Chapter II: Introduction (2)

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the blame,
That mem’ry, o’er their fall, no trophies raise;
Those men had better die without a name,
Who merit infamy instead of praise.

Perhaps, amidst this band, have sunk in night,
Some hearts once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that might well have done their country right,
Or wak’d to extacy the Muse’s lyre.

But Science, tho’ she led their early youth,
Beheld her power to politics give way;
Accurst self-int’rest hid the face of truth
And party zeal assum’d unrivall’d sway.

Perhaps some Calvin, in whose restless brain
Things call’d Reform Bills lurk’d, (a specious brood,)
Perhaps some Catiline might head their train,
Some Cromwell yet unstain’d with legal blood.

The votes of venal Senates to command,
To break the Constitution’s strongest ties;
To seize the sacred charters of the land,
And on the ruins of her commerce rise,

Their lot forbade, nor circumscrib’d alone
Their views tow’rd India, but their plots unplanned,
Forbad to chain their sovereign on his throne
And ride triumphant o’er th’ insulted land.

Far from their Monarch’s sight, the senate’s strife,
These madd’ning Patriots now shall learn to stay.
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
Unplac’d, unpension’d, unlamented, stray.

From _The History of the Westminster Election_. London, J. Debrett. 1784.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY,
_Written in a Grub street Garret._

Now sinks the sun within the azure main,
The dirty walls assume a darker hue;
Each brother Poet racks his muddy brain
To write fresh strictures on the _fighting Jew_.

Now the whole house a solemn stillness holds,
Save from the staircase head, with noisy tongue,
My landlady inexorably scolds,
And with shrill clamours interrupts my song.

Beneath a heap of rude waste paper plac’d,
(Alas that Grub-street Bards so soon should die!)
The writings of my brethren are disgrac’d,
Or, doom’d to chandlers-shops, neglected lie.

Fresh oysters, chaunted with melodious voice,
Or Printers’ Devils ever hasty tread,
Shall nought avail to make these men rejoice,
Or rouse those writings which to fame are dead.

For these no more the ceilings shall be swept,
Or spiders driven from their dreary dens,
Who twice ten months have unmolested slept
And brav’d the fury of succeeding pens.

Oft did the actors tremble at their power,
When rang’d in dread array along the pit,
To hiss the varied fictions of each hour,
Supreme in judgment, arbiters of wit.

Let not rich aldermen the feasts deride
To which necessity the Poet calls;
For Nature, bounteous parent, can provide
Delicious fare apart from Gilded Walls.

Faint are the joys which Ven’son can bestow,
Faint is the pleasure Turtle can impart;
By sad experience we are taught to know,
These aching limbs succeed, with anguish’d heart.

Nor you, thrice happy few! whose writings please,
Contemn the Bard whom Fame disdains to crown,
Or scorn the wretch, whose vain attempts to seize
The Laureat Wreath, are sadly overthrown.

Can pompous dedication’s splendid line,
Or praises on rich Lords profusely poured,
Make Envy her dire qualities resign,
Or empty fame satiety afford?

Perhaps in this sad garret once has lodged
Some vent’rous Knight, well skill’d to cog the die,
Who dextrously the Bailiffs oft has dodged,
Or made the sleepy watchmen nimbly fly.

Some sturdy Humphries, that with brawny fists,
Well skill’d in Boxing’s _scientific_ lore,
Defied the Sons of Israel to the lists,
And beat their champion till he rose no more.

Some Peter Pindar here has tun’d his lyre,
Or some sagacious Pig here learn’d to read;
Some Juggler chewed a stone, or swallowed fire;
Or here to eat live cats ’twas first decreed.

Yet e’en their fame from Malice to defend,
Unhappy Poets shall essay to write,
With labour’d lines and verses badly penn’d,
Whate’er the God of Dulness may recite.

Their Names and Portraits on the dusty walls,
With ballads setting forth their high renown,
In rural cottages, or servants halls,
Shall gratify the gaping country clown.

For what incurious mind could e’er resign
The busy bustling pleasures of the town;
Who could the joys of London e’er decline,
Unless deterr’d by Poverty’s sad frown.

On some gay scene, by flattering Fancy dress’d,
The visionary mind still loves to dwell;
And Sadler’s Wells, or Lord Mayor’s gaudy vests,
Delight the village beau, or rustic belle.

For thee, who, mindful of the Scribbler’s lot
Dost in these lines their ill success relate,
If chance, when in the world thy name’s forgot,
Some kindred Poet should enquire thy fate?

Haply some tavern waiter may declare,
“Oft have we seen him at the hour of ten
Sipping his coffee, with a mournful air,
Or holding sage discourse with learned men.

In yonder box, now moisten’d as with tears,
Conning his wayward verses he would sit;
Now sooth’d with hope, and now depress’d with fears,
He pour’d the wild effusions of his wit.

One morn we miss’d him at the ’custom’d place,
Nor at the bar, nor in the room was he:
Another came, who had not seen his face,
In the King’s Bench, or Fleet, or Marshalsea.

Him next, in sad procession borne along,
We saw proceeding through the churchyard’s gloom
Affliction had abridg’d his mournful song,
And wrote this sad inscription on his tomb.”

EPITAPH.

Here rests his head, six feet beneath the earth,
An hapless youth, to hunger often known;
The Grub-street Muses frown’d not at his birth,
But mark’d the scribbling infant for their own.

Tho’ in his breast each virtue made abode,
The Public never recompensed his lays;
He gave the King――’twas all he could――an ode――
The King refus’d his only wish――the Bays.

No further seek his errors to reveal,
Or scrutinise his wit with envious eye
Oblivion’s hand his writings shall conceal,
And with the Poet all his works shall die.

From _The Literary Magazine, and British Review_, London, September, 1789.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
_Written in Bartlemy Fair at five o’clock in the morning._

The clock bell tolls the hour of early day,
The lowing herd their Smithfield penance drie,
The watchman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the fair――all solitude to me!

Now the first beams of morning glad the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save when the sheep dog bays with hoarse affright,
And brutal drovers pen the unwilling folds.

Save that where sheltered, or from wind or shower,
The lock’d out ’prentice, or frail nymph complain,
Of such as, wandering near their secret bower,
Molest them, sensible in sleep, to pain,

Beneath those ragged tents――that boarded shade,
Which late display’d its stores in tempting heaps;
There, children, dogs, cakes, oysters, all are laid,
There guardian of the whole, the master sleeps.

