V.

Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some sober quiz reply, Poor child of Folly! what art thou? A Bond-Street butterfly? Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets, No taste hast thou of vernal sweets, Enslav’d by noise, and dress, and play; Ere thou art to the country flown, The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone, Then leave the town in May.

From _The Fashionable World Displayed_. By John Owen. London, 1804,

――――

ODE ON THE CLOSING OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, _By George, Prince Regent, in_ 1816.

Lo! where the scarlet-bosom’d band, The REGENT’S pomp, appear; Lo! where the Commons crowding stand, The Session’s close to hear!

The spangled Ruler pours his throat, Responsive to the Speaker’s note, Well-prim’d his part to play; While Placemen, Pensioners, and Peers, By listening with attentive ears, Their ready tribute pay.

Where the old tapestry figures stretch Their cobwebs round the throne; Where note-takers contrive to catch No meaning but their own;

Viewing the REGENT’S well-plum’d head, Some time I stood, then whisp’ring said, As much I marvell’d at his hat―― How true to Nature is his wig; What beaux, what triflers are the big! What Dandies are the fat!

The Treasury tribe is on the wing, Eager to end their troubled Spring, And bask them in the Summer noon; Some prosing in the lobby wait, Some show their star-bedizen’d state, Or Cossack pantaloon.

To Contemplation’s sober eye, Such is the race of man; And they that speak, and they that try, Must end where they began.

Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some holder of a place―― “Poor moralist! and what art thou? A patriot in disgrace!

“Thy hand no gracious REGENT meets, No hive hast thou of pension sweets―― No stars, no riband to display; In rebel speech thy hope is flown; Thy name is up, thy party known―― We pocket while we may.”

From _The New Tory Guide_. London: Ridgeway, 1819.

――――:o:――――

ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. _Drowned in a Tub_[28] _of Gold Fishes._

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side, Where China’s gayest art had dy’d The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclin’d, Gaz’d on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declar’d; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr’d applause.

Still had she gaz’d; but ’midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide[29] The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue Thro’ richest purple to the view Betray’d a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch’d, in vain, to reach the prize, What female heart can gold despise? What Cat’s averse to fish?

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch’d, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smil’d) The slipp’ry verge her feet beguil’d, She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery God, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard: A Fav’rite has no friend.

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know one false step is ne’er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wondering eyes, And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens,[30] gold.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

ODE _On the death of a favourite, who was nearly drowned in the River Thames._

’Twas in a new-constructed boat, Which Acre’s hero set afloat The Treasury Bench to show, Demurest of the placeman kind, The gentle Castlereagh[31] reclin’d, Gazed on the Thames below

His tail, which he so lately turn’d, The face which ne’er with shame had burn’d. His powerful grasp of paws! The coat which he had often chang’d His ears _still_ left, and eyes which rang’d He saw, and smil’d, applause.

Still had he gaz’d; but ’midst the tide Some Downshire voters seemed to glide, With aspect sweet and mild: Their lists of freeholds in their hand With names of those they could command, Betray’d this ardent child.

The hapless youth with transport saw; A prosing speech, and then a claw, To gain the sturdy race He stretch’d in vain to reach the prize; Nor could _he_ well such fish despise, Who is so fond of _Place_.

Presumptuous youth! with looks intent, Again he stretched, again he bent, Nor saw the gulf between: Malignant Fate sat by and smil’d The slippery verge his feet beguil’d, He tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the Thames, He call’d his messmates by their names, Some speedy aid to send: No Phipps, no Long, no Premier heard, (Because he slept), nor Mulgrave stirr’d―― A fav’rite has no friend.

From hence, ye placemen, undeceiv’d, Know, one false step is ne’er retriev’d; Be warn’d by this sad hour; Not all that tempts your wand’ring eyes And hearts corrupt, is lawful prize, Nor all within your pow’r.

From _The Spirit of the Public Journals_. 1805. James Ridgway. London.

――――

PARODY OF GRAY’S ODE. _On a Cat drowned in a tub of Gold Fishes._

’Twas on the pavement of a lane, Where a hard shower of soaking rain Had made a pretty mess; A buck advanc’d with careful strut, For fear a sprinkle from the rut Should soil his lily dress.

His powder’d head, his silken hose, The dashing buckles on his toes, Seem’d suited for a court; The muslin round a pudding roll’d In which he kept his chin from cold, Was of the finest sort.

