BOOK III.—ODE XXIX.

I.

Sprung from the Etrurian kingly line Mecænas, thee my choicest wine Stored in a cask ne’er broach’d, my best Of unguents for thy hair exprest, With roses fresh, invite to stay; Come, snatch thyself from dull delay. View not for aye moist Tibur’s glade, With Æsula’s inclining side, And rocks where erst his refuge made Telegonus, the parricide.

II.

Leave loathed plenty, and retire From piles which to the clouds aspire; Leave wealthy Rome for humbler joys, Its smoke, its riches, and its noise. Vicissitudes delight the great Well pleased sometimes to quit their state: Beneath the poor man’s humble roof, A frugal supper neatly dress’d Oft smooths the brow, keeps care aloof, Though there no purple couch be prest.

III.

Above, Andromeda’s fierce sire Glows in the skies with splendid fire; Now Procyon rages, and the star Of the mad Lion seen afar; The sun brings back the time of drought, The wearied hind his flocks hath brought Languid with heat to shade and stream There; where secure in tangled brake The rough Sylvanus shuns day’s gleam, And winds the silent bank forsake.

IV.

Thy task it is to guide the state, Solicitous the city’s fate To learn, what eastern hordes design, What Bactra, ruled by Cyrus’ line, Or China; or why discord reigns Where Tanais flows through sandy plains. God knows, alone, what is to be, Prudent, the future veils in night, And laughs when ills blind mortals see Foreboded, with extreme affright.

V.

Use what the present moment brings; Like to some stream are future things, Which in mid channel calmly glides, To mix in the Etrurian tides: Anon, adown its waters borne Trees, cattle, houses, stones half worn Together roll, whilst loud is heard The clamour in the mountain caves Of neighbouring woods; and tempest-stirr’d, The calmest rivers swell with waves.

VI.

That man is blest who thus can say Lord of himself, “I’ve lived to day; To-morrow let the gods obscure The sky with clouds, or sunshine pure Pour forth, come brightness, or come gloom, The past is acted, and its doom Pronounced; and to revoke the past, Annul the joys I _have_ possess’d, Darken the light past hours have cast, Is not in fate: I have been blest.”

VII.

Fortune still plies her savage trade, Laughs at the bankrupts she hath made; And insolent enjoys the game As shuffling honours, wealth, and fame, To others, now to me, she’ll deal The prizes of her fickle wheel. Mine she’s adored: her gifts resign’d Soon as her rapid pinions sound, Meek dow’rless poverty, more kind, I woo, whilst virtue wraps me round.

VIII.

’Tis not for me, when, strain’d and weak, The labouring mast is heard to creak, To fall to wretched trading prayers, Lest Cyprian or lest Tyrian wares With rarest spoils, unwonted gain, Enrich the avaricious main. Me favour’d by a gentle breeze, And safe within my light bireme, Shall light along the Ægean seas Leda’s fair twins, my constant theme.

ORIGINAL PIECES.

ODE TO HARRIS[1].

Always I hated civic[2] entertainments: Mutton disgusts me simulating[3] ven’son, Catch[4] me no fish hermetically fasten’d, Harris, or oysters.

_Still_[5] I could feast on watery[6] potatoes. Fill my friend’s lap[7] soups derelict[8], abandon’d Sauces, rich gifts of charitable ocean Cheaply benignant[9].

[1] Who this Harris was, is a point about which the commentators are at variance. Some say, but erroneously as I think, that he was the “puer,” the “minister,” of the poet. But this is not probable, for to such persons odes were not then commonly addressed. No! Harris was no servant, he was the friend, the “commensalis,” the fellow-messman of the author at the cuddy table; whom he may be supposed to be inviting to the erratic fish, which, under the influence of a gale, has become as locomotive as ever it was in its own native element.

[2] Why civic, since the entertainment was nautical? ask some matter-of-fact critics. Do not these blunderers perceive the delicately-veiled compliment to the owners of the vessel upon the richness and profusion of the viands?

[3] “Simulating ven’son.” This process is, unfortunately, in some degree lost to us. Some say that mutton was made to resemble venison, by being roasted with the wool on. Others, that it was the flesh of a seven-year old male, _not a wether_. But neither of these conjectures is correct. The meat was probably steeped in a brine compounded of wine, salt, spices, sugar, and other condiments, and sprinkled with Irish blackguard and brickdust.

[4] “Catch.” Some critics would substitute “reach” for “catch.” But who does not see the witty allusion to the unsteadiness of the table, to which these dull dogs are blind?

[5] “Still.” Free from motion.

