WILLIAM COLLINS.
Born, 1720. | Died, 1756.
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
When Music, heavenly maid! was young.
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse’s painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
’Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each—for madness ruled the hour—
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild.
* * * * *
But oh! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter’s call, to Fawn and Dryad known;
The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste eyed Queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen
Peeping from forth their alleys green;
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up and seized his beechen spear.
Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe’s Vale, her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
* * * * *
About 1800 a satirical parody on this Ode was published anonymously, of which unfortunately no copy can now be traced. It contained the following lines:—
Ode to the Passions.
“Revenge impatient rose;
He threw his boxing gloves in haste away,
And, with a knowing look,
A set of Scottish bagpipes took,
And blew a strain so full of fears,
The very Passions melt in tears.
(Tears! such as you’ve heard Shakespeare say,
A Bagpipe’s drone WILL bring away.)
And ever and anon he’d hum
The Giant’s Song of Fe Fa Fum.
* * * * *
The most complete parody is however to be found in Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces, published anonymously in London in 1814. Unfortunately it deals with the politics and politicians of the day, and many of the allusions are of no general interest at the present time, so that only a few extracts need be quoted:
The Aspirants:
An Ode for Music.
When George our Prince, first sway’d the land,
While yet Restriction cramp’d his hand,
Aspirants oft, with smiles and bows,
Throng’d the door of Carlton House,
Expecting, hinting, praying, striving,
To get the reins, and shew their driving.
By turns they found the Princely mind
Disturb’d or calm, displeased or kind,
Till once, ’tis said, when one and all
Met impatient in his hall,
From a music room beyond
They snatch’d the instruments of sound;
And, having heard, perhaps, at school,
How fiddling Orpheus rose to rule,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would tempt the self-same path to pow’r.
First fiddle Grenville needs must try,—
And strain’d the chords, to make them sure:
Then back recoil’d, he knew not why,
From the unfinish’d overture.
Next, Brougham came pushing from behind,
His native bagpipe at his side:
In one rude roar he forced the wind,
And sounded strong, and far, and wide.
The organ fell to Byron’s share,
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil’d:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air!
’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild
* * * * *
But thou, O Croker, bard of flame,
What was thy prophetic story?
Still it spoke of promised glory,
And bade the lofty hopes at distance hail.
Still would his touch the strain prolong:
And from the fort, the height, the vale,
He call’d on Wellington through all the song;
And as that noble theme he chose,
Britain responsive cheer’d at every close,
And Croker smil’d, well pleas’d, and Britain boasts his fame.
* * * * *
Sheridan came last to trial:
He, with viny crown advancing,[142]
First to the lively pipe his hand address’d;
But soon he saw the soul-awak’ning viol,
Whose tone his nobler judgment loved the best:
While, as his skilful fingers kiss’d the strings,
Wisdom and mirth framed a harmonious round:
Then wisdom gracious smiled, with zone unbound,
And mirth, amid his frolic play,
Beating brisk measure to the jocund lay,
Waved in the Sun his gaily burnished wings.
The Victims.
When Glo’ster, humpback’d Prince was young,
While yet on fostering breast he hung,
His mind being, like his body, made ill,
The Vices throng’d around his cradle;
Exulting, sneering, grinning, fighting,
They set his early teeth a biting;
By turns they taught the embrio King,
To roar and cry for everything;
Once, while he slept, and all were fired,
Fill’d with fury, rapt, inspir’d
Each fiend prophetic snatch’d a page;
And, as they oft had shewn apart,
Dark lessons of their forceful art,
Each borrow’d from the future hour,
Some victim of the tyrant’s power;
And mutually agreed to pry
Into their darling’s destiny.
First Clarence came, his taste to try,
(Near him a Malmsey butt they laid
Who back recoil’d, he knew not why,
Even at the choice himself had made.
Next Henry’s Son, his eye on fire,
With just reproof the tyrant stings,
One savage blow speaks Richard’s ire,
And the youth soars on seraph wings.
In woeful guise of sad despair,
King Henry mourns his hopes beguil’d,
’Till Glo’ster’s dagger ends his care,
And sends the father to his child.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delusive measure?
Still it whisper’d royal pleasure
To Edward’s son, and promis’d thrones and pow’r.
Still did her voice the cheat prolong,
While their fell uncle in the Tower,
Thought fit to echo the deceitful song,
And where of loyalty the theme she chose
His hypocritic voice was heard at ev’ry close;
And York and Edward fell into the snare.
And longer had she sung, but with a frown
The Duke impatient rose,
He threw his artful mask in fury down,
And with a withering look,
Of Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan and Grey he took
The lives: and bid his hellish agents do
A deed so horrible and dread—
Ne’er were half-stifled shrieks so full of woe,
As when the fell assassins press’d
Against each struggling infant’s breast;
And tho’ some time each dreary pause between,
Dejected pity at their side,
Her soul subduing voice applied:
Still on the couch of innocence they lean,
’Till each strained ball of sight announce the victim’s dead!
