Ye
newspaper
witlings!
Oliver Goldsmith
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. Goldsmith and some of his friends at the
St. James's Coffee-house. _—_p. _ 219.
]
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And Comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud;
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught,
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say was it, that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines:
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own:
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds[17] shall be pious, our Kenricks[18] shall lecture;
Macpherson[19] write bombast, and call it a style;
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile:
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.
Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can,—
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings,—a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting:
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Footnote 17:
The Rev. William Dodd.
Footnote 18:
Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title
of "The School of Shakspeare. "
Footnote 19:
James Macpherson, Esq. , who lately, from the mere force of his style,
wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,[20] and Woodfalls[21] so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel and mix with the skies:
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn ye!
He was—could he help it? —a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart;
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing:
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet,[22] and only took snuff.
Footnote 20:
Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of "False Delicacy," "Word to the Wise,"
"Clementina," "School for Wives," &c. , &c.
Footnote 21:
Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the "Morning Chronicle. "
Footnote 22:
Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the
necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
POSTSCRIPT.
(After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher
received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,[23] from a friend of
the late Dr. Goldsmith. )
Here Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave[24] man:
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun;
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily _bons mots_ half a column might fill:
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.
What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall[25] confessed him a wit.
Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs and re-echoed his jokes;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb:
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Press.
Merry Whitefoord[26], farewell; for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour: I had almost said wit—
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,
"Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd Muse. "
Footnote 23:
Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
Footnote 24:
Mr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to
say it was impossible to keep his company without being infected with
the itch of punning.
Footnote 25:
Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the "Public Advertiser. "
Footnote 26:
Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces,
under those titles, in the "Public Advertiser. "
[Illustration: A seated woman]
SONG.
"AH ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME? "
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. "
Ah me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover.
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
THE HERMIT.
A BALLAD.
"Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go. "
"Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
"Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant
I give it with good will.
"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows:
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing, and repose.
"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
"But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long. "
Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimmed his little fire
And cheered his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed, and smiled;
And skilled in legendary lore
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the strangers woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
"And whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?
"From better habitations spurned,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturned,
Or unregarded love?
"Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest.
"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betrayed.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms!
And "Ah, forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude
Where heaven and you reside.
"But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.
"My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he:
And all his wealth was marked as mine;
He had but only me.
"To win me from his tender arms,
Unnumbered suitors came,
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt or feigned a flame.
"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bowed,
But never talked of love. "
[Illustration: "_Turn gentle hermit. _"—_p. _ 226. ]
"In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but, woe is me!
Their constancy was mine!
"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touched my heart,
I triumphed in his pain.
"Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret where he died.
"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I. "—
"Forbid it, Heaven! " the hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wond'ring fair one turned to chide,—
'Twas Edwin's self that prest!
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee!
"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life—my all that's mine?
"No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too. "
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.
A TALE.
Secluded from domestic strife,
Jack Bookworm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive:
He drank his glass and crack'd his joke,
And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six?
Oh, had the Archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop!
Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze!
Oh! ——But let exclamations cease:
Her presence banish'd all his peace.
So with decorum all things carried,
Miss frown'd, and blush'd, and then—was
married.
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground,
Or draw the curtains closed around?
Let it suffice that each had charms;
He clasp'd a goddess in his arms;
And though she felt his usage rough,
Yet in a man 'twas well enough.
The honey-moon like lightning flew;
The second brought its transports too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss;
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss:
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck'd her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain'd behind,—
That very face had robb'd her mind.
Skill'd in no other arts was she
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.
'Tis true she dress'd with modern grace,—
Half-naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing?
In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levy;
The squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations:
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass'd between
Insulting repartee and spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shows
Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
Whenever rage or envy rise,
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.
Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
Withers the beauty's transient flower,—
Lo! the small-pox, with horrid glare,
Levell'd its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright;
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The squire himself was seen to yield,
And ev'n the captain quit the field.
[Illustration:
"_By turns a slattern or a belle. _"—_p. _ 232.
]
Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old:
With modesty her cheeks are dyed;
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day;
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
* * * * *
THE GIFT.
TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give—and let 'em;
If gems or gold impart a joy,
I'll give them—when I get 'em.
I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion:
Such short-lived off'rings but disclose
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil,—
I'll give thee—ah! too charming maid! —
I'll give thee—to the Devil.
THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS,
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS
THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.
ADVERTISEMENT.
(The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It
was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may
therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude
than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to
inform the public that the music was composed in a period of time
equally short. )
OVERTURE. —_A solemn Dirge. _
_Air. —Trio. _
Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below.
CHORUS.
_When truth and virtue, &c. _
MAN SPEAKER.
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to Kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour—
Mere transitory things:
The base bestow them; but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But when to pomp and power are join'd
An equal dignity of mind;
When titles are the smallest claim;
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good;
Then all their trophies last—and flattery turns to fame.
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;
How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!
E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!
Alas! they never had thy hate;
Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
SONG. —BY A MAN.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,
In the hopes of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows.
And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
WOMAN SPEAKER.
Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate—
Death, with its formidable band,
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.
Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,
They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frown'd.
As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
[Illustration:
"_As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar. _"—_p. _ 236.
]
While winds and waves their wishes cross,—
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.
SONG. —BY A MAN.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
MAN SPEAKER.
Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair.
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where, all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;
Where, wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest love,
May blissful, endless peace be thine above!
SONG. —BY A WOMAN.
Lovely, lasting Peace, below,
Comforter of ev'ry woe,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
WOMAN SPEAKER.
Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell:
Want pass'd for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor,—
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come a pilgrim grey,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.
_Air. —Chorus. _
_Let us—let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee. _
PART II.
OVERTURE. —_Pastorale. _
MAN SPEAKER.
Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptured elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;
While, sweetly blending, still are seen,
The wavy lawn, the sloping green;
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene:—
There, sorrowing by the rivers glassy bed,
Forlorn a rural band complain'd,
All whom Augusta's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd.
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in homespun grey,
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd,—
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.
CHORUS.
_Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form'd your beauties is no more. _
MAN SPEAKER.
First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear, and many a sigh between:
"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread,
Or how shall age support its feeble fire?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require;
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, used to flow,
And, as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew. "
[Illustration:
"_In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen. _"—_p. _ 241.
]
WOMAN SPEAKER.
In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
"And, ah! " she cries, all woe-begone,
"What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity!
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
