_Can chains or tortures bend the mind
On God's supporting breast reclined?
On God's supporting breast reclined?
Oliver Goldsmith
_"—_p.
_ 194.
]
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from the shore;
Hoards e'en beyond the misers wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name,
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when those charms are past—for charms are frail—
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd:
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd,
But, verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped—what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe,
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,—
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away:
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own:
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
[Illustration:
"_Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. _"—_p. _ 199.
]
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry! thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell; and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states, of native strength possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
Thanks, my Lord, for your Ven'son; for finer or fatter,
Ne'er ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold—let me pause—Don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce?
Well! suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,
It's a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. [2]
To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the Haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose—
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H—d, and C—y, and H—rth, and H—ff,
I think they love ven'son—I know they love beef;
There's my countryman, Higgins—Oh! let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But, hang it! to poets, who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt;
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance—a friend as he call'd himself—enter'd:
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he;
And he smiled as he look'd at the Ven'son and me.
"What have we got here? —Why, this is good eating!
Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting? "
"Why, whose should it be? " cried I, with a flounce;
"I get these things often"—but that was a bounce:
"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleased to be kind—but I hate ostentation. "
"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay,
"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words—I insist on't—precisely at three:
We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this Ven'son to make out a dinner.
What say you—a pasty? —it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter! —this Ven'son with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg,—my dear friend—my dear friend! "
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.
Footnote 2:
Lord Clare's nephew.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself,"[3]
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come.
"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale.
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew;
They're both of them merry, and authors like you.
The one writes the 'Snarler,' the other the 'Scourge:'
Some think he writes 'Cinna'—he owns to 'Panurge. '"
While thus he described them by trade and by name,
They entered, and dinner was served as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swingeing tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the Pasty—was not.
Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vexed me most was that d——d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue;
And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on!
Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be curst,
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst. "
"The tripe! " quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,
"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week;
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small:
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all. "
"Oho! " quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice:
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;
There's a Pasty"—"A Pasty! " repeated the Jew,
"I don't care if I keep a corner for't too. "
Footnote 3:
See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of
Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. , 1769.
[Illustration:
"_I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view. _"—_p. _ 202.
]
"What the de'il, mon, a Pasty! " re-echoed the Scot,
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that. "
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the Pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad and so pale with affright
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out—for who could mistake her? —
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven!
Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop—
And, now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste:
You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning—
A relish—a taste—sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
SONG.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
THE CAPTIVITY.
AN ORATORIO.
THE PERSONS.
FIRST JEWISH PROPHET.
SECOND JEWISH PROPHET.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
SCENE—_The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon. _
ACT I.
ISRAELITES _sitting on the banks of the Euphrates_.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chained, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
_Air. _
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
SECOND PROPHET.
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
_The first stanza repeated by the_ CHORUS.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Recitative. _
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains, where Kedron rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
How sweet those groves! those plains how wondrous fair!
But doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there.
_Air. _
O Memory, thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
Hence, intruder most distressing!
Seek the happy and the free;
The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Yet, why complain? What though by bonds confined,
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun,
Where prostrate Error hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
And should we mourn? Should coward Virtue fly,
When vaunting Folly lifts her head on high?
No! rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.
_Air. _
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end:
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:
As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
But hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near;
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale;
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale:
The growing sound their swift approach declares;—
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
[Illustration:
"_Desist, my sons, nor mix the
strain with theirs. _"—_p. 209. _
]
_Enter_ CHALDEAN PRIESTS, _attended_.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Air. _
Come on, my companions, the triumph display,
Let rapture the minutes employ;
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.
SECOND PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,
Both similar blessings bestow:
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.
A CHALDEAN WOMAN.
_Air. _
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure,
Love presents the fairest treasure,
Leave all other joys for me.
A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, Love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising,
Wine shall bless the brave and free.
FIRST PRIEST.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline?
SECOND PRIEST.
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing;
But neither this nor that refusing,
I'll make them both together mine.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it: sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir;
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre!
SECOND PROPHET.
Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind,
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd,
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
No, never! May this hand forget each art
That wakes to finest joys the human heart,
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth!
FIRST PRIEST.
Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasions fail,
More formidable terrors shall prevail.
_Exeunt_ CHALDEANS.
