Delphi Complete Poetical Works of George Crabbe (Illustrated) E-Book

George Crabbe

• Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 2806

Beschreibung

The last of the Augustan poets, following Dryden and Pope in the use of the heroic couplet, George Crabbe was an important literary figure of the early nineteenth century. Lord Byron famously described him as “nature’s sternest painter, yet the best.” Esteemed by the Romantics as a rebel against the genteel fancy of his day, Crabbe pleaded for the poet’s right to describe the commonplace realities and miseries of human life. He is best known for his early use of the realistic narrative form and his detailed descriptions of middle and working-class life, which is unsentimental in its portrayal. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Crabbe’s complete poetical works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Crabbe’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Crabbe’s life and poetry
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* The Complete Poems, including rare Posthumous Tales
* Poetry texts based on the authoritative Cambridge University Press 1905 edition
* Excellent formatting
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Crabbe’s rare ‘Autobiography’, never digitised before
* Special ‘Criticism’ section, with seven works evaluating Crabbe’s contribution to English poetry
* Features three biographies, including Ainger’s seminal study — discover Crabbe’s literary life
* Also includes Lockhart’s famous account of Sir Walter Scott and George Crabbe’s eventful first meeting
* Ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of George Crabbe
Brief Introduction: George Crabbe by Clement King Shorter
Complete Poetical Works of George Crabbe

The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Autobiography
Autobiographical Sketch (1816)

The Criticism
‘Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best’ (1809) by Lord Byron
Mr. Campbell and Mr. Crabbe (1825) by William Hazlitt
Crabbe and Southey (1835) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Crabbe (1890) by George Saintsbury
Crabbe (1890) by Leslie Stephen
Crabbe (1890) by George Edward Woodberry
To the Immortal Memory of George Crabbe (1907) by Clement King Shorter

The Biographies
Mr. Crabbe in Castle Street (1837) by J. G. Lockhart
George Crabbe (1900) by Leslie Stephen
English Men of Letters: Crabbe (1903) by Alfred Ainger

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Leseprobe

George Crabbe

(1754-1832)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of George Crabbe

Brief Introduction: George Crabbe by Clement King Shorter

Complete Poetical Works of George Crabbe

The Poems

List of Poems in Chronological Order

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Autobiography

Autobiographical Sketch (1816)

The Criticism

‘Nature's sternest Painter, yet the best’ (1809) by Lord Byron

Mr. Campbell and Mr. Crabbe (1825) by William Hazlitt

Crabbe and Southey (1835) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Crabbe (1890) by George Saintsbury

Crabbe (1890) by Leslie Stephen

Crabbe (1890) by George Edward Woodberry

To the Immortal Memory of George Crabbe (1907) by Clement King Shorter

The Biographies

Mr. Crabbe in Castle Street (1837) by J. G. Lockhart

George Crabbe (1900) by Leslie Stephen

English Men of Letters: Crabbe (1903) by Alfred Ainger

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2021

Version 1

Browse the entire series…

George Crabbe

By Delphi Classics, 2021

COPYRIGHT

George Crabbe - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2021.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 80170 018 4

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

NOTE

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The Life and Poetry of George Crabbe

Aldborough, Suffolk by J. M. W. Turner, c. 1826 — Crabbe was born in Aldeburgh in 1754.

Aldeburgh, today

Brief Introduction: George Crabbe by Clement King Shorter

From ‘1911 Encyclopædia Britannica’, Volume 7

GEORGE CRABBE, (1754–1832), English poet, was born at Aldeburgh in Suffolk on the 24th of December 1754. His family was partly of Norfolk, partly of Suffolk origin, and the name was doubtless originally derived from “crab.” His grandfather, Robert Crabbe, was the first of the family to settle at Aldeburgh, where he held the appointment of collector of customs. He died in 1734, leaving one son, George, who practised many occupations, including that of a schoolmaster, in the adjoining village of Orford. Finally the poet’s father obtained a small post in the customs of Aldeburgh, married Mary Lodwick, the widow of a publican, and had six children, of whom George was the eldest.

The sea has swept away the small cottage that was George Crabbe’s birthplace, but one may still visit the quay at Slaughden, some half-mile from the town, where the father worked and the son was at a later date to work with him. At first attending a dame’s school in Aldeburgh, when nine or ten years of age he was sent to a boarding-school at Bungay, and at twelve to a school at Stowmarket, where he remained two years. His father dreamt of the medical profession for his clever boy, and so in 1768 he went to Wickham Brook near Newmarket as an apothecary’s assistant. In 1771 we find him assisting a surgeon at Woodbridge, and it was while here that he met Sarah Elmy. Crabbe was now only eighteen years of age, but he became “engaged” to this lady in 1772. It was not until 1783 that the pair were married. The intervening years were made up of painful struggle, in which, however, not only the affection but the purse of his betrothed assisted him. About the time of Crabbe’s return from Woodbridge to Aldeburgh he published at Ipswich his first work, a poem entitled Inebriety (1775). He found his father fallen on evil days. There was no money to assist him to a partnership, and surgery for the moment seemed out of the question. For a few weeks Crabbe worked as a common labourer, rolling butter casks on Slaughden quay. Before the year was out, however, the young man bought on credit “the shattered furniture of an apothecary’s shop and the drugs that stocked it.” This was at Aldeburgh. A year later Crabbe installed a deputy in the surgery and paid his first visit to London. He lodged in Whitechapel, took lessons in midwifery and walked the hospitals. Returning to Aldeburgh after nine months — in 1777 — he found his practice gone. Even as a doctor for the poor he was an utter failure, poetry having probably taken too firm a hold upon his mind. At times he suffered hunger, so utterly unable was he to earn a livelihood. After three years of this, in 1780 Crabbe paid his second visit to London, enabled thereto by the loan of five pounds from Dudley Lang, a local magnate. This visit to London, which was undertaken by sea on board the “Unity” smack, made for Crabbe a successful career. His poem TheCandidate, issued soon after his arrival, helped not at all. For a time he almost starved, and was only saved, it is clear, by gifts of money from his sweetheart Sarah Elmy. He importuned the great, and the publishers also. Everywhere he was refused, but at length a letter which reached Edmund Burke in March 1781 led to the careful consideration on the part of that great man of Crabbe’s many manuscripts. Burke advised the publication of The Library, which appeared in 1781. He invited him to Beaconsfield, and made interest in the right quarters to secure Crabbe’s entry into the church. He was ordained in December 1781 and was appointed curate to the rector of Aldeburgh.

