VOLUME V.

1The Curfeu tolls the Knell of parting Day, The lowing Herd winds slowly o’er the Lea, The Plow-man homeward plods his weary Way, And leaves the World to Darkness, and to me. 2Now 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. 3Save that from yonder Ivy-mantled Tow’r, The moping Owl does to the Moon complain Of such, as wand’ring near her secret Bow’r, Molest her ancient solitary Reign. 4Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew-Tree’s shade, Where heaves the Turf in many a mould’ring Heap, Each in his narrow Cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep. 5The breezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn, The Swallow twitt’ring from the Straw-built Shed, The Cock’s shrill Clarion, or the ecchoing Horn, No more shall wake them from their lowly Bed. 6For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn, Or busy Houswife ply her Evening-Care: No Children run to lisp their Sire’s Return, Or climb his Knees the envied Kiss to share. 7Oft did the Harvest to their Sickle yield, Their Furrow oft the stubborn Glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their Team afield! How bow’d the Woods beneath their sturdy Stroke! 8Let not Ambition mock their useful Toil, Their homely Joys and Destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful Smile The short and simple Annals of the Poor. 9The Boast of Heraldry, the Pomp of Power, And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable Hour. The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave. 10Forgive, ye Proud, th’ involuntary Fault If Memory to these no Trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn Isle and fretted Vault The pealing Anthem swells the Note of Praise. 11Can storied Urn or animated Bust Back to its Mansion call the fleeting Breath? Can Honour’s Voice provoke the silent Dust, Or Flatt’ry sooth the dull cold Ear of Death? 12Perhaps in this neglected Spot is laid Some Heart once pregnant with celestial Fire; Hands that the Reins of Empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to Extacy the living Lyre. 13But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page Rich with the Spoils of Time did ne’er unroll, Chill Penury repress’d their noble Rage, And froze the genial Current of the Soul. 14Full many a Gem of purest Ray serene, The dark unfathom’d Caves of Ocean bear: Full many a Flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its Sweetness on the desart Air. 15Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless Breast The little Tyrant of his Fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his Country’s Blood. 16Th’ Applause of list’ning Senates to command, The Threats of Pain and Ruin to despise, To scatter Plenty o’er a smiling Land; And read their Hist’ry in a Nation’s Eyes 17Their Lot forbad: nor circumscrib’d alone Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin’d; Forbad to wade through Slaughter to a Throne, And shut the Gates of Mercy on Mankind, 18The struggling Pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the Blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the Shrine of Luxury and Pride With Incense, kindled at the Muse’s Flame. 19Far from the madding Crowd’s ignoble Strife, Their sober Wishes never learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d Vale of Life They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way. 20Yet ev’n these Bones from Insult to protect Some frail Memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth Rhimes and shapeless Sculpture deck’d, Implores the passing Tribute of a Sigh. 21Their Name, their Years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse, The Place of Fame and Elegy supply: And many a holy Text around she strews, That teach the rustic Moralist to die. 3 22For who to dumb Forgetfulness a Prey, This pleasing anxious Being e’er resign’d, Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day, Nor cast one longing ling’ring Look behind! 23On some fond Breast the parting Soul relies, Some pious Drops the closing Eye requires; Ev’n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries Ev’n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 24For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead, Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some hidden Spirit shall enquire thy Fate, 25Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, “Oft have we seen him at the Peep of Dawn “Brushing with hasty Steps the Dews away, “To meet the Sun upon the upland Lawn, 26“There at the Foot of yonder nodding Beech, “That wreathes its old fantastic Roots so high, “His listless Length at Noontide wou’d he stretch, “And pore upon the Brook that babbles by. 27“Hard by yon Wood, now frowning as in Scorn, “Mutt’ring his wayward Fancies he wou’d rove; “Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, “Or craz’d with Care, or cross’d in hopeless Love. 28“One Morn I miss’d him on the custom’d Hill, “Along the Heath, and near his fav’rite Tree; “Another came; nor yet beside the Rill, “Nor up the Lawn, nor at the Wood was he; 29“The next with Dirges due in sad Array “Slow thro’ the Church-way Path we saw him born. “Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the Lay, “Grav’d on the Stone beneath yon aged Thorn.” THE EPITAPH. Here rests his Head upon the Lap of Earth A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown’d not on his humble Birth, And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. Large was his Bounty, and his Soul sincere, Heav’n did a Recompence as largely send: He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a Tear: He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a Friend. No farther seek his Merits to disclose, Or draw his Frailties from their dread Abode, (There they alike in trembling Hope repose,) The Bosom of his Father and his God. FINIS.

The Curfeu tolls the knell of parting day. —— squilla di lontano Che paia ’l giorno pianger, che si muore. Dante, Purgat. l. 8. And pilgrim newly on his road with love Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far That seems to mourn for the expiring day. Cary’s Translation.

“Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d bat “With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, “Or where the beetle winds “His small but sullen horn.”

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise.

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, No storied urn or animated bust. This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust.

“—— Such blessings Nature pours, “O’erstock’d mankind enjoy but half her stores; “In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, “She rears her flow’rs, and spreads her velvet green: “Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace, “And waste their music on the savage race.” Universal Passion, Sat. V.

Some lovely fair, whose unaffected charms Shone with attraction to herself unknown; Whose beauty might have blest a monarch’s arms, And virtue cast a lustre on the throne: That humble beauty warm’d an honest heart, And cheer’d the labours of a faithful spouse; That virtue form’d, for every decent part, The healthy offspring that adorn’d their house.

The thoughtless world to Majesty may bow, Exalt the brave, and idolize success; But more to innocence their safety owe, Than Pow’r or Genius e’er conspir’d to bless. And thou who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead, Dost in these notes their artless tale relate, By night and lonely contemplation led To wander in the gloomy walks of fate: Hark! how the sacred calm, that breathes around, Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground, A grateful earnest of eternal peace. No more, with reason and thyself at strife, Give anxious cares and endless wishes room; But through the cool sequestred vale of life Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom.

Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires. Ch’i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco, Fredda una lingua, et due begli occhi chiusi Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville. Petrarch, Son. 169.

With hasty footsteps brush the dews away On the high brow of yonder hanging lawn.

Him have we seen the greenwood side along, While o’er the heath we hied, our labour’s done, Oft as the woodlark pip’d her farewell song, With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.

There scatter’d oft, the earliest of the Year, By Hands unseen are show’rs of Violets found; The Redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little Footsteps lightly print the ground.

“The female fays shall haunt the green, “And dress thy grave with pearly dew; “The redbreast oft, at evening hours, “Shall kindly lend his little aid, “With hoary moss and gather’d flow’rs, “To deck the ground where thou art laid.”

