They talk of time, and of time's galling yoke,

That like a mill-stone on man's mind doth press,

Which only works and business can redress:

Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke,

Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.

But might I, fed with silent meditation,

Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation—

Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke—

I'd drink of time's rich cup, and never surfeit:

Fling in more days than went to make the gem

That crown'd the white top of Methusalem:

Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit,

Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky,

The heaven-sweet burden of eternity.

Rogers, of all the men that I have known

But slightly, who have died, your Brother's loss

Touch'd me most sensibly. There came across

My mind an image of the cordial tone

Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest

I more than once have sat; and grieve to think,

That of that threefold cord one precious link

By Death's rude hand is sever'd from the rest.

Of our old gentry he appear'd a stem—

A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer

He kept in terror, could respect the Poor,

And not for every trifle harass them,

As some, divine and laic, too oft do.

This man's a private loss, and public too.

Twelve years ago I knew thee, Knowles, and then

Esteemed you a perfect specimen

Of those fine spirits warm-soul'd Ireland sends,

To teach us colder English how a friend's

Quick pulse should beat. I knew you brave, and plain,

Strong-sensed, rough-witted, above fear or gain;

But nothing further had the gift to espy.

Sudden you reappear. With wonder I

Hear my old friend (turn'd Shakspeare) read a scene

Only to his inferior in the clean

Passes of pathos: with such fence-like art—

Ere we can see the steel, 'tis in our heart.

Almost without the aid language affords,

Your piece seems wrought. That huffing medium, words,

(Which in the modern Tamburlaines quite sway

Our shamed souls from their bias) in your play

We scarce attend to. Hastier passion draws

Our tears on credit: and we find the cause

Some two hours after, spelling o'er again

Those strange few words at ease, that wrought the pain.

Proceed, old friend; and, as the year returns,

Still snatch some new old story from the urns

Of long-dead virtue. We, that knew before

Your worth, may admire, we cannot love you more.

Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask

Under the vizor of a borrow'd name;

Let things eschew the light deserving blame:

No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task.

"Marcian Colonna" is a dainty book;

And thy "Sicilian Tale" may boldly pass;

Thy "Dream" 'bove all, in which, as in a glass,

On the great world's antique glories we may look.

No longer then, as "lowly substitute,

Factor, or PROCTER, for another's gains,"

Suffer the admiring world to be deceived;

Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved,

Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains,

And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.

Consummate Artist, whose undying name

With classic Rogers shall go down to fame,

Be this thy crowning work! In my young days

How often have I, with a child's fond gaze,

Pored on the pictur'd wonders[1] thou hadst done:

Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison!

All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view;

I saw, and I believed the phantoms true.

But, above all, that most romantic tale[2]

Did o'er my raw credulity prevail,

Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things,

That serve at once for jackets and for wings.

Age, that enfeebles other men's designs,

But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines.

In several ways distinct you make us feel—

Graceful as Raphael, as Watteau genteel.

Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise;

And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.

What makes a happy wedlock? What has fate

Not given to thee in thy well-chosen mate?

Good sense—good humor;—these are trivial things,

Dear M——, that each trite encomiast sings.

But she hath these, and more. A mind exempt

From every low-bred passion, where contempt,

Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found

A harbor yet; an understanding sound;

Just views of right and wrong; perception full

Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful,

In life and manners; wit above her sex,

Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks;

Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth,

To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth;

A noble nature, conqueror in the strife

Of conflict with a hard discouraging life,

Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power

Of those whose days have been one silken hour,

Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense

Alike of benefit, and of offence,

With reconcilement quick, that instant springs

From the charged heart with nimble angel wings;

While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd

By a strong hand, seemed burn'd into her mind.

If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer

Richer than land, thou hast them all in her;

And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon,

Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.

O lift with reverent hand that tarnish'd flower,

That shrines beneath her modest canopy

Memorials dear to Romish piety;

Dim specks, rude shapes, of Saints! in fervent hour

The work perchance of some meek devotee,

Who, poor in worldly treasures to set forth

The sanctities she worshipp'd to their worth,

In this imperfect tracery might see

Hints, that all Heaven did to her sense reveal.

