Would I were free from this restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her! Would she could make of me a saint, Or I of her a sinner!
A HYMN TO HARMONY,
IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, MDCCI.
SET TO MUSIC BY MR. JOHN ECCLES.
O HARMONY! to thee we sing,
To thee the grateful tribute bring
Of sacred verse, and sweet-resounding lays;
Thy aid invoking while thy power we praise.
All hail to thee,
All-powerful Harmony!
Wise Nature owns thy undisputed sway,
Her wondrous works resigning to thy care:
The planetary orbs thy rule obey,
And tuneful roll, unerring in their way,
Thy voice informing each melodious sphere.
All hail to thee, All-powerful Harmony!
Thy voice, O Harmony, with awful sound,
Could penetrate th' abyss profound,
Explore the realms of ancient Night,
And search the living source of unborn Light.
Confusion heard thy voice, and fied,
And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquish'd head.
Then didst thou, Harmony, give birth
To this fair form of Heaven and Earth;
Then all those shining worlds above
In mystic dance began to move
Around the radiant sphere of central fire,
A never-ceasing, never-silent choir.
Confusion heard thy voice, and fled,
And Chaos deeper plung'd his vanquish'd head.
Thou only, goddess, first could'st tell
The mighty charms in numbers found;
And didst to heavenly minds reveal
The secret force of tuneful sound.
When first Cyllenius form'd the lyre,
Thou didst the god inspire;
When first the vocal shell he strung,
To which the Muses sung;
Then first the Muses sung; melodious strains
Apollo play'd,
And music first began by thy auspicious aid.
Hark, hark! again Urania sings!
Again Apollo strikes the trembling strings!
And see, the listening deities around
Attend insatiate, and devour the sound.
Hark, hark! again Urania sings!
Again Apollo strikes the trembling strings!
And see, the listening deities around
Attend insatiate, and devour the sound.
Descend, Urania, heavenly fair!
To the relief of this afflicted wor! 1 repair;
See how, with various woes opprest,
The wretched race of men is worn;
Consum'd with cares, with doubts distrest,
Or by conflicting passions torn.
Music alone with sudden charms can bind
The wandering sense, and calm the troubled mind.
Begin the powerful song, ye sacred Nine,
Your instruments and voices join;
Harmony, peace, and sweet desire,
In every breast inspire.
Revive the melancholy drooping heart,
And soft repose to restless thoughts impart.
Appease the wrathful mind,
To dire revenge and death inclin'd:
With balmy sounds his boiling blood assuage,
And melt to mild remorse his burning rage.
"Tis done; and now tumultuous passions cease;
And all is hush'd, and all is peace.
The weary world with welcome case is blest,
By music lull'd to pleasing rest.
'Tis done; and now tumultuous passions cease; And all is hush'd, and all is peace.
The weary world with welcome ease is blest,
By Music lull'd to pleasing rest.
Ah, sweet repose, too soon expiring!
Ah, foolish man, new toils requiring!
Curs'd Ambition, strife pursuing,
Wakes the world to war and ruin.
See, see, the battle is prepar'd!
Behold, the hero comes!
Loud trumpets with shrill fifes are heard;
And hoarse resounding drums.
War, with discordant notes and jarring noise;
The harmony of Peace destroys.
War, with discordant notes and jarring noise,
The harmony of Peace destroys.
See the forsaken fair, with streaming eyes,
Her parting lover mourn;
She weeps, she sighs, despairs, and dies, And watchful wastes the lonely livelong nights, Bewailing past delights,
That may no more, no, never more return.
O soothe her cares
With softest, sweetest airs,
Till Victory and Peace restore
Her faithful lover to her tender breast,
Within her folding arms to rest,
Thence never to be parted more,
No, never to be parted more.
