VOLUME V. (continued 3)

Epitaph on the “Colinderies.” Here ends a Show which, started with high aim, Was soon for its degenerate features known, And an apotheosized Cremorne became, Which reckless Folly quickly made her own. Large were its profits, and its crowds immense; But larger still the expenses it defrayed, Thanks to the notable munificence With which its lavish staff it overpaid. Of such gross jobbery it was the spring, So big the perquisites which it did rain, That much we fear, as an official Ring, We ne’er shall look upon its like again. Truth, November 11, 1886.

Parnell-egy Written in a Westminster Palace-yard. The clock-tow’r tolls the bell of coming day, The Saxon herd departs ere stroke of three, The cabman homeward whips his wheel-y way, And leaves the “Yard” to Denning, and to me. Now fade the gibbering Tories on the sight, Against no form the watchful peeler rubs Where, just before, men filed to left, or right, And lobby tinklings stirred the distant clubs. * * * * * 39 “The catty “call”—of incensed breathing born, The shallow tittering from the empty head, The “cock-a-doodle-do,” the nasal horn, No more are heard—their authors are a-bed. Oft did the Commons to our pickle yield, Our guffaw oft some stubborn speech has broke, How jocund did we bring our team afield! How bow’d the Whips beneath our sturdy stroke! Let not Refinement mock abuse-ful toil, Unceasing “jaw,” and ancestry obscure, Nor Breeding hear, with a disdainful smile, The sharp and shady annals of “the flure.” The “cheek” of Harr—n, the rant of Power, And all that Bunkum, all that stealth e’er gave, Await alike th’ unenviable hour, The ways of Sexton lead to much that’s grave. Nor you ye Times, impute to me the fault And—in fac-simile—your trophies raise, Where, ’neath the book-stall’d station’s grimy vault, The steaming engine swells the note that brays. Can story’d speech or animated bust Back to their cerements conjure wraiths that lurk; Can B—kle’s voice avenge the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Burke? * * * * * The scorn of Saxon senates to command, The threats of Peel and Balfour to despise To scatter terror o’er a suff’ring land, And blend our history in a nation’s cries Our lot requires; nor circumscribed we feel By growing numbers, or by crimes confined, We have to march through rapine to repeal, And shut the mouths of protestant mankind. Our names, our deeds, spelt by the daily Muse The place of Fame and Elegy supply, And many a nasty gibe around she strews That cause the Irish moralist to shy. The Epitaph. Here lies, his head upon a lump of clay, A man, to Hansard and to Dod well known; Fair Science had not much was in his way, But Disaffection marked him for her own. Large was his satire, and his purpose clear, Egan did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Loy’lty—all too bad—a sneer, He gain’d in Egan,—well, not quite a friend. No farther seek his secrets to disclose, Or draw his frailties, in these faltering rhymes, From where they—some of them, ’tis said—repose— The sanctum of his Walter and his Times, Moonshine. April 30, 1887.

Epitaph on “The Pic-Nic.” Written in a Newsman’s Shop. Here lie, enwrapt within a dirty sheet, Pic-Nics unsold—of course to fame unknown; Fair Fashion’s patronage they did not meet, And Grenville still may claim them for his own. Large were its pages, and its type most clear, Its price t’ ennoble did as largely tend: But fourteen numbers clos’d its bright career; It found thus soon (what all must find) an end. No farther seek its merits to disclose, Or o’er its faults one briny tear let drop; Here they alike on dusty shelf repose, To add fresh lumber to the newsman’s shop. The Morning Post. 1803.

Epitaph on a Noted Highwayman. Here, high suspended on a gibbet hangs A youth to ev’ry crime and plunder prone; ’Till caught at length, by law’s resistless fangs, The gaping gallows seiz’d him as its own. Bad were his sentiments, his actions worse; And when he mounted Newgate’s fatal drop, He gave the hangman a tremendous curse, And got from him—what he deserv’d—a rope. The Spirit of the Public. Journals, Volume X. 1806.

A Political Parody. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea; Now to the Lords, see Jenky take his way, And leaves the House of Commons unto me. * * * * * Full many a country gentleman and squire, The hinder seats and those back benches bear; Full many a one who represents a shire, There wastes his sweetness on the desert air: Some city member, with his meal opprest, May there, perhaps, in sleep digest his food; Some mute inglorious Alderman may rest, Some grocer, guiltless of his country’s good. For knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne’er enroll; Fair Science smil’d not on their early age, Nor Genius gave an impulse to the soul. Their names, their merits in the Morning Post, The place of honest eulogy supply, With many an idle tale, and many a boast, And many a silly speech, and many a lie. 40 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, A place or pension ever yet resigned, Quitted the Court, like Canning, as they say, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

Elegy in St. Stephen’s Chapel. The candles tell the close of parting day, The members bor’d wind slowly up to tea, Some few to dinner plod their hungry way. And leave the House to Dyson and to Ley. Now fades in slow debate the lingering night, And each dull speech in solemn stillness ends, Save where Bragge-Bathurst wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy Hiley cheers his stammering friends; Save that, from yonder nook with placemen stor’d, Old Rose doth to the Treasury Bench complain Of such as wandering near the Navy Board, Molest his ancient pensionary reign. Beneath that gallery’s height, that pillar’d shade, Where heave those seats with many a slumbering heap, Each, in his narrow row, supinely laid, A silent band, the Country Members, sleep. The pettish call of nonsense-breathing Pole, Vansittart, tittering o’er his boxes red, The shrill Charles Yorke, Sir Joseph, livelier soul, No more can rouse them from their rugged bed. Oft did the question to their influence yield; Their vote, full oft, the Court’s designs hath broke; How jocund was the Income-Tax repeal’d! How bow’d the Malt-tax to their sturdy stroke! Let not proud office mock their useful toil, Their votes, though silent, and career obscure; Nor grandeur mock, with a disdainful smile, The “ignorant impatience” of the poor[24]. The boast of place, of interest, and of power, Of all that worth can claim, or gold can buy, Must yield alike, in dread division’s hour, To Country Gentlemen’s majority. Nor you, ye Whigs, impute to these the blame, If some faint cheer its puny homage pays, While, through some long drawn speech, in periods lame, A stammering placeman courts their lingering praise. * * * * * Yet, chance, in that sequester’d spot is laid Some heart well fram’d for ministerial hire, Hands that for Treasury job had well been paid, Or wak’d to fame some Admiralty lyre[25]. But Treasury to their eyes the ample page, Rich with a people’s spoil, did ne’er unrol; Some puny job must fire their noble rage, And ope the loyal current of their soul. Full many a Castlereagh, with hands yet clean, The hinder benches on his side may bear, Full many a sad Fitzgerald blush unseen, And waste his diffidence on desert air. Their names, their numbers, to the public gaze, May show as fair as some of nobler note, And many a holy hint Charles Long conveys, To teach the rustic senator to vote. For he (division’s stern demand to meet), His custom’d place and company resign’d, Oft leaves the precincts of his Treasury seat, To coax some longing lingering lout behind. On helps like these each pension’d soul relies, Such aid each new-rais’d salary requires, Though from the press the voice of Croker[26] cries, Though in the Courier live his wonted fires. And thou who, mindful of that honour’d scribe, Dost for a salary like Croker’s wait, If, chance, by kindred calculation led, Of his four thousand pounds you ask the fate. Haply some Admiralty Clerk may say, “Oft have we seen him, at the morning’s call, Brushing, with hasty step, on quarter day, To meet his salary near fair Whitehall. “Then, at the lower end of yonder Board, He’d hold his vain fantastic head so high, You’d think the Regent had made him first Lord, And put his duller master, Melville, by. “Oft to the Courier Office, as in spite, Muttering half-form’d, half-witted squibs, he’d rove, Now all the Quarterly’s worst trash indite, Now woo th’unwilling Grub Street Muse to love. “One eve we miss’d him on his custom’d round, Nor at the Board, nor at the House, was he; Nor ’mid the Courier’s devils was he found, Nor was he scribbling for the Quarterly. “The next, to condign doom in due debate, His annual thousands came, a sad display! Approach and read, where all may read, their fate, In all the papers of the following day.” Epitaph. Here rests his pension, strangled in its birth, His name to merit, as to praise, unknown; Yet Fortune frown’d not on his little worth, For Castlereagh had mark’d him for his own. 41 Large was his impudence, nor small his gains, For well such talent did its master grace; He gave the Court, a sorry gift, his brains; The Court gave him, ’twas all he wished, a place. No farther seek his merit to disclose, Or draw the annual increase to his pelf; Hopeless alike his fame and pence repose, Lost to the Court, the office, and himself. From The New Tory Guide. London. J. Ridgway, 1819.

