Your courage, ye marine Adventurers?
Worthies, beyond all names of worthiness!
Who can endure alike the Sun so long
Present or absent; and without a dread
Encounter foggy mist, tempestuous sleet,
Cold blasts, with snows and hail in th’ frozen air,
And those unequal seas which might amaze
All ears and eyes, yea, and make Neptune’s self
To quake with chilly fear when he beholds:
When his huge Monsters, Icy Isles, disdaining
His sovereignty, and the Sun’s hot violence,
Muster upon those watery plains, for war,
Continual war; and wheresoe’er they rush
Make winds and waves give back, till, in the shock,
Crashing and rending their congealed sides,
They split themselves with their own massiness.
FRAGMENT.
But who is He shall put his daring hand
To Love’s mysterious Harp, and with rude touch
Discordant violate the silver string
Whose note is sweeter than the balmy South
Impregn’d with soft Æolian harmony!
The Song of Love is like an Angel’s voice
Attuned to heavenly music; and once heard
On this Terrestrial; when the Bard of Thrace
Bewail’d his lost Euridice, it drew
The wild Inhabitants to hear his Lyre;—
Yea savage Beasts and Things inanimate
To listen to his dulcet melody:—
Such power is in the magic sounds of Love.
THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.
O for the thousand flowers that erst did bloom
In that Sicilian Valley wild,
Where golden Ceres left her Child
Conceal’d from all the Sons of Jove,
So to elude th’ inevitable doom
Of Fate, and stronger Love!
In vain.—The grisly Monarch of the Dead,
Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head
Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap
Around old Ætna’s smould’ring top;
There, as the wandering Nymph he view’d,
Awhile in blank amaze he stood
Till Love to fury roused his blood.
He call’d his ebon Car and Steeds of fire:
They came, and with the headlong torrent’s speed
Down to the lily-spangled mead
They bore their mighty Sire:
Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took,
Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook.
SONNET.
O thou, to whom my heart (no longer mine)
Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued;
Fair goodly frame of Nature’s work divine
To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good,
Let not thy scorn pursue the Muse’s Son,
For gentle is his mind, and pure his flame,
And for thy love he shall inscribe thy name
Among those Fair whose peerless beauty won
Renown from ancient bards, on harp and lyre
So sweetly sounded, that the wondering Earth,
Thro’ all her climes, yet listens to the strain.
O meekly-blooming Flower, if on thy birth
Soft Pity shed her dew, quench not his fire,
Quench not his hallow’d fire with cold disdain.
SONG.
When PHŒBUS, for what crime unknown,
Was exiled from the Courts of Jove,
And to this earth came mournful down,
Of all things else bereft, but love;
(For that pure Fire feels not the storms
That shake or change this worldly frame;
Immortal as the soul it warms,
It burns in unextinguish’d flame—)
His fingers to the lyre he turn’d,
Then all with chords of sorrow strung;
The lost delights of heaven he mourn’d,
But more her loss, for whom he sung:
He sung so sweetly that the strain
Drew pity from the gods above;
They call’d the wanderer back again,
And gave the MUSE to crown his love.
SONG.
To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu!
And adieu to the roar of thy seas!
And adieu to the Girl, whose insensible heart
Is as hard and as sullen as these!
Forget the fond echoes you heard!
Forget my fond hope and my strain!
My strain is neglected and dead is my hope:—
But you never shall hear me complain——
To thy cliffs, rocky SEATON, adieu!
SONG.
Gentle Stream, whose wild meanders
Cheer the birds and feed the flowers,
While by thee Amelia wanders,
Wilt thou soothe her pensive hours?
If the world were at my bidding,
Music should her steps attend,
And where’er her feet were treading,
Flowers should bloom, and sweets ascend.
SONG.
TO A LADY GOING TO HER FAMILY IN IRELAND.
Will you go, Mary, from me?
Is it choice, or love or duty,
That you trust your worth and beauty
Upon the stormy Sea?
Can you hope, Mary, to find,
Tho’ you rove the wide world over,
Friends so true, so fond a Lover,
As you leave here behind?
TO THE SUN.
