But, unable to proceed,
Made a virtue out of need,
And, his labours, wiselier deem'd of, Did omit what the queen dream'd of
MAY the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see
In this word-perplexity,
Or a fit expression find,
Or a language to my mind,
(Still the phrase is wide or scant)
To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! Or in any terms relate
Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrain'd hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.
Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take
'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.
Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;
While each man, thro' thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.
Thou through such a mist dost shew us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras, Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first lov'd a cloud, Ixion.
Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst shew What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze, But to the reins and nobler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.
Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, that aidest more The god's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.
Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sov'reign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Fram'd again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.
Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite
Plant divine, of rarest virtue ; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. 'Twas but in a sort I blam'd thee; None e'er prosper'd who defam'd thee; Irony all, and feign'd abuse, Such as perplext lovers use, At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, loving Foe,- Not that she is truely so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.
Or, as men, constrain'd to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever,
Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce.
For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, TOBACCO, I Would do any thing but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state, Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain;
And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr'd the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life
Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquer'd Canaanite.
NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.
To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."
In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold; In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold: There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire, Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.
In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine, They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,
With singing and music to heighten the cheer; Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.
In a costly palace Youth is still carest
By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest ;
ha wretched workhouse the contrary prevails: Joes Age begin to prattle?-no man heark'neth
a costly palace if the child with a pin Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in ;
na wretched workhouse men are left to perish For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.
La costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;
la a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,
Thinks upon the former days, when he was well
Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.
In a costly palace Youth his temples hides With a new devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare, With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.
In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride, To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
That none to do them injury may have pretence; Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.
MODEL of thy parent dear, Serious infant worth a fear; In thy unfaultering visage well Picturing forth the son of TELL, When on his forehead, firm and good, Motionless mark, the apple stood; Guileless traitor, rebel mild, Convict unconscious, culprit-child! Gates that close with iron roar
Have been to thee thy nursery door; Chains that chink in cheerless cells Have been thy rattles and thy bells; Walls contrived for giant sin Have hemmed thy faultless weakness in; Near thy sinless bed black Guilt
Her discordant house hath built, And filled it with her monstrous brood- Sights, by thee not understood- Sights of fear and of distress, That pass a harmless infant's guess!
But the clouds, that overcast Thy young morning, may not last. Soon shall arrive the rescuing hour, That yields thee up to Nature's power. Nature, that so late doth greet thee, Shall in o'er-flowing measure meet thee. She shall recompense with cost For every lesson thou hast lost. Then wandering up thy sire's lov'd hill,* Thou shalt take thy airy fill
Of health and pastime. Birds shall sing For thy delight each May morning.
'Mid new-yean'd lambkins thou shalt play, Hardly less a lamb than they.
Then thy prison's lengthened bound Shall be the horizon skirting round. And, while thou fill'st thy lap with flowers, To make amends for wintery hours, The breeze, the sunshine, and the place, Shall from thy tender brow efface Each vestige of untimely care, That sour restraint had graven there;
But at her side
An angel doth abide, With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy, An intuition,
A glory, an amenity,
Passing the dark condition
Of blind humanity,
THE clouds are blackening, the storms threaten
And ever the forest maketh a moan:
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching Thus by herself she singeth alone,
Weeping right plenteously.
"The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, In this world plainly all seemeth amiss: To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one I have had earnest of all earth's bliss, Living right lovingly."
All the blest wonders should ensue,
Or he had lately left the upper sphere,
You are not, Kelly, of the common strain, That stoop their pride and female honour down To please that many-headed beast the town, And vend their lavish smiles and tricks for gain By fortune thrown amid the actors' train, You keep your native dignity of thought: The plaudits that attend you come unsought,
And had read all the sovran schemes and divine As tributes due unto your natural vein.
THE GIPSY'S MALISON.
"SUCK, baby, suck, mother's love grows by giving,
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by
Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.
Kiss, baby, kiss, mother's lips shine by kisses,
Your tears have passion in them, and a grace Of genuine freshness, which our hearts avow; Your smiles are winds whose ways we canno trace,
That vanish and return we know not how- And please the better from a pensive face, A thoughtful eye, and a reflecting brow.
Choke the warm breath that else would fall in ON THE SIGHT OF SWANS IN KEN
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings.
Hang, baby, hang, mother's love loves such forces,
Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
Black manhood comes, when violent lawless
Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging."
So sang a wither'd Beldam energetical,
QUEEN-BIRD that sittest on thy shining nest, And thy young cygnets without sorrow hatchest And thou, thou other royal bird, that watchest Lest the white mother wandering feet molest: Shrined are your offspring in a crystal cradle, Brighter than Helen's ere she yet had burst Her shelly prison. They shall be born at first Strong, active, graceful, perfect, swan-like able To tread the land or waters with security. Unlike poor human births, conceived in sin, In grief brought forth, both outwardly and in Confessing weakness, error, and impurity.
And bann'd the ungiving door with lips pro- Did heavenly creatures own succession's line,
The births of heaven like to your's would shine.
