Chapter 19

Knight of the Polar Star! by fortune placed To shine the Cynosure of British taste; Whose orb collects in one refulgent view The scattered glories of Chinese virtu; And spreads their lustre in so broad a blaze, That kings themselves are dazzled while they gaze: Oh, let the Muse attend thy march sublime, And, with thy prose, caparison her rhyme; Teach her, like thee, to gild her splendid song, With scenes of Yven-Ming, and sayings of Li-Tsong; Like thee to scorn dame Nature's simple fence; Leap each ha-ha of truth and common sense; And proudly rising in her bold career, Demand attention from the gracious ear Of him, whom we and all the world admit, Patron supreme of science, taste, and wit. Does envy doubt? Witness, ye chosen train, Who breathe the sweets of his Saturnian reign; Witness, ye Hills, ye Johnsons, Scots, Shebbeares, Hark to my call, for some of you have ears. Let David Hume, from the remotest north, In see-saw sceptic scruples hint his worth; David, who there supinely deigns to lie The fattest hog of Epicurus' sty; Though drunk with Gallic wine, and Gallic praise, David shall bless Old England's halcyon days; The mighty Home, bemired in prose so long, Again shall stalk upon the stilts of song: While bold Mac-Ossian, wont in ghosts to deal, Bids candid Smollett from his coffin steal; Bids Mallock quit his sweet Elysian rest, Sunk in his St John's philosophic breast, And, like old Orpheus, make some strong effort To come from Hell, and warble Truth at Court. There was a time, 'in Esher's peaceful grove, When Kent and Nature vied for Pelham's love,' That Pope beheld them with auspicious smile, And owned that beauty blest their mutual toil. Mistaken bard! could such a pair design Scenes fit to live in thy immortal line? Hadst thou been born in this enlightened day, Felt, as we feel, taste's oriental ray, Thy satire sure had given them both a stab, Called Kent a driveller, and the nymph a drab. For what is Nature? Ring her changes round, Her three flat notes are water, plants, and ground; Prolong the peal, yet, spite of all your clatter, The tedious chime is still ground, plants, and water. So, when some John his dull invention racks, To rival Boodle's dinners, or Almack's; Three uncouth legs of mutton shock our eyes, Three roasted geese, three buttered apple-pies. Come, then, prolific Art, and with thee bring The charms that rise from thy exhaustless spring; To Richmond come, for see, untutored Browne Destroys those wonders which were once thy own. Lo, from his melon-ground the peasant slave Has rudely rushed, and levelled Merlin's cave; Knocked down the waxen wizard, seized his wand, Transformed to lawn what late was fairy-land; And marred, with impious hand, each sweet design Of Stephen Duck, and good Queen Caroline. Haste, bid yon livelong terrace re-ascend, Replace each vista, straighten every bend; Shut out the Thames; shall that ignoble thing Approach the presence of great Ocean's king? No! let barbaric glories feast his eyes, August pagodas round his palace rise, And finished Richmond open to his view, 'A work to wonder at, perhaps a Kew.' Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; In some fair island will we turn to grass (With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass. Giants from Africa shall guard the glades, Where hiss our snakes, where sport our Tartar maids; Or, wanting these, from Charlotte Hayes we bring Damsels, alike adroit to sport and sting. Now to our lawns of dalliance and delight, Join we the groves of horror and affright; This to achieve no foreign aids we try,-- Thy gibbets, Bagshot! shall our wants supply; Hounslow, whose heath sublimer terror fills, Shall with her gibbets lend her powder-mills. Here, too, O king of vengeance, in thy fane, Tremendous Wilkes shall rattle his gold chain; And round that fane, on many a Tyburn tree, Hang fragments dire of Newgate-history; On this shall Holland's dying speech be read, Here Bute's confession, and his wooden head: While all the minor plunderers of the age, (Too numerous far for this contracted page,) The Rigbys, Calcrafts, Dysons, Bradshaws there, In straw-stuffed effigy, shall kick the air. But say, ye powers, who come when fancy calls, Where shall our mimic London rear her walls? That eastern feature, Art must next produce, Though not for present yet for future use, Our sons some slave of greatness may behold, Cast in the genuine Asiatic mould: Who of three realms shall condescend to know No more than he can spy from Windsor's brow; For him, that blessing of a better time, The Muse shall deal a while in brick and lime; Surpass the bold [Greek: ADELPHI] in design, And o'er the Thames fling one stupendous line Of marble arches, in a bridge, that cuts From Richmond Ferry slant to Brentford Butts. Brentford with London's charms will we adorn; Brentford, the bishopric of Parson Horne. There, at one glance, the royal eye shall meet Each varied beauty of St James's Street; Stout Talbot there shall ply with hackney chair, And patriot Betty fix her fruit-shop there. Like distant thunder, now the coach of state Rolls o'er the bridge, that groans beneath its weight. The court hath crossed the stream; the sports begin; Now Noel preaches of rebellion's sin: And as the powers of his strong pathos rise, Lo, brazen tears fall from Sir Fletcher's eyes. While skulking round the pews, that babe of grace, Who ne'er before at sermon showed his face, See Jemmy Twitcher shambles; stop! stop thief! He's stolen the Earl of Denbigh's handkerchief, Let Barrington arrest him in mock fury, And Mansfield hang the knave without a jury. But hark, the voice of battle shouts from far, The Jews and Maccaronis are at war: The Jews prevail, and, thundering from the stocks, They seize, they bind, they circumcise Charles Fox. Fair Schwellenbergen smiles the sport to see, And all the maids of honour cry 'Te! He!' Be these the rural pastimes that attend Great Brunswick's leisure: these shall best unbend His royal mind, whene'er from state withdrawn, He treads the velvet of his Richmond lawn; These shall prolong his Asiatic dream, Though Europe's balance trembles on its beam. And thou, Sir William! while thy plastic hand Creates each wonder which thy bard has planned, While, as thy art commands, obsequious rise Whate'er can please, or frighten, or surprise, Oh, let that bard his knight's protection claim, And share, like faithful Sancho, Quixote's fame.