The busy call of care-begetting morn,
The well-slept passenger’s unheeding tread;
The showman’s clarion, or the echoing horn,
Too soon must rouse them from their lowly bed.

Perhaps in this neglected booth is laid,
Some head volcanic, oft discharging fire!
Hands――that the rod of _magic_ lately sway’d;
Toes――that so nimbly danc’d upon the wire.

Some clown, or pantaloon――the gazers’ jest,
Here, with his train in dirty pageant stood:
Some tired-out posture master here may rest,
Some conjuring swordsman――guiltless of his blood!

The applause of listening cockneys to command,
The threats of city-marshal to despise;
To give delight to all the grinning band,
And read their merit in spectators eyes,

Is still their boast;――nor, haply, theirs alone,
Polito’s lions (though now dormant laid)
And human monsters, shall acquire renown,
The spotted Negro――and the armless maid!

Peace to the youth who, slumbering at the _Bear_,
Forgets his present lot, his perils past:
Soon will the crowd again be thronging there,
To view the man on wild Sombrero cast.

Careful their booths, from insult to protect
These furl their tapestry, late erected high;
No longer with prodigious pictures deck’d,
They tempt the passing youth’s astonish’d eye.

But when the day calls forth the belles and beaux,
The cunning showmen each device display,
And many a clown the useful notice shows,
To teach ascending strangers――_where to pay_.

Sleep on, ye imps of merriment, sleep on!
In this short respite to your labouring train;
And when this time of annual mirth is gone,
May ye enjoy, in peace, your hard-earned gain!

From _The Morning Chronicle_. 1810.

Bartholomew (or Bartlemy) Fair, was formerly held in Smithfield on September 3rd, unless that day fell on a Sunday. Of later years it became an intolerable nuisance in the city, the shows were discontinued in 1850, and the Fair was proclaimed for the last time in 1855. A very interesting account of the old customs attending it will be found in Hone’s “Every Day Book.”

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ELEGY,
_Written in Drury Lane Theatre._

The prompter rings the lofty curtain down,
The gaping audience leave the pit with glee,
Homeward in troops returns the weary town,
And leaves the house to emptiness and me.

Now fades each glimmering candle to the sight,
And thro’ the air a smoky silence reigns,
Save where some lobby hero seeks the fight,
And bravely gets a beating for his pains:

Save that to scare Piazza-haunting flocks,
The moping watchman does in oaths complain,
Of such as, wandering near his secret box,
With clamour loud intrude on his domain.

Their parts perform’d, behind that curtain’s shade,
Where stretch the scenes in many a motley heap,
Each in his humble lodging quiet laid,
The chorus-singing tribe securely sleep.

The summons of rehearsal-bringing morn,
The prompter whispering from his wooden shed,
The trumpet, hautboy, clarionet, and horn,
Shall rouse each man to-morrow from his bed.

And yet for them no opera pours its rhyme;
No loud _encore_ rewards their evening care;
No children run to hail their pantomime,
Or crowd the box, the envied laugh to share.

As sailors oft they hail’d Britannia’s shore;
As forty thieves they spurn’d the Sultan’s yoke;
Their shoulders oft Peruvian Rolla bore;
How bow’d their heads when mighty Bluebeard spoke.

Let not tragedians mock their useful toil,
Their russet boots by hundreds worn before;
Nor fashion hear, with a disdainful smile,
The lowly annals of our Thespian corps.

The dice of Beverley, the straw of Lear,
And all that Hamlet, all Macbeth e’er gave,
In the fifth act conclude their high career――
For tragic glory leads but to the grave.

Nor you, rich actors, lay on these the blame,
If their poor names no daily journals raise,
Where, thro’ the long-drawn column, bent on fame,
The editor resounds the note of praise.

Can studied puffs an actor’s fame decide,
Or to a throne a mute attendant carry?
Can praise give pow’rs that nature has denied,
Or make Beau Clincher equal to Sir Harry?

Perhaps in these neglected ranks has stray’d
Some swelling bosom, fraught with tragic fire;
Tongues that Othello’s vengeance might have stay’d,
Or base Iago prov’d a living liar!

But authors to their eyes their ample plays,
Rich in fine acting parts did never bring;
The manager repress’d their mental blaze,
And pent them up in chorusses to sing.

Of sonnetteers, full many a rhyming moan,
The monthly magazines, unread, contain;
Full many a joke is cut to die unknown,
Lost in the echoing dome of Drury Lane.

Some unknown Garrick, with advent’rous wing,
Clipp’d by the shears of want and melancholy;
Some low, inglorious Braham here may sing,
Some Betty, guiltless of a nation’s folly!

Th’ applause of wondering boxes to attract,
Their face engraved in public shops to boast,
T’ ensure a full box-book whene’er they act,
And read their history in the _Morning Post_,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone,
Their growing talents, but their faults unseen
T’ omit the author’s jest, insert their own
Or woo the boxes while they slight the scene.

By mummery the writer’s text to hide,
Their influence o’er the galleries to boast,
Or mar the play, and decency deride,
With nonsense purchas’d at the muse’s cost.

Far from the rattling squares and Fashioned sport,
Their small finances rather bade them stay
In Russell Street, Long Acre, Martlet Court;
Convenient spots contiguous to the play!

Yet e’en these names from Lethe to protect,
Some lengthen’d play-bill still erected there,
With letters of all sorts and sizes deck’d,
Implores the passing tribute of a stare!

Their names, their characters, a motley pack;
Great heroes first, and mute attendants last:
Robbers and senators, in red and black,
To show the public how the parts are cast.

For who, to careless _nonchalance_ a prey,
Of self-importance never gave one hint,
Pass’d idly by the red bills of the day,
Nor cast one look to see himself in print?

Ambition on our mimic stage will rise,
Trueman survives, when Barnwell yields his breath,
Emilia raves, when Desdemona dies;
The bleeding captain emulates Macbeth.

For thee, who mindful of thy brethren dead,
Dost in these lines their useful toils relate,
If chance by curiosity misled,
Some gentle critic shall enquire thy fate,

Haply the leader of the band may say:
“Oft have I seen him standing there aloof,
“Eager to write, as well as act a play,
“And wooing Phœbus frowning on the roof.

