Chapter 6
Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs, Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise: And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate, Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while, And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle!
THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY.
Sung by Mr. PYNE.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.
Come away, come away, little fly! Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; If you do, I protest you shall die, And your tomb be that beautiful breast. Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; If she frown, half the graces will weep, If she weep, all the graces will die. Come away, little fly, &c.
Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; Life is precious: away, little fly! Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, You'll meet death from the glance of her eye. Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; I should own, as I drove it away, I wish'd to be there in its stead! Come away, little fly, &c.
THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.
Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of Waterloo.
Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, And Peace returns, by Victory restored; Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms, Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms; What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain, Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign; Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath, Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death; With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed, And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed. Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung; Again Britannia to the combat sprung: Star of the Nations! her auspicious form Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm.
Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd, Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd; While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers, What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours! For never yet from Gallia's confines came War's fell eruption with so fierce a flame: She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife, Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life; Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame, To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame! Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there, That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair. Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son, Her eye, her hope--immortal WELLINGTON! He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blow Sustain'd sedate the fierce assaulting foe. How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock, Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock! Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack, They give to Gaul his furious onset back; Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs, As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings! Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd, Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd; And England, radiant in her triumph past, Beheld them all transcended in the last: Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew The tidings home--the tale of Waterloo! But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day, Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay! Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause, Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause!
Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe, Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath; From year to year let musing Memory shed Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead. 'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain The wounded veteran on his bed of pain; To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep, Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep.
Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field, The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd; Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round, Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound; Perchance Affection bade her visions rise-- Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes: For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh; Yet for his country glorying thus to die! To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath, And sunk serene in unregretted death.--
To no cold ear was that appeal prefer'd; With glowing bosom grateful England heard; With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief, Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief.
Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night, To this great cause, our small but willing mite. Bright are the wreaths the warrior's urn which grace, And bless'd the bounty that protects his race! Thus warm'd, thus waken'd, with congenial fire, Each hero's son shall emulate his sire; From age to age prolong the glorious line, And guard their country with a shield divine!
THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS.
Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair, To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare, And fade, and sicken in the morning light?
Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest, And incense wafted by the midnight gale, Untainted rises from thy spotless breast.
How like that Faith whose nature is apart From human gaze, to love and work unseen, Which gives to God an undivided heart, In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene; That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power Breathes on the darkness of the closing hour!
1827;
OR, THE POET'S LAST POEM.
Ye Bards in all your thousand dens, Great souls with fewer pence than pens, Sublime adorers of Apollo, With folios full, and purses hollow; Whose very souls with rapture glisten, When you can find a fool to listen; Who, if a debt were paid by pun, Would never be completely _done_. Ye bright inhabitants of garrets, Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets, Who, in your lofty paradise, See aldermanic banquets rise-- And though the duns around you troop, Still float in seas of turtle soup. I here forsake the tuneful trade, Where none but lordlings now are paid, Or where some northern rogue sits puling, (The curse of universal schooling)-- A ploughman to his country lost, An author to his printer's cost-- A slave to every man who'll buy him, A knave to every man who'll try him-- Yet let him take the pen, at once The laurel gathers round his sconce!
On every subject superseded, My favorite topics all invaded, I scarcely dip my pen in praise, When fifty bardlings grasp my bays; Or let me touch a drop of satire, (I once knew something of the matter), Just fifty bardlings take the trouble, To be my tuneful worship's double. Fine similies that nothing fit, Joe Miller's, that _must_ pass for wit; The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes, The humour that no laugh provokes-- The nameless, worthless, witless rancours, The rage that souls of scribblers cankers-- (Administer'd in gall go thick, It makes even Sunday critic's sick!) Disgust my passion, fill my place, And snatch my prize before my face.
If then I take the "brilliant" pen. And "scorning measures" talk of men-- There Luttrel steps 'twixt me and fame-- So like, egad, we're just the same; I never half squeeze out a thought, But jumps its fellow on the spot-- My tenderest dreams, my fondest touch, Are victims to his ready clutch; The whirling waltz, the gay costume, The porcelain tooth, the gallic bloom; The vapid smiles, the lisping loves Of turtles (never meant for doves)-- The dreary stuff that fills the ears, Where _all_ the orators are peers-- The hides reveal'd through ball-room dresses, Where all the parties are peer-esses; The dulness of the _toujours gai_, The yawning night, the sleepy day, The visages of cheese and chalk, The drowsy, dreamy, languid talk; The fifty other horrid things, That strip old Time of both his wings! There's not a topic of them all But comes, hey presto! at _his_ call.
Or when I turn my pen to love, A theme that fits me like my glove, A pang I've borne these twenty years With ten-times twenty several dears, Each glance a dart, each smile a quiver, Stinging their bard from lungs to liver-- To work my ruin, or my cure, Up starts thy pen, Anacreon Moore! In vain I pour my shower of roses, On which the matchless fair one dozes, And plant around her conch the graces, While jealous Venus breaks her laces, To see a younger face promoted, To see her own old face out-voted; And myrtle branches twisting o'er her, Bow down, each turn'd a true adorer. Up starts the Irish Bard--in vain I write, 'tis all against the grain: In vain I talk of smiles or sighs, The girls all have him in their eyes; And not a soul--mamma, or miss-- But vows he's the sole Bard of Bliss!