Crabbe was not happy in his new post. The Aldeburgh folk could not reverence as priest a man they had known as a day labourer. Crabbe again appealed to Burke, who persuaded the Duke of Rutland to make him his chaplain (1782), and Crabbe took up his residence in Belvoir Castle, accompanying his new patron to London, when Lord Chancellor Thurlow (who told him he was “as like Parson Adams as twelve to the dozen”) gave him the two livings of Frome St Quentin and Evershot in Dorsetshire, worth together about £200 a year. In May 1783 Crabbe’s poem The Village was published by Dodsley, and in December of this year he married Sarah Elmy. Crabbe continued his duties as ducal chaplain, being in the main a non-resident priest so far as his Dorsetshire parishes were concerned. In 1785 he published The Newspaper. Shortly after this he moved with his wife from Belvoir Castle to the parsonage of Stathern, where he took the duties of the non-resident vicar Thomas Parke, archdeacon of Stamford. Crabbe was at Stathern for four years. In 1789, through the persuasion of the duchess of Rutland (now a widow, the duke having died in Dublin as lord-lieutenant of Ireland in 1787), Thurlow gave Crabbe the two livings of Muston in Leicestershire and West Allington in Lincolnshire. At Muston parsonage Crabbe resided for twelve years, divided by a long interval. He had been four years at Muston when his wife inherited certain interests in a property of her uncle’s that placed her and her husband in possession of Ducking Hall, Parham, Suffolk. Here he took up his residence from 1793 to 1796, leaving curates in charge of his two livings. In 1796 the loss of their son Edmund led the Crabbes to remove from Parham to Great Glemham Hall, Suffolk, where they lived until 1801. In that year Crabbe went to live at Rendham, a village in the same neighbourhood. In 1805 he returned to Muston. In 1807 he broke a silence of more than twenty years by the publication of The Parish Register, in 1810 of The Borough, and in 1812 of Tales in Verse. In 1813 Crabbe’s wife died, and in 1814 he was given the living of Trowbridge, Wiltshire, by the duke of Rutland, a son of his early patron, who, it is interesting to recall, wanted the living of Muston for a cousin of Lord Byron. From 1814 to his death in 1832 Crabbe resided at Trowbridge.

These last years were the most prosperous of his life. He was a constant visitor to London, and in friendship with all the literary celebrities of the time. “Crabbe seemed to grow young again,” remarks his biographer, M. René Huchon. He certainly carried on a succession of mild flirtations, and one of his parishioners, Charlotte Ridout, would have married him. The elderly widower had proposed to her and had been accepted in 1814, but he drew out of the engagement in 1816. He proposed to yet another friend, Elizabeth Charter, somewhat later. In his visits to London Crabbe was the guest of Samuel Rogers, in St James’s Place, and was a frequent visitor to Holland House, where he met his brother poets Moore and Campbell. In 1817 his Tales of the Hall were completed, and John Murray offered £3000 for the copyright, Crabbe’s previous works being included. The offer after much negotiation was accepted, but Crabbe’s popularity was now on the wane.

In 1822 Crabbe went to Edinburgh on a visit to Sir Walter Scott. The adventure, complicated as it was by the visit of George IV about the same time, is most amusingly described in Lockhart’s biography of Scott, although one episode — that of the broken wine-glass — is discredited by Crabbe’s biographer, M. Huchon. Crabbe died at Trowbridge on the 3rd of February 1832, and was buried in Trowbridge church, where an ornate monument was placed over his tomb in August 1833.

Never was any poet at the same time so great and continuous a favourite with the critics, and yet so conspicuously allowed to fall into oblivion by the public. All the poets of his earlier and his later years, Cowper, Scott, Byron, Shelley in particular, have been reprinted again and again. With Crabbe it was long quite otherwise. His works were collected into eight volumes, the first containing his life by his son, in 1832. The edition was intended to continue with some of his prose writings, but the reception of the eight volumes was not sufficiently encouraging. A reprint, however, in one volume was made in 1847, and it has been reproduced since in 1854, 1867 and 1901. The exhaustion of the copyright, however, did no good for Crabbe’s reputation, and it was not until the end of the century that sundry volumes of “selections” from his poems appeared; Edward FitzGerald, of Omar Khayyám fame, always a loyal admirer, made a “Selection,” privately printed by Quaritch, in 1879. A “Selection” by Bernard Holland appeared in 1899, another by C. H. Herford in 1902 and a third by Deane in 1903. The Complete Works were published by the Cambridge University Press in three volumes, edited by A. W. Ward, in 1906.

Crabbe’s poems have been praised by many competent pens, by Edward FitzGerald in his Letters, by Cardinal Newman in his Apologia, and by Sir Leslie Stephen in his Hours in a Library, most notably. His verses comforted the last hours of Charles James Fox and of Sir Walter Scott, while Thomas Hardy has acknowledged their influence on the realism of his novels. But his works have ceased to command a wide public interest. He just failed of being the artist in words who is able to make the same appeal in all ages. Yet to-day his poems will well repay perusal. His stories are profoundly poignant and when once read are never forgotten. He is one of the great realists of English fiction, for even considered as a novelist he makes fascinating reading. He is more than this: for there is true poetry in Crabbe, although his most distinctively lyric note was attained when he wrote under the influence of opium, to which he became much addicted in his later years.

Bibliography. — The Works of Crabbe (8 vols., Murray, 1834; 1 vol., Murray, 1901), and the Works in the Cambridge Press Classics, edited by A. W. Ward (1906), have already been referred to. The life by Crabbe’s son in one volume, The Life of the Rev. George Crabbe, LL.B., by his son the Rev. George Crabbe, A.M. (1834), has not been separately reprinted as it deserves to be. A recent biography is George Crabbe and His Times, 1754–1832; A Critical and BiographicalStudy, by René Huchon, translated from the French by Frederick Clarke (1907). Brief biographies by T. H. Kebbel (“Great Writers” series) and by Canon Ainger (“English Men of Letters” series) also deserve attention.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744) was the greatest artistic exponent of the Augustan period. His works would leave a lasting impression on Crabbe’s poetry.

Edmund Burke by the studio of Joshua Reynolds, c.  1767. Burke (1729-1797) was an Irish statesman, economist, and philosopher. After years of poverty as a struggling surgeon and poet, Crabbe managed to show his manuscripts to Burke in March 1781, who advised the publication of ‘The Library’, which appeared later that year. Burke also enabled interest in the right quarters to secure Crabbe’s entry into the church.

The first edition’s title page of ‘The Library’

Charles Manners, 4th Duke of Rutland by Joshua Reynolds, c. 1775 — Crabbe served as the Duke’s chaplain during the publication of his famous poem, ‘The Village’.

The first edition of Crabbe’s most celebrated poem, ‘The Village’, 1783

The first edition title page of ‘The Borough’, 1810

George Crabbe after Thomas Phillips, stipple and line engraving, 1819

Complete Poetical Works of George Crabbe

CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS, 1905 TEXT

CONTENTS

JUVENILIA

SOLITUDE.

A SONG.

CONCLUDING LINES OF PRIZE POEM ON HOPE.

TO EMMA.

DESPAIR.

CUPID.

SONG.

ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SPRINGALL LEVETT.

PARODY ON (BYROM’S) “MY TIME, OH YE MUSES.”

THE WISH.

INEBRIETY.

THE PREFACE.

INEBRIETY.

PART the FIRST.

PART the SECOND.

PART the THIRD.

JUVENILIA.

THE LEARNING OF LOVE.

YE GENTLE GALES.

MIRA.

HYMN.

THE WISH.

THE COMPARISON.

GOLDSMITH TO THE AUTHOR.

FRAGMENT.

THE RESURRECTION.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

TO ELIZA.

LIFE.

THE SACRAMENT.

NIGHT.

FRAGMENT, WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

MIDNIGHT.

A FAREWELL.

TIME.

THE CHOICE.

A HUMBLE INVOCATION.

FROM AN EPISTLE TO MIRA.

CONCLUDING LINES OF AN EPISTLE TO PRINCE WILLIAM HENRY, AFTERWARDS KING WILLIAM IV.

DRIFTING.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF SHELBURNE.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

THE CANDIDATE

AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS POEMS.

TO THE READER.

THE CANDIDATE

TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.

POEMS.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY RICHARD FOX, LORD HOLLAND

PREFACE.

THE LIBRARY.

THE LIBRARY.

THE VILLAGE.

THE VILLAGE. BOOK I.

THE VILLAGE. BOOK II.

THE NEWSPAPER.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EDWARD LORD THURLOW

TO THE READER.

THE NEWSPAPER.

THE PARISH REGISTER.

INTRODUCTION.

THE PARISH REGISTER.

PART I. BAPTISMS.

PART II. MARRIAGES.

PART III. BURIALS.

POEMS

THE BIRTH OF FLATTERY.

REFLECTIONS UPON THE SUBJECT —

SIR EUSTACE GREY.

THE HALL OF JUSTICE.

PART I.

PART II.

WOMAN!

THE BOROUGH.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND, MARQUIS OF GRANBY

PREFACE.

THE BOROUGH.

LETTER I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION.

LETTER I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION.

LETTER II. THE CHURCH.

LETTER II. THE CHURCH.

LETTER III. THE VICAR — THE CURATE, &c.

LETTER III. THE VICAR — THE CURATE, &c.

LETTER IV. SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION.

LETTER IV. SECTS AND PROFESSIONS IN RELIGION.

NOTES TO LETTER IV.

LETTER V. ELECTIONS.

LETTER V. THE ELECTION.

LETTER VI. PROFESSIONS — LAW.

LETTER VI. PROFESSIONS — LAW.

LETTER VII. PROFESSIONS — PHYSIC.

LETTER VII. PROFESSIONS — PHYSIC.

LETTER VIII. TRADES.

LETTER VIII. TRADES.

NOTES TO LETTER VIII.

LETTER IX. AMUSEMENTS.

LETTER IX. AMUSEMENTS.

NOTES TO LETTER IX.

LETTER X. CLUBS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS.

LETTER X. CLUBS AND SOCIAL MEETINGS.

LETTER XI. INNS.

LETTER XI. INNS.

LETTER XII. PLAYERS.

LETTER XII. PLAYERS.

LETTER XIII. THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES.

LETTER XIII. THE ALMS-HOUSE AND TRUSTEES.

LETTER XIV. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.

LETTER XIV. LIFE OF BLANEY.

LETTER XV. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.

LETTER XV. CLELIA.

LETTER XVI. INHABITANTS OF THE ALMS-HOUSE.

LETTER XVI. BENBOW.

LETTER XVII. THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS.

LETTER XVII. THE HOSPITAL AND GOVERNORS.

LETTER XVIII. THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.

LETTER XVIII. THE POOR AND THEIR DWELLINGS.

LETTER XIX. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

LETTER XIX. THE PARISH-CLERK.

LETTER XX. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

LETTER XX. ELLEN ORFORD.

NOTES TO LETTER XX.

LETTER XXI. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

LETTER XXI. ABEL KEENE.

NOTE TO LETTER XXI.

LETTER XXII. THE POOR OF THE BOROUGH.

LETTER XXII. PETER GRIMES.

LETTER XXIII. PRISONS.

LETTER XXIII. PRISONS.

LETTER XXIV. SCHOOLS.

LETTER XXIV. SCHOOLS.

TALES.

TO HER GRACE ISABELLA DUCHESS DOWAGER OF RUTLAND.

PREFACE.

TALE I. THE DUMB ORATORS; OR, THE BENEFIT OF SOCIETY.

TALE I. THE DUMB ORATORS.

TALE II. THE PARTING HOUR.

TALE II. THE PARTING HOUR.

TALE III. THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

TALE III. THE GENTLEMAN FARMER.

TALE IV. PROCRASTINATION.

TALE IV. PROCRASTINATION.

TALE V. THE PATRON.

TALE V. THE PATRON.

TALE VI. THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

TALE VI. THE FRANK COURTSHIP.

TALE VII. THE WIDOW’S TALE.

TALE VII. THE WIDOW’S TALE.

TALE VIII. THE MOTHER.

TALE VIII. THE MOTHER.

TALE IX. ARABELLA.

TALE IX. ARABELLA.

TALE X. THE LOVER’S JOURNEY.

TALE X. THE LOVER’S JOURNEY.

TALE XI. EDWARD SHORE.

TALE XI. EDWARD SHORE.

TALE XII. ‘SQUIRE THOMAS; OR, THE PRECIPITATE CHOICE.

TALE XII. ‘SQUIRE THOMAS.

TALE XIII. JESSE AND COLIN.

TALE XIII. JESSE AND COLIN.

TALE XIV. THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE.

TALE XIV. THE STRUGGLES OF CONSCIENCE.

TALE XV. ADVICE; OR, THE ‘SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.

TALE XV. THE ‘SQUIRE AND THE PRIEST.

TALE XVI. THE CONFIDANT.

TALE XVI. THE CONFIDANT.

TALE XVII. RESENTMENT.

TALE XVII. RESENTMENT.

TALE XVIII. THE WAGER.

TALE XVIII. THE WAGER.

TALE XIX. THE CONVERT.

TALE XIX. THE CONVERT.

TALE XX. THE BROTHERS.

TALE XX. THE BROTHERS.

TALE XXI. THE LEARNED BOY.

TALE XXI. THE LEARNED BOY.

TALES OF THE HALL.

TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF RUTLAND

PREFACE.

TALES OF THE HALL.

BOOK I THE HALL.

BOOK II. THE BROTHERS.

BOOK III. BOYS AT SCHOOL.

BOOK IV. ADVENTURES OF RICHARD.

BOOK V. RUTH.

BOOK VI. ADVENTURES OF RICHARD, CONCLUDED.

BOOK VII. THE ELDER BROTHER.

BOOK VIII. THE SISTERS.

BOOK IX. THE PRECEPTOR HUSBAND.

BOOK X. THE OLD BACHELOR.

BOOK XI. THE MAID’S STORY.

BOOK XII. SIR OWEN DALE.

BOOK XIII. DELAY HAS DANGER.

BOOK XIV. THE NATURAL DEATH OF LOVE.

BOOK XV. GRETNA GREEN.

BOOK XVI. LADY BARBARA; OR, THE GHOST.

BOOK XVII. THE WIDOW.

BOOK XVIII. ELLEN.

BOOK XIX. WILLIAM BAILEY.

BOOK XX. THE CATHEDRAL-WALK.

BOOK XXI. SMUGGLERS AND POACHERS.

BOOK XXII. THE VISIT CONCLUDED.

POSTHUMOUS TALES.

TALE I. SILFORD HALL; OR, THE HAPPY DAY.

TALE II. THE FAMILY OF LOVE.

TALE III. THE EQUAL MARRIAGE.

TALE IV. RACHEL.

TALE V. VILLARS.

TALE VI. THE FAREWELL AND RETURN.

TALE VII. THE SCHOOL-FELLOW.

TALE VIII. BARNABY, THE SHOPMAN.

TALE IX. JANE.

TALE X. THE ANCIENT MANSION.

TALE XI. THE MERCHANT.

TALE XII. THE BROTHER BURGESSES.

TALE XIII. THE DEAN’S LADY.

TALE XIV. THE WIFE AND WIDOW.

TALE XV. BELINDA WATERS.

TALE XVI. THE DEALER AND CLERK.

TALE XVII. DANVERS AND RAYNER.

TALE XVIII. THE BOAT RACE.

TALE XIX. MASTER WILLIAM; OR, LAD’S LOVE.

TALE XX. THE WILL.

