Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon,
And thro' the cloyster Peace and Silence reign;
Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune,

Or copious bowls inspire à jovial strain:

Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room,
Where lies a student in profound repose,
Oppress'd with ale, wide-echos thro' the gloom
The droning music of his vocal nose.

Within those walls, where thro' the glimm'ring shade
Appear the pamphlets in a mold'ring heap,
Each in his narrow bed till morning laid
The peaceful fellows of the college sleep.
The tinkling bell proclaiming early pray'rs,
The noisy servants rattling o'er their head,
The calls of business, and domestic cares,
Ne'er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed.
No chatt'ring females crowd their social fire,

No dread have they of discord and of strife;
Unknown the names of husband and of sire,
Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life.

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:
Nor let the fair with a contemptuous sneer,
On these unmarry'd men reflections cast!
The splendid fortune and the beauteous face
(Themselves confess it, and their sires bemoan)
Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace:

These sons of Science shine in black alone.

Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault,

If these no feats of gayety display,
Where thro' proud Ranelagh's wide-echoing vault
Melodious Frasi trills her quav'ring lay.

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
Rebellion's torrent shall, like him oppose;

Some mute, some thoughtless HARDWICKE here may rest,
Some PELHAM, dreadful to his country's foes.

From prince and people to command applause,
'Midst ermin'd peers to guide the high debate,
To shield Britannia's and Religion's laws,
And steer with steady course the helm of state

Fate yet forbids; nor circumscribes alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines;
Forbids in Freedom's veil t' insult the throne,
Beneath her mask to hide the worst designs,

To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind,
With Pensions, Taxes, Marriages, and Jews;'
Or shut the gates of Heav'n on lost mankind,
And wrest their darling hopes, their future views.

Far from the giddy town's tumultuous strife,
Their wishes yet have never learn'd to stray;
Content and happy in a single life,

They keep the noiseless tenor of their way,
Ev'n now, their books from cobwebs to protect,
Inclos'd by doors of glass, in Doric style,
On fluted pillars rais'd, with bronzes deck'd,
They claim the passing tribute of a smile.
Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound,
Mis-spelt by blundering binders' want of care;
And many a catalogue is strow'd around,

To tell th' admiring guest what books are there.
For who, to thoughtless Ignorance a prey,
Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book?
Who there but wishes to prolong his stay,

And on those cases casts a ling ring look?
Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes,

Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require;
For songs and plays the voice of Beauty cries,
And Sense and Nature Grandison desire.
For thee, who mindful of thy lov'd compeers

Dost in these lines their artless tales relate,
If Chance, with prying search, in future years,
Some antiquarian shall enquire thy fate,
Haply some friend may shake his hoary head
And say, "Each morn, unchill'd by frosts, he ran,
"With hose ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed,

"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,
"Beside the fire, and on his fav'rite green;
"Another came, nor yet within the chair,

"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
Two gifts my endless gratitude engage;
A wife-the joy and transport of my youth,
Now, with a son, the comfort of my age.
Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat,
In loftier spheres unfit, untaught to move;
Content with calm, domestic life, where meet

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,
And leaves the grate to Solitude and me.

Now shows the sinking sun a fainter glare

And Silence thro' the Convent reigns confest,
Save where some pale-ey'd Novice (wrap'd in Pray'r)
Heaves a deep groan, and smites her guiltless breast.

Save where in artless melancholy Strains
Some Eloisa whom soft Passion moves,
Absorpt in Sorrow to the night complains;
For ever bar'd the Abelard she loves.

Within those ancient walls by moss o'erspread,
Where the relenting sinner learns to weep;
Each in her narrow Bed till Mid-night laid,
The gentle Daughters of Devotion sleep.

