ALEXANDER POPE.
Born May 21, 1688. | Died May 30, 1744.
Dryden’s Odes for St. Cecilia’s Day have already been mentioned, and in 1708 Pope was also induced, by Richard Steele, to write an ode for the annual festival. This is acknowledged to be the finest poem of its kind that had appeared since Dryden’s odes were produced. In fact, as Pope himself said, “Many people would like my ode on music better if Dryden had never written on that subject. It was at the request of Mr. Steele that I wrote mine; and not with any thought of rivalling that great man, whose memory I do, and have always reverenced.”
Pope chose the mythological story of Orpheus and Eurydice as the theme for his ode; it is too long to quote in full, but the first verse, and last quatrain, will serve as key notes for the parodies which follow.
Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day.
Descend ye Nine! descend and sing;
The breathing instruments inspire,
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!
In a sadly pleasing strain
Let the warbling lute complain:
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound;
While, in more lengthen’d notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark! the numbers soft and clear
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay,
And melt away,
In a dying, dying fall.
* * * * *
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater power is given,
His numbers raised a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heaven.
Alexander Pope.
An Ode to Toast-Master Toole.[42]
“Descend, ye Nine!”
No common theme is mine—
I sing of thee, O Toole!
Bacchus baptised thee in a font of wine,
And from the roseate pool
Thy face received the sunny tint it wears,
And thus illumed (blest face!) a thousand “chairs.”
Who, that hath heard poor Charity’s appeal
And nobly paid a guinea for a meal
(Where soup and fish
And every new-made dish,
Just verged upon the cold;
Or else the very tough, or very old—
Except the tepid salad, which appear’d
Fresh gather’d from the hot-bed where ’twas rear’d),
Can e’er forget, O Toole! thy coat of blue
With dazzling metal buttons spangled o’er—
The yard of broad black ribbon, whereunto
Appends the eye-glass thro’ which thou dost pore
Over the list of toasts, ere thou dost bawl
With such stentorian lungs,
That we opine the walls of old Guildhall
Are each endowèd with a thousand tongues—
“Silence!” To hear that Patagonian shout
Is to obey.
The hand that’s in the act of pouring out
Is forced to stay—
“Non Nobis!!!” The greediest crammer
Deserts his plate, roused by thy voice and hammer.
* * * * *
The buzz of bottle-drawing’s at its height;
Brown takes wine with Smith, and Briggs with Bright,
Hark! To that thunder, eloquent o’er all—
Toole! ’tis thy call.
Of “Silence if you please—order for the chair!”
As with an exquisite and finished air,
(Worthy of—Widdicomb, when he essays
To fix some shilling-gallery beauty’s gaze),
You wave your paper bâton o’er the head
Of him who, like Olympian Jove, is seated there,
And guides your voice the thunder of the “Chair!”
Who ne’er,—when public dinner port began
To, Circe-wise, transmogrify the man,
Hath found the rising hiccup downward driven,
When, Toole! thy lungs this glorious toast have given—
“The Queen, with three times three!
“Hip, hip, hurrah!—Silence for a glee!”
* * * * *
Farewell, thou King of Sentiment and Toast!
Long may’st thou rule the roast
At philanthropic and at civic dinner!
Long may Lachesis (that old maiden spinner)
Keep thy thread going, and long may we
Hear you declare
“Silence in the Chair!
Messrs. Hobbs, Dobbs, Snobbs, will ’blige you with a glee.”
Punch, November, 1843.
Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day.
(A long way after Pope.)
Descend, great Bunn!—descend and bring
A furnace of poetic fire;
Nib fifty pens, and take your fling,
Boldly of foolscap fill a quire.
In a namby-pamby strain,
Let the tenor first complain;
Let the falsetto sound,
With nasal twang around,
’Till in applause ’tis drown’d.
Then in more ponderous notes and slow,
Let the deep bass go down, extremely low.
Hark the shrill soprano near
Bursts upon the startled ear!
Higher and higher does she rise,
And fills with awful screams the flies,
By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes,
Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats;
Till by degrees the vigorous bawl,
Seems to decay,
And melts away
In a feeble, feeble squall.
In music there’s a medium, you know;
Don’t sing too high, nor sink too low.
If in a house tumultuous rows arise,
Music to drown the noise the means supplies;
Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares,
To yonder public-house repairs,
Some gallant soldier, fired by music’s sound
Will order pints of half-and-half all round.
John the footman nods his head,
Swears he’ll not go home to bed;
In his arms a partner takes,
As some courteous speech he makes;
And suddenly the joyous pair engage
In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage.
But when the violin puts forth its charms,
How the sweet music every bosom warms:
So when the dilettante dared the squeeze,
To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain,
And in the rush serenely sees
His best coat torn in twain,
Transported simpletons stood round,
And men grew spooneys at the sound,
Roaring with all their wind;
Each one his power of lung displayed
In bawling to the Swedish Maid
While cheers from box to pit resound
For Lind, for Lind, for Lind!
But when through those mysterious bounds
Where the policeman goes his rounds,
The poet had by chance been led
Mid the coal-hole, festive shed,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appeared,
How horrible the din!
Toasted cheese
If you please.
Waiter—stop!
Mutton-chop.
Hollo! Jones,
Devilled bones;
And cries for rum or gin!
But hark! the chairman near the fire
Strikes on the table, to require
Strict silence for a song.
Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still;
Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill;
The pause will not be long.
The guests are mute as if upon their beds;
Their hair uncurl’d hangs from their listening heads.
By the verses as they flow,
By their meaning nothing though,
Full of tropes and flowers;
By those lofty rhymes that dwell
In the mind of Bunn[43] so well,
Like love in Paphian bowers.
By the lines that he has made,
Working at the poet’s trade—
By the “marble halls” so smart,
By “other lips” and “Woman’s heart,”
True poetry at once restore, restore,
Or don’t let Bunn, at least, write any more!
But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes;
Again she falls—again she dies, she dies.
How will she now once more attempt to thrive?
Ah! Jullien[44] comes to keep her still alive.
Now with his British Army
Quadrille, so bright and balmy,
Or with four bands meeting,
Two men a large drum beating,
He gives the tone
Of dying groan,
Or soldier’s moan,
When at his post
His life is in the battle lost.
With five bands surrounded,
Is Jullien confounded?
No! onwards he goes,
And his arms about he throws.
See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies;
Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes.
