Chapter 15

4 But if they, in spite o' my counsel, wad run The dreary, sad task o' the spinnin' o't; Let them find a lown seat by the light o' the sun, And syne venture on the beginnin' o't. For wha's done as I've done, alake and awowe! To busk up a rock at the cheek o' a lowe; They'll say that I had little wit in my pow-- O the muckle black deil tak' the spinnin' o't.

RICHARD GLOVER.

Glover was a man so remarkable as to be thought capable of having written the letters of Junius, although no one now almost names his name or reads his poetry. He was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and born (1712) in St Martin's Lane, Cannon Street. He was educated at a private school in Surrey, but being designed for trade, was never sent to a university, yet by his own exertions he became an excellent classical scholar. At sixteen he wrote a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, and at twenty-five produced nine books of his 'Leonidas.' Partly through its own merits, partly through its liberal political sentiments, and partly through the influence of Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, and the praise of Fielding and Chatham, it became very popular. In 1739, he produced a poem entitled 'London; or, The Progress of Commerce,' and a spirited ballad entitled 'Admiral Hosier's Ghost,' which we have given, both designed to rouse the national spirit against the Spaniards.

Glover was a merchant, and very highly esteemed among his commercial brethren, although at one time unfortunate in business. When forced by his failure to seek retirement, he produced a tragedy on the subject of Boadicea, which ran the usual nine nights, although it has long since ceased to be acted or read. In his later years his affairs improved; he returned again to public life, was elected to Parliament, and approved himself a painstaking and popular M.P. In 1770, he enlarged his 'Leonidas' from nine books to twelve, and afterwards wrote a sequel to it, entitled 'The Athenais.' Glover spent his closing years in opulent retirement, enjoying the intimacy and respect of the most eminent men of the day, and died in 1785.

'Leonidas' may be called the epic of the eighteenth century, and betrays the artificial genius of its age. The poet rises to his flight like a heavy heron--not a hawk or eagle. Passages in it are good, but the effect of the whole is dulness. It reminds you of Cowper's 'Homer,' in which all is accurate, but all is cold, and where even the sound of battle lulls to slumber--or of Edwin Atherstone's 'Fall of Nineveh,' where you are fatigued with uniform pomp, and the story struggles and staggers under a load of words. Thomson exclaimed when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He write an epic, who never saw a mountain!' And there was justice in the remark. The success of 'Leonidas' was probably one cause of the swarm of epics which appeared in the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century.--Cottle himself being, according to De Quincey, 'the author of four epic poems, _and_ a new kind of blacking.' Their day seems now for ever at an end.

FROM BOOK XII

Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before the Battle of Thermopylae.

Back to the pass in gentle march he leads The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. Soft breezes only from the Malian wave O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears Melissa, bearing in her hand divine The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, All with concordant strings, and accents clear, A torrent pour of melody, and swell A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, Anticipating fame. Of endless joys In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, Let them salute the children of their laws. Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food Refined, and more exalted, shall contend Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. In yonder fane deposited, your urns, Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. Whatever offerings, genius, science, art Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, In every tongue, through every age and clime, You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, Transplanted only to immortal bloom Of praise with men, of happiness with gods.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS BY ADMIRAL VERNON--Nov. 22, 1739.

1 As near Porto-Bello lying On the gently swelling flood, At midnight with streamers flying, Our triumphant navy rode: There while Vernon sat all-glorious From the Spaniards' late defeat; And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England's fleet:

2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; Then each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appeared, All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded, Frowning on that hostile shore.

3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, When the shade of Hosier brave His pale bands was seen to muster, Rising from their watery grave: O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail:

4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, I am Hosier's injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello's ruin You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears.

5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers pale and horrid, Those were once my sailors bold, Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told.

6 'I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight: Oh! that in this rolling ocean I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart's warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain.

7 'For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver Of this gallant train had been.

8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her galleons leading home, Though condemned for disobeying, I had met a traitor's doom; To have fallen, my country crying, He has played an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a grieved and broken heart.

9 'Unrepining at thy glory, Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain.

10 'Hence, with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending, Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing, We recall our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom.

11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam deprived of rest, If to Britain's shores returning, You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England shamed in me.'

[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship.

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire entitled 'Manners,' which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill--

'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.'

William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in his 'Ghost,' says--

'But he who in the laureate chair, By grace, not merit, planted there, In awkward pomp is seen to sit, And by his patent proves his wit,' &c.

To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.'

VARIETY.

A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.

A gentle maid, of rural breeding, By Nature first, and then by reading, Was filled with all those soft sensations Which we restrain in near relations, Lest future husbands should be jealous, And think their wives too fond of fellows.

The morning sun beheld her rove A nymph, or goddess of the grove! At eve she paced the dewy lawn, And called each clown she saw, a faun! Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, And turned some copious volume o'er. For much she read; and chiefly those Great authors, who in verse, or prose, Or something betwixt both, unwind The secret springs which move the mind. These much she read; and thought she knew The human heart's minutest clue; Yet shrewd observers still declare, (To show how shrewd observers are,) Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, And novels, in profusion, came, Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, She only read the heart's romance.

The world, no doubt, was well enough To smooth the manners of the rough; Might please the giddy and the vain, Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: But, for her part, the truest taste She found was in retirement placed, Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, 'On every thorn instruction grows.'

Not that she wished to 'be alone,' As some affected prudes have done; She knew it was decreed on high We should 'increase and multiply;' And therefore, if kind Fate would grant Her fondest wish, her only want, A cottage with the man she loved Was what her gentle heart approved; In some delightful solitude Where step profane might ne'er intrude; But Hymen guard the sacred ground, And virtuous Cupids hover round. Not such as flutter on a fan Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, (Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, And hold their fingers to their noses,) But simpering, mild, and innocent, As angels on a monument.

Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; One who had trod, as well as she, The flowery paths of poesy; Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, Could every line of Pope repeat, Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, 'The lover's hopes,' 'the lover's pains.'

Attentive to the charmer's tongue, With him she thought no evening long; With him she sauntered half the day; And sometimes, in a laughing way, Ran o'er the catalogue by rote Of who might marry, and who not; 'Consider, sir, we're near relations--' 'I hope so in our inclinations.'-- In short, she looked, she blushed consent; He grasped her hand, to church they went; And every matron that was there, With tongue so voluble and supple, Said for her part, she must declare, She never saw a finer couple. halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, 'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, The fields assumed unusual bloom, And every zephyr breathed perfume, The laughing sun with genial beams Danced lightly on the exulting streams; And the pale regent of the night In dewy softness shed delight. 'Twas transport not to be expressed; 'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest.

Two smiling springs had waked the flowers That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, (Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, Who count by months, and not by years,) Two smiling springs had chaplets wove To crown their solitude, and love: When lo, they find, they can't tell how, Their walks are not so pleasant now. The seasons sure were changed; the place Had, somehow, got a different face. Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; The lawns, the woods, were not so green. The purling rill, which murmured by, And once was liquid harmony, Became a sluggish, reedy pool: The days grew hot, the evenings cool. The moon, with all the starry reign, Were melancholy's silent train. And then the tedious winter night-- They could not read by candle-light.

Full oft, unknowing why they did, They called in adventitious aid. A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus With Tobit and Telemachus) Amused their steps; and for a while They viewed his gambols with a smile. The kitten too was comical, She played so oddly with her tail, Or in the glass was pleased to find Another cat, and peeped behind.

A courteous neighbour at the door Was deemed intrusive noise no more. For rural visits, now and then, Are right, as men must live with men. Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,

A new recruit, a dear delight! Made many a heavy hour go down, At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, She was so sprightly, and so clever!

Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; What joy, alas! could converse bring With awkward creatures bred at home?-- The dog grew dull, or troublesome. The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. --'And then, my dear, I can't abide This always sauntering side by side.' 'Enough!' he cries, 'the reason's plain: For causes never rack your brain. Our neighbours are like other folks, Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, Are still delightful, still would please, Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. Look round, with an impartial eye, On yonder fields, on yonder sky; The azure cope, the flowers below, With all their wonted colours glow. The rill still murmurs; and the moon Shines, as she did, a softer sun. No change has made the seasons fail, No comet brushed us with his tail. The scene's the same, the same the weather-- We live, my dear, too much together.'

Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, And added wealth the means supplies. With eager haste to town they flew, Where all must please, for all was new.

But here, by strict poetic laws, Description claims its proper pause.

The rosy morn had raised her head From old Tithonus' saffron bed; And embryo sunbeams from the east, Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, When forth advanced the gilded chaise; The village crowded round to gaze. The pert postilion, now promoted From driving plough, and neatly booted, His jacket, cap, and baldric on, (As greater folks than he have done,) Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air, Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair Bowed graceful, from a separate door, And Jenny, from the stool before.

Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes New objects every moment rise. Each carriage passing on the road, From the broad waggon's ponderous load To the light car, where mounted high The giddy driver seems to fly, Were themes for harmless satire fit, And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit. Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. The dash and splash through thick and thin, The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, (Where well-bred landlords were so ready To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, Determined to be pleased, and please.

Now nearer town, and all agog, They know dear London by its fog. Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, Through Brentford win a passage free By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!' At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, With palaces to grace its side, Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze Concludes the journey of three days.