An Evening Contemplation in a College. The Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates; With jarring sound the porter turns the key, Then in his dreary mansion slumb’ring waits, And slowly, sternly quits it—tho’ for me. 4 Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon, And thro’ the cloyster Peace and Silence reign; Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune, Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain: Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room, Where lies a student in profound repose, Oppress’d with ale, wide-echos thro’ the gloom The droning music of his vocal nose. Within those walls, where thro’ the glimm’ring shade Appear the pamphlets in a mold’ring heap, Each in his narrow bed till morning laid, The peaceful fellows of the college sleep. The tinkling bell proclaiming early pray’rs, The noisy servants rattling o’er their head, The calls of business, and domestic cares, Ne’er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed. No chatt’ring females crowd their social fire, No dread have they of discord and of strife; Unknown the names of husband and of sire, Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life. Oft have they bask’d along the sunny walls, Oft have the benches bow’d beneath their weight; How jocund are their looks when dinner calls! How smoke the cutlets on their crowded plate! O, let not Temp’rance too disdainful hear How long our feasts, how long our dinners, last: Nor let the fair with a contemptuous sneer, On these unmarry’d men reflections cast! The splendid fortune and the beauteous face (Themselves confess it, and their sires bemoan) Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace: These sons of Science shine in black alone. Forgive, ye fair, th’ involuntary fault, If these no feats of gayety display, Where thro’ proud Ranelagh’s wide-echoing vault Melodious Frasi trills her quav’ring lay. Say, is the sword well suited to the band? Does broider’d coat agree with sable gown? Can Dresden’s laces shade a Churchman’s hand, Or Learning’s vot’ries ape the beaux of town? Perhaps in these time-tott’ring walls reside Some who were once the darlings of the fair; Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide, Controul the manager and awe the play’r. But Science now has fill’d their vacant mind With Rome’s rich spoils and Truth’s exalted views; Fir’d them with transports of a nobler kind, And bade them slight all females—but the Muse. Full many a lark, high tow’ring to the sky Unheard, unheeded, greets th’ approach of light; Full many a star, unseen by mortal eye, With twinkling lustre glimmers thro’ the night. Some future Herring, that with dauntless breast Rebellion’s torrent shall, like him oppose; Some mute, some thoughtless Hardwicke here may rest, Some Pelham, dreadful to his country’s foes. From prince and people to command applause, ’Midst ermin’d peers to guide the high debate, To shield Britannia’s and Religion’s laws, And steer with steady course the helm of state Fate yet forbids; nor circumscribes alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines; Forbids in Freedom’s veil t’ insult the throne, Beneath her mask to hide the worst designs, To fill the madding crowd’s perverted mind, With “Pensions, Taxes, Marriages, and Jews;” Or shut the gates of Heav’n on lost mankind, And wrest their darling hopes, their future views. Far from the giddy town’s tumultuous strife, Their wishes yet have never learn’d to stray; Content and happy in a single life, They keep the noiseless tenor of their way, Ev’n now, their books from cobwebs to protect, Inclos’d by doors of glass, in Doric style, On fluted pillars rais’d, with bronzes deck’d, They claim the passing tribute of a smile. Oft are the authors’ names, tho’ richly bound, Mis-spelt by blundering binders’ want of care; And many a catalogue is strow’d around, To tell th’ admiring guest what books are there. For who, to thoughtless Ignorance a prey, Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book? Who there but wishes to prolong his stay, And on those cases casts a ling’ring look? Reports attract the lawyer’s parting eyes, Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require; For songs and plays the voice of Beauty cries, And Sense and Nature Grandison desire. For thee, who mindful of thy lov’d compeers Dost in these lines their artless tales relate, If Chance, with prying search, in future years, Some antiquarian shall enquire thy fate, Haply some friend may shake his hoary head And say, “Each morn, unchill’d by frosts, he ran “With hose ungarter’d, o’er yon turfy bed, “To reach the chapel ere the psalms began. “There, in the arms of that lethargic chair, “Which rears its moth-devoured back so high, “At noon he quaff’d three glasses to the fair, “And por’d upon the news with curious eye. “Now by the fire, engag’d in serious talk “Or mirthful converse, would he loit’ring stand; “Then in the garden chose a sunny walk, “Or launch’d the polish’d bowl with steady hand; “One morn we miss’d him at the hour of pray’r, “Beside the fire, and on his fav’rite green; “Another came, nor yet within the chair, “Nor yet at bowls, nor chapel was he seen. “The next we heard that in a neighbouring shire, “That day to church he led a blushing bride; “A nymph, whose snowy vest and maiden fear “Improv’d her beauty while the knot was ty’d. “Now, by his patron’s bounteous care remov’d, “He roves enraptur’d thro’ the fields of Kent; “Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov’d, “Read here the letter which he lately sent.” the Letter. “In rural innocence secure I dwell, Alike to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Approving Conscience chears my humble cell, And social Quiet marks me for her own. 5 Next to the blessings of Religious Truth Two gifts my endless gratitude engage; A wife—the joy and transport of my youth, Now, with a son, the comfort of my age. Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat, In loftier spheres unfit, untaught to move; Content with calm, domestic life, where meet The smiles of Friendship and the sweets of Love.” FINIS.

The Nunnery. Retirement’s Hour proclaims the tolling Bell, Each sacred Virgin follows its Decree; With meek submission seeks her lonely Cell, And leaves the grate to Solitude and me. Now shows the sinking sun a fainter glare And Silence thro’ the Convent reigns confest, Save where some pale-ey’d Novice (wrap’d in Pray’r) Heaves a deep groan, and smites her guiltless breast. Save where in artless melancholy Strains Some Eloisa whom soft Passion moves, Absorpt in Sorrow to the night complains; For ever bar’d the Abelard she loves. Within those ancient walls by moss o’erspread, Where the relenting sinner learns to weep; Each in her narrow Bed till Mid-night laid, The gentle Daughters of Devotion sleep. No stings of Conscience goad their easy Breast, No unrepented Crimes their Slumbers fright, No mournful Dreams invade their peaceful Rest Nor shrouded Spectres stalk afore their sight! Th’ endearing scenes of Life They all forego Ev’n Hymen’s Torch for Them must never blaze, The Husband’s fond Embrace They ne’er shall know, Nor view their Image in their Children’s Face. Oft did they steal the flow’ry Robe of May To deck the altar and the shrines around: How fervent did They chant the pious Lay, While the deep organ swell’d the sacred sound? Let not the gay Coquette with Jest profane, Mock their veil’d Life and Destiny severe: Nor Worldly Beauty with a sneer disdain The humble Duties of the Cloyster’d Fair. The glist’ning Eye: The half seen Breast of Snow, The coral Lip, the clear vermilion Bloom Awaits alike th’ inexorable Foe, The Paths of Pleasure lead but to the Tomb. Forgive, Ye fair, whom Britain’s Sons admire, If This her meanest Bard incur your Blame, While He devotes not to your Praise the Lyre, But to the convent dedicates his Theme. Can These partake the sprightly-moving Dance? Or in the Garb of Luxury appear? Can These e’er pierce the Lover with a Glance? Or grace the Tragic scene with Pity’s Tear? Perhaps in this drear Mansion are confin’d Some whose accomplish’d Beauty cou’d impart The soft Desire to the severest Mind, And wake to Extacy the throbbing Heart. But splendid Life in each Allurement drest Attracts Them not, tho’ flush’d with youthful Bloom: Stern Pennance chills the Ardour of their Breast, And buries their Ambition in his Gloom. Full many a Riv’let steals its gentle way Unheard, untasted, by the thirsty Swain, Full many a Philomel attunes her Lay, And pours her plaintive Melody in vain. Some veil’d Eliza (like the clouded Sun) May here reside inglorious and unknown; Some, like Augusta, might have rear’d a Son To bless a Nation and adorn a Throne. From Flatt’ry’s Lip to drink the Sweets of Praise, In Wit and Charms with other Belles to vie, In Circles to attract the partial Gaze And view Their Beauty in th’ Admirer’s Eye Their Lot forbids: nor does alone remove The Thirst of Praise, but e’en their Vices chains, Forbids thro’ Folly’s Labyrinths to rove, And yield to Pleasure the unheeded reins: To raise mid Hymen’s Joys domestic Strife, Or seek that Converse which They ought to shun To break the sacred Ties of married Life And give to many what they vow’d to one. Far from the Bustle of the splendid Throng They tread Obscurity’s sequester’d Vale, Where the white Hours glide silently along Smooth as the Stream, when sleeps the breezy Gale. 6 Yet tho’ they’re sprinkled with ethereal Dew? With blooming Wreaths by Hands of Seraphs crown’d? Tho’ Heav’n’s eternal Splendors burst to View? And Harps celestial to their Ear resound? Still grateful Mem’ry paints the absent Friend, Not e’en the World to their Remembrance dies: Their Mid-night Orisons to Heav’ns ascend To stop the Bolt descending from the Skies. For who entranc’d, in Visions from above The Thought of Kindred razes from the Mind? Feels in the Soul no warm returning Love For some endear’d Companion left behind. From Friendship’s Breast reluctant they withdrew, And with a sigh forsook their native air: To their fond Parents when they bad adieu Gush’d from their Eye the tender filial Tear. For Thee, who mindful of th’ encloyster’d Fair Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate, If Chance in distant Time’s revolving Year Some kindred Spirit shall enquire thy Fate. Haply some aged Vestal may reply, “Oft have we seen Him ’ere Aurora’s Ray “Had faintly ting’d with red the op’ning Sky “Hasten to Church, and Join the Matin Lay. “There at the Tomb where Eloisa lies, “He’d read th’ Inscription: and her Fate condole, “Then in his Breast, as scenes of Grief arise, “Sigh the kind Requiem to her gentle soul. “Against yon Pillar careless now He’d lean, “Smiling at what his wayward Fancy moves: “Now drooping, wan, and pensive, wou’d be seen “As one abandon’d by the Fair He loves. “One morn I miss’d Him in the aweful Dome “Along the Isle, and in the Sacristy; “Another came, nor yet beside the Tomb, “Nor at the Font, nor in the Porch was He. “The next we heard, which did our wonder move, “He was departed to return no more, “Yet lest the sudden change we shou’d reprove, “These Lines He sent us from Britannia’s shore. “What time in Transport lost the Naïad Throng, “First catch’d their Akenside’s enchanting Lay, “And raptur’d Fancy listen’d to the Song “Of laurel’d Whitehead, and sweet-plaintive Gray.” The Letter. A Vestal Fair (Her Name I mayn’t unfold) Has planted in my Breast the pleasing Dart; Who by relentless vows, if not controll’d, Wou’d own, perchance, a Sympathy of Heart. The growing Passion impotent to quell, Severe Discretion urg’d me to retreat; Now at my native rural Home I dwell, Where Contemplation keeps her lonely seat. Seek not to draw me from this still abode, Where the kind Muses to my Aid repair, And when the Thoughts of hapless Love corrode Check the deep Sigh, and wipe the trickling Tear.

