i A1r ii A1v iii A2r

Poems.

By Mrs. Cassan,
Widow of Stephen Cassan, Esq. Barrister at Law,
late of Bengal.

London. Printed by G. Sidney, Northumberland Street, Strand. 1806 1806.

iv A2v v A3r
01 B1r

Poems.

On Seeing Mrs. * * * * at a Ball.

Thrice twenty years have roll’d away

Since Flavia first beheld the day;

Yet Flavia thinks she still is fair,

And young, and fresh, and debonaire.

At each new ball behold the dame,

(Though the last night has made her lame,)

On lightly-limping toe advance

To lead the gay and airy dance;

Smiling rich love, like Beauty’s Queen,

When on a sign-post painting seen;

B 02 B1v 2

Like Venus, too, in loose attire

She comes to raise unholy fire;—

Cobweb attire, thro’ which we see

Hogarth’s own lines of symmetry,

If these are any where declar’d

To be in carrots, cut and par’d.

Down her bare bosom careless hang

Locks, such as poet never sang;

Even old Homer could not say

How beautiful, how thin and grey.

Her cheeks are like the blushless rose,

Which sparing in the hedge-row grows,

(When sprinkled with a little dust,

It bears a light and brownish crust.)

Her teeth, with what shall I compare?

With pearls, for yell’wish pearls there are;

Her lips, how shall I tell their hue?

It seems a blended black and blue;

03 B2r 3

No coral of such colour’s seen,

No lip so sweet, so dried, so lean;

Not e’en Apelles’ pencil vies

With the dimm’d lustre of her eyes;

Which, blinking, say they could destroy,

Like Helena’s, another Troy.

But, for her reputation’s sake

No step impure this dame would take:

Highly she rev’rences decorum,

Which oft’ she preaches o’er her jorum; This Lady used to drink largely of a vulgar mixture called Mug.

And would not, though to fetes she goes,

And balls, and masks, and raree-shows,

For millions have it understood,

E’en that she’d change her widowhood;

Much less a single wish conceal,

That modesty should not reveal.

04 B2v 4

’Tis but to please her various friends,

That thus she daily condescends

To mingle with the festive throng,

In merry dance, or jocund song.

Mirth finds no entrance in her breast

Which Melancholy’s home’s confess’d.—

So sayeth she, but well I ween,

Her roguish looks and wanton mien

Bespeak a heart that pants to prove,

At sixty, the Delights of Love.

05 B3r

A Dinner Conversation,

On Board an East-Indiaman, in the Channel, Versified.

Persons.

Captain Mackinnard.

Mr. Blustrous,

Mr. Smoothface,

Officers.

Mr. Scribbler, Purser.

Mr. O’Callagan, Surgeon.

Mrs. Harmless,

Mrs. Rhymer,

Passengers.

Servants.

Captain Mackinnard.

I really thought we should not dine to-day;

The devil’s in the commodore, I say;

He’s always sure to spoil some meal or other

With his ridiculous continual pother.—

Sheep’s-head, or soup,—which shall I help you to?

To Mrs. H.
06 B3v 6

Mrs. Harmless.

I’ll thank you for a little of the stew.

Captain Mackinnard.

Pray, Mr. Scribbler, what was that you said

About a feather, and the top-mast-head?

Do tell it to the ladies; they may guess;

I cannot solve your reedle, I confess.

Mr. Scribbler.

Ladies, pray could you Tommy Blustrous bring

Down on the feather of a goose’s wing,

From off this good ship’s main-top-gallant-head?

I could with ease, though he were cast in lead!

Mrs. Harmless.

The riddle’s too profound for me to guess.

Mr. O’Callagan.

He, he, he, ’tis very deep, I must confess:

He means, that he could bring us down a feather;—

Down and the feather grow, you know, together.

07 B4r 7

Mr. Blustrous.

Hae, ScribScribbler, what’s that about a goose’s wing?

Mr. Scribbler.

Tom, shall I help you to some black-pudding?

Mr. Blustrous.

Hang me, but that’s a very pleasant way,

Putting us off with pies and puddings, hae?

Captain Mackinnard.

Is Mrs. HMrs. Harmless. to-day for beer, or wine?

I should have ask’d when we began to dine.

Mrs. Harmless.

I’ll drink a little sherry, if you please;

The beer, this weather, really makes one freeze,

Mr. Blustrous.

I say, ScribScribbler, give us one of those small pies:

Why, hang you, what’s the matter with your eyes?

To a servant.

Servant.

Nothing at all, Sir.

08 B4v 8

Mr. Blustrous.

――Come, give me some beer;—

Nothing at all! why, hang you, how you leer!

Mr. O’Callagan.

Can any of you say, what ’twas in Eden,

(His Paradise) first father Adam set in?

Mr. Scribbler.

Perhaps it was potatoes—in a row.

Mr. O’Callagan.

What, would you think, now, if it was his toe?

He set his toe in—

Mr. Scribbler.

――Ah, that’s plain enough.

Mr. Blustrous.

I say, ScribScribbler, give us a pie, and end this stuff.

Captain Mackinnard.

What, Mrs. Rhymer, would you chuse to drink?

Mrs. Rhymer.

Madeira, if you please. No—spruce, I think.

09 C1r 9

Captain Mackinnard.

Here, fellow, bring two glasses of spruce-beer.

To a servant.

Hae! what the devil, are we going to veer?

I wish the commodore would mind his hand;

We’re now just in the course that we should stand.

Pray, Mrs. Rhymer, let me ask a favor;

But, cut the pork first, Scribbler.

Mr. Scribbler.

――What a savour!

We’d better send it, Sir, away, I think?

Captain Mackinnard.

Away? How deelicate! Why, does it stink?

Mr. Scribbler.

You’ll find, I fear, it has a mauvais gout.

Captain Mackinnard.

Oh pray, then, send it to the Cook, pray do;

And let him boil it for to-morrow’s broth,

With pease it will be nothing worse, in troth.

10 C1v 10

Now, Mrs. Rhymer, what I want is this,

That you’d let Scribbler mind his business;

And not be sending him your scraps of rhymes:

My cabin-door is open at all times!

What with your College-dumplings, and your writing,

With Scribbler, and the Cook, I’m always fighting.

Mrs. Rhymer.

Sir, I don’t understand you, I protest.

Mr. O’Callagan.

Hae, Scribbler, happy man, to be so bless’d:

Oh happy, happy man, that I were you!

Captain Mackinnard.

Ah, spare him, Doctor; pray, in pity do.

Mr. Scribbler.

Come, Doctor, tell me, (from your jokes to fly)

Why is our Captain like the Ministry?

Aside.
11 C2r 11

Mr. O’Callagan.

Faith that’s as plain as any thing can be,

Because he changes sides so frequently.

Aside.

