Page images
PDF
EPUB

And, as the knight more tipsy waxes,
We damn all ministers and taxes.
At last the ruddy sun quite sunk,
The coachman tolerably drunk,
Whirling o'er hillock, ruts, and stones,
Enough to dislocate one's bones,
We home return, a wondrous token
Of heaven's kind care, with limbs unbroken.
Afflict us not, ye gods, tho' sinners,
With many days like this, or dinners!

But if civilities thus tease me,
Nor business nor diversions please me;
You'll ask, my Lord, how time I spend?
I answer, with a book or friend;
The circulating hours dividing
Twixt reading, walking, eating, riding:
But books are still my highest joy,
These earliest please, and latest cloy.
Sometimes o'er distant climes I stray,
By guides experienc'd taught the way;
The wonders of each region view,
From frozen Lapland to Peru;
Bound o'er rough seas, and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forsake my elbow chair.
Sometimes some fam'd historian's pen
Recalls past ages back agen;
Where all I see, thro' ev'ry page,
Is but how men, with senseless rage,
Each other rob, destroy, and burn,
To serve a priest's, a statesman's turn:
Tho' loaded with a diff'rent aim,
Yet always asses much the same.
Sometimes I view with much delight,
Divines their holy game cocks fight:
Here faith and works, at variance set,
Strive hard who shall the vict'ry get;
Presbytery and episcopacy,

They fight so long, it would amaze ye;
Here free-will holds a fierce dispute
With reprobation absolute;

There sense kicks transubstantiation,
And reason pecks at revelation.
With learned Newton now I fly
O'er all the rolling orbs on high,
Visit new worlds, and for a minute
This old one scorn, and all that's in it:
And now with lab`ring Boyle I trace
Nature thro' ev'ry winding maze;
The latent qualities admire
Of rapours, water, air, and fire;
With pleasing admiration see
Matter's surprising subtilty;
As how the smallest lamp displays,
For miles around, its scatter'd rays;
Or how (the case still more 't explain)
A fart, that weighs not half a grain,
The atmosphere will oft perfume
Of a whole spacious drawing-room.
Sometimes I pass a whole long day
In happy indolence away,
In fondly meditating o'er

Past pleasures, and in hoping more;

Or wander through the fields and woods,
And gardens bath'd in circling floods;
There blooming flow'rs with rapture view,
And sparkling gems of morning dew,
Whence in my mind ideas rise
Of Celia's cheeks, and Chloe's eyes.

'Tis thus, my Lord, I free from strife
Spend an inglorious country life:
These are the joys I still pursue,
When absent from the town and you;
Thus pass long summer suns away,
Busily idle, calmly gay;

Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, nor wishing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And seeing in all public places
The same vain fops and painted faces,
Wou'd sometimes kindly condescend
To visit a dull country friend:
Here you'll be ever sure to meet
A hearty welcome tho' no treat;
One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himself and you :

A house, where quiet guards the door,
No rural wits smoke, drink, and roar;
Choice books, safe horses, wholesome liqua,
Billiards, backgammon, and the vicar.

$212. Horace. Book II. Ode 10. COWPER
RE
ECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's pow'r :
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treach'rous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbitt'ring all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blast: the loftiest tow'r

Conies heaviest to the ground:
The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain:
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again:

What if thine heaven be overcast,
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky:

The God that strings the silver bow
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

See Boyle's Experiments.

[blocks in formation]

And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside}
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies,
Some people are more nice than wise;
For one slight trespass all this stir!
What if I did ride whip and spur,
Twas but a mile-your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.—
Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing!
Child! I am rather hard of hearing.

Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl; I tell you, you can't hear at all. Then with a voice exceeding low, No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be fear'd,

$214. The Shrubbery. Written in a Time of As to be wantonly incurr'd;

Affliction.

CowPER. To gratify a fretful passion,

HAPPY shades! to me unblest,
Friendly to peace, but not to me;
How ill the scene that offers rest,
And heart that cannot rest, agree!
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Those alders quiv'ring to the breeze,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
And please, if any thing could please.
But fix'd unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within; hews the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn, While peace possess'd these silent bow'rs, ler animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its pow'rs.
The saint or moralist should tread
This moss-grown alley, musing slow;
hey seek, like me, the secret shade,
But not, like me, to nourish woe.
de fruitful scenes and prospects waste
Alike admonish not to roam:
These tell me of enjoyments past,
And those of sorrows yet to come.

