No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who’d wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov’d, and shall never return?
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac’d,
We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossom’d thorn shall whiten her tomb.
_Chorus._--_Altro modo._
On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac’d,
We’ll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.[40]
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[38] Mother of King George III.; she died February 8th, 1772.
[39] From Collins.
[40] _Advertisement prefixed to_ THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:--“The following
may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared
for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather
be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude, than of genius. In
justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public,
that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.”
[Illustration: A NEW SIMILE]
IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.
Long had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind--
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature’s spite--
Till reading, I forgot what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon,[41]
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious:
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You’ll find him pictur’d at full length,
In book the second, page the tenth.
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay;
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat;
Wings upon either side--mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right--
With wit that’s flighty, learning light,
Such as to modern bards decreed;
A just comparison--proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse:
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air.
And here my simile unites--
For, in a modern poet’s flights,
I’m sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.
Lastly, vouchsafe t’ observe his hand,
Fill’d with a snake-encircled wand,
By classic authors term’d Caduceus,
And highly fam’d for several uses:
To wit, most wondrously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue’s such,
Though ne’er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore:
Add, too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men’s souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand ’s a modern author’s pen;
The serpents round about it twin’d
Denote him of the reptile kind--
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom’d bites.
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep--
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript--
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing;
Well! what of that? out with it--stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But even this deity’s existence
Shall lend my simile assistance:
Our modern bards! why, what a-pox
Are they--but senseless stones and blocks?
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[41] A popular school-book, by Andrew Tooke, Head Master of the
Charter-house.
[Illustration: ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING]
[Illustration]
Sure, ’twas by Providence design’d,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus’ fate.
[Illustration: STANZAS ON WOMAN]
When lovely Woman stoops to folly,
And finds, too late, that men betray--
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom--is, to die.
[Illustration: TRANSLATION FROM SCARRÒN.]
Thus, when soft Love subdues the heart,
With smiling hopes and chilling fears,
The soul rejects the aid of art,
And speaks in moments more than years.
[Illustration: STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC]
SEPTEMBER 13, 1759.
Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe
Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead,
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
[Illustration: EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.[42]]
Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a booksellers’ hack;
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don’t think he’ll wish to come back.
FOOTNOTES:
[42] Edward Purdon was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having
wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of
the army, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the
newspapers. He translated Voltaire’s Henriade, and died in 1767.
[Illustration: TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE.]
In all my Enna’s beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.
[Illustration: EPITAPH ON THOMAS PARNELL.]
This tomb, inscrib’d to gentle Parnell’s name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way!
Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow--
The transitory breath of fame below;
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
[Illustration: DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER.]
Where the Red Lion, flaring o’er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay--
Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane--
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The muse found Scroggen, stretch’d beneath a rug.
A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show’d the state in which he lay:
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show’d his lamp-black face.[43]
The morn was cold--he views with keen desire
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,
And five crack’d tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night--a stocking all the day!
FOOTNOTES:
[43] The Duke of Cumberland.
[Illustration: SONG FROM THE COMEDY OF “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”]
SCENE.--_A Room in the Alehouse, “The Three Pigeons.”_
Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain,
With grammar, and nonsense, and learning--
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,
Gives _genus_ a better discerning.
Let them brag of their heathenish gods--
Their Lethes, and Styxes, and Stygians;
Their Quis, and their Quæs, and their Quods:
They ’re all but a parcel of Pigeons.
To-roddle, to-roddle, to-rol.
When methodist preachers come down,
A-preaching that drinking is sinful,
I’ll wager the rascals a crown,
They always preach best with a skinful.
But when you come down with your pence,
For a slice of their scurvy religion,
I’ll leave it to all men of sense--
But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon.
To-roddle, &c.
[Illustration]
Then, come, put the jorum about,
And let us be merry and clever;
Our hearts and our liquors are stout--
Here’s the “Three Jolly Pigeons” for ever!
Let some cry up woodcock or hare,
Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;
But of all the gay birds in the air--
Here’s a health to the “Three Jolly Pigeons.”
To-roddle, &c.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER.]
“This _is_ a poem! This _is_ a copy of verses!”
Your mandate I got--
You may all go to pot:
Had your senses been right,
You’d have sent before night.
As I hope to be sav’d,
I put off being shav’d,
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,
Or to put on my duds.
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt,
And Baker and his bit,
And Kauffman beside,
And the Jessamy[44] bride,
With the rest of the crew,
The Reynoldses two,
Little Comedy’s[45] face,
And the Captain[46] in lace.
--(By the by, you may tell him
I have something to sell him;
Of use, I insist,
When he comes to enlist.
Your worships must know,
That a few days ago
An order went out,
For the foot-guards so stout
To wear tails in high taste--
Twelve inches at least:
Now, I’ve got him a scale
To measure each tail;
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail.)
Yet how can I, when vext,
Thus stray from my text!
Tell each other to rue
Your Devonshire crew.
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But ’tis Reynolds’s way,
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica’s whim
To be frolick like him--
But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser,
When both have been spoil’d in to-day’s _Advertiser_?[47]
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
FOOTNOTES:
[44] Miss Mary Horneck.
[45] Miss Catherine Horneck, afterwards Mrs. Bunbury.
[46] Ensign Horneck.
[47] The allusion is to some complimentary verses, in the _Advertiser_,
on Kauffman and Reynolds.
[Illustration: A SONG
[Intended to have been sung in the comedy of “She Stoops to Conquer.”
Adapted to the Irish air, “The Humours of Ballamaguiry.”]]
Ah, me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me;
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, not a smile, shall my passion discover;
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent--loses a lover.
[Illustration: FROM THE LATIN OF VIDA.]
Say, heavenly muse, their youthful frays rehearse;
Begin, ye daughters of immortal verse.
Exulting rocks have own’d the power of song,
And rivers listen’d as they flow’d along.
[Illustration: AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.]
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word--
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass’d her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor--
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning,
And never follow’d wicked ways--
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber’d in her pew--
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow’d her--
When she has walk’d before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead--
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That, had she liv’d a twelvemonth more--
She had not died to-day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO PASS THE CHRISTMAS AT
BARTON.[48]]
First, let me suppose, what may shortly be true,
The company set, and the word to be--loo;
All smirking, and pleasant, and big with adventure,
And ogling the stake which is fix’d in the centre.
Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn,
At never once finding a visit from Pam.
I lay down my stake, apparently cool,
While the harpies about me all pocket the pool;
I fret in my gizzard--yet, cautious and sly,
I wish all my friends may be bolder than I:
Yet still they sit snug; not a creature will aim,
By losing their money, to venture at fame.
’Tis in vain that at niggardly caution I scold,
’Tis in vain that I flatter the brave and the bold;
All play their own way, and they think me an ass:
“What does Mrs. Bunbury?” “I, sir? I pass.”
“Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do!”
“Who--I? Let me see, sir; why, I must pass, too.”
Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the Devil,
To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil;
Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on,
Till, made by my losses as bold as a lion,
I venture at all, while my avarice regards
The whole pool as my own, “Come, give me five cards.”
“Well done!” cry the ladies; “ah! Doctor, that’s good--
The pool’s very rich. Ah! the Doctor is loo’d.”
Thus foil’d in my courage, on all sides perplext.
I ask for advice from the lady that’s next.
“Pray, Ma’am, be so good as to give your advice:
Don’t you think the best way is to venture for ’t twice?”
“I advise,” cries the lady, “to try it, I own--
Ah! the Doctor is loo’d: come, Doctor, put down.”
Thus playing and playing, I still grow more eager,
And so bold, and so bold, I’m at last a bold beggar,
Now, ladies, I ask--if law matters you ’re skill’d in,
Whether crimes such as yours should not come before Fielding?
For, giving advice that is not worth a straw,
May well be call’d picking of pockets in law;
And picking of pockets, with which I now charge ye,
Is, by _Quinto Elizabeth_--death without clergy.
What justice! when both to the Old Bailey brought;
By the gods! I’ll enjoy it, though ’tis but in thought,
Both are plac’d at the bar with all proper decorum,
With bunches of fennel and nosegays before ’em;
Both cover their faces with mobs and all that,
But the judge bids them, angrily, take off their hat.
When uncover’d, a buzz of inquiry runs round:
“Pray what are their crimes?” “They’ve been pilfering found.”
“But, pray, whom have they pilfer’d?” “A Doctor, I hear.”
“What, that solemn-fac’d, odd-looking man that stands near?”
“The same.” “What a pity! How does it surprise one:
Two handsomer culprits I never set eyes on!”
Then their friends all come round me, with cringing and leering,
To melt me to pity, and soften my swearing.
First, Sir Charlès advances, with phrases well strung:
“Consider, dear Doctor, the girls are but young.”
“The younger the worse,” I return him again;
“It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain.”
“But then they ’re so handsome; one’s bosom it grieves.”
“What signifies handsome, when people are thieves?”
“But where is your justice? their cases are hard.”
“What signifies justice? I want the reward.
“There’s the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds--there’s the parish
of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty pounds--there’s the parish of
Tyburn offers forty pounds: I shall have all that, if I convict them.”
“But consider their case, it may yet be your own;
And see how they kneel: is your heart made of stone?”
This moves: so at last I agree to relent,
For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent.
I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot: it cuts
deep. But now for the rest of the letter: and next--but I want room--so
I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I
don’t value you all!
O. G.
FOOTNOTES:
[48] To Mrs. Bunbury.
[Illustration: ON SEEING A LADY PERFORM A CERTAIN CHARACTER.]
For you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise;
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss;
Ye gods! what transport e’er compar’d to this?
As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love
With fond complaint address’d the listening Jove--
’Twas joy and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last, even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BIRDS]
Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire,
No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;
The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,
The simple plumage, or the glossy down,
Prompt not their love: the patriot bird pursues
His well-acquainted tints, and kindred hues.
Hence, through their tribes no mix’d polluted flame,
No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame;
But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true,
Thinks black alone is beauty’s favourite hue;
The nightingale, with mutual passion blest,
Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest;
While the dark owl to court his partner flies,
And owns his offspring in their yellow eyes.[49]
FOOTNOTES:
[49] From the Latin lines of Addison (_Spectator_, No. 412), who
remarks:--“In birds, we often see the male determined in his courtship
by the single grain, or tincture of a feather, and never discovering
any charms but in the colour of its species.”
[Illustration: A PROLOGUE WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A
ROMAN KNIGHT.]
_From the Latin, preserved by Macrobius._
What! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age?
Scarce half alive, opprest with many a year,
What, in the name of dotage, drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw’d by power, and unappall’d by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more--
For, ah! too partial to my life’s decline,
Cæsar persuades--submission must be mine!
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys;
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please.
Here, then, at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame.
No more my titles shall my children tell--
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.
[Illustration: PROLOGUE TO “ZOBEIDE,” A TRAGEDY.[50]]
_Spoken by Mr. Quick._
In these bold times, when Learning’s sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore--
When wise Astonomers[51] to India steer,
And quit for _Venus_ many a brighter here--
While botanists,[52] all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently go simpling--
When every bosom swells with wondrous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and _hoity-toity_ queens----
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets, deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading--
Yet ere he lands, he’s ordered me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? Our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.
Lord! what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder--
[_Upper gallery._
There mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen em--
[_Pit._
Here trees of stately size, and turtles in ’em--
[_Balconies._
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound--
[_Stage._
And apples [_takes up one, and tastes it_], _bitter_ apples,
strew the ground.
The place is uninhabited, I fear!
I heard a hissing--there are serpents here;
O, there the natives are--a dreadful race;
The men have tails, the women paint the face.
No doubt they ’re all barbarians--yes, ’tis so;
I’ll try to make palaver with them, though;
’Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.
Good savages, our Captain craves assistance;
Our ship’s well stor’d--in yonder creek we’ve laid her:
His honour is no mercenary trader:
This is his first adventure; lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far--
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What! no reply to promises so ample?
I’d best step back, and order up a sample.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[50] By Joseph Cradock.
[51] Cook and Green.
[52] Banks and Solander.
[Illustration: EPILOGUE TO “THE SISTER,” A COMEDY.[53]]
_Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley._
What! five long acts--and all to make us wiser!
Our Authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage:
My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking,
Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?--I will.
But how? ay, there’s the rub! [_pausing_]--I’ve got my cue:
The world’s a masquerade! the maskers--you, you, you.
[_To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery._
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses--
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside them,
Patriots, in party-colour’d suits, that ride them.
There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These, in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she’s got power to cure.
Thus ’tis with all--their chief and constant care
Is to seem everything but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark I fix my eye on,
Who seems to have robb’d his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, Dam’me! who’s afraid?
_Mimicking._
Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You’ll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape to assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to every gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip--the man’s a black.
Yon critic, too--but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I’ll for once spare you.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[53] Written by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox.
[Illustration: EPILOGUE INTENDED FOR “SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.”]
_Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low, as beginning to
speak; then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her,
and curtsies to the Audience._
MRS. BULKLEY.
Hold, Ma’am! your pardon. What’s your business here?
MISS CATLEY.
The Epilogue.
MRS. BULKLEY.
The Epilogue?
MISS CATLEY.
Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Sure you mistake, Ma’am. The Epilogue? _I_ bring it.
MISS CATLEY.
Excuse me, Ma’am. The Author bid _me_ sing it.
_Recitative._
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
MRS. BULKLEY.
Why, sure the girl’s beside herself! an Epilogue of singing?
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning!
Besides, a singer in a comic set!
Excuse me, Ma’am, I know the etiquette.
MISS CATLEY.
What if we leave it to the House?
MRS. BULKLEY.
The House!--Agreed.
MISS CATLEY.
Agreed.
MRS. BULKLEY.
And she, whose party’s largest, shall proceed.
And first, I hope, you’ll readily agree,
I’ve all the critics and the wits for me:
They, I am sure, will answer my commands;
Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands;
What, no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
MISS CATLEY.
I’m for a different set,--old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies--
_Recitative._
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling:
_Air._--_Cotillon._
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish’d eye;
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho,
_Da Capo._
MRS. BULKLEY.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit:
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell’d tribe, ye maccaroni train,
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a year,
To dress and look like awkward Frenchmen here;
Lend me your hands.--O, fatal news to tell!
Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.[54]
MISS CATLEY.
Ay, take your travellers--travellers, indeed!
Give me the bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels? Ah! ah! I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.
_Air._--_A bonnie young Lad is my Jockey._