JOHN LOWE.

The author of 'Mary's Dream' was born in 1750, at Kenmore, Galloway, and was the son of a gardener. He became a student of divinity, and acted as tutor in the family of a Mr McGhie of Airds. A daughter of Mr McGhie was attached to a gentleman named Miller, a surgeon at sea, and on the occasion of his death Lowe wrote his beautiful 'Mary's Dream,' the exquisite simplicity and music of the first stanza of which has often been admired. Lowe was betrothed to a sister of 'Mary,' but having emigrated to America, he married another, fell into dissipated habits, and died in a miserable plight at Fredericksburgh in 1798. He wrote many other pieces, but none equal to 'Mary's Dream.'

MARY'S DREAM.

1 The moon had climbed the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!'

2 She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale, and hollow ee. 'O Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me!

3 'Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love for thee: The storm is past, and I at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me!

4 'O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!' Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, 'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'

JOSEPH WARTON.

This accomplished critic and poet was born in 1722. He was son to the Vicar of Basingstoke, and brother to Thomas Warton. (See a former volume for his life.) Joseph was educated at Winchester College, and became intimate there with William Collins. He wrote when quite young some poetry in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. He was in due time removed to Oriel College, where he composed two poems, entitled 'The Enthusiast,' and 'The Dying Indian.' In 1744, he took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at Oxford, and was ordained to his father's curacy at Basingstoke. He went thence to Chelsea, but did not remain there long, owing to some disagreement with his parishioners, and returned to Basingstoke. In 1746, he published a volume of Odes, and in the preface expressed his hope that it might be successful as an attempt to bring poetry back from the didactic and satirical taste of the age, to the truer channels of fancy and description. The motive of this attempt was, however, more praiseworthy than its success was conspicuous.

In 1748, Warton was presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory of Winslade, and he straightway married a Miss Daman, to whom he had for some time been attached. In the same year he began, and in 1753 he finished and printed, an edition of Virgil in English and Latin. Of this large, elaborate work, Warton himself supplied only the life of Virgil, with three essays on pastoral, didactic, and epic poetry, and a poetical version of the Eclogues and the Georgics, more correct but less spirited than Dryden's. He adopted Pitt's version of the Aeneid, and his friends furnished some of the dissertations, notes, &c. Shortly after, he contributed twenty-four excellent papers, including some striking allegories, and some good criticisms on Shakspeare, to the _Adventurer_. In 1754, he was appointed to the living of Tunworth, and the next year was elected second master of Winchester School. Soon after this he published anonymously 'An Essay on the Writings and Genius of Pope,' which, whether because he failed in convincing the public that his estimate of Pope was the correct one, or because he stood in awe of Warburton, he did not complete or reprint for twenty-six years. It is a somewhat gossiping book, but full of information and interest.