TALE XXI. THE COUSINS.

TALE XXII. PREACHING AND PRACTICE.

MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

POETICAL EPISTLES.

EPISTLE I.

EPISTLE II. TO MIRA.

FROM BELVOIR CASTLE.

THE LADIES OF THE LAKE.

INFANCY — A FRAGMENT.

THE MAGNET.

STORM AND CALM.

SATIRE.

THE NEW SAMARITAN.

BELVOIR CASTLE.

THE WORLD OF DREAMS.

HIS MOTHER’S WEDDING-RING.

PARHAM REVISITED.

FLIRTATION.

LINES IN LAURA’S ALBUM.

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK.

ON A DRAWING OF THE ELM TREE

ON RECEIVING FROM A LADY A PRESENT OF A RING.

TO A LADY, WITH SOME POETICAL EXTRACTS.

TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH.

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED SOME VERSES AT PARTING.

THE FRIEND IN LOVE.

DISILLUSIONED.

LINES FROM A DISCARDED POEM

ON THE DEATH OF SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.

LINES.

LINES.

LINES, ADDRESSED TO THE DOWAGER DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.

FRAGMENTS OF TALES AND MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

TRACY.

SUSAN AND HER LOVERS.

CAPTAIN GODFREY.

THE AMOURS OF G(EORGE).

FRAGMENTS OF TALES OF THE HALL.

TRAGIC TALES, WHY?

ROBERT AND CATHARINE.

DAVID JONES.

THE DESERTED FAMILY.

THE FUNERAL OF THE SQUIRE.

JOSEPH AND CHARLES.

CONTENTMENT.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF RUTLAND.

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

SORROW.

A FRAGMENT.

POVERTY AND LOVE.

THE CURATE’S PROGRESS.

THE TASK.

CONSCIOUS GUILTINESS.

BELIEF AND UNBELIEF.

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE DUKE OF RUTLAND’S BIRTHDAY.

MISS WALDRON’S BIRTHDAY.

TO THE HON. MRS SPENCER.

AN INSCRIPTION AT GUY’S CLIFF.

ADDITION TO THE FOREGOING VERSES.

ON A VIEW OF  BARFORD.

BROMPTON PARK COTTAGE.

MOMENTARY GRIEF.

LA FEMME JALOUSE (TENIERS).

THE FLOWERS OF THE SPRING.

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI.

HOPELESS LOVE.

UNION.

REVIVAL.

METAMORPHOSIS.

JANE ADAIR.

HORATIO.

JACOB AND RACHEL.

DAVID AND SAUL.

ENIGMA.

CHARADE.

MATILDA.

THE PRODIGAL GOING.

ON A DRAWING OF CADLANDS.

ON A DRAWING, BY THE HON. MRS SMITH (ELIZA FORRESTER).

FOR THE DRAWING OF THE LADY IN THE GREEN MANTLE.

JOSEPH’S DREAM.

REST IN THE LORD!

AND HE SAID UNTO HER “THY SINS ARE FORGIVEN.”

JUVENILIA

(1772-1780.)

SOLITUDE.

(September, 1772.)

Free from envy, strife and sorrow,  Jealous doubts, and heart-felt fears;Free from thoughts of what to-morrow  May o’er-charge the soul with cares —

Live I in a peaceful valley,  By a neighbouring lonely wood;Giving way to melancholy,  (Joy, when better understood).

Near me ancient ruins falling  From a worn-out castle’s brow;   10Once the greatest (chiefs) installing,  Where are all their honours now?

Here in midnight’s gloomy terror  I enjoy the silent night;Darkness shews the soul her error,  Darkness leads to inward light.

Here I walk in meditation,  Pond’ring all sublunar things,From the silent soft persuasion,  Which from virtue’s basis springs.   20

What, says truth, are pomp and riches?  Guilded baits to folly lent;Honour, which the soul bewitches,  When obtain’d, we may repent.

By me plays the stream meand’ring  Slowly, as its waters glide;And, in gentle murmurs wand’ring,  Lulls to downy rest my pride.

Silent as the gloomy graves are  Now the mansions once so loud;   30Still and quiet as the brave, or  All the horrors of a croud.

This was once the seat of plunder,  Blood of heroes stain’d the floor;Heroes, nature’s pride and wonder,  Heroes heard of now no more.

Owls and ravens haunt the buildings,  Sending gloomy dread to all;Yellow moss the summit yielding,  Pellitory decks the wall.   40

Time with rapid speed still wanders,  Journies on an even pace;Fame of greatest actions squanders,  But perpetuates disgrace.

Sigh not then for pomp or glory;  What avails a heroe’s name?Future times may tell your story,  To your then disgrace and shame.

Chuse some humble cot as this is,  In sweet philosophic ease;   50With dame Nature’s frugal blisses  Live in joy, and die in peace.

G. EBBARE.

A SONG.

(September, 1772.)

I.

As Chloe fair, a new-made bride,  Sat knotting in an arbour,To Colin now the damsel ty’d,  No strange affection harbour.

II.

“How poor,” says (she, “‘s a) single life,  A maid’s affected carriage;Spent in sighs and inward strife,  Things unknown in marriage.

III.

“Virgins vainly say they’re free,  None so much confin’d are;   10Lovers kind and good may be,  Husbands may be kinder.

IV.

“Then shun not wedlock’s happy chain,  Nor wantonly still fly man;A single life is care and pain,  Blessings wait on Hymen.”

G. EBBARE.

CONCLUDING LINES OF PRIZE POEM ON HOPE.

(Before October, 1772.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

But, above all, the POET owns thy powers — Hope leads him on, and every fear devours;He writes, and, unsuccessful, writes again,Nor thinks the last laborious work in vain;New schemes he forms, and various plots he triesTo win the laurel, and possess the PRIZE.

TO EMMA.

View, my fair, the fading flower,  Clad like thee in (beauty’s) arms,Idle pageant of an hour;Soon shall time its tints devour,  And what are then its charms?

Early pluck’d, it might produce  A remedy to mortal pain,Afford a balmy cordial juice,That might celestial ease diffuse,  Nor blossom quite in vain.   10

So ’tis with thee, my Emma fair,  If nature’s law’s unpaid,If thou refuse our vows to hearAnd steel thy heart to ev’ry pray’r,  A cruel frozen maid.

But yield, my fair one, yield to love,  And joys unnumber’d find,In Cupid’s mystic circle move,Eternal raptures thou shalt prove,  Which leave no pang behind.   20

G. EBBAAC.

Suffolk, Oct. 15, 1772.

DESPAIR.

(November, 1772.)

Heu mihi!Quod nullis amor medicabilis herbis.    OVID.

Tyrsis and Damon.

D. Begin, my Tyrsis; songs shall sooth our cares,     Allay our sorrows, and dispel our fears;     Shall glad thy heart, and bring its native peace,     And bid thy grief its weighty influence cease.     No more those tears of woe, dear shepherd, shed,     Nor ever mourn the lov’d Cordelia dead.

T. In vain, my Damon, urge thy fond request     To still the troubles of an anxious breast:     Cordelia’s gone! and now what pain is life     Without my fair, my friend, my lovely wife?   10     Hope! cheerful hope! to distant climes is fled,     And Nature mourns the fair Cordelia dead.

D. But can thy tears re-animate the earth,     Or give to sordid dust a second birth?     Mistaken mortal! learn to bear the ill,     Nor let that canker, grief, thy pleasures kill.     No more in Sorrow’s sable garb array’d,     Still (mourn) thy lov’d, thy lost Cordelia dead.

