Quae tibi regalis dederant diadematis aurum,
Dant et funereum fana, Maria, tholum.
Quisque suis vicibus, maesto stant ordine flentes;
Oreque velato femina triste silet.
Parva avis interea, residens in vertice summo,
Emittit tremula lugubre voce melos.
Vespera nec claudit, nec lucem Aurora recludit,
Quin eadem repetat funebre carmen avis,
Tale nihil dederint vel Mausolea; Mariae
Haec pietas soli debita vera fuit.
Venales lacrymae, jussique facessite fletus;
Sumptibus hic nullis luctus emendus erit.
* * *
The ancient fane that crowned thy flashing head,
Oh queen, oh mother! now receives thee dead.
The mourning train, in funeral pomp arrayed,
Weeping adore the venerable shade.
A duteous bird the while, high perched above,
Utters the tremulous notes of tender love.
Each waning eve, each dewy opening day,
That gentle heart repeats his solemn lay.
No lamentable anthem pealing high
Can match the gift of pious minstrelsy.
Tears, venal tears, ye cannot give relief.
No lavished gold can purchase natural grief!
There have been several editions of Vincent Bourne; three of them
deserve, bibliographically, a word. The first is the third of his
publications, a very rare and beautiful book, which by the kindness of
Mr. Austin Dobson I have been privileged to examine. This is _Poematia,
Latine partim reddita, partim scripta_, printed by J. Watts, 1734, and
dedicated to the Duke of Newcastle; it is a small volume printed in
italics of the tribe of Aldus, with quaint head and tail pieces, and red
lines ruled by hand. The next is the _Miscellaneous Poems_ of 1772, a
handsome quarto, published by subscription. The third is _Poems by
Vincent Bourne_ published by Pickering in 1840, with a memoir and notes
by the Rev. John Mitford. This is a carefully and beautifully printed
book, with but one drawback. Whenever an ornamental head-piece is
inserted at the top of a page, the number of the page is omitted. This
tiresome affectation makes it very difficult to find any particular
poem.
An exhaustive account of Vincent Bourne's Latinity would be a long
enumeration of minute mistakes--mistakes arising from the imperfect
acquaintance of the scholars of the day with the principles of correct
Latinity. To give a few obvious instances, metrically, Bourne is not
aware of the rule which forbids a short syllable to stand before sp, sc,
st, sq. In classical Latin, such a collocation of consonants does not
_lengthen_ the preceding short syllable, but is simply inadmissible.
Then again, he is very unsound in the quantity of final o. I am not
speaking of such words as _quando, ego,_ where there is a certain doubt.
But he makes short such words as _fall[)o]_, and even such a word as
_experiend[)o]_;, which is quite impossible. He also ends his
pentameters with trisyllables such as _niteat_, a practice which has no
Ovidian countenance. Grammatically, a considerable licence is observable
in the use of the indicative for the subjunctive, as, for instance,
after _si forsitan_ and _nedum_. But these, it may be said, are minor
points, and in form and arrangement his Latin is pure enough. His verse
is of the school of Ovid and Tibullus, but his vocabulary is not
Augustan; this, however, may be due to the fact that his choice of
subjects necessitates the use of many words for which there is no
Augustan authority.
It can hardly be expected that Vincent Bourne will be read or
appreciated by the general reader. But any one with an adequate stock of
Latin, who is given to wandering among the byways of literature, will
find him a singularly original and poetical writer. His was no academic
spirit, writing, with his back to the window, of frigid generalities and
classical ineptitudes. He was rather a man with a warm heart and a
capacious eye, finding any trait of human character, any grouping of the
grotesque or tender furniture of life, interesting and memorable. He
reminds one of the man in Robert Browning's poem, "How it Strikes a
Contemporary," who went about in his old cloak, with quiet observant
eyes, noting the horse that was beaten, and trying the mortar of the new
house with his stick, and came home and wrote it all to his lord the
king. Vincent Bourne had of course no moral object in his writings; he
had merely the impulse to sing, and we may regret with Lamb that so
delicate and sensitive a spirit chose a vehicle which must debar so many
from walking in his company. With his greasy locks and dirty gown, his
indolence and his good-humour, the shabby usher of Westminster, with his
pure spirit and clear eyes, has a place reserved for him in the stately
procession, "where is nor first, nor last."