In May 1766, he was made head-master of Winchester. In 1768, he lost his wife, and next year married a Miss Nicholas of Winchester. In 1782, he was promoted, through Bishop Lowth, to a prebend's post in St Paul's, and to the living of Thorley, which he exchanged for that of Wickham. Other livings dropped in upon him, and in 1793 he resigned the mastership of Winchester, and went to reside at Wickham. Here he employed himself in preparing an edition of Pope, which he published in 1797. In 1800 he died.

Warton, like his brother, did good service in resisting the literary despotism of Pope, and in directing the attention of the public to the forgotten treasures of old English poetry. He was a man of extensive learning, a very fair and candid, as well as acute critic, and his 'Ode to Fancy' proves him to have possessed no ordinary genius.

ODE TO FANCY.

O parent of each lovely Muse, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse, O'er all my artless songs preside, My footsteps to thy temple guide, To offer at thy turf-built shrine, In golden cups no costly wine, No murdered fatling of the flock, But flowers and honey from the rock. O nymph with loosely-flowing hair, With buskined leg, and bosom bare, Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound, Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned, Waving in thy snowy hand An all-commanding magic wand, Of power to bid fresh gardens blow, 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow, Whose rapid wings thy flight convey Through air, and over earth and sea, While the vast various landscape lies Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes. O lover of the desert, hail! Say, in what deep and pathless vale, Or on what hoary mountain's side, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside, 'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene, With green and grassy dales between, 'Mid forests dark of aged oak, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke, Where never human art appeared, Nor even one straw-roofed cot was reared, Where Nature seems to sit alone, Majestic on a craggy throne; Tell me the path, sweet wanderer, tell, To thy unknown sequestered cell, Where woodbines cluster round the door, Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor, And on whose top a hawthorn blows, Amid whose thickly-woven boughs Some nightingale still builds her nest, Each evening warbling thee to rest: Then lay me by the haunted stream, Rapt in some wild, poetic dream, In converse while methinks I rove With Spenser through a fairy grove; Till, suddenly awaked, I hear Strange whispered music in my ear, And my glad soul in bliss is drowned By the sweetly-soothing sound! Me, goddess, by the right hand lead Sometimes through the yellow mead, Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort, And Venus keeps her festive court; Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, And lightly trip with nimble feet, Nodding their lily-crowned heads, Where Laughter rose-lipped Hebe leads; Where Echo walks steep hills among, Listening to the shepherd's song: Yet not these flowery fields of joy Can long my pensive mind employ; Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly, To meet the matron Melancholy, Goddess of the tearful eye, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh; Let us with silent footsteps go To charnels and the house of woe, To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs, Where each sad night some virgin comes, With throbbing breast, and faded cheek, Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek; Or to some abbey's mouldering towers, Where, to avoid cold wintry showers, The naked beggar shivering lies, While whistling tempests round her rise, And trembles lest the tottering wall Should on her sleeping infants fall. Now let us louder strike the lyre, For my heart glows with martial fire,-- I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, My big tumultuous bosom beat; The trumpet's clangours pierce my ear, A thousand widows' shrieks I hear, Give me another horse, I cry, Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Whence is this rage?--what spirit, say, To battle hurries me away? 'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car, Transports me to the thickest war, There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Where Tumult and Destruction reign; Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed Tramples the dying and the dead; Where giant Terror stalks around, With sullen joy surveys the ground, And, pointing to the ensanguined field, Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield! Oh, guide me from this horrid scene, To high-arched walks and alleys green, Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun The fervours of the mid-day sun; The pangs of absence, oh, remove! For thou canst place me near my love, Canst fold in visionary bliss, And let me think I steal a kiss, While her ruby lips dispense Luscious nectar's quintessence! When young-eyed Spring profusely throws From her green lap the pink and rose, When the soft turtle of the dale To Summer tells her tender tale; When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, And stains with wine his jolly cheeks; When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, Shakes his silver beard with cold; At every season let my ear Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear. O warm, enthusiastic maid, Without thy powerful, vital aid, That breathes an energy divine, That gives a soul to every line, Ne'er may I strive with lips profane To utter an unhallowed strain, Nor dare to touch the sacred string, Save when with smiles thou bidst me sing. Oh, hear our prayer! oh, hither come From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, On which thou lovest to sit at eve, Musing o'er thy darling's grave; O queen of numbers, once again Animate some chosen swain, Who, filled with unexhausted fire, May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Who with some new unequalled song May rise above the rhyming throng, O'er all our listening passions reign, O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain, With terror shake, and pity move, Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; Oh, deign to attend his evening walk, With him in groves and grottoes talk; Teach him to scorn with frigid art Feebly to touch the enraptured heart; Like lightning, let his mighty verse The bosom's inmost foldings pierce; With native beauties win applause Beyond cold critics' studied laws; Oh, let each Muse's fame increase! Oh, bid Britannia rival Greece!

