Chapter XXXI: Prologue (2)

Oh, fie on agitating elves
Who say the market is a blot!
They ought to murmur to themselves,
“The duke’s contented with the spot.”

He draws his rents, he hoards his gold;
What cares he for the vulgar throng!
They might just recollect, when told,
That dukes, like kings, can do no wrong.

_The Weekly Dispatch_, June, 1882.

――――:o:――――

MORAL SONGS FOR ELECTION-TIME.
(_After Dr. Watts_).

I.――PLAY (INNOCENT AND OTHERWISE).

Abroad in the Boroughs to see the Blue Lambs,
And the Red Lions rather too free of their dams,
Standing up for what both call their rights:
Or a knot of young roughs, whose right place were the cage,
Of their hustling and horse-play well-earning the wage,
Are not pleasant election-time sights.

If we’d been born Ducks, we _might_ dabble in mud;
Or Dogs, we might snarl till it ended in blood;
But _we_ claim to be rational creatures;
And DIZZY and GLADSTONE, and such pretty names,
We ought to know better than fling, to our shames,
Like mud, in each other’s flushed features.

Not a harsh thing Blues do, or a hard thing Buffs say,
But with Blue and Buff bills should be wiped clean away;
They are fools who let foolish words hurt.
Not so rough’s rude horseplay, who fight and throw mire,
Or, still worse, penmen’s frolic’s, who fling about fire
In Jingo Drawcansir disport.

――――――――

II.――LOVE BETWEEN REDS AND BLUES.

Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite――
They can’t use fists, we know――
Let Turk and Russ take wrong for right,
It is their nature to.

But, Britons, you should never let
Such Party-passions rise,
As, even at Election times,
To――blank――each other’s eyes!

Afghans, Zulus howe’er we treat,
Let’s keep the peace at home;
Where Rads and Jingoes share the street,
To cuffs they should not come.

Birds in their little nests agree,
And ’tis a painful sight,
When fools, though of one family,
Fall out and chide and fight.

Hard hustings-names, hot platform-words,
And blatant leaders’ breath,
Take shape in Clubs, Lies’ two-edged swords,
And mob-war to the death.

He’s wise who tongue and temper schools
Through the election fight,
Nor holdeth all his foes for fools,
Himself still in the right.

_Punch_, April 17, 1880.

――――:o:――――

WATTS’S INCOME TAX LOGIC.

When Bishops, who in wealth abound,
Return their incomes wrong,
And pocket several thousand pound
To them that don’t belong.

Oh, how can Government expect
A struggling chap like me
Should put his earnings down correct,
To fill up Schedule D?

_Punch_, April 16, 1853.

――――――――

HYMN BY A MEMBER OF THE PEACE CONGRESS.

How sweet a thing it is to dwell
In blessed u-ni-ty,
With envious passions ne’er to swell,
But cherish a-mi-ty.

How very sweet it is to take
Your little brother’s gold,
And make a snug pro-vi-sion
Against when we get old.

How very sweet it is――“Oh dear!”
Who hit me in the eye?
“Who kicked me then? Get out you brute!
Ah do――just only try――”

“I’ll tear your clothes clean off your back,
I’ll smash your ugly head;”
It’s done――three cheers for blessed peace!
My en-e-my is dead.

_The Tomahawk_, September 21, 1867.

――――――――

THE THIEF.

Why should I deprive my neighbour
Of his goods against his will?
Hands were made for honest labour,
Not to plunder, or to steal.
DR. WATTS.

――――――――
Why should I relieve my neighbour
With my goods against my will?
Can’t he live by honest labour
Can’t he borrow, can’t he steal?

――――――――

A PARAPHRASE.

[On the Rev. Dr. Watts’s Celebrated Distich, on the _Study of Languages_.]

Addressed to the young gentlemen of the English Grammar Schools, by one of their School-fellows.

“Let every foreign tongue alone
Till you can spell and read your own”
With equal justice, sense and truth,
So says the guide and friend of youth:
For ignorant in that, ’tis plain,
Your boast of literature is vain;
But make your own your first concern,
All others you may quickly learn:
And thus with minds prepar’d and free,
Their beauties taste, their idioms see.

Pedants may flout and keep a pother
About this language, and the other,
And swear that none can write or speak
Who have not Latin learn’d and Greek:
‘He of all judgement is depriv’d
‘Who knows not whence a word’s derived
‘And every Briton willy nilly,
‘Must dig good English out of Lilly;’
These are vague notions foster’d long
Crude in their birth, in practice wrong;
Like many more of ancient date,
Wisely reformed or obsolete.

Thousands ’tis true the course have run,
Which reason would have bid them shun:
’Tis common sense and good in law,
To furnish brick we should have straw.
But by the mystic code of schools
There’s neither straw allowed nor tools;
And years of pain, and learning’s stock,
Begin and end in _Hic_, _haec_, _hoc_!
What charms are there, in sense or sound
Of such intrinsic merit found,
That not thro’ prejudice to err,
Terms of our own we mayn’t prefer?
And just as well the purpose fit,
With Oxford writing,――he, she, it?
Or do they more in Church or State
Improve discourse, or point debate?

Poor boys in training, it appears,
Condemn’d to waste their tender years
On exercises which conduce
To little or no real use,
Seem to perpetuate Britain’s doom,
To groan beneath the yoke of Rome.
Rome that abandon’d us in need
Still o’er our judgment takes the lead;
We scout her eagles with disdain
The fasces still usurp domain;
Still, of court influence tho’ bereft,
In schools the badge of slavery’s left,
And interest still, or affectation,
Warps the free spirit of the nation;
Tho’ richer prospects grace our view
Than ever Greek or Roman knew,――
All must be through the classics led,
Before the horn-book well they’ve read;
A more oppressive task in fact
Than Ægypt’s tyrant could exact
Which genius in the cradle cramps,
And all her generous efforts damps;
But in your native language skill’d
You on a sure foundation build;
The edifice will rise sublime,
In perfect order, place, and time.
There, and there only should commence
The path to knowledge, wit and sense,
For there the young ingenious mind,
The road to excellence will find,
And in the flowery walks of science,
May bid disgraceful birch defiance;
But who, a novice there, aspires,
Must work his way through thorns and briars,
And when the craggy steeps are past,
May skulk a useless drone at last;
Nay, though he get A. B. at College,
Be stopt of his degree in knowledge.