Elegy. (For the “Mirror,” 1825.) The pealing clock proclaims the close of day, Th’ attorney’s clerk goes slowly to his tea; And mine begins to plod his weary way, And leave my rooms to solitude and me. Now fades the glitt’ring river on my sight, And all the air a solemn stillness feels; Save when some rake wheels round his rapid flight, And drowsy watchmen follow at his heels. Save, that from yonder darkly shaded tow’r, The moping sage does solemnly complain Of such, as wandering near his lonely door, Molest his quiet, unassuming reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that old tree’s shade, Where ancient seats in many a mould’ring heap Spread out, where in repose you may be laid, Most sweetly to enjoy the balm of sleep. Whilst the mild beams which ev’ning does adorn, The gay young student laughing at your head; The Postman’s bell, or th’ echoing horn, Rouse you no longer from your lowly bed. For you, the blazing hearth ne’er does burn; Or, busy housewife ply her ev’ning care, Or children run to lisp their sire’s return, And climb your knees the envied kiss to share. But still thy juniors to thy learning yield, When you put on the stately law peruke, To prove their arguments are all afield And make them bow at your hard stroke. * * * * * Yet do not think thy wig so sprucely deck’d, Will ne’er entice a brief that’s straying by: Whose strange and uncouth words its nonsense do protect And for it gain the tribute of a sigh. Thy name, thy years, thy thin and wrinkled face, Insure success: thy fame will then supply A stream of briefs, your fortune to replace, And wealth, and peace, await you ere you die. And you, whom dumb forgetfulness and care, T’anxiety and bitter want resigned; Will hail with joyous look and altered air Th’ increasing strength and vigour of your mind. * * * * *

Elegy written in a Town Church Yard. The church-bells peal the message—“Come and pray!” The gay-dressed crowd appear, to bend the knee, The shabby, poor man turns another way And leaves the church to Dives and to me. Now fades the noisy stir of weekday sights, And all around a Sabbath stillness dwells, Save where a doctor from his trap alights, And merry tinklings sound from tramcar bells; Save that, as if to make display of power, An army howls, while marching to the strains Of noisy bands, regardless of Nott-Bower, And blocks the passage of our streets and lanes. Beneath those railway lines that man hath made, Where slabs lie prone upon the embankment’s heap, Each sacrificed to compensation paid, Our Leeds forefathers down by Kirkgate sleep. The snorting puff of carboniferous smoke, The engine clattering from the loco-shed, The whistle’s shrieking, and the piston’s stroke No more shall rouse them, though they mock the dead. For them, if chance the hearts of loved ones yearn, No weeping mourners tend the grave with care, No children to this spot their footsteps turn To seek the dead ’mid desolation bare. Oft did the town of Leeds their labours know, Their efforts oft the way to progress cleared; How lie they now, forgotten, cold, and low! How is a patriot townsman’s name revered! Let not ambition seek for the cold clay A homely tomb from sacrilege secure; Nor grand men seek when they have passed away A safer six feet title than the poor. The mighty alderman, the men of power, And all our beauties, all of wealth the slaves, Must take their chance that there may come an hour When railroad sleepers share their quiet graves. (Fourteen verses omitted). For thee, who, mindful of the thus outraged dead, Dost in these lines set down their graveyard’s state, If chance, by their perusal, some be led To test the truth of what thou dost relate, Haply some ancient Kirkgate dame may say, “Methinks I’ve seen him here at eve and morn, As past the Parish Church he’s made his way I’ve watched his look,—half pity and half scorn. “Here, near the base of yonder noble tower, That stands with venerable head so high, Repose the dead, neglected hour by hour, Unheeded by the crowd that passes by. “Round through yon bridge upon his journey borne, By some strange fancy led he seemed to stray, Then on the other bank he’d gaze forlorn, Then looking disappointed turn away. 42 “One morn I saw him on the railway’s side, Among the slabs, some broken, some moss-grown; Once more he came: he looked again, he sighed, Then ceased the search for the forgotten stone. “And then I saw that ere he went away One little leaflet from a book he tore, On which he wrote this simple poet’s lay, Which some one found attached to yonder door.” An Epitaph. Here rest, on either side this mound of earth, Neglected dead, forgotten and unknown, Ere science learnt the iron horse’s worth The grave had marked them and had claimed its own. True to their country, to their town sincere, Thus does posterity their deeds commend, And takes their graves to make a railroad here, For fear their usefulness with life should end. No farther seek fresh merits to impose, Let the poor battered stones sink in the sod, Where rich and poor in trembling earth repose, To wait, ’mid engine shrieks, the trump of God. From The Yorkshireman’s Comic Annual. 1885.

Newall’s Buildings. The clanging crow-bar rings the pile’s decay The busy labourers make their work complete Daily the well known buildings glide away, And space and brightness grow upon the street.

The Scales. The piano sounds the knell of parting day; Next door the singing pupil shrieks high C; The cornet practices across the way, And gives the night to anguish and to me. “Full many a man, who now doth cheat the printer, Will waste his voice upon the heated air, And vainly sigh for cooling breeze of winter When he is punished for his sins down there.” From Quads.

Passage from Lord Grey’s Elegy. Rads toll the knell of England’s passing day: The low dull herd will land her “up a tree.” Why will they not send Gladstone’s gang away, And leave the world to Whigdom and to Me? Punch. September 10, 1881.

A Perversion. Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fragrance on the desert air; Full oft, the filthy oleomargarine Is served as premium butter from a fair,

The Author. No longer seek his failings to disclose, Nor on his faulty readings rudely press; But leave the jurist to his deep repose, Safe in the bosom of his loved MS.

Pensive in a Boneyard. A Fragment. Perhaps in this selected spot are laid Some legs once regnant on bicyclic wire, Hands that the rod of riding may have swayed, And waked to parody the rotal lyre. Lyra Bicyclica. By J. S. Dalton, 1885.

No airy dreams their simple fancies fired, No thirst for wealth, nor panting after fame; But truth divine, sublimer hopes inspired, And urged them onward to a nobler aim. From every cottage, with the day arose The hallowed voice of spirit-breathing prayer; And artless anthems, at its peaceful close, Like holy incense, charmed the evening air. Though they, each tome of human lore unknown, The brilliant path of science never trod, The sacred volume claimed their hearts alone, Which taught the way to glory and to God. Here they from truth’s eternal fountain drew The pure and gladdening waters day by day, Learnt, since our days are evil, fleet and few, To walk in wisdom’s bright and peaceful way; In yon lone pile, o’er which hath sternly passed The heavy hand of all-destroying Time, Through whose low mouldering isles now sighs the blast, And round whose altars grass and ivy climb: They gladly thronged, their grateful hymns to raise, Oft as the calm and holy Sabbath shone; The mingled tribute of their prayers and praise, In sweet communion rose before the throne. Here, from those honored lips, which sacred fire From Heaven’s high chancery hath touched, they hear Truths which their zeal inflame, their hopes inspire, Give wings to faith, and check affliction’s tear. When life flowed by, and, like an angel, Death Came to release them to the world on high, Praise trembled still on each expiring breath, And holy triumph beamed from every eye. Then gentle hands their “dust to dust” consign; With quiet tears, the simple rites are said, And here they sleep, till at the trump divine, The earth and ocean render up their dead.

The Foundlings. An Elegy. Far from the madding Tumults of the Town, Which where bright thought should reign usurp the seat; Far from those Tempests which Reflection drown, I seek with breathless Haste a calm Retreat. * * * * *

The Sun’s bright orb, retiring, dimly glares, In strict compliance with the law of power; Each pris’ner to his cheerless roof repairs; And I, in thought, amuse the vacant hour. Now sable Night, o’er all her mantle throws, And solemn silence reigns throughout the yard; Save where yon vet’ran to his station goes, A poor, disabled, solitary guard! Save that from yonder room in mournful strains, With melancholy tone, and plaintive air, Some tender Father, to the Night complains Of children left without a parent’s care. Within these ramparts, by fam’d Vauban made, Where hapless youths for Freedom learn to weep, On beds of humble straw, till morning laid, The brave and dauntless Sons of Neptune sleep. * * * * *

An Elegy Wrote under a Gallows. Dun-vested Twilight now along the sky, With tardy moving pace, begins to creep; Towards their solemn gloom wrap’d mansions fly The ebon rooks, spread o’er the mountain steep. Where this bald barren spot of earth expands, Deck’d with no shade of plant, or flow’rets smile, Rear’d by some skill-conducted artist’s hands, A gallows frowns a terror striking pile! * * * * * By Hugh Downman, A.B. Printed in Edinburgh, 1768.