O Thou whose inextinguishable eye
Now sleeps beneath the ocean stream,
Whether the star of morn shall call thee forth
To pour thy rich and fiery beam
Through the wide arch of an unclouded sky;
Or whether the rude North
Shall o’er thy head his showery mantle cast,
Making the dank earth shiver at his blast;
Welcome alike to me! the genial day
That gave my fair Eliza birth
Needs not thy gaudy smile to make it glad:
Still cheer the spleeny race of earth
With the warm lustre of thy fostering ray;
On me in vain are shed
Thy beams and unregarded, while I prove
The dearer influence of Her smiles and love.
SONG.
Artless words of unfeign’d passion
With harmonious numbers join’d,
Soothly try your soft persuasion
On Eliza’s gentle mind!
For her ear alone intended,
Other censure nought regard:
If by her you are commended,
’Tis enough for your reward.
But why thus you seek to move her
Strive not further to explain!—
If her heart will not discover,
You or I should tell in vain.
TO A LADY, FORTUNE-TELLING WITH CARDS.
Dear Nancy, if you wish to know
What Fate reserves in store for you,
Ask not the idle cards to show,—
I’ll tell as wisely, and as true.
For I will take a magic Book
Of characters divinely fair;
Upon thy lovely Self I’ll look,
And read, dear Girl, thy fortune there.
By those love-darting Eyes I find
How many hearts their empire own;
I see the sweetness of thy mind
That keeps the hearts those eyes have won.
Yet none among so many hearts,
Nor any you shall yet subdue,
Should you join all their better parts,
Can make a heart to merit you.
Now, shall I look into your breast
And see what Heart is favour’d there?—
No,—be that fatal Truth suppress’d,
Lest I should sink in my despair!
EPIGRAM.
From two domestic acts of pious zeal
Learn what calamities sad mortals feel.
When Lord GEORGE GORDON of the Pope afeard,
(That was before he show’d a Jewish beard)
When he his Whiggish Mob had raised, they fly
On poor Lord MANSFIELD’S harmless Library.
Then were his legal Writings, precious store,
Burnt, or dispersed as Sibyl’s leaves of yore.
Twelve years elapsed from that disastrous tide,
And lo! another storm from t’other side!
In vengeance on their Presbyterian foes
The loyal Mob of Birmingham arose;
And as their zeal for _Church and King_ grew hot,
All PRIESTLEY’S books and papers went to pot.
Losses like these till then we never saw;
Priestley’s Divinity and Mansfield’s Law.
ON TWO ENGLISH POETS, WHO FLOURISHED IN THE FORMER HALF OF THE LAST
CENTURY, AND PUBLISHED COMPLIMENTARY VERSES ON EACH OTHER.
Edward, thy Ode’s too long by half,
Stephen’s Reply might spare a quarter:
Now, in my judgment, Stephen’s song
Is as much better, as ’tis shorter.
Edward declares, though Milton’s lines
Rise to an unexampled height,
That, in heroics, Stephen shines
Like Milton, and almost as bright.
Stephen for quittance makes reply,
That nothing in the world could hinder
(Except his native modesty)
Edward from taking place of Pindar.
Stephen and Edward all this while
Are lying to each other’s face;
Edward can do ’t in bolder style,
But Stephen with a better grace.
VERSES TO THE HONOUR OF THE LONDON PASTRYCOOK, WHO MARKED “NO POPERY” ON
HIS PIES, &C.
I’ll sing the praise of Mr. B⸺,
Whose Pastry, watchful for the Church,
Whene’er it sees, or fears, a Plot,
Starts from his counter, piping hot,
To warn us of the dire intent,
And, like himself, is eloquent.
Pale Biscuits and stout Gingerbread
Th’ alarm of danger widely spread;
Then quaking Custards join the cry,
And Tartlets squeak, “No Popery!”
Defender of the Faith! rare Cook,
Who mak’st thy Pastry-shop a Book
As formidable, and much more read
Than that which our eighth HENRY made,
Whose Church-of-England oven bakes
Protestant Appletarts and Cakes!
Children that feed upon thy Pies
Grow in religion as in size;
While, often as their mouths they ope,
They chew destruction to the Pope.
