Part 4
No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir’d a master’s care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Receiv’d the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit trimm’d his little fire, And cheer’d his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press’d, and smil’d; And, skill’d in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil’d.
Around, in sympathetic mirth, Its tricks the kitten tries-- The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling faggot flies;
[Illustration]
But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger’s woe-- For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the hermit spied-- With answering care opprest; “And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, “The sorrows of thy breast?
“From better habitations spurn’d, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, Or unregarded love?
“Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay-- And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they;
“And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep-- A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep?
“And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one’s jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle’s nest.
“For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex,” he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d:
Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise Swift mantling to the view-- Like colours o’er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: The lovely stranger stands confest, A maid in all her charms.
“And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,” she cried-- “Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where Heaven and you reside;
“But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray-- Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.
“My father liv’d beside the Tyne-- A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine: He had but only me.
“To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber’d suitors came; Who prais’d me for imputed charms, And felt or feign’d a flame.
“Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow’d-- But never talk’d of love.
“In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had-- But these were all to me.
“And when, beside me in the dale, He caroll’d lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove.
“The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin’d, Could nought of purity display To emulate his mind.
[Illustration]
“The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his; but, woe to me, Their constancy was mine.
“For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch’d my heart, I triumph’d in his pain.
“Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died.
“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay;
“And there, forlorn, despairing, hid-- I’ll lay me down and die; ’Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.”
“Forbid it, Heaven!” the hermit cried, And clasp’d her to his breast: The wondering fair-one turn’d to chide-- ’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d.
“Turn, Angelina! ever dear-- My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor’d to love and thee.
“Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign; And shall we never, never part, My life--my all that’s mine!
“No; never from this hour to part, We’ll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin’s too.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE CAPTIVITY]
AN ORATORIO.
THE PERSONS.
_First Israelitish Prophet._ _Second Israelitish Prophet._ _Israelitish Woman._ _First Chaldean Priest._ _Second Chaldean Priest._ _Chaldean Woman._ _Chorus of Youths and Virgins._
SCENE.--_The Banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon._
ACT THE FIRST.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative._
Ye captive tribes, that hourly work and weep, Where flows Euphrates, murmuring to the deep-- Suspend your woes awhile, the task suspend, And turn to God, your Father and your Friend: Insulted, chain’d, and all the world our foe, Our God alone is all we boast below.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Our God is all we boast below, To Him we turn our eyes; And every added weight of woe Shall make our homage rise:
And though no temple richly drest, Nor sacrifice is here-- We’ll make His temple in our breast, And offer up a tear.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise, And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes. Ye fields of Sharon, dress’d in flowery pride; Ye plains, where Jordan rolls its glassy tide; Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown’d; Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around: These hills how sweet! those plains how wondrous fair But sweeter still, when Heaven was with us there!
_Air._
O Memory! thou fond deceiver! Still importunate and vain; To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain;
Thou, like the world, the oppress’d oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch’s woe! And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe.
[Illustration]
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative._
Yet, why repine? What, though by bonds confin’d, Should bonds enslave the vigour of the mind? Have we not cause for triumph, when we see Ourselves alone from idol-worship free? Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun, Where prostrate error hails the rising sun? Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain For superstitious rites and mirth profane? And should we mourn? Should coward Virtue fly, When vaunting Folly lifts her head on high? No! rather let us triumph still the more-- And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar.
_Air._
The triumphs that on vice attend Shall ever in confusion end; The good man suffers but to gain, And every virtue springs from pain:
As aromatic plants bestow No spicy fragrance while they grow; But crush’d, or trodden to the ground, Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative._
But, hush, my sons! our tyrant lords are near-- The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear; Triumphant music floats along the vale-- Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale: The growing note their swift approach declares-- Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
_Enter_ CHALDEAN PRIESTS, _attended_.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Air._
Come on, my companions, the triumphs display, Let rapture the minutes employ; The sun calls us out on this festival day, And our monarch partakes of the joy.
SECOND PRIEST.
Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies; Both similar blessings bestow: The sun with his splendour illumines the skies; And our monarch enlivens below.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
_Air._
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure; Love presents the fairest treasure; Leave all other sports for me.
CHALDEAN ATTENDANT.
Or rather, Love’s delights despising, Haste to raptures ever rising; Wine shall bless the brave and free.
FIRST PRIEST.
Wine and beauty thus inviting, Each to different joys exciting, Whither shall my choice incline?
SECOND PRIEST.
I’ll waste no longer thought in choosing, But, neither love nor wine refusing, I’ll make them both together mine.
_Recitative._
But whence, when joy should brighten o’er the land, This sullen gloom in Judah’s captive band? Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung? Or why those harps on yonder willows hung? Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along, The day demands it; sing us Sion’s song, Dismiss your griefs, and join our tuneful choir; For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre?
SECOND PROPHET.
Chain’d as we are, the scorn of all mankind, To want, to toil, and every ill consign’d-- Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, Or mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain? No, never! May this hand forget each art That wakes to finest joys the human heart, Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth!
FIRST PRIEST.
Rebellious slaves! if soft persuasion fail, More formidable terrors shall prevail.
FIRST PROPHET.
Why, let them come; one good remains to cheer-- We fear the Lord, and know no other fear. [_Exeunt_ CHALDEANS.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Can chains or tortures bend the mind On God’s supporting breast reclin’d? Stand fast,--and let our tyrants see That fortitude is victory. [_Exeunt._
ACT THE SECOND.
_Air._
CHORUS OF PRIESTS.
O Peace of Mind, angelic guest! Thou soft companion of the breast! Dispense thy balmy store; Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, Till earth, receding from our eyes, Shall vanish as we soar.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative._
No more! Too long has justice been delay’d-- The king’s commands must fully be obey’d; Compliance with his will your peace secures-- Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. But if, rebellious to his high command, You spurn the favours offer’d at his hand-- Think, timely think, what ills remain behind; Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind.
SECOND PRIEST.
Fierce is the tempest rolling Along the furrow’d main, And fierce the whirlwind howling, O’er Afric’s sandy plain: But storms that fly To rend the sky, Every ill presaging-- Less dreadful show To world’s below, Than angry monarch’s raging.
[Illustration]
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Recitative._
Ah, me! what angry terrors round us grow! How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten’d blow! Ye prophets, skill’d in Heaven’s eternal truth, Forgive my sex’s fears, forgive my youth, If shrinking thus, when frowning power appears, I wish for life, and yield me to my fears. Ah! let us one, one little hour obey; To-morrow’s tears may wash the stain away.
_Air._
The wretch condemn’d with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimmering taper’s light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter ray.
SECOND PRIEST.
_Recitative._
Why this delay? At length for joy prepare; I read your looks, and see compliance there. Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise, Our monarch’s name the noblest theme supplies. Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre; The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire.
CHALDEAN WOMAN.
_Air._
See the ruddy morning smiling, Hear the grove to bliss beguiling; Zephyrs through the woodland playing, Streams along the valley straying.
FIRST PRIEST.
While these a constant revel keep, Shall Reason only teach to weep? Hence, intruder! we’ll pursue Nature--a better guide than you.
SECOND PRIEST.
_Air._
Every moment, as it flows, Some peculiar pleasure owes; Come, then, providently wise, Seize the debtor ere it flies.
Think not to-morrow can repay The debt of pleasure lost to-day. Alas! to-morrow’s richest store Can but pay its proper score.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative._
But, hush! see foremost of the captive choir, The master-prophet grasps his full-ton’d lyre; Mark where he sits, with executing art, Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart. See, how prophetic rapture fills his form, Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm! And now his voice, accordant to the string, Prepares our monarch’s victories to sing.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Air._
From north, from south, from east, from west, Conspiring nations come; Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast; Blasphemers, all be dumb.
The tempest gathers all around-- On Babylon it lies; Down with her! down--down to the ground: She sinks, she groans, she dies.
SECOND PROPHET.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust, Before yon setting sun; Serve her as she hath serv’d the just: ’Tis fix’d--it shall be done.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative._
No more! when slaves thus insolent presume, The king himself shall judge, and fix their doom. Short-sighted wretches! have not you and all Beheld our power in Zedekiah’s fall? To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes-- See, where dethron’d your captive monarch lies; Depriv’d of sight, and rankling in his chain, See where he mourns his friends and children slain. Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confin’d.
CHORUS.
Arise, All-potent Ruler, rise, And vindicate thy people’s cause,-- Till every tongue, in every land, Shall offer up unfeign’d applause. [_Exeunt._
[Illustration]
ACT THE THIRD.
SCENE, _as before_.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative._
Yes, my companions, Heaven’s decrees are past, And our fix’d empire shall for ever last: In vain the madd’ning prophet threatens woe-- In vain Rebellion aims her secret blow; Still shall our name and growing power be spread, And still our justice crush the traitor’s head.
_Air._
Coeval with man Our empire began, And never shall fall, Till ruin shakes all; With the ruin of all, Then shall Babylon fall.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative._
’Tis thus that pride triumphant rears the head-- A little while, and all her power is fled. But, ha! what means yon sadly plaintive train, That onward slowly bends along the plain? And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear A pallid corse, and rest the body there. Alas! too well mine eyes indignant trace The last remains of Judah’s royal race: Fall’n is our king, and all our fears are o’er; Unhappy Zedekiah is no more.
_Air._
Ye wretches who, by fortune’s hate, In want and sorrow groan-- Come, ponder his severer fate, And learn to bless your own.
Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, Awhile the bliss suspend; Like yours, his life began in pride; Like his, your lives may end.
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative._
Behold his wretched corse, with sorrow worn, His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn; Those eyeless orbs which shook with ghastly glare, Those ill-becoming rags, that matted hair. And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low? How long, how long, Almighty Lord of all, Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall!
[Illustration]
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.
_Air._
As panting flies the hunted hind, Where brooks refreshing stray; And rivers through the valley wind, That stop the hunter’s way:
Thus we, O Lord, alike distrest, For streams of mercy long; Streams which can cheer the sore-opprest, And overwhelm the strong.
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative._
But, whence that shout? Good heavens! Amazement all! See yonder tower just nodding to the fall: Behold, an army covers all the ground; ’Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round: The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along-- How low the great, how feeble are the strong! And now, behold, the battlements recline-- O God of hosts, the victory is Thine!
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust-- Thy vengeance be begun; Serve her as she hath serv’d the just: And let Thy will be done.
FIRST PRIEST.
_Recitative._
All, all is lost! The Syrian army fails; Cyrus, the conqueror of the world, prevails! Save us, O Lord! to Thee, though late, we pray; And give repentance but an hour’s delay.
SECOND PRIEST.
_Air._
Thrice happy, who in happy hour To Heaven their praise bestow, And own His all-consuming power Before they feel the blow!
FIRST PROPHET.
_Recitative._
Now, now’s our time! ye wretches bold and blind, Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind; Ye seek in vain the Lord, unsought before-- Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom, are no more!
_Air._
O Lucifer! thou son of morn, Of Heaven alike and man the foe-- Heaven, men, and all, Now press thy fall, And sink thee lowest of the low.
[Illustration]
FIRST PROPHET.
O Babylon! how art thou fallen-- Thy fall more dreadful from delay! Thy streets forlorn To wilds shall turn, Where toads shall pant, and vultures prey!
SECOND PROPHET.
_Recitative._
Such be her fate! But, hark! how from afar The clarion’s note proclaims the finish’d war! Cyrus, our great restorer, is at hand, And this way leads his formidable band.
Now give your songs of Zion to the wind, And hail the benefactor of mankind: He comes, pursuant to Divine decree, To chain the strong, and set the captive free.
CHORUS OF YOUTHS.
Rise to raptures past expressing, Sweeter from remember’d woes; Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing, Comes to give the world repose.
CHORUS OF VIRGINS.
Cyrus comes, the world redressing, Love and pleasure in his train; Comes to heighten every blessing, Comes to soften every pain.
SEMI-CHORUS.
Hail to him, with mercy reigning, Skill’d in every peaceful art; Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining, Only binds the willing heart.
THE LAST CHORUS.
But chief to Thee, our God, our Father, Friend, Let praise be given to all eternity; O Thou, without beginning, without end-- Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE HAUNCH OF VENISON
AN EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.]
Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter Ne’er rang’d in a forest, or smok’d in a platter: The haunch was a picture for painters to study-- The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy. Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts in my chamber to place it in view, To be shown to my friends as a piece of _virtù_; As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;-- But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They’d as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. But hold--let me pause--Don’t I hear you pronounce This tale of the bacon a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce--sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. But, my lord, it’s no bounce: I protest in my turn, It’s a truth--and your lordship may ask Mr. Byrne.[8]
To go on with my tale--as I gaz’d on the Haunch, I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch-- So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, To paint it, or eat it, just as he lik’d best. Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose; ’Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe’s[9]-- But in parting with these I was puzzled again, With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when: There’s Coley,[10] and Williams, and H----rth, and Hiff-- I think they love ven’son--I know they love beef; There’s my countryman, Higgins--Oh! let him alone For making a blunder, or picking a bone. But, hang it--to poets, who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton ’s a very good treat; Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt, It’s like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. While thus I debated, in reverie centred, An acquaintance, a friend as he call’d himself, enter’d; An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smil’d as he look’d at the venison and me. “What have we got here?--Why, this is good eating! Your own, I suppose--or is it in waiting?” “Why, whose should it be, sir?” cried I, with a flounce; “I get these things often”--but that was a bounce: “Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas’d to be kind--but I hate ostentation.”
“If that be the case, then,” cried he, very gay, “I’m glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me: No words--I insist on’t--precisely at three. We’ll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I’d ask my Lord Clare. And now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out the dinner. What say you?--a pasty?--it shall, and it must; And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter!--this venison with me to Mile End; No stirring, I beg--my dear friend--my dear friend!” Thus snatching his hat, he brush’d off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow’d behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, And “nobody with me at sea but myself;”[11] Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, Were things that I never dislik’d in my life-- Though clogg’d with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife; So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine, (A chair-lumber’d closet, just twelve feet by nine)-- My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come; “For I knew it,” he cried, “both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and t’ other with Thrale. But no matter, I’ll warrant we’ll make up the party With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They ’re both of them merry, and authors, like you; The one writes the _Snarler_, the other the _Scourge_; Some think he writes _Cinna_--he owns to _Panurge_.” While thus he describ’d them by trade and by name, They enter’d, and dinner was serv’d as they came.
At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinach and pudding made hot; In the middle a place where the pasty--was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it’s my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round. But what vex’d me most was that d--d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue; And, “Madam,” quoth he, “may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on: Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I’ve eat of your tripe till I’m ready to burst.” “The tripe,” quoth the Jew, “if the truth I may speak, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week; I like these here dinners so pretty and small-- But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.” “Oh, oh!” quoth my friend, “he’ll come on in a trice-- He’s keeping a corner for something that’s nice. There’s a Pasty”--“A Pasty!” repeated the Jew; “I don’t care if I keep a corner for ’t too.” “What the De’il, mon, a Pasty!” re-echoed the Scot; “Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for that.” “We’ll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out; “We’ll all keep a corner,” was echo’d about. While thus we resolv’d, and the Pasty delay’d, With looks that quite petrified, enter’d the maid; A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak’d Priam, in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly found out--for who could mistake her?-- That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven Had shut out the Pasty on shutting his oven. Sad Philomel thus--but let similes drop-- And now that I think on’t, the story may stop. To be plain, my good lord, it’s but labour misplac’d, To send such good verses to one of your taste. You’ve got an odd something--a kind of discerning-- A relish--a taste--sicken’d over by learning; At least, it’s your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that’s your own; So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
[Illustration]
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Lord Clare’s nephew.
[9] Miss Dorothy Monroe.
[10] Colman.
[11] From a letter of the Duke of Cumberland.
[Illustration: RETALIATION]