Ah! luckless imp is he, whose worth elate, There stood an ancient mount, yclept Parnass, The Muses fair, these peaceful shades among, With skilful fingers sweep the trembling strings; The air in silence listens to the song, And Time forgets to ply his lazy wings; Pale-visag'd Care, with foul unhallow'd feet, Attempts the summit of the hill to gain, Ne can the hag arrive the blissful seat; Her unavailing strength is spent in vain, Content sits on the top, and mocks her empty pain. Oft Phoebus self left his divine abode, And here enshrouded in a shady bow'r, Regardless of his state, lay'd by the god, And own'd sweet Music's more alluring pow'r. On either side was plac'd a peerless wight, Whose merit long had fill'd the trump of Fame; This, Fancy's darling child, was Spenser hight, Who pip'd full pleasing on the banks of Tame; That no less fam'd than he, and Milton was his name. In these cool bow'rs they live supinely calm; Now Milton sung of disobedient man, And Eden lost: the bards around them throng, Drawn by the wond'rous magic of their princes' song. Not far from these, Dan Chaucer, ancient wight, A lofty seat on Mount Parnassus held, Who long had been the Muses' chief delight; His reverend locks were silver'd o'er with eld; Grave was his visage, and his habit plain; And while he sung, fair Nature he display'd, In verse albeit uncouth, and simple strain; Ne mote he well be seen, so thick the shade, Which elms and aged oaks had all around him made. Next Shakspeare sat, irregularly great, Beside the bard there stood a beauteous maid, Fer mantle wimpled1 low, her silken hair, Which loose adown her well-turn'd shoulders stray'd, "She made a net to catch the wanton Air," Whose love-sick breezes all around her play'd And seem'd in whispers soft to court the heav'nly maid. And ever and anon she wav'd in air A sceptre, fraught with all-creative pow'r: And blithe attendants upon Mab their queen On th' other side stood Nature, goddess fair; A matron seem'd she, and of manners staid; Beauteous her form, majestic was her air, In loose attire of purest white array'd: A potent rod she bore, whose pow'r was such, (As from her darling's works may well be shown) That often with its sou'-enchanting touch, She rais'd or joy, or caus'd the deep-felt groan, And each man's passions made subservient to her own. But lo! thick fogs from out the earth arise, And fore the time sore-grieving seeks his wat'ry bed. Envy, the daughter of fell Acheron, (The flood of deadly hate and gloomy night) With careful eye each realm she did explore, At length, on blest Parnassus seated high, Within the covert of a gloomy wood, Here a deformed monster joy'd to won, Which on fell rancour ever was ybent, All from the rising to the setting sun, Her heart pursued spite with black intent, Ne could her iron mind at human woes relent. In flowing sable stole she was yclad, A frothy sea of nauseous foam was pour'd; Along the floor black loathsome toads still crawl, Their gullets swell'd with poison's mortal bane, Which ever and anon they spit at all Whom hapless fortune leads too near her den; Around her waist, in place of silken zone, A life-devouring viper rear'd his head, Who no distinction made 'twixt friend and foen, But death on ev'ry side fierce brandished, Fly, reckless mortals, fly, in vain is hardy-head3. Impatient Envy, through th' etherial waste, With inward venom fraught, and deadly spite, Unto this cavern steer'd her panting haste, Enshrouded in a darksome veil of night. Her inmost heart burnt with impetuous ire, And fell destruction sparkled in her look, Her ferret eyes flash'd with revengeful fire, Awhile contending passions utt'rance choke, At length the fiend in furious tone her silence broke. "Sister, arise! see how our pow'r decays, No more our empire thou and I can boast, Sith mortal man now gains immortal praise, Sith man is blest, and thou and I are lost: See in what state Parnassus' bill appears; See Phoebus' self two happy bards atween; See how the god their song attentive hears; This Spenser hight, that Milton, well I ween! Who can behold unmov'd sike heart-tormenting scene? "Sister, arise! ne let our courage droop, Perforce we will compel these mortals own, That mortal force unto our force shall