Fame shall desert th’ ingenious Quaker
To celebrate our Cross-bun Baker;
Whose willing Pupils, apter far
Than all the school of Lancaster,
Shall read, and eat, his name enroll’d
On Cakes of Gingerbread in gold.
ON THE FUNERAL OF ⸺, IN A HEARSE AND SIX, FOLLOWED BY A MOURNING COACH
AND FOUR.
What, SAVE-ALL in a Hearse convey’d!
And _six_ brave Nags to draw _the Dead_!
’Tis ruin!—Why, ’tis more by _five_
Than e’er convey’d him while _alive_.
And look, what follows!—more and more
Profusion, in a _Coach and Four_!
Such waste of what thou liv’dst to save,
Might break the quiet of thy Grave.
In what slow pomp the Rogues advance,
Courting, as ’twere, Extravagance!
O! the vast charge of every night!
They revel, and set nothing by ’t;
But give to have thee lie in state,
More than thou e’er paid’st there for meat.
What else?—their dead and useless load
They carry on the _Turnpike_ road,
Paying—but they care nothing, they,
How many Gates there be to pay.—
Plague on the Gates! how thick they are!
Five pounds will soon be squander’d here.
Another—and another yet!
And _Half-a-crown_ at every Gate;
Those Gates which thou didst alway shun,
To save thy _Pence_ from every one.
Alas! this needless cost is more
Than all th’ extravagance before!
To stop such charge, at least, arise
And show them—where the _Bye-way_ lies!
PARODY ON DRYDEN’S “THREE POETS,” &c.
Three Poets, born in different lands and ages,
Three different Heroes took to grace their pages:
The first, a Buonaparte, fierce to fight;
The next, a Methodistic Hypocrite:
No human character combined more evil,
So Milton for his Hero took the Devil.
EPIGRAM.
When first the Devil came in Milton’s view
A swindging Tail[24] upon his rump there grew:
But when in Pandæmomium he appears
How alter’d is his form! no tail he wears.
Such difference in that Personage is seen
As Milton by himself perceived, between
His full-grown Epic and his stripling Ode—
His tadpole Devil had become a Toad.
[24]
——th’ old Dragon—
——wroth to see his kingdom fail,
Swindges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
_Ode on the Nativity._
AN EXPOSTULATORY SUPPLICATION TO DEATH, AFTER THE DECEASE OF DR. BURNEY.
Thou Trojan Death! thou worse than Trojan foe
To English Greeks, the best of Greeks we know!
In three we boasted; three we had of late,
Rare Burney, matchless Porson, and the great
ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ, props and pillars of our state;
Two thou hast ravish’d from us; and the land
Watches in anxious fear thy threat’ning hand.
Two thou hast ravish’d, but we can’t resign a
ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ yet awhile,—O spare ΤΟΝ ΔΕΙΝΑ.
ON THE DECEASE OF HORNE TOOKE.
Horne Tooke is gone—rejoice and sing,
Ye Placemen, and ye Tools of a King!
He is gone!—then be his faults forgiven,
And let us hope he’s gone to Heaven.
That is a prayer you ought to make
If not for love, for interest’ sake;
For should he go to t’other place,
Think how he’ll plague your hireling race.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRANITE SARCOPHAGUS BROUGHT FROM ALEXANDRIA TO THE
BRITISH MUSEUM.
This was the tomb of Alexander,
The Macedonian great Commander,
Who dealt about his killing blows
Alike among his friends and foes:
Who went on plundering, burning, stabbing,
Carouzing, catamiting, drabbing,
Kept a Castrato[25] for his punk,
And died[26] heroically drunk:
And if at last he went to hell,
I warrant he deserved it well;
Whate’er is said by flatt’ring Mitford,
Who thinks he is gone to heav’n, and fit for ’t.
[25] Q. Curt. b. x. c. 3. &c.
[26] Athenæus, b. 10. c. 9. p. 434. Αλεξανδρος λαβων (το ποτηριον)
_εσπασε_ μεν _γενναιως_,——εκ τουτου νοσησας απεθανε. Alexander took the
cup, and _pulled nobly_ at it.
Mem. It held near a gallon, and he had emptied it once already.
INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF FIELD-MARSHAL SUWOROW.