[6] “Watery potatoes.” This expression is very enigmatical. Some understand by it “dressed in, or by means of water,” as potatoes boiled or steamed, in opposition to roasted, baked, or fried potatoes, his preference for which the author is supposed to insinuate. But in my opinion this reading, though ingenious, is not correct; the true sense of the expression is potatoes carried by water, that is, potatoes eaten at sea. Murphyius, however, that intemperate though erudite Hibernian critic, declares that it means any potato not Irish, which last alone, as he says, were free when dressed from superfluous moisture. He contends, that the potato esteemed by epicures was a mealy potato. But he offers nothing in proof of his assertion.

[7] “Lap.” This is plainly a misreading for “plate.” It would have been an unfriendly and unamiable wish had the author prayed that liquids, as soups and sauces were, should fall into the lap of his friend, of which it would naturally have been irretentive. It is easy to trace the corruption of the text. “Plate” has been written with an elision, “pla,” by a copyist studious of his ease. The now final vowel has slipped into the middle place and formed “pal;” which a careless scribe, putting the cart before the horse, has changed into “lap.”

[8] “Derelict.” This implies the departure from the table of some squeamish person without the “animus revertendi.”

[9] “Cheaply benignant,” that is, dispensing things not its own, liberal at the expense of others; as a generous churchwarden, a chairman distributing prizes, a prime minister filling up a pension-list, a House of Commons voting supplies, or an attorney marking undelivered briefs for a son.

THE DOCTOR WITHOUT A SOUL; OR, THE CREATURES OF ROMANCE.

I.

His studies o’er, his next discourse Impromptu learnt by rote, The rector rose, and doff’d a coarse To don a finer coat.

II.

His silken hose with shining clocks Which clothed each portly calf, His shovel hat right orthodox, And golden-headed staff,

III.

All spoke the doctor. On he strode: Soon splash’d, he vow’d irate, The sinner who survey’d the road He’d excommunicate.

IV.

No! he’d indict his stubborn flock, And shear their golden fleece. Who, heeding _much_ the parish stock, _Little_ Victoria’s peace,

V.

Rebellious lieges! mended not The errors of their ways, (Upon their pastor’s shoes a spot Would shorten not their days!)

VI.

Thus he resolved; but cries invade His Reverence’s ear! Is it some damsel, who, afraid, Sees men disguised in beer?

VII.

Or one the milky mothers meet Emerging from the byre? Who sees a snake beneath her feet? Or waddling toad retire?

VIII.

Perplex’d, he hurries on the while, But soon is seen to stand Amazed: two ladies on a stile Were seated hand in hand:

IX.

Young were they both, and fair to view, Yet sorrow from their eyes Tears, so the doctor fancied, drew: He spoke, in grave surprise:

X.

“Issued those cries from ladies’ throats? And what’s the reason? say.” “How canst thou ask, when all denotes The cause? this glorious day!”

XI.

“Thank God,” he cried, “the day is fine, Yet why should that distress? The glass is rising; to repine Seems rude unthankfulness.”

XII.

“We are not understood, we see With optics not like thine, What canst thou know of poesy, A middle-aged divine?

XIII.

“Was ever yet a poet known To wear a white cravat? A soul did ever mortal own In a three-corner’d hat?

XIV.

“We could sit here and cry for hours, Or shriek with sad delight; The earth, sea, sky, sun, shade, and flowers, Are agonising quite.

XV.

“To weep’s enjoyment half divine: Unsavoury appears To thee, a bibber of port wine, The luxury of tears.

XVI.

“Farewell, farewell! we grieve for thee;” (They cast a pitying glance,) Doctor, thou hast no sympathy With Creatures of Romance.”

A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE AND MARINE ECLOGUE.

MR. ADIPOCIRE, an eminent and _reflecting_ Tallow Chandler. MRS. ADIPOCIRE, an every-day sort of Woman.

TIME—_Evening. The Sea-shore._

MR. A.

How harden’d is the man who has not felt His heart ’neath Nature’s influences _melt_!

MRS. A.

You promised all these terms of art to drop; Indeed, my dear, you savour of the shop.

MR. A.

’Tis sweet to see the lazy clouds decamp, ’Tis sweet to see Night hang her silver _lamp_.

MRS. A.

Lamp!

MR. A.

And with telescope, or naked eye, To view the lesser _tapers_ of the sky.

MRS. A.

Tapers, for shame!

MR. A.

’Tis pleasing to discern Planet from star, and know the orbs which _burn_.

MRS. A.

Burn! there again.

MR. A.

Ah! wherefore do they _blaze_? Who _lights_ the sunbeams, and the lunar rays?

MRS. A.

Oh!

MR. A.