Elegy On the Death of “The Guardian Outwitted.” 1764.[1] The shrill bell rings the knell of “Curtain rise” From the thrum’d string the scraping herd to warn Behind the scenes the plodding snuffer hies And leaves the stage to operas and to Arne. Now strike the glimmering lamps upon the sight And all the house a solemn stillness holds, Save where the Seaman from the Gallery’s height, For roast beef bawling, the cu’d Fiddler scolds; Save that in yonder velvet-mantled box A moping Countess to her Grace complains Of macaws, monkeys, perroquets, and shocks, And losses vaist and vaistly paltry gains. Behind those rugged spikes that bag-wigs shade, Where tuneful Folios lie in many a heap, Each in his narrow line for ever laid The embryo crotchets of the “Guardian” sleep. The long, long trill of quaver-torturing Brent,[2] Miss Hallam[2] twittering from her tender throat, Thy clarion, Beard,[2] that Echo’s ear has rent, No more shall rouze each lowly-slumbering note. For these no more a parent’s breast shall burn; His busy fingers ply their evening care; Poor banish’d children! never to return, Nor their own tender sire’s applause to share. Oft did the City Nymph their sweetness own Their force the stubborn sentinel has broke; How jocund did they drive the dull farce down, When wit and sense expir’d without a joke! Yet let not genius mock their useless toil, Their transient honours and their life not long, Nor sense behold with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of a song. The pomp of Tragedy, expression’s power, And all that Garrick, all that Quin e’er gave, Have found alike th’ inevitable hour, And the Fifth Act still led them to the grave. Forgive, ye Bards, th’ involuntary fault, If love parental shall no trophies raise, Where in th’ Orchestra’s low sequestered vault The coxcomb Fidler plies his arm for praise. Can pensive Arne, with animated strain, Back to its audience call his fleeting Play? Can Music’s voice the hand of death restrain, Or soothing sounds prolong the fatal day? Perhaps, ere this, he many an Opera made, Which, though not pregnant with celestial fire, Might yet, like this, its little night have sway’d, And wak’d to extacy the living lyre. 7 But shrill rehearsal each unprinted page, Lavish of grins and squalls, did n’er unroll The hiss contemptuous and the catcall’s rage Repress’d the great ambition of his soul. Full many a book, of purest page serene, The high ungenial cells of Grub-street bear; Full many a pamphlet leaves the press unseen, In Moorfields dangling to the desart air. Some village * * * * * *, who a wife’s fell frown, A vixen wife with music has withstood, Some blind Corelli oft may scrape unknown, Some Arne, not guilty of an Opera’s blood Th’ applause of listening Boxes to command, Damnation’s pain and ruin to dispise; To scatter crotchets o’er a fidling land, And read their influence in a lady’s eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone Their tuneful empire, but their pride confin’d, Forbade pert Nonsense to usurp the throne Of Taste, and banish genius from mankind. Oft pilfer’d airs and borrow’d strains to hide. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, And feed the fondness of a Fidler’s pride With dull pretences to a Muse’s flame. Far from the merry wake, and rustic ball, No vain pursuits, their sober wishes led; Along the streets and round his worship’s hall They scrap’d the noisy tenor for their bread: Yet still the blind from insult to protect, Some faithful consort ever wandering nigh, With vary’d garb, and uncouth’d pinner deck’d, Implores the passing tribute with a sigh. Her ditties oft, though an unletter’d Muse The place of air and sonnet would supply; And songs of grace at Christmas would she chuse, Repaid with luncheons from the grey-goose pye. For who, so much to gloominess a prey, Whose spirits music knows not to advance? Or who could listen to her roundelay, Nor lift one longing, lingering leg to dance? On some smart air the active heel relies, Some sprightly jig the springing foot requires; E’en to a march the moving spirits rise, E’en in a minuet wake our youthful fires. For Thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead, Dost in these lines the Guardian’s Tale relate, If chance, by love of Elegy misled, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate; Haply some antiquated Maid may say; “Oft have we seen him at the hour of prayer “Brushing, with hasty hand, the dust away “From his rent cassock and his beaver bare. “Oft by the side of yonder nodding font “That lifts its old fantastic head so high, “To wait the frequent christening was he wont “And frown upon the Clerk that babbled by. “Oft in yon pulpit, smiling as in scorn, “Muttering his uncouth doctrines would he preach, “Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, “In deep despair the Mitre’s grace to reach. “One morn I miss’d him at the hour of prayer, “In vain I took my spectacles to see; “His wonted surplice did another wear, “Nor in the vestry, nor the desk was he. “The next with dirges due, in sad array, “Slow through the church-way path we saw him brought, “Approach and read (if thou canst read!) the lay “Which his own Clerk, his Parish Clerk has wrote.” Epitaph. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A Curate poor, to stalls and tythes unknown; No Bishop smil’d upon his humble birth; No Minister e’er mark’d him for his own. Bread was his only food, his drink the brook; So small a salary did his Rector send; He left his laundress all he had—a book He found in Death, ’twas all he wish’d—a friend. No longer seek his wardrobe to disclose, Nor draw his breeches from their darksome cell; There, like their master, let them find repose, Nor dread the horrors of a Taylor’s hell.

An Epitaph ON A Certain Poet. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth One nor to Fortune nor to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown’d not on his humble Birth, And smooth-tongued Flattery mark’d him for her own. Large was his wish—in this he was sincere, Fate did a recompence as largely send, Gave the poor C——r four hundred pounds a year And made a dirty minister his friend. No further seek his deeds to bring to light For, ah! he offer’d at Corruption’s shrine; And basely strove to wash an Æthiop white, While Truth and Honour bled in every line!

An Elegy, Written in Covent-Garden. (Printed before 1777.) St. Paul’s proclaims the solemn midnight hour, The wary Cit slow turns the master-key; Time-stinted ’prentices up Ludgate scour, And leave the streets to darkness and to me. Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray, And scarce a sound disturbs the Night’s dull ear; Save where some rumbling Hack directs its way, Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern-bar: Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,[3] The watchmen to the constable complain Of such as, in defiance to his power, Molest their ancient, solitary reign. 8 Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade, Where rankling offals fret in many a heap, Each in his nasty stye of garbage laid, The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep. The chearful call of “Chair! your honour—chair!” Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford-head, The oaths of coachmen squabbling for a fare, No more can rouse them from their filthy bed. For them the blazing links no longer burn, Or busy bunters ply their evening care; No Setters watch the muddled Cit’s return, In hopes some pittance of the prey to share. Oft to their subtlety the fob did yield, Their cunning oft the pocket-string hath broke: How in dark alleys bludgeons did they wield! How bow’d the wretch beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their humble toil, Their vulgar crimes and villainy obscure; Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile The low and petty knaveries of the poor. The titled villain, and the thief in power, The greatest rogue that ever bore a name, Await alike th’ inevitable hour: The paths of wickedness but lead to shame. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, If Justice round their necks the halter fix; If, from the gallows to their kindred vault, They ride not pompous in a hearse and six. Gives not the lordly axe as sure a fate? Are Peers exempt from mouldering into dust? Can all the gilded ’scutcheons of the Great Stamp on polluted deeds the name of Just? Beneath the gibbet’s self perhaps is laid Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire; Hands that the sword of Nero might have sway’d, And ’midst the carnage tun’d th’ exulting lyre. Ambition to their eyes her ample page, Rich with such monstrous crimes, did n’er unroll; Chill Penury repress’d their native rage, And froze the bloody current of the soul. Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene, The dark and sooty flues of chimnies bear; Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen, And dies unhang’d for want of proper care. Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast Each call of worth or honesty withstood; Some mute, inglorious Wilmot[4] here may rest; Some * * * * * * *, guiltless of his steward’s blood. The votes of venal senates to command, The worthy man’s opinion to despise, To scatter mischiefs o’er a trusting land, And read their curses in a nation’s eyes, Their lot forbad; nor circumscrib’d alone Their groveling fortunes, but their crimes confin’d; Forbad with libels to insult the throne, And vilify the noblest of mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide, To bid defiance to all sense of shame; Their bleeding Country’s sorrow to deride, And heap fresh fuel on Sedition’s flame; To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice, Their vulgar wishes ne’er presum’d to soar; Content at wheel-barrows to cogg the dice, Or pick a pocket at a Play-house door. Yet e’en these humbler vices to correct, Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high; Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck’d, Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry. Their name, their years, their birth and parentage, (Though doubtful all) the Ord’nary supplies; Points out what first debauch’d their tender age, And with what words each ripen’d felon dies. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, When to the dreadful tree of death consign’d, But yearns to think upon the fatal day That first seduc’d to sin his pliant mind? No soul so callous but remorse may wring, No heart so hard but grief may teach to sigh; Contrition forces heartfelt tears to spring, And melts to tenderness the sternest eye. For him, the master of the pilfering herd, Whom certain punishment attends, though late; If, when his wretched carcase is interr’d, Some curious person should enquire his fate; Haply some hoary-headed thief may say, “Oft have I seen him with his lighted link “Guide some unwary stranger cross the way, “And pick his pocket on the kennel’s brink. “There, at the foot of yonder column stretch’d, “Where Seven Dials are exalted high, “He and his Myrmidons for hours have watch’d, “And pour’d destruction on each passer-by. “Hard by yon wall, where not a lamp appears, “Skulking in quest of booty would he wait; “Now as a beggar shedding artful tears, “Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate. “One night I miss’d him at th’ accustom’d place, “The seven-faced Pillar and his favourite wall: “Another came, nor yet I saw his face; “The post, the crossings, were deserted all. “At last, in dismal cart and sad array, “Backward up Holborn-hill I saw him mount: “Here you may read (for you can read, you say) “His Epitaph in th’ Ord’nary’s Account.” The Epitaph. Here festering rots a quondam pest of earth, To virtue and to honest shame unknown; Low-cunning on a dung-hill gave him birth; Vice clapp’d her hands, and mark’d him for her own. Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark; In lucky knavery lay all his hope; No pains he spar’d, and seldom miss’d his mark, So gain’d (’twas what he merited) a rope. 9 If further you his villainies would know, And genuine anecdotes desire to meet, Go read the story of his weal and woe, Printed and sold by Simpson, near The Fleet.

