EPIGRAM.
Ille Crucem sceleris pretium tulit, Hic Diadema.
Good people of England, ’tis fit you should note
What you get, or may suffer, for bribing a vote;
And for an example we’ll bring to your view
An Irish Lord and a Baronet Jew;
The Jew and my Lord in a similar case—
One pays a great fine, t’other holds a great place:
My Lord is bedeck’d with a Ribbon and Garter,
The Jew is in Jail for two years, lack a quarter.
And now we’ll compare, if you please to allow us,
The Jew in his Jail, with my Lord in the House:
The Jew is surrounded by Felons and Debtors,
And my Lord by some folks who are little their betters.
ON THE
INCREASE OF HUMAN LIFE.
Fate deals out human life by seven-year spaces:
Time was you would be thought in her good graces
With nine of these; when David lived ’twas ten;
If more She gave, ’twas only now and then,
A few cold years of winter, and the last,
Tho’ charged with toil and sorrow, quickly past.
But in our age more bounteous Fate appears,
And often grants a dozen-fold seven years;
Nay, be but still and temperate like the Quakers,
Perhaps she’ll make your dozen up a baker’s.
ODE
TO THE KING OF FRANCE. 1823.
What moves thee, Louis, to forego
The quiet of thy peaceful reign?
Why challenge a reluctant foe,
Rushing to war, war unprovoked, again?
Examine well thine own estate,
And check thy hostile march before it be too late.
When first thou wert an exile from thy home,
Unbroken was thy strength, thy health not wasted;
But couldst thou now endure to roam,
When both thy health and strength thou hast outlasted?
With peace and plenty to thy throne restored,
Perchance thou deem’st thyself adored:
Thou seest around thee subjects bending low;
But should misfortune now return,
Be sure thou soon shalt know
Thyself their hate, and all thy race their scorn.
Where are thy men-at-arms, they, once who moved
So lively at the warlike trumpet’s call?
And where their chiefs, thy mareschals all,
Heroes in many a glorious battle proved?—
In stern repose each warrior lies.
As flowers that all the darksome night
Close themselves up, until the day-star rise,
Then ope, and turn, as worshipping his light:
So these, in sullen slumber now reclined,
May soon awake, when thou shalt find
Their worship and their service turn’d and gone,
Toward their own day-star, the young Napoleon.
And darest thou, presumptuous, now demand
That Heaven shall speed thy mad career
To spoil an unoffending land?
And darest thou hope that Heaven will hear?
Believe it not:—but for thyself beware;
And learn to moderate thy prayer:
Pray that kind Heaven will condescend
To grant thee rest and safety till thine end;
And for the consummation of thy lot,
That old St. Denys will allow thee room
To sleep uncensured and forgot,
Among thy fathers in a silent tomb.
VERSES
SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, AT THE INSTALLATION OF THE CHANCELLOR, LORD GRENVILLE, JULY 10, 1810, BY HENRY CROWE, A COMMONER OF WADHAM COLLEGE.
Still through the realms of Europe far around
Echoes the martial trump, the Battle’s sound:
There many a nation, now subdued and broke,
In sullen silence wears the Tyrant’s yoke:
There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there
Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war:
And, where he bids the din of arms to cease,
He calls the silent desolation—peace.
Yet what his prize of glory? What the gain
Of his wide conquest, of his thousands slain?—
His guilty seat on thrones subverted stands;
His trophies are the spoil of injured lands:
For his dark brow no comely wreath is twined,
But iron[32] crowns and blood-stain’d laurels bind.
Far other objects here around us rise,
The monuments of nobler victories.
This splendid dome, yon goodly piles behold,
This favour’d ground adorning, which of old
Our first great Chief, a patriot Hero, chose
“For Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes[33]:”
These are her honourable trophies; here
No spoils of plunder’d provinces appear.
Our hallow’d fanes, our lofty spires, were built
By pure and bounteous hands unsoil’d with guilt.
Pure also was the source: the bounty springs
From holy Prelates, from religious Kings;
Who in the peaceful walks of life pursued
Their godlike occupation, doing good;
And taught us, careless of a transient fame,
Like them to seek a worthier meed, and claim
Th’ immortal recompense that Heaven decrees
For charitable toils, and generous works of peace.
Is there, who nurtured in this happy seat,
Still loves the Mansion, Learning’s choice retreat?—
Who yet these groves will honour, where his youth
Was early train’d to Virtue and to Truth;—
Who liberal arts and useful Science wooes,
And by the Muse beloved, protects the Muse;
Whose patient labour and unabated zeal
Pursues that nobles tend, his Country’s Weal;—
Watchful, and resolute in her defence
With counsel sage, and manly eloquence?—
For Him fair Fame her clearest voice shall raise
Till her high trumpet labours in his praise.
He ’bove the Conqueror’s name shall be renown’d,
Him Glory still shall follow, and around
Laurels unstain’d, unfading palms, shall spread,
Such as are now prepared for Grenville’s honour’d head.
[32] The iron crown of Italy.
[33] Johnson’s Prologue, spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane, 1747.