Chapter 2

Chapter 23,766 wordsPublic domain

Of love admiring such a _sample_, The Gods and Goddesses descending, Had never fancied us offending, But _wisely_ followed _our example_.

* * * * *

When to their airy hall, my father's voice, Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice, When pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns, To mark the spot, where earth to earth returns. No lengthen'd scroll of virtue, and renown, My _epitaph_, shall be my name alone; If _that_ with honour fails to crown my clay, Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay; _That_, only _that_, shall single out the shot, By _that_ remember'd, or fore'er forgot.--

1803.

* * * * *

TO ----

Oh! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay? The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow, But brings with new torture, the curse of to-day.

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no curses, I blast not the fiends, who have hurl'd me from bliss, For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses, Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this--

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning. Would my lips breathe a flame, which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us, our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.

Oh! when, my ador'd, in the tomb will they place me, Since in life, love and friendship, for ever are fled, If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested--the dead.

1805.

* * * * *

When I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my belov'd, that I do not believe, For your lip, would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray, which can never deceive.

Yet still, this fond bosom regrets whilst adoring, That love like the leaf, must fall into the sear, That age will come on, when remembrance deploring, Contemplates the scenes of her youth, with a tear.

That the time must arrive, when no longer retaining Their auburn, these locks must wave thin to the breeze. When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay, and disease.

'Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my features Tho' I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree; Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, In the death which one day will deprive me of thee.

No jargon of priests o'er our union was mutter'd, To rivet the fetters of husband and wife; By our lips, by our hearts, were our vows alone utter'd, To perform them, in full, would ask more than a life.

But as death my belov'd, soon or late, shall o'ertake us, And our breasts which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low.

Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours will unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below.

1805.

* * * * *

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 1806.

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection, Embitters the present, compar'd with the past; Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last.

Where fancy yet joys, to retrace the resemblance, Of comrades in friendship, and mischief allied; How welcome once more your ne'er fading remembrance, Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd.

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; The school where loud warn'd by the bell we resorted, To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining at eve on yon tombstone I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room with spectators surrounded, Where as Zanga I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While to swell my young pride such applauses resounded, I fancied that MOSSOP[5] himself was outshone.

Or as Lear I pour'd for the deep imprecation, By my daughters of kingdom and reason depriv'd: Till fir'd by loud plaudits, and self adulation, I consider'd myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd.

Ye dreams of my boyhood how much I regret you, As your memory beams through this agoniz'd breast, Thus sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you, Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest.

I thought this poor brain fever'd even to madness, Of tears as of reason forever was drain'd, But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness, Convince me, the springs have some moisture retain'd.

Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection, Has wrung from these eye-lids to weeping long dead, In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection, The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed.

[Footnote 5: MOSSOP, a cotempory of GARRICK, famous for his performance of _Zanga_, in YOUNG's tragedy of the _Revenge_.]

* * * * *

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

High in the midst surrounded by his peers, M--ns--l his ample front sublime uprears; Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God, While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod. Whilst all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, _His_ voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach, to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little vers'd in any art beside; Who with scarce sense to pen an _English_ letter, Yet with precision, scans an _attic metre_.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead, When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France; Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_, Yet, well he recollects the _laws of Sparta_. Can tell what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made, Whilst _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf neglected_ laid; Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame, Of _Avon's bard_, remembering scarce the name.

Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, Class honours, medals, fellowships await; Or even perhaps the _declamation_ prize, If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes. But lo! no _common_ orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope; Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require, The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire. The _manner_ of the speech is nothing, since We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_; Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_, We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd. Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone, A proper mixture of the _squeak and groan_; No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_, must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the _dean_. Whilst every staring graduate would prate, Against what, _he_ could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup, Must in one _posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up_, Nor _stop_, but rattle over _every_ word, No matter _what_, so it can _not_ be heard; Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest, Who speaks the _fastest_, 's sure to speak the _best_; Who utters most within the shortest space, May safely hope to win the _wordy race_.