Unsteady Buckingham, whose friendship fixed
The crown on Richard, mourns his fallen state;
His cup of death ungrateful Glo’ster mix’d,
And one he cherish’d sells him to his fate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired
The Wife of Richard sat retired;
And from her wretched regal seat,
In notes by sorrow render’d sweet,
Pour’d to Prince Edward’s shade her plaintive soul;
And deeply grieves that e’er she found,
Like Eve, the soft beguiling sound
Of the keen serpent’s voice, which gently stole
Within her heart, her duty to betray;
When after once or twice refusing,
Oh woman’s weakness! past excusing,
She on the Crook-back threw herself away!
But oh! how alter’d was the mournful tone,
When Harry Richmond, arm’d with title true,
His Baldrick ’cross his shoulder flung,
And, with enliv’ning trumpet, blew
A call to arms that thro’ the island rung!
His claim announcing to the English throne.
Elizabeth, late Edward’s Queen,
With age so gay, and youth so green,
To join his standard soon were seen;
And Stanley inwardly rejoiced to hear,
And Rice Ap Thomas seized his Cambrian spear.
Last came Bosworth’s warlike trial,
Richard for his crown advancing;
First to the soldiery some words addressed,
But soon he saw brave Henry defy all,
(And fighting, far than talking he lov’d best).
They might have thought who heard the fray,
That in dark Pandœmonium’s shade,
All Milton’s demons were arrayed;
Such clang of arms and coursers prancing.
While, as at sounding shield the falchion rings,
Death, in his ebon car, drove fiercely round;
And Richard’s corse among the slain was found!
And Henry on that well fought day,
His worth and valour to repay,
Received a crown upborne on Victory’s wings.
Just at this scene young Glo’ster ’woke,
And begg’d, not relishing the joke,
His tutors would so civil be,
As alter the catastrophe.
But that which is decreed by fate,
Must surely happen, soon or late;
And what, as fiction has been stated,
All came to pass, as we’ve related.
From A Metrical History of England, or Recollections in Rhyme, by Thomas Dibdin. 2 Vols. London. 1813.
The following parody was written by Mr. C. H. Waring, and although it was first printed 46 years ago, it is only a few months since the author kindly sent permission for it to be included in this collection.
The Sessions.
An Ode for Music.
When Parliament was fresh and young,
While yet election squibs were sung,
The M. P.’s throng’d to take their seats,
Through London’s country-leading streets,
Exulting, trembling, burning, glowing,
With patriotic zeal o’erflowing,
By turns they felt the teeming mind
To silence forced, to speak inclined;
Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired,
Fill’d with speeches, rapt, inspired,
From the surrounding benches nigh
They strove to catch the Speaker’s eye;
And as they oft had tried apart
Lessons in the forensic art,
Each, as the Speaker ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Dizzy rose his skill to try,
Mid wild abuse bewilder’d stray’d,
Accusing those in places high
Of making statesmanship a trade!
Next * * rush’d—his eye’s clear fire
Told of power that lurk’d within—
In some few words he squashed the liar,
And stripp’d the falsehoods bare and thin.
With woeful measures, poor Joe Hume!
Low plaintive sounds beguiled his soul,
In solemn, strange, and fearful fume,
He summ’d the “tottle of the whole.”
But thou, old boy! with tongue so glib,
What was thy expected pleasure?
Still it cried “Repale’s the measure!”
And bid the friends of Ireland “agitate!”
Still did his tongue that word prolong,
And now deject, and now elate,
He spoke of Erin’s worth, and Erin’s wrong;
And as his eyes and hands uprose,
Each Tory’s finger touch’d the scornful nose,
And Dan O’Connell smiled and waved his Irish “sprig!”
* * * * *
Last came Peel’s ecstatic trial!
With majority advancing,
First to New Tariff laws his lore address’d,
But soon he pourèd from his wrath-full phial
The Income Tax, whose ease he loved the best,
They would have thought who heard his strain
They saw in ancient Rome her saviour stand,
Amid the lyres of the Imperial band,
To the triumphant notes unwearied dancing,
While, as his pearl-white pinions swept the strings,
Joy pranced with fear a wild fantastic round,
Plain were all profits seen, strong chests unbound;
And he amid his frolic play,
As if he would some part repay,
Shook promises by thousands from his wings!
O Parliament! the people aid!
Friend of debtors! wisdom’s shade!
Why now to us, thy worth denied,
Lay’st thou thy ancient strength aside?
As in that old forensic place
You learn’d to body forth with grace!
St. Stephen’s now, alas! for these,
Cannot recall old memories!
