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Life of Joseph Addison,
Poems on several occasions:—
To Mr Dryden,
A Poem to his Majesty, presented
to the Lord Keeper,
A Translation of all Virgil’s Fourth
Georgic, except the Story of
Aristaeus,
A Song for St Cecilia’s Day,
An Ode for St Cecilia’s Day,
An Account of the greatest English Poets,
A Letter from Italy,
Milton’s Style Imitated, in a
Translation of a Story out of
the Third AEneid,
The Campaign,
Cowley’s Epitaph on Himself,
Prologue to the ‘Tender Husband,’
Epilogue to the ‘British Enchanters,’
Prologue to Smith’s ’Phaedra
and
Hippolitus,’
Horace Ode III., Book III.,
The Vestal,
OVID’S metamorphoses:—
The Story of Phaeton,
Phaeton’s Sisters transformed
into Trees,
The Transformation of Cyenus
into a Swan,
The Story of Calisto,
The Story of Coronis, and Birth
of AEsculapius,
Ocyrrhoe Transformed to a Mare,
The Transformation of Battus to
a Touchstone,
The Story of Aglauros, transformed
into a Statue,
Europa’s Rape,
The Story of Cadmus,
The Transformation of Actaeon
into a Stag,
The Birth of Bacchus,
The Transformation of Tiresias,
The Transformation of Echo,
The Story of Narcissus,
The Story of Pentheus,
The Mariners transformed to
Dolphins,
The Death of Pentheus
The Story of Salmacis and Hermaphroditus,
To her royal highness the
princess of Wales,
To sir Godfrey Kneller, on
his picture of the king,
The play-house,
On the lady Manchester,
An Ode,
An hymn,
An Ode,
An hymn,
Paraphrase on psalm XXIII.
THE LIFE OF JOHN GAY
Gay’s fables:—
Introduction.—Part I.
The Shepherd and Philosopher
Fable I.—The Lion, the Tiger, and the Traveller
Fable ii.—The Spaniel and the Cameleon
Fable III.—The Mother, the Nurse, and the Fairy
Fable IV.—The Eagle, and the Assembly of Animals
Fable V.—The Wild Boar and the Ram
Fable VI.—The Miser and Plutus
Fable VII.—The Lion, the Fox, and the Geese
Fable VIII.—The Lady and the Wasp
Fable IX.—The Bull and the Mastiff
Fable X.—The Elephant and the Bookseller
Fable XI.—The Peacock, the Turkey, and the Goose
Fable XII.—Cupid, Hymen, and Plutus
Fable XIII.—The Tame Stag
Fable XIV.—The Monkey who had seen the World
Fable XV.—The Philosopher and the Pheasants
Fable XVI.—The Pin and the Needle
Fable XVII.—The Shepherd’s Dog and the Wolf
Fable XVIII.—The Painter who pleased Nobody and Everybody
Fable XIX.—The Lion and the Cub
Fable XX.—The Old Hen and the Cock
Fable XXI.—The Rat-catcher and Cats
Fable XXII.—The Goat without a Beard
Fable XXIII.—The Old Woman and her Cats
Fable XXIV.—The Butterfly and the Snail
Fable XXV.—The Scold and the Parrot
Fable XXVI.—The Cur and the Mastiff
Fable XXVII.—The Sick Man and the Angel
Fable XXVIII.—The Persian, the Sun, and the Cloud
Fable XXIX.—The Fox at the point of Death
Fable XXX.—The Setting-dog and the Partridge
Fable XXXI.—The Universal Apparition
Fable XXXII.—The Two Owls and the Sparrow
Fable XXXIII.—The Courtier and Proteus
Fable XXXIV.—The Mastiffs
Fable XXXV.—The Barley-mow and the Dunghill
Fable XXXVI.—Pythagoras and the Countryman
Fable XXXVII.—The Farmer’s Wife and the Raven
Fable XXXVIII.—The Turkey and the Ant
Fable XXXIX.—The Father and Jupiter
Fable XL.—The Two Monkeys
Fable XLI.—The Owl and the Farmer
Fable XLII.-The Jugglers
Fable XLIII.-The Council of Horses
Fable XLIV.—The Hound and the Huntsman
Fable XLV.—The Poet and the Rose
Fable XLVI.—The Cur, the Horse, and the Shepherd’s Dog
Fable XLVII.—The Court of Death
Fable XLVIII.—The Gardener and the Hog
Fable XLIX.—The Man and the Flea
Fable L.—The Hare and many Friends
Fable I.—The Dog and the Fox
Fable ii.—The Vulture, the Sparrow, and other Birds
Fable III.—The Baboon and the Poultry
Fable IV.—The Ant in Office
Fable V.—The Bear in a Boat
Fable VI.—The Squire and his Cur
Fable VII.—The Countryman and Jupiter
Fable VIII.—The Man, the Cat, the Dog, and the Fly
Fable IX.—The Jackall, Leopard, and other Beasts
Fable X.—The Degenerate Bees
Fable XI.—The Pack-horse and the Carrier
Fable XII.—Pan and Fortune
Fable XIII.-Plutus, Cupid, and Time
Fable XIV.—The Owl, the
Swan, the Cock, the Spider, the Ass,
and the Farmer
Fable XV.—The Cook-maid, the Turnspit, and the Ox
Fable XVI.—The Ravens, the Sexton, and the Earth-worm
Songs:—
Sweet William’s Farewell to Black-eyed Susan
A Ballad, from the What-d’ye-call-it
SOMERVILLE’S CHASE.
Somerville’s chase:—
Book I.
Book ii.
Book III.
Book IV.
Joseph Addison, the Spectator, the true founder of our periodical literature, the finest, if not the greatest writer in the English language, was born at Milston, Wiltshire, on the 1st of May 1672. A fanciful mind might trace a correspondence between the particular months when celebrated men have been born and the peculiar complexion of their genius. Milton, the austere and awful, was born in the silent and gloomy month of December. Shakspeare, the most versatile of all writers, was born in April, that month of changeful skies, of sudden sunshine, and sudden showers. Burns and Byron, those stormy spirits, both appeared in the fierce January; and of the former, he himself says,
“‘Twas then a blast o’ Januar-win’
Blew welcome in on Robin.”
Scott, the broad sunny being, visited us in August, and in the same month the warm genius of Shelley came, as Hunt used to tell him, “from the planet Mercury” to our earth. Coleridge and Keats, with whose song a deep bar of sorrow was to mingle, like the music of falling leaves, or of winds wailing for the departure of summer, arrived in October,—that month, the beauty of which is the child of blasting, and its glory the flush of decay. And it seems somehow fitting that Addison, the mild, the quietly-joyous, the sanguine and serene, should come, with the daisy and the sweet summer-tide, on the 1st of May, which Buchanan thus hails—
“Salve fugacis gloria saeculi,
Salve secunda digna dies nota,
Salve vetustae vitae imago,
Et specimen venientis aevi.”
“Hail, glory of the fleeting year!
Hail, day, the fairest, happiest here!
Image of time for ever by,
Pledge of a bright eternity.”
Dr Lancelot Addison, himself a man of no mean note, was the father of our poet. He was born in 1632, at Maltesmeaburn, in the parish of Corby Ravensworth, (what a name of ill-omen within ill-omen, or as Dr Johnson would say, “inspissated gloom"!) in the county of Westmoreland. His father was a minister of the gospel; but in such humble circumstances, that Lancelot was received from the Grammar-school of Appleby into Queen’s College, Oxford, in
For eight years, old Addison lingered in loathed Tangier; nor, when he returned to England on a visit, had he any purpose of permanently residing in his own country. But his appointment was hastily bestowed on another; and it was fortunate for him that a private friend stepped in and presented him with the living of Milston, near Ambrosebury, Wilts, worth L120 a-year. This, which Miss Aiken calls a “pittance,” was probably equivalent to L250 now. At all events, on the strength of it, he married Jane, daughter of Dr Gulstone, and sister to the Bishop of Bristol, who, in due time, became the mother of our poet. Lancelot was afterwards made Prebendary of Salisbury Cathedral, and King’s Chaplain in ordinary; about the time (1675) when he took the degree of D.D. Subsequently he became Archdeacon of Salisbury, and at last, in 1683, obtained the Deanery of Lichfield. But for his suspected Jacobitism, he would probably have received the mitre. He died in 1703.
Joseph had two brothers and three sisters. His third sister, Dorothy, survived the rest, and was twice married. Swift met her once, and with some awe (for he, like all bullies, had a little of the coward about him), describes her as a kind of wit, and very like her brother. The Spectator seems to have been a wild and wayward boy. He is said to have once acted as ringleader in a “barring out,” described by Johnson as a savage license by which the boys, when the periodical vacation drew near, used to take possession of the school, of which they barred the doors, and bade the master defiance from the windows. On another occasion, having committed some petty offence at a country school, terrified at the master’s apprehended displeasure, he made his escape into the fields and woods, where for some days he fed on fruits and slept in a hollow tree till discovered and brought back to his parents. This last may seem the act of a timid boy, and inconsistent with the former, and yet is somehow congenial to our ideal of the character of our poet. It required perhaps more daring to front the perils of the woods
“She was known to every star,
And every wind that blows.”
Poor Dick was known to every sponging-house, and to every bailiff that, blowing in pursuit, walked the London streets. A fine-hearted, warm-blooded character, without an atom of prudence, self-control, reticence, or forethought; quite as destitute of malice or envy; perpetually sinning and perpetually repenting; never positively irreligious, even when drunk; and often excessively pious when recovering sobriety,—Steele reeled his way through life, and died with the reputation of being an orthodox Christian and a (nearly) habitual drunkard; the most affectionate and most faithless of husbands; a brave soldier, and in many points an arrant fool; a violent politician, and the best natured of men; a writer extremely lively, for this, among other reasons, that he wrote generally on his legs, flying or meditating flight from his creditors; and who embodied in himself the titles of his three principal works—“The Christian Hero,” “The Tender Husband,” and the Tatler;—being a “Christian Hero” in intention, one of those intentions with which a certain place is paved; a “Tender Husband,” if not a true one, to his two ladies; and a Tatler to all persons, in all circumstances, and at all times. When Addison first knew this original, he was probably uncontaminated, and must have been, as he continued to the end to be, an irascible but joyous and genial being; and they became intimate at once, although circumstances severed them from each other for a long period.
In 1687 Addison entered Queen’s College, Oxford; but sometime after, (Macaulay says “not many months,” Johnson “a year,” and Miss Aiken “two years,”) Dr Lancaster, of Magdalene College, having accidentally seen some Latin verses from his pen, exerted himself to procure their author admission to the benefits of a foundation, then the wealthiest in Europe. Our poet was first elected Demy, then Probationary Fellow in 1697, and in the year following, Actual Fellow. During the ten years he resided at Oxford, he was a general favourite, remarkable for his diligence in study, for the purity
Prose English essays, however, were as yet strangers to his pen. His ambition was to be a poet, and while still under twenty-two, he produced and printed some complimentary verses to Dryden, then declining in years, and fallen into comparative neglect. The old poet was pleased with the homage of the young aspirant, which was as graceful in expression as it was generous in purpose. For instance, alluding to Dryden’s projected translation of “Ovid,” he says, that “Ovid,” thus transformed, shall “reveal”
“A nobler change than he himself can tell.”
This, however, although happy, starts a different view of the subject. It suggests the idea that most translations are metamorphoses to the worse, like that of a living person into a dead tree, or at least of a superior into an inferior being. In Pope’s “Iliad,” you have the metamorphosis of an eagle into a nightingale; in Dryden’s “Virgil,” you have a stately war-horse transformed into a hard-trotting hackney; in Hoole’s versions of the Italian Poets, you have nymphs nailed up in timber; while, on the other hand, in Coleridge’s “Wallenstein,” you have the “nobler change,” spoken of by Addison, of—shall we say?-a cold and stately holly-tree turned into a murmuring and oracular oak.
That, after thus introducing himself to Dryden, he met him occasionally seems certain, although the rumour circulated by Spence that he taught the old man to sit late and drink hard seems ridiculous. Dryden introduced him to Congreve, and through Congreve he made the valuable acquaintance of Charles Montague, then leader of the Whigs in the House of Commons, and Chancellor of the Exchequer.
He afterwards published a translation of that part of the “Fourth Book of the Georgics” referring to bees, on which Dryden, who had procured a preface to his own complete translation of the same poem from Addison, complimented him by saying—“After his bees, my later swarm is scarcely worth hiving.” He published, too, a poem on “King William,” and an “Account of the Principal English Poets,” in which he ventures on a character of Spenser ere he had read his works. It thus is, as might have been expected, poor and non-appreciative, and speaks of Spenser as a poet pretty nearly forgotten. Some time after this, he collected a volume, entitled, “Musae Anglicanae,” in which he inserted all his early Latin verses.
Charles Montague, himself a poet of a certain small rank, and a man of great general talents, became—along with Somers—the patron of Addison. He diverted him from the Church, to which his own tastes seemed to destine him, suggesting that civil employment had become very corrupt through want of men of liberal education and good principles, and should be redeemed from this reproach, and declaring that, though he had been called an enemy of the Church, he would never do it any other injury than keeping Mr Addison out of it. It is likely that the timid temperament of our poet concurred with these suggestions of Montague in determining his decision. His failure as a Parliamentary orator subsequently seems to prove that the pulpit was not his vocation. After all, his Saturday papers in the Spectator are as fine as any sermons of that age, and he perhaps did more good serving as a volunteer than had he been a regular soldier in the army of the Christian faith.
Somers and Montague wished to employ their protege in public service abroad. There was, however, one drawback. Addison had plenty of English, Greek, and Latin, but he had little French. This he must be sent abroad to acquire; and for the purpose of defraying the expenses of his travels, a pension of L300 a-year was conferred upon him. Paid thus, as few poets or writers of any kind are, in advance, and having his fellowship besides, Addison, like a young nobleman, instead of a parson’s son, set out upon his tour. This was in the summer of 1699. He was twenty-seven years of age, exactly one year younger than Byron, and three years younger than Milton, when they visited the same regions. He went first to Paris, and was received with great distinction by Montague’s kinsman, the Earl of Manchester, and his beautiful lady. He travelled with his eyes quietly open, especially to the humorous aspects of things. In a letter to Montague he says that he had not seen a blush from his first landing at Calais, and gives a sarcastic description of the spurious devotion which the example of the old repentant roue, Louis XIV., had rendered fashionable among the literati of France: “There is no book comes out at present that has not something in it of an air of devotion. Dacier has been forced to prove his Plato a very good CHRISTIAN before he ventures upon his translation, and has so far complied with the taste of the age, that his whole book is overrun with texts of Scripture, and the notion of pre-existence, supposed to be stolen from two verses of the prophets.” The sincere believer is usually the first to detect and be disgusted with the sham one; and Addison was always a sincere believer, but he had also that happy nature in which disgust is carried quickly and easily off through the safety-valve of a smile.
From Paris he went to Blois, the capital of Loir-and-Cher, a small town about 110 miles south-west of Paris. Here he had two advantages. He found the French language spoken in its perfection; and as he had not a single countryman with whom to exchange a word, he was driven on his own resources. He remained there a year, and spent his time well, studying hard, rising early, having the best French masters, mingling in society, although subject, as in previous and after parts of his life, to fits of absence. His life was as pure as it was simple, his most intimate friend at Blois, the Abbe Philippeaux, saying: “He had no amour whilst here that I know of, and I think I should have known it if he had had any.” During this time he sent home letters to his friends in England—to Montague, Colonel Froude, Congreve, and others[1]—which contain sentences of exquisite humour. Thus, describing the famous gallery at Versailles, with the paintings of Louis’ victories, he says: “The history of the present King till the sixteenth year of his reign is painted on the roof by Le Brun, so that his Majesty has actions enough by him to furnish another gallery much longer than the first. He is represented with all the terror and majesty that you can imagine in every part of the picture, and see his young face as perfectly drawn in the roof as his present one in the side. The painter has represented His Most Christian Majesty under the figure of Jupiter throwing thunderbolts all about the ceiling, and striking terror into the Danube and Rhine, that lie astonished and blasted with lightning a little above the cornice.”
This is Addison all over; and quite as good is his picture of the general character of the French: “’Tis not in the power of want or slavery to make them miserable. There is nothing to be met with in the country but mirth and poverty. Every one sings, laughs, and starves. Their conversation is generally agreeable, for if they have any wit or sense, they are sure to shew it. Their women are perfect mistresses in the art of shewing themselves to the best advantage. They are always gay and sprightly, and set off the worst faces in Europe with the best airs. Every one knows how to give herself as charming a look and posture as Sir Godfrey Kneller could draw her in.”
From Blois he returned to Paris, and was now better qualified, from his knowledge of the language, to mingle with its philosophers, savants, and poets. He had some interesting talk with Malebranche and Boileau, the former of whom “very much praised Mr Newton’s mathematics; shook his head at the name of Hobbes, and told me he thought him a pauvre esprit.” Here follows a genuine Addisonianism: “His book is now reprinted with many additions, among which he shewed me a very pretty hypothesis of colours, which is different from that of Cartesius or Newton, though they may all three be true.” Boileau, now sixty-four, deaf as a post, and full
In December 1700, tired of French manners, which had lost even their power of moving him to smiles, and it may be apprehensive of the war connected with the Spanish succession, which was about to inflame all Europe, Addison embarked from Marseilles for Italy. After a narrow escape from one of those sudden Mediterranean storms, in which poor Shelley perished, he landed at Savona, and proceeded, through wild mountain paths, to Genoa. He afterwards commemorated his deliverance in the pleasing lines published in the Spectator, beginning with—
“How are Thy servants blest, O Lord,”
one verse in which was wont to awaken the enthusiasm of the boy Burns,
“What though in dreadful whirls
we hung,
High on
the broken wave,” &c.
The survivor of a shipwreck is, or should be, ever afterwards a sadder and a wiser man. And Addison continued long to feel subdued and thankful, and could hardly have been more so though he had outlived that shipwreck which bears now the relation to all recent wrecks which “the storm” of November 1703, as we shall see, bore to all inferior tempests—the loss of the Royal Charter,—the stately and gold-laden bark, which, on Wednesday the 26th October 1859, when on the verge of the haven which the passengers so much desired to see, was lifted up by the blast as by the hand of God, and dashed into ten thousand pieces,—hundreds of men, women, and, alas! alas! children, drowned, mutilated, crushed by falling machinery, and that, too, at a moment when they had just been assured that there was no immediate danger, and when hope was beginning to sparkle in the eyes that were sinking into despair,—sovereigns, spray, and the mangled fragments of human bodies massed together as if in the anarchy of hell, and hurled upon the rocks. Addison, no more than one of the escaped from that saloon of horror and sea of death, could forget the special Providence by which he was saved; and the hymn above referred to, and that other still finer, commencing—
“When all Thy mercies, O my God!
My rising soul
surveys,”
seem a pillar erected on the shore to Him that had protected and redeemed him.
From Genoa he went to Milan, and thence to Venice, where he saw a play on the subject of Cato enacted, and began himself to indite his celebrated tragedy, of which he completed four acts ere he quitted Italy. On his way to Rome, he visited the miniature mountain republic of San Marino, which he contemplated and described with much the same feeling of interest and amazement, as afterwards, in the Guardian, the little colony of ants immortalised there. Like Swift, (whom Macaulay accuses of stealing from Addison’s Latin poem on the “Pigmies,” some hints for his Lilliput,) Addison had a finer eye for the little than for the vast. He enjoyed Marino, therefore, and must have chuckled over the description of it in the geography, as much as if it had been a stroke of his own inventive pen. “Besides the mountain on which the town stands, the republic possesses two adjoining hills.” At Rome he did not stay long at this time, but as if afraid of the attractions of the approaching Holy Week—that blaze of brilliant but false light in which so many moths have been consumed—he hurried to Naples and saw Vesuvius burning over its beautiful bay with less admiration than has been felt since by many inferior men. He returned to Rome and lived there unharmed during the sickly season; thence he went to Florence, surveying with interest the glories of its art; and in fine he crossed the Alps by Mount Cenis to Geneva, composing on his way a poetical epistle to Montague, now Lord Halifax. The Alps do not seem to have much delighted his imagination. There are a few even still who look upon mountains as excrescences and deformities, and give to Glencoe only the homage of their unaffected fears, which is certainly better than the false raptures of others. But, in Addison’s day, admiration for wild scenery was neither pretended nor felt. Our poet loved, indeed, the great silent starry night, and has whispered and stammered out some beautiful things in its praise. But he does this, so to speak, below his breath, while the white Alps, seeming the shrouded corpses of the fallen Titans, take that breath away, and he shudders all the road through them, and descends delightedly to the green pastures and the still waters of lower regions.
At Geneva, where he arrived in December 1701, he remained some time, expecting from Lord Manchester the official appointment for which he was now qualified. But while waiting there, he heard the tidings of King William’s death, which put an end to his hopes as well as to those of his party. His pension, too, was stopped, and he was obliged to become a tutor to a young Englishman of fortune. With him he visited many parts of Switzerland and Germany, and spent a portion of his leisure in writing, not only his “Travels,” but his recondite “Dialogue on Medals,”—a book of considerable research and great ingenuity, which was not published, however, till after his death. From Germany he passed to Holland, where he heard the sad intelligence
Addison’s arrival in England seems to have synchronised or preceded the great tempest of November 1703, to which we have already referred, and to which he afterwards alludes in his simile of the Angel in “The Campaign”—
“Such as of late o’er pale Britannia past.”
Our readers will find a sketch of this terrific tempest in the commencement of Ainsworth’s “Jack Shepherd.” Macaulay says of it, “It was the only tempest which, in our latitude, has equalled the rage of a tropical hurricane. No other tempest was ever in this country the occasion of a Parliamentary address, or of a national fast. Whole fleets had been cast away. Large mansions had been blown down; one prelate had been buried beneath the ruins of his palace. London and Bristol had presented the appearance of cities just sacked. Hundreds of families were thrown into mourning. The prostrate trunks of large trees, and the ruins of houses attested, in all the southern counties, the fury of the blast.” How Addison felt or fared during this storm, we have no means of knowing. Perhaps his timid nature shrank from it in spite of its appeal to imagination, or perhaps the poetry that was in him triumphed over his fears, and as he felt what Zanga was afterwards to say—
“I love this rocking of the battlements,”
the image of the Angel, afterwards to be dilated into the vast form of Wrath, described in the “Campaign,” rose on his vision, and remained there indelibly fixed till the time arrived when, used with artistic skill, it floated him into fame.
Meanwhile, he spent this winter and spring of 1703-4 in a rather precarious manner, and like a true poet. He was lodging in an obscure garret in the Haymarket, up three stairs, when one day the Right Honourable Henry Boyle, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, called on him and communicated a project that had been concocted between Godolphin and Halifax. The Whigs were now again in the ascendant, and the battle of Blenheim, fought on the 13th August 1704, had brought their triumph to a climax. Halifax and Godolphin were mortified at the bad poems in commemoration of it which poured from the press. Their feeling was sincerely that which Byron affected in reference to Wellington and Waterloo—
“I wish your bards would sing it rather better.”
They bethought themselves of Addison, and sent Boyle to request him to write some verses on the subject. He readily undertook the task, and when he had half-finished the “Campaign,” he shewed it to Godolphin, who was delighted, especially with the Angel, and in gratitude, instantly appointed the lucky poet to a commissionership worth about L200 a-year, and assured him that this was only a foretaste of greater favours to come. The poem soon after appeared. It was received with acclamation, and Addison felt that his fortune and his fame were both secured.
Yet, in truth, the “Campaign” is not a great poem, nor, properly speaking, if we except the Angel, a poem at all. It is simply a Gazette done into tolerable rhyme; and its chief inspiration comes from its zealous party-feeling. Marlborough, though a first-rate marshal, was not a great man, not by any means so great as Wellington, far less as Napoleon; and how can a heroic poem be written without a hero? Yet the poem fell in with the humour of the times, and was cried up as though it had been another book of the Iliad. Shortly afterwards he published his “Travels,” which were thought rather cold and classical. To them succeeded the opera of “Rosamond,” which, being ill-set to music, failed on the stage; but became, and is still, a favourite in the closet. It is in the lightest and easiest style of Dryden,—that in which he wrote “Alexander’s Feast,” and some other of his lyrics,—but is sustained for some fifteen hundred lines with an energy and a grace which we doubt if even Dryden could have equalled. Its verses not only move but dance. The spirit is genial and sunny, and above the mazy motions shines the light of genuine poetry. Johnson truly says, that if Addison had cultivated this style he would have excelled.
From the date of the “Campaign,” Addison’s life became an ascending scale of promotion. We find him first in Hanover with Lord Halifax, then appointed under-secretary to Sir Charles Hodges, and in a few months after to the Earl of Sunderland. In 1708 he was elected member for Malmesbury, and the next year he accompanied Thomas, Earl of Wharton, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, to that country as his secretary, and became Keeper of the Records in Birmingham’s Tower,—a nominal office worth L300 a-year. His secretary’s salary was L2000 per annum.
Previous to this he had resumed his intimacy with Steele, to whom he lent money, and on one occasion is said to have recovered it by sending a bailiff to his house. This has been called heartless conduct, but the probability is that Addison was provoked by the extravagant use made of the loan by his reckless friend. In Parliament it is well-known Addison never spoke; but he surrounded himself in private life with a parliament of his own, and, like Cato, gave his little senate laws. That senate consisted of Steele, Ambrose, Phillips; the wretched Eustace
In Ireland—although he sat as member for Cavan, and appears in Parliament to have got beyond his famous “I conceive—I conceive—I conceive”—(having, as the wag observed, “conceived three times and brought forth nothing"), and spoken sometimes, if not often—he did not feel himself at home. He must have loathed the licentious and corrupt Wharton, and felt besides a longing for the society of London, the noctes coenoeque Deum he had left behind him. It was in Ireland, however, that his real literary career began. Steele, in the spring of 1709, had commenced the Tatler, a thrice-a-week miscellany of foreign news, town gossip, short sharp papers de omnibus rebus et guibusdum aliis, with a sprinkling of moral and literary criticism. When Addison heard of this scheme, he readily lent his aid to it, and then, as honest Richard admits, “I fared like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid,—I was undone by my auxiliary.” To the Tatler Addison contributed a number of papers, which, if slighter than his better ones in the Spectator, were nevertheless highly characteristic of his singular powers of observation, character-painting, humour, and invention.
In November 1709, he returned to England, and not long after he shared in the downfall of his party, and lost his secretaryship. This also is thought to have injured him in a tender point. He had already conceived an affection for the Countess-Dowager of Warwick, who had been disposed to encourage the addresses of the Secretary, but looked coldly on those of the mere man and scribbler Joseph Addison, who, to crown his misfortunes at this time, had resigned his Fellowship, suffered some severe pecuniary losses of a kind, and from a quarter which are both obscure, and was trembling lest he should be deprived of his small Irish office too. Yet, although reduced and well-nigh beggared, never did his mind approve itself more rich. Besides writing a great deal
On the 2d of January 1711, the last Tatler came forth; and on the 1st of the following March appeared the Spectator, which is now the main pillar of Addison’s fame, and the fullest revelation of his exquisite genius. Without being as a whole a great, or in any part of it a profound work, there are few productions which, if lost, would be more missed in literature. One reclines on its pages as on pillows. The sweetness of the spirit,—the trembling beauty of the sentences, like that of a twilight wave just touched by the west wind’s balmy breath,—the nice strokes of humour, so gentle, yet so overpowering,—the feminine delicacy and refinement of the allusions,—the art which so dexterously conceals itself,—the mild enthusiasm for the works of man and God which glows in all its serious effusions,—the good nature of its satire,—the geniality of its criticism,—the everlasting April of the style, so soft and vivid,—the purity and healthiness of the moral tone,—and the childlike religion which breathes in the Saturday papers—one or two of which, such as the “Vision of Mirza,” are almost scriptural in spirit and beautiful simplicity,—combine to throw a charm around the Spectator which works of far loftier pretensions, if they need not, certainly do not possess. Macaulay (whom we love for his love of Addison and Bunyan more than for aught else about his works) truly observes, that few writers have discovered so much variety and inventiveness as Addison, who, in the papers of a single week, sometimes traverses the whole gamut of literature, supplying keen sarcasm, rich portraiture of character, the epistle, the tale, the allegory, the apologue, the moral essay, and the religious meditation,—all first-rate in quality, and all suggesting the idea that his resources are boundless, and that the half has not been told. His criticisms have been ridiculed as shallow; but while his lucubrations on Milton were useful in their day as plain finger-posts, quietly pointing up to the stupendous sublimities of the theme, his essays on Wit are subtle, and his papers on the “Pleasures of Imagination” throw on the beautiful topic a light like that of a red evening west, giving and receiving glory from the autumnal landscape.
In the end of 1712 the Spectator, which had circulated at one time to the extent of 4000 copies a-day, was discontinued, and in a few weeks the Guardian supplied its place. It was two months ere Addison began to write, and during that time it was flippantly dull; but when he appeared its character changed, and his contributions to the new periodical were quite as good as the best of his Spectators.
In April 1713 his “Cato” was acted with immense success, and in circumstances so well known that they need not be detailed at length. Pope wrote the prologue; Booth enacted the hero; Steele packed the house; peers, both Tory and Whig, crowded the boxes; claps of applause were echoed back from High Churchmen to the members of the “Kit-Cat Club;” Bolingbroke sent fifty guineas, during the progress of the play, to Booth for defending the cause of liberty against a perpetual dictator, (Marlborough;) and with the exception of growling Dennis, everybody was in raptures. The play has long found its level. It has passages of power and thoughts of beauty, but it has one radical fault—formality. Mandeville described Addison as a parson in a tie-wig. “Cato” is a parson without the tie-wig; an intolerable mixture of the patriot and the pedant. Few would now give one of the Spectator’s little papers about Sir Roger de Coverley for a century of Catos.
In September 1713 the Guardian stopped; but in June 1714 Addison, now separated from Steele, who was carrying on a political paper called the Englishman, added an eighth volume to the Spectator. Its contents are more uniformly serious than those of the first seven volumes, and it contains, besides Addison’s matchless papers, some only inferior to these, especially four by Mr Grove, a dissenting minister in Taunton. It is recorded in “Boswell” that Baretti having, on the Continent, met with Grove’s paper on “Novelty,” it quickened his curiosity to visit Britain, for he thought, if such were the lighter periodical essays of our authors, their productions on more weighty occasions must be wonderful indeed!
When George I. succeeded to the throne, Addison’s fortunes began to improve. A Council having been appointed to manage matters till the King arrived, Addison was chosen their secretary; and afterwards he went over again to Ireland in his old capacity, Sunderland being now Lord-Lieutenant. Here, much as he differed from Swift in politics, he resumed his intimacy with him,—an intimacy, considering the dispositions of the two men, singular, as though a lamb and a flayed bear were to form an alliance. In 1715 our poet returned to England, and obtained a seat at the Board of Trade. Early in the year he brought out, anonymously, on the stage his comedy of the “Drummer,” which was coldly received. And towards the close of it, he commenced a very clever periodical called the Freeholder. We only met with this series a few years ago, but can assure our readers that some of the most delectable bits of Addison are to be found in it. There is a Tory fox-hunter yet riding along there, whom we would advise you to join if you would enjoy one of the richest treats of humour; and there is a Jacobite army still on its way to Preston, the only danger connected with approaching which, is lest you be killed with laughter.
Shortly after occurred his famous quarrel with Pope, to which we have already referred in our life of that poet, and do not intend to recur. Next year Addison’s long courtship came to a successful close. He wedded the Dowager Warwick, went to reside at Holland-house, and became miserable for life. She was a proud, imperious woman, who, instead of seeking to wean Addison from his convivial habits, (if such habits in any excessive measure were his,) drove him deeper into the slough by her bitter words and haughty carriage. The tavern, which had formerly been his occasional resort, became now his nightly refuge. In 1717 he received his highest civil honour, being made Secretary of State under Lord Sunderland; but, as usual, the slave soon appeared in the chariot. His health began to break down, and asthma soon obliged him to resign his office, on receiving a retiring pension of L1500 a-year. Next Steele and he, having taken opposite sides in politics, got engaged in a paper war—Steele in the Plebeian, and Addison in the Old Whig; and personalities of a disagreeable kind passed between the two friends. In the meantime Addison was dying fast. Dropsy had supervened on asthma, and the help of physicians was vain. He prepared himself, like a man and a Christian, to meet the last stern foe. He sent for Gay and asked his forgiveness for some act of unkindness he had done him. Gay granted it, although utterly ignorant of what the offence had been. He had probably, on account of his Toryism, been deprived, through Addison’s means, of some preferment. He entrusted his works to the care of Tickell, and dedicated them to Craggs, his successor in the secretaryship, in a touching and beautiful letter, written a few days before his death. He called, it is said, the young Earl of Warwick, his wife’s son, a very dissipated young man, and of unsettled religious principles, to his bedside, and said, “I have sent for you that you may see how a Christian can die.” He breathed his last on the 17th June 1709, forty-seven years old, and leaving one child, a daughter, who died, at an advanced age, at Bilton, Warwickshire, in 1797. His funeral took place, at dead of night, in Westminster Abbey, Bishop Atterbury meeting the procession and reading the service by torch-light. He was laid beside his friend Montague, and in a few months his successor, Craggs, was laid beside him. Nearly a century elapsed ere the present monument was erected over his dust. Tickell wrote a fine poem to his memory; and a splendid edition of his works was published by subscription in 1721.
Addison was cut off in the prime of life, and interrupted in some literary undertakings and projects of great pith and moment. He had written a portion of a treatise on the “Evidences of Christianity,” and was meditating some works, such as a “Metrical Version of the Psalms” and a tragedy on the history of Socrates, still more suitable to his cast of mind.
We have already indicated our opinion alike of Addison’s character and genius, but must be permitted a few closing remarks. Both partook of the feminine type. He was an amiable and highly gifted, rather than a strong or great man. His shrinking timidity of temperament, his singular modesty of manners, his quiet, sly power of humorous yet kindly observation, his minute style of criticism, even the peculiar cast of his piety, all served to stamp the lady-man. In taciturnity alone he bore the sex no resemblance. And hence it is that Campbell in poetry, and Addison in prose, are, or were, the great favourites of female readers. He had many weaknesses, but, as in the character of woman, they appeared beautiful, and cognate to his gentle nature. His fear of giving offence was one of the most prominent of these. In his writings and in his life, he seems always treading on thin ice. Pope said truly of him—
“He hints a fault, and hesitates dislike.”
But this was not owing to malice, but to the bashful good nature which distinguished him. It is true, too, that he hints a beauty, and hesitates in his expressions of love. He says himself the finest things, and then blushes as if detected in a crime; or he praises an obvious and colossal merit in another, and then starts at the sound himself had made. His encomiums resemble the evening talk of lovers, being low, sweet, and trembling. Were we to speak of Addison phrenologically, we should say that, next to veneration, wit, and ideality, his principal faculties were caution and secretiveness. He was cautious to the brink of cowardice. We fancy him in a considerable fright in the storm on the Ligurian Gulf, amidst the exhalations of the unhealthy Campagna, and while the avalanches of the Alps—“the thunderbolts of snow”—were falling around him. We know that he walked about behind the scenes perspiring with agitation while the fate of “Cato” was still undecided. Had it failed, Addison never could, as Dr Johnson, when asked how he felt after “Irene” was damned, have replied, “Like the Monument.” We know, too, that he sought to soothe the fury and stroke down the angry bristles of John Dennis. To call the author of the “Campaign” a coward were going too far; but he felt, we believe, more of a martial glow while writing it in his Haymarket garret than had he mingled in the fray. And as to his secretiveness, his still, deep, scarce-rippling stream of humour, his habit, commemorated by Swift, when he found any man invincibly wrong, of flattering his opinions by acquiescence, and sinking him yet deeper in absurdity; even the fact that no word is found more frequently in his writings than “secret” ("secret joy,” “secret satisfaction,” “secret solace,” are phrases constantly occurring,) prove that, whatever else he had possessed of the female character, the title of the play, “A Wonder—a Woman keeps a Secret,” had been no paradox in reference to him.
Having his lips in general barred by the double bolts of caution and secretiveness, one ceases to wonder that the “invisible spirit of wine” was welcomed by him as a key to open occasionally the rich treasures of his mind; but that he was a habitual drunkard is one calumny; that he wrote his best Spectators when too much excited with wine is another; and that he “died drunk” is a third,—and the most atrocious of all, propagated though it has been by Walpole and Byron. His habits, however, were undoubtedly too careless and convivial; and there used to be a floating tradition in Holland-house, that, when meditating his writings there, he was wont to walk along a gallery, at each end of which stood a separate bottle, out of both of which he never failed, en passant, to sip! This, after all, however, may be only a mythical fable.
While, as an author, the favourite of ladies, of the young, and of catholic-minded critics generally, Addison has had, and has still, severe and able detractors, who are wont to speak of him in such a manner as this:—“He is a highly cultivated artist, but not one thought of any vivid novelty did he put out in all his many books. You become placid reading him, but think of Ossian and Shakspeare, and be silent. He is a lapidary polishing pebbles,—a pretty art, but not vested with the glories of sculpture, nor the mathematical magnitude of architecture. He does not walk a demigod, but a stiff Anglicised imitator of French paces. He is a symmetrical, but a small invisible personage at rapier practice.” Now, clever as this is, it only proves that Addison is not a Shakspeare or Milton. He does not pretend to be either. He is no demigod, but he is a man, a lady-man if you will, but the lovelier on that account. Besides, he was cut off in his prime, and when he might have girt himself up to achieve greater things than he has done. And although the French taste of his age somewhat affected and chilled his genius, yet he knew of other models than Racine and Boileau. He drank of “Siloa’s brook.” He admired and imitated the poetry of the Bible. He loves not, indeed, its wilder and higher strains; he gets giddy on the top of Lebanon; the Valley of Dry Bones he treads with timid steps; and his look up to the “Terrible Crystal” is more of fright than of exultation. But the lovelier, softer, simpler, and more pensive parts of the Bible are very dear to the gentle Spectator, and are finely, if faintly, reproduced in his writings. Indeed, the principle which would derogate from Addison’s works, would lead to the depreciation of portions of the Scriptures too. “Ruth” is not so grand as the “Revelation;” the “Song of Solomon” is not so sublime as the “Song of Songs, which is Isaiah’s;” and the story of Joseph has not the mystic grandeur or rushing fire of Ezekiel’s prophecy. But there they are in the same Book of God, and are even dearer to many hearts than the loftier portions; and so with Addison’s papers beside the works of Bacon, Milton, and Coleridge.
His poetry is now in our readers’ hands, and should be read with a candid spirit. They will admire the elegance and gracefully-used learning of the “Epistle to Halifax.” They will not be astonished at the “Campaign,” but they will regard it with interest as the lever which first lifted Addison into his true place in society and letters. They will find much to please them in his verses to Dryden, Somers, King William, and his odes on St Cecilia’s Day; and they will pause with peculiar fondness over those delightful hymns, some of which they have sung or repeated from infancy, which they will find again able to “beat the heavenward flame,” and start the tender and pious tear, and which are of themselves sufficient to rank Addison high on the list of Christian poets.
[Footnote 1: Among these “others” was Abraham Stanyan, plenipotentiary extraordinary at Neufchatel at the settlement of the rival claims of the Duke of Brandenberg, Holland, and France, to that principality. He was afterwards ambassador to France. He married a daughter of Dr Pritchett, Bishop of Gloucester. It is said, that, having on one occasion borrowed a sum of money from Addison, the latter observed him to be very subservient, agreeing with every opinion Mr A. expressed, till Addison, provoked, and guessing the cause, said, “Stanyan, either contradict me, or pay me my money.” Our friend, Mr J. Stanyan Bigg, author of the very brilliant poem, “Night and the Soul,” is a descendant of Abraham Stanyan.]
POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.
How long, great poet, shall thy sacred
lays
Provoke our wonder, and transcend our
praise?
Can neither injuries of time, nor age,
Damp thy poetic heat, and quench thy rage?
Not so thy Ovid in his exile wrote;
Grief chilled his breast, and checked
his rising thought;
Pensive and sad, his drooping Muse betrays
The Roman genius in its last decays.
Prevailing warmth has
still thy mind possess’d,
And second youth is kindled in thy breast;
10
Thou mak’st the beauties of the
Romans known,
And England boasts of riches not her own;
Thy lines have heightened Virgil’s
majesty,
And Horace wonders at himself in thee.
Thou teachest Persius to inform our isle
In smoother numbers, and a clearer style;
And Juvenal, instructed in thy page,
Edges his satire, and improves his rage.
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
And still outshines the bright original.
20
Now Ovid boasts the
advantage of thy song,
And tells his story in the British tongue;
Thy charming verse and fair translations
show
How thy own laurel first began to grow;
How wild Lycaon, changed by angry gods,
And frighted at himself, ran howling through
Mag. Coll. Oxon, June 2, 1693.
The Author’s age, 22.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR JOHN SOMERS,
LOKD KEEPER OF THE GREAT SEAL.
If yet your thoughts are loose from state
affairs,
Nor feel the burden of a kingdom’s
cares,
If yet your time and actions are your
own,
Receive the present of a Muse unknown:
A Muse that in adventurous numbers sings
The rout of armies, and the fall of kings,
Britain advanced, and Europe’s peace
restored,
By Somers’ counsels, and by Nassau’s
sword.
To you, my lord, these
daring thoughts belong,
Who helped to raise the subject of my
song;
10
To you the hero of my verse reveals
His great designs; to you in council tells
His inmost thoughts, determining the doom
Of towns unstormed, and battles yet to
come.
And well could you, in your immortal strains,
Describe his conduct, and reward his pains:
But since the state has all your cares
engross’d,
And poetry in higher thoughts is lost,
Attend to what a lesser Muse indites,
Pardon her faults and countenance her
flights.
20
On you, my lord, with
anxious fear I wait,
And from your judgment must expect my
fate,
Who, free from vulgar passions, are above
Degrading envy, or misguided love;
If you, well pleased, shall smile upon
my lays,
Secure of fame, my voice I’ll boldly
raise;
For next to what you write, is what you
praise.
When now the business of the field is
o’er,
The trumpets sleep, and cannons cease
to roar;
When every dismal echo is decay’d,
And all the thunder of the battle laid;
Attend, auspicious prince, and let the
Muse
In humble accents milder thoughts infuse.
Others, in bold prophetic
numbers skill’d,
Set thee in arms, and led thee to the
field;
My Muse, expecting, on the British strand
Waits thy return, and welcomes thee to
land:
10
She oft has seen thee pressing on the
foe,
When Europe was concerned in every blow;
But durst not in heroic strains rejoice;
is
The trumpets, drums, and cannons drowned
her voice:
Page 21
She saw the Boyne run thick with human
gore,
And floating corps lie beating on the
shore:
She saw thee climb the banks, but tried
in vain
To trace her hero through the dusty plain,
When through the thick embattled lines
he broke,
Now plunged amidst the foes, now lost
in clouds of smoke.
20
Oh that some Muse, renowned
for lofty verse,
In daring numbers would thy toils rehearse!
Draw thee beloved in peace, and feared
in wars,
Inured to noonday sweats, and midnight
cares!
But still the godlike man, by some hard
fate,
Receives the glory of his toils too late;
Too late the verse the mighty act succeeds;
One age the hero, one the poet breeds.
A thousand years in
full succession ran
Ere Virgil raised his voice, and sung
the man
30
Who, driven by stress of fate, such dangers
bore
On stormy seas and a disastrous shore,
Before he settled in the promised earth,
And gave the empire of the world its birth.
Troy long had found
the Grecians bold and fierce,
Ere Homer mustered up their troops in
verse;
Long had Achilles quelled the Trojans’
lust,
And laid the labour of the gods in dust,
Before the towering Muse began her flight,
And drew the hero raging in the fight,
40
Engaged in tented fields and rolling floods,
Or slaughtering mortals, or a match for
gods.
And here, perhaps, by
fate’s unerring doom,
Some mighty bard lies hid in years to
come,
That shall in William’s godlike
acts engage,
And with his battles warm a future age.
Hibernian fields shall here thy conquests
show,
And Boyne be sung when it has ceased to
flow;
Here Gallic labours shall advance thy
fame,
And here Seneffe[3] shall wear another
name.
50
Our late posterity, with secret dread,
Shall view thy battles, and with pleasure
read
How, in the bloody field, too near advanced,
The guiltless bullet on thy shoulder glanced.
The race of Nassaus
was by Heaven design’d
To curb the proud oppressors of mankind,
To bind the tyrants of the earth with
laws,
And fight in every injured nation’s
cause,
The world’s great patriots; they
for justice call,
And, as they favour, kingdoms rise or
fall.
60
Our British youth, unused to rough alarms,
Careless of fame, and negligent of arms,
Had long forgot to meditate the foe,
And heard unwarmed the martial trumpet
blow;
But now, inspired by thee, with fresh
delight
Their swords they brandish, and require
the fight,
Renew their ancient conquests on the main,
And act their fathers’ triumphs
o’er again;
Fired, when they hear how Agincourt was
strow’d
With Gallic corps and Cressi swam in blood,
70
With eager warmth they fight, ambitious
all
Who first shall storm the breach, or mount
Page 22
the wall.
In vain the thronging enemy by force
Would clear the ramparts, and repel their
course;
They break through all, for William leads
the way,
Where fires rage most, and loudest engines
play.
Namur’s late terrors and destruction
show
What William, warmed with just revenge,
can do:
Where once a thousand turrets raised on
high
Their gilded spires, and glittered in
the sky,
80
An undistinguished heap of dust is found,
And all the pile lies smoking on the ground,
His toils, for no ignoble
ends design’d,
Promote the common welfare of mankind;
No wild ambition moves, but Europe’s
fears,
The cries of orphans, and the widow’s
tears;
Oppressed religion gives the first alarms,
And injured justice sets him in his arms;
His conquests freedom to the world afford,
And nations bless the labours of his sword.
90
Thus when the forming
Muse would copy forth
A perfect pattern of heroic worth,
She sets a man triumphant in the field,
O’er giants cloven down, and monsters
kill’d,
Reeking in blood, and smeared with dust
and sweat,
Whilst angry gods conspire to make him
great.
Thy navy rides on seas
before unpress’d,
And strikes a terror through the haughty
East;
Algiers and Tunis from their sultry shore
With horror hear the British engines roar;
100
Fain from the neighbouring dangers would
they run,
And wish themselves still nearer to the
sun.
The Gallic ships are in their ports confined,
Denied the common use of sea and wind,
Nor dare again the British strength engage;
Still they remember that destructive rage
Which lately made their trembling host
retire,
Stunned with the noise, and wrapt in smoke
and fire;
The waves with wide unnumbered wrecks
were strow’d,
And planks, and arms, and men, promiscuous
flow’d.
110
Spain’s numerous
fleet, that perished on our coast,
Could scarce a longer line of battle boast,
The winds could hardly drive them to their
fate,
And all the ocean laboured with the weight.
Where’er the waves
in restless errors roll,
The sea lies open now to either pole:
Now may we safely use the northern gales,
And in the Polar Circle spread our sails;
Or deep in southern climes, secure from
wars,
New lands explore, and sail by other stars;
120
Fetch uncontrolled each labour of the
sun,
And make the product of the world our
own.
