BOOK VI. · Part 2

It is not from his form, in which we trace Strength join'd with beauty, dignity with grace, That man, the master of this globe, derives His right of empire over all that lives. That form, indeed, the associate of a mind Vast in its powers, ethereal in its kind, That form, the labour of Almighty skill, Framed for the service of a freeborn will, Asserts precedence, and bespeaks control, But borrows all its grandeur from the soul. Hers is the state, the splendour, and the throne, An intellectual kingdom, all her own. For her the memory fills her ample page With truths pour'd down from every distant age; For her amasses an unbounded store, The wisdom of great nations, now no more; Though laden, not encumber'd with her spoil; Laborious, yet unconscious of her toil; When copiously supplied, then most enlarged; Still to be fed, and not to be surcharged. For her the Fancy, roving unconfined, The present muse of every pensive mind, Works magic wonders, adds a brighter hue To Nature's scenes than Nature ever knew. At her command winds rise and waters roar, Again she lays them slumbering on the shore; With flower and fruit the wilderness supplies, Or bids the rocks in ruder pomp arise. For her the Judgment, umpire in the strife That Grace and Nature have to wage through life, Quick-sighted arbiter of good and ill, Appointed sage preceptor to the Will, Condemns, approves, and with a faithful voice Guides the decision of a doubtful choice. Why did the fiat of a God give birth To yon fair Sun and his attendant Earth? And, when descending he resigns the skies, Why takes the gentler Moon her turn to rise, Whom Ocean feels through all his countless waves, And owns her power on every shore he laves? Why do the seasons still enrich the year, Fruitful and young as in their first career? Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze; Summer in haste the thriving charge receives Beneath the shade of her expanded leaves, Till Autumn's fiercer heats and plenteous dews Dye them at last in all their glowing hues.-- 'Twere wild profusion all, and bootless waste, Power misemploy'd, munificence misplaced, Had not its Author dignified the plan, And crown'd it with the majesty of man. Thus form'd, thus placed, intelligent, and taught, Look where he will, the wonders God has wrought, The wildest scorner of his Maker's laws Finds in a sober moment time to pause, To press the important question on his heart, "Why form'd at all, and wherefore as thou art?" If man be what he seems, this hour a slave, The next mere dust and ashes in the grave; Endued with reason only to descry His crimes and follies with an aching eye; With passions, just that he may prove, with pain, The force he spends against their fury vain; And if, soon after having burnt, by turns, With every lust with which frail Nature burns, His being end where death dissolves the bond, The tomb take all, and all be blank beyond; Then he, of all that Nature has brought forth, Stands self-impeach'd the creature of least worth, And, useless while he lives, and when he dies, Brings into doubt the wisdom of the skies. Truths that the learn'd pursue with eager thought Are not important always as dear-bought, Proving at last, though told in pompous strains, A childish waste of philosophic pains; But truths on which depends our main concern, That 'tis our shame and misery not to learn, Shine by the side of every path we tread With such a lustre, he that runs may read. 'Tis true that, if to trifle life away Down to the sunset of their latest day, Then perish on futurity's wide shore Like fleeting exhalations, found no more, Were all that heaven required of human kind, And all the plan their destiny design'd, What none could reverence all might justly blame, And man would breathe but for his Maker's shame. But reason heard, and nature well perused, At once the dreaming mind is disabused. If all we find possessing earth, sea, air, Reflect His attributes who placed them there, Fulfil the purpose, and appear design'd Proofs of the wisdom of the all-seeing mind, 'Tis plain the creature, whom he chose to invest With kingship and dominion o'er the rest, Received his nobler nature, and was made Fit for the power in which he stands arrayed; That first, or last, hereafter, if not here, He too might make his author's wisdom clear, Praise him on earth, or, obstinately dumb, Suffer his justice in a world to come. This once believed, 'twere logic misapplied To prove a consequence by none denied, That we are bound to cast the minds of youth Betimes into the mould of heavenly truth, That taught of God they may indeed be wise, Nor ignorantly wandering miss the skies. In early days the conscience has in most A quickness, which in later life is lost: Preserved from guilt by salutary fears, Or guilty soon relenting into tears. Too careless often, as our years proceed, What friends we sort with, or what books we read, Our parents yet exert a prudent care To feed our infant minds with proper fare; And wisely store the nursery by degrees With wholesome learning, yet acquired with ease. Neatly secured from being soil'd or torn Beneath a pane of thin translucent horn, A book (to please us at a tender age 'Tis call'd a book, though but a single page) Presents the prayer the Saviour deign'd to teach, Which children use, and parsons--when they preach. Lisping our syllables, we scramble next Through moral narrative, or sacred text; And learn with wonder how this world began, Who made, who marr'd, and who has ransom'd man: Points which, unless the Scripture made them plain, The wisest heads might agitate in vain. Oh thou, whom, borne on fancy's eager wing Back to the season of life's happy spring, I pleased remember, and, while memory yet Holds fast her office here, can ne'er forget; Ingenious dreamer, in whose well-told tale Sweet fiction and sweet truth alike prevail; Whose humorous vein, strong sense, and simple style, May teach the gayest, make the gravest smile; Witty, and well employ'd, and, like thy Lord, Speaking in parables his slighted word; I name thee not, lest so despised a name Should move a sneer at thy deserved fame; Yet e'en in transitory life's late day, That mingles all my brown with sober grey, Revere the man whose PILGRIM marks the road, And guides the PROGRESS of the soul to God. 'Twere well with most, if books that could engage Their childhood pleased them at a riper age; The man, approving what had charm'd the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy, And not with curses on his heart, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. The stamp of artless piety impress'd By kind tuition on his yielding breast, The youth, now bearded and yet pert and raw, Regards with scorn, though once received with awe; And, warp'd into the labyrinth of lies, That babblers, call'd philosophers, devise, Blasphemes his creed, as founded on a plan Replete with dreams, unworthy of a man. Touch but his nature in its ailing part, Assert the native evil of his heart, His pride resents the charge, although the proof[818] Rise in his forehead, and seem rank enough: Point to the cure, describe a Saviour's cross As God's expedient to retrieve his loss, The young apostate sickens at the view, And hates it with the malice of a Jew. How weak the barrier of mere nature proves, Opposed against the pleasures nature loves! While self-betray'd, and wilfully undone, She longs to yield, no sooner wooed than won. Try now the merits of this blest exchange Of modest truth for wit's eccentric range. Time was, he closed as he began the day, With decent duty, not ashamed to pray; The practice was a bond upon his heart, A pledge he gave for a consistent part; Nor could he dare presumptuously displease A power confess'd so lately on his knees. But now