Lord Mayor’s Day. A Mock Elegy. The sun creeps slowly o’er the eastern hills, The lazy pacing hours attend his way, Thro’ the thick fog the scarce pervading beam, Gives London’s Lord his gorgeous gaudy day. Now the grim’d scavenger his besom plies, And whistles at his work, unwonted glee, The streets look decent, ev’n in courtier’s eyes, While the wretch sweeps for dirtier soil than he. And now the city bells, in many a peal, Bursting at once upon the vacant ear, Bid the glad freemen from their counters steal, And hail the day to beef and pudding dear. Nor pass we by the capon and the chine, Nor heedless, leave the turkey’s praise unsung! The many-mixtur’d punch, th’ inspiring wine, Joy of each heart, and theme of every tongue. 44 The feasting o’er, the ball, the sprightly dance, With jocund glee beguile the night away; The crowds retire when Sunday hours advance, “And eat, in dreams, the custard of the day.” From The New Foundling Hospital for Wit. Vol. V. London, 1786.

The morning wakes in shadowy mantle grey, The darksome woods their glimmering skirts unfold, Prone from the cliff the falcon whirls her way, And long and loud the bell’s slow chime is tol’d. The redd’ning light gains fast upon the skies, And far away the glist’ning vapours sail, Down the rough steep th’ accustom’d hedger hies, And the stream winds in brightness thro’ the Vale.

Elegy. Written in Poets Corner, Westminster Abbey. Now sinks the hum confus’d of busy care, And solemn Eve begins her placid reign; Mild contemplation muses on the air, And silence bends before her vestal train. * * * * *

The Nunnery. Now pants the night breeze thro’ the darken’d air, And silence soothes the vestal world to rest, Save where some pale fac’d novice (wrapt in pray’r) Heaves a deep moan, and smites her guiltless breast. * * * * * From an anonymous imitation.

Elegy. Supposed to be written on a Field of Battle. The wrathful storm hath swept along the dale; The madd’ning fury of the fight is o’er; Discord’s loud notes have ceas’d upon the gale— The clang of arms, and pealing cannon’s roar; The doubling drum; the trumpet’s brazen sound; The yell of onset and the piercing groan; The squadron’s charge, that shook the trembling ground; The steed’s proud neigh; the long and dying moan. * * * * *

Elegy, Written in a City Churchyard. Away from care—apart from earthly toil, Let’s court the stillness of the silent grave, Where dwell—within the death-encumbered soil, The ashes of the fair—the gay—the brave! How many trophies mark the hallowed ground! Vain mock’ry of the sad and peaceful tomb! How many fabrics cast their shade around! Emblems of death! of man’s unerring doom! * * * * *

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the Beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

“Du soleil expirant la tremblante lumière Délaisse par degrés les monts silencieux; Un calme solennel enveloppe les cieux.”

Élégie. Le rappel[27] a marqué le jour en son déclin, Les troupeaux lentement quittent le pâturage, Le laboureur courbé suit son triste chemin, Laissant la sphère obscure à moi seul en partage. Le paysage au loin passe et s’évanouit, Un silence profond règne dans la nature, Hormis où l’escarbot son vol bruyant poursuit, Et le ruisseau lointain endort par son murmure. Hors que, de cette tour que le lierre embellit, Le nocturne hibou pousse une plainte amère Quand quelque voyageur, approchant son réduit, Vient troubler, par hazard, son règne solitaire. A l’ombre de ces ifs, sous ces ormeaux noueux, Où la terre en monceaux au passage s’oppose, Renfermé pour toujours dans son caveau poudreux, Le rustique habitant du village repose. Le souffle parfumé du zéphir matinal, Le moineau gazouillant sur leur paisible asyle, Le chant perçant du coq, le cor aux cerfs fatal, Ne les tireront plus de leur couche d’argile. Ah! ils ne verront plus le fagot pétiller, A leur donner ses soins l’active ménagère, De chers enfans grimper pour saisir un baiser, Bégayant à l’envi le tendre nom de père. Souvent le champ céda ses moissons a leurs faulx, Et leur soc entrouvrit la glèbe limoneuse, Comme ils siffloient gaiement en menant leurs chevaux Comme le bois plioit sous leur main vigoureuse. Grands, ne méprisez point leurs soins industrieux, Leurs plaisirs innocens et leurs destins sans gloire; Orgueilleux, reprimez ce souris dédaigneux, Au récit peu connu de leur obscure histoire. Tous ces titres pompeux, ce pouvoir imposant, Les dons de la beauté, les ris de la fortune, Ne peuvent exempter du terrible moment; Le chemin des honneurs mène à la fin commune. Et vous, ambitieux, ne les accusez point Si leurs simples tombeaux nul ornement ombrage, Dans les murs révérés de cet asyle saint, Où des chants vers les cieux s’élèvent en hommage. Des faits sur l’urne inscrits, des bustes animés, Peuvent ils rappeller le souffle irrévocable? L’honneur peut-il toucher des corps inanimés, Ou l’encens appaiser la mort inexorable? Peut-être un cœur rempli jadis d’un feu divin, Se trouve renfermé dans ce lieu de tristesse, Un bras propre à régler d’un peuple le destin, Ou sonner à ravir la lyre enchantéresse. Mais loin d’eux la science éloigna son trésor, Des dépouilles du tems amplement enrichie; L’affreuse pauvreté retint leur noble essor, En sa source glaça le courant du génie. 46 Maint et maint beau rubis aux rayons lumineux, Dans les gouffres profonds du vaste océan brille; Mainte fleur crôit, fleurit, passe et échappe aux yeux, Exhalant dans les airs un parfum inutile. Un Condé de hameau dont le cœur courageux Brava souvent des loups la sauvage furie, Un Racine ignoré peut-être est dans ces lieux, Un Mayenne, innocent du sang de sa patrie. Par la mâle éloquence étonner un sénat, Répandre dans l’état la riante abondance, Affronter les périls, la mort dans le combat, Être d’un peuple entier la joie et l’ésperance, Jamais ne fut leur lot; car le sort obstiné Dans le germe étouffa leurs vertus et leurs crimes, Défendit, de souiller un trône ensanglanté Pour régner sans pitié sur de tristes victimes. Non, ils n’eurent jamais, à réprimer l’ardeur Des remords dévorans, d’une flamme honteuse, A prodiguer au vice, au luxe, à la grandeur L’encens prostitué d’une Muse flatteuse. Loin du fracas bruyant, des soins tumultueux, Compagnons assidus des habitans des villes, Retirés, sans désirs, satisfaits et heureux, Ils coulèrent sans bruit des jours longs et utiles. Des insultes pourtant leurs os sont préservés! On élève près d’eux une pierre rustique, Où des vers sans mesure, ignoramment gravés, Arrachent au passant un soupir sympathique. Leurs noms, leur age inscrits, sans nul ordre arrangés, Leur tiennent lieu d’honneurs, leur servent d’élégie; Et des écrits divins, les textes révérés, Peignent la vanité des grandeurs de la vie. Car quel est le mortel assez insouciant, Pour quitter d’un beau jour l’agréable lumière, Résigner les douceurs d’ici bas au néant Sans jetter tristement un regard en arrière. A notre dernière heure il est doux de penser Que des amis sur nous des larmes vont répandre; Oui, du fond du tombeau notre esprit sait parler, Le feu qui brule en nous vit encore dans nos cendres. Toi, qui ces morts obscurs sans cesse révéras, Toi, qui peins en ces vers leur innocente image, Si quelque ame sensible ici portant ces pas, Demandait aux échos quel sort fut son partage; Quelque berger en pleurs peut-être lui dira: “Souvent nous l’avous vu, dès la brillante aurore, “Fouler les prés fleuris, s’avancer à grand pas “Vers ce sommet riant, que le soleil colore. “Là, sous l’ombrage frais de ce hêtre incliné “Dont les pieds tortueux se jouent sur la verdure, “Au bord de ce ruisseau tout de son long couché, “Il sembloit méditer au bruit de son murmure. “Tantôt près de ce bois il erroit isolé, “Avec un ris moqueur insultant la fortune “Tantôt pâle, abattu, comme un être effaré: “Malheureux en amour, plongé dans l’infortune. Un jour sur la colline en vain je le cherchai, “Dans les prés émaillés, sous le paisible ombrage, “Un autre succéda-mais je ne le trouvai, “Ni près du clair ruisseau, ni près du bois sauvage. “Bientôt au bruit des chants, des soupirs, des sanglots, “Nous le vimes porté sans vie au cimetière, “Sous cette épine antique, approche et lis ces mots, “Qu’une main bienfaisante a gravés sur la pierre:” L’Épitaphe. Sur le sein de la terre, abandonné, sans biens, Un jeune infortuné repose ici la tête; La science en naissant le prit parmi les siens, Et la mélancolie en fit lors sa conquête. Son âme fut sincère et son cœur généreux, Le ciel en récompense le tira des alarmes, Sa pitié consolante offrit aux malheureux Tout ce qu’il possédoit—hélas! c’étoit des larmes. Ne cherche pas plus loin, et laisse ses vertus, Ses faiblesses aussi reposer en silence Dans le sein de son Dieu, qui, parmi ses élus, Un jour doit l’appeler en sa sainte présence.