Mr. Blustrous.

Scribbler has always something good at hand;

His wit, like Sol, is never at a stand.

Mr. Scribbler.

A happy simile; but, good folks, pray

Stop, or I shall be toût à fait accablé,

The ladies’ compliments and yours are such.――

Mr. O’Callagan.

Oh, to be sure they hurt you very much!

Faith, and you swallow them with wond’rous ease.

Mr. Scribbler.

Ah! look at little Anne Mrs. Harmless’s Daughter. in her chemise.

Captain Mackinnard.

Had you not better say at once her smock?

It would not more our deelicacy shock:

12 C2v 12

I hate all affectation as the deevil,

And would avoid it as the greatest evil.

Mr. Scribbler.

All decency he might, in truth, have said;

Offer him now, I pray you, some pig’s head;

See how he’ll twist, and turn, and paw’t about;

You might suppose himself a brother snout.

Aside to Mr. O’Callagan.

Mr. Blustrous.

Bring me the pork.

To a servant.

Servant,

holding to him a knife and fork.

――Here, Sir, a knife and fork.

Mr. Blustrous.

A knife and fork! You beast, I said the pork.

Mr. Scribbler.

Pray, Mrs. Rhymer, will you eat some cheese?

Mrs. Rhymer.

No, thank you.—Yes, a little, if you please.

13 C3r 13

Captain Mackinnard.

Dear, Mrs. R. you never know your mind.

Why, Scribbler, don’t you pare away the rind?

Do learn, man, prithee do, to be more civil.

Mr. Blustrous.

What are you doing there, hae? Why, what the devil,

You’re all a going mad I b’lieve. Some plates

When you can see, you stupid leather-pates.

To the servants at the side-table.

Captain Mackinnard.

Think, Smoothface, what I heard on board the Rose,

A thing that really no one would suppose.

Mr. Smoothface.

Yes, Sir.

Captain Mackinnard.

――I mean, Matilda Polhill’s maid,

Or servant, I more properly had said;

14 C3v 14

She’s likely to lie-in before we anchor.

Mr. O’Callagan.

I’m much deceiv’d, if that is not a spanker.

Aside to Mr. Scribbler.

Mr. Smoothface.

Yes, Sir.—

Captain Mackinnard.

――She looks so en-bon-point, and so—

Smoothface opens his mouth, and stares.

So en-bon-point—in such good case, you know.

Mr. Smoothface.

In bad case, Sir, I think.

Captain Mackinnard.

――Perhaps you’re right;

A glass of wine, Smoothface? Shall it be red or white?

Mr. Smoothface.

Just which you please, Sir.

15 C4r 15

Captain Mackinnard.

――White, then, let it be;

Two glasses of Madeira presently.

To the servants.

I admire that waistcoat, Smoothface, that you wear;

Pray, is it Manchester or kerseymere?

What did it cost you, Smoothface?

Mr. Smoothface.

――I don’t know, Sir;

I had it, Sir, from Foppington, your brother:

I think it was to four gold mohurs it came:

I paid him that, last voyage, for some o’ the same;

That is, the piece. I’ve two, and this one on,

I did not mean, Sir, four gold mohurs for one.

Captain Mackinnard.

Upon my word, it was a wond’rous prize!

Mr. Smoothface.

Yes, Sir, I think so; oh, Sir, mind your eyes;

There’s a large spider, Sir, about your head.

16 C4v 16

Captain Mackinnard.

Bruising it against his face.

There, in a meenute then, the fellow’s dead;

I’ve squeez’d aboot my face, I b’lieve, his broth;

Here, go into my cabbin for a cloth; To a servant.

And a little water, if you please; in truth

Some of the deevil’s gone into my mooth:

Give me a glass of wine to wash him down:

To a servant.

Here’s, Curse the French,—

All.

And bless old England’s crown.

They drink.

Captain Mackinnard.

Hae, Blustrous, sure the Commodore is veering;

Do go on deck, and see how we are steering;

This Commodore of our’s is always wrong,

Hang him, I say.

Goes out.

――(All.)

And hang our ci-devant. Captain Mackinnard was Commodore in the beginning of the voyage, but superseded by a senior Commander.

17 D1r

Lullaby,

Supposed to be sung by a Lady, who seemed to wish that her Niece should captivate the husband of her friend.

To the tune of O my Kitten.

Come cease, my sweet Dolly, your whimp’ring,

And cease, my sweet Dolly, my deary,

Sure such a maiden as you are

Can never have reason to feary.

Diddidy diddidy, diddidy.

Yes, it shall soon have its lovey,

And all that its heart can desire O,

If we can get his vain wife away

We’ll set the world all on fire O.

Diddidy, &c. &c.

D 18 D1v 18

How she contrives to outdo us

I cannot conceive for my life, O,

Or how our Irish lad thought him

Of making this sauce-box his wife, O,

Diddidy, &c. &c.

Go, with your ugly white bosom,

And go with your plaintive blue eyes, O,

Put your fine locks in a close-cap,

And stifle, my lady, your sighs, O,

Diddidy, &c., &c.

If you suppose they will move us,

Indeed, and we’ll soon undeceive you;

All you can do shall not tempt us

From urging your deary to leave you.

Diddidy, &c. &c.

Go, with your own nasty coral lips,

Come not to frighten my deary;

Shew not your even white teeth ’tween them.

Come not, I say, come not near me,

Diddidy, &c. &c.

19 D2r 19

Go, you bold woman, I say;

Get away with your ugly arch’d brows, O,

Shew not your face here, I pray;

Get you gone, with your frightful high nose, O,

Diddidy, &c. &c.

They may talk of your fine flow of spirits,

Why, we never can hear you laugh out, O;

See what my Dolly inherits,

Who makes such a pother, and rout, O,

Diddidy, &c. &c.

See, how my Dolly will giggle,

And tumble and romp with the men, O,

Tumble, and tumble, and tumble,

And tumble them over again, O,

Diddidy, &c. &c.

Look at my Dolly’s sweet Irish legs,

And her round back and square shoulders;

Are they not likely to carry

The hearts of admiring beholders?

Diddidy, &c. &c.

20 D2v 20

DolDolly, your grey eyes, if you use them right,

More than her blue ones can do, O,

And your thick waist, if you screw it tight,

May be a small one to view, O.

Diddidy, &c. &c.

Then your strong eye-brows so charming are,

With a nose large at the end, O,

And your two holes in your cheeks, my dear,

Is there aught in you to mend, O,

Diddidy, &c. &c.

Come, cease then your wimp’ring, my lifey,

He must yield at last to your charms, O,

We’ll make him despise his own wifey,

And fly to my Dolly’s fond arms, O.

Diddidy, &c. &c.

But, if all should not do, deary,

If Dolly can’t have its own laddy,

Still, there is no reason to feary,

We’ve young Flashpan, and his old Daddy.