VERSES
TO THE MEMORY OF
GRACE LADY GETHIN,
OCCASIONED BY READING HER BOOK, ENTITLED
RELIQUIE GETHINIANE,
AFTER a painful life in study spent,
The learn'd themselves their ignorance lament;
And aged men, whose lives exceed the space
Which seems the bound prescrio'd to mortal race,
With hoary heads, their short experience grieve,
As doom'd to die before they've learn'd to live.
So hard it is true knowledge to attain,
So frail is life, and fruitless human pain!
Whoe'er on this reflects, and then beholds,
With strict attention, what this book unfolds,
With admiration struck, shall question who
So very long could live, so much to know?
For so complete the finish'd piece appears,
That learning seems combin'd with length of years;
And both improv'd by purest wit, to reach
At all that study or that time can teach.
But to what height must his amazement rise,
When, having read the work, he turns his eyes
Again to view the foremost opening page,
And there the beauty, sex, and tender age,
Of her beholds, in whose pure mind arose
Th' ethereal source from whence this current flows!
When prodigies appear, our reason fails,
And superstition o'er philosophy prevails.
Some heavenly minister, we straight conclude,
Some angel mind, with female form endued,
To make a short abode on Earth was sent,
(Where no perfection can be permanent)
And, having left her bright example here,
Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear.
Whether around the throne, eternal hymns
She sings amid the choir of seraphims;
Or some refulgent star informs, and guides,
Where she, the blest intelligence, presides;
Is not for us to know who here remain;
For 'twere as impious to inquire as vain:
And all we ought, or can, in this dark state,
Is, what we have admir'd, to imitate.
ON HIS TRANSLATION OF PERSIUS,
As when of old heroic story tells,
Of knights imprison'd long by magic spells,
Till future time the destin'd hero send,
By whom the dire enchantment is to end:
Such seems this work, and so reserv'd for thee,
Thou great revealer of dark poesy.
Those sullen clouds, which have, for ages past,
O'er Persius' too-long suffering Muse been cast,
Disperse, and fly before thy sacred pen,
And, in their room, bright tracks of light are seen.
Sure Phoebus' self thy swelling breast inspires,
The god of music, and poetic fires:
Else, whence proceeds this great surprise of light!
How dawns this day, forth from the womb of Night!
Our wonder now does our past folly show,
Vainly contemning what we did not know:
So unbelievers impiously despise
The sacred oracles in mysteries.
Persius before in small esteem was had,
Unless what to antiquity is paid;
But, like Apocrypha, with scruple read
(So far our ignorance our faith misled);
Till you, Apollo's darling priest, thought fit
To place it in the poet's sacred writ.
As coin, which bears some awful monarch's face,
For more than its intrinsic worth will pass;
So your bright image, which we here behold,
Adds worth to worth, and dignifies the gold,
To you we all this following treasure owe,
This Hippocrene, which from a rock did flow.
Old stoic virtue, clad in rugged lines,
Polish'd by you, in modern brilliant shines;
And as before, for Persius, our esteem
To his antiquity was paid, not him:
So now, whatever praise from us is due,
Belongs not to old Persius, but the new.
For, still obscure, to us no light he gives;
Dead in himself, in you alone he lives.
So stubborn flints their inward heat conceal, Till art and force th' unwilling sparks reveal; But through your skill, from those small seeds of
Bright flames arise, which never can expire.
THE ELEVENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL.
Would ransack every element for choice
Of every fish and fowl at any price;
If, brought from far, it very dear has cost,
It has a flavour then, which pleases most,
And he devours it with a greater gust.
In riot thus, while money lasts, he lives,
And that exhausted, still new pledges gives;
Till foro'd of mere necessity to eat,
He comes to pawn his dish to buy his meat.
Nothing of silver or of gold he spares,
Not what his mother's sacred image bears;
The broken relic he with speed devours,
As he would all the rest of's ancestors,
If wrought in gold, or if expos'd to sale,
They'd pay the price of one laxurious meal.