Then cultivate your native soil,
The harvest will repay your toil;
And be it every parent’s care,
To plant the seeds of goodness there.

*.* The petty ambition of pretending to superior skill, in other languages, seems pleasantly and aptly ridiculed in the following anecdote:――

One of our modern modishly-bred ladies, boasting of her proficiency in the FRENCH tongue, asserted she understood and spoke it better than she did English; and for the truth, appealed to a French lady in company. The adroit Parisian very candidly and sensibly replied, “I am not, my dear madam, sufficiently acquainted with the English language to determine; but I should be ashamed and sorry to say, I spoke any language half so well as my own!”

From _A Collection of Poems_, by Samuel Whyte, Dublin, 1792.

John Milton,
_Born_ 1608. _Died in Bunhill Fields, London, November_ 8, 1674.

――――――――

arodies of Milton’s Poems are neither numerous, nor particularly amusing; the best known, and most admired, is undoubtedly “The Splendid Shilling,” written (in blank verse) about 1700, by John Philips. A biography of this author is included in Dr. Johnson’s “Lives of the Poets.” He was born at Bampton in Oxfordshire, on December 30, 1676. Being of a delicate constitution his chief amusement was reading, and as Milton was his favorite author, he chose his style for a parody, whilst he found a subject in the character of an impecunious college friend, who knew not how to keep a shilling in his pocket. “The Splendid Shilling” has one great charm, rare in such works, it is a burlesque in which nobody is ridiculed. John Philips died on February 15, 1708, and was buried in Hereford Cathedral. There is a tablet to his memory in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, which chronicles in high flown Latin phrases, his achievements in poetry. Of these the principal were “Blenheim,” and “Cider,” the latter being founded upon the model of Virgil’s _Georgics_.

The following is an exact reprint of a very early edition of

THE
SPLENDID SHILLING.
IN
IMITATION OF MILTON.

――――――――

――――_Sing Heavenly Muſe,
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme,
A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera’s dire_

Happy the Man, who void of Cares and Strife,
In Silken or in Leathern Purſe retains
A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain
New Oyſters cry’d, nor ſighs for cheerful Ale;
But with his Friends, when nightly Miſts ariſe,
To _Juniper’s_, or _Magpye_, or _Town-Hall_[49] repairs;
Where mindful of the Nymph, whose wanton Eye,
Transfix’d his Soul, and kindled Amorous flames,
_Chloe_ or _Phillis_; he each Circling Glass
Wiſheth her Health, and Joy, and equal Love.
Mean while he Smoaks, and Laughs at Merry Tale,
Or _Pun_ ambiguous, or _Conundrum_ quaint.
But I whom griping Penury ſurrounds,
And Hunger, ſure Attendant upon Want,
With ſcanty Offals, and ſmall acid Tiff
(Wretched Repast) my meagre Corps sustain:
Then Solitary walk, or doze at home
In Garret vile, and with a warming puff
Regale chill’d Fingers, or from Tube as black
As Winter’s Chimney, or well-poliſh’d Jett,
Exhale _Mundungus_, ill-perfuming Smoak.
Not blacker Tube, nor of a ſhorter Size
Smoaks _Cambro-Britain_ (vers’d in Pedigree,
Sprung from _Cadwalader_ and _Arthur_, ancient Kings,
Full famous in Romantick tale) when he
O’re many a craggy Hill, and fruitleſs Cliff,
Upon a Cargo of fam’d _Ceſtrian_ Cheese,
High over-ſhadowing rides, with a deſign
To vend his Wares, or at the _Arvonian_ Mart,
Or _Maridunum_, or the ancient Town
Hight _Morgannumia_, or where _Vaga’s_ Stream
Encircles _Ariconium_, fruithful Soil,
Whence flow Nectareous Wines, that well may vye
With _Massic_, _Setian_, or Renown’d _Falern_.
Thus while my joyleſs Hours I lingring spend,
With Looks demure, and ſilent pace a _Dunn_,
Horrible Monſter! hated by Gods and Men,
To my aerial Citadel ascends;
With Vocal Heel thrice Thund’ring at my Gates,
With hideous Accent thrice he calls; I know
The Voice ill boding, and the solemn Sound;
What should I do, or whither turn? amaz’d
Confounded, to the dark recess I fly
Of Woodhole; ſtreight my briſtling Hairs erect
My Tongue forgets her Faculty of Speech,
So horrible he seems; his faded Brow
Entrench’d with many a Frown, and _conic_ Beard,
And ſpreading Band admir’d by Modern Saint
Diſaſtrous acts forebode; in his Right hand
Long Scrolls of Paper ſolemnly he waves,
With Characters and Figures dire inſcribed
Grievous to mortal Eye, (ye Gods avert
Such plagues from righteous men) behind him ſtalks
Another Monſter, not unlike himſelf,
Of Aſpect ſullen, by the Vulgar called
A _Catchpole_, whoſe polluted hands the Gods
With Force incredible, and Magic Charms
Erſt have indu’d, if he his ample Palm
Should haply on ill-fated Shoulder lay
Of Debtor, ſtreight his Body to the touch
Obſequious (as Whilom Knights were wont)
To ſome enchanted Castle is convey’d,
Where Gates impregnable, and coercive Charms
In durance vile detain him, till in form
Of Money, _Pallas_ ſet the Captive free.
Beware, ye Debtors, when ye walk, beware,
Be circumſpect; oft with inſidious Ken,
This Caitiff eyes your ſteps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a Creek or gloomy Cave,
Prompt to enchant ſome inadvertent wretch
With his unhallow’d Touch. So (Poets ſing)
_Grimalkin_ to Domeſtick Vermin ſworn
An everlaſting Foe, with watchful eye,
Lyes nightly brooding ore a chinky gap,
Protending her fell claws, to thoughtleſs Mice
Sure ruin. So her diſembowell’d Web
The _Spider_ in a Hall or Kitchin ſpreads,
Obvious to vagrant Flies; ſhe ſecret ſtands,
Within her woven Cell; the Humming Prey
Regardleſs of their Fate, ruſh on the toils
Inextricable, nor will ought avail
Their Arts nor Arms, nor Shapes of lovely Hue,
The Waſp inſidious, and the buzzing Drone,
And Butterfly proud of expanded wings
Diſtinct with Gold, entangled in her Snares,
Uſeleſs reſiſtance make: with eager ſtrides
She tow’ring flies to her expected Spoils;
Then with envenom’d Jaws the vital Blood
Drinks of reluctant Foes, and to her Cave
Their bulky Carcaſſes triumphant drags.

So paſs my days. But when Nocturnal Shades
This World invelop, and th’inclement Air
Perſwades Men to repel benumming Froſts,
With pleaſant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood;
Me lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering Light
Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk
Of lovely friends delights; diſtreſs’d, forlorn,
Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night,
Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal Thoughts
My anxious Mind; or ſometimes mournful Verſe
Indite, and ſing of Groves and Myrtle Shades,
Or deſperate Lady near a purling stream,
Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree;
Mean while I labour with eternal drought,
And reſtleſs wiſh, in vain, my parched Throat
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe;
But if a Slumber haply do’s invade
My weary Limbs, my Fancy ſtill awake,
Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream,
Tipples imaginary Pots of Ale.
Awake, I find the ſetled Thirſt—
Still gnawing, and the pleaſant Phantom curſe.

Thus do I live from Pleaſure quitte debarr’d,
Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun’s genial Rays
Mature, John-apple nor the Downy Peach,
Nor Walnut in rough-furrow’d Coat ſecure,
Nor Medlar Fruit delicious in decay;
Afflictions great, yet greater ſtill remain,
My _Galligaskings_ that have long withſtood
The Winter’s Fury, and encroaching Froſts
By time subdu’d, (what will not time ſubdue!)
A horrid Chaſm diſcloſe, with Orifice
Wide diſcontinuous; at which the Winds
_Eurus_ and _Auſter_, and the dreadful force
Of Boreas, that congeals the _Cronian_ Waves,
Tumultuous enter with dire chilling Blaſts,
Portending Agues. Thus a well-fraught Ship
Long ſail’d ſecure, or through the _Egean_ Deep,
Or the _Ionian_, till Cruſing near
The _Lilybean_ Shoar, with hideous Cruſh
On _Scylla_ or _Charibdis_ dangerous Rocks
She ſtrikes rebounding, whence the ſhatter’d Oak,
So fierce a Shock unable to withſtand,
Admits the Sea, in at the gaping Side,
The crouding Waves guſh with impetuous Rage,
Reſiſtleſs overwhelming; Horrors ſeize
The Mariners, Death in their eyes appears,
They ſtare, they lave, they pump, they ſwear, they pray.
Vain Efforts, ſtill the battering Waves ruſh in
Implacable, till delug’d by the foam,
The Ship ſinks found’ring in the vast Abyſs.

――――――――

SIR RICHARD STEELE, in “The Tatler,” pronounced “The Splendid Shilling” to be the finest Burlesque Poem in the English language, and DR. JOHNSON praised it as an admirable imitation of the stately movement of Milton’s blank verse, whilst OLIVER GOLDSMITH, in his Criticisms, says “This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our language; it has been an hundred times imitated without success.”

It is a pity that Dr. Goldsmith did not more particularly describe these imitations, as after much searching only about half a dozen have come to light, all of them somewhat old fashioned in subject and manner of treatment.

One of the best, written by Mr. Bramston (author of The Man of Taste, The Art of Politics etc.) was entitled _The Crooked Sixpence_, and may be found occasionally in old books of Comic Recitations, and Elegant Extracts. Unfortunately no “Elegant Extracts” can be taken from it suitable for the chaste pages of _Parodies_, for the poem relates to such a topic as might have afforded excellent material to Rabelais, or Chaucer, but which cannot be alluded to in our more refined times.

A few years after the publication of _The Splendid Shilling_, a small pamphlet appeared, entitled “WINE, A POEM. To which is added, _Old_ ENGLAND’S _New Triumph; or, the Battle of_ AUDENARD, A SONG.” London: Printed and sold by H. Hills in Black-fryars, near the Water-Side, 1709. No author’s name is given; the poem certainly deserves to be preserved, as an early and interesting imitation of Milton’s blank verse. The song of the “Battle of Audenard” is not a parody.

WINE, A POEM.

_Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,
Quæ Scribuntur aquæ portoribus._
Epist. 19, Lib. 1, Hor.

Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source
Whence human Pleasure flow, sing _Heavenly_ Muse,
Of sparkling juices, of the enliv’ning Grape,
Whose quickning Taste adds Vigour to the Soul,
Whose Sov’raign pow’r revives decaying Nature,
And thaws the frozen Blood of Hoary Age
A kindly Warmth diffusing, Youthful fires
Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue
His Wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:
Cordial restorative to mortal Man
With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d.

_Bacchus_ Divine, aid my advent’rous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar.
Inspir’d, Sublime on _Pegaseon_ Wing
By thee upborn, I draw _Miltonic_ Air.

When fumy Vapour clog our loaded Brows
With furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes
Th’ external Symptoms of remorse within,
Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps
With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm,
Moaping we sit, in silent sorrow drown’d:
Whether inveigling _Hymen_ has trapan’d
Th’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the _Gordian_ Knot
Of jangling Wedlock _Indissoluble_;
Worried all Day by loud _Zantippes_ Din,
And when the gentle dew of sleep inclines,
With slumb’rous Weight his Eye-lids She inflam’d
With Uncloyed Lust, and Itch Insatiable,
His stock exhausted, still yells on for more;
Nor fail She to exalt him to the Stars,
And fixt him there among the Branched Crew
(_Taurus_, and _Aries_, and _Capricorn_,)
The greatest Monster of the _Zodiac_;
Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf
Or _Celia’s_ scornful flights, and cold disdain
Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse,
The worst Events that mortals can befal;
By cares depress’d in pensive _Hypoish_ mood,
With slowest pace, the tedious minutes Roll.

Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust
New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood,
Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping Fronts,
And pour in chrystal pure, thy purer Juice,
With cheerful Countenance and steady Hand
Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spacious Rim
Th’ expecting Mouth, and now with grateful Tast,
The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’re the Tongue,
The circling Blood with quicker motion flies;
Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou strait
Dispell’dst those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d
To whilom Glories of our gladsom Face
And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes,
Thy cheering Virtues, and thy worth proclaim.
So _Mists_ and _Exhalations_ that arise
From Hills or streamy Lake, Dusky or Gray
Prevail, till _Phœbus_ sheds _Titanian_ Rays,
And paints their Fleecy Skirts with shining Gold,
Unable to resist the Foggy Damps
That veild the Surface of the verdant Fields,
At the God’s penetrating Beams disperse:
The Earth again in former Beauty smiles,
In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

When disappointed _Strephon_ meets Repulse,
Scoff’d at, despised, in melancholick mood
Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours,
Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty Aid,
He Storms the Breach, and wins the Beauteous Fort.

To pay thee Homage, and receive thy Blessings,
The _British_ Mariner quits native shore,
And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss,
Ploughing the Ocean, whilst the _Upheav’d_ Oak
With beaked Prow, Rides tilting o’re the Waves;
Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls
In Dangers Imminent, till she arrives
At those blest _Climes_, thou favour’st with thy presence.

Whether, at _Lusitanian_ sultry Coasts,
Or Lofty _Teneriff_, _Palma_, _Ferro_,
_Provence_ or at the _Celtiberian_ Shores;
With gazing Pleasure and Astonishment
At _Paradice_, (Seat of our ancient sire,)
He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple _Grape_
In largest Clusters Pendant, grace the _Vines_
Innumerous, in Fields _Grotesque_ and _Wild_
They with Implicit Curles the _Oak_ entwine,
And load with Fruit Divine her spreading Boughs;
Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought,
Or of left native _Isle_, or absent Friends,
Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe,
His kindly treach’rous mem’ry now presents
The Jovial _God_ has left no room for Cares.

_Celestial_ Liquor, thou that didst inspire
_Maro_ and _Flaccus_, and the _Grecian_ Bard,
With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains
Unparalell’d, with Eloquence profound,
And Arguments Convincive didst enforce
Fam’d _Tully_, and _Demosthenes_ Renown’d
_Ennius_ first fam’d in _Latin_ Song, in vain
Drew _Heliconian_ Streams, Ungrateful whet
To Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attempt
Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull
With pains essay’d but abject still and low,
His _Unrecruited_ Muse could never reach
The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font
Of bright _Lenæan_ fire, Her barren drought
He quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous Juice,
Her drooping spirits chear’d, aloft she towres
Born on stiff _Pennons_, and of Wars alarms,
And _Trophies_ won, in loftiest Numbers sings:
’Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts,
And resolution bold, and ardour brave
Excit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease,
And sluggish minds with _gen’rous_ fires inflam’st,
O _thou_, that first my quickned Soul engaged,
Still with thy Aid assist me, What is _dark_
Illumin, What is low raise and support
That to the height of this great Argument,
Thy Universal Sway o’er all the World,
In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme
I may record, and sing thy matchless Worth.

Had the _Oxonion_ Bard thy Praise rehears’d,
His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height;
Such as of late o’er _Blenheim_ Field she soar’d
_Aerial_, now in _Ariconian_ Bogs
She lies Inglorious floundring like her Theme
Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing emerg’d
In acid Juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town,
At Rural Seat, _Lucretelus_ retir’d,
_Flaccus_, untained by perplexing Cares,
Where the white _Poplar_, and the lofty _Pine_
Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade
Creating from _Phœbean_ Rays secure,
A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends
On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours
In Mirth Innocuous, and Alternate Verse!
With Roses Interwoven, Poplar Wreaths
Their Temples bind, dress of _Sylvestrian_ Gods:
Choicest _Nectarian_ Juice Crown’d largest Bowls,
And over look’d the lid, alluring sight,
Of fragrant Scent, attractive, tast Divine!
Whether from _Formain_ Grape depress’d, _Falern_
Or _Setin_, _Massic_, _Gauran_, or _Sabine_,
_Lesbian_ or _Cæcuban_ the chearing Bowl
Mov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightened wit
To sing _Mecœna_ praise their Patron kind.

But _we_, not as our Pristrin sires repair
T’ _umbrageous_ Grot or Vale, but when the Sun
Faintly from Western Skies his Rays oblique
Darts flopping, and to _Thetis_ watry Lap
Hastens in prone Career, with Friends Select
Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or old
Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands
A Stripling, who with Scrapes and _Humil_ Cringe,
Greets us in winning Speech, and Accent Bland;
With lightest bound, and safe unerring step
He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs
_Melampus_ thus, panting with lolling Tongue,
And wagging’s Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before
His sequel Lord from pensive Walk return’d,
Whether in Shady Wood or Pasture Green,
And waits his coming at the well known Gate.
Nigh to the Stairs ascent, in regal Port
Sits a _Majestick_ Dame, whose looks denounce
Command and _Sov’reignty_, with haughty Air,
And _Studied_ Mien, in _Semicirc’lar_ Throne
Enclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands;
Behind her (_Dazling sight_) in order Rang’d,
Pile above Pile _Christallin_ Vessels shine;
Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance,
And after Homage paid, baul out aloud
Words unintelligible, noise confus’d:
She knows the _Jargon_ Sounds, and strait describes
In Characters Mysterious Words obscure;
More legible are _Algebraic_ Signs,
Or _Mystic_ Figures by _Magicians_ drawn,
When they Invoke aid _Diabolical_.

Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous Dissonance
Of Savage _Thracians_, and _Croatian_ Boors;
The loud _Centaurean_ Broil’s with _Lapithæ_
Sound Harsh, and grating to _Lenæan_ God;
Chase brutal Feuds of _Bælian_ skippers hence,
(Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown)
In clumsy Fist wielding _Scymetrian_ Knife,
Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face,
Prophaning _Bacchanalian_ solemn Rites:
_Musicks_ Harmonius Numbers better suit
His Festivals, from Instrument or Voice,
Or _Gasperim’s_ Hand the trembling string
Should touch, or from the _Tuscan_ Dames
Or warbling _Tosts_ more soft Melodious Tongue
Sweet Symphonies should flow, the _Delian_ God
For Airy _Bacchus_ is Associate meet.