Diddidy, &c. &c.

21 D3r 21

On Indiana’s

Being addressed by a Gentleman in favor of his friend.

When Prig for his friend Bumpkin paid

Court to a little Indian maid,

She cried, I promis’d, when at school,

That I would never wed a fool;

But, for yourself, if you should plead,

Perhaps you better might succeed:

I luckily ne’er gave my word

That I’d reject the monkey herd.

22 D3v 22

To Lieutenant S――

On his passion for Miss――

Hearing that you wish to marry the sweet

Jenny, but are in doubt of being able

(Having only a lieutenancy and very little money)

To put a clean cloth ev’ry day on your table;

And that you are under some hesitation on account

Of your eyes,

Being able to see only with one, and their not

Exactly matching in colour or size,

I take the liberty to offer my thoughts on the

Occasion,

Which, I dare say, will determine you to ask her

Without farther deliberation:

23 D4r 23

It is certainly a great pity your eyes do not

Match;

And I wonder you don’t wear, over the blind

One, a green patch;

But never mind your eyes when your legs

Are so stout;

A stout leg’s what most folks make a great

Pother about.—

Tho’, on recollection, I’m not quite sure, that

Yours would prove so good,

Your walk’s so stiff, it is not clear to me, but

You’ve broke the bones and put in a piece of wood.

However, they are well enough for use; and

Your shoulders are broad enough

To carry the sweet Jenny where the roads

Are rough;

When, her two or three thousand gold guineas

Expended,

24 D4v 24

You’ve not got wherewith to have the Buggy

Mended.

Then if you should not be able to see

Company, your education has been so good,

That, in retirement, it will prove, to the sweet

Jenny, the most delicious food;

It will amply atone for ev’ry want or

Deficiency,

And be a charming solace, to her, in ev’ry

Exigency.

You may amuse her with the secrets of all

Your old friends;

Acquaint her with the beginnings of your

Amours and the ends.

Tell her the pretty stories of Thumb and

The Giant-killer;

Shewing her that the one was a little fellow,

And the other a blood-spiller

25 E1r 25

And thus you may beguile the time, with

A few kisses sweet,

When you happen to be so unlucky as to

Have nothing to eat;

And any day that good luck sends you a bit or two,

You may down on your knees and bless,

Your stars that you’ve something better to do;

So I advise you, if you wish to marry the sweet

Jenny, to make haste,

And get her to name an early day for the

Wedding-feast:

Tho’ she might like to have a little more

Of her conquests said,

She must be in some fear at forty, of

Dying an old Maid;

And being in this awkward predicament,

And not having many lovers to choose,

It is very likely she may consent to

Being fasten’d with you in the noose.

E 26 E1v 26

To Doctor * * * *, on His Leaving Bengal.

Farewel to ev’ning lectures; Philosophical. ah, farewel;

Adieu, adieu, ingenious Doctor L――.

Who now shall teach us that the ice will thaw,

Or how to ken an ally from a taw?

To make pomatum, or an air balloon?

Alas, good Doctor, wherefore go so soon!

One other course, before you leave us, give;

(And to the ground, our thanks you shall receive.)

At least, one lecture on electric matter,

And half a one, dear Sir, on making batter.

27 E2r 27

On Mrs. Sandiford,—of Barbadoes.

Says pretty Chloe, t’other day,

You men are surely blind;

How is it, Strephron, prithee say,

My charms want power to bind?

If wit and beauty fail to move,

On what am I to rest?

By what strange means secure your love?

With sway o’er hearts be bless’d?

Strephon replied,—I know a Dame,

Nor wit nor beauty styled,

Whose conquests grace the rolls of fame—

(Chloe, indignant, smiled.)

28 E2v 28

Her greatest pride’s to draw a smile

In mis’ry’s pallid face;

Or sickness of its cares beguile,

And ev’ry sorrow chase.

Each Virtue’s her’s;—by these she gains

That pow’r which you desire

I thank you, Strephon, for your pains,

The picture I admire.

But, ’tis the work of some pert elf

To spite me. On my word,

Not so; ’tis drawn by Truth herself;—

The Dame is Sandiford.

29 E3r 29

To Mr. Howe, of Fitzroy Square.

Written in 1804-09September, 1804.

How shall I thank you for your care?

Words are too often insincere!

How to be silent can I dare?

You’d think me not oblig’d, I fear.

By words, or silence, tell me now

How best to thank you, my friend Howe?

30 E3v 30

To Mrs.――,

Explaining the cause of a Fright, in a drive near Hertford, with Mr. Wyatt J—e.

You ask, my dear Madam that I may indite

The cause of our truly ridiculous fright.

’Twas this—When a few hundred yards from your door

We met my Lord D. in his landau and four;

And Sir Wyatt, in making a most humble bow,

At once lost his hat, and drove over a sow;

—The poor squeaking animal dragg’d from our sight;

The whip handed back, and himself set upright,

We were, not without fear, moving forward again

When two horsemen came galloping out of the lane

31 E4r 31

That leads to Colegreen (they were both of the gown,

And two of the very first bucks in the town);

They would pass on each side, though the road was so narrow

(Not a carriage-length more than the hop of a sparrow)

And had Jehu not tightly our Pegasus rein’d,

And a central line most minutely maintain’d,

The parsons, their horses, and all of us might,

Heav’n knows, have been left in a terrible plight;

But by guiding with infinite caution the beast,

And not moving to right, or to left, in the least,

We escap’d all misfortune, and boldly got through.

Oh, the wonderful skill of Sir Wyatt Jehu!

Say no more of your Cowpers or Townsends, The late Earl of Cowper, and Lord John Townsend,—both then at Hertford. —don’t stare,

For Sir Wyatt’s the man that can drive to a hair.

32 E4v 32

The Reverend Mr.――, and Delia.

Time on swiftest pinions flies,

Clericus to Delia cries;

Let’s enjoy the fleeting hour,

While it yet is in our pow’r;

Taste of ev’ry bliss we may,

Sing and dance, and laugh, and play;

Live to love, each care lay by,

For we know not when we die.

Lovely Delia quick replies,

Time irreparably flies;

Let us then improve each hour

While it yet is in our pow’r;

Looking on our lives with shame.

Let us turn to Jesus’ name,

To the blessed Gospel fly,

For we know not when we die.

33 F1r 33

Fragment, From the Second Book of Kings.

Thus spoke the king:—Presume you to complain

Of grievous burdens in my father’s reign?

Hence, Vassals!—If your former yoke was sore,

Rehoboam shall chastise you ten times more;

Scorpions, instead of whips, shall grieve your bones.

Till the whole land re-echo groans on groans.

Your infants from their mothers’ breasts I’ll tear,

And leave them to the beating tempest bare,

To fowls carniv’rous, or to beasts of prey.