The sons of _Science these_, who thus repaid, Linger in ease, in Granta's sluggish shade; Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, die. Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls: In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts, affecting to despise. Yet prizing _Bentley's[6] Brunck's[6]_ or _Porson's_[7] note, More than the _verse, on which the critic wrote_; With eager haste, they court the tool of power, (Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour:) To _him_, with suppliant smiles they bend the head, Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread. But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place; _Such_ are the men who learning's treasures guard, _Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward_; This _much_ at least we may presume to say, Th' _reward's_ scarce equal, to the _price_ they _pay_.

1806.

[Footnote 6: Celebrated Critics.]

[Footnote 7: The present Greek Professor at Cambridge.]

* * * * *

TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give) My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here I can trace the locks of gold, Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips which made me _Beauty's_ slave.

Here I can trace--ah no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire.

Here I behold, its beauteous hue, But where's the beam of soft desire? Which gave a lustre to its blue, Love, only love, could e'er inspire.

Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her, who plac'd thee next my heart.

She plac'd it, sad with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there, Held every sense in fast controul.

Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer, My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life's last conflict 't'will appear, And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING POST.

"Our Nation's foes, lament on _Fox's_ death, "But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath; "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, "We give the palm, where Justice points its due."

_To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for Insertion in the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.--

Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth, Would mangle still the dead, in spite of truth, What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall therefore dastard tongues assail the name Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame? When PITT expired in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits "war not with the dead;" His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave, And all his errors slumber'd in the grave. He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight, Of cares oppressing our unhappy state; But lo! another Hercules appear'd, Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd; He too is dead! who still our England propp'd, With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd; Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn. "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, "And give the palm where Justice points it due;" But let not canker'd calumny assail, And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep; For whom at last, even hostile nations groan, And friends and foes alike his talents own; Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine, Nor e'en to _Pitt_, the patriot's _palm_ resign; Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

* * * * *

TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.

These locks which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine; Than all th' unmeaning protestations, Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it, Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine, With groundless jealousy repine. With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Merely to make our love romantic. Why should you weep like _Lydia Languish_, And fret with self-created anguish. Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights, to sigh half frozen: In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, Only because the scene's a garden. For gardens seem by one consent (Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;) (Since Juliet first declar'd her passion) To form the place of assignation. Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire, Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain; He surely in commiseration, Had chang'd the place of declaration. In Italy I've no objection, Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here, our climate is so rigid, That love itself, is rather frigid; Think on our chilly situation, And curb this rage for imitation. Then let us meet, as oft we've done, Beneath the influence of the sun; Or, if at midnight I must meet you, Oh! let me in your chamber greet you; _There_ we can love for hours together, Much better in such snowy weather, Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves, That ever witness'd rural loves; _There_ if my passion fail to please, Next night I'll be content to freeze; No more I'll give a loose to laughter, But curse my fate, forever after.

* * * * *

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.

Sweet girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; And though we ne'er may meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain; I would not say, "I love" but still My senses struggle with my will; In vain to drive thee from my breast, My thoughts are more and more represt, In vain, I check the rising sighs, Another to the last replies; Perhaps this is not love, but yet Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale, it never feels; Deceit, the guilty lips impart, And hush the mandates of the heart, But soul's interpreters, the eyes Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. As thus our glances oft convers'd, And all our bosoms felt, rehears'd, No _spirit_ from within reprov'd us, Say rather, "'twas the _spirit mov'd us_." Though what they utter'd, I repress, Yet, I conceive, thou'lt partly guess; For, as on thee, my memory ponders, Perchance, to me thine also wanders; This for myself, at least I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through day, Awake, with it my fancy teems, In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; The vision charms the hours away, And bids me curse Aurora's ray; For breaking slumbers of delight, Which make me wish for endless night. Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await; Tempted by love, by storms beset, Thine image, I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet, No more our former looks repeat; Then let me breathe this parting prayer, The dictate of my bosom's care: "May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, "That anguish never can o'ertake her; "That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, "But bliss be aye, her heart's partaker: "No jealous passion shall invade, "No envy that pure breast pervade;" For he that revels in such charms, Can never seek another's arms; "Oh! may the happy mortal fated, "To be by dearest ties related; "For _her_ each hour _new joy_ discover, "And lose the husband in the lover. "May that fair bosom never know "What 'tis to feel the restless woe; "Which stings the soul, with vain regret, "Of him, who never can forget."

* * * * *

TO JULIA!