Was it some sweet device of Faery
That mocked my steps with many a lonely glade, And fancied wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid? Have these things been? or what rare witchery, Impregning with delights the charmed air, Enlighted up the semblance of a smile
In those fine eyes? methought they spake the while
Soft soothing things, which might enforce despair To drop the murdering knife, and let go by His foul resolve. And does the lonely glade Still court the footsteps of the fair-hair'd maid? Still in her locks the gales of summer sigh? While I forlorn do wander reckless where, And 'mid my wanderings meet no Anna there.
METHINKS how dainty sweet it were, reclin'd Beneath the vast out-stretching branches high Of some old wood, in careless sort to lie, Nor of the busier scenes we left behind Aught envying. And, O Anna! mild-eyed maid! Beloved! I were well content to play With thy free tresses all a summer's day, Losing the time beneath the greenwood shade. Or we might sit and tell some tender tale Of faithful vows repaid by cruel scorn, A tale of true love, or of friend forgot; And I would teach thee, lady, how to rail La gentle sort, on those who practise not Or love or pity, though of woman born.
WHEN last I roved these winding wood-walks
Green winding walks, and shady pathways sweet, On-times would Anna seek the silent scene, Shrouding her beauties in the lone retreat. No more I hear her footsteps in the shade: Her image only in these pleasant ways Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days I held free converse with the fair-hair'd maid. I passed the little cottage which she loved, The cottage which did once my all contain; It spake of days which ne'er must come again, Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. Now fair befall thee, gentle maid!" I said, And from the cottage turned me with a sigh.
A Tx grace sits trembling in her eye, As joth to meet the rudeness of men's sight, Ter shedding a delicious lunar light, That steeps in kind oblivious ecstasy Te care-crazed mind, like some still melody: peaking most plain the thoughts which do possess Her gentle sprite: peace, and meek quietness,
And innocent loves, and maiden purity: A look whereof might heal the cruel smart Of changed friends, or fortune's wrongs unkind; Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart Of him who hates his brethren of mankind. Turned are those lights from me, who fondly yet Past joys, vain loves, and buried hopes regret.
IF from my lips some angry accents fell, Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, And waters clear, of Reason; and for me Let this my verse the poor atonement be- My verse, which thou to praise wert ever inclined Too highly, and with a partial eye to see No blemish. Thou to me didst ever shew Kindest affection; and would oft-times lend An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, Weeping my sorrows with me, who But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.
WHAT reason first imposed thee, gentle name, Name that my father bore, and his sire's sire, Without reproach? we trace our stream no higher And I, a childless man, may end the same. Perchance some shepherd on Lincolnian plains, In manners guileless as his own sweet flocks, Received thee first amid the merry mocks And arch allusions of his fellow swains. With glory gotten on the heads abhorr'd Perchance from Salem's holier fields returned, Of faithless Saracens, some martial lord Took HIS meek title, in whose zeal he burn'd. Whate'er the fount whence thy beginnings came No deed of mine shall shame thee, gentle name.
TO JOHN LAMB, ESQ., OF THE SOUTH-SEA-HOUSE.
JOHN, you were figuring in the gay career Of blooming manhood with a young man's joy, When I was yet a little peevish boy- Though time has made the difference disappear Betwixt our ages, which then seemed so great- And still by rightful custom you retain Much of the old authoritative strain, And keep the elder brother up in state. O! you do well in this. 'Tis man's worst deed To let the "things that have been" run to waste, And in the unmeaning present sink the past: In whose dim glass even now I faintly read Old buried forms, and faces long ago, Which you, and I, and one more, only know,
O! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind, That, rushing on its way with careless sweep, Scatters the ocean waves. And I could weep Like to a child. For now to my raised mind On wings of winds comes wild-eyed Phantasy, And her rude visions give severe delight. O winged bark! how swift along the night Pass'd thy proud keel! nor shall I let go by Lightly of that drear hour the memory, When wet and chilly on thy deck I stood, Unbonnetted, and gazed upon the flood, Even till it seemed a pleasant thing to die,- To be resolv'd into th' elemental wave, Or take my portion with the winds that rave.
We were two pretty babes, the youngest she, The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween, And INNOCENCE her name. The time has been, We two did love each other's company; Time was, we two had wept to have been apart. But when by show of seeming good beguil'd, I left the garb and manners of a child, And my first love for man's society, Defiling with the world my virgin heart- My loved companion dropped a tear, and fled, And hid in deepest shades her awful head. Beloved, who shall tell me where thou art- In what delicious Eden to be found- That I may seek thee the wide world around?
'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute Hath o'er-stock'd hell with devils, and brough down,
By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parts, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far re moved
From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his brethren, fashioned of the earth, As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Belike his kindred or companions once- Through everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans un- heard
In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, The measure of his judgments is not fixed By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy called: they best Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.
COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.
FROM broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. How total a privation of all sounds, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, And little images of pleasures past,
Of health, and active life-health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
THE GRANDAME. On the green hill top, Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-barn, Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, The Grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had eat, Well-earned, the bread of service:-her's was else
A mounting spirit, one that entertained Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image: I remember, too, With what a zeal she served her master's house; And how the prattling tongue of garrulous age Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skilled in genealogies, And could in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances; Of marriages, and intermarriages; Relationship remote, or near of kin; Of friends offended, family disgraced- Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless . Of unmixed blood, and ancestry remote,
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