Chapter XVII: Part II: Recitative (1)

With majick sounds, like these, did Orpheus’ lyre,
Motion, Sense, and Life inspire;
When, as he play’d, the list’ning flood
Still’d its loquacious waves, and silent stood;
The Trees swift-bounding danc’d with loosen’d stumps,
And sluggish stones caper’d in active jumps.

_Air._

Each ruddy-breasted Robin
The concert bore a Bob in,
And ev’ry hooting Owl around;
The croaking Frogs,
The grunting Hogs,
All, all conspir’d to raise th’ enliv’ning Sound.

_Recitative._

Now to Cecilia, heav’nly maid,
Your loud united voices raise:
With solemn hymns to celebrate her Praise,
Each instrument shall lend it’s aid.
The Salt Box with clattering and clapping shall sound,
The Iron lyre
Buzzing twang with wav’ring wire,
With heavy hum
The Sober Hurdy-Gurdy thrum,
And the Merry Merry Marrow-Bones ring round.

_Last Grand Chorus._

Such matchless strains Cecilia knew,
When audience from their heavenly sphere,
By Harmony’s Strong Power, she drew,
Whilst list’ning angels gladly stoop’d to hear.

BONNELL THORNTON, 1749.

――――:o:――――

MOCK HEROIC POEMS.

Numerous imitations exist of Pope’s _Dunciad_, and the poets of the last century, and the early years of this, exercised considerable ingenuity in ringing the changes on the title, as will be seen from the following list. It must not, however, be concluded that the works mentioned are all _parodies_, except in the cases where the opening lines are quoted. One of the most scholarly of these productions was “_The Scribleriad_,” written by Richard Owen Cambridge, and published in 1751. In his preface he mentions Boileau’s _Lutrin_, Garth’s _Dispensary_, and Pope’s _Rape of the Lock_ and _Dunciad_, each of which, he considers, have a thousand beauties, but neither of which comes up to the true idea of a Mock-Heroic Poem. In fact he does not believe it was the _primary idea_ of either of the authors to write a Mock-Heroic, whereas that was the task he set himself in composing The _Scribleriad_. He gives the following apposite remarks on _Parody_:――

“The Athenians were so fond of Parody, that they eagerly
applauded it, without examining with what propriety or
connection it was introduced. _Aristophanes_ showed no sort
of regard to either, in his ridicule of Euripides; but
brings in the characters as well as verses of his tragedies,
in many of his plays, though they have no connection with
the plot of the play, nor any relation to the scene in which
they are introduced. This love of Parody is accounted for by
an excellent French critic, from a certain malignity in
mankind, which prompts them to laugh at what they most
esteem, thinking they, in some measure, repay themselves for
that involuntary tribute which is exacted from them by
merit.”

_The Baviad_, a paraphrastic imitation of the First satire of Persius, by William Gifford. London, 1794. This was written to ridicule a certain _clique_ of self-admirationists known as the “Della-Cruscan school,” and was very effectual in its object. It was followed by _The Maeviad_, by the same author, which completed the work _The Baviad_ had commenced, and the spurious poetry of the Della-Cruscan school was laughed out of existence. The footnotes to these satires are delicious reading, as Gifford has selected the most amusing examples of bathos, and inflated nonsense, from the poems of Anna Matilda, Merry, Parsons, Jerningham, Bell, Mrs. Robinson, and Della-Crusca, to illustrate his points.

_The Beeriad_, or Progress of Drink. An Heroic Poem, in Two Cantos, the first being an imitation of _The Dunciad_, the second a description of a _Ram Feast_, held annually in a particular small district of Hampshire. By a Gentleman in the Navy. Gosport. J. Philpot. 1736.

The first canto of this poem is printed side by side with a reprint of the first book of Pope’s Dunciad.

_The Beeriad_ commences thus:――

Beer and the men (a mighty theme!) I sing,
Who to their mouths the brimming Pitcher bring.
Say Sons of midnight! (since yourselves inspire,
This drunken Work; so Jove and Drink require!)
Say from what cause, in vain unquench’d the Thirst,
Still reigns to-day as potent as at first.
In eldest time ere mortals were so dry,
E’er Bacchus issued from the Thund’rer’s Thigh,
Strong Drink o’er some possess’d its native right,――
Lord of delusion, Sov’raign of the Night.

* * * * *

_The Billiad_, or how to criticise, a satire, with the Dirge of the Repeal (of the Irish Union) and other Jeux d’Esprit. By T. M. Hughes. Illustrated. 1846.

_The Blueviad_, a Satirical Poem, by E. Goulburn, Royal Horse Guards. London, 1805.

The author remarks, “The following ridiculous lines contain the description of some characters that once formed a Regiment of Volunteers.”

_The Burniad_; an Epistle to a Lady, in the manner of Burns, with Poetic Miscellanies, by J. H. Kenny. 1808.

_The Consuliad. A Mock Heroic Poem_, by Thomas Chatterton. This short poem is to be found amongst the works of the poor Bristol boy, he sold it to a Mr. Fell for ten shillings and sixpence at the time when he was slowly starving to death in London. It commenced thus:――

Of roaring constables and battles dire,
Of geese uneaten, muse, awake the lyre!
Where Campbell’s chimneys overlook the square,
And Newton’s future prospects hang in air;
Where counsellors dispute, and cockers match,
And Caledonian earls in concert scratch,――
A group of heroes occupied the round,
Long in the rolls of infamy renown’d.
Circling the table, all in silence sat,
Now tearing bloody lean, now champing fat;
Now picking ortolans and chickens, slain
To form the whimsies of an _à la reine_:
Now storming castles of the newest taste,
And granting articles to forts of paste;
Now swallowing bitter draughts of Prussian beer;
Now sucking tallow of salubrious deer.
The god of Cabinets and senates saw
His sons, like asses, to one centre draw.

* * * * *

There are passages in this satire of surprising power and originality for the work of a boy of seventeen years of age.

_The Censoriad_, a Poem, written originally by Martin Gulliver, illustrated with curious annotations. 1730.

_The Chessiad_, by C. Dibden the Younger. With other poems, by the same author, 1825.

_The Christiad_, a sacred heroic poem, translated by Cranwell from Vida. No date.

_The Dapiad_, a mock-heroic poem, by J. Randall. Barnstaple: printed by J. Avery, 1806.