My eyes! He dies!
He comes to life—for Jullien all have sung;
The name of Jullien is on every tongue.
The boxes and the pit,
Both they who stand and sit;
With Jullien’s name the entire house has rung.
Music the greatest brute can charm,
And savage natures will disarm.
Music can find luxurious ease,
Making what bargain it may please.
A salary it can improve
To any sum that it may love.
This the delightful Lind has found,
And to the tune of fifteen thousand pound.
When the full house enjoys the Swedish bird,
E’en Fashion deigns to lend its ear,
So eager ’t is to catch each little word,
That were a pin to drop it must be heard;
And people come from far as well as near!
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
For Jenny Lind may boast with greater reason:
His numbers he for gold could never sell—
She makes her fortune in a season!
From George Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack for 1848.
——:o:——
In 1749 Bonnell Thornton published a humorous burlesque upon the Cecilian odes, under the title of “An Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day, adapted to the Ancient British Musick,” which is said to have been set to music with characteristic accompaniments by Dr. Arne, and performed on the Saint’s day, November 22, 1749. This appears somewhat doubtful, it was however set to music in 1759 by Dr. Burney, who has left the following account of his work and its performance: “In 1759 I set for Smart and Newbery, Thornton’s Burlesque Ode on St. Cecilia’s Day. It was performed at Ranelagh in masks, to a very crowded audience, as I was told, for I then resided in Norfolk. Beard sang the Salt-box song, which was admirably accompanied on that instrument by Brent, the fencing master, and father of Miss Brent, the celebrated singer; Skeggs on the broomstick as bassoon, and a remarkable performer on the Jew’s Harp, ‘Buzzing twangs the iron lyre.’ Cleavers were cast in bell metal for this entertainment. All the performers of the Old Woman’s oratory, employed by Foote, were, I believe, employed at Ranelagh on this occasion.”
Boswell mentions that Dr. Johnson was much diverted with the humour of this ode.
An Ode on
Saint Cecilia’s Day.
Adapted to the Antient British Musick: viz. The Salt-Box, the Jew’s Harp, the Marrow-Bones and Cleavers, the Hum-Strum or Hurdy Gurdy, etc.
With an introduction, giving some account of these truly British Instruments.
By Bonnell Thornton, Esquire.
The Preface, which is too long to quote in full, concludes with the following remarks. “If this Ode contributes in the least to lessen our false taste in admiring that foreign Musick now so much in vogue, and to recall the ancient British spirit, together with the ancient British harmony, I shall not think the pains I employed on the composition entirely flung away on my countrymen. This Ode, I am sensible, is not without faults; though I cannot help thinking it far superior to the odes of Johnny Dryden, Joe Addison, Sawney Pope, Nick Rowe, little Kit Smart, etc, etc, etc, or of any that have written, or shall write on St. Cecilia’s day.”
“I have strictly adhered to the rule of making the sound echo to the sense.”
An Ode on Saint Cecilia’s Day.
OVERTURE.
Recitative.
Be dumb, be dumb, ye inharmonious Sounds,
And Musick, that th’ astonish’d Ear with Discord wounds:
No more let common Rhymes profane the Day.
Grand Chorus.
Grac’d with divine Cecilia’s Name;
Let solemn Hymns this awful Feast proclaim,
And heav’nly Notes conspire to raise the heavn’ly Lay.
Recitative.
The meaner melody we scorn,
Which vulgar instruments afford;
Shrill flute, sharp fiddle, bellowing horn,
Rumbling Bassoon, or tinkling Harpischord.
Air.
In strains more exalted the Salt-box shall join,
And Clattering, and Battering, and Clapping combine;
With a Rap and a Tap while the hollow Side sounds,
Up and down leaps the Flap, and with Rattling rebounds.
Recitative.
Strike, strike the soft Judaic Harp,
Aoft and sharp,
By Teeth coercive in firm Durance kept,
And lightly by the volant Finger swept.
Air.
Buzzing twangs the Iron Lyre,
Shrilly Thrilling,
Trembling, trilling,
Whizzing with the wavering wire.
A Grand Symphony.
Accompanied with Marrow Bones and Cleavers.
Air.
Hark, how the Banging Marrow-Bones
Make Clanging Cleavers ring,
With a Ding Dong, Ding Dong,
Ding Dong, Ding Dong,
Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding Dong, Ding.
Raise your uplifted arms on high;
In long-prolonged tones
Let Cleavers sound
A merry merry round
By Banging Marrow-Bones.
Full Chorus
(Repeat the above verse.)
Recitative
Cease lighter Numbers: Hither bring
The undulating String
Stretch’d out, and to the tumid Bladder
In amity harmonious bound;
Then deeper swell the notes and sadder,
And let the hoarse Base slowly solemn sound.
Air.
With dead, dull, doleful Hums,
With mournful moans,
And grievous groans,
The sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrums.
Part II.
Recitative.
With majick sounds, like these, did Orpheus’ lyre,
Motion, Sense, and Life inspire;
When, as he play’d, the list’ning flood
Still’d its loquacious waves, and silent stood;
The Trees swift-bounding danc’d with loosen’d stumps,
And sluggish stones caper’d in active jumps.
Air.
Each ruddy-breasted Robin
The concert bore a Bob in,
And ev’ry hooting Owl around;
The croaking Frogs,
The grunting Hogs,
All, all conspir’d to raise th’ enliv’ning Sound.
Recitative.
Now to Cecilia, heav’nly maid,
Your loud united voices raise:
With solemn hymns to celebrate her Praise,
Each instrument shall lend it’s aid.
The Salt Box with clattering and clapping shall sound,
The Iron lyre
Buzzing twang with wav’ring wire,
With heavy hum
The Sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrum,
And the Merry Merry Marrow-Bones ring round.
Last Grand Chorus.
Such matchless strains Cecilia knew,
When audience from their heavenly sphere,
By Harmony’s Strong Power, she drew,
Whilst list’ning angels gladly stoop’d to hear.
Bonnell Thornton, 1749.
——:o:——
MOCK HEROIC POEMS.