At length, proud prince,
ambitious Louis, cease
To plague mankind, and trouble Europe’s
peace;
Think on the structures which thy pride
has razed,
On towns unpeopled, and on fields laid
waste;
Think on the heaps of corps and streams
of blood,
On every guilty plain, and purple flood,
Thy arms have made, and cease an impious
war,
Nor waste the lives intrusted to thy care.
And draw the reader on from sea to sea?
180
Else who could Ormond’s godlike
acts refuse,
Ormond the theme of every Oxford Muse?
Fain would I here his mighty worth proclaim,
Attend him in the noble chase of fame,
Through all the noise and hurry of the
fight,
Observe each blow, and keep him still
in sight.
Oh, did our British peers thus court renown,
And grace the coats their great forefathers
Page 24
won,
Our arms would then triumphantly advance,
Nor Henry be the last that conquered France!
190
What might not England hope, if such abroad
Purchased their country’s honour
with their blood:
When such, detained at home, support our
state
In William’s stead, and bear a kingdom’s
weight,
The schemes of Gallic policy o’erthrow,
And blast the counsels of the common foe;
Direct our armies, and distribute right,
And render our Maria’s loss more
light.
But stop, my Muse, the
ungrateful sound forbear,
Maria’s name still wounds each British
ear:
200
Each British heart Maria still does wound,
And tears burst out unbidden at the sound;
Maria still our rising mirth destroys,
Darkens our triumphs, and forbids our
joys.
But see, at length,
the British ships appear!
Our Nassau comes! and, as his fleet draws
near,
The rising masts advance, the sails grow
white,
And all his pompous navy floats in sight.
Come, mighty prince, desired of Britain,
come!
May heaven’s propitious gales attend
thee home!
210
Come, and let longing crowds behold that
look
Which such confusion and amazement strook
Through Gallic hosts: but, oh! let
us descry
Mirth in thy brow, and pleasure in thy
eye;
Let nothing dreadful in thy face be found;
But for awhile forget the trumpet’s
sound;
Well-pleased, thy people’s loyalty
approve,
Accept their duty, and enjoy their love.
For as, when lately moved with fierce
delight,
You plunged amidst the tumult of the fight,
220
Whole heaps of dead encompassed you around,
And steeds o’erturned lay foaming
on the ground:
So crowned with laurels now, where’er
you go,
Around you blooming joys and peaceful
blessings flow.
A TRANSLATION OF ALL
VIRGIL’S FOURTH GEORGIC,
EXCEPT THE STORY OF ARISTAEUS.
Ethereal sweets shall next my Muse engage,
And this, Maecenas, claims your patronage.
Of little creatures’ wondrous acts
I treat,
The ranks and mighty leaders of their
state,
Their laws, employments, and their wars
relate.
A trifling theme provokes my humble lays.
Trifling the theme, not so the poet’s
praise,
If great Apollo and the tuneful Nine
First, for your bees
a proper station find,
10
That’s fenced about, and sheltered
from the wind;
For winds divert them in their flight,
and drive
The swarms, when loaden homeward, from
their hive.
Nor sheep, nor goats, must pasture near
their stores,
To trample underfoot the springing flowers;
Nor frisking heifers bound about the place,
To spurn the dew-drops off, and bruise
the rising grass;
Nor must the lizard’s painted brood
appear,
Nor wood-pecks, nor the swallow, harbour
near.
They waste the swarms, and, as they fly
Page 25
along,
20
Convey the tender morsels to their young.
Let purling streams,
and fountains edged with moss,
And shallow rills run trickling through
the grass;
Let branching olives o’er the fountain
grow;
Or palms shoot up, and shade the streams
below;
That when the youth, led by their princes,
shun
The crowded hive and sport it in the sun,
Refreshing springs may tempt them from
the heat,
And shady coverts yield a cool retreat.
Whether the neighbouring
water stands or runs,
30
Lay twigs across and bridge it o’er
with stones
That if rough storms, or sudden blasts
of wind,
Should dip or scatter those that lag behind,
Here they may settle on the friendly stone,
And dry their reeking pinions at the sun.
Plant all the flowery banks with lavender,
With store of savory scent the fragrant
air;
Let running betony the field o’erspread,
And fountains soak the violet’s
dewy bed.
Though barks or plaited
willows make your hive,
40
A narrow inlet to their cells contrive;
For colds congeal and freeze the liquors
up,
And, melted down with heat, the waxen
buildings drop.
The bees, of both extremes alike afraid,
Their wax around the whistling crannies
spread,
And suck out clammy dews from herbs and
flowers,
To smear the chinks, and plaster up the
pores;
For this they hoard up glue, whose clinging
drops,
Like pitch or bird-lime, hang in stringy
ropes.
They oft, ’tis said, in dark retirements
dwell,
50
And work in subterraneous caves their
cell;
At other times the industrious insects
live
In hollow rocks, or make a tree their
hive.
Point all their chinky
lodgings round with mud,
And leaves must thinly on your work be
strow’d;
But let no baleful yew-tree flourish near,
Nor rotten marshes send out steams of
mire;
Nor burning crabs grow red, and crackle
in the fire:
Nor neighbouring caves return the dying
sound,
Nor echoing rocks the doubled voice rebound.
60
Things thus prepared——
When the under-world is seized with cold
and night,
And summer here descends in streams of
light,
The bees through woods and forests take
their flight.
They rifle every flower, and lightly skim
The crystal brook, and sip the running
stream;
And thus they feed their young with strange
delight,
And knead the yielding wax, and work the
slimy sweet.
But when on high you see the bees repair,
Borne on the winds through distant tracts
of air,
70
And view the winged cloud all blackening
from afar;
While shady coverts and fresh streams
they choose,
Milfoil and common honeysuckles bruise,
And sprinkle on their hives the fragrant
juice.
On brazen vessels beat a tinkling sound,
And shake the cymbals of the goddess round;
Page 26
Then all will hastily retreat, and fill
The warm resounding hollow of their cell.
If once two rival kings
their right debate,
And factions and cabals embroil the state,
80
The people’s actions will their
thoughts declare;
All their hearts tremble, and beat thick
with war;
Hoarse, broken sounds, like trumpets’
harsh alarms,
Run through the hive, and call them to
their arms;
All in a hurry spread their shivering
wings,
And fit their claws, and point their angry
stings:
In crowds before the king’s pavilion
meet,
And boldly challenge out the foe to fight:
At last, when all the heavens are warm
and fair,
They rush together out, and join; the
air
90
Swarms thick, and echoes with the humming
war.
All in a firm round cluster mix, and strow
With heaps of little corps the earth below,
As thick as hailstones from the floor
rebound,
Or shaken acorns rattle on the ground.
No sense of danger can their kings control,
Their little bodies lodge a mighty soul:
Each obstinate in arms pursues his blow,
Till shameful flight secures the routed
foe.
This hot dispute and all this mighty fray
100
A little dust flung upward will allay.
But when both kings
are settled in their hive,
Mark him who looks the worst, and, lest
he live
Idle at home in ease and luxury,
The lazy monarch must be doomed to die;
So let the royal insect rule alone,
And reign without a rival in his throne.
The kings are different;
one of better note,
All speck’d with gold, and many
a shining spot,
Looks gay, and glistens in a gilded coat;
110
But love of ease, and sloth, in one prevails,
That scarce his hanging paunch behind
him trails:
The people’s looks are different
as their kings’,
Some sparkle bright, and glitter in their
wings;
Others look loathsome and diseased with
sloth,
Like a faint traveller, whose dusty mouth
Grows dry with heat, and spits a mawkish
froth.
The first are best——
From their o’erflowing combs you’ll
often press
Pure luscious sweets, that mingling in
the glass
120
Correct the harshness of the racy juice,
And a rich flavour through the wine diffuse.
But when they sport abroad, and rove from
home,
And leave the cooling hive, and quit the
unfinished comb,
Their airy ramblings are with ease confined,
Clip their king’s wings, and if
they stay behind
No bold usurper dares invade their right,
Nor sound a march, nor give the sign for
flight.
Let flowery banks entice them to their
cells,
And gardens all perfumed with native smells;
130
Where carved Priapus has his fixed abode,
The robber’s terror, and the scarecrow
god.
Wild thyme and pine-trees from their barren
hill
Transplant, and nurse them in the neighbouring
Page 27
soil,
Set fruit-trees round, nor e’er
indulge thy sloth,
But water them, and urge their shady growth.
And here, perhaps, were
not I giving o’er,
And striking sail, and making to the shore,
I’d show what art the gardener’s
toils require,
Why rosy paestum blushes twice a year;
140
What streams the verdant succory supply,
And how the thirsty plant drinks rivers
dry;
With what a cheerful green does parsley
grace,
And writhes the bellying cucumber along
the twisted grass;
Nor would I pass the soft acanthus o’er,
Ivy nor myrtle-trees that love the shore;
Nor daffodils, that late from earth’s
slow womb
Unrumple their swoln buds, and show their
yellow bloom.
For once I saw in the
Tarentine vale,
Where slow Galesus drenched the washy
soil,
150
An old Corician yeoman, who had got
A few neglected acres to his lot,
Where neither corn nor pasture graced
the field,
Nor would the vine her purple harvest
yield;
But savoury herbs among the thorns were
found,
Vervain and poppy-flowers his garden crown’d,
And drooping lilies whitened all the ground.
Blest with these riches he could empires
slight,
And when he rested from his toils at night,
The earth unpurchased dainties would afford,
160
And his own garden furnished out his board:
The spring did first his opening roses
blow,
First ripening autumn bent his fruitful
bough.
When piercing colds had burst the brittle
stone,
And freezing rivers stiffened as they
run,
He then would prune the tenderest of his
trees,
Chide the late spring, and lingering western
breeze:
His bees first swarmed, and made his vessels
foam
With the rich squeezing of the juicy comb.
Here lindens and the sappy pine increased;
170
Here, when gay flowers his smiling orchard
dressed,
As many blossoms as the spring could show,
So many dangling apples mellowed on the
bough.
In rows his elms and knotty pear-trees
bloom,
And thorns ennobled now to bear a plum,
And spreading plane-trees, where, supinely
laid,
He now enjoys the cool, and quaffs beneath
the shade.
But these for want of room I must omit,
And leave for future poets to recite.
Now I’ll proceed
their natures to declare,
180
Which Jove himself did on the bees confer
Because, invited by the timbrel’s
sound,
Lodged in a cave, the almighty babe they
found,
And the young god nursed kindly under-ground.
Of all the winged inhabitants
of air,
These only make their young the public
care;
In well-disposed societies they live,
And laws and statutes regulate their hive;
Nor stray like others unconfined abroad,
But know set stations, and a fixed abode:
190
Each provident of cold in summer flies
Through fields and woods, to seek for
Page 28
new supplies,
And in the common stock unlades his thighs.
Some watch the food, some in the meadows
ply,
Taste every bud, and suck each blossom
dry;
Whilst others, labouring in their cells
at home,
Temper Narcissus’ clammy tears with
gum,
For the first groundwork of the golden
comb;
On this they found their waxen works,
and raise
The yellow fabric on its gluey base.
200
Some educate the young, or hatch the seed
With vital warmth, and future nations
breed;
Whilst others thicken all the slimy dews,
And into purest honey work the juice;
Then fill the hollows of the comb, and
swell
With luscious nectar every flowing cell.
By turns they watch, by turns with curious
eyes
Survey the heavens, and search the clouded
skies,
To find out breeding storms, and tell
what tempests rise.
By turns they ease the loaden swarms,
or drive
210
The drone, a lazy insect, from their hive.
The work is warmly plied through all the
cells,
And strong with thyme the new-made honey
smells.
So in their caves the
brawny Cyclops sweat,
When with huge strokes the stubborn wedge
they beat,
And all the unshapen thunderbolt complete;
Alternately their hammers rise and fall;
Whilst griping tongs turn round the glowing
ball.
With puffing bellows some the flames increase,
And some in waters dip the hissing mass;
220
Their beaten anvils dreadfully resound,
And AEtna shakes all o’er, and thunders
under-ground.
Thus, if great things
we may with small compare,
The busy swarms their different labours
share.
Desire of profit urges all degrees;
The aged insects, by experience wise,
Attend the comb, and fashion every part,
And shape the waxen fret-work out with
art:
The young at night, returning from their
toils,
Bring home their thighs clogged with the
meadows’ spoils.
230
On lavender and saffron buds they feed,
On bending osiers and the balmy reed,
From purple violets and the teile they
bring
Their gathered sweets, and rifle all the
spring.
All work together, all
together rest,
The morning still renews their labours
past;
Then all rush out, their different tasks
pursue,
Sit on the bloom, and suck the ripening
dew;
Again, when evening warns them to their
home,
With weary wings and heavy thighs they
come,
240
And crowd about the chink, and mix a drowsy
hum.
Into their cells at length they gently
creep,
There all the night their peaceful station
keep,
Wrapt up in silence, and dissolved in
sleep.
None range abroad when winds and storms
are nigh,
Nor trust their bodies to a faithless
sky,
But make small journeys with a careful
wing,
And fly to water at a neighbouring spring;
And lest their airy bodies should be cast
AT OXFORD.
Cecilia, whose exalted hymns
With joy and wonder fill the blest,
In choirs of warbling seraphims,
Known and distinguished from the rest,
Attend, harmonious saint, and see
Thy vocal sons of harmony;
Attend, harmonious saint, and hear our prayers;
Enliven all our earthly airs,
And, as thou sing’st thy God, teach us to
sing of thee;
Tune every string and every tongue,
Be thou the Muse and subject of our song.
II.
Let all Cecilia’s praise
proclaim,
Employ the echo in her name,
Hark how the flutes and trumpets raise,
At bright Cecilia’s name, their lays;
The organ labours in her praise.
Cecilia’s name does all our numbers grace,
From every voice the tuneful accents fly,
In soaring trebles now it rises high,
And now it sinks, and dwells upon the base.
Cecilia’s name through all the notes we
sing,
The work of every skilful tongue,
The sound of every trembling string,
The sound and triumph of our song.
III.
For ever consecrate the day,
To music and Cecilia;
Music, the greatest good that mortals know,
And all of heaven we have below.
Music can noble hints impart,
Engender fury, kindle love;
With unsuspected eloquence can move,
And manage all the man with secret art.
When Orpheus strikes the trembling lyre,
The streams stand still, the stones admire;
The listening savages advance,
The wolf and lamb around him trip,
The bears in awkward measures leap,
And tigers mingle in the dance.
The moving woods attended, as he play’d,
And Rhodope was left without a shade.
IV.
Music religious heats inspires,
It wakes the soul, and lifts it high,
And wings it with sublime desires,
And fits it to bespeak the Deity.
The Almighty listens to a tuneful tongue,
And seems well-pleased and courted with a
song.
Soft moving sounds and heavenly airs
Give force to every word, and recommend our prayers.
When time itself shall be no more,
And all things in confusion hurled,
Music shall then exert its power,
And sound survive the ruins of the world:
Then saints and angels shall agree
In one eternal jubilee:
All heaven shall echo with their hymns divine,
And God himself with pleasure see
The whole creation in a chorus join.
CHORUS.
Consecrate the place and
day,
To music and Cecilia.
Let no rough winds approach, nor dare
Invade the hallowed bounds,
Nor rudely shake the tuneful air,
Nor spoil the fleeting sounds.
Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard,
But gladness dwell on every tongue;
Whilst all, with voice and strings prepared,
Keep up the loud harmonious song,
And imitate the blest above,
In joy, and harmony, and love.
AN ODE FOR ST CECILIA’S DAY.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR DANIEL PURCELL. PERFORMED AT OXFORD 1699.
Prepare the hallowed strain, my Muse,
Thy softest sounds and sweetest numbers choose;
The bright Cecilia’s praise rehearse,
In warbling words, and gliding verse,
That smoothly run into a song,
And gently die away, and melt upon the tongue.
First let the sprightly violin
The joyful melody begin,
And none of all her strings be mute;
While the sharp sound and shriller
lay
10
In sweet harmonious notes decay,
Softened and mellowed by the flute.
’The flute that sweetly can complain,
Dissolve the frozen nymph’s disdain;
Panting sympathy impart,
Till she partake her lover’s smart.’[4]
CHORUS.
Next, let the solemn organ join
Religious airs, and strains divine,
Such as may lift us to the skies,
And set all Heaven before our eyes:
20
’Such as may lift us to the skies;
So far at least till they
Descend with kind surprise,
And meet our pious harmony half-way.’
Let then the trumpet’s piercing
sound
Our ravished ears with pleasure wound.
The soul
o’erpowering with delight,
As, with a quick uncommon ray,
A streak of lightning clears the day,
And flashes
on the sight.
30
Let Echo too perform her part,
Prolonging every note with art,
And in a
low expiring strain
Play all
the concert o’er again.
Such were the tuneful notes that hung
On bright Cecilia’s charming tongue:
Notes that sacred heats inspired,
And with religious ardour fired:
The love-sick youth, that long suppress’d
His smothered passion in his breast,
40
No sooner heard the warbling dame,
But, by the secret influence
turn’d,
He felt a new diviner flame,
And with devotion burn’d.
With ravished soul, and looks amazed,
Upon her beauteous face he gazed;
Nor made his amorous
complaint:
In vain her eyes his heart had charm’d,
Her heavenly voice her eyes disarm’d,
And changed the lover
to a saint.
50
GRAND CHORUS.
And now the choir complete rejoices,
With trembling strings and melting voices.
The tuneful ferment rises high,
And works with mingled melody:
Quick divisions run their rounds,
A thousand trills and quivering sounds
In airy circles o’er us fly,
Till, wafted by a gentle breeze,
They faint and languish by degrees,
And at a distance die.
60
TO MR HENRY SACHEVERELL. APRIL 3, 1694.
Since, dearest Harry, you will needs request
A short account of all the Muse-possess’d,
That, down from Chaucer’s days to
Dryden’s times,
Have spent their noble rage in British
rhymes;
Without more preface, writ in formal length,
To speak the undertaker’s want of
strength,
I’ll try to make their several beauties
known,
And show their verses’ worth, though
not my own.
Long had our dull forefathers
slept supine,
Nor felt the raptures of the tuneful Nine;
10
Till Chaucer first, the merry bard, arose,
And many a story told in rhyme and prose.
But age has rusted what the poet writ,
Worn out his language, and obscured his
wit;
In vain he jests in his unpolished strain,
And tries to make his readers laugh in
vain.
Old Spenser next, warmed
with poetic rage,
In ancient tales amused a barbarous age;
Page 34
An age that yet uncultivate and rude,
Where’er the poet’s fancy
led, pursued
20
Through pathless fields, and unfrequented
floods,
To dens of dragons and enchanted woods.
But now the mystic tale, that pleased
of yore,
Can charm an understanding age no more;
The long-spun allegories fulsome grow,
While the dull moral lies too plain below.
We view well-pleased at distance all the
sights
Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields,
and fights,
And damsels in distress, and courteous
knights;
But when we look too near, the shades
decay,
30
And all the pleasing landscape fades away.
Great Cowley then (a
mighty genius) wrote,
O’errun with wit, and lavish of
his thought:
His turns too closely on the reader press;
He more had pleased us, had he pleased
us less.
One glittering thought no sooner strikes
our eyes
With silent wonder, but new wonders rise.
As in the milky-way a shining white
O’erflows the heavens with one continued
light;
That not a single star can show his rays,
40
Whilst jointly all promote the common
blaze.
Pardon, great poet, that I dare to name
The unnumbered beauties of thy verse with
blame;
Thy fault is only wit in its excess,
But wit like thine in any shape will please.
What Muse but thine can equal hints inspire,
And fit the deep-mouthed Pindar to thy
lyre;
Pindar, whom others, in a laboured strain
And forced expression, imitate in vain?
Well-pleased in thee he soars with new
delight,
50
And plays in more unbounded verse, and
takes a nobler flight.
Blest man! whose spotless
life and charming lays
Employed the tuneful prelate in thy praise:
Blest man! who now shalt be for ever known
In Sprat’s successful labours and
thy own.
But Milton next, with
high and haughty stalks,
Unfettered in majestic numbers walks;
No vulgar hero can his Muse engage;
Nor earth’s wide scene confine his
hallowed rage.
See! see! he upward springs, and towering
high,
60
Spurns the dull province of mortality,
Shakes heaven’s eternal throne with
dire alarms,
And sets the Almighty thunderer in arms.
Whate’er his pen describes I more
than see,
Whilst every verse arrayed in majesty,
Bold, and sublime, my whole attention
draws,
And seems above the critic’s nicer
laws.
How are you struck with terror and delight,
When angel with archangel copes in fight!
When great Messiah’s outspread banner
shines,
70
How does the chariot rattle in his lines!
What sounds of brazen wheels, what thunder,
scare,
And stun the reader with the din of war!
With fear my spirits and my blood retire,
To see the seraphs sunk in clouds of fire;
But when, with eager steps, from hence
I rise,
And view the first gay scenes of Paradise,
Page 35
What tongue, what words of rapture, can
express
A vision so profuse of pleasantness!
Oh, had the poet ne’er profaned
his pen,
80
To varnish o’er the guilt of faithless
men,
His other works might have deserved applause;
But now the language can’t support
the cause;
While the clean current, though serene
and bright,
Betrays a bottom odious to the sight.
But now, my Muse, a
softer strain rehearse,
Turn every line with art, and smooth thy
verse;
The courtly Waller next commands thy lays:
Muse, tune thy verse with art to Waller’s
praise.
While tender airs and lovely dames inspire
90
Soft melting thoughts, and propagate desire;
So long shall Waller’s strains our
passion move,
And Sacharissa’s beauties kindle
love.
Thy verse, harmonious bard, and flattering
song,
Can make the vanquished great, the coward
strong.
Thy verse can show even Cromwell’s
innocence,
And compliment the storms that bore him
hence.
Oh, had thy Muse not come an age too soon,
But seen great Nassau on the British throne,
How had his triumphs glittered in thy
page,
100
And warmed thee to a more exalted rage!
What scenes of death and horror had we
view’d,
And how had Boyne’s wide current
reeked in blood!
Or, if Maria’s charms thou wouldst
rehearse,
In smoother numbers and a softer verse,
Thy pen had well described her graceful
air,
And Gloriana would have seemed more fair.
Nor must Roscommon pass
neglected by,
That makes even rules a noble poetry:
Rules, whose deep sense and heavenly numbers
show
110
The best of critics, and of poets too.
Nor, Denham, must we e’er forget
thy strains,
While Cooper’s Hill commands the
neighbouring plains.
But see where artful
Dryden next appears,
Grown old in rhyme, but charming even
in years.
Great Dryden next, whose tuneful Muse
affords
The sweetest numbers, and the fittest
words.
Whether in comic sounds or tragic airs
She forms her voice, she moves our smiles
or tears.
If satire or heroic strains she writes,
120
Her hero pleases and her satire bites.
From her no harsh unartful numbers fall,
She wears all dresses, and she charms
in all.
How might we fear our English poetry,
That long has flourished, should decay
with thee;
Did not the Muses’ other hope appear,
Harmonious Congreve, and forbid our fear:
Congreve! whose fancy’s unexhausted
store
Has given already much, and promised more.
Congreve shall still preserve thy fame
alive,
130
And Dryden’s Muse shall in his friend
survive.
I’m tired with
rhyming, and would fain give o’er,
But justice still demands one labour more:
The noble Montague remains unnamed,
For wit, for humour, and for judgment
Page 36
famed;
To Dorset he directs his artful Muse,
In numbers such as Dorset’s self
might use.
How negligently graceful he unreins
His verse, and writes in loose familiar
strains!
How Nassau’s godlike acts adorn
his lines,
140
And all the hero in full glory shines!
We see his army set in just array,
And Boyne’s dyed waves run purple
to the sea.
Nor Simois choked with men, and arms,
and blood;
Nor rapid Xanthus’ celebrated flood,
Shall longer be the poet’s highest
themes,
Though gods and heroes fought promiscuous
in their streams.
But now, to Nassau’s secret councils
raised,
He aids the hero, whom before he praised.
I’ve done at length;
and now, dear friend, receive
150
The last poor present that my Muse can
give.
I leave the arts of poetry and verse
To them that practise them with more success.
Of greater truths I’ll now prepare
to tell,
And so at once, dear friend and Muse,
farewell.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, IN THE YEAR 1701.
Salve
magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna
virum! tibi res antiquae laudis et artis
Aggredior,
sanctos ausus recludere fontes.
VIRG., Geor. ii.
While you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia’s public posts
retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease;
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe’er
I turn my ravished eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects
rise,
10
Poetic fields encompass me around
And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has
strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleased to
search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his
source,
20
To see the Mincio draw his watery store
Through the long windings of a fruitful
shore,
And hoary Albula’s infected tide
O’er the warm bed of smoking sulphur
glide.
Fired with a thousand
raptures I survey
Eridanus[5] through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o’er
the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture
drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter’s
snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he
flows.
30
Sometimes, misguided
by the tuneful throng
Page 37
I look for streams immortalised in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,
(Dumb are their fountains and their channels
dry,)
Yet run for ever by the Muse’s skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle
Tiber I retire,
And the famed river’s empty shores
admire,
That, destitute of strength, derives its
course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source,
40
Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless Muse exalts her
theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious
stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray’d,
And unobserved in wild meanders play’d;
Till by your lines and Nassau’s
sword renowned,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where’er the hero’s godlike
acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.
50
Oh could the Muse my
ravished breast inspire
With warmth like yours, and raise an equal
fire,
Unnumbered beauties in my verse should
shine,
And Virgil’s Italy should yield
to mine!
See how the golden groves
around me smile,
That shun the coast of Britain’s
stormy isle,
Or when transplanted and preserved with
care,
Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern
air.
Here kindly warmth their mounting juice
ferments
To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents:
60
Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle
bloom,
And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume.
Bear me, some god, to Baia’s gentle
seats,
Or cover me in Umbria’s green retreats;
Where western gales eternally reside,
And all the seasons lavish all their pride:
Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together
rise,
And the whole year in gay confusion lies.
Immortal glories in
my mind revive,
And in my soul a thousand passions strive,
70
When Rome’s exalted beauties I descry
Magnificent in piles of ruin lie.
An amphitheatre’s amazing height
Here fills my eye with terror and delight,
That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,
And held uncrowded nations in its womb;
Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce
the skies;
And here the proud triumphal arches rise,
Where the old Romans’ deathless
acts displayed,
Their base, degenerate progeny upbraid:
80
Whole rivers here forsake the fields below,
And wondering at their height through
airy channels flow.
Still to new scenes
my wandering Muse retires,
And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires;
Where the smooth chisel all its force
has shown,
And softened into flesh the rugged stone.
In solemn silence, a majestic band,
Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand;
Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown;
90
While the bright dames, to whom they humble
Page 38
sued,
Still show the charms that their proud
hearts subdued.
Fain would I Raphael’s
godlike art rehearse,
And show the immortal labours in my verse,
Where from the mingled strength of shade
and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heavenly figures from his pencil
flow,
So warm with life his blended colours
glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure
toss’d,
Amidst the soft variety I’m lost:
100
Here pleasing airs my ravish’d soul
confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of
sound;
Here domes and temples rise in distant
views,
And opening palaces invite my Muse.
How has kind Heaven
adorned the happy land,
And scattered blessings with a wasteful
hand!
But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that heaven and earth
impart,
The smiles of nature, and the charms of
art,
110
While proud oppression in her valleys
reigns,
And tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange and the swelling
grain:
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines,
And in the myrtle’s fragrant shade
repines:
Starves, in the midst of nature’s
bounty curs’d,
And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.
O Liberty, thou goddess
heavenly bright,
120
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign,
And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train;
Eased of her load, subjection grows more
light,
And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight;
Thou mak’st the gloomy face of nature
gay,
Giv’st beauty to the sun, and pleasure
to the day.
Thee, goddess, thee,
Britannia’s isle adores;
How has she oft exhausted all her stores,
How oft in fields of death thy presence
sought,
Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly
bought!
130
On foreign mountains may the sun refine
The grape’s soft juice, and mellow
it to wine,
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of
oil:
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies,
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o’er our heads the frozen
Pleiads shine:
’Tis liberty that crowns Britannia’s
isle,
And makes her barren rocks and her bleak
mountains smile.
140
Others with towering
piles may please the sight,
And in their proud aspiring domes delight;
A nicer touch to the stretched canvas
give,
Or teach their animated rocks to live:
’Tis Britain’s care to watch
o’er Europe’s fate,
And hold in balance each contending state,
To threaten bold presumptuous kings with
war,
And answer her afflicted neighbours’
prayer.
The Dane and Swede, roused up by fierce
MILTON’S STYLE IMITATED,
IN A TRANSLATION OF A STORY OUT OF THE THIRD AENEID.
Lost in the gloomy horror of the night,
We struck upon the coast where AEtna lies,
Horrid and waste, its entrails fraught
with fire,
That now casts out dark fumes and pitchy
clouds,
Vast showers of ashes hovering in the
smoke;
Now belches molten stones and ruddy flame,
Incensed, or tears up mountains by the
roots,
Or slings a broken rock aloft in air.
The bottom works with smothered fire involved
In pestilential vapours, stench, and smoke.
10
’Tis said, that
thunder-struck Enceladus
Groveling beneath the incumbent mountain’s
weight,
Lies stretched supine, eternal prey of
flames;
And, when he heaves against the burning
load,
Reluctant, to invert his broiling limbs,
A sudden earthquake shoots through all
the isle,
And AEtna thunders dreadful under-ground,
Then pours out smoke in wreathing curls
convolved,
And shades the sun’s bright orb,
and blots out day.
Here in the shelter
of the woods we lodged,
20
And frighted heard strange sounds and
dismal yells,
Nor saw from whence they came; for all
the night
A murky storm deep lowering o’er
our heads
Hung imminent, that with impervious gloom
Opposed itself to Cynthia’s silver
ray,
And shaded all beneath. But now the
sun
With orient beams had chased the dewy
night
From earth and heaven; all nature stood
disclosed:
When, looking on the neighbouring woods,
we saw
The ghastly visage of a man unknown,
30
An uncouth feature, meagre, pale, and
wild;
Affliction’s foul and terrible dismay
Sat in his looks, his face, impaired and
worn
With marks of famine, speaking sore distress;
His locks were tangled, and his shaggy
beard
Matted with filth; in all things else
a Greek.
He first advanced in
Page 40
haste; but, when he saw
Trojans and Trojan arms, in mid career
Stopp’d short, he back recoiled
as one surprised:
But soon recovering speed he ran, he flew
Precipitant, and thus with piteous cries
40
Our ears assailed: ’By heaven’s
eternal fires,
By every god that sits enthroned on high,
By this good light, relieve a wretch forlorn,
And bear me hence to any distant shore,
So I may shun this savage race accursed.
’Tis true I fought among the Greeks
that late
With sword and fire o’erturned Neptunian
Troy
And laid the labours of the gods in dust;
For which, if so the sad offence deserves,
50
Plunged in the deep, for ever let me lie
Whelmed under seas; if death must be my
doom,
Let man inflict it, and I die well-pleased.’
He ended here, and now
profuse to tears
In suppliant mood fell prostrate at our
feet:
We bade him speak from whence and what
he was,
And how by stress of fortune sunk thus
low;
Anchises too, with friendly aspect mild,
Gave him his hand, sure pledge of amity;
When, thus encouraged, he began his tale.
60
‘I’m one,’
says he, ’of poor descent; my name
Is Achaemenides, my country Greece;
Ulysses’ sad compeer, who, whilst
he fled
The raging Cyclops, left me here behind,
Disconsolate, forlorn; within the cave
He left me, giant Polypheme’s dark
cave;
A dungeon wide and horrible, the walls
On all sides furred with mouldy damps,
and hung
With clots of ropy gore, and human limbs,
His dire repast: himself of mighty
size,
70
Hoarse in his voice, and in his visage
grim,
Intractable, that riots on the flesh
Of mortal men, and swills the vital blood.
Him did I see snatch up with horrid grasp
Two sprawling Greeks, in either hand a
man;
I saw him when with huge, tempestuous
sway
He dashed and broke them on the grundsil
edge;
The pavement swam in blood, the walls
around
Were spattered o’er with brains.
He lapp’d the blood,
And chewed the tender flesh still warm
with life,
80
That swelled and heaved itself amidst
his teeth
As sensible of pain. Not less meanwhile
Our chief, incensed and studious of revenge,
Plots his destruction, which he thus effects.
The giant, gorged with flesh, and wine,
and blood,
Lay stretched at length and snoring in
his den,
Belching raw gobbets from his maw, o’ercharged
With purple wine and cruddled gore confused.
We gathered round, and to his single eye,
The single eye that in his forehead glared
90
Like a full moon, or a broad burnished
shield,
A forky staff we dexterously applied,
Which, in the spacious socket turning
round,
Scooped out the big round jelly from its
orb.
But let me not thus interpose delays;
Fly, mortals, fly this cursed, detested
Page 41
race:
A hundred of the same stupendous size,
A hundred Cyclops live among the hills,
Gigantic brotherhood, that stalk along
With horrid strides o’er the high
mountains’ tops,
100
Enormous in their gait; I oft have heard
Their voice and tread, oft seen them as
they passed,
Sculking and cowering down, half dead
with fear.
Thrice has the moon washed all her orb
in light,
Thrice travelled o’er, in her obscure
sojourn,
The realms of night inglorious, since
I’ve lived
Amidst these woods, gleaning from thorns
and shrubs
A wretched sustenance.’ As
thus he spoke,
We saw descending from a neighbouring
hill
Blind Polypheme; by weary steps and slow
110
The groping giant with a trunk of pine
Explored his way; around, his woolly flocks
Attended grazing; to the well-known shore
He bent his course, and on the margin
stood,
A hideous monster, terrible, deformed;
Full in the midst of his high front there
gaped
The spacious hollow where his eye-ball
rolled,
A ghastly orifice: he rinsed the
wound,
And washed away the strings and clotted
blood
That caked within; then, stalking through
the deep,
120
He fords the ocean, while the topmost
wave
Scarce reaches up his middle side; we
stood
Amazed, be sure; a sudden horror chill
Ran through each nerve, and thrilled in
every vein,
Till, using all the force of winds and
oars,
We sped away; he heard us in our course,
And with his outstretched arms around
him groped,
But finding nought within his reach, he
raised
Such hideous shouts that all the ocean
shook.
Even Italy, though many a league remote,
130
In distant echoes answered; AEtna roared,
Through all its inmost winding caverns
roared.
Roused with the sound,
the mighty family
Of one-eyed brothers hasten to the shore,
And gather round the bellowing Polypheme,
A dire assembly: we with eager haste
Work every one, and from afar behold
A host of giants covering all the shore.
So stands a forest tall
of mountain oaks
Advanced to mighty growth: the traveller
140
Hears from the humble valley where he
rides
The hollow murmurs of the winds that blow
Amidst the boughs, and at the distance
sees
The shady tops of trees unnumbered rise,
A stately prospect, waving in the clouds.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.
Rheni paeator et Istri.
Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit
Ordinibus; laectatur eques, plauditque senator,
Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.
CLAUD. DE LAUD. STILIC.
Esse aliquam in terris gentem quae sua impensa, suo labore ac periculo
bella gerat pro libertate aliorum. Nec hoc finitimis, aut propinquae
vicinitatis hominibus, aut terris continenti junctis praestet. Maria
trajiciat: ne quod toto orbe terrarum injustum imperium sit, et ubique
jus, fas, lex, potentissima sint.
LIV. HIST. lib. 36.
While crowds of princes your deserts
proclaim,
Proud in their number to enrol your name;
While emperors to you commit their cause,
And Anna’s praises crown the vast applause;
Accept, great leader, what the Muse recites,
That in ambitious verse attempts your fights.
Fired and transported with a theme so new,
Ten thousand wonders opening to my view
Shine forth at once; sieges and storms appear,
And wars and conquests fill the important year,
10
Rivers of blood I see, and hills of slain,
An Iliad rising out of one campaign.
The haughty Gaul beheld, with towering pride,
His ancient bounds enlarged on every side,
Pirene’s lofty barriers were subdued,
And in the midst of his wide empire stood;
Ausonia’s states, the victor to restrain,
Opposed their Alps and Apennines in vain,
Nor found themselves, with strength of rocks immured,
Behind their everlasting hills secured;
20
The rising Danube its long race began,
And half its course through the new conquests ran;
Amazed and anxious for her sovereign’s fates,
Germania trembled through a hundred states;
Great Leopold himself was seized with fear;
He gazed around, but saw no succour near;
He gazed, and half abandoned to despair
His hopes on Heaven, and confidence in prayer.
To Britain’s queen the nations turn their
eyes,
On her resolves the Western world relies,
30
Confiding still, amidst its dire alarms,
In Anna’s councils and in Churchill’s
arms.
Thrice happy Britain, from the kingdoms rent,
To sit the guardian of the continent!
That sees her bravest son advanced so high,
And flourishing so near her prince’s eye;
Thy favourites grow not up by fortune’s sport,
Or from the crimes or follies of a court;
On the firm basis of desert they rise,
From long-tried, faith, and friendship’s holy
ties:
40
Their sovereign’s well-distinguished smiles
they share,
Her ornaments in peace, her strength in war;
The nation thanks them with a public voice,
By showers of blessings Heaven approves their choice;
Envy itself is dumb, in wonder lost,
And factions strive who shall applaud them most.
Soon as soft vernal breezes warm the sky,
Britannia’s colours in the zephyrs fly;
Her chief already has his march begun,
Crossing the provinces himself had won,
50
Till the Moselle, appearing from afar,
Retards the progress of the moving war.
Delightful stream, had Nature bid her fall
In distant climes, far from the perjured Gaul;
Page 43
But now a purchase to the sword she lies,
Her harvests for uncertain owners rise,
Each vineyard doubtful of its master grows,
And to the victor’s bowl each vintage flows.
The discontented shades of slaughtered hosts,
That wandered on her banks, her heroes’ ghosts,
60
Hoped, when they saw Britannia’s arms appear,
The vengeance due to their great deaths was near.
Our godlike leader, ere the stream he passed,
The mighty scheme of all his labours cast,
Forming the wondrous year within his thought;
His bosom glowed with battles yet unfought.
The long, laborious march he first surveys,
And joins the distant Danube to the Maese,
Between whose floods such pathless forests grow,
Such mountains rise, so many rivers flow:
70
The toil looks lovely in the hero’s eyes,
And danger serves but to enhance the prize.
Big with the fate of Europe, he renews
His dreadful course, and the proud foe pursues:
Infected by the burning Scorpion’s heat,
The sultry gales round his chafed temples beat,
Till on the borders of the Maine he finds
Defensive shadows and refreshing winds.
Our British youth, with inborn freedom bold,
Unnumbered scenes of servitude behold,
80
Nations of slaves, with tyranny debased,
(Their Maker’s image more than half defaced,)
Hourly instructed, as they urge their toil,
To prize their queen, and love their native soil.
Still to the rising sun they take their way
Through clouds of dust, and gain upon the clay;
When now the Neckar on its friendly coast
With cooling streams revives the fainting host,
That cheerfully its labours past forgets,
The midnight watches, and the noonday heats.
90
O’er prostrate towns and palaces they pass,
(Now covered o’er with weeds and hid in grass,)
Breathing revenge; whilst anger and disdain
Fire every breast, and boil in every vein:
Here shattered walls, like broken rocks, from far
Rise up in hideous views, the guilt of war,
Whilst here the vine o’er hills of ruin climbs,
Industrious to conceal great Bourbon’s crimes,
At length the fame of England’s hero drew,
Eugenio to the glorious interview.
100
Great souls by instinct to each other turn,
Demand alliance, and in friendship burn;
A sudden friendship, while with stretched-out rays
They meet each other, mingling blaze with blaze.
Polished in courts, and hardened in the field,
Renowned for conquest, and in council skilled,
Their courage dwells not in a troubled flood
Of mounting spirits, and fermenting blood:
Lodged in the soul, with virtue overruled,
Inflamed by reason, and by reason cooled,
110
In hours of peace content to be unknown,
And only in the field of battle shown:
To souls like these, in mutual friendship joined,
Heaven dares intrust the cause of humankind.
Britannia’s graceful sons appear in arms,
Page 44
Her harassed troops the hero’s presence warms,
Whilst the high hills and rivers all around
With thundering peals of British shouts resound:
Doubling their speed, they march with fresh delight,
Eager for glory, and require the fight.
120
So the staunch hound the trembling deer pursues,
And smells his footsteps in the tainted dews,
The tedious track unravelling by degrees:
But when the scent comes warm in every breeze,
Fired at the near approach, he shoots away
On his full stretch, and bears upon his prey.
The march concludes, the various realms are past,
The immortal Schellenberg appears at last:
Like hills the aspiring ramparts rise on high,
Like valleys at their feet the trenches lie;
130
Batteries on batteries guard each fatal pass,
Threatening destruction; rows of hollow brass,
Tube behind tube, the dreadful entrance keep,
Whilst in their wombs ten thousand thunders sleep:
Great Churchill owns, charmed with the glorious
sight,
His march o’erpaid by such a promised fight.
The western sun now shot a feeble ray,
And faintly scattered the remains of day;
Evening approached; but, oh! what hosts of foes
Were never to behold that evening close!
140
Thickening their ranks, and wedged in firm array,
The close-compacted Britons win their way:
In vain the cannon their thronged war defaced
With tracts of death, and laid the battle waste;
Still pressing forward to the fight, they broke
Through flames of sulphur, and a night of smoke,
Till slaughtered legions filled the trench below,
And bore their fierce avengers to the foe.
High on the works the mingling hosts engage;
The battle, kindled into tenfold rage
150
With showers of bullets and with storms of fire,
Burns in full fury; heaps on heaps expire;
Nations with nations mixed confus’dly die,
And lost in one promiscuous carnage lie.
How many generous Britons meet their doom,
New to the field, and heroes in the bloom!
The illustrious youths, that left their native shore
To march where Britons never marched before,
(O fatal love of fame! O glorious heat,
Only destructive to the brave and great!)
160
After such toils o’ercome, such dangers past,
Stretched on Bavarian ramparts breathe their last.
But hold, my Muse, may no complaints appear,
Nor blot the day with an ungrateful tear:
While Marlborough lives, Britannia’s stars
dispense
A friendly light, and shine in innocence.
Plunging through seas of blood his fiery steed
Where’er his friends retire, or foes succeed;
Those he supports, these drives to sudden flight,
And turns the various fortune of the fight.
170
Forbear, great man, renowned in arms, forbear
To brave the thickest terrors of the war,
Nor hazard thus, confused in crowds of foes,
Britannia’s safety, and the world’s
Page 45
repose;
Let nations, anxious for thy life, abate
This scorn of danger and contempt of fate:
Thou liv’st not for thyself; thy queen demands
Conquest and peace from thy victorious hands;
Kingdoms and empires in thy fortune join,
And Europe’s destiny depends on thine.
180
At length the long-disputed pass they gain,
By crowded armies fortified in vain;
The war breaks in, the fierce Bavarians yield,
And see their camp with British legions filled.
So Belgian mounds bear on their shattered sides
The sea’s whole weight, increased with swelling
tides;
But if the rushing wave a passage finds,
Enraged by watery moons, and warring winds,
The trembling peasant sees his country round
Covered with tempests, and in oceans drowned.
190
The few surviving foes dispersed in flight,
(Refuse of swords, and gleanings of a fight,)
In every rustling wind the victor hear,
And Marlborough’s form in every shadow fear,
Till the dark cope of night with kind embrace
Befriends the rout, and covers their disgrace.
To Donawert, with unresisted force,
The gay, victorious army bends its course.
The growth of meadows, and the pride of fields,
Whatever spoils Bavaria’s summer yields,
200
(The Danube’s great increase,) Britannia shares,
The food of armies, and support of wars:
With magazines of death, destructive balls,
And cannons doomed to batter Landau’s walls,
The victor finds each hidden cavern stored,
And turns their fury on their guilty lord.
Deluded prince! how is thy greatness crossed,
And all the gaudy dream of empire lost,
That proudly set thee on a fancied throne,
And made imaginary realms thy own!
210
Thy troops that now behind the Danube join,
Shall shortly seek for shelter from the Rhine,
Nor find it there: surrounded with alarms,
Thou hopest the assistance of the Gallic arms;
The Gallic arms in safety shall advance,
And crowd thy standards with the power of France,
While to exalt thy doom, the aspiring Gaul
Shares thy destruction, and adorns thy fall.
Unbounded courage and compassion joined,
Tempering each other in the victor’s mind,
220
Alternately proclaim him good and great,
And make the hero and the man complete.
Long did he strive the obdurate foe to gain
By proffered grace, but long he strove in vain;
Till fired at length, he thinks it vain to spare
His rising wrath, and gives a loose to war.
In vengeance roused, the soldier fills his hand
With sword and fire, and ravages the land,
A thousand villages to ashes turns,
In crackling flames a thousand harvests burns.
230
To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat,
And mixed with bellowing herds confus’dly
bleat;
Their trembling lords the common shade partake,
And cries of infants sound in every brake:
The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands,
Page 46
Loth to obey his leader’s just commands;
The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed,
To see his just commands so well obeyed.
But now the trumpet, terrible from far,
In shriller clangors animates the war,
240
Confederate drums in fuller consort beat,
And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat:
Gallia’s proud standards, to Bavaria’s
joined,
Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind;
The daring prince his blasted hopes renews,
And while the thick embattled host he views
Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length,
His heart dilates, and glories in his strength.
The fatal day its mighty course began,
That the grieved world had long desired in vain:
250
States that their new captivity bemoaned,
Armies of martyrs that in exile groaned,
Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeons heard,
And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred,
Europe’s loud cries, that Providence assailed,
And Anna’s ardent vows, at length prevailed;
The day was come when heaven designed to show
His care and conduct of the world below.
Behold, in awful march and dread array
The long-expected squadrons shape their way!
260
Death, in approaching terrible, imparts
An anxious horror to the bravest hearts;
Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife,
And thirst of glory quells the love of life.
No vulgar fears can British minds control:
Heat of revenge and noble pride of soul
O’erlook the foe, advantaged by his post,
Lessen his numbers, and contract his host.
Though fens and floods possessed the middle space,
That unprovoked they would have feared to pass,
270
Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia’s bands,
When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands.
But, O my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find
To sing the furious troops in battle joined!
Methinks I hear the drum’s tumultuous sound
The victor’s shouts and dying groans confound,
The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies,
And all the thunder of the battle rise.
’Twas then great Marlborough’s mighty
soul was proved,
That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
280
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war;
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o’er pale Britannia passed,[6]
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
290
And, pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,
Hides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
But see the haughty household-troops advance!
The dread of Europe, and the pride of France.
The war’s whole art each private soldier knows,
And with a general’s love of conquest glows;
Page 47
Proudly he marches on, and, void of fear,
Laughs at the shaking of the British spear:
Vain insolence! with native freedom brave,
The meanest Briton scorns the highest slave;
300
Contempt and fury fire their souls by turns,
Each nation’s glory in each warrior burns,
Each fights, as in his arm the important day
And all the fate of his great monarch lay:
A thousand glorious actions, that might claim
Triumphant laurels, and immortal fame,
Confused in clouds of glorious actions lie,
And troops of heroes undistinguished die.
O Dormer, how can I behold thy fate,
And not the wonders of thy youth relate!
