dust; down fallTheir chimney; let them see it with their eyes,And howl to see the ruin of their art,While I rejoice; and if a potter stoopTo peep into his furnace, may the fireFlash in his face and scorch it, that all menObserve, thenceforth, equity and good faith.
Oct. 1790.
En, quæ prodigia, ex oris allata remotis,Oras adveniunt pavefacta per æquora nostras!Non equidem priscæ sæclum rediisse videturPyrrhæ, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montesEt sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix levioraAdsunt, evulsi quando radicitus altiIn mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant.Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu?Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex ære vel auroConflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis,Baccâ cærulea, et flammas imitante pyropo.Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellusParturit omnigenas, quibus æva per omnia sumptuIngenti finxere sibi diademata reges?Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutosMercatorum oculos: prius et quam littora GangisLiquissent, avidis gratissima præda fuissent.Ortos unde putemus? An illos Ves'vius atroxProtulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus Ætna?Luce micant propria, Phœbive, per aëra purumNunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent?Phœbi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altisAppulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis,Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre estMulta onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis.Cætera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere omnesContristat menses, portenta hæc horrida nobisIlla strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summoClivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutæSole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu,Illa gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere seseMirum cœpit opus; glacieque ab origine rerumIn glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandemÆquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles.Sic immensa diu stetit, æternumque stetissetCongeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte,Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset,Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circumAntra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore,Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi,Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim,Insula, in Ægæo fluitasse erratica ponto.Sed non ex glacie Delos; neque torpida DelumBruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque.Sed vestita herbis erat illa, ornataque nunquamDecidua lauro; et Delum dilexit Apollo.At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digniCimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra,Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueriSustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite cœlum!Ite! Redite! Timete moras; ni leniter austroSpirante, et nitidas Phœbo jaculante sagittasHostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti!
En, quæ prodigia, ex oris allata remotis,Oras adveniunt pavefacta per æquora nostras!Non equidem priscæ sæclum rediisse videturPyrrhæ, cum Proteus pecus altos visere montesEt sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix levioraAdsunt, evulsi quando radicitus altiIn mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant.Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu?Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex ære vel auroConflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique gemmis,Baccâ cærulea, et flammas imitante pyropo.Ex oriente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellusParturit omnigenas, quibus æva per omnia sumptuIngenti finxere sibi diademata reges?Vix hoc crediderim. Non fallunt talia acutosMercatorum oculos: prius et quam littora GangisLiquissent, avidis gratissima præda fuissent.Ortos unde putemus? An illos Ves'vius atroxProtulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus Ætna?Luce micant propria, Phœbive, per aëra purumNunc stimulantis equos, argentea tela retorquent?Phœbi luce micant. Ventis et fluctibus altisAppulsi, et rapidis subter currentibus undis,Tandem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre estMulta onerata nive et canis conspersa pruinis.Cætera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma fere omnesContristat menses, portenta hæc horrida nobisIlla strui voluit. Quoties de culmine summoClivorum fluerent in littora prona, solutæSole, nives, propero tendentes in mare cursu,Illa gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere seseMirum cœpit opus; glacieque ab origine rerumIn glaciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandemÆquavit montes, non crescere nescia moles.Sic immensa diu stetit, æternumque stetissetCongeries, hominum neque vi neque mobilis arte,Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset,Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circumAntra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore,Dum ruit in pelagum, tanquam studiosa natandi,Ingens tota strues. Sic Delos dicitur olim,Insula, in Ægæo fluitasse erratica ponto.Sed non ex glacie Delos; neque torpida DelumBruma inter rupes genuit nudum sterilemque.Sed vestita herbis erat illa, ornataque nunquamDecidua lauro; et Delum dilexit Apollo.At vos, errones horrendi, et caligine digniCimmeria, Deus idem odit. Natalia vestra,Nubibus involvens frontem, non ille tueriSustinuit. Patrium vos ergo requirite cœlum!Ite! Redite! Timete moras; ni leniter austroSpirante, et nitidas Phœbo jaculante sagittasHostili vobis, pereatis gurgite misti!
March 11, 1799.
What portents, from what distant region, ride,Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide?In ages past, old Proteus, with his drovesOf sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves.But now, descending whence of late they stood,Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood.Dire times were they, full charged with human woes;And these, scarce less calamitous than those.What view we now? More wondrous still! Behold!Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold;And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,And all around the ruby's fiery glow.Come they from India, where the burning earth,All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;And where the costly gems, that beam aroundThe brows of mightiest potentates, are found?No. Never such a countless dazzling storeHad left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore.Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes,Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the prize.Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they comeFrom Vesuvius', or from Ætna's burning womb?Thus shine they self-illumed, or but displayThe borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day?With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that breatheNow landward, and the current's force beneath,Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.Their lofty summits crested high they show,With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow.The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year,Their infant growth began. He bade ariseTheir uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snowLeft the tall cliff, to join the flood below;He caught, and curdled with a freezing blastThe current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,And long successive ages roll'd the while;Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand,Tall as its rival mountains on the land.Thus stood, and, unremovable by skillOr force of man, had stood the structure still,But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yetBy pressure of its own enormous weight,It left the shelving beach—and, with a soundThat shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,As if instinct with strong desire to lave,Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of oldHow Delos swam the Ægean deep have told.But not of ice was Delos. Delos boreHerb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with laurel, wore,E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile;And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle.But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to youHe deems Cimmerian darkness only due.Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey,But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away.Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dareThe darts of Phœbus and a softer air;Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,In no congenial gulf for ever lost!