Legs in Tattersall’s Yard. The dustman tolls the coming of the morn Of Monday, big with business and noise; The coach-guard gaily blows his patent horn, Delighting all the little girls and boys. Now briskly move along the well-pav’d street Tradesmen of ev’ry grade on bus’ness bent; Merchants and stockbrokers on eastern beat Their minds on funds and barter most intent. Now fam’d St. James’s Street is dreary grown, And left in melancholy desert state, Save where some guardsman paces up and down From Hoby’s boot shop to the Palace gate. Save that at Fenton’s doorway there appears Some carriage lading to go out of town Or drayman laying in a stock of beer To wash the fricassies and good things down. Moving tw’rd’s Hyde Park Corner in the west, With steady pace and fashionable swing, Are seen young sprigs of fortune gaily dress’d, To lounge an hour in the betting ring. Beneath yon gateway, Tattersall’s fam’d yard, Where nags are bought and sold both strong and fleet, Each with the betting book, and pencil hard, The legs and sporting men are wont to meet. Oft does the betting to their cunning yield, Their craft has many a fav’rite horse thrown back Then knowingly at odds they back the field, And turn their certain hundreds in a crack. Let not morality decry their game, Their heavy bets and calculations clear For Justice self has patronised the same Although to Justice many have paid dear. 47 Nor you, ye tradesmen, murmur or complain, If when ye ask for cash, ye’re told to wait, Nor dare to dun, nor importune again, Tho’ ’twere to save you from starvation’s fate. Shall the great Derby or the Oaks give place To ordinary calls at tradesmen’s wills? Shall bets of honor lost upon a race Be left unpaid for shopmen’s dirty bills? Perhaps amidst the motley group you’ll see Some youth just jump’d into a peer’s estate, Some halfpay Captain M—, or Colonel D— Much worse than nothing or by legging great. Some lucky pugilist whose prowess great All other heroes of his day withstood, Some thick-scull’d horsedealer, who owes to fate More than to head and brains he ever could. Full many a flat and fortune favour’d youth, The east and western parts of London hold Full many a peer can testify the truth, That many men possess less brains than gold. Their names, their years, by folly written down, A lengthen’d list of dupes would well supply, And many a leg might in the list be shown, Who carries now his head amazing high. For thee who knowing not the term of leg Dost in these lines mysterious language find, And would thereof an explanation beg To quench the sturdy wonder of thy mind. Haply at Tattersall’s Subscription Room, They’ll tell thee that, by modern definition A Leg’s a Lord, a Captain, or a Groom, Or one whose betting keeps him in condition For thee, who paramount of Legs the head, Dost herein recognize thine own estate, If chance, in after days by fancy led, Some sporting novice shall enquire thy fate. Haply some aged Jockey may reply Oft have we seen him on Newmarket course, With steadfast gaze and scrutinizing eye Watching the trial of some fav’rite horse. One morn we miss’d him on the accustom’d spot Just by the ditch, (the meeting week was near,) The races came but we beheld him not, At length to church-yard move we saw his bier. Epitaph. Here rests his head upon a lap of earth A Leg at Epsom and Newmarket known, He made a handsome fortune on the turf, That turf, alas, now claims him as its own. From The Spirit of the Age Newspaper. 1828.

An Elegy on The Departed Season. The Porter tolls the bell on starting day, The blowing heard is pent-up steam let free, The lengthy train winds out its hissing way, And leaves the town to dulness and to me. Now fades the glittering season from the sight— Belgravia a solemn stillness holds; The “families” from their mansions take to flight, And holland, glazed, the furniture enfolds. “The ring,” deserted, leaves Hyde Park in gloom, No carriage, phaeton, brougham, four-in-hand; No dashing cab, no top boot dapper groom, No haughty coachman, no tall footman bland. The well-dressed men who lean about the rail, Who lift the hat so gracefully, and bow To carriage beauties, languishing and pale, Who wearily respond—where are they now? Where is the prancing “life” of Rotten Row— High blood of palaces, or clerk from marts? Where the fair Amazon, dashing to and fro— She who breaks horses—eke awhile breaks hearts? Where are the gentle connoisseurs of flowers— The languid saunterers through Covent Garden? Off to their Continental homes and bowers— Spain—Paris—Italy—Spa—Baden-Baden. Dark is the Opera—“in silent tiers;” Just now in jewelled beauty all ablaze. How short the flitted season past appears! Singers, and ballet, too, how short their stays! Closed are the halls of fashionable shows— The “R.A.” masterpieces, and the smudges— “King Charles and Sunday”—“Venus” without clothes, That shocked the prudish, and amazed the judges. The Parliament—its grand defeats and glories— Its orators profound, and twaddling bores— The fiery democrats—the Whigs—the Tories— Ah! blessed fate that gave them to the Moors! Full many a swell whose way is “all serene,” Luxurious yachts across the ocean bear; Full many a gent, too, makes a rush unseen, To taste the sweetness of the desert air. Ah you, ye proud of independent wealth, That boast of heraldry, and power, and pomp! Ye’re off to some sea coast, recruiting health— To shooting, angling, county ball, or romp. But here the milkman calleth every morn, The sparrows twitter, seeking to be fed; The maid’s shrill signal, then is ruthless torn, The man of business from his downy bed. Come then, thou frequent, fast suburban train— The river steamer, wherry, gig, or horse— Let us enjoy the grassy open plain, And cultivate our cricket, or “La Crosse;” Or seek beneath the Hyde Park elms a shade Where patriots, assembled in a heap, But now the ghost of interdiction laid: The rude foregatherings of Reform may sleep. 48 Let not ambition mock that useful toil By hardy hands and characters obscure, Nor grandeur think with a disdainful smile Of such an entry-forcible yet sure.

The whistle shrieks the knell of parting day, The humming engine coughs along the lea, The driver lets the steam puff forth its way And leaves the world to ugliness and me. * * * * *

Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours, Fair Venus’ train, appear, Disclose the long-expected flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckow’s note, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky Their gather’d fragrance fling. Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech O’er-canopies the glade, Beside some water’s rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin’d in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great! Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o’er the current skim, Some shew their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation’s sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro’ Life’s little day, In Fortune’s varying colours drest: Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill’d by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive kind reply: Poor Moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic while ’tis May. Thomas Gray.