T. Can I forget the fairest of her kind,     Beauteous in person, fairer still in mind?   20     Can I forget she sooth’d my heart to rest,     And still’d the troubl’d motion in my breast?     Can I, by soothing song or friendship led,     Forget to mourn my lov’d Cordelia dead?

D. Another fair may court thee to her arms,     Display her graces, and reveal her charms;     May catch thy wand’ring eye, dispel thy woe,     And give to sorrow final overthrow.     No longer, then, thy heart-felt anguish shed,     Nor mourn, in solitude, Cordelia dead.   30

T. Sooner shall lions fierce forget to roam,     And peaceful walk with gentle lambs at home;     Sooner shall Discord love her ancient hate,     And Peace and Love with Rage incorporate;     Sooner shall turtles with the sparrow wed,     Than I forget my lov’d Cordelia dead.

D. Must then Dorintha ever sigh in vain,     And Cælia breathe to echoing groves her pain?     Must Chloe hope in vain to steel that heart     In which each nymph would gladly share a part?   40     Must these, dejected shepherd, be betray’d.     And victims fall, because Cordelia’s dead?

T. By those who love, my friend, it stands confest,     No second flame can fill a lover’s breast:     For me no more the idle scenes of life     Shall vex with envy, hatred, noise, or strife;     But here, in melancholy form array’d,     I’ll ever mourn my lov’d Cordelia dead.

CUPID.

(November, 1772.)

  Whoe’er thou art, thy master know;   He has been, is, or shall be so.

What is he, who clad in arms,  Hither seems in haste to move,Bringing with him soft alarms,  Fears the heart of man to prove;Yet attended too by charms —   Is he Cupid, God of Love?

Yes, it is, behold him nigh,  Odd compound of ease and smart;Near him (stands) a nymph, whose sigh  Grief and joy, and love impart;   10Pleasure dances in her eye,  Yet she seems to grieve at heart.

Lo! a quiver by his side,  Arm’d with darts, a fatal store!See him, with a haughty pride,  Ages, sexes, all devour;Yet, as pleasure is describ’d,  Glad we meet the tyrant’s power.

Doubts and cares before him go,  Canker’d jealousy behind;   20Round about him spells he’ll throw,  Scatt’ring with each gust of windOn the motley crew below,  Who, like him, are render’d blind.

This is love! a tyrant kind,  Giving extacy and pain;Fond deluder of the mind,  Ever feigning not to feign;Whom no savage laws can bind,  None escape his pleasing chain.   30

G. EBBARE.

SONG.

(November, 1772.)

Cease to bid me not to sing.  Spite of Fate I’ll tune my lyre:Hither, god of music, bring  Food to feed the gentle fire;And on Pægasean wing  Mount my soul enraptur’d higher.

Some there are who’d curb the mind,  And would blast the springing bays;All essays are vain, they’ll find,  Nought shall drown the muse’s lays,   10Nought shall curb a free-born mind,  Nought shall damp Apollo’s praise.

G. EBBARE.

ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM SPRINGALL LEVETT.

(1774.)

What though no trophies peer above his dust,Nor sculptured conquests deck his sober bust;What though no earthly thunders sound his name,Death gives him conquest, and our sorrows fame:One sigh reflection heaves, but shuns excess — More should we mourn him, did we love him less.

PARODY ON (BYROM’S) “MY TIME, OH YE MUSES.”

(Woodbridge, about 1774.)

My days, oh ye lovers, were happily spedEre you or your whimsies got into my head;I could laugh, I could sing, I could trifle and jest,And my heart play’d a regular tune in my breast.But now, lack-a-day! what a change for the worse,’Tis as heavy as lead, yet as wild as a horse.

My fingers, ere love had tormented my mind,Could guide my pen gently to what I design’d.I could make an enigma, a rebus, or riddle,Or tell a short tale of a dog and a fiddle.   10But, since this vile Cupid has got in my brain,I beg of the gods to assist in my strain.And whatever my subject, the fancy still roves,And sings of hearts, raptures, flames, sorrows, and loves.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE WISH.

(Woodbridge, about 1774.)

My Mira, shepherds, is as fair  As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale,As sylphs who dwell in purest air,  As fays who skim the dusky dale,As Venus was when Venus fledFrom watery Triton’s oozy bed.

My Mira, shepherds, has a voice  As soft as Syrinx in her grove,As sweet as echo makes her choice,  As mild as whispering virgin-love;As gentle as the winding streamOr fancy’s song when poets dream.

* * * * * * * * *

INEBRIETY.

(Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling and sixpence.)

THE PREFACE.

Presumption or Meanness are but too often the only articles to be discovered in a Preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to despise the public attention, another timidly courts it. I would no more beg for than disdain applause, and therefore should advance nothing in Favor of the following little Poem, did it not appear a Cruelty and disregard to send a first Production naked into the WORLD.

The WORLD! — how pompous, and yet how trifling the sound. Every MAN, Gentle Reader, has a WORLD of his own, & whether it consists of half a score, or half a thousand Friends, ’tis his, and he loves to boast of it. Into my WORLD, therefore, I commit this, my Muse’s earliest labor, nothing doubting the Clemency of the Climate, nor fearing the Partiality of the censorious.

Something by way of Apology for this trifle, is perhaps necessary; especially for those parts, wherein I have taken such great Liberties with Mr. POPE; that Gentleman, secure in immortal Fame, would forgive me; forgive me too, my friendly Critic; I promise thee, thou wilt find the Extracts from the Swan of Thames the best Parts of the Performance; Few, I dare venture to affirm, will pay me so great a Compliment, as to think I have injured Mr POPE; Fewer, I hope, will think I endeavoured to do it, and Fewest of all will think any thing about it.

The LADIES will doubtless favor my Attempt; for them indeed it was principally composed; I have endeavored to demonstrate that it is their own Faults, if they are not deemed as good MEN, as half the masculine World; that a personal Difference of Sex need not make a real Difference; and that a tender Languishment, a refin’d Delicacy, and a particular attention to shine in Dress, will render the Beau-Animal infinitely more feminine, than the generality of LADIES, whatever arcane Tokens of Manhood the said Animal may be indued with; and yet, ye FAIR! these creatures pass even in your catalogue for MEN; which I’m afraid is a Demonstration that the real MAN is very scarce.

Some grave Head or other may possibly tell me, that Vice is to be lash’d, not indulg’d; that true Poetry forbids, not encourages, Folly; and such other wise and weighty Sentences, picked from POPE and HORACE, as he shall think most appertaining to his own dignity. But this, my good Reader, is a trifle; People now a Days are not to be preach’d into Reflection, or they pay Parsons, not Poets for it, if they were; they listen indeed to a Discourse from the Pulpit, for MEN are too wise to give away their Money without any consideration; and though they don’t mind what is said there, ’tis doubtless a great Satisfaction to think they might if they choose it; but a MAN reads a Poem for quite a different purpose: to be lul’d into ease from reflection, to be lul’d into an inclination for pleasure, and (where I confess it comes nearer the Sermon) to be lul’d — asleep.

But lest the Apology should have the latter effect in itself, and so take away the merit of the Performance by forestalling that agreeable Event: I without further ceremony bid thee Adieu!

INEBRIETY.

PART the FIRST.