310
How can I see the gay, the brave, the young,
Fall in the cloud of war and lie unsung!
In joys of conquest he resigns his breath,
And, filled with England’s glory, smiles in
death.
The rout begins, the Gallic squadrons run,
Compelled in crowds to meet the fate they shun;
Thousands of fiery steeds with wounds transfixed
Floating in gore, with their dead masters mixed,
Midst heaps of spears and standards driven around,
Lie in the Danube’s bloody whirlpools drowned,
320
Troops of bold youths, born on the distant Soane,
Or sounding borders of the rapid Rhone,
Or where the Seine her flowery fields divides,
Or where the Loire through winding vineyards glides;
In heaps the rolling billows sweep away,
And into Scythian seas their bloated corps convey.
From Blenheim’s towers the Gaul, with wild
affright,
Beholds the various havoc of the fight;
His waving banners, that so oft had stood,
Planted in fields of death, and streams of blood,
330
So wont the guarded enemy to reach,
And rise triumphant in the fatal breach,
Or pierce the broken foe’s remotest lines,
The hardy veteran with tears resigns.
Unfortunate Tallard![7] Oh, who can name
The pangs of rage, of sorrow, and of shame,
That with mixed tumult in thy bosom swelled!
When first thou saw’st thy bravest troops
repelled,
Thine only son pierced with a deadly wound,
Choked in his blood, and gasping on the ground,
340
Thyself in bondage by the victor kept!
The chief, the father, and the captive wept.
An English Muse is touched with generous woe,
And in the unhappy man forgets the foe.
Greatly distressed! thy loud complaints forbear,
Blame not the turns of fate, and chance of war;
Give thy brave foes their due, nor blush to own
The fatal field by such great leaders won,
The field whence famed Eugenio bore away
Only the second honours of the day.
350
With floods of gore that from the vanquished
fell,
The marshes stagnate, and the rivers swell.
Mountains of slain lie heaped upon the ground,
Or ’midst the roarings of the Danube drowned;
Whole captive hosts the conqueror detains
In painful bondage and inglorious chains;
Even those who’scape the fetters and the sword,
Page 48
Nor seek the fortunes of a happier lord,
Their raging king dishonours, to complete
Marlborough’s great work, and finish the defeat.
360
From Memminghen’s high domes, and Augsburg’s
walls,
The distant battle drives the insulting Gauls;
Freed by the terror of the victor’s name,
The rescued states his great protection claim;
Whilst Ulm the approach of her deliverer waits,
And longs to open her obsequious gates.
The hero’s breast still swells with great
designs,
In every thought the towering genius shines:
If to the foe his dreadful course he bends,
O’er the wide continent his march extends;
370
If sieges in his labouring thoughts are formed,
Camps are assaulted, and an army stormed;
If to the fight his active soul is bent,
The fate of Europe turns on its event.
What distant land, what region, can afford
An action worthy his victorious sword?
Where will he next the flying Gaul defeat,
To make the series of his toils complete?
Where the swoln Rhine, rushing with all its force,
Divides the hostile nations in its course,
380
While each contracts its bounds, or wider grows,
Enlarged or straitened as the river flows,
On Gallia’s side a mighty bulwark stands,
That all the wide extended plain commands;
Twice, since the war was kindled, has it tried
The victor’s rage, and twice has changed its
side;
As oft whole armies, with the prize o’erjoyed,
Have the long summer on its walls employed.
Hither our mighty chief his arms directs,
Hence future triumphs from the war expects;
390
And though the dog-star had its course begun,
Carries his arms still nearer to the sun:
Fixed on the glorious action, he forgets
The change of seasons, and increase of heats:
No toils are painful that can danger show,
No climes unlovely that contain a foe.
The roving Gaul, to his own bounds restrained,
Learns to encamp within his native land,
But soon as the victorious host he spies,
From hill to hill, from stream to stream he flies:
400
Such dire impressions in his heart remain
Of Marlborough’s sword, and Hochstet’s
fatal plain:
In vain Britannia’s mighty chief besets
Their shady coverts, and obscure retreats;
They fly the conqueror’s approaching fame,
That bears the force of armies in his name,
Austria’s young monarch, whose imperial
sway
Sceptres and thrones are destined to obey,
Whose boasted ancestry so high extends
That in the pagan gods his lineage ends,
410
Comes from afar, in gratitude to own
The great supporter of his father’s throne;
What tides of glory to his bosom ran,
Clasped in the embraces of the godlike man!
How were his eyes with pleasing wonder fixed
To see such fire with so much sweetness mixed,
Such easy greatness, such a graceful port,
So turned and finished for the camp or court!
Page 49
Achilles thus was formed with every grace,
And Nireus shone but in the second place;
420
Thus the great father of almighty Rome
(Divinely flushed with an immortal bloom,
That Cytherea’s fragrant breath bestowed)
In all the charms of his bright mother glowed.
The royal youth by Marlborough’s presence
charmed,
Taught by his counsels, by his actions warmed,
On Landau with redoubled fury falls,
Discharges all his thunder on its walls,
O’er mines and caves of death provokes the
fight,
And learns to conquer in the hero’s sight.
430
The British chief, for mighty toils renowned,
Increased in titles, and with conquests crowned,
To Belgian coasts his tedious march renews,
And the long windings of the Rhine pursues,
Clearing its borders from usurping foes,
And blessed by rescued nations as he goes.
Treves fears no more, freed from its dire alarms;
And Traerbach feels the terror of his arms,
Seated on rocks her proud foundations shake,
While Marlborough presses to the bold attack,
440
Plants all his batteries, bids his cannon roar,
And shows how Landau might have fallen before.
Scared at his near approach, great Louis fears
Vengeance reserved for his declining years,
Forgets his thirst of universal sway,
And scarce can teach his subjects to obey;
His arms he finds on vain attempts employed,
The ambitious projects for his race destroyed,
The work of ages sunk in one campaign,
And lives of millions sacrificed in vain.
450
Such are the effects of Anna’s royal cares:
By her, Britannia, great in foreign wars,
Ranges through nations, wheresoo’er disjoined,
Without the wonted aid of sea and wind.
By her the unfettered Ister’s states are free,
And taste the sweets of English liberty:
But who can tell the joys of those that lie
Beneath the constant influence of her eye!
Whilst in diffusive showers her bounties fall,
Like heaven’s indulgence, and descend on all,
460
Secure the happy, succour the distressed,
Make every subject glad, and a whole people blessed.
Thus would I fain Britannia’s wars rehearse,
In the smooth records of a faithful verse;
That, if such numbers can o’er time prevail,
May tell posterity the wondrous tale.
When actions, unadorned, are faint and weak,
Cities and countries must be taught to speak;
Gods may descend in factions from the skies,
And rivers from their oozy beds arise;
470
Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays,
And round the hero cast a borrowed blaze.
Marlborough’s exploits appear divinely bright,
And proudly shine in their own native light;
Raised of themselves, their genuine charms they
boast,
And those who paint them truest praise them most.
TRANSLATED BY MR ADDISON.
From life’s superfluous cares enlarged,
His debt of human toil discharged,
Here Cowley lies! beneath this shed,
To every worldly interest dead;
With decent poverty content,
His hours of ease not idly spent;
To fortune’s goods a foe profess’d,
And hating wealth by all caress’d.
’Tis true he’s dead; for oh!
how small
A spot of earth is now his all:
10
Oh! wish that earth may lightly lay,
And every care be far away;
Bring flowers; the short-lived roses bring,
To life deceased, fit offering:
And sweets around the poet strow,
Whilst yet with life his ashes glow.
SPOKEN BY MR WILKS.
In the first rise and infancy of Farce,
When fools were many, and when plays were
scarce,
The raw, unpractised authors could, with
ease,
A young and unexperienced audience please:
No single character had e’er been
shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their
own;
Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.
But now our British
theatre can boast
Drolls of all kinds, a vast, unthinking
host!
10
Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps,
and beaux;
Rough country knights are found of every
shire;
Of every fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of different characters we meet,
As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
Our modern wits are forced to pick and
cull,
And here and there by chance glean up
a fool:
Long ere they find the necessary spark,
They search the town, and beat about the
Park;
20
To all his most frequented haunts resort,
Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court,
As love of pleasure or of place invites;
And sometimes catch him taking snuff at
White’s.
Howe’er, to do
you right, the present age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage;
That scorn the paths their dull forefathers
trod,
And wont be blockheads in the common road.
Do but survey this crowded house to-night:—
Here’s still encouragement for those
that write.
30
Our author, to divert
his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play;
And that there may be something gay and
new,
Two ladies-errant has exposed to view:
The first a damsel, travelled in romance;
The t’other more refined; she comes
from France:
Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph
from danger;
And kindly treat, like well-bred men,
the stranger.
ENCHANTERS.[9]
When Orpheus tuned his lyre with pleasing
woe,
Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow,
While listening forests covered as he
played,
The soft musician in a moving shade.
That this night’s strains the same
success may find,
The force of magic is to music joined;
Where sounding strings and artful voices
fail,
The charming rod and muttered spells prevail.
Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand
On barren mountains, or a waste of sand,
10
The desert smiles; the woods begin to
grow,
The birds to warble, and the springs to
flow.
The same dull sights
in the same landscape mixed,
Scenes of still life, and points for ever
fixed,
A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow,
And pall the sense with one continued
show;
But as our two magicians try their skill,
The vision varies, though the place stands
still,
While the same spot its gaudy form renews,
Shifting the prospect to a thousand views.
20
Thus (without unity of place transgressed)
The enchanter turns the critic to a jest.
But howsoe’er,
to please your wandering eyes,
Bright objects disappear and brighter
rise:
There’s none can make amends for
lost delight,
While from that circle we divert your
sight.
SPOKEN BY MR WILKS.
Long has a race of heroes fill’d
the stage,
That rant by note, and through the gamut
rage;
In songs and airs express their martial
fire,
Combat in trills, and in a fugue expire:
While, lull’d by sound, and undisturb’d
by wit,
Calm and serene you indolently sit,
And, from the dull fatigue of thinking
free,
Hear the facetious fiddle’s repartee:
Our home-spun authors must forsake the
field,
And Shakspeare to the soft Scarletti yield.
10
To your new taste the
poet of this day
Was by a friend advised to form his play.
Had Valentini, musically coy,
Shunn’d Phaedra’s arms, and
scorn’d the proffer’d joy,
It had not moved your wonder to have seen
An eunuch fly from an enamour’d
queen:
How would it please, should she in English
speak,
And could Hippolitus reply in Greek!
But he, a stranger to your modish way,
By your old rules must stand or fall to-day,
20
And hopes you will your foreign taste
command,
To bear, for once, with what you understand.
Augustus had a design to rebuild Troy, and make it the metropolis of the Roman empire, having closeted several senators on the project: Horace is supposed to have written the following Ode on this occasion.
The man resolved, and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just,
May the rude rabble’s insolence
despise,
Their senseless clamours and tumultuous
cries;
The tyrant’s fierceness he beguiles,
And the stern brow, and the harsh voice
defies,
And with superior greatness smiles.
Not the rough whirlwind,
that deforms
Adria’s black gulf, and vexes it
with storms,
The stubborn virtue of his soul can move;
10
Not the red arm of angry Jove,
That flings the thunder from the sky,
And gives it rage to roar, and strength
to fly.
Should the whole frame
of nature round him break,
In ruin and confusion hurled,
He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty
crack,
And stand secure amidst a falling world.
Such were the godlike
arts that led
Bright Pollux to the blest abodes;
Such did for great Alcides plead,
20
And gained a place among the gods;
Where now Augustus, mixed with heroes,
lies,
And to his lips the nectar bowl applies:
His ruddy lips the purple tincture show,
And with immortal strains divinely glow.
By arts like these did
young Lyaeus [11] rise:
His tigers drew him to the skies,
Wild from the desert and unbroke:
In vain they foamed, in vain they stared,
In vain their eyes with fury glared;
30
He tamed them to the lash, and bent them
to the yoke.
Such were the paths
that Rome’s great founder trod,
When in a whirlwind snatched on high,
He shook off dull mortality,
And lost the monarch in the god.
Bright Juno then her awful silence broke,
And thus the assembled deities bespoke.
‘Troy,’
says the goddess, ’perjured Troy has felt
The dire effects of her proud tyrant’s
guilt;
The towering pile, and soft abodes,
40
Walled by the hand of servile gods,
Now spreads its ruins all around,
And lies inglorious on the ground.
An umpire, partial and unjust,
And a lewd woman’s impious lust,
Lay heavy on her head, and sunk her to
the dust.
Since false Laomedon’s
tyrannic sway,
That durst defraud the immortals of their
pay,
Her guardian gods renounced their patronage,
Nor would the fierce invading foe repel;
50
To my resentment, and Minerva’s
rage,
The guilty king and the whole people fell.
And now the long protracted
wars are o’er,
The soft adulterer shines no more;
No more does Hector’s force the
Trojans shield,
That drove whole armies back, and singly
cleared the field.
My vengeance sated,
I at length resign
To Mars his offspring of the Trojan line:
Advanced to godhead let him rise,
And take his station in the skies;
60
There entertain his ravished sight
With scenes of glory, fields of light;
Quaff with the gods immortal wine,
THE VESTAL.
FROM OVID DE FASTIS, LIB. III. EL. 1.
Blanda quies victis furtim subrepit ocellis, &c.
As the fair vestal to the fountain came,
(Let none be startled at a vestal’s
name)
Tired with the walk, she laid her down
to rest,
And to the winds exposed her glowing breast,
To take the freshness of the morning-air,
And gather’d in a knot her flowing
hair;
While thus she rested, on her arm reclined,
The hoary willows waving with the wind,
And feather’d choirs that warbled
in the shade,
And purling streams that through the meadow
stray’d,
10
In drowsy murmurs lull’d the gentle
maid.
The god of war beheld the virgin lie,
The god beheld her with a lover’s
eye;
And by so tempting an occasion press’d,
The beauteous maid, whom he beheld, possess’d:
Conceiving as she slept, her fruitful
womb
Swell’d with the founder of immortal
Rome.
OVID’S METAMORPHOSES.
THE STORY OF PHAETON.
The sun’s bright palace, on high
columns raised,
With burnished gold and flaming jewels
blazed;
The folding gates diffused a silver light,
And with a milder gleam refreshed the
sight;
Of polished ivory was the covering wrought:
The matter vied not with the sculptor’s
thought,
For in the portal was displayed on high
(The work of Vulcan) a fictitious sky;
A waving sea the inferior earth embraced,
And gods and goddesses the waters graced.
10
AEgeon here a mighty whale bestrode;
Triton, and Proteus, (the deceiving god,)
With Doris here were carved, and all her
train,
Some loosely swimming in the figured main,
While some on rocks their dropping hair
divide,
And some on fishes through the waters
glide:
Though various features did the sisters
grace,
A sister’s likeness was in every
face.
On earth a different landscape courts
the eyes,
Men, towns, and beasts, in distant prospects
rise,
20
And nymphs, and streams, and woods, and
rural deities.
O’er all, the heaven’s refulgent
image shines;
On either gate were six engraven signs.
Here Phaeton, still
gaining on the ascent,
To his suspected father’s palace
went,
Till, pressing forward through the bright
ahode,
He saw at distance the illustrious god:
He saw at distance, or the dazzling light
Had flashed too strongly on his aching
sight.
The god sits high, exalted
on a throne
30
Of blazing gems, with purple garments
on:
The Hours, in order ranged on either hand,
And days, and months, and years, and ages,
stand.
Here Spring appears with flowery chaplets
bound;
Here Summer in her wheaten garland crowned;
Here Autumn the rich trodden grapes besmear;
Page 55
And hoary Winter shivers in the rear.
Phoebus beheld the youth
from off his throne;
That eye, which looks on all, was fixed
on one.
He saw the boy’s confusion in his
face,
40
Surprised at all the wonders of the place;
And cries aloud, ’What wants my
son? for know
My son thou art, and I must call thee
so.’
‘Light of the world,’
the trembling youth replies,
’Illustrious parent! since you don’t
despise
The parent’s name, some certain
token give,
That I may Clymene’s proud boast
believe,
Nor longer under false reproaches grieve.’
The tender sire was
touched with what he said.
And flung the blaze of glories from his
head,
50
And bid the youth advance: ‘My
son,’ said he,
’Come to thy father’s arms!
for Clymene
Has told thee true; a parent’s name
I own,
And deem thee worthy to be called my son.
As a sure proof, make some request, and
I,
Whate’er it be, with that request
comply;
By Styx I swear, whose waves are hid in
night,
And roll impervious to my piercing sight.’
The youth transported,
asks, without delay,
To guide the Sun’s bright chariot
for a day.
60
The god repented of
the oath he took,
For anguish thrice his radiant head he
shook;
‘My son,’ says he, ’some
other proof require,
Rash was my promise, rash is thy desire.
I’d fain deny this wish which thou
hast made,
Or, what I can’t deny, would fain
dissuade.
Too vast and hazardous the task appears,
Nor suited to thy strength, nor to thy
years.
Thy lot is mortal, but thy wishes fly
Beyond the province of mortality:
70
There is not one of all the gods that
dares
(However skilled in other great affairs)
To mount the burning axle-tree, but I;
Not Jove himself, the ruler of the sky,
That hurls the three-forked thunder from
above,
Dares try his strength; yet who so strong
as Jove?
The steeds climb up the first ascent with
pain:
And when the middle firmament they gain,
If downward from the heavens my head I
bow,
And see the earth and ocean hang below;
80
Even I am seized with horror and affright,
And my own heart misgives me at the sight.
A mighty downfal steeps the evening stage,
And steady reins must curb the horses’
rage.
Tethys herself has feared to see me driven
Down headlong from the precipice of heaven.
Besides, consider what impetuous force
Turns stars and planets in a different
course:
I steer against their motions; nor am
I 89
Born back by all the current of the sky.
90
But how could you resist the orbs that
roll
In adverse whirls, and stem the rapid
pole?
But you perhaps may hope for pleasing
woods,
And stately domes, and cities filled with
gods;
While through a thousand snares your progress
Page 56
lies,
Where forms of starry monsters stock the
skies:
For, should you hit the doubtful way aright,
The Bull with stooping horns stands opposite;
Next him the bright Haemonian Bow is strung;
And next, the Lion’s grinning visage
hung:
100
The Scorpion’s claws here clasp
a wide extent,
And here the Crab’s in lesser clasps
are bent.
Nor would you find it easy to compose
The mettled steeds, when from their nostrils
flows
The scorching fire, that in their entrails
glows.
Even I their headstrong fury scarce restrain,
When they grow warm and restive to the
rein.
Let not my son a fatal gift require,
But, oh! in time recall your rash desire;
You ask a gift that may your parent tell,
110
Let these my fears your parentage reveal;
And learn a father from a father’s
care:
Look on my face; or if my heart lay bare,
Could you but look, you’d read the
father there.
Choose out a gift from seas, or earth,
or skies,
For open to your wish all nature lies,
Only decline this one unequal task,
For ’tis a mischief, not a gift
you ask;
You ask a real mischief, Phaeton:
Nay, hang not thus about my neck, my son:
120
I grant your wish, and Styx has heard
my voice,
Choose what you will, but make a wiser
choice.’
Thus did the god the
unwary youth advise;
But he still longs to travel through the
skies,
When the fond father (for in vain he pleads)
At length to the Vulcanian chariot leads.
A golden axle did the work uphold,
Gold was the beam, the wheels were orbed
with gold.
The spokes in rows of silver pleased the
sight,
The seat with party-coloured gems was
bright;
130
Apollo shined amid the glare of light.
The youth with secret joy the work surveys;
When now the morn disclosed her purple
rays;
The stars were fled; for Lucifer had chased
The stars away, and fled himself at last.
Soon as the father saw the rosy morn,
And the moon shining with a blunter horn,
He bid the nimble Hours without delay
Bring forth the steeds; the nimble Hours
obey:
From their full racks the generous steeds
retire,
140
Dropping ambrosial foams and snorting
fire.
Still anxious for his son, the god of
day,
To make him proof against the burning
ray,
His temples with celestial ointment wet,
Of sovereign virtue to repel the heat;
Then fixed the beaming circle on his head,
And fetched a deep, foreboding sigh, and
said,
’Take this at
least, this last advice, my son:
Keep a stiff rein, and move but gently
on:
The coursers of themselves will run too
fast,
150
Your art must be to moderate their haste.
Drive them not on directly through the
skies,
But where the Zodiac’s winding circle
lies,
Along the midmost zone; but sally forth
Page 57
Nor to the distant south, nor stormy north.
The horses’ hoofs a beaten track
will show,
But neither mount too high nor sink too
low,
That no new fires or heaven or earth infest;
Keep the mid-way, the middle way is best.
Nor, where in radiant folds the Serpent
twines,
160
Direct your course, nor where the Altar
shines.
Shun both extremes; the rest let Fortune
guide,
And better for thee than thyself provide!
See, while I speak the shades disperse
away,
Aurora gives the promise of a day;
I’m called, nor can I make a longer
stay.
Snatch up the reins; or still the attempt
forsake,
And not my chariot, but my counsel take,
While yet securely on the earth you stand;
Nor touch the horses with too rash a hand.
170
Let me alone to light the world, while
you
Enjoy those beams which you may safely
view.’
He spoke in vain: the youth with
active heat
And sprightly vigour vaults into the seat;
And joys to hold the reins, and fondly
gives
Those thanks his father with remorse receives.
Meanwhile the restless
horses neighed aloud,
Breathing out fire, and pawing where they
stood.
Tethys, not knowing what had passed, gave
way,
And all the waste of heaven before them
lay.
180
They spring together out, and swiftly
bear
The flying youth through clouds and yielding
air;
With wingy speed outstrip the eastern
wind,
And leave the breezes of the morn behind.
The youth was light, nor could he fill
the seat,
Or poise the chariot with its wonted weight:
But as at sea the unballast vessel rides,
Cast to and fro, the sport of winds and
tides;
So in the bounding chariot tossed on high,
The youth is hurried headlong through
the sky.
190
Soon as the steeds perceive it, they forsake
Their stated course, and leave the beaten
track.
The youth was in a maze, nor did he know
Which way to turn the reins, or where
to go;
Nor would the horses, had he known, obey.
Then the Seven Stars first felt Apollo’s
ray
And wished to dip in the forbidden sea.
The folded Serpent next the frozen pole,
Stiff and benumbed before, began to roll,
And raged with inward heat, and threatened
war,
200
And shot a redder light from every star;
Nay, and ’tis said, Bootes, too,
that fain
Thou wouldst have fled, though cumbered
with thy wain.
The unhappy youth then,
bending down his head,
Saw earth and ocean far beneath him spread:
His colour changed, he startled at the
sight,
And his eyes darkened by too great a light.
Now could he wish the fiery steeds untried,
His birth obscure, and his request denied:
Now would he Merops for his father own,
210
And quit his boasted kindred to the Sun.
So fares the pilot,
when his ship is tossed
Page 58
In troubled seas, and all its steerage
lost,
He gives her to the winds, and in despair
Seeks his last refuge in the gods and
prayer.
What could he do? his
eyes, if backward cast,
Find a long path he had already passed;
If forward, still a longer path they find:
Both he compares, and measures in his
mind;
And sometimes casts an eye upon the east,
220
And sometimes looks on the forbidden west.
The horses’ names he knew not in
the fright:
Nor would he loose the reins, nor could
he hold them tight.
Now all the horrors
of the heavens he spies,
And monstrous shadows of prodigious size,
That, decked with stars, lie scattered
o’er the skies.
There is a place above, where Scorpio,
bent
In tail and arms, surrounds a vast extent;
In a wide circuit of the heavens he shines,
And fills the space of two celestial signs.
230
Soon as the youth beheld him, vexed with
heat,
Brandish his sting, and in his poison
sweat,
Half dead with sudden fear he dropped
the reins;
The horses felt them loose upon their
manes,
And, flying out through all the plains
above,
Ran uncontrolled where’er their
fury drove;
Rushed on the stars, and through a pathless
way
Of unknown regions hurried on the day.
And now above, and now below they flew,
And near the earth the burning chariot
drew.
240
The clouds disperse
in fumes, the wondering Moon
Beholds her brother’s steeds beneath
her own;
The highlands smoke, cleft by the piercing
rays,
Or, clad with woods, in their own fuel
blaze.
Next o’er the plains, where ripened
harvests grow,
The running conflagration spreads below.
But these are trivial ills; whole cities
burn,
And peopled kingdoms into ashes turn.
The mountains kindle
as the car draws near,
Athos and Tmolus red with fires appear;
250
Oeagrian Haemus (then a single name)
And virgin Helicon increase the flame;
Taurus and Oete glare amid the sky,
And Ida, spite of all her fountains, dry.
Eryx, and Othrys, and Cithgeron, glow;
And Rhodope, no longer clothed in snow;
High Pindus, Mimas, and Parnassus sweat,
And AEtna rages with redoubled heat.
Even Scythia, through her hoary regions
warmed,
In vain with all her native frost was
armed.
260
Covered with flames, the towering Apennine,
And Caucasus, and proud Olympus, shine;
And, where the long extended Alps aspire,
Now stands a huge, continued range of
fire.
The astonished youth,
where’er his eyes could turn,
Beheld the universe around him burn:
The world was in a blaze; nor could he
bear
The sultry vapours and the scorching air,
Which from below as from a furnace flowed,
And now the axle-tree beneath him glowed:
270
Lost in the whirling clouds, that round
Page 59
him broke,
And white with ashes, hovering in the
smoke,
He flew where’er the horses drove,
nor knew
Whither the horses drove, or where he
flew.
’Twas then, they
say, the swarthy Moor begun
To change his hue, and blacken in the
sun.
Then Libya first, of all her moisture
drained,
Became a barren waste, a wild of sand.
The water-nymphs lament their empty urns,
Boeotia, robbed of silver Dirce, mourns;
280
Corinth, Pyrene’s wasted spring
bewails,
And Argos grieves whilst Aniymone fails.
The floods are drained
from every distant coast,
Even Tanais, though fixed in ice, was
lost.
Enraged Caicus and Lycormas roar,
And Xanthus, fated to be burned once more.
The famed Meeander, that unwearied strays
Through mazy windings, smokes in every
maze.
From his loved Babylon Euphrates flies;
The big-swoln Ganges and the Danube rise
290
In thickening fumes, and darken half the
skies.
In flames Ismenos and the Phasis rolled,
And Tagus floating in his melted gold.
The swans, that on Cayster often tried
Their tuneful songs, now sung their last,
and died.
The frighted Nile ran off, and under-ground
Concealed his head, nor can it yet be
found:
His seven divided currents all are dry,
And where they rolled seven gaping trenches
lie.
No more the Rhine or Rhone their course
maintain,
300
Nor Tiber, of his promised empire vain.
The ground, deep cleft,
admits the dazzling ray,
And startles Pluto with the flash of day.
The seas shrink in, and to the sight disclose
Wide, naked plains, where once their billows
rose;
Their rocks are all discovered, and increase
The number of the scattered Cyclades.
The fish in shoals about the bottom creep,
Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap;
Gasping for breath, the unshapen phocae
die,
310
And on the boiling wave extended lie.
Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train,
Seek out the last recesses of the main;
Beneath unfathomable depths they faint,
And secret in their gloomy regions pant,
Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld
His face, and thrice was by the flames
repelled.
The Earth at length,
on every side embraced
With scalding seas, that floated round
her waist,
When now she felt the springs and rivers
come,
320
And crowd within the hollow of her womb.
Uplifted to the heavens her blasted head,
And clapped her hands upon her brows,
and said;
(But first, impatient of the sultry heat,
Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler
seat:)
’If you, great king of gods, my
death approve,
And I deserve it, let me die by Jove;
If I must perish by the force of fire,
Let me transfixed with thunderbolts expire.
See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours
PHAETON’S SISTERS TRANSFORMED INTO TREES.
The Latian nymphs came
round him, and amazed
On the dead youth, transfixed with thunder,
gazed;
And, whilst yet smoking from the bolt
he lay,
His shattered body to a tomb convey;
And o’er the tomb an epitaph devise:
’Here he who drove the Sun’s
bright chariot lies;
THE TRANSFORMATION OF CYCNUS INTO A SWAN.
Cycnus beheld the nymphs
transformed, allied
To their dead brother on the mortal side,
In friendship and affection nearer bound;
He left the cities and the realms he owned,
Through pathless fields and lonely shores
to range,
And woods, made thicker by the sisters’
change.
Whilst here, within the dismal gloom,
alone,
The melancholy monarch made his moan,
His voice was lessened, as he tried to
speak,
And issued through a long extended neck;
10
His hair transforms to down, his fingers
mee
In skinny films, and shape his oary feet;
From both his sides the wings and feathers
break;
And from his mouth proceeds a blunted
beak:
All Cycnus now into a swan was turned,
Who, still remembering how his kinsman
burned,
To solitary pools and lakes retires,
And loves the waters as opposed to fires.
Meanwhile Apollo, in
a gloomy shade
(The native lustre of his brows decayed)
20
Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight
Of his own sunshine, and abhors the light:
The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise,
Sadden his looks, and overcast his eyes,
As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray,
And sullies in a dim eclipse the day.
Now secretly with inward
griefs he pined,
Now warm resentments to his grief he joined,
And now renounced his office to mankind.
‘E’er since the birth of time,’
said he, ’I’ve borne
30
A long, ungrateful toil without return;
Let now some other manage, if he dare,
The fiery steeds, and mount the burning
car;
Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune
try,
And learn to lay his murdering thunder
by;
Then will he own, perhaps, but own too
late,
My son deserved not so severe a fate.’
The gods stand round
him, as he mourns, and pray
He would resume the conduct of the day,
Nor let the world be lost in endless night:
40
Jove too himself descending from his height,
Excuses what had happened, and entreats,
Majestically mixing prayers and threats.
Prevailed upon, at length, again he took
The harnessed steeds, that still with
horror shook,
And plies them with the lash, and whips
them on,
And, as he whips, upbraids them with his
son.
THE STORY OF CALISTO.
The day was settled
in its course; and Jove
Walked the wide circuit of the heavens
above,
To search if any cracks or flaws were
made;
But all was safe: the earth he then
surveyed,
And cast an eye on every different coast,
And every land; but on Arcadia most.
Her fields he clothed, and cheered her
blasted face
With running fountains, and with springing
grass.
No tracks of heaven’s destructive
fire remain,
The fields and woods revive, and nature
smiles again.
10
But as the god walked
to and fro the earth,
Page 63
And raised the plants, and gave the spring
its birth,
By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he viewed,
And felt the lovely charmer in his blood.
The nymph nor spun, nor dressed with artful
pride;
Her vest was gathered up, her hair was
tied;
Now in her hand a slender spear she bore,
Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore;
To chaste Diana from her youth inclined,
The sprightly warriors of the wood she
joined.
20
Diana too the gentle huntress loved,
Nor was there one of all the nymphs that
roved
O’er Maenalus, amid the maiden throng,
More favoured once; but favour lasts not
long.
The sun now shone in
all its strength, and drove
The heated virgin panting to a grove;
The grove around a grateful shadow cast:
She dropped her arrows, and her bow unbraced;
She flung herself on the cool, grassy
bed;
And on the painted quiver raised her head.
30
Jove saw the charming huntress unprepared,
Stretched on the verdant turf, without
a guard.
‘Here I am safe,’ he cries,
’from Juno’s eye;
Or should my jealous queen the theft descry,
Yet would I venture on a theft like this,
And stand her rage for such, for such
a bliss!’
Diana’s shape and habit straight
he took,
Softened his brows, and smoothed his awful
look,
And mildly in a female accent spoke.
‘How fares my girl? How went
the morning chase?’
40
To whom the virgin, starting from the
grass,
’All hail, bright deity, whom I
prefer
To Jove himself, though Jove himself were
here.’
The god was nearer than she thought, and
heard,
Well-pleased, himself before himself preferr’d.
He then salutes her
with a warm embrace,
And, ere she half had told the morning
chase,
With love inflamed, and eager on his bliss,
Smothered her words, and stopped her with
a kiss;
His kisses with unwonted ardour glow’d,
50
Nor could Diana’s shape conceal
the god.
The virgin did whate’er a virgin
could;
(Sure Juno must have pardoned, had she
view’d;)
With all her might against his force she
strove;
But how can mortal maids contend with
Jove!
Possessed at length
of what his heart desired,
Back to his heavens the exulting god retired.
The lovely huntress, rising from the grass,
With downcast eyes, and with a blushing
face
By shame confounded, and by fear dismay’d,
60
Flew from the covert of the guilty shade,
And almost, in the tumult of her mind,
Left her forgotten bow and shafts behind.
But now Diana, with
a sprightly train
Of quivered virgins, bounding over the
plain,
Called to the nymph; the nymph began to
fear
A second fraud, a Jove disguised in her;
But, when she saw the sister nymphs, suppress’d
Her rising fears, and mingled with the
rest.
How in the look does
THE STORY OF CORONIS, AND BIRTH OF AESCULAPIUS.
The raven once in snowy plumes was dress’d,
White as the whitest dove’s unsullied
breast,
Fair as the guardian of the Capitol,
Soft as the swan; a large and lovely fowl;
His tongue, his prating tongue, had changed
him quite
To sooty blackness from the purest white.
The story of his change
shall here be told:
In Thessaly there lived a nymph of old,
Coronis named; a peerless maid she shined,
Confessed the fairest of the fairer kind.
10
Apollo loved her, till her guilt he knew,
Page 66
While true she was, or whilst he thought
her true.
But his own bird, the raven, chanced to
find
The false one with a secret rival joined.
Coronis begged him to suppress the tale,
But could not with repeated prayers prevail.
His milk-white pinions to the god he plied;
The busy daw flew with him, side by side,
And by a thousand teasing questions drew
The important secret from him as they
flew.
20
The daw gave honest counsel, though despised,
And, tedious in her tattle, thus advised:
’Stay, silly bird,
the ill-natured task refuse,
Nor be the bearer of unwelcome news.
Be warned by my example: you discern
What now I am, and what I was shall learn.
My foolish honesty was all my crime;
Then hear my story. Once upon a time,
The two-shaped Ericthonius had his birth
(Without a mother) from the teeming earth;
30
Minerva nursed him, and the infant laid
Within a chest, of twining osiers made.
The daughters of King Cecrops undertook
To guard the chest, commanded not to look
On what was hid within. I stood to
see
The charge obeyed, perched on a neighbouring
tree.
The sisters Pandrosos and Herse keep
The strict command; Aglauros needs would
peep,
And saw the monstrous infant in a fright,
And called her sisters to the hideous
sight:
40
A boy’s soft shape did to the waist
prevail,
But the boy ended in a dragon’s
tail.
I told the stern Minerva all that passed,
But for my pains, discarded and disgraced,
The frowning goddess drove me from her
sight,
And for her favourite chose the bird of
night.
Be then no tell-tale; for I think my wrong
Enough to teach a bird to hold her tongue.
’But you, perhaps,
may think I was removed,
As never by the heavenly maid beloved:
50
But I was loved; ask Pallas if I lie;
Though Pallas hate me now, she won’t
deny:
For I, whom in a feathered shape you view,
Was once a maid, (by heaven, the story’s
true,)
A blooming maid, and a king’s daughter
too.
A crowd of lovers owned my beauty’s
charms;
My beauty was the cause of all my harms;
Neptune, as on his shores I went to rove,
Observed me in my walks, and fell in love.
He made his courtship, he confessed his
pain,
60
And offered force when all his arts were
vain;
Swift he pursued: I ran along the
strand,
Till, spent and wearied on the sinking
sand,
I shrieked aloud, with cries I filled
the air
To gods and men; nor god nor man was there:
A virgin goddess heard a virgin’s
prayer.
For, as my arms I lifted to the skies,
I saw black feathers from my fingers rise;
I strove to fling my garment to the ground;
My garment turned to plumes, and girt
me round:
70
My hands to beat my naked bosom try;
Page 67
Nor naked bosom now nor hands had I.
Lightly I tripped, nor weary as before
Sunk in the sand, but skimmed along the
shore;
Till, rising on my wings, I was preferred
To be the chaste Minerva’s virgin
bird:
Preferred in vain! I now am in disgrace:
Nyctimene, the owl, enjoys my place.
’On her incestuous
life I need not dwell,
(In Lesbos still the horrid tale they
tell,)
80
And of her dire amours you must have heard,
For which she now does penance in a bird,
That, conscious of her shame, avoids the
light,
And loves the gloomy covering of the night;
The birds, where’er she flutters,
scare away
The hooting wretch, and drive her from
the day.’
The raven, urged by
such impertinence,
Grew passionate, it seems, and took offence,
And cursed the harmless daw; the daw withdrew:
The raven to her injured patron flew,
90
And found him out, and told the fatal
truth
Of false Coronis and the favoured youth.
The god was wroth; the
colour left his look,
The wreath his head, the harp his hand
forsook:
His silver bow and feathered shafts he
took,
And lodged an arrow in the tender breast,
That had so often to his own been pressed.
Down fell the wounded nymph, and sadly
groaned,
And pulled his arrow reeking from the
wound;
And weltering in her blood, thus faintly
cried,
100
’Ah, cruel god! though I have justly
died,
What has, alas! my unborn infant done,
That he should fall, and two expire in
one?
This said, in agonies she fetched her
breath.
The god dissolves in
pity at her death;
He hates the bird that made her falsehood
known,
And hates himself for what himself had
done;
The feathered shaft, that sent her to
the fates,
And his own hand that sent the shaft he
hates.
Fain would he heal the wound, and ease
her pain,
110
And tries the compass of his art in vain.
Soon as he saw the lovely nymph expire,
The pile made ready, and the kindling
fire,
With sighs and groans her obsequies he
kept,
And, if a god could weep, the god had
wept.
Her corpse he kissed, and heavenly incense
brought,
And solemnised the death himself had wrought.
But, lest his offspring
should her fate partake,
Spite of the immortal mixture in his make,
He ripped her womb, and set the child
at large,
120
And gave him to the centaur Chiron’s
charge:
Then in his fury blacked the raven o’er,
And bid him prate in his white plumes
no more.
OCYRRHOE TRANSFORMED TO A MARE.
Old Chiron took the
babe with secret joy,
Proud of the charge of the celestial boy.
His daughter too, whom on the sandy shore
The nymph Chariclo to the centaur bore,
With hair dishevelled on her shoulders
came
To see the child, Ocyrrhoee was her name;
THE TRANSFORMATION OF BATTUS TO A TOUCHSTONE.
Sore wept the centaur,
and to Phoebus prayed;
But how could Phoebus give the centaur
aid?
Degraded of his power by angry Jove,
In Elis then a herd of beeves he drove;
And wielded in his hand a staff of oak,
And o’er his shoulders threw the
shepherd’s cloak;
On seven compacted reeds he used to play,
And on his rural pipe to waste the day.
As once, attentive to
his pipe, he played,
The crafty Hermes from the god conveyed
THE STORY OF AGLAUROS, TRANSFORMED INTO A STATUE.
This done, the god flew
up on high, and passed
O’er lofty Athens, by Minerva graced,
And wide Munichia, whilst his eyes survey
All the vast region that beneath him lay.
’Twas now the
feast, when each Athenian maid
Her yearly homage to Minerva paid;
In canisters, with garlands covered o’er,
High on their heads their mystic gifts
they bore;
And now, returning in a solemn train,
The troop of shining virgins filled the
plain.
10
The god well-pleased
beheld the pompous show,
And saw the bright procession pass below;
Then veered about, and took a wheeling
flight,
And hovered o’er them: as the
spreading kite,
That smells the slaughtered victim from
on high,
Flies at a distance, if the priests are
nigh,
And sails around, and keeps it in her
eye;
So kept the god the virgin choir in view,
And in slow winding circles round them
flew.
As Lucifer excels the
meanest star,
20
Or as the full-orbed Phoebe, Lucifer,
So much did Herse all the rest outvie,
And gave a grace to the solemnity.
Hermes was fired, as in the clouds he
hung:
So the cold bullet, that with fury slung
From Balearic engines mounts on high,
Glows in the whirl, and burns along the
sky.
At length he pitched upon the ground,
and showed
The form divine, the features of a god.
He knew their virtue o’er a female
heart,
30
And yet he strives to better them by art.
He hangs his mantle loose, and sets to
show
The golden edging on the seam below;
Page 70
Adjusts his flowing curls, and in his
hand
Waves with an air the sleep-procuring
wand;
The glittering sandals to his feet applies,
And to each heel the well-trimmed pinion
ties.
His ornaments with nicest
art displayed,
He seeks the apartment of the royal maid.
The roof was all with polished ivory lined,
40
That, richly mixed, in clouds of tortoise
shined.
Three rooms, contiguous, in a range were
placed,
The midmost by the beauteous Herse graced;
Her virgin sisters lodged on either side.
Aglauros first the approaching god descried,
And as he crossed her chamber, asked his
name,
And what his business was, and whence
he came.
‘I come,’ replied the god,
’from heaven, to woo
Your sister, and to make an aunt of you;
I am the son and messenger of Jove,
50
My name is Mercury, my business, love;
Do you, kind damsel, take a lover’s
part,
And gain admittance to your sister’s
heart.’
She stared him in the
face with looks amazed,
As when she on Minerva’s secret
gazed,
And asks a mighty treasure for her hire,
And, till he brings it, makes the god
retire.
Minerva grieved to see the nymph succeed;
And now remembering the late impious deed,
When, disobedient to her strict command,
60
She touched the chest with an unhallowed
hand;
In big-swoln sighs her inward rage expressed,
That heaved the rising AEgis on her breast;
Then sought out Envy in her dark abode,
Defiled with ropy gore and clots of blood:
Shut from the winds, and from the wholesome
skies,
In a deep vale the gloomy dungeon lies,
Dismal and cold, where not a beam of light
Invades the winter, or disturbs the night.
Directly to the cave
her course she steered;
70
Against the gates her martial lance she
reared;
The gates flew open, and the fiend appeared.
A poisonous morsel in her teeth she chewed,
And gorged the flesh of vipers for her
food.
Minerva loathing turned away her eye;
The hideous monster, rising heavily,
Came stalking forward with a sullen pace,
And left her mangled offals on the place.
Soon as she saw the goddess gay and bright,
She fetched a groan at such a cheerful
sight.
80
Livid and meagre were her looks, her eye
In foul, distorted glances turned awry;
A hoard of gall her inward parts possessed,
And spread a greenness o’er her
cankered breast;
Her teeth were brown with rust; and from
her tongue,
In dangling drops, the stringy poison
hung.
She never smiles but when the wretched
weep,
Nor lulls her malice with a moment’s
sleep,
Restless in spite: while watchful
to destroy,
She pines and sickens at another’s
joy;
90
Foe to herself, distressing and distressed,
She bears her own tormentor in her breast.
Page 71
The goddess gave (for she abhorred her
sight)
A short command: ’To Athens
speed thy flight;
On cursed Aglauros try thy utmost art.
And fix thy rankest venoms in her heart.’
This said, her spear she pushed against
the ground,
And mounting from it with an active bound,
Flew off to heaven: the hag with
eyes askew
Looked up, and muttered curses as she
flew;
100
For sore she fretted, and began to grieve
At the success which she herself must
give.
Then takes her staff, hung round with
wreaths of thorn,
And sails along, in a black whirlwind
borne,
O’er fields and flowery meadows:
where she steers
Her baneful course, a mighty blast appears,
Mildews and blights; the meadows are defaced,
The fields, the flowers, and the whole
year laid waste;
On mortals next and peopled towns she
falls,
And breathes a burning plague among their
walls,
110
When Athens she beheld,
for arts renowned,
With peace made happy, and with plenty
crowned,
Scarce could the hideous fiend from tears
forbear,
To find out nothing that deserved a tear.
The apartment now she entered, where at
rest
Aglauros lay, with gentle sleep oppressed.
To execute Minerva’s dire command,
She stroked the virgin with her cankered
hand,
Then prickly thorns into her breast conveyed,
That stung to madness the devoted maid;
120
Her subtle venom still improves the smart,
Frets in the blood, and festers in the
heart.
To make the work more
sure, a scene she drew,
And placed before the dreaming virgin’s
view
Her sister’s marriage, and her glorious
fate:
The imaginary bride appears in state;
The bridegroom with unwonted beauty glows,
For Envy magnifies whate’er she
shows.
Full of the dream, Aglauros
pined away
In tears all night, in darkness all the
day;
130
Consumed like ice, that just begins to
run,
When feebly smitten by the distant sun;
Or like unwholesome weeds, that, set on
fire,
Are slowly wasted, and in smoke expire.
Given up to Envy, (for in every thought,
The thorns, the venom, and the vision
wrought).
Oft did she call on death, as oft decreed,
Rather than see her sister’s wish
succeed,
To tell her awful father what had passed:
At length before the door herself she
cast;
140
And, sitting on the ground with sullen
pride,
A passage to the love-sick god denied.
The god caressed, and for admission prayed,
And soothed, in softest words, the envenomed
maid.
In vain he soothed; ‘Begone!’
the maid replies,
‘Or here I keep my seat, and never
rise.’
‘Then keep thy seat for ever!’
cries the god,
And touched the door, wide-opening to
his rod.
Fain would she rise, and stop him, but
she found
Her trunk too heavy to forsake the ground;
EUROPA’S RAPE.
When now the god his fury
had allayed,
And taken vengeance of the stubborn maid,
From where the bright Athenian turrets
rise
He mounts aloft, and reascends the skies.
Jove saw him enter the sublime abodes,
And, as he mixed among the crowd of gods,
Beckoned him out, and drew him from the
rest,
And in soft whispers thus his will expressed.
’My trusty Hermes,
by whose ready aid
Thy sire’s commands are through
the world conveyed,
10
Resume thy wings, exert their utmost force,
And to the walls of Sidon speed they course;
There find a herd of heifers wandering
o’er
The neighbouring hill, and drive them
to the shore.’
Thus spoke the god,
concealing his intent.
The trusty Hermes on his message went,
And found the herd of heifers wandering
o’er
A neighbouring hill, and drove them to
the shore;
Where the king’s daughter, with
a lovely train
Of fellow-nymphs, was sporting on the
plain.
20
The dignity of empire
laid aside,
(For love but ill agrees with kingly pride,)
The ruler of the skies, the thundering
god,
Who shakes the world’s foundations
with a nod,
Among a herd of lowing heifers ran,
Frisked in a bull, and bellowed o’er
the plain.
Large rolls of fat about his shoulders
clung,
And from his neck the double dewlap hung.
His skin was whiter than the snow that
lies
Unsullied by the breath of southern skies;
30
Small shining horns on his curled forehead
stand,
As turned and polished by the workman’s
hand;
His eye-balls rolled, not formidably bright,
But gazed and languished with a gentle
light.
His every look was peaceful, and expressed
The softness of the lover in the beast.
Agenor’s royal
daughter, as she played
Among the fields, the milk-white bull
surveyed,
And viewed his spotless body with delight,
And at a distance kept him in her sight.
40
At length she plucked the rising flowers,
and fed
The gentle beast, and fondly stroked his
head.
He stood well pleased to touch the charming
fair,
But hardly could confine his pleasure
there.
And now he wantons o’er the neighbouring
strand,
Now rolls his body on the yellow sand;
And now, perceiving all her fears decayed,
Comes tossing forward to the royal maid;
THE STORY OF CADMUS.