Or if they yet behold a lengthen’d day,

It shall be only to delight me more,

F 34 F1v 34

With pains encreas’d from pleasures known before.

The Virgin to the ruffian’s grasp shall yield;

No lover near from rude attempts to shield,

The trembling fair; your youths untimely slain,

Or doom’d to work in fetters on the main;

And far from Love’s soft voice, in dark despair,

Shall beat their bosoms, and shall tear their hair!

35 F2r 35

Transcription

Of some Lines from a Newspaper of the 1804-02-1616th February, 1804, addressed to Mr. Kemble, on seeing him in the character of King Henry the Fourth, and signed Razor. The Author of this attack is unknown. The Lines are inserted, that the reply may be understood.

When Bolingbroke (weaken’d by sickness and age)

Lectur’d Hal, he spoke feebly, no doubt;

But, when Shakespeare brought forward this scene on the stage.

He meant that the King should speak out.

His precepts so wise, and his maxims so clear,

In pauses and whispers you smother;

Do you think ’tis not fit that the audience should hear

All that passes ’twixt you and your brother?

36 F2v 36

We know that you stick very close to costume;

But here close to character too:

For, ’cause you are sick i’ the Jerus’lem room,

You put on the face of a Jew.

At your mantle so fine, and your chin so besmear’d,

We laugh when we ought to look grave;

Either give all the rest of your actors a beard,

Or else (please your Majesty) shave!

37 F3r 37

Impromptu in Reply.

Mr. Razor, you really, to me, seem just fit

For a Barber’s assistant; so pray

Never venture in print such display of your wit,

But, shave chins;—whilst the sun shines make hay.

And let Kemble alone;—who, in every part,

His lov’d Shakespeare expresses so well,

That could nature come forth as a judge of their art,

E’en herself which to choose could not tell.

38 F3v 38

Versification

of Part of the Fourteenth Chapter of Job.

Oh, that thou would’st from this confusion save

My sinking soul, or hide me in the grave;

Or let me in some secret place be cast,

Until the period of thy wrath is past.

Appoint me a set time to wait on thee,

And when its limits end, remember me!

To an Old Maid.

You cry, Lucinda, that you hate the sex,

The vile male creatures—form’d but to perplex.

No wonder that you should, if it be true

That hate breeds hate, for all the sex hate you!

39 F4r 39

To Mr. Bebb,

Of the East India Direction.

The heart that feels another’s woe, From heav’n its origin doth shew.

’Tis thine, oh, gen’rous Bebb, to feel

Each mortal’s sorrows, and to heal!

No wretch forlorn or lost appears

But thy kind hand in bounty rears;

No widow’s tears are dropp’d in vain,

No orphan breathes its artless strain

Unpitied, where thou art.—All bless

Thy goodness, and their love confess;

All voices, in one peal, combine

To own thy origin divine!

40 F4v 40

Clarinda’s Account

Of her Physician’s Visit.

I sent for my Doctor.— Dear Doctor, said I,

I fain for my case would a remedy try;

Perhaps you may find out the cause of my pain,

Which to conquer, alas, I have struggl’d in vain!

What symptoms attend your disorder? he said,

It seems to be only a cold in the head.

Then feeling my pulse he look’d grave, and ask’d why

He should hear at so trifling a matter, a sigh?

I sigh, I replied, without knowing at what;

But tell me, dear Sir, if relief can be got;

Indeed it is not of a cold I complain,

I fear that a fever is lodg’d in my brain;

41 G1r 41

My strength is quite gone, and my spirits are fled,

In short, I am only half-living, half-dead.

The good Doctor paus’d――the door open’d, and who

Should enter but Colin――long lost to my view:

The fever, the languor, the pains I endur’d,

At this happy arrival were instantly cur’d;

And the Doctor perceiving me not quite half-dead,

Took his leave, with a very arch shake of the head.

To Lady Chambers, Fearing Her to be Offended.

A face so heav’nly sure can never be

The index of a mind of cruelty:

Shew then, fair Chambers, that your mind and face

Are equally the prototype of grace!

G 42 G1v 42

Versification

of Part of the 24th Chap. of Ecclesiasticus.

Wisdom, ’mongst men desirous to reside,

Search’d ev’ry place and people, far and wide,

To find where she most fitly might remain;

Like Jacob’s tabernacles none could please,

And Sion’s holy hill, in these

She fix’d her dwelling and began her reign.

Here flourish’d, spreading out her branches wide,

Shedding delicious fruit on ev’ry side,

Fruit that no mortal, tasting, could refrain

From quick returning to the tree, to seize

On countless stores, his longing to appease;

But here insatiate ever we remain.

Such are fair Wisdom’s depths; so vast—profound—

That in her still we want, while we abound!

43 G2r 43

Parody

On Lord Lyttelton’s Heavy Hours.

The smiling hours are almost past,

That join my love and me;

My tearful eyes must turn at last

From all they joy to see.

But how, my Strephon, will you part

From her you’ve lov’d so well?

Will no remembrance touch your heart,

Your tongue no sorrows tell?

44 G2v 44

Will not a sigh nor look declare

Your wishes still the same,

To chase each life-corroding care

My fears or doubts would frame?

Yes, Strephon, yes, you will, I ween,

When shortly we shall part,

Less trying make the destin’d scene,

And cheer my drooping heart.

But if the dream, which sooths my mind,

Should false and groundless prove,

If I am doom’d at last to find

That you can laugh at love;

All I of Heav’n desire is this,

(For this alone I sue)

To die, while yet I taste the bliss

To think my Strephon true.

45 G3r 45

To A Lorie,

On seeing it caressed by――.

Ah, happy Bird, teach me thy art,

That I may touch his heart,

And be caress’d like thee!

Say how thou camest to be prest

So closely to his breast;

So fondly seated on his knee;

How did’st thou of the balmy dew

That dwells upon his lip,

Tell me, Ah, tell me, true,

Presume to sip?

Ah, happy Bird, teach me thy art,

That I may touch his heart,

And be caress’d like thee!

Else there’s no hope for me,

And I must fly to death, from misery.

46 G3v 46

To, Farmer Goose.

Written at the request of a friend, whose Goslings had strayed into Farmer G’sGoose grounds, and were detained there.

I am told, Farmer Goose, that my goslings have stray’d

Through your broken-down fences; but know,

Though they’re roasted, and eaten, I must be repaid,

As the Law about Fences will shew.

47 G4r 47

Versification

Of Part of the 15th Chap. of Matthew.

Have mercy on me, Lord, the woman cries,

Most grievously diseased my daughter lies:

Oh, Lord, thou son of David, hear my plaint,

E’re, by a devil torn, my daughter faint.

Our Lord, in silence, stood:—his servants The Apostles. say,

She cryeth after us, send her away,

Lord, we beseech thee. Jesus then replied,

Know ye not Israel’s sheep I’m sent to guide?

Israel’s lost sheep! Again the woman came,

Saying, Lord help me; praised be thy name.

It is not meet, he said, to cast the bread

To dogs with which the children should be fed.

48 G4v 48

Truth, Lord, yet of the crumbs the dogs do eat

Which fall from table at their Master’s feet.――

Great is thy faith, oh, Woman:—unto thee,

E’en be it as thou wilt; thy daughter, see,

(Freed from the evil spirit’s tort’ring pow’r)

Revives, and is made whole this very hour.

49 H1r 49

On the Death of a Canary Bird.

Thy song, sweet little warbler, now is o’er;

Thy liquid note shall charm our ear no more:

Thy life is past—thy debt to nature paid,

And thou, for ever, in the grave art laid.

Not so with man—he dies to live again,

In bliss extreme, or in extremest pain:

His earthly vessel to the dust consign’d,

To heav’n, or hell, escapes his unclogg’d mind;

Where or with saints or devils he must live,

Till call’d, at last, the long account to give—

When, in reviving clay, he shall appear,

The final sentence of his God to hear;—

To be received in robes of light, in heav’n.

Or to the pit of damned angels driv’n.

H 50 H1v 50

On Mrs. Sibbald

I’d give worlds to discover, said Damon, one day,

To Palemon, the charming retreat

Of good-nature, good sense, affability—say,

Where their dwelling I’m likely to meet?

I have search’d ev’ry place, but I no where can find

Any woman that pleases, in all things, my mind.

For a moment reflecting, Palemon replied,

I believe I can point out the place—

In a house not far off, doth Serena reside—

In whose bosom lives every grace.

They together went forth, and were presently seen

In a Harley-Street mansion—’tis number nineteen.

51 H2r 51

On Seeing the Paintings of Mr. Kirkby, of Argyll Street.

Art, with some critics, went to view

The other day, a friend or two

At Kirkby’s house—Good heav’ns, cried one,

How wretchedly this portrait’s done!

There’s not a line of beauty here!

Remarked another with a sneer

No, nor a touch of mine, said Art,

Can I observe, in any part;

How dares this mushroom raise his head;

Are Hoppner, Lawrence, Beechey, dead?

Nature, who heard the ill-aimed satire,

Came forward, to set right the matter;

This mushroom, is my child, she cried,

My happiest work, my greatest pride:

In less’ning him you hurt my name—

Nature, and Kirkby, are the same.

52 H2v 52

Parody

On Some Verses of Mrs. Rowe; From the Canticles.

To Fashion.

Come, my beloved, let us visit the haunts of the gay, let us dwell in their palaces.

Thou object of my constant care,

And of my warmest love,

Come, let us to thy courts repair,

And all their pleasures prove.

Where laugh, and song, and revelry,

And frolic mirth abound,

Let me, oh goddess, join with thee,

And tread each charming round.

53 H3r 53

There, far from dull and silent joys,

To thee alone, I’ll live;

Tasting more pleasure in thy smiles,

Than all things else can give.

All my desire,—my earnest pray’r

Is e’er to dwell with thee;

To thee, and festive mirth, each hour

Shall dedicated be.

54 H3v 54

A Lover’s Mistake.

An apple-blossom once I thought

The seeming modest Chloe’s face,

So beautifully red and white did meet;

But now I find the dye was bought

Sad alteration of the case)

At Bayley’s perfume shop in Cockspur street.

To those who like made faces I

With pleasure yield this lady Fair,

Or Lady Rosy, which they please to name her,

The fool or fop may henceforth sigh;

And make this lovely thing his care:

I’d rather wed a shrew, and try to tame her.

55 H4r 55

Versification

Of Part of the 18th chap. of Matthew.

A certain king, desirous to account

With all his household servants, and the amount

Of ev’ry debt to learn, begins with one,

Who, through ten thousand talents quick had run,

Unable to refund the trust,—His Lord

To sell his substance gave immediate word,

His wife, his children, and himself withal!

The servant then, Lord, on my knees I fall,

Imploring mercy, yet a little stay

And ev’ry talent faithfully I’ll pay:

The king, with pity mov’d, thus spoke: Be free;

Depart in peace; thy debt’s forgiven thee!

56 H4v 56

Releas’d, at once the bounty he forgets,

With fiend-like spite his fellow man besets,

And seizes, as a rav’nous wolf his prey,

Vocif’rating, The pence thou ow’st me, pay;

Th’ affrighted man before him prostrate falls,

And on his mercy loud for pity calls;

Begs patience, yet a little longer stay,

And promises each penny to repay:

But he, ungrateful, cruel, and unjust,

Relentless heard, and into prison thrust

His suppliant fellow servant, there to dwell

Until the utmost farthing he could tell.

From man to man the matter quickly run,

And last, the king is told of what was done;

The culprit, then, he summon’d to appear;

And now his awful sentence dooms to hear:

To him his Lord; So soon dost thou forget

That I forgave the all thy weighty debt,

57 I1r 57

Because thou asked’st me, and should’st not thou,

On thy poor fellow servant’s lowly bow,

Have had compassion on him, e’en as I

Had pity upon thee! hence, monster, fly,

And tort’ring devils shall thy steps pursue

Until thou payest me my utmost due.

I 58 I1v 58

On the Countess of Derby.

To trace fair Derby’s charms what pen shall try,

(What pencil paints the colours of the sky?)

A sea-born Venus’ form with features mild,

And smiling winning graces, might be styl’d

A portrait; but how very faint to shew

That heav’nly mind where purest virtues glow!

Where learning, wit, and wisdom, are combin’d

With clearest judgment and a taste refin’d:

Poets in vain, each Muse might count to bring

Her limpid draughts from the Piërian spring;

The warmest fancy in the finest dress

Of language could not Derby’s charms express:

59 I2r 59

Too daring the attempt: let then my lay

This truth alone to Derby’s ear convey,

That heav’n, by special mandate, sent her here,

From ev’ry eye, to wipe off ev’ry tear.

60 I2v 60

To Mr. Cole, on His Declaration of Love.

’Tis nothing odd that thou should’st burn, poor Coal;

And to a cinder thou may’st burn, for me;

To ashes,—and, by Molly, shovell’d be,

E’en through a grating into the dust-hole.

But ’twould be very odd were I to find

Warmth from thy fire to animate my soul:

If it were twenty-times as fierce, poor Cole!

’Twould be, to me, but as the northern wind.

61 I3r 61

To the Reverend Mr.――, Late of Bath Easton, as From His Parishioners.

Rev’rend Sir, we conceive it our duty to say,

That we really were shock’d at your sermon, to-day;

And, unless in your preachments you very much mend,

We can not, in conscience, church-service attend.