The Stairs Ascent now gain’d our Guide unbars
The door of Spacious Room, and creeking Chairs
(To ear offensive) round the Table sets,
We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins:
Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites you, Tast,
_Champaign_ or _Burgundy_, or _Florence_ pure,
Or _Hoc_ Antique, or _Lisbon_ New or Old,
_Bourdeaux_, or neat _French_ White, or _Alicant_:
For _Bordeaux_ we with Voice Unanimous
Declare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon _Conpeers_.)
He quits the Room _Alert_, but soon returns,
One hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels bore
Resplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure,
A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught
With goodly Wine, _He_ with extended Hand
Rais’d High, pours forth the Sanguin frothy Juice,
O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon:
We strait t’our Arms repair, experienced Chiefs;
Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (Charming Sound,)
And Glorious ANNA’s Health the first the best
Crowns the full Glass, at Her inspiring Name
The sprightly Wine Results, and seem to smile,
With hearty Zeal, and wish unanimous
The Health we drink, and in her Health our own.

A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat
W’ improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth
Engages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee,
Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves
To pleasant Laughter, strait the Echoing Room
With Universal Peals and Shouts resounds.

The _Royal Dane_, blest Consort of the blest QUEEN,
Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss
In ANNA’S plac’t with Sympathetic Flame,
And Mutual Endearments, all her Joys,
Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love,
Center in Him, who shares the grateful Hearts
Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN,
For by his Prudent Care, united shores
Were say’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

The Hero _Malbro_ next, whose vast Exploits
Fame’s Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new
We wish, like those he won at _Hochstet’s_ Field.

Next _Devonshire_ Illustrious, who from Race
Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Soul’s endow’d,
And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’d
That shon in his most worthy Ancestors,
For then distinct in sep’rate Breast were seen
Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent _Godolphin_, of the Nations weal
Frugal, but free and gen’rous of his own.
Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful _Sunderland_.
And _Halifax_, the Muses darling Song,
In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine
The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit,
Himself _Mecænas_ and a _Flaccus_ too,
And all the worthies of the _British_ Realm
In order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’d
The _Dulcet_ Wine with a more charming Gust.

Now each their Mistress by whose scorching Eyes
Fir’d, tost _Cosmelia_ Fair, or _Dulcibella_,
Or _Silvia_ Comely Black with jetty Eyes
Piercing, or Airy _Celia_ sprightly Maid.
Insensibly thus flow _Unnumber’d_ Hours;
Glass succeeds Glass, till the _Dircean_ God
Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays
Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die;
All Blithe and Jolly that like _Arthur’s_ Knights
Of Rotund Table, Fam’d in Pristin Records,
Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine.

Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth,
And Joys Unsull’d pass, till Humid Night
Has half her Race perform’d, now all abroad
Is hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling Noise
Of Coach or Cart, or Smoaky Link-Boys call
Is heard; but Universal Silence Reigns:
When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay,
Surpriz’d to find the Hour so swiftly flie,
With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord
Alarm the Drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod;
Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the Stairs
Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies
His yet clung Eyelids, and with stagg’ring Reel
Enters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills;
When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge,
And Homeward each his Course with steady step
Unerring steer’d of Cares and Coin bereft.

――――:o:――――

A PANEGYRIC ON OXFORD ALE.
_By a Gentleman of Oxford._

Mea nec Falernae
Temperant vites, neque Formiani
Pocula colles.
_Horace._

Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils,
Hail Juice benignant! O’er the costly cups
Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught,
Let Pride’s loose sons prolong the wasteful night;
My sober ev’ning let the tankard bless,
With toast embrown’d, and fragrant nutmeg fraught
While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast!
Where no crude surfeit or intemperate joys
Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o’er my soul
A calm lethean creeps, in drowsy trance
Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod
Of magic morpheus o’er mine eyes had shed
Its opiate influence. What though sore ills
Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals
Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight’s gleam
Haply remaining) heart rejoicing ALE
Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies.
Meantime, not mindless of the daily task
Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate,
While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid
The thought-perplexing labour to pursue
Sweet helicon of logic! but if friends
Congenial call me from the toilsome page,
To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt,
Where ALE thy votaries in full resort
Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak and antique mould,
That long has stood the rage of conqu’ring years
Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair
Smokes rosy justice, when th’important cause,
Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape,
In all the majesty of paunch he tries)
Studious of ease, and provident, I place
My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round
Returns replenish’d the successive cup,
And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy:
While haply, to relieve the ling’ring hours
In innocent delight, amusive _putt_
On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play,
The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews.
Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs
Nor, call’d for, chills my breast with sudden fear
While on the wonted door, expressive mark,
The frequent penny stands describ’d to view,
In snowy characters and graceful row.

Hail, TICKING! surest guardian of distress
Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff
The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart
New oysters cry’d: Though much the poet’s friend,
Ne’er yet attempted in poetic strain,
Accept this tribute of poetic praise!

Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms
Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of pot-house, snug to visit; wiser he
The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee house
Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath
Of loathed tobacco ne’er diffus’d its balm;
But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem’d polite,
While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl
Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE:
In vain――the proctor’s voice arrests their joys;
Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!

Nor less by day delightful is thy draught,
All-powerful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweet
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter’d stockings crave my mending hand
Not unexperienc’d; while the tedious toil
Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undissembled, to repair
To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust
And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain’d,
Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days
Our ancestors robust, with lib’ral cups
Usher’d the morn, unlike the squeamish sons
Of modern times: nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay’d, had thus they fed,
With British ALE improving British worth.

With ALE irriguous undismay’d I hear
The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome
Importunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear;
Or barber spruce with supple look intrude;
Or tailor with obsequious bow advance;
Or groom invade me with defying front
And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds
(Whene’er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams,
Or luckier chance the borrow’d boots supply’d)
Had panted oft beneath my goring steel
In vain they plead or threat: all-powerful ALE
Excuses new supplies, and each descends
With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks:
E’en SPACEY with indignant brow retires,
Fiercest of duns! and conquered quits the field.

Why did the Gods such various blessings pour
On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands
So soon the short-liv’d bounty to recall?
Thus, while improvident of future ill,
I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroul’d,
And thoughtless riot in unlicens’d bliss;
Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)
The unpitying bursar’s cross-affixing hand
Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields
A sure retreat when night o’ershades the skies;
Nor SHEPPARD, barb’rous matron, longer gives
The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more.