MISCELLANEOUS.

SONG.

FROM 'THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES.' DUBLIN, 1772.

1 Belinda's sparkling eyes and wit Do various passions raise; And, like the lightning, yield a bright, But momentary blaze.

2 Eliza's milder, gentler sway, Her conquests fairly won, Shall last till life and time decay, Eternal as the sun.

3 Thus the wild flood with deafening roar Bursts dreadful from on high; But soon its empty rage is o'er, And leaves the channel dry:

4 While the pure stream, which still and slow Its gentler current brings, Through every change of time shall flow With unexhausted springs.

VERSES,

COPIED FROM THE WINDOW OF AN OBSCURE LODGING-HOUSE, IN THE NEIGHBOURHOOD OF LONDON.

Stranger! whoe'er thou art, whose restless mind, Like me within these walls is cribbed, confined; Learn how each want that heaves our mutual sigh A woman's soft solicitudes supply. From her white breast retreat all rude alarms, Or fly the magic circle of her arms; While souls exchanged alternate grace acquire, And passions catch from passion's glorious fire: What though to deck this roof no arts combine, Such forms as rival every fair but mine; No nodding plumes, our humble couch above, Proclaim each triumph of unbounded love; No silver lamp with sculptured Cupids gay, O'er yielding beauty pours its midnight ray; Yet Fanny's charms could Time's slow flight beguile, Soothe every care, and make each dungeon smile: In her, what kings, what saints have wished, is given, Her heart is empire, and her love is heaven.

THE OLD BACHELOR.

AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar; Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me, Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar! Haply a scene of meaner view to scan, Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give, To trace the features of unnoticed man; Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach.

2 A wight there was, who single and alone Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known His heart to captive, or his thought engage: Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind Might female worth or beauty give to wear, Yet to the nobler sex he held confined The genuine graces of the soul sincere, And well could show with saw or proverb quaint All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint.

3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was, (For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,) Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be, A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore, And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen, And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean.

4 But in his common garb a coat he wore, A faithful coat that long its lord had known, That once was black, but now was black no more, Attinged by various colours not its own. All from his nostrils was the front embrowned, And down the back ran many a greasy line, While, here and there, his social moments owned The generous signet of the purple wine. Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared, Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared.

5 One only maid he had, like turtle true, But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew, And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind. Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, Ne formed was she to light the tender fire, By many a bard is sung in many a strain: Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old.

6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, Eight patient would she watch his wending home, His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. If long his time was past, and leaden sleep O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch, Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep, And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach; Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue, All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung.

7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign, On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile, Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign: For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, And for the medicine's sake, might envy think, Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay.

8 So as in single animals he joyed, One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed, Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled: All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat, Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat, And loud he barked should Puss his right invade. The human pair oft marked them as they lay, And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.

9 A room he had that faced the southern ray, Where oft he walked to set his thoughts in tune, Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, All to the music of his creeking shoon. And at the end a darkling closet stood, Where books he kept of old research and new, In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, And rusty nails and phials not a few: Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, And papers squared and trimmed for use unmeet to tell.

10 For still in form he placed his chief delight, Nor lightly broke his old accustomed rule, And much uncourteous would he hold the wight That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool; And oft in meet array their ranks he placed, And oft with careful eye their ranks reviewed; For novel forms, though much those forms had graced, Himself and maiden-minister eschewed: One path he trod, nor ever would decline A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line.

11 A Club select there was, where various talk On various chapters passed the lingering hour, And thither oft he bent his evening walk, And warmed to mirth by wine's enlivening power. And oft on politics the preachments ran, If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: And oft important matters would they scan, And deep in council fix a nation's doom: And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear.