Part 4

Ah! where is hid, if still it may survive The canker’d tooth of Age and Time’s despight, Ah! where is hid that Orb of glass so bright, That Merlin for King Ryence did contrive; That wond’rous Orb so bright, wherein did live, Or ever Time had brought them into light, The forms of things unborn, which to the sight Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!— For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass, Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind, Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye, That Reason’s self forgets her majesty To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass, And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind.

SONNET TO PETRARCH.

O for that shell, whose melancholy sound, Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme, Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam From some rich incense rising, to the extreme Of desolate Hesperia did rebound, And gently waked the Muses:—so might I, Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like In sad complaint of ill-requited love, So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify, And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.

TO A LADY, WHO DESIRED SOME SPECIMENS OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY.

Let not Eliza bid me now rehearse The unvalued rhymes that long forgotten lie: For all unfit is my rude-fashioned Verse To meet the censure of her curious eye:

But for her sake a subject could I choose To draw down fame and envy on the Bard, Thy lovely Self should be my theme and Muse, And thy sweet smile, Eliza, my reward.

EPITAPH ON A CHILD WHO DIED OF A SCARLET FEVER IN THE FIFTEENTH MONTH OF HIS AGE. 1802.

Though thou wert dear, for lovely was thy form, And fair thy mind, and hopeful from thy birth; Though sudden was the pestilential storm That beat thy tender blossom to the earth; For thee we grieve not; certain that the soul Yet sinless, bursting from its earthy clod, Is borne on angel wings beyond the pole, Where infant innocence hath place with God.

EPITAPH ON SIR CHARLES TURNER, BART. IN THE FAMILY MAUSOLEUM AT KIRK LEATHAM, YORKSHIRE.

Beneath this hallow’d vault, this awful shade, Amidst his generous Forefathers laid, Lo TURNER sleeps, the latest of his race, In prime of manhood given to Death’s embrace. Heir of their name, and of their virtues heir, His heart was liberal, courteous, brave, sincere. Nor that his only praise; his patient mind, Cheerful in grief, in agony resign’d, Long bore the tedious hours of cureless pain, Which Love and Friendship strove to soothe in vain. Farewell, dear Consort of my happier days! To Thee this duty thy THERESA pays, Lamenting still for Thee, ’till fate shall join Her kindred spirit and her dust with thine.

LINES WRITTEN AT THE TOMB OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM, IN WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL.

Wykeham, around thy venerable tomb With fond affection still thy children come; And tho’ no more the loud-voiced hymn they sing, Still silent prayers and heartfelt wishes bring, That thy departed Spirit, secure and blest, May with the destined heirs of glory rest; And, for thy pious bounty here bestow’d, Treasure in Heaven may have, and joy in God!

TRANSLATION OF A GREEK INSCRIPTION UPON A FOUNTAIN[21].

Αγροτα συν ποιμυαις, κ. τ. λ. Vitruvius, Lib. 8. c. 3.

Shepherd, if thirst oppress thee, while thy flock Thou lead’st at noon by this Arcadian spring, Here freely drink thy fill, and freely bring Around my Naïads all thy fleecy stock:

But in the water wash not, lest thou feel Loathing, and strange antipathy to wine; Such power it hath to make thee hate the vine, E’er since my fount did Prœtus’ daughters heal;— For here Melampus bathed them, here he cast A spell to purge their madness off, and hold The secret taint; what time from Argos old To rough Arcadia’s mountain heights he past.

[21] There was a fountain in Arcadia, which had the reputation of creating an aversion to wine in whoever happened to bathe in it, although the water was innocent and wholesome to drink: and the tradition was, that it had received this singular property from Melampus, a celebrated physician of antiquity, when he made use of it to cure certain Arcadian princesses, the daughters of Prœtus, of a strange species of madness. These young ladies fancied themselves to be changed into cows. The story is frequently alluded to by the poets; both Ovid and Virgil mention it.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

sæpius olim Religio peperit scelerosa.—Lib. I. v. 83.

Yet Superstition has of old brought forth More impious wickedness; witness that time In Aulis, when at Dian’s temple met Th’ associate Princes, Chiefs, the prime of Greece, And stain’d her altar with the virgin blood Of Iphigenia: o’er her youthful locks They bound the fillets; on her cheeks she felt The dress of sacrifice: but when she saw Beside the altar her dear father stand In sorrow, and for his sake the ministers Hiding their knife, and all the assembly round Weeping at sight of her; when this she saw, Struck mute with terror, on her knees she sunk. Ah! then in vain she called upon her king, Her father, urged him by a parent’s love To save his wretched child; while ruthless hands Bore her all trembling to the altar’s base; Not for her nuptials, not for holy rites Of Hymen, tended on with dance and song; But for a foul and bloody sacrifice. So fell this chaste and tearful victim, slain Ev’n in her marriage hour; and all to free Their wind-bound Navy from the fancied let Of adverse Deities, to such a guilt Could Superstition prompt a father’s heart.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

Suave, mari magno turbantibus.—Lib. II. v. 1.

Sweet is it, when the stormy winds have roused The boisterous ocean, from on shore to view The toiling mariner; not that the pain Of others gives us pleasure, but for that To see what ills we ’scape ourselves is sweet: And it is sweet, when armies on the plain Array’d for battle join in mortal strife, To stand aloof from danger and look on: But nothing sweeter is, than all serene In the strong towers of wisdom high to dwell, And thence look down upon the wandering race Of men, that vainly seek the path of life; Vying in genius, or nobility; With unabated labour, night and day Striving to rise supreme in wealth or power.

FROM LUCRETIUS.

Avia Pieridum peragro loca.—Lib. IV. v. 1.

Pierian heights, the Muses’ trackless haunts And wilds untrodden erst by mortal feet, O’er these I wander, haply there to find New flowers and fountains new; I love to drink Of the pure stream fresh-welling, and to cull A wreath of orient hues and odours rare, Whence never poet yet his chaplet wove.

PSALM LXXII. ABRIDGED, AND ADAPTED[22] TO A PARTICULAR TUNE.

Lord, to the King thy judgments give, Give to his Son thy righteousness: So shall thy people safely live, So he thy chosen flock shall bless.

Great his dominion, large his sway O’er earth and ocean shall extend: Him shall remotest isles obey, Him the wide sea from end to end.

War and the battle then shall cease, Then righteous men in favour stand; Peace shall return, a lasting peace; Plenty again shall store the land.

While He, with choicest blessings crown’d, Long on his throne shall sit sublime; Honour’d by all the nations round, Honour’d by Kings of every clime.

Blest be our God for these fair days, These happy days that rise again! O may his glorious name and praise Fill all the earth! Amen, amen.

[22] By adapted, is here meant, partly, that the accented syllables in the verse coincide with the accented notes of the tune.

MIDNIGHT DEVOTION.

WRITTEN IN THE GREAT STORM, 1822.

When the storm’s increasing roar, In the fearful hour of night, And the blast that rives my door Start the sleepers with affright;

While the fierce descending rain And the warring winds of heaven All embattled rush amain On my fragile window driven;

I, for those who bide this pelting, Breathe a prayer of charity, And, my soul with pity melting, Heavenly Father, call on Thee.

SILBURY HILL[23].

O thou, to whom in the olden time was raised Yon ample Mound, not fashion’d to display An artful structure, but with better skill Piled massive, to endure through many an age, How simple, how majestic is thy tomb! When temples and when palaces shall fall, And mighty cities moulder into dust, When to their deep foundations Time shall shake The strong-based pyramids, shall thine remain Amid the general ruin unsubdued, Uninjured as the everlasting hills, And mock the feeble power of storms and Time.

[23] Silbury Hill is a Barrow of the largest size. It stands close by the road from London to Bath: 80 miles west from Hyde-Park Corner.

TO THE DAISY.

Gentle flower, young April’s pride, Say not Nature hath denied Thee her bounty or her grace, Though thou lack the Rose’s face.

Where she spreads her carpet green There thy maiden form is seen, Drest in robes of purest white, Ever constant in her sight, But at will to wanton wild, Like a playful darling child.

Thee she tends in summer days, And the nibbling ewes that graze Spare to crop her favourite: And the Fairies, when by night Their green paths they quaintly tread, Walk not o’er thy sleeping head.

FRAGMENT.

King Richard in the gray Tower sate, Captive of Austria’s haughty Lord, In a strange land, unhonour’d, unexplored, To felon durance changed his royal state. Pale was his haggard eye, And sunk his cheek, to stern captivity In all—all but in his Lion heart subdued: He sate in melancholy solitude, And sadly gazed upon the setting sun, As down the heavenly road, That all with purple glow’d, It wested toward his realm of Albion.

FROM PURCHASE’S PILGRIMAGE, VERSIFIED AND DESIGNED AS A MOTTO TO “VOYAGES FOR THE DISCOVERY OF A N. W. PASSAGE.”

How shall I admire Your courage, ye marine Adventurers? Worthies, beyond all names of worthiness! Who can endure alike the Sun so long Present or absent; and without a dread Encounter foggy mist, tempestuous sleet, Cold blasts, with snows and hail in th’ frozen air, And those unequal seas which might amaze All ears and eyes, yea, and make Neptune’s self To quake with chilly fear when he beholds: When his huge Monsters, Icy Isles, disdaining His sovereignty, and the Sun’s hot violence, Muster upon those watery plains, for war, Continual war; and wheresoe’er they rush Make winds and waves give back, till, in the shock, Crashing and rending their congealed sides, They split themselves with their own massiness.

FRAGMENT.

But who is He shall put his daring hand To Love’s mysterious Harp, and with rude touch Discordant violate the silver string Whose note is sweeter than the balmy South Impregn’d with soft Æolian harmony! The Song of Love is like an Angel’s voice Attuned to heavenly music; and once heard On this Terrestrial; when the Bard of Thrace Bewail’d his lost Euridice, it drew The wild Inhabitants to hear his Lyre;— Yea savage Beasts and Things inanimate To listen to his dulcet melody:— Such power is in the magic sounds of Love.

THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

O for the thousand flowers that erst did bloom In that Sicilian Valley wild, Where golden Ceres left her Child Conceal’d from all the Sons of Jove, So to elude th’ inevitable doom Of Fate, and stronger Love! In vain.—The grisly Monarch of the Dead, Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap Around old Ætna’s smould’ring top; There, as the wandering Nymph he view’d, Awhile in blank amaze he stood Till Love to fury roused his blood. He call’d his ebon Car and Steeds of fire: They came, and with the headlong torrent’s speed Down to the lily-spangled mead They bore their mighty Sire: Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took, Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook.

SONNET.

O thou, to whom my heart (no longer mine) Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued; Fair goodly frame of Nature’s work divine To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good, Let not thy scorn pursue the Muse’s Son, For gentle is his mind, and pure his flame, And for thy love he shall inscribe thy name Among those Fair whose peerless beauty won Renown from ancient bards, on harp and lyre So sweetly sounded, that the wondering Earth, Thro’ all her climes, yet listens to the strain. O meekly-blooming Flower, if on thy birth Soft Pity shed her dew, quench not his fire, Quench not his hallow’d fire with cold disdain.

SONG.

When PHŒBUS, for what crime unknown, Was exiled from the Courts of Jove, And to this earth came mournful down, Of all things else bereft, but love;

(For that pure Fire feels not the storms That shake or change this worldly frame; Immortal as the soul it warms, It burns in unextinguish’d flame—)

His fingers to the lyre he turn’d, Then all with chords of sorrow strung; The lost delights of heaven he mourn’d, But more her loss, for whom he sung:

He sung so sweetly that the strain Drew pity from the gods above; They call’d the wanderer back again, And gave the MUSE to crown his love.

SONG.

To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu! And adieu to the roar of thy seas! And adieu to the Girl, whose insensible heart Is as hard and as sullen as these!

Forget the fond echoes you heard! Forget my fond hope and my strain! My strain is neglected and dead is my hope:— But you never shall hear me complain—— To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu!

SONG.

Gentle Stream, whose wild meanders Cheer the birds and feed the flowers, While by thee Amelia wanders, Wilt thou soothe her pensive hours?

If the world were at my bidding, Music should her steps attend, And where’er her feet were treading, Flowers should bloom, and sweets ascend.

SONG.

TO A LADY GOING TO HER FAMILY IN IRELAND.

Will you go, Mary, from me? Is it choice, or love or duty, That you trust your worth and beauty Upon the stormy Sea?

Can you hope, Mary, to find, Tho’ you rove the wide world over, Friends so true, so fond a Lover, As you leave here behind?

TO THE SUN.