This was a Warrior of renown,
A Hero bred, and born to kill;
Who scrupled not to shed his own[27],
When he lack’d other blood to spill.
And often would he turn his arms
On those within his bosom bred,
And quell by fire the mighty swarms[28]
That with his life-blood he had fed.
His person, cover’d o’er with glory,
In truth was little clean or nice;
And ’tis a question in his story,
Whether he kill’d more men[29] or lice.
[27] It is related of him, that in his march to the attack of Oczakow,
he proceeded with such rapidity at the head of his men, that they began
to murmur at the fatigues which they endured. The marshal, apprised of
the circumstance, after a long day’s march, drew up his men in a hollow
square, and addressing them said, that “his legs had that day discovered
some symptoms of mutiny, as they refused to second the impulses of his
mind, which urged him forward to the attack of the enemy’s fortress.”
He then ordered his boots to be taken off, and some of the drummers
to advance and flog his legs, which was done till they bled very
considerably. He then put on his boots very coolly, expressing his hope
that his legs would in future better know how to discharge their duty.
His army afterwards marched on without a murmur.
[28] Suworow affectoit beaucoup de simplicité et de rudesse. On le voyoit
quelquefois ôter sa chemise au milieu des Cosaques, et la fain chauffer,
en disant que c’étoit _pour tuer ses poux_. Vie de Catherine II. tome ii.
p. 373.
[29] The number of men slaughtered by this hero was at the rate of more
than thirty a week, reckoning from the day of his birth to the age of 69
years, according to the account given in the history of his campaigns, by
Frederic Anthing.
ON FIELD-MARSHAL SUWOROW. A DIALOGUE.
_A._ This Hero, though delighting much in blood,
Was yet a tender-hearted creature.—_B._ Good.
_A._ Without remorse he slaughter’d Turk and Pole,
But still his nerves were very weak.—_B._ Poor soul!
_A._ And he became a prey to grief, for why,
His master frown’d upon him.—_B._ O fie! fie!
_A._ Unkindness did his gentle heartstrings crack,
And so the Hero came to an end.—_B._ Good lack!
_A._ That one so valiant and so meek, is’t fit he
Should go at last to the devil?—_B._ What a pity!
ON F. W. THE KING OF PRUSSIA’S INEFFECTUAL ATTEMPT ON WARSAW.
When Frederic, when the Usurper turn’d
With baffled arms and insolence abash’d,
From fearless Warsaw’s radiant walls,
(For, crested with the Sons of Liberty,
Then stood they fearless and secure,)
No less than was that mount in Israel once,
Where Angels rode in fiery guard
Around the Prophet[30]. Ever such defence
Be made for freedom, and usurpers
Abated and confounded in their pride,
As Frederic now! He, when he turn’d,
Thus gave mad utterance to his spleeny mood:—
This royal merchandise of war
That wont to bring towns, cities, provinces,
To kings for profit, is become
A losing trade, or only serves to enrich
My shrewder neighbours, they who fight
In quarrels not their own, and wisely sell
The lives, unprofitable else,
Of their obedient multitude: but I,
Cursed be the hour I did so, I
Who had the wealthiest of the world my dupe,
England, to pay me lavish hire
For service ne’er perform’d, must needs, O fool!
To this most perilous venture run
On mine own credit: therefore am I made
A very bankrupt; all my hopes
Of victory, dominion, fortune, fame,
All ruin’d, and my royal word,
My promises and threats alike held vile
As the vain Brunswick’s menaces,
Horrible once, now laugh’d at and despised.
For who now fears me, or believes?—
But let me from this ruinous assault,
With what is left me, safe retire,
And I will yet regain the credulous ear
Of Her, whose unexhausted wealth
Exceeds all measure but her easy faith,
Good England:——O that I were now
In England, with my royal Brother there,
Giving a false alarm in jest
To Weymouth town, and Buckinghamshire Captains[31].
[30] “And when the servant of the man of God was risen early, and gone
forth, behold, an Host compassed the city both with horses and chariots.
And his servant said unto him, Alas, my master! how shall we do? And he
answered, fear not; for they that be with us are more than they that be
with them. And Elisha prayed, and said, Lord, I pray thee, open his eyes,
that he may see. And the Lord opened the eyes of the young man, and he
saw: and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire
round about Elisha.”—2 Kings, ch. vi. v. 15, &c.
