Part 3

“How Dr. _John Coldwell_, of a physitian, became a bishop, I have heard by more than a good many; and I will briefly handle it, and as tenderly as I can; bearing myself equal between the living (Sir _Walter Raleigh_) and the dead (Bishop _Coldwell_). Yet the manifest judgements of God on both of them I may not pass over with silence. And to speak first of the knight, who carried off the _Spolia opima_ of the bishoprick. He, having gotten _Sherborne_ castle, park, and parsonage, was in those days in so great favour with the queen, as I may boldly say, that with less suit than he was fain to make to her, ere he could perfect this his purchase, and with less money than he bestowed since in _Sherborne_ (in building, and buying out leases, and in drawing the river through rocks into his garden), he might, very justly, and without offence of either church or state, have compassed a much better purchase. Also, as I have been truly informed, he had a presage before he first attempted it, which did foreshow it would turn to his ruin, and might have kept him from meddling with it, _Si mens non læva fuisset_: for, as he was riding post between _Plymouth_ and the court (as many times he did upon no small employments), this castle being right in the way, he cast such an eye upon it as _Ahab_ did upon _Naboth_’s vineyard. And, once above the rest, being talking of it (of the commodiousness of the place, of the strength of the seat, and how easily it might be got from the bishoprick), suddenly over and over came his horse, that his very face (which was then thought a very good face) plowed up the earth where he fell. This fall was ominous, I make no question; and himself was apt to construe it so. But his brother _Adrian_ would needs have him interpret it as a conqueror, that his fall presaged the quiet possession of it. And accordingly, for the present, it so fell out. So that with much labor, cost, envy, and obloquy, he got it _habendum et tenendum_ to him and his heirs. But see what became of him. In the public joy and jubilee of the whole realm (when favor, peace, and pardon, were offered even to offenders), he who in wit, in wealth, in courage, was inferior to few, fell suddenly (I cannot tell how) into such a downfall of despair, as his greatest enemy would not have wished him so much harm, as he would have done himself. Can any man be so willfully blind as not to see, and say, _Digitus Dei hic est_!”—Harrington’s Brief View, p. 88.

* * * * *

To these Notes are added the following, taken from Æschylus, to show the resemblance between the expressions of that author and certain passages in this poem.

——Let me walk embathed In your invisible perfumes.—P. 2, v. 16.

Τις οδμα προσεπτα μ’ αφεγγης; Prom. Vinc. 115.

——For worldly meed, Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.—P. 8, v. 98.

ου δ’ αινειν ειτε με ψεγειν θελεις, Ομοιον. Agam. 1412.

The aguish fear that shakes th’ afflicted breast With sore anxiety of what shall be— And all for nought.—P. 14, v. 179.

ματαιος εκ γυκτων φοβας Κινει, ταρασσει, και διωκεται πολεως Χαλχηκλατῳ πλαστιγγι λυμανθεν δεμας. Choeph. 286.

To shun that harbourless and hollow coast.—P. 16, v. 204.

μολοντες αλιμενον χθονα Ες νυκτ’ αποστειχοντος ἡλιου, φιλει Ωδινα τικτειν νυξ χυβερνητῃ σοφῳ. Supplices, 775.

——the promontory Where still St. Alban’s high-built chapel stands.—P. 16. v. 205.

Την αιπυνωτον αμφι Δωδωνην, ινα Μαντεια θωκος τ’ εστι Θεσπρωτου Διος. Prom. Vinct. 829.

Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws Swallow’d up quick.—P. 17, v. 211.

ενθεν εκραγησονταιν ποτε Ποταμοι πυρος δαπτοντες αγριαις γναθοις. Prom. Vinct. 367.

Alas! they perish’d all: all in one hour!—P. 17, v. 220.

In the Persæ the Chorus demand of Xerxes what was become of his friends the Nobles; he answers, “I left them wrecked on the shores of Salamis:” they ask farther, “Where is Pharnuchus and Ariomardus? Where is the royal Sebalces?” &c. Xerxes replies,

Ιω, ιω, μοι μοι παντες Ενι πιτυλῳ, (Ε, ε, ε,) τλαμονες Ασπαιρουσι χερσῳ. 978.

——flank’d with citadels and towers, And rocky walls, and arches massy-proof Against the storm of war.—P. 23, v. 292.