_The Diaboliad_, a Poem dedicated to the Worst Man in His Majesty’s Dominions. London. G. Kearsley, 1677. The date given is evidently a misprint for 1777, as David Garrick, who is named in the Preface, was not born until 1716. This work has been ascribed to Combe.

_Anti-Diabo-Lady._ Respectfully dedicated to all the Women in Her Majesty’s Dominions in general; and to the Best of Them in Particular, calculated to expose the Malevolence of the Author of Diabo-Lady. London, 1777. Quarto 18 pp. (A satire in verse.)

_The Dispensary._ A poem in six Cantos, by Sir Samuel Garth. London, 1696.

_The Druriad_, or Strictures on the principal performers of Drury Lane Theatre. A Satirical Poem. Quarto. 1798.

_The Electriad_: A Tale of the Trojan War. “Homer down to Date,” by a G. O. M. London. The Pall Mall Electric Association. About 1885. Price sixpence. This anonymous advertising pamphlet was illustrated with portraits of the most eminent men of the day, represented as suffering from various ailments, and

Within his tent Achilles sat and swore;
With pain the hero’s face was sicklied o’er,
Gout in his feet, neuralgia in his jaws,
Too weak, alas, to fight for Grecian cause;
Bronchitis, rheumatism, lungs and liver,
Hurried him fast towards the Stygian river.

* * * * *

_The Fijiad_, or English Nights Entertainments, by an author of _The Siliad_. Beeton’s Fifteenth Christmas Annual. Illustrated. London: Ward, Lock, and Tyler.

_The Fribbleriad._ This was first printed in 1761, and was afterwards included in _The Repository_, vol. 2. It was addressed to a certain individual “X. Y. Z.,” who had been guilty of publishing an Essay containing an unfavourable criticism of David Garrick.

Who is the scribbler X. Y. Z.?
Who still writes on, though little read?
Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite,
So often grin, yet seldom bite?
Say, Garrick, does he write for bread,
This _friend_ of yours, this X. Y. Z.?
For pleasure sure, not bread――’twere vain
To write for that he ne’er could gain.

* * * * *

_The Female Dunciad_, containing:――I. A Faithful account of the Intrigues, Gallantries, and Amours of Alexander Pope, of Twickenham, Esq., written by Himself. II. A Satire upon the Court Lords and Ladies. Written also by him in the year 1717. III. A Single Instance of his Repentance. IV. The New Surprising Metamorphosis; or, Mr. Pope turn’d into a Stinging Nettle; being a Familiar Epistle from a Gentleman in Town to a Lady in the Country. Occasioned by reading the Dunciad. V. Irish Artifice; or, the History of Clarina. A Novel, by Mrs. Eliza Haywood. VI. Female Worthies, by the Bishop of Peterborough. The whole being a Continuation of the Twickenham Hotch-Potch. London. T. Read, White-Fryers. 1728.

_The Hilliad_: an Epic Poem by Christopher Smart, A.M., Fellow of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. 1753. This was a satire on a certain Dr. Hill, it commenced as follows:――

Thou God of Jest, who o’er th’ ambrosial bowl,
Giv’st joy to Jove, while laughter shakes the pole;
And thou, fair Justice, of immortal line,
Hear, and assist the poet’s grand design,
Who aims at triumphs by no common ways,
But on the stem of dulness grafts the bays.
O thou, whatever name delight thine ear.
Pimp! Poet! Puffer! ’Pothecary! Play’r!
Whose baseless fame by vanity is buoy’d,
Like the huge earth self-center’d in the void,
Accept one partner thy own worth t’explore,
And in thy praise be singular no more.

* * * * *

_The Lentiad_; or, _Peter the Pope_ and his Pioneers the Pusey men. Together with Anti-Pentateuchal Prelates, Broad-church and Balaam-ass-men, Pommelled and Pounded with a Hudibrastic cudgel.

_A Tale in Rhymes
Fit for the Times_,

By a Beefeater, domestic chaplain to Fill-pots. Edited by Rev. John Allen. London: William Freeman, Fleet Street. 1863.

“John Chinaman, when fighting foes,
At times holds stink-pots to their nose,
For he believes――and he is right,
That when in this way he can fight,
And find thereby the battle won
His stink-pots are as good’s a gun.”

More than 400 closely-printed pages of similar fustian to this are devoted to abuse of the Pope and his Church; coarse denunciations of the High Church party, and the Puseyites, Bishop Colenso and his works.

_The Lousiad_, an Heroi-Comic Poem, in five cantos. By Peter Pindar, Esq. (Dr. John Wolcott.) The introduction to this satire runs as follows: “It is necessary to inform thee, _Gentle Reader_, that His Majesty (George III.) actually discovered, some time ago, as he sat at table, a _louse_ on his plate. An edict was, in consequence, passed for shaving the cooks, scullions, etc., and the unfortunate louse was condemned to die.”

Such is the foundation of _The Lousiad_, of which the ingenious author, who ought to be allowed to know somewhat of the matter, hath been heard privately to declare, that, in his opinion, the _Batrachomyomachia_ of Homer, the _Secchia Rapita_ of Tassoni, the _Lutrin_ of Boileau, the _Dispensary_ of Garth, and the _Rape of the Lock_ of Pope, are not to be compared to it.

The Louse I sing, who, from some head unknown,
Yet born and educated near a throne,
Dropped down――(so willed the dread decree of fate!)
With legs wide sprawling on the monarch’s plate:
Far from the raptures of a wife’s embrace,
Far from the gambols of a tender race,
Whose little feet he taught with care to tread
Amidst the wide dominions of the head;
Led them to daily food with fond delight,
And taught the tiny wanderers where to bite;
To hide, to run, advance, or turn their tails,
When hostile combs attacked, or vengeful nails:
Far from those pleasing scenes ordained to roam,
Like wise Ulysses, from his native home;
Yet like that sage, though forced to roam and mourn,
Like him, alas, not fated to return!
Who, full of rags and glory, saw his boy
And wife again, and dog that died for joy.
Down dropped the luckless _louse_ with fear appalled,
And wept his wife and children as he sprawled.

* * * * *

_The Mobiad_, or battle of the Voices: an Heroi-Comic Poem, sportively satirical, being a briefly historical, natural and lively, free and humorous description of an _Exeter Election_, by Democritus Juvenal (A. Brice) with notes &c., Exeter, 1770.