215. Mutual Forbearance necessary to the Happiness of the Married State. COWPER. THE THE Lady thus address'd her spouse

What a mere dungeon is this house! By no means large enough; and, was it, Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, Those hangings with their worn-out Graces, Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, Are such an antiquated scene, They overwhelm me with the spleen. Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Makes answer quite beside the mark; No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, Engag'd myself to be at home,

On every trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear,
And something ev'ry day they live
To pity, and perhaps forgive..
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a sense-impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state.
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar,
And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserv'd by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives when that exterior grace
Which first inspir'd the flame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure:
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shews love to be a mere profession,
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.

$216. The Winter Nosegay.
WHAT nature, alas! has denied

COWPER.

To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile. Sec, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flow'rs have the charms of the spring. Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 'Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime,

A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime.

While earth wears a mantle of snow, The pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely surviv'd The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late blowing rose Seem grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shews The truth of a friend such as you.

§ 217. Boadicea, an Ode. WHE

COWPER,

HEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods; Sage, beneath a spreading oak, Sat the Druid, 'hoary chief, Ev'ry burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief: Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues. Rome shall perish-write that wordIn the blood that she has spilt; Perish hopeless and abhorr'd, Deep in ruin as in guilt. Rome, for empire far renown'd Tramples on a thousand states, Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-Hark! the Gaul is at her gates. Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.
Regions Cæsar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow,
Rush'd to battle, fought and died,
Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heaven awards the vengeance due; Empire is on us bestow'd,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

[blocks in formation]

No thunders shook with deep intestine sound
The blooming groves that girdled her around,
Her unctuous olives and her purple vines
(Unfelt the fury of those bursting mines)
The peasant's hopes, and not in vain, assuré,
In peace upon her sloping sides matur'd.
When on a day, like that of the last doom,
A conflagration lab'ring in her womb,
She teem'd and heav'd with an infernal birth,
That shook the circling seas and solid eara,
Dark and voluminous the vapours rise,
And hang their horrors in the neighb'ringa
While through the Stygian veil that blos e
day,

In dazzling streaks the vivid lightnings play
But, O! what muse, and in what pow'rs of sung
Can trace the torrent as it burns along?
Havoc and devastation in the van,
It marches o'er the prostrate work of man;
Vines, olives, herbage, forests disappear,
And all the charms of a Sicilian year.

Revolving seasons, fruitless as they pass,
See it an unform'd and an idle mass,
Without a soil to invite the tiller's care,
Or blade that might redeem it from despair.
Yet time at length(what will not time achie
Clothes it with earth, and bids the produce
Once more the spiry myrtle crowns the
And ruminating flocks enjoy the shade.
O bliss precarious, and unsafe retreats!
O charming paradise of short-liv'd sweets!
The self-same gale that wafts the fragas
round,

Brings to the distant ear a sullen sound:
Again the mountain feels th' imprison'd fo.
Again pours rain on the vale below;
Ten thousand swains the wasted scenede
That only future ages can restore.

Yemonarchs, whom the lure of honour cas Who write in blood the merit of your c Who strike the blow, then plead your ow fence,

Glory your aim, but justice your pretence;
Behold in Etna's einblematic fires
The mischiefs your ambitious pride insp
Fast by the stream that bounds your
domain,

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

And tells you where ye have a right to res
A nation dwells, not envious of your thre
Studious of peace, their neighbours and
Ill-fated race! how deeply must they rue (
Their only crime, vicinity to you!
The trumpet sounds, your legions
Through the ripe harvest lies their destin'de
At ev'ry step beneath their feet they tread
The life of multitudes, a nation's bread;
Earth seems a garden in its loveliest dress
Before them, and behind a wilderness;
Famine, and Pestilence, her first-born son,
Attend to finish what the sword begun;
And echoing praises such as fiends mighter
And folly pays, resound at your return.
A calm succeeds--but Plenty, with her t
Of heart-felt joys, succeeds not soon again.

A

And years of pining indigence must shew
What scourges are the gods that rule below.
Yet man, laborious man, by slow degrees
(Such is his thirst of opulence and ease)
Plies all the sinews of industrious toil,
Gleans up the refuse of the gen'ral spoil :
Rebuilds the tow'rs that sinok'd upon the plain,
And the sun gilds the shining spires again.

Increasing commerce and reviving art
Renew the quarrel on the conqu'ror's part;
And the sad lesson must be learn'd once more,
That wealth within is ruin at the door.

What are ye, monarchs, laurel'd heroes, say,
But Atnas of the suff'ring world ye sway?
Sweet nature, stripp'd of her embroider'd robe,
Deplores the wasted regions of her globe,
And stands a witness at truth's awful bar,
To prove you there destroyers as ye are.

O place me in some heav'n-protected isle,
Where peace, and equity, and freedom smile;
Where no volcano pours his fiery flood,

No crested warrior dips his plume in blood ;
Where pow'r secures what industry has won,
Where to succeed is not to be undone;
A land that distant tyrants hate in vain,
In Britain's isle, beneath a George's reign.