What portents, from what distant region, ride,Unseen till now in ours, the astonish'd tide?In ages past, old Proteus, with his drovesOf sea-calves, sought the mountains and the groves.But now, descending whence of late they stood,Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood.Dire times were they, full charged with human woes;And these, scarce less calamitous than those.What view we now? More wondrous still! Behold!Like burnish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold;And all around the pearl's pure splendour show,And all around the ruby's fiery glow.Come they from India, where the burning earth,All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth;And where the costly gems, that beam aroundThe brows of mightiest potentates, are found?No. Never such a countless dazzling storeHad left unseen the Ganges' peopled shore.Rapacious hands, and ever watchful eyes,Should sooner far have mark'd and seized the prize.Whence sprang they then? Ejected have they comeFrom Vesuvius', or from Ætna's burning womb?Thus shine they self-illumed, or but displayThe borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day?With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales that breatheNow landward, and the current's force beneath,Have borne them nearer: and the nearer sight,Advantaged more, contemplates them aright.Their lofty summits crested high they show,With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow.The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe,Bleak winter well nigh saddens all the year,Their infant growth began. He bade ariseTheir uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes.Oft as dissolved by transient suns, the snowLeft the tall cliff, to join the flood below;He caught, and curdled with a freezing blastThe current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste.By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile,And long successive ages roll'd the while;Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claim'd to stand,Tall as its rival mountains on the land.Thus stood, and, unremovable by skillOr force of man, had stood the structure still,But that, though firmly fix'd, supplanted yetBy pressure of its own enormous weight,It left the shelving beach—and, with a soundThat shook the bellowing waves and rocks around,Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave,As if instinct with strong desire to lave,Down went the ponderous mass. So bards of oldHow Delos swam the Ægean deep have told.But not of ice was Delos. Delos boreHerb, fruit, and flower. She, crown'd with laurel, wore,E'en under wintry skies, a summer smile;And Delos was Apollo's favourite isle.But, horrid wanderers of the deep, to youHe deems Cimmerian darkness only due.Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey,But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away.Hence, seek your home, nor longer rashly dareThe darts of Phœbus and a softer air;Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast,In no congenial gulf for ever lost!
March 19, 1799.
Hic sepultus estInter suorum lacrymasGULIELMUS NORTHCOT,GULIELMIetMARIÆfiliusUnicus, unice dilectus,Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis,Aprilis die septimo,1780. Æt. 10.Care, vale! Sed non æternum, care, valeto!Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero.Tum nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros,Nec tu marcesces, nec lacrymabor ego.
Hic sepultus estInter suorum lacrymasGULIELMUS NORTHCOT,GULIELMIetMARIÆfiliusUnicus, unice dilectus,Qui floris ritu succisus est semihiantis,Aprilis die septimo,1780. Æt. 10.
Care, vale! Sed non æternum, care, valeto!Namque iterum tecum, sim modo dignus, ero.Tum nihil amplexus poterit divellere nostros,Nec tu marcesces, nec lacrymabor ego.
Farewell! "But not for ever," Hope replies,Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies!There nothing shall renew our parting pain,Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again.
Farewell! "But not for ever," Hope replies,Trace but his steps and meet him in the skies!There nothing shall renew our parting pain,Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep again.
CORRUPTELIS GALLICIS, UT FERTUR, LONDINI NUPER EXORTAM.
Perfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore,Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit.Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et uritUndique privatas patriciasque domos.Nequicquam conata sua, fœdissima speratPosse tamen nostra nos superare manu.Gallia, vana struis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces,Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus.
Perfida, crudelis, victa et lymphata furore,Non armis, laurum Gallia fraude petit.Venalem pretio plebem conducit, et uritUndique privatas patriciasque domos.Nequicquam conata sua, fœdissima speratPosse tamen nostra nos superare manu.Gallia, vana struis! Precibus nunc utere! Vinces,Nam mites timidis, supplicibusque sumus.
False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart,France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part,To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys,Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze.Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone,She hires the worst and basest of our own.Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease,We always spare a coward on his knees.
False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart,France quits the warrior's for the assassin's part,To dirty hands a dirty bribe conveys,Bids the low street and lofty palace blaze.Her sons too weak to vanquish us alone,She hires the worst and basest of our own.Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease,We always spare a coward on his knees.
WITH A TRANSLATION BY HAYLEY.
Quæ lenta accedit, quam velox præterit hora!Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil!Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how great!Waiting to seize it—vigilantly wait!
Quæ lenta accedit, quam velox præterit hora!Ut capias, patiens esto, sed esto vigil!
Slow comes the hour; its passing speed how great!Waiting to seize it—vigilantly wait!
Sors adversa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas:Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit.
Sors adversa gerit stimulum, sed tendit et alas:Pungit api similis, sed velut ista fugit.
WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED.
To the March in Scipio.
Toll for the brave!The brave that are no moreAll sunk beneath the wave,Fast by their native shore!Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heel,And laid her on her side.A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought;His work of glory done.It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak;She ran upon no rock.His sword was in its sheath;His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float again,Full charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main.But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
Toll for the brave!The brave that are no moreAll sunk beneath the wave,Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,Whose courage well was tried,Had made the vessel heel,And laid her on her side.
A land-breeze shook the shrouds,And she was overset;Down went the Royal George,With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!Brave Kempenfelt is gone;His last sea-fight is fought;His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;No tempest gave the shock;She sprang no fatal leak;She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;His fingers held the pen,When Kempenfelt went downWith twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,Once dreaded by our foes!And mingle with our cupThe tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,And she may float again,Full charged with England's thunder,And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,His victories are o'er;And he and his eight hundredShall plough the wave no more.
Sept. 1782.