Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 75

His pills as thick as hand grenadoes flew; And where they fell, as certainly they slew: His name struck everywhere as great a damp, As Archimedes' through the Roman camp.

With this, the doctor's pride began to cool; For smarting soundly may convince a fool.

But now repentance came too late for grace; And meagre famine stared him in the face: Fain would he to the wives be reconciled, But found no husband left to own a child.

The friends, that got the brats, were poisoned too: In this sad case, what could our vermin do?

Worried with debts, and past all hope of bail, The unpitied wretch lies rotting in a jail: And there, with basket-alms scarce kept alive, Shows how mistaken talents ought to thrive.

I pity, from my soul, unhappy men, Compelled by want to prost.i.tute their pen; Who must, like lawyers, either starve or plead, And follow, right or wrong, where guineas lead!

But you, Pompilian, wealthy, pampered heirs, Who to your country owe your swords and cares, Let no vain hope your easy mind seduce, For rich ill poets are without excuse; 'Tis very dangerous tampering with the Muse, The profit's small, and you have much to lose; For though true wit adorns your birth or place, Degenerate lines degrade the attainted race.

No poet any pa.s.sion can excite, But what they feel transport them when they write.

Have you been led through the c.u.maean cave, And heard the impatient maid divinely rave?

I hear her now; I see her rolling eyes; And panting, 'Lo! the G.o.d, the G.o.d,' she cries: With words not hers, and more than human sound, She makes the obedient ghosts peep trembling through the ground.

But, though we must obey when Heaven commands, And man in vain the sacred call withstands, Beware what spirit rages in your breast; For ten inspired, ten thousand are possess'd: Thus make the proper use of each extreme, And write with fury, but correct with phlegm.

As when the cheerful hours too freely pa.s.s, And sparkling wine smiles in the tempting gla.s.s, Your pulse advises, and begins to beat Through every swelling vein a loud retreat: So when a Muse propitiously invites, Improve her favours, and indulge her flights; But when you find that vigorous heat abate, Leave off, and for another summons wait.

Before the radiant sun, a glimmering lamp, Adulterate measures to the sterling stamp, Appear not meaner than mere human lines, Compared with those whose inspiration shines: These, nervous, bold; those, languid and remiss; There cold salutes; but here a lover's kiss.

Thus have I seen a rapid headlong tide, With foaming waves the pa.s.sive Saone divide; Whose lazy waters without motion lay, While he, with eager force, urged his impetuous way.

CHARLES COTTON.

Hearty, careless 'Charley Cotton' was born in 1630. His father, Sir George Cotton, was improvident and intemperate in his latter days, and left the poet an enc.u.mbered estate situated at Ashbourne, in Derbyshire, near the river Dove. This place will recall the words quoted by O'Connell in Parliament in reference to the present Lord Derby:--

'Down thy fair banks, romantic Ashbourne, glides The Derby dilly, with its six insides.'

Charles studied at Cambridge; and after travelling abroad, married the daughter of Sir Thomas Owthorp in Nottinghamshire, who does not appear to have lived long. His extravagance keeping him poor, he was compelled to eke out his means by translating works from the French and Italian, including those of a spirit somewhat kindred to his own--Montaigne. At the age of forty, he obtained a captain's commission in the army, and went to Ireland. There he met with his second wife, Mary, Countess Dowager of Ardgla.s.s, the widow of Lord Cornwall. She possessed a jointure of 1500 a-year, secured, however, after marriage, from her husband's imprudent and reckless management. He returned to his English estate, where he became pa.s.sionately fond of fishing,--intimate with Izaak Walton, whom he invited in a poem, although now eighty-three years old, to visit him in the country--and where he built a fishing-house, with the initials of Izaak's name and his own united in ciphers over the door; the walls, too, being painted with fishing scenes, and the portraits of Cotton and Walton appearing upon the beaufet. Poor Charles had a less fortunate career than his friend, dying insolvent at Westminster in 1687.

Careless gaiety and reckless extravagance, blended with heart, sense, and sincerity, were the characteristics of Cotton as a man, and were, as is usually the case, transferred to his poetry. He squandered his pence and his powers with equal profusion. His travestie of the 'Aeneid' is p.r.o.nounced by Christopher North (who must have read it, however,) a beastly book. Campbell says, with striking justice, of another of Cotton's productions, 'His imitations of Lucian betray the grossest misconception of humorous effect, when he attempts to burlesque that which is ludicrous already.' It is like trying to turn the 'Tale of a Tub' into ridicule. But Cotton's own vein, as exhibited in his 'Invitation to Walton,' his 'New Year,' and his 'Voyage to Ireland,'

(which antic.i.p.ates in some measure the style of Anstey in the 'New Bath Guide,') is very rich and varied, full of ease, picturesque spirit, and humour, and stamps him a genuine, if not a great poet.

