Part 5
ON SEEING THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
What majesty! what elegance and grace! The form how perfect! how divine the face! In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:-- Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand? No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see; I feel the presence of the Deity.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.
O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight Behold this image of the God of light; Admire its whole, admire its every part; 'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art. Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere The God appears, than in his Image here.
EPITAPH ON NELSON.
Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;-- Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here, And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade The noble homage of a patriot tear.
Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain, Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd; Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main, And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.
His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame, With loud applause, to latest ages tell; Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name, Where last he conquer'd, where--alas! he fell.
EPITAPH ON HOWARD.
Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread, Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead, To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame, And pay just worship to each godlike name; (If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo, And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,) Midst all the monuments that court your view, And claim the debt to buried merit due, Mark chiefly this;--on this with tearful eyes More fondly gaze;--beneath it Howard lies!
O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn; Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn; Benevolence sits weeping on his stone; Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.
EPITAPH ON VOLTAIRE.
Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame. On him what various gifts did heaven confer!-- Poet, historian, wit, philosopher; But ah!--peruse it, Christian, with a tear-- The chief of infidels lies buried here: Lament the abuse of such rare talents given; Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven.
EPITAPH ON NAPOLEON.
Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps, From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd, Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps! Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!
Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child; Fate urged him on, his great career to fill; On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled; And on his eagles Victory waited still.
By battles won, by policy profound, Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay: England alone, of all the nations round, His power opposed, disdaining to obey.
Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat, Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies. Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;-- There sunk his glory's sun;--ne'er more to rise.
Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart, Pause!--while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;-- 'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart, Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'
EPITAPH ON LORD BYRON.
Lo! Byron's tomb!-- Here, deeply pensive, scan The greatness,--and the littleness of man. In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps, Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps. The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame, Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame, Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here. Thus human Glory ends its bright career. To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart! An intellect sublime, a feeling heart; But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong, Hurried him irresistibly along Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill; No law could bridle his own proud self-will. O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind, Byron had been--the first of human kind!
EPITAPH ON SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.
What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail? Crown they with happiness our mortal state? Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail! O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!-- His frantic hand--O horror!--doom'd to bleed?-- His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes-- 'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'
His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;-- Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire, He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear, Into the holy presence of her Sire.
EPITAPH ON WILBERFORCE.
Champion of justice and humanity, He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free: At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word-- Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard! Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven, Thy task was done,--it was thy call to heaven!
EPITAPH.
Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by, Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye! Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power, In health's full vigour, at the festal hour, All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom, Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.
Mortal take heed!--in awful silence think, Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink; O listen to Religion's warning cry!-- 'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'
TRANSLATED FROM ANACREON.
Though thou hast seen my locks are gray, Ah! do not, Julia, turn away; Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine, Disdainfully my love decline. Behold yon wreath!--how lovely shows The snowy lily with the blushing rose!
EPIGRAMS.
ON HEARING OF THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.
May European Liberty In Moscow's flames her torch relume! And Gallic Tyranny In Moscow's ruins find a tomb!
* * * * *
Locke says--the soul may slumber;-- Lavater says--the soul is seen Reflected in the mien;-- The last assertion true, Proofs of the first we view In faces without number.
TO A HYPOCRITICAL CALVINIST.
By faith alone, you say, not works, Man must obtain salvation;-- If you are saved, the doctrine needs No better confirmation.
* * * * *
My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof, What all believe, denies; Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny, That she is wondrous wise.
* * * * *
'The dullest ass may write In verse, that jingling stuff!' Indeed, Sir? have you tried? 'I have.' That's proof enough.
Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddle That he excels in tragic declamation; Kemble's the favourite, and the model, That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation; Now, that the praise is just, none can deny; But the imitation gives that praise the lie: Decide, ye Critics! for 'tis hard to know,-- Is he to Kemble's fame a friend or foe?
TO JULIA.
Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns, Averts her blushing face; Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns To meet his warm embrace: Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be, Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.
The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King. This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing; But there's a deep-laid policy in it; For, did the Chancellor not--that conscience keep, It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit; Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.
* * * * *
Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree. 'Pat!'--cries an Englishman--''tis clear to me, More grateful for the union you should be; Think what an honour is to Ireland done: Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!' "Murther!"--cries Pat--"he wedded her by force, And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."
ON THE NEW EXPERIMENT OF LIGHTING THE HOUSE OF COMMONS BY MEANS OF GAS-PIPES PLACED BETWEEN THE TWO CEILINGS.
Too long within the House has darkness dwelt, Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt; Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill, For blind debate might love that darkness still, 'Tis well the new experiment to try: A stronger, purer light--none can deny-- Will then illume the House--light coming from on high.