An Elegy. Written in Westminster Hall during the long Vacation. (Printed before 1777.) The courts are shut—departed every judge, Each greedy lawyer gripes his double fee: In doleful mood the suitors homeward trudge, And leave the hall to silence and to me. Now not a barrister attracts the sight, And all the dome a solemn stillness holds, Save at the entrance, where with all her might, The Quean of Apples at the porter scolds: Save that at fives a group of wrangling boys At intervals pursue the bounding ball, Make Henderson,[5] the studious, damn their noise, When battering down the plaister from the wall From every court, with every virtue crown’d, Where many get, and many lose their bread, Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle, and confound, Attornies, clerks, and council—all are fled. Contending fools too stubborn to agree, The good fat client (name for ever dear!) The long-drawn brief, and spirit-stirring fee No more, ’till Michaelmas shall send them here. ’Till then, no more th’ Exchequer[6] nymphs shall run To fetch their wigs, and giggling stroke the tail, Or dressy orange-wenches ply their fun And offer their commodities to sale. With these the Templar oft has stopped to chat, And tipped them sixpence for each cake he broke; How jocund did they give him tit for tat! And bonnily return’d him joke for joke! Let not droll Peter[7] look with eyes askew, Nor envy them the profits of the hall; Let him not think that with a spiteful view, They mean to draw the custom from his stall. The cinder-wench in dust-cart seated high, With arms begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve, The ragged trulls, who, sprats and herrings cry, The meanest trollops, have a right to live. Nor you, ye belles! impute the fault to these, If at the glittering ball they not appear, Where music has a thousand charms to please, And with its sweetness almost wounds the ear. Will Almack, or the goddess of Soho, Inlist these misses in their brilliant train, Admit them e’en to see the puppet-show, To take one peep and light them out again? Perhaps in their neglected minds were sown The seeds of worth from Nature’s large supply; The seeds of worth, which might in time have grown, And flourish’d lovely to the ravish’d eye. But the calm sun-shine of a parent’s care, With one warm ray their bosom’s ne’er imprest; Ill-usage drove the wretches to despair, And check’d each growing virtue of the breast. Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land The vile unwarrantable brothels hold; Full many a town-bred damsel walks the Strand, And trucks her beauty for a piece of gold. Some ghost of Jefferies will this floor parade, Some daring Pettifogger, stern of brow, Who might have done due honour to the spade, Whirl’d the tough flail, or grasp’d the peaceful plough. This upstart thing some useful trade to learn, By far more suited to his shallow head, Some trade, by which he might have known to earn With honest industry, his daily bread, False pride forbade; nor to himself alone, Confines his views, but to his son extends; Forbade the youth, to quirks already prone, To mind the means, so he could gain the ends. Forbade to bind him ’prentice to a trade, Behind the compter all the day to stand, His birth by work mechanic to degrade, Or wait on customers with cap in hand, Far from the worthy members of the law, A rogue in grain, he ever kept aloof; From learn’d bum-bailiffs learn’d his briefs to draw, And where he could not find, he coin’d a proof. Yet doth this wretch, illiterate as proud, With low-lif’d homage low-lif’d business meet, And pick the pockets of th’ unhappy crowd, Moor’d in th’ Compter, Newgate, and The Fleet. Bound by their creditors in durance fast! In plaintive murmurs they bewail their fate, And many an eager, wishful eye they cast, Whene’er the turn-key opes and shuts the gate. For who to dull imprisonment a prey, The pleasing thoughts of freedom e’er resign’d, From home, from wife and children dragg’d away, “Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind!” Some sharp attorney must the captive hire, Who knows each secret winding of the laws; Some previous fees th’ attorney will require Before he ventures to conduct his cause, For you, who traverse up and down this shrine, And lounge and saunter at your wonted rate, If in some future chat, with arch design, Some wag should ask this Pettifogger’s fate; In sneering mood some brother quill may say, “I’ve seen him oft at ale-house table sit, “Brushing with dirty hands, the crumbs away, “And eye the mutton roasting on the spit. “There in the snug warm corner of the bench, “Part stain’d with grease, and part defil’d with beer “His thirst with cooling porter would he quench, “And bend his noddle o’er the Gazetteer. 10 “Hard by yon steps, now grinning as in scorn, “Muttering his oaths and quibbles he would stand; “Now hanging down his pate like one forlorn, “As if some dread commitment was at hand. “One morn I miss’d him in this custom’d hall, “And at the Oak,[8] where he was wont to be, “His clerk came down, and answered to my call, “But by me stepp’d, nor at the Oak was he. “The next I heard (oh, melancholy tale! “On our profession was a foul reproach!) “That he for forgery was confin’d in jail, “And dragg’d (oh, shameful!) there without “a coach.” His Character. Vulture, the arrant’st rascal upon earth, At length is caught, and into Newgate thrown. Fair Honesty disclaim’d him at his birth, And Villainy confess’d him as her own. Grown old in sin, at no one crime dismay’d, ’Gainst nature’s cries he arm’d his callous heart, For when his father was to death convey’d, He growl’d, and damn’d the slowness of the cart. Jack Ketch, to shew his duty to his friend Will soon confirm it with the strongest tie; But on such ties what mortal would depend? A rogue he liv’d, and like a rogue he’ll die. Now prest with guilt, he feels its sharpest sting, Great his transgressions, and but small his hope, He gave the Sheriff (all he had!) a ring, He gain’d from justice (all he fear’d!) a rope. No farther seek his vices to disclose, But leave the culprit to his dark abode; There let him rest, till, breaking his repose, The hangman summons him to Tyburn-road.

An Elegy written in St. Stephens. Gazettes now toll the melancholy knell, Of Statesmen fallen from their high degree; Whitehead disdains to ring their passing bell, And leaves the task to Printers and to me. Now fades Ambition’s landscape on the sight, Mock-patriot faces marks of sadness hold, Dire Disappointment hides his head in night, But Faction wakes to pen Addresses bold. In yonder stately rook’ry (Brookes’s fane) Nothing is heard but rout and wild uproar; Th’ affrighted Rooks forsake their wonted reign, Tables are turn’d, and hazard is no more. Beneath this dome, where dwells St. Stephen’s shade, And benches rife in many a verdant bed, No seats are occupied, no motions made, The quondam Treas’ry Members all are fled. The early call of incense-breathing tools, The Council’s summons thund’ring at their door; The Levee’s courtly pomp (the pride of fools) Shall rouze them from their privacy no more. For them no more shall Council dinners smoke, Or City feasts display their sumptuous fare; No needy hangers-on retail each joke, No parasites the flatt’ring smile prepare. Some time they reap’d the harvest of the feats Full many an act they plann’d, debated well; Their chariots rattled thro’ Augusta’s streets, And loud they laugh’d, whilst public credit fell. Yet let not future statesmen mock their toil, Their strange connection, and their means obscure; Nor grandeur look with a disdainful smile, Because, beside their faults, these men were poor. Not all the wealth that either India brings, Not all those arts which fell corruption tries, Can buy the best prerogative of Kings To listen to an injur’d people’s cries. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the blame, That mem’ry, o’er their fall, no trophies raise; Those men had better die without a name, Who merit infamy instead of praise. Perhaps, amidst this band, have sunk in night, Some hearts once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that might well have done their country right, Or wak’d to extacy the Muse’s lyre. But Science, tho’ she led their early youth, Beheld her power to politics give way; Accurst self-int’rest hid the face of truth And party zeal assum’d unrivall’d sway. Perhaps some Calvin, in whose restless brain Things call’d Reform Bills lurk’d, (a specious brood,) Perhaps some Catiline might head their train, Some Cromwell yet unstain’d with legal blood. The votes of venal Senates to command, To break the Constitution’s strongest ties; To seize the sacred charters of the land, And on the ruins of her commerce rise, Their lot forbade, nor circumscrib’d alone Their views tow’rd India, but their plots unplanned, Forbad to chain their sovereign on his throne And ride triumphant o’er th’ insulted land. Far from their Monarch’s sight, the senate’s strife, These madd’ning Patriots now shall learn to stay. Along the cool sequester’d vale of life Unplac’d, unpension’d, unlamented, stray.