farewell all legendary tales, The shadows fly, philosophy prevails; Prayer to the winds, and caution to the waves; Religion makes the free by nature slaves. Priests have invented, and the world admired What knavish priests promulgate as inspired; Till Reason, now no longer overawed, Resumes her powers, and spurns the clumsy fraud; And, common sense diffusing real day, The meteor of the Gospel dies away. Such rhapsodies our shrewd discerning youth Learn from expert inquirers after truth; Whose only care, might truth presume to speak, Is not to find what they profess to seek. And thus, well tutor'd only while we share A mother's lectures and a nurse's care; And taught at schools much mythologic stuff,[819] But sound religion sparingly enough; Our early notices of truth disgraced, Soon lose their credit, and are all effaced. Would you your son should be a sot or dunce, Lascivious, headstrong, or all these at once; That in good time the stripling's finish'd taste For loose expense and fashionable waste Should prove your ruin, and his own at last; Train him in public with a mob of boys, Childish in mischief only and in noise, Else of a mannish growth, and five in ten In infidelity and lewdness men. There shall he learn, ere sixteen winters old, That authors are most useful pawn'd or sold; That pedantry is all that schools impart, But taverns teach the knowledge of the heart; There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays, Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise, His counsellor and bosom friend shall prove, And some street-pacing harlot his first love. Schools, unless discipline were doubly strong, Detain their adolescent charge too long; The management of tiros of eighteen Is difficult, their punishment obscene. The stout tall captain, whose superior size The minor heroes view with envious eyes, Becomes their pattern, upon whom they fix Their whole attention, and ape all his tricks. His pride, that scorns to obey or to submit, With them is courage; his effrontery wit. His wild excursions, window-breaking feats, Robbery of gardens, quarrels in the streets, His hairbreadth 'scapes, and all his daring schemes, Transport them, and are made their favourite themes. In little bosoms such achievements strike A kindred spark: they burn to do the like. Thus, half accomplish'd ere he yet begin To show the peeping down upon his chin; And, as maturity of years comes on, Made just the adept that you design'd your son; To ensure the perseverance of his course, And give your monstrous project all its force, Send him to college. If he there be tamed, Or in one article of vice reclaim'd, Where no regard of ordinances is shown Or look'd for now, the fault must be his own. Some sneaking virtue, lurks in him, no doubt, Where neither strumpets' charms, nor drinking bout, Nor gambling practices can find it out. Such youths of spirit, and that spirit too, Ye nurseries of our boys, we owe to you: Though from ourselves the mischief more proceeds, For public schools 'tis public folly feeds. The slaves of custom and establish'd mode, With packhorse constancy we keep the road, Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells. To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think: And such an age as ours balks no expense, Except of caution and of common sense; Else sure notorious fact, and proof so plain, Would turn our steps into a wiser train. I blame not those who, with what care they can, O'erwatch the numerous and unruly clan; Or, if I blame, 'tis only that they dare Promise a work of which they must despair. Have ye, ye sage intendants of the whole, A ubiquarian presence and control, Elisha's eye, that, when Gehazi stray'd, Went with him, and saw all the game he play'd? Yes--ye are conscious; and on all the shelves Your pupils strike upon have struck yourselves. Or if, by nature sober, ye had then, Boys as ye were, the gravity of men, Ye knew at least, by constant proofs address'd To ears and eyes, the vices of the rest. But ye connive at what ye cannot cure, And evils not to be endured endure, Lest power exerted, but without success, Should make the little ye retain still less. Ye once were justly famed for bringing forth Undoubted scholarship and genuine worth; And in the firmament of fame still shines A glory, bright as that of all the signs, Of poets raised by you, and statesmen, and divines. Peace to them all! those brilliant times are fled, And no such lights are kindling in their stead. Our striplings shine indeed, but with such rays As set the midnight riot in a blaze; And seem, if judged by their expressive looks, Deeper in none than in their surgeons' books. Say, muse, (for education made the song, No muse can hesitate, or linger long,) What causes move us, knowing, as we must, That these _ménageries_ all fail their trust, To send our sons to scout and scamper there, While colts and puppies cost us so much care? Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our early days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. Hark! how the sire of chits, whose future share Of classic food begins to be his care, With his own likeness placed on either knee, Indulges all a father's heartfelt glee; And tells them, as he strokes their silver locks, That they must soon learn Latin, and to box; Then turning, he regales his listening wife With all the adventures of his early life; His skill in coachmanship, or driving chaise, In bilking tavern-bills, and spouting plays; What shifts he used, detected in a scrape, How he was flogg'd, or had the luck to escape; What sums he lost at play, and how he sold Watch, seals, and all--till all his pranks are told. Retracing thus his frolics, ('tis a name That palliates deeds of folly and of shame,) He gives the local bias all its sway; Resolves that where he play'd his sons shall play, And destines their bright genius to be shown Just in the scene where he display'd his own. The meek and bashful boy will soon be taught To be as bold and forward as he ought; The rude will scuffle through with ease enough, Great schools suit best the sturdy and the rough. Ah, happy designation, prudent choice, The event is sure; expect it, and rejoice! Soon see your wish fulfill'd in either child, The pert made perter, and the tame made wild. The great indeed, by titles, riches, birth, Excused the incumbrance of more solid worth, Are best disposed of where with most success They may acquire that confident address, Those habits of profuse and lewd expense, That scorn of all delights but those of sense, Which, though in plain plebeians we condemn, With so much reason, all expect from them. But families of less illustrious fame, Whose chief distinction is their spotless name, Whose heirs, their honours none, their income small, Must shine by true desert, or not at all, What dream they of, that, with so little care They risk their hopes, their dearest treasure, there? They dream of little Charles or William graced With wig prolix, down flowing to his waist; They see the attentive crowds his talents draw, They hear him speak--the oracle of law. The father, who designs his babe a priest, Dreams him episcopally such at least; And, while the playful jockey scours the room Briskly, astride upon the parlour broom, In fancy sees him more superbly ride In coach with purple lined, and mitres on its side. Events improbable and strange as these, Which only a parental eye foresees, A public school shall bring to pass with ease. But how? resides such virtue in that air, As must create an appetite for prayer? And will it breathe into him all the zeal That candidates for such a prize should feel, To take the lead and be the foremost still In all true worth and literary skill? "Ah, blind to bright futurity, untaught The knowledge of the