Numerous imitations exist of Pope’s Dunciad, and the poets of the last century, and the early years of this, exercised considerable ingenuity in ringing the changes on the title, as will be seen from the following list. It must not, however, be concluded that the works mentioned are all parodies, except in the cases where the opening lines are quoted. One of the most scholarly of these productions was “The Scribleriad,” written by Richard Owen Cambridge, and published in 1751. In his preface he mentions Boileau’s Lutrin, Garth’s Dispensary, and Pope’s Rape of the Lock and Dunciad, each of which, he considers, have a thousand beauties, but neither of which comes up to the true idea of a Mock-Heroic Poem. In fact he does not believe it was the primary idea of either of the authors to write a Mock-Heroic, whereas that was the task he set himself in composing The Scribleriad. He gives the following apposite remarks on Parody:—
“The Athenians were so fond of Parody, that they eagerly applauded it, without examining with what propriety or connection it was introduced. Aristophanes showed no sort of regard to either, in his ridicule of Euripides; but brings in the characters as well as verses of his tragedies, in many of his plays, though they have no connection with the plot of the play, nor any relation to the scene in which they are introduced. This love of Parody is accounted for by an excellent French critic, from a certain malignity in mankind, which prompts them to laugh at what they most esteem, thinking they, in some measure, repay themselves for that involuntary tribute which is exacted from them by merit.”
The Baviad, a paraphrastic imitation of the First satire of Persius, by William Gifford. London, 1794. This was written to ridicule a certain clique of self-admirationists known as the “Della-Cruscan school,” and was very effectual in its object. It was followed by The Maeviad, by the same author, which completed the work The Baviad had commenced, and the spurious poetry of the Della-Cruscan school was laughed out of existence. The footnotes to these satires are delicious reading, as Gifford has selected the most amusing examples of bathos, and inflated nonsense, from the poems of Anna Matilda, Merry, Parsons, Jerningham, Bell, Mrs. Robinson, and Della-Crusca, to illustrate his points.
The Beeriad, or Progress of Drink. An Heroic Poem, in Two Cantos, the first being an imitation of The Dunciad, the second a description of a Ram Feast, held annually in a particular small district of Hampshire. By a Gentleman in the Navy. Gosport. J. Philpot. 1736.
The first canto of this poem is printed side by side with a reprint of the first book of Pope’s Dunciad.
The Beeriad commences thus:—
Beer and the men (a mighty theme!) I sing,
Who to their mouths the brimming Pitcher bring.
Say Sons of midnight! (since yourselves inspire,
This drunken Work; so Jove and Drink require!)
Say from what cause, in vain unquench’d the Thirst,
Still reigns to-day as potent as at first.
In eldest time ere mortals were so dry,
E’er Bacchus issued from the Thund’rer’s Thigh,
Strong Drink o’er some possess’d its native right,—
Lord of delusion, Sov’raign of the Night.
* * * * *
The Billiad, or how to criticise, a satire, with the Dirge of the Repeal (of the Irish Union) and other Jeux d’Esprit. By T. M. Hughes. Illustrated. 1846.
The Blueviad, a Satirical Poem, by E. Goulburn, Royal Horse Guards. London, 1805.
The author remarks, “The following ridiculous lines contain the description of some characters that once formed a Regiment of Volunteers.”
The Burniad; an Epistle to a Lady, in the manner of Burns, with Poetic Miscellanies, by J. H. Kenny. 1808.
The Consuliad. A Mock Heroic Poem, by Thomas Chatterton. This short poem is to be found amongst the works of the poor Bristol boy, he sold it to a Mr. Fell for ten shillings and sixpence at the time when he was slowly starving to death in London. It commenced thus:—
Of roaring constables and battles dire,
Of geese uneaten, muse, awake the lyre!
Where Campbell’s chimneys overlook the square,
And Newton’s future prospects hang in air;
Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match,
And Caledonian earls in concert scratch,—
A group of heroes occupied the round,
Long in the rolls of infamy renown’d.
Circling the table, all in silence sat,
Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat;
Now picking ortolans and chickens, slain
To form the whimsies of an à la reine:
Now storming castles of the newest taste,
And granting articles to forts of paste;
Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer;
Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer.
The god of Cabinets and senates saw
His sons, like asses, to one centre draw.
* * * * *
There are passages in this satire of surprising power and originality for the work of a boy of seventeen years of age.
The Censoriad, a Poem, written originally by Martin Gulliver, illustrated with curious annotations. 1730.
The Chessiad, by C. Dibden the Younger. With other poems, by the same author, 1825.
The Christiad, a sacred heroic poem, translated by Cranwell from Vida. No date.
The Dapiad, a mock-heroic poem, by J. Randall. Barnstaple: printed by J. Avery, 1806.
The Diaboliad, a Poem dedicated to the Worst Man in His Majesty’s Dominions. London. G. Kearsley, 1677. The date given is evidently a misprint for 1777, as David Garrick, who is named in the Preface, was not born until 1716. This work has been ascribed to Combe.
Anti-Diabo-Lady. Respectfully dedicated to all the Women in Her Majesty’s Dominions in general; and to the Best of Them in Particular, calculated to expose the Malevolence of the Author of Diabo-Lady. London, 1777. Quarto 18 pp. (A satire in verse.)
The Dispensary. A poem in six Cantos, by Sir Samuel Garth. London, 1696.
The Druriad, or Strictures on the principal performers of Drury Lane Theatre. A Satirical Poem. Quarto. 1798.
The Electriad: A Tale of the Trojan War. “Homer down to Date,” by a G. O. M. London. The Pall Mall Electric Association. About 1885. Price sixpence. This anonymous advertising pamphlet was illustrated with portraits of the most eminent men of the day, represented as suffering from various ailments, and
Within his tent Achilles sat and swore;
With pain the hero’s face was sicklied o’er,
Gout in his feet, neuralgia in his jaws,
Too weak, alas, to fight for Grecian cause;
Bronchitis, rheumatism, lungs and liver,
Hurried him fast towards the Stygian river.
* * * * *
The Fijiad, or English Nights Entertainments, by an author of The Siliad. Beeton’s Fifteenth Christmas Annual. Illustrated. London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler.
The Fribbleriad. This was first printed in 1761, and was afterwards included in The Repository, vol. 2. It was addressed to a certain individual “X. Y. Z.,” who had been guilty of publishing an Essay containing an unfavourable criticism of David Garrick.
Who is the scribbler X. Y. Z.?
Who still writes on, though little read?
Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite,
So often grin, yet seldom bite?
Say, Garrick, does he write for bread,
This friend of yours, this X. Y. Z.?
For pleasure sure, not bread—’twere vain
To write for that he ne’er could gain.