* * * * *
'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!' Cried Hal,--'can play the part of Bottom.' "Play it yourself;"--retorted Ned,-- "You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."
ON SEEING MR. NUTES, A SENSELESS, UNFEELING FELLOW, WEEP AT THE REPRESENTATION OF KING LEAR.
Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock? No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes, Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock; Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes, Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!
* * * * *
A quack, a mere anatomy, Wanting to buy a nag, Questions his friend, a wag, What colour it shall be:-- 'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course, For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'
ON THE LATE REFORM AND THE WHIG ADMINISTRATION.
Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;-- The people hail their own-elected House; On tiptoe stands the general expectation:-- What the grand doings of the Administration? Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!
* * * * *
Metaphysical Sages Have writ many pages, To decide if the Mind Be Spirit or Matter:-- How strange! that in the pages Of these metaphysical sages We so seldom can find Mind, Spirit, or Matter!
TO A CONCEITED & AFFECTED, BUT HANDSOME WOMAN.
Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat, All flattery you despise?-- Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that, And I am sure he lies.
* * * * *
What a strong contrast to most modern sages Were some philosophers of ancient ages! E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too, Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew. Now! vain pretenders such presumption show, They seem to fancy that they all things know. Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity, Would that ye knew but half as much as he!
ON TWO SISTERS WHO ARE ALWAYS QUARRELLING.
Pale is Amelia's face, And red Lavinia's nose is; The sisters ever jar: 'Tis like the civil war Between the rival roses.
* * * * *
On that dark theme, man's genealogy, How strangely people's notions disagree!-- Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:-- My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:-- Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses Into their minds,--to prompt opinion--passes. Would-be philosophers have tried to scan The pedigree of that odd creature, man. 'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries. Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise; (I, for my part, the compliment decline)-- But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine? 'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!' Is't possible?--Yet, when I look on you,-- I, verily, begin to think so too.
* * * * *
'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache--so bad! I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.' "I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had, You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."
ON THE CONDUCT OF SOME FEW CLERGYMEN, WHO ARE A DISGRACE TO THEIR SACRED PROFESSION.
Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion, Goes about, seeking whom he may devour. What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on? To guard his flock against the tempter's power.-- Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em: To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em: Like a devouring lion is the priest; Or--give the devil his due--you'll own, at least, He has the marks about him of the beast.
* * * * *
Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.? 'It means I'm member of the Faculty.' Hum!--from your practice else one might infer It meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.
ON THE MARCH OF INTELLECT.
'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry, Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty! March not so fast, my friends! or you will find, That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.
* * * * *
One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle, Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle. 'What shall we play for?'--Edwin quickly cried; "Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied. 'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.' He wins the game, and straight demands his pay. "No"--'Yes'--"I wont"--'You shall'--"I wont be kiss'd: I'll pay you with a check--if you persist."
ON HEARING MR. **** BOAST THAT HE COULD TRANSLATE VIRGIL.
Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate! Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated? To a far higher intellectual state, Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.
* * * * *
A lady had a sickly son; A skeleton but for his skin:-- Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;-- The mother chid him for his sin.-- 'Her charms were not to be withstood, Too tempting for frail flesh and blood! As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.' "That's no excuse for skin and bone."
ON DR. ****, A MERE PRETENDER TO MEDICAL SCIENCE, OFFICIOUSLY OFFERING ME HIS SERVICES.
'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me; To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed, Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'-- Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed; I'd accept--but for something--the vast obligation. 'But for what, pray?'--The instinct of self-preservation.
* * * * *
If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mind Nastiest ideas we are sure to find, Then--equal to his humour and his wit Swift's delicacy we must all admit.
ON HEARING A PARSON READ VERY BADLY A SERMON HE HAD BOUGHT.
That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought, To save your idle brain the toil of thought, You read in such a dull, lethargic tone, It seems almost as stupid as your own.
* * * * *
Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:-- To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use.
* * * * *
Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.-- What moralist can gratitude condemn? They, formerly, have done so much for him; Ought he not, now, to do his best for them?
TO MR. BURY, AN EMINENT SURGEON IN COVENTRY,
ON HIS HAVING PERFORMED A SUCCESSFUL OPERATION, IN A CASE OF DEEPLY-SEATED INFLAMMATION IN THE NECK, WHEN THE PATIENT WAS IN EXTREME DANGER OF IMMEDIATE SUFFOCATION.
Bury, for practice bold and skill Deserves to be of note; He cures by means that well might kill,-- He cuts his patient's throat!
* * * * *
When Satan tempts a priest to rise, 'It is the call of heaven!' he cries, And mount's ambition's ladder:-- To heaven's own call that bids him be, Like Christ, full of humility, He's deafer than an adder.