“There on the boards he often play’d his part
“Up to his ears in business of the stage;
“He ey’d the boxes oft with aching heart,
“And trembling, strove their favor to engage.

“Fronting the audience, in a double mood,
“Muttering his dialogue, now brisk, now sad:
“Sometimes, as actor, tolerably good,
“Always, as bard, intolerably bad.

“One night they hiss’d him in the accustom’d scene,
“I thought the play was damn’d――ah, woe is me!
“Another came, with scarce a pause between,
“They hiss’d again――in doleful plight was he.

“The third with dirges due, in sad array,
“The prompter’s sheep-bell rang our poet’s knell,
“Approach and read (none else will read) the play,
“If not, the epilogue may do as well.”

――――

THE EPILOGUE.

Here rests his head upon prompter’s shelf,
A bard to wisdom and to wit unknown;
Thalia smil’d not on the scribbling elf,
But gentle dulness mark’d him for her own.

Coy from his suit the Muses turn’d away,
“_A Day in London_” ill his toil requites;
He gave the town, t’was all he had――a play;
The town denied his only wish――nine nights!

No further seek his writings to deride,
Nor try to mend what sentiment has marr’d,
Oblivion’s veil his comedy shall hide,
And shroud in night the actor and the bard.

From _The British Minerva_. Printed in Hamburgh. 1818.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY,
_Written at a Christmas Feast in the country_.

The clock proclaims the welcome dinner hour,
The guests are met――and ev’ry brow unbent,
Swift circles round the draught of potent power,
Inspiring mirth, and banishing restraint.

Now crowd the Christmas dainties on the sight,
And all the room is hush’d in silence deep;
Save where the plates with jarring sounds unite,
And busy jaws a ceaseless murmur keep.

Save that from yonder bench, with hollow groan,
The faithful Tray does to himself complain
Of those that, mindful of themselves alone,
Allow him not a portion to obtain.

Around that friendly board, with plenty spread
Where rise the bones in many a greasy heap,
Each in his easy chair supinely laid,
The Sons of toil their annual revel keep.

The forest moaning hollow in the gale;
The cold and cheerless winds surcharg’d with snow;
The headlong torrent rushing down the vale;
Compel them not their banquet to forego.

For them no far-fetcht luxuries are spread,
Nor costly Burgundy their care beguiles:
Yet Peace and Plenty at their table-head
Are seen, with all their family of smiles.

Oft did they fast throughout the by-gone year,
Their looks confirm the truth of what I say;
How patiently they bore their lot severe!
How did they welcome this auspicious day!

Oh! let not Lux’ry mock their diet plain,
Their flowing can, and toasts of pretty maids;
Nor titled Pride behold, with proud disdain,
The poor, but neat, repast, that Labour spreads.

The crowd, that forms sweet smiling Pleasure’s train,
And all that fickle fortune’s favours share,
Confess alike the iron sway of pain;
The paths of power are but the paths of care.

Nor you, ye rich! account it as a fault,
Though at their board no chosen wines are plac’d
Where the inspiring quintessence of malt,
Lulls every sorrow, every care to rest.

Can luxury’s sons in bloom, or vigour, vie
With those of industry and toil severe?
Can creams and jellies taste like yonder pye;
Or claret string the nerves like nappy beer?

Perhaps at this carousal might be found,
Some heart that oft has bled at Mis’ry’s cry;
Hands that could hurl oppression to the ground,
Or wipe the falling tear from Sorrow’s eye.

But these hard times a cheerless gloom have thrown
O’er all their smiling prospects of delight;
Chill Penury, with heart-apalling frown,
And hollow eye, now stands before their sight.

Full many a tear bedims Misfortune’s eye,
And, streaming from its source, unseen descends.
Full many a sad and unavailing sigh
Is breath’d in secret――and with ether blends.

Some unknown Howard, that, with pity smit,
Has oft explor’d Affliction’s sad retreat;
Some poor unhonour’d Nelson here may sit;
Some Burns, that sings and struggles with his fate.

Th’ applause of jolly topers to obtain,
At feasts to crack a bottle with Lord May’r;
To scour the watch along some dirty lane,
And rend with loud huzzas the midnight air,

Fortune forbids.――Nor circumscribes alone
Their pleasures, but their sorrows too confines;
Forbids in private sadly to bemoan
The gout and all the ills debauch combines;

The treach’rous perfidy of friends to prove,
To lose at play a fortune, madly driven;
Or, for some loose-rob’d wanton strumpet’s love,
Risk life, and all their future hopes of heav’n.

Far from the hamlet, where their fathers grew,
The sons have never wish’d nor sought to stray;
Fortune their humble dwelling never knew,
And Science there ne’er shed her piercing ray.

Yet, e’en their welcome holiday they keep,
A smile of pleasure sparkles in their eyes;
Drest in their Sunday’s suits, and drinking deep,
They draw the smile and pity of the wise.

Their wants, their woes, without disguise made known,
The void, in conversation oft supply:
And many saving maxims are laid down,
That teach the poor, lank hunger to defy.

For who, to penury and grief a prey,
At Christmas-tide no signs of pleasure shows?
Flies from the scenes of happiness away,
Nor casts one wistful glance where plenty flows?

At that glad time the face in smiles is drest,
And ev’ry honest heart around is gay;
E’en the poor lab’ror strives to have a feast,
E’en the sad widow wipes her tears away.

For thee who, mindful of this festal day,
Dost try in rhyme its pleasures to relate,
If chance, when Reason shall regain her sway,
Some boon companion should enquire thy fate,

Haply some near-observing friend may say,
“When all was o’er, we saw him scour along,
Splashing through every puddle in his way,
In hopes to gain his home e’er morning sprung.

“There in yon stream, that slowly wanders down
The silent vale, remote from care and strife,
His listless length at midnight hour was thrown,
And ’scap’d, by chance, with scarce a sign of life.

“Along yon trackless heath, his dreary way,
Mutt’ring ten thousand curses, he explor’d:
Now starting, wild with terror and dismay,
Now dreading yet th’ unfathomable ford.

“That morn we missed him ope his cottage door,
Within the barn, and on the bowling green;
Another fill’d his chair at dinner hour:
Nor at the sports, nor ale-house was he seen.

“At night, by friends and neighbours homeward borne,
We saw him pillow’d on the couch of rest,
Approach and hear his faithful Mary mourn,
And mark the throbbings of the anxious breast.”

THE SOLILOQUY.