Elegy, Written in a Grub street Garret. Now sinks the sun within the azure main, The dirty walls assume a darker hue; Each brother Poet racks his muddy brain To write fresh strictures on the fighting Jew. Now the whole house a solemn stillness holds, Save from the staircase head, with noisy tongue, My landlady inexorably scolds, And with shrill clamours interrupts my song. 11 Beneath a heap of rude waste paper plac’d, (Alas that Grub-street Bards so soon should die!) The writings of my brethren are disgrac’d, Or, doom’d to chandlers-shops, neglected lie. Fresh oysters, chaunted with melodious voice, Or Printers’ Devils ever hasty tread, Shall nought avail to make these men rejoice, Or rouse those writings which to fame are dead. For these no more the ceilings shall be swept, Or spiders driven from their dreary dens, Who twice ten months have unmolested slept And brav’d the fury of succeeding pens. Oft did the actors tremble at their power, When rang’d in dread array along the pit, To hiss the varied fictions of each hour, Supreme in judgment, arbiters of wit. Let not rich aldermen the feasts deride To which necessity the Poet calls; For Nature, bounteous parent, can provide Delicious fare apart from Gilded Walls. Faint are the joys which Ven’son can bestow, Faint is the pleasure Turtle can impart; By sad experience we are taught to know, These aching limbs succeed, with anguish’d heart. Nor you, thrice happy few! whose writings please, Contemn the Bard whom Fame disdains to crown, Or scorn the wretch, whose vain attempts to seize The Laureat Wreath, are sadly overthrown. Can pompous dedication’s splendid line, Or praises on rich Lords profusely poured, Make Envy her dire qualities resign, Or empty fame satiety afford? Perhaps in this sad garret once has lodged Some vent’rous Knight, well skill’d to cog the die, Who dextrously the Bailiffs oft has dodged, Or made the sleepy watchmen nimbly fly. Some sturdy Humphries, that with brawny fists, Well skill’d in Boxing’s scientific lore, Defied the Sons of Israel to the lists, And beat their champion till he rose no more. Some Peter Pindar here has tun’d his lyre, Or some sagacious Pig here learn’d to read; Some Juggler chewed a stone, or swallowed fire; Or here to eat live cats ’twas first decreed. Yet e’en their fame from Malice to defend, Unhappy Poets shall essay to write, With labour’d lines and verses badly penn’d, Whate’er the God of Dulness may recite. Their Names and Portraits on the dusty walls, With ballads setting forth their high renown, In rural cottages, or servants halls, Shall gratify the gaping country clown. For what incurious mind could e’er resign The busy bustling pleasures of the town; Who could the joys of London e’er decline, Unless deterr’d by Poverty’s sad frown. On some gay scene, by flattering Fancy dress’d, The visionary mind still loves to dwell; And Sadler’s Wells, or Lord Mayor’s gaudy vests, Delight the village beau, or rustic belle. For thee, who, mindful of the Scribbler’s lot Dost in these lines their ill success relate, If chance, when in the world thy name’s forgot, Some kindred Poet should enquire thy fate? Haply some tavern waiter may declare, “Oft have we seen him at the hour of ten Sipping his coffee, with a mournful air, Or holding sage discourse with learned men. In yonder box, now moisten’d as with tears, Conning his wayward verses he would sit; Now sooth’d with hope, and now depress’d with fears, He pour’d the wild effusions of his wit. One morn we miss’d him at the ’custom’d place, Nor at the bar, nor in the room was he: Another came, who had not seen his face, In the King’s Bench, or Fleet, or Marshalsea. Him next, in sad procession borne along, We saw proceeding through the churchyard’s gloom Affliction had abridg’d his mournful song, And wrote this sad inscription on his tomb.” Epitaph. Here rests his head, six feet beneath the earth, An hapless youth, to hunger often known; The Grub-street Muses frown’d not at his birth, But mark’d the scribbling infant for their own. Tho’ in his breast each virtue made abode, The Public never recompensed his lays; He gave the King—’twas all he could—an ode— The King refus’d his only wish—the Bays. No further seek his errors to reveal, Or scrutinise his wit with envious eye Oblivion’s hand his writings shall conceal, And with the Poet all his works shall die.

Elegy. Written in Bartlemy Fair at five o’clock in the morning. The clock bell tolls the hour of early day, The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie, The watchman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the fair—all solitude to me! Now the first beams of morning glad the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save when the sheep dog bays with hoarse affright, And brutal drovers pen the unwilling folds. Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower, The lock’d out ’prentice, or frail nymph complain, Of such as, wandering near their secret bower, Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain, Beneath those ragged tents—that boarded shade, Which late display’d its stores in tempting heaps; There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid, There guardian of the whole, the master sleeps. The busy call of care-begetting morn, The well-slept passenger’s unheeding tread; The showman’s clarion, or the echoing horn, Too soon must rouse them from their lowly bed. 12 Perhaps in this neglected booth is laid, Some head volcanic, oft discharging fire! Hands—that the rod of magic lately sway’d; Toes—that so nimbly danc’d upon the wire. Some clown, or pantaloon—the gazers’ jest, Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood: Some tired-out posture master here may rest, Some conjuring swordsman—guiltless of his blood! The applause of listening cockneys to command, The threats of city-marshal to despise; To give delight to all the grinning band, And read their merit in spectators eyes, Is still their boast;—nor, haply, theirs alone, Polito’s lions (though now dormant laid) And human monsters, shall acquire renown, The spotted Negro—and the armless maid! Peace to the youth who, slumbering at the Bear, Forgets his present lot, his perils past: Soon will the crowd again be thronging there, To view the man on wild Sombrero cast. Careful their booths, from insult to protect These furl their tapestry, late erected high; No longer with prodigious pictures deck’d, They tempt the passing youth’s astonish’d eye. But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux, The cunning showmen each device display, And many a clown the useful notice shows, To teach ascending strangers—where to pay. Sleep on, ye imps of merriment, sleep on! In this short respite to your labouring train; And when this time of annual mirth is gone, May ye enjoy, in peace, your hard-earned gain! From The Morning Chronicle. 1810.