He trod on slow; but ’midst the tide A brewer’s dray was seen to glide―― Unmindful of the mud; Before which stalked, with steps quite bold, Two high-fed steeds of beauteous mould―― The pride of Whitbread’s stud.

The splashing made on every side The lane, which was not over wide, Quite terrified the elf: He saw the careless steeds come on, But dar’d not stand, nor dar’d to run―― Lest he should splash himself.

At length, poor youth! he made a stop, And would have got into a shop―― But, ah! the door was shut! When lo! th’ advanc’d procession greets The hapless beau with all the sweets Collected in the rut!

He swore, and call’d the drayman wight Untaught, unlearn’d, and unpolite, And said he’d thrash the blade; But he did not――good reason why; Alas, no Hercules was nigh, To give Narcissus aid!

Then, all ye bucks who walk the street, So spruce, so buxom, and so neat, Learn this sad tale by reading, To keep at home on rainy days Lest you should meet with any drays―― For draymen have no breeding!

_The Morning Chronicle._ 1800.

A parody, entitled “Ode on the amputation of a Cat’s Tail,” was published by B. Flower, Cambridge, 1795, in a pamphlet entitled “_Scraps and Essays_, by a Cantab.”

There is no merit in the parody to atone for the choice of such a disgusting theme for an ode.

Another political imitation of this ode appeared in _The St. James’s Chronicle_ relating to John, Earl of Bute, the Prime Minister in 1762, who was so bitterly attacked by Junius, and John Wilkes. This nobleman, who had been tutor to George III., was nicknamed “Jack Boot,” and in the popular caricatures of the day was represented as a large jack boot surmounted by his head.

The parody possesses little interest, it commences thus:――

’Twas on the lofty Treasury’s side Where Walpole’s basest arts had tried The wistful Briberies that flow; Most ambitious of the Plaidy kind, The upshot Bute reclined, Gazed on the gold below.

His country’s hopes his joy declared, His freckled face, his grizzled beard, The talons of his paws, His Plaid, that with the Rainbow vies, His downcast looks, and jaundiced eyes, He said, and hummed applause.

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

[This was the first English production of Mr. Gray that appeared in print, and was published in folio, by Dodsley, in 1747.]

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat’ry glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her HENRY’S holy shade[32]; And ye, that from the stately brow Of WINDSOR’S heights th’ expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way:

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields belov’d in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray’d, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth, And, redolent of joy and youth To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father THAMES, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace; Who foremost now delight to cleave, With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle’s speed, Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent, Their murm’ring labours ply ’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by Fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast; Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue, Wild Wit, Invention ever-new, And lively Cheer, of Vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th’ approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see, how all around ’em wait The Ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune’s baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd’rous band! Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag’d comfortless Despair, And Sorrow’s piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness’ alter’d eye, That mocks the tear it forc’d to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil’d, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath, A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemn’d alike to groan; The tender for another’s pain, Th’ unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since Sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their Paradise, No more;――where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

ODE ON RANELAGH.[33] _Addressed to the Ladies._

Ye dazzling lamps, ye Jocund fires, That from yon fabric shine, Where grateful pleasure yet admires Her Lacy’s great design: And ye who from the fields which lie Round Chelsea, with amazement’s eye, The gardens and the dome survey, Whose walks, whose trees, whose lights among, Wander the courtly train along Their thought-dispelling way.

Ah splendid room! Ah, pleasing shade! Ah, walks belov’d in vain, Where oft in happier times I stray’d, A stranger then to pain: I feel the gales, which from you blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, They seem to sooth my famish’d soul And, redolent of tea and roll, To breathe a second spring.

Rotunda, say, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race In thy bright round with step serene, The paths of pleasure trace: Who chiefly now delight to lave Green hyson, in the boiling wave, The sable coffee, which distil? What longing progeny are found Who stroll incessant round and round Like horses in a mill?

While some on earnest business dream: And, gravely stupid, try To search each complicated scheme Of publick policy: Some ladies leave the spacious dome Around the garden’s maze to roam, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they walk they look behind, Lest fame a secret foe should find From some malicious eye.

Loud mirth is theirs, and pleasing praise, To beauty’s shrine address’d: The sprightly songs, the melting lays, Which charm the soften’d breast! Theirs lively wit, invention free, The sharp _bon mot_, keen repartee, And ev’ry art coquets employ! The thoughtless day, the jocund night, The spirits brisk, the sorrows light, That fly th’ approach of joy.

Alas! regardless of their doom The lovely victims rove; No sense of sufferings yet to come Can now their prudence move: But see! where all around them wait The ministers of female fate, An artful, perjur’d, cruel train; Ah! show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the faithless band Of false, deceitful men!

These shall the lust of gaming wear That harpy of the mind, With all the troop of rage and fear, That follows close behind: Or pining love shall waste their youth, Or jealousy, with rankling tooth, That gnaws bright Hymen’s golden chain, Who opens wide the fatal gate, For sad distrust and ruthless hate, And sorrow’s pallid train.

Ambition this shall tempt to fix Her hopes on something high, To barter for a coach and six Her peace and liberty. The stings of scandal these shall try, And affectation’s haughty eye That scowls on those it us’d to greet, The cutting sneer, the abusive song And false report that glides along, With never-resting feet.

And lo! when in the vale of years A grisly tribe are seen; Fancy’s pale family of fears, More hideous than their queen: Struck with th’ imaginary crew Which artless nature never knew, These aid from quacks, and cordials beg, While this, transform’d by folly’s hand, Remains awhile at her command A tea-pot, or an egg.

To each her suff’rings: all must grieve, And pour a silent groan, At homage others charms receive, Or slights that meet their own: But all the voice of truth severe Will suit the gay, regardless ear, Whose joy in mirth and revels lies! Thought would destroy this paradise. No more!――Where ignorance is bliss, ’Tis folly to be wise.

ANONYMOUS. 1775.

――――

The eminent, but eccentric architect, Sir John Soane, was satirised in _Knight’s Quarterly Magazine_ (No. 4, 1824), in an article by a witty critic, who, speaking of Dulwich College, said, “It is a fine specimen of Soane’s own original and best style,” and thus addresses it, in a parody of Gray:――

“Ye vases five, ye antic towers, That crown the turnpike glade, Where art, in dingy light adores Her _Bourgeois’_ ochrey shade;”

The poet then apostrophises the Superior of the College, who, by the will of its founder, Allen, must always bear the same name as himself:――

“Say, MASTER ALLEN, hast thou seen The connoisseuring race, Breathless, amazed, on Dulwich-green, My lines of beauty trace? Who foremost now delights to stop To look at God’s Gift[34] picture shop; Is’t _Nash_, or _Smirke_, or _Gwilt_? Do not the knowing loungers cry, ‘My eye!’ at my sarcophagi, And guess by whom ’twas built!”

* * * * *

――――

ODE ON THE DISTANT PROSPECT OF A GOOD DINNER.

Ye distant dishes, sideboards blest With Halford’s peptic pill―― Where grateful gourmands still attest Illustrious Robert’s skill; And ye that, girt with _legumes_ round, Or in the purest pastry bound, On silvery surface lie; Where _pâté_――_salmi_――_sauce tomate_, _Fricandeau_ framed with nicest art Attract the glist’ning eye.

Ah! richest scent! perfume beloved! Blest odours breathed in vain―― Where once my raptured palate roved, And fain would rove again. I feel the gales that now ascend, A momentary craving lend―― As curling round the vapours seem My faded faculties t’excite, Restore my long-pall’d appetite, And soothe me with their steam.

Say, Monsieur Ude, for thou hast seen Full many a jovial set Discoursing on _la bonne cuisine_, In social union met―― Who foremost now prepare to pray _Des cotelettes à la chicorée?_ _Sauté de saumon――qui l’attend?_ What young Amphitryons now vote Nothing like _pigeons en compote_, Or taste the _vol-au-vent_?

While some at lighter viands aim, And towards digestion lean, _Poularde aux truffes_, or _à la crème_, Or _agneau aux racines_; Some hardier epicures disdain The distant chance of doubtful pain, And _queue d’esturgeon_ try; Still as they eat they long to cease, They feel a pang as every piece Passes their palate by.

But lo! the _entremets_ are placed To greet the gourmand’s nose, Bedeck’d with all the pride of paste, Confective prowess shows. One earnestly devotes his praise To _beignets a la lyonnaise_, Others survey with mix’d delight _Gelées d’orange_――_de marasquin_; While some, with looks ecstatic, scan The _soufflé’s_ buoyant height.

Best fair is theirs by ―――― fed, Less pleasing to digest; The taste soon gone, and in its stead, Oppression on the chest. Theirs joyous hours, and jocund nights, Wit’s playful sallies, fancy’s flights, And goodly cheer as e’er was seen―― The aged Hock――the Champagne bright, Burgundia’s best, and Claret light, The vintage of nineteen.