* * * * *
The Female Dunciad, containing:—I. A Faithful account of the Intrigues, Gallantries, and Amours of Alexander Pope, of Twickenham, Esq., written by Himself. II. A Satire upon the Court Lords and Ladies. Written also by him in the year 1717. III. A Single Instance of his Repentance. IV. The New Surprising Metamorphosis; or, Mr. Pope turn’d into a Stinging Nettle; being a Familiar Epistle from a Gentleman in Town to a Lady in the Country. Occasioned by reading the Dunciad. V. Irish Artifice; or, the History of Clarina. A Novel, by Mrs. Eliza Haywood. VI. Female Worthies, by the Bishop of Peterborough. The whole being a Continuation of the Twickenham Hotch-Potch. London. T. Read, White-Fryers. 1728.
The Hilliad: an Epic Poem by Christopher Smart, A.M., Fellow of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. 1753. This was a satire on a certain Dr. Hill, it commenced as follows:—
Thou God of Jest, who o’er th’ ambrosial bowl,
Giv’st joy to Jove, while laughter shakes the pole;
And thou, fair Justice, of immortal line,
Hear, and assist the poet’s grand design,
Who aims at triumphs by no common ways,
But on the stem of dulness grafts the bays.
O thou, whatever name delight thine ear.
Pimp! Poet! Puffer! ’Pothecary! Play’r!
Whose baseless fame by vanity is buoy’d,
Like the huge earth self-center’d in the void,
Accept one partner thy own worth t’explore,
And in thy praise be singular no more.
* * * * *
The Lentiad; or, Peter the Pope and his Pioneers the Pusey men. Together with Anti-Pentateuchal Prelates, Broad-church and Balaam-ass-men, Pommelled and Pounded with a Hudibrastic cudgel.
A Tale in Rhymes
Fit for the Times,
By a Beefeater, domestic chaplain to Fill-pots. Edited by Rev. John Allen. London: William Freeman, Fleet Street. 1863.
“John Chinaman, when fighting foes,
At times holds stink-pots to their nose,
For he believes—and he is right,
That when in this way he can fight,
And find thereby the battle won
His stink-pots are as good’s a gun.”
More than 400 closely-printed pages of similar fustian to this are devoted to abuse of the Pope and his Church; coarse denunciations of the High Church party, and the Puseyites, Bishop Colenso and his works.
The Lousiad, an Heroi-Comic Poem, in five cantos. By Peter Pindar, Esq. (Dr. John Wolcott.) The introduction to this satire runs as follows: “It is necessary to inform thee, Gentle Reader, that His Majesty (George III.) actually discovered, some time ago, as he sat at table, a louse on his plate. An edict was, in consequence, passed for shaving the cooks, scullions, etc., and the unfortunate louse was condemned to die.”
Such is the foundation of The Lousiad, of which the ingenious author, who ought to be allowed to know somewhat of the matter, hath been heard privately to declare, that, in his opinion, the Batrachomyomachia of Homer, the Secchia Rapita of Tassoni, the Lutrin of Boileau, the Dispensary of Garth, and the Rape of the Lock of Pope, are not to be compared to it.
The Louse I sing, who, from some head unknown,
Yet born and educated near a throne,
Dropped down—(so willed the dread decree of fate!)
With legs wide sprawling on the monarch’s plate:
Far from the raptures of a wife’s embrace,
Far from the gambols of a tender race,
Whose little feet he taught with care to tread
Amidst the wide dominions of the head;
Led them to daily food with fond delight,
And taught the tiny wanderers where to bite;
To hide, to run, advance, or turn their tails,
When hostile combs attacked, or vengeful nails:
Far from those pleasing scenes ordained to roam,
Like wise Ulysses, from his native home;
Yet like that sage, though forced to roam and mourn,
Like him, alas, not fated to return!
Who, full of rags and glory, saw his boy
And wife again, and dog that died for joy.
Down dropped the luckless louse with fear appalled,
And wept his wife and children as he sprawled.
* * * * *
The Mobiad, or battle of the Voices: an Heroi-Comic Poem, sportively satirical, being a briefly historical, natural and lively, free and humorous description of an Exeter Election, by Democritus Juvenal (A. Brice) with notes &c., Exeter, 1770.
The Modern Dunciad, a Satire; with notes, biographical and critical. London. Effingham Wilson, 1814. With a frontispiece by George Cruikshank. This anonymous work, written in imitation of the first satire of Persius, was devoted to the ridicule of the minor poets of the day, most of whom are now entirely forgotten:—
What can provoke thy muse? scarce thrice a year
Matilda’s woeful Madrigals appear;
Lewis no more the tender maid affrights
With incantations, ravishments, and sprites;
Crusca (to Gifford thanks!) is fairly fled,
And Cottle’s epics sleep among the dead;
E’en Wolcot’s impious blasphemies are o’er,
And Andrews’ Prologues are the vogue no more.
* * * * *
Alluding to Rosa Matilda’s effusions; M. G. Lewis, author of “The Monk;” Gifford’s attack on the Della Cruscans; Amos Cottle’s poems, and the satirical works of Dr. John Wolcot, known as “Peter Pindar.”)
The Mæviad, by William Gifford, 1795. In imitation of a satire of Horace, and directed against the Della-Cruscan school of Poetry. See The Baviad.
The Moneiad: or The Power of Money. By the Rev. W. P. Macdonald, late Chaplain of the Regiment of Roll. London. James Harper, 46 Fleet Street. 1818.
It contains an early poem, entitled “Sir Penny, or the Power of Money.” The work was dedicated to the Duke of Kent.
The New Dunciad. Facts and anecdotes illustrative of the iniquitous practises of Anonymous Critics, 1806.
This is a prose commentary on the critics, published by Tegg, London, and has no relation to Pope’s Dunciad.
The New Dunciad, as it was found in the year 1741, with the Illustrations of Scriblerus, and Notes Variorum. London. J. H. Hubbard 1742.
Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of Light
Indulge, dread Chaos and eternal Night!
Of Darkness visible so much be lent,
As half to show, half veil the deep intent.
Ye Pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’d I sing,
To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing,
Suspend awhile your force inertly strong,
Then take at once the Poet and the Song.
The New Dunciad. This appeared in parts in a London penny paper called The Jester, the first number of which was published February 23, 1889. It was a weak attempt to satirise some of the celebrities of the day, and was destitute of interest, or poetical merit.