You painted Religion as such a sweet creature,

So graceful in shape, and so beauteous in feature,

Describ’d, in such tints, her profusion of charms

That the old stupid clerk could have flown to her arms.

E’en an anchorite could not have heard you, unmov’d;

And, though sworn to devotion, Love’s vot’ry had prov’d.

Your warm picture the embers in Simberkin’s heart,

Quick rekindled to flame, that consum’d ev’ry part:

62 I3v 62

And there’s poor little Clodpoll, who never, till now,

Dream’d of love, is bewitch’d by brown Mog, of the plough;

Who, unluckily threw (while you spoke) a sweet smile

From the bench, where she sat, that is plac’d in the aisle.

Then your verses From Pope’s Eloisa. we thought very strange for a sermon,

And to half who were present were high Dutch, or German;

And the story Of an Old Lady’s distribution of her trinkets. you told, all the parish agree,

Would just suit Mrs. Chatterbox, over her tea.—

To be brief, rev’rend Sir, ’twas resolv’d, at the door,

That this once-thronged church we would visit no more,

Till a change in your way should be striking throughout,

And you seem to know something of what you’re about.

63 I4r 63

To Corydon.

A Fragment.

As the lost mariner, with anxious eye,

Scans the horizon, and the doubtful sky

Mistaking for some distant friendly shore,

Braves the rough waves, and thinks his troubles o’er;

Strains ev’ry nerve the promis’d rest to gain,

But finds, at last, his hopes and labour vain;—

So I, immers’d in sorrows’ darksome night,

Beheld a picture of returning light;

In distance soften’d all my cares appear’d,

And smiling loves in front their faces rear’d;

But ah! at my approach, the colours fade;

And the bright vision sinks in thickest shade!

64 I4v 64

On the Countess of Derby.

In town or country prithee, Verus, shew,

Says Spec, the fairest of the dames you know?

Verus replies; In rure or in urbe

I know no star that shines so bright as—Derby.

Translation From the French of Mirabeau.

Gabriel à Sophié

In joy I’m lost when to my heart

That heav’nly form I press;

The sweets those coral lips impart

E’en Gods could faintly guess:

Yet would I these without a sigh resign,

To call thy soul, my lovely Sophy, mine.

65 K1r 65

To a Captive Bird.

When wont to range the fragrant groves and fields,

And taste the teeming sweets that nature yields,

Softly to warble forth love’s tender tale

On sunny hillock or in shady dale,

And gaily strain thy downy little throat

To charm us with thy liquid melting, note—

The song of gladness! Oh, inhuman joy!

To make thee captive, and such bliss destroy!

Sweet plaintive songster, could I set thee free,

And give thee back dear smiling liberty,

On airy wing thou quick should’st mount the sky:

But, ah, a stranger, whither would’st thou fly?

Thy once fond friends would chase thee through the air,

And for their nests thy pretty feathers tear;

To peck and scoff, whole tribes of birds would hie,

And thou, poor flutt’rer, in an hour would’st die.

K 66 K1v 66

To Miss D. on Seeing Her Surrounded by Beaux at a Play.

The Gods, Flirtilla, at thy birth

Bestow’d thee not a charm,

To melt the gen’rous soul to love,

Or e’en to liking warm.

No grace, no beauty, did they lend,

No touching smile impart;

Yet, from young Love, thou’st some way got

A never-erring dart.

(Or how could’st thou such conquests make

As t’other night I saw?

How with that form and face contrive

Such crouds of beaux to draw?)

67 K2r 67

Perhaps ’twas gain’d by fraud or stealth

When he was half asleep;

And thou hast left the waking boy

His arrow lost to weep.

If ’twas by neither art obtain’d,

Then verily I swear

Thou should’st be burned for a witch,

For doing such mischief here.

And if the cheat thou did’st commit

The Loves should all assemble,

And make thee give the weapon back

Or at their mandates tremble:

For ’twere an insult to Love’s court,

And they should publicly

Example of all fair ones make

Who thus their pow’r defy.

68 K2v 68

Clarinda, In Doubt.

On Colin’s return, now Clarinda, said I,

You may bid from this moment adieu

To sorrow, for Colin, dear Colin, is nigh,

Who still loves, and lives only for you.

But stay; who still loves! did he ever of love

Even utter a sentence in joke?

Ah, no, you too sure in an error will prove,

On the subject he never once spoke.

69 K3r 69

Thus hope and fear struggl’d by turns in my breast,

But the victory neither could gain;

So what did I do? I e’en went and confess’d

To himself all my pleasure and pain.

With amazement he look’d, for till then he’d not heard

Of the tale which I foolishly told,

That himself before worlds, in my heart was preferr’d,

And, perhaps, thought me rather too bold.

(Yet, where was the harm to declare such a love?

Next to heav’n, I rev’rence his name:

’Tis prudes, only prudes, could the flame disapprove,

And the owning it reckon a shame.)

No, he thought not so, or he never had press’d

With such warmth this poor form to his heart.

Nor kiss’d me, when (leaving me late to my rest)

Time told him ’twas fit to depart.

70 K3v 70

The soft gentle pressure still thrills through my veins,

And his kisses still glow on my cheek;

But I’m yet undetermin’d if hope or fear reigns,

And am farther than ever to seek.

Ah, Colin, this doubt is much worse than despair—

It is more than I long can endure;—

Say, at once, for Clarinda you have not a care,

And to death let me look for a cure.

71 K4r 71

On Lady Chambers’s Appearing at Willis’s Rooms.

The question, t’ other night, arose

At Willis’s, whose eyes the brightest shone?

Some thought, ’twas N’s,—others, ’twas O’s;

But, positively, they could fix on none.

In dubious scale the matter hung,

When Chambers came to shew at once her right.

The name throughout the circle rung――

For, from fair Chambers’ eyes beams heav’n’s own light.

72 K4v 72

Paraphrase on the Parable of the Sower.

13th Chap. Mathew, 19th Verse.

The blessed word of God to all is giv’n,

Descending, in soft genial show’rs, from heav’n.

But falls in diff’rent soils. Hence comes it, then,

That we perceive its diff’rent growth in men.

Some quite neglect the sense, and only hear

A sound of something on their listless ear,

Which, as it enters, passes quick away;

So shut they out the beams of op’ning day.

Then is the time for Satan, who with wiles

Detestable, and horrid treach’rous smiles,

73 L1r 73

Leads on the heedless wretch, till conquer’d quite,

Too late, from hell, he owns the glorious light.

This is the seed that falls by the way-side,

Which the inhabitants of air divide.

Verse the 20th and 21st.