When now Agenor had his daughter lost,
He sent his son to search on every coast;
And sternly bid him to his arms restore
The darling maid, or see his face no more,
But live an exile in a foreign clime:
Thus was the father pious to a crime.
The restless youth searched
all the world around;
But how can Jove in his amours be found?
When tired at length with unsuccessful
toil,
To shun his angry sire and native soil,
10
He goes a suppliant to the Delphic dome;
There asks the god what new-appointed
home
Should end his wanderings and his toils
relieve.
The Delphic oracles this answer give:
’Behold among
the fields a lonely cow,
Unworn with yokes, unbroken to the plough;
Mark well the place where first she lays
her down,
There measure out thy walls, and build
thy town,
And from thy guide, Boetia call the land,
In which the destined walls and town shall
stand.’
20
No sooner had he left
the dark abode,
Big with the promise of the Delphic god,
When in the fields the fatal cow he viewed,
Nor galled with yokes, nor worn with servitude:
Her gently at a distance he pursued;
And, as he walked aloof, in silence prayed
To the great power whose counsels he obeyed.
Her way through flowery Panope she took,
And now, Cephisus, crossed thy silver
brook;
When to the heavens her spacious front
she raised,
30
And bellowed thrice, then backward turning,
Page 74
gazed
On those behind, till on the destined
place
She stooped, and couched amid the rising
grass.
Cadmus salutes the soil,
and gladly hails
The new-found mountains, and the nameless
vales,
And thanks the gods, and turns about his
eye
To see his new dominions round him lie;
Then sends his servants to a neighbouring
grove
For living streams, a sacrifice to Jove.
O’er the wide plain there rose a
shady wood
40
Of aged trees; in its dark bosom stood
A bushy thicket, pathless and unworn,
O’errun with brambles, and perplexed
with thorn:
Amidst the brake a hollow den was found,
With rocks and shelving arches vaulted
round.
Deep in the dreary den,
concealed from day,
Sacred to Mars, a mighty dragon lay,
Bloated with poison to a monstrous size;
Fire broke in flashes when he glanced
his eyes;
His towering crest was glorious to behold,
50
His shoulders and his sides were scaled
with gold;
Three tongues he brandished when he charged
his foes;
His teeth stood jagy in three dreadful
rows.
The Tyrians in the den for water sought,
And with their urns explored the hollow
vault:
From side to side their empty urns rebound,
And rouse the sleepy serpent with the
sound.
Straight he bestirs him, and is seen to
rise;
And now with dreadful hissings fills the
skies,
And darts his forky tongues, and rolls
his glaring eyes.
60
The Tyrians drop their vessels in their
fright,
All pale and trembling at the hideous
sight
Spire above spire upreared in air he stood,
And gazing round him, overlooked the wood:
Then floating on the ground, in circles
rolled;
Then leaped upon them in a mighty fold.
Of such a bulk, and such a monstrous size,
The serpent in the polar circle lies,
That stretches over half the northern
skies.
In vain the Tyrians on their arms rely,
70
In vain attempt to fight, in vain to fly:
All their endeavours and their hopes are
vain;
Some die entangled in the winding train;
Some are devoured; or feel a loathsome
death,
Swoln up with blasts of pestilential breath.
And now the scorching
sun was mounted high,
In all its lustre, to the noonday sky;
When, anxious for his friends, and filled
with cares,
To search the woods the impatient chief
prepares.
A lion’s hide around his loins he
wore,
80
The well-poised javelin to the field he
bore,
Inured to blood, the far-destroying dart,
And, the best weapon, an undaunted heart.
Soon as the youth approached
the fatal place,
He saw his servants breathless on the
grass;
The scaly foe amid their corps he viewed,
Basking at ease, and feasting in their
blood,
‘Such friends,’ he cries,
’deserved a longer date;
But Cadmus will revenge, or share their
THE TRANSFORMATION OF ACTAEON INTO A STAG.
In a fair chase a shady
mountain stood,
Well stored with game, and marked with
trails of blood.
Here did the huntsmen till the heat of
day
Pursue the stag, and load themselves with
prey;
When thus Actaeon calling to the rest:
‘My friends,’ says he, ’our
sport is at the best.
The sun is high advanced, and downward
sheds
His burning beams directly on our heads;
Actaeon’s sufferings,
and Diana’s rage,
Did all the thoughts of men and gods engage;
Some called the evils which Diana wrought,
Too great, and disproportioned to the
fault:
Others, again, esteemed Actaeon’s
woes
Fit for a virgin goddess to impose.
The hearers into different parts divide,
And reasons are produced on either side.
Juno alone, of all that
heard the news,
Nor would condemn the goddess, nor excuse:
10
She heeded not the justice of the deed,
But joyed to see the race of Cadmus bleed;
For still she kept Europa in her mind,
And, for her sake, detested all her kind.
Besides, to aggravate her hate, she heard
How Semele, to Jove’s embrace preferred,
Was now grown big with an immortal load,
And carried in her womb a future god.
Page 79
Thus terribly incensed, the goddess broke
To sudden fury, and abruptly spoke.
20
’Are my reproaches
of so small a force?
’Tis time I then pursue another
course:
It is decreed the guilty wretch shall
die,
If I’m indeed the mistress of the
sky;
If rightly styled among the powers above
The wife and sister of the thundering
Jove,
(And none can sure a sister’s right
deny,)
It is decreed the guilty wretch shall
die.
She boasts an honour I can hardly claim;
Pregnant, she rises to a mother’s
name;
30
While proud and vain she triumphs in her
Jove,
And shows the glorious tokens of his love:
But if I’m still the mistress of
the skies,
By her own lover the fond beauty dies.’
This said, descending in a yellow cloud,
Before the gates of Semele she stood.
Old Beroe’s decrepit
shape she wears,
Her wrinkled visage, and her hoary hairs;
Whilst in her trembling gait she totters
on,
And learns to tattle in the nurse’s
tone.
40
The goddess, thus disguised in age, beguiled
With pleasing stories her false foster-child.
Much did she talk of love, and when she
came
To mention to the nymph her lover’s
name,
Fetching a sigh, and holding down her
head,
‘’Tis well,’ says she,
’if all be true that’s said;
But trust me, child, I’m much inclined
to fear
Some counterfeit in this your Jupiter.
Many an honest, well-designing maid,
Has been by these pretended gods betrayed.
50
But if he be indeed the thundering Jove,
Bid him, when next he courts the rites
of love,
Descend, triumphant from the ethereal
sky,
In all the pomp of his divinity;
Encompassed round by those celestial charms,
With which he fills the immortal Juno’s
arms.’
The unwary nymph, insnared
with what she said,
Desired of Jove, when next he sought her
bed,
To grant a certain gift which she would
choose;
‘Fear not,’ replied the god,
’that I’ll refuse
60
Whate’er you ask: may Styx
confirm my voice,
Choose what you will, and you shall have
your choice.’
‘Then,’ says the nymph, ’when
next you seek my arms,
May you descend in those celestial charms,
With which your Juno’s bosom you
inflame,
And fill with transport heaven’s
immortal dame.’
The god surprised, would fain have stopped
her voice:
But he had swrorn, and she had made her
choice.
To keep his promise
he ascends, and shrouds
His awful brow in whirlwinds and in clouds;
70
Whilst all around, in terrible array,
His thunders rattle, and his lightnings
play.
And yet, the dazzling lustre to abate,
He set not out in all his pomp and state,
Clad in the mildest lightning of the skies,
And armed with thunder of the smallest
size:
Not those huge bolts, by which the giants
Page 80
slain,
Lay overthrown on the Phlegraean plain.
Twas of a lesser mould, and lighter weight;
They call it thunder of a second-rate.
80
For the rough Cyclops, who by Jove’s
command
Tempered the bolt, and turned it to his
hand,
Worked up less flame and fury in its make,
And quenched it sooner in the standing
lake.
Thus dreadfully adorned, with horror bright,
The illustrious god, descending from his
height,
Came rushing on her in a storm of light.
The mortal dame, too
feeble to engage
The lightning’s flashes and the
thunder’s rage,
Consumed amidst the glories she desired,
90
And in the terrible embrace expired.
But, to preserve his
offspring from the tomb,
Jove took him smoking from the blasted
womb;
And, if on ancient tales we may rely,
Enclosed the abortive infant in his thigh.
Here, when the babe had all his time fulfilled,
Ino first took him for her foster-child;
Then the Niseans, in their dark abode,
Nursed secretly with milk the thriving
god.
THE TRANSFORMATION OF TIRESIAS.
’Twas now, while
these transactions passed on earth,
And Bacchus thus procured a second birth,
When Jove, disposed to lay aside the weight
Of public empire and the cares of state,
As to his queen in nectar bowls he quaffed,
‘In troth,’ says he, and as
he spoke he laughed,
’The sense of pleasure in the male
is far
More dull and dead than what you females
share.’
Juno the truth of what was said denied;
Tiresias therefore must the cause decide;
10
For he the pleasure of each sex had tried.
It happened once, within
a shady wood,
Two twisted snakes he in conjunction viewed;
When with his staff their slimy folds
he broke,
And lost his manhood at the fatal stroke.
But, after seven revolving years, he viewed
The self-same serpents in the self-same
wood;
‘And if,’ says he, ’such
virtue in you lie,
That he who dares your slimy folds untie
Must change his kind, a second stroke
I’ll try.’
20
Again he struck the snakes, and stood
again
New-sexed, and straight recovered into
man.
Him therefore both the deities create
The sovereign umpire in their grand debate;
And he declared for Jove; when Juno, fired
More than so trivial an affair required,
Deprived him, in her fury, of his sight,
And left him groping round in sudden night.
But Jove (for so it is in heaven decreed,
That no one god repeal another’s
deed)
30
Irradiates all his soul with inward light,
And with the prophet’s art relieves
the want of sight.
Famed far and near for
knowing things to come,
From him the inquiring nations sought
their doom;
The fair Liriope his answers tried,
And first the unerring prophet justified;
This nymph the god Cephisus had abused,
With all his winding waters circumfused,
And on the Nereid got a lovely boy,
Whom the soft maids even then beheld with
joy.
The tender dame, solicitous
to know
Whether her child should reach old age
or no,
10
Consults the sage Tiresias, who replies,
‘If e’er he knows himself,
he surely dies.’
Long lived the dubious mother in suspense,
Till time unriddled all the prophet’s
sense.
Narcissus now his sixteenth
year began,
Just turned of boy, and on the verge of
man;
Many a friend the blooming youth caressed,
Many a love-sick maid her flame confessed:
Such was his pride, in vain the friend
caressed,
The love-sick maid in vain her flame confessed.
20
Once, in the woods,
as he pursued the chase,
The babbling Echo had descried his face;
She, who in others’ words her silence
breaks,
Nor speaks herself but when another speaks.
Echo was then a maid, of speech bereft,
Of wonted speech; for though her voice
was left,
Juno a curse did on her tongue impose,
To sport with every sentence in the close.
Full often, when the goddess might have
caught
Jove and her rivals in the very fault,
30
This nymph with subtle stories would delay
Her coming, till the lovers slipped away.
The goddess found out the deceit in time,
And then she cried, ’That tongue,
for this thy crime,
Which could so many subtle tales produce,
Shall be hereafter but of little use.’
Hence ’tis she prattles in a fainter
tone,
With mimic sounds, and accents not her
own.
This love-sick virgin,
overjoyed to find
The boy alone, still followed him behind;
40
When, glowing warmly at her near approach,
As sulphur blazes at the taper’s
touch,
She longed her hidden passion to reveal,
And tell her pains, but had not words
to tell:
She can’t begin, but waits for the
rebound,
To catch his voice, and to return the
sound.
The nymph, when nothing could Narcissus
move,
Still dashed with blushes for her slighted
love,
Lived in the shady covert of the woods,
In solitary caves and dark abodes;
50
Where pining wandered the rejected fair,
Till harassed out, and worn away with
care,
The sounding skeleton, of blood bereft,
Besides her bones and voice had nothing
left.
Her bones are petrified, her voice is
found
In vaults, where still it doubles every
sound.
THE STORY OF NARCISSUS.
Thus did the nymphs
in vain caress the boy,
He still was lovely, but he still was
coy;
When one fair virgin of the slighted train
Thus prayed the gods, provoked by his
disdain,
‘Oh, may he love like me, and love
like me in vain!’
Rhamnusia pitied the neglected fair,
And with just vengeance answered to her
prayer.
There stands a fountain
in a darksome wood,
Nor stained with falling leaves nor rising
mud;
Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests,
10
Unsullied by the touch of men or beasts:
High bowers of shady trees above it grow,
And rising grass and cheerful greens below.
Pleased with the form and coolness of
the place,
And over-heated by the morning chase,
Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies:
But whilst within the crystal fount he
tries
To quench his heat, he feels new heats
arise.
For as his own bright image he surveyed,
He fell in love with the fantastic shade;
20
And o’er the fair resemblance hung
unmoved,
Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he
loved.
The well-turned neck and shoulders he
descries,
The spacious forehead, and the sparkling
eyes;
The hands that Bacchus might not scorn
to show,
And hair that round Apollo’s head
might flow,
With all the purple youthfulness of face,
That gently blushes in the watery glass.
By his own flames consumed the lover lies,
And gives himself the wound by which he
dies.
30
To the cold water oft he joins his lips,
Oft catching at the beauteous shade he
dips
His arms, as often from himself he slips.
Nor knows he who it is his arms pursue
With eager clasps, but loves he knows
not who.
What could, fond youth, this helpless
passion move?
What kindle in thee this unpitied love?
Thy own warm blush within the water glows,
With thee the coloured shadow comes and
goes,
Its empty being on thyself relies;
40
Step thou aside, and the frail charmer
dies.
Still o’er the
fountain’s watery gleam he stood,
Mindless of sleep, and negligent of food;
Still viewed his face, and languished
as he viewed.
At length he raised his head, and thus
began
To vent his griefs, and tell the woods
his pain.
‘You trees,’ says he, ’and
thou surrounding grove,
Who oft have been the kindly scenes of
love,
Tell me, if e’er within your shades
did lie
A youth so tortured, so perplexed as I?
50
I who before me see the charming fair,
Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands
not there:
In such a maze of love my thoughts are
lost;
And yet no bulwarked town, nor distant
coast,
Preserves the beauteous youth from being
seen,
No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between.
A shallow water hinders my embrace;
And yet the lovely mimic wears a face
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to
Page 83
join
My lips to his, he fondly bends to mine.
60
Hear, gentle youth, and pity my complaint,
Come from thy well, thou fair inhabitant.
My charms an easy conquest have obtained
O’er other hearts, by thee alone
disdained.
But why should I despair? I’m
sure he burns
With equal flames, and languishes by turns.
Whene’er I stoop he offers at a
kiss,
And when my arms I stretch, he stretches
his.
His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps,
He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he
weeps.
70
Whene’er I speak, his moving lips
appear
To utter something, which I cannot hear.
’Ah wretched me!
I now begin too late
To find out all the long-perplexed deceit;
It is myself I love, myself I see;
The gay delusion is a part of me.
I kindle up the fires by which I burn,
And my own beauties from the well return.
Whom should I court? how utter my complaint?
Enjoyment but produces my restraint,
80
And too much plenty makes me die for want.
How gladly would I from myself remove!
And at a distance set the thing I love.
My breast is warmed with such unusual
fire,
I wish him absent whom I most desire.
And now I faint with grief; my fate draws
nigh;
In all the pride of blooming youth I die.
Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve.
Oh, might the visionary youth survive,
I should with joy my latest breath resign!
90
But oh! I see his fate involved in
mine.’
This said, the weeping
youth again returned
To the clear fountain, where again he
burned;
His tears defaced the surface of the well
With circle after circle, as they fell:
And now the lovely face but half appears,
O’errun with wrinkles, and deformed
with tears.
‘All whither,’ cries Narcissus,
’dost thou fly?
Let me still feed the flame by which I
die;
Let me still see, though I’m no
further blessed.’
100
Then rends his garment off, and beats
his breast:
His naked bosom reddened with the blow,
In such a blush as purple clusters show,
Ere yet the sun’s autumnal heats
refine
Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to
wine.
The glowing beauties of his breast he
spies,
And with a new redoubled passion dies.
As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run,
And trickle into drops before the sun;
So melts the youth, and languishes away,
110
His beauty withers, and his limbs decay;
And none of those attractive charms remain,
To which the slighted Echo sued in vain.
She saw him in his present
misery,
Whom, spite of all her wrongs, she grieved
to see.
She answered sadly to the lover’s
moan,
Sighed back his sighs, and groaned to
every groan:
‘Ah youth! beloved in vain,’
Narcissus cries;
‘Ah youth! beloved in vain,’
the nymph replies.
Page 84
‘Farewell,’ says he; the parting
sound scarce fell
120
From his faint lips, but she replied,
‘Farewell.’
Then on the unwholesome earth he gasping
lies,
Till death shuts up those self-admiring
eyes.
To the cold shades his flitting ghost
retires,
And in the Stygian waves itself admires.
For him the Naiads and
the Dryads mourn,
Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn;
And now the sister-nymphs prepare his
urn:
When, looking for his corpse, they only
found
A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crowned.
130
This sad event gave
blind Tiresias fame,
Through Greece established in a prophet’s
name.
The unhallowed Pentheus
only durst deride
The cheated people, and their eyeless
guide,
To whom the prophet in his fury said,
Shaking the hoary honours of his head;
’Twere well, presumptuous man, ’twere
well for thee
If thou wert eyeless too, and blind, like
me:
For the time comes, nay, ’tis already
here,
When the young god’s solemnities
appear;
10
Which, if thou dost not with just rites
adorn,
Thy impious carcase, into pieces torn,
Shall strew the woods, and hang on every
thorn.
Then, then, remember what I now foretell,
And own the blind Tiresias saw too well.’
Still Pentheus scorns him, and derides
his skill,
But time did all the promised threats
fulfil.
For now through prostrate Greece young
Bacchus rode,
Whilst howling matrons celebrate the god.
All ranks and sexes to his orgies ran,
20
To mingle in the pomps, and fill the train.
When Pentheus thus his wicked rage express’d;
’What madness, Thebans, has your
soul possess’d?
Can hollow timbrels, can a drunken shout,
And the lewd clamours of a beastly rout,
Thus quell your courage? can the weak
alarm
Of women’s yells those stubborn
souls disarm,
Whom nor the sword nor trumpet e’er
could fright,
Nor the loud din and horror of a fight?
And you, our sires, who left your old
abodes,
30
And fixed in foreign earth your country
gods;
Will you without a stroke your city yield,
And poorly quit an undisputed field?
But you, whose youth and vigour should
inspire
Heroic warmth, and kindle martial fire,
Whom burnished arms and crested helmets
grace,
Not flowery garlands and a painted face;
Remember him to whom you stand allied:
The serpent for his well of waters died.
He fought the strong; do you his courage
show,
40
And gain a conquest o’er a feeble
foe.
If Thebes must fall, oh might the Fates
afford
A nobler doom from famine, fire, or sword!
Then might the Thebans perish with renown:
But now a beardless victor sacks the town;
Whom nor the prancing steed, nor ponderous
THE MARINERS TRANSFORMED TO DOLPHINS.
Him Pentheus viewed
with fury in his look,
And scarce withheld his hands, while thus
he spoke:
’Vile slave! whom speedy vengeance
shall pursue,
And terrify thy base, seditious crew:
Thy country and thy parentage reveal,
And why thou join’st in these mad
orgies tell.’
The captive views him
with undaunted eyes,
And, armed with inward innocence, replies.
’From high Meonia’s
rocky shores I came,
Of poor descent, Acaetes is my name:
10
My sire was meanly born; no oxen ploughed
His fruitful fields, nor in his pastures
lowed.
His whole estate within the waters lay;
With lines and hooks he caught the finny
prey.
His art was all his livelihood; which
he
Thus with his dying lips bequeathed to
me:
In streams, my boy, and rivers, take thy
chance;
There swims,’ said he, ’thy
whole inheritance.
’Long did I live
on this poor legacy;
Till tired with rocks, and my own native
sky,
20
To arts of navigation I inclined,
Observed the turns and changes of the
wind:
Learned the fit havens, and began to note
The stormy Hyades, the rainy Goat,
The bright Taeygete, and the shining Bears,
With all the sailor’s catalogue
of stars.
’Once, as by chance
for Delos I designed,
My vessel, driven by a strong gust of
wind,
Moored in a Chian creek; ashore I went,
And all the following night in Chios spent.
30
When morning rose, I sent my mates to
bring
Supplies of water from a neighbouring
spring,
Whilst I the motion of the winds explored;
Then summoned in my crew, and went aboard.
Opheltes heard my summons, and with joy
Brought to the shore a soft and lovely
boy,
With more than female sweetness in his
Page 86
look,
Whom straggling in the neighbouring fields
he took.
With fumes of wine the little captive
glows,
And nods with sleep, and staggers as he
goes.
40
’I viewed him
nicely, and began to trace
Each heavenly feature, each immortal grace,
And saw divinity in all his face.
“I know not who,” said I,
“this god should be;
But that he is a god I plainly see:
And thou, whoe’er thou art, excuse
the force
These men have used; and, oh! befriend
our course!”
“Pray not for us,” the nimble
Dictys cried,
Dictys, that could the main-top-mast bestride,
And down the ropes with active vigour
slide.
50
To the same purpose old Epopeus spoke,
Who overlooked the oars, and timed the
stroke;
The same the pilot, and the same the rest;
Such impious avarice their souls possessed.
“Nay, heaven forbid that I should
bear away
Within my vessel so divine a prey,”
Said I; and stood to hinder their intent:
When Lycabas, a wretch for murder sent
From Tuscany, to suffer banishment,
With his clenched fist had struck me overboard,
60
Had not my hands, in falling, grasped
a cord.
’His base confederates
the fact approve;
When Bacchus (for ’twas he) began
to move,
Waked by the noise and clamours which
they raised;
And shook his drowsy limbs, and round
him gazed:
“What means this noise?” he
cries; “am I betrayed?
All! whither, whither must I be conveyed?”
“Fear not,” said Proreus,
“child, but tell us where
You wish to land, and trust our friendly
care.”
“To Naxos then direct your course,”
said he;
70
“Naxos a hospitable port shall be
To each of you, a joyful home to me.”
By every god that rules the sea or sky,
The perjured villains promise to comply,
And bid me hasten to unmoor the ship.
With eager joy I launch into the deep;
And, heedless of the fraud, for Naxos
stand:
They whisper oft, and beckon with the
hand,
And give me signs, all anxious for their
prey,
To tack about, and steer another way.
80
“Then let some other to my post
succeed,”
Said I, “I’m guiltless of
so foul a deed.”
“What,” says Ethalion, “must
the ship’s whole crew
Follow your humour, and depend on you?”
And straight himself he seated at the
prore,
And tacked about, and sought another shore.
’The beauteous
youth now found himself betrayed,
And from the deck the rising waves surveyed,
And seemed to weep, and as he wept he
said;
“And do you thus my easy faith beguile?
90
Thus do you bear me to my native isle?
Will such a multitude of men employ
Their strength against a weak, defenceless
boy?”
’In vain did I
the godlike youth deplore,
The more I begged, they thwarted me the
more.
And now by all the gods in heaven that
Page 87
hear
This solemn oath, by Bacchus’ self,
I swear,
The mighty miracle that did ensue,
Although it seems beyond belief, is true.
The vessel, fixed and rooted in the flood,
100
Unmoved by all the beating billows stood.
In vain the mariners would plough the
main
With sails unfurled, and strike their
oars in vain;
Around their oars a twining ivy cleaves,
And climbs the mast and hides the cords
in leaves:
The sails are covered with a cheerful
green,
And berries in the fruitful canvas seen.
Amidst the waves a sudden forest rears
Its verdant head, and a new spring appears.
’The god we now
behold with open eyes;
110
A herd of spotted panthers round him lies
In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread
On his fair brows, and dangle on his head.
And whilst he frowns, and brandishes his
spear,
My mates, surprised with madness or with
fear,
Leaped overboard; first perjured Madon
found
Rough scales and fins his stiffening sides
surround;
“Ah! what,” cries one, “has
thus transformed thy look?”
Straight his own mouth grew wider as he
spoke;
And now himself he views with like surprise.
120
Still at his oar the industrious Libys
plies;
But, as he plies, each busy arm shrinks
in,
And by degrees is fashioned to a fin.
Another, as he catches at a cord,
Misses his arms, and, tumbling overboard,
With his broad fins and forky tail he
laves
The rising surge, and flounces in the
waves.
Thus all my crew transformed around the
ship,
Or dive below, or on the surface leap,
And spout the waves, and wanton in the
deep.
130
Full nineteen sailors did the ship convey,
A shoal of nineteen dolphins round her
play.
I only in my proper shape appear,
Speechless with wonder, and half dead
with fear,
Till Bacchus kindly bid me fear no more.
With him I landed on the Chian shore,
And him shall ever gratefully adore.’
‘This forging
slave,’ says Pentheus, ’would prevail
O’er our just fury by a far-fetched
tale:
Go, let him feel the whips, the swords,
the fire,
140
And in the tortures of the rack expire.’
The officious servants hurry him away,
And the poor captive in a dungeon lay.
But, whilst the whips and tortures are
prepared.
The gates fly open, of themselves unbarred;
At liberty the unfettered captive stands,
And flings the loosened shackles from
his hands.
But Penthcus, grown
more furious than before,
Resolved to send his messengers no more,
But went himself to the distracted throng,
Where high Cithaeron echoed with their
song.
And as the fiery war-horse paws the ground,
And snorts and trembles at the trumpet’s
THE STORY OF SALMACIS AND HERMAPHRODITES.
How Salmacis, with weak enfeebling streams
Softens the body, and unnerves the limbs,
And what the secret cause, shall here
be shown;
The cause is secret, but the effect is
known.
The Naiads nursed an
infant heretofore,
That Cytherea once to Hermes bore:
From both the illustrious authors of his
race
The child was named; nor was it hard to
trace
Both the bright parents through the infant’s
face.
When fifteen years, in Ida’s cool
retreat,
10
The boy had told, he left his native seat,
And sought fresh fountains in a foreign
soil;
The pleasure lessened the attending toil.
With eager steps the Lycian fields he
crossed,
And fields that border on the Lycian coast;
A river here he viewed so lovely bright,
It showed the bottom in a fairer light,
Nor kept a sand concealed from human sight.
The stream produced nor slimy ooze, nor
weeds,
Nor miry rushes, nor the spiky reeds;
Page 89
20
But dealt enriching moisture all around,
The fruitful banks with cheerful verdure
crowned,
And kept the spring eternal on the ground.
A nymph presides, nor practised in the
chase,
Nor skilful at the bow, nor at the race;
Of all the blue-eyed daughters of the
main,
The only stranger to Diana’s train:
Her sisters often, as ’tis said,
would cry,
’Fie, Salmacis, what always idle!
fie,
Or take thy quiver, or thy arrows seize,
30
And mix the toils of hunting with thy
ease.’
Nor quiver she nor arrows e’er would
seize,
Nor mix the toils of hunting with her
ease.
But oft would bathe her in the crystal
tide,
Oft with a comb her dewy locks divide;
Now in the limpid streams she viewed her
face,
And dressed her image in the floating
glass:
On beds of leaves she now reposed her
limbs,
Now gathered flowers that grew about her
streams:
And then by chance was gathering, as she
stood
40
To view the boy, and longed for what she
viewed.
Fain would she meet
the youth with hasty feet,
She fain would meet him, but refused to
meet
Before her looks were set with nicest
care,
And well deserved to be reputed fair.
‘Bright youth,’ she cries,
’whom all thy features prove
A god, and, if a god, the god of love;
But if a mortal, bless’d thy nurse’s
breast,
Bless’d are thy parents, and thy
sisters bless’d:
But, oh! how bless’d! how more than
bless’d thy bride,
50
Allied in bliss, if any yet allied.
If so, let mine the stolen enjoyments
be;
If not, behold a willing bride in me.’
The boy knew nought
of love, and, touched with shame,
He strove, and blushed, but still the
blush became:
In rising blushes still fresh beauties
rose;
The sunny side of fruit such blushes shows,
And such the moon, when all her silver
white
Turns in eclipses to a ruddy light.
The nymph still begs, if not a nobler
bliss,
60
A cold salute at least, a sister’s
kiss:
And now prepares to take the lovely boy
Between her arms. He, innocently
coy,
Replies, ’Or leave me to myself
alone,
You rude, uncivil nymph, or I’ll
begone.’
‘Fair stranger then,’ says
she, ‘it shall be so;’
And, for she feared his threats, she feigned
to go;
But hid within a covert’s neighbouring
green,
She kept him still in sight, herself unseen.
The boy now fancies all the danger o’er,
70
And innocently sports about the shore,
Playful and wanton to the stream he trips,
And dips his foot, and shivers as he dips.
The coolness pleased him, and with eager
haste
His airy garments on the banks he cast;
His godlike features, and his heavenly
hue,
And all his beauties were exposed to view.
His naked limbs the nymph with rapture
spies,
While hotter passions in her bosom rise,
Page 90
Flush in her cheeks, and sparkle in her
eyes.
80
She longs, she burns to clasp him in her
arms,
And looks, and sighs, and kindles at his
charms.
Now all undressed upon
the banks he stood,
And clapped his sides and leaped into
the flood:
His lovely limbs the silver waves divide,
His limbs appear more lovely through the
tide;
As lilies shut within a crystal case,
Receive a glossy lustre from the glass.
‘He’s mine, he’s all
my own,’ the Naiad cries,
And flings off all, and after him she
flies.
90
And now she fastens on him as he swims,
And holds him close, and wraps about his
limbs.
The more the boy resisted, and was coy,
The more she clipped and kissed the struggling
boy.
So when the wriggling snake is snatched
on high
In eagle’s claws, and hisses in
the sky,
Around the foe his twirling tail he flings,
And twists her legs, and writhes about
her wings.
The restless boy still obstinately strove
To free himself, and still refused her
love.
100
Amidst his limbs she kept her limbs entwined,
‘And why, coy youth,’ she
cries, ’why thus unkind!
Oh may the gods thus keep us ever joined!
Oh may we never, never part again!’
So prayed the nymph, nor did she pray
in vain:
For now she finds him, as his limbs she
pressed,
Grow nearer still, and nearer to her breast;
Till, piercing each the other’s
flesh, they run
Together, and incorporate in one:
Last in one face are both their faces
joined,
110
As when the stock and grafted twig combined
Shoot up the same, and wear a common rind:
Both bodies in a single body mix,
A single body with a double sex.
The boy, thus lost in
woman, now surveyed
The river’s guilty stream, and thus
he prayed:
(He prayed, but wondered at his softer
tone,
Surprised to hear a voice but half his
own:)
You parent gods, whose heavenly names
I bear,
Hear your Hermaphrodite, and grant my
prayer;
120
Oh grant, that whomsoe’er these
streams contain,
If man he entered, he may rise again
Supple, unsinewed, and but half a man!
The heavenly parents
answered, from on high,
Their two-shaped son, the double votary;
Then gave a secret virtue to the flood,
And tinged its source to make his wishes
good.
WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO, NOV. 1714.
The Muse that oft, with sacred raptures
fired,
Has generous thoughts of liberty inspired,
And, boldly rising for Britannia’s
laws,
Engaged great Cato in her country’s
cause,
On you submissive waits, with hopes assured,
By whom the mighty blessing stands secured,
And all the glories that our age adorn,
Are promised to a people yet unborn.
Kneller, with silence and surprise
We see Britannia’s monarch rise,
A godlike form, by thee displayed
In all the force of light and shade;
And, awed by thy delusive hand,
As in the presence-chamber stand.
The magic of thy art
calls forth
His secret soul and hidden worth,
His probity and mildness shows,
His care of friends and scorn of foes:
10
In every stroke, in every line,
Does some exalted virtue shine,
And Albion’s happiness we trace
Through all the features of his face.
Oh may I live to hail
the day,
When the glad nation shall survey
Their sovereign, through his wide command,
Passing in progress o’er the land!
Each heart shall bend, and every voice
In loud applauding shouts rejoice,
20
Whilst all his gracious aspect praise,
And crowds grow loyal as they gaze.
This image on the medal
placed,
With its bright round of titles graced,
And stamped on British coins, shall live,
To richest ores the value give,
Or, wrought within the curious mould,
Shape and adorn the running gold.
To bear this form, the genial sun
Has daily, since his course begun,
30
Rejoiced the metal to refine,
And ripened the Peruvian mine.
Thou, Kneller, long
with noble pride,
The foremost of thy art, hast vied
With nature in a generous strife,
And touched the canvas into life.
Thy pencil has, by monarchs sought,
From reign to reign in ermine wrought,
And, in their robes of state arrayed,
The kings of half an age displayed.
40
Here swarthy Charles
appears, and there
His brother with dejected air:
Triumphant Nassau here we find,
And with him bright Maria joined;
There Anna, great as when she sent
Her armies through the continent,
Ere yet her hero was disgraced:
Oh may famed Brunswick be the last,
(Though heaven should with my wish agree,
And long preserve thy art in thee,)
50
The last, the happiest British king,
Whom thou shalt paint, or I shall sing!
Wise Phidias, thus his
skill to prove,
Through many a god advanced to Jove,
And taught the polished rocks to shine
With airs and lineaments divine;
Till Greece, amazed, and half afraid,
The assembled deities surveyed.
Great Pan, who wont
to chase the fair,
And loved the spreading oak, was there;
60
Old Saturn too, with up-cast eyes,
Beheld his abdicated skies;
And mighty Mars, for war renowned,
In adamantine armour frowned;
By him the childless goddess rose,
Minerva, studious to compose
Her twisted threads; the web she strung,
And o’er a loom of marble hung:
Thetis, the troubled ocean’s queen.
Matched with a mortal, next was seen,
70
Page 93
Reclining on a funeral urn,
Her short-lived darling son to mourn.
The last was he, whose thunder slew
The Titan race, a rebel crew,
That, from a hundred hills allied
In impious leagues, their king defied.
This wonder of the sculptor’s
hand
Produced, his art was at a stand:
For who would hope new fame to raise,
Or risk his well-established praise,
80
That, his high genius to approve,
Had drawn a GEORGE, or carved a Jove!
THE PLAY-HOUSE.
Where gentle Thames through stately channels
glides,
And England’s proud metropolis divides;
A lofty fabric does the sight invade,
And stretches o’er the waves a pompous
shade;
Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood
surprise,
And thundering claps and dreadful hissings
rise.
Here thrifty R——[16]
hires monarchs by the day,
And keeps his mercenary kings in pay;
With deep-mouth’d actors fills the
vacant scenes,
And rakes the stews for goddesses and
queens:
10
Here the lewd punk, with crowns and sceptres
graced,
Teaches her eyes a more majestic cast;
And hungry monarchs with a numerous train
Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve
and reign.
But enter in, my Muse;
the stage survey,
And all its pomp and pageantry display;
Trap-doors and pit-falls, form the unfaithful
ground,
And magic walls encompass it around:
On either side maim’d temples fill
our eyes,
And intermixed with brothel-houses rise;
20
Disjointed palaces in order stand,
And groves obedient to the mover’s
hand
O’ershade the stage, and flourish
at command.
A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire:
So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre,
He saw the spacious circuit all around,
With crowding woods and rising cities
crown’d.
But next the tiring-room
survey, and see
False titles, and promiscuous quality,
Confus’dly swarm, from heroes and
from queens,
30
To those that swing in clouds and fill
machines.
Their various characters they choose with
art,
The frowning bully fits the tyrant’s
part:
Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make
an host,
Pale, meagre looks and hollow voice a
ghost;
From careful brows and heavy downcast
eyes,
Dull cits and thick-skull’d aldermen
arise:
The comic tone, inspir’d by Congreve,
draws
At every word, loud laughter and applause:
The whining dame continues as before,
40
Her character unchanged, and acts a whore.
Above the rest, the
prince with haughty stalks
Magnificent in purple buskins walks:
The royal robes his awful shoulders grace,
Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace:
Officious rascals to his mighty thigh,
Guiltless of blood, the unpointed weapon
tie:
Then the gay glittering diadem put on,
WRITTEN ON THE TOASTING-GLASSES OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB.
While haughty Gallia’s dames, that
spread
O’er their pale cheeks an artful
red,
Beheld this beauteous stranger there,
In native charms divinely fair;
Confusion in their looks they show’d;
And with unborrow’d blushes glow’d.
1
The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled Heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
The unwearied Sun from day to day
Does his Creator’s power display;
And publishes, to every land,
The work of an almighty hand.
2
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly, to the listening Earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets, in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
3
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though no real voice, nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found:
In reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine:
‘The hand that made us is divine.’
AN HYMN.
1
When all thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys;
Transported with the view, I’m lost
In wonder, love, and praise.
2
O how shall words with equal warmth
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravish’d heart!
But thou canst read it there.
3
Thy providence my life sustain’d,
And all my wants redress’d,
When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.
4
To all my weak complaints and cries
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in prayer.
5
Unnumber’d comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestow’d,
Before my infant heart conceiv’d
From whence these comforts flow’d.
6
When in the slippery paths of youth
With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm unseen convey’d me safe,
And led me up to man.
7
Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,
It gently clear’d my way;
And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be fear’d than they.
8
When worn with sickness, oft hast thou
With health renew’d my face;
And when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Reviv’d my soul with grace.
9
Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o’er,
And in a kind and faithful friend
Has doubled all my store.
10
Ten thousand
thousand precious gifts
My
daily thanks employ;
Nor is the
least a cheerful heart,
That
tastes those gifts with joy.
11
Through every period of my life,
Thy goodness I’ll pursue;
And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.[17]
12
When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.
13
Through all eternity, to thee
A joyful song I’ll raise;
For, oh! eternity’s too short
To utter all thy praise.
1
How are thy servants blest, O Lord!
How sure is their defence!
Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help Omnipotence.
2
In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,
Through burning climes I pass’d unhurt,
And breath’d in tainted air.
3
Thy mercy sweeten’d every soil,
Made every region please;
The hoary Alpine hills it warm’d,
And smooth’d the Tyrrhene seas.
4
Think, O my soul, devoutly think,
How, with affrighted eyes,
Thou saw’st the wide-extended deep
In all its horrors rise.
5
Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart;
When waves on waves, and gulphs on gulphs,
O’ercame the pilot’s art.
6
Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
Whilst, in the confidence of prayer,
My soul took hold on thee.
7
For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,
I knew thou wert not slow to hear,
Nor impotent to save.
8
The storm was laid, the winds retired,
Obedient to thy will;
The sea that roar’d at thy command,
At thy command was still.
9
In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I’ll adore;
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.
10
My life, if thou preserv’st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be;
And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.
AN HYMN.
1
When rising from the bed of death,
O’erwhelm’d with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face;
O how shall I appear!
2
If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,
My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought:
3
When thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclos’d
In majesty severe,
And sit in judgment on my soul;
O how shall I appear!
4
But thou hast told the troubled soul,
Who does her sins lament,
The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless woe prevent.
5
Then see the sorrows of my heart,
Ere yet it be too late;
And add my Saviour’s dying groans,
To give those sorrows weight.
6
For never shall my soul despair
Her pardon to procure,
Who knows thy only Son has died
To make that pardon sure.
1
The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
And feed me with a shepherd’s care;
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye:
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
2
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant;
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads:
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
3
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My steadfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord, art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
4
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile:
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown’d,
And streams shall murmur all around.
END OF ADDISON’S POEMS.
[Footnote 2: ‘Majesty:’ King William.]
[Footnote 3: ‘Seneffe:’ lost by William to the French in 1674. Claverhouse fought with him at this battle.]
[Footnote 4: The four last lines of the second and third stanzas were added by Mr Tate.]
[Footnote 5: ‘Eridanus:’ the Po.]
[Footnote 6: ‘Such as of late.’ See Macaulay’s ‘Essay on Addison,’ and the ‘Life’ in this volume, for an account of this extraordinary tempest.]
[Footnote 7: ‘Tallard,’ or Tallart: an eminent French marshal, taken prisoner at Blenheim; he remained in England for seven years.]
[Footnote 8: A comedy written by Sir Richard Steel.]
[Footnote 9: A dramatic poem written by the Lord Lansdown.]
[Footnote 10: ‘Smith:’ Edmund, commonly called ‘Rag;’ see Johnson’s ‘Poets.’]
[Footnote 11: ‘Lyaeus:’ Bacchus.]
[Footnote 12: ‘Princess of Wales:’ Willielinina Dorothea Carolina of Brandenburg-Anspach—afterwards Caroline, Queen of George II.; she figures in the ‘Heart of Mid-Lothian.’]
[Footnote 13: ‘Gloriana:’ Henrietta Maria, Queen of Charles I. See our edition of Waller.]
[Footnote 14: ‘Sir Godfrey Kneller:’ born at Lubeck in 1648; became a painter of portraits; visited England; was knighted by William III.; died in 1723; lies in Westminster Abbey.]
[Footnote 15: This refers to a portrait of George I.]
[Footnote 16: ‘R——:’ Rich.]
[Footnote 17: Otherwise,
‘Thy
goodness I’ll proclaim;’
And,
‘Resume
the glorious theme.’ ]
This ingenious poet and child-like man was born, in 1688, at Barnstable, in Devonshire. His family, who were of Norman origin, had long possessed the manor of Goldworthy, or Holdworthy, which came into their hands through Gilbert Le Gay. He obtained possession of this estate by intermarrying with the family of Curtoyse, and gave his name, too, to a place called Hampton Gay, in Northamptonshire. The author of the “Fables” was brought up at the Free School of Barnstable—Pope says under one William Rayner, who had been educated at Westminster School, and who was the author of a volume of Latin and English verse, although Dr Johnson and others maintain that his master’s name was Luck. On leaving school, Gay was bound apprentice to a mercer in London—a trade not the most propitious to poetry, and which he did not long continue to prosecute. In 1712, he published his “Rural Sports,” and dedicated it to Pope, who was then rising toward the ascendant, having just published his brilliant tissue of centos, the “Essay on Criticism.” Pope was pleased with the honour, and ever afterwards took a deep interest in Gay. In the same year Gay had been appointed domestic secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth. This lady was Anne Scott, the daughter and heiress of the Duke of Buccleuch, and widow of the well-known and hapless Duke of Monmouth, who had been beheaded in 1685. She plays a prominent part in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” and of her a far greater poet than her secretary thus sings:—
“The Duchess mark’d his weary
pace,
His timid mien, and reverend face,
And bade her page the menials tell
That they should tend the old man well:
For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom,
Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody
tomb.”
Dr Johnson says of her, rather sarcastically, that she was “remarkable for her inflexible perseverance in her demand to be treated as a princess.” One biographer of Gay asserts—but on what authority we know not—that this secretaryship was rewarded with a handsome salary. With her, however, our poet did not long agree. She was scarcely so kind to him as to the “Last Minstrel” who sung to her at Newark. By June 8th, 1714, (see a letter of Arbuthnot’s of that date,) she had “turned Gay off,” having probably been provoked by his indolence of disposition and improvidence of conduct.
Ere this, however, he had been admitted to the intimacy of Pope, and was hired or flattered by him to engage in the famous “Battle of the Wits,” springing from the publication of the “Pastorals” of Ambrose Philips. This agreeable but nearly forgotten writer published some pastorals, which Steele, with his usual rashness and fatal favouritism, commended in the “Guardian” as superior to all productions of the class, (including Pope’s,) except those of Theocritus, Virgil, and Spenser. Pope retorted in a style of inimitable irony, by a letter to the
Gay shortly after wrote his “Fan,” and his “Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London”—the former a mythological fiction, in three books, now entirely and deservedly neglected; the second still worthy of perusal on account of its fidelity to truth, in its pictures of the dirty London of 1713—a fidelity reminding you of Crabbe and of Swift; indeed, Gay is said to have been assisted in “Trivia” by the latter, who, we may not uncharitably suppose, supplied the filth of allusion and image which here and there taints the poem. In 1713, our author brought out on the stage a comedy, entitled the “Wife of Bath,” which met with no success, and which, when reproduced seventeen years later, after the “Beggars’ Opera” had taken the town by storm, fell as flat as before.
Gay had now fairly found his way into the centre of that brilliant circle called the Wits of Queen Anne. That was certainly one of the most varied in intellect and attainment which the world has ever seen. Highest far among them—we refer to the Tory side—darkled the stern brow of the author of “Gulliver’s Travels,” who had a mind cast by nature in a form of naked force, like a gloomy crag without a particle of beauty or any vegetation, save what will grow on the most horrid rocks, and the condition of whose existence there, seems to be that it deepens the desolation—a mind unredeemed by virtue save in the shape of remorse—unvisited by weakness, until it came transmuted into the tiger of madness—whose very sermons were satires on God and man—whose very prayers had a twang of blasphemy—whose loves were more loathsome than his hatreds, and yet over whose blasted might and most miserable and withered heart men mourn, while they shudder, blend tears with anathemas, and agree that the awful mystery of man itself is deepened by its relation to the mystery of the wickedness, remorse, and wretchedness of Jonathan Swift. Superior to him in outward show and splendour, but inferior in real intellect, and, if possible, in moral calibre, shone, although with lurid brilliance, the “fell genius” of St John or Henry Bolingbroke. In a former paper we said that Edmund Burke reminded us less of a man than of a tutelar Angel; and so we can sometimes think of the “ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke,” with his subtle intellect, his showy, sophistical eloquence, his power of intrigue, his consummate falsehood, his vice and his infidelity as a “superior fiend”—a kind of human Belial—
“In
act more graceful than humane:
A fairer person lost not heaven:
he seem’d
For dignity composed and high exploit;
But all was false and hollow, though his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worse appear
The better reason, to perplex and dash
Maturest counsels.”
These two were the giants of the Tory confederacy of wits. But little inferior to them in brilliance, if vastly less in intellectual size, was Pope, with his epigrammatic style, his compact sense—like stimulating essence contained in small smelling bottles—his pungent personalities, his elegant glitter, and his splendid simulation of moral indignation and moral purpose. Less known, but more esteemed than any of them where he was known, was Dr Arbuthnot—a physician of skill, as some extant medical works prove—a man of science, and author of an “Essay on the Usefulness of Mathematical Learning”—a scholar, as evinced by his examination of Woodward’s “Account of the Deluge,” his treatise on “Ancient Coins and Medals,” and that on the “Altercation or Scolding of the Ancients”—a wit, whose grave irony, keen perception of the ridiculous, and magical power of turning the lead of learning into the most fine gold of humour, exhibited in his “Martinus Scriblerus,” his “Epitaph on the notorious Colonel Chartres,” and his “History of John Bull,” still extract shouts, screams, and tears of mirth from thousands who scarce know the author’s name—a politician without malice or self-seeking—and, best of all, a man without guile, and a Christian without cant. He, although a physician, was in effect the chaplain of the corps, and had enough to do in keeping them within due bounds; nay, is said on his deathbed to have called Pope to him, and given him serious advice in reference to the direction of his talents, and the restraint of his muse. Prior, though inferior to these, was no common man; and to learning, wit, and tale-telling power, added skill and energy in the conduct of public affairs. And last, (for Parnell, though beloved by this circle, could hardly be said to belong to it,) there was Gay, whom the others agreed to love and laugh at, who stood in much the same relation to the wits of Anne as Goldsmith did to those of George III., being at once their fool and their fondling; who, like Goldsmith, was
“In wit a man—simplicity a child;”
and who though he could not stab and sneer, and create new worlds more laughable than even this, like Swift, nor declaim and sap faith, like Bolingbroke, nor rhyme and glitter like Pope, nor discourse on medals and write comical “Pilgrims’ Progresses” like Arbuthnot, nor pour out floods of learning like Prior in “Alma,” could do things which they in their turn never equalled, (even as in Emerson’s poem, “The Mountain and the Squirrel,” the latter wisely remarks to the former—
“I cannot carry forests on my back,
But neither can you crack a nut,”)
could give a fabulous excellence to the construction and management of the “Fable;” extract interest from street crossings and scavengers, and let fly into the literary atmosphere an immortal Opera, the “Beggars’,” which, though feathered by the moultings of the very basest night-birds, has pursued a career of triumph ever since.
