Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 126

With eager haste to town they flew, Where all must please, for all was new.

But here, by strict poetic laws, Description claims its proper pause.

The rosy morn had raised her head From old t.i.thonus' saffron bed; And embryo sunbeams from the east, Half-choked, were struggling through the mist, When forth advanced the gilded chaise; The village crowded round to gaze.

The pert postilion, now promoted From driving plough, and neatly booted, His jacket, cap, and baldric on, (As greater folks than he have done,) Looked round; and, with a c.o.xcomb air, Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair Bowed graceful, from a separate door, And Jenny, from the stool before.

Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes New objects every moment rise.

Each carriage pa.s.sing on the road, From the broad waggon's ponderous load To the light car, where mounted high The giddy driver seems to fly, Were themes for harmless satire fit, And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit.

Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful, No noise was harsh, no danger frightful.

The dash and splash through thick and thin, The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn, (Where well-bred landlords were so ready To welcome in the 'squire and lady,) Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease, Determined to be pleased, and please.

Now nearer town, and all agog, They know dear London by its fog.

Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind, Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind, Through Brentford win a pa.s.sage free By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!'

At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way, Where Bays's troops in ambush lay, O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, With palaces to grace its side, Till Bond Street with its lamps a-blaze Concludes the journey of three days.

Why should we paint, in tedious song, How every day, and all day long, They drove at first with curious haste Through Lud's vast town; or, as they pa.s.sed 'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs Of streets on streets, and squares on squares, Describe how strong their wonder grew At buildings--and at builders too?

Scarce less astonishment arose At architects more fair than those-- Who built as high, as widely spread The enormous loads that clothed their head.

For British dames new follies love, And, if they can't invent, improve.

Some with erect paG.o.das vie, Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry, Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest, Convolved, contorted, and compressed; With intermingling trees, and flowers, And corn, and gra.s.s, and shepherd's bowers, Stage above stage the turrets run, Like pendent groves of Babylon, Till nodding from the topmost wall Otranto's plumes envelop all!

Whilst the black ewes, who owned the hair, Feed harmless on, in pastures fair, Unconscious that their tails perfume, In scented curls, the drawing-room.

When Night her murky pinions spread, And sober folks retire to bed, To every public place they flew, Where Jenny told them who was who.

Money was always at command, And tripped with pleasure hand in hand.

Money was equipage, was show, Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho; The _pa.s.se-partout_ through every vein Of dissipation's hydra reign.

O London, thou prolific source, Parent of vice, and folly's nurse!

Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs Sp.a.w.n hourly births--and all with stings: But happiest far the he, or she,

I know not which, that livelier dunce Who first contrived the coterie,

To crush domestic bliss at once.

Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames, As Nero fiddled to the flames.

Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak With reverence, though in numbers weak; Thy beauties satire's frown beguile, We spare the follies for the pile.

Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show, With lamps above, and lamps below, Thy charms even modern taste defied, They could not spoil thee, though they tried.

Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings Must sweep thee off with vulgar things!

Let architects of humbler name On frail materials build their fame, Their n.o.blest works the world might want, Wyatt should build in adamant.

But what are these to scenes which lie Secreted from the vulgar eye, And baffle all the powers of song?-- A brazen throat, an iron tongue, (Which poets wish for, when at length Their subject soars above their strength,) Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, Who only reads the public news And idly utters what she gleans From chronicles and magazines, Recoiling feels her feeble fires, And blus.h.i.+ng to her shades retires, Alas! she knows not how to treat The finer follies of the great, Where even, Democritus, thy sneer Were vain as Herac.l.i.tus' tear.

Suffice it that by just degrees They reached all heights, and rose with ease; (For beauty wins its way, uncalled, And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) Each gambling dame she knew, and he Knew every shark of quality; From the grave cautious few who live On thoughtless youth, and living thrive, To the light train who mimic France, And the soft sons of _nonchalance_.

While Jenny, now no more of use, Excuse succeeding to excuse, Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew To s.h.i.+lling whist, and chicken loo.

Advanced to fas.h.i.+on's wavering head, They now, where once they followed, led.

Devised new systems of delight, A-bed all day, and up all night, In different circles reigned supreme.

Wives copied her, and husbands him; Till so divinely life ran on, So separate, so quite _bon-ton_, That meeting in a public place, They scarcely knew each other's face.

At last they met, by his desire, A _tete-a-tete_ across the fire; Looked in each other's face awhile, With half a tear, and half a smile.

The ruddy health, which wont to grace With manly glow his rural face, Now scarce retained its faintest streak; So sallow was his leathern cheek.

She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed, With rouge had striven in vain to hide What once was beauty, and repair The rapine of the midnight air.

Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.

Both wished to speak, both hung the head.

At length it burst.----''Tis time,' he cries, 'When tired of folly, to be wise.

Are you too tired?'--then checked a groan.

She wept consent, and he went on:

'How delicate the married life!

You love your husband, I my wife!

Not even satiety could tame, Nor dissipation quench the flame.

'True to the bias of our kind, 'Tis happiness we wish to find.

In rural scenes retired we sought In vain the dear, delicious draught, Though blest with love's indulgent store, We found we wanted something more.

'Twas company, 'twas friends to share The bliss we languished to declare.

'Twas social converse, change of scene, To soothe the sullen hour of spleen; Short absences to wake desire, And sweet regrets to fan the fire.

'We left the lonesome place; and found, In dissipation's giddy round, A thousand novelties to wake The springs of life and not to break.

As, from the nest not wandering far, In light excursions through the air, The feathered tenants of the grove Around in mazy circles move, Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow, Or taste the blossom on the bough.

We sported freely with the rest; And still, returning to the nest, In easy mirth we chatted o'er The trifles of the day before.

'Behold us now, dissolving quite In the full ocean of delight; In pleasures every hour employ, Immersed in all the world calls joy; Our affluence easing the expense Of splendour and magnificence; Our company, the exalted set Of all that's gay, and all that's great: Nor happy yet!--and where's the wonder!-- We live, my dear, too much asunder.'

The moral of my tale is this, Variety's the soul of bless; But such variety alone As makes our home the more our own.

As from the heart's impelling power The life-blood pours its genial store; Though taking each a various way, The active streams meandering play Through every artery, every vein, All to the heart return again; From thence resume their new career, But still return and centre there: So real happiness below Must from the heart sincerely flow; Nor, listening to the syren's song, Must stray too far, or rest too long.

All human pleasures thither tend; Must there begin, and there must end; Must there recruit their languid force, And gain fresh vigour from their source.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriess.h.i.+re, in 1734. His father was minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,'

--a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins'

daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788.

His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to Homer. 'c.u.mnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of 'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, as Burns says, of 'the first poet.'

c.u.mNOR HALL.

1 The dews of summer night did fall, The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of c.u.mnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby.

2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile.

3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity?