Chapter 2
By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog.
Welcome, my pretty Neddy--welcome too Thy merry Rider with his apron blue; And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all, Begging for morsels that may never fall! Oh! 'tis a faithful group--and it might shame Painters of bold pretence, and greater name-- To see how nature triumphs, and how rare Such matchless proofs of Nature's triumphs are-- The smallest particle of sand may tell With what rich ore Pactolus' tide may swell: And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design, Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine-- Pupil of Cooper--Nature's favorite son-- Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one!
STANZAS.
Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn Of the stoic who passes along? And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. On the victim of falsehood and wrong?
For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame, The tear of compassion is won: And alone must she forfeit the wretch's sad claim, Because she's deceived and undone?
Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart, To bid its wounds rankle anew; Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart, And angels will smile upon you.
Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain, And youth could its pleasures impart, Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain, As he wound round the strings of her heart.
Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break, Nor strive to retrace them within; For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek, Nor think that such sorrow were sin.
When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride, Shall alike feel the hand of decay, May thy God grant that mercy the world has denied, And wipe all your sorrows away!
SHAKSPEARE.
Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee (of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London. Intended to be spoken at one of the Theatres.
While o'er this pageant of sublunar things Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings, And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide Man, and his mightiest monuments of pride-- Alone, aloft, immutable, sublime, Star-like, ensphered above the track of time, Great SHAKSPEARE beams with undiminish'd ray. His bright creations sacred from decay, Like Nature's self, whose living form he drew, Though still the same, still beautiful and new.
He came, untaught in academic bowers, A gift to Glory from the Sylvan powers: But what keen Sage, with all the science fraught, By elder bards or later critics taught, Shall count the cords of his mellifluous shell, Span the vast fabric of his fame, and tell By what strange arts he bade the structure rise-- On what deep site the strong foundation lies? This, why should scholiasts labour to reveal? We all can answer it, we all can feel, Ten thousand sympathies, attesting, start-- For SHAKSPEARE'S Temple, _is the human heart!_
Lord of a throne which mortal ne'er shall share-- Despot adored! he rales and revels there. Who but has found, where'er his track hath been, Through life's oft shifting, multifarious scene, Still at his side the genial Bard attend, His loved companion, counsellor, and friend!
The Thespian Sisters nurtured in the schools Of Greece and Rome, and long coerced by rules, Scarce moved the inmates of their native hearth With tiny pathos and with trivial mirth, Till She, great muse of daring enterprise, Delighted ENGLAND! saw her SHAKSPEARE rise!
Then, first aroused in that appointed hour, The Tragic Muse confess'd th' inspiring power; Sudden before the startled earth she stood, A giant spectre, weeping tears and blood; Guilt shrunk appall'd, Despair embraced his shroud, And Terror shriek'd, and Pity sobb'd aloud;-- Then, first Thalia with dilated ken And quicken'd footstep pierced the walks of men; Then Folly blush'd, Vice fled the general hiss, Delight met Reason with a loving kiss; At Satire's glance Pride smooth'd his low'ring crest, The Graces weaved the dance.--And last and best Came Momus down in Falstaff's form to earth. To make the world one universe of mirth!
Such Sympathies the glorious Bard endear! Thus fair he walks in Man's diurnal sphere. But when, upborne on bright Invention's wings. He dares the realms of uncreated things, Forms more divine, more dreadful, start to view, Than ever Hades or Olympus knew. Round the dark cauldron, terrible and fell, The midnight Witches breathe the songs of hell; Delighted _Ariel_ wings his fiery way To whirl the storm, the wheeling Orbs to stay; Then bathes in honey-dews, and sleeps in flowers; Meanwhile, young _Oberon_, girt with shadowy powers, Pursues o'er Ocean's verge the pale cold Moon, Or hymns her, riding in her highest noon.
Thus graced, thus glorified, shall SHAKSPEARE crave The Sculptor's skill, the pageant of the grave? HE needs it not--but Gratitude demands This votive offering at his Country's hands. Haply, e'er now, from blissful bowers on high, From some Parnassus of the empyreal sky, Pleased, o'er this dome the gentle Spirit bends, Accepts the gift, and hails us as his friends-- Yet smiles, perchance, to think when envious Time O'er Bust and Urn shall bid his ivies climb, When Palaces and Pyramids shall fall-- HIS PAGE SHALL TRIUMPH--still surviving all-- 'Till Earth itself, "like breath upon the wind," Shall melt away, "nor leave a rack behind!"