To recur to the life of our poet. Losing his situation under the Duchess of Monmouth, he was patronised by the Earls of Oxford and Bolingbroke, and through them was appointed secretary to the Earl of Clarendon, who was going to Hanover as ambassador to that court. He was at this time so poor that, in order to equip himself with necessaries, such as shoes, stockings, and linen for the journey, he had to receive an advance of L100 from the treasury at Hanover. The Electoral Princess, afterwards Queen Caroline—wife of George II.—took some notice of Gay, and asked for a volume of his “Poems,” when, as Arbuthnot remarks, “like a true poet,” he was compelled to own that he had no copy in his possession. We suspect few poets, whether true or pretended, in our age would in this point resemble Gay.
Lord Clarendon’s embassy lasted precisely fifteen days—Queen Anne having died in the meantime—and the Tory Government being consequently dismissed in disgrace. Poor Gay, who had offended the Whigs by dedicating his “Shepherd’s Week” to Bolingbroke, came home in a worse plight than before. He had left England in a state of poverty—he returned to it in a state of proscription—although he perhaps felt comforted by an epistle of welcome from Pope, which did not, it is likely, affect him as it does us with the notion that its tricksy author was laughing in his sleeve.
Arbuthnot, who was a wiser friend, advised Gay to write an “Epistle on the Arrival of the Princess of Wales,” which he did, and she and her lord were so far conciliated as to attend a play he now produced, entitled “What d’ye call it?”—a kind of hybrid between a farce and a tragedy—which, by the well-managed equivoque of its purpose, hit the house between wind and water; and not knowing “what” properly to “call it,” and whether it should be applauded or damned, they gave the benefit of their doubts to the author. To its success, doubtless too, the presence and praise of the Prince and the Princess contributed. Gay now tried for a while the trade of a courtier—sooth to say, with little success. He was for this at once too sanguine and too simple. Pope said, with his usual civil sneer, in a letter to Swift, “the Doctor (Arbuthnot) goes to cards—Gay to court; the one loses money, the other time.” It added to his chagrin, that having, in conjunction with Pope and Arbuthnot, produced, in 1717, a comedy, entitled “Three Months after Marriage,” to satirise Dr Woodward, then famous as a fossilist; the piece, being personal and indecent, was not only hissed but hooted off the stage. The chief offence was taken at the introduction of a mummy and a crocodile on the stage. To divert his grief, he, at the suggestion of Lord Burlington, who paid his expenses, rambled into Devonshire, went next with Pultney to Aix, in France, and when afterwards on a visit to Lord Harcourt’s seat, witnessed the incident of the two country lovers killed by lightning in each other’s arms, to which Pope alludes in one of his letters, and Goldsmith in his “Vicar of Wakefield.”
In 1720 he published his “Poems” by subscription. The general kindness felt for Gay, notwithstanding his faults and feebleness, now found a vent. The Prince and Princess of Wales not only subscribed, but gave him a liberal present, and some of the nobility, who regarded him as an agreeable plaything and lapdog of genius, took a number of copies. The result was that he gained a thousand pounds. He asked the advice of his friends how to dispose of this sum, and, as usual, took his own. Lewis, steward to Lord Oxford, advised him to entrust it to the funds, and live on the interest; Arbuthnot, to live upon the principal; Pope and Swift, to buy an annuity. Gay preferred to sink it in the South-Sea Bubble, then in all its glory. At first he imagined himself master of L20,000, and when advised to sell out and purchase as much as his wise friend Elijah Fenton said would “procure him a clean shirt and a shoulder of mutton every day,” rejected the counsel, and in fine lost every farthing, and nearly lost next, through vexation, either his life or his reason.
Pope, who occasionally laughed at him, was now very kind, and partly through his assiduous attention, Gay recovered his health, spirits, and the use of his pen. He wrote a tragedy called the “Captives,” and was invited to read it before the Princess of Wales. The sight of her and her assembled ladies frightened him, and in advancing he stumbled over a stool and overthrew a heavy japan screen. How he fared afterwards in the reading we are not informed; but as we are told that the Princess started and her ladies screamed, we fear it had been poorly. On this story Hawkesworth has founded an amusing story in the “Adventurer,” and it was also, we think, in the eye of the author of the humorous tale, entitled “The Bashful Man.” This unlucky play was afterwards acted seven nights, the author’s third night being under the special patronage of her Royal Highness.
At the request of the same illustrious lady, he, in 1726, undertook to write a volume of “Fables” for the young Duke of Cumberland, afterwards of Culloden notoriety, and when at last, in 1727, the Prince became George II., and the Princess Queen Caroline, Gay’s hopes of promotion boiled as high as his hopes of gain had during the South-Sea scheme. But here, too, he was deceived; and having only received the paltry appointment (as he deemed it, though the salary was L200,) of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa, a girl of two years old, he thought himself insulted. He first sent a message to the Queen that he was too old for the place,—an excuse which he made for himself, but which, being only thirty-nine, he would not have borne any other to make for him. He next condescended to court Mrs Howard, the mistress of George II., and that “good Howard” commemorated in the “Heart of Mid-Lothian;” but this too was in vain, and then he retired from the attempt, growling out probably (if we can imagine him in fable, not as Queen Caroline called him the “Hare,” but a Bear) the words, “Put not your faith in princes.” He was the more excusable, as, two years before, Sir Robert Walpole had, for his surmised Toryism, turned him out of the office of “Commissioner of the Lottery,” which had brought him in L150 a-year.
But now for once Gay catches Fortune on the wheel. There is a lucky hour in almost all lives, provided it be waited for with patience, and with prudence improved. Swift had some years before observed to Gay, what an odd pretty sort of thing a Newgate pastoral would make. On this hint Gay acted, preferring, however, to expand it into a comedy. Hence came the “Beggars’ Opera,” a hit in literature second to none that ever occurred in that fluctuating region. It was first performed in 1728, although much of it had been written before, and only a few satirical strokes, founded on his disappointment at court, attested their recent origin. Swift and Pope watched its progress with interest, but without hope. Congreve pronounced that it would “either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly.” Gibber at Drury Lane refused it; it was accepted by his rival Rich, and soon the on dit ran that it had made Gay Rich, and Rich Gay. On its first night there was a brilliant assemblage. What painter shall give their heads and faces on that anxious evening—Swift’s lowering front—Pope’s bright eyes contrasting with the blind orbs of Congreve (if he indeed were there)—Addison’s quiet, thoughtful physiognomy, as of one retired into some “Vision of Mirza”—the Duke of Argyle, with his star and stately form and animated countenance—and poor Gay himself perhaps, like some other play-wrights in the same predicament, perspiring with trepidation, as if again about to recite the “Captives!” At first uncertainty prevails among the patron-critics, and strange looks are exchanged between Swift and Pope, till, by and by, the latter hears Argyle exclaim, “It will do, it must do! I see it in the eyes of ’em;” and then the critics breathe freely, and the applauses become incontrollable, and the curtain closes at last amidst thunders of applause; and Gay goes home triumphant, amidst a circle of friends, who do not know whether more to wonder at his success or at their own previous apprehensions. For sixty-three nights continuously the piece is acted in London; then it spreads through England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. Ladies sing its favourite songs, or carry them in their fans. Miss Fenton, who acted Polly, becomes a universal favourite, nay, a furor. Her pictures are engraved, her life written, and her sayings and jests published, and in fine, the Italian Opera, which the piece was intended to ridicule, is extinguished for a season. Notwithstanding this unparalleled success of the “Beggars’ Opera,” Gay gained only L400 by it, although by “Polly,” the second part, (where Gay transports his characters to the colonies,) which the Lord Chamberlain suppressed, on account of its supposed immoral tendency, and which the author published in self-defence, he cleared nearly L1200.
Altogether now worth above L3000, having been admitted by the Duke of Queensberry into his house, who generously undertook the care alike of the helpless being’s purse and person, and still in the prime of life, Gay might have looked forward, humanly speaking, to long years of comfort, social happiness, and increased fame. Dis aliter visum est. He had been delicate for some time, and on the 4th December 1732, at the age of 44, and in the course of a three days’ attack of inflammation of the bowels, this irresolute but amiable and gifted person breathed his last, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. The last work he was occupied on was a second volume of “Fables,” which was published after his death. He had become very popular, not merely for his powers, but for his presumed political principles, a “little Sacheverel,” as Arbuthnot, his faithful friend and kind physician, calls him, and yet his modesty and simplicity of character remained entire, and he died while planning schemes of self-reformation, economy, and steady literary work. It is curious that Swift, when the letter arrived with the news of Gay’s death, was so impressed with a presentiment of some coming evil, that he allowed it to lie five days unopened on his table. And when the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry erected a monument to his memory, Pope supplied an epitaph, familiar to most readers of poetry, and which is creditable to both. Two widow sisters survived Gay, amongst whom the profits of a posthumous opera, entitled “Achilles,” as well as the small fortune which he left, were divided.
Gay’s works lie in narrow compass, and hardly require minute criticism. His “Beggars’ Opera” has the charm of daring singularity of plan, of great liveliness of song, and has some touches of light hurrying sarcasm, worthy of any pen. Burke used to deny its merit, but he was probably trying it b too lofty and ideal a standard. Hazlitt, on the other hand, has praised it overmuch, and perhaps “monstered” some of its “nothings.” That it has power is proved by its effects on literature. It did not, we believe, create many robbers, but it created a large robber school in the drama and the novel; for instance, Schiller’s “Robbers,” Ainsworth’s “Rookwood,” and “Jack Shepherd,” and Bulwer’s “Paul Clifford,” and “Eugene Aram,” not to speak of the innumerable French tales and plays of a similar kind. The intention of these generally is not, perhaps, after all, to make an apology, far less an apotheosis of crime, but to teach us how there is a “soul of goodness” in all things. And has not Shakspeare long taught and been commended for teaching a similar lesson, although we cannot say of Gay and his brethren that they have “bettered the instruction?” Of “Trivia,” we have spoken incidentally before; of “Rural Sports,” and the “Shepherd’s Week,” it is unnecessary to say more than that the first is juvenile, and the second odd, graphic, and amusing. None of them is equal to the “Fables,”
John Gay had his faults as a man and as a poet, and it were easy finding fault with him in both capacities. But
“Poor were the triumph o’er the timid hare;”
and he was, by his own shewing, as well as Queen Caroline’s, “the Hare with many friends.” Let us, instead, drop a “tear over his fate,” and pay a tribute, short, but sincere, to his true, though limited genius.
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION.
THE SHEPHERD AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
Remote from cities lived a swain,
Unvexed with all the cares of gain;
His head was silvered o’er with
age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer’s heat, and winter’s
cold,
He fed his flock and penned the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew:
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country raised his name.
10
A deep philosopher (whose
rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd’s homely cottage sought
And thus explored his reach of thought:
’Whence is thy
learning? Hath thy toil
O’er books consumed the midnight
oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome surveyed,
And the vast sense of Plato weighed?
Hath Socrates thy soul refined,
And hast thou fathomed Tully’s mind?
20
Or like the wise Ulysses, thrown
By various fates, on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many cities strayed,
Their customs, laws, and manners weighed?’
* * * * *
WILLIAM, DUXE OF CUMBERLAND.[1]
THE LION, THE TIGER, AND THE TRAVELLER.
Accept, young Prince, the moral lay
And in these tales mankind survey;
With early virtues plant your breast,
The specious arts of vice detest.
Princes, like beauties,
from their youth
Are strangers to the voice of truth;
Learn to contemn all praise betimes;
For flattery’s the nurse of crimes;
Friendship by sweet reproof is shown,
* * * * *
THE SPANIEL AND THE CAMELEON.
A spaniel, bred with all the care
That waits upon a favourite heir,
Ne’er felt correction’s rigid
hand;
Indulged to disobey command,
In pampered ease his hours were spent;
He never knew what learning meant.
Such forward airs, so pert, so smart,
Were sure to win his lady’s heart;
Each little mischief gained him praise;
How pretty were his fawning ways!
10
The wind was south,
the morning fair,
He ventured forth to take the air.
He ranges all the meadow round,
And rolls upon the softest ground:
When near him a cameleon seen,
Was scarce distinguished from the green.
’Dear emblem of
the flattering host,
What, live with clowns! a genius lost!
To cities and the court repair:
A fortune cannot fail thee there:
20
Preferment shall thy talents crown,
Believe me, friend; I know the town.’
‘Sir,’ says
the sycophant, ’like you,
Of old, politer life I knew:
Like you, a courtier born and bred;
Kings leaned an ear to what I said.
My whisper always met success;
The ladies praised me for address,
I knew to hit each courtier’s passion,
And flattered every vice in fashion.
30
But Jove, who hates the liar’s ways,
At once cut short my prosperous days;
And, sentenced to retain my nature,
Transformed me to this crawling creature.
Doomed to a life obscure and mean,
I wander in the sylvan scene.
For Jove the heart alone regards;
He punishes what man rewards.
How different is thy case and mine!
With men at least you sup and dine;
40
While I, condemned to thinnest fare,
Like those I flattered feed on air.’
* * * * *
THE MOTHER, THE NURSE, AND THE FAIRY.
Give me a son! The blessing sent,
Were ever parents more content?
How partial are their doting eyes!
No child is half so fair and wise.
Waked to the morning’s
pleasing care,
The mother rose, and sought her heir.
She saw the nurse, like one possess’d,
With wringing hands, and sobbing breast.
’Sure some disaster
hath befell:
Speak, nurse; I hope the boy is well.’
10
’Dear madam, think
not me to blame;
Invisible the fairy came:
Your precious babe is hence conveyed,
And in the place a changeling laid.
Where are the father’s mouth and
nose,
The mother’s eyes, as black as sloes?
See here a shocking awkward creature,
That speaks a fool in every feature.’
‘The woman’s
blind,’ the mother cries;
‘I see wit sparkle in his eyes.’
Page 109
20
’Lord! madam,
what a squinting leer;
No doubt the fairy hath been here.’
Just as she spoke, a
pigmy sprite
Pops through the key-hole, swift as light;
Perched on the cradle’s top he stands,
And thus her folly reprimands:
’Whence sprung
the vain conceited lie,
That we the world with fools supply?
What! give our sprightly race away,
For the dull helpless sons of clay!
30
Besides, by partial fondness shown,
Like you we doat upon our own.
Where yet was ever found a mother,
Who’d give her booby for another?
And should we change for human breed,
Well might we pass for fools indeed.’
* * * * *
THE EAGLE, AND THE ASSEMBLY OF ANIMALS.
As Jupiter’s all-seeing eye
Surveyed the worlds beneath the sky,
From this small speck of earth were sent,
Murmurs and sounds of discontent;
For every thing alive complained,
That he the hardest life sustained.
Jove calls his eagle. At the word
Before him stands the royal bird.
The bird, obedient, from heaven’s
height,
Downward directs his rapid flight;
10
Then cited every living thing,
To hear the mandates of his king.
’Ungrateful creatures,
whence arise
These murmurs which offend the skies?
Why this disorder? say the cause:
For just are Jove’s eternal laws.
Let each his discontent reveal;
To yon sour dog, I first appeal.’
‘Hard is my lot,’
the hound replies,
’On what fleet nerves the greyhound
flies,
20
While I, with weary step and slow,
O’er plains and vales, and mountains
go.
The morning sees my chase begun,
Nor ends it till the setting sun.’
‘When,’
says the greyhound, ’I pursue,
My game is lost, or caught in view;
Beyond my sight the prey’s secure:
The hound is slow, but always sure.
And had I his sagacious scent,
Jove ne’er had heard my discontent.’
30
The lion craved the
fox’s art;
The fox, the lion’s force and heart:
The cock implored the pigeon’s flight,
Whose wings were rapid, strong, and light:
The pigeon strength of wing despised,
And the cock’s matchless valour
prized:
The fishes wished to graze the plain;
The beasts to skim beneath the main.
Thus, envious of another’s state,
Each blamed the partial hand of Fate.
40
The bird of heaven then
cried aloud,
’Jove bids disperse the murmuring
crowd;
The god rejects your idle prayers.
Would ye, rebellious mutineers,
Entirely change your name and nature,
And be the very envied creature?
What, silent all, and none consent!
Be happy then, and learn content:
Nor imitate the restless mind,
And proud ambition, of mankind.’
50
* * * * *
THE WILD BOAR AND THE RAM.
Against an elm a sheep was tied,
The butcher’s knife in blood was
dyed:
The patient flock in silent fright,
From far beheld the horrid sight.
A savage boar, who near them stood,
Thus mocked to scorn the fleecy brood.
’All cowards should
be served like you.
See, see, your murderer is in view:
With purple hands and reeking knife,
He strips the skin yet warm with life;
10
Your quartered sires, your bleeding dams,
The dying bleat of harmless lambs,
Call for revenge. O stupid race!
The heart that wants revenge is base.’
‘I grant.’
an ancient ram replies,
’We bear no terror in our eyes;
Yet think us not of soul so tame,
Which no repeated wrongs inflame;
Insensible of every ill,
Because we want thy tusks to kill.
20
Know, those who violence pursue,
Give to themselves the vengeance due;
For in these massacres we find
The two chief plagues that waste mankind:
Our skin supplies the wrangling bar,
It wakes their slumbering sons to war;
And well revenge may rest contented,
Since drums and parchment were invented.’
* * * * *
THE MISER AND PLUTUS.
The wind was high, the window shakes,
With sudden start the miser wakes;
Along the silent room he stalks;
Looks back, and trembles as he walks!
Each lock and every bolt he tries,
In every creek and corner prys,
Then opes the chest with treasure stored,
And stands in rapture o’er his hoard;
But, now with sudden qualms possess’d,
He wrings his hands, he beats his breast.
10
By conscience stung, he wildly stares;
And thus his guilty soul declares:
’Had the deep
earth her stores confined,
This heart had known sweet peace of mind.
But virtue’s sold. Good gods,
what price
Can recompense the pangs of vice!
O bane of good! seducing cheat!
Can man, weak man, thy power defeat?
Gold banished honour from the mind,
And only left the name behind;
20
Gold sowed the world with every ill;
Gold taught the murderer’s sword
to kill:
’Twas gold instructed coward hearts,
In treachery’s more pernicious arts.
Who can recount the mischiefs o’er?
Virtue resides on earth no more!’
He spoke, and sighed. In angry mood,
Plutus, his god, before him stood.
The miser, trembling, locked his chest;
The vision frowned, and thus address’d:
30
’Whence is this
vile ungrateful rant?
Each sordid rascal’s daily cant.
Did I, base wretch, corrupt mankind?
Page 111
The fault’s in thy rapacious mind.
Because my blessings are abused,
Must I be censured, cursed, accused?
Even virtue’s self by knaves is
made
A cloak to carry on the trade;
And power (when lodged in their possession)
Grows tyranny, and rank oppression.
40
Thus, when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast;
’Tis avarice, insolence, and pride,
And every shocking vice beside.
But when to virtuous hands ’tis
given,
It blesses, like the dews of heaven:
Like Heaven, it hears the orphan’s
cries,
And wipes the tears from widows’
eyes;
Their crimes on gold shall misers lay,
Who pawned their sordid souls for pay?
50
Let bravoes then (when blood is spilt)
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.’
* * * * *
THE LION, THE FOX, AND THE GEESE.
A lion, tired with state affairs,
Quite sick of pomp, and worn with cares,
Resolved (remote from noise and strife)
In peace to pass his latter life.
It was proclaimed; the
day was set;
Behold the general council met,
The fox was viceroy named. The crowd
To the new regent humbly bowed.
Wolves, bears, and mighty tigers bend,
And strive who most shall condescend.
10
He straight assumes a solemn grace,
Collects his wisdom in his face.
The crowd admire his wit, his sense:
Each word hath weight and consequence.
The flatterer all his art displays:
He who hath power, is sure of praise.
A fox stept forth before the rest,
And thus the servile throng address’d.
’How vast his
talents, born to rule,
And trained in virtue’s honest school:
20
What clemency his temper sways!
How uncorrupt are all his ways!
Beneath his conduct and command,
Rapine shall cease to waste the land.
His brain hath stratagem and art;
Prudence and mercy rule his heart;
What blessings must attend the nation
Under this good administration!’
He said. A goose
who distant stood,
Harangued apart the cackling brood:
30
’W’hene’er
I hear a knave commend,
He bids me shun his worthy friend.
What praise! what mighty commendation!
But ’twas a fox who spoke the oration.
Foxes this government may prize,
As gentle, plentiful, and wise;
If they enjoy the sweets, ’tis plain
We geese must feel a tyrant reign.
What havoc now shall thin our race,
When every petty clerk in place,
40
To prove his taste and seem polite,
Will feed on geese both noon and night!’
* * * * *
THE LADY AND THE WASP.
What whispers must the beauty bear!
What hourly nonsense haunts her ear!
Where’er her eyes dispense their
charms,
Impertinence around her swarms.
Did not the tender nonsense strike,
Contempt and scorn might soon dislike.
Forbidding airs might thin the place,
The slightest flap a fly can chase.
But who can drive the numerous breed?
Chase one, another will succeed.
10
Who knows a fool, must know his brother;
One fop will recommend another:
And with this plague she’s rightly
curs’d,
Because she listened to the first.
As Doris, at her toilet’s
duty,
Sat meditating on her beauty,
She now was pensive, now was gay,
And lolled the sultry hours away.
As thus in indolence she lies,
A giddy wasp around her flies.
20
He now advances, now retires,
Now to her neck and cheek aspires.
Her fan in vain defends her charms;
Swift he returns, again alarms;
For by repulse he bolder grew,
Perched on her lip, and sipp’d the
dew.
She frowns, she frets.
‘Good God!’ she cries,
’Protect me from these teasing flies!
Of all the plagues that heaven hath sent,
A wasp is most impertinent.’
30
The hovering insect
thus complained:
’Am I then slighted, scorned, disdained?
Can such offence your anger wake?
’Twas beauty caused the bold mistake.
Those cherry lips that breathe perfume,
That cheek so ripe with youthful bloom,
Made me with strong desire pursue
The fairest peach that ever grew.’
‘Strike him not,
Jenny,’ Doris cries,
’Nor murder wasps like vulgar flies:
40
For though he’s free (to do him
right)
The creature’s civil and polite.’
In ecstacies away he posts;
Where’er he came, the favour boasts;
Brags how her sweetest tea he sips,
And shows the sugar on his lips.
The hint alarmed the
forward crew;
Sure of success, away they flew.
They share the dainties of the day,
Round her with airy music play;
50
And now they flutter, now they rest,
Now soar again, and skim her breast.
Nor were they banished, till she found
That wasps have stings, and felt the wound.
* * * * *
THE BULL AND THE MASTIFF.
Seek you to train your fav’rite
boy?
Each caution, every care employ:
And ere you venture to confide,
Let his preceptor’s heart be tried:
Weigh well his manners, life, and scope;
On these depends thy future hope.
As on a time, in peaceful
reign,
A bull enjoyed the flowery plain,
A mastiff passed; inflamed with ire,
His eye-balls shot indignant fire;
10
He foamed, he raged with thirst of blood
Page 113
Spurning the ground
the monarch stood,
And roared aloud, ’Suspend the fight;
In a whole skin go sleep to-night:
Or tell me, ere the battle rage,
What wrongs provoke thee to engage?
Is it ambition fires thy breast,
Or avarice that ne’er can rest?
From these alone unjustly springs
The world-destroying wrath of kings.’
20
The surly mastiff thus
returns:
’Within my bosom glory burns.
Like heroes of eternal name,
Whom poets sing, I fight for fame.
The butcher’s spirit-stirring mind
To daily war my youth inclined;
He trained me to heroic deed;
Taught me to conquer, or to bleed.’
‘Cursed dog,’
the bull replied, ’no more
I wonder at thy thirst of gore;
30
For thou, beneath a butcher trained,
Whose hands with cruelty are stained;
His daily murders in thy view,
Must, like thy tutor, blood pursue.
Take then thy fate.’ With goring
wound,
At once he lifts him from the ground;
Aloft the sprawling hero flies,
Mangled he falls, he howls, and dies.
* * * * *
THE ELEPHANT AND THE BOOKSELLER.
The man who, with undaunted toils,
Sails unknown seas to unknown soils,
With various wonders feasts his sight:
What stranger wonders does he write!
We read, and in description view
Creatures which Adam never knew:
For, when we risk no contradiction,
It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.
Those things that startle me or you,
I grant are strange; yet may be true.
10
Who doubts that elephants are found
For science and for sense renowned?
Borri records their strength of parts,
Extent of thought, and skill in arts;
How they perform the law’s decrees,
And save the state the hangman’s
fees;
And how by travel understand
The language of another land.
Let those, who question this report,
To Pliny’s ancient page resort;
20
How learn’d was that sagacious breed!
Who now (like them) the Greek can read!
As one of these, in
days of yore,
Rummaged a shop of learning o’er;
Not, like our modern dealers, minding
Only the margin’s breadth and binding;
A book his curious eye detains,
Where, with exactest care and pains,
Were every beast and bird portrayed,
That e’er the search of man surveyed,
30
Their natures and their powers were writ,
With all the pride of human wit.
The page he with attention spread,
And thus remarked on what he read:
’Man with strong
reason is endowed;
A beast scarce instinct is allowed.
But let this author’s worth be tried,
’Tis plain that neither was his
guide.
Can he discern the different natures,
Page 114
And weigh the power of other creatures
40
Who by the partial work hath shown
He knows so little of his own?
How falsely is the spaniel drawn!
Did man from him first learn to fawn?
A dog proficient in the trade!
He the chief flatterer nature made!
Go, man, the ways of courts discern,
You’ll find a spaniel still might
learn.
How can the fox’s theft and plunder
Provoke his censure or his wonder;
50
From courtiers’ tricks, and lawyers’
arts,
The fox might well improve his parts.
The lion, wolf, and tiger’s brood,
He curses, for their thirst of blood:
But is not man to man a prey?
Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.’
The bookseller, who
heard him speak,
And saw him turn a page of Greek,
Thought, what a genius have I found!
Then thus addressed with bow profound:
60
’Learn’d sir, if you’d
employ your pen
Against the senseless sons of men,
Or write the history of Siam, [2]
No man is better pay than I am;
Or, since you’re learn’d in
Greek, let’s see
Something against the Trinity.’
When wrinkling with
a sneer his trunk,
‘Friend,’ quoth the elephant,
’you’re drunk;
E’en keep your money and be wise:
Leave man on man to criticise;
70
For that you ne’er can want a pen
Among the senseless sons of men.
They unprovoked will court the fray:
Envy’s a sharper spur than pay.
No author ever spared a brother;
Wits are game-cocks to one another.’
* * * * *
THE PEACOCK, THE TURKEY, AND THE GOOSE.
In beauty faults conspicuous grow;
The smallest speck is seen on snow.
As near a barn, by hunger
led,
A peacock with the poultry fed;
All viewed him with an envious eye,
And mocked his gaudy pageantry.
He, conscious of superior merit,
Contemns their base reviling spirit;
His state and dignity assumes,
And to the sun displays his plumes;
10
Which, like the heaven’s o’er-arching
skies,
Are spangled with a thousand eyes.
The circling rays, and varied light,
At once confound their dazzled sight:
On every tongue detraction burns,
And malice prompts their spleen by turns.
’Mark, with what
insolence and pride
The creature takes his haughty stride!’
The turkey cries. ’Can spleen
contain?
Sure never bird was half so vain!
20
But were intrinsic merit seen,
We turkeys have the whiter skin.’
From tongue to tongue
they caught abuse;
And next was heard the hissing goose:
’What hideous legs! what filthy
claws!
I scorn to censure little flaws!
Then what a horrid squalling throat!
Even owls are frighted at the note.’
* * * * *
CUPID, HYMEN, AND PLUTUS.
As Cupid in Cythera’s grove
Employed the lesser powers of love;
Some shape the bow, or fit the string;
Some give the taper shaft its wing,
Or turn the polished quiver’s mould,
Or head the dart with tempered gold.
Amidst their toil and
various care,
Thus Hymen, with assuming air,
Addressed the god: ’Thou purblind
chit,
Of awkward and ill-judging wit,
10
If matches are not better made,
At once I must forswear my trade.
You send me such ill-coupled folks,
That ’tis a shame to sell them yokes.
They squabble for a pin, a feather,
And wonder how they came together.
The husband’s sullen, dogged, shy;
The wife grows flippant in reply:
He loves command and due restriction,
And she as well likes contradiction:
20
She never slavishly submits;
She’ll have her will, or have her
fits.
He this way tugs, she t’other draws:
The man grows jealous, and with cause.
Nothing can save him but divorce;
And here the wife complies of course.’
‘When,’
says the boy, ’had I to do
With either your affairs or you?
I never idly spent my darts;
You trade in mercenary hearts.
30
For settlements the lawyer’s fee’d;
Is my hand witness to the deed?
If they like cat and dog agree,
Go, rail at Plutus, not at me.’
Plutus appeared, and
said, ’’Tis true,
In marriage gold is all their view:
They seek not beauty, wit, or sense;
And love is seldom the pretence.
All offer incense at my shrine,
And I alone the bargain sign.
40
How can Belinda blame her fate?
She only asked a great estate.
Doris was rich enough, ’tis true;
Her lord must give her title too:
And every man, or rich or poor,
A fortune asks, and asks no more.’
Av’rice, whatever
shape it bears,
Must still be coupled with its cares.
* * * * *
THE TAME STAG.
As a young stag the thicket pass’d,
The branches held his antlers fast;
A clown, who saw the captive hung,
Across the horns his halter flung.
Now safely hampered
in the cord,
He bore the present to his lord.
His lord was pleased; as was the clown,
When he was tipp’d with half-a-crown.
The stag was brought before his wife;
The tender lady begged his life.
10
’How sleek’s the skin! how
speck’d like ermine!
Sure never creature was so charming!’
At first within the
yard confined,
He flies and hides from all mankind;
Now bolder grown, with fixed amaze,
And distant awe, presumes to gaze;
Munches the linen on the lines,
And on a hood or apron dines:
He steals my little master’s bread,
Follows the servants to be fed:
20
Nearer and nearer now he stands,
To feel the praise of patting hands;
Examines every fist for meat,
And though repulsed, disdains retreat:
Attacks again with levelled horns;
And man, that was his terror, scorns.
Such is the country
maiden’s fright,
When first a red-coat is in sight;
Behind the door she hides her face;
Next time at distance eyes the lace;
30
She now can all his terrors stand,
Nor from his squeeze withdraws her hand.
She plays familiar in his arms,
And every soldier hath his charms.
From tent to tent she spreads her flame;
For custom conquers fear and shame.
* * * * *
THE MONKEY WHO HAD SEEN THE WORLD.
A Monkey, to reform the times,
Resolved to visit foreign climes:
For men in distant regions roam
To bring politer manners home,
So forth he fares, all toil defies:
Misfortune serves to make us wise.
At length the treach’rous
snare was laid;
Poor Pug was caught, to town conveyed,
There sold. How envied was his doom,
Made captive in a lady’s room!
10
Proud as a lover of his chains,
He day by day her favour gains.
Whene’er the duty of the day
The toilet calls; with mimic play
He twirls her knot, he cracks her fan,
Like any other gentleman.
In visits too his parts and wit,
When jests grew dull, were sure to hit.
Proud with applause, he thought his mind
In every courtly art refined;
20
Like Orpheus burnt with public zeal,
To civilise the monkey weal:
So watched occasion, broke his chain,
And sought his native woods again.
The hairy sylvans round
him press,
Astonished at his strut and dress.
Some praise his sleeve; and others gloat
Upon his rich embroidered coat;
His dapper periwig commending,
With the black tail behind depending;
30
His powdered back, above, below,
Page 117
Like hoary frost, or fleecy snow;
But all with envy and desire,
His fluttering shoulder-knot admire.
‘Hear and improve,’
he pertly cries;
’I come to make a nation wise.
Weigh your own words; support your place,
The next in rank to human race.
In cities long I passed my days,
Conversed with men, and learnt their ways.
40
Their dress, their courtly manners see;
Reform your state and copy me.
Seek ye to thrive? in flattery deal;
Your scorn, your hate, with that conceal.
Seem only to regard your friends,
But use them for your private ends.
Stint not to truth the flow of wit;
Be prompt to lie whene’er ’tis
fit.
Bend all your force to spatter merit;
Scandal is conversation’s spirit.
50
Boldly to everything attend,
And men your talents shall commend.
I knew the great. Observe me right;
So shall you grow like man polite.’
He spoke and bowed.
With muttering jaws
The wondering circle grinned applause.
Now, warm with malice, envy, spite,
Their most obliging friends they bite;
And fond to copy human ways,
Practise new mischiefs all their days.
60
Thus the dull lad, too
tall for school,
With travel finishes the fool;
Studious of every coxcomb’s airs,
He drinks, games, dresses, whores, and
swears;
O’erlooks with scorn all virtuous
arts,
For vice is fitted to his parts.
* * * * *
THE PHILOSOPHER AND THE PHEASANTS.
The sage, awaked at early day,
Through the deep forest took his way;
Drawn by the music of the groves,
Along the winding gloom he roves:
From tree to tree, the warbling throats
Prolong the sweet alternate notes.
But where he pass’d, he terror threw,
The song broke short, the warblers flew;
The thrushes chattered with affright,
And nightingales abhorred his sight;
10
All animals before him ran,
To shun the hateful sight of man.
’Whence is this
dread of every creature?
Fly they our figure or our nature?’
As thus he walked in
musing thought,
His ear imperfect accents caught;
With cautious step he nearer drew,
By the thick shade concealed from view.
High on the branch a pheasant stood,
Around her all her listening brood;
20
Proud of the blessings of her nest,
She thus a mother’s care expressed:
’No dangers here shall circumvent,
Within the woods enjoy content.
Sooner the hawk or vulture trust,
Than man; of animals the worst:
In him ingratitude you find,
A vice peculiar to the kind.
The sheep whose annual fleece is dyed,
To guard his health, and serve his pride,
30
Forced from his fold and native plain,
Page 118
Is in the cruel shambles slain.
The swarms, who, with industrious skill,
His hives with wax and honey fill,
In vain whole summer days employed,
Their stores are sold, their race destroyed.
What tribute from the goose is paid!
Does not her wing all science aid!
Does it not lovers’ hearts explain,
And drudge to raise the merchant’s
gain?
40
What now rewards this general use?
He takes the quills, and eats the goose.
Man then avoid, detest his ways;
So safety shall prolong your days.
When services are thus acquitted,
Be sure we pheasants must be spitted.’
* * * * *
THE PIN AND THE NEEDLE.
A pin, who long had served a beauty,
Proficient in the toilet’s duty,
Had formed her sleeve, confined her hair,
Or given her knot a smarter air,
Now nearest to her heart was placed,
Now in her mantua’s tail disgraced:
But could she partial fortune blame,
Who saw her lovers served the same?
At length from all her
honours cast;
Through various turns of life she pass’d;
10
Now glittered on a tailor’s arm;
Now kept a beggar’s infant warm;
Now, ranged within a miser’s coat,
Contributes to his yearly groat;
Now, raised again from low approach,
She visits in the doctor’s coach;
Here, there, by various fortune toss’d,
At last in Gresham Hall[3] was lost.
Charmed with the wonders of the show,
On every side, above, below,
20
She now of this or that enquires,
What least was understood admires.
’Tis plain, each thing so struck
her mind.
Her head’s of virtuoso kind.
‘And pray what’s
this, and this, dear sir?’
‘A needle,’ says the interpreter.
She knew the name. And thus the fool
Addressed her as a tailor’s tool:
’A needle with
that filthy stone,
Quite idle, all with rust o’ergrown!
30
You better might employ your parts,
And aid the sempstress in her arts.
But tell me how the friendship grew
Between that paltry flint and you?’
‘Friend,’
says the needle, ’cease to blame;
I follow real worth and fame.
Know’st thou the loadstone’s
power and art,
That virtue virtues can impart?
Of all his talents I partake,
Who then can such a friend forsake?
40
’Tis I directs the pilot’s
hand
To shun the rocks and treacherous sand:
By me the distant world is known,
And either India is our own.
Had I with milliners been bred,
What had I been? the guide of thread,
And drudged as vulgar needles do,
Of no more consequence than you.’
* * * * *
THE SHEPHERD’S DOG AND THE WOLF.
A wolf, with hunger fierce and bold,
Ravaged the plains, and thinned the fold:
Deep in the wood secure he lay,
The thefts of night regaled the day.
In vain the shepherd’s wakeful care
Had spread the toils, and watched the
snare:
In vain the dog pursued his pace,
The fleeter robber mocked the chase.
As Lightfoot ranged
the forest round,
By chance his foe’s retreat he found.
10
’Let us awhile
the war suspend,
And reason as from friend to friend.’
‘A truce?’
replies the wolf. ’Tis done.
The dog the parley thus begun:
’How can that
strong intrepid mind
Attack a weak defenceless kind?
Those jaws should prey on nobler food,
And drink the boar’s and lion’s
blood;
Great souls with generous pity melt,
Which coward tyrants never felt.
20
How harmless is our fleecy care!
Be brave, and let thy mercy spare.’
‘Friend,’
says the wolf, ’the matter weigh;
Nature designed us beasts of prey;
As such when hunger finds a treat,
’Tis necessary wolves should eat.
If mindful of the bleating weal,
Thy bosom burn with real zeal;
Hence, and thy tyrant lord beseech;
To him repeat the moving speech;
30
A wolf eats sheep but now and then,
Ten thousands are devoured by men.
An open foe may prove a curse,
But a pretended friend is worse.’
* * * * *
THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND EVERYBODY.
Lest men suspect your tale untrue,
Keep probability in view.
The traveller leaping o’er those
bounds,
The credit of his book confounds.
Who with his tongue hath armies routed,
Makes even his real courage doubted:
But flattery never seems absurd;
The flattered always take your word:
Impossibilities seem just;
They take the strongest praise on trust.
10
Hyperboles, though ne’er so great,
Will still come short of self-conceit.
So very like a painter
drew,
That every eye the picture knew;
He hit complexion, feature, air,
So just, the life itself was there.
No flattery with his colours laid,
To bloom restored the faded maid;
He gave each muscle all its strength,
The mouth, the chin, the nose’s
length.
20
His honest pencil touched with truth,
And marked the date of age and youth.
He lost his friends, his practice failed;
Truth should not always be revealed;
In dusty piles his pictures lay,
For no one sent the second pay.
Two busts, fraught with every grace
A Venus’ and Apollo’s face,
He placed in view; resolved to please,
Whoever sat, he drew from these,
30
From these corrected every feature,
Page 120
And spirited each awkward creature.
All things were set;
the hour was come,
His pallet ready o’er his thumb,
My lord appeared; and seated right
In proper attitude and light,
The painter looked, he sketched the piece,
Then dipp’d his pencil, talked of
Greece,
Of Titian’s tints, of Guido’s
air;
’Those eyes, my lord, the spirit
there
40
Might well a Raphael’s hand require,
To give them all the native fire;
The features fraught with sense and wit,
You’ll grant are very hard to hit;
But yet with patience you shall view
As much as paint and art can do.
Observe the work.’ My lord
replied:
’Till now I thought my mouth was
wide;
Besides, my mouth is somewhat long;
Dear sir, for me, ‘tis far too young.’
50
‘Oh! pardon me,’
the artist cried,
’In this, the painters must decide.
The piece even common eyes must strike,
I warrant it extremely like.’
My lord examined it
anew;
No looking-glass seemed half so true.
A lady came, with borrowed
grace
He from his Venus formed her face.
Her lover praised the painter’s
art;
So like the picture in his heart!
60
To every age some charm he lent;
Even beauties were almost content.
Through all the town his art they praised;
His custom grew, his price was raised.
Had he the real likeness shown,
Would any man the picture own?
But when thus happily he wrought,
Each found the likeness in his thought.
* * * * *
THE LION AND THE CUB.
How fond are men of rule and place,
Who court it from the mean and base!
These cannot bear an equal nigh,
But from superior merit fly.
They love the cellar’s vulgar joke,
And lose their hours in ale and smoke.
There o’er some petty club preside;
So poor, so paltry is their pride!
Nay, even with fools whole nights will
sit,
In hopes to be supreme in wit.
10
If these can read, to these I write,
To set their worth in truest light.
A lion-cub, of sordid
mind,
Avoided all the lion kind;
Fond of applause, he sought the feasts
Of vulgar and ignoble beasts;
With asses all his time he spent,
Their club’s perpetual president.
He caught their manners, looks, and airs;
An ass in every thing, but ears!
20
If e’er his highness meant a joke,
They grinned applause before he spoke;
But at each word what shouts of praise!
Good gods! how natural he brays!
Elate with flattery
and conceit,
He seeks his royal sire’s retreat;
Forward, and fond to show his parts,
His highness brays; the lion starts.
’Puppy, that cursed
vociferation
Betrays thy life and conversation:
30
Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race,
Are trumpets of their own disgrace.’
‘Why so severe?’
the cub replies;
‘Our senate always held me wise.’
‘How weak is pride!’
returns the sire;
’All fools are vain, when fools
admire!
But know what stupid asses prize,
Lions and noble beasts despise.’
* * * * *
THE OLD HEN AND THE COCK.
Restrain your child; you’ll soon
believe
The text which says, we sprung from Eve.
As an old hen led forth
her train,
And seemed to peck to shew the grain;
She raked the chaff, she scratched the
ground,
And gleaned the spacious yard around.
A giddy chick, to try her wings,
On the well’s narrow margin springs,
And prone she drops. The mother’s
breast
All day with sorrow was possess’d.
10
A cock she met; her
son she knew;
And in her heart affection grew.
‘My son,’
says she, ’I grant your years
Have reached beyond a mother’s cares;
I see you vig’rous, strong, and
bold;
I hear with joy your triumphs told.
Tis not from cocks thy fate I dread;
But let thy ever-wary tread
Avoid yon well; that fatal place
Is sure perdition to our race.
20
Print this my counsel on thy breast;
To the just gods I leave the rest.’
He thanked her care;
yet day by day
His bosom burned to disobey;
And every time the well he saw,
Scorned in his heart the foolish law:
Near and more near each day he drew,
And longed to try the dangerous view.
‘Why was this
idle charge?’ he cries;
’Let courage female fears despise.
30
Or did she doubt my heart was brave,
And therefore this injunction gave?
Or does her harvest store the place,
A treasure for her younger race?
And would she thus my search prevent?
I stand resolved, and dare the event.’
Thus said. He mounts
the margin’s round,
And pries into the depth profound.
He stretched his neck; and from below
With stretching neck advanced a foe:
40
With wrath his ruffled plumes he rears,
The foe with ruffled plumes appears:
Threat answered threat, his fury grew,
Headlong to meet the war he flew,
But when the watery death he found,
He thus lamented as he drowned:
’I ne’er
had been in this condition,
But for my mother’s prohibition.’
* * * * *
THE RAT-CATCHER AND CATS.
The rats by night such mischief did,
Betty was every morning chid.
They undermined whole sides of bacon,
Her cheese was sapped, her tarts were
taken.
Her pasties, fenced with thickest paste,
Were all demolished, and laid waste.
She cursed the cat for want of duty,
Who left her foes a constant booty.
An engineer, of noted skill,
Engaged to stop the growing ill.
10
From room to room he
now surveys
Their haunts, their works, their secret
ways;
Finds where they ’scape an ambuscade,
And whence the nightly sally’s made.
An envious cat from
place to place,
Unseen, attends his silent pace.
She saw, that if his trade went on,
The purring race must be undone;
So, secretly removes his baits,
And every stratagem defeats.
20
Again he sets the poisoned
toils,
And puss again the labour foils.
’What foe (to
frustrate my designs)
My schemes thus nightly countermines?’
Incensed, he cries: ’this very
hour
This wretch shall bleed beneath my power.’
So said. A pond’rous
trap he brought,
And in the fact poor puss was caught.
‘Smuggler,’
says he, ’thou shalt be made
A victim to our loss of trade.’
30
The captive cat, with
piteous mews,
For pardon, life, and freedom sues:
’A sister of the science spare;
One interest is our common care.’
‘What insolence!’
the man replied;
’Shall cats with us the game divide?
Were all your interloping band
Extinguished, of expelled the land,
We rat-catchers might raise our fees,
Sole guardians of a nation’s cheese!’
40
A cat, who saw the lifted
knife,
Thus spoke, and saved her sister’s
life:
’In every age and clime
we see,
Two of a trade can ne’er agree.
Each hates his neighbour for encroaching;
Squire stigmatises squire for poaching;
Beauties with beauties are in arms,
And scandal pelts each other’s charms;
Kings too their neighbour kings dethrone,
In hope to make the world their own.
50
But let us limit our desires;
Nor war like beauties, kings, and squires!
For though we both one prey pursue,
There’s game enough for us and you.’
* * * * *
THE GOAT WITHOUT A BEARD.
’Tis certain, that the modish passions
Descend among the crowd, like fashions.
Excuse me then, if pride, conceit,
(The manners of the fair and great)
I give to monkeys, asses, dogs,
Fleas, owls, goats, butterflies, and hogs.
I say that these are proud. What
then?
I never said they equal men.
A goat (as vain as goat
can be)
Affected singularity.
10
Whene’er a thymy bank he found,
Page 123
He rolled upon the fragrant ground;
And then with fond attention stood,
Fixed o’er his image in the flood.
‘I hate my frowsy
beard,’ he cries;
’My youth is lost in this disguise.
Did not the females know my vigour,
Well might they loathe this reverend figure.’
Resolved to smoothe
his shaggy face,
He sought the barber of the place.
20
A flippant monkey, spruce and smart,
Hard by, professed the dapper art;
His pole with pewter basins hung,
Black rotten teeth in order strung,
Ranged cups that in the window stood,
Lined with red rags, to look like blood,
Did well his threefold trade explain,
Who shaved, drew teeth, and breathed a
vein.
The goat he welcomes
with an air,
And seats him in his wooden chair:
30
Mouth, nose, and cheek the lather hides:
Light, smooth, and swift the razor glides.
‘I hope your custom,
sir,’ says pug.
‘Sure never face was half so smug.’
The goat, impatient
for applause,
Swift to the neighbouring hill withdraws:
The shaggy people grinned and stared.
’Heyday! what’s
here? without a beard!
Say, brother, whence the dire disgrace?
What envious hand hath robbed your face?’
40
When thus the fop with
smiles of scorn:
’Are beards by civil nations worn?
Even Muscovites have mowed their chins.
Shall we, like formal Capuchins,
Stubborn in pride, retain the mode,
And bear about the hairy load?
Whene’er we through the village
stray,
Are we not mocked along the way;
Insulted with loud shouts of scorn,
By boys our beards disgraced and torn?’
50
’Were you no more
with goats to dwell,
Brother, I grant you reason well,’
Replies a bearded chief. ’Beside,
If boys can mortify thy pride,
How wilt thou stand the ridicule
Of our whole flock? Affected fool!
Coxcombs, distinguished from the rest,
To all but coxcombs are a jest.’
* * * * *
THE OLD WOMAN AND HER CATS.
Who friendship with a knave hath made,
Is judged a partner in the trade.
The matron who conducts abroad
A willing nymph, is thought a bawd;
And if a modest girl is seen
With one who cures a lover’s spleen,
We guess her not extremely nice,
And only wish to know her price.
’Tis thus that on the choice of
friends
Our good or evil name depends.
10
A wrinkled hag, of wicked
fame,
Beside a little smoky flame
Sate hovering, pinched with age and frost;
Her shrivelled hands, with veins embossed,
Upon her knees her weight sustains,
While palsy shook her crazy brains:
She mumbles forth her backward prayers,
An untamed scold of fourscore years.
Page 124
About her swarmed a numerous brood
Of cats, who, lank with hunger, mewed.
20
Teased with their cries,
her choler grew,
And thus she sputtered: ’Hence,
ye crew.
Fool that I was, to entertain
Such imps, such fiends, a hellish train!
Had ye been never housed and nursed,
I, for a witch had ne’er been cursed.
To you I owe, that crowds of boys
Worry me with eternal noise;
Straws laid across, my pace retard,
The horse-shoe’s nailed (each threshold’s
guard),
30
The stunted broom the wenches hide,
For fear that I should up and ride;
They stick with pins my bleeding seat,
And bid me show my secret teat.’
’To hear you prate
would vex a saint;
Who hath most reason of complaint?’
Replies a cat. ’Let’s
come to proof.
Had we ne’er starved beneath your
roof,
We had, like others of our race,
In credit lived as beasts of chase.
40
’Tis infamy to serve a hag;
Cats are thought imps, her broom a nag;
And boys against our lives combine,
Because, ‘tis said, you cats have
nine.’
* * * * *
THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL.
All upstarts insolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.
As, in the sunshine of the morn,
A butterfly (but newly born)
Sat proudly perking on a rose;
With pert conceit his bosom glows;
His wings (all-glorious to behold)
Bedropp’d with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes, and various hue.
10
His now-forgotten friend,
a snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail
Crawls o’er the grass; whom when
he spies,
In wrath he to the gard’ner cries:
’What means yon
peasant’s daily toil,
From choking weeds to rid the soil?
Why wake you to the morning’s care,
Why with new arts correct the year,
Why glows the peach with crimson hue,
And why the plum’s inviting blue;
20
Were they to feast his taste design’d,
That vermin of voracious kind?
Crush then the slow, the pilfering race;
So purge thy garden from disgrace.’
‘What arrogance!’
the snail replied;
’How insolent is upstart pride!
Hadst thou not thus with insult vain,
Provoked my patience to complain,
I had concealed thy meaner birth,
Nor traced thee to the scum of earth.
30
For scarce nine suns have waked the hours,
To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers,
Since I thy humbler life surveyed,
In base, in sordid guise arrayed;
A hideous insect, vile, unclean,
You dragged a slow and noisome train;
And from your spider-bowels drew
Foul film, and spun the dirty clew.
I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and snail shall end.
40
And what’s a butterfly? At
best,
He’s but a caterpillar, dress’d;
And all thy race (a numerous seed)
Shall prove of caterpillar breed.’
* * * * *
THE SCOLD AND THE PARROT.
The husband thus reproved his wife:
’Who deals in slander, lives in
strife.
Art thou the herald of disgrace,
Denouncing war to all thy race?
Can nothing quell thy thunder’s
rage,
Which spares no friend, nor sex, nor age?
That vixen tongue of yours, my dear,
Alarms our neighbours far and near.
Good gods! ’tis like a rolling river,
That murmuring flows, and flows for ever!
10
Ne’er tired, perpetual discord sowing!
Like fame, it gathers strength by going.’
‘Heyday!’
the flippant tongue replies,
How solemn is the fool, how wise!
Is nature’s choicest gift debarred?
Nay, frown not; for I will be heard.
Women of late are finely ridden,
A parrot’s privilege forbidden!
You praise his talk, his squalling song;
But wives are always in the wrong.’
20
Now reputations flew
in pieces,
Of mothers, daughters, aunts, and nieces.
She ran the parrot’s language o’er,
Bawd, hussy, drunkard, slattern, whore;
On all the sex she vents her fury,
Tries and condemns without a jury.
At once the torrent
of her words
Alarmed cat, monkey, dogs, and birds:
All join their forces to confound her;
Puss spits, the monkey chatters round
her;
30
The yelping cur her heels assaults;
The magpie blabs out all her faults;
Poll, in the uproar, from his cage,
With this rebuke out-screamed her rage:
’A parrot is for
talking prized,
But prattling women are despised.
She who attacks another’s honour,
Draws every living thing upon her.
Think, madam, when you stretch your lungs,
That all your neighbours too have tongues.
40
One slander must ten thousand get,
The world with interest pays the debt.’
* * * * *
THE CUR AND THE MASTIFF.
A sneaking cur, the master’s spy,
Rewarded for his daily lie,
With secret jealousies and fears
Set all together by the ears.
Poor puss to-day was in disgrace,
Another cat supplied her place;
The hound was beat, the mastiff chid,
The monkey was the room forbid;
Each to his dearest friend grew shy,
And none could tell the reason why.
10
A plan to rob the house
was laid,
The thief with love seduced the maid;
Cajoled the cur, and stroked his head,
And bought his secrecy with bread.
He next the mastiff’s honour tried,
Whose honest jaws the bribe defied.
He stretched his hand to proffer more;
The surly dog his fingers tore.
Swift ran the cur; with
indignation
The master took his information.
Page 126
20
‘Hang him, the villain’s cursed,’
he cries;
And round his neck the halter ties.
The dog his humble suit
preferred,
And begged in justice to be heard.
The master sat. On either hand
The cited dogs confronting stand;
The cur the bloody tale relates,
And, like a lawyer, aggravates.
‘Judge not unheard,’
the mastiff cried,
’But weigh the cause on either side.
30
Think not that treachery can be just,
Take not informers’ words on trust.
They ope their hand to every pay,
And you and me by turns betray.’
He spoke. And all
the truth appeared,
The cur was hanged, the mastiff cleared.
* * * * *
THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL.
‘Is there no hope?’ the sick
man said.
The silent doctor shook his head,
And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
When thus the man with
gasping breath;
’I feel the chilling wound of death:
Since I must bid the world adieu,
Let me my former life review.
I grant, my bargains well were made,
But all men over-reach in trade;
10
’Tis self-defence in each profession,
Sure self-defence is no transgression.
The little portion in my hands,
By good security on lands,
Is well increased. If unawares,
My justice to myself and heirs,
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good sufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,
Reduced a family to need,
20
My will hath made the world amends;
My hope on charity depends.
When I am numbered with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,
By heaven and earth ’twill then
be known
My charities were amply shown’
An angel came.
‘Ah, friend!’ he cried,
’No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
30
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious action’s in thy power,
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,
Prove your intention is sincere.
This instant give a hundred pound;
Your neighbours want, and you abound.’
‘But why such haste?’
the sick man whines;
’Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?
40
Perhaps I may recover still;
That sum and more are in my will?
‘Fool,’
says the vision, ’now ’tis plain,
Your life, your soul, your heaven was
gain,
From every side, with all your might,
You scraped, and scraped beyond your right;
And after death would fain atone,
By giving what is not your own.’
‘While there is
life, there’s hope,’ he cried;
‘Then why such haste?’ so
groaned and died.
50
* * * * *
THE PERSIAN, THE SUN, AND THE CLOUD.
Is there a bard whom genius fires,
Whose every thought the god inspires?
When Envy reads the nervous lines,
She frets, she rails, she raves, she pines;
Her hissing snakes with venom swell;
She calls her venal train from hell:
The servile fiends her nod obey,
And all Curl’s[4] authors are in
pay,
Fame calls up calumny and spite.
Thus shadow owes its birth to light.
10
As prostrate to the
god of day,
With heart devout, a Persian lay,
His invocation thus begun:
’Parent of light,
all-seeing Sun,
Prolific beam, whose rays dispense
The various gifts of providence,
Accept our praise, our daily prayer,
Smile on our fields, and bless the year.’
A cloud, who mocked
his grateful tongue,
The day with sudden darkness hung;
20
With pride and envy swelled, aloud
A voice thus thundered from the cloud:
’Weak is this
gaudy god of thine,
Whom I at will forbid to shine.
Shall I nor vows, nor incense know?
Where praise is due, the praise bestow.’
With fervent zeal the
Persian moved,
Thus the proud calumny reproved:
’It was that god,
who claims my prayer,
Who gave thee birth, and raised thee there;
30
When o’er his beams the veil is
thrown,
Thy substance is but plainer shown.
A passing gale, a puff of wind
Dispels thy thickest troops combined.’
The gale arose; the
vapour toss’d
(The sport of winds) in air was lost;
The glorious orb the day refines.
Thus envy breaks, thus merit shines.
* * * * *
THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH.
A fox, in life’s extreme decay,
Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay;
All appetite had left his maw,
And age disarmed his mumbling jaw.
His numerous race around him stand
To learn their dying sire’s command:
He raised his head with whining moan,
And thus was heard the feeble tone:
’Ah, sons! from
evil ways depart:
My crimes lie heavy on my heart.
10
See, see, the murdered
geese appear!
Why are those bleeding turkeys here?
Why all around this cackling train,
Who haunt my ears for chicken slain?
The hungry foxes round
them stared,
And for the promised feast prepared.
’Where, sir, is
all this dainty cheer?
Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here.
These are the phantoms of your brain,
And your sons lick their lips in vain.’
20
‘O gluttons!’
says the drooping sire,
’Restrain inordinate desire.
Your liqu’rish taste you shall deplore,
* * * * *
FABLE XXX.
THE SETTING-DOG AND THE PARTRIDGE.
The ranging dog the stubble tries,
And searches every breeze that flies;
The scent grows warm; with cautious fear
He creeps, and points the covey near;
The men, in silence, far behind,
Conscious of game, the net unbind.
A partridge, with experience
wise,
The fraudful preparation spies:
She mocks their toils, alarms her brood;
The covey springs, and seeks the wood;
10
But ere her certain wing she tries,
Thus to the creeping spaniel cries:
’Thou fawning
slave to man’s deceit,
Thou pimp of luxury, sneaking cheat,
Of thy whole species thou disgrace,
Dogs shall disown thee of their race!
For if I judge their native parts,
They’re born with open, honest hearts;
And, ere they serve man’s wicked
ends,
Were generous foes, or real friends.’
20
When thus the dog, with
scornful smile:
’Secure of wing, thou dar’st
revile.
Clowns are to polished manners blind,
How ignorant is the rustic mind!
My worth, sagacious courtiers see,
And to preferment rise, like me.
The thriving pimp, who beauty sets,
Hath oft enhanced a nation’s debts:
Friend sets his friend, without regard;
And ministers his skill reward:
30
Thus trained by man, I learnt his ways,
And growing favour feasts my days.’
‘I might have guessed,’
the partridge said,
’The place where you were trained
and fed;
Servants are apt, and in a trice
Ape to a hair their master’s vice.
You came from court, you say. Adieu,’
She said, and to the covey flew.
* * * * *
FABLE XXXI.
THE UNIVERSAL APPARITION.
A rake, by every passion ruled,
With every vice his youth had cooled;
Disease his tainted blood assails;
His spirits droop, his vigour fails;
With secret ills at home he pines,
And, like infirm old age, declines.
As, twinged with pain,
he pensive sits,
And raves, and prays, and swears by fits,
A ghastly phantom, lean and wan,
Before him rose, and thus began:
10
’My name, perhaps, hath
reached your ear;
Attend, and be advised by Care.
Nor love, nor honour, wealth, nor power,
Can give the heart a cheerful hour,
When health is lost. Be timely wise:
With health all taste of pleasure flies.’
Thus said, the phantom
disappears.
The wary counsel waked his fears:
He now from all excess abstains,
With physic purifies his veins;
20
And, to procure a sober life,
Resolves to venture on a wife.
But now again the sprite
ascends,
Where’er he walks his ear attends;
Insinuates that beauty’s frail,
That perseverance must prevail;
With jealousies his brain inflames,
And whispers all her lovers’ names.
In other hours she represents
His household charge, his annual rents,
30
Increasing debts, perplexing duns,
And nothing for his younger sons.
Straight all his thought
to gain he turns,
And with the thirst of lucre burns.
But when possessed of fortune’s
store,
The spectre haunts him more and more;
Sets want and misery in view,
Bold thieves, and all the murd’ring
crew,
Alarms him with eternal frights,
Infests his dream, or wakes his nights.
40
How shall he chase this hideous guest?
Power may perhaps protect his rest.
To power he rose. Again the sprite
Besets him, morning, noon, and night!
Talks of ambition’s tottering seat,
How envy persecutes the great,
Of rival hate, of treacherous friends,
And what disgrace his fall attends.
The Court he quits to
fly from Care,
And seeks the peace of rural air:
50
His groves, his fields, amused his hours;
He pruned his trees, he raised his flowers.
But Care again his steps pursues;
Warns him of blasts, of blighting dews,
Of plund’ring insects, snails, and
rains,
And droughts that starved the laboured
plains.
Abroad, at home, the spectre’s there:
In vain we seek to fly from Care.
At length he thus the ghost address’d:
’Since thou must be my constant
guest,
60
Be kind, and follow me no more;
For Care by right should go before.’
* * * * *
THE TWO OWLS AND THE SPARROW.
Two formal owls together sat,
Conferring thus in solemn chat:
’How is the modern taste decayed!
Where’s the respect to wisdom paid?
Our worth the Grecian sages knew;
They gave our sires the honour due;
They weighed the dignity of fowls,
And pried into the depth of owls.
Athens, the seat of learned fame,
With general voice revered our name;
10
On merit, title was conferred,
And all adored the Athenian bird.’
‘Brother, you reason
well,’ replies
The solemn mate, with half-shut eyes;
’Right. Athens was the seat
of learning,
And truly wisdom is discerning.
Besides, on Pallas’ helm we sit,
The type and ornament of wit:
But now, alas! we’re quite neglected,
And a pert sparrow’s more respected.’
20
A sparrow, who was lodged
beside,
O’erhears them soothe each other’s
pride,
And thus he nimbly vents his heat:
’Who meets a fool
must find conceit.
I grant, you were at Athens graced,
And on Minerva’s helm were placed;
But every bird that wings the sky,
Except an owl, can tell you why.
From hence they taught their schools to
know
How false we judge by outward show;
30
That we should never looks esteem,
Since fools as wise as you might seem.
Would ye contempt and scorn avoid,
Let your vain-glory be destroyed:
Humble your arrogance of thought,
Pursue the ways by Nature taught;
So shall you find delicious fare,
And grateful farmers praise your care:
So shall sleek mice your chase reward,
And no keen cat find more regard.’
40
* * * * *
THE COURTIER AND PROTEUS.
Whene’er a courtier’s out
of place
The country shelters his disgrace;
Where, doomed to exercise
and health,
His house and gardens own his wealth,
He builds new schemes in hopes to gain
The plunder of another reign;
Like Philip’s son, would fain be
doing,
And sighs for other realms to ruin.
As one of these (without
his wand)
Pensive, along the winding strand
10
Employed the solitary hour,
In projects to regain his power;
The waves in spreading circles ran,
Proteus arose, and thus began:
’Came you from
Court? For in your mien
A self-important air is seen.
He frankly owned his
friends had tricked him
And how he fell his party’s victim.
‘Know,’
says the god, ’by matchless skill
I change to every shape at will;
20
But yet I’m told, at Court you see
Those who presume to rival me.’
Thus said. A snake
with hideous trail,
Proteus extends his scaly mail.
‘Know,’
says the man, ’though proud in place,
All courtiers are of reptile race.
* * * * *
THE MASTIFFS.
Those who in quarrels interpose,
Must often wipe a bloody nose.
A mastiff, of true English
blood,
Loved fighting better than his food.
When dogs were snarling for a bone,
He longed to make the war his own,
And often found (when two contend)
To interpose obtained his end;
He gloried in his limping pace;
The scars of honour seamed his face;
10
In every limb a gash appears,
And frequent fights retrenched his ears.
As, on a time, he heard
from far
Two dogs engaged in noisy war,
Away he scours and lays about him,
Resolved no fray should be without him.
Forth from his yard
a tanner flies,
And to the bold intruder cries:
’A cudgel shall
correct your manners,
Whence sprung this cursed hate to tanners?
20
While on my dog you vent your spite,
Sirrah! ‘tis me you dare not bite.’
To see the battle thus perplexed,
With equal rage a butcher vexed,
Hoarse-screaming from the circled crowd,
To the cursed mastiff cries aloud:
’Both Hockley-hole
and Mary-bone
The combats of my dog have known.
He ne’er, like bullies coward-hearted,
Attacks in public, to be parted.
30
Think not, rash fool, to share his fame:
Be his the honour, or the shame.’
Thus said, they swore,
and raved like thunder;
Then dragged their fastened dogs asunder;
While clubs and kicks from every side
Page 132
Rebounded from the mastiff’s hide.
All reeking now with
sweat and blood,
Awhile the parted warriors stood,
Then poured upon the meddling foe;
Who, worried, howled and sprawled below.
40
He rose; and limping from the fray,
By both sides mangled, sneaked away.
* * * * *
THE BARLEY-MOW AND THE DUNGHILL.
How many saucy airs we meet
From Temple Bar to Aldgate Street!
Proud rogues, who shared the South-Sea
prey,
And sprung like mushrooms in a day!
They think it mean, to condescend
To know a brother or a friend;
They blush to hear their mother’s
name,
And by their pride expose their shame.
As cross his yard, at
early day,
A careful farmer took his way,
10
He stopped, and leaning on his fork,
Observed the flail’s incessant work.
In thought he measured all his store,
His geese, his hogs, he numbered o’er;
In fancy weighed the fleeces shorn,
And multiplied the next year’s corn.
A Barley-mow, which
stood beside,
Thus to its musing master cried:
’Say, good sir,
is it fit or right
To treat me with neglect and slight?
20
Me, who contribute to your cheer,
And raise your mirth with ale and beer?
Why thus insulted, thus disgraced,
And that vile dunghill near me placed?
Are those poor sweepings of a groom,
That filthy sight, that nauseous fume,
Meet objects here? Command it hence:
A thing so mean must give offence’
The humble dunghill
thus replied:
’Thy master hears, and mocks thy
pride:
30
Insult not thus the meek and low;
In me thy benefactor know;
My warm assistance gave thee birth,
Or thou hadst perished low in earth;
But upstarts, to support their station,
Cancel at once all obligation.’
* * * * *
FABLE XXXVI.
PYTHAGORAS AND THE COUNTRYMAN.
Pythag’ras rose at early dawn,
By soaring meditation drawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flowery fields he took his way.
In musing contemplation warm,
His steps misled him to a farm,
Where, on the ladder’s topmost round,
A peasant stood; the hammer’s sound
Shook the weak barn. ’Say,
friend, what care
Calls for thy honest labour there?’
10
The clown, with surly
voice replies,
’Vengeance aloud for justice cries.
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hens’ annoy, my turkeys’
dread,
At length his forfeit life has paid;
See on the wall his wings displayed,
Here nailed, a terror to his kind,
My fowls shall future safety find;
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn’s refuse fat the breed.’
Page 133
20
‘Friend,’
says the sage, ’the doom is wise;
For public good the murderer dies.
But if these tyrants of the air
Demand a sentence so severe,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou, perhaps, carniv’rous
sinner,
Hadst pullets yesterday for dinner!’
30
‘Hold,’
cried the clown, with passion heated,
’Shall kites and men alike be treated?
When Heaven the world with creatures stored,
Man was ordained their sovereign lord.’
‘Thus tyrants
boast,’ the sage replied,
’Whose murders spring from power
and pride.
Own then this man-like kite is slain
Thy greater luxury to sustain;
For “Petty rogues submit to fate,
That great ones may enjoy their state."’[5]
40
THE FARMER’S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.
’Why are those tears? why droops
your head?
Is then your other husband dead?
Or does a worse disgrace betide?
Hath no one since his death applied?’
’Alas! you know
the cause too well:
The salt is spilt, to me it fell.
Then, to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
10
Last night (I vow to heaven ’tis
true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell,
God send my Cornish friends be well!’
’Unhappy widow,
cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears,
Let not thy stomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner’s
ended;
And when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert, I’ll read my fable.’
20
Betwixt her swagging
panniers’ load
A farmer’s wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care
Summed up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream:
’That raven on
yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak)
Bodes me no good.’ No more
she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
30
Fell prone; o’erturned the pannier
lay,
And her mashed eggs bestrewed the way.
She, sprawling in the
yellow road,
Railed, swore and cursed: ’Thou
croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note.’
‘Dame,’
quoth the raven, ’spare your oaths,
Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes.
But why on me those curses thrown?
Goody, the fault was all your own;
40
For had you laid this brittle ware,
On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
Though all the ravens of the hundred,
With croaking had your tongue out-thundered,
Sure-footed Dun had kept his legs,
And you, good woman, saved your eggs.’
FABLE XXXVIII.
THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.
In other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish find,
To our own stronger errors blind.
A turkey, tired of common
food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran her infant train,
Collecting here and there a grain.
‘Draw near, my
birds,’ the mother cries,
’This hill delicious fare supplies;
10
Behold, the busy negro race,
See, millions blacken all the place!
Fear not. Like me with freedom eat;
An ant is most delightful meat.
How bless’d, how envied were our
life,
Could we but ’scape the poulterer’s
knife!
But man, cursed man, on turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days:
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savoury chine.
20
From the low peasant to the lord,
The turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are cursed,
Of the seven deadly sins the worst.’
An ant, who climbed
beyond his reach,
Thus answered from the neighbouring beech:
’Ere you remark
another’s sin, 27
Bid thy own conscience look within;
Control thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill.’
30
* * * * *
FABLE XXXIX.
THE FATHER AND JUPITER.
The man to Jove his suit preferred;
He begged a wife. His prayer was
heard,
Jove wondered at his bold addressing:
For how precarious is the blessing!
A wife he takes. And now for heirs
Again he worries heaven with prayers.
Jove nods assent. Two hopeful boys
And a fine girl reward his joys.
Now, more solicitous he grew,
And set their future lives in view;
10
He saw that all respect and duty
Were paid to wealth, to power, and beauty.
‘Once more,’ he cries, ’accept
my prayer;
Make my loved progeny thy care.
Let my first hope, my favourite boy,
All fortune’s richest gifts enjoy.
My next with strong ambition fire:
May favour teach him to aspire;
Till he the step of power ascend,
And courtiers to their idol bend.
20
With every grace, with every charm,
My daughter’s perfect features arm.
If heaven approve, a father’s bless’d.’
Jove smiles, and grants his full request.
The first, a miser at
the heart,
Studious of every griping art,
Heaps hoards on hoards with anxious pain;
And all his life devotes to gain.
He feels no joy, his cares increase,
He neither wakes nor sleeps in peace;
30
In fancied want (a wretch complete)
He starves, and yet he dares not eat.
The next to sudden honours
grew:
The thriving art of Courts he knew:
He reached the height of power and place;
Page 135
Then fell, the victim of disgrace.
Beauty with early bloom
supplies
His daughter’s cheek, and points
her eyes.
The vain coquette each suit disdains,
And glories in her lover’s pains.
40
With age she fades, each lover flies;
Contemned, forlorn, she pines and dies.
When Jove the father’s
grief surveyed,
And heard him Heaven and Fate upbraid,
Thus spoke the god: ’By outward
show,
Men judge of happiness and woe:
Shall ignorance of good and ill
Dare to direct the eternal will?
Seek virtue; and, of that possess’d,
To Providence resign the rest’
50
* * * * *
FABLE XL.
THE TWO MONKEYS.
The learned, full of inward pride,
The Fops of outward show deride:
The Fop, with learning at defiance,
Scoffs at the pedant, and the science:
The Don, a formal, solemn strutter,
Despises Monsieur’s airs and flutter;
While Monsieur mocks the formal fool,
Who looks, and speaks, and walks by rule.
Britain, a medley of the twain,
As pert as France, as grave as Spain;
10
In fancy wiser than the rest,
Laughs at them both, of both the jest.
Is not the poet’s chiming close
Censured by all the sons of prose?
While bards of quick imagination
Despise the sleepy prose narration.
Men laugh at apes, they men contemn;
For what are we, but apes to them?
Two monkeys went to
Southwark fair,
No critics had a sourer air:
20
They forced their way through draggled
folks,
Who gaped to catch jack-pudding’s
jokes;
Then took their tickets for the show,
And got by chance the foremost row.
To see their grave, observing face,
Provoked a laugh throughout the place.
‘Brother,’
says Pug, and turned his head,
‘The rabble’s monstrously
ill bred.’
Now through the booth
loud hisses ran;
Nor ended till the show began.
30
The tumbler whirls the flap-flap round,
With somersets he shakes the ground;
The cord beneath the dancer springs;
Aloft in air the vaulter swings;
Distorted now, now prone depends,
Now through his twisted arms ascends:
The crowd, in wonder and delight,
With clapping hands applaud the sight.
With smiles, quoth Pug,
’If pranks like these
The giant apes of reason please,
40
How would they wonder at our arts!
They must adore us for our parts.
High on the twig I’ve seen you cling;
Play, twist and turn in airy ring:
How can those clumsy things, like me,
Fly with a bound from tree to tree?
But yet, by this applause, we find
These emulators of our kind
Discern our worth, our parts regard,
Who our mean mimics thus reward.’
50
‘Brother,’
the grinning mate replies,
Page 136
’In this I grant that man is wise.
While good example they pursue,
We must allow some praise is due;
But when they strain beyond their guide,
I laugh to scorn the mimic pride,
For how fantastic is the sight,
To meet men always bolt upright,
Because we sometimes walk on two!
I hate the imitating crew.’
60
* * * * *
FABLE XLI.
THE OWL AND THE FARMER.
An owl of grave deport and mien,
Who (like the Turk) was seldom seen,
Within a barn had chose his station,
As fit for prey and contemplation.
Upon a beam aloft he sits,
And nods, and seems to think by fits.
So have I seen a man of news,
Or Post-boy, or Gazette
peruse;
Smoke, nod, and talk with voice profound,
And fix the fate of Europe round.
10
Sheaves piled on sheaves, hid all the
floor;
At dawn of morn, to view his store
The farmer came. The hooting guest
His self-importance thus express’d:
’Reason in man
is mere pretence:
How weak, how shallow is his sense!
To treat with scorn the bird of night,
Declares his folly, or his spite.
Then too, how partial is his praise!
The lark’s, the linnet’s chirping
lays
20
To his ill-judging ears are fine;
And nightingales are all divine.
But the more knowing feathered race
See wisdom stamped upon my face.
Whene’er to visit light I deign,
What flocks of fowl compose my train!
Like slaves they crowd my flight behind,
And own me of superior kind.’
The farmer laughed,
and thus replied:
’Thou dull important lump of pride,
30
Dar’st thou with that harsh grating
tongue,
Depreciate birds of warbling song?
Indulge thy spleen. Know, men and
fowl
Regard thee, as thou art an owl.
Besides, proud blockhead, be not vain,
Of what thou call’st thy slaves
and train.
Few follow wisdom or her rules;
Fools in derision follow fools.’
* * * * *
THE JUGGLERS.
A juggler long through all the town
Had raised his fortune and renown;
You’d think (so far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers’ ends.
Vice heard his fame,
she read his bill;
Convinced of his inferior skill,
She sought his booth, and from the crowd
Defied the man of art aloud:
’Is this, then,
he so famed for sleight?
Can this slow bungler cheat your sight!
10
Dares he with me dispute the prize?
I leave it to impartial eyes.’
Provoked, the juggler
cried, ’’tis done.
In science I submit to none.’
Thus said, the cups
and balls he played;
By turns, this here, that there, conveyed.
Page 137
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turned to birds.
His little boxes change the grain:
Trick after trick deludes the train.
20
He shakes his bag, he shows all fair;
His fingers spreads, and nothing there;
Then bids it rain with showers of gold,
And now his ivory eggs are told.
But when from thence the hen he draws,
Amazed spectators hum applause.
Vice now stept forth,
and took the place
With all the forms of his grimace.
‘This magic looking-glass,’
she cries,
(There, hand it round) ‘will charm
your eyes.’
30
Each eager eye the sight desired,
And every man himself admired.
Next to a senator addressing:
’See this bank-note; observe the
blessing,
Breathe on the bill.’ Heigh,
pass! ’Tis gone.
Upon his lips a padlock shone.
A second puff the magic broke,
The padlock vanished, and he spoke.
Twelve bottles ranged
upon the board,
All full, with heady liquor stored,
40
By clean conveyance disappear,
And now two bloody swords are there.
A purse she to a thief
exposed,
At once his ready fingers closed;
He opes his fist, the treasure’s
fled;
He sees a halter in its stead.
She bids ambition hold
a wand;
He grasps a hatchet in his hand.
A box of charity she
shows,
‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden
blows,
50
’Tis vanished with conveyance neat,
And on the table smokes a treat.
She shakes the dice,
the boards she knocks,
And from all pockets fills her box.
She next a meagre rake
address’d:
’This picture see; her shape, her
breast!
What youth, and what inviting eyes!
Hold her, and have her.’ With
surprise,
His hand exposed a box of pills,
And a loud laugh proclaimed his ills.
60
A counter, in a miser’s
hand,
Grew twenty guineas at command.
She bids his heir the sum retain,
And ’tis a counter now again.
A guinea with her touch you see
Take every shape, but charity;
And not one thing you saw, or drew,
But changed from what was first in view.
The juggler now in grief
of heart,
With this submission owned her art:
70
’Can I such matchless sleight withstand?
How practice hath improved your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng;
You every day, and all day long.’
* * * * *
FABLE XLIII.
THE COUNCIL OF HORSES.
Upon a time a neighing steed,
Who grazed among a numerous breed,
With mutiny had fired the train,
And spread dissension through the plain.
On matters that concerned the state
The council met in grand debate.
A colt, whose eye-balls flamed with ire,
Elate with strength and youthful fire,
* * * * *
FABLE XLIV.
THE HOUND AND THE HUNTSMAN.
Impertinence at first is borne
With heedless slight, or smiles of scorn;
Teased into wrath, what patience bears
The noisy fool who perseveres?
The morning wakes, the
huntsman sounds,
At once rush forth the joyful hounds.
They seek the wood with eager pace,
Through bush, through brier, explore the
chase.
Now scattered wide, they try the plain,
And snuff the dewy turf in vain.
* * * * *
FABLE XLV.
THE POET AND THE ROSE.
I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another’s fame.
Thus prudes, by characters o’erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own.
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried.
Who praises Lesbia’s eyes and feature,
Must call her sister, awkward creature;
10
For the kind flattery’s sure to
charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early
day
A poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden’s fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends.
A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing as the muse inspired:
’Go, rose, my Chloe’s bosom
grace;
How happy should I prove,
20
Might I supply that envied place
With never fading love!
There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die!
Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt
find
More fragrant roses
there;
I see thy withering head reclined
With envy and despair!
One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love.’
30
‘Spare your comparisons,’
replied
An angry rose, who grew beside.
’Of all mankind, you should not
flout us;
What can a poet do without us!
In every love-song roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe’s charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine and fade?’
40
* * * * *
THE CUR, THE HORSE, AND THE SHEPHERD’S DOG.
The lad of all-sufficient merit,
With modesty ne’er damps his spirit;
Presuming on his own deserts,
On all alike his tongue exerts;
His noisy jokes at random throws,
And pertly spatters friends and foes;
In wit and war the bully race
Contribute to their own disgrace.
Too late the forward youth shall find
That jokes are sometimes paid in kind;
10
Or if they canker in the breast,
He makes a foe who makes a jest.
A village-cur, of snappish
race,
The pertest puppy of the place,
Imagined that his treble throat
Was blest with music’s sweetest
note:
In the mid road he basking lay,
The yelping nuisance of the way;
For not a creature passed along,
But had a sample of his song.
20
Soon as the trotting
steed he hears,
He starts, he cocks his dapper ears;
Away he scours, assaults his hoof;
Now near him snarls, now barks aloof;
With shrill impertinence attends;
Nor leaves him till the village ends.
It chanced, upon his
evil day,
A pad came pacing down the way:
The cur, with never-ceasing tongue,
Upon the passing traveller sprung.
30
The horse, from scorn provoked to ire,
Flung backward; rolling in the mire,
The puppy howled, and bleeding lay;
The pad in peace pursued the way.
A shepherd’s dog,
who saw the deed,
Detesting the vexatious breed,
Bespoke him thus: ’When coxcombs
prate,
They kindle wrath, contempt, or hate;
Thy teasing tongue had judgment tied,
Thou hadst not, like a puppy, died.’
40
* * * * *
FABLE XLVII.
THE COURT OF DEATH.
Death, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terror sate:
The attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train!
Crowd the vast court. With hollow
tone,
A voice thus thundered from the throne:
’This night our
minister we name,
Let every servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand;’
All, at the word, stretch’d forth
their hand.
10
Fever, with burning
heat possess’d,
Advanced, and for the wand address’d:
’I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let those express my fervent zeal;
On every slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere.’
Next Gout appears with
limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place,
From head to foot how swift he flies,
19
And every joint and sinew plies;
20
Still working when he seems suppress’d,
A most tenacious stubborn guest.
A haggard spectre from
the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due:
’Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of love destroy:
* * * * *
FABLE XLVIII.
THE GARDENER AND THE HOG.
A gard’ner, of peculiar taste,
On a young hog his favour placed;
Who fed not with the common herd;
His tray was to the hall preferred.
He wallowed underneath the board,
Or in his master’s chamber snored;
Who fondly stroked him every day,
And taught him all the puppy’s play;
Where’er he went, the grunting friend
Ne’er failed his pleasure to attend.
10
As on a time, the loving
pair
Walked forth to tend the garden’s
care,
The master thus address’d the swine:
’My house, my
garden, all is thine.
On turnips feast whene’er you please,
And riot in my beans and peas;
If the potato’s taste delights,
Or the red carrot’s sweet invites,
Indulge thy morn and evening hours,
But let due care regard my flowers:
20
My tulips are my garden’s pride,
What vast expense those beds supplied!’
The hog by chance one
morning roamed,
Where with new ale the vessels foamed.
He munches now the steaming grains,
Now with full swill the liquor drains.
Intoxicating fumes arise;
27
He reels, he rolls his winking eyes;
Then stagg’ring through the garden
scours,
And treads down painted ranks of flowers.
30
With delving snout he turns the soil,
And cools his palate with the spoil.
The master came, the
ruin spied,
‘Villain, suspend thy rage,’
he cried.
’Hast thou, thou most ungrateful
sot,
My charge, my only charge forgot?
What, all my flowers!’ No more he
said,
Page 142
But gazed, and sighed, and hung his head.
The hog with stutt’ring
speech returns:
’Explain, sir, why your anger burns.
40
See there, untouched, your tulips strown,
For I devoured the roots alone.’
At this the gard’ner’s
passion grows;
From oaths and threats he fell to blows.
The stubborn brute the blow sustains;
Assaults his leg, and tears the veins.
Ah! foolish swain, too
late you find
That sties were for such friends designed!
Homeward he limps with
painful pace,
Reflecting thus on past disgrace:
50
Who cherishes a brutal mate
Shall mourn the folly soon or late.
* * * * *
FABLE XLIX.
THE MAN AND THE FLEA.
Whether on earth, in air, or main,
Sure everything alive is vain!
Does not the hawk all fowls survey,
As destined only for his prey?
And do not tyrants, prouder things,
Think men were born for slaves to kings?
When the crab views
the pearly strands,
Or Tagus, bright with golden sands;
Or crawls beside the coral grove,
And hears the ocean roll above;
10
‘Nature is too profuse,’ says
he,
‘Who gave all these to pleasure
me!’
When bordering pinks and roses bloom,
And every garden breathes perfume;
When peaches glow with sunny dyes,
Like Laura’s cheek, when blushes
rise;
When with huge figs the branches bend,
When clusters from the vine depend;
The snail looks round on flower and tree,
And cries, ‘All these were made
for me!’
20
‘What dignity’s
in human nature!’
Says man, the most conceited creature,
As from a cliff he cast his eye,
And viewed the sea and arched sky;
The sun was sunk beneath the main,
The moon and all the starry train
Hung the vast vault of heaven. The
man
His contemplation thus began:
’When I behold
this glorious show,
And the wide watery world below,
30
The scaly people of the main,
The beasts that range the wood or plain,
The winged inhabitants of air,
The day, the night, the various year,
And know all these by heaven design’d
As gifts to pleasure human kind;
I cannot raise my worth too high;
Of what vast consequence am I!’
‘Not of the importance
you suppose,’
Replies a flea upon his nose.
40
’Be humble, learn thyself to scan;
Know, pride was never made for man.
’Tis vanity that swells thy mind.
What, heaven and earth for thee designed!
For thee, made only for our need,
That more important fleas might feed.’
* * * * *
FABLE L.
THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.
Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father’s care.
Tis thus in friendships; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.
A hare, who in a civil
way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
10
Her care was never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at
early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter’s cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
20
Till fainting in the public way,
Half-dead with fear, she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appeared in view!
‘Let me,’
says she, ’your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden’s light.’
The horse replied—’Poor
honest puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
30
Be comforted, relief is near;
For all your friends are in the rear.’
She next the stately
bull implored;
And thus replied the mighty lord—
’Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley mow:
40
And when a lady’s in the case,
You know all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the goat is just behind.’
The goat remarked her
pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
‘My back,’ says she, ’may
do you harm;
The sheep’s at hand, and wool is
warm.’
The sheep was feeble,
and complained
His sides a load of wool sustained:
50
Said he was slow, confessed his fears;
For hounds cat sheep, as well as hares.
She now the trotting
calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed.
‘Shall I,’
says he, ’of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler passed you by;
How strong are those! how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
60
Excuse me then. You know my heart,
But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How shall we all lament! Adieu!
For see the hounds are just in view.’
* * * * *
PUBLISHED AFTER GAY’S DEATH, BY THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.
THE DOG AND THE FOX.
TO A LAWYER.
I know you lawyers can with ease
Twist words and meanings as you please;
That language, by your skill made pliant,
Will bend to favour every client;
That ’tis the fee directs the sense,
To make out either side’s pretence.
When you peruse the clearest case,
You see it with a double face:
For scepticism’s your profession;
You hold there’s doubt in all expression.
10
Hence is the bar with
fees supplied,
Hence eloquence takes either side.
Your hand would have but paltry gleaning
Could every man express his meaning.
Who dares presume to pen a deed.
Unless you previously are fee’d?
’Tis drawn; and, to augment the
cost,
In dull prolixity engrossed.
And now we’re well secured by law,
Till the next brother find a flaw.
20
Read o’er a will. Was’t
ever known,
But you could make the will your own;
For when you read,’tis with intent
To find out meanings never meant.
Since things are thus, se defendendo,
I bar fallacious innuendo.
Sagacious Porta’s[6]
skill could trace
Some beast or bird in every face.
The head, the eye, the nose’s shape,
Proved this an owl, and that an ape.
30
When, in the sketches thus designed,
Resemblance brings some friend to mind,
You show the piece, and give the hint,
And find each feature in the print:
So monstrous like the portrait’s
found,
All know it, and the laugh goes round.
Like him I draw from general nature;
Is’t I or you then fix the satire?
So, sir, I beg you spare
your pains
In making comments on my strains.
40
All private slander I detest,
I judge not of my neighbour’s breast:
Party and prejudice I hate,
And write no libels on the state.
Shall not my fable censure
vice,
Because a knave is over-nice?
And, lest the guilty hear and dread,
Shall not the decalogue be read?
If I lash vice in general fiction,
Is’t I apply, or self-conviction?
50
Brutes are my theme. Am I to blame,
If men in morals are the same?
I no man call an ape or ass:
Tis his own conscience holds the glass;
Thus void of all offence I write;
Who claims the fable, knows his right.
A shepherd’s dog
unskilled in sports,
Picked up acquaintance of all sorts:
Among the rest, a fox he knew;
By frequent chat their friendship grew.
60
Says Reynard—’
’Tis a cruel case,
That man should stigmatise our race,
No doubt, among us rogues you find,
As among dogs, and human kind;
And yet (unknown to me and you)
There may be honest men and true.
Thus slander tries, whate’er it
can,
To put us on the foot with man,
Let my own actions recommend;
* * * * *
THE VULTURE, THE SPARROW, AND OTHER BIRDS.
TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.
Ere I begin, I must premise
Our ministers are good and wise;
So, though malicious tongues apply,
Pray what care they, or what care I?
If I am free with courts;
be’t known,
I ne’er presume to mean our own.
If general morals seem to joke
On ministers, and such like folk,
A captious fool may take offence;
What then? he knows his own pretence.
10
I meddle with no state affairs,
But spare my jest to save my ears.
Our present schemes are too profound,
For Machiavel himself to sound:
To censure them I’ve no pretension;
I own they’re past my comprehension.
You say your brother
wants a place,
(’Tis many a younger brother’s
case,)
And that he very soon intends
To ply the Court, and tease his friends.
20
If there his merits chance to find
* * * * *
FABLE III.
THE BABOON AND THE POULTRY.
TO A LEVEE-HUNTER.
We frequently misplace esteem,
By judging men by what they seem,
To birth, wealth, power, we should allow
Precedence, and our lowest bow.
In that is due distinction shown,
Esteem is virtue’s right alone.
With partial eye we’re apt to see
The man of noble pedigree.
We’re prepossess’d my lord inherits
In some degree his grandsire’s merits;
10
For those we find upon record:
But find him nothing but my lord.
When we with superficial view,
Gaze on the rich, we’re dazzled too.
We know that wealth well understood,
Hath frequent power of doing good:
Then fancy that the thing is done,
As if the power and will were one.
Thus oft the cheated crowd adore
The thriving knaves that keep them poor.
20
The cringing train of power survey:
What creatures are so low as they!
With what obsequiousness they bend!
To what vile actions condescend!
Their rise is on their meanness built,
And flattery is their smallest guilt.
What homage, rev’rence, adoration,
In every age, in every nation,
Have sycophants to power addressed!
No matter who the power possessed.
30
Let ministers be what they will,
You find their levees always fill.
Even those who have perplexed a state,
Whose actions claim contempt and hate,
Had wretches to applaud their schemes,
Though more absurd than madmen’s dreams.
When barbarous Moloch was invoked,
The blood of infants only smoked!
But here (unless all history lies)
Whole realms have been a sacrifice.
40
Look through all Courts—’Tis power
we find,
The general idol of mankind,
There worshipped under every shape;
Alike the lion, fox, and ape
Are followed by time-serving slaves,
* * * * *
FABLE IV.
THE ANT IN OFFICE.
TO A FRIEND.
You tell me, that you apprehend
My verse may touchy folks offend.
In prudence too you think my rhymes
Should never squint at courtiers’
crimes:
For though nor this, nor that is meant,
Can we another’s thoughts prevent?
You ask me if I ever
knew
Court chaplains thus the lawn pursue.
I meddle not with gown or lawn;
Poets, I grant, to rise must fawn.
10
They know great ears are over-nice,
And never shock their patron’s vice.
But I this hackney path despise;
’Tis my ambition not to rise.
If I must prostitute the Muse,
The base conditions I refuse.
I neither flatter nor
defame,
Yet own I would bring guilt to shame.
If I corruption’s hand expose,
I make corrupted men my foes.
20
What then? I hate the paltry tribe;
Be virtue mine; be theirs the bribe.
I no man’s property invade;
Corruption’s yet no lawful trade.
Nor would it mighty ills produce,
Could I shame bribery out of use,
I know ’twould cramp most politicians,
Were they tied down to these conditions.
’Twould stint their power, their
riches bound,
And make their parts seem less profound.
30
Were they denied their proper tools,
How could they lead their knaves and fools?
Were this the case, let’s take a
view,
What dreadful mischiefs would ensue;
Though it might aggrandise the state,
Could private luxury dine on plate?
Kings might indeed their friends reward,
But ministers find less regard.
Informers, sycophants, and spies,
Would not augment the year’s supplies.
40
Perhaps, too, take away this prop,
An annual job or two might drop.
Besides, if pensions were denied,
Could avarice support its pride?
It might even ministers confound,
And yet the state be safe and sound.
I care not though ’tis
understood
I only mean my country’s good:
And (let who will my freedom blame)
I wish all courtiers did the same.
50
Nay, though some folks the less might
get,
I wish the nation out of debt.
I put no private man’s ambition
With public good in competition:
Rather than have our law defaced,
I’d vote a minister disgraced.
I strike at vice, be’t
where it will;
And what if great folks take it ill?
I hope corruption, bribery, pension,
One may with detestation mention:
60
Think you the law (let who will take it)
Can scandalum magnatum make it?
I vent no slander, owe no grudge,
Nor of another’s conscience judge:
At him, or him, I take no aim,
Yet dare against all vice declaim.
Shall I not censure breach of trust,
* * * * *
FABLE V.
THE BEAR IN A BOAT.
TO A COXCOMB.
That man must daily wiser grow,
Whose search is bent himself to know;
Impartially he weighs his scope,
And on firm reason founds his hope;
He tries his strength before the race,
And never seeks his own disgrace;
He knows the compass, sail, and oar,
Or never launches from the shore;
Before he builds, computes the cost;
And in no proud pursuit is lost:
10
He learns the bounds of human sense,
And safely walks within the fence.
Thus, conscious of his own defect,
Are pride and self-importance check’d.
If then, self-knowledge
to pursue,
Direct our life in every view,
Of all the fools that pride can boast,
A coxcomb claims distinction most.
Coxcombs are of all
ranks and kind:
They’re not to sex or age confined,
20
Or rich, or poor, or great, or small;
And vanity besets them all.
By ignorance is pride increased:
Those most assume who know the least;
Their own false balance gives them weight,
But every other finds them light.
Not that all coxcombs’
follies strike,
And draw our ridicule alike;
To different merits each pretends.
This in love-vanity transcends;
30
That smitten with his face and shape,
By dress distinguishes the ape;
T’other with learning crams his
shelf,
Knows books, and all things but himself.
All these are fools
of low condition,
Compared with coxcombs of ambition.
For those, puffed up with flattery, dare
Assume a nation’s various care.
They ne’er the grossest praise mistrust,
Their sycophants seem hardly just;
40
For these, in part alone, attest
The flattery their own thoughts suggest.
In this wide sphere a coxcomb’s
shown
In other realms beside his own:
The self-deemed Machiavel at large
* * * * *
FABLE VI.
THE SQUIRE AND HIS CUR.
TO A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN.
The man of pure and simple heart
Through life disdains a double part.
He never needs the screen of lies
His inward bosom to disguise.
In vain malicious tongues assail;
Let envy snarl, let slander rail,
From virtue’s shield (secure from wound)
Their blunted, venomed shafts rebound.