_The Modern Dunciad_, a Satire; with notes, biographical and critical. London. Effingham Wilson, 1814. With a frontispiece by George Cruikshank. This anonymous work, written in imitation of the first satire of Persius, was devoted to the ridicule of the minor poets of the day, most of whom are now entirely forgotten:――

What can provoke thy muse? scarce thrice a year
_Matilda’s_ woeful Madrigals appear;
_Lewis_ no more the tender maid affrights
With incantations, ravishments, and sprites;
_Crusca_ (to _Gifford_ thanks!) is fairly fled,
And _Cottle’s_ epics sleep among the dead;
E’en _Wolcot’s_ impious blasphemies are o’er,
And _Andrews’_ Prologues are the vogue no more.

* * * * *

Alluding to Rosa Matilda’s effusions; M. G. Lewis, author of “The Monk;” Gifford’s attack on the Della Cruscans; Amos Cottle’s poems, and the satirical works of Dr. John Wolcot, known as “Peter Pindar.”)

_The Mæviad_, by William Gifford, 1795. In imitation of a satire of Horace, and directed against the Della-Cruscan school of Poetry. See _The Baviad_.

_The Moneiad_: or The Power of Money. By the Rev. W. P. Macdonald, late Chaplain of the Regiment of Roll. London. James Harper, 46 Fleet Street. 1818.

It contains an early poem, entitled “Sir Penny, or the Power of Money.” The work was dedicated to the Duke of Kent.

_The New Dunciad_. Facts and anecdotes illustrative of the iniquitous practises of Anonymous Critics, 1806.

This is a _prose_ commentary on the critics, published by Tegg, London, and has no relation to Pope’s _Dunciad_.

_The New Dunciad_, as it was found in the year 1741, with the Illustrations of Scriblerus, and Notes Variorum. London. J. H. Hubbard 1742.

_Yet_, yet a moment, one dim ray of Light
Indulge, dread Chaos and eternal Night!
Of Darkness visible so much be lent,
As half to show, half veil the deep intent.
Ye Pow’rs! whose mysteries restor’d I sing,
To whom Time bears me on his rapid wing,
Suspend awhile your force inertly strong,
Then take at once the Poet and the Song.

_The New Dunciad._ This appeared in parts in a London penny paper called _The Jester_, the first number of which was published February 23, 1889. It was a weak attempt to satirise some of the celebrities of the day, and was destitute of interest, or poetical merit.

_The Obliviad_: A Satire, with notes, together with additional Notes, Preface, and Supplement, by the American Editor. And the Perpetual Commentary of the _Athenæum_. New York. James Millar, Broadway. London, B. Quaritch, 15, Piccadilly. 1879.

This is a very remarkable book, it consists of about 350 pages in all, of which at least two thirds are occupied by Notes, critical, satirical, and biographical, dealing with the principal writers of the day, in a most unmerciful manner. Even _The Saturday Review_, which itself has a reputation for sharp speaking, remarked (June 28, 1879):――“_The Obliviad_ is a laborious imitation of the Dunciad, somewhat more universally insolent in its treatment of contemporary authors than any other satire in prose or verse that we remember.”

Naturally a book which could speak with fearless truth of the writings of such men as Tennyson, Robert Browning, Swinburne, Dickens, Hepworth Dixon, and Robert Buchanan created a sensation, but unfortunately the author was almost too indiscriminate in his censures, for whilst everyone admits that the above named authors have occasionally written absurd and nonsensical works, it is equally certain that they did not, in the first place, make their names and fames in that manner.

_The Obliviad_ has been attributed to Dr. William Leech of New York.

_The Olympiad._ A Satirical Poem.

_The Puffiad_, a Satire, with a dedication to “Those who don’t like it,” a Critique for their use, and copious Introductory Epistle to an Eminent Puffer. 1828.

_The Rodiad_, by George Coleman, 1813. This relates to Flagellation:

Delightful Sport! whose never failing charm Makes young blood
tingle, and keeps old blood warm.

_The Rosciad._ By Charles Churchill. 1761.

_The Rolliad_, or more correctly, _Criticisms_ on the Rolliad, for the poem itself (except in some disjointed extracts introduced as examples) existed only in the fertile brains of the authors of this satire on Mr. Rolle (afterwards Lord Rolle), who was elected M.P. for Devon in 1784, in the Tory interest. When _The Rolliad_ first appeared it had a great success, and rapidly ran through many editions, but time has cast into oblivion most of its allusions, and the characters introduced are well nigh forgotten. _The Rolliad_ was written by several authors, and parts have been ascribed to George Ellis, General Fitzpatrick, and Joseph Richardson M.P. Lord Rolle died in 1842.

_The Rational Rosciad_, in two parts, 1767.

_The Rape of the Bucket_, an Heroi-Comical Poem by Tassoni, translated with Notes, by J. Atkinson. 1825.

_The Scribleriad_: an Heroic Poem. In six books. London: R. Dodsley in Pall Mall 1751, quarto, with curious illustrations. This satire was written to ridicule the errors of false taste and false learning, and was pronounced, by a contemporary critic, to be a work of great fancy and poetical elegance. The author, Mr. Richard Owen Cambridge, is highly spoken of by Boswell, in his life of Dr. Johnson.

The much enduring Man, whose curious Soul
Bore him, with ceaseless toil, from pole to pole,
Insatiate, endless knowledge to obtain,
Thro’ woes by land, thro’ dangers on the main,
New woes, new dangers destin’d to engage
By wrathful _Saturn’s_ unrelenting rage,
I sing. * * * * *

_The Siliad_, or the Siege of the Seats. Beeton’s Christmas Annual, fourteenth season. London. Ward, Lock and Tyler. An Illustrated Political Satire, by the authors of “The Coming K――.” 1873.

Bobilloe’s spleen, to whigs the direful spring
Of votes ungiven, printed pages, sing!
That spleen which made the ballot-boxes tell
Of liberal candidates the funeral knell;
Whose names, dishonoured in the morning sheet,
Devouring scribes and hungry penmen greet:――
Since his bad-tempered way Bobilloe’s showed,
And made ill use of place on him bestowed;
Began to wane men’s confidence and trust
Which, to succeed in warfare, hold chiefs must.