Συ δ’ ωστε νηος κεδνος διακοστροφος Φραξαι πολισμα, πριν καταιγισαι πνοας Αρεος. Sept. cont. Theb. 62.

With horned violence to push and whelm This pile.—P. 24, v. 319.

ἁι δε, κερωτυπουμεναι βιᾳ Χειμωνοτυφῳ, συν ζαλῃ τ’ ομβροκτυπῳ. Agam. 664.

Χειμωνοτυφῳ; so I read the passage, instead of Χειμωνι, τυφω, κτλ.

In the Supplices of this author there is a similar phrase on a similar subject,

Πεμψατε ποντονδ’, ενθα δε λαιλαπι Χειμωνοτυπῳ, βροντη στεροπη Τ’, ομβροφοροισι τ’ ανεμοις αγριας Αλος αντησαντες ολοιντο. 34.

In the Clouds of Aristophanes, A. 1. S. 4, this word occurs, ἑκατογκεφαλατυφω, and the Scholiast says, in τυφων or τυφως the first syllable is long.

To generous Virtue, and the holy love Of liberty, a dedicated spirit.—P. 33, v. 433.

In the Eumenides the Fury calls Orestes

δαιμοναν σκια Εμοι τραφεις τε και καθιερωμενος. 303.

So fares it with the things of earth Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud That shall enfold them up.—P. 35, v. 466.

Ιω βροτεια πραγματ’· ευτυχουντα μεν Σκια τις αντρεψειεν. Agam. 1336.

The multitudinous strokes incessantly Bruise all, &c.—P. 36, v. 478.

There is a singular similarity in the length of the words here, and in the following passage of the Choephori, where Electra speaks of the murder of her father; intending, perhaps, to express the multitude of wounds by the polysyllabic term;

πολυπλαγκτα δ’ ην ιδειν Επασσυτεροτριβη τα χερος ορεγματα. 423.

POEMS.

INSCRIBED BENEATH THE PICTURE OF AN ASS.

Meek animal, whose simple mien Provokes th’ insulting eye of Spleen To mock the melancholy trait Of patience in thy front display’d, By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray’d, To character the sorrows of thy fate; Say, Heir of misery, what to thee Is life?—A long, long, gloomy stage Through the sad vale of labour and of pain! No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine age, Nor in the vasty round of this terrene Hast thou a friend to set thee free, Till Death, perhaps too late, In the dark evening of thy cheerless day, Shall take thee, fainting on thy way, From the rude storm of unresisted hate.

Yet dares the erroneous crowd to mark With folly thy despised race, Th’ ungovernable pack, who bark With impious howlings in Heaven’s awful face, If e’er on their impatient head Affliction’s bitter show’r is shed.

But ’tis the weakness of thy kind Meekly to bear the inevitable sway; The wisdom of the human mind Is to murmur and obey.

ODE TO THE LYRIC MUSE.

SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT THE INSTALLATION OF LORD NORTH, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

STROPHE I.

Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre, Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove, List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire; The ling’ring sounds that yet respire Waked by the breezes of the Western main; And bring some high and solemn strain, Such as was heard that solemn day When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty Struck on the magic harp her dying song.— Dealing vengeance on her foes, The mortal Genius of battle rose, And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along.

STROPHE II.

O, Muse divine! whene’er thy strain Devotes the tyrant head to shame, The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train; And Glory hears the loud appeal; And thou, unconquerable flame, First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal: Thou in the dark and dreary hour When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread, And Sloth a sullen influence shed, And every coward Vice that loves the night Revell’d on Corsica’s ill-fated shore; Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame, Lo, PAOLI, father of his country, came, And with a giant-voice Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race That slept in Slav’ry’s dull embrace; Roused at the sound, they hail’d thy glorious choice, And ev’ry manly breast Shook off the unnerving load of rest; And Virtue chasing the foul forms of night, Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light.

ANTISTROPHE I.

But, ah! how sunk her veiled head, Untimely dimm’d by Gaul’s o’ershadowing pow’r— And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more? Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead: Thy gallant virtues all are fled; Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair. O Gaul, Oppression’s blood-stain’d heir, Let me not tell how, taught by thee, England’s rude sons smote Liberty On Vincent’s sable rock, her Indian throne:— Not unavenged; for in her cause the sky Storms and fiery vapours pour’d, While Pestilence waved wide his tainted sword To smite[15]...