Others, with joy, receive th’ enliv’ning word,

And, for a time, embrace our dying lord,

As the fond mother folds within her arms

The first-born of her love in infant charms;

But, if severe affliction haply comes,

If storms, or light’nings, blast their smiling homes,

If friends perfidious or ungrateful prove,

And wintry hate succeeds their spring of love,

If death’s stern pow’r some tender tie shall seize,

Or fate bring on themselves some dire disease,

Or persecution for the word of God,

They shrink, unable to sustain the rod,

L 74 L1v 74

And doubt if God is gracious, thus to show

So little pity for his world below;—

And this is what we find in stony ground,

Which, wanting depth of earth, no root has found

It quickly springs, but quickly dies away,

Scorch’d by the sun’s intense meridian ray.

Verse 22.

Some men again there are, who would attend.

If av’rice did not all their pow’r suspend,

But, lost in wordly cares, they never heed

That living death must dying life succeed;—

Here we observe what’s scatter’d amongst briers,

And chok’d by fierce insatiable desires.

Verse 23.

Those who the word in spirit understand.

And bless, howe’er severe, the chast’ning hand:

75 L2r 75

Which, in its bounty, scourges ev’ry son,

Have made their calling sure, the battle won,

Escap’d the subtle serpent’s strongest force,

And may, undauntedly, pursue their course;—

And here the seed prolific we behold,

Which bears, and brings forth fruit an hundred fold.

76 L2v 76

The Poet in Distress.

Some glowing lines on sun-set I would write,

Or moon-light, but, by Jove, I can’t indite:

The Muse has left me friendless and alone,

And back to Pindus’ Mount, alas, has flown;

Not e’en a drop of Helicon she’ll send,

So I by Walker’s Rhyming Dictionary. aid each line must end.

Oh, my poor brain, I want a rhyme for view;

Let’s see the book then—ah, the æther’s blue.

Thank you, friend Walker, thank you, that will do.

77 L3r 77

And now another I must find for light;

The very thing,—the galaxy is white.

The moon in clouded majesty must rise,

And flash astonishment to mortal eyes.

No, that wont do—flash cannot be the word,

’Twould answer well enough for Hector’s sword;

But the moon’s light is mild. Then let me see,

Shed,—beam,—why what the devil must it be?

To shed astonishment would seem most sad;

And beam astonishment, in truth, as bad:

Well, let it rest—with Luna I’ll have done

Till I’ve describ’d the glorious western sun.

E’en so it should be, for by rule you know,

The horse before the cart must ever go;

Though sure enough the moon is seen by day;

But I’m describing night—What shall I say?

See, rich and various colours gild the sky—

Oh what a dunder-head,—oh fie,—oh fie!

78 L3v 78

How can a colour gild that is not gold?

’Twere better said—the various tints behold:

Purple, and saffron, and the glowing red,

Thrown o’er the æthereal blue near ocean’s bed;

Curtains with fringe of gold,—the scene now glows,—

I’m out again—I wish the piece was prose.

The scene now glows is horrible; but how

Can I cut off that expletive, that now?

Hold, hold, ’tis not an expletive—how stupid!

It makes the sense more full, I swear by cupid;

It marks the time;—Old time on pinions flies;

Who made that line was author of no lies;

For without pinions what the de’el can fly?

Yes, poets’ fancies, to the very sky,

And air-balloons, and Frenchmen to, pardie,

May bound from their flotillas in the sea,

If Britain’s pow’rful shores they rashly dare,

And, by our cannon, whiz through upper air.

But to my subject, I’ve no time to spare:

79 L4r 79

The scene now glows, all nature glows around,

The shadow lengthens on th’ enamell’d ground;

And Philomel’s soft notes through woods resound.

Poor poet, sure thy brains are iron bound!

Too surely so—So sun, set from my sight,

And I’ll return to my fair queen of night:

(’Twere well, indeed, if friendly night would spread

Her sable mantle o’er my tortur’d head.)

Sweet silver moon! would I could write like Milton

But, he’s beyond my reach, had I a stilt on;

Fair lovely orb! beam on me a faint light,

That something of thy splendor I may write;

’Tis vain to urge the Muses, or Apollo,

They’re flown away, and I can never follow;

In brightness whilst thou walk’st through hosts of stars

(As Irish ladies pass in jaunting cars)

Impart a little to a wretched wight

Who’s lost in darkness!—No; why then, good night.

80 L4v 80

Since neither sun, nor moon, nor stars will lend,

Nor any muse, a pittance to a friend,

I will no longer here my vigils keep,

But court old Somnus, god of balmy sleep.

To a Gentleman

Who in the habit of decrying his friends after having extolled them.

So very warm in virtue’s cause,

So very apt to find out flaws,

E’en in the fairest characters, dear Laddy,

’Tis strange that you have never found

Yourself to stand on miry ground;

Take care you do not tumble in, poor Paddy!

Another hint just let me give;

And mind it, Paddy, while you live;

Know well your friends before you recommend them:

And, when you’ve blaz’d their merits round.

Don’t dash the good folks to the ground;

And in a minute to the devil send them.

81 M1r 81

Fable of the Lynx and Mole,

Versified.

Beneath a tree, in an umbrageous wood,

Whetting his teeth, and waiting for his food,

(Some hapless prey) a Lynx, reclin’d, espied,

Half-buried in a hillock, by his side,

An inert mole, who yet itself had fram’d

This little shelter. Sure, the Lynx exclaim’d,

To thee, great Jupiter is most unkind,

Thus all thy powers in living death to bind;

Holding from thee the cheering light of heav’n,

To all creation else so freely giv’n.

M 82 M1v 82

I pity thee, poor wretch; ’twere service shewn,

Most sure, to give thee death at once. I own,

Replied the Mole, your kindnesses are great,

But I am quite contented with my state;

I ask not sight to live within the earth,

Nor better pow’rs; and at m’ ignoble birth

I grieve not;—for ’tis Jupiter directs

In wisdom, and in wisdom all protects.

He best the proper distribution knows

Of ev’ry gift his providence bestows.

’Tis true, indeed, I want your piercing eyes,

But I’ve an ear which well this want supplies――

Hark, for a proof, I now am warn’d to fly,

By a small whizzing noise I hear on high,

Thus I escape the danger of this spot.

So saying, in his little earthy cot

He slunk;—while from a hunter’s arm, a dart

Pierc’d the quick-sighted taunter to the heart.

83 M2r 83

Claudius’s Refusal.

Now that old captious Lovegain’s dead,

Cries Julia, Claudius , we may wed;

No obstacle can damp our bliss,

No friends condemn the lawful kiss.

Excuse me, Julia, he replies,

’Tis time that we should both grow wise.

What, would you have me play the boy,

And risk my honor for a toy?

A brittle toy! ah, who could say

I should possess it for a day?

An hour might rob me of your heart,

And fix in mine eternal smart:

84 M2v 84

An hour might on my temples place

The signals of our joint disgrace.