$219. Art above Nature. PETER PINDAR.
NATURE's a coarse, vile, daubing jade—
I've said it often, and repeat it-
She doth not understand her trade- [beat it.
Artists, ne'er mind her work; I hope you'll
Look now, for heav'n's sake, at her skies!
What are they?--Smoke, for certainty,
From chimney-tops, behold! they rise, [know;
Made by some sweating cooks below.
Look at her dirt in lanes, from whence it

comes

From hogs, and ducks, and geese, and horses

bums

Then tell me, Decency, I must request,
Who'd copy such a dev'lish nasty beast?
Paint by the yard-your canvass spread,

Broad as the mainsail of a man of war-
Your whale shall eat up ev'ry other head,
Ev'n as the sun licks up each sneaking star!
I do assure you, bulk is no bad trick-

By bulky things both men and maids are

taken

Mind, too, to lay the paints like mortar thick,
And make your pictures look as red as bacon.
All folks love size; believe my rhyme;
Burke says, 'tis part of the sublime.

A Dutchinan, I forget his name,—Van Grout,
Van Slabberchops, Van Stink, Van Swab,
No matter, though I cannot make it out-
At calling naines I never was a dab-
This Dutchmin, then, a man of taste,
Holding a cheese that weigh'd a hundred
pound,

Thus, like a burgomaster, spoke with judg

ment vast:

"No poet like my broder step de ground.

• A Portuguese Johannes.

"He be de bestest poet, look!
"Dat all de vorld must please;
"Vor he heb vrite von book,

"So big as all dis cheese!"

If at a distance you would paint a pig,
Let not the caxon a distinctness lack;
Else all the lady critics will so stare,
And angry vow, "Tis not a bit like hair!"
Be smooth as glass-like Denner, finish high;
Then every tongue commends-
For people judge not only by the eye,

But feel your merit by their finger ends!
Make out each single bristle on his back.
Or if your meaner subject be a wig,
Nay, closely nosing, o'er the picture dwell,
As if to try the goodness by the smell.

Claude's distances are too confus'd→→
One floating scene-nothing made out-
For which he ought to be abus'd,
Whose works have been so cried about.
Give me the pencil, whose amazing style
Makes a bird's beak appear at twenty mile;
And to my view, eyes, legs, and claws will bring,
With ev'ry feather of his tail and wing.

Make all your trees alike, for Nature's wild-
Fond of variety-a wayward child- [sume;
To blame your taste some blockheads may pre-
But mind, that ev'ry one be like a broom.

Of steel and purest silver form your waters, And make your clouds like rocks and alligators. Whene'er you paint the moon, if you are

willing

To gain applause-why.paint her like a shilling:
Or Sol's bright orb-be sure to make him glow
Precisely like a guinea or a "jo.

In short, to get your pictures prais'd and sold,
Convert, like Midas, ev'ry thing to gold.

I see, at excellence you'll come at last➡
Your clouds are made of very brilliant stuff;

The blues on china mugs are now surpass'd, Your sun-sets yield not to brick-walls nor buff. In stumps of trees your art so finely thrives, They really look like golden-hafted knives! Go on, my lads, leave Nature's dismal hue, And she ere long will come and copy you.

§ 220. The crooked Sixpence. BRAMSTON†, Sing, Maiden Muse,

Sixpence, Hoop-petticoat, and Church on fire.
HAPPY the maid, who, from green sickness

In canvas or in Holland pocket bears [free,
A crooked Sixpence. She envieth not
New-married folks, nor sighs at others banns.
| At eve, when Sol this hemisphere forsakes,
She to her needle or her wheel repairs;
Then, not unmindful of the man, dear man,
Whose faith, by promises and am'rous oaths,
And crooked Sixpence, was to her betroth'd,
William or Thomas; at her work she cries,
His year next March is up, and so is mine.
Meanwhile he shoes japans, or buckling wigs,
Sings Durfey's songs by Purcellini set:

But I, who in my head bear pain, and draw
Author of the Man of Taste, the Art of Politics, &c.