O Thou whose inextinguishable eye Now sleeps beneath the ocean stream, Whether the star of morn shall call thee forth To pour thy rich and fiery beam Through the wide arch of an unclouded sky; Or whether the rude North Shall o’er thy head his showery mantle cast, Making the dank earth shiver at his blast; Welcome alike to me! the genial day That gave my fair Eliza birth Needs not thy gaudy smile to make it glad: Still cheer the spleeny race of earth With the warm lustre of thy fostering ray; On me in vain are shed Thy beams and unregarded, while I prove The dearer influence of Her smiles and love.

SONG.

Artless words of unfeign’d passion With harmonious numbers join’d, Soothly try your soft persuasion On Eliza’s gentle mind!

For her ear alone intended, Other censure nought regard: If by her you are commended, ’Tis enough for your reward.

But why thus you seek to move her Strive not further to explain!— If her heart will not discover, You or I should tell in vain.

TO A LADY, FORTUNE-TELLING WITH CARDS.

Dear Nancy, if you wish to know What Fate reserves in store for you, Ask not the idle cards to show,— I’ll tell as wisely, and as true.

For I will take a magic Book Of characters divinely fair; Upon thy lovely Self I’ll look, And read, dear Girl, thy fortune there.

By those love-darting Eyes I find How many hearts their empire own; I see the sweetness of thy mind That keeps the hearts those eyes have won.

Yet none among so many hearts, Nor any you shall yet subdue, Should you join all their better parts, Can make a heart to merit you.

Now, shall I look into your breast And see what Heart is favour’d there?— No,—be that fatal Truth suppress’d, Lest I should sink in my despair!

EPIGRAM.

From two domestic acts of pious zeal Learn what calamities sad mortals feel. When Lord GEORGE GORDON of the Pope afeard, (That was before he show’d a Jewish beard) When he his Whiggish Mob had raised, they fly On poor Lord MANSFIELD’S harmless Library. Then were his legal Writings, precious store, Burnt, or dispersed as Sibyl’s leaves of yore. Twelve years elapsed from that disastrous tide, And lo! another storm from t’other side! In vengeance on their Presbyterian foes The loyal Mob of Birmingham arose; And as their zeal for _Church and King_ grew hot, All PRIESTLEY’S books and papers went to pot. Losses like these till then we never saw; Priestley’s Divinity and Mansfield’s Law.

ON TWO ENGLISH POETS, WHO FLOURISHED IN THE FORMER HALF OF THE LAST CENTURY, AND PUBLISHED COMPLIMENTARY VERSES ON EACH OTHER.

Edward, thy Ode’s too long by half, Stephen’s Reply might spare a quarter: Now, in my judgment, Stephen’s song Is as much better, as ’tis shorter.

Edward declares, though Milton’s lines Rise to an unexampled height, That, in heroics, Stephen shines Like Milton, and almost as bright.

Stephen for quittance makes reply, That nothing in the world could hinder (Except his native modesty) Edward from taking place of Pindar.

Stephen and Edward all this while Are lying to each other’s face; Edward can do ’t in bolder style, But Stephen with a better grace.

VERSES TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED “NO POPERY” ON HIS PIES, &C.

I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺, Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church, Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot, Starts from his counter, piping hot, To warn us of the dire intent, And, like himself, is eloquent. Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread Th’ alarm of danger widely spread; Then quaking Custards join the cry, And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!”

Defender of the Faith! rare Cook, Who mak’st thy Pastry-shop a Book As formidable, and much more read Than that which our eighth HENRY made, Whose Church-of-England oven bakes Protestant Appletarts and Cakes! Children that feed upon thy Pies Grow in religion as in size; While, often as their mouths they ope, They chew destruction to the Pope.

Fame shall desert th’ ingenious Quaker To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker; Whose willing Pupils, apter far Than all the school of Lancaster, Shall read, and eat, his name enroll’d On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold.

ON THE FUNERAL OF ⸺, IN A HEARSE AND SIX, FOLLOWED BY A MOURNING COACH AND FOUR.

What, SAVE-ALL in a Hearse convey’d! And _six_ brave Nags to draw _the Dead_! ’Tis ruin!—Why, ’tis more by _five_ Than e’er convey’d him while _alive_. And look, what follows!—more and more Profusion, in a _Coach and Four_!