Here rests his head, now free from care or mirth,
A man for drinking and misfortunes known;
Cold poverty presided at his birth,
And ever since has mark’d him for her own.

Large were the draughts he quaff’d, by passion driv’n,
And reason’s power was lost amid the flow;
He gave his sorrow to the winds of heaven,
And snatch’d a short oblivion to his woe.

No further seek his frailties to disclose,
Or tell each little failing of his life,
Here they, forgot in silence, should repose――
The bosom of his confidant and wife.

From _The Pleasures of Nature; or, the Charms of Rural Life. With other Poems_. By David Carey. London: Vernon and Hood. 1803.

(D. Carey also published “Reign of Fancy, with Lyrical Tales,” 1804. “Craig Phadric; Visions of Sensibility, with Legendary Tales,” Printed at Inverness for the Author, 8vo., 1811. Carey was the son of a manufacturer in Arbroath, Forfarshire, where he was born in 1782. He edited _The Inverness Journal_ for five years, and died at Arbroath, October 4th, 1824.)

――――:o:――――

ELEGIAC STANZAS,
_On returning at Day-break, through an Alley in London,
from a Ball at Lady Dash’s_.

The Watchman drawls the hour of dawning day,
The breakfast booth is set with smoking tea,
The dancers homeward wind their weary way,
And leave the streets to morning and to me.

Now brighter beams upon the pavement dart,
Though yet a gen’ral silence holds the air,
Save where some gard’ner drives his early cart,
Or drowsy milkmen clank along the square:

Save that, disguised with liquor and with paint,
The fragile fair complains of some mishap,
From rough patroles, who, stern and ungallant,
Molest her chill and solitary nap.

Beneath these humble roofs, these broken tiles,
Blown from their lay’rs when April winds were high,
On beds uncurtain’d, and in crowded files,
This narrow alley’s lab’ring tenants lie.

The pealing knocker at the pompous porch,
The fretful gabble of the elbow’d guest,
The clattering carriage, or the flaring torch,
Has never robb’d them of their lowly rest.

For them no dame shall plan the brilliant ball,
Nor Mr. Speaker ply his evening care:
No lacqueys bow before them through the hall,
Nor scream their titles up the crowded stair.

Oft does the dray their sturdy strength invite,
Their harden’d hands oft haul the stubborn rope,――
How jocund do they shut their shops at night!
How smirk their chins beneath the Sunday soap!

Let not nice Nugent mock their useful toil,
Their ill cut raiment, or their homely food,
Nor the Black Dandy[9] hear with scornful smile,
The early hours of that unpolish’d brood.

The pomp of liv’ries and the whirl of wheels,
And all that Hoby,[10] all that Dyde[11] e’er gave,
Are random toys that Fortune blindly deals,――
Grave to the fool, but foolish to the grave.

Nor you, ye fair, contemn their lowly doom,
If fops for them no rapt’rous plaudits raise;
While in the buzz of many a scented room,
Your voice, your dancing swell the note of praise.

Can animating reel, or melting waltz,
Teach you to thread the giddier maze of life?
Can D’Egville’s skill redeem one step when false?
Or Cramer lull the jars of man and wife?

Perhaps in yon dark garret may repose
Eyes, of fair Castlereagh’s celestial fire;
Hands that, like Congreve’s, had consumed our foes,
Or swept, like Southey’s, o’er the laureat lyre;

But Fashion to their eyes her fruitful store
Of gay accomplishment did ne’er unroll:
Chill penury repressed each livelier pow’r,
And nipp’d the tender flow’rets of the soul.

Full many a Luttrell’s mental ray serene
The wide uncultured bogs of Erin bear:
Full many a Hope is born to blush unseen,
Or waste her sweetness at a village fair.

Some nameless Ward, whose master-wit repress’d
The alehouse patriot’s dull disloyal arts,
Some bright untoasted Hertford here may rest――
Some Jersey, guiltless of our broken hearts.

The Morning Post’s applause to bear away,
To tease the envious mob of aping cits,
To scatter plenty at a _fête ornée_,
To learn of Statesmen, and to live with wits,

Their lot forbade: a power supremely wise
Their fate, their fashion, and their faults confin’d:
Forbade, to deal destruction with their eyes,
And shut the gates of mercy _on mankind_:

The modest throes of struggling truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
To vie with demireps in paint and pride,
And swell the calendar of evil fame.

Far from St. James’s, far from all the Squares,
Their vulgar footsteps never learn’d to stray;
About St. Martin’s Lane, or Lambeth Stairs,
They keep the noisy tenor of their way.

Yet, that ev’n these may taste their due delights,
Some Evening Tea-garden with holly fence,
From caxon’d quizzes, and from flounce-cloak’d frights,
Obtains the tribute of their eighteen pence.

Their cakes, their ale, brought by a tidy maid,
The place of venison and champagne supply:
And cocks and hens are clipp’d from yew-tree shade,
That meet their taste for rural scenery.

For who, in Nature’s favourite month of June,
Seeks not the velvet of some verdant sod?
Feels the warm ray of Sunday afternoon,
Nor casts one restless, roving look abroad?

Tax’d carts unnumber’d roll through Bethnal Green,
By Hatchett’s door a knot of coaches wait:
On Greenwich Hill are some smart ankles seen,
Even at the Horns some fearless husbands bait.

For thee, who, mindful of a friendless race,
Dost in these rhymes their little lives define,
If chance, when years have sped their silent pace,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire of thine,

Haply, some gentle dowager may say,――
“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
“Kicking from painted floors the chalk away,
“While sleepy chaperons would sit and yawn.

“There, where the Palace fronts St. James’s Street,
“And rears its old fantastic tow’rs so high,
“The rattling carriages he loved to meet,
“And gossip with the folk that babbled by.

“From rout to rout, now laughing at the tricks
“Of wayward jilts and dandies he would rove:
“Now deeply wrapt in chit chat politics,
“Or slyly jesting on some corner-love.

“One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustom’d walks
“Along the Park, and near his fav’rite trees;
At night he sate not in my opera box,
“Nor came to sup at Lady ――――’s.

Next morn I heard that, just two days before,
With a loved bride from busy Town he went:
Sit down with patience a few moments more,
And read a letter that he lately sent:

THE LETTER.

Here lives, retired from all the haunts of men,
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
The muses frown’d not on his early pen,
But Disappointment mark’d him for her own.