_The Spiritual Dunciad_; or, Oxford “_Tracks_” to Popery. A Satire with Notes and Appendix by Robert Dick, M.D., C.M. London, C. Westerton, 1859. This was a bitter attack on the Roman Catholic religion;

If by antiquity, we judge what’s true,
Why halt a Roman? Why not turn a Jew?
Our noble Luther――he did nothing more
Than pristine pureness to Christ’s truth restore,
By ignorance and lies long crusted o’er.

_The Tauroboliad_; or, the Sacrifice of the Constitution. A Satire. 1831.

_The Thespiad_; a Poem. 1809.

_The Tommiad_; a Biographical Fancy, written about the year 1842. London. Anonymous.

_The Toriad_; a Poem. By Eupolis. London. Wightman & Co., 1837. 18 pp. octavo, Price one shilling.

“War and the Debt I sing-the giant crimes
Of Tories in the good old Tory Times.”

_The Triad._ By W. Wiekenden, 1855.

_The Victoriad_; or, New World, an Epic Poem. By E. Carrington. A curious work which the author modestly considered was written in the simple classic style of Dante.

――――:o:――――

There are many passages in Pope’s writings which might well be spared on account of their indelicacy, yet they are innocent and pure as compared with some of the satires launched at him by his enemies and rivals. The greater number of these are too gross to be republished in a work intended for general readers, as are also the three principal and most amusing parodies of his works.

Pope’s _Essay on Man_ was the subject of a parody, entitled _The Essay on Woman_; his _Eloisa to Abelard_ was burlesqued in _Eloisa en Déshabille_; and _The Rape of the Lock_ was parodied in a poem entitled _The Rape of the Smock_.

In an article on John Wilkes published in _The Athenæum_ in 1874, it was stated that the charge against him of having written the infamous _Essay upon Woman_ must now be given up. “It is as clear as is any fact in history, that whoever wrote the _Essay_, Wilkes, at all events, did not. Wilkes was prosecuted for it, and was convicted, not however for being the author of the poem, but for having published it. All the statements on the trial go to show that the original Essay was printed in red letter, and with a frontispiece, and an engraved title.”

Much has been written about this parody, but its authorship is still shrouded in mystery. In 1763 The Rev. John Kidgell published “A Narrative of a scandalous, obscene, and exceedingly profane libel, entitled _An Essay on Woman_” to which an answer was printed in the same year. Both of these tracts are in the British Museum. _The Essay on Woman_ has been recently re-published by private subscription, but is still what is called a scarce book.

_Eloisa en Déshabille_: Being a Parody of Mr. Pope’s celebrated Epistle of that young lady to Abelard. By a late celebrated Greek Professor, dedicated to the _Loungers_ of Great Britain and Ireland. 1810.

This witty but indelicate poem has been generally ascribed to Professor Porson, the famous Greek scholar, who frequently quoted passages from it. But it seems more probable that it was written by Colonel J. Matthews, the brother of the author of “The Diary of an Invalid.”

Immur’d in this prison, so dull and so moping,
Where vows and high walls bar all hopes of eloping;
Where close-grated windows scarce show us the sun,
What means this strange itch in the flesh of a nun?
Why wander my thoughts in the midst of devotion
Why feels my fond heart its long smother’d emotion?
Still, still, love prevails! this unquenchable flame
Blazes fresh at the sight of my Abelard’s name.

* * * * *

_The Rape of the Smock._ An Heroi-comical Poem. In Two Books. London. R. Burleigh, in Amen Corner. 1717. _Price one shilling._ With a quaint illustration.

I sing a Virgin’s Smock, the direful cause
Of horrid Bloodshed, and of Breach of Laws;
That Linnen Veil, which pendant Ruffles grace,
Of _Indian_ Muslin, or of Flanders Lace;
Wide stretch’d, and falling down in many a Plait,
From the fair Bosom, to the snowy Feet;
White as the Lilly, or the Skin it hides,
Where charming Nature shines, and Love resides.
Let Ozell sing the _Bucket_,[45] Pope the _Lock_,
My daring Muse prefers the _Rape of Smock_.
* * * * *

This poem, which is by no means difficult to obtain, is generally ascribed to Lady Mary Wortley Montague, the friend and correspondent of Pope. The most remarkable feature about it is that it could have been written and published by a lady of rank and fashion.

_An Elegy written in an Empty Assembly Room_ Published (anonymously) by R. & J. Dodsley, London, 1766, was a parody on some of the most remarkable passages in Pope’s _Epistle of Eloisa to Abelard_, but the subject does not inspire interest, and the parody has little humour.

In scenes where _Hallet’s_ genius has combin’d
With Bromwich to amuse and chear the mind;
Amid this Pomp of Cost, this Pride of Art,
What mean these sorrows in a Female Heart?
Ye crowded Walls, whose well enlighten’d Round
With Lover’s Sighs and Protestations sound,
Ye pictures flatter’d by the learn’d and wise,
Ye glasses, ogled by the brightest eyes,
Ye cards, whom Beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which Peers and Ministers have prest,
How are ye chang’d! like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone――
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad――and cannot _Be at Home_.

* * * * *

A French parody of this famous poem by Pope also exists, entitled “_Histoire des amours et des infortunes d’Abelard et d’Eloise_ mise en vers satiré-comi-burlesques,” par M. Armand. Cologne, Pierre Marteau, 1724.

From AN ESSAY ON MAN. Epistle I.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor’d mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His 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-topp’d hill, an humbler heaven;
Some safer world, in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold:
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel’s wing, no seraph’s fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

A. POPE.

Lo! the poor toper whose untutor’d sense
Sees bliss in ale, and can with wine dispense,
――But sees, admitted to an equal share,
Each faithful swain the heady portion bear.

From Crabbe’s _Inebriety_.

A NEW READING OF POPE.

Lo, the lean Indian, whose bewildered mind
Sees naught of God, either in cloud or wind;
His soul, proud science never taught to stray,
It strayed itself, and now has lost its way.
Simple nature to his hope has given,
Beyond some cloud-capped hill, a sensual heaven,
Some place where science cannot grope its way,
Nor learning cast one single feeble ray;
No whites disturb. No Christian ’stablish laws.
But he can rest while work is done by squaws.
To loaf contents his natural desire;
He asks no angel’s wings to get up higher,
And if he did, no angel from the sky
Would think of taking Lo up very high.
But grant the burden of his Indian song――
Do as he likes, and take his dorg along.

ANONYMOUS.

