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Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The toiling pleasure sickens into pain : The village all declared how much he knew, And e’en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy: Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey And e'en the story ran—that he could gauge:
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For een though vanquish'd, he could argue still; Between a splendid and a happy land.
'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand While words of learned length, and thund'ring Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, sound,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore; Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,
Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
And rich men flock from all the world around. That one small head could carry all he knew.
Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a nama But past is all his fame. The very spot That leaves our useful products still the same. Where many a time he triumph’d, is forgot. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts Space for his horses, equipage and hounds: inspired,
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, Where gray-beard mirth, and smiling toil retired, Has robb’d the neighb'ring fields of half theis Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, growth; And news much older than their ale went round. His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Imagination fondly stoops to trace
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unadorn’d and plain, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, With aspin boughs, and flowers and fennel gay,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
But when those charms are past, for charmsare frail Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten’d in a row.
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, Vain transitory splendours! could not all
In all the glaring impotence of dress. Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ?
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd; Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; But verging to decline, its splendours rise, Thither no more the peasant shall repair,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; To sweet oblivion of his daily care;
While, scourged famine from the smiling land, No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
The mournful peasant leads his humble band; No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
The country blooms—a garden, and a grave. Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Where then, ah! where shall poverty reside, Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;
To’scape the pressure of contiguous pride? Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest,
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped-What waits him there? One native charm, than all the gloss of art: To see profusion that he must not share; Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, To see ten thousand baneful arts combined The soul adopts, and own their first-born sway; To pamper luxury and thin mankind; Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, To see each joy the sons of pleasure know, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade •
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis. And shuddering still to face the distant deep, play,
Return’d and wept, and still return'd to weep. There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The good old sire, the first prepared to go The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign, To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train;
But for himself in conscious virtue brave, Tumultuous grandeur crowns the blazing square, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare, His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! The fond companion of his helpless years, Sure these denote one universal joy!
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine And left a lover's for her father's arms. eyes
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. And blest the cot where every pleasure rose; She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ;
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, While her fond husband strove to lend relief Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; In all the silent manliness of grief. Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her dead, O luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree, And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the How ill exchanged are things like these for thee! shower,
How do thy potions with insidious joy, With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! When idly first, ambitious of the town,
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Boast of a forid vigour not their own;
At every draught more large and large they grow, Do thine, sweet AUBURN, thine, the loveliest train, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. At proud men's doors they ask a little bread!
E'en now the devastation is begun, Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,
And half the business of destruction done; Where half the convex world intrudes between,
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,
I see the rural virtues leave the land, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Down where yon anchoring vessels spreads the sail, Far different there from all that charmed before,
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, The various terrors of that horrid shore ;
Downward they move, a melancholy band, Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. And fiercely shed intolerable day ;
Contented toil, and hospitable care, Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
And kind connubial tenderness are there; But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;
And piety with wishes placed above, Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance And steady loyalty, and faithful love. crown'd
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake Unfit in those degenerate times of shame, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, And savage men more murderous still than they; My shame in crowds, my solitary pride. Wnile oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies, That found’st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Far different these from every
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green,
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! The breezy covert of the warbling grove,
Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried, That only sheltered thests of harmless love. On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that part- Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, ing day
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, That call’d them from their native walks away; Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Aid, slighted truth, with thy persuasive strain, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; And took a long farewell, and wished in vain Teach him, that states of native strength possest, For seals like these beyond the western main; Though very poor, may still be very blest;
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain o While self-dependent power can time defy,
thinking: As rocks resist the billows and the sky.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses Dear mercenary beauty,
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false What annual offering shall I make
spouses! Expressive of my duty ?
Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside 'em, My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore:
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen. A bill, a jewel, watch or toy,
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, My rivals give—and let 'em;
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman. If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, I'll give them—when I get 'en.
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure : I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
Thus 'tis with all—their chief and constant care Or rose-bud more in fashion :
Is to seem every thing—but what they are. Such short-lived offerings but disclose
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, A transitory passion.
Who seems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
parade, Not less sincere, than civil :
Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid ? I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
[Mimicking. l'll give thee—to the devil.
Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t'assume, May speak our gratitude, but not his fame, What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, That leads o truth through pleasure's flow'ry
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack, way! Celestial theores confess'd his tuneful aid;
He bows, turns round, and whip—the mau in
black ! And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
Yon critic, too_but whither do I run? The transitory breath of fame below.
If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
Well then a truce, since she requests it too : While converts thank their poet in the skies.
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.
TO THE MOMEDY OF THE SISTERS.
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.
What? five long acts—and all to make us wiser? Enter Mrs. Buikley, who courtesies very low as beginning Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
to speak. Then enter Miss Calley, who stands full beforo Had she consulted me, she should have made
her, and courtesies to the Audience. Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
MRS. BULKLEY. Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Hold, ma'am, your pardon. What's your busi. Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern The Epilogue.
The smiling looks of cach bewitching bairn.
Air-A bonny young lai is my Jockey. 'The Epilogue ?
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay,
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue, I bring it. With Sandy, and Sawrey, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
“I hold the odds. Done, done, with you, with you.' MRS. DULKLEY. Why, sure the girl's beside herself! an Epilogue Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, of singing,
"My loru, - Your lordship misconceives the case.” A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning
Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, Besides, a singer in a comic set
“I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:" Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette.
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack; Agreed.
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, MRS. BULKLEY.
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. And she whose party's largest shall proceed.
For you're always polite and attentive, And first, I hope you'll readily agree
Still to amuse us inventive, I've all the critics and the wits for me;
And death is your only preventive: They, I am sure, will answer my commands:
Your hands and your voices for me.
Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring, That molern judges seldom enter here.
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? MISS CATLEY.
MRS. BULKLEY. Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye,
And now with late repentance, Pity take on your swain so clever,
Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.
INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit;
There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? Ay, take your travellers travellers indeed! The Moon, says he;—but I affirm, the Stage: Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the At least in many things, I think, I see Tweed.
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest in my turn,
To go on with my tale—as I gazed on the haunch,
But hang it—to poets who seldom can eat,
eating! Your own, I suppose—or is it in waiting ?" " Why whose should it be?” cried I with a flounce; "I get these things often”—but that was a bounce: "Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the na
tion, Are pleased to be kind—but I hate ostentation."
HAUNCH OF VENISON;
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.
“ If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for fineror fatter". I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter.
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
No words-1 insist on't-precisely at three; The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce
be there; help regretting
My acquaintance is slight, or I'dask my Lord Clare. To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view, We wanted this venison to make out a dinner To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû;
What say you—a pasty? it shall, and it must, As in sorne Irish houses, where things are so so,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
Here, porter—this venison with me to Mile-ena. But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, No stirring—I beg—my dear friend—ny dcut
friend!" They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd offlikethe winů,
And the porter and eatables followed behind. *This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (late Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
*Lord Clare's nephew