The Obliviad: A Satire, with notes, together with additional Notes, Preface, and Supplement, by the American Editor. And the Perpetual Commentary of the Athenæum. New York. James Millar, Broadway. London, B. Quaritch, 15, Piccadilly. 1879.
This is a very remarkable book, it consists of about 350 pages in all, of which at least two thirds are occupied by Notes, critical, satirical, and biographical, dealing with the principal writers of the day, in a most unmerciful manner. Even The Saturday Review, which itself has a reputation for sharp speaking, remarked (June 28, 1879):—“The Obliviad is a laborious imitation of the Dunciad, somewhat more universally insolent in its treatment of contemporary authors than any other satire in prose or verse that we remember.”
Naturally a book which could speak with fearless truth of the writings of such men as Tennyson, Robert Browning, Swinburne, Dickens, Hepworth Dixon, and Robert Buchanan created a sensation, but unfortunately the author was almost too indiscriminate in his censures, for whilst everyone admits that the above named authors have occasionally written absurd and nonsensical works, it is equally certain that they did not, in the first place, make their names and fames in that manner.
The Obliviad has been attributed to Dr. William Leech of New York.
The Olympiad. A Satirical Poem.
The Puffiad, a Satire, with a dedication to “Those who don’t like it,” a Critique for their use, and copious Introductory Epistle to an Eminent Puffer. 1828.
The Rodiad, by George Coleman, 1813. This relates to Flagellation:
Delightful Sport! whose never failing charm
Makes young blood tingle, and keeps old blood warm.
The Rosciad. By Charles Churchill. 1761.
The Rolliad, or more correctly, Criticisms on the Rolliad, for the poem itself (except in some disjointed extracts introduced as examples) existed only in the fertile brains of the authors of this satire on Mr. Rolle (afterwards Lord Rolle), who was elected M.P. for Devon in 1784, in the Tory interest. When The Rolliad first appeared it had a great success, and rapidly ran through many editions, but time has cast into oblivion most of its allusions, and the characters introduced are well nigh forgotten. The Rolliad was written by several authors, and parts have been ascribed to George Ellis, General Fitzpatrick, and Joseph Richardson M.P. Lord Rolle died in 1842.
The Rational Rosciad, in two parts, 1767.
The Rape of the Bucket, an Heroi-Comical Poem by Tassoni, translated with Notes, by J. Atkinson. 1825.
The Scribleriad: an Heroic Poem. In six books. London: R. Dodsley in Pall Mall 1751, quarto, with curious illustrations. This satire was written to ridicule the errors of false taste and false learning, and was pronounced, by a contemporary critic, to be a work of great fancy and poetical elegance. The author, Mr. Richard Owen Cambridge, is highly spoken of by Boswell, in his life of Dr. Johnson.
The much enduring Man, whose curious Soul
Bore him, with ceaseless toil, from pole to pole,
Insatiate, endless knowledge to obtain,
Thro’ woes by land, thro’ dangers on the main,
New woes, new dangers destin’d to engage
By wrathful Saturn’s unrelenting rage,
I sing. * * * * *
The Siliad, or the Siege of the Seats. Beeton’s Christmas Annual, fourteenth season. London. Ward, Lock and Tyler. An Illustrated Political Satire, by the authors of “The Coming K—.” 1873.
Bobilloe’s spleen, to whigs the direful spring
Of votes ungiven, printed pages, sing!
That spleen which made the ballot-boxes tell
Of liberal candidates the funeral knell;
Whose names, dishonoured in the morning sheet,
Devouring scribes and hungry penmen greet:—
Since his bad-tempered way Bobilloe’s showed,
And made ill use of place on him bestowed;
Began to wane men’s confidence and trust
Which, to succeed in warfare, hold chiefs must.
The Spiritual Dunciad; or, Oxford “Tracks” to Popery. A Satire with Notes and Appendix by Robert Dick, M.D., C.M. London, C. Westerton, 1859. This was a bitter attack on the Roman Catholic religion;
If by antiquity, we judge what’s true,
Why halt a Roman? Why not turn a Jew?
Our noble Luther—he did nothing more
Than pristine pureness to Christ’s truth restore,
By ignorance and lies long crusted o’er.
The Tauroboliad; or, the Sacrifice of the Constitution. A Satire. 1831.
The Thespiad; a Poem. 1809.
The Tommiad; a Biographical Fancy, written about the year 1842. London. Anonymous.
The Toriad; a Poem. By Eupolis. London. Wightman & Co., 1837. 18 pp. octavo, Price one shilling.
“War and the Debt I sing-the giant crimes
Of Tories in the good old Tory Times.”
The Triad. By W. Wiekenden, 1855.
The Victoriad; or, New World, an Epic Poem. By E. Carrington. A curious work which the author modestly considered was written in the simple classic style of Dante.
——:o:——
There are many passages in Pope’s writings which might well be spared on account of their indelicacy, yet they are innocent and pure as compared with some of the satires launched at him by his enemies and rivals. The greater number of these are too gross to be republished in a work intended for general readers, as are also the three principal and most amusing parodies of his works.
Pope’s Essay on Man was the subject of a parody, entitled The Essay on Woman; his Eloisa to Abelard was burlesqued in Eloisa en Déshabille; and The Rape of the Lock was parodied in a poem entitled The Rape of the Smock.
In an article on John Wilkes published in The Athenæum in 1874, it was stated that the charge against him of having written the infamous Essay upon Woman must now be given up. “It is as clear as is any fact in history, that whoever wrote the Essay, Wilkes, at all events, did not. Wilkes was prosecuted for it, and was convicted, not however for being the author of the poem, but for having published it. All the statements on the trial go to show that the original Essay was printed in red letter, and with a frontispiece, and an engraved title.”
Much has been written about this parody, but its authorship is still shrouded in mystery. In 1763 The Rev. John Kidgell published “A Narrative of a scandalous, obscene, and exceedingly profane libel, entitled An Essay on Woman” to which an answer was printed in the same year. Both of these tracts are in the British Museum. The Essay on Woman has been recently re-published by private subscription, but is still what is called a scarce book.
Eloisa en Déshabille: Being a Parody of Mr. Pope’s celebrated Epistle of that young lady to Abelard. By a late celebrated Greek Professor, dedicated to the Loungers of Great Britain and Ireland. 1810.
