_For the Table Book._
The snowdrop, rising to its infant height,
Looks like a sickly child upon the spot
Of young nativity, regarding not
The air’s caress of melody and light
Beam’d from the east, and soften’d by the bright
Effusive flash of gold:--the willow stoops
And muses, like a bride without her love,
On her own shade, which lies on waves, and droops
Beside the natal trunk, nor looks above:--
The precipice, that torrents cannot move,
Leans o’er the sea, and steadfast as a rock,
Of dash and cloud unconscious, bears the rude
Continuous surge, the sounds and echoes mock:
Thus Mental Thought enduring, wears in solitude.
1827.
*, *, P.
Vol. I.--6.
[Illustration: ~The Font of Harrow Church.~]
---------------------- thus saved
From guardian-hands which else had more depraved.
Some years ago, the fine old font of the ancient parish church of
Harrow-on-the-Hill was torn from that edifice, by the “gentlemen of the
parish,” and given out to mend the roads with. The feelings of _one_
parishioner (to the honour of the sex, a female) were outraged by this
act of parochial Vandalism; and she was allowed to preserve it from
destruction, and place it in a walled nook, at the garden front of her
house, where it still remains. By her obliging permission, a drawing of
it was made the summer before last, and is engraved above.
On the exclusion of Harrow font from the church, the parish officers put
up the marble wash-hand-basin-stand-looking-thing, which now occupies
its place, inscribed with the names of the churchwardens during whose
reign venality or stupidity effected the removal of its precessor. If
there be any persons in that parish who either venerate antiquity, or
desire to see “right things in right places,” it is possible that, by a
spirited representation, they may arouse the indifferent, and shame the
ignorant to an interchange: and force an expression of public thanks to
the lady whose good taste and care enabled it to be effected. The
relative situation and misappropriation of each font is a stain on the
parish, easily removable, by employing a few men and a few pounds to
clap the paltry usurper under the spout of the good lady’s house, and
restore the noble original from that degrading destination, to its
rightful dignity in the church.
*
~Garrick Plays.~
No. III.
[From the “Rewards of Virtue,” a Comedy, by John Fountain, printed
1661.]
_Success in Battle not always attributable to the General._
----------Generals oftimes famous grow
By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies;
Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance.
Truth is, ’tis pretty to observe
How little Princes and great Generals
Contribute oftentimes to the fame they win.
How oft hath it been found, that noblest minds
With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars;
And have endeavour’d with their dearest blood
To mollify those diamonds, where dwell
The fate of kingdoms; and at last have faln
By vulgar hands, unable now to do
More for their cause than die; and have been lost
Among the sacrifices of their swords;
No more remember’d than poor villagers,
Whose ashes sleep among the common flowers,
That every meadow wears: whilst other men
With trembling hands have caught a victory,
And on pale foreheads wear triumphant bays.
Besides, I have thought
A thousand times; in times of war, when we
Lift up our hands to heaven for victory;
Suppose some virgin Shepherdess, whose soul
Is chaste and clean as the cold spring, where she
Quenches all thirsts, being told of enemies,
That seek to fright the long-enjoyed Peace
Of our Arcadia hence with sound of drums,
And with hoarse trumpets’ warlike airs to drown
The harmless music of her oaten reeds,
Should in the passion of her troubled sprite
Repair to some small fane (such as the Gods
Hear poor folks from), and there on humble knees
Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan,
And beg his helps: ’tis possible to think,
That Heav’n, which holds the purest vows most rich,
May not permit her still to weep in vain,
But grant her wish, (for, would the Gods not hear
The prayers of poor folks, they’d ne’er bid them pray);
And so, in the next action, happeneth out
(The Gods still using means) the Enemy
May be defeated. The glory of all this
Is attributed to the General,
And none but he’s spoke loud of for the act;
While she, from whose so unaffected tears
His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown.[43]
* * * * *
_Unlawful Solicitings._
When I first
Mention’d the business to her all alone,
Poor Soul, she blush’d, as if already she
Had done some harm by hearing of me speak,
Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains ran
So true, so native, down her fairest cheeks;
As if she thought herself obliged to cry,
’Cause all the world was not so good as she.
* * * * *
_Proportion in Pity._
There must be some proportion still to pity
Between ourselves and what we moan: ’tis hard
For Men to be ought sensible, how Moats
Press Flies to death. Should the Lion, in
His midnight walks for prey, hear some poor worms
Complain for want of little drops of dew,
What pity could that generous creature have
(Who never wanted small things) for those poor
Ambitions? yet these are their concernments,
And but for want of these they pine and die.
* * * * *
_Modesty a bar to preferment._
Sure ’twas his modesty. He might have thriven
Much better possibly, had his ambition
Been greater much. They oftimes take more pains
Who look for Pins, than those who find out Stars.
* * * * *
_Innocence vindicated at last._
Heav’n may awhile correct the virtuous;
Yet it will wipe their eyes again, and make
Their faces whiter with their tears. Innocence
Conceal’d is the Stoln Pleasure of the Gods,
Which never ends in shame, as that of Men
Doth oftimes do; but like the Sun breaks forth,
When it hath gratified another world;
And to our unexpecting eyes appears
More glorious thro’ its late obscurity.
* * * * *
_Dying for a Beloved Person._
There is a gust in Death, when ’tis for Love,
That’s more than all that’s taste in all the world.
For the true measure of true Love is Death;
And what falls short of this, was never Love:
And therefore when those tides do meet and strive
And both swell high, but Love is higher still,
This is the truest satisfaction of
The perfectest Love: for here it sees itself
Indure the highest test; and then it feels
The sum of delectation, since it now
Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
By one intense act, all its verity:
Which by a thousand and ten thousand words
It would have took a poor dilated pleasure
To have imperfectly express’d.
_Urania makes a mock assignation with the King, and substitutes the
Queen in her place. The King describes the supposed meeting to the
Confident, whom he had employed to solicit for his guilty passion._
Pyrrhus, I’ll tell thee all. When now the night
Grew black enough to hide a sculking action;
And Heav’n had ne’er an eye unshut to see
Her Representative on Earth creep ’mongst
Those poor defenceless worms, whom Nature left
An humble prey to every thing, and no
Asylum but the dark; I softly stole
To yonder grotto thro’ the upper walks,
And there found my Urania. But I found her,
I found her, Pyrrhus, not a Mistress, but
A Goddess rather; which made me now to be
No more her Lover, but Idolater.
She only whisper’d to me, as she promised,
Yet never heard I any voice so loud;
And, tho’ her words were gentler far than those
That holy priests do speak to dying Saints,
Yet never thunder signified so much.
And (what did more impress whate’er she said)
Methought her whispers were my injured Queen’s,
Her manner just like her’s! and when she urged,
Among a thousand things, the injury
I did the faithful’st Princess in the world;
Who now supposed me sick, and was perchance
Upon her knees offering up holy vows
For him who mock’d both Heav’n and her, and was
Now breaking of that vow he made her, when
With sacrifice he call’d the Gods to witness:
When she urged this, and wept, and spake so like
My poor deluded Queen, Pyrrhus, I trembled;
Almost persuaded that it was her angel
Spake thro’ Urania’s lips, who for her sake
Took care of me, as something she much loved.
It would be long to tell thee all she said,
How oft she sigh’d, how bitterly she wept:
But the effect--Urania still is chaste;
And with her chaster lips hath promised to
Invoke blest Heav’n for my intended sin.