Part 10

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 20 _Alexander Pope._

CXXXVI

_STELLA’S BIRTHDAY. 1720._

All travellers at first incline Where’er they see the fairest sign; And, if they find the chambers neat, And like the liquor and the meat, Will call again, and recommend 5 The Angel-inn to every friend. What though the painting grows decayed, The house will never lose its trade: Nay, though the treacherous tapster Thomas Hangs a new Angel two doors from us, 10 As fine as daubers’ hands can make it, In hopes that strangers may mistake it, We think it both a shame and sin To quit the true old Angel-inn. Now this is Stella’s case in fact, 15 An angel’s face a little cracked: (Could poets or could painters fix How angels look at thirty-six:) This drew us in at first to find In such a form an angel’s mind; 20 And every virtue now supplies The fainting rays of Stella’s eyes. See at her levee crowding swains, Whom Stella freely entertains With breeding, humour, wit, and sense; 25 And puts them but to small expense; Their mind so plentifully fills, And makes such reasonable bills, So little gets for what she gives, We really wonder how she lives; 30 And, had her stock been less, no doubt She must have long ago run out. Then who can think we’ll quit the place, When Doll hangs out a newer face? Or stop and light at Chloe’s head, 35 With scraps and leavings to be fed? Then, Chloe, still go on to prate Of thirty-six and thirty-eight; Pursue your trade of scandal-picking, Your hints that Stella is no chicken; 40 Your inuendos, when you tell us That Stella loves to talk with fellows; And let me warn you to believe A truth, for which your soul should grieve; That, should you live to see the day 45 When Stella’s locks must all be grey, When age must print a furrowed trace On every feature of her face; Though you, and all your senseless tribe, Could art, or time, or nature bribe, 50 To make you look like Beauty’s Queen, And hold for ever at fifteen; No bloom of youth can ever blind The cracks and wrinkles of your mind: All men of sense will pass your door, 55 And crowd to Stella’s at fourscore. _Jonathan Swift._

CXXXVII

_ON THE PROSPECT OF PLANTING ARTS AND LEARNING IN AMERICA._

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time, Producing subjects worthy fame.

In happy climes, where from the genial sun 5 And virgin earth such scenes ensue, The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true.

In happy climes, the seat of innocence, Where nature guides, and virtue rules, 10 Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools.

There shall be sung another Golden Age, The rise of empire and of arts, The good and great inspiring epic rage, 15 The wisest heads and noblest hearts:

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay; Such as she bred when fresh and young, When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. 20

Westward the course of empire take its way; The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day; Time’s noblest offspring is the last. _George Berkeley._

CXXXVIII

_THE LAWYER’S FAREWELL TO HIS MUSE._

As, by some tyrant’s stem command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam, An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way; 5 And dreads to go; nor dares to stay; Till on some neighbouring mountain’s brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: 10 So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay Queen of fancy and of art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind, Oft stop, and often look behind. Companion of my tender age, 15 Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, How blithsome were we wont to rove By verdant hill, or shady grove, Where fervent bees with humming voice Around the honied oak rejoice, 20 And agèd elms with awful bend In long cathedral walks extend! Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods, How blest my days, my thoughts how free, 25 In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded rolled along: But now the pleasing dream is o’er, These scenes must charm me now no more. 30 Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- Farewell! a long, a last adieu! Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: There selfish faction rules the day, 35 And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose revelry, and riot bold, In frighted streets their orgies hold; 40 Or, where in silence all is drowned, Fell murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you; Adieu, celestial Nymph, adieu! Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, 45 Nor all the art of Addison, Pope’s heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller’s ease, Nor Milton’s mighty self, must please: Instead of these a formal band, In furs and coifs, around me stand; 50 With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony, Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways 55 That lead me to the thorny maze. There, in a winding close retreat, Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; There fenced by bulwarks of the law, She keeps the wondering world in awe; 60 And there, from vulgar sight retired, Like eastern queens, is more admired. O let me pierce the secret shade Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark, with reverend awe, 65 The guardian of Britannia’s law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, The united boast of many an age; Where mixed, yet uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years; 70 In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true; And other doctrines thence imbibe Than lurk within the sordid scribe; Observe how parts with parts unite 75 In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend By various laws to one great end: While mighty Alfred’s piercing soul Pervades and regulates the whole. 80 Then welcome business, welcome strife, Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, The visage wan, the pore-blind sight, The toil by day, the lamp at night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, 85 The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy bench, the babbling hall, For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! Thus though my noon of life be passed, Yet let my setting sun, at last, 90 Find out the still, the rural cell, Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! There let me taste the homefelt bliss Of innocence, and inward peace; Untainted by the guilty bribe, 95 Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; No orphan’s cry to wound my ear; My honour and my conscience clear; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend. 100 _Sir William Blackstone._