His heart was warm, and his ambition high,
But Heav’n decreed a safer, stiller life:
He gave to pomp and pow’r a parting sigh:
He gain’d from Heav’n a fond and faithful wife.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Nor wake his wishes for a world forgot:
Here, in his rustic home he finds repose,
And love and letters bless his lonely cot.

From _Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces_, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets. London. John Miller, 25, Bow Street. 1814.

――――:o:――――

THE LAST OF THE LOTTERIES.

(Public Lotteries were abolished by Act of Parliament in 1826, and the last was drawn on October 18, 1826.)

The Chancellor has passed the stern decree,
The daily press rings out the doleful knell,
Warning each old adventurer, that he
Must now of Lotteries take a last farewell!

Dismay and wonder now pervade Cornhill――
The printers, too, are in a dismal rout,
Swearing they ne’er shall print another bill,
When those for whom _they puffed_ are thus _puffed_ out.

O Fred’rick Robinson, thou man of death!
Our scanty pittance why should you begrudge it?
Why――oh! why thus in dungeon stop our breath,
And shut us cruelly from out thy budget?

What was it seem’d offensive in thine eyes,
And gave thine act a plausible pretence?
Say――didst thou think the selling _a large prize_
Was in itself a _capital_ offence?

Whatever be the cause, the effect is sad;
Since thou must close his well-known lucky wicket,
_Bish_, our Leviathan, is gone half mad,
And looks as dismal as a blank-drawn ticket.

_Carrol_――alas! his carols, turned to sighs,
Seem to his cheerful name to give the lie;
_Hazard_, with fear of _death_ before his eyes
Declares he’ll stand the “_hazard of the die_.”

_Swift_, of the _Poultry_, too, is ill at ease,
His grief breaks forth in this pathetic swell――
I go to pine on wretched bread and cheese,
For, ah! to _poultry_ I must bid farewell!

_Martin_ complains his rapid flight is checked,
And doth the ruin of his house deplore,
Wond’ring that _martin’s_ nests don’t claim respect,
As they were wont to do in times of yore.

_Richardson_ says the world will teem with crimes,
And woe and misery pervade the state;
For what can prosper in those hapless times,
When _Good-luck_ is proscribed, and out of date?

The _web_ of death encircles _J. D. Webb_,
The common ruin on him too hath landed;
Him, too, must reach this melancholy ebb,
And all the fortunes of the _Strand_ be _stranded_.

_Pidding_, who did his corner much enjoy,
Says, while he contemplates the prospect dim,
“How oft I’ve _hung_ out my gay blue-coat boy――
Now I must _hang_ myself instead of him!”

Happily, next year, some friend shall say and weep,
As up _Cornhill_ he takes his lonely way――
“Where are the _harvests_ which I used to _reap_,
Beneath the sickle of each drawing day?

“Ah! where is _Sivewright_? where is _Eyton_ now?
Where are the placards, which so lately told
The clustering congregation when and hew
The thirty thousands were all shared and sold?

“Where dwelt activity there reigneth gloom:
My well-known friends have lost their public rank:
The _Lottery_ has pass’d into the tomb,
And left the world an universal _blank_.”

From _The Literary Gazette_.

――――:o:――――

AN ELEGY,
_Written in the King’s Bench Prison_.

The turnkey rings the bell for shutting out,
The visitor walks slowly to the gate;
The debtor chum-ward hastes in idle rout,
And leaves the Bench to darkness, me, and fate.

Now fades the high-spiked wall upon the sight,
And all the space a silent air assumes!
Save where some drunkard from the Brace[12] takes flight,
And drowsy converse lulls the distant rooms.

Save that from yonder Strong Room,[13] close confined,
Some noisy wight does to the night complain,
Of Mister Jones, the marshal, who, unkind
Has, by a week’s confinement, check’d his reign.

Within those strong-built walls, down that parade,
Where lie the stones all paved in order fair,
Each in his narrow room by bailiffs laid,
The new-made pris’ners o’er their caption swear.

The gentle morning bustle of their trade,
The ’prentice, from the garret overhead,
The dapper shopman, or the busy maid,
Will never here arouse them from their bed.

For them no polish’d Rumfords here shall burn,
Nor wife uxorious ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their dad’s return,
Or climb his knees, the sugar-plums to share.

Oft did the creditor to their promise yield,
As often they that solemn promise broke;
How jocund did they drive the duns afield!
’Till nick’d at last within the bailiff’s yoke!

Let not ambition mock their heedless fate,
And idly cry, their state might have been better;
Nor grandeur hear with scorn while I relate
The short insolvent annals of the debtor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
All wealth procures, its being to entrench,
Await alike the writ’s appointed hour:
The paths of spendthrifts lead but to the Bench.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
That they are here, and not at large like you,
That they have bills at tailor’s, and wine vault
Bills that, alas! have long been overdue.

Can story gay, or animated tale,
Back from this mansion bid us freely run?
Can honour’s voice o’er creditors prevail,
Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Dun?

Perhaps in this confined retreat is shut
Some heart, to make a splash once all on fire:
Skill, that might Hobhouse to the rout have put,
Or loyally play’d Doctor Southey’s lyre.

But prudence to their eyes her careful page,
Rich in pounds, shillings, pence, did ne’er unroll.
Stern creditors repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of their soul.

Full many a blood, in fashion an adept,
The dark, lone rooms of spunging-houses bear
Full many a fair is born to bloom unkept,
And waste her sweetness, none know how or where.

Some cockney Petersham, that with whisker’d cheek
Once moved in Bond Street, Rotten Row, Pall Mall,
Some humble Mrs. Clarke[14] for rest may seek,
Some Burdett, guiltless quite of speaking well.

The applauses of admiring mobs to gain
To be to threats of ruin, prison, lost;
To see they have not spent their cash in vain,
And read their triumph in the Morning Post.

That lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone
Their growing follies, but themselves confined;
The bailiff grimly seized them for his own,
And turnkeys closed the gates on them behind.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
The King’s Bench terribly pulls down our pride
For high or lowly born, ’tis all the same.

Far from the city’s mad ignoble strife
They still retain an eager wish to stray;
They hate this cool sequester’d mode of life,
And wish at liberty to work their way.