stoop; Envy and Malice then shall reign alone: Thou best has known to file thy tongue with lies, And to deceive mankind with specious bait: Like Truth accoutred, spreadest forgeries, The fountain of contention and of hate: Arise, unite with me, and be as whilom great!" The fiend obey'd, and with impatient voice"Tremble, ye bards, within that blissful seat; Malice and Envy shall o'erthrow your joys, Nor Phoebus self shall our designs defeat. Shall we, who under friendship's feigned veil, Prompted the bold archangel to rebel; Shall we, who under show of sacred zeal, Plung'dhalf the pow'rs of Heav'n in lowest HellSuch vile disgrace of us no mortal man shall tell." 3 Hardy-head. Courage. Forth issued from their dismal dark abodes Life through each pore her spirit doth infuse, A female form, yclad in snowy-white, INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT DRURY- GENIUS, neglected, mourns his wither'd bays; Douglas and Truth appear, Envy and Lauder die. O glorious times!-O theme of praise divine! PROLOGUE TO THE JEALOUS WIFE. THE Jealous Wife! a comedy! poor man! VOL. XV. -Be happy, Britain, then-such times are thine. PROLOGUE TO HECUBA. Kind social chorus, which all humours meets, -Oh! might true taste, in these unclassic days, And, at three steps, stride o'er a modern stage; H Each gesture then would boast unusual charms, O! glorious times, when actors thus could strike, Less change of face than in our Punch they saw, For Punch can roll his eyes, and wag his jaw; With one set glare they mouth'd the rumbling verse; Our Gog and Magog look not half so fierce! Yet, though depriv'd of instruments like these, Nature, perhaps, may find a way to please; Which, wheresoe'er she giows with genuine flame, In Greece, in Rome, in England, is the same. Of raillery then, ye modern wits, beware, Nor damn the Grecian poet for the player. Theirs was the skill, with honest help of art, To win, by just degree, the yielding heart. What if our Shakspeare claims the magic throne, And in one instant makes us all his own; They differ only in one point of view, For Shakspeare's nature, was their nature too. ODE SPOKEN ON A PUBLIC OCCASION AT WESTMINSTER SCHOOL. NOR at Apollo's vaunted shrine, Nor to the fabled Sisters Nine, Offers the youth his ineffectual vow, Far be their rites!-Such worship fits not now; When at Eliza's sacred name Each breast receives the present flame: While eager genius plumes her infant wings, And with bold impulse strikes th' accordant Reflecting on the crowded line [strings, Of mitred sages, bards divine, Oh Memory! how thou lov'st to stray, Of childhood's grecuer years! when simple youth 'Twas here, in many an early strain When Busby's skill, and judgment sage, Nor, Cowley, be thy Muse forgot! which strays In wit's ambiguous flowery maze, With many a pointed turn and studied art: Though affectation blot thy rhyme, Thy mind was lofty and sublime, And manly honour dignified thy heart: Though fond of wit, yet firm to virtue's plan, The poet's trifles ne'er disgrac'd the man. Well might thy morals sweet engage Th' attention of the mitred sage, Smit with the plain simplicity of truth. For not ambition's giddy strife, The gilded toys of public life, Which snare the gay unstable youth, Could lure thee from the sober charms, Which lapt thee in Retirement's arms, Whence thou, untainted with the pride of state, Could'st smile with pity on the bustling great. Such were Eliza's sons. Her fost'ring care Here bade free genius tune his grateful song, Which else had wasted in the desert air, Or droop'd unnotic'd 'mid the vulgar throng. -Ne'er may her youth degenerate shame The glories of Eliza's name! But with the poet's phrensy bold, Such as inspir'd her bards of old, Pluck the green laurel from the hand of Fame! See! where Britannia stands On yonder sea-beat shore! Behold her languid air! Majestic now no more! Still on the sullen wave her eye is bent, And, "Cruel gods!" she cries; And "Cruel gods!" replies. See! the procession sad and slow, Now quietly inurn'd he lies, The Muses now their heads shall raise; And wake each vocal string; Pleas'd with his mimic strife. Sweet Mercy! Faith! celestial Truth! Shall live the guardian of the laws; He now will guard your sacred cause. |