World, and dull of thought! Church-ladders are not always mounted best By learned clerks and Latinists profess'd. The exalted prize demands an upward look, Not to be found by poring on a book. Small skill in Latin, and still less in Greek, Is more than adequate to all I seek. Let erudition grace him, or not grace, I give the bauble but the second place; His wealth, fame, honours, all that I intend, Subsist and centre in one point--a friend. A friend, whate'er he studies or neglects, Shall give him consequence, heal all defects. His intercourse with peers and sons of peers-- There dawns the splendour of his future years: In that bright quarter his propitious skies Shall blush betimes, and there his glory rise. Your Lordship, and Your Grace! what school can teach A rhetoric equal to those parts of speech? What need of Homer's verse or Tully's prose, Sweet interjections! if he learn but those? Let reverend churls his ignorance rebuke, Who starve upon a dog's ear'd Pentateuch, The parson knows enough who knows a duke." Egregious purpose! worthily begun In barbarous prostitution of your son; Press'd on his part by means that would disgrace A scrivener's clerk, or footman out of place, And ending, if at last its end be gain'd, In sacrilege, in God's own house profaned. It may succeed; and, if his sins should call For more than common punishment, it shall; The wretch shall rise, and be the thing on earth Least qualified in honour, learning, worth, To occupy a sacred, awful post, In which the best and worthiest tremble most. The royal letters are a thing of course, A king, that would, might recommend his horse; And deans, no doubt, and chapters, with one voice, As bound in duty, would confirm the choice. Behold your bishop! well he plays his part, Christian in name, and infidel in heart, Ghostly in office, earthly in his plan, A slave at court, elsewhere a lady's man. Dumb as a senator, and as a priest A piece of mere church furniture at best; To live estranged from God his total scope, And his end sure, without one glimpse of hope. But, fair although and feasible it seem, Depend not much upon your golden dream; For Providence, that seems concern'd to exempt The hallow'd bench from absolute contempt, In spite of all the wrigglers into place, Still keeps a seat or two for worth and grace; And therefore 'tis, that, though the sight be rare, We sometimes see a Lowth or Bagot there. Besides, school friendships are not always found, Though fair in promise, permanent and sound; The most disinterested and virtuous minds, In early years connected, time unbinds New situations give a different cast Of habit, inclination, temper, taste; And he, that seem'd our counterpart at first, Soon shows the strong similitude reversed. Young heads are giddy, and young hearts are warm, And make mistakes for manhood to reform. Boys are, at best, but pretty buds unblown, Whose scent and hues are rather guess'd than known; Each dreams that each is just what he appears, But learns his error in maturer years, When disposition, like a sail unfurl'd, Shows all its rents and patches to the world. If, therefore, e'en when honest in design, A boyish friendship may so soon decline, 'Twere wiser sure to inspire a little heart With just abhorrence of so mean a part, Than set your son to work at a vile trade For wages so unlikely to be paid. Our public hives of puerile resort, That are of chief and most approved report, To such base hopes, in many a sordid soul, Owe their repute in part, but not the whole. A principle, whose proud pretensions pass Unquestion'd, though the jewel be but glass-- That with a world, not often over-nice, Ranks as a virtue, and is yet a vice; Or rather a gross compound, justly tried, Of envy, hatred, jealousy, and pride-- Contributes most, perhaps, to enhance their fame; And emulation is its specious name. Boys, once on fire with that contentious zeal, Feel all the rage that female rivals feel; The prize of beauty in a woman's eyes Not brighter than in theirs the scholar's prize. The spirit of that competition burns With all varieties of ill by turns; Each vainly magnifies his own success, Resents his fellow's, wishes it were less, Exults in his miscarriage if he fail, Deems his reward too great if he prevail, And labours to surpass him day and night, Less for improvement than to tickle spite. The spur is powerful, and I grant its force; It pricks the genius forward in its course, Allows short time for play, and none for sloth; And, felt alike by each, advances both: But judge, where so much evil intervenes, The end, though plausible, not worth the means. Weigh, for a moment, classical desert Against a heart depraved and temper hurt; Hurt too perhaps for life; for early wrong Done to the nobler part affects it long; And you are staunch indeed in learning's cause, If you can crown a discipline, that draws Such mischiefs after it, with much applause. Connexion form'd for interest, and endear'd By selfish views, thus censured and cashier'd; And emulation, as engendering hate, Doom'd to a no less ignominious fate: The props of such proud seminaries fall, The Jachin and the Boaz of them all. Great schools rejected then, as those that swell Beyond a size that can be managed well, Shall royal institutions miss the bays, And small academies win all the praise? Force not my drift beyond its just intent, I praise a school as Pope a government; So take my judgment in his language dress'd, "Whate'er is best administer'd is best." Few boys are born with talents that excel, But all are capable of living well; Then ask not, whether limited or large? But, watch they strictly, or neglect their charge? If anxious only that their boys may learn, While morals languish, a despised concern, The great and small deserve one common blame, Different in size, but in effect the same. Much zeal in virtue's cause all teachers boast, Though motives of mere lucre sway the most; Therefore in towns and cities they abound, For there the game they seek is easiest found; Though there, in spite of all that care can do, Traps to catch youth are most abundant too. If shrewd, and of a well-constructed brain, Keen in pursuit, and vigorous to retain, Your son come forth a prodigy of skill; As, wheresoever taught, so form'd, he will; The pedagogue, with self-complacent air, Claims more than half the praise as his due share. But if, with all his genius, he betray, Not more intelligent than loose and gay, Such vicious habits as disgrace his name, Threaten his health, his fortune, and his fame; Though want of due restraint alone have bred The symptoms that you see with so much dread; Unenvied there, he may sustain alone The whole reproach, the fault was all his own. Oh! 'tis a sight to be with joy perused, By all whom sentiment has not abused; New-fangled sentiment, the boasted grace Of those who never feel in the right place; A sight surpass'd by none that we can show, Though Vestris on one leg still shine below; A father blest with an ingenuous son, Father, and friend, and tutor, all in one. How!--turn again to tales long since forgot, Æsop, and Phædrus, and the rest?--Why not? He will not blush, that has a father's heart, To take in childish plays a childish part; But bends his sturdy back to any toy That youth takes pleasure in, to please his boy: Then why resign into a stranger's hand A task as much within your own command, That God and nature, and your interest too, Seem with one voice to delegate to you? Why hire a lodging in a house unknown For one whose tenderest thoughts all hover round your own? This second weaning, needless as it is, How does it lacerate both your heart and his! The indented stick, that loses day by day, Notch after notch, till all are smooth'd away, Bears witness, long ere his dismission come, With what intense desire he wants his home. But though the joys he hopes beneath your roof Bid fair enough to answer in the proof, Harmless, and safe, and natural, as they are, A disappointment waits him even there: Arrived, he feels an unexpected change; He blushes, hangs his head, is shy and strange, No longer takes, as once, with fearless ease, His favourite stand between his father's knees, But seeks the corner of some distant seat, And eyes the door, and watches a retreat, And, least familiar where he should be most, Feels all his happiest privileges lost. Alas, poor boy!