This witty but indelicate poem has been generally ascribed to Professor Porson, the famous Greek scholar, who frequently quoted passages from it. But it seems more probable that it was written by Colonel J. Matthews, the brother of the author of “The Diary of an Invalid.”
Immur’d in this prison, so dull and so moping,
Where vows and high walls bar all hopes of eloping;
Where close-grated windows scarce show us the sun,
What means this strange itch in the flesh of a nun?
Why wander my thoughts in the midst of devotion
Why feels my fond heart its long smother’d emotion?
Still, still, love prevails! this unquenchable flame
Blazes fresh at the sight of my Abelard’s name.
* * * * *
The Rape of the Smock. An Heroi-comical Poem. In Two Books. London. R. Burleigh, in Amen Corner. 1717. Price one shilling. With a quaint illustration.
I sing a Virgin’s Smock, the direful cause
Of horrid Bloodshed, and of Breach of Laws;
That Linnen Veil, which pendant Ruffles grace,
Of Indian Muslin, or of Flanders Lace;
Wide stretch’d, and falling down in many a Plait,
From the fair Bosom, to the snowy Feet;
White as the Lilly, or the Skin it hides,
Where charming Nature shines, and Love resides.
Let Ozell sing the Bucket,[45] Pope the Lock,
My daring Muse prefers the Rape of Smock.
* * * * *
This poem, which is by no means difficult to obtain, is generally ascribed to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the friend and correspondent of Pope. The most remarkable feature about it is that it could have been written and published by a lady of rank and fashion.
An Elegy written in an Empty Assembly Room Published (anonymously) by R. & J. Dodsley, London, 1766, was a parody on some of the most remarkable passages in Pope’s Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard, but the subject does not inspire interest, and the parody has little humour.
In scenes where Hallet’s genius has combin’d
With Bromwich to amuse and chear the mind;
Amid this Pomp of Cost, this Pride of Art,
What mean these sorrows in a Female Heart?
Ye crowded Walls, whose well enlighten’d Round
With Lover’s Sighs and Protestations sound,
Ye pictures flatter’d by the learn’d and wise,
Ye glasses, ogled by the brightest eyes,
Ye cards, whom Beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which Peers and Ministers have prest,
How are ye chang’d! like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone—
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad—and cannot Be at Home.
* * * * *
A French parody of this famous poem by Pope also exists, entitled “Histoire des amours et des infortunes d’Abelard et d’Eloise mise en vers satiré-comi-burlesques,” par M. Armand. Cologne, Pierre Marteau, 1724.
From An Essay on Man. Epistle I.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul, proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topp’d hill, an humbler heaven;
Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold:
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
A. Pope.
Lo! the poor toper whose untutor’d sense
Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense,
—But sees, admitted to an equal share,
Each faithful swain the heady portion bear.
From Crabbe’s Inebriety.
A New Reading of Pope.
Lo, the lean Indian, whose bewildered mind
Sees naught of God, either in cloud or wind;
His soul, proud science never taught to stray,
It strayed itself, and now has lost its way.
Simple nature to his hope has given,
Beyond some cloud-capped hill, a sensual heaven,
Some place where science cannot grope its way,
Nor learning cast one single feeble ray;
No whites disturb. No Christian ’stablish laws.
But he can rest while work is done by squaws.
To loaf contents his natural desire;
He asks no angel’s wings to get up higher,
And if he did, no angel from the sky
Would think of taking Lo up very high.
But grant the burden of his Indian song—
Do as he likes, and take his dorg along.
Anonymous.
Another parody of the same passage is given “after a bad dinner” in “Anecdotes, Historical and Literary,” published in London by Vernor and Hood in 1796.
An imitation of Pope’s Universal Prayer will be found on page 115 of The Pleasures of Nature by D. Carey. 1803.
A Parody of Achilles’ Speech,
Pope’s Homer, Book I, line 309.
(Occasioned by the author hearing of a Clergyman who, in a violent fit of anger, threw his wig into the fire, and turned his son out of doors.)
“Now by this sacred perriwig I swear,
Which never more shall locks or ringlets bear,
Which never more shall form the smart toupee,
Forced from its parent head,—(as thou from me);
Once ’twas live hair; now form’d by th’ artist’s hand,
It aids the labours of the sacred band;
Adds to the vicar’s brow a decent grace,
And pours a glory round his rev’rend face.
By this I swear, when thou shalt ask again
My doors to enter, thou shalt ask in vain.”
He spoke, and furious with indignant ire
Hurl’d the vast hairy texture on the fire;
Then sternly silent sate—the active flame
Remorseless wastes the soft and tender frame:
Writhed to and fro consumes the tortured hair,
And lost in smoke attenuates to air.
From The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge. London. Cadell and Davies, 1803.
It is sometimes objected to parodies, that they tend to bring into ridicule the finest productions of genius; but this is an imaginary, rather than a real ground of complaint. Who does not admire the Mantuan Poet though Cotton has burlesqued his Æneid? And though the Iliad has been more than once travestied, do we not still dwell with enthusiastic pleasure on every line attributed to Homer? We see therefore no need of apology in submitting to our readers a parody of the following beautiful lines of Pope:—
As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O’er heaven’s pure azure sheds her sacred light;
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll;
And stars unnumber’d gild the glowing pole.
O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain’s head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies;
The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.
Parody
As when an alderman just dubb’d a knight,
Doth his fat comrades to a feast invite;
His eager hand uplifts the deep tureen,
Beneath whose lid the smoking turtle’s seen;
Around the chair the ready waiters roll,
To fill the plate of every hungry soul.
O’er all the room the grateful odours spread,
And nods with pleasure every civic head;
Then shine their cheeks ne’er ting’d with deeper dyes,
The well made punch stands sparkling ’fore their eyes.
The aldermen rejoicing in the sight
Eye the rich treat, and bless the bounteous knight.
From The British Minerva, printed in Hamburgh, 1818.
In Posthumous Parodies (1814) there is a paraphrase of a passage in Pope’s “Temple of Fame,” it commences thus:
But lo! amidst the oratoric choir,
Six gorgeous columns o’er the rest aspire:
Around the chair itself of fame they stand,
Hold her chief honours, and her house command.
High on the first the son of Chatham shone,
(The British lion couching by his throne,)
Master of speech! His potent eloquence
Seems still to echo on the wond’ring sense:
Anxious, but firm, his lofty look appears,
And young he seems, with all the skill of years.