IMPROMPTU, TO ORIANA.
ON ATTENDING WITH HER, AS SPONSORS, AT A CHRISTENING
Lady! who didst--with angel-look and smile, And the sweet lustre of those dear, dark eyes, Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, In humble adoration, faith, and prayer! Oh!--as the infant pledge of friends beloved Received from thy pure lips its future name, Sweetly unconscious look'd the baby-boy! How beautifully helpless--and how mild! --Methought, a seraph spread her shelt'ring wings Over the solemn scene; and as the sun, In its full splendour, on the altar came, God's blessing seem'd to sanctify the deed.
TO MY SPANIEL FANNY.
Fanny! were all the world like thee, How cheerly then this life would glide, Dear emblem of Fidelity! Long may'st thou grace thy master's side.
Long cheer his hours of solitude, With watchful eye each wish to learn, And anxious speechless gratitude Hail with delight each short sojourn.
When sick at heart, thy welcome home A weary load of grief dispels, Gladdens with hope the hours to come, And yet a mournful lesson tells!
To find _thee_ ever faithful, kind, My guard by night, my friend by day, While those in friendship more refined Have with my fortunes flown away.
Why bounteous nature hast thou given To this poor _Brute_--a boon so kind As constancy--bless'd gift of Heaven! And MAN--to waver like the wind?
WIDOWED LOVE.[1]
Tell me, chaste spirit! in yon orb of light, Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, So calm, so peaceful, so divinely bright-- Solace of broken hearts, the mansion of the bless'd!
Tell me, oh! tell me--shall I meet again The long lost object of my only love! --This hope but mine, death were release from pain; Angel of mercy! haste, and waft my soul above!
[Footnote 1: Mr. T. Millar has composed sweet music to these lines, and has been peculiarly fortunate in composing and singing some of the exquisite Melodies of T.H. Bayly, Esq. of Bath.]
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM
OF THE LADY OF DR. GEORGE BIRKBECK, M.D.
President of the London Mechanic's Institution, and of the Chemical and Meteorological Societies. Founder and Patron of the Glasgow Mechanic's Institute, &c. &c. &c.
Lady unknown! a pilgrim from the shrine Of Poesy's fair temple, brings a wreath Which fame and gratitude alike entwine, Around a name that charms the monster Death, And bids him pause!--Amidst despairing life BIRKBECK's the harbinger of hope and health; When sordid affluence was with man at strife, He boldly stripp'd the veil, and show'd the wealth To aged ignorance, and ardent youth, Of cultured minds--the freedom of the soul! The sun of science, and the light of truth, The bliss of reason--mind without control.
Accept this tribute. Lady! and the praise, As Consort and the soother of his care! His offspring's pride--his friend's commingled rays, And every other grace that man has deem'd most rare!
THE CHAIN-PIER, BRIGHTON;
A SKETCH.
Hail, lovely morn! and thou, all-beauteous sea! Sun-sparkling with the diamond's countless rays: Thy look, how tranquil, one eternal calm, Which seems to woo the troubled soul to peace! Now, all is sunshine, and thy boundless breast Scarce heaves; unruffled, all thy waves subside (Light murmuring, like the baby sighs of rest) Into a gentle ripple on the shore.
All hail, dear Woman! saving-ark of man, His surest solace in this world of woe; How cheering are thy smiles, which, like the breeze Of health, play softly o'er the pallid cheek, And turn its rigid markings to a smile. England may well be proud of scenes like this; The beaming Beauty which adorns the PIER!
Hung like a fairy fabric o'er the sea, The graceful wonder of this wondrous age; Intrepid Brown,[1] the future page shall tell Thy generous spirit's persevering aim, That wrought so much, so well, thy country's weal; How fit for thee, the gallant seaman's life, His restless nights, and days of ceaseless toil; Framed by thy mighty hand, the giant work Check'd the rude tempest, in its fearful way. Thy bold inventions gave new life to hope, Steadied the wavering, and confirm'd the brave, And bade the timid smile, amidst the storm!