[31] About the commencement of the war in 1793, the late king used to
visit Weymouth for some weeks of the summer, when the Buckinghamshire
militia attended his majesty as a guard of honour. It was during one of
these visits that this military occurrence is reported to have taken
place.
POLITICAL ADVICE TO THE MEMBERS OF THE FRENCH CONVENTION. A DIALOGUE.
“Messieurs of the Convention, Gentlemen!
“Hav’n’t ye rebell’d against your sovereign?”—“Stuff.”
“Deposed him?”—“Nonsense.” “Murder’d him?”—“What then?”
“Usurp’d his place and kingdom?”—“Like enough!”
“Hav’n’t ye bullied Princes far and near,
“Encroach’d upon your neighbours, ’gainst all Law?
“Without Religion, Honour, Faith, or Fear,
“Sworn and forsworn yourselves?”—“O, ça ira.”
“Nay, Gentlemen, I speak not to upbraid:
“Rather, I’d say, you seem to need a spur:
“Hav’n’t ye still some object of your dread,
“Some innocent young Prince, your prisoner?
“Poison him—stab him—put him out o’ th’ way—
“Is that so monstrous?—Nay, you have a pattern:
“Do as I bid you, then stand up, and say,
“We are now upon a par with Royal Kattern.”
WRITTEN WHEN BUONAPARTE WAS ALTERING THE GOVERNMENTS OF GERMANY.
The Madman thought that he did climb
Over the wall which bounds the universe;
And there he saw how father Time
Out of old Moons was busy cutting Stars.
Thus o’er our globe Napoleon,
As if old Time had lent him scythe and wings,
Speeds and destroys, and for his fun
From waning Emperors cuts out little Kings.
SUGGESTED BY READING DRYDEN’S BRITANNIA REDIVIVA,
_A Poem on the Prince, born on the 10th of June, 1688._
When James the Second took his second spouse,
The royal couple (as their Church allows)
T’ obtain a son and heir devoutly pray’d,
And call’d on many a popish saint for aid;
By costly gifts and vows they sued to gain
Th’ inestimable boon, nor sued in vain:
A son was given; and as the story ran,
Their saints convey’d the blessing in a warming-pan.
And now th’ expected babe, howe’er it came,
Was theirs; but living yet without a name.
Why to this Child of prayer, this boon of Heaven,
A name appropriate was not sooner given;
What moved the royal sire to make delay,
In such a case, ’tis difficult to say.
Dryden suggests—go, read him if you doubt it,
There was some brawl among the Saints about it.
Good gracious folks, they could not yet agree;
Each eager that the name his own should be:
He thinks some wanted—but I dare not, I,
Repeat what follows of the irreverend lie.
Yet since I have curtail’d that Flatterer’s fable,
I’ll piece it with another as I am able,
And tell you the result of this celestial squabble.
There stood an ancient One among the herd,
Who took no part, nor utter’d yet a word;
He seem’d not much acquainted with the rest;
His port was manly, simple was his vest,
And veil’d his head: but now he silence broke,
And thus in slow and sober tones he spoke.
“The Babe, your present care, shall have a name
That all his life will follow him with shame.
Both He, and whomsoe’er he shall engender,
Will be deem’d spurious, and be call’d Pretender.”
His words the saintly synod fill’d with rage,
Nor felt they reverence for his rank or age;
But with ungovernable fury big,
Call’d him Apostate, Protestant, and Whig.
Calm and composed, their cries awhile he bore,
Nor deign’d to make defence, nor utter’d more,
But, casting off his veil, naked he stood,
And TRUTH’s resplendent form abash’d they view’d.
SUCCESSION.
After a bad oft comes a worse;
Evil on evil, curse on curse:
So James to Charles succeeds, who fitter?
Of a French Popish mother’s litter
This was the next and favourite whelp;
He with Judge Jefferies’s help,
A fell-fang’d lurcher, hot for blood,
The gallant Algernon pursued;
Hamper’d him basely in a Coop,
Then ran him down, and cried whoo-whoop!