* * * * *
George Canning, C. J. Fox, R. B. Sheridan, Warren Hastings, Burke and Windham are the other politicians alluded to in this poem.
——:o:——
An Essay on Play.
By
A——r P——e.
I.
“Who shall decide,” I asked some time ago,
“When doctors disagree?” None seemed to know,
But change one word, and let the question be,
“Who shall decide, when critics disagree?”
We all are critics, not alone the men
Who fail to make a living by their pen.
And though there’s nought,—at least so poets deem,—
“That’s half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,”
There’s nought, I think, for which one so much cares
As talking over other folks’ affairs.
And so we meet with those who sometimes say,
That men have too much work, too little play:
Others assert that men their duties shirk,
Have too much play, and do too little work.
What is the truth? Some men find life full sore,
Work fifteen hours of the twenty-four;
They say that work does nothing else but vex,
And vow the collar’s never off their necks.
Others declare the ancient precept stuff,
And say one day in seven’s not enough;
So half another day is, so to speak,
Transferred from work to pleasure every week,
While now we have, our hard-worked lives to cheer,
Four extra holidays in every year.
Truth is, to neither party should we lean,
But ’twixt them both essay to hit the mean;
Some of hard work get far too large a share,
And ere they’ve learned to live, they die of care.
Some do themselves as well as others too,
And still declare they’ve not enough to do,
Saunter through Life, and vow it is a gem,
And say they’re killing Time, while Time kills them.
II.
Pleasure just now indeed is quite the rage,
No matter sex or station, rank or age.
The child, we know, is tickled with a straw,
The boy is happy with his hoop or taw;
The girl at first with dolls enjoys a span,
But, older grown, the doll becomes a man;
And, in her quest for what can life enhance,
She gives her time to flirting and the dance.
Youth growing up assume a manly tone,
And seem to think the world is all their own,
And while at school imagine they are men,
And take to smoking and to billiards then;
At college, too, of classics seldom speak,
Think more of Cricket than they do of Greek;
Rowing and Football take up half their time,
Lawn-tennis too is voted “quite sublime.”
Thus time is spent in learning, it is true,
But not in learning what they ought to do.
Life is a game, so many people say,
And they win easiest who have learned to play.
III.
I’ve said before, and won’t my words forsake,
That “every woman is at heart a rake”;
Perhaps, I may with greater justice say,
Both man and woman dearly love to play.
A curious problem to the world they give:
Some live to play while others play to live;
And this phenomenon is seen to-day,
A whole profession given up to play.
Men its attractions cannot well refuse,
Their P’s neglect, but cultivate their cues;
While ladies, who in Fortune’s favours bask,
Make the pursuit of pleasure quite a task.
For what with concerts, and “four o’clock tea,”
With pictures that they “really ought to see,”
With conversaziones, routs, and balls,
And what so dear to women’s hearts, their “calls,”
With flower shows, and riding in the “Row.”
With dinners, drives, and all that’s “comme il faut,”
Worn out, half dead, when Saturday arrives
They meekly vow they’re tired of their lives,
But wake on Monday morning free from pain,
And vow they’re ready to begin again.
IV.
Then Sunday comes and, it must be confessed,
They wonder how to pass the “Day of Rest.”
Many, with wearied limbs and aching head,
Resolve to spend it cosily in bed;
Some drive to Richmond, if the weather’s fine,
And at the Star and Garter go to dine;
Some, as I’ve said before, to church repair,
“Not for the doctrine but the music there;”
While others, and indeed they’re not a few,
Resolve to spend some hours at the Zoo.
These seem to think Religion is displayed
In noting how their fellow Creature’s made:
They throng the walks, but oft so queerly dressed,
Although ’tis true they wear their “Sunday best,”
That e’en the animals opine, no doubt,
Their relatives have got a “Sunday out.”
The monkeys at each other grin and wink,
And whisper in Ape-language, “missing link!”
The grissly bear himself, with outstretched claw
Politely asks a passer for “his paw;”
The loving seal oft thinks he sees his kin,
But quite as often finds he’s taken in,
For now-a-days folks do not seem to feel
That seal-skin jackets are not always seal.
They see the lions feed, which call to mind
The fact that they themselves have not yet dined;
So home to dine, and pass with mis-timed jest
The rest of Sunday, not the Sunday’s rest,
Well-satisfied, howe’er, to feel and know
They’ve shown themselves, as well as seen the show.
A. W. Mackenzie. (Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”)
From Pastime September 28, 1883.
Pope’s prologue to Addison’s tragedy of Cato is justly considered one of the finest prologues in the language. The following parody of it is taken from a little tract entitled “A Succinct Description of that Elaborate Pile of Art, called the Microcosm. With a short account of the Solar System.” Coventry. Printed for the Proprietor Mr. Edward Davis, 1763. The Microcosm was constructed by Mr. Henry Bridges of Waltham Abbey, architect, it was in the form of a Roman Temple, ten feet high by six feet broad in the basis, and was designed to give the spectator instruction in architecture, sculpture and astronomy.
“The following parody (on Pope’s prologue to Cato) was addressed to Mr. Henry Bridges, constructor of that elaborate piece of mechanism. The Microcosm, by Dr. Burton, of Yarmouth.”
To sooth the Soul by tender Strokes of art,
To raise the Genius and to rouse the Heart,
To make Mankind by Harmony elate,
Soften the Breast and banish direful Hate,
The ruffled Passions potent to asswage,
To conquer Fear and to enervate Rage,
Was music’s Power, by Orpheus first ordain’d;
Fierce Beasts were tam’d, and fiercer Tyrants Chain’d.
Th’ enchanting Sounds through their whole Fabrick crept,
And Savage Mortals wonder’d why they wept.
Our Artist shuns by vulgar Springs to move
His mimic Race below, or Orbs above,
Here Pleasure flows from Scientific Cause,
Whilst Ingenuity extorts applause:
He bids your breast with Emulation rise,
And tho’ you’re e’er so learn’d, e’er so wise,
By Arts Mechanick you will here be taught
More than Rome knew, or Grecian Sages thought.
Those Objects to your Senses he displays,
Which the Spectator of our Globe surveys;
The various Movements and the changing State.
Of Beings active and inanimate.
Whilst Bridges gives his Microcosm Laws,
What Bosom beats not in Invention’s Cause?
Who sees him work, but envies every Deed?
Who hears him lecture hears e’en Newton read.