FIRST PROPHET.
Why, let them come! one good remains to cheer—
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear.
CHORUS.
_Can chains or tortures bend the mind
On God's supporting breast reclined?
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see
That fortitude is victory. _
_Exeunt. _
ACT II.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
_O peace of mind, angelic guest!
Thou soft companion of the breast!
Dispense thy balmy store;
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies,
Till earth, receding from our eyes,
Shall vanish as we soar. _
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
No more! Too long has justice been delay'd;
The king's commands must fully be obey'd:
Compliance with his will your peace secures;
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours.
But if, rebellious to his high command,
You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand,
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind;
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind.
SECOND PRIEST.
_Air. _
Fierce is the whirlwind howling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And fierce the tempest rolling
Along the furrow'd main;
But storms that fly
To rend the sky,
Every ill presaging,
Less dreadful show
To worlds below
Than angry monarch's raging.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Recitative. _
Ah, me! what angry terrors round us grow;
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow!
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth,
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth!
Ah! let us one, one little hour obey;
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away.
_Air. _
Fatigued with life, yet loth to part,
On Hope the wretch relies;
And every blow that sinks the heart
Bids the deluder rise.
Hope, like the taper's gleamy light,
Adorns the wretch's way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
SECOND PRIEST.
Why this delay? At length for joy prepare;
I read your looks, and see compliance there.
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise:
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies.
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre;
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
_Air. _
See the ruddy morning smiling,
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling;
Zephyrs through the woodland playing,
Streams along the valley straying.
[Illustration:
"_The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
Mark where he sits. _"—_p. 214. _
]
FIRST PRIEST.
While these a constant revel keep,
Shall Reason only teach to weep?
Hence, intruder! we'll pursue
Nature, a better guide than you.
SECOND PRIEST.
Every moment, as it flows,
Some peculiar pleasure owes;
Then let us, providently wise,
Seize the debtor ere it flies.
Think not to-morrow can repay
The debt of pleasure lost to-day;
Alas! to-morrow's richest store
Can but pay its proper score.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
But, hush! See, foremost of the captive choir,
The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
Mark where he sits, with executing art,
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart.
See how prophetic rapture fills his form,
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm;
And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Air. _
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring nations come;
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast,
Blasphemers, all be dumb.
The tempest gathers all around,
On Babylon it lies;
Down with her! down—down to the ground!
She sinks, she groans, she dies.
SECOND PROPHET.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust,
Ere yonder setting sun;
Serve her as she has served the just!
'Tis fix'd—it shall be done.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
No more! When slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Unthinking wretches! have not you and all
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes,
See where dethroned your captive monarch lies;
Deprived of sight and rankling in his chain,
See where he mourns his friends and children slain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined.
CHORUS OF ALL.
_Arise, all potent Ruler, rise,
And vindicate thy people's cause:
Till every tongue in every land
Shall offer up unfeigned applause. _
_Exeunt. _
ACT III.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are passed,
And our fix'd empire shall for ever last;
In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe,
In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow;
Still shall our name and growing power be spread,
And still our justice crush the traitor's head.
_Air. _
Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall
Till ruin shakes all.
When ruin shakes all,
Then shall Babylon fall.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
'Tis thus that Pride triumphant rears the head;—
A little while, and all their power is fled.
But, ah! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That this way slowly bend along the plain?
And now, behold! to yonder bank they bear
A pallid corse, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace
The last remains of Judah's royal race:
Fallen is our king, and all our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more!
_Air. _
Ye wretches, who by fortune's hate
In want and sorrow groan,
Come, ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend:
Like yours, his life began in pride;
Like his, your lives shall end.
SECOND PROPHET.
Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs with ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair!
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe,
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low?
How long, how long, Almighty God of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall?
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Air. _
As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray;
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter's way:
Thus we, O Lord, alike distress'd,
For streams of mercy long:
Those streams which cheer the sore oppress'd,
And overwhelm the strong.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
But whence that shout? Good heavens! amazement all!
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall:
Behold, an army covers all the ground!
'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round!
The ruin smokes, destruction pours along:
How low the great, how feeble are the strong!
And now, behold, the battlements recline—
O God of hosts, the victory is thine!
CHORUS OF CAPTIVES.
_Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust!
Thy vengeance be begun:
Serve them as they have served the just,
And let thy will be done. _
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails;
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails!
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along,—
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord! to thee, though late, we pray,
And give repentance but an hour's delay.
FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS.
_Air. _
O happy, who in happy hour
To God their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power,
Before they feel the blow.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Now, now's our time! Ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind,
Ye seek in vain the Lord, unsought before:
Your wealth, your pride, your kingdom are no more!
_Air. _
O Lucifer, thou son of morn,
Alike of Heaven and man the foe,—
Heaven, men, and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.
FIRST PROPHET.
O Babylon, how art thou fallen!
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
Thy streets forlorn
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant and vultures prey.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Such be her fate! But hark! how from afar
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war!
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand,
And this way leads his formidable band.
Give, give your songs of Zion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind:
He comes, pursuant to divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
_Rise to transports past expressing,
Sweeter by remember'd woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose. _
CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
_Cyrus comes, the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain. _
SEMI-CHORUS.
_Hail to him, with mercy reigning,
Skill'd in every peaceful art;
Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart. _
LAST CHORUS.
_But chief to Thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end,
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee. _
RETALIATION.
A POEM.
FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV. , AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.
Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St.
James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him.
His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He
was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the
following poem.
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord[4] supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish.
Our Dean[5] shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke[6] shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will[7] shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavour,
And Dick[8] with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's[9] sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas[10] is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's[11] a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge[12] is anchovy, and Reynolds[13] is lamb;
That Hickey's[14] a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various—at such a repast
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table,
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Footnote 4:
The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the poet, and the
friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.
Footnote 5:
Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland.
Footnote 6:
The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
Footnote 7:
Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for
Bedwin, and afterwards holding office in India.
Footnote 8:
Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada; afterwards Recorder of
Bristol.
Footnote 9:
Richard Cumberland, Esq. , author of the "West-Indian," "Fashionable
Lover," "The Brothers," "Calvary," &c. , &c.
Footnote 10:
Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury), an
ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as
a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several
literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen;
particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's "History of the Popes. "
Footnote 11:
David Garrick, Esq.
Footnote 12:
Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish Bar.
Footnote 13:
Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Footnote 14:
An eminent attorney.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That Sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend[15] to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,—
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none:
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! [16]
Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Footnote 15:
Mr. Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
Footnote 16:
Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having fractured an arm and a leg
at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as
a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other
people.
[Illustration:
_Dr.
]
And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from the shore;
Hoards e'en beyond the misers wish abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name,
That leaves our useful products still the same.
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth;
His seat, where solitary sports are seen,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies.
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;
But when those charms are past—for charms are frail—
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress.
Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd:
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd,
But, verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;
While, scourged by famine from the smiling land
The mournful peasant leads his humble band;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped—what waits him there?
To see profusion that he must not share;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe,
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train:
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one universal joy!
Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah! turn thine eyes
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.
She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
Has wept at tales of innocence distrest;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;
Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower,
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
Ah! no. To distant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.
Far different there from all that charm'd before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore;
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely shed intolerable day;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,
And savage men, more murderous still than they;
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.
Far different these from every former scene,—
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,
The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day,
That call'd them from their native walks away:
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main;
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep.
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his helpless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour not their own:
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
E'en now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done;
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
[Illustration:
"_Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. _"—_p. _ 199.
]
And piety with wishes placed above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry! thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!
Farewell; and oh! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him that states, of native strength possess'd,
Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time defy,
As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
Thanks, my Lord, for your Ven'son; for finer or fatter,
Ne'er ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtù;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold—let me pause—Don't I hear you pronounce
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce?
Well! suppose it a bounce—sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,
It's a truth—and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn. [2]
To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the Haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch;
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose—
'Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzled again,
With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H—d, and C—y, and H—rth, and H—ff,
I think they love ven'son—I know they love beef;
There's my countryman, Higgins—Oh! let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone.
But, hang it! to poets, who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt;
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in reverie centred,
An acquaintance—a friend as he call'd himself—enter'd:
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he;
And he smiled as he look'd at the Ven'son and me.
"What have we got here? —Why, this is good eating!
Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting? "
"Why, whose should it be? " cried I, with a flounce;
"I get these things often"—but that was a bounce:
"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleased to be kind—but I hate ostentation. "
"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay,
"I'm glad I have taken this house in my way.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words—I insist on't—precisely at three:
We'll have Johnson and Burke; all the wits will be there;
My acquaintance is slight or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this Ven'son to make out a dinner.
What say you—a pasty? —it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter! —this Ven'son with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg,—my dear friend—my dear friend! "
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind.
Footnote 2:
Lord Clare's nephew.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And "nobody with me at sea but myself,"[3]
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good ven'son pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come.
"For I knew it," he cried; "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale.
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew;
They're both of them merry, and authors like you.
The one writes the 'Snarler,' the other the 'Scourge:'
Some think he writes 'Cinna'—he owns to 'Panurge. '"
While thus he described them by trade and by name,
They entered, and dinner was served as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swingeing tureen;
At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the Pasty—was not.
Now, my Lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vexed me most was that d——d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue;
And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on!
Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be curst,
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst. "
"The tripe! " quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,
"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week;
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small:
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all. "
"Oho! " quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice:
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice;
There's a Pasty"—"A Pasty! " repeated the Jew,
"I don't care if I keep a corner for't too. "
Footnote 3:
See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry Duke of
Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. , 1769.
[Illustration:
"_I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view. _"—_p. _ 202.
]
"What the de'il, mon, a Pasty! " re-echoed the Scot,
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that. "
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the Pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad and so pale with affright
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out—for who could mistake her? —
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven!
Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop—
And, now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good Lord, it's but labour misplaced
To send such good verses to one of your taste:
You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning—
A relish—a taste—sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
SONG.
O Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
THE CAPTIVITY.
AN ORATORIO.
THE PERSONS.
FIRST JEWISH PROPHET.
SECOND JEWISH PROPHET.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
FIRST CHALDEAN PRIEST.
SECOND CHALDEAN PRIEST.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND VIRGINS.
SCENE—_The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon. _
ACT I.
ISRAELITES _sitting on the banks of the Euphrates_.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chained, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
_Air. _
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
SECOND PROPHET.
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
_The first stanza repeated by the_ CHORUS.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Recitative. _
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains, where Kedron rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
How sweet those groves! those plains how wondrous fair!
But doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there.
_Air. _
O Memory, thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
Hence, intruder most distressing!
Seek the happy and the free;
The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Yet, why complain? What though by bonds confined,
Should bonds repress the vigour of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free?
Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun,
Where prostrate Error hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
And should we mourn? Should coward Virtue fly,
When vaunting Folly lifts her head on high?
No! rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.
_Air. _
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end:
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:
As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
But hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near;
The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale;
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale:
The growing sound their swift approach declares;—
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
[Illustration:
"_Desist, my sons, nor mix the
strain with theirs. _"—_p. 209. _
]
_Enter_ CHALDEAN PRIESTS, _attended_.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Air. _
Come on, my companions, the triumph display,
Let rapture the minutes employ;
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes in the joy.
SECOND PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,
Both similar blessings bestow:
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.
A CHALDEAN WOMAN.
_Air. _
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure,
Love presents the fairest treasure,
Leave all other joys for me.
A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, Love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising,
Wine shall bless the brave and free.
FIRST PRIEST.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline?
SECOND PRIEST.
I'll waste no longer thought in choosing;
But neither this nor that refusing,
I'll make them both together mine.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the land,
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band?
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung?
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung?
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along,
The day demands it: sing us Sion's song.
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir;
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre!
SECOND PROPHET.
Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind,
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd,
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain,
Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain?
No, never! May this hand forget each art
That wakes to finest joys the human heart,
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth,
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth!
FIRST PRIEST.
Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasions fail,
More formidable terrors shall prevail.
_Exeunt_ CHALDEANS.
FIRST PROPHET.
Why, let them come! one good remains to cheer—
We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear.
CHORUS.
_Can chains or tortures bend the mind
On God's supporting breast reclined?
Stand fast, and let our tyrants see
That fortitude is victory. _
_Exeunt. _
ACT II.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
_O peace of mind, angelic guest!
Thou soft companion of the breast!
Dispense thy balmy store;
Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies,
Till earth, receding from our eyes,
Shall vanish as we soar. _
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
No more! Too long has justice been delay'd;
The king's commands must fully be obey'd:
Compliance with his will your peace secures;
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours.