Thus certain ruin treads upon his heels,
The stings of hunger, soon, and want, he feels;
And thus is he redue'd, at length, to serve
Fencers, for miserable scraps, or starve.
Imagine now you see a plenteous feast;
The question is, at whose expense 'tis drest.
In great Ventidius we the bounty prize;
In Rutilus the vanity despise.
Strange ignorance! that the same man who knows
How far yon mount above this mole-hill shows,
Should not perceive a difference as great
Between small incomes and a vast estate!
From Heaven to mortals sure that rule was sent,
Of" Know thyself," and by some god was meant,
To be our never-erring pilot here,
THE design of this satire is to expose and reprebend all manner of intemperance and debauchery; but more particularly that exorbitant luxury used by the Romans in their feasting. The poet draws the occasion from an invitation which he here makes to his friend to dine with him; very artfully preparing him with what he was to expect from his treat, by beginning the satire, with a particular invective | against the vanity and folly of some persons, who, having but mean fortunes in the world, attempted to live up to the height of men of great estates and quality. He shows us the miserable end of such spendthrifts and gluttons, with the manner and courses which they took to bring themselves to it; advising men to live within bounds, and to proportion their inclinations to the extent of their fortune. He gives his friend a bill of fare of the entertainment he | has provided for him; and from thence he takes occasion to reflect upon the temperance and frugality of the greatest men in former ages: to which he opposes the riot and intemperance of the present; attributing to the latter a vi-Through all the various courses which we steer. sible remissness in the care of Heaven over the Thersites, though the most presumptuous Greek, Roman state. He instances some lewd practices Yet durst not for Achilles' armour speak; at feasts, and, by the by, touches the nobility When scarce Ulysses had a good pretence, with making vice and debauchery consist with With all th' advantage of his eloquence. their principal pleasures. He concludes with Whoe'er attempts weak causes to support, a repeated invitation to his friend; advising him Ought to be very sure he's able for't; (in one particular somewhat freely) to a neglect And not mistake strong lungs and impudence, of all cares and disquiets for the present, and For harmony of words and force of sense: a moderate use of pleasure for the future. Fools only make attempts beyond their skill ; A wise man's power's the limit of his will. If Fortune has a niggard been to thee, Devote thyself to thrift, not luxury; And wisely make that kind of food thy choice, To which necessity confines thy price. Well may they fear some miserable end, Whom gluttony and want at once attend ; Whose large voracious throats have swallow'd all, Both land and stock, interest and principal: Well may they fear, at length, vile Pollio's fate, Who sold his very ring to purchase meat; And, though a knight, 'mongst common slaves now stands,
Ir noble Atticus make splendid feasts,
And with expensive food indulge his guests,
His wealth and quality support the treat;
Nor is it luxury in him, but state.
But when poor Rutilus spends all he's worth,
In hopes of setting one good dinner forth;
'Tis downright madness: for what greater jests,
Than begging gluttons, or than beggars' feasts?
But Rutilus is now notorions grown,
And proves the co.nmon theme of all the town,
A man in his full tide of youthful blood,
Able for arms, and for his country's good;
Urg'd by no power, restrain'd by no advice,
But following his own inglorious choice:
'Mongst common fencers practises the trade,
That end debasing for which arms were made ;
Arms which to man ne'er-dying fame afford,
But his disgrace is owing to his sword.
Many there are of the same wretched kind,
Whom their despairing creditors may find
Lurking in shambles; where with borrow'd coin
They buy choice meats, and in cheap plenty dine;
Such, whose sole bliss is eating; who can give
But that one brutal reason why they live.
And yet, what's more ridiculous, of these
The poorest wretch is still most hard to please;
And he whose thin transparent rags declare
How much his tatter'd fortune wants repair,
Begging an alms with undistinguish'd bands.
Sure sudden death to such should welcome be,
On whom each added year heaps misery,
Scorn, poverty, reproach, and infamy.
But there are steps in villainy which these
Observe to tread and follow by degrees.