Elegy, Written in Drury Lane Theatre. The prompter rings the lofty curtain down, The gaping audience leave the pit with glee, Homeward in troops returns the weary town, And leaves the house to emptiness and me. Now fades each glimmering candle to the sight, And thro’ the air a smoky silence reigns, Save where some lobby hero seeks the fight, And bravely gets a beating for his pains: Save that to scare Piazza-haunting flocks, The moping watchman does in oaths complain, Of such as, wandering near his secret box, With clamour loud intrude on his domain. Their parts perform’d, behind that curtain’s shade, Where stretch the scenes in many a motley heap, Each in his humble lodging quiet laid, The chorus-singing tribe securely sleep. The summons of rehearsal-bringing morn, The prompter whispering from his wooden shed, The trumpet, hautboy, clarionet, and horn, Shall rouse each man to-morrow from his bed. And yet for them no opera pours its rhyme; No loud encore rewards their evening care; No children run to hail their pantomime, Or crowd the box, the envied laugh to share. As sailors oft they hail’d Britannia’s shore; As forty thieves they spurn’d the Sultan’s yoke; Their shoulders oft Peruvian Rolla bore; How bow’d their heads when mighty Bluebeard spoke. Let not tragedians mock their useful toil, Their russet boots by hundreds worn before; Nor fashion hear, with a disdainful smile, The lowly annals of our Thespian corps. The dice of Beverley, the straw of Lear, And all that Hamlet, all Macbeth e’er gave, In the fifth act conclude their high career— For tragic glory leads but to the grave. Nor you, rich actors, lay on these the blame, If their poor names no daily journals raise, Where, thro’ the long-drawn column, bent on fame, The editor resounds the note of praise. Can studied puffs an actor’s fame decide, Or to a throne a mute attendant carry? Can praise give pow’rs that nature has denied, Or make Beau Clincher equal to Sir Harry? Perhaps in these neglected ranks has stray’d Some swelling bosom, fraught with tragic fire; Tongues that Othello’s vengeance might have stay’d, Or base Iago prov’d a living liar! But authors to their eyes their ample plays, Rich in fine acting parts did never bring; The manager repress’d their mental blaze, And pent them up in chorusses to sing. Of sonnetteers, full many a rhyming moan, The monthly magazines, unread, contain; Full many a joke is cut to die unknown, Lost in the echoing dome of Drury Lane. Some unknown Garrick, with advent’rous wing, Clipp’d by the shears of want and melancholy; Some low, inglorious Braham here may sing, Some Betty, guiltless of a nation’s folly! Th’ applause of wondering boxes to attract, Their face engraved in public shops to boast, T’ ensure a full box-book whene’er they act, And read their history in the Morning Post, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone, Their growing talents, but their faults unseen T’ omit the author’s jest, insert their own Or woo the boxes while they slight the scene. By mummery the writer’s text to hide, Their influence o’er the galleries to boast, Or mar the play, and decency deride, With nonsense purchas’d at the muse’s cost. Far from the rattling squares and Fashioned sport, Their small finances rather bade them stay In Russell Street, Long Acre, Martlet Court; Convenient spots contiguous to the play! 13 Yet e’en these names from Lethe to protect, Some lengthen’d play-bill still erected there, With letters of all sorts and sizes deck’d, Implores the passing tribute of a stare! Their names, their characters, a motley pack; Great heroes first, and mute attendants last: Robbers and senators, in red and black, To show the public how the parts are cast. For who, to careless nonchalance a prey, Of self-importance never gave one hint, Pass’d idly by the red bills of the day, Nor cast one look to see himself in print? Ambition on our mimic stage will rise, Trueman survives, when Barnwell yields his breath, Emilia raves, when Desdemona dies; The bleeding captain emulates Macbeth. For thee, who mindful of thy brethren dead, Dost in these lines their useful toils relate, If chance by curiosity misled, Some gentle critic shall enquire thy fate, Haply the leader of the band may say: “Oft have I seen him standing there aloof, “Eager to write, as well as act a play, “And wooing Phœbus frowning on the roof. “There on the boards he often play’d his part “Up to his ears in business of the stage; “He ey’d the boxes oft with aching heart, “And trembling, strove their favor to engage. “Fronting the audience, in a double mood, “Muttering his dialogue, now brisk, now sad: “Sometimes, as actor, tolerably good, “Always, as bard, intolerably bad. “One night they hiss’d him in the accustom’d scene, “I thought the play was damn’d—ah, woe is me! “Another came, with scarce a pause between, “They hiss’d again—in doleful plight was he. “The third with dirges due, in sad array, “The prompter’s sheep-bell rang our poet’s knell, “Approach and read (none else will read) the play, “If not, the epilogue may do as well.” The Epilogue. Here rests his head upon prompter’s shelf, A bard to wisdom and to wit unknown; Thalia smil’d not on the scribbling elf, But gentle dulness mark’d him for her own. Coy from his suit the Muses turn’d away, “A Day in London” ill his toil requites; He gave the town, t’was all he had—a play; The town denied his only wish—nine nights! No further seek his writings to deride, Nor try to mend what sentiment has marr’d, Oblivion’s veil his comedy shall hide, And shroud in night the actor and the bard. From The British Minerva. Printed in Hamburgh. 1818.

Elegy, Written at a Christmas Feast in the country. The clock proclaims the welcome dinner hour, The guests are met—and ev’ry brow unbent, Swift circles round the draught of potent power, Inspiring mirth, and banishing restraint. Now crowd the Christmas dainties on the sight, And all the room is hush’d in silence deep; Save where the plates with jarring sounds unite, And busy jaws a ceaseless murmur keep. Save that from yonder bench, with hollow groan, The faithful Tray does to himself complain Of those that, mindful of themselves alone, Allow him not a portion to obtain. Around that friendly board, with plenty spread Where rise the bones in many a greasy heap, Each in his easy chair supinely laid, The Sons of toil their annual revel keep. The forest moaning hollow in the gale; The cold and cheerless winds surcharg’d with snow; The headlong torrent rushing down the vale; Compel them not their banquet to forego. For them no far-fetcht luxuries are spread, Nor costly Burgundy their care beguiles: Yet Peace and Plenty at their table-head Are seen, with all their family of smiles. Oft did they fast throughout the by-gone year, Their looks confirm the truth of what I say; How patiently they bore their lot severe! How did they welcome this auspicious day! Oh! let not Lux’ry mock their diet plain, Their flowing can, and toasts of pretty maids; Nor titled Pride behold, with proud disdain, The poor, but neat, repast, that Labour spreads. The crowd, that forms sweet smiling Pleasure’s train, And all that fickle fortune’s favours share, Confess alike the iron sway of pain; The paths of power are but the paths of care. Nor you, ye rich! account it as a fault, Though at their board no chosen wines are plac’d Where the inspiring quintessence of malt, Lulls every sorrow, every care to rest. Can luxury’s sons in bloom, or vigour, vie With those of industry and toil severe? Can creams and jellies taste like yonder pye; Or claret string the nerves like nappy beer? Perhaps at this carousal might be found, Some heart that oft has bled at Mis’ry’s cry; Hands that could hurl oppression to the ground, Or wipe the falling tear from Sorrow’s eye. But these hard times a cheerless gloom have thrown O’er all their smiling prospects of delight; Chill Penury, with heart-apalling frown, And hollow eye, now stands before their sight. Full many a tear bedims Misfortune’s eye, And, streaming from its source, unseen descends. Full many a sad and unavailing sigh Is breath’d in secret—and with ether blends. Some unknown Howard, that, with pity smit, Has oft explor’d Affliction’s sad retreat; Some poor unhonour’d Nelson here may sit; Some Burns, that sings and struggles with his fate. 14 Th’ applause of jolly topers to obtain, At feasts to crack a bottle with Lord May’r; To scour the watch along some dirty lane, And rend with loud huzzas the midnight air, Fortune forbids.—Nor circumscribes alone Their pleasures, but their sorrows too confines; Forbids in private sadly to bemoan The gout and all the ills debauch combines; The treach’rous perfidy of friends to prove, To lose at play a fortune, madly driven; Or, for some loose-rob’d wanton strumpet’s love, Risk life, and all their future hopes of heav’n. Far from the hamlet, where their fathers grew, The sons have never wish’d nor sought to stray; Fortune their humble dwelling never knew, And Science there ne’er shed her piercing ray. Yet, e’en their welcome holiday they keep, A smile of pleasure sparkles in their eyes; Drest in their Sunday’s suits, and drinking deep, They draw the smile and pity of the wise. Their wants, their woes, without disguise made known, The void, in conversation oft supply: And many saving maxims are laid down, That teach the poor, lank hunger to defy. For who, to penury and grief a prey, At Christmas-tide no signs of pleasure shows? Flies from the scenes of happiness away, Nor casts one wistful glance where plenty flows? At that glad time the face in smiles is drest, And ev’ry honest heart around is gay; E’en the poor lab’ror strives to have a feast, E’en the sad widow wipes her tears away. For thee who, mindful of this festal day, Dost try in rhyme its pleasures to relate, If chance, when Reason shall regain her sway, Some boon companion should enquire thy fate, Haply some near-observing friend may say, “When all was o’er, we saw him scour along, Splashing through every puddle in his way, In hopes to gain his home e’er morning sprung. “There in yon stream, that slowly wanders down The silent vale, remote from care and strife, His listless length at midnight hour was thrown, And ’scap’d, by chance, with scarce a sign of life. “Along yon trackless heath, his dreary way, Mutt’ring ten thousand curses, he explor’d: Now starting, wild with terror and dismay, Now dreading yet th’ unfathomable ford. “That morn we missed him ope his cottage door, Within the barn, and on the bowling green; Another fill’d his chair at dinner hour: Nor at the sports, nor ale-house was he seen. “At night, by friends and neighbours homeward borne, We saw him pillow’d on the couch of rest, Approach and hear his faithful Mary mourn, And mark the throbbings of the anxious breast.” The Soliloquy. Here rests his head, now free from care or mirth, A man for drinking and misfortunes known; Cold poverty presided at his birth, And ever since has mark’d him for her own. Large were the draughts he quaff’d, by passion driv’n, And reason’s power was lost amid the flow; He gave his sorrow to the winds of heaven, And snatch’d a short oblivion to his woe. No further seek his frailties to disclose, Or tell each little failing of his life, Here they, forgot in silence, should repose— The bosom of his confidant and wife.