No stings of Conscience goad their easy Breast,
No unrepented Crimes their Slumbers fright,
No mournful Dreams invade their peaceful Rest
Nor shrouded Spectres stalk afore their sight!
Th' endearing scenes of Life They all forego

Ev'n Hymen's Torch for Them must never blaze,
The Husband's fond Embrace They ne'er shall know,
Nor view their Image in their Children's Face.
Oft did they steal the flow'ry Robe of May

To deck the altar and the shrines around:
How fervent did They chant the pious Lay,
While the deep organ swell'd the sacred sound?
Let not the gay Coquette with Jest profane,
Mock their veil'd Life and Destiny severe :
Nor Worldly Beauty with a sneer disdain
The humble Duties of the Cloyster'd Fair.

The glist'ning Eye: The half seen Breast of Snow,
The coral Lip, the clear vermilion Bloom

Awaits alike th' inexorable Foe,

The Paths of Pleasure lead but to the Tomb.

Forgive, Ye fair, whom Britain's Sons admire,
If This her meanest Bard incur your Blame,
While He devotes not to your Praise the Lyre,
But to the convent dedicates his Theme.

Can These partake the sprightly-moving Dance?
Or in the Garb of Luxury appear?
Can These e'er pierce the Lover with a Glance?
Or grace the Tragic scene with Pity's Tear?

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
Unheard, untasted, by the thirsty Swain,
Full many a Philomel attunes her Lay,

And pours her plaintive Melody in vain.
Some veil'd Eliza (like the clouded Sun)
May here reside inglorious and unknown;
Some, like Augusta, might have rear'd a Son
To bless a Nation and adorn a Throne.

From Flatt'ry's Lip to drink the Sweets of Praise,
In Wit and Charms with other Belles to vie,

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
To break the sacred Ties of married Life
And give to many what they vow'd to one.

Far from the Bustle of the splendid Throng
They tread Obscurity's sequester'd Vale,
Where the white Hours glide silently along

Smooth as the Stream, when sleeps the breezy Gale.

Yet tho' they're sprinkled with ethereal Dew?
With blooming Wreaths by Hands of Seraphs crown'd?
Tho' Heav'n's eternal Splendors burst to View?
And Harps celestial to their Ear resound?
Still grateful Mem'ry paints the absent Friend,

Not e'en the World to their Remembrance dies:
Their Mid-night Orisons to Heav'ns ascend
To stop the Bolt descending from the Skies.
For who entranc'd, in Visions from above

The Thought of Kindred razes from the Mind?
Feels in the Soul no warm returning Love

For some endear'd Companion left behind.
From Friendship's Breast reluctant they withdrew,
And with a sigh forsook their native air :
To their fond Parents when they bad adieu

Gush'd from their Eye the tender filial Tear.
For Thee, who mindful of th' encloyster'd Fair
Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate,
If Chance in distant Time's revolving Year
Some kindred Spirit shall enquire thy Fate.

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,
Severe Discretion urg'd me to retreat;
Now at my native rural Home I dwell,

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
Check the deep Sigh, and wipe the trickling Tear.

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"
From the thrum'd string the scraping herd to warn
Behind the scenes the plodding snuffer hies
And leaves the stage to operas and to Arne.

Now strike the glimmering lamps upon the sight
And all the house a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the Seaman from the Gallery's height,
For roast beef bawling, the cu'd Fiddler scolds;

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.
For these no more a parent's breast shall burn;
His busy fingers ply their evening care;
Poor banish'd children! never to return,
Nor their own tender sire's applause to share.
Oft did the City Nymph their sweetness own
Their force the stubborn sentinel has broke;
How jocund did they drive the dull farce down,
When wit and sense expir'd without a joke!

Yet let not genius mock their useless toil,
Their transient honours and their life not long,
Nor sense behold with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of a song.

The pomp of Tragedy, expression's power,
And all that Garrick, all that Quin e'er gave,
Have found alike th' inevitable hour,
And the Fifth Act still led them to the grave.

Forgive, ye Bards, th' involuntary fault,
If love parental shall no trophies raise,
Where in th' Orchestra's low sequestered vault
The coxcomb Fidler plies his arm for praise.