CXXXIX

_THE JUGGLERS._

A Juggler long through all the town Had rais’d his fortune and renown; You’d think (so far his art transcends) The devil at his fingers’ ends. Vice heard his fame, she read his bill; 5 Convinced of his inferior skill, She sought his booth, and from the crowd Defied the man of art aloud. ‘Is this then he so famed for sleight? Can this slow bungler cheat your sight? 10 Dares he with me dispute the prize? I leave it to impartial eyes.’ Provoked, the Juggler cried, ’Tis done; In science I submit to none.’ Thus said, the cups and balls he played; 15 By turns this here, that there, conveyed. The cards, obedient to his words, Are by a fillip turned to birds. His little boxes change the grain: Trick after trick deludes the train. 20 He shakes his bag, he shows all fair; His fingers spread, and nothing there; Then bids it rain with showers of gold; And now his ivory eggs are told; But, when from thence the hen he draws, 25 Amazed spectators hum applause. Vice now stept forth, and took the place, With all the forms of his grimace. ‘This magic looking-glass,’ she cries, ‘(There, hand it round) will charm your eyes.’ 30 Each eager eye the sight desired, And every man himself admired. Next, to a senator addressing, ‘See this bank-note; observe the blessing. Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! ’tis gone.’ 35 Upon his lips a padlock shown. A second puff the magic broke; The padlock vanished, and he spoke. Twelve bottles ranged upon the board, All full, with heady liquor stored, 40 By clean conveyance disappear, And now two bloody swords are there. A purse she to a thief exposed; At once his ready fingers closed. He opes his fist, the treasure’s fled: 45 He sees a halter in its stead. She bids Ambition hold a wand; He grasps a hatchet in his hand. A box of charity she shows. ‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden blows. 50 ’Tis vanish’d with conveyance neat, And on the table smokes a treat. She shakes the dice, the board she knocks, And from all pockets fills her box. A counter, in a miser’s hand, 55 Grew twenty guineas at command. She bids his heir the sum retain, And ’tis a counter now again. A guinea with her touch you see Take every shape but Charity; 60 And not one thing you saw, or drew, But changed from what was first in view. The Juggler now, in grief of heart, With this submission owned her art: ‘Can I such matchless sleight withstand? 65 How practice hath improved your hand! But now and then I cheat the throng; You every day, and all day long.’ _John Gay._

CXL

_RULE BRITANNIA._

When Britain first at Heaven’s command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! 5 Britons never shall be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. 10

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne’er shall tame; 15 All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 20 All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine!

The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned, 25 And manly hearts to guard the fair:-- Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves! _James Thomson._

CXLI

_ADMIRAL HOSIER’S GHOST._

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO BY ADMIRAL VERNON. NOV. 22, 1739.

As near Porto-Bello lying On the gently swelling flood, At midnight with streamers flying Our triumphant navy rode: There while Vernon sat all-glorious 5 From the Spaniards’ late defeat; And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England’s fleet;

On a sudden, shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; 10 Then each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appeared, All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded, 15 Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon’s wan lustre, When the shade of Hosier brave His pale bands was seen to muster, Rising from their watery grave: 20 O’er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail:

‘Heed, O heed, our fatal story. 25 I am Hosier’s injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello’s ruin You now triumph free from fears, 30 When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears.