--the natural effect Of love by absence chill'd into respect. Say, what accomplishments, at school acquired, Brings he, to sweeten fruits so undesired? Thou well deserv'st an alienated son, Unless thy conscious heart acknowledge--none; None that, in thy domestic snug recess, He had not made his own with more address, Though some, perhaps, that shock thy feeling mind, And better never learn'd, or left behind. Add too, that, thus estranged, thou canst obtain By no kind arts his confidence again; That here begins with most that long complaint Of filial frankness lost, and love grown faint, Which, oft neglected, in life's waning years A parent pours into regardless ears. Like caterpillars, dangling under trees By slender threads, and swinging in the breeze, Which filthily bewray and sore disgrace The boughs in which are bred the unseemly race; While every worm industriously weaves And winds his web about the rivell'd leaves; So numerous are the follies that annoy The mind and heart of every sprightly boy; Imaginations noxious and perverse, Which admonition can alone disperse. The encroaching nuisance asks a faithful hand, Patient, affectionate, of high command, To check the procreation of a breed Sure to exhaust the plant on which they feed. 'Tis not enough that Greek or Roman page, At stated hours, his freakish thoughts engage; E'en in his pastimes he requires a friend To warn, and teach him safely to unbend; O'er all his pleasures gently to preside, Watch his emotions, and control their tide; And levying thus, and with an easy sway, A tax of profit from his very play, To impress a value, not to be erased, On moments squander'd else, and running all to waste. And seems it nothing in a father's eye That unimproved those many moments fly? And is he well content his son should find No nourishment to feed his growing mind, But conjugated verbs and nouns declined? For such is all the mental food purveyed By public hackneys in the schooling trade; Who feed a pupil's intellect with store Of syntax, truly, but with little more; Dismiss their cares when they dismiss their flock, Machines themselves, and govern'd by a clock. Perhaps a father, blest with any brains, Would deem it no abuse, or waste of pains, To improve this diet, at no great expense, With savoury truth and wholesome common sense; To lead his son, for prospects of delight, To some not steep, though philosophic, height, Thence to exhibit to his wondering eyes Yon circling worlds, their distance, and their size, The moons of Jove, and Saturn's belted ball, And the harmonious order of them all; To show him in an insect or a flower Such microscopic proof of skill and power, As, hid from ages past, God now displays To combat atheists with in modern days; To spread the earth before him, and commend, With designation of the finger's end, Its various parts to his attentive note, Thus bringing home to him the most remote; To teach his heart to glow with generous flame, Caught from the deeds of men of ancient fame; And, more than all, with commendation due, To set some living worthy in his view, Whose fair example may at once inspire A wish to copy what he must admire. Such knowledge, gain'd betimes, and which appears, Though solid, not too weighty for his years, Sweet in itself, and not forbidding sport, When health demands it, of athletic sort, Would make him--what some lovely boys have been, And more than one perhaps that I have seen-- An evidence and reprehension both Of the mere schoolboy's lean and tardy growth. Art thou a man professionally tied, With all thy faculties elsewhere applied, Too busy to intend a meaner care Than how to enrich thyself, and next thine heir; Or art thou (as, though rich, perhaps thou art) But poor in knowledge, having none to impart:-- Behold that figure, neat, though plainly clad; His sprightly mingled with a shade of sad; Not of a nimble tongue, though now and then Heard to articulate like other men; No jester, and yet lively in discourse, His phrase well chosen, clear, and full of force; And his address, if not quite French in ease, Not English stiff, but frank, and form'd to please; Low in the world, because he scorns its arts; A man of letters, manners, morals, parts; Unpatronized, and therefore little known; Wise for himself and his few friends alone-- In him thy well-appointed proxy see, Arm'd for a work too difficult for thee; Prepared by taste, by learning, and true worth, To form thy son, to strike his genius forth; Beneath thy roof, beneath thine eye, to prove The force of discipline when back'd by love; To double all thy pleasure in thy child, His mind inform'd, his morals undefiled. Safe under such a wing, the boy shall show No spots contracted among grooms below, Nor taint his speech with meannesses, design'd By footman Tom for witty and refined. There, in his commerce with the liveried herd, Lurks the contagion chiefly to be fear'd; For since (so fashion dictates) all, who claim A higher than a mere plebeian fame, Find it expedient, come what mischief may, To entertain a thief or two in pay, (And they that can afford the expense of more, Some half a dozen, and some half a score,) Great cause occurs to save him from a band So sure to spoil him, and so near at hand; A point secured, if once he be supplied With some such Mentor always at his side. Are such men rare? perhaps they would abound Were occupation easier to be found, Were education, else so sure to fail, Conducted on a manageable scale, And schools, that have outlived all just esteem, Exchanged for the secure domestic scheme.-- But, having found him, be thou duke or earl, Show thou hast sense enough to prize the pearl, And, as thou wouldst the advancement of thine heir In all good faculties beneath his care, Respect, as is but rational and just, A man deem'd worthy of so dear a trust. Despised by thee, what more can he expect From youthful folly than the same neglect? A flat and fatal negative obtains That instant upon all his future pains; His lessons tire, his mild rebukes offend, And all the instructions of thy son's best friend Are a stream choked, or trickling to no end. Doom him not then to solitary meals; But recollect that he has sense, and feels; And that, possessor of a soul refined, An upright heart, and cultivated mind, His post not mean, his talents not unknown, He deems it hard to vegetate alone. And, if admitted at thy board he sit, Account him no just mark for idle wit; Offend not him, whom modesty restrains From repartee, with jokes that he disdains; Much less transfix his feelings with an oath; Nor frown, unless he vanish with the cloth.