POEMS.
INSCRIBED BENEATH THE PICTURE OF
AN ASS.
Meek animal, whose simple mien
Provokes th’ insulting eye of Spleen
To mock the melancholy trait
Of patience in thy front display’d,
By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray’d,
To character the sorrows of thy fate;
Say, Heir of misery, what to thee
Is life?—A long, long, gloomy stage
Through the sad vale of labour and of pain!
No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine age,
Nor in the vasty round of this terrene
Hast thou a friend to set thee free,
Till Death, perhaps too late,
In the dark evening of thy cheerless day,
Shall take thee, fainting on thy way,
From the rude storm of unresisted hate.
Yet dares the erroneous crowd to mark
With folly thy despised race,
Th’ ungovernable pack, who bark
With impious howlings in Heaven’s awful face,
If e’er on their impatient head
Affliction’s bitter show’r is shed.
But ’tis the weakness of thy kind
Meekly to bear the inevitable sway;
The wisdom of the human mind
Is to murmur and obey.
ODE
TO THE LYRIC MUSE.
SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT THE INSTALLATION OF LORD NORTH, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.
STROPHE I.
Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre,
Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove
Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove,
List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire;
The ling’ring sounds that yet respire
Waked by the breezes of the Western main;
And bring some high and solemn strain,
Such as was heard that solemn day
When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey
On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty
Struck on the magic harp her dying song.—
Dealing vengeance on her foes,
The mortal Genius of battle rose,
And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along.
STROPHE II.
O, Muse divine! whene’er thy strain
Devotes the tyrant head to shame,
The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train;
And Glory hears the loud appeal;
And thou, unconquerable flame,
First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal:
Thou in the dark and dreary hour
When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread,
And Sloth a sullen influence shed,
And every coward Vice that loves the night
Revell’d on Corsica’s ill-fated shore;
Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame,
Lo, Paoli, father of his country, came,
And with a giant-voice
Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race
That slept in Slav’ry’s dull embrace;
Roused at the sound, they hail’d thy glorious choice,
And ev’ry manly breast
Shook off the unnerving load of rest;
And Virtue chasing the foul forms of night,
Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light.
ANTISTROPHE I.
But, ah! how sunk her veiled head,
Untimely dimm’d by Gaul’s o’ershadowing pow’r—
And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?
Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:
Thy gallant virtues all are fled;
Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.
O Gaul, Oppression’s blood-stain’d heir,
Let me not tell how, taught by thee,
England’s rude sons smote Liberty
On Vincent’s sable rock, her Indian throne:—
Not unavenged; for in her cause the sky
Storms and fiery vapours pour’d,
While Pestilence waved wide his tainted sword
To smite[15]...
EPODE.
Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shell
Wake the lofty sounds that swell
With rapture unreproved the patriot breast!
Robed in her many-colour’d vest
On Isis’ banks shall Science stand,
Waving in her bounteous hand
A wond’rous chaplet; high reward
Of toils, by public virtue dared:
And while to claim the envied meed
Fair Fame her vot’ries leads, thy voice,
O Muse, shall join th’ applauded choice
That fix’d the glorious wreath on Frederick’s honour’d head!
[15] The remainder of this, and the whole of the second antistrophe, were not repeated in the theatre, having been suppressed by the academical authorities, on account of their political sentiments, and subsequently lost.
VERSES
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE TO THE DUKE OF PORTLAND, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, IN THE YEAR 1793.
In evil hour, and with unhallow’d voice,
Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,
Did he begin to sing, He, first who sung
Of arms and combats, and the proud array
Of warriors on th’ embattled plain, and raised
Th’ aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown
By deeds of violence!—For since that time
Th’ imperious victor oft, unsatisfied
With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares
To challenge fame and honour; and too oft
The poet, bending low, to lawless pow’r
Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought
Streams clearest of th’ Aonian fount to wash
Blood-stain’d Ambition. If the stroke of war
Fell certain on the guilty head, none else,
If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,
And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,
Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight
To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow;
Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell
The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on
Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!