Can pensive Arne, with animated strain,
Back to its audience call his fleeting Play?
Can Music's voice the hand of death restrain,
Or soothing sounds prolong the fatal day?
Perhaps, ere this, he many an Opera made,
Which, though not pregnant with celestial fire,
Might yet, like this, its little night have sway'd,
And wak'd to extacy the living lyre.

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.
Oft pilfer'd airs and borrow'd strains to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
And feed the fondness of a Fidler's pride
With dull pretences to a Muse's flame.

Far from the merry wake, and rustic ball,
No vain pursuits, their sober wishes led;
Along the streets and round his worship's hall
They scrap'd the noisy tenor for their bread:

Yet still the blind from insult to protect,

Some faithful consort ever wandering nigh,
With vary'd garb, and uncouth'd pinner deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute with a sigh.

Her ditties oft, though an unletter'd Muse
The place of air and sonnet would supply;
And songs of grace at Christmas would she chuse,
Repaid with luncheons from the grey-goose pye.

For who, so much to gloominess a prey,
Whose spirits music knows not to advance?
Or who could listen to her roundelay,

Nor lift one longing, lingering leg to dance?

On some smart air the active heel relies,
Some sprightly jig the springing foot requires ;
E'en to a march the moving spirits rise,

E'en in a minuet wake our youthful fires.

For Thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines the Guardian's Tale relate,
If chance, by love of Elegy misled,

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
One nor to Fortune nor to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble Birth,
And smooth-tongued Flattery mark'd him for her own.

Large was his wish-in this he was sincere,
Fate did a recompence as largely send,

Gave the poor Cr four hundred pounds a year
And made a dirty minister his friend.

No further seek his deeds to bring to light
For, ah! he offer'd at Corruption's shrine;
And basely strove to wash an Ethiop white,
While Truth and Honour bled in every line!

-:0:

AN ELEGY,

Written in Covent-Garden.

(Printed before 1777.)

ST. PAUL'S proclaims the solemn midnight hour,
The wary Cit slow turns the master-key;
Time-stinted 'prentices up Ludgate scour,

And leave the streets to darkness and to me.

Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray,
And scarce a sound disturbs the Night's dull ear;
Save where some rumbling Hack directs its way,
Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern-bar:

Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,*
The watchmen to the constable complain
Of such as, in defiance to his power,
Molest their ancient, solitary reign.

The Round-house.

Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade,
Where rankling offals fret in many a heap,
Each in his nasty stye of garbage laid,

The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep.

The chearful call of "Chair! your honour-chair!
Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford-head,
The oaths of coachmen squabbling for a fare,
No more can rouse them from their filthy bed.

For them the blazing links no longer burn,
Or busy bunters ply their evening care;
No Setters watch the muddled Cit's return,
In hopes some pittance of the prey to share.

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,
The dark and sooty flues of chimnies bear;
Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,

And dies unhang'd for want of proper care.

Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast
Each call of worth or honesty withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Wilmot here may rest;
Some ****
**, guiltless of his steward's blood.

The votes of venal senates to command,
The worthy man's opinion to despise,
To scatter mischiefs o'er a trusting land,
And read their curses in a nation's eyes,

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 bid defiance to all sense of shame;
Their bleeding Country's sorrow to deride,
And heap fresh fuel on Sedition's flame;

To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice,
Their vulgar wishes ne'er presum'd to soar ;
Content at wheel-barrows to cogg the dice,
Or pick a pocket at a Play-house door.

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,
When to the dreadful tree of death consign'd,
But yearns to think upon the fatal day

That first seduc'd to sin his pliant mind?

No soul so callous but remorse may wring,
No heart so hard but grief may teach to sigh;
Contrition forces heartfelt tears to spring,
And melts to tenderness the sternest eye.

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,
To virtue and to honest shame unknown;
Low-cunning on a dung-hill gave him birth,
Vice clapp'd her hands, and mark'd him for her own.

Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark;
In lucky knavery lay all his hope;
No pains he spar'd, and seldom miss'd his mark,
So gain'd ('twas what he merited) a rope.