‘See these mournful spectres, sweeping Ghastly o’er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; 35 These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers pale and horrid, Those were once my sailors bold, Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told. 40

‘I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight: Oh! that in this rolling ocean 45 I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart’s warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain.

‘For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty ships had done 50 What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver 55 Of this gallant train had been.

‘Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her galleons leading home, Though condemned for disobeying, I had met a traitor’s doom; 60 To have fall’n, my country crying He has played an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a grieved and broken heart.

‘Unrepining at thy glory, 65 Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier’s wrongs prevail; Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, 70 Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain.

‘Hence, with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending, 75 Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing, We recall our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom. 80

‘O’er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam, deprived of rest, If to Britain’s shores returning, You neglect my just request. After this proud foe subduing, 85 When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England shamed in me.’ _Richard Glover._

CXLII

_LAMENT FOR FLODDEN._

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. 4

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lassies are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; 10 At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- 15 The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

’Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. 20

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away. _Jane Elliott._

CXLIII

_WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE._

A wee bird came to our ha’ door; He warbled sweet and clearly; And aye the o’ercome o’ his sang Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ Oh! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird, 5 The tears came drapping rarely; I took my bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie.

Quoth I; ‘My bird, my bonny, bonny bird, Is that a tale ye borrow? 10 Or is’t some words ye’ve learned by rote, Or a lilt o’ dool and sorrow?’ Oh no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang, ‘I’ve flown sin’ morning early; But sic a day o’ wind and rain-- 15 Oh wae’s me for Prince Charlie!

O’er hills that are by right his ain He roams a lonely stranger; On ilka hand he’s pressed by want, On ilka side by danger. 20 Yestreen I met him in the glen, My heart near bursted fairly: For sadly changed indeed was he-- Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!

‘Dark night came on; the tempest howled 25 Out owre the hills and valleys; And whare was’t that your Prince lay down, Whase hame should be a palace? He rowed him in a Highland plaid, Which covered him but sparely, 30 And slept beneath a bush o’ broom-- Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’

But now the bird saw some red coats, And he shook his wings wi’ anger: ‘Oh, this is no a land for me-- 35 I’ll tarry here nae langer.’ A while he hovered on the wing, Ere he departed fairly; But weel I mind the farewell strain-- ’Twas ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ 40 _William Glen._

CXLIV

_AN ODE._

IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS.

What constitutes a State? Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, 5 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No:--men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued 10 In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude; Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, 15 And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: These constitute a State, And sovereign Law, that State’s collected will, O’er thrones and globes elate, Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill. 20 Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks, And e’en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, 25 Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall Freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave, 30 ’Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave. _Sir William Jones._

CXLV

_ODE._

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod 5 Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 10 And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there! _William Collins._

CXLVI

_ODE TO THE CUCKOO._

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green, 5 Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, 10 And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, 15 And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. 20

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year!

Oh could I fly, I’d fly with thee! 25 We’d make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o’er the globe, Companions of the spring. _John Logan._

CXLVII

_ODE TO EVENING._

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs, Thy springs, and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired Sun 5 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove, O’erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; 10 Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises ’midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum; Now teach me, Maid composed, 15 To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial loved return! 20

For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp The fragrant Hours, and Elves Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, 25 And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive Pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; Or find some ruin ’midst its dreary dells, 30 Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut, That from the mountain’s side 35 Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires; And hears their simple bell, and marks o’er all Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. 40

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; 45 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train, And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, 50 Thy gentlest influence own, And love thy favourite name! _William Collins._

CXLVIII

_TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY._

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flower, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, 5 Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet Wi’ speckled breast, 10 When upward-springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 15 Amid the storm; Scarce reared above the parent-earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield, 20 But thou, beneath the random bield O’ clod, or stane, Adorns the histie stubble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 25 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! 30

Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet floweret of the rural shade! By love’s simplicity betrayed, And guileless trust, Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 35 Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless-starred! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, 40 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven 45 To misery’s brink, Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined, sink!