Is all thy ancient power dead,
And with that chapel echoes fled?
Arise! as in that olden time,
Warm, energetic, true, sublime!
Thy speeches in that golden age
Fill many a glowing, storied page,
’Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Then an humblest speech could more prevail—
Had more of truth, and patriot rage,
Than all that linger through this age;
E’en all at once together bound,
One inane senseless world of sound!
Oh! bid our modern M.P.’s cease
This war of Party, and in Peace,
Learn to sincerely legislate,
Not for themselves, but for the state.
Punch. November 5, 1842.
Ode to the Fashions.
When Fancy, heavenly maid, was young,
And roved the hills and dales among,
The Fashions, to produce a swell,
Would throng around her magic cell,
Exulting, strutting, almost fainting,
Possessed beyond e’en Planché’s painting,
By turns they showed creative mind
In costumes curiously designed,
When all at once, they all desired,
Each goddess much to be admired.
They from imagination caught,
The wondrous power of Fancy’s thought.
And by that aid sought to impart
The lessons of her graceful art,
And each—for Fashions rule the hour—
Would prove its own delusive power.
First Ancient Briton sought to try
His hand upon the tailoring trade,
And back recoiled—pray don’t ask why—
E’en at the fright himself had made.
A Templar next with eyes on fire,
Looked through a helmet made of chain,
And Fancy cried she’d ne’er desire,
To see such head-dress worn again.
Then came the elongated toe
And hose that made the legs look taper,
With movement that of course was slow,
The wearer couldn’t cut a caper.
But thou, oh hoop, with ruffles grand,
What was thy extended measure,
In which Queen Bess could take her pleasure,
And bade her courtiers keep their distance all?
She scarcely could her train prolong;
It must have awkward been when at a ball,
Especially if there had been a throng.
And when her sweetest dress she chose,
Soft voices from soft men bepraised her clothes,
And she enchanted, smiled, and waved her bright red hair.
And long this Fashion reigned, till with a frown,
The Puritan uprose;
He raised his sword, and thundered at the gown,
And, with determined look,
Ruffling the ruffles, took
A sight; and as he did so said,
That such a bauble from the scene must go.
And ever and anon he beat
The “Devil’s Tattoo” with his feet,
With scarcely any pause whate’er between.
Dejected Cavaliers tried
Their deep vexation all to hide,
As thus the Puritan maintained his mien,
And spoke as though a cold affected his round head.
Then came the Restoration with nought fixed,
Sad proof of what had been the state
Of parties—for then all kinds were mixed—
And now they courted lace to show their Roundhead hate.
With curls turned up beneath the tile,
The wig full bottomed showed its style,
The wearing which, when in the street,
Could surely not have been a treat;
The style passed through three reigns, dating from Anne,
This Brunswick fashion all around,
In circles quite genteel, was found;
Through promenades the hideous head-dress ran,
And e’en the country spots, the histories say,
Found the strange taste diffusing,
Love of wigs ’twas quite amusing;
At length the costume died away.
And now how altered is the Fashion’s tone!
When silks and satin of most brilliant hue
Their show across each shoulder flung,
Their flounces gemmed with ribbons, too,
Had a distingué air when seen upon the young,
A charm that’s in Belgravia well-known,
In nez retroussé, or in beauty’s queen,
So that e’en beardless boys are seen
Looking quite sheepish or quite green,
Till exercise gives them a leer,
As love leaps up where Fashion doth appear.
Last came crinoline into the trial;
She, with mighty hoops advancing,
First with flowing flounces it was dressed,
But soon she saw, for beauty quick doth eye all,
That something yet should her fair form invest.
They would have thought, who saw the train,
That it could scarcely be on English maids,
Here, where decorum oft upraids
Our Mabille mode of dancing,
And modesty looks sheepish at such things.
Love raised up mirth on this fantastic round,
Which looked like a balloon just coming to the ground,
’Neath which the ankles made display,
Which, with Balmoral boots, looked very gay
As military heels displayed their rings.
Oh, Fashion, most fantastic maid!
Friend of pleasure, frailty’s aid;
Why, goddess, it can’t be denied
That thou dost many a blemish hide.
But where is now the simple art
That did in ages past impart
A grace, which scarcely now is thine,
Unto the human form divine?
Arise, as in the elder time,
When simple grace was quite sublime:
The triumph of that graceful age,
Display once more upon the page
Of Fashion’s book, Le Follet named,
Through which new fashions are proclaimed.
’Tis said, and I believe the tale,
The simplest dress did more prevail,
Had much more charm folks to engage
Than the strange guise of modern age!
Then bid your vain displays to cease,
Give the simplicity of Greece,
Return us to that simple boast,
That beauty unadorned’s adorned the most.
The Comic News. May 21, 1864.