Elegiac Stanzas, On returning at Day-break, through an Alley in London, from a Ball at Lady Dash’s. The Watchman drawls the hour of dawning day, The breakfast booth is set with smoking tea, The dancers homeward wind their weary way, And leave the streets to morning and to me. Now brighter beams upon the pavement dart, Though yet a gen’ral silence holds the air, Save where some gard’ner drives his early cart, Or drowsy milkmen clank along the square: Save that, disguised with liquor and with paint, The fragile fair complains of some mishap, From rough patroles, who, stern and ungallant, Molest her chill and solitary nap. Beneath these humble roofs, these broken tiles, Blown from their lay’rs when April winds were high, On beds uncurtain’d, and in crowded files, This narrow alley’s lab’ring tenants lie. The pealing knocker at the pompous porch, The fretful gabble of the elbow’d guest, The clattering carriage, or the flaring torch, Has never robb’d them of their lowly rest. For them no dame shall plan the brilliant ball, Nor Mr. Speaker ply his evening care: No lacqueys bow before them through the hall, Nor scream their titles up the crowded stair. Oft does the dray their sturdy strength invite, Their harden’d hands oft haul the stubborn rope,— How jocund do they shut their shops at night! How smirk their chins beneath the Sunday soap! Let not nice Nugent mock their useful toil, Their ill cut raiment, or their homely food, Nor the Black Dandy[9] hear with scornful smile, The early hours of that unpolish’d brood. 15 The pomp of liv’ries and the whirl of wheels, And all that Hoby,[10] all that Dyde[11] e’er gave, Are random toys that Fortune blindly deals,— Grave to the fool, but foolish to the grave. Nor you, ye fair, contemn their lowly doom, If fops for them no rapt’rous plaudits raise; While in the buzz of many a scented room, Your voice, your dancing swell the note of praise. Can animating reel, or melting waltz, Teach you to thread the giddier maze of life? Can D’Egville’s skill redeem one step when false? Or Cramer lull the jars of man and wife? Perhaps in yon dark garret may repose Eyes, of fair Castlereagh’s celestial fire; Hands that, like Congreve’s, had consumed our foes, Or swept, like Southey’s, o’er the laureat lyre; But Fashion to their eyes her fruitful store Of gay accomplishment did ne’er unroll: Chill penury repressed each livelier pow’r, And nipp’d the tender flow’rets of the soul. Full many a Luttrell’s mental ray serene The wide uncultured bogs of Erin bear: Full many a Hope is born to blush unseen, Or waste her sweetness at a village fair. Some nameless Ward, whose master-wit repress’d The alehouse patriot’s dull disloyal arts, Some bright untoasted Hertford here may rest— Some Jersey, guiltless of our broken hearts. The Morning Post’s applause to bear away, To tease the envious mob of aping cits, To scatter plenty at a fête ornée, To learn of Statesmen, and to live with wits, Their lot forbade: a power supremely wise Their fate, their fashion, and their faults confin’d: Forbade, to deal destruction with their eyes, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind: The modest throes of struggling truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenious shame, To vie with demireps in paint and pride, And swell the calendar of evil fame. Far from St. James’s, far from all the Squares, Their vulgar footsteps never learn’d to stray; About St. Martin’s Lane, or Lambeth Stairs, They keep the noisy tenor of their way. Yet, that ev’n these may taste their due delights, Some Evening Tea-garden with holly fence, From caxon’d quizzes, and from flounce-cloak’d frights, Obtains the tribute of their eighteen pence. Their cakes, their ale, brought by a tidy maid, The place of venison and champagne supply: And cocks and hens are clipp’d from yew-tree shade, That meet their taste for rural scenery. For who, in Nature’s favourite month of June, Seeks not the velvet of some verdant sod? Feels the warm ray of Sunday afternoon, Nor casts one restless, roving look abroad? Tax’d carts unnumber’d roll through Bethnal Green, By Hatchett’s door a knot of coaches wait: On Greenwich Hill are some smart ankles seen, Even at the Horns some fearless husbands bait. For thee, who, mindful of a friendless race, Dost in these rhymes their little lives define, If chance, when years have sped their silent pace, Some kindred spirit shall enquire of thine, Haply, some gentle dowager may say,— “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, “Kicking from painted floors the chalk away, “While sleepy chaperons would sit and yawn. “There, where the Palace fronts St. James’s Street, “And rears its old fantastic tow’rs so high, “The rattling carriages he loved to meet, “And gossip with the folk that babbled by. “From rout to rout, now laughing at the tricks “Of wayward jilts and dandies he would rove: “Now deeply wrapt in chit chat politics, “Or slyly jesting on some corner-love. “One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustom’d walks “Along the Park, and near his fav’rite trees; At night he sate not in my opera box, “Nor came to sup at Lady ——’s. Next morn I heard that, just two days before, With a loved bride from busy Town he went: Sit down with patience a few moments more, And read a letter that he lately sent: The Letter. Here lives, retired from all the haunts of men, A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: The muses frown’d not on his early pen, But Disappointment mark’d him for her own. His heart was warm, and his ambition high, But Heav’n decreed a safer, stiller life: He gave to pomp and pow’r a parting sigh: He gain’d from Heav’n a fond and faithful wife. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Nor wake his wishes for a world forgot: Here, in his rustic home he finds repose, And love and letters bless his lonely cot.

The Chancellor has passed the stern decree, The daily press rings out the doleful knell, Warning each old adventurer, that he Must now of Lotteries take a last farewell! Dismay and wonder now pervade Cornhill— The printers, too, are in a dismal rout, Swearing they ne’er shall print another bill, When those for whom they puffed are thus puffed out. O Fred’rick Robinson, thou man of death! Our scanty pittance why should you begrudge it? Why—oh! why thus in dungeon stop our breath, And shut us cruelly from out thy budget? 16 What was it seem’d offensive in thine eyes, And gave thine act a plausible pretence? Say—didst thou think the selling a large prize Was in itself a capital offence? Whatever be the cause, the effect is sad; Since thou must close his well-known lucky wicket, Bish, our Leviathan, is gone half mad, And looks as dismal as a blank-drawn ticket. Carrol—alas! his carols, turned to sighs, Seem to his cheerful name to give the lie; Hazard, with fear of death before his eyes Declares he’ll stand the “hazard of the die.” Swift, of the Poultry, too, is ill at ease, His grief breaks forth in this pathetic swell— I go to pine on wretched bread and cheese, For, ah! to poultry I must bid farewell! Martin complains his rapid flight is checked, And doth the ruin of his house deplore, Wond’ring that martin’s nests don’t claim respect, As they were wont to do in times of yore. Richardson says the world will teem with crimes, And woe and misery pervade the state; For what can prosper in those hapless times, When Good-luck is proscribed, and out of date? The web of death encircles J. D. Webb, The common ruin on him too hath landed; Him, too, must reach this melancholy ebb, And all the fortunes of the Strand be stranded. Pidding, who did his corner much enjoy, Says, while he contemplates the prospect dim, “How oft I’ve hung out my gay blue-coat boy— Now I must hang myself instead of him!” Happily, next year, some friend shall say and weep, As up Cornhill he takes his lonely way— “Where are the harvests which I used to reap, Beneath the sickle of each drawing day? “Ah! where is Sivewright? where is Eyton now? Where are the placards, which so lately told The clustering congregation when and hew The thirty thousands were all shared and sold? “Where dwelt activity there reigneth gloom: My well-known friends have lost their public rank: The Lottery has pass’d into the tomb, And left tse world an universal blank.” From The Literary Gazette.