That undistinguishing and deathful storm
Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent,
And they that stir its fury, while it raves,
Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth
Unto the mortal ministers that wait
To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards
The widow’s tears, the friendless orphan’s cry,
And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes
That follow at the dogged heels of War?
They, in the pomp and pride of victory
Rejoicing, o’er the desolated earth,
As at an altar wet with human blood,
And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,
Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,
O’er the destruction of his gracious works!
Hymns to the Father, o’er his slaughter’d sons!
Detested be their sword! abhorr’d their name,
And scorn’d the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,
Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course
Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.
And let that secret voice within thy breast
Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise
Which thou hast heard be as sweet harmony,
Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere
Ascending, where the spirits of the blest
Hear it well pleased:—For Fame can enter Heaven,
If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,
She rises not above this earthy spot;
And then her voice, transient and valueless,
Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise
And worthier duty may She tend on Thee,
Follow thee still with honour, such as time
Shall never violate, and with just applause,
Such as the wise and good might love to share.
ON THE
DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOK.
I will not meditate in idle show
Of labour’d lines my sorrow to relate;
All artless as the tears my verse shall flow
That good men weep for his untimely fate.
The friends of peace and friends of human kind
To mourn thy loss, adventurous Chief, agree;
And all who love the bold or generous mind,
And all who science love must weep for thee.
By thee to soft Taheite’s sultry clime,
By thee to chill Kamschatzcha’s frozen zone,
And Isles ne’er view’d till George’s golden time
Britannia’s mighty name at length was known.
O how unlike Magellan! he who bent
His daring sail to untried winds, and first
The world encompass’d—save in sad event
Of timeless death by savage hands accurst.
The Arts of Peace He cared not to extend;
For gold th’ untravel’d sea his bark explored,
For lust of gold he rashly strove to bend
The free-born Indian to his lawless sword.
Not such the generous purpose of thy will;
With zeal untired and patient toil it strove
To make th’ untutor’d savage learn thy skill,
And the fierce-manner’d tribes embrace thy love.
For this thy vessel plough’d the stormy wave,
For this the pendent globe thrice circled round,
When the rude hand of some unconscious slave
With brutal fury dealt the fatal wound.
Hold! hold, Barbarian! shall the guilty strife
Provoke to mortal acts thy frantic hand?
Let fall thy stroke on some less-valued life;
But save, O! save the Chieftain of the band!
E’en hostile kings bade spare his honour’d head,
The bloodless trophies of his fame bade spare;
And Peace and Science wide their influence spread
To guard him from the wasteful rage of war:
In vain—he falls—he dies—behold him bleed—
Ah wretched Isle! ah murderous, murderous race!
The guilt, the memory of this ruffian deed
What pains can expiate, or what time efface?
Henceforth no ship shall spread her canvas wing
To visit that inhospitable strand;
Save that in after times if chance shall bring
Some bark storm driven near the hateful land;
Ev’n then the hardy mariner shall mourn;
And as he views it rising from the main,
Far from the inhuman shore his prow shall turn,
Cursing the murderous isle where Cook was slain.
ELEGY
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. W. HAYES,
PROFESSOR OF MUSIC IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.
Set to Music by his Son and Successor, P. Hayes.
SYMPHONY.
These sounds of grief, this solemn air,
To thee I sing, dear, honour’d shade!
Hear, spirit of my father, hear!
To thee these mournful rites are paid.
Here followed an Organ Movement, being a
Psalm Tune of the Professor, Dr. Wm. Hayes.
Such the last strains by thee were tried,
Strains that to holy Choirs belong;
While Age, that wasted all beside,
Yet spared the sweetness of thy song.
So pass’d he: nor approved alone
In science; like his gentle art,
His life was Music, and in tone
With Virtue’s harmony his heart.
O! let thy tuneful Spirit, to hear
The melancholy strains we raise,
Now stoop from that celestial sphere
Where Music is the voice of Praise!
THE WORLD[16].
INTENDED AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT WRITING.
BY A LADY.