And on those walls that still from duns protect
Those fire-proof walls, so strongly built and high,
With uncouth rhymes and mis-spelt verses deck’d,
They ask the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their names, their years, writ by th’ unletter’d muse
The place of fame and brass plate fill up well;
And many a lawyer’s too the stranger views
With pious wishes he may go to hell.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
His pleasing anxious liberty resign’d,
To Banco Regis bent his dreary way,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind.

On some one out, the prisoner still relies,
Some one to yield him comfort, he requires;
E’en from the Bench the voice of nature cries,
E’en though imprison’d, glow our wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the debtor’s doom,
Dost in these lines their hapless state relate;
If chance by writ or capias hither come,
Some kindred spirit may inquire thy fate.

Haply, some hoary bailiff here may say,
“Oft have we watch’d him at the peep of dawn,
But, damn him, still he slipped from us away,
And when we thought we had him, he was gone.

“Where Drury Lane erects its well-known head,
And Covent Garden lifts its domes on high,
Morning and noon and night we found him fled,
Most snugly poring on us passing by.

“On Sundays, ever smiling as in scorn,
Passing our houses, he would boldly rove;
We gave his case up as of one forlorn,
And for his person pined in hopeless love.

“One morn we track’d him near th’ accustom’d spot
Along the Strand, and by his favourite she――
Another came; yet still we caught him not,
But on the third, we nabb’d a youth,――’twas he.

“The next, with warrant due, we brought our man,
Snug to the Bench, here all the way from town,
Approach and read the warrant (if you can),
You may a copy get for half-a-crown.”

THE WARRANT.

Here rests his head, in “seventeen” and one,
A youth to fortune and to fame well-known.
But tradesmen trusted and began to dun,
And Mister Sheriff marked him for his own.

Great were his spendings, he naught put on shelf,――
To send a recompense law did not fail:
He gave his cred’tors, all he had――himself
He gain’d from them (all he abhorred) a gaol!

No further seek his doings to disclose,
Or draw his follies from this dull abode,
(Here he’ll at all events three months repose),
Th’ Insolvent Act may open then a road.

This Parody was published anonymously in a little work, entitled, “_Prison Thoughts_,” by a Collegian. London, John Lowndes, 1821. It was afterwards reprinted in “_Doings in London_, or Day and Night Scenes in the Metropolis,” by George Smeeton, which was published about 1828. In this it is said that the above Parody of Gray’s Elegy was written by a favourite dramatist, but it does not give his name.

――――:o:――――

Another parody, with a somewhat similar title, was published, in quarto, in 1790, of which the following is an exact reprint, omitting an advertisement, a list of subscribers, a dedication to Sir Martin Stapylton Bart, and some rather tedious footnotes:――

AN ELEGY.
_In Imitation of Gray._

Written in
THE KING’S BENCH PRISON.
BY A MINOR.

Printed for the Author; and sold by R. Lea, Greek Street, MDCCXC.
――――
The surly crier rings his nightly knell,
The willing guest departs his weary way,
And hears with joy the lonely Prison-bell,
Nor wishes with his wretched friend to stay.

Now rest the noisy racket-playing cry,
And rattling balls against the dreary wall;
To them succeed the ruin-hurling die,
And bawling Potmen’s never ceasing call.

Within these narrow cells, in durance vile,
Where lurid Vengeance holds its baleful reign,
Where awful Ruin hovers ’round the pile,
Th’ inglorious captives ev’ry grief sustain.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn
Gives not its wonted joy unto their shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn
No more entices from their lowly bed.

Here dwells the rustic, who with thoughtless zeal
The petty _tyrant_ of his fields defied,
Doom’d, by some lordly Villain’s frown, to feel
The tedious malice of hard hearted Pride.

Here too, in long captivity remain
The hardy warrior, and the nobly brave,
Who dar’d their Country’s battles to sustain
Their honor’d Country’s LIBERTY to save

But oh! despise not their ignoble toil,
Their loss of Liberty and Life obscure,
Nor proudly hear with a disdainful smile
The dull complaint of the imprison’d poor.

On those who boast of Heraldry and Pow’r
Or all that Pomp and sordid wealth e’er gave,
The angry storms of Fortune soon may lour
A wretched Prison may precede the grave.

Not ev’n can VIRTUE’S sacred name defend;
For round the good, and near the bad await,
The one t’afflict, the other to amend,
The never-failing ministers of Fate.

Perhaps within this sad abode may pine,
A heart once pregnant with Celestial fire,
Souls, that to warlike deeds do still incline,
And hands, that still might wake the living lyre:

But Liberty to them, by cruel fate,
Is now denied the panting heart to warm;
Chill Penury confines their low estate,
And Life’s to them devoid of ev’ry charm.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Within these hated walls do they remain;
With patience drink the _bitter dregs_ of Life,
And the dire load of misery sustain.

Their hopes, their wishes, and the chance of fate,
The place of certainty, or truth supply;
They still would triumph o’er the proud one’s hate,
Nor yet despairing wildly wish to die.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
A miserable being e’er resign’d,
Left the dull precincts of the doleful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

Still on some breast does ev’ry soul rely,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
For _distant friends_ we breathe th’impassion’d sigh,
To tears of SYMPATHY each wretch aspires.

But here, entomb’d within this living grave,
Too many sink beneath their wretched fate,
No more have Friends the _pleasing pow’r_ to save,
And long-delay’d assistance comes too late.

While some, alas! neglected by each friend,
The world despising, by the world forgot,
With jovial riot their dull hours defend,
And drown with sparkling wine their hapless lot.

The sumptuous feast, and ev’ry sensual joy,
With noisy mirth each gloomy night infest;
Still must REFLECTION’S piercing dart annoy,
And such vile pleasures but disturb their rest.

And yet some _tutors_ with a scanty fare
Advise a PRISON, venial faults to mend:
But Ah! they little know the anxious care,
And less the danger which such schools attend.

Can prudent maxims to a conscious mind
Supply the place of HONOR’S gentler sway?
Or can the dear-bought knowledge of mankind
The loss of VIRTUE’S gen’rous flame repay?

Many, by fond credulity betray’d,
Their _happiness_ on other’s _honor_ stake;
The faithless friends the angry laws evade,
And honest friendship suffers for the rake.

The sober citizen, whose hard-earn’d wealth,
Is lost by sad vicissitude of trade,
With heartfelt sorrow undermines his health
While _Prudent_ Friends his losses still upbraid.

