THE SPLEEN.
I am not of their mind who say
The World degenerates every day;
Nor like to hear a churl exclaim,
In rapture at Queen Bess’s name,
And cry, “What happy times were those
“When Ladies with the sun uprose,
“And for their breakfast did not fear
“To eat roast-beef and drink strong-beer!
“Then buxom health and sprightly grace
“Enliven’d every blooming face,
“Blooming with roses all its own;
“And rouge, tea, vapours, were unknown.”
Nature, still changing, still the same,
Hath so contrived this worldly frame,
That every age shall duly share
The good or ill that flows from Her.
Thus we, a spleenful race, are free
From magic and from sorcery;
While those who lived with good Queen Bess
(As they that know the truth confess)
Tho’ Spleen and Vapours there were none,
Had Imps and Witches many a one;
And he who, ’cause he has not seen,
Will not believe, hath ne’er, I ween,
With due attention mused upon
Thy page, O British Solomon!
Thus far in preface—Now I’ll tell
How Spleen arose, when Witchcraft fell.
By vengeful laws the Wizard brood
Long harass’d and at last subdued,
Their black Familiars all repair
Before the throne of Lucifer,
With sad petitions, setting forth
Their many grievances on earth,
What torments they were doom’d to bear
While tending on their Witches there:
Some drown’d, to prove their innocence,
Or, ’scaping, hang’d on that pretence;
Some burnt within their steeple hats,
Some nine times murder’d in their Cats:
Brief, they petition’d to enjoy
Some less adventurous employ,
Since witchcraft now was thought so common
They were not safe in an old woman.
Their suit was granted—up they came
New-liveried in sulphur flame,
With licence thro’ the realm to range;
But, with their pow’r, their name they change.
Magic no longer now is seen,
And what was Witchcraft once, is Spleen:
Yet still they most delight to vex,
As first they did, the female sex;
And still, like an old witch’s charm,
They tease, but have no power to harm.
Tho’ Doctors otherwise have told,
The tale is true that I unfold:
And with my system suits the name,
For Spleen and Vapours are the same;
And all the country people know
That these, ascending from below,
Are Devils of peculiar hue,
And from their colour call them Blue.
LINES
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL IN A LADY’S ALMANAC.
Go happy lines, yet fearful go,
To meet Louisa’s secret eye!
Tell what I wish her heart should know,
Yet, rather than declare, I die.
Perhaps she’ll scorn ye, and despise
The tribute of a heart so poor—
Too valueless to be the prize
Of Beauty, proudest conqueror.
Then tell her that her touch alone
Destroys your pencil’d forms with ease;
And say your fate is like my own,
To be or not, as she shall please.
But should her gentleness now spare,
Pass one short year, and ye are not!
A little year shall send you where
You’ll perish among things forgot;
Yet so, how envied should you be!
For who is he would not prefer
Before an immortality,
To live a year, a day with Her?
I fear she’ll turn ye all to jest:
Then let her know I’ve made my prayer,
That, when by beaux, smart beaux, carest,
She ne’er may feel a tender care!
But while they sigh, or kneel, or vow,
Think it all done in sport and play;
Or write love-rhymes (as I do now),
Laugh, but not trust a word they say.
TO
A YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN,
WITH THOMSON’S SEASONS, DOUBLED DOWN AT THE STORY OF PALEMON AND LAVINIA.
Anna, when you shall read in this true tale
How young Lavinia from her lowly state
Was led to splendor, wealth, and dignity,
By generous Palemon wooed and won
To be his bride, (such happy fortune found
Her virtues, and deserved no less)—so think
Your beauty, temper’d with sweet bashful grace
Of modesty and native elegance,
So think these charms—not sparingly bestow’d
But in the pride and prodigality
Of liberal Nature, fashioning her work
To a rare excellence,—these shall inflame
Each generous heart with love, and the dear hope
To win your gentle favour, and possess
A lovelier Lavinia found in you.