Spirit of Hogarth! had I but one ray Of that vast sun which warm'd thy varied mind; How would I now describe the motley groups Which crowd, in thoughtless ease, thy moving road. Mark the young Confidence of yesterday, Offspring of pride, and fortune's blinded fool, (Engender'd like the vermin of an hour) All would-be fashion, elegance, and ease, While, by his side, the weaker vessel smirks, In tawdry finery, with presuming gait, As though the world were made for them alone; Their liveried Lacquey, half-conceal'd in lace, The vulgar wonder of an upstart race. How heartlessly they pass that mourner by, The poor lone Widow, with her death-struck load. In speechless poverty, she courts the air, To give its blessing to her suff'ring babe; Not asking it herself; for life, to her, Has now no charm--her refuge is the grave!
Here comes the moral Almanack of years-- The prim old maid, and, by her side, her Niece, Full of bewitching beauty, health, and love. See, how the tabby watches Laura's eyes, Lest they should smile upon some pleasing spark, And violate grim prudery's tyrant ties. With icy finger, she her charge directs, To view the faithful dial of the sun, Whose moral tells how tide and time pass on. See, there--the fated victim of mischance; Read, in that hollow eye, and alter'd look, The deep anxiety which gnaws the heart, Incessant struggling 'gainst a tide of care, Which wears his life away;--and there, again, The empty, lucky Fool, who never thought, Nor ever will, yet lives and smiles, and thrives! Mark ye, that Ready-reckoner's figured face? Cold calculation in his thoughtful step; The heartless wretch, who never trusts his land, And never is deceived!--And, next him, comes Laughing Good-nature, with ruddy cheeks, And welcome look, determined to be pleased. He comes to ask--or go with friend to dine; His labour but to dress--to eat, to sleep: He knows no suffering equal to bad wine. There--the prig-Parson, with indented hat, And formal step--demanding your respect-- Yonder, the lovely insect-chasing Child. His is, indeed, a life of envious joy; Hope and anticipation, on the wing, To him no sad realities e'er bring!
And now, the humble Quaker, plain and proud. Humility, is this, indeed, thy type? (I know it is not, for I know the man.) His lovely Daughter bears an angel form And mind, that glorifies her sex's charms; Meekness and charity her life employ-- A seraph sorrowing for a suffering world! Lo! too, the Matron, with her household gods, The deities she worships night and day. Affection has no bounds, nor language words. To tell a mother's tender ceaseless charge. Children! can all your future lore repay The nights of watchfulness, and days of care, Which a fond parent gives?-- See, last, sad sight! the hardy British Tar, Cutlass unsheath'd, unlike the truly brave. Here, watching, night and day--degenerate lot! To seize a fisherman, or stop a cart, Or "fright the wandering spirits from the shore." His "brief authority" has just detain'd A boat of cockles and a quart of gin! The smart Lieutenant's epaulette, methinks, Blushes at this degrading, pimping trade.-- For deeds like these--let objects be employ'd, Who never shared their country's high renown! Adieu! vast Ocean, cradle of the brave, Tablet of England's glory, and her shield! To thee--and those dear friends who lured me here, With hospitality's enchanting smile, And chased away a little age of woe-- Gratefully--I dedicate these _tuneful lays!_
_July_, 1826.
[Footnote 1: My friend, Captain Samuel Brown, of the Royal Navy, whose inventions and improvements of the iron chain cable, and various others connected with the naval service, deserve the gratitude of his country, independent of the admirable Chain-Pier at Brighton, a Suspension Bridge over the Tweed, Pier at Newhaven, Bridge at Heckham, the iron work for Hammersmith Suspension Bridge, and other successful undertakings.]
SONNET.
MORNING.
Light as the breeze that hails the infant morn The Milkmaid trips, as o'er her arm she slings Her cleanly pail, some fav'rite lay she sings As sweetly wild and cheerful as the horn. O! happy girl I may never faithless love, Or fancied splendour, lead thy steps astray; No cares becloud the sunshine of thy day, Nor want e'er urge thee from thy cot to rove. What though thy station dooms thee to be poor, And by the hard-earn'd morsel thou art fed; Yet sweet content bedecks thy lowly bed, And health and peace sit smiling at thy door: Of these possess'd--thou hast a gracious meed, Which Heaven's high wisdom gives, to make thee rich indeed!
ON THE DEATH OF DR. ABEL,[1]
Physician and Naturalist to Lord Amherst, Governor General of India, who died at Cawnpoor, 24th of November, 1826.
