Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon, Or copious bowls inspire à jovial strain: Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room, Within those walls, where thro' the glimm'ring shade No dread have they of discord and of strife; Oft have they bask'd along the sunny walls, Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight; How jocund are their looks when dinner calls! How smoke the cutlets on their crowded plate! O, let not Temp'rance too disdainful hear How long our feasts, how long our dinners, last: These sons of Science shine in black alone. Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault, If these no feats of gayety display, Say, is the sword well suited to the band? Does broider'd coat agree with sable gown? Can Dresden's laces shade a Churchman's hand, Or Learning's vot'ries ape the beaux of town? Perhaps in these time-tott'ring walls reside Some who were once the darlings of the fair; Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide, Controul the manager and awe the play'r. But Science now has fill'd their vacant mind With Rome's rich spoils and Truth's exalted views; Fir'd them with transports of a nobler kind, And bade them slight all females-but the Muse. Full many a lark, high tow'ring to the sky Unheard, unheeded, greets th' approach of light; Full many a star, unseen by mortal eye, With twinkling lustre glimmers thro' the night. Some future HERRING, that with dauntless breast Some mute, some thoughtless HARDWICKE here may rest, From prince and people to command applause, Fate yet forbids; nor circumscribes alone To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind, Far from the giddy town's tumultuous strife, They keep the noiseless tenor of their way, To tell th' admiring guest what books are there. And on those cases casts a ling ring look? Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require; Dost in these lines their artless tales relate, "To reach the chapel ere the psalms began. "There, in the arms of that lethargic chair, "Which rears its moth-devoured back so high, "At noon he quaff'd three glasses to the fair, "And por'd upon the news with curious eye. "Now by the fire, engag'd in serious talk Or mirthful converse, would he loit'ring stand; "Then in the garden chose a sunny walk, "Or launch'd the polish'd bowl with steady hand; "One morn we miss'd him at the hour of pray`r, "Nor yet at bowls, nor chapel was he seen. "The next we heard that in a neighbouring shire, "That day to church he led a blushing bride; A nymph, whose snowy vest and maiden fear Improv'd her beauty while the knot was ty'd. "Now, by his patron's bounteous care remov'd, "He roves enraptur'd thro' the fields of Kent; "Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov'd, "Read here the letter which he lately sent." THE LETTER, "IN rural innocence secure I dwell, Alike to Fortune and to Fame unknown : Approving Conscience chears my humble cell, And social Quiet marks me for her own. Next to the blessings of Religious Truth The smiles of Friendship and the sweets of Love." FINIS. The above is an exact reprint of the very scarce first edition of this parody, which was brought out by the same publisher, and within two years, of Gray's 'Elegy." It was published in quarto size, and in type and style closely resembled the original "Elegy." "An Evening Contemplation in a College" was written by the Rev. John Duncombe, M. A., of Corpus College, Cambridge, who was born in 1730 and died on January 19, 1786. He was the author of several other poems and parodies, neither of which obtained the success of the above, which has been frequently reprinted. It appears at the end of one Dublin edition of Gray's Poems, in 12mo, 1768, and of another printed by William Sleater in 1775. A pirated quarto edition was published in London by J. Wheble in 1776, and attributed to "An Oxonian," it was also included in the collection entitled The Oxford Sausage, and in the second volume of The Repository, London, 1777. All these reprints contain numerous verbal alterations from the original. RETIREMENT'S Hour proclaims the tolling Bell, Each sacred Virgin follows its Decree; With meek submission seeks her lonely Cell, Now shows the sinking sun a fainter glare And Silence thro' the Convent reigns confest, Save where in artless melancholy Strains Within those ancient walls by moss o'erspread, No stings of Conscience goad their easy Breast, Ev'n Hymen's Torch for Them must never blaze, To deck the altar and the shrines around: The glist'ning Eye: The half seen Breast of Snow, Awaits alike