Why should we paint, in tedious song, How every day, and all day long, They drove at first with curious haste Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed 'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, Describe how strong their wonder grew At buildings--and at builders too?

Scarce less astonishment arose At architects more fair than those-- Who built as high, as widely spread The enormous loads that clothed their head. For British dames new follies love, And, if they can't invent, improve. Some with erect pagodas vie, Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, Convolved, contorted, and compressed; With intermingling trees, and flowers, And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers, Stage above stage the turrets run, Like pendent groves of Babylon, Till nodding from the topmost wall Otranto's plumes envelop all! Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, Unconscious that their tails perfume, In scented curls, the drawing-room.

When Night her murky pinions spread, And sober folks retire to bed, To every public place they flew, Where Jenny told them who was who. Money was always at command, And tripped with pleasure hand in hand. Money was equipage, was show, Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; The _passe-partout_ through every vein Of dissipation's hydra reign.

O London, thou prolific source, Parent of vice, and folly's nurse! Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs Spawn hourly births--and all with stings: But happiest far the he, or she,

I know not which, that livelier dunce Who first contrived the coterie,

To crush domestic bliss at once. Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, As Nero fiddled to the flames.

Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak With reverence, though in numbers weak; Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, We spare the follies for the pile. Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, With lamps above, and lamps below, Thy charms even modern taste defied, They could not spoil thee, though they tried.

Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings Must sweep thee off with vulgar things! Let architects of humbler name On frail materials build their fame, Their noblest works the world might want, Wyatt should build in adamant.

But what are these to scenes which lie Secreted from the vulgar eye, And baffle all the powers of song?-- A brazen throat, an iron tongue, (Which poets wish for, when at length Their subject soars above their strength,) Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, Who only reads the public news And idly utters what she gleans From chronicles and magazines, Recoiling feels her feeble fires, And blushing to her shades retires, Alas! she knows not how to treat The finer follies of the great, Where even, Democritus, thy sneer Were vain as Heraclitus' tear.

Suffice it that by just degrees They reached all heights, and rose with ease; (For beauty wins its way, uncalled, And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) Each gambling dame she knew, and he Knew every shark of quality; From the grave cautious few who live On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, To the light train who mimic France, And the soft sons of _nonchalance_. While Jenny, now no more of use, Excuse succeeding to excuse, Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew To shilling whist, and chicken loo.

Advanced to fashion's wavering head, They now, where once they followed, led. Devised new systems of delight, A-bed all day, and up all night, In different circles reigned supreme. Wives copied her, and husbands him; Till so divinely life ran on, So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, That meeting in a public place, They scarcely knew each other's face.

At last they met, by his desire, A _tete-a-tete_ across the fire; Looked in each other's face awhile, With half a tear, and half a smile. The ruddy health, which wont to grace With manly glow his rural face, Now scarce retained its faintest streak; So sallow was his leathern cheek. She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, With rouge had striven in vain to hide What once was beauty, and repair The rapine of the midnight air.

Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. Both wished to speak, both hung the head. At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, 'When tired of folly, to be wise. Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan. She wept consent, and he went on:

'How delicate the married life! You love your husband, I my wife! Not even satiety could tame, Nor dissipation quench the flame.

'True to the bias of our kind, 'Tis happiness we wish to find. In rural scenes retired we sought In vain the dear, delicious draught, Though blest with love's indulgent store, We found we wanted something more. 'Twas company, 'twas friends to share The bliss we languished to declare. 'Twas social converse, change of scene, To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; Short absences to wake desire, And sweet regrets to fan the fire.

'We left the lonesome place; and found, In dissipation's giddy round, A thousand novelties to wake The springs of life and not to break. As, from the nest not wandering far, In light excursions through the air, The feathered tenants of the grove Around in mazy circles move, Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, Or taste the blossom on the bough. We sported freely with the rest; And still, returning to the nest, In easy mirth we chatted o'er The trifles of the day before.

'Behold us now, dissolving quite In the full ocean of delight; In pleasures every hour employ, Immersed in all the world calls joy; Our affluence easing the expense Of splendour and magnificence; Our company, the exalted set Of all that's gay, and all that's great: Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- We live, my dear, too much asunder.'

The moral of my tale is this, Variety's the soul of bless; But such variety alone As makes our home the more our own. As from the heart's impelling power The life-blood pours its genial store; Though taking each a various way, The active streams meandering play Through every artery, every vein, All to the heart return again; From thence resume their new career, But still return and centre there: So real happiness below Must from the heart sincerely flow; Nor, listening to the syren's song, Must stray too far, or rest too long. All human pleasures thither tend; Must there begin, and there must end; Must there recruit their languid force, And gain fresh vigour from their source.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.