The mighty Spirit and its power which stains1The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains,I sing. Say ye, its fiery Vot’ries true,The jovial Curate, and the shrill-tongu’d Shrew;Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst,Where Bowl the second charms like Bowl the first;Say, how and why the sparkling ill is shed,The Heart which hardens, and which rules the Head.When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears,A sable void the barren earth appears;   10The meads no more their former verdure boast,Fast bound their streams, and all their Beauty lost;The herds, the flocks, their icy garments mourn,And wildly murmur for the Spring’s return;The fallen branches from the sapless treeWith glittering fragments strow the glassy way;From snow-top’d Hills the whirlwinds keenly blow,Howl through the Woods, and pierce the vales below;Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;   20The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,And shed their substance on the floating air;The floating air their downy substance glidesThrough springing Waters, and prevents their tides;Seizes the rolling Waves, and, as a God,Charms their swift race, and stops the refl’ent flood;The opening valves, which fill the venal road,Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood;The labouring Pulse a slower motion rules,The Tendons stiffen, and the Spirit cools;   30Each asks the aid of (Nature’s) sister Art,To Cher the senses, and to warm the Heart.The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes;An inoffensive Scandal fluttering round,Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound;Champain the Courtier drinks, the spleen to chase,The Colonel burgundy, and port his Grace;Turtle and ‘rrack the city rulers charm,Ale and content the labouring peasants warm;   40O’er the dull embers happy Colin sits,Colin, the prince of joke and rural wits;Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes,He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains;And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold,Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold;Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew,Who skim the air, or glide o’er waters blue.The throng invisible, that doubtless floatBy mould’ring Tombs, and o’er the stagnant moat;   50Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain,And all the dreadful nothing of the Green.And why not these? Less fictious is the tale,Inspir’d by Hel’con’s streams, than muddy ale?Peace be to such, the happiest and the best,Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest;Who wage no war with an Avenger’s Rod,Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.

 When in the vaulted arch Lucina gleams,And gaily dances o’er the azure streams;   60When in the wide cerulean space on highThe vivid stars shoot lustre through the sky;On silent Ether when a trembling soundReverberates, and wildly floats around,Breaking through trackless space upon the ear — Conclude the Bacchanalian Rustic near;O’er Hills and vales the jovial Savage reels,Fire in his head and Frenzy at his heels;From paths direct the bending Hero swerves,And shapes his way in ill-proportion’d curves;   70Now safe arriv’d, his sleeping Rib he calls,And madly thunders on the muddy walls;The well-known sounds an equal fury move,For rage meets rage, as love enkindles love;The buxom Quean from bed of flocks descends    }With vengeful ire, a civil war portends,     }An oaken plant the Hero’s breast defends.    }In vain the ‘waken’d infant’s accents shrillThe humble regions of the cottage fill;In vain the Cricket chirps the mansion through,   80’Tis war, and Blood and Battle must ensue.As when, on humble stage, him Satan hightDefies the brazen Hero to the fight;From twanging strokes what dire misfortunes rise,What fate to maple arms, and glassen eyes;Here lies a leg of elm, and there a strokeFrom ashen neck has whirl’d a Head of oak.So drops from either power, with vengeance big,A remnant night-cap, and an old cut wig;Titles unmusical, retorted round,   90On either ear with leaden vengeance sound;‘Till equal Valour equal Wounds create,And drowsy peace concludes the fell debate;Sleep in her woolen mantle wraps the pair,And sheds her poppies on the ambient air;Intoxication flies, as fury fled,On rocky pinions quits the aching head;Returning Reason cools the fiery blood,And drives from memory’s seat the rosy God.Yet still he holds o’er some his madd’ning rule,   100Still sways his Sceptre, and still knows his Fool;Witness the livid lip and fiery front,With many a smarting trophy plac’d upon’t;The hollow Eye, which plays in misty springs,And the hoarse Voice, which rough and broken rings.These are his triumphs, and o’er these he reigns,The blinking Deity of reeling brains.

 See Inebriety! her wand she waves,And lo! her pale, and lo! her purple slaves;Sots in embroidery, and sots in crape,   110Of every order, station, rank, and shape;The King, who nods upon his rattle-throne;The staggering Peer, to midnight revel prone;The slow-tongu’d Bishop, and the Deacon sly,The humble Pensioner, and Gownsman dry;The proud, the mean, the selfish, and the great,Swell the dull throng, and stagger into state.

 Lo! proud Flaminius at the splendid board,The easy chaplain of an atheist Lord,Quaffs the bright juice, with all the gust of sense,   120And clouds his brain in torpid elegance;In china vases see the sparkling ill,From gay Decanters view the rosy rill;The neat-carv’d pipes in silver settle laid,The screw by mathematic cunning made;The whole a pompous and enticing scene,And grandly glaring for the surplic’d Swain;Oh! happy Priest whose God like Egypt’s lies,At once the Deity and sacrifice!But is Flaminius, then, the man alone,   130To whom the Joys of swimming brains are known?Lo! the poor Toper whose untutor’d sense2Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense;Whose head proud fancy never taught to steerBeyond the muddy extacies of Beer;But simple nature can her longing quenchBehind the settle’s curve, or humbler bench;Some kitchen-fire diffusing warmth around,The semi-globe by Hieroglyphics crown’d;Where canvas purse displays the brass enroll’d,   140Nor Waiters rave, nor Landlords thirst for gold;Ale and content his fancy’s bounds confine,He asks no limpid Punch, no rosy Wine;But sees, admitted to an equal share,Each faithful swain the heady potion bear.Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of tasteWeigh gout and gravel against ale and rest.Call vulgar palates, what thou judgest so;Say, beer is heavy, windy, cold and slow;Laugh at poor sots with insolent pretence,   150Yet cry when tortur’d, where is Providence?If thou alone art, head and heel, not clear,Alone made steady here, untumour’d there;Snatch from the Board the bottle and the bowl,Curse the keen pain, and be a mad proud Fool.

1     “The mighty Mother, and her Son, who brings        The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings,        I sing. Say ye, her instruments, the great,        Call’d to this Work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;        You by whose care, in vain decry’d, and curst,        Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first;        Say, how the Goddess bade Britannia sleep,        And pour’d her spirit o’er the land and deep.”

                                                    Pope’s Dunciad. —

2     “Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind        Sees God in Clouds, and hears him in the wind;        Whose Soul proud science never taught to stray        Far as the solar walk, or milky way,        Yet simple nature to his hope has given        Behind the cloud-top’t hill an humbler Heaven;        Some safer world, in depth of woods embrac’d,        Some happier island, in a watry waste:        Where slaves once more their native land behold,        Nor friends torment, nor Christians thirst for Gold;        To live, contents his natural desire,        He asks no Seraph’s wing, no Angel’s fire,        But thinks admitted to that equal Sky,        His faithful Dog, shall bear him company:        Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense        Weigh thy opinion against Providence;        Call imperfection what thou fancy’st such,        Say here he gives too little, here too much,        Destroy all creatures for thy sport and gust,        Yet cry, if man’s unhappy, God’s unjust;        If man alone engross not Heaven’s high care,        Alone made perfect here, immortal there:        Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,        Rejudge his Justice, and be God of God.”

                                               Pope’s Essay on Man. —

End of PART the FIRST.

PART the SECOND.