Then by a cruel false deceiver led,
Wearied with mis’ry, frantic with despair,
The blooming Partner of his marriage bed,
Adds Jealous anguish to his wretched care.

For thee, who mindful of thy own mischance,
Dost in these lines an artless tale relate;
Some kindred spirit, or some friend perchance,
In future times may mourn thy hapless fate.

And when with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow thro’ the church-way path thy corpse be borne,
May these few lines compose the parting lay,
Grav’d on a stone beneath an aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rest his cares within the friendly earth,
A YOUTH to fortune and to fame unknown;
Some Dæmon frown’d upon his humble birth,
And cheerless mis’ry marked him for her own.

When youthful, virtues glow’d within his breast,
Allur’d by Passion, by Example led,
With Folly’s children he too warmly prest,
And idle joys their baleful influence shed.

But soon succeed these pleasures of the town,
Th’ unfeeling persecution of the proud,
With black misfortune’s sad terrific frown,
And hard neglect of the unthinking crowd.

Deserted by his friends, by all mankind,
With silent anguish long he mourn’d his fate,
With joyful hope his willing breast resign’d
In expectation of an happier state.

Around his grave the cypress wreath entwine,
The Yew Tree’s shade shall add its solemn gloom;
The tender fair to pity will incline,
And drop a tear upon his early Tomb.

――――:o:――――

EPITAPH ON A LATE ADMINISTRATION.

Here rest their Heads in Power’s and Honour’s grave,
A band to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science never smil’d on their conclave,
And Scorn and Weakness mark’d them for their own.

Large were their means, yet constant their defeat,
And France, deriding, mock’d their wild intentions;
They gave to England, all they could――a debt;
They gain’d from England, all they wish’d――their Pensions.

Seek not (vain hope) their merits to disclose,
Nor paint their faults to sadden their condition;
These let them try with trembling hope t’ expose,
And those defend――on bench of Opposition.

From _The Morning Chronicle_ (London). Jan. 18, 1811.

――――:o:――――

AN ELEGY IN A LONDON CHURCHYARD.

Great Tom now sounds the close of busy day,
The weary dray horse rests from labour free,
From town, till morn, the merchant speeds his way,
And London leaves to tumult and to me.

Now stars terrestrial glimmer through each street,
Thro’ all the air a din confus’d is spread,
Save where perchance some list’ning crowd you meet,
By nightly songsters’ strain discordant led;

Save that from yonder watch-box standing near,
The old night-guardian tells his wonted tale;
Or urged by outrage dire to timely fear,
Makes his loud rattle sound upon the gale.

On cobbler’s stall, or screen’d by friendly shed,
Full many a maid once breath’d her nightly woes;
Yet here from chill misfortune ever fled,
The houseless wand’rers of the street repose.

The noisy call of Smithfield’s early train,
The sweep’s shrill matins from the chimney stack,
The dustman’s bell, or post-boy’s piping strain,
No more shall call their fleeting spirits back.

(_Eight verses omitted_)

* * * * *

Full many a forest oak of stately size
To menial purpose bends it’s lofty head;
Full many a treasure undiscover’d lies
Beneath the passenger’s unconscious tread.

Some latent WREN, who up the scaffold high,
Obedient hasten’d to the bricklayers call:
Some poor harmonic Tinker here may lie,
Some Statesman guiltless of his country’s fall.

The Virtuoso’s praises to command,
The soul to lift with transports to the skies,
To scatter mis’ry o’er a smiling land,
And fruitless schemes of conquest to devise.

Their lot forbade:――nor yet did fortune frown,
But equally their crimes and fame confin’d;
Forbade to wade thro’ folly to renown
And gain the execration of mankind.

(_Seven verses omitted_)

* * * * *

Haply some cit may say:――“The crowd among
“Oft have we seen him at the close of day,
“Bustling with hasty foot-steps thro’ the throng,
“To gain his fav’rite seat at some new play.

“There, in the midway region of the pit,
“Where Critics oft their arts malignant ply,
“Near to the orchestra, sedate he’d sit,
“And pore upon the scene with curious eye.

“Beneath yon elm, that each new loit’rer wooes,
“He lov’d to sit, absorbed in musings deep;
“Then up the Green-Park, or by Chelsea-Mews,
“He’d briskly run; or, tir’d, would slowly creep.

“One eve I miss’d him on th’ accustom’d way:
“Along the park, and near his fav’rite tree,
“Another came――I sought him at the play,
“Nor in the pit, box, nor gallery, was he

“The next in dreary hearse, with sad array,
“Slow to th’ uncypress’d church-yard he was borne,
“Approach and read (if thou hast time) the lay,
“Grav’d on the stone, that no proud lies adorn.”

――――:o:――――

EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon a folio terse,
An Author, once to wits and patrons known;
The Critics frown’d not on his humble verse,
Nor did the world his labours quite disown.

Large his editions, but his readers few;
Fate did a recompence as largely send,
He wisely bade to Booksellers adieu,
And (in their stead) each Chandler found a friend.

No longer now pil’d up in useless state,
His pages freely circulate thro’ town:
Perhaps, at last, doom’d by capricious fate
To kindle pipes, or curl some crazy crown.

From _The Morning Post and Gazetteer_:

Thursday, November 28, 1799.

――――:o:――――

NIGHTLY THOUGHTS IN THE TEMPLE.

St. Dunstan’s bells proclaim departing day,
The weary hacks slow drag the axle-tree,
The ’prentice homeward runs his hasty way,
And leaves the Town to dulness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring lamps upon the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the watchman bawls “A cloudy night,”
And tipsy rev’ller the shut tavern scolds.

Save that yon victim of a ruffian’s pow’r
Does loudly to the street-patrole complain
Of such, as lurking at this silent hour,
Molest the king of midnight’s ancient reign.

Within those gates that iron strong has made,
Where rooms o’er rooms arise in many a heap,
Each in his chamber on a pillow laid,
The law-learn’d Benchers of the Temple sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The sheriff’s trumpet, or the postman’s horn
No more shall rouse them from their feather bed.

In them no more the muse’s fire shall burn,
Or metaphysics be their ev’ning care;
No school-boy’s classic triumphs shall return,
Or dulness pine the envied praise to share.

Oft did the grammar to their patience yield,
The Latin oft and stubborn Greek they spoke;
How jocund hied they to the cricket field!
How flew the ball before their sturdy stroke!