Ode on the Spring By a Man of Fashion. I. Lo! where party giving dames, Fair Fashion’s train, appear, Disclose the long-expected games, And wake the modish year. The opera-warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the actor’s note, 49 The dear-bought harmony of Spring; While, beaming pleasure as they fly, Bright flambeaus through the murky sky Their welcome fragrance fling. II. Where’er the routs full myriads close The staircase and the door, Where’er thick files of belles and beaus Perspire through ev’ry pore; Beside some faro-table’s brink, With me the Muse shall stand and think, (Hemmed sweetly in by squeeze of state,) How vast the comfort of the crowd, How condescending are the proud, How happy are the great! III. Still is the toiling hand of Care, The drays and hacks repose; But, hark, how through the vacant air The rattling clamour glows! The wanton Miss and rakish Blade, Eager to join the Masquerade, Through streets and squares pursue their fun; Home in the dusk some bashful skim; Some lingering late, their motley trim Exhibit to the sun. IV. To Dissipation’s playful eye, Such is the life for man, And they that halt and they that fly Should have no other plan: Alike the busy and the gay Should sport all night till break of day, In Fashion’s varying colours drest; Till seiz’d for debt through rude mischance, Or chill’d by age, they leave the dance, In gaol or dust—to rest. V. Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some sober quiz reply, Poor child of Folly! what art thou? A Bond-Street butterfly? Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets, No taste hast thou of vernal sweets, Enslav’d by noise, and dress, and play; Ere thou art to the country flown, The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone, Then leave the town in May. From The Fashionable World Displayed. By John Owen. London, 1804,

Ode on the Closing of the House of Commons, By George, Prince Regent, in 1816. Lo! where the scarlet-bosom’d band, The Regent’s pomp, appear; Lo! where the Commons crowding stand, The Session’s close to hear! The spangled Ruler pours his throat, Responsive to the Speaker’s note, Well-prim’d his part to play; While Placemen, Pensioners, and Peers, By listening with attentive ears, Their ready tribute pay. Where the old tapestry figures stretch Their cobwebs round the throne; Where note-takers contrive to catch No meaning but their own; Viewing the Regent’s well-plum’d head, Some time I stood, then whisp’ring said, As much I marvell’d at his hat— How true to Nature is his wig; What beaux, what triflers are the big! What Dandies are the fat! The Treasury tribe is on the wing, Eager to end their troubled Spring, And bask them in the Summer noon; Some prosing in the lobby wait, Some show their star-bedizen’d state, Or Cossack pantaloon. To Contemplation’s sober eye, Such is the race of man; And they that speak, and they that try, Must end where they began. Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some holder of a place— “Poor moralist! and what art thou? A patriot in disgrace! “Thy hand no gracious Regent meets, No hive hast thou of pension sweets— No stars, no riband to display; In rebel speech thy hope is flown; Thy name is up, thy party known— We pocket while we may.” From The New Tory Guide. London: Ridgeway, 1819.

Drowned in a Tub[28] of Gold Fishes. ’Twas on a lofty vase’s side, Where China’s gayest art had dy’d The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclin’d, Gaz’d on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declar’d; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr’d applause. Still had she gaz’d; but ’midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide[29] The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue Thro’ richest purple to the view Betray’d a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, 50 She stretch’d, in vain, to reach the prize, What female heart can gold despise? What Cat’s averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch’d, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smil’d) The slipp’ry verge her feet beguil’d, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery God, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard: A Fav’rite has no friend. From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wondering eyes, And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens,[30] gold. Thomas Gray.

Ode On the death of a favourite, who was nearly drowned in the River Thames. ’Twas in a new-constructed boat, Which Acre’s hero set afloat The Treasury Bench to show, Demurest of the placeman kind, The gentle Castlereagh[31] reclin’d, Gazed on the Thames below His tail, which he so lately turn’d, The face which ne’er with shame had burn’d. His powerful grasp of paws! The coat which he had often chang’d His ears still left, and eyes which rang’d He saw, and smil’d, applause. Still had he gaz’d; but ’midst the tide Some Downshire voters seemed to glide, With aspect sweet and mild: Their lists of freeholds in their hand With names of those they could command, Betray’d this ardent child. The hapless youth with transport saw; A prosing speech, and then a claw, To gain the sturdy race He stretch’d in vain to reach the prize; Nor could he well such fish despise, Who is so fond of Place. Presumptuous youth! with looks intent, Again he stretched, again he bent, Nor saw the gulf between: Malignant Fate sat by and smil’d The slippery verge his feet beguil’d, He tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the Thames, He call’d his messmates by their names, Some speedy aid to send: No Phipps, no Long, no Premier heard, (Because he slept), nor Mulgrave stirr’d— A fav’rite has no friend. From hence, ye placemen, undeceiv’d, Know, one false step is ne’er retriev’d; Be warn’d by this sad hour; Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes And hearts corrupt, is lawful prize, Nor all within your pow’r. From The Spirit of the Public Journals. 1805. James Ridgway. London.

Parody of Gray’s Ode. On a Cat drowned in a tub of Gold Fishes. ’Twas on the pavement of a lane, Where a hard shower of soaking rain Had made a pretty mess; A buck advanc’d with careful strut, For fear a sprinkle from the rut Should soil his lily dress. His powder’d head, his silken hose, The dashing buckles on his toes, Seem’d suited for a court; The muslin round a pudding roll’d In which he kept his chin from cold, Was of the finest sort. He trod on slow; but ’midst the tide A brewer’s dray was seen to glide— Unmindful of the mud; Before which stalked, with steps quite bold, Two high-fed steeds of beauteous mould— The pride of Whitbread’s stud. The splashing made on every side The lane, which was not over wide, Quite terrified the elf: He saw the careless steeds come on, But dar’d not stand, nor dar’d to run— Lest he should splash himself. At length, poor youth! he made a stop, And would have got into a shop— But, ah! the door was shut! When lo! th’ advanc’d procession greets The hapless beau with all the sweets Collected in the rut! He swore, and call’d the drayman wight Untaught, unlearn’d, and unpolite, And said he’d thrash the blade; But he did not—good reason why; Alas, no Hercules was nigh, To give Narcissus aid! Then, all ye bucks who walk the street, So spruce, so buxom, and so neat, Learn this sad tale by reading, To keep at home on rainy days Lest you should meet with any drays— For draymen have no breeding! The Morning Chronicle. 1800.

’Twas on the lofty Treasury’s side Where Walpole’s basest arts had tried The wistful Briberies that flow; Most ambitious of the Plaidy kind, The upshot Bute reclined, Gazed on the gold below. His country’s hopes his joy declared, His freckled face, his grizzled beard, The talons of his paws, His Plaid, that with the Rainbow vies, His downcast looks, and jaundiced eyes, He said, and hummed applause. * * * * *

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat’ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry’s holy shade[32]; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way: Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields belov’d in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray’d, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth, And, redolent of joy and youth To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle’s speed, Or urge the flying ball? While some on earnest business bent, Their murm’ring labours ply ’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast; Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue, Wild Wit, Invention ever-new, And lively Cheer, of Vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th’ approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see, how all around ’em wait The Ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune’s baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd’rous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag’d comfortless Despair, And Sorrow’s piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness’ alter’d eye, That mocks the tear it forc’d to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil’d, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath, A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, 52 Condemn’d alike to groan; The tender for another’s pain, Th’ unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since Sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their Paradise, No more;—where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise. Thomas Gray.

Ode on Ranelagh.[33] Addressed to the Ladies. Ye dazzling lamps, ye Jocund fires, That from yon fabric shine, Where grateful pleasure yet admires Her Lacy’s great design: And ye who from the fields which lie Round Chelsea, with amazement’s eye, The gardens and the dome survey, Whose walks, whose trees, whose lights among, Wander the courtly train along Their thought-dispelling way. Ah splendid room! Ah, pleasing shade! Ah, walks belov’d in vain, Where oft in happier times I stray’d, A stranger then to pain: I feel the gales, which from you blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, They seem to sooth my famish’d soul And, redolent of tea and roll, To breathe a second spring. Rotunda, say, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race In thy bright round with step serene, The paths of pleasure trace: Who chiefly now delight to lave Green hyson, in the boiling wave, The sable coffee, which distil? What longing progeny are found Who stroll incessant round and round Like horses in a mill? While some on earnest business dream: And, gravely stupid, try To search each complicated scheme Of publick policy: Some ladies leave the spacious dome Around the garden’s maze to roam, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they walk they look behind, Lest fame a secret foe should find From some malicious eye. Loud mirth is theirs, and pleasing praise, To beauty’s shrine address’d: The sprightly songs, the melting lays, Which charm the soften’d breast! Theirs lively wit, invention free, The sharp bon mot, keen repartee, And ev’ry art coquets employ! The thoughtless day, the jocund night, The spirits brisk, the sorrows light, That fly th’ approach of joy. Alas! regardless of their doom The lovely victims rove; No sense of sufferings yet to come Can now their prudence move: But see! where all around them wait The ministers of female fate, An artful, perjur’d, cruel train; Ah! show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the faithless band Of false, deceitful men! These shall the lust of gaming wear That harpy of the mind, With all the troop of rage and fear, That follows close behind: Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy, with rankling tooth, That gnaws bright Hymen’s golden chain, Who opens wide the fatal gate, For sad distrust and ruthless hate, And sorrow’s pallid train. Ambition this shall tempt to fix Her hopes on something high, To barter for a coach and six Her peace and liberty. The stings of scandal these shall try, And affectation’s haughty eye That scowls on those it us’d to greet, The cutting sneer, the abusive song And false report that glides along, With never-resting feet. And lo! when in the vale of years A grisly tribe are seen; Fancy’s pale family of fears, More hideous than their queen: Struck with th’ imaginary crew Which artless nature never knew, These aid from quacks, and cordials beg, While this, transform’d by folly’s hand, Remains awhile at her command A tea-pot, or an egg. To each her suff’rings: all must grieve, And pour a silent groan, At homage others charms receive, Or slights that meet their own: But all the voice of truth severe Will suit the gay, regardless ear, Whose joy in mirth and revels lies! Thought would destroy this paradise. No more!—Where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise. Anonymous. 1775.