When, as our immortal Shakespear sings, “Night’s _candles_ are burnt out,” who daylight brings?

MRS. A.

Ah!

MR. A.

He whose steady eye to his _concerns_ Forces the comets to make due _returns_.

MRS. A.

I’m quite worn out.

MR. A.

Who bounteous made the whales Common and Spermaceti?

MRS. A.

Odious tales!

MR. A.

’Twas that First Cause which, for our nightly use, Filleth the cocoa-nuts with unctuous juice, Which bids the wether fatten to supply A light to tantalise, not satisfy: Which gives us fatty wax from bodies dead Of Lamberts damp within their “narrow bed,” Which stores the laden thighs of bees with wax, (Its lustre hence no dining-table lacks By footmen rubb’d, who burnish and blaspheme.) Wax which illumes when urns emit their steam: Wax which inspired the genius of Argand, When lamps, despised till then, at his command A radiance mild o’er dinner-tables shed, Soft’ning on cheeks the artificial red. Paling each pimply nose with chasten’d light:

MRS. A.

A—! you are quite incorrigible, quite; When shall I ever tutor you to feel The moral fitness of the “true genteel!”

MR. A.

Well, well, I’ll not offend, love, with my tongue. Oh! with what art those _lustres_ bright are _hung_!

MRS. A.

You keep indeed a guard upon your lips.

MR. A.

Observe that bird, how prettily it _dips_; Its plumage and its graceful shape behold, And see how Nature works in Beauty’s _mould_.

MRS. A.

I see my temper you’re disposed to try, Yet I may be lamented when I die; Speak as you please, you’re safe from my complaints, But you’re enough to vex a saint of saints.

MR. A.

My dear, you’re _waxing_ wroth.

MRS. A. (_going_.)

Provoking!

MR. A.

Stay, I hear our children’s voices at their play; I love to see them sporting on the rocks,

MRS. A.

Wetting their feet, and dirtying their frocks. My dear, come in.

MR. A.

My darling, I’ll stay out.

MRS. A.

Don’t expect me to nurse you in the gout. [_Exit._

THE PILOT IN SIGHT.

I.

And are you sure the news is true? And is the pilot seen? I see the waters changed in hue, Old Neptune’s deck’d in green.

II.

’Tis true; I see the glistening sail Far o’er the watery space, White as a floating bridal veil Thrown off a blushing face.

III.

All eyes are straining for the shore, I long to climb above, And shall I touch the land once more, And hear of those I love?

IV.

Before this wearying glass has spent Its sand, he’ll he aboard; I’ll ask not if we’ve pitch’d the tent, Or sheath’d the bloody sword;

V.

If Dost Mahomed captive pine, Or if the Tartar bend, I’ll trembling ask for one dear line From some familiar friend.

VI.

The pilot on the deck has sprung, He’s hail’d on every side, Shame on my false, rebellious tongue! Oh! why is speech denied?

THE ARRIVAL; OR, THE LAND-LUBBER’S SONG.

I.

The joys of the ocean let others discuss, A ship is to me a marine omnibus, Or an ark where man, beast, bird, and insect convene, And each living creature on board is unclean.

II.

Should slumber miraculous seal up your eyes, No chanticleer issues a summons to rise, You’ve the music of hounds, and should that fail to vex, It gives place to the sound of men swobbing the decks.

III.

In the stillness of night some fond fancies invade, Perchance you may dream that some fair, favour’d maid With delicate fingers is twining your hair, And you wake to find cockroaches, not fingers, there.

IV.

’Tis a Babel of sounds; you’ve the lowing of cows, Sheep bleating, and squeaks of parturient sows, Geese cackling, ducks quacking, curs yelping, ne’er mute, And the wheeze of some plaintive, asthmatical flute.

V.

Around you what various odours arise! How blest is the man to whom nature denies The olfactory nerve, to whose nonchalant nose The stalest bilgewater is fragrant as rose!

VI.

To dine in the cuddy tames pleasures of sense, Proves life but a lottery; its prizes pretence, Its blanks dark realities, there ’twill be seen ’Twixt the cup and the lip what sad slips intervene.

VII.

You drink to a fair one: how blest her escape, Whose bosom’s not red with the juice of the grape; Each flagon may Tantalus serve for a stoup, And envious Neptune upsets your pea-soup.

VIII.

What pleasure to walk with a staggering gait, With dimness of sight, and confusion of pate; Like a drunkard to reel when the ship gives a lurch, And balance see-saw, like a duck forced to perch!

IX.

The city of palaces bursts on my sight! Its mosques and its temples I hail with delight; A palace in every building I see, For a pigsty ashore is a palace to me.

THE END.

LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS