The well-inform'd philosopher
Rejoices with an wholesome fear,
And hopes, in spite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.
What if thine heav'n be overcast,
The dark appearance will not last;
Expect a brighter sky;
The God that strings the silver bow
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,
And let thy strength be seen;
But oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvass in.
A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING ODE
[Written (?). Published 1782.]
AND is this all? Can reason do no more
Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore?
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,
The Christian has an art unknown to thee:
He holds no parley with unmanly fears;
Where duty bids, he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.
MUTUAL FORBEARANCE
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE
MARRIED STATE
[Written (?). Published 1782.
There is a MS. copy in the
THE lady thus address'd her spouse---
What a mere dungeon is this house!
By no means large enough; and, was it,
Yet this dull room, and that dark closet-
Those hangings, with their worn-out graces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces—
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen!
Mutual Forbearance-Title] Patience recommended to Ladies
who have deaf Husbands BM.
I detest this odious house! It is not BM. 8 overwhelm] almost kill BM.
Sir Humphry, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear-I bade him come,
Engag'd myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.
You are so deaf, the lady cried,
(And rais'd her voice and frown'd beside,)
You are so sadly deaf, my dear,
What shall I do to make you hear?
Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wise-
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile-your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.
Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing.-
Child! I am rather hard of hearing.
Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl-
I tell you, you can't hear at all!
Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.
Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,
As to be wantonly incurr'd,
To gratify a fretful passion,
On ev'ry trivial provocation?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear;
And something, ev'ry day they live,
To pity, and, perhaps, forgive.
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all
A blemish or a sense impair'd—
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,—
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state;
Instead of harmony, 'tis jar
And tumult, and intestine war.
The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against sickness and old age,
Preserv'd by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention;
19 poor Harry] the coachman BM. 20 Some people are] You are by far BM. 21 blunder BM. After 22 BM. adds A wiser man than he might err.
mile] Well, I protest BM.
But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first inspir'd the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure:
But angry, coarse, and harsh expression
Shows love to be a mere profession;
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or soon expels him if it is.
[Written Jan. (?), 1781. Published anonymously as a 4to
AIRY del Castro was as bold a knight
As ever earn'd a lady's love in fight.
Many he sought, but one above the rest
His tender heart victoriously impress'd:
In Fairy land was born the matchless dame,
The land of Dreams, Hypothesis her name.
There Fancy nurs'd her in ideal bow'rs,
And laid her soft in Amaranthine flow'rs;
Delighted with her babe, th' Inchantress smil'd,
And grac'd with all her gifts the fav'rite child. 10
Her, woo'd Sir Airy, by meandring streams,
In daily musings and in nightly dreams;
With all the flow'rs he found, he wove in haste
Wreaths for her brow, and girdles for her waist;
His time, his talents, and his ceaseless care
All consecrated to adorn the fair:
No pastime but with her he deign'd to take,
And if he studied, studied for her sake.
And, for Hypothesis was somewhat long,
Nor soft enough to suit a lover's tongue,
He called her Posy, with an amorous art,
And grav'd it on a gem, and wore it next his heart.
But she, inconstant as the beams that play
On rippling waters in an April day,
With many a freakish trick deceiv'd his pains,
To pathless wilds and unfrequented plains
Entic'd him from his oaths of knighthood far,
Forgetful of the glorious toils of war.
"Tis thus the tenderness that love inspires Too oft betrays the vot'ries of his fires;
Borne far away on elevated wings,
They sport like wanton doves in airy rings,
And laws and duties are neglected things.
Nor he alone address'd the wayward Fair,
Full many a knight had been entangled there.
But still whoever woo'd her or embrac'd,
On ev'ry mind some mighty spell she cast.
Some she would teach (for she was wondrous wise,
And made her dupes see all things with her
That forms material, whatsoe'er we dream,
Are not at all, or are not what they seem;
That substances and modes of ev'ry kind,
Are mere impressions on the passive mind;
And he that splits his cranium, breaks at most
A fancied head against a fancied post:
Others, that earth, ere sin had drown'd it all,
Was smooth and even as an iv'ry ball;
That all the various beauties we survey,
Hills, valleys, rivers, and the boundless sea,
Are but departures from the first design,
Effects of punishment and wrath divine.
She tutor'd some in Dædalus's art,
And promis'd they should act his wildgoose part,
On waxen pinions soar without a fall,
Swift as the proudest gander of them all.
But fate reserv'd Sir Airy to maintain
The wildest project of her teeming brain;
That wedlock is not rig'rous as suppos'd,
But man, within a wider pale enclos'd,
May rove at will, where appetite shall lead,
Free as the lordly bull that ranges o'er the mead;
That forms and rites are tricks of human law,
As idle as the chatt'ring of a daw;
That lewd incontinence and lawless rape,
Are marriage in its true and proper shape;
That man by faith and truth is made a slave,
The ring a bauble, and the priest a knave.
Fair fall the deed! the Knight exulting cried,
Now is the time to make the maid a bride!
'Twas on the noon of an autumnal day,
October hight, but mild and fair as May,
When scarlet fruits the russet hedge adorn,
And floating films envelope ev'ry thorn,
When gently, as in June, the rivers glide,
And only miss the flow'rs that grac'd their side;
The linnet twitter'd out his parting song,
With many a chorister the woods among;
On southern banks the ruminating sheep
Lay snug and warm, 'twas summer's farewel
Propitious to his fond intent, there grew
An arbour near at hand of thickest yew,
With many a boxen bush, close clipt between,
And Philyrea of a gilded green.
But what old Chaucer's merry page befits,
The chaster muse of modern days omits.
Suffice it then in decent terms to say,
She saw, and turn'd her rosy cheek away.
Small need of pray'r-book or of priest I ween,
Where parties are agreed, retir'd the scene,
Occasion prompt, and appetite so keen.
Hypothesis (for with such magic pow'r
Fancy endued her in her natal hour)
From many a steaming lake and reeking bog,
Bade rise in haste a dank and drizzling fog,
That curtain'd round the scene where they repos'd,
And wood and lawn in dusky folds inclos'd.
Fear seiz'd the trembling sex; in every grove
They wept the wrongs of honourable love.
"In vain," they cried, "are hymeneal rites,
Vain our delusive hope of constant knights;
The marriage bond has lost its pow'r to bind,
And flutters loose, the sport of every wind;
The bride, while yet her bride's attire is on,
Shall mourn her absent lord, for he is gone,
Satiate of her, and weary of the same,
To distant wilds in quest of other game.
Ye fair Circassians! all your lutes employ,
Seraglios sing, and harams dance for joy,
For British nymphs, whose lords were lately true,
Nymphs quite as fair, and happier once than you,
Honour, esteem, and confidence forgot,
Feel all the meanness of your slavish lot.
O curst Hypothesis! your hellish arts
Seduce our husbands, and estrange their hearts.
Will none arise? no knight, who still retains
The blood of ancient worthies in his veins,
T'assert the charter of the chaste and fair,
Find out her treach'rous heart, and plant a dagger
there!"
A knight (can he that serves the Fair do less?) Starts at the call of beauty in distress;
And he that does not, whatsoe'er occurs,
Is recreant, and unworthy of his spurs !.
1 When a knight was degraded, his spurs were chopp'd off [C.].
|