AFTER HAVING SEEN SEVERAL BAD PAINTINGS OF THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye! But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!
* * * * *
Man's owl-eyed reason--Popish Priests assert-- Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light; Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their best To keep their flocks in unillumined night.
* * * * *
'The brokers of the Stock-Exchange Are nicknamed bears and bulls;--how strange! What reason, Sir, to call them so?' Ma'am, see their manners, you will know.
ON HEARING A LADY TALK VERY FAST AND UNINTELLIGIBLY.
Words upon words impetuous rush along, And tread each other's brains out as they throng.
* * * * *
'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'-- Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries-- 'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view? And such a fine complexion's ivory hue? Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn: Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.
* * * * *
I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me;--what then? Don't we all know that monkies mimic men? 'I cannot say your poem I admire; It wants originality and fire; Besides, I find it, by no means, correct; You've written it in haste, I should suspect,' "What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?" 'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.'
* * * * *
A worthy man of rags Intreats for charity A rogue of money-bags. 'Pshaw! it at home begins.' Then serve thyself and me; For it will be no less A cover to thy sins, Than to my nakedness.
The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprest The ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast: 'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might; I must, to-day, be laced up very tight; For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:-- Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire! Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced, That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.' 'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake; You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'
* * * * *
In altering thus and shortening his oration, Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong; It well may fill his Lordship with vexation, When he has toil'd so hard to make it long. 'I've writ an epigram;--here, read it, do.-- The critics praise it highly:--what think you?' "I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.' "It may be to your taste--'tis not to mine." 'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!-- The point may be too fine for me to see it." 'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.' "Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."
* * * * *
Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit, They fain would tear the tree up by the root. Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted, But old ones can't;--'tis by all gardeners granted. 'Twill die;--and when the good old tree is dead, What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?
The Squire has long imagined that his son Is deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton. They meet.--'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.-- How get you on in Law? my clever boy! In practice too?--But Tom, what bills you draw! Expensive work this studying of the law!' The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:-- "O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire; In chamber-practice I have much to do."-- His answer--in a certain sense--is true.
* * * * *
To move her lover, a coquetish Miss Began to sob, pretending she should faint;-- Her maid restored her straight by whispering this: 'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'
ON THE MANY VIOLENT DISPUTES AMONG THE PREACHERS OF THE GOSPEL.
The labourers in the vineyard toil (So numerous are their creeds) Far less to cultivate the soil, Than break each others' heads.
* * * * *
'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it. I would be bound--the merest scribbler could-- To write one in a minute.' No doubt you could--but then there would Indeed, be nothing in it.
* * * * *
The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls, With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.
ON HEARING A CLERGYMAN PREACH A DULL SERMON IN A LOUD, SHRILL VOICE.
Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head; Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view; O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead! Ye marble statues! how I envy you!
* * * * *
To hear him preach the Methodistic creed, What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed! His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens; Like heaven itself--says Fame, he thunders, lightens. I go to hear him;--Fame has made a blunder;-- I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder.
For flowery sermons Doctor Drudge Of preachers at the top is;-- If from their influence we may judge, His flowers are only poppies.
* * * * *
Sir! you're both fool and knave!--to Frank, Blunt cries-- I know I am, Sir, Frank to Blunt replies:-- Now, in self-knowledge if all knowledge lies, A fool, like Frank, must be extremely wise!
* * * * *
Vice is a mouse-trap, pleasure is the bait, Like mice, enticing mortals to their fate; And of this truth experience leaves no doubt;-- 'Tis far more easy to get in than out.
Old maids their spleen on marriage vent;-- The reason would you know? 'Tis not, that others are made wives, But that they can't be so.
* * * * *
How grave he looks! how mighty wise!-- He seems Minerva's sacred bird:-- He speaks! our ears refute our eyes-- The cackling of a goose is heard.
* * * * *
How came that Jew, deform'd and old, To wed the youthful, fair Coquette?-- Ben had a purse well-stored with gold! He caught her in't;--'twas Hymen's net! Flirtilla's teeth, well-form'd and white, Were Hymen's pincers, and could bite! When the Royal Exchange to the flames fell a prey, All the Monarchs and Queens from their niches were thrown; Lackaday! on the pavement in fragments they lay, Every one except Charley the Second alone. Strange event! O my Muse! to blind mortals below Clear this mystery which none but immortals can know. "Cytherea and Momus pray'd Vulcan to spare The blithe, amorous King:--Vulcan granted their prayer."
H. MERRIDEW, PRINTER, COVENTRY.