So shines his light before mankind,
His actions prove his honest mind.
10
If in his country’s cause he rise,
Debating senates to advise,
Unbribed, unawed, he dares impart
The honest dictates of his heart.
No ministerial frown he fears,
But in his virtue perseveres.
But would you play the politician,
Whose heart’s averse to intuition,
Your lips at all times, nay, your reason
Must be controlled by place and season.
20
What statesman could his power support
Were lying tongues forbid the court?
Did princely ears to truth attend,
What minister could gain his end?
How could he raise his tools to place,
And how his honest foes disgrace?
That politician tops his part,
Who readily can lie with art:
The man’s proficient in his trade;
His power is strong, his fortune’s made.
30
By that the interest of the throne
Is made subservient to his own:
By that have kings of old, deluded,
All their own friends for his excluded.
By that, his selfish schemes pursuing,
He thrives upon the public ruin.
Antiochus,[8] with hardy pace,
Provoked the dangers of the chase;
And, lost from all his menial train,
Traversed the wood and pathless plain.
40
A cottage lodged the royal guest!
The Parthian clown brought forth his best.
The king, unknown, his feast enjoyed,
And various chat the hours employed.
From wine what sudden friendship springs!
Frankly they talked of courts and kings.
‘We country-folks,’ the clown replies,
’Could ope our gracious monarch’s eyes.
The king, (as all our neighbours say,)
Might he (God bless him) have his way,
50
Is sound at heart, and means our good,
And he would do it, if he could.
If truth in courts were not forbid,
Nor kings nor subjects would be rid.
Were he in power, we need not doubt him:
But that transferred to those about him,
Page 154
On them he throws the regal cares:
And what mind they? Their own affairs.
If such rapacious hands he trust,
The best of men may seem unjust.
60
From kings to cobblers ’tis the same:
Bad servants wound their master’s fame.
In this our neighbours all agree:
Would the king knew as much as we.’
Here he stopp’d short. Repose they sought,
The peasant slept, the monarch thought.
The courtiers learned, at early dawn,
Where their lost sovereign was withdrawn.
The guards’ approach our host alarms,
With gaudy coats the cottage swarms.
70
The crown and purple robes they bring,
And prostrate fall before the king.
The clown was called, the royal guest
By due reward his thanks express’d.
The king then, turning to the crowd,
Who fawningly before him bow’d,
Thus spoke: ’Since, bent on private gain,
Your counsels first misled my reign,
Taught and informed by you alone,
No truth the royal ear hath known,
80
Till here conversing. Hence, ye crew,
For now I know myself and you.’
Whene’er the royal ear’s engross’d,
State-lies but little genius cost.
The favourite then securely robs,
And gleans a nation by his jobs.
Franker and bolder grown in ill,
He daily poisons dares instil;
And, as his present views suggest,
Inflames or soothes the royal breast.
90
Thus wicked ministers oppress,
When oft the monarch means redress.
Would kings their private subjects hear,
A minister must talk with fear.
If honesty opposed his views,
He dared not innocence excuse.
’Twould keep him in such narrow bound,
He could not right and wrong confound.
Happy were kings, could they disclose
Their real friends and real foes!
100
Were both themselves and subjects known,
A monarch’s will might be his own.
Had he the use of ears and eyes,
Knaves would no more be counted wise.
But then a minister might lose
(Hard case!) his own ambitious views.
When such as these have vexed a state,
Pursued by universal hate,
Their false support at once hath failed,
And persevering truth prevailed.
110
Exposed their train of fraud is seen;
Truth will at last remove the screen.
A country squire, by whim directed,
The true stanch dogs of chase neglected.
Beneath his board no hound was fed,
His hand ne’er stroked the spaniel’s
head.
A snappish cur, alone caress’d,
By lies had banished all the rest.
Yap had his ear; and defamation
Gave him full scope of conversation.
120
His sycophants must be preferr’d,
Room must be made for all his herd:
Wherefore, to bring his schemes about,
Old faithful servants all must out.
The cur on every creature flew,
(As other great men’s puppies do,)
Unless due court to him were shown,
And both their face and business known,
No honest tongue an audience found:
* * * * *
FABLE VII.
THE COUNTRYMAN AND JUPITER.
TO MYSELF.
Have you a friend (look round and
spy)
So fond, so prepossessed as I?
Your faults, so obvious to mankind,
My partial eyes could never find.
When by the breath of fortune blown,
Your airy castles were o’erthrown;
Have I been over-prone to blame,
Or mortified your hours with shame?
Was I e’er known to damp your spirit,
Or twit you with the want of merit?
10
’Tis not so strange, that Fortune’s
frown
Still perseveres to keep you down.
Look round, and see what others do.
Would you be rich and honest too?
Have you (like those she raised to place)
Been opportunely mean and base?
Have you (as times required) resigned
Truth, honour, virtue, peace of mind?
If these are scruples, give her o’er;
Write, practise morals, and be poor.
20
The gifts of fortune truly rate;
Then tell me what would mend your state.
* * * * *
FABLE VIII.
THE MAN, THE CAT, THE DOG, AND THE FLY.
TO MY NATIVE COUNTRY.
Hail, happy land, whose fertile grounds
The liquid fence of Neptune bounds;
By bounteous Nature set apart,
The seat of industry and art!
O Britain! chosen port of trade,
May luxury ne’er thy sons invade;
May never minister (intent
His private treasures to augment)
Corrupt thy state. If jealous foes
Thy rights of commerce dare oppose,
10
Shall not thy fleets their rapine awe?
Who is’t prescribes the ocean law?
Whenever neighbouring
states contend,
’Tis thine to be the general friend.
What is’t, who rules in other lands?
Page 158
On trade alone thy glory stands.
That benefit is unconfined,
Diffusing good among mankind:
That first gave lustre to thy reigns,
And scattered plenty o’er thy plains:
20
’Tis that alone thy wealth supplies,
And draws all Europe’s envious eyes.
Be commerce then thy sole design;
Keep that, and all the world is thine.
When naval traffic ploughs
the main,
Who shares not in the merchant’s
gain?
’Tis that supports the regal state,
And makes the farmer’s heart elate:
The numerous flocks, that clothe the land,
Can scarce supply the loom’s demand;
30
Prolific culture glads the fields,
And the bare heath a harvest yields.
Nature expects mankind
should share
The duties of the public care.
Who’s born for sloth?[9] To some
we find
The ploughshare’s annual toil assign’d.
Some at the sounding anvil glow;
Some the swift-sliding shuttle throw;
Some, studious of the wind and tide,
From pole to pole our commerce guide:
40
Some (taught by industry) impart
With hands and feet the works of art;
While some, of genius more refined,
With head and tongue assist mankind:
Each, aiming at one common end,
Proves to the whole a needful friend.
Thus, born each other’s useful aid,
By turns are obligations paid.
The monarch, when his
table’s spread,
Is to the clown obliged for bread;
50
And when in all his glory dress’d,
Owes to the loom his royal vest.
Do not the mason’s toil and care
Protect him from the inclement air?
Does not the cutler’s art supply
The ornament that guards his thigh?
All these, in duty to the throne,
Their common obligations own.
’Tis he (his own and people’s
cause)
Protects their properties and laws.
60
Thus they their honest toil employ,
And with content their fruits enjoy.
In every rank, or great or small,
’Tis industry supports us all.
The animals by want
oppressed,
To man their services addressed;
While each pursued their selfish good,
They hungered for precarious food.
Their hours with anxious cares were vex’d;
One day they fed, and starved the next.
70
They saw that plenty, sure and rife,
Was found alone in social life;
That mutual industry professed,
The various wants of man redressed.
The cat, half-famished,
lean and weak,
Demands the privilege to speak.
‘Well, puss,’
says man, ’and what can you
To benefit the public do?’
The cat replies:
’These teeth, these claws,
With vigilance shall serve the cause.
80
The mouse destroyed by my pursuit,
No longer shall your feasts pollute;
Nor rats, from nightly ambuscade,
With wasteful teeth your stores invade.’
* * * * *
FABLE IX.
THE JACKALL, LEOPARD, AND OTHER BEASTS
TO A MODERN POLITICIAN.
I grant corruption sways mankind;
That interest too perverts the mind;
That bribes have blinded common sense,
Foiled reason, truth, and eloquence:
I grant you too, our present crimes
Can equal those of former times.
Against plain facts shall I engage,
To vindicate our righteous age?
I know, that in a modern fist,
Bribes in full energy subsist.
10
Since then these arguments prevail,
And itching palms are still so frail,
Hence politicians, you suggest,
Should drive the nail that goes the best;
That it shows parts and penetration,
To ply men with the right temptation.
To this I humbly must dissent;
Premising no reflection’s meant.
Does justice or the client’s sense
Teach lawyers either side’s defence?
20
The fee gives eloquence its spirit;
That only is the client’s merit.
Does art, wit, wisdom, or address,
Obtain the prostitute’s caress?
The guinea (as in other trades)
From every hand alike persuades.
Man, Scripture says, is prone to evil,
But does that vindicate the devil?
Besides, the more mankind are prone,
The less the devil’s parts are shown.
30
Corruption’s not of modern date;
It hath been tried in every state.
Great knaves of old their power have fenced,
By places, pensions, bribes, dispensed;
By these they gloried in success,
And impudently dared oppress;
By these despoticly they swayed,
And slaves extolled the hand that paid;
Nor parts, nor genius were employed,
By these alone were realms destroyed.
40
Now see these wretches in disgrace,
Stripp’d of their treasures, power, and place;
View them abandoned and forlorn,
Exposed to just reproach and scorn.
What now is all your pride, your boast?
Where are your slaves, your flattering host?
What tongues now feed you with applause?
Where are the champions of your cause?
Now even that very fawning train
Which shared the gleanings of your gain,
50
Press foremost who shall first accuse
Your selfish jobs, your paltry views,
Your narrow schemes, your breach of trust,
And want of talents to be just.
What fools were these amidst their power!
How thoughtless of their adverse hour!
What friends were made? A hireling herd,
For temporary votes preferr’d.
Was it, these sycophants to get,
Your bounty swelled a nation’s debt?
60
You’re bit. For these, like Swiss attend;
No longer pay, no longer friend.
The lion is, beyond dispute,
Allowed the most majestic brute;
His valour and his generous mind
Prove him superior of his kind.
Yet to jackals (as ’tis averred)
Some lions have their power transferred;
As if the parts of pimps and spies
To govern forests could suffice.
70
Once, studious of his private good,
A proud jackal oppressed the wood;
Page 161
To cram his own insatiate jaws, 73
Invaded property and laws;
The forest groans with discontent,
Fresh wrongs the general hate foment,
The spreading murmurs reached his ear;
His secret hours were vexed with fear.
Night after night he weighs the case,
And feels the terrors of disgrace.
80
‘By friends,’ says he, ’I’ll
guard my seat,
By those malicious tongues defeat:
I’ll strengthen power by new allies,
And all my clamorous foes despise.’
To make the generous beasts his friends,
He cringes, fawns, and condescends;
But those repulsed his abject court,
And scorned oppression to support.
Friends must be had. He can’t subsist.
Bribes shall new proselytes inlist.
90
But these nought weighed in honest paws;
For bribes confess a wicked cause:
Yet think not every paw withstands
What had prevailed in human hands.
A tempting turnip’s silver skin
Drew a base hog through thick and thin:
Bought with a stag’s delicious haunch,
The mercenary wolf was stanch:
The convert fox grew warm and hearty,
A pullet gained him to the party;
100
The golden pippin in his fist,
A chattering monkey joined the list.
But soon exposed to public hate,
The favourite’s fall redressed the state.
The leopard, vindicating right,
Had brought his secret frauds to light,
As rats, before the mansion falls,
Desert late hospitable walls,
In shoals the servile creatures run,
To bow before the rising sun.
110
The hog with warmth expressed his zeal,
And was for hanging those that steal;
But hoped, though low, the public hoard
Might half a turnip still afford.
Since saving measures were profess’d,
A lamb’s head was the wolf’s request.
The fox submitted if to touch
A gosling would be deemed too much.
The monkey thought his grin and chatter,
Might ask a nut or some such matter.
120
‘Ye hirelings, hence,’ the leopard
cries;
’Your venal conscience I despise.
He who the public good intends,
By bribes needs never purchase friends.
Who acts this just, this open part,
Is propp’d by every honest heart.
Corruption now too late hath showed,
That bribes are always ill-bestowed,
By you your bubbled master’s taught,
Time-serving tools, not friends, are bought.’
130
* * * * *
FABLE X.
THE DEGENERATE BEES.
TO THE REVEREND DR SWIFT, DEAN OF ST PATRICK’S.
Though Courts the practice disallow,
A friend at all times I’ll avow.
In politics I know ’tis wrong:
A friendship may be kept too long;
And what they call the prudent part,
Is to wear interest next the heart,
As the times take a different face,
Old friendships should to new give place.
I know too you have
many foes,
That owning you is sharing those,
* * * * *
FABLE XI.
THE PACK-HORSE AND THE CARRIER.
TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN.
Begin, my lord, in early youth,
To suffer, nay, encourage truth:
And blame me not for disrespect,
If I the flatterer’s style reject;
With that, by menial tongues supplied,
You’re daily cocker’d up in
pride.
The tree’s distinguished
by the fruit,
Be virtue then your sole pursuit;
Set your great ancestors in view,
Like them deserve the title too;
10
Like them ignoble actions scorn:
Let virtue prove you greatly born.
Though with less plate
their sideboard shone,
Their conscience always was their own;
They ne’er at levees meanly fawned,
Nor was their honour yearly pawned;
Their hands, by no corruption stained,
The ministerial bribe disdained;
They served the crown with loyal zeal;
Yet, jealous of the public weal,
20
They stood the bulwark of our laws,
And wore at heart their country’s
cause;
By neither place or pension bought,
They spoke and voted as they thought.
Thus did your sires adorn their seat;
And such alone are truly great.
If you the paths of
learning slight,
You’re but a dunce in stronger light;
In foremost rank the coward placed,
Is more conspicuously disgraced.
30
If you to serve a paltry end,
To knavish jobs can condescend,
We pay you the contempt that’s due;
In that you have precedence too.
Whence had you this illustrious name?
From virtue and unblemished fame.
By birth the name alone descends;
Your honour on yourself depends:
Think not your coronet can hide
Assuming ignorance and pride.
40
Learning by study must be won,
’Twas ne’er entailed from
son to son.
Superior worth your rank requires;
For that mankind reveres your sires;
If you degenerate from
your race,
Their merits heighten your disgrace.
A carrier, every night
and morn,
Would see his horses eat their corn:
This sunk the hostler’s vails, ’tis
true;
But then his horses had their due.
50
Were we so cautious in all cases,
Small gain would rise from greater places.
Page 164
The manger now had all
its measure;
He heard the grinding teeth with pleasure;
When all at once confusion rung;
They snorted, jostled, bit, and flung:
A pack-horse turned his head aside,
Foaming, his eye-balls swelled with pride.
‘Good gods!’
says he, ’how hard’s my lot!
Is then my high descent forgot?
60
Reduced to drudgery and disgrace,
(A life unworthy of my race,)
Must I too bear the vile attacks
Of rugged scrubs, and vulgar hacks?
See scurvy Roan, that brute ill-bred,
Dares from the manger thrust my head!
Shall I, who boast a noble line,
On offals of these creatures dine?
Kicked by old Ball! so mean a foe!
My honour suffers by the blow.
70
Newmarket speaks my grandsire’s
fame,
All jockies still revere his name:
There yearly are his triumphs told,
There all his massy plates enrolled.
Whene’er led forth upon the plain,
You saw him with a livery train;
Returning too with laurels crowned,
You heard the drums and trumpets sound.
Let it then, sir, be understood,
Respect’s my due; for I have blood.’
80
‘Vain-glorious
fool!’ the carrier cried,
’Respect was never paid to pride.
Know, ’twas thy giddy wilful heart
Reduced thee to this slavish part.
Did not thy headstrong youth disdain
To learn the conduct of the rein?
Thus coxcombs, blind to real merit,
In vicious frolics fancy spirit.
What is’t to me by whom begot?
Thou restive, pert, conceited sot.
90
Your sires I reverence; ’tis their
due:
But, worthless fool, what’s that
to you?
Ask all the carriers on the road,
They’ll say thy keeping’s
ill bestowed.
Then vaunt no more thy noble race,
That neither mends thy strength or pace.
What profits me thy boast of blood?
An ass hath more intrinsic good.
By outward show let’s not be cheated;
An ass should like an ass be treated.’
100
* * * * *
FABLE XII.
PAN AND FORTUNE.
TO A YOUNG HEIR.
Soon as your father’s death was
known,
(As if the estate had been their own)
The gamesters outwardly express’d
The decent joy within your breast.
So lavish in your praise they grew,
As spoke their certain hopes in you.
One counts your income
of the year,
How much in ready money clear.
‘No house,’
says he, ’is more complete;
The garden’s elegant and great.
10
How fine the park around it lies!
The timber’s of a noble size!
Then count his jewels and his plate.
Besides, ’tis no entailed estate.
If cash run low, his lands in fee
Are, or for sale, or mortgage free.’
Thus they, before you
threw the main,
Seem to anticipate their gain.
Page 165
Would you, when thieves were known abroad,
Bring forth your treasures in the road?
20
Would not the fool abet
the stealth,
Who rashly thus exposed his wealth?
Yet this you do, whene’er
you play
Among the gentlemen of prey.
Could fools to keep their own contrive,
On what, on whom could gamesters thrive?
Is it in charity you game,
To save your worthy gang from shame?
Unless you furnished daily bread,
Which way could idleness be fed?
30
Could these professors
of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risks for prey,
And strip the traveller on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And ’scape the noose from year to
year.
Consider, ere you make the bet,
That sum might cross your tailor’s
debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
Is not your honour too at stake?
40
Must you not by mean lies evade
To-morrow’s duns from every trade?
By promises so often paid,
Is yet your tailor’s bill defrayed?
Must you not pitifully fawn,
To have your butcher’s writ withdrawn?
This must be done. In debts of play
Your honour suffers no delay:
And not this year’s and next year’s
rent
The sons of rapine can content.
50
Look round. The
wrecks of play behold,
Estates dismembered, mortgaged, sold!
Their owners, not to jails confined,
Show equal poverty of mind.
Some, who the spoil of knaves were made,
Too late attempt to learn their trade.
Some, for the folly of one hour,
Become the dirty tools of power,
And, with the mercenary list,
Upon court-charity subsist.
60
You’ll find at
last this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves pursue.
The forest (a whole
century’s shade)
Must be one wasteful ruin made.
No mercy’s shewn to age or kind;
The general massacre is signed.
The park too shares the dreadful fate,
For duns grow louder at the gate,
Stern clowns, obedient to the squire,
(What will not barbarous hands for hire?)
70
With brawny arms repeat the stroke.
Fallen are the elm and reverend oak.
Through the long wood loud axes sound,
And echo groans with every wound.
To see the desolation
spread,
Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head:
His bosom now with fury burns:
Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns.
Cards, too, in peevish passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds are borne.
80
’To snails inveterate
hate I bear,
Who spoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I detest,
The blooming spring’s voracious
pest;
The locust too, whose ravenous band
Spreads sudden famine o’er the land.
But what are these? The dice’s
throw
At once hath laid a forest low.
* * * * *
FABLE XIII.
PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.
Of all the burdens man must bear,
Time seems most galling and severe:
Beneath this grievous load oppressed,
We daily meet some friend distressed.
’What can one
do? I rose at nine.
’Tis full six hours before we dine:
Six hours! no earthly thing to do!
Would I had dozed in bed till two.’
A pamphlet is before
him spread,
And almost half a page is read;
10
Tired with the study of the day,
The fluttering sheets are tossed away.
He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and stretches in his chair.
’Not twenty, by
the minute hand!
Good gods:’ says he, ’my
watch must stand!
How muddling ’tis on books to pore!
I thought I’d read an hour or more,
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can’t contrive to rise too late.’
20
To make the minutes
faster run,
Then too his tiresome self to shun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, some scraps he reads.
Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other’s grievances they share,
* * * * *
FABLE XIV.
THE OWL, THE SWAN, THE COCK, THE SPIDER,
THE
ASS, AND THE FARMER.
TO A MOTHER.
Conversing with your sprightly boys,
Your eyes have spoke the mother’s
joys.
With what delight I’ve heard you
quote
Their sayings in imperfect note!
I grant, in body and
in mind,
Nature appears profusely kind.
Trust not to that. Act you your part;
Imprint just morals on their heart,
Impartially their talents scan:
Just education forms the man.
10
Perhaps (their genius
yet unknown)
Each lot of life’s already thrown;
That this shall plead, the next shall
fight,
The last assert the church’s right.
I censure not the fond intent;
But how precarious is the event!
By talents misapplied and cross’d,
Consider, all your sons are lost.
One day (the tale’s
by Martial penned)
A father thus addressed his friend:
20
’To train my boy, and call forth
sense,
You know I’ve stuck at no expense;
I’ve tried him in the several arts,
(The lad no doubt hath latent parts,)
Yet trying all, he nothing knows;
But, crab-like, rather backward goes.
Teach me what yet remains undone;
‘Tis your advice shall fix my son.’
‘Sir,’ says
the friend, ’I’ve weighed the matter;
Excuse me, for I scorn to flatter:
30
Make him (nor think his genius checked)
A herald or an architect.’
Perhaps (as commonly
’tis known)
He heard the advice, and took his own.
The boy wants wit; he’s
sent to school,
Where learning but improves the fool:
The college next must give him parts,
And cram him with the liberal arts.
Whether he blunders at the bar,
Or owes his infamy to war;
40
Or if by licence or degree
The sexton shares the doctor’s fee:
Or from the pulpit by the hour
He weekly floods of nonsense pour;
We find (the intent of nature foiled)
A tailor or a butcher spoiled.
Thus ministers have
royal boons
Conferred on blockheads and buffoons:
In spite of nature, merit, wit,
Their friends for every post were fit.
50
But now let every Muse
confess
That merit finds its due success.
The examples of our days regard;
Where’s virtue seen without reward?
Distinguished and in place you find
Desert and worth of every kind.
Survey the reverend bench, and see,
Religion, learning, piety:
The patron, ere he recommends,
Sees his own image in his friends.
60
Is honesty disgraced and poor?
What is’t to us what was before?
We all of times corrupt
have heard,
When paltry minions were preferred;
When all great offices by dozens,
Were filled by brothers, sons, and cousins.
* * * * *
FABLE XV.
THE COOK-MAID, THE TURNSPIT, AND THE OX.
TO A POOR MAN.
Consider man in every sphere,
Then tell me is your lot severe?
’Tis murmur, discontent, distrust,
That makes you wretched. God is just.
I grant, that hunger must be fed,
That toil too earns thy daily bread.
What then? Thy wants are seen and known,
But every mortal feels his own.
We’re born a restless, needy crew:
Show me the happier man than you.
10
Adam, though blest above his kind,
For want of social woman pined,
Eve’s wants the subtle serpent saw,
Her fickle taste transgressed the law:
Thus fell our sires; and their disgrace
The curse entailed on human race.
When Philip’s son, by glory led,
Had o’er the globe his empire spread;
When altars to his name were dressed,
That he was man, his tears confessed.
20
The hopes of avarice are check’d:
The proud man always wants respect.
What various wants on power attend!
Ambition never gains its end.
Who hath not heard the rich complain
Of surfeits and corporeal pain?
He, barred from every use of wealth,
Envies the ploughman’s strength and health.
Another in a beauteous wife
Finds all the miseries of life:
30
Domestic jars and jealous fear
Embitter all his days with care.
This wants an heir, the line is lost:
Why was that vain entail engross’d?
Canst thou discern another’s mind?
Why is’t you envy? Envy’s blind.
Tell Envy, when she would annoy,
That thousands want what you enjoy.
’The dinner must be dished at one.
Where’s this vexatious turnspit gone?
40
Unless the skulking cur is caught,
The sirloin’s spoiled, and I’m in fault.’
Thus said: (for sure you’ll think it
fit
That I the cook-maid’s oaths omit)
With all the fury of a cook,
Her cooler kitchen Nan forsook.
The broomstick o’er her head she waves;
She sweats, she stamps, she puffs, she raves.
The sneaking cur before her flies:
She whistles, calls; fair speech she tries.
50
These nought avail. Her choler burns;
The fist and cudgel threat by turns;
With hasty stride she presses near;
He slinks aloof, and howls with fear.
‘Was ever cur so cursed!’ he cried,
’What star did at my birth preside?
Am I for life by compact bound
Page 172
To tread the wheel’s eternal round?
Inglorious task! Of all our race
No slave is half so mean and base.
60
Had fate a kinder lot assigned,
And formed me of the lap-dog kind,
I then, in higher life employed,
Had indolence and ease enjoyed;
And, like a gentleman, caress’d,
Had been the lady’s favourite guest.
Or were I sprung from spaniel line,
Was his sagacious nostril mine,
By me, their never-erring guide,
From wood and plain their feasts supplied
70
Knights, squires, attendant on my pace,
Had shared the pleasures of the chase.
Endued with native strength and fire,
Why called I not the lion sire?
A lion! such mean views I scorn.
Why was I not of woman born?
Who dares with reason’s power contend?
On man we brutal slaves depend:
To him all creatures tribute pays,
And luxury employs his days.’
80
An ox by chance o’erheard his moan,
And thus rebuked the lazy drone:
’Dare you at partial fate repine?
How kind’s your lot compared with mine!
Decreed to toil, the barbarous knife
Hath severed me from social life;
Urged by the stimulating goad,
I drag the cumbrous waggon’s load:
’Tis mine to tame the stubborn plain,
Break the stiff soil, and house the grain;
90
Yet I without a murmur bear
The various labours of the year.
But then consider, that one day,
(Perhaps the hour’s not far away,)
You, by the duties of your post,
Shall turn the spit when I’m the roast:
And for reward shall share the feast;
I mean, shall pick my bones at least.’
‘’Till now,’ the astonished
cur replies,
’I looked on all with envious eyes.
100
How false we judge by what appears!
All creatures feel their several cares.
If thus yon mighty beast complains,
Perhaps man knows superior pains.
Let envy then no more torment:
Think on the ox, and learn content.’
Thus said: close following at her heel,
With cheerful heart he mounts the wheel.
FABLE XVI.
THE RAVENS, THE SEXTON, AND THE EARTH-WORM.
TO LAURA.
Laura, methinks you’re over nice.
True, flattery is a shocking vice;
Yet sure, whene’er the praise is
just,
One may commend without disgust.
Am I a privilege denied,
Indulged by every tongue beside?
How singular are all your ways!
A woman, and averse to praise!
If ’tis offence such truths to tell,
Why do your merits thus excel?
10
Since then I dare not
speak my mind,
A truth conspicuous to mankind;
Though in full lustre every grace
Distinguish your celestial face:
Though beauties of inferior ray
(Like stars before the orb of day)
Turn pale and fade: I check my lays,
Admiring what I dare not praise.
If you the tribute due disdain,
The Muse’s mortifying strain
Page 173
20
Shall like a woman in mere spite,
Set beauty in a moral light.
Though such revenge
might shock the ear
Of many a celebrated fair;
I mean that superficial race
Whose thoughts ne’er reach beyond
their face;
What’s that to you? I but displease
Such ever-girlish ears as these.
Virtue can brook the thoughts of age,
That lasts the same through every stage.
30
Though you by time must
suffer more
Than ever woman lost before;
To age is such indifference shown,
As if your face were not your own.
Were you by Antoninus[1]
taught?
Or is it native strength of thought,
That thus, without concern or fright,
You view yourself by reason’s light?
Those eyes of so divine a ray,
What are they? Mouldering, mortal
clay.
40
Those features, cast in heavenly mould,
Shall, like my coarser earth, grow old;
Like common grass, the fairest flower
Must feel the hoary season’s power.
How weak, how vain is
human pride!
Dares man upon himself confide?
The wretch who glories in his gain,
Amasses heaps on heaps in vain.
Why lose we life in anxious cares,
To lay in hoards for future years?
50
Can those (when tortured by disease)
Cheer our sick heart, or purchase ease?
Can those prolong one gasp of breath,
Or calm the troubled hour of death?
What’s beauty?
Call ye that your own?
A flower that fades as soon as blown.
What’s man in all his boast of sway?
Perhaps the tyrant of a day.
Alike the laws of life
take place
Through every branch of human race,
60
The monarch of long regal line
Was raised from dust as frail as mine.
Can he pour health into his veins,
Or cool the fever’s restless pains?
Can he (worn down in Nature’s course)
New-brace his feeble nerves with force?
Can he (how vain is mortal power!)
Stretch life beyond the destined hour?
Consider, man; weigh
well thy frame;
The king, the beggar is the same.
70
Dust forms us all. Each breathes
his day,
Then sinks into his native clay.
Beneath a venerable
yew,
That in the lonely church-yard grew,
Two ravens sat. In solemn croak
Thus one his hungry friend bespoke:
’Methinks I scent
some rich repast;
The savour strengthens with the blast;
Snuff then, the promised feast inhale;
I taste the carcase in the gale;
80
Near yonder trees, the farmer’s
steed,
From toil and daily drudgery freed,
Hath groaned his last. A dainty treat!
To birds of taste delicious meat.’
A sexton, busy at his
trade,
To hear their chat suspends his spade.
Death struck him with no further thought,
Than merely as the fees he brought.
’Was ever two such blundering fowls,
END OF GAY’S FABLES.
SONGS.
SWEET WILLIAM’S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN.
1
All in the Downs the fleet was
moor’d,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eye’d Susan came aboard.
Oh! where shall I my true-love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew.
2
William, who high upon the yard
Rock’d with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,
He sigh’d, and cast his eyes below;
The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,
And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.
3
So the sweet lark, high poised
in air,
Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If chance his mate’s shrill call he
hear,)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William’s lip those kisses sweet.
4
O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear;
We only part to meet again.
Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be
The faithful compass that still points to thee.
5
Believe not what the landmen
say,
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind.
They’ll tell thee, sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe’er I go.
6
If to fair India’s coast
we sail,
Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
Thy breath is Afric’s spicy gale,
Thy skin is ivory so white.
Thus every beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
7
Though battle call me from thy
arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.
Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan’s
eye.
8
The boatswain gave the dreadful
word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread;
No longer must she stay aboard:
They kiss’d, she sigh’d, he
hung his head.
Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land:
Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand.
* * * * *
A BALLAD,
FROM THE WHAT-D’YE-CALL-IT.
1
’Twas when the seas were roaring
With hollow blasts of wind;
A damsel lay deploring,
All on a rock reclined.
Wide o’er the foaming billows
She casts a wistful look;
Her head was crown’d with willows,
That trembled o’er the
brook.
2
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days.
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what’s thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?
3
The merchant, robb’d of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair:
But what’s the loss of treasure,
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You’d find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.
4
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then beneath the water
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover,
That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep.
5
All melancholy lying,
Thus wail’d she for
her dear;
Repaid each blast with sighing,
Each billow with a tear;
When o’er the white wave stooping,
His floating corpse she spied;
Then, like a lily drooping,
She bow’d her head,
and died.
END OF GAY’S SONGS.
[Footnote 1: Second son of George II.; born in 1721; he was five years old at the date of the publication of the ‘Fables,’ which were written for his instruction. He is ‘Culloden’ Cumberland.]
[Footnote 2: ‘Siam,’ a country famous for elephants.]
[Footnote 3: ‘Gresham Hall,’ originally the house of Sir Thomas Gresham in Winchester. It was converted by his will into a college, no remains of which now exist.]
[Footnote 4: ‘Curl,’ a famous publisher to Grub Street.]
[Footnote 5: Garth’s Dispensary.]
[Footnote 6: ‘Porta:’ a native of Naples, famous for skill in the occult sciences. He wrote a book on Physiognomy, seeking to trace in the human face resemblances to animals, and to infer similar correspondences in mind.]
[Footnote 7: ’——When
impious men bear sway,
The
post of honour is a private station.’-ADDISON.]
[Footnote 8: ‘Antiochus’: See Plutarch.]
[Footnote 9: Barrow.]
[Footnote 10: ‘The Macedonian:’ Alexander the Great.]
[Footnote 11: ‘Corelli:’ Arcangelo, the greatest fiddler, till Paganini, that has appeared. He was born in the territory of Bologna, in 1653, and died in 1713.]
[Footnote 12: ‘Antoninus:’ Marcus, one of the few emperors who have been also philosophers.]
LIFE OF WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.
* * * * *
There is a chapter in an old history of Iceland which has often moved merriment. The title of it is, “Concerning Snakes in Iceland,” and the contents are, “Snakes in Iceland there are none.” We suspect, when our “Life of William Somerville” is ended, not a few will find in it a parallel for that comprehensive chapter, although we strenuously maintain that the fault of an insipid and uninteresting life is not always to be charged on the biographer.
In “Sartor Resartus” our readers remember an epitaph, somewhat coarse, although disguised in good dog-Latin, upon a country squire, and his sayings and doings in this world. We have not a copy of that work at hand, and cannot quote the epitaph, nor would we, though we could, since even the dog-Latin is too plain and perspicuous for many readers. We recommend those, however, who choose to turn it up; and they will find in it (with the exception of the writing of “the Chase”) the full history of William Somerville, of whom we know little, but that he was born, that he hunted, ate, drank, and died.
He was born in 1682; but in what month, or on what day, we are not informed. His estate was in Warwickshire, its name Edston, and he had inherited it from a long line of ancestors. His family prided itself upon being the first family in the county. He himself boasts of having been born on the banks of Avon, which has thus at least produced two poets, of somewhat different calibre indeed—the one a deer-stealer, and the other a fox-hunter—Shakspeare and Somerville. Somerville was educated at Winchester School, and was afterwards elected fellow of New College. From his studies—of his success in which we know nothing—he returned to his native county, and there, says Johnson, “was distinguished as a poet, a gentleman, and a skilful and useful justice of the peace;”—we may add, as a jovial companion and a daring fox-hunter. His estate brought him in about L1500 a-year, but his extravagance brought him into pecuniary distresses, which weighed upon his mind, plunged him into intemperate habits, and hurried him away in his 60th year. Shenstone, who knew him well, thus mourns aver his departure in one of his letters:—“Our old friend Somerville is dead; I did not imagine I could have been so sorry as I find myself on this occasion. Sublatum quoerimus, I can now excuse all his foibles; impute them to age and to distressed circumstances. The last of these considerations wrings my very soul to think on; for a man of high spirit, conscious of having (at least in one production) generally pleased the world, to be plagued and threatened by wretches that are low in every sense; to be forced to drink himself into pains of the body in order to get rid of the pains of the mind, is a misery.”
Somerville died July 19, 1742, and was buried at Wotton, near Henley-on-Arden. His estate went to Lord Somerville in Scotland, but his mother, who lived to a great age, had a jointure of L600. He describes himself, in verses addressed to Allan Ramsay, as
“A squire, well-born and six feet high.”
He seems, from the affection and sympathy discovered for him by Shenstone, to have possessed the virtues as well as the vices of the squirearchy of that age; their frankness, sociality, and heart, as well as their improvidence and tendency to excess; and may altogether be called a sublimated Squire Western.
As to his poetry, much of it is beneath criticism. His “Fables,” “Tales,” “Hobbinol, or Rural Games,” &c., have all in them poetical lines, but cannot, as a whole, be called poetry. He wrote some verses, entitled “Address to Addison,” on the latter purchasing an estate in Warwickshire (he gave his Countess L4000 in exchange for it). In this there are two lines which Dr Johnson highly commends, saying “They are written with the most exquisite delicacy of praise; they exhibit one of those happy strokes that are seldom attained.”—Here is this bepraised couplet:—
“When panting virtue her last efforts
made,
You brought your Clio to the virgin’s
aid.”
Clio, of course, refers to Addison’s signatures in the “Spectator,” consisting of the four letters composing the name of the Muse of History, used in alternation. We cannot coincide in Johnson’s encomium. The allusion is, we think, at once indecent and obscure; and what, after all, does it say, but that Addison’s papers aided the struggling cause of virtue?
In the same verses we find a fulsome and ridiculous preference of Addison to Shakspeare!
“In heaven he sings, on earth your
Muse supplies
The important loss, and heals our weeping
eyes;
Correctly great, she melts each flinty
heart,
With EQUAL GENIUS, but SUPERIOR ART.”
Surely the force of falsehood and flattery can go no further.
It is a pleasure to turn from these small and shallow things to the “Chase,” which, if not a great poem, is founded on a most poetical subject, and which, here and there, sparkles into fine fancy. Dr Johnson truly remarks, that Somerville “set a good example to men of his own class, by devoting a part of his time to elegant knowledge, and has shewn, by the subjects which his poetry has adorned, that it is practicable to be at once a skilful sportsman and a man of letters.” But besides this purpose to be the poet—and hitherto he has been almost the sole poet of the squirearchy, as considered apart from the aristocracy—Somerville has the merit of being inspired by a genuine love for the subject. He writes directly from the testimony of his own eyes, and the impulses of his own heart. He has obviously had the mould of his poem suggested by Thomson’s “Seasons,” but it is the mould only; the thoughts and feelings which are poured into it are his own. He loves the giddy ride over stock and stone, hedge and petty precipice; the invigoration which the keen breath of autumn or winter, like that of a sturdy veteran, gives the animal spirits; the animated aspect of the “assembled jockeyship of half a province;” the wild music of hounds, and horns, and hollas, vieing with each other in mirth and loudness; the breathless interest of the start; the emulous pant of the coursers; the excitement of the moment when the fox appears; the sweeping tumult of the pursuit; the dreamlike rapidity with which five-barred gates are cleared, the yellow
We doubt not, however, that, were a genuine poet of this age taking up the “Chase” as a subject for song, and availing himself of the accounts of recent travellers, themselves often true poets, such as Lloyd, Livingstone, Cumming Bruce, and Charles Boner, (see the admirable “Chamois Hunting in Bavaria” of the latter,) he would produce a strain incomparably higher than Somerville’s. Wilson, at least, as we know from his “Christopher in his Sporting Jacket,” and many other articles in Maga, was qualified, in part by nature and in part by extensive experience, to have written such a poem. Indeed, one sentence of his is superior to anything in the “Chase.” Speaking of the charge of the cruelty of chasing such an insignificant animal as a fox, he says, “What though it be but a smallish, reddish-brown, sharp-nosed animal, with pricked-up ears, and passionately fond of poultry, that they pursue? After the first tallyho, reynard is rarely seen till he is run in upon—once, perhaps, in the whole run, skirting a wood, or crossing a common. It is an idea that is pursued on a whirlwind of horses, to a storm of canine music, worthy both of the largest lion that ever leaped among a band of Moors sleeping at midnight by an extinguished fire on the African sands.” We do not answer for the humanity of this description, but it certainly seems to us to exhaust the subject of the chase, alike in its philosophy and its poetry.[1]
* * * * *
THE ARGUMENT.
The subject proposed.—Address to his Royal Highness the Prince.—The origin of hunting.—The rude and unpolished manner of the first hunters.—Beasts at first hunted for food and sacrifice.—The grant made by God to man of the beasts, &c.—The regular manner of hunting first brought into this island by the Normans.—The best hounds and best horses bred here.—The advantage of this exercise to us, as islanders.—Address to gentlemen of estates.—Situation of the kennel and its several courts.—The diversion and employment of hounds in the kennel.—The different sorts of hounds for each different chase.— Description of a perfect hound.—Of sizing and sorting of hounds.—The middle-sized hound recommended.—Of the large, deep-mouthed hound for hunting the stag and otter.—Of the lime-hound; their use on the borders of England and Scotland.—A physical account of scents.—Of good and bad scenting days.—A short admonition to my brethren of the couples.
The Chase I sing, hounds, and their various
breed,
And no less various use. O thou Great
Prince![2]
Whom Cambria’s towering hills proclaim
their lord,
Deign thou to hear my bold, instructive
song.
While grateful citizens with pompous show,
Rear the triumphal arch, rich with the
exploits
Of thy illustrious house; while virgins
pave
Thy way with flowers, and, as the royal
youth
Passing they view, admire, and sigh in
vain;
While crowded theatres, too fondly proud
10
Of their exotic minstrels, and shrill
pipes,
The price of manhood, hail thee with a
song,
And airs soft-warbling; my hoarse-sounding
horn
Invites thee to the Chase, the sport of
kings;
Image of war, without its guilt.
The Muse
Aloft on wing shall soar, conduct with
care
Thy foaming courser o’er the steepy
rock,
Or on the river bank receive thee safe,
Light-bounding o’er the wave, from
shore to shore.
Be thou our great protector, gracious
youth!
20
And if in future times, some envious prince,
Careless of right and guileful, should
invade
Thy Britain’s commerce, or should
strive in vain
To wrest the balance from thy equal hand;
Thy hunter-train, in cheerful green arrayed,
(A band undaunted, and inured to toils,)
Shall compass thee around, die at thy
feet,
Or hew thy passage through the embattled
foe,
And clear thy way to fame; inspired by
thee
The nobler chase of glory shall pursue
30
Through fire, and smoke, and blood, and
fields of death.
Nature, in her productions
slow, aspires
By just degrees to reach perfection’s
height:
So mimic Art works leisurely, till Time
Improve the piece, or wise Experience
give
The proper finishing. When Nimrod
bold,
That mighty hunter, first made war on
Page 181
beasts,
And stained the woodland green with purple
dye,
New and unpolished was the huntsman’s
art;
No stated rule, his wanton will his guide.
40
With clubs and stones, rude implements
of war,
He armed his savage bands, a multitude
Untrained; of twining osiers formed, they
pitch
Their artless toils, then range the desert
hills,
And scour the plains below; the trembling
herd
Start at the unusual sound, and clamorous
shout
Unheard before; surprised alas! to find
Man now their foe, whom erst they deemed
their lord,
But mild and gentle, and by whom as yet
Secure they grazed. Death stretches
o’er the plain
50
Wide-wasting, and grim slaughter red with
blood:
Urged on by hunger keen, they wound, they
kill,
Their rage licentious knows no bound;
at last
Incumbered with their spoils, joyful they
bear
Upon their shoulders broad, the bleeding
prey.
Part on their altars smokes a sacrifice
To that all-gracious Power, whose bounteous
hand
Supports his wide creation; what remains
On living coals they broil, inelegant
Of taste, nor skilled as yet in nicer
arts
60
Of pampered luxury. Devotion pure,
And strong necessity, thus first began
The chase of beasts: though bloody
was the deed,
Yet without guilt. For the green
herb alone
Unequal to sustain man’s labouring
race,
Now every moving thing that lived on earth
Was granted him for food. So just
is Heaven,
To give us in proportion to our wants.
Or chance or industry
in after-times
Some few improvements made, but short
as yet
70
Of due perfection. In this isle remote
Our painted ancestors were slow to learn,
To arms devote, of the politer arts
Nor skilled nor studious; till from Neustria’s[3]
coasts
Victorious William, to more decent rules
Subdued our Saxon fathers, taught to speak
The proper dialect, with horn and voice
To cheer the busy hound, whose well-known
cry
His listening peers approve with joint
acclaim.
From him successive huntsmen learned to
join
80
In bloody social leagues, the multitude
Dispersed, to size, to sort their various
tribes,
To rear, feed, hunt, and discipline the
pack.
Hail, happy Britain!
highly-favoured isle,
And Heaven’s peculiar care!
To thee ’tis given
To train the sprightly steed, more fleet
than those
Begot by winds, or the celestial breed
That bore the great Pelides through the
press
Of heroes armed, and broke their crowded
ranks;
Which proudly neighing, with the sun begins
90
Cheerful his course; and ere his beams
decline,
Has measured half thy surface unfatigued.
In thee alone, fair land of liberty!
Is bred the perfect hound, in scent and
speed
As yet unrivalled, while in other climes
Page 182
Their virtue fails, a weak degenerate
race.
In vain malignant steams, and winter fogs
Load the dull air, and hover round our
coasts,
The huntsman ever gay, robust, and bold,
Defies the noxious vapour, and confides
100
In this delightful exercise, to raise
His drooping head and cheer his heart
with joy.
Ye vigorous youths,
by smiling Fortune blest
With large demesnes, hereditary wealth,
Heaped copious by your wise forefathers’
care,
Hear and attend! while I the means reveal
To enjoy those pleasures, for the weak
too strong,
Too costly for the poor: to rein
the steed
Swift-stretching o’er the plain,
to cheer the pack
Opening in concerts of harmonious joy,
110
But breathing death. What though
the gripe severe
Of brazen-fisted Time, and slow disease
Creeping through every vein, and nerve
unstrung,
Afflict my shattered frame, undaunted
still,
Fixed as a mountain ash, that braves the
bolts
Of angry Jove; though blasted, yet unfallen;
Still can my soul in Fancy’s mirror
view
Deeds glorious once, recal the joyous
scene
In all its splendours decked, o’er
the full bowl
Recount my triumphs past, urge others
on
120
With hand and voice, and point the winding
way:
Pleased with that social sweet garrulity,
The poor disbanded veteran’s sole
delight.
First let the Kennel
be the huntsman’s care,
Upon some little eminence erect,
And fronting to the ruddy dawn; its courts
On either hand wide opening to receive
The sun’s all-cheering beams, when
mild he shines,
And gilds the mountain tops. For
much the pack
(Roused from their dark alcoves) delight
to stretch,
130
And bask in his invigorating ray:
Warned by the streaming light and merry
lark,
Forth rush the jolly clan; with tuneful
throats
They carol loud, and in grand chorus joined
Salute the new-born day. For not
alone
The vegetable world, but men and brutes
Own his reviving influence, and joy
At his approach. Fountain of light!
if chance[4]
Some envious cloud veil thy refulgent
brow,
In vain the Muses aid; untouched, unstrung,
140
Lies my mute harp, and thy desponding
bard
Sits darkly musing o’er the unfinished
lay.
Let no Corinthian pillars
prop the dome,
A vain expense, on charitable deeds
Better disposed, to clothe the tattered
wretch,
Who shrinks beneath the blast, to feed
the poor
Pinched with afflictive want. For
use, not state,
Gracefully plain, let each apartment rise.
O’er all let cleanliness preside,
no scraps
Bestrew the pavement, and no half-picked
bones,
150
To kindle fierce debate, or to disgust
That nicer sense, on which the sportsman’s
hope,
And all his future triumphs must depend.
Soon as the growling pack with eager joy
Page 183
Have lapped their smoking viands, morn
or eve,
From the full cistern lead the ductile
streams,
To wash thy court well-paved, nor spare
thy pains,
For much to health will cleanliness avail.
Seek’st thou for hounds to climb
the rocky steep,
And brush the entangled covert, whose
nice scent
160
O’er greasy fallows, and frequented
roads
Can pick the dubious way? Banish
far off
Each noisome stench, let no offensive
smell
Invade thy wide inclosure, but admit
The nitrous air, and purifying breeze.
Water and shade no less
demand thy care:
In a large square the adjacent field inclose,
There plant in equal ranks the spreading
elm,
Or fragrant lime; most happy thy design,
If at the bottom of thy spacious court,
170
A large canal fed by the crystal brook,
From its transparent bosom shall reflect
Downward thy structure and inverted grove.