Britons attend, be Worth like his approv’d,
And shew you have the Virtue to be mov’d.
With honest Scorn our wond’rous Artist view’d
Meer Machinations on the World obtrude:
French and Italian Puppets pleas’d too long,
And British sense was barter’d for a Song.
Dare to invent yourselves, to Fame aspire,
Be justly warm’d with your own native Fire.
Bridges! those Sounds must ravish every Ear,
Which Handel’s Self did not disdain to hear.
The Rape of the Cake.
A COVENT-GARDEN ECLOQUE.
Inscribed to the Musical Band of Covent-garden theatre, on account of the recent theft of their twelfth-cake.
“Quid Rapuisti?”
The night was dark! fast clos’d the plunderer’s hand!
And idle Jehu’s slept upon the stand!
The lone Piazza, erst the gay resort
Of flash and fun, and meritricious sport,
Then only echo’d to th’ unvarying sound
Of drowsy watchmen, pacing their dull round,
Kiddies no more at Glue or Brilliant sup,
And e’en the far-fam’d Finish was done up.
All rest in sleep! save—those who were awake—
The wicked wags who stole the fiddlers’ cake.
Not in more silence did Ulysses tread,
When he relentless struck king Rhesus dead;
Not with more caution did the invading Gaul
Attempt to storm the Capitolian wall;
Not with more care did valorous Smith advance
To burn the navy of insulting France;
Not with more ease did Belcher beat poor Burke,
Then those vile plunderers did the dreadful work!!!
But say, my muse, what prodigies appear’d?
The rain fast pour’d, and horrid screams were heard!
Loud thunder shook the gay theatric pile,
And Kemble first relax’d into a smile!
The theft announc’d, the band were in dismay,
And nought were heard, but ‘Oh!’ and ‘Well-a-day!’
The leader Ware, with anger in his soul,
While his limbs tremble, and his eyeballs roll,
“D—n!” cried, “this insults too imposing,
Shall we bear this, ye scraping sons of Rosin?”
The puffy Parke, who never was a starter,
Said, “In this cause I wish to die a Martyr!”
Hawtin, with face inflated like a crumpet,
“Lord bless us,” said, and dropp’d his brazen trumpet.
And smirking Davy, with his powder’d pate,
Plump’d snug upon his seat and grinn’d in state.
While feeble Woodcock let his anger loose,
And fix’d the theft on harmless Mother Goose!!!
But say, my muse, and then I’ll cry farewell!
Who stole the cake?—“Indeed I cannot tell!
And this I swear, in accents strong and slow,
I cannot tell!—because I do not know!”
A volume of poems by T. Flatman, published in 1674, contains a poem entitled A Thought on Death from which Pope must have borrowed his ode “The Dying Christian to his Soul:”—
“Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!”
* * * * *
“Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!”
So far Pope, compare Flatman:—
“When on my sick bed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish—
Fainting, grasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying.”
* * * * *
“Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say,
Be not fearful—come away!”
Pope was the author of numerous imitations of other Poets, such as Chaucer, Spenser, Waller, Abraham Cowley, the Earl of Rochester, the Earl of Dorset, and Dean Swift. The poem in imitation of Chaucer is somewhat coarse, that after Dr. Swift will be quoted later on, under that author’s name.
COLIN’S COMPLAINT.
Nicholas Rowe, Born 1673, Died 1718.
Poet Laureate 1715 to 1718.
Despairing beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme.
A willow supported his head:
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply,
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
Alas! silly swain that I was,
Thus sadly complaining, he cried;
When first I beheld that fair face,
’Twere better by far I had died:
She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue;
When she smil’d, ’twas a pleasure too great;
I listen’d and cry’d when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet!
How foolish was I to believe
She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town:
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove,
Or go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?
What though I have skill to complain,
Tho’ the muses my temples have crown’d;
What tho’ when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around?
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign,
Thy false one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than thine.
All you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray’d,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid.
Tho’ thro’ the wide world I should range,
’Tis in vain for my fortune to fly,
’Twas her’s to be false and to change,—
’Tis mine to be constant and die.
If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with cypress and yew
And when she looks down on my grave
Let her own that her shepherd was true.
Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;
Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talked of or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.
Nicholas Rowe wrote several tragedies and some poems, but the above is almost the only specimen which has any life in it. A Latin version, entitled “Corydon Querens” will be found in Vincent Bourne’s works.
A Parody.
(Ascribed to George Canning.)
By the side of a murmuring stream
An elderly gentleman sat;
On the top of his head was his wig,
On the top of his wig was his hat.
The wind it blew high and blew strong
Where this elderly gentleman sat,
And took from his head in a trice,
And plunged in the river his hat.
The gentleman then took his cane,
Which lay by his side as he sat,
But he dropp’d in the river his wig
In attempting to get out his hat.
And now in the depth of despair,
Though still from the place where he sat,
He flung in the river his cane,
To swim with his wig and his hat.
But cooler reflection at length,
As this elderly gentleman sat,
Said “Jump up and follow the stream,
And look for your wig and your hat.”
But, alas for the thought! for so soon
As he rose from the place where he sat,
He slipp’d and fell plump over head,
To swim with his wig and his hat.
Bow Bells.
At the brink of a murmuring brook
A contemplative Cockney reclined;
And his face wore a sad sort of look,
As if care were at work on his mind.
He sigh’d now and then as we sigh
When the heart with soft sentiments wells;
And a tear came and moisten’d each eye
As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.
I am monarch of all I survey!
(Thus he vented his feelings in words)—
But my kingdom, it grieves me to say,
Is inhabited chiefly by birds.
In this brook that flows lazily by
I believe that one tittlebat dwells,
For I saw something jump at a fly
As I lay here and long’d for Bow Bells.
I am partial to trees, as a rule;
And the rose is a beautiful flower.
(Yes, I once read a ballad at school
Of a rose that was wash’d in a shower.)
But, although I may doat on the rose,
I can scarcely believe that it smells
Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows
As when sold within sound of Bow Bells.
No; I’ve tried it in vain once or twice,
And I’ve thoroughly made up my mind
That the country is all very nice—
But I’d much rather mix with my kind.
Yes; to-day—if I meet with a train—
I will fly from these hills and these dells;
And to-night I will sleep once again
(Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.
From Carols of Cockayne, by Henry S. Leigh. London, Chatto and Windus, 1874.
