Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 24

26 Such as in silence of the night Come sweep along some winding entry, (Styack[3] has often seen the sight) Or at the chapel-door stand sentry;

27 In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd, Sour visages enough to scare ye, High dames of honour once that garnish'd The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary!

28 The peeress comes: the audience stare, And doff their hats with due submission; She curtsies, as she takes her chair, To all the people of condition.

29 The Bard with many an artless fib Had in imagination fenced him, Disproved the arguments of Squib,[4]

And all that Grooms[5] could urge against him.

30 But soon his rhetoric forsook him, When he the solemn hall had seen; A sudden fit of ague shook him; He stood as mute as poor Maclean.[6]

31 Yet something he was heard to mutter, How in the park, beneath an old tree, (Without design to hurt the b.u.t.ter, Or any malice to the poultry,)

32 He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet, Yet hoped that he might save his bacon; Numbers would give their oaths upon it, He ne'er was for a conjuror taken.

33 The ghostly prudes, with hagged[7] face, Already had condemn'd the sinner: My Lady rose, and with a grace-- She smiled, and bid him come to dinner,

34 'Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget, Why, what can the Viscountess mean?'

Cried the square hoods, in woeful fidget; 'The times are alter'd quite and clean!

35 'Decorum's turn'd to mere civility!

Her air and all her manners show it: Commend me to her affability!

Speak to a commoner and poet!'

[_Here 500 stanzas are lost._]

36 And so G.o.d save our n.o.ble king, And guard us from long-winded lubbers, That to eternity would sing, And keep my lady from her rubbers.

[Footnote 1: 'Pile of building:' the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of Viscountess Cobham. The style of building which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton.]

[Footnote 2: 'Lord-Keeper:' Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. Brawls were a sort of a figure-dance then in vogue.]

[Footnote 3: 'Styack:' the house-keeper.]

[Footnote 4: 'Squib:' the steward.']

[Footnote 5: 'Grooms:' of the chamber.]

[Footnote 6: 'Maclean:' a famous highwayman, hanged the week before.]

[Footnote 7: 'Hagged:' i. e., the face of a witch or hag.]

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

1 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

2 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

3 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

4 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The c.o.c.k's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

6 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

7 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their st.u.r.dy stroke!

8 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

9 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10 Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

11 Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

12 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

13 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their n.o.ble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

14 Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

16 The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

17 Their lot forbade; nor circ.u.mscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind,

18 The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

19 Far from the madding crowd's ign.o.ble strife,[1]

Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20 Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the pa.s.sing tribute of a sigh.

21 Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

23 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

24 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Dost in those lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,