Thus ADAM, exil’d from the beauteous scene
Of EDEN griev’d, no more in fragrant bower
On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale
No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot;
But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness
And unrejoicing solitudes to trace;
Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds
The SPLENDID SHILLING’S praise in nightly gloom
Of lonesome garret, pin’d for cheerful ALE;
Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue,
Mean follower: like him with honest love
Of ALE divine inspir’d, and love of song.
But long may bounteous heav’n with watchful care
Avert his hapless lot! enough for me,
That burning with cogenial flame, I dar’d
His guiding steps a distance to pursue,
And sing his favourite theme in kindred strains.
ANONYMOUS.
_The Oxford Sausage._ Cambridge, 1822.

――――:o:――――

THE SUET DUMPLING.

Happy the man who in his pot contains
A suet dumpling; he nor feels the pains
Of going dinnerless, nor griping hunger;
But cheerful blows the fire with merry heart,
Often revolving when the happy minute
That brings it to his homely board will come.
Sometimes with longing eyes he gazes hard,
And views it boiling in the frothy waves;
Then, with his fork or spoon applied, he feels,
And turns it o’er and o’er. Now time moves slowly on;
The hour-glass, which in yon old corner stands,
Is often view’d; for now his stomach keen,
Gnawing with greedy expectation,
Almost persuades him that the sands are stopp’d.
Now is his table placed near the fire,
His cloth of dingy hue is spread thereon;
His large clasp knife from out his pocket pull’d.
(A knife which oft has dealt destruction dire
To many a pudding, beef, or whate’er else
Came in its way; for none it spar’d;)
The earthen plate which graces his old shelf,
(Which late grimalkin, taking her nightly walks
In search of prey, by dire mishap
Threw down; but, by good care of fortune,
A piece from out the brim is only broke,)
Is straight in order plac’d and all’s compleat.
As when the mariner, who, long from home,
Far from his native land, through seas and storms
And dangerous perils, homeward does return;
Sudden he sees the wish’d for port appear,
Joy fills his dancing heart, and now he feeds
His fancy with the pleasing expectation
Of mirth and joy, and heart delighting scenes.
Behold the pot has yielded up its store,
And reeking hot, is placed upon the plate!
The three-legg’d stool is drawn, and down he sits,
Elated with the goodly prospect: sudden
His knife, well plung’d, dreadful incision makes;
And fork, aptly applied, his joys compleat.
Now direful devastation does ensue;
And half the delicious morsel is destroy’d
Ere he can make a pause; which having done,
He smacks his lips, and liking well the sport,
Proceeds again with more deliberation,
Till of the luscious cates he’s made an end.
Thus happy he, envying not sumptuous feasts,
Nor courtly entertainments; but well pleas’d,
Feasts on his homely viands; far happier than a king,
He enjoys as full content, without his cares.
ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE COPPER FARTHING.

Happy the boy, who dwells remote from School,
Whose pocket, or whose rattling-box, contains
A Copper Farthing! He nor grieving hears
Hot cheese-cakes cried, nor savoury mutton-pies;
But with his play mates, in the dusk of eve.
To well-known blacksmith’s shop, or church-yard hies;
Where, mindful of the sport that joys his heart,
Marbles, or chuck, he instantly begins,
With undissembled pleasure in his face,
To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump:
While I, confin’d within the hated walls
Of school, resounding with a clamorous din,
By still more hated books environ’d, I,
With tedious lessons and long task to get,
My dismal thoughts employ; or wield my pen
To mark dire characters on paper white:
Not blunter pen or stronger character
Uses the sage, a chiromancer hight,
Sprung from Egyptian king, and swarthy race,
Amenophis, or Ptolemy, when he,
In search of stolen calf, or money lost,
For wondering plowman does his art employ!
Or for the wish’d return of sweet-heart dear,
Or apron fine, purloin’d from hawthorn hedge,
For country-maid consults directing stars,
Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn.

Thus while my lingering hours I joyless spend,
With magisterial look, and solemn step,
Appears my school-master, tremendous wight!
Dreaded by truant boys; how can I ’scape
The expected punishment for task ungot,
Aghast I stand, nor fly to covert bench,
Or corner dark, to hide my hapless head;
So great my terror, that it quite bereaves,
My limbs the power to fly, slow he ascends
The appointed seat, and on his right-hand lies
The bushy rod compos’d of numerous twigs,
Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow;
Which to the flesh of idle boys portends,
For the neglected task, a poignant smart;
And with him comes another mighty elf,
Yclep’d an usher, ah, terrific name
To lesser wights! who, if they hapless place
In station wrong pronoun or participle,
Straight, by the magic of his voice, are rais’d
In attitude above their lov’d compeers,
Where they, reluctant, various torments bear,
Till, by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the skies,
They draw kind Pity, moist-eyed goddess, down,
To heal, with balm of sympathy, their woe.
Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care,
Or, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways
And in his mind revolves disastrous deeds
Against th’ unwary wretch. So story tells,
That chanticleer, on dunghill’s top elate,
With haughty step, and watchful eye askance,
Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he
May find conceal’d delicious grub or worm,
To which his maw insatiate forebodes
Certain destruction, while, behind or bush,
Or pale encompassing the farmer’s yard,
Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile
T’ensnare the feather’d race, who, if they stray
Beyond the precincts of their mother’s ken,
He straight purloins them from her careful wing,
With his sharp teeth torments their tender frame,
And with the crimson gore distains their sides,
Relentless; nor can all the piercing cries
Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg’d,
His heart obdurate move; instant he tears
Each trembling limb, devours the quivering flesh,
Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feast,
Save a few fluttering feathers scatter’d round
(That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck’d
The slaughter’d prey), to tell the hapless tale.