th' inexorable Foe, The Paths of Pleasure lead but to the Tomb. Forgive, Ye fair, whom Britain's Sons admire, Can These partake the sprightly-moving Dance? Perhaps in this drear Mansion are confin'd Some whose accomplish'd Beauty cou'd impart The soft Desire to the severest Mind, And wake to Extacy the throbbing Heart. But splendid Life in each Allurement drest Attracts Them not, tho' flush'd with youthful Bloom: Stern Pennance chills the Ardour of their Breast, And buries their Ambition in his Gloom. Full many a Riv'let steals its gentle way And pours her plaintive Melody in vain. From Flatt'ry's Lip to drink the Sweets of Praise, In Circles to attract the partial Gaze And view Theit Beauty in th' Admirer's Eye Their Lot forbids: nor does alone remove The Thirst of Praise, but e'en their Vices chains, Forbids thro' Folly's Labyrinths to rove, And yield to Pleasure the unheeded reins : To raise mid Hymen's Joys domestic Strife, Or seek that Converse which They ought to shun Far from the Bustle of the splendid Throng Smooth as the Stream, when sleeps the breezy Gale. Yet tho' they're sprinkled with ethereal Dew? Not e'en the World to their Remembrance dies: The Thought of Kindred razes from the Mind? For some endear'd Companion left behind. Gush'd from their Eye the tender filial Tear. Haply some aged Vestal may reply, "Oft have we seen Him 'ere Aurora's Ray "Had faintly ting'd with red the op'ning Sky "Hasten to Church, and Join the Matin Lay. "There at the Tomb where Eloisa lies, "He'd read th' Inscription: and her Fate condole, "Then in his Breast, as scenes of Grief arise, Sigh the kind Requiem to her gentle soul. ་་ 'Against yon Pillar careless now He'd lean, "Smiling at what his wayward Fancy moves: "Now drooping, wan, and pensive, wou'd be seen "As one abandon'd by the Fair He loves. "One morn I miss'd Him in the aweful Dome "Along the Isle, and in the Sacristy ; "Another came, nor yet beside the Tomb, "Nor at the Font, nor in the Porch was He. "The next we heard, which did our wonder move, "He was departed to return no more, "Yet lest the sudden change we shou'd reprove, "These Lines He sent us from Britannia's shore. "What time in Transport lost the Naïad Throng, "First catch'd their Akenside's enchanting Lay, "And raptur'd Fancy listen'd to the Song "Of laurel'd Whitehead, and sweet-plaintive Gray.' THE LETTER. A Vestal Fair (Her Name I mayn't unfold) Has planted in my Breast the pleasing Dart; Who by relentless vows, if not controll'd, Wou'd own, perchance, a Sympathy of Heart. The growing Passion impotent to quell, Where Contemplation keeps her lonely seat. Seek not to draw me from this still abode, Where the kind Muses to my Aid repair, And when the Thoughts of hapless Love corrode This is given from the original quarto; there have been numerous reprints, all containing considerable variations THE shrill bell rings the knell of "Curtain rise" Now strike the glimmering lamps upon the sight Save that in yonder velvet-mantled box A moping Countess to her Grace complains Of macaws, monkeys, perroquets, and shocks, And losses vaist and vaistly paltry gains. Behind those rugged spikes that bag-wigs shade, Where tuneful Folios lie in many a heap, Each in his narrow line for ever laid The embryo crotchets of the "Guardian" sleep. The long, long trill of quaver-torturing Brent, † Miss Hallam + twittering from her tender throat, Thy clarion, Beard, † that Echo's ear has rent, No more shall rouze each lowly-slumbering note. Yet let not genius mock their useless toil, The pomp of Tragedy, expression's power, Forgive, ye Bards, th' involuntary fault, Can pensive Arne, with animated strain, An Opera, written and composed by Thomas Augustine Arne, M.D. It was acted at Covent Garden Theatre, London. six nights in the month of December, 1764. + Performers in the Opera. Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone Their tuneful empire, but their pride confin'd, Forbade pert Nonsense to usurp the throne Of Taste, and banish genius from mankind. Far from the merry wake, and rustic ball, Yet still the blind from insult to protect, Some faithful consort ever wandering nigh, Her ditties oft, though an unletter'd Muse For who, so much to gloominess a prey, Nor lift one longing, lingering leg to dance? On some smart air the active heel relies, E'en in a minuet wake our youthful fires. For Thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate; Haply some antiquated Maid may say ; "Oft have we seen him at the hour of prayer "Brushing, with hasty hand, the dust away "From his rent cassock and his beaver bare. "Oft by the side of yonder nodding font "That lifts its old fantastic head so high, "To wait the frequent christening was he wont "And frown upon the Clerk that babbled by. "Oft in yon pulpit, smiling as in scorn, "Muttering his uncouth doctrines would he preach, "Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, "In deep despair the Mitre's grace to reach. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth Large was his wish-in this he was sincere, Gave the poor Cr four hundred pounds a year No further seek his deeds to bring to light -:0: AN ELEGY, Written in Covent-Garden. (Printed before 1777.) ST. PAUL'S proclaims the solemn midnight hour, And leave the streets to darkness and to me. Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray, Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,* The Round-house. Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade, The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep. The chearful call of "Chair! your honour-chair! For them the blazing links no longer burn, Oft to their subtlety the fob did yield, Their cunning oft the pocket-string hath broke: How in dark alley's bludgeons did they wield! How bow'd the wretch beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their humble toil, Their vulgar crimes and villainy obscure; Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile The low and petty knaveries of the poor. The titled villain, and the thief in power, The greatest rogue that ever bore a name, Await alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of wickedness but lead to shame. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, If Justice round their necks the halter fix; If, from the gallows to their kindred vault, They ride not pompous in a hearse and six, Gives not the lordly axe as sure a fate? Are Peers exempt from mouldering into dust? Can all the gilded 'scutcheons of the Great Stamp on polluted deeds the name of Just? Beneath the gibbet's self perhaps is laid Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire; Hands that the sword of Nero might have sway'd, And 'midst the carnage tun'd th' exulting lyre. Ambition to their eyes her ample page, Rich with such monstrous crimes, did n'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their native rage, And froze the bloody current of the soul. Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene, And dies unhang'd for want of proper care. Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast The votes of venal senates to command, Their lot forbad; nor circumscrib'd alone Their groveling fortunes, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad with libels to insult the throne, And vilify the noblest of mankind. • Earl of Rochester. The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide, To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice, Yet e'en these humbler vices to correct, Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high; Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck'd, Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry. Their name, their years, their birth and parentage, (Though doubtful all) the Ord'nary supplies; Points out what first debauch'd their tender age, And with what words each ripen'd felon dies. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, That first seduc'd to sin his pliant mind? No soul so callous but remorse may wring, For him, the master of the pilfering herd, Whom certain punishment attends, though late; If, when his wretched carcase is interr'd, Some curious person should enquire his fate; Haply some hoary-headed thief may say, "Oft have I seen him with his lighted link "Guide some unwary stranger cross the way, "And pick his pocket on the kennel's brink. "There, at the foot of yonder column stretch'd, "Where Seven Dials are exalted high, "He and his Myrmidons for hours have watch'd, "And pour'd destruction on each passer-by. "Hard by yon wall, where not a lamp appears, Skulking in quest of booty would he wait; "Now as a beggar shedding artful tears, "Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate. "One night I miss'd him at th' accustom'd place, "The seven-faced Pillar and his favourite wall: "Another came, nor yet I saw his face; "The post, the crossings, were deserted all. "At last, in dismal cart and sad array, "Backward up Holborn-hill I saw him mount : "Here you may read (for you can read, you say) "His Epitaph in th' Ord'nary's Account." THE EPITAPH. HERE festering rots a quondam pest of earth, Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark; |