Short

Short breath, attendant sure on sickness green,
With cinders, or with mortar from the wall,
Wretched repast! my fading flesh distain!
In chimney corner close I poking sit,
Nor ever stir spontaneous, scarce when call'd.
J loll, I stretch, I yawn, and from a tub
(Like that whence Burgess preach'd) oatmeal
purloin,

Oatmeal, unsalutary food if raw! [feeds
More wholesome than velep'd burgout, which
North-British lad, full famous in records
Of England's chronicle for selling kings,
When he o'er hoary hills, or craggy cliffs,
Or rugged rocks, where eagles build their nest,
Rides on a galloway, though small, yet strong;
Voy'ging from Dungbay Head through she-
riffdoms

Prompt to torment some pale unthriving wench
With griping buckthorn, or with laneet sharp
To pierce the slivering arm. So, poets sing,
Sow-gelder erst, to calves, pigs, colts, and lamb
Sworn everlasting foe, with goggling eyes
To stables, sties, or cow-pens, early comes
Protending his fell knife, to thoughtless bulk
Sure ruin. So, in undiscerning night,
Myriads of fairies, by their monarch led,
To infants' cradles, or to nursery rooms,
In serried files march on. Meanwhile the bike,
Secure in innocence, sleeps sound and sale
The peers and peeresses, with Oberon's sell,
Great Oberon, of Fairy realms supreme,
Within one circle all, in dance and song,
And midnight music, move their tiny feet.
Nurse hears, or thinks she hears, "twixt sleep
and wake,

Loud sounds, unseen, delightful to the ear:
But fairy fiddles lull again to sleep.
Eftsoons king Oberon and twelve chosen men,

Barren and bleak, with chequer'd plaid superb,
Intent with clipp'd Jacobuses to buy
French wine in Lusitanian casks ypent,
Which well-paid perjurers vouch all for port,
Though they perhaps the growth of Bour-With sealing ladders of Dutch thread compe

deaux be,

Chatteau, Margout, or the renown'd Pontack.
Thus while in qualms my heavy moments
A wight, in habit velvet all and gold, [creep,
Formal and fine, dread monster! docter hight,
With solemn face into the kitchen stalks.
His bony fingers thrice my pulse assay;
Thrice secrets deep he asks; surpris'd, I dread
The voice obscene, and hate the sickly sound.
What shall I do? Amaz'd, confounded, dumb
I stand, nor answer give to his demands,
Nauseons to virgin ears; my frizzled hair
Stands upright, to its roof my tongue sticks dry,
Retentive faculty my bowels lose,

So horrible he seems.-His horse-hair wig
Stiffen'd with angry curls, his agate cane
And gilded sword (too oft by cowards worn)
Disastrous deeds forebode; in his right-hand
The desperate pen he takes, which, tinged with
ink,

Strange characters and figures dire inscribes,
Illegible to maid, or man, or witch.

Oh, may such plagues averted ever be From modest spinsters! Lo! behind him sneaks Another mortal, not unlike himself, Of jargon full, with terms obscure o'ercharg'd, Apothecary call'd, whose fœtid hands With power mechanic,and with charms arcane, Apollo, god of medicine, has endued. If he gilt pills, powder, or bolus brown, Haply into the open mouth convey Of patient; straight his body to the dose Obsequions (as erst La Mancha's knight) Is to a feather-bed well-warm'd convey'd: Sheets never to be chang'd, and watchful nurse The captive wretch incarcerate, till Time, The best physician, set the patient free.

а

Beware, ye virgins, of your health beware; Be circumspect to romp or run; ascend The mountain's airy top; th' empiric crew Will else oft visit your abode, by fees Of gold allur'd, and dangerous symptoms find;}

The cradle mount, collecting all their might: The burthen of the ponderous child they raise, Inexorable; nor will aught avail [well: Bright eyes, loud tears, or limbs proportioni For pigmy brat they change the bouncing, And to their own abodes, where'er they be, The harmless babe with Io Paans drag.

So pass my days. But, when a wake or f Cones on, and calls the joyous damsels form. When swains, in leathern galligaskins clad, Treat nymphs with cyder, sparkling drink and In melancholy hall or kitchen wide, [swee I cough deserted; partner for the dance None chooses me; none on the beechen bat My name inscribes; no brawny bachelor Hangs over me enamour'd. Singly sad, My woe through three times six revolving yea I count; no jolly Joe, nor sober Sam, The matrimonial question e'er propos'd, Or crooked Sixpence offer'd to divide. Amidst the horrors of long wintry nights I sigh, my heart into my white-rann'd shee With palpitation sinks. I ponder now Where rats-bane's sold, and now again the w I view irresolute, and oft the strength Of my own garters try. Peevish pine, And fret, and rave, and wish; my roving m Finds no relief, my rolling eyes no sleep.

But, if the stranger Morpheus does invas My painful limbs, my fancy, still awake, Thoughtful of man, and eager, in a dream, Imaginary blisses gives and takes In vain! awake, I find myself alone, Unbless'd, alas! and curse the backward 15, Thus do I live, from pleasure quite cut off. Fairing to me no generous carter brings, No pears, no gingerbread, though brown, yt sweet;

No filberts I, nor walnuts crack, nor squeeze The china orange through its tawny coat: Troubles immense, though mightier still re

main.

Mr

« PreviousContinue »