Thus joyless do I spend those hours the sun
Illuminates; and, when the silver moon
Her gentle ray dispenses, and invites
The swains and maids to mix in jovial dance,
Around the towering may-poles of the green,
Where each gay plowman does his partner choose
As love or fate directs; or o’er the lawn
The needle thread, or toss the bounding ball;
All cheerless I, nor dance, nor pleasing sport,
Nor social mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale.
Partake: but, on her drooping raven wing,
Sad Melancholy hovers o’er my head,
Pale Envy rankles deep within my breast,
And baneful venom sheds. Grim Horror too
Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind
With tales of gliding sprites, in milk-white shrouds
Array’d, and rattling chains, and yelling ghosts
Irascible! or Fancy, mimic queen,
To swift imagination’s eye presents
A group of tiny elves, in circling dance,
Or luscious feast employ’d; such elves as danc’d
When Oberon did fair Titania wed;
While I, in wishes impotent and vain,
For Liberty, dear object of my hopes,
The tedious moments spend; or if, perchance,
Morpheus invok’d, my heavy eye-lids close,
Dear Liberty still haunts my sleeping thoughts,
And in a short-liv’d dream those joys I taste,
Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop
With dextrous hand, or run with feet as swift
As feather’d arrow flies from archer’s bow:
Till, from my slumber wak’d, too soon I find
It was illusion all, and mockery vain.
Thus, comfortless, appall’d, forlorn, I pass
The tardy hours, nor of those viands taste,
Which are on other boys full oft bestow’d
In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand
Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart
Or trembling custard of delicious go˚t,
Or frothy syllabub in copious bowl.
Hard fate for me! Yet harder still betides
Me, hapless youth! My faithful top, that oft
Has cheer’d my drooping spirits, and reviv’d
My saddening thoughts, when o’er the pavement smooth
It spins, and sleeps, and to its master’s hand
Does ample justice, now, alas! become
To all the rude inclemencies of weather,
To time and destiny’s relentless doom
A miserable victim, quite decay’d
With many services, and cleft throughout
All useless lies; ah! sight of saddest woe
To wretched me! of every hope bereft,
Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch,
Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius, dwells,
Beholds the sulphurous flames, the molten rocks,
And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet;
Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide
Before his eyes, all glaring with affright;
Swallows his cultur’d vines, his gardens, house,
With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife,
And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come;
All, all are lost, in ruin-terrible!

By MISS PENNINGTON who died in the year 1759, aged 25. The following character of her, by Mr. Duncombe, is extracted from that Gentleman’s Poem “The Feminead,”

“Nor shall thy much-lov’d Pennington remain
Unsung, unhonour’d in my votive strain.
See where the soft enchantress, wandering o’er
The fairy ground that Philips trod before,
Exalts her chemic wand, and swift behold
The basest metals ripen into gold:
Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye,
We view vile copper with pure sterling vie;
Nor shall the Farthing, sung by her, forbear
To claim the praises of the smiling fair;
Till chuck and marble shall no more employ
The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.”

THE SCHOOL BOY.

By the Rev. Mr. Maurice, Author of the
Indian Antiquities.

Multa tulit, fecitque Puer. Hor.

Thrice happy he, whose hours the cheering smiles
Of freedom bless; who wantons uncontroul’d
Where Ease invites, or Pleasure’s syren voice;
Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge
Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight
Of galling chain; but, when the blushing morn
Purples the East, with eager transport wild
O’er hill, o’er valley, on his panting steed
He bounds exulting, as in full career
With horns, and hounds, and thund’ring shouts, he drives
The flying stag; or when the dusky shades
Of eve, advancing, veil the darken’d sky,
To neighbouring tavern, blithsome, he resorts
With boon companion, where they drown their cares
In sprightly bumpers, and the mantling bowl.

Far otherwise within these darksome walls,
Whose gates, with rows of triple steel secur’d,
And many a bolt, prohibit all egress,
I spend my joyless days; ere dawn appears,
Rous’d from my peaceful slumbers by the sound
Of awe-inspiring bell, whose every stroke
Chills my heart-blood, all trembling. I descend
From dreary garret, round whose ancient roof,
Gaping with hideous chinks, the whistling blast
Perpetual raves, and fierce-descending rains
Discharge their fury――dire, lethargic dews
Oppress my drowsy sense; still fancy teems
With fond ideal joys, and, fir’d with what
Or poets sing, or fabled tale records,
Presents transporting visions; goblets crown’d
With juice of nectar, or the food divine
Of rich ambrosia, tempting to the sight!
While, in the shade of some embowering grove,
I lie reclin’d, or through Elysian plains
Enraptur’d stray; where every plant and flower
Send forth an odorous smell, and all the air
With songs of love and melody resounds.
Meanwhile benumbing cold invades my joints,
As with slow faltering footsteps I resort
To where, of antique mold, a lofty dome
Rears its tremendous front; here all at once
From thousand different tongues a mighty hum
Assaults my ear; loud as the distant roar
Of tumbling torrents; or as in some mart
Of public note, for traffic far renown’d,
Where Jew with Grecian, Turk with African,
Assembled, in one general peal unite
Of dreadful jargon.――Straight on wooden bench
I take my seat, and con with studious care
Th’appointed tasks; o’er many a puzzling page
Poring intent, and sage Athenian bard,
With dialect, and mood, and tense perplex’d;
And conjugations varied without end.
When lo! with haughty stride (in size like him
Who erst, extended on the burning lake,
Lay floating many a rood) his sullen brow,
With lowering frowns and fearful glooms o’ercast,
Enters the pedagogue; terrific sight!
An ample ninefold peruke, spread immense,
Luxuriant waving down his shoulders plays;
His right-hand fiercely grasps an oaken staff,
His left a bunch of limber twigs sustains,
Call’d by the vulgar birch, Tartarean root,
Whose rankling points, in blackest poison dipt,
Inflict a mortal pain; and, where they light,
A ghastly furrow leave.――A solemn pause ensues:
As when, of old, the monarch of the floods,
’Midst raging hurricanes and battling waves,
Shaking the dreadful trident, rear’d aloft
His awful brow.――Sudden the furious winds
Were hush’d in peace, the billows ceas’d their rage:
Or when (if mighty themes like these allow
An humble metaphor) the sportive race
Of nibbling heroes, bent on wanton play,
Beneath the shelter of some well-stor’d barn,
In many an airy circle wheel around;
Some eye, perchance, in private nook conceal’d,
Beholds Grimalkin; instant they disperse,
In headlong flight, each to his secret cell;
If haply he may ’scape impending fate.
Thus ceas’d the general clamour; all remain
In silent terror wrapt, and thought profound.