Another parody of the same passage is given “after a bad dinner” in “_Anecdotes_, Historical and Literary,” published in London by Vernor and Hood in 1796.

An imitation of Pope’s _Universal Prayer_ will be found on page 115 of _The Pleasures of Nature_ by D. Carey. 1803.

――――

A PARODY OF ACHILLES’ SPEECH,
Pope’s _Homer_, Book I, line 309.

(Occasioned by the author hearing of a Clergyman who, in a violent fit of anger, threw his wig into the fire, and turned his son out of doors.)

“Now by this sacred perriwig I swear,
Which never more shall locks or ringlets bear,
Which never more shall form the smart toupee,
Forced from its parent head,――(as thou from me);
Once ’twas live hair; now form’d by th’ artist’s hand,
It aids the labours of the sacred band;
Adds to the vicar’s brow a decent grace,
And pours a glory round his rev’rend face.
By this I swear, when thou shalt ask again
My doors to enter, thou shalt ask in vain.”
He spoke, and furious with indignant ire
Hurl’d the vast hairy texture on the fire;
Then sternly silent sate――the active flame
Remorseless wastes the soft and tender frame:
Writhed to and fro consumes the tortured hair,
And lost in smoke attenuates to air.

From _The Works of Richard Owen Cambridge_. London. Cadell and Davies, 1803.

――――

It is sometimes objected to parodies, that they tend to bring into ridicule the finest productions of genius; but this is an imaginary, rather than a real ground of complaint. Who does not admire the Mantuan Poet though Cotton has burlesqued his Æneid? And though the Iliad has been more than once travestied, do we not still dwell with enthusiastic pleasure on every line attributed to Homer? We see therefore no need of apology in submitting to our readers a parody of the following beautiful lines of Pope:――

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night,
O’er heaven’s pure azure sheds her sacred light;
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o’ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll;
And stars unnumber’d gild the glowing pole.
O’er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver every mountain’s head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies;
The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

PARODY

As when an alderman just dubb’d a knight,
Doth his fat comrades to a feast invite;
His eager hand uplifts the deep tureen,
Beneath whose lid the smoking turtle’s seen;
Around the chair the ready waiters roll,
To fill the plate of every hungry soul.
O’er all the room the grateful odours spread,
And nods with pleasure every civic head;
Then shine their cheeks ne’er ting’d with deeper dyes,
The well made punch stands sparkling ’fore their eyes.
The aldermen rejoicing in the sight
Eye the rich treat, and bless the bounteous knight.

From _The British Minerva_, printed in _Hamburgh_, 1818.

In _Posthumous Parodies_ (1814) there is a paraphrase of a passage in Pope’s “Temple of Fame,” it commences thus:

But lo! amidst the oratoric choir,
Six gorgeous columns o’er the rest aspire:
Around the chair itself of fame they stand,
Hold her chief honours, and her house command.
High on the first the son of Chatham shone,
(The British lion couching by his throne,)
Master of speech! His potent eloquence
Seems still to echo on the wond’ring sense:
Anxious, but firm, his lofty look appears,
And young he seems, with all the skill of years.

* * * * *

George Canning, C. J. Fox, R. B. Sheridan, Warren Hastings, Burke and Windham are the other politicians alluded to in this poem.

――――:o:――――

AN ESSAY ON PLAY.

_By_
_A_――――_r_ _P_――――_e_.

I.

“Who shall decide,” I asked some time ago,
“When doctors disagree?” None seemed to know,
But change one word, and let the question be,
“Who shall decide, when critics disagree?”
We all are critics, not alone the men
Who fail to make a living by their pen.
And though there’s nought,――at least so poets deem,――
“That’s half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,”
There’s nought, I think, for which one so much cares
As talking over other folks’ affairs.
And so we meet with those who sometimes say,
That men have too much work, too little play:
Others assert that men their duties shirk,
Have too much play, and do too little work.
What is the truth? Some men find life full sore,
Work fifteen hours of the twenty-four;
They say that work does nothing else but vex,
And vow the collar’s never off their necks.
Others declare the ancient precept stuff,
And say one day in seven’s not enough;
So half another day is, so to speak,
Transferred from work to pleasure every week,
While now we have, our hard-worked lives to cheer,
Four extra holidays in every year.
Truth is, to neither party should we lean,
But ’twixt them both essay to hit the mean;
Some of hard work get far too large a share,
And ere they’ve learned to live, they die of care.
Some _do_ themselves as well as others too,
And still declare they’ve not enough to do,
Saunter through Life, and vow it is a gem,
And say they’re killing Time, while Time kills them.

II.

Pleasure just now indeed is quite the rage,
No matter sex or station, rank or age.
The child, we know, is tickled with a straw,
The boy is happy with his hoop or taw;
The girl at first with dolls enjoys a span,
But, older grown, the doll becomes a man;
And, in her quest for what can life enhance,
She gives her time to flirting and the dance.
Youth growing up assume a manly tone,
And seem to think the world is all their own,
And while at school imagine they are men,
And take to smoking and to billiards then;
At college, too, of classics seldom speak,
Think more of Cricket than they do of Greek;
Rowing and Football take up half their time,
Lawn-tennis too is voted “quite sublime.”
Thus time is spent in learning, it is true,
But not in learning what they ought to do.
Life is a game, so many people say,
And they win easiest who have learned to play.

III.

I’ve said before, and won’t my words forsake,
That “every woman is at heart a rake”;
Perhaps, I may with greater justice say,
Both man and woman dearly love to play.
A curious problem to the world they give:
Some live to play while others play to live;
And this phenomenon is seen to-day,
A whole profession given up to play.
Men its attractions cannot well refuse,
Their P’s neglect, but cultivate their cues;
While ladies, who in Fortune’s favours bask,
Make the pursuit of pleasure quite a task.
For what with concerts, and “four o’clock tea,”
With pictures that they “really ought to see,”
With conversaziones, routs, and balls,
And what so dear to women’s hearts, their “calls,”
With flower shows, and riding in the “Row.”
With dinners, drives, and all that’s “comme il faut,”
Worn out, half dead, when Saturday arrives
They meekly vow they’re tired of their lives,
But wake on Monday morning free from pain,
And vow they’re ready to begin again.

IV.

Then Sunday comes and, it must be confessed,
They wonder how to pass the “Day of Rest.”
Many, with wearied limbs and aching head,
Resolve to spend it cosily in bed;
Some drive to Richmond, if the weather’s fine,
And at the Star and Garter go to dine;
Some, as I’ve said before, to church repair,
“Not for the doctrine but the music there;”
While others, and indeed they’re not a few,
Resolve to spend some hours at the Zoo.
These seem to think Religion is displayed
In noting how their fellow Creature’s made:
They throng the walks, but oft so queerly dressed,
Although ’tis true they wear their “Sunday best,”
That e’en the animals opine, no doubt,
Their relatives have got a “Sunday out.”
The monkeys at each other grin and wink,
And whisper in Ape-language, “missing link!”
The grissly bear himself, with outstretched claw
Politely asks a passer for “his paw;”
The loving seal oft thinks he sees his kin,
But quite as often finds he’s taken in,
For now-a-days folks do not seem to feel
That seal-skin jackets are not always seal.
They see the lions feed, which call to mind
The fact that they themselves have not yet dined;
So home to dine, and pass with mis-timed jest
The rest of Sunday, not the Sunday’s rest,
Well-satisfied, howe’er, to feel and know
They’ve shown themselves, as well as seen the show.

A. W. MACKENZIE. (Author of “_The Idylls of the Rink_.”)

From _Pastime_ September 28, 1883.

――――

Pope’s prologue to Addison’s tragedy of _Cato_ is justly considered one of the finest prologues in the language. The following parody of it is taken from a little tract entitled “_A Succinct Description of that Elaborate Pile of Art_, _called the Microcosm_. With a short account of the Solar System.” Coventry. Printed for the Proprietor Mr. Edward Davis, 1763. The _Microcosm_ was constructed by Mr. Henry Bridges of Waltham Abbey, architect, it was in the form of a Roman Temple, ten feet high by six feet broad in the basis, and was designed to give the spectator instruction in architecture, sculpture and astronomy.

“The following parody (on Pope’s prologue to Cato) was addressed to Mr. Henry Bridges, constructor of that elaborate piece of mechanism. _The Microcosm_, by Dr. Burton, of Yarmouth.”

To sooth the Soul by tender Strokes of art,
To raise the Genius and to rouse the Heart,
To make Mankind by Harmony elate,
Soften the Breast and banish direful Hate,
The ruffled Passions potent to asswage,
To conquer Fear and to enervate Rage,
Was _music’s_ Power, by _Orpheus_ first ordain’d;
Fierce Beasts were tam’d, and fiercer Tyrants Chain’d.
Th’ enchanting Sounds through their whole Fabrick crept,
And _Savage_ Mortals wonder’d why they wept.
Our _Artist_ shuns by vulgar Springs to move
His mimic Race below, or Orbs above,
Here Pleasure flows from _Scientific_ Cause,
Whilst Ingenuity extorts applause:
He bids your breast with Emulation rise,
And tho’ you’re e’er so learn’d, e’er so wise,
By Arts _Mechanick_ you will here be taught
More than _Rome_ knew, or _Grecian_ Sages thought.
Those Objects to your Senses he displays,
Which the Spectator of our Globe surveys;
The various Movements and the changing State.
Of Beings active and inanimate.
Whilst _Bridges_ gives his _Microcosm_ Laws,
What Bosom beats not in Invention’s Cause?
Who sees him work, but envies every Deed?
Who hears him lecture hears e’en _Newton_ read.
_Britons_ attend, be Worth like his approv’d,
And shew you have the Virtue to be mov’d.
With honest Scorn our wond’rous Artist view’d
Meer Machinations on the World obtrude:
_French_ and _Italian_ Puppets pleas’d too long,
And _British_ sense was barter’d for a Song.
Dare to invent yourselves, to _Fame_ aspire,
Be justly warm’d with your own native Fire.
_Bridges!_ those Sounds must ravish every Ear,
Which _Handel’s_ Self did not disdain to hear.

――――

THE RAPE OF THE CAKE.
A COVENT-GARDEN ECLOQUE.

Inscribed to the Musical Band of Covent-garden theatre, on account of the recent theft of their twelfth-cake.

“_Quid Rapuisti?_”

The night was dark! fast clos’d the plunderer’s hand!
And idle Jehu’s slept upon the stand!
The lone Piazza, erst the gay resort
Of flash and fun, and meritricious sport,
Then only echo’d to th’ unvarying sound
Of drowsy watchmen, pacing their dull round,
Kiddies no more at _Glue_ or _Brilliant_ sup,
And e’en the far-fam’d _Finish_ was _done up_.
All rest in sleep! save――_those who were awake_――
The wicked wags who stole the _fiddlers’ cake_.
Not in more silence did Ulysses tread,
When he relentless struck king Rhesus dead;
Not with more caution did the invading Gaul
Attempt to storm the Capitolian wall;
Not with more care did valorous Smith advance
To burn the navy of insulting France;
Not with more ease did Belcher beat poor Burke,
Then those vile plunderers did the dreadful work!!!
But say, my muse, what prodigies appear’d?
The rain fast pour’d, and horrid screams were heard!
Loud thunder shook the gay theatric pile,
And Kemble first relax’d into a smile!
The theft announc’d, the _band_ were in dismay,
And nought were heard, but ‘Oh!’ and ‘Well-a-day!’
The leader _Ware_, with anger in his soul,
_While his limbs tremble_, _and his eyeballs roll_,
“D――n!” cried, “this insults too imposing,
Shall we bear this, ye _scraping sons of Rosin_?”
The puffy _Parke_, who never was a starter,
Said, “In this cause I wish to die a _Martyr_!”
_Hawtin_, with face inflated like a crumpet,
“Lord bless us,” said, and dropp’d his brazen _trumpet_.
And smirking _Davy_, with his _powder’d_ pate,
Plump’d snug upon his seat and _grinn’d_ in state.
While feeble _Woodcock_ let his anger loose,
And fix’d the theft on harmless _Mother Goose_!!!
But say, my muse, and then I’ll cry farewell!
Who stole the _cake_?――“Indeed I cannot tell!
And this I swear, in accents strong and slow,
_I cannot tell!_――because _I do not know!_”

――――

A volume of poems by T. Flatman, published in 1674, contains a poem entitled _A Thought on Death_ from which Pope must have borrowed his ode “_The Dying Christian to his Soul_:”――

“Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!”

* * * * *

“Hark! they whisper; angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!”

So far Pope, compare Flatman:――

“When on my sick bed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish――
Fainting, grasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying.”

* * * * *

“Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say,
Be not fearful――come away!”

Pope was the author of numerous imitations of other Poets, such as Chaucer, Spenser, Waller, Abraham Cowley, the Earl of Rochester, the Earl of Dorset, and Dean Swift. The poem in imitation of Chaucer is somewhat coarse, that after Dr. Swift will be quoted later on, under that author’s name.

COLIN’S COMPLAINT.

NICHOLAS ROWE, Born 1673, Died 1718.

_Poet Laureate_ 1715 to 1718.

Despairing beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme.
A willow supported his head:
The wind that blew over the plain,
To his sighs with a sigh did reply,
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas! silly swain that I was,
Thus sadly complaining, he cried;
When first I beheld that fair face,
’Twere better by far I had died:
She talk’d, and I bless’d her dear tongue;
When she smil’d, ’twas a pleasure too great;
I listen’d and cry’d when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet!

How foolish was I to believe
She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town:
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove,
Or go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?

What though I have skill to complain,
Tho’ the muses my temples have crown’d;
What tho’ when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around?
Ah, Colin! thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign,
Thy false one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than thine.

All you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray’d,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,
Forbear to accuse the false maid.
Tho’ thro’ the wide world I should range,
’Tis in vain for my fortune to fly,
’Twas her’s to be false and to change,――
’Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground:
The last humble boon that I crave,
Is to shade me with cypress and yew
And when she looks down on my grave
Let her own that her shepherd was true.

Then to her new love let her go,
And deck her in golden array;
Be finest at every fine show,
And frolic it all the long day:
While Colin, forgotten and gone,
No more shall be talked of or seen,
Unless when beneath the pale moon,
His ghost shall glide over the green.

Nicholas Rowe wrote several tragedies and some poems, but the above is almost the only specimen which has any life in it. A Latin version, entitled “Corydon Querens” will be found in Vincent Bourne’s works.

A PARODY.
(Ascribed to George Canning.)

By the side of a murmuring stream
An elderly gentleman sat;
On the top of his head was his wig,
On the top of his wig was his hat.
The wind it blew high and blew strong
Where this elderly gentleman sat,
And took from his head in a trice,
And plunged in the river his hat.

The gentleman then took his cane,
Which lay by his side as he sat,
But he dropp’d in the river his wig
In attempting to get out his hat.
And now in the depth of despair,
Though still from the place where he sat,
He flung in the river his cane,
To swim with his wig and his hat.

But cooler reflection at length,
As this elderly gentleman sat,
Said “Jump up and follow the stream,
And look for your wig and your hat.”
But, alas for the thought! for so soon
As he rose from the place where he sat,
He slipp’d and fell plump over head,
To swim with his wig and his hat.

――――

BOW BELLS.

At the brink of a murmuring brook
A contemplative Cockney reclined;
And his face wore a sad sort of look,
As if care were at work on his mind.
He sigh’d now and then as we sigh
When the heart with soft sentiments wells;
And a tear came and moisten’d each eye
As he mournfully thought of Bow Bells.

I am monarch of all I survey!
(Thus he vented his feelings in words)――
But my kingdom, it grieves me to say,
Is inhabited chiefly by birds.
In this brook that flows lazily by
I believe that _one_ tittlebat dwells,
For I saw something jump at a fly
As I lay here and long’d for Bow Bells.

I am partial to trees, as a rule;
And the rose is a beautiful flower.
(Yes, I once read a ballad at school
Of a rose that was wash’d in a shower.)
But, although I may doat on the rose,
I can scarcely believe that it smells
Quite so sweet in the bed where it grows
As when sold within sound of Bow Bells.

No; I’ve tried it in vain once or twice,
And I’ve thoroughly made up my mind
That the country is all very nice――
But I’d much rather mix with my kind.
Yes; to-day――if I meet with a train――
I will fly from these hills and these dells;
And to-night I will sleep once again
(Happy thought!) within sound of Bow Bells.

From _Carols of Cockayne_, by Henry S. Leigh. London, Chatto and Windus, 1874.

LORD LYTTLETON.

A BURLESQUE ODE BY TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

Lord Lyttleton was not only the patron of poets, but was also a minor poet himself. He married, in 1741, Miss Lucy Fortescue, whose death five years afterwards gave him a theme for a monody which contained the following lines:――

In vain I look around
O’er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy’s wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we used to walk,
Where oft in tender talk
We saw the summer sun go down the sky;
Nor by yon fountain’s side,
Nor where its waters glide
Along the valley, can she now be found:
In all the wide-stretched prospect’s ample bound,
No more my mournful eye
Can aught of her espy,
But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.
Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns,
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns,
By your delighted mother’s side:
Who now your infant steps shall guide?

* * * * *

Smollett, who considered that his merits had been neglected by Lord Lyttleton, wrote the following parody on this monody:――

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, illustrious Quack,
Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days;
For whom, so oft, to Marybone, alack!
Thy sorrels dragg’d thee, thro’ the worst of ways!

Oil-dropping Twick’nham did not then detain
Thy steps, tho’ tended by the Cambrian maids;
Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane;
Nor dusty Pimlico’s embow’ring shades;
Nor Whitehall, by the river’s bank,
Beset with rowers dank
Nor where th’ Exchange pours forth its tawny sons;
Nor where to mix with offal, soil and blood,
Steep Snow Hill rolls the sable flood;
Nor where the Mint’s contaminated kennel runs;
Ill doth it now beseem,
That thou should’st doze and dream,
When death in mortal armour came,
And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame.
Her lib’ral 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 cock she daily fed,
And turkey with his snout so red;
Of chickens careful as the pious hen,
Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren;
While redbreast hopp’d before her in the hall,
As if the common mother of them 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 funereal lay,
Oh! woe is me! alack! and well-a-day!

――――:o:――――

IT IS NOT THAT MY LOT IS LOW.
(After _Henry Kirke White_.)

It is not that my “place” was low,
That bids my foolish tear to flow;
It is not that that makes me moan,
But ’tis, that all my money’s gone.

Thro’ slummy back-streets now I roam,
Whene’er I venture out from home;
To luckier souls I leave the rest,
The streets that once I knew the best.

Yet when the plates, of varied size,
With hunger-stirring symphonies
Resound, I think――“A nice grilled bone!”
And sigh that all my money’s gone.