Another awful warning voice of death To human dignity, and human pride; 'Tis sad, to mark how short the longest life-- How brief was thine! Thy day is done, And all its complicated hopes and fears Lie buried, ABEL! in an early grave. The unavailing tear for thee shall flow, And love and friendship faithful record keep Of all thy varied worth, thy anxious strife For fame and years, now gone for ever! Yet o'er thy tomb science and learning Bend in mute regret, and truth proclaims Thy just inheritance an honour'd name!
Lamented most by those who knew thee best, Accept this humble, tributary lay, From one, who in thy boyhood and thy prime Had shared thy friendship, and had fondly hoped When last we parted, many years were thine And joys in store--that thy elastic mind Might long have gladden'd life's monotony. Thine was a princely heart, a joyous soul, The charm of reason, and the sprightly wit Which kept dull letter'd ignorance in awe, Shook the pretender on his tinsel throne, And claim'd the glorious dignity of mind!
Alas! that in thy prime, when time began To make thee nearly all the World could wish, The spoiler Death should unrelenting come (As though in envy of thy wondrous skill) And stop the fountain of a noble heart.
Rest, anxious spirit! from life's feverish dream, From all its sad realities and cares: Be this thy Epitaph, thy honour'd boast-- Thine was the fame, which thine own mind achieved!
[Footnote 1: Dr. Abel was greatly distinguished in his profession for his love of it, and for the ardour of his pursuits in useful knowledge. --He published many ingenious Papers on Medical Science and Natural History. His account of the Embassy to China, under Lord Amherst, has been generally admired. He practised with increasing respect as a Physician, at Brighton, previous to his leaving England for India; and meditated (as the Author of this article knows) one or two works, which, from the activity of his mind, may yet be anticipated. Dr. Abel was a native of Bungay, in Suffolk (where his father was a banker), and it is supposed was about 35 years of age when he died. It is worthy of remark, that the present eminent and estimable Dr. Gooch, Librarian to His Majesty, and Dr. Abel, should both have been pupils of Mr. Borrett, Surgeon, of Yarmouth.]
SONNET.
NIGHT.
Now when dun Night her shadowy veil has spread, See want and infamy, as forth they come, Lead their wan daughter from her branded home, To woo the stranger for unhallow'd bread. Poor outcast! o'er thy sickly-tinted cheek And half-clad form, what havoc want hath made; And the sweet lustre of thine eye doth fade, And all thy soul's sad sorrow seems to speak. O! miserable state! compell'd to wear The wooing smile, as on thy aching breast Some wretch reclines, who feeling ne'er possess'd; Thy poor heart bursting with the stifled tear! Oh! GOD OF MERCY! bid her woes subside, And be to her a friend, who hath no friend beside.
CONSTANCY.
TO----.
Dearest love! when thy God shall recall thee, Be this record inscribed on thy tomb: Truth, and gratitude, well may applaud thee, And all thy past virtues relume.
It shall tell--to thy sex's proud honour, Of sufferings and trials severe, While still, through protracted affliction, Not a murmur escaped; but the tear
Of resignment to Heaven's high dictates, 'Twas thine, like a martyr, to shed: That heart--all affection for others-- For thyself, uncomplainingly, bled.
Midst the storms, which misfortune had gather'd, What an angel thou wert unto me; In that hour, when all friendship seem'd sever'd, Thou didst bloom like the ever-green tree!
All was gloom; and in vain had I striven, For hope ceased a ray to impart; When thou cam'st, like a meteor from heaven, And gave peace to my desolate heart!
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.
Give me the wreath of friendship true, Whose flowerets fade not in a breath: From memory gaining many a hue, To bloom beyond the touch of death.
And I will send it to thy home-- Thy home beloved, my faithful friend! And pray for its perpetual bloom And every bliss that earth can send.
Within its magic wreath I'd place Hearts'-ease and every lovely flower; To win thee by their matchless grace, And cheer and bless the lonely hour.
When at the world's unkind return Of all thy worth, and all thy care, Thou may'st in spite of manhood turn, And shed the sad, the bitter, tear.
Then, midst this holy grief of thine, The thought of some true friend may bless, And cheer the gloom like angel's smile, Or sunbeam in a wilderness.
And could I hope I had a claim On thee in such a rapturous hour? Oh! that, indeed, I'd own were fame. The saving ark of friendship's power.
