Shall with their luscious virtues charm the sense
Of taste and smell. No more the gaudy beau,
With handkerchief in lavender well drench'd,
Or bergamot, or rose-water pure,
With flavoriferous sweets shall chase away
The pestilential fumes of vulgar cits,
Who, in impatience for the curtain's rise,
Amused the lingering moments, and applied
Thirst-quenching porter to their parched lips.
Alas! how sadly alter'd is the scene!
For lo! those sacred walls, that late were brush'd
By rustling silks and waving capuchins,
Are now become the sport of wrinkled Time!
Those walls, that late have echoed to the voice
Of stern King Richard, to the seat transform'd
Of crawling spiders and detested moths,
Who in the lonely crevices reside,
Or gender in the beams that have upheld
Gods, demi-gods, and all the joyous crew
Of thunderers in the galleries above.
O, Shakespeare! where are all thy tinsell'd kings,
Thy fawning courtiers, and thy waggish clowns?
Where all thy fairies, spirits, witches, fiends,
That here have gamboll'd in nocturnal sport
Round the lone oak, or sunk in fear away
From the shrill summons of the cock at morn?
Where now the temples, palaces, and towers?
Where now the groves that ever verdant smiled?
Where now the streams that never ceased to flow?
Where now the clouds, the rains, the hails, the winds,
The thunders, lightnings, and the tempests strong?
Here shepherds, lolling in their woven bowers,
In dull recitativo often sung
Their loves, accompanied with clangour strong
From horns, from trumpets, clarionets, bassoons;
From violinos sharp, or droning bass,
Or the brisk tinkling of a harpsichord.
Such is thy power, O music! such thy fame, That it has fabled been, how foreign song,
Soft issuing from Tenducci's* slender throat,
Has drawn a plaudit from the gods enthroned
Round the empyreum of Jove himself,
High seated on Olympus' airy top.
Nay, that his feverous voice was known to soothe
The shrill-toned prating of the females' tongues,
Who, in obedience to the lifeless song,
All prostrate fell, all fainting died away
In silent ecstacies of passing joy.
Ye who oft wander by the silver light
Of sister Luna, or to churchyard's gloom,
Or cypress shades; if chance should guide your steps To this sad mansion, think not that you tread Unconsecrated paths; for on this ground
Have holy streams been pour'd and flowerets strew'd; While many a kingly diadem, I ween,
Lies useless here entomb'd, with heaps of coin
Stamp'd in theatric mint-offenceless gold!
That carried not persuasion in its hue,
To tutor mankind in their evil ways.
After a lengthen'd series of years,
When the unhallow'd spade shall discompose
This mass of earth, then relics shall be found,
Which, or for gems of worth, or Roman coins,
Well may obtrude on antiquary's eye.
Ye spouting blades! regard this ruin'd fane,
And nightly come within those naked walls
To shed the tragic tear. Full many a drop
Of precious inspiration have you suck'd
From its dramatic sources. O! look here
Upon this roofless and forsaken pile,
And stalk in pensive sorrow o'er the ground
Where you've beheld so many noble scenes.
Thus, when the mariner to foreign clime
His bark conveys, where odoriferous gales,
And orange groves, and love-inspiring wine,
* An operatic singer of repute. He often visited Edinburgh, where his mellifluous way of singing the Scottish melodies made him a great favourite.
Have oft repaid his toil-if earthquake dire,
With hollow groanings and convulsive pangs,
The ground hath rent, and all those beauties soil'd,
Will he refrain to shed the grateful drop
A tribute justly due (though seldom paid)
To the blest memory of happier times?
Bred up where discipline most rare is,
In Military Garden Paris.-Hudibras.
O NATURE, parent goddess! at thy shrine,
Prone to the earth, the Muse, in humble song,
Thy aid implores; nor will she wing her flight
Till thou, bright form! in thy effulgence pure,
Deign'st to look down upon her lowly state,
And shed thy powerful influence benign.
Come, then, regardless of vain fashion's fools;
Of all those vile enormities of shape
That crowd the world; and with thee bring
Wisdom, in sober contemplation clad,
To lash those bold usurpers from the stage.
On that bless'd spot where the Parisian dome
To fools the stealing hand of time displays,
Fashion her empire holds-a goddess great!
View her, amidst the millinerian train,
On a resplendent throne exalted high,
Strangely diversified with gew-gaw forms;
Her busy hand glides pleasurably o'er
The darling novelties, the trinkets rare,
That greet the sight of the admiring dames,
Whose dear-bought treasures o'er their native isle
Contagious spread, infect the wholesome air
That cherish'd vigour in Britannia's sons.
Near this proud seat of fashion's antic form
A sphere revolves, on whose bright orb behold
The circulating mode of changeful dress,
Which, like the image of the sun himself,
Glories in coursing through the diverse signs
Which blazon in the zodiac of heaven.
Around her throne coquettes and petis beaux
Unnumber'd shine, and with each other vie
In nameless ornaments and gaudy plumes.
O worthy emulation! to excel
In trifles such as these, how truly great!
Unworthy of the peevish, blubbering boy,
Crush'd in his childhood by the fondling nurse,
Who for some favourite bauble frets and pines.
Amongst the proud attendants of this shrine,
The wealthy, young, and gay Clarinda draws
From poorer objects the astonish'd eye.
Her looks, her dress, and her affected mien,
Doom her enthusiast keen in fashion's train.
White as the cover'd Alps, or wintry face
Of snowy Lapland, her toupée uprear'd,
Exhibits to the view a cumbrous mass
Of curls high nodding o'er her polish'd brow;
From which rebundant flows the Brussels lace,
With pendant ribbons, too, of various dye,
Where all the colours in the ethereal bow
Unite, and blend, and tantalise the sight,
Nature, to thee, alone, not fashion's pomp, Does beauty owe her all-commanding eye. From the green bosom of the watery main, Array'd by thee, majestic Venus rose, With waving ringlets carelessly diffused, Floating luxurious o'er the restless surge. What Reubens, then, with his enlivening hand, Could paint the bright vermilion of her cheek, Pure as the roseate portal of the east, That opens to receive the cheering ray Of Phoebus beaming from the orient sky? For sterling beauty needs no faint essays Or colouring of art to gild her more: She is all-perfect. And if beauty fail, Where are those ornaments, those rich attires,
Which can reflect a lustre on that face,
Where she with light innate disdains to shine?
Britons! beware of fashion's luring wiles.
On either hand, chief guardians of her power,
And sole dictators of her fickle voice,
Folly and dull effeminacy reign;
Whose blackest magic and unhallow'd spells
The Roman ardour check'd; their strength decay'd;
And all their glory scattered to the winds.
Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of fate
Seems ready to decree thy after-fall.
By pride, by luxury, what fatal ills,
Unheeded, have approach'd thy mortal frame!
How many foreign weeds their heads have rear'd
In thy fair garden! Hasten, ere their strength
And baneful vegetation taint the soil,
To root out rank disease, which soon must spread,
If no blest antidote will purge away
Fashion's proud minions from our sea-girt isle.
ON THE AMPUTATION OF A STUDENT'S HAIR, BEFORE HIS
O SAD catastrophe! event most dire!*
How shall the loss, the heavy loss, be borne?
Or how the muse attune the plaintive lyre,
To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn?
Say, ye who can divine the mighty cause
From whence this modern circumcision springs, Why such oppressive and such rigid laws
Are still attendant on religious things?
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