See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower The visionary boy from shelter fly; For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. And lo! in the dark east, expanded high, The rainbow brightens to the setting sun! Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh, How vain the chase thine ardour has begun! "Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run. Yet couldst thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm, This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And disappointment of her sting disarm. But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young desire; Pursue, poor imp, the imaginary charm, Indulge gay hope and fancy's pleasing fire: Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire. When the long-sounding curfew from afar Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale. There would he dream of graves, and corses pale; And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose: the trumpet bids the valves unfold; And forth an host of little warriors march, Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, And green their helms, and green their silk attire; And here and there, right venerably old, The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire, And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance; The little warriors doff the targe and spear, And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze; Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along with many-colour'd rays Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, Who scaredst the vision with thy clarion shrill, Fell chanticleer! who oft hath reft away My fancied good, and brought substantial ill? Oh to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear: Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear. Forbear, my Muse. Let love attune thy line, Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine, Who feels from every change amusement flow! Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side, The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide, The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tour. O Nature, how in every charm supreme! eye, Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody Hence! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, Sophists, of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane! Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane, And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain! Hence to dark error's den, whose rankling slime First gave you form! Hence! lest the Muse should deign (Though loath on theme so mean to waste a rhyme), With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth, Ah me! neglected on the lonesome plain, As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, Save when against the winter's drenching rain, And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. Then, as instructed by tradition hoar, Her legend when the beldame 'gan impart, Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er, Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart; Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art. Various and strange was the long-winded tale; 'Midst fiends and spectres, quench the moon in blood, Yell in the midnight storm, or ride the infuriate flood. But when to horror his amazement rose, A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse, A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. Oh cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart, by lust of lucre sear❜d to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts undone. Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, The babes now famish'd lay them down to die: Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, Folded in one another's arms they lie; Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry: "For from the town the man returns no more." But thou,who Heaven's just vengeance darest defy, This deed with fruitless tears shall soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store. A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, "But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, And innocence thus die by doom severe ?" O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, The assaults of discontent and doubt repel : Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel; I et us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. Nor be thy generous indignation check'd, To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, One part, one little part, we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. Oh then renounce that impious self-esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies: For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years, For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark, cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for truth, but never hit. For why? Their powers, inadequate before, This idle art makes more and more unfit; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth: Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, Responsive to the sprightly pipe, when all Ah, then all jollity seem'd noise and folly: Is there a heart that music cannot melt? He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn. mourn, And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute: Of elegance as yet he took no care; For this of time and culture is the fruit; And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare: As in some future verse I purpose to declare. Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new, Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers, are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while; The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. But on this verse if Montague should smile, New strains ere long shall animate thy frame; And her applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords her taste refined. At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human kind. CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. [Born, 1724. Died, 1805.] THIS light and amusing poet was the son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, who had been a fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge. When very young, he was sent to school at Bury St. Edmunds. From thence he was removed to Eton, and placed at the fourth form, as an oppidan, and afterward on the foundation. He finished his studies at Eton with a creditable character, and in 1741 went as captain to the Mount. From thence he went to Cambridge, where he obtained some reputation by his Tripos verses. In 1745, he was admitted fellow of King's college, and in the following year took his bachelor's degree in the university. When he had nearly completed the terms of his qualification for that of master of arts, he was prevented from obtaining it in consequence of what his own son, his biographer, calls