INVITATION TO IZAAK WALTON.

1 Whilst in this cold and bl.u.s.tering clime, Where bleak winds howl, and tempests roar, We pa.s.s away the roughest time Has been of many years before;

2 Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks The dullest blasts our peace invade, And by great rains our smallest brooks Are almost navigable made;

3 Whilst all the ills are so improved Of this dead quarter of the year, That even you, so much beloved, We would not now wish with us here:

4 In this estate, I say, it is Some comfort to us to suppose, That in a better clime than this, You, our dear friend, have more repose;

5 And some delight to me the while, Though Nature now does weep in rain, To think that I have seen her smile, And haply may I do again.

6 If the all-ruling Power please We live to see another May, We'll recompense an age of these Foul days in one fine fishing day.

7 We then shall have a day or two, Perhaps a week, wherein to try What the best master's hand can do With the most deadly killing fly.

8 A day with not too bright a beam; A warm, but not a scorching sun; A southern gale to curl the stream; And, master, half our work is done.

9 Then, whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray, We'll prove it just, with treacherous bait, To make the preying trout our prey;

10 And think ourselves, in such an hour, Happier than those, though not so high, Who, like leviathans, devour Of meaner men the smaller fry.

11 This, my best friend, at my poor home, Shall be our pastime and our theme; But then--should you not deign to come, You make all this a flattering dream.

A VOYAGE TO IRELAND IN BURLESQUE.

CANTO I.

The lives of frail men are compared by the sages Or unto short journeys, or pilgrimages, As men to their inns do come sooner or later, That is, to their ends, to be plain in my matter; From whence when one dead is, it currently follows, He has run his race, though his goal be the gallows; And this 'tis, I fancy, sets folks so a-madding, And makes men and women so eager of gadding; Truth is, in my youth I was one of these people Would have gone a great way to have seen a high steeple, And though I was bred 'mongst the wonders o' th' Peak, Would have thrown away money, and ventured my neck To have seen a great hill, a rock, or a cave, And thought there was nothing so pleasant and brave: But at forty years old you may, if you please, Think me wiser than run such errands as these; Or had the same humour still run in my toes, A voyage to Ireland I ne'er should have chose; But to tell you the truth on 't, indeed it was neither Improvement nor pleasure for which I went thither; I know then you'll presently ask me for what?

Why, faith, it was that makes the old woman trot; And therefore I think I'm not much to be blamed If I went to the place whereof Nick was ashamed.

O Coryate! thou traveller famed as Ulysses, In such a stupendous labour as this is, Come lend me the aids of thy hands and thy feet, Though the first be pedantic, the other not sweet, Yet both are so restless in peregrination, They'll help both my journey, and eke my relation.

'Twas now the most beautiful time of the year, The days were now long, and the sky was now clear, And May, that fair lady of splendid renown, Had dressed herself fine, in her flowered tabby gown, When about some two hours and an half after noon, When it grew something late, though I thought it too soon, With a pitiful voice, and a most heavy heart, I tuned up my pipes to sing _'loth to depart;_'

The ditty concluded, I called for my horse, And with a good pack did the jument endorse, Till he groaned and he f----d under the burden, For sorrow had made me a c.u.mbersome lurden: And now farewell, Dove, where I've caught such brave dishes Of over-grown, golden, and silver-scaled fishes; Thy trout and thy grayling may now feed securely, I've left none behind me can take 'em so surely; Feed on then, and breed on, until the next year, But if I return I expect my arrear.

By pacing and trotting betimes in the even, Ere the sun had forsaken one half of the heaven, We all at fair Congerton took up our inn, Where the sign of a king kept a King and his queen: But who do you think came to welcome me there'?

No worse a man, marry, than good master mayor, With his staff of command, yet the man was not lame, But he needed it more when he went, than he came; After three or four hours of friendly potation, We took leave each of other in courteous fashion, When each one, to keep his brains fast in his head, Put on a good nightcap, and straightway to bed.

