Poetical Works of Johnson, Parnell, Gray, and Smollett Part 29

FRIEND.

The fatal period hastens on apace.

Nor will thy verse the obscene event disgrace; Thy flowers of poetry, that smell so strong, The keenest appet.i.tes have loathed the song, Condemn'd by Clark, Banks, Barrowby, and Chitty, And all the crop-ear'd critics of the city: While sagely neutral sits thy silent friend, Alike averse to censure or commend.

POET.

Peace to the gentle soul that could deny His invocated voice to fill the cry! 200 And let me still the sentiment disdain Of him who never speaks but to arraign, The sneering son of Calumny and Scorn, Whom neither arts, nor sense, nor soul adorn; Or his, who, to maintain a critic's rank, Though conscious of his own internal blank, His want of taste unwilling to betray, 'Twixt sense and nonsense hesitates all day, With brow contracted hears each pa.s.sage read, And often hums, and shakes his empty head, 210 Until some oracle adored p.r.o.nounce The pa.s.sive bard a poet or a dunce; Then in loud clamour echoes back the word, 'Tis bold, insipid--soaring, or absurd.

These, and the unnumber'd shoals of smaller fry, That nibble round, I pity and defy.

[Footnote 1: 'Williamson:' governor of the Tower.]

[Footnote 2: 'Vanquished knight:' Sir John Cope.]

[Footnote 3: 'Stanhope:' the Earl of Chesterfield.]

[Footnote 4; 'Scot, Gideon,' &c.: forgotten contractors, money-lenders, &c.]

[Footnote 5: 'Peter's obsequies:' Peter Waters, Esq.]

[Footnote 6: 'Hawley:' discomfited at Falkirk in 1746.]

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

1 Mourn, hapless Caledonia! mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!

Thy sons, for valour long renown'd, Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door; In smoky ruins sunk they lie, The monuments of cruelty.

2 The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life.

Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain.

3 What boots it, then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of Time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?

Thy towering spirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke.

What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell.

4 The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night.

No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe, While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

5 Oh! baneful cause, oh! fatal morn, Accursed to ages yet unborn!

The sons against their father stood, The parent shed his children's blood.

Yet, when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murdering steel!

6 The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath, The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of shelter, food, and friend, She views the shades of night descend, And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

7 While the warm blood bedews my veins, And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate, Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe, My sympathising verse shall flow: Mourn, hapless Caledonia! mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!

VERSES ON A YOUNG LADY

PLAYING ON A HARPSICHORD AND SINGING.

1 When Sappho struck the quivering wire, The throbbing breast was all on fire; And when she raised the vocal lay, The captive soul was charm'd away!

2 But had the nymph possess'd with these Thy softer, chaster power to please, Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth, Thy native smiles of artless truth--

3 The worm of grief had never prey'd On the forsaken love-sick maid; Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame, Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame.

LOVE ELEGY.

IN IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.

1 Where now are all my flattering dreams of joy?

Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest; Since first thy beauty fix'd my roving eye, Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.

2 Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call, With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour; Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball, Or press her, wanton, in Love's roseate bower.

3 For me, no more I'll range the empurpled mead, Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around, Nor wander through the woodbine's fragrant shade, To hear the music of the grove resound.

4 I'll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall, Where fancy paints the glimmering taper blue, Where damps hang mouldering on the ivied wall, And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew:

5 There, leagued with hopeless anguish and despair, A while in silence o'er my fate repine: Then with a long farewell to love and care, To kindred dust my weary limbs consign.

6 Wilt thou, Monimia, shed a gracious tear On the cold grave where all my sorrows rest?

Strew vernal flowers, applaud my love sincere, And bid the turf lie easy on my breast?

BURLESQUE ODE.[1]

Where wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore?

These pious arms essay'd too late To drive the dismal phantom from the door.

Could not thy healing drop, ill.u.s.trious quack, Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days, For whom so oft to Marybone, alack!

Thy sorrels dragg'd thee, through the worst of ways?

Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain Thy steps, though tended by the Cambrian maids; 10 Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane; Nor dusty Pimlico's embowering shades; Nor Whitehall, by the river's bank, Beset with rowers dank; Nor where the Exchange pours forth its tawny sons; Nor where, to mix with offal, soil, and blood, Steep Snowhill rolls the sable flood; Nor where the Mint's contamined kennel runs: Ill doth it now beseem, That thou should'st doze and dream, 20 When Death in mortal armour came, And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame.

Her liberal hand and sympathising breast The brute creation kindly bless'd; Where'er she trod, grimalkin purr'd around, The squeaking pigs her bounty own'd; Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose Did she glad sustenance refuse; The strutting c.o.c.k she daily fed, And turkey with his snout so red; 30 Of chickens careful as the pious hen, Nor did she overlook the tom-t.i.t or the wren, While red-breast hopp'd before her in the hall, As if she common mother were of all.

For my distracted mind, What comfort can I find; O best of grannams! thou art dead and gone, And I am left behind to weep and moan, To sing thy dirge in sad and funeral lay, Oh! woe is me! alack! and well a-day! 40