But if, rebellious to his high command,
You spurn the favours offer'd from his hand,
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind;
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind.
SECOND PRIEST.
_Air. _
Fierce is the whirlwind howling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And fierce the tempest rolling
Along the furrow'd main;
But storms that fly
To rend the sky,
Every ill presaging,
Less dreadful show
To worlds below
Than angry monarch's raging.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Recitative. _
Ah, me! what angry terrors round us grow;
How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow!
Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth,
Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth!
Ah! let us one, one little hour obey;
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away.
_Air. _
Fatigued with life, yet loth to part,
On Hope the wretch relies;
And every blow that sinks the heart
Bids the deluder rise.
Hope, like the taper's gleamy light,
Adorns the wretch's way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
SECOND PRIEST.
Why this delay? At length for joy prepare;
I read your looks, and see compliance there.
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise:
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies.
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre;
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
_Air. _
See the ruddy morning smiling,
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling;
Zephyrs through the woodland playing,
Streams along the valley straying.
[Illustration:
"_The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
Mark where he sits. _"—_p. 214. _
]
FIRST PRIEST.
While these a constant revel keep,
Shall Reason only teach to weep?
Hence, intruder! we'll pursue
Nature, a better guide than you.
SECOND PRIEST.
Every moment, as it flows,
Some peculiar pleasure owes;
Then let us, providently wise,
Seize the debtor ere it flies.
Think not to-morrow can repay
The debt of pleasure lost to-day;
Alas! to-morrow's richest store
Can but pay its proper score.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
But, hush! See, foremost of the captive choir,
The master-prophet grasps his full-toned lyre.
Mark where he sits, with executing art,
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart.
See how prophetic rapture fills his form,
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm;
And now his voice, accordant to the string,
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Air. _
From north, from south, from east, from west,
Conspiring nations come;
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast,
Blasphemers, all be dumb.
The tempest gathers all around,
On Babylon it lies;
Down with her! down—down to the ground!
She sinks, she groans, she dies.
SECOND PROPHET.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust,
Ere yonder setting sun;
Serve her as she has served the just!
'Tis fix'd—it shall be done.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
No more! When slaves thus insolent presume,
The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom.
Unthinking wretches! have not you and all
Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall?
To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes,
See where dethroned your captive monarch lies;
Deprived of sight and rankling in his chain,
See where he mourns his friends and children slain.
Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind
More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined.
CHORUS OF ALL.
_Arise, all potent Ruler, rise,
And vindicate thy people's cause:
Till every tongue in every land
Shall offer up unfeigned applause. _
_Exeunt. _
ACT III.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are passed,
And our fix'd empire shall for ever last;
In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe,
In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow;
Still shall our name and growing power be spread,
And still our justice crush the traitor's head.
_Air. _
Coeval with man
Our empire began,
And never shall fall
Till ruin shakes all.
When ruin shakes all,
Then shall Babylon fall.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
'Tis thus that Pride triumphant rears the head;—
A little while, and all their power is fled.
But, ah! what means yon sadly plaintive train,
That this way slowly bend along the plain?
And now, behold! to yonder bank they bear
A pallid corse, and rest the body there.
Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace
The last remains of Judah's royal race:
Fallen is our king, and all our fears are o'er,
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more!
_Air. _
Ye wretches, who by fortune's hate
In want and sorrow groan,
Come, ponder his severer fate,
And learn to bless your own.
You vain, whom youth and pleasure guide,
Awhile the bliss suspend:
Like yours, his life began in pride;
Like his, your lives shall end.
SECOND PROPHET.
Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn,
His squalid limbs with ponderous fetters torn;
Those eyeless orbs that shock with ghastly glare,
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair!
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe,
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low?
How long, how long, Almighty God of all,
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall?
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Air. _
As panting flies the hunted hind,
Where brooks refreshing stray;
And rivers through the valley wind,
That stop the hunter's way:
Thus we, O Lord, alike distress'd,
For streams of mercy long:
Those streams which cheer the sore oppress'd,
And overwhelm the strong.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
But whence that shout? Good heavens! amazement all!
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall:
Behold, an army covers all the ground!
'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round!