Cheap gifts best fit poor givers. We are told

Of the lone mite, the cup of water cold,

That in their way approved the offerer's zeal.

True love shows costliest, where the means are scant;

And, in their reckoning, they abound, who want.

I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare,

Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there,

Stooping, like some enchanted theme,

Over the marge of that crystal stream,

Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind,

With Self-love fond, had to waters pined,

Ages had waked, and ages slept,

And that bending posture still she kept:

For her eyes she may not turn away,

'Till a fairer object shall pass that way—

'Till an image more beauteous this world can show,

Than her own which she sees in the mirror below.

Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore,

Nor dream to be disenchanted more:

For vain is expectance, and wish in vain,

'Till a new Narcissus can come again.

Louisa, serious grown and mild,

I knew you once a romping child,

Obstreperous much and very wild.

Then you would clamber up my knees,

And strive with every art to tease,

When every art of yours could please.

Those things would scarce be proper now,

But they are gone, I know not how,

And woman's written on your brow.

Time draws his finger o'er the scene;

But I cannot forget between

The Thing to me you once have been;

Each sportive sally, wild escape,—

The scoff, the banter, and the jape,—

And antics of my gamesome Ape.

Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw,

Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw;

Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace,

And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race:

With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red,

But long with dust and dirt discolored

Belies its hue; in mud behind, before,

From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.

One a small infant at the breast does bear;

And one in her right hand her tuneful ware,

Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken,

When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken,

Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt,

Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt

To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons

Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns,

Cherish'd the gift of Song, which sorrow quells;

And, working single in their low-rooft cells,

Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night

With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.—

Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid,

Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid

To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.

Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout

Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. He stands by,

Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply

With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees

The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees,

But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song.

So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong

Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings,

The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings,

And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.

Hither and thither from the sevenfold road

Some cart or wagon crosses, which divides

The close-wedged audience; but, as when the tides

To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past,

They reunite, so these unite as fast.

The older Songstress hitherto hath spent

Her elocution in the argument

Of their great Song in prose; to wit, the woes

Which Maiden true to faithless Sailor owes—

Ah! "Wandering He!"—which now in loftier verse

Pathetic they alternately rehearse.

All gaping wait the event. This Critic opes

His right ear to the strain. The other hopes

To catch it better with his left. Long trade

It were to tell, how the deluded maid

A victim fell. And now right greedily

All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy,

That are so tragical; which She, and She,

Deals out, and sings the while; nor can there be

A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back

His contribution from the gentle rack

Of Music's pleasing torture. Irus' self,

The staff-propt Beggar, his thin gotten pelf

Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest,

And boldly claims his ballad with the best.

An old Dame only lingers. To her purse

The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse,

"Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall,

While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall

Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way;

How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray."

For much good-natured verse received from thee,

A loving verse take in return from me.

"Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry;

And to our David "twice as good," say I.

Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer,

Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear,

Or tells the hours more faithfully. While night

Fills half the world with shadows of affright,

You with your lantern, partner of your round,

Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.

The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up,

The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup,

Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall;

Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all.

But if the market gard'ner chance to pass,

Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass,

The gentle salesman you with candor greet,

And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet.

Announcing your approach by formal bell,

Of nightly weather you the changes tell;

Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep

In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep

In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet

Of winter; and in alley, or in street,

Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.

What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse

On your didactic strain—indulgent Night

With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite,

And critics sleep while you in staves do sound

The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound

In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim:

Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name?

Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine,

And wish long days to all the Brunswick line!

To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read;

Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead;

Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice:

How death at last all ranks doth equalize;

And, in conclusion, pray good years befall,

With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all."

For this and other tokens of good will

On boxing-day may store of shillings fill

Your Christmas purse; no householder give less,

When at each door your blameless suit you press:

And what you wish to us (it is but reason)

Receive in turn—the compliments o' th' season!

Beautiful Infant, who dost keep

Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,

May the repose unbroken be,

Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,

While thou enjoy'st along with it

That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,

Or counterfeit to mortal sense,

The heaven-infusèd sleep of Innocence!

Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,

That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,

His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,

Had he occasion for that staff, with which

He now goes picking out his path in fear

Over the highways and crossings, but would plant,

Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,

A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd

His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide

Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd:

To whom with loud and passionate laments

From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.

Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there,

The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.

I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;

Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear

Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive

At his kind hand my customary crumbs,

And common portion in his feast of scraps;

Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent

With our long day and tedious beggary.

These were my manners, this my way of life,

Till age and slow disease me overtook,

And sever'd from my sightless master's side.

But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,

Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,

This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd,

Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,

And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,

In long and lasting union to attest,

The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.

A tuneful challenge rings from either side

Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride,

Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply

The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.

Such harmony from the contention flows,

That the divided ear no preference knows:

Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,

While one exceeds in number, one in weight.

Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,

Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet;

But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,

Discover'd properties to her unknown;

Of A plus B, or minus, learn'd the use,

Known Quantities from unknown to educe;

And made—no doubt to that old dame's surprise—

The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies.

Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say,

Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA!

The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose,

Carries his house with him, where'er he goes;

Peeps out—and if there comes a shower of rain,

Retreats to his small domicile amain.

Touch but a tip of him, a horn—'tis well—

He curls up in his sanctuary shell.

He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay

Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.

Himself he boards and lodges; both invites,

And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.

He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure

Chattels; himself is his own furniture,

And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam—

Knock when you will—he's sure to be at home.

And hath thy blameless life become

A prey to the devouring tomb?

A more mute silence hast thou known,

A deafness deeper than thine own,

While Time was? and no friendly Muse,

That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,

Repair with quickening verse the breach.

And write thee into light and speech?

The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd

Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;

Who made the Hearing, without wrong

Did rescue thine from Siren's song.

He let thee see the ways of men,

Which thou with pencil, not with pen,

Careful Beholder, down didst note,

And all their motley actions quote,

Thyself unstain'd the while. From look

Or gesture reading, more than book,

In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,

Contented with the Silent Art,

Thyself as silent. Might I be

As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!

Nigh London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed

Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,

So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs

A name, allusive strictly to two Tongues[1]

Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,

And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.

With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,

Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.

One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,

And one in literalities abounds;

In mood and figure these keep up the din:

Words multiply, and every word tells in.

Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains;

And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins

In terms, which Demosthenic force outgo,

And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.

Right in the midst great Atè keeps her stand,

And from her sovereign station taints the land.

Hence Pulpits rail; grave Senates learn to jar;

Quacks scold; and Billingsgate infects the Bar.

Inspire my spirit, Spirit of De Foe,

That sang the Pillory,

In loftier strains to show

A more sublime Machine

Than that, where thou wert seen,

With neck outstretcht and shoulders ill awry,

Courting coarse plaudits from vile crowds below—

A most unseemly show!

In such a place

Who could expose thy face,

Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!

That paint'st the strife

And all the naked ills of savage life,

Far above Rousseau?

Rather myself had stood

In that ignoble wood,

Bare to the mob, on holiday or high-day.

If nought else could atone

For waggish libel,

I swear on bible,

I would have spared him for thy sake alone,

Man Friday!

Our ancestors' were sour days,

Great Master of Romance!

A milder doom had fallen to thy chance

In our days:

Thy sole assignment

Some solitary confinement,

(Not worth thy care a carrot,)

Where in world-hidden cell

Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well,

Only without the parrot;

By sure experience taught to know,

Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no.

But stay! methinks in statelier measure—

A more companionable pleasure—

I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace,

(The subject of my song,

Delay'd however long,)

And some of thine own race,

To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along.

There with thee go,

Link'd in like sentence,

With regulated pace and footing slow,

Each old acquaintance,

Rogue—harlot—thief—that live to future ages;

Through many a labor'd tome,

Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages.

Faith, friend De Foe, thou art quite at home!

Not one of thy great offspring thou dost lack,

From pirate Singleton to pilfering Jack.

Here Flandrian Moll her brazen incest brags;

Vice-stript Roxana, penitent in rags,

There points to Amy, treading equal chimes,

The faithful handmaid to her faithless crimes.