EPODE.

Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shell Wake the lofty sounds that swell With rapture unreproved the patriot breast! Robed in her many-colour’d vest On Isis’ banks shall Science stand, Waving in her bounteous hand A wond’rous chaplet; high reward Of toils, by public virtue dared: And while to claim the envied meed Fair Fame her vot’ries leads, thy voice, O Muse, shall join th’ applauded choice That fix’d the glorious wreath on FREDERICK’s honour’d head!

[15] The remainder of this, and the whole of the second antistrophe, were not repeated in the theatre, having been suppressed by the academical authorities, on account of their political sentiments, and subsequently lost.

VERSES INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE TO THE DUKE OF PORTLAND, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, IN THE YEAR 1793.

In evil hour, and with unhallow’d voice, Profaning the pure gift of Poesy, Did he begin to sing, He, first who sung Of arms and combats, and the proud array Of warriors on th’ embattled plain, and raised Th’ aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown By deeds of violence!—For since that time Th’ imperious victor oft, unsatisfied With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares To challenge fame and honour; and too oft The poet, bending low, to lawless pow’r Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought Streams clearest of th’ Aonian fount to wash Blood-stain’d Ambition. If the stroke of war Fell certain on the guilty head, none else, If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect, And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix, Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow; Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas! That undistinguishing and deathful storm Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent, And they that stir its fury, while it raves, Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth Unto the mortal ministers that wait To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards The widow’s tears, the friendless orphan’s cry, And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes That follow at the dogged heels of War? They, in the pomp and pride of victory Rejoicing, o’er the desolated earth, As at an altar wet with human blood, And flaming with the fire of cities burnt, Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God, O’er the destruction of his gracious works! Hymns to the Father, o’er his slaughter’d sons!

Detested be their sword! abhorr’d their name, And scorn’d the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou, Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown. And let that secret voice within thy breast Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise Which thou hast heard be as sweet harmony, Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere Ascending, where the spirits of the blest Hear it well pleased:—For Fame can enter Heaven, If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid, She rises not above this earthy spot; And then her voice, transient and valueless, Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise And worthier duty may She tend on Thee, Follow thee still with honour, such as time Shall never violate, and with just applause, Such as the wise and good might love to share.

ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOK.

I will not meditate in idle show Of labour’d lines my sorrow to relate; All artless as the tears my verse shall flow That good men weep for his untimely fate.

The friends of peace and friends of human kind To mourn thy loss, adventurous Chief, agree; And all who love the bold or generous mind, And all who science love must weep for thee.

By thee to soft Taheite’s sultry clime, By thee to chill Kamschatzcha’s frozen zone, And Isles ne’er view’d till George’s golden time Britannia’s mighty name at length was known.

O how unlike Magellan! he who bent His daring sail to untried winds, and first The world encompass’d—save in sad event Of timeless death by savage hands accurst.

The Arts of Peace He cared not to extend; For gold th’ untravel’d sea his bark explored, For lust of gold he rashly strove to bend The free-born Indian to his lawless sword.

Not such the generous purpose of thy will; With zeal untired and patient toil it strove To make th’ untutor’d savage learn thy skill, And the fierce-manner’d tribes embrace thy love.

For this thy vessel plough’d the stormy wave, For this the pendent globe thrice circled round, When the rude hand of some unconscious slave With brutal fury dealt the fatal wound.

Hold! hold, Barbarian! shall the guilty strife Provoke to mortal acts thy frantic hand? Let fall thy stroke on some less-valued life; But save, O! save the Chieftain of the band!

E’en hostile kings bade spare his honour’d head, The bloodless trophies of his fame bade spare; And Peace and Science wide their influence spread To guard him from the wasteful rage of war:

In vain—he falls—he dies—behold him bleed— Ah wretched Isle! ah murderous, murderous race! The guilt, the memory of this ruffian deed What pains can expiate, or what time efface?

Henceforth no ship shall spread her canvas wing To visit that inhospitable strand; Save that in after times if chance shall bring Some bark storm driven near the hateful land;

Ev’n then the hardy mariner shall mourn; And as he views it rising from the main, Far from the inhuman shore his prow shall turn, Cursing the murderous isle where Cook was slain.