The ruin smokes, destruction pours along:
How low the great, how feeble are the strong!
And now, behold, the battlements recline—
O God of hosts, the victory is thine!
CHORUS OF CAPTIVES.
_Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust!
Thy vengeance be begun:
Serve them as they have served the just,
And let thy will be done. _
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative. _
All, all is lost. The Syrian army fails;
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails!
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along,—
How low the proud, how feeble are the strong!
Save us, O Lord! to thee, though late, we pray,
And give repentance but an hour's delay.
FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS.
_Air. _
O happy, who in happy hour
To God their praise bestow,
And own his all-consuming power,
Before they feel the blow.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Now, now's our time! Ye wretches bold and blind,
Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind,
Ye seek in vain the Lord, unsought before:
Your wealth, your pride, your kingdom are no more!
_Air. _
O Lucifer, thou son of morn,
Alike of Heaven and man the foe,—
Heaven, men, and all,
Now press thy fall,
And sink thee lowest of the low.
FIRST PROPHET.
O Babylon, how art thou fallen!
Thy fall more dreadful from delay!
Thy streets forlorn
To wilds shall turn,
Where toads shall pant and vultures prey.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative. _
Such be her fate! But hark! how from afar
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd war!
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand,
And this way leads his formidable band.
Give, give your songs of Zion to the wind,
And hail the benefactor of mankind:
He comes, pursuant to divine decree,
To chain the strong, and set the captive free.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
_Rise to transports past expressing,
Sweeter by remember'd woes;
Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing,
Comes to give the world repose. _
CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
_Cyrus comes, the world redressing,
Love and pleasure in his train;
Comes to heighten every blessing,
Comes to soften every pain. _
SEMI-CHORUS.
_Hail to him, with mercy reigning,
Skill'd in every peaceful art;
Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining,
Only binds the willing heart. _
LAST CHORUS.
_But chief to Thee, our God, defender, friend,
Let praise be given to all eternity;
O Thou, without beginning, without end,
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee. _
RETALIATION.
A POEM.
FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXXIV. , AFTER THE AUTHOR'S DEATH.
Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the St.
James's Coffee-house. One day it was proposed to write epitaphs on him.
His country, dialect, and person furnished subjects of witticism. He
was called on for retaliation, and at their next meeting produced the
following poem.
Of old, when Scarron his companions invited,
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;
If our landlord[4] supplies us with beef and with fish,
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish.
Our Dean[5] shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;
Our Burke[6] shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;
Our Will[7] shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavour,
And Dick[8] with his pepper shall heighten the savour;
Our Cumberland's[9] sweet-bread its place shall obtain,
And Douglas[10] is pudding, substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's[11] a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner, full certain I am
That Ridge[12] is anchovy, and Reynolds[13] is lamb;
That Hickey's[14] a capon, and, by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool.
At a dinner so various—at such a repast
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine! let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table,
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Footnote 4:
The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the poet, and the
friends he has characterised in this poem, occasionally dined.
Footnote 5:
Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland.
Footnote 6:
The Right Hon. Edmund Burke.
Footnote 7:
Mr. William Burke, late secretary to General Conway, member for
Bedwin, and afterwards holding office in India.
Footnote 8:
Mr. Richard Burke, collector of Granada; afterwards Recorder of
Bristol.
Footnote 9:
Richard Cumberland, Esq. , author of the "West-Indian," "Fashionable
Lover," "The Brothers," "Calvary," &c. , &c.
Footnote 10:
Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor (afterwards Bishop of Salisbury), an
ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as
a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several
literary mistakes (or rather forgeries) of his countrymen;
particularly Lauder on Milton, and Bower's "History of the Popes. "
Footnote 11:
David Garrick, Esq.
Footnote 12:
Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish Bar.
Footnote 13:
Sir Joshua Reynolds.
Footnote 14:
An eminent attorney.
Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth,
Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt;
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em,
That Sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such,
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat
To persuade Tommy Townshend[15] to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining:
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit;
For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was in't;
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,—
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:
Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none:
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own.
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at;
Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his! what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! [16]
Now wrangling and grumbling, to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
Footnote 15:
Mr. Thomas Townshend, member for Whitchurch.
Footnote 16:
Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having fractured an arm and a leg
at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these accidents, as
a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other
people.
[Illustration:
_Dr.