Julia! since far from you I've rang'd, Our souls with fond affection glow not; You say 'tis I, _not you_ have chang'd, I'd tell you why,--but yet I know not.

Your polish'd brow, no cares have crost, And Julia! we are not much older, Since trembling first my heart I lost, Or told my love with hope, grown bolder.

Sixteen was then our utmost age, Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least, _I_ feel disposed to stray, love!

'Tis _I_, that am alone to blame, _I_, that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast, is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love, suspect your truth, With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not, Warm was the passion of my youth, One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended, For oh! I lov'd you most sincerely, And though our dream at last is ended, My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers, Perhaps my soul's too prone to roving, But older, firmer _hearts_ than ours, Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheeks soft bloom is unimpair'd, Your beauties still are daily bright'ning, Your eye for conquest comes prepar'd, The forge of love's resistless lightning.

Arm'd thus to make their bosoms bleed, Many will throng to sigh like me, love, More constant they may prove indeed, Fonder alas! they ne'er can be, love!

* * * * *

TO WOMAN.

Surely experience might have told me, That all must love thee, who behold thee; Surely experience might have taught, A woman's promises are naught, But plac'd in all thy charms before me, All I forget, but to _adore_ thee. Oh memory! thou choicest blessing, When join'd with hope, when still possessing; Thou whisperest, as our hearts are beating, "What oft we've done, we're still repeating." But how much curst by every lover, When hope is fled, and passion's over. Woman that fair and fond deceiver, How prompt are striplings to believe her, How throbs the pulse, when first we view, The eye that rolls in glossy blue; Or sparkles black, or mildly throws, A beam from under hazel brows; How quick we credit every oath, And hear her plight the willing troth; Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, When lo! she changes in a day, The Record will forever stand, "That woman's vows, are writ in sand."

* * * * *

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR, PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.

Since the refinement of this polish'd age, Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence--though she find not fame. But not for _her_ alone, we wish respect, _Others_ appear more conscious of defect; To night, no _Veteran Roscii_ you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear, To night, you thong to witness the debut, Of embryo actors to the drama new; Here then, our almost unfledg'd wings we try, Clip not our _pinions_, ere the _birds can fly_; Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas, we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler only, fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads to meet your praise; But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate; No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; For them each _Hero_ all his power displays, Each timid _Heroine_ shrinks before your gaze: Surely these last will some protection find, None to the softer sex can prove unkind; Whilst youth and beauty form the female shield, The sternest critic to the fair must yield. But should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, _after all_, our best endeavours fail; Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, And if you can't applaud, at least _forgive_.

* * * * *

TO MISS E.P.

Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to woman deny the soul's future existence, Could they see thee, Eliza! they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.

Had their Prophet possess'd but an atom of sense, He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven, But instead of his _Houris_ a flimsy pretence, With _woman alone_, he had peopled his Heaven.

But still to increase your calamities more, Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots but _one husband_ to share amongst four, With _souls_ you'd dispense--but this last who could bear it.

His religion to please neither _party_ is made, On _husbands_ 'tis _hard_, to the wives most uncivil; But I can't contradict what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."

This terrible truth, even Scripture has told, Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture; If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold, Of St. MATT.--read the second and twentieth chapter.

'Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex'd, With wives who eternal confusion are spreading; "But in Heaven" (so runs the Evangelist's Text,) "We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding."

From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,) That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more, And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway, All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.

Distraction and discord would follow in course, Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor St. PAUL, can deny it, The only expedient is general divorce, To prevent universal disturbance and riot.

But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin'd Yet woman and man ne'er were meant to dissever, Our chains once dissolv'd, and our hearts unconfin'd, We'll love without bonds, but we'll love you forever.

10.

Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes, Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you, Your nature so much of _celestial_ partakes, The Garden of Eden would wither without you.

SOUTHWELL, _October_ 9, 1806.

* * * * *

THE TEAR.

When Friendship or Love, Our sympathies move, When Truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile, With a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a _tear_.

Too oft is a smile, But the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation, or fear, Give me the soft sigh, Whilst the soul telling eye Is dimm'd, for a time, with a _tear_.

Mild charity's glow, To us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear, Compassion will melt, Where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a _tear_.