“Ye vases five, ye antic towers, That crown the turnpike glade, Where art, in dingy light adores Her Bourgeois’ ochrey shade;”

“Say, Master Allen, hast thou seen The connoisseuring race, Breathless, amazed, on Dulwich-green, My lines of beauty trace? Who foremost now delights to stop To look at God’s Gift[34] picture shop; Is’t Nash, or Smirke, or Gwilt? Do not the knowing loungers cry, ‘My eye!’ at my sarcophagi, And guess by whom ’twas built!” * * * * *

Ode on the Distant Prospect of a Good Dinner. Ye distant dishes, sideboards blest With Halford’s peptic pill— Where grateful gourmands still attest Illustrious Robert’s skill; And ye that, girt with legumes round, Or in the purest pastry bound, On silvery surface lie; Where pâté—salmi—sauce tomate, Fricandeau framed with nicest art Attract the glist’ning eye. Ah! richest scent! perfume beloved! Blest odours breathed in vain— Where once my raptured palate roved, And fain would rove again. I feel the gales that now ascend, A momentary craving lend— As curling round the vapours seem My faded faculties t’excite, Restore my long-pall’d appetite, And soothe me with their steam. Say, Monsieur Ude, for thou hast seen Full many a jovial set Discoursing on la bonne cuisine, In social union met— Who foremost now prepare to pray Des cotelettes à la chicorée? Sauté de saumon—qui l’attend? What young Amphitryons now vote Nothing like pigeons en compote, Or taste the vol-au-vent? While some at lighter viands aim, And towards digestion lean, Poularde aux truffes, or à la crème, Or agneau aux racines; Some hardier epicures disdain The distant chance of doubtful pain, And queue d’esturgeon try; Still as they eat they long to cease, They feel a pang as every piece Passes their palate by. But lo! the entremets are placed To greet the gourmand’s nose, Bedeck’d with all the pride of paste, Confective prowess shows. One earnestly devotes his praise To beignets a la lyonnaise, Others survey with mix’d delight Gelées d’orange—de marasquin; While some, with looks ecstatic, scan The soufflé’s buoyant height. Best fair is theirs by —— fed, Less pleasing to digest; The taste soon gone, and in its stead, Oppression on the chest. Theirs joyous hours, and jocund nights, Wit’s playful sallies, fancy’s flights, And goodly cheer as e’er was seen— The aged Hock—the Champagne bright, Burgundia’s best, and Claret light, The vintage of nineteen. Alas! regardless of their doom Each rich ragout they take, No sense have they of pains to come, Of head, or stomach-ache. Yet see how all around them press, Th’ attendants of each night’s excess; Fell Indigestion’s followers vile: Ah! show them where the hateful crew Scoff calomel and pills of blue, Ah! tell them they have bile. These shall the Gout tormenting rack, The Vampire of the toes, Night-mare, Lumbago in the back, And Cholic’s painful throes; Or languid liver waste their youth, Or caries of a double tooth, Its victim’s nerves that nightly gnaws. Vertigo—Apoplexy—Spleen, The feverish hand—the visage green, The lengthen’d lanthorn jaws. This, a consommé, precious prize! Is tempted now to try; To restless nights a sacrifice, And dire acidity. Till throbs of heart-burn—ague’s pangs, And Cholera’s fiercely fixing fangs, Have left him, liverless, to moan, The bloated form—the pimpled face, The tottering step—th’ expiring trace Of good digestion gone. To each his twitches, all are men, Condemned to pick their bone; The poor man in another’s den, The rich man in his own. Yet, why should I of torments treat? Since we were made to drink and eat, Why should I prophesy their pain? 54 Stomachs were form’d for holding food— No more—while our digestion’s good, ’Tis folly to abstain. From Blackwood’s Magazine, May, 1828.

Ode on a Prospect of the Abolition of Eton Montem. Ye distant spires, ye antique tow’rs. That crown the wat’ry glade, Where Aristocracy’s young flowers Bless Henry’s holy shade, For culture which the monarch meant For scholars poor and indigent; Unable for their lore to pay— Some grumbling churls, in language strong, Pronounce this change a wicked wrong, No matter what they say! Ah hapless tow’rs! ah luckless spires! Ah statutes shirk’d amain! That high-born sons of noble sires Might learning gratis gain; The gales that from your quarters blow Oppress me with a sense of woe; For they a horrid rumour bring That Eton Montem is to be At length abolish’d—Goodness me! Oh what a shocking thing! Say, Hill of Salt, for thou hast seen Full many a noble race Do what might be considered mean In any other case— With cap in hand, and courtly leg, Waylay the traveller, and beg; Say, was it not a pleasing sight Those young Etonians to behold, For eleemosynary gold, Arrest the passing wight! Whilst some, of more excursive bent, Their vagrant arts to ply, To all the various places went, That in the neighbourhood lie; To Datchet, Slough, or Horton they, Or e’en to Colnbrook, took their way, Or ancient Windsor’s regal town; Stopp’d everybody they could meet, Knock’d at each house in every street, In hopes of half-a-crown. Gay clothes were theirs, by fancy made; Some were as Romans drest, Some in the Grecian garb array’d, Some bore the knightly crest; Theirs was attire of every hue, Of every fashion, old or new, Various as Nathan’s ample store: Angelic beings! Ladies! say, Will ye let these things pass away? Must Montem be no more? Alas! our institutions old Are going, one by one; The work of innovation bold, With Montem has begun; Next flogging it will overthrow, And fagging, too, of course will go, And then farewell the good old school Science with Latin and with Greek To mix e’en now Reform would seek Ah, tell her she’s a fool! To all their likings, and their taste, Their fancies and their qualms; Some gentlemen may feel debased By sons who ask for alms; Yet youthful Lord, and stripling Duke, To beg for salt, without rebuke, At Montem always were allowed:— What argument can answer this? No more—where beggary is bliss, ’Tis folly to be proud. Punch. December, 1846.

Ode on a Close Prospect of Eton College. (By a Gray-Headed Wet Bob.) Ye crumbling spires, ye antique towers,— What, if ye were decayed! What, if your fragments fell in showers On Henry’s holy shade! And what, if o’er your cloister walls Vague pencilled ornamental scrawls Afforded mute display; Should Vandals, who all things renew, Be down upon thy records too, And sweep them clean away! But, there!—with taste he calls “correct,” ’Mid scenes of vanished days Your gay restoring Architect The very dickens plays! Yet, as his brand-new work he vaunts, He gives us for our treasured haunts Red brick—and nothing more! Which drives Wet Bob to stick to this, “Where crumbling memories are bliss, ’Tis folly to restore!” Punch. August 5, 1882.