An Elegy, Written in the King’s Bench Prison. The turnkey rings the bell for shutting out, The visitor walks slowly to the gate; The debtor chum-ward hastes in idle rout, And leaves the Bench to darkness, me, and fate. Now fades the high-spiked wall upon the sight, And all the space a silent air assumes! Save where some drunkard from the Brace[12] takes flight, And drowsy converse lulls the distant rooms. Save that from yonder Strong Room,[13] close confined, Some noisy wight does to the night complain, Of Mister Jones, the marshal, who, unkind Has, by a week’s confinement, check’d his reign. Within those strong-built walls, down that parade, Where lie the stones all paved in order fair, Each in his narrow room by bailiffs laid, The new-made pris’ners o’er their caption swear. The gentle morning bustle of their trade, The ’prentice, from the garret overhead, The dapper shopman, or the busy maid, Will never here arouse them from their bed. For them no polish’d Rumfords here shall burn, Nor wife uxorious ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their dad’s return, Or climb his knees, the sugar-plums to share. Oft did the creditor to their promise yield, As often they that solemn promise broke; How jocund did they drive the duns afield! ’Till nick’d at last within the bailiff’s yoke! Let not ambition mock their heedless fate, And idly cry, their state might have been better; Nor grandeur hear with scorn while I relate The short insolvent annals of the debtor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, All wealth procures, its being to entrench, Await alike the writ’s appointed hour: The paths of spendthrifts lead but to the Bench. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, That they are here, and not at large like you, That they have bills at tailor’s, and wine vault Bills that, alas! have long been overdue. Can story gay, or animated tale, Back from this mansion bid us freely run? Can honour’s voice o’er creditors prevail, Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Dun? Perhaps in this confined retreat is shut Some heart, to make a splash once all on fire: Skill, that might Hobhouse to the rout have put, Or loyally play’d Doctor Southey’s lyre. But prudence to their eyes her careful page, Rich in pounds, shillings, pence, did ne’er unroll. Stern creditors repress’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of their soul. Full many a blood, in fashion an adept, The dark, lone rooms of spunging-houses bear Full many a fair is born to bloom unkept, And waste her sweetness, none know how or where. Some cockney Petersham, that with whisker’d cheek Once moved in Bond Street, Rotten Row, Pall Mall, Some humble Mrs. Clarke[14] for rest may seek, Some Burdett, guiltless quite of speaking well. The applauses of admiring mobs to gain To be to threats of ruin, prison, lost; To see they have not spent their cash in vain, And read their triumph in the Morning Post. 17 That lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing follies, but themselves confined; The bailiff grimly seized them for his own, And turnkeys closed the gates on them behind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, The King’s Bench terribly pulls down our pride For high or lowly born, ’tis all the same. Far from the city’s mad ignoble strife They still retain an eager wish to stray; They hate this cool sequester’d mode of life, And wish at liberty to work their way. And on those walls that still from duns protect Those fire-proof walls, so strongly built and high, With uncouth rhymes and mis-spelt verses deck’d, They ask the passing tribute of a sigh. Their names, their years, writ by th’ unletter’d muse The place of fame and brass plate fill up well; And many a lawyer’s too the stranger views With pious wishes he may go to hell. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, His pleasing anxious liberty resign’d, To Banco Regis bent his dreary way, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind. On some one out, the prisoner still relies, Some one to yield him comfort, he requires; E’en from the Bench the voice of nature cries, E’en though imprison’d, glow our wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the debtor’s doom, Dost in these lines their hapless state relate; If chance by writ or capias hither come, Some kindred spirit may inquire thy fate. Haply, some hoary bailiff here may say, “Oft have we watch’d him at the peep of dawn, But, damn him, still he slipped from us away, And when we thought we had him, he was gone. “Where Drury Lane erects its well-known head, And Covent Garden lifts its domes on high, Morning and noon and night we found him fled, Most snugly poring on us passing by. “On Sundays, ever smiling as in scorn, Passing our houses, he would boldly rove; We gave his case up as of one forlorn, And for his person pined in hopeless love. “One morn we track’d him near th’ accustom’d spot Along the Strand, and by his favourite she— Another came; yet still we caught him not, But on the third, we nabb’d a youth,—’twas he. “The next, with warrant due, we brought our man, Snug to the Bench, here all the way from town, Approach and read the warrant (if you can), You may a copy get for half-a-crown.” The Warrant. Here rests his head, in “seventeen” and one, A youth to fortune and to fame well-known. But tradesmen trusted and began to dun, And Mister Sheriff marked him for his own. Great were his spendings, he naught put on shelf,— To send a recompense law did not fail: He gave his cred’tors, all he had—himself He gain’d from them (all he abhorred) a gaol! No further seek his doings to disclose, Or draw his follies from this dull abode, (Here he’ll at all events three months repose), Th’ Insolvent Act may open then a road.

The surly crier rings his nightly knell, The willing guest departs his weary way, And hears with joy the lonely Prison-bell, Nor wishes with his wretched friend to stay. Now rest the noisy racket-playing cry, And rattling balls against the dreary wall; To them succeed the ruin-hurling die, And bawling Potmen’s never ceasing call. Within these narrow cells, in durance vile, Where lurid Vengeance holds its baleful reign, Where awful Ruin hovers ’round the pile, Th’ inglorious captives ev’ry grief sustain. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn Gives not its wonted joy unto their shed, The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn No more entices from their lowly bed. Here dwells the rustic, who with thoughtless zeal The petty tyrant of his fields defied, Doom’d, by some lordly Villain’s frown, to feel The tedious malice of hard hearted Pride. Here too, in long captivity remain The hardy warrior, and the nobly brave, Who dar’d their Country’s battles to sustain Their honor’d Country’s Liberty to save But oh! despise not their ignoble toil, Their loss of Liberty and Life obscure, Nor proudly hear with a disdainful smile The dull complaint of the imprison’d poor. On those who boast of Heraldry and Pow’r Or all that Pomp and sordid wealth e’er gave, 18 The angry storms of Fortune soon may lour A wretched Prison may precede the grave. Not ev’n can Virtue’s sacred name defend; For round the good, and near the bad await, The one t’afflict, the other to amend, The never-failing ministers of Fate. Perhaps within this sad abode may pine, A heart once pregnant with Celestial fire, Souls, that to warlike deeds do still incline, And hands, that still might wake the living lyre: But Liberty to them, by cruel fate, Is now denied the panting heart to warm; Chill Penury confines their low estate, And Life’s to them devoid of ev’ry charm. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, Within these hated walls do they remain; With patience drink the bitter dregs of Life, And the dire load of misery sustain. Their hopes, their wishes, and the chance of fate, The place of certainty, or truth supply; They still would triumph o’er the proud one’s hate, Nor yet despairing wildly wish to die. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, A miserable being e’er resign’d, Left the dull precincts of the doleful day, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind? Still on some breast does ev’ry soul rely, Some pious drops the closing eye requires, For distant friends we breathe th’impassion’d sigh, To tears of Sympathy each wretch aspires. But here, entomb’d within this living grave, Too many sink beneath their wretched fate, No more have Friends the pleasing pow’r to save, And long-delay’d assistance comes too late. While some, alas! neglected by each friend, The world despising, by the world forgot, With jovial riot their dull hours defend, And drown with sparkling wine their hapless lot. The sumptuous feast, and ev’ry sensual joy, With noisy mirth each gloomy night infest; Still must Reflection’s piercing dart annoy, And such vile pleasures but disturb their rest. And yet some tutors with a scanty fare Advise a Prison, venial faults to mend: But Ah! they little know the anxious care, And less the danger which such schools attend. Can prudent maxims to a conscious mind Supply the place of Honor’s gentler sway? Or can the dear-bought knowledge of mankind The loss of Virtue’s gen’rous flame repay? Many, by fond credulity betray’d, Their happiness on other’s honor stake; The faithless friends the angry laws evade, And honest friendship suffers for the rake. The sober citizen, whose hard-earn’d wealth, Is lost by sad vicissitude of trade, With heartfelt sorrow undermines his health While Prudent Friends his losses still upbraid. Then by a cruel false deceiver led, Wearied with mis’ry, frantic with despair, The blooming Partner of his marriage bed, Adds Jealous anguish to his wretched care. For thee, who mindful of thy own mischance, Dost in these lines an artless tale relate; Some kindred spirit, or some friend perchance, In future times may mourn thy hapless fate. And when with dirges due, in sad array, Slow thro’ the church-way path thy corpse be borne, May these few lines compose the parting lay, Grav’d on a stone beneath an aged thorn. The Epitaph. Here rest his cares within the friendly earth, A Youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Some Dæmon frown’d upon his humble birth, And cheerless mis’ry marked him for her own. When youthful, virtues glow’d within his breast, Allur’d by Passion, by Example led, With Folly’s children he too warmly prest, And idle joys their baleful influence shed. But soon succeed these pleasures of the town, Th’ unfeeling persecution of the proud, With black misfortune’s sad terrific frown, And hard neglect of the unthinking crowd. Deserted by his friends, by all mankind, With silent anguish long he mourn’d his fate, With joyful hope his willing breast resign’d In expectation of an happier state. Around his grave the cypress wreath entwine, The Yew Tree’s shade shall add its solemn gloom; The tender fair to pity will incline, And drop a tear upon his early Tomb.

Epitaph on a Late Administration. Here rest their Heads in Power’s and Honour’s grave, A band to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science never smil’d on their conclave, And Scorn and Weakness mark’d them for their own. Large were their means, yet constant their defeat, And France, deriding, mock’d their wild intentions; They gave to England, all they could—a debt; They gain’d from England, all they wish’d—their Pensions. Seek not (vain hope) their merits to disclose, Nor paint their faults to sadden their condition; These let them try with trembling hope t’ expose, And those defend—on bench of Opposition. From The Morning Chronicle (London). Jan. 18, 1811.