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF DR. W. HAYES, PROFESSOR OF MUSIC IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

_Set to Music by his Son and Successor, P. Hayes._

SYMPHONY.

These sounds of grief, this solemn air, To thee I sing, dear, honour’d shade! Hear, spirit of my father, hear! To thee these mournful rites are paid.

_Here followed an Organ Movement, being a Psalm Tune of the Professor, Dr. Wm. Hayes._

Such the last strains by thee were tried, Strains that to holy Choirs belong; While Age, that wasted all beside, Yet spared the sweetness of thy song.

So pass’d he: nor approved alone In science; like his gentle art, His life was Music, and in tone With Virtue’s harmony his heart.

O! let thy tuneful Spirit, to hear The melancholy strains we raise, Now stoop from that celestial sphere Where Music is the voice of Praise!

THE WORLD[16].

INTENDED AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT WRITING.

BY A LADY.

Wide Habitation of the Sons of Men, Wherein the seeds of vice and virtue lie Mix’d, like the undigested Elements Ere Chaos lost his kingdom; where blind Chance With Passion holds divided anarchy; O! who can rightly scan thee, or describe? Subject ill suited to a Virgin’s Muse, That cannot praise, and is to blame untaught: Wherefore from this unprofitable theme She turns, leaving unsung its argument; Save that with careless hand her lute she strikes Lightly, nor hoping that the myrtle wreath Shall crown her unpremeditated lay.

[16] This was among the subjects for a Prize Poem, given out by Sir John and Lady Miller at Bath Easton.

THE BRITISH THEATRE.

WRITTEN IN 1775.

When first was rear’d the British Stage, Rude was the scene and weak the lay; The Bard explored the sacred Page, And holy Mystery form’d his Play.

Th’ affections of the mortal breast In simple Moral next he sung, Each Vice[17] in human shape he drest, And to each Virtue[17] gave a tongue.

Then ’gan the Comic Muse unfold In coarser jests her homely art: Of Gammer Gurton’s[18] loss she told, And laugh’d at Hodge’s awkward smart.

Come from thy wildly-winding stream, First-born of Genius, SHAKSPEARE, come! The listening World attends thy theme, And bids each elder Bard[19] be dumb:

For thou, within the human Mind Fix’d, as on thy peculiar throne, Sitt’st like a Deity inshrined; And either Muse is all thine own!

Yet shall not Time’s rough hand destroy The scenes by learned Jonson writ; Nor shall Oblivion e’er enjoy The charms of Fletcher’s courtly wit:

And still in matchless beauty live The numbers of that Lyric Strain Sung gayly to the Star of Eve By Comus and his jovial Train.

Here sunk the Stage:—and dire alarms The Muse’s voice did overwhelm; For wounded Freedom call’d to arms, And Discord shook the embattled Realm.

But Peace return’d; and with her came (Alas! how changed!) the tuneful Pair: Thalia’s eye should blench with shame, And her sad Sister weep to hear

How the mask’d[20] Fair, in Charles’s reign, Her lewd and riotous Fancy fed At Killigrew’s debauchful scene, While hapless Otway pined for Bread.

Thus the sweet Lark shall sing unheard, And Philomel sit silent by; While every vile and chattering bird Torments the grove with ribald cry.

And see what witless Bards presume With buskin’d fools to rhyme and rage; While Mason’s idle Muse is dumb, And weary Garrick quits the Stage.

[17] Personification of the passions in the moralities.

[18] Gammer Gurton’s Needle is the oldest English comedy; the distress of it arises from the loss of the needle, which at last is discovered in her man Hodge’s breeches.

[19] There were no plays of any note before Shakspeare.

[20] The custom of that time, for fear of hearing indecencies, otherwise too gross to be supported.

ON TWO PUBLICATIONS, ENTITLED EDITIONS OF TWO OF OUR POETS.

When Critic Science first was known, Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground The PRUNING KNIFE OF WIT was thrown; Not that which Aristarchus found:

That had a stout and longer blade, Would at one stroke cut off a limb; This knife was delicately made, Not to dismember, but to trim.

With a short harmless edge a-top, ’Twas made like our prize-fighting swords; Pages and Chapters ’twould not lop, But cut off syllables and words.