Money they borrow, and from all that lend,"
Which, never meaning to restore, they spend;
But that and their small stock of credit gone,
Lest Rome should grow too warm, from thence they
For of late years 'tis no more scandal grown,
For debt and roquery to quit the town,
Than, in the midst of summer's scorching heat,
From crowds, and noise, and business, to retreat.
One only grief such fugitives can find,
Reflecting on the pleasures left behind,
The plays and loose diversions of the place;
But not one blush appears for the disgrace.
Ne'er was of modesty so great a dearth,
That out of countenance, Virtue's fled from
Earth;
Baffled, expos'd to ridicule and scorn,
She's with Astrea gone, not to return.
This day, my Persicus, thou shalt perceive
Whether myself I keep those rules I give,
Or else an unsuspected glutton live;
If moderate fare and abstinence I prize
In public, yet in private gormandize.
Evander's feast reviv'd, to day thou'lt see;
That poor Evander, I, and thou shalt be
Alcides and Æneas both to me.
Meantime, I send you now your bill of fare;
Be not surpris'd that 'tis all homely cheer:
For nothing from the shambles I provide,
But from my own small farm the tenderest kid,
And fattest of my flock, a suckling yet,
That ne'er had nourishment but from the teat;
No bitter willow-tops have been its food,
Scarce grass; its veins have more of milk than
blood.
Next that, shall mountain 'sparagus be laid,
Pull'd by some plain, but cleanly country maid.
The largest eggs, yet warm within their nest,
Together with the hens which laid them, drest;
Clusters of grapes preserv'd for half a year,
Which plump and fresh as on the vines appear;
Apples of a ripe flavour, fresh and fair,
Mixt with the Syrian and the Signian pear,
Mellow'd by winter, from their cruder juice,
Light of digestion now, and fit for use.
Such food as this would have been heretofore
Accounted riot in a senator:
When the good Curius thought it no disgrace,
With his own hands a few small herbs to dress;
And from his little garden cull'd a feast,..
Which fetter'd slaves would now disdain to taste;
For scarce a slave, but has to dinner now,
The well-dress'd paps of a fat pregnant sow.
But heretofore 'twas thought a sumptuous treat,
On birth-days, festivals, or days of state,
A salt dry flitch of bacon to prepare:
If they had fresh meat, 'twas delicious fare!
Which rarely happen'd: and 'twas highly priz'd
If aught was left of what they sacrific'd.
To entertainments of this kind would come
The worthiest and the greatest men in Rome;
Nay, seldom any at such treats were seen,
But those who had, at least, thrice consuls been;
Or the dictator's office had discharg'd,
And now from honourable toil enlarg'd,
Retir'd to husband and manure the land,
Humbling themselves to those they might com-
[haste,
mand.
Then might y' have seen the good old general
Before th' appointed hour, to such a feast;
His spade aloft, as 'twere in triumph held,
Proud of the conquest of some stubborn field.
'Twas then when pious consuls bore the sway,
And Vice, discourag'd, pale and trembling lay,
Our censors then were subject to the law,
Ev'n Power itself of Justice stood in awe.
It was not then a Roman's anxious thought,
Where largest tortoise shells were to be bought,
Where pearls might of the greatest price be had,
And shining jewels to adorn his bed,
That he at vast expense might loll his head.
Plain was his couch, and only rich his mind:
Contentedly he slept, as cheaply as he din'd.
The soldier then, in Grecian arts unskill'd,
Returning rich with plunder from the field,
If cups of silver or of gold be brought,
With jewels set, and exquisitely wrought,
To glorious trappings straight the plate he turn'd,
And with the glittering spoil his horse adorn'd;
Or else a helmet for himself be made,
Where various warlike figures were inlaid :
The Roman wolf suckling the twins was there,
And Mars himself, arm'd with his shield and
Hovering above his crest, did dreadful show,
As threatening death to each resisting foe.