Next morn, having paid for boiled, roasted, and bacon, And of sovereign hostess our leaves kindly taken, (For her king, as 'twas rumoured, by late pouring down, This morning had got a foul flaw in his crown,) We mounted again, and full soberly riding, Three miles we had rid ere we met with a biding; But there, having over-night plied the tap well, We now must needs water at a place called Holmes Chapel: 'A hay!' quoth the foremost, 'ho! who keeps the house?'

Which said, out an host comes as brisk as a louse; His hair combed as sleek as a barber he'd been, A cravat with black ribbon tied under his chin; Though by what I saw in him, I straight 'gan to fear That knot would be one day slipped under his ear.

Quoth he (with low conge), 'What lack you, my lord?'

'The best liquor,' quoth I, 'that the house will afford.'

'You shall straight,' quoth he; and then calls out, 'Mary?

Come quickly, and bring us a quart of Canary.'

'Hold, hold, my spruce host! for i' th' morning so early, I never drink liquor but what's made of barley.'

Which words were scarce out, but, which made me admire, My lordship was presently turned into 'squire:

'Ale, 'squire, you mean?' quoth he nimbly again, 'What, must it be purled'--'No, I love it best plain.'

'Why, if you'll drink ale, sir, pray take my advice, Here's the best ale i' th' land, if you'll go to the price; Better, I sure am, ne'er blew out a stopple; But then, in plain truth, it is sixpence a bottle.'

'Why, faith,' quoth I, 'friend, if your liquor be such, For the best ale in England, it is not too much: Let's have it, and quickly.'--'o sir! you may stay; A pot in your pate is a mile in your way: Come, bring out a bottle here presently, wife, Of the best Cheshire hum he e'er drank in his life.'

Straight out comes the mistress in waistcoat of silk, As clear as a milkmaid, as white as her milk, With visage as oval and sleek as an egg, As straight as an arrow, as right as my leg: A curtsey she made, as demure as a sister, I could not forbear, but alighted and kissed her: Then ducking another, with most modest mien, The first word she said was, 'Will 't please you walk in?

I thanked her; but told her, I then could not stay, For the haste of my business did call me away.

She said, she was sorry it fell out so odd, But if, when again I should travel that road, I would stay there a night, she a.s.sured me the nation Should nowhere afford better accommodation: Meanwhile my spruce landlord has broken the cork, And called for a bodkin, though he had a fork; But I showed him a screw, which I told my brisk gull A trepan was for bottles had broken their skull; Which, as it was true, he believed without doubt, But 'twas I that applied it, and pulled the cork out.

Bounce, quoth the bottle, the work being done, It roared, and it smoked, like a new-fired gun; But the shot missed us all, or else we'd been routed, Which yet was a wonder, we were so about it.

Mine host poured and filled, till he could fill no fuller: 'Look here, sir,' quoth he, 'both for nap and for colour, Sans bragging, I hate it, nor will I e'er do 't; I defy Leek, and Lambhith, and Sandwich, to boot.'

By my troth, he said true, for I speak it with tears, Though I have been a toss-pot these twenty good years, And have drank so much liquor has made me a debtor, In my days, that I know of, I never drank better: We found it so good and we drank so profoundly, That four good round shillings were whipt away roundly; And then I conceived it was time to be jogging, For our work had been done, had we stay'd t' other noggin.

From thence we set forth with more metal and spright, Our horses were empty, our c.o.xcombs were light; O'er Dellamore forest we, tantivy, posted, Till our horses were basted as if they were roasted: In truth, we pursued might have been by our haste, And I think Sir George Booth did not gallop so fast, Till about two o'clock after noon, G.o.d be blest, We came, safe and sound, all to Chester i' th' west.

And now in high time 'twas to call for some meat, Though drinking does well, yet some time we must eat: And i' faith we had victuals both plenty and good, Where we all laid about us as if we were wood: Go thy ways, Mistress Anderton, for a good woman, Thy guests shall by thee ne'er be turned to a common; And whoever of thy entertainment complains, Let him lie with a drab, and be poxed for his pains.

And here I must stop the career of my Muse, The poor jade is weary, 'las! how should she choose?

And if I should further here spur on my course, I should, questionless, tire both my wits and my horse: To-night let us rest, for 'tis good Sunday's even, To-morrow to church, and ask pardon of Heaven.

Thus far we our time spent, as here I have penned it, An odd kind of life, and 'tis well if we mend it: But to-morrow (G.o.d willing) we'll have t' other bout, And better or worse be 't, for murder will out, Our future adventures we'll lay down before ye, For my Muse is deep sworn to use truth of the story.