Chapter V: Part II: OVERTURE.—Pastorale

MAN SPEAKER.

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream Reflects new glories on his breast, Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest; Where sculptured elegance and native grace Unite to stamp the beauties of the place; While, sweetly blending, still are seen, The wavy lawn, the sloping green; While novelty, with cautious cunning, Through every maze of fancy running, From China borrows aid to deck the scene:— There, sorrowing by the rivers glassy bed, Forlorn a rural band complain'd, All whom Augusta's bounty fed, All whom her clemency sustain'd. The good old sire, unconscious of decay, The modest matron, clad in homespun grey, The military boy, the orphan'd maid, The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd,— These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, And as they view the towers of Kew, Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

CHORUS.

_Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form'd your beauties is no more._

MAN SPEAKER.

First of the train the patient rustic came, Whose callous hand had form'd the scene, Bending at once with sorrow and with age, With many a tear, and many a sigh between: "And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire? No lord will take me now, my vigour fled, Nor can my strength perform what they require; Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, A sleek and idle race is all their care. My noble mistress thought not so: Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, used to flow, And, as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

"_In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen._"—_p._ 241.
]

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.

"And, ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,
"What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity!
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;
She still relieved, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.
But every day her name I'll bless,
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long."

SONG.—BY A WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN SPEAKER.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight, Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, In nought entire—except his heart; Mute for awhile, and sullenly distress'd, At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:— "Wild is the whirlwind rolling O'er Afric's sandy plain, And wild the tempest howling Along the billow'd main; But every danger felt before The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar, Less dreadful struck me with dismay Than what I feel this fatal day. Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave; I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

SONG.—BY A MAN.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field, To do thy memory right; For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, Again they snatch the gleamy steel, And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid;
Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charms the senses,
While pity harmonized the whole.
"The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say,
"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn:
I'll not wear a garland—Augusta's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return;
But, alas! that return I never shall see:
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,
There promised a lover to come—but, ah me!
'Twas Death—'twas the death of my mistress that came.
But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

SONG—BY A WOMAN.

_Pastorale._

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is removed and shall never return?

On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

CHORUS.

_On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
The tears of her country shall water her tomb._

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

Logicians have but ill defined
As rational the human mind:
Reason, they say, belongs to man;
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
_Homo est ratione præditum_;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em—
_Deus est anima brutorum_.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute?
Bring action for assault and battery?
Or friends beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfined;
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court:
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job;
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;[27]
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters,

Footnote 27:

Sir Robert Walpole.

"_Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay._"—_p._ 245.
]

Are known to honest quadrupeds:
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

* * * * *

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane; There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug. A window, patched with paper, lent a ray That dimly show'd the state in which he lay: The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The royal Game of Goose was there in view, And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew; The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place; And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold; he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

There is a place—so Ariosto sings— A treasury for lost and missing things; Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, And they who lose their senses, there may find them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? The Moon, says he;—but I affirm, the Stage— At least, in many things, I think I see His lunar and our mimic world agree: Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down; Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics. But in this parallel my best pretence is, That mortals visit both to find their senses: To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, Quits the _ballet_, and calls for _Nancy Dawson_. The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor'd— As "Dam'me, Sir!" and, "Sir, I wear a sword!" Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here come the sons of scandal and of news, But find no sense—for they had none to lose. Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser; Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in lace? Without a star, a coronet, or garter, How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? No high-life scenes, no sentiment:—the creature Still stoops among the low to copy nature. Yes, he's far gone:—and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.