My friends now pass me, cut me dead;
I’m only happy when in bed;
I cannot get more “whisker-dye”
Without committing felony.

My creditors, with angry wail,
Tell all the same relentless tale.
I’ve none to smile with, or make free
Or, when I want it, lend to me

Yet in my dreams a cheque I view,
That’s meant for me――a large one too.
I start, and when the vision’s flown,
I weep that all my money’s gone.

From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_. Cambridge. W. Metcalfe & Sons.

――――:o:――――

ODE,
(_In the Manner of Dr. Samuel Johnson._)
Addressed to a Girl in the Temple, 1777.

While the calescent, sanguine flood,
By vile Vulgarity call’d Blood,
Pervades this mortal frame;
Amaz’d at your translucid charms,
You I solicit to these arms,
Tho’ of procacious name!

When in your dim nocturnal rounds,
Erratic from the Temple’s bounds
Thro’ devious lanes you stray;
With friendly auscultation deign
To audit amatorial pain
Subvected in this lay.

Satellite of the Paphian dame,
Whose rays, tho’ darken’d by thy fame,
Illuminate my mind:
Desert the street, resume the plain,
Rejoin your derelicted swain――
Be prudent, as you’re kind.

My brows, obumbrated with age,
Hang scowling o’er life’s latter-page――
But you, like Lunar beam,
Thro’ my nimbosity arise;
Dispensing, from your lucid eyes,
Refocillating gleam.

From _The Wiccamical Chaplet_. Edited by George Huddesford. London, Leigh, Sotheby & Son, 1804.

――――

Dr. Johnson wrote the following lines as a skit on the style of Dr. Warton, then Poet-Laureate:――

Hermit hoar, in solemn cell
Wearing out life’s evening grey;
Strike thy bosom sage, and tell
What is bliss, and which the way.

Thus I spoke, and speaking sighed,
Scarce repress’d the starting tear,
When the hoary sage replied,
“Come, my lad, and drink some beer.”

_Imitation of the Above._

“Crested warrior, on whose helm
Nodding plumes encircling bind,
Tell me in what happy realm
Valour such as thine to find?”

Thus I said, and envious sighed.
He, who ne’er from battle run,
The mighty warrior, eager cried,――
“_Show me how to hold my gun!_”

――――

Dr. Johnson wrote the Prologue for the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, in 1747, which was spoken by David Garrick, it commenced with the well known lines:――

“When Learning’s triumph o’er her barbarous foes
First rear’d the stage, immortal _Shakespeare_ rose;
Each change of many colour’d life he drew,
Exhausted Worlds, and then imagined new:
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting time toil’d after him in vain,”

* * * * *

This was the subject of a political parody in _Posthumous Parodies_ (London, 1814) of which it is only necessary to quote a few lines:――

When Europe’s peril from her Gallic foes
First roused the age, immortal Pitt arose,
Each plot of many colour’d France o’erthrew,
Saved the old world, and overawed the new.
Commerce beheld him stretch her golden reign,
And jealous Whigs toil’d after him in vain:
His lofty thoughts his lofty phrase impress’d,
And admiration throbb’d in ev’ry breast.

* * * * *

EDMUND SPENSER.

BORN 1553. | DIED January 16, 1599.
Appointed Poet-Laureate 1590.

Although there are not many parodies extant of Spenser’s poetry, yet the beautiful metre which he invented, and used with such success in _The Faerie Queene_, has been since imitated, or adopted by many of our leading poets. This will be seen by the following list of works, written in the Spenserian stanza, which has been compiled with great care, by Mr. Jonathan Bouchier, of Ropley.

Allan’s ‘Bridal of Caolchaiarn’ and ‘Last Deer of Brenn Doran’ (or
Dran).

Beattie’s ‘Minstrel.’

Bedingfield ‘The Education of Achilles.’

William Lisle Bowles ‘Childe Harold’s Last Pilgrimage,’ six stanzas.

Burns’s ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night.’

W. C. Bryant ‘The Ages.’

Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.’

Campbell’s ‘Gertrude of Wyoming.’

Campbell’s ‘Chaucer and Windsor.’

Cooper’s ‘Purgatory of Suicides.’

Edward’s ‘Tour of the Dove.’

Hood’s ‘Irish Schoolmaster.’

Howitt’s ‘Desolation of Eyam.’

Keats’s ‘Imitation of Spenser’ (his first, or nearly his first
verses).

Keats’s ‘Eve of St. Agnes.’

Keats’s ‘The Cap and Bells.’

Keble’s ‘Mourners following the Cross.’

William Julius Mickle ‘The Concubine’ (title afterwards altered to
‘Sir Martyne’), a poem in two cantos.

Neale’s ‘Edom.’

Read’s (American) ‘New Village.’

Miss Frances Rolleston, ‘The Pilgrimage of Harmonia,’ 1874.

Sir W. Scott, Fitztraver’s Song in ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’
canto vi.

‘Vision of Don Roderick,’ and introductory stanzas to each canto of
the ‘Lady of the Lake,’ and the ‘Lord of the Isles.’

Shelley’s ‘Revolt of Islam’ (sometimes called ‘Laon and Cythna’),
and ‘Adonais.’

Shenstone’s ‘Schoolmistress.’

Smith, Alexander ‘Lady Barbara.’

Edmund Neale Smith, _obiit_ 1710: ‘Thales: a Monody, sacred to the
memory of Dr. Pococke. In imitation of Spenser.’――First published in
1751, forty years after Smith’s death.

‘Psyche, or the Great Metamorphosis’ (query author), in Dodsley’s
‘Collection of Poems by Several Hands,’ ed. 1775, vol. iii.

Southey ‘A Tale of Paraguay.’

Tennyson’s ‘Lotos-Eaters’ (introduction).

Thomson’s ‘Castle of Indolence.’

Mrs. Tighe’s ‘Psyche.’

Walker, William Sidney: ‘Wandering Thoughts.’

West, Gilbert ‘Education’ and ‘On the Abuse of Travelling.’

White, Kirke ‘Christiad.’

Wiffen’s Translation of Tasso’s ‘Jerusalem Delivered.’

Isaac William’s, ‘Rule of Faith’ (‘Lyra Apostolica’).

Wilson’s ‘Children’s Dance’ and ‘Scholar’s Funeral.’