Alas! regardless of their doom Each rich ragout they take, No sense have they of pains to come, Of head, or stomach-ache. Yet see how all around them press, Th’ attendants of each night’s excess; Fell Indigestion’s followers vile: Ah! show them where the hateful crew Scoff calomel and pills of blue, Ah! tell them they have bile.

These shall the Gout tormenting rack, The Vampire of the toes, Night-mare, Lumbago in the back, And Cholic’s painful throes; Or languid liver waste their youth, Or caries of a double tooth, Its victim’s nerves that nightly gnaws. Vertigo――Apoplexy――Spleen, The feverish hand――the visage green, The lengthen’d lanthorn jaws.

This, a _consommé_, precious prize! Is tempted now to try; To restless nights a sacrifice, And dire acidity. Till throbs of heart-burn――ague’s pangs, And Cholera’s fiercely fixing fangs, Have left him, liverless, to moan, The bloated form――the pimpled face, The tottering step――th’ expiring trace Of good digestion gone.

To each his twitches, all are men, Condemned to pick their bone; The poor man in another’s den, The rich man in his own. Yet, why should I of torments treat? Since we were made to drink and eat, Why should I prophesy their pain? Stomachs were form’d for holding food―― No more――while our digestion’s good, ’Tis folly to abstain.

From _Blackwood’s Magazine_, May, 1828.

――――

ODE ON A PROSPECT OF THE ABOLITION OF ETON MONTEM.

Ye distant spires, ye antique tow’rs. That crown the wat’ry glade, Where Aristocracy’s young flowers Bless Henry’s holy shade, For culture which the monarch meant For scholars poor and indigent; Unable for their lore to pay―― Some grumbling churls, in language strong, Pronounce this change a wicked wrong, No matter what they say!

Ah hapless tow’rs! ah luckless spires! Ah statutes shirk’d amain! That high-born sons of noble sires Might learning _gratis_ gain; The gales that from your quarters blow Oppress me with a sense of woe; For they a horrid rumour bring That Eton Montem is to be At length abolish’d――Goodness me! Oh what a shocking thing!

Say, Hill of Salt, for thou hast seen Full many a noble race Do what might be considered mean In any other case―― With cap in hand, and courtly leg, Waylay the traveller, and beg; Say, was it not a pleasing sight Those young Etonians to behold, For eleemosynary gold, Arrest the passing wight!

Whilst some, of more excursive bent, Their vagrant arts to ply, To all the various places went, That in the neighbourhood lie; To Datchet, Slough, or Horton they, Or e’en to Colnbrook, took their way, Or ancient Windsor’s regal town; Stopp’d everybody they could meet, Knock’d at each house in every street, In hopes of half-a-crown.

Gay clothes were theirs, by fancy made; Some were as Romans drest, Some in the Grecian garb array’d, Some bore the knightly crest; Theirs was attire of every hue, Of every fashion, old or new, Various as Nathan’s ample store: Angelic beings! Ladies! say, Will ye let these things pass away? Must Montem be no more?

Alas! our institutions old Are going, one by one; The work of innovation bold, With Montem has begun; Next flogging it will overthrow, And fagging, too, of course will go, And then farewell the good old school Science with Latin and with Greek To mix e’en now Reform would seek Ah, tell her she’s a fool!

To all their likings, and their taste, Their fancies and their qualms; Some gentlemen may feel debased By sons who ask for alms; Yet youthful Lord, and stripling Duke, To beg for salt, without rebuke, At Montem always were allowed:―― What argument can answer this? No more――where beggary is bliss, ’Tis folly to be proud.

_Punch._ December, 1846.

――――

ODE ON A CLOSE PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. (_By a Gray-Headed Wet Bob._)

Ye crumbling spires, ye antique towers,―― What, if ye were decayed! What, if your fragments fell in showers On HENRY’S holy shade! And what, if o’er your cloister walls Vague pencilled ornamental scrawls Afforded mute display; Should Vandals, who all things renew, Be down upon thy records too, And sweep them clean away!

But, there!――with taste he calls “correct,” ’Mid scenes of vanished days Your gay _restoring_ Architect The very dickens plays! Yet, as his brand-new work he vaunts, He gives us for our treasured haunts Red brick――and nothing more! Which drives Wet Bob to stick to this, “Where crumbling memories are bliss, ’Tis folly to restore!”

_Punch._ August 5, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE BARD.

A PINDARIC ODE.

[_This Ode is founded on a Tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. But this Tradition has long been known to be destitute of any reliable historical foundation._]