But though so fierce to treat this man ill,
His Jesuits used him like a spaniel;
Rated him soundly, or carest,
As served their ends and purpose best,
Which not long after to his cost
He felt, his crown and kingdom lost.
Ev’n then these Masters gave not o’er,
But taught him lessons as before;
How he might render Heaven his debtor,
And earn another crown and better:
Told him, ’twas highly meritorious
To exalt the Pope, and kill old Glorious:
That what he did t’avenge his Father,
He might do for himself, and rather.
So with his Priests and his Assassins,
By machinations, plots, compassings,
He struggled long against hard odds
To advance the Devil’s cause and God’s.
Hopeless at last, his means all spent,
He died a Murderer and a Saint.
EPIGRAM.
Ille Crucem sceleris pretium tulit, Hic Diadema.
Good people of England, ’tis fit you should note
What you get, or may suffer, for bribing a vote;
And for an example we’ll bring to your view
An Irish Lord and a Baronet Jew;
The Jew and my Lord in a similar case—
One pays a great fine, t’other holds a great place:
My Lord is bedeck’d with a Ribbon and Garter,
The Jew is in Jail for two years, lack a quarter.
And now we’ll compare, if you please to allow us,
The Jew in his Jail, with my Lord in the House:
The Jew is surrounded by Felons and Debtors,
And my Lord by some folks who are little their betters.
ON THE INCREASE OF HUMAN LIFE.
Fate deals out human life by seven-year spaces:
Time was you would be thought in her good graces
With nine of these; when David lived ’twas ten;
If more She gave, ’twas only now and then,
A few cold years of winter, and the last,
Tho’ charged with toil and sorrow, quickly past.
But in our age more bounteous Fate appears,
And often grants a dozen-fold seven years;
Nay, be but still and temperate like the Quakers,
Perhaps she’ll make your dozen up a baker’s.
ODE TO THE KING OF FRANCE. 1823.
What moves thee, Louis, to forego
The quiet of thy peaceful reign?
Why challenge a reluctant foe,
Rushing to war, war unprovoked, again?
Examine well thine own estate,
And check thy hostile march before it be too late.
When first thou wert an exile from thy home,
Unbroken was thy strength, thy health not wasted;
But couldst thou now endure to roam,
When both thy health and strength thou hast outlasted?
With peace and plenty to thy throne restored,
Perchance thou deem’st thyself adored:
Thou seest around thee subjects bending low;
But should misfortune now return,
Be sure thou soon shalt know
Thyself their hate, and all thy race their scorn.
Where are thy men-at-arms, they, once who moved
So lively at the warlike trumpet’s call?
And where their chiefs, thy mareschals all,
Heroes in many a glorious battle proved?—
In stern repose each warrior lies.
As flowers that all the darksome night
Close themselves up, until the day-star rise,
Then ope, and turn, as worshipping his light:
So these, in sullen slumber now reclined,
May soon awake, when thou shalt find
Their worship and their service turn’d and gone,
Toward their own day-star, the young Napoleon.
And darest thou, presumptuous, now demand
That Heaven shall speed thy mad career
To spoil an unoffending land?
And darest thou hope that Heaven will hear?
Believe it not:—but for thyself beware;
And learn to moderate thy prayer:
Pray that kind Heaven will condescend
To grant thee rest and safety till thine end;
And for the consummation of thy lot,
That old St. Denys will allow thee room
To sleep uncensured and forgot,
Among thy fathers in a silent tomb.
VERSES SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, AT THE INSTALLATION OF THE
CHANCELLOR, LORD GRENVILLE, JULY 10, 1810, BY HENRY CROWE, A COMMONER OF
WADHAM COLLEGE.
Still through the realms of Europe far around
Echoes the martial trump, the Battle’s sound:
There many a nation, now subdued and broke,
In sullen silence wears the Tyrant’s yoke:
There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there
Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war:
And, where he bids the din of arms to cease,
He calls the silent desolation—peace.
Yet what his prize of glory? What the gain
Of his wide conquest, of his thousands slain?—
His guilty seat on thrones subverted stands;
His trophies are the spoil of injured lands:
For his dark brow no comely wreath is twined,
But iron[32] crowns and blood-stain’d laurels bind.