I. “Ruin seize thee, ruthless King Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho’ fann’d by Conquest’s crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor Hauberk’s twisted mail[35] Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears!” 55 Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter’d wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side[36] He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glos’ter stood aghast[37] in speechless trance To arms! cried Mortimer[38] and couch’d his quiv’ring lance. II. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, Rob’d in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream’d, like a meteor, to the troubled air) And with a Master’s hand, and Prophet’s fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre, “Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave, “Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath! “O’er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, “Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; “Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day, “To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay. III. “Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue, “That hush’d the stormy main: “Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: “Mountains, ye mourn in vain “Modred, whose magic song “Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp’d head. “On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie, “Smear’d with gore, and ghastly pale: “Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail; “The famish’d Eagle screams, and passes by “Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, “Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes “Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, “Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries— “No more I weep. They do not sleep. “On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, “I see them sit, they linger yet, “Avengers of their native land: “With me in dreadful harmony they join, “And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. IV. “Weave the warp, and weave the woof “The winding sheet of Edward’s race “Give ample room, and verge enough “The characters of hell to trace. “Mark the year, and mark the night, “When Severn shall re-echo with affright “The shrieks of death, thro’ Berkley’s roof that ring, “Shrieks of an agonizing King[39] “She-wolf of France[40], with unrelenting fangs, “That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled Mate, “From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs “The scourge of Heaven. What Terrors round him wait! “Amazement in his van, with Flight combin’d, “And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind. V. “Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, “Low on his funeral couch he lies![41] “No pitying heart, no eye, afford “A tear to grace his obsequies. “Is the sable Warrior fled?[42] “Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead. “The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born. “Gone to salute the rising Morn. “Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows “While proudly riding o’er the azure realm “In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes; “Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; “Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind’s sway, “That, hush’d in grim repose, expects his evening-prey. VI. “Fill high the sparking bowl “The rich repast prepare, “Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: “Close by the regal chair “Fell Thirst and Famine scowl “A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. “Heard ye the din of battle bray “Lance to lance, and horse to horse? “Long years of havock urged their destin’d course, “And thro’ the kindred squadrons mow their way. “Ye Tow’rs of Julius,[43] London’s lasting shame, “With many a foul and midnight murder fed, “Revere his Consort’s faith[44], his father’s fame[45] “And spare the meek Usurper’s holy head[46] “Above, below, the rose of snow,[47] “Twin’d with her blushing foe, we spread: 56 “The bristled Boar[48] in infant-gore “Wallows beneath the thorny shade. “Now, Brothers, bending o’er th’ accursed loom, “Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. VII. “Edward, lo! to sudden fate “(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) “Half of thy heart we consecrate[49] “(The web is wove. The work is done.”) “Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn “Leave me unbless’d, unpitied, here to mourn: “In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, “They melt, they vanish from my eyes. “But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height “Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? “Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! “Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul! “No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. “All-hail, ye genuine Kings, Britannia’s Issue hail.[50] VIII. “Girt with many a Baron bold “Sublime their starry fronts they rear; “And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old, “In bearded majesty appear. “In the midst a Form divine! “Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line; “Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face “Attemper’d sweet to virgin-grace. “What strings symphonious tremble in the air, “What strains of vocal transport round her play! “Hear from the grave, great Talliessin, hear; “They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. “Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, “Waves in the eye of Heav’n her many-colour’d wings. IX. “The verse adorn again “Fierce War, and faithful Love, “And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. “In buskin’d measures move “Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, “With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. “A voice, as of the Cherub Choir, “Gales from blooming Eden bear; “And distant warblings lessen on my ear, “That lost in long futurity expire. “Fond impious Man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, “Rais’d by thy breath, has quench’d the Orb of day? “To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, “And warms the nations with redoubled ray. “Enough for me: With joy I see “The different doom our Fates assign. “Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, “To triumph, and to die, are mine.” He spoke; and headlong from the mountain’s height Deep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night. Thomas Gray.

The Bard. A Covent Garden Ode. “Ruin seize thee, ruthless John,[51] Confusion on thy banners wait; Though bless’d with all the smiles of ton, They mock the air with idle state: Helm nor hauberks twisted mail, Nor e’en thy sister’s[52] acting, shall prevail, To save thy soul from nightly fears, From O.P.’s curse, from O.P.’s cheers.” Such were the sounds that from the gallery’s height Roll’d thundering to the pit below; Rous’d slumbering Uproar from her seat, And wak’d the yell of clamorous Row: Fierce Wienholt stood aghast in speechless trance; To arms! Fitzgerald cried, and shook the sconce: Perch’d on a box, with haughty brow, Flush’d with the purple stream, in angry mood, Rob’d in his soldier’s garb, he stood Prepar’d the loose placard to throw. With haggard eyes, surcharg’d with blood, Shatter’d his garments, torn his hair, His arms wide sprawling to the air, With hurried voice and accent loud, Thus bellow’d to the rebel crowd: “Hark how each private box’s desert cave Sigh’s to the torrent’s voice beneath— Our fierce battalions deafening clamours breathe, And high in air their hundred arms they wave, Swearing they’ll not an added ducat pay, For high born Shakspeare’s harp, or softer Otway’s lay.” Stopp’d is the Bank Clerk’s prattling tongue. That rous’d the stormy scene, Brave Cowlam sleeps upon a craggy bed, O.P.’s ye mourn in vain; Clifford, whose lawless bold harangue Made lofty Graham bow his crested head; In dreary Rufus’ Hall[53] they lie, Struck with dismay, and ghastly pale, Far, far aloof, the promis’d witness fail, The Attorney-General screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of the noisy art, Dear as the ruddy drops that glad my eyes; Dear as the hopes that lately fed my heart, When first I saw the daring conflict rise. No more I weep, they do not sleep; In yonder hall, a grisly band I see them sit, they linger yet, And only wait a rallying hand. With me in dreadful harmony to join, And howl destruction to the Kemble line. Peering high, and near the roof, Pale Confusion showed her face; In accents wild, and sharp reproof, Thus addressed her fallen race:— Mark the hour, and mark the night, 57 When Thames shall echo with delight; And to your ears the dreadful verdict bring: When Henry’s antique towers shall ring With shouts that strike Thames Ditton with affright. The wolf of law, with unrelenting fangs, Tearing the bowels of our mangled mate; Fell conviction, hovering o’er us, hangs; The scourge of Justice, ah! what ills await; Amazement in the van, and fear combined, And poverty and cold imprisonment behind. What tho’ Clifford, daring chief, Has gained, by chance, a short lived fame, That will to us bring no relief, Who fed the fire and fann’d the flame; From us the gallant hero’s dead, And Wienholt too has veil’d his head. The swarms that in the Statesman’s beams were born. The public taste has laughed to scorn, And all our efforts overwhelm; In easy sail their new built vessel goes, Shakespeare at the prow, and Kemble at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, That, hurl’d in dread repose, has lost its evening prey. Lo! They fill the tragic bowl, A rich repast prepare; Reason’s feast and flow of soul Again will triumph here; While punishment and vengeance scowl A baleful frown upon our baffled host. Late we heard their battle bray, Arm to arm and force to force; Thro’ hours of havoc urg’d the course, And thro’ all Bow-street squadrons mow’d their way. These hours are gone, and gone our fame, And nearly sunk is O.P.’s name. Judgment suspended o’er their head, Above, below, they deal the blow, And o’er the plain our flying squadrons spread; The brothers, smiling at our dismal doom, Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark’ning terrors gloom. But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless’d, unaided here to mourn. In yon dark cloud, that skirts the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes; But, ah; what dazzling scenes on Kemble wait! Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll; Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye crowded houses, rush not on my soul; No more their long-lost Shakespeare they bewail, The flash of his far-beaming eye they hail, And with him Otway, Southerne, Rowe, Sublime, their starry frontlets rear. And gorgeous dames in gallant show In mimic majesty appear; In the midst a form divine,[54] Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line; Her light’ning eye, her awe-commanding face, Attemper’d sweet to ev’ry grace. What sounds of acclamation fill the air! What strains of trembling rapture round her play; Hear from thy grave, immortal Shakespeare, hear; She breathes a soul to animate thy clay; Bright nature calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves, in the eye of Heaven, her many-colour’d wings. Lo! they adorn again Fierce war and faithful love, And truth, in fairy fiction dress’d. In buskin’d measures move Pale grief and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. And, hark, a cherub choir; Gales of harmony, that bear, Sounds that my very heart-strings tear; Their horrid warblings pain my startled ear, That, lost in Melody’s soft notes, expire. Vain was our hope that deem’d the sanguine cloud Rais’d by my breath would quench the orb of day; To-morrow he repairs his golden flood, And warms the nation with redoubled ray, Enough for me, with dread I see The different doom our fates assign; Yours is despair and legal care, Sorrow and defeat are mine.” She spoke, and headlong from the gallery’s height, Deep in the roaring pit she plunged to endless night. Falkland. The Morning Post. December 8, 1809.