Well did it wear; and might have worn Full many an age, yet ne’er the worse; Till Bentley’s hand its edge did turn On Milton’s adamantine verse.

Warburton seized the blunted tool, Scarce fit for Oyster-opening Drab: For Critic use ’twas now too dull, But tho’ it would not cut, ’twould stab;

Then Shakspeare bled, with every friend That loved the Bard:—he threaten’d further; And God knows what had been the end, Had not Tom Edwards cried out “Murther!”

Confounded at the fearful word, Awhile he hid the felon steel; Now gives it Mason, lends it H—; Ah! see what Gray and Cowley feel!

THE SPLEEN.

I am not of their mind who say The World degenerates every day; Nor like to hear a churl exclaim, In rapture at Queen Bess’s name, And cry, “What happy times were those “When Ladies with the sun uprose, “And for their breakfast did not fear “To eat roast-beef and drink strong-beer! “Then buxom health and sprightly grace “Enliven’d every blooming face, “Blooming with roses all its own; “And rouge, tea, vapours, were unknown.”

Nature, still changing, still the same, Hath so contrived this worldly frame, That every age shall duly share The good or ill that flows from Her. Thus we, a spleenful race, are free From magic and from sorcery; While those who lived with good Queen Bess (As they that know the truth confess) Tho’ Spleen and Vapours there were none, Had Imps and Witches many a one; And he who, ’cause he has not seen, Will not believe, hath ne’er, I ween, With due attention mused upon Thy page, O BRITISH SOLOMON!

Thus far in preface—Now I’ll tell How Spleen arose, when Witchcraft fell. By vengeful laws the Wizard brood Long harass’d and at last subdued, Their black Familiars all repair Before the throne of Lucifer, With sad petitions, setting forth Their many grievances on earth, What torments they were doom’d to bear While tending on their Witches there: Some drown’d, to prove their innocence, Or, ’scaping, hang’d on that pretence; Some burnt within their steeple hats, Some nine times murder’d in their Cats: Brief, they petition’d to enjoy Some less adventurous employ, Since witchcraft now was thought so common They were not safe in an old woman.

Their suit was granted—up they came New-liveried in sulphur flame, With licence thro’ the realm to range; But, with their pow’r, their name they change. Magic no longer now is seen, And what was Witchcraft once, is Spleen: Yet still they most delight to vex, As first they did, the female sex; And still, like an old witch’s charm, They tease, but have no power to harm.

Tho’ Doctors otherwise have told, The tale is true that I unfold: And with my system suits the name, For Spleen and Vapours are the same; And all the country people know That these, ascending from below, Are DEVILS of peculiar hue, And from their colour call them BLUE.

LINES WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN A LADY’S ALMANAC.

Go happy lines, yet fearful go, To meet Louisa’s secret eye! Tell what I wish her heart should know, Yet, rather than declare, I die.

Perhaps she’ll scorn ye, and despise The tribute of a heart so poor— Too valueless to be the prize Of Beauty, proudest conqueror.

Then tell her that her touch alone Destroys your pencil’d forms with ease; And say your fate is like my own, To be or not, as she shall please.

But should her gentleness now spare, Pass one short year, and ye are not! A little year shall send you where You’ll perish among things forgot;

Yet so, how envied should you be! For who is he would not prefer Before an immortality, To live a year, a day with Her?

I fear she’ll turn ye all to jest: Then let her know I’ve made my prayer, That, when by beaux, smart beaux, carest, She ne’er may feel a tender care!

But while they sigh, or kneel, or vow, Think it all done in sport and play; Or write love-rhymes (as I do now), Laugh, but not trust a word they say.

TO A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN, WITH THOMSON’S SEASONS, DOUBLED DOWN AT THE STORY OF PALEMON AND LAVINIA.

Anna, when you shall read in this true tale How young Lavinia from her lowly state Was led to splendor, wealth, and dignity, By generous Palemon wooed and won To be his bride, (such happy fortune found Her virtues, and deserved no less)—so think Your beauty, temper’d with sweet bashful grace Of modesty and native elegance, So think these charms—not sparingly bestow’d But in the pride and prodigality Of liberal Nature, fashioning her work To a rare excellence,—these shall inflame Each generous heart with love, and the dear hope To win your gentle favour, and possess A lovelier Lavinia found in you.

SONNET.