Meanwhile, the pedagogue throughout the dome
His fiery eye-balls, like two blazing stars,
Portentous rolls, on some unthinking wretch
To shed their baleful influence; whilst his voice,
Like thunder, or the cannon’s sudden burst,
Three times is heard, and thrice the roofs resound!
A sudden-paleness gathers in my face;
Through all my limbs a stiffening horror spreads,
Cold as the dews of death; nor heed my eyes
Their wonted function, but in stupid gaze
Ken the fell monster; from my trembling hands
The time-worn volume drops; oh, dire presage
Of instant woe! for now the mighty sound,
Pregnant with dismal tidings, once again
Strikes my astonished ears: transfix’d with awe,
And senseless for a time, I stand; but soon
By friendly jog or neighbouring whisper rous’d,
Obey the dire injunction; straight I loose
Depending brogues, and mount the lofty throne
Indignant, or the black oblique ascend
Of sorrowful compeer; nor long delays
The monarch, from his palace stalking down,
With visage all inflam’d; his sable robe
Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground:
He shakes his sceptre, and th’ impending scourge
Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail;
But with impetuous fury it descends,
Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow
Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs.

Curst be the wretch, for ever doom’d to bear
Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands
First grasp’d these barbarous weapons, bitter cause
Of foul disgrace, and many a dolorous groan,
To hapless school-boy!――Could it not suffice
I groaned and toil’d beneath the merciless weight
By stern relentless tyranny impos’d;
But scourges too, and cudgels, were reserv’d
To goad my harrow’d sides: this wretched life
Loading with heavier ills! a life expos’d
To all the woes of hunger, toil, distress;
Cut off from every genial source of bliss;
From every bland amusement, wont to sooth
The youthful breast; except when father Time,
In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour,
That gives this meagre, pining figure back
To parent fondness, and its native roofs!
Fir’d with the thought, then, then, my towering son!
Rises superior to its load, and spurns
Its proud oppressors; frantic with delight,
My fancy riots in successive scenes
Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid
How best the fleeting moments to improve,
Nor lose one portion of so rare a boon.
But soon, too soon, the glorious scenes are fled,
Scarce one short moon enjoy’d; (oh! transient state
Of sublunary bliss!) by bitter change,
And other scenes succeeded, what fierce pangs
Then rack my soul! what ceaseless floods of grief
Rush down my cheeks, while strong convulsive throbs
Heave all my frame, and choak the power of speech!
Forlorn I sigh, nor heed the gentle voice
Of friend or stranger, who, with soothing words
And slender gift, would fain beguile my woes:
In vain; for what can aught avail to sooth
Such raging anguish? Oft with sudden glance
Before my eyes in all its horror glares
That well-known form, and oft I seem to hear
The thundering scourge――ah me! e’en now I feel
Its deadly venom, raging as the pangs
That tore Alcides, when the burning vest
Prey’d on his wasted sides,――At length return’d
Within these hated walls, again I mourn
A sullen prisoner, till the wish’d approach
Of joyous holiday or festive play
Releases me: ah! freedom that must end
With thee, declining Sol! All hail, ye sires
For sanctity renown’d, whose glorious names,
In large conspicuous characters pourtray’d,
Adorn the annual chronologic page
Of Wing or Partridge; oft, when sore opprest
With dire calamities, the glad return
Of your triumphant festivals hath cheer’d
My drooping soul. Nor be thy name forgot,
Illustrious George: for much to thee I owe
Of heart-felt rapture, as with loyal zeal
Glowing, I pile the crackling bonfire high,
Or hurl the mounting rocket through the air,
Or fiery whizzing serpent; thus thy name
Shall still be honour’d, as through future years
The circling Seasons roll their festive round.
Sometimes, by dire compulsive hunger press’d,
I spring the neighbouring fence, and scale the trunk
Of apple-tree; or wide, o’er flowery lawns,
By hedge or thicket, bend my hasty steps,
Intent, with secret ambush, to surprise,
The straw-built nest, and unsuspecting brood
Of thrush or bull-finch; oft with watchful ken
Eyeing the backward lawns, lest hostile glance
Observe my footsteps, while each rustling leaf,
Stirr’d by the gentle gale, alarms my fears:
Then, parched beneath the burning heats of noon,
I plunge into the limpid stream, that laves
The silent vale; or, on its grassy banks,
Beneath some oak’s majestic shade recline,
Envying the vagrant fishes, as they pass,
Their boon of freedom; till the distant sound
Of tolling curfew warns me to depart.
Thus under tyrant-pow’r I groan, oppress’d
With worse than slavery; yet my free-born soul
Her native warmth forgets not, nor will brook
Menace, or taunt, from proud insulting peer;
But summons to the field the doughty foe
In single combat, ’midst th’ impartial throng,
There to decide our fate: oft too, inflam’d
With mutual rage, two rival armies meet
Of youthful warriors; kindling at the sight,
My soul is filled with vast heroic thoughts,
Trusting, in martial glory, to surpass
Roman or Grecian chief; instant, with shouts,
The mingling squadrons join the horrid fray;
No need of cannon, or the murderous steel,
Wide wasting nature: rage our arms supplies.
Fragments of rock are hurl’d, and showers of stones
Obscure the day; nor less the brawny arm,
Or knotted club, avail; high in the midst
Are seen the mighty chiefs, through hosts of foes
Mowing their way; and now, with tenfold rage
The combat burns, full many a sanguine stream
Distains the field, and many a veteran brave
Lies prostrate; loud triumphant shouts ascend
By turns from either host; each claims the palm
Of glorious conquest; nor till night’s dun shades
Involve the sky, the doubtful conflict ends.
Thus, when rebellion shook the thrones of heaven,
And all th’ eternal powers in battle met,
High o’er the rest, with vast gigantic strides,
The god-like leaders, on th’ embattled plain,
Came towering, breathing forth revenge and fate:
Nor less terrific joined the inferior hosts
Of angel-warriors, when encountering hills
Tore the rent concave――flashing with the blaze
Of fiery arms, and lightnings, not of Jove;
All heaven resounded, and the astonish’d deep
Of chaos bellow’d with the monstrous roar.

――――:o:――――

In 1880 the Editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best poems in the style of Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, Book II., on “The Opening of Parliament.” The following were the successful compositions:――

FIRST PRIZE.