Let not a Wakefield mock their plodding toil,
Their text corrupt and pedagogue obscure;
Nor Porson hear, with a disdainful smile,
What stripes a slow-pac’d tyro must endure.

The boast of critic skill may worms devour,
And all that study, all that wit e’er gave,
Await alike th’ inevitable hour:
The backs of Russia cannot always save.

Nor you, ye fam’d, impute to these the fault
If learning o’er those shelves no volumes raise,
Where oft the book-collector loves to halt
And Lackington[15] yet swells with his own praise.

Can hot-press’d page, or mezzotinto bust,
Back to an author call th’ expended sum?
Can honour’s voice engage the printer’s trust,
Or flat’ry sooth the dull, cold debtor’s room?

Perhaps in those muse-slighted courts are laid
Some hearts once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of Thespis might have sway’d,
Or wak’d the modern Pindar’s laughing lyre,

But Themis to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of clients did unroll;
Chill penury repress’d their classic rage
Or beauty warm’d the current of the soul.

Yet many a term, a Lawyer, too serene,
The briefless bag to Westminster may bear,
Yet many a Lover’s born to sigh unseen,
Or waste his rhet’ric on th’ obdurate fair.

Some Nash, that had alike with dauntless breast
The little tyrant, or the great withstood
Some mute, inglorious Erskine there may rest;
Some Scott, ne’er thirsting for a patriot’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning juries to command,
The cause of Hardy and of Tooke to gain
To scatter pamphlets o’er their native land,
And read their praises from a foreign pen,

Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone
Their growing merit, but their faults confin’d;
Forbade to raise the persecutor’s throne,
And shut the gates of freedom on the mind.

The gentle charms of Christian truth to hide,
To wake her blushes of ingenuous shame,
Heaping the shrine of bigotry and pride,
With incense kindled at her sacred flame.

Far from the wrangling Bar’s high purchas’d strife,
On a back seat they mark the wordy fray;
Along the circuit to the vale of life,
They keep the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e’en their heads from eave-drops to protect
Some frail umbrella still upheld on high
The uncouth wig, as Cloudesley Shovell’s deck’d,
Declare a councillor is passing by.

Their names, their years, spelt falsely in the news,
The place of fame and Marlborough supply;
And many a line around the Printer strews,
That teach how Barristers may wed and die.

But who, to dull law precedents a prey,
The pleasing cares of science e’er resign’d,
Left the warm novel or the well-wrought play,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind.

On summer’s pleasure the fagg’d clerk relies,
Some rural ease the pleader’s health requires;
E’en from the bench the Chief for leisure sighs,
E’en on Welch mountains seeks his wonted fires.

Henry, for thee, who now to science dead,
Dost on law folios rent thy classic pate;
If chance, by friendly recollection led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,

Haply some Drama-loving wight may say――
“Oft have we seen him at the hour of five,
“Brushing, with hasty steps the dust away,
“For Drury’s pit, and a front seat to strive.

“There, where a whisper from the stage can reach,
“Though for the gaudy Pantomime too nigh,
“At pompous nothings would he yawn and stretch,
“But mark the eloquence of Siddons’ eye.”

Hard by yon band, now fiddling as in scorn,
Musing on Godwin would his fancy rove:
Now, drooping, when he thought of men forlorn,
For public weal now slighting private love.

One eve I miss’d him o’er th’ accustom’d pit,
Along the Critics’ seat, near twiddle dee;
Another came, nor where the Gods do sit,
Nor up the slips, nor at half price was he.

Next morn, ’twixt lawyers two, in black array,
Slow through the hall of Rufus was he borne;
Approach and read (if thou can’st read) the lay
Engrav’d on parchment from an old deed torn.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon a page of Coke,
A youth, to foplings and to flirts unknown;
Fair science frown’d not on the words he spoke,
And metaphysics mark’d him for their own.

Sound was his judgment and his soul sincere,
Fortune a recompense did largely send;
He wrote at Colchester full many a year,
He gain’d from Witham, all he wish’d――a Friend.

Nor Patisson, his civic faith disclose,
Nor draw his frailties in a wordy brief;
For you, alike in trembling hope repose,
To be admitted by my Lord the Chief.

J. T. R. 1806.

――――:o:――――

NOCTURNAL CONTEMPLATIONS IN BARHAM DOWNS CAMP.

The moon slow setting sends a parting ray,
The topers to the mess-room march with glee;
To bed the sober shape their quiet way,
And leave the lines to pensiveness and me.

Now scarce a candle glimmers on the sight,
And o’er the camp at length soft stillness reigns;
Save where the dice are dash’d with desp’rate might,
Or braying asses wake the distant plains.

Save that from yonder show’r-sheltering box,
The sentry’s rough voice does the ear assail
Of such who, trusting to the gloom of _Nox_
Steal to the well-known booth to tipple ale.

Within each tent of flimsy canvas made,
Where knapsacks rise in many a scatter’d heap,
Twelve men on narrow beds, till morning laid,
Refresh their senses with the dews of sleep.

The cannon’s roar that through the vale resounds,
The _reveillée’s_ harsh echoing in their ears,
The sergeant’s voice that ever rudely sounds,
Again shall wake them to their humble cares.

For them again the kitchen fires shall burn,
And busy matrons their saloop prepare,
The butcher’s loaded wain from town return,
And quarter-masters loaves and mutton share.

Oft do their hardy hands the hatchet wield,
And vig’rous knees the stubborn faggot break;
How steadily they tread the rugged field,
How quick a column, or a square they make!

Let not lac’d loungers mock their thankless toil,
Their homely meals and toilets thrifty plan;
Nor ’broider’d gen’rals hear with scornful smile
The simple annals of a private man.

The salutations which to rank are due,
And all that gold e’er bought, or favor gave,
Cannot the worn-out wheels of life renew,
Promotion’s high way leads but to the grave.

Nor you, ye beaus, forget that they are men,
If no white dust their soapy locks disguise;
If on their brawny limbs coarse cloth you ken,
And from their cloaths no musky scent arise.

Can kerseymere, or scarlet bought on trust,
Compel the lungs to stay the fleeting breath?
Can fun’ral vollies wake the slumb’ring dust,
Or gleaming gorget ward the dart of death?

Perhaps on tatter’d pillow now is laid,
Some head by nature fashion’d for command,
Whose solid sense in council might have sway’d,
And led to victory a num’rous band.