No use of silver, but in arms, was known;
Splendid they were in war, and there alone.
No sideboards then with gilded plate were dress'd,
No sweating slaves with massive dishes press'd ;
Expensive riot was not understood,
But earthen platters held their homely food.
Who would not envy them that age of bliss,
That sees with shame the luxury of this?
Heaven unwearied then did blessings pour,
And pitying Jove foretold each dangerous hour;
Mankind were then familiar with the god,
He snuff'd their incense with a gracious nod,
And would have still been bounteous, as of old,
Had we not left him for that idol, gold.
His golden statues hence the god have driven :
For well he knows where our devotion's given.
"Tis gold we worship, though we pray to Heaven.
Woods of our own afforded tables then,
Though none can please us now but from Japan.
Invite my lord to dine, and let him have
The nicest dish his appetite can crave;
But let it on an oaken board be set,
His lordship will grow sick, and cannot eat:
Something's amiss, he knows not what to think,
Either your venison's rank, or ointments stink.
Order some other table to be brought,
Something at great expense in India bought,
Beneath whose orb large yawning panthers lie,
Carv'd on rich pedestals of ivory:
He finds no more of that offensive smell,
The meat recovers, and my lord grows well.
An ivory table is a certain whet;
You would not think how heartily be'll eat,
As if new vigour to his teeth were sent,
By sympathy from those o' th' elephant.
But such fine feeders are no guests for me:
Riot agrees not with frugality;
Then, that unfashionable man am I,
With me they'd starve for want of ivory:
For not one inch does my whole house afford,
Not in my very tables, or chess board;
Of bone the handles of my knives are made,
Yet no ill taste from thence affects the blade,
Or what I carve; nor is there ever left
Any unsavoury haut-goût from the haft.
A hearty welcome to plain wholesome meat
You'll find, but serv'd up in no formal state;
No sewers nor dextrous carvers have I got,
Such as by skilful Trypherus are taught;
In whose fam'd schools the various forms appear
Of fishes, beasts, and all the fowls o' th' air;
And where, with blunted knives, his scholars learn
How to dissect, and the nice joints discern;
While all the neighbours are with noise opprest,
From the harsh carving of his wooden feast.
On me attends a raw unskilful lad,
On fragments fed, in homely garments clad,
At once my carver, and my Ganymede :
With diligence he'll serve us while we dine,
And in plain beechen vessels fill our wine.
No beauteous boys I keep, from Phrygia brought,
No catamites, by shameful pandars taught:
Only to me two home-bred youths belong,
Unskill'd in any but their mother-tongue;
Alike in feature both, and garb, appear,
With honest faces, though with uncurl'd hair.
This day thou shalt my rural pages see,
For I have drest them both to wait on thee.
Of country swains they both were born, and one
My ploughman's is, t' other my shepherd's son;
A cheerful sweetness in his look he has,
And innocence unartful in his face:
Though sometimes sadness will o'ercast the joy,
And gentle sighs break from the tender boy;
His absence from his mother oft he'll mourn,
And with his eyes look wishes to return;
Longing to see his tender kids again,
And feed his lambs upon the flowery plain.
A modest blush he wears, not form'd by art,
Free from deceit his face, and full as free his heart.
Such looks, such bashfulness, might well adorn
The cheeks of youths that are more nobly born;
But noblemen those humble graces scorn.
This youth to day shall my small treat attend,
And only he with wine shall serve my friend,
With wine from his own country brought, and
made
From the same vines, beneath whose fruitful shade
He and his wanton kids have often play'd.
But you, perhaps, expect a modish feast,
With amorous songs and wanton dances grac'd ;
When sprightly females, to the middle bare,
Trip lightly o'er the ground, and frisk in air;
Whose pliant limbs in various postures move,
And twine and bound as in the rage of love.
Such sights the languid nerves to action stir,
And jaded lust springs forward with this spur.
