SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five
Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass and crack’d his joke, 5
And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arriv’d at thirty-six? 10
O had the archer ne’er come down
To ravage in a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop.
O had her eyes forgot to blaze! 15
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.
O!——But let exclamation cease,
Her presence banish’d all his peace.
So with decorum all things carried;
Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married. 20
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Need we intrude on hallow’d ground,
Or draw the curtains clos’d around?
Let it suffice, that each had charms; 25
He clasp’d a goddess in his arms; And though she felt his usage rough,
Yet in a man ’twas well enough.
The honey-moon like lightning flew,
The second brought its transports too. 30
A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:
But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that deck’d her face 35
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remain’d behind,
That very face had robb’d her mind.
Skill’d in no other arts was she
But dressing, patching, repartee; 40
And, just as humour rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle;
’Tis true she dress’d with modern grace,
Half naked at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed, 45
Five greasy nightcaps wrapp’d her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain-lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing? 50
In short, by night, ’twas fits or fretting;
By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powder’d coxcombs at her levy;
The ’squire and captain took their stations, 55
And twenty other near relations; Jack suck’d his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were pass’d between
Insulting repartee or spleen. 60
Thus as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
Whenever rage or envy rise, 65
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wond’rous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 70
Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife,
Promis’d to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power 75
Withers the beauty’s transient flower:
Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glare
Levell’d its terrors at the fair;
And, rifling ev’ry youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face. 80
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes.
In vain she tries her paste and creams, 85
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams; Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens:
The ’squire himself was seen to yield,
And e’en the captain quit the field. 90
Poor Madam, now condemn’d to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzl’d to behold 95
Her present face surpass the old;
With modesty her cheeks are dy’d,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean: 100
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day;
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.
A NEW SIMILE
IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT
LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature’s spite:
Till reading, I forget what day on, 5
A chapter out of Tooke’s Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair;
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius; 10
You’ll find him pictur’d at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.
Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 15
Wings upon either side—mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that’s flighty, learning light; 20
Such as to modern bard’s decreed:
A just comparison,—proceed.
In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Design’d, no doubt, their part to bear, 25
And waft his godship through the air; And here my simile unites,
For in a modern poet’s flights,
I’m sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head. 30
Lastly, vouchsafe t’observe his hand,
Filled with a snake-encircl’d wand;
By classic authors term’d caduceus,
And highly fam’d for several uses.
To wit—most wond’rously endu’d, 35
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue’s such,
Though ne’er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore. 40
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men’s souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then;
His wand’s a modern author’s pen;
The serpents round about it twin’d 45
Denote him of the reptile kind;
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom’d bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep. 50
This diff’rence only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart’rus with his rod,
With his goosequill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.
And here my simile almost tript, 55
Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover, Merc’ry had a failing:
Well! what of that? out with it—stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he: 60
But ev’n this deity’s existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?
EDWIN AND ANGELINA
(T. Stothard)
EDWIN AND ANGELINA
A BALLAD
‘TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
‘For here, forlorn and lost I tread, 5
With fainting steps and slow;
Where wilds immeasurably spread,
Seem length’ning as I go.’
‘Forbear, my son,’ the hermit cries,
‘To tempt the dangerous gloom; 10
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
‘Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant, 15
I give it with good will.
‘Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate’er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch, and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose. 20
‘No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn:
Taught by that power that pities me,
I learn to pity them.
‘But from the mountain’s grassy side 25
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
‘Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forgo;
All earth-born cares are wrong: 30
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long.’
Soft as the dew from heav’n descends,
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends, 35
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor
And strangers led astray. 40
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir’d a master’s care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Receiv’d the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire 45
To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimm’d his little fire,
And cheer’d his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily press’d, and smil’d; 50
And, skill’d in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguil’d.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth; 55
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger’s woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow. 60
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answ’ring care oppress’d;
‘And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cried,
‘The sorrows of thy breast?
‘From better habitations spurn’d, 65
Reluctant dost thou rove;
Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d,
Or unregarded love?
‘Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay; 70
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
‘And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 75
But leaves the wretch to weep?
‘And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one’s jest:
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle’s nest. 80
‘For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex,’ he said:
But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray’d.
Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise, 85
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o’er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms: 90
The lovely stranger stands confess’d
A maid in all her charms.
‘And, ah! forgive a stranger rude,
A wretch forlorn,’ she cried;
‘Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 95
Where heaven and you reside.
‘But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way. 100
‘My father liv’d beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark’d as mine,
He had but only me.
‘To win me from his tender arms 105
Unnumber’d suitors came;
Who prais’d me for imputed charms,
And felt or feign’d a flame.
Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove: 110
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow’d,
But never talk’d of love.
‘In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 115
But these were all to me.
‘And when beside me in the dale
He caroll’d lays of love;
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove. 120
‘The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refin’d,
Could nought of purity display,
To emulate his mind.
‘The dew, the blossom on the tree, 125
With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his, but woe to me!
Their constancy was mine.
‘For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain: 130
And while his passion touch’d my heart,
I triumph’d in his pain.
‘Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn, 135
In secret, where he died.
‘But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay;
I’ll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay. 140
‘And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I’ll lay me down and die;
’Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.’
‘Forbid it, heaven!’ the hermit cried, 145
And clasp’d her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn’d to chide,
’Twas Edwin’s self that prest.
‘Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see 150
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor’d to love and thee.
‘Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev’ry care resign;
And shall we never, never part, 155
My life—my all that’s mine?
‘No, never from this hour to part,
We’ll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.’ 160