Or that, in future years, thy babes Should o'er this frail memorial bend, (For first affection rarely fades!) And boast that I was once the friend
Whose wit, or worth, possess'd a charm, By Parents loved, and them caress'd. That spell would every sorrow calm, And bid my anxious spirit rest!
HERE IN OUR FAIRY BOWERS WE DWELL.
A GLEE.
Sung by Messrs. GOULDEN, PYNE, and NELSON.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.
Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell, Women our idol, life's best treasure! Echo enchanted joys to tell, Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure. Say, is not this then bliss divine, Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?
Eternal mirth and sunshine reign, For grief we cannot find the leisure; Night's social gods have banish'd pain, Morn lights us to increasing pleasure. Say, is not this then bliss divine, Beauty's smiles and rosy wine? Here in our fairy bowers, &c.
HENRY AND ELIZA.
O'er the wide heath now moon-tide horrors hung, And night's dark pencil dimm'd the tints of spring; The boding minstrel now harsh omens sung, And the bat spread his dark nocturnal wing.
At that still hour, pale Cynthia oft had seen The fair Eliza (joyous once and gay), With pensive step, and melancholy mien, O'er the broad plain in love-born anguish stray.
Long had her heart with Henry's been entwined, And love's soft voice had waked the sacred blaze Of Hymen's altar; while, with him combined, His cherub train prepared the torch to raise:
When, lo! his standard raging war uprear'd, And honour call'd her Henry from her charms. He fought, but ah! torn, mangled, blood-besmear'd, Fell, nobly fell, amid his conquering arms!
In her sad bosom, a tumultuous world Of hopes and fears on his dear mem'ry spread; For fate had not the clouded roll unfurl'd, Nor yet with baleful hemlock crown'd her head.
Reflection, oft to sad remembrance brought The well known spot, where they so oft had stray'd; While fond affection ten-fold ardour caught, And smiling innocence around them play'd.
But these were past! and now the distant bell (For deep and pensive thought had held her there) Toll'd midnight out, with long resounding knell, While dismal echoes quiver'd in the air.
Again 'twas silence--when from out the gloom She saw, with awe-struck eye, a phantom glide: 'Twas Henry's form!--what pencil shall presume To paint her horror!----HENRY AS HE DIED!
Enervate, long she stood--a sculptured dread, Till waking sense dissolved amazement's chain; Then home, with timid haste, distracted fled, And sunk in dreadful agony of pain.
Not the deep sigh, which madden'd Sappho gave, When from Leucate's craggy height she sprung, Could equal that which gave her to the grave, The last sad sound that echo'd from her tongue.
WRITTEN ON THE
DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON.
Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds The world shall gaze with wonder and applause, While, on fair History's page, the patriot reads Thy matchless virtue in thy Country's cause.
Yes, it was thine, amid destructive war, To shield it nobly from oppression's chain; By justice arm'd, to brave each threat'ning jar, Assert its freedom, and its rights maintain.
Much honour'd Statesman, Husband, Father, Friend, A generous nation's grateful tears are thine; E'en unborn ages shall thy worth commend, And never-fading laurels deck thy shrine.
Illustrious Warrior! on the immortal base, By Freedom rear'd, thy envied name shall stand; And Fame, by Truth inspired, shall fondly trace Thee, Pride and Guardian of thy Native Land!
To----.
In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring The first-blown blossoms of the spring; My tearful cheek you wipe in vain, And bid its pale rose bloom again.
In vain! unconscious, did I say? Oh! you alone these tears can stay; Alone, the pale rose can renew, Whose sunshine is a smile from you.
Yet not in friendship's smile it lives; Too cold the gifts that friendship gives: The beam that warms a winter's day, Plays coldly in the lap of May.
You bid my sad heart cease to swell, But will you, if its tale I tell, Nor turn away, nor frown the while, But smile, as you were wont to smile?
Then bring me not the blossoms young, That erst on Flora's forehead hung; But round thy radiant temples twine, The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine.
Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay, Nor violets, fading fast away, Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary, But give, oh! give, thyself to me!
MONODY
TO THE MEMORY
OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.
The very flattering success which attended the first Edition of this brief but affectionate Sketch, I must attribute to the interest of the subject, rather than the merit of the composition; and I cannot but feel grateful to those Writers who have honoured me by their notice and approbation.