Virtue would shrink to hear this lewdness told,
Which husbands now do with their wives behold;
A needful help, to make them both approve
The dry embraces of long-wedded love.
In nuptial cinders this revives the fire,
And turns their mutual loathing to desire.
But she, who by her sex's charter must
Have double pleasure paid, feels double lust;
Apace she warms with an immoderate heat,
Strongly her bosom heaves, and pulses beat ;
With glowing cheeks and trembling lips she lies,
With arms expanded, and with naked thighs,
Sucking in passion both at ears and eyes.
But this becomes not me, nor my estate;
These are the vicious follies of the great.
Let him who does on ivory tables dine,
Whose marble floors with drunken spawlings shine;
Let him lascivious songs and dances have,
Which, or to see, or hear, the lewdest slave,
The vilest prostitute in all the stews,
With bashful indignation would refuse.
But fortune, there, extenuates the crime;
What's vice in me, is only nirth in him:
The fruits which murder, cards, or dice, afford,
A vestal ravish'd, or a matron whor'd,
Are laudable diversions in a lord.
But my poor entertainment is design'd
Tafford you pleasures of another kind:
Yet with your taste your hearing shall be fed,
And Homer's sacred lines and Virgil's read;
Either of whom does all mankind excel,
Though which exceeds the other none can tell.
It matters not with what ill tone they're sung;
Verse so sublimely good no voice can wrong.
Now, then, be all thy weighty cares away,
Thy jealousies and fears; and, while you may,
To peace and soft repose give all the day.
From thoughts of debt, or any worldly ill,
Be free; be all uneasy passion still.
What though thy wife do with the morning light
(When thou in vain hast toil'd and drudg'd all night)
Steal from thy bed and house abroad to roam,
And, having quench'd her flame, come breathless
home,
Fleck'd in her face, and with disorder'd hair,
Her garments ruffled, and her bosom bare;
With ears still tingling, and her eyes on fire,
Half drown'd in sin, still burning in desire:
Whilst you are forc'd to wink, and seem content,
Swelling with passion, which you dare not vent;
Nay, if you would be free from night-alarms,
You must seem fond, and, doating on her charms,
Take her (the last of twenty) to your arms.
Let this, and every other anxious thought,
At th' entrance of my threshold be forgot;
All thy domestic griefs at home be left,
The wife's adultery, with the servant's theft ;
And (the most racking thought which can intrude)
Forget false friends, and their ingratitude.
Let us our peaceful mirth at home begin,
| While Megalensian shows are in the Circus seen
There (to the bane of horses) in high state
The pretor sits on a triumphal seat;
Vainly with ensigns and with robes adorn'd,
As if with conquest from the wars return'd.
This day all Rome (if I may be allow'd,
Without offence to such a numerous crowd,
To say all Rome) will in the Circus sweat;
Echoes already do their shouts repeat:
Methinks I hear the cry-" Away, away,
The green have won the honour of the day!"
Oh, should these sports be but one year forborne,
Rome would in tears her lov'd diversion mourn;
For that would now a cause of sorrow yield,
Great as the loss of Canna's fatal field.
Such shows as these were not for us design'd,
But vigorous youth to active sports inclin❜d.
On beds of roses laid, let us repose,
While round our heads refreshing ointment flows;
Our aged limbs we'll bask in Phoebus' rays,
And live this day devoted to our ease.
Early to day we'll to the bath repair,
Nor need we now the common censure fear;
On festivals it is allow'd no crime
To bathe and eat before the usual time;
But, that continued, would a loathing give,
Nor could you thus a week together live:
For frequent use would the delight exclude;
Pleasure's a toil when constantly pursued.
PROLOGUE TO QUEEN MARY,
UPON HER MAJESTY'S COMING TO SEE THE OLD BACHE:
LOR, AFTER HAVING SEEN THE DOUBLE DEALER.
By this repeated act of grace, we see
Wit is again the care of majesty;
|