Since first I dipp'd in the romantic, A hundred thousand have run frantic-- There's not a hideous highland spot, (Long fallowed to the core by Scott)-- No rill, through rack and thistle dribbling, But has its deadlier crop of scribbling. Each fen, and flat, and flood, and fell, Gives birth to verses by the ell-- There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies, Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys-- There Coleridge swears none else shall tune A bag-pipe to the list'ning moon; On come in clouds the scribbling columns, Each prowling for his next three volumes. I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn all The yearly, monthly, and diurnal.
I write the finest things that ever Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever-- (Although I'd rather half turn Turk, The thing's such monstrous up-hill work). My _ton's_ the very cream of fashion, My passion the sublimest passion, My rage _satanic_, love the same, Of all blue flames, the bluest flame-- My piety perpetual matins, A quaker propp'd on double pattens; My lovely girls the most precocious, My beaus delightfully atrocious! Yet scarcely have I play'd my card, When up comes politician Ward, Before my face he trumps my trump, Sweeps off my honours in the lump, And never asking my permission, Talks sermons to the third edition.
Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan, (The Pyrenees begin to flatten, A feast denied to storm and shower, The pen's the wonder-working power); Or Smith, the master of "Addresses," Carves history out in modern messes:-- Tells how gay Charles cook'd up his collops, How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops-- How pledged his soul, and pawn'd his oath, 'Till none would give a straw for both; And touching paupers for the Evil, Touch'd England half way to the devil Or Hook, picks up my favorite hits, For when was friendship between wits? Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied, Fidgets his donkey by my side; Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece, Woolgathering from the Golden fleece-- Or forty volumes, piping hot, Come blazing from volcano Scott; When pens like their's play all my game. The tasteless world must bear the blame.
I had a budget, full of fan, But here again, I'm lost, undone! I'm so forestall'd--that faith, I could Half quarrel with--my _lively Hood_: For _odd it is_, my "Oddities," Are _even_ all the same with his; Would _Sherwood_ (him of Paternoster), Assist my pilferings to foster, I'd turn free-booter--nay, I would E'en play the part of _robbing Hood_-- But brother Wits should never quarrel, Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel," And tho' my income's scarce enough To find friend Petersham with snuff, Here's peace to all! and kind regards! And _Brother Hood_ among the Bards.
So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers, With one, or one and twenty covers, Farewell to all;--my glories past, I pen my lay, my sweetest, last! Another Phoenix, build my nest Of spices, Phoebus' very best, Concentrating in these gay pages, Wit, worth the wit of all the stages; Love, tender as the midnight talk, In softest summer's midnight walk, With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em, Nay (if they first will _buy_) to burn 'em.
TO THE REVIEWERS.
Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe, To give the song-smit generation law; Who wield Apollo's delegated rod, And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod; A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils, Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils, Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude, He dares within the mountain's pale intrude; For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells. And rules the spirit with Lethëan spells; By hands unseen aërial harps are hung, And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young, On her broad bosom rears the laughing Loves, And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves; Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow, And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow.
There, while the Muses wanton unconfined, And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind, 'Tis yours to strew their steps with votive flowers; To watch them slumbering 'midst the blissful bowers; To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms; And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms! Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss? Alas! he pants not for superior bliss; Thrice-bless'd his virgin modesty shall be To snatch an evanescent ecstacy! The fierce extremes of superhuman love, For his frail sense too exquisite might prove; He turns, all blushing, from th' Aönian shade, To humbler raptures with a mortal maid.
I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights, Awaked to vengeance, on such flights to frown, Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down. But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre, The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, 'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies, Subdued by his resistless energies, 'Tis yours to bid Piërian fountains flow, And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days! Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays, are mine, If by your looks my doom I may divine, Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big, Your fateful arms, the goose-quill, and the wig: The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd, Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest; And shame and honour on the goose-quill perch, Like doves and ravens on a country church.
As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admired, Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tired, Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare, Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air," To town repairs, some famed assembly seeks, With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks; But when, electric on th' astonish'd wight Burst the full floods of music and of light, While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus, At once confounded into sober sense, He feels his pristine insignificance: And blinking, blund'ring, from the general _quiz_ Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is." By pride inflated, and by praise allured, Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cured; But, Critics, hear I an angel pleads for _me_, That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, _Modesty_.
Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those That flay'd the Traveller who had lost his clothes; Are there not foes enough to _do_ my books? Relentless trunk-makers and pastry-cooks? Acknowledge not those barbarous allies, The wooden box-men, and the men of pies: For Heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood That you, great Censors! coalesce with _wood;_ Nor let your actions contradict your looks, That tell the world you ne'er colleague with _cooks._
But, if the blithe Muse will indulge a smile, Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while? Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears, Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears: With such a visage, withering, woe-begone, Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun. Come, let us teach each other's tears to flow, Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe, When the coy Muse puts on coquettish airs, Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers! Thy spirit, groaning like th' encumber'd block Which bears my works, deplores them as _dead stock._ Doom'd by these undiscriminating times To endless sleep, with Delia Cruscan rhymes; Yes, Critics whisper thee, litigious wretches! Oblivion's hand shall _finish_ all my _sketches._ But see, _my_ soul, such bug-bears has repell'd With magnanimity unparallel'd! Take up the volume, every care dismiss, And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this: Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf, All shall be sold--I'll buy them in myself!