Wide Habitation of the Sons of Men,
Wherein the seeds of vice and virtue lie
Mix’d, like the undigested Elements
Ere Chaos lost his kingdom; where blind Chance
With Passion holds divided anarchy;
O! who can rightly scan thee, or describe?
Subject ill suited to a Virgin’s Muse,
That cannot praise, and is to blame untaught:
Wherefore from this unprofitable theme
She turns, leaving unsung its argument;
Save that with careless hand her lute she strikes
Lightly, nor hoping that the myrtle wreath
Shall crown her unpremeditated lay.
[16] This was among the subjects for a Prize Poem, given out by Sir John and Lady Miller at Bath Easton.
THE BRITISH THEATRE.
WRITTEN IN 1775.
When first was rear’d the British Stage,
Rude was the scene and weak the lay;
The Bard explored the sacred Page,
And holy Mystery form’d his Play.
Th’ affections of the mortal breast
In simple Moral next he sung,
Each Vice[17] in human shape he drest,
And to each Virtue[17] gave a tongue.
Then ’gan the Comic Muse unfold
In coarser jests her homely art:
Of Gammer Gurton’s[18] loss she told,
And laugh’d at Hodge’s awkward smart.
Come from thy wildly-winding stream,
First-born of Genius, Shakspeare, come!
The listening World attends thy theme,
And bids each elder Bard[19] be dumb:
For thou, within the human Mind
Fix’d, as on thy peculiar throne,
Sitt’st like a Deity inshrined;
And either Muse is all thine own!
Yet shall not Time’s rough hand destroy
The scenes by learned Jonson writ;
Nor shall Oblivion e’er enjoy
The charms of Fletcher’s courtly wit:
And still in matchless beauty live
The numbers of that Lyric Strain
Sung gayly to the Star of Eve
By Comus and his jovial Train.
Here sunk the Stage:—and dire alarms
The Muse’s voice did overwhelm;
For wounded Freedom call’d to arms,
And Discord shook the embattled Realm.
But Peace return’d; and with her came
(Alas! how changed!) the tuneful Pair:
Thalia’s eye should blench with shame,
And her sad Sister weep to hear
How the mask’d[20] Fair, in Charles’s reign,
Her lewd and riotous Fancy fed
At Killigrew’s debauchful scene,
While hapless Otway pined for Bread.
Thus the sweet Lark shall sing unheard,
And Philomel sit silent by;
While every vile and chattering bird
Torments the grove with ribald cry.
And see what witless Bards presume
With buskin’d fools to rhyme and rage;
While Mason’s idle Muse is dumb,
And weary Garrick quits the Stage.
[17] Personification of the passions in the moralities.
[18] Gammer Gurton’s Needle is the oldest English comedy; the distress of it arises from the loss of the needle, which at last is discovered in her man Hodge’s breeches.
[19] There were no plays of any note before Shakspeare.
[20] The custom of that time, for fear of hearing indecencies, otherwise too gross to be supported.
ON TWO PUBLICATIONS,
ENTITLED
EDITIONS OF TWO OF OUR POETS.
When Critic Science first was known,
Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground
The pruning knife of wit was thrown;
Not that which Aristarchus found:
That had a stout and longer blade,
Would at one stroke cut off a limb;
This knife was delicately made,
Not to dismember, but to trim.
With a short harmless edge a-top,
’Twas made like our prize-fighting swords;
Pages and Chapters ’twould not lop,
But cut off syllables and words.
Well did it wear; and might have worn
Full many an age, yet ne’er the worse;
Till Bentley’s hand its edge did turn
On Milton’s adamantine verse.
Warburton seized the blunted tool,
Scarce fit for Oyster-opening Drab:
For Critic use ’twas now too dull,
But tho’ it would not cut, ’twould stab;
Then Shakspeare bled, with every friend
That loved the Bard:—he threaten’d further;
And God knows what had been the end,
Had not Tom Edwards cried out “Murther!”
Confounded at the fearful word,
Awhile he hid the felon steel;
Now gives it Mason, lends it H—;
Ah! see what Gray and Cowley feel!