"Of all thy blameless life the sole return, My verse, and Queensb'ry weeping o'er thy urn!" Gay's poetry has several high characteristics. Habitual gaiety and good sense distinguished it-the structure of his verse was always admirable for its elegance and facility-his fables prove the richness of his invention as well as the strength of his moral perceptions-while in his ballads, and more especially in the songs of his Beggar's Opera, are to be found a happy negligence, yet exquisite harmony of rythm; a luxurious richness with a fond simplicity and romantic cast of sentiment; a voluptuous yet most tender delicacy; and, above all, an ever-running under-current of grave and excellent purpose. Gay was a first-rate wit, and a man of real genius. When Swift praised the Beggar's Opera for the excellence of its morality, as a piece, that "by a turn of humour, entirely new, placed all kinds of vice in the strongest and most odious light," he appreciated truly the meaning and the force of that immortal satire. As a view of human life in a certain subtle and abstracted sense, under cover of which the most fatal sophistries are exploded, nothing has ever been produced superior to this master-piece of Gay, by ancient or modern satirists. In conclusion, it is to be remarked of this fine writer, that where his works are sullied by passages of grossness, an excuse suggests itself which Prior has no claim to,-for Gay's admirers are glad to acknowledge that his inferiority to Prior on this 'Tis not that rural sports alone invite, In the revolving labours of the year. When the fresh Spring in all her state is crown'd, And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground, The labourer with a bending scythe is seen, Shaving the surface of the waving green; Of all her native pride disrobes the land, While with the mounting sun the meadow glows, Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day, And trudging homeward, whistles on the way; When the big-udder'd cows with patience stand, Waiting the strokings of the damsel's hand; No warbling cheers the woods; the feather'd choir, To court kind slumbers, to the sprays retire: When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees, Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze; Engag'd in thought, to Neptune's bounds I stray, To take my farewell of the parting day; For in the deep the Sun his glory hides, A streak of gold the sea and sky divides: The purple clouds their amber linings show, And, edg'd with flame, rolls every wave below: Here pensive I behold the fading light, And o'er the distant billow lose my sight. Now let the fisherman his toils prepare, When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain, He sits him down, and ties the treacherous hook; Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws, Which down the murmuring current gently flows; When, if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat: Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine! When a brisk gale against the current blows, And all the watery plain in wrinkles flows, Then let the fisherman his art repeat, Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit. If an enormous salmon chance to spy The wanton errors of the floating fly, He lifts his silver gills above the flood, And greedily sucks in th' unfaithful food; Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey, And bears with joy the little spoil away : Soon in smart pain he feels the dire mistake, Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake; With sudden rage he now aloft appears, And in his eye convulsive anguish bears; And now again, impatient of the wound, He rolls and wreathes his shining body round; Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide, The trembling fins the boiling wave divide. Now hope exults the fisher's beating heart, Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art; He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes, While the line stretches with th' unwieldy prize; Each motion humours with his steady hands, And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands; Till, tir'd at last, despoil'd of all his strength, The game athwart the stream unfolds his length. He now, with pleasure, views the gasping prize Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes; Then draws him to the shore, with artful care, And lifts his nostrils in the sickening air: Upon the burthen'd stream he floating lies, Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies. THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN. A FABLE. "WHY are those tears? why droops your head? Is then your other husband dead? Or does a worse disgrace betide? Betwixt her swagging panniers' load Bodes me no good." No more she said, When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread, Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay, And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way. She, sprawling in the yellow road, Rail'd, swore, and curs'd: "Thou croaking toad, A murrain take thy whoreson throat! I knew misfortune in the note." 66 "Dame," quoth the raven, spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? |