a spirited and popular opposition, which he showed to the leading men of the university. The phrase of "popular and spirited opposition," sounds promising to the curiosity; but the reader must not expect too much, lest he should be disappointed by learning that this popular opposition was only his refusing to deliver certain declamations, which the heads of the university (unfairly it was thought) required from the bachelors of King's College. Anstey, as senior of the order of bachelors, had to deliver the first oration. He contrived to begin his speech with a rhapsody of adverbs, which, with no direct meaning, hinted a ridicule on the arbitrary injunction of the university rulers. They soon ordered him to dismount from the rostrum, and called upon him for a new declamation, which, as might be expected, only gave him an opportunity of pointing [* Mrs. Montague.] finer irony in the shape of an apology. This affront was not forgotten by his superiors; and when he applied for his degree, it was refused to him. In the year 1756 he married Miss Calvert, sister to his oldest and most intimate friend John Calvert, Esq. of Albury Hall, in Hertfordshire, and sat in several successive parliaments for the borough of Hertford. Having succeeded, after his marriage, to his father's estate, he retired to the family seat in Cambridgeshire, and seems to have spent his days in that smooth happiness which gives life few remarkable eras. He was addicted to the sports of the field and the amusements of the country, undisturbed by ambition, and happy in the possession of friends and fortune. His first literary effort which was published, was his translation of Gray's Elegy in a Churchyard into Latin verse, in which he was assisted by Dr. Roberts, author of "Judah Restored." He was personally acquainted with Gray, and derived from him the benefit of some remarks on his translation. His first publication in English verse was "The New Bath Guide," which appeared in 1766. The droll and familiar manner of the poem is original; but its leading characters are evidently borrowed from Smollett. Anstey gave the copy price of the piece, which was £200, as a charitable donation to the hospital of Bath; and Dodsley, to whom it had been sold, with remarkable generosity restored the copyright to its author, after it had been eleven years published. His other works hardly require the investigation of their date. In the decline of life he meditated a collection of his letters and poems; but letters recovered from the repositories of dead friends are but melancholy readings; and, probably overcome by the sensations which they excited, he desisted from his collection. After a happy enjoyment of life, (during fifty years of which he had never been confined to bed, except one day, by an accidental hurt upon his leg,) be quietly resigned his existence, at the house of his son-in-law, Mr. Bosanquet, in his eighty-first year, surrounded by his family, and retaining his faculties to the last. FROM THE NEW BATH GUIDE. Mr. SIMPKIN B-N-R-D to Lady B-N-E-D, at A Public Breakfast-Motives for the same-A List of the All the people at Bath to a general breakfast. At a snug private party her friends to divert; But they say that, of late, she's grown sick of the town, And often to Bath condescends to come down: [Anstey was the orignal, for Humphrey Clinker was not out till 1771, nor written before 1770. This inadvertency of Mr. Campbell has been pointed out by Lord Byron in the Appendix to the 5th Canto of Don Juan. "But Anstey's diverting satire," says Sir Walter Scott, "was but a slight sketch, compared to the finished and If Hymen no longer his fingers will scorch, post, To pay his respects to so famous a toast; He said it would greatly our pleasure promote, Was bowing and handing the ladies ashore: take pains To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains; elaborate manner in which Smollett has, in the first place, identified his characters, and then fitted them with language, sentiments, and powers of observation, in exact correspondence with their talents, temper, condition, and disposition."-Misc. Pr. Works, vol. iii. p. 160.] You've read all their names in the news, I suppose, Lord Cram, and Lord Vulture, And old Lady Mouzer, And the great Hanoverian Baron Pansmowzer: Besides many others, who all in the rain went, On purpose to honour this great entertainment: The company made a most brilliant appearance, And ate bread-and-butter with great perseverance: All the chocolate, too, that my Lord set before 'em, The ladies despatch'd with the utmost decorum. Soft musical numbers were heard all around, The horns' and the clarions' echoing sound: Sweet were the strains, as odorous gales that blow O'er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow. That Peer was quite ravish'd, while close to his side Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride! Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture survey'd While Thais was sitting beside him; Was for shaking the spheres, Such goods the kind gods did provide him; Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon, Oh had I a voice that was stronger than steel, With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel, And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter All the speeches my Lord made to Lady Bunbutter ! So polite all the time, that he ne'er touch'd a bit, Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat: You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton-street, And never so civil a gentleman meet; You may talk what you please; you may search You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too: And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life!"- So when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past, I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along: For his Lordship was pleased that the company now To my Lady Bunbutter should curt'sy and bow: And my Lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly proud At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd: Just to follow the employments and calls of the day; But those who knew better their time how to spend, The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend. Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a Cotillion, Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postillion; All the while her mamma was expressing her joy, That her daughter the morning so well could employ. -Now why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great? As homeward we came-'tis with sorrow you'll hear What a dreadful disaster attended the Peer: And I left all the ladies a cleaning his coat. Thus the feast was concluded, as far as I hear, To the great satisfaction of all that were there. Oh may he give breakfasts as long as he stays, For I ne'er ate a better in all my born days. In haste I conclude, &c. &c. &c. Bath, 1766. S- B-N-R-D. |