If, Julia, you had never prov’d

So careless, I should still have lov’d;

Have sought you for my gentle bride,

And flown from all the world beside

To your soft bosom, there to place

My hopes of happiness and grace.

Perhaps you’ll say no law could bind

Your heart to him who prov’d unkind;

Not only so, but most unjust,

Who could betray a public trust;

Defraud his wife, his children, friends,

Adopt all means to gain his ends.

’Tis true, no law could force your love;

But must you, then, the wanton prove?

Because your husband was to blame

Are you to lose all sense of shame?

85 M3r 85

Who will your children’s morals guard,

While you play so unsafe a card?

How would you like to be their scorn?

To hear them wish they’d ne’er been born

To wretchedness, to shame, disgrace;

Which still must run through all their race?

Think, Julia, then, ’e’re ’tis too late,

Think of this miserable state!

And if true pleasures you would know,

Practise the virtues whence they flow;—

These pleasures only can endure,

And future peace and bliss secure.

86 M3v 86

To Colin.

After a long absence, urging his return.

The object you are heedlessly pursuing

An Ignis fatuus is, and tempts to ruin;

Turn then ’e’re by this floating lure you perish;

Turn to the hapless fair you vow’d to cherish;

Safe back the little Loves will gaily lead you,

And honor, virtue, friendship, truth, all speed you.

87 M4r 87

Apology

For some verses which appeared in print, reflecting on the conduct of the Contractors for Pack-saddles for a certain Army.

We hereby confess that our verses were writ,

(And with shame to ourselves) in a splenetic fit,

But not with the smallest intent to deride

A council where wisdom and justice preside;

If offence we have giv’n, we pardon implore,

And promise to err in like manner no more.

We earnestly hope the pack-saddles mayn’t pinch;

But, at all events, trust that your worships won’t wince,

As a part of the weight will be soon off your backs,

And you’ll have but the saddles without any packs. It was presumed, that the money overcharged would be ordered to be refunded.

88 M4v 88

To a Friend, with a Pillow.

Be ev’ry care, and ev’ry woe,

Here sweetly lull’d to rest;

And may each joy that mortals know,

In dreams possess thy breast.

May gentle spirits guard thy bed,

And, in their heav’nly love,

Lead thee, by some unerring thread,

The real bliss to prove.

89 N1r 89

Mock-Heroick Version of Don Quixote.

A Fragment.

While lofty bards of ancient battles sing,

Be mine th’ attempt, on less aspiring wing,

Not much assisted by the Muse, to write

The exploits of La Mancha’s famous knight:

What thund’ring foes the warrior Don o’ercame,

And what his chubby Squire, of punning fame;

Fir’d with accounts of most heroick deeds,

Of flaming errant-knights on flaming steeds,

His home no longer could afford him rest;

Mars had with carnage fill’d his throbbing breast:

N 90 N1v 90

Down therefore from its shelf with haste was torn

The armour which his ancestry had worn;

This armour, that for ages had lain by

Mouldy and rusty, with much industry

The Knight new furbish’d; and with lance and shield,

And helmet mended, sallied to the field;

Mounted on Rozinanté, so he nam’d

His broken-winded horse, half blind and lam’d.

91 N2r 91

Song.

Fairest Spot. Written in 1804-10October, 1804, and set to Music.

Fairest Spot of all creation,

Happiest we can light on;

Ev’ry other of the nation

Yields the palm to Brighton.

Steynes and walks, sans ostentation,

Britain’sPrince treads light on,

View’d with love and admiration

By the world of Brighton.

Condescending from his station,

Here his favors light on

The very poorest of the nation

Fate has plac’d at Brighton.

92 N2v 92

Here no foreign foes’ invasion

E’er could bring a fright on;

E’en our belles, without persuasion,

Would join the lists at Brighton.

’Spite of Frenchmen’s affectation

To attempt to light on

Sussex’ coast, we keep our station,

And are gay at Brighton.

Strangers still to consternation,

We would bravely fight on,

Could France itself (by conjuration)

Be floated o’er to Brighton.

93 N3r 93

On Being Asked What I Thought True Happiness to Consist in.

Vain is the search for Happiness on earth,

Unless we trace the spring that gives it birth;

Drink of the living water from the well,

And in tents of fair Religion dwell.

Religion calms the troubles of the soul,

And brings the passions under due controul;

Makes smooth the rugged paths of life we tread,

And forms, of sharpest thorns, a downy bed.

94 N3v 94

Fragment, From Virgil,

Book the First, line the Hundred and Twentieth.

Meanwhile a craggy rock Æneas scales,

And scans th’ horizon, if perchance the sails

Of Capys or Antheus he may spy;

Or Caicus’ high deck should meet his eye:

His eye, alas, no Phrygian bark beholds;

But o’er the grassy valley as it rolls,

Three stately stags appear upon the shore;

Eager he takes the bow Achates bore,

And first the leaders scatters, bearing high

Their thickly-branching horns, then quickly fly

The close-embodied herd; (now through the wood,

With winged arrows bent on death pursu’d;)

Nor ceases he, till sev’n huge deer are slain,

The number of his vessels on the main:

95 N4r 95

Then seeks the port, and ’mongst his frends he shares

In equal parts the spoil, and wine prepares

Which good Acestes sent, in ample store,

On board the ships, from the Trinacrian shore;

And thus their spirits cheers with soft essay:

My fellow suff’rers, sink not in dismay,

Severer ills than these have been our fate,

To these, too, Jove will grant a happy date:

When Sylla’s coasts we have, regardless, tried,

And the inhuman Cyclops’ rage defied,

Let us not shrink—the day will surely come

When we shall find again a peaceful home;—

In Latium we shall yet recount, with joy,

Our present woes,—and there rebuild our Troy.

Thus spoke, in smiles, the chief, though ill at rest,

For grief, immeasurable, fill’d his breast.

The Trojans now, in haste, the meal prepare,

Their bleeding victims are at once laid bare;

96 N4v 96

Stripp’d from the ribs the reeking hides are seen,

And all the vitals are expos’d within;

Some into parts divide the flesh, with care,

And spit the quiv’ring limbs, and fires prepare,

While others place in order on the shore,

The brazen cauldrons to contain their store.

Then rang’d along the grass, they freely dine,

On fattest ven’son, and delicious wine:

The tables clear’d, ’twixt hope and fear they speak,

Dubious, if ’mongst the living they may seek

Their lost companions, or if Jove ordains

Th’ unanswer’d Vale, Vale. This is an allusion to the ancient custom of calling upon the dead, which was the last ceremony performed in funeral obsequies, as appears from several passages in the Æneid. After the body was interred, the friends three times called aloud upon the deceased by his name, and after thrice repeating the word Vale, as the last farewel, they departed. end of all their pains.

Finis.