Incompetent my song to raise,

To its just height thy praise,

Great Mill!

That by thy motion proper

(No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill),

Grinding that stubborn corn, the Human will,

Turn'st out men's consciences,

That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet

As flour from purest wheat,

Into thy hopper.

All reformation short of thee but nonsense is,

Or human, or divine.

Compared with thee,

What are the labors of that Jumping Sect,

Which feeble laws connive at rather than respect?

Thou dost not bump,

Or jump,

But walk men into virtue; betwixt crime

And slow repentance giving breathing time,

And leisure to be good;

Instructing with discretion demi-reps

How to direct their steps.

Thou best Philosopher made out of wood!

Not that which framed the tub,

Where sat the Cynic cub,

With nothing in his bosom sympathetic;

But from those groves derived, I deem,

Where Plato nursed his dream

Of immortality;

Seeing that clearly

Thy system all is merely

Peripatetic.

Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give

Of how to live

With temperance, sobriety, morality,

(A new art,)

That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,

Each Tyro now proceeds

A "Walking Stewart!"

Fine merry franions,

Wanton companions,

My days are ev'n banyans

With thinking upon ye!

How Death, that last stinger,

Finis-writer, end-bringer,

Has laid his chill finger,

Or is laying on ye.

There's rich Kitty Wheatley,

With footing it featly

That took me completely,

She sleeps in the Kirk House;

And poor Polly Perkin,

Whose Dad was still firking

The jolly ale firkin,

She's gone to the Work-house;

Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter

(In ten counties no smarter)

Has ta'en his departure

For Proserpine's orchards:

And Lily, postilion,

With cheeks of vermilion,

Is one of a million

That fill up the church-yards;

And, lusty as Dido,

Fat Clemitson's widow

Flits now a small shadow

By Stygian hid ford;

And good Master Clapton

Has thirty years napt on,

The ground he last hapt on,

Entomb'd by fair Widford;

And gallant Tom Dockwra,

Of Nature's finest crockery,

Now but thin air and mockery,

Lurks by Avernus,

Whose honest grasp of hand

Still, while his life did stand,

At friend's or foe's command,

Almost did burn us.

Roger de Coverley

Not more good man than he;

Yet has he equally

Push'd for Cocytus,

With drivelling Worral,

And wicked old Dorrell,

'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,

Whose end might affright us!—

Kindly hearts have I known;

Kindly hearts, they are flown;

Here and there if but one

Linger yet uneffaced,

Imbecile tottering elves,

Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,

These scarce are half themselves,

With age and care crazed.

But this day Fanny Hutton

Her last dress has put on;

Her fine lessons forgotten,

She died, as the dunce died;

And prim Betsey Chambers,

Decay'd in her members,

No longer remembers

Things, as she once did;

And prudent Miss Wither

Not in jest now doth wither,

And soon must go—whither

Nor I well, nor you know;

And flaunting Miss Waller,

That soon must befall her,

Whence none can recall her,

Though proud once as Juno!

Some cry up Haydn, some Mozart,

Just as the whim bites; for my part,

I do not care a farthing candle

For either of them, or for Handel.—

Cannot a man live free and easy,

Without admiring Pergolesi?

Or through the world with comfort go,

That never heard of Doctor Blow?

So help me heaven, I hardly have;

And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,

Like other people, if you watch it,

And know no more of stave or crotchet,

Than did the primitive Peruvians;

Or those old ante-queer-diluvians

That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,

Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal

By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,

Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.

I care no more for Cimarosa,

Than he did for Salvator Rosa,

Being no painter; and bad luck

Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!

Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,

Had something in them; but who's Purcel?

The devil, with his foot so cloven,

For aught I care, may take Beethoven;

And, if the bargain does not suit,

I'll throw him Weber in to boot.

There's not the splitting of a splinter

To choose twixt him last named, and Winter.

Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido

Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.

I would not go four miles to visit

Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)

No more I would for Bononcini.

As for Novello, or Rossini,

I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,

Because they're living; so I leave 'em.