Such waste of what thou liv’dst to save, Might break the quiet of thy Grave. In what slow pomp the Rogues advance, Courting, as ’twere, Extravagance! O! the vast charge of every night! They revel, and set nothing by ’t; But give to have thee lie in state, More than thou e’er paid’st there for meat. What else?—their dead and useless load They carry on the _Turnpike_ road, Paying—but they care nothing, they, How many Gates there be to pay.— Plague on the Gates! how thick they are! Five pounds will soon be squander’d here. Another—and another yet! And _Half-a-crown_ at every Gate; Those Gates which thou didst alway shun, To save thy _Pence_ from every one. Alas! this needless cost is more Than all th’ extravagance before! To stop such charge, at least, arise And show them—where the _Bye-way_ lies!

PARODY ON DRYDEN’S “THREE POETS,” &c.

Three Poets, born in different lands and ages, Three different Heroes took to grace their pages: The first, a Buonaparte, fierce to fight; The next, a Methodistic Hypocrite: No human character combined more evil, So Milton for his Hero took the Devil.

EPIGRAM.

When first the Devil came in Milton’s view A swindging Tail[24] upon his rump there grew: But when in Pandæmomium he appears How alter’d is his form! no tail he wears. Such difference in that Personage is seen As Milton by himself perceived, between His full-grown Epic and his stripling Ode— His tadpole Devil had become a Toad.

[24]

——th’ old Dragon— ——wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail. _Ode on the Nativity._

AN EXPOSTULATORY SUPPLICATION TO DEATH, AFTER THE DECEASE OF DR. BURNEY.

Thou Trojan Death! thou worse than Trojan foe To English Greeks, the best of Greeks we know! In three we boasted; three we had of late, Rare Burney, matchless Porson, and the great ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ, props and pillars of our state; Two thou hast ravish’d from us; and the land Watches in anxious fear thy threat’ning hand. Two thou hast ravish’d, but we can’t resign a ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ yet awhile,—O spare ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ.

ON THE DECEASE OF HORNE TOOKE.

Horne Tooke is gone—rejoice and sing, Ye Placemen, and ye Tools of a King! He is gone!—then be his faults forgiven, And let us hope he’s gone to Heaven. That is a prayer you ought to make If not for love, for interest’ sake; For should he go to t’other place, Think how he’ll plague your hireling race.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRANITE SARCOPHAGUS BROUGHT FROM ALEXANDRIA TO THE BRITISH MUSEUM.

This was the tomb of Alexander, The Macedonian great Commander, Who dealt about his killing blows Alike among his friends and foes: Who went on plundering, burning, stabbing, Carouzing, catamiting, drabbing, Kept a Castrato[25] for his punk, And died[26] heroically drunk: And if at last he went to hell, I warrant he deserved it well; Whate’er is said by flatt’ring Mitford, Who thinks he is gone to heav’n, and fit for ’t.

[25] Q. Curt. b. x. c. 3. &c.

[26] Athenæus, b. 10. c. 9. p. 434. Αλεξανδρος λαβων (το ποτηριον) _εσπασε_ μεν _γενναιως_,——εκ τουτου νοσησας απεθανε. Alexander took the cup, and _pulled nobly_ at it.

Mem. It held near a gallon, and he had emptied it once already.

INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF FIELD-MARSHAL SUWOROW.

This was a Warrior of renown, A Hero bred, and born to kill; Who scrupled not to shed his own[27], When he lack’d other blood to spill. And often would he turn his arms On those within his bosom bred, And quell by fire the mighty swarms[28] That with his life-blood he had fed. His person, cover’d o’er with glory, In truth was little clean or nice; And ’tis a question in his story, Whether he kill’d more men[29] or lice.

[27] It is related of him, that in his march to the attack of Oczakow, he proceeded with such rapidity at the head of his men, that they began to murmur at the fatigues which they endured. The marshal, apprised of the circumstance, after a long day’s march, drew up his men in a hollow square, and addressing them said, that “his legs had that day discovered some symptoms of mutiny, as they refused to second the impulses of his mind, which urged him forward to the attack of the enemy’s fortress.” He then ordered his boots to be taken off, and some of the drummers to advance and flog his legs, which was done till they bled very considerably. He then put on his boots very coolly, expressing his hope that his legs would in future better know how to discharge their duty. His army afterwards marched on without a murmur.