 In various forms the madd’ning Spirit moves,This drinks and fights, another drinks and loves.A bastard Zeal of different kinds it shows,And now with rage, and now Religion glows;The frantic Soul bright reason’s path defies,Now creeps on Earth, now triumphs in the Skies;Swims in the seas of error and explores,Through midnight mists, the fluctuating Shores;From wave to wave in rocky Channel glides,And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides;   10In Pride exalted, or by Shame deprest,An Angel-Devil, or a human-Beast.Without a pilot who attempts to steer,Has small discretion or has little care;That pilot Reason, in the erring Soul,Is lost, is blinded in the steaming Bowl,Charm’d by its power, we cast our guide away,And at the mercy of conjecture lay;Discretion dies with reason, Revel wakes!And o’er the head his fiery banners shakes.   20With him come frenzy, folly and excess,Blink-ey’d conceit and shallow emptiness;At Folly’s beck a train of Vices glide,Murder in madness cloak’d, in choler, Pride;Above, Impiety, with curses bound,Lours at the skies, and whirls Damnation round.

 Some rage, in all the strength of folly mad,Some love stupidity, in silence clad,Are never quarrelsome, are never gay,But sleep and groan and drink the Night away;   30Old Torpio nods, and, as the laugh goes round,Grunts through the nasal Duct, and joins the sound;Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass,Wakes at the friendly Jog, and takes his Glass;Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves;The elbow chair, good wine and Sleep he loves;Nor cares of state disturb his easy head,By grosser fumes and calmer follies fed;Nor thoughts, of when, or where, or how to come,The Canvass general, or the general Doom;   40Extremes ne’er reach’d one passion of his Soul;A villain tame, and an unmettled fool,To half his Vices he has but pretence,For they usurp the place of common sense;To half his little Merits has no claimBut very Indolence has rais’d his name,Happy in this, that under Satan’s swayHis passions humble, but will not obey.

 The Vicar at the table’s front presides,Whose presence a monastic life derides;   50The reverend Wig, in sideway order plac’d,The reverend Band, by rubric stains disgrac’d,The leering Eye, in wayward circles roll’d,Mark him the Pastor of a jovial Fold,Whose various texts excite a loud applause,Favouring the Bottle, and the good old Cause.See! the dull smile which fearfully appears,When gross Indecency her front uprears;The joy conceal’d the fiercer burns within,As masks afford the keenest gust to Sin;   60Imagination helps the reverend Sire,And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire.But when the gay immoral joke goes round,When Shame and all her blushing train are drown’d,Rather than hear his God blasphem’d he takesThe last lov’d Glass, and then the board forsakes:Not that Religion prompts the sober thought,But slavish Custom has the practice taught.Besides, this zealous son of warm devotionHas a true levite Bias for promotion;   70Vicars must with discretion go astray,Whilst Bishops may be d —— n’d the nearest way;So puny robbers individuals kill,When hector-Heroes murder as they will.

 Good honest Curio elbows the (divine,)And strives, a social sinner, how to shine;The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen’d tale,That Wilton Farmers give you with their ale:How midnight Ghosts o’er vaults terrific pass,Dance o’er the Grave, and slide along the grass;   80How Maids forsaken haunt the lonely wood,And tye the Noose, or try the willow flood;How rural Heroes overcame the giants,And through the ramshorn trumpet blew defiance;Or how pale Cicely, within the wood,Call’d Satan forth and bargain’d with her blood.These, honest Curio, are thine, and theseAre the dull Treasures of a brain at peace.No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull,Of heavy, native, (unwrought) folly full;   90Bowl upon Bowl in vain exert their force;The breathing Spirit takes a downward course,Or, vainly soaring upwards to the head,Meets an impenetrable tence of lead.

 Hast thou, Oh Reader! search’d o’er gentle Gay,Where various animals their powers display?In one strange Group, a chattering race was hurl’d,Led by the Monkey who had seen the world.He, it is said, from woodland shepherds stole,And went to Court, to greet each fellow fool.   100Like him, Fabricio steals from guardian’s side,Swims not in (pleasure’s) stream, but sips the tide;He hates the Bottle, yet but thinks it right   }To boast next day the honours of the night;    }None like your Coward can describe a fight.    }See him, as down the sparkling potion goes,Labor to grin away the horrid dose;In joy-feign’d gaze his misty eye-balls float,Th’ uncivil Spirit gurgling at his throat;So looks dim Titan through a wintry scene,   110And faintly cheers the woe-foreboding swain;But now, Alas! the hour, th’increasing flood,Rolls round and round, and cannot be withstood;Thrice he essays to stop the ruby flow,To stem its Force, and keep it still below;In vain his Art, it comes! at (distance) gaze,Ye stancher Sots, and be not near the place.As when a flood from Ossa’s pendant browRolls rapid to its fellow streams below,It moves tempest’ous down the Mountain’s sides,   120 }O’er lesser hills and vales like light’ning glides,   }And o’er their beauties fall’n triumphant rides,    }Each verdant spot and sunny bank defaces,And forms a minor Ocean at its basis;So from his rueful lips Fabricio pours,With melancholy Force, the tinctur’d showers;O’er the embroider’d vest they take their way,And in the grave its tinsel honours lay.No Nymph was there, to hold the helpless face,Or save from ruin’s spoil the luckless lace;   130No guardian Fair, to turn the head asideAnd to securer paths the torrent glide;From silk to silk it drove its wayward Course,And on the diamond buckle spent its Force.Ah! gentle Fop! what luckless fate was thineTo sin through fashion, and in woe to shine.But all our Numbers why should rascals claim3?Rise, honest Muse, and sing a nobler name.Pleas’d in his Eye good humour always smiles,And Mirth unbought with strife the hour beguiles,   140Who smoothed the frown on yonder surly brow?From the dry Joke who bade gay Laughter flow?Not of affected, empty rapture full,Nor in proud Strain magnificently dull,But gay and easy, giving without ArtJoy to each sense, and Solace to the heart.Thrice happy Damon, able to pursueWhat all so wish, but want the power to do.No cares thy Head, no crimes thy Heart torment,At home thou’rt happy, and abroad content;   150Pleas’d with thyself, and therefore form’d to please,With Moderation free, and gay with Ease,Wise in a medium, just to an extreme,“The soul of Humour, and the life of Whim,”Plac’d from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame,Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name.

 Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise,And Wit abus’d degenerates into vice;Timon, long practic’d in the School of art,Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart,   160Triumphs o’er shame, and with delusive whiles,Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles.So matrons, past the awe of Censure’s tongue,Deride the blushes of the fair and young.Few with more Fire on every subject spoke,But chief he lov’d the gay immoral joke;The Words most sacred, stole from holy writ,He gave a newer form, and call’d them Wit;Could twist a Sentence into various meaning,And save himself in dubious explaining;   170Could use a manner long taught art affords,And hint Impiety in holy words.Vice never had a more sincere ally,So bold no Sinner, yet no Saint so sly;Sophist and Cynic, mystically cool,And still a very Sceptic at the soul;Learn’d but not wise, and without Virtue brave,A gay, deluding, philosophic Knave.When Bacchus’ joys his airy fancy fire,They stir a new, but still a false desire;   180The place of malice ridicule then holds,And woe to teachers, ministers and scolds;And, to the comfort of each untaught Fool,Horace in English vindicates the Bowl.“The man” (says Timon) “who is drunk is blest4,No fears (disturb), no cares destroy his rest;In thoughtless joy he reels away his life,Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife.Of late I sat within the jangling bar,And heard my Rib’s hoarse thunder from afar;   190Careless I spoke, and, when she found me drunk,She breath’d one Curse, and then away she slunk,Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come,And thunders worse than thine afflict the room;Where one eternal Nothing flutters round,And senseless (titt’rings) sense of mirth confound;Or lead me bound to Garret, babel-high,Where frantic Poet rolls his crazy eye;Tiring the Ear, with oft-repeated chimes,And smiling at the never ending rhymes;   200E’en here or there, I’ll be as blest as Jove,Give me tobacco, and the wine I love.”Applause from Hands the dying accents breakOf stagg’ring sots, who vainly try to speak;From Milo, him who hangs upon each word,And in loud praises splits the tortur’d board,Collects each sentence, ere it’s better known,And makes the mutilated joke his own,At weekly club to flourish, where he rulesThe glorious president of grosser fools.   210