-- And, trust me, his utility may reach To more than he is hired or bound to teach; Much trash unutter'd, and some ills undone, Through reverence of the censor of thy son. But, if thy table be indeed unclean, Foul with excess, and with discourse obscene, And thou a wretch, whom, following her old plan, The world accounts an honourable man, Because forsooth thy courage has been tried, And stood the test, perhaps on the wrong side; Though thou hadst never grace enough to prove That any thing but vice could win thy love;-- Or hast thou a polite, card-playing wife, Chain'd to the routs that she frequents for life; Who, just when industry begins to snore, Flies, wing'd with joy, to some coach-crowded door; And thrice in every winter throngs thine own With half the chariots and sedans in town Thyself meanwhile e'en shifting as thou mayst; Not very sober though, nor very chaste; Or is thine house, though less superb thy rank, If not a scene of pleasure, a mere blank, And thou at best, and in thy soberest mood, A trifler vain, and empty of all good;-- Though mercy for thyself thou canst have none, Hear Nature plead, show mercy to thy son. Saved from his home, where every day brings forth Some mischief fatal to his future worth, Find him a better in a distant spot, Within some pious pastor's humble cot, Where vile example (yours I chiefly mean, The most seducing, and the oftenest seen) May never more be stamp'd upon his breast, Not yet perhaps incurably impress'd. Where early rest makes early rising sure, Disease or comes not, or finds easy cure, Prevented much by diet neat and plain; Or, if it enter, soon starved out again: Where all the attention of his faithful host, Discreetly limited to two at most, May raise such fruits as shall reward his care, And not at last evaporate in air: Where, stillness aiding study, and his mind Serene, and to his duties much inclined, Not occupied in day dreams, as at home, Of pleasures past, or follies yet to come, His virtuous toil may terminate at last In settled habit and decided taste.-- But whom do I advise? the fashion-led, The incorrigibly wrong, the deaf, the dead! Whom care and cool deliberation suit Not better much than spectacles a brute; Who, if their sons some slight tuition share, Deem it of no great moment whose, or where; Too proud to adopt the thoughts of one unknown, And much too gay to have any of their own. But courage, man! methought the Muse replied, Mankind are various, and the world is wide: The ostrich, silliest of the feather'd kind, And form'd of God without a parent's mind, Commits her eggs, incautious, to the dust, Forgetful that the foot may crush the trust; And, while on public nurseries they rely, Not knowing, and too oft not caring, why, Irrational in what they thus prefer, No few, that would seem wise, resemble her. But all are not alike. Thy warning voice May here and there prevent erroneous choice; And some, perhaps, who, busy as they are, Yet make their progeny their dearest care, (Whose hearts will ache, once told what ills may reach Their offspring, left upon so wild a beach,) Will need no stress of argument to enforce The expedience of a less adventurous course: The rest will slight thy counsel, or condemn; But they have human feelings--turn to them. To you, then, tenants of life's middle state, Securely placed between the small and great, Whose character, yet undebauch'd, retains Two-thirds of all the virtue that remains, Who, wise yourselves, desire your sons should learn Your wisdom and your ways--to you I turn. Look round you on a world perversely blind; See what contempt is fallen on human kind; See wealth abused, and dignities misplaced, Great titles, offices, and trusts disgraced, Long lines of ancestry, renown'd of old, Their noble qualities all quench'd and cold; See Bedlam's closeted and handcuff'd charge Surpass'd in frenzy by the mad at large; See great commanders making war a trade, Great lawyers, lawyers without study made; Churchmen, in whose esteem their best employ Is odious, and their wages all their joy, Who, far enough from furnishing their shelves With Gospel lore, turn infidels themselves; See womanhood despised, and manhood shamed With infamy too nauseous to be named, Fops at all corners, ladylike in mien, Civited fellows, smelt ere they are seen, Else coarse and rude in manners, and their tongue On fire with curses, and with nonsense hung, Now flush'd with drunkenness, now with whoredom pale, Their breath a sample of last night's regale; See volunteers in all the vilest arts, Men well endow'd, of honourable parts, Design'd by Nature wise, but self-made fools; All these, and more like these, were bred at schools. And if it chance, as sometimes chance it will, That though school-bred the boy be virtuous still; Such rare exceptions, shining in the dark, Prove, rather than impeach, the just remark: As here and there a twinkling star descried Serves but to show how black is all beside. Now look on him, whose very voice in tone Just echoes thine, whose features are thine own, And stroke his polish'd cheek of purest red, And lay thine hand upon his flaxen head, And say, My boy, the unwelcome hour is come, When thou, transplanted from thy genial home, Must find a colder soil and bleaker air, And trust for safety to a stranger's care; What character, what turn thou wilt assume From constant converse with I know not whom; Who there will court thy friendship, with what views, And, artless as thou art, whom thou wilt choose; Though much depends on what thy choice shall be, Is all chance-medley, and unknown to me. Canst thou, the tear just trembling on thy lids, And while the dreadful risk foreseen forbids; Free too, and under no constraining force, Unless the sway of custom warp thy course; Lay such a stake upon the losing side, Merely to gratify so blind a guide? Thou canst not! Nature, pulling at thine heart, Condemns the unfatherly, the imprudent part. Thou wouldst not, deaf to Nature's tenderest plea, Turn him adrift upon a rolling sea, Nor say, Go thither, conscious that there lay A brood of asps, or quicksands in his way; Then, only govern'd by the self-same rule Of natural pity, send him not to school. No--guard him better. Is he not thine own, Thyself in miniature, thy flesh, thy bone? And hopest thou not, ('tis every father's hope,) That, since thy strength must with thy years elope, And thou wilt need some comfort to assuage Health's last farewell, a staff of thine old age, That then, in recompence of all thy cares, Thy child shall show respect to thy grey hairs, Befriend thee, of all other friends bereft, And give thy life its only cordial left? Aware then how much danger intervenes, To compass that good end, forecast the means. His heart, now passive, yields to thy command; Secure it thine, its key is in thine hand; If thou desert thy charge, and throw it wide, Nor heed what guests there enter and abide, Complain not if attachments lewd and base Supplant thee in it and usurp thy place. But, if thou guard its sacred chambers sure From vicious inmates and delights impure, Either his gratitude shall hold him fast, And keep him warm and filial to the last; Or, if he prove unkind, (as who can say But, being man, and therefore frail, he may?) One comfort yet shall cheer thine aged heart, Howe'er he slight thee, thou hast done thy part. Oh, barbarous! wouldst thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools--what!--all the schools i' th' land; Or throw them up to livery-nags and grooms, Or turn them into shops and auction-rooms? A captious question, sir, (and yours is one,) Deserves an answer similar, or none. Wouldst thou, possessor of a flock, employ (Apprised that he is such) a careless boy, And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, Merely to sleep, and let them run astray? Survey our schools and colleges, and see A sight not much unlike my simile. From education, as the leading cause, The public character its colour draws; Thence the prevailing manners take their cast, Extravagant or sober, loose or chaste. And though I would not advertise them yet, Nor write on each--_This Building to be Let_, Unless the world were all prepared to embrace A plan well worthy to supply their place; Yet, backward as they are, and long have been, To cultivate and keep the MORALS clean, (Forgive the crime,) I wish them, I confess, Or better managed, or encouraged less.