I. “Ruin seize thee, senseless prig! Confusion on thy “optics” wait! Though prais’d by many a Johnian pig, They crowd the shop in fruitless state. Hood, nor Doctor’s scarlet gown, Nor N—th, nor P—th shall win renown; Nor save thy secret soul from nightly fears, The Union’s curse, the Union’s tears.” Such were the sounds that o’er the pedant pride Of W—d, the Johnian, scatter’d wild dismay, As down the flags of Petty-cury’s[55] side, He wound with toilsome march his long array, Stout T-th-m stood aghast with puffy face, “To arms!” cried Beverly,[56] and couch’d his quiv’ring mace. II. At a window, which on high Frowns o’er the market place below, With trousers[57] on, and haggard eye, A member stood immersed in woe, His tatter’d gown, and greasy hair, Stream’d like a dishclout to the onion’d air. 58 And with a voice that well might beat the cryer, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre:— “Hark! how each butcher’s stall, and mightier shops Sighs to the market’s clattering row beneath; For thee the women squall, the cleavers chop, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe, Vocal no more since Monday’s fatal night, To Thirlwall’s[58] keen remark, or Sheridan’s[58] wild flight. III. Mute now is Raymond’s tongue, That hushed the club to sleep; The patriot Whitcombe now has ceased to rail; Waiters in vain ye weep. Lawson,[58] whose annual song, Made the Red Lion[59] wag his raptur’d tail. Dear lost companions in the spouting art, Dear as the commons smoking in the hall, Dear as the audit ale that warms my heart Ye fell amidst the dying Union’s fall. IV. Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Jemmy’s race; Give ample room and verge enough To mark revenge, defeat, disgrace. Mark the month and mark the day The Senate widely echoing with the fray; Commoner, Sizar, Pensioner, and snob, Shouts of an undergraduate mob. V. Master of a mighty college, Without his robes behold him stand, Whom not a Whig will now acknowledge, Return his bow, or shake his hand. Is the sable Jackson fled? Thy friend is gone he hides his powder’d head. The Bedells, too, by whom the mace is borne, Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn and soft the zephyr blows, While gently sidling through the crowded street In scarlet robe, Clare’s[60] tiny master goes. Ware[61] clears the road, and Gunning[61] guides his feet, Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway That, hush’d in grim repose, marks Jemmy for its prey. VI. Fill high the Audit bowl! The feast in hall prepare! Reft of his robes, he yet may share the feast, Close by the Master’s chair, Contempt and laughter scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Gown to gown and cap to cap? Hark at the Johnian gates each thund’ring rap, While thro’ opposing Dons they move their way, Ye Johnian towers, old W—d’s eternal shame, With many a midnight imposition fed, Revere his algebra’s immortal fame, And spare the meek mechanic’s holy head. Each bristled boar will bear no more, And meeting in the Combination Room, They stamp their vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. VII. Jemmy, lo! to sudden fate, (Pass the wine—the liquor’s good) Half of thy year we consecrate: The web is now what was the wood, But mark the scene beneath the senate’s height See the petition’s crowded skirts unroll; Visions of glory spare my aching sight, Unborn commencements crowd not on my soul, No more our Kaye,[62] our Thackeray[62], we bewail; All hail! thou genuine Prince,[63] Britannia’s issue, hail! VIII. Heads of houses, Doctors bold, Sublime their hoods and wigs they rear; Masters young, and Fellows old, In bombazeen and silk appear. In the midst a form divine, His eye proclaims him of the British line What cheers of triumph thunder thro’ the air. While the full tide of youthful thanks is pour’d. Hear from your chambers Price[64] and Hibbert,[64] hear; Th’ oppressor shrinks, the Union is restor’d. The treasurer flies to spread the news he brings, And wears, for triumph’s sake, yet larger chitterlings. IX. Fond, impious man, think’st thou thy puny fist, Thy “Wood-en sword” has broke a British club? The Treasurer soon augments our growing list, We rise more numerous from this transient rub, Enough for me: with joy I see, The different doom our fates assign; Be thine contempt and big-wigged care, To triumph and to die are mine.” He spoke, and headlong from the window’s height Deep in a dung-cart near, he plung’d to endless night.

“Ruin seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Confusion on thy frizzing wait, Hadst thou the only comb below, Thou never more should’st touch my pate. Club nor queue, nor twisted tail, Nor e’en thy chattering, barber! shall avail To save thy horsewhipped back from daily fears, From Cantabs’ curse, from Cantabs’ tears!” Such were the sounds that o’er the powder’d pride Of Coe the barber scatter’d wild dismay, As down the steep of Jackson’s slippery lane He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy way. In a room where Cambridge town Frowns o’er the kennels’ stinking flood, Robed in a flannel powdering gown, With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood! (Long his beard, and blowzy hair, Stream’d like an old wig to the troubled air); And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner, Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner. Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell! O’er thee, oh Coe! their dreadful notes they wave, Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave; Vocal in vain, through all this lingering day, The grace already said, the plates all swept away. “Cold is Beau_**** tongue, That soothed each virgin’s pain; Bright perfumed M_** has cropp’d his head: Almacks, you moan in vain! Each youth whose high toupee Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capp’d head In humble Tyburn-top we see; Esplash’d with dirt and sun-burn’d face; Far on before the ladies mend their pace, The Macaroni sneers, and will not see. Dear lost Companions of the coxcomb’s art, Dear as a turkey to these famish’d eyes, Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart, Ye sunk amidst the fainting misses’ cries— No more I weep—They do not sleep: At yonder ball, a slovenly band, I see them sit; they linger yet Avengers of fair Nature’s hand; With me in dreadful resolution join To crop with one accord, and starve thy cursed line. “Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding sheet of barber’s race, Give ample room and verge enough Their lengthen’d lanthorn jaws to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When all their shops shall echo with affright, Loud screams shall through St James’s turrets ring, To see, like Eton boy, the King! Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws That scrape the foretops of our aching heads, No longer England owns thy fribblish laws, No more her folly Gallia’s vermin feeds. They wait at Dover for the first fair wind, Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff roast beef behind. “Mighty barbers, mighty lords, Low on a greasy bench they lie! No pitying heart or purse affords A sixpence for a mutton pie! Is the mealy ’prentice fled? Poor Coe is gone all supperless to bed. The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat, Comb their lank hair on forehead flat: Fair laughs the morn, when all the world are beaux, While vainly strutting through a silly land, In foppish train, the puppy barber goes, Lace on his shirt, and money at command, Regardless of the skulking bailiff’s sway, That hid in some dark court expects his evening prey. “The porter mug fill high, Baked curls and locks prepare; Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live! Close by the greasy chair Fell thirst and famine lie, No more to art will beauteous nature give. Heard ye the gang of Fielding say, Sir John,[65] at last we’ve found their haunt To desperation driven by hungry want, Through the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way. Ye towers of Newgate! London’s lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith’s[66] fame, And spare the grinning barber’s chuckle head. “Rascals! we tread ye under foot, (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun): Our beards we pull out by the root: (The web is wove; your work is done).” Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn, Leave me uncurl’d, undinner’d here to mourn. Through the broad gate that leads to College Hall, They melt, they fly, they vanish all. But oh! what happy scenes of pure delight, Slow moving on their simple charms unroll. Ye rapturous visions, spare my aching sight, Ye unborn beauties, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Coventry we wail: All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature’s issue, hail! “Not frizz’d and fritter’d pinn’d and roll’d, Sublime their artless locks they wear, And gorgeous dames and judges old Without their têtes and wigs appear; In the midst a form divine, Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line: Her port demure, her grave religious face Attemper’d sweet to virgin grace. What sylphs and spirits wanton through the air, What crowds of little angels round her play. Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! Oh hear! A scene like this might animate thy clay. Simplicity now, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her Quaker-colour’d wings. 60 “No more toupees are seen That mock at Alpine height, And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound; All now are vanish’d quite. No tongs or torturing pin, But every head is trimm’d quite snug around: Like boys of the cathedral choir, Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear, Each simpler generation blooms more fair, ’Till all that’s artificial shall expire, Vain puppy boy! think’st thou yon essenced cloud, Raised by thy puff, can vie with Nature’s hue, To-morrow see the variegated crowd With ringlets shining like the morning dew! Enough for me: with joy I see The different dooms our fates assign! Be thine to love thy trade and starve; To wear what Heaven bestow’d be mine!” He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs’ height, Quick through the frozen street he ran in shabby plight. Thomas Erskine.