 But cease, my Muse; of those or these enough,The fools who listen, and the knaves who Scoff;The jest profane, that mocks th’ offended God,Defies his power, and (sets) at nought his rod.The empty Laugh, discretion’s vainest foe,From fool to fool re-echo’d to and fro;The sly Indecency, that slowly springsFrom barren wit, and halts on trembling wings:Enough of these, and all the charms of Wine;Be sober joys and social evenings mine,   220Where peace and Reason unsoil’d mirth improve,The powers of friendship and the joys of love;Where thought meets thought ere Words its form array,And all is sacred, elegant, and gay;Such pleasure leaves no Sorrow on the mind,Too great to (pall), to sicken too (refin’d),Too soft for Noise, and too sublime for art,The social solace of the feeling Heart,For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high,’Tis Virtue’s Pleasure, and can never die.   230

3     “But all our praises why should Lords engross?        Rise honest Muse and sing the Man of Ross.        Pleas’d Vaga echo’s, through her winding bounds,        And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds;        Who hung with woods, yon mountain’s sultry brow?        From the dry Rock, who bade the waters flow?        Not to the skies in useless columns tost,        Nor in proud falls, magnificently lost.        But clear and artless, pouring through the plain        Health to the Sick, and solace to the Swain.”

POPE. —

4     “Integer vitæ, scelerisque (purus)        Non eget &c. &c.”

HORACE.

End of PART the SECOND.

PART the THIRD.

 Now soar, my Muse! and leave the meaner crew5,To aim at bliss, and vainly bliss pursue;Let us (since Man no privilege can claim,Than a contended, half superior name)Expatiate o’er the raptures of the Fair,Vot’ries to stolen joys, but yet sincere;In secret Haunts, where never day-light gleamsBy bottles, tempting with forbidden streams,Together let us search; above, below,Try what the Closets, what the Cellars show;   10The latent vault with piercing view exploreOf her who hides the all reviving store.Eye Beauty’s walks, when round the welkin rolls,And catch the stumbling Charmer as she falls;Laugh where we must, but pity where we can,And vindicate the sweet soft souls to Man.

 Pardon, ye Fair, the Poet and his Muse,And what ye can’t approve, at least excuse;Far be from him the iron lash of Wit,The jokes of Humour, and the sneers that hit;   20He speaks of Freedom, and he speaks to you,His Verse is simple, but his Subject new;And novelty, ye Fair, beyond a doubt,Is philosophic truth, the World throughout.

 Hard is the lot of Woman, so have sungThe pensive old, and the presuming young;Born without privilege, in bondage bred,Slave from the Cradle to the marriage Bed;Slave from the hour hymeneal to the grave,In age, in youth, in infancy a Slave.   30Happy the Bard, who, bold in pride of songShall free the chain, by Custom bound so long,And show the Fair, to mean tradition prone,Though Virtue may have sex, yet Vice has none.If Man is licenc’d to confuse his mind,Say, why should female Frailty be confin’d?Is’t right that she who dearly bought the fruit,    }Of all our wayward appetites the root,    }Who first made Man a fool and then a brute;    }Who fair in spells of tender kind can slay,   40Like Israel’s Judge, her thousands in a day;Nay farther, has a far superior Pow’r,And almost thousands in a day can cure;She, the bright cause of fury in Man’s breast;And brighter cause who bids that fury rest;Who raises peace or war at her command,And bids a sword destroy a tipsy Land;Say, is it right that she who kills and saves,Makes wise Men mad, and takes the veil from Knaves,Should want the pow’r, the magic, which alone,   50Can Conquests boast more fatal than her own?For Man alone did earth produce her fruit,The sole, as well as the superior, brute;Does he alone the glorious licence claim,To put the human off, and loose his Name?Woman in Knowledge was the earlier curst,And tasted of forbidden Fruit the first;Prior to Man, the law she disobey’d,And shall she want the Freedom she convey’d?By her first Theft each fiery ill we feel,   60And yet compel the gen’rous Fair to steal;First made by her for soaring actions fit,Woman! the spring of super-human wit,Shall we from her each dear bought bliss withhold,As Spaniards use the Indians for their Gold?Ungrateful Man! in pride so high to aim,As to be sole inheritor of shame!

 And you, ye Fair! why slumber on disdain,Forbear to vindicate, yet can’t refrain?Why should Papilla seek the vaulted hoard,   70And but in secret ape her honest Lord?Why should’st thou, Celia, to thy stores repair,And sip the generous Spirit in such fear?Reform the Error, and revoke your plan,And as ye dare to imitate, be —— Man.

 First know yourselves, and frame your passions all6,In proper order, how to rise and fall;Woman’s a Being, dubiously great,Never contented with a passive state;With too much Knowledge to give Man the sway,   80With too much Pride his humours to obey,She hangs in doubt, (too) humble or (too) brave;In doubt to be a Mistress or a Slave;In doubt herself or Husband to controul;Born to be made a tyrant or a fool;In one extreme, her Power is always suchEither to show too little, or too much;Bred up in Passions, by their sway abus’d,The weaker for the stronger still refus’d;Created oft’ to rise, and oft’ to fall,   90Changing in all things, yet alike in all;Soft Judge of right or wrong, or blest or curst,The happiest, saddest, holiest, or the worst.

 And why? because your failings ye suppress,And what ye dare to act, dare not confess.Would you, ye Fair, as Man your vices boast,And she be most admir’d, who sins the most;Would ye in open revel gaily spring,And o’er the wanton Banquet vaunting sing;The doubtful Precedence we then should own,   100And you be first in (Error’s) mazes known.

 But why to Vices of the boist’rous kindTye the soft Soul, and urge the gentle Mind?Forbid it, Nature! to the Fair I speak,By her made strong, by Custom rendered weak;Whose passions, trembling for unbounded sway,Will thank the Bard, who points the nearest way;All Vice through Folly’s regions first should pass,And Folly holds her sceptre o’er the glass.Drink then, ye Fair! and nature’s laws fulfill;   110Be ev’ry thing at once, and all ye will;Put off the mask that hides the Sex’s claimAnd makes Distinction but an empty name.

 Go, wond’rous Creature! where the potion glides7From Bowls unmeasured in illumin’d tides;Instruct each other, in your due degrees;Correct old Rules, and be e’en what you please;Go, drink! for who shall jointed power contest?Drink to the passable, the good, the best.And, quitting Custom and her idle plan,   120Call drowning reason imitating Man;Like lovers’ brains in giddy circles run,And, all exhausting, imitate the Sun;Go, and be Man in noise and glorious strife,Then drop into his Arms and be a —— Wife.

 Ye Gods! what scenes upon my Fancy press,