Here when the sun’s too potent gleams
annoy
The crowded kennel, and the drooping pack,
Restless and faint, loll their unmoistened
tongues,
And drop their feeble tails; to cooler
shades
Lead forth the panting tribe; soon shalt
thou find
The cordial breeze their fainting hearts
revive:
Tumultuous soon they plunge into the stream,
180
There lave their reeking sides, with greedy
joy
Gulp down the flying wave; this way and
that
From shore to shore they swim, while clamour
loud
And wild uproar torments the troubled
flood:
Then on the sunny bank they roll and stretch
Their dripping limbs, or else in wanton
rings
Coursing around, pursuing and pursued,
The merry multitude disporting play.
But here with watchful
and observant eye
Attend their frolics, which too often
end
190
In bloody broils and death. High
o’er thy head
Wave thy resounding whip, and with a voice
Fierce-menacing o’errule the stern
debate,
And quench their kindling rage; for oft
in sport
Begun, combat ensues, growling they snarl,
Then on their haunches reared, rampant
they seize
Each other’s throats, with teeth
and claws in gore
Besmeared, they wound, they tear, till
on the ground,
Panting, half dead the conquered champion
lies:
Then sudden all the base ignoble crowd
200
Loud-clamouring seize the helpless worried
wretch,
And thirsting for his blood, drag different
ways
His mangled carcase on the ensanguined
plain.
O breasts of pity void! to oppress the
weak,
To point your vengeance at the friendless
head,
And with one mutual cry insult the fallen!
Emblem too just of man’s degenerate
race.
Others apart by native
instinct led,
Knowing instructor! ’mong the ranker
grass
Cull each salubrious plant, with bitter
juice
210
Concoctive stored, and potent to allay
Each vicious ferment. Thus the hand
Page 184
divine
Of Providence, beneficent and kind
To all His creatures, for the brutes prescribes
A ready remedy, and is Himself
Their great physician. Now grown
stiff with age,
And many a painful chase, the wise old
hound
Regardless of the frolic pack, attends
His master’s side, or slumbers at
his ease
Beneath the bending shade; there many
a ring
220
Runs o’er in dreams; now on the
doubtful foil
Puzzles perplexed, or doubles intricate
Cautious unfolds, then winged with all
his speed,
Bounds o’er the lawn to seize his
panting prey:
And in imperfect whimperings speaks his
joy.
A different hound for
every different chase
Select with judgment; nor the timorous
hare
O’ermatched destroy, but leave that
vile offence
To the mean, murderous, coursing crew;
intent
On blood and spoil. O blast their
hopes, just Heaven!
230
And all their painful drudgeries repay
With disappointment and severe remorse.
But husband thou thy pleasures, and give
scope
To all her subtle play: by nature
led
A thousand shifts she tries; to unravel
these
The industrious beagle twists his waving
tail,
Through all her labyrinths pursues, and
rings
Her doleful knell. See there with
countenance blithe,
And with a courtly grin, the fawning hound
Salutes thee cowering, his wide-opening
nose
240
Upward he curls, and his large sloe-black
eyes
Melt in soft blandishments, and humble
joy;
His glossy skin, or yellow-pied, or blue,
In lights or shades by Nature’s
pencil drawn,
Reflects the various tints; his ears and
legs
Flecked here and there, in gay enamelled
pride
Rival the speckled pard; his rush-grown
tail
O’er his broad back bends in an
ample arch;
On shoulders clean, upright and firm he
stands,
His round cat foot, straight hams, and
wide-spread thighs,
250
And his low-dropping chest, confess his
speed,
His strength, his wind, or on the steepy
hill,
Or far-extended plain; in every part
So well proportioned, that the nicer skill
Of Phidias himself can’t blame thy
choice.
Of such compose thy pack. But here
a mean
Observe, nor the large hound prefer, of
size
Gigantic; he in the thick-woven covert
Painfully tugs, or in the thorny brake
Torn and embarrassed bleeds: but
if too small,
260
The pigmy brood in every furrow swims;
Moiled in the clogging clay, panting they
lag
Behind inglorious; or else shivering creep
Benumbed and faint beneath the sheltering
thorn.
For hounds of middle size, active and
strong,
Will better answer all thy various ends,
And crown thy pleasing labours with success.
As some brave captain,
curious and exact,
By his fixed standard forms in equal ranks
His gay battalion, as one man they move
Their only substance, feuds and war their
sport:
Not more expert in every fraudful art
300
The arch felon was of old, who by the
tail
Drew back his lowing prize: in vain
his wiles,
In vain the shelter of the covering rock,
In vain the sooty cloud, and ruddy flames
That issued from his mouth; for soon he
paid
His forfeit life: a debt how justly
due
To wronged Alcides, and avenging Heaven!
Veiled in the shades of night they ford
the stream,
Then prowling far and near, whate’er
they seize
Becomes their prey; nor flocks nor herds
are safe,
310
Nor stalls protect the steer, nor strong
barred doors
Secure the favourite horse. Soon
as the morn
Reveals his wrongs, with ghastly visage
wan
The plundered owner stands, and from his
lips
A thousand thronging curses burst their
way:
He calls his stout allies, and in a line
His faithful hound he leads, then with
a voice
That utters loud his rage, attentive cheers:
Soon the sagacious brute, his curling
tail
Flourished in air, low-bending plies around
320
His busy nose, the steaming vapour snuff
Inquisitive, nor leaves one turf untried,
Till conscious of the recent stains, his
heart
Beats quick; his snuffling nose, his active
tail
Attest his joy; then with deep opening
mouth
That makes the welkin tremble, he proclaims
The audacious felon; foot by foot he marks
Page 186
His winding way, while all the listening
crowd
Applaud his reasonings. O’er
the watery ford,
Dry sandy heaths, and stony barren hill,
330
O’er beaten paths, with men and
beasts distained,
Unerring he pursues; till at the cot
Arrived, and seizing by his guilty throat
The caitiff’ vile, redeems the
captive prey:
So exquisitely delicate his sense!
Should some more curious
sportsman here inquire,
Whence this sagacity, this wondrous power
Of tracing step by step, or man or brute?
What guide invisible points out their
way,
O’er the dank marsh, bleak hill,
and sandy plain?
340
The courteous Muse shall the dark cause
reveal.
The blood that from the heart incessant
rolls
In many a crimson tide, then here and
there
In smaller rills disparted, as it flows
Propelled, the serous particles evade
Through the open pores, and with the ambient
air
Entangling mix. As fuming vapours
rise,
And hang upon the gently purling brook,
There by the incumbent atmosphere compressed,
The panting chase grows warmer as he flies,
350
And through the net-work of the skin perspires;
Leaves a long-streaming trail behind,
which by
The cooler air condensed, remains, unless
By some rude storm dispersed, or rarefied
By the meridian sun’s intenser heat.
To every shrub the warm effluvia cling,
Hang on the grass, impregnate earth and
skies.
With nostrils opening wide, o’er
hill, o’er dale,
The vigorous hounds pursue, with every
breath
Inhale the grateful steam, quick pleasures
sting
360
Their tingling nerves, while they their
thanks repay,
And in triumphant melody confess
The titillating joy. Thus on the
air
Depend the hunter’s hopes.
When ruddy streaks
At eve forebode a blustering stormy day,
Or lowering clouds blacken the mountain’s
brow,
When nipping frosts, and the keen biting
blasts
Of the dry parching east, menace the trees
With tender blossoms teeming, kindly spare
Thy sleeping pack, in their warm beds
of straw
370
Low-sinking at their ease; listless they
shrink
Into some dark recess, nor hear thy voice
Though oft invoked; or haply if thy call
Rouse up the slumbering tribe, with heavy
eyes
Glazed, lifeless, dull, downward they
drop their tails
Inverted; high on their bent backs erect
Their pointed bristles stare, or ’mong
the tufts
Of ranker weeds, each stomach-healing
plant
Curious they crop, sick, spiritless, forlorn.
These inauspicious days, on other cares
380
Employ thy precious hours; the improving
friend
With open arms embrace, and from his lips
Glean science, seasoned with good-natured
wit.
But if the inclement skies and angry Jove
Forbid the pleasing intercourse, thy books
Page 187
Invite thy ready hand, each sacred page
Rich with the wise remarks of heroes old.
Converse familiar with the illustrious
dead;
With great examples of old Greece or Rome
Enlarge thy free-born heart, and bless
kind Heaven,
390
That Britain yet enjoys dear Liberty,
That balm of life, that sweetest blessing,
cheap
Though purchased with our blood.
Well-bred, polite,
Credit thy calling. See! how mean,
how low,
The bookless sauntering youth, proud of
the scut
That dignifies his cap, his flourished
belt,
And rusty couples jingling by his side.
Be thou of other mould; and know that
such
Transporting pleasures were by Heaven
ordained
Wisdom’s relief, and Virtue’s
great reward.
400
* * * * *
THE ARGUMENT.
Of the power of instinct in brutes.—Two remarkable instances in the hunting of the roebuck, and in the hare going to seat in the morning.—Of the variety of seats or forms of the hare, according to the change of the season, weather, or wind.—Description of the hare-hunting in all its parts, interspersed with rules to be observed by those who follow that chase.—Transition to the Asiatic way of hunting, particularly the magnificent manner of the Great Mogul, and other Tartarian princes, taken from Monsieur Bernier, and the history of Gengiskan the Great.—Concludes with a short reproof of tyrants and oppressors of mankind.
Nor will it less delight the attentive
sage
To observe that instinct, which unerring
guides
The brutal race, which mimics reason’s
lore
And oft transcends: heaven-taught,
the roe-buck swift
Loiters at ease before the driving pack
And mocks their vain pursuit, nor far
he flies
But checks his ardour, till the steaming
scent
That freshens on the blade, provokes their
rage.
Urged to their speed, his weak deluded
foes
Soon flag fatigued; strained to excess
each nerve,
10
Each slackened sinew fails; they pant,
they foam;
Then o’er the lawn he bounds, o’er
the high hills
Stretches secure, and leaves the scattered
crowd
To puzzle in the distant vale below.
’Tis instinct
that directs the jealous hare
To choose her soft abode: with step
reversed
She forms the doubling maze; then, ere
the morn
Peeps through the clouds, leaps to her
close recess.
As wand’ring shepherds
on the Arabian plains
No settled residence observe, but shift
20
Their moving camp, now, on some cooler
hill
With cedars crowned, court the refreshing
breeze;
And then, below, where trickling streams
distil
From some penurious source, their thirst
allay,
And feed their fainting flocks: so
the wise hares
Oft quit their seats, lest some more curious
eye
Should mark their haunts, and by dark
treacherous wiles
Plot their destruction; or perchance in
hopes
Of plenteous forage, near the ranker mead,
Or matted blade, wary, and close they
sit.
30
When spring shines forth, season of love
and joy,
In the moist marsh, ’mong beds of
rushes hid,
They cool their boiling blood: when
Summer suns
Bake the cleft earth, to thick wide-waving
fields
Of corn full-grown, they lead their helpless
young:
But when autumnal torrents, and fierce
rains
Deluge the vale, in the dry crumbling
bank
Their forms they delve, and cautiously
avoid
The dripping covert: yet when Winter’s
cold
Their limbs benumbs, thither with speed
returned
40
In the long grass they skulk, or shrinking
creep
Among the withered leaves, thus changing
still,
As fancy prompts them, or as food invites.
But every season carefully observed,
The inconstant winds, the fickle element,
The wise experienced huntsman soon may
find
His subtle, various game, nor waste in
vain
His tedious hours, till his impatient
hounds
With disappointment vexed, each springing
lark
Babbling pursue, far scattered o’er
the fields.
50
Now golden Autumn from
her open lap
Her fragrant bounties showers; the fields
are shorn;
Inwardly smiling, the proud farmer views
The rising pyramids that grace his yard,
And counts his large increase; his barns
are stored,
And groaning staddles bend beneath their
load.
All now is free as air, and the gay pack
In the rough bristly stubbles range unblamed;
No widow’s tears o’erflow,
no secret curse
Swells in the farmer’s breast, which
his pale lips
60
Trembling conceal, by his fierce landlord
awed:
But courteous now he levels every fence,
Joins in the common cry, and halloos loud,
Charmed with the rattling thunder of the
field.
Oh bear me, some kind Power invisible!
To that extended lawn, where the gay court
View the swift racers, stretching to the
goal;
Games more renowned, and a far nobler
train,
Than proud Elean fields could boast of
old.
Oh! were a Theban lyre not wanting here,
70
And Pindar’s voice, to do their
merit right!
Or to those spacious plains, where the
strained eye
In the wide prospect lost, beholds at
last
Sarum’s proud spire, that o’er
the hills ascends,
And pierces through the clouds. Or
to thy downs,
Fair Cotswold, where the well-breathed
beagle climbs,
With matchless speed, thy green aspiring
brow,
And leaves the lagging multitude behind.
Hail, gentle Dawn! mild
blushing goddess, hail!
Rejoiced I see thy purple mantle spread
80
O’er half the skies, gems pave thy
radiant way,
And orient pearls from every shrub depend.
Farewell, Cleora; here deep sunk in down
Slumber secure, with happy dreams amused,
Till grateful steams shall tempt thee
Page 189
to receive
Thy early meal, or thy officious maids,
The toilet placed, shall urge thee to
perform
The important work. Me other joys
invite,
The horn sonorous calls, the pack awaked
Their matins chant, nor brook my long
delay.
90
My courser hears their voice; see there
with ears
And tail erect, neighing he paws the ground;
Fierce rapture kindles in his reddening
eyes,
And boils in every vein. As captive
boys
Cowed by the ruling rod, and haughty frowns
Of pedagogues severe, from their hard
tasks,
If once dismissed, no limits can contain
The tumult raised within their little
breasts,
But give a loose to all their frolic play:
So from their kennel rush the joyous pack;
100
A thousand wanton gaieties express
Their inward ecstasy, their pleasing sport
Once more indulged, and liberty restored.
The rising sun that o’er the horizon
peeps,
As many colours from their glossy skins
Beaming reflects, as paint the various
bow
When April showers descend. Delightful
scene!
Where all around is gay, men, horses,
dogs,
And in each smiling countenance appears
Fresh-blooming health, and universal joy.
110
Huntsman, lead on! behind
the clustering pack
Submiss attend, hear with respect thy
whip
Loud-clanging, and thy harsher voice obey:
Spare not the straggling cur, that wildly
roves;
But let thy brisk assistant on his back
Imprint thy just resentments; let each
lash
Bite to the quick, till howling he return
And whining creep amid the trembling crowd.
Here on this verdant
spot, where nature kind,
With double blessings crowns the farmer’s
hopes;
120
Where flowers autumnal spring, and the
rank mead
Affords the wandering hares a rich repast,
Throw off thy ready pack. See, where
they spread
And range around, and dash the glittering
dew.
If some stanch hound, with his authentic
voice,
Avow the recent trail, the jostling tribe
Attend his call, then with one mutual
cry
The welcome news confirm, and echoing
hills
Repeat the pleasing tale. See how
they thread
The brakes, and up yon furrow drive along!
130
But quick they back recoil, and wisely
check
Their eager haste; then o’er the
fallowed ground
How leisurely they work, and many a pause
The harmonious concert breaks; till more
assured
With joy redoubled the low valleys ring.
What artful labyrinths perplex their way!
Ah! there she lies; how close! she pants,
she doubts
If now she lives; she trembles as she
sits,
With horror seized. The withered
grass that clings
Around her head, of the same russet hue
140
Almost deceived my sight, had not her
eyes
With life full-beaming her vain wiles
betrayed.
At distance draw thy pack, let all be
And calmly lay them in. How low they
stoop,
150
And seem to plough the ground! then all
at once
With greedy nostrils snuff the fuming
steam
That glads their fluttering hearts.
As winds let loose
From the dark caverns of the blustering
god,
They burst away, and sweep the dewy lawn.
Hope gives them wings while she’s
spurred on by fear.
The welkin rings; men, dogs, hills, rocks,
and woods
In the full concert join. Now, my
brave youths,
Stripped for the chase, give all your
souls to joy!
See how their coursers, than the mountain
roe
160
More fleet, the verdant carpet skim, thick
clouds
Snorting they breathe, their shining hoofs
scarce print
The grass unbruised; with emulation fired
They strain to lead the field, top the
barred gate,
O’er the deep ditch exulting bound,
and brush
The thorny-twining hedge: the riders
bend
O’er their arched necks; with steady
hands, by turns
Indulge their speed, or moderate their
rage.
Where are their sorrows, disappointments,
wrongs,
Vexations, sickness, cares? All,
all are gone,
170
And with the panting winds lag far behind.
Huntsman! her gait observe,
if in wide rings
She wheel her mazy way, in the same round
Persisting still, she’ll foil the
beaten track.
But if she fly, and with the favouring
wind
Urge her bold course; less intricate thy
task:
Push on thy pack. Like some poor
exiled wretch
The frighted chase leaves her late dear
abodes,
O’er plains remote she stretches
far away,
Ah! never to return! for greedy Death
180
Hovering exults, secure to seize his prey.
Hark! from yon covert,
where those towering oaks
Above the humble copse aspiring rise,
What glorious triumphs burst in every
gale
Upon our ravished ears! The hunters
shout,
The clanging horns swell their sweet-winding
notes,
The pack wide-opening load the trembling
air
With various melody; from tree to tree
The propagated cry redoubling bounds,
And winged zephyrs waft the floating joy
190
Through all the regions near: afflictive
birch
No more the school-boy dreads, his prison
broke,
Scampering he flies, nor heeds his master’s
call;
The weary traveller forgets his road,
And climbs the adjacent hill; the ploughman
leaves
The unfinished furrow; nor his bleating
flocks
Are now the shepherd’s joy; men,
boys, and girls
Desert the unpeopled village; and wild
crowds
Spread o’er the plain, by the sweet
Page 191
frenzy seized.
Look, how she pants! and o’er yon
opening glade
200
Slips glancing by; while, at the further
end,
The puzzling pack unravel wile by wile,
Maze within maze. The covert’s
utmost bound
Slily she skirts; behind them cautious
creeps,
And in that very track, so lately stained
By all the steaming crowd, seems to pursue
The foe she flies. Let cavillers
deny
That brutes have reason; sure ’tis
something more,
’Tis Heaven directs, and stratagems
inspires,
Beyond the short extent of human thought.
210
But hold—I see her from the
covert break;
Sad on yon little eminence she sits;
Intent she listens with one ear erect,
Pond’ring, and doubtful what new
course to take,
And how to escape the fierce blood-thirsty
crew,
That still urge on, and still in vollies
loud,
Insult her woes, and mock her sore distress.
As now in louder peals, the loaded winds
Bring on the gathering storm, her fears
prevail;
And o’er the plain, and o’er
the mountain’s ridge,
220
Away she flies; nor ships with wind and
tide,
And all their canvas wings, scud half
so fast.
Once more, ye jovial train, your courage
try,
And each clean courser’s speed.
We scour along,
In pleasing hurry and confusion tossed;
Oblivion to be wished. The patient
pack
Hang on the scent unwearied, up they climb,
And ardent we pursue; our labouring steeds
We press, we gore; till once the summit
gained,
Painfully panting, there we breathe a
while;
230
Then like a foaming torrent, pouring down
Precipitant, we smoke along the vale.
Happy the man, who with unrivalled speed
Can pass his fellows, and with pleasure
view
The struggling pack; how in the rapid
course
Alternate they preside, and jostling push
To guide the dubious scent; how giddy
youth
Oft babbling errs, by wiser age reproved;
How, niggard of his strength, the wise
old hound
Hangs in the rear, till some important
point
240
Rouse all his diligence, or till the chase
Sinking he finds; then to the head he
springs,
With thirst of glory fired, and wins the
prize.
Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full
career.
Yon crowding flocks, that at a distance
graze,
Have haply soiled the turf. See!
that old hound,
How busily he works, but dares not trust
His doubtful sense; draw yet a wider ring.
Hark! now again the chorus fills; as bells
Silenced a while at once their peal renew,
250
And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls.
See, how they toss, with animated rage
Recovering all they lost!—That
eager haste
Some doubling wile foreshews.—Ah!
yet once more
They’re checked—hold
back with speed—on either hand
They nourish round—even yet
persist—’Tis right,
Away they spring; the rustling stubbles
Page 192
bend
Beneath the driving storm. Now the
poor chase
Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced.
From brake to brake she flies, and visits
all
260
Her well-known haunts, where once she
ranged secure,
With love and plenty bless’d.
See! there she goes,
She reels along, and by her gait betrays
Her inward weakness. See, how black
she looks!
The sweat that clogs the obstructed pores,
scarce leaves
A languid scent. And now in open
view
See, see, she flies! each eager hound
exerts
His utmost speed, and stretches every
nerve.
How quick she turns! their gaping jaws
eludes,
And yet a moment lives; till round inclosed
270
By all the greedy pack, with infant screams
She yields her breath, and there reluctant
dies.
So when the furious Bacchanals assailed
Thracian Orpheus, poor ill-fated bard!
Loud was the cry; hills, woods, and Hebrus’
banks,
Returned their clamorous rage; distressed
he flies,
Shifting from place to place, but flies
in vain;
For eager they pursue, till panting, faint,
By noisy multitudes o’erpowered,
he sinks,
To the relentless crowd a bleeding prey.
280
The huntsman now, a
deep incision made,
Shakes out with hands impure, and dashes
down
Her reeking entrails, and yet quivering
heart.
These claim the pack, the bloody perquisite
For all their toils. Stretched on
the ground she lies,
A mangled corse; in her dim glaring eyes
Cold death exults, and stiffens every
limb.
Awed by the threatening whip, the furious
hounds
Around her bay; or at their master’s
foot,
Each happy favourite courts his kind applause,
290
With humble adulation cowering low.
All now is joy. With cheeks full-blown
they wind
Her solemn dirge, while the loud-opening
pack
The concert swell, and hills and dales
return
The sadly-pleasing sounds. Thus the
poor hare,
A puny, dastard animal, but versed
In subtle wiles, diverts the youthful
train.
But if thy proud, aspiring soul disdains
So mean a prey, delighted with the pomp,
Magnificence and grandeur of the chase;
300
Hear what the Muse from faithful records
sings.
Why on the banks of
Gemna, Indian stream,
Line within line, rise the pavilions proud,
Their silken streamers waving in the wind?
Why neighs the warrior horse? from tent
to tent,
Why press in crowds the buzzing multitude?
Why shines the polished helm, and pointed
lance,
This way and that far-beaming o’er
the plain?
Nor Visapour nor Golconda rebel;
Nor the great Sophy, with his numerous
host
310
Lays waste the provinces; nor glory fires
To rob, and to destroy, beneath the name
And specious guise of war. A nobler
cause
Calls Aurengzebe[7] to arms. No cities
sacked,
No mother’s tears, no helpless orphan’s
Page 193
cries,
No violated leagues, with sharp remorse
Shall sting the conscious victor:
but mankind
Shall hail him good and just. For
’tis on beasts
He draws his vengeful sword; on beasts
of prey
Full-fed with human gore. See, see,
he comes!
320
Imperial Delhi opening wide her gates,
Pours out her thronging legions, bright
in arms,
And all the pomp of war. Before them
sound
Clarions and trumpets, breathing martial
airs,
And bold defiance. High upon his
throne,
Borne on the back of his proud elephant,
Sits the great chief of Tamur’s
glorious race:
Sublime he sits, amid the radiant blaze
Of gems and gold. Omrahs about him
crowd,
And rein the Arabian steed, and watch
his nod:
330
And potent Rajahs, who themselves preside
O’er realms of wide extent; but
here submiss
Their homage pay, alternate kings and
slaves.
Next these, with prying eunuchs girt around,
The fair sultanas of his court; a troop
Of chosen beauties, but with care concealed
From each intrusive eye; one look is death.
A cruel Eastern law! (had kings a power
But equal to their wild tyrannic will)
To rob us of the sun’s all-cheering
ray,
340
Were less severe. The vulgar close
the march,
Slaves and artificers; and Delhi mourns
Her empty and depopulated streets.
Now at the camp arrived, with stern review,
Through groves of spears, from file to
file he darts
His sharp experienced eye; their order
marks,
Each in his station ranged, exact and
firm,
Till in the boundless line his sight is
lost.
Not greater multitudes in arms appeared,
On these extended plains, when Ammon’s[8]
son
350
With mighty Porus in dread battle joined,
The vassal world the prize. Nor was
that host
More numerous of old, which the great
king
Poured out on Greece from all the unpeopled
East;
That bridged the Hellespont from shore
to shore,
And drank the rivers dry. Meanwhile
in troops
The busy hunter-train mark out the ground,
A wide circumference; full many a league
In compass round; woods, rivers, hills,
and plains,
Large provinces; enough to gratify
360
Ambition’s highest aim, could reason
bound
Man’s erring will. Now sit
in close divan
The mighty chiefs of this prodigious host.
He from the throne high-eminent presides,
Gives out his mandates proud, laws of
the chase,
From ancient records drawn. With
reverence low,
And prostrate at his feet, the chiefs
receive
His irreversible decrees, from which
To vary is to die. Then his brave
bands
Each to his station leads; encamping round,
370
Till the wide circle is completely formed;
Where decent order reigns, what these
command,
Those execute with speed, and punctual
care;
In all the strictest discipline of war:
Page 194
As if some watchful foe, with bold insult
Hung lowering o’er their camp.
The high resolve,
That flies on wings, through all the encircling
line,
Each motion steers, and animates the whole.
So by the sun’s attractive power
controlled,
The planets in their spheres roll round
his orb,
380
On all he shines, and rules the great
machine.
Ere yet the morn dispels
the fleeting mists,
The signal given by the loud trumpet’s
voice,
Now high in air the imperial standard
waves,
Emblazoned rich with gold, and glittering
gems;
And like a sheet of fire, through the
dun gloom
Streaming meteorous. The soldiers’
shouts,
And all the brazen instuments of war,
With mutual clamor, and united din,
Fill the large concave. While from
camp to camp,
390
They catch the varied sounds, floating
in air,
Round all the wide circumference, tigers
fell
Shrink at the noise; deep in his gloomy
den
The lion starts, and morsels yet unchewed
Drop from his trembling jaws. Now
all at once
Onward they march embattled, to the sound
Of martial harmony; fifes, cornets, drums,
That rouse the sleepy soul to arms, and
bold
Heroic deeds. In parties here and
there
Detached o’er hill and dale, the
hunters range
400
Inquisitive; strong dogs that match in
fight
The boldest brute, around their masters
wait,
A faithful guard. No haunt unsearched,
they drive
From every covert, and from every den,
The lurking savages. Incessant shouts
Re-echo through the woods, and kindling
fires
Gleam from the mountain tops; the forest
seems
One mingling blaze: like flocks of
sheep they fly
Before the flaming brand: fierce
lions, pards,
Boars, tigers, bears, and wolves; a dreadful
crew
410
Of grim blood-thirsty foes: growling
along,
They stalk indignant; but fierce vengeance
still
Hangs pealing on their rear, and pointed
spears
Present immediate death. Soon as
the night
Wrapt in her sable veil forbids the chase,
They pitch their tents, in even ranks
around
The circling camp. The guards are
placed, and fires
At proper distances ascending rise,
And paint the horizon with their ruddy
light.
So round some island’s shore of
large extent,
420
Amid the gloomy horrors of the night,
The billows breaking on the pointed rocks,
Seem all one flame, and the bright circuit
wide
Appears a bulwark of surrounding fire.
What dreadful bowlings, and what hideous
roar,
Disturb those peaceful shades where erst
the bird
That glads the night, had cheered the
listening groves
With sweet complainings! Through
the silent gloom
Oft they the guards assail; as oft repelled
They fly reluctant, with hot-boiling rage
430
Stung to the quick, and mad with wild
Page 195
despair.
Thus day by day, they still the chase
renew;
At night encamp; till now in straiter
bounds
The circle lessens, and the beasts perceive
The wall that hems them in on every side.
And now their fury bursts, and knows no
mean;
From man they turn, and point their ill-judged
rage
Against their fellow brutes. With
teeth and claws
The civil war begins; grappling they tear.
Lions on tigers prey, and bears on wolves:
440
Horrible discord! till the crowd behind
Shouting pursue, and part the bloody fray.
At once their wrath subsides; tame as
the lamb
The lion hangs his head, the furious pard,
Cowed and subdued, flies from the face
of man,
Nor bears one glance of his commanding
eye.
So abject is a tyrant in distress!
At last within the narrow
plain confined,
A listed field, marked out for bloody
deeds,
An amphitheatre more glorious far
450
Than ancient Rome could boast, they crowd
in heaps,
Dismayed, and quite appalled. In
meet array
Sheathed in refulgent arms, a noble band
Advance; great lords of high imperial
blood,
Early resolved to assert their royal race,
And prove by glorious deeds their valour’s
growth
Mature, ere yet the callow down has spread
Its curling shade. On bold Arabian
steeds
With decent pride they sit, that fearless
hear
The lion’s dreadful roar; and down
the rock
460
Swift-shooting plunge, or o’er the
mountain’s ridge
Stretching along, the greedy tiger leave
Panting behind. On foot their faithful
slaves
With javelins armed attend; each watchful
eye
Fixed on his youthful care, for him alone
He fears, and to redeem his life, unmoved
Would lose his own. The mighty Aurengzebe,
From his high-elevated throne, beholds
His blooming race; revolving in his mind
What once he was, in his gay spring of
life,
470
When vigour strung his nerves. Parental
joy
Melts in his eyes, and flushes in his
cheeks.
Now the loud trumpet sounds a charge.
The shouts
Of eager hosts, through all the circling
line,
And the wild bowlings of the beasts within
Rend wide the welkin, flights of arrows,
winged
With death, and javelins launched from
every arm,
Gall sore the brutal bands, with many
a wound
Gored through and through. Despair
at last prevails,
When fainting nature shrinks, and rouses
all
480
Their drooping courage. Swelled with
furious rage,
Their eyes dart fire; and on the youthful
band
They rush implacable. They their
broad shields
Quick interpose; on each devoted head
Their flaming falchions, as the bolts
of Jove,
Descend unerring. Prostrate on the
ground
The grinning monsters lie, and their foul
gore
Defiles the verdant plain. Nor idle
stand
The trusty slaves; with pointed spears
THE ARGUMENT.
Of King Edgar and his imposing a tribute of wolves’ heads upon the kings of Wales: from hence a transition to fox-hunting, which is described in all its parts.—Censure of an over-numerous pack.—Of the several engines to destroy foxes, and other wild beasts.—The steel-trap described, and the manner of using it.—Description of the pitfall for the lion; and another for the elephant.—The ancient way of hunting the tiger with a mirror.—The Arabian manner of hunting the wild boar.—Description of the royal stag-chase at Windsor Forest.—Concludes with an address to his Majesty, and an eulogy upon mercy.
In Albion’s isle when glorious Edgar
reigned,
He wisely provident, from her white cliffs
Launched half her forests, and with numerous
fleets
Covered his wide domain: there proudly
rode
Lord of the deep, the great prerogative
Of British monarchs. Each invader
bold,
Dane and Norwegian, at a distance gazed,
And disappointed, gnashed his teeth in
vain.
He scoured the seas, and to remotest shores
The dying shrieks; and the pale threatening
ghost
470
Moves as he moves, and as he flies pursues.
See here his slot; up yon green hill he
climbs,
Pants on its brow a while, sadly looks
back
On his pursuers, covering all the plain;
But wrung with anguish, bears not long
the sight,
Shoots down the steep, and sweats along
the vale:
There mingles with the herd, where once
he reigned
Proud monarch of the groves, whose clashing
beam
His rivals awed, and whose exalted power
Was still rewarded with successful love.
480
But the base herd have learned the ways
of men,
Averse they fly, or with rebellious aim
Chase him from thence: needless their
impious deed,
The huntsman knows him by a thousand marks,
Black, and embossed; nor are his hounds
deceived;
Too well distinguish these, and never
leave
Their once devoted foe; familiar grows
His scent, and strong their appetite to
kill.
Again he flies, and with redoubled speed
Skims o’er the lawn; still the tenacious
crew
490
Hang on the track, aloud demand their
prey,
And push him many a league. If haply
then
Too far escaped, and the gay courtly train
Behind are cast, the huntsman’s
clanging whip
Stops full their bold career; passive
they stand,
Unmoved, an humble, an obsequious crowd,
As if by stern Medusa gazed to stones.
So at their general’s voice whole
armies halt
In full pursuit, and check their thirst
of blood.
Soon at the king’s command, like
hasty streams
500
Dammed up a while, they foam, and pour
along
With fresh-recruited might. The stag,
who hoped
His foes were lost, now once more hears
astunned
The dreadful din; he shivers every limb,
He starts, he bounds; each bush presents
a foe.
Pressed by the fresh relay, no pause allowed,
Breathless, and faint, he falters in his
pace,
And lifts his weary limbs with pain, that
scarce
Sustain their load! he pants, he sobs
appalled;
Drops down his heavy head to earth, beneath
510
His cumbrous beams oppressed. But
if perchance
Some prying eye surprise him; soon he
rears
Erect his towering front, bounds o’er
the lawn
With ill-dissembled vigour, to amuse
The knowing forester; who inly smiles
At his weak shifts, and unavailing frauds.
So midnight tapers waste their last remains,
Shine forth a while, and as they blaze
expire.
From wood to wood redoubling thunders
roll,
And bellow through the vales; the moving
storm
520
Thickens amain, and loud triumphant shouts,
And horns shrill-warbling in each glade,
prelude
To his approaching fate. And now
in view
With hobbling gait, and high, exerts amazed
What strength is left: to the last
dregs of life
Reduced, his spirits fail, on every side
Page 206
Hemmed in, besieged; not the least opening
left
To gleaming hope, the unhappy’s
last reserve.
Where shall he turn? or whither fly?
Despair
Gives courage to the weak. Resolved
to die,
530
He fears no more, but rushes on his foes,
And deals his deaths around; beneath his
feet
These grovelling lie, those by his antlers
gored
Defile the ensanguined plain. Ah!
see distressed
He stands at bay against yon knotty trunk,
That covers well his rear, his front presents
An host of foes. Oh! shun, ye noble
train,
The rude encounter, and believe your lives
Your country’s due alone. As
now aloof
They wing around, he finds his soul upraised
540
To dare some great exploit; he charges
home
Upon the broken pack, that on each side
Fly diverse; then as o’er the turf
he strains,
He vents the cooling stream, and up the
breeze
Urges his course with eager violence:
Then takes the soil, and plunges in the
flood
Precipitant; down the mid-stream he wafts
Along, till (like a ship distressed, that
runs
Into some winding creek) close to the
verge
Of a small island, for his weary feet
550
Sure anchorage he finds, there skulks
immersed.
His nose alone above the wave draws in
The vital air; all else beneath the flood
Concealed, and lost, deceives each prying
eye
Of man or brute. In vain the crowding
pack
Draw on the margin of the stream, or cut
The liquid wave with oary feet, that move
In equal time. The gliding waters
leave
No trace behind, and his contracted pores
But sparingly perspire: the huntsman
strains
560
His labouring lungs, and puffs his cheeks
in vain;
At length a blood-hound bold, studious
to kill,
And exquisite of sense, winds him from
far;
Headlong he leaps into the flood, his
mouth
Loud opening spends amain, and his wide
throat
Swells every note with joy; then fearless
dives
Beneath the wave, hangs on his haunch,
and wounds
The unhappy brute, that flounders in the
stream,
Sorely distressed, and struggling strives
to mount
The steepy shore. Haply once more
escaped,
570
Again he stands at bay, amid the groves
Of willows, bending low their downy heads.
Outrageous transport fires the greedy
pack;
These swim the deep, and those crawl up
with pain
The slippery bank, while others on firm
land
Engage; the stag repels each bold assault,
Maintains his post, and wounds for wounds
returns.
As when some wily corsair boards a ship
Full-freighted, or from Afric’s
golden coasts,
Or India’s wealthy strand, his bloody
crew
580
Upon her deck he slings; these in the
deep
Drop short, and swim to reach her steepy
sides,
And clinging, climb aloft; while those
on board
Urge on the work of fate; the master bold,
Page 207
Pressed to his last retreat, bravely resolves
To sink his wealth beneath the whelming
wave,
His wealth, his foes, nor unrevenged to
die.
So fares it with the stag: so he
resolves
To plunge at once into the flood below,
Himself, his foes in one deep gulf immersed.
590
Ere yet he executes this dire intent,
In wild disorder once more views the light;
Beneath a weight of woe, he groans distressed:
The tears run trickling down his hairy
cheeks;
He weeps, nor weeps in vain. The
king beholds
His wretched plight, and tenderness innate
Moves his great soul. Soon at his
high command
Rebuked, the disappointed, hungry pack
Retire submiss, and grumbling quit their
prey.
Great Prince! from thee,
what may thy subjects hope;
600
So kind, and so beneficent to brutes?
O mercy, heavenly born! Sweet attribute!
Thou great, thou best prerogative of power!
Justice may guard the throne, but joined
with thee,
On rocks of adamant it stands secure,
And braves the storm beneath; soon as
thy smiles
Gild the rough deep, the foaming waves
subside,
And all the noisy tumult sinks in peace.
THE ARGUMENT.
Of the necessity of destroying some beasts, and preserving others for the use of man.—Of breeding of hounds; the season for this business.—The choice of the dog, of great moment.—Of the litter of whelps.—Number to be reared.—Of setting them out to their several walks.—Care to be taken to prevent their hunting too soon.—Of entering the whelps.—Of breaking them from running at sheep.-Of the diseases of hounds.-Of their age.—Of madness; two sorts of it described, the dumb, and outrageous madness: its dreadful effects.—Burning of the wound recommended as preventing all ill consequences.—The infectious hounds to be separated, and fed apart.—The vanity of trusting to the many infallible cures for this malady.—The dismal effects of the biting of a mad dog, upon man, described. —Description of the otter hunting.—The conclusion.
Whate’er of earth is formed, to
earth returns
Dissolved: the various objects we
behold,
Plants, animals, this whole material mass,
Are ever changing, ever new. The
soul
Of man alone, that particle divine,
Escapes the wreck of worlds, when all
things fail.
Hence great the distance ’twixt
the beasts that perish,
And God’s bright image, man’s
immortal race.
The brute creation are his property,
Subservient to his will, and for him made.
10
As hurtful these he kills, as useful those
Preserves; their sole and arbitrary king.
Should he not kill, as erst the Samian
sage
Taught unadvised, and Indian Brahmins
now
As vainly preach; the teeming ravenous
brutes
Might fill the scanty space of this terrene,
Page 208
Encumbering all the globe: should
not his care
Improve his growing stock, their kinds
might fail,
Man might once more on roots, and acorns,
feed,
And through the deserts range, shivering,
forlorn,
20
Quite destitute of every solace dear,
And every smiling gaiety of life.
The prudent huntsman,
therefore, will supply,
With annual large recruits, his broken
pack,
And propagate their kind. As from
the root
Fresh scions still spring forth, and daily
yield
New blooming honours to the parent-tree;
Far shall his pack be famed, far sought
his breed,
And princes at their tables feast those
hounds
His hand presents, an acceptable boon.
30
Ere yet the Sun through
the bright Ram has urged
His steepy course, or mother Earth unbound
Her frozen bosom to the western gale;
When feathered troops, their social leagues
dissolved,
Select their mates, and on the leafless
elm
The noisy rook builds high her wicker
nest;
Mark well the wanton females of thy pack,
That curl their taper tails, and frisking
court
Their pyebald mates enamoured; their red
eyes
Flash fires impure; nor rest, nor food
they take,
40
Goaded by furious love. In separate
cells
Confine them now, lest bloody civil wars
Annoy thy peaceful state. If left
at large,
The growling rivals in dread battle join,
And rude encounter. On Scamander’s
streams
Heroes of old with far less fury fought,
For the bright Spartan dame, their valour’s
prize.
Mangled and torn thy favourite hounds
shall lie,
Stretched on the ground; thy kennel shall
appear
A field of blood: like some unhappy
town
50
In civil broils confused, while Discord
shakes
Her bloody scourge aloft, fierce parties
rage,
Staining their impious hands in mutual
death.
And still the best beloved, and bravest
fall:
Such are the dire effects of lawless love.
Huntsman! these ills
by timely prudent care
Prevent: for every longing dame select
Some happy paramour; to him alone
In leagues connubial join. Consider
well
His lineage; what his fathers did of old,
60
Chiefs of the pack, and first to climb
the rock,
Or plunge into the deep, or thread the
brake
With thorns sharp-pointed, plashed, and
briers inwoven.
Observe with care his shape, sort, colour,
size.
Nor will sagacious huntsmen less regard
His inward habits: the vain babbler
shun,
Ever loquacious, ever in the wrong.
His foolish offspring shall offend thy
ears
With false alarms, and loud impertinence.
Nor less the shifting cur avoid, that
breaks
70
Illusive from the pack; to the next hedge
Devious he strays, there every mews he
tries:
If haply then he cross the steaming scent,
Away he flies vain-glorious; and exults
Page 209
As of the pack supreme, and in his speed
And strength unrivalled. Lo! cast
far behind
His vexed associates pant, and labouring
strain
To climb the steep ascent. Soon as
they reach
The insulting boaster, his false courage
fails,
Behind he lags, doomed to the fatal noose,
80
His master’s hate, and scorn of
all the field.
What can from such be hoped, but a base
brood
Of coward curs, a frantic, vagrant race?
When now the third revolving
moon appears,
With sharpened horns, above the horizon’s
brink;
Without Lucina’s aid, expect thy
hopes
Are amply crowned; short pangs produce
to light
The smoking litter; crawling, helpless,
blind,
Nature their guide, they seek the pouting
teat
That plenteous streams. Soon as the
tender dam
90
Has formed them with her tongue, with
pleasure view
The marks of their renowned progenitors,
Sure pledge of triumphs yet to come.
All these
Select with joy; but to the merciless
flood
Expose the dwindling refuse, nor o’erload
The indulgent mother. If thy heart
relent,
Unwilling to destroy, a nurse provide,
And to the foster-parent give the care
Of thy superfluous brood; she’ll
cherish kind
The alien offspring; pleased thou shalt
behold
100
Her tenderness, and hospitable love.
If frolic now,
and playful they desert
Their gloomy cell, and on the verdant
turf
With nerves improved, pursue the mimic
chase,
Coursing around; unto thy choicest friends
Commit thy valued prize: the rustic
dames
Shall at thy kennel wait, and in their
laps
Receive thy growing hopes, with many a
kiss
Caress, and dignify their little charge
With some great title, and resounding
name
110
Of high import. But cautious here
observe
To check their youthful ardour, nor permit
The unexperienced younker, immature,
Alone to range the woods, or haunt the
brakes
Where dodging conies sport: his nerves
unstrung,
And strength unequal; the laborious chase
Shall stint his growth, and his rash forward
youth
Contract such vicious habits, as thy care
And late correction never shall reclaim.
When to full strength
arrived, mature and bold,
120
Conduct them to the field; not all at
once
But as thy cooler prudence shall direct,
Select a few, and form them by degrees
To stricter discipline. With these
consort
The stanch and steady sages of thy pack,
By long experience versed in all the wiles,
And subtle doublings of the various chase.
Easy the lesson of the youthful train,
When instinct prompts, and when example
guides.
If the too forward younker at the head
130
Press boldly on, in wanton sportive mood,
Correct his haste, and let him feel abashed
The ruling whip. But if he stoop
Page 210
behind
In wary modest guise, to his own nose
Confiding sure; give him full scope to
work
His winding way, and with thy voice applaud
His patience, and his care; soon shalt
thou view
The hopeful pupil leader of his tribe,
And all the listening pack attend his
call.
Oft lead them forth
where wanton lambkins play,
140
And bleating dams with jealous eyes observe
Their tender care. If at the crowding
flock
He bay presumptuous, or with eager haste
Pursue them scattered o’er the verdant
plain;
In the foul fact attached, to the strong
ram
Tie fast the rash offender. See!
at first
His horned companion, fearful, and amazed,
Shall drag him trembling o’er the
rugged ground;
Then with his load fatigued, shall turn
a-head,
And with his curled hard front incessant
peal
150
The panting wretch; till breathless and
astunned,
Stretched on the turf he lie. Then
spare not thou
The twining whip, but ply his bleeding
sides
Lash after lash, and with thy threatening
voice,
Harsh-echoing from the hills, inculcate
loud
His vile offence. Sooner shall trembling
doves
Escaped the hawk’s sharp talons,
in mid air,
Assail their dangerous foe, than he once
more
Disturb the peaceful flocks. In tender
age
Thus youth is trained; as curious artists
bend
160
The taper, pliant twig; or potters form
Their soft and ductile clay to various
shapes.
Nor is’t enough
to breed; but to preserve
Must be the huntsman’s care.
The stanch old hounds
Guides of thy pack, though but in number
few,
Are yet of great account; shall oft untie
The Gordian knot, when reason at a stand
Puzzling is lost, and all thy art is vain.
O’er clogging fallows, o’er
dry plastered roads,
O’er floated meads, o’er plains
with flocks distained
170
Rank-scenting, these must lead the dubious
way.
As party-chiefs in senates who preside,
With pleaded reason and with well turned
speech
Conduct the staring multitude; so these
Direct the pack, who with joint cry approve,
And loudly boast discoveries not their
own.
Unnumbered accidents,
and various ills,
Attend thy pack, hang hovering o’er
their heads,
And point the way that leads to Death’s
dark cave.
Short is their span; few at the date arrive
Of ancient Argus in old Homer’s
song
180
So highly honoured: kind, sagacious
brute!
Not even Minerva’s wisdom could
conceal
Thy much-loved master from thy nicer sense.
Dying, his lord he owned, viewed him all
o’er
With eager eyes, then closed those eyes,
well pleased.
Of lesser ills the Muse
declines to sing,
Nor stoops so low; of these each groom
can tell
The proper remedy. But oh! what care!
What prudence can prevent madness, the
worst
END OF SOMERVILLE’S CHASE.
[Footnote 1: In republishing only the “Chase” of Somerville and “the Fables” of Gay, we have acted on the principle of selecting the best, and the most characteristic, in our age, perhaps the only readable specimen of either poet.]
[Footnote 2: ‘Great Prince:’ Prince Frederick. Our readers will remember the humorous epitaph on him, in edifying contrast to Somerville’s praise:—
’Here lies Fred,
Who was alive, and is dead:
If it had been his father,
I’d much rather;
Had it been his mother,
Better than another;
Were it his sister,
Nobody would have miss’d her;
Were it the whole generation,
The better for the nation.
But since it’s only Fred,
There’s no more to be said,
But that he was alive, and is dead.’
We quote this from recollection of Thackeray’s recitation, but think it pretty accurate.]
[Footnote 3: ‘Neustria:’ Normandy.]
[Footnote 4: ‘Fountain of light,’ &c. Scott as well as Somerville loved to write in brilliant sunshine.]
[Footnote 6: ‘Talbot kind:’ Derived, we think, from the famous John Talbot, the first Earl of Shrewsbury, who employed this species of hound against the Irish rebels.]
[Footnote 7: ‘Aurengzebe:’ in 1659, seized the throne of India, after murdering his relatives, but became a good, wise, and brave emperor.]
[Footnote 8: ‘Ammon’s son:’ Alexander the Great.]
[Footnote 9: ‘Blooming youth:’ Fred again.]
[Footnote 10: ‘Apulia:’ now Puglia, the south-eastern part of Italy.]