[818] See 2 Chron. xxvi. 19.

[819] The author begs leave to explain.--Sensible that, without such knowledge, neither the ancient poets nor historians can be tasted, or indeed understood, he does not mean to censure the pains that are taken to instruct a schoolboy in the religion of the heathen, but merely that neglect of Christian culture which leaves him shamefully ignorant of his own.

THE YEARLY DISTRESS, OR TITHING TIME AT STOCK IN ESSEX.

Verses addressed to a Country Clergyman, complaining of the sisagreeableness of the day annually appointed for receiving the Dues at the Parsonage.

Come, ponder well, for 'tis no jest, To laugh it would be wrong, The troubles of a worthy priest, The burden of my song.

This priest he merry is and blithe Three quarters of a year: But oh! it cuts him like a scythe, When tithing time draws near.

He then is full of fright and fears, As one at point to die, And long before the day appears, He heaves up many a sigh.

For then the farmers come jog, jog, Along the miry road, Each heart as heavy as a log, To make their payments good.

In sooth the sorrow of such days Is not to be express'd, When he that takes and he that pays Are both alike distress'd.

Now all unwelcome at his gates The clumsy swains alight, With rueful faces and bald pates-- He trembles at the sight.

And well he may, for well he knows Each bumpkin of the clan, Instead of paying what he owes, Will cheat him if he can.

So in they come--each makes his leg, And flings his head before, And looks as if he came to beg, And not to quit a score.

"And how does miss and madam do, The little boy and all?" "All tight and well. And how do you, Good Mr. What-d'ye-call?"

The dinner comes, and down they sit, Were e'er such hungry folk? There's little talking, and no wit; It is no time to joke.

One wipes his nose upon his sleeve, One spits upon the floor, Yet not to give offence or grieve, Holds up the cloth before.

The punch goes round, and they are dull And lumpish still as ever; Like barrels with their bellies full, They only weigh the heavier.

At length the busy time begins. "Come, neighbours, we must wag"-- The money chinks, down drop their chins, Each lugging out his bag.

One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of storms of hail, And one of pigs that he has lost By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one, "A rarer man than you In pulpit none shall hear: But yet, methinks, to tell you true, You sell it plaguy dear."

O why are farmers made so coarse, Or clergy made so fine? A kick, that scarce would move a horse, May kill a sound divine.

Then let the boobies stay at home; 'Twould cost him, I dare say, Less trouble taking twice the sum Without the clowns that pay.

SONNET, ADDRESSED TO HENRY COWPER, ESQ.

On his emphatical and interesting Delivery of the Defence of Warren Hastings, Esq. in the House of Lords.

Cowper, whose silver voice, task'd sometimes hard, Legends prolix delivers in the ears (Attentive when thou read'st) of England's peers, Let verse at length yield thee thy just reward.

Thou wast not heard with drowsy disregard, Expending late on all that length of plea Thy generous powers, but silence honour'd thee, Mute as e'er gazed on orator or bard.

Thou art not voice alone, but hast beside Both heart and head; and couldst with music sweet Of Attic phrase and senatorial tone, Like thy renown'd forefathers, far and wide Thy fame diffuse, praised not for utterance meet Of _others'_ speech, but magic of _thy own_.

LINES ADDRESSED TO DR. DARWIN,

AUTHOR OF "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,[820] (poets, by report, Not oft so well agree,) Sweet harmonist of Flora's court! Conspire to honour thee.

They best can judge a poet's worth, Who oft themselves have known The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own.

We therefore pleased extol thy song, Though various, yet complete, Rich in embellishment as strong, And learned as 'tis sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise, Though, could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would--they must at thine.

But we, in mutual bondage knit Of friendship's closest tie, Can gaze on even Darwin's wit With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be, And howsoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for thee, Unworthy of his own.

[820] Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied these lines.

ON MRS. MONTAGU'S FEATHER-HANGINGS.

The birds put off their every hue To dress a room for Montagu. The peacock sends his heavenly dyes, His rainbows and his starry eyes; The pheasant plumes, which round enfold His mantling neck with downy gold; The cock his arch'd tail's azure show; And, river-blanch'd, the swan his snow. All tribes beside of Indian name, That glossy shine, or vivid flame, Where rises, and where sets the day, Whate'er they boast of rich and gay, Contribute to the gorgeous plan, Proud to advance it all they can. This plumage neither dashing shower, Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower, Shall drench again or discompose, But, screen'd from every storm that blows, It boasts a splendour ever new, Safe with protecting Montagu. To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court, Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move, Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove-- Imagination scattering round Wild roses over furrow'd ground, Which Labour of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smile-- Wit flashing on Religion's side, Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied, The gem, though luminous before, Obtrude on human notice more, Like sunbeams on the golden height Of some tall temple playing bright-- Well tutor'd Learning, from his books Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks, Their order on his shelves exact, Not more harmonious or compact Than that to which he keeps confined The various treasures of his mind-- All these to Montagu's repair, Ambitious of a shelter there. There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, Their ruffled plumage calm refit, (For stormy troubles loudest roar Around their flight who highest soar,) And in her eye, and by her aid, Shine safe without a fear to fade. She thus maintains divided sway With yon bright regent of the day; The Plume and Poet both we know Their lustre to his influence owe; And she the works of Phoebus aiding, Both Poet saves and Plume from fading.

* * * * *

VERSES,

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, O, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a sabbath appear'd.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

ON OBSERVING SOME NAMES OF LITTLE NOTE

RECORDED IN THE BIOGRAPHIA BRITANNICA.

Oh, fond attempt to give a deathless lot To names ignoble, born to be forgot! In vain recorded in historic page, They court the notice of a future age: Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand; Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall, And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all. So when a child, as playful children use, Has burnt to tinder a stale last year's news, The flame extinct, he views the roving fire-- There goes my lady, and there goes the squire, There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE,

NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court-- Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how,) He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one if or but-- That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!

ON THE PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.

TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND.

Round Thurlow's head in early youth, And in his sportive days, Fair Science pour'd the light of truth, And Genius shed his rays.

See! with united wonder cried The experienced and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied With all the skill of age!

Discernment, eloquence, and grace, Proclaim him born to sway The balance in the highest place, And bear the palm away.

The praise bestow'd was just and wise; He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conquest, where the prize Attends superior worth.

So the best courser on the plain Ere yet he starts is known, And does but at the goal obtain What all had deem'd his own.

ODE TO PEACE.

Come, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return, and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view; We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From avarice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles? For whom, alas! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles?

The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make? And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequestered shed, To be a guest with them?

For thee I panted, thee I prized, For thee I gladly sacrificed Whatever I loved before; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say-- Farewell! we meet no more?

HUMAN FRAILTY.

Weak and irresolute is man; The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain; But Passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent, But Pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of Heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost.

THE MODERN PATRIOT.

Rebellion is my theme all day; I only wish 'twould come (As who knows but perhaps it may?) A little nearer home.

Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight On t'other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right, But most so when most frantic.

When lawless mobs insult the court, That man shall be my toast, If breaking windows be the sport, Who bravely breaks the most.

But O! for him my fancy culls The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls Your house about your ears.

Such civil broils are my delight, Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them.

A rope! I wish we patriots had Such strings for all who need 'em-- What! hang a man for going mad! Then farewell British freedom.

ON THE BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.

So then--the Vandals of our isle, Sworn foes to sense and law, Have burnt to dust a nobler pile Than ever Roman saw!

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, And many a treasure more, The well-judged purchase, and the gift That graced his letter'd store.

Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, The loss was his alone; But ages yet to come shall mourn The burning of his own.

ON THE SAME.

When wit and genius meet their doom In all devouring flame, They tell us of the fate of Rome, And bid us fear the same.

O'er Murray's loss the muses wept, They felt the rude alarm, Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept His sacred head from harm.

There Memory, like the bee that's fed From Flora's balmy store, The quintessence of all he read Had treasured up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind, Have done him cruel wrong; The flowers are gone--but still we find The honey on his tongue.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED;

OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED.[821]

[821] It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the _Leeds Journal_, without the author's privity.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mahomet's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part express'd, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarr'd; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These choose the back, the belly those; By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mahometans eat up the hog. You laugh--'tis well--the tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world--the preacher cries. We do--a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play; Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd; Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he: With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S BULLFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed, O share Maria's grief! Her favourite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung; And, though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well taught he all the sounds express'd Of flageolet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole, His bosom of the hue With which Aurora decks the skies, When piping winds shall soon arise, To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house, Dire foe alike of bird and mouse No cat had leave to dwell; And Bully's cage supported stood On props of smoothest shaven wood, Large-built and latticed well.

Well latticed--but the grate, alas! Not rough with wire of steel or brass, For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole: all seem'd secure: When, led by instinct sharp and sure, Subsistence to provide, A beast forth sallied on the scout, Long back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, And badger-colour'd hide.

He, entering at the study door, Its ample area 'gan explore; And something in the wind Conjectured, sniffing round and round, Better than all the books he found, Food chiefly for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd, A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest; In sleep he seem'd to view A rat fast clinging to the cage, And, screaming at the sad presage, Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent, Right to his mark the monster went-- Ah, muse! forbear to speak Minute the horrors that ensued; His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-- He left poor Bully's beak.

O had he made that too his prey; That beak, whence issued many a lay Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well, I wote, For silencing so sweet a throat, Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps--the Muses mourn-- So when, by Bacchanalians torn, On Thracian Hebrus' side The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell, His head alone remain'd to tell The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd, The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd, to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas! I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner a while; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE DOVES.

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way While meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

One silent eve I wander'd late, And heard the voice of love; The turtle thus address'd her mate, And soothed the listening dove:

Our mutual bond of faith and truth No time shall disengage, Those blessings of our early youth Shall cheer our latest age:

While innocence without disguise, And constancy sincere, Shall fill the circles of those eyes, And mine can read them there;

Those ills, that wait on all below, Shall ne'er be felt by me, Or gently felt, and only so, As being shared with thee.

When lightnings flash among the trees, Or kites are hovering near, I fear lest thee alone they seize, And know no other fear.

'Tis then I feel myself a wife, And press thy wedded side, Resolved a union form'd for life Death never shall divide.

But oh! if, fickle and unchaste, (Forgive a transient thought,) Thou couldst become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot,

No need of lightnings from on high, Or kites with cruel beak; Denied the endearments of thine eye, This widow'd heart would break.

Thus sang the sweet sequester'd bird, Soft as the passing wind, And I recorded what I heard, A lesson for mankind.

A FABLE.

A raven, while with glossy breast Her new-laid eggs she fondly press'd, And, on her wicker-work high mounted, Her chickens prematurely counted, (A fault philosophers might blame, If quite exempted from the same,) Enjoy'd at ease the genial day; 'Twas April, as the bumpkins say, The legislature call'd it May. But suddenly a wind, as high As ever swept a winter sky, Shook the young leaves about her ears, And fill'd her with a thousand fears, Lest the rude blast should snap the bough, And spread her golden hopes below. But just at eve the blowing weather And all her fears were hush'd together: And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph, 'Tis over, and the brood is safe; (For ravens, though, as birds of omen, They teach both conjurors and old women To tell us what is to befall, Can't prophesy themselves at all.) The morning came, when neighbour Hodge, Who long had mark'd her airy lodge, And destined all the treasure there A gift to his expecting fair, Climb'd like a squirrel to his dray, And bore the worthless prize away.

MORAL.

'Tis Providence alone secures In every change both mine and yours: Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape; An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oft'nest in what least we dread, Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

Patron of all those luckless brains, That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains, And little or no meaning;

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams, That water all the nations, Pay tribute to thy glorious beams, In constant exhalations;

Why, stooping from the noon of day, Too covetous of drink, Apollo, hast thou stolen away A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air, It floats a vapour now, Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd perhaps, ere summer flies, Combined with millions more, To form an iris in the skies, Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then Beyond the happiest lot, Of all that ever pass'd my pen, So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design. To place it in thy bow, Give wit, that what is left may shine With equal grace below.

A COMPARISON.

The lapse of time and rivers is the same, Both speed their journey with a restless stream, The silent pace, with which they steal away, No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay; Alike irrevocable both when past, And a wide ocean swallows both at last. Though each resemble each in every part, A difference strikes at length the musing heart; Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound, How laughs the land with various plenty crown'd! But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected leaves a dreary waste behind.

ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid-- Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng; With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes. Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass, And heaven reflected in her face.

THE POET'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON.

Maria! I have every good For thee wish'd many a time, Both sad, and in a cheerful mood, But never yet in rhyme.

To wish thee fairer is no need, More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour then not yet possess'd Can I for thee require, In wedded love already blest, To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part: Full bliss is bliss divine; There dwells some wish in every heart, And doubtless one in thine.

That wish on some fair future day, Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may,) I wish it all fulfill'd.

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I shall not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau[822]

[822] it was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables which ascribe reason and speech to animals should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. but what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?

If birds confabulate or no; 'Tis clear, that they were always able To hold discourse, at least in fable; And e'en the child who knows no better Than to interpret, by the letter, A story of a cock and bull, Must have a most uncommon skull. It chanced then on a winter's day, But warm, and bright, and calm as May, The birds, conceiving a design To forestall sweet St. Valentine, In many an orchard, copse, and grove, Assembled on affairs of love, And with much twitter and much chatter Began to agitate the matter. At length a Bullfinch, who could boast More years and wisdom than the most, Entreated, opening wide his beak, A moment's liberty to speak; And, silence publicly enjoin'd, Deliver'd briefly thus his mind: My friends! be cautious how ye treat The subject upon which we meet; I fear we shall have winter yet. A Finch, whose tongue knew no control, With golden wing and satin poll, A last year's bird, who ne'er had tried What marriage means, thus pert replied: Methinks the gentleman, quoth she, Opposite in the apple tree, By his good will would keep us single Till yonder heaven and earth shall mingle, Or (which is likelier to befall) Till death exterminate us all. I marry without more ado, My dear Dick Redcap, what say you? Dick heard, and tweedling, ogling, bridling, Turning short round, strutting and sideling, Attested, glad, his approbation Of an immediate conjugation. Their sentiments so well express'd Influenced mightily the rest, All pair'd, and each pair built a nest. But, though the birds were thus in haste, The leaves came on not quite so fast, And destiny, that sometimes bears An aspect stern on man's affairs, Not altogether smiled on theirs. The wind, of late breathed gently forth, Now shifted east, and east by north; Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know, Could shelter them from rain or snow, Stepping into their nests, they paddled, Themselves were chill'd, their eggs were addled; Soon every father bird and mother Grew quarrelsome, and peck'd each other, Parted without the least regret, Except that they had ever met, And learn'd in future to be wiser, Than to neglect a good adviser.

MORAL.

Misses! the tale that I relate This lesson seems to carry-- Choose not alone a proper mate, But proper time to marry.

THE DOG AND THE WATER LILY.

NO FABLE.

The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree, (Two nymphs[823] adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd His lilies newly blown; Their beauties I intent survey'd, And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.

But with a cherup clear and strong Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd; Beau, trotting far before, The floating wreath again discern'd, And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried, Shall hear of this thy deed: My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed:

But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.

[823] Sir Robert Gunning's daughters.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

What Nature, alas! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied, And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats From the cruel assaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of snow, These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May.

See how they have safely survived The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you.

THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND SENSITIVE PLANT.

An Oyster, cast upon the shore, Was heard, though never heard before, Complaining in a speech well worded, And worthy thus to be recorded:-- Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell For ever in my native shell; Ordain'd to move when others please, Not for my own content or ease; But toss'd and buffeted about, Now in the water and now out. 'Twere better to be born a stone, Of ruder shape, and feeling none, Than with a tenderness like mine, And sensibilities so fine! I envy that unfeeling shrub, Fast rooted against every rub. The plant he meant grew not far off, And felt the sneer with scorn enough: Was hurt, disgusted, mortified, And with asperity replied: (When, cry the botanists, and stare, Did plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when--a poet's muse is To make them grow just where she chooses) You shapeless nothing in a dish, You that are but almost a fish, I scorn your coarse insinuation, And have most plentiful occasion To wish myself the rock I view, Or such another dolt as you: For many a grave and learned clerk And many a gay unletter'd spark, With curious touch examines me, If I can feel as well as he; And when I bend, retire, and shrink, Says--Well, tis more than one would think! Thus life is spent (oh fie upon't) In being touch'd, and crying--Don't! A poet, in his evening walk, O'erheard and check'd this idle talk. And your fine sense, he said, and yours, Whatever evil it endures, Deserves not, if so soon offended, Much to be pitied or commended. Disputes, though short, are far too long, Where both alike are in the wrong; Your feelings in their full amount Are all upon your own account. You, in your grotto-work enclosed, Complain of being thus exposed; Yet nothing feel in that rough coat Save when the knife is at your throat, Wherever driven by wind or tide, Exempt from every ill beside. And as for you, my Lady Squeamish, Who reckon every touch a blemish, If all the plants, that can be found Embellishing the scene around, Should droop and wither where they grow, You would not feel at all--not you. The noblest minds their virtue prove By pity, sympathy, and love: These, these are feelings truly fine, And prove their owner half divine. His censure reach'd them as he dealt it And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

Oh, happy shades--to me unblest! Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest, And heart that cannot rest, agree!

This glassy stream, that spreading pine, Those alders, quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine, And please, if any thing could please.

But fix'd unalterable Care Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness every where, And slights the season and the scene.

For all that pleased in wood or lawn, While Peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn, Has lost its beauties and its powers.

The saint or moralist should tread This moss-grown alley musing, slow; They seek like me the secret shade, But not like me to nourish woe!

Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste Alike admonish not to roam; These tell me of enjoyments past, And those of sorrows yet to come.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

The lady thus address'd her spouse-- What a mere dungeon is this house! By no means large enough; and was it, Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, Those hangings with their worn-out graces, Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, Are such an antiquated scene, They overwhelm me with the spleen. Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Makes answer quite beside the mark: No doubt, my dear, I bade him come, Engaged myself to be at home, And shall expect him at the door Precisely when the clock strikes four. You are so deaf, the lady cried, (And raised her voice, and frown'd beside,) You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear? Dismiss poor Harry! he replies; Some people are more nice than wise: For one slight trespass all this stir? What if he did ride whip and spur, 'Twas but a mile--your favourite horse Will never look one hair the worse. Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing-- Child! I am rather hard of hearing-- Yes, truly--one must scream and bawl: I tell you, you can't hear at all! Then, with a voice exceeding low, No matter if you hear or no. Alas! and is domestic strife, That sorest ill of human life, A plague so little to be fear'd, As to be wantonly incurr'd, To gratify a fretful passion, On every trivial provocation? The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something every day they live To pity, and perhaps forgive. But if infirmities, that fall In common to the lot of all, A blemish or a sense impair'd, Are crimes so little to be spared, Then farewell all that must create The comfort of the wedded state; Instead